The Maze

by Catherine Coulter

  The screen went black. The computer was her enemy. As long as Savich was still breathing, the computer would remain her enemy. She lifted her fingers from the keyboard and laid her hands in her lap.

  “Your aunt all right?”

  It was Ollie. He pulled up a chair and sat beside her. “You look like shit, Sherlock.”

  “Thanks. Yes, my aunt is just fine now.”

  “You look like you’re ready to go over the edge.”

  She’d lived on the edge for seven years; no reason to go over now. She smiled at him. “Not really. I’m just tired, and that’s what I told Hannah. Thanks for drawing her fire, Ollie. I wish she’d open her eyes and realize that I’m about as much a threat to her as a duck in the sights of a hunter.”

  “That’s an odd thing to say, Sherlock. Savich told me to tell you to come into the conference room. What’s it all about?”

  “Tell the agents how the Ghost gets into the nursing homes, Sherlock.”

  She sat forward, her hands clasped together. “The Ghost is disguised as an old woman, a nursing home resident. Ollie showed me how to mix and match report data and plug it into two overlapping protocols. I did it with data from what the witnesses had said after each of the murders. No one found anything unusual in any of these reports—not the witnesses, not the cops, not us. But the computer did.” She handed out a piece of paper. “These are direct quotes from the witnesses, just the pertinent parts, naturally, just the parts that, once tied together, pull the killer out of the bag.”

  Savich read aloud: “ ‘No one around, Lieutenant. Not a single soul. Oh, just some patients, of course. They were scared, some of them disoriented. Perfectly natural.’” He raised his head. “This is from a night floor nurse.” He read down the page. “This one is from a janitor: ‘There wasn’t anybody around. Just old folks and they’re everywhere. Scared, they were. I helped several of them back to their rooms.’”

  Romero nearly squeaked when he read: “ ‘There was this one old lady who felt faint. I carried her into the nearest room, the recreation parlor. Poor old doll. She didn’t want me to leave her, but I had to.’” Romero had a long narrow face, rather like Prince Charles’s. He had thick, black brows that nearly met between his eyes, eyes that were black and mirrored a formidable intelligence. He shook the paper toward Lacey. “Good going, Sherlock. That last quote was from a cop. A cop! Jesus, it was there all the time.”

  Savich was sitting back in his chair, just looking at each of the agents, one by one. “So,” he said finally, once all of them were looking at him, “do you think this is the answer? Our killer is disguised as an old woman, a patient?”

  “Looks good to me,” replied George Hanks, a thirty-five-year veteran of the Bureau who had the oldest eyes Lacey had ever seen.

  Savich turned to Ollie. “You’re the lead on this case. What do you think?”

  Ollie was staring at Lacey. He looked wounded, his mouth pinched. “I didn’t know anything about what Sherlock was going to do. It seems fairly straightforward, put like this. Like it’s so out there that we were all fools not to catch it. Of course they did already check this once, and we mulled it over too, but I guess none of us went deep enough. The first thing to do is call that cop and ask him who that old lady he carried into the recreation room was.”

  “Good idea,” Savich replied. “That could pretty well clinch it if the cop remembers.” He turned to Lacey. “I don’t suppose you know if the killer is Jewish, Sherlock? Or hates Jews? Not necessarily the residents, since only two of the five old ladies who were killed were Jews. The owners, you think? Or have you dismissed the Star of David idea?”

  “I don’t know, sir, about either. Listen, this idea just came to me, that’s all. It was blind luck.”

  “Yes, I rather suppose it was,” Hannah said as she rose, “since you’re so new at this.”

  Ollie was dogging Lacey’s heels out of the conference room. “Why?” he said, lightly touching her arm.

  “There honestly wasn’t time, Ollie. No, of course there was time. It’s just that I, oh damn, this sounds ridiculous, but I really wasn’t even thinking about it until it popped right into my head. Surely you’ve done the same thing.”

  “Yeah, sure, but then when I find something, the first thing I do is tell my partner. You didn’t say a word. You just tromped into the conference room and showed everyone how great you were. It wasn’t a very nice thing to do, Sherlock.”

  “No, you’re right. It wasn’t. I can only say that I honestly wasn’t thinking about it.” It was true. She hadn’t known that Savich would put her on the spot in front of the whole Unit, but he had. There’d been no time then to say anything to Ollie. No, there’d been time. She just hadn’t thought about it. “Listen, Ollie, what happened was this. When I was on the plane going to Boston, I was pushed into this old woman coming out of the gangway. She turned on me and blasted me with the foulest language I’d ever heard. She looked mean. She looked at me as if she wanted to kill me. She’s the one who should get all the credit if this works out.”

  “How did Savich know that you’d come up with something?”

  “I can’t tell you that, Ollie. I’d like to, but I can’t. I’m sorry. Please. I might not be around much longer. I don’t know.”

  “What’s going on?” Even though Ollie was a fatalist, he forgot anger very quickly. He laid his hand on her shoulder. “It’s something heavy, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. Very heavy.”

  “Sherlock. In my office. Now.”

  Ollie spun around at Savich’s voice. “Would you like to tell me what’s wrong?”

  “No, this is just between the two of us, Ollie. Stop looking like a rottweiler. I’m not going to pound her into the floor—at least not yet, not here. Come along, Sherlock.”

  But they didn’t go to his office. He led her out of the Hoover Building to a small park that was catty-corner to it. “Sit.” She sat on the narrow bench. Fortunately, she didn’t have to wake up a homeless person and ask him to leave. It was a beautiful day, the sky clear, just a light, cool breeze. The sidewalks were crowded with a batch of fall tourists. There were two families with small kids eating picnic lunches on blankets. It was utterly foreign to her, this family thing. It hadn’t been, a long time ago. That was before her mother had become ill. At least before Lacey had realized how very ill she was.

  “I’ve given this a lot of thought.”

  “You found me out so quickly, I’m sure that you’ve had plenty of time to figure out everything.”

  “Look at me, Sherlock.”

  She looked. Then suddenly she began to laugh. “You look like Heathcliff: brooding, piercing eyes, and dangerous. I remember thinking once that you had summer-blue eyes, a dreamer’s eyes. But not now. You could kill easily now.”

  He wanted to smile, but he didn’t. Dreamer’s eyes? Jesus, that was nuts. He said, “I’ve reviewed the seven murders this guy did seven years ago. I called Ralph Budnack in Boston and asked if he’d heard of any murders committed with this same M.O. other than the one they’d had just the other day. He said they hadn’t heard about other murders, but that they’d just realized they had a serial killer on their hands, a guy who’d struck in San Francisco seven years ago.” He paused a moment, turning at the unearthly cooing of a pigeon.

  “I finally managed to get in to see Detective Budnack,” Lacey said. “He wouldn’t even talk to me. He said I was a sicko and that they didn’t need any help.”

  “I know. I spoke to him right after he kicked you out of his office.”

  She wanted to hit him. “That was Tuesday afternoon. You didn’t say a damned thing about it when I called you that night!”

  “That’s right. Why should I?”

  “Well, so you really didn’t have to, but you knew. You knew all the time what I was trying to do.”

  “Oh yes. Tell me, Sherlock, what did you do for the other two days?”

  “Nothing that got me anywhere. The medical examiner wouldn’t
talk to me even when I managed to lie my way in. With my background, it wasn’t that hard. But he was closemouthed, said he didn’t like outsiders poking their noses in his business. I spoke to the main reporter at the Boston Globe. His name’s Jeb Stuart, of all things. He didn’t know much more than was in the paper. I bought him dinner and he spilled his guts, but there wasn’t much I could use. Then I came home. To you. To get the ax for being a fool.”

  Savich looked out over the park. He leaned back, stretching out his arms on the bench back. Horns sounded in the background, the sun slivered through the thick canopy of oak leaves, a father was shouting at his kid. “The Boston police have asked for our help. Why didn’t you tell Lieutenant Budnack that you were FBI? Chances are good he would have cooperated.”

  “I knew that if I did, you’d hear about it and aim your computer toward Boston and you’d find out everything. Of course you did that anyway. I should have shown my badge. Maybe I would have gotten something before Budnack tossed me out on my ear. I was stupid. I didn’t think it through. I thought if I pretended to be a member of the Ramsgate family, it would be my best shot at getting information.” A pigeon darted close to her feet, then away again. “They’re used to being fed,” she said, watching the pigeon begin to pace in front of her. “I hope the person who feeds them isn’t dead.”

  “Old Sal usually sits here. She isn’t here this afternoon because she’s picking up her Social Security check. Her health is better than yours. She has names for all the pigeons. Now, what are you planning to do?”

  She stood abruptly and looked down at him, hands on hips. “What do you want from me? I already told you I’d resign.”

  “Then I suppose you’ll hightail it up to Boston and go on a one-woman hunt for the String Killer?”

  “Yes. I have to. I’ve prepared myself. I’ve waited a very long time for him to strike again.”

  “Very well. I don’t seem to have any choice.” He stood up abruptly. He was very big. Inadvertently, she took a step back.

  He looked impatient. “You afraid I’ll throw you here in the park?”

  No, she’d been afraid that he’d kill her. Just as that man had killed Belinda. She tried to shrug it off. “I guess I’m just a bit nervous. Sorry. What don’t you have a choice about? You have a choice about everything.”

  “If you only knew,” he said, and plowed his fingers through his hair. “I had you call me every night from Boston because I was afraid you’d get yourself into trouble.”

  “I’m a trained FBI agent. What trouble? Even if I couldn’t get to my gun, I sure know how to fall.”

  He grinned down at her, raised his hand, then lowered it. “Okay, here’s what’s going to happen. You know more about this guy than any other living person. Would you say that’s accurate?”

  “Yes.” Her heart began to beat in a slow cadence. “I guess you know I printed out all the police and autopsy reports from the seven murders in San Francisco?”

  He nodded, looking toward an old woman who was pulling a grocery cart loaded with bags filled with old clothes, cardboard, empty cola bottles. “It’s Old Sal. I’ll introduce you, then we need to get back.”

  Old Sal just looked her over with very worldly, bloodshot eyes. She could have been any age from fifty to ninety.

  “Get your check, Sal?”

  “Yeah, Dillon, I got it. You feed my little birdies?”

  “No, Sherlock here wanted to, but I wouldn’t let her.”

  The old eyes turned to her. “You Sherlock?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Nice to meet you.”

  “You be good to my boy here, you get me, young lady?”

  “I’m not a young lady, ma’am, I’m an FBI agent.”

  Savich laughed. “She’s right, Sal. I rather think I’ll be the one taking care of her.”

  “You get your problems solved, dear, then you can play with my boy here. He’s a good lad.”

  “I will, ma’am.”

  “I don’t like this ma’am stuff.”

  “It’s okay, Sal. She calls me sir, right to my face, as if I were her father or something even worse.”

  “How old are you, Sherlock?”

  “I’m twenty-seven.”

  “That’s a good age. Dillon is thirty-four. Just turned thirty-four three and a half weeks ago. We had a little party for him here. Me and my birdies. Is Sherlock your first or last name?”

  “It’s my last name, Sal. My first name’s Lacey.”

  “Huh. I like Sherlock better. It gives you distinction.”

  “I agree.”

  “You need anything, Sal?”

  “No, Dillon. I just want to sit in this lovely sun, rest my bones, and feed my birdies. I got them a pound of unsalted peanuts. I don’t want to harden their little arteries.”

  Lacey was still smiling when they went back into the Hoover Building.

  She wasn’t smiling ten minutes later.

  11

  “SO HE’S going to take you to Boston. How’d you manage that, Sherlock?”

  Hannah Paisley was leaning over her, her voice low and furious in her ear.

  “You shouldn’t be going. You’re new, you don’t know anything. You don’t deserve to go. It’s because you’re sleeping with him, isn’t it?”

  Lacey slowly turned in her chair, looking up. “No, Hannah. Stop this. This is all business, nothing else. Why don’t you believe me?”

  “You’re lying, damn you. I’ve seen women look at him. They all want him.”

  “Ollie told me that Savich doesn’t believe in becoming involved with anyone in his unit. That includes all of us, Hannah. If you want him, then I suggest you transfer out. Listen, I just want to catch this monster in Boston. Actually I did lie. I do want Savich’s brain and his expertise. Does that count? Is that brain lust?”

  Finally Hannah had left.

  Now Lacey leaned her head back against her new sofa and grabbed one of the fat pillows to hug. She closed her eyes and thought of the woman who had just about everything and wanted more. She was sorry if Hannah loved Savich, but there was nothing either of them could do about it. Hannah had to get a grip. Lacey was the last woman on earth who was a threat to her. No matter now. She wouldn’t worry about it anymore. It was Savich’s problem. She leaned over and stared at the phone. She picked up the receiver, stared at it some more, then took a deep breath. She dialed the number very slowly.

  It rang once, twice, then “Hello, Judge Sherlock here.”

  “Hello, Dad.”

  “Lacey?”

  “Yes, Dad.”

  “This is a surprise. You usually only write. Is something wrong?”

  “No. I just didn’t have time to write. How are you? How is Mom?”

  “Your mother is the same as ever, as am I. So Douglas tells me you’re in this special unit in the FBI and then I read about you and this genius guy catching that murderer in Chicago. You happy now?”

  She ignored the sarcasm in his voice, but it was difficult. She’d always hated that awful cutting tone of his that used to annihilate her when she was growing up. In letters, she usually missed it, which was one reason why she only wrote him letters. But there was no time for a letter now. “Dad, he’s struck again.”

  “What? Who’s struck whom?”

  “The monster who murdered Belinda. He’s struck again in Boston. He killed a woman exactly the same way he killed the seven women in San Francisco. It’s been exactly seven years since he stopped. It’s a cycle. He’s on a seven-year cycle.”

  There was no sound, no breathing, nothing.

  “Dad? He’s begun again. Didn’t you understand me?”

  “Yes, Lacey, I understand you.”

  “I’m going to Boston tomorrow morning with my boss, Dillon Savich, who’s the chief of the Criminal Apprehension Unit. I’m going to catch this monster, Dad. Finally, I’m going to get him.”

  She was breathing hard. There was nothing but silence on the other end of the line. She drew a deep breath. She had t
o calm down. She didn’t want to sound like some sort of obsessed nut.

  But she was. That monster had taken everything from her and left her with a fear she’d managed to control, but it was there still, deep inside of her. No, it wasn’t just for her. She just wanted to get this scum off the streets. She wanted to shoot him herself.

  “Lacey? What do you mean, you’re going to catch him? You’re not involved. Leave it to the professionals.”

  “That’s what I am, Dad.”

  “No,” he said, angry now. “No, you’re not. You’re a scared little girl. I think you should come home now. Listen to me. Your sister’s been dead seven years. Seven years, Lacey. Douglas told me what you were doing, but I didn’t want to believe it. We all know you’ve given up the last seven years of your life. It’s way beyond time to let go of it. Forget it. Come home. I’ll take care of you. You can play the piano again. You enjoyed that, and it sure as hell won’t get you killed. I won’t say a word about law school. Come home.”

  Forget it? Forget what that butcher had done to Belinda, to her? She drew a deep breath. “How is Mom?”

  “What? Oh, your mother. She had a quiet day. Her nurse, Miss Heinz, told me at dinner that she ate well and she watched television, The Price Is Right, I believe it was, with seeming understanding.”

  “I’m not like my mother.”

  “No, certainly you’re not. But this has got to stop, Lacey.”

  “Why?”

  “Let the police catch that madman.”

  “I am the police. The highest police in the land.”

  He was silent for a very long time, then he said quietly, “Your mother began this way.”

  “I must be going, Dad. I had hoped you’d be pleased that I have a shot at catching this monster.”

  Her father said nothing at all.

  To her shock, a soft whispery voice came on the line. “Is that you, Lacey?”

  “Hello, Mom. You sound great. How do you feel?”

  “I’m hungry, but Nurse Heinz won’t get me anything from the kitchen. I’d like some chocolate chip cookies. You always liked chocolate chip cookies when you were small, I remember.”