12 Days (26 page)

Jim cupped his hands and looked in the window but saw no evidence of life. He was about to leave when he noticed an open container of large curd cottage cheese by the sink. The words “Dairy Farms” were proudly displayed on the side of the container. He unholstered his gun and ran to the front of the house. Roy was about to approach the next home on his list when Jim waved him down frantically.

Day 8: 7:45 a.m.

SLAM! Hearing the front door crash open gave him a start. His heart was pounding so hard he figured they could hear it.
They’re in
, he thought,
now it’s just a matter of time
. He was shocked to realize that at a moment like this, as he was about to encounter death, his life was indeed flashing before his eyes. He could see his mother hold his hand at the zoo and then perform a similar action at his bedside after the third hip operation in a year at the Los Angeles Children’s Hospital. He remembered wearing a black suit at her funeral and the look of indifference on his father’s face as they lowered her into the ground. And he could see his victim’s faces; Artridge, McDermott, La Pense, all of them, taking their last breath of life, just as he was about to do. When he heard one of the cops enter his bedroom, he made his decision. He raised the Luger and pointed it at the door.

Day 8: 7:46 a.m.

Steady and cautious was how this would go. They entered the house, Jim went high and Roy went low, just as they had been trained to do at the academy. The living room was empty and within seconds, they had cleared the kitchen as well. There were two bedrooms down the back hallway; Jim took the one on the left, Roy, the one on the right. When Jim breached the door of his pick, he knew that he had entered Marty’s war room. The walls were covered with photos and newspaper clippings. He saw pictures of Artridge leaving his office in L.A., of Janette McDermott leaving church with her family. There were even pictures of people that he did not recognize. A man named “Big” Jack Larsen was posted under a number 4 written in magic marker on the wall.
This must have been the guy that Alice replaced
, thought Jim.
What a lucky son of a bitch
. He went through each day in order, including number ‘nine’, which was a shot of a young girl leaving a strip club. He would have to get this to the Captain and find the girl before Marty did. But there was something odd about the numbers on the wall. The pictures and the numbers stopped at nine; there was no ten, eleven or twelve. Where was the picture of Milt Adams? Why wasn’t it up with the others? But then, there was none of Alice Edwards, either. Curious. Jim would let the team work this out. He wanted to show the room to Roy and then call downtown. He exited the second bedroom and called out to his friend.

“Roy, you’ve got to see this.”

There was no answer. The hairs on the back of Jim’s neck started to tingle. He raised his gun and moved stealthily to the master bedroom.

“Please put your gun on the floor, officer,” the killer said. “I really don’t want to shoot your friend here and ruin the linoleum.”

“What am I thinking? Of course I can call you Jim; I have the gun on your partner. Now Jim, I don’t want to sound like your mother and give you until the count of three to take a seat, but I will if you insist. One, two…”

“What a good little cop. Roy, please remove the handcuffs from your belt and place them on Officer Jovian’s wrists. And please, no nonsense. I really do not want to shoot you.”

Jovian felt an intense burning inside his gut. Here was the motherfucker that had been killing innocent people in his city on his watch, the creep that nearly killed his ladylove, Lisa. And here he was, Detective James Jovian, unarmed and handcuffed. Fuck this clown. He would not allow anyone under his skin, especially not this limping motherfucker. He was going to be cool as the iceberg that sunk the Titanic. He was going to man up until the hammer dropped. This dirtbag would get nothing more than a hard time.

The killer blanched, his eyes blinking. The dark-haired cop had once again surprised him with intelligence. He smiled and feigned nonchalance.

“Marty Lord is my stage name; my birth name is Michael Deus, or Mickey as my mom used to call me. And now I finally meet the dark-haired cop. Officer Jim Jovian.”

“Detective Jovian.”

“Detective, how impressive. I must admit, Jim, that I’ve admired your work. You came close so many times. In front of Alice’s house, then Phyllis’. But the movie theatre, that one was unbelievable. You were ten feet away and you didn’t see me; like I wasn’t even there.”

Deus lowered the Luger from Roy’s temple, aimed it at the officer’s left foot, and pulled the trigger. The silence in the room was instantly disrupted by the gun’s report and the scream of pain emanating from Roy’s lips. Roy collapsed to the ground clutching at his wasted foot. Marty kicked a pillow Roy’s way.

“Eight, nine, who cares about the number? My script was pure genius; it would make a fantastic movie. Now everyone in the world will know about it!”

“Yeah, and you’ll end up like Charles Manson, the musician.”

Deus’s face flushed red; obviously not the response he wanted. He limped noticeably as he walked around Roy who was still in agonizing pain on the floor.

“Now it’s time to end this, Detective Jovian. I have completed my script and I need to roll the credits. You and Roy here are going to help.”

With every last ounce of energy left in his body, Roy pushed himself off the floor and stood on his right foot. Deus looked impressed.

“Very good. All right, gentlemen. Let’s go for a ride.”

Day 8: 8:01 a.m.

Nurse Samantha was changing Lisa’s thoracostomy dressing when she saw her patient open her eyes. She pressed the call button and another nurse popped her head into the room.

Lisa was awake but intubated with intravenous as well as intra-arterial lines everywhere. If she started to thrash about, everything could come loose and she’d be in a world of trouble. Samantha checked the chart.

“I think she’ll be okay. She’s not going anywhere.”

The other nurse left and Samantha returned to Lisa. She briefly touched the trauma patient’s hair and whispered.

“Just rest, sweetie, you’ve been through a lot. I’ll call your friend to let him know you’re awake. I have a feeling that Detective Jovian will be thrilled with the news.”

A light of recognition flashed in Lisa’s eyes; the nurse was certain that meant a smile.

Day 8: 8:08 a.m.

The West Covina police car that Roy had requisitioned that morning made its way slowly westbound along the I-10 freeway. When it approached the 110 on-ramp, Deus told Roy to take it south, toward Long Beach. He had Roy duct tape the bloody pillow to what was left of his foot before they left. Now the maimed West Covina officer was behind the wheel with Jim, still cuffed, to his right. Deus sat directly behind Roy and Jim, Luger ready.

San Pedro was a small town on the eastern edge of Palos Verdes, bordering the Port of Long Beach. The town was known for two things: the largest population of Italian-Americans in all of Los Angeles and secondly, the launch point for several of the large cruise ships that made daily trips to all points in the Pacific Ocean.

Jim closed his eyes and thought about the song. After maids-a-milking, he always got confused about the gifts of the remaining days. He thought back to the killer’s bedroom wall. The ninth day was ladies dancing, wasn’t it? What did that have to do with San Pedro?