This is for wearing a uniform.
This is for carrying a gun.
This is for being more of a man than I was.
She tugged at the knot. It didn’t loosen.
Could she wriggle free of the rope? Not likely. The rope was tight, constricting her abdomen, offering little room to maneuver.
She inhaled deeply and tried to squirm free, but although she prided herself on narrow hips, they weren’t quite narrow enough.
Wouldn’t work. She had to cut the rope. What she needed was a knife or…
Glass.
On the floor near her was a glass vial, one of the items dislodged from the crate she’d overturned. Blindfolded, she’d had no idea it was there. Now she snatched it up easily. It contained some sort of dark liquid, which splashed over her hand when she broke the vial on the floor.
Ink. That was what it was. Dark red ink, she thought, although in the dim light it was hard to distinguish color.
She wiped her hand on her cargo shorts, indifferent to the stain, then selected the longest shard from the litter of glass.
The edge was sharp. She sawed the rope, cutting through the entwined fibers one by one. Not long now. When Adam returned, she would be gone.
She could visualize the exact expression on his face-she had seen it when she caught him under the sheets with Ashley. It was a look of utter defeat-not guilt, but simple astonishment at having lost the game.
Now he would lose a second time.
Finally the rope came apart, sagging to the floor.
“Did it,” she breathed, and then she lifted her head and there was Adam, limned in the ambient light, standing at the far end of the garage.
He was watching her, leaning against one of the pylons, hands in the pockets of his chinos.
And smiling.
She knew it, though his face was lost in shadow.
She could feel the cold energy of his smile.
“You’re so resourceful, C.J.,” he said, his voice echoing off the concrete floor and ceiling. “It’s admirable, really. You’ve always been a survivor-until tonight.”
37
Walsh reached Hacienda Heights at 9:45 and parked across the street from a thirty-foot motor home customized as a mobile command post for the Sheriff’s Department. Law enforcement agencies outside crowded metropolitan areas often used even larger vehicles, but thirty feet was the maximum length suitable for maneuvering in the narrow streets of LA’s older districts.
It was not an undercover vehicle. The LASD logo was stamped on the side panels. The staging area was far enough from the suspect’s residence to make subterfuge unnecessary.
He crossed Hacienda Boulevard and rapped on the vehicle’s back door, which swung open to admit him. The rear compartment of the motor home had been converted into a communications room. The civilian who welcomed him aboard after checking his badge was a radio operator who probably worked out of the Sheriff’s dispatch center in East LA. Walsh glanced around and saw multiple Zetron radio consoles as well as high-frequency and military-band radio gear. The equipment hummed, powered by an onboard generator.
A second radio operator was talking into a microphone, asking for an ETA.
“Six minutes,” a voice crackled over the speakers.
“Roger that.”
“Someone else invited to this party?” Walsh asked the two technicians.
The one who’d let him in nodded. “SWAT.”
Walsh felt a stab of hope. A SWAT raid wouldn’t be ordered unless the suspect was believed to be at home.
Had he taken C.J. Osborn to his residence? Was that where he killed his victims? It seemed impossible. How could he get the women inside without being seen? For that matter, how could he get the bodies out?
Then again, when dealing with nutcases of this type, anything was conceivable. Look at Jeffrey Dahmer, who committed multiple murders in his apartment, even dismembered the bodies with power tools, and never raised the suspicions of his neighbors. Hell, the Milwaukee police paid him a visit and didn’t notice anything awry.
The Hourglass Killer could be home right now-with C.J.
And four hours hadn’t passed yet.
There might still be a chance to save her.
Walsh hurried into the middle compartment of the motor home, which was used as a command area. Whiteboards were tacked to the walls, some bearing arcane marker scribbles from a previous operation. More radio equipment crowded the shelves, along with a fax/photocopy machine, several phones, and two notebook computers that shared an inkjet printer. There was also a closed-circuit TV that could receive live video from the Ikegami color camera on the roof. The camera, operated by remote control, could scan in a full circle, but it wasn’t running now.
A small galley and a lavatory were among the amenities; a closed door hid a cache of weapons. Most of the room was taken up by the conference center-a shaky metal table flanked by several equally shaky metal chairs. Despite the chairs, everyone was standing. Walsh saw Donna Cellini, the two deputies from C.J. Osborn’s house, and Captain Hector Garcia, who ran the Sheriff’s station in nearby City of Industry.
“Hec,” Walsh said with a handshake as the door rumbled shut behind him.
“Morrie. Good to see you. Too bad about the circumstances.”
“Maybe we can improve the circumstances. What’ve we got?”
Cellini answered. “I called the computer repairman, Bowden. He was home. Sotheby and I went over and talked to him. It was obvious he was holding back, so finally we told him a woman’s life was at stake. Then he opened up. Said he didn’t do the service call at Martha Eversol’s apartment. He was supposed to, but it was his kid’s birthday, and he wanted to take him to Disneyland, so he let another guy cover for him.”
“What other guy?”
“Mr. Gavin Treat, of Hacienda Heights. He lives two blocks from here, in a third-floor apartment. Treat used to work for Bowden’s company. Then he went freelance. He’s an independent contractor, gets called out when the full-time employees are booked up. Hires out his services to any company that needs him on any given day. That particular day, he took over Bowden’s assignments and let Bowden sign the paperwork.”
“And Bowden never said anything-”
“Because he could lose his job. He’s not supposed to hand off his day’s work to somebody else.”
“He should’ve called in sick.”
“He had a bad case of the flu last summer. His sick days were maxed out.”
“Anything to link Treat to Nikki Carter or C.J. Osborn?”
“Carter, yes. We checked Treat’s DL.” Driver’s license. “He changed his address six months ago. Previously he resided at the Westside Palms.”
“Shit.” That was Nikki Carter’s apartment building.
“He was two floors down from her. They might’ve met in the laundry room or the elevator-whatever. It’s a security building, but when he moved out, he probably held on to a duplicate key to the main entrance, Then he could pick the lock on her apartment, install the Webcam while she was out.”
Walsh grunted. “How about Osborn?”
“That, we can’t figure. Since there’s no record of her PC being serviced, Treat must have singled her out some other way.”
“The ex-husband suggested it might be a revenge thing-somebody C.J. arrested. Does Treat have a record?”
“No, he’s clean. Not even a parking ticket.”
“There goes that theory.”
“Well, hell, we don’t need to know everything. We’ve nailed the guy, Morrie. Be happy.”
“I’ll be happy when he’s in custody and Osborn’s safe and sound. I take it we’re operating on the assumption Treat is home.”
“His vehicle is parked in the apartment building’s underground garage.”
“What kind of vehicle?”
“White 1999 Ford Econoline E-150, commercial model.”