"What? I've been on the case since the first video was posted."
"What video?"
"It's down now, but you can still find it all over. A kid getting shot for trespassing."
"How many victims?"
"What do you know?"
"I don't know a thing about your video killer. I've got my own psycho."
"Really?"
"Yes, here in Italy."
"What are you doing in Italy?"
"I live here...have for a while."
"You should come back. We could use you."
"Thanks, but that's not why I called. I have two victims who both had ATM carved into their shoulders a couple of weeks ago. Nothing since, and I was curious if maybe they had crossed the pond."
"Nothing like that. Who are you working for?"
"I do some consulting now and again. It keeps me from getting bored."
"Send me the particulars. I'll have someone check. I really don't think there is anything like that going on, but I have been pretty busy, so who knows."
"You want me to look over your case? No charge."
"I'll think about it.
CHAPTER THIRTY THREE
Chapter Thirty-Three
The lunch crowd had gone, and Mitch was mostly alone at the bar with his newspaper and a newly purchased copy of Oscar Wilde's The Picture of Dorian Gray. His three-martini lunch had strayed into a fourth. From there, it had been just a hop, skip, and a jump to Scotch on the rocks.
Mitch looked at the ice cubes with a fascination generally reserved for that which is vastly more worthwhile. A waitress in a tight, white blouse and pencil skirt sat down next to him to count her tips. Her shift had ended.
"How was your lunch?" she asked.
"Intoxicating."
"Did you find any answers?"
"You think I'm looking for answers?"
"It's a hunch is all."
"I don't have any answers at least not to my questions," he said and looked at her more closely. She was striking with blue eyes, red hair, and a confidence that came from years of adoration by strangers. "My answers don't serve me well. There is beauty in the world, which is more valuable than gold, more sought after than..."
She stopped counting and looked at him. The pause needed to be filled, "Than?"
"Scotch on the rocks, I guess," he said raising his glass. "People say beauty lacks depth, but that is because they don't understand it. You have been told, I am sure, how hot you are or sexy or pretty or whatever since before you were interested in such things. People are drawn to you, your smile, those eyes, and..." he paused and looked at her chest, unapologetically, "it gives you an edge. You have power you know of and power you don't. It is the latter that should be feared."
She looked at him, unsure, captivated, and hanging onto each semi-slurred proclamation as if it were from heaven or Vogue. Mitch knew he was on a roll; he had seen that look in auditoriums and used it to his advantage more than once. He would not disappoint. He continued, "How old are you or young? I'd wager early twenties, but it doesn't matter because whether you've stumbled into that form, that shapely siren call of a body, or earned it, it is yours now and for a little while longer. But make no mistake, the days of wine and beauty, true beauty are but a few for most. Sharpen your claws on the bones of your suitors, and you will be fine."
"You're the writer. You've come in before but never this early."
"Yes, I suppose I am," Mitch said, wishing he could remember his tirade. His gut told him it should have been written down. The line about "bones of your suitors" needed to be remembered, but he was sure that was too much to ask. The Scotch was gone.
"So, did you have a point?"
"The only point I've ever made was at the end of a no. 2 Dixon Ticonderoga," he said, owning his cleverness but seeing it stolen away by her her blank stare. "It's a pencil, but you are of the keyboard. It's okay; I'd rather be droning on to someone like you than someone like me who might get that joke."
"Got it. You sharpened a pencil. It was just ramblings then?"
"It always is but know this - when you choose to spend time with a man or woman or, well, whichever, the check will be paid, sure, and you'll have a full belly of wine and mirth." He paused and added, "Yes, I said mirth. I've been drinking. Where was I? Oh, yes, you will finish the day ahead of where you were in experience and coins not spent, but will you have understood the ripple you have caused? Your beauty, which I might, were I writing this down, describe as staggering, leaves a mark. He may not show it, but when you say 'yes' to his question, no matter what it might be, it is a triumph that will lift him up for a time, possibly a long time but then, as things that soar tend to do, it will come crashing down. That mark will be yours, too."
A nod, and the bartender, brought him another Scotch. Mitch watched the woman looking at herself in the mirror behind the bar. Was she seeing herself for the first time? It didn't matter; he had run out of ramblings. He did have a question, though. He leaned over and asked, "Is the bartender someone who bears your mark? He seems sullen, much more so than before you sat down."
"I suppose he does; three marks, a couple of months ago, that were wholly unremarkable."
"You've crushed him."
"Is it terrible of me," she said but without sounding the least bit sorry.
"He's a good looking guy. He'll recover, maybe become a bit jaded, but it will help him through life."
"So I've done him a favor?"
"Someday, I'm sure, the favor will be repaid in kind."
"What goes around comes around?"
The sound of a dish crashing to the ground somewhere deep in the kitchen seemed to warrant a comment, but Mitch was growing tired of talking. Thankfully, the waitress was ready to leave, too. She stood up and leaned into Mitch. He felt her breast brush his shoulder. "I'll be back tonight. Maybe you can tell me more about fleeting beauty if you're still standing."
He grunted something charming then she was gone. Mitch nursed his last drink for fifteen minutes before settling up. Standing was more of a challenge than he expected, but he managed to get himself into a cab for the short trip back to his place. A bottle of vodka was waiting to finish him off when he got home.
CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR
Chapter Thirty-Four
Kate was at his door shortly before nine o'clock. Mitch might have considered telling her to get out, but she was into her inquisition before he knew what hit him.
"What the fuck is your problem?"
"I'm not sure..."
"Save it. Whatever lame excuse you might have, I'm not buying it. I tried to get a hold of you all day yesterday. Since when do you not answer my calls?"
"Well, I was..."
"It was a goddamn trick question. You always answer my calls. It is my job to keep you focused, and drinking like a...well...writer, isn't something I allow."
"You're not my..."
"Your goddamn right I'm not. Now tell me what the hell is going on."
Mitch waited just to be sure it wasn't a trick. She stood like a judgmental golem and said nothing more. He took a chair at the kitchen table and gave the highlights from the trip followed by the excruciating details of their final few minutes together and her "maybe" that had him questioning the existence of God and the universe.
"Are you kidding?! I heard all about your lengthy stop up the street and how you were rambling like a lost literary critic on a three-day depression bender. You hate people like that."
"I really do."
"I've never seen you drink because of a woman or, worse, be so incredibly stupid about it. I'm telling you that your imagination has gotten the best of you. Did you lose your mind over that brunette you met at the library?"
"No, but..."
"What about the French professor from NYU?"
"Of course not."
"If I recall, she was quite a looker."
"Yes, but..."
"I can think of a dozen women who have thrown themselves at your feet, man
y of them better than I thought you deserved, and did you act like such a pussy with them?"
"Why would I? All those women were stupid."
"No, they weren't."
"Stupid or dull. Some were both."
"So why did you even bother with them in the first place?"
"As you said, they threw themselves at me. It would have been rude not to catch them for at least a few weeks."
"So what's your plan?"
"I don't know. That's part of the problem."
"You like this woman?"
"Yes, more than you..."
"Shut up! First of all, you're going to shower...twice. Then, after having some breakfast, you are going to give her a call."
"It's awfully early there."
"Then wait a goddamn extra hour and call her at work. Just pick up the phone and call. You are such a fucking idiot."
Mitch thought most people were stupid. Kate was not most people. After receiving her thorough tongue lashing, he realized she was right. "You're right. I need to suck it up."
"Suck it up," she said and took a heavy breath. "Damn, I haven't been forced to use my hitting on sailors during fleet week potty mouth since, well, fleet week." Kate pointed towards the bathroom. "Shower, now!"
When Mitch returned, cleaner, a Denver omelet was waiting for him. "Thanks, Kate. I feel worlds better. And you were right, I was being a complete pussy."
"You really were. Now, eat up. You'll need a full stomach to handle my renewed assault to convince you to take the Syracuse speech."
"No need...book it."
She raised her juice glass with a nod. "Welcome back."
Mitch said, "This is fantastic. Why can't I make omelets like this?"
Kate just shrugged as Mitch's phone chirped. He picked it up and smiled. "I just got an email from..."
"I knew it."
Mitch read it aloud: "M. I should have sent you this yesterday, but I had some things to look into. Thanks for Alaska. Best trip EVER! I don't know how you (and Kate) planned such a perfect week, but I think it is my turn. Clear your schedule on the 17th and expect to be unavailable through the 21st. I'll not take 'maybe' for an answer. S."
Kate wasn't into sport, but had she been and had there been a football within arms reach, there would have likely been a spiking and subsequent end zone dance. Instead, she smiled the most smug smile Mitch had ever seen.
"I'll not be hearing the end of this any time soon will I?"
"If you define soon as less than a decade, then yes, you will not."
#
Alexis went shopping, called Antonio and told him there weren't any cases in the U.S., and was enjoying a coffee. She had already stopped thinking about "ATM" until her phone rang. It was Chavez.
"Alexis, I've talked to the director, and he's fine with hiring you as a consultant."
"You want me to help you on your video case?"
"No, I want you to help us with your case."
"What? You found something."
"I had an analyst do a check yesterday. Nothing. At a little before 4 am, I get a call. The letters "ATM" carved into the breast of a waitress, post-mortem."
"Where?"
"Manhattan."
"I'll be on the next plane."
"I'm up to my neck with the video psycho, but call me when you touch down."
CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE
Chapter Thirty-Five
Alexis' first move was to call Antonio. He told her to check it out and to share anything that might help. As for his superiors, Antonio decided it was best to wait until she knew more about the murder in New York.
Alexis chartered a small plane from the Pontecagano Airport to Rome. There, she caught a flight on Turkish Airlines. It left at 9:05 p.m. and arrived at JFK a little after one p.m. the next day. She checked into the Hilton on Church Street. Alexis bought three cans of Coke from the vending machine, filled the ice bucket, and called Chavez.
"I made it."
"You sound tired."
"You have a good ear."
"You want to get a bit of rest?"
"I want to get to work."
"I'll send a car."
"Where are you?"
"I just got back to D.C., but I'm coming up there tonight."
"See you when you get in."
"Later."
Alexis stood at the window and watched the rain. She was less than one block from where the Twin Towers had stood. They made her think about evil. They made her think about the type of monster who carved their initials or whatever into a body after killing a person. She thought about her cousin.
Her phone rang.
"Hello, this is Alexis Liao."
"Ms. Liao, this is Agent Horner. I've been instructed by Agent Chavez to take you to the crime scene and to bring you up to speed on the case."
"How long will you be?"
"Where are you staying?"
"The Hilton on Church Street."
"I'll be there in twenty minutes."
"I'll wait in the lobby."
The jet lag seemed to be waning as a surge of adrenaline kicked in, and Alexis felt like she was back at the bureau. She reached down to the corner of the table next to the bed without thinking. It was the spot she always put her shield. It was as if she had never left the FBI. Of course, the gun wouldn't be in the drawer, but the excitement was still there and the lingering thought that drove her was of the poor sap being framed for two murders he didn't commit.
She cared less about catching the killer than she did about finding a link among the three cases. Ultimately, getting the bastard who did this would be her focus but not right now.
Alexis drank a Coke, checked to make sure she had her keycard, and headed out to wait for Agent Horner.
#
Agent Jamal Horner had been in the field for less than a year. After a knee injury ended his college football playing days at Ohio State University, the massive left tackle needed a new focus in life. The only thing that seemed as exciting as the gridiron was law enforcement. He graduated magna cum laude.
At six foot nine inches tall and with a face that looked sixteen, Jamal was an interesting mix of intimidating and likable. People seemed to feel safe around him and, on more than one occasion, had felt compelled to unburden themselves of the weighty truth they carried.
In his first case, a suspect in drug trafficking had, after two hours of interrogation by more senior agents, cracked after talking with Jamal for less than two minutes. Jamal brought the guy a bottle of water while the other two agents talked in the hall. He said, "You know, they're pretty good at this stuff. We already know a whole bunch of things that they're asking you about, but they just want to know if you're going to play ball. It doesn't matter to me, but I think you're sort of screwed if you don't play for our team. Who paid you to drive the truck?"
The guy, a twenty year loser, gave up his boss and started ratting out everyone he knew in a torrent of confessions. The FBI closed three other unrelated cases and eventually built a solid case on the head of a fairly substantial narcotics ring.
He pulled up at the Hilton, flashed his badge and a smile, and said, "I'm picking someone up. I'll be less than a minute if you don't mind."
The valet, who stood five foot six, looked up and said, "No problem, sir."
Jamal walked in and saw a tiny, Asian-looking woman get up and stride towards him. He towered over her and braced for the comment about his size that inevitably followed. "Ms. Liao, I'm Agent Horner."
"Pleased to meet you, Agent Horner," she said, extending a hand, looking him in the eye, and adding, "I look forward to working with you. And please, call me Alexis or Alex. I prefer the latter."
"Alex, call me Jamal."
"How far to the crime scene?"
"Not far, probably less than five minutes. Parking may take a while though."
They left the lobby, and Jamal opened the car door. She smiled. "I'm not your date, Jamal. I can handle a car door."
"Sorry."
/> "It's okay. I'm a bit jet lagged and don't want to waste time."
"I understand."
Jamal pulled into traffic and started briefing her, "Obviously, the body is at the morgue, but the crime scene is still secure. The victim, twenty-six years old, five foot seven inches, one hundred and ten pounds, appears to have been hit with a taser then knocked unconscious with ether."
"Ether? Really?"
"Yes, there wasn't any struggle. She was, as you will see, found in the hallway of her apartment. It looks like she let her killer in as the door was undamaged."
"Maybe he or she picked the lock?"
"You are right; that is possible. I should stick to the facts. Sorry."
"I'm really not usually this much of a bitch when I first meet people. I like to get to know a person before I unleash my real self. This case has me worked up. You're doing fine. Please continue."
"I still have a lot to learn. I don't mind criticism."
"How was she killed?"
"It appeared from the scene, though it hasn't been confirmed by the coroner yet, that she died of asphyxiation from the plastic bag that was secured over her head to her neck with grey duct tape."
"Our killer knocked her out then suffocated her?"
"That is the way it appears."
"Interesting."
"I was told there were two people with the same letters carved into them in Italy. Were they women?"
"No, both were men. One of them was strangled, and the other was killed with a rock. The second victim might have actually died accidentally and had the initials carved into him."
"Isn't it unusual for serial killers to be so, well, varied in their methods?"
"One never knows. In the D.C. shootings, the killer was presumed a white, male loner, but the killers, Lee Boyd Malvo and John Allen Muhammad were black. When they were caught, it shocked everyone involved."
They pulled up to the building, and Jamal said, "Here we are. If you want to go up to 3A, I'll park the car and be up shortly."
"It's locked, correct?"
"Oh, yeah, here's the key."
When he made it to the apartment, Alex was in the kitchen. "What do you think?" he asked.
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