The List (4 page)

“So you gonna walk around with one shoe?”

Tom tossed Roy his car keys.

“My gym bag is in the trunk. I'm parked in Emergency. Be a dear, would you?”

His sneakers retrieved, Tom signed his release and tailgated Roy back to the district. He wished he'd asked his parents more questions about his adoption when they were still alive, but it hadn't mattered at the time. Why question a perfect family? Tom's mother had been a saint, always loving and supportive. His dad, a Chicago Alderman, had been one of the best men Tom had ever known. Tom couldn't have picked better parents.

After dropping off the shoe at the lab, Tom and Roy hit the computer. It took Tom fifteen minutes to feed in details about his attacker, and the computer took .04 seconds to spit out an answer.

Arthur Kilpatrick. He had a rap sheet that read like Felony's Greatest Hits; assault, arson, burglary, rape, attempted murder. Two stretches in prison, and a current warrant out for his arrest. He'd seriously injured eleven people in a bar fight. Tom read the number again.
Eleven.
This was one major bad ass.

“Click under distinguishing marks.”

Tom did, and discovered that among Kilpatrick's many tattoos was a blue number 9... on the bottom of his left heel. He was eleven days older than Tom.

“Shit keeps getting weirder and weirder.”

Tom agreed. If Rod Serling had chosen that moment to walk out of the closet, he wouldn’t have been surprised.

“So why did this guy return to the crime scene, Tommy? You think he left something there?”

“We searched every inch of that place. What could he have been looking for?”

“Maybe he wasn't looking for anything. Maybe he was there because you were there.”

Tom blinked. “He came there to kill me?”

“We got two bodies, Jessup and that southern cop, both with number tatts. Kilpatrick has a tatt, and you have a tatt.”

“But how did he know I was there?”

“Could have followed you.”

“It was rush hour. I used my siren to weave through traffic. No one could have followed me.”

“Staked the place out?”

“Two entrances, front and back. Can't watch both at once.”

Tom rubbed his chin, some of the feeling returning. Was there any way he could have alerted Kilpatrick to his arrival at the apartment? A sensor, a phone tap, a silent alarm...

“When I first got there, I turned on the stereo.”

Roy raised his eyebrows. “And he heard it? You think the place was bugged?”

“Only one way to find out.”

Tom searched through his desk until he found the Foxhound, a souvenir from his days in Vice. It was a small silver box the size of a pager. The device scanned radio waves between fifty megahertz and three gigahertz, almost every available frequency.

“Check the batteries. It's been a while.”

While Roy fussed with the battery compartment, Tom returned to the drawer for a gravity knife. He placed it in his pants pocket. Tom wasn’t going to be caught without a back-up weapon again.

“I thought those knives were illegal.”

“So? Call a cop.”

Tom drove, sparing the siren now that traffic had died down. He parked in the alley next to Jessup's building.

“We going stealth mode or noisy, give him another shot at you?”

“Stealth. If we find anything, we can set a trap for him later.”

Regardless, Tom pulled out his Glock and made sure a round was chambered.

“You look whiter than usual. You okay?”

“I'm fine.”

“You can wait in the car, if you want. I'll find you a lollipop.”

Tom gave him a glare. They walked in through the back entrance and up to Jessup's apartment. Tom opened the door as quietly as possible, one hand on the butt of his pistol. He flipped on the lights, and after a quick tour revealed the place was empty he relaxed a bit.

Roy took out the Foxhound and played with the dials. He started at the bookcases, waving the antenna in a serpentine pattern from top to bottom. Nothing happened, so he moved on to the near wall. When the antenna pointed at the electrical outlet, the red light began to blink and the Foxhound vibrated. He nodded at Tom and pointed.

Tom knelt next to the outlet and stared. It seemed completely normal. A lamp was plugged into the left socket. He switched it on and the lamp worked fine.

Tom went into the kitchen, where he recalled seeing some screwdrivers in a junk drawer. He found one and brought it back to the outlet. Then he unplugged the lamp and carefully unscrewed the cover.

It was definitely a bug. He removed two more screws and took out the entire assembly, careful not to jostle or disconnect it. The device was high-tech and professional. A flat platform mike was taped to the inside of the wall, with a long antenna running alongside. It drew power off of the apartment's electricity, and the current was live and allowed the sockets to function. Tom looked for any labels or markings, and wasn't surprised when he didn't find any.

He put the device back and joined up with Roy in the bedroom.

His partner was kneeling next to another socket, the Foxhound blinking. Tom took the detector into the kitchen. Within two minutes, he'd found a third bug in an outlet next to the phone.

Neither one of them said a word until they were back in the car.

Roy spoke first.

“Damn. That guy had more bugs than a housing project.”

“Not homemade spy gear, either. That was some major league equipment.”

“Even in Vice, we didn't have stuff that slick.”

“So who does have stuff like that?”

“The government.”

They exchanged a look. Tom started the car and pulled out of the alley, eyes on the rearview. “What next? Try a sting, draw Kilpatrick into a trap?”

“What else can we do?"

“Call the district, have Wally check the fax. I’m waiting on Jessup’s phone records.”

Roy got on the cell and Tom considered this new development.

Whoever bugged Jessup's apartment was big league. Kilpatrick was the killer, but someone had to be behind him. Perhaps the mysterious Bert.

“Fax came.” Roy dialed another number. “Jessup called the O'Hare Hyatt three times in the last few days.”

“See if they have a convention going.”

“Way ahead of you, partner.”

Tom hung a ralph and headed for the expressway.

“Got it.” Roy pocketed his cell phone. “The Hyatt is hosting a huge convention all this week, hotel is booked solid.”

“What kind of convention?”

“It's an NFLCA expo.”

“Enlighten me.”

“The National Fishing Lures Collector's Association.”

“That was this week? Damn it, I forgot to mark my calendar.”

“Hurry. They said the Creek Chub auction starts in twenty minutes.”

Tom patted his pocket, reassured that the knife was still there, and then merged onto I-90.

Los Angeles

“We can still make our reservation. You can throw something on.”

Joan stared at Max, stunned. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Not at all. Reservations at Carmichael’s are very hard to get.

Everyone
eats there. The waiting list is months long.”

“I can’t believe you. Some maniac broke in my house, killed my dog, and tried to shish-kabob me—”

“Joan, you’re being dramatic. Everyone gets robbed. This is LA.”

“Stop the car.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Stop the damn car.”

Max pulled the Lexus to the curb in front of a McDonalds.

“Joan, let’s not overreact.”

“Overreact? You’re a callous, arrogant, insensitive jerk.”

“Insensitive? Who just picked you up at the police station?”

“Well, a million thanks for driving me home. Why don’t you whip it out, and I’ll pull up my skirt and hop on.”

Max rubbed his eyes. His tortured look. She’d only seen him a half dozen times, and the look was becoming increasingly frequent—

every time she offered an opinion, or her cell phone rang, or she talked about her day. Why was she with this guy anyway?

Joan found the door handle and used it. He rolled the window down.

“Joan, let me at least take you home.”

She ignored him and walked into the restaurant. Maybe she was being a bit dramatic, but hell, the past few hours
were
dramatic. Joan tried to imagine how Max would react if he had some psycho chasing him. Big corporate hotshot would probably be sucking his thumb, begging for his mama.

But that wasn’t really fair. No one really knew what they’d do in a crisis situation, until it happened. Maybe Max wasn’t being insensitive—maybe this was his way of trying to be strong for her.

Was his suggestion so outrageous? Perhaps the best thing for her would be to go out and have a good time. It sure beat going home and pulling Schnapps off of that stake.

Joan turned around, hoping Max was still there, or perhaps even coming through the parking lot after her.

Max was pulling out into traffic.

Asshole.
Fine. She didn’t care for him much anyway. He was too good-looking, and he knew it. Joan’s Second Rule of Dating; never date a man prettier than you are. She’d broken that rule because she thought Max had some class. He was young, successful, and not in the life. That was Joan’s First Rule. Never date a guy in the movie business. She had other criteria—no guys with back hair, no guys who wore Speedos or thongs, no guys who lived with their mom, but the first two were the most important.

Unfortunately, all that her rules got her was an empty social calendar and the feeling that she was somehow unworthy, even with her many accomplishments.

She went straight to the pay phone and punched in her pin number, calling the person she should have called when this first happened. Marty. Her assistant. Her friend. In her eyes, he was the perfect man. He’d make some guy really happy someday.

And apparently, that’s what he was up to at that moment. When the call went through, another man answered. Tipsy, buoyant, enthusiastic.

Joan hung up. Lately, Marty had been about as lucky as she had with men. Good for him for scoring. She didn’t want to intrude on that.

So, what now? Joan sat down in a plastic swivel chair, noting how stupid her sockless running shoes looked with her skirt. After the police arrived, she’d demanded to fill out the report immediately, hoping that the sooner they had a description, the sooner they could get the creep off the streets. The police complied, whisking her away to the station before she had a chance to change or even grab her purse.

And now, three hours later, after sitting with an artist and reviewing mug shots and telling her story a dozen times, she was stuck at a McDonalds without a ride, wearing these dumb shoes, afraid to go home.

Get tough, Joanie,
she thought.
If you don’t face it now, you’ll
never want to go back.

Screwing up her courage, Joan removed herself from the chair and marched out to the street. It took her three shouts before a cab stopped.

Her sense of dread increased with every tick of the meter. When the cabbie finally pulled in front of her house and asked if this was the place, Joan didn’t know if she could move.

“Lady? You okay?”

“Hold on. I have to go in, get some money. No purse.”

“Meter’s running.”

“Be right back.”

She controlled her breathing, pushing it deep into her stomach, and got out of the taxi.

No burglar alarm. Dark house. Dead guard dog. She didn’t even have her keys. But the rear patio window was probably still open. That was in back, past Schnapps...

Joan followed the bushes around her home, moving quick and confident, refusing to look at her poor dog or the stake that was meant for her. The police, after checking out her house, had closed the patio door. An officer on her case had volunteered to hang around her house until she came home, and Joan kicked herself for refusing the offer.

She figured she had Max, and the cop had been too good looking.

Now, apprehension mounting, she wondered how she was going to get inside. Break her own window?

No need. The patio door was unlocked. Joan went into the kitchen, turning on lights as she went, and found her purse on the floor where she’d dropped it. After digging out her wallet, she walked out the front door and paid the taxi driver. The cab turned around in her circular driveway, and Joan watched the tail lights disappear down the hill. She felt very alone.

Back to the house. The front door knob was covered with white powder. The police had determined this was the entry point, and had gone ahead and checked for prints even though she made it clear that the man wore gloves. Joan didn’t know if she should admire them for the effort, or be irritated that they didn’t believe her.

Once inside, Joan turned on her large screen television and changed the channel to CNN, grateful for the nonstop voices. She flipped on more lights, checked to make sure the doors and windows were all locked, and threw away her toothbrush, toothpaste, deodorant, soap, and shampoo. Anything he might have touched. Then she emptied her underwear drawer into the washing machine, her silverware drawer into the dishwasher, and started each of them on the highest heat setting.

She had an urge to vacuum, to scrub the bathtub and drain the Jacuzzi, but exhaustion was getting the upper hand. Her last effort to cleanse the house was changing her sheets, and then she kicked off her gym shoes and collapsed onto the bed.

Joan was able to relax for almost a full minute before paranoia reared its head. She picked up the phone and found it still disconnected. Her cell was in her car. Sleep would be impossible unless there was a phone next to her. Joan got out of bed.

She was padding through the living room when she saw the front door open. The scream was out of her mouth before he got into the room.

“Hello, Joan. Miss me?”

Same goatee. Same black outfit. Same gloves. He had some kind of metal device in his right hand. Lock picks. Joan willed herself to move, to run, to attack—anything but remain planted there like a deer in headlights. She took off toward the kitchen and went straight for the knife rack. With a steak knife in each hand, she turned around to face her tormentor.