"We already have the killer's fingerprints. I need something more."
"There was one other thing. A piece of paper." Even though I could tell every movement hurt him, he reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a white scrap covered with pencil scribblings. I wasn't surprised to see it was mathematical. I didn't understand any of it. But I knew someone who would.
"Anything else?"
"No. I promise. Nothing. Now please call an ambulance."
"I will. But remember-you can't tell anyone what happened in here."
"Are you insane? You shot me! I'm going to tell your superiors and everyone-"
"And when you do, I'll tell them how you tampered with a crime scene and lied to a police officer and obstructed justice, all felonies. I'll lose my job, but you'll go to prison. Gee, I wonder who comes out worse?"
"But-"
"No buts. You keep my secret, I'll keep yours. I'll tell them an overzealous maid tried to clean up the blood."
"But-there's a bullet in my leg."
"No, there isn't. Just a graze burn. Tell the docs you were cleaning your pistol and didn't realize there was a bullet in the chamber."
"I don't own a pistol!"
"You do now."
"But-But-"
"Look, it's your own fault. If you'd told me the truth in the first place, this wouldn't have been necessary."
"You still didn't have to shoot me!"
"Actually, I did. Because I don't have time to screw around with your sleazy little showbiz games. This man has killed four times, and has threatened to kill someone linked to the police department. We think he plans to strike today. I can't let that happen. I won't."
30
I expected the forensic team to show up at the Florence as soon as I reported what had happened, but I didn't expect to see Darcy sitting in the backseat of his father's car. Of course, I'd wanted to check in with him anyway, to see if he was making any progress on the equations I got from Halliwell and read him over the phone. I just expected to have to do so surreptitiously.
The window was down, so it was easy to get his attention, despite his intense concentration. "Hey, Darce. Got those equations solved?"
"Yes. They were easy. I cannot believe you could not solve them." Somehow, when he said it, it wasn't an insult. Just a statement of fact regarding relative intelligences. "The equations are easy. What I do not understand is what good they are."
"Are equations normally good for something?"
"Of course. Do you know about the Enigma machine?"
"Umm…"
"It was a code making and breaking machine the Germans used during World War II. It was based on mathematics. Most good codes are."
"Well, I suppose-"
"The atomic bomb is based on equations. Numbers put into use."
"Tell me the killer hasn't left us the formula for an atomic bomb."
"I cannot tell what it is."
I put my hand on his head and tousled his hair. "You'll figure it out. I have confidence in you."
I went inside, determined to remain low-profile, but alas, O'Bannon spotted me before I had a chance to duck for cover.
"Pulaski. I got three questions for you. And the answers had better be the right ones."
"Fire away," I said.
"This business of someone cleaning up the blood-that was really the manager, right?"
"Right. But I promised not to tell."
"And the fact that he's currently in the hospital because he accidentally shot himself in the leg-that has nothing to do with you, right?"
"Absolutely."
"Good answer. And you're the one who gave Darcy the latest secret formula, right?"
"You said it was okay to involve him in the math part."
"As if that was all you've done. But you haven't answered the question."
"Yes. 'Twas I."
"Figured as much. You see him outside?"
"Sure."
"He got it solved yet?"
"No. But he will."
A voice from behind me: "Well, that beats doing your own work, doesn't it?"
Granger, natch. "I really resent that, you stooge."
"Hear that?" he said, glaring at O'Bannon. "You hear it?"
"Hear what?" I asked.
"There's only one s in resent and stooge. At least, when you're sober."
My eyes flared. "You son of a bitch!" But I couldn't help listening to myself. My s's did seem exceptionally sibilant. Guess I overdid the medication. "I've been sober for six months."
"Bullshit. You've been slurring since this case began."
"You don't know what you're talking about."
"I know your eyes are at half-mast."
"You pathetic dickless wonder. You're so scared of me you'll try anything to get me off the case before I show you up by solving it."
"So far, there hasn't been much danger of that. Your report was the most-"
"Both of you, stop it!" O'Bannon bellowed. "Now!" He turned his head away. "David would be so ashamed. Of both of you!"
"Chief, I have not been drinking."
"Fine. There's an easy way to prove it. I'm sure every trooper outside has a Breathalyzer in his glove compartment. Are you willing to take the test?"
Granger folded his arms, gloating with pride. I hesitated, just to make it good. Finally, feigning nervousness, I said, "Okay, I'll do it. But we do it out of sight and if I'm clean-" I jerked my thumb toward Granger. "You have to promise to keep this ape off my back."
"Done."
"That means I don't take orders from him and my employment is not dependent on his approval."
"Wait a minute!" Granger said.
"What's the matter, big boy? Not willing to put your dick where your mouth is?"
His eyes flared, enraged. "Fine. It's a deal."
So Officer Tompkins was called in, the test was given and-surprise!-I passed. Not a drop of liquor in me. Happily, benzochloriphine doesn't show up on a Breathalyzer. They couldn't possibly know what I knew. That I'd traded one drug of choice for another. Granger's problem was that he couldn't keep pace with the changing shape of my dependencies.
Nonetheless, I smiled defiantly at Granger. "Gosh, you must feel like…what's the phrase?…a total ass right now."
His fuming was so strong I could smell it.
"Maybe we should run the test on you. You have been acting rather erratic of late."
"Go to hell."
"What are you afraid of?" I cried to his back as he stomped away. "I proved I was clean and sober."
"You proved you were sober," O'Bannon said, in a quiet voice. He gave me a quick look-I didn't even want to contemplate what its meaning might be-and then he returned to the crime scene.
"You understand what you have to do?"
"Yes."
"You know the target?"
"Yes."
"You recognize the risks involved?"
"Course."
Esther took Tucker by the arms and held him firmly. "You know this will be harder. Harder than anything you've done yet."
Tucker looked away. "I…try not to think about it."
"But you will have to think about it. This will require all your attention. All your strength."
"I know that. Are…Are you sure this must be done?"
She touched his sleeve. "I've performed the calculations. I've checked and double-checked them. It is the Way, the Truth, the Pathway to the Eternal. It is written in the Tree of Life. It is illuminated in the Letters of Light."
He nodded gravely. "I understand."
"Do you? Really? Do you understand how important this is?"
"I…you told me…"
"But do you understand?"
Tucker inhaled deeply, as if purging his inner self. "I don't have to. You understand. That's good enough for me."
As if swept away by the moment, Esther pulled him close, hugging him tightly against her breast. "My God, Tucker, I love you so much. You are so…so good."
"I'm
not. Good."
"You are. You're good to me." She pulled him away again, holding him at arm's length. "Are you sure you can do this?"
"I could do anything. For you."
They each raised their left hands and pressed the blue stars together. "We are the Brethren of Purity," they chanted. "We preserve the mysteries of the cosmos. We hold the universe in our heads. We know the secret names of God."
Their elbows bent and they drew closer to each other, then closer still. She kissed him, long and passionately, pushing against him as if with a driving need, only separating when it seemed evident any further continuation might lead to an encounter that would delay her plans.
"I'll be waiting for you when you return," she said, her meaning unmistakable.
"I can't wait," he said breathlessly, turning toward the door.
"Darling!"
"Yes?"
She smiled. "Don't forget your knife." She held it out to him.
He took it from her and turned back toward the door, his steps a fraction heavier than they had been before.
"Remember," she said, calling as he headed toward his quarry. "This is the turning point. This is when we make our intentions unmistakable." A thin smile spread across her face, invisible to him, but satisfying to her. "This is when we get to the heart of the matter."
"He's losing it," Amelia pronounced, with a certainty that made my heart swell. "This was the killer's sloppiest job yet."
"How can you tell?" I asked, unable to come up with a more intelligent question, mostly focused on making sure my s sounds only had one syllable. "Especially after Halliwell screwed up the crime scene."
"Talk to Tony. So far, we've come up with hair samples, fabric fuzz, blood not belonging to the victim-we think he cut himself when he was severing the leg-and epidermals that are almost certain to be good for a DNA match. This is a CSI feeding frenzy. If your killer had a record, we'd have him by the short and curlies."
"But he doesn't."
"Evidently not. Still, surely we'll find something we can trace back to him. There are more tire tracks outside and we have an eyewitness who thinks he saw the UNSUB's car. Combine the two, make a call to VIR, and we should be able to significantly narrow the field. I need to get some of these samples back to the lab. Meet you back there after a bit to compare notes?"
"The sooner the better. Remember-this is the prime number day."
"I haven't forgotten. But take care of yourself, okay? These murders aren't your fault. You're a good person. We need you healthy." I had to smile. Amelia was not only unpredictable-she was damn nice. And she loved me, even though I didn't deserve it. "Tonight then."
I heard Darcy bounding through the door of the dressing room, almost bowling over the plainclothes posted there. He was flying toward me in great sprawling leaps, like Nureyev on acid. "Suuuuuu-sannnn!"
Amelia watched him, more than faintly amused. "This is where I check out. Later, amigo."
"Yeah. See you," I said, just as Darcy all but crashed down at my feet.
"See you?" he said, his head tilted as if he were processing new input. "Where will you see her?"
"Umm, later tonight. At the crime lab."
"Can I come, too?"
"I…don't think so." Crestfallen didn't cover it; he looked as if he'd just lost his brother. "But tomorrow, if I can get off work, I'll take you for Shrimp Limone at Zio's. What'd'ya say?"
"Custard afterward?"
"Natch."
He bounced like a pogo stick. "Very Excellent Day! Very Excellent Day!"
"Yes, yes." I held him by the shoulders and tried to calm him. "I'm guessing by the way you came in here that maybe you had something you wanted to tell me?"
"I know what all that algebra is for!"
I inched closer. Could this be the break I'd been waiting for? The one that let me catch this killer? "Give it up, Darce."
"It's for numerology!" Even if he didn't see faces, he must've noticed the decided lack of reaction from me. "Do you know what numerology is for?"
"I don't even know what it is."
He cleared his throat, and the odd, almost mechanical tone of his voice gave way to his recitation voice. "Numerology is the ancient occult belief that numbers influence the lives of people. It is based on the premise that numbers produce harmony throughout the universe. Thus, numbers can be utilized to acquire harmony in personal and professional relations, ranging from a successful marriage to a successful business. It is related to the ancient practice of gematria, the interpretation of scripture by examining the number equivalents of letters or words in the Hebrew or Greek alphabets. Even today, many people-"
"Stop already!" I said, holding out my hands. His eidetic memory was nothing short of amazing. I knew he'd gotten it word-for-word; I knew he could tell me what book he read it in and could probably tell me what page it was on. But recitation wasn't the same as explanation. "Are you saying people use numbers to…predict the future or something?"
Darcy nodded with excitement. "All you need is the person's name and their birth date. There are four methods. These formulas use the Birth Path procedure. You take your name as it appears on your birth certificate, excluding titles or qualifiers, give each letter its predetermined value, add them up, divide, and the remainder is your number. You do the same sorta thing with your birthday, add the two, average them, and get your final Destiny Number."
"And that's supposed to tell you something about yourself?" I scanned the room; I didn't want O'Bannon to see me talking to his son. And I especially didn't want him-or anyone-to eavesdrop on this wacky conversation. "So this is about as reliable as, say, astrology?"
"Many famous people have believed in numerology," Darcy said, returning to recitation mode. "It was frequently employed by the ancient alchemists as a substitute for real science or mathematics."
"Algebra and alchemy," I muttered under my breath. "So this crap was cooked up by the same kooks who thought they could turn iron into gold?"
"Most of the basic precepts were formulated by Pythagoras and served as the foundation for his Brethren-"
"But why is this so complicated?" I asked, staring at the arcane formulas written in crimped handwriting on the scrap of paper. "You make it sound as if it's all adding and averaging. Hell, I can do that."
"That is because these formulas do not do it right."
I tried to twist my head around that. "I thought you said-"
"Usually, you would start with a name and apply math to get a result. But these equations start with the result."
"I don't follow."
"These equations are for putting names and birthdays into a mathematical formula and seeing which ones come up as ones. One is the primary and most desirable number in numerology. Anyone who liked numerology would want ones."
Including anyone looking for a victim? I knew that this killer was obsessed with numbers, math. And there didn't seem to be any rational pattern to the selection of the victims. Could that be because he wasn't really picking them? They were being randomly selected by this formula?
"What if you have more than one one, Darcy? You'd have to, wouldn't you, if your list of names was large."
"I do not know how the ones are ranked. Maybe in order of birth?"
I thought a moment. No, Danielle Dunn was older than Spencer.
"Maybe in the order the birthdays fall in the year, not counting the year."
Maybe; I didn't remember every victim's birthday. No normal person would "No," Darcy announced, "that doesn't work. Amir was born after Danielle. So was Spencer."
"This is hopeless, Darcy. Are you sure there isn't anything more?"
"There is nothing I can do unless I know what list of names is being put into this formula to-"
"Names? Darcy. If I gave you that list of names, do you think you could use this formula to figure out who the next victim is?"
He barely paused a second. "I think that maybe I could do that. Do you have the list of names?"
"Not e
xactly. But I have an idea-a hunch, anyway-how we can get it. Come on. We're going back to my office."
"But-my dad told me to wait in the car. If you go to your office, he will see me."
"We'll have to sort that out later," I said, tugging on his collar. "You're coming with me, big boy." NOT HERE, Tucker realized, as he stepped through the glass-paned doors, wearing a long overcoat to hide the knife within. As if this wasn't sufficiently complicated already. He didn't want to linger. Too conspicuous. There were likely hidden cameras that had already captured his image; he didn't want to make it any easier for them than it already was. He couldn't go away, either; too great a risk of missing his intended. What was he supposed to do? She hadn't prepared him for this. She had said the target would be there; his challenge would be to create a diversion to get everyone else out of the building. As it turned out, the diversion was unnecessary. Everyone was gone.
He checked his watch, noticed that his hands were shaking. Every second he delayed was a second off schedule, a number lost, an inevitable subtraction. Too many and the plan would be off-kilter.
She wouldn't love him anymore.
Something had to happen. Something. Maybe if he got down on his knees and prayed But that was what she wanted him to do, wasn't it? In her own way.
He had the phone number. He could call, make up some story. But he knew from experience that every diversion from plan entailed a risk. Phone lines could be recorded, traced. A record would be made of who called whom. The person he sought might become suspicious, might not come alone.
What should he do? He was desperate with anxiety. He touched the tiny blue star tattooed on the inside of his palm, his physical reminder of her, what she had done for him. And all that he had done for her. Even the parts that gave him nightmares. The nightmares still continued. But he could live with that. He could live with anything. As long as he had her.
What could he do? What could he possibly And then he saw a face behind the glass doors. A face that matched the picture in the computerized database. The target.
He stepped forward. "Uh, 'scuse me."
"I'm sorry, sir. I'm very busy."
"Oh, I know, I know, but, see, I got information."
"What kind of information?"
Strip search sp-2 Page 23
