Kane (28 page)

As if on cue, Mayor Fitzpatrick swept down the aisle, Chief Ingram, Sheriff Baskin, and Lieutenants Huff and Snead close behind.  The group mounted the stage single-file.  Once there, the mayor moved to the podium and proceeded with a preamble of predictably self-serving remarks.  Chief Ingram and Sheriff Baskin followed suit, each praising the spirit of cooperation the other had shown during the interagency effort.  Finally Snead stepped to the microphones.

I shifted in my seat, thinking that if this kept up much longer, everyone present was going to need hip boots.

Smiling with satisfaction, Snead glanced around the room.  “Good morning,” he said.  “I’m pleased to announce that at two-twenty AM this morning, members of the LAPD/Orange County Sheriff’s Department interagency task force, acting in concert with INS officials at the Mexicali border, took into custody a man we consider to be our prime suspect in the Candlelight Killer murders.  At this point we’re withholding information on the individual now in custody, except to say that at present he has refused to make a statement.  Nonetheless, we hope to conclude our investigation in the near future.  Questions?”

As Snead started fielding queries from the floor, Barrello leaned toward me.  “We have Domingos in the lockup downstairs,” he whispered.  “Collins and Shanelec are doin’ the interrogation, but some public defender hump assigned to the case won’t let Domingos say a word.  The douche-bag lawyer probably plans on making a name for himself—high-profile trial and all that.  Personally, I don’t think it’ll get that far.”

“Me, neither,” said Deluca.  “I talked to Collins.  He didn’t come right out and say it, but I get the impression that the chances of Domingos being our guy are about as likely as my ex-wife mailing back my alimony payments.”

“Did we run his prints against the crime-scene unknowns?” I asked.

Barrello nodded.  “No matches.”

I shook my head.  “Without prints, we have nothing.  I doubt any judge will grant a warrant to search Domingos’s house, let alone procure hair samples and bite impressions.  Even if Domingos
is
our killer, he’s going to walk.”

“Looks that way,” Barrello agreed glumly.

“At least there’s
one
bright spot,” I noted.

“What?”

“The way Snead has screwed things up, be thankful we’ve probably got the wrong guy.”

Upon exiting the auditorium, I found Lauren Van Owen waiting for me outside.  “Good morning, Detective,” she said.

“Van Owen,” I replied curtly.  “I’m getting a real bad case of déjà vu here.  If you’ll excuse me—”

“You don’t seem too enthusiastic about the arrest.”

“Nothing gets by you, does it?”

“Nope.  So what’s up?”

“Not a thing.  My face always gets like this when I find myself in a roomful of reporters,” I answered, attempting to push past.

Lauren moved to block me.  “C’mon, Kane.  Give me thirty seconds.  I smelled something fishy in there.  No name, no confession, vague statements concerning physical evidence—”

“I can’t talk to you, Van Owen.  You got your story at the press conference, just like everybody else.”

“I’m not buying it.  And I know you well enough to tell you’re not buying it, either.  What’s going on?  The mayor demanded action, so the unit hauled in the first suspect they found?”

“No comment.”

Lauren frowned.  “Domingos isn’t the guy, is he?” she said, studying my reaction.

“No comment,” I repeated, again starting for the security checkpoint at the rear of the lobby.

“Give me something off the record,” Lauren begged, tagging along behind.  “Domingos didn’t do it, did he?”

“Off the record?” I said, still irritated by Snead’s ill advised press conference.  “Let’s just say I consider the arrest premature.”

“That’s what I thought.  Thanks, Kane.”

I scowled, wishing I had kept my mouth shut.  “Van Owen?  In the future, I’d appreciate seeing a lot less of you.”

Lauren smiled.  “Anything you say, Detective.  I’ll go on a diet.”

22

T
hirty-five miles south, Victor Carns stared at the television screen in his office, watching the thin-faced LAPD lieutenant behind the podium.  “That’s correct,” the man said, responding to a question from a reporter in the second row.  “Certain forensic evidence, the nature of which is currently being withheld, led to the arrest of the man we now have in custody.  At present, however, the task force still considers the case to be ongoing,” he cautioned, his tone saying otherwise.

The coverage ended minutes later.  Carns turned off the set.  But instead of returning to work, he sat staring at the blank screen, his lips compressed in a thin bloodless line, his eyes gleaming like gunsights.

23

M
y phone rang late that night.  Rolling over in bed, I fumbled in the darkness, finally finding the receiver.  “Kane,” I said.

“Sorry, Dan,” said Catheryn.  “Did I wake you?”

Immediately alert, I glanced at the clock beside the bed:  1:45 AM.  “Not really.  What’s up?”

“I didn’t mean to call so late, but I just saw the news on TV.  You caught the killer.  Congratulations.”

“Yeah, well …”

“I mean it.  I’m happy for you.  The other reason I’m calling … Dan, we arrived in Venice yesterday.  We’re staying at the Hotel Luna.  It’s right on the water.  I know most of Venice is on the water, but this is special,” Catheryn went on, her voice colored with excitement.  “You can hop into a gondola off the front steps.  The floors and walls of the hotel are all marble, and the lobbies and dining rooms are filled with the most gorgeous antiques you’ve ever seen.  And the Piazza San Marco is right around the corner.  Arthur and I took a long walk when we arrived.  You wouldn’t believe it here.  There are outdoor cafés, art shops with absolutely amazing crystal sculptures and glassware, and marvelous twisted little streets where you can get lost and find yourself in the most wonderful places.  Oh, Dan, I wish you were here.”

“I do, too.”

“Do you?”

“Of course I do.  But I can’t leave at the moment.”

“Why not, now that your investigation is over?  I spoke with my mother.  She said she would still love to stay with the kids while you’re gone.  Please?”

“The case isn’t closed.”

“But the news report said—”

“The news report was mistaken.  Listen, Kate, the mayor’s been pressuring the department, and the brass evidently felt the need to show some progress.  It isn’t going to pan out.”

“I take it that’s your own personal assessment.”

“So?”

“So maybe you’d rather not have your investigation be over.”

“That’s bull, Kate, and you know it.”

“I don’t know anything of the kind.  What I
do
know is that, as usual, you seem to prefer work to spending time with me.”

“I thought we had put that subject to bed, so to speak, before you left.”

“That’s so
typical of you.  One evening together and you think everything’s fine.  Things aren’t fine, Dan.  One night can’t straighten out problems we’ve had brewing for years.  You promised to take some time off, remember?  This trip was supposed to be a new beginning for us.”

“Sugar, I know you’re disappointed, but I can’t leave right now.”

“Can’t?  Or won’t?”

“Damn it, Kate—”

“Let me ask you something.  Is it conceivable that the task force could get along without you for just a little while?”

“It’s not that simple.”

“For me it is.  I’ll be here for a week.  You have the number of the hotel.  Call if you change your mind.”

“You’re being unreasonable.”

“I don’t care.  It’s how I feel.”

“Fine,” I said.  “You know, maybe these long distance calls aren’t such a hot idea.”

“Maybe not.  Good-bye, Dan.”

24

W
es.  Wake up.”

“Mmmm?”

Julie Welsh sat up in bed and quietly shook her husband.  “Wake up,” she whispered again, her voice trembling.

With a sleepy sigh, Wes rolled over.  “What the … ?”

“Someone’s downstairs.”

“Go back to sleep.”

“Listen.”

A soaking November drizzle had started early Sunday morning, increasing to a steady downpour by evening.  The staccato of rain beating against the windows carried into the room.  Outside, a gust whistled in the trees, followed by a ragged scorch of lightning.  Loose on its hinges, a neighbor’s gate slapped in the wind.  A creak sounded downstairs, then a muffled bump.

“Did you hear that?”

“It’s one of the kids.  Go back to sleep.”

Julie twisted the switch on her bedside lamp.  Nothing.  Leaning across, she tried Wes’s light.  Same result.  With a sinking feeling, she noticed that the numerals on the alarm clock were out, too.  “The power’s off.”

Wes pulled the covers over his head.  “It’s the storm.  They’ll get it back on.”

Julie heard another soft thump downstairs, like a cat dropping from a dresser.  The family didn’t own a pet.  “Wes … I’m scared.”

Irritated, Wes finally sat up.  “Brian?  Heather?  I don’t know which one of you is up, but tomorrow’s a school day.  Get back to bed right now!”

Silence.

“Did you hear me?”

A scuffling sound echoed from the first floor.

“I’m calling the police.”  Julie lifted the bedside telephone.  “The phone’s out, too,” she said, trying to remember where she had left her cell phone.

Wes swung his feet from the bed.  “This has gone on long enough,” he said firmly.  “I swear, those kids are getting too big for their britches.  There’s no excuse for not answering when—”

All at once they heard footsteps rushing up the stairs.  Heavy.  Not one of the kids.

Julie gripped Wes’s arm.

An instant later their bedroom door burst open.  A blinding beam of light stabbed in.  “Police!  Freeze!”

Wes raised a hand to shield his eyes.  “Wha … ?”

“Keep your hands where I can see them, Mr. Welsh,” a harsh voice commanded.  “You, too, Mrs. Welsh.”

“What’s this all about?  We haven’t done—”

“Do as I say and no one will be hurt.  Hands up!  Now!”

As if in a dream, Wes and Julie raised their arms.  The beam played across their faces, traveling from one to the other.  In the dimness, Julie could make out the snout of a pistol below the flashlight.

“Get out of bed, Mr. Welsh,” the voice ordered.  “Slowly.  Take two steps forward and turn around.”

“This is ridiculous.  What are we supposed to have done?”

“Now!”

Reluctantly, Wes stood.  Hands above his head, he shuffled forward.  Turned.  Briefly, Julie saw his face.  For the first time since she had known him, Wes looked afraid.

The man stood behind Wes.  Abruptly, the flashlight beam arced to the ceiling and descended with dazzling swiftness.  Julie heard a hollow clunk, as though someone had thumped a melon.

“Uhh …” Wes groaned, sinking to his knees.  Again the brutal arc of the light.  Wes crumbled to the carpet, twitching like a clubbed steer.

Instantly the beam flicked to the bed.  “Don’t make a sound, Mrs. Welsh.  If you resist, I’ll hurt your husband.”

“You’re not the police.”

“Shut up.”  The man moved to the door and retrieved a small bag from the hallway.  He knelt beside Wes.  Julie heard the sound of a zipper.  This can’t be happening,
she thought.  In desperation, she considered making a run for it.  If she could get to the front door …

Too far.  And what about the children?

After placing a knee in the center of Wes’s back, the man reached into his bag and withdrew something.  He fumbled at Wes’s hands and feet, then wrapped a strip of cloth around Wes’s head, taking numerous turns.
 
Next he moved to the bed.

“There’s cash in my purse downstairs,” Julie said, hearing the fear in her voice.  “My husband has more in his wallet, and there’s jewelry on the dresser.  Take whatever you want and go.”

“I intend to.”  The man moved closer.  Slowly, he played his light over Julie’s body, the beam traveling the revealing fabric of her nightgown from shoulders to waist and back again, lingering on her breasts.

Julie pulled up the sheets.

“Keep your hands raised,” the man said huskily.

Julie lifted her arms.  “Please don’t hurt us.”

“I said if you cooperated, no one would get hurt, didn’t I?”

“Yes, but—”

“Didn’t I?”

“Yes.”

“I lied.”

“No, please,” Julie begged.  “You don’t have to—”