The dark before dawn, p.1
The Dark Before Dawn, page 1
The Dark Before Dawn
A Gabriel McRay Novel
By Laurie Stevens
Copyright © 2011 Laurie Price
Published by Follow Your Dreams Productions
19411 Londelius Street
Northridge, CA 91324
ISBN: 1456450115
ISBN-13: 9781456450113
LCCN: 2010918623
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form whatsoever without prior written permission from the publisher, except for brief quotations for review purposes. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions of this book. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to events and locales, is entirely coincidental.
Table of Contents
Praise for The Dark Before Dawn
Acknowledgments
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Preview of Deep into Dusk
About the Author
Praise for The Dark Before Dawn
The debut novel of the Gabriel McRay series
“Stevens sets the stage for graphic sensory details and a fast-paced, tantalizing mystery that utilizes her passion and research in forensics and psychology… Memorable characters, macabre scenes, and a dazzling portrayal of reality will leave readers anxious for book two in the Gabriel McRay series.”
– Kirkus Reviews
“This is a very unique, nuanced thriller with multiple layers of intrigue… had me hooked from the first page.”
– Writer’s Digest
“Laurie Stevens does a masterful job of developing both the characters and the plot… This is definitely not your typical psychological thriller. This is a must read novel.”
– Sheila Rae Meyers, Shelfari Reviewer
“The Dark Before Dawn is a psychologically accurate and profound thriller and gripped us like The Hunger Games.”
– Dr. Christina L. Cassel, Psy.D., Mft
“Twists and turns abound in this book… it was a nail-biting race to the finish. I couldn’t put this book down because I simply had to know what would happen next. This was an excellent mystery thriller and I thoroughly enjoyed it.”
– My Fiction Nook
“This blood-curdling thriller kept me up at night”
– Suspense Magazine
“Frighteningly great Indie title… Be sure to leave a light on!”
– The Huffington Post
Named to Kirkus Reviews Best of 2011
Recipient of the Kirkus Star of Merit
2012 Hollywood Book Festival Honoree
Acknowledgments
The author gratefully acknowledges the following people whose expertise made possible the writing of this book: Sergeant Dan Taylor, Homicide, Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department; Captain James Bird, Los Angeles Fire Department, Elizabeth Harris, Ph.D, Leslie Kurtz, Ph.D. Colleen Kelly MFT, William Carter, Esquire, Shelley Berman, Martin Retting, Inc., Culver City Modern & Antique Firearms. Thanks also to Kathy Magallanes and Jody Hepps for their keen eyes.
Dedication:
For Steven, Jonathan and Alanna
And to Grandma Dena
for believing in “big dreams and a little luck”
Prologue
The motorcycle cop stood along Malibu Canyon Road leveling his radar gun at the passing motorists. The morning sun was already warm enough to cause sweat to gleam under the brim of his helmet and dampen his moustache. Some cars hit the brakes upon spotting the policeman; others flew by, truly speeding. The cop didn’t care. The radar gun was a fake.
Whoever was meant to come along would appear, of that the cop was sure. A beach breeze wafted through the canyon and cooled him off. This was totally meant to be. Even the pink wildflowers capering at his feet were cheering his progress. Keeping the radar gun pointed westward, the policeman pretended to look serious under his dark sunglasses.
He finally waved over a white pickup truck. A phone number and the word “handyman” were printed on the long bed.
The cop went to the driver’s side window.
“May I see your driver’s license and registration, please?”
“Was I speeding?” The handyman had a sparse brown beard, friendly eyes and seemed to be in his late-twenties.
The policeman ignored the question and inspected the handyman’s identification.
“You’re Ted Brody? This is your truck– your business?”
“Well, yes.” The friendly eyes became apprehensive. “I didn’t realize I was speeding, Officer.”
The policeman paused a moment, thinking. Finally, he pocketed the handyman’s ID and went over to a stretching oak tree where a moped was parked.
“Are you going to give me a ticket?” The handyman asked, trying to be polite.
The policeman didn’t reply. Instead, he hoisted the moped into the bed of the pickup truck.
“What are you doing?” the handyman cried.
The policeman reappeared on the passenger side of the pickup with a backpack in one hand and a gun in the other.
“Let’s drive, Ted.”
He instructed the handyman to drive over a winding canyon road and onto one of the fire roads that crisscrossed the Santa Monica Mountains north of Los Angeles.
The cop calmly answered the endless stream of questions. No, he wasn’t commandeering the vehicle. He wasn’t a thief or a carjacker. No, he didn’t want the handyman’s money either. The cop simply wanted them to get to a more remote spot.
When they reached a satisfactory destination, the cop opened the backpack and pulled out a trench knife.
“W-What,” the handyman stammered. “W-why?”
Catching him by surprise, the cop furiously rammed the knife into the handyman’s throat and dragged the blade horizontally. An arc of arterial blood instantly splattered the windshield, the dashboard, and the cop’s uniform. The cop stabbed the handyman again and again, until the struggling stopped.
When silence permeated the truck’s cab, thick as the spreading blood, the policeman sat back and looked at the dead man.
“One down, six more to go. But you, my friend, have no idea how much you’ve helped me today. I will not forget you, Ted. Now, if you don’t mind–” The policeman parted the handyman’s legs and went to work with the knife again.
When his task was complete, the cop unzipped his own pants and rubbed the velvety red warmth against himself until he gripped the dashboard in ecstasy.
“Thank you,” he whispered harshly, still shuddering. The cop sat back once more, breathing heavily. After a moment he zipped up his pants and reached into the backpack. He pulled out a can of gasoline and put it aside. He then pulled a damp towel from a plastic bag and wiped off his hands. Once they were moderately clean, he took a folded newspaper clipping from a pocket in the backpack.
“Do you believe in divine intervention?” The cop looked at the still-warm corpse next to him. “No, I guess you wouldn’t. But I do.” He gently spread out the newspaper and read the headline: “Sheriff’s Detective Gabriel McRay under Investigation for Brutality.” The cop giggled as he pocketed the clipping, unsnapped his helmet and pulled off his fake moustache. “It doesn’t get any better than this.”
Chapter 1
A large black fly buzzed inside the window that overlooked the grassy area bordering the headquarters unit of the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department, seeking a way outside. Dr. Raymond Berkowitz, the departmental psychiatrist, observed Gabriel McRay looking wistfully at the fly, and he knew his patient felt trapped, wishing also for escape.
“I asked you a question, Gabe.”
The detective shifted in his seat and cleared his throat. He looked squarely at Dr. B. “I’m sorry,” he said, “Say again?”
“Are you still having the nightmares?”
“Yes.”
“And the headaches?”
“Yes.”
The psychiatrist regarded Gabriel through his wire-rim glasses. Dr. B could gain insight into a patient’s personality by noting his posture. Gabriel sat rigidly, his ankles and arms crossed in front of him. He assumed a defensive pose, defensive and protective. An invisible calamity burdened Gabriel’s psyche, and Dr. B was supposed to help lift that weight off his patient. So far, Gabriel was resisting his assistance.
“I received the test results from your physician, Gabe, and the results of the MRI are negative. I think I’m justified in saying that your headaches–”
“Are all in my head.”
“I didn’t–”
“No pun intended,” Gabriel finished
Dr. B continued. “I’m ninety-nine percent sure your problems don’t stem from anything neurological, Gabe, so give me something to work with.”
“What do you want from me? What do you want me to say to you?” Gabriel asked.
“Well, do you have anything to say about why you’re here?”
“I was just doing my job.”
“You don’t think you were a tad hyper vigilant?”
Gabriel licked his lips and smiled again. This time the smile stayed. “All right, you’ve got me. I’m impressed. Hyper vigilant. A-plus, Raymond.”
“Okay.” Dr. B grinned through a pebbly, dark beard salted with a generous amount of gray. He was a lean and bony man who moved with a calm grace that kept him from appearing gangly. His wire rim glasses constantly dropped down his nose in a rather eccentric manner. Like the consummate nutty professor, Dr. B was just too preoccupied to get them adjusted. Perhaps the doctor’s most notable feature was his eyes – a rich chocolate brown that could take a person apart and gently piece him back together. Above the bearded grin, those eyes regarded Gabriel earnestly. “Plain English, Gabe. We both know you don’t want to be here. We both know Internal Affairs ordered you here. But I cannot help you until you take some responsibility for –”
“I’m not going to be the fall guy,” Gabriel interrupted. “LAPD has this department running scared ever since the Rodney King and Rampart deals went down. I am not going to be the Sheriff Department’s scapegoat.”
Dr. B held back a sigh and peeled off his glasses. He rubbed tired eyes. Gabriel was not taking responsibility. Without taking responsibility, progress would not be made. Rubbing his eyes gave Dr. B time to think.
He was trained in the school of Adlerian psychology, so he took a friendly, encouraging approach to his patients. Alfred Adler, a peer of Freud’s, envisioned a teacher/pupil relationship between physician and patient, rather than the more mechanized approach used by Freud, where the psychiatrist demanded absolute servility from his patient.
Instead of lying on a couch, Gabriel sat in a comfortable chair beside Dr. B so they could be equals. So they could be friends.
Dr. B sniffed and repositioned his glasses atop his nose. “This last case you were on – you assaulted a grandmother.”
“Her grandson is a person of interest in a homicide I’m investigating.”
“No one questioned that.”
“Grandma had a twelve-gauge shotgun lying on a table in plain view from the front door. Her drug-pushing grandson lives with the old lady and was a known gang-banger. Grandma was very agitated with me. Now, what am I supposed to think?”
Dr. B chose his words carefully. “But did you think first, Gabe? When you pushed her, she fell and broke her hip. She’s an eighty-year old African-American grandmother. She is claiming racism and is suing the city. The shotgun you’re referring to belongs to her other grandson who is a hunter with all the right permits. The dope dealing gang-banger had moved out the week before.”
Gabriel didn’t comment.
“In a separate case two weeks ago,” Dr. B said, “you nearly throttled a fifteen-year-old boy.”
“That kid threatened me with a knife. I had the bureau’s politics in mind when I didn’t shoot him.”
“You choked him. Excessive force, Gabriel. Bad press. What do these words mean to you?”
Gabriel looked away and said nothing. A large-faced wooden clock sat on Dr. B’s desk and ticked off the minutes.
“Okay,” Dr. B said carefully. “Then let’s talk about the young man who was shot at that Halloween party you responded to when you were in uniform.”
“Let’s not.”
The sigh Dr. B had been holding back finally escaped him and he said, “They want to suspend you, Gabe. The LASD doesn’t need this kind of publicity, you know that.” The psychiatrist clasped his slender hands in front of him, as if he were about to utter a prayer. “You’ve got a good track record for solving homicides, but a proven track record may not be enough to save your job. Now, tell me Gabe, what’s going on?”
“Nothing.”
From down the hall, a shout broke the stillness in the room, someone calling happily to someone else. Dr. B removed his wire-rims and cleaned them on the sleeve of his shirt. The clock ticked off a couple minutes more and finally Dr. B said to Gabriel, “Lieutenant Ramirez wants to see you.”
Gabriel sat in traffic on the Santa Monica Freeway. His aging Toyota Celica was trapped between a Kenworth Truck and a convertible that was blowing rap music into the stratosphere. The truck in front of Gabriel blocked the breeze which was a bummer because Gabriel’s air conditioner was broken. Gabriel reached over and opened his glove box. He fished for a bottle of aspirin and dropped two into his mouth.
Ever since the earthquake of 1994, when the Hall of Justice building was condemned, the police divisions had split up and settled in various areas around the metropolis. Headquarters Unit, where Gabriel had been today with Dr. B, handled administration and was located in Monterey Park. The city of Commerce, Gabriel’s home away from home, handled homicide and arson. The Whittier Bureau handled such cases as child abuse, kidnap for ransom, and terrorism. Various other stations scattered throughout Los Angeles and its contract cities housed their own detectives for robbery, domestic violence and misdemeanor crimes. LAPD handled Los Angeles proper. From Dr. B’s office Gabriel drove to Commerce to see his Team Lieutenant. Navigating freeways was simply a way of life in Los Angeles.
Finally at the end of his busy day, Gabriel headed home to his apartment in Santa Monica. His first stop was the supermarket. Gabriel exited the freeway at Fourth Street and pulled into the parking lot of Ralph’s Market.
He could now feel the sea breeze ruffling his hair, moving his shirt, refreshing him. He took off his tie, tossed it on the passenger seat, and headed into the market. Gabriel walked slowly up the aisles, weary from the traffic and his workday. Although colors splashed at him from every angle, and the box covers and bags begged for attention, Gabriel found the effect strangely numbing. He didn’t lose himself completely, and concentrated on selecting the few items needed for tonight’s dinner. Cooking was Gabriel’s relaxation and kept him busy at night. He needed to be busy.
At his apartment, Gabriel neatly laid out the items on the white tile countertop crisscrossed by aging grout. He had been lucky enough to get one of the last rent-controlled apartments on Bay Street, and while the building possessed an old Los Angeles Spanish charm – the place was still old. His ex-wife, Sheryl, had gotten the house in Culver City as part of their settlement. Gabriel had gotten the stereo.
He couldn’t see the ocean from his place, but he could walk to it. The carefree, bohemian lifestyle of Santa Monica and Venice attracted him the way any opposite would attract. Gabriel never joined the rollerblading, artistic cafe crowds, but he did like being close to them, like a gopher hiding in a hole in a beautiful garden. The constant temperate weather was a friend to him; never too hot and never too cold. He experienced enough extremes in his line of work.
Gabriel pulled a bottle of Dos Equis out of his refrigerator and swilled down half. The beer would taste great with his recipe of choice tonight: beef stew with dill and artichokes. Gabriel put Ben Webster on the stereo, and then set to work. He dredged cubes of stewing beef in a mixture of flour, salt, and pepper. From the stove, the heady aroma of sautéed garlic and onion meandered through the small rooms.
Gabriel liked food, which was why he kept up his gym membership, but he liked cooking even more than eating. Whenever Gabriel measured and kneaded; sautéed and baked, he left the stress of the world behind and relaxed.
