by Alex Kava
WITHIN minutes, the lobby was filled with law enforcement officers from across the Midwest. All exits were guarded. Elevators were watched. Stairwells were examined at all twenty-five levels. The kitchen had been invaded and the staff questioned. Despite the overwhelming manpower, Maggie knew they would never find him.
Most criminals would consider it suicide to show up in a hotel where hundreds of cops, sheriffs, detectives and FBI agents were staying. For Albert Stucky it would simply be another challenge. Maggie imagined him watching somewhere, amused by the commotion, the blunders. That was why she was checking the most obvious places.
The second floor included an atrium overlooking the lobby. She stayed at the brass railing while her eyes searched down below—the line at the reservations counter, the pianist, the few diners in the glass-encased café, the concierge, the cabdriver hauling out luggage. Stucky would blend in. Even the room-service staff would not have noticed him had he walked into their kitchen in a white jacket and black tie.
“Any luck?”
Maggie jumped but managed to restrain herself from automatically reaching for her gun.
“Sorry.” Nick looked genuinely concerned. “He’d be nuts to stick around. I’m guessing he’s long gone.”
“Stucky likes to watch. It isn’t much fun if he doesn’t get to see people’s reactions. Half of these officers don’t know what he looks like. If he plays it cool, they might never spot him. He has the uncanny ability to blend in.”
Maggie continued searching, standing quietly and still. She could feel Nick examining her. She was tired of everyone watching for signs of some kind of mental meltdown, though she knew Nick was sincere.
“I’m fine,” she said without looking at him, answering his unspoken question.
“I know you are. I still get to be concerned.”
“Assistant Director Cunningham thinks he’s protecting me by keeping me off the investigation.”
“I wondered why you were teaching. John said there were rumors that you were burned out, losing your touch.”
She had guessed as much, yet it felt like a slap in the face to hear it out loud. She avoided looking at him. She probably looked the part of the crazed FBI agent, with her tangled hair and baggy clothes.
“Is that what you think?” she asked, not certain she wanted to know.
“I know this isn’t what you want to hear, Maggie, but I think Cunningham may be smart in keeping you out of this.”
“How can you say that? It’s obvious Stucky is playing with me again.”
“Exactly. He wants to drag you into his games. Why give him what he wants?”
“But you don’t understand, Nick.” She tried to keep her voice calm and level. “Stucky will continue to goad me whether I’m on the case or not. Cunningham can’t protect me. Instead, he’s keeping me from the one way I have to fight back.”
“I’m guessing he must have told you he wants you on that flight back to D.C. tonight?”
“Agent Turner is escorting me.” Why bother hiding her anger. “It’s ridiculous, Nick. Stucky is right here in Kansas City. I should stay.”
More silence. They were back to searching the crowd below. Nick moved closer as though purposely bringing their bodies into contact. His shoulder no longer accidentally brushed hers. Now it stayed against her. She found a weird sense of comfort in this slight contact, feeling perhaps that she wasn’t in this alone.
“I called you when I first moved to Boston,” he said quietly, still not looking at her.
She glanced at him. Was this some line?
“I didn’t get any message,” she said, now curious and anxious to call him on his bluff.
“Quantico wouldn’t give me any information as to where you were, or when you’d be back. I even told them I was with the Suffolk County D.A.’ s office.” He glanced at her and smiled. “They weren’t impressed.”
It was a safe story. She wouldn’t be able to confirm it or deny it. She concentrated on the lobby. Below, three men toted luggage behind a well-dressed woman with silver hair and a raincoat that didn’t have a raindrop on it.
“I ended up calling Greg’s law firm.”
“You did what?”
“Neither of you are in the telephone directory,” he defended himself. “I figured the office of Brackman, Harvey and Lowe might be more understanding. They might actually care about someone from a D.A.’ s office getting in touch with one of their attorneys. Even if it was after hours.”
“You talked to Greg?”
“I didn’t mean to. I was hoping to catch you at home. I thought if Greg answered, I could tell him I needed to talk to you about unfinished business in Nebraska. After all, I knew you were still looking for Father Keller.”
“But Greg didn’t buy it.”
“No.” Nick looked embarrassed. “He told me the two of you were working on your marriage. He asked me as a gentleman to respect that and stay away.”
“Greg said that? About being a gentleman? As if he knew.” Maggie wondered if Greg actually believed his own bullshit. “How long ago was this?”
“Couple months ago.”
“Months ago?” She couldn’t believe Greg hadn’t mentioned it, or that he hadn’t let it slip out during one of their arguments.
“It was right after I moved, so it had to be around the last week of January. I got the impression the two of you were still living together.”
“Greg and I both decided to stay at the condo, since neither of us were there that often. But I asked Greg for a divorce on New Year’s Eve. That probably sounds heartless—I meant to wait.” She watched as a maintenance crew pushed huge floor waxers into the lobby. “We were at his firm’s party. He wanted us to masquerade as the happy couple.”
The supervisor of the maintenance crew had a clipboard and wore shiny leather dress shoes. Maggie craned over the railing to get a glimpse of his face. Too young and too tall to be Stucky.
“People at the party kept congratulating me and welcoming me to the firm. They spoiled Greg’s surprise. He had managed to get me a job as the head of their investigations department without even talking to me about it. He couldn’t understand why I wouldn’t jump at the chance to be digging through files, looking for misappropriation of funds instead of digging through Dumpsters, looking for body parts.”
“Right. Jesus, how silly of him.”
She turned and rewarded his sarcasm with a smile.
“I finally moved into a house of my own last week. In a few weeks the divorce should be final.”
“Maybe it would have been safer to stay at the condo. I mean as far as this thing with Stucky is concerned.”
“Newburgh Heights is just outside D.C. It’s probably one of the safest neighborhoods in Virginia.”
“Yeah, but I hate thinking about you being all alone.”
“I’d rather be alone when he comes for me. That way no one else gets hurt. Not this time.”
“Jesus, Maggie! You want him to come after you?”
She avoided looking at him. She didn’t need to see his concern. She couldn’t take on the weight of it, the responsibility of it. So instead, she concentrated on the men in blue overalls wrestling with cords and mops. When she didn’t answer, Nick reached for her hand, gently taking it. He intertwined her arm with his, bringing her hand to his chest and keeping it there, tight against the pounding of his heart. Then they stood there while they watched the hotel get its floors waxed.
28
HE COULD feel Dr. Gwen Patterson staring at him while he stabbed at her furniture with his white cane, fumbling for a place to sit down. Nice stuff. The office even smelled expensive, fine leather and polished wood. But why would he expect anything less? She was a classy woman. Finally, a challenge to up the ante.
He swiped his hand across her desktop, but there wasn’t much to disturb—a phone, a Rolodex, several legal pads and a daily calendar, flipped open to Wednesday, April 1. Only now did it occur to him that it was April Fools’ Day. How
appropriate. He resisted the urge to smile, instead turning again and bumping into a credenza, barely missing an antique vase. The window looked out over the Potomac. In its reflection, he watched her grimace at his fumblings.
“The sofa is just to your left,” she finally instructed, but stayed seated. She wouldn’t embarrass him by coming to his rescue. Excellent. She had passed his first test.
He patted down the leather, feeling for the arm, and carefully sitting down.
“Would you like something to drink before we start?”
“No,” he snapped. Invalids could get away with shit like that. Then, to let her know he wasn’t such a bad guy, he politely added, “I’d rather we just get started.”
He set the cane by his side where he could find it easily. He bunched up his leather jacket and laid it in his lap. He adjusted his sunglasses. The lenses were extra dark so that no one could see his eyes. It was a lovely twist. Everyone thought they were being the voyeurs, safe in staring at him, pitying him. No one seemed to question whether or not a blind guy could actually see.
Except that the lie might be coming true. The drugs weren’t working, and he couldn’t deny that his eyesight was getting worse. He had lucked out so many times before, was his number finally up? No, he didn’t believe in fate. So what if he needed a little extra help these days, some assistance from an old friend to bring a little excitement into his life? Wasn’t that what friends were for?
He cocked his head to one side, pretending to need to hear her before he could turn in her direction. Through the dark lenses in the dark room, he found himself squinting. She was still staring at him, sitting back in her chair, looking comfortable and in control.
She came around to the front of the desk, leaning against the pristine top and standing in front of him. She looked soft and fragile, curves in all the right places, tight skin and few wrinkles for a woman in her late forties. She wore her strawberry-blond hair loose, letting it brush her jawline in delicate wisps. He wondered if it was her natural color, and caught himself smiling. Maybe he would need to find out for himself.
He leaned back into the sofa, waiting, sniffing in her fragrance. Her red silk blouse was thin enough to reveal small, round breasts and the slight pucker of nipples. He tucked his hands into his lap, making sure his jacket covered the swelling bulge, pleased that his new diet of porn movies seemed to be helping his temporary lapses.
“As with all my patients, Mr. Harding,” she said, “I’d like to know what your goals are. What do you hope to accomplish in our sessions?”
He held back a smile. She was already accomplishing one of his goals. He tilted his head toward her and continued to stare at her breasts.
“I’m not sure I understand the question.” He had learned it was good to make women explain. It allowed them to feel in control.
“You told me on the phone,” she began carefully, “that you had some sexual issues you wanted to work on. In order for me to help you, I need to know what you’d like to see come out of these sessions.”
It was time to see how easily she could be shocked.
“It really is quite simple. I want to be able to enjoy fucking a woman again.”
Her light complexion flushed slightly, but she didn’t move. It was a bit of a letdown. Maybe he should add that he wanted to enjoy fucking a woman without wanting to fuck her to death. Should he confess that seeing his women smeared in blood and screaming for mercy made him come in an orgasmic explosion like none he could achieve otherwise? Could she understand that this hideous thing inside threatened to take away the foundation of his being, his last primal instinct?
But, no, that would probably be a bit much. That was something Albert Stucky would do, and he needed to resist the urge to stoop to his old friend’s level.
“Can you do that, Doc?” he asked.
“I can certainly try.”
He looked over her shoulder, his body slightly turned to the side, despite her standing in front of him.
“You’re blushing,” he said, and allowed a curt smile.
The color in her cheeks deepened. “What makes you say that?”
Would she deny it? Would she disappoint him this soon and lie?
“I’m guessing,” he said, letting his voice be soothing, encouraging her to confide in him. If he was to accomplish his goal, he would need Dr. Patterson not to feel threatened. The good doctor had a reputation for delving into some of the most famous and devious of criminal minds. He wondered what she would think if she knew she was to be the guinea pig this time.
“Let me just say, I’ve been a psychologist quite a while. I’ve heard many shocking things, much more so than your problem. You needn’t worry about embarrassing me, Mr. Harding.”
Okay, so she chose to play it safe and cool, refusing him access to her inner self. This excited him nevertheless. He enjoyed a challenge.
“Perhaps,” she continued, “we should start by you telling me why you no longer enjoy sex.”
“Isn’t that obvious?” He used the tone he had perfected. The one that sounded offended yet sad enough to invoke the right amount of pity. It usually worked.
“Of course it’s not obvious.”
She was making this so easy. Playing right into his hands, so to speak. He cupped a palm over his erection.
“If you’re thinking your—” she hesitated “—your handicap—”
“It’s okay. You can call it what it is. I’m blind. I don’t mind anyone saying the word.”
“Okay, but your blindness should not mean a loss of libido.”
He liked the way she said “libido.” It made him anxious to hear her say “penis” and “fellatio”; he wondered how her lips would curl around those words.
“Is that what you’re saying, Mr. Harding?” she interrupted his thoughts. “That somehow your loss of sight has rendered you incapable of performing?”
“Men are highly visual creatures, especially when it comes to being sexually aroused.”
“True,” she said as she reached behind her and grabbed his case history. “When did you begin losing your eyesight?”
“About four years ago. Do we have to talk about that?”
She looked up at him over the open file. She had shifted to the other end of the desk, but he kept his gaze on the spot where she had been.
“If it will help us deal with your current problem, then, yes, I do think we should talk about it. Do you have an objection to that, Mr. Harding? You don’t appear to be a man who runs away from a challenge.”
“I have no objection,” he said, having some difficulty containing a smile. No, anyone who knew Walker Harding would never accuse him of running away from anything. But if he was to accept his new challenge, he’d need to depend on the master criminal mind that Dr. Patterson yet had the pleasure of examining. Yes, despite playing this new role, he would still need to depend on the genius of his old friend, Albert Stucky.
29
TULLY ripped off the latest fax that had just come in from Kansas City. He jammed it into a file folder, adding it to the pile in his arms, and headed down the hall. The waitress’s murder looked more and more like the work of Albert Stucky. No one else would deliver the woman’s kidney to O’Dell’s hotel room.
“Good morning, Anita,” he greeted the gray-haired secretary who looked impeccable at any hour of the day. She waved him by. Everyone knew not to set foot into the assistant director’s office until Anita gave the signal.
Cunningham was on the phone, but nodded to Tully and pointed to a chair.
“Yes, I understand,” Cunningham said. “Of course I will.” He hung up, as was his usual manner, without a goodbye. He adjusted his glasses, sipped coffee, then looked at Tully. Despite the crisp white shirt and perfectly knotted tie, his eyes betrayed him. Swollen from too little sleep, the red lines were magnified by the bifocal half of his glasses.
“Before we get started,” he said, “do you have any information on Walker Harding?”
�
�I’m sorry, sir, I don’t recognize the name Walker Harding.”
“He was Albert Stucky’s business partner,” a woman’s voice answered from the open doorway.
Tully twisted in his chair to look at the young, dark-haired woman. She was attractive and wore a navy trouser suit.
“Agent O’Dell, please come in.” Cunningham stood and pointed to the chair next to Tully.
Tully stared up at her, shuffling his files, awkwardly shoving them aside.
“Special Agent Margaret O’Dell, this is Special Agent R. J. Tully.”
The chair wobbled as Tully stood and shook O’Dell’s hand. Immediately he was impressed with her firm grip and the way she looked directly into his eyes.
“Pleased to meet you, Agent Tully.”
She was professional. There was no trace of what she had gone through last night. This didn’t look like an agent on the verge of mental collapse.
“The pleasure is mine, Agent O’Dell. I’ve heard a great deal about you.”
“Why were you asking about Walker Harding?” O’Dell asked as she sat down.
“For Agent Tully’s benefit,” Cunningham began explaining, “Walker Harding and Albert Stucky started an Internet stock-trading business, one of the first of its kind, in the early 1990s. They ended up making millions.”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t think I have any information on him,” Tully said as he riffled through his files, double-checking.
“You probably don’t.” Cunningham sounded apologetic. “Harding was out of the picture long before Stucky took up his new hobby. He and Stucky sold their company, split their millions and went their separate ways. There was no reason for any of us to know about Walker Harding.”
“I’m not sure I follow,” Tully said. “Is there some reason why we should now?”
Cunningham sat back and made a tent with his fingertips. “Walker Harding became a recluse after he and Stucky sold their business. Practically disappeared off the face of the earth. There seems to be virtually no records, no transactions, no sign of the man.”
“Then what does this have to do with Stucky?” Tully was puzzled.
