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  Detective Blake Gamble works homicide, but when an old college buddy goes missing, he disregards a direct order to hand the case to missing persons, and he investigates. What he finds will make him wish he hadn’t…

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  Table of Contents

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  EPILOGUE

  ONE

  There was a hard knock at the front door, followed by a familiar voice, “I know you’re in there Gamble. I can hear the TV.”

  I stuffed the last of the cold pizza into my gob as curly-haired Samantha solved the puzzle. The category was Landmarks and the answer was the Hoover Dam. She was pretty happy about it too. She’d won a cruise to the Bahamas, but she was acting like she’d won a million bucks. I washed my cold pizza down with a mouthful of beer, watching the promo clip run. Samantha was in for a good time: cruise ship activities, walks along white sandy beaches, drinking champagne at sunset with some smiling asshole. I drained the rest of my beer, sucking it through my teeth.

  The knock came again, longer this time, a hard thumping of knuckles against wood.

  I placed the empty bottle on the coffee table, followed by my Smith & Wesson, thumbing the safety on. Then I stomped over to the window and stuck my fingers between the blind slats. The morning light practically burned my eyeballs out of my head and the crystallized figure outside my door took a moment to come into focus.

  Lieutenant Terry Shultz of the San Jose Homicide Investigations Unit had his fists resting on his hips. His sport jacket was pulled back, revealing a button-popping belly, a badge, and his sidearm, an old Colt Python. He’d had the same haircut for the past twenty years, a flattop, only now he was losing his hair, leaving something resembling a blond garden hedge. His mustache had survived longer than the hairdo, with various shades of wiry blond-and-white hair.

  I opened the door.

  “Blake,” he said. “What the hell are you doing?” He kicked his boots against the porch, as if readying himself to enter.

  “What do you want, Terry?”

  “I need you to work.” He sniffed the air. “You been drinking? It’s not even ten o’clock—”

  “Course not,” I lied.

  “Can I come in?”

  “No. What’s the matter? I’m in the middle of something important.”

  “I’ve got a DB in a garage in Los Altos. I need you on it. Right now.”

  “It’s my day off.”

  “You’re on pager pay, Blake. You don’t get days off. Chris is already down there, but I want you running primary.”

  “That bad, huh?”

  “Sounds awful messy and I don’t need Hotshot screwing it up. You ready to go?”

  I ran a hand through my hair. It felt greasy. I looked back inside at the TV, then back at Schultz. “Yeah . . . yeah, whatever.”

  “I’ll give you a lift to the department so you can grab a Vic.”

  “No. I’ll take the Road Runner.”

  “Shit, Blake, how many times I gotta tell you? You can’t use your own car. This ain’t fucking Hollywood.”

  “I don’t drive cookie-cutters unless I have to. I can go straight to the DB from here. It’ll save time. What’s the address?”

  He shook his head. “Okay, but first chance you get, come by and swap it for a work car, got it?”

  I nodded and he gave me the address.

  “Okay,” I said. “Talk later.” I went to shut the door.

  “You seen the weather report?” he asked, looking around at the pale gray sky. “Cold front coming in later. They’re saying might be the coldest night in fifty years. Gonna be a lot of rain over the next twelve hours, too. That’s what they say, anyway.”

  I eyed him. “What is it, Terry?”

  “No, I was just—”

  “Last time you made small talk with me was two years ago. What’s wrong?”

  “No, it’s—” He was trying to say something, but couldn’t get the words out. He was practically choking on them. “Look, I know it’s been a rough couple of years.”

  I didn’t like where this was going. “Jesus, Terry, spit it out.”

  “It’s just, some of the guys, they’re a little concerned about your attitude of late.”

  “My attitude?” An eyebrow went up. “Is this about Jeffries?”

  “It’s part of it.”

  “The bastard knew I used creamer,” I said, gritting my teeth.

  “So you threw your cup at him?”

  “I threw it at the wall, dammit.”

  “It’s not just Jeffries, Blake. They’re all telling me.”

  “What’re they telling you?” I asked, fast and sharp, crossing my arms.

  “That you’re . . . well . . . that you’re an asshole. That you’re hard to work with.”

  “What are we in kindergarten now?”

  “I know, I know.” He held his palms up as if I were pointing a gun at him. “I just need to ask, do you need anything, someone to talk to? We have people, you know.”

  My anger spiked. Terry was old-school. He didn’t ask cops if they needed someone to talk to. He just told them to suck it up and get on with the job. It’s what I liked about the guy. No bullshit. I’d known him for more than twenty years and I’d never heard him ask any cop that question.

  And it pissed me off.

  “I’m fine,” I said.

  He nodded a few times, accepting he wasn’t getting any further with this. “Okay, Blake. I’ll be down at the department if you need me.” Then he turned and sauntered away, adjusting his belt as he went.

  I shut the door a little harder than I needed to.

  While I was by the window, I twisted the blind levers. The dusty slats creaked and moved in synchronicity, unleashing light into the living room and kitchen.

  Clothes littered the floor among other crap: a flat basketball, a skateboard, empty beer cans, worn gun and muscle car magazines. Dirty dishes crowded the sink and the garbage overflowed with pizza boxes, stacked one on top of the other. My very own leaning tower of Pisa.

  The whole place stank. Like old pizza, spilled beer, and unwashed armpits.

  I went into the kitchen and grabbed a long glass of water and downed it with four aspirin. Then I grabbed my Smith & Wesson from the coffee table, holstered it under my arm, then pulled my jacket on and snatched my keys off the table.

  I eyed the TV one last time. The applause started up again, and everyone was smiling. The board was lighting up and the next puzzle was about to play out. I didn’t bother turning the thing off. I pulled the door shut behind me and went to see about a dead body in Los Altos.

  The suburb of Los Altos sat in the bull’s-eye of Silicon Valley. For that reason you’d think every street would be filled with multigazillion-dollar mansions. The value was about right, but the houses were mostly built thirty to forty years ago, when everything was mixed with pineapple and All in the Family was prime-time. And for the most part they still remained stuck in the era.

  Two white vans were parked halfway down Alford Avenue. The guys from
CSU. In front of them was a marked vehicle and Detective Chris Romero’s beige Crown Vic. A crime scene get-together.

  I parked the Road Runner in front of the Vic and killed the engine.

  As I got out, Romero got out of his cookie-cutter.

  Detective Chris Romero was a cocky, suit-wearing, slick-haired bastard. He had a chiseled jawline and the kind of facial hair you see on models in a men’s money magazine. Around the station everyone called him Hotshot. Not me, though.

  “Using your time well, Romero?” I asked.

  “If you think I’m gonna wait for you in there, you’re dreaming, Blake.” He stuck a thumb up in the direction of the garage beside the house.

  “You could be door-knocking.”

  “Already done. You’re late to the show. Hey, you ever heard of showers?”

  I glared, then followed him over to the nearest van where I signed the crime scene register, and grabbed a white jumpsuit.

  “What are we looking at?” I asked.

  “The DB’s name was Nicholas Hartmann. Thirty-seven years old. He was researching something in the garage.” Romero put a shiny shoe into his own jumpsuit. “Night vision or some crap.”

  “Who was the caller?”

  “Elise Daniels. She was working on the project alongside the DB and some other guy named Stuart Arnold. I was questioning the chick when she fainted on me.”

  “So where is she now?” I asked.

  “O’Connor Hospital. EMTs took her, treating her for shock.”

  “Send a car with them?”

  “Nope.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “Because she was passed out. She’s not going anywhere. When we’re done here I’ll go finish her statement. Besides, she didn’t do it.”

  “How do you know?” I pulled the last of the suit over my shoulders and zipped it up.

  “Because she was like a damn bird. All fragile-like. When you see the crime scene, you’ll get why she didn’t do it.”

  “You get her address just in case?”

  “Yep. Right here.” He reached behind the open zipper and into his shirt pocket and pulled out a brown notebook.

  “And what about the third guy? Where’s he at?”

  “Dunno. I’ve got his address too, though.” He shook the notebook.

  “Congratulations. Send a car?”

  “Not yet,” he said.

  “Goddammit, Chris.”

  I called out to the two officers standing in the driveway. The taller of the two looked like he’d worn his uniform for so long the thing had become a second skin. The kid next to him looked like he was going to a costume party and the costume shop didn’t supply his outfit in kiddy sizes. I’d seen the taller cop around a few times but we’d never spoken.

  He walked over to where the yellow tape was staked out across the width of the yard, then raised his thick black eyebrows and stuck out his chin. Romero gave him Stuart Arnold’s details.

  “Make sure he doesn’t go anywhere,” I told him. “If he’s not home, put a BOLO out.”

  Officer Eyebrows called out to the kid and they headed over to their marked car.

  “I was gonna do it,” said Romero defensively.

  “Was that before or after you were doing nothing?”

  “You’re an asshole, you know that, Blake?”

  “So I’ve been told. Maybe spend less time looking in the mirror and more time learning how to be a good detective. That way I don’t need to hold your hand.”

  “I don’t need this. If anyone should use a mirror—”

  “Hey,” I cut him off. “There’s three people in this picture. The DB, the girl, and this other guy. We know where two of them are. What’s the other guy doing?”

  “All right, whatever,” he said, hands on hips, looking away.

  “What did the neighbors say?”

  “Couple of them heard arguing a few times over the last few nights. Nothing specific. But that couple over there”—he pointed to the house across the street—“say there was a big white SUV on the street last night. Black wheels. Couldn’t give me a model, didn’t see anyone, and no plates either.”

  “Have you run the three names through the MDT?”

  “I was about to do it when you rolled up.”

  “Any of them live here?” I asked, indicating the house beside the garage.

  “Nope. Some widow named Blanche Stevens. She rented her garage out to the trio.”

  “Did you speak to her?”

  “No, that was just a guess, and she’s looking out the window wondering why the hell we’re all here,” he said sarcastically.

  “Did she hear anything?” I asked, holding back my irritation.

  “Nope. Not a damn thing.”

  “All right.” I nodded and took a breath. “Let’s take a look.”

  We pulled on our hoods and snapped on latex gloves, then ducked beneath the yellow crime scene tape.

  I passed two cars. The one closest to the street was a black Mercedes C-Class. The one closest to the garage was a red Mazda 3.

  “Who owns the cars?” I asked.

  “The Mazda belonged to the DB. The Benz is Elise Daniels’s car.”

  “Nice car,” I said.

  “The Mazda?” he asked.

  “The Benz, you ass.”

  Romero laughed.

  “This is the only door in and out.” He pointed at the side door of the garage.

  “What about the garage door?”

  “Nope, plastered over from the inside. One way in and one way out.”

  A security camera was perched above the door—a black glass eye looking down on us.

  “We got the footage?” I asked, surprised to see it.

  “It’s on the cloud. Got the log-on info off Daniels. I sent it to tech, so with any luck they’ll have something soon.”

  I nodded. “Good.”

  “See, I got shit done.”

  “You’re a real prodigy, Romero.”

  Chris put a hand on the doorknob and paused with a knowing smile. “Hope you didn’t eat a big breakfast.”

  “Depends. Would you say your mom’s a big woman?”

  His smile vanished. “Fuck you, Blake.” Then he opened the door.

  TWO

  It took me about ten seconds to work out what the hell I was looking at. Then when the realization kicked in, instinct took over and told me what I was looking at wasn’t something my brain wanted to see. I turned away from the body.

  This wasn’t any ordinary garage.

  It had black-and-white checkered vinyl flooring, with white walls and ceiling. There was a white desk along the wall opposite, and a heavy-duty cabinet sat at the back of the room. It was the kind of cabinet you’d find in a science lab storing big bottles of acid and chemicals.

  Chris had his jumpsuit sleeve wrapped around his mouth and nose. It takes twenty-four hours before a body starts to smell like rotted meat. It hadn’t reached that stage yet, but the blood was giving off an inky metallic odor that was hard to ignore. Along with the stifling air, the stink made for a great case of reverse eating.

  Romero was looking at the body with an expression crossed between morbid curiosity and abhorrence. I had another go at it.

  The guy was facedown, only he wasn’t facedown, because he didn’t have a damn face at all. He had been decapitated. He almost looked like a dummy wearing a lab coat. The opening of his neck was a fissure of bone and blood and hollow tubes. A pool of blood had emptied from the fissure and leaked out on the vinyl floor, about half a gallon worth. The rest of the blood the body could hold sat under the guy in a big ugly pool of the stuff.

  There usually was a lot of blood at a homicide. Unless of course the MO was strangulation or some other noninvasive method of death, but most of the time it ended up bloody.

  Death by knife usually made for the worst crime scenes. One stab never seems to be enough, so it ends up being three or four, or nine or ten, or twenty, or sometimes over a hundred for the rea
l crazy ones. Those are bloody crime scenes. Because with each stab the knife comes out with a spatter. Stab, spatter. Stab, spatter. Stab, spatter. A hundred times and it gets real fucking messy.

  This one seemed to sit in the vicinity of gunshot wounds, because gunshot wounds are like drainage holes. The blood doesn’t go everywhere like a knife attack. It just slowly drains out, expanding until there’s no more blood to give.

  “Quite a scene, huh?” Chris’s voice was muffled behind his bent arm. “I’ll be outside if you need me.” And he walked out. I didn’t blame the guy, not that it helped his likeability.

  “Where’s the head?” I asked myself more than anyone else.

  “Over here,” said Calloway.

  Calloway was the medical examiner. She was crouched down in the rear corner of the room, wearing a blue jumpsuit with her title across her back.

  Jodie Calloway was in her fifties, with ragged straw-colored hair and a face which had seen a lot of the outdoors. Wrinkles and sunspots, and pale blue speckled eyes. She looked more like an archaeologist than a medical examiner. I’d known her for a long time. She was good at what she did and I respected the woman.

  Jodie was standing over the . . . well, it wasn’t a head at all. It was a mixture of teeth and hair, and a pair of broken silver-framed eyeglasses.

  “What the hell happened to it?” I asked.

  “Don’t know,” she said. “Never seen anything like it. Acid, maybe.”

  “But the skull’s missing. If acid burned away the skull, then why is there still hair and a . . .” I swallowed. “Is that an eyeball?”

  “I’ll bag it up. Run some tests at the lab.”

  I nodded. “Have you looked over the body yet?”

  “Temp puts the time of death around midnight last night. Won’t know more ’til the cut.”

  “Shit,” I said taking in the room. “You ever seen anything like this?”