Paradox (An FBI Thriller Book 22)

by Catherine Coulter

  “He stayed in Willicott to work with the local police chief. Everyone’s thinking a Serial’s been active in that area for a long time now, using Lake Massey as a body dump. We have no reason to think those bodies are connected with Octavia, but we don’t know for sure.”

  Lucy laced her fingers over her stomach. “Why are some people evil?”

  No answer to that question. Sherlock looked down at Lucy’s fingers on her belly. “Lucy, you look different. You’re all glowy. Oh my, you’re pregnant, aren’t you?”

  Lucy gave her a crazed smile. “Yes, nearly three months. I was thinking about unfastening my jeans button. I was going to announce it next week, but now you know.”

  Sherlock gave her a big hug. “This is wonderful. What does your good-for-nothing off-fishing husband have to say?”

  “Coop’s strutting around the house, a huge grin on his face, talking about teaching his kid to fly-fish and skateboard. I gotta say, though, he does hold my hair out of my face when I’m puking in the toilet, so that’s gotta prove I married a stand-up guy.” Lucy tapped her pen on her desktop. “I hate this, Sherlock. Not only you and Dillon in danger from this Nesser, but Sean, too.”

  What could she say? Sherlock only nodded, patted Lucy’s shoulder, and joined Dillon at the door of the CAU to walk down the empty hallway to the elevators.

  “Lucy’s pregnant. Coop holds her head when she hurls, so all is good in Cooperland. Beginnings and endings, life goes on. It’s really quite wonderful.” She stopped and looked up at him. “Don’t you think?”

  Savich cocked his head at her, gave her a quick kiss, and punched the elevator button. “I’m happy for them. I still can’t get over Victor and that candy bar in McGurk’s tent. I meant to tell you, Sean knew the man with the candy bar was bad. The kid doesn’t miss much.”

  “No.” She grabbed him when the elevator doors closed and held on tight. “We have to keep him safe, Dillon.”

  He kissed her hair and held her until the doors opened onto the lobby.

  24

  * * *

  JEFFERSON DORMITORY

  FORENSIC ANTHROPOLOGY LAB

  QUANTICO, VIRGINIA

  SUNDAY

  Dr. Thomas stood beside a long stainless steel table covered with rows of matching bones neatly lined up. The next table held smaller bones, all of them still in a jumble. They reminded Savich of the wall of bones in the catacombs beneath St. Stephen’s Cathedral in Vienna. Dr. Thomas waved Savich and Sherlock over, pointed down at the line of bones. “I’ve found sixteen right tibias so far, one obviously from a young adult, not yet fully grown, and one very long tibia, so a very tall man, about six foot six, I’d say. There are both men and women in this group of sixteen. There aren’t enough skulls to attach to all these bones, so obviously there must be more at the bottom of the lake. Or in another lake,” he added. “You never know what will and what won’t show up. Over on that tarp are the bones they found this morning in Lake Massey. I’ll get to them when I can, maybe tomorrow. My wife threatened this morning at breakfast to break my favorite antique turntable if I don’t get home by three o’clock today.”

  They looked up when Sala Porto and Chief Ty Christie knocked on the open door. Dr. Thomas called out, “Come in, come in, we’re just getting started.” After introducing Ty to Dr. Thomas, Sala said, “Sorry we’re late, ran into Beltway traffic. On a Sunday, go figure.”

  “Not a problem,” Dr. Thomas said. “I was telling Savich and Sherlock the early count is sixteen so far, not including the bones you brought up this morning. None of the skeletal remains are nearly complete, of course, and there aren’t enough skulls. All I can say with certainty thus far is that the bones I have here, as I said, are from a minimum of sixteen people, all but one of them adults. I haven’t found any perimortem insults, but several orthopedic screws, two hips, two knees, which, unfortunately won’t help me identify them. The half a dozen skulls have very few teeth, not enough to match with dental records.

  “I’ve put aside the manufactured items—the few shoes, belts, remnants of clothing. We can probably identify some of the manufacturers, the range of dates those items were sold, but there’s nothing unusual there. No jewelry or identification of any kind. Truth is, I have very little for you so far. Some of these bones could have been in the lake for as little as five years, some for decades.”

  They stood over the table looking down at the line of stark-white right tibias. Sherlock picked up the only smaller one. “He murdered a child, didn’t he?”

  Dr. Thomas said, “A teenage girl, actually. I’ve only begun to examine the bones closely for trauma, anything to indicate cause of death. One of the skulls appears fractured, but that’s hard to say without closer examination.” Dr. Thomas paused, ran his hands through his hair, thick brown with gray strands on the sides that made him look professorial. Rich was lean, a runner, Sherlock knew, with two kids and a wife with a local cooking show on TV. They were lucky to have him. He lived and breathed his work. And worshiped his wife’s lasagna. He took off his glasses, cleaned them on his shirt. “I’ll have done an examination in the next couple of days, then hopefully I’ll be able to tell you what killed some of these folks.” Dr. Thomas looked over at Sala. “You called me about some big break. What is it?”

  Sala pulled the gold Star of David belt buckle out of a bag and handed it to Dr. Thomas. “I’m thinking it’s fourteen-karat gold,” Sala said, “which means lots of moolah was spent on that adornment. It might get us identification if the man was a local. I was wondering why the Serial didn’t take it. I mean, he could have fenced it for at least a couple thousand.”

  Dr. Thomas fingered the belt buckle. “It’s very beautiful and yes, unique.” He said to Ty, “I know you want answers, Chief. Tomorrow, our people will start examining the bone marrow for traces of DNA. But you know, it will take time.”

  He handed the belt buckle back to Sala and looked over at the skulls. “Our artist Jayne will start the facial approximations tomorrow.” He gave them a lopsided grin. “Although truthfully, they’re not very useful yet. But hey, maybe in a couple of years, who knows? You could set MAX on it, Savich.”

  Ty picked up the Star of David belt buckle, studied it again. “When can we show this on local TV, Dillon?”

  “Tomorrow,” Savich said.

  Ty said slowly, “Rather than some local police chief going on TV, namely me, I think the FBI would get more attention. Dillon, you should do it.”

  Sala added, “She’s right, Savich. You and Mr. Maitland could appear together. It would give the announcement more gravitas, maybe more of the stations would run it, especially if you do it in Willicott. The belt buckle of a murdered man who lived in the area.”

  “I’ll call Mr. Maitland, see if that’s how he wants to run it.” He looked over at the bones, at people whose lives had been ended so cruelly by an individual with no conscience, felt no remorse, who had probably felt nothing at all, except pleasure.

  25

  * * *

  MARAUDER STATE PARK

  NEAR PLUNKETT, MARYLAND

  SUNDAY EVENING

  I’m tired, Victor, and my stitches hurt. This place is pretty, I’ll give you that, but why’d you want to come to another park in the same state?

  “Lissy, think a minute. Nobody pays you any mind once you’re cleared into a park. You walk past all the campers and the people with their tents and their kids and their barbecues, and it’s nice and quiet. No one watching TV, not like that old buzzard at the bait store.”

  I can hear it in your voice, Victor. You’re still peeing your pants, aren’t you? That’s because you didn’t put out that old coot’s lights like you should have. Stupid, Victor, and now you know he’s already told the cops where we are. And he saw the car, and they’ll track us. You know the dude couldn’t wait to call them. That was a bad mistake, Victor, really bad. I’ve told you, I don’t want to go back to that brain-dead psych ward. And you dropped my box of Milk Duds, you were so scared
. My mama never ran from anything.

  “Shut up about your stupid mama! I don’t want to hear about her anymore. Look, it took me by surprise, that’s all. I mean, seeing myself on TV—I couldn’t believe it. How’d they find out about me? How? And so fast? I was careful, scrubbed everything. You know that. You were watching and telling me how to do it. I wish we could get those staples out of your belly. They’re ugly, and I don’t like to see them, especially when you’re scratching at them.”

  You think they’re ugly? Poor you. It’s always you, isn’t it, Victor? But what about me? They’re clamping my guts in. I hate them. They pull and stretch and ache all the time.

  “It’s because that bastard Savich kicked you so hard they had to cut you open and make repairs. Why’d you want to kill Savich so bad that first time when you saw him in the bank? I mean, he was lying there on the floor like the rest of the customers, right? He couldn’t hurt you.”

  Lissy pulled out a slice of white bread and opened the jar of crunchy peanut butter. I’d seen him on TV, realized he was that big important FBI agent, and I had this great chance to kill him.

  When I was with it enough to watch TV after the surgery, the news programs were still going on about how Savich had been some sort of hero, saved some worthless sods’ lives. I hate him. I want you to kill him, Victor. Hey, there’s sugar in this peanut butter. Why didn’t you get natural? You know that’s the only kind Mama ever bought.

  “Peanut butter tastes better with sugar. Give me a slice, too, Lissy. And I want some of those Fritos and some bean dip.”

  The only fresh thing you bought are those limp carrots, probably older than that old coot, Norm. You should have looked closer before you bought them, Victor. They look like they’ll taste nasty. And I don’t have a peeler. Hand me that water so I can at least give them a wash. Then give me your new Ka-Bar. I’ll scrape them down.

  “Yeah, here’s the knife. Look, even if I’d shot that old guy at the grocery, his wife was there, too, and she saw me. People could have come in, could have seen me. I had to run. You would have, too.”

  Me, run? You know better than that, Victor. Mama didn’t raise no lame-butt coward. Pop! Pop! And the problem’s solved. And you get the money in the cash register, and you wouldn’t have to drive all day long, so scared you were sweating bullets. Look at you, happy now you’re eating your peanut butter, with all that sugar on that poopy white bread.

  Now they know who we are. You gotta be smart, no more making up things as you go along, like that stupid chocolate bar at the book festival, no more going cowboy. You could have got yourself caught, Victor. That agent, Sherlock, she got too close.

  “How many times do I have to tell you? I followed them from Washington. They never saw me. I got this idea, thought I could get the kid. Why not? I would have gotten him if things had been different. How long are you going to rag on me about that, Lissy?”

  All right, so you tried. Now we’ve got things to do, places to go. I’m thinking it’s time to get Buzz Riley, that security guard who killed my mama. I’ll never forget his name as long as I live. I want to shoot a bullet right up his nose, Victor. Okay?

  “I’ll think about it, Lissy. I’ll buy you some natural peanut butter tomorrow.”

  26

  * * *

  WILLICOTT, MARYLAND

  SUNDAY EVENING

  Savich and Sherlock sat across from Ty and Sala in a booth, three of them eating Congo’s famous meatloaf, Savich a corn-on-the-cob and three-bean salad, prepared for him by Congo himself. It was his granny’s recipe from before the big war in Europe, he’d said. Ty had wondered if Congo was a nickname or if his parents had given in to whimsy or visited Africa at the time of his conception. Since Sean was at his grandmother’s, Savich and Sherlock had wanted to come back to Willicott to touch base with Sala and Ty. And where they were touching base was at Bliss’s Diner, a local landmark, Ty had assured them.

  Congo sauntered to their table again and beamed a hundred-watt smile. “Well, now, what do you think of my special salad for you, Agent Savich? The beans are fresh, right out of my own garden.”

  Savich liked the good-looking older man with a crooked incisor and charming smile. “Nearly as good as my mom’s.”

  “What can I say to that? A mom’s a mom.” As he poured iced tea into their glasses, Congo continued, “Did the chief tell you I was the one who found the first skull when I dived looking for poor Ms. Ryan? That was a shocker, I’ll tell you, a skull on the bottom of Lake Massey. I thought poor Albert would mess his pants when the chief here handed it to him. Any sugar or lemon for anybody? No? Imagine, some crazy serial killer living in or near Willicott, Maryland. I mean, everyone knows they exist, but you don’t expect it could be one of your neighbors down the street, right?”

  Sherlock asked, “Is that what you think, Mr. Bliss? The serial killer lives in Willicott?”

  “I was told that’s what Charlie thinks, and Charlie’s your right hand, Ty.” Congo shook his head. “Hard to swallow he’s risen so high in such a short time. I knew Charlie when he was a snot-nosed little dip, always blowing bubble gum, making a mess on his face. His mama—Lynn Corsica—was always peeling the stuff off, smacking his butt while she did. Smart lady, that Lynn, sees everything, knows everything, to be expected, I guess, being she runs the library.

  “Anyway, I heard Charlie and Hanger Lewis and his boys hauled up a lot more bones in that creaky old pontoon boat of his. And more this morning when Charlie and Hanger went out again. I wonder why they haven’t found more skulls. The walleyes haul them away?” He shook his head. “Imagine finding that poor federal prosecutor down there with all those bones.”

  The perils of a small town. Everyone knew everything about Octavia’s body being in the lake, right down to the number of bones they’d hauled up. At least she could hope anyone who’d heard or seen anything would come to her door. Would anyone come up and say something to Sala?

  Congo gave them a salute and wandered to another table with his tea pitcher. Not three minutes later, he was back. “I heard the fancy folk at Quantico are looking at the bones. Chief, you gonna have Hanger take another run?”

  She said, “Mayor Bobby and the council want to wait and see what the FBI is planning before they authorize more money for dragging the lake.” Actually, Mayor Bobby had said, “What do we need more bones for, Ty? It’s not like they can identify anybody from a skull like they do on the TV shows.” He’d given her his patented winsome smile that had charmed her when he’d interviewed her and gotten him elected four times. He’d leaned close, patted her shoulder. “I know you want to do your job, Chief, and track down this maniac. The council and I, we’ve got your back.” And what did that mean?

  She smiled up at Congo. “Delicious meatloaf as usual, Congo. Look, Agent Sherlock and Agent Porto have nearly cleaned their plates, and hardly a bean left on Agent Savich’s plate. Now it’s on to your peach pie.”

  When he returned with an entire pie to cut at the table, Ty said before he could start up again, “Congo, do you know of anyone who’s gone missing for, say, the last twenty years, and was never found or heard from again?”

  Congo frowned as he meticulously cut the warm pie and served up the slices. Finally, he said, “Same question I’ve been hearing all day. There was Mr. Grover—went missing back in ninety-four, never heard from again. But he was old and had Alzheimer’s, so he probably wandered off, maybe fell into Lake Massey and drowned. Can’t think of anyone else myself. I’ll ask around.”

  “Thank you. Guys, Congo’s known not only for his meatloaf but his peach pie. Dig in.”

  Congo lightly laid his hand on Sala’s shoulder. “Everyone’s sorry about what happened to Ms. Ryan, and to you, Agent Porto. It was a horrible thing.”

  Marv Spaleny, the book festival committee president and owner of Spaleny’s Best Books, walked over and introduced himself. He was always at Bliss’s Diner on Sunday nights without his wife, although no one knew why. He was a tall man,
thin as a nail, always full of bonhomie that kept customers coming in to buy his undiscounted books.

  Marv looked down at the peach pie without a lick of interest and said in his deep, mellow voice that made him a favorite reader at the library, “The book festival was a big hit this year, despite all the trouble on the lake, Ty, biggest year yet. Your deputies did great. I saw the last of our authors off a bit ago. We’ll find out how well all our shop owners did at the weekly council meeting. I know I sold more books than I’d expected. Hope you can make it.”

  Congo patted his shoulder. “Come on, Marv, I’ve got your tortilla soup all ready. Don’t want it to go cold.”

  Marv gave them a small bow and left them, following Congo, though Marv stopped at every table to preen about the festival success.

  * * *

  The four of them adjourned to Ty’s back deck. Ty served her Turkish espresso and Earl Grey tea for Dillon, talking him into a dash of cinnamon, which, to his surprise, he liked.

  The sun was setting, the air warm and soft against their faces. The crickets had begun their nightly symphony when they settled on the deck and grew quiet to take in the evening.

  “The water looks like glass,” Sherlock said and sighed. “This is a beautiful spot, Ty. Do you ever miss Seattle?”

  Ty was looking across the lake at Point Gulliver and Gatewood, remembering the murder, seeing it all again. She shook herself. “It’s strange, but I sort of miss the incessant drizzle—liquid sunshine, Seattle natives call it. But Seattle itself? With all the Starbucks, all the crazy traffic, people going every which way, the drugs and the gangs I dealt with in Vice—no, I don’t miss that. Willicott is exactly my speed.” She saluted Sherlock with her coffee cup. “Except for everyone knowing what you eat for breakfast, it’s perfect.