CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Ella had tried to grab Mia on her way out of the precinct but she was nowhere to be found, so she was either shoveling more food into her mouth or chasing down Jared Novak’s alibi. Either way, she was flying solo on this one.
She'd called the Colisée Theatre twice from the car and both times it had rung out. The listings said there was a show on tonight, but it didn't say exactly what show. Now she was about two miles away from the place, according to her GPS, and trying to call again.
Nobody answered, so she put her foot down and weaved through the evening traffic at what many people would call a reckless pace. Fifteen minutes after leaving the precinct, she arrived at a row of buildings in a backstreet. Ella ditched the car and made the rest of the journey on foot.
The buildings in this row had no identification that Ella could see, but halfway down, she spotted a lone door with a sign above it. It said Colisée Theatre alongside a picture of a ballet dancer she’d come to know intimately over the past few hours.
Ella pushed inside and found herself at a stairwell.
She went down, down and through another door.
Now she was in what she guessed was a lobby, given the few people loitering around and the woman guarding a sign that said THEATER ENTRANCE.
Ella badged the woman before she could make her introduction.
‘I’m Agent Dark with the FBI. I need to speak to someone who works here.’
The woman was mid-twenties, dark hair pulled back, wearing a black polo shirt with the theatre’s logo on the breast pocket. The same ballet dancer.
‘FBI? Is there a problem?’
‘Possibly. How many people are here tonight?’
‘Staff or punters?’
‘Both.’
‘Umm, about fifty punters. Staff, there’s only three of us on. There’s a one-man show on tonight. It’s just getting started. Can I help with something?’
Ella had rushed here without a plan, and now she found herself struggling to articulate the situation, at least without raising concern.
‘I believe someone in this theater has had a threat made against their life. I don’t know who, but I need to be vigilant.
Have you seen anything or anyone suspicious tonight? ’
‘Suspicious how?’ the woman asked. Ella felt more than a few pairs of eyes on her from the other side of the lobby, but she didn’t have time to take this conversation somewhere more private.
‘Anything. Strange people, strange requests.’
‘This is an art theater. Both of those are very much normal around here.’
Dammit. Ella needed to approach this smartly. She couldn’t just waltz into a show and put a stop to it, not to mention that she doubted a killer would strike in a theater of fifty people. ‘Is the manager around?’
‘The manager? No. He went home an hour ago.’
‘Is that normal for a theater manager to do?’
‘Yes, actually. He was here all last night and all day today. We’re a small outfit and we have to rotate. Usually I’d be in the office upstairs but I’m in charge tonight.’
That explained why her calls rang out, Ella thought. ‘He would be the guy who knows this place inside out, right?’
‘I guess so. He knows the regulars, and if anyone had any issues, they’d contact him.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Eddie. Eddie Foxall. I can call him if you like?’
‘Please.’
The woman pulled her phone out and dialled. Ella watched her face while it rang. After fifteen seconds the woman lowered the phone and frowned at the screen.
‘Nothing. That’s weird.’
‘Weird?’
‘Eddie’s usually glued to his phone. Even if he can’t answer he sends a message from his watch. He’s one of those people.’ She tried again and got the same result. ‘That’s really unlike him. He knew we had a show tonight. He wouldn’t just not answer.’
Ella felt the back of her neck go cold. Eddie Foxall. The manager of the Colisée Theatre, whose logo was a ballet dancer in a turquoise dress, and whose handcrafted wooden replica had been found on a dead girl’s hand.
The figurine from Rose Michaels pointed here. To this theatre. And quite possibly to the man who ran this place.
And he wasn’t answering his phone.
‘I need Eddie’s home address,’ Ella said. ‘Right now.’
‘His address? I’m not sure I can give you that. I mean-’
‘This is urgent. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t. And I’m going to get cops here within thirty minutes to keep an eye on this place in case anything happens, okay?’
It worked because the woman turned to the computer behind the counter and started typing.
***
The theatre clerk had scribbled Eddie Foxall’s cell number and home address on the back of a playbill. Ella had the phone on speaker on the passenger seat. It rang until the automated voicemail kicked in. She hung up, hit redial, then listened to it ring again.
But still, no one picked up.
Ella slammed a palm against the wheel. Too slow, always too slow. For all her quick thinking and quicker trigger finger, she was forever one step behind. The job made her hard, but it had never made her early.
She ended the call and dialed Ripley.
‘Where are you?’ Ripley said instead of hello.
‘Driving to 1418 Bancroft Drive. It’s about twenty minutes from the precinct if you leave now.’
‘What’s at 1418 Bancroft Drive?’
‘The ballet dancer we found on Rose Michaels is the logo for a place called the Colisée Theatre. I went there. Everyone is accounted for, except the manager. A guy named Eddie Foxall. I’ve tried calling him but he’s not picking up.’
‘Got it. I’m coming. Is there anyone at the theater right now?’
‘Yeah, just over fifty. Do me a favor and get a few officers over there to keep an eye on things.’
‘Will do. How far away are you?’
‘Depends how fast I drive. About ten minutes.’
‘I’ll meet you at the address. Watch your step.’
‘Just hurry.’ Ella punched off and squinted at the passing street signs. According to her GPS, she was thirteen minutes out from Bancroft Lane but that was nothing a little speeding wouldn’t fix.
‘Come on,’ she muttered as she floored the gas. ‘Come on you son of a… pick up.’
She hit redial one more time and listened to it ring. Her stomach tightened as seconds bled away. No answer. Again. Wherever Eddie Foxall was, he wasn’t near his phone.
Or he couldn’t get to it.
A strange sensation crept over Ella then, the certainty that she was finally seeing the world through this psycho’s eyes. One figurine leading to the next, and each one was an omen of death. She just had to intercept his pattern and maybe uncover the common denominator in the process.
She just had to hope she wasn’t too late.
***
Bancroft Drive was a residential street in the Bywater. Ella found two cars outside number 1418, and there were no lights on in the house, which suggested no one was home or the owners went to bed very early.
But someone had to be home because Ella refused to accept the alternative.
She bounded up the porch steps and didn’t bother with stealth or subtlety. She slammed her fist against the door. Once, twice, three times.
‘FBI, open up!’
Nothing. She grabbed the door handle and yanked. Locked.
She knocked again, waited five seconds that felt like five minutes and then went around the side of the house.
The gate was latched but not locked. She came through it into a narrow yard, past a barbecue grill with a cover on it and a lush green lawn.
Ella found two French doors. She clutched the handle and nearly wept with relief when it turned under her grip.
She shouldered them open and swept into a dark living room with her Glock up and ready.
‘Foxall? Eddie Foxall?’
The blinds were drawn, so Ella fished out her flashlight. It illuminated a recliner, a massive television, and a thick cream carpet. Muddy boot prints tracked across the rug. They started at the French doors and stopped near the center of the room.
Another step. Sweat prickled along her hairline as her light bounced off a half-empty bottle of whiskey and tumbler of melted ice on the coffee table. Someone had been here not long ago. So where the hell were they now?
Then the flashlight beam swept towards the back of the room – and Ella’s heart stopped dead.
‘No,’ Ella breathed. ‘No.’
She’d found Eddie Foxall.
Too little, too late.