by Rivers, Mal
“And your agency didn’t. Instead, you wasted time chasing a motive that revolved around psychopathy, and proceeded to discard that when you began to chase Melissa. Tell me, how was it you came to change your view finally?”
Gibbs looked back at Johns and Mantle. “Ideas inside the FBI and BI have always been split fifty-fifty. My partners here, along with Agent Cordell, impressed on me that Melissa was probably framed. And, it was Dr Cassandra Bishop who came to me today with the theory we are now talking about. But, like I said, I think—I know you knew earlier.”
Ryder frowned. I couldn’t quite tell whether it was at Gibbs’ implication, or the mention of Cassandra.
Ryder tilted her head toward the window and said, “We are each at peril for suppressing surmise. You cannot reproach me for merely keeping my suspicions to myself. If every single person in America was held responsible for withholding assumptions that would later prove valuable, the courtrooms would be vastly overworked.”
Gibbs didn’t have a reply for that. She redirected herself to the main point at hand. “So, what is to be done?” she said.
“You’re asking me?” Ryder said.
“We need to put this to bed tonight. Even if San Francisco manage to arrest this gang or whatever, it’s no good unless we can pin the murders to certain individuals, with proof. If we approach this half heartedly the press will shout conspiracy and cover up till the cows come home.”
“I am not responsible for what the press think,” Ryder said. “Regarding the murders before Guy Lynch—I suspect they were used to such effect to divert any attention away from the gang’s activity.” She looked to Sully. “It would be pointless to ask if they connect to Gillham and Mane, as clearly that would have surfaced beforehand, but, do any of them have any connection to companies of a similar nature?”
I was a little surprised she was asking this outright, as it might have given too much away, specifically, the fact that Guy Lynch was the Cross Cutter. Although, I had to wonder if that mattered anymore.
Sully nodded. “Victim five was found in an unused warehouse right on the west coast, which supports the theory right out, seen as the operation is allegedly focused there. Maybe that was one of their storage points. Someone walked in on it, so they killed her and had to vacate. Also, victim number six was a truck driver from state to state, and when I checked with the company he worked for, he had a delivery the night he died for, you guessed it, Gillham and Mane. As for the third, Jake Segal, the one with the second stab wound—he was a mailman. But, according to the post office, even though he worked in Anaheim, he never delivered mail to Gillham and Mane. His route was several blocks short of it or something. His girlfriend seemed insistent he was happy and wasn’t in any kind of trouble.
“Some of the others worked for productive companies that have both storage space and ship out goods, but that’s thin at best. The first two murders, however, don’t come in line at all. Number one was an unemployed lowlife who didn’t even leave the house. He just drank himself to death, while his brother was sent down for possession—heroin. Two months later, he was the Cross Cutter’s first victim.”
“What happened to the brother?” Ryder asked.
“Still in jail. I know you said the first murder would be significant, but I don’t see it. The guy didn’t work or go out. Maybe it was the heroin—maybe he bought from the gang and owed them, I dunno. Lot of folk seem to think it was his and that the brother took the blame for him.”
Ryder nodded for Sully to continue.
“Second is a similar story really. Motel owner who never ventured further than the local gas station. Although by rights I reckon he deserved it. Word was he had a little blackmailing scheme on the side. Used to video tape the guests and—well, you get where that leads.”
“Thank you, Sully,” Ryder said.
“That’s pretty much what we have,” Gibbs said. “Nothing to tie anyone to anything.”
“Quite,” Ryder said. “But once you understand the two key murders amongst those seven, everything else becomes mere background.”
Gibbs stood back and kept her arms folded. She glanced at me, and then at Johns and Mantle.
“If you have anything,” she said, “I want it now.”
“No,” Ryder said. “This must be done right, and the only suggestion I have is to wait until tonight. Be at my beach house. It will be a profoundly late affair, but once you can confirm the arrests have been made on that nameless gang, I can tell you who killed whom and why.”
“But, why—” Johns said.
“Nonsense.” Ryder wagged a finger. “Tonight.” She looked at me. “Ader, have all the members of Gillham and Mane present Monday night, present tonight.”
35
Gibbs tried to object twice, but realized it was useless. Both she and Johns couldn’t understand why Ryder was intent on delaying the process until nighttime, or why we wanted Gillham and Mane to be present, the reasons for which seemed obvious to me. Whatever Ryder was cooking, she wanted it to seem quite innocent. She wanted the members of Gillham and Mane to think it was an update of some kind. While it was true Andonian was already at odds with us, he had no idea we knew about their operation. If someone like Graham Rudd got the idea we had linked the firm to Andonian’s gang, he might tell them—blowing Special Agent Swanson’s operation to bits.
Gibbs left, but Johns and Mantle stayed two minutes to ask us about Huntington. This was tricky, as we didn’t want anything relating to twelve years ago to be common knowledge, and we were sure certain people in certain places didn’t either, so we dodged the question. They may trace Huntington and come up with something, but we saw no reason to give them a head start.
When the room was agent free, Sully spoke.
“I didn’t say anything about Nora Klyne, the seventh victim, just in case you didn’t want Gibbs to know Guy Lynch was the Cutter. Anyway, she worked for a competitor in Sacramento—she had the same job title as Lynch. Which I thought could make sense, seen as it was apparent the killer might have known Nora Klyne. It wasn’t a giant leap to think Lynch and Nora Klyne may have crossed paths somehow, at a trade show or whatever. So I checked various avenues out, and found they used many of the same people in their work. Consultants, agencies and the like. They both went to the SES Expo in San Francisco last year too. I’ll go to hell if they never met each other at some point.”
Ryder nodded. “Nicely done, Sully.”
“What do we do now?” I asked her.
She groaned. “I discharge myself from this hospital.”
“The doctor won’t like it.”
“Pah. I’m perfectly fine.”
At 9AM, we left against the doctor’s wishes. Sully drove off, still using the rental from yesterday, while I helped Ryder into the passenger seat. I left the door open, and took two steps back.
Ryder frowned and said, “What is it?”
“Just checking something,” I said. I knelt down and tucked my head beneath the underside of the car, not really knowing where to look. It took a few minutes, and if I wasn’t so sure of my search, I’d have given up, but after running my finger across the underside of the trunk, I felt the object I was looking for. I brought it out and showed it to Ryder.
“The devil is that?” she said.
“Pretty obvious, isn’t it?” I said.
It was a GPS tracker, almost the size of a pager. Quite primitive in its design. It had been attached tightly with duct tape.
“Explains a few things,” I said, throwing the object into the backseat. “Of course, they already know where we live, and I’m not going anywhere, so it makes no difference.”
“Pah. I am sure Andonian has bigger things on his mind today. Drive.”
The office was a state. Perhaps it was in spite, but it looked like the FBI and company hadn’t even bothered to clean up.
The first thing Ryder did was scurry over to the aquariums. She groaned as she sat at the stool. She traced her free hand across the fron
t of the glass and mumbled something about food and the water line. I didn’t particularly care. I was more interested in the coup she was planning tonight.
A few minutes of her eccentricity and she recalled she was still dressed in that ridiculously baggy hospital shirt, the reason for which was the sling. The hospital had no buttoned shirts, so the best they could provide was that shirt. She moved toward the hall to head upstairs and change.
“Do you need help?” I asked sarcastically.
She returned a frown and said, “Don’t be absurd.”
“What’s the harm? I already know about the scars now.”
“Pah.”
While she changed, I poured a glass of orange juice and took it over to my desk. I sat, and noticed a message had been left on the phone. I played it back, and sank back as I heard the voice. It was Melissa.
“Hey, it’s me. Just calling to say I’m fine. Don’t worry—Kacie is with me. Wish I had money, though. I’m a bit broke…”
That was it. Short and sweet. The answer machine took the message at 9PM last night. Her voice sounded troubled, but I suppose that was understandable. Quite what she and Kacie were doing, I had no idea. The point that Kacie could very well be the crooked FBI agent under Andonian’s thumb was still feasible, yet, I wasn’t worried about it. I’m usually a good judge of character. Well, there was Midge the Vulture, but I’m trying to forget that ordeal. I went into that with the wrong attitude. Kacie wasn’t a snake. It would take someone as clever as Ryder to keep something deep hidden from me. Something I realized when I saw her scars.
Ryder came downstairs, wearing a fully buttoned blouse and her blazer complete with the sling, and a new set of earrings.
“Where’s Sully?” I asked.
“On an errand.” She fumbled with a cup of coffee at her desk. “Curse this injury.”
“Forget the injury. What do we have to do before tonight?” I said.
She managed to take a sip before saying, “The desired outcome requires a little cajoling from various perspectives. My only real interest is to prove to the members of Gillham and Mane who killed Guy Lynch. But, given how committed we are with the FBI, we will also have to explain the previous murders. However, the difficulty lies in making it convincing, without mentioning any of the events that took place twelve years ago.”
I snorted. “I’ll say. Surely that’s impossible. The only reason I came to the conclusion that the Cutter was Guy Lynch was because of what happened twelve years ago—not to mention your scars. How the hell do you plan to establish he did it without that background? There’s no proof.”
“I’m not interested in proof. Indeed, I am not too interested if I fail to establish it directly, it’s more about foundation. I can’t really begin to explain Guy Lynch’s murder without first explaining the first three murders.”
“Why not?”
She sighed. “Like I said, foundation. The first three murders tell the whole story.”
“I thought you said the seventh was important.”
“That was different, before we knew the true nature of the murders.”
“Go on then—” I swiveled my chair round and sat back.
“The information was all there for you a few hours ago, when Sully gave his report. The reason as to why Guy Lynch went back to killing after all those years—”
I recalled Sully’s summary about the lowlife and the blackmailer and have to admit, I was stumped.
“Why would Lynch kill him?” I asked.
“Because it was a trigger. Think about it; the lowlife brother who lets his loyal and submissive brother go to prison for something of his own doing. Doesn’t that sound oh so familiar? What would happen if Guy Lynch, in whatever scenario you can imagine, heard that story from the man himself? Wouldn’t he be enraged—not solely at the man, but at himself too?”
I leaned forward and my eyes tightened a little as I tried to process the thought. “So—Lynch killed him because it reminded him of his own crime. Not necessarily the murders he committed—but the fact he let his own brother take the fall in Afghanistan. So, what was it, recompense or self hate? We’re going down the psychology line again.”
She held a finger up. “I’ll stop you there. No need to dwell on it.”
“How does that explain why Guy Lynch was killed, though?”
“The third murder,” she said. “As I said, the information is there. But, I have to consider it. All I will say for now is that it’s more than likely Guy Lynch didn’t want to be a serial killer again. No doubt God will never forgive him, but I believe he was originally searching for penance.”
36
It was approaching 9PM and the party was about to begin. Sully was nowhere to be seen, yet Ryder seemed unconcerned. Melissa wasn’t here to help set up the chairs either, and Ryder seemed unconcerned about that as well.
At this very moment in time, my mind was kind of a wash. I’d figured out half of what was going on, but I really had no idea what Ryder had planned, or why, for that matter, she was doing it like this—a farce right out of a detective novel. It was only later on that I realized the importance of meeting here at such a time.
As the first guests arrived, Ryder was sitting in her chair, as elegant as a sling would let her appear. She had regained her physical strength, although, her face looked a little pale. Most importantly, she possessed that aura—the one she has before she’s about to pull something off. Every ten seconds she’d crack a grin and tap the desk with her fingers. Some people get a rush from different things, that’s all I’ll say. I only wish being shot at would make her feel the same way.
The agents arrived first. Special Agent Gibbs of the FBI, Johns and Mantle of the BI. The lack of Hacket and Bloom pleased us, and later I learned the BI had taken them off the case.
Ryder greeted them, and invited Gibbs to sit at the black leather chair, to which she declined, but Ryder insisted.
Ryder looked up at me, and said, “Ader, I wish to discuss something with Agent Gibbs, could you perhaps attend to any guests and allow them to make use of the living room? Agents Mantle and Johns, if you don’t mind? I assure you, the living room is most comfortable.”
I didn’t bother questioning it, and neither did Mantle and Johns. I sat them down and avoided any conversation as the bell rang. The five people from Gillham and Mane had arrived, plus one visitor I wasn’t expecting, Cassandra Bishop. She looked as striking as ever. No competition between herself and Ryder now, seen as she didn’t have her arm in a sling. The other five didn’t look as good. Some were tired and some were irritable. And while I didn’t know exactly what was unraveling, there was of course one man whose days were numbered; Graham Rudd. By the look on his face, he knew it.
“Good evening,” I said spiritedly. “Miss Ryder will be with you shortly. Please have a seat in the living room.”
A few of them mumbled on their way in but I wasn’t really listening. I was more interested in their reaction to seeing BI agents present.
Cassandra Bishop stood by the main door and adjusted her hair, and took off her glasses. “I was hoping to see you at a social gathering, but this isn’t what I had in mind,” she said.
“No kidding. Why are you here?” I asked.
“I received a call from Agent Gibbs a few hours ago. Apparently, Miss Ryder requested my presence.”
Ah, I thought to myself. Yet again, Ryder was trying to be foxy. Considering both she and Cassandra had come to the same conclusions, it seemed likely Ryder wanted a seconder to whatever answer she would be proposing tonight. And it didn’t hurt that person was a qualified psychiatrist.
The door to the office opened and Agent Gibbs nodded at me.
“Okay, everyone, Miss Ryder will see you,” I said.
I let the crowd hustle into the office. Agent Gibbs vacated the black leather chair, so I gave it to Darren Bromme, CEO. The others sat at either side on the wooden chairs. The two female lawyers, Laura Harles and Robyn Faith, sat to his left, while Graham
Rudd and Doreen Sharp sat to his right. Gibbs, Mantle and Johns stood next to my desk as agents do; hands by their sides with straight backs. I offered them my sofa, but they declined, so I gave it to Cassandra and sat with her. Ryder looked at me out of the corner of her eye, and I saw one side of her mouth sag, but she corrected it.
She addressed everyone firmly. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen.”
“What is this?” Rudd said. “I thought this was an update. Why is the FBI here?”
It was obvious Rudd was shaken. He leaned forward nervously and tried to stare Ryder down, to no effect.
“I must admit, this is somewhat improper. It has been nearly a week and you spring this on us without any real notice,” Bromme said.
Ryder tilted her head slightly and began proceedings. The orange light from the lamps in the corner gave her short, coal black hair a tinge of fire. “Oh, come now, sir, that is somewhat childish. Why have you yourself not contacted me since Monday? I’m sure you know it’s because you never really cared. I must confess, I provoked you into acquiring my services, but I had no idea you would be so detached to even feign interest.”
“You provoked us?” Doreen Sharp said. “You offered your services. We are here because we wanted to be.”
“Nonsense,” Ryder said. “None of you want to be here. And the devil’s truth is, neither do I. This farce that has surrounded not only your company, but myself, cannot end quickly enough.”
“What do you mean, surrounded our company?” Bromme said. “One of our employees was murdered—”
Ryder shook her head and looked at me. “I do not have the will to break this gently,” she mumbled, and then turned to Bromme. “This will be disagreeable for all of you, but here it is: your company, Gillham and Mane, is indirectly involved with a criminal organization, that we do not have a name for, but is closely related to a Romanian gang known as the Danturas.”
This was met with vitriolic rebuttals, but Ryder waved them away and pressed on.