It was only several days before Christmas when Rick and A.J. Simone finally had a breakthrough while investigating a series of homicides. They arrived at Lance Whitaker's residence near the marina in Carlsbad. It was nicely maintained but not flashy. Just like its owner, it did not stand out among the rest.
They had cruised by Whitaker's shop earlier and found it open. This might be the perfect opportunity for them to sneak in to look around while he was away from home.
They went around the house and found a backdoor that led to the mudroom. Rick had always thought his brother was a neat freak, but now A.J.'s home looked like a pigsty compared to Whitaker's. Some clichés like 'so clean you could eat off the floor,' went through Rick's mind, but there was more than cleanness to this place—sterile, foreboding… He summed it up in one word.
"Creepy."
"What?" A.J., who was walking ahead of him, turned his head to his brother's utterance.
"This place gives me the heebie-jeebies."
A.J. understood what Rick had meant. Everything in this house was in its rightful place, the living room carpet still had the vacuum cleaner tracks, the kitchen floor was sparkling clean and smelled of strong disinfectant. A model house had more lived-in feel than Whitaker's home. How could a living, breathing creature live in such a void that seemed to abhor life?
"Yeah, I know what you mean, but on the bright side, this should make our search easier." Grinning, A.J. tried to make light of it. "Wanna split?"
"Yeah, it's faster that way. I'll take upstairs," said Rick. "Keep an eye out, and let me know if you find anything."
He bounded up the stairs, anxious to find any clue or evidence for the serial murders. He was not surprised to find all the doors on the floor shut. He opened them to determine which room to search first. There were master and guest bedrooms and the bathroom.
His first choice was the master bedroom. Just like downstairs, it was kept in an orderly fashion and spartan. A queen-size platform bed occupied the middle of the floor. Though he usually found most beds, regardless of size and condition, inviting, this one was not one of them.
It reminded him of the bed the Marine Corps drill instructor had once made to demonstrate what he had expected from the new recruits during a morning inspection at the boot camp. Only, Whitaker's bed was even neater than the instructor's if that was possible. The folds of the cover so clean and crisp they looked like they had been pressed or ironed. This bed would pass any inspection by any drill instructor with flying colors. He doubted Whitaker's mother had ever found skin magazines stashed under the mattress of his bed in his teen years.
There was nothing under the bed, so Rick perused the titles of the books in the bookcase next. The books were carefully arranged alphabetically first by the authors' last names then by the book titles if there were multiple books penned by the same author. The bottom three shelves out of six had rows of large binders. The first few were marked AMA on the spines.
American Medical Association?
He opened one of the binders, and sure enough, it contained photocopies of newsletters and magazine articles published by none other than American Medical Association, sorted chronologically. Some lines and paragraphs were highlighted. From what he could see, Whitaker's interest lay in not only gross anatomy but also surgical techniques, psychiatry, pathology, pharmacology and more.
Just how smart is this guy? Rick wondered though he was not so sure if he really wanted to know the answer.
He skipped the binders titled Alloy Compositions, Knives, Metallurgy and reached for the first of several with no title. When he opened it at random, a grainy picture of a pretty teenage girl jumped off the page. An article on a newspaper clipping taped on the page reported the gruesome discovery of her body just outside the city limits of Spokane, Washington. At the bottom of the page, some sort of card was taped on. He hunched over to have a closer look—it was the dead girl's learner's permit. She had just turned fifteen before she had met her violent death.
Rick started turning the pages faster and faster. His breathing too became faster and shallower. For each murder, Whitaker kept a memento: a driver's license here, a gold chain necklace there…
"A.J.!"
As he called his brother's name, he heard a loud crash downstairs.
S&S S&S
Rick flew down the stairs of one of the office buildings in the shipyard. He had found a Blazer parked in the parking lot nearby.
On the basement level, there were a couple of large conference rooms on each side as well as the restrooms and the janitor's closet, but they were all empty. Was he in a wrong building?
He raised the walkie-talkie that he was still carrying and spoke into the mouthpiece, "Danny? Can you hear me?" He waited several seconds, but there was no answer. "Danny, answer me if you can. I think I'm in the right place, but I'm having trouble finding you. Are you sure…?"
"Rick?"
When Danny's voice came through the receiver, he heard some noise coming from one of the rooms down the corridor.
"Hey, I think I can hear you without the radio. Keep talkin'!"
As he quickened his pace, the noise turned into a faint human voice. Rick stopped in front of Conference Room 1. Danny's voice was coming from there though it was too low to make out individual words.
Turning on the lights, he stepped inside and surveyed the room. Where the hell are you, Danny? Then he saw it hidden behind the slide projector on the cart: a door at the back corner. "Danny!"
He pushed aside the cart and yanked the door open. It was a storage room to keep A/V and other gadgets and materials for meetings. Rick found Danny in one corner sitting up against the wall. His hands were cuffed behind his back, but he had managed to get the walkie-talkie Whitaker had left in the room and find the 'speak' button by touch.
"Rick!" The reporter cried out and burst into tears with relief.
Rick ripped the duct tape over Danny's eyes off and lifted him gently but swiftly to his feet, or rather, one of his feet. "I gotcha, I gotcha," he softly repeated to comfort him. "All right, let's get the hell outa here."
Rick was quite adept at disabling explosives and electrical circuits and knew enough that a bomb assembled by an amateur was the worst and the most dangerous; it could be more powerful than intended, or a dud, the timer might go off too early or too late. In other words, it was highly unpredictable and unstable. Whitaker might be super smart, but his expertise was dissection and vivisection, not bomb-making.
Rick was tempted to use the elevator since he was supporting some of Danny's weight, but he took the stairs again just in case. If the bomb went off prematurely, the elevator was the last place you wanted to be in. When they got outside, he took a peek at the inside of the Blazer's cab.
Stick shift. Damn it!
With only one good foot, Danny would not be able to drive it.
He still had the handcuffs on him. Rick could pick the lock, but he did not waste time. He took off his jacket to use it as a makeshift muffler and shot the chain off the cuffs to free Danny's hands. It was a poor substitute for a real thing, but he managed to suppress the sound of the gun blast considerably. He hoped it had not been loud enough to reach Whitaker's ears. With A.J.'s life on the line, he didn't want to lose the element of surprise; it might be the only way to get the bastard.
But first, Rick needed to ensure Danny's safety, or everything he had done so far would be meaningless. Conference Room 1, in which the bomb had been placed, was situated on the south end of the office building.
"Danny, I gotta go find A.J.," said he calmly so as not to upset the reporter too much. "I know you have a bad leg, but I want you to hop or crawl north," he pointed to indicate which direction, "Go pass a couple of buildings and then get inside of any office where you can find a phone. Call the police and the ambulance and hide under a desk or table until they get here. Do you think you can do that?"
Danny nodded trembling. Eyes downcast in shame, he said, "I'm so sorry, Rick. If I…"
"Don't be," Rick cut him off by gripping his shoulders. "It wasn't your fault." He firmly said. "You go now and be careful. Okay?"
Seeing Danny hobbling away from his former prison, Rick started running again.
No, it's not Danny's fault, he told himself. It's all mine 'cause I couldn't pull the trigger when I should have, when it really mattered most. If something should happen to A.J., his blood would be on my hands.
But he wouldn't let that happen, he vowed to himself. Never.
S&S S&S
"Ready or not, here I come!"
A.J. heard Whitaker yell excitedly somewhere near the helm of the yacht. It was a good-size vessel with multiple decks including the sun deck on the top, but it did not provide a lot of area to run about, or places to hide if necessary.
Not that he could run if he wanted to though. A sharp pain shot up his leg whenever he put his weight on his right foot. He could feel the blood seeping through the wool hat. He wondered if he had enough time to take off his jacket to use it as a temporary dressing or tourniquet. He did not want to leave a trail of blood to make it easier for Whitaker to track him.
He knew the spacious cabin on the lower deck had an aft entrance but wondered if it was a good idea to go inboard. On one hand, if it were the only egress, he would be trapped inside. On the other hand, if he should stay on the lower deck literally going around in circles with his injured leg, Whitaker would catch up with him sooner or later—much, much sooner than he would like. It was not an assumption but a stone-cold fact he had to face.
As he weighed the options, he heard Whitaker's footfalls rapidly approaching, which prompted him to step into the cabin instinctively.
Judging by its size, the yacht must have been a fantastic place to entertain dozens, if not hundreds, of guests. A.J. had no idea what had ravaged this once splendid vessel—maybe years of neglect, or a violent storm—but its heyday's glory was completely gone.
The interior of the cabin, which was big enough to be called salon, had been gutted—like the poor guard dog—and offered no place to hide. The only structure still standing was the spiral staircase in the middle of the floor. It was too late to back out of the salon, and A.J. had to take the only available alternative: going up.
The upper level had been a private quarter for the previous owner. It had a small anteroom and a stateroom with a bathroom and a closet. The staircase continued on to reach the sun deck above.
With a throbbing stab wound, he wished he could crawl into the closet or the bathtub and lie down to rest for a while, but if he did, Whitaker would find him in a matter of seconds. The only way to delay the inevitable was to be on the move.
In the corner of his mind, he had already begun to consider which part of his body he was willing to give up first: the left little finger, or the left little toe?
