At seven thirty, she walked into the kitchen to refill her mug. Before she could pour the hot chocolate, her doorbell rang. She squinted at the clock and wondered who it would be this time of morning. She walked to the door and saw a large, dark figure standing on her porch. Robby.
“You’re here early.”
Robby walked in and gave her the once over. “You look like you didn’t sleep last night.”
“Not true. I slept about four hours.”
Robby smirked, then reached out and touched her hair, pushed it off her face and behind her ear. A gentle brush, a tentative, nonthreatening gesture to test the waters. “You doing okay?”
She shrugged. “I’ve had better years.” She wanted him to reach out and take her in his arms, to hold her and tell her it’s all going to be all right. She needed his company, his strength, his support. They stared at each other, her mind willing him to reach out to her. Instead, he stood there, seemingly reading her face like a closed book. You usually know what I’m thinking. Why can’t you sense my thoughts now?
As if she had spoken aloud, he reached behind the small of her back and drew her close. She melted into his body, squeezed him tightly. Seconds dissolved into minutes. She didn’t want to move, to lose the feeling. It had been too long since she had felt the extreme desire for a male body, for someone she truly wanted to touch and feel and explore and become totally absorbed in.
He bent his head down and with his index finger, tilted her chin back. His full lips met hers, two pillows coming to rest against one another. He pulled back and she slowly opened her eyes. She didn’t want the moment to end. She looked at him, desire gripping at the sleeves of his sport coat.
“I can’t stay.”
“I know.” She released him and straightened her nightshirt. “Come by later?”
“If you want.”
“I want.”
He was silent a few seconds, then said, “Okay.” He brought his hand out from behind her back. He was clutching a thick envelope. “Oh, almost forgot. I brought you a present,” he said, handing her the package.
She tore it open and pulled out an overstuffed file folder. “What is this?”
“Copy of everything the task force has in its Dead Eyes file. Copies of the photos are not as good as the real pictures, but at least you’ve got something to work on.”
Vail, still standing with Robby in the entryway, quickly thumbed through the file. She smiled, again feeling part of a team. “Tell Bledsoe I said thanks.”
“Will do. We’re going to lean on Hancock this morning. Bledsoe called in some favors, got a couple of techs to work through the night. They found some interesting stuff back at Linwood’s place that might help us turn him.”
“For Linwood or Dead Eyes?”
Robby shrugged. “You tell me.”
Vail put a hand on her hip and walked down the hall. She turned and came back, looked up at Robby. “For Linwood, it’s possible. Affair gone sour. He’s pissed, takes her out. Does a Dead Eyes copycat to throw attention in a totally different direction. As for him being Dead Eyes, I’d have to give it more thought. In some ways he fits the profile, in some ways not. He’s bright and organized, right age range and ethnic background, drives the right type of power car. I don’t know about his art background, family history, or upbringing. Some of that we can get through his Bureau application.
“But one thing that stands out is that he’s injected himself into the investigation by having Linwood place him on the task force. That’s common with organized offenders. It’s a means of control, of checking in on where the investigation is. Can’t get a better finger on the pulse than being named to our team.” She nodded slowly. “Be good to see if he was even in the area and alibied at the times of the murders.”
“Sin’s on it. I’ll see about either getting his personnel file from Gifford or ask him to have a look around inside himself.”
“Good. Why don’t—” The phone’s electronic bleat sent her into the kitchen to answer it; it was Cynthia from CART with the lab’s analysis of Vail’s hard drive.
“I’ve got good news and bad news,” Cynthia said. “First, I’ve got a guy working on the sender’s name, G. G. Condon. But we both know that’s going to be a dead end. However, because the offender sent the message to you at work, it was stored on the Academy server. That’s the good news. From what we’ve been able to determine, the way this self-destructing email works is that it sends its message with a tracking number embedded in its source code. Unbeknownst to you, he sent another message simultaneously to our mail server, which also got downloaded into your inbox; it looked like an identical copy of message number one, so you probably ignored it. But its source code was different. The effect was like a ticking time bomb; message two contained simple instructions that identified the tracking code on message one, which triggered a self-destruct countdown as soon as you read it. At the predetermined time, message one “dissolved,” to use an inaccurate but descriptive term, into its digital components—ones and zeroes. The message literally vanished.”
“Great.”
“Actually, it is. We were able to recover the message and routing information, including the second message that erased the first.”
“Let’s cut to the chase. What’d we learn from all this digital skulking?”
“Your message originated from a cybercafé in Arlington.”
“Arlington.” She wondered if Kim Rossmo had finished the geographic profile yet. Would Arlington fall within the offender’s geographic range? “If we have the time stamp on it, we can check their security cameras to see who was in the café at that time. They do have security cameras, don’t they?”
“That would be too easy,” Cynthia said. “Either the offender got lucky or he’s smart.”
“He’s smart. Very smart.”
“Then I’m afraid the only thing you can do is stake out the place, see if he comes back.” Vail’s shoulders slumped. “We don’t even know what the guy looks like.”
“Even if you did, there’s no guarantee he’ll use the same cybercafé.”
“He won’t,” Vail said with resignation in her voice. “We need to find some other way of tracking him.”
“That’s your neck of the woods. We decrypt and unlock secrets, report the info to you. You guys get to have all the fun.”
Vail had another word for it but thanked Cynthia and hung up. After relaying the information to Robby, she said, “Why don’t you go find out what forensics came up with. Meantime, I’ll spend some time with the file.”
He placed a hand on her cheek, then turned and walked out.
forty-one
“He’s coming up the path,” Robby said. Everyone scattered, as if a pebble had been dropped in a pond. Robby pretended to have just arrived and started removing his jacket as Hancock walked through the door. He nodded casually at Hancock, then took his seat.
Bledsoe sauntered in, tossed a few papers onto Sinclair’s desk, and stopped in front of Hancock. “You doing okay?”
Hancock shrugged a shoulder. “I wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t called me.”
“We had some stuff to go over. Lab findings. I thought you’d want to get back in the saddle and help us out. We sure could use it.”
Del Monaco, sitting at Vail’s desk, reclined in his chair, observing Hancock’s demeanor, body language, and speech patterns. Sinclair, Manette, and Robby all tried to busy themselves with paperwork, though they each kept an eye on Hancock’s movements.
“Yeah, sure. Help any way I can.”
“Good. Get me a copy of your CV, I’ll circulate it at the station, see if anyone knows somebody who needs a security chief.”
Hancock’s eyes narrowed. “You’d do that for me?”
“Why not? You’ve been very helpful with this investigation. You’re the one who came up with the artist interpretation of the blood murals. I think that’s going to turn out to be significant. Even Karen didn’t think of that.”
&
nbsp; Hancock frowned. Perhaps mentioning Vail’s name was a mistake. But a second later, he reached into his leather attaché and removed a stapled document. “It’s up to date,” Hancock said.
Bledsoe took the papers, then mumbled, “You’re definitely prepared.”
“Hey Blood,” Manette interrupted, “I got a theory on Linwood. Don’t know if it’s got anything to do with Dead Eyes, because it could just be a copycat, but I was thinking.”
“Spill it,” Bledsoe said. It was an invitation for everyone to join the discussion.
“Well, I figure that if the husband’s alibi holds up, the first thing we should look at is the senator’s private life. You know, was she doing a stud on the side.”
Bledsoe turned to Hancock. This was Bledsoe’s interrogation. He would ask most of the questions directed at their prime suspect. “What do you think, Hancock? You were her security chief. Did she have anything going with anyone?”
Hancock twisted his neck a bit, freeing it from his tight collar. “Senator Linwood having an affair? Absolutely not. She was happily married, far as I could tell.”
“Yeah, but hubby wasn’t around much. Maybe that presented an opportunity. Or a need.”
Hancock shook his head. “Not that I saw. She had her reputation to protect.”
He had made a good point. Why would Linwood risk it? “What if someone had something on her, some deep secret, and this was her way of keeping him quiet.”
Hancock shrugged, looked away. “I wouldn’t know anything about that. Guess it’s possible.”
Bledsoe nodded slowly. “So nothing happened between the two of you.”
“Me?” Hancock leaned back in his chair, as if he were trying to fend off the accusation by putting distance between himself and Bledsoe. “Absolutely not. My job was to guard her, not bone her.”
“Well, you failed, then, didn’t you? I mean, your job was to guard her, but she ended up dead. And you happened to leave just when she needed you the most.”
Hancock sat up straight. “What the hell is this about? What are you saying?”
“We’re just talking. It’s not about anything.” Bledsoe shrugged. “Just trying to get at what happened last night.”
“Some deranged maniac killed her, that’s what happened.”
“You said she and Vail had had an argument, and that the senator was upset afterwards. She told you she needed some space, and you just drove off and left her alone.”
Hancock relaxed a bit, pulled out a cigarette. “That’s right.”
“Well, you’re her security guard. Was that a smart thing to do? You could’ve just gone outside for a smoke. But you left, drove away.”
“I drove away. And if I hadn’t. . . .” He looked away and shook his head. “She’d probably still be alive.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a lighter. Manette winced as the cigarette ignited.
“You know,” Robby said, “the lab faxed us a report this morning.” Hancock puffed on his cigarette and seemed to ignore the comment. “The techs are pretty good. We had the best of the best combing Linwood’s place. And they found something interesting.” Still no response from Hancock.
“What’d they find?” Sinclair asked.
“Something I’ve never seen. Some Turkish cigarette tobacco in the senator’s bedroom.” Robby paused, looked at Hancock. The others turned to him as well.
Hancock lifted his head and noticed their gazes. “Look, you want to lean on someone, what about Vail? She had big time motive, means, and opportunity. Not to mention a violent history.”
Everyone was silent.
“I’d rather talk about the tobacco,” Bledsoe said. He kept his voice calm, his eyes riveted on Hancock.
“There’s nothing to talk about. I spent a lot of time around the house. I smoked here and there. Hell, you’ll probably even find clothing fibers and DNA around the place, too. I worked there, for Christ’s sake.”
“You’re right,” Robby said, looking at the report. “There were hair and fibers there, too.”
“See?”
Robby nodded. “Simple transfer.”
“Exactly.”
“Except that the tobacco fibers were found embedded in the bed sheets. Linwood’s bed sheets.” Robby tilted his head back and waited for a response.
“Like you said, simple transfer.”
“I want to accept that,” Bledsoe said, standing and starting to pace, circling Hancock. “I really do, because the thought of one of us doing the senator in such a grotesque way . . . turns my stomach.” He stopped in front of Hancock and looked down at him. “We also found dried semen on the bed sheets. Her husband had been in Asia for nearly two weeks. I bet if we run the semen, it won’t be his.”
“Fine, then run it.”
Bledsoe leaned forward, rested his hands on the armrests of Hancock’s chair. “Come on, Hancock. We know about the affair.”
“What affair?”
“Don’t insult us any more than you already have. We have a very reliable source who’ll be more than willing to testify.”
Pushing Bledsoe’s large, unyielding frame out of his way, Hancock struggled to stand. “I don’t have to sit here and take this. If you had something, you’d have cuffed me by now.” He shook his head, his lips bent into a frown. Shaming them. “You people have a viable suspect—Karen Vail—but you’re not interested. You think you hold all the cards? Wait till I let the media know Lee Thurston’s finest is dodging the investigation, overlooking the one person who’s quite possibly the Dead Eyes killer, all because they’re protecting one of their own.”
“Gather your things and get the hell out of here,” Bledsoe said. “In case you’re wondering, you’re off the task force. There’s no senator to pull strings for you. And the police chief won’t touch you with a ten foot pole.”
Hancock snatched up his attaché, threw assorted papers inside, and grabbed his coat.
Robby rose from his chair and rested his hands on his hips. “Talk to the media, and you’ll only bring more heat on yourself.”
Hancock stormed to the front door, stopped, and turned around. “You people are imbeciles.”
“At least we’ve got jobs,” Sinclair said. “You’re an unemployed imbecile.”
The door slammed and Hancock was gone.
forty-two
I usually take some cheese into my secret room for Charlie to munch on. He’s getting a little fat, probably because I feed him too much. But whenever I go there, it’s like I’ve come home and he comes over to say hi. He climbs into my lap and sniffs around. Probably looking for more food. Damn parasite, that’s all he is. Give me, give me, give me.
I’m not in the mood today. The prick’s latest whore saw me last night and made fun of me. I didn’t need that, I get enough of it from him. I’d like to make him feel the way he makes me feel for once.
Charlie climbs up on my chest and looks at me, his tiny nose wiggling and his whiskers shaking accusingly at me.
“What the hell is your problem?” I shout, then stop to think if anyone is home. I can’t let this little rodent ruin things. He looks at me with those eyes, evil eyes. “Don’t look at me that way! I hate you!”
I grab him by the neck and reach to my right, where there are some nails left over from the construction I’d done to expand the room. I pick one up and jam it right through his eye socket. He stiffens, then goes limp in my hand.
My heart is beating rapidly, and I feel high, like I’m floating. What a feeling! I’m wired, I can’t get a deep breath.
I throw Charlie’s body down on the shelf mounted on the wall and pull out my pocket knife. I wonder what he’d look like if I just make a slice right here. I pant like a dog, unable to control myself. A dog. Now that would be something. Do this to a dog—
He remembered that day quite well. Certain memories just stick in your mind like a piece of chewing gum on the bottom of a shoe. You pull and twist and stretch and the damn gum just won’t let go.
He shut
down the laptop and put it aside. He had a little less than an hour before students started arriving for his advanced pottery class and he needed to decompress, turn his thoughts away from his childhood. He grabbed an unfinished sandwich from the small refrigerator and switched on the television. But of course he wouldn’t be able to escape it altogether. After all, he’d made the news. Literally made it. The Dead Eyes killer was a nightly story, if only as a feature piece on public safety. But he was always mentioned.
Yet somehow, the police had managed to keep a tight lid on the Linwood murder. Guess it would kind of freak people out if they heard that the Dead Eyes killer had gotten to a state senator. If he could get to a senator, no bitch-whore would be safe. “You hear that? None of you are safe!”
He finished the sandwich, then sat in front of the TV kneading a hunk of clay. Kneading clay relaxed him, kept his hands and arms strong.
The six o’clock news logo swirled onto the screen with a building crescendo of music and a photo array of its anchors. Such drama. Just report the goddamn news and cut the fat.
“Good evening,” the anchor said. Yes, it was indeed a good evening, thank you very much. He felt satisfied, the way you feel after eating a well-cooked meal.
“. . . the murder of Senator Eleanor Linwood has stunned members of the legislature and caused an outpouring of support across bipartisan lines. The senator’s husband, Richard Linwood, heir to the Linwood Shipping empire, was reportedly returning home from a business trip. Police are not releasing many details about the murder, except to say leads are being pursued. For more complete coverage on Senator Linwood’s long career, we go to Steve Schneiderman, standing by live. . . .”
The 7th Victim kv-1 Page 24