Scott Sigler - Nocturnal - A Novel

Tard

High up on an apartment building across the street from the mansion, a very still, very quiet person watched the man in black circle the block again. The man was checking out the monster’s house, Tard just knew it.

How exciting!

Tard watched the monster’s house every night. Aside from regular bursts of sheer terror when the monster left, or sadness when the monster came back with one of Tard’s badly wounded brothers or sisters, nothing interesting ever happened.

But this was interesting.

Who was this person?

What did he want with the monster’s house?

Tard watched the man in black turn left on Jackson and vanish from sight. Would he be back again?

Tard hoped so.

The Delivery Boy

Pookie showered, hoping the hot water and rough scrubbing might somehow take the edge off his lack of sleep. A nice, thirty-minute shower, the perfect way to finally get a little alone time. Delivery kung pao shrimp was on the way. Some food, a twenty-minute power nap, and he’d be right as rain.

Sure, as if he could ever be right again.

Mutants, vigilantes and murderers. Oh my . Add in Bryan playing fast and loose with sanity, and Pookie considered his dance card quite full, thank you very much. Bryan did seem better, though — following the clues from Biz-Nass to the Jessups to Erickson’s house had given the guy direction and purpose.

No longer were they just reacting to a batch of random dreams; now they had a target. Even though this wasn’t an official investigation, they would still use the process and tactics they’d use in any other case. What would they do when they found evidence they could actually use? Were judges in on this? Was the DA?

Maybe, but maybe the assistant DA wasn’t in on the loop, just like Robin hadn’t been in on it. Pookie would have no choice but to arrange a meeting to make sure of that.

Well-well-well, Miss Jennifer Wills from the Land of Sexy Shoes and Short Skirts, maybe you and I will be spending some time together after all. With our clothes on, sadly, but the journey of a thousand Chang Bangs begins with a single coffee …

Pookie stepped out of the shower and toweled off. He would make some calls and put Robin and Mr. Burns to work, mow down on the kung pao, then promptly take a nap. Nap, shower and food: the magical trifecta that could right all wrongs.

He tucked the towel around his waist, then found his cell phone and dialed Robin.

She answered immediately. “Pooks, you guys okay?”

“We’re fine,” he said. “You know, just doin’ that poh-lice work thing. How about you?”

“Good news and bad,” she said. “The good news is I went to work this morning like normal, and no one said a peep. Metz wasn’t there. I got an email from the mayor saying I was expected to carry on as before.”

At least Robin wasn’t fired. That was something. “That’s great. So were you able to get any more info from the bodies?”

“That’s the bad news,” she said. “Seems there was a little clerical error at the morgue. The bodies of Blackbeard, Oscar Woody and Jay Parlar were cremated this afternoon. All their personal effects are gone as well, including Blackbeard’s phone.”

Pookie’s heart sank. Metz had deleted the computer records, and now all physical evidence was also gone for good.

“Two positives, though,” Robin said. “Metz apparently didn’t call the RapScan people to tell them I’m persona non grata. I snuck one of the portable DNA analyzers out of the morgue. If you find any other likely candidates, we can use the machine to test for the Zed chromosome.”

Ah, that Robin — such a clever girl.

“How long will we have that gadget?”

“Don’t know,” she said. “Metz and I were the only ones to use them so far. When he returns, I’ll have to sneak it back in. We probably have it for as long as he’s out.”

Pookie’s phone chirped with the theme music from The Simpsons — Black Mr. Burns calling.

“Robin, I gotta go. Great job, but there’s nothing else you can do right now. Lie low and don’t make waves.”

“Got it,” she said. “Take care of Bryan for me.”

“Will do.”

He switched to the other line. “Black Mister Burns, tell me you have more info on Erickson.”

“Do I ever,” John said. “Jebediah Erickson has a criminal record that you’re just going to love. And in case you couldn’t tell by his real estate holdings, he’s loaded. Old Jeb is actually Jeb Junior . Between cash, holdings, the Jessups’ place and the house on Franklin, Jeb Senior left his boy around twenty million bucks.”

“Rich kid with a criminal record? What did he do, steal monogrammed towels from the country club?”

“Slightly better,” John said. “Fourteen allegations of assault and three of resisting arrest. But here’s our trump card — he was charged and acquitted of one murder, convicted of another. Take a wild guess what the murder weapon was.”

Pookie tried to calm the surge of excitement — a gold medal for archery was one thing, a murder conviction was another. “I’ll take what is an arrow for two hundred, Alex.”

“Nicely done,” John said. “And now for our bonus round, where the stakes really add up. The arrow thing wasn’t in Erickson’s SFPD records, no surprise there. Maybe Zou has the City by the Bay on lockdown, but her power doesn’t appear to extend to certain correctional facilities. I found Erickson’s case files at the California Medical Facility in Vacaville.”

Pookie leaned back, shocked. “The CMF? The same place they kept Charlie Manson and Juan Vallejo Corona?”

“Yeah, as well as Ed the Co-Ed Butcher Kemper and Kees the Deadly Dutch Marjis. Jeb Junior was declared unfit to stand trial, so they incarcerated him in the last stop for serial killers. They put him away twenty-eight years ago. After eighteen months of incarceration, a certain Baldwin Metz uncovered new forensic evidence that wound up overturning the murder charge. Erickson walked out a free man.”

That would have put him back on the street just over twenty-six years ago … right about the time Amy Zou and Rich Verde put a whoopin’ on Mr. Biz-Nass.

A knock on his door.

“Burns, my kung pao is here. Daddy needs coal for the choo-choo. Anything else?”

“That’s all I’ve got,” he said. “I’ll keep looking, though.”

“Pookie, out .” He folded the phone, grabbed his wallet and opened the door.

Standing there was a uniformed Amy Zou.

Oh, shit .

“Chief,” Pookie said, “I know budgets are tight, but moonlighting as a delivery boy?”

“Inspector Chang,” she said, then walked inside. “Shut the door. We need to talk.”

She looked as neat and pressed as she did in her office at the Hall. Pookie looked at the clock on his wall — 9:07 P.M. Did this woman ever put on a friggin’ pair of jeans?

He shut the door. He suddenly thought of Mr. Biz-Nass’s thrice-broken nose. His eyes flicked to the polished gun holster hanging from Zou’s polished belt.

His gun was in the bedroom. And he was wearing nothing but a towel. Awesome.

Zou brushed off Pookie’s couch, then sat.

Her eyes bore into him. “I told you to leave it alone.”

Pookie thought of lying, but why bother? She wasn’t here for a slap and tickle.

“Chief, we know about Marie’s Children. We know you deleted the symbols out of the database. We know you ripped up case files, we know you took all the Golden Gate Slasher info out of the newspaper morgue.”

She crossed her legs. “The law doesn’t care about knowledge , Chang. It cares about proof . You have none.”