скачать книгу бесплатно
‘I don’t give a rat’s ass, sort it out Monday. You answered the phone, you’re It.’
‘I’m not on duty,’ she insisted.
‘Yeah, but I say you are.’
She swallowed her rage. The lab was set up so someone was on call a week at a time. Her week wasn’t there yet; it started Tuesday morning at seven-thirty. She’d been pulling overtime in the lab lately, processing two homicides and a particularly messy frat party that had left one participant with his little toe shot off by a naked, unknown assailant wearing a Bart Simpson head mask. She had been looking forward to this free day with Katie.
On the phone Treble was saying, ‘Patrol responded to a complaint, usual deal. High traffic, bad smell. The duty judge is sending through the warrant.’
‘We don’t process meth busts, you know that. Call the DEA.’ The Drug Enforcement Agency handled cleanup in San Diego.
‘Already ahead of you, Grace. These scrotbags left a bucket of blood in the living room. No body.’
‘And you want to know if it’s enough blood for somebody to have died.’
‘Doesn’t look like a nosebleed.’
He paused, and Grace could hear the scorn dripping from his voice. ‘Or I could just run it by Sid. Your level of cooperation.’
Grace grew very still. It had taken her six months to get back on CSI rotation after an inquiry into slopped samples and falsified data, an inquiry that had cleared Grace but left her feeling vulnerable and defensive, and after five years on the job, needing to prove herself all over again. She didn’t want to find herself stuck again in the lab. CSI meant overtime and that meant money, but she needed to plan things like a general, not be ambushed in the party-favor aisle.
‘You’re really an asshole, you know that?’ Grace said it low into the phone, so Katie wouldn’t hear.
‘Save it, Grace, I’m already married.’
‘Who’s the DL?’ She fished in her purse for a pad and pencil.
‘Lewin. Not a duty lieutenant, a sergeant. Western substation. He’s at the site.’
Katie looked at her, comprehension and resignation flooding her eyes, and Grace realized in that instant how much the day had meant to Katie, too.
‘What’s the Thomas page?’ Grace said into the phone.
Katie blinked and looked away.
It was a shady street in Ocean Beach, with shaggy palms and houses flecked in DayGlo colors, just close enough to the ocean to smell of salt water and kelp. The house stood halfway down the block, cordoned with yellow police tape. A ripped sofa sat in the front yard and trash clotted the tall weeds. Bedsheets obscured the front windows and a faded sticker clung to the front door: NEIGHBORHOOD WATCH! CRIMINAL BEWARE!
A carved pumpkin adorned the junky yard and Grace felt a pang of guilt. Katie had been after her for weeks to buy one. She kept putting it off, and here even unkempt lowlifes living in squalor still made quality time for their kids.
A crowd was starting to gather as uniforms hustled three gaunt men out the door, hands cuffed, and pushed them into waiting patrol cars, followed by a wailing toddler on the hip of a Child Protective Services officer.
Grace pulled into a space vacated by a patrol car and locked up, the list already going in her brain on why this was a better career path than her last choice. You see dead bodies but you don’t make them dead, that’s a big one.
She reached into her trunk, rooted past Katie’s T-ball bag, a dirty soccer sock, and a spilled carton of Legos, and lifted out her evidence collection kit and pearly white Tyvek protective gear. You’re offered shapelier work clothes in attractive designer colors.
The front door opened and Detective Sergeant Vince Lewin emerged, flipping his mask off his face so it dangled on the front of his Tyvek suit. Plodding down the steps, he looked like a scowling Pillsbury Dough Boy. He gripped a cage covered in tight mesh wiring and held it as far away from his body as possible. A large snake banged against the wire, fangs bared. You sometimes get to interact with nature.
‘Show’s over. That’s it. It’s done.’ Lewin handed the cage to a uniform who stowed it in the back of a patrol car.
Lewin was in his midforties, with graying hair and a permanent crease between his eyes, made more pronounced by his scowl. Grace had worked with him maybe a dozen times, and the combative edge he carried into every conversation made her instantly tense.
‘Dr. D. Takes forty minutes to get here.’
Grace took a slow, irritable breath. ‘Thirty-nine. I clocked it.’
‘I expected Larry.’
‘Yeah, well, I had better things to do, too, Vince, but they rescheduled my kidney dialysis so I could come.’
‘You’re kidding, right?’
She pulled on her Tyvek suit and looked past him toward the house. ‘What’d you find?’
‘A shitload of nasty. Two pit bulls, assault rifles, six snakes – big ones.’ He gestured toward the cage. ‘That guy was booby-trapped to the kitchen cabinet. Missed him the first time around.’
‘That inspires confidence.’
‘I’m not paid to hold your hand, Grace.’ He was still grumpy about the dialysis joke. Too late, she remembered his mother-in-law had died of renal failure.
A balding man in his midtwenties detached from an assistant DA in the crowd and trotted over. He was wearing wire-rimmed glasses and a Tyvek suit in a muddy tan color that signaled he worked for the DEA. Agents apparently hadn’t gotten the memo about looking spiffy. The suit looked a size too small.
‘You guys met? The new DEA chemist Chip Page; Chip, Dr. D.’
‘Grace Descanso,’ she corrected pleasantly. She pulled on a bootee.
‘Yeah, fine. Grace Descanso. She’s been a police forensic biologist for – I don’t know, what?’
‘Five.’
‘Five years. Sol retired early and moved to Florida so we got Chip,’ Lewin answered her unasked question and tapped his clipboard, as if the small effort at pleasantry exhausted him. ‘Set to live here the next few days?’
‘Sure,’ Grace lied.
‘Then welcome to amateur hour. These guys didn’t go to the Cordon Bleu.’
A taco van turned onto the street and the driver grinned at Grace and gave a jaunty thumbs-up as if he knew her. She took a good look at him as she pulled on the other bootee.
He had a narrow face and glassy eyes and a thatch of black hair and seemed to be about her age, thirty-two. The taco van veered – he’d been staring at her rather than the road ahead – and the uniform on crowd control bellowed at him to move it along. Things could be worse. She could be driving a rancid food truck, trying to stay one step ahead of the Department of Environmental Health.
‘Heard some bozo blew up a trailer park in Reno drying down acetone in an oven.’ Lewin pulled on a second set of gloves and passed the box to Chip. ‘They found body parts in trees. Chip, any questions, ask. Don’t want to send you home in a box. Several.’
Chip blanched and Lewin looked away, satisfied. Grace smiled at Chip in what she hoped was a reassuring way.
‘You were really a doctor?’ Chip asked. It was a blurt. ‘What happened?’
‘Double glove, Chip.’ Grace passed him the box again, her good humor gone.
The crowd drifted off and stationed themselves in nearby yards, talking quietly. Vince Lewin turned back to Grace and Chip, all business.
‘Chip, you got residue but nothing exciting, no pounds of product. Grace, work your magic. There are enough spatters in there to keep a busload of Rorschach head shrinks happy for a year. The house is sealed and it’s going to stay that way. We’re clear on phosgene. We’re gonna dust, collect. Be smart and stay alive. Ready?’
Grace cinched the hood of her suit and attached her bug mask – an air-purifying respirator – and followed him up the stairs, Chip lagging behind her. Grace let him go past her through the door. An armed patrol officer stood at the door, feet spread, another one at the perimeter, and Grace remembered hearing how they’d once busted somebody who’d wandered into a meth house after the task force had secured it. He’d come to do a buy, realizing too late that Joe and Jim and Rudy were already downtown rolling their fingers across ink pads and that the nice man inside with the wide smile wasn’t selling anything except a felony conviction.
The interior was dark, windows covered in duct tape and sheets, and it took a moment for her eyes to adjust. A dark stain saturated a sliver of ratty carpet and spattered a nearby wall.
‘Chip, don’t come near this, okay?’
She squatted down carefully out of reach of the stain and roved her flashlight beam over the wall. The drops curled like exclamation marks in a hurry, which meant that whoever was bleeding had been moving. Or blood had scattered from a weapon that was moving. Or maybe it had been an earthquake and the wall had been moving. Something had moved, and whatever it was, it meant work on her end, and a lot of it.
‘Lovely.’ She’d never see Katie again.
Grace stood up. Already her arms inside the Tyvek were damp as boiled hot dogs. The suit sealed her like a deli chicken. Too bad she hadn’t wrapped herself first in secret herbs and cellophane; she could lose six inches in an hour. She wondered if women losing inches in a spa wrap suddenly exploded like a hot sausage the instant they drank a glass of water. She had to stop thinking about food.
‘Any ideas?’ Lewin stood at her elbow.
‘Yeah, Vince, somebody bleeding was in here once.’
‘Ha-ha, very funny.’
She turned her attention to the rest of the living room. The floor was littered with asthma inhalers, so thick it looked like an army of oversized, hard-shelled insects. Bedding lay tangled across a stained mattress. A child’s dump truck climbed a hill of fertilizer. A meth pipe tilted out the toy cab of the truck. Matchbook strips, ripped down to the red phosphorus, were scattered across a table, along with boxes of diet pills and stiffened coffee filters. Red, as if they’d been dipped in blood.
‘What do you think?’ Lewin looked at Chip. His voice was tinny in the mask.
‘Nazi method,’ Chip said, thinking it was the same cooking the efficient Germans had used during the war, to keep the troops awake and ready.
Lewin made a buzzer sound. ‘Wrong.’ He looked at Grace.
‘Red phosphorus reduction method,’ Grace said. She turned to Chip, shrugging it off. ‘Nazi method’s lithium and ammonia gas; it’s white powder.’
Lewin looked disappointed that she’d gotten it right. He turned toward the kitchen, motioning them to follow. Under his mask, Chip’s face was a pasty gray and dots of sweat sprouted on his upper lip.
‘You okay?’ She stopped walking. ‘Chip?’
‘Claustrophobic. Always have been. Even when I was a kid.’ Chip’s voice was muffled in the mask. He shrugged, embarrassed. ‘Don’t tell Sergeant Lewin.’
She nodded. She could tell by the way his hand kept going to it that Chip carried a gun. Most criminalists opted against it; it was bulky and unnecessary. Police controlled the scene and afforded protection, but occasionally Grace ran across a wannabe cop. They always carried.
Her bootees made a snicking sound on the filthy floor. Pyrex pans littered the stove, and a jug of what looked like denatured alcohol lay on the grimy table. The cabinets were empty except for lighter fluid, Drano, duct tape, and a half-opened box of Froot Loops.
Chip was swallowing, his face shiny with sweat. ‘Okay to take off my mask?’
Lewin’s head shot up from inspecting residue in a pan. ‘You mean safe? Yeah, but –’
The rest of the sentence died as Chip tore off his mask and screamed. His eyes bulged and he shoved Lewin out of the way and raced for the paint-blistered kitchen door, yanking it open and pelting down the steps into the backyard. They could hear him taking great shuddering gasps.
‘Stupid kid,’ Vince said.
Grace shrugged, looking around. ‘He’ll learn. They don’t call it cat for nothing.’
Methamphetamine cooking smelled like cat urine, if the cat were as big as a town car and the box hadn’t been changed in months.
Outside, Chip uttered a sharp strangled cry that cut off abruptly into silence.
‘I’ll check out the other rooms. Leave the sheets up. I’m going to document the blood spatter.’
‘Have at it.’ Lewin put down the search warrant, along with the hazardous-waste forms. ‘I gotta go babysit.’
‘Hey, Vince – he’s a chickie. Go easy on him.’
Lewin grimaced through his mask and stepped out the kitchen door. Grace looked around. It was going to cost the state a bundle getting it cleaned up.
Something large slapped against the house and slid to the ground. It was a sound like a piece of rotten fruit hitting clumsily and hard. She straightened, listening. Silence. A thin, reedy whistling grew in the silence, followed by a muffled moan.
She swallowed. ‘Vince?’
The whistling escalated, the sound wickering through the air like a broken electrical circuit, and the hair on the back of her neck pricked. She moved silently to the kitchen door and down the stairs, yanking off the breathing mask, her head light without the weight.
It was a small yard with rusted cars up on blocks, obscuring the alley. She stared blankly. There was supposed to be a uniform out back protecting them, just like there was out front, but if he was there, she couldn’t see him.
From deep in the yard came a bubbling sound. She’d only heard that rattle in ER and it didn’t sound any better now. She eased around the hulk of a car. Chip Page lay clutching his throat, his fingers slick with surging blood. He stared up at her mutely, his eyes wide and terrified, his glasses askew.
She could see into the alley now. A uniformed officer lay facedown in a pool of blood, his legs at odd angles. Blocking the alley was the taco van, its motor running.
Her throat closed and she dropped to her knees. Chip’s windpipe had been sliced. His mouth opened soundlessly. Establish an airway. Make sure the victim is breathing. His eyes flicked to a spot behind her and she looked over her shoulder.
Pain exploded across her jaw as she was broadsided by a fist and yanked to her feet. It was so unexpected all she felt was a dazed terror and blinding pain behind her eyes and a shooting fire down her arm.
‘You lose.’
He was taller than he’d looked in the taco van, pulsing as if he’d been hot-wired. His breath smelled minty fresh. In his other hand, he held a butcher knife.
He jerked her higher, dragging her backward toward the house, his arm gripping her throat, closing off her airway. Her lungs roared and pricks of light exploded in her eyes. He stumbled, cursing, and she stepped down hard on something mushy.
It was the partially severed head of Detective Sergeant Vince Lewin. The mask had cracked off and lay to the side. His lips were gray, eyes wide, startled. The butcher knife had cut through his Adam’s apple and it lay, like a small oyster, in a bed of blood.
On the ground, Chip feebly pointed his finger like a gun. His eyes had started to film. A gun. Dying rookie Chip Page was trying to remind her that he carried a gun. She banged her elbow hard up into her attacker’s throat and slammed her boot back into his shin, and for an instant, he loosened his grip and she wrenched free and stumbled over to Chip, ripping open his Tyvek suit and scrabbling his gun free. It was a Glock 30, slippery with Chip’s sweat and blood, unbelievably heavy. She lunged to her feet, bringing the gun up as she chambered a round and pointed it in a blur of motion fueled by terror and a primitive rage.
‘Freeze, asshole. If you think I won’t squeeze it, you’re wrong.’
He blinked once, refocused on her face. ‘He’s coming for you,’ he whispered.
‘Shut up.’ Sweat leaked into her gloves and she tightened her grip.
‘He’s the Spikeman. He transmits orders from outer space through the wires in my brain.’
‘I said shut up.’
‘I came to save you, warn you. He’s after you, the Spikeman. You need to run, Grace, now, before it’s too late.’
