The Killer Collective

by Barry Eisler

She told him about the likely fetishes—the running gear, the trauma shears, the zip-ties—and possible online purchases. The likely searches—parks on the water. The dates in which the man probably rented a place through Airbnb or a similar rental service—first in or near Bridgeport, currently in or near Seattle.

  “One thing,” Kanezaki said when she was done. “Whatever case you’re going to make against this guy—and I assume you’re planning to make a case—it’s got to be done with parallel construction.”

  Parallel construction referred to the law-enforcement technique of reverse engineering a case to conceal the true origin of the investigation behind it. Sometimes the practice was legitimate—for example, protection of a confidential informant. Other times, what was being concealed was a civil-rights violation or some other illegality. And while Kanezaki had a point, of course, it would be academic if Livia were inclined to deal with the park rapist . . . off the books.

  But she recognized she couldn’t do that now. She was already under too much scrutiny. And she had already asked too many people for too much help. Besides, going off the books wasn’t necessary. She was confident that if she could identify the guy, she could get the system to work.

  “Whatever case we build against him,” Livia said, “what I learn from you won’t have anything to do with it.”

  “All right,” Kanezaki said. “Give me an hour.”

  “I’ll be back in Seattle tomorrow,” Livia said. “Anything you can get me before then, and especially before the weather changes out there, I’d really appreciate.”

  She clicked off. Carl said, “I wish you’d told me why you wanted to talk to him. Tom’s a good man, but he doesn’t do freebies. When he gives, he expects to get. Maybe not today, but at some point.”

  So that’s why he’d seemed uneasy. She looked at him and said nothing.

  He nodded. “I know, I know, it’s worth it to you. I just would have preferred to warn you first.”

  She knew he meant well. She even knew he might be right. But she didn’t care. She’d have to worry about it later.

  Livia turned to Delilah, not entirely sure how their goodbye would go. She’d certainly come to respect the woman. And she was glad Delilah and Rain had gotten past whatever had divided them. But she hadn’t forgotten the woman’s initial suspicions, or her initial reluctance.

  Livia gave her a nod—perhaps not warmly, but with some recognition of what the two of them had been through together. And what they’d achieved. “Merci, Delilah,” she said.

  Delilah returned the nod. “And to you. We could have gotten off to a better start, but . . . I think that was my fault, not yours.”

  Livia was surprised by her graciousness, and realized she’d been expecting something laced with some lingering resentment. She shook her head. “I know I was . . . pushing pretty hard. How could you not have been suspicious? I would have been, too.”

  Delilah smiled, and though Livia sensed there might have been a touch of effort behind it, she also appreciated that the woman was trying.

  “Look,” Delilah said, “let’s not make that conversation in the bathroom the only one we ever have. Come back to Paris. And we can talk some more.”

  Livia nodded and held out her hand, and Delilah shook it. And then she surprised Livia by leaning in and kissing Livia’s cheeks, and it wasn’t bad, it didn’t make Livia want to wince the way being touched usually did.

  “I know we shouldn’t go to the airport together,” Carl said. “Things are likely too hot.”

  Rain said, “You shouldn’t go to the airport at all.”

  Livia shook her head. “I have to get back. My lieutenant can’t cover for me anymore. And I have to stop in DC first, to pick up my gun where Larison stashed it. I don’t have a ton of time.”

  Rain sighed. “Well, maybe just you. Dox, stick around for a few days. Or take the train to Brussels and fly from there.”

  “No, sir,” Carl said. “I’m not going to be a third wheel. You two need some time together. But we’ll have other opportunities. You haven’t had nearly enough of a chance to make fun of me for riding a three-wheeled motorcycle. Hell, old Larison beat you to it and made all the best jokes.”

  Rain laughed. “Yeah, whoever thought the angel of death had a sense of humor?”

  Carl hugged them both, then picked up his bag and Livia’s. “Okay, you two. Enjoy Paris. And this time, let’s not wait so long before we see each other. And let’s not wait until a bunch of people are trying to kill us, either.”

  chapter

  fifty-four

  LIVIA

  Livia was back in the office the next morning. It was official: the Force Investigation Team had issued an unequivocal report, and the Force Review Board had cleared her. Cops took turns congratulating her as she made her way through headquarters, in their good cheer even clapping her on the back despite her well-known dislike of that kind of contact.

  She went straight to Strangeland’s office. Strangeland, too, was unable to hold herself back. She came from around her desk and gave Livia a squeeze on both shoulders. “I never doubted it,” she said. “But . . . still, Jesus Christ, what a relief.”

  “Thanks, LT.”

  “Have a seat. You know, the strangest thing happened yesterday.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. An anonymous tip to Sex Crimes. We got a guy named Matthew J. Stroop, staying at an Airbnb rental in Queen Anne. The tipster said he’s our park rapist—claimed to recognize him from the most recent attack. We were able to check out Stroop’s credit-card records, and you’ll never guess where he was staying during the Bridgeport attack you suspected he was behind.”

  “Tell me it was Bridgeport,” Livia said.

  “Bingo.”

  Livia nodded. It wasn’t just Bridgeport, she knew. Kanezaki had been able to place Stroop in San Diego, Charleston, and Portland, Maine, too—all of which, Livia had quickly confirmed through ViCAP, had their own unsolved rapes during the relevant time periods. Stroop was some sort of day trader, with the money and flexibility to travel to new hunting grounds every few months. Part of the case against him would be his presence in the vicinity of five different crime scenes. But that would all come out later—parallel construction.

  Yeah, Kanezaki had delivered, and then some. And at some point, Livia knew, he was going to demand something in return. She didn’t want to think of what it might be.

  “We got a warrant,” Strangeland said, “and have physical surveillance outside his apartment and are all over his cellphone, too. Did you know it’s supposed to rain tomorrow?”

  Livia nodded. “I checked.”

  “Of course you did. Well, the idea is, we’ll follow him to the park. Catch him as he leaves to go hunting. More for the prosecutors to work with. You want to be part of that? It’s still your case.”

  She did want to be part of it. Very much. “Thanks, LT. Yeah, I’d like to be the one to put the cuffs on him.”

  “Done. Should be a good day tomorrow. And not just because we’re going to take this creep down.”

  “What else is going on?”

  “Well, let’s just say there’s a certain journalist I happen to know and the chief doesn’t. Guy named Leopold. Some people call him the FOIA Terrorist because he’s so unrelenting with the Freedom of Information requests. Anyway, it might be that he’s about to publish an exposé on a string of Secret Service agents referred to the Justice Department for child-pornography charges—charges that Justice sat on, at the request of the Secret Service. Word is, the comparisons are going to be to the Catholic Church’s child-rape cover-ups. There’s going to be a ton of heat. A ton of follow-up.”

  She thought of the men Rain and Larison had killed at the state park. “It sounds good. But . . . still, could Little be in danger? I mean, they killed an FBI agent. They tried to kill me.”

  “Graham’s dead, Livia, and his people are reeling. Besides, the stories I’m talking about are going to create the kind of climate where n
o one would dare impede Little’s investigation, let alone try to take him out. Even if he goes after senators. Even presidential candidates. It’s all going to come out. All of it.”

  It was enormously satisfying. But at the same time, it worried her. She’d had more than enough attention already.

  “Good,” she said. “But . . . the chief won’t know the leak came from you?”

  Strangeland waved a hand as though it was nothing. “Ah, she’ll suspect. But it might have come from anywhere. Leopold’s not local. And Little’s going to work for those indictments. So who can say where the leak came from?”

  Livia sensed the lieutenant was putting on a brave face. Chief Best liked to play it like a sweet aunt, and maybe it wasn’t all an act. But she had also made it plain that she didn’t care to be crossed. Making an enemy of the chief wasn’t something any cop would wish for, and not for the first time, Livia felt the weight of what she might owe the lieutenant.

  “The only bad news,” Strangeland went on, “is that as soon as the word is out, the rest of the Child’s Play rats will scurry for cover. But the five whose names you and Trahan uncovered will be arrested and prosecuted. So there’s that.”

  Livia nodded. Another tradeoff she had already seen. And another there was nothing to be done about. But the rats wouldn’t stay in hiding for long. Eventually, they always came out to feed. And when they did, Livia would be waiting.

  “Here’s the thing,” Strangeland said, “I saw the news about Oliver Graham on CNN. I don’t want to know where you were when all that went down. I don’t want to know who you were with the past few days, or what you know about our anonymous tipster. Not today, anyway. At some point, you and I are going to have that talk I mentioned. But not today. Today, I’m just glad you’re safe. Now go on. Get back out there, and be the great cop you are.”

  Livia thanked her and went back to her desk. She was grateful for the reprieve. But fearful of the reckoning.

  There was already a paperwork backlog. She tried to get caught up. But she couldn’t. She couldn’t stop thinking about everything that had happened, and of everything that might happen still.

  After an hour, she gave up. She walked downstairs, left the building, and headed over to the ferry terminal, where she stood for a while, watching the sunlight glinting on the water of Elliott Bay, listening to the gulls and the empty sound of the wind. She could smell rain in the air, and nodded in satisfaction at what was waiting for Stroop, the image of her taking him down and slapping the cuffs on.

  But everything else was worrying her. How far would Little’s investigation take him? Would investigators learn—would anyone believe—the downed plane was brought down not by ISIS, but by a private military contractor? And if they did, would it mean even more attention for Livia?

  She watched the water and listened to the wind, and eventually, the anxiety dissipated. She found herself thinking of Carl, of that moment when they’d left Delilah’s apartment and walked down the stairs, and how ambivalent and confused she’d felt by the coming goodbye.

  When they reached the street, Carl had said, “Do you even know what flight you’re taking?”

  She’d shaken her head. “I was thinking I’d figure it out at the airport.”

  “Well, shit,” he said, “you might be waiting there for hours. Plus it looks odd to show up at the airport and not already be booked on a flight. Tell you what. Delilah told me about a place she likes, less than a mile walk from here. Chez Prune. Good food and a view of a pretty canal. How about you and I get a table, order ourselves some cappuccinos and croissants, book you a flight online, and get you a cab when you need one. And if your flight’s not until later, I can help you kill some time in Paris. If you like. Otherwise, I could just get lost. I know you like your alone time.”

  She gave him a small smile. “I don’t want you to get lost,” she said, hating that feeling happy always made her feel nervous.

  She thought he was going to say something light in response, the way he usually did, but he didn’t. Instead, he said, “I know you need to get back. You’ve got business to take care of. And you know me, I’m not going to press. But I’d sure like to see more of you, Labee. In Seattle, or in my little corner of paradise in Bali, or, hell, right here in the City of Light. But . . . if that’s not right for you, I just hope you’ll tell me. I don’t want to have to wait by the phone like I was before.”

  For some reason, that hurt. “Were you really waiting by the phone?”

  “Yeah, in retrospect I realize I was. Though at the time, I guess I was in denial.”

  She looked at him, wanting to ask, afraid of what it might mean. Their nights together . . . it had been good. They’d kissed. A lot. The first kissing she’d enjoyed since . . . well, since her first kiss, from Sean, all the way back in high school. All the others had been a reluctant accommodation on her part. But with Carl, it was different.

  And they’d done other things, too. Not the way she usually needed to. More slowly. Gently. She hadn’t come. But it hadn’t been just an accommodation, either. It had been good. Good enough for her to want to try it again.

  “What is it?” he said.

  Before she could change her mind, she said, “Do you still have any more of those fake passports and burner debit cards you’ve been using?”

  “More? I’ve got practically a shoebox full. One of the benefits of working with a rapscallion like Kanezaki.”

  “Then . . . why don’t we skip the café. We could . . . we could order room service. I could get a later flight.”

  Her heart was pounding. God, what was wrong with her? Why did trying to be normal . . . scare her so much?

  He looked at her, his eyes a little wide. “Are you sure?”

  She nodded. “Unless you don’t want to.”

  He smiled. “Darlin’, I’m always going to want to with you. For better or worse.”

  As it happened, it was better. What that meant, or what it might lead to, she didn’t know. She would have to figure out things with Carl slowly. Gently. The same way they’d been making love. He’d spread his dreams under her feet, and while she wasn’t yet ready, and might never be able, to do the same for him with hers, she would find a way to tread softly. She wanted at least to try.

  epilogue

  Evening had come, and it was snowing in Kamakura. I sat by the irori with a pencil and paper, looking out at my rock garden, composing a poem. When it was done, I tried to capture the same feeling in English. It was all right, but not the same. Japanese is better suited to haiku.

  I heard Delilah coming down the stairs. “What are you doing?” she said.

  I considered folding the paper and tossing it onto the coals. Instead I said, “Just scribbling something.”

  She didn’t answer. She pulled over a cushion, sat, and leaned against me. She knew I would show her if I wanted to. When I was ready. The way it had been for the last month, as I introduced her to more and more of my labyrinthine city.

  It had been a good month. Good for us; good generally. The five Child’s Play predators Livia’s operation had initially identified had been arrested in joint FBI–local law enforcement actions. America was rocked by scandal: the Secret Service was being investigated by a special prosecutor; Barkley, Fenwick, and Hamm had resigned their seats to spend more time with their families; Barkley had ended his presidential campaign; and the future of OGE looked uncertain following the unsolved Paris kidnapping and assassination of its CEO, Oliver Graham. Police were looking for a “person of interest”—a mysterious blonde Graham had been seen with shortly before his disappearance. But she seemed nowhere to be found. There were rumors she was a Russian prostitute, perhaps even a Kremlin spy.

  There would be more casualties, of course. The three senators were facing investigations, and resignations alone weren’t going to stanch any of that—especially with Little maneuvering in the background and the journalist Livia’s lieutenant knew digging up more damning evidence. But I thought OGE w
ould survive. Its role in the downing of the flight over Lake Michigan was rumored, but not provable. The possibility of such a thing caused too much cognitive dissonance for the public to accept, or to want too closely examined. Instead, it was relegated to the realm of conspiracy theory, where it could be comfortably scoffed at by the people who benefited.

  Besides, as Delilah had once said, the company didn’t really have enemies—only clients. And those clients needed an OGE. The board, recognizing the importance of a break from the sordid allegations of the past, had already changed the company’s name—Percivallian, a neologism adjective derived from Percival, one of King Arthur’s most loyal and intrepid knights. If Dox was right about the power of marketing, I expected Percivallian had a bright future, indeed.

  Arrington was under indictment, but seemed determined to fight it. His lawyer claimed the whole thing was a plot cooked up by the Kremlin to destabilize America, carried out by an army of hackers and disinformation specialists, and that Graham’s demise, too, was an attempt by Russia to weaken America. The amazing part was, a lot of people seemed to believe him. Which was useful to the powers that be, I supposed, and I wondered if they might prefer to lend credence to Arrington’s fabrications via his own mysterious demise. I half expected someone to try to contact me about the possibility of Arrington expiring of natural causes. The contact wouldn’t be easy—I had taken down the secure site—but it wouldn’t be impossible. I wouldn’t do it, of course. I was done with all that. But there was something vaguely tempting in the notion, because no matter how I went about it, it would be so easy to blame on the Russians.

  Kent had contacted Delilah. He’d heard the news about Graham. He wasn’t surprised, and wasn’t inclined to tell anyone what he knew. He asked if they were going to see each other again. She told him she couldn’t. He asked if that applied even if he ever needed the kind of professional service he had just rendered for her. To that, she had no answer. But that would be a challenge for another day.

  I was leaving my satellite phone powered on after Paris, and Horton checked in. He was right—there was enough dirty laundry being aired already, and no one wanted to look too closely into what had really happened at his house. The five bodies found on his property, along with the helicopter wreckage, were quietly disposed of. There would be no investigation about who was behind the men’s deaths, or of the weapon-filled tunnels and safe rooms under Horton’s property.