Blood Trails

by Michael A. Black

  Shit, I was so outta shape back then, Dix thought, I probably had about as much chance of catching the bastard as I do scoring with that Carmel broad now.

  She’d been nice to him when they’d met to discuss the story. He remembered her eyes widening when he showed her a few select pages from the copycat file. They were pretty eyes, but he didn’t kid himself. It was only a business deal for her, a hot story. Dix knew that all he was to her was a source.

  On the other hand, if he could somehow solve this new case, it would mean big things. Maybe a second book—his book, this time—detailing how he’d cracked this new case, rather than that bunch of FBI task force clowns. Maybe it could be turned into a TV movie. That would get people to sit up and take notice.

  He swallowed the rest of the amber liquid, relished the residual burn, and set the glass down.

  Aww, hell, he thought. I still gotta catch this new asshole first.

  Colby was still mildly irritated by Pearson’s latest directive, “Report to the third floor of the Federal Building at three-thirty sharp for the afternoon briefing.”

  Three-thirty sharp. The Fed didn’t even use the twenty-four hour time designation. He was more civilian than law enforcement. Plus, the asshole had sounded so condescending on the phone: “I have no problem with you joining the task force as long as you can be professional. You’ll have to keep your personal feelings out of this investigation. But I want an assurance from you that you’ll not go to the news media again behind my back.”

  Colby felt like telling him to go to hell, but he didn’t. For one thing, his head hurt too much.

  “It wasn’t me,” he said.

  “Right.” Pearson added insult to injury by finishing with, “We’ll do our best to bring you up to speed when you get here. Then it’ll be up to you to keep up.”

  Bring me up to speed, Colby thought. I’ve forgotten more about homicide investigation than that guy ever learned.

  He wondered who had dropped the dime to Chicago Today. Regardless, things had turned out the way he wanted. He was now actively involved in this new case. Or should he say cases? Regardless, there was a monster loose using Colby’s book as a template for murder. Pearson was right. It was personal. But it was also something Colby had to do. He had to run this new killer to ground; he had to stop him. And this time, the guy was going to die in prison, like Laird should have.

  He pulled into the underground parking at the Federal Building off Dearborn and showed the security guard his badge. After a brief conversation, the guy raised the gate and waved him through. Colby parked in the first open spot he found, and took out the bottle of aspirin.

  How many had he taken since breakfast? He’d lost count. Shrugging, he popped two more into his hand and washed them down with the remnants of his cold coffee, grimacing at the taste. He looked at his watch: fifteen-forty.

  He remembered Pearson’s admonishment: “Be here at three-thirty sharp.” But, hell, traffic had been heavy. Plus, he didn’t need to explain himself to that stuffed-shirt Fed.

  He took his zippered case with the notepad and papers inside. The copycat case file was thick, but it would fit inside easily.

  I’m ready, he thought, as he went to the trunk and sorted through his briefcase, finding his notebook, a handful of case reports, but no copycat case file.

  What the hell had he done with it?

  His mind raced. When was the last time he’d had it? Pearson had given it to him yesterday. He’d started to peruse it once he’d gotten back to the office and remembered taking it with him when he met Dix at the bar.

  Dix, he thought. Maybe he knows where it’s at.

  As he walked across the expanse of cement toward the elevators, he checked his cell phone for Dix’s number. It wasn’t in his contact listings. Frustrated, he re-clipped the phone to his belt and pressed the button for the elevator. He’d look for the file later, certain now that he must have left it at home. Damn, his head hurt.

  Knox pulled up to the space nearest the motel office and got out of his car. A quick glance reconfirmed what he’d already noticed. The rented van was nowhere to be seen. He sized up the seedy establishment in the fading daylight as he opened the office door. A buzzer sounded and he saw an overweight, bald man, behind a thick Plexiglas window, glance up with a look of irritation, toss down the skin magazine he was reading, and push himself out of a cushy chair.

  This chump probably wouldn’t have a very good relationship with the cops, judging from the look of this dive, Knox thought, fingering the phony badge and ID in his jacket pocket. Better go with another angle.

  “Can I help ya?” the bald guy asked.

  “I hope so,” Knox said, taking out his wallet and letting the man see his New Genesis identification. “I’m with corporate security. I’d like to ask about someone renting a room here with one of our credit cards.”

  Baldy’s nostrils flared.

  “Look, I ain’t gonna give out no personal information to nobody. Not without some kinda warrant saying I have to.”

  What an idiot, thought Knox. If the Plexiglas hadn’t been there, he would have been tempted to collar the son-of-a-bitch and smack him around. But that wouldn’t accomplish the task at hand.

  “A warrant?” He took out a fifty. “How’s this one?”

  Baldy perked up when he saw the money. “Whatcha need?” He held his palm near the slot at the bottom of the thick glass.

  “The person who rented room fourteen,” Knox said, lowering the bill, but not releasing it just yet. “Can you describe him?”

  “Average looking kid, a bit on the thin side. Dark hair, kinda long. Maybe twenty, twenty-five. He done something?”

  “Perhaps,” Knox said. “You know his name?”

  Baldy’s face soured again, but the venal gleam in his eyes as he cast a surreptitious glance at the fifty told Knox that he had the asshole hooked.

  “When was this?” the Baldy asked, pulling out a box of file cards.

  Knox gave him the dates he’d gotten off Matthew’s credit card record. The guy flipped through the cards, and came up with an index card with several pieces of paper attached to it. One of them was a crude copy of Matthew’s driver’s license.

  “May I see that?” Knox asked. He pushed the fifty through the slot toward the bald guy, who grabbed the bill. After a quick check to see if it was real, the bald guy pushed the index card through the slot toward Knox.

  “I ain’t seen him today,” Baldy said.

  In addition to the copy of the driver’s license, the card had an imprint of the credit card and a license number scrawled along with “dark green van.”

  “Where is this vehicle now?” Knox asked.

  “The cops towed it,” Baldy said. “Got broke into last night. Somebody tried to steal it. Busted the window. See all that glass out there by the room? Now I gotta go clean that up.”

  “Why’d they tow it?”

  Baldy shrugged. “Couldn’t find the kid. Wasn’t in the room. The cops said it came back as a rental, so they towed it for safekeeping.”

  “Who towed it? What agency?”

  Baldy shrugged. “Ask the fucking cops.”

  Knox could almost see the light going on behind the dull eyes. Wheels were turning beneath that slick-skinned skull. Better end this quickly before he starts asking too many questions. No sense giving him more than he needs.

  “So what’s the story on this?” Baldy asked. “That card stolen or something?”

  Knox didn’t answer. He put the motel registry in his jacket pocket.

  Baldy’s eyes narrowed, “Hey, I needed that credit card info.”

  Knox removed some hundreds from his wallet. “I’ll take care of the bill now. How much is it?”

  “Thirty-nine-fifty a night. For five nights, including today. Plus tax.”

  Knox placed three hundreds into the slot on the counter.

  “You know,” Baldy said, “I’m supposed to keep that registration card by law.”

&n
bsp; Knox put another hundred on the counter near the Plexiglas slot.

  Baldy raised one eyebrow and asked if Knox if he was going to need a receipt.

  Knox shook his head and shoved the money through the slot.

  Baldy palmed the bills. “A pleasure doing business with ya, Mister.”

  Knox nodded.

  Chapter 7

  In the elevator Colby glanced at his watch again: fifteen-fifty. Close enough for government work.

  He smiled at his own bit of feeble wit as his temples continued to throb. Why had he drunk so much?

  If he hadn’t wanted to be part of this damn thing so bad, he would have just stayed on the elevator and ridden it down to the basement again and gone home.

  Fishing out the bottle of aspirins, he debated dry-swallowing two more. Maybe there’d be a water-cooler in the Feds’ office. Hell, there had to be. Just get in and out, as fast as possible. I’ll tell him the traffic was murder, he thought. Tell him I’m not feeling good. He just hoped he wasn’t going to have to explain the absence of the copycat file to Pearson.

  The doors opened and he moved down the now familiar hallway to the secretary’s station. She had apparently been expecting him because she grabbed a visitor’s badge and held it out as soon as she looked up.

  Colby worked on flashing what he hoped was a grateful looking smile.

  “Go right in, sir,” she said, indicating the frosty glass door behind her.

  Colby nodded—another mistake, another ache, but he covered well, strolling past her.

  As he got into the hallway he saw Pearson standing by an open office door. Despite his dark blue suit and power tie, he looked almost casual, with his arm stretched out and positioned against the corridor wall in a relaxed lean. He was jaw-jacking with some female in a dark jacket and matching skirt. Colby noticed that she had nice legs. A dark blue suitcase, with a retractable handle, sat on the floor next to them.

  Pearson looked up and frowned, straightening and making a point to be very obvious as he looked at his watch.

  This immediately rubbed Colby the wrong way, despite all his mental preparations, and he forced a big grin and a nonchalant wave.

  “Good afternoon,” he said. His head throbbed and his gut wrenched at the same time. He managed to freeze the smile and hold it.

  “It’s three-fifty-three, Detective,” Pearson said, still holding his watch arm horizontal for emphasis.

  Colby glanced at his watch and nodded, saying, “Mine must be a little slow. I’ve got fifteen-fifty-one.”

  He noticed the woman turn toward him. Brown hair pulled back into a French braid, dark brown eyes, with a hazel cast, and a face that could only be described as angelic. In other words, a babe.

  “Regardless,” Pearson said, dropping his arm to his side, “we’ve concluded the briefing for today.”

  That rubbed Colby the wrong way, too. Even if he was a little bit late, he’d sort of busted his ass to get there. Couldn’t the federal prick at least give him a thumbnail sketch?

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Colby said, regaining some of his composure. He still needed to be part of this, and didn’t want to have to explain how he pissed-off the special agent-in-charge on the first day. Kropper would shit if he heard that, and so would Mannion.

  “I’ll bet you are,” Pearson said. “But there is something I need to talk to you about.” He turned to the woman. “Detective Labyorteaux, would you mind waiting in my office for a few minutes? Or better yet, there’s a break room down the hall and to your right.” He pointed behind them. “I’ll join you there in as soon as I’ve finished briefing Detective Colby here.

  Detective? Was she some kind of copper?

  He noticed the suitcase and figured she must be from out of town.

  Wouldn’t mind working a case with her, he thought as he watched her get up and walk down the hall pulling her little, blue suitcase-on-wheels behind her. Pearson cleared his throat and stepped briskly into his office.

  Colby followed, checking out the decor. Several dark wooden bookcases crammed with law volumes, were opposite a big desk. It was made of the same wood as the cases. Nice veneer. Everything on the desk was arranged in neat stacks and perfectly aligned. An obvious reflection of the man behind it: totally anal.

  Colby remembered hearing once that an organized desk was the sign of a small mind. God, his head ached.

  Pearson sat in his padded, leather swivel-chair, and indicated the hard wooden one in front for Colby. Behind the desk, the wall was covered with framed letters and certificates: the National FBI Academy, an FBI Certification as a VICAP Specialist, Special Operations Commendations, and one stating that Marion Steven Pearson had successfully completed two investigations in hostile territories.

  Marion? Christ, no wonder the guy was so anal-retentive. Colby questioned the veracity of the commendations, too, as he eased his tired ass onto the hard chair.

  He figured preemption was the best technique with someone like Pearson.

  “Look,” he said, “I’m sorry about being late. I got tied up on an interview, and then the boss called and—”

  Pearson cut him off. “I didn’t bring you in here to discuss that. The briefing was truncated for another reason.”

  His tone was terse. Something was up. Had there been another copycat murder?

  “There’s been a new development,” Pearson said. He leaned forward, placed his elbows on the desk, and tented his fingers.

  Colby’s headache was throbbing, full force. “Are you gonna tell me?”

  Pearson’s lips pursed and he dropped his hands.

  “In due time,” he said. “First, I want to make something clear.” He paused, obviously seeking the maximum effect of withholding the knowledge. Colby noticed the man’s Adam’s apple bob quickly. He’d swallowed hard. This dude was nervous.

  “I received a call from my section leader today, telling me that you were coming on board the task force,” Pearson said. “I expressed some reservations, but, nonetheless, it was presented as a fait accompli.”

  Whatever the hell that means, thought Colby.

  Pearson canted his head ever-so-slightly, as if trying to adopt an expression of superiority. “It seems that my boss received a call from a Deputy Superintendent, who assured him what an asset you’d be to the investigation.”

  Colby smiled at that. It still hurt, but the aspirins were starting to take effect.

  “And,” Pearson said, “I did agree that you would add a degree of depth to the task force. However…”

  Here it comes, thought Colby.

  “Deputy Superintendent Man-ni-on.” Pearson took special care in enunciating each syllable. “I assume you know him?”

  Colby nodded. “He’s a real copper’s cop.”

  “Whatever,” Pearson said. “He convinced me—against my better judgment, I might add— to include you in this task force. But let me emphasize that the Bureau has the lead in this one. Your Deputy Superintendent is totally behind me on that.” He paused to stare at Colby. “In other words, I am in charge.”

  “Certainly,” Colby said, nodding.

  This seemed to take Pearson by surprise. He’d obviously been expecting to lock horns. Colby’s passive approach had thrown the Fed off his game. It was sort of like counterpunching. “All that said,” the FBI man continued, “I want to reiterate that I will not stand for any undisciplined heroics, unauthorized stunts of any kind, or someone not following my orders. Understood?”

  Colby thought about asking if disciplined heroics and authorized stunts were permissible, but he merely nodded. His head hurt too badly to think about any more repartee. He just wanted to get the hell out of there, find a familiar hole, and crawl inside. He’d worry about finding the damn missing file and getting up to snuff tomorrow.

  “Is that it?” Colby gripped the arms of the chair and started to get up.

  “No, it isn’t.”

  Colby let himself sink back down.

  “I believe I men
tioned the new development,” Pearson said. “The one that caused the briefing to be canceled.”

  “You did.”

  “It has to do with someone leaking information about the investigation to the press,” Pearson said, his lips twisting into a frown. “I want to make it clear that no information—absolutely no information—is to be released to any press personnel without prior approval from me.”

  “No problem,” Colby said, but Pearson’s stare indicated there was more.

  “And that includes Ms. Carmel Washington,” Pearson said with a measure of disdain. “The host of Chicago Today. You know her, don’t you?” He added this last question very quickly.

  Colby shrugged. “I wouldn’t say I know her. She interviewed me about my book a few days ago, is all.”

  Pearson’s eyebrows rose. “Oh? Are you sure that’s ‘all?’”

  Colby straightened up. “Meaning what, exactly?”

  “Meaning, that someone’s been feeding her inside information.”

  “What kind of information?” That had to be what Mannion had talked about.

  Pearson’s lips compressed into a little pout. “Information about some of the murders, and the formation of this task force.” He paused “As I said, we’ve got a leak. Someone with an ulterior motive.”

  “And you think it was me?”

  The FBI man arched his right eyebrow. “I’ll bet it would sell a lot of your books, wouldn’t it?”

  Colby resisted the urge to get up, tell Pearson to go fuck himself, and storm out of the office. Instead, he used another counterpunch.

  “Hey, you’re right. I hadn’t thought about that,” he said, rubbing his chin and grinning. “But, I didn’t do it.”

  The two men sat in silence, facing each other over the Spartan desk. Colby was used to staring people down, the benefit of a thousand interviews. He wasn’t about to lose this one.

  Finally, Pearson blinked and looked away. “I’m not saying you did.” His voice was tentative, hesitant. “My point is that we all have to be on the same sheet of music regarding the press. We have to be extremely careful about what we release, and when.”

  “That’s standard procedure in any homicide investigation.” Colby held the stare a moment more, then added, “I hate dealing with the press, anyway.”