by Barry Lyga
“It’s not apophenia if the pattern’s real,” Jazz protested. “Look, it’s not important that it’s Monopoly. It could have been anything. All that matters is that they have some kind of structure. It could have been checkers or chess, but Billy would find that too simple. Cliché. Everyone does chess, he would say.” Hughes shivered, and Jazz realized that—without intending to—he had once again done his dead-on Billy impression. “This is more like… like reverse apophenia.”
“Oh, really?” Hughes folded his arms over his chest.
“Yeah. It’s not seeing a pattern where there is none—it’s hiding a pattern where there doesn’t have to be one. These guys don’t need a Monopoly board to kill people. They would do it anyway. He’s just making them dance.”
In the face of Hughes’s obvious skepticism, Jazz pressed on. “Two murders with the guts left in KFC buckets? Kentucky Avenue. Dog did one, rolling a six to get there. Later, Hat rolled a five and landed on the same spot. One of the other cops even mentioned it. You were there: The nearest KFC was a mile away. Why bring the bucket and do it twice? Hell of a lot easier than transporting the body all the way to the nearest KFC, right? They only move bodies when they have to, in order to comply with the rules of the game.” Hughes said nothing, so Jazz kept going. “He left that body on the S line in Manhattan because—”
“—it’s the shortest line,” Hughes mumbled. “Short Line Railroad.” The detective’s finger skipped down the page. “Saint James… the church. Right…”
“And look at where Belsamo landed right before coming into the precinct.”
Hughes skimmed the list and looked up, puzzled. “Community Chest?”
“He drew the Get out of Jail Free card.” Jazz grinned triumphantly.
“But he wasn’t in—”
“Right. So Billy had to send him in. He had to put him right in the precinct. Remember what he told you guys in the interrogation room? That if he lied he knew he would go directly to jail? It’s right out of the game, a direct quote. Billy sent him in so that he could play the Get out of Jail Free card and keep playing the game.”
Hughes took a step back, exhaling a long, shuddery breath. “Jasper, this is… this is nuts. You know that, right?” He favored Jazz with a look Jazz had by now gotten used to, a look that said, I knew this kid would snap someday.
“Hat left the body on the Short Line, on the S,” Jazz said. “Then Dog got the Get Out of Jail Free card and came in to confess. Billy probably promised him it wouldn’t last. If he’d gotten—I don’t know—the beauty pageant card, he would have killed a model. But he didn’t. So it was a calculated gamble on Billy’s part: Belsamo could have botched his whole confession act. Or maybe you guys could have really cracked him and led us to Hat. Hell, Hat could have even been caught dumping the body at Baltic.” Hughes said nothing, so Jazz kept talking. “But Billy himself was never at risk, so it was a gamble worth taking. Especially since it meant he got to mess with your heads. He knew we already had Dog’s DNA, so if he was going to sacrifice either of his players, it would be Dog anyway. Plus, he knew Belsamo was either so unhinged or so good at playing unhinged—I don’t know which yet—that he would give us nothing worthwhile. Plus, he had a secret weapon: Hat. We didn’t know there were two killers. And then the dice helped Billy tremendously. Hat rolled an eight and ended up on Baltic. So close, it was perfect.”
“So he left a body at the corner of Henry and Baltic, four blocks from the precinct, to alibi Dog.” Hughes thumped the wall with the flat of his palm. “Really? All of these coincidences just pile up into a plan? You want me to believe that Billy Dent, the most meticulous lunatic in history, lets a roll of the dice determine what happens next?”
“Of course he does!” Jazz exploded. “He doesn’t care about these guys! It’s a game, and they’re just pieces on the board. This amuses him. He saw a way to march Belsamo right in here under our noses and then right back out again, so he took it. If Hat hadn’t rolled an eight, Billy would have come up with something else. You cannot imagine…” He took a deep breath and started again. “You can’t begin to imagine the contempt he holds for you guys. He respects you as a group, as a collective with resources that can stop him, but individually? You’re all pathetic, stupid fumblers, groping in the dark for clues.”
Hughes raised an eyebrow. “That your daddy talking or you?”
“I’m trying to help you!” Jazz couldn’t believe this. He couldn’t believe Hughes wasn’t with him. “I’ve got it all worked out, right down to the next dump site! When Billy called me, he said the number nine, then five and four. So he’s rolling for these guys. He rolled a five and four, which adds up to nine.” He held up the cell phone Monopoly app again. “Nine spaces from Community Chest is Atlantic Avenue, Hughes. That’s where Belsamo—Dog—will leave his next victim.”
“But you talked to him!” Hughes said. “He knows you know the number nine is next, so why wouldn’t he just change it?”
“Look,” Jazz said patiently, “the fact that Belsamo is casing dump sites on Atlantic Avenue tells you that he’s still on the board and planning on moving to the same spot. He still rolled a nine. So, what? Billy called him back on a different phone and gave him the number.”
“That doesn’t make any sense. Why not change it up? To mess with us?”
“Because Billy knows I know the number nine, but he doesn’t know that I know what it means. And he doesn’t think I’ll figure it out. As far as he knows, I still think Hat and Dog are the same guy. Besides, I’m getting the feeling… the way he risked sending Belsamo in here, I’m getting the feeling that Billy’s getting tired of the game. He’s ready for it to end, and maybe Belsamo’s the loser.”
“Isn’t that a good thing?” Hughes asked. “Ending the game, I mean? When the game ends, the killing stops.”
Jazz shook his head. “This is Billy. I think once the game ends, that’s when the real trouble begins.”
CHAPTER 45
Howie waited until the airline website on his smartphone told him that Connie’s flight was in the air before making a beeline for the Lobo’s Nod Sheriff’s Office. He spent most of the drive trying not to think about two things: the implications of the blank FATHER field on Jazz’s birth certificate, and whether or not Sam was just as nutso as her brother.
Man, if that’s the case, then I’m totally swearing off hitting on my friends’ relatives.
He pondered this at a stoplight for a moment.
Well, unless they’re smoking hot.
The sheriff’s office was quiet, and only one car lingered in the parking lot. Tiny town like the Nod, you didn’t expect a lot of action on a weekend night, as long as guys like the Impressionist were locked up. The only reason the place was open at all was because it also served as the basic nerve center for the entire county’s police force. Otherwise, it would be shut down like the rest of the Nod.
Howie sucked in a deep breath. He really hated the idea of sauntering into the office with a lockbox of evidence that had been obtained under less than entirely legal circumstances. Then again, the last time he’d been here, it had been to break and enter with Jazz. Followed by stealing and duplicating a medical examiner’s report, then opening a murder victim’s body bag. Was he really going to get into any more trouble for this?
“I’m totally tattooing ‘I Heart Howie’ on Jazz for all this nonsense,” he said aloud, then got out of the car before he could change his mind.
Inside, he found only his least-favorite member of the Lobo’s Nod sheriff’s department, Deputy Erickson, lingering at what was usually Lana’s desk, idly clicking away at the computer. Jazz had forgiven Erickson for all of the stuff that went down during the Impressionist hunt last year, but Howie still couldn’t get over the way Erickson had slapped cuffs on him, leaving bruises he’d had to cover for a week.
Now the deputy looked up as Howie approached. “Hey, Howie. What can I do for you?”
“Your friendly veneer doesn’t fool me.
” Howie made a show of sniffing the air. “Is that bacon I smell? Or maybe scrapple?”
“Right, right, I’m a pig. You’re hilarious. Do you actually need to be served and protected or is this purely an antisocial call?”
Howie filed away the idea of an “antisocial call.” He liked it. “I need to see G. William,” he said as officiously as possible. “I have a matter for his eyes only.”
Erickson gestured to the empty office. “The boss is probably already fast asleep. What, you think he lives here? Even he gets a night off every now and then.”
Howie frowned at the way the universe constantly foiled his plans.
“Look, Howie, whatever it is, I’m sure I can—”
“Nope.”
“Honest to God, all of that stuff from October is water under the bridge. Jasper and I—”
“Nope.”
Lana’s chair creaked as Erickson leaned farther back than it was accustomed to. “You’re not going anywhere, are you?”
Howie chose to punctuate his point by planting his butt on the very same bench where he and Jazz had once been cuffed.
“When the big man locks you up for annoying the police, don’t come crying to me,” Erickson said, reaching for the phone.
“That’s not a real crime,” Howie said confidently.
Oh, crap. What if it is?
“Hey, G-Dub!” Howie called cheerfully a little while later. “What’s the happy-hap?”
G. William, it turns out, was not already asleep when Erickson called.
“I’ve got the last ten episodes of Letterman on my DVR,” he grumbled on his way into the office. He glared at Howie. “It took me a week to figure out how to record and play back on that stupid thing. This better be good.”
“It is,” Howie promised, raising the lockbox.
G. William nodded as if he’d been expecting this. “Would this have anything to do with the nine-one-one call that came in about the old Dent property?”
Howie managed to communicate volumes of distrust and distaste with a single glance in Erickson’s direction.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake!” Erickson complained.
“My office,” G. William relented. “Double-time it, Howie. I love me some top-ten lists.”
Settled into G. William’s office, Howie clutched the lockbox to his chest.
“You have to give it to me at some point, Howie,” said the sheriff.
“First, I want immunity.” That’s what they always said on TV.
“Immunity from what?”
That was a good question. “Well, the death penalty, for starters.”
G. William actually thumped his forehead against his desk. “Howie, unless you’ve got a dirty bomb in that box, I doubt there’s anything in there that would lead to you getting the death penalty.”
“I’m just being careful.”
“Give me the damn box.”
Howie reluctantly handed it over. “I’m pretty sure you’re violating my civil rights.”
“You’re not under arrest. You came in here voluntarily.” G. William popped the lid. “If anything, you’re violating my rights to a peaceful evening at—” He broke off. “Ah, hell. Goddamn it all.”
As G. William methodically removed each item from the lockbox with a pair of tweezers and held it up to the light, Howie recounted how he and Connie had expertly and with much savoir faire followed the trail of mystery texts that led them to Billy Dent’s backyard.
“That place is a real eyesore now, by the way,” he added. “The town should do something about—”
“Howie!” Tanner yelled. “Stop bitching about the appearance of the crime scene!”
Howie jerked at the bellow. “Sheesh, G. William. It’s just a hole in the ground. It’s not really a crime scene.”
Tanner jabbed one thick, threatening finger in the air between them. “You disturbed evidence. That’s a crime, Howie. Then there’s trespassing—the guy who owns this land didn’t give you permission to go diggin’ it up.”
Oh. Right. That was all true. How inconvenient. Howie’s mom had never found out about his brief arrest at Erickson’s hands, but he was pretty sure if G. William cuffed him now, there’d be no way to avoid telling his parents.
“Sorry ’bout that, Sheriff. We were just—”
“And this.” Tanner lifted the birth certificate with the tweezers. “This could be explosive for Jazz, you know?”
“Do you think…” Howie started, then stopped.
Tanner shrugged as though he’d said what was on his mind, anyway. “I don’t know what to think,” he said. “But we’re gonna look into all of it.” He started talking as if Howie wasn’t even in the room. “Go to the phone company and try to trace the texts from there… Probably go back to a burner… Maybe track where it was bought… Might give us a lead.” He clucked his tongue. “Damn, boy. Wish you kids’d come to me right from the get-go.”
Howie suddenly felt very small and very young. G. William’s calm, measured disappointment somehow stung worse than his outbursts. “Yeah, I know. But it was for Jazz, you know?”
“Just… just get Connie in here right away so that we can get elimination prints from her. We’ll need them from you, too.”
“I didn’t touch anything,” Howie said. “Well, just the box, but I was wearing gloves. I’ve seen CSI. Plus, it’s cold out and my hands get all scratchy.”
“Fine.” G. William picked up the phone on his desk. “You call Connie, and I’m gonna call—”
“That might be tough. She’s out of touch right now.”
G. William paused with the receiver halfway to his ear. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Howie suddenly realized that it would be bad if he told Tanner where Connie was headed, but he didn’t have a lie prepared. Not for the first time in his life, he wished he had Jazz’s think-on-his-feet-edness.
“Um…”
“What are you not telling me, Howie?” Tanner asked, his voice quiet and serious. “Now’s the time. Remember: I can always decide to file charges later. Evidence tampering. Maybe obstruction. You’re a minor and it’s your first offense, but trust me when I say this: Going into the system is no fun.”
Well, hell, there’s something else Jazz and I would have in common—juvenile records.
“There’s nothing else, sir. I swear it.” His voice didn’t sound convincing even to himself. “Oh, wait! I almost forgot. There’s a chance Jazz’s aunt is also totally a psychopathic serial killer, too. I sort of have my fingers crossed against that one, though.”
“Stop trying to distract me with nonsense!” G. William thundered. “Tell me where Connie… Oh, Lord. She’s gone to New York, hasn’t she?” G. William’s eyes widened with horror. “Jesus God, Howie! How could you let her do that? How could her parents—”
“She didn’t really give them much of a choice.”
“Erickson!” G. William bellowed with all his considerable lungpower. The deputy appeared almost immediately in the doorway—Howie figured he’d been loitering nearby, listening in.
“Yeah, boss?”
“Get the state lab on the phone and tell ’em I’ve got evidence I need fingerprinted and run through the state database and IAFIS ASAP. Plus, sweep this thing”—he gestured to the lockbox—“for any possible DNA.” As Erickson moved to scoop up the lockbox, Tanner said, “But before you do that, call the Halls and tell them that we’re getting their little girl back safe and sound.”
“Yessir.” Erickson vanished as quickly as he had appeared.
“Which airport is she landing at?” Tanner asked Howie. Howie realized that he didn’t know, and also that he would never be able to convince Tanner of this. But before he could say anything, the sheriff waved him off. “Just get out of here, Howie. I don’t have time to deal with you now. I’ll track her through her credit card.” He started jabbing buttons on the phone.
As Howie made for the door, Tanner said, “And don’t leave town!” Howie nodded meekly, bi
ting back the urge to say, “Did you really just say that?”
He slipped out of the sheriff’s office into the night. He stared up at the sky, the same sky being navigated by Connie’s plane on its way to New York.
Fumbling his smartphone from his pocket, he quickly tapped out a text to Connie:
go ghosty, girlfriend. 5-0 headed your way
CHAPTER 46
“If this is all true,” Hughes told Jazz, “and I’m not saying it is… then who ran things before Billy escaped?”
“I don’t know. Maybe the Impressionist. I haven’t figured that connection yet. But Billy was able to communicate from prison, somehow. So maybe he’s been running this all along.”
“Then who’s Hat?” Hughes still sounded skeptical, but at least he was asking the right questions.
“I don’t know. He could be anyone. The FBI profile might match him or it might not. You guys were profiling two killers at once without realizing it. One of them the woman-hating rapist with supreme organizational skills. That’s Hat. Then there’s Dog, Belsamo—women might as well not exist for him. He’s obsessed with men and their power, his own power and the power of other men. No wonder there were so many apparent contradictions—you were looking at a portrait painted simultaneously by two different artists.
“Belsamo’s the one who helped me figure it out,” Jazz went on. “It wasn’t just the game aspect—at first I thought he was playing a game with Billy, not being played with by Billy. But then I thought about him waving his dick at me in the interrogation room. Talking about his power.”
“And?”
“And I thought about how Hat-Dog performed penectomies, but only Dog ever took the penises with him. As trophies. Hat just tossed them aside. Chop and toss. He didn’t care. He was just doing it because Dog did it and it had to look like the same guy. He probably didn’t even know Dog was keeping the penises. Hat has contempt for maleness. Dog exults in it. He sees power in maleness and he takes it with him.”
“But they both raped women—”