The Turin Shroud Secret (5 page)

Nic passes the morning tending her thirty-four-foot mast and adding varnish to the back decking. Around 1 p.m. he steps ashore
to get a bite of something hot. Across the quayside he catches sight of someone he thinks he knows. It needs a double-take,
though – he’s never seen her dressed in anything like jeans and a sweater.

‘Dr Chang?’

Amy Chang turns from the water’s edge. Her jet-black shoulder-length hair bounces, there’s a flash of ice-white teeth beneath
soft pink lips and a sparkle in her green-brown eyes. ‘Detective Karakandez.’ She says his name warmly as she walks towards
him, hands in front pockets, a gentle rock of the hips against a large camel-coloured bag slung over her shoulder. ‘Little
birdie told me you had a boat down here.’

He tracks her way. ‘Little birdie’s right. But I’m certain
you
don’t sail. Do you?’

‘No, not at all. Never been to sea in my life. Unless a ferry ride in San Francisco counts?’

‘It doesn’t. So what brings you to the water?’

She smiles. ‘Fresh air. Clear my head. Forget work for a while.’

‘It sure is a good place for that.’ He nods towards the metal whale occupying the slip to his right. ‘That’s mine. Quite a
looker, eh?’

She smiles ironically.
‘Distinctive
may be a better word for it.’

He laughs. ‘I’m going to grab coffee and a sandwich. You got time to do that?’

‘Sure.’ She falls in comfortably by his side as a flock of seagulls break from the deck boards and scatter skywards.

He turns to her as they walk. ‘That little birdie who told you I had a boat down here – its name wasn’t Mitzi, was it?’

Amy puts a finger to her lips. ‘Detective, you know better than to ask someone to betray their sources.’

They’re both still smiling when they walk into The Deli on the Deck. It’s as busy as hell on Judgement Day. Filled with families
drawn out by a splash of decent weather and the lure of a weekend by the water.

Fortune smiles on them and they grab a newly vacated table right at the back, from where they order coffees, tuna melts and
a bowl of fries to share. Despite Amy’s stated desire to get away from work, it’s the only common ground they have, so she
can’t help but update him on his case. ‘I called a tidal expert. Turns out your lady on the beach went into the ocean in the
early hours of Thursday morning. He reckons around 2 or 3 a.m.’

‘Any idea
where
she went in?’

‘From the pier. Perp probably thought she’d be dragged out to sea.’

‘Could you fix a time of death?’

‘You know how these things work, Nic. TOD isn’t a precise call. From the body temp I get about a three-hour window, so you’re
looking at one, one-thirty, to four, four-thirty. Given the tidal pull and where she ended up, I’d say we’re nearer the one-thirty
mark.’

He pulls off a string of browned cheese from the edge of the melt. ‘She’s a writer from over in Beverly Hills.’

‘
Was
a writer.’

‘Was.’ He licks grease from his finger and points to the heavens. ‘Maybe still is. Perhaps she’s working with Shakespeare
and Orson Welles as we speak.’

‘Be nice to think so.’ She dips a fry in mayonnaise and ketchup. ‘Was she killed at the house?’

Nic holds off on his food. ‘Living room, by the look of it. I couldn’t see any trace when I was there but criminalists found
blood spatters on the ceiling.’

‘Same type?’

‘They’ve not run DNA but it’s the same grouping.’

Amy gives a knowing nod. ‘But no spatter on the furniture, floor or walls?’

‘Apparently not.’ He can read her thoughts. ‘Yep, we guess the killer came prepared.’

‘Whoever invented plastic sheeting has a lot to answer for.’

‘You’re telling me.’ He sips coffee. ‘We found her cat; the perp had wasted that too. Did they send it your way?’

She nods and picks another fry from the bowl. ‘In the freezer. Something for the forensic vet to look at first thing on Monday.’

‘Tell me, does all the death ever get you down?’

‘Sometimes. Aside from your writer, I got another seven bodies this week. Three road fatalities, a suicide, a drive-by shooting,
a rape-murder and a homicide that could be part of a serial.’

He wipes his fingers on a paper napkin. ‘I can’t wait to get away from these slimeballs. Get all those serial killers, gangsters,
dopeheads and rapists a million miles out of my life.’

She studies him more closely. ‘So it’s true. You’re really handing in your badge?’

‘Already done. End of the month I’m history. Then me and that big lumpy boat you saw back there, we’re off to get married
and start a new life together.’

‘I hope you’ll both be happy.’ She smiles softly. ‘Shame, though, I always thought I’d date someone who didn’t work in the
job.’

He shifts uneasily. ‘Doc, when I’m not in the job I hope I may be ready to respond differently to a line like that. Right
now, I’m still…’ He struggles for the right words.

She says it for him. ‘Screwed up. I know, the little birdie told me.’ She puts her hand on top of his. ‘No pressure, Nic.
Just remember me – if and when that time comes.’

SUNDAY
CARSON, LOS ANGELES

It’s still early but neighbours are already out in Renton Street. They’re washing cars and windows, cleaning blown trash off
lawns – making the most of what little they’ve got.

The man in the rundown fixer in the corner of the cul-de-sac takes the short walk from his front door to the rusty green mailbox
at the end of the drive. It’s a chore he does just once a week. Always straight after breakfast on his way to church.

The mail in the box is addressed to John James. It’s the pseudonym he changed his given name to legally. James is the most
common Christian name in the US, followed by John. With his desire to blend in, it seemed appropriate to combine the two.

JJ lives alone and is a creature of habit. Habit is important. It is close to ritual and akin to sacrifice. He never misses
work and never misses Latin Mass on Sundays. Dedication and devotion are two of the most important things in his very strange
and unusually private life.

St Patrick’s is one of the few churches where the traditional Catholic service can still be heard. He always sits in the same
place. Centre aisle. Right at the back. It’s the perfect place. He can be last in and first out from there. Gone before the
others mill around him and block his way.

For a moment he sits in his car and watches the unkilled mixing and talking to each other, kissing and shaking hands, waving
and smiling as they go their separate sinful ways.

Liars. Cheats. Deceivers. He sees them for what they are.

JJ starts the Explorer’s engine and drives away, scripture rolling round his mouth, like a child with a hard-boiled sweet
he’s trying to make last for ever:
‘Hóstiam puram,
hóstiam sanctam, hóstiam immaculátam – a
pure victim, a holy victim, a spotless victim.’

The neighbours are still cleaning and washing when he gets back. He ignores them, goes inside and upstairs to the bedroom.
Straight to the razor blade. He stands naked. Naked before the eyes of God. Slowly, he cuts the skin of his chest, legs and
arms in an intricate pattern of crosses. The steel slices deep enough to draw blood but not so far that it opens a wound that
needs stitching.

It wasn’t always like that. During the early days of his devotion he caught a femoral artery and almost died. Now he’s more
practised. More careful. It would be awful if he died before his time. Died before he’d completed his duties. In front of
a long mirror screwed to the back of the bedroom door he inspects the patchwork of bleeding wounds.
‘Omnis honor et glória –
all honour and glory.’ He whispers the words over and over. Deliberately. Slowly. Heavy pauses between each one.

As the mantra fills his mind he takes a long white sheet and wraps it tight around himself. It’s a divine feeling – the crispness
of the cloth, the smell of the soap, the sight of blood soaking slowly through the heavenly whiteness.

JJ curls up on the bare wooden floor and imagines that he’s dying – that he’s going straight to heaven.

MONDAY
CULVER CITY, CALIFORNIA

Ten a.m. and the Californian sun is comic-book bright. An end-of-the-world ball of blistering orange energy that’s already
scorching everyone and everything beneath it.

Nic is giving ‘little birdie’ Mitzi a hard time as they drive to the film studio where Tamara Jacobs worked. ‘I don’t need
matchmaking. It was so embarrassing her turning up out there.’

‘No, it wasn’t.’ Mitzi flags a hand at him. ‘You’re an idiot. Amy’s single and likes you enough to have travelled across town
on an off-chance. You won the lottery then ripped up the ticket rather than collect. You’re the dumbest asshole I know.’

‘You shouldn’t mess with me like that.’

‘Apparently.’ She glances his way and shows her disappointment. ‘Nic, wake up and smell the beans – Amy Chang is nice
and
bright –
beautiful –
and available. I’ve known her since she came here. She’s a friend, a wonderful woman, believe me there aren’t many like her
around.’

‘Look – I know she’s nice, but plee-eze just leave me be.’

‘By the time you’ve reached “be” you’ll be past your
sell-by date and too old to
be
anything or
be
with anyone. You need a good push – that’s my job. I’m your pusher.’

‘Not out of work it isn’t.’ He almost says she’s the last one who should be dispensing relationship advice but stops short.
Mitzi means well, no matter what she says or does, her heart is always in the right place. ‘Three weeks.’ He slaps a hand
on the dash. ‘It can’t go fast enough. Three weeks and I’m a civilian.’

‘Thanks,’ Mitzi takes it personally. ‘I’ll miss you too.’ She’d lay into him some more, point out what an ungrateful SOB he
is, but they’re already at the lot. She lifts her shades and shows her badge to the gate guard at Anteronus Films Inc. He
raises the red-and-white-striped security pole and waves them in.

The two cops park and wait in the bone-warming sunshine, thinking about how much they need a quick end to a case that’s already
threatening to do the unthinkable and turn itself into a major inquiry.

A uniformed security guard turns up and breaks their concentration. He ushers them into a cream-coloured electric kart and
drives to a corporate red-brick building surrounded by immaculate lawns.

A shiny elevator of polished brass and streak-free mirrors takes them to the plush blue carpet of the executive floor, where
they’re shown through a set of hand-carved walnut double doors to meet the company CEO.

Brandon Nolan is a sixty-something Hollywood exec who made his name thirty years ago as a fierce agent and brilliant film
financier. Barely five-six in his stockinged feet,
he’s one of the biggest names in Tinsel Town. The media make much of the fact that he never dates women more than half his
age or less than five inches taller than him.

‘Detectives, come in, sit down. How can I be of assistance?’

‘Mr Nolan, one of your writers turned up dead on Manhattan Beach.’ Mitzi curses her bandaged fingers as she drags out a copy
of a photo they took from the vic’s house. ‘Tamara Jacobs.’

Nolan seats himself behind a giant desk, steeples his hands together and looks thoughtfully at the picture. ‘I didn’t know
her.’

Mitzi raises an eyebrow. ‘How can that be?’

‘We make fifteen, maybe twenty pictures a year. All the directors I know – all the stars I know. The writers? Only the clerks
in accounts know who the writers are.’ He puts his hand on a telephone. ‘Were you offered coffee?’

‘We’re fine.’ Already Mitzi can tell the guy doesn’t care about anything other than the bottom line. ‘Articles we pulled says
she was working a movie called
The Shroud
– what’s that about?’

‘Ah, okay, that’s hers, is it?’ Nolan replaces the phone. ‘It’s a religious thriller, set around the Turin Shroud.’

Nic’s interested. ‘What’s the plot?’

Nolan smiles. ‘Buy your ticket and popcorn, you’ll find out.’

‘Not much chance of me doing that. Will it still get finished without her?’

‘Sure. Writers are a dime a dozen. It’ll get finished.’

‘Did Tamara have an office here?’ asks Mitzi. ‘Any desk she worked from? Any place she kept research notes, diaries, that
kind of thing?’

Nolan scratches an eyebrow. ‘I don’t know. I’ll get someone from Human Resources to talk to you.’

‘Only she had no computer at home,’ adds Nic. ‘I guess a writer has to have a laptop, or tablet, or netbook or such like.’

The CEO nods. ‘I’d expect so. Anything else?’

‘We’d like a copy of the script she wrote,’ says Mitzi. ‘Plus copies of any more footage that’s already been shot.’

‘Is that really necessary?’

‘I don’t know, not until I’ve seen it. Might be a complete waste of time, might be a big break for us. Please just make sure
I get it.’

He lets out a disgruntled sigh. ‘Very well.’

‘And her colleagues,’ adds Mitzi, like she’s remembering things for a shopping trip. ‘We need to interview any work colleagues
she had. I guess the director and entire cast.’

Nolan grimaces. ‘Is there any hope you can do all this discreetly and in the staff’s own time? Maybe after work so the picture
isn’t disrupted?’

Mitzi smiles. ‘Sure there is. There’s Bob Hope and No Hope. Which do you prefer?’

ANTERONUS FILMS, CULVER CITY

An uncomfortable fifteen minutes pass before there’s a knock on the CEO’s door. A pencil-thin young woman in a light-brown
suit steps in and looks to Nolan, who nods towards the two cops. ‘Sarah Kenny,’ she says. ‘I’m from production and I’m here
to take you to the set.’

As they walk out, Mitzi sees she’s red-eyed and guesses she’s been told the news. ‘Did you know Tamara well?’

‘Not before the movie. She was always very nice to me.’

The well-dressed graduate doesn’t say much more as she drives them half a mile across the lot to a security barrier, where
she shows her ID to a guard. They drop the kart and walk towards what she proclaims is the studio’s biggest stage – a vast
space the size of three aircraft hangars, housing an historic landscape.