East of Sunset - Book One Page 2

  “All done, Mr. Powell.”

  I turned, seeing the building’s super, Willy John—don’t know his last name—poking his head out from inside my apartment. I stood and went inside with Bruno, my bulldog, trailing behind.

  “It was a faulty thermocouple,” Willy John explained. “Happens a lot with the heating system in these older buildings.”

  “I appreciate you coming by and taking care of it so quickly.”

  I slipped him two twenties, knowing he had a couple of kids, and Christmas was around the corner. He argued about the amount for a minute, then expressed his gratitude, tucking the bills in his pocket.

  His gaze then moved off, taking in the view. “You have one of the best units in the building. Haven’t been in here since the remodel. The light’s always different here, better than anywhere else.”

  I looked in the direction of the city. “I think it’s the way the sunlight reflects off the windows. This time of night, it makes everything glow.”

  He nodded, looked back at me. “Not to pry or anything, but…” He took a moment. “Just wondering how someone…how a cop affords a place like this.”

  “Been on the take for years.”

  He held on my eyes for a moment before laughing.

  “Inherited a few bucks and saved my lunch money,” I explained.

  What I hadn’t told him was that the down payment for my apartment came from an advance for a book I co-wrote about a case I’d worked a few years back. It was one of those sensational murder cases with an unexpected outcome that resulted in a hefty advance and the movie rights being optioned. The movie never got off the ground, thanks to some production problems that I still didn’t understand. That was fine by me.

  I walked Willy John to the door. Along the way, he saw the display case with memorabilia about my grandfather. He stopped and asked about it. I spent some time telling him my grandfather’s story, and me finding what I thought might be a piece of his plane in a field on the other side of the world.

  “Had an uncle that was in Iraq,” he said after listening to what I had to say. “Never the same after he got back. Overdosed.”

  I expressed my condolences, now wondering if I’d ever get rid of him. After more details about his uncle and his death, he finally began moving again. We were near the front door when he said, “Don’t see your wife around lately. You two still together?”

  The story about Jo’s death had been all over the media for days after it happened. Less so in the past couple of weeks. Maybe he didn’t watch TV or go online or remember that she’d been pregnant.

  I shook my head, not wanting to go into details. “‘Fraid we’ve gone our separate ways.”

  “Too bad. She was a nice lady. A real looker too.” He moved down the hallway again but stopped. Maybe he was getting paid overtime. “I ever show you a picture of my kids?” He fished a couple of school photos out of his wallet, not waiting for a response. “Marsha, she’s my oldest, will be in middle school next year. Teddy’s in the fourth grade.”

  His kids had the typical posed, dopey expressions that I’d seen in dozens of school pictures my colleagues had shared over the years.

  “Great looking kids,” I said, handing the photos back.

  “They take after the missus, far as looks go.” He chuckled and put the pictures away.

  When he was finally gone, I got a beer and went back outside. Willy John had been right about the view and the light. Watching the sun go down, even on cool winter evenings, had been Jo’s and my favorite way to end a day.

  I glanced down and saw that I had a message on my phone. I checked my voicemail. “Hello, Dr. Powell. This is Janice, Dr. Wells’ receptionist. Just a reminder you have an appointment with her at four tomorrow. She’ll see you then.”

  I set the phone aside. I’d been seeing Dr. Susan Wells for the past three weeks. Seeing a shrink with the department’s BSS, or Behavior Science Services, was something they’d required because, after Jo’s death, I’d returned fire in the direction of the shooter but hadn’t hit him. That officer involved shooting incident had triggered the requirement that I see a psychologist before I could officially be deemed fit for duty again.

  The receptionist had referred to me as Dr. Powell because I had a PhD in psychology. I’d been in private practice before joining the police department. That background had helped me with cases over the years and also to bond with Dr. Wells. She seemed delighted that I was able to provide her with a psychological assessment of the trauma I’d suffered after Jo’s death, even though it was total bullshit.

  The department’s shrink was a nice woman, who only had my best interests at heart, but I hated the sessions. Her insistence that I go over the impact of Jo’s death on me only deepened an already unbearable pain.

  I picked up my phone again, looked at my playlist, and settled on “Key to the Highway”, by Big Bill Broonzy. I’d read somewhere that as a kid, Big Bill would come home from working the fields with cornstalks. He’d rub them together while his sixteen brothers and sisters danced around the house. The crackling recording, full of static and travelling down the dusty roads of time, only served to enhance the beauty of a voice that neither time nor death could silence.

  I saw that the light in the city had changed from a moment earlier. The mystical otherworld quality was fading. Darkness was filling in the spaces around the buildings and had turned the city into a honeycomb of light and shadow. Bruno came over and pushed his head against my pant leg, his way of telling me he was cold.

  I reached down and rubbed his back, put an end to Big Bill, and played Jo’s voicemail message once again. Maybe it was the combination of emotions brought on by the music and Jo’s voice, but something came to mind my father had once said to me.

  I was a kid at the time, and the conversation happened just a few weeks before he’d left my mom, my little sister, and me. I’d been in a dust-up with some neighborhood kids. An older boy had worked me over pretty good. When I got home, my dad saw that I had a bloody nose and had been crying. I got a half-hour lecture about defending myself, the booze coming off his breath in waves, and he told me, “Real men don’t cry.”

  The memory of my father’s lecture—those final words, especially—faded and, in a moment, was lost to me. I looked up, seeing that LA had melted. The lights of the city had dissolved into the waterfall of tears spilling from my eyes.

  FIVE

  “It’s a piece from Mozart,” Dr. Wells said. “Piano Concerto Number Eleven.”

  The BSS psychologist was about fifty, with dark shoulder length hair. I had the impression she’d gone to Smith or maybe Wellesley, but it was just a guess. Polished. Professional. Blue eyes, the color of a summer sky and full of compassion, studied me as the dead composer’s music drifted through her office.

  “You’re not a fan of classical music?”

  “More of a blues man,” I said. “I like the history behind the music, what it says about the singer.”

  “Amadeus led an interesting life. His final years ended in poverty, but they were some of the most productive of his life.”

  I tugged at the rolled-up sleeve of my shirt, listening to the music for a moment. “Seems like it was a fair trade off. Worked out pretty well for us, anyway.”

  The corners of her lips lifted. “So, how are you doing this week?”

  I’d come to expect the question. It was her way of trying to determine if I was thinking about jumping off my balcony. The truth was I had no idea why I was here. Maybe it was just a matter of conditioning, society telling me to get back to work, be a good boy, follow the program. None of it mattered. And still, I was here.

  “I’m doing okay.” It was a standard answer, my way of pretending I was coping.

  “Really, JJ?” The smile grew wider. “By the way, I’ve been meaning to ask you about the nickname.”

  Now I smiled. “Jack Jeremiah. The middle name was my grandfather’s. It’s followed me over the years.”

  “Wha
t about Jigsaw?”

  “Something someone, somewhere hung on me because I had a little success solving a couple of cases.”

  “So, I’ve heard.” She tucked a strand of hair behind one ear. “How are you spending your days?”

  “Long walks, a few deep conversations with Bruno.”

  Her smile came back. “And what does your dog have to say?”

  “Keep your head down and stay in the moment. Seems like pretty good advice.”

  She shifted in her chair. Her smile was gone. “What are your plans for Christmas?”

  I’m planning to shoot myself. Her question caught me off guard. I didn’t have any plans, since I didn’t plan to be around.

  She apparently sensed my unease. “Tomorrow’s Christmas Eve.”

  I tugged at my collar. “I’ll probably stay in, maybe do some reading.”

  “I’m sure you have friends with the department you could visit.”

  “Maybe…” I finally came up with something. “I’ll probably go see Jimmy Savage.” He was a childhood friend and fellow detective. I decided it was a good response, much better than telling her I was planning to stay home and kill myself.

  “Jimmy. Isn’t he…? Doesn’t he have some problems of his own you’ve mentioned?”

  “We all have problems, Doctor.”

  “Susan.”

  “Susan. Jimmy’s okay. He just had an allergic reaction to a bad marriage.” I smiled again, she didn’t. “He’s moving on.”

  Dr. Wells put her notepad down, something she always carried, but never seemed to write in. “Let me be frank with you, Jack. As you know, the FFD evaluation is required by the department. I’ve asked you to see me for a few sessions now because…because I have some concerns before I can certify that you’re fit for duty.”

  I exhaled slowly and tamped down my irritation. “I get paid to be here, so it’s your show. Tell me what you need from me.”

  “The truth.”

  I lied. “That’s what I’ve told you.”

  Her stare didn’t waver. “Let’s talk about the man they call the Iceman.”

  I tried not to visibly react. I had purposely avoided mentioning Halsey in our prior conversations. “Okay, let’s talk about him. What do you want to know?”

  “Tell me about his background, your involvement in his case.”

  Dr. Wells hadn’t specifically asked me about the case before. I knew this was a turning point and kept my voice even. “His name is Edgar Newton Halsey. He’s thirty-eight, a white male, who we believe is now living somewhere in this area under a false identity.

  “I heard he leaves messages when…”

  When she didn’t go on, I said, “Sometimes. When he does, it’s usually a couple of lines that rhyme, but I wouldn’t call him a poet.”

  “What about when…when Jo was killed?”

  “Nothing. Maybe his creative juices dried up.”

  “What about his victims?”

  “His third victim, the last one that we know about, was Ali Sims, age nineteen. His victims are usually in that age range, sometimes working girls. Sims was working the stroll on Hollywood Boulevard. She was found in the bathtub of a motel room Halsey had rented.” My eyes held on her. “You want the details?”

  “Please.”

  I took a breath. “Ali had been held for several days and sexually assaulted, just like with the other victims. Her death was by asphyxiation, but not before…” I cleared my throat. “…the ME thinks she was repeatedly strangled and revived…until the end.”

  If what I’d said impacted her, she didn’t show it. “What kind of message did he leave?”

  I’d memorized the two-line message Halsey had written on a piece of paper, just like I remembered all of his messages.

  “A woman cries in the dark of night. What of the angels, have they all taken flight?”

  “What do you think it means?”

  “The profilers think Halsey’s full of rage, feeling like he’s been abandoned by God. They also see him as being detached and alienated. A loner. He also sometimes puts earrings on his victims. The old-school clip-on kind. It might relate to some abandonment issues he has with his mother.”

  “What happened to her?”

  “She was also a prostitute. Current whereabouts unknown.”

  “Maybe her background has something to do with the victims he takes.”

  “It’s possible.”

  She took a moment, then asked, “And his father?”

  “Dead. Drug OD.”

  Dr. Wells pushed up the sleeves of her white sweater. “Tell me about the night you almost caught him.”

  “Six months ago, Zee and I were working the case. We’d…”

  “Zee?”

  “Sorry. Jimmy Savage. He played college ball for Grambling. His number was double-0.” I smiled. “Zero, Zee.” After a nod, I continued. “We were working on a tip that Halsey was staying in a converted garage near Marina Del Rey. We responded. Found him walking down an alleyway when he saw us. He ran, we chased. Zee and I got separated. I followed him onto a commercial dock, had him at gunpoint, and…he jumped. His body was never found. We were working under the assumption he was dead, swept out to sea, until…”

  “Until the night he murdered Jo.”

  I nodded. The room was quiet for a long moment. We were in an office on the first floor. I heard someone’s voice on the street. It drifted away. The silence was palpable again.

  Finally, Dr. Wells said, “Do you feel guilty about what happened?”

  “Guilty?”

  “Halsey. The Iceman. You had him at gunpoint, but he got away.”

  “Are you asking me if, knowing what I know now, would I have done anything different?”

  She nodded.

  I took a moment, before deciding to answer honestly. “Of course. I would have shot him.”

  “But that would have gone against department policy.”

  “It would have saved Jo’s life. Your question was based on a hypothetical, that I could see into the future.”

  “What if you confronted him again and had the chance to take him into custody or shoot him? What would you do?”

  “Officially?”

  “Of course.”

  “I’d arrest him. Throw him into a black hole for the rest of his life.”

  “And, unofficially?”

  “Since this is all on the record, Dr.…Susan, there is no unofficial answer. I won’t play a game where the answers are stacked against me.”

  “Fair enough.”

  She took some time, glancing at her notepad. Maybe there were squiggles or cartoons she drew when no one was looking. Her gaze came back up to me. “Have you ever thought about taking your life?”

  I felt the dampness surfacing on my forehead. I hadn’t anticipated her question. I gave her the answer I knew she wanted. “Of course, hasn’t everyone?”

  “Yes, but everyone hasn’t lost their wife and…” She took a moment. “Tell me about your thoughts.”

  “About suicide?” A nod. I lied again. “Nothing to tell. It crossed my mind, but I can’t change what happened. Life goes on.”

  “But you don’t feel like going on, do you?”

  I felt my anger surfacing and took a breath. “If you’re asking me if I’ve had some down moments, yes. But, like I said, I can’t change the past.”

  “I think you’re going through the motions.”

  I fixed my eyes on hers. “And you would know that because…?”

  “I lost my husband a few years back.” Her eyes lost their focus. “Pancreatic cancer.”

  It was the first time she’d shared anything personal with me. My anger was gone now. I released a breath but didn’t visibly react. “I’m sorry. I had no idea.”

  “Losing someone…it’s a continuing process. There’s no such thing as closure. Grief is a silent visitor, one that never leaves. In time, we learn to live with him as an unwelcome guest.”

  I appreciated what she’d s
aid, but I had no intention of living with the visitor, since I had no intention of living. “I understand. Small steps, day by day. It’s a long road. That sort of thing.”

  Her smile came back. “I’d like to meet again next week.”

  I wouldn’t be alive but agreed to what she’d said. “Of course.” Then I had another thought. Why was I going through the motions? I had no desire to live. Maybe I was just trying to avoid any hint of her knowing what I had planned. I took her appointment card, noticing the date was December 31st.

  “New Year’s Eve,” I said.

  She stood. “I hope that date works for you.”

  I got to my feet. “It’s fine. Don’t have any plans.” Except for being dead.

  SIX

  Edgar Newton Halsey’s muddy eyes were fixed on the laptop’s glowing screen. He watched as Jack Powell left the psychologist’s office. He’d seen and heard the detective’s entire conversation with the shrink, just as he’d watched Powell’s other sessions. While he hadn’t heard anything new, he was pleased that Dr. Wells’ patient had mentioned him and then talked about how he’d gotten away. He’d heard what Powell had said about what he’d do if he ever confronted him again.

  “We’ll see who ends up in a black hole, asshole.”

  Halsey looked up from the screen for a moment, craning his neck toward the far end of the basement. “I’ll be there in a sec, Patty.”

  His cat was behind him, pacing around the basement, knowing it was dinner time.

  He called out again. “Patience is a virtue. Never forget that.”

  The killer was short in stature and thin, with a receding hairline. His size and build had resulted in his constant teasing as a child. He remembered one boy who had tormented him without mercy for months. Later, when he was older, he’d tracked the young man down, knocked him out from behind, and cut off his hands. He laughed at the memory and that no one knew that it was him. The idiot couldn’t even scratch his own balls now.