Diagnosis Murder: The Death Merchant

by Lee Goldberg

  "You may be on to something," Mark said, getting up from his chair and going to his desk, where he kept the stack of recipe cards he took after his dinner at the Royal Hawaiian.

  "I also highly recommend Goofus and Gallant," Jesse said. "Everything I know about right and wrong I learned from those two."

  "Where did you learn about medicine?" Amanda asked. "From Rex Morgan, M.D.?"

  "That's where I learned about sex," Jesse said with a sly grin.

  "They never had sex," Amanda replied.

  "But those women," Jesse said. "They were hot."

  Mark returned and spread the recipe cards out on the coffee table in front of them, the photographs of the meals facing up.

  "Here they are," Mark said. "What do you see?"

  "That I could never have afforded a meal at that place," Jesse replied.

  They spent the next two hours scrutinizing the pictures, looking for any hidden images or words. They didn't find a toothbrush or anything else.

  Mark typed the recipes into his computer and ran them through an anagram program he found on the Web, but couldn't turn them into anything even slightly resembling a name, address, or phone number.

  At midnight, everyone gave up and called it a night.

  Everyone except Wyatt.

  He sat in his hotel room, where he'd followed along with Mark and the others, searching for hidden messages in the pictures of mouthwatering Pacific Rim entrees and in their complex recipes.

  He didn't find anything, either, but it sure beat what he'd been doing all day, which was scouring Dr. Plume's hard drives for information on Brennan and Gregson. Wyatt found out more than he wanted to know about the payments received for boob jobs and face-lifts and BOTOX injections from a bunch of C-list character actors and has-been stars, but nothing about the fugitives he sought. It appeared, though, that Dr. Plume was operating a mostly cash operation, with little financing or credit and few insurance claims. Most of his clients paid in full and in cash, which led Wyatt to believe that most of the plastic surgeon's business came from people hiding from something or someone.

  Something like murder and someone like him.

  Contrary to what Mark Sloan believed, at the moment Wyatt was no closer to finding the other two fugitives than was the doctor or the FBI. But Wyatt enjoyed hearing about the FBI's laughable plan to crack Standiford and Mark's hopelessly elaborate effort to lay a trap for him.

  Wyatt did have some lines in the water. William Gregson's one true love was single again and living in Memphis, and Wyatt was watching her movements, her mail, and her phone bills. There was always the possibility that Gregson, with a new identity and a fat bank account, might make another run for her. Jason Brennan had been very close to his grandmother, and she was dying of cervical cancer. Her death might bring Brennan out of hiding, if only to visit her grave. Wyatt had a number of long shot leads like that, but nothing that promised quick results.

  For that, he was counting on Mark Sloan. But the doctor's winning streak seemed to have come to an end.

  Mark spent the morning at his desk at Community General going through paperwork, which managed to distract him from the investigation for a few hours. He might have been able to keep his mind off it for the rest of the day if not for an unexpected phone call from Ben Kealoha of the Kauai Police.

  "Ho bruddah, howzit goin' ?" Kealoha said.

  "It's good to hear from you," Mark said, genuinely pleased. Kealoha's energetic voice and boyish enthusiasm brought an immediate smile to his face. "I miss Kauai already."

  "Fo' what? There aren't enough murders to solve in La- La Land?"

  "I'm still stuck trying to figure out what happened to Stuart Appleby," Mark said.

  "Who's that?"

  Mark was silent for a moment. "The FBI hasn't told you?"

  "Oh, they told me plenty," Kealoha said. "They told me to give them everything we had on Danny Royal. They told me they were handling the investigation now, and that I could go surfing or to a luau."

  "What has the FBI been doing?"

  "They spent a lot of time at the bank and talked to everybody on the island, 'cept me, of course."

  "I owe you an apology, Ben," Mark said. "I should have called you myself and briefed you on everything."

  "No worries, bruddah. I know you been on the hunt," Kealoha said. "Let's talk story."

  So Mark did, filling Kealoha in on the Standiford kidnapping and murder, the true identities of the fugitives, and everything that had happened since he left the island. A half hour later, when Mark was done, Kealoha let out a slow whistle.

  "We never get cases like that here," Kealoha said. "Which is a good thing, because I don't think I'm smart enough to solve them."

  "It doesn't look like I am, either."

  "I thought about doing like they suggest—go surfing, kick back—but I couldn't let go of the case, you know?"

  "I know too well, my friend."

  "So I hung back, watched the FBI dudes. They were real interested in Danny Royal's money," Kealoha said, "and not so interested in Kamaikaahui."

  It took Mark a moment, and then he remembered what Kealoha was referring to: the Hawaiian legend about a man-beast who killed travelers, devoured them, and blamed their deaths on sharks.

  "So I figured I could work on that and never bump into them," Kealoha said.

  "Funny," Mark said, "I was thinking the same thing."

  "Here's what I did. I guessed we're dealing with a guy in good shape, maybe in his thirties, early forties. I figured this moke needed three things to do his Jaws bit: a boat, diving equipment, and a shark fin. We found the boat pretty quick—it was stolen the day of the murder from a slip at Nawiliwili Harbor. The boat was cleaned real good, but the CSU guys found a hair and a spec of blood we were able to match to Danny Royal, anyway."

  "Anything from the killer?"

  "Only other evidence on the boat pointed back to the boat owners," Kealoha said. "So me and the boys here, we went to every single dive shop on the island, pulled their security- camera videos, and made stills of every guy who came to buy or rent equipment. We showed the pictures to every sport fisherman we could find to see if maybe one of these guys in the photos was asking around for shark fins."

  "That's an amazing amount of legwork," Mark said, impressed.

  "Hey, we don't get to play Five-O very often," Kealoha said. "It's nice to actually be a detective who detects for a change. One of the fishermen thought he recognized one of the guys, so we took that picture to hotels and rental-car places to see what we could get."

  "What did you get?"

  "About five different names, credit card numbers, and driver's license numbers for this moke, though he paid cash for just about everything," Kealoha said. "Funny thing is, everybody who ID'd him said the picture was a bit off. Like, 'He had a mustache before,' or 'Yeah, I recognize da guy, but he's lost weight."

  "It makes sense that he'd alter his appearance," Mark said. "And use multiple identities."

  "We pulled photos of the guy off the security cameras at the hotels and rental-car places, too. So that's where we're at," Kealoha said. "You want to see this guy's pretty face?"

  "Absolutely," Mark said, and gave him his E-mail ad dress.

  "It's on the way," Kealoha said. "I'll also send you his aliases. Good luck, brah."

  'Thanks for everything, Ben. I owe you a big favor."

  "Nail the bastard," Kealoha said. "Then we can call it even."

  As soon he hung up, Mark logged on to his computer and saw the message from Kealoha was already waiting for him with a file attachment. He opened the message and, while he read it, downloaded the file containing the photos.

  The killer had called himself Chase Lancaster, Cameron Colabella, Mel Aronsohn, and Antoine Killian. None of the names were familiar to Mark, nor had he expected them to be. But it was nice to know something, no matter how meaningful, about his adversary.

  He called up his picture-viewing software and clicked open the file
Kealoha sent. A half dozen grainy pictures appeared on screen like mug shots.

  The man's appearance was subtly different in each shot—his clothing, the style and color of his hair, and the presence or absence of a beard or mustache. But when the different versions were laid out side-by-side, the basic shape of his face came through clearly. It was a plain face, one that could belong to an accountant or a soldier, that betrayed nothing of the soul of the man who wore it. The face of a mannequin, its plainness making it versatile, useful in any guise. It was that very emptiness, that unnatural sameness, that shone through and remained unchanged despite the disguises.

  Mark didn't expect to recognize the man, so it came as a shock when he did. He'd been close to the killer and never even realized it.

  He stared at the pictures for a long moment, trying to decide the best way to do what had to be done. After careful consideration of all the options and possible outcomes, he picked up the phone and made a long-distance call.

  The voice that answered sounded bone-tired and world-weary. "FBI, Agent Feldman Speaking."

  "Agent Feldman, this is Dr. Mark Sloan."

  "Agent Riordan isn't here, Doctor." Feldman said. "Last I heard, he was in Vegas."

  "I know," Mark replied. "I called to talk to you."

  "What for?"

  "A favor," Mark said.

  "No can do," Feldman said. "I can't tell you anything about the investigation."

  "I was thinking the other way around."

  "I don't get it." Feldman said.

  "I want to tell you some new information about the case," Mark said.

  "This should really go to Riordan."

  "I don't want to give it to Riordan," Mark said. "I want to give it to you. What I have is a long shot, and it might not lead to anything, but if it does, the credit will be yours."

  "What do you get out of it?" Feldman asked suspiciously.

  "The satisfaction of doing the right thing," Mark said, "and whatever information you develop off what I'm going to tell you."

  "This is my career we're talking about," Feldman said.

  "Which could get a significant boost if this lead pans out," Mark said.

  "Or I could get fired for telling you anything about the case," Feldman said. "Maybe even prosecuted."

  "I don't want you to tell me anything about the case," Mark said. "Just what you find out from this lead."

  "What happens after that?" Feldman asked.

  "That's up to you," Mark said.

  Feldman thought about it. Mark could almost hear the agent's synapses firing, which was more than they were doing when the call began.

  "What've you got?" Feldman asked.

  "I met Diane Love's killer," Mark said. "I actually spoke to him at the bookstore-coffee house in Keystone."

  "The Inxpot," Feldman said. "How do you know it's the guy?"

  "The Kauai police got a picture of a possible suspect," Mark said. "They sent it to me and I recognized the face. What are the odds that the same guy would be on Kauai the day Stuart Appleby was killed and in Keystone when Diane Love was murdered?"

  "Does Riordan know about this?" Feldman asked.

  "Nope," Mark said.

  There was silence on the line as Feldman thought some more. Mark waited.

  "All you have is a picture," Feldman said. "What do you think I can do?"

  "The killer touched a book, A Confederacy of Dunces by John Kennedy Toole, and I put it back on the shelf. It was the only copy the store had," Mark said. "If it's still there, we might be able to get his prints off it."

  "You want me to drive all the way up to Keystone, obtain the book, and bring it back here to be dusted," Feldman said.

  "Yes," Mark said.

  "And if by some miracle we get his prints and he's in the system, you want to know his story."

  "That's right," Mark said.

  "Then what?"

  "I don't know," Mark said. "I suppose we'll talk and work something out."

  "What's to stop me from taking this straight to Riordan and telling you squat?"

  "Nothing at all," Mark said. "But what would you gain from that? Riordan will run with it and leave you behind. Is that really what you want?"

  "Why didn't you take it to Riordan?"

  Mark chose his words carefully. "We no longer have a productive relationship."

  "And I'm the only agent you know in Denver," Feldman said to him

  "I'll E-mail you the picture of the guy," Mark said. "So, will you do me the favor?"

  "Sure," Feldman said.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Mark sat on his deck with a glass of lemonade and faced the beach. The sky was cloudless and a brilliant blue, the water smooth and dotted with sailboats and, in the far distance, freighters moving slowly up and down the coastline. It was the view entertainment-industry people spent millions of dollars to enjoy, hoarding the sand of the Malibu coast for themselves and fighting interest-group lawsuits demanding access to the beach.

  But Mark wasn't looking at the view. His gaze was in front of him on the page of photos depicting the various guises of the killer during his business trip to Hawaii.

  For too long, his adversary hid in the shadows, the corpses he left behind the only proof of his existence. Now Mark had a face to look at and the memory of their brief meeting in Colorado. It brought the man to life for him and made the unspoken challenge between them even more real.

  Mark felt more pressure to find Brennan and Gregson now, even though nothing had actually changed. He had no reason to think his adversary was making progress while he had stalled, and yet knowing they'd met gave Mark the uncanny sensation that the killer was toying with him.

  He had no evidence that the killer even knew who Mark was, or that he'd been any more aware than Mark of who he was talking to at the bookstore. But it was better to assume the killer knew who Mark was and engineered the meeting for his amusement than to assume otherwise.

  Mark believed it was always wiser to assume intelligence over stupidity, planning over coincidence, because it forced him not to underestimate his adversaries. His feeling was you could never go wrong giving your adversary more credit than he might deserve; it only made you better prepared for the inevitable confrontation.

  They would meet again, Mark was certain of that. And when they did, he wanted to be sure the encounter ended with the killer in handcuffs.

  In his mind he went over their short conversation at the bookstore several times. Was there was anything Mark saw, or that the man said, that should have tipped him off? There was nothing. It had been small talk. A typical, meaningless conversation between two strangers.

  Then again, that in itself was somewhat revealing.

  The killer hadn't taken the opportunity to drop some kind of hint, to toy with him in such a way that later, upon reflection, Mark might realize how thoroughly he'd been duped. The killer didn't try to play with him, at least not as far as Mark could tell.

  So this wasn't a mind game for the killer. This was about something else.

  This was business.

  Mark thought about what he knew, or rather what he could surmise, about the killer based on his actions. The man was no ordinary, professional killer. Most of them would kill anyone that someone was willing to pay to have murdered. However, this hit man was apparently selective about who he killed, choosing only fugitives from justice. And if Standiford was to be believed, he spared innocent bystanders.

  What kind of man did that make this killer? He wasn't a sociopath, or one life would be as meaning less to him as the next. And he wasn't a cold-blooded assassin, either. Most professional killers didn't think twice about murdering anyone who might present a threat to their freedom or livelihood. No one was an innocent in their world.

  But this killer didn't see it that way. He only killed people who'd committed crimes. This killer seemed to be following some kind of ethical code, which suggested a greater purpose than the pleasure of killing.

  Was he a
vigilante?

  Not in the usual sense, anyway. A vigilante killed for revenge or a personal sense of justice; he didn't do it for a living. Mark doubted the killer had any personal stake in the kidnapping and death of Connie Standiford.

  So what drove him to kill? Was he some self-styled bounty hunter? Or was he simply a market-conscious killer who'd carved out his own commercial niche?

  The killer had obviously staked out a corner of the murder-for-hire marketplace for himself, but Mark didn't think the hit man was doing it just for the money. The killer had extraordinary patience, the willingness to track his targets for months or years. Patience like that came from strength, from conviction. Money wasn't enough to sustain that kind of implacable will. The profit wasn't just financial for this man; he was rewarded on some deeper level.

  The key to understanding this killer, and to beating him, would be to discover where his ethical code came from, what sustained his will, and what drove him to kill.

  The answer to all those questions was going to be the same thing. Mark just had to find it.

  For now, all Mark had to go on was a grainy picture and the memory of a fleeting encounter. He hoped for more. It was the only hope he had left of solving this case.

  Mark figured it would take Feldman a few hours to get up to Keystone, a few hours to get back, and then the book had to be dusted and the prints run through AFIS. So it would be a day or two at best before he'd know if the book would yield any clues.

  Mark would have to be patient.

  Meanwhile, Steve, Amanda, and Jesse were beginning to compile the information on wealthy families who'd suffered the violent loss of a loved one. It was laborious and time-consuming work with no guarantee of a payoff.

  Mark would have to be patient about that, too.

  Patience. It was something the hit man was quite good at, a quality Mark wasn't sure he could match.

  After a time, it grew chilly and a wind rose up off the sea. Mark finished his lemonade and went into the house.

  The recipe cards and Dr. Plume's brochure were still on the coffee table from the night before. He gathered up the cards and glanced through Dr. Plume's brochure again. It amazed him how some people wore their bodies like clothes, changing them to match the fashion trends of the moment. Somehow, it seemed wrong to call the practioners of this kind of surgery doctors, or what they did medicine.