CHAPTER THIRTY THREE

Midafternoon sun stabbed through the car windows as Ella screeched up to Sebastian Doyle”s house. The place was a shoebox, squat and faded, hunkered down between carbon copy neighbors. Just another cookie cutter dump in this nowhere burg.

As soon as she killed the engine, Luca was out and moving before she could blink, the spring-loaded pretty boy jonesing for action. Ella hauled herself after him, ignoring the creak in her joints, the twinge in her back. Too little rest, too many unhealed injuries.

They hit the porch together, Luca pounding on the door like it owed him money. Three strikes, sharp and loud as gunshots in the drowsy afternoon hush. They waited, listened. Not a damn thing. No shuffle of feet, no startled curses. Just a big fat goose egg.

Ella”s molars ground together, frustration bubbling in her guts like a shook-up soda can. No way was she letting this twisted son of a bitch slip through her fingers. Not when they were so close she could practically smell the sociopathy leaking out of the walls.

Ella pounded on the door, three short, sharp raps. ‘Sebastian Doyle, FBI. Open up.’

Silence. Nothing but the distant yap of a dog and the creak of a screen door two houses down. Ella scowled, fist rising to knock again.

Then the shades twitched.

Just a flutter, there and gone. But it was enough. Ella”s hand dropped to her holster, fingers curling round cool steel. Beside her, Luca tensed, a quivering arrow ready to fly.

‘Doyle, we just want to talk,’ she called.

More silence. Another shiver of the shades, a glimpse of movement in the gloom beyond. Then, quick as a magic trick – nothing. Stillness settled like a shroud.

‘God damn,’ she spat. Then she was moving, prowling around the side of the house like a hungry alley cat. Looking for a way in, an angle to play. Luca scrambled after her, protest hot on his heels.

‘Whoa, hey! Are you sure about this? Feels a little off-book for’

‘Can it.’ Ella shot him a look that could curdle milk. ‘If the director kicks up a fuss, just blame me. I”m not letting this freak ghost us, not when we”re breathing down his damn neck.’

She hugged the side of the house, slinking through knee-high grass gone to seed. Dandelions clawed at her ankles, ragweed dusting her trousers. Ahead, a small window winked at her from beneath a rusted-out AC unit.

The glass was filthy, caked with the grime of years. But it was open a crack, just enough for clever fingers to pry it wider. Ella jimmied the sash, grunting as the warped wood resisted. But she was a determined cuss, and splinters were a small price for entry.

The window shrieked like a stepped-on cat as she forced it up. She clambered through, ass-first and graceless. Tumbled to a linoleum floor that hadn”t seen a mop in years.

The kitchen was a ruin. Peeling Formica and nicotine-stained walls, empty bottles and crusted dishes teetering in the sink. Ella held her breath, picking through the detritus towards the door. She palmed the knob, swung the door wide for Luca and his highfalutin protocol. Bless him for wanting to do things by the book, she thought, but sometimes you had to break the rules to get ahead.

The place was a mausoleum. Peeling wallpaper, faded photos. Threadbare carpets gone bald with age. Ella ghosted through the hall and into a living room that smelled like mothballs and Bengay.

And there, in the corner – a figure.

Huddled and still, slumped in a wheelchair like a forgotten coat on a rack.

Ella”s heart kicked, adrenaline dumping into her bloodstream like a hit of bad speed. Her piece was in her hand without thought, muzzle trained on that silent shape.

‘Sebastian Doyle?’ Ella shouted. ‘Hands where I can see them.’

A beat. Two. Then a rusty creak as the wheelchair swiveled, as a face emerged.

Not Sebastian. Not by a long shot, unless he”d aged fifty years since his disastrous comedy set at the Laughingstock club a few months ago.

An old woman, white hair and rheumy eyes, skin sagging off her bones like cold oatmeal. For a second, Ella thought she”d just stumbled on a corpse propped up like some sick conversation piece.

Then the granny opened her yap and started screaming bloody murder.

‘Out!’ she howled, claw-hands plucking at the ragged afghan on her lap. ‘Out, out, get out! I’ll call the police!’

Luca’s hands up in surrender. Ella fumbled for her badge, held it up like a shield against granny”s sonic assault. ‘Lady, we are the police. We’re looking for,”

But the broad was too far gone. Lights on, nobody home. She just kept hollering, voice like rusted hinges swinging in a cyclone.

‘Police? Liars! Seb warned me about you! Oh yes he did!’

It all clicked together like a cocked .45. The wheelchair. The one their sick puppy had used to cart his victims around, tuck them into those freak show stocks. Borrowed from this old woman, whoever she was.

‘Seb?’ Luca asked. ‘You mean Sebastian?’

The old biddy pursed her lips, gums smacking wetly. ‘My boy. Wouldn’t hurt anybody, not like you!’

Ella held up placating hands, took a careful step forward. ‘Easy there, Mrs. Doyle. We just need to have a word with Sebastian. Is he here?’

That got her attention. Granny”s milky eyes narrowed, lips curled back over her pink gums. ”No, he ain’t! Now get out before I-,‘

Luca stepped up, hands out in a soothing sort of way. Like he was gentling a startled mare. He had a set of peepers on him that could charm the habit of a nun, this kid. Ella could practically hear the wheels turning under that high-dollar haircut.

‘Ma”am, please. It”s really important we find Seb. He could be in a whole mess of trouble.’

‘Trouble? No, no, not my boy. Not Sebby. He”s a good kid. Always has been.’

Luca flashed a grin, cheeks dimpling. He stepped closer, every inch the gentleman caller came to pay his respects. He pulled out his phone, scrolled until he found the headshot that had been blasted to every badge in a fifty mile radius. He held it up to granny, gentle as a pediatric nurse.

‘This him? This Sebastian?’

The woman squinted. ‘Yes. That’s my boy. But he’s not here. He’s-,’

She clamped her lips shut so fast her dentures clacked.

‘He”s what? Where”d he go, ma”am? Please.’

Granny”s eyes darted around the room like a pair of cracked-out pinballs. Ella could practically see the dementia jellying between her ears, memories slipping and sliding around without a handhold.

‘He’s out,’ the old woman cried.

Luca crouched down at her level and said, ‘My partner and I, we”re just trying to sort out a sticky situation. I”m sure a clever lady like you can understand that.’

The old bird near swooned, apple-doll cheeks gone ruddy. ‘Okay. Though I don’t know what help an old thing like me could be.’

‘More than you know,’ Luca assured her. ‘Now, about your son. We’d love to talk to him. Do you know where we might find him?’

The old woman”s face crumpled, tears springing up to swim in cloudy eyes. ‘Oh, it’s awful! Just awful!’

Luca took her hand and asked, ‘What’s awful, ma’am? Please tell us what you know.’

‘They were so cruel,’ Mrs. Doyle warbled. ‘Awful people!’

‘Which people?’

‘They ruined him,’ she hissed. ‘Those people, that crowd. Laughed my poor boy offstage. Broke him.’

Ella”s gut clenched. So Sebastian had spilled his guts to Mommy Dearest. Poured out all his blackest bile. But did his mother know just how far his son had taken it?

Luca, bless his handsome mug, kept his cool. ‘And these people, ma”am - you know they”ve passed on?’

Ella held her breath, watched confusion cloud those milky eyes. ‘Passed on? You mean...dead? No, no. Seb, he was just gonna talk to them. Sort it all out.’

‘Ma’am, all of those people at your son’s comedy show – the ones shouting at him – are all dead. And we believe Sebastian might be the one responsible.’

The wail that slipped out of granny”s withered lips was damn near inhuman. She started rocking back and forth, keening like a banshee with a busted 8-track.

Ella”s heart twisted in her chest. This old bird was a victim, too. A mother”s love, blind and fierce, warped into something tragic by her son”s sickness. She stepped forward, crouching down beside Luca, her voice soft as she”d ever managed.

‘Mrs. Doyle, I know this is a lot to take in. And I can”t imagine how much you”re hurting right now. But we need your help.’

Luca jumped up, put both hands on her shoulders and kept her still. ‘Mrs. Doyle, I know this is hard, but we need to find Sebastian immediately. If you can help us, we can put an end to all of this.’

The old woman took her sweet time. Wails turned to inaudible murmurs and after a good long stare at Luca’s chiseled feature, she said, ‘Seb is out.’

‘Where?’

‘Gone to meet the last one.’

‘Last one?’

‘The main one. The one who started it. The last one.’

The last one.

Frustration bubbled up like a volcano, and Ella was just about to go full rabid dog when her cell buzzed in her pocket like a cattle prod to the backside. She snatched it up, clocked the name.

Harland.

‘Chief, what is it?’ she answered as she scuttled out of the room, leaving Luca to mind the mother.

‘Christ, woman, you tryin” to deafen me? You find him yet or what?’

‘Negative,’ she bit out. ‘But we’re in his house. With his mom.’

‘His mom?’

‘Don’t ask. What about a next target?’

‘That’s the problem,’ Harland said. ‘My tech guy here IDed three of Laughingstock Larry”s targets from that video. Newman, Bolton, Shepherd. But there ain”t enough pixels in the world to put names to any other mugs in that crowd.’

Ella pinched the bridge of her nose, willed the throbbing in her temples to kindly go to hell.

‘Shit. Doyle’s mom said something about him going after the main one, the last one. There’s no one else in the video? No one at all?’

‘Not that we can see. The main three culprits are the three victims so far. There’s a few other voices, but they’re out of shot.’

Ella closed her eyes, counted to ten. Then again backward, then one more time in Sanskrit.

‘So what are you saying, Chief? That we’re chasing our tails?’

‘I don’t know. What else can we do?’

Ella”s heart dropped into her boots. Three victims, three links in this psycho”s daisy chain. But no fourth. Was this it? Was his mission over, and he”d disappeared into the sunset?

The gears in her skull spun, smoked. All the details, all the testimony. Granny Dearest spitting bile about Seb”s tormentors, the crowd that cracked him open like a bottle rocket on the Fourth of July.

What if Sebastian was targeting someone not on the video?

No. It couldn’t be that, because this video was surely his only reference point for his hecklers. He could have recognized faces in the crowd during his performance, but that seemed a long shot. And besides, it was Archie, Georgia and Harry that made him a viral sensation for the wrong reasons.

Then it hit her. A bolt from the blue.

Ella pulled the phone away from her ear, stared at it like it might start oozing pus.

Maybe they were looking at this backward. Maybe it wasn’t about what was in the video, but what was behind it.

Phone back against her ear, she said, ‘The cameraman.’

‘Christ, of course,’ Harland said.

‘There”s one face we didn”t account for. The prick filming it all. Uploading it for the world to gawk at. He”s the key. Sebastian”s grand finale!’

‘Shit on a shingle,’ Harland spat. Then a clatter, the squawk of tin-can orders hollered at light speed. ‘You”re sure? That”s the connection?’

‘Who else could it be?’ Ella asked.

She could damn near hear the steam shooting out Harland”s ears. But credit to the old goat, he came through in the clutch.

‘Brandon Mulroney. He’s the uploader according to the something-data,’ he barked, after a tense filled eternity. ‘5284 Briarcliff Road.’

‘We’ll be there immediately,’ Ella said.

‘No. Briarcliff Road’s only a mile from here. I’ll get a car there in a blink.’

‘Roger. Meet you there.’

Ella clicked off without another word. She was already moving, already running.