Final Victim (1995) (17 page)

The men's room on the fourth floor was a white tile rectangle
,
over-lit with bright fluorescents. The police officer watched, demanding Malavida leave the stall door open as he dropped his pants and sat on the toilet.

"Can I take your order, please?" Malavida smiled at the cop, who stared back at him as if he'd not spoken.

After he'd finished and washed his hands, they headed back to Cavanaugh and Cunningham. The short patrolman told Lockwood they had to get moving, and Lockwood nodded. He turned to put the cuffs back on. Malavida tried to avoid him, suddenly leaning forward with feigned interest, staring at his computer screen. "Son of a bitch," he said, convincingly.

"Put your hands out," Lockwood barked, grabbing his wrist and cuffing him.

"Look't this. . . . How could I've missed this?" Malavida went on undeterred. He was eyeballing the computer graphic on the screen.

"What is it?" Karen asked as she moved across the room through the gawking employees of Cavanaugh and Cunningham, who were still looking on in dismay and sorrow.

"What is it?" Lockwood asked, staring at the graphic on the screen, the handcuff key, forgotten for the moment, in his hand.

"This guy went into the file room. See this here. . . ." Malavida pointed at the security entry/exit logs for the file room that were displayed on the screen. "This room on six was opened around ten-thirty that same night. That would have been just around the time of the murder."

They leaned in and looked at the columns of time logs on the screen. Malavida had accessed the daytime logs on the file room for the previous Thursday. He had found a 10:30 A
. M
. entry and was pointing at it, hoping desperately that they would not look at the top of the screen, where the wrong date and daytime listings appeared.

Thursday, April 11, A
. M
. Personnel Traffic Log

It was the only listing he could find for a 10:30 entry into the file room. "Maybe this guy wasn't wearing gloves when he went in there," Malavida volunteered.

"Why would he go into this file room?" Lockwood pondered.

"Why? Is that the question, Zanzo?" Malavida shook his head in disbelief. "We ain't exactly dealing with a normal wiring diagram. This guy's got his clock wound backwards. He kills these women and then joints 'em, remember?"

He was trying to keep Lockwood distracted, hoping he wouldn't discover the deception. The Customs agent was staring at the screen.

"Let's go take a look," Karen finally said. "If he's right, there might be some trace evidence in there."

Lockwood hunched forward, looking at the computer, his brow furrowed. "It's a file room," he said slowly. "What could be in there that he'd want?"

"Names of other victims, employee records?" Karen suggested. "You sure he was in there?" Lockwood looked at Malavida.

"Not positive. Maybe it was the security guard went in. But somebody was in there just before the murder."

"Let's look," Karen repeated. "We can't get out of this town anyway. Airport's closed."

The file room on the sixth floor was salvaged space that had been gleaned from the interior wall configuration. It was a long, narrow room that got wider as it went toward the back wall. There was a gray metal desk at the front of the room with a computer on it to access files. The walls of the room housed file cabinets for computer disks and meta
l r
acks that were being used for stationery storage. Malavida knew from the two hours that he'd already spent working on the host computer that the file room terminal was hooked into the building's network. He reached out his manacled hands and turned on the computer. His plan was now only seconds from going into action. His pirate program had left a command with the host computer, which had already accepted him as its root. It had reprogrammed everything he asked. His program also told the host to activate the security locks on the sixth-floor file room fifteen seconds after the computer was logged on. He had also instructed the host computer to lock out the file room terminal from access to the building's computer net for the next hour. That would keep Karen Dawson, with her limited hacking skill, from getting the door unlocked. He had also instructed the host to turn off the phone, keeping his pnsoners incommunicado.

He had the computer booted up and, while Karen and Lockwood were walking the room looking for evidence, and while the two Atlanta cops standing behind him were looking at their watches, Malavida logged in to the host, triggering his pirate program. His escape plan was now fifteen seconds from activation. He had no wristwatch to keep track of the seconds, so slowly he began to count them, being careful not to let his adrenaline speed him up. If he went early, it could end in disaster. One thousand one, one thousand two, he counted in his head.

"We gotta get outta here. We're gonna miss EOW," the tall cop said, referring to his shift's end-of-watch. "Is this gonna take much longer?"

"I'll be damned. Look't this, I found something," Malavida said to the two patrolmen, who, after a second, moved forward sluhly and looked at the screen without interest.

"What?" they said simultaneously, both staring blankly at a monitor crowded full of time logs.

One thousand seven, one thousand eight, one thousand nine .. .

The cops were on both sides of him now, looking at the gibberish on the screen. Lockwood and Karen were walking back toward him, only fifteen feet away. One thousand ten, one thousand eleven, and Malavida suddenly lunged to his right, hitting the tall cop with his shoulder, shoving him into a file cabinet. Then he lunged left, knocking the other startled policeman off balance. He turned and bolted for the door. One thousand twelve. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Lockwood going for his gun, but Malavida already knew he was a free man. One thousand thirteen. Once out of the file room, he grabbed the metal door. One thousand fourteen. He slammed it shut. "One thousand fifteen!" he shouted and he heard the electronic security locks buzz shut. Then Lockwood was pounding on the door. "Get fucked, asshole," Malavida shouted through the thick metal; then he moved quickly to the elevator. He went back down to four, into Cavanaugh and Cunningham, and over to Candice's computer. While the startled employees looked on in disbelief, with cuffed hands he picked up Karen Dawson's purse, pulled out her wallet, and removed several hundred dollars in cash plus one credit card. Then he looked at the roomful of openmouthed employees.

"I'm sorry about your friend," he announced. "Somebody will catch the animal who killed her."

They murmured back at him in stunned agreement; then he leaned down and typed a message on the screen, sent it into the building's computer net, shut off the computer, picked up his cracking kit, and left.

In the file room, Lockwood had given up on the door and turned back to the computer. Karen slammed down the phone in disgust. "Phone's off," she growled.

"That son of a bitch lured us up here and set those locks to go off.

Damn," Lockwood said. But for some reason, he felt no anger. He knew that his career at U
. S
. Customs was over. He had missed his IA review and now, more importantly, he had lost a prner whom he'd released illegally. It was a simmering pork stew, and he had the apple in his mouth. From now on, it would turn into a familiar feast where his bones would be picked clean, like carrion. Internal Affairs Inspectors would all march solemnly to his final trial board. Waiting at the end of this sit-down dinner would be certain dismissal and disgrace. Old friends would stare expressionless, while the music of defeat played.

Lockwood could not manage to feel anything. Was this what he'd been hoping for?

Then the computer gave off a series of beeps. On the screen, in irritating bold caps, came Malavida's message:

LOCKWOOD:

.

YOU SHOULD NEVER

HAVE ARRESTED

MY MOTHER .. .

NOW WE'RE EVEN.

.

Lockwood looked up. "Cute kid," he said to nobody.

Chapter
15

It took exactly one hour before the phone in the file room was turned back on and Karen dialed out. Minutes later, a sixty-year-old building security cop let them out. Lockwood felt lower than whaleshit and, looking back, it still turned out to be the high point of his day. He called Harvey Knox to tell him Malavida wds in the wind.

"This is a joke?" the little Assistant U
. S
. Attorney asked, his voice in a strange no-man's-land between humor and consternation. "I've been working all night. . . . You're joking, right?"

"I wish I was," Lockwood said apologetically.

"So he's running around in Lompoc. Did you tell the sheriff up there?"

"No."

"NO?" Harvey shouted the word through the receiver. "Why the hell not? Listen, John, that Special Circumstances Release I wrote is vacuum bag dirt. We both know it won't hold up. I'll have to eat i
t p
age by fucking page. My bosses up at DOJ are gonna pound on my nuts for this."

"I know, Harvey. I'll take the hit. . . . I'll tell 'em it was my idea." "You gotta get him back in custody, John. Call the sheriff in Lompoc. Get a dragnet out."

"It wouldn't snag him."

"Why not?"

" 'Cause he's not in Lompoc." Lockwood sighed.

"He's not in Lompoc," Harvey repeated, deadpan.

"Right, he's not in Lompoc."

"Where is he? Santa Barbara?"

"Atlanta."

"Atlanta?" Harvey's voice said he could barely comprehend it. "You took this guy to Atlanta?"

Lockwood said nothing. The silence on the line was long and meaningful and crackled with Harvey's disbelief. "There's no witness protection case, of course. We both knew that was bullshit from the beginning. Right, John?"

"Right. Look, Harvey, I'm gonna get slaughtered for this anyway . . . so I'm gonna tell 'em I forged your signature. Okay? You just say I came by asking for the SCR and you threw me out. Okay? There's no need for us to go into this coffin together."

Another long silence.

"Atlanta?" Harvey said in disbelief. "Why the fuck is he in Atlanta?"

"Harvey, hold your dirt on this. I'll take the torpedo. Just don't go soft and admit to anything. You threw me out. . . . You're pissed I stole the forms. I'll back your story." There was a long, empty, friendship-ending pause from the attorney. "I'm sorry," Lockwood said and hung up. Karen had been strangely silent, watching him while he talked.

"I was actually beginning to like him," she finally said. "He used me, didn't he?"

"Yep," Lockwood said, "but I'm the dummy who let him get away. . . ."

They headed back to Washington on the three P
. M
. Delta flight. People chattered and sawed on cardboard steaks. Lockwood called his boss, Laurence Heath, on the Airfone and was greeted by long, awkward pauses. Heath finally cleared his throat. "John, I'm going to have a car meet you at Dulles."

From Heath's voice he could sense foreboding.

"Look, Larry, I'm sorry I missed the IA hearing. I got grounded by fog in Atlanta and I--"

"I'll see you when you get here, John," he said and hung up.

Lockwood looked back at Karen, who was sitting in coach still poring over copies she had made of the Atlanta crime scene report. He moved back down the aisle and sat next to her.

"How'd it go?' she said.

"Not good. I'm staring at a hanging. If you want a good seat, show up early. It's gonna be crowded."

"It can't be that bads," she said, looking up from the report. "You're one of their best agents."

"That's a nice confidence boost, but I've got way too many 'silent beefs' in my packet."

"Silent whats?"

"When you're the subject of an internal investigation and there isn't enough evidence to take action and the investigation gets dropped, it doesn't exactly go completely away. It's what they call a 'silent beef.' It's not on paper, but the people involved remember. I've got hundreds of those in my record. Lotsa brass in the agency have been shining u
p t
heir swords, waiting for this day. But it's okay. . . . I think maybe I've been trying to make this happen, anyway. The IA shrink who's doing my head-pressure test says I've been courting this disaster for years .. . that I wanted this to happen. And I think maybe he's right. . . ."

"You want a second opinion from a more friendly doctor?" she said, putting the police report down on her lap.

"Anything friendly would be welcome right now," he said, thinking that she was way too young and way too pretty to be dealing with head cases like him and the psychopathic nut who had killed Candice Wilcox. Karen should be out dancing in the sunlight, interacting with people who didn't have emotional problems, or the stink of this job clinging to them.

He didn't know about the demons stalking Karen Dawson.

"We are a species of hunters and gatherers," she began. "Society's rules have attempted to regulate our behavior, but primal urges and genetic behavior codes determine our natural law and are much more defining than any human laws. You break the rules because your sense of the hunt is more important than your sense of self-preservation. In Greek mythology it would be a heroic trait. In the Customs Service it causes problems."