by P. J. Tracy
'What?'
He tapped his finger on the screen. 'Look. Every single name. All seven of the Web murder victims. This is completely off the chain.'
They all looked over Harley's shoulder and read:
Richard Groth, Duluth, Minnesota.
Elmore Sweet, Cleveland, Ohio.
Cy Robertson, Chicago, Illinois.
Evan Eichinger, Seattle, Washington.
Sean Pasternak, Los Angeles, California.
Gregory Quandt, Austin, Texas.
Alan Sommers, Minneapolis, Minnesota.
'Where on God's green earth did you find this, Harley?' Annie asked.
'Better you should ask how, because I was friggin' brilliant. Huttinger visited this creepy Ilovetokill.com website a lot, so I signed into the site - and this is the brilliant part - typed in a few of the vie names. This is the thread that popped up. AND… the date on the thread is December of last year, over a month and a half before the first murder.'
'Shift back in the thread, Harley,' Annie told him. 'What comes before the list?'
'Okay, I'm going to give you the Cliffs Notes, because the thread's about twenty miles long. Basically it's a bunch of freaks bragging about how many people they've killed, how they killed them, what they did to them before and after they killed them… it just goes on and on. But then one of the posters who calls himself "Killer" - real creative, huh? - says, "I've killed twenty so far this year, and I'm shooting for twenty more. I'll kill anybody anywhere just for fun.'"
Annie made a face. 'Sounds like some sick psycho blowing a lot of hot air.'
Harley shrugged. 'Maybe, but then a new guy popped up, and get this: his handle on the website is Hole In One.'
Roadrunner's mouth dropped open. 'Jesus. That was in the post of the first murder, the one up north.'
'Bingo. Now look at the single line he posted before typing in all the names and locations.' He scrolled up to the top of the hit list, one line below Killer's post about killing anybody anywhere.
Hole In One: Bullshit, Killer. Prove it.
Start at the top.
Roadrunner was shaking his head. 'I take it these guys are untraceable.'
'Good guess, little buddy. We are never, ever going to be able to find these people.'
'Not this way,' Roadrunner said.
Annie looked at him. 'You know another way?'
Roadrunner shrugged modestly. 'I had a thought.'
* * *
Chapter Thirty-eight
Magozzi, Gino, and McLaren were back in front of the Homicide TV the next morning, watching none other than their very own Dr. Chelsea Thomas chewing up the scenery on one of the big morning news shows. Aside from her impressive intellect, which came through clearly and unpretentiously over the airwaves as she elucidated the dangers of suggestible, unsupervised youth, the viral nature of the Web, and other stirring and salient topics, she definitely had the 'it' factor. And probably along with the rest of America, the hosts were eating her up like a bonbon. Magozzi figured she'd have her own talk show by noon.
McLaren was mesmerized, but Gino was fidgeting and fussing like he always did when ruminating over some dire injustice. Magozzi steeled himself for the rampage he knew was coming.
'Holy shit,' McLaren chuckled in amazement. 'Did you guys just hear that? She's, like, descended from Hollywood royalty. No wonder she's so good on camera.'
Gino narrowed his eyes. 'Yeah, I heard it. And what a crime that is. She's smarter than hell, she's making great points, and those hacks just have to march out the celebrity-frigging-angle. They're goddamned living examples of what she's warning them about. And, to her credit, she looks pissed off about it.'
She did look pissed off. 'That's actually a good point, Gino,' Magozzi complimented him.
'Thank you, Leo. And you know what else is really stupid about this? Everything we thought we were going to accomplish by sewing this thing up nice and fast and publicizing the hell out of it is circling the drain right now. Nobody's talking about anything else on the whole planet and those two little fuckers got the rock star moment they were looking for. They probably already have agents negotiating interview deals for them.'
'They're going to prison, Gino,' Magozzi reminded him. 'Twenty-four hours ago they were dreaming about freshman keg parties at the U of M this fall, and now they're staring down hard time at a Federal pen. I don't think that's the rock star moment they were looking for.'
'Oh yeah? Just you wait - they'll get all fluffed and buffed for the courtroom and their scumbag lawyers will throw down the bright-young-men, second-chance card, and some bleeding-heart jury's gonna go easy because it'll be stacked with parents who can envision their own feral offspring doing something just as stupid. It's a total washout as far as I'm concerned, it's gonna happen again somewhere else, and probably sometime soon, and meanwhile, nobody remembers that there are films of actual murders getting posted on the Web, and a few pesky maniacs out there playing games with human lives so they can brag to their little cyber-freak buddies about it online.' He took a deep breath. 'It's complete and utter bullshit, and I'm going back to my desk, because there are seven unsolveds that are riding shotgun right now, when they should be driving'
McLaren stopped drooling over Chelsea Thomas for two seconds and regarded Gino with a candid eye. 'You're really negative this morning, Rolseth.'
Yeah. I am.' The great thing about Gino was that once he got something off his chest, it was business as usual. 'By the way, how did your date go last night?'
McLaren gave them a vague shrug, but didn't offer any more information, which both Magozzi and Gino took as a good sign. With a guy like McLaren, who ran off at the mouth about how every woman he'd never met wanted to be his love slave, silence was telling. Maybe the little leprechaun might have something going after all.
John Smith was gazing out the Monkeewrench office window at the same tree that had recently inspired genocidal frog thoughts in him. As ambivalent as he'd always been towards any sort of flora, he realized he'd grown genuinely fond of this particular tree in the past few days, and he was going to be sorry to leave it.
'What the hell, Smith?' Harley bellowed from the other side of the room, where he and the rest of Monkeewrench were still working. You hung up with Washington five minutes ago and you're still staring out the window. Did your boss in D.C. put you in a fugue state of boredom, or is there a naked centerfold out there I should know about?'
Smith smiled a little, then put on his game face before he turned around. 'I've been called back to Washington. My flight is tomorrow afternoon.' Suddenly, he had four solemn pairs of eyes on him, and he had no idea how to respond to that.
'Seriously?' Roadrunner finally asked.
'Yes.'
The room stayed silent for a few moments, until Harley put his jackboots up on the ledge of his desk and pushed away with a big grin. 'Well, then, my friend, tonight is the night for those belly dancers and cigars I promised you. We're gonna send you out in style.'
Smith nodded graciously. 'I appreciate your generosity, but I do have things to attend to…'
Yeah, yeah, yeah. You have to get back to your shit-bag motel and prepare for a debriefing, whatever. Do it hung- over on the plane tomorrow, dude. Tonight, you're ours.'
Smith's mind quickly flashed through his time spent here with these strange and brilliant people, and every slippery- slope step he'd taken along the way; then he thought again about the tree and the frogs and the bad people he was fighting, hand in hand with good people who seemed to have their own definition of justice, and their own way of administering it.
'I would be honored,' he finally said. 'And if you don't mind, I'd like to invite Detectives Rolseth and Magozzi as well.'
Grace smiled at him. 'I'll call them.'
When Magozzi saw Grace's name on his cell, he lunged for it and knocked it off the desk.
Gino glanced over at his partner scrambling after it on his hands and knees and nudged McLaren. 'Grace,' he said, a
nd McLaren nodded.
'That's really sad.'
'Kind of.'
Magozzi finally caught his sliding cell and flipped them the bird as he answered. 'MPD Homicide, Magozzi.'
'Very dignified, Magozzi.'
'I am a very dignified man,' he said from the floor, and Gino burst out laughing.
'Two things, Magozzi. First, John's been called back to D.C. tomorrow so we're taking him out for a farewell dinner. He specifically asked for you and Gino to come along.'
God, he loved listening to her voice. He felt a slobbering moon face coming on and stiffened his jaw so he'd look macho. 'I guess we could do that. What restaurant?'
'That Greek place on Kellogg.'
'I don't think I like Greek food. That's the stuff with the funny olives that taste bad, right?'
'It's Greek/Mediterranean/American. They've got squab. You like squab.'
'I love squab. Remind me again, is that a fish or a mammal?'
Grace chuckled. 'It's a bird.'
'Oh, right. What was the second thing?'
'I'm faxing you a thread from a creepy website Huttinger visited all the time. We think it might be how this whole series of Web murders started. Somebody put up a virtual hit list - every victim's name and location, posted before any of the murders happened.'
'Holy cow. Can you trace whoever put it up?'
'No, not a prayer.' She was quiet for a moment. 'But… we're working on something. See you at nine.'
* * *
Chapter Thirty-nine
Judge Jim hadn't driven much since his last revocation due to an unfortunate alcohol-related traffic incident a few years back, but damn if his big SUV didn't fire right up - a testament to the importance of a superior battery. But now that he was back behind the wheel again, he remembered how much he loved cruising the freeway with all the windows wide open, the sublime, aftermarket sound system cranked up to ear-bleed level. It brought him right back to his high school days, when he'd worked summers as a bag boy at the SmartMart in Bemidji - the day he'd quit that job was the day he'd finally earned enough money to upgrade the stereo in his green, Bondo-bucket, AMC Rebel.
This morning, he was in a much pricier vehicle, with a much pricier stereo, but the feeling was the same as when was sixteen. He'd selected the overture to Tannhäuser as the theme music of the day - a piece he felt was the perfect accompaniment to his ultimate and impending victory over a grave injustice that desperately needed rectifying.
His former yard looked fairly well kept, which was a surprise; in fact, there were even some new plantings in the gardens. Perhaps Number Four had actually sacrificed a modest portion of her generous monthly subsidy to invest in a little home improvement. Why she would do such a sensible thing was beyond him, but he had a sneaking suspicion that it had something to do with the age and physique of the gardener who'd been responsible, because she would die before she lifted a shovel or touched dirt of any kind.
There was also a new sprinkler system - he'd learned that the hard way, tripping over one of the heads during his relocation project.
The chair was heavy, but in this glorious moment of final closure, he felt like he could lift the world. Once the Corbusier was in place, near the bay windows of the sitting room, he looked to the sky with a big smile, then looked to his fly with an even bigger smile, and proceeded to engage a sprinkler system of his own.
'Judge, you're killing us.'
'That wasn't my intention. Do I know you?'
The young officer sighed. 'Probably not, but I sure know you. You make way too much work for us.'
'I've heard something along those lines from a couple detectives with whom I'm rather well acquainted.'
'Right. Look, I can haul you in for indecent exposure, public urination, vandalism, trespassing, illegally disposing of property, driving after revocation…'
'And that's all?'
The officer was clearly frustrated, but he kept his wits, which Wild Jim appreciated.
'Listen, Officer. I understand your aggravation, and I want you and all of the MPD to know that this was my last act of childish rebellion. And that is a solemn promise. Justice has been served, finally, at least in my world. So, if you can find a way in your heart to grant me a reprieve, you won't be doing forty hours of paperwork.'
The cop shook his head. 'You just had to urinate on your ex's lawn?'
The judge smiled. 'Technically, I pissed on a piece of my property I was magnanimously gifting to her. And sometimes, spontaneous urination just can't be helped. You're too young to be suffering from prostate maladies, but I have occasional incontinence issues.'
The officer kept his face stony, but there was a twinkle in his eye. 'I have an ex-wife, too.'
'Ah. So perhaps you understand my bladder-control problems after all.'
After his near scrape with the law, and an hour or so spent navigating a significant amount of bureaucracy and the wrath of Number Four, Judge Jim retreated to his condo. He changed into his best black suit, which had been languishing in a plastic dry-cleaning bag in his closet for God knows how long, poured himself a brand-new bourbon he'd selected from the connoisseur's stock at Cherry Hill Fine Wine and Spirits, and, at last, began tidying things up once and for all.
He spent the remaining portion of the day organizing some very interesting documents he'd recently compiled, then carefully arranged them in an accordion file, which he stuffed into a duffel bag; he cleaned and oiled his Winchester rifle, which also fit nicely inside the duffel bag; and then he made dinner reservations at his favorite seafood restaurant. Last on his punch list were two phone calls, one of which would have to wait until the last possible moment.
There was nothing left to do before dinner, so he refilled his glass, lit his best cigar, and wandered through his condo, thinking of the time he'd spent here. It hadn't been a bad place. In fact, it had been rather convenient, and the Mississippi River view was unparalleled. And without the ominous presence of the Corbusier continually monopolizing the space and his mind, the living room looked so much better; elegant, even. Maybe there was something to that whole feng shui nonsense. Damnit, he should have gotten rid of the thing a long time ago.
The final stop of his own home tour was at the photo shrine of his son - the only part of the condo he would truly miss. He reverently picked up his favorite picture, the one where he and Jessie were mugging for the camera on the eighteenth green of Woodland Hills Country Club. The little shit had actually whacked a hole in one that day. It was like all the luck he'd ever have was funneled into that very last game of golf, into that very last, eighteenth, cup. God, life was strange.
He ran his fingers over the glass, then at the last minute, decided to put the photograph in the duffel bag along with the gun and the files.
* * *
Chapter Forty
It wasn't an Irish pub, but Magozzi was happy enough to be within spitting distance of Grace McBride for a change, although she seemed a little distracted. Magozzi took it personally, of course, but there was the promise of great food, the certainty of great wine, since Harley had brought a few bottles from his famous cellar, and scantily clad women already on the stage and weaving through the tables of the restaurant and bar, so the brush-off was mitigated. Slightly.
They were all jammed together in an entry with four thousand of their closest friends, most of whom would certainly get a table before they did, since they had arrived first. Magozzi cozied up to Roadrunner, who was painfully shy at confronting strangers one-on-one, and yet totally comfortable in crowds where he wasn't likely to be singled out. 'I don't get it, Roadrunner. Mr. Foodie at a restaurant that doesn't take reservations? What happened to the chef's-table treatment? Where are the minions kneeling at our feet with caviar and foie gras?'
Roadrunner was resplendent and clearly tickled to be out of jeans and back to normal in navy-blue Lycra. 'Actually, we've never been here before. The food could suck, but Harley promised John belly dancers.'
Magozzi l
ooked at him. 'John? Would that be Special Agent John Smith of the FBI? Mr. Straight and Narrow?'
Roadrunner chuckled. 'He's not so bad. And he's probably never seen a belly dancer up close and personal. It was more of a threat than a promise.'
'Terrific. Happy to hear you're all bonding with your old enemies. But the thing is, there isn't a woman in the world, I don't care what she can do with her belly, that's going to risk coming close to Smith with Grace hanging on to his arm like that.'
Roadrunner glanced over at the twosome, heads tipped together as they tried to talk over the din. 'They cooked together and have been pretty chummy ever since. I think Grace likes him, and you know her, she doesn't like anybody. Kind of a happy moment to see her moving beyond the tight circle, isn't it? Like she's letting go of something.'
Magozzi glowered. 'It's just so goddamn precious it makes me want to puke. I mean, he's good at his job, and he kind of grows on you, but the guy's a million years old.'
Roadrunner gave him an alarmed look. 'Jeez, Magozzi, I didn't mean she liked him like that. More of a father-daughter kind of thing.'
'Uh-huh. Whatever. All I care about is when we're going to get to eat. I'm starving.'
'The hostess said half an hour after Harley tucked a wad of bills in her halter top. We're supposed to wait in the bar.'
'So where the hell is the bar? Maybe they've got pretzels.'
Roadrunner pointed the way, but stayed in the entry, watching the dancers.
They didn't have pretzels in the little room with its wormwood bar and blue mystery bottles reflecting in a mirror, but they were developing a very healthy respect for Gino, who had no compunction whatsoever about flashing his badge and demanding any kind of food that wouldn't eat him first. Magozzi came up next to his partner and clapped his hand on his shoulder.
'Thank God. Reinforcements,' Gino said. 'What kind of place is this, Leo? They got dancers with little jiggly bellies they sure as hell didn't get here, 'cause there's no food and I'm about to eat my hand. Now, I don't mind showing my face at a farewell dinner for Smith, but for Chrissake I'm not sleeping with the guy, so there'd better be something to eat.'
