Page 35 of The Grave Artist (Sanchez & Heron #2)

Carmen’s sense of unease increased as she sat across from the man plucked from the boat cruising toward the honeymoon suite. The resort’s manager had directed her and Heron to a private meeting room to conduct an initial interview.

During which it became clear the evening had not turned out as they’d hoped.

Got him?

No.

Zebrowski had confirmed the man Grange hauled from the boat was Hal Pratt, one of their employees.

So, 99 percent likelihood he wasn’t HK—who was too smart to hunt this close to home.

Of course, he might be an accomplice, or a witness, but even if so, he was not in a cooperative mood.

She gave him a stern look. “Mr. Zebrowski told me no one was scheduled to be out on the lagoon at night unless they were making a room service run. Which you weren’t. That’s for the guests’ privacy. Explain.”

Pratt’s knee bounced up and down as he sat in the swivel chair across from hers. “Is that, like, a crime?”

The color had drained from his face, making his freckles appear livid against his pale skin. He was tall and stocky, although, at twenty-four, he already had the look of a former high school athlete gone to seed.

“‘Crime’? How’s that responsive to my question? It’s against your employer’s policy. So, again, explain.”

More knee bouncing. More thinking. “I’m supposed to take the honeymoon couple out on an excursion in the morning. I wanted to get everything prepped ahead of time.”

She recalled they did have a trip planned. But she had to ask the obvious. “At nearly midnight?”

“I’m kind of a night owl. I’d rather stay up late than get up early. So I was out at a bar, just hanging, you know? Then I figured I’d stop here and get the boat ready on the way home. That way, I could sleep in longer.” Speaking fast, and overexplaining.

“Name of the bar?”

“Um. The Rabbit’s Hat. Alvarado Street.”

“And if we contacted them, will they confirm you were there tonight?” She gave Heron a significant look and he began typing on his tablet. Which probably was gibberish and only for show.

Pratt stared at him and fidgeted some more. “I was kind of sitting near the back. Could be nobody saw me.” He swallowed. “I’m the kind of guy people don’t notice.”

“What about the server?” she asked. “And your check?”

“I paid cash.”

Convenient.

“When did you deliver the champagne and chocolates to the honeymoon suite?” She looked at her own tablet. “The exact time.”

She had phrased the question as if the answer were a foregone conclusion.

During an interview, it was important to keep the subject in the dark about how much you knew.

They were aware of his actions and would make him try to justify them.

On the other hand, he would have no clue what she meant if he hadn’t done it.

“What? No, no, I didn’t take anything to the honeymoon suite. The kitchen and room service staff are the only ones who do food and beverage. I do the entertainment packages, that’s it.”

She wasn’t surprised, and moved on, switching subjects to keep him off-balance. “Where were you last Saturday night?”

The change in direction sparked a blink. “Um, Saturday? Working.”

She stood and stepped to the corner of the room. Heron followed. She said softly, “He’s not HK, obviously. But something’s not right.”

He said, “You want me to get a phone call?”

“Yeah, good.”

She returned to Pratt and started to ask him about his employment history, observing him closely—and making sure he saw her doing so.

Even in the chill of the room he was sweating, and there wasn’t a square inch of the place that his nervous eyes had not darted to.

She heard a trill and she and Pratt looked toward Heron.

He had hit a ringtone button and was pretending to take a call.

He made a few sounds along the order of “uh-huh,” and “yeah,” all the while frowning as he stared at Pratt.

He disconnected and crossed the room to whisper in Carmen’s ear.

“How was that? I’d say it was another Academy Award performance. ”

She nodded and turned stern eyes on Pratt, rising and packing up her tablet. A glance at Heron. “So. That confirms it. Which detention center?”

Heron said, “La Brea, I’d say.”

“There? They’ll eat him alive.”

Pratt’s eyes were wide. “Wait. Who was that? Who was on the phone?”

She spared him a glance. “Hush.”

Heron said, “You were telling me just the other day, Sanchez. You hate being lied to.”

She then nodded. “You’re right. La Brea it is.”

Pratt wrung his hands. “I’m sorry, okay. You don’t understand!”

She gave him her coldest glare. “Fill me in. You have five minutes. And if you lie again, you’re going straight to La Brea.”

Which was a perfectly fine street in Los Angeles, home to office buildings and the famed tar pit, filled with prehistoric, fossilized creatures, and, as far as Carmen knew, not a single detention center or jail.

“I was lying. I’m sorry, but I’m scared. He’s going to hurt my family!” Tears dotted his eyes.

They had finally gotten to the truth, and she could see where Pratt was going. She sat down. “Tell me.” Softer now.

Carmen Sanchez was often good cop and bad cop in the same interview.

“Okay, there was a man.” His eyes didn’t waver. “He was by the dock where we keep the service boats. Thirty, forty minutes ago, I was going off shift. He came up to me. He kept a flashlight in my eyes. He said he had a gun.”

“Shit,” Carmen muttered.

She called Liam Grange and told him what Pratt had said. The tactical leader and his team would search, but she was certain the instant the HSI boat appeared, HK had fled. Other officers would secure the scene until Su Ling and her evidence-collection crew arrived.

She then turned back to Pratt, whose voice cracked as he continued, “I thought I was being mugged. He asked for my wallet. Only he didn’t take any money or credit cards. He had me pull out my driver’s license and he took a picture of it.”

The ID with his home address meant HK could find, and hurt, Pratt’s family if he helped the police. A well-used gangbanger tactic to keep witnesses silent. They almost never acted on the threat, but the technique was powerful leverage.

“And he wanted you to take a boat out to the villa.” Heron was nodding with the same understanding Carmen now had.

“That’s all. Yes. Take it out and back.”

“Shit,” Carmen said. “He was testing—to see if it was a trap.”

Heron asked, “What else do you remember?”

“The light, my eyes. I really couldn’t see anything. I swear! His voice, I think he was White. Tall, from the silhouette. That’s all, and he was like, I’ll fucking kill you and your family in a minute, and I don’t care. I mean, he didn’t say it, but that was the tone, you know.”

She said, “We can protect your family.”

“He disappeared but maybe he waited around to see if I talked to you.”

“He didn’t,” she assured him. “But call your family and have them spend the night with friends or relatives. You’re not in danger but it’ll give you some peace of mind. Anything else you can remember?”

“No. I swear!”

Often those two words are an indicator of deception. Not now. He was telling the truth.

“He give you money?”

“No! Really. Here’s all I have on me.” He opened the wallet and showed a couple of twenties and dug a crumpled wad of cash—about forty dollars—from his pocket.

She believed HK hadn’t paid him. After all, why fork out money when it costs nothing to threaten violence?

“Where was he standing?”

Pratt stood and pointed out the window. “There. Can you see it? The lawn.”

She suppressed a sigh. The crime scene techs couldn’t lift footprints from grass.

Not that they’d be much help anyway.

“Where should my family go? My mother-in-law in San Diego?”

Was he asking permission? “That’ll be fine,” she said, then asked, “Do you know which boat he took earlier to deliver the wine and candy?”

Pratt said, “There’s just the one at that dock. The one I was in.”

Maybe they could lift prints.

Pratt frowned. “You know, there’s one thing I can say about him. One thing I noticed.”

“What?”

“He wore gloves. Those blue latex ones the bad guys always use on TV. So they don’t leave fingerprints. The wife and I, we watch all those shows.”

But of course. Why should anything be easy?

“Get on home,” she told him.

“Look, I’m sorry I lied.”

“It’s all right. If you remember anything else, give me a call.” She handed him her card.

He hurried out.

She and Heron met with the manager, who looked a bit more edgy and a bit less coiffed than earlier. Carmen supposed a tactical operation on the grounds of your hotel will do that. She assured him Pratt was in no trouble.

“Will this ...” Zebrowski began hesitantly. “Will this make the news?”

“Doubt it,” she said. Police scanners were generally legal in California, but HSI used specially dedicated frequencies so reporters could not pick up transmissions about operations.

That was the reason the Hollywood Crest killing was not yet public knowledge.

Carmen’s—and Williamson’s—theory was you kept the media out of the picture for as long as possible.

On the whole, reporters screwed up investigations more than they helped.

“Why is he doing this?” Zebrowski asked. “What’s the point?”

“I wish we could answer that,” Heron said.

“So he’s a serial killer. Like Ted Bundy.”

“Smarter, more careful. But yes, similar.”

“Lord.”

She and Heron walked outside into the cool night.

She called Williamson to give him a report and was surprised to hear a message that he was out of town for a few days. Send any reports in writing to him, copying Destiny Baker, his assistant. For emergencies, call HSI’s or DHS’s regional offices. He gave the numbers. She left a message.

“Williamson’s out of town. I’ll write up a report and send it over to you to fill in, then can you get it to him?”

“Sure. Tonight.”

They walked to their respective vehicles, parked beside each other and stopped before getting in.

The operation had been so consuming, she had not had time to check personal messages. She did so now and felt a surge of relief reading the first one.

“Frank’s okay. ‘Satisfactory condition,’ whatever the hell that means. But I’ll take it.”

“Really.” Heron’s face showed his own reaction. Guarded but pleased.

One thing was curious, though. She had not received a call or text from her sister. She supposed Selina was still angry that she hadn’t dropped everything to pursue their father’s killer.

Siblings, she reflected with a sigh and couldn’t help but think of their father’s message about the money-laundering goddesses from mythology.

Heron caught her expression and lifted an eyebrow.

Not in the mood to elaborate, she said nothing.

Los Angeles is the definition of ambient light and usually even on the clearest of evenings stars are nearly invisible. Here, though, because of the tropical vegetation and towering trees, you could see thousands of bright-white pinpricks overhead. She noticed Heron was also looking skyward.

Her thoughts moved from her sister to a very different memory: the near kiss an hour earlier, as they sat outside the honeymoon suite.

And what, she wondered, was going through his mind just now?

She turned to him.

To see Heron tuck his tablet into his backpack and give her a businesslike, almost formal nod as he climbed into the driver’s seat. “I’ll look for that report.”

“I’ll get it to you ASAP.”

And she watched him slam the door, throw the vehicle into gear and speed from the lot, leaving behind a trail of mist that soon vanished into the timeless vegetation.