“We’re done.”
“Catch you on the flip side,” and she’s gone, leaving something always strange but definitely not evil in her wake.
My cell phone rings.
“Barrett.”
“We got a bite,” Alan says.
“The guy’s screen name is Dali,” Alan says. “He approached Leo via private message.”
Dali types:
Do you hate your ex-wife?
It’s asked without preamble or introduction.
“What do I say?” Leo asks. His voice is low, hushed. I understand. Dali can’t hear us, but it’s a visceral thing.
“I don’t know,” Alan says. “Something’s off with this. It’s too soon. Smoky?”
Alan’s right. Everything that we’ve learned about Dali tells us that he’s careful, a planner, driven by pragmatic necessity, not desire. Leo’s been on this site for less than twenty-four hours. Why the rush?
“Maybe it was your story,” I say. “Hell. I don’t know. Take it slow. Answer him with a question.”
“Like what?”
“Trust your instincts,” Alan says. “Don’t sweat it, son. I’ll let you know if you start fucking up.”
There’s a beat of silence and then I hear Leo’s fingers, tapping the keys.
Why do you want to know?
Good choice, I think.
I’m a freer of men from the prisons of women. I’m trying to find out if you’re a man who wants to be freed.
How do you know I need to be?
I read your story. Very compelling. But there’s a big difference, a world of difference, between being trapped and wanting to be freed. It requires a decision.
What is this? A self-help deal? Are you going to tell me how to harness my inner happiness or something?
I’m just a problem-solver. Go on, humor me. Answer the question. Do you hate your ex-wife?
“Go for it,” Alan says. “But wait a few moments. Be hesitant before committing.”
Three or four seconds pass before Leo types his answer.
Yes.
Yes what?
Yes, I hate her.
Why?
You read my story. I think it’s pretty obvious.
The story is something you took time with, that you thought about before writing down. I want something more immediate. I’ve found that’s the quickest way to the truth. Let me ask again, and this time answer without thinking about it too much. Why do you hate your ex-wife?
Leo waits before responding, and then:
Because she ruined me.
“Good,” Alan encourages.
How did she do that? Explain what you mean by “ruin.”
“This isn’t as easy as I thought it would be,” Leo says.
“You’re doing fine,” I tell him. “Get into character and let yourself respond as Robert Long.
He begins:
Before she dumped me and killed my baby, I believed in love. It’s different now. I’ll never love freely like that again. I’ll always be suspicious. I’ll always be afraid to trust.
What was worse? Revoking her love without warning or aborting your unborn child?
Leo doesn’t hesitate.
There’s no way she could have ever really loved me and then have done what she did. You understand what I’m saying? It means that everything was a lie. Our love was a lie. That’s what hurts the most.
Thank you.
For what?
For being honest. It’s the reason I contacted you to begin with. That honesty. It resonated in the story that you posted.
I just wrote what I felt.
Let me ask you another question. Just a hypothetical. Consider it a form of fantasy.
Okay.
How would you benefit if your ex-wife was gone?
Gone? Gone how? You mean dead?
No, no. This isn’t literal. Just … gone. Aliens came down and sucked her up into a spaceship. How would you benefit from that, emotionally or otherwise?
Well … I guess I’d get our house, for one. We’re both still on the mortgage and title. That’s something.
What else?
“Take this very, very slow,” Alan cautions. “Don’t bring up the life insurance. Go to the emotional side now.”
Part of me thinks …
Leo waits a few beats, letting Dali nudge him for an answer.
What?
That I’d be relieved. Her being gone would be some kind of huge relief. We’re not together, but I know that she’s still out there, in the same city. As unlikely as it is, it’s still possible that I could run into her at the store or drive by her on the freeway. We’re not together, but I feel her presence. If she disappeared, I think a weight would come off me.
I understand. I promise you I do.
Yeah, well. That and five bucks will get me a latte at Starbucks.
You might be surprised.
By what?
By the solutions I can offer. But we’re not going to talk about all that right now. It’s too soon. Let me leave you with something small, something to show you that I’m for real and not just another lunatic on the Web.
Go ahead.
Don’t feel threatened by what I say next. I’m a friend, not an enemy, I promise.
Whatever you say, “friend.” LOL.
Here it is: I know who you are, Robert Long.
“Holy shit, that was fast,” Leo marvels. “How the hell did he do that?”
“Put that shock in writing, son, and see what jumps.”
What the fuck! Leo types: How the hell do you know who I am? I thought this was all anonymous!
It is, Robert, it is. No one else you’ve met or talked to here knows your name. I know because of who I am and what I do. Remember what I said before: I didn’t tell you this to threaten you. I offer it as proof, nothing more.
Proof of what?
Proof that, when I talk to you, I’m talking about the real world. We’re meeting in cyberspace. But when we talk in the future
The typing stalls, suddenly.
Dali?
Wait.
“What’s going on?” Alan mutters.
“Probably had to answer the phone or something,” Leo says.
I have to go. Dali finally types: Good-bye.
When can we talk again?
No reply.
Dali?
Dali’s screen name disappears.
“Damn,” Leo says. “He logged off.”
“Odd that he’d cut you off when he had you on the string,” I say.
“Maybe we caught a break,” Alan says. “Maybe one of his abductees broke out or something.”
“Interesting insight into how he cultivates his clients,” James murmurs from behind me. I jump in my chair, startled.
“Jesus, James! How long have you been watching?”
“I saw everything. He’s very smooth, very smart. You see what he was doing there? He feels out the potential client via hypotheticals. He’s careful not to talk about death or murder. It’s all just a dream, a ‘what if?’”
“Which lets him gauge where they’re at without alarming them.”
“It’s more than that. He sets himself up as the dominant personality in the relationship but in the role of a confidant. You can trust him and he has the answers. It makes it easier for him to manipulate them, later.”
“Slick,” Alan agrees. “Guy’s probably a great interrogator. He’s laying a lot of subtle groundwork.”
“Are we still worried that he reached out to me so quickly?” Leo asks.
“I don’t know,” Alan says. “Maybe he’s just trying to fill a quota. He lost Heather Hollister, so he needs some new meat, right?”
“Perhaps,” I allow. “But be careful, anyway. Let me know if he reinitiates contact.”
“You got it,” Alan says. The connection terminates.
I rotate my chair in James’s direction. “So? What do you think?”
“The profile is contradictory. A carefu
l überpragmatist who suddenly changes what’s been a perfectly acceptable MO. He leaves us notes telling us he exists—a first—he lets Heather Hollister walk intact, possibly leaves a fingerprint on Dana Hollister’s body bag, and now jumps the gun with Leo.” He shakes his head. “Strange. It could simply be the crazy factor, but it’s troubling.”
“The crazy factor” is a term we coined locally. It refers to the inexplicable mistakes and aberrations from the expected norm that we so often see with serial offenders. There is the rapist who never fails to use a rubber until one day he doesn’t, the killer who always wears latex gloves but couldn’t keep himself from licking a victim’s thigh. Ask them why, and the answers won’t be based on anything sane. She was my first redhead, the rapist might say. All that red hair. I needed to feel it. For the murderer, perhaps something more obscure: I had to taste her to experience it fully. Smelling her just wasn’t enough of her life essence, you understand? We don’t understand, no one can. The crazy factor.
“It’s possible.”
“Let me add to your discomfort, honey-love,” Callie says from her desk.
“Great. What?”
“I ran the fingerprints recovered from the Los Angeles, Oregon, and Nevada cases against the unknown we found in the Dana Hollister case.”
“And?”
“They’re all from the same individual.”
“All four?”
“That’s right. The same unknown was present in each case.”
I stare at James and see my own confusion reflected back at me.
What the hell?
I throw up my hands. “Fine, then, let’s treat it like a gift. Widen the search. Interpol, any databases we can think of that might help. I heard whispers that the NSA has been building a ‘secret’ database of their own. Covert operatives in various countries.”
“Shot in the dark.”
Interpol’s database is so small that it generally returns an average of eighty percent in negative results, and the NSA tends to be pretty condescending to us, post 9/11 calls for cooperation notwithstanding.
“Still, try.”
“Fine,” Callie sniffs. “But it may take some time. I don’t have any friends there.”
“Imagine that,” James sneers.
“Speaking of the crazy factor,” I say, cutting off Callie’s planned retort, “James, let’s do a property search in Los Angeles, Portland, and Las Vegas. Confine it to commercial properties.”
“What am I looking for?”
“Anything with Dali in the name.”
James taps his upper lip with a finger, thoughtful. “I’ll do some research on Salvador Dali as well and look for any permutations. Names of paintings, things like that.” He frowns. “It’s going to take some time, and it’s likely to be pretty inexact. Not all records are computerized. The ones that are aren’t necessarily searchable. We might find nothing.”
“Or we might find something.”
The office door opens and AD Jones strides in.
“Upstairs, Smoky,” he says. “Now.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
“Am I in trouble, sir?” I ask as we ride up in the elevator.
He smiles. “Nah. The director wants to talk to you, and he’s on a time crunch.”
“He’s upstairs?”
“In my office as we speak.”
We exit the elevator and walk past Shirley into the AD’s office. Director Rathbun is standing as we enter, and he walks over to me and shakes my hand. “Sorry to pull you away, Smoky. I understand you’re handling a difficult case right now.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll keep it short. It’s not official, but I have what I’d call basic backroom approval on the establishment of the strike team. From the president himself.”
“Wow,” I manage.
“You’re going to have to get better than that before I put you in front of the press,” he jokes.
“Or we could just skip that part, sir. I don’t like talking to reporters.”
“And most of the time you won’t have to. I promise. In the beginning, though, once everything’s done and the funding’s approved, I’ll need you to do a little bit of PR work. That’s a part of the deal. There will be senators and congresspersons who want to be seen with you. The president too.”
“Really?”
“Of course. My solution gives them an out, Smoky. At some point, an enterprising reporter will find out that funding and personnel have been cut for FBI nonterror activities nationwide. That’s going to make a lot of people uncomfortable.”
“Rightly so,” I say.
“The strike team becomes the story the president and others get to tell to soothe that discomfort. We’re not dismantling our NCAVC activities, you see, we’re just changing them.”
“Can I ask you a question, Director?”
“Anything you want.”
“Off the record, what’s your opinion about all this ‘dismantling?’”
“I told you before, I disapprove. This is my effort to save what I can.”
“Why do you disapprove?”
Anyone can tell you they believe in a principle. The test is: Can they defend it? It’s a serious question. I want to see if he can give me a serious answer.
“Some people are convinced that increases in technology will take up the slack. They believe that DNA and fingerprints and all the rest are going to make profiling not obsolete but certainly less important. They feel that local police can provide the needed feet on the ground, and that our role can become both more centralized and more automated. I think this is a grave error in judgment.”
“Why?” I press.
“For the same reasons you do, Agent Barrett.” A faint smile. “I may be just a ‘suit,’ but I’ve kept my finger on the pulse. I’m aware of the work you and your team, and other teams, do. Forensics is and will always be invaluable. But there will never be a replacement for a group of people who are trained and experienced in understanding serial offenders. Unfortunately, what I think, and how I feel, is falling on deafer and deafer ears.” He spreads his hands in a gesture of futility. “What can I say? It’s inevitable. A storm is coming; I’m just trying to save what I can.”
I search the director’s eyes for any hint of a lie. I see nothing. Just a low-grade exhaustion at playing the politician’s game, a brief vulnerability that disappears a moment later with a squaring of his shoulders and a flash of the trademark smile.
“Did I answer your question satisfactorily, Agent Barrett?”
“Yes, sir. Thanks.”
“How long ’til we know something?” AD Jones asks the director. “One month. Six weeks on the outside.”
“So fast?” I marvel.
“Washington has a short memory. Right now the president’s excited about this. Best to seize the moment while it’s ours.” His gaze goes serious. “Now, I need to know, before I really let the dogs loose: Are there any stumbling blocks I should be aware of? Anyone not on board? Anything at all?”
I fight to keep my gaze from sliding over to AD Jones. The alien in my belly stirs, but not really; I know that’s a fantasy. He or she is still just a bare collection of cells. I consider Alan, both his age and his misgivings.
“No, sir,” I say, smiling as I lie. “I think we’re good to go.”
“Glad to hear it.” He checks his watch and nods to himself. “Good timing, then. I have to run. I’ll let you both know as things develop.” He shakes our hands and heads out the door.
“You’re getting better at lying,” AD Jones says, when he’s gone.
“Lying and equivocation aren’t the same thing,” I retort. “Ask any lawyer.”
“It’s not a criticism. That’s a skill you’ll need to develop where you’re going. In the meantime, we’re all still here, so bring me up to date on this case.”
I tell him everything we know. He interjects a few questions but is largely silent.
“Why do you think he let Heather Hollister walk wi
thout giving her a lobotomy?” he asks when I’m finished.
“I don’t know. Maybe she personalized herself to him in some way. Maybe she looks like his mother. I’m not sure.”
“What’s your gut say?”
This is his way. He asks for our instincts, because his own got him where he is today. AD Jones trusts his people.
“Every sense I have of this guy so far tells me that everything he does is deliberate. His actions are driven by reason based on self-preservation, not emotion. Heather Hollister is a piece that doesn’t fit, but only because we don’t know how she fits yet.”
“And the fingerprints?”
“Again, I don’t know. If that’s deliberate, I can’t imagine why. It could be something as simple as him thinking the plastic on the body bags wouldn’t retain a fingerprint.”
He stares off, and I know he’s calculating all the facts I’ve given him. “Okay,” he finally says. “Sounds like you’re on the right track. I agree, property records and the undercover op are the best paths you have at the moment. Keep me briefed.”
“Yes, sir.” I get up to leave. “One other thing, sir?”
“Yes?”
“I need to leave an hour early today,” I say. I look down at my feet, embarrassed. “Why?”
“Doctor’s appointment.”
He leans back in his chair, twirling a pen in his right hand. “Baby stuff?”
“First checkup, yes, sir.”
His eyes pin me for a moment longer, and then he leans back over his desk again and starts working on the paperwork there. “Approved.”
I beat a hasty retreat. I wonder at my discomfort on the way down in the elevator. Why do I care? What difference does it make that I’m going to see an obstetrician about being pregnant versus seeing a general practitioner about something more mundane?
The answer comes: Because it makes me a woman.
Abandoned: A Thriller Page 30
