Redzone (6 page)

“His name is Arnold Kaplan,” Prospo said, as he pushed an eight-by-ten mug shot across the table. The man in the picture had a receding hairline, dead eyes, and a soul patch on his chin. “This piece of shit was halfway through medical school when he stabbed his wife to death, dismembered her in the bathtub, and used a secondhand vacuum sealer to package the body parts. Then he took the packaged parts out of the apartment house one or two at a time and drove to who knows where. He never told anyone.”

Lee's eyebrows rose. “How do we know all of this?”

“We know because Kaplan's wife thought he was banging her sister—and placed tiny surveillance cameras all over their apartment three days before he killed her,” Yanty replied. “And when Kaplan reported his wife missing, and a couple of patrolmen asked to take a look around, he couldn't say no. Not without looking like he had something to hide. One of the boys in blue was a sharp cookie. He came across the wireless recorder, checked to see what was on it, and blamo! Case solved.”

“Okay,” Lee said. “But the guy's in the slammer, right?”

“Wrong,” Prospo said. “All this took place back in 2051. About a year later, the bastard escaped custody while being transported from the North Kern Prison to Tehachapi. And he hasn't been seen since.”

“The first murder took place in 2053,” Lee said. “So he was out and about at the right time. But
why
?”

“Revenge, pure and simple,” Yanty suggested.

“It fits,” Lee said cautiously. “Kaplan is educated, has a demonstrated willingness to kill, and knows how to butcher a body.”

“So?” Prospo said hopefully.

“So let's find the bastard.”

*   *   *

Even though Arnold Kaplan would have preferred to delegate such chores, it was his experience that “pickups” couldn't be left to others, not if he wanted to keep the donors in tiptop condition. He was riding shotgun in the long, gleaming hearse as it oozed through traffic.
Check all of the lights before you depart and drive at five miles per hour under the limit.
Those were just two of the rules that Kaplan's employees had to obey.

And, if the police stopped the hearse, what would they discover? What they
expected
to discover . . . A body in a coffin. Never mind the fact that the wino wasn't dead but heavily sedated. That would escape all but the most rigorous
examinations, and very few people wanted to get up close and personal with a dead body. Cops included.

Of course, transporting the donor was the easy part. Identifying a good “pick” was more difficult. Age was the chief criterion, because the older a homeless person was, the more damage one could expect to the donor's liver and kidneys. And Kaplan prided himself on supplying top quality “meat” to his clients in the red zone.

Although nearly all mutants were disfigured in some way, most could live fairly normal lives. But there were those, perhaps as many as 5 percent of the mutant population, who would die without an organ transplant. Most had to settle for hearts, lungs, or livers harvested from other mutants. But that was far from ideal.

No, those who could afford to pay wanted to receive
normal
organs. And to get them, they had to depend on suppliers like Kaplan, who maintained a citywide network of “spotters.” It was their job to locate healthy candidates and summon the hearse. Then, once the order was filled, Kaplan would ship it east.

The driver turned into the drive and followed it up and around to the rear of the two-story funeral home, where Kaplan's staff hurried out to meet it. The wino would be dead in fifteen minutes, fully processed by 10:00
A.M.
, and on the way to the red zone by noon. Then it would be time to make the drive to Malibu and Kaplan's oceanfront home. Life was good. And so, come to think of it, was death.

*   *   *

After sharing the information about Kaplan with her superiors, Lee received the go-ahead to follow up early the next morning. Eleven years had passed since Kaplan's escape, and the case was ice-cold. That made it difficult to know where to start.

The team was gathered in Conference Room 7-J for a brainstorming session. “Kaplan will have a new identity by
now,” Lee predicted. “And chances are that he'll look different as well.”

“True,” Yanty agreed. “But his skills are the same. He can't practice medicine, but he could get work as an orderly, a lab tech, or something like that.”

“Good thinking,” Lee said. “Although it will be damned hard to sort through such a large population.”

There was a moment of silence followed by a comment from Prospo. “There's another thing he can't change . . . And that's his relatives. Maybe he cut them off, and maybe he didn't.”

“That seems like the best place to start,” Lee said. “Eleven years is a long time. Even if he was careful not to contact them in the beginning, he could figure that it's safe to do so now. Let's go out and talk to every damned one of them.”

That, as it turned out, was easier said than done. Kaplan had a brother and a sister. His mother was still alive, as was
her
mother, and any number of uncles, aunts, and cousins. Lee elected to start with Kaplan's mother, while Yanty and Prospo went off to interview the murderer's siblings.

Mrs. Kaplan lived in the working-class neighborhood of Glendale. And as Lee pulled into a parking place across the street, she saw that the house she was looking for was a two-story Craftsman. According to the information she'd been able to dig up, Kaplan's mother was a retired nurse and therefore likely to be home. Lee hoped so as she got out and locked the car.

But what about Kaplan? Did
he
live there, too? After such a long time, anything was possible. And if she surprised him, all hell could break loose. But that was what the panic button in her pocket was for. All she had to do was press it, and the shadow team would swoop in to save her ass. Lee took a quick look around and was pleased to see that none of Wolfe's people were visible.

She crossed the street, climbed a flight of stairs, and approached the door. The green paint had started to peel. Lee
pushed the doorbell, waited for a while, and pushed again. The door opened to reveal a pleasant-looking woman clad in a light sweater and slacks. She had the wary expression of someone who is ready to tell a stranger no. She smiled. “Yes?”

Lee presented her badge case. “I'm Detective Lee . . . Are you Mrs. Kaplan? If so, I'd like to ask you some questions.”

The response was sad to see. The woman's face fell, and there was sorrow in her eyes. “Yes, I'm Beth Kaplan. Is this about Arnie?”

“Yes, I'm afraid so.”

“Is he dead?”

“No, not so far as I know. We're looking for him. Is he here?”

Lee's thumb was resting on the panic button as she watched Mrs. Kaplan's expression. But it remained unchanged. “No, he isn't. I haven't seen him since the day they sentenced him to life in prison. They should have executed him. Would you like to come in?”

Lee thought the juxtaposition of the two comments was somewhat jarring. She nodded. “Yes, ma'am. I would.”

Mrs. Kaplan led Lee into a well-kept but slightly dated living room. A picture was hanging over the fireplace. The color photo was of a man wearing a white hat and a dark uniform. “That's my husband, Bill,” Mrs. Kaplan said, as Lee paused to look at the picture. “He was a fireman.
B. nosilla
killed him. Arnie got sick, too—but he recovered.”

Lee took note of that. There were cases where people infected with
B. nosilla
had mental problems as a result. Was Arnold Kaplan one of them?

“Please,” Mrs. Kaplan said. “Have a seat. May I ask why you're here? It's been a long time since anyone spoke to me about the case.”

Lee sat on the couch. A cat jumped down and scurried away. There was no reason to lie. The strategy was to flush the Bonebreaker out. So if his mom warned him, that was fine. Her phone line and her e-mail were being monitored and would continue to be until Lee said otherwise. Besides,
Lee had been on TV talking about the Bonebreaker case, so it was only a matter of time until Mrs. Kaplan remembered her. “I'm in charge of the Bonebreaker investigation,” Lee said.

Mrs. Kaplan frowned. “That's right . . . You were on the news. Does this mean that you think Arnie is the Bonebreaker?”

“We think it's a possibility,” Lee replied.

“What he did to Carol was horrible,” Mrs. Kaplan said, as she looked away. “I don't know what went wrong.”

“Such things are always hard to understand,” Lee said sympathetically. “Your son never tried to contact you?”

Mrs. Kaplan's eyes swung back to make contact with Lee's. “No. Arnie knows I would turn him in.”

“What about other members of the family? How do they feel?”

“His brother and sister feel as I do,” Mrs. Kaplan answered. “As for my mother, well, she lives in a state of denial. She believes that Arnie is a doctor.”

“I see,” Lee said. “Can I speak with her?”

“Of course, but it won't do you much good. She's senile. But I'll write the address down and let the assisted-living center know that you're coming.”

“Thank you,” Lee said. “I would appreciate that. Would it be okay if I took a look around?”

Mrs. Kaplan made a face. “I can't say that I like the idea, but I guess there's no point in saying no. I'm sure you can get a search warrant if you want to.”

“I will be as nonintrusive as possible,” Lee promised. It took about fifteen minutes to check all of the rooms. Not for little things but to see if another person was living in the house. And as far as Lee could tell, Beth Kaplan was telling the truth.

As Lee left, Mrs. Kaplan gave her a piece of paper with an address on it. “Please take it easy on my mother. She's eighty-six and in poor health.”

“Of course.”

“And one more thing,” Mrs. Kaplan said, as they stepped out onto the porch. “If you run into my son, don't turn your back on him.” And with that, she went back inside.

*   *   *

It was still morning, so Lee decided to visit Kaplan's grandmother. And since the assisted-living facility was only two miles away, the trip didn't take long. As Lee pulled into a large parking lot, she saw that the building was three stories tall, nicely painted, and surrounded by a well-kept lawn. Before leaving the car, Lee got on the radio to let the shadow team know what she was up to. And as she got out of the vehicle, Lee couldn't help but look up to see if a drone was circling above. The sky was clear.

Lee entered the lobby via a wheelchair-friendly automatic door and crossed over to the point where a reception desk fronted one wall. The woman seated behind the mahogany bulwark had a pleasant appearance and a somewhat exaggerated manner. It was as if she believed that every word she said had to be amplified. Her name tag read,
WILMA
. “Good morning!” she said, in a voice loud enough to be heard on the other side of the room. “How are you?”

“I'm fine, thank you,” Lee answered. “My name is Cassandra Lee. Mrs. Kaplan said she would call ahead.”

“Yes,” Wilma said brightly. “You're here to see Mrs. Kelly . . . Please sign the guest book. Then I'll call Margaret and let her know that you're here.”

Lee took a ballpoint pen out of a cup with a smiley face on it, and was about to sign the register, when something occurred to her. “Tell me,” she said, “does Margaret get a lot of visitors?”

“Her daughter comes at least once a week,” Wilma answered cheerfully, “and her grandchildren visit regularly as well. Then there's Dr. Duncan . . . He drops by one or two times a month.”

Lee frowned. “Really? Her doctor comes
here
?”

“Wonderful, isn't it?” Wilma gushed. “I wish more doctors would do that. It's difficult for residents like Margaret to get out and about.”

“Yes,” Lee said, as she flipped through the pages in front of her. “It is.”

Wilma knew something was up by then and frowned. “I'm sorry, Miss Lee, but I can't allow you to . . .”

Lee produced her ID case and flipped it open so Wilma could see the card and badge. “I'm here on official business,” Lee said as she put the leather folder away. “Please keep my visit to yourself. And that includes Margaret. Okay?”

Wilma swallowed. “Of course.”

“Good. If it isn't too much trouble, please make a copy of
this
page . . . the one with the doctor's signature on it.”

The receptionist stood and stepped away to make the copy. Lee took the opportunity to look around the room. Three women and a man were playing cards at a table. A fire was burning in the gas fireplace despite the fact that it was seventy-five degrees outside. And there, up in a corner, was a surveillance camera. “Here you go,” Wilma said, and Lee turned to receive the copy. “So you won't be going up to see Margaret?”

“No,” Lee said. “Not today. I notice you have a surveillance system. I would like to look at the tape that corresponds to the last time that Dr. Duncan came by.”

“You'll need to talk to Eva about that,” Wilma said. “I'll get her.”

The manager turned out to be a young woman named Eva Mendez. She had a pageboy haircut, bright red lipstick, and matching nails. Once Lee identified herself, Mendez took her into an office and closed the door. They watched the video together, found the snippet that featured the man who called himself Dr. Duncan, and froze it.

That was when Lee had a moment of self-doubt. Duncan looked very different from Arnold Kaplan's mug shot.
But
that makes sense,
Lee told herself.
He worked hard to change his appearance—and he's eleven years older.
“Can I take this with me?” she inquired.