Thr3e (25 page)

“Neither is there any evidence to support it. Highly unlikely. MPD results only in very limited cases of severe childhood abuse. Almost always physical abuse. Balinda might be a witch, but she doesn’t fit the profile for physical abuse. You said so yourself.”

“You’re right, there wasn’t physical abuse. But there are exceptions.”

“Not any that fit this scenario. At least not that I know of, and it is my field of study.”

Probably right. Highly unlikely, but in cases like this every possibility had to be considered.
Something was not what it seemed, and as disturbing as her suggestion was, Sam couldn’t just discard it. If Kevin was Slater, exposing the fact would be the greatest favor she could do for her childhood friend.

On the other hand, hearing herself say it out loud, the notion sounded absurd. A simple voice or handwriting analysis would settle the matter.

“Have the lab run a handwriting comparison from the jug.”

“We already have. Standard procedure. It was negative.”

“It’s technically possible for multiple personalities to have varying motor characteristics.”

“In this case, I don’t think so.”

“Then start comparing it with everyone else connected to the case. Someone on the inside’s working this, Jennifer. Someone’s not who we think they are.”

“Then get me your file.”

“It’s on the way.”

“And if Kevin contacts you, call me. Immediately.” To say that the agent sounded agitated would be like saying the sky was big.

“You have my word.”

“As much as your plan to isolate Kevin may have made sense, having Slater’s voice on tape could be invaluable. Particularly in light of your suggestion. Turn it on and leave it on.”

Sam picked up Slater’s silver phone and switched it on. “Done.”

“The recording device is still active?”

“Yes.”

A knock sounded on the door. Sam started.

“What is it?” Jennifer asked.

“Someone’s at the door.” She walked for the door.

“Who?”

She turned the deadbolt and pulled it open. Kevin stood in the hallway, blinking and haggard.

“Kevin,” Sam said. “It’s Kevin.”

Jennifer lowered the phone and sat hard. The notion that Kevin and the Riddle Killer might be the same man wasn’t only absurd; it was . . . wrong. Sick. Deeply disturbing.

Galager walked by her desk, headed for the lab. She couldn’t bring herself to look at him. Was it possible?

Her mind spun back to the scene of Roy’s death. Was it possible that Kevin— No! It made no sense.

And why is this such an infuriating prospect, Jennifer? You can’t imagine Kevin killing Roy because you like Kevin. He reminds you of Roy, for heaven’s sake.

Jennifer rehearsed the facts quickly. If Kevin was Slater, then he would have to be calling himself, possible but unlikely. He would also have to have an alter ego of which he was clueless. She had interviewed enough witnesses over the years to recognize sincerity, and Kevin had it in spades. He would have had to plant the bombs long ago, possible, but in both cases he would have had to detonate them without his own knowing.

No. No, this was too much. She began to relax. The man she had comforted in the park yesterday was no killer. The boy, whose blood they’d found in the cellar, on the other hand, could be.

Point was, she had panicked at the thought that Kevin might be the killer, hadn’t she? She should have been ecstatic at the mere prospect of uncovering the killer’s true identity. Which said that she cared far too much for Kevin, an absurdity in itself given the fact that she hardly knew him!

On the other hand, she was bound to him in a way few people ever are. They shared the death of her brother in common—she as the victim’s survivor, he as the next victim.

Jennifer sighed and stood. She was too emotionally wrapped up in this whole thing. The bureau chief was right.

“Galager!”

The man paused at the door across the room. She motioned him back.

“What’s up?”

“We found Kevin.”

Galager pulled up. “Where?”

“Palos Verdes. He’s okay.”

“Should I get Milton?”

He was the last person she wanted to bring in. But she had her marching orders, didn’t she? At least she didn’t have to deal with him directly. She scribbled the information on a notepad, ripped the page off, and handed it to Galager.

“Fill him in. Tell him I’m tied up.”

It was the truth. She was tied up, in knots that refused to loosen.

They sat on the bed in a stalemate. Kevin was hiding something; that much Sam had known since she’d first talked to him. Friday night. Now his lying was more blatant, but try as she may, she could not coax the truth out of him. His story that he’d been wandering through his old neighborhood, thinking, for the past eight hours was simply unbelievable. True, given his circumstances, almost any behavior was possible. But she knew Kevin too well; she could read those clear blue eyes, and they were shifting. Something else was bothering him.

“Okay, Kevin, but I still don’t think you’re telling me everything. I have a plane to catch in a couple hours. With any luck, Slater will take the day to revel in his little victory yesterday. God knows we need the time.”

“When will you be back?”

“Tomorrow morning.” She stood, walked to the window, and pulled back the curtain. “We’re closing in, Kevin. We’re right on this guy’s tail; I can feel it in my bones.”

“I wish you weren’t going.”

Sam turned back. “Jennifer will be here. She’ll want to talk to you.”

He looked past her out the window. “Yeah.”

Dark circles hung under his eyes. He seemed distracted.

“I need a drink,” he said. “You want one?”

“I’m fine. You’re not going to run off again, are you?”

He grinned. “Come on. I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Yes, you are. Hurry back.”

He opened the door to leave.

The beige phone on the nightstand rang shrilly. She glanced at the clock beside it—
3
P.M. They had overstayed their checkout.

“Go ahead,” she told Kevin. “It’s probably the front desk.”

Kevin left and she picked up the phone.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Samantha.”

Slater! She whirled to the door. So Kevin
couldn’t
be Slater! He’d been in the room when the killer had called.

“Kevin!” He was gone.

“Not Kevin. It’s your other lover, dear.”

How had Slater gotten their number? The only person who knew where they were was Jennifer.
Jennifer . . .

“They want my voice, Samantha. I want to give them my voice.

Have you turned the cell phone back on, or are you still playing your idiotic cat-and-mouse game?”

“It’s on.”

The line clicked. Slater’s cell began to ring. She grabbed it and answered.

“There, that’s better, don’t you think? The game won’t last forever; we might as well make this more interesting.”

It was the first time she’d actually heard his voice. Low and gravelly.

“What good is a game that you can’t lose?” she asked. “It proves nothing.”

“Oh, but I can lose, Sam. The fact that I haven’t proves that I’m smarter than you.” Short heavy breath. “I came within a single pane of glass of killing you once. This time I won’t fail.”

The boy. She turned and sat on the bed. “So that was you.”

“Do you know why I wanted to kill you?”

“No.” Keep him talking. “Tell me.”

“Because all nice people deserve to die. Especially the pretty ones with bright blue eyes. I despise beauty almost as much as I despise nice little boys. I’m not sure who I hate more, you or that imbecile you call your lover.”

“You make me sick!” Samantha said. “You prey on innocence because you’re too stupid to realize it’s far more fascinating than evil.”

Silence. Only heavy breathing. She’d struck a nerve.

“Kevin confessed, as you demanded,” she said. “He told the whole world about that night. But you can’t live by your own rules, can you?”

“Yes, of course. The boy. Was that me? Maybe it was, maybe it wasn’t. Kevin still hasn’t confessed his sin. He hasn’t even hinted at it. The secret’s much too dark, even for him, I think.”

“What?
What
sin?”

He chuckled.

“The sin, Samantha.
The
sin. Riddle time.
What wants to be filled but will always be empty?
I’ll give you a clue: It’s not your head. It has a number:
36933
. You have ninety minutes before the fireworks begin. And please remember, no cops.”

“Why are you so afraid of the cops?”

“It’s not who I’m afraid of; it’s who I want to play with.” The line clicked.

He was gone.

Sam stood still, mind reeling. He’d called on the hotel room phone. Could he have tracked them down so quickly? Or the phone— could he have a way of tracking it once she turned it on? Unlikely. She paced to the end of the bed and back. Think, Sam! Think! Where was Kevin? They had to— “Sam?” Kevin’s muffled voice sounded beyond the door. He knocked.

She ran for the door. Opened it.

“He called,” she said.

“Slater?” His face went white.

“Yes.”

Kevin stepped in, can of
7
UP in his hand. “What did he say?”

“Another riddle.
What wants to be filled but will always be empty?
With some numbers.
36933
.” The most obvious solution had already run through her mind. She ran to the coffee table and grabbed the telephone book.

“Call Jennifer.”

“How much time?”

“Ninety minutes. Threes. This guy’s obsessed with threes and progressions of threes. Call her!”

Kevin set his drink down, jumped for the phone, and punched in her number. He relayed the information quickly.

“On the room phone,” he said.

“No, he called back on the cell,” Sam corrected him.

“He called back on the cell,” Kevin relayed.

Sam spread the phone directory map open and searched the streets. Thirty-third. A warehouse district.

“No cops. Remind her no cops. If she has any ideas, call, but keep the others out of it. He was very clear.”

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. It was the only answer that made immediate sense. But why would Slater choose such an obvious riddle?

She looked up at Kevin. “Tell Jennifer that I was wrong about Slater. You were in the room when Slater called.”

Kevin looked at her with a raised eyebrow, passed on the message, listened for a moment, and then addressed Sam. “She says she’s on her way. Don’t move.”

Only Jennifer could know specifically where they were. She would have picked up the caller ID when Sam called her on the room phone. How had Slater tracked them down so quickly?

Sam stepped forward and took the phone from Kevin. “Don’t bother coming, Jennifer. We’ll be gone. Work the riddle. I’ll call you as soon as we have something.”

“How will leaving help you? I want Kevin back in my sights where I can work with him. You hear me?”

“I hear you. We’re out of time now. Just work the riddle. I’ll call you.”

“Sam—”

She hung up. She had to think this through.

“Okay, Kevin. Here we go. Slater’s into threes; we know that. He’s also into progressions. Every target is larger than the one before. He gives you three minutes, then thirty minutes, then sixty minutes, and now ninety minutes. And he gives this number,
36933
. The
369
follows the natural progression, but the
33
doesn’t. Unless they’re not part of the
369
. I think we have an address:
369
Thirty-third Street. It’s in a warehouse district in Long Beach, about ten miles from here.
What wants to be filled but will always be empty?
A vacant warehouse.”

“That’s it?”

“Unless you can think of anything better. Opposites, remember? All of his riddles have been about opposites. Things that aren’t what they want or seem to be. Night and day. Buses that go around in circles. A warehouse that is designed to hold things but is empty.”

“Maybe.”

They stared at each other for a few seconds. They had no choice. She grabbed his hand.