Jonathan Kellerman - Heartbreak Hotel

Next: a McDonald’s a few blocks south on Pico. Purchase in the drive-through. Two small bags.

Milo said, “Same question, grub for one, two, or three?”

Moe Reed broke in. “I see her, L.T. Smoking in the doorway. Relaxed — kind of posing, like she knows she’s hot. It’s definitely her.”

“Anyone watching her pose?”

“Not that I could tell, L.T.”

I said, “It really wouldn’t matter. She’s out to please herself.”

Phil Duke got back on Olympic and made a fourth stop at a Union 76 station where he put gas in the van and squeegeed his own windshield.

“Like a regular guy,” said Binchy.

Moe Reed said, “Just passed the house. Door’s closed, no sign of her. Can’t swear she went back in but she’s not visible on the street.”

I said, “Not a homebody, this is definitely a hideout.”

Milo said, “Bow out for the time being, Moses. Sean’ll stick with Duke.”

Ten minutes later, Binchy sounded like a kid at his own birthday party. “He went home, had his hands full with the bags and guess who opened the door for him? I took a chance and slowed, hoping they wouldn’t notice. I’m sure they didn’t, they were too busy, Loot. Making out, right there in the open. He’s standing there with the McDonald’s, she’s wearing like a black bathing suit top and Daisys and she’s full-on sucking his face, Loot. Want me to do another go-round?”

Milo said, “No, hand it off to Moses and come back here.”

To me: “Father — daughter, indeed.” Then: “God, I hope not.”

I said, “Maybe they’re kissing cousins.”

Ashley Burgoyne looked up from her glazed donut. “Gross.”

“Excellent,” said Milo, punching air.

Burgoyne stared at him.

“Not the gross part, Officer. The her-not-being-nervous part. Know why?”

“No, sir.”

“We like when bad people get all comfy.”

Despite targeting an easygoing judge named Ronald Marquette, getting a warrant to search Phil Duke’s premises proved problematic. Nothing close to evidence on Duke for anything, let alone multiple homicide.

“Judge—”

“He gardens and shops? That’s prosecutable, I’ll have you arrest my wife.”

“The woman living there—”

“From what you just told me, there’s nothing on her beyond being sexy. Why’re you coming to me with thin gruel? This isn’t like you.”

“It’s been a tough one, Judge.”

“If this is the best you come up with, it’ll stay tough,” said Marquette. “Sorry, they’re taking a closer look at every scrap of paper we sign. I am not going to be one of those fools gets reversed for obvious error. Get me more and come back.”

“Judge, I’m willing to submit rape as my primary charge. Suspect Deandra Demarest was clearly I.D.’d by the victim, as was Suspect Bakstrom. It was a gang rape, extremely brutal, and the victim was a hundred percent on the identification.”

“Give me the details. Quickly, I’ve got a case in an hour.”

Milo began relating Vicki Vasquez’s story.

“Why didn’t you tell me this in the first place? Woman raping another woman like that? Even the lefties will find it repellent, try finding a friendly jury. She’ll get put away for a long time, the murder doesn’t work out, be happy with that.”

“I’m happy, Judge.”

“No, you’re not. You never are. Fax it within fifteen or I’ll be unavailable until lunch recess. During which I’ll be eating and not taking calls.”

Faxed, signed, returned. For all his peevishness, Marquette had approved a broad search.

Next step: how to get in there and do the job, safely.

The amended plan: the rest of the day and part of the evening, drive-bys of Phil Duke’s house would increase in frequency but be carried out at a greater distance: four cars cruising serially up the street perpendicular to Duke’s.

Too far and too distant to make out details but close enough to keep tabs on the core issue: Was Duke’s van in place.

If Duke or anyone else got into the vehicle and left, they’d be followed by the nearest cop while the three others continued visual surveillance.

Given no additional drama, entry to the house would take place at nine P.M., the team supplemented by two veteran patrol officers Milo had finally cadged from his captain. Both had SWAT experience but this would be more stealth than combat mission. Yes to vests and all-black clothing, no to helmets, heavy artillery, or a BearCat rumbling up the quiet street and panicking the neighbors or, worse, alerting the targets.

“This day and age,” said Milo, “it’d be on YouTube before we got to the door.”

He continued laying out the details.

Three armed and dangerous suspects were assumed to be in the house: the couple everyone was calling the kissing cousins since I’d thrown out the term and Henry Bakstrom, even though he hadn’t been spotted.

So far, no clarification of the relationship between Philip Demarest Duke and Deandra Demarest had surfaced beyond sharing a surname.

Milo finished and called for questions.

Moe Reed said, “With her making out with Duke like that, you really think Bakstrom’s still part of it? Especially in view of what happened to Waters.”

Milo said, “Maybe he isn’t, but romance alone doesn’t tell us a thing. Think about the three-way on Vicki Vasquez.”

“Hmm. Good point, L.T.”

“The major point — what I want you all to bear in mind — is that no matter how many people we find in there, assume every one of them to be murderous and unpredictable and be prepared for the worst.”

The rookies looked at each other, Monchen fidgeting, Ashley Burgoyne pleasantly animated.

Sean Binchy said, “With Ricki Sylvester still off the radar, there could be four suspects or another victim.”

Milo said, “That’s why we’re gonna do it like I just told you.”

No one argued.

At nine thirteen P.M., Moe Reed, dressed in United Parcel Service brown, drove a UPS van to the curb and parked illegally. Retrieving a cardboard box, he checked the Glock in his jacket pocket, exited the driver’s door, paused again to study Phil Duke’s front door before walking up and ringing the bell.

I was in the back of the van’s empty cargo section, along with Officer Eric Monchen and one of the veterans, a three-striper and former Cal State Long Beach running back named Tyrell Lincoln.

The three of us wore radio earplugs. Monchen looked distracted and uneasy. I felt antsy and confined, sat still to hide it.

Tyrell Lincoln was equally inert but seemed genuinely serene, sitting up against the sliding cargo door that faced the street.

Milo, Binchy, Ashley Burgoyne, and the other vet, a bearish man named Marlin Moroni, had snuck around to the back of the house, aided by the absence of outdoor lighting and a sliver moon smirched by night-haze.

Reed’s body-mike transmitted his footsteps, the rumble of one passing car then another. Tyrell Lincoln sat up an inch straighter but remained expressionless.

Nothing for several seconds.

Then: a woman’s voice, barely audible, muffled by the wood of the door. “Yeah?”

Reed: “UPS.”

Creak. Louder clearer voice: “Well, hi, there. Kinda late for you boys to be out.” Throaty voice, syllables stretched, friendly. More than that. Creamy.

Lincoln’s eyebrows rose. He looked amused.

Reed: “Delivery, ma’am, needs to be signed for.”

“Wow. What time is it?”

“Nine fifteen, ma’am.”

“They workin’ you guys hard?”

“Ain’t that the truth. I don’t mind.”