by Rivers, Mal
“Right now, I wouldn’t mind. At least it will put a boot up her backside.”
“She will hate you for it.”
“Yeah, and you’ll be queuing up to take my sofa. Besides, if we get arrested, we’ll never get anywhere, and that meeting for six this evening won’t happen.”
Sully thought about it and nodded.
“Do we tell them?” he said.
I didn’t answer. I opened the back door quietly and waved Sully out, and we made our way down to the pier.
30
We were sweating and panting when we made our way down the pier. We ran all the way to the diner at the end, and didn’t notice Ryder at any of the fishing spots on either side. The ocean was calm and you could hear the gulls milling about overhead.
Ryder was sitting at a table, drinking what looked to be sparkling water, or lemonade. When she saw us, her face reddened and I could see a tornado coming.
“What is this!” she barked. “This is outrageous, Ader. We agreed—”
“Shut up,” I said, fearing the worst. “We’re broke.”
“Why the devil are you using code here?”
“Oh, right, force of habit.” I sometimes forget where I am when I’m in a panic. We usually use the word broke with company to suggest there is trouble.
I gave it to her in short bursts. “I apologize, but there isn’t much time. They found a body nearby. It’s the actor. They think we knew and they’re going to haul us up to headquarters. Two choices—we go back, or we hide out till you solve this.”
Her face stayed red as she slammed her drink down on the table. She picked up her fishing gear. Sully offered to help her but she refused.
“Curse this,” she said. “What about the house?”
“I wouldn’t worry about burglars. I dare say the FBI will be camping it out.”
“But—I cannot change—”
“Never mind that. It’s too warm for a blazer anyway. Now, what’s your decision?”
She thought on it, and we were soon running back down the pier. We cut through the parking lot and made for a Japanese restaurant out on East Balboa Boulevard, largely because it was close by and inconspicuous. It had tinted windows so any stray cop cars passing by would have to look twice to see us. By the time we got there Ryder had worked up a sweat and looked embarrassed.
“Now what?” Ryder said. “Both of your cars are at the house.”
“I’ll have to go get a rental,” Sully said.
“No,” Ryder said. “We will need two cars. Sully, you will finish what you started yesterday. Particularly, I wish for you to find as much as you can about the third murder, and then the ones after, as much as you can before tomorrow. But do not exert yourself. It will only be confirming what I already know.
“Ader, did they by any chance disclose the name of the body they found?”
I looked at Sully, just in case I had missed something. He shook his head.
“Nope. They’d only just found it. Why?”
“Because if we find where he came from, we can confirm who hired him.”
“Well, sure,” I said. “But—I thought that was already taken care of. I know you haven’t said it yet, and neither have I, but it’s pretty obvious to me that this Armenian guy—Andonian, or one of his gang killed Lynch, regardless of what Swanson said.”
Ryder nodded. “As a surmise. But the killer of Guy Lynch may not have hired the impostor.”
I sighed and looked at Sully for support. “Will you please tell me what the hell Huntington is going to say? What does anything in the past have to do with Guy Lynch’s death? If all you want is a fee, wait another day for when Swanson arrests Andonian, and then prove he did it.”
“Ader, it has everything to do with it. Everything is connected. This goes beyond some petty mob operation. This is history repeating itself. A violent circle that needs to stop.”
“Will you stop talking in riddles, goddamnit!”
“I speak not in riddles, you merely interpret my words as such. I cannot tell you what I think when I am not certain. If I go about this the wrong way, it could end badly. Now, we need a way to find the impostor’s identity—”
I frowned and sat back in an old wooden chair. I signaled the waiter for a glass of orange juice.
“Fine. I will find out his name.”
“How do you intend to do so?” she inquired.
“Well, I can only tell you when I’m certain.”
She snorted, and exchanged a glance at Sully. They both grinned.
“No need to brood,” Sully said.
“Ah, sod it,” I said, the British way. I rose from my chair, waving my hand. “I’ll go get my car and find out his identity. No problemo.”
“But, the house will be crawling with feds,” Sully said.
I tapped my nose. “She isn’t the only one with tricks up her sleeves.”
I took the orange juice from the waiter’s drinks tray and drank it in one, and then replaced it. I looked back at Ryder and she simply nodded, albeit it cynically. “I’ll be back at four. Where will you be?” I said.
Ryder clasped her hands together. I figured she was trying to pick a local hotel in her head. One that’s bearable, but not too popular, so as not to be seen.
“You can both stay over at my place till this blows over,” Sully said. “It’s a mess, and I offer no apologies.”
Ryder pursed her lips for a second and then nodded. “Ample, Sully. Thank you.”
I left the restaurant and made for the corner of the street in the shade. I turned my head to face the wall while I made a call to my local auto repair shop. They know me quite well. Over the years they’ve taken their fair share of money out of my pocket.
The guy who answered was Gus. I said, “Hey, I got a job for you. My Lexus needs a new rear windscreen.”
“No problem. Bring it over,” he said.
“I was hoping you would tow it. You know the place. You know I’m good for it.”
I couldn’t see him, but I could just imagine him scratching his head. “Well—yeah, hell I can. But, why? You said it was just a windscreen replacement.”
“No reason,” I said. “Oh, some feds may or may not be there. If they give you any bother, just tell them it’s your legal right to take the car. If they follow you, don’t sweat it. I’ll be watching the shop anyway.”
He laughed. “Oh, hell, that be why.” He laughed again. “Okay. But I figure it’ll cost ya.”
“It usually does,” I said.
“I’ll send Tommy over now. He’s the big guy, remember? Ain’t no man in a suit scare Tommy.”
Thirty minutes later, my Lexus was inside Gus’ shop, with no FBI tail. Ten minutes after that, I had a new windscreen.
“What about the paintwork? There's holes round the back—man, are they bullet holes?” Gus said.
“I’ll get them looked at later. Thanks for the hard work,” I said.
31
At 1PM, I was outside a three storey building on Wilshire Boulevard, Beverly Hills. Which, as curious as it seems, happens to be the same street the federal building is situated, some three miles away. I had no appointment, but she made time from her schedule to see me.
Doctor Cassandra Bishop’s office was on the third floor. Uniquely styled with a mix of modern furniture. A navy blue carpet. Shades that let partitions of natural light spread out across the room. She has her own personal antique desk in the middle of the room, and she was sitting behind it as I entered. There is a pleasant aroma in the air. A faint smell of incense, which I could only describe as sweet and woody.
“Nice to see you again, Ader,” she said. “Take a seat. Now, what can I do for you?”
“Well,” I said. “This is a little awkward, but, I wanted to ask about the FBI investigation.”
“Ah.” She smiled as she took off her glasses. “Because you have no access anymore. Is that why you came here, to use me as a proxy to the FBI?”
I leaned back and lifted my shoul
ders. “It would help. We’re in quite a fix and the more we know—the quicker we can put things right. Obviously, I don’t want to step over a line, in terms of your commitment to the FBI, and I’m sure we could reimburse you for loss of your time—”
She moved over to a cabinet on the eastern wall and brought out a bottle of red wine, and two glasses. She placed a glass to my side of her desk, and poured a half glass worth of wine into it.
She looked at me again and smiled while she poured half into her glass. “I have no more affection for the FBI than you do, Ader. Truth be told, I only consult for them because it amuses me. I have no commitment to them. As for a fee, surely that isn’t necessary, if we are just having a drink as friends?”
I raised my glass. Even though I detest wine, I was willing to make an effort. “I’ll drink to that—even if it is a little early.”
“A half glass in the afternoon is considerably healthy,” she said. “Now, as a friend, how can I help you?”
“Have you heard about the body they’ve found?” I said.
“The one found today, you mean? Yes, I have.”
“Do they have a name yet?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know—but I suppose I could find out for you. Most curious turn of events, was it not? Since we last talked, we went from a plain old serial killing to the most bizarre set of circumstances I’ve encountered; that a private detective’s assistant could be somehow implicated in such an event.”
“Do you believe that?” I said.
“The question is not whether I believe it, or, indeed, the FBI. The question is, do you? Or, did you? For any amount of time.”
“No, of course not.”
“Not for a second?”
I paused and looked at the glass of wine in my hand. “I did, but then I saw common sense.”
She chuckled. “Of course you did. All humans go down that road, where they deny any sort of reason and think, what if. Assuredly, a strong aptitude for a man in your line of work. The problem is that what if can soon become an obsession. And an obsession without reason leads to a very dark room within oneself.”
“I hardly obsessed over it. It was just uncanny how many things would fit when I looked at it that way.”
“Precisely,” she said, looking down. “But therein lies your problem. As you moved a little further down the road, you found that you weren’t in a dark room at all. In fact, there was a considerable amount of light to what you were thinking.”
“What are you saying—that I think Melissa did it? Because I don’t.”
She shook her head. “Not at all. I suppose I was just remarking upon how difficult it must be for you. As for the FBI—they take the road where the evidence lies. You can’t really fault them for that.”
“They’re still insistent on Melissa being the Cross Cutter?”
“Perhaps,” she said, taking a sip from her glass. “If not that, then the murderer of Guy Lynch. Apparently, the trip to the bank she made that morning wasn’t too far from Anaheim. They have surveillance footage of her in Santa Ana. A curious place, seen as the closest branch to your house is actually in Newport Beach. And, of course, there’s her past history—but, I’m not a detective. What do I know.”
I thought about that for a while, and she was right. Santa Ana was a strange place for Melissa to be. She usually did the banking in Newport Beach.
My head strayed from Cassandra to the wall behind her, where all her credentials were visible. I counted eleven framed certificates before she said, “Now, seen as we’re talking as friends, perhaps you’d entertain me with what Miss Ryder thinks.”
I laughed. “The problem with that is I can only tell you what she tells me, which isn’t much.”
“Oh,” she said. “Does she not trust you? Does she not value your opinion?”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” I said. I didn’t really want to go down this road, otherwise I’d only be a few steps from telling her about twelve years ago. “She’s just incredibly vague, that’s all.”
Cassandra chuckled. “Perhaps there is a reason for that. In fact, I would be very surprised if she hasn’t come to the same conclusion as I have, regardless of what she thinks of psychology.”
“What would that be?” I asked.
“Let us look at it rationally. Ignoring the murder of Guy Lynch—a wild card to the whole affair—we have seven murders. Seven murders with one modus operandi. However, with each murder, we come to realize the killer is lazy in operation. He or she is not particular. What do we get from this?”
I shrugged.
She put on her glasses and continued, “That the killer doesn’t care about any of it. None of it means anything to him, at least, not as he or she went on. The idea that our FBI profiler came up with; that the Cross Cutter cares only to watch people die, surely won’t do. Serial murderers are often a particular breed of psychopath. They won’t commit themselves to a routine and dishonor it.”
I looked at her from a different angle, as my right shoulder sagged. There was a glimmer in her glasses as she looked down at her desk, content with what she had said.
“So—what are you saying? That none of these murders were committed by a real serial killer, as in the psychotic type? It was just an act?”
“An act? Perhaps a dubious way to put it, but yes,” she said, still looking downward. “After which, perhaps Guy Lynch’s murder wasn’t such a wild card after all.”
I had to wonder whether Ryder was on the same page as Cassandra. Of course, if her theory warranted any consideration, it could open up a few more possibilities, and go some way to negate one complication; trying to overlap the Cross Cutter with Andonian’s gang.
Did Ryder know it all along? That this gang created a serial killer to cover up the real intentions of the murders?
But then, I had to think. If that was the case, why the MO from twelve years ago? Who had influenced them to use it? Was the responsibility Guy Lynch’s somehow, or someone else entirely?
“I wonder what they are covering up,” she said.
“They?”
“The gang that is separate to the Danturas, of course.”
“How did you—” I trailed off.
“I read the news. It has been clear for some time that all roads lead to Kendra Ryder. If I were to take my assumption on its own merit, then it could have been any group or organization. Then events unfold, somewhat negatively toward yourself and Miss Ryder. There’s only one group it could be.”
“How did you figure it wasn’t the Danturas directly, and that it was a separate group tied to them?”
“The same way you did, I assume. I realized Erik Cristescu wouldn’t have been so stupid. Whatever the reason behind Guy Lynch’s death, someone was willing to mix both their business with their tirade against Kendra Ryder. Cristescu wouldn’t have made that mistake.
“So, what else do we have? Simple, really. The plan to incriminate Melissa Hart would have had zero input from Erik Cristescu. He would have forbid it. Therefore, we have someone acting alone—someone wanting to make an offering to Cristescu by getting back at the person who put him away—someone close, but separate from Erik Cristescu.”
I looked at her with slight awe as I made an effort to sip the wine. It was as if I were talking to Ryder at this precise moment in time.
“I must confess,” she continued. “That I gathered I was hitting the right note as I watched your reaction. Something tells me you have somehow confirmed, at least to yourself, that you know this as truth.”
“How come you haven’t shared any of this with the FBI?” I asked.
She smiled behind her glass. “I think perhaps this is a fight you yourselves should win. I am somewhat romantic like that.” She put the glass down and laughed. “Of course, perhaps I just don’t believe they would take to it. Also, your friend needn’t be innocent. Perhaps she killed Guy Lynch after all, and is involved with said organization. Nothing I have said would give any authority reason to commit, only to inv
estigate. I would suggest that is why Miss Ryder has yet to say anything to you.” She smiled again. “Perhaps you are her authority, Ader.”
I disregarded that entirely. Ryder was her own authority.
“What do you mean they’ve investigated?” I asked. “You said you hadn’t told them about your theory.”
“Agent Gibbs has already questioned Erik Cristescu on account of Agent Cordell’s advice. They got nowhere. Curiously, Agent Cordell hasn’t turned up for work since—”
Her eyes fixed on me for a second. Like they were probing, as if she suspected I already knew of such a fact, and much more.
We went on for a few minutes and nothing of interest was said. I returned conversation, but I wasn’t at my most amiable. I was too involved with her analysis of the situation. It was simple in its reasoning, yet it made a lot of sense. She was capable of creating a play in her mind, much like Ryder.
We had took to looking out the third floor window, commenting on the world outside, when I noticed what looked to be an audio mixer inside one of her cabinets. When I pointed it out I said, “You listen to music?”
“Of course,” she said. “But that’s not what that machine is for. It’s something I use for my hypnotherapy sessions.”
“Oh—like, for quitting smoking and stuff?”
“Amongst other things. It’s my main area of expertise. I have many patients who come, simply to calm themselves. Some who wish to become more equipped mentally for life’s problems.”
I looked at it skeptically and she noticed.
“You should have a session some time.”
“Trying to say I’m not confident?”
She laughed. “Confidence is easier to portray more than it is to possess. I have worked with CEOs of big companies who rule their company like a king, and go home a shivering wreck. Though, I doubt you have that problem.”
She put a hand on my shoulder and took the empty wine glass from my hand. “I’m afraid I have an appointment in ten minutes,” she said. “Perhaps we could drink like this again, outside this office.”