Insidious (17 page)

Chas’s head was swimming with boredom and the urge to sleep, so he got to his feet and walked up and down the length of the hallway
several times. He looked into Vincent Willig’s room, where he stood quietly a moment, listening to Willig’s even breathing. He was deeply asleep. Chas went back to his chair, stretched, tried to get some kinks out, and sat back down against the wall. He picked up the novel he’d brought with him, decided against trying to read it. He dropped it to the floor and closed his eyes. When he looked up again, he saw a tech wheeling a cart toward him. He could never figure out why they simply didn’t let the patients sleep through the night. Wasn’t sleep the great healer? The tech was dressed in a long white lab coat, a mask and a cap over his head. He didn’t recognize him.

“Willig’s sound asleep,” he said.

“Good,” the tech said in a low gritty voice, probably a smoker’s voice, the fool. “I won’t have to chat with that jackass.” He jerked his head toward the open door of Willig’s room. “You know what he did, don’t you? It’s all over the hospital.”

“Yeah. Show me your ID and you can go in and torture him.”

The tech leaned toward him as he reached into a pocket. In the next instant Chas felt the sharp stab of a needle slid into his neck, above his collar. He opened his mouth and went for his Beretta, but his arms didn’t work. He felt an instant of terror, then nothing.

The tech gently eased him back so he would stay upright. If anyone noticed him, they’d believe he was asleep.

After a look toward the nurses’ station, the tech walked into Willig’s room.

Vincent was dreaming. He was lying on one of those fancy chaises, on a beach, maybe Fiji, someplace like that, and he had so much money he couldn’t spend it all. There were drinks all around, and beautiful young native girls were hovering around him, laughing and teasing him, a kiss here and there, and he was happy, so very happy. They all wore bikinis, tiny little swatches of cloth. One girl leaned down over him, her breasts nearly in his face, whispering something.

The dream cut off like a spigot and Vincent came awake. Something was wrong, very wrong. He felt a tremendous pain in his arm and he wanted to scream but he couldn’t move. He realized his heart was pounding out of his chest, fast, hard, and he couldn’t catch a breath, couldn’t suck in air. In that instant, Vincent knew he was dying, and he thought about his soul. His stared up at a shadowy face. “Wha—?”

“Goodbye, Vinnie.”

28

WEDNESDAY MORNING, 6:30

Savich and Sherlock stood over Vincent Willig’s body. Detective Ben Raven, WPD, said, “It’s a hell of a thing. Whoever took Chas down was good.” Ben sighed. “I have a team standing by. I wanted you guys to see Willig before I let them in.”

It was a hell of a thing, Sherlock thought, as she leaned down and studied Vincent Willig’s face. She felt a stab of pity, said a brief prayer.
Sorry, Vincent, you shouldn’t be dead
. “He looks surprised,” she said. “His eyes are open, his mouth is open, like he wants to speak.” She cocked her head to one side, a move Savich recognized. She was reconstructing what had happened. “Our killer injects a drug into Officer Golinowski’s neck, walks in, sees Vincent sound asleep, injects a lethal dose of that drug, or something else, into his IV tubing. Vincent jerked away, you can see that on his face, Dillon. Look at his eyes. I think it’s more than surprise. I’d say it was shock when he realized who was killing him. And he was feeling pain, probably couldn’t breathe. Maybe potassium chloride, and then he’s dead.”

Ben was staring at Sherlock. “You see it that clearly?”

She shrugged. “I do wonder if he had time to say anything.”

Savich said, “Ben, you said a nurse found Officer Chas Golinowski slumped unconscious in his chair. Is he awake yet?”

“He woke up by himself, but he was pretty confused. They decided not to give him any reversal agents, at least until his bloodwork’s done and they see what the killer gave him. They’re monitoring him, letting him sleep it off. The doctor spotted the needle mark on his neck, like I told you. It isn’t clear where the killer got the drugs yet. We’re checking the pharmacy, the crash carts. Maybe the killer brought them into the hospital. The nurses didn’t see anybody. I haven’t looked at the security tapes yet. You guys done in here? Let’s go to the security office, see what we’ve got.”

They didn’t have much. They saw a tech of indeterminate sex wheeling an IV cart with all the expected paraphernalia, vials and tubing and syringes. The tech was covered head to toe with hospital garb, under a white lab coat.

“No more of this tech?” Savich asked Security Chief Doug Cummings.

“Just a backward view. Fast forward, Lonnie.”

The security assistant fast-forwarded, hit pause. “Here he or she comes to the stairwell at the end of the hall. The camera catches his or her back. Leaves the tray and is gone. If someone is careful, they can avoid the cameras in the stairwells, and he or she did. Sorry, guys, that’s it.”

Cummings said, “I’ve already fielded two calls from reporters. This is going to burst wide open, and very soon now. The man who attempted to kill Venus Rasmussen is himself murdered, with a police guard outside his door. You’ve got a mess on your hands.”

An understatement, Savich thought as they walked to the ER, where Officer Chas Golinowski lay sleeping in cubicle four.

Ben said, “I’ve alerted our media liaison. We’re going to take a big hit for this. No excuses, but the killer was good.” He sighed. “I hope Golinowski has something to say that’s helpful.”

Officer Chas Golinowski didn’t have anything to say. He was still sleeping peacefully, snoring.

Savich and Sherlock spoke to the nurses, the orderlies, anyone who could have possibly seen the killer. No luck. Savich called Mr. Maitland, then Venus.

She was silent a long time, then, “Whoever it was worked very fast, Dillon. Terrifyingly fast. I only made the offer yesterday. Do you think it was a man or a woman?”

“I’ve studied the security tape, saw a tech garbed in hospital white. It’s impossible to tell.” He paused, then added, “Venus, it doesn’t mean that it has to be one of the family. The one behind this had to know Willig was here, but that was all over the news.”

“Will the police officer be all right?”

“He’s stable. They’re letting him sleep.”

Venus said, “You know, Dillon, you ask anyone where they were in the middle of the night and who’s going to say they were anywhere but in bed, sleeping with the angels?”

No one, Savich thought, no one at all.

29

MISSY DEVEREAUX’S COTTAGE

MALIBU

TUESDAY NIGHT

Cam showered in Missy’s second bathroom, pulled on boxers and a T-shirt and snuggled down on the soft mattress Missy had replaced when she moved in, along with the old green wall-to-wall carpet. “I love my shiny new oak floor,” she’d said to Cam as she’d showed her around. “A new kitchen when I snag a good role. The fifty-year-old fridge and the green kitchen cabinets will be the first to go.”

It was a nice house, cozy, comfortable, and the mattress was heaven. Cam was tired and hyped up at the same time, but the beer and soaping up in a shower old enough to be on an
I Love Lucy
episode mellowed her enough to nod off.

She came awake at 7:00 a.m. at the loud horse-racing bugle ringtone of her cell. For a second, she didn’t know where she was, then remembered. “Wittier here.”

It was Supervisor David Elman, LAPD.

“Our Serial struck again, call came in twenty minutes ago, in Santa Monica. Another actress, Deborah Connelly, aged twenty-six. Fits the profile exactly. She was killed in her bed last night, her laptop and cell phone missing, according to her boyfriend, who found her.”

Cam closed her eyes, let it sink in. Another murder, and on her watch. It was a punch to the gut.

“Thank you for calling me so fast. I’ll be there in thirty-five minutes. Don’t let them touch anything, okay? We need a pristine crime scene.”

He was huffy about that, for good reason, but Cam didn’t care. She called Daniel, got an out-of-breath voice. “Yeah?”

“Cam here. Another murder.” And she gave him the address in Santa Monica. “I’ll see you there. Fast as you can, Daniel.”

She parked her rented Toyota at the sidewalk at Deborah Connelly’s condo thirty-one minutes later, Daniel pulling in right behind her. There were two patrol cars and two Crown Vics crowded in the driveway and at the curb.

When he joined her, Cam asked, “You were out of breath when I called. What were you doing?”

“I’d just come in from my morning run.”

He didn’t look like he was hungover from too much beer, and he’d gotten up early to run? He looked sharp in gray chinos, a blue blazer, and white shirt, boots on his big feet. She wanted to slug him.

“Do you know any of the people in the Santa Monica station?”

“Arturo Loomis, on the force for twelve years and counting, so lots of experience, and pretty smart. Your only problem with him is that he was married to a DEA agent who screwed him over big-time in their divorce. Maybe you’ll luck out and someone else took the call.”

She didn’t luck out.

30

21 CRANDLE AVENUE

SANTA MONICA

WEDNESDAY MORNING

Cam spotted Loomis immediately, center stage, surrounded by three other officers, two men and a woman, listening to him talk. They fell instantly silent when they saw her.

Detective Arturo Loomis was a big man, midthirties, fit, and in charge. She couldn’t see him ever taking crap from anybody. He wore aviator glasses over sharp, intelligent eyes and didn’t acknowledge her. He looked toward Daniel, nodded.

Daniel said, “Arturo, let me introduce you to the case lead, FBI Special Agent Cam Wittier. Agent Wittier, this is Detective Arturo Loomis, Santa Monica.”

She saw rage on his face. That was good, it meant he cared. Unless the rage was directed toward her.

“Agent.” A clipped, hard voice.

“Detective Loomis.” She stuck out her hand. Slowly, unwillingly, Loomis shook it.

“How long have you been on-site?”

“I was called in forty minutes ago. My lieutenant told me not to process the scene because it’s an FBI case. So we’ve all been standing around with our thumbs in our mouths waiting for the Feds to show up.”

“The Fed is here now. I understand Ms. Connelly’s boyfriend found her?”

He nodded. “The boyfriend, yes. He called 911, then the housekeeper showed up. Boyfriend’s in the kitchen. He’s a mess. So far we can’t get anything useful out of him. As of a few minutes ago, he was still Froot Loops. His name’s Mark Richards. The housekeeper, Pepita Gonzalez, is in the living room and she won’t shut up. Detective Turley”—he nodded toward a tall, no-nonsense woman in her thirties—“she speaks Spanish, almost as well as you do, Daniel. Ms. Gonzalez told her the boyfriend and the vic were moving into a new place together. Ms. Gonzalez usually comes every other week, but she came today to help pack boxes. She didn’t see any strangers, only the boyfriend’s car in the driveway.

“As I said, nobody touched the scene or the vic, order of Supervisor Elman.”

Cam knew she should let it go, but she couldn’t. “We can at least give her the dignity of using her name, Detective Loomis. She was Deborah Connelly.”

Loomis stared at her, surprised, then dismissive. “Yeah, I thought you already knew that.”

They walked together to the entrance hall, stacked high with neatly labeled boxes. Deborah Connelly had nearly finished moving out. Would she still be alive if she’d left a night earlier? No, not if the Serial was targeting her. He would have followed her.

Cam said, “I’d appreciate your calling your forensics team in, Detective Loomis, if you haven’t already. I’ll look in on the crime scene, then I’d like to speak to Mr. Richards.”

Detective Loomis shrugged. “Knock yourself out. Our forensics team is already here. I knew we’d be covering that, from my buddy in Van Nuys—”

Cam turned back. “Detective Jagger?”

He blinked, obviously surprised she knew his name, shook his head. “No, Detective Corinne Hill. Nice to know you trust us to investigate a crime.” He gave her a long look, added, “Corinne said even Frank was coming around after that bash your showbiz folks threw last night in the Colony. Too bad the vic—ah, excuse me, Deborah Connelly—didn’t buy it a day earlier, I could have rubbed elbows with the rich and famous, too.”

“That’s enough, Arturo,” Daniel said. “Cut her a break.”

If not for the fact that Daniel had told Cam Loomis’s wife had really burned him bad she’d have taken him apart. Her hand fisted, but she only nodded and left them, hoping Daniel would get him in line. She calmed as she walked down the oddly silent hallway, steeling herself for what she was about to see. She walked past the master bedroom and continued down the short hallway to the rear of the house, and into a room she saw immediately had become an office. On top of a desk were neat stacks of papers, piled high and ready to be stacked into boxes standing open nearby. Deborah Connelly had been neat, orderly. There was no laptop, no cell phone.

She stood in the center of the empty room. She smelled jasmine. Deborah had spent a lot of time in here. Cam could see her getting halfway down the pile of papers stacked in the center of her desk, wishing she could get another box or two packed before going to bed but hanging it up for the night. Was she already showered, wearing her nightgown? Cam picked a sheet of paper off the top of one of the piles. It was a notice of an audition for a part in the last
Mission: Impossible
. Printed in neat black ink across the bottom:
Yeah! Now I can pay the rent. Tom Cruise was very nice to me
.

It was dated nearly a year ago. Cam leafed through the rest of the pile. More auditions, some won, some lost, all with notations of what had succeeded, what had gone wrong. Records of a life, too short a life.