Cross Cut

by Rivers, Mal

  Ryder raised a finger. “So, you advise me to cower inside all day, just because a criminal has been released? Pah.”

  “Miss Ryder, with all due respect, I think you should consider it,” Gregg said.

  She shook her head. “I thank you gentleman for your concern. Really, I do. But I will not let my daily routine be interrupted by a thug. We have the necessary precautions here. I also have Ader, who, as you know, is usually present. It may interest you to know that he can hit a target at two thousand feet without a spotter.”

  “Sure.” Flores said, looking at me. “And I’m a professional hook-a-duck player. I’m not expecting the Romanians to plan a siege on your beach house. They’re more likely to come after you when you’re out of familiar territory.”

  I gave him a snort and watched as Ryder put out her palm, saying, “Erik Cristescu may hold a grudge, but he is not foolish. I rarely venture out alone. When I do, it is to the pier, which has cameras spread about the area. I do not intend—”

  She stopped as Flores raised his own palm.

  “Very well,” he said. “I knew it would fall on deaf ears, but I didn’t want you saying we didn’t try. We have eyes on him for other reasons, but you know how that is. We have one officer for ten of their own.”

  Flores and Gregg rose, as did Ryder. We each exchanged farewells and I escorted them outside. Back in the office, Ryder had her nose back in her book.

  “You could have offered them a drink,” I said.

  No answer. Not that I expected one. I went through to the kitchen and got myself another orange juice and toasted to Melissa, who was watering the plants on the window ledge.

  “What was all that about?” she said.

  “Nothing much. Romanians might be coming to shoot up the place.”

  “That so. I’ll remember to put my earplugs in before I got to bed.”

  “With your snoring? Not necessary.”

  She gave me a thump and returned to the plants. I took a sip from the glass and toasted her again, then made for the office. I spent the next few hours on the sofa and tried hopelessly to read, and failed. My mind was elsewhere. Mostly, I focused on which side of the room I would take cover when the Romanians broke through the front door, hoping that they weren’t planning a raid for 9PM when we had guests. That would just be rude.

  6

  We have dinner between 7 and 8PM. Ryder may be a stickler for organization and time, but she was adamant food was ready when it was ready. The dining room is a small room, between the study and the games room. We use it for an hour every day, and that is the only time it ever sees us.

  The Persian-style lamb with couscous went down with ease and we waited for 9PM to arrive. The sun was setting, so I prepared by shutting the blinds to all the windows and turned on the corner lamps instead of the main light directly in the centre of the office. It felt cozier that way and Ryder agreed. We preferred the room to have that authentic, fire-like feel, as opposed to having the equivalent of floodlights bearing down on us.

  We expected at least three guests and ended up with five. I showed them in and sat them down, all in the ebony wooden chairs for equality. I moved the black leather chair over to my sofa and used it for myself.

  To make it easier I’ll be brief and name them left to right, from Ryder’s position, sitting at her desk: Darren Bromme, President and CEO of Gillham and Mane. I would say in his sixties. Doreen Sharp, Company Secretary. She was the one I talked to on the phone. Laura Harles, who I assumed to be some kind of office junior, given her youth, was actually from their legal department. Graham Rudd, head of their research department. I won’t even try to remember his official title. And Robyn Faith, also from the legal department. Seems like anyone who was anyone in that company had their doubts, and thought Ryder was up to something. Most people would assume two lawyers was overkill, when it was really like sending ants to attack a five year old. Doesn’t matter how many they send, they’ll just end up being squished.

  Ryder waited for them to settle and opened proceedings. Hands under her chin as usual. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. I have no doubt you are aware of your surroundings, but for clarity, my name is Kendra Ryder, and this is my assistant, Adrian York, whom you may address as Ader. I suggest we keep introductions at a minimum. No doubt it has been a stressful day for you all and it is late in the evening.”

  “I’ll say,” Rudd said. “We’ve been at it all day with the cops. God knows why we had to come here at this hour.”

  “God indeed knows, sir.” Ryder frowned. “You being here is a problem of your own, I would suspect. I neither knew the identity or number of people coming tonight.”

  Rudd returned the frown and gazed over at Bromme, the CEO, who returned a dominant nod.

  Bromme then turned to face Ryder and said, “Not everyone in the company agrees with the action we are about to take. But we put it to a vote and the motion carried. Guy Lynch was a respected colleague. But, regardless of Mr Rudd’s lack of tact, I too wonder why we had to be here at this hour. For one, we have no information which can aid you, and secondly, couldn’t you have just asked the police for the pertinent information?”

  Ryder shook her head and a small sigh stayed inside her throat. “Whether you have any pertinent information is surely up to the person asking for it. As for the police, they will only be within our reach once I have accepted you as a client. It is also worth noting that I offered my hand to you first. For all I knew, you were coming here tonight to decline my offer.”

  This went on for a while. The two males and Doreen Sharp exchanged ideas, while the two lawyers argued their case; that while it was in the interest of the company for them to be involved as clients, that certain things needn’t be investigated. Ryder promptly told them to take a hike and that wasn’t how she worked. After fifteen minutes it was resolved and Ryder offered them the appropriate documents, which they each in turn inspected. Another five minutes down the drain.

  “Your fee isn’t specified,” Robyn Faith said. “Highly dubious to expect us to sign such a thing.”

  “The fee will depend on what I have to do. I remind you this criminal has evaded the police for three years.”

  “Yet you seem confident you will find him,” Bromme said.

  “If I can’t find him, no one can,” Ryder said plainly.

  “Pure egotism,” Rudd said.

  “Certainly.” Ryder glared. “But my reputation is not based on my own plaudits. If you require references—”

  “No, that won’t be necessary,” Bromme said.

  A small squeak came from the other lawyer, Laura Harles. “Can I ask—why now?”

  “Beg your pardon?” Ryder said.

  “Your name was never mentioned in the papers throughout the previous killings. Why the interest now after three years and eight deaths later?”

  I could have kissed her. Ryder had been asked this repeatedly, of course, but there was just something in the way she said it. She sounded genuinely interested without being judgmental or rude. Ryder found it hard to talk back to people who were just plain nice.

  “I hardly think my motivation needs discussion,” Ryder said with a frown and turned to me. “To quote my assistant’s awful turn of phrase, I am late to the party. But here, nonetheless.”

  Laura Harles nodded and didn’t reply. Bromme signed the documents and handed them over to me. “Now, what can we do to help?” Bromme said.

  Ryder replied, “Very little, I would imagine. Beside telling me everything you can about Guy Lynch. It has been mentioned before that we are tracking a killer whose motives are yet to be ascertained. However, it would benefit me to discern if there is any particular reason why Guy Lynch was murdered.”

  There was more to it than that, of course, but she couldn’t very well explain that there were two Lynch’s in the frame. That was reserved for ourselves.

  “The police said he was here this morning,” Doreen Sharp said firmly. “Surely you know a little about him?”


  Ryder shook her head again. “I regret to say that our conversation was limited. For what it is worth, I would suggest we ignore said conversation ever took place.” She shut the door on that one quickly.

  “Well—” Bromme readjusted his glasses. “I’m not sure I or anyone here could answer for his personal life. Otherwise, he was a good worker. He knew how to sell a product to potential clients. A large part of our business relied on him, so he will be missed.”

  “I think he had a brother—” Laura Harles said sheepishly.

  Ryder nodded but didn’t get anywhere with it. Laura Harles couldn’t offer a name or address.

  Ryder said, “Are any of you aware of Guy Lynch’s whereabouts today, or have any notion why he was in that public restroom at such a time? Or, for that matter, was anyone aware of his visit to me this morning?” For a moment I thought she’d slipped. She had to play it this way. Even though we both knew the real Guy Lynch was never here, they didn’t, and they’d only be bemused at her forgetting his alleged visit.

  They all shook their heads negatively. Rudd mentioned he liked a diner two blocks away from the office, which meant nothing, as the public restroom was five blocks away from the office. There was the suggestion that Lynch was caught drastically short after the drive back from our office, which Ryder disregarded, not merely because it didn’t happen that way, but she failed to see how desperate a man’s bladder could be with five blocks to go.

  “And he told none of you about the circumstances which led him to my office?” she asked. I get the feeling she was fishing. Trying to find out where we stood with the real Lynch, and whether the visit from the fake Lynch this morning had any relevance. The response was negative. “He showed no signs of discomfort? None at all?” she asked. Again, the response was largely negative. Rudd and Doreen Sharp mentioned stress, but suggested that was hardly mentionable given his job description.

  Ryder let her hands fall to her desk and she looked across them all, from left to right. “Well, ladies and gentlemen, it appears I am in for a tough time. Unless any of you have anything to add?”

  They murmured for a few seconds and shook their heads. Rudd looked like he had somewhere to be and the two female lawyers looked ready to drop. Bromme rose from his chair and the rest followed. “What do you intend to do?” he said.

  Ryder pushed her chair back and held the edge of her desk. “That, sir, is my business. I am happy to update you on progress, should you wish it.”

  “Certainly.” Bromme nodded. “If there is anything we can do in the meantime—”

  Ryder nodded. “I may send Ader to question your employees. But it may not be necessary.”

  Bromme agreed and they said goodbye. I escorted them out the door and watched them walk, ragged and defeated. Ready to drop the moment their head hit the pillow. I felt the same, even though I’d been on the sofa half the day.

  I called out to Bromme, “If you want updating, I’d call rather than visit. We’re expecting a gang to shoot up the place any day now.”

  Bromme laughed it off at first, but his smile soon changed when he noticed mine was partially serious. I gave a salute and closed the door behind me. I returned to the office to see Ryder sitting at her desk, her book spine downward on top of the in-tray to her right. She was staring at the ceiling, which usually meant it was a bad idea to interrupt. I left it for a while and grabbed the bottle of scotch from the kitchen, poured a double and took the bottle with me back to the sofa. I let her stare at the ceiling for a few minutes and interrupted.

  “Scotch?”

  She brought her head down and looked at her watch. “Yes, please.”

  It may be hard to believe, but once it passes a certain time, she can be quite a drinker. I doubt she could drink me under the table, but on the other hand, I’ve never seen her remotely intoxicated.

  “Well, that was a waste of time,” I said.

  She downed her glass in one. “I wasn’t expecting anything.”

  “Sure. Suppose it would be stupid to expect anything when we’re tracking down a serial killer.”

  “On the contrary.” She signaled for the bottle. “It was partially insightful.” She poured another glass.

  “Oh—right you are. Care to share?”

  “In due time. Now, however, I would like to ask a favor.”

  “Shoot.”

  “You may remember some time ago we made an agreement. That we never ask or tell each other about our pasts, specifically, when we were in the army. I would like permission to breach that agreement.”

  I took back the bottle and shrugged. “Can’t see the harm.”

  She sat back and placed her hands on her thighs. “You will wish to comment on it, I have no doubt. In any case—you may recall I was a special agent for the United States Criminal Investigation Command, or CID, as it’s known.”

  I nodded, and she continued.

  “We’re going back twelve years. I was young and had barely passed the selection process. But, I had my wits about me. Our unit was sent to investigate the effort in Afghanistan, after the civil war had allegedly ended. The so called Taliban massacres that occurred throughout that period were brought to our attention. So we—”

  I held out my hand. “If you’re going that far back, I’m going to need the popcorn.”

  She glared at me. “You wish for me to be concise?”

  “Not to be rude or anything, but a story at this time of night just isn’t my thing.”

  “Very well. There was a series of civilian and military killings in Jalalabad. After an initial investigation, it surfaced that the real perpetrator wasn’t a militant, rather, a member of the army.” She paused for a while and signaled for the bottled again. “It was I who found the one responsible.”

  “That’s nice,” I said. “Is this going anywhere?”

  “Those people were murdered—no, slain. Cut deep, both horizontally and vertically across the chest.”

  I rested the tip of my glass on my lips, paused, and put it back down on the sofa arm.

  “What the f—” I stopped myself. Excessive language is one of the three strikes. “Are you for real? You’re saying the Cross Cutter was—and you knew all this time?” I didn’t even care that I said ‘Cross’ this time.

  Ryder’s eyes widened and she grunted. “Don’t be absurd. The man responsible back then is most assuredly not involved in these killings. He was tried and convicted. Probably thrown into a hole somewhere that doesn’t exist, to never be let out.”

  I had to stand and walk to give it some thought. It was a hell of a reveal. I’m all for pulling little stunts like the fake Lynch scenario, but her not mentioning this before was too much.

  “So, after eight murders in California, with the same MO, you suddenly mention it?” I said, and then I turned my head. “Nerks.”

  Ryder wagged her finger in defense. “That’s pretty specious of you. Of course, I expected this reaction. No doubt you side with the authorities, who say I have no soul. But see it from my point of view. It took a year for these current murders to become widespread news. And even so, the possibility of relevance was around one percent. It’s not as if the method of killing stands to attention as unique.

  “Well, that’s okay then.” I reconsidered. “No, wait, run that past me again—I still don’t understand why you never mentioned it. You realize you’re in trouble if you crack this on such a lead. The BI and FBI aren’t as understanding as I am. They’ll hang you out to dry.”

  “No doubt. But I highly doubt the relevance is high. It may even be coincidence. But it is an avenue worth investigating.”

  “So you say. But why are you mentioning it now? What changed?”

  “My opinion changed when Guy Lynch was murdered this afternoon. That and the nonsense this morning. After that, the relevance factor rose to ten percent.”

  I snickered. “Wow, a whole ten percent—why?”

  “Because—” She paused in consideration. “The man who killed th
ose people in Afghanistan went by the name of Lynch.”

  I remained still for a while and tried to wrap my head around it. By the time I spoke again, I had taken to my own desk chair as opposed to the sofa. “That makes zero sense,” I said. “The guy from twelve years ago happens to have the same surname as a victim of the person now killing like he did? If it’s a coincidence, it’s a bloody good one. If it is somehow relevant, then it’s ass backwards, especially if it’s certain he’s imprisoned.”

  Ryder gave a glare and rolled her right eye. Don’t ask me how she manages to roll a single eye, she just can.

  “Your crass language aside, I agree. Either way we consider it, it is egregious. But there is an obvious angle we need to approach straight away. You shall venture out to Quantico tomorrow, and learn of the whereabouts of Lee Lynch, murderer of seven in Afghanistan. If possible, secure an interview with him. Although, I would take anything he says about the events twelve years ago with caution. I dare say he has very little affection for me.”

  “He isn’t the only one.” I poured my last glass of the night and felt the sweat coming down my brow. “What about the Romanians? I’m flattered you think I’m a top marksman, but I can’t snipe them out from Quantico.”

  “Pah.” She rose from her chair and took off her blazer. I doubt she noticed, but her blouse was wrinkled and the top bottom undone, exposing the white sliver of her diagonal scar. “You and your humor. I am retiring for the night.”

  “You’re actually going to sleep?”

  “Yes, of course. I suggest you do the same. We have a long task ahead of us.”

  “I think it would be useless. I’m not going to sleep when we have a target on our backs. And my mind is practically spinning with possibilities after what you’ve told me.”

  “Your mind is spinning because of that awful excuse for whiskey. Do not fall asleep on the sofa and make sure to lock the door. Goodnight.”

  “Night,” I grunted.

  I could have told her that she was going past the front door herself, but decided to skip it.