Joe tore out a page from his notebook and scribbled some words, then handed it over. “Don’t do anything rash, Matt.”
I laughed. “What, like stand outside shouting ‘Give me back my memory’?”
“That would fit the bill.”
I squeezed his shoulder. “Don’t worry, my friend. I’ll be careful. I’ve got Karen to worry about.”
I felt his eyes on me as I headed for the door.
Chief of Detectives Rodney Owen was standing outside an apartment building in southeast Washington. Although the lights of Capitol Hill were under a mile away, the area wasn’t much of a picture. Apartments were gradually being taken by yuppie types, but the recession had made things hard for them and many of the buildings were still occupied by people with little to their names. Uniformed officers had strung barrier tape around the entrance and were keeping the curious at bay.
Clem Simmons arrived and saw the chief immediately. He sighed in relief when he saw no sign of Peter Sebastian or Dana Maltravers.
Owen came over. “I broke the speed limit.”
“I was wondering,” Simmons replied.
“Yeah, well, I want this case. Till we’re sure it’s the same killer, it’s definitely ours. That asshole Sebastian can kiss my ass.”
Simmons smiled. If he’d been a nervous man, he’d have felt bad about the meeting with Matt Wells and Joe Greenbaum, but that didn’t bother him. He reckoned they were reliable. Whether this murder was in the series or not, law enforcement needed all the help it could get.
A taxi pulled up and disgorged Pinker, without his false mustache.
“Cool threads,” one of the uniformed officers said, provoking a scowl from the detective.
Owen grinned. “Sure you aren’t overdressed, Vers? I hear it’s pretty messy up there.”
“Do my brother good to get the real world’s substances on his clothes.” He accepted overshoes and gloves from his partner. “What do we know?”
Owen glanced at his notebook. “Patrolmen were called by a neighbor who heard a scream from the vic’s apartment on the top floor. He looked through his peephole and saw a figure in a hooded jacket come down the stairs—didn’t see the face. The call was logged at 8:26 p.m. Our heroic citizen stayed behind his locked door. He says he didn’t look down at the street.”
“Can’t blame him for prioritizing his own skin,” Simmons said. “You ready?”
Pinker nodded. The pair headed into the building.
“Check out the buzzer panel,” Owen called. “Second button from the top.”
“Crystal Vileda,” Pinker read. “Diviner.” He looked at his partner. “What the hell does that mean?”
“Means she read the future,” Simmons said, walking into a hallway that had once been elegant but was now very shabby.
“Oh, yeah? Unless she had a death wish, she couldn’t have been much good.”
Clem Simmons shook his head. Sometimes he found Vers too much.
A CSI was working at the elevator, so they walked up to the fourth floor. The house was narrow, one apartment per level. The door at the top was open, another technician dusting the panels for prints. They went inside, stepping around a CSI who was on her knees, examining the rug.
“Gentlemen,” said Dr. Marian Gilbert, stepping back from a large armchair. Her face was flushed. “I was wondering where you’d got to.”
“Jesus,” Pinker said involuntarily.
The detectives took in the naked body sprawled across the chair, arms wide and legs sprawling. The woman was white, though olive-skinned. She looked to be in her thirties and was in good physical condition. Pinker was reminded of poses taken by women in porn movies—except they didn’t usually have chopsticks projecting from their nostrils.
“Quite,” the M.E. said, glancing at the police photographer. “Are you done?”
The man nodded and stepped back.
“What do you see, Doc?” Simmons asked. He was trying to resist the temptation to throw his coat over the victim—he felt ashamed to be looking at her in such an exposed state.
“I see a very unusual cadaver,” Marion Gilbert replied. “I—”
“Are those chopsticks?” Pinker interrupted.
She nodded.
“Are they the cause of death?” Simmons asked.
“I don’t see any other.” She pointed to broken skin on the left temple. “I doubt that blow would have done more than knock her out briefly. Assuming the chopsticks penetrated the brain, they would certainly have caused major trauma. I think they’re ivory, which is strong enough to do the job. I suspect they were sharpened to ease penetration.”
Pinker groaned. “Thanks for that, Doc.” He looked at his partner. “Two murder weapons like the others…but not skewers.”
Clem Simmons nodded. “And no paper with drawings on it. We need to turn her over.”
Marion Gilbert nodded to her assistants and they slowly turned the victim onto her front, keeping her face off the chair.
“No diagram there, either,” Pinker said, exhaling rapidly. “With the change in murder weapons, that gives us a chance of keeping the case.”
The M.E. looked at him and then shook her head. “I rather doubt that, Detective.” She pointed to the table at the far end of the room.
The two men went over. There was a pile of cards at one corner. They were larger than the ordinary playing kind. In the center were three more, arranged in a row, and next to them, in a clear plastic sheath, was a piece of paper. An array of squares and rectangles had been drawn on it in black ink.
“Shit,” said Pinker. “More squares and rectangles.”
“I’m guessing the killer didn’t waste time attaching this to the vic after she screamed,” Simmons said. He bent closer and took in the tarot cards. “Death, the Devil and the Seven of Swords.”
Gerard Pinker squinted at the garishly colored and grotesque illustrations. “You know what they mean, Clem?”
“Not really,” his partner said. “The Devil and Death are obvious enough.”
“Actually, they aren’t.”
The men turned to find that Dr. Gilbert had joined them.
“Tarot is a hobby of mine,” she said, smiling briefly. “The Devil may appear to fit the pattern of the occult murders, but the card actually has more to do with the subject being bound by fear and temptation, by material things or addictive behavior. Negative thinking is in there, too.”
“There’s nothing more negative than being murdered,” Pinker interposed.
The M.E. shook her head. “No, that isn’t it. I think this shows that the killer is rather ignorant of the tarot.” She paused. “Assuming it was the killer who arranged the cards, of course. The victim might have laid them out before her death.”
Simmons was watching the M.E. curiously. “What about the other cards?”
Marion Gilbert pointed at the skeletal horseman. “Death has to do with change, with new beginnings as much as with endings. As for the Seven of Swords, that suggests…could suggest greater knowledge on the part of the killer. The hooded man running off with the swords represents deception and subterfuge.”
“Plenty of that around here lately,” Pinker said. He looked at his partner. “So what are we saying happened here? The murderer hit the vic on the head and, while she was unconscious, arranged the cards?”
Simmons raised his shoulders. “Could be. Then Ms. Vileda came round and screamed before he could stop her. He left the diagram here and went to kill her, then ran out.” He looked back at the dead woman. The M.E.’s people had put her on her back again, and the chopsticks protruded from her face like a pair of ill-fitting teeth.
Just then, Peter Sebastian walked into the apartment wearing a white protective suit, its hood over his head. Dana Maltravers was behind him in a matching outfit.
“Aw, hell,” Pinker said, only partially muffling his voice. “Dickhead and Princess on parade.”
Thirty-Five
I went to the Woodbridge Holdings office,
but I only walked past, making sure I didn’t attract attention. I wanted to take a look at the enemy’s lair—not that I knew who the enemy was exactly. I was planning to do some research into that. Then my cell vibrated against my thigh.
There was a text from Joe: “New occult murder reported. Watch yourself!”
That took the wind from my sails. Presumably Clem Simmons or some contact in the FBI had let him know. I wondered if there would be any evidence linking me to the murder this time. I had to move things along. That took me back to Karen. The case notes she’d brought from London were either with the FBI or had been returned to her office, so there was no accessing them. That left me with one option—the Internet.
I headed for Union Station and found a café. I bought a large coffee then I sat with my head in my hands, trying to concentrate. There was information in the depths of my memory—I was sure of that—but it wasn’t obliging right now.
I went back over the events since I’d escaped from the camp in Maine. What hadn’t I followed up? I remembered the underground building, the violence, the armed men and women in gray…and there it was—they had worn badges bearing the letters NANR. I had asked one of my pursuers what they stood for. What was the reply? It came back to me after some thought. North American National Revival. I typed the words into a search engine.
Thanks to the glorious lack of censorship on the Web, I found the organization in seconds. The problem was, the North American National Revival seemed to have nothing to do with anything in Maine. Its headquarters were in Butte, Montana, and its manifesto, riddled with spelling and grammatical mistakes, didn’t seem particularly offensive—it called for reductions in federal taxes, a halt to immigration, especially from Mexico, and more teaching of traditional Christian beliefs in schools and colleges. There was nothing overtly anti-government, and certainly no references to an armed wing or camps ringed with barbed wire. Then again, they would hardly have mentioned those in public. I went back to the site’s home page and clicked on “Local Centers.” Glory be—there was an address in Washington, D.C. I wrote it down and then logged on to a city map. I found that the location on Q Street was close to Dupont Circle Metro station. It was well into the evening and the office would probably be closed, but I decided to check it out all the same.
I got there in under half an hour. The building was a low-rise office block. Most of the lights were either dimmed or off, but it was brighter up on the second floor. A security guard was standing outside the glass doors.
“NANR?” I asked.
The elderly black man gave me an impenetrable look and then pointed to the elevators. “Second floor,” he said, with a brief shake of his head that attracted my attention.
I stepped closer. “What are they like? I’m a journalist.”
The guard eyed me for a few moments. “Wonderful people,” he said, the irony almost imperceptible. “Wouldn’t say a thing against them.”
“How about anything for them?”
“That neither,” he said, his lips almost forming into a smile. “Are you really a reporter?”
“I write a weekly column.” That wasn’t a lie, though he wouldn’t have heard of my London paper. Then again, I’d forgotten its name until recently. “On crime,” I added.
That got him interested. “Is that right, son? Well, the NANR is always saying it isn’t a criminal organization.” He looked around—we were still alone. “Some might not agree.”
“Why’s that?”
The security guard leaned closer. “I’ll tell you why. Because it’s run by the worst kind of racist pig—the kind who’s learned how to cover up what he thinks about people like me.”
That was interesting, but I needed more. “You got any examples of racist behavior?”
He shook his head. “No, they’re far too smart for that. I’m just going by my gut. The top man here, a guy called Larry Thomson, is the worst. He looks at me like I’m his best friend, but I know for sure he wants to hang me from the nearest tree.”
“Is he here at the moment?”
“Yup.”
“You wouldn’t care to give me the nod when he comes out, would you?”
“What you going to do?”
“Just see where he goes,” I replied. That seemed to disappoint the guard. There was a large concrete plant holder at the side of the steps that I concealed myself behind. Then I sent Joe a text, asking him to run a check on this Larry Thomson.
About an hour later, a group of people came out of the elevator and walked toward the exit. They all nodded politely to the guard, especially the man at the rear. He was tall and fair-haired, with a prominent nose and probably in his late fifties. He was carrying a black leather briefcase and had the bearing of a leader. I looked over at the security guard. He briefly extended a finger at the tall guy’s back as he headed down the steps.
I followed at about twenty paces’ distance and soon realized that Thomson was heading for the metro station I’d come from—the others had all respectfully wished him goodnight and dispersed. I went inside and loitered on the Glenmont platform, then got on the same train that he did and followed him off it at Metro Central. He exited the station and headed north. I’d been thinking about asking him straight out whether the NANR had an armed wing in Maine, but my bravado had dwindled away. Now I was more interested in where he was going. Then I saw we were on the street I’d scoped earlier. As Larry Thomson approached the Woodbridge Holdings building, I started to walk faster and was only about five yards behind him when he turned up the steps. I whipped out my cell phone and managed to take a photo of him without being noticed either by him or the security man who opened the door for him. I saw Thomson go toward a bank of elevators inside as I walked on nonchalantly.
At the next corner, I stopped and sent the photo to Joe, telling him of the link I’d just established between the North American National Revival and Woodbridge Holdings. I was hoping he’d manage to dig the dirt on the tall man. Meanwhile, I’d be subjecting my memory to another bout of the third degree.
Chief Owen was standing outside the apartment building in Lincoln Park, flanked by Clem Simmons and Gerard Pinker. He was looking at the pavement rather than at Peter Sebastian.
“No, there’s no chance of this being a Metro P.D. case,” the FBI man said firmly. “The pair of weapons and the presence of the drawings clearly link it to the series we’ve already taken over.”
Owen raised his eyes briefly. “What about the floater, then? You haven’t tied that to the other murders. I heard the vic was a farmer from Iowa.”
“Actually, we’re not sure he’s connected, but we’re holding on to him for the time being.” He eyed the detectives wearily. “Haven’t you got enough cases of your own to investigate?”
“What about Matt Wells?” Clem Simmons asked, ignoring Pinker’s immediate alarm.
“Our people have found fingerprints that we expect to be his,” Dana Maltravers said. “We haven’t had any sighting of him. You?”
Simmons shrugged. “We aren’t in missing persons, Special Agent.”
“He’s a murder suspect,” Sebastian put in.
“He’s a murder suspect in cases we’ve been excluded from,” Rodney Owen said.
“Is that the level of cooperation we can expect from you, Chief?” Sebastian demanded. “Because if it is, I’ll be on the phone to your superiors right away.”
Owen gave him a haughty stare. “Cooperation is a two-way street.” He looked at his detectives. “Besides, we haven’t got anything to pass on, have we?”
Simmons and Pinker shook their heads.
The group broke up, the detectives heading for their cars.
“Nicely done, Clem,” Pinker said in a low voice.
Chief Owen looked over his shoulder. “I hope you men have been fully open with the Bureau,” he said, a smile appearing at the corners of his mouth. “No, I don’t want to hear about it. Just get the job done.” He got into his Buick and drove off.
“W
hat job’s that, Clem?” Pinker asked as they got into his partner’s car.
“Don’t ask me,” Simmons replied. “Besides, we’ve got cases of our own to investigate.”
Joe Greenbaum was at his desk, his desktop and laptop computers in operation. There was a large bottle of Pepsi on one side of the keyboards and an almost empty box of doughnuts on the other. He hummed tunelessly as his fingers rattled the keys rapidly, his eyes jumping from one screen to the other. He hadn’t succeeded in finding another image of Larry Thomson yet, but he’d gathered other information.
Earlier he had taken a look at Gavin Burdett’s BlackBerry. He’d tried to make sense of the limey banker’s diary, but the guy seemed to keep names and places in his head—there were only times listed for each day. He was certainly having plenty of meetings, though the pages were blank four days from now.
One of Joe’s failings was that he frequently got distracted by what he was working on. That was why he’d had a camera installed outside his apartment, showing not only the vicinity of his door but also the stairway all the way down to the ground floor. He’d also had pressure pads inserted under the first three steps that led to his floor. These things were meant to give him time to call the cops. He’d been attacked by a businessman’s thugs a couple of years back, and he didn’t intend spending another month in hospital.
Those precautions were why the faint sound of scratching on the apartment’s steel-lined door took Joe completely by surprise. He looked at the screens showing the landing and staircase. They had gone blank. He immediately grabbed the phone; no dial tone. By the time he’d located his cell and started pressing buttons, it was too late. There was a dull crump and smoke billowed in from the shattered door. Joe slid beneath his desk, catching his broad shoulders in the narrow space.
“Please, Mr. Greenbaum, do get up.”
Joe was amazed on two counts—the voice was cultured and it was female.
“We’re not going to shoot you. At least, not to death.”
Maps of Hell Page 25
