The Killing Hands (6 page)

“Yeah, five-thirty this afternoon.”

He nods. “De Luca is good. He knows what he's doing.”

“What about the ATF?”

“I'll give the L.A. head a quick call but he would have got the e-mail with the pics, too.”

“Great. That's it. See you at tomorrow's meeting.”

Petrov gives me a mock salute. “See you then. And keep me in the loop on this one.”

With the fingerprints moving and my ass covered in terms of who should know about our vic's possible connection with the Asian Boyz, I've got some time up my sleeve. I could continue working this case, or I could try to get a chunk done on the arcade victim, James Santorini. Realistically, things could change a lot after our 5:30 p.m. meeting, so it might be better to put this case on hold. I decide now is as good a time as any to dedicate to the fourteen-year-old boy that's been on my case list for two weeks. This job is all about juggling cases and sometimes it's hard to listen to your head and not your heart. But my head's won out for too long on this one.

To give myself the biggest chunk of time possible on Santorini's murder, I work through lunch, shoveling down a quick sandwich at my desk. Not that eating at my desk is unusual for me. At 2:30 p.m. I give Ramos a call to let him know I'm not going to make the ballistics run-through. He's busy, too, going over the initial reports on the cars at the parking lot, so we agree that Hart can call us with the findings once she's done.

 

It's 4:00 p.m. when Hart calls. “Hey, Anderson. I've got Ramos on the line, too.”

“Hi.” I get us straight down to business. “How'd you do, Hart?”

“In terms of daylight, I tried quite a few different simulations of the sun's position, and it was only in the early morning light, when the sun was shining directly in my eyes while I aimed at the light, that it was hard to see the bulbs.”

“I still don't see him taking the shot in daylight,” Ramos says. “It's just too risky in terms of witnesses. Even with a silencer.”

“Agree,” I say.

“Yes, but I needed to try all the options.”

“Fair enough,” Ramos says. “Go on.”

“Dusk works, too. I could still see the bulbs quite clearly.”

“And nighttime?” I ask.

“It was a three-quarter moon that night and clear skies, so the shooter would have had a little extra light, but even so, during the simulation I couldn't make out the bulbs. The brightness of the panels against the dark sky made it impossible. I couldn't even make out the four distinct panels.”

“But broad daylight?” Ramos voices his doubts again.

“Well, I did have a thought on that. I couldn't see them, but I still managed to shoot out the bulbs.” She takes a breath. “The shooter could have made the shot at night if he studied the lights during the day,” she says.

“Either way, it confirms—” My train of thought is interrupted by sudden and intense nausea.

“You there, Anderson?”

It's Ramos's voice I hear first.

“Yeah, sorry.”

“Are you okay?” Hart asks.

I think on my feet. “Fine. The phone went dead this end. You?” I try to bring my heart rate down with a few deep, but quiet breaths. Unlike the shooter in my vision, my heart is pounding.

“Um…I guess it did here, too,” Hart replies. “You cut out just as you were saying something about ‘it confirms.'”

“Oh, yeah.” I bite my lip. “It confirms that the murder was planned. Premeditated.” It was always more likely that the light was taken out before the murder, but until now we couldn't rule out the possibility that someone killed our vic in the heat of the moment and then shot out the light in an attempt to cover their tracks.

“I'm still surprised there aren't any witnesses,” Ramos says. “Even to the sound of the shot.”

“Chances are he used a silencer,” says Hart, “but without a bullet it's impossible to tell.”

“He's been careful, all right.” I try to focus on the conversation and not the vision.

“It's good to confirm the murder was planned,” Ramos says. “Thanks, Hart.”

“No problem…but I still wish we had a bullet.”

“Yeah, a bullet would be nice.”

“So would an ID,” I add, knowing we'll never find a bullet.

“Well, I'll leave the ID with you guys. I'll send you my written report in a day or two.”

“Great, thanks again, Hart. Anderson, you want to stay on the line?”

“Sure.” I don't really want to talk to Ramos—I want the time and space to think about the vision, but I can't tell him that.

Once Hart hangs up, Ramos says, “Just thought I'd check in. I'm still working on the cars, but nothing stands out so far. You?”

“It's a waiting game my end.” I bite my lip, eager to get off the phone. “I'll call you if the State Department comes back with an ID, otherwise see you at the DEA at five-thirty?”

“Okay. Ciao.”

As soon as I hang up, I replay the vision. The first part was definitely related to our Little Tokyo victim. I recognize the parking lot and the light, although realistically those types of lights are fairly common, being used in smaller playing fields and most outdoor parking lots. But the detail of shooting out that type of light is too specific to be anything but our light, our case. And the killer picking the bullets up ties in with the crime-scene team's assumption that the killer must have cleaned up after himself. Again, the darkness marries with our thoughts to date on the killer's actions. Nothing new there. But the second part of the vision doesn't make sense…not yet. I was in the role of a victim, shot. But our vic didn't get shot. And he wasn't sitting down or tied up.

I spend another fifteen minutes trying to find something useful in the vision or induce another one before moving back to the arcade case. I make good progress and by the time my phone rings again at 4:45 p.m. I've got the bare bones of the profile ready for the LAPD.

I fish my phone out of my bag and flip it open. “Agent Anderson speaking.”

“Agent Anderson, it's Lara from US State.”

“I was hoping it was you.”

“Sorry I couldn't get back to you sooner, Sophie. One of those days.”

“I hear you. Did you get a match?” I ask, flipping over my notebook to a new page.

“Sure did. His name's Jo Kume.”

I scribble the name down as Rodriguez spells it out for me.

“Entered on a Japanese passport. Does the name mean anything to you?”

“No. You guys got anything on him?”

“Not much. It's his first time visiting the US. He listed a hotel in Monterey Park as a contact.”

“Monterey Park…that's not too far from where his body was found. Can I have those details?”

“I'll e-mail you all the info from his entry documentation.”

“Great. Thanks, Lara.”

“You're welcome. Have a nice day.”

“You, too,” I say before hanging up and immediately punching in Ramos's number. “Ramos, it's Anderson. We've got a name.”

“Hallelujah.”

“Jo Kume.”

“You run him yet?”

“Not yet. I'm just about to leave for our DEA meet. But State says it was the guy's first visit to the US, so I doubt we'll have anything on him.”

“What time is it?” He pauses. “Darn it, I better get moving, too. I'll get someone to plug his name in, just in case.”

“My contact's going to e-mail through the full details, including the hotel name he put on his form.”

“It might be a false one, but can you ring those details through to me ASAP?”

“Sure. It'll come into my BlackBerry.”

“See you soon.”

While a bullet would have been nice, a name's mighty damn fine, too.

I
n the car on the way to L.A.'s DEA office, I replay my vision again, trying to make sense of the second part. I was sitting down, tied up, but that doesn't gel with our vic. And why was it familiar?

The connection hits me as I'm swinging into East Temple Street, only minutes away from the DEA office. It's familiar because it's not the first time I've seen it—I dreamed it the other night. Could our killer have struck before? Shot someone else, too?

Inside the DEA office, a security guard signs me in and sends me to the sixth floor. When I step out of the elevator, a man in his early thirties greets me.

“Agent Anderson? I'm Joe De Luca.”

I shake his hand. “Nice to meet you.”

De Luca sports a shaved head with black stubble only on the back half of his skull. His sparkling dark brown eyes, plump lips and relatively unlined face give a better indication of his age than the receding hairline.

“Is Detective Ramos here yet?” I ask.

“He arrived a couple of minutes ago.” De Luca points to the corner of the building. “I've got us set up in a meeting room.”

I follow De Luca through the open-plan office to a meeting room that looks out across East Temple Street.

Ramos stands up. “Hey, Anderson. What's up?”

“Hi, Detective.” I take a seat next to him, and once I'm seated he sits back down. “How'd you do with the hotel?” Before I was even out of the FBI parking lot Rodriguez's e-mail had come in, with full details on Kume, including his hotel in Monterey Park. I'd immediately called them through to Ramos.

“He was staying there all right. I've got people poring over the place as we speak.”

“This is the hotel your vic was staying in, I take it?” De Luca asks.

“Yup. Lincoln Plaza.” Ramos wiggles his phone. “And I just got a call—there's a laptop sitting on our vic's desk, so we're getting a computer forensics person out there, too. Now we're cooking.”

I smile. “Sounds like you've got it covered.”

“Uh-huh.”

The FBI also has computer and forensic experts, but at this stage we're just consulting, helping out with a profile. Ramos is the man in charge.

Ramos flicks open his case file. I let him take De Luca through the bare bones of our case, including the autopsy. He finishes up with the result of his search on Jo Kume. Not surprisingly, nothing popped up under his name here in the US—no driver's license, no car registered in his name, no criminal record, no traffic offences.

“The State Department e-mailed me through his full entry details.” I pull out my BlackBerry and navigate to the recent e-mail. “He's a Japanese national, but he flew in from Singapore on November 24. Singapore wasn't a connecting flight for him, it was his point of origin. We'll need to contact Singapore to get more information on him. I'm going to give Interpol a call first thing tomorrow.”

De Luca nods. “It's hard to know if it's gang related when we don't know much about the vic.”

Ramos leans back in his chair. “But it seems likely, given his association with the Asian Boyz, yes?”

De Luca rubs the palm of his hand over the black stubble
on his skull. “I'd say so. But I'd still like more on Kume before we jump to that conclusion. Like maybe he's got a criminal record in Singapore or Japan.”

“The Japanese are part of the Visa Waiver Program, so he wouldn't have had to organize a visa in Singapore,” I say.

“So no criminal check over there.”

“Exactly.” I scroll down Rodriguez's e-mail. “He claimed he was entering the States as a tourist, and listed his return date as January 1. He listed his occupation as ‘self-employed,' he didn't declare anything coming in…no money, no food, no drugs.” I manage a small laugh. “But he wasn't searched.”

“He looked and acted like a well-presented businessman from Japan,” Ramos says. “Probably nothing to trigger alarm bells with customs.”

“Exactly.” I turn to him. “I was thinking of swinging by Lincoln Plaza on the way home. Kume's hotel room might give me an insight into our victim.” Victimology is one of the most important elements when constructing an offender profile. Without extensive information on the victim, it's hard to extrapolate details about the offender.

“Where do you live?” he asks me.

“Westwood.”

“Way home?” He raises an eyebrow. Monterey Park is in the opposite direction to Westwood.

I shrug. “It's not very far.”

“At this hour? Don't know if you're dedicated or crazy.” Ramos smiles. “However, Monterey Park really is on my way home. We can sit fender to fender.”

“Sounds like you guys are in for a fun night.” De Luca stands up. “That's all I need for now. Keep me posted and we'll see where this thing takes us.”

Ramos and I both stand and gather our things and then De Luca leads us back to the elevator.

“Nice to meet you, Agent Anderson.” He shakes my hand. “And you, Detective Ramos.” As the elevator arrives, De Luca disappears.

Once the elevator doors close, Ramos says, “That was quick.”

“Yeah. I guess DEA isn't taking it over.”

“Not yet, at least.”

 

Ramos and I don't caravan—it would be impossible to keep him in my sights on the freeway during peak hour with cars constantly lane-hopping. When I arrive at the Lincoln Plaza Hotel, he's managed to get a spot directly opposite the main entrance and is leaning on his car. The next open space is nearly a block away.

When I get back to the hotel, Ramos is still leaning on his car. “What kept you?”

I smile. “You only got here a couple minutes before me.” No way it could have been more than that.

He grins and pushes himself off the car.

The Lincoln Plaza Hotel is a cream building, and while the entrance is at the base of a single story, to the right the hotel extends upward six. The doors open automatically, but Ramos gestures “after you.” Always the gentleman. The foyer has an old-world style to it, with beige marble floors, square columns and a couple of elaborate chandeliers scattered in between downlights. We cross to the reception, both reaching for our IDs.

“We're here to look at Jo Kume's room,” Ramos says. “Detective Ramos, LAPD, and this is Special Agent Anderson, FBI.”

“Yes, your colleagues are up there now. Room 412.” She hesitates. “Do you think it'll be much longer? It's just—” she lowers her voice “—I've already had a few guests ask me about the police presence. It doesn't look good, you know?”

“I understand.” Ramos nods. “We'll be as fast as we can, ma'am, but we need to look over the room thoroughly.”

She nods, but also sighs. “Okay.” She points to the far wall. “The elevators are over there. Take a right at the fourth floor, and room 412 is down the end.”

“I wonder what made our vic choose this hotel?” I muse out loud as we wait for the lift.

“You're right. It's not exactly close to Long Beach.”
Ramos pauses. “Little Tokyo's only a couple of miles away. Maybe he just wanted to feel close to home.”

“Maybe. But there are hotels right in Little Tokyo if he was looking for the home-away-from-home experience.”

The elevator arrives and Ramos holds his arm across the doors while I walk in. “So you're thinking something or someone drew him to Monterey Park?”

“It's one possibility.”

The fourth-floor corridor is lined with patterned, dark burgundy carpet. At the end of the corridor, a man with
LAPD
in big yellow letters on his vest kneels down, dusting the last door frame for prints. Once we're closer, he looks up. “Detective Ramos. Hey.” He stands up and arches his back, stretching.

“Hi, Kowoski. How's it coming along?”

“Another hour and we should be done.”

Ramos nods. “Great.” He looks at me. “Agent Anderson, this is Ian Kowoski. Kowoski, this is Agent Anderson from the Bureau.”

Kowoski's wearing gloves, so he gives me a wave rather than shaking hands. I return the gesture and follow Ramos as he enters the hotel room.

Kume had booked himself into one of the Lincoln Plaza's suites, which includes a small living room.

“What have you got, Jackson?”

A tall African-American in his mid-twenties moves from the window toward us. After Ramos introduces Jackson as another homicide detective, Jackson flips open his notebook.

“Jo Kume checked into the hotel at 4:00 p.m. on November 24. He booked online only three days before arriving and was paid up through until January 1. He paid with a credit card, VISA, and I've organized a search on transactions. No special requests, no room service, no phone calls. I showed the desk clerk on duty Kume's picture and she recognized him. Apparently he did have an accent, but his English was perfect. I've got the names of all the other desk clerks to interview them, too, but the woman on duty
said he didn't talk much.” Jackson looks up at the corner desk. “Newman's looking over the computer before taking it back to the lab.”

We all move toward the laptop, which should give us e-mails and Internet usage, plus whatever files might be stored on the hard drive.

Again, Ramos introduces me, before Newman gives us an update. “Everything looks in order, but I'll still copy the hard drive and run a few tests in the lab tomorrow before I boot it up, just to be on the safe side.” He slips the laptop into a large plastic evidence bag and then into another padded bag.

“Nothing for us tonight?” I ask.

Newman glances at Ramos, then me.

“I told Newman not to worry about it until morning. Nothing time critical in this case.”

Ramos is right. My request is based on my own desire to get the case moving, and blatant curiosity. “Sure. Sorry.”

Newman swings the padded laptop back over his shoulder. “Good.” He smiles. “I've got dinner plans. But first thing tomorrow…”

“Thanks.”

Newman says goodbye to the other crime-scene techs before heading off.

I look around the room and cross my arms. “So we wait.”

Ramos chuckles. “You're not good at waiting, are you?”

I smile. “Am I that transparent?”

“Uh-huh.” He checks his watch. “It's seven-thirty, Anderson. Go home, relax. Go out.”

I give him a weak smile. Truth is, my social life's pretty much nonexistent here in L.A. Apart from the occasional dinner or drinks with Melissa or Mercedes, I'm a hermit. Besides, I've got the Santorini profile to finish off tonight and that'll keep me busy for at least two hours.

“Me,” Ramos says, walking toward the door, “I'm going home to my wife and kids. They may even have waited for me for dinner.”

He turns to Jackson. “You okay to finish up here?”

“Sure thing.”

I can tell by Jackson's age and eagerness that he's new to Homicide and keen to please the more senior detective—Ramos.

Being at crime scenes is the best way to learn.