“Yes, exactly. He’s served me well, I can’t deny it — but the downside is that he now knows a great deal about this business. Too much, really.”
The man gave a contented smile. “I understand completely. And, if I may, I can offer you a simple way to deal with the concern that Dr. Kendall is causing you.”
“Can you?”
“It would be simplicity itself for me to summon, um, something to provide what one of my former clients might call a final solution to the Dr. Kendall problem.”
Hinman nodded thoughtfully. “That would be much appreciated — but what will it cost me?”
The man’s smile broadened, and became something quite terrible. “Let’s just consider it a free sample, shall we?” He raised his head a little, like a hound sniffing the wind. “I sense that there is no one in the house but we three, is that correct?”
“Yes, my wife’s across town visiting her sister, and she took the kids with her.”
“Very good. We wouldn’t want any collateral damage to occur.” The man leaned forward in the chair a little, placing his fingers against his temples, which he proceeded to rub gently, in a circular motion. He began to mutter something, so softly that Hinman could not make out the words.
From the next room there came a high-pitched scream that seemed to go on and on before being abruptly cut off. It was followed by a loud thud as something heavy hit the wall separating the anteroom from the study. Then there were other sounds that Hinman tried not to listen to but could not tune out, sounds that resembled nothing so much as feeding time at the zoo.
Finally, there was silence. The visitor nodded, as if to himself. “So much for that.”
“Am I going to find a bloody ruin next door?” Hinman might have been asking whether rain was predicted for tomorrow.
“Not at all. The… individual I summoned has been taught to clean up after himself. You’ll find the room looks exactly as it did before Dr. Kendall’s abrupt departure.”
The man looked at Hinman and smiled again. Then he interlaced his long, thin fingers and flexed them, the knuckles making a sound like bones breaking.
“Now then,” he said briskly, “shall we get down to business, Congressman? Or should I say Mister President?”
* * * * *
Bargain
Carmen Ruiz rested her hip against the Athena Diner’s front counter as she made a quick survey of her section of booths and tables. She had assumed this relaxed posture without really thinking about it; when you work waitress for a living, you learn to take the weight off your feet every chance you get.
“Carmen, you had your break yet?” This was from Laura Bresson, whose section adjoined Carmen’s. Laura had been waitressing at the Athena practically forever.
“I’m goin’ in a second,” Carmen said. “Just makin’ sure nobody needs anything.”
“Aw, you go on. One of yours needs a drink refill or something, I’ll get it.”
“Thanks, Mama,” Carmen said with a half-smile. Then she took a step closer to Laura and dropped her voice to a murmur. “Hey, did you catch those dudes in 14? The ones with the handcuffs?”
“Handcuffs?” Laura peered toward the booth in the corner where three men were eating dinner. “They don’t really look like freakos, do they? Just goes to show ya.”
“I’m not talkin’ about that. See the two sitting with their backs to the wall? Well, like twenty minutes ago I’m standing there, in the middle of taking their order, when I notice that those two guys are handcuffed together, side by side. I damn near dropped my order pad, lemme tell you.”
“Side by side? And you don’t think that’s kinky?” Laura was kindly, but that didn’t make her a genius.
“One of them’s a cop, ditzy. Got to be. Which means the other one is like his prisoner, or something.”
“My God, just like on TV!” Laura said. Then she asked, “Which one in the handcuffs is the cop, do you know?”
“Nobody’s wearing a badge, but it’s gotta be the guy in the gray suit. I mean, look at him.”
“Well, he’s cute, I give you that, and well-dressed, too. And the other one….”
“Menace to Society,” Carmen declared. “Dingy sport coat, no tie, can’t even keep his greasy hair out of his eyes — he’s got ‘scumbag’ written all over him.”
“Yeah, I think you’re right. Now, go on, take your break. Maybe one of those guys will need something before you get back, and I can get a closer look. Hell, this is better than America’s Most Wanted.”
“Whatever floateth your boateth, honey,” Carmen said breezily. “Okay, I’ll be back in fifteen.” And she was off — to a small salad, a cigarette, and another chapter of Pride and Prejudice.
* * *
As Carmen Ruiz headed for the employees’ break room, FBI Special Agent Kenneth Frain put his fork down and used the same hand to push his brown hair out of his eyes for the fifth or sixth time since the meal had begun. His left hand was useless for that purpose, being handcuffed to Jimmy Platt, master counterfeiter. Jimmy was known in some circles as “the Plate” — a reference both to his skill at engraving the image of fifty dollar bills and his habit of dressing expensively and well, like a true fashion plate. His work was lucrative enough so that Jimmy could afford to indulge his taste in fine clothes — although the work had recently been brought to an abrupt halt, and the expensive wardrobe was likely to be exchanged for prison gray in the near future.
Jimmy Platt took another bite of the Athena’s perfectly-cooked steak fries and looked across the table at Frain’s partner, Special Agent Mark Rodelle. The FBI man, who, at 47, had almost twenty years on his partner, was using a paper napkin to mop up a little spilled coffee from his saucer before any could get on his sleeve. Unlike Frain, Rodelle was fastidious about his appearance, even if he couldn’t afford to emulate Platt’s pricey tailoring.
The three men had been eating in silence for several minutes when Platt suddenly said, “So, I guess you guys are pretty hot to nail that dude they call The Reverend, huh?”
Rodelle’s brow furrowed. “Who? What Reverend?”
It was Frain who answered, his mouth half-full. “Serial killer, if that’s who Jimmy means.” He resumed chewing, then swallowed. “Guy’s been active in the Northeast the last year or so. He’s done, I don’t know, seven or eight women in three states. Rape, murder, mutilation — more or less in that order.”
Rodelle’s forehead smoothed out as he nodded. “That’s right, I remember seeing some advisory stuff about him, now that you mention it. But I can’t bring to mind why they call him by that weird name.”
“Some reporter came up with it,” his partner replied, “because this freak likes to carve crosses on the bodies of his victims. The alert sheet that I saw said that he leaves his mark on each breast and just below the navel.”
Jimmy the Plate made a face. “Sick bastard,” he commented. “But you guys are looking for him, right?”
Frain shrugged, a movement that Platt, because of the handcuffs, could feel as much as see. “We’re not assigned to the case, if that’s what you mean,” he said. “I’d guess that it’s being worked out of Behavioral Science down at Quantico. But it’s an open case file, sure. Murder’s not a federal crime, but crossing state lines to do it is. So, yeah, if we fell over the guy I guess we’d bust him.”
Rodelle swallowed some pork chop, then smiled slightly. “What do you care, Jimmy? Are you planning to cop to those murders once we get you in front of the U.S. Attorney? It doesn’t seem like your kind of thing, somehow. Too much mess and no money to be made at all. No pun intended.”
Platt shook his head. “No, you’re right— not my kind of thing. I’m not The Reverend.” He ate another French fry before continuing. “But I’ve seen his face.”
Rodelle and Frain glanced at each other. “Do tell,” Rodelle said. He didn’t sound i
mpressed.
Heedless of the sarcasm, Platt went on. “Look, a couple of months ago,” he said, “I’m in Warwick, Rhode Island, doing a little business.”
“Printing up about 250,000 bucks in bogus fifties, or so I heard,” Frain said.
“Don’t matter why,” Platt said. “Anyway, I’m working late, and this little apartment I’m using is kind of stuffy, you know?”
Rodelle nodded. “Sure, I can see that. Can’t exactly open the windows and let the neighbors get a glimpse of all that funny money, can you?”
It was Platt’s turn to shrug. “Whatever you say.” He ate another fry. “Anyways, I’m done for the night, so I decide to take a walk, get some air, clear my head out a little. So, okay, I’m wandering around this neighborhood, not going anyplace special, when I see this guy walk out the front door of this house just up ahead. He comes down the steps from the porch, quiet as a ghost, takes a right, and almost cannons into me on the sidewalk. I guess he’s not expecting to find anybody outside at that hour, which is like two-something in the morning. So he pulls up short about a foot away, looking real surprised, says ‘Sorry’ or something, steps around me, and keeps on truckin’. But, feature this: there’s a street lamp not ten feet away, and when he stops, I get a good, clear look at his face.”
“So, what made you decide this guy was The Reverend?” Frain asked, and this time there was no mockery in his voice.
“The smell, man,” Platt answered. “He was wearing a long coat, so I couldn’t see his clothes. But there was this stench of blood all over him. It was strong, and it was fresh. I mean, my old man had me workin’ in a fuckin’ slaughterhouse one summer when I was in high school. I don’t guess that’s a smell I’m gonna mistake for anything else.”
“So maybe this guy you ran into works in a slaughterhouse, too,” Rodelle said. “Just another wage slave home from the night shift.”
“Yeah, could be,” Platt said. “Except that I don’t think they do meatpacking anyplace in Rhode Island. And then there was that story in the Providence Journal the next day about this woman, who’d been raped and killed and then cut up pretty bad. She was found in a house in that same block where I took my little stroll. They put time of death at around 2:00 a.m. That was the first time I ever heard anything about this Reverend guy, but then I don’t follow the news much.”
After a silence of several seconds, Frain asked, “So why are you telling us all this, Jimmy? You want to go look through some mug books when we get to D.C., is that it? See if you can spot the guy’s picture among the known sex offenders, maybe deal yourself a reduced sentence?”
Platt shook his head, and there was a strange expression on his face. “No, I don’t need to mess around with a zillion mug shots just to see this motherfucker’s face again. I got a better way to ID him.”
Jimmy Platt looked at Frain next to him, then over at Rodelle. His voice was almost calm as he said, “He’s in here. In the diner. Right now.”
* * *
The FBI men ate in silence for the next half minute or so until Frain said, “If that joke’s got a punch line, you might as well get it over with, Jimmy.”
Jimmy Platt shook his head. “No punch line. No joke,” he said grimly.
Rodelle looked over at Platt, then past him. The wall behind where Platt and Frain sat was mirrored, and gave a wide view of the dining area. Rodelle made an unobtrusive survey of the room that the mirror revealed to him. There must have been at least fifty people eating in this part of the Athena Diner, about half of them adult males. Rodelle saw no obvious psychopaths among them, although he would have been the first to acknowledge that most serial killers look just like anyone else — except to their victims.
Rodelle returned his gaze to the man sitting across from him. “Just for the sake of argument, Jimmy, if he was actually in here, which one would he be?”
Platt was looking at his food and did not raise his eyes to meet Rodelle’s. “Well, that’s kind of a problem, actually.”
“Why?” Rodelle asked. “You said you already recognized the guy. You don’t have stand up, point your finger, and yell “I accuse!” In fact, I’d really prefer you didn’t do that. Just tell us where he’s sitting and what he’s wearing, and whether he’s alone or with somebody.”
Jimmy the Plate was looking at Rodelle now. “Yeah, I guess I could do that,” he acknowledged. “But that kind of ignores the bigger question.”
Rodelle tilted his head to one side. “Which question is that?”
The counterfeiter shrugged. “The one everything comes down to, sooner or later: what’s in it for me?”
Frain brushed his errant hair out of his eyes yet again, then asked, “What the fuck do you want? An extra dessert, or something?”
Jimmy Platt looked at the place mat for several moments, then returned his gaze to Rodelle. His face had a determined look the two agents had not seen there before, but his voice was matter-of-fact as he said, “I want you guys to turn me loose.”
* * *
After a few seconds had passed, Rodelle began to chuckle softly. “You had me going for a little while there, Jimmy, I admit it. And you said there was no punch line. Shit.” He stretched the last word out, so that it seemed to contain three or four syllables.
Frain wasn’t laughing. He took another bite of his steak, chewed thoroughly and swallowed before speaking. “You know, Jimmy,” he said musingly, “if it weren’t for the damn airline strike, we could have flown you back to Washington, and you’d have been there yesterday. As it is, we’ve got another day on the road tomorrow, and unless you want to spend the rest of the trip riding in the trunk with the luggage, you’d better think twice before you go yanking our chains again.”
Jimmy Platt’s lips were compressed into a thin line. “I’m not yanking anybody’s chain, man,” he said tightly.
Rodelle’s rueful smile remained in place. “Give it a rest, Jimmy. It was a good gag, but don’t beat it into the ground.”
“You guys were taking me serious a minute ago,” Platt protested, “and you should’ve, because I was serious. Now, all of a sudden, I’m yanking everybody’s chain. How come?”
“Because you’re treating us like idiots, that’s why,” Frain told him. “I mean, J. Edgar Hoover’s dead and gone, it’s true. That’s why I can sometimes get away with not wearing a tie on the job. But the Bureau is still pretty anal about a lot of things. And when it comes to their Special Agents letting prisoners in custody just walk away, well when it comes to stuff like that, the Bureau’s downright constipated, know what I mean?”
“Seems like a pretty good trade, you ask me,” Platt replied stubbornly. “A counterfeiter, I mean alleged counterfeiter, who’s never hurt nobody, in exchange for a dude who’s killed— how many did you say? Eight women? Compared to him, I’m a fucking choir boy.”
Frain looked over at his partner. “How about I smack him one, once we get out to the car? Just to teach him some manners. We can always say he fell down.” Rodelle knew the younger man was kidding — at least, he thought Frain was kidding.
“Jimmy,” Rodelle began patiently, “I’m going to assume for a minute that you’re actually serious about this bargain you’re trying to make here. You’re probably not, but let’s pretend. Just for the sake of discussion.”
Rodelle took a sip of coffee, then put his cup down. “You’re probably right, in theory,” he continued. “If we could exchange you for this Reverend guy, it would definitely be a trade up. We might even manage to sell it to our boss, who might possibly be able to sell it to his boss. After all, nailing a serial killer always makes the Bureau look good, and the House is starting hearings on the Justice Department budget next month. Congressmen love it when we catch a major bad guy, because it’s something they can understand, instead of all those dull crime statistics. But all that’s in theory.”
“If only life were so frigg
in’ simple,” Frain muttered.
“Well, why isn’t it that simple?” Jimmy Platt sounded almost indignant.
“Because you’re already in custody,” Rodelle said. “We know who you are, and we have a pretty good idea of what laws you’re broken. But we’d only have your unsupported word that some guy you pointed out was actually the killer. Let’s say you tell us that it’s that young fella three booths over, the one with the woman and the two kids. You swear up and down to us that he’s The Reverend. Well, unless he jumps up and starts carving crosses in the waitress with his steak knife—”
“Which is none too sharp,” Frain said, looking at his own utensil.
“—with his none-too-sharp steak knife,” Rodelle went on, “how are we supposed to know he’s really the guy? What prevents you from just making the whole thing up and then picking some customer at random to star in your little melodrama? Huh?”
“Can you see our problem now, Jimmy?” Frain asked. He changed the pitch of his voice to show that he was playacting, then said, “‘Excuse me sir, we’re with the FBI. Sorry to bother you, but the man who was just with us, that’s right, the one walking out the front door even as we speak, well, he told us that you were a notorious serial murderer, so we’ll have to ask you to come with us so we can straighten this out. Your wife can start lining up a good lawyer for the false arrest lawsuit while she’s waiting for you to be released for lack of evidence, which you sure as hell will be.”
Jimmy Platt looked at Frain bleakly. “You need some kind of proof before you can bust him.”
“That’s right,” Frain said. “It one of those annoying Constitutional things. They call it ‘probable cause.’”
The three men ate in silence for another couple of minutes. Then Platt looked up again and said, “If you knew which one it was, you could follow him when he leaves here, right? Tail him, like on TV?”
“Now, why would we want to do that, Jimmy?” Rodelle asked. He didn’t seem amused any longer.
Platt waved his fork, as if the answer were self-evident. “See where he goes, where he lives! There’s got to be a ton of evidence in his apartment, or hotel room, or wherever he’s staying. And in his car, too, probably. Don’t most of these wackos keep, like, souvenirs from their victims?”
The Devil Will Come Page 3
