Diagnosis Murder: The Death Merchant (23 page)

So what drove him to kill? Was he some self-styled bounty hunter? Or was he simply a market-conscious killer who'd carved out his own commercial niche?

The killer had obviously staked out a corner of the murder-for-hire marketplace for himself, but Mark didn't think the hit man was doing it just for the money. The killer had extraordinary patience, the willingness to track his targets for months or years. Patience like that came from strength, from conviction. Money wasn't enough to sustain that kind of implacable will. The profit wasn't just financial for this man; he was rewarded on some deeper level.

The key to understanding this killer, and to beating him, would be to discover where his ethical code came from, what sustained his will, and what drove him to kill.

The answer to all those questions was going to be the same thing. Mark just had to find it.

For now, all Mark had to go on was a grainy picture and the memory of a fleeting encounter. He hoped for more. It was the only hope he had left of solving this case.

Mark figured it would take Feldman a few hours to get up to Keystone, a few hours to get back, and then the book had to be dusted and the prints run through AFIS. So it would be a day or two at best before he'd know if the book would yield any clues.

Mark would have to be patient.

Meanwhile, Steve, Amanda, and Jesse were beginning to compile the information on wealthy families who'd suffered the violent loss of a loved one. It was laborious and time-consuming work with no guarantee of a payoff.

Mark would have to be patient about that, too.

Patience. It was something the hit man was quite good at, a quality Mark wasn't sure he could match.

After a time, it grew chilly and a wind rose up off the sea. Mark finished his lemonade and went into the house.

The recipe cards and Dr. Plume's brochure were still on the coffee table from the night before. He gathered up the cards and glanced through Dr. Plume's brochure again. It amazed him how some people wore their bodies like clothes, changing them to match the fashion trends of the moment. Somehow, it seemed wrong to call the practioners of this kind of surgery doctors, or what they did medicine.

He closed the brochure and looked at the picture of the buxom woman on the back above Dr. Plume's address and phone number. Her breasts were clearly enhanced, but he wondered if the look was achieved from surgery or an air brush. It was hardly a secret anymore that the pictures of models on the covers of magazines were heavily retouched to create a look neither nature nor medicine could match. Yet that didn't stop women from striving to achieve it, men from expecting it, or doctors from promising it, even if they couldn't actually deliver.

Mark put the cards on his desk and was about to set down the brochure, too, when the picture of the woman drew his attention again.

Did he know her? No. Was he attracted to her? No. So what was so interesting about the picture?

He put down the brochure, started to walk away, then turned back and picked it up again. There was something nagging at him, the mental equivalent of an itch demanding to be scratched. Mark had felt this sensation many times over the years, and had learned to respect it.

His subconscious mind was working. Some fact, some tidbit of information, was rising to the surface of his consciousness, fighting through the clutter to be noticed.

What was it?

He scanned the back of the brochure from top to bottom. And that's when he saw it, at the very bottom of the page. It was the name and address of the company that printed the glossy brochure.

Roswell Imaging in Albuquerque, New Mexico.

Mark had seen that name before. He picked up one of the recipe cards from the Royal Hawaiian. There it was, at the bottom of the card. The cards and the brochure were produced by the same company.

Dr. Morris Plume in Beverly Hills and Stuart Appleby in Kauai had both used a graphics and printing company in New Mexico. Why go to someone so far from home?

Mark picked up the phone and dialed the number for Roswell Imaging on the card. After a few rings, a woman answered.

"Roswell Imaging, how can I help you today?" She said energetically.

"I picked up one of your recipe cards at a restaurant in Hawaii and I'm very impressed with the quality of the work," Mark said.

"Thank you," she replied. "That's always nice to hear."

"I was wondering what kind of services you provide."

"I'd be happy to tell you all about them, but I'd rather show you," she said. "Our work itself best illustrates our versatility and attention to detail for any graphics job. I can mail you some materials or you can visit our Web site."

She gave him the Web site address. Mark thanked her and hung up. He sat down at his desk, logged on to the Internet, and went to the Roswell Imaging site. It was very slick and professional, full of colorful, animated graphics and crisp photos. Mark learned that the company specialized in printing graphics and digital imaging of all kinds: photographs, books, video presentations, magazines, brochures, and Web sites, among other things. Mark browsed through some examples of their work. Their clients included major corporations around the country, so it wasn't inconceivable that both Dr. Plume and Stuart Appleby could have stumbled on them independently.

But Mark didn't believe it was a coincidence.

Roswell Imaging was definitely a real, reputable company, not some kind of code, like Appleby's note about an "ideal oven."

Or was it?

Mark wrote down the company name on a piece of

scratch paper.

Roswell Imaging.

Underneath it, he wrote the names of the two fugitives who remained at large.

Jason Brennan.

William Gregson.

He'd barely finished writing down Gregson's name when it fell into place for him. The letters, that is.

Two Gs. Two Ls. One W. One M.

Roswell Imaging might be a genuine company. But it was also an anagram for William Gregson.

"It didn't make sense to me that Stuart Appleby would only keep contact information on one of his fellow kidnappers," Mark said to Steve, who sat, nursing a beer, across from him at the kitchen table later that night. Between them was the recipe card and the sheet of photos that Kealoha sent. "Now I know why. He didn't. And neither did Diane Love. The location of the four fugitives was on that single recipe card all along."

"So where's Jason Brennan?" Steve asked.

"I haven't cracked that yet," Mark said with a weary sigh. "But I know it has to be hidden on that recipe card somewhere."

Steve picked up the recipe card off the table and examined it. "All that's left is the address of the restaurant, which we know is real, and the recipe for the lemongrass-seared island opah, whatever that is. You don't think he meant Oprah do you?"

"I don't think so," Mark said.

"Then you've just shot down the only contribution I have to make toward solving this puzzle," Steve said, dropping the card.

"If the recipe is an anagram, like everything else has been, I haven't figured it out yet," Mark said. "And I've stared at the picture of the entree until I've gone cross- eyed."

"So what's your next move?"

"I believe William Gregson is Jerry Bodie, owner of Roswell Imaging, which was founded five years ago in Albuquerque," Mark said. "So that's where I'm flying first thing tomorrow morning."

"Have you contacted the FBI?"

"Nope," Mark said.

Steve's expression hardened. "Dad, you can't do this alone. William Gregson is a murderer, and if you confront him he might kill you. And if he doesn't—" He picked up the sheet of paper with the pictures of the hit man on it. "Maybe this guy will."

"I have no intention of confronting Gregson alone," Mark said. "But I'd rather not involve the FBI just yet. I'd like to keep this 'in the family.'"

Steve grinned. "Terry is going to be sorry he ever said that to you."

"You wouldn't happen to have any friends in the Albuquerque Police Department who owe you a favor?"

"As a matter of fact, I do," Steve said. "Detective Norman Begay."

"How do you know him?"

"A couple years ago I helped him track down a runaway who witnessed a murder in Albuquerque. We found her hiding in Van Nuys. He took her back to New Mexico, and her testimony ended up putting the killer away."

"What kind of man is Begay?"

"Quiet," Steve said. "But determined."

"Perfect," Mark said.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Albuquerque was a city that seemed to exist in three different eras at once, and Mark Sloan drove through all of them on his way from the airport to the police station where Norman Begay worked.

There was the Albuquerque that was forever stuck in the nineteenth century, when it was a dusty adobe settlement on the Old Chihuahua Trail along the Rio Grande river. There was the Albuquerque that was a colorful stop on Route 66, an endless street of hamburger stands and motels, all screaming for attention with their neon signs and jet-age architecture. And then there was the Albuquerque striving for tomorrow, with its gleaming high-rises, weapons labs, and software companies.

Norman Begay's police station seemed to straddle an invisible nexus where all three cities, in all three dimensions, quietly collided. The single-story, modem adobe-style police station was on busy boulevard, across from the outer edge of Old Town. On one side of the police station was a motel that looked the same as it did the day it opened in 1955. And on the other side was a striking three-story office building that mixed a variety of materials and architectural styles so that it simultaneously complemented and clashed with all the buildings around it.

Mark parked his rented Crown Victoria in the lot, where it blended right in with the city-owned Crown Victoria squad cars and Crown Victoria unmarked vehicles already there. He stepped out into the dry heat and walked quickly into the cool, air-conditioned station.

He announced himself to the uniformed officer at the counter, and after a few moments, Det. Begay came out to meet him.

Begay was a stocky and craggy He was what a rocky red mesa would look like if it came to life as a human being and bought itself a suit at a garage sale. The Navajo cop extended his huge hand to Mark. They shook hands.

"Norman Begay," the cop said.

"Mark Sloan," he said. "I appreciate you taking the time to help me out. Did my son fill you in on the details?"

Begay nodded affirmatively and motioned toward the door. "Let's walk."

They crossed the street to the Old Town, a maze of authentic and recreated adobe and frontier-style buildings grouped around a tree-shaded plaza and the 290-year-old Church of San Felipe De Neri. They walked around the plaza in silence for a while, the heat pressing on them, before Mark grew impatient

"What's your take on things?" Mark asked.

"What things?" Begay said.

"On Jerry Bodie being William Gregson," Mark said.

"He could be," Begay said. "Then again, maybe he's not."

"Stuart Appleby hid the contact information for his fellow kidnappers in anagrams on a recipe card. Roswell Imaging is an anagram for William Gregson," Mark said. "The company was formed five years ago, right after the Standiford kidnapping, and they printed Appleby's recipe cards and the brochures for the plastic surgeon who gave the fugitives their new faces. I'm convinced Bodie is Gregson."

"You ever tried to use an anagram to convince a jury of something?"

"Nope," Mark said.

"You want to?"

"I'm hoping I don't have to."

"I don't blame you," Begay said. "But it would be pretty amusing to watch you try."

All along the plaza, Navajo street venders sat on the sidewalk under the shade of store awnings, their backs against the cool adobe walls, and displayed their hand crafted wares on blankets spread out in front of them. Tourists crouched over the blankets and examined silver and turquoise jewelry, belt buckles, and assorted pottery.

"Do you know anything about Jerry Bodie?" Mark asked.

"I know where he lives," Begay said.

"Is he still alive?" Mark asked.

"As far as I know."

Mark was relieved to hear that. It appeared, at least for the moment, that he was finally one step ahead of his adversary.

"I'd like to see him," Mark said.

"What makes you think he'll see you?" Begay said. "It may not be time for his annual physical."

"That's where you come in," Mark said.

Begay grunted in acknowledgment, or he was just clearing his throat—Mark wasn't entirely sure.

"What do you intend to do when you meet him?" Begay asked.

"I'm going to confront him, make him think I have more evidence than I actually do, and watch him crumble."

"Uh-huh," Begay said.

"But if he doesn't, I'll tell him about his dead friends and that he's next on the killer's list, and he'll be so terrified he'll confess to his crimes just to get your protection."

"So you think he's going to crumble and confess?"

"It's been known to happen," Mark said.

"For you?" Begay asked skeptically.

Mark nodded, projecting more optimism than he actually felt.

"I'd like to see that," Begay said.

"Me, too." Usually, when suspects cracked it was after Mark had confronted them with a lot more than some anagrams and the strength of his own convictions.

"What's your alternative?" Begay asked.

"Hope he survives long enough for me to build a case against him," Mark said. "With your help, I'll try to find cracks in his fake identity and his fictional past."

They walked in silence for a few minutes.

Mark glanced at the leather belts, rabbit skins, and dream catchers offered by an impossibly old Navajo woman, who was intently reading a Jackie Collins novel. He could feel his shirt sticking to his sweat-dampened back, but Begay, in his navy blue suit, didn't seem to be perspiring at all.

"You're a doctor," Begay said.

"Yes," Mark said.

"And you solve murders."