The Cheater

by Nancy Taylor Rosenberg

  And as far as she was concerned, the best thing that an abused kid could do was toughen up and take it until she was old enough to move out. Foster parents could be just as brutal. She’d read stories about all these dedicated people who took in unwanted children and did wonderful things for them. Some of those kids were slaves; others were stuffed away like wool sweaters in August. The majority of them were maintained. Not starved, just hungry. Beaten, but not to the point of bruising. Degradation and verbal abuse had no limits.

  Anne was at the end of the strip now. The taillights ahead of her were blinding. She blinked her eyes, desperately trying to maintain her focus. When she passed the same landmark for the third time, she knew she was lost. She didn’t know her way around the city that well. Since signing the escrow papers, she’d only stayed in the Las Vegas house a handful of days. She’d fly in to meet a guy, kill him, chop him, dispose of him, and head to the airport to jump on a plane.

  It was the same with all her kill sites. The less time she spent in these places, the less evidence she had to worry about leaving behind. Until Vegas ran out of water, the price of real estate would continue to climb. She’d sold one of her kill sites recently and pocketed two hundred grand.

  Her throat was so parched, she had trouble swallowing, and her stomach was raging with hunger. When did she eat last? She couldn’t remember. Seeing a neon sign for Wendy’s, she impulsively turned into the drive-through and ordered a large Diet Coke, two cheeseburgers, and a large order of fries.

  “That will be six fifty-three at the next window,” a Hispanic voice said over the speaker.

  She deserved to junk out. It wasn’t like she did it every day. Without her diet pills, her appetitive took over. All she could do now was feed it. She rummaged around inside her Valentino tote, pulling out a ten-dollar bill and placing it on top of the center console. While she was waiting, she checked the messages on her business phone. Christ, she thought, seeing over fifty. The moron she’d hired to handle this particular line must have skipped out on her. She hated depending on people.

  Chuck had been her biggest mistake. He’d worked for her for two years, and handled the solicitation of vendors to process credit card charges for the company, so he knew more than her other employees. Then one day his parole officer finally tracked him down and shipped him back to prison.

  As far as Anne knew, the asshole had at least kept his mouth shut. It wasn’t as if he could roll over on her, use his knowledge of her business affairs to cut a deal and reduce his prison sentence. He could have, of course, if he’d known she was killing people.

  A Hispanic girl with a bad case of acne was manning the second window at Wendy’s. She took Anne’s money and was handing her the change when her eyes widened and she started pointing and shrieking. The other employees thought she was being robbed and rushed over.

  Anne’s reflexes were so dull, it took her a while before she figured out what all the fuss was about. Bryce had regained consciousness and yanked the T-shirt off his head. His face was covered in blood from where she’d beaten him with the piece of plywood. He was trying to cry for help, but nothing came out but a pathetic whimper. She burst into laughter. At least the police couldn’t arrest her for murder. She could open the door and kick him out right now. What was he going to do? Tell the cops he was drunk as a skunk and fucking around on his wife in a city he wasn’t supposed to be in? Besides, the last thing he would remember was leaving the Aladdin. As soon as she gave him the Versed, the clock stopped ticking.

  Anne turned a cold eye to the employees gathered around the window. “Give me my food,” she shouted, hearing them talking to each other in Spanish. “I paid for it, damn it. Give me my fucking food.”

  A man appeared. His tag noted that he was the manager. “Call the police,” he said, placing his arm in front of the others to hold them back. “Hurry, dial 911.”

  “Don’t move,” Anne barked. “I’m an undercover cop and this man’s my prisoner. Now give me my damn food so I can get the hell out of here.”

  The stunned man shoved the sack through the window.

  “Thanks, amigo,” she said, plucking out a fry and tossing it into her mouth. “Now tell your people to go back to work. You didn’t see anything, understand? I’m taking this asshole to jail. Keep your mouths shut or you’ll end up in the same place.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 30

  QUANTICO, VIRGINIA

  Mary had intended to stay another day to interview Stan Waverly’s friends and associates, but Adams called and ordered her to return to Virginia. She tried to find out why, but he refused to tell her over the phone.

  When she showed up at work that morning, she was jet-lagged and had a terrible hangover. She’d had to hitch a ride on a military transport, and they’d landed at three different bases, making it impossible for her to sleep. She dropped her purse on the floor next to her desk and reported to Adams’s office. “What’s going on, chief?”

  He looked annoyed. “Don’t you check your e-mail when you’re on the road?”

  “I checked it yesterday around noon,” she said, taking a seat in one of the chairs. “I was so tired last night, I must have forgot.” She felt guilty for shirking her responsibilities. She’d spent the evening eating ribs and drinking beer with Agent East, who had later ended up in her bed. Lowell was out, and Brooks was in. Their relationship might be geographically undesirable, but they both worked for the same agency. If things got serious, one of them could transfer. Of course, that person would have to be East. Mary couldn’t leave her mother.

  She gave Adams her full attention. “You said the case was exploding. What happened?”

  “Five agencies responded to the queries you placed on LEO,” he told her, referring to the Law Enforcement Online interactive computer system, or intranet, which linked all levels of law enforcement in the Unites States. “One of them was a homicide detective with the Seattle PD. They’re sitting on an unsolved murder from three years ago, where the male victim was dismembered and deposited in an abandoned boat.”

  “Jesus, were his head and hands missing like the other victims?”

  “Yes,” Adams told her. “The victim owned a dress manufacturing company in Denver. His name was Russell Madison. Caucasian male, forty-three, married eleven years, four children. The last time his wife, Kimberly, saw him, he was leaving on a business trip to Los Angeles. Like the Waverly and Goldstein cases, Madison left his wife a neatly typed itinerary. She contacted him successfully on two occasions, using the numbers he provided. The Denver Police Department handled the missing person report when he failed to return home. The number Kimberly Madison called, believing it to be the Ramada Inn in L.A., has since been disconnected. LAPD discovered the phone line had been established using a fictitious ID, probably snatched over the Internet.”

  “That’s our UNSUB,” Mary exclaimed. “This is the same exact story I heard from Belinda Waverly. She can’t figure out who typed her husband’s itinerary, although she swears he never would have typed it himself.”

  Adams placed his arms behind his neck. “A clear pattern has developed, Stevens. These victims were doing something they didn’t want anyone to know about. From what we’ve learned about them, it’s unlikely they were CIA. They could have all been involved in some type of illegal activity, maybe narcotics, smuggling, or arms dealing. Are we absolutely certain these men didn’t know each other?”

  “Since they’re dead,” Mary said, rubbing a spot near her eyebrow, “it’s difficult to ascertain. I contacted some of Waverly’s associates, and they had only good things to say about him. His wife is a former Miss America, and everyone thought they had the perfect marriage. The most reasonable assumption as to Waverly, along with the other victims, is they were cheating on their wives. The real question is, who’s covering for them? Someone’s answering the phone at the numbers that are supposed to be hotels, businesses, et cetera.”

  “I’m convinced the victims’ stor
ies are cleverly concocted alibis.”

  Bulldog McIntyre stuck his head in the door. “Sorry for interrupting, chief,” he said. “Don’t want you to think I’m eavesdropping. I was walking by when I heard you say something about those alibi clubs.”

  Both Adams and Mary looked befuddled. A moment later, it clicked in Mary’s mind and she bolted to her feet. “Thank you, Jesus,” she said dramatically. “Something kept rolling around in my mind. Now I remember. This is it, don’t you see?”

  “No, I don’t see,” Adams said gruffly. “What in the hell is an alibi club?”

  “It was in all the papers a few years ago,” Mary said, giving him a quick rundown of how alibi clubs operated. “I never heard anything else about them, so I decided it was some type of publicity scam. What about you, Bulldog?”

  Bulldog McIntyre rode Harleys and hung out with people the FBI would classify as undesirable. A former undercover cop from Miami, his connections had helped to solve an untold number of crimes. He was also a human bloodhound. People joked that Bulldog could predict what a killer would do before the killer decided to do it. “I haven’t heard anything about them recently,” he said. “Guys still kid around about it. I’m single, so I don’t need an alibi club, but some of my friends thought it was the best thing since chicken soup.”

  Adams fixed his gaze on Mary. “You’re the computer wizard. Go jump on the Web and see what you can find out. If the victims were all using the same service, this could be our first major break.”

  Mary couldn’t curb her excitement. “On the tape, the killer said she only killed adulterous men. I kept asking myself how she could find them. I mean, being unfaithful isn’t something you talk about, even with your closest friends. Our UNSUB may work for an alibi club, even own one.”

  “I’m going national with this,” Adams said, placing his palms on his desk. “What are you standing around for, Stevens?”

  Mary hurried back to her office. When she typed “alibi clubs” into her browser, all she came up with were articles about the clubs from several years back. She read an interesting piece about an alibi club in D.C. established in 1884, whose members were political powerhouses. After several hours, she reported back to Adams.

  “Alibi clubs have gone underground.” Mary parked her pen in her hair, which was sleeked back in a knot. “I found one in South Africa, but the Web site hasn’t been updated since 2004. There are tons of newspaper articles about alibi clubs, but nothing recent. The majority were published between ’04 and ’05. I’d like to finish talking to Waverly’s associates, then I’ll see if I can find anything on alibi clubs in the chat rooms.”

  “I thought you said these clubs were a big deal,” Adams said, glaring at her. “Now you tell me they’re history.”

  “I didn’t say they don’t exist anymore. I said they’ve probably gone underground.”

  “You mean they don’t use the Internet anymore?”

  “Maybe, maybe not,” she said. “Even in the past, club members reached each other via cell phones, mainly using SMS, or text messaging. Someone who needed a person to provide an alibi would send out an e-mail or text message that was then forwarded to all the members of the club. Those willing to help would reply, and it would go from there. There are a number of pitfalls to something like this, which must be why the companies disappeared.”

  “What kind of pitfalls are we talking about?”

  “Blackmail, for example. In one of the articles, guys said they were afraid of giving their wives’ or girlfriends’ numbers out to strangers, thinking the persons might use them in a sinister way.”

  “The clubs are out of business, then.”

  Everything was black and white with Adams. He wanted instant answers. There was a bomb ticking somewhere, though, and she understood why he was abrupt with her. “I don’t think they’re out of business, sir. They’re just more sophisticated. You saw how Bulldog’s ears pricked when he thought we were talking about an alibi club. All business is supply and demand. Let me ask you something. You know call girls exist, right?”

  “Of course, but what does that have to do—”

  “Just listen. So you know call girls exist, but do you know how to hire one?”

  “This is ridiculous.”

  “You don’t know how to hire a call girl because the people that manage them rely strictly on referrals. Referrals have probably kept the alibi clubs alive as well.” She paused to allow him time to think, then added, “Another way to take them underground is to not maintain a public domain on the Internet. All the members are given is a URL. Without it, they can’t find the site.”

  “Say they do exist,” Adams said, rubbing his chin, “how do you propose we find these organizations?”

  “The easiest way is to start shopping for an alibi,” Mary told him. “I’ll devise a phony ID and pose as a married man. You’re going to have to be patient, though. This may take some time.”

  “Who’s working on the phone records?”

  “The various investigating agencies, I presume.”

  “That’s too disjointed,” Adams said. “I’m going to put Genna Weir on it. Once we get the case files from Seattle, I’ll call a meeting of the team and we’ll see if we can get a better handle on this thing. Has the lab identified where the voices on the tape came from?”

  “Not yet,” Mary told him. “I’ll call them.”

  When she got back to her office, she checked the rest of her e-mails. One was from Andy Cutler, a deputy sheriff in Lincoln, Nebraska, who recalled a fellow deputy finding a young girl abandoned along the Interstate during a particularly brutal winter approximately twenty years ago. The child was unconscious, and had no identification on her. One of the local papers, which had since gone out of business, ran the story for several weeks, hoping to get a response from the girl’s family. Other than that, Cutler didn’t know what happened to the girl, and the deputy who’d found her was now deceased.

  Mary called Adams and told him the news. “This may confirm that the event the UNSUB referred to on the tape actually occurred.”

  “I’m not impressed with the alibi clubs,” he said. “Follow up on this first.”

  Although Mary was grateful for the information Officer Cutler had provided, she knew it wouldn’t lead them to the killer’s doorstep, as the person who had sent the tape had said her father drove her across the state line. Nebraska bordered on Iowa, South Dakota, Wyoming, Colorado, and Kansas, and she didn’t even have the girl’s name. None of the hospitals in Lincoln had records of an unidentified child suffering from hypothermia. During the past twenty years, the hospitals had computerized their records, and much was lost during the transition.

  Mary called social services in Lincoln, but they had no record of an abandoned child during the time span in question. She wondered if a nurse or someone else at the hospital felt sorry for the girl and took her in. The most important thing now was to find out where the killer’s base of operation was today, and she felt fairly certain she’d left Nebraska, as none of the murders had taken place in that part of the country.

  She went to Genna Weir’s office to bring her up to date. Bulldog was present as well, slouched in one of her chairs. “Did you find any alibi clubs?” he said, laughing. “If you do, I’ve got a buddy who wants their numbers.”

  Weir snapped at him, “You’re incorrigible. How could you laugh about something like this?”

  “Because I love to get a rise out of you,” Bulldog answered. “Every guy I’ve talked to about the alibi clubs thinks it’s fabulous. What are you bitching about, Weir? I bet there are some ladies out there that wouldn’t mind slipping out on their husbands now and then?”

  “This is a male thing,” insisted Weir, a feisty brunette who had a tendency to come across like a drill sergeant. “Men cheat far more than women. And even if a woman wanted to have an affair, she wouldn’t use some stupid service. You guys are lucky someone gives a shit. If my husband deceived me like that, I’d say good ridd
ance.”

  Mary entered the conversation. “Bulldog, did you or any of your friends keep any information about the alibi clubs?”

  “Are you kidding? When I told my ex about it, she went ballistic. No guy in his right mind would keep that kind of stuff around.” He paused a moment, thinking. “Shit, I know why I remembered the alibi clubs now. I was goofing off on the ’Net the other day and came across a similar site. This one is a dating service for married people interested in having affairs. I think it’s called Personal Affairs. For fun, I posted an ad to see if anyone answered.”

  “You’re a moron,” Weir barked. “We’re trying to catch a serial killer, not get you laid. If you don’t knock it off, I’m going to tell Madeline and she’ll slice your balls off while you’re sleeping.”

  “No, wait,” Mary said. “Type it in your search engine. I can’t find the alibi clubs. Maybe this is a spin-off.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Weir exclaimed, staring at her computer screen a few moments later. “Listen to this. ‘Married and looking? Seeking an extramarital affair? Welcome to Personal Affairs, a service designed for persons seeking an extramarital relationship. Why you are here is our main concern. Our mission is to help you sort out your thoughts, provide a safe, secure outlet and direction for your extramarital dating. We are not a sex or personals site for cheating housewives that provide empty promises. Our clientele are well educated and informed before they become members. All our members are married or permanently attached, but looking for something extra. We are honest, forthright and caring, three things we value in our extramarital web relations. We’ve been satisfying married people since 1996.’” She turned to Mary. “This looks more like the main event than a spin-off.”