“Ain’t that the truth? He’s got you into karate?”
She nodded.
“He told me I was one of the best basketball players in the Bureau. He said I should keep myself in shape playing games with all my nieces and nephews. He said kids kept you honest and in shape out of fear of humiliation.”
“Ha. He just said that because he realized he couldn’t throw you around, the sexist jerk.”
“Nah, he cleaned my clock but good when I asked him about karate. He really flatten you, Sherlock?”
“More times than I can count.”
“What’s this about a sexist jerk?”
Both she and Ollie turned to see Savich standing behind them, his laptop in one hand, a modem in the other.
“I don’t know about any sexist jerk, do you, Ollie?”
“Me? I never even heard the word except from Maria, and she didn’t even know what it meant.”
Savich grunted at them. “What do you think of the Star of David angle, Sherlock?”
“It’s so weird as to have a grain of truth in it. But you know, the murders started in Virginia, not Florida. That could put a monkey wrench in the works.”
“Agreed. We’ll see soon enough. The local cops are covering the next probable nursing home.”
She frowned at him. “I do prefer comparing all the physical evidence, but truth be told there isn’t all that much. Actually, this Star of David thing, well, I have this feeling that you’re right. But I also have the feeling that it won’t matter. He’ll probably kill at the nursing home you picked out but no one will see him.”
“She’s said what I’m feeling,” Ollie said. “It’s driving me nuts. I’ve asked the computer to compare and contrast all sorts of evidence, but we’re coming up with nothing, just nothing.”
“We’ll get him, Ollie.”
“I sure hope so,” Lacey said. She turned to Ollie. “Did your future mother-in-law convince Maria that you’re a workaholic since you were gone for the whole weekend?”
“No, I blamed it on the chief. I told her that Agent Savich would kick me into the street if I didn’t go with him. Then I’d be blackballed and permanently on unemployment. She backed off.”
Savich just laughed and walked back to his office. Lacey saw Hannah Paisley rise quickly and follow him. To her surprise, Ollie was watching Hannah, a frown on his face.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing really. I just wish Hannah would be a little more cool about Savich.”
Lacey didn’t say a word; she didn’t want to know anything personal about anybody. It was safer that way. But Ollie didn’t notice, just said thoughtfully, “I heard Savich and Hannah dated before she came to the Unit. Then when she joined the Unit, word was that Savich called it off. I heard him say that no one in the Unit should dip his Bureau quill into Bureau ink.”
“Now that was sexist, Ollie. You think Hannah’s still interested, then?”
“Oh yeah, just look at her. She can’t keep her eyes off him. Why don’t you talk to her, Sherlock? Maybe she’d listen to you. Savich isn’t interested, or if he is, he still wouldn’t go near a woman agent in his unit.”
Lacey just shook her head as she punched up one of the forensic reports. She didn’t care what Savich did with his Bureau quill. Goodness, she thought. She’d just made a joke to herself. It had been a long time. She saw Hannah come out of Savich’s office, her face set. She wasn’t about to say a word to that formidable woman. She sincerely doubted that Hannah Paisley would listen to Lacey’s opinion on the time of day. She went back to work on the Ghost.
Lacey unfolded the Boston Globe, the last large city newspaper in her pile. She was tired of scouring the ten largest city newspapers every day of the week, but she couldn’t stop. She’d done it for nearly seven years. It cost a fortune for all the subscriptions, but she had enough money from her trust fund so she’d never have to worry about feeding herself and buying as many subscriptions as she wanted. She knew he was out there. She would never stop.
She couldn’t believe it. She nearly dropped her coffee cup. It was on page three. Not a big article, but large enough to immediately catch her eye. She read:
“Yesterday evening at 6:30, Hillary Ramsgate, 28, a stockbroker with Hameson, Lyle & Obermeyer, was found brutally murdered in an abandoned warehouse on Pier Forty-one. Detective Ralph Budnack of the BPD said that she had apparently been led through a bizarre game that had resulted in her death from multiple stab wounds to her chest and abdomen. A note tied around her neck said that she had lost the game and had to pay the forfeit. At this point, police say they’re following leads.”
He was back. In Boston. He’d begun again. She prayed that this poor woman was his first victim of this new cycle, that she hadn’t missed others, or that he hadn’t murdered women in small towns where the AP wouldn’t pick up the story.
Hillary Ramsgate. Poor woman. She reread the newspaper article, then rose from her kitchen table. She had died just as Belinda and six other women in San Francisco had seven years ago. They’d all lost the game.
What the newspaper article didn’t say was that her tongue had also been cut out. The police were holding that back. But Lacey knew all about that. She’d been brutally stabbed and her tongue had been sliced out.
The bastard.
She realized then that yesterday had been the seventh anniversary of the last murder.
Seven years. He’d struck seven years ago to the day. The monster was back.
Lacey was pacing back and forth in front of Savich’s office when he came around the corner. He watched her a moment. He said very quietly, so as not to startle her, “Sherlock, it’s seven in the morning. What are you doing here? What’s wrong?”
When she turned abruptly to face him, he saw more pain on her face than he’d seen in a long time. Then the hollow, despairing look was gone. She’d gotten a grip. She’d hidden the pain again. And left nothing at all.
What was going on here?
“Sherlock? What’s wrong?”
She smoothed out her face. What had he seen? She even managed a smile. “I’m sorry to bother you so early, but I have a favor to ask. I need to take a few days off and go to Boston.”
He unlocked his office door and waved her in. “Boston?”
“Yes. I have a sick aunt. It’s an emergency. I know I’ve only been in the Unit a couple of weeks, but there’s not anyone else to see to this situation.”
“Your aunt is elderly?”
“Not really, well, she’s got Alzheimer’s. She’s gotten suddenly worse.”
“A relative called you?”
Why was he asking all these questions? Didn’t he believe her? “Yes, my cousin called me. He, well, he’s not well himself so there’s no one but me here on the East Coast.”
“I see,” he said slowly, not looking at her directly now. She looked pale, scared, and excited—an odd combination, but that’s what he saw in her face. Her hair was pulled severely back, held in the same gold clasp at the nape of her neck. It looked like she’d flattened it down with hair spray. She couldn’t seem to be still, her fingers now flexing against her purse, one foot tapping. She’d forgotten to put on any makeup. She looked very young. He said slowly, “How long do you think you’ll need to be away?”
“Not more than three days, just long enough to see that her care is all locked into place.”
“Go, Sherlock. Oh yes, I want you to call me from Boston tonight and tell me what’s going on, all right?”
Why did he care what she was doing away from Washington? More lies. She hated lies. She wasn’t particularly good at them, but she’d rehearsed this one all the way in. Surely he believed her, surely. “Yes, sir. I’ll call you this evening.”
He jotted down his phone number on a piece of paper. “If it’s late, call me at home.” He handed her the folded paper. He said nothing until she was nearly at the outer door, then, “Good luck. Take care.”
He turned back to his office only after
she was out the door. He listened a moment to the sound of her quick footfalls.
This was odd.
Why was she lying to him?
It was 10:30 that night when the phone rang. Savich muted the baseball game between the Giants and the Red Sox, Giants leading 7 to 2 in the seventh inning. He kept looking at the screen as he answered the phone.
“Sir, it’s Sherlock.”
He grinned into the phone. “What’s going on?”
“My aunt is just fine. I have more details to tie up but I’ll be back by Thursday, if that’s all right.”
He said easily, “I have a good friend at Boston Memorial, a doctor who specializes in geriatrics. Would you like his name so you can speak to him about your aunt?”
“Oh no, sir. Everything’s under control.”
“That’s good, Sherlock. What’s the weather like in Boston?”
“It’s chilly and raining. Everything looks old and tired.”
“About the same here. I’ll see you on Thursday. Oh yes, call me again tomorrow night.”
There was a pause, then, “Very well, sir, if that’s what you want.”
“It is. You sound tired, Sherlock. Sleep well. Good night.”
“Thank you, sir. You too.”
• • •
He watched her from his office. It was nearly one o’clock Thursday afternoon. He’d been in meetings all morning. This was the first time he’d seen her since she’d left for Boston. She looked tired beyond her years. No, it was more than that. She looked flattened, as if she’d lost her best friend, as if someone had pounded her, not physically, but emotionally. He wasn’t at all surprised.
She was typing furiously on the keyboard, completely absorbed. He waited for a few more minutes, then strolled to her workstation. He’d spoken to her three nights running, each night at 10:30, each night mirroring the previous one and the next, except that on Wednesday, she hadn’t quite been the same. He’d wished he could see her. When he looked at her, her thoughts were clear as the shine Uncle Bob put on his wing tips every Wednesday.
“Sherlock.”
She raised her face, her fingers stilling on the computer keyboard. “Good afternoon, sir. You just get here?”
“Yes. Call me Savich. Or Dillon.”
“Yes, sir. Dillon.”
“Would you please come in my office? In say ten minutes?”
She nodded, nothing more, just a defeated nod that she tried to hide from him.
When she walked into his office, he said immediately, “I don’t like lies or liars.”
She just looked at him hopelessly.
“Your mother’s sister lives in San Diego. You have three cousins, none of them older than thirty-five, all living on the West Coast. You don’t even have a third cousin in Boston. Also, there’s nary a trace of Alzheimer’s in anyone in your family.”
“No, I guess there isn’t.”
“Sit down, Sherlock.”
She sat.
He watched her pull her skirt to her calves. She sat on the edge of her chair like a child ready to be chastised. Only she wasn’t remotely a child.
“Don’t you think it’s about time you leveled with me?”
“Not until I call Chico and take a dozen or so lessons.”
Humor from her. He appreciated it. At least she had her balance, if nothing else. “I could still wipe up the floor with you. I’m an old hand at karate and other things as well. Speaking of hands, I played right into yours when I requested you for my unit, didn’t I? You must have thought God was looking out for you when Petty told you you didn’t have to go to L.A.”
It didn’t matter now. He probably knew everything. At least she didn’t have to lie anymore. “It’s true I wasn’t interested in bank robbers. I told you that the day you first interviewed me.”
“Oh no, that’s for sure. What you wanted was the chance to track down the serial killer who murdered your sister seven years ago. Her name was Belinda, wasn’t it?”
10
SHE TOOK the blow, bending slightly inward to absorb the pain of it, the unbearable nakedness of it spoken aloud. She knew she’d blown her chance to hell and gone. It was all over for her now. But maybe it wasn’t. He was in Boston. She would simply resign from the FBI and move to Boston. She had no choice.
She didn’t stir, just looked at him and said, “They named him the String Killer. Isn’t that a stupid name? String! Something hardly thicker than a thread, a piece of skinny hemp he used to torture the women, all seven of them—psychological torture—and the media reduced it to string, to make it sexy and clever.”
“Yes, I remember the case well. And now he’s struck again after seven years, in Boston this time. In fact, it’s seven years to the day.”
She just sat there, looking at him, and said in that flattened voice of hers, that held no surprise at all, “How do you know?”
“I went into your computer, saw what you’d accessed, and downloaded. I saw that you’d used my password to get into a couple of specialized data banks. Odd, but I never thought one of my own people would steal my password. You just looked over my shoulder one day?”
She nodded, didn’t say anything, which was smart. He was very angry.
He drew a deep breath, tamping down on the anger. “I checked the security log. You spent three and a half hours here Monday night. You read the paper Tuesday morning and left for Boston the same day. I bought a Boston Globe. The story was on the third page.”
She rose slowly, like an old woman. “I’ll clean out my desk, sir, then go see Mr. Petty.”
“And what will you tell Petty?”
“That I lied, that you discovered it, and I’ve been dismissed. I’m really sorry, sir, but I had no choice.”
“I haven’t canned you. If you think I intend to let you loose on the Boston Police Department, you’re mistaken, Sherlock. But you’ve already spoken to them, haven’t you? They kissed you off, right? No matter, don’t tell me just yet. I’ll call Ralph Budnack.”
She looked as if he’d struck her. Then she gave him the coldest smile he’d ever seen. Her chin went up. “I know how the killer got into the nursing homes in Florida to strangle those old ladies.”
He realized in that instant that he admired her brain. Was she trying to bargain with him? Make a deal? Gain some kind of leverage? “I see,” he said easily, sitting back in his chair, fiddling with a pen between his fingers. “I give you something and you give me something in return?”
“No. I guess I want to show you that I’m not a complete fool, that I do care about something other than the man who murdered my sister. I really don’t want any more old ladies to die. I just wanted to mention it before I forgot and left.”
“You wouldn’t have forgotten, just as you couldn’t bring yourself to put your sister’s death behind you and go on with your life. Now, I already told you. You’re not leaving. Go back to your desk, Sherlock, and write out your ideas on the Ghost. We’ll talk later.”
She didn’t want to talk to him. She wasn’t in his league. Her very first attempt at deception, and he’d nailed her but good. She hadn’t realized she’d been so obvious. But she had been. He’d seen through everything. His anger was frightening, since he didn’t yell. It was cold, so very cold, that anger of his. Why hadn’t he just plain fired her? She’d betrayed him.
Why?
He would, soon enough; she was certain of that. She’d fire herself if she were in his shoes. She would pull everything else out of the database and then she would just slip away. He would know what she’d done quickly enough, but who cared? She couldn’t continue here. He wouldn’t allow it; the breach had been too great, her conduct too far beyond the line. No, he wouldn’t allow her to stay, no matter what game he was playing with her now.
She’d barely sat down at her desk before Hannah Paisley said from behind her, “You’re stupid, Sherlock, or does he call you by your cute little first name, Lacey?”
“I’m not stupid, Hannah, I’m just ver
y tired. Well, maybe I am stupid.”
“Why are you so tired? Did Savich keep you up all night? How many times did he fuck you, Sherlock?”
Lacey flinched at the harshness of Hannah’s voice, not the naked word. That naked word conjured up some smutty, frankly silly photos in Playboy, showing contorting bodies. Now that she thought about it, they hardly ever showed the men completely naked, just the women. Really naked.
“Please, Hannah, there’s nothing at all between us. Savich doesn’t even like me. In fact—”
“In fact what?”
Lacey just shook her head. No, let Hannah hear it from Savich. It would happen soon enough.
“Just look at me, Hannah. I’m skinny and very plain. You’re beautiful—surely you must know that. I’m no threat to you, please believe me. Besides I don’t like Savich any more than he likes me. Would you try to believe at least that?”
“No. I spotted what you were the minute you walked into the Unit.”
“What am I?”
“You’re a manipulative bitch. You saw Savich at the Academy and you got him interested so he’d bring you into the Unit. But you listen to me, you stay away from Savich or I’ll take you apart. You know I can. Do you hear me?”
Ollie came walking over, nearly sauntering, whistling, if Lacey wasn’t mistaken, as if he didn’t have a care in the world, but she saw his eyes. He recognized what he was seeing and he didn’t like it. “Hey, Hannah, what’s happening with the Lazarus case? What does the guy use all those Coke bottles for?”
She wasn’t shaking because of what Hannah had said—no, Hannah and her ridiculous jealousy meant less than nothing to her. Lacey had seen other women in Savich’s office, young women, nice-looking women. Did Hannah go after all of them as well?
Who cared? Forget Hannah. She turned her back on both Hannah and Ollie and booted up her computer, tapped her fingers while she waited, then punched in Savich’s password. Nothing happened.
Then suddenly, there appeared: Not this time, Sherlock.
The Maze Page 8
