Freak (22 page)

He had a hand over her mouth before she could scream.

And then the door busted open.

The client looked up and smiled. “What took you guys so long?”

JEREMIAH BLAKE CONFESSED
to four counts of first-degree murder.

Torrance had wanted an additional charge for the attempted murder of Tammy Kachkowski, the young woman they’d pulled the kid off of, but she had refused to talk to the police, insisting that nothing had happened. She hadn’t had sex with him, he hadn’t hurt her, and she said that if Jeremiah Blake was charged with anything having to do with her, there was no way in hell she would testify. Torrance wasn’t sure he wanted to push it. A student at Puget Sound State (she refused to admit she was a call girl and had acted outraged at the insinuation, as her parents were Catholics, fuck you very much), Kachkowski just wanted to go home and forget the whole thing ever happened.

They didn’t need her testimony, anyway. The kid was making their job ridiculously easy. Jeremiah Blake knew everything about the crime scenes. The knife they’d found on him was the same knife used on all the women. He knew how the bodies were positioned, which ones had tattoos, which ones dyed their hair so the “curtains matched the carpet,” and he could even remember their perfume. He’d happily described what it felt like to sink his knife into their skin, and the delight
he’d experienced in choking them to death with a skinny little zip tie.

“You have to admit, the zip ties are cool,” Blake had said with a grin. “Cheapest things ever, easy to conceal, and once you get one on . . .” He’d pretended to claw at his throat, bugging his eyes and sticking out his tongue, a parody of someone choking to death. Dropping his hands, he’d laughed. “It’s not coming off.”

Jerry had wanted to strangle him.

They had their man. Jeremiah Blake was their Jack the Zipper . . . an idiotic nickname, yes, but no one could deny it fit.

And yet, something still nagged in the back of Jerry’s mind. Call it intuition. Call it a hunch. Instinctively, something just seemed off. But he couldn’t seem to pinpoint what it was.

Blake was alone now in Interview Room 2 at Seattle PD, and they watched him on the monitor in a different room. The kid hadn’t lawyered up and he’d refused to call his father. Instead, he’d talked up a storm, answering all their questions with enthusiasm and smiles. Blake actually seemed to be
enjoying
police custody. He probably figured it would make a great blog post or two. Jerry wondered if the kid actually understood the gravity of his situation, and could only conclude that he didn’t. Being a teenager was probably the only time in your life when you felt utterly invincible.

They continued to watch him, each man processing his own thoughts. The kid was leaning back in his chair, hands splayed on the desk in front of him, rocking back and forth on the chair’s two back legs like Jerry used to do when he was in high school so many moons ago.

“Bet he falls backwards in his chair within an hour,” Torrance said, munching on a slice of leftover pizza he’d found in the break room.

Jerry said nothing, not taking his eyes off the monitor.
Though they had the volume muted, he could tell Blake was singing.

“Okay, what feels wrong to you?” Torrance asked.

“You can tell?”

“Pal, it hasn’t been that long. I remember that look. What’s bugging you?”

Jerry sighed and tugged at his collar. “I don’t know. It was all just . . . way too easy.”

Torrance finished the last of his pizza and wiped his palms on the thighs of his slacks, even though there were napkins right beside him. “Yeah, maybe. But guess what, that’s the way it goes sometimes. Not all homicide investigations are hard, and thank God for that. That doesn’t mean anything’s wrong.”

“Okay, I’ll give you that.” Jerry cracked his knuckles. “But play devil’s advocate with me for a bit here. Why would the kid confess? Why make it
that
easy?”

“Why not?” Torrance said, but his tone wasn’t challenging. Jerry smiled a little. This was how they used to work back in the day, tossing ideas back and forth. “He’s exceptionally bright, like you said, but he’s not street smart. Maybe he knew he’d be caught at some point, anyway. Hell, maybe he
wanted
to get caught. Maybe he planned it like this. You spent thirty years in PD, you know how many genuinely fucked up people there are out there.”

“But what’s in it for him?” Jerry said. He stood up and started pacing; the movement helped him think more clearly. “He’s killed four women. He was fairly strategic about it. The third one found was actually the first one killed, so we know he’s got decent planning skills. He carved up the bodies, so we know he likes the drama. Hell, he blogs, so he obviously enjoys having an audience. But if he’s in prison, he can’t blog. No Internet access. No way to make money off this.”

“Who says he’s in it for the money? You saw his walls. The kid idolizes serial killers. He’s obviously in it for the fame.” Torrance stared at Blake through the monitor. “I hear everything you’re saying, pal, but you’re forgetting one very important fact.
Jeremiah Blake is a fucking psycho
. Psychopaths don’t operate with the same rules of logic the rest of us do. You’re trying to make sense of something that will never make sense.”

Jerry nodded grudgingly. He knew that everything his former partner had just said was true. And yet . . . “Have you tracked down his father?”

Torrance shook his head. “He works on a crab boat called the
Della Rosa
. And apparently it’s somewhere in the middle of the Bering Sea right now. Still trying to get ahold of the boat.”

“The dad’s never around.” Jerry frowned. “No wonder the son turned out to be a freak.”

The speaker buzzed again. Torrance reached over and smacked the button. “Yeah?”

“Mike, there’s a woman here to see you.” It was the front desk calling. Jerry recognized the voice as belonging to the desk sergeant, a man nearing retirement who never sounded excited about anything. “Name’s Estelle Kane. Says you’ve left her messages.”

“Have her meet me in Interview Room three.” Torrance stood up and grinned at Jerry. “Perfect timing. The madam is here.”

“Do we need her?” Jerry asked. “After all, the kid confessed.”

“Might as well cross the
i
’s and dot the
t
’s.”

Jerry was still distracted by the rocking motion coming from the monitor. Blake’s mouth was open wide, and Jerry turned up the volume, listening for a few seconds. “What the hell is he singing? Is that an actual song? It sounds terrible.”

Torrance chuckled. “He’s not much of a singer, but it’s definitely a real song. Never heard it before? It’s by Talking Heads.” He looked at Jerry, whose expression must have been blank, because the detective repeated, “Talking Heads? They were big in the seventies and eighties? Dude. You’re not that old.”

“
Dude
. I was listening to Rick James in the eighties.” Jerry pursed his lips. “Kool and the Gang. Earth, Wind and Fire. Real music.”

“And all good stuff,” Torrance said amiably enough. “But I don’t think any of those guys could write a song as fitting as the one Jeremiah Blake’s singing right now.”

“Which is?”

“‘Psycho Killer.’” The detective smiled grimly. “It’s perfect, no?”

*     *     *

“I don’t recognize him.” Estelle Kane shook her head, staring at the monitor. “I don’t actually meet our clients in person, Detective. All bookings are done over the phone or online.”

“His name is Jeremiah Blake.”

Her face twitched. If Jerry had blinked, he might have missed it. “Don’t know that name,” she said.

“And what exactly is it that your company does, Ms. Kane?” Torrance asked. He was leaning against the wall beside her, toothpick dangling out of his mouth.

“We’re a modeling agency. If you’ve been to the site, which you obviously have, it’s fairly self-explanatory.”

“Cut the shit.”

She glanced up at him, her expertly made-up eyes showing no reaction to Torrance’s harsh tone. “You asked me. I’m telling you.”

“I think we both know what you do. Everybody knows.”

Kane smiled slightly, then checked her manicure. Her nails
were long and glossy, the tips painted white. “Do they? I don’t think so.”

She was not at all what Jerry expected. He assumed she’d be at least twenty years older. In his mind, madams were old, cynical, retired prostitutes who couldn’t pull tricks themselves anymore and so they got younger women to do it, taking a nice cut for themselves.

Kane, as it turned out, was closer to the Heidi Fleiss variety. She was thirty-two and beautiful. Honey blond hair hung in waves down to the middle of her back. Long, dark eyelashes framed wide green eyes, and her tan was either purchased from a premier salon or earned on the beaches of the French Riviera. Her skin was flawless, her full lips glossed to perfection. She sat with her long legs crossed, wearing a fitted gray dress and nude-colored stilettos with red soles. Jerry didn’t know anything about women’s attire, but her outfit certainly looked expensive.

She appraised the monitor for a minute longer with eyes that had probably seen too much for someone so young. “What is it he did?”

“He killed four girls who worked for you.”

“I only have one employee, Detective. My assistant, Lynne.” Kane looked bored. “All the models are independent contractors. If I approve them, they get a profile on my site, I help them with their photos, and all payments go through me. For my services, I take a percentage. It’s really very simple.”

“Claire Holt didn’t work for you?” Torrance said. “What about Stephanie Hooper? Brenda Stich? Alice Bennett?”

Kane looked up at him, her face difficult to read. “Yes, they all did.
As independent contractors
.”

“Well, now they’re all dead.
As doornails
.”

She stared at him as if she were waiting for the punch line. “I hope you’re joking.”

Torrance tapped on a folder on the desk. “I’ve got pictures. Say the word.”

Kane looked away.

“You don’t keep track of where your girls are?” Jerry asked.

“Why would I? Once I approve them,
as models
, their profile goes up on my site. The client simply clicks on the one he wants, and books.”

“I don’t understand,” Jerry said. “What’s the incentive for the girls—sorry,
models
—to partner with you? Why wouldn’t they just run their own websites? Take their own payments?”

Kane rolled her eyes. Clearly his question was moronic. “Because I have a reputation. I’m sure you’ve seen the amount of trash that’s advertised on the Internet. All of my girls are . . . professional. Classy. Educated. Because of this, I can charge premium rates and ensure repeat business.”

“You forgot to mention they’re clean, too,” Torrance said, the toothpick bobbing up and down between his lips. “Am I right? All your girls are free of venereal diseases?”

Kane didn’t answer.

“And how do your clients pay?” Jerry asked.

“The only way to do it is online, via credit card or PayPal. Our website is very interactive.”

“And how do you run background checks?”

“I don’t.”

Jerry stared at her, incredulous. His temple began to throb. “You send these girls out without background-checking the johns?”

Kane didn’t answer.

“Lady, you’re a piece of work.”

Kane’s face turned to stone. “Perhaps I should call my attorney.”

Torrance sighed. “We’re homicide, not vice, Ms. Kane. We
know what you do for a living, okay? And personally, I don’t give a shit. Your so-called modeling agency is another department’s problem. What I do give a shit about is that I have a murder suspect in the next room who’s killed four women who all worked for you. I need to know what you know.”

“I want immunity.”

“We can work something out, I’m sure. Right now, it’s a good idea to foster goodwill, don’t you think? You give, I give. I got no problem with that.”

“It depends on what you want to know.”

“Tell us what you know about Jeremiah Blake,” Jerry said. “Start there.”

Kane chewed her lower lip for a moment, then her face regained its composure. “Fine. I recognize the name. I’ve seen it in the past on credit card payments. He was a regular client for a few years, but I don’t know that I’ve seen him book anyone recently.”

Jerry looked at Torrance questioningly. “The father was a client, too?”

Torrance leaned in toward Kane. “I’m not interested in your clients from the past few years. What I want are the credit card numbers and/or PayPal email addresses of the clients who
last
booked Stephanie Hooper, Brenda Stich, Claire Holt, and Alice Bennett.”

Kane was quiet for a moment. Finally she said, “If it gets out that I gave you this information, I’m ruined, Detective. My business is all about discretion.”

“You give, I give, remember?”

Kane turned away, pulled out her phone, and made a quick call, jotting something on a small pad she kept in her purse. Then she tore out the page, handing it to Torrance.

The detective frowned. “Just one email address?”

Kane nodded. “The same client booked all four women through PayPal.”

Torrance handed the slip of paper to Jerry. The email address she’d scrawled was [email protected]. He looked up at his former partner. “Seriously, Mike? It’s too easy.”

Torrance shrugged. “Who cares? It’s done. We got him.”

Jerry frowned at the monitor. The kid was still rocking back and forth in his chair in the interview room. Dammit, maybe his instincts
were
off. The evidence was all there. Everything fit. Yet still . . .

The kid’s chair tipped all the way backward, and a second later Jeremiah Blake was sprawled on the floor.

“Told you he’d fall,” Torrance said.

MARIANNE CHANG USED
to be Sheila’s therapist, but they’d both decided last year that Sheila would be better off working with someone else. Someone who could be objective. Someone who wasn’t a friend. Because Marianne
was
Sheila’s friend—her closest girlfriend, by far—and right now, her friend was giving her a look that was equal parts worry, sympathy, and anger.