Authors: Duane Swierczynski,Anthony E. Zuiker
Dark Revelations (5 page)
And this was the easy one.
Ah, well.
There’s always a learning curve with these kinds of things. You can’t expect everyone to understand the rules of the game on the first move.
From the driver’s seat I glance at the crashing waves on the lovely pristine Malibu beach as the sun continues its languid descent across the sky.
I greedily suck in the fresh ocean air as it blasts across my face, whipping the hair from my forehead, which is still damp from the salty mist, and for just a moment I can understand the appeal, why people worked so hard for temporary little pieces of
this
.
this
.
Of course, the beaches should be free and open to all. Any human being should be able to sit down and enjoy this primal spectacle at any time, not because they’ve jumped through a series of hoops for the mighty and the powerful.
The pimp and his whore—not so powerful now.
I think about how easy it all was.
How the lock on the house was junk.
How surprised they were to see me—the pimp and the whore in swimsuits, dirty feet up on a coffee table that was littered with imported beer bottles, fashion magazines, candy bars, and baggies of cocaine.
How they squinted like maybe they knew me, because on the outside, I look like I could be part of their world—healthy enough, handsome enough, groomed enough, confident enough.
But I am most definitely
not
part of their world.
not
part of their world.
It was even easy to force them to strip.
I wondered, though, if they understood the significance of that.
I wanted them stark naked so they could truly see each other’s bodies. Not in a lustful manner, but a clinical manner.
Because if they did, then soon certain anatomical similarities would manifest themselves.
Did they ever consider the matching birthmarks?
Or the idiosyncratic shapes of their hands—the long ring fingers on the left hand?
Or their eye color—which suggested burned gold in the middle of a lush New Guinea jungle?
Did none of this occur to them, even through the narcotic haze, as they were fucking each other?
It is important that they realized why this was happening to them. Because if they could not be made to understand, then the rest of the world wouldn’t. They need to really
sell it.
sell it.
If we’re going to save the world together.
chapter 7
DARK
D
ark glanced at his watch the moment he pulled up to the address Bethany Millar had given him. If the alarm clock in that package had been a countdown to something, then they’d reached zero hour just a few minutes ago.
ark glanced at his watch the moment he pulled up to the address Bethany Millar had given him. If the alarm clock in that package had been a countdown to something, then they’d reached zero hour just a few minutes ago.
Fuck.
He hammered the brakes, leaped out of the Mustang, and vaulted over the wrought-iron fence, hoping he wasn’t too late.
The door was ajar. Dark pulled his Glock 19 from his jacket and nudged the door open with his boot, then cleared the living room, which was an absolute mess. Baggies of coke, high-end junk food, half-empty beers. From the looks of it, Elizabeth and Loeb had been holed up here for a long time. Days, probably.
Were they out on the beach, or making another drug or booze run?
Deep down, Dark knew that wasn’t the case. He could feel the tremor in his own blood the same way an animal can sense a thunderstorm.
The next room was a kitchen, and off to the side, a bedroom. This home wasn’t big. Just a multimillion-dollar beachside crash/fuck pad, apparently. Dark moved efficiently and quickly, sweeping the kitchen before moving into the bedroom, checking every corner and square foot of floor space before pushing forward. His muscles were wired and he steeled himself for anything. A fight, or a horror show.
Even the scent that suddenly filled his nostrils—the copperish scent of freshly spilled blood.
Dark moved forward and nudged open the door with his knee. The bodies of the A-list actress and her producer boyfriend were in the bathroom.
Loeb was facedown in a blocked toilet, a bloody exit wound in his back. Faye Elizabeth was now slumped over in the tub, gun in her hand, head twisted at a very unnatural angle.
Time had run out.
At first glance, Dark could see the scenario that was
supposed
to have unfolded:
supposed
to have unfolded:
Producer David Loeb goes crazy, beats and strangles his actress girlfriend—the famous Faye Elizabeth. In a desperate act of self-defense, she shoots him in the chest. Both collapse and die of their injuries.
But Dark knew that wasn’t the case. They had been forced. Their bodies had been arranged. Forensics would prove that.
Whoever had done this had taken the time to arrange everything from the beginning. Now he was daring the police to catch him before he killed again.
The FBI arrived a short while later, having strong-armed the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department out of their own case. The special agent in charge threatened to have Dark thrown into “fucking Gitmo” for contaminating the crime scene. Dark allowed him to vent—he knew the frustrations of the job better than most people—before showing him his digital badge on his cell phone. At which point the SAC shut up and mumbled a promise to keep Dark apprised of any developments. Dark thanked him and waited on the fringes.
The bullet that had blasted through David Loeb’s chest and buried itself in the bathroom’s tile wall was traced back to the gun in Faye Elizabeth’s hand. No other DNA in the bathroom or the rest of the rental property—except for that of a lone cleaning woman. All signs pointed to: They did each other.
Time of death . . . well, the crime scene guys could tell, it had been just a few minutes after the time the alarm clock went off in Banner’s office.
Dark stared at the house and thought about something his old director pal Valentine had said. About Bethany Millar “boffing” Herbie Loeb.
He asked the forensic guys for samples of each victim’s blood, which they gave after a curt nod from the SAC, and sped away in his Mustang.
chapter 8
DARK
B
ack home in his basement lab, Dark loaded the blood samples from the crime scene and began the process of DNA testing.
ack home in his basement lab, Dark loaded the blood samples from the crime scene and began the process of DNA testing.
The gear in this secret room beneath Dark’s West Hollywood abode was also thanks to Lisa Graysmith. It enabled him to analyze his own forensic samples and check the results against the most sophisticated (and secret) database in the world.
A few hours later, DNA testing on the vics confirmed it: There was an 88 percent likelihood that Faye Elizabeth and David Loeb were half siblings. Their common parent: famous artist Herbert Loeb.
A crude childhood rhyme drifted through Dark’s head:
Incest is best, put your sister to the test.
Incest is best, put your sister to the test.
Somehow, the killer had known their dirty little secret. Was this personal, then?
If so, and the goal was to shame them in the most public way possible, why take out two LAPD detectives along the way?
Dark stared at the ceiling, putting together the narrative of the day from Labyrinth’s point of view, trying to tune in to his particular, sick wavelength.
He closed his eyes and began to put it together.
He went into
brooding
mode.
brooding
mode.
Back at Special Circs, Dark was known as a brooder, especially when sinking his mind into a new case. Other agents would joke that when Dark was in the zone, he moved
so
slowly he almost went back in time a few days. Riggins, however, would defend him. Dark may be a tortoise, Riggins would say, but you should see the collection of mounted rabbit heads on his living room wall. It was true. When Dark turned his mind to a case, it was as if nothing else existed. His focus bordered on the preternatural.
so
slowly he almost went back in time a few days. Riggins, however, would defend him. Dark may be a tortoise, Riggins would say, but you should see the collection of mounted rabbit heads on his living room wall. It was true. When Dark turned his mind to a case, it was as if nothing else existed. His focus bordered on the preternatural.
Only difference now was that Dark had to divide his life into two distinct parts: manhunter and . . .
“DADDY!” shouted Sibby from the living room. “We’re HO-OOOME!”
That would be Sibby, freshly sprung from her first grade classroom, escorted by her grandmother. Now it was time for Dark to turn off the quadruple homicides running through his mind and focus on his five-year-old girl, who’d want to tell him all about her day. Dark would have to stop thinking about the DNA testing and nude sketches of B-movie starlets and think about pouring his daughter a cup of juice and asking what kind of homework she had tonight.
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