“Who says anything’s been laid in our laps? Look, just suppose for a moment that our killer and Moyler’s is the same guy. He starts with prostitutes in London, and he’s since decided that we’re all whores, especially those of us of a type he fancies. I just believe that in this instance, women of the victim type, in particular in this city, have a right to know that they—as a group—have been targeted by this madman and are being stalked by him as we speak, Eriq.”
He stared long and hard at her. Jessica matched his intensity in her hard glowering eyes. “Do you have any idea the trouble you’ve caused?”
“I have a notion, yes.”
“You’ve placed me in a difficult position with a lot of people, Jessica. And you didn’t factor in the political ramifications of your actions.”
“Oh, please! Don’t talk politics to me when life and death are at stake!” she exploded, but he held up a restraining hand to her and pushed on.
“In my office, I’ve got to consider all the ripples in the pond every bloody waking moment, and sometimes in my damned sleep, so pardon me if I seem a bit upset, okay?”
“My intention didn’t factor in your comfort, Eriq.”
“Damnit, it’s not just my comfort I’m talking about. We’re talking about power, government contracts, defense spending.”
“You’re talking about the new U.S. payroll centers which may be slated to be built here if government bigwigs are sold on the area.” The local newscasts and the papers were full of the story of how Miami was vying with other major American cities to build three U.S. payroll centers in the Miami-Dade area, which meant lucrative government jobs.
“It means seven thousand federal jobs with salaries and benefits averaging out at thirty-five thousand dollars. That’s one hell of an economic boost, Jess. It means a better way of life for a lot of people here. Nothing this big has come along for Miami in a decade. Depending on its size, a single payroll center could pump between sixty and two hundred million a year in direct earnings into the local economy. And in an economy that’s supported almost solely on tourism, such an infusion of dollars means a gilded future for our friends in high places here. But, bottom line, it also means one hell of a payroll for the city.”
“And Miami stands to lose it all because of the Night Crawler.”
“Exactly. A city’s image is everything.”
“Yeah, more important than its life’s blood, obviously.”
“Damnit, Agent, you’re not listening to me!” Her coolness to his upper-echelon problems didn’t sit well. “The goddamn Economic Development Council, the Metro Vision for the Year 2000, the 1050 Beach Street Business Coalition, the Downtown Development District Council, the Miami Chamber of Commerce—you name it—they’re all on the mayor’s back, so the mayor’s naturally on the police commissioner’s back, and the lot of them are on my back!”
A thick, palpable hush fell over the room as the two FBI agents breathed in the political and economical realities of their situation. Eriq found a chair and sat, raised his hands apologetically and added, “Jess, the average Miami salary is in the neighborhood of twenty thousand dollars. Now the United Miami Coalition and some professors out at UM have figured it all out, and I tell you, an average pay of thirty-five thousand... Well, that’s big-time bucks to these people. They have very, very few industries in and around the city that can generate that kind of money.”
“Money talks.”
“It always has, and we’re both adult enough to understand its impact, even here on our case, Jess. Now perhaps you better understand where I’m coming from? In a few weeks the government steering committee to decide if Miami gets those centers will be back in the city. We... I... had hoped to nail this Crawler bastard before then.”
“We can still clean house within three weeks, if we work together. Dr. Desinor forwarded this to me this morning. It’s from additional psychic readings she’s done on the case.” Jessica handed Santiva the list of physical characteristics which Kim Desinor had created. They matched the description given them by Judy Templar.
“Something you want to share?” Eriq asked as he took the fax from her, a razor edge to his voice. He still hadn’t had time to forgive her qualified allegiance to him. Like most men, he’d expected and wanted total and blind fidelity, without having to offer the same.
“Kim only called very late last night. Don’t get spooky on me, Eriq.”
Eriq read the fax aloud in a near whisper. “Taurus... astrological sign of the bull, but actions are more like recluse spider...”
“She’s got that right.”
Eriq continued to read, pacing as he did so. ‘ ‘Comes out only to feed. Safe only in his own surroundings. Light, sandy-brown hair, dark, mystical eyes, possibly aquamarine, handsome, pleasant, even-tempered, manners impeccable in public. May wear a T-cross around his neck, an emblem of his obsession. Stargazer.”
“That was Kim’s first read, which she called me about last night. This morning, she conducted a second reading. Her results on the second go-round came over right after she faxed the first. Here it is.”
She handed him a second fax, which Eriq now stared at. It read:
height: 6’1 or 2
weight: 160-80 lbs
broad-shouldered, large-face, big forehead neck and shoulders all one large, oval, dark and piercing eyes, possibly blue, dark green either birthmark or bad tattoo of a star on right shoulder wears loose-fitting clothes, sneakers, boat shoes size 10-11 lives in isolation, yet within close proximity of many has fascination for stars and water deep-seated hatred for his mother has generalized hatred for all women…
Eriq read aloud the psychic’s final words. “Sorry, nothing more. Caution you to think symbolically and not literally regarding my findings.”
“She is full of disclaimers,” Jessica muttered, digging her palms now into her eyes, trying to will the fatigue off. “Obviously general enough to fit most of the male population of the planet,” he replied, not overly impressed.
They again stared at one another; then first she and next he began to laugh until their laughter filled the room. “Damnit, Jessica, we’ve got to be together on this thing,” Santiva finally said. “That’s all I’m going to say about your rank insubordination at this time—”
Jessica started to protest, but thought better of it and kept still. “—except to say that in the future, we decide things of major consequence together. For now, we drop it and move on from here. We still have a killer to catch.”
She nodded. “I couldn’t agree with you more.”
“I’ve got a tight net around every boat dock and riverside establishment for fifty miles either direction of Miami,” he informed her.
“Are you talking Port Authority, Coast Guard, Florida Marine Patrol or your buddies in the Cuban underworld?”
“All of the above. Somewhere along the line, this bastard’s going to slip up, and when he does, we’ll be there, Jess,” he assured her.
“You’d better extend your net to every conceivable slip, including boat repair shops, dry docks, and maybe any shops where they preserve fish as trophies.”
“How’s that?”
“A strange new development. Let me tell you about it.”
Eriq felt his flesh crawl. “All right, fill me in.”
In the midst of making Eriq’s stomach turn, Jessica was told she had a long-distance call. She grabbed the nearest phone and identified herself and was suddenly surprised and elated to hear James Parry’s voice on the other end, asking, “Are you taking care of the woman I love?”
“Oh, James... Where—where are you?” She pictured James Parry at the other end of the line, pleased beyond comprehension that he’d located her. “I’m calling from the islands, which have lost a great deal of their luster since you left. I’ve dearly missed you, darling.”
“God, I’ve missed you.” Out of the side of her eye, she noticed Eriq impatiently waiting. She turned her back on him and
continued her conversation.
They had a long talk in which they exchanged vows of love. It was enough to send Santiva from the room. She asked Jim to call her later before bedtime, to tuck her in. He promised that he would. She was happy for the first time since arriving in Miami. What was that all about?” asked Eriq when he returned to finish with her.
“Personal.”
“Oh, I see ...”
“Let’s get back to work.”
“Long distance?” Santiva was smiling for her. “Hawaii maybe?”
“Maybe...”
Ten Days Later
When America’s Most Wanted did its segment on the killings in Florida, it appeared the trail of the killer had gone stone cold. No more notes coming in from the killer and, thankfully, no more bodies either. It was as if the creature had simply vanished while camera crews had replaced police and medics, film barricades had replaced police tape and Jessica had been replaced by an actor, Santiva by a director.
The images on the TV screen of women floating in the sea, although simulations, were emotionally stirring—but not when Jessica considered the fact that those young women would, off camera, lift their heads from the surf, stand, wade back to shore and go home to dinner. And as for truly simulating a bloated drowning victim, prime-time TV simply wasn’t ready.
There was both relief and anger in the Miami area when, a week and a half after the discovery of three victims of the Night Crawler in the space of hours, there were no further developments and no new leads in the case, so far as the public knew. Meanwhile, the national attention given the case, the TV exposure and the fact that it remained open had helped persuade the government steering committee on payroll centers to steer elsewhere.
Theories regarding the whereabouts of the killer abounded: He’d killed himself; he had been arrested on some other charge, been convicted and put away, and from behind bars he could only contemplate murder at some future date. Others theorized that he had left the country for more fertile ground—virgin turf, as it were. Missing Persons departments all over the state continued as always to file reports on young women disappearing or running away from their homes, but not all of these fit the victim profile. There was a growing, sinking feeling among law enforcement officials that the Night Crawler had simply been frightened off by the news accounts and the police sketch, which had gone out across the state and the nation, and that despite his flirtation with the news media, he had turned out to be extremely camera-shy after all.
Jessica had begun to believe she’d blundered badly, that Eriq and his superiors had been right in wanting to withhold information on the killer until some future date. But upon her voicing this concern to Eriq, he shook his head and told her that what had upset local politicos most was that they had made certain promises to America’s Most Wanted: that the poster would be shown there first and that other vital clues in the case would be revealed only on the show. He ended with an apology that he hadn’t confided all this nonsense to her earlier, but said that he’d been unable to.
Still, Jessica wondered if Patric Allain had not fled as a direct result of her actions. She believed now that Allain, or whoever he was, had simply decided to vanish, and that to do so he had been forced to control his killing urge. To control such primitive, overwhelming compulsions, she felt, he had to demonstrate a willpower few men, good or bad, possessed, and she wasn’t buying it; and neither would the monster for long, she figured. She recalled with chilling detail the case of the Claw in New York, who could not control his need to cannibalize. It was a need which had compelled the monster to follow her for several hundred miles in an attempt to make a meal of her.
Knowing what she did of the criminal mind, including its need for a familiar landscape upon which to operate, Jessica had contacted Moyler in England to warn him that the killer could be returning there. On the other hand, she noted this particular killer seemed at home on the oceans and seas of the world. He might be anywhere on the globe.
In the meantime, Moyler had found additional information on the female named Madeleine Tauman whose alias had been Patricia Allain. She had grown up amidst what Moyler termed “difficult situations in a difficult area of London,” and she’d become a prostitute at a young age. Soon she had gone from prostitution to the small-time stage, using the same alias, Allain, as her stage name. Late in life, she had married a well-to-do landowner named William Anthony Kirlian who owned an estate in Grimsby on what the ancients called the Nordsee—the North Sea—far to the north of London. Not surprisingly, the old baron died a year after the marriage, but a coroner’s inquest turned up nothing beyond a massive heart attack. The kicker came when Lady Kirlian, the former Patricia Allain, herself died soon after in what was ruled a fatal accident involving a cliff near the estate. Lady Kirlian’s tumble from a precipice near the estate, Moyler told Jessica, was witnessed only by her devoted son, Warren Tauman.
Moyler had located some people who had worked for Kirlian and Lady Kirlian before their deaths, and as to the young man, Warren, they had little to say except that he was sullen, brooding and always staring out over the horizon to the North Sea, commiserating with nature on the very precipice where his mother had slipped and fallen to her death on the jagged rocks below.
Moyler now believed that Patric Allain might possibly be an alias for Warren Tauman, who’d disappeared after dissolving the estate and keeping what monies he could, along with a sailboat valued in the hundreds of thousands, which he diligently learned to work.
It seemed that while the trail in England had finally heated up, the trail in America had dried up, and when another week slipped by and still nothing remarkable occurred, FBI operations in Florida seemed at an end.
Santiva was talking about packing up and returning to Quantico, where more pressing matters awaited. In the meantime, Jessica had kept in touch with Judy Templar, whose therapy had done wonders for her, according to Donna LeMonte.
Meanwhile, Quincey and Samernow had finally persuaded Monroe and Lovette family members to give up the location of the other supposed eyewitness by making certain they saw the America’s Most Wanted segment which requested information on Aeriel Marilee Lovette Monroe, who was wanted for questioning in relation to the killings. Something in the notoriety of being mentioned on national TV, or of being close to someone named on national TV, got a lot of people to talk to authorities.
Samernow and Quince had first found Marilee’s trail when they were pointed toward relatives in Georgia, where the girl had gone to recuperate, heal and forget after her alleged attack by the Night Crawler. But in the interim, she had returned to Florida, moving in with other relatives in Lower Matecumbe Key, where friends and relatives had urged her to get in contact with authorities, which she had done through the 800 number flashed across America. She was now reportedly working as a maid in a motel called Nomad’s Pillow in Lower Matecumbe Key.
Eriq had only come by to inform Jessica that he was returning to FBI Headquarters in Quantico and shutting down the operation here in Florida, and that he expected her to follow in a day or so. They once again were in Coudriet’s lab when she informed him that they had nailed the whereabouts of Marilee, the other witness. “But Jess, what can we possibly learn from this woman that we don’t already know?” asked Eriq, frustrated as they all were by the dead ends.
Still Jessica argued, “I think we need to follow up on this one, Eriq.”
But Santiva was not listening. “Besides, I’ve already told Coudriet and the MPD thanks for the use of the space, and that we’re moving out.”
“I think we owe it to Allison Norris, Tammy Sheppard, Kathy Harmon and all the others to at least—”
‘ ‘Jess—Jess—Jess!’’
“—meet with the Monroe girl, learn what we can from her,” Jessica said over Eriq’s objections while Santiva paced the very laboratory he had moments before suggested they begin to vacate, so as to turn back over to the Miami authorities and Coudriet that which was th
eirs, with the heartfelt thanks of the FBI.
Santiva replied, “Some cases don’t get solved, Jessica.”
“Not my cases,” she countered.
“Although, by God, it’s never happened to me before, it’s... well, it’s time we accepted the facts of the matter.”
She relented a moment, going to him, forcing him to stop pacing, positioning him eye to eye with her. She knew that, in his mind, he had already closed the file on the case. “Give me one more week here, Eriq. Just one more week.”
“Too much time and money’s already gone down the tubes here, Jess.”
“Then I’ll move out of the Fontainebleau, damnit.”
“Too much time has elapsed since the last killings and communication from the killer.” Jessica stood in his face, daring his next move. He blinked first. “All right, you want to drive or fly down to the Keys again, talk to this girl, be my guest. You do that. I’m on the next flight north. You can follow after you learn no more than we already know. It’s finished here, Jess, over...” She breathed in a long, shaky breath of air and pushed her hair from her eyes. “I take full responsibility for what’s happened here, Eriq. I think you’re going to need a fall guy when you get back to D.C., so here I am.”
“Oh, no you don’t. You don’t get out of this so easy; no martyr or dumb-shit stuff, okay, my medical friend?”
From the tenor of his voice, she realized that he had already taken the full brunt of the heat over the matter, and that he hadn’t sold her out or short.
“I’ve got a plane waiting, and as much as I hate to fly, adios, amiga. And for what it’s worth, good luck with the Monroe girl, although—”
“Don’t say it, Eriq. Let’s part friends, shall we?”
“Now that’s something I’ll agree to.”
They exchanged a warm smile and a hug. He said in her ear, “That Parry guy is one lucky SOB, you know it?”
“I think so.”
Darkest Instinct Page 24