The Face of Death (32 page)

38

DAVID NICHOLSON, BARRY HAD FILLED ME IN, HAD BEEN A GOOD
cop. He came from a family of cops, starting on the East Coast in New York with his grandfather, migrating westward in the sixties with his father. His dad had been killed in the line of duty when David was twelve.

Nicholson had made detective in record time, apparently deserved. He was known to have a sharp mind and a meticulous nature. He was given to flashes of insight and was a feared interrogator. He sounds like Alan’s long-lost white brother.

None of which reconciles with the loose ends left in the Langstrom case. This fact, and the fact that he wants to see me—
now
—fills me with hope.

“This is the place,” Alan says as we pull up to the curb.

The home is on the outer edges of Simi Valley, on the LA side, where many of the older homes lie. Not a house on the block has more than one story. They’re all ranch-home layouts, built in the unimaginative style of so many homes of the sixties. The yard is well kept up, with a plain concrete path leading to the front door. I see a curtain in a window to the right of the door move aside and catch a glimpse of a face, peering out.

“He knows we’re here,” I say to Alan.

We get out and walk toward the house. Before we get there, the door opens and a man comes out, standing on the concrete block that forms the porch. He’s barefoot, wearing jeans and a T-shirt. He’s a tall, big man, about six foot three. He has broad shoulders and a big chest. His hair is dark and thick, he has a square-jawed, handsome face, and he seems younger than his fifty-five years. His eyes, however, lack vitality. They are dark and empty, full of echoes and open spaces.

“Mr. Nicholson?” I ask.

“That’s me. Can I see some ID?”

Alan and I pull out our respective badges. He inspects them and inspects us in turn. His gaze lingers on my scars, but not overlong.

“Come in,” he says.

The interior of the home is a throwback to the late sixties/early seventies. There’s wood-paneling on the walls, a flagstone fireplace. The one nod to the present is the dark hardwood flooring that runs through the home.

We follow him into the living room. He indicates a plush-looking blue couch and we sit.

“Get you anything?” he asks.

“No, sir.”

He turns away from us and stares out the sliding glass doors that lead into his backyard. It’s a small yard, longer than it is wide, more dirt than grass. A wooden fence encloses it. I don’t see any trees at all.

Moments pass. Nicholson continues to stare, frozen in place.

“Sir?”

He starts.

“Sorry.” He comes over and seats himself in an armchair that’s been placed kitty-corner to the couch. The chair is an ugly green, but it looks comfortable and weathered and well-used. Faithful furniture, quietly loved. It faces a twenty-inch television. A foldable dinner-tray stands next to it.

I can imagine Dave Nicholson sitting here at night, watching television, a microwave meal placed on the dinner-tray in front of him. Normal enough, but for some reason, in this place, it’s a sad picture. An undercurrent of waiting and depression layers everything. It’s as though the furniture should all be draped with sheets, and the house should have a wind blowing through it.

“So listen,” he says, before I can ask him any questions. “I’m going to tell you something I’m supposed to tell you, and then I’m going to tell you something I’m not supposed to tell you. Then I’m going to do what I was supposed to do.”

“Sir—”

He waves me off. “Here’s what I’m supposed to tell you: ‘It’s the man behind the symbol, not the symbol, that’s important.’ Got that?” His voice is monotonous and matches the hollowness in his eyes.

“Yes, but—”

“Here’s the next thing. I threw things off on the Langstrom investigation, steered the conclusions. He told me that the evidence would point to a murder-suicide, as long as I didn’t look too hard. All I had to do was accept what was on the surface. So I did.” He sighs. He seems ashamed. “He needed the Langstrom girl—Sarah—to be left alone. Said he had plans for her. I shouldn’t have done it, I know that, but you have to understand—I did it because he has my daughter.”

I freeze, shocked. “Your daughter?”

Nicholson stares at something above my head, talking almost to himself. “Her name’s Jessica. He took her away from me ten years ago. He made me helpless and he told me what to do, yes he did. He told me that someone would come asking questions, years down the line, and that I was to give them the message I just gave you. If I did all that, and one final thing, he said he’d let her go.” His eyes plead with me. “You get it, right? I was a good cop, but this was my
daughter.
”

“Are you saying he took her hostage?”

He points a thick finger at me. “You make sure she’s okay. You make sure he keeps his end of the bargain. I think he will.” He licks his lips, nods too fast. “I think he will.”

“David. You need to slow down.”

“Nope. I’ve said enough already. I need to finish up now. One last thing.”

He reaches a hand behind his back. It comes out holding a large revolver. I jump up, followed by Alan. I reach for my weapon, it finds my hand, but I’m not the one Nicholson wants to kill. The barrel finds his own mouth, a brutal thrust, it angles up. I reach toward him.

“No!” I yell.

He closes his eyes and pulls the trigger, and his head explodes in a “bang” and I am showered in his blood.

I stand there, gaping, as he topples forward from the armchair.

“Jesus!” Alan yells, rushing toward Nicholson.

I stand there and watch, dazed. Outside, the clouds open and the rain begins to fall again.

39

ALAN AND I ARE INSIDE NICHOLSON’S HOME. THE LOCAL COPS
are here, wanting to take charge, but I ignore them in my fury.

A man—a cop—is dead, and I know his death is much more than a suicide. I want to know why.

I had washed my hands and gloved them, and I can still feel the spots where I scrubbed his blood from my face.

I stalk through the living room, down the hallway, into Nicholson’s bedroom. Alan follows.

“What are we looking for, Smoky?” he asks, his voice cautious.

“A God damn explanation,” I snap, my voice hard and furious and cracking around the edges.

The suddenness of it, the awfulness of it, had shocked me like a backhand across the face. My stomach was queasy from the rush of adrenaline. I couldn’t get my mind around the death yet, not fully. I only knew that I was enraged.
He
had done this. It was
his
fault.

The Stranger. I’m sick of his games and his puzzles and everything else.

I want to fucking kill him.

Nicholson’s bedroom is like the rest of his house, careless and Spartan. Things are clean enough, but the home has no soul. The walls are bare, the window coverings are cheap and mismatched. He slept here, he ate here, it kept the rain off his head. That was all.

I spot a photograph in a frame, on a table next to the bed. Nicholson is in it, smiling, his eyes alive. He has his arms around a young girl, who looks to be about sixteen. She has her father’s thick, dark hair. The eyes belong to someone else. A mother’s ghost?

Alan looks at the photo as well.

“Looks like a father/daughter picture to me,” he says.

I nod, still not speaking.

Alan opens the walk-in closet and begins to rummage around on the shelves. He pauses, a lack of motion, silence.

“Wow,” he says. “Check this out.”

He walks out of the closet. He has a shoebox in his hands, the top off. I catch a glimpse of Polaroid photographs. Lots of them. Alan takes one out and hands it to me.

The girl is pale and she is nude. In this photograph she appears to be in her early twenties. The photo was taken full-frontal. She stands with her hands clasped behind her, her feet slightly turned in, her gaze averted and despondent. She has large breasts and an unshaven pubic area. She looks exposed and emotionally numb.

I compare this photograph to the one in the frame.

“It’s definitely the same girl,” I say.

“This box is full of them.” Alan speaks as he rummages. “Looks like they’re in chronological order. Always nude. Different ages.” He rummages some more. “Jesus. Based on changes in her face and body, these go back a lot of years.”

“Over ten, I imagine.” I feel deflated. My rage has dissipated, leaving emptiness behind.

Alan stares at me, taking this in. He taps a foot and jiggles the shoebox in one giant hand. “Okay. Okay. Makes sense. He takes Nicholson’s daughter hostage. But Nicholson’s not just a dad, he’s a cop. The perp needs a way to keep Nicholson on a leash, so he provides him with regular proof of life.” Taps his foot harder. “God damn. Why didn’t Nicholson go to the FBI? Why leave his daughter in this guy’s hands for that long without doing
something
?”

“Because he believed him, Alan. He believed that The Stranger would do what he said. If Nicholson deviated from the plan, The Stranger would kill the daughter. If Nicholson stuck to the plan, he’d keep her alive. And he sent Nicholson regular proof that he was keeping his word.”

“I get that, but still—would you have done what Nicholson did? For as long as he did?”

The answer is instantaneous. I don’t have to give it much thought. The possibility of Alexa, alive, or the current reality of her death?

“Probably, yes. If he was convincing enough. Yes.” I look at him. “What if it was Elaina?”

His foot stops tapping. “Point taken.”

I stare at the photograph. “Why? Why Nicholson?”

“Thought we knew that. He needed Nicholson to steer the Langstrom investigation.”

I shake my head. “Bullshit. I mean, yes, he used him for that purpose—but why take the risk? Why bother? He could have covered his tracks better—hell, he covered them pretty well as it is. Involving Nicholson increased his exposure. Why was The Stranger willing to take that chance?” I run a hand through my hair. “We need to dig through Nicholson’s past.” I pace. “It’s all about the past in this case, we just haven’t found the connections yet. Who did I give the job of finding out about Sarah’s grandfather to?”

“That’d be me. I haven’t gotten to it yet. There was the lead with the Langstrom home, the trust.” He gestures, a way of indicating where we are now and why. “Nicholson. Things have been moving pretty fast.”

“I know, and I understand, but it’s important.”

“Got it.”

I stare down at the sad girl in the sad Polaroid. It’s representative of this case, something going on forever, something terrible, something that can be traced to the past. Nicholson, Sarah’s grandfather, a case from the seventies.

Where did they all come together?

I’m talking to Christopher Shreveport, the head of CMU. CMU is the Crisis Management Unit. They deal with response to critical incidents, such as kidnappings and the like.

“She’s a hostage?” he asks me.

“Yes. Unless she’s dead already.”

Silence. Shreveport isn’t cursing, but I can
feel
him wanting to.

“I’m going to send an agent over there by the name of Mason Dickson.”

“Is that a joke, Chris?”

“Just the one his parents played on him when they named him. He’s trained with CMU at Quantico and he’s our local go-to guy for kidnappings in your area. He’ll do what he can. I wouldn’t hold your breath. Something tells me Mason isn’t going to be able to do much until you crack the case.”

“Maybe he’ll just keep his word and let her go.”

“Everyone should have a dream, Smoky. That one can be yours.”

40

IT’S NOW LATE AFTERNOON. THE RAIN HAS STOPPED AGAIN, BUT
the gray clouds won’t disperse. The sun is fighting to shine, a losing battle. Everything feels stark and wet and barren. This type of weather emphasizes the concrete nature of Los Angeles in an unflattering way. It matches my mood.

Agent Mason Dickson had shown up approximately fifty minutes after I finished talking to Shreveport. He was a redhead with a baby face sitting on a six-six lanky frame. He was improbable, but he seemed competent enough. We’d briefed him, handed him the shoebox of Polaroids, and left, feeling impotent about it all.

Alan gets a call on his cell as we pull into the FBI building parking lot. He murmurs a few times.

“Thanks,” he says, and then hangs up. “Sarah Langstrom is getting released tomorrow,” he tells me.

I tap my purse with a finger, thinking, uneasy.

“Elaina talked to me yesterday,” I say. “I think she wants Sarah to come live with you guys.”

A sad smile crosses his lips. The shrug is infinitesimal.

“Yeah. She talked to me about it. I exploded, said no way. Really put my foot down.”

“And?”

“And we’ll be taking Sarah.” He looks out the windshield, his eyes finding the gray clouds that just won’t go away. “I can’t say no to her, Smoky. I was never very good at it. Post-cancer, I can’t seem to do it at all.”

“Can I ask you something, Alan?”

“Always.”

“Did you ever decide? About whether you’re going to leave the job, I mean.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Keeps gazing out the windshield, gathering his words carefully, like a wheat farmer gathering his bushels by hand.

“You ever watch any of those cold case real crime shows?”

“Sure. Of course.”

“Me too. You know what always strikes me about those shows? That so many of the cops they interview about old cases are young and retired. I mean, it’s rare to see a really old guy who’s still on the job.”

“I hadn’t thought about it until now.” And I hadn’t. But as I do, I realize he’s right.

He turns to me. “You know why? Because working homicides is dangerous, Smoky. I’m not talking about physical danger. I’m talking about spiritual danger.” Waves a hand. “Mental danger if you don’t believe in the soul. Whatever. The point is, you look in that direction too long, you run a risk of never recovering from what you see.” He hits a fist into his palm, lightly. “I mean,
ever
. I’ve seen some shit, Smoky…” He shakes his head. “Saw a half-eaten baby, once. Mommy took a bad hit of acid and got hungry. That’s the case that made me an alcoholic.”

I start at this. “I didn’t know,” I say.

He shrugs. “Before my Bureau days. You know what got me to quit drinking?” He looks away. “Elaina. I got soused one night and came home at three
A.M.
She told me I needed to stop. I—” He grimaces. Sighs. “I grabbed her by the arm, told her to mind her own business, and then I passed out on the couch. Woke up the next morning to the smell of bacon. Elaina was cooking breakfast, taking care of me like she always did, as though nothing had happened. But something
had
happened. She was wearing this sleeveless comfort-shirt she liked, and she had a bunch of bruises on her arm. Bruises from where I’d grabbed her.” He rests for a moment, gathering another few bushels. I wait, mesmerized. “That mom who ate her baby came around, of course. When she realized what she’d done, she…shrieked. I’m talking about a sound a human being shouldn’t be able to make, Smoky. Like a monkey that’d been set on fire. She shrieked and once she started, she never stopped. Well, that’s how I felt when I saw those bruises on that lovely woman’s arm. I felt like shrieking. You understand?”

“Yes.”

He turns to look at me.

“I quit the booze and I bounced back. Because of Elaina. There have been some other bad times, and I’ve always bounced back. Because of Elaina, always because of Elaina. She’s…she’s my most precious thing.” He coughs once, a little self-conscious. “When she got sick last year, and that psycho targeted her, I was afraid, Smoky. Afraid of getting to a place where I needed her but she was gone. If that happened, I’d never make it back. It’s all a balancing act, you know? Knowing how far I can go out, how much I can see, and still make it back to her. One day I’m going to say it’s enough, and I hope I know when it’s right.” He smiles at me. It’s a real smile, but it’s too complex to be called “happy. The answer to your question is that for now I’m here, but one day I won’t be and I don’t know when that day will come.”

We pass through security, and are moving through reception when a fit, vibrant, thirtyish-looking blond woman with a bright smile places herself in front of us. She holds out a hand for me to shake. She almost crackles with confidence and energy.

“Agent Barrett? Kirby Mitchell.”

I start, and then realize that it must be past five-thirty by now. I had forgotten.

Ah, yes, the killer,
I want to say.
Pleased to meet you—but should I end that with a question mark? Time will tell, I guess.

Instead, I smile and shake her hand and give her a once-over.

Kirby in person is a match for her phone voice. She’s attractive and slender, perhaps five foot seven, with blond hair that may or may not belong to her, twinkling blue eyes, and a perpetual smile composed of over-bright teeth. She has the look of someone who spent her early twenties as a fun-loving beach bunny, hanging out with surfers, drinking beer next to bonfires, sleeping with guys as blond as she is and who smelled of seawater and surf wax and maybe a little bit of the Mary Jane. The kind of girl who was always ready to slip on a cocktail dress at five on a Friday. It would have been black and short and she would have danced till the place closed down. I had had friends like her, wildness in a bottle.

Except that she’s a bodyguard, and per Tommy, an ex-killer. The disparity of these things both intrigues and concerns me.

“Pleased to meet you,” I manage.

I introduce her to Alan.

She grins and punches him on the arm, playful. “Big guy! Do you find that a help or a hindrance? Doing your job, I mean?”

“Help, mostly,” he replies, bemused. He rubs his arm where she hit him, a look of surprise on his face. “Hey, that hurt.”

“Don’t be a baby,” Kirby says. She winks at me.

“We’re heading to our offices,” I say.

“Lead the way, FBI people.”

The offices are empty. Everyone is occupied, doing the things I sent them off to do. Callie is processing the Langstrom home. James is probably dealing with Michael Kingsley’s computer. It’s been a day of sprinting, and it’s not over yet.

Kirby continues to jabber away, and I watch her as we go through the offices. I realize that as she speaks, her eyes are roaming. Taking in the surroundings. They pause the longest on the whiteboard, and then move on, missing nothing.

I’ve seen eyes like hers before, on leopards or lions or the human versions thereof. They flicker like candles, seeming casual but seeing everything.

We all go into my office and sit down.

“So now that we’re all friends,” Kirby says, still perky, “let’s talk about how I work. I’m very good, you should know that. I’ve never lost a client, and I don’t plan to—knock on wood!” She raps my desk with a knuckle, grins. “I’m trained in surveillance, hand-to-hand combat, and I can use, gosh, just about anything when it comes to weapons.” She counts off on her fingers. “Knives, handguns, most automatic weapons. I’m okay as a sniper as long as it’s not past four hundred yards. The usual.” Another one of those twinkle-eyed smiles. “‘Mess with the best, die like the rest,’ silly, I know, but I just love that saying, don’t you?”

“Uh, sure,” I reply.

“I have one rule.” She waggles a finger at me, a good-natured warning. “No leaving me out of the loop. I have to know everything to do my job. If you fudge on that, and I find out, then I’ll have to quit. I’m not trying to be a meanie-beanie, that’s just the way it has to be.”

“I understand,” I say.

Meanie-beanie?

“Okay.” She continues talking, a juggernaut of words. Kirby is like a freight train. Hop on board or get rolled over, the choice is yours. “Now, I know you’re probably looking at me and thinking, ‘Who is this airhead?’ Tommy’s an honest kind of guy—cute too”—she winks at me, conspiratorial—“so I’m sure he felt he just
had
to mention that I
maybe, allegedly, might have
killed some people in the past for the military-industrial complex. And you’re looking at
that,
and then you’re looking at
this
.” She indicates the whole of herself with a sweeping gesture. “And you’re thinking, maybe she’s a wack-a-doodle, am I right?”

“Maybe a little,” I admit.

She smiles. “Well, this is just who I am. I’m a California girl, always have been, always will be. I like my hair blond, I like two-piece bikinis, and I love the smell of the ocean.” She shimmies in her chair. “And I love to dance!” Another multi-kilowatt smile. “I have what they called on my psych eval ‘an overdeveloped ability to assign certain human beings to the category of
other
.’ The average person isn’t built to kill, you see. It’s not a part of the makeup. But we
have
to kill, all the time. Soldiers have to. SWAT snipers have to.” She nods once, toward me. “You have to. So what to do, what to do, problems, problems. The answer is: We decide that they are
other
. They aren’t like us, maybe they aren’t really human, whatever. Once that’s done—and this is something the psychological and military communities have known for a long time—they’re a lot easier to kill, let me tell you.” Another perky smile, but this time she doesn’t let it reach her eyes. I think she’s doing this on purpose, to show me the killer she keeps inside. “I’m not a psycho. I don’t get all jolly about blowing people away, I’m not into all that ‘guts to grease the treads of our tanks’ stuff.” She laughs as though this idea is the silliest thing ever,
ho ho ho
. “Nope, it’s just really easy for me to decide who the enemy is, and hey, once that’s done, they’re not a member of my club anymore, you know?”

“Yes,” I reply. “I do.”

“Coolness.” The Kirby-train rushes on. She talks in waves, in a way that makes it impossible to get a word in without interrupting her. “Now, as far as the résumé goes, I have a degree in abnormal psych, and I speak fluent Spanish. I was in the CIA for five years, and the NSA for six. I spent a lot of time in Central and South America doing, ummmmm, odd jobs.” Another conspiratorial wink, which gives me a little bit of a chill. “Got bored and quit—and gosh, was that hard. I could tell you some stories. Those intel agency guys really take themselves seriously. They didn’t want to let me go.” She smiles and again it doesn’t quite bleed into her eyes. “I convinced ’em.”

Alan raises a single eyebrow, but says nothing.

“So—where was I? Oh yeah: I got out and spent a few months wrapping up some old business. A couple of really icky guys from Central America were bugging me. They thought I was still working for the NSA.” She rolls her eyes good-naturedly. “Some men never learn the meaning of the word
no
. It was almost enough to make me swear off Latin men—but not quite!” She laughs, and I find myself smiling against my will at this dangerous pixie of a woman. “I spent about six months beaching-out, got even more bored, and decided it might be fun to go into the private sector. It pays a lot better, let me tell you. I still get to shoot people every now and then, and I can make it to the beach in between jobs.” She spreads her arms in a “ta-dah” gesture. “And that’s the story of little old me.” She leans forward. “Now let’s hear about the client and the cuckoo-bird that’s after her.”

With a last glance at Alan, who sends me a subtle shrug, I launch into the story of Sarah Langstrom and The Stranger. Kirby focuses on me with those leopard eyes, listening with intensity, nodding to let me know that she’s hearing what I’m saying.

I finish and she sits back, thinking, tapping her fingers on the chair. She smiles.

“Okay, I think I have the picture.” She turns to Alan. “So, how are you going to feel about having me at your home, big man?” Another playful punch to the arm. “More important, how is your wife going to feel?”