Authors: Hank Schwaeble
Diabolical (38 page)
Hatcher followed him through the bar toward the back.
“I really wish you could work tonight. I'm shorthanded.”
“Sorry, Den. I would if I could.”
Denny mumbled something over his shoulder as they entered his office. He pointed toward a monitor and keyboard on a desk.
“That computer I gave you not working?”
Hatcher hesitated as he circled the desk. “I can't go back to my place right now.”
“Doesn't your cell phone have internet?”
“No,” Hatcher said, realizing he hadn't even considered that. “Not mine.”
Denny shrugged. “Who's that guy been looking for you, anyway? He came by again.”
“I don't know. I just don't have time to deal with it right now.”
The screen lit up when Hatcher touched the mouse. He clicked on the browser icon and waited.
“Well, I really wish you'd come back to work. That other guy quit, bitched about not getting any days off. And Lori bugged out right after you.”
Hatcher wished Denny would leave him be, but it was bad enough showing up like this. He didn't need to antagonize the guy. There weren't many other people he could turn to.
He pulled up Google and typed in a search for the Church of the Ascension. Several came up, so he narrowed it to Los Angeles. He found the link, clicked on it.
There it was, the church he'd been taken to. He read through the history. Not much. He did another search, this time adding the words “underground” and “tunnel.”
Several conspiracy websites came up. They seemed to all be talking about lizard people and underground cities. One article talked about a vast subterranean tunnel system and said the only known remaining entrance was beneath the church.
“Is this going to take a long time?” Denny asked.
“I'm not sure.”
“Hey, when you're done, you want to watch the latest Mark Specter video? I just got it.”
“Next time. I promise.”
The portly man sighed. He stayed quiet for a while as Hatcher read but eventually asked another question.
Hatcher glanced up from the screen belatedly. “Sorry, what was that?”
“I said, did you know Lori was just going to up and leave?”
“No.” Hatcher lowered his eyes again, scrolled down the screen. “Why?”
“Because she stopped showing up right after you checked out on me. Thought maybe you two snuck off together.”
It took a few seconds for the words to reach him as he scanned more text about underground Los Angeles.
“Sorry, what did you say?”
“Man, you must really be out of it. I said, she disappeared right after you checked out on me.”
Hatcher said nothing. He let his gaze drift off Denny and float out to the middle of the room.
“I always thought you had a thing for her,” Denny added. “Caught you checking her out more than once. And I don't think I ever caught you doing that to anyone else.”
Lori. Blonde Lori. The one who reminded him so much of Vivian.
“Can't says I blame you, man,” Denny continued, “she was hot. A little trashy, but hot. That's what hurts, since she was good for business. You know, one guy told me he could've sworn she used to be a call girl. Some fancy escort service. Thought she'd done some porn, too.”
“When did she disappear?”
“I don't know, a day or two after you did. Like I said, I was wondering if there was some connection. You know, maybe you and her . . .”
Hatcher sank back in the chair. Lori missing. Vivian dead.
He forced himself to picture Vivianâwhat was left of herâon the hotel room bed. Body parts drenched in blood. Severed head propped on a pillow. Blonde hair, stringy with blood, draped over her face.
Lori missing. Vivian dead.
You live in a world of illusions, Hatcher.
Lori missing. Vivian dead. Or . . .
If you'd only open your eyes
.
.
Vivian missing. Lori dead.
The body and right arm of a whore.
“What's wrong with you?” Denny said. “You look like you just saw a ghost or something.”
Hatcher pushed himself off the chair and headed out of the office.
“Not yet,” he said.
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DETECTIVE WRIGHT ANSWERED ON THE THIRD RING.
“Hello, Amy.”
“Hatcher. I'm sorry I had to drop such a bomb on you earlier.”
Hatcher shut the door to the rental car and slipped the key into the ignition. “Not your fault. But I could use some help.”
“What do you need?”
“There was a murder at the Royal Plaza hotel in Santa Monica a few days ago. Mutilation. Very bloody.”
“Okay.”
“I need to know if they've IDed the victim. I think it may have been a girl named Lori. Worked with me in Venice Beach at a place called the Liar's Den.”
Amy told him she'd have to make a few calls and that she'd call him back. Hatcher started the car and drove. He hated using Amy this way. She didn't know about Vivian and would almost certainly recognize the name the moment she heard it. But he didn't want to explain any of that. He was going to have to take his chances.
He was barely a few blocks from where he started when he slammed his hand against the steering wheel and cursed.
He pulled into a lot and shifted the car into park. He laid his head back and closed his eyes.
What did he know? The Carnates were attempting . . . something. To open a portal to Hell? Maybe. That's what Bartlett would say. But could he believe him? Even if he wasn't lying, did he have any clue what he was talking about?
His nephew apparently died shortly after birth. So why send him on a snipe hunt for the boy? And why would Susan lie?
Susan. How the heck did she get involved?
And was Vivian still alive? Why would they want him to think she was dead? Was she a part of it? Did Edgar know?
Edgar, that was one fucker he wanted to have another talk with. What was that lying son of a bitch up to? The questions were causing his head to swim, and not very well, his thoughts sloshing in rough waters.
Frustration started welling up, turning to anger. Most of it was directed at himself. How could he have let so many people deceive him? Reading people was his best skill. Maybe his only skill.
But he knew the answer, and it made his face flush red.
Vivian was his girlfriend, and she was often moody. Couple that with the fact she always accused him of trying to interrogate her, he never really questioned her veracity. Susan . . . that was a tougher one. He trusted her, but the big thing was guilt. He had led them to her, or so he thought. His own shame made him blind to any signs.
Bartlett. He thought hard about Bartlett and realized Bartlett had been careful to let others explain things. Calvin took the lead in the briefing they gave him. Other questions were handled by Edgar. Bartlett was cautious. Calvin probably had no idea what was really going on.
That left Edgar. Hatcher tried to replay some of their conversations, tried to view them through the lens of what he now knew. He pictured him in the car, the last time they'd met.
I'm a great actor.
Hatcher slammed the side of his fist against the dash. A motivated person could beat an interrogation, if they approached it as a role. Remove the anxieties that are coupled with telling liesâthe feeling of shame, the worry over getting caught, the guilt over not being honestâand a good actor could easily fool even the most skilled interrogator. As long as he knew his lines.
Another fist against the dashboard. God, he'd been stupid.
Now what? He stared into the center of the steering wheel for several minutes, then put the car in gear and pulled onto the road. In the direction of the Church of the Ascension.
His phone chimed out just before he got there. The number on the screen was familiar.
“Amy. Tell me you got something.”
“Still no ID. I talked to the detective in charge, pretended I was working a missing person's case. She's a Jane Doe. They managed to keep the details out of the papers. It's just showing up as a woman murdered in a hotel room. The hotel certainly doesn't want anyone to know how gruesome it was.”
“Do they have any lead on who she was?”
“I don't think so. I probed a bit. They're cross-checking missing persons reports.”
Hatcher stirred the information into his thoughts, watched them swirl in his mind's eye.
“Whose name was the room under?”
“That's the interesting thing. There's no record. Somebody on the staff confessed to taking cash to keep it off the system. They treated it under their celebrity protocol, only they never required an actual ID or credit card. It was listed to a Zelda Zonk. The police actually tried to track the name down and couldn't find anyone. Then someone pointed out it was the name Marilyn Monroe used to travel under.”
“I guess someone thought that was funny.”
“They also mentioned they're looking for you.”
“Swell.”
“Don't worry, they don't know your name. And it's only for questioning. All they have is a description. Muscular guy with short hair and a frown.”
“I'll try to smile.”
“Hatcher, I know it's a waste of breath, but don't go off trying to do everything by yourself.”
“You think I should head down to the nearest station, tell them everything? If I don't even believe most of it, how could I possibly convince the police?”
She sighed.
“At least be careful then.”
“At least be careful then.”
Hatcher told her he would and started to hang up, then thought of something.
“Amy, one more thing. You said Susan had changed her name when she moved to New York.”
“Yes.”
“Why?” Even as he asked the question, he knew the answer. Dreaded hearing the confirmation.
“It was a stage name. She was an actress. Broadway. Had a degree in theater. According to some of the statements, she had a promising future, but developed a drug problem.”
“Stage name,” Hatcher said, mumbling the words.
“Yes, Susan Jordan. Cleaned herself up, never tried again. Became Susan Warren when she got married. Why?”
“Nothing,” he said, thinking, that was one woman who sure as hell got her tuition's worth.
CHAPTER 20
THE LARGE DOUBLE DOORS TO THE CHURCH OF THE ASCENSION were unlocked. Hatcher stepped inside and walked up the aisle toward the altar. A priest was lighting candles. He turned at the sound of Hatcher's footsteps.
“May I help you?”
“Just passing through,” Hatcher said.
“I'm sorry?”
Hatcher passed by him, his body angled toward the stairwell. “Heading downstairs, Padre.”
The priest stepped back, a hand on the cross hanging from his neck, over his shirt.
“I'm not going to hurt you. I just need to head down.”
“I don't understand. No one's there. Are youâwe have very little of value. Our collections are deposited immediately.”
“I'm not here to rob you. I'm here for the tunnel.”
The priest rolled his eyes, let out the breath he'd been holding. “There is no tunnel, son. That's just a local legend.”
Hatcher pulled open the door to the stairwell. “You don't mind if I check it out myself, do you, Father?”
The stairway was dark. Hatcher bounded down them two and three at a time. He heard the priest following, huffing further objections. When he reached the bottom, he immediately headed for the storage closet. The knob wouldn't turn.
Behind him, the priest came off the last step breathing audibly. “Please, I don't want to have to call the police. You're not the first person to come here looking for some tunnel. There's nothing down here.”
“Humor me, Father. Would you mind opening this?”
“I must insist you leave.”
“I'm not going anywhere. If you don't unlock this, I'll have to kick it in.”
“Okay, this is unacceptable. I'm calling them.”
“If there's nothing behind this door, why won't you open it?”
“Because you cannot come into a house of God and act this way. Do you think a man of the cloth should just let himself be ordered around by anyone who wanders in off the street?”
“Please, pretty please, with a cherry on top. Just open it. If I'm wrong, I'll go away. Peacefully.”
The priest stared at him with shaky eyes, the set of his jaw giving him a look that was half indignant, half frightened. He stayed that way for a few breaths, then his body seemed to loosen, and he lowered his head, giving it a shake.
“I swear,” he said, removing a set of keys from his pocket and stepping forward. “I must convince the diocese to sue all those websites. Lizard people, underground societies. People will believe anything.”
The door swung out. The priest moved with it.
“There. You see? It's just a storage room.”
Hatcher said nothing. He brushed past the priest and headed straight to the back. Some shelving had been moved to block the large back door. Hatcher slid it out of the way.
“Hey! You promised! I'm not kidding! I will call the police!”
“Good,” Hatcher said. “Send them down after me.”
“You're wasting your time. That door doesn't lead anywhere.”
“Is that so?”
Hatcher pressed the thumb latch and tugged. The large door only moved a few inches at a time. He put all his weight into it, finally getting it open.
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