Final Sins

by Michael Prescott

  He did. “Sit down.”

  “Sorry. Got a date with a cop.”

  “Sit.”

  She relented. Now she was the one wearing a smile. “Feeling more cooperative?”

  Faust regarded her coldly. There was no merriment in his eyes any longer, merely infinite disdain.

  “I had thought I would like you, Miss Sinclair, at least insofar as it is possible for me to like anyone. But I was mistaken. I detest you.”

  “I’m crushed.”

  “You are ... common.”

  “And you’re sweating just a little. Which is uncommon—for you. Tell me about Brody.”

  “There is nothing to tell. I know no more about him than what I told you on our first meeting.”

  “That’s your story, and you’re sticking to it?”

  “It is the truth.”

  She was pretty good at reading people. She didn’t think he was lying. “So you never meant to kill him?”

  He hesitated. “Had you given me his address ...” His shoulders lifted. “I will not mislead you. The man was frightening Elise. And I do feel rather protective of her. Killing him would have disturbed me not in the least. But I never had the chance. Someone else, it appears, did my work for me.”

  He spoke the last words while looking right at her, leaving no doubt whom he took to be the culprit.

  Abby tried a new tack. “Who recommended my services?”

  Faust shook his head, confused by the switch of topics. “How can that datum possibly be relevant?”

  “Let me worry about the datums—I mean data. Just give me the name.”

  “I prefer not to.”

  “Why not?”

  “It is a matter of honor.”

  “You don’t have any honor. You’ll have to come up with a better excuse.”

  “I was pledged to secrecy. I will not betray a confidence.”

  “I can still go to the cops, Petey.”

  “Do you imagine you are intimidating me? You are merely a distraction.”

  “Yeah, you’re looking fairly distracted, all right.”

  “You bait me, goad me. You seek to exploit my perceived weaknesses. You remind me— It is no matter.”

  “Who do I remind you of?”

  He waved a long-fingered , hand, as if swatting a fly in slow motion. “An FBI agent who interviewed me a few years ago. She also tried to—how do you say it?—get under my skin. She failed, just as you have failed.”

  “Tess McCallum.”

  “Why, yes.” He looked pleased. “It appears you have done your homework on me, after all.”

  “Funny you should bring up her name right now.”

  “Is it? Why?”

  “Because she’s the law-enforcement contact you mentioned. She’s the one who told you about me.”

  Faust laughed, a hearty, robust sound that instantly deflated her suspicions. “Agent McCallum? That is scarcely plausible. We did not exactly, shall I say, hit it off. There was no kismet, I am afraid. And how ever would she know of you, anyway?”

  Abby ignored the question. So it hadn’t been Tess. “If not her—who?”

  “I will not say.” He folded his arms across his chest, a classic signal of defiance. “This is what happens, Miss Sinclair, when the irresistible force meets the immovable object.”

  “All right then.” She stood up again.

  Faust managed a theatrical yawn. “Off to see your friends in the police department?”

  “Not exactly. You going home after this?”

  “I expect to, yes.”

  “Good. Stay there.”

  “Why should I do this?”

  “You’ll see.”

  She left the cafe, climbed into her Miata, and drove to another coffee shop in the neighborhood, one that wasn’t so weird. She didn’t want coffee. The place was a Wi-Fi hot spot. She booted up her laptop and jumped online, tracing the name Elise Vangarten. It took only a couple of minutes to track down the modeling agency that employed her.

  Faust had said Elise was at work. The question was: Where?

  Abby called the agency and represented herself as Elise’s roommate, who needed to get in touch with her because someone in Elise’s family had taken ill. “She must have turned off her cell, or the battery’s dead. I can’t get through. Can you tell me where she’s working today?”

  The receptionist probably wouldn’t have given the information to a man, no matter what his cover story. But a woman seemed safe. There were advantages to being a member of the fairer sex.

  Elise was doing a photo shoot at an address in the Valley. Abby knew the neighborhood—a less-than-upscale corner of Sylmar. It seemed like a funny place for a photography studio. She said as much.

  “Oh, it’s not a studio,” the receptionist explained. “They’re shooting in a graveyard.”

  Of course they were.

  28

  “All right,” Hauser said as he steered the Bureau LTD out of the federal building’s underground garage, “here’s the story. Try to keep up.”

  Tess, in the passenger seat, judiciously ignored the advice. She focused on stowing her laptop, nestled in its carrying case, on the floor of the car. It was the only item she’d removed from her Camry in the parking lot. Unlike the underground garage, the outdoor lot wasn’t secured, and there would be hell to pay if a Bureau computer was stolen.

  “We’ve wanted to get Faust for a long time, as you know. He was a serious suspect in the murder of Roberta Kessler three years ago. But we could never tie him to that crime or to any of the others.”

  She looked sharply at him. “Others?”

  “Over the years there have been at least a dozen homicides that match Faust’s MO. I’m talking about young women—sometimes teenage girls—who turn up dead, dumped in a park or landfill, with the head and hands removed. In all cases there are signs that the victim was held captive for some period of time. Minimal food product in the digestive tract, evidence of dehydration, things like that.”

  “Were all these victims local?”

  “They’re all over the map, or at least the western states. L.A., Frisco, Santa Fe, Seattle. If they’re the work of one guy, he’s mobile.”

  Tess nodded. Multiple jurisdictions across state lines would provide a legitimate basis for FBI involvement. “Mobility wouldn’t be a problem for Faust,” she said.

  “No, it wouldn’t. And as I said, the victimology and MO are his. But without something more definite, we can’t prove anything. Faust published all the details of his crime, so we can’t rule out a copycat. Or it could be a coincidence. There are practical reasons, after all, for leaving a body without identifiable features. And with the sheer number of homicides every decade, you’re going to get some apparent similarities that don’t mean anything.”

  “But you don’t believe that.”

  “No, I don’t. I think Faust is our man. I think sometimes he works close to home, like with Roberta Kessler, and other times he takes a trip.” Hauser tightened his grip on the steering wheel. “The thing is, a man like him doesn’t just stop killing. He doesn’t wake up one morning and decide he’s not a homicidal maniac anymore. You know what these guys are like. If they’ve committed one sexually motivated, ritualistic murder, they’ll commit others. They’ll keep on honing their craft until they’re caught.”

  Tess thought about it. “There ought to be something we can do. Match his travel records to the dates of the victims’ disappearances, for instance.”

  “Tried that. No luck. Either he drives everywhere and pays cash for his hotel rooms, or he has some other way of getting around.”

  “Private plane?”

  “He doesn’t own one. If he’s borrowing someone else’s, they’ve both kept quiet about it.” Hauser shook his head, dismissing this line of thought. “Anyway, we got frustrated with the lack of progress regarding Faust, so recently we decided to turn up the heat.”

  “Who decided?”

  “It was my idea. Took some lob
bying before Michaelson approved it. He doesn’t necessarily share my concern about Faust. He thinks it’s possible the guy was a one-shot killer. I know he’s not. And I always said I’d get that coldhearted bastard if it was the last thing I ever did.”

  He looked away, perhaps embarrassed by his vehemence. So the operation was his brainchild, his baby. Perhaps his one last chance for redemption after the dressing-down he received for Medea.

  And now Abby had entered the picture—again. And spoiled everything for him—again.

  “Anyway,” he went on, “ I got the green light. I initiated WEREWOLF.”

  “Say again?”

  “It’s the code name for the operation.”

  “I’ll bet you came up with it.”

  “We had to call it something.” There was a touch of asperity in his tone.

  “I assume this is where Brody comes in.”

  “That’s right. He was assigned a deep-cover role. Before joining the Bureau he was a Special Forces operative. Those guys know how to improvise under pressure. How to adapt to changing circumstances. Brody was one of the best.”

  “How well did you know him?”

  “Well enough. He did some security work in Iraq after he left the service. Developed quite a reputation.”

  “Security work? For who, the CIA?”

  “For us. We have counterterror operatives in Iraq, Afghanistan—all over the Middle East.”

  “He was contracted to the Bureau?”

  “Yes. But not officially.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “He needed the leeway to do things his way. No questions asked.”

  “So he was a private operative drawing a Bureau paycheck?”

  “Drawing a paycheck that could never be traced to the Bureau. It’s all about deniability. We couldn’t know too much.”

  “You seem to know a great deal.”

  “That’s because I was supervising him.”

  “You were in Iraq, too?”

  “Among other places. Until a year ago I was stationed overseas. I came out of military intelligence—which is not an oxymoron, no matter what anyone says. I joined the Bureau in 1987 and worked stateside for years. But after nine-eleven, when we made counterterror a top priority, I was reassigned to the Middle East. With my background, it only made sense.”

  “But you’re home now.”

  “Got rotated out.”

  “And Brody? How long had he been back?”

  “More than a year. Long enough to obtain official Bureau status, buy a house in the Valley, and get his wife knocked up for the second time.”

  “He had a wife.” Tess closed her eyes.

  “And a baby boy. He met Patricia in Turkey. She was working in an embassy there, staff position. The kid was born here in the U.S., while Brody was still in Baghdad. He was looking forward to being there when his second child was born. I guess it wasn’t meant to be.”

  “He was your friend,” Tess said quietly.

  “He was a good man. His loss ... well, it’s a big deal.”

  “Losing any agent is a big deal.” Tess was thinking again of Paul.

  “Obviously. But Brody was something special. I would have bet he could handle anything. Apparently I was wrong.”

  They were silent for a moment, listening to the hum of the sedan’s tires on the road surface. Tess asked, “What exactly was Brody up to?”

  “He rented a guesthouse in Faust’s neighborhood. His job was to stalk Faust—basically go wherever Faust was planning to be.”

  “That’s all? Just stalk him?”

  “No, the stalking was only part of it, the least important part. It was meant to rattle Faust—assuming the cold-blooded son of a bitch can be rattled. The main thing was blackmail.”

  Tess wasn’t sure she’d heard correctly. “Blackmail?”

  “Brody was planning to make contact with Faust and claim to have evidence linking him to Roberta Kessler. He would threaten to go to the police unless he was paid off. The idea was to intimidate Faust into making the payment. That would constitute an admission of guilt. Then we’d bring him in and put pressure on him to confess.”

  “Why bother with the stalking? Why not just approach Faust right away with the blackmail demand?”

  “Our behavioral analysis guys said it would work better like this. Faust is the ultimate hard target, psychologically speaking. Brody’s job was to soften him up. That’s why he was working so hard to get in Faust’s face as often as possible. He wanted to keep the pressure on. He even shadowed Faust’s girlfriend. We wanted him to be a man of mystery, a guy who’s always there, always one step ahead, but who fades back into the crowd if you try to get near him. It was all psy-op stuff. It could have worked. It should have worked.”

  “How long was Brody going to play with Faust’s head before making his move?”

  “Originally, at least a month, but we learned something yesterday that would have accelerated our timetable. LAPD forwarded a report on the disappearance of a street kid known as Raven, real name Jennifer Gaitlin. One of her street friends last saw her going with a guy who drives a gray or silver BMW sedan. Faust drives a gray BMW 550i.”

  “How long ago did she disappear?”

  “Ten days. Unfortunately, her friend didn’t make the report immediately. He finally told a social worker at a shelter. The report was passed on to us as a possible kidnapping.”

  “If Faust has Jennifer ...” Tess said.

  “Then her time is limited. Faust kept Emily Wallace alive for just two or three days. Our behavioral guys think he may be extending the period of captivity, trying to get more and more out of it. So there’s a slim chance Jennifer Gaitlin could still be alive. Brody was going to move against Faust today or tomorrow. If Abby Sinclair killed him, then she may have cost Jennifer her life.”

  “You could still get a search warrant for Faust’s residence—”

  “After the LAPD fiasco last time? I don’t think so. And the witness’s story isn’t good enough for a warrant. There are a lot of gray or silver BMWs in this town.”

  “You could get a warrant based on Brody’s homicide. Faust has to be a primary suspect.”

  “Until you showed up, he was the only suspect. But your info has given us a whole new investigative thrust. Now I guess maybe Faust didn’t pull the trigger, after all. Maybe he doesn’t even know Brody’s dead. It looks like your girlfriend did it all.”

  “She’s not my girlfriend. And we don’t have to tell a judge about Abby. We can get the warrant based on reasonable suspicion—”

  “It’s not going to happen.”

  “Why not?”

  “It just isn’t.”

  Tess began to understand. “What role are the police playing in all this?” she asked slowly.

  Hauser hesitated, then seemed to decide it was too much trouble to evade the question. “Zero,” he said.

  “How is that possible?”

  “The last time the LAPD got involved in an investigation of Faust, it was leaked to the media and became a major embarrassment. This time we’re keeping it under wraps.”

  She couldn’t believe the local authorities hadn’t been informed. “Do they know about Brody’s murder? About the dead body in the guesthouse?”

  “They don’t know a damn thing. The Bureau is handling it.”

  “Yes, you seem to be handling it real well.”

  “Maybe you think you could have done a better job. I might remind you that the operation was proceeding as planned until our undercover man got killed. And it may very well be your friend who killed him.”

  “How many times do I have to tell you she’s not my friend?”

  Hauser turned to her. His face was hard. “Say it as often as you want. You’re the one who worked with her on two previous investigations, without authorization and against protocol. You’re the one who sold out the Bureau—and your integrity.”

  She met his gaze. “Michaelson told us not to let personal animos
ities get in our way.”

  “Michaelson’s not here right now. Is he?”

  29

  The key in the lock.

  The door, opening.

  Raven barely raised her head to see him enter. She had no strength, no will. She was past caring what happened to her, past caring about anything. Let death come. It didn’t matter.

  Then he was standing over her, staring down at the bed where she lay. His face was different than she had seen it before. He had always looked so composed, so unflappable. Now he was angry.

  Angry at her? She couldn’t imagine why. But if she had made him mad somehow, maybe he would finally kill her and get it over with.

  “There you are,” he said in a curiously hushed voice. “Waiting for me, as I knew you would be. I am so pleased to see you.”

  He wasn’t mad at her, then. That was too bad. It meant she might have to live a little longer.

  He reached down, stroked her hair. She didn’t shudder or pull away. His touch no longer repulsed her. She felt nothing.

  “You respect me, Raven, I know. Or you fear me, and this is far better. Sinclair neither respects nor fears.”

  Raven didn’t know who Sinclair was, but evidently this was the person he had come here to forget.

  His hand strayed to the gag around her mouth. He fingered it lightly, making no effort to remove it. “I am afraid, my dear, that I cannot permit the use of your voice during today’s visit. The reason shall become plain. There is a certain ritual, a rite of passage, that we must perform.”

  Ritual. The word ought to have frightened her, but like everything else it was distant and unimportant.

  He moved away from her, crossing the room to the cabinet against the far wall. He opened one of the two doors, leaving the other closed. From inside the cabinet he brought out a tool of some kind, with a rubber-coated handle and a long power cord. He plugged the cord into a wall socket.

  “You should not look on this as punishment,” he said. “It is an honor to be marked with the wolfsangel. It is the sign of the wolf, that most noble animal, the beast that is my totem. The sign of the werewolf, as well. You are perhaps familiar with this creature only through your vulgar horror films. But the real werewolf is not a B-movie actor in greasepaint and crepe hair. It is the synthesis of man and animal, which produces the most perfect predator.”