plastic developing trays, and an enlarger.
The second room was locked.
I eyed the Medeco deadbolt above the knob, certain the room beyond was secured for a reason. Frustrated, I turned away. Then it dawned on me: People might bolt an interior door to keep out a nosy maid, but nobody carried around a key to a room in his own house. Not even Carns.
I ran my fingers along the trim above the doorframe. Nothing. Same with the molding above the door to the darkroom.
Where is it? It has to be here. The gun room?
Too far for convenience.
The darkroom.
I returned to the darkroom. There I searched the drawers, storage bins, and shelves for the key. Minutes later I found it hidden on the inside of a cabinet face beneath one of the sinks, hanging on a small hook. Key in hand, I returned to the hall and shoved the key into the Medico deadbolt. The door swung open.
Stepping inside, I tripped a light switch, surveying the windowless vault beyond. Soundproofing panels covered nearly every surface. A mirrored closet lay at the far end, with built-in bookcases bracketing a gigantic television screen spanning the near wall. Across from the screen sat a solitary leather armchair, a table, lamp, and a slide projector.
I crossed to the bookcases and inspected their contents. One held a surround-sound stereo, a VCR and DVD player, and various other electronic equipment. Video and audio discs and tapes jammed the shelves above and below, each labeled in a distinctively slanted cursive. Stacks of similarly marked slide carousels filled the second cabinet. I scanned some of the titles: Airport Double, Portland Marina, San Diego Hooking, Seattle Please Please. Hairs prickling on the back of my neck, I removed a slide and held it up to the light. My stomach lurched at the blasphemy it contained.
Keep it? No. Too risky.
I dropped the slide back into its slot. As I did, my phone rang again. I flipped it open. “What?”
“He’s left the market,” Barrello said urgently. “He’s heading out of the lot, turning left on Antonio Parkway. He’s comin’ back. You want Sal to stop him?”
“No. Can’t chance it.”
“Where are you?”
“You don’t want to know.”
A moment of silence. “Are you inside?”
I didn’t answer.
“Get out of there. Now.”
“Be ready to roll.” I hung up, my mind racing. Thirty seconds to exit the house, another thirty to rejoin Barrello, ninety to make it down the hill and clear the area.
I still had time.
I stepped to the closet and threw open its mirrored doors. Inside hung a collection of blouses, leotards, skirts, jackets, and underwear. I stared. Some of the clothes looked stylish and new, others tawdry and worn. Here and there spatters of rust-colored stain bore testament to the wearers’ final moments. Shelves on either side of the clothes pole held shoes, belts, hats, and a number of photo albums. Conscious of the seconds slipping past, I opened an album and flipped through several pages of snapshots. From each grotesque photo the face of a young woman stared back. Some were beautiful, some average, some plain. A few were alive. Most were not.
Time to go.
After replacing the album, I closed the closet and hurried to the door. As I’d done with each search area, I scanned the room to ensure everything was exactly as I had found it. After relocking the door, I returned the key to the darkroom.
Heart thudding, I bolted up the stairs, raced down the hallway to the kitchen, and sprinted through the garage. Did I forget anything? I wondered as I threw open the side door, reset the lock button, and exited behind the house.
Too late now if I did.
Minutes later, as Barrello and I drove north on Via Pajaro, Victor Carns’s Lamborghini passed us going the other way. I watched as the red exotic sports car roared by, thinking that Arnie had been right.
Carns did look like an accountant.
49
The following Monday I decided to take a few hours off from work to pay a second visit to Dr. Berns. Although I waited until ten AM to start the drive to the California College of Medicine, traffic was still stop-and-go on the way down. Sitting behind the wheel of my Suburban during a period of complete immobility, I reviewed events following my unauthorized search of Victor Carns’s house. It had been a busy weekend.
Later that Saturday afternoon, after dropping me off, Deluca had driven to the UCLA Medical Center and shown Carns’s picture to Lauren. As expected from her earlier interviews, she was unable to make a positive identification, reiterating that she’d never had a clear look at her assailant. Nonetheless, Maureen Baker in Sherman Oaks did recognize Carns as the man who had tailed her from the West LA health club. Following that, Barrello and Fuentes, armed with similar blowups of Carns’s DMV photo, revisited the murdered women’s health clubs. An aerobics instructor at Susan Larson’s club recognized Carns as Virgil Kent. At Julie Welsh’s, he’d been known as Jeff Millford. At Carol Pratt’s, Dennis Glen. At each, the handwriting on Carns’s registration materials proved the same. Although his DMV thumbprint didn’t match any of the crime scene unknowns, by nine o’clock that evening all three investigators decided that they had enough evidence to proceed. Barrello made the call.
An hour later, Barrello, Fuentes, and Deluca met with Lieutenants Huff and Snead. Barrello did most of the talking, revealing Carns’s assumed-name memberships at the murdered women’s health clubs, his DMV records showing ownership of a Ford van and a late model Toyota, and records of his purchase of a spectrum analyzer-an instrument that could be used to break into a residence via the garage. Knowing any mention of me would generate trouble, especially considering my warrantless search earlier that afternoon, all three detectives honored my request not to reveal my involvement-saying that the spectrum analyzer breakthrough had simply been the result of a lucky hunch.
Although insufficient for an arrest, the material presented to Huff and Snead eventually convinced them Carns was the killer. A heated discussion ensued during which Barrello, privy to the results of my illegal reconnaissance, argued that the task force should immediately procure a search warrant. Still wary following the false arrest of Domingos, Snead disagreed, pointing out that they still had no hard evidence tying Carns to the murders. Everything was circumstantial. He also maintained that a search of Carns’s house, assuming they were able to get a warrant, might turn up nothing-at which point they’d have tipped their hand. With what they presently had on Carns, a good lawyer could have the case thrown out of court before the ink had dried on the complaint. The best course, in his opinion, was to establish an airtight, twenty-four-hour surveillance net around their suspect, catching him in the act the next time he made his move. And this time they would do it right.
In the end, Huff reluctantly concurred. Unable to reveal the results of my search, Barrello, Fuentes, and Deluca had no choice but to comply. And after all, they told themselves, they’d have Carns under bombproof surveillance, and a little more time wouldn’t make any difference. They had him. What could go wrong?
Later that night, with surveillance units securely in place around Carns, I phoned Catheryn in Santa Barbara. Our conversation, like an earlier call during which I had revealed Carns’s research on us, was brief and strained.
“He’s under surveillance?” Catheryn said incredulously after I’d updated her on the situation. “Why don’t you arrest him?”
“I’m not on the case anymore, or believe me, I would,” I answered. “Unfortunately, it’s not my call.”
“He can’t get away, can he? He can’t-”
“No. There’re a dozen guys on him, twenty-four hours a day.”
