CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

Dr. Sweeton wasn’t answering his cell phone or his front door, and if his car was here at his house, it was locked in the garage. Lennon watched Ambrose lean forward and peer through the glass before ringing the bell again, the chime loud even from outside. “His office door is wide open,” he said. “He would never leave it open like that.”

She cupped her hands to shield the light from the sunset and pressed her forehead to the glass. “Maybe he’s the only one home and just forgot to close it. You said he was exhausted. Maybe he took a sleep aid and is out cold.”

“Maybe,” Ambrose murmured. “But we don’t have time to wait for him to wake up. Lives could be at stake.”

Their eyes met, and Ambrose set his mouth before picking up the cement planter and hurling it through the pane as they both leaned away. Lennon winced as the window shattered loudly, and Ambrose reached in and clicked the lock. No alarm sounded. Ambrose pulled the door open, and they moved inside, their feet crunching over the broken glass.

“Doc?” Ambrose called loudly as they both moved toward the open door of his office. The house remained quiet and still. The office looked mostly normal, except for the pile of papers and what looked like photos and brochures littering the top of the desk and the floor surrounding it.

“What the heck was he doing?” Lennon asked as they stepped up to the mess. She picked up an invitation to a talk that the doctor had given. “This is from ten years ago,” she said. She looked over at the open drawer of the file cabinet and to the box that was overturned on the floor, as though the doctor had poured out its contents to search for something.

Ambrose picked something up, and she felt him still beside her. “Oh shit.”

“What?”

He showed her the same photo of Franco Girone that they’d seen online, and then handed her another that was obviously from the same event. She studied it, realization dawning even if all the puzzle pieces hadn’t yet fallen into place. “Is that who I think it is?” she asked, pointing at the young woman standing to Franco’s left.

“Yeah,” Ambrose said. “It’s Nancy.”

Nancy Sweeton. Doc’s deceased daughter. The one he’d dedicated his project to. The only one of his patients who’d died during treatment. “What does this mean?” she asked.

“I’m not exactly sure.” Ambrose took out his phone and dialed and then let out another frustrated breath as she heard Dr. Sweeton’s voicemail pick up.

They both exited the house, coming to stand at the top of the driveway, Lennon’s gaze on the darkening water of the bay far below this mansion in Pacific Heights. She attempted to organize the information they’d collected over the past hour as Ambrose sent the doctor yet another text.

Her phone rang, and she answered, putting it on speaker and holding it out as Ambrose moved closer. “Franco Girone’s not here,” Lieutenant Byrd said. “But he’s still living in the same house his mother owned. There’s a lab in the basement—he must have spent years assembling this. It’s completely state of the art. He’s definitely our guy, and he intended on doing big things. There are also what look like video recordings of each murder, and lots of product, all with the ‘BB’ stamp. A hazmat crew is on the way.”

Her eyes met Ambrose’s. “Is there anything that might tell us where he’s gone or what he’s doing next?” she asked the lieutenant.

“No specifics found, but there are sketches all over his kitchen table. He plotted out each murder scene in advance. There are notes that must have been done later about ways to improve, some shit I can’t even read that’s probably drug formulas. He’s been very strategic.” The sounds of paper rustling came from the background. “There are also what look like plans for a bigger event, but it’s not clear what.”

“Can you send me a screenshot of that?” Lennon asked.

“Yeah. Take a look. Then we can convene about where to go from here. Of course, we’ll have this place staked out in case he returns. Oh, and hey, good work, Gray. We got him, dead to rights.”

“Don’t thank me too soon,” she said. “We still have to apprehend him before he hurts anyone else.”

She hung up, and a moment later, Lennon’s phone dinged, indicating a text had arrived. She opened it, frowning as she looked the rough sketch over and then turned it so Ambrose could see. “It looks like a dinner ... or an event,” she said. “There are tables inside ... and ...” She moved the phone closer to Ambrose. “What is that?”

He studied it for a moment. “A DJ booth, maybe?”

“A DJ booth,” she murmured. “Yes, an event. He’s targeting an event?” She turned the phone back to her and counted the tables. Twelve. “Ambrose, it looks like at least a hundred people are going to be here. Is this what he’s been working up to?”

Killing not just one or two or four, but over a hundred at a time? And maybe it wasn’t just what he was working up to. Maybe it was only another experiment on his way to more. Just a stop along the route to complete genocide. The evil stunned her, and she hadn’t thought she could be stunned by evil anymore. Sickened? Distraught? Yes. But no longer stunned.

“When, though?” Ambrose asked. “And where? If we don’t know those answers, we can’t do a damn thing.”

Lennon looked back down at the sketch. “Ambrose ... what do you think these are?”

His gaze lingered where she was pointing. “Framed paintings hung on the wall?”

No, not exactly. She chewed at her lip, looking away, her gaze snagging on the shards of shattered glass from the front door. Glass. Glass. “Stained glass,” she said. “Could these be stained glass windows?”

“You could be right,” Ambrose said, his head moving closer to hers.

“If so, it’s a church. He’s targeting a church service.”

“One with a DJ booth and tables?”

“Okay, no, you’re right. An event at a church.” Something was just on the edge of her mind. Stained glass. Bright colors. An event. She turned away and then suddenly turned back. “Oh my God, Ambrose. The Heroes for Homelessness ... there was a DJ advertised. And ...” Her eyes flared with realization. “Rays of Hope. His mother’s organization. Oh my God, he’s going to do something horrific there. For her.”

She googled the foundation’s number and dialed, her heart skittering as she waited, the call finally going to voicemail. She hung up just as Ambrose’s head came up from his phone, where he’d obviously been googling the event itself. “It’s being held at Mercy Cathedral. Tonight. It’s already started.”

Lennon called Lieutenant Byrd as they sped toward Mercy Cathedral and told him where they were heading and why. The lieutenant told Lennon he’d send a few backup cars to the church in the hope that Franco Girone was present and that they could halt any potential plan that was underway at the event this evening.

Ambrose reached over and took her hand as he drove and laced his fingers with hers. Their eyes met, and she whispered a silent prayer that they weren’t going to be too late.