City of Echoes (13 page)

“How can I help you?” he said.

Matt wasn’t sure how to put it without admitting that he’d followed Grace over to the doctor’s house last night. He stalled for a moment, weighing the risks as he took in the office. Baylor’s various degrees and credentials were neatly framed on the far wall. Behind the desk stood a credenza and shelves filled with books and periodicals. To his left was a view of downtown LA so spectacular, Matt had no doubt that it was a major factor in the rent.

He cleared his throat and looked back at Baylor. “I guess the best way to put it is to come right out and ask.”

“Ask what?”

“You met with my supervisor last night, Lieutenant Grace. He showed you a series of photographs he took with his cell phone of a young woman who was murdered up by the Hollywood sign. I need to know what you spoke about. I need to know why my supervisor thought those pictures were so important for you to see that it couldn’t wait until morning.”

Baylor was measuring him. The smile was still there, but he was measuring him.

He reached across the desk. “Let me see your ID,” he said in an even but still pleasant voice.

Matt passed it across the desk and watched Baylor roll his chair closer to the lamp on the credenza. He was dressed in a crisp white shirt, a blue silk tie that almost matched the color of his eyes, and a pair of gray slacks that were well tailored and probably handmade. And while his brown hair had lightened from the sun and appeared spiked, his grooming was meticulous. Matt could sense a certain energy, a certain enthusiasm, radiating from the man’s being. He never would have guessed that he was fifty-five. Baylor looked and seemed ten years younger.

“Matthew Trevor Jones,” Baylor said, thinking it over. “I know that name, but I don’t know you. Tell me how I know that name?”

Dr. Baylor’s smile was back. There was a gentleness to the man. A certain kindness in his demeanor, his presence, even if it felt like he might be playing him.

“I don’t know,” Matt said. “Jones is a pretty common name.”

He laughed. “It is. But not when you add a Matthew Trevor to it. Matthew Trevor Jones. See what I mean?”

Matt nodded.

“What’s your father’s name?”

Matt gave the doctor a long look. “Exactly what you think it is, Doctor.”

“And your father is exactly
who
I think he is, isn’t he? I read something about him in the business section of the
Times
a few days ago. I remember seeing his picture. You look just like him.”

Matt had never spoken about his father with anyone other than Hughes. Dr. Baylor’s questions made him feel uncomfortable. All he could manage was another uneasy nod.

Baylor leaned forward, returning Matt’s ID. “What’s he think of you being a homicide detective way out here in Los Angeles?”

“My guess is that he doesn’t know.”

“Ah,” Dr. Baylor said. “Of course.”

Something changed after that. The warmth and kindness showing on Baylor’s face moved into his eyes. If the doctor had been playing him, the game was over.

“So you want to know why Bob Grace came to my house last night,” he said. “Why? It seems like such a trivial detail.”

“There’s the chance that two cases that seem unrelated might not be, Doctor.”

“Other than the girl, which case are you talking about?”

“A detective from North Hollywood was shot the other night. He was killed.”

“If it’s that important, why didn’t you just ask Grace?”

Matt couldn’t answer the question. He was on dangerous ground just being here. He had no doubt that Baylor would call Grace as soon as he left.

Baylor studied him for a moment, then shrugged. “Grace wants me to attend Jane Doe’s autopsy and compare the results with the murders of Faith Novakoff and Millie Brown. The autopsy was originally scheduled for this morning but got pushed back to this afternoon. The delay has something to do with Jane Doe’s dental records.”

“So Grace brought the pictures over just in case you needed to be convinced?”

“Something like that, but I didn’t need to be convinced. He’s worried.”

“He thinks maybe Ron Harris wasn’t good for Millie Brown’s murder? He thinks maybe they got it wrong?”

Baylor’s eyes narrowed and that smile was back, all the curiosity. “He didn’t say that, Matthew. The evidence against Harris was overwhelming. He thinks it’s a copycat. He wants to find Jamie Taladyne and speak with him. But that’s not what’s on your mind, is it? You’re thinking somehow something went wrong. Something catastrophic. That’s why you took the chance and came here instead of talking to Grace. What is it?”

Matt got up and walked over to the window as he thought it through. After a few moments, Baylor joined him and leaned against the sill.

“What is it?” he repeated.

“Have you ever read
The Divine Comedy
, Doctor?”

The expression on Baylor’s face froze like he’d been stunned by the question. Matt could see his wheels turning, almost as if the doctor had a memory so extraordinary that he might have been reading the epic poem in his mind as they stood there. After several moments, Dr. Baylor’s face lit up, as if he’d just experienced a revelation of some kind. When he finally surfaced and looked back at Matt, there was something new in his eyes and he appeared genuinely impressed.

“The seven terraces of the seven deadly sins,” he said in a quiet voice. “But we’re only concerned about one of them, aren’t we? They were bound and laid facedown. When did you see it? When did you figure it out?”

“About two hours ago,” he said in a low voice. “I don’t think we’re looking for a copycat, Doctor.”

“But why young women? If it’s about greed, why kill a girl who’s still in school? They’re innocents.”

“I haven’t gotten that far yet.”

“But there’s an answer, isn’t there? There would have to be.”

Matt gave Dr. Baylor a look. “May I ask you a question?”

“Anything.”

“Why did Grace want your help? Is it about the wounds to their faces?”

Baylor nodded. “I’m a reconstructive surgeon. So, yes, I became involved because of what was done to Millie Brown’s face.”

“You mean because she was slashed.”

“She wasn’t slashed. I don’t know what happened to Faith Novakoff just yet. But from the pictures of Jane Doe I saw last night, I don’t think she was slashed either.”

“But their faces were cut. They were mutilated. They looked swollen and deformed.”

Baylor walked over to his bookcase. “The wounds they received actually have a name. Nothing about them was haphazard. Nothing about them was random.”

The doctor found the book he was looking for and leafed through it as he returned to the window. After a few moments, he laid the book down on the windowsill and pointed to a photograph. It was a young woman’s face, and while she hadn’t been killed, Matt found the photograph extremely difficult to look at. Dr. Baylor pointed to the girl’s wounds.

“You see it, Matthew? She’s been cut from the edges of her mouth to her ears on both sides. The scars the cuts left extend across her entire face in what looks like a hideous smile. Something out of a horror movie. The Joker maybe, but even more grotesque. The cut originated in Glasgow, Scotland, and was named the ‘Glasgow smile.’ When it became popular in Chelsea, people called it the ‘Chelsea grin.’”

“Became popular?”

Dr. Baylor nodded again. “Gangs hoping to send a message to other gangs.”

An image of Jane Doe’s face surfaced in Matt’s mind. The torrent of blood masking the wound in real life but also hiding the wounds in the crime-scene photos Matt had seen in the two murder books. He thought about what the last ten minutes of Jane Doe’s life must have been like. He thought about the kind of man who could do something like this to a girl, a woman, or any living thing.

Not a copy, but the One.

He looked back at the photograph of the girl in the book. “You’re a plastic surgeon. Could you make those scars go away?”

Baylor shook his head. “No one could. Not even an undertaker.”

“But how do you think she survived?”

The doctor eyed the photograph for a moment, then met Matt’s gaze and lowered his voice. “She didn’t scream,” he said. “When they want to kill someone, they make the cut with a box cutter or a piece of broken glass and then start kicking the victim until he or she screams. The act of screaming rips the wounds apart, and the victim bleeds to death.”

Matt looked away and took a deep breath. It was almost as if Baylor had given him another piece of the puzzle, too horrific in size and scope to comprehend. Too hot to touch. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to get rid of Jane Doe’s image in his head. When he opened them, the image was still there and seemed even more gruesome, even more grim.

CHAPTER 26

He needed a cigarette. A Marlboro. He stood by his car, trying to slow down his heart rate. When he popped another piece of nicotine gum into his mouth, he could feel a stomachache coming on.

The déjà vu was back. Hard.

He could see Jane Doe’s face. He could smell the shampoo in her hair and the scent of her clean skin. But now everything was even more real because the image came with a soundtrack. Now he could hear the girl screaming.

He climbed into the car, found a news station on the radio, and started heading back to Hollywood. In need of a major distraction, he tried to focus on what the reporter was saying.

Something about something being something, or was it nothing?

It didn’t work. He could see Jane Doe’s murder going down so clearly that he might have been standing right beside her. He could see her nude body staked to the ground, her full breasts in the gravel and dirt. He could see a shadowy figure making the cuts on both sides of the girl’s face. And then that scream. The full-blown sound of terror. He could hear it. He could see it. The wounds bursting open and the river of blood flowing down onto a sheet of mirrored glass.

He shivered. He could feel a tremor working its way through his body from somewhere deep inside his core. When the quake passed, the car felt ice cold, and he turned on the heat.

The rest of the drive back to Hollywood was lost in a heavy fog. Pulling into the lot behind the station, he wasn’t really sure of the route he’d taken or how much time he’d used.

He walked into the squad room and didn’t see anyone he recognized. When he checked the homicide workstations, no one was around. He found Cabrera still sitting in the conference room. He had his laptop with him and what looked like a new tablet. Two murder books were open, along with several file folders and what remained of his lunch.

Matt opened the door and walked in. When Cabrera looked up, he could tell that the anger in the man had faded again. Mr. Hyde had become Dr. Jekyll on the merry-go-round.

“What’s going on?” Matt said.

Cabrera pushed his coffee mug aside. “I called Burbank PD and asked them to check on that Lincoln over at the airport.”

“Why are you doing me favors?”

“It wasn’t a favor.”

“Okay,” Matt said. “What did Burbank find out?”

“The Lincoln’s there, but someone ripped off the plates.”

Matt knew that this wasn’t good news. It meant that the man in the silver Nissan was up to something and didn’t want to be found when he was through. His first impression of the man had been the true one. Trouble.

“What’s this got to do with our case, Jones?”

“I don’t know. Somebody’s following me.”

“Who?”

“A guy.”

“When did it start?”

“I’m not sure. I made him last night on the way home.”

Matt glanced at the door. He’d driven from Baylor’s office back to the station without checking his rearview mirror. It was a sloppy move. A dangerous move.

“I’ve got some news, Jones.”

“What kind of news?”

“Taladyne news.”

Matt turned back to Cabrera but didn’t say anything. Their eyes met.

“Jamie Taladyne went off the grid the day after Ron Harris hung himself in his cell.”

“How far off?”

“All the way off. He cashed out his bank account, got rid of his cell phone, cable TV, everything. None of his credit cards have been used in six months. Jamie Taladyne is either hiding out or he’s dead.”

“Did anyone talk to his parole officer?”

“It’s a woman. She said she hasn’t heard from him since Harris died.”

“Who’d you get this from, your pal Joey?”

“He and Plank split before you did, Jones.”

Matt’s cell phone started ringing in his pocket. When he checked the caller ID, he saw the name of Hughes’s supervisor, Lieutenant Howard McKensie, on the LCD screen. He switched on the phone, but all he heard was a faint voice lost in digital noise and static.

“Are you there, Jones? Are you there?”

“I’m here, Lieutenant, but it’s a bad connection.”

“Frankie’s been in a car accident.”

Matt felt the blood draining from his head and sat down. “Is he okay?”

The digital noise returned. Cabrera looked at Matt and rolled his chair closer. After several seconds, McKensie’s voice broke through again.

“I’m just south of Mint Canyon.”

“Is Frankie okay, Lieutenant?”

“You need to be here, Jones. Placerita Canyon Road off Route 14. You need to hurry.”

McKensie’s voice faded into the static and Matt lost the call. A long moment passed. When Matt spoke, his voice was just above a whisper.

“Frankie’s been in an accident.”

Cabrera nodded, digging his keys out of his pocket. “I’ll drive,” he said.

CHAPTER 27

The smoke from the wildfire came and went with the breeze, the road blocked by two deputy sheriffs. When Matt and Cabrera showed them their IDs, they were asked to pull off to the side and walk the rest of the way. The blaze was 90 percent contained, but more trucks were on the way.

Listening to the distant sirens, Matt climbed out of the car with Cabrera and started walking. The road was a narrow two-lane, the slope to his right a ten-story drop to the bottom of the canyon. Up ahead he could see the fire engines through the smoke. A group of maybe ten people were gazing down the hill with great interest. As he and Cabrera got closer, he spotted Lieutenant McKensie standing with an old man in the middle of the pack. The old man was unshaven and dressed in a flannel shirt and a pair of blue jeans. McKensie must have sensed their arrival because he turned. When Matt got a look at his face, he knew that Frankie was dead.