“My client, Quinn Cole,” Graeme said. “Founder of Body by Quinn, but he sold out. Made a bloody fortune—not your kind of fortune, mind you, but enough to live pretty damn well.”
Bruce nodded and kicked off his loafers, letting them fall to the wooden deck next to the lounge chair. “So, what does Quinn want with Koda?”
“Wish I knew,” Graeme said. “He won’t tell me. All I know is that Quinn and Koda spend a lot of time up in that room—the one you found me in.”
“Is that why you were up there?”
Graeme shrugged sheepishly. “Besides working out and watching the tube, there’s not a whole lot to do here.”
“Other than snooping around my son’s business.”
“Like you, you mean?” Graeme said.
Bruce took another swig of his beer. “Yeah, maybe so, but it’s my house.”
“Got me there, mate,” Graeme said, polishing off his beer. “You mind tossing me another coldie?”
Bruce handed Graeme another beer, his fifth. Bruce was one behind now, not that it was a competition.
“Ever wonder how our lives would be different?” Graeme asked. “You know, if…”
“If what? If you hadn’t gotten around Tank and made that tackle?” Bruce asked.
Graeme nodded.
“Not for a god-damn second,” Bruce said. “Now, ask me if I’ve wondered about who shot the laser in my eyes—and then in Tank’s—I’ve thought about that…”
“What are you going on about?” Graeme said.
“Someone in the stands blinded Tank with a laser,” Bruce said. “That’s how you got to me. Hell, that’s the only way you would have ever gotten to me with Tank covering my blindside.”
“Are you crazy?” Graeme said. “There wasn’t any laser. I beat Tank around the outside, fair and square.”
“Oh, you think so?” Bruce said, pulling himself up off the lounge chair. “Come on, I’ll show you.”
Bruce rewound the film reel and let it play a third time. “Well?”
“Jesus,” Graeme said. “All these years I thought—hell, my entire career was based on that play. And you never figured out who did it?”
Bruce shook his head.
“What about Tank?” Graeme asked. “What does he say?”
“You don’t know, do you?” Bruce said.
“Know what?”
“We’re going to need more beer.”
LYNCHBURG, VIRGINIA
OCTOBER 13, 2007
Newt and Maggie got up when the alarm sounded at 3 a.m. and threw their clothes on. “I can’t believe I’m hungry,” Newt said as he slid on his Sperry Topsiders and grabbed his blue bureau-issued windbreaker with the letters FBI on the back in yellow.
“You’re always hungry,” Maggie said, glancing down at the Topsiders. “Those aren’t regulation. You know that, right?”
Newt shrugged. “We’re driving around in a car, Mags. It’s not like I’m going to be chasing someone on foot.”
“You never know,” Maggie said.
“Yes, I do,” Newt said. “I’m an analyst. I don’t run. Ever.”
Newt and Maggie drove around the Lynchburg area for the next three hours, checking the parking lots of every truck stop and roadside highway rest area on or near the major routes that ran around and through the city.
They also checked the main campus parking areas of Lynchburg College off Route 221, Sandusky Park in the nearby Turtle Creek area, Miller Park and Spring Hill Cemetery off Fort Street, the Chestnut Hills Shopping Center off the Lynchburg Expressway Business Route 29, and finally the area around Liberty University between Routes 501 and Route 460.
Newt checked his watch. It was nearly 7 a.m., and he’d moved from being merely hungry to totally ravenous. “Hey, look, there’s a Food Lion over there. Let’s pull in and see if they’re open.”
Maggie reluctantly steered the Quattro into the Food Lion parking lot and hit the brakes.
“What?”
Maggie said nothing, merely pointed through the windshield. There, at the far end of the lot, sat four identical Chevy Express vans.
All four vans were white.
“Which one of us wants to radio it in?” Maggie asked.
Newt knew it was Maggie’s call to make. “The honor is all yours.”
Pipi Esperanza’s helicopter landed in the parking lot of the Lynchburg Police Department on Court Street a few minutes after 10 a.m., where she was met by three people wearing three very different facial expressions.
Maggie was all smiles, having pulled off an amazing feat of analytical perfection in the apprehension of the target suspects in just under thirty-six hours.
Newt’s face was emotionless, wanting only to complete the task at hand so he could return to Quantico and go back to finding The Leg Collector and the other five active serial killers he was tracking.
Pipi glanced down at Newt’s feet. “You know those aren’t regulation, right?” Pipi said.
“I tried to tell him,” Maggie said, shooting Newt a look.
The final person was the local police chief, who didn’t like the way the FBI had thrown its weight around since the apprehension of the gypsy band—even if it had been the FBI’s leg work that identified the suspects in his backyard.
“Did you separate the king from the rest of the band?” Pipi asked the chief.
“I know you’re supposed to be some kind of big shot up there in Quantico,” the police chief said. “But down here in Lynchburg, when you come over that river, you’re—”
“Let me guess. You’re a big fan of the movie First Blood,” Pipi said.
“As a matter of fact, I am,” the chief said.
“Well, you must have never watched it all the way to the end,” Pipi said. “Newt, tell the chief how the movie First Blood ends.”
“Which part?” Newt asked. “The part where the entire town blows up, or the part where the city loses its federal funding?”
“Come with me,” the police chief said, releasing an exasperated breath. “He’s this way.”
For most people, sitting in a cell for three hours with nothing to do would seem like an eternity. To Loiza—who hadn’t slept in over five hundred years—it was just another day.
The door to the holding cell swung open, and Pipi Esperanza entered. Loiza tilted his head to the side, listening carefully. He heard nothing.
Pipi listened but didn’t hear anything either.
“This is unexpected,” Loiza said.
“Not for me,” Pipi said. Pipi took a seat at the table opposite Loiza and pointed to the camera in the corner. “Don’t worry. I had them turn it off.”
“Who are you?” Loiza asked.
“My name is Pipi Esperanza,” Pipi said, pulling her ID from her pocket and laying it on the table.
Loiza eyed the ID. “I see we’re moving up in the world.”
“Who do you mean?” Pipi said. “Women? Latinos?”
“No, I mean ghosts.”
“Let’s start with who killed the boy,” Pipi said.
“What boy?”
“Bad start,” Pipi said. “You do know that the cover up is always worse than the crime.”
“Is it really? So my covering up the killing of the boy is worse than the crime of the murder itself?”
“Was that your way of saying one of your band did the crime, and all you did was help him get away with it?”
“The man has been dealt with,” Loiza said.
“Dealt with how?”
“He was tried in the Kris by a jury of his peers,” Loiza said. “He was found guilty and dealt with in the most permanent way possible.”
“Did you know?”
“That he was taking children?” Loiza asked. “No, I never even suspected. Believe it or not, we do live by a code.”
“Who? You gypsies?”
“No. We ghosts.”
Pipi nodded and pulled herself to her feet. “Yes, we do. Don’t we?”
“So, is that
it?” Loiza said. “Am I free to go?”
“Only on two conditions,” Pipi said.
“Being?”
“First, this never happens again,” Pipi said.
Loiza nodded. “You have my word.”
“And, second, you and your band find legitimate work—no more of this, scamming little old ladies out of their money doing bad home repair and the like.”
“I see,” Loiza said. “Are you familiar with the story of the golden nail, Agent Esperanza?”
“No,” Pipi said, “But I’ve got an idea I’m about to.”
“The tale is about the young gypsy boy who saved the life of Jesus,” Loiza continued. “As the story goes, there were four nails planned for use at Jesus’s crucifixion. Two nails were used for his hands, one nail driven through each, a third nail driven through both ankles to hold his feet in place, but there was a fourth nail most people don’t know about.”
Pipi raised her eyebrows. “A fourth nail, huh?”
“Yes,” Loiza continued. “A fourth nail, which was made of gold, intended to be driven through Jesus’s heart. But the night before the crucifixion, a young gypsy boy snuck out and stole the golden nail—so only three nails remained. Then God appeared. The boy was frightened because God had caught him in the act of thievery. But to the boy’s surprise, God told the boy that by stealing the nail he saved Jesus from having the nail driven through his heart. And from that moment forward, in exchange for the boy’s good deed, God allowed the gypsies the right to steal whatever they wanted, from whoever they wanted, for all time.”
“Well, God is very forgiving and good about stuff like that,” Pipi said. “I don’t work for God. I work for the FBI.”
CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA
NOVEMBER 21, 2010
Have you got something you want to tell me?” Bruce asked as he entered the fitness room and approached Koda, who was in the middle of his afternoon workout session with Quinn and Graeme.
Koda remained silent, something he’d learned to do whenever his father was in attack mode.
“Okay, fine,” Bruce said. “Go ahead and play stupid.”
“Maybe we should leave the two of you alone for a bit?” Graeme said. “Quinn and I can finish outside with some wind sprints. Right, Quinn?”
“No,” Koda said. “Whatever this is can wait until we’re finished.”
Bruce shook his head and exhaled. “Thirty minutes, my office,” Bruce said, then turned and left.
“What’s that about?” Quinn asked.
Koda ignored Quinn’s question and resumed doing his crunches. “Forty-six, forty-seven, forty-eight…”
“There you go, mate,” Graeme said. “Maybe we should have daddy come down here and piss you off more often.”
Koda stepped out of the shower and glanced at the clock. It had been forty-five minutes since his father had exited the gym in a huff. Good, let him stew, Koda thought.
Bruce was on the phone when Koda arrived and watched as his son lowered himself in the chair on the opposite side of the desk. “I’ll have to call you back,” Bruce said and hung up.
“Don’t stop making money on my account,” Koda said. “We’re the Mulvaneys. We can never have enough money.”
“That’s funny coming from you,” Bruce snorted. “You’ve got a problem with making money all of a sudden? You don’t seem to have any problem spending it.”
“What do you want?”
“I saw the mirror in the upstairs guest room,” Bruce said.
“Oh.”
“Oh? That’s all you’ve got to say?” Bruce asked. “I thought we agreed you were going to put this nonsense behind you and get back to work.”
“You’re right, Dad,” Koda said. “I don’t know what got into me. Oh wait, I remember—I died, and then I ran into Dane.”
Bruce closed his eyes and shook his head. “You what?”
“You see? That’s the problem,” Koda said. “I can’t tell you anything because—”
“You’re fired,” Bruce said.
“What?”
“I’m letting you go,” Bruce said. “I need a reliable right-hand man in the office, and it’s obvious you have no intention of being that person. You had multiple chances, Koda, but—as of right now—you’re out.”
“What’s next? You want me to move out and get my own apartment?”
“No,” Bruce said. “But if you’re going to stay here, I want you to knock this mirror shit off, once and for all. And I expect you to be useful.”
“Useful? You want me to take out the garbage? Mow the lawn maybe?”
“I need your help with the Restoring Savannah Foundation dinner,” Bruce said.
“No way. I want nothing to do with Mika,” Koda said. “Mika is nuts in case you haven’t figured that out yet. She’s attacking people with hot pie—and maybe worse, if you believe the news.”
“Mika’s no longer involved with the foundation,” Bruce said. “The entire event has been dropped in my lap now. We’re going to hold it here—at the mansion—at the end of next month.”
“Fine,” Koda said as he pulled himself to his feet. “Anything else?”
Bruce shook his head.
Koda took a few steps toward the door then turned back. “You know how we’ve always wondered if mom is dead? Well, I can lay that question to rest once and for all. She is.”
Koda was leaving Bruce’s office when he was approached by Stormy Boyd. “There’s something I need to discuss with you, Koda,” Stormy said.
“Right now isn’t a good time,” Koda said.
“I’m afraid this matter is time sensitive,” Stormy said. “It involves your friend, Robyn.”
“What about Robyn?” Koda said.
Stormy pulled an envelope from his jacket pocket and handed it to Koda. Koda opened the envelope and removed a sheet of paper. “What is this?”
“Those items were listed on eBay by someone who claims they belonged to you,” Stormy said. “Are they yours?”
Koda shrugged. He wasn’t sure. The items looked familiar—a blue Bugatti shirt, a red-and-gray striped Armani necktie, a Montblanc pen—but they could have belonged to anybody.
Then Koda looked at the next item, and his eyes went wide. “Son of a bitch. Those are the cuff links my grandfather gave me for graduation. How did you know about this?”
“It was mentioned in the celebrity gossip section on TMZ’s website,” Stormy said. “A lot of things on the Internet are fabricated, but I thought it best to check it out.”
“TMZ? What in the hell are you doing checking me out on TMZ?” Koda asked.
“Your grandfather didn’t hire me to protect the house, Koda,” Stormy said. “He hired me to protect you, your father, and himself—in that order. It’s my job to be proactive—to detect threats to the family. It’s my job to know everything.”
Koda nodded. “Were you able to find out who the seller is?”
“Yes,” Stormy said. “That’s why I waited until Robyn left before—”
“Are you saying Robyn knows the seller?”
“No, Koda,” Stormy said. “I’m saying Robyn is the seller.”
NEW YORK, NEW YORK
NOVEMBER 22, 2010
Olympia finished taking off her makeup and doing her nighttime hair-care routine. Spraying oil sheen on her hair while it was still damp and then dividing it into individual sections and braiding, using small hair bands to hold the ends. Then she wrapped her head in a silk pillow case and climbed into bed. Maintaining her signature Afro was work, but it paid the bills.
Olympia grabbed the TV remote and scrolled down to see what was on HBO.
Ah, True Blood. Perfect.
Olympia wasn’t in love with the show—but she did have the hots for Eric Northman. Played by Alexander Skarsgård, Eric Northman was one super-yummy hunk of good-looking white meat. Strong facial features, six-pack abs, ocean-blue eyes, and sharp vampire teeth, she wouldn’t mind letting the man sink into her—
&
nbsp; What in the hell was that?
Olympia sat up and listened. Then she heard it again. It sounded like glass shattering in the other room.
Olympia stood up and grabbed the baseball bat she kept near the side of the bed.
BAM!
“Okay, whoever is out there,” Olympia yelled. “You’ve got three seconds to get your ass out of my—”
BAM! BAM! SMASH!
It was obvious that the intruder wasn’t going to go away. Olympia tightened her grip on the bat, took a deep breath, and charged into the living room.
There was no one there.
Olympia went to the front door and checked knob. It was locked.
Then Olympia saw the broken picture frames and shattered glass on the floor by the mantle. Every picture was of herself and Nathaniel. The others had remained untouched.
“Nathaniel, did you do this?” Olympia called out.
There was no response.
“Nathaniel!”
Still nothing.
But Olympia didn’t need a response to know it was him. “Quit being a child, Nat,” Olympia called out.
Olympia decided to leave the pictures where they were. She could clean up in the morning.
Olympia tossed the bat on the sofa. When she got to the bedroom door, any remaining doubt that Nathaniel was the culprit was gone.
Written on the wall above her bed were three words:
Find My Killer.
LYNCHBURG, VIRGINIA
OCTOBER 13, 2007
Newt and Maggie were sitting in the chief’s office, drinking surprisingly good coffee. It wasn’t as good as what came from their home espresso maker, but it wasn’t bad—for a police station.
The door swung open, and the chief of police entered. “Well, looks like she’s letting them go.”
Newt and Maggie exchanged glances. “No, that’s not possible.” Newt said.
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