The Impaler (19 page)

He found what he was looking for on his third pass: a small, inconspicuous headstone about four rows back and facing west.

It bore the name of LYONS.

“So that’s why you didn’t write on Rodriguez and Guer-rera,” Markham whispered. “Whoever is in the sky watching you didn’t need your messages to understand.”

Suddenly, the ring of his BlackBerry startled him. He answered it.

“Hello?”

“It’s Schaap.”

“Go ahead.”

“The forensics team finished its sweep of the alley behind Angel’s.”

“And?”

“They found the shells, Sam. Under the Dumpster, two of them, nine millimeter. Same caliber as the bullets the ME pulled from Rodriguez and Guerrera. All we need now is the ballistics test to make it official.”

“Then that’s where it happened,” Markham said. “Rodriguez and Guerrera were lovers. They had to be. Vlad killed them together in the alley—but he was careless.”

“Safe to say then that Vlad is hunting homosexuals?”

“The evidence would seem to point that way.”

“You don’t sound convinced.”

“I missed something here at the cemetery,” Markham said after a moment. “There’s a headstone with the name of Lyons directly west from the spot at which Rodriguez and Guerrera were impaled.”

“Holy shit. And Rodriguez calling himself the beautiful lion, that means—”

“Yes. We were right about Rodriguez being part of the message itself—about Vlad not needing to write on him and Guerrera.”

“Then what’s bothering you?”

“I’m thinking that if I missed this here, I might have missed something else, too.”

“But the headstone is only meaningful now because you know of the connection to Leo—because you know what to look for.”

“Right,” Markham said, walking. “That’s why I need to get back to Donovan’s.”

“Tonight?”

“Yes. I need to figure out for sure how the lawyer fits into the picture. Now tell me, did you find out anything yet about the constellation?”

“Only stuff about the physical layout of Leo itself—major stars and whatnot. Been busy with the forensics team, the evidence collection.”

“I understand, go ahead.”

“Well, there are basically two visualizations of the constellation Leo, both of which contain the same base stars. The traditional version, the one you were using, consists of nine stars with a triangular-shaped body and a sickle-shaped
head. However, a more recent visualization, by H. A. Rey, alters and expands the constellation’s traditional shape into fifteen stars and depicts the lion figure walking.”

“H. A. Rey? The same guy who wrote the
Curious George
books?”

“Very good, Mr. Former English Teacher. Rey published a book in the fifties in which he came up with more concrete, almost cartoonlike visualizations of the traditional constellations by adding stars or connecting them in different patterns.”

“Let’s go with the nine-star version for now. Older and more recognizable. Anything on how it might relate to the ancient writing?”

“Not yet. I got the name of a professor in the classical studies department at NC State—some guy with whom we’ve worked in the past—but we probably won’t hear back from him until tomorrow.”

“Okay. I’m going to head over to Donovan’s and then I’ll meet you back at the RA. I have a feeling it’s going to be a late night.”

“Check. And I’ll alert Cary PD you’re back at Donovan’s.”

“Thanks.” Markham reached his TrailBlazer and slipped inside. “One more thing,” he said, turning the ignition. “I remember from my research that Leo Minor is one of the constellations near Leo, too. It’s made up of only three or four stars, I believe, but I ’d like you to look into that as well.”

“Leo Minor? Why Leo Minor?”

“Just a hunch,” Markham said, driving off. “But there are three stars in the Starlight Theater logo. Also, the name on the gravestone is plural.”

Markham hit an accident on the belt line, so it was just after eight-thirty by the time he turned into the Donovans’ driveway. The skies above were almost black, the rain coming down in sheets, and the enormous, five-bedroom Mc-Mansion appeared out of the gloom like some giant toad waiting to snatch him up with its tongue.

He parked his SUV in front of the three-car garage and sat for a moment, gathering his thoughts. The gravestone and the connection to Leo were huge, as was the discovery of the shell casings, but still he felt empty and unsatisfied. All still theory, no concrete proof. And Christ, he was tired; had to piss like a racehorse, too. He grabbed his briefcase but did not bother putting it over his head as he exited the TrailBlazer—he was still soaked—and made no attempt to avoid the tiny puddles that had formed along the Donovans’ brick walkway.

The house was dark inside, but Markham didn’t turn on the lights. He knew the layout well from the week before and went straight for the bathroom off the kitchen. He urinated with the door open, steadying his breathing to the blinking clock on the microwave. He was off about Donovan being a
closet homosexual. He could feel it. So what the hell did he expect to find here?

But now that you can tie Guerrera to Angel’s,
a voice said in his head,
now that you know he was with Rodriguez on the night he died—well, you don’t have to be Sherlock Holmes to solve that mystery.

Maybe Guerrera was blackmailing Rodriguez. Maybe he followed him to Angel’s and threatened to tell his family. Could’ve been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

It’s possible. But that’s three out of four victims we can tie to Angel’s for sure. Most likely Vlad would have thought Guerrera was gay if he saw him in the alley with Rodriguez. Odds are that Donovan played for the other team, too.

Markham responded by flushing the toilet.

All right then,
the voice in his head continued.
What if Donovan
wasn’t
gay?

“Then that means Vlad had a different reason for killing him,” Markham said to his reflection in the mirror. He washed his hands and splashed some cold water on his face, dried himself, and went upstairs.

He began in the master bedroom, rifled through the lawyer’s top dresser drawer, and removed the porn DVDs. There were three of them—higher-end, more “conceptual” fare made in the early 2000s starring no one he’d ever heard of. Then again, he hadn’t seen a porno since college. The only DVDs on his shelf were from the Criterion Collection, a film distribution company that released “important classic and contemporary films” to cinema buffs. Markham didn’t consider himself a cinema buff by any stretch, but nonetheless most often gravitated toward movies with a more intellectual bent. One of his few indulgences outside of work; one of the few hobbies that he allowed himself to get excited about since the death of his wife.

The cases for the Criterion DVDs were numbered on the spine, which made cataloguing and collecting them quite
simple—that is, if you could find them. Some had gone out of print, which made them quite valuable to collectors. Indeed, Markham’s latest acquisition had been an out-of-print copy of John Woo’s
The Killer,
number eight on the Criterion list. He’d paid a pretty penny for it from a dealer, too, but it was worth it—not because
The Killer
was anything to write home about, but simply because it filled the space on his shelf between number seven and number nine.

Markham stared down at the porn flicks and suddenly wished he was back at his town house unpacking his DVDs. He’d found the lawyer’s stash the week before, but thought it best at the time not to mention to Tracy Donovan that he’d already been snooping around her house.

He opened the cases and checked the labels; traced his fingers over the discs and wondered if Donovan could have switched out the movies for some gay porn instead. Then he returned the DVDs to the drawer and left the bedroom feeling foolish. He wandered through the children’s bedrooms, through the big bonus room where Tracy Donovan kept her treadmill, and in and out of the upstairs bathrooms. He didn’t bother with the family photos in the living room as he’d done the week before; didn’t shine his flashlight into the kitchen cupboards or behind the boxes in the attic.

He ended up in Randall Donovan’s office and sat down in the lawyer’s big leather chair—propped his feet up on the desk and listened to the rain for a long time in the dark. The air hung cold about his wet clothes; the empty rooms above his head like a guilty conscience. The books, the lawyer’s papers had already been searched by the FBI; the safe in the wall, empty. Anything of note had been removed and shipped off to Quantico. He’d already printed out the updated inventory list from Sentinel, so what was there left for him to find?

Markham flicked on the desk lamp and removed the Donovan file from his briefcase. He scanned the evidence inventory and saw that Donovan’s hard drive was still being
analyzed at Quantico. He would have to tell them what to look for now—perhaps something the FBI missed on their initial sweep; something subtle that might stand out in light of his new theory about the connection to Leo. The same went for the Rodriguezes’ computer. That had been shipped off to Quantico, too.

If they don’t find anything,
Markham thought,
I’ll bring back Marla Rodriguez’s computer myself. Don’t forget the beautiful lion’s little sister.

The beautiful lion …

Markham found himself staring down at the Donovan file—a flash of an image, vague, unclear, colored with something Alan Gates had said last week at his town house. He flipped through the file, found his copy of the initial police report and read the description of the crime scene—the results of the fingerprint analysis of Randall Donovan’s car. Forensics had found nothing, but it wasn’t the killer’s fingerprints that Markham was interested in.

“Donovan’s car,” he read out loud. “A red, 2004 Peugeot 307 coupé convertible.”

Import, expensive and hard to find. Just like your Criterion DVDs.

Peugeot … Peugeot …

Markham ran from the office, quickly negotiated his way in the dark to the opposite end of the house, and was out the kitchen door in less than ten seconds. He flicked on the garage light. Randall Donovan’s red Peugeot was at the far end, on the other side of a white BMW. Markham headed straight for it—leaped over a stack of boxes and stopped dead before the grille.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he said to himself, panting.

The Peugeot logo seemed to sparkle back at him.

The answer had been on the hood of Randall Donovan’s car all along.

Thursday, April 13

Cindy Smith arrived an hour before her six-thirty call to find the flowers from her mother already waiting for her in her dressing room—a dozen white roses and a note reading,
“Break a leg, kiddo! Love, Mom.”

Cindy smiled.
Too expensive, she shouldn’t have done that, blahdy-blahdy-blah—but oh God, how glad I am that she did!

Cindy felt
on
; felt ready and rested and relaxed. She had slept until noon that day and blew off her one o’clock biology class for the gym. Cindy hated biology—hated anything having to do with science and math in general—but would most likely be able to squeak out an A-minus if she buckled down for the final. Cindy hated A-minuses. She’d maintained a solid 3.8 for three years now and wasn’t quite sure how an A-minus would affect her GPA—suspected it would drop a point or two and felt a sudden wave of anxiety at seeing the 3.79 on her transcript.

You’re too much of a perfectionist,
she heard her mother say in her head.

Right you are, M,
Cindy replied, and arranged the flowers in the vase so she could see every one.

Cindy removed her script from her backpack and placed it directly in the center of her dressing table. Then she lined up everything parallel and at right angles around it: her makeup, her hair spray and hairbrush, her cough drops and her coffee mug.
“Cluttered desk, cluttered mind,”
she had heard someone say once.
OCD kiss ass
, she knew that two-faced slut Amy Pratt would call her behind her back. But Cindy didn’t care. After all, Amy Pratt had been called worse behind her own back.

Cindy changed into a Harriot T-shirt and sweats and turned on her iPod, scrolled to the folder titled PRESHOW, and ate her supermarket sushi in the green room. She’d splurged for opening night; felt sorry for not eating her mother’s leftover lasagna but didn’t want anything too heavy messing with her stomach.

The music pumping through her earphones was from the movie
Amadeus
. One of her professors had shown a clip from it in theatre history class, and for some reason Cindy had fallen in love with it. She downloaded the entire soundtrack that very afternoon and had since listened to it every day. The music grounded her—made her feel more like herself, she thought (whatever that meant)—and had even helped her nail her first big audition at Harriot. Now,
Amadeus
was a staple of her preshow ritual, part of a complex good luck charm, and Cindy was convinced her performance would suffer without it.

Superstitious?
Beyond superstitious,
Cindy thought. And although she wasn’t that hungry, she knew she’d also have to eat an orange later in the dressing room. Cindy had picked up that little habit the year before from a guest artist who
swore it made him focus better onstage. Cindy wasn’t sure if the orange helped her or not, but nonetheless it had become part of her preshow ritual, too.

You down with OCD? Yeah, you know me!

Cindy finished her sushi and lay down on the green room couch. She closed her eyes and let the music enter her bloodstream as she focused on her breathing and began going over her lines. She had just finished her big scene with Macbeth, the one after he murders Duncan, when something startled her—movement, a chair scraping on the floor.

Her eyes sprang open.

It was Bradley Cox.

He sat at the green room table with his earphones plugged into his laptop—caught Cindy’s gaze just as she opened her eyes and jerked his chin to say hello.