Spree: Bloodlight

Book 5: Spree

by Michael Morley

Genres: Crime Fiction; Suspense

Synopsis

A madman is on the rampage in the Los Angeles streets. The City of Angels has become The City of Fear. And everyone from the Oval Office down wants a quick result. The heat is on Jake Mottram, head of the FBI's new Spree Killer Unit, and psychological profiler Angie Holmes to find the madman responsible. Until now, they've been great together. Both at work and in bed. But a killer is about to come between them, in ways that could cost them far more than their careers. Will they survive the spree about to come? Spree Life and death in LA - like you've never seen it before.

Release date: July 1, 2014

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 139

Sample

Watts, LA

Inside the house, beyond the slowly moving shadow caused by the swinging life-size effigy of Tanya Murison, a man’s body twitched and groaned.

Chips stood shaking from shock. He stared down at a black male in his late sixties, curled on his side, hand clutching his heart.

“I’m calling for help, sir. Don’t worry, you’re going to be all right.” It was a promise Chips wasn’t sure he could deliver as he hit the phone. First 911, then Angie, and then, on her instruction, Ruis.

In between the calls he went back to the old man, comforted him and checked his pulse. The senior’s face was creased with pain. He was sweating and so short of breath he couldn’t speak.

Within ten minutes, sirens filled the early morning air. “I can hear the ambulance, hang in there.” Chips wiped the man’s glistening brow and held his free hand.

A male and female paramedic soon rounded the corner of the Murisons’ backyard, their eyes already scanning for the patient. They both did a double-take when they saw the swinging female dummy.

“Don’t ask.” Chips flashed his FBI ID at the nametags of Adam Miles and Sue Fenton. “The sick man is over there, inside the house.” He pointed into the kitchen beyond the open doorway. “I think he’s having some kind of heart attack.”

Miles ducked the dummy and made his way through.

Fenton, a brunette in her late twenties, hung back. “Do you know how long he’s been like that?”

“I don’t. I’ve been here less than fifteen minutes. Guy was already down when I arrived.”

“Can he talk?”

“No, he’s in too much pain, but he’s been conscious all the time.”

“Did you give him anything?”

“A little water, but he could hardly swallow. There are no pills in his pocket, or in the bathroom—I looked.”

“Thanks.” She rounded the dummy, knocked it spinning with her shoulder and joined Miles with the patient.

Chips paced nervously. He was beginning to wish he’d stayed at Angie’s place and stuck to pure theory. If this was fieldwork without the danger of an UNSUB shooting at you then it was already too scary for him.

The paramedics grabbed a roll-along bed from the ambulance and started to move the senior to the vehicle.

“We think he has a myocardial infarction,” explained Fenton as she walked. “Pain’s all over his chest and his heartbeat’s irregular. We’ve given him oxygen and aspirin and it’s starting to help.”

Chips walked to the curb with them. “Is he going to be okay?”

She knew what he wanted to hear. “There’s a good chance he’ll be fine.”

Ruis Costas’s Jeep pulled up just as the ambulance left. The SKU agent was dressed casually in black jeans and white shirt. He dropped from the driver’s side to the blacktop and watched the ambulance disappear before joining Chips. “Is he alive?”

“Just about.” He looked at the neighbors gathering in their doorways. “Remind me to make a T saying how much I hate rubberneckers.” He led Ruis toward the house. “The sick guy is Harlan Murison, Tanya’s widower. I found his ID on a table in the kitchen.”

“Holy shit.” Ruis recoiled as he confronted the effigy. “I know you said there was an effigy swinging in the yard, but man, that’s freaky.” He circled it. Stared at the photo-face of Tanya. Squeezed the legs and lumpy body. “There’s rolled-up paper inside these tights and clothes, to make a human shape.” He examined the black gloves tied to the ends of the arm stumps. “Fuck, have you seen this? These are real fingernails stuck to the end.”

Chips cringed with revulsion. “The hair strands?”

Ruis peered at them. “Real as well. And the lipstick and mascara smeared on the face.” He stepped away from the thing. “You think some local kids did this? Maybe the old man made himself unpopular with a gang?”

Chips pulled a sour face. “No, I think the killer did this. I’m willing to bet that he made this out of Tanya’s old clothes and stuff she’d thrown away and he hung it here to shock the husband and get more attention for himself.”

Ruis stared up at the noose around the effigy’s neck. “When CSIs are done, I’m gonna ask them for that rope, so when we catch this fucker I can string him up with it.”

Skid Row, LA

The music Shooter chose for the video edit was Marilyn Manson’s “Death Song.” The lyrics were fittingly full of cops, priests, candles and injustice. But what nailed it for him was the rapid cymbal slaps in the opening section. They were delicious reminders of the noise the G18 made when he’d shot the Fed.

The killing was on the news now, playing low on the TV while he labored over the computer and to his great enjoyment made Jake’s lifeless body jump from frame to frame. It fascinated him how, with the power of rewind, he could bring the big man back to life, empty him of lead then shoot and kill him over and over again. When he grew bored, his eyes slid to the TV. Apparently, the husband of Sun Western Mall victim Tanya Murison had suffered a heart attack but was recovering well in hospital. That was good. He hadn’t wanted old Harlan to die. Not yet. The old bastard had to suffer a lot more first. And Shooter was most amused to find the studio anchor mentioning that police investigating the shooting of Sean Thornton at a bankers’ convention in LA were now following leads that connected him to a Sicilian investment group prosecuted for money laundering. That came as a pleasant surprise. He hoped it would mean even more grief for his widow, Mary.

There had been no mention of Januk Dudek. Not that he’d expected any. He suspected that he spent more time thinking about the missing Polack than anyone else did. Nor was there so much as a passing reference to the Strawberry Fields massacre. It was amazing how quickly the press had grown bored with what had been front-page news only days ago.

Just after eleven, a police cruiser slow-circled his sanctuary.

Shooter watched it crawl from one security monitor to the other. Mike Hanrahan had been as good as his word. Which meant at some point, the cop was likely to park and come knocking, either for a favor or just to escape the sun and boredom of his job. Either way, he was going to be trouble.

Shooter watched the black and white disappear then went about his business. Today was a two-bag day. One for cleans and one for dirties.

And in a little over an hour, things were going to get very dirty.

Douglas Park, Santa Monica

Angie had intended to drive to Tanya Murison’s house to be with Chips.

While telling him to call Ruis, she’d struggled out of bed and made her way to the bathroom. Despite being exhausted and her injured arm hurting like hell, she’d had the shower running before she’d even hung up.

Then she’d seen it.

The reminder that had popped up on the smartphone. A note to herself that a week today was the anniversary of when she and Jake had first met.

It felt a lifetime ago.

Jake’s lifetime.

But she still had the photo from that first night. The crazy loon had insisted on a waiter taking it at dinner; clinking wine glasses and smiling fresh faces over a white linen cloth centered with a red and yellow rose. He’d told her that in ten years’ time they’d come back to the same restaurant and take a picture sitting at the same table. Back then, Angie had thought it was just a line. Now it was what she wanted most in the world.

She wished the reminder had never come. Wished she didn’t feel compelled to open the media gallery on her phone and look at the thumbprints of memories that spanned the past three years. Dozens upon dozens of pictures of her and Jake. She’d snapped him a thousand times. Shots in MacArthur Park, blossoms behind his head, looking as soft as a puppy. Coming out of the ocean, tanned and ripped like an action movie star. Head back and snoring like an old man in the rear of a cab after a late party out at Venice Beach. And there were videos, too. Not that she was strong enough to look at any of them. The bravest and saddest thing she could face was replaying his last voice message to her.

“Sorry. When you’re done being mad at me, remember, I love you.”

The words tore her apart.

And then there was that picture. The one the waiter had taken. She opened the file and felt an awful pain. They looked so good together. Eyes bright with lust and hope. All the future to look forward to. True love still a thousand steamy sex sessions away. Arguments and breakups unimaginable. Pregnancy and marriage unthinkable.

She kissed the small frame of the phone. Kissed Jake. Kissed the whole damned restaurant, the moment and the memory.

The shower steamed behind her, but she couldn’t stand, let alone step into it. She slid to the floor, back against the glass, phone to her aching chest, and felt wiped out. Empty. Hollow.

So this was grief.

It had come with stealth and hurt even more than she’d ever imagined. It went beyond wet eyes and unstoppable sobs, beyond regret, unfairness and injustice.

Angie snaked a left hand up to the rail by her side and pulled down a large, thick towel. She wrapped it around her shoulders and lay flat on the tiled floor. Her eyes were open but she wasn’t seeing anything. Her mind was processing a million thoughts but none was in focus.

She had to ride out an emotional storm. Wait for a break in the thunder and lightning.

It was a long time coming.

The doorbell rang twice and she didn’t even blink, let alone get up and try to answer it. The hurt was everywhere. In her bones. In her blood. In her soul.

Gradually, she raised herself from the tiles, put down the cellphone and towel and slipped into the shower. The water felt like a thousand pins being stuck in her skull. She soaped and soaped. Tried to distract herself with the sharp smell of lemons and limes. Tried to wash away the sadness that was stuck to her.

Angie tilted her face into the spray and ran the shower hot.

She changed the pressure. Let it fall like soft summer rain before turning it into driving hail. She felt cells being stripped from her skin. Felt blood pump through her arteries.

Angie stayed there until she was dizzy from the heat, until she was so wet the skin on her fingers wrinkled and puckered. She shut off the tap and wiped her hands over her body to sluice off the water. Her palms found her tummy. Fingers gently circled the secret space where hope grew, where the baby slept.

Jake’s baby.

Her baby.

Their child.

She stepped from the shower and toweled dry. Gently rubbed moisturizer on the slight cu. . .