Authors: Duane Swierczynski,Anthony E. Zuiker

Dark Revelations (4 page)

BOOK: Dark Revelations

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“Where did you say you found this? And what will happen to it after it’s . . . uh, evidence?”

Dark strolled away, pondering the implications. So they were dealing with someone who could pull off an art theft as well as a terrorist attack and a double homicide. There was the remote possibility that this was some sicko who’d rifled through a dead artist’s possessions, and this was some bizarre way of announcing to the world that there were priceless objects now available for purchase.

But that didn’t fit in with anything else—not the clock, nor the riddle.

This wasn’t over.

The unsub was asking a question. No—it was more than that. He was daring them.

Figure this out before I strike again.

“Did you pull anything from the note?” Dark asked Banner.

“Not a thing. And the in-house handwriting analyst kind of just laughed when she saw it. Pretty much a textbook example of how to write in the most nondistinctive way possible. Right down to the ink, which came from the most common pen in the known universe.”

“Hidden messages?” Dark asked. “Any microdots?”

It was unusual but possible. Microdots were secret messages compressed into a minuscule piece of typography—a comma, a period, the dot in the letter
i
. Cold War–era spies were fond of using microdots to smuggle sensitive material out from behind the Iron Curtain.

“Not a thing,” Banner said. “We ran it through every test we have.”

“So our unsub’s being literal,” Dark said. “He wants us to answer the riddle.”

A WOMAN SHOOTS HER HUSBAND. THEN SHE HOLDS HIM UNDER WATER FOR OVER 5 MINUTES. FINALLY, SHE HANGS HIM. BUT 5 MINUTES L ATER THEY BOTH GO OUT AND ENJOY A WONDERFUL DINNER TOGETHER . HOW CAN THIS BE?

“She’s a photographer,” Banner said; a sheepish look washed over his face. “I, uh, Googled it.”

“Right,” Dark said. “She
shot
her husband with her camera, then she
drowned
the film in chemicals to develop it for five minutes, then
hung
it—like, in a darkroom. Then they go out and have dinner while it’s drying.”

“I would have gotten it eventually,” Banner said.

“Yeah, but it’s too easy to be the real puzzle,” Dark said. “Like you said, you can easily look up the answer online. The question is, what’s this riddle doing on LAPD stationery, packaged along with the nude sketch and the clock? Why the art? Is he threatening Bethany Millar? Is this some crude way of saying that her time is running out?”

Banner’s eyes lit up. “Okay, hang on . . . here’s a weird thing for you,” he said. “When one of the bomb techs looked it over, he noticed that the alarm clock was set to go off in a little less than five hours.” Banner glanced at his rubber digital wristwatch. “Well, uh . . . make that forty-five minutes now.”

“Shit, Banner—why didn’t you tell me this before?”

“We kind of got sidetracked on the whole nude sketch thing, remember?”

The clock was the most obvious message of all.

Figure this out before I strike again . . .

. . . in forty-five minutes.

There was one person who might be able to tie it all together.

Not Herbert Loeb. The artist had been dead since 1988, having famously overdosed in his Tribeca apartment. Dark needed to find Loeb’s secret model.

Before the alarm went off.

chapter 5

DARK

Hollywood Hills, California

D
ark parked his Mustang on a downward slope in an illegal, instant tow-away, no-questions-asked,
fuck you have a nice day
zone. You could say this much about people who lived in the Hollywood Hills: When it came to protecting their parking spaces, they meant it.

But nobody would touch Dark’s car. That’s because Lisa Graysmith had given him a plastic hangtag that would grant him the parking equivalent of diplomatic immunity anywhere in North America. Much as Dark hated to admit it, the thing came in handy, especially in a perpetual traffic nightmare like L.A.

Especially when you might be racing to save an old woman’s life.

Dark had quickly dug up Bethany Millar’s home address and number and called it as he raced up the 101 toward the Hollywood Hills. There had been no answer; a machine picked up instead, and the voice on the digital recording sounded frail and confused. Still, Dark recognized it. You see someone on a screen and it’s as if you know them; your brain learns to recognize the way they look, act, and speak.

Now he hoped Millar was still alive.

Dark darted uphill, hopped a wrought-iron fence, then ran toward the house.

An elderly woman answered the chipped-paint door. Dark recognized her immediately.

Bethany Millar: in the flesh.

Dark was not the type to be starstruck, but even he had a vague feeling of dislocation that he should be looking at her on a black-and-white screen, not in living color.

“Ms. Millar? Can I speak to you for a moment?”

One look at Dark and the former starlet assumed he was a cop, here to deliver bad news.

“This is about my daughter, isn’t it,” she said, without preamble. “Oh God, please don’t tell me you found my baby girl, please don’t.”

The decades had been cruel to Millar. Dark could smell the gin on her breath, as well as the mint mouthwash she no doubt swigged right before she answered the door. Her house, too, screamed
faded glory
. The front was overgrown with plant life and was a probable brushfire hazard. No doubt her neighbors hoped a little seismic jolt would wrench the old house from its foundations and wipe the slate clean.

“I’m here for you, actually,” Dark said, casting a wary eye behind her, making sure no one was lurking in the shadows.

“Me?” Millar asked. “I’m fine. It’s Faye I’m worried about. Is she okay? Please tell me she’s okay.”

“Do you think Faye is missing?”

“Missing?” Millar said sharply, as if she’d been grossly offended. “I didn’t say anything about her being
missing
. I know exactly where she is. With that slimy rat bastard.”

Faye Elizabeth was Bethany Millar’s daughter, and she’d achieved something her mother never had: A-list status in Hollywood, headlining a series of top-grossing action movies. Elizabeth rarely spoke of her mother, adopting her own middle name as a stage name, and avoiding all questions about her parents. Her father had been an accountant, and had drank himself to death as quickly as you could on six figures a year. Her mother had faded into obscurity.

But it was clear that Bethany Millar still cared a great deal for her daughter.

“I can check on Faye if you like,” Dark said, “but I’m here about you.”

“Me?”

Dark stepped inside and eyeballed the room. It was spare to the point of absurdity—almost in move-in condition, if Ms. Millar were about to sell the place. Not a personal touch anywhere. No old posters, no memorabilia, no framed photos, no books, not a single piece of entertainment anywhere. She could vanish in an instant and you’d be hard-pressed to tell who lived here. Just someone who clearly didn’t keep up this shell of a house, with its faded, chipped paint and deep cracks running up and down the walls.

“Do you remember an artist named Herbert Loeb?” Dark asked.

“Oh God.”

“So you
do
know him.”

“I didn’t say that! Why do you keep putting words in my mouth—I don’t even know who you are, and you’re making this accusation. . . .”

“Did you know he once drew a sketch of you? Perhaps you modeled in a studio at one point, and Mr. Loeb was in attendance.”

“I was never a model and I don’t know Herbie and I’d like you to stop talking about me and go look for my daughter and bring her home. She has to be brought home right away so I can talk to her. Will you do that for me? Please!”

Of course Dark knew she was lying, and doing an extremely bad job of it, hobbled by either the gin or some kind of painkiller. Most likely both. Bethany Millar didn’t want to be in her own head, let alone her own house. Why?

And why the focus on her daughter?

Never mind the fact that Millar never asked Dark’s name, or to see identification of any kind....

“Have you had any strange phone calls? Noticed anyone in the area who shouldn’t be around?”

“No, I haven’t, and I’d really appreciate if you could go out and find Faye. I can pay you whatever you like. Name your price.”

“Who would know where she is, Ms. Millar?” Dark asked.

“David, that prick. I never liked him. I told her that. Did she listen? I told her what they were all like. All of those producers.”

“Who’s David?”

“Aren’t you even listening? That sneaky prick David Loeb!”

Dark made the connection instantly. You don’t hear the same surname twice in one day and chalk it up to just another Hollywood coincidence.

“Excuse me, Ms. Millar.”

“You bring her back here! I’m begging you!”

Dark was already halfway to his Mustang by the time he reached Josh Banner in his lab and asked if Herbert Loeb had any children. By the time Banner came up with the answer, Dark was behind the wheel and slamming down on the accelerator.

Herbert had one child: a son named David Loeb.

A Hollywood producer.