Cross Cut

by Rivers, Mal

  I shrugged. “My crystal ball would say in mid-air somewhere.”

  She glared at me and bit her lip while giving it some thought. “She’s—going for a plane. God damn—” She wagged her finger but gave it up. She knew very well that she couldn’t do anything.

  After a minute of silence, hearing the cars outside depart, Ryder rose from her desk. “What the devil is going on, Ader? Why is Melissa wanted for murdering Guy Lynch?”

  I gave it to her, word for word. She shook her head and pushed back her seat.

  “What a mess,” she snarled. “Where is Melissa?”

  “Follow me,” I said. I took Ryder into the garage and saw that the pickup was still there, halfway between the garage.

  “You can come out now, Mel,” I said.

  Melissa’s head appeared above the garage door, her figure sandwiched between the ceiling and the parallel door. She groaned a little, most likely from the awkward position of the ledge above the garage door. “I can’t move my body round to get down,” she said.

  I turned to Ryder and opened my arms out and smiled, like a magician’s final illusion. “Da-Da!” I grinned. “I did say she was in mid-air.”

  Ryder was hardly impressed. She grunted. “Good God,” she said. “Get her down at once.”

  I did so. By the time I’d removed the pickup and helped Melissa down, Ryder had retreated to her room to change. We waited for her in the office. I made sure the curtains in the house were shut, and the front door was locked. While looking out the door’s window pane, I noticed a car parked across the road. A tall man in a suit sat on the hood of his car and glassed over our house. He had a small, unremarkable tattoo on his neck. He smoked a cigarette without using his hand.

  It was then it hit me. We were being watched. I stepped into the study and turned the surveillance camera outside the front door toward him and took a few screen captures. He must have seen the camera move, because soon after he drove off.

  Melissa and I were sitting on the sofa when Ryder came down. She was in a different state of mind, because she had no blazer. Just her white blouse, fully buttoned up to the neck.

  She sat and clenched her hands together, but not below her chin this time.

  “You realize, Ader, you took a great risk? What on earth do we do with Melissa now?”

  I answered, “I know a place. Sully has a cabin by Irvine Lake. Doubt the FBI will look for her there.”

  She seemed to be considering it, when Melissa spoke up.

  “But I didn’t do anything, I—”

  “Don’t, Melissa, that isn’t necessary,” Ryder said. “When did you last see that bracelet of yours?”

  “I lost it—or it was stolen. When I went swimming over the weekend. I keep it in my bag in a locker. When I got back from my swim, it was gone.”

  “From a locker, you say? So it was stolen. Had the locker been tampered with?”

  “No—it hadn’t been forced into.”

  Ryder looked at me. “Would a common thief pick through random lockers in a changing room?”

  I said, “Depends on the environment. Are we talking separate male and female changing rooms?”

  “No,” Melissa said. “It’s more of a family swim park. I—it’s nostalgic. There’s a long line of changing cubicles. When you’ve changed, you come out the other side and there’s a huge amount of lockers following the cubicles.”

  “Ader?” Ryder looked at me inquisitively.

  “If they’re looking to make cash, no. Much easier to lift in that kind of environment. Very risky picking in such an open space.”

  She turned back to Melissa. “Were there many people about?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “I imagine someone was targeting you, and seized the opportunity when they could.” Ryder put her hands beneath her chin and decided to do some thinking. It took three minutes, and then she leaned back and sighed. “Ader, I am at a loss. I invite suggestions.”

  I always hated this. It wasn’t because she was stuck. At least, usually it wasn’t. It was because she didn’t want to be the one to initiate ideas.

  “Obviously the bracelet was planted,” I said.

  “For what purpose?” Ryder said, leaning forward.

  “Well, I know you hate speculation, but I think it’s Cristescu’s gang. Ten minutes ago I saw a guy outside in a car watching the house. I don’t know for sure, but he looked the part. He was probably watching us on behalf of Cristescu.”

  Ryder sighed. “On its own, I would accept that as logical. But it conflicts with everything else. Would Cristescu or his gang merely imitate a serial killing to implicate Melissa? Why not myself?”

  “Maybe he’s hurting everyone around you. If you think about it, you took down others in his gang. As for imitation, who’s to say the Cutter isn’t one of his gang?”

  “Pah. Nonsense.”

  “Then who else?” I said. “Ever since that phony Lynch stumbled in here, everything has come back to this office—to you. Someone out there is making a play, and it seems personal.”

  Ryder didn’t like the thought or my tone, but there was nothing she could say to counter argue. The hell of it was, she knew it to be the truth.

  “If that is the case,” she said, “then we are backed into a corner. Fighting two different parties, with very little ammunition.”

  I stood and began to walk up and down the room. I stood by the middle aquarium that held, among other species, a large tiger tail; black with white stripes and a coiled tail. One of Ryder’s prized possessions.

  “Maybe now would be a good time to vacate,” I said.

  “Pah,” Ryder snarled. “With a fugitive and a client relying on us? Pah.”

  “Nerks to the client. They only wanted in because you guilted them. If you want other suggestions, then short of arming our bedroom doors with proximity mines, I’m out of ideas.”

  She shook her head. “Forget the Cristescu gang for a minute, and focus on the more pressing matter, Melissa.”

  I shrugged. “That could sort itself out in time. The FBI aren’t dumb. We get Gregg and Flores to back up our story with Cristescu and they’ll have to figure it was planted. They’re just hotheaded because it’s the first lead in, what, three years?”

  Ryder rose from her chair and let out a sigh. “So you say. You know, we are in a circus of coincidence and we need to escape. The only way to proceed, as far as I’m concerned, is to discover who killed Guy Lynch.”

  I folded my arms and leaned back slightly, then realized I was pushing the aquarium back. Something she said caught me off guard. The way she said it insinuated that she had already separated Guy Lynch’s murder and the other victims.

  “How did you—did the FBI tell you they were considering Lynch’s murder wasn’t the Cutter?”

  “I have a brain,” she said. “The assumption was mine alone. Coincidence or not, as the facts present themselves, it would be absurd to assume the person carrying out serial killings is also the same person with a grudge against me. Of course, the facts may change.” She paused and looked at the aquarium beside me, at the patagonians. “You say the FBI suspect only one murder is out of place?”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “Then they are no better off than we are.” She moved over to my sofa and sat beside Melissa. She put her hand on hers and tried to comfort her. I looked away and considered what she meant by her last comment. Did she mean there was something fishy about one of the other murders? Just as I was thinking, Ryder called out to me.

  “Will you take Melissa now?”

  “Better to wait till dark. She could do with some rest.”

  They both nodded and Melissa walked out of the room and upstairs.

  I reclaimed my sofa but Ryder didn’t move. There was barely any light in the room because of the closed curtains and she had no blazer, so it felt like a decent time to ignore normal procedure.

  “Report what happened today,” she said.

  “There’s a
box in my car with the stuff on Lynch, but I’ll give you what I know first.”

  It took a while, and the stuff involving psychology was a little ticklish and it got the response I expected. By the end she was slouched back against the head of the sofa, hands firmly underneath her chin, eyes closed. When she opened them she said, “It is interesting that they are willing to ignore the fact it would take strength to hang someone as heavy as Lynch.”

  “I dunno, Melissa is pretty strong. So you think that’s a good defense?”

  Ryder shook her head. “On the contrary. If anything, what you described in that restroom suggests the complete opposite.”

  “Huh?”

  “Never mind. Everything else can be ignored. Psychology indeed.”

  “Surely everything you do is psychology,” I said smugly.

  “Perhaps. But I’d like to think anything I do is based on pure logic. Psychology is based on the logic directly relating to decades of studies, where opinion is often divided. Hypothesis filtered through already conceived ideas.”

  “Yeah, well, as much as you hate it, we might need her. Doctor Bishop, that is. You see, the FBI may have shoved us, but maybe I can get information from her.”

  “Pah, any excuse.”

  I ignored that and went to retrieve a glass of orange juice from the kitchen. I offered to get Ryder something, but she gave no reply. Back in the office, I had a few sips and said, “May I ask a question?”

  She nodded slowly.

  “I’m not sure how they got to Melissa—whether it was DNA or prints. But either way it means she has a record. Did you know that?”

  She nodded again. “Yes.”

  “What for?” I asked.

  “That is her business, ask her.”

  “Okay.”

  “Regarding that point,” she said, looking up at me. “If the bracelet was indeed planted, as you put it, it serves to reason the person who left it in that restroom knew about Melissa’s record. That is to say, they knew the authorities would be able to locate her with such methods.”

  “That would make sense.”

  She closed her eyes and nodded, but not at me. I get the feeling she sometimes nods at herself when she achieves a moment of clarity. She followed it up with a squint. “I have a headache,” she said. “Is there anything you wish to add?”

  “Beside wild conjecture—no. Although, I would like to say I’m regretting this.”

  “Oh? To what end?”

  “Well, it’s going to be all over the news: ‘Kendra Ryder’s assistant flees FBI.’ People are going to think it’s me and call the cops on me.”

  She gave a micro grin and rose from my sofa, straightening out her blouse. “Yes, well, the gift of afterthought. I am going to prepare dinner.”

  “Nerks to dinner, what the hell are we going to do?”

  “We’ll discuss that after dinner. I cannot think on an empty stomach.”

  Well, that was me told. I spent the rest of the afternoon on the sofa, conjuring up ideas. I won’t bother to name any of them. As it turns out, they were all way off the mark.

  19

  It got dark around 8PM. Melissa had packed her bag again and was ready to go. I left her regular cell phone in the garage, just in case the FBI could trace it. I’m not up to date with their techniques, but anything is possible with technology. Although, I prefer to think Big Brother has his limits. It helps me sleep a little easier at night. I looked around for a burner cell phone to give her. We usually keep one or two in the garage, but we were fresh out.

  Ryder had insisted on coming with us to Irvine Lake. She gave many a reason, but I reckoned she didn’t fancy the idea of being inside the beach house alone. This told me one thing; that she fully believed the idea that Cristescu’s gang were after us.

  The trip to Irvine Lake was largely unremarkable. The cabin is in the middle of nowhere, thousands of feet from the actual lake. My friend, Sully, always leaves the key underneath the porch railing.

  On the off chance the boogieman harassed her in the night, I gave Melissa a few items to protect herself; a stun baton and a bottle of Mace.

  I often feel people get the wrong impression of the word cabin. This one looked quite comfortable, the bed even more so. There was a granite stone fireplace, gas operated utensils, bathroom with a shower. I had no qualms about leaving her there and neither did Ryder.

  When Ryder and I returned to the beach house we discussed the situation ahead of us. She was sitting at her desk drinking coffee. I was twitching at my own desk, with my chair swiveled round, facing her. A familiar evening in the office with the orange glow from the lamps, and the blue and green lights from the aquariums.

  Ryder straightened her cuffs and tucked them inside her blazer and let out a sigh.

  “Regarding tomorrow,” she said, “you mentioned seeing detectives Flores and Gregg. I think that would be an advisable course of action.”

  “You don’t say. Are we seeing sense and asking for protection?”

  “Don’t be absurd. As far as our situation is concerned, we need to know everything possible. You have pictures of that unknown man from this afternoon?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Start with that.”

  “That all? If that falls flat we’ll never find out who killed Guy Lynch.”

  “Yes, well, I see no need to deviate from our original plan. There are still people you have yet to interview.”

  “Yeah, but I thought we were only interested in Lynch’s murder? You said so yourself.”

  “As a primary solution, yes. I fear I may have spoken out of term earlier. We can’t merely assume the other murders have no relevance to Guy Lynch.”

  “How do you figure that? If there is relevance that means one of Cristescu’s gang is the Cutter. And we both think that stinks.”

  She shook her head. “Relevance is a far cry from association. There are many contingencies, slight though they are, that could explain why the murder of Guy Lynch, and the attack on Melissa’s character are related to the murders over the past three years.”

  “Can I make a suggestion?”

  “You often do.”

  “The way I see it, there’s two angles. One—the Cutter killed Guy Lynch. Nothing special about it, that was just his own choice. Then, somehow, one of Cristescu’s gang dumps the bracelet. Now, that’s full of holes for so many reasons. For one, it implies Cristescu’s gang not only knew who the Cutter was, but they also knew he was making a hit, and soon, because the plant on Melissa was all premeditated, what with her bracelet being stolen days before. I think the identity of an elusive serial killer is beyond even Cristescu’s reach. Not to mention he’s been in prison. Even if his underlings have brains, I doubt they managed to orchestrate such a thing.

  “Two—Lynch’s murder was complete imitation. Nothing to do with the Cutter. But all that leaves is unanswered questions. Why imitate the Cutter? Was Guy Lynch’s death just a means to an end, or was it significant? I mean, why the actor Monday morning—why?”

  “Yes,” she interrupted. “I understand. Perhaps we would do better to answer the questions. Particularly regarding the motive for Guy Lynch’s murder. If we find one, we may well reach angle number three, as you put it.”

  I stood up and scratched my eyebrow. There was a question I wanted to ask, but I ended up putting it as a statement.

  “I’ll go to Cristescu,” I said.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said, almost in a concerned tone. The right side of her fringe shivered.

  “It won’t hurt any. I’ll ask him straight up. Make him know we know what his game is. He’s not going to shoot me down in his club.”

  “Ader—” She sighed. “I respect your need for valiance, but I must forbid it. Consult Detective Flores first.”

  I thought about making a counter argument, but let it go. After that, Ryder left the office for a while to retrieve the food for the seahorses. All conversation about our predicament was as good as cold now. Nothi
ng could interrupt her as she sat on the stool. With her blazer off. She’d roll up her sleeves and drop various small crustaceans into each aquarium. She would watch them for anywhere up to an hour, and I’d watch her from the sofa. She was happy and content, ignorant of any outside problems. Sometimes she would smile, and sometimes I would manage to see it.

  I didn’t watch her for the full hour, though, as the doorbell rang at 10:30PM. Ryder didn’t move from the stool, nor did she look back at me as I made my way out into the hallway.

  I checked the monitor in the study first and prepared myself. Not that I expected it to be bad news. If it was the Grim Reaper at the door, I doubt he’d ring the bell. When I saw who it was, I moved into the hallway and considered whether I should open it or not, and then heard a voice filter through.

  “Ader, I know you’re there, let me in,” Kacie said.

  I glanced back down the hallway and figured Ryder was still ignorant. I opened the door ajar and said, “FBI don’t want us anymore.”

  “Don’t be dumb. I’m off duty.”

  “If I let you in here, Ryder will have you for seahorse food.”

  She snickered. “Fine. Umm—wanna go for a drink?”

  “Depends, are ulterior motives involved?”

  “Only if you want them to be.”

  I told her to give me a minute and went into the office.

  “I’m off out, you going to be okay on your own?” I asked Ryder.

  “Of course,” she said confidently, not turning her head. “Lock the door on your way out.”

  In the doorway I regarded her peaceful state. A curious visage given her usual businesslike nature. Very few people knew her like I did. Like Melissa did. And there and then I knew there was something going on inside her head. I also knew I’d never be able to pry it out of her. Not until she was ready.

  20

  Outside I argued with Kacie on who was driving. We tossed a coin and I won. Or lost, depending on your point of view. I didn’t want to go far so we settled on a bar in the middle of town called Ellie’s.