The FBI Thrillers Collection: Vol 11-15

by Catherine Coulter

  Delion said, “No last name?”

  “No, only Teddy. I called the police, told them about this, but nothing happened.”

  Delion said, “There was nothing about this in your wife’s file, Mr. Carpenter. Did you also give the officer you spoke to Kirsten’s name so there could be a follow-up with her?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Do you remember the officer’s name?”

  “No, sorry, I don’t. I do remember he had to put me on hold a minute because there was a lot going on, a big drug bust, and I guess that meant lots of confusion. I could hear shouting and cursing in the background.”

  Both Coop and Lucy knew exactly what Delion was thinking: I’m going to find and kill the idiot who took this call. Just a brief note or a couple of words to the lead—Inspector Driscol, now retired—and they might have caught Kirsten Bolger before she killed more women.

  Lucy said, “So, basically, she invited you for a drink to tell you Arnette had left you for another man, this Teddy?”

  “Yeah, now that I think back on it, all the rest of it was window dressing; telling me about the other man, that was the bottom line.”

  “Did you believe her?”

  “I believed her for maybe two seconds. I knew my wife, knew her as well as I knew myself. We’d been married for three years, not all that long, but we’d known each other since we were sixteen. I would have known if she’d met someone else. She would have told me. Whatever was in her head was out of her mouth in the next second.

  “I wasn’t enough? Arnette wouldn’t say that, I know it to my soul.” He paused, then tears swam in his eyes and he lowered his head. “We were trying to have a child, and I’ll never know if she was pregnant when this Kirsten killed her.” His head snapped back up, and now there was rage. “Why? Why did this woman kill her? And then she calls me and tells me Arnette left me for this Teddy? It makes no sense.”

  Coop said, “Your wife never mentioned Kirsten’s name? Ever?”

  “No. As I said, Arnette always said whatever was on her mind; sometimes that wasn’t a good thing, but it was simply the way she was. If she’d had any kind of problem with Kirsten Bolger, she’d have told me. And who is Kirsten Bolger? All she ever told me was that she modeled, and that’s how she knew Arnette.”

  Delion said, “Have you heard of the killer some of the media is now dubbing the Black Beret?”

  “Of course. The guy who murdered two women here in the city—met them in bars, drugged them, took them home, and strangled them, right? No rape, which is why it’s even stranger. Why are you asking?”

  Delion said, “The Black Beret isn’t a guy. She’s a woman—Kirsten Bolger, to be exact.”

  Talk about a conversation stopper. Even the air stilled. Roy Carpenter looked like someone had shot him. His breathing hitched, and he began shaking his head back and forth. “But these two women murdered right here in San Francisco, they were found right away. Not like Arnette; she’s been gone three and a half years.” He turned perfectly white. “Do you mean she didn’t want Arnette found, and so she took Arnette someplace and buried her?”

  “We believe so,” Coop said. “I’m sorry, Mr. Carpenter.”

  “But why did she want to torment me? I didn’t even know her.”

  She called you because she’s an unbelievably cruel bitch. Lucy said aloud, “That’s an excellent question.” She sat forward. “Tell me, sir, was your wife by any chance an artist?”

  “Why, yes, she was, but—” Roy Carpenter blinked. “She called it her hobby; she always laughed when I told her her paintings were good enough to sell. There, over the fireplace, that’s one of Arnette’s landscapes. Next to it is a portrait she did of her mother. They’re acrylic; that was her favorite medium. I’ve got several dozen of her paintings. I change them out every couple of months. She was very good, don’t you think?”

  They rose to look at the paintings. Coop said, “Yes, she’s very good, Mr. Carpenter, very good indeed.” Coop supposed he’d call them neo-Impressionist, with their soft muted colors, the shapes slightly blurred, the trees a bit out of focus, but the colors were beautiful and deep. Her mother was a lovely woman, he thought, her face both haunting and beautiful. He saw hints of pain around her mouth and her eyes, a pain that seemed familiar and to have been with her for a very long time. It took talent to capture that.

  Mr. Carpenter was staring at Lucy. “Why did you ask me if Arnette was an artist?”

  “I think it might be our tie-in, Mr. Carpenter. Did Kirsten Bolger mention Arnette’s art? Did she say she painted as well?”

  “No, not that I remember. Wait, when she said good-bye to me, she said she was off to Post Street to visit the art galleries. I remember I was standing there on the sidewalk, not knowing what to say, and she patted my face and kissed my cheek. I was so surprised I didn’t move. Then she gave me a little wave, pulled her black wig over her head, and sauntered off, whistling. I remember thinking she was crazy. I guess she is.”

  “Close enough,” Lucy said.

  CHAPTER 19

  Washington, D.C.

  Sunday afternoon

  Savich gave Sean and Marty each a cup of cocoa, told them a third time not to spill it. He said to Sherlock, “That was Delion I was talking to in the kitchen. Kirsten’s trail has gone cold. He said the Porsche Lansford gave her is long gone, no transfer of title, nothing, so she probably sold it for cash. She emptied out her bank accounts the week before the first murder in Chicago. Lots of cash, so it isn’t difficult for her to survive. As for any credit cards, she must have also thrown them away. He can’t find anyone in San Francisco who’s seen her since then.”

  Sherlock said, “At least having her identity blared on every TV in the country can’t send Kirsten Bolger any deeper underground.”

  “Let’s hope not. There really isn’t an option anymore, now that the Drudge Report posted that leak. No way to keep Ted Bundy out of it, either, too juicy. So now every talking head gets to rock and roll with this crazy killer. I need to get dressed if I’m going to make it to the news conference. Director Mueller wants me front and center when he releases her name to the media.”

  Sherlock felt a niggling fear at having Kirsten Bolger focus her mad attention on Dillon. “You want backup?”

  Savich watched Sean very nearly tip his cocoa cup. “No, you don’t have to come. Sean, don’t wave your cocoa around while you chase Astro.”

  His cell sang out Sarah Brightman and Andrea Bocelli singing “Time to Say Good-bye,” Sherlock’s favorite song of all time. Savich didn’t answer right away, because Sherlock and the two children seemed to be listening to it.

  “Savich.”

  When he cut off his cell a few minutes later, he said, “That was Lucy. Mr. Maitland asked both her and Coop to be at the news conference.”

  “Go make yourself look tough and professional; I’ll watch the cocoa.” But Sherlock simply couldn’t help worrying. That was part of her job description.

  The press conference was attended by every media hound inside the Beltway. Savich looked out over the media room, chaotic and noisy, with scores of reporters and TV people setting up their cameras.

  Director Mueller outlined the process by which they’d discovered the real identity of the Black Beret. He closed, saying, “I cannot emphasize enough how dangerous this woman is. Just to remind yourself, simply think of her father, Ted Bundy. Being identified like this may make her even more ruthless and desperate. We know all of you will help with publicizing her photo. Please encourage your readers and your viewers to contact the FBI if they see her. No one but law enforcement should attempt any direct contact with her.” He ended with the hotline number, and turned it over to Savich as the questions began.

  Savich, as was his habit, said nothing at all, simply waited until there was silence again. He introduced Lucy and Coop, and paused again, focusing every face on him. He pushed a button on the lectern, projecting Kirsten’s photo behind him. “Five days ago, Kirsten B
olger was in Philadelphia. We do not know if she is still there or has gone to another city. We do not know if she will continue to dress as you see her in this photo.” He waited, then put up two more large photos of Kirsten Bolger. In one she had long blond hair and black clothes, and in the second, she was dressed like a man, with black hair and black clothes. “She has experience changing her appearance, from appearing as both a man and a woman, and this gives you an idea of some of the ways she’s dressed in the past.” He leaned forward, looked at them. “I want to emphasize along with Director Mueller that we appreciate your viewers’ and your readers’ help in contacting us if they see the woman in these photos. We don’t know what she’ll do now that her real identity and photos are public, but I am very concerned she may up the ante, as her father did. She is well aware that Ted Bundy was her father.

  “I’ll take questions now.”

  A tsunami of loud questions rolled toward him. He pointed toward Jumbo Hardy of The Washington Post.

  Jumbo lumbered to his feet. He looked untidy and unwashed, as if he’d dressed to go out fishing on this fine Sunday morning, and had to hurry all the way back. “Is it true the mother of Bundy’s daughter is an artist who is married to George Bentley Lansford, a candidate for Congress?”

  It never failed—Jumbo always had the best sources. Savich saw Lucy was surprised this information was out already.

  Savich said, “That appears to be the case, though we are awaiting final confirmation.”

  Jumbo said, right on the heels of Savich’s comment, “You interview Mr. Lansford yet?”

  “No,” Savich said. “Not yet.”

  There were several dozen more questions, most of them about Ted Bundy, not his daughter, and Savich answered each one honestly, until Mr. Maitland shut it down. “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, for your cooperation. We will keep you updated. Let me emphasize that Kirsten Bolger is a very dangerous woman. Ah, I hope all you bartenders out there keep a sharp eye out.”

  There was one lone laugh, a few more shouted questions, but there was no one to answer them. Coop said to Savich as they walked off the dais, “Are you going to ask Inspector Delion to interview Mr. Lansford?”

  “Nope. You, Lucy, and I are going to do it. Turns out Mr. Lansford and two lawyers are here in Washington. I called. They grudgingly agreed to let us see him in a couple of hours.”

  Lucy said, “The lawyers’ll hang over him like a couple of bats, won’t let him help us.”

  Director Mueller nodded. “What about Lansford’s wife, Kirsten’s mother? What has she to say about her daughter being a serial killer?”

  Lucy said, “We don’t know, sir; she’s refused to speak to us.”

  Director Mueller was shaking his head. “There’s always something loony that finds you, whether you’re looking or not. I expect all of you to be careful. Keep me in the loop.” The director shook their hands, turned, and said, “Ted Bundy—I didn’t think I’d ever hear that name again in the context of an investigation. This will keep all the TV shrinks in business for a good long time.” He looked tired, Coop thought, watching him walk away surrounded by half a dozen agents and aides.

  CHAPTER 20

  Washington, D.C.

  The Willard

  Sunday afternoon

  Coop thought the Abraham Lincoln Suite on the sixth floor of The Willard was a smart choice for a wannabe congressman. Was he sending the subliminal message that he was a trustworthy straight shooter? The Willard was only one block from the White House, another nice pointer.

  A buff dark-haired thirtyish man in a dark blue suit, Lansford’s aide, Coop supposed, answered their knock, gave the three of them an emotionless look from behind very cool aviator glasses, and, without a word, ushered them into the sitting room with its trademark Prussian-blue-and-gold color scheme. The suite was large, about the size of his condo, Coop thought, maybe fifteen hundred square feet of gracious luxury.

  George Bentley Lansford was a tall man, taller even than his aide, a nice plus for a budding politician. He was elegantly dressed in English bespoke that didn’t look too expensive but that any donor worth his salt would recognize for what it was. He was healthy, fit, fifty-five, not as darkly tanned as his aide, and blessed with a full head of silver-black hair that would no doubt help him with some of his women voters. He looked, Coop thought, stalwart.

  He stood between two men, both younger, probably the lawyers, both wearing severe black suits. They looked at Coop like rottweilers ready to go for a handy throat.

  As for Mr. Lansford, Coop saw he was focused on Savich. He looked royally pissed, his hands in fists at his sides. He said from a distance of at least ten feet, “I assume you are all FBI agents and we can forgo the introductions. I recognize you, Agent Savich, from the FBI press conference on TV. I am very angry. You and that reporter from The Washington Post have destroyed my chances of being elected to Congress by releasing my name to the media. My lawyers tell me I cannot sue you, but let me tell you, I feel like hounding you until I die. I am innocent of any wrongdoing, but I am finished before I had scarcely begun my political career because of my connection to this—this unfortunate young woman. Now, let’s get this interview over with. I want all of you out of here as soon as possible. What exactly is it that you want?”

  Savich said in his calm, deep voice, “You’re right about a lot of that, of course, Mr. Lansford. Actually, your political career was over when your stepdaughter openly murdered a woman in San Francisco nearly six months ago. You just didn’t know it yet. I agree it isn’t fair, but there is nothing for me to apologize about. Once we had Kirsten’s DNA, once we’d identified her, we were led inevitably to you, Kirsten’s stepfather.

  “I understand your anger, your sense of unfairness, but you’re an experienced man, sir, a savvy man, and so you know there are always leaks, it doesn’t matter the organization, whether it be a police department or a high-tech company like your own. Our news conference was a response to such a leak. Your relationship to Kirsten Bolger had to come out, it was inevitable, so I wasn’t at all surprised when a reporter brought it up. It required only a modicum of research.”

  “It doesn’t matter! It shouldn’t have happened! It is not right that it should come out. Her mother and I are ruined, do you understand? Ruined!”

  “May I remind you, sir, this isn’t some sort of vendetta waged against you by the FBI or the San Francisco Police Department. Five innocent women are known dead at the hands of your stepdaughter. It is very likely Kirsten murdered another six women.”

  “But it isn’t—yes, of course I’m distressed by the murders. Wait, what did you say? She killed before? Another six women? That’s insane. I never heard such a thing. There was no news about it, nothing at all.”

  Lucy spoke for the first time, aware that Lansford’s aide was standing six feet away, arms crossed over his chest, and he hadn’t looked away from her. Why? “The reason you haven’t heard of the other dead women is that Kirsten must have hidden the bodies of her early victims. It seems she was practicing, Mr. Lansford, honing her skills.

  “Sooner or later the media will pick up on these other women we fear she murdered. You can count on it, since something this heinous can’t be kept under wraps for long.”

  George Bentley Lansford looked like someone had punched a big hole in his elegant suit coat. They all saw that the murders were no longer an abstraction to him, that he’d finally realized to his bones that Kirsten had brought violent death to a dozen human beings, to people just like himself. He ran his tongue over his lips. “Practicing?”

  Coop said, “Serial killers often refine their approach, discovering what sorts of killing methods give them the greatest satisfaction. Yes, we believe she murdered at least six more women, actually some of them young girls, and buried them deep so no one would ever find them.”

  Lansford looked sick, his anger defeated, and older than he had when they’d stepped through the door ten minutes before. “All right, I understand. I
had no clue, none at all. I saw her very few times over the years. I thought she was sullen, indifferent to me, nothing more. You’ve got to believe me. If her mother had noticed anything, she would have said something to me. But, of course, her mother hadn’t seen Kirsten for a very long time before her last birthday party; neither of us had. A dozen women? She’s murdered a dozen women?”

  Coop said, “When we catch her, we’re hoping she will tell us where she buried them all.”

  Savich said, “Let me add that these six are the only ones we know about so far, all of them from the Bay Area. There could be more, out of the area, even out-of-state, but I personally tend to doubt it, because we’ve discovered that each of the women who disappeared knew Kirsten. They weren’t strangers to her.

  “Mr. Lansford, as Agent McKnight said, not all of them were grown women. Annie Sparks was only sixteen years old when she went missing. She attended Mount Elysium High School in San Francisco, shared a biology class with Kirsten. Would you like to hear about the other five women who were almost certainly victims of your stepdaughter?”

  “No! Listen, you can’t be sure about these other missing women—girls—not really.” There was no more heat in Mr. Lansford’s words. He scrubbed his face with his hands. “I simply can’t imagine that she would do such a thing, over and over—and enjoy it.”

  Coop had wanted to dislike this man, but the shock and despair he saw in his eyes was painfully real. Even the lawyers were trying hard not to show their horror. Mr. Lansford’s aide, Mr. Buff Tan, hadn’t moved an inch since assuming his nearby guard position. “You are in no way to blame, Mr. Lansford,” Coop said. “We know you married her mother twelve years ago, which would have made Kirsten twenty-one years old, an adult. What would be helpful is if you would give us your impressions of Kirsten, any personal information you think could help us find her.”