Sharp Force, page 13
“Something real was crashing around, screaming and hooting? An animal not in any database on the planet?” I make sure, and she nods her head.
“Christ.” Benton isn’t happy. “But we don’t know what kind of animal? What the hell is on our property?”
“I’m sorry, Benton. I don’t have that information.” Janet looks annoyed with herself. “It was smart of you to disable Merlin’s collar. And I don’t advise you or Kay go outside in this weather and at this time of night to look.”
“Don’t worry,” I answer for both of us. “That’s not happening.”
“While we have you, Janet, there’s something else we’d like to chat with you about,” Benton says.
“Of course. Anything you need.” She smiles, her gaze intense on the Barolo bottle. “I’m looking at your wine and feeling envious…”
Benton and I are shoulder to shoulder at the café table, looking at Janet’s face on the tablet. He asks about Rowdy O’Leary and if she can find any information about projects or clients he may have had.
“Rowdy O’Leary is deceased,” she says. “His badly decomposed body was recovered today from the Potomac River at twelve-fifteen p.m. It had been carried by the current nine miles downstream and was discovered by someone walking his dog. The body was halfway submerged, caught in rocks and debris.”
“Yes, we know,” Benton answers.
“His software design company is a shell,” Janet goes on. “Since he was struck by a car while jogging, he has conducted no business despite what he told people, most of all his family. From time to time, he’s indicated in text messages to his wife that he’s busy consulting. This wasn’t true.”
Janet has just hacked into Rowdy O’Leary’s phone. Or Reba’s. Maybe both.
“For the past six years he’s reported zero income on his tax returns while receiving payments of ninety thousand dollars annually,” Janet informs us. “He owes three times that on credit cards and loans from the bank.”
“If he wasn’t doing consulting, how was he earning ninety grand a year?” Benton asks her.
“There is no indication that he earned it, no evidence of a work product in any of his electronic communications. The money was wired to him in three separate transactions at the same time of year. February, July, and December. Always the tenth day of the month, the amounts identical.”
Clearly, she’s hacked into Rowdy’s email and bank accounts.
“Any idea who was paying him?” Benton asks.
“The wires to his bank were from an account in the Cayman Islands.”
“Can you trace it?” Benton looks at me, and we’re thinking the same thing.
Whatever Rowdy was being compensated for wasn’t legitimate.
“The account wiring the money belongs to West Bay Software Solutions, which doesn’t exist,” Janet says. “As you’re aware, the Caymans are a haven for money laundering and other financial crimes.”
“Was he receiving these payments prior to the hit-and-run?” I ask.
“They started two months after he was struck by a car six years ago on the night of December thirtieth,” Janet informs us.
“Who was paying him. And for what?” Benton asks.
“I don’t have that information. I’m very sorry, Benton. There’s no mention of these payments in any online data. There is nothing in Rowdy O’Leary’s legal records at Constable, Birch and Goldberg,” she explains, and it would seem she’s now hacked into a law firm.
“I wonder if his wife knew about these payments?” I ask.
“Text messages to her indicate she assumed any money her husband had was from consulting fees or gambling. I find nothing to make me think she was aware of wires from the Cayman Islands, the most recent one two weeks ago.”
“Most likely where he got the cash to buy an expensive emerald ring,” I suspect.
“He made ATM withdrawals totaling three thousand dollars after receiving the wire,” she says.
“Thank you, Janet. I need nothing further,” Benton tells her.
“It was so nice talking to both of you,” she replies with a touch of emotion that’s just like her. “I’m sorry Lucy isn’t with you tonight. I know she can be melancholy at Christmas, and I do what I can to comfort her.”
“Unfortunately, she’s stuck in Quantico,” I reply, but Janet knows that.
“I’ve been talking to Dorothy this evening, at least I was before Marino got home,” the avatar goes on in a tone that portends trouble. “I didn’t mean to cause them to squabble. Does Benton know what Marino got you for Christmas, Kay…?”
Before I can answer, Benton closes the app, placing his tablet facedown on the table. It’s the same thing he always does when Janet starts violating our personal airspace.
“What is she talking about?” He looks at me.
I tell him about the awaiting spa package at our London hotel.
“Ouch,” he says.
“Ouch is right. You can imagine Dorothy’s reaction when Janet made a big thing about how personal the gift was,” I explain, carrying our empty dishes to the sink.
“I can imagine all too well.” Benton refills our wineglasses.
“It sounds like Rowdy O’Leary was involved in something beyond his control.” I scrape plates into the sink disposal.
“That might explain why he’d gotten increasingly paranoid.” Benton carries in our wine, setting my glass on the counter. “He might have had reason to be. By all indications, someone started paying him off after he was hit by the car.”
“Paying him off for what?”
“I don’t know.”
“Ninety K a year is quite a tidy payoff.” I turn on the hot water in the sink, handing Benton a dish towel.
“Someone might have been giving him hush money,” he suggests. “If so, there’s a reason the hit-and-run was never solved. It’s not supposed to be.”
“Maybe it relates to the government somehow? Maybe he was targeted? Deliberately taken out?”
“Wouldn’t make sense.” He begins drying as I wash. “If the government needed him neutralized for some reason, he wouldn’t have been left alive to collect payments.”
“I hope you can get your hands on the records and backup drives in his office safe before someone else does,” I reply. “Seems the Secret Service, the FBI might want to know what’s there. Especially if there could be a nefarious government connection. Or even money laundering or fraud.”
“I’m going to make sure that happens,” Benton says. “Contacting Lucy as we speak.”
Using the secure messaging app on his phone, he sends a text to her while I send one to Fabian about the injured raccoon. Maybe he can swing by when able and help catch the poor thing so we can get it to a wild animal rehab center. He answers right away with emojis of a thumbs-up and a stethoscope.
“Rowdy O’Leary’s safe will be handled,” Benton tells me, and I don’t want to know the details.
“Is she all right?” I ask about Lucy.
“She wishes she were here,” he says.
We leave the kitchen, thunder rumbling, the snow turning to a rainy sleet that smacks against the side of the house.
“She’s with Tron,” Benton says.
Sierra “Tron” Patron is Lucy’s FBI investigative partner. She’s also a friend of the family, and I’m glad they’re together right now.
“It’s a shame they have to be in a dorm on Christmas Eve, but at least they’re together,” I reply as we head back through the house. “What was for dinner?”
He says they had cheeseburgers and beer in the FBI Academy’s Boardroom, and I remember the times Lucy and I were there together. I turn off the Christmas tree lights, ignoring the plastic Santa hailing us.
“… MERRY CHRISTMAS…! HO! HO! HO…!”
Inside the bedroom, the fire I built earlier is a pile of white ashes over coals glowing orange. Small flames jump as I add more fatwood and another log. It’s a few minutes past midnight when Benton and I slip under the covers.
“Merry Christmas, Kay,” he says. “I could give you one of your presents now if you’d like?”
“Depends on what present you’re talking about.” I move closer, feeling him in firelight.
“I think you know.” He begins unbuttoning my pajamas.
CHAPTER 16
The wind moans around the house like a horror movie, remnants of a bad dream deconstructing like clouds as I reach for my phone vibrating on the nightstand. It’s 5:25 a.m., Marino calling, and my mood begins a freefall.
“Please, God, no.” I groan, turning on the bedside lamp.
“Who is it?” Benton mumbles into his pillow, and I tell him. “Dammit.” He sits up as my phone continues buzzing like a giant insect.
“Good morning, Marino,” I answer, touching the icon for speakerphone. “I have a feeling you’re not calling to wish us bon voyage.” I rub my temples, a bit hungover.
“I’m sorry as hell, Doc,” he says, and I can tell he’s outside near an airport, a jet passing low overhead. “I want to make sure you hear from me what’s going on. Then you can decide what you want to do about it.” He’s keyed up and talking fast.
“What’s happened?” I retrieve my notebook and pen from the bedside drawer.
“The Phantom Slasher just struck again exactly like you were afraid would happen,” he replies. “I almost can’t believe it.”
“Please don’t tell me Dana Diletti…” I start to say.
“Here we were worrying about her all night, but that’s not who he went after. It makes me wonder if siccing the fake ghost on her was to send us down the wrong rabbit hole,” Marino says. “We’re so busy thinking she’s the next to get whacked and meanwhile the Slasher has his sights set elsewhere.”
I jot down the date, December 25. Christmas. Benton plumps pillows behind him, sitting up, listening as he unlocks his phone.
“Two victims here in Alexandria,” Marino goes on. “The female, a psychiatrist, is dead in bed. The male victim still alive, Zain Willard, twenty-three years old, a grad student at William & Mary. He’s an intern at the White House based on the ID badge and other personal effects I found at the scene.”
“Willard? As in Senator Calvin Willard who’s running for president?” I ask while Benton scrolls through communications on his phone’s secure messaging app.
“I’m told that’s his uncle, explaining Zain Willard’s cushy gig in the West Wing and why the feds are rolling in. We can expect a shit show. It’s not a good time to be headed out on vacation,” Marino advises as if I’m a slacker.
“What about the female victim?” I turn the page in my notebook. “Do we have a name?”
“Georgine Duvall,” he replies, a chill of disbelief touching me. “The house where it happened belongs to her.”
“I may know who that is.” I look at Benton. “If it’s the same Georgine Duvall, we were acquainted back in Lucy’s UVA days.”
More than acquainted, it drums in my mind. I knew the psychiatrist well.
“Born in Charlottesville, D.O.B. August one, nineteen-sixty-five,” Marino recites. “Her husband, Liam Duvall, died eight years ago, according to what I found on the internet without asking Janet since she’s on my shit list at the moment.”
“It’s the same person based on information I’m getting as we’re talking,” Benton confirms.
“How awful.” I’m stunned. “What makes you so sure it’s the same killer? Let’s start with that.”
“The M.O. included the ghost levitating through the fog, and I saw it for myself this time.” Marino’s voice sounds excited. “Got to admit it’s enough to give you a heart attack.”
“Saw it where?” Benton frowns.
“I was out riding with Fruge,” Marino says. “It’s a long story, but put it this way. After I got home last night, Dorothy was in a bad enough snit that she told me to take a hike. So I did and thought I may as well make myself useful.”
He explains that Blaise Fruge is working through the night, and Marino decided to ride along. She picked him up at his house, and they weren’t far from Mercy Island when the call came in at 3:45 a.m.
“As we rolled up on the scene, Fruge and me saw the fake ghost,” he’s saying. “It crossed the street right in front of us.”
“Are you at the scene now?” I ask him. “It sounds like you’re outdoors near an airport?”
“That’s because I’m about a mile downriver from Washington National, standing in a gazebo on Mercy Island freezing my ass off. It’s stopped sleeting and raining at least. But the fog’s so bad I can’t see across the river.”
“Mercy Island? Oh, God. Of all places,” I reply with growing dismay.
I think about the skeletal remains Cate Kingston showed me as I was leaving the office yesterday.
“Georgine Duvall is on the hospital staff and owns one of the ritzy residences on the grounds,” Marino is saying. “As usual the Slasher knocked out the Wi-Fi, and I had to walk around in the freezing rain until I could find a cell signal.”
“Meanwhile who’s guarding the scene?” I’m writing down the details.
“I’ve got Fruge posted at the front door. She’s keeping everybody out,” Marino says. “Trust me, nobody’s getting anywhere near the body until you say. Or Doc Schlaefer does. Depending on what you decide. I realize you’re not supposed to be working right now.”
“Have you notified him?” I’m sure I know the answer.
“I didn’t wake him up yet, wanted to talk to you once I had an idea what we’re dealing with. If it was me, I wouldn’t want anyone else handling this.”
Marino hopes and expects that I’ll respond to the scene myself instead of the deputy chief covering for me while I’m on vacation. Benton is busy texting, and I can tell he’s been notified about the same case as I would expect.
I watch him in the uneven glow of lamplight, his sharp features accentuated by shadows as he types another message. Looking up, he meets my eyes. He grimly shakes his head, and I know what’s going to happen. Or better yet, what won’t happen.
La scritta è sul muro. I hear my late Italian mother’s voice in my head.
The writing is on the wall, as she used to say, and I know it’s for the best. This is a terrible time to go anywhere, but that doesn’t mean I’m not disappointed. Benton and I have been looking forward to our trip for the better part of a year. Just like that, it’s another ruined dream, another canceled plan.
“Georgine Duvall was killed in bed, stabbed multiple times, her throat cut.” Marino offers more details that are depressingly familiar. “It looks like she bled out really fast and was dead or about dead when the Slasher started biting her before pouring bleach everywhere. The same thing we’ve seen in the first three cases.”
“And the victim who survived, Zain Willard?” I’m taking notes. “What happened to him?”
“He’s sliced up pretty good and in the hospital. But expected to be okay.”
“He and the murdered woman were sleeping together when attacked?” I’m trying to imagine the scenario.
“I’m pretty sure they didn’t have that kind of relationship,” Marino says.
“Based on?”
“For one thing, she’s old enough to be his mother.”
“That doesn’t mean much,” I reply.
“I’m not sure of his persuasion, based on how he looks. If you get my drift.”
“Let’s not make assumptions,” I suggest, and now Benton is writing back and forth with Lucy.
I’m gathering from glimpses of Benton’s texts that Lucy and Tron have arrived on the grounds of Mercy Psychiatric Hospital. They’ll search for the signal jammer that caused the Wi-Fi outage. I imagine them in tactical gear, tracking the invisible with spectrum analyzers and portable antennas.
“The victims were in different rooms on different floors,” Marino continues to explain over speakerphone. “Zain Willard was ambushed after he heard screaming and came downstairs. The power was out and still is. It was too dark to see anything. He pretended to be dead until he was sure the coast was clear. Or that’s his story.”
“Any reason to suspect he killed Georgine Duvall and staged it to look like the Slasher?” I ask.
“You know me, everybody’s a suspect,” Marino says as Benton leans closer to my phone.
“Morning, Pete. Benton here,” he says.
“Well, I sure as hell hope it’s you at this hour or the doc’s got some explaining to do,” Marino wisecracks. “I’m surprised you’re still home. I figured you’d be on your way to the Situation Room by now. Or maybe to Langley, the land of spooks and nuts.”
He references the CIA for some odd reason.
“This is four times in the past six months that a health professional has been targeted.” Benton skims through information Lucy is sending him. “What’s significant this time is the location.”
“Our favorite cuckoo’s nest,” Marino says. “Makes me wonder if the Slasher has some personal connection to the place. Maybe a former techie-genius patient.”
“Do we have any idea how the killer accessed the house where this happened?” Benton asks.
“No sign of forcible entry,” Marino says. “No footprints coming or going by the time we got there except for the cop who entered the house to check on the female victim. She was obviously dead. You could see the bloody trail from when Zain Willard left the house to find a phone signal. But the conditions were bad then and only worse now, everything melting.”
“What about tire tracks?” Benton asks. “The killer had to get to the scene somehow. Unless he was already there.”
“When the first officer arrived at the entrance to the island, there were no tire tracks on the road leading to the house. That’s what he claims.”
“Unless the tire tracks were there and the rain eradicated them,” Benton suggests.
“Weird that you know the murdered psychiatrist, Doc,” Marino says, and I’ve never mentioned Georgine Duvall to him.
At the time, it was none of his business.
“It’s been many years since we last had contact,” I explain. “I didn’t realize she’d moved to Alexandria or that her husband died. Last I knew they were living on a horse farm in Charlottesville.”
