It was a pity that Oz Almo’s lawyer hadn’t spent more money on his toupee. The thatch of young brown hair sat atop graying temples, appearing to have crawled up there of its own volition. Special Agent Arnie Pyle wondered if the attorney had given the hairpiece a name and bought it a flea collar.
Arnie leaned back in the leather chair and lit a cigarette, despite the absence of ashtrays. Almo’s attorney waved his hand in the air, batting at smoke that had not yet reached him. This was the man’s first physical motion since sitting down to a polite round of plea bargaining. But the lawyer’s head never moved. He always remained in profile, and the FBI agent was spellbound by the single round, unblinking eye.
After taking a deep drag on his cigarette to produce the longest possible ash, Arnie smiled at the attorney, whom he had christened Fisheye. “According to these ledgers—” He paused to open up the heavy volume. “Oz has income from a lot of different sources, and only two legitimate clients. Interesting? Some of these entries are out-of-state wire transfers. But the one I especially like is probably a local man. His payments are tagged with a D after every entry. Always the same cash increments every month. I can backtrack these payments for at least ten years.”
He slammed the book with a loud crack. Fisheye jumped, and Arnie’s smile widened. Anything that cracked an attorney’s composure was progress. “Looks like your client is into blackmail.”
“But you don’t know that for a fact.”
“I didn’t interview the marks, if that’s what you’re asking. And you don’t want me to, Counselor. Once I do that, I have to do the paperwork. You think I’m blowing smoke?” Arnie made a conciliatory shrug. “Okay, I’ll give you a name—Rita Anderson.”
The lawyer turned to his client, who sat at the edge of the couch with his hands cuffed behind him. The look on Oz Almo’s face told him the threat was solid. So Rouge had been right about the overpaid cleaning lady.
“Let’s say we got your guy on blackmail.” Arnie put his feet up on the soot-crusted bag of ransom money. “Among other things.”
The point was not lost on Fisheye, but neither did it seem to worry the man that his client was involved in conspiracy charges for the death of Susan Kendall. The lawyer was also aware that two other children might well be dying as they spoke. Yet he retained his composure, showing no angst, no compassion, no hint of any warm blood. Evidently Fisheye’s mother had laid her eggs in cold pond water.
“The ransom is old business, Agent Pyle. Unless you have more—”
“Let’s see if I can guess where you’re going with that. The statute of limitations? It starts rolling on the day of discovery, and that’s today.”
“No, I was about to mention the minor detail of the man convicted of murdering Susan Kendall.”
“Right you are. But it looks like the priest didn’t act alone. We got Oz nailed for conspiracy.” Arnie absently stroked the cover of the closed ledger. “I’m interested in the cash entries for the local man.”
The lawyer glanced at the ash on the end of Arnie’s cigarette; it had grown. “Mr. Almo will be happy to assist the police in the current investigation, under certain circumstances.” Fisheye made a polite cough, the nonsmoker’s indication that the cigarette should be put out.
Arnie shook his head. “Sorry, pal. Can I call you pal? No? Well, Counselor, for Oz’s sake, I hope the girls don’t die while you’re jerking me around.” Arnie took another drag, and now the long log of an ash hung out over the arm of the chair, the handwoven rug, but best of all, it threatened the hem of the lawyer’s cashmere coat. “With the interstate wire transfers, the FBI’s got your guy on extortion. But with the ransom money, the State Police get dibs on his hide for kidnap and murder—hard time in the pen, even if he weasels out of murder in the first degree. Let’s say he wrote the ransom note himself. That would knock down the jail time.”
Fisheye had already framed his rebuttal and would have spoken, but Arnie held up one finger to say he was not done yet. “This morning we turned up a dead BCI man named Sorrel. He ties in, too. Federal and state—everybody’s pissed off.”
The attorney held out an empty nut dish for the agent to use as an ashtray. Arnie ignored this suggestion and let the dish hover in the air between himself and Almo’s lawyer. The man’s single unblinking eye roved over the cops, who were shifting their weight, tensing their bodies, churning and building the energy in the room.
And then the ash dropped into the dish in Fisheye’s hand.
“I’m going to advise my client to cooperate.”
“Very sound advice, Counselor.”
“But I can’t advise him to incriminate himself.” Fisheye set the dish on the table with a grimace of distaste. “Under the circumstances, I think immunity from federal prosecution would be a reasonable exchange for full cooperation.”
“You’re counting on the pressure of two little girls who don’t have much time to live.” Arnie nodded. “Okay, it’s a deal. The government won’t pursue federal charges.”
“I’m glad to see we’re in accord on this, Agent Pyle, but I need to talk to someone a bit higher up, someone in a position to make a deal.”
“There’s no way the brass won’t support me. You know the drill, Counselor. This is a one-time-only offer, and time is running out for the kids.”
“So? Use the phone.”
“It’s Christmas Day. You—”
“I have the home telephone number for a U.S. Attorney.” Fisheye rummaged through his wallet, withdrawing a business card with a number penned on the back. “We play golf.”
Charlie Croft was making good time along the deserted Lakeshore Drive, though there were no streetlamps to light the way in the dark evening hour. The beams of the car picked out the trunks of trees and encroaching low branches reaching into the road.
“Like I said, ma’am, this is probably a waste of time.”
“Call me Ali.”
“Billy might’ve been right about that cramped cellar. As I recall, that old house was added onto quite a bit—but not all at once. It’s got a brick wall and a stone one running along the front. The extension in the back of the house is made of wood. Could be the original house only had a small cellar. Buildings on lower ground have crawl spaces, no cellar at all.”
“You were trying to remember something odd about the house. Was it something you saw on the upper floors?”
“Well, no. There were four floors, but not much to see. Looked like the old lady wasn’t using the upstairs. All the beds had bare mattresses, and most of the rooms were closed off with weather stripping. She was using the back parlor for her bedroom, so I figured maybe she was trying to save money sealing off the rest of—Oh shit.” One hand slapped his forehead. “That was the one odd thing I couldn’t remember—the utility bills. I saw them on her desk when Phil Chapel was going through all the clutter looking for an address book. The electricity charge was a whopper, even for a big place like that one.”
“Maybe electric heating?”
“No, ma’am—Ali. There were radiators in every room—all steam heat. And that water bill was high, too. I run across that combo once before—big water and electric bills. This damn hippie rented a summer house on the lake. He was growing his own weed in the house and selling it to local kids. Now if that old lady hadn’t been the only resident, I would’ve tossed the place looking for seeds or maybe a growing shed near the house. In a slow week, I might’ve done that anyway.”
They turned off Lakeshore Drive and onto a narrow road with no marker.
Rouge stood by the window overlooking the private driveway. It was almost empty of cops and cars. Only Donaldson and his partner remained behind, waiting for the lawyer to do his backdoor deal with the U.S. Attorney.
When Oz’s lawyer had hung up the phone, he turned to the federal agent. “So we’re in agreement? You neglect to pursue an investigation of the interstate wire transfers, and Mr. Almo is immune from prosecution on federal charges. Now, about the local char
ges. The ransom will be turned in by my client as found money.”
“That wasn’t part of the deal.”
“It is now, Agent Pyle.”
“All right. Let’s get on with it.” In peripheral vision, Arnie could see Rouge moving toward them. Apparently the young cop did not like the idea of Oz walking away from every charge. Arnie only glanced at him, and with a slight nod, managed to convey that this was a very good deal indeed—for the lives of two small children. So much was riding on Ali’s profile of a local man, her belief in the priest’s innocence, Oz’s proximity to a kidnapping. The slender lead of a local blackmail victim might come to nothing, but this was the only game plan left. The hour was late—children were waiting.
Rouge melted back into the company of the two troopers, who were going over the bags and boxes of collected evidence. He went on with the business of looking for local faces in the photographs of blackmail victims. It was almost a race between the young cop and the lawyer. Who would turn up the local man first?
And now this was also dawning on Fisheye. He turned to his client. “All right, Oz, give them the name for the D entries.”
“I was blackmailing William Penny. He’s a local doctor, a heart specialist. I found—”
“That’s quite enough,” said the attorney. His glare was fixed on Arnie again. “I suggest we get on to clearing up the remaining charges. A call to the—”
“Not so fast,” said Arnie Pyle. He was looking at Rouge, and it was very clear that the name meant something to him. Of course—it was the name of Mortimer Cray’s heart surgeon. “I need this in plain English, so I know what we’re buying. What exactly was the nature of the blackmail?”
The attorney waved his client to silence. “That comes afterwards. Now I want to talk to the local district attorney. Same immunity on the conspiracy charges. I have his home number. But first, I suggest we begin with a show of good faith. Have them remove my client’s handcuffs.” He waved in the general direction of the police officers, clearly minions in his view.
“I don’t think so,” said Rouge, without turning away from his task of initialing the paperwork attached to an evidence bag.
Fisheye appeared to be reappraising the young BCI investigator as another source of power in the room. Then he dismissed the idea.
Arnie leaned forward. “Two little girls are dying, Counselor.”
“All the more reason to close the deal quickly. I want it from the mouth of the district attorney. That’s the deal. Take it or leave it.”
“I might just leave it,” said Rouge.
Fisheye turned to face the younger man, who was holding a plastic bag up to the light. The lawyer regarded him with great disdain, admonishing him as a child who was interrupting the conversation of grown-ups. “You’re an investigator with the State Police, right?” The attorney was clearly not impressed.
Arnie spoke softly, almost as an aside. “He’s the brother of Susan Kendall. You don’t think his word pulls weight with the local DA?” He leaned down to rest one hand on the satchel. “With this money, Oz was supposed to buy Susan’s life.”
The attorney waved one hand in the air as though he were shooing this idea away from the conversation. “You need information—and in a great hurry?”
“Hopefully before the kids turn up dead, you miserable —”
Rouge stepped into the space between them and addressed Arnie Pyle. “I have another witness who might be interested in turning state’s evidence.”
Was Rouge thinking of Rita the cleaning woman? Apparently the lawyer thought so, for he was rising from the chair. “I think we can discuss this further,” said Fisheye.
“Screw it.” Rouge turned his back on the man and missed the sweet sight of an attorney in shock. “This bastard is only getting away with the extortion, right?”
Arnie nodded. “But the deal was only good if he cooperated, and he didn’t.”
“You asked for a name, Agent Pyle.” The attorney was at their backs, raising his voice for the first time. “He gave you the name. That was our deal.”
“He might have a point, kid,” said Arnie. “The U.S. Attorney did a deal for the ledger entry. No conditions that it would take us anywhere.”
“Well, what about this?” Rouge opened the evidence bag and spilled out the charred remains of several magazines on the coffee table. Among the half-burnt scraps of glossy paper with scissor-cut holes were three small squares of letters and words. “Maybe your lab can match this to the bogus ransom note for Gwen and Sadie.”
“New ball game,” said Arnie, ignoring the lawyer and staring at Oz Almo. “So, you enterprising, diversified sack of shit—when I go through your books again, am I gonna find any large sums that match ransoms for other kids?”
Rouge turned to the troopers. “Book him.” To the lawyer, he said, “Kiss off.”
Fisheye was showing both sides of his face now, and he wore a worried look. He had underestimated the young policeman. Too late, he had learned who was running the game in this room.
As they were walking out the door, Arnie was doing the math on the charges. Oz Almo was not a young man; he would never see the outside world again. When Arnie slid into the passenger seat of the Volvo, Rouge was on the phone, asking for the number of a local judge. He dialed it, and then turned the ignition key. He put the car in gear with one hand, and with the phone in his other hand, he was already scamming the judge for two warrants. “Yes, sir, I know it’s Christmas. . . . Just call the U.S. Attorney. He did the deal. . . . Yes, sir. . . . No problem. I’ve got his home number.”
Arnie nodded in approval. Rouge was learning the agent’s bad habits, and so quickly. The home phone number for the U.S. Attorney was such a nice touch, the judge would probably not bother to call. And the kid’s lying was very smooth for an apprentice. There was only one problem—all the evidence was stacked against Oz Almo. William Penny was only a name on a ledger—no substance. But now this young cop was planning to arrest him.
“Rouge, you got nothing on Penny, nothing to say—”
“I’ll get it.” By the time they had turned off the access road and onto Lakeshore Drive, Rouge had issued orders for a unit of troopers to search the surgeon’s residence.
The FBI agent leaned over with one more reminder. “You have no probable cause for a search of his—”
Rouge only glanced at him.
“I know,” said Arnie. “You’ll get it.” He was trying to remember the last time he had flown a case by the seat of his pants. His career might go up in a damn bonfire of broken rules and laws and lies, but he did like the feel of the road rushing under the wheels of a car at ninety miles an hour. He would give no more advice to end this sweet chase—not for the whole earth.
“He might be at Mortimer Cray’s place,” said Arnie. “Didn’t Costello say the shrink went home in the care of his heart surgeon?”
“That’s where we’re going right now. I called the trooper watching the house. He says Penny’s long gone.”
“So you plan to squeeze the shrink? Good idea. Costello made a big mistake with Dr. Cray’s interview in the hospital. The good cop, bad cop routine? The captain tried to play both roles by himself. Now with two of us working on the old man, we could do a fast game of—”
“I’ve got a better game in mind,” said Rouge. “We’re gonna play bad cop and the cop from hell.”
Arnie reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the small gargoyle, a gift from Becca Green so he would not forget her daughter. And against all odds of the child’s survival, he found that he could not give up on Sadie. He set her ghoulish toy on the dashboard close to the windshield. Backlit by the headlight beams, the gargoyle made a dark silhouette jumping and bouncing on rubber haunches with every turn of the car. It was alive.
Charlie Croft stopped the police cruiser in the driveway of the old house and picked up the receiver of his car radio. Ali listened to the bad static and the undecipherable words from the dispatcher.
�
��Must be under a damn power line,” he said. “Same thing happened the last time I was out here.” Charlie held the receiver to his ear and lifted one finger with each word he recognized. “We’ve got to go, Ali. It sounds like they caught the bastard.” Into the radio he said, “They did?” He turned to Ali. “They’re going to arrest him now.” After another minute of static and garble, he spoke to the radio. “What about the kids? . . . What? . . . Say it again. . . . Is that what—” He turned back to Ali Cray. “They need backup.”
“Who is it?”
“No name, just an address. I won’t know if I even got that right till I get clear of the lines or whatever the hell is causing the interference. I’ll drop you off on the way.”
“I’d like to stay here, Charlie. I can manage on my own.” She held out hope for Gwen Hubble, but she did not want to be there when they brought in Sadie’s body. And though she knew this was rank cowardice, she could not deal with the pain of Becca Green. Ali looked out over the black water of the lake. Darkness, isolation, quiet, these were the things she craved tonight.
“I don’t like leaving you out here by yourself,” said Charlie. “I don’t see much point in this now.”
“Just give me the key. I’ll be careful.” I can’t face Becca.
Still he was hesitant.
“You guys caught your man, Charlie. So what are the odds? There isn’t room for two monsters in Makers Village.” And I’m a coward.
“You got me there, Ali.” He smiled, relenting, or more likely feeling pressure, wanting to be off down the road, part of the chase. “Okay. You’ll find the key over the back door. I left it there for the utility people. You better take this.” He handed her his flashlight. “I don’t know if the electricity is on or off.” He pointed to the wall in his headlight beams. “That looks like a full cord of firewood. You might need it if the—”
“Right, don’t worry about me.” She was out of the car and closing the door.
“I’ll swing back later and pick you up.” He put the car in gear.
The Judas Child Page 38
