Britta’s features slackened. “Your sister?” She glanced at Blum and then back at Pine. “Did they…have they found her?”
Again, this response hit Pine right in the gut, heightening her direct personal connection to this inquiry. She found part of herself wishing she could just focus on the murder of the unknown young woman. She could approach that clinically, professionally, with none of the personal baggage.
“No, that’s why I’m here. I’m trying to make sense of what happened back then.”
Britta folded her arms over her chest. “After all these years? Well, why not? I guess I would if it were my sister.” She seemed to catch herself. “Oh please, come on in.”
She opened the front door and motioned them inside.
The foyer soared three levels. Pine looked around the interior, which was all glass and metal and, despite all the trees outside, full of light. The floor plan was an open one, and seating areas were visible throughout along with what looked to be one-of-a-kind light fixtures and customized furniture. Thick and colorful area rugs broke up the large tile flooring that held fossil patterns.
“Wow,” said Blum.
“Yes, we usually get that reaction,” said Britta. “But you mentioned Jack Lineberry. If you’ve been to his place, it’s three times this size with all the latest gadgets.”
Blum said, “We have been there, and it is quite something. You both have done well for yourselves.”
“Well, our success is connected to Jack’s.”
“How so?” asked Pine.
“Would you like some coffee?”
“Sure, thanks.”
She led them into a kitchen area with sweeping views of the rear grounds. There was a large pool, and a guesthouse that seemed totally out of place with the main residence. It was constructed of wood cladding painted gray, soaring turrets, a picketed front porch, and what looked to be a widow’s walk on top. There was also a detached six-car garage fronted by a paved motor court and a barbeque area with a built-in grill and other stainless-steel accoutrements.
Pine thought that Architectural Digest would have a field day here.
As they walked into the room a Hispanic woman dressed in a maid’s uniform came through another doorway carrying a mop and a bucket. She appeared startled to see the three women there.
Britta said, “Oh, Kalinda, I’m sorry, we’ve had some unexpected company. Can you go work in another part of the house for now? Thank you.”
Kalinda, who was in her fifties, thin, and gray haired, nodded dumbly and hurried from the room. Britta watched her go.
“That was Myron’s idea. Hiring her. I told him I can take care of this house all by myself.”
“But it’s a big space, it must be nice to have help,” said Blum.
“That’s true. And I know she sends money home to Guatemala. She may be illegal for all I know, but those people deserve to make a living too. And she works very hard.”
As Britta started filling a Keurig with water, she pointed to the smaller guesthouse and said, “That was my input into all this. I spend a lot of my time out there. This place feels too cold and antiseptic for my tastes.”
They carried the finished coffees over to a table overlooking the rear yard and sat down.
“So, Jack Lineberry?” prompted Pine.
“Yes. Well, as he probably told you, he has an investment company, a very successful one. It relies a lot on computerized trading and the rapid purchase and sale of stocks and other investments. I don’t presume to understand all of it, but the long and the short of it is, the success is based on moving fast, far faster than an individual stock trader could. And Myron is a world-class computer geek, for want of a better term. He puts together algorithms and other trading programs to help power Jack’s investment business. He did some of that in the mining office, though algorithms and all that stuff weren’t nearly as important then as they are today. That’s how Jack and Myron met.”
“Well, it clearly worked,” said Blum.
“Where is your husband?”
“Myron is a night owl. Up until all hours and then he sleeps until past lunchtime and then wants his breakfast.” She smiled, a bit sadly, Pine thought. “I guess we must allow geniuses their idiosyncrasies,” Britta added.
“I guess we must,” said Blum.
“Now, how can I help you?” asked Britta.
“I’m surprised that Lineberry didn’t tell you that we had met. I got your address from him. But he didn’t provide a phone number or email.”
“Well, he couldn’t because we have neither.”
“You have neither?” said Pine slowly.
“Myron won’t have them. He says it’s too dangerous. Too many ways for people to use that against us. You know, to spy on us.”
“Another little idiosyncrasy of his?” asked Pine.
Britta smiled into her coffee. “Yes. It’s quite a tally.”
Pine took a sip from her cup and sat forward, planting her elbows on the table. “For a number of reasons, I’ve decided that now is the time to try to make some headway on what happened to my sister.”
“Okay,” said Britta, all attention now.
“I have long believed that a man came through our window that night and took Mercy.”
“A man through a window? I didn’t know that.”
“Apparently, the police didn’t believe me. I had a head injury, too.”
“That nearly killed you,” Britta said indignantly. “You poor thing. You were in the hospital for a long while. Julia was frantic the whole time.”
“She’d already lost one daughter, she didn’t want to lose her other one,” said Pine as she watched Britta for her reaction.
“Yes, I think that was part of it.”
“Only now, I’m not so sure the man came through the window.”
Britta gaped. “I…I don’t understand.”
“I think he might have come through our bedroom door, which obviously means he first came through the house.”
Britta said, “But your parents? Wouldn’t they have—”
“My parents were…incapacitated at the time. I thought you knew that.”
“It’s been a long time, Lee. My memory is good, but it’s not that good.”
“Of course. I’m sorry.”
“But still, even with your parents…incapacitated, if a stranger passed right by them?”
“What if it wasn’t a stranger?”
“But surely.” Britta stopped and stared at her. “Is that why you’re here? Do you believe that one of your parents’ friends…?”
“I’m an FBI agent, what I believe doesn’t matter. It’s what the facts will show. I have to consider every angle, and one angle I have never considered before was whether the person who took Mercy, and nearly killed me, knew our family.”
“Well, I hope you’re not accusing us. I mean—”
“No, Britta, not at all. You were obviously friends with my parents, with no motive to do something like that. Please understand, I’m just feeling my way.”
This seemed to mollify the woman. She nodded and her features softened. “Of course, I can only imagine what you’re going through, Lee. How can I help you?”
“Just tell me anything you can remember from back then.”
Britta took a sip of her coffee. “Andersonville was a small town all those years ago, and it’s still a small town. Everybody knew everyone else.”
“And that fact could make my job easier, or harder.”
“Many people have moved away over the last thirty years. Or died.”
“That’s the harder part,” noted Pine.
Britta pursed her lips and shook her head stubbornly. “I can’t believe that anyone here, especially someone who knew your mom and dad, would have done such a terrible thing. I mean, what would have been the motive?”
“Some people don’t need a motive.”
Blum interjected, “Agent Pine is referring to serial killers, Mrs. Pringle. Their motive is
they are obsessed with doing what they do. They can’t stop themselves.”
“So that’s who you think it was, a serial killer?”
“It’s possible.”
“But we never had anything like that happen around here back then.”
“It could have been the beginning of someone’s career. Or the end of it.”
“Well, I just don’t see it,” Britta persisted. “Why would a serial killer come here?”
“Unfortunately, it happens,” Pine said, “What do you remember about that time? Anything you can recall.”
Britta said nervously, “I remember your mother calling me, panicked. We had a phone back then and lived the closest to your house. She was out of her mind with fear. Your sister was gone. Your father was out with the police looking for Mercy. You had been badly injured and had been taken to the hospital. Your mom rode over with you and then rushed back home to get some other things you needed. Then we drove back over to the hospital together. Your mother never left the place until you did, I don’t know if you know that. Your father came and went but Julia never left your side.”
“I didn’t know that until I got back here. Agnes Ridley told me that.”
“God, names from the past. I haven’t seen or heard from Agnes since we moved away.”
“What else do you remember? Anything my parents may have said?”
Britta took a long drink of her coffee while she thought about this. “I recall that your mother couldn’t find your sister’s doll. I don’t even know why she was looking for it at a time like that. But people do strange things in moments of crisis, I suppose.”
“Was your husband with my father looking for Mercy?”
“No, Myron was at work. He went in early to the office. When your mother called me, I didn’t have a car. I just half ran the whole way.”
“How did you and my mother get to the hospital then?”
“A police officer took us.”
“Did you ever notice any strangers in town? Anyone who gave off an odd vibe?”
She shook her head. “Lee, we didn’t go to town all that much. Neither did your family. We were all just scraping by back then. Myron hadn’t found his calling with the computers yet. We were living paycheck to paycheck, same as your mom and dad. But you girls never wanted for anything. Never went hungry or anything.”
“You have children, I understand?” asked Blum.
“I did. Joe and Mary.” She looked at Pine. “They used to play with you and Mercy.”
“You did have kids?” said Pine.
“Sadly, neither one is still alive.”
“What happened? They were my age, I recall.”
“One in an accident. And one, well, there was a substance-abuse issue.” Britta looked down into her coffee.
“I’m very sorry about that,” said Pine.
“Would you like to see their pictures?”
Pine shot Blum a glance. “Um, sure.”
Britta took a framed photo from a shelf. “This was taken about three years ago.”
Pine and Blum looked at the photo of Mary, a very lovely young woman with long blond hair and an impish smile. Next to her was Joey, a tall man with his arm around his sister.
“They were very close. They died within a month of each other.”
“Oh my God,” said Blum. “That is so terrible.”
“Yes, yes, it was.” She set the photo down on the table.
Pine cleared her throat and let the silence hang for a few seconds. “Lauren Graham told me that my father got into a fight with a gawker at the house later that day. But somebody broke it up. Do you know who that was?”
“That ‘somebody’ is me.”
They all looked over at the doorway, where a man in his fifties, about six feet five, stood. He had flyaway dark gray hair, a pair of wide brown eyes, and gangly limbs. He wore khaki pants and a wrinkled T-shirt, and he was barefoot.
“I’m Myron Pringle.”
Chapter 18
BRITTA ROSE, LOOKING SURPRISED, and checked her watch.
“Myron, what are you doing up?”
“I was tired of sleeping,” he said, not taking his gaze off Pine.
“This is—”
“Yes, I know. Lee Pine. Tim and Julia’s surviving daughter.”
Pine and Blum glanced at each other over this odd phrasing.
“Myron, please, I mean, really,” said Britta in a scolding tone.
Pine rose and put out her hand. “Hello, Mr. Pringle.”
He reluctantly shook hands.
“This is my assistant, Carol Blum.”
Myron didn’t even look at her. “You’re back here investigating your sister’s disappearance?”
“I am.”
“The odds are very much against you.”
“Myron,” said his wife, reproachfully.
He ignored her, opened the fridge, took out a carton of milk, and drank from it. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and said, “I’m just speaking to raw statistics. You could succeed, I’m just telling you that the numbers do not favor you.”
“Thanks, but I already knew that.”
He put the milk back, shut the door, and leaned against the granite-topped kitchen island.
“So you broke up the fight?” she said.
He nodded. “Your father was drunk.”
“Myron, please,” implored Britta again.
Pine could tell from Britta’s weary tone that this was a constant refrain from her.
“Well, he was. But one daughter had vanished. And the other one was badly hurt. I would have been drinking, too,” he conceded.
“Who started the fight?” asked Pine.
“A man named Barry Vincent.”
“How did it start?”
“Vincent accused your father of attacking you and being involved in your sister’s disappearance.”
“I don’t believe he was alone in thinking that,” said Pine.
“Your father would never have done such a thing,” said Britta forcefully.
Pine eyed Myron. “What do you think?”
“I think people are capable of anything. But I saw how your father was with you and your sister. He doted on you both. You were his pride and joy. The man worked hard at his job. He provided for his family. That was really all he had. I don’t see a man like that destroying it.”
“But he was drinking and smoking weed that night,” Pine reminded him.
“He drank and smoked weed a lot. I know, because I did it with him. Those things didn’t make him violent. They just made him sleepy.”
“Which would seem to jibe with him sleeping through everything that night,” said Blum.
“So you two weren’t with them that night?” said Pine.
Myron said nothing. Pine looked at Britta.
She said, “I think we were out that night, Lee. I remember the next day like it was yesterday. But the night before, no. But we weren’t over at your parents’, I know that.”
Pine looked back at Myron. “Anything to add to that? You seem to have a good memory.”
“Nothing to add. What’s your next move? You talking to everyone who knew your family and who’re still here?”
“Yes. That includes Jack Lineberry. I understand that you two have built a lucrative career together.”
“Jack makes most of the money, but we’ve done okay, too. I’m just a computer guy. He does all the selling and schmoozing. He’s good at that. Always has been. Even back in the bauxite mining days.”
“So, algorithms?” said Pine.
“More accurately, automated trading programs. Some of it is just to move large blocks of investments efficiently and for lower cost. Another side of it is to invest via computer programs so you can boost your returns. They call that black box trading. Complicated math formulas and hyperfast computer networks to execute on the strategies flowing therefrom. If it can see the right pattern in the movements of financial markets, just the slightest ripple, it can make a huge
difference. That’s why pretty much the entire financial market is automated. It’s a race to the bottom, really, when you think about it. It has improved market liquidity, but it also contributed to the ‘flash crash’ in 2010. But computers don’t have emotions, so when the market plummets, the computers bring us back faster than if humans were calling the shots. But still, it’s a rigged system.”
“Meaning the little guys get screwed?” said Pine.
He glanced at her, his furry eyebrows twitching. “In the financial markets, the little guys always get screwed. That’s how the system is designed, because it’s designed by the big boys. And they like to keep the gold away from the rabble, meaning everybody else.”
“Do you have to keep changing the algorithms?” asked Pine.
“Absolutely. The spoils do not go to the complacent. They go to the hypervigilant. And since pretty much everyone has the same sort of algorithms firing away, the competition is fierce. Anyone who knows how to do Python code, for example, can execute algorithmic trading. It keeps me and my team jumping. But that’s why Britta and I can afford a place like this. People like me are in great demand. But the only reason for that is the system got greedy and decided to go with technology over humans.”
“But you’re a human,” Blum pointed out.
“Right, but, for example, a couple years ago Goldman Sachs fired around six hundred traders and replaced them with a couple hundred computer engineers to oversee the automated trading programs. Lots of other places have followed suit. And it’s not just the financial sector, pretty much all sectors are becoming automated. I see people with a lot of free time on their hands in the future. They just won’t have any money to do anything. The Silicon Valley billionaires know it’s coming. That’s why so many of them are calling for a guaranteed national income for everyone. But they’re not doing it out of benevolence, at least most of them aren’t.”
“Why then?” asked Blum.
“They need people to buy the crap they’re selling and, more important, they don’t want the rabble coming over the walls of their estates and butchering them.”
“Really, Myron, I doubt it will come to that,” admonished Britta.
“Then you’d be wrong.”
“Do you work here or at an office?” asked Blum.
A Minute to Midnight Page 10