Private Sector (29 page)

I asked Janet, “Anybody else I should be careful of, know about, whatever?”

She lifted her wineglass and stared down into the liquid. “Well, Cy Berger.”

Now I really looked confused, so she asked, “You mean you still don’t know?”

“Know what?”

“I thought you . . . well, I thought you knew.” She put down the wineglass. “You recall that Lisa was dating someone for a good part of the past year?”

When I said nothing, she added, “I think I also mentioned that my father, my sisters, and I were very upset about it. He’s much older, for one thing. But like everybody, we were also aware of his reputation, and that wasn’t very reassuring.”

“What did Lisa see in him?”

“He’s charming and successful.” But she contemplated my question further, then suggested, “I think partly it was the bad-boy image. Does that make sense?”

“No.”

“Lisa’s whole life she was very . . . what’s the word here? Whatever she set her mind to, she always excelled at—first in the class in everything, track star, boys always calling. That can leave a woman vulnerable.”

“Vulnerable?”

“Yeah, vul— You don’t know women very well, do you?”

Well, I knew them well enough not to answer that.

She explained, “Some women . . . Lisa was one, maybe, they’re very self-confident and that leads to a strong reforming instinct.” Her eyes sort of wandered around my apartment as she added, “Possibly it’s why Lisa liked you, too.”

Hmmm. “Go on.”

“Most women have a streak of it. Why do you think guys like Richard Gere and Vin Diesel are such big stars? Women watch them on the screen and dream of saving them from themselves.”

Well, this was weird. Life truly is just filled with these little men are from Mars and women from Venus oddities. A guy sees a bad girl, does he even
think
about reforming her? No—he wonders, What are the odds I can get a piece of that action and sneak out the back door before she learns my real name and phone number? If I ever have a daughter, we’re going to have a long chat about men. Pigs. Complete pigs.

But back to the subject. I said, “And how did it end?”

“This is Cy we’re talking about.”

“Lisa caught him cheating?”

“She did.”

“With who?”

“Didn’t say. Just that Cy and another woman started an affair.” She added, “When Lisa confronted him, Cy actually tried to persuade her to enter a sharing arrangement.”

“I’ll bet that went over well.”

“You can’t imagine.”

A piece of this made no sense, and I mentioned, “Cy said Lisa was offered a partnership in the Boston office. She accepted, and was preparing her resignation from the Army.”

“He said that?”

“Yes.”

“Well. . . I don’t know about it.”

“But you would know, wouldn’t you?”

“Not necessarily.”

“But I’d think—”

“This is the first I’ve heard of it.”

I looked at her with confusion. I mean, Lisa would discuss where her boyfriend was tucking his ex-senatorial weenie, yet she failed to mention a job that would place the two of them in the same city? Weird. Just weird.

But there was a more pressing subject, and I said, “Have you ever heard of a company called Grand Vistas?”

“Should I have?” She then asked, “Is this another case the Boston DA’s handling?”

“Not that I’m aware of. Possibly. It’s an international company with holdings in everything from shipping to precious metals to telecommunications.”

“Why would I have heard of it?”

“No particular reason.” I refilled her wineglass. “I wondered if Lisa ever mentioned it.”

“No.”

“Do you know anybody who could maybe research it?”

She contemplated this and me a moment. “The Boston DA’s office has a corporate fraud unit. It often works with the SEC. John Andrews, the head of the unit, is a friend.”

“How good a friend?”

“He’d like to be more than a friend.”

“So you could ask and—”

“And he’d want to know why. Johnny’s in that job for a good reason. He bends the rules for no man . . . or woman.”

“That would be problematic.”

“I see.” She took another sip of wine and asked, “A public or private company?”

“Private. And registered in Bermuda.”

Just as she was on the verge of asking the next question, the phone rang. Daniel Spinelli identified himself and said I should meet him at the Alexandria police station as soon as I could get my butt over there. He further asked, Did I happen to know how to find the lovely Miss Janet Morrow? Indeed I did.

It wasn’t hard to guess what this was about.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

T
HERE WERE NO VACANT DESKS IN THE DETECTIVE SECTION OF THE Alexandria police station. All hands were on deck, to borrow a naval term, indicating that Lieutenant Martin and his grim flatfoots had escalated to full crisis mode. Phones were ringing, scores of people were being interviewed, detectives scurrying from desk to desk, trading tips and case notes and the odds on Sunday’s Red-skins game against the loathsome Dallas Cowboys. In short, all the trappings of a roomful of dedicated professionals working diligently to catch the bad guy before he struck again.

Anyway, Lieutenant Martin was in his glass cage, and appeared exhausted and wrung out; collar unbuttoned, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up, thick bags under bloodshot eyes—a man with a world of shit on his shoulders. Also I noted Spinelli and a stranger in a gray suit seated side by side against the back wall. Black-and-white photos of dead bodies in gruesome poses were everywhere, taped to the glass walls, spread around desks, piled in stacks on the floor.

It has been my experience that the more flustered the cops become, the more they make up for lack of progress by fabricating the signs of frantic activity. Cops are very good at faking it. These shots of dead girls were a sort of picturesque camouflage, or perhaps guilty reminders. In any regard, a guy was still free and running around town who would likely regard the gallery as a fine testament to his prowess and handiwork.

Janet nodded at Lieutenant Martin, then turned in the direction of Spinelli and the guy seated beside him, and she froze.

The guy got out of his chair, smiled, and said, “Hello, Janet.”

“George.”

Uh-oh—it seemed I had heard that name before.

He crossed the floor and planted a kiss on her cheek.

He said to her, “I am truly sorry about Lisa. I’ve been angling to get on this case since I heard. Of course, I had to wait till it turned federal.”

She was staring at him like a corpse that popped out of a coffin. “You’re on the case?”

“As of last night. But the Director decided that since two of the victims lived in Alexandria and the third was deposited here, the overall lead will stay with the locals. I’ve just been appointed the SAC for the Bureau’s contingent.”

SAC, if you don’t know, is FBI-speak for Senior Agent in Charge. This is how Boy Scouts pronounce BMIC, Big Motherfucker in Charge, which would be more accurate, as the FBI tends to treat locals like idiots and leave lots of bruised feelings in its wake.

Special Agent George Meany, the guy who screwed his fiancée for a promotion, was tall and well-built, scrubbed and dressed like an overgrown choirboy, with clean-cut good looks and a John Wayneish way of moving and standing. Also, he looked remarkably like Eliot Ness, meaning a younger Robert Stack, right down to his cleft chin and scrunched-up forehead that seemed to convey eternal thoughtfulness and seriousness of purpose. Or possibly he had gas.

Anyway, he looked at me and held out a hand, which I took. He said, “I’m Special Agent George Meany. I assume you’re Major Drummond.”

“Well . . . somebody has to be.”

He regarded me more closely and said, “Janet and I are old friends.”

“Good for you.”

“Very dear old friends.”

I smiled at him, and in that instant we both, I think, concluded we weren’t going to like each other. With men, it often comes down to a sort of dog thing, some quick, visceral sniffs, and bingo, watch your ass when you piss on each other’s trees. But I knew why I didn’t like him. He screwed, and then fucked, my friend, and that’s disgusting. Plus, I didn’t like the way he referred to Martin and Spinelli as “locals.” It had a nasty, condescending ring, like he really meant yokels, and we should all kiss his angelic ass.

But why he instantly disliked me was the more intriguing question. The answer, I guess, was poised about a foot away, the tree, so to speak, who was still staring at George with her jaw agape.

And just to be sure we got things off on the right foot, I was about to say something really tart and nasty, when Janet intervened, saying, “George, I’m glad you’re here. Really. This is a very tough case and it’s obviously personal for me. I appreciate that you’ve asked to get involved.” Janet looked at me and added, “George is one of the FBI’s top field agents. We worked together in Boston.”

She had already told me this, of course. So I interpreted this to mean, Keep your nose out of this, Drummond. Well, I’m a gentleman, and it wasn’t any of my business, so I decided to comply with her wishes. I would behave perfectly toward George until I could think of a good way to stick my foot deeply up his ass.

Besides, Lieutenant Martin had suddenly begun apologizing for inconveniencing us again, and then flashed us photos of the most recently deceased. As Fox had reported, her nose had been hacked off, splattering the rest of her face with blood. A visual ID from these photos would have been difficult for her own mother. Regardless, Janet and I both said we didn’t recognize her.

Next, a black-and-white photo was jammed in our faces—same woman, pre-mortis, if you will, an office or passport photo, I guessed. A fairly attractive woman, I thought, but for her nose, a big knobby thing that overwhelmed every other feature. Again Janet and I confessed we didn’t know her.

“Her name’s Anne Carrol,” Lieutenant Martin grimly informed us. “The victim was single, gay, and a hotshot attorney at the Securities and Exchange Commission.”

So, this was interesting—two attorneys, an accountant, and a TV blabberperson. Roughly the same age, ranging from mildly attractive to very attractive, well educated, successful, single, and professional. Common threads, as we say in the trade. But was there some one thread in particular, some defining human essence that attracted a killer? Successful women? Attractive women? Right-handed women?

Well, it was a waste of time for me to hypothesize, because the FBI and local flatfoots were surely mulling the same comparisons, just as they were continuing to turn over every stone, judging by our presence here. I mean, here we were three murders away from Lisa’s, and still bouncing in and out of the Alexandria station every time a new corpse turned up.

Anyway, checking the block, Spinelli asked Janet, “Is it possible your sister knew her?”

“Possibly.” She thought about it a moment, then said, “She never mentioned her.”

“Carrol was done last night, ’bout nine,” Spinelli explained. “Shortly after ten this mornin’ the ghoul called Fox and said to peek in the Dumpster out back. We still don’t know where he did the job on her.”

I asked Spinelli, “You’re sure the killer made the call?”

“He said he tried to fix her nose.”

“Oh. . . right.”

Janet remarked to Spinelli, “The press are reporting that you suspect it’s the L. A. Killer.”

“That’s the prevailing opinion,” Martin confirmed. He then glanced over at Spinelli, and informed us, “Although he doesn’t

agree.”

Janet asked Spinelli, “Why, Danny?”

The question wasn’t directed at him, but Meany bounced up and stated, “Janet, we’re nearly a hundred percent sure it’s him.”

“But not a hundred percent?”

“You know that level of certainty’s an impossibility. But I’ve looked at everything—it’s him.”

Janet glanced over at Spinelli and asked, “From the sperm on Fiorio’s body, did you get a DNA match with the other victims?”

“The sperm on her thigh matched none of the other specimens,” Spinelli replied.

“Well, isn’t that odd?” Janet asked, or suggested. “Three different sperm types.”

“It
is
a mystery,” Meany said. “But don’t read too much into it.”

“I’m not, George.” She then said to Meany, “I’m just curious. According to the news accounts, the L. A. Killer left his own semen.”

“Right. That is what we thought, at the time. We figure he realized that was a mistake and is covering his tracks better this time.”

Janet offered him an odd smile. “I’m confused.”

“About what?”

“The sperm on the corpses . . . whose is it?”

“Whose? We have no idea whose. Not his, obviously. In fact, we think he’s splashing specimens on the bodies.”

“Specimens?”

“Yes . . . specimens. We think he carries vials around, most likely obtained from a fertility clinic or a doctor’s office. Cuthburt’s murder suggests this guy’s an expert in B&E, and those types of facilities don’t have a reputation for great security.”

“But didn’t the L. A. Killer ejaculate his own sperm?”

“As I said, that was our opinion. He was never caught, though, so we never got a DNA match. Maybe he was splashing, too.”

“But you’re suggesting this guy splashes different people’s semen on the bodies. Why the difference?”

Meany crossed the floor and put a hand on her arm. “Look, think back to that first case we worked together. Or any case you’ve ever prosecuted. There are always incongruous threads in these things.”

I was about to ask Meany if by incongruous threads, he meant things like strongarming witnesses, illegal wiretaps, and so forth. But before I could make that helpful point, Janet replied, “For the sake of argument, assume you’ve already got the L. A. Killer’s DNA from the killings three years ago. Why would he hide it this time?”

Meany replied, “You said yourself, that’s an assumption. In any regard, we know the man’s a nut. Who can tell what twisted logic is driving him this time? The truth is, we won’t know till we catch him.” His hand was still on her arm as he informed her, “But we
will
catch him, Janet. Have no doubt about that.”