We spent the next ten hours reading each article, and tagging those that might be relevant. Clare and I each read every article, since each of us would be looking at it from a different perspective. When we stopped for the night, we had managed to cover a little over two months. At that rate, we wouldn't be finished before the five-day time limit.
We weren't, but we had compiled a list of six individuals with possible motives. The next evening, Marilyn Gisson, one of the local news reporters, was wounded as she arrived home. Fortunately, the bullet only grazed her arm and the wound proved superficial. The email arrived the next day.
I've run out of patience waiting for the reporter to admit the Kazak was nothing but an elaborate farce. She has violated her sworn duty to the public through her lies, and it's time she pays for that deception. Maybe her imaginary Kazak will come to her aid. She has five days.
"He's planning to kill me," Clare whispered.
"Clare your Kazak is here to protect you, and she's in a really bad mood. There's nothing worse than a woman Kazak who's in a bad mood." I gave her my best interpretation of an evil grin. She managed a weak smile. "We have our list and five days to check them out. With luck, one of them is our killer."
"And if they aren't?"
"I guess I'll have to kill him, when he attempts to kill you. I wouldn't like my sister to get hurt." I paused to think. "You arrived back from Vegas on February second. The first incident occurred on February seventh at seven p.m., the second on the thirteenth at three a.m., and the third on the nineteenth at eight p.m. I think we should rule out trying to determine alibis for the second incident because of the hour. It's unlikely anyone will have a good alibi for that time."
***
The first man on our list was Jerry Williams. He lived in a simple one-story house a few miles out of town. Clare had disclosed that he was a registered sex offender, working as a volunteer helper in a children's hospital ward. He now had an ankle monitor and faced possible jail time. When we knocked on the door, I saw a shadow behind the ragged curtain covering the window.
"Jerry, I'm a Kazak. I have a few questions concerning a murder, which has nothing to do with the charges against you. Open the door or I'll break it down and then I'll be in a bad mood." The curtain closed and a few moments later he opened the door. Jerry was overweight, had thinning hair, and a round pudgy face.
"I didn't do anything." He stood shaking.
"I didn't say you did. All I want is to know where you were on the seventh and nineteenth of February."
Jerry stood with his head and eyes turned slightly downward. Then he looked up. "I don't know about the nineteenth, but on the seventh, I was in jail." He didn't smile but some color did return to his face.
"Thank you, Jerry." I looked to Clare. "Call someone at your office and have them verify Jerry's alibi."
Our next stop was a Frank Murphy, who drove a truck for a living. Clare had exposed his complicity in a dog-fighting scandal several years back. He lived in a one-story house in a run-down neighborhood. At the side of his house sat an old Chevrolet. It was on blocks and had no wheels. In front of the car was a dirty-white class-eight truck, which looked as big as the ill-kept house. I preceded Clare to the front door and knocked.
"Hey sweet things, if you're looking for a good man, you found him." He had come out of a small garage where he looked to have been working on some car or truck part, because he had black grease all over his hands, shirt, and pants.
"I'd like to know where you were on the seventh and nineteenth of February," I said, watching for his reaction. He didn't look friendly.
"What business is it of yours?" His stare turned to a grin, which suggested he meant to have some fun at our expense. I gave Clare a slight push to move her behind me.
"It doesn't matter. I'm a Kazak and I asked nicely." I waited for what I was sure to come. It did. His face turned ugly and he stepped forward and threw a barroom-type punch. Normally I would have moved into him, but he was far too dirty. Instead, I twisted into a sitting snake stance. As his fist whistled over my head I drove my fist into his groin. As he bent over screaming with pain, I unwound upward, driving my head into his face. He staggered backward, blood spurting from his nose. "Now that we've shaken hands, I'd like to know where you were."
He wiped his nose and looked at the blood. Then he reached into his back pocket and came out with a large wrench. "Bull shit. Kazaks are kick-ass men and not some bitch with a few tricks. I'm going to teach you a few new tricks." He smiled.
I could easily see him in a bar or gang fight. His fist swung in a right-handed arc toward my head.
Damn, I'm going to get dirty
. I moved inside his swinging arm and drove my forearms into his arm. The impact felt like slamming into a rock wall. He lost control of the wrench and it went flying, while I was pushed back into his chest. I could feel his breath on my neck as I grabbed his wrist with one hand and drove my other elbow into his ribs. I felt one crack. I slipped under his arm, twisting his wrist while throwing all my weight against his extended arm. It snapped. Before he could even scream, I had a knife at his throat. He stiffened when he felt the cold steel.
"Once again, where were you on the seventh and nineteenth of February."
"I don't know about the seventh, but on the nineteenth I was in Seattle. I hauled a load of heavy equipment there."
"Kazaks aren't all kick-ass men. Clare, have someone check on Frank's trip. Frank, I'd have that arm and rib looked at. I think you broke something teaching me that new trick." Clare and I walked off leaving him to call his own medic.
"I thought he was going to kill you. You shouldn't have come back. I'll never forgive myself if you get killed."
"All he did was get me dirty. Let's go back to your place so I can wash up. Maybe then we can get a bite to eat before we go visit the next one on our list." Clare looked upset, so I made her take me to a good restaurant. After my time on the Hill, I don't care what I eat, but I hoped a fancy meal would provide a temporary distraction.
The next man on the list was a Mack Chavan. Several teenagers had been seriously injured in a series of car accidents resulting from the use of alcohol and drugs. Clare had been instrumental in uncovering that Mack had a side business selling whiskey and marijuana to under-aged teens. Mack presently worked at a small fish market, loading and unloading crates of fish. In the evenings, he roamed the bars. He lived in a small run-down one-bedroom apartment. We found him working at the fish market.
"Mack Chavan?" I asked after someone pointed him out. He looked one notch above a homeless man.
"Yes?" He was a small, thin man with dirty fish-smelling work clothes, unshaved, with scraggly hair and a scarred face. He stopped with a box of fish still in his arms. I couldn't imagine him writing a coherent email or sneaking in and out of anywhere, but I had to check just in case he was an Oscar-winning actor, researching a part.
"I'm investigating a murder and need to know where you were the evenings of the seventh and nineteenth of February," I asked in a normal voice. He laughed.
"I wish I could remember. One day's much like any other: work, drink, and sleep."
"What business is it of yours, Miss?" a broad-shouldered man asked as he approached. I turned and assessed him like he would assess the catch of the day. I imagined he was more concerned that I had interrupted his workflow.
"I'm a Kazak, investigating a murder. I'd like to know where Mack was on the evenings of the seventh and nineteenth of February."
"On the seventh, probably where he usually is, in some bar or another, but on the nineteenth, I can tell you. We had a late shipment, and he was here until ten. Does that help?" He eyed me carefully. "Didn't know there were any women Kazaks."
"Learn something new every day. That's what keeps life interesting. Thank you for your time. You've been extremely helpful." I turned and walked off with Clare at my side.
We had four more days, so I decided to call it a night. Back at the condo, Clare ordered an assortment of dishes from a nearby Chinese take-out restaurant.
"Lynn, I'm terrified. Please go home. I don't want to be responsible for your death." Clare took my hand in hers.
"Clare, I am home. The other place is where I work. I'm a Kazak. My boss would be very disappointed if I couldn't protect you from some amateur. Sleep well; tomorrow we'll talk to the other two. Somehow, I don't think it will be either of them. It doesn't feel right. All of these threats are against you and your articles on a Kazak. If this person hates you, why include me? He has linked me for something he feels you did to him. We need to go to the office tomorrow. I think we can do an electronic search of the
Post
's files and narrow the search. My initial premise was wrong."
***
The next morning, I had the
Post
's Information Systems manager search the files for the word
Kazak.
It produced over three thousand hits. I then had him exclude the ones appearing in articles that Clare had written. That left forty-eight, of which forty appeared in national news articles; the remaining eight were written by Marilyn Gisson.
"That's our killer. Look at the rage in those articles and the attempt to indirectly discredit you. She quotes people on the streets, although I doubt she talked to anyone. I'll bet she knows I'm a woman, since most of the
Post
's people know or have heard of me. She used
he
to make it appear like it was someone outside the newspaper community."
"But the killer shot her."
"Yes, I believe the killer did shoot her. She shot herself to avoid suspicion. I have to admit it was a nice deception. Let's go find her and see what alibi she has for those nights." We went down one floor to where she worked, but she wasn't there.
"Glory, do you know where Marilyn went?" Clare asked the receptionist.
"No, Clare. She didn't come in today. She's probably out on assignment."
"Glory, would you please let me know if she returns? I would like her advice on an article I'm researching." Glory nodded and scribbled a note. On the way to Clare's car, we checked Marilyn's parking slot. It was empty. I stood watching as Clare opened the door and slid in. Something was wrong.
"Clare, get out of the car, now!" I grabbed her arm and jerked her out. She would've fallen except I caught and steadied her. Clare gave me a strange look but said nothing. It had been windy the last two days and all the cars had a thin coat of dust on them. Clare's car was no exception; however, there were hand marks on the hood and driver's door.
I waved for her to move away. Then I got on my back and slid part way under the car. Four pipe bombs were strapped to the underside between the driver's and passenger's seats. It seemed like overkill. I would think the resulting explosion would not only destroy Clare's car but also five or six cars in the general vicinity. Theoretically, I knew how to dismantle a bomb, but this one had different-color wires running in and out of the device. I felt it was better left to professionals.
***
They arrived an hour later. After surveying the underside of the car, a man approached wearing a heavily padded suit. He was a thin black man and had his helmet under his arm.
"That bomb's strange. I think we're going to tow the car to our practice range and put it up on a rack, so we can get a better look. If nothing else, we can use a robot to try and disarm it."
Clare managed to get one of the newsmen to drive us home. She gave the excuse that her car had broken down and had to be towed to a garage. Clare was still nervous, but I felt better now that I knew the killer's name. Amateurs were still dangerous but less so than professionals-except when they got inventive.
I smelled the gasoline before I saw the door burst into flames and heard a scream just outside. Someone had intentionally spilled gasoline by Clare's door and lit a match. The flowing gas had exploded on both sides of the door.
I drew my gun, and put four bullets through the center of the door.
"Clare, get as many sheets as you can and bring them here."
As she dumped them next to me, I tied them together. The fire was spreading throughout the room and smoke covered the ceiling. I took Clare out onto the terrace, closed the sliders behind me, and tied one end of the sheet-rope I had made to a railing and the other end around her waist.
"Clare, I want you to step over the rail and hang on."
"I can't. I'm afraid of heights."
"More than burning to death?" I asked. "Because that's what is going to happen in a few minutes. I'll help you step over the rail." Reluctantly she threw one leg then the other over the rail, while hanging on white-knuckled with her eyes closed. "Clare, you have to trust me. Now let go of the railing. I have you secured with the sheet, you won't fall." Slowly she released her grip one hand at a time. When she was just about to grab back onto the rail again, I pushed her. She dropped about five feet, screaming. I slowly lowered her until she could reach the terrace below. She grabbed the railing and threw herself over. I stepped over the rail and slid down. I could hear Clare sobbing as I swung myself inward. I landed next to her.
"I'm sorry Clare, but you'd never have let go and soon the window would've exploded outward. We would both have been killed. We're too young to die."
I tried the sliding door. It was locked. I fired two shots into the slider's lock and slid it open.
"Hey, what are you doing-" an elderly man shouted. He stopped when he saw the gun.
"Get out, there's a fire on the floor above us. It'll be spreading down here soon." I grabbed Clare by the arm and ran out of his apartment and down the hallway. On the way, I hit the fire alarm.
Clare stood outside with me, in shock. The fire engines arrived shortly afterward. I waited with her the two hours it took for them to extinguish the fire. Eventually, two firemen appeared pushing a gurney with a body covered with a sheet. I stopped them and pulled back the sheet to expose the head. It was a charred mass.