The Death Sculptor (27 page)

Hunter made no comment. Cassidy proceeded.

‘He runs his own church, or temple, or whatever you wanna call it, in Pico Rivera. Personally, I’d just call it a cult. It’s called
Soldiers for Jesus
, would you believe that crap? Sounds like a terrorist group, doesn’t it? I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s now convincing the young women who join his group that they should give themselves to him as an initiation or something, making them believe that it’s the will of the Lord, and he’s the new Messiah. If he learned anything in prison, it was how to circumvent the law.’

‘Did you find out about his whereabouts on those dates and times I gave you?’ Hunter asked.

‘Yeah. As much as I already hate the guy, he can’t be the man you’re looking for. On the first date you gave me – June 19th, Escobedo was out of Los Angeles, hosting a service in San Diego. He’s planning to expand Soldiers for Jesus. The second date, June 22nd, he spent the entire day recording two CDs and a DVD. He sells them amongst his followers. He has loads of witnesses who’d testify to that. Escobedo is a cesspit of lies, stinky shit, and blasphemy, but he ain’t your killer, Robert.’

Hunter nodded to himself. Protocol said he needed to check, but he’d never really considered Escobedo as a real suspect. As a psychologist, and then as a detective for the RHD, Hunter had studied, interviewed and apprehended hundreds of murderers, and throughout the years he’d found that usually there was little to separate a murderer from the regular man on the streets. He’d met killers who were handsome, charming and charismatic. Some who looked like kindly grandfathers. Even some who were voluptuous and sexy. The real difference only surfaced once he started delving into their minds. But there were different kinds of criminals – different kind of killers. Escobedo was a rapist – lowest of the low. True, he was violent, but his only interest was in fulfilling his carnal desires. He’d never stalked his victims, simply randomly picking them from whoever was around on a given night. There was never any planning. Hunter knew that criminals like that very rarely changed their MO. Even if revenge were the motive, Escobedo would probably have shot or knifed his victims and fled the scene as fast as he could, not spent hours dismembering them and creating those grotesque sculptures – assigning to each one meanings hidden in the shadows. No, Escobedo didn’t have the knowhow, the patience, the intellect, or the nerve to commit such crimes.

‘Great work, Terry, thanks,’ Hunter said before closing his phone and returning it to his pocket. He told Garcia the news and they both finished their drinks in silence. As they got up to leave, the tall blonde came out of the bathroom and approached their table.

‘Sorry for earlier,’ she said, coming up to Hunter, her voice now charming, with a seductive tone. ‘And thanks.’

Garcia’s facial expression was a picture. ‘
You’ve gotta be kidding me
,’ he whispered.

‘Not a problem,’ Hunter replied.

‘I know I came across as being arrogant,’ she continued, her smile plastic, rehearsed. ‘I’m not always like that. It’s just that in places like this a woman has to watch herself, you know?’

‘As I said, it’s not a problem.’ Hunter maneuvered around her. ‘Enjoy the rest of your evening.’

‘Listen,’ she called as he turned to leave again. ‘I gotta go home and try to sort this mess out, but maybe we could have a drink some other time.’ She very expertly slipped Hunter a folded napkin. ‘Your call.’ She closed the whole thing with a sexy wink and walked out of the bar.

‘You’ve gotta be kidding me,’ Garcia whispered again.

Friday night, and The Airliner on North Broadway was pretty much packed to capacity. The spacious up-market dance club and lounge was decked out in a ‘don’t tax the imagination too hard’ airline motif, but certainly served a much finer selection of booze than any US Airways economy flight. With two large and well-equipped bars, a bumpin’ dance floor, a plush lounge area and some of Los Angeles’ hottest DJs, The Airliner was certainly up there with the best LA clubs, attracting a diverse clientele of Angelinos and tourists alike. And that was why Eddie Mills loved going there.

Eddie was a lowlife, small-time crook, who’d got caught with one-and-a-half kilos of cocaine while driving through Redondo Beach. In prison he met Guri Krasniqi, an Albanian crime ringleader. Krasniqi was never coming out of prison, but he still ran his empire from inside, and got Eddie hooked up with his people when he was released from the California State Prison in Lancaster two years ago.

Eddie was standing by the upstairs bar, sipping champagne. He was so distracted, watching a shorthaired brunette set the dance floor alight, that he didn’t even notice the six-foot-one, heavy-set man who’d come up next to him at the bar.

‘Jesus!’ Eddie almost jumped out of his skin when the heavy hand landed on his right shoulder.

‘Wazzup, Eddie?’

Eddie turned and faced the shaved headed man. ‘Tito?’ He squinted as if he couldn’t believe his eyes. ‘Goddamn, cuz. Wazzup with you?’ Eddie’s lips broke into a sparkling, shining white smile and he opened his arms wide.

Tito smiled back and they hugged like long-lost brothers.

‘When the hell did you get out?’ Eddie asked.

‘Paroled eleven months ago.’

‘No shit?’

‘No shit, homey.’

‘So how you doin’, dawg?’ Eddie took a step back to assess his friend. ‘By the looks of you, you’re doing well. Where the hell have you been living, in a cake shop?’

‘Hey, a man’s gotta eat, you know?’

‘Yeah, I can see that. A man’s gotta stop eating as well, before he bursts.’

‘Screw you. At least I don’t get to eat that goo they served back in Lanc.’

‘I’ll drink to that.’ Eddie lifted his glass.

‘What the hell?’ Tito pulled a face. ‘Champagne? Really? I guess someone is doing well.’

‘Hey man, only the best, cuz. Have some.’ Eddie signaled the barman over and asked for a second champagne flute.

‘You’re looking fly,’ Tito said, raising his glass for a toast. ‘To being out and staying out.’

Eddie accepted with a head-nod. ‘Thanks, man.’ He ran a hand down his tie. ‘This is Armani, you know?’ He nodded at his suit. ‘I make this shit look good, don’t I?’

‘Yeah, very slick,’ Tito agreed.

They shot the breeze for an hour or so, reminiscing about their time in the slammer. Eddie told Tito that he was working for a foreign outfit, being as evasive as he could. Tito had no intention of pushing it. To disguise the real reason he was at The Airliner, Tito kept dropping names sporadically, asking Eddie if he knew what became of certain inmates –
Do you remember such-and-such? How about so-and-so?
That sort of thing. Tito knew Eddie used to hang out with Ken Sands when he was inside. Slowly, Tito moved towards the subject.

‘Say, Eddie, how about Ken?’ He could swear he saw Eddie tense for an instant.

Eddie finished the rest of his champagne, his eyes fixed on Tito. ‘Ken? The dude got out, didn’t he? No parole, served the long run too.’

‘Did he?’ Tito played dumb.

‘Yeah, got out about six months ago.’

‘That guy was the epitome of a bad motherfucker.’ Tito laughed nervously. ‘Have you been in touch?’

‘Nah, man, I just heard he was out. He’s got his own issues to deal with. Things he wanted to get done when he got out, you feel me?’

‘Like what?’

‘Damned if I know. Maybe he wanted to get back at whoever got him inside in the first place. But I pity whoever it is he’s got a beef with.’

‘Damn straight. Didn’t he use to share with that Albanian badass dude? That Guri character? You know him, don’t you? I saw you talking to him a few times.’

‘I talked to a lot of people when I was inside, so did you. It helps pass the time.’ Eddie played it down.

Tito nodded. ‘Do you think Ken is back dealing again? That’s what he used to do before he got busted, wasn’t it? Maybe he teamed up with the Albanians. I hear they run a tight operation.’

Eddie reassessed Tito with a doubtful eye. ‘’Sup, cuz, you looking for a job or something? Or you just looking to score some shit?’

‘No, man, I’m good.’ Tito ran a hand over his shaved head.

Eddie nodded. ‘Uh-huh. So why are you so interested in Ken? Did he owe you money or something? If he did, just let it go, bro. It ain’t worth it, you dig?’

‘Nah, man, just asking, you know?’

‘Yeah, I can see that. But asking too much can get you messed up, you know that.’

Tito lifted his hands up in a surrender gesture. ‘Just making conversation, homes, that’s all. I couldn’t really give a rat’s fart for how he’s doing.’

Eddie said nothing, but looked a little out of his comfort zone. Tito was sure he knew more than he was letting on, and that was good enough for him. He’d pass that information on to those two damn cops who crashed his party. Let them bring the heat onto Eddie. That was the best he could do.

‘Let’s have another bottle,’ Eddie said, already beckoning the barman over.

‘Hey, man, I never say no to champagne, you know what I’m sayin’? Let me just go to the pisser first.’

As Tito made his way towards the rest room, Eddie was already heading downstairs to the smoking area, the quietest place for a phone call.

It was late and Tito had consumed another two bottles of champagne back at The Airliner with Eddie. By the time he got back to his apartment in Bell Gardens, he was well on his way to hangover hell in the morning.

Tito stumbled through his front door. Champagne had a strange way of getting him drunk very fast, but the truth was he enjoyed being drunk. And getting drunk on expensive champagne paid for by someone else felt even sweeter. His tongue was feeling a little furry, though.

He opened the door to his fridge in the kitchen, poured himself a large glass of orange juice and downed it in one. He returned to the living room and dumped his heavy body onto the old maroon sofa that smelled like an ashtray. He sat there for a minute or two before deciding that he needed a little pick-me-up, something to get the blood flowing again. Tito got up and approached the sideboard by one of the walls. He opened the bottom drawer, took out a small silver box together with a square, frameless mirror, and brought it all over to the dining table. From the box he took out a hand-folded paper envelope. He tapped out a generous amount of white powder onto the mirror and made a long, thick line of it using a razor blade. That was special stuff, finely cut. Premium Colombian powder that he never shared with any of the skanky, second-rate whores he brought back to his place. No, this was for his pleasure, and his pleasure alone.

Tito checked his pockets for a crispy bill he could use. He only had one five-dollar note, not that crispy, but it would have to do. He was too drunk to go looking for something else instead. He rolled up the bill into a tube as best he could, and snorted half of the line up one nostril and the other half up the other one.

He slumped back on his chair; eyes closed, pinching his nose tight.

‘Yep, that’s what I’m talking about,’ he murmured between clenched teeth. That was just what he needed. He threw his neck back and sat there for a moment, his eyes still closed, enjoying the crazy effect as the drug and the alcohol in his blood collided against each other.

Tito was so absorbed in his trip that he never heard the sound of his front door being opened. He’d been too drunk to remember to turn the key in the lock.

Still with his head tilted back, Tito finally opened his eyes, but instead of the ceiling, he saw a face looking down at him. And he had seen those eyes before.

In the morning Hunter sat at his desk, checking the overnight emails. He’d gotten to his office early, just five minutes after Garcia. Neither had had a good night’s sleep.

Hunter had pulled his attention away from his computer and had started looking through a few notes when Alice knocked at the door. She didn’t wait for a reply, pushing the door open and stepping inside. Her tired eyes told everyone that sleep hadn’t come easily to her either. She walked straight up to Hunter’s desk and placed a three-page printed list on it. Hunter’s eyes moved to her face.

‘The list of books Sands checked out from Lancaster’s prison library,’ she said in a half-triumphant tone.

Hunter kept his gaze locked with hers.

‘I had to go up there and get it,’ she explained.

‘You what?’ Garcia asked.

‘Their system isn’t automated, nothing is computerized yet, and there’s no book database. Their library uses the old library-card system, and they have their own bizarre way of archiving things. If I hadn’t gone up there, it could’ve been days, maybe even weeks before we got this.’

Hunter said nothing, his expression posing the question.

‘I was getting a bit fidgety here yesterday,’ Alice admitted. ‘You guys were out all day. I got tired of researching on the Internet and finding nothing. I made a few calls, and DA Bradley arranged with the prison warden to let me check the library. It took me several hours to get this.’

Hunter finally reached for the list.

‘Ken Sands pretty much read Lancaster Prison’s entire library,’ Alice said. ‘But there were several books he checked out more than once. Some
way
more than once. I concentrated on those.’

Hunter started skimming through the list. Alice followed his gaze.

‘You’ll notice that the first twenty-four titles are all medical,’ she said. ‘Out of those, half of them are only in the library because they belonged to Sands. They were part of his Nursing and Patient Care degree. I spent some time going over their topics. At least five of them have extensive sections on how to contain severe hemorrhages, with detailed explanations and diagrams on transfixing of arteries and ligation of large veins, including the brachial and the femoral arteries.’

Hunter’s gaze returned to Alice.

She shrugged. ‘I read the autopsy reports.’

Garcia left his desk and moved over to Hunter’s. ‘That’s nothing new, though. We already knew that Sands had medical knowledge,’ he said.