"I"m not going anywhere," I said.
Bowing my head to the rain, I followed Burrell back to Jed"s hideout.
[image]
We took our time, and searched the hideout thoroughly. Every piece of furniture and accessory felt like something a nineteen-year-old boy would own. Nothing we found indicated that Heather or Sampson had recently been there. Nor was there any evidence of Jed having killed anyone. Serial killers were notorious for keeping trophies of their victims, and we didn"t find a single item that looked suspicious.
"Jack, look at this," Burrell said.
I stopped what I was doing. Burrell sat on the couch with an old book in her lap.
"What is it?" I asked.
"Take a look."
She handed me the book. It was falling apart, and I carefully opened it. It was a Bible, and on the first page I saw the names of every member of the Grimes family who had owned it over the past hundred years. At the bottom of the page was Jed"s name.
"Not the kind of thing you expect to find in a serial killer"s hideout, is it?" I said.
"No, it isn"t," Burrell said.
I noticed something stuck in the Bible"s pages, and pulled it out. It was a photograph of Jed standing next to a priest with a turned collar. The priest was bowed over from age, with wisps of silver hair that danced on his head. The priest had his hand on Jed"s shoulder, and they were both smiling.
I flipped the photo over. There was a date written on the back. It had been taken a year ago. I showed it to Burrell.
"Jed"s priest," I said.
Burrell studied the photograph, and shook her head. "Have you ever heard of a serial killer having a priest?"
"No," I said.
"Whitley needs to see this, and the Bible."
"Yes, he does."
Burrell"s cell phone rang. She answered it, then looked at me.
"Buster"s going to live," she said.
I pulled out my keys. My job was done here.
"Let me know how it goes," I said.
I drove to the Hollywood Animal Clinic in the pouring rain. A receptionist with silver thunderbolts painted on her fingernails greeted me from behind a Plexiglas panel.
"Can I help you?" the receptionist asked.
"I own a dog that was brought in earlier," I said.
"The Australian Shepherd that was involved in the manhunt?"
"That"s right."
She led me to an examination room, and told me the vet would be in shortly. While I waited, I looked at the horse photographs hanging on the walls. They showed a pretty woman with short spiked hair sitting on a chestnut stallion with ribbons hanging around its neck. The horse"s name was Charley Horse, which brought a smile to my face.
The vet came in wearing a white lab coat. It was the same woman from the photos. Her name tag said Dr. Chris Owens.
"The police tell me your dog"s a hero," Dr. Owens said.
No one had ever called Buster that before, much less anything nice.
"How"s he doing?" I asked.
"He regained consciousness a short while ago, but is still groggy," Dr. Owens said. "He seems to be all right, but I"m concerned about his skull. I don"t think it"s cracked, but I won"t know for certain until I run a series of X-rays."
I"d been to enough emergency clinics to know how they operated.
"How much are we talking about?" I asked.
Dr. Owens worked up the cost on a pocket calculator, and showed me the figure. Three hundred and twenty bucks for a lousy pound mutt.
"Run the X-rays," I said.
"I"ll need you to sign a form agreeing to the procedure," Dr. Owens said.
I removed the money from my wallet, and stuffed it into her hand.
"Right now," I said.
"He"s a special dog, isn"t he?" she asked.
No one had ever called Buster that before, either.
Dr. Owens returned to the examination room holding a handful of X-rays, which she held up to the overhead light for me to see. "Your dog has suffered a mild concussion. It could have been worse, but he"s got a thick skull."
"Can I take him home?" I asked.
"I don"t see why not."
I followed her down the hall to the X-ray room, where Buster lay on a table. His eyes were at half-mast, and I saw his tiny tail wag.
"You need to keep him quiet for a few days," Dr. Owens said. "I know that"s hard with an Aussie, but you don"t want him running around. I"m giving you some pain pills. Give him two every four hours until they run out."
I carried out Buster with his cold nose pressed against my neck. The waiting area was filled with people with ailing pets, and a woman stroking a Siamese cat spoke to me.
"Is it true what the receptionist said about your dog?" the woman asked.
"What"s that?" I asked.
"That he helped the police catch that horrible serial killer Jed Grimes?"
I hadn"t mentioned Jed"s name to the receptionist, and I wondered how the woman had made the connection. Then I spied a TV in the corner of the room. Whitley was on, and was wearing fresh clothes, and had slicked back his hair. He was holding a press conference for the local media, and talking about Jed"s apprehension. People accused of crimes were supposed to be innocent until proven guilty, only Whitley was calling Jed a killer, and giving himself and his agents the credit for apprehending him.
I walked out of the clinic without replying.
CHAPTER FIFTY.
I found Burrell standing in the clinic parking lot. She asked after my heroic dog. found Burrell standing in the clinic parking lot. She asked after my heroic dog.
"He"s going to be okay."
"I"m glad. We need to talk," she said.
Burrell offered to drive me home in my pickup, with a police cruiser following us. I agreed, and climbed into the pa.s.senger seat with Buster in my arms. He was coming around, and seemed to be enjoying all the attention I was giving him.
It was still raining like it was the end of the world. Burrell crawled through a tricky roundabout in the center of town, then turned her head to look at me. "You told me something the first day I came to work for you," she said. "You said, "Listen to your brain, but follow your heart." I"ve never forgotten that."
"Is your heart telling you something now?" I asked.
"Yes. I think we arrested the wrong person."
"Did you talk to Whitley?"
"I called him, and told him about finding the Bible and photo of the priest in Jed"s hideout. Whitley said it was meaningless. He blew me off."
Burrell didn"t try to hide the anger in her voice.
"What"s the deal between you two?" I asked.
"I thought we were in love," she said.
"Thought?"
"Whitley and I have been seeing each other for about a year. He told me he was leaving his wife. The story changed a few hours ago."
"I"m sorry."
"Don"t be."
We crossed the Hollywood Bridge, and took A1A north to the Sunset. The streets were deserted, the bars and restaurants empty. I had Burrell pull into the Sunset"s parking lot, and park by the entrance. The cruiser did the same.
"Earlier you told me that you thought someone who worked in a restaurant was our killer," Burrell said. "Do you have a profile?"
Buster was whining to get out of the car. Opening my door, I laid him onto the pavement, and watched him teeter down to the sh.o.r.eline and relieve himself.
"Our killer works in a restaurant," I said, closing my door. "He might be the night manager, or maybe even the owner. He"s a loner, and has lived in LeAnn"s neighborhood for many years. He also has a connection to Abb Grimes, although I haven"t figured out what it is. He"s smart, but impulsive."
"A cla.s.sic serial killer," Burrell said.
"That"s right."
"If I run a background check on every restaurant employee in the area, would you take a look at them, and see if you could pick him out?"
I stared at the waves crashing on the beach. My nose was throbbing, and I was exhausted to the point that I could hardly keep my eyes open.
"Sure," I said.
Burrell leaned across the seat, and kissed me on the cheek. "Thanks, Jack."
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Buster froze at the bottom of the stairwell leading to my room. I carried him upstairs, and laid him on the bed. Then I examined myself in the bathroom. My nose was turning purple, and had a nasty b.u.mp over the bridge. No more GQ GQ covers for me. covers for me.
I went downstairs to the bar. Two teenage girls were dancing in front of the jukebox while the Dwarfs ogled them from their bar stools. The girls were both slurping Diet c.o.kes, and I spoke to Sonny.
"They legal?" I asked.
"Naw. Tried to pa.s.s off some fake IDs, but I made them," Sonny said.
"Why didn"t you throw them out?"
"Because I"m h.o.r.n.y."