Chapter 1
Miles Deveaux is a cautious guy. I would be, too, if I were like him.
Then again, I would never be like him.
Never.
Exhibit number one of his vigilance: his house’s alarm system.
It’s an expensive Kojima 33R.
That’s the kind of system usually limited to supersized mansions or places you’d find expensive jewelry and priceless works of art. Deveaux’s place is not a supersized mansion. It’s not a mansion at all. It’s a small, unattractive, two-bedroom house. And as far as any expensive jewelry or priceless works of art go, there is nothing like that inside.
The Kojima system has been tweaked in a way that is not unique but is certainly rare. If it’s triggered, instead of alerting an alarm company or the police, it only notifies Miles himself.
Too bad for him, this is not the first Kojima 33R I have bypassed.
What am I doing in the house of a man I have never met? Especially here, so close to home?
A less than satisfying response to the first question is, it has to do with a hobby I picked up last year.
As for the second, that’s equally complicated but let me give it a shot.
Right from the start, I made a rule not to take on any cases that fall within a couple hundred miles’ radius of my townhouse in Redondo Beach. Deveaux’s house is off a winding mountain road in an area known as Newhall, just north of the San Fernando Valley, putting it well within my exclusion zone. I know that doesn’t really answer the question, but I guess what I’m trying to say is that this is not the first time I’ve broken the rule, nor, I suspect, will it be the last.
Perhaps it’s more a guideline than rule. Though guideline might even be too strong a word. A suggestion? A hope? Maybe I should accept reality and forget about the rule altogether. Or maybe I should just stop doing all these little side projects.
You know you can’t do that.
Heh. Of course Liz would say that. (More on her later.)
At least Newhall is far enough away from my home that it would be extremely unlikely for me to run into someone I know. And bonus, this little corner of Los Angeles County is far from where my other local rule-breaking activities have taken place, so the chance that what goes down tonight will be tied to anything else I’ve done is effectively zero.
I’m not going to lie. I’d been hoping for a few more days before I had to return here. That’s right. I’ve been inside the house before.
Twice.
It was during my second visit—which happened just this morning—when I made the discovery that caused me to move up my timetable.
Right now it’s almost 6:30 p.m., and given that this is January, that means the sun’s already been down for an hour and a half.
I’m sitting in Miles’s home office, in the dark. There are only two lights on anywhere on his property, and both are outside—one illuminating the front porch, and the other the driveway, directly in front of the garage.
I have a set of night vision goggles in my bag on the floor next to me. I doubt I’ll need them, but I’m good at what I do because I’m always prepared to improvise.
Miles is the kind of person whose life runs like clockwork. Today is Thursday, so he should be pulling into his driveway in fifteen to seventeen minutes. A normal evening would then unfold in the following manner: shower, fifteen minutes; dinner, twenty-five minutes; TV, sixty minutes; then office time until he goes to bed at eleven p.m. Two or three nights a month, there are exceptions. And thanks to what I discovered this morning, I know tonight is going to be one of those.
That is why I’m here.
I had a little prep work to do, so I’ve been in the house for about thirty minutes already. Another key to success: don’t rush things when you don’t have to.
I finished everything up about ten minutes ago, and am now in wait mode. It’s something I had to learn to be good at in my day job. It took a bit of work; I wasn’t always the most patient guy but I finally mastered it. If I hadn’t, I’d probably be dead by now.
The hilly area where Miles lives is mainly occupied by large houses on one acre-plus plots of land, which means there’s a lot of space between everything. Most of these big residences popped up in the past twenty or thirty years. Miles’s house, however, is one of the few small legacy homes still standing from when this was a middle-class neighborhood pre-1990s. The vast majority of the other houses were torn down to make room for his new neighbors. He inherited the place when his mother died a few years ago. Not much changed for him, though, since he’d never actually moved out.
He has made a few improvements since the deed was transferred to him, however. The most obvious renovations are the office he created out of his former bedroom and the upgrades to the master suite. The not-so-obvious work was done in the kitchen, where he installed a secret compartment behind one of the lower cabinets. It’s a convenient place to store things he doesn’t want others to see.
If I was in a generous mood, I’d tip my hat to him. The compartment wasn’t easy to find. I knew there had to be something like it somewhere in the house, but it still took me over two hours on my first visit to figure out where it was. With a careful guy like Miles, I have to believe he did the work himself, which would mean he’s a pretty good carpenter, good with his hands.
Are you ready? Liz asks.
“As I’ll ever be,” I whisper.
Liz has been particularly anxious on this mission. I can feel the tension oozing off her as she stands—floats? hovers?—behind me.
He’s coming.
I check my watch. It’s 6:42. His normal arrival window will open in one minute. “I’ve got this. Don’t worry.”
I know she wants to say more, but she doesn’t.
About Liz. She’s my girlfriend. Well, was my girlfriend, right up until the moment she died a year ago. And yeah, I know, it can’t really be her voice in my head. It’s just my subconscious. And I also know I probably shouldn’t be answering it. I try sometimes, but I can’t stop myself.
When I look at my watch again, the display reads 6:44. Miles should be here any second. I turn my ear toward the street, as if that will help me hear his approaching car. But all remains quiet as my watch ticks over to 6:45.
This is unusual. I’ve spent a lot of time in the previous ten days spying on his place, plus two entire afternoons, watching four months’ worth of stored security footage from a neighbor’s gate camera, logging his patterns. Until tonight, there have been no deviations.
Is it possible he’s proceeding directly to his pre-chosen spot for this evening’s planned activities?
If true, it won’t be a complete disaster. The notes I discovered this morning told me where he plans to be and when he’s planning to make his move. I can get there in plenty of time to stop him, but I’d much rather deal with him here, where we won’t be disturbed. Besides, I’ve put in a lot of work into setting the scene just right.
He left work late, Liz says. He’ll be here in three minutes.
Okay, it’s when Liz drops little info bombs like this that makes it hard for me to dismiss her as a figment of my imagination. Especially because she’s usually right.
You’re thinking that’s got to be a coincidence, aren’t you?
I hear you. I tell myself that all the time, but then something happens that makes me question the definition of reality.
Here’s a perfect example. Exactly three minutes after she last spoke, the headlights of Miles’s car swing into the driveway and the automatic garage door opens. I’m not as freaked out by this “coincidence” as I used to be, but I can’t say I’m completely all right with it, either.
Miles pulls his vehicle into the garage and shuts off the engine. At the same time I hear his car door open, the garage door starts closing.
Are you ready?
“Asked and answered,” I say.
Living Liz would have acknowledged a repeated question like that with a whispered, “Just double-checking.” Spirit Liz merely falls silent.
From the Kojima alarm control box in the kitchen, I hear a muted triple beep, indicating it has been remotely deactivated. The kitchen door opens and someone—Miles, I presume—enters. (Not once during my observations has anyone else been in the house. Granted, my sample size is small, but Miles does not strike me as the kind of person who entertains guests.)
I hear him set something down. Probably his briefcase on his dining table. Miles is an accountant at an equipment rental company in the Valley. Not sure what he carries in the case, but since he’s leaving it in the other room, it’s not something I need to worry about.
The footsteps continue out of the dining room and into the hallway that runs past the office. The hallway light clicks on and some of it spills through the room’s open door. I’m sitting off to the side, and the only way I can be seen is if he sticks his head through the doorway.
I tense, ready in case that happens, but he walks right by and enters the master bedroom at the back without even pausing.
I’ve stood outside his windows while he was home, but this is the first time I’ve been inside the house with him, so I wonder if he’s the kind of person who, despite being the only one here, closes the bedroom door when he takes a shower.
When I hear the sound of the latch clicking shut, I have my answer. If you ask me, it’s probably a habit left over from when he lived with his mom. This thought morphs into an image of a forty-year-old Miles wearing a towel around his waist and screaming, “Mom! Get out!”
Ugh. I’m going to have a hard time scrubbing that image from my memory.
As soon as I hear running water, I grab the device lying on the floor next to me and stand up.
Be careful.
It’s sweet of Liz to worry like this, but I’m in no danger. People like Miles are not even close to being in the same league as I am.
I make my way to the bedroom door. The sounds from the other side are distant and echoey, which tells me they’re coming from the tiled bathroom.
I try the knob and am happy to note his closing-the-door habit does not include a turning-the-lock component. Not that I wouldn’t be able to get through it, but I appreciate the time he’s saved me.
The bathroom is off to the left, its door facing the back of the house, so it’s impossible for him to see me enter. The sound of running water is from a faucet and accompanied by the swish-swish-swish of Miles brushing his teeth.
I walk toward the bathroom doorway until I can see his reflection in the mirror. Naturally, this means he can see me, too, but he has eyes only for himself. As much as I’d like to ignore it, there is one other detail I feel obligated to mention. He’s brushing in the nude. If nothing else, the sight has freed me from the image of him in a towel yelling at his mom.
After a few more passes of his toothbrush, he spits into the sink.
And then, when he raises his head, he finally notices me.
For maybe three seconds he stares into the mirror, stunned, as if he doesn’t understand what he’s seeing. But his fight-or-flight instinct kicks in soon enough, and he jerks to his left, backpedaling toward the shower.
“Who the hell are you? What are you doing in my house?” This is the first time I’ve heard him speak. His voice is higher pitched than I imagined. I like it when little things like that surprise me. Keeps me on my toes. Big things, however, I prefer to know ahead of time.
Without saying a word, I stride into the room.
His back bangs against the shower door, and his breath catches in his throat as he realizes he has nowhere to go.
Not sure if I mentioned this or not, but I’m wearing a mask. It’s a full head thing, a la Spider-Man or Deadpool. I received a pair of them for Christmas from a friend. Whether she meant it in jest or not, the mask is perfect for my needs and I’ve already used it a few times. This hood is black, except for the deep blue see-through material that covers my eyes and mouth. My clothes are all black, too. As are the gloves I’m wearing.
It’s no wonder Deveaux is shaking.
“Get out of my house! Or-or-or I’ll call the police!”
It’s a bluff. The last people he wants traipsing through his place are the cops. I’m tempted to say, “Go ahead,” but every second I’m here is another second I have to spend in his presence. I’d like to keep that to a minimum. So I pull my Taser out of its leather case on my belt, turn it on, and give the trigger a quick pull.
A sizzle of electricity sparks the air.
Miles’s eyes grow wide enough for me to see white all the way around.
I feign a lunge to the left, and when he turns to block it, I shove the Taser into his back.
The shower door rattles as his body convulses against it. When I pull the device away, he crumples to the floor, moaning.
After returning my weapon to its harness, I slip a metal collar around Miles’s neck and clip it closed. The collar is attached to a chain of five heavy-duty steel links. The chain in turn is welded to one end of the four foot long metal pipe I’ve been holding. I purchased it off a sex-toy website under the bondage section. You’d be surprised by the number of useful items I have found there. Or, I don’t know, maybe you wouldn’t.
Via the pipe, I give the collar a yank to get Miles’s attention. He’s still feeling the effects of the jolt, and it takes another pull to get him to look at me.
I motion for him to stand up, but his attention has fallen on the pole. The Taser must’ve dulled his mind, because he doesn’t realize the pipe is connected to his neck when he grabs it, and ends up jerking the collar and causing it to dig into his neck.
“What is this?” he says, his panic increasing. “Get it off me!”
I rattle the chain connected to his collar, and motion again for him to stand.
He scrambles off the floor, his hands still on the metal pipe. He gives it a feeble twist, as if testing to see if he can free it from my grasp. He can’t, but to make sure he understands that, I grab the Taser again. Before I even turn it on, his hands drop to his side.
“Please! No!” he says.
I keep the Taser pointed at him for another ten seconds before putting it away. I extend my hand toward him, palm facing the ceiling, and then curl my fingers toward my wrist twice, Bruce Lee style. Without waiting for a response, I head out of the room, pulling the pole.
When we reach his office, I maneuver him inside, around his desk, and into his chair. He stumbles more than once before he’s seated, but I hold tight to the pole so the collar acts as a—albeit painful—steadying device.
His eyes have been on me the whole time so he hasn’t taken in the room yet. If he had, he would’ve seen the bits and pieces from the memorabilia collection I found in his secret kitchen compartment. I’ve arranged them throughout the room. These include news articles Miles printed from the internet, each with some rendition of a headline like VALLEY HEIGHTS RAPIST STRIKES AGAIN; twenty-three snippets of hairs, no two locks from the same person; and twenty-three sketches of women, also all different. Miles actually has some artistic talent, which is disturbing given the circumstances.
I’ve taped the articles and the sketches to the walls and laid out the hair trophies on the desk in nice neat rows. I probably could have matched each lock to a sketch, but that seemed an unnecessary step.
There are other items on the walls, items that have never been in Miles’s possession. Specifically, photographs from the police files on the Valley Heights Rapist case. Pictures of each crime scene, and close-ups of bruises and other injuries his victims incurred. These came courtesy of my friend, colleague, and mask-gifter Jar, who knows her way around a computer better than most.
It takes almost half a minute before Miles finally notices I’ve redecorated the room. The fear on his face switches instantly to anger.
“Those are not yours to touch,” he growls. “They belong to me. They are private!”
He reaches for a lock of hair. But before his hand can get close, I jerk the pole back and forth, rocking his head, then shove the pipe toward him until he’s pinned against the back of his seat.
With my free hand, I remove two sets of handcuffs from one of his desk drawers. These are also from his secret stash.
“What are you going to do with those?”
If Jar were here, she would say something like, “That is an unnecessary question,” because my intention is obvious.
I toss one pair onto his lap and point at his left wrist.
“I’m not putting this on myself,” he says as if I’m crazy.
I set the other pair on the desk and grab my Taser.
“Wait, wait, wait! You don’t need to—”
He’s wrong. I do.
I shove the Taser into his leg, zapping him for a second time. As he convulses, the handcuffs fall from his lap onto the floor. I turn off the Taser, and while Miles is recovering, I scoot the cuffs over to me with my foot and pick them up.
As soon as he’s breathing semi-normally, I throw them into his lap again. He jumps at the contact and has to scramble to keep them from falling back onto the floor.
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