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Dance, he'd seen when he'd slipped into her Pathfinder at the Bay View crime scene, was presently attending a concert at the Performing Arts Center in Monterey. T
he tickets were in her glove compartment. He'd thought momentarily about staging a final attack there, with the chance that she'd be severely injured or killed. But coming after Grant's suicide, that would be suspicious.
Besides, there was another reason he didn't want her dead.
He looked over the notes he'd jotted after getting the information on the man's license plate. "There's a close associate. Named TJ Scanlon. Lives in Carmel Valley. We'll kill him, make it look gang related. It'll deflect her. She'll drop everything and go after them."
"Why not just kill her?"
March could think of no answer. Just: "It's better this way."
Another reason...
He jabbed a finger at the TV screen. "Ah, watch. This is it."
On the screen a hammerhead shark, awkward yet elegant, swam toward the camera then veered upward and, as casually as a human swatting a mosquito, opened its mouth and neatly removed the leg of a surfer treading water overhead. The shark and limb vanished as the massive cloud of red streamed like smoke into the scene, eventually obscuring the mutilated young man, writhing as he died.
"Well," Jenkins said. "Here's to Four-K." He lifted a glass of wine.
March nodded. He stared at the imagery for a moment longer and shut the set off. He picked up the Louis Vuitton bag, checked that the hunting knife and gun were still inside, and gestured his boss toward the door. "After you."
Chapter 81
This was an era he knew nothing about, didn't care for, didn't appreciate.
The sixties in the U.S.
Antioch March believed it was called the counterculture, and, for some reason, CBI agent TJ Scanlon loved it.
As they stood in the living room of the three-bedroom ranch-style house in Carmel Valley, March and Jenkins surveyed the place. Orange and brown dominated. Carpet, furniture, tablecloths. On the wall were posters--nice ones, framed--of Jimi Hendrix at Woodstock, the Mamas and the Papas, Jefferson Airplane. The doors were strings of colorful beads that clicked when you pushed them. And, yes, a lava lamp.
"Sets you on edge, doesn't it?" Jenkins asked.
It did.
In his gloved hand March clicked on a black light. The ultraviolet rays spectacularly lit up what had been a dull poster of a ship improbably sailing through the sky.
He shut the light off again.
A glance at a large peace symbol, reminiscent of the Mercedes-Benz emblem on his car back home. This icon was made out of shells.
On edge...
He told the Get to relax; it was, he suspected, still angry that the Asian family on the rocks had missed the opportunity to die spectacular deaths in the icy bay.
Somebody's not happy...
You will be soon.
They had parked two blocks away and made their way to Scanlon's house through woods, out of sight of any of the neighbors. March, the technician of the two, had examined the man's place carefully from the distance. Then, convinced it was unoccupied, he'd slipped up and peered through the windows. No alarms, no security cameras. The lock had been easily jimmied. Then, ready to flee in case they'd missed an alarm, they'd waited. Then they'd begun preparing the room for the events tonight.
March now turned from the bizarre decor and looked over the cot they'd set up. TJ Scanlon's final resting place. The young man would be tied down and tortured. You didn't need much. March had his knife and he'd found a pair of pliers. Pain was simple. You didn't need to get elaborate.
He'd also staged the scene rather well, he thought. They'd bought a bottle of rubbing alcohol, to enhance the agent's agony, from a convenience store in the barrio of Salinas, a place known for gangs, and they'd picked up some trash and discarded rags from the area too. A little research had revealed the colors and signs of the K-101s, which was a crew that the CBI had had some run-ins with, arresting a few lieutenant-level bangers. March had tagged the signs on Scanlon's wall, right above the spot where he would die. Presumably after giving up all sorts of helpful information about ongoing investigations into the gang.
March wondered what "TJ" stood for. He didn't bother to prowl through paperwork to find out.
Thomas Jefferson?
