Fragmented (18 page)

A door slammed shut, and Marquez’s head snapped up to see Jack enter the room carrying a cardboard box under his arm.

She smiled. “Welcome back. I hope you got something good from your trip.”

29

Wednesday –
10:04 p.m.

Jack let
the box slide out of his hands and land squarely on the table in front of Marquez. He shrugged off his jacket and glanced at Sizemore, still standing, on his cell phone.

“Sizemore?” He motioned.

Marquez nodded, then hooked a finger on the corner of the paper-filled box and sifted the sealed plastic evidence bags. “Any of this crap any good?”

“I think so.” Jack extracted several notebooks and fanned them across the table, a series arranged chronologically.

Marquez stared at them, each a different color with the dates covered in black marker. “What’s this?”

“Cooper’s journals when he lived with his buddy, Eric Youngblood,” Jack said as he slipped on a pair of gloves and removed last notebook from its plastic sleeve. Carefully he flipped through the pages, stopping near the end of the notebook. He read a tabbed passage:

We met this family. Nice folks, lovely daughter. She cried most of the time, there at the park. Dad did nothing to make it better. What a prick! Poor thing. She needed love. She needed a father.

Jack flipped through several pages, then started to read again.

I decided to follow them. They went to a home off the main road. Looks like a tri-level. They pulled into the garage and I couldn’t see them get out before the garage door closed. I waited outside for the father to leave.

Jack lowered the notebook, the pages falling together. He tossed the book on top of the plastic sleeve and took a chair.

“Stalking,” Marquez said. “Just like with Jessica Baker.”

“Yeah,” Jack responded. “Just like Jessica Baker.”

“So, who’d he grab?”

Jack shook his head. “Doesn’t say. Like a story without an ending.”

“Where did you find these?”

“Cooper’s old bedroom. Youngblood’s uncle kept them.”

“Lots of information to be spilling for your roommates to see.”

“It’s obvious Youngblood knew what was going on.”

“You think Youngblood’s involved in the Baker kidnapping with Cooper?”

Jack shrugged.

“Sizemore’s got the office running a check on Youngblood. If he got cited for spitting on the sidewalk, we’ll find him.”

Jack looked down at his watch. Jessica Baker—now missing almost thirty hours without her meds. “Homer find anything?”

“Homer,” Marquez called. “Anything?”

Homer didn’t bother turning around. Just lowered his head, a sign of failure.

Marquez turned back toward Jack. “Doesn’t look good.”

“Anyone heard from Colfax?”

“He called in about an hour ago. Search and rescue is still out searching the surrounding fields and abandoned buildings. The hotline’s receiving a crapload of calls. The PD is shagging them down as fast as they can.”

“And?”

Marquez shook her head. “A waste of time.”

Sizemore returned to the table, clipping his phone back on his hip. He stuck out a hand at Jack.

“Welcome to
Sacramento
, Ray,” Jack said.

“Wish it could have been under better circumstances.”

For the next thirty minutes, the three sat and reviewed the documents taken from the Russell house. Letters from Cooper’s mother, others from persons unknown with addresses in
Colorado
,
Michigan
, and
Florida
. Innocuous letters about travels and homesickness. The journals painted a different story, however, portraying Cooper’s haunting dark side. Although none of the entries actually stated Cooper committed the Holloway kidnapping, they danced close enough to indicate his involvement. Jack watched Marquez read, her face conveying depth and horror.

“It’s like looking through his eyes,” she said.

“Take a look at this entry.” Sizemore tapped at a page in one of the notebooks. “
Eric still upset with me, can’t understand why. I tried hard to make things right, let him know that I understood how he felt but couldn’t let it get in the way of our friendship. Said he didn’t know if that was possible. I wonder if he has lost his mind, lost his nerve. I don’t know if he can even be trusted.
”

Sizemore flipped to the next page. He shook his head, then looked up at Jack and Marquez. “That’s it. Nothing explaining why he was upset or the reason for not trusting Eric.” He checked the date. Three months after Holloway was reported missing. “This entry looks like it happened after he returned to
Orange
County
.”

“Whatever happened, Eric started to have second thoughts,” Marquez said.

Jack tented his fingers on his chin, lips gently touching fingertips. “Maybe Eric started to have remorse over the Holloway kidnapping and Cooper feared he would run to the police.”

A voice blared from across the room. “Then why didn’t Cooper just kill him. He didn’t seem to have too much of a problem using that as a silencing technique.”

“You have a point, Homer,” Marquez said.

“Then there was an entry I found in one of his notebooks,” Jack said. “It talks about ‘starting over.’ What the hell did he mean by that?
”

“A new life? A family? Maybe it’s fantasy?” Marquez was reaching.

Jack remained silent.

Nearing
midnight
, Jack’s cell phone rang. He pulled it from his hip. “Yeah.”

The phone conversation went on for a few minutes, everyone watching in silence, waiting for Jack to finish. He ended the call, took a deep breath.

“That was Colfax,” he said.

“What’d he have to say?”

“Staked out the address for Klaus Monroe. The one he got from the phone number. A small duplex in a shithole area of
Chico
. Said he sat on it for a couple of hours, looking for any activity. No lights, no movement, so he finally just knocked. A young man by the name of Graham Buckley answered. Says there’s no
Monroe
living there. Says he doesn’t even know a
Monroe
.”

“How long has Buckley lived at the duplex?”

“Not long, less than a week. He gave Colfax the name of the landlord. He’s contacting him as we speak. He’ll let us know what he finds out.”

His phone vibrated again. Answering the call, he placed it on speaker so that everyone could hear. This time it was Hoskin.

“Got something for you.” Hoskin’s voice sounded over-modulated. “We were able to identify a bank account for
Monroe
at Washington Mutual. Unfortunately, he used a private drop box for his address. Manager said it’s filled with junk mail, nothing that would help us locate him. However, we did learn that his ATM card was used yesterday.”

“Where?” Jack asked.

“Local. Cash machine at a 7-11 in
Auburn
. I know the spot. They may have surveillance cameras.”

“We’ll head out there now. Maybe we’ll get lucky and find latents. I’ll get someone to pull the camera.”

Hoskin gave Jack the address and directions to the Mini Mart, estimating it was going to take them thirty minutes to get there, barring any traffic.

“My money’s on Cooper using
Monroe
’s card.”

“I ain’t takin’ that bet,” Sizemore said.

Marquez glanced back at Homer, who stared sad-eyed at the three of them, like he was waiting for an invite to their club.

“Homer,” Marquez said. “We’re done here. Go home and I’ll call you in the morning.”

Homer looked like he might cry. “Why can’t I come?”

“Not this time, it could be dangerous.”

“To check out a video? Are you nuts?”

“I appreciate your enthusiasm,” Marquez said. “Go home and continue scanning the Internet for Cooper. You call me if you hear anything and I promise, we’ll make sure you’re included on any raids.”

A smile stretched across his skinny face. He grabbed his jacket, slapped Marquez a high five and headed out the door.

Sizemore leaned close to Marquez and whispered, “You take your informants to raid sites?”

“He can sit in the car far, far away. It makes him feel wanted.”

Sizemore grinned.

30

Wednesday –
10:57 p.m.

Homer fidgeted
with his keys in his pant’s pocket as he strolled toward the front door to his apartment. The pathway through the complex was partially lit by a lamppost, two of the three bulbs burnt out, the air still warm and heavy from the day’s heat wave. From a distance, Homer could hear the pool pump and smell chlorine. It was late and Homer felt tired and hungry. He just wanted to get inside and lay down.

His steps clicked on the concrete walkway, echoing between the three-story buildings that boxed him in on both sides. As he passed a row of mailboxes, he thought he heard footsteps. He canted his head to the left, then right. Nothing. A second later, he picked up the sound of heels clicking a slow pace again. Because of the echo, it was difficult to determine where it was coming from.

Picking up speed, Homer made his way to the front door of his apartment, the porch light flickering from a failing bulb. He stabbed his key into the door, twisted the handle and kicked the strike plate with his boot. The door creaked open as the porch light popped, leaving Homer in total darkness. He slid his hand across the interior wall, feeling for the switch plate. That’s when he felt a hard thump across the back of his head.

Homer stumbled forward, glasses flying off, unable to keep his balance. Another hard thud against his head, the pain now ringing in his ears, then a strangle hold around his neck. He couldn’t move or breathe, couldn’t see, the pressure becoming tighter. His fight or flight instinct kicked in. He chose flight. He grabbed at the arm knotted around his neck and pulled to get away but he wasn’t strong enough. The grip around his neck tightened, restricting blood and air, his head starting to feel light, tingly. He needed a weapon. A gun or a knife, two things he had never carried or ever wanted to. He grabbed at his front pocket and felt something, a pen. He tore the ballpoint from his shirt pocket, held it like a dagger and in a swift motion, swung it hard, down and behind. The pen slammed into his attacker but didn’t penetrate. He felt the steel tip stop against clothing. Homer cocked his arm and swung again, farther and harder. This time the tip pierced skin. His attacker let out a loud growl, then bent forward at the waist, a gap now between their bodies, giving Homer his opportunity.

Homer broke free and dropped to the floor, arms and legs flailing, trying to gain traction on the slick wooden entryway. He grabbed a fistful of carpet, and his left leg found the corner of a wall. He made a break for the back room, bumping in the darkness, body slamming into the kitchen table that blocked his path in the unlit room, knocking over several chairs. His hand swiped a framed picture off the wall and it shattered at his feet. He dove into the bedroom and kicked the door closed, locked it, and scrambled behind the bed. He listened for movement. Nothing but his own labored breathing. He tried to force himself steady but couldn’t stop shaking.

“I’ve got a gun!” Homer screamed.

Silence.

“Look, you son-of-a-bitch, I got a gun and I’m not afraid to use it! You hear me?!”

Homer’s head twisted left to right, listening for the sound of footsteps, crunching glass, the twist of the doorknob. He reached down and patted the floor under the bed, feeling the end of a baseball bat, an Easton Thunder Club. He choked up in his most aggressive stance. Then he remembered his cell. He groped at his jacket pocket. It wasn’t there. Must’ve fallen out during the scuffle. But his assailant didn’t know that.

“I’m calling 911!” Homer shouted.

The only other phone was the cordless he’d left in the living room, next to the computer, as usual. He made a pact with himself that if he survived this he’d stock a phone in every room.

Creeping forward with the Thunder Club held tightly in his hands, Homer pressed an ear to the door. Silence. As he started to pull away, Homer heard footsteps. His heart raced. He drew the bat back, ready to swing. Live or die, he was going to get in at least one good whack. Then he realized the sounds were becoming fainter, more distant. His attacker was leaving.

Homer bent down to his knees, peering at the space between the floor and bottom edge of the door. Moonlight blue filtered through the crack. Homer stared at the gap, waiting to spy a shadow, movement of any kind. Everything was still. He gently cracked the door, his eyes adjusting to the darkness. He could faintly make out furniture tipped over, the front door wide open. No curious neighbors were roaming, trying to find out what all the commotion was about.
So much for Neighborhood Watch
.

Making his way into the living room, he found his computer monitor on the floor, the screen cracked like a
San Andreas Fault
. He pushed the screen aside with his left foot and spotted the cordless, covered in shards.

“Where the hell are my glasses?” Homer mumbled as he dropped to his knees and swept his hand over the carpet. He caught the corner of something unfamiliar. A small notebook. Homer was ready to toss it aside but then hesitated. It wasn’t his. He flicked on a lamp and held it close to his face. And then he realized what he’d found.

He stumbled his way to the kitchen table, paused for a second, took the notebook and slid it under the table rug. He crawled back into the living room and leaned the bat against the wall, and dropped to his knees, hunting for his glasses, feeling toward the front door, where they’d been struck from his face. There, near the entrance, Homer spotted a fuzzy black blob glittering in the moonlight. He pushed them onto his face. The world became clear. So did the figure standing in front of him.

Before he could react a hand shot forward and clamped hard around his throat. He was forced into a spin, an arm squeezing around his neck for the second time that night. This time, Homer had no pen in his pocket and no other weapon at his disposal. His Thunder Club rested against the wall just out of his reach. The pressure around his neck increased until he felt like his head would explode. His vision blurred, funneling to a pinpoint view. His attacker leaned heavily on his back, dragging him down to the apartment floor. He fell to his knees, bone striking hard onto wood. Then he felt a sharp prick in his lower back. He winced once before a rush of warmth engulfed him. His body went numb.

“Take my money,” Homer slurred. “Just don’t . . . hurt me.” His head fell, cheek pressed against the cold floor.

“I don’t want your money, Homer.” The man leaned close to his ear and whispered, “I want you to stop poking your nose where it doesn’t belong.”

Homer’s eyes widened briefly.