by P. D. Martin
I shrug. “It depends on the situation.”
“But we’re not talking…” He trails off.
I keep a straight face and hit him gently on the arm. “Just flirt a little. Well, a lot.”
“Flirt.” He grins. “I can do that.”
We move back inside and Darren immediately goes into action. He walks over to Stone. “You Mirandaed her?”
“Yes.”
“Good, I’ll take it from here.” Then he leans in and whispers something quietly to Stone. Too softly for me to hear, but I bet our suspect would have heard him loud and clear. My guess is strategy.
Darren recruits one of the uniforms and heads down the driveway. I don’t like the fact that Jonathan will see his attacker, but there’s nothing I can do about that. I join Stone near the staircase.
“What did Carter say?” I ask, curious.
She hesitates.
“Don’t worry, Stone. It’s all part of questioning the suspect.”
She nods. “I thought so. I mean, I was pretty sure.”
I smile. “Don’t sweat it.” I pause. “So, what did he say?”
“He told me to take charge of the scene, and not to let ‘the Fed’ interfere.”
“Nice. I gave the perp a dressing-down, so he gives me one in front of her. Should do the trick. Now he’s just got to use his masculine charm.”
Stone chuckles. “Carter? Charm?”
I’m surprised by her response. “I’ve always thought he was charming.”
“I guess it depends on your definition. He’s not smooth, in-control charming, more—” she searches for the right description “—boy-scout charming.”
I smile. “I see what you mean.”
“And that woman.” Stone gestures to the pair, their silhouettes barely visible as they walk down the driveway. “Well, she’ll eat him alive!”
“He may be a boy scout,” I say, “but he’s a smart one.”
29
Darren uses the same interview room that only a few hours earlier held Jonathan. He sits across from the woman, who we’ve IDed as Brooke Woods from a wallet we recovered at the crime scene. She’s a pharmaceutical rep who—surprise surprise—travels around the States with her job. Talk about easy victim access. We know many other elements of the profile match too. Brooke Woods is thirty-four years old, at the upper end of our predicted age range. She’s single, she’s got a Mazda MX5 registered in her name, and her clothes and demeanor cry out sex. On top of that she had a few arrests in her late teens: two underage drinking charges and one assault. All three times her older sister came to the rescue but a couple of years later the sister married and it looks like she cut herself off from Brooke. No doubt, as we dig we’ll find out more about her family and perhaps the early sexual abuse. It’s a topic Darren may broach during the interview, if we can use it to unsettle her.
Her face still looks battered and bruised, but the dried blood is no longer present and a gash on her cheekbone now sports three butterfly clips. The paramedics wanted to take her to the hospital for a stitch or two, but Darren put forward a good case against it, on the proviso that we bring her in for a CT scan later to confirm no head injury. Thank God her pupils were functioning normally. If they hadn’t been, the paramedics would have taken her in and our questioning would have been put on hold. That’s time we can’t afford. Her right arm is also in a sling.
“I’ve gotta hand it to you, Brooke. I’m impressed.” Darren leans back in his chair slightly, mirroring Brooke’s posture.
“Impressed? With what? I’ve been beaten up by some guy and treated like the criminal, not the victim.”
I smile. Nice tactic.
“So you’re trying to tell us you didn’t pull a gun on him?”
“Sure, I did. But only—” she slows down and gives Darren a metered sob “—only when I thought my life was in danger. He said he was going to rape me. Then kill me.” Another sob.
If we didn’t have so much evidence it would be a great line. After all, a man and a woman in a room together—it is more likely the male is the attacker, plus she’s the one covered in bruises, not Jonathan.
“And what about the Murderers’ Club?”
She hesitates only for a second. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She would have assumed Jonathan told us everything he knew, but maybe she forgot she mentioned the name to him, or maybe even just hearing Darren refer to the club is enough to give her pause.
“Look, you know how this stuff works. You give us some names, we give you a break.”
She shrugs. “Don’t know any names.”
“So, you’re not the organizer, the head honcho?”
She pauses. “I really don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Come on, Brooke. I know you’re a smart woman.”
She smiles, a knowing smile. She’s more than smart and she knows it.
Darren continues. “You’ve gotta know when the game is up.”
“What game?” She shakes her head.
“Maybe the game’s not up for Susie Dean and Clair Kelly.” He pauses, emphasizing our knowledge of the case. “But I’m afraid it’s up for you.” His tone is sympathetic, not threatening, not triumphant.
“Don’t pretend you give a damn about me!” The outburst is unexpected, defensive.
“I do. I respect you.” He leans back. “I gotta say, I was pretty excited when we realized Malcolm Jackson’s killer was a woman. It’s a first for me. Tracking down a woman.”
“Malcolm who? What the hell’s this about?” She’s saying the right words, but I can tell we’re starting to get to her.
She changes tack and gives Darren a flirtatious smile. “Do you get off on the chase?”
“You bet. Don’t you?”
She hesitates. “I prefer the moment of conquest.” She chooses her words carefully so as not to incriminate herself. She could be talking about sex, not murder, and that’s the way she likes it. Nothing admissible in court, nothing that might sway a jury.
“It’s an ingenious scheme. I’ve got to take my hat off to the club.”
She’s silent.
“It would have worked too,” Darren says. “Except for Jonathan.”
It’s true. If Jonathan had the normal dose of male ego, if he’d let his body take command of his mind, he would have wound up handcuffed to a bed in that house, then dead.
Gerard enters the observation room. “How’s it going?” he asks.
“Just starting out,” I say.
“Do you think she’ll give us the password?”
I shrug. “Hard to tell. If she thinks she can get out of the rap, she’s not going to tell us anything. Why would she?” I take my eyes off Brooke and look at Gerard. “How are you doing with the laptop?”
“Okay. The hard drive’s…revealing…and I’ve been working on the password—no luck yet. I can get the Web history from the hard drive, but we need to use that specific laptop to access the Web site.”
“Why?”
“We don’t know how many people there are in this club, but assuming the number is limited, say under twenty, the tech person behind this could have set up the Web server to alert him, or her, if a different IP address logs onto the site. The laptop uses a cellular modem card, like a cell phone on a card, which connects to the Internet by making a data call. The IP will always be the same, no matter where the laptop is, and it’s easy to buy an anonymous SIM card, preloaded with credit so it’s hard for us to track down.”
“So we need the password for the laptop.”
He looks at Brooke through the glass. “It would be safer. For us, and whoever’s left down in that hellhole.”
I nod.
“What if she lawyers up?” Gerard crosses his arms.
“She said she didn’t need a lawyer because she hadn’t done anything wrong.”
Gerard raises an eyebrow. “Confident.”
“Well, she’s been doing her thing and getting away with it for well ove
r a decade. I guess she doesn’t feel threatened.”
“That’s her mistake.”
“Yup.” I smile. “Eyewitness testimony, DNA from a couple of the old cases. The results from her swab should confirm it all.”
We both return our focus to Darren and Brooke.
“You married, Detective?” Brooke’s natural behavior is surfacing.
“Me? Nah.”
“Girlfriend?”
“Nope. You know what they say, married to the job.”
“There are lots of men like you out there.” She tries to struggle out of her jacket, but winces. She smiles at Darren. “Do you mind?” She tugs at the jacket, either unable to take it off by herself with her injured arm, or faking it.
“Not at all.” Darren stands up and helps her take off the jacket.
She’s down to her tight Super Girl top with its plunging neckline. She slips her right arm back in the sling and fans herself with her left hand. “Hot in here, isn’t it?” She smiles.
Darren’s eyes linger on her breasts for a moment before his eyes meet hers. “Yes, it is.” He runs his finger inside his collar.
“Can I smoke in here?”
“Sorry, it’s a non-smoking building.”
“You never break the rules, Detective?”
Darren shrugs. “Sometimes, sure. Tell you what, how about a Coke or coffee instead?”
Brooke pulls her shoulder blades back in a casual stretch and her top reshapes slightly in response, revealing more cleavage. “Diet Coke, thanks.”
Darren stands up and leaves the room, and within seconds he’s standing next to Gerard and me. “This is going nowhere,” he says. “We don’t have time for this.”
I sigh. “I think you’re right.”
“How’d you do with the computer stuff?” Darren asks Gerard.
“No luck on the password, but the hard drive’s contents were interesting.”
I forgot to follow Gerard up on that one. “What did you find?”
“The computer’s only got Windows, the modem software, Internet Explorer and some default functions on it. No other programs.”
“Makes sense, I guess. It was purely set up to access the Murderers’ Club Web site.”
“I also checked out the log files. The URL is www. murderersclub. com and it’s been accessed two times, and by different users.”
“How can you tell?”
“It’s a secure site, but the log files have recorded two different usernames and passwords. I don’t think this laptop belongs to Brooke, I think it’s the house laptop.”
I take it in. “What are the usernames?”
“You’re going to love these.” He shakes his head. “The first access was BlackWidow. Password is sexybitch, all one word.”
“Brooke,” Darren says, glancing back into the interview room.
“Let me guess, sometime before March twenty-seventh,” I say, presuming it must coincide with Malcolm’s death.
Gerard takes out his notebook and flips back a couple of pages. “Yeah. March twenty-sixth, just after 10:00 p.m. Eastern Daylight Saving Time. I tried this password for the laptop, but it’s not it.” His eyes move down his notebook. “Next user was NeverCaught, password is never. That user logged in at 9:00 p.m. Eastern Daylight Saving Time on April ninth.”
“Brigitte’s killer.” I bite my lip. “They must be discussing the kill with the other members.”
Gerard nods. “This laptop was kept at the house, so the members didn’t have to bring their own. It gave them a way to update the others while they had the victim.” He pauses. “That’s not all.”
Gerard has our full attention.
“Several JPEG images were uploaded by NeverCaught. He did more than discuss the kill.”
“We’ve gotta get these bastards.” Darren’s jaw clenches.
We’re silent for a moment.
Darren leans against the glass and looks at Brooke. “I need to get that password.” He turns to me. “Go for the jugular? The childhood abuse?”
Brooke stands up and moves toward the mirror. She checks herself out and then gives us an exaggerated wave.
“She’s not going to be played,” I say. “Let’s do it the normal way. Hit her with the facts, what she’s up against, and see if we can’t bribe that password out of her. Gerard, you go in, too. Tell her who you are, what you’ve got so far, and that you’re going to get into the Web site anyway. It’s just a matter of time.” I turn to Darren. “Take in some of the files we found through VICAP when we were searching for Malcolm’s killer.” I look through the window at Brooke, who’s now blowing us kisses. I sigh again. “And her Diet Coke.”
A few minutes later Gerard and Darren make their entrance. Gerard carries the laptop and the Diet Coke, and Darren’s arms are more than full with a selection of the VICAP case files.
Brooke laughs at Darren’s burden. “Let me guess, you’re going to tell me that’s all the evidence you’ve got on me.”
Darren puts the files on the table. “Actually, this is only about half of our files. Half of what we know about your activities over the past fifteen years.”
Brooke gives Darren one of her seductive smiles, believing she’s calling his bluff.
“It’s not that hard, you know, Brooke. I’m sure you’ve heard of VICAP.”
Her smile wavers ever so slightly. “Sure.” She takes the Diet Coke Gerard offers and gives him a wink. “This your partner, Darren?”
“No. This is Special Agent Gerard with the FBI. He’s a computer man.”
“Is he now?” She looks Gerard up and down, her predatory nature taking over. She’s probably not even aware she’s doing it.
Darren and Gerard sit down and Brooke seems to shift her attention to Gerard. Despite Gerard’s senior position in the Bureau, he’s actually younger than Darren, at only twenty-eight, and Brooke is more likely to be attracted to a man in his twenties than thirties.
“Where did the Bureau find you?” She takes a sip of her soda and then licks her lips, slowly, seductively. I think it looks like a bad TV ad, but I guess men fall for it.
“I used to be a hacker, on the other side of the law. But I knew when it was time to bargain.”
Darren cuts in by flipping open the top folder. “Cameron Michaels. Your first, yes?”
Brooke’s face remains impassive, but I can see a hint of panic in her eyes, behind her mask of sexual bravado.
“If not your first, certainly one of your early victims.” Darren picks up the next file. “I like this one. The Swede, Matts Jansson. Did you like the Nordic touch?” He emphasizes the word “touch.”
She smiles. “I like the touch of most men, Detective.” She takes another sip, but I can tell she’s unsettled. A stack of files is one thing, names of her actual victims is another.
“Do you know why I especially like the Swede?” Darren continues.
“Maybe you like the Nordic touch?” She gives him a wink.
Darren doesn’t react. “I like the Swede because that’s when we first got your DNA on file.”
Gerard steps in. “Is this your laptop, Brooke?”
She looks at the laptop, then at him with some distaste, her comefuck-me image evaporated. “No.”
“It was already at the house, wasn’t it? The house laptop.” Gerard taps the outer casing. “It’s all on here. You logged on as BlackWidow around the time Malcolm Jackson was killed. And someone else with the username NeverCaught has used this laptop too. It’s all recorded on the computer’s hard drive.”
He lets his discoveries sit, but Brooke is silent.
Darren takes the next file from the pile and fans himself with it. “Now is the time to bargain, Brooke.”
“Bargain?” She looks at the stack of files. “They’ve got nothing to do with me.”
“Really. What about the rose?” Darren pauses for effect. “We got your message on Malcolm. You didn’t leave a rose, but you still marked him with one. Huh?”
For the first tim
e she’s unable to hide her shock.
I smile at Darren even though he can’t see me. We’ve got her. She didn’t know the rose was on Malcolm. She’s been played by someone.
Darren picks up on her reaction. “Clever, I guess, giving him that small tattoo on his wrist after you killed him. But you must have known we’d figure it out.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Her words don’t have the ring of confidence they did a few minutes ago.
“Like I said, now is the time to bargain.” Darren drums his fingers against the stack of files. “We’d like the password for that computer.”
“I will get onto your special Web site.” Gerard manages a smile. “You’ll just speed the process up.”
“Your cooperation would be formally noted on your record.” Darren scribbles something on his pad and then looks up. “Hell, it might even save you from the death penalty. The rose links you to all these cases and the DNA will be indisputable.” He pats the stack of VICAP files. “The game is over. At least for you it is.”
Suddenly she explodes. “That fucking bastard!”
“Who?” Darren’s voice is casual, verging on uninterested.
“He set me up. That bastard set me up.” Brooke digs her fingernails into the narrow armrests of her chair.
“Who?” Darren repeats.
She pouts at Darren, silent, for some time, before finally answering the question. “Psycho. The president.” Then she shakes her head, disappointed. “You’ll never catch him. He’s too smart for you.”
“I wouldn’t bet on it.” Darren’s voice is full of confidence—I just hope it’s not false bravado. I know one thing, I sure as hell won’t rest until we get every single last member of this club.
“How many people are there in the club?”
Brooke snorts at him, like she’s not going to tell him, but then she answers. “Four. Four including me.”
Good, only four.
“How did you meet?” Gerard asks.
“I met the president in a chat room. He sent me a personal message and we got talking. He recruited us all like that.” Her voice is angry now, angry with him. “He set up the club, then the bunker.” Brooke stares at Darren intently, assessing him. “You really think you can get him?” She spits the word him—her betrayer.