Kane (12 page)

“Good idea.  I’ll set it up with Metro.”

“In addition to talking with the Orange County investigators, I’ll be contacting NCIC to check for similar crimes in other states,” I went on, referring to the National Crime Index Computer, a system created in the mideighties to facilitate communication among disparate law-enforcement agencies across the country.  “It’s another long shot, but in the absence of informants or witnesses, it’s worth a try.”

Again, Long nodded.

“I don’t know, Lieutenant,” I said, winding it up.  “I get the feeling I’m missing something.  I’m not sure what, but there’s something.  Anyway, I let the brother clean out the fridge and take the bunny home, but I’m keeping the scene sealed for the time being.

“Fine.  What other ongoing cases do you have?”

During my earlier recitation I had proceeded without reference to either notes or the crime report.  Again I answered from memory, giving updates on a half dozen cases—some mine, some being handled under my supervision by other members of the squad—rattling off dates, personnel allocation, and court appearance schedules for the entire unit.

Long stared at me, then shook his head.  “I’m constantly amazed by that memory of yours.  You remember everything?”

I shrugged.  “Mostly.”

Long stared a moment more, then moved on.  “As I said earlier, we have a problem brewing.  Mayor Fitzpatrick, Chief Ingram, and our very own Captain Lincoln have been tying up my phone all morning.  They want this investigation closed, and closed fast.  With the exception of court appearances on pending cases, you and Deluca are on this full-time.”

“Right.”

“And if it turns out you’re right and there is a connection with the killings last month in Orange County, and I mean even a
hint
of a connection, I need to know immediately.”

“Agreed,” I said.  “About that—I got in touch with the investigator handling things down there.  Some guy named Barrello.  I’m meeting him this afternoon.”

“Did he say anything?”

“Not much.  The switchboard had to patch me through to his car, and he didn’t want to talk over the radio,” I replied.  “Well, if there’s nothing else, I’d better get on the road—try to beat the traffic.”

“There is something else.  Something I don’t want going outside this room.”

“What?”

Long considered his next words carefully.  “I’ll tell you something, Dan,” he said, lowering his voice.  “I command a lot of good men in this department.  You may have more than your share of faults—your screw-ups with the press, your disdain for anybody wearing gold braid, your abrasive—”

“You going somewhere with this?” I broke in with a grin.

“What I’m getting at is this,” Long replied soberly.  “I could count on one hand the detectives I’ve worked with over the years who are capable of actually
detecting
anything, and I’d have fingers left over.  Despite your faults, you’re one of those guys.  If anybody can find this scumbag, it’s you.”

I remained silent.  I appreciated Long’s confidence, but I had my doubts on this one.

“Between you and me, I have a feeling that before this is over, things will get a lot uglier than anyone can imagine,” Long continued, his eyes narrowing.  “So here’s what I want.  I want you to catch this son of a bitch, and I want you to take
whatever
steps are necessary to do it.  You understand what I’m saying here?”

“I understand.”

“Good.  One more thing.”

“Yes, sir?”

“If this is the same guy who killed that family in Orange County, find him before he does it again.”

8

A
fter leaving Lt. Long’s office, I took a moment to phone my house in Malibu, hoping to catch Catheryn before she went out.  No one was home.  Next I tried her cell.  She wasn’t answering, so I left a message saying that I planned to stop by later that evening to take her and the kids out for a final bon-voyage meal—someplace close and casual.

I had spent most of my spare moments that morning thinking about Catheryn.  Missing her, actually.  Although I knew the previous evening had been a step in the right direction, I had no illusions about the fragile nature of our truce, and before she left I wanted a chance to solidify whatever progress I’d made.

Deciding to let taxpayers pay for the trip to Orange County, I made my way to the parking lot behind the station house and checked out one of three “city cars” assigned to the West LA Division.  The unmarked vehicle I got, a late-model Chevy, was a piece of junk.  Worse, apparently it hadn’t been serviced in a while, and halfway to Orange County I noticed the temperature gauge climbing into the red.  Realizing I didn’t have time to stop if I wanted to make my meeting, I rolled down my windows and turned on the Chevy’s heater.  Although making a sweltering day even hotter, my tactic bled off enough engine heat to keep the car running … barely.  Cursing the LAPD motor pool, I drove the slow lanes of the 405 Freeway to the Interstate 5 Interchange, turned south, and crawled the remaining distance to Mission Viejo.

After exiting on Alicia, I nursed the Chevy east through the crowded Orange County streets, passing a procession of unfamiliar shopping malls and housing developments that had mushroomed since I’d last visited.  Irritated and sweating, I finally arrived at my destination.  Wheeling past a brace of flower beds and a carved wooden sign reading “Villa del Sol,” I pulled into a “Visitors Only” lane and eased to a stop before a flagstone-faced guardhouse.  Beyond the gate I could see rows of model homes marching to the end of a pennant-lined street, with the blue of Lake Mission Viejo sparkling through trees farther in.

“Can I help you?”

Flipping out my shield, I addressed a young man who had stepped from the guardhouse.  “I’m meeting somebody inside.”

The guard, a sallow youth with lank blond hair, gaped at my badge.  “This about the murders?”

“That’s right.  Open up.”

The youth swallowed nervously, reached into the guardhouse, and grabbed a clipboard.  After jotting down the Chevrolet’s license number, he thrust a visitor pass through my window.  “Here you go, sir,” he said.

The gate lifted.  But instead of proceeding, I inspected the rectangular white card I’d been given.  “You do this for every visitor coming through?” I asked, watching a gray Ford enter through a keyed gate marked “Residents Only.”  “You write down every license?”

“Uh … yes, sir.”

“And you collect these cards on the way out?”

“No, but—”

“So I could give this pass to somebody else and you’d wave them by.”

“I … I guess,” the guard stammered.  “But it’s no good after the expiration date.”

I tossed the card onto my dashboard.  “How many gates are there into this place?”

“Three, but this is the only one staffed past nine PM.  After that you have to have a keycard to get past the others.”

I watched as a young couple strolled into one of the model homes across the street.  “Seems like you have a fair amount of construction going on.  I’ll bet it gets busy around seven in the morning, with all the trade guys coming through.”

“It sure does,” the youngster conceded.  “Sometimes they’re backed up around the block.

“So with everybody trying to make it to work on time, traffic jamming up and all, maybe not every license gets written down.”

“Sometimes,” the guard admitted.

By now a line of cars had formed behind me.  “Thanks,” I said, heading through the gate.  “You’ve been helpful.”

After rechecking my directions, I arrived minutes later at a two-story Mediterranean-style home with arched windows and a three-car garage.  A gray Taurus sat in the driveway.  Lounging against the fender, a heavyset man with a pronounced potbelly and the flattened nose of a prizefighter watched as I rolled to a stop.

“Barrello?  Lou Barrello?” I called as I climbed out, sizing up the balding man across the driveway as a typical twenty-year cop—streetwise, jaded, and fast approaching burnout.

“Glad you could make it, Kane.”

I reached back into the car and grabbed my file on the Larsons.  “Sorry I’m late,” I said, starting up the driveway.  “Traffic.”

“Don’t give it a second thought,” Barrello said.  “Orange County cops like me have nothing better to do than wait around for a hotshot big-city detective like yourself.”

I had extended my hand as I approached.  Hearing this, I let it drop to my side.  “You got a problem, Barrello?”

“Not at all.  I love havin’ some expert drop by with helpful hints on how to run my investigation.”

“That’s not exactly what I had in mind,” I said slowly.  “I’m sure you boys down here can screw things up just fine without any help from me.”

“Think so, huh?  Well, as we’re on the subject, let’s get somethin’ straight.  No way LAPD’s taking over my case.  Orange County is cooperating on a strictly voluntary basis.”

“Let me ask you something, Barrello.  Ever consider switching to decaf?”

Barrello smiled thinly.  “All the time,” he said, eyeing the folder in my hand.  “You turn up anything?”

“See for yourself.”  I started to pass him the file, then pulled it back.  “You have something for me?”

“Yeah.”  Barrello reached into his car and grabbed a thick binder marked “Pratt.”

I squinted at the sky.  “What do you say we go inside, get out of the sun?”

“The lawyer ain’t shown up yet with the keys,” said Barrello.  “Maybe it’s cooler over there,” he added, tipping his head toward a portico shading the front door.

I followed him to the front entrance of the house.  Barrello sat on the landing and dived into my report.  I leaned against a wall and started on his.  For the next fifteen minutes we studied our respective folders in silence.

First, I turned to the description of the Pratt crime scene.  According to the Orange County investigators, there had been no sign of a break-in.  As with the Palisades killings, whoever murdered Andy, Carol, and Natalie Pratt had apparently gained access through their unlocked front door.  Either that, or used a key.  After entering sometime between one and two AM, the intruder disabled the phones and turned off the power at a breaker panel in the garage.  Blood spatters and a trail of blood from the kitchen to the Pratts’ second-floor bedroom suggested that the husband, possibly hearing a sound, went downstairs to investigate, encountered the intruder, and suffered a cracked skull and .25-caliber gunshots to the right elbow and left knee.  Once he had dragged the husband upstairs, the killer bound him and his wife, gagging them with Ace bandages.  Carol Pratt, hands and feet fastened to the bedposts, died of multiple stab wounds.  Blood and urine on the carpet near the closet indicated that the killer—using rope and a piece of galvanized pipe—strangled Andy Pratt there, then placed his body on the bed alongside his wife.  Investigators discovered extra rope under the covers.  The murder knife, found beside one of three burned-out candles in the room, had been taken from a set in the kitchen.

The Pratts’ four-year-old daughter had died in her bedroom down the hall, suffocated with a plastic trash bag matching others found in the house.  A later canvass of the area turned up little.  None of the neighbors saw or heard anything out of the ordinary.

I flipped to the eight-by-ten crime scene photos, pausing on a closeup of the husband.  Rope encircled his throat, almost hidden in the mottled flesh.  The pipe used to tighten the coils had been wedged behind his shoulder to maintain pressure.  A second ligature mark ran across his chest and beneath his armpits.  I looked closer, noticing that one eyelid had been cut crudely up the center.  The other was completely missing.  After shuffling past photos of the child, I inspected several shots of the woman.  Like Susan Larson, she had once been beautiful.  Now her face appeared somehow out of focus, her lips drawn back in a grimace, dried blood on her cheeks giving the appearance of some grotesque makeup that had run under her tears.  Shallow knife wounds traversed her upper torso, accompanied by a hideous pattern of bites.  Like gaping mouths, deep incisions below her ribcage, probably the killing strokes, split the skin of her abdomen.

Moving on, I scanned the OC autopsy protocols, learning that the woman had died of penetrating wounds to the heart and aorta, her husband of soft ligature strangulation.  The bruising, degree of swelling, and increased histamine levels in the husband’s eyelid cuts and the woman’s bites and incisions indicated that most of the wounds had been inflicted before the time of death.  Both victims showed signs of skin and eye irritation from a chemical currently available in pepper spray.  Vaginal and anal tears, along with traces of a gel-type spermicide, were present on the woman.

Other lab tests proved disappointing.  Semen, saliva swabs, and fingernail-cutting examinations all came up negative.  No unexplained blood was found at the scene.  Unmatched latent prints were lifted with no computer hits, and six unidentified hairs were recovered from the bed sheets and pubic combings.

Closing the folder, I looked over at Barrello.  The OC detective had already finished the smaller LAPD file.  He now sat smoking an unfiltered Camel, seeming lost in thought.  Noticing my glance, he took one last drag and ground the butt into a flower pot.  “Same guy,” he said.