Hour Game skamm-2

by David Baldacci

  King observed Sylvia Diaz in one corner in deep conversation with a beefy man in an ill-fitting suit. She looked up, gave him a weary smile and then turned away. When King’s gaze caught on the symbol on the wall, he jerked back.

  It was a five-pointed star but drawn upside down.

  “Yep, same thing I did.”

  He turned to see Williams staring at him. The police chief bent down and lifted Hinson’s shirt. “And it’s here too.” They all studied the drawing on the woman’s belly.

  Michelle had seen the symbol on the wall as well. “It’s an upside-down pentagram,” she said. She drew in a sharp breath and looked at King and Williams. “That one I know. Richard Ramirez, right?”

  “The Night Stalker,” said King, nodding. “Who, unless I’m mistaken, currently resides on death row almost three thousand miles from here. He drew an upside-down pentagram on some of his victims, and also on walls of at least one of his victims’ bedrooms, just like here.”

  Williams turned Hinson to the side, and they all looked at the multiple bloody stab wounds covering her back.

  “Sylvia says it looks like she was held facedown, stabbed in the back and then presumably turned over and her hand wedged against the bureau drawer.”

  The lawman laid her back down without any indication that he might soon forfeit his breakfast. Williams’s resistance to nightmarish sights seemed to be growing stronger.

  “Any clues?” asked Michelle.

  “The killer used a knife from her kitchen to stab her and telephone cord from one of her phones to bind her. There are marks on her wrists that show that. But he took off the restraints to prop up her arm. There are lots of prints in here, but I’d be real surprised if the bastard wasn’t wearing gloves.”

  “And we’re sure it’s a man?”

  “No sign of a struggle. She was overpowered pretty quickly. And even if a woman did that maybe with a gun in hand, it’d be a little risky to tie her up. Hinson might have been able to get the upper hand. She was in great physical shape.”

  King looked puzzled. “And no one saw or heard anything? These are attached residential units. Somebody had to have seen or heard something.”

  “We’re looking into that, of course, but it’s too early to tell. We do know that the unit to the right of Hinson’s was for sale and empty.”

  “When was she killed?” asked Michelle.

  “You’ll have to ask Sylvia that, if that FBI fellow will let her go.”

  King glanced over once more in Sylvia’s direction. “Is he with VICAP?”

  “To tell you the God’s honest truth, I’m not sure. I’ve had so many people in here I don’t know who’s coming or going.”

  “Todd,” said King, “make sure you don’t say that within earshot of a defense counsel.”

  Williams looked confused for a moment and then said, “Oh, right, gotcha.”

  They went and looked at the watch.

  “It’s set to four o’clock,” said Williams miserably.

  King bent down and took a closer look. “No, it’s not.”

  “What?” exclaimed Williams.

  “It’s set to one minute past four.”

  Williams knelt beside him. “Come on, Sean, I think under the circumstances that’s close enough.”

  “This guy’s been pretty precise up to now, Todd.”

  Williams looked skeptical. “He’d just killed a woman and wanted to get out as fast as possible. He’s probably operating in the dark. Unlike with the other crime scenes, he’s smack in the middle of lots of potential witnesses. In his rush he probably just didn’t notice he was barely one minute off.”

  “Maybe,” said King with equal skepticism. “But a killer who’s careful enough not to leave any usable trace behind doesn’t strike me as the sort to write ‘kid’ when he really meant ‘kids’ or set a watch to four-oh-one when he meant four.”

  “Well, if he did mean to make it one minute past, why?” asked Michelle.

  King had no answer for that. He looked down at the dead woman for a long moment as Williams went off to check something else in the room.

  Michelle put a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Sean, I forgot you knew her.”

  “She was a good person and a fine lawyer. And she sure as hell didn’t deserve this—not that anyone does.”

  As they walked past Sylvia on their way out, she stopped them. The man in the suit had joined another group hovering over the body. He was a little shorter than King but thicker and very strongly built; his shoulders seemed to be splitting out of his suit. He had thinning brownish-gray hair, cauliflower ears and a boxer’s flattened nose resting between two intense brown eyes.

  Sylvia said, “Well, number four and counting. The Night Stalker. Who would have thought?” She shook her head.

  “Who’s the guy you were talking to?” King asked.

  “FBI agent. Chip Bailey, from Charlottesville.”

  “Chip Bailey?” King said slowly.

  “Do you know him?” asked Sylvia.

  “No, but I think I’d like to.”

  “I can arrange something. Later, of course. People are pretty busy right now.”

  “That’s fine.” He paused and then added, “Did you note the time on the watch?”

  Sylvia nodded. “One minute past four. Like Pembroke’s.”

  “What?” King and Michelle said together.

  “Pembroke’s watch was set to one minute past two. Didn’t I tell you that?”

  “No,” said Michelle, “and neither did Todd. He seems to think it was close enough to discount any significance.”

  “What do you think?” King asked her.

  “I think it’s important. I just don’t know why.”

  “Anything else jump out at you?” asked King.

  “I did a rectal temp on Hinson, after I checked for evidence of sexual assault, of course; that turned out negative. She’s been dead eight to nine hours. There are twelve stab wounds, though.”

  Michelle picked up on the tone in Sylvia’s voice. “That equals overkill.”

  “Yes. It also equals rage,” said Sylvia. “There were no defensive wounds on her hands or forearms. She was obviously surprised and quickly overpowered.”

  She picked up her bag and nodded toward the door. “I’m heading back to the office. I’ve got patients to see, and then I’ll do the post on Hinson.”

  “We’ll walk out with you,” said King.

  They headed out into brisk air that was being quickly warmed by the sun.

  “I meant to ask you, how’s your investigation coming with Junior Deaver?”

  King glanced at her in surprise. “How’d you know about that?”

  “I ran into Harry Carrick at the grocery store. I told him you two were looking into these murders, and he told me you were doing work for him. I still can’t believe Junior Deaver could have done it. He’s done work at my house. I always found him very courteous and accommodating, if a little rough around the edges.”

  “We met with Remmy, Eddie, Dorothea and Savannah and the household staff.”

  “And didn’t get too far, I’m sure,” noted Sylvia.

  “Remmy’s really torn up about Bobby,” said King.

  “I heard he was in very bad shape.”

  “Well, there’s hope,” said Michelle. “He recently regained consciousness, even spoke, but he just rambles apparently; he’s not really coherent, just spouting off names and such. But still that’s a positive thing, I suppose.”

  “Strokes are completely unpredictable,” said Sylvia. “Just when you think someone’s recovering, they suddenly pass away, or vice versa.”

  King shook his head. “Well, for Remmy’s sake, I hope he makes it.” He glanced at Sylvia. “You’ll let us know what you find on Hinson?”

  “Todd told me to and he’s the boss. At least until the FBI or the state police take over the investigation.”

  “Do you think that’s probable?” asked Michelle.

  “For pu
rposes of finding this maniac, I think that actually would be a positive development,” said Sylvia firmly.

  Chapter 25

  The four serial murders in Wrightsburg hit the national news pipeline that afternoon and continued on into the evening. Most citizens of the small town sat in front of their TV screens as dour anchorpersons went about dutifully explaining where the rural Virginia municipality was, and how it had been devastated by a series of violent and apparently random murders. State and federal authorities were on the scene, the TV people said, and hopefully, the killer would be stopped soon. Left unsaid was the fact that no one actively involved in the investigation thought that was a very real possibility.

  Like their fellow townspeople, King and Michelle sat in front of a television in King’s office and watched and listened to the stories documenting what a slaughterhouse their humble domicile had become. When the fact that two letters had been sent to the Wrightsburg Gazette by the killer was announced to the nation, King exclaimed, “Shit!”

  Michelle nodded in understanding. “Do you think the killer’s watching?”

  “Of course he is,” snapped King. “The notoriety’s all part of it.”

  “Do you really think the killings are random?”

  “There’s no obvious connection among any of the victims.” King fell silent for a moment. “Except the reference to only one kid in the Canney and Pembroke letter. The question is, which kid?”

  “I’m not following.”

  He looked at her. “If Pembroke was targeted specifically, for example, and Canney just happened to be there when it happened, that means there was a reason for Pembroke to die. Now, if there was a reason for her to die, then maybe there’s a reason why the others died too. And maybe those reasons are connected somehow.”

  “And the watches?”

  “The guy’s trademark obviously, but maybe there’s more to it.”

  “Hopefully, Sylvia will have some answers soon.”

  King checked his watch. “I’ve got a dinner I need to get to.”

  “Where?”

  “The Sage Gentleman, with people in from out of town. You want to tag along?”

  “Nope. I’ve got some stuff to do too.”

  “Date?” He smiled at her.

  “Yeah, with my kickboxing instructor. Our plan is to sweat and groan a lot with our clothes on.”

  They headed off in opposite directions. As was typical for her, Michelle clocked an average of twenty miles over the speed limit in her white Toyota Sequoia that she’d nicknamed the Whale, in honor of Melville’s fictional creation, Moby-Dick. She passed the last little-used intersection about thirty seconds before she would reach the gravel road that wound through the woods to her cottage. As soon as she cleared the intersection, the lights of the pale blue VW came on and the driver put the Bug in gear, turned right and started following her.

  He slowed as she turned onto the gravel road, and watched as her wheels kicked up dust and bits of rock and then was quickly out of sight in the gathering darkness. A quarter mile up and then to the left, he knew, having been up there already while Michelle wasn’t at home. There were no other residences within a half mile of the place. It backed to the lake where she kept a scull, kayak and Sea-Doo at her small floating dock. The cottage was around fifteen hundred square feet and designed with an open floor plan. He’d ascertained that she lived alone with not even a dog to keep her company, and safe. However, she was a former federal agent with specialized skills; a person not to be underestimated. He drove a little farther down the main road, parked his car on a dirt patch behind a screen of trees and set off on foot through the woods toward the cottage.

  When he arrived there, he saw that the Sequoia was parked in the roundabout by the front door. The lights were on in the house. He pulled out his binoculars and ran them over the front of the cottage. No sign of her. Keeping well back in the trees, he made his way to the rear of the house. A light was on in one of the rooms back here, upper floor. Her bedroom, he surmised. There was a sheet across the window, but he caught her silhouette twice. The movements were straightforward: she was undressing. He lowered his binoculars while she did so. She came out a few minutes later dressed in workout clothes, jumped in her truck and spun dirt as she headed off.

  He came back around in time to see her taillights winking at him before disappearing in the darkness as she rounded the curve and then was out of sight. She certainly moved fast, he thought. He eyed the front door. It was locked, but that didn’t pose much of a problem. There was no security system; he’d checked on that too. He pulled out the appropriate pick and tension tool from the set he carried.

  A couple of lock-picking minutes later he was inside and looking around. The house was a mess; he marveled at the woman’s ability to function amid such chaos. He placed the device behind a pile of books and CDs gathering dust in one corner of the living room. It was an FM test transmitter about the size of a quarter. He’d soldered a microphone to the transmitter, which was illegal under U.S. law because it turned the transmitter into a surveillance bug, not that he was concerned about that violation of law and privacy. He hustled upstairs to Michelle’s bedroom, where he scanned her closet and found several black pantsuits, two white blouses, a trio of battered dress heels and also an abundance of jeans, sweatshirts and workout clothes and a variety of athletic shoes.

  He went back downstairs. She didn’t have a formal office area here; still he sorted through the stack of mail haphazardly scattered on the kitchen table. Nothing unusual there so long as one considered subscriptions to the Shooting Magazine and Iron Women normal.

  He slipped outside; he had one last task to perform. Because he was hiding these bugs at different locations, he wouldn’t be able to be present at all of them at the same time. Thus, he’d modified the transmitter such that it would connect wirelessly with a voice-activated digital microrecorder that he was now hiding outside of Michelle’s cottage. The transmitter had an open range of a hundred meters inside a building, and the recorder had a hard drive that would allow it to store hundreds of hours of recording. He went back inside the house, spoke and then hurried back out to check the micro recorder. His snatch of conversation had been captured on it. Satisfied, he drove off. He’d already bugged King’s houseboat, as well as the private investigators’ office and phones. He had quickly discovered that Chief Williams was using King and Maxwell in the investigation. He realized how very helpful that could be to him. So now at least two of the people trying to find him would unwittingly provide him with advance information. As King had predicted, he had been listening to the news. He was well aware that an army of lawmen was being assembled to capture him. Well, he’d die first. And he’d take as many others with him as possible.

  Chapter 26

  Later that night Kyle Montgomery, Sylvia’s assistant and rock star wannabe, parked his Jeep in front of the morgue and got out. He was dressed in a dark hood coat with “UVA” printed across it, rumpled dungaree pants and hiking boots without socks. He noted that Sylvia’s navy-blue Audi convertible was also parked in front. He checked his watch. Almost ten o’clock. Pretty late for her to be here, but there was the latest victim to dissect: the lawyer woman, he recalled. His boss had not requested his help on that one, a decision for which he was very appreciative. However, her presence here tonight made what he’d come to do a little dicey because he didn’t know which facility she was in. Probably the morgue, yet if she was in the medical office, he could always make up an excuse if she discovered him. He swiped his security card in the slot by the front door, heard the lock click open and went inside Sylvia’s medical office.

  Only the low-level emergency lights were on. He threaded his way through the familiar surroundings, pausing only when he passed Sylvia’s office. The light was on, but there was no one in there.

  He slipped into the pharmacy area of the office, used his key to open one of the cabinets and withdrew a number of bottles. He took one pill from each, taking care t
o segregate them into Baggies which he’d earlier labeled with a black Magic Marker. He’d hack into the practice’s computer system later and fudge the inventory numbers to mask his theft. Kyle only took a few pills each time, so it was easy to cover his tracks.

  He was about to leave when he remembered he’d left his wallet in his locker at the morgue earlier that day. He put the pills away in his backpack and quietly unlocked the door that separated the two offices. If he ran into her, he could just tell the truth, that he’d left his wallet. He passed Sylvia’s office at the morgue. It was unoccupied. He went on to the scrub area. The autopsy room was at the very back of the facility; that’s where Sylvia would be attending to her silent companion. He wasn’t going anywhere near there. He listened intently for a few seconds, straining to hear the sounds of the Stryker saw, water running or sterilized instruments clattering on metal, but there was only silence. That was a little unnerving, although much of what happened during an autopsy involved such quiet. The dead were not going to complain about all the poking and prodding after all.

  There was a sound now, distinctly, he thought, from the rear of the place. His boss might be on the move. He quickly grabbed his wallet and withdrew into the shadows. He was suddenly fearful that if she happened upon him here, she might start asking uncomfortable questions. She could be that way, direct and blunt. What if she asked him to open his bag? He pushed farther back into the recess of the wall, his pulse knocking in his ears. He silently cursed his lack of nerve. Minutes passed. He finally found the courage to come back into the scant light. Thirty seconds later he was out of the building and driving down the road, the stolen prescription drugs safely in his bag.

  When he reached the place, the parking lot was full. He wedged his Jeep between a pair of fat SUVs and went inside.

  The Aphrodisiac was full of life and activity, with virtually every table and stool at the bars taken. Kyle showed his ID to a sleepy-looking bouncer at the entrance to the room where the dancers were and spent a few minutes admiring the ladies. The shapely, barely clothed women were performing acts so lewd against the metal dancing poles that it would have caused their poor mothers to die of humiliation—after they had strangled their shameless daughters, that is. Kyle loved every minute of it.