by Cassie Miles
She thoroughly appreciated the fact that he didn’t refer to the investigation. “I haven’t been on horseback in years.”
“It’s one of those skills you never forget,” he said. “Like riding a bicycle. Or picking a lock. Or shooting an AK-47.”
“Interesting list of skills.”
“Something for everyone.”
He was wearing his rust-colored Stetson again. His beige cotton shirt was tucked into his jeans, and he had a holster clipped to his belt. The total cowboy.
He made a clicking noise, and the mare whinnied a response as she ambled toward the fence where they were standing. Flynn reached up and stroked her nose. “Hey, girl,” he greeted her. “Sorry I haven’t got a carrot for you.”
The stallion nudged the mare aside and bobbed his head, demanding attention.
“Just like a man,” Marisa said. “Pushing his way to the front.”
His black coat gleamed in the sunlight. A spirited animal with mischief in his eyes. She couldn’t help smiling as she patted his muscular flank.
“I’m curious,” Flynn said. “If you’d had the chance to do your evaluation, would you have recommended closing this place down?”
She hardly remembered her initial reason for coming to Mesa Verde. “Financially, this safe house is a money drain. It’s no longer safe for protected witnesses.”
“Could be used as a training facility.”
“Or for high-level meetings,” she said. “Everybody is impressed by how well your men have accommodated the task force.”
“What would you have said? Yes or no?”
She gazed up into his light brown eyes. Mostly, she’d been impressed by him. He belonged here in the West, with his cowboy hat and his long, lean body. “I think this place should stay open.”
“Good.”
She wanted him to have everything his heart desired. Somehow, Marisa wanted to fit herself into that picture. To be a part of his life again.
Now wasn’t the time to be thinking about herself. She lowered her gaze. “What’s going on inside? Any new developments in the past ten minutes?”
“Mackenzie still hasn’t gotten over the fact that you and I were right about the Judge, but he’s trying to adapt. He’s a good man.”
“And a good leader.” She could learn by watching the way he issued directions and kept everything moving.
He slid a sideways glance in her direction. “I assume you told him your theory about an inside informant.”
“I did. Why?”
“Because he’s got a guy doing constant sweeps for bugging devices and cameras.”
Security leaks and breaches were common enough that there was a standard procedure for handling them. She was glad that Mackenzie had taken her seriously. “Any word on the whereabouts of Eric Crowe?”
“No sign of him.”
“Fly away home on the wings of a Crowe,” she quoted the last line of the poem.
Fly away home. Those words resonated in her memory. When she was a child, her mother used to recite a sweetly sinister verse. Ladybug, ladybug, fly away home. Your house is on fire and your children will burn. Marisa shuddered. Fire was how the Judge disposed of his victims.
“And we just got word that suspect number three is on the move,” Flynn said.
“William Graff? Russell’s father?”
“Apparently, he noticed the surveillance team keeping a watch on him and got ticked off. He’s on his way here.”
“Here? How does he know about the safe house?”
“When we were tracking down his son, he made it his business to research everything FBI. Keep in mind that William Graff is filthy rich from his import-export business in San Francisco. He has a long reach.”
Wealthy suspects made the job of investigators more difficult. Not only were they able to blitz with a dream team of lawyers, but they often considered themselves to be above the law. “I assume he has legal representation.”
“Oh, yeah. The reappearance of the Judge plays right into his hands.”
“How so?”
“William Graff always maintained that his son was innocent—a victim of FBI harassment. He wants revenge.”
She tried to take a more sympathetic view. “His son is dead. This could be his way of handling his grief.”
“I doubt he’s shed a single tear.”
From the reports she’d read on the prior investigation, including psychological evaluations from Treadwell, William Graff had plenty of reasons to feel sorrow…as well as a certain amount of guilt. His son’s psychotic behavior almost certainly related to childhood abuse, physical and verbal. Though Russell Graff had been adopted at age five, his father fit the profile of a cruel, demanding father. “Do you think he’s the Judge?”
“Could be,” Flynn said. “He’s sure as hell judgmental. According to him, everybody else is wrong. He’s right.”
“But you have doubts,” she said.
“When I met him for the first time, he barely noticed me. And that didn’t fit. The Judge was strongly focused on me. And on you.”
A detail that pointed her toward a possible strategy for their meeting with William Graff. “When he arrives, I think you and I should stay in the background. Let Mackenzie do the interview.”
“Why?” Flynn clearly wanted to be hands-on with this.
“If William Graff is the Judge, he won’t be able to resist taking a poke at us.”
AT TWELVE NOON, FLYNN and Marisa entered the study in the safe house where Agent Mackenzie sat opposite William Graff and his attorney, who were side by side on the sofa. Flynn closed the door with a loud click, making sure that William knew they were there. He and Marisa took their previously arranged positions behind the sofa where William sat with his attorney.
He turned his head and glared at them. His features were even more sharply sculpted than the prior time Flynn met him. He’d lost weight, enough that his cheekbones now protruded. His hard-edged gaze rested on Marisa. “You’re Agent Kelso. Is that correct?”
“Yes, sir.” Her features showed a professional lack of expression as though she were looking at a sheet of blank paper instead of meeting a possible serial killer. Only Flynn knew her red lipstick was armor, not adornment.
“I thought you were in charge,” he said. “Why are you standing back there?”
Mackenzie tapped the coffee table that stood between them. “I’m the senior agent. Address your concerns to me.”
William transferred his hostility to Mackenzie. “Your people have been following me. I want that surveillance to stop.”
“Have you been approached? Spoken to?”
“They don’t have to talk to be a nuisance.” He clenched his fingers into a fist and smacked the coffee table. “This is harassment. You have no right to follow me around like a common criminal.”
Tension gripped the room. Standing behind William Graff, Flynn saw the older man’s ears turn a dark red with frustration.
Mackenzie’s dour face hardened. “We’re the FBI. We have the right to follow anyone. Any time. Any place.”
“Ridiculous.” William spat the word. “Your people drove my son to his death and now you’re after me.”
“Why haven’t you returned to San Francisco, Mr. Graff?”
His lawyer placed a lightly restraining hand on William’s arm. “You don’t have to answer.”
“I’ve got nothing to hide. I’m here because I want compensation.”
“Money?”
“An official apology. My son was innocent, and the FBI is responsible for his death.”
In Flynn’s opinion, it was a little late for concern about his son. In prior conversations, William had given every indication that Russell was a disappointment, a write-off.
Mackenzie leaned forward. “With all due respect, I wonder how far you’d go to get revenge. Would you blow up an FBI chopper? Abduct a federal witness?”
The attorney spoke up. “Is that an accusation?”
“Your client is a subject of
interest in recent events. That is all—for now. As for the death of his son…” Mackenzie pointed an accusing forefinger. “Look to yourself, Mr. Graff. Your son was disturbed. He needed treatment.”
“Russell had treatment. He went to the best psychiatrists in California.”
“Will you provide us with a list of those doctors?”
“I don’t have to help you.” William Graff was so angry that his shoulders trembled. “I intend to file a civil suit.”
“The FBI has been accommodating,” Mackenzie said. “Your son’s body has been released. His remains are back in San Francisco with your wife. You should join her.”
“She can handle the burial arrangements.”
Flynn wondered what kind of service would be appropriate for a serial killer. Should the families of his victims be informed of the time and place? Would they have an opportunity to spit on Russell Graff’s marble gravestone?
Mackenzie asked, “Don’t you want to be there? To support your wife?”
“She’ll do fine.” In spite of his rage, a hint of pride colored his voice. “We aren’t the sort of people who wear our emotions on our sleeves.”
“What sort of people are you?” Mackenzie asked.
“You wouldn’t understand.”
“Try me.”
In a surprisingly quick movement, William rose from the sofa and positioned himself so he could look directly at Flynn. “You came from the ghetto. East Los Angeles. Isn’t that correct, Agent O’Conner? You’re probably enjoying this chance to attack someone like me.”
A wealthy ass who thought he was better than everybody else? “How do you know about my childhood?”
“I know about all of you.” A deep frown pulled down the corners of his mouth. “Agent Kelso lives in a cheap little apartment at the edge of the red light district in San Francisco. She has a red Volkswagen.”
“I drive a Prius now,” Marisa said. “I sold the bug to my neighbor.”
As soon as she spoke, her eyes flashed. Flynn knew that look. She’d figured something out. A clue had fallen into place.
She grasped Flynn’s arm and tugged. “Gentlemen, please excuse us for a moment.”
“What’s the matter?” William Graff took a step toward her. “Can’t take the pressure, Agent Kelso?”
She pivoted and crossed the room. Standing face to face with William, she stared directly into his eyes. “I’m sorry for your loss. It’s terrible when a family member is taken from you, especially a child. But if you are in any way responsible for the abduction of Grace Lennox, you’ll go to prison and spend the rest of your life living with the wrong kind of people.”
Before he could respond, she made her exit, pulling Flynn into the hall and closing the door to the den. When she turned to him, excitement lit her features. Even her auburn hair seemed to flame. In a low voice, she said, “The note from the Judge. That ‘fly away home’ reference. It was about my car.”
“What?”
“I had a red Volkswagen. A bug. A ladybug.” She yanked her cell phone from her pocket. “The neighbor who bought the ladybug is the person who picks up my mail and waters my plants when I’m out of town.”
He still wasn’t following her logic. “So?”
“William Graff knows where I live. Not that it’s hard to figure out. I’m in the phone book. And the note said, Fly away home. To my home. To the ladybug.”
A fairly twisted deduction, but the cryptographers had come up empty in deciphering the note. “You’re the only one who could have made that connection.”
“Hope that I’m right.” She held the cell phone to her ear. “I’m guessing he sent me something, probably in the mail. The Judge sent a clue to my apartment in San Francisco.”
Chapter Ten
After several phone calls, Marisa tracked down her next door neighbor—owner of the red Volkswagen ladybug—at her job as an insurance adjuster in downtown San Francisco. The neighbor confirmed that Marisa had received an overnight express letter yesterday. It had been sent from Durango, Colorado.
Following Marisa’s instructions, ViCAP agents from San Francisco were escorting her neighbor home so they could take possession of the letter. It had to be from the Judge. Another poem? A clue? A taunt?
They didn’t have much time. It was after three o’clock at the safe house, which meant they were into the third day since the abduction.
In the office section of the bunkhouse, Marisa and Flynn waited with Mackenzie and two other agents for the phone call from ViCAP in San Francisco. Nervously, she paced between the desks. If she hadn’t been the only woman in the room, she might have tidied up. Housecleaning always calmed her down.
She paused at the long table covered with aerial maps. Huge black X’s indicated quadrants that had already been searched. Others were checked off in red ink. “What’s the red for?”
“Areas where we’re going door to door,” Mackenzie said. “After we ascertained we were looking for the Judge, we followed your advice, focusing on secluded or deserted homes. We’re still searching. He’s got her stashed somewhere.”
Not even the FBI had the manpower for a house-to-house search in a hundred-and-fifty-mile radius. “Maybe one of the searchers will get lucky,” she said, not believing it.
“We need to catch a break,” Mackenzie said. “What did you think of William Graff?”
“Smug, judgmental and angry,” she summarized. “His personality fits the profile for the Judge.”
“And he made a point of coming here,” Mackenzie said. “Giving you a reference that would lead to the next clue.”
“Still, I can’t quite imagine an upper-crust snob like William Graff up to his elbows in his victim’s blood.” She remembered Dr. Sterling’s illustration of how scalpels had been used to slice away chunks of flesh. “The Judge’s method of dissecting and burning the remains is a messy process.”
Flynn unfolded himself from a desk chair and stood. His long arms almost touched the ceiling when he stretched and yawned. “He could have hired it done. Could have hired the person who shot at us last night.”
“A serial killer who hires assassins.” That didn’t make sense. Where was the thrill in having someone else do the killing? “Why?”
“To keep his hands clean,” Flynn said.
“Okay,” she said, “I can understand how a corporate-type like William Graff might hire someone to shoot at us. But when it comes to the actual kill—especially the complicated rituals used by the Judge—he’d need to do it himself to achieve gratification.”
“Maybe he kills them, then hires somebody else to do the rest,” Flynn said. “What if William Graff trained his son to take care of the messy disposal work?”
Disgusting, but possible. There had been documented cases of husbands and wives killing together. Why not a father and son?
“I like this theory,” Mackenzie said. “William Graff is motivated by power and the need to be right. To be the Judge. If he were a decent man, he’d be home with his wife, taking care of funeral arrangements. Instead, he’s here, trying to drum up a lawsuit against the FBI.”
She recalled William Graff’s mention of the many psychiatrists his son had seen. Getting a list of them would be useful. She made a mental note to contact Treadwell and find out if that was possible.
Her phone rang, and she turned on the speaker so they could all hear the conversation. The ViCAP agents in San Francisco had the letter that had been expressed to her home.
Marisa was glad that the agent on the phone was a senior member of the Behavioral Assessment Unit—a profiler named Richards with a lot of experience. He’d handle the evidence properly.
“How was it sent?” she asked.
“Overnight from Durango,” Richards said. “Unfortunately, the sender used one of those automated kiosks so there won’t be any witnesses.”
“When was it mailed?”
“Five o’clock. Two days ago.”
The Judge had put the envelope in the mail within
a few hours of the abduction—even before they’d talked to Bud Rosetti and found reason to suspect him. From the very start, he’d been planning to involve Marisa.
He knew she was coming to the safe house, which confirmed her suspicion that the Judge had access to the inner workings of the FBI. Was he listening to them right now? Monitoring this conversation? “Open the envelope.”
“It’s a single sheet of paper,” Richards said. “A computer printout.”
“Read it.”
“‘My dear Flynn and Marisa, we meet again. You’ve often proved to be unworthy adversaries, but I’ve missed our little battles of wits. Surely, you didn’t think I would allow Russell Graff to take all the credit for my wise and judicious reasoning. I am the Judge.’”
His ego sickened her. “Continue.”
“‘If you hope to find the charming Grace Lennox alive, you will follow my instructions precisely. Only Flynn and Marisa are to be involved. No backup, no SWAT teams, no helicopter surveillance, no electronics. Or Grace dies.’”
The agent reading the note paused. “There’s a smudge on the paper that might be blood.”
Marisa’s stomach wrenched. “What does he want us to do?”
“‘After the start of the third day, come to the abandoned church in Jackrabbit Gulch.’”
“That’s right now,” Mackenzie said. “You can start right now.”
“Is there more?” Marisa asked.
“Only a sign-off,” Richards said. “‘Aloha.’”
Hello and goodbye. A word that should be associated with Hawaiian sunlight and leis. Instead, aloha turned her blood cold. “Fax us a copy.”
“Will do,” Richards said. “And, Marisa, you need to be careful. You’re his target. You and Flynn. He’s doing his best to pull you both into his web.”
She glanced at Flynn, remembering how the Judge had gotten under his skin and nearly destroyed him. “This is just like it was two years ago in San Francisco.”
“Not exactly,” Richards said. “This time, the victim isn’t central. He’s offering to let her live.”
“If we do as he says.”
As far as she could tell, they didn’t have a choice.
