The Maze

by Catherine Coulter

  No one would know. She’d be very careful, do her work for the unit during the day and search at night. She felt her heart speed up at the thought. She’d get him. She had to get him. But he’d lain low for nearly seven years. It would be seven years in three days. An anniversary. Just as the past six years had each been an anniversary. Had he died? Had he simply stopped? She didn’t think so. He was a classic psychopath. He would never stop until he was dead or locked away. Cycles, she’d thought many times. He was into cycles and so far it hadn’t triggered yet for whatever reason.

  The weekly update meeting was at two o’clock. There were nine agents in the conference room: six men, including Savich; three women; one secretary, Claudia, a gum-chewing grandmother with bright red hair and a brain like a razor; and one clerk, Edgar, who would bet on just about anything and won the pool on the birth weight of Ellis’s baby.

  Everyone presented what he was doing, the status, what he or she needed.

  The status meeting went quickly, no wasted time. All the agents felt free to speak up when another agent wanted advice. Savich moderated.

  When it was Ollie’s turn, he said, “I’m working the Radnich case with Sherlock. She’s up to speed on it now. We just got the last pile of stuff today from the Florida cops. Sherlock, you just finished inputting all the data just a while ago, didn’t you?” At her nod, he said, “Then we’ll push the magic button this afternoon.”

  Savich turned to her. “Sherlock? You got anything to add?”

  She sat forward, clasping her hands together. “It’s like a locked-room murder mystery. How can this guy just saunter into these three nursing homes in Florida and the one in Richmond at ten o’clock at night and kill these poor old women with nobody seeing or hearing a thing? Naturally, all the old women killed were in single rooms or suites, but that shouldn’t matter. This whole thing is nuts. There has to be something we’re missing.”

  “Obviously,” said Hannah. “But we’ll get there, we usually do.”

  Savich said, “Actually, Ollie and I are going to St. Petersburg tomorrow morning. I just got another call from Captain Samuels. There’s been another murder. That means that our guy is going into overdrive. The Profilers don’t like it. It means he’s losing control. Five murders in eight months, the last two in the past week and a half. Captain Samuels really wants us to go down there and poke around, look at everything with new eyes. So, that’s where we’ll be for the weekend.”

  Ollie nearly leaped out of his chair in excitement. “When, Chief?”

  “Eight A.M. United flight from Dulles.”

  Suddenly Ollie blanched and raised his eyes heavenward. “I won’t get too up for this. No, I’m a fatalist. If I really want to go, then my future mother-in-law will tell Maria that I’m a workaholic and lousy husband material and Maria will dump me. It’s the way my life works.”

  “Don’t worry, Ollie,” Savich said, closing his folder. “It’s no big deal. We’ll just go down there to see if there’s anything they haven’t seen. I think it’s time to look the situation over firsthand.”

  “Do you already know who did it?” Sherlock asked, sitting forward, her hands clasped on the conference table.

  Savich heard that utterly serious voice, looked at that too-intense face, at that thick curling auburn hair trying to break free of the gold clasp at the back of her neck. “Not this time—sorry. Now, Ollie, don’t panic. Nothing to it.”

  Still, Ollie looked doubtful. Lacey had heard that he’d already wagered with at least a dozen other agents that his wedding wouldn’t come off because either a terrorist would blow up the church or the preacher would be arrested for stealing out of the collection plates.

  “I sure want to catch this creep,” Ollie said.

  “I do too,” Savich said. “Like you and Sherlock and every cop in Florida, I want to know how he keeps pulling off this ghost act.” He stood. “Okay. Everyone is cooking along just fine. No big problems or breakthroughs. Cogan, see me for a minute. I’ve got an idea about those murders in Las Vegas.”

  At six o’clock, Lacey walked into the World Gym on Juniper Street, wearing shorts, a baggy top, and running shoes, her hair pulled back and up high in a ponytail. She paid her ten dollars and went into the huge mirror-lined room. There was the usual complement of bodybuilders who watched every move they made in the mirrors. She got a kick out of watching them walk. They were overbulked and couldn’t really get around normally. They moved like hulks.

  There were beautiful young women who were six feet tall, professional women on the StairMasters, looking at their watches every few minutes, probably thinking about their kids and what they were going to cook for dinner and did they have enough time if they did just five more minutes.

  And there were quite a few professional men, all ages, all working hard. She didn’t see a single slacker. Then she saw Savich. He was wearing shorts, running shoes, and a sleeveless white cotton tank. He was doing lat pulldowns.

  He was slick with sweat, his dark hair plastered to his head. He looked good. Actually, he looked better than good; he looked beautiful. Then she saw him glance over at a clock, do two more slow pulldowns, then release the bar and slowly stand up. He turned, saw her immediately, and waved. Seeing him from the front made her realize that she hadn’t seen any male as a man in a very long time. She let herself appreciate the clean definition of his muscles, the smooth contours of sinew, then she set him away from her, back into his proper role.

  He looked her over as he approached. “I’ve decided your delts are okay. What you need is karate. I didn’t like the fact that despite the SIG and your Lady Colt, I still disarmed you with no sweat. You need to know how to protect yourself, and guns are dangerous. What do you say?”

  What could she say? She’d begun karate and then had to stop it because she’d broken her leg skiing. Two years before. She’d gotten pretty good. But two years was a long time to be away from an art like karate. He was offering her another chance. She nodded. What followed was a warm-up, then stretching, then the most grueling hour of her life. Savich realized quickly enough that she’d already had some training. He threw her, hurled her, smashed her, and encouraged her endlessly. After one particularly bouncing toss, she lay on her back staring up at him.

  “I’m not getting up. I’m not that much of a masochist. You’ll just do it again. I’m tired of hearing how great I am at falling and rolling.”

  He grinned down at her. “You’re doing very well. Don’t whine. You took karate before, so it’s not at all new to you. You know learning how to fall is very important.”

  “I’m still not going to get up. It’s been two years.”

  He sighed, then offered her his hand. “All right. It can be your turn now. But I didn’t do all that just to torture you. If you don’t know how to fall properly, you might as well hang it up. Now it’s your turn. You get to toss me around.”

  She grabbed his hand, leaped to her feet, and took the position.

  He grinned at her. Her look was intense, as grim as could be. She wanted to kill him. “Never stop thinking, Sherlock. Never stop looking at my eyes. Get your muscles ready, but don’t tense. You know how to do it. Okay? Let’s go.”

  He let her throw him, using his own momentum to help her. But she was hooting and shouting that she’d finally gotten him on the mat. “Not bad,” he said as he got back to his feet. They went through that single routine for another half hour.

  She finally stepped back, bent over, her chest heaving, so exhausted she could barely breathe. “Enough. I’m nearly dead. I’ve nearly sweated off my eyebrows.”

  He tossed her a towel. It was perfectly dry. He wasn’t even sweating. “Now that you’ve gotten a renewed taste, what do you think?”

  She threw the towel at him. “I’ve never had so much fun in my life.”

  He laughed and tossed the towel back to her.

  “I’ve never worked so hard in my life.”

  “Yeah, but on the other hand, it’s you in co
ntrol and not a gun.”

  “You can’t smack someone from twenty feet, sir. Even I could have blown you away if you hadn’t been so close to me.”

  “True, but I was and if it had been the real thing, then you’d be dead. I don’t want that to happen. I’ll be spending a lot of time training you. I don’t want you to go get yourself shot. Now, there’s a class that would be great for you. It’s both women and men, and the guy who teaches it is an old buddy of mine. His name’s Chico and he’s one tough buzzard. He might let you in even if you do have skinny little arms.”

  She laughed. It was impossible not to. They both showered and changed. He walked her home, gave her a salute, and said, “You get your apartment furnished this weekend, Sherlock. No more excuses. See you at headquarters Monday. Here’s Chico’s phone number. Oh, Sherlock. You might be kind of sore tomorrow, but nothing too bad. Be sure to take a long hot bath. Maybe a couple of aspirin, too. You might also consider some ice packs first.”

  He paused a moment, looking at her face, clean of any makeup, her ratty hair, strands straggling around her face. He cocked his head to one side, then just smiled at her. “You did fine, Sherlock, just fine. I plan to overlook all your whining.”

  She eyed the sidewalk, wondering if she could possibly throw him.

  “I’m watching your eyes. I’m seeing right into your twisted mind. Nah, Sherlock, don’t try to toss me into the flower bed, not tonight.” He waved, and walked away.

  She stood watching him a moment before she went into the town house. She watched him until he turned at the corner, east.

  “Is that Savich?”

  She was so startled she nearly fell over backward. As she was flailing for balance, he came out from behind a tree. “Oh my heavens, it’s you, Douglas. You nearly stopped my heart. Is something the matter? Is everyone all right?”

  “Oh yes. I’ve been waiting for you, Lacey. I came over hoping we could have dinner. But you weren’t here.”

  “No, I was at the gym. Savich beat the stuffing out of me.” At his stare, she added, “Karate. I don’t know if you remember, but I began taking karate lessons two years ago, then stopped. I’m getting back into it, starting with learning how to fall.”

  “Why with him?”

  “I’ll be taking classes with a guy named Chico after tonight. Knowing Savich, he’ll want me there every night.”

  “Is the guy coming on to you, Lacey?”

  “Savich? Goodness, Douglas, he’s my boss! He’s the chief of the unit. It’s all business.”

  “Yeah, he’s got the best way to get to you.”

  He was jealous. It was amazing to see this side of him. She smiled up at him and lightly placed her hand on his arm. “Savich is a professional. He has no interest in anybody in his unit, not the kind you’re worried about.” She thought about Hannah Paisley. Was there something between Savich and Hannah?

  Douglas saw the lie in her eyes. Why? He’d never known her to lie, but on the other hand, he hadn’t seen her in five months. The damnable FBI had had her in their clutches for sixteen weeks. What more would they do to her? He breathed in deeply. “Why don’t we go inside? You can change, then I’ll take you to dinner. I’ve got to go back to San Francisco in the morning.”

  “That would be nice, Douglas. When you get home, you’ll be speaking to Candice Addams, won’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  She nodded and preceded him into her empty town house.

  9

  SHE SMILED at the guard and flipped open her black FBI wallet. Her beautiful gold star shone.

  “You’re Agent Sherlock?” He checked the list in his hand. “You’re a new agent?”

  “Yes, I would like to go to my office and do some more work.”

  “Hey, you can’t light your pipe here in the building, Sherlock.”

  “Thanks, I won’t. But it’s too bad, I’ve got a really nice blend.”

  “Guess you hear that lots, huh?”

  The guard was about her age, black, his head shaved, a real hard jaw. “No,” she said, grinning at him, “this was the very first time.”

  “How about: Do you live on Baker Street?”

  “Where’s that?”

  “All right. But I’ll be thinking of a new one you really haven’t heard before. You’re clean. Just sign in here. On your way out, check with me again. Oh, my name’s Nick.”

  She waved back at the guard. She walked to the elevators, the low heels of her shoes loud on the marble floor. If anyone asked, she planned to say that she wanted to do more study on the Radnich case. She exited the elevator at the fifth floor, walked down a long hall, turned right, then left, down another hall. She unlocked the door to the CAU. It was dark. Unfortunately she had to light up the entire area. It was different at night. The absence of people, laughing, talking, just breathing, robbed her of even an illusion of safety. She was alone in this large room. She also had her 9mm SIG in her holster.

  “Don’t be a goon and a wimp.” She laughed, a ghostly sound in the room. She hated the overhead fluorescent lights.

  She brought up the menu on her computer and checked all the available databases. She found him after only twenty minutes. She would have found him in under two minutes if he’d killed any more in the past seven years. But he hadn’t.

  She read the profile, then read it again, then cursed. She could have written it. She’d written profiles, dozens of them, during her graduate courses in Criminal Psychology. She’d even written her Master’s thesis on The Inclusive Psychometry of the Serial Criminal. She supposedly knew all the ingredients that went into the psychotic mind, co-mingled in endless patterns to produce a monster. The “inclusive” had been her advisor’s idea. She still thought it sounded obtuse and pretentious, but her advisor had patted her on the back and told her he knew what the professionals respected. She’d passed, so at least she must have sounded convincing in her defense. In fact, she’d gotten high grades on all the various protocols, tests, and measuring tools she’d developed to predict and judge the depths of contamination in the serial murderer’s mind. None of it had helped. He’d gone underground.

  But even the FBI profile hadn’t provided a clue about where to find him. There was nothing at all that provided a different slant or perspective. Nothing new. Wait. She scrolled up again and reread two sentences. “The subject would never vary in his execution. His mind is locked into performing this single repetitive act again and again.”

  It made sense. As far as she knew, each of the seven murders had been utterly identical. She slowly went through all the police reports, including Belinda’s, then printed them out.

  She hated the autopsy reports, but through the courses she’d taken, she’d learned to remove herself from the gruesome details, most of which were couched in medicalese. But the photos were different, tougher. She didn’t read Belinda’s autopsy report. She knew she’d have to, but not now. No, not now, or tomorrow either. She printed out all of them, including Belinda’s.

  She had to stop. She’d barely be able to carry out all the papers she’d already printed out.

  Nick was smiling, that jaw of his out there, when he saw her. “You got lots of stuff there, Agent Sherlock. You gonna take it all back to two twenty-one B Baker Street now? I just remembered the two twenty-one B part.”

  “Yep. It’s all on Moriarty, you know. I’ll catch that villain yet.”

  “I don’t know about this Moriarty. But I did see a Sherlock Holmes movie about that hound. Boy, was that hound mean.”

  “It was a good one,” she agreed as she signed out.

  “You’ll be working more overtime?”

  “Probably. They’re all real hardnoses here. They never let up.”

  When she reached her car, she clicked her security alarm before she reached her Mazda 4x4. Everything worked. Lights went on inside the Navajo. No one had broken in.

  When she got to her town house, she checked all the entries, then fastened the dead bolts and the two chains. She tu
rned on the security alarm. She left her bedroom door open.

  She read over the reports far into the night. But not Belinda’s, not just yet.

  “Just feast your eyes on this, Sherlock.”

  She looked down at a map with dots on it. The computer had connected a number of lines. “It’s the Star of David, Ollie. So what?”

  He was rubbing his hands together. “Nothing bad happened, Sherlock. Savich and I got there and we talked with everybody. You know Savich, he was cool and low-key and then he just showed this to everyone. I thought Captain Samuels—she’s with the St. Petersburg Police Department—was going to kiss him. These four dots are where the killer’s already hit. Savich just did some extrapolation and voila`!”

  “It could be anything, Ollie. A Star of David?” She studied the three dots that represented murder sites. They formed a nearly perfect right-side-up equilateral triangle. The other murder could very well be the beginning of an upside-down equilateral triangle, but who knew? “Well, sure, it could be, but it could also be random.”

  “We’ll soon see,” Ollie said. “If you go with Savich’s reasoning, then the guy is going to kill right here next.” He pointed to the next point.

  “That’s pretty neat,” she said. “But no ideas on how the Ghost gets into the nursing homes and out again without anyone noticing?”

  “Not yet. But the surveillance on the next one Savich pinpointed is going to be intense. You know what? The media took up your word. All the papers and TV are screaming about the Ghost murdering their grandmothers.”

  “Surely not. How would they know about our saying that?”

  Ollie looked down at his black wing tips. “Well, I kind of said it to a TV woman who was really pretty and wanted something so badly.” Ollie looked up at her and grinned. “I thought Savich was going to deck me.”

  “Better you than me. He’s already thrown me all over that gym of his. I’m still sore, but I don’t dare say anything because he’ll accuse me of whining.”