Where Serpents Lie (Revised March 2013) (6 page)

The room went quiet, then.

“Naw,” Rafter said. “Like Ish said, too many ways to go wrong.”

“There’s something you all should know,” I said. “The Bureau thinks he’ll work faster now. They also think he’ll start to rape and kill them if we apply pressure and don’t get him. They’re almost always for proaction, but not for The Horridus.”

Sheriff Wade looked at me. “So he’s going to speed up if we wait, and he’s going to start killing if we move?”

“
Great
”
said Vega.

“The hell does that leave us?” asked Burns.

“It leaves us with quaint methods, such as old-fashioned police work,” said Ishmael.

I nodded and the room went quiet again. “He’s right. The first thing I want to do is get my people on the real estate angle. If we figure he’s sold his home, or is trying to, we’ve got a place to start. The detached maid’s quarters or guest house is important. It narrows things down considerably. All the offerings are centralized in the multiple listings guide that the realtors use.”

“MLS. There you go,” said Wade. “Okay.”

“Where the hell you going to start?” said Woolton.

“Santa Ana,” I said. “It’s between Orange and San Clemente, where he took the girls.”

“Biggest city in the county,” said Vega.

“Should we start with the
smallest
because it’s easier to cover?” I snapped.

Vega held up his hands. “Just thinking out loud, Terry.”

“Yeah, I know,” I said. “This guy’s just pissin’ me off.”

“You and everybody else,” said Woolton.

“Look,” said Ishmael, turning to the sheriff. “Painful as it is to have Naughton agree with me, I vote to stay basic on this scum. No need to get novelistic right now. If we try something proactive and it flops, we’re setting him off. Let him think we’re asleep. Work him like we work anybody else, except maybe harder.”

“I don’t like the idea of him speeding up,” said Burns.

“Who could?” said Woolton.

“Terry?” Wade asked. “This is your baby.”

“Painful as it is to agree with Ishmael agreeing with me, I do.”

Wade studied me. He said, “You’ve got that bad look on your face, Naughton. Agreeing with Ishmael can’t be that awful.”

There were the requisite chuckles a leader always gets.

“I wish I knew where he was right now,” I said. “What he was doing. Who he is.”

“Ishmael? He’s right here,” said Burns. “Sitting on his ass.”

I gave Burns a look that has been described to me as icy, ferocious, drop dead, freezing, withering. Take your pick, To me, it feels like all of them at the same time.

“Terry’s getting his panties in a bunch again,” someone noted.

“I’m worried about this shitbag.”

“Amen,” said Rafter.

“What else?” asked Jim Wade.

I filled them in briefly on another high-profile CAY case, that of a dead baby found last week in a storage room file cabinet. The office was out in Buena Park. Nobody knew who the infant was or how she got there. One of the secretaries smelled something and found her. We’re working the staff and the cleaning crew and the security company and the vendors and the temp help. A lot of people had keys and could have come in late at night. When something like this happens, the person you’re looking for first is the mother. She’ll be young, broke, unstable, using drugs and under pressure from a husband or boyfriend. Intolerable as it sounds, that kind of thing happens all the time. Two months ago it was a three-year-old boy who wandered away from home. His parents were distraught. It took us three weeks to find him, and when we did he was at the bottom of a water-district pit less than a half a mile from his house. He’d been dead a week. The parents confessed to dropping him in there because he cried a lot and they couldn’t afford to feed him right. That’s the kind of stuff we do, day in and day out.

When I was finished with the CAY rundown, Ishmael covered the department’s other big CAP (Crimes Against Persons) cases: the former county secretary shot dead in her home by an UNSUB with a crossbow; a postal worker gone nuts and killing three; a young man accused of killing his family then putting them all in a car he then set on fire; rumors of another gang war down in the Santa Ana barrio, less than a mile from where we were sitting.

My mind wandered. It’s hard to give serious consideration to cases outside your own, which is one of the reasons we meet like this. I did wonder what kind of cold sonofabitch could shoot a woman in the heart with a crossbow at close range. And I wondered where our man was now, our Horridus, from the Latin
horridus
meaning rough or bristling. As I thought about what he looked like and where he worked and what he saw when he looked in a mirror, the discussion of other crimes swept past my brain: more rumors of blame for the county bankruptcy of ‘94; political crap going down again in one of our state assembly districts; mobile Asian gangs running strong in central county; white supremacists in Newport Beach; two old women raped in a nursing home in Yorba Linda.

But no matter how I tried to listen, all I could really focus on was The Horridus, how little we knew about him and how sure I was that his escalating fantasy was becoming an escalating nightmare for the rest of us.

Who are you?

Where?

“N
ervous?”

“A little.”

“That’s good. Some nerves make you sharp, but they won’t come across on video.”

Hypok held open the door for her and smiled as she went in.

“Just have a seat right there and relax, Abby,” he said. “I’m going to walk you through a few questions, just so you’ll know what’s coming. All right?”

“Sounds good,” she said. She arranged her purse strap over the back of the chair.

“Abby,” he said. “That really is a nice name. You don’t hear it much. Abigail?”

“No, just Abby.” She smiled. It was the kind of smile Hypok liked—good teeth and healthy lips and not nightclub looking at all, more girl next door. Her hair was light and straight. “Yours was … I’m
sorry!
”

“David Lumsden, and don’t be. I’m good at remembering names.”

He sat across from her and glanced through her biographical information again. He remembered all of it from the night before.

“This is going to be fun,” he said. “Skiing, sailing, country western dancing. Cooking, dining out, close friends, a bottle of wine with that someone special … yeah … this is going to be easy. Do you mind talking about yourself?”

“Well, I’ve never done it on camera before.”

She smiled again. She was pretty, prettier than the still shots that were attached to her application. Nice figure, probably. He liked the way her face opened up when she talked and smiled, the way she seemed to have nothing in the world to hide. She probably didn’t. He wondered what she thought of his new hairstyle—short, bleached bright white and brushed up on the sides and front like a surfer in the fifties. Of course, she didn’t have the old style to compare it to. He blinked twice.

“Abby, remember one thing—you’re talking to me, not to the camera. You and I are having a conversation about you. Talk to me like I’m a friend, and forget everything else. That’s all you’re going to be doing, talking to a friend.”

He smiled as he looked at her through the viewfinder of the video camera. He loosened the tripod-mounting nut and raised the angle of vision just a little. Her image jumped. He started in with his usual spiel, telling her he’d be asking about herself and what she liked to do, what qualities she admired in the opposite gender, a little about her home and work life—just keep things kind of light and general. She nodded along as he talked. She’d worn a red blouse, one of the colors suggested in the Bright Tomorrows kit. Her lipstick was a matching shade, which gave her a kind of overt, forthright sexuality. According to her bio, she was thirty-one and divorced, a secretary for one of the big land development companies in the city of Irvine. She had a five-year-old daughter named Brittany. They lived in Irvine in a ground-floor, end-unit apartment with a tiny fenced backyard that housed a collection of bright plastic toys—a blue and orange slide and ladder, a low-slung pink and violet bike with whitewall tires and training wheels, some big balls in a white basket.

Hypok analyzed the lighting on her. He’d front-light the young, attractive Bright Tomorrows members because it was honest and revealing of beauty, especially in the eyes. The older ones, or the ones with bad skin, that was a different story. You wanted them to look good, but you wanted to present them somewhat honestly, too, so the members who chose them had an idea what they really looked like. In fact, the only complaint that the Bright Tomorrows execs had voiced was that his work was occasionally
too
flattering.

“Abby,” he said, “I’m just going to go with the front lighting—it shows you real clearly and you look nice.”

“Whatever you think’s best.”

“I’ll back-light some of our more mature members, but you, I don’t have to.”

“I guess we have to have some truth-in-lending here.”

“You’ll look good. You’re attractive and relaxed. Don’t worry. Now, I’m going to start the camera running, then I’ll ask you some of those questions and we’ll just have a little talk. Feel free to move your hands to make a point, whatever you’d normally do in conversation. Just don’t swivel on the chair—that drives the camera crazy and makes you look ill at ease. And remember, we can shoot this ten times if you don’t like what we get. The whole idea is to make this little tape something you’ll be comfortable with. All right?”

“Okay.”

He watched her through the viewfinder.

“Take a deep breath and let it out, Abby. Then we’ll start.”

He watched her smile, straighten on her inhale, then slowly let it out. Nice top. He hit the record button.

“Hello, Abby.”

“Hello.”

“Nervous, still?”

“Not so bad now.”

She smiled beautifully and blushed just a little. He laughed and so did she.

“So tell me, Abby. I hear you like to sail and you like to ski. Which do you like the best?”

She said it depended on the weather and where you were. She’d actually only been sailing once or twice, but skiing she did a lot, mostly on the local slopes. Hypok felt that she was already coming off as sort of a ditz, so he steered her onto work. She said a little about her secretarial job, the pressure, the way it satisfied her to put in a good day’s work so she felt like she’d earned her free time. A worker bee, he thought: most happy when situated in a hive. He always liked people with a strong sense of purpose. He could see how much this job meant to her.

“Is it true that secretaries do 80 percent of the work and get 20 percent of the credit?” he asked.

“More like ninety-ten!”

“Ninety-ten! I think you’re due for a big raise, then. Do you always get something extravagant for Secretary’s Day?”

“Well, let’s see—that’s next week, isn’t it? Last year was lunch at El Torito and a really nice watch.”

“I thought you got a watch when you retired.”

“Here, check it out …”

She raised her wrist to the camera and wriggled it. She smiled again—it was a truly beautiful smile and she understood this—and then brought her wrist back to her lap and giggled. It made him think of his own Medic Alert wrist bracelet with the serpent on it. He rubbed it now, lightly, for luck.

“They take pretty good care of me, I have to admit,” she said with another goofy but radiant smile.

“Well, Abby, tell our Bright Tomorrows guys just what it means to take good care of you. What qualities do you admire in a man?”

Hypok sat back and looked at her expectantly, thinking: sense of humor, honesty, in touch with his feelings, fit, secure. That was one thing about the women—they always said exactly the same thing.

“I like a man who can make me laugh,” said Abby. “That’s probably the first thing I …”

Hypok nodded along. This sense-of-humor part was something he’d never understood was so important to women until he started the gig with the services. Make me laugh, he thought: do they want a husband or an entertainment center? She would run on now like they all did, just get them started on the qualities they wanted in a guy and you could sit back and think of things you’d like to do. He wondered how much Brittany looked like her mother. He wondered if Abby slept with the windows open when it was warm out, or if she used the air conditioner. She looked like an air conditioner type—neat, safety conscious, convenience oriented.

“Honesty is real important, too. I think that’s the basis of …”

Hypok studied her through the viewfinder. His brow nudged the rubber eyepiece and he pulled back a little. He still hadn’t gotten his depth perception right since getting rid of the glasses. Still bumping into things up close. He cupped his hand over his mouth and smelled his breath. He enjoyed her perfume from here, an outdoorsy, floral bouquet that would undoubtedly be described as “springlike.” It was a little bit like that baking soda concoction you dump onto your carpet before you vacuum. He pictured her vacuuming her living room on a Saturday morning—short shorts and tennies with no socks and a T-shirt probably, with her hair up and no makeup on. She’d have Alanis Morissette on the boom box. She’d be singing along. He pictured five-year-old Brittany in the bathtub surrounded by mounds of suds. He imagined running the bar of no-tears kiddy soap over her, his hands sliding on her soft, pliant body. Brittany would smile at him, maybe splash some suds. She’d be happy to be there. Why couldn’t a woman be more like a girl—nonverbal, intuitive and appreciative?

“… how you work through things, make things better.”

“What about being in touch with his feelings?” Hypok asked.

“
Definitely.
Women are always more in touch with their feelings and I think if a man could …”

Um-hm. Women
are
more in touch with their feelings, thought Hypok, the operative word being
their.
Watch them drive—they don’t pay any attention to things not directly in
their
vision. Watch them shop in a market—they’re only aware of
their
purpose,
their
list of items,
their
cart and
their
place in line. They are absolutely self-absorbed, self-serving and self-promoting.
Their, their, their.
And any notion that comes to a woman’s mind, no matter how ridiculous or damaging, she’s going to put words to it, yap it out loud. Why? Because it’s one of
her
feelings. And she’s in touch with them.

“… able to laugh and cry and really feel deeply.”

“Hear that guys?” Hypok asked genially. “Get in touch with your feelings or don’t even bother with Abby!”

“Does that sound demanding?”

“You can
be
demanding—that’s what Bright Tomorrows is all about. Okay now, enough serious stuff. Tell me about your family. You’ve got a little girl, don’t you? What’s her name?”

Even through the viewfinder Hypok could see the twinkle that came to Abby’s eyes and the wholesome flush of color that washed her cheeks. He just plain had to smile, too. Nothing in the world makes them prouder than
their
children. He brought his hand up to his mouth and smelled his breath again.

“Her name is Brittany. She’s five years and two months. She loves butterflies and ice cream. It’s a little hard to say, but I think she wants to be a motorcycle racer when she grows up.”

“A motorcycle racer!”

Hypok thought that the Websters, his netizen friends, would like to hear this one.

“She’s got this little …”

Um-hm, pink and violet bike in the backyard with a six-foot grapestake fence I can climb over without a sound.

“…
all
around the backyard, or in the park.”

“So, she must be in kindergarten by now?”

“A private one. They’re learning computers already.”

Isn’t everyone?

“You really sound proud of her, Abby.”

“She’s my sunshine, all right.”

Hypok backed away from the camera and smiled.

“Okay, Abby, here’s one that’s not in the script. Ready for this?”

“I guess so.” Giggles.

“Tell these men, what is a truly romantic evening for you? I mean, the romantic evening to end them all, the romantic evening of
your
dreams.”

She blushed just a little and threw back her hair. “
Well
… it would start off with a … a full body massage—”

“—Start
off!
”

His exclamation was a little strong: he could smell his deep-down breath in the air in front of him now. Like something crawled down his neck and died. He hoped she wouldn’t notice. He dug the breath drops out of his coat pocket and lost his face behind the camera as he squeezed a bunch of it onto his tongue. Cinnamon. It was amazing, he thought, that anything could live in that body of his, considering all the tequila he drank.

“
Start off
with a massage, and maybe a glass of champagne. I mean,
he’d
get one, too. Then, when we were totally limp, we’d get all dressed up and go for dinner at the Ritz-Carlton. Lobster for me, and a bottle of Chardonnay. Then we’d take a long walk on the beach with our shoes off. His tuxedo tie would dangle and my nylons would get damp … I mean the
feet
would …”

God, what an airhead, Hypok thought, smiling his best. Wait ‘til the kiddy netters hear this. Wait ‘til the Friendlies get a load of this one. She colored but recovered nicely.

“… but it wouldn’t matter because it would be summer and eighty degrees out and just perfect.
Then,
we’d go back to the hotel … have dessert … maybe a decaf espresso … then … well, the rest of it’s …
confidential
…”

She giggled and threw her hair back again.

“As well it should be, Abby! Thanks for talking with us today, and we wish you all the best bright tomorrows.”

Hypok turned off the recorder and hit the rewind control. “I think that was real good. Natural. Easy. A good sense of who you are.”

“Oh, God, I’m such a spaz. I can’t look.”

“Well, you really should. We’ll play it back and if you don’t like it, we’ll do it again.”

“That would be even worse.”

“No, really. Everyone’s afraid until they see the tape. I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised. You’re really very good on camera. Here.”

He plugged the camcorder into a monitor on the desk beside them. Abby leaned forward in anticipation, and Hypok leaned back. He always liked to see their reactions, liked to see the way they accepted the inevitable, even if it was just three minutes of video. You could tell a lot about a person by how they accommodated an uncomfortable situation. He blinked a couple of times in rapid succession: the new contact lenses made his eyes dry.

Abby smiled and shook her head and blushed a little, as he knew she would. But she watched very closely, fascinated by
her
self,
her
image,
her
being. Now she’ll say how strange it is to—

“—It’s really weird to see yourself on TV,” she said. “But I don’t look as nervous as I felt.”

“I told you, some nervousness isn’t a bad thing. I think you handled this romantic evening question real well. I always try to do at least one thing that’s spontaneous. Let the reflexive personality show through.”