Hour Game

by David Baldacci

  She smiled, waved and headed over.

  They drew their crafts up to his dock and secured them.

  On the houseboat King fixed coffee while Michelle took out an energy bar from her fanny pack and started to devour it. She looked around the well-organized interior.

  “You know, this boat’s almost bigger than my cottage,” she observed between bites.

  “And it’s far neater, I know,” he said, pouring out juice and coffee.

  It had been two days since their interview with Lulu and Junior. They’d reported back to Harry Carrick, who seemed pleased with their progress but had in turn informed them that the grand jury had, not surprisingly, indicted his client. They’d tracked down the man who had installed the secret drawers in the Battles’ closets. He was elderly, retired, and seemed to have no earthly reason to break into his former clients’ home. That had seemed a dead end until King asked him when Robert Battle had asked for his secret drawer to be installed.

  The old man had looked a little uncomfortable at that. “Don’t like keeping secrets from folks,” he had said. “Mrs. Battle is a fine lady, none finer in my mind.”

  “So Mr. Battle didn’t want her to know about it?” prompted Michelle when the old man seemed disinclined to continue.

  “Sneaking in and out when she wasn’t there, didn’t like it, no, sir,” he said, avoiding directly answering her question.

  “Any idea why Mr. Battle wanted that drawer installed?” asked King.

  “Didn’t ask because it wasn’t my place to,” he said stubbornly.

  “Around what time period was that?” Michelle inquired.

  The man took a minute to consider this. “Must’ve been about five or so years ago. Put Mrs. Battle’s drawer in a few years before that.”

  King mused for a moment and then said, “And Mr. Battle knew about his wife’s hidden drawer?”

  “Don’t know if he did or not. Hear he’s near death’s door.”

  “You never know with a man like that,” replied King.

  They’d checked out the alibis of all of Junior’s friends. The men were either in a bar drinking at the time or sleeping with their wives, girlfriends or mistresses. The ladies could have been lying, of course, but it might be hard to break their testimony without a lot of digging, and in each case King had sensed they were telling the truth. Anyway, none of Junior’s friends seemed remotely capable of carrying off such a burglary and setting up Junior so cleverly in the process. Their expertise seemed limited to driving nails, drinking beer and bedding women.

  “Are you going to live on this houseboat the whole time while you’re rebuilding?” asked Michelle.

  “I don’t have much choice.”

  “My cottage has an extra bedroom.”

  “Thanks, but I don’t think my neatness gene could survive.”

  “I’ve gotten better.”

  “Better! The last time I was there you had everything from water skis to shotguns piled on a card table in your dining room, a stack of dirty laundry in the kitchen sink and unwashed dishes on a chair in the living room. You served dinner on paper plates on a wakeboard resting on two chairs—a first for me, I assure you.”

  “Well,” she said in a hurt tone, “I thought you’d appreciate that I cooked for you. Do you know how many cans I had to open?”

  “I’m sure it was a true ordeal.”

  He was about to say something else when his cell phone rang. It was Todd Williams. The conversation was brief, but when King clicked off, he looked badly shaken.

  “Another murder?” asked Michelle as she set down her coffee and looked at him.

  “Yes.”

  “Who was it?”

  “Somebody I happened to know,” he said.

  CHAPTER

  24

  THE BRUTAL MURDER OF

  Diane Hinson had not set very well in her posh, gated and supposedly safe community. When Michelle and King arrived there, a small yet vocal crowd of angry folks had surrounded several beleaguered men in suits representing the management of the upscale compound. Also in the middle of this siege was an elderly security guard who appeared so distraught he looked ready to cry.

  Police cars and other emergency vehicles lined the pipestem road to Hinson’s home, and a yellow police tape barrier stretched across the small strip of grass in front of the home, not that many people were inclined to take a peek. Uniformed officers came and went through the front door and garage. King pulled to a stop and he and Michelle got out.

  Chief Williams waved to them from the front stoop. They hurried to meet him and then all three went inside.

  If possible, Todd Williams looked even more miserable than he had at the morgue. Gravity seemed to be sucking the lawman right into the earth. “Damn,” he said. “What I did to deserve this, I don’t know.”

  “There’s been a positive ID on Hinson?” asked King.

  “Yeah, it’s her. Why, do you know the lady?”

  “It’s a small town, we’re both lawyers.”

  “Did you know her well?”

  “Not enough to be any help with the investigation. Who found her?”

  “She was supposed to be at work early this morning, preparing for a deposition or something. When she didn’t show, people from her firm called her house and cell phones. There was no answer. They sent someone over. Her car was in the garage, but no one answered the door. They got worried and called the police.” Williams shook his head. “This is the same guy who did Tyler, Pembroke and Canney, no doubt about it.”

  Michelle picked up on the confident tone in his voice. “Did you receive a letter about the high school kids?”

  Williams nodded, pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and passed it to her. “Here’s a photocopy. Damn newspaper sat on it because it was addressed to Virgil and he was out of town. Apparently, not one single person over there thought to open it. And they call themselves reporters! My ass!”

  “Was it in code like the first one?” asked King.

  “Nope, that’s just as we received it. And no symbol on the envelope.”

  King said, “So there goes the Zodiac theory.” He looked at Michelle. “What does it say?”

  Michelle scanned the letter and began reading: “Okay, one more down with others to follow. I told you the first time I wasn’t the Z-man. But you’re probably thinking that kid bit the dust under the Z’s hand. Think again. I left the dog collar behind because the dog didn’t make me do it. I don’t even have a dog. I wanted to do it all by myself. And no, I’m not him either. Until next time, and it won’t be long. Not SOS.”

  She looked up at King with a puzzled expression.

  “Dog collar? And the dog made me do it?”

  “You’re showing your age or lack thereof, Michelle,” replied King. “SOS and the dog made me do it. That’s Son of Sam, David Berkowitz, the New York City killer in the 1970s. He was dubbed the lovers’ lane killer because some of his victims were young dating couples killed in their cars.”

  “Lovers’ lane, like Canney and Pembroke,” said Michelle.

  Williams nodded. “Berkowitz said his neighbor was some sort of demon who communicated his orders to kill through his pet dog. Crock of shit, of course.”

  King said, “But our guy knows exactly what he’s doing. He said so.”

  Michelle broke in. “But I’m not getting this. Why commit murders in similar styles to past killers as a copycat would and then write letters making it clear you’re not them. I mean, imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, right?”

  “Who knows?” said Williams. “But he killed those two kids.”

  King stared at the chief and then looked at the letter again. “Wait a minute. He didn’t say that. He says ‘one more down.’ ”

  “Don’t split grammatical hairs with a psycho,” complained Williams. “He just lumped them together is all.”

  “Look at the letter again; he also uses the singular: ‘kid,’ not ‘kids.’ ”

  Williams scra
tched his cheek. “Well, maybe he just forgot and left off the last letter. It could be as simple as that.”

  “If it was intentional, which kid is he talking about?” asked Michelle.

  Williams sighed deeply and then pointed up the stairs. “Well, come up and see this. I don’t think it’ll clear anything up, though. And I don’t need a damn letter to tell me who he’s not trying to impersonate this time.”

  They made their way up the stairs and entered the bedroom. Diane Hinson remained where she’d been killed. There was a blur of activity in the room as forensic techs, police officers, men in FBI windbreakers and Virginia State Police homicide investigators attended to the business of preserving the crime scene and absorbing every valuable morsel from it. If their hollow looks were any indication, however, helpful clues were apparently very hard to come by.

  King observed Sylvia Diaz in one corner in deep conversation with a beefy man in an ill-fitting suit. She looked up, gave him a weary smile and then turned away. When King’s gaze caught on the symbol on the wall, he jerked back.

  It was a five-pointed star but drawn upside down.

  “Yep, same thing I did.”

  He turned to see Williams staring at him. The police chief bent down and lifted Hinson’s shirt. “And it’s here too.” They all studied the drawing on the woman’s belly.

  Michelle had seen the symbol on the wall as well. “It’s an upside-down pentagram,” she said. She drew in a sharp breath and looked at King and Williams. “That one I know. Richard Ramirez, right?”

  “The Night Stalker,” said King, nodding. “Who, unless I’m mistaken, currently resides on death row almost three thousand miles from here. He drew an upside-down pentagram on some of his victims, and also on walls of at least one of his victims’ bedrooms, just like here.”

  Williams turned Hinson to the side, and they all looked at the multiple bloody stab wounds covering her back.

  “Sylvia says it looks like she was held facedown, stabbed in the back and then presumably turned over and her hand wedged against the bureau drawer.”

  The lawman laid her back down without any indication that he might soon forfeit his breakfast. Williams’s resistance to nightmarish sights seemed to be growing stronger.

  “Any clues?” asked Michelle.

  “The killer used a knife from her kitchen to stab her and telephone cord from one of her phones to bind her. There are marks on her wrists that show that. But he took off the restraints to prop up her arm. There are lots of prints in here, but I’d be real surprised if the bastard wasn’t wearing gloves.”

  “And we’re sure it’s a man?”

  “No sign of a struggle. She was overpowered pretty quickly. And even if a woman did that maybe with a gun in hand, it’d be a little risky to tie her up. Hinson might have been able to get the upper hand. She was in great physical shape.”

  King looked puzzled. “And no one saw or heard anything? These are attached residential units. Somebody had to have seen or heard something.”

  “We’re looking into that, of course, but it’s too early to tell. We do know that the unit to the right of Hinson’s was for sale and empty.”

  “When was she killed?” asked Michelle.

  “You’ll have to ask Sylvia that, if that FBI fellow will let her go.”

  King glanced over once more in Sylvia’s direction. “Is he with VICAP?”

  “To tell you the God’s honest truth, I’m not sure. I’ve had so many people in here I don’t know who’s coming or going.”

  “Todd,” said King, “make sure you don’t say that within earshot of a defense counsel.”

  Williams looked confused for a moment and then said, “Oh, right, gotcha.”

  They went and looked at the watch.

  “It’s set to four o’clock,” said Williams miserably.

  King bent down and took a closer look. “No, it’s not.”

  “What?” exclaimed Williams.

  “It’s set to one minute past four.”

  Williams knelt beside him. “Come on, Sean, I think under the circumstances that’s close enough.”

  “This guy’s been pretty precise up to now, Todd.”

  Williams looked skeptical. “He’d just killed a woman and wanted to get out as fast as possible. He’s probably operating in the dark. Unlike with the other crime scenes, he’s smack in the middle of lots of potential witnesses. In his rush he probably just didn’t notice he was barely one minute off.”

  “Maybe,” said King with equal skepticism. “But a killer who’s careful enough not to leave any usable trace behind doesn’t strike me as the sort to write ‘kid’ when he really meant ‘kids’ or set a watch to four-oh-one when he meant four.”

  “Well, if he did mean to make it one minute past, why?” asked Michelle.

  King had no answer for that. He looked down at the dead woman for a long moment as Williams went off to check something else in the room.

  Michelle put a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Sean, I forgot you knew her.”

  “She was a good person and a fine lawyer. And she sure as hell didn’t deserve this—not that anyone does.”

  As they walked past Sylvia on their way out, she stopped them. The man in the suit had joined another group hovering over the body. He was a little shorter than King but thicker and very strongly built; his shoulders seemed to be splitting out of his suit. He had thinning brownish-gray hair, cauliflower ears and a boxer’s flattened nose resting between two intense brown eyes.

  Sylvia said, “Well, number four and counting. The Night Stalker. Who would have thought?” She shook her head.

  “Who’s the guy you were talking to?” King asked.

  “FBI agent. Chip Bailey, from Charlottesville.”

  “Chip Bailey?” King said slowly.

  “Do you know him?” asked Sylvia.

  “No, but I think I’d like to.”

  “I can arrange something. Later, of course. People are pretty busy right now.”

  “That’s fine.” He paused and then added, “Did you note the time on the watch?”

  Sylvia nodded. “One minute past four. Like Pembroke’s.”

  “What?” King and Michelle said together.

  “Pembroke’s watch was set to one minute past two. Didn’t I tell you that?”

  “No,” said Michelle, “and neither did Todd. He seems to think it was close enough to discount any significance.”

  “What do you think?” King asked her.

  “I think it’s important. I just don’t know why.”

  “Anything else jump out at you?” asked King.

  “I did a rectal temp on Hinson, after I checked for evidence of sexual assault, of course; that turned out negative. She’s been dead eight to nine hours. There are twelve stab wounds, though.”

  Michelle picked up on the tone in Sylvia’s voice. “That equals overkill.”

  “Yes. It also equals rage,” said Sylvia. “There were no defensive wounds on her hands or forearms. She was obviously surprised and quickly overpowered.”

  She picked up her bag and nodded toward the door. “I’m heading back to the office. I’ve got patients to see, and then I’ll do the post on Hinson.”

  “We’ll walk out with you,” said King.

  They headed out into brisk air that was being quickly warmed by the sun.

  “I meant to ask you, how’s your investigation coming with Junior Deaver?”

  King glanced at her in surprise. “How’d you know about that?”

  “I ran into Harry Carrick at the grocery store. I told him you two were looking into these murders, and he told me you were doing work for him. I still can’t believe Junior Deaver could have done it. He’s done work at my house. I always found him very courteous and accommodating, if a little rough around the edges.”

  “We met with Remmy, Eddie, Dorothea and Savannah and the household staff.”

  “And didn’t get too far, I’m sure,” noted Sylvia.

  �
�Remmy’s really torn up about Bobby,” said King.

  “I heard he was in very bad shape.”

  “Well, there’s hope,” said Michelle. “He recently regained consciousness, even spoke, but he just rambles apparently; he’s not really coherent, just spouting off names and such. But still that’s a