"Now don't act offended, Harry."
"I am offended. You're questioning the premise of my investigation. What's bugging you?"
"No victimology."
Sullivan stared at him. Then he smiled. "Okay, you're good, you picked up on that. But see, even with the best software, the computer isn't perfect."
"Forget the computer. I'm talking about David Chun."
"David's upset about a couple things. But—"
"He talked about everything except what the killer found attractive, what he saw in his 'difficult victims' that made him decide to go after them. And that's the key, isn't it? If you've got that many victims and they don't tell you why they were attacked, well, then, what have you got? Far as I can see, nothing. Except"—he sneered—" 'Happy Families.' "
"You're mocking that?"
"I don't mock homicide victims, Harry. But tell me, between the two of us, what was so goddamn happy about all those people?"
"Oh, come off it! That's just the name we use. . . ."
"Sure. That's how it started. Because you couldn't read the common element. But now it's like the name's defining the case. 'Happy Families'—how do you know they were happy? Because they lived in nice houses, nice neighborhoods, Dad coached Little League, Mom baked apple pies, and kids were on the honor roll? Because their friends and neighbors told you they were? See, Harry, I never worked a case where I didn't hear the victims were just the greatest people, the finest, happiest people. And half the time it turned out they were just like everybody else, happy and unhappy, capable of hurting each other, even capable of killing each other if the stress got bad enough. I'm not saying your families weren't happy. I'm just asking how you know they were. Because I don't buy Happy Families. It's too vague. Show me a victim list of pretty blondes with hoop earrings or old ladies with hairy chins, then maybe I'll go along. But you don't have that. I think this goes deeper. I think these killings were victim-specific. I think there's an invisible thread connecting all these people and you and your team just haven't found it yet."
"After a year of work we haven't found it, the best serial killer team ever assembled. But you're going to find it? Great! Maybe you'll even find it tonight!"
Janek sat back. Sullivan's sarcasm didn't bother him. It only made him want to push the needle farther in.
"Know what I think, Harry? I think working out of Behavioral Science has got you overinvested in the serial killer idea. I think you're so wrapped up in that you can't see beyond it to anything else."
Now Sullivan was staring at him, trying to push him with a hard cop's stare. "Man, you've got some kind of balls," he whispered. "If I were you, I'd watch my step. Someone just might come along and cut 'em off. Know what I mean, Frank?"
Janek smiled. He'd forced Sullivan to resort to vulgar, tough guy talk. When a cop started talking about cutting off another cop's balls, he was aroused to a highly competitive state.
"I've heard about you," Sullivan continued, not bothering to conceal his bitterness. "I saw the way they played you on TV. This genius cop who didn't need a team, didn't need backup, didn't need nothing except his brain, which we're supposed to think is so powerful it should be registered as a dangerous weapon." Sullivan grinned. His cheeks were quivering. His little ice blue eyes were sparkling with envy. "So here we sit, end of our first day together. I lay my case out for you, a year's worth of work, and now you slip to me you got a theory of your own."
"Yeah, I guess that's about it," Janek agreed.
"I think it's a crock of shit."
"Maybe it is. But the question is, Harry, how're we going to find out?"
Sullivan glared at him. "Suppose you tell me, Frank."
"My suggestion is since you're so sure it's a serial case, you and your team continue working the way you are. Meantime, let Aaron and me follow up on my idea. We can set up a little two-man office in New York, in a precinct back room somewhere. Of course, we'll share what we find, but other than that, we'll stay out of your way."
Sullivan chewed on that for a moment. "Nice concept. Only trouble is . . . I don't see what's in it for me."
"Come on, Harry! There's plenty in it for you. You get the chance to compete."
"Compete?"
"FBI versus NYPD, you versus me. Whoever solves the case gets the glory: the book, the TV movie, the whole enchilada. Right now you've got the manpower and a year's head start. Pretty good odds." Janek smiled as he appealed to Sullivan's weakness. "You look like a sport, Harry. What do you say?"
"I'll have to think about it."
"Do that." Janek pushed away his coffee, tossed two fifty-dollar bills onto the table, and stood up. "That's for the dinner. I'm going to try and catch the last shuttle. Call me when you decide. But don't take too long, okay?"
New York was fogged in, so the late shuttle was diverted to Newark. Janek exited the airport terminal into a light and soothing swirl of softly falling rain. He shared a taxi into town with a businessman from Taiwan who admitted this was his first visit to the States.
As their cab approached the Lincoln Tunnel, the city was suddenly revealed, a million lights in the towers of midtown burning through the fog. It was a great romantic vision of Manhattan, and the Taiwanese gentleman peered at it, amazed. "You must be very strong to survive in a place like this," he muttered.
Janek nodded. Yeah, you must be strong. And even then you may not survive.
He dropped the visitor off at the Waldorf-Astoria, then asked the driver to take him through Central Park. There the fog clung strangely to the statues and hugged the glow of the sodium lamps.
When he finally got back to his apartment, he phoned Aaron at home, told him about his proposed competition with Sullivan. Aaron was surprised. On what basis, he wanted to know, had Janek come up with "victim-specific"?
"On no basis, except my feeling Chun had doubts and there was no way we could work under Sullivan. So I did the only thing that would shake the asshole up. Whatever he said, I said the opposite."
"But it is a serial case. I mean—isn't it, Frank?"
"Could be. I honestly don't know."
"Those guys seem so sure."
"Yeah, they're sure. But I wasn't bullshitting Sullivan. My true gut reaction is that they're all wrong." He paused. "Did you notice how bored they were? A year of grinding work, and they got nothing."
"Just a bunch of charts and a freaked-out shrink. Still, if it is a serial deal . . ."
"Let me tell you something about serial deals, Aaron. When they're solved, if they are solved, it's usually because one night some hick town rookie pulls some guy over for a speeding ticket and happens to see a bloody knife on the seat. I say screw that."
"Fine, Frank. Fine. But where do we start—assuming Sullivan buys your deal and Chief Kopta approves?"
"We'll concentrate on Jess. She left me a worried message. Assume she knew she was in danger and was looking to me to help. If that's true, then the first question we've got to ask ourselves is: What was Jess afraid of?"
5
MAMA AGAIN
"Listen carefully, child."
"I'm listening, Mama."
"I'm concerned about Tool."
"Please don't be, Mama."
"But I'm very concerned. Unless a tool like that gets regular use, it can easily lose its edge. Preventative maintenance is so important, you know."
"I know, Mama. And I keep Tool in excellent condition. I work with it every day, keep it honed. I want it to stay sharp. And always be ready."
"Still, I'm concerned."
"Please, Mama—leave it to me."
"It needs supervision."
"I give it plenty of supervision."
"You know the problem with a tool like that? A tool like that can get out of hand, can start to have a mind of its own."
"No. . . . Do you really think so?"
"I definitely think so. You must watch Tool carefully, child, see it doesn't get any ideas or forget its place."
"I just don't belie
ve—"
"Better listen to Mama. Mama knows best."
"Yes, Mama."
"A tool like that needs tending. A tool like that is dangerous. You create a tool like that and let it get away from you, you lose control. The whole point of a tool like that is it works for you, does your bidding. A tool like that goes into business for itself, you gotta think about getting rid of it."
"Yes, Mama. . . ."
6
THE FEAR
Ray Boyce was steaming, his forehead popping sweat. The long, thin wisps he kept carefully combed across his skull were mussed, and the squared-off bottom of his face was trembling like Jell-O.
"I don't get it," he griped.
Janek watched Kit recoil; itwas as if the back of her big chief's chair were sucking on her spine. Janek looked around the office, a cavernous space that spoke of the high status of its occupant. The windows were huge. On the other side of the glass large snowflakes fell softly to Police Plaza below.
"I'm sweating out the case, doing a pretty decent job." Boyce mopped his forehead. "Least I thought I was." He spoke with a whine. "Meantime, Janek here does all this unauthorized bullshit. And for that he gets—rewarded?"
Boyce's question hung in the overheated air. Kit stared at him with faint disgust. Janek, sitting beside him in the other chair facing Kit's desk, felt sorry for him. The poor slob was going to mouth his way straight into trouble.
"I don't know I'd exactly call it a reward, Ray," Janek said gently.
Boyce didn't bother to look at him. He stared straight at Kit, waiting for her to render justice.
"It wasn't a reward," Kit said finally. "Detective Janek is a specialist in this type of crime. His insights will prove helpful in solving it. As for his unauthorized activity, I've put a letter of reprimand in his file. Want me to read it to you?"
Boyce shook his head. "That's Janek's business. All I care about is my role. Am I supervising Janek or the other way around? 'Cause if it is, I can tell you right now, I'm not going—"
"I'm the supervisor here. You and Janek will run parallel investigations. If either of you finds anything, you'll bring it to me."
"What about duplication?"
Oh-oh—don't push it, Ray.
"I'll worry about that," Kit said.
"Sure, you'll worry. But what about the people we're going to interview? Two detectives coming from different directions—that'll get everyone confused." He glanced at Janek. Then his voice turned bitter. "Of course, Janek here's such a famous investigator they'll probably fall all over themselves they'll be so flattered."
"That'll be enough, detective."
Boyce stared at her, nonplussed. "I may look dumb, Chief. But I can read the writing on the wall."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Kit's hoarse whisper should have cut straight to Boyce's ears. But the slob wasn't listening; he was too wrapped up in his self-pity.
"You don't want me in on this. You want Janek. I know why, too."
"Why?" Kit demanded.
"Because he's your . . . you know."
Oh, you poor hotheaded son of a bitch.
"My what?"
Boyce sputtered. "Your special friend's what I hear."
"Want a letter in your file, Boyce?"
"All I want is fair treatment!" But then something must have told Boyce he'd gone too far because suddenly he clamped his mouth. When he opened it again, his tone was different. "I respectfully ask permission to withdraw from the case," he whispered with restrained fury.
"Permission granted." Kit rose. "I've got work to do. Boyce, report to your precinct commander. Janek, stay. I've got a few choice words for you, detective."
She walked across her office to the window, stared out at the falling snow until Boyce had shut the door. When she turned to Janek, her eyes were glowing.
"You're really a prick."
Janek shrugged. "You're the one told me to go down to Quantico."
"And you played Sullivan just right, didn't you? I should have known."
"I don't see the problem . . . now that Boyce has so graciously stepped aside."
"The problem, my friend, is he's going to talk. It doesn't do anything for my reputation to have a pissed-off detective saying Chief Kopta's not a straight shooter."
"Everyone knows you shoot straight."
"Yeah." She looked resigned. "Well, you did it, Frank. Set things up just the way you wanted them."
"So punish me for it. Put another letter in my file."
She shook her head. "I hope I won't be sorry about this."
"You won't be." Janek walked briskly to the door. "Sullivan's the one'll be sorry."
Aaron had begged them space on the fourth floor of the Police Property Building in Greenwich Village between Fifth and University Place. The office was on the same floor as the narcotics storage room, past the detectives' lounge, down the hall, down three steps, up two, first door on the left. Aaron had borrowed two gray hard-rubber-top desks, two swivel chairs, a beaten-up filing cabinet, and an answering machine. When Janek appeared in the doorway, he was in the midst of sweeping out an accumulation of used Styrofoam coffee cups, empty potato chip bags, and cigar ash from the last special squad to occupy the space.
"I see we're slumming," Janek said.
"It's okay, Frank." Aaron gestured toward a dustpan. Janek handed it to him. "Remember last spring when the President was here? Secret Service unit used this for a command post. That's why we got so many phones. Connected, too."
Janek looked at the phones, six five-button models, three on each desk. Then he sniffed the air. The room was overheated and much too dry. He turned to the ceiling; the fluorescent lights buzzed. He peered around, noticed a disgusting crust on the far wall, most likely pizza sauce, he hoped not blood. A radiator hissed out steam. He looked at Aaron, who nodded back, mutual acknowledgment that though their office was a shithouse, it was at least their own.
He helped Aaron sweep out the remainder of the junk, then returned the brooms and trash can to the cleaning closet. The corridor smelled of stale cigarette smoke. When he returned to the office, he noticed his rubber boots were leaking. He pulled them off and stared out the window. It had stopped snowing. On the street the buildup of perfect flakes was already turning gray.
He knew what he wanted to do: talk to everyone who'd had close contact with Jess, particularly the last few days of her life. He wanted to chart every hour of her final days: where she'd gone; what she'd done; the name of every person she'd spoken to.
He drew up a rough grid chart, showed it to Aaron, instructed him to get a police artist to paint it on their largest wall.
"And while he's in here with a brush," Janek said, pointing, "maybe he can do something about that crust."
He also assigned Aaron to talk to all the members of the Greg Gale group.
"Check them all out; get them alone; squeeze them hard. If you smell anything murderous or that smacks of a cult, let me know. But please keep the details of the fun and games to yourself. I'd just as soon not hear any more about Jess's sex life."
Aaron understood.
Janek had set himself another task. He taxied to La Guardia Airport, found a seat on the noon shuttle to Boston, then sat in the plane for an hour before it left the gate.
There were numerous announcements from the pilot: Air traffic was snarled up and down the eastern seaboard; half a foot of snow had fallen on Logan in Boston. Stewardesses prowled the cabin, offering tiny cellophane bags containing honey-roasted cashews. Then everyone was ordered off the plane. Then, suddenly, mysteriously, they all were ordered back on. And then, with undue haste it seemed to Janek, the plane revved up and took off with a roar.
When he reached Boston, it was nearly three o'clock. Janek took one look at the taxi line, found his way to the subway, transferred at Park Street, and fifty minutes later got off at Harvard Square. Some helpful students guided him to the Law School, an immensely long building where numerous assistant DAs of his acquaintance had, in
their student days, undergone excruciating torture.
Janek appeared in the doorway of Dr. David Chun's second-floor office just as the psychiatrist, already in his overcoat, was stuffing file folders into a briefcase.
Chun was not pleased to see him. "You should have called, Lieutenant. Unfortunately I can't talk to you now. I'm going home before the snow gets too deep."
"The snow stopped falling a couple hours ago, Doctor," Janek replied. "If you wait another hour, everything'll be shoveled out."
Chun stared at him. "You know better than to show up here without an appointment. Please tell me why didn't you call."
"I didn't think you'd see me. So I came up anyway, took a chance."
Chun sat down. "Why didn't you think I'd see you?"
Janek sat, too. He'd gotten the psychiatrist's attention. Now all he had to do was hold it.
"You were upset down in Quantico. I had the feeling you wished Sullivan had never involved you in the case. Something frightens you about it, something you don't want to discuss. I need to hear you discuss it, Doctor. That's why I came."
Chun studied him. "You're different from Sullivan. You're a listener."
"I try to be."
Chun thought a moment before he spoke. "Okay, Lieutenant, take a seat outside. I'll give my wife a call; then we'll talk."
When Chun came out, he was carrying his briefcase and still wearing his overcoat. Uh-oh, Janek thought, he's changed his mind. But Chun was no less anxious to talk; he just didn't want to do it in his office.
He guided Janek across Harvard Yard. Students were walking briskly on the freshly shoveled paths, and some freshmen were putting finishing touches on a snowman that bore a vague resemblance to Fidel Castro. Janek watched while a rosy-cheeked girl in a white ski parka stuck a piece of black wood into the effigy's mouth to simulate a cigar.
At Harvard Square the snow had turned to slush. A news dealer hawked hometown papers. Chun led Janek through the Coop, past counters displaying Harvard running shorts and T-shirts with amusing slogans, then out a rear door and across a narrow street.
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