Compromised Security
Page 6
Flynn stepped up to the counter and spoke to Crowe. “I’ve been looking around your shop. I see you’ve expanded your inventory with Native American objects.”
“I find them quite interesting. The tools of the medicine men aren’t so different from those used in medieval witchcraft. The herbal potions. Mysterious cures. Methods for calling up magic.”
“Most of these trinkets look like junk for the tourists,” Flynn said. “Do you have any real artifacts?”
“Indeed. Some are quite valuable.” He lifted his beaked nose and sniffed the air suspiciously. “If you review my records, you’ll find that all of my documentation is in order.”
“There’s a pipe in the front window,” Flynn said. “Can you tell me about it?”
Crowe’s eyebrows lifted. “I’m surprised at your discernment, Agent O’Conner. That pipe is antique.”
Flynn had deduced that the pipe was something special when he noticed the price tag for over four hundred dollars. “How did it come into your possession?”
“I have contacts in all the tribes, but my best source is a Navajo shaman by the name of Tsosie. Very few white men are allowed to share in his ceremonies.”
Only those with big wallets. “I’d like a closer look at that artifact.”
With a warning glance toward Becky, Crowe eased out from behind the counter and led the way to the window display. His weakness was his ego. He enjoyed showing off his esoteric knowledge, proving his superiority—traits that precisely fit the profile for the Judge.
Reaching into the window display, Crowe lifted the carved bowl of the pipe. “It’s not a particularly attractive example. The crude carving is supposed to be an eagle. It’s made of a rock known as pipestone. This example dates back to the Treaty of 1868, after the Long Walk when the Pueblo people were driven from their lands.”
His fingers curled possessively around the carving, and his voice lowered. “The stone feels warm, as if it still holds embers. Imagine a white-haired medicine man enjoying an evening smoke, seeing visions in the flame of his campfire. Fire purifies, you know.”
The Judge burned his victims. To purify them? Flynn fought his revulsion; he had to stay focused. “From 1868? How did you verify that date?”
“There’s an excellent archaeology department at the University in Santa Fe.”
Which was where Graff had gone to school. This might be the connection Flynn had hoped to find. Crowe—a dealer in antiquities—had used the university to authenticate the various objects and artifacts in his shop. “You knew Russell Graff.”
“I’ll save you the time of going through my records. Russell Graff purchased several items from this store. We shared a fascination with archaeology.”
“And a fascination with death.”
“I don’t deny it.” Crowe returned the pipe to the display. “Death is the other side of life, Agent O’Conner. Not to be feared but welcomed.”
“That might be true of natural death.”
“All death is natural.”
“Not murder.” Flynn’s blood was rising. The last thing he wanted was a philosophical discussion with Crowe. At the very least, he was a poser. At worst, a serial killer. “Murder is the worst kind of injustice.”
“Tell that to the nighthawk that soars against the moon then swoops down to catch a field mouse. Is that unjust? The hawk is a natural predator.”
The overblown nature images were beginning to annoy Flynn. “I liked you better when you were spouting Satanist tripe.”
“Fine.” His lips sneered within the brackets of his goatee. “We’ll talk about the supernatural. I wonder if—in the line of duty—you’ve ever killed anyone.”
He had. Twice. “My job is to protect.”
“An easy rationalization. And yet, I see the ghosts of your victims standing beside you. At night, do you hear their cries? Perhaps you hear the screams of those women you failed to save in San Francisco. How many were there?”
“Seven.”
Crowe was trying to play on his conscience, stirring up old guilt. There had been a time when the mention of those seven deaths would have caused Flynn to lose control.
Behind his back, he heard the low conversation from the two women at the counter. Marisa was doing her job, gathering information. He needed to do the same, to use his rage to sharpen his interrogation, to slice through Crowe’s smug facade and expose him.
The time had come for intimidation.
“Were you close to Graff?”
“Not really.”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
Crowe reached into the display and lifted a necklace, threaded with turquoise stones and bear claws. “One would hardly think this piece represented death. And yet, the grizzly claws embody the spirit of the dead animal and protect the wearer.”
“Are you feeling threatened, Crowe?”
“From you?” Though his tone was scornful, he refused to make eye contact. “Why should I be afraid of you?”
Flynn took a step closer, trapping Crowe against the display case, cutting off his escape. “Here’s how this works—I ask the questions. You answer.”
“What if I don’t want to talk?”
“I can make your life a living hell,” Flynn said. “Constant surveillance. Searching your shop, your house, and your girlfriend’s house. IRS audits. Remember how it was in San Francisco.”
“Ask your questions.”
“Tell me about Graff.”
Crowe rubbed the bear claws as if he could gather courage from this talisman of death. “I didn’t know him well. He was a disturbed young man.”
“Who almost got away with at least three con firmed kills.” Flynn exaggerated Graff’s shrewdness, hoping to challenge Crowe’s ego. “He nearly outfoxed us. Kept us guessing up until the last minute.”
“Why are you here? Graff is dead.”
“He wasn’t the Judge.”
Flynn watched for Crowe’s reaction. The corners of his dark eyes tightened. His nose quivered. “Are you saying that Russell Graff didn’t commit those murders?”
“Oh, he was a killer. But he wasn’t acting alone. He had a mentor, somebody who helped the kid out, told him what to do. How to avoid getting caught. Somebody who thought he was smart. Somebody like you.”
“You’re twisting things,” Crowe said. “I had nothing to do with these murders.”
“The Judge fascinates you.”
“Because of you. When you and Agent Kelso questioned me in San Francisco, I became interested in those murders.”
“So you read about them on the Internet,” Flynn said. “Is that where you met Graff? In a chat room?”
“No.”
“Why did you move to Taos?”
“Your harassment,” he snapped. “You were so busy accusing me that other people started to suspect. I had to leave San Francisco. Too many people thought I was the killer. I wanted a new start.”
“And then the Judge killings started again. In this area.” Flynn leaned closer. Crowe flinched. “That’s one hell of a coincidence.”
“What do you want from me? The Judge was supposed to be dead in San Francisco two years ago.”
“I never believed it,” Flynn said. “I knew he wasn’t dead.”
“And you were right. Let’s give Agent O’Conner a big gold star. You knew the Judge wasn’t dead two years ago.” Crowe’s eyes narrowed. “But it’s over now. The FBI identified Russell Graff as the killer. And he’s dead.”
“But not his mentor.” Not the person who had given the “aloha” clue. Not the person who abducted Grace. Not the real Judge. “Tell me about your friendship with Russell Graff.”
“We shared an interest. That’s all.”
“You want me to believe you were drawn together by your supposed interests.” Flynn didn’t bother to hide his disgust. “Let’s use one of your nature images. You and Graff were like a pair of coyotes to a fresh kill.”
“I didn’t kill anyone.” His desperati
on seemed so real. “He bought objects from me. A woven bowl. A ceremonial pipe. And a necklace just like this. With bear claws. I told him it was good medicine and would make him strong.”
“What else did you tell him?”
“Nothing.”
“Did he ever come here with a friend? Maybe somebody from the archaeology department or the dig site?”
“I never saw him with anyone else.”
He was lying. Flynn sensed it. “Who? Who else?”
“Why would I help you? You and pretty little Agent Kelso ruined my life in San Francisco.”
Eric Crowe turned away. His shoulders hunched as he replaced the necklace in the display window. His hands shook. If this was a performance, it was effective. Crowe seemed truly intimidated. Fearful.
What if he wasn’t the Judge? What if Eric Crowe was nothing more than a smug jerk who ran an antique shop?
Flynn said, “If you saw him with someone else, you might have met the Judge.”
“Give it up, Agent O’Conner. The Judge is dead.”
“Who did Russell bring to your shop?”
“His father.”
Ducking past Flynn, Crowe darted toward the counter where Marisa and Becky stood talking. When he was safely behind the display case, he resumed his imperious tone. “You may leave. I have nothing more to say.”
“We’ll be in touch,” Marisa promised.
As she left the shop, Flynn saw confidence in her stride. Her conversation with Becky must have been productive. Outside, they walked side by side, heading toward the plaza at the center of town.
“What did you find out?” he asked.
“She’s been a clerk at this store for almost a year. At one time, she had a relationship with Crowe, but it’s definitely over.”
“New boyfriend?”
“She wouldn’t say anything about him,” Marisa said, “but I got the impression that he’s another older man. In spite of the Goth makeup and clothes, Becky isn’t tough. She seems to be looking for protection. Somebody to tell her what to do.”
“A father figure.” Like Russell Graff’s father.
“Right. And she was freaked out by the fact that Graff was a serial killer who attacked women with black hair. Hair like hers.”
“She knew Graff.”
“He came by the shop several times to buy various items, and they talked. Apparently, they’re both adopted, which gave them something in common. Once, Graff brought his father to the shop.”
“William Graff. He’s a real piece of work.” Russell’s father—a wealthy importer from San Francisco—had showed up in the area when the manhunt for his son was underway. “The elder Graff and his lawyer are probably still in the area. I’m not even sure Russell’s body has been released for burial yet.”
Her eyebrows lifted. “Is dad a suspect? Are we talking about a father-son serial killer team?”
“It’s possible.” The idea had been raised, during the investigation, before Graff’s death.
“This case just gets more twisted and disgusting,” she said. “I’ll put in a call for surveillance on William Graff.”
“Subtle surveillance,” he said. “Nothing that looks like harassment. William Graff would rather sue the FBI than hear from us.”
“Got it,” she said. “There was something more Becky was on the verge of telling me. Something about other contacts. She referred to them as spiri tual. Maybe a coven. Did Crowe mention anything like that?”
“Not exactly. But there’s something he’s afraid of.”
“What else did you find out?”
“He used the archaeology department at the university to verify his artifacts. That was probably where he met Graff.”
“You were right, Flynn. We’re good together.”
She rewarded him with a smile that failed to lift his spirits. Grace was still a captive. “I don’t think Crowe is the Judge.”
“Why not?” Marisa was clearly surprised.
“He was scared, really scared. I could see it in the way he moved. I could smell it.” And that fear didn’t fit the picture. “The Judge would never show his emotions.”
“Look at the facts,” she said. “Crowe was a suspect in San Francisco. He turns up here. He admits knowing Graff.”
“My gut tells me it’s not Crowe.”
She pulled her cell phone from her pocket and snapped it open. “We can’t ignore the evidence.”
Facts and research were only one part of an investigation. A minor part. Flynn knew this case so well that it was as much a part of him as his right arm.
His instincts hadn’t been wrong before. They weren’t wrong now. But would they be enough to convince Marisa?
Chapter Six
Marisa held the cell phone without punching in the numbers. Circumstantial evidence pointed to Crowe. His egomaniacal personality fit the Judge profile. He had been in the right part of the country at the right time for the San Francisco killings and for the murders in this area. His alibi for yesterday afternoon was worthless. And he had admitted having a connection with Russell Graff, a probable copycat killer.
Crowe could be their man.
But Flynn’s instincts said otherwise.
“Déjà vu,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“You and your damn gut instincts. This is exactly what happened in San Francisco. Every other ViCAP agent—including me—was ready to close the file on the Judge, but not you. Your gut said otherwise.”
“Do I need to remind you that I was right?”
“Oh, please. Don’t gloat.”
“Think about it,” he said. “Is it likely that he snatched Grace, then came back here to hang around in his antiquities shop?”
“If he wanted an alibi, that’s exactly what he would do.” But it wasn’t convincing, even to her own ears.
Flynn tapped the face of his wristwatch, reminding her of the urgency. One full day had passed since the victim had been abducted. If the Judge held true to his ritual, there were only two days left before he killed his captive.
“We need to get moving,” he said. “What’s next?”
“The local Feds are keeping surveillance on Crowe. I arranged to meet with the agent in charge at the plaza.”
After a brisk nod, he proceeded forward with loping strides, leaving her with the choice of running to keep up or planting herself firmly and making him come back to her. She opted for the latter. Feigning nonchalance, she leaned her back against the adobe wall of the corner shop and folded her arms below her breasts.
Half a block away, Flynn noticed she wasn’t with him. He turned, pushed his sunglasses down on his nose and squinted over the rim.
This moment illustrated a perfect metaphor for their relationship. They seemed to be always headed for the same destination but half a block apart and unwilling to compromise. Which of them would take the first step?
She told herself that they were in the midst of an investigation. A woman’s life was at stake. Marisa had no time for playing relationship games. She pushed herself away from the wall and started walking.
At the same time, Flynn came toward her.
They met at the corner.
“There are two ways to handle Crowe,” she said. “We can stay in Taos and put pressure on him. Get a search warrant for his house. Check the tread pattern on his truck tires. Talk to everybody he knows.”
“Or else,” Flynn said, “we can step back and wait for him to make a move. I vote for the second option.”
“Because of your gut feeling?”
“We tried option number one on him in San Francisco,” he reminded her. “After we found that locket at the crime scene, we were all over Crowe. We talked to everyone he was associated with, from his attorney to his manicurist.”
Hundreds of man-hours had been devoted to those inquiries. Right now, as he had pointed out, time was short. The clock was ticking. She had to think fast, to make the right decision. “We’ll leave the surveillance on Crowe t
o the local agents. I’ll instruct them to watch him but not to interfere. We can hope he’ll lead them to the victim.”
“In the meantime,” he said, “we broaden our focus.”
They walked together on the wide sidewalk toward the plaza. Finally, they seemed to be in step.
“In my computer research,” she said, “I didn’t find a local connection for any of our other San Francisco suspects.” Some were in jail. Others were still in California. Two had disappeared and ViCAP experts were tracking down their whereabouts.
“We should follow up on other connections to Graff,” he said.
“Like the archeological dig site where he was working.” The other students at that location could tell them about Graff’s friends and contacts. Also, she wanted to talk to Dr. Alex Sterling. “It might be useful to bring Dr. Treadwell along.”
“Always handy to have a shrink on hand.”
She shot him a sardonic glance. “Maybe he could analyze your gut.”
Reaching inside his corduroy jacket, he rubbed his belly. “Nothing a few sit-ups won’t cure.”
His body looked just fine to her. Better than fine. With his long, lean torso and square shoulders, he was just about perfect—a fact she was trying very hard to ignore. Running this investigation took all her mental energy.
At the plaza, they crossed the street and entered a town square shaded by tall trees. Marisa was supposed to meet Special Agent Montoya from Albuquerque near the center bandstand. “We’re early,” she said.
Flynn directed her to a wrought-iron bench where they sat, thigh to thigh. With an effort, she dismissed her awareness of how close they were. No time to think about their relationship or lack of one. She was running this investigation, and she wanted to do it right.
Mentally, she went through a checklist. There were transportation arrangements to be made. She needed to contact Dr. Treadwell, and it wouldn’t hurt to check back in with Mackenzie at the safe house. Marisa lifted her cell phone.
Immediately, Flynn wrapped his hand around hers, stopping her from placing a call. A pleasant shock went through her. She hadn’t expected his touch and definitely hadn’t expected the heat that was generated when his flesh met hers.