“Why do I get the feeling I know where he’s going with this?”
“Listen and learn,” said Driscoll.
Thomlinson, amused by the chatter, continued. “Not only does the DOJ maintain the database but they also post most of it on the Internet.”
“Most of it?” Margaret griped.
“The crimes that some of these sleazebags have been convicted of aren’t considered abominable enough to warrant Web posting. They get to see their names in the registry but are spared the embarrassment of Internet stardom. Ah, California! Ya gotta love that state! Once a year, within five days of their birthday, the entire cast of misfits is required to renew their registration. A belated birthday greeting from Arnie the Governator, no doubt. As you’d expect, the offender must update his info pronto, if he moves, or, God forbid, becomes homeless. My favorite requirement is listed as penal code section two-nine-zero, subdivision f-three. It requires the degenerates to update the registry with any name change. They’ve got five days to do it or get a nastygram from the authorities.” A grin formed on Thomlinson’s smug face.
“I know that look,” said Margaret.
“June 1998. A UCLA grad student gets nailed for oral copulation with a minor. It seems the poli-sci enthusiast lured a fourteen-year-old male back to her apartment to give him an up close and personal lesson on what she had learned in the Art of Good Fellatio 101. The recipient’s name was purged from the record but our doer’s was not. Does the name Shewster ring a bell?”
“I knew it. Abigail Shewster.”
A broader grin formed on Thomlinson’s face.
“Here comes the best part,” said Driscoll.
“Gweneth Shewster,” said Thomlinson.
“Who the hell is Gweneth Shewster?” Margaret searched his eyes for an answer.
“Gweneth Shewster. Date of birth August 12, 1976. Daughter to Malcolm and Penny Shewster of Holmby Hills.”
“Whoa!”
“That’s an excerpt from her obituary,” said Thomlinson. “Made all the noteworthy papers. Even the New York Times. Sunday edition! Very modest funeral, though. Attended only by family. Gave daddy an immediate excuse to have the little darling’s name deleted from the sex offenders registry. No sir. There was no further need to renew this lady’s subscription.”
“May I take it from here?” Driscoll asked.
“By all means.”
“Malcolm Shewster slipped. I’m sure he isn’t even aware of it. When I first met him in Sully Reirdon’s office, he boasted that he was prepared to offer a large sum of money to the man who delivered the psychopath that killed his daughter, an only daughter. And he was correct. He only had one daughter. But no man buries an only daughter twice.”
“Unless you’re Malcolm Shewster,” said Margaret.
“Precisely. He was powerless to force Gweneth’s crime to go unpunished. Part of that punishment included her name appearing on the sexual offenders registry. I’m sure he fought that armed with a bazooka. I’m guessing neither his money nor influence could sway the courts. But he’s Malcolm Shewster. Orchestrating a fabricated death was not beneath him.”
“Shortly after the burial, the Shewster clan, diminished though they were in number, relocated to San Luis Obispo,” said Thomlinson. “Got themselves a new house, new surroundings, new neighbors.”
“And gave birth to a twenty-two-year-old daughter. They called the newborn Abigail.”
“Shewster was good at the game,” added Thomlinson. “He had Abigail visit a plastic surgeon, pick out a new look, do something with her hair. Hell, he even threw in a boob job! The birth records were made to appear like any run-of-the-mill adoption. He might not have been able to stop the authorities from posting Gweneth’s nom de famille.”
“But he’d be damned if he couldn’t remove it,” said Driscoll.
“That’s why California’s penal code, section two-nine-zero, subdivision f-three is my favorite. It’s the one that mandates the Department of Justice be informed of any name change.” Thomlinson smiled and unpocketed a cigar.
Chapter 59
Margaret hurried into Driscoll’s office to bring him up to speed on her ongoing investigation involving the duplicitous, somewhat clonelike, Shewster woman.
“Your boy Shewster shoulda been a bricklayer,” said Margaret, using a dampened finger to blot out a stain on her skirt.
“Why’s that?” said Driscoll, distracted by the flash of thigh her action produced.
“Because the son of a bitch who managed to have his daughter’s dental records, from when she was six, mind you, come back with Abigail’s name on them is also good at building walls. No problem getting at Abigail’s, excuse me, Gweneth’s cell phone. It was retrieved at the zoo. A tad banged up. The overgrown chimps must have played Frisbee with it. But her computer? That’s a story unto itself. Despite the fact that the detective we flew to California was armed with enough paper to warrant the seizure of Michael Jackson’s Neverland Valley Ranch, his efforts to retrieve the computer were stymied by a wall of high-priced lawyers. At one point, he toyed with the idea of getting Tom Cruise to do his Mission: Impossible dangling-from-the-ceiling trick to get his hands on it.”
“You catch Mission: Impossible III?”
“Nope.” Jesus! Is he about to ask me out?
“Me neither. Tell me he got the computer.”
“Yep. It’s on its way to Technical Support.”
“And the phone?”
“Ah, the phone. Appears this West Coast socialite wasn’t much of a chatterbox. A few numbers led back to California. Never more than two minutes. We’re tracking them down. But the interesting calls, three actually, were made to and received from an eight-five-eight exchange. One outgoing six days before her body was found, followed by an incoming, three and a half hours later. The third call, outgoing, was placed the day before they found her in the cave.”
“If the ME’s right about the time of death, that last one was placed the day she was murdered. Let me guess. The eight-five-eight exchange is a disposable.”
“You got it. The number-one choice of drug dealers from coast to coast. Who knows? These crazies may have one of those World GSM phones with an International Sim card. They are hooking up with globe-trotters.”
“We’re a long way from rotary dialing.”
“Mr. San Antonio? Aka the guy who got whacked at the aquarium? Communications says he also called the eight-five-eight number. Once.”
“They couldn’t have both picked the number out of thin air. I’m thinking Web site.”
“Me, too. But I’m be willing to bet when we get our hands on his hard drive, it’s gonna show a lot of shopping at Disney. com. Remember, he was caught surfing rent-a-ho sites and got fired for it. And according to his resume he took up designing Web sites for a living. He’d know how to cover his tracks.”
“Probably used a laptop that’s buried deeper than he is.”
“Have Tech Support use industrial-sized crowbars on Miss Shewster’s computer. We need to know her cyber secrets yesterday!”
Chapter 60
Cassie’s body looked like the letter C. With her ass pressed against the worn couch in their new lodgings, she was digging at an ingrown toenail with a corkscrew. She had watched as Angus’s inner demons took hold of him. The malaise could last a few minutes. Or upward of an hour. She would always try to keep him engaged. “We both knew the chance of them backing off was at minus-a-zillion. Even making it seem like you were a retard in the e-mail didn’t help. To them we’re still the bad guys. It’s not like we were asking for a goddamn medal-pinning ceremony. But we did rid the world of a lot of degenerates.”
“And we ain’t done yet.”
Angus felt as though he’d been swallowed whole; the walls of their refuge, becoming the hollow of the creature that had consumed him, making him feel trapped and vulnerable. He imagined he was under the scrutiny of an unseen snake, coiled and ready to strike. The predicament put the killing spree on hold. Ot
hers would likely resign themselves to their fate, praying that a mask of anonymity would shield them from further peril. But not Angus. Every fiber of his body demanded he exorcise himself, reclaim his weapon, and continue his righteous undertaking. His vengeance had become insatiable.
“Our game board. We shouldn’t’a left it. Now we’re gonna need a new one,” said Cassie.
“Gaming is over.”
“We’re gonna stop?”
“Hell no.”
“Jeeez! I thought ya really lost it. We’ll hafta forget about the Web site. They’ll be all over that. TwoNaughtyFreaks is officially shut down. Outta business. It’s gotta show up on one of the stiffs’ Favorites Lists. I’m thinkin’ chat rooms.”
Angus stood. That was a sign he was coming out of it. Hang on, Angus. Fight it!
“No chat rooms!” he said. “They’re crawlin’ with monitors. Ya think you’re talkin’ to a deserving target and it turns out to be J. Edgar Hoover.”
“He died.”
“Whatever.”
“We can still use the phone, right?”
“Yeah, but we can’t go out and hire one of those freakin’ planes to write the number in the sky. That means another Web site. New name. New menu. No twins. You can bet your ass they’re swarmin’ around every twin site on the planet. I’ll get ours routed through Nigeria. Driscoll tries to trace the IP address, he’ll end up on Mars.”
“Nigeria will cost a shitload of money, Angus. There’s like sixty zillion sites. They can’t monitor all of ’em.”
“Oh yeah? Last month the freakin’ NASA headquarters in D.C. was raided. They caught some high-ranking dude, right outta Mission Control, dealing in kiddie porn over the Internet. If they can trace a guy who knows how to disappear into outer space, they can locate anybody.”
“You’re watchin’ too much CNN.”
“And this new pope. Benenick-”
“Benedict, you idiot.”
“Whatever. There’s this old priest-”
“Don’t even go there.”
“He’s like eighty-somethin’. Marsh or Marshall something. Outta Mexico. A big shot. A bishop, I think. Anyway, he gets called in by the pope for some nasty they say he did sixty years ago.”
“So what’s your point?”
“You know how far Mexico is from where the pope lives? The guy reaches clear across the planet after sixty years? That says nobody’s safe. Think about it. The feds take down an astronaut for trawlin’ the Web and the Vatican’s main man calls for a replay on one of his own. No. Body. Is. Safe. That Driscoll guy tracked us down to Carbondale, for Chrissake!”
“We got outta there just in time. How’d you know?”
“’Cause Big Brother is everywhere.”
“Carbondale?”
“Everywhere. And it’s only gonna get worse. We’re on the run now with a million-dollar bull’s-eye painted on our asses. We gotta hurry and set up a new Web si-”
Holy shit! He froze in the middle of a freaking word. “Angus, are you okay? Angus?” He’d never done that before. Cassie thought he’d passed out with his eyes open. Until a smile said otherwise.
“I know that look. What is it? Whad’ya come up with?”
His smile broadened.
“Ya gonna tell me? C’mon, I’m bustin’!”
“We’re not gonna need a Web site, Cass.”
“No?”
“Not even a phone.”
Chapter 61
The Mayor held the handset away from his ear and let Shewster rant. When it stopped reverberating, he returned to the line. “May I speak now?”
“Go ahead,” Shewster barked. “But I’d better like what you’re going to tell me.”
“Rest assured the city of New York is not about to bargain with murderers. What the Lieutenant will get out of this is an intricately carved Native American trinket. Nothing more. I doubt very much that the kids themselves believed their peace-pipe gambit would garner absolution. They’re good at playing games. Our belief, the Lieutenant and I, is that both the pipe and the e-mail were meant as distractions. Give them a chance to regroup. We also don’t think they have any intention of stopping. They’re nuts, for Chrissake!”
“Look, Reirdon. I want to make this point crystal clear. I don’t want to ever read in the papers that you’ve collared these bastards. What I want to read is that they’re dead. Dead. You got that?”
“I can’t promise you that. C’mon. This isn’t Dodge City. Vigilante violence is a crime.”
“Not where I come from!”
“Mr. Shewster, you have to let…Mr. Shewster? Malcolm? Hello? Hello? Are you there?”
Chapter 62
It was nearing 6:00 A.M. Driscoll had just arrived, early for the morning shift. He put on a fresh pot of coffee, adjusted the blinds, and took a seat behind his desk. Pushing an assortment of the paperwork to the side, along with three messages from the chief of detectives marked “Update,” he reached for the folder Margaret had left for him. It was labeled: INTERPOL. Opening it, he discovered she had highlighted the important information in yellow. He wasn’t surprised to learn the pair from Germany and Yen Chan of Japan had contacted the twins on their disposable phone. What he was hoping the report contained he found on page three. Not only had Margaret highlighted it but also it was underlined in red. He smiled as he read the editorial she had penciled next to the twins’ cyber link: “TwoNaughtyFreaks. Some name for a Web site. I’m sure they had the old man to thank for that one.-M.”
His phone rang.
“Driscoll, here.”
“You get it?” Margaret asked.
“Just opened it. Where are you?”
“Ten minutes out.”
“Good. Thomlinson’s on his way in, too. It’s time for the three of us to discuss strategy. There’s been a new development.”
Margaret was already seated inside the Lieutenant’s office when Thomlinson appeared at the door.
“Come in, Cedric.”
Thomlinson did and sidled up next to Margaret.
“You may have already seen or heard about this.” Driscoll passed them a copy of the morning’s Daily News. Its headline read: JUSTICE SEEKER RAISES BOUNTY TO THREE MILLION. “I’ve read the article. It doesn’t shed any light as to why an anonymous justice seeker has raised the ante. Shewster obviously wants them found in a hurry. But not necessarily alive.”
Thomlinson raised an eyebrow.
“It’s likely New York has its own vigilante in Shewster seeking revenge-seeking twins. That, according to the Honorable William “Sully” Reirdon, who called me last night, a tad concerned. Seems he got a call from the man. Shewster doesn’t want them caught. He wants them dead.”
“And we know why,” said Thomlinson. “He doesn’t want Abigail’s fondness for kinky sex revealed by the twins.”
“Kinky doesn’t quite cut it,” said Margaret. “It’s perverse.”
“Whatever you wanna call it, Shewster’s got one foot on Gweneth’s grave, the other foot on Abigail’s grave, and he’s looking to get the twins in his crosshairs,” said Driscoll.
“Does Reirdon know that Shewster has both feet on one grave?” asked Thomlinson. “Or is it just us civil servants who know Gwen and Abie are one and the same?”
“I doubt the Mayor’s aware. Just to play it safe, I left him out of the loop. He is a politician.”
“That puts a sniper between us and the twins,” said Margaret. “With no way of predicting which way he’ll shoot.”
“Nor do we know who that shooter might be,” said Driscoll. “Shewster will have an infantry of yes-men to choose from. Now, although our new initiative falls under the heading of prevention, I’m not enlisting anyone from the department’s Crime Prevention Section. The fewer people we involve, the better. We’ll be shadowing a man who’s got the home phone number of a horde of political honchos and he’ll go to any length to keep his secret buried. When I met with the Greyhound bus operator who ID’d the kids as coming down from Carb
ondale, he told me someone other than NYPD had returned the call he placed to the Tip Line. Who that was will likely remain a mystery. But on whose behalf had he placed the call? Three million fingers point to Shewster. It could have been the man, himself, but I doubt it. When it comes to selecting someone to take down the twins, he may not use a phone. The likelihood is he’ll call him at some point along the way, so we’ll trace his calls.”
“You’ll need a warrant, no?”
“Why? The president didn’t need one to eavesdrop on millions of Americans. Besides, this is a crime prevention measure. We’re not likely to have to use it in court.”
“It amazes me what these guys in the White House get away with. George Bush listens in on unsuspecting citizens, across the nation, and Bill Clinton gives new significance to the O in Oval office. Then claims it doesn’t constitute sex.” Margaret shook her head.
“Let’s not forget JFK,” said Thomlinson.
“Kennedy was lucky. Back in those days reporters kept their noses out of the bedroom.”
“Too bad. Marilyn Monroe coulda used a paparazzi aiming a lens or two on her boudoir. Coulda prevented her suicide, or homicide if you think like a Republican.”
“You guys finished?” asked Driscoll.
They both nodded.
“Good. I just got off the horn with Danny O’Brien over at TARU.” Driscoll was referring to NYPD’s Technical Assistance Response Unit. “He’ll get someone inside the hotel to tap the room’s land phone wires. He’s got a triangulater for his cell phone and a Global Positioning System for his Lincoln with your name on them. I’ll leave it to you, Cedric, to get it attached to his limo, set up the parallel tails, and coordinate the tracking through encrypted radio communication with TARU. Any new players show up on his ‘let’s go visit’ list, Danny will supply us with a GPS to tag onto them.” Driscoll turned his attention to Margaret. “I want you to get back to everyone we’ve spoken to. Your friends at the circus. The night watchman from that halfway house on Staten Island. Father what’s-his-name who introduced us to that halfwit Luxworth. Speak to the girl at the photo shop on Montague and our contacts in Carbondale. Touch base with the bus operator again. It couldn’t hurt. We wanna know if any of them had anyone asking questions about the twins or their involvement. If they did, get all there is to know on who did the asking. And let’s not forget Kyle Ramsey. You’ll wanna meet with him in person. Let him know his photos are ready and, when this is all over, he can expect a visit from me.”
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