Luke taps a few keys. The monitor doesn’t respond. He throws up his hands.
Bailey does something that returns the computer to Luke’s control, and a few keystrokes later, Luke’s clicked through a link in a new message from the address [email protected]. They’re staring at the website for a plastic surgeon named Frederick Pemberton, based in Newport Beach. The man looks like the victim of his own profession, with a sculpted nose that doesn’t match his uneven features. On top of that, his headshot is so airbrushed he looks like a cartoon appearing though a cloud of fog.
Luke’s hands are on his lap, but a Word document suddenly opens on-screen, partially covering the web page. Text, typed by Bailey’s unseen hand, appears in the white space.
You’re welcome.
“Charley.” There’s hesitation in Luke’s voice—hesitation and warning—and it’s fighting with his resolve not to give her any more fiery lectures; she can tell.
“I know,” she says. “I know what you’re going to say and I agree. Bailey?”
Yes.
“I can’t go off just this. You need to tell me more.”
Trust me. It’s him.
“Bailey,” Luke says suddenly. “What was Mom’s nickname for the dog we had when you were in seventh grade?”
We didn’t have a dog when I was in seventh grade. We had fish, asshole.
“Probably should have done that sooner,” Luke mutters. “Sorry. As you were.”
And their names were Siegfried and Roy because you thought it was funny to name fish after tigers.
Charlotte clears her throat. “Bailey, I know you don’t discuss procedure, but I can’t just go off a name like this.”
It’s not funny, FYI. Naming fish after tigers. It doesn’t even make sense.
“It’s definitely him,” Luke says.
“It makes even less sense because those weren’t the names of the tigers,” she says. “Those were the trainers.”
Silence.
“Well, shit,” Luke finally whispers.
Any more talk, computer lab. New library. Same chat room.
“Why?” Charley asks. “What are you afraid of, the FBI?”
Screw the FBI.
“Yeah, that went great,” Luke says.
Relax, brother. They only had a subpoena to look at your phone records and e-mails from more than 180 days ago, and you bored them to death, so you’re fine. Not afraid of FBI.
“Bailey, who do you think is watching us?” she asks.
Maybe it’s whoever you’re afraid of. They seem worse than FBI. Otherwise you wouldn’t be dealing with me.
“All right,” she says. “Well, don’t be afraid of them.”
Startled, Luke looks up from his palms.
The lack of any new text suggests Bailey’s also surprised.
“What?” Charlotte says. “You think they’re going to try to stop us? We’re doing what they asked. We’re trying to find a bad man. They should be thrilled.”
“We’re doing what Dylan asked,” he says. “They might not be such a team, remember?” He looks instantly regretful. “Take the chair. Talk to him. I’ll get you something to drink.”
So he’s trying. That’s good, she thinks.
If you’re going to make me discuss procedure, I want to hear yours. Why are you going after this guy yourself?
“It’s a long story,” she answers.
So’s mine, but you seem to know it all already.
“I know the version your brother knows. That’s all.”
Touché I guess.
“How sure are you this is the guy?” she asks.
85 percent.
She laughs.
Let me put it this way. If you’re planning to share what I tell you with the press, I’d say I’m 90 percent sure. If you’re planning on taking out a hit on this guy, I’d drop it to 75 percent.
“Well, that is certainly manipulative, Bailey Prescott.”
???
“So whatever you’ve learned, you’re willing to see the guy’s life destroyed by the media, but you don’t necessarily think he deserves to die. Is that it? Do either of those things have anything to do with whether or not he’s a serial killer?”
White space.
Luke returns, sets two Sprite Zeros down on the desk next to the keyboard, starts reading over her shoulder.
“Did we lose him?” he asks.
“I don’t know.”
Answer me this.
They both perk up.
You’ll do surveillance on this guy before you do whatever it is you’re planning to do, right?
“Yes,” she answers. “Lots.”
OK. It goes like this.
Luke hurries into the kitchen and returns with a dining table chair, which he places right next to hers as the Word doc begins to fill with text.
The masks are made with a process called plastination. It’s patented, and you can buy the equipment from a company in Germany. It’s a great way to make medical samples of body parts because the process stops the decay and replaces fat and body fluids with polymers. LAPD’s tracked down all the customers in Southern California and found users are medical and/or legit. For the most part. But they’ve got suspicions about one. The Bryant Center in Newport Beach. Heard of it?
“That’s where that exhibit is, right?” Luke asks.
“What exhibit?” she asks.
“The one with all the bodies. You know, where they’re all preserved and posed and you can see the muscles.”
“Oh yeah, I saw pictures. That’s disgusting.”
The exhibit is just part of it. Bryant Center is run by multimillionaire real estate guy Denny Bryant, who started a center for “youth sciences.” Antiaging stuff. Mostly quack medicine. But the exhibit pays a huge chunk of the bills. It’s been sold out since it opened. Plastination is how all the bodies in the exhibit were made.
“You didn’t send us a picture of Denny Bryant,” Charlotte says. “You sent us this Pemberton guy.”
Chill. I’m getting there. Robbery Homicide Division thinks Bryant might either be their guy or he’s covering for their guy. He’s got a history. Charges of spousal abuse from an ex-wife. Some shit with hookers he got buried. Classic rich fuckhead. But he’s not the killer.
“Why are you so sure?” she asks.
There’s a lot that’s not made it into the press about the masks . . . yet. Surgery behind them is excellent. Top-notch. Killer has to be a skilled surgeon. But there’s no shortage of those in Southern California.
“But they also have to know how to . . . plastinate, or however you say it,” Luke adds.
That part isn’t as hard. It’s a four-step process. You just need the space and the equipment and some practice. Real problem is they haven’t found individual surgeons who have bought plastination kits and materials. Also both abductions super skilled. From different crowded areas. They think first outside nightclub in downtown LA, but not sure. Second, side street off Ventura Blvd. in Studio City. More sure, not 100 percent. No one turning up on surveillance cameras scoping out areas in advance. But abductions as methodical as surgeries. If the masks hadn’t turned up, the two disappearances might never have been linked by police.
“Denny Bryant’s not a surgeon, I take it,” she says.
No. But they think the Mask Maker is connected to the center in some way. They think he’s using their chemicals and equipment. Problem is Denny Bryant knew he’d be implicated as soon as the first mask was found. And he was smart about it. He had his lawyers go in on day one and hand over purchase records for all the center’s labs so it looked like they were being cooperative.
“Isn’t that cooperative?” Charlotte asks.
No. It’s bullshit. He knows what they’re gonna be after, and it’s his employee records and security access logs. They’re going to want to look at the names of anyone who had access to the chemicals and equipment. And for some reason, that’s what he wants to keep secret. And a judge just agreed he had a right to.
“So the cops went after a warrant, and it was denied?” Luke asks.
Judge said it had all the makings of a fishing expedition. And apparently he shared the suspicions of Bryant’s lawyers.