Burt climbed into the cab of his new Ford pickup and dropped the bag onto the seat next to him. Before leaving the parking lot, he reached into the bag and pulled out a Snickers bar, unwrapping it as he drove onto the roadway. Traffic was light at this time on a Sunday morning, so he expected to make pretty good time. He took a bite of the candy and turned on the radio.
He sighed deeply, wondering just what to do about Archer Lowell.
Burt had been on his way out of High Meadow to his first taste of freedom in sixteen years when he’d run into his old buddy, Vince Giordano, who was on his way back in for a lifetime stay. They’d had a casual reunion of sorts, and Burt had been ready to leave when Vince called him back and asked him for a favor.
Since the favor would, in the end, benefit Burt far more than it would benefit Vince, Burt had said sure. Of course, at first, Burt had no intention of making good on his promise. After all, Vince, facing several murder charges, would never see the outside of the prison walls in this lifetime, and he would have no way of knowing whether Burt had kept his word or not. Now Burt was driving this fine new pickup, and living in a classy condo, and he had Vince to thank for it all.
All Burt had to do, Vince had explained, was to make sure that Lowell carried out a promise of his own.
“There’s someone who has a job to do for me out there,” Vince had whispered. “I just want you to make sure he does it.”
“That’s all I have to do? Make sure someone does a job for you?” Burt, too, had lowered his voice.
“That’s all,” Vince had said with a nod.
In return, Vince had told Burt where he’d find a metal box filled with cash.
“It’s all for you, Burt-man. No one else knows it’s out there. You just gotta keep this guy honest. Make sure he does what he’s supposed to do . . .”
And Vince had proceeded to fill Burt in on the pact he’d made with Channing and Lowell.
Before Burt had left the intake room, Vince had whispered, “And if you come back with proof that the job’s been done, I’ll tell you where to find the other half of the money.”
Of course, Burt had agreed. And of course, the first thing Burt had done when he left High Meadow was to track down that secret stash of Vince’s, and damn if it wasn’t there, just like he’d said it would be. It was more money than he’d ever seen in his life, and it was all for him. He’d bought himself the pickup right off, then some new clothes. Then he found himself a nice place to live. Found, too, that the ladies liked a man who dressed well, who had nice wheels and a ready wad of cash to spend. Life had never been sweeter for Burt Connolly, and he had Vince Giordano to thank for his good fortune. It hadn’t occurred to him to keep his part of the bargain, of course, until he realized that if he was living well on half the money, how much better life would be if he had it all.
And all he had to do in return was to keep this kid Lowell focused on doing what he was supposed to do.
Nothing old Burt-man couldn’t handle, though Lowell was turning out to be a real pain in the ass. Stupid, too.
Old Vince had sure read him right. It was obvious to Burt that Lowell was in no hurry to follow through with his part of the bargain. Burt figured Lowell planned on being a no-show as far as his promise was concerned.
Think again, little man, Burt muttered under his breath as he wrestled the Ho Hos out of the bag and bit the plastic wrapper to open it. No way was Burt going to let Lowell weasel out of his obligation to Giordano. More important, no way was Lowell going to cheat him, Burt Connolly, out of the rest of the money.
He gunned the big engine of the pickup and passed an SUV that was going just over the speed limit.
Lowell was such a wimp; he could be scared into doing just about anything. Look at what he’d already done, shot that old man in Ohio. Burt shook his head in disgust, recalling how Lowell’s voice had shaken, how terrified he’d been once the deed was done. Burt’s plan had been perfect; there was no one who could have connected Lowell to the killing.
Except that the FBI already knew that the old man would be a target.
How stupid of Lowell not to have told Burt about their visit to the trailer. Would have served him right if the cops picked him up. It was almost enough to make Burt call off the hit on that writer guy, but there was no way anyone could know about that, right? He figured Unger wasn’t such a stretch that the FBI agents couldn’t have figured that out on their own, but who the hell would connect the writer to a hard-assed serial killer like Curtis Channing?
And if Lowell got caught, so what? He had no way of identifying Burt. He’d just have to make sure that he didn’t leave his fingerprints on anything that Lowell could give up later.
Of course, if Lowell got caught, that would end the game prematurely. There’d still be that one last hit. After that, well, he’d have to wait and see.
Burt had gotten a glimpse of target number three, and he’d sure liked what he’d seen. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if Lowell was taken out of the game. Burt might have to jump in and pinch-hit, so to speak.
Wouldn’t that be a shame? Burt grinned as he recalled watching Miranda Cahill fold those long legs of hers into that little car one night outside the Well. The sudden image of those long legs wrapped around his waist caused his heart to flip over in his chest. Wouldn’t that be a pretty sight?
Well, first things first. Lowell had a job to do, and Burt was going to make certain the job got done and got done right. There was plenty of time to think about what was to be done about Agent Cahill.
“Hey.” Will stuck his head into Miranda’s cubicle.
“Hey, yourself.” She smiled at him from her place behind the desk. “I was just going to call you.”
“What’s up?” He stepped through the doorway and leaned over the back of the visitor’s chair that stood before her desk.
“I just got off the phone with Veronica Carson up in Fleming. No sign of our boy in town since Friday.”
“I’m assuming the police have interviewed his friends. His bar buddies.”
“According to Carson, they’ve spoken to just about everyone in town. No one has seen or heard from Archer since he left the Well on Thursday night. His mother says he couldn’t have gone far because he had absolutely no money. He never mentioned to anyone that he was planning on leaving town.”
“They checked the train and bus stations?”
“Carson said they showed his photo around. One of the clerks said he could have been in one day last week, then again, maybe not. There were no credit card sales in his name. Not so surprising since it’s unlikely that Archer has a credit card.”
“So if he bought a ticket, he paid cash for it.” Will digested this. “And since we figure he was in Ohio three days ago, it looks like he may have gone to ground somewhere. He has to be staying someplace, he has to be eating. Where’s the money coming from?”
“Good question.”
“Before I forget, I just pulled the old file on the Jenny Green case. The taped interview with Curtis Channing is MIA. As so often happens around here.”
“Damn. It could be anyplace. Could have fallen out in the file drawer, could have been left on someone’s desk, could have gone out in the trash accidently in a pizza box with the remains of someone’s lunch, for all we know.” Miranda bit the inside of her lip. “Well, so much for going to the source, though frankly, I don’t know that it would have helped us all that much in the long run. It was a good idea, but I don’t know that there was anything on it that would have broken the case.”
“Am I interrupting anything?” Anne Marie stuck her head through the cubicle’s opening.
“No, not at all.” Miranda waved her in. “Come in and join us.”
“Well, actually, I’m a little short of time this afternoon. I have a lecture to prepare for tomorrow. “ Annie touched Will’s arm. “So. Ready for lunch?”
“I was just waiting for you.” He straightened up and nodded to Miranda. “I guess I’ll see you later.”
“Sure.” Her eyes flickered from one to the other. “See you later. Bye, Annie.”
“Bye,” Annie called from the hall.
Well. Miranda twirled a pen around slowly. What was all that about?
She continued to twirl the pen between her first two fingers for several moments. Then she stood up, went to the window, and looked out at the parking lot. Annie and Will were almost to his car. They walked close together, close enough that their shoulders touched every few steps. A small cold spot in her chest began to spread little by little.
I thought that Annie and Evan . . .
But Annie and Will? She sat back down and swiveled her chair from side to side slowly, wondering when that had happened.
Maybe all those times I thought he was playing it cool . . . maybe he just wasn’t interested.
That gave her pause. Well, he did say he wanted to be friends, didn’t he? When a man really cares about a woman, he doesn’t go all buddy-buddy on her, does he?
She sat so still, she could almost hear the beating of her own heart.
You’re jealous, a tiny voice inside accused, and she turned the thought over and over in her mind.
The admission surprised her.
Why, yes, I suppose I am. Shit . . .
Unexpectedly, John Mancini’s voice shot through the intercom, jarring her out of her reverie.
“Miranda, you still in there?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Stop in my office when you get a minute, if you would.”
“Sure. I’ll just be a minute.”
“Take your time.”
Miranda stood and gathered the notes she wanted to take home with her, as well as copies of the letters she’d brought back from Landry’s. She’d been looking forward to discussing the Unger and Landry cases with John, so she was pleased to have an opportunity to do so. She’d have preferred to have had Will along, but as he was otherwise engaged, she’d go it alone. On her way to John’s office, she made copies of the letters.
Ten minutes later she was sitting in John’s office, her chair pulled up close to his desk, her elbow leaning on the right corner. John sat back in his well-worn leather chair, one eye on his computer screen, his printer spitting out a stack of documents, the phone up to his ear.
“Okay. Thanks. Keep trying.” He hung up, his expression unreadable. To Miranda’s eye, his coloring appeared a shade or two paler than normal.
“So. What’s the latest with your three amigos?” he asked.
“Lowell is missing. We’re thinking he’s on the run after having killed Unger in Ohio.” Miranda cut to the chase. “His mother was the last to see him. That was Friday morning before she left for work. Fleming PD reports that none of his friends have seen or heard from him since the night before.”
John’s brows knit together. “Any luck in identifying a possible second—or third—victim?”
“This is a tough call, because we still know so little about Channing other than his ever-growing number of kills. We don’t know who he came in contact with on a daily basis, who he worked with, who he lived with, who over the years really pissed him off. So we’re going into this blind,” she reminded him. “That being said, however, we think Joshua Landry looks like a good candidate.”
“Josh Landry, the crime writer?”
“Yes. Apparently Channing read one of his early books and took exception to some of Landry’s theories. Channing wrote to him several times. I made copies of the letters for you. Landry’s daughter made a set for Will and for me.”
John nodded. “I’d like to see them.”
“I thought you might.” She took an envelope out of the folder on her lap and passed it to him.
“You’ve advised Landry that he could be a target?” he said as he slid the envelope to one side of his desk.
“Yes. He says his house is protected by state-of-the-art security. He also called in the local police while we were there, so we had an opportunity to alert them, discuss the situation. I think they have a pretty good understanding of what we’re dealing with here. We left a photo of Lowell with the police and with Landry so they know who they’re looking for. But I’m not certain that Landry really understands how serious the situation is. I think we need someone of our own on the scene.”
“We’ll send in Art Phillips. He’s already in the area. New Brunswick, I think. Close enough.”
“Actually, I was thinking about going myself—”
“I can’t afford to have you sitting on Landry. For one thing, assuming that Landry is in fact going to be the second victim, we’ll need to figure out who might be the third.”
“Actually,” she shifted uncomfortably in her chair, “there’s a theory about that.”
“I’m all ears.”
“Landry thinks I might be the third target.”
“You?”
“He thinks that when I interviewed Channing six years ago—in Ohio, that first field assignment I had?”
John nodded.
“Well, Landry thinks that my focusing on Channing spoiled a nice little run he was having in southern Ohio, forced him to move on before he wanted to.” Miranda looked across the desk at John. “He thinks that maybe Channing was angry that his fun was ruined. Landry referred to it as my ‘stopping his forward motion.’ ”
“He was in his comfort zone, and you pushed him out of it.”
“That’s Landry’s theory.”
“Maybe you should back off the case, then.” John frowned.
“No, no. First of all, I think I know Lowell better than anyone at this point. Second, we don’t know if Channing even remembered my name. And third, the plan is to stop him before he gets to Landry.”
“You’re working with Fletcher,” he noted. “Who else do you need?”
“I don’t think we need anyone else right now. With Phillips keeping an eye on Landry, and the local police involved, I think we’ll be able to get our hands on Lowell.” She grimaced. “Christ, if the FBI can’t outwit a loser like Archer Lowell, we’re in big trouble.”
“So far, he’s one up on the Bureau,” John reminded her.
“I’m well aware.” She nodded glumly.
“Frankly, I lay that one at the feet of the locals. You laid the whole thing out for them. Apparently they didn’t take you very seriously.”
“Let’s hope the Plainsville police have more on the ball than their brethren in Ohio. In the meantime, over the next few days, Will and I will be going over the reports of all Channing’s known kills. We need to look at the whole picture. Where he’d been, how long he stayed, see if we can identify anyone who had contact with him.”
“You’re going to try to re-create the last six years of his life through police records?”
“That’s the plan. There has to be a pattern there someplace. We need to find it.”
The phone rang, and he glanced at it with weary eyes before picking it up. He listened for a few moments, then snapped, “Find her,” before hanging up.
“Someone lost?” she asked.
It was a long moment before he responded. Then, finally, he said, “We seem to be having a problem with Genna’s signal.”
“Genna’s still in Wyoming?”
“Yes. Before she left, we inserted a device in the heel of one of her shoes so we could keep track of her while she was in Reverend Prescott’s compound.”
“And the signal is lost?”
“The signal hasn’t moved in three days.”
“Maybe she took her shoes off. . . .”
“They’re having record snowfalls out there right now. It’s unlikely my wife is walking around barefoot.”
The phone rang again.
“Anything else?” he asked, his hand on the phone.
“No.” She stood to leave. “Listen, John, if there’s anything I can do . . . I could go back to Wyoming, I could see what I can—”
He shook his head, waved her off, turned his back, and took his call.
&nbs
p; “Thanks, Annie, for coming in to meet me today,” Will said as he parked his car near the edge of the park.
“I’m sorry I don’t have more time,” she apologized, “but you sounded so worried on the phone.”
He passed her the bag of sandwiches they’d picked up at the local drive-through. She opened it and searched for her selection.
“I guess I should just get to the point.” He ran one hand through his hair. “Miranda and I paid a visit to Joshua Landry the other day.”
He explained why they believed Landry could be a focus of Channing’s anger, then handed her copies of several of Channing’s letters. She read through the first few while she unwrapped her chicken sandwich and nibbled on it.
“Well, I’d say that Landry certainly did push Channing’s buttons,” she said when she was finished reading.
“So you think he could be a target?”
“Oh, yes. Channing was clearly angry with him. There’s no mistaking that. Channing even asked him to retract several statements Landry made in the book, and when he refused, he all but threatened him.” Annie paused to take another bite, chewed slowly, then said, “But you figured that out for yourself.”
“Miranda and I did, yes.”
“So what is it that you really wanted to ask me?”
“There’s one more letter you need to see.” From the inside of his jacket pocket, he withdrew an envelope, which he passed to her. “Read this.”
She did, then looked up when she was finished, and said, “Channing was really angry with this woman—this woman police officer—when he wrote this, wasn’t he?”
“I don’t think it was a police officer,” he told her. “I think it was a woman FBI agent.”
Annie raised a questioning brow. “Anyone we know?”
“Miranda interviewed him right about the time he’s referencing in that letter. She apparently rattled him enough that he moved on, disappeared. She’d tried to bring him back in for more questioning, but he couldn’t be located.”
Dead Even Page 14
