It showed Nelson escorting Bauer to the psychiatrist who would work with him. But that wasn’t the focal point of Carter’s interest. Nelson had circled another figure, almost out of the camera’s range of focus and illumination. He had penned there, neatly so as not to obscure the photo in any way, “still alive.”
Still alive.
A grad student, Carter thought. Too young to be anything else. I know her, or rather, I knew her. Who the hell is she?
Because he had to remember. He had to.
If for no other reason than the intense look on the young woman’s face, naked expression, unaware the camera was catching her, unaware of anything but the serial killer being brought into the lab. The lens had caught her, immortalized in its stare, just as she stared upon the murderer. Sheer, unabashed adoration shone from her face as she looked at Bauer.
Chapter 15
“Shit.” Frustration knifed through him. Add ten years onto her and he knew her, he knew her. But he didn’t recognize her.
Had Nelson thought so, too?
He stared at the monitor, the picture so lifelike, so achingly clear, transfixed by the look upon the young woman’s face. Had she known what the camera revealed, would she have veiled the open admiration, the passion she felt? Carter knew the type. He’d run into them before. He could never understand the phenomenon. It was as though they responded to the same raw power that fueled the killer, not sexual, but fantasy and control and violence.
How could he have missed that? And Nelson, too. Or had this one particular photo just surfaced after years, after wads of photos had been studied? Had it even been hidden from John Nelson by other, more ambitious investigators?
Who was she? Where was she now?
Carter found his fingertips moving along the lip of the computer desk as though he were already writing copy. Damn it, he knew her, and that astonished him, too. By all rights, when Bauer killed his doctor and escaped, she should have died, too. Bauer rarely overlooked an opportunity to indulge his capacity for cruelty.
He had to get the photo back to Dolan for computer aging. A newer hairstyle, some maturity to a face so young then it might have been made of marshmallow—he might know it when updated. While Dolan worked on that, he would backtrack to the psychiatrist’s estate and records, see if he could find out what grad students from his university classes might have worked with him that fateful spring and summer. He had never concentrated on Bauer before the escape, only after.
Carter stared. Why did Bauer spare her? Or had he been too rushed? That was a possibility. Bauer had always liked to take his deliberate time with his victims. Too long. Carter and the forensic experts had run across victims who’d taken two, three days to die.
He shuddered at the memory.
The computer-generated image began to waver as his screen saver program took over, darkening into a galaxy, with otherworldly transports traveling over them. The program went into effect whenever the monitor stayed on text or an image too long, keeping the screen from being burned with the image permanently. A touch on the keyboard or mouse and the GIF would return. Carter blinked, then rubbed his eyes as the space opera rolled across the screen. Amid the faint sound of warp drives and phasers cutting across space to blast enemy ships, he sat back.
A firm knock sounded on the door.
Carter reacted instinctively. He popped the floppy out of the drive and tossed it in a bottom drawer, where it lay amidst a stack of floppies. He put his fingers into the pile and stirred it around a little. Then he got up to answer the door.
No one came to his apartment. There were only a few he might be expecting. Therefore, he was not surprised when he opened it to two suits, both of somber color.
The redhead was perspiring heavily. There was a pallor under his flush and freckles that told Carter he came from back East. Washington, probably, although he could be from the Chicago Bureau. The second man leaned in, his stomach bulging out over his belt buckle, pushing the ends of his tie up toward his chest. The white shirt contrasted violently with the splashed lime green tie. Carter raised his eyes from the fashion statement, meeting a tired gaze framed by crow’s-feet as deep as any he’d seen etched into a California face. He’d spent a lot of years squinting into L.A. gridlock. This suit was definitely from the L.A. office, although he didn’t recall that they’d met.
“Carter Wyndall?”
“I am.”
“Agents Sofer and Franklin, Federal Bureau of Investigation. May we come in?”
“Of course. I was expecting you.” Carter let them pass, a subtle formality because Franklin, tie and all, was already halfway into the apartment. “Father’s Day present?”
“What? Oh.” Franklin looked morosely downward. “Yes.”
“You’ll have a new model in a couple of weeks.”
Sofer was grinning ear to ear as he pulled out a handkerchief and mopped his face and the back of his neck. “Let’s hope,” he agreed. He folded the sodden cloth over, mopped again hopelessly, and then put the handkerchief away.
“Let me turn on the air-conditioning,” Carter offered as he shut the door. “I haven’t been home all that long. Place still feels shut up.”
Sofer’s face eased into a grateful half-smile as Carter passed him on the way to the thermostat. The freckles had begun to turn bright red. The apartment let out a couple of creaks as the system cranked up, and air began blowing.
Franklin had parked himself in front of the computer, watching the Star Wars ian display. Without turning around, the middle-aged man grunted, “You know why we’re here.”
“I would guess it’s Nelson. I could use a drink. No beer. Mineral water, juice?”
“Water,” both men answered. Carter bowed into the kitchen, found a lime and sliced it for the water glasses. He kept water stocked in the refrigerator. Los Angeles water was detestable. He’d grown used to almost everything about the city but that. It was only just better than no water at all.
The outer space display was still twirling planets, spaceships, and tractor beams when he brought the drinks out. Carter avoided looking at it as he settled himself into the wing-backed chair which had become his favorite. Sofer sank onto the couch, Franklin stayed on his feet and pulled out a recorder. He put it on the coffee table and aimed it in Carter’s direction.
“Interview, May 16th, Carter Wyndall, agents Sofer and Franklin.” He cleared his throat. The lime tie wafted with the motion, then settled. “Mr. Wyndall, would you please explain to us your acquaintanceship with Congressman John Nelson, formerly of the FBI.”
Carter knocked back about half his glass of water, then smiled and said, “Before we get too far into this, guys, is there any reason I should have my lawyer present?”
No laughter. They cracked not a smile line between them. Sofer busied himself mopping his face again despite the now chilling air and Franklin fished his lime slice out of his water.
Carter looked back and forth. “Good God. Don’t tell me it’s been twenty-four hours and you guys don’t have the slightest idea who did Nelson.”
“How about if we just stay away from speculation and answer the questions, Mr. Wyndall.”
“How about if we end this friendly conversation right here and now before I find myself the prime suspect.” Carter had been sitting with his legs crossed. He now planted both feet firmly on the floor.
Sofer said reluctantly, “We know it was an expert hit. That’s about all the evidence we have. Hotel security cameras show very little. Whoever it was knew how to get in and get out, and exactly where John would be.”
“No weapon? No fibers?”
“Everything was clean. The weapon hasn’t been found yet.”
Carter let out a low whistle while Sofer hastened to add, “This is not for publication.”
He shook his head. “I don’t step on toes. As long as you two keep in mind the last time I was on a target range, I managed, barely, to hit the broad side of a barn, I’ll talk to you. I know John from a case he wor
ked on years ago, when I was a newsman in Chicago.”
“Georg Bauer,” put in Franklin, flatly.
“That’s the one.”
“You the newsman the bastard spilled his guts to? Giving up bodies just before he was scheduled to be executed?”
“That’s me. No one, not even John, wanted Bauer back on Death Row worse than I did.” Carter felt his teeth showing, pulled his lips down. “We crossed paths trying to find him for a couple of years. Then the trail went cold. John says—used to say—I’m still looking. But he retired, then ran for Congress. When he has occasion to be in town, which isn’t often, we knock back a cold one, chew on a steak, compare our cholesterol, and wonder what happened.”
“So you heard from him this time?”
They suspected already, of course. “He called from the plane. I was out on a story, he put it into my voice mail.”
“Could we hear that message?”
Carter shook his head. “Sorry. I dumped it when I retrieved it.” Which wasn’t strictly true, he’d recorded it, but the message was no longer on the voice mail system.
Sofer said to Franklin, “That’s okay. It should be the same message we picked up.”
A hackle rose along Carter’s back. “You heard it earlier?”
“That’s right. Your employer thought, under the circumstances, it was all right to let us access your mail.”
Carter felt his jaw tighten. It wasn’t all right. Not by a long shot. He bit down on the rim of his glass and took an angry swig of mineral water, felt it hissing down his throat.
Franklin asked mildly, “What was Nelson hoping to pass on to you?”
He was done cooperating. “Damned if I know.” A newspaper, of all employers, should know about confidentiality. He found it difficult to believe that his editor would give even with the Feds leaning on him.
“If he was passing anything about Bauer on to you, it would have to be Federal property. We would have to confiscate it.” Franklin looked edgy. He kept pacing back and forth. Carter tried not to watch him or the computer monitor across the room.
“I wouldn’t want the Feds angry with me.” He tried a shadow of a smile. “What makes you think Nelson’s death had anything to do with Bauer?”
“Nothing. But, so far, nothing makes us think it doesn’t. Nelson hadn’t been a congressman long enough to get himself into hot water. There haven’t been any terrorist claims, no threats. We don’t even have an official reason as to why he was in L.A.”
“I have even less of an idea than you do. I had no idea he was coming out before the call.”
“According to our records, there was nothing extraordinary about the visit. He liked the hotel, it was quiet, confidential. He usually didn’t bring girls in. John was faithful to his wife. He had appointments later in the week to do some politicking, but from all appearances, he came out here specifically to talk to you.”
“He did?” That frankly surprised Carter. As diffident as he’d been about the old leads on the Bauer case, his actions were not. Nelson must have thought he had something and wanted Carter’s take on it. He’d been casual because he knew the world of voice and E-mail was not a secure one.
Franklin paused by the computer. “This Star Wars ?”
“Not exactly. A clone, more or less.”
“Do you like to play computer games?”
“I enjoy it once in a while. I’d rather meet with an old friend and enjoy good conversation, but my schedule doesn’t always allow it.”
Carter put down his water glass, edged forward slightly in his chair. The agent’s beefy hand waved over the computer as if itching to reach for the mouse or keyboard.
“What’s your high score?”
“I don’t keep one.”
Franklin’s hand shot out for the mouse control before Carter could say anything further. At the touch, the screen dissolved away from the galactic scenario, and reassembled in the gray-tone photo clearly marked as FBI evidence.
“Shit.” Franklin turned on one heel. “What is this?”
Carter kept his face neutral. “You tell me. I just downloaded that.”
“You know as well as I do what that is.”
Sofer got to his feet as well. He had stopped sweating, finally, and now fresh beads popped out on his excited face. “Holding out on us?”
“Now do I need my lawyer?”
Franklin brought up an editing menu. He brought the cursor up to “delete.” “I don’t think so,” he answered. “You have this saved yet?”
“Don’t touch that!” Carter jumped forward.
Too late. The agent clicked the selection. The hard drive whirred, the picture went dark, and then the light amber screen came up.
“I would hate,” Franklin said, “for a friend of John’s to be compromised by his indiscretion.”
Sofer added, “So would I.” He headed to the door. “If you think of anything else you’d like to tell us about Nelson, just call.”
Carter felt the corner of his cheek twitch. He let it, before asking, “Anything I should have known about that picture? Since it’s possible John died for it?”
“Only that the Freedom of Information Act doesn’t apply to it. You shouldn’t have seen it. You didn’t.” Franklin straightened his tie. “Be careful, Wyndall. If John was a target because he was a congressman, you’re in the clear. But if he was a target because of the Bauer case, you’re next in line.”
Carter said dryly, “I guess that gives me an incentive for cooperating with you.”
“It should.” Franklin scooped up his recorder, shut it off, and slipped it in his pocket. “No one downtown has a clue, for what it’s worth. If I find out anything, I’ll give you a call.”
“So let me ask you one question.”
The two suits paused. In the air-conditioning, Sofer’s complexion had calmed down to its normal pallor, sprinkled liberally with freckles. He stretched his neck out over his collar.
“Why are you two so worried about Bauer if he’s supposed to be dead? We both know he didn’t do Nelson. There’s a world of difference between a professional killer and a thrill killer. We’re not talking about the same man. Is the photo that significant?”
“You think Bauer is dead?” Sofer’s voice rose, with an edge.
“Yes, I do.”
“Well, I have no information that he’s considered dead. His case file is open.”
“It’s been years since a victim was found matching his ... methodology. We have networks now that we didn’t have then. VICAP or one of the others should pick him up immediately if he’s begun killing again.” Carter stood his ground.
Franklin sniffed. “We can hope, but we can’t confirm anything. I would hate for you to be his comeback.” Sofer started to add something, halted as Franklin wagged an index finger at him. “Carter, we don’t know that there’s anything about that photo or anything else John may have tried to get to you. Our objection is that Nelson is no longer an agent. He had his hands on, and was distributing material that is government private property. We don’t know why he did it. We only know that he’s dead. We need to find out why, and if his actions had anything to do with it. Was he flushing somebody out? Was he into blackmail? I don’t think so, John was a good agent. But it’s our job to look and secure whatever loose ends he left behind.”
He was silent for a moment, then said, “Point taken.”
“Good. We’ll be in touch.”
Carter let the two of them out. After long moments, he thought he heard car doors close and a car slip away from the curb. He returned to his computer desk and opened the bottom drawer. Dipping his hand in, he pulled out the utility disk with the bright red label.
He popped it into the computer, brought the photo up again, and stared.
Chapter 16
Two hours outside of L.A., the air cleared, the sounds of the highway and the electricity which ran air conditioners, radios, TVs, pool pumps, telephones, refrigerators, hair dryers, you name it, ceased i
ts incessant hum. Oh, Stephen thought, there are lines here, even high-voltage lines, but the traffic they manage, the population they cater to are so thin it scarcely matters.
One of the eeriest things after the Northridge quake he remembered, was the total absence of electrical sound. A few car alarms pierced the air, but everything else was dead quiet at first. Then the dogs began to bark. Then, from the shifting dust, people emerged wailing.
But, oh, the heavenly quiet for those first few shocked moments.
That made Arrowhead even better. It took no natural disaster for it to quiet. He sat in the Jag, car door open, and just breathed. The air did not smell quite as fresh, but then it was late May. Even up here in the mountains, the lack of rain was keenly felt. It would be dry, dusty, and even somewhat smog-tinged, though nothing compared to the basin he’d just driven out of. Going back, when he went back, he would hit that dingy brown curtain and, for just a moment, he would wonder if the fires had begun, but there would probably be none. The haze so thick it could be cut with a knife was just the normal air hanging over the basin. It would be sucked all across the continent clear to Denver, under the right atmospheric conditions, as if Denver didn’t have its own problems with smog.
Death Watch Page 17
