Sigma Curse - 04

by Tim Stevens

  “It wasn’t a bad choice,” she whispered.

  “But it was still the wrong one.” Frank’s tone had taken on a harsh, ragged aspect. “You need to reconsider your approach. Think about a new angle. Spend a little more time and effort in research the next time.”

  “I will.”

  Sally-Jo went over to the closet and brought out a box of scented candles. She placed them in their holders throughout the room, beside the full-length mirror and on the bedside table and on the dresser, and she lit them one by one with a long taper.

  The flickering light made shadows dance across the hollows and curves of her body, as though the skin was rippling, sensuously alive.

  Frank’s face faded into the darkness. “Remember,” he said. “Remember.”

  Of course she’d remember. How could she ever forget?

  Sally-Jo wasn’t sure how long she spent in front of the mirror, gazing at herself. At some point, she was aware of Frank leaving. He could be back any time, later that night or a week from now. He came and went as he pleased. Sometimes he frightened her. Other times, he comforted and inspired her. But he was always there, even when he was absent. Always close by, even when he was hundreds of miles away.

  She never thought to check the time when she went to bed. Lying there in the darkness, her body newly layered with oils suffused with herbs and heat, she allowed her thoughts to soar, up through the ceiling of the garret and far above the cityscape of Manhattan, out over the harbor toward the Atlantic.

  Her best ideas came to her this way, with her mind roaming freely, unfettered by earthly constraints.

  The next one would, as Frank had said, have to be different. Not just different physically, but more importantly different in his or her outlook. The trouble was, it was difficult to know beforehand just how much insight and understanding, how much wisdom, a person possessed. You couldn’t tell until you put them to the test, and by then it was by definition too late to back out if you discovered you’d made a mistake. If you realized the person you’d chosen wasn’t as special as you thought they’d be.

  Dale had been as close to special as Sally-Jo could have hoped for. She’d known him, in a way she hadn’t known the first two. Yet, still, at the last, Dale had failed to understand. He’d let her down. It wasn’t his fault, of course, but her disappointment had been crushing.

  As had Frank’s, of course.

  She had quite a task ahead of her now. She needed to select the next one with the utmost care. It had to be a wise person, not necessarily genius-level intelligent, but with a degree of intuition. Somebody who would be relatively easy to subdue, unlike the first one, O’Farrell, whose girth and clumsy resistance had caused a heck of a mess.

  On the cusp of sleep, about to plunge into the crazy, psychedelic world of dreams she’d come to expect each and every night, Sally-Jo jolted upright.

  The room was dark, apart from soft light peeking in through a crack between the curtains. The garret was almost silent, apart from the thudding of her heart in her chest.

  The idea had come to her like... well, like an icepick through her brain, she supposed. And just like that instrument, it was cold and hard and clear.

  Sally-Jo settled back against the pillows, waiting for her breathing to subside, trying not to struggle too hard against the rising tide of excitement deep in her belly, because to fight it would be to cause it to surge even higher.

  She knew, with absolute clarity, the type of person she needed.

  Now, all that remained was to find them.

  Chapter 6

  Venn reached the FBI office building on the East River at ten minutes before nine, and saw Special Agent Teller already waiting in the underground parking lot, watching the ramp. He raised a hand as Venn pulled in.

  Venn wasn’t late, he knew. The FBI man was waiting for him, ahead of time, in a mild display of power. You might be early, seemed to be the message, but I’ll make sure I’m earlier still.

  They shook hands and Teller led the way to his car, a black Lexus, which he opened with a soft quip from the central locking system. He waited until Venn had settled his frame into the passenger seat before he said: “Rough night?”

  Venn was aware of the pouches beneath his eyes. It had been a while until he and Beth had gotten any sleep.

  “Thinking about the case,” he said shortly.

  “Right. Sure you were.” Teller chuckled softly as he pulled out into the icy morning sunshine.

  Judge Marilyn Fincher’s home was in Albany, one hundred and fifty miles upstate. She’d apparently offered to come to the office in Manhattan but Teller had told her to stay at her place, to co-ordinate whatever arrangements she needed to from the comfort of her home. Her son Dale’s body had already been identified by his uncle, the Judge’s brother, who lived in Manhattan. The young man’s funeral was to take place in Albany, and his body had already been transferred there overnight.

  Venn was relieved to note that Rickenbacker wasn’t with them. Teller had said to him: you and I will visit the Judge, and for that reason Venn had asked Harmony to stay behind, assuming Rickenbacker would do the same.

  They were crossing the bridge into the Bronx when Teller said, “Sorry about all that yesterday.”

  Venn looked at him. “What?”

  “With Fran Rickenbacker. She’s, ah... territorial.”

  “No kidding.” Venn shrugged. “Basically, she comes across as somebody who despises street cops. I’m sorry to say I’ve met a number of agents over the years who’re the same. They start out cops themselves, get a break and find themselves promoted to the Feds, and forget where they came from.” Again he glanced at Teller. “No offense. I’m sure you’re not like that.”

  “None taken.” Teller looked wryly amused. “In fact, I agree with you. I’ve met those kind of people too. And they piss me off.” He paused to brake as somebody cut them up ahead. “But Fran isn’t like that, really. And I’m not just saying that because I’ve worked with her for years, and I respect her.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Fran’s local herself,” Teller went on, as if Venn hadn’t said anything. “From Queens. She was a homicide detective there for eight years. Got herself headhunted by the Bureau three years back, and came to work for our office in Buffalo. We were partnered up at first, but then I got promoted and became her boss. We’re still partners, though, in spirit.”

  Venn listened curiously. He wondered if Teller had a thing for Rickenbacker. Wondered if they perhaps had a thing going, now or previously.

  “She’s tough,” said Teller. “Doesn’t suffer idiots gladly. People skills aren’t that hot, though I reckon the same could be said for your detective, Jones. Sometimes they make the best partners. The ones who don’t give a crap about social graces. Wo tell it like it is.”

  Yes, Venn thought. That sure described Harmony.

  “The problem Fran has with you, Lieutenant -”

  “Please,” said Venn. “It’s Joe.”

  “Joe. Okay. Call me Mort,” said Teller. “Fran’s beef with you, Joe, isn’t that you’re a cop. It’s that you’re a cop who doesn’t have any experience with serial killers. Everybody thinks they know about serial killers, mainly because everybody’s seen a hundred movies in which they’re portrayed with degrees of accuracy ranging from the tenuous to the non-existent. Everybody, cop or Bureau agent, wants to get in on the serial killer craze, because they figure it’s sexy. They believe it’ll lead to them becoming famous. The problem is, it isn’t like that in real life. Hunting a serial killer isn’t a matter of studying their psychological profiles and making wild speculations about what they’ll do next, and then, hey presto, watching them fit neatly into the pattern you’ve deduced. No. It’s a whole lot messier than that. They’re inconsistent. They make mistakes. They leave clues in the most stupid of places, places so dumb nobody thinks to look there. In the majority of cases, we catch them through sheer luck. Someone’s in the right place at the right time, solely by coi
ncidence, and bam – they get taken down.”

  “I get that,” said Venn. “I never pretended I had any expertise in the field. I haven’t been called I because I asked to be, or because I have any special insights to offer. I’m involved because of the political angle. Because the son of a Supreme Court justice has been murdered. That’s all. So Rickenbacker doesn’t need to get her panties in a wad.”

  “I know that,” said Teller. “But she won’t accept it. She thinks you’re just another glory seeker. And she’s worried you might screw up the investigation for us.”

  “Then I’ll just have to take extra care not to get in your way,” said Venn.

  After a few more minutes’ driving, as they turned onto the I-87 and the city began to recede behind them, Venn said: “So what’s your story, Mort?”

  Teller raised a shoulder. “Pretty boring, actually. I’m career Bureau. Never was a cop. I studied criminology at Missouri, got good grades, and applied straightaway for the FBI. Got in quickly, and worked my way up, through all the gofer grades and the behind-the-scenes desk jobs, helping out where I could, making contacts. Before I knew it, I was a fully-fledged agent.”

  “In Missouri?” asked Venn.

  “Yeah, at first. St Louis. Then I got a transfer to New York State. I’m based in Buffalo, but I have a certain amount of experience with serial killers, so I was picked for the task force here in Manhattan.” He looked across at Venn. “You?”

  Venn smiled. “Somehow I don’t think you need to ask me that. Something tells me you already have a dossier on me as thick as a phone book.”

  “Yeah, we do,” Teller said immediately. “Marine, Chicago PD detective, then the fall from grace. Then some stuff a couple of years later here in New York which even I can’t get total access to, so it was obviously something pretty sensitive.” He said carefully: “Maybe you can spill the beans a little, some time?”

  “Maybe,” said Venn. “Not on a first date, though.”

  Teller focussed on the road ahead. The night’s ice hadn’t yet fully melted, and the asphalt was slick. “Since then, you’ve pulled off quite some shit, Joe. The Salazar business. Then you took down Gene Drake.”

  “Not just me,” said Venn. “My team, too.”

  “Of course.” But Teller sounded skeptical. “So I really don’t have a problem working with you. Guy with your resume, it’s an honor, frankly.”

  He didn’t sound in the least flippant.

  They rode in silence for a while, until Teller raised the subject of the killing of Dale Fincher.

  “So have you had any further thoughts?”

  “Not really,” said Venn. “The toxicology results will be helpful, whenever they’re ready. It’s hard to imagine a soldier like Fincher being overpowered easily, and without much of a struggle. Especially if there’s a woman involved. My guess is he was drugged. She took him to the hotel, got him drunk, slipped a Mickey Finn in his glass. Then branded him and stuck the icepick through his head.”

  “You think it was a woman, then?”

  “Maybe. Or, like you said, she was bait, and there was a guy waiting in the wings.” Venn spread his hands. “Anyhow, you said yourself that speculation wasn’t a good idea. I suggest we wait till we get a little more information.”

  Thirty seconds passed. Snowflakes were spiralling lightly out of the heavy sky, and Teller turned on the wipers.

  He said: “You’re holding something back, Joe.”

  Venn gazed out the window. “Yeah,” he admitted. “I am.”

  “Well?”

  Venn said, “I’ll tell you once we’ve spoken to his mom. She might shed some light.”

  Teller tilted his head in a gesture that said, Okay, suit yourself. He didn’t ask any more.

  *

  Judge Marilyn Fincher was a small, surprisingly plump woman of around sixty, with a frizz of gray hair held down with difficulty by a series of clips and ties. Despite her haggard expression, the rawness of the rims of her eyes, she maintained an air of composure, of forcefulness, even, which Venn associated with the judges he’d encountered over the years.

  She ushered the two men into a sumptuous living room. Venn had already been struck by the grandeur of the house, a mansion, really, set in woodland in the suburbs of Albany. A host of other people milled around, some of them looking like family, others like friends. They murmured softly to Judge Fincher, drawing in protectively as though Teller and Venn were two thugs sent round to intimidate her, but she dismissed them all and closed the door, leaving herself alone with the two men.

  “Tea?” she asked.

  “Coffee, please,” said Venn. “Black.”

  Teller took his the same. The judge poured with exaggerated, fussy care, as if she could hold on to her composure through this simple, mundane procedure. Her hand didn’t shake at all, nor did her face crumple at any point. Venn wondered if she was numbed, and thought that the grief would hit her later, hard, once they’d gone.

  “Dale and I weren’t close,” was the first thing she said, after they’d offered their condolences and the coffee-serving ritual had been completed.

  Venn was surprised. “You mean you didn’t see a lot of one another?” he asked.

  She gazed at him directly. Venn felt the power of her stare, and could imagine himself in the witness stand, giving evidence before her, while she dissected him with her eyes.

  “We didn’t, no. But I don’t just mean we weren’t geographically close. Our relationship was a strained one.”

  This wasn’t at all what Venn had been expecting. He said, “Without wanting to pry, Judge... would you mind telling us why that was?”

  “He wanted a father,” she said simply. “He lost his father when he was four years old. So he never knew him. But growing up, he’d surround himself with photos and memorabilia of Dad. I tried to be both to him, a mother and a father. As well as a judge. You can imagine how that worked out.” A trace of bitterness had crept into her tone.

  Teller and Venn waited as she sipped her tea, her eyes distant.

  “When he graduated from West Point, all he could talk about was how proud his dad would have been. In his emails and letters to me while he was training, it was all about what his dad would have experienced when he was there, and about people he’d met who’d known his dad. Dale’s father, my late husband, was more of a parent to him than I ever was.”

  Teller spoke softly, and for the first time.

  “How much do you know about Dale’s personal life, Judge Fincher?”

  She fixed Teller with that courtroom stare of hers.

  “His personal life? You mean his relationships?”

  Teller nodded.

  “He kept to himself, largely,” said the judge. “Surprisingly, for a strong, tough young man, a soldier, Dale was painfully shy. It was one of the reasons he went into the military. Apart from that he wanted to follow in his late father’s footsteps. He found social contact very difficult, and he was embarrassed by that. He believed the Army wouldn’t toughen him up. But it can only do so much, as I’m sure you’re aware, gentleman. You can change your circumstances, yes. But your nature, your temperament, is hardwired in. You can never fundamentally alter it.”

  She paused to consider.

  “He had friends, I think, of both sexes. I met one or two of them. Mostly military types. But he had difficulty sustaining relationships. Dale was a troubled young man. And I mean that in a deep-down way. It ran to the core of his being.”

  Teller was about to speak, but glanced at Venn, as if sensing he had something to ask.

  Venn said: “Judge, were you aware of your son seeking psychiatric help at all?”

  This time her gaze was sharper. “Psychiatric help?”

  Venn nodded. He thought she knew what he was talking about, and that she was stalling a little.

  She looked off once more, into some distant place inside her. “I knew he was seeing a counsellor of some kind, yes. I don’t know if it was an MD, or a psychol
ogist, or what. It’s not so unusual. Plenty of people seek that kind of help. Soldiers, judges. Even police officers.

  Venn spread his hands to concede the point.

  “I never asked him about it, and he never told me why. But he’d brought it up in conversation once, on the phone. Casually mentioned that he had an appointment with his counselor.”

  Maybe he mentioned it for a reason, Venn thought. Maybe he wanted you to ask about it.

  “Do you have any idea why he was seeing the therapist?” asked Teller. “Did you suspect anything?”

  Again she paused to consider. “His father, I suppose,” she murmured. “He always wanted his father back, and knew he couldn’t have him. And he always gave the sense of not belonging. That seems strange, doesn’t it? He joined the military in order to find a home, and I know that the Army or the marines or whatever it is, becomes your home. They actively foster a sense of family. But although he seemed to enjoy his career, he never really felt he fitted in there. That’s just my impression. We never discussed it.”

  Venn said: “Was Dale ever hospitalized?”

  “He broke his arm when he was a teenager -”

  “I mean, for anything else,” Venn said. He saw the flicker of annoyance on the judge’s face, and realized she wasn’t accustomed to being interrupted. “For anything that might be linked to the reasons he was seeing the counselor.”

  “No.” Her answer was swift and emphatic. “I told you, I don’t know much about what he was seeing the counselor for, what was going on inside him.”

  That wasn’t the question, thought Venn. Interesting.

  They talked a little more about what had happened to Dale Fincher. Judge Fincher had clearly been briefed fully on the circumstances of her son’s death. Venn wondered if she’d been told about the serial killer angle, or if she still thought her son’s murder was an isolated killing. She hadn’t asked about the involvement of the FBI in the case, but perhaps she assumed they were there because of her status as a Supreme Court judge.

  She asked, “The mark on his forehead.”

  Yes,” said Teller.