A shimmer of movement attracted her eye. She turned, then relaxed when she saw that it was only the quick passage of a golden koi through the pond. Dozens of the fish streamed in the bright water like shooting stars in a clear sky.
She headed up the steps. Again she had the sense of being watched. Her gaze scanned the windows. She saw nobody, but when she reached the top of the steps, the door opened before she could ring the bell.
“Agent McCallum. Come in, please.”
Madeleine Grant was not what Tess had expected. She’d pictured an older woman, harried and flighty, but Madeleine was no more than thirty-five and seemed perfectly composed. She wore a pantsuit that showed off her toned muscles. Tess guessed she spent a lot of time with a personal trainer.
“It’s good of you to see me on such short notice,” Tess said.
Madeleine waved off the remark. “I’m the one who should be grateful for your quick response.”
With the practiced informality of a hostess, Madeleine led her through the paneled foyer. Tess noted a closed-circuit video monitor discreetly stationed in a corner, offering a view of the steps. That was how Madeleine had watched her.
They stepped into an elegant living room, meticulously appointed like a magazine photo spread. Tess contrasted it with the cramped living-dining area in her Denver apartment, afghans piled on the sofa and half-finished books scattered everywhere.
“You have a beautiful home,” she said. “It must take a lot of work to keep it up.”
“I have a small staff.”
“Do you?”
Madeleine hesitated, as if regretting she’d spoken. “Yes…a live-in cook and housekeeper. This is their night off.” Her glance flickered nervously to the dining room.
Tess followed her gaze. The dining table had been set for one. The dishes had been only partially cleared, as if someone had been interrupted while cleaning up. Not recently, though—the ice in the glass had melted.
Madeleine gestured toward the chairs and divan. “Have a seat. Would you care for anything to drink?”
“No, thank you.” Tess settled into an armchair. Madeleine sat facing her.
Tess didn’t want to begin the interview directly. It was better to establish a rapport. She asked a few questions and learned that Madeleine was unmarried and unemployed. Her father had been a film producer. “Reginald Grant, perhaps you’ve heard of him.”
Tess hadn’t.
“You never saw any of his films? Lucky you, they were all shit. Made money, though. That’s all Daddy cared about. He was a moneymaking machine. Drove my mother to an early grave. Then he dropped dead of a heart attack at fifty-five.” Her father had left her the house and enough money to be “comfortable,” as she put it. “I know I sound like the quintessential rich-bitch Westside cliché, but I like to think I’m a little more complicated than that.”
“Everybody is more complicated than that,” Tess said.
“I never wanted to be one of those women who devote themselves to other people’s charities because they have no interests of their own. Or one of those even less interesting women whose lives revolve around shopping, hostessing, and the beauty salon. Actually I’ve pursued three different careers in my life. At the moment I’m between things, but some friends and I are in discussions about a retail venture on Melrose. It would require hands-on participation. I’m willing, but I’m not sure they are.”
“Well, good luck with that. Now—”
“My point is, I don’t lounge around at poolside sipping drinks and chatting on the phone.”
“Your personal life is really none of my business.” Tess figured there had been enough small talk. “Now, Ms. Grant…” She paused, expecting to hear the words, Call me Madeleine. She didn’t. “I’m afraid I’m not entirely clear on what happened to you last year.”
“I was being stalked.”
Tess nodded. “By William Kolb.”
“Kolb, yes.” She spoke the name with distaste.
“And how did this start?”
“It started when he pulled me over. For running a red light, he said, though I still maintain it was amber.”
“You’re saying Kolb was a police officer?”
“LAPD, that’s correct. He worked out of the West Los Angeles station. He was a patrolman. Six years’ experience. He’s thirty—no, thirty-one years old.”
“So he wrote you a ticket….”
“Which I paid, of course, though under protest, because as I said, the light was amber. It’s the only ticket I’ve received in my life, by the way.”
Tess waited.
“I thought, naturally, that the incident was behind me. Didn’t think anything more about it. Didn’t even connect it with the e-mails at first.”
“The e-mails?”
“I started getting them three weeks later. Offensive, suggestive messages. Very personal. Not just junk mail—they were directed specifically at me. Descriptions of my appearance, my home, my car. Familiarity with my daily routine. And…sexual innuendo.”
“They were anonymous?”
“Of course. I hired someone to trace them for me, and he said they had been sent through an anonymizer, which removed all the…What’s the term?”
“Routing information.”
“Yes. I suppose you have to know these things.”
“Believe me, what I don’t know about computers fills many books.”
“At least you know something. The police”—her hands rose and fell in a gesture of futility—“were useless.”
“When did you bring in the police?”
“Immediately after the messages started. It was obvious this person was spying on me, following me. He would say he’d seen me at a certain store or on a certain street.”
“And the police…?”
“Did nothing. Absolutely nothing. They said if the e-mails were untraceable, there was nothing they could do. I suggested having plainclothes officers place me under surveillance. They might catch sight of whoever was following me. They said they didn’t have the resources to do that.”
“It must have been frustrating. And frightening.”
“No, I wasn’t frightened. I was angry. I wanted to tell this person to come out of hiding and show himself. I would have, if I’d been able to reply to his messages, but of course that was impossible, since there was no return address.”
“I don’t think it would have been advisable, anyway.”
“Now you sound like the police. Don’t antagonize him. Don’t provoke him. Just live in fear. I’m not so easily intimidated. I began going through my records to see if I could determine who might be harassing me. When I came to the notation in my checkbook about the traffic ticket, I thought of Officer Kolb.”
“Why him, particularly?”
“He’d been rude to me. Hostile. Sarcastic and swaggering. A strutting martinet, all puffed up with authority. When I didn’t grovel and cower, he became more offensive. He seemed to take it personally—that he couldn’t make me back down.”
“Even so, there was no direct link….”
“It was a feeling, that’s all. The e-mails began three weeks after the traffic stop. And he looked at my license and registration, so he knew where I lived.”
“Not your e-mail address.”
“Anybody can obtain that information over the Internet. You know that.”
“You’re right. But it would have been more direct for him to call you.”
“Calls can be traced. Voices can be recognized. He was playing it safe. Or maybe he’s just a goddamned coward.”
“Did you tell the police your theory?”
“Oh, certainly. Tell the LAPD that one of their own is stalking me. No evidence, just a feeling. Woman’s intuition. I’m certain they would have been all over the case. They might have brought in extra officers to assist in the investigation.”
Sarcasm. Not Tess’s favorite thing. “You could’ve tried. Police departments do investigate allegations of officer misconduc
t—”
“Whitewash them, you mean.”
“Not always.”
“I shouldn’t argue with you. You work for the government, so of course you see it their way.”
“It’s not an us-against-them situation, Ms. Grant.”
“Yes, it is,” she snapped. She looked away, and Tess saw the swallowing movement of her throat. “In any event,” she went on more quietly, “the point is moot. Officer Kolb was caught with incriminating evidence that connected him with me. He was charged with stalking. For some incomprehensible reason they allowed him to plea bargain for a minimal sentence. He was sent away for less than a year. Now he’s out.”
“Wait, I’m not following this. How was Kolb caught if no one was even looking at him as a suspect?”
“He was caught because of his own stupidity, which is hardly surprising. The man is little more than a shaved ape. Put a gorilla in a uniform, and he could write traffic tickets, too.”
“How was he caught?”
“He left the stove on.”
“What?”
“The stove, a gas stove. He left one of the burners on after fixing his scrambled eggs or whatever. He went to work, and the gas flame was still on. Typical of the bovine stupidity of his type.”
“There was a fire?”
“A minor one. As I understand it, some dishtowels near the stove caught, and the kitchen wall started to smolder. It set off the smoke alarm. Someone heard it and called the fire department. By the time they got there, the whole place was full of smoke. They checked for damage and found…”
Tess waited.
“They found the things he was going to use on me. Not that I would’ve given him the chance.”
“What things?”
“Handcuffs. Duct tape. There was a map of this neighborhood with my house circled. Of course, he could’ve gotten past the security system easily enough. The police around here know how to disarm these systems.”
“The map led the police to contact you?” Tess asked.
“Not just the map. He had photos of me—digital photos, so he didn’t need to have them developed. The quality wasn’t great—it was a cheap camera—but he’d taken hundreds of shots. He’d been following me whenever he was off duty. In his van. That’s what he intended to use for transportation after he…” She shook her head. “But it wouldn’t have gotten that far. I never would’ve let him take me. In a situation like that, you don’t submit. You fight.”
“It’s hard to fight an armed man,” Tess said.
“Not if you’re armed also.”
“You’re saying you own a firearm?”
“I do. I carry it at all times. And I know how to use it. Probably as well as you do, if not better.”
Tess thought Madeleine was trying awfully hard to prove how tough she was. She seemed to need to prove herself in many ways. “Kolb pled to the stalking charge,” she said. “So there was no trial?”
“No trial. Only a one-year sentence. With good behavior he got out in ten months.”
“Did you ever think about relocating?”
“I’m not going to be driven out of my home.”
“Have there been any problems since his release? E-mails? Sightings of him?”
“Nothing. And I’ve been vigilant, believe me.”
“But now you think there may be a connection between Kolb and”—the Rain Man, she almost said—“the recent kidnappings. A similarity in the wording…”
“Of an e-mail he sent me, and the second ransom note. He made the victim write a message, and he left it in her car.”
“Yes.”
“The note was quoted in today’s paper. It may have been made public earlier, I don’t know, I haven’t been following the news. But when I read it this morning…well, there was one part where he said he had trouble managing his disappointment, but he was working on it.”
“I remember.”
Madeleine got up and retrieved a manila envelope from the mantelpiece. It was filled with sheets of paper. She slipped out the top sheet and handed it to Tess.
“Here’s one of the e-mail messages he sent me. The data all went to the police—my floppy disks, even my hard drive. But I kept printouts.”
Tess read the message. The key text had been highlighted with a yellow marker: I’m not so good at handling disappointment. Maybe I need to work on that.
“I see.” Tess glanced at the envelope. “Are those the rest of the e-mails?”
“Yes. You can have them, if you like. Of course, you can get the original data from the police or the district attorney—whoever has it now. Assuming they haven’t thrown it all away.”
“They should have returned it to you.”
“I never wanted it back. Here, take this.”
Tess accepted the envelope, slipping the first message inside. “Thank you. So you think Kolb may have gone beyond stalking to actual abductions?”
Madeleine sat down again. Tess noticed that she was perched on the edge of her chair. “He intended to abduct me. Maybe he still does. Who’s to say he wasn’t stalking those first two women? Now that they’re dead, who’s to say he won’t focus on me next? But, of course, nobody will listen to the rantings of a pampered society woman.”
“I’m listening right now.”
“Yes. You are.” She gave a short nod, as if taking note of this fact. “So were they?”
“Were they what?”
Madeleine spoke slowly, as if to a child. “Being stalked?”
There was nothing in the FBI report that suggested this scenario, but Tess couldn’t say that. “I can’t go into the details of the case.”
“That sounds like a yes to me.”
“You shouldn’t interpret—”
A wave of her hand. “Never mind, I understand. It’s confidential information, not to be shared with civilians. Although I think that where my own personal safety is involved, you might loosen up the rules a little.”
“We haven’t established that there’s a threat to you, Ms. Grant.”
“No,” she said bitterly, “you’ll have to wait until I’m dead to do that.”
Tess ignored the remark. “On the phone you told me that Kolb was obsessed with Mobius. How do you know that? Did he mention Mobius in his e-mails?”
“No, never. But in his apartment the police found a scrapbook full of newspaper clippings about the Mobius case. And about you.”
Tess felt a chill. “Me?”
“Well, you received a lot of press coverage, as well.”
That was true. She’d used the PR to gain clout in the Bureau.
“I’m not saying he was focused on you,” Madeleine went on. “Just that he was fascinated by everything pertaining to the case.”
“Which is not a crime, obviously.”
“No, it isn’t. In fact, I think they even had to give back his scrapbook. He’s probably still got it.”
“Wonderful.” Tess didn’t like to think of articles about her in the hands of William Kolb. “Well, I think I have all I need from you, Ms. Grant. There’s just one thing I’m wondering about. Why didn’t you call the police with this information?”
“Why bother? They didn’t pay any attention to me before.”
“Things might be different now.”
“We’re still dealing with a cop. They protect their own.”
“Kolb can’t be a cop after a felony conviction.”
“An ex-cop, then. It doesn’t matter. Once you’re part of the fraternity, you’re in it forever.”
This answer wasn’t good enough. Tess decided to press the point. “Ms. Grant, what aren’t you telling me?”
“What do you mean?”
“There’s something you’re avoiding.”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I’m sure you do.”
“I called you because I’m trying to assist your investigation. I don’t expect to be insulted and mistrusted for my efforts.”
&nb
sp; “Why did you call me at all? Or the tip line? No matter how you feel about the LAPD, the logical thing would have been to call the police detective who arrested Kolb.”
“I did call—” She stopped.
“You called the detective?”
Reluctantly she nodded. “He was less than receptive to my suggestion.”
“He didn’t believe you?”
“The police never believe anyone. They’d rather give out traffic tickets than solve a serious crime. Do you know I have a neighbor whose home was burglarized while she was in Barbados—ten thousand dollars in losses—and the police wouldn’t even dust for fingerprints? No time for that, they say. They’re understaffed and underbudgeted, they say.”
“So you’re saying the detective ignored your tip?”
“He was quite rude about it.”
“Why would he behave that way?”
“You’d have to ask him.”
“Maybe I will.”
“Even if you do, he’ll only invent some face-saving excuse. It’s what they do.”
“And your staff? Where are they?”
“I told you, they have the night off. I didn’t know the FBI was hiring people with attention deficit disorder. Or is it short-term memory loss?”
“They didn’t have the night off. They made you dinner and were clearing the table a short time ago. When I told you that I was coming over, you hustled them out of the house. Why?”
“I made my own dinner and cleared my own table.”
“So if I were to come back tomorrow and interview your servants, that’s what they’d say?”
“That’s what they’d say.”
Tess rose from her chair. “I’m sorry, Ms. Grant. To be honest, I don’t think I can help you.”
Madeleine stood also, her face draining of color and expression. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t feel you’ve been completely straightforward with me. And unless you’re going to tell me the truth, I don’t see how I can be of assistance.” She handed back the manila envelope.
“You’re returning this?” Madeleine said in astonishment.
“I won’t need it.”
Dangerous Games Page 6