Nine

22

Palos Verdes Peninsula, California

Tuesday, May 20, 8:01 P.M.

Alex Brandon stood a few feet from the edge of a sheer drop to the Pacific Ocean, one member of a tight circle of coroner’s assistant, deputies, and crime lab workers who surrounded an aluminum-framed litter-and the tarp-wrapped corpse within it. After some struggle, and a climb that Alex would have envied them otherwise, the technical rescue crew had brought the body up from the cliff. They had wisely refused the earliest suggestion made to them, that they just haul it up on the rope left by the killers. It had taken a little time to rig a separate set of ropes and the litter.

Some distance away, the press and a few rubbernecking members of the public were standing at barriers closely guarded by sheriff’s department deputies. They’d get a better view of the proceedings at home-a television news crew in a helicopter had already taken footage of the litter being pulled up to its present location.

“Detective Brandon?” Alex turned to see one of the uniformed deputies approaching them. “The FBI agent is here.”

“Bring him on over,” Alex said. He turned back to the coroner’s assistant. “Can you wait for a moment, until he joins us?”

“Sure.”

The sheriff, Alex had learned, had made certain concessions to the FBI in an effort to counter some of the criticism he had received from the local press. Lieutenant Hogan believed that their fearless leader had apparently out-negotiated the director of the FBI in superb style by agreeing that until any federal jurisdiction over the cases seemed warranted, he would generously give copies of all earlier reports to the FBI and would allow an FBI liaison to work with Alex and Ciara on any new cases.

Ciara’s own take on this was that the FBI was providing the sheriff all the rope he’d need to hang himself. Alex wasn’t so sure she was wrong.

As they watched, a young man of medium height came stepping gingerly over the damp, uneven ground along the cliffs. Alex, recognizing an Armani suit and Cole Haan shoes when he saw them, wondered if every nickel the FBI paid the guy was on his back and feet. The agent had sun-bleached golden hair and a light tan. If he was over thirty, Alex thought, it wasn’t by much.

Ciara said, “What did I tell you? If that’s not a third-stringer, you can have my badge. Christ, he isn’t even shaving yet.”

Alex saw the agent blush, and turned to Ciara.

“Save the reprimand,” she said. “I’ll shut the hell up.”

“For novelty’s sake,” Alex said quietly, “give politeness a try.”

“Hi!” she said a little too brightly to the agent as he reached them. “I’m Detective Ciara Morton, Los Angeles Sheriff’s Department. This is my partner, Alexander Brandon, who’s in charge of the task force.”

His brows rose higher above his dark brown eyes, then he warmly shook their extended hands, returned their smiles, and said, “Special Agent David Hamilton, FBI. I know some of you say that stands for Fan Belt Inspectors, but really, only the guys in the vehicle lab back in Virginia have earned that rank. Would you like to see my badge or my razor?”

There was an uneasy silence, then Ciara said, “Your razor, to slit my wrists.”

“Oh no,” he said. “Besides, I haven’t heard a thing. Have any of you heard anything?”

Alex glanced behind him and saw that everyone else shook their heads.

“I understand we have a true cliff-hanger,” Hamilton said.

“Yes,” Alex said. “Some boaters noticed a long, tarp-wrapped bundle hanging over the side of the cliff here. Took a look through binoculars and saw that it had feet. When our department sent a team to take a look, they saw a six painted on the canvas in blood.”

“They were kind enough to draw a little line under the six,” Ciara said, “just so we wouldn’t get confused and think it was another nine.”

Hamilton grinned at her.

Alex said, “Our officers realized there were some other similarities to the previous cases, so they called us in.” He paused, then added, “We’ve made a preliminary identification.”

Hamilton moved closer to the litter. “Another longtime resident of California?”

“Couldn’t say. But he’s been on your list for a long time.” Alex used a gloved hand to pull the canvas back from the corpse’s face.

“Victor Elliot,” Hamilton said. “You’re right. On the list for about three years.”

Alex, seeing him pat down his pockets, handed him a pair of latex gloves.

“Thanks,” he said.

Alex watched him carefully remove a large gold and ruby school ring before putting them on. Hamilton bent nearer to the body. “Featured on Crimesolvers USA in February of last year.” He looked up at Alex. “I hear you’re the one who figured out that connection. The photos and description you sent out of this ‘Eric Grady’ are in all our field offices now.”

“Maybe we should try to get him featured on Crimesolvers,” Ciara said.

Hamilton laughed. “Maybe so. God knows Victor Elliot slipped past us for over a year.”

“Armored car robberies, right?” Alex said.

“Yes-six of them, and only three out of eighteen guards lived to talk about what happened. Victor Elliot masterminded the robberies. We captured everyone who worked for him, but we could never lay hands on Elliot himself.”

“Lay hands on him now,” Ciara invited.

Hamilton touched the canvas near Elliot’s arm and said, “My God, rigor hasn’t passed off yet?”

“He’s frozen,” Alex said.

“Defrosting,” Ciara corrected.

“Despite the heat of the day,” Alex said, “he’s far from thawed. We want to get him to the coroner’s office as soon as possible, so that he doesn’t end up smelling like the last three.”

Hamilton stood. “I heard they were fairly ripe. I’ll admit I wasn’t looking forward to getting a snout full of that when they called me to come out here.”

As the coroner’s assistant and the others moved the litter away, Alex showed Hamilton what he could of the scene. He pointed out the place where the rope had been anchored.

“There are a number of obvious differences this time,” Alex said. “Frozen body, openly displayed outdoors in a visible location. But while the others were hanging nude, this one was wrapped in a tarp-as you saw. The other bodies were also left hanging over bathtubs, but this setup is not as elaborate as those were. The person or persons who left this body here simply set up a rock climber’s anchor at the edge of the cliff and lowered the body over.”

“Person?” Hamilton said. “I thought you figured this was a duo at least.”

“Still do, but Victor Elliot was a small, thin man, so the body could have been placed here by someone acting alone. This time, the victim didn’t seem to have been subjected to torture-the autopsy will tell us more, but we didn’t see knife wounds, and the body was not exsanguinated. There does not seem to have been any use of blood-thinning agents, either. There was one wound to the back of the skull, probably a blunt instrument applied with some force.”

“That’s the presumed cause of death?”

“Too early to say.”

“Extreme cold seems more likely,” Ciara said.

“They froze him to death?”

“Too early to say,” Alex repeated, with emphasis, as he looked at Ciara.

“And the similarities to the other cases?” Hamilton asked.

“Left in an area known to be in the sheriff’s jurisdiction. Hanging upside down, tied around the feet and hands. A rappelling rope was used again-probably another length of the same one-the lab will be able to tell us if the ends match. There’s another difference, by the way-while the knots around the hands and the feet are similar to the previous three cases, the ones that actually held him over the edge of the cliff are tied differently. My guess is, someone else tied them this time.”

“I wonder how long it takes to freeze a human body?”

“Depends on weight, I suppose,” Ciara said. “Like a side of beef. For a skinny little guy like Elliot, maybe not too long at all. Just put him in the old home freezer overnight.”

“I guess so.”

“I don’t know that it would have been so easy, Ciara,” Alex said. “His arms and legs were extended when he was frozen-so he was frozen without his knees or elbows being bent. Elliot was thin, but he was about five seven-even if a home freezer was empty, it’s not likely he’d fit inside in that position.”

“So, you think he has been in a commercial freezer?” Hamilton asked.

“Maybe. Or, if he’s been in the freezer of a private home, it’s a big house.”

“A mansion,” Hamilton said, looking back at the lights along the peninsula.

“Yes, there’s a lot of wealth in this area,” Alex said. “It’s not the only wealthy area in Los Angeles County. But you know that, right?”

Hamilton blushed again. “The tan or the accent?”

“To my ear, the lack of accent. And the USC college ring.”

Hamilton laughed. “Yes, I went to SC. And I grew up in L.A. It’s one of the reasons why I was given the assignment, I’m told. I know the LASD and my agency aren’t on great terms right now…but I’m hoping we can improve the situation.”

“We’re on the same side,” Alex said.

“Thanks. Anything I can do to help out?”

“Do you know the last date anyone in your agency received a report on Elliot? Last time he was seen alive?”

Hamilton pulled out a Palm PDA and turned it on. He tapped the stylus on the screen a few times, then said, “We received reports in February, after the show aired.” He read for a few minutes, then said, “Looks as if we had a reliable report on February twenty-seventh, in Lafayette, Louisiana. A bank teller called to say someone who looked like Elliot had been in just before Christmas and set up a safe-deposit box. We took a look at the security camera tapes and agreed. We got a warrant and got his prints off the box, but something or someone must have tipped him off, because we watched the address he gave to the bank and he never showed up. We checked it out later, and he had definitely been there. Nothing after that.”

“So they’ve probably been working on your top ten list at least since February,” Alex said grimly. “They’ve got a big head start.”

“Anything in the safe-deposit box?” Ciara asked.

“About a hundred thousand from one of the robberies.”

“Seems likely he saw his story being featured on TV, don’t you think?” she said.

“The show aired February twentieth,” Hamilton said, “so I don’t know-if that was going to make him nervous, wouldn’t he have left on the twenty-first?”

“If the box had been empty, I would have said the show spooked him,” Alex said. “But you say he left a hundred grand, right? So he must have planned to return. How long between the teller’s call to the FBI and the Bureau’s response?”

Hamilton looked uneasy. “About ten days-we received a lot of calls after the show aired, so it took some time to check them all out.”

“Not all that many commercial flights in and out of Lafayette, are there? I mean, nothing like JFK or DFW, right? So let’s look at passenger lists from February twenty-seventh to March-whatever day it was the agents arrived-and pay special attention to anyone ticketed through to LAX, Burbank, Long Beach, Ontario, or other nearby California airports during that time.”

“Okay. And when we have this list?”

“Find out who paid for the tickets, for starters. Did he have a phone at this house you watched?”

“No phone.”

“How did they contact him?” Alex said, rubbing his forehead. “And out of all the places he might have been, how did they choose Lafayette?”

Hamilton shrugged. “We’ll have to look at all the calls that came into the show, try to learn how they thought it out. Maybe we can look at the calls logged for some of the other shows and get ahead of them.”

“I’ll try to go back there tomorrow, see what I can get from them.” Alex stood looking out at the moonlight on the water for long moments.

Behind him, he heard Ciara say, “Four down, six to go. Unless all ten are already dead.”

Alex considered asking Hamilton to give Ciara a lift back to the office. He had reached his limit for the day, and if he hadn’t been so sure that she would repay the insult by making tomorrow worse for him, he would have foisted her off on the agent.

But as he turned to face them, he heard Ciara say, “Agent Hamilton, could I trouble you for a ride to my car? Alex has had a long day, and his house isn’t far from here. Besides, his nephew is waiting for him.”

“I’d be glad to be of help.”

Alex almost protested out of guilt, but instead said, “Thanks, I appreciate it.”

“Come on,” Ciara said to Hamilton. “I’ll buy you dinner. Have you ever eaten at Café Misto? I think we can make it before they close.”

Before they left, he exchanged cards with Hamilton. He watched them walk away, past the deputies who were still keeping the scene secure.

Alex went over the same things he had gone over earlier, only this time, in relative solitude. He tried to picture the killer coming out here with his burden-or a pair of killers doing the same. The crevice in the cliffs would have been chosen beforehand-perhaps from offshore? They probably would have parked as close as possible to the place where they dropped the body. They set the anchoring system first. Then the rope and body were set at the edge, the rope tied, and the body lowered. At some point, the person who tied the knots this time had cut the excess rope, and had probably done so pulling the rope taut with one hand and pressing the rope with the thumb of the other hand, the hand that also held his knife.

And made a small mistake that had given investigators a piece of luck this time, one they hadn’t had before. The knife had been sharper than expected or he had been a little clumsy-he had cut himself and bled on and near the rope. He had tried to wipe it off, but enough had remained on the rope’s surface and on the rocky ground nearby to catch the attention of a crime lab technician.

DNA.

Someone had suggested that it might be the victim’s blood, leaking out. But a frozen body would not drip blood.

Alex wanted to make sure their own lab had what it wanted for processing before mentioning the blood to the FBI. If there was enough for the FBI to run its own tests, fine, but if not, he wouldn’t be placing the sheriff’s department in the position it was in a few months ago.

He began walking back to his car, ignoring the shouts of the press.

He wondered if Ciara was talking to David Hamilton about bloodstains over dinner.