Sunday afternoon
Henry Atkins had pushed his hair back so many times that it was almost standing straight up on the front of his forehead.
He’d spent the night in a cell—in solitary.
And he was now under arrest.
The ballistics expert had reported that the high-powered sniper rifle found beneath his bed was the weapon that had been used to strike Grant Vining, and which had also been used to shoot a bullet into a stone in the old burial ground. Why, none of them knew.
Except, of course, Sophie and Bruce.
As yet.
Henry wasn’t talking to Captain Chagall or anyone else. He had said, however, that he would talk to Sophie.
He was awaiting his attorney.
He had chosen a husband and wife team with an exceptional reputation, Esther and Nathan Holloway, and they had agreed to take his case. The couple had been, however, vacationing in Palm Springs when Henry had called; they would be with him when he was arraigned on Monday morning.
Sophie stood with Captain Chagall, looking through the two-way mirror into the interrogation room.
“He looks like he might have a heart attack,” Sophie murmured.
“We’re watching him. It might be a mercy that he’s under arrest. His blood pressure was sky-high.”
“Maybe being accused of murder does that to a man.”
“Whether he is or isn’t guilty,” Chagall said, “this arrest might have saved his life. He saw our doctor and he was given proper medication. Bobby Dougherty has been observing him. Henry has refused to speak with Dougherty—along with everyone else—until he speaks with his attorneys.”
“A smart move for most criminals,” Bruce murmured.
“Criminals who are police photographers—sure. They know all the techniques that cops use. But, Sophie, he has said that he will talk to you. You ready?”
“Of course. He’ll know you’re watching,” Sophie said.
“Yes, he will. But maybe he thinks he can play you somehow, Sophie.”
“And maybe he’s innocent,” she murmured.
Captain Chagall sighed deeply. “I doubt it,” he said softly. “We just got another report from the forensic team. One of Henry’s fingerprints was found on the slab underground. He was never over where that print was found,” Chagall said.
“Maybe we didn’t see every move he made,” Sophie said.
“One of us had eyes on him at every moment. You and Bruce were there, at the rear of the tomb. Sophie, I don’t want to accept this, either. But between the fingerprint, and the crushed rose and the rifle found under the bed...”
Sophie looked for Bruce. He had stepped aside and was on the phone—with Jackson, she thought.
“Are you coming in?” she asked Bruce.
“He said only you,” Chagall said.
“It’s all right,” Bruce said. “Captain, Sophie, I’m going to go ahead and meet Jackson outside—Angela has come up with more information on the burial ground. I’m going to get back out there, Captain. Henry doesn’t want me, and Sophie doesn’t need me. I’ll call in a report about anything that the FBI research has managed to unearth.” He grimaced. “Literally.”
“We still have people out there,” Captain Chagall said.
“So does Jackson,” Bruce said, “as I’m sure you know. We’ll coordinate all our efforts.”
“Of course.”
“What else has Angela found?” Sophie asked.
“Looks like more underground chambers,” Bruce said. “If we can find the tools that the killer used...well, we all know that Henry is going to continue to deny everything. There is no way a man could have used a saw and a knife on a person and not left something behind. None of us knows the truth yet, and we need some more hard evidence.”
“All right. McFadden, go. Sophie, get in there and see what you can get him to say.”
Bruce turned to leave. Sophie watched him go and then opened the door to the interrogation room. Henry looked at her. “Sophie. Finally.”
“Henry,” she said, drawing out the chair across the plain metal desk from him. She sat, thinking of all the times she had been at that desk before, questioning suspects, reading them the best she could, and then cajoling, threatening, sympathizing...or just listening.
This was different. This was a man she knew. A strange man.
Maybe a guilty man.
And maybe just a loner who had really longed to be an artist—but had found a good living photographing and trying to read the signs in what the lens captured.
“Chagall is back there, right?” Henry asked. “Hey, Captain!” he called, waving to the one-way window.
“Of course, he’s listening,” Sophie said. “You know how everything works here. And you’re probably smart to wait for your attorney. So, why me, Henry?”
He leaned forward. “Because you know that I didn’t do this.”
“Henry, I wish I knew that you didn’t do this. But there is no way your rose could have been where it was—unless you’d been there. You never walked over to the stone slab. The rose was there.”
“It was planted.”
“By who?”
“By whoever kidnapped Grace Leon and brought her there.”
“What about the sniper rifle—the one used to put Vining in the hospital.”
“It isn’t mine.”
“It was under your bed.”
“It still isn’t mine.”
“What if they find your prints?”
“They won’t—whoever did this is smart enough to wipe everything down.” He leaned toward her, his tone desperate. “Sophie, I did not do this thing. I could not do this thing. I study a lot of crime photographs. I wanted to travel the world once, get the great pictures. War in the Middle East, kings and queens ascending their thrones, violence in the streets—good things, bad things, murder and mayhem. It turned out that I became a police photographer. No kings and queens—but I did see the drug wars and the insanity of Los Angeles. Yes, I have crime scene photographs in my house. Some of them might seem grisly. I’ll bet you old Dr. Chuck Thompson reads up on other autopsies or watches some of the shows on TV that feature the cases of other medical examiners. It’s a work hazard. Tell me that you don’t read about crimes and criminals and how they were caught and how they got away with it? I’m telling you, I didn’t drop the rose. I have never owned a sniper rifle. I wasn’t the one who fed the crime scene photo to the newspaper. I have had a call with my attorneys. I know that I will be out of here soon, and I might sue the department and everyone involved. This is all ludicrous.”
Sophie watched him in silence for a minute. She knew that the sniper rifle found at his place was the one used to shoot Grant—and to shoot at her. But as far as she knew, Henry’s prints had not been found on it. His prints on the rifle would have damned him entirely.
“Sophie, I was set up. Subtly, and bit by bit,” Henry said.
“By who?”
He leaned back, shaking his head, and staring at her balefully. “If I knew that, I’d tell you—I’d be shouting it out, obviously! Maybe Kenneth Trent—he had access to the girls.”
“He had an alibi.”
“Friends lie.”
“Henry, he was seen by an entire movie theater.”
Henry threw up his hands. “I don’t know.” He glanced toward the windows. He spoke loudly—making sure that he was clearly heard.
“Here you go, Sophie. You all suspected me—before last night or early this morning, or whatever it was. Why? Because you thought it was an inside job. Who better to pull off a crime than those who know what the police are searching for? Okay, so I’m what you see as a creepy guy. I have no wife, no kids, no family. Well, hell, I wasn’t really attractive most of my life. But now, I’m going to retire. And you’re not going to pin these awful murders on me—why? Because I didn’t commit them. And, hell, I haven’t been hanging around getting stupider and stupider. I have the best attorneys my saved-up-never-spent-on-a-wife-or-family money can buy. So, everyone was hoping that you’d get something out of me—why? Because, of course, I might be a creepy guy, but you’re a beautiful young woman—and you’ve always been kind to me. Sophie, there’s nothing to get out of me. The crime scene photos got out—it’s the day and age when the internet rules. Anyone could have done it. Everyone involved in investigating has access to those pictures. Think of it this way—hell, even our dear Captain Chagall could have done it. Oh, and the murders. Seriously? Who has experience with crime scenes? You hear that, Captain? You want to play this game? It could have been you. So there you are with me, Sophie. I can tell you nothing. Nothing. So, take that to the bank. I think we’re done for now.”
“Henry... I hope you’re telling the truth. I really do,” Sophie said, rising.
“Actually, that’s not, it,” Henry said.
“Then what?”
“Keep looking. For the love of God, keep looking.”
She nodded, and left the room.
Chagall was waiting for her in observation. She wondered if he’d be angry—or, at the least, irritated—by the accusation.
He wasn’t, but he did tell her, “Don’t worry. He wouldn’t get anywhere accusing me. I was playing poker with the sheriff and a few old friends until two on Saturday night—and Monday night, I slept at my daughter’s, watching my infant granddaughter all through the night with my wife.”
“But what do you think?” Sophie asked him. “Is he telling the truth?”
“Well, he could be.”
“He could be.”
“Or, he could be a very good liar. As good at getting out of the accusation as he was at imitating the Black Dahlia murders. What’s your gut say?”
“I don’t know,” Sophie said. “Anyway, I’ve done what I can... I’m going to go join Bruce out at the old graveyard. Apparently, he might be onto something more. Something that can help us.”
The desk sergeant opened the door to the observation room. “Captain.”
“Yes?”
“Sorry, Detective Manning, I didn’t mean to interrupt. But it does involve you.”
“It’s okay. I’m about to leave. How does it involve me?”
“They’re letting Miss Leon go from the hospital. She’s a nervous wreck. We told her that a police officer would watch over her.”
“Yes, and we will have an officer drive her home, check out her place, and stay with her,” Chagall said. “So, what’s wrong?”
“She wants Sophie.”
“There’s already a patrolman at the hospital,” Sophie said.
“She wants you,” the desk sergeant told her, grimacing.
“She’s going to have to wait,” Sophie said flatly. “Have them tell her that I will be there—as soon as I can.”
“Detective Manning is not her professional babysitter,” Chagall said. “Tell her exactly what Sophie said. Except, Sophie, you don’t have to watch over her.”
“She knows that you have a suspect in custody, right?”
“She’s more than dramatic,” the desk sergeant said.
“I agree. Protect and serve, and Sophie protected her—someone else can serve,” Chagall said.
“I don’t mind. I’ll get Bruce and we’ll go see her together. Tell her I will be by,” Sophie told him.
“Sure thing.”
He left, and the captain turned to Sophie. “Wish they would have kept her in the hospital—it’s easier for us there. Do you need a car? Didn’t you get here with Bruce?”
Sophie nodded. “Yep, you’re right. I did.”
“Lee Underwood is heading back out. He just brought some soil samples and bits of torn fabric back to the lab. I’ll have him take you.”
“Fine,” Sophie said.
She headed out, unsure of what she wanted to find.
* * *
Bruce stood by the Johnstone tomb in the graveyard.
Sabrina Hayes was inside the old church, making sure the cops didn’t destroy her company’s holding.
He’d figured she might be horrified to learn that women had been killed in her graveyard.
She hadn’t been. She was a bit ghoulishly appreciative of all that had happened.
“This place will be insane now!” she’d told him. “Everyone is going to want to come here.”
He didn’t speak with her long.
Angela had written to tell him that she was sure there was more underground—somewhere. Also, she’d wanted him to know that the Johnstone family had owned a large portion of the nearby property at one time; some of it had been farmland.
He called her, wanting to know more.
“Well, they died out at the turn of the century—nineteenth to twentieth,” Angela told him. “They donated a lot of what they had to the city of Los Angeles, to museums and, yes, to the church. Property was auctioned off, and you have the bars and restaurants and what you see that’s there now. But I suggest that you keep pounding on crypt walls—or maybe go through some of the skeletons there.”
“Great,” he said.
“No more help from Ann Marie Beauvoir or Michael Thoreau?”
“I don’t even know where they are today,” Bruce said. “The tomb area is just now clearing out—forensic team is heading out, leaving just one cop to keep watch, though for how long, I don’t know... They do have Henry Atkins in custody, and evidence—circumstantial, no prints on even the sniper rifle—but we were suspecting him before.”
“You don’t sound certain.”
“I’m not. He could be the killer—he could also be the perfect scapegoat.”
“Where’s Jackson?”
“At the hospital. He’s with Vining. Brodie is watching over Grace Leon.”
“You and your brother should really think about joining us,” Angela said. “No pressure.”
He laughed. “No pressure.”
“All three McFadden brothers would be a nice addition. Mull it over.”
“I’m mulling,” he assured her. “All right, if you get anything else—”
“I’ll let you all know immediately,” she said.
“I’m going to crawl through skeletons now.”
“Enjoy.”
He ended the call and headed to the pyramid structure of tombs and took the stone steps down into the catacombs below. A woman with the forensic team was heading back up.
“I swear, we have everything that could be down there,” she told him.
“I’m sure you do,” he said. He smiled. She waited for him to leave. He didn’t. She shrugged and climbed the stairs.
For a moment, he was alone. He looked around. Forensics had left their work lights up and casting a too-bright glow around the crypt.
Some things buried should remained buried. But even the earth itself could be a brutal mistress. It wasn’t like an ancient tomb where shrouded bodies lay rotting.
But a quake—or perhaps several small quakes—had definitely done damage.
Cement seals were chipped or broken almost everywhere.
Along the sides, coffins were clearly visible.
The bony, half-mummified hand still dangled from the one.
There was more underground. There had been more, at least. Maybe the shifting earth had covered it all, and it was there no more?
No. There was something. The killer had needed a very sharp knife to create the Joker’s grin on his victim’s faces. He had needed a saw or something as honed as a scalpel to bisect the bodies.
And they had found no such tools. Nor had they found the clothing the victims had been wearing before they had been killed.
He began tapping at the seals where the Johnstone family had been interred. The seals were so weakened they crumbled easily. There were coffins. And there were skeletons.
No tools.
He straightened, frustrated, and then turned to the slab where the girls had been tied—and brutally murdered.
Walking over to it, he hunkered down.
He began to tap under the slab. Useless—so many people had been working there.
But as he pounded on the earth, he suddenly heard a difference in the sounds his efforts were creating.
A hollow reverberation. There was something hollow here.
He began to push aside dirt and dust and found nothing. He stopped himself; he needed to be methodical.
He pushed one inch at a time.
And finally, he found it.
The opening was so smooth that it appeared to be part of the earth flooring, invisible to the naked eye.
But it was there.
It didn’t open; it slid back. There was no hinge, no hook, no handle.
It just slid back and led into more darkness.
* * *
“There’s more, there’s definitely more,” Lee Underwood said.
He brushed his surfer-blond hair from his forehead as he drove.
Sophie wished that she was at the wheel.
“You don’t believe that Henry committed the murders?” Sophie asked him.
He shook his head and flashed her a smile. A beach-boy smile.
She found herself thinking of Ted Bundy: good-looking, charming.
They were in a car; he was driving. But it was growing late. It would be dark soon.
She was a cop. With a gun. She knew how to use it.
And, of course, the captain knew where she was and who she was with. Even if Lee was the killer, he wouldn’t dare try anything with her right now.
How could she believe it was a friend? On the other hand, how could she not, at this point, allow for every possibility?
“Henry...he’s an odd old bug, but I like him. And I’ve been out with him now and then. We both enjoy theater and the movies. I guess I’ve felt bad for him now and then. Most Friday nights, I have a date. Or I have friends that I see. We go to games...we go to concerts. I knew that Henry loved the Hollywood Hooligans, so, you know, when you mentioned at the meeting that they were having a performance on Saturday night, I thought I should ask him to go. And since Chuck Thompson had been in to bring us some of his lab reports, he wanted to go. I swear, it’s hard for me to imagine that Henry went from the performance to kidnapping the leading lady.”
“Then how did his rose get there?”
Lee grinned at her. “Hey, I’m just the lab rat. You’re the detective.”
They were nearing the graveyard gates.
The place wasn’t crowded along the street with cop cars anymore.
Two cars were parked just outside the gates, though. One patrol car—and Bruce’s rental with the police decal.
She wasn’t sure why she felt so relieved when Lee just pulled in, right next to the cop car.
Yes, of course, she knew why. Lee was a forensic investigator. Lee had been at both crime scenes. Lee worked at the station. He had access to the crime scene photos. He could have gotten into her purse—just as easily as Henry—and made a copy of her key. He could have broken into her apartment to see what she had...to steal the page about possible police involvement in the Dahlia case.
He knew what could and couldn’t be found when it came to fingerprints, DNA and anything else, and he was perfectly placed to hide any incriminating evidence.
Sophie hopped out.
She saw that an officer was sitting in the driver’s seat of the patrol car. He was directly in front of the gate. He could see anyone coming or going.
If they went through the gate, Sophie thought. But she and Bruce had come into graveyard by hopping over the fence.
No one was going to hop over the fence with sharp knives and a bone saw.
She walked over to the officer. She knew him; his name was Frank Paisley. He’d been with the force about three years. She liked him. He had an easy manner about him. He was good at breaking up fights—and exceptional at crowd control.
He quickly rolled down his window. “Hey, Detective Manning.”
“Hey. What’s going on?”
“They’ve pulled out. I’m on guard duty.”
“But the PI, Bruce McFadden, is still in there, right?”
“Yep. He’s down in the tomb thing, catacombs—whatever you call something like that. Ugh. I was down there. You know what? I’m going to be cremated. That’s—creepy.”
Sophie agreed. “Yep, creepy.” She realized that Lee was standing behind her. “Okay, well, I’ll find Bruce.”
“I’m with you,” Lee said.
She turned back to him. “I thought that forensics was done here.”
“Basically. I can’t help thinking that we missed something. Still need to find the tools.”
She felt comfort in her holstered Glock, tucked into her waistband. But she also smiled at Officer Paisley.
“Keep an eye out for us, will you?”
“Always, Detective Manning.”
Lee might be making her feel uneasy, but it never hurt to be uneasy.
Alert—aware—and on guard.
“You first!” she told Lee.
He shrugged. “As you wish, Detective!”
They went through the gate and over to the steps to the catacomb.
Police floodlights still illuminated the dank space. The smell of the earth rose up to greet them as they headed down.
“Bruce?” Sophie called.
There was no answer.
“Sophie, look!” Lee called.
She could see cement seal had crumbled on the ground.
And then she saw what Lee was talking about—a hole. A gaping hole, right beneath the slab where Grace Leon had been tied the night before.
The slab...stained with blood.
She hurried over to the hole.
“Bruce?”
There was no answer.
“Let’s go down,” she said.
“We’ll have to jump,” Lee said. “No steps. You—you tall enough to do that?”
“Yes, yes, I can do it,” Sophie said.
But go first? Or after? Which would afford him less opportunity for an attack?
First. She’d go down first. She’d be ready to draw on him before he landed next to her.
“I’m pulling rank,” Sophie said lightly. “Hopping on down.”
She lowered herself, keeping an eye on him. Then gripping the edge of the hole, she let herself fall, muscles and limbs loose to absorb the impact.
The floodlights barely filtered through. Shadows were everywhere. She seemed to be in a maze of tunnels.
She backed away, waiting for Lee.
Ready to draw.
She looked up. “Coming down?”
“Coming!” he said, crawling to the edge, as she had done.
And it was then, as she was looking up at him, that she suddenly felt the swish of air behind her.
And felt the excruciating pain as something crashed hard against her head.