The detective rubbed his cheek. “If he is, he’s also anti-black and anti–thrash metal.”
“Well, I can understand the second of those. The Loki murder doesn’t fit the pattern in that respect. I mean, where does a long-haired, white vic come in?”
“Search me, boss,” Pinker said, peering at the papers on the desk. “Jeez, this guy had small writing. I can hardly make out a word of it.”
“Well, you better get used to it,” the chief said. “Until we find out otherwise, the professor’s specialization has to be our focus. What exactly was he working on?”
Pinker turned over the book that was lying open. “This is called De Occulta Philosophia, whatever that means.” His major at college had been criminology.
Simmons swallowed a laugh. “On Occult Philosophy?” he hazarded.
“Not one of your voodoo books, is it?” Pinker smile sardonically. His partner hadn’t been able to find anything linking Monsieur Hexie’s death to his interest in the religion.
“Cool it, you two,” their boss ordered. “That’ll really get the tabloids going, another occult link. We’ve already had articles about witches’ covens in Congress and satanic rituals beneath the Washington Memorial.” He buttoned up his raincoat. “I’m going back to the office. See if I can keep dodging the bullets.” He looked at each of his men. “You two need to find a good lead, and soon. Or the Feds will take over all three cases.”
The detectives watched him leave.
“Fuck this shit,” Versace said, in a low voice. “This guy’s running rings around us, Clem.”
“Just as well there’s no woman in your life these days, eh, Vers? Since these murders started, you haven’t had time to unzip your very expensive flies.”
The smaller man gave his partner a scornful look. “When did you last get any, my man?” Then his expression changed. “Aw, shit. I’m sorry.” Simmons’s wife, Nina, had died of cancer a year earlier. They had been like a normal couple, with none of the strains of most police marriages. Pinker knew that Clem had never got the hots for another woman when Nina was alive, and he probably never would now she was gone.
“Forget it, Vers.” Simmons headed for the door.
They met Dana Maltravers on the stair.
“Ah, Detectives,” she said, enthusiastically, “I was hoping you could give me an update.”
Gerard Pinker ran his eye over the young woman. Beneath the dark blue FBI jacket, her body was trim, and curved in all the right places. He might have made a move, but he knew he would never live it down at the MPDC building. Feds were the enemy, strictly off-limits.
“You were here a couple of hours ago,” Simmons said, with a soft smile. “What do you think’s happened since then, Special Agent?” He brushed past her, his partner close behind.
Maltravers followed them downstairs. “Tracked down any witnesses, Detective? How about you, Versace?”
The detective froze. His nickname was not for public use.
Dana Maltravers immediately realized her mistake. “I mean, Detective Pinker.”
“Yes, you do mean Detective Pinker. Tell you what, you tell me your nickname and I’ll think about letting you use mine.”
The agent’s cheeks reddened. “Oh, I don’t think…”
“Come on now,” Pinker said. Special Agent Maltravers is quite a mouthful.” He laughed. “So to speak.”
The young woman didn’t acknowledge the double entendre.
“Okay, what’s Sebastian’s handle?”
“I can’t tell you that, Detective.”
“Oh, well, there goes that update.”
They had reached the hall inside the building’s main door.
“Is that what you mean by inter-agency cooperation, Vers?” Simmons said. “I don’t think the chief would approve.”
Gerard Pinker looked at him as if he were a traitor. “I just think that knowing our colleagues’ nicknames would make cooperation so much easier.”
“Oh, all right,” Maltravers said, looking away. “I’m known as Princess and he’s called Dick—behind his back only, of course.”
“Princess?” Pinker said. “Yeah, I suppose you do look kinda like that Diana woman. Apart from the hair color.”
“Dick?” Simmons said. “By any chance, would that be followed by head?”
“So you are a detective after all,” Dana Maltravers said, her eyes still averted despite her smile.
“Dick,” Pinker guffawed. “I like it. Where is the man in question, by the way?”
“On his way back from Maine. He should be here soon.”
Pinker’s expression became more serious. “You realize the English guy Matt Wells has to be in the clear for this murder—assuming that was him up in lobster-and-moose land.”
Maltravers nodded. “I’ve checked the airport security films. He wasn’t in Reagan National. He would have really had to move to get up there by rail or car.”
“Is it theoretically possible?” Simmons asked.
She nodded. “Yes, at least by train. Our people are looking at the Union Station films. Driving would be a real tester—it’s over seven hundred miles.”
“And why would he bother?” Pinker asked.
Simmons rubbed his chin. “But Wells is still in the frame for the Monsieur Hexie murder. He could have done Loki, as well, without leaving any prints there.”
“Or he could have planned the Loki killing and the latest one,” Maltravers said.
“You’ve really got a hard-on for him, Princess,” Pinker said. “I checked our files. He reported his girlfriend’s disappearance back in late August, and then he vanished himself a couple of weeks later. Why suddenly turn into a killer?”
Maltravers stepped closer as a CSI walked past. “Maybe you didn’t read the background documentation I sent over. He’s killed before—in London.”
“I know that,” Simmons said. “But it was in self-defense. Just because he’s capable—”
“He’s certainly that,” Maltravers put in. “A black belt in karate and judo, training in armed and unarmed combat from a former special forces sold—”
“So what?” Pinker demanded. “His girlfriend is a senior English police officer, for Christ’s sake. She was over here to meet with your bosses.”
“Among other people,” Dana Maltravers mumbled, before straightening up.
“What about the Bureau’s experts?” Simmons asked. “They come up with anything on the drawings?”
The agent’s shoulders slackened. “Not yet.”
Pinker moved closer again. “All right, Princess, let’s hear your theory. What exactly is going on here?”
Dana Maltravers held his gaze. “It’s…it’s not my theory,” she stammered.
“Oh, it’s Dick the Dickhead’s, is it?” Pinker said with a wide grin. “Never mind, lay it on us.”
She took a deep breath. “Well, the idea is that Matt Wells’s woman got picked up by the people she had in her sights—she was in charge of corporate crime and there are several companies that would love to see her dead.”
“The Bureau been investigating them?” Simmons asked.
“It’s not my department. But, yes—the financial-crime people are on the case. It’s sensitive, though. These are household names.”
“Who no doubt have a lot of pull on the Hill,” Pinker said. “But what’s that got to do with her man Matt Wells? Why would he suddenly hit on these particular victims? A metal singer with far-right connections, a voodoo huckster and a Jewish professor. They have anything in common that we’re missing?”
Maltravers was chewing the inside of her cheek. “Not much,” she said, in a low voice. “The drawings are the key, I think.”
Pinker gave a bitter smile. “The very-hard-to-understand key.”
Clem Simmons caught his eye. “Come on, Vers, we’ve got work to do.”
“What about my update?” Maltravers asked.
“You’ll get it when we do,” Gerard Pinker said. “Hot off the press.�
�
“I take it that means you haven’t come up with anything new?”
“Correct,” Simmons said. “You’ve got our cell-phone numbers.”
Dana Maltravers did not look impressed.
Richard Bonhoff had gone back to the building the twins had come out of. Although the stone facade was crumbling, the door was secured with a heavy padlock and the windows barred. He hammered and yelled to no avail. After waiting for over three hours, he went back to the hotel to catch up on his sleep.
The next morning, after doing some writing, he went over his options. He wasn’t sure how long his credit cards would remain unblocked, but he didn’t care. He’d scavenge for food in garbage bins if he had to, but he wasn’t leaving Washington till he found the twins. The obvious plan was to watch the building and approach them again. But he was outnumbered there and even his marine training would be little use against a gang of armed inner-city kids with their brains fried on whatever shit was popular these days. Better to concentrate on Gordy Lister. He was on his own most of the time, and when he had goons, Richard could handle them. Not that he expected Lister to repeat the mistake of underestimating him.
So what was he to do? There was only one option—tail Gordy Lister and squeeze him again. Now that the initial shock of seeing Randy and Gwen had faded, Richard had more questions for the newspaperman—such as, how had he known where to find them? And why did he have musclemen he could whistle up? Lister didn’t seem to be a reporter. Richard reckoned he was more of a fixer.
He went out of the hotel to the store on the corner. He bought some bread and cheese. The usual tabloids were displayed in a rack. He picked up the Star Reporter. Today’s edition led with a story about another murder—D.C. Prof Killed in Ritual Blinding? The article inside tried to link the murder in Georgetown to earlier ones with occult connections. Richard shook his head. At least they didn’t have lunatic killers like that in Iowa.
On his way back to the hotel, he came up with a plan of action. He would head into the city center by bus and buy some different clothes, if his card allowed him. After that, he would follow Gordy Lister till he found out what he needed to know.
The blood was flowing fast in Richard’s veins as he set out. He was doing something positive and he didn’t plan on letting anything knock him off course.
A visitor to Joe Greenbaum’s study would not have registered his presence behind the piles of books, folders and box files on his desk—until he lit one of the Cuban cigars, obtained from contacts in the intelligence world, and the smoke billowed up like a Native American signal.
Joseph Martin Greenbaum, doctorate from Harvard Business School, had grown up in Brooklyn. As the class genius, he’d been bullied at school until he’d put on enough weight to fight. Since then, he’d always had an interest in the underdog, which led him to investigate companies that mistreated their customers and workers. He had started writing the coruscating freelance reports that made his name during the Reagan presidency. His victims included a cigarette company that had paid for a whistle-blower to be run over, a bank that had used depositors’ funds to finance cocaine smuggling, and a blue-chip accountancy firm that had signed off on an oil company’s false tax returns. The magazines and newspapers who bought his articles knew they were always reliable. That was why Joe’s apartment was in a secure block in Adams Morgan, his doors reinforced by steel and his triple-glazed windows impenetrable by all but the heaviest caliber weapons.
Joe loved his work, but he was the first to admit it had disadvantages. He could never make a relationship with a woman last more than a month, though wearing spectacles with bottle-lenses probably didn’t help, either. He ended up staying in his apartment far too much. It wasn’t that he was afraid of the scumbags who were out to get him, it was rather that he enjoyed digging in companies’ entrails so much. And then there was his weight—250 pounds on a good day, more when he’d hit the Ben and Jerry’s big-time.
Right now none of that mattered to Joe. First, he had seen the news of Abraham Singer’s murder on the TV. He had only met the professor occasionally, but he’d liked his dispassionate take on Jewish culture and history. Joe himself had been brought up in the old ways, but he’d broken free of them at college. That didn’t mean he’d lost all respect for the faith. Singer hadn’t, either—he just put it under a more critical gaze than most believers. Joe’s immediate feeling was that the horrible way the professor was killed had nothing to do with rituals, as some of the reporters were saying. Joe was as socially progressive as it got, but he remained old-school in one way: whenever a Jew was killed, he put it down to anti-Semitism—until there was evidence to the contrary.
That wasn’t the only thing that was bothering Joe Greenbaum as he finished his morning delivery of doughnuts. Ever since his friend Matt Wells had disappeared—in fact, ever since Matt’s partner, the high-flying policewoman, had gone missing in the Shenandoah Valley—Joe had been picking the brains of his FBI insiders. They had been unable to help in any conclusive way until earlier that week when, to Joe’s amazement, he learned that Matt was a suspect in the murder of a black man who owned an occult supplies store. Apparently his fingerprints had been found in the victim’s apartment; as far as Joe was concerned, that had to be bullshit of the finest quality. He’d known Matt Wells for years. They had first met at a crime-writing conference in D.C., had instantly bonded and had kept the bar open all night. Since then, they had e-mailed back and forth on a variety of subjects. Joe had also seen Matt several times since the policewoman disappeared. The Brit had been angry, overemotional and suspicious, but no way had he turned homicidal. Joe was 100 percent positive that both Matt and his lover had been kidnapped. He’d pulled every chain he had, but no one had a clue. And now Matt was a murder suspect? Screw that.
Joe Greenbaum shook his head. He had been looking into the D.C. murders and he had some ideas he wanted to bounce off Matt. Where the hell was his erstwhile drinking companion? If he didn’t show up soon, Joe was going to have to make a move on the people the Englishman had been looking at. And that could have very serious consequences for all concerned.
Twenty-Five
I sat motionless in the pickup as Mary Upson slowed before the bulky Maine state trooper. The early-morning light wasn’t strong enough to raise more than a faint glow on the waters of the lake, the dark green of the pine-covered mountains stepping back into the gloom.
“What next?” I asked.
“Cool it,” Mary replied, keeping her eyes on the man ahead. “He’s looking out for my car, remember, not my mother’s pickup.”
That was true, but I presumed our descriptions had also been circulated. I was holding the pistol out of sight, not that I wanted to use it. Something my friend Dave had said during some kind of small-arms training session in some desolate hills came back to me. “Bear this in mind,” the ex-SAS man had said with a thin smile. “If you aim your weapon at someone, you’ve got to be 100 percent sure that you’ll pull the trigger. There’s no room for doubt.”
And that was the problem. I had plenty of doubts about pointing my gun at an innocent law enforcement officer. For a start, what happened if he tried to pull his own weapon? Would I shoot him? The answer had to be no. I wasn’t interested in injuring or killing people unless they harbored similar intentions toward me. Besides, firing a shot would get us noticed, even in the back of beyond.
Then I realized that my thoughts had run away with me—the impact of the wheel on my forehead was obviously still having an effect. Mary was already talking to the trooper.
“…my great-aunt Lucy Heaton. She’s taken a turn for the worse and we’re going to help her out.”
The man was in his late forties, his cheeks and belly bloated. If it came to a foot race, I had the edge.
“Ah, right,” he said, smiling back at Mary. “Got elderly folks in my family, too. You go ahead. Say, you haven’t seen a green ’98 Toyota Tercel, have you?”
Mary shrugged.
I
leaned across. “As a matter of fact,” I said, putting on what I hoped was a convincing American accent, “I did notice one of those. A man and woman inside?”
He nodded, his eyes wide. “That’s right, sir.”
“Now, where was it?” I said, prompting Mary. I didn’t have a clue about the local place names.
“Oh, I remember,” she said. “We passed them the other side of Rumford. Didn’t look like they knew where they were going. They finally took the 108 toward Canton.”
“Is that right?” The trooper stepped back. “Thanking you, ma’am,” he said, turning toward the patrol car.
I watched as he got on the radio. “Nicely done,” I said. “But I suppose there’s a risk.”
Mary glanced at me. “Why?”
“If our friend’s bosses ask him for a description of us as witnesses, we may be shafted. Not all state troopers will be concentrating only on what people are driving.” I thought about that. “On the other hand, we’ve both got injuries on our foreheads. He’d be justified in assuming they would have been mentioned.” I looked over at the trooper. He was talking animatedly into the handset. “Get moving. He hasn’t got our names and, if we’re lucky, he won’t take note of the plates.”
Mary took us slowly through the small town. There were only a few people around so early in the morning.
“Lucy Heaton?” I said, smiling.
She laughed. “Came up with it on the spur of the moment.”
“What if he was the kind of cop who knows everyone?”
“Oh, I guess I’d have said she was staying with friends. If he’d asked me their names, I’d have lied again.” She turned toward me. “And if that hadn’t satisfied him, I suppose I’d have hit the gas.”
There was a look in her eyes that was alarming. I remembered what her mother had said. It wouldn’t do to get too close to Mary Upson. On the other hand, the more I knew about her, the better prepared I’d be.
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