The Competition - [80]

“Not from what I saw,” Bailey said. “Honorable discharge, no record of discipline. It was probably the only time anyone kept him close to the straight and narrow.”

“Then we focus on Logan’s motives,” he said. “Given what you’ve found, I can’t say that Shane necessarily has a motive to target government buildings-”

“Other than his time in the service-” I said.

“Which was apparently uneventful,” Michael said. “And I don’t have enough data to figure out what motive he might have to target any other place.”

50

Bailey escorted Michael to the elevator, and I waited for her in the interview room, thinking about what he had said.

“It is weird that Shane would go along for the ride and let this kid call the shots,” I said.

“Yeah, it is. But we don’t know that he is. It might be more mutual than that. Shane’s had a tough life. There’s a lot we don’t know and may never know. But even if Logan is calling the shots, it wouldn’t be the first time a younger, smarter perp winds up being the ringleader.”

How could anyone predict what might happen when two complementary psychos connect? It’s crazy to think there could be any concrete rules about anything, let alone which one might be the leader and which the follower. “Have we heard back from Harrellson yet about the Shane sighting up north?”

“So far, no dice. At least no credible dice. And our media relations guy is laughing his head off at how the press is getting a dose of his world. The reporters have been complaining to him about all the wing nuts phoning in their sightings. Mostly of Logan, but some of Shane too. He told them to cry him a river.” Bailey shook her head, with a little smile.

“But bottom line, no new information on Shane?”

“No,” Bailey said. “He’s not using credit cards, and I’d guess he’s switched cars by now since the Jetta hasn’t been spotted again. But we don’t have any more stolen reports we can tie to Shane.”

The blue Jetta had been reported stolen, but we hadn’t connected it to Shane until after our tipster spotted him at the gas station. Now, we had alerts for Los Angeles County and all points north on any cars reported stolen in the past five days.

“Tell you what,” Bailey said. “You call Dorian, see if she’s got anything else on Evan’s room. I’ll check on the security setup for Platt Junior High.”

I shot her a dagger look. “I can make the calls about security.”

“No, you can’t.” Bailey gave me a smug little smile.

She was right, I couldn’t. But that didn’t mean she hadn’t deliberately set me up to take the brunt of Dorian’s wrath. We bought snacks from the vending machine. I got a disgustingly healthy apple; Bailey got Doritos.

While Bailey worked her phone, I pulled out a swivel chair next to her desk, ate her chips, and punched in Dorian’s number on my cell.

“Yeah, what?” Dorian said.

“Hey, Dorian, it’s Rachel Knight. I was just calling to find out-”

“Whether I’ve got money on the Raiders’ game, right? I do not.” Dorian’s funny side showed up at the most unexpected times. “I can’t say the shoe prints I found near the house were left that night. They might’ve been, but there was dirt in the impression, so they could’ve been there from the day before. Bottom line: I can’t rule out the possibility that Evan was abducted, but my very educated guess is that there was no foul play here. The kid rabbited on us.”

“No hairs or fibers to work with?”

“So far, everything comes back to Evan or his mother.”

My line beeped with a call waiting. I signed off with Dorian and took it.

It was Graden. “Hey, what’s up?” I asked.

“We’ve got another letter.”

I felt the apple travel back up to my throat. I took a deep breath to force it back down. “At the school?”

“Yeah. The bomb guys are already on their way out there. Assuming it clears, we’ll have it in my office within the hour.”

“Call me when it gets there.”

51

He smiled. Itmade him happy to see the line of people waiting for the seven o’clock showing of Hail of Metal. They’d been right to pick a Saturday night at the Cinemark in Woodland Hills. No matter how crappy the movie, the idiots always had to have their “date night.” The place would be packed to capacity. A pimply young man dressed in a black shirt and trousers opened the doors, and the line slowly filed into the theater. Pathetic sheep.

It was hard to wait. The digital clock in the dashboard felt torturously slow. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. One minute crawled by. Then another. Then another. Finally, it was time.

Moving quickly up to the doors past the usher, then moving slowly, with deliberate nonchalance, into the theater. The clock above the concession stand read 7:15. Perfect. They’d planned it all so well. The movie would start any minute. This was it. Go, go, go! Up the staircase. Down the hall. To the door on the right.

Knuckles rapped hard, with authority, on the door of the projection booth.

A voice from inside the booth called out, “Who’s there?”

You’ll see, dickweed. “The manager. It’s important. Open up.”

The door opened just a crack. It was enough. Slam! The door flew back, throwing the projectionist to the ground. The knife plunged into his gut, right up to the hilt. He exhaled with a grunt. The knife plunged again, this time straight into his throat. Gurgling, choking sounds bubbled out of the projectionist’s mouth. It would’ve been fun to watch, but there was no time.