by Tami Hoag
He gave a harsh laugh as his pager went off. “What the hell am I saying? Peter Bondurant doesn't even want to believe his daughter could be alive. The two of you probably deserve each other.”
The pager trilled again. He checked the readout, swore under his breath, and went out of the office, leaving Quinn to deal with the aftermath.
Brandt managed to find something amusing in Kovac's outburst. “Well, that was quick. It generally takes the average cop a little longer to lose his temper with me.”
“Sergeant Kovac is under a great deal of stress with these murders,” Quinn said, moving to the credenza and the Zen garden. “I apologize on his behalf.”
The stones in the box had been arranged to form an X, the sand raked in a sinuous pattern around them. His mind flashed on the lacerations in the victim's feet—a double X pattern—and on the stab wounds to the victim's chest—two intersecting Xs.
“Is the pattern significant?” he asked casually.
“Not to me,” Brandt said. “My patients play with that more than I do. I find it calms some people, encourages the flow of thought and communication.”
Quinn knew several agents at the NCAVC who kept Zen gardens. Their offices were sixty feet below ground—ten times deeper than the dead, they joked. No windows, no fresh air, and the knowledge that the weight of the earth pressed in on the walls were all symbolic enough to give Freud a hard-on. A person needed something to relieve the tension. Personally, he preferred to hit things—hard. He spent hours in the gym punishing a punching bag for the sins of the world.
“No apology needed on Kovac's behalf.” Brandt bent down to pick up the Mapplethorpe book. “I'm an old hand at dealing with the police. Everything is simple to them. You're either a good guy or a bad guy. They don't seem to understand that I find the boundaries of my professional ethics frustrating at times too, but they are what they are. You understand.”
He set the book aside and sat back against his desk, his hip just nudging a small stack of files. The label read BONDURANT, JILLIAN. A microcassette recorder lay atop the file, as if perhaps he had been at work or would still work on his notes from his last session with her.
“I understand your position. I hope you understand mine,” Quinn said carefully. “I'm not a cop here. While our ultimate goal is the same, Sergeant Kovac and I have different agendas. My profile doesn't require the kind of evidence admissible in court. I'm looking for impressions, feelings, gut instinct, details some would consider insignificant. Sam's looking for a bloody knife with fingerprints. You see what I mean?”
Brandt nodded slowly, never taking his eyes from Quinn's. “Yes, I believe I do. I'll have to think about it. But at the same time, you should consider that the problems Jillian brought to me may have had nothing whatsoever to do with her death. Her killer may not have known anything at all about her.”
“And then again, he might have known the one thing that set him off,” Quinn said. He took a business card from a slim case in his breast pocket and handed it to Brandt. “This is my direct line at the Bureau office downtown. I hope to hear from you.”
Brandt set the card aside and shook his hand. “With due consideration for the circumstances, it was a pleasure meeting you. I have to confess, I'm the one who suggested your name to Peter when he told me he wanted to call your director.”
Quinn's mouth twisted as he started for the door. “I'm not so sure I should thank you for that, Dr. Brandt.”
He left the office through the reception area, glancing at the woman waiting on the camelback sofa with her feet perfectly together and her red Coach bag balanced on her knees, her expression a carefully blank screen over annoyance and embarrassment. She didn't want to be seen there.
He wondered how Jillian had felt coming here and confiding all to one of her father's sycophants. Had it been a choice or a condition of Peter's support? She'd shown up every week for two years, and only God and Lucas Brandt knew why. And very possibly Bondurant. Brandt could preen for them and display his ethics like a peacock fanning his tail feathers, but Quinn suspected Kovac was right: When it came down to it, Brandt's first obligation would be to himself. And keeping Peter Bondurant happy would go a long way toward keeping Lucas Brandt happy.
Kovac was waiting in the foyer on the first floor, staring in puzzlement at an abstract painting of a woman with three eyes and breasts growing out the sides of her head.
“Jesus Christ, that's uglier than my second wife's mother—and she could break a mirror from fifty feet away. You suppose they hang it there just to give their crazies an extra little tweak on the way in and out?”
“It's a Rorschach test,” Quinn said. “They're looking to weed out the guys who think it's a woman with three eyes and breasts on the sides of her head.”
Kovac frowned and stole a last look at the thing before they stepped outside.
“One phone call from Brandt and my sorry butt's in a sling,” he groused as they descended the steps. “I can hear my lieutenant now—‘What the hell were you thinking, Kovac?' Jesus, Brandt'll probably sic the chief on me. They're probably in the same fucking backgammon league. They probably get manicures together. Greer'll get up on a ladder, rip my head off, and shout down the hole—‘What the hell were you thinking, Kovac? Thirty days without pay!'”
He shook his head. “What the hell was I thinking?”
“I don't know. What the hell were you thinking?”
“That I hate that guy, that's what.”
“Really? I thought we were playing good cop—bad cop.”
Kovac looked at him over the roof of the Caprice. “I'm not that good an actor. Do I look like Harrison Ford?”
Quinn squinted. “Maybe if you lose the mustache . . .”
They slid into the car from their respective sides, Kovac's laugh dying as he shook his head. “I don't know what I'm laughing about. I know better than to go off like that. Brandt yanks my chain, that's all. I'm kicking myself because I didn't place him until I saw him. I just wasn't expecting . . .”
No excuse was a good excuse. He blew air between his lips and stared out the windshield through the naked fingerling branches of a dormant bush to the lake in the distance.
“You know him from a case?” Quinn asked.
“Yeah. Eight or nine years ago he testified for the defense in a murder case I worked. Carl Borchard, nineteen, killed his girlfriend after she tried to break up with him. Choked her. Brandt comes in with this sob story about how Borchard's mother abandoned him, and how this stress with his girlfriend pushed him over a line. He tells the jury how we all should pity Carl, 'cause he didn't mean it and he was so remorseful. How he wasn't really a killer. It was a crime of passion. He wasn't a danger to society. Blah, blah, blah. Boo-hoo-hoo.”
“And you knew different?”
“Carl Borchard was a whiny, sociopathic little shit with a juvenile sheet full of stuff the prosecutors couldn't get admitted. He had a history of acting out against women. Brandt knew that as well as we did, but he wasn't on our payroll.”
“Borchard got off.”
“Manslaughter. First adult offense, reduced sentence, time served, et cetera, et cetera. The little creep barely had time to take a crap in prison. Then they send him to a halfway house. While he's living at this halfway house he rapes a woman in the next neighborhood and beats her head in with a claw hammer. Thank you, Dr. Brandt.
“You know what he had to say about it?” Kovac said with amazement. “He was in the Star Tribune saying he thought Carl had ‘exhausted his victim pool' with the first murder, but, hey, shit happens. He went on to say he couldn't really be held accountable for this little blunder because he hadn't been able to spend all that much time with Borchard. Fucking amazing.”
Quinn absorbed the information quietly. The feeling that he was getting too close to this case pressed in on him again. He felt the people in it crowding around him, standing too close for him to really see them. He wanted them back and away. He didn't want to know anything abo
ut Lucas Brandt, didn't want to have a personal impression of the man. He wanted what Brandt could give him from an arm's length. He wanted to go lock himself in the neat, paneled office the SAC had given him in the building on Washington Avenue downtown. But that wasn't the way things were going to work here.
“I know something else about your Dr. Brandt,” he said as Kovac started the car and put it in gear.
“What's that?”
“He was standing in the background at the press conference yesterday.”
“THERE HE IS.”
Kovac hit the freeze button on the remote control. The picture jerked and twitched as the VCR held the tape in place. To the side of the press mob, standing with a pack of suits, was Brandt. A muscle at the base of Kovac's diaphragm tightened like a fist. He punched the play button and watched the psychologist tip his head and say something to the man next to him. He froze the picture again.
“Who's that he's talking to?”
“Ahh . . .” Yurek tipped his head sideways for a better angle. “Kellerman, the public defender.”
“Oh, yeah. Worm Boy. Call him. See if Brandt and him were together,” Kovac ordered. “Find out if Brandt had any legit reason to be there.”
Adler raised a brow. “You think he's a suspect?”
“I think he's an asshole.”
“If that was against the law, the jails would be full of lawyers.”
“He jerked me around this morning,” Kovac complained. “Him and Bondurant are too cozy, and Bondurant's jerking us around too.”
“He's the victim's father,” Adler pointed out.
“He's the victim's rich father,” Tippen added.
“He's the victim's rich, powerful father,” Yurek, Mr. Public Relations, reminded all.
Kovac gave him a look. “He's part of a murder investigation. I've gotta run this investigation as tight as any other. That means we look at everybody. Family always comes under the microscope. I want to step on Brandt a little, let him know we're not just a pack of tame dogs Peter Bondurant can order around. If he can give us anything on Jillian Bondurant, I want it. And I also want to step on him because he's a fucking tick.”
“This smells like trouble, Kojak,” Yurek sang.
“It's a murder investigation, Charm. You want to consult Emily Post?”
“I want to come out of it with my career intact.”
“Your career is investigating,” Kovac returned. “Brandt had a connection to Jillian Bondurant.”
“You got any reason other than not liking him to think this prick shrink would off two hookers and decapitate a patient?” Tippen asked.
“I'm not saying he's a suspect,” he snapped. “He saw Jillian Bondurant Friday. He saw her every Friday. He knows everything we need to know about this vic. If he's withholding information on us, we have a right to squeeze him a little.”
“And make him squeal privilege.”
“He's already singing that song. Skate around it. Stay on the fringes. If we can so much as get him to mention the name of Jillian's boyfriend, that's something we didn't have before. As soon as we confirm the DB is Jillian, then there's no longer an expectation of privacy and we can lean on Brandt for details.
“Something else I don't like about this jerk,” Kovac added, pacing beside the table, the wheels of his brain spinning. “I don't like that he's been associated with God knows how many criminals. I want a list of every violent offender he's ever testified for or against.”
“I'll get it,” Tippen offered. “My ex works in records for the felony courts. She hates my guts, but she'll hate this killer more. I'll look good by comparison.”
“Man, that's sad, Tip.” Adler shook his head. “You barely rank above the scumbags.”
“Hey, that's a step up from when she filed the papers.”
“And Bondurant,” Kovac said, drawing another chorus of groans. “Bondurant won't talk to us, and I don't like that. He told Quinn he was worried about his privacy. Can't imagine why,” he added with a sly grin, pulling the mini-cassette recorder out of his coat pocket.
The five members of the task force present crowded around to listen. Liska and Moss were still out doing victim background. The feds had returned to the FBI offices. Walsh was working through the list VICAP had provided of similar crimes committed in other parts of the country. He would be calling agents in other Bureau field offices, and calling contacts he had in various law enforcement agencies through his affiliation with the FBI's National Academy program that offered training to law enforcement professionals outside the Bureau. Quinn had sequestered himself to work on Smokey Joe's profile.
The tape of Bondurant's conversation with Quinn played out. The detectives listened, barely breathing. Kovac tried to picture Bondurant, needing to see the man's face, needing the expressions that went with the mostly expressionless voice. He had gone over the conversation with Quinn, and had Quinn's impressions. But questioning someone via a third party was a lot like trying to have sex with someone who was in another room—a lot of frustration and not much satisfaction.
The tape played out. The machine shut itself off with a sharp click. Kovac looked from one team member to the next. Cop faces: stern with ingrained, guarded skepticism.
“That skinny white boy's hiding something,” Adler said at last, sitting back in his chair.
“I don't know that it has anything to do with the murder,” Kovac said. “But I'd say he's definitely holding something back on us about Friday night. I want to re-canvass the neighbors and talk to the housekeeper.”
“She was gone that night,” Elwood said.
“I don't care. She knew the girl. She knows her boss.”
Yurek groaned and put his head in his hands.
“What's your problem, Charm?” Tippen asked. “All you have to do is tell the newsies we have no comment at this time.”
“Yeah, on national television,” he said. “The big dogs smelled this shit and came running. I've got network news people ringing my phone off the hook. Bondurant is news all by himself. Bondurant plus a decapitated, burned corpse that may or may not be his daughter is the kind of stuff that transcends Tom Brokaw, headlines Dateline, and sells tabloids by the truckload. Sniff too hard in Peter Bondurant's direction, get the press leaning that way, I'm telling you, he'll blow. We'll be hip-deep in lawsuits and suspensions.”
“I'll work on Bondurant and Brandt,” Kovac said, knowing he'd have to do a hell of a lot better job of it than he'd done that morning. “I'll take the heat, but I need people working them peripherally, talking to friends, acquaintances, and so forth. Chunk, you and Hamill checking around Paragon? Working the disgruntled-employee angle?”
“Got a meeting out there in thirty.”
“Maybe we can talk to someone who knew the girl in France,” Tippen suggested. “Maybe the feds can dig up someone over there. Let us in on some of her back story. The kid was screwed up for a reason. Maybe some friend over there knows if this reason has a name.”
“Call Walsh and see what he can do. Ask him if there's any word yet on those medical records. Elwood, did you get anything back from Wisconsin on the DL our witness is running around with?”
“No wants, no warrants. I called information to get a phone number—she doesn't have one. I contacted the post office—they say she moved and left no forwarding address. Strike three.”
“She give us a sketch yet?” Yurek asked.
“Kate Conlan brought her in this morning to work with Oscar,” Kovac said, rising. “I'm gonna go see what's what right now. We'd better pray to God that girl has a Polaroid memory. A break on this thing now could save all our asses.”
“I'll need copies ASAP for the press,” Yurek said.
“I'll get it to you. What time are you set to play America's Most Wanted?”
“Five.”
Kovac checked his watch. The day was running double time and they didn't have much to show for it yet. That was the hell of getting an investigation this size off the ground. T
ime was of the essence. Every cop knew that after the first forty-eight hours of an investigation, the odds of solving a murder dropped off sharply. But the amount of information that needed to be gathered, collated, interpreted, and acted upon at the start of a multiple murder investigation was staggering. And just one piece ignored could be the one piece that turned the tide.
His pager trilled. The readout gave his lieutenant's number.
“Everyone who can, meet back here at four,” he said, grabbing his coat off the back of his chair. “If you're out, check in with me on the cell phone. I'm outta here.”
“SHE DIDN'T SEEM very sure of herself, Sam,” Oscar said, leading him to a tilt-top drawing table in a small office made smaller by a pack rat's clutter. Papers, books, magazines, filled all available space in precarious towers and piles. “I led her through it as gently as I could, but she was resistant at the core.”
“Resistant as in lying or resistant as in scared?”
“Afraid. And as you well know, fear can precipitate prevarication.”
“You've been into the thesaurus again, haven't you, Oscar?”
A beatific smile peeked through the copious facial hair. “Education is the wellspring of the soul.”
“Yeah, well, you'll be drowning in it, Oscar,” Kovac said, impatient, digging a lint-ridden Mylanta tablet out of his pants pocket. “So, let's see the masterpiece.”
“I consider it a work in progress.”
He peeled back the opaque protective sheet, revealing the pencil sketch Twin Cities residents had been promised by their top elected and appointed officials. The suspect wore a dark, puffed-up jacket—hiding his build—over a hooded sweatshirt, hood up, hiding the color of his hair. Aviator sunglasses hid the shape of his eyes. The nose was nondescript, the face of medium width. The mouth was partially obscured by a mustache.
Kovac's stomach did a slow roll. “It's the fucking Una-bomber!” he snapped, wheeling on Oscar. “What the hell am I supposed to do with this?”
