Heurism | Spencer Reid¹

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE: SOMEBODY'S WATCHIN'

"An American has no sense of privacy. He does not know what it means. There is no such thing in the country."

     — Bernard Shaw.

—

We decide to go for the more blunt approach of kicking Martinez's door open. "FBI!" Morgan yells, taking the lead. The apartment is dim, lit only by the setting sun. The walls are covered with posters and pictures of models, musicians, actors, even some magazine covers that he undoubtedly photographed.

I keep my gun aimed ahead of me as I head through the apartment. Turning a sharp corner into a room down the hallway, I stop dead in my tracks. "Clear. But you should come take a look."

It's a dark room. Photos cover almost every square inch of the walls and on the workbench in the middle. They all have two people in common: Lila and Natalie. Working, with friends, at the café, shopping. It's all them. My skin crawls just looking at it all. "See? This guy's a real scumbag," Kim says, scowling.

"You got that right."

Walking up behind him, I look at the photos over his shoulder. This time, they look like they've been taken of her at home. "You said you've dealt with him lots. Ever for something like this?"

He shakes his head. "A couple restraining orders from some models, got some points knocked off for reckless driving. But this... no."

"Hey, what's this?"

We join Morgan on the other side of the room, where he holds up a piece of paper pinned to the wall. "It's a call sheet. It's the shooting schedule for a film or television show."

"That's Lila's show."

"Yeah."

He raises a disapproving brow. "He's not supposed to have that, is he?"

"No."

Leaving them to it, I turn my attention to the workbench. Photos have been piled up here, with no sense of organisation. I freeze. One of them looks familiar — Lila talking to some guy. He has his back to the camera but I recognise him instantly. I feel my heart rate pick up. "Morgan."

My sharp tone draws him immediately. He takes it from me. "That's Reid."

Kim grabs a handful of photos for us to see. "There's a whole bunch of them. He a target now?"

"Not if I can help it. Let's go."

As we follow him out of the apartment and onto the street, I hastily get out my phone. It goes to voicemail. "Damn it, Reid. Look, we might've found the UnSub, a paparazzo called Joseph Martinez. There's pictures of you in his apartment — lots of them. And a call sheet for Lila's show. You need to watch yourself. Call me back."

The SUV's still a little way along the street. Passing by the other cars, I fish around in my pockets for the key. I barely notice the roar of an oncoming motorbike. A sudden push sends me to my knees just as a gunshot sounds. The noise rattles in my ears. It sounds again and again, marked by the shattering of glass and a shout.

I jump up, grabbing my gun, but the shooter is already gone. Morgan had fired as he was retreating and missed. Letting out a breath, I turn. My body freezes. Kim leans against the car. Blood spatters the window behind him and stains his shirt. "Shit. Kim? Hey, hey, hey. Owen. Owen, you okay?"

By the glow of a streetlight, I notice a faint sheen on his left shoulder. His black suit had made the blood almost unnoticeable. I help him to sit and remove my jacket, pressing it down hard on his shoulder. "Morgan!"

He races around to us. "You hit? Where?"

"It's just my shoulder."

Nodding frantically, he grabs his phone. "Officer down. We need an ambulance at La Brea and Wilshire."