Deciding that unpacking could wait, Carns left his bag at the bottom of the stairs and strode to his office. Ignoring a stack of faxed reports and newsletters that had accumulated in his absence, he crossed to his trading desk and flipped on the TV. Smiling, he settled into his chair and shoved a disc into a playback console hooked to the set.
Carns had recorded the newscast earlier that afternoon, prior to leaving for the Omaha airport and his flight home. At that point neither CNBC nor CNN had picked up the murder, but KETV, an Omaha ABC affiliate, had. Impatiently, Carns shuttled through several commercials before finding the newscast. John Hall’s death was the lead story.
Carns turned up the sound.
“… the death in his home early this morning of United Western Packers executive John Hall, long an icon in the Nebraskan cattle community. Authorities have thus far declined to comment on the circumstances of Hall’s death, but sources close to the investigation have indicated that it may not be ruled accidental…”
Recalling Hall’s final moments, Carns rocked back in his chair. He had been wrong about Hall’s having made other recordings of their telephone conversations. He knew that now, as surely as he knew that never again would Hall pose a threat. With a surge of satisfaction, Carns pictured the CEO in his bathtub as he had last seen him, Hall’s bulging eyes staring up from beneath the surface of the water.
During most of it, Hall, a manipulator to the end, had refused to believe what was happening-bartering, whining, negotiating for his life between occasional sputtering breaths when Carns let him bring his lips to the surface. But at the finish, when Hall finally accepted that he was about die, something had changed in his eyes. Carns had seen it and cherished that exquisite moment, storing it, like many that had gone before, in a secret place inside his mind.
It was time for the network news. Curious to see if other stations were finally running the story, Carns flipped through the channels. He stopped on CBS, hearing a name that for the past days had nagged him with the persistence of a rotten tooth. As he watched, the scene shifted from the network news desk to a terrace outside downtown LAPD headquarters. Carns leaned forward, his eyes narrowing as Lauren Van Owen, microphone in hand, began her news piece.
“This reporter has recently learned that the Candlelight Killer Task Force, working in conjunction with the FBI’s Investigative Support Unit, has developed a psychological profile of the man for whom they’re searching,” she said, briefly glancing toward the stone and glass building behind her. “According to LAPD sources, police are hunting for a white male they believe to be in his midthirties and of below-average intelligence. He’s described as a loner who’s had little or no association with mainstream society and probably works in a menial, low paying occupation.
“Police sources also say that certain aspects of the killer’s crimes indicate that he is impotent and unable to perform normally with women, and that he has marked homosexual tendencies. The FBI behaviorists reportedly base their latter conclusion on heretofore unreleased facts concerning the sexual molestation of all three husbands during their strangulation murders. The killer is also thought to be extremely disorganized and powerless to control his actions, traits authorities feel will soon lead to his apprehension. Officials are asking anyone with information to call the task force’s twenty-four-hour hotline. This is Lauren Van Owen reporting for CBS News, Los Angeles.”
Carns stabbed the screen to darkness, burning with an emotion he hadn’t felt since childhood.
A homosexual? A queer? And the other hideous things she said…
This wasn’t the way it was supposed to be. Flushed with rage, Carns shut his eyes and pressed his fingers to his temples, trying to ease the excruciating throb that gripped his brain like an unremitting claw.
After what seemed an eternity, the torment eased. Carns opened his eyes.
Wrong! How could they be so wrong?
Thinking back, he recalled the conversation he had witnessed at the Sports Club. At the time he’d been certain that the task force detective’s meeting with the blond reporter had to be more than coincidence. Subsequently, Van Owen’s exclusive revelation of the composite drawing had proved him right. With a smile as cold as gunmetal, Carns suddenly realized the source of her latest information as well.
Kane.
33
Think the guy’s gonna show?”
Sergeant Edward Kinoshita lowered his binoculars and glanced over at Steve Matthews. As he had for most of the past week, Matthews was sitting beside the bed on a folding metal chair and cheating his way through a game of solitaire-laying out cards in symmetrical piles on the bedspread and peeking at hole cards whenever it suited him. He was still losing.
“Beats me,” Kinoshita replied, again raising the binoculars to sweep the darkened street outside. A block down he could just make out Bottrell and Patterson’s Plymouth tucked back in a neighbor’s driveway. Otherwise, nothing. “You got an opinion?”
“Yeah. No way.”
“Why not?”
Matthews turned over a king and transferred a queen stack, uncovering an ace he’d glimpsed two cards back. “Been too long.”
“You’ve worked this from the beginning. How long’s it been?”
“We’re into the third week now.” Matthews yawned, turned up another ace, and pried a two from the discard pile. “We were supposed to pull the plug on Tuesday. Then it got extended, but with fewer guys on the unit. Now we’re just covering the front of the house, nighttime only. I don’t know-maybe somebody knows something we don’t.”
“Personally, I think we’re going to a lot of trouble for a B-and-E.”
“Assault, too. The guy clobbered the maid. Scuttlebutt downtown is that those Candlelight hotshots think this might be connected to their case.”
“So where are they now?”
Matthews shrugged. “Maybe they changed their minds. If you ask me, this has been a bogus stakeout from day one.”
The radio crackled. “Car.” The call was from Whiteman and Madison, a third pair of plainclothes surveillance officers stationed in an unmarked vehicle at Valley Vista and Beverly Glen. “Green Chevy van.”
Matthews turned off the light and joined Kinoshita at the window. A moment later they spotted a van passing the Baker house, traveling west.
The radio crackled again. “Guy lives on the next street up,” said Bottrell from the Plymouth, sounding bored. Unlike Matthews, who had previously worked the day shift, Bottrell had been on night surveillance from the start. “Works at a bar over in Westwood. Gets home about now every evening. He’ll turn left at the stop sign.”
The van slowed at the intersection, swung left, and drove up the hill.
Matthews turned the lamp back on and returned to his cards. “Damn. I think I might have a chance of winning for a change,” he said, uncovering a third ace.
Kinoshita watched the van’s headlights disappear. “I’ll notify the press,” he said, grabbing a metal thermos and twisting off the top. He was pouring the last of the coffee when Whiteman spoke a second time.
“Car. Blue Toyota.”
Grumbling, Matthews once more flipped off the light. Kinoshita picked up the radio. “Got it,” he said, pulling aside the curtains. “He’s slowing in front of the house. Now he’s moving on. You seen this one before, Jeff?”