by Roy Johansen
“If you try to run, I'll kill you, then go back to your house and carve out your son's eyes. Do you have any doubt that I'm capable of that?”
Cooper shook his head. “No.”
“Good.”
“My office is through that door.”
Lyles pulled him from the car and walked him into the dim hangar, where several prop planes were parked at grimy repair stations. They walked to a small office, which indeed was no larger than a closet. The mechanic opened a file drawer and looked through the mass of invoice copies and repair orders.
He picked up one and handed it to Lyles with trembling hands. “This was the guy.”
Lyles looked at the handwritten name. “Rick Murphy?”
“Yes. I checked out his bird and saw that the rotor was about to go. I replaced it for him.”
“How did he pay?”
“It's there on the invoice. Cash. I wrote down his driver's license number, and the helicopter's serial number is there too.”
“What did he look like?”
“Jesus, this was like, three or four months ago.”
“Think.”
“Look, I could bullshit you and make up a description, but the honest truth is that I just don't remember. I'd tell you if I did. He didn't mean anything to me.”
Lyles believed he was telling the truth. Shit.
Cooper's voice shook. “That paper is what you wanted, right? Take it.”
Lyles folded the invoice copy and slid it into his jacket pocket. Cooper extended his wrists.
“What are you doing?” Lyles asked.
“Bind me with the tape again. Nobody will be here for another hour. That will give you more than enough time to make some tracks.”
“That's very considerate.”
He moistened his lips. “Unless there's … something else.”
“I'm afraid there is.”
Eight-twenty A.M. It was obvious to Joe that many of the sixteen detectives, uniformed officers, and forensics experts in Chief Davis's conference room hadn't slept. Tempers were frayed, and it was still too early for anyone to have a firm handle on what had happened to Jesse Randall the night before. Davis wanted answers, and when his personnel couldn't provide them, a lot of defensive posturing and finger pointing ensued.
No one had any idea who the kidnappers might be. Religious zealots on a mission to capture the Devil Child? Terrorists seeking the ultimate psychic weapon? Operatives from a mysterious government agency? Each explanation sounded more preposterous than the last.
The helicopter's license number was fake, and all serial numbers had been removed. A mechanic's inspection sticker had been found in the engine compartment, however, and a pair of officers were following up on it.
For Joe, it was merely the continuation of a bad day that had started when he woke early to tell Nikki about Jesse's abduction. She'd taken it hard.
There were no FBI agents present at Davis's task force meeting, although the chief had been promised cooperation from the agency. The feds had already provided the police crime lab with blood samples from the church knockout gas victims.
The discussion soon turned to Joe and his investigation. “He's a kid,” Davis said. “If he's a fake, why haven't you been able to catch him?”
“I wasn't able to study him in a controlled environment. He hasn't been nearly as demonstrative with me as he was for Nelson and his team.”
“There were a couple of attacks on your life, Bailey. No explanation for that either?”
“Not yet,” Joe admitted. “I'm working on it. I sent samples of the bookcase base and the wooden floor to the lab. I think they may tell us something.”
“Maybe it's time to get someone else on the case. A fresh perspective.”
Joe leaned forward. “That would be a mistake.”
Davis turned to Howe. “What do you think about it?”
Joe closed his eyes. Here it comes.
“He's right,” Howe said. “It would be a mistake to reassign him.”
Joe shot him a sideways glance, waiting for the kicker.
Davis looked surprised. “Only a few days ago you asked your lieutenant to remove him from the investigation.”
“I've reevaluated my position.”
Davis nodded. “Fine. The two of you continue your investigation into Robert Nelson's murder. Keep the lines of communication open with Lieutenant Powell, who will be heading up the investigation into Jesse Randall's abduction.”
* * *
The meeting broke up at a quarter to eleven. Joe caught up with Howe in the elevator.
“Thanks,” Joe said.
“For what?”
“The show of confidence.”
“It was born of desperation. / sure as hell can't figure out how Nelson was whacked. How was Cartersville?”
In all the commotion with Jesse's kidnapping, Joe hadn't told Howe about his conversation with the emergency room doctor. He quickly filled him in.
“Pig's blood?” Howe said as they stepped out of the elevator and into the narrow hallway that led to the homicide squad room.
“That's what the man said.”
“Had the girl just gotten off from a hard day at the slaughterhouse?”
“No, and her father lied about it. He told the attending physician that it was paint.”
“This is getting more bizarre by the minute.”
“Don't I know it.”
“I'll dig a little deeper into the Rawlings family. I'll subpoena their phone records and see if I can get Internet usage reports from their access provider. Maybe you can talk to the lady again.”
“You don't want to come with me?”
“She was a little scared of me. She liked you better, and she's more likely to give up more if you're there alone. I trust you.”
“Why are you being so decent all of a sudden?”
“I've come to the conclusion that I'm going to get the shaft no matter what I do in this case. With that knowledge comes a certain freedom.”
Jesse wasn't sure if it was day or night. There were no windows in the large padded room, and someone had taken his C-3PO watch. A big, bearded man dressed in the same strange paper uniform as the woman had silently come into the room and left a steak, a baked potato, and a glass of fruit juice near the door panel, then left. The empty dishes were still piled in a corner of the room. There were mirrors high on each wall, where he guessed that people were watching him. The way Dr. Nelson had during his experiments.
The door swung open. The woman again. Her eyes were bloodshot, her cheeks red. She looked as if she'd been crying. She walked over and knelt next to him.
“Hi, Jesse.”
“Hi.”
She squeezed a foam rubber ball in her right hand. “Did you like your food?”
“It was okay.”
“Would you like something else?”
“Like what?”
“Ice cream?”
“No, thanks.”
“I'm sorry about all this, honey. I really am. I wish we could get out of here.”
“Are they really keeping you here too?”
“Yes.”
“But why do they want you?”
She cast a quick glance at one of the mirrors. “I've worked with children before.”
“Kids like me?”
She smiled warmly. “Oh, no. No one's quite like you, Jesse. I've seen what you can do. I guess they thought I could work with you and help you show them your abilities.”
“If I do my stuff for ‘em, what will happen then?”
“They'll watch you, maybe suggest a couple of other things for you to try, and that will be it. I'll go home to my kids, and you'll go home to your mother.”
“You have kids?”
“A little boy and a little girl. The boy is just a little younger than you are. I really miss him. He probably doesn't know what happened to me.”
Her frizzy blond hair fell over her forehead as she turned away from Jesse. She was crying. Her
hands went limp, and the foam rubber ball dropped to the floor.
Jesse looked up at the mirror. Who was behind that glass? What did they want?
He turned back to the ball and stared at it. It rocked for a moment, then rolled a few feet away.
The woman took a sharp breath.
“There. That's what they want, isn't it?”
She nodded.
“That's what you wanted too. That's why you brought the ball.”
“Thank you. Will you do some more for me?”
“Not now.”
“When?”
“Maybe later. But I want my glasses back. I'm not doing anything else until I get my glasses.”
“I'll see what I can do, Jesse.”
“What's your name?”
“Myrna.”
“Don't worry, Myrna.”
“My husband told me not to let you in again,” Crystal Rawlings said.
Joe stood facing Crystal on her front porch, and this time she seemed stronger and more confident. “That sounds like a guilty person talking,” Joe said.
“I can't talk to you about Dr. Nelson.”
“Guiltier still.”
“I'm sorry.”
“Then talk to me about your daughter.”
She went white. “Gaby? Why do you want to talk about her?”
“She has something to do with this.”
“You have no idea what you're talking about.”
“When we were here asking about Dr. Nelson, you were thinking about her.”
“I always think about her.”
“Especially then.”
“There's nothing to say.”
“I know you miss her,” Joe said softly. “I lost my wife a couple of years ago, and it's hard to keep going sometimes. I'm sure Gaby meant a lot to you.”
“Of course she did. She still does.”
“Has anyone tried to reach her for you? Dr. Nelson, a spiritualist, anyone from the Landwyn parapsychology program?”
“No. I don't believe in that stuff. I don't believe in any of it.”
“Tell me about her. Please.”
Crystal's eyes were starting to mist.
Could he be any more of a schmuck? Joe thought. He was following the playbook, eliciting information by provoking a strong emotional response. He felt rotten, but it made him feel a little better to think that Crystal really wanted to talk about her daughter.
“Gaby would have turned seventeen tomorrow,” she said.
“I didn't realize that. I'm sorry. This must be an especially difficult time for you and your husband.”
She nodded.
“I know this is painful, but what exactly happened to her?”
“Her appendix ruptured.”
“Was there anything suspicious about the way she died?”
“Suspicious?”
“Anything I should know about?”
“No. It was natural causes.”
Joe spoke gently. “Ms. Rawlings, why was there pig's blood on your daughter's shirt when you brought her to the hospital that night?”
She closed her eyes and drew in a long breath. “Pig's blood?”
“Yes.”
“That's ridiculous.”
“How did that blood get on your daughter?”
“There must be a mistake.”
“No mistake. Her doctor told me. He checked it out.”
“Please leave us alone.” Her voice shook. “We can't help you.”
“I think you can. Did you know Dr. Nelson before your daughter died?”
Crystal hesitated. “Yes.”
“Under what circumstances?”
Another pause. “We helped him with one of his projects.”
“A paranormal studies project?”
“I can't discuss it.”
“You can, and you must. This man was murdered, and we're evaluating everyone in his life as a possible suspect. The fact that you're being so secretive makes you and your husband look suspicious. Are you protecting your husband, Ms. Rawlings?”
Her eyes widened. “No!”
“Convince me. Tell me about Dr. Nelson. When did you first meet him?”
“A few months ago. I saw him only twice in my life.”
“Two meetings, and he gave you a hundred and sixty thousand dollars?”
“I can't discuss this anymore.”
“Nelson's dead, and if there's someone else involved, I need to know about it.”
“That little black boy killed him, didn't he?”
“I think someone wants us to believe that. Dr. Nelson's killer is out there, and you may be shielding him even if you don't realize it. You could be putting yourself and your husband in a dangerous position. If the killer thinks you're holding information that may incriminate him, you could become a target.”
“My husband told me that you guys might try to scare us.”
“That's not why I'm here.”
“Oh, no? In the past two minutes you've told me that I might be a murder suspect and a possible murder victim. What do you call that?”
“Pointing out some simple truths. Please. Talk to me. I don't want to bring you to the station, but I will.”
“It won't do you any good.”
“I want you to think about something. What would your daughter want you to do right now?”
She bit her lip. “What do you mean?”
“Exactly what I said. Is the memory of your daughter best served by your silence? Is that what she would have wanted?”
“You have no idea what Gaby would have wanted.”
“That's why I'm asking you.”
She thought about it. “Do you people look at phone records?”
“For who?”
“Anybody. Murder victims, the other people involved.”
“Usually.”
“So, you've probably looked at Dr. Nelson's calls.”
“I can't comment on that.”
“Have you looked at ours?”
He stiffened.
“You may already have your answer, Detective. You just don't realize it.”
She slammed the door closed.
* * *
“I put in for the Rawlingses’ phone records right after our chat with them the other night.” Howe's voice crackled through the lousy connection. Joe was on his way back to town, talking to him on his portable phone.
“Damn, Howe, maybe you are a good cop.”
“That'll be our little secret, okay? The phone records might be in already. If so, I'll do a cross-check with Nelson's records. I'll put the Little Bastard on it.”
The Little Bastard was a processing unit that scanned a variety of standard documents, then searched for data matching designated parameters. The machine's colorful nickname stemmed from its infuriating tendency to malfunction whenever it was needed most.
Joe heard Howe's other line ringing. “Hold on, Bailey.” After a minute, Howe returned. “Where are you?”
“I-75 and the Marietta Parkway. Why?”
“Get over to the Charlie Brown airport. I'll meet you there.”
It was a few minutes past noon when Joe arrived at Charlie Brown's Hangar C. Howe, Fisher, and a group of police and FBI officers were already on the scene.
“What the hell happened?”
“Ask those guys.” Howe pointed to Fisher and a pair of FBI agents. “They're the ones who sat on this for two hours before tipping us off.”
Joe and Howe strode into the hangar and walked toward the repair station, where Fisher stood over Toby Cooper's corpse. The man's throat had been cut open.
Joe turned to Fisher. “This is the mechanic whose sticker was on that helicopter?”
Fisher nodded. “It happened early this morning sometime. His kid was home in bed and had no idea he was even gone. It looks like Jesse Randall's abductors were covering their tracks.”
“Why would they wait?” Joe asked. “They planned everything else out to the nth degree. If they were afraid of this guy, they
could have killed him days or even weeks ago.”
“Who else would've done it?” Fisher's tone was mocking. “Jesse Randall? Yeah, maybe he used his psychic powers to strike at the mechanic who once serviced his kidnappers’ helicopter.”
Joe sighed. “Don't even say that as a joke, or it'll be on every newscast by dinnertime.”
Lyles laid out his ivory squares on the car seat, waiting for the amphetamines to kick in. It had been almost twenty-four hours since Jesse Randall's abduction, and he hadn't even thought about sleeping. He couldn't. Not until he found Jesse and brought him back.
He'd tracked down the car license plate number that Toby Cooper had dutifully scribbled on the helicopter repair invoice. The info had cost Lyles $39.98 and a visit to a cyber café, where the data-x.com Web site kicked out the owner's name and address in a matter of minutes. Different from the name on the invoice, he noticed. Gino Lockwood of Roswell. Lock-wood lived on the ground floor of a two-story apartment building. Lyles had found a spot at the curb that afforded him a view of Lockwood's parking space and apartment windows.
If only Bertram and Irene could see him now. Finally he was fighting for something that truly mattered.
He glanced down at the carved squares. Perhaps they could give him some guidance, some inspiration. He spread them out in a large grid of ten rows and ten columns.
Except he couldn't complete the pattern.
There weren't enough squares; he was one short. He checked his pockets. Empty. He searched the car seats and floorboards.
Shit. He'd lost it. But where? The church? Cooper's house? The airport?
He didn't believe there was any way it could be traced back to him, but it was still a loose end. He hated loose ends.
Unless this was meant to happen.
Unless the will of Alessandro was truly working through those squares. Then it would be all right.
He scanned the remaining squares, keeping a mental tally of the symbols present and accounted for. He realized which one was missing.
Vivida. Deception.
Was it a warning? A clue?
He glanced up, grabbed the squares, and jammed them into his pockets.
Gino Lockwood had just come home.