by Rivers, Mal
I thanked her in my own way. I won’t lie, I wasn’t exactly excited. But the money problem was the clincher.
“Your room will be upstairs, on the right. It has a view of the beach. We’ll go through more rules of the house later,” she said.
I slunk back in my chair and mumbled to myself and said, “You—want me to stay here?”
“Yes. That would be my preference. But, given your situation, surely it is yours, too.”
“Huh?” I said with a surprised tone.
“Clearly, you are between residencies. I’m not entirely sure why you thought a second-hand suit would impress me, either. Obviously, you don’t have the required funds to rent locally. So, I’d say this arrangement would be appropriate. In any case, I should also warn you that, at times, events around here can be a twenty-four-seven process. It would be advantageous for you to live-in, as it were.”
I could go on, but the short story is that I accepted the terms. And here I am now. A man who fought for his country. Now I’m buying groceries day in day out for a living.
You know what, I wouldn’t change it for the world.
3
Of course, buying groceries isn’t the meat of my job. I just like to moan about it. The account I’m regaling herein isn’t the first major exciting case Ryder and I have taken on, nor will it be the last.
It’s worth pointing out that I wasn’t a detective on that first day. Hell, back then, pinpointing a Scooby-Doo villain would confound me most of the time. I have improved, though. Thanks to her methods. Methods that hardly inspire praise. Some people say getting inside a criminal’s mind is the secret to detective work. Ryder views it differently. She likes to get into the mind of everything but the criminal. His or her surroundings. She essentially directs a play inside her mind. When she has the right ingredients, the play very rarely ventures far from the truth.
My mind is far too bland for that. I have to stick to route-one stuff. Good old fashioned legwork. Adding and subtracting. That’s what she hired me for, after all. I essentially build the scenery for the little play inside her mind.
After acquiring everything on the shopping list I made my way back across town. I’m one of those guys that enjoy the initial walk to a destination, but usually regret not taking the car for the return leg. It was a humid day. The end of August. Not a cloud in the sky and my skin could feel it. I’m pretty white-skinned but I choose to neglect sunscreen. Hoping for a tan I’ll never get. Ryder is also fairly pale and often comes back smelling of sunscreen, but she does her best to wash the fragrance away for activities in the office. Melissa needn’t bother, as her skin tone is dark.
It was just after 2.30PM when I walked through the door of the beach house. I fumbled for the keys a while but realized the door was open already. Melissa was back from her morning escapade at the bank.
Grocery bags in hand I headed through to the office and then into the kitchen. Melissa was there setting up the dishwasher.
“You’re back early,” I said.
“Yup. I—met a friend. And the weekly bank trip doesn’t take long when there’s nothing to go in.” She brushed her dark hair back and smiled. “What’s in the bags?”
“Looks like lamb for dinner. More importantly, a bottle of scotch for myself.”
“If you had your way, you’d marinade the lamb with the scotch.”
I grinned and ditched the bags on the table. I opened the fridge and poured myself a glass of orange juice and offered one to Melissa.
“Thanks,” she said. “She won’t be back for twenty minutes. How ‘bout we shoot some pool?”
“Sure. Twenty bucks?”
“Oooh, tough guy. Why don’t we say fifty?”
It was a mistake, but she always manages to con me out of money on the pool table. The worst part of it was, there was still fifteen minutes left after the first game. Time for her to take me for fifty bucks three times over. Luckily, I was saved by the bell. Quite literally.
Melissa looked at her watch. “Who can that be? There’s no appointments for the rest of the day.”
“Hmmm,” I mumbled. “Oh well, playtime’s over.”
“Your lucky day.”
I walked down the hallway cheerfully. Arms swinging, knowing my wallet was still healthy. I ducked into the study and looked at the monitor and saw a familiar couple standing outside. Melissa watched me as I put my hand on the door handle.
“The BI,” I whispered. “Johns and Mantle.”
“Oh,” Melissa said. “The hell are they here for?”
“Guess we’ll find out.”
When it came to the Bureau of Investigation (not to be confused with the Federal Bureau of Investigation) calling at our door, it was essentially a crapshoot. We could end up lucky and get Ledderford and Taylor. Two detectives who admired Ryder and liked to cooperate. We could end up wanting to kill ourselves by getting Hacket and Bloom. They’re just assholes. No greater way to describe it.
We hit the middle ground. Stephen Johns and Rose Mantle were accommodating, but didn’t stand for nonsense. Not that that stopped Ryder from pulling the wool over their eyes.
I opened the door and greeted them. Johns was a dull looking fellow. Boring suit with a somewhat robotic stature and girly hands. Mantle was more energetic. Blonde and attractive. Melissa didn’t like her attitude, so that sort of dampened any rapport I had with her when Melissa was around.
“Good afternoon, York,” Johns said. “We’re here to see Miss Ryder, if you don’t mind.”
“Long time no see.” I looked at Mantle. “Hey.”
“Hey yourself,” she said with a smile.
“Let’s skip all that,” Johns said. “Can we see Miss Ryder?”
“Dunno.” I shrugged.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Johns said.
“What do you think? You’ve been here before. You know she’s out till 3PM. How can I give you an answer when she isn’t here?”
“It’s rather urgent.” Johns sighed. “Can’t you call her or go down to the pier?”
“Sure. Will the BI recompense me when I get fired?” I said sarcastically.
“She ain’t that bad,” Mantle said. She turned to Johns. “Seems a bit pointless, it’s nearly three o'clock anyway.”
Johns thought on it for a few seconds and mumbled to himself. “Okay. Can we wait in the office?”
“Sure. Just don’t sit on my sofa.” I waved them toward Melissa and she showed them in. I leaned against the wall for a while and pondered the situation. Something had obviously gone down for them to be here, when none of the local authorities had been in touch. Ryder had no client or job at present. The BI hadn’t phoned in advance.
It was there and then I had a hunch what this was all about—the Cross Cutter. A serial killer that had been active in California for the past three years. Seven dead that we knew of. He or she cut the victims horizontally and vertically down the chest, forming a cross shape. The bodies were left hanging upright in various ways, and the floor beneath usually looked like a bolognese buffet spillage.
Ryder and I had never worked on the case. No client ever came forward to tackle it. The BI and the FBI begged her, and were turned away unless they paid her outrageous fees. The press, in their usual audacity, made just about every possible story they could. Due to the nature of the killings, there were murmurs linking the killings to a Christian extremist, something both the media and the FBI would later play down, and finally bury. There was never anything beside the nature of the incisions to suggest such a motive, nor was there ever any form of a message or manifesto. Ryder seemed to agree; that a cross is merely a cross. In fact, if ever the subject would arise, she took to calling the incisions a T as opposed to a cross, because in her handwriting, a T may as well be a cross.
To give more information would only mean repeating myself later on. Besides, it was only a hunch as I lazed in the hallway.
I made my way into the office at 2.58PM and sat back in my sofa, brown leat
her and oh so comfortable. When Ryder entertains herself fishing, I often lie back and have a nap while watching TV. Sometimes you have to enjoy the little things.
Johns and Mantle were whispering to each other so I ignored them. When Ryder came through the French doors, she stared at them for a while, and then glared at me. I simply shrugged and introduced them.
“Hi, Boss. The BI wants to know if they can speak to you. So, before I say yes, can they?”
She glared some more and stared back at Johns, who started to speak, but was cut short when Ryder left the room and jogged upstairs without a word.
“What’s her problem?” Johns said.
“It’s 2.59,” I said. “Can hardly expect her to speak business.”
“For God’s sake.”
Five minutes later, Ryder entered the office in her blazer. The smell of sunscreen no longer present. She sat behind her desk, settled herself in and then looked up. “Well?” she said curtly.
Johns stammered for a while, most likely taken aback by her harsh attitude. Mantle managed to speak for him.
“We need to talk to you about the Cross Cutter,” she said.
Score one for my hunch.
Ryder was sitting with her eyes closed and her hands coupled beneath her chin. Her eyes opened at the mention of the Cross Cutter.
“Please, Miss Mantle, do not ever use that vulgar title in this office.”
“Well, what would you have us call him?” Mantle said.
“I have no idea. Use your imagination, not the newspapers’.”
“Look, Miss Ryder, we don’t have time to squabble.” Johns swallowed. “Can we just talk honestly, without the nonsense?”
Ryder closed her eyes again. “We can try. I make no promises. We have been down this road before regarding the aforementioned serial killer.”
“I know. You don’t want anything to do with it unless someone pays up. Thing is, there has been another body.”
I kept watching Ryder for any sign of life. She sat perfectly still and betrayed no emotion.
“You have my apologies, Agent Johns. But another body doesn’t change anything.”
Johns managed a smile. “Oh, but it does. You see, you’ve steered clear of it all because it never involved you. Now, I’m afraid you are. Involved, that is.”
Ryder looked up and opened her eyes. It was only for a second, but she seemed unsure, which meant nothing, because I was completely dumbfounded by Johns’ announcement.
“I’m at a loss, Agent Johns. How exactly am I involved?”
Johns smiled again and pulled out his cell phone. On the screen, he showed an item quite familiar to me—a business card for our agency, inside an evidence bag.
He swallowed and said, “I won’t drag this out. An hour ago, in Anaheim, a body was found in a public restroom. Male, mid-forties. Killed in the exact circumstances as the other Cross Cu—sorry. Anyway, the body was hung on a hook in one of the stalls. The killer used the victim’s belt—wrapped it around his neck, buckled it and used it to hang the body. Like the other murders, the victim’s clothing remained. The shirt unbuttoned and the body cut down and across the chest. The old woman who found it will need therapy, that’s for sure.
“The only thing we found in the victim’s pocket was this—a card for your detective agency. Naturally, we can find out who the body belongs to—eventually, but it made sense to come down here and ask you first.”
Ryder let her hands fall to the desk and she sat upright. She closed her eyes and opened them again and pursed her lips.
“I see,” she said. “So you came to the impulsive conclusion that I might know the victim?”
“It stands to reason,” Mantle put in.
To my surprise, Ryder ignored her and simply turned to me. “What do you think, Ader?” she said with a wry smile, which I didn’t quite understand.
I shrugged and said, “Beats me. We see dozens of people a week. Have you got a picture or something?” I said, looking at Johns.
“Not yet. Forensics had barely finished when we headed down here. I told them to send one to my cell phone as soon as possible.”
“A description, then?” I said.
“Well—male, mid-forties. Grey receding hairline with stubble. Stocky.”
“What was he wearing?”
“Umm, a green, tweedy sort of thing, with a white shirt.”
I smiled and looked at Ryder, who closed her eyes again. The man they were describing was Guy Lynch. Here not some two hours ago, and now he was dead, hanging from a hook in a restroom stall in Anaheim.
On occasions like this, I remain mute. It was a delicate situation that I would only let Ryder tackle.
“Well?” Johns said. “Who is the victim, and why was he here?”
The room fell silent for a while and Ryder coupled her hands again. She breathed a heavy breath and opened her eyes.
“It is an odd stretch of reasoning, is it not, that you expect me to know the victim, just because he had my business card on his person.”
“Odd?” Mantle said. She often fancied she could challenge Ryder, and that being female gave her that right. “Sounds straightforward to me.”
Ryder’s lips curved upward a little. “Naturally, Miss Mantle. But that is because your mind runs down a narrow street with no crossroads. Forever straight and forever forward.”
I could have laughed, but I didn’t. Johns stopped Mantle from proposing a comeback and said, “Look here, I said no nonsense. How else could the victim have your card?”
“Surely, there are many reasons.” Ryder lifted a finger. “Business cards aren’t all that dissimilar to fliers. Someone picks one up, and hands it on. And out of all the people that take a card, very few actually come forward and make an appointment.” She tilted her head and nodded at me. “Ader, how many business cards do we hand out a year?”
I didn’t really understand why she was stringing this along. It was clear as day the dead guy was Lynch, but I saw no reason to stop her. “Dunno, a few hundred?”
“Pah! Thousands would be more accurate.” She looked at Johns again. “Thousands, sir, and I would be very surprised if one percent of those cards produce a client.”
Johns and Mantle looked at each other and most likely thought it was a run around. Even if it was a valid point.
“Still,” Johns said. “Seems odd how he had a single card in his pocket. No wallet or keys or anything. How do you explain that?”
“How would you explain it?” Ryder said.
“I would say it’s likely the victim saw you today, and that you’re stalling me. Fair enough, if we found the card in a wallet or something, it wouldn’t mean much. People keep stuff for a later date, I understand that. I understand that he may have been given the card. But to have the card as a singular item, in his pocket, suggests it was of immediate importance to him. How is that for reasoning?”
Ryder paused for a minute and then leaned forward. It seemed childish for this to go on any longer and I almost spoke out myself, but she beat me to it.
“One point, if I may, then I will indulge you. You say the card was found inside his pocket. Which pocket exactly?”
“Ummm,” Johns mumbled.
“His suit pocket,” Mantle put in.
Ryder gave a surprisingly wide smile, which meant something was up, and I hadn’t a clue what.
“Thank you,” Ryder said clearly. “Forgive me, but I will have to excuse myself. Ader will give you details about the appointment we had this morning. Good day.”
“Hold on a minute, where are you going?” Johns said.
“I must prepare tonight’s dinner. The marinade for the lamb.” Ryder excused herself and made haste into the kitchen through the door beside my sofa. She nodded at me and I blinked.
“By all means, attend to your dinner,” Johns said as Ryder left the office.
The two agents talked among themselves for a while and I prepared to give them the story of what happened this morning, which would ha
rdly take long, as very little had actually happened. Before I could get down to business, though, I received a text message on my phone. It was from Ryder, and it simply said, ‘hush.’ This might seem odd, but it was code. It simply meant I was supposed to keep certain details to myself. Which was all very well, but at that present moment, I had absolutely no idea what she was referring to.
I shrugged it off and gave the agents their victim. Mainly his name. Mantle ran into the hall and called someone. I assumed she was getting someone behind a desk to chase the name down, something that I decided to have a go at on my laptop while Johns bored me to death with details of the Cross Cutter.
When Mantle returned, Johns continued, “So, all he said was that he was being followed?”
“Uh-huh.” I nodded agreeably.
“So, Ryder refused him flat out?”
“Of course. You know she hates that kind of work. Actually, scratch that. She just hates work.”
“I hear that, dammit,” Johns said.
“She’s a selfish bitch sometimes,” Mantle said, no animosity intended.
“Oh, come now.” I grinned. “You’re just sore ‘cause she wouldn’t help you catch this guy. All you had to do was convince the people upstairs to cut her a check.”
“Yeah, a check that beats my yearly salary. It’s absurd,” Mantle said.
“So you say. Yet you gave her all manner of grief. Saying she had no heart and people were dead. That she was a ghoul because she put a price on catching a killer. Yet the BI and everyone else obviously had their own price, seen as they refused to play ball.”
“Point taken,” Johns said, wiping his brow. His cell phone pinged and he looked at it and handed it over to me. “Picture just came in. Is this the guy?”
I looked at it for a while and nodded. I didn’t really want to look much longer. They’d obviously taken the picture to get as much of the face in frame, but I could envision his chest, and that it had been pried open from the ribs down.
“That’s him,” I said.
“If only she’d taken him seriously,” Mantle said.
