Redzone Page 6

  “That seems like the best place to start,” Lee said. “Eleven years is a long time. Even if he was careful not to contact them in the beginning, he could figure that it’s safe to do so now. Let’s go out and talk to every damned one of them.”

  That, as it turned out, was easier said than done. Kaplan had a brother and a sister. His mother was still alive, as was her mother, and any number of uncles, aunts, and cousins. Lee elected to start with Kaplan’s mother, while Yanty and Prospo went off to interview the murderer’s siblings.

  Mrs. Kaplan lived in the working-class neighborhood of Glendale. And as Lee pulled into a parking place across the street, she saw that the house she was looking for was a two-story Craftsman. According to the information she’d been able to dig up, Kaplan’s mother was a retired nurse and therefore likely to be home. Lee hoped so as she got out and locked the car.

  But what about Kaplan? Did he live there, too? After such a long time, anything was possible. And if she surprised him, all hell could break loose. But that was what the panic button in her pocket was for. All she had to do was press it, and the shadow team would swoop in to save her ass. Lee took a quick look around and was pleased to see that none of Wolfe’s people were visible.

  She crossed the street, climbed a flight of stairs, and approached the door. The green paint had started to peel. Lee pushed the doorbell, waited for a while, and pushed again. The door opened to reveal a pleasant-looking woman clad in a light sweater and slacks. She had the wary expression of someone who is ready to tell a stranger no. She smiled. “Yes?”

  Lee presented her badge case. “I’m Detective Lee . . . Are you Mrs. Kaplan? If so, I’d like to ask you some questions.”

  The response was sad to see. The woman’s face fell, and there was sorrow in her eyes. “Yes, I’m Beth Kaplan. Is this about Arnie?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid so.”

  “Is he dead?”

  “No, not so far as I know. We’re looking for him. Is he here?”

  Lee’s thumb was resting on the panic button as she watched Mrs. Kaplan’s expression. But it remained unchanged. “No, he isn’t. I haven’t seen him since the day they sentenced him to life in prison. They should have executed him. Would you like to come in?”

  Lee thought the juxtaposition of the two comments was somewhat jarring. She nodded. “Yes, ma’am. I would.”

  Mrs. Kaplan led Lee into a well-kept but slightly dated living room. A picture was hanging over the fireplace. The color photo was of a man wearing a white hat and a dark uniform. “That’s my husband, Bill,” Mrs. Kaplan said, as Lee paused to look at the picture. “He was a fireman. B. nosilla killed him. Arnie got sick, too—but he recovered.”

  Lee took note of that. There were cases where people infected with B. nosilla had mental problems as a result. Was Arnold Kaplan one of them?

  “Please,” Mrs. Kaplan said. “Have a seat. May I ask why you’re here? It’s been a long time since anyone spoke to me about the case.”

  Lee sat on the couch. A cat jumped down and scurried away. There was no reason to lie. The strategy was to flush the Bonebreaker out. So if his mom warned him, that was fine. Her phone line and her e-mail were being monitored and would continue to be until Lee said otherwise. Besides, Lee had been on TV talking about the Bonebreaker case, so it was only a matter of time until Mrs. Kaplan remembered her. “I’m in charge of the Bonebreaker investigation,” Lee said.

  Mrs. Kaplan frowned. “That’s right . . . You were on the news. Does this mean that you think Arnie is the Bonebreaker?”

  “We think it’s a possibility,” Lee replied.

  “What he did to Carol was horrible,” Mrs. Kaplan said, as she looked away. “I don’t know what went wrong.”

  “Such things are always hard to understand,” Lee said sympathetically. “Your son never tried to contact you?”

  Mrs. Kaplan’s eyes swung back to make contact with Lee’s. “No. Arnie knows I would turn him in.”

  “What about other members of the family? How do they feel?”

  “His brother and sister feel as I do,” Mrs. Kaplan answered. “As for my mother, well, she lives in a state of denial. She believes that Arnie is a doctor.”

  “I see,” Lee said. “Can I speak with her?”

  “Of course, but it won’t do you much good. She’s senile. But I’ll write the address down and let the assisted-living center know that you’re coming.”

  “Thank you,” Lee said. “I would appreciate that. Would it be okay if I took a look around?”

  Mrs. Kaplan made a face. “I can’t say that I like the idea, but I guess there’s no point in saying no. I’m sure you can get a search warrant if you want to.”

  “I will be as nonintrusive as possible,” Lee promised. It took about fifteen minutes to check all of the rooms. Not for little things but to see if another person was living in the house. And as far as Lee could tell, Beth Kaplan was telling the truth.

  As Lee left, Mrs. Kaplan gave her a piece of paper with an address on it. “Please take it easy on my mother. She’s eighty-six and in poor health.”

  “Of course.”

  “And one more thing,” Mrs. Kaplan said, as they stepped out onto the porch. “If you run into my son, don’t turn your back on him.” And with that, she went back inside.

  * * *

  It was still morning, so Lee decided to visit Kaplan’s grandmother. And since the assisted-living facility was only two miles away, the trip didn’t take long. As Lee pulled into a large parking lot, she saw that the building was three stories tall, nicely painted, and surrounded by a well-kept lawn. Before leaving the car, Lee got on the radio to let the shadow team know what she was up to. And as she got out of the vehicle, Lee couldn’t help but look up to see if a drone was circling above. The sky was clear.

  Lee entered the lobby via a wheelchair-friendly automatic door and crossed over to the point where a reception desk fronted one wall. The woman seated behind the mahogany bulwark had a pleasant appearance and a somewhat exaggerated manner. It was as if she believed that every word she said had to be amplified. Her name tag read, WILMA. “Good morning!” she said, in a voice loud enough to be heard on the other side of the room. “How are you?”

  “I’m fine, thank you,” Lee answered. “My name is Cassandra Lee. Mrs. Kaplan said she would call ahead.”

  “Yes,” Wilma said brightly. “You’re here to see Mrs. Kelly . . . Please sign the guest book. Then I’ll call Margaret and let her know that you’re here.”

  Lee took a ballpoint pen out of a cup with a smiley face on it, and was about to sign the register, when something occurred to her. “Tell me,” she said, “does Margaret get a lot of visitors?”

  “Her daughter comes at least once a week,” Wilma answered cheerfully, “and her grandchildren visit regularly as well. Then there’s Dr. Duncan . . . He drops by one or two times a month.”

  Lee frowned. “Really? Her doctor comes here?”

  “Wonderful, isn’t it?” Wilma gushed. “I wish more doctors would do that. It’s difficult for residents like Margaret to get out and about.”

  “Yes,” Lee said, as she flipped through the pages in front of her. “It is.”

  Wilma knew something was up by then and frowned. “I’m sorry, Miss Lee, but I can’t allow you to . . .”

  Lee produced her ID case and flipped it open so Wilma could see the card and badge. “I’m here on official business,” Lee said as she put the leather folder away. “Please keep my visit to yourself. And that includes Margaret. Okay?”

  Wilma swallowed. “Of course.”

  “Good. If it isn’t too much trouble, please make a copy of this page . . . the one with the doctor’s signature on it.”

  The receptionist stood and stepped away to make the copy. Lee took the opportunity to look around the room. Three women and a man were playing cards at a table. A fire was burning in the gas fireplace despite the fact that it was seventy-five degrees outside. And there, up in a corner, was
a surveillance camera. “Here you go,” Wilma said, and Lee turned to receive the copy. “So you won’t be going up to see Margaret?”

  “No,” Lee said. “Not today. I notice you have a surveillance system. I would like to look at the tape that corresponds to the last time that Dr. Duncan came by.”

  “You’ll need to talk to Eva about that,” Wilma said. “I’ll get her.”

  The manager turned out to be a young woman named Eva Mendez. She had a pageboy haircut, bright red lipstick, and matching nails. Once Lee identified herself, Mendez took her into an office and closed the door. They watched the video together, found the snippet that featured the man who called himself Dr. Duncan, and froze it.

  That was when Lee had a moment of self-doubt. Duncan looked very different from Arnold Kaplan’s mug shot. But that makes sense, Lee told herself. He worked hard to change his appearance—and he’s eleven years older. “Can I take this with me?” she inquired.

  “I don’t see why not,” Mendez replied. “Especially if you could make a copy for me. We’re supposed to keep the tapes for ninety days.”

  “Done,” Lee said. “Thank you very much . . . Please don’t mention my visit to Mrs. Kelly or anyone on your staff.”

  Mendez frowned. “Is Margaret in danger?”

  “No,” Lee answered. “She isn’t. But if Dr. Duncan is who we think he is—we may need your help in order to catch him. I’ll let you know.”

  Lee’s heart was beating just a little bit faster as she left. Was the doctor Margaret Kelly’s grandson Arnold? Who, in spite of his history as a murderer, had a soft spot for his maternal grandmother . . . Or was Lee grasping at straws? She could contact every Dr. Duncan in LA and ask whether Mrs. Kelly was a patient. But most of them would insist on a CYA court order before they would divulge such information. Fortunately, there was another way to get the confirmation she needed.

  From the assisted-living facility, Lee went straight to LAPD headquarters and Conference Room 7-J. The evidence boxes were still there, and Lee could hardly wait to dive into them. After fifteen minutes of searching, Lee had six samples of Arnold Kaplan’s crabbed handwriting.

  With those sheets of paper in hand, she went over to the table where she compared those to Dr. Duncan’s signature. It looked as though there were a lot of similarities so she put in a call to the Criminalistics Laboratory. The person who answered referred her to a forensic document examiner named Alvin Soltis. He listened to her description of the situation, and said, “Come on up . . . I’ll take a look.”

  So Lee went up to the eighth floor, entered the lab, and went looking for Soltis. He had carefully mussed hair, was wearing a pristine lab coat, and was clearly heterosexual. “My, my,” he said, as they shook hands. “My television set doesn’t do you justice.”

  “Thanks,” Lee said, as she pulled her hand free. “But I’m here to get your opinion on a handwriting sample, not my appearance.”

  Most men would have been put off, but not Soltis. He produced a boyish grin. “Did I come on too soon? No problem . . . I’ll try again later. Let’s see what you have.”

  The next twenty minutes were spent comparing the signature from the guest registry to the other writing samples. And once the process was over, Soltis delivered his judgment. “I wish we had more than the one signature to work with . . . But based on the sample we have, I’d say there’s a high degree of probability that the Duncan signature was made by Arnold Kaplan.”

  “That’s it? Just ‘a high degree of probability’?”

  “Yup.”

  “Okay, put that in writing and e-mail it to me.”

  “I could deliver it at dinner.”

  Lee smiled sweetly. “Thanks for the offer . . . But I have fourteen cats—and they have to be fed at six.”

  * * *

  With the match to rely on, Lee returned to the assisted-living facility, and after a second conversation with the manager, was allowed to take the guest register. Subsequent analysis proved that Dr. Duncan’s visits occurred twice a month, generally around the first and the fifteenth.

  It was the twelfth, so Lee put in a request for surveillance during the day, when visitors were allowed to enter the facility. It was approved.

  The long, seemingly interminable days crawled by. Hundreds of people came and went. A fire alarm went off on day one. It rained for a couple hours on day two. And an old lady backed into the van on the morning of day three. Then, having no idea that people knew what she’d done, the woman took off.

  Finally, at about 10:00 A.M. on day four, came the moment they’d been waiting for. Lee was sitting in back near the com tech, listening to some R&B, when her phone rang. She had to remove the earbuds to take the call. “Cassandra Lee.”

  “This is Wilma,” the receptionist said conspiratorially. “Dr. Duncan is here . . . He went up to visit Mrs. Kelly.”

  Lee felt her heart try to beat its way out of her chest. “Excellent . . . Well done. What’s he wearing?”

  “A sports coat, open-collared shirt, and khaki pants.”

  “Okay, we’ll take it from here,” Lee said. Then she brought a handheld radio up to her lips. “This is 1-William-3. The suspect is inside the building. He’s wearing a sports coat, open-collared shirt, and khaki pants.

  “We’ll pick him up as he comes out and tail him. The shadow team will follow and take over after a mile or two. Do you read me? Over.”

  “This is 1-Union-6,” a male voice responded. “I read you.”

  1-Union-6 was Wolfe’s second-in-command. Where was Wolfe anyway? Not that it mattered.

  Prospo drove the van through the parking lot to a position adjacent to the single exit. That would allow Lee to track Dr. Duncan to his car and put out a description. Then Prospo was supposed to tail the vehicle prior to the switch. Maybe Duncan would go home, and maybe he wouldn’t. But the plan was to follow him until he did. Because if he was Kaplan, and Kaplan was the Bonebreaker, that was where Lee was likely to find evidence linked to eight murders.

  She turned to the tech. He was wearing headphones and seated in front of a control panel. “What are they talking about?”

  It had been easy to plant listening devices in Mrs. Kelly’s apartment though largely a waste of time. “She’s complaining about her back pain,” the tech replied. “The suspect wants her to get more exercise.”

  The next twenty minutes were agonizingly slow. But finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the tech said the words that Lee had been waiting to hear. “They said good-bye to each other. She called him ‘Arnold.’”

  Lee felt her heart leap. The entire team had been 99 percent sure that Duncan and Kaplan were the same man, but now it was a certainty! “Okay,” Lee said over the radio. “Stand by. The visit is over. He’ll be out in a minute or two.”

  Lee trained a pair of binoculars on the entrance to the building. A man pushed an empty wheelchair out. A woman carrying a cardboard box went inside. Then the suspect appeared. Sports coat, check. Shirt, check. Pants, check.

  Lee watched Kaplan pause to look around. The murderer had more hair now. A wig? Implants? Anything was possible. And he was wary, the way a wild animal is wary, always on the lookout for danger. But the white van didn’t look dangerous. So Kaplan’s eyes slid across the vehicle without so much as a pause.

  Then, satisfied that it was safe to do so, Kaplan cut across the parking lot to an end slot, where a gray especiale was parked. “He’s getting into his car,” Lee reported. “It’s a metallic gray two-seater with California plate Six-Mary-Boy-Victor-Three-Three. Now he’s pulling out. We’re on him. Stay back until I call you forward.”

  Kaplan pulled out of the lot, and Prospo followed. The key was to stay one or two cars back but to keep the especiale in sight. At one point, Prospo had to run a red light in order to keep up but managed to get away with it.

  Lee scrambled to get into the front passenger seat as Prospo swore. “Shit! There’s some sort of roadblock up ahead!”

  Lee looked, sa
w that two squad cars were parked nose to nose, with a small gap between them. Their light bars were lit, and cops with shotguns were standing to the left and right. Lee was about to get on the radio when Ayeman’s voice was heard. “This is the SLO (Senior Lead Officer). We have the suspect in the box. Close it.”

  But it quickly became clear that Kaplan wasn’t about to cooperate with Ayeman’s plan. He hit the gas, aimed the sports car at the gap, and slammed into the sedans. Both vehicles gave, which allowed the especiale to pass between them. Some of the police officers opened fire. “Stay on the bastard,” Lee ordered, as the van’s grill lights and siren came on. “Don’t let him get away!”

  Her mind was spinning. Why had Ayeman taken control? Where was Kaplan going?

  “Break it off!” Ayeman shouted over the radio. “Break it off now!”

  He’s scared, Lee thought to herself. Scared that civilians will get hurt. Never mind the fact that a cop killer is getting away. “We didn’t hear that,” Lee said flatly. “Get him.”

  “Hear what?” Prospo said, as he put his foot to the floor. The van barely fit through the gap between the two police cars and a police officer fired at it reflexively. Shotgun pellets pinged the van. Ayeman was yelling contradictory orders over the radio as Kaplan made a series of random turns. Or were they random? His general direction was north.

  Suddenly, a helicopter appeared up ahead. A police chopper . . . or a helicopter owned by one of the TV stations. That’s what Lee assumed until the aircraft turned to expose an open door. The machine gun was clear to see. “Holy shit!” Prospo exclaimed, as the gunner opened fire, and bullets threw up columns of asphalt from the street.

  Rather than tilt up, the guy on the gun let the van run into the stream of fire. Lee heard a series of overlapping impacts as bullets hit the hood, smashed the windshield, and passed between them. Both Lee and Prospo were unhurt, but as Lee looked back she saw the tech was slumped sideways in his seat. Her first thought was to go back and help but there was no reason to do so. Half his head was missing.