hand, began her news piece.
“This reporter has recently learned that the Candlelight Killer Task Force, working in conjunction with the FBI’s Investigative Support Unit, has developed a psychological profile of the man for whom they’re searching,” she said, briefly glancing toward the stone and glass building behind her. “According to LAPD sources, police are hunting for a white male they believe to be in his midthirties and of below-average intelligence. He’s described as a loner who’s had little or no association with mainstream society and probably works in a menial, low paying occupation.
“Police sources also say that certain aspects of the killer’s crimes indicate that he is impotent and unable to perform normally with women, and that he has marked homosexual tendencies. The FBI behaviorists reportedly base their latter conclusion on heretofore unreleased facts concerning the sexual molestation of all three husbands during their strangulation murders. The killer is also thought to be extremely disorganized and powerless to control his actions, traits authorities feel will soon lead to his apprehension. Officials are asking anyone with information to call the task force’s twenty-four-hour hotline. This is Lauren Van Owen reporting for CBS News, Los Angeles.”
Carns stabbed the screen to darkness, burning with an emotion he hadn’t felt since childhood.
A homosexual? A queer? And the other hideous things she said…
This wasn’t the way it was supposed to be. Flushed with rage, Carns shut his eyes and pressed his fingers to his temples, trying to ease the excruciating throb that gripped his brain like an unremitting claw.
After what seemed an eternity, the torment eased. Carns opened his eyes.
Wrong! How could they be so wrong?
Thinking back, he recalled the conversation he had witnessed at the Sports Club. At the time he’d been certain that the task force detective’s meeting with the blond reporter had to be more than coincidence. Subsequently, Van Owen’s exclusive revelation of the composite drawing had proved him right. With a smile as cold as gunmetal, Carns suddenly realized the source of her latest information as well.
Kane.
33
Think the guy’s gonna show?”
Sergeant Edward Kinoshita lowered his binoculars and glanced over at Steve Matthews. As he had for most of the past week, Matthews was sitting beside the bed on a folding metal chair and cheating his way through a game of solitaire-laying out cards in symmetrical piles on the bedspread and peeking at hole cards whenever it suited him. He was still losing.
“Beats me,” Kinoshita replied, again raising the binoculars to sweep the darkened street outside. A block down he could just make out Bottrell and Patterson’s Plymouth tucked back in a neighbor’s driveway. Otherwise, nothing. “You got an opinion?”
“Yeah. No way.”
“Why not?”
Matthews turned over a king and transferred a queen stack, uncovering an ace he’d glimpsed two cards back. “Been too long.”
“You’ve worked this from the beginning. How long’s it been?”
“We’re into the third week now.” Matthews yawned, turned up another ace, and pried a two from the discard pile. “We were supposed to pull the plug on Tuesday. Then it got extended, but with fewer guys on the unit. Now we’re just covering the front of the house, nighttime only. I don’t know-maybe somebody knows something we don’t.”
“Personally, I think we’re going to a lot of trouble for a B-and-E.”
“Assault, too. The guy clobbered the maid. Scuttlebutt downtown is that those Candlelight hotshots think this might be connected to their case.”
“So where are they now?”
Matthews shrugged. “Maybe they changed their minds. If you ask me, this has been a bogus stakeout from day one.”
The radio crackled. “Car.” The call was from Whiteman and Madison, a third pair of plainclothes surveillance officers stationed in an unmarked vehicle at Valley Vista and Beverly Glen. “Green Chevy van.”
Matthews turned off the light and joined Kinoshita at the window. A moment later they spotted a van passing the Baker house, traveling west.
The radio crackled again. “Guy lives on the next street up,” said Bottrell from the Plymouth, sounding bored. Unlike Matthews, who had previously worked the day shift, Bottrell had been on night surveillance from the start. “Works at a bar over in Westwood. Gets home about now every evening. He’ll turn left at the stop sign.”
The van slowed at the intersection, swung left, and drove up the hill.
Matthews turned the lamp back on and returned to his cards. “Damn. I think I might have a chance of winning for a change,” he said, uncovering a third ace.
Kinoshita watched the van’s headlights disappear. “I’ll notify the press,” he said, grabbing a metal thermos and twisting off the top. He was pouring the last of the coffee when Whiteman spoke a second time.
“Car. Blue Toyota.”
Grumbling, Matthews once more flipped off the light. Kinoshita picked up the radio. “Got it,” he said, pulling aside the curtains. “He’s slowing in front of the house. Now he’s moving on. You seen this one before, Jeff?”
“Nope,” Bottrell’s voice came over the radio. “Can’t make out who’s behind the wheel, either. Driving slow.”
Steve Gannon
Kane
“New to me, too,” said Matthews.
“You guys back there get the license?”
“We got it, Sarge,” answered Whiteman. “Should we run it?”
“Yeah. Go ahead.”
Carns glanced at the house.
No lights. Good.
Driving cautiously, he proceeded four blocks west, then turned up a side street he had chosen on his first visit. Two hundred feet farther on, the street dead ended in a circle not visible from the main road. After cutting his lights, Carns coasted to a stop under a large jacaranda tree.
Silence.
Carns picked up a pair of leather driving gloves and pulled them on. But instead of exiting, he rolled down his window and for the next five minutes, as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he remained completely motionless. Cool air seeped into the car, laden with a scent of sage. A dog barked somewhere, answered by a series of distant yaps. Traffic noise drifted up from Ventura Boulevard, adding to the drone of the freeway a half mile north. A small plane crossed overhead, heading toward Santa Monica. Otherwise, nothing.
Satisfied, Carns ran through his mental checklist one last time: knapsack, gloves, gun and silencer, extra ammo clip, flashlight, ties, scissors, rope, rubbers, tape, Ace bandages, camera, galvanized pipe, recorder, opener. The knife and plastic trash bag he would obtain at the house. Everything was ready. With a shiver of excitement, he stepped from the car.
“Sarge, I think we may have something here.” Whiteman sounded excited, running his words together as though he couldn’t get the syllables out fast enough.
“Slow down,” said Kinoshita. “What’d you turn up?”
“The Toyota’s plates are registered to a Mrs. Muriel Levinson in Arcadia. But according to DMV, those plates belong on a Buick.”
“The guy turned left two blocks past me,” interjected Bottrell. “I’ll head up and see what… Hold on. Somebody’s coming down the street on foot. Never seen him before. Sonofabitch, this could be it. White male wearing a backpack, black pants and jacket, baseball cap, tennis shoes.”
“Got him,” said Kinoshita, his pulse quickening. “Don’t spook him. When he gets to the house, we’ll pinch him
