“Why?”
“McLain was hesitant to tell, but I pressed. Then he said he found notes in her file where Murphy questioned her maturity for a leadership position.”
“Not sure why he was timid about sharing that.”
“There’s more.”
“McLain said, after Murphy died, he heard an unsupported rumor that Turov had made advances to her boss.”
I snapped my fingers. “Wonder if she was just playing him, seeing if he’d take the bait.”
“According to McLain, Murphy turned Turov away. Nothing happened.”
“Maybe she was embarrassed?”
“Possibly.”
I flipped around and faced Brad. “Let’s keep it going.”
“Right. We have—”
“Before you continue, can Gretchen figure out a way to draw an arrow at the original starting position and then follow the line from one homicide to the next?” I glanced over Brad’s shoulder and Gretchen nodded.
“Not a problem. Give me a few seconds.”
Back to Nick and Brad. “Do you guys know if anyone has searched her home, wherever that is?”
“We’ve had an Evidence Response Team and two agents over there since midafternoon,” Nick said.
I threw a hand toward the map. “Where’s there?”
Brad gave Gretchen more instructions, and she responded like a pro.
“I gave her home a green dot,” the tiny research analyst said.
“Thanks, Gretchen,” I said, already studying the odd location of the green dot. “It’s almost sitting on top of Monty’s Bar.”
“Yeah, turns out she rented an apartment above a bar next door. She must have seen Monty quite a bit.”
A sudden stitch of guilt shot through my chest, and I put a hand on the back of a chair near me.
“What is it, Alex?”
Scanning the lines in the floor, I wondered if Turov had seen me talking to Monty that fateful night. Did she kill him to get back at me? Saying that to myself didn’t sound right. “Cobb said her mission was to kill the worst cheating husbands, taking up for the wives. And if we’re to believe Cobb, he said she was the unknown sniper across from the museum.”
Nick jumped in. “The whole thing doesn’t quite align. Maybe Cobb was lying.”
I pinched the corners of my eyes. “We can’t forget that murderers, even serial killers, evolve over time; therefore, the target of their obsession can change or, in this case, maybe just grow in its scope.”
Letting all the data points marinate, I pushed my weight off the chair and asked Brad to resume the tour de homicide.
“Following the line down through Rhode Island, cutting through Connecticut, then we hit New York. And right down here at the south end of New York City, the eastern part of Long Island, we have your favorite getaway, Brighton Beach.”
“Nothing but bad memories there,” Alex murmured.
“This is where we’ve made the most progress,” Brad said, walking over to pick up his tablet.
“We’ve now confirmed that not only did the two vics, Karina and Mike, know each other but Margaret grew up in Brighton Beach and went to high school at the same time they did. She and Karina are both thirty-seven.”
I could feel my pulse increase. “Tell me you have more.”
“I have more.” Brad’s dimples came alive. “Munson, out of the New York office, found an employee at the restaurant, Tatiana, who went to Grady High School at the same time as the other three. Said he recalls Margaret dating Mike, at least briefly. And then one day Margaret was out of the picture and Karina was parading around, sticking to Mike like Velcro.” Brad lifted his sights. “His words, not mine.”
I turned and stared at Nick, who said, “Her motive was as old-fashioned as they get.”
“Revenge for doing her wrong,” I said, looking back at the screen, trying to make sense of the killing pattern.
“Can you believe all we’ve learned just since you left Lewisburg?” Brad said with enthusiasm.
I leaned to my right and popped Brad on the shoulder. “Incredible work by everyone in this room.” His smile broadened. “But this type of motive...it couldn’t be any worse.”
Baffled looks all around.
“Think about it. We have no idea who wronged Margaret Turov in her life. So, yes, after the fact, the MSP can now piece together enough information to allow us to understand what would have led an apparent psychopath to kill her boss. And then we have Munson working the crime scene, learning about the high school dating scene.”
“Holy shit, you’re right,” Nick said, taking one step forward while staring at the map. “We don’t have a fucking clue who might have pissed off Margaret Turov.”
“Even more, she’s what, thirty-seven? She just killed two people for screwing with her back in high school. Think about how wide a net this could be.”
Nick pulled out a piece of gum and tossed it in his mouth. I was just glad it wasn’t another Scream.
“She could be a threat to the entire East Coast.”
“Hey, Nick, don’t forget about her tour outside of the country,” Brad said, approaching the whiteboard.
“The Marines. She served?” I asked.
“Two tours, both in Iraq.”
“Maybe that’s her connection to Bruno Chappaletti.”
“You’d think,” Brad said. “Can’t find it just yet. The Marines have never allowed women in combat roles. She served in the 1st Supply Battalion, as a bulk fuel specialist, then later as a videographer.”
“And Chappaletti?” I asked.
“2nd Marine Expeditionary Brigade.”
“But they were both in Iraq at the same time?”
“Yep.”
I scanned our team. “Has anyone followed up to ask Chappaletti about Turov in particular?”
“Carella was doing that, I think. Haven’t heard if he learned anything,” Brad said.
“Crap. She’s like the black plague, if she’s acting alone.”
“Feels more like an orchestrated military assault,” Nick said.
“Don’t tell me you’re one of those government conspiracy theorists who thinks our military is going to do what, take over the country?”
“Alex, I might be high on caffeine, but I’m not high.”
We shared a brief grin, and then I spotted Jerry again, his gut hanging over the table.
“Okay, tell me why he’s talking to the CIA.”
The room went quiet. “Did those three letters just put everyone in a trance?”
With Nick on one side of me and Brad on the other, my partner extended a hand to the first table with the blinking red light. A research analyst sat all alone at the table peering into his laptop.
“Who’s he?” I asked.
“Just someone from Brad’s team. Name isn’t important. We’re keeping the lines open in case one of the agencies have more information to share,” Nick said.
Brad elbowed me. “His name is Rondo.”
“Anyway, at that table, we have the MSP. I noted earlier, overall, they’ve been the most forthright, although it took a little urging with Captain McLain.”
I stepped in. “I think we know, in situations like these, no one wants to be the scapegoat. Finger-pointing can be a painful exercise.”
A quick nod from Nick, who grabbed both ends of his tie and looked to table number two. “The Pentagon.”
“You never told me why the Pentagon is involved.”
Brad cupped a hand and leaned in closer. I could smell a distinct cologne, and it wasn’t all bad. “You’re going to love this one,” he said.
Nick continued. “MSP found a hole in Margaret’s resume.”
“When?” I shot back.
“Back when she was hired apparently, or shortly thereafter. Hard to get a straight answer on that one.”
“How big is the hole?”
“It’s six months. But in this case size doesn’t matter.”
I couldn’t help but grin. “And
?”
“Apparently, during one of her more transparent moments at the MSP, Turov shared that she did some special ops for the Marines, but they never told anyone.”
“I thought the Marines didn’t let women play with guns?” I said, arching an eyebrow.
“They don’t. Not officially. But you and I know that this lady is a pretty good shot. And I don’t think you acquire that skill by filling fuel on a tanker.”
“What did the Pentagon say?”
A chuckle fell out of Nick’s lips. “Jerry was leaning on that table for an hour before you got here. Even got the director involved.”
“The director?”
He nodded, his lips pursed in a straight line.
Nothing like investigating an unpredictable serial killer with military experience while having the brass up your ass. I could feel a rush of adrenaline invade my spine. I started to rub my lower back.
“Is that guy babysitting the line with the Pentagon?” I asked, pointing to a guy at table two.
Brad spoke up. “Yeah, that’s Harold. He’s new and young. Babysitting is at the height of his skill set.”
“Oh, that young.”
A thud turned our sights to Jerry, who was now rubbing his fist, walking our way.
“What’s the scoop from our colleagues with the CIA?” I asked.
“Fucking bureaucratic bullshit, that’s what,” he growled.
While my memory was still being reimaged one byte at a time, I recalled working a case with a CIA agent a couple of years back. A so-called partnering task force that had direct implications on national security. Archie Woods was his name. He played a good game in front of me, but in the end, I learned he was using me the whole time. He fed me bogus intel while I shared everything we found on the FBI side—probably because he wanted the CIA to get the credit. A mall security guard, of all people, actually apprehended a man who was planting a bomb, someone whom I’d identified early on in the investigation as a person of interest, but whom my counterpart had blown off as a waste of time and resources. The security guard became a hero. I was thankful someone caught the bastard. If he hadn’t, I think Archie and the CIA would have pinned the terrorist attack squarely on my shoulders, the equivalent of a noose around my neck.
I took Jerry’s response and attempted another angle. “Based upon his actions, if we assume Chappaletti was, let’s say, doing a favor for an old Marine buddy, Turov, then can we get better information on his role while in Iraq?”
“Pentagon just gave the basic info,” Jerry said.
“Nothing on special ops?”
“Don’t have the security clearance. That’s what they kept telling me.”
“In the conversation with the CIA, did they try to use that line on the director?”
Jerry crossed his arms across his expansive belly. “That was a private conversation I wasn’t privy to. When he got off the call, though, he told me to find more evidence of a CIA connection or something that will rock their world. Then he’ll start swinging the bat at anything that moves, which could include a walk down to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.”
All eyes were trained on Jerry to see if he was serious or just blowing off steam. His steely eyes matched his next comment. “No bullshit here.”
I glanced back at the oversized map casting its glare on the team. “CIA or no CIA, we think Turov’s motive is now wide open. Anyone who’s ever pissed her off could be in her crosshairs.”
“Fuck,” Jerry growled. “That net’s too wide. We need to narrow it down.”
“We’re just going where the evidence takes us, Jerry.” Nick put his hand on his boss’s shoulder. Jerry glanced at it, but kept his same grouchy expression.
“Carella,” I said, then asked Brad to call his line on the room’s speakerphone.
After exchanging quick pleasantries and updating Carella on where we stood with the investigation, we got straight to it. “First, where are you?” I asked.
“Inside one of the oldest and dingiest casinos in Atlantic City. To be more specific, the janitor’s closet.”
“Vic’s name?”
“Frank Sham. Sixty-nine years old, retired used car dealer.”
Sounded like a stereotypical casino gambler. I took in a breath, preparing for the worst. “What’s the condition of the body? Do we think it’s the same person?”
“A few puncture wounds in his chest, but he has both hands cut off at the wrist, and then each of the fingers were severed and stuffed down his throat.”
“Seems to be a pattern with this guy,” Nick said.
“You mean, girl,” Brad added.
Nick flicked a hand at Brad. “Yeah, whatever.”
“Carella, I’m assuming no witnesses?”
“None we can find. But everyone wants to be nosy, hang around the scene, and ask lots of questions. You’d think this was Elvis stuffed in the closet. Hold on, I think I see about ten of them on the other side of the tape.”
I couldn’t tell if he was joking. It didn’t matter.
Tape. “Carella, anyone reviewing the video from the casino? If there’s one place with the latest video technology, it’s a casino.”
“I’ve already spoken to the director of security. He’s working with one of his guys to pull every piece of footage from every camera in the last twelve hours. Once we can find this Frank Sham, we might be able to spot a glimpse of our killer.”
“Technically, we think we know who it is—Margaret Turov. But once we find her, then we can see if she’s working with someone.”
“Actually, we do have a couple of drunk witnesses who remember seeing Sham at the blackjack table with two other women. One was a busty blonde, the other a redhead with hair down to her ass.”
Shifting my vision to Nick, I said quietly, “Neither one matches Turov.”
Chomping on his gum, Nick shrugged his shoulders while shaking his head. With his porcupine beard growth and bloodshot eyes, he looked like death warmed over. Kind of smelled like it too.
“Carella, once you get the video, have them send a digital copy to Brad.”
“You don’t think we can handle it out of New York?”
I rolled my eyes, knowing he couldn’t see me mocking his apparent inferiority complex.
“Uh, yeah. You guys can own the whole thing. The two cases up here, Brighton Beach, Atlantic City, and as an extra bonus you also get the privilege of wanting to pull out your own eyeballs, courtesy of dealing with the Pentagon and the CIA.”
“Screw that. It’s all yours. Where do I send it?”
Brad gave me a sly wink, then said to Carella, “This is Brad. I’ll send you the IP to my secure server.”
“Uh, sure, do that. I guess I’ll have Tanner do that technology magic.”
My eyes caught movement on the screen.
“Just adding to our tracking map,” Gretchen said, as an arrowed line moved down the coast from Brooklyn to Atlantic City. “So, while we see that she started in Back Bay, then veered north to take out Ben Murphy in Lowell, she and/or her legion of killers have moved generally south, first into Brooklyn, and now into Atlantic City.”
Squinting, I pointed at the map. I looked around, wondering if I needed glasses. “Gretchen, can you zoom in on that area right around Atlantic City.”
“Like that?”
“Perfect.” Moving forward three steps, I tapped the screen. “Unless she’s planning on going amphibious on us, she’ll run out of land if she heads due south.”
“That’s Delaware just south of Atlantic City. It’s about ten nautical miles to cross the ocean at that point,” Gretchen said.
“So it’s possible to jump on a boat and make it to the other side,” Nick offered. “But what’s over there? Or maybe I should say ‘whom’?”
“Who, actually,” Gretchen said with a wrinkled-face grin.
“Damn, everyone’s a perfectionist around here. Who, whom. Who gives a fuck, how about that?”
Carella’s chuckle through the speaker syste
m filled up the room.
Gretchen cleared her throat, sounding more like a human gerbil. “My family used to vacation on the east side of Delaware.” She used her pointer to circle the exact spot. “It’s a cool place called Slaughter Beach.”
Open jaws all the way around. Then the kid at table one motioned for Jerry.
“Did she just say...?” Nick flipped one end of his tie over his shoulder.
Gretchen nodded. “Yes, I did. Slaughter Beach. Ever been there?”
“I can’t see all you wise guys in the room,” Carella said. “Is this some kind of joke?”
Gretchen’s eyes scanned the room, as she slowly figured out he was directing his question at her.
I jumped in. “Listen everyone, it’s no joke. Gretchen just made an observation based upon her own experience. Relax and focus on the case.” I toyed with a dangling earring—a Christmas present, according to Ezzy. “Zoom back out, Gretchen.”
The map grew more expansive.
“The closest the perp could cross over to land would be in Wilmington. Just north of that is Philly,” I said, pointing at the screen.
“Ah, the City of Brotherly Shove,” Carella said.
“So says the New Yorker,” Nick said.
“You’re one too.”
“Bronx Bombers all the way, dammit.” Nick mimicked a baseball player swinging for the fences.
“Boom,” Carella added for nothing more than shock value, or maybe some type of odd New Yorker bonding experience with Nick.
Ignoring the sophomoric behavior, I blew out a loud breath. “Guys, ladies, we can’t just sit here and think that Margaret Turov is going to come to her senses, call the FBI hotline, tell us that she’s turning herself in, and give us her exact location.”
“True dat,” Gretchen said.
That drew some stares.
“So, we need to dig into Turov’s background, try to find anyone who’s significant, and find out if they live in the general vicinity of South Jersey, Philly, or even farther south into Delaware or Maryland.”
Brad brought both hands to his temples. “Alex, you’re asking for the impossible. Or for a lucky miracle.”
I could see the mass of Jerry make a beeline right for me.
The Alex Troutt Thrillers: Books 1-3 (Alex Troutt Thrillers Box Set) Page 40