Last Breath (18 page)

“They say you can’t pull off the perfect crime.” He was still talking somewhere in the darkness around her. “I’m proving them wrong. I’ve worked it all out. It’s a thing of beauty, really, though I’m not surprised if you fail to appreciate its aesthetic merits.”

She had wanted him to explain things, but suddenly his voice was intolerable to her, and she just wished he would shut up.

“The key to any successful deceit is misdirection. Magicians know that. Well, I’ve found a way to misdirect the police—and the best part is that I didn’t have to create some elaborate ruse. I merely had to take advantage of an existing situation.”

He was so pleased with himself, and so confident. The confidence scared her most of all. Adam was an intelligent man, and if he felt sure of himself, he had a good reason.

“I told you I was spending hours online every night. My life was school and the computer, nothing else. One night I was scrolling through an ‘alt.sex’ message board, trying to find out about sites I’d overlooked, and I read about a secret site, password-protected. At first it didn’t sound like anything special. It had the kind of name all these sites have—you know. Well, no, I guess you don’t. You use your computer to buy curiosities at auction sites, don’t you? Tame, C.J., very tame. The Web has a lot more to offer, if you know where to look.”

She was glad she hadn’t known where to look. She wasn’t in the market for what the dark side of the Web seemed to be selling.

“These sites have names like sexpussy.com or lick-me.com, anything that’s dirty and enticing. This one—I don’t even remember the damn name now. I bookmarked it so I didn’t have to keep typing the address. Anyway, I was just bored enough to ask for the password via e-mail. I received it and logged on, and that site led me to something I never expected to find, C.J. It led me to you.”

There was silence in the room. She sat very still, trying to understand what he could possibly mean.

“That’s right. You, my ex-wife, focus of my obsession. You were there. I could watch you. I could study you whenever you were home. It was like living with you again. I’d come home from UCLA and there you were, waiting for me. Sometimes getting dressed for a night watch, or going out with friends, or doing reps on your home gym. Never any sex, though. Guess you knew that anybody after me would be a disappointment. That was a joke, by the way. I’m not that vain.”

No, she thought, you’re just out of your freakin’ mind.

It seemed clear what had happened. After his hours of living vicariously through the Internet, he had lost contact with reality. He had imagined seeing her on the computer, the way schizophrenics imagined that the news anchor on their TV was talking directly to them. It was the only explanation.

“I watched you, but not only you. There were other women who’d been featured on the site. I knew that, because there were references to previous contestants. That’s what you were, C.J.: a contestant. Well, I wanted to see those other women, but their images had been taken down. I figured I might find them on the server if I could hack into it. Never knew I was a hacker, did you? Well, it’s amazing what a little determination can do. I read some stuff online about how to enter a site through what they call a back door—never mind the details. It was easy enough. I got in, found the pics, saw the other women. And that’s when I realized I’d stumbled onto a bigger secret than a hidden Web site. And I knew what I had to do.”

He had lost her completely. She had no idea what he was talking about.

“So I worked it all out, down to the last detail. When it’s over, you’ll be dead, and even though I ought to be the first guy in the lineup, nobody will ever suspect me. There’ll be another suspect, a much more plausible one. He calls himself Bluebeard, by the way. That’s another thing I discovered after I got in through the back door and started snooping. Bluebeard’s his name—very appropriate—and his password’s Fatima, and right now he’s about to get nailed for a whole bunch of crimes he committed and for one, just one, that he never got around to. But who’ll believe his denials? Who’ll listen to him at all? See how beautiful it is, C.J.? Like a fine work of art?”

She wouldn’t have answered even if she could. There was nothing beautiful about any of this. There was only the disjointed rambling of a crazed mind.

“From this point on, it’s all about timing. In case you’re interested, you’re going to die at exactly ten forty-five P.M. No earlier, no later. It’s seven forty-five now, so you’ve got three hours to go. I hope you use the time well. Maybe you can think about all the things you could have done to make our marriage work. Maybe you can see for yourself why you’re ultimately to blame—”

A shrill cry from across the room cut him off. It took her a moment to recognize it as the ring of a cell phone.

“What the hell?” The interruption had rattled him. She could tell he hadn’t been expecting this call.

There were two more rings before he answered.

“Hello? ... Yes, this is Adam Nolan.”

Once again he sounded calm, in control, but now she knew it was an act.

“Yes, Officer, how can I help you? ... What? Did something happen to her? Was she in an accident?”

God damn him. He was a better liar than she’d ever realized.

“We were divorced a year ago,” he was saying in a well-modulated tone of dread. “Sure, we keep in touch. I saw her today at the station—she said she had some volunteer work to do tonight.... Is that it? Did something happen at the junior high?”

So convincing. Every nuance, every choice of words, every stammer and hesitation. She almost believed him herself, just as she had believed he was faithful to her, just as she’d thought he was sincere about wanting to be friends, to go out on Friday for an evening of music and conversation.

He had deceived her completely, and he would deceive the police too.

“If you won’t give me the details over the phone, at least tell me if C J.’s okay....”

She could not let him get away with this. She struggled to force a scream past the throttle in her mouth, but the loudest sound she could produce was a strangled moan.

His footsteps eased farther away, putting distance between himself and any noise she made. He kept talking.

“Of course I’ll come in. But I wish you could reassure me—all right, all right, I understand.”

She couldn’t scream. Impotently she kicked her sneakers against the concrete floor. No use. The noise was probably inaudible over the phone, and even if it did get through, it would mean nothing to anyone who heard it.

“Wilshire Community Police Station on Venice Boulevard, just west of San Vicente. Got it. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

Another click as the phone was flipped shut. The call was over.

She could hear his quick breathing, a release of tension after his performance. Then a muttered curse. “
God
damn
it.”

Why was he upset? He must have anticipated that the police would call him. Then she remembered what he’d said at the house when he heard Tanner on the answering machine—“I don’t want him coming over. Not this soon.”

And a few minutes ago—“It’s all about timing.”

He’d said she would die at 10:45. “No earlier, no later.”

It wasn’t the phone call itself that had rattled him. It was the fact that it had come too soon.

As if in confirmation, she heard him whisper, “Fuck,” in that petulant tone he always used when he didn’t get his way.

If his plan’s timing had been disrupted, did that mean he wouldn’t wait three hours for the kill? Would he end things now?

Footsteps. He approached her. She waited, thinking of the gun that had nuzzled her chin. Was the gun in his hand? Was he about to pull the trigger?

She wished the son of a bitch hadn’t taped over her eyes.

Then with a chuckle, he said, “Not yet, C.J.”

The words ought to have come as a relief, but hearing him address her in that fraudulently affectionate tone only shot another surge of fury through her. She twisted her wrists behind her back.

“Your friends at the LAPD are moving faster than I thought,” he went on. “But it doesn’t matter. Doesn’t matter at all.”

She caught the quaver in his voice and knew he was working hard to convince himself that things would still be okay. He hated surprises, hated to improvise. He was a control freak—always had been. A place for everything, everything in its place.

“Anyway, I have to go away for a while and talk to a detective about you. Should be a very interesting conversation. But don’t worry. I’ll be back. I guarantee it. In the meantime, you just sit tight. Think good thoughts.”

He walked off, his footsteps receding. From what seemed like far away he spoke again, his voice raised to cover distance.

“By the way, I lied about not remembering that song. And, darling—I’ve saved the last dance for you.”

8:00 P.M.—MIDNIGHT WEDNESDAY

Treat paced his bedroom, clenching and unclenching his fists, lifting his hands to run his long fingers through his hair. He almost believed that he was agitated, but he was never agitated. He prided himself on his self-control. The world could not touch him. He had risen above it. He had mastered death and life.

Even so, he could not stop pacing. He traced a series of irregular ellipses over the bedroom carpet.

By now he should have had her. Should have already begun the night’s entertainment. And it would have been such a special night, because
she
was special.

Instead she had been removed from his reach, and why? Because the police were on to him.

It was the only explanation for the insane vision that greeted him when he drove down her street at 6:45, only an hour ago. He had expected to see lights burning in the windows of her bungalow, the yard dark. Perhaps there would be the soft chatter of television voices from inside. That was how it had been on other nights, when he had reconnoitered the house.

Instead he saw a police car—a Sheriff’s Department patrol unit—parked in her driveway. At her front door, two deputies.

He cruised past without slowing. Whatever was happening, he could not afford to be seen there.

For fifteen minutes he drove aimlessly, trying to decide what to make of this unwelcome development. Deputies at her house? It made no sense. The mid-Wilshire area was not even under the Sheriff’s jurisdiction. There was no reason for any deputies to be there.

Perhaps they were friends stopping by to say hello. If so, they might already have left.

Once this cheering prospect occurred to him, he returned to her neighborhood for a second look.

This time things were worse.

The deputies’ car was still there, but joining it were three unmarked sedans, obviously official vehicles, and a pair of LAPD squad cars. The bungalow blazed with light. Uniformed and plainclothes cops were visible inside.

Again he drove past without reducing speed. Then he headed home.

He had not permitted himself to formulate any opinions until he had more information. Hasty, unwarranted speculation was anathema to him, the bane of methodical reasoning.

Once home, he had switched on his laptop and checked the Web site’s video feed. It was still running. The lights in her bedroom were on, and cops wandered in and out. Nobody was looking at the camera or seemed to suspect its existence. That was one good thing, at least.

He owned a police scanner, which he tuned to the frequencies used by the LAPD’s Wilshire Division. He monitored the cross talk as the scanner hopped from band to band.

Finally he turned on his TV and clicked through the channels in search of a news bulletin. He saw nothing but entertainment programs, each more witless than the last.

His gaze had kept returning to the computer screen. Once, he saw an older, rumpled man in a wrinkled suit walk slowly through the bedroom. He knew that man’s name. Morris Walsh, head of the task force hunting the Hourglass Killer.

Now what the hell was
he
doing there?

There could be only one answer. The police must have discovered that Caitlin was his next target. He had pressed his luck too far, following her after she left work. She had seen the van—he’d caught her looking at him outside the Korean market. No doubt she’d reported the incident to her fellow cops. Somehow a white van had been linked to one or more of the previous Hourglass Killer slayings—perhaps somebody had spotted it near one of the abduction sites or the dump sites of the bodies. Walsh had moved Caitlin to a safe house and was now inspecting her home for clues. But they had not yet learned of the Web site itself. If they had, they surely would have taken it down by now.

What to do, what to do?

He didn’t know, and he hated not knowing.

Uncertainty was rare for him. Ambiguity was not a daily feature of his life. He felt lost, and this was a feeling both new and disagreeable.

He stopped in the middle of his bedroom, worn out by worry. For a few moments he just stood there. The TV flickered in a corner; the computer, resting in its docking station, displayed the video feed; the scanner hissed and crackled with snippets of radio code.

Treat ignored it. He looked at himself in the mirror over the bureau, a tall man with thinning hair and sharp features and a spindly, angular body. For a moment he saw the teenager he had been, the lonely, remote, pale thirteen-year-old dubbed Spider-Man by his peers—not from any similarity to the comic-book crime-fighter, but because he had reminded them of a spider with his double-jointed appendages branching out in weird directions.

He hadn’t minded the name. He liked spiders. He admired their patience, their craft, and their cold ruthlessness. Even as a child, he had known that these were the special qualities he wished to nurture in himself. He had taken to raising spiders in the cellar. His parents hadn’t objected. They had heard that it was advisable to encourage a gifted boy in his hobbies and interests. Besides, they were afraid of their son.