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June 2
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Giving Birth to a Thriller on Mother's Day! CITY OF STONES, Chapter 4 Sneak Peek!
Chapter 4
Traffic had been horrendous, the twenty-mile
drive from the academy to his house in the hills above Potrero Canyon Park
taking almost two hours.
He didn’t mind really.
Not when dusk was just giving in to the night. Not when the
shadows had turned blue and all the lights were coming on. He could remember
working with a crime scene photographer who loved to take pictures of
landscapes on the side and always called this time of day magic hour.
Matt pulled into the carport and climbed out from behind
the wheel. Unlocking the front door, he hit the outdoor lights and stepped into
the living room. The house was dark inside, but through the windows to the
south he could see Santa Monica and Venice Beach just beginning to vanish
beneath the marine layer sweeping in from the ocean. To the east he still had a
clear view of the LA Basin all the way to the tall buildings downtown. He
crossed the room to the slider and gazed through the glass. The moon had just
begun to rise above the horizon and appeared to be trapped behind the
buildings. For several moments, he stared at it in wonder—the moon, just short
of full, casting the entire city in a warm orange light.
Magic hour . . .
It was good to be home.
Matt turned away finally, switching on the lights and
breezing down the hall into his bedroom. After getting out of his uniform, he
pulled on a pair of jeans and grabbed a sweatshirt. Then he stepped into the
kitchen and poured a vodka over ice from the bottle of Tito’s he kept in the
freezer.
While it may have been true that the wounds on his face and
right arm were healing from his uncle’s work and that even the scars from the
four gunshot wounds he’d received in October were beginning to fade, Matt knew
from the surgeons who saved his life that the pain would be with him for a long
time. He looked at his meds on the counter, then took a sip of vodka. As he
thought it over and his stomach began to glow, it seemed like vodka was the
right way to go tonight.
At least for now.
His cell phone began vibrating. Digging it out of his
pocket, he checked the face and became very still.
It was that reporter again. The one from the Times.
Ryan Brooks. Calling at—Matt checked the time on the phone’s face—calling at
seven fifteen on a cold night in late January.
Matt ditched the call, slipped the phone back into his
pocket, and walked into the living room with his drink. There had been a time
when he thought that if his uncle was captured or even killed, these kinds of
calls would go away. But after adding it up, he’d had a change of mind—a hunch
that there would always be something new to the narrative about a serial killer
like Dr. George Baylor. The anniversary of an innocent person’s murder, a new
piece of evidence found, another body from yet another vicious killing
unearthed, or worse, a reporter nosing around in Matt’s past and uncovering
something deeply personal that remained too painful to look at and deserved to
have been left alone.
The phone started ringing again. Not his cell this time but
the landline. Matt walked over to his
reading chair, grabbed the handset, and eyeballed the caller ID.
It was Brooks again. Somehow, the reporter had managed to
get his home phone number.
Matt shook his head in disbelief and sat down in the chair.
After resting his glass on the table by a short stack of books, he switched on
the phone.
“How did you get my phone numbers?” Matt said in an
exceedingly quiet and grim voice.
Brooks hesitated, then spoke quickly. “I’m not trying to
hound you, Jones. I apologize if it feels that way. I really do. I don’t want
to bother you.”
Matt grimaced, seething. “How did you get my phone
numbers?” he repeated in an even more somber voice.
“You sound pissed off,” Brooks said. “You have a right to
be. I just wanted to talk to you.”
“I figured that much out.”
The reporter cleared his throat. “I wanted to talk,” he
said nervously. “Not about that. Not about what you’re thinking.”
“What am I thinking, Brooks? By the way, that’s your real
name, right? The one on your caller ID? You’re working for the Times?”
“That’s me,” he said. “Ryan Brooks. There’s nothing phony
going on here, Jones. I wouldn’t do that. I just wanted to talk to you.”
Matt stood up and started pacing by the windows. “About
what?”
Brooks hesitated again, then let out a sigh. “I need a
favor,” the reporter said.
Matt stopped pacing and looked out the slider. The tall
buildings downtown had lost their grip, and the moon was inching its way free
and clear in the sky above the city.
“A favor?” Matt said.
“Maybe I should put it another way. I need advice. I’m
researching a story. It has nothing to do with you.”
Matt took a moment to chew it over. “Why me?” he said
finally.
“I’d rather not talk about it on the phone. I don’t mean to
sound mysterious, Jones. But I was hoping we could meet tomorrow.”
“I’ll ask you again, Brooks. Why me?”
“I’ve read enough to know that you’ve got a rare gift for
this kind of thing. From what I’ve heard, you’re still on medical leave. I was
thinking you might have some spare time. The story I’m researching is
straightforward enough, but it needs a pair of eyes like yours. A detective’s
eyes. Someone with your instincts. Someone who can tell me if I’m on the right
track or just making things up along the way.”
Matt picked up his glass and took a sip. The ice had
melted, the vodka losing its edge. He needed a refill.
