Shadow Man (44 page)

41

U
PDATE ME.”

I’m in AD Jones’s office. He’s called me up so that I can report to him on the progress of the case. He stops me when I get to Tommy Aguilera.

“Hold on—Aguilera? He’s a civilian now, isn’t he?”

“He’s good, sir. Really, really good.” You have no idea, I think to myself.

“I know he’s good. That’s not the point.” The look on his face is sour. Sucking-lemons sour. “I’ll let it go this time, Smoky. In the future, if you’re going to bring in outside people, I need you to clear it with me.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Go on.”

I finish with everything, up to and through the visit with Dr. Child. He takes a moment to think before clasping his hands together on the desk. “Let me make sure I have it all. He’s killed two women. Each time he does, he sends you video of it. He’s got a partner. He’s fixated on you, to the point of sneaking into your home and bugging your phone and car. He’s initiated personal attacks on the rest of your team, and threatened future ones. He’s reaching out to other potential serial killers in addition to the one he’s working with. He is not who he thinks he is. Do I have it so far?”

“Yes, sir.”

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“You have fingerprints, you probably have DNA. You have his recon MO—and your hottest lead right now is searching for the other sites he’s signed up for, if he has. That about it?”

“That’s a pretty good summary, sir. I want to attack this in two additional ways, and I need your permission.”

“What?”

“I want to take this to the media.”

His eyes grow wary. We don’t like the media, most of the time. We interact with them if forced to, or, sometimes, if we think it will be useful. I feel this is one of those times. I just need to convince him.

“Why?”

“Two reasons. The first is a point of safety. The bottom line is, while we’re starting to get a picture of him, we can’t predict when we’re going to catch him. We need to get a warning out there. It’s time.”

He gives me a grudging nod. “What’s the second reason?”

“Dr. Child said if he were to find out about the contents of the jar, it would shake him up. Badly. It might even push him over the edge. We need to do that, sir. He’s been a cool operator up to now. This is the one piece of information we have that he doesn’t. It’s a good weapon. I want to use it.”

“He might blow up, Smoky. I’m not talking about this sick bullshit he’s been pulling. I’m talking full-on guided missile, coming straight at you.”

“Yes, sir. That’s possible. And then we’d catch him.”

He gives me a look I can’t read. Stands up and goes over to his window. His back is to me as he begins speaking. “His obsession with you . . .” He turns around. “I want you to be very, very careful. I”—he hesitates—“I don’t want a repeat of Joseph Sands. Ever again.”

I’m at a loss for words. Because I can feel the emotion radiating from AD Jones.

“I’ve known you since you came into the Bureau, Smoky. Since you were young and enthusiastic and still wet behind the ears. It matters to me what happens to you. Understand?”

I see the pain in his eyes. “Yes, sir. I’ll be careful.”

And the pain disappears, shoved back inside somewhere. He let me see it, wanted me to know it was there. I know it might be the only time he lets me in, in that way, and I am touched and thankful.

“What’s the second thing?”

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“If we locate a probable victim—I’m going to want to set a trap. And I’ll have to do it fast.”

“When and if that time comes, talk to me about it first.”

“Yes, sir.”

When I walk back into the office, Leo waves a piece of paper. “They finished the search,” he says. “One name came up with that same user name and password combination.”

Strange, I think. That they wouldn’t vary it. “Give me the details.”

He looks down at the page. “Her name is Leona Waters. She runs a personal site called”—he looks up at me, gives me a tired smile—“Cassidy Cumdrinker. She lives in the Santa Monica area.”

“Do you have an address?”

“I printed it out.” He hands it to me.

“What do you want to do, honey-love?”

“What’s the word from Barry?”

“They found another exterminator receipt,” Alan rumbles. “Same bullshit as the last time.”

“So it’s a definite MO.”

“Looks that way.”

“Anything else?”

“Nah. Their CSU is still going over it.”

“Here’s what I want. Callie and I are going to go and see Ms. Waters. I want to check things out, get the lay of the land. We’ll figure out a plan from there. Alan, I want you to stay on Barry and follow up with Gene on the DNA. If anything changes, you call me.”

“Got it.”

“What do you want us to do in the meantime?” James asks.

“Look at dirty pictures,” I say, pointing at the sex-party photos that they’ve been going through with the facial-recognition software. I snap my fingers. “Callie. Do you still have that contact on Channel Four?”

“Bradley?” She gives me a very unladylike smile. “Well . . . we’re not still sleeping together, but we are on speaking terms.”

“Good. I need you to get hold of him. We’re going to go public with this. I want him over here pronto. I want coverage out on the six o’clock news.”

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She raises her eyebrows. “Already?”

I share my reasoning with her. She thinks about it, nodding her head. “It would rattle him—which would be good.” She looks at me, pensive. “Of course, he might come after you then.”

“He’s already doing that. This way, we’d be ready for him.”

“I’ll call Bradley now.”

The office is a beehive, but I am not needed, just now, as a participant. I use the time to check my e-mail. I have ordered everyone to check theirs every half hour; I haven’t gotten to mine for a few hours. I see something that makes me sit up straight in my chair. It is a subject heading, titled:
Greetings from the Dark-Haired Slut!
I double-click on the message. The words at the top are the ones that I have become familiar with:

Greetings, Agent Barrett!

By now I assume that you have seen my latest work. Little Charlotte Ross. My oh my, what a little whore she was!

She'd spread her legs for anyone, male or female. Alone or in groups. Interesting, is it not, that I was the only man she wouldn't spread them for willingly?

Not that it mattered.

Another whore gone. And you—you are still no closer. Are you feeling discouraged yet, Agent Barrett? Outclassed, perhaps? In that vein, please feel free to remove the tracking device on your car and the bug on your phone.

“Shit,” I mutter.

Who do you think you are dealing with, Agent Barrett? I applaud the effort, but did you really think you would catch me that way? I knew you would eventually find them. You can send your Mr. Aguilera away, or keep him there. Neither choice will lead you any closer to me.

I am well on my way now. I am following in the footsteps
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of my ancestor, carrying out his sacred mission. Collecting my own keepsakes to pass on to future generations. I am looking at my next victim as we speak. A sweet peach, she is. But then, beauty is only skin deep. Look at you, Agent Barrett. Scarred, yes, but inside, the beauty of a born huntress. My victim-to-be, she is attractive on the outside. But inside?

Just another whore.

I have some other surprises in the works for you as well. I will be in touch. For now, stay busy, busy, busy!

I know you will.

From Hell,

Jack Jr.

His smugness grates on me. Well, I have my own message to deliver, you psycho. One that will wipe that smug smile I can’t see, but know is there, off your face.

“I reached Bradley, honey-love,” Callie calls to me. I close my e-mail program.

“And?”

She smiles. “I think he nearly wet his pants. He’ll be here within a half hour.”

“Good. Tell reception to direct him to the second-floor conference room.”

True to his word, Bradley Cummings arrives twenty-five minutes later. He looks the same as the last time I saw him. Craggy good looks, impeccable suit. Tall. Never one to be embarrassed, Callie had regaled me with tales of the adventurous jungle sex they’d had. “Quite satisfactory,” she’d dubbed him.

He’s kept it simple. Him and a cameraman.

“Thanks for coming, Brad.”

“Callie gave me the short version on the phone. No self-respecting newsman would pass this up. How do you want to do it?”

“I’ll give you all the details off-camera. Then you can do whatever Q

and A on camera you need to go along with it.”

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“That sounds fine.”

“Here’s the thing, Brad. I need this on by six o’clock.”

“Trust me, that’s not going to be a problem.”

“Good. The other thing is that I want to ensure a specific part of the information on this case is communicated by me to the camera. You’ll understand when you see it. It’s vital that I’m the one to say it, and no one else.”

He gives me an uneasy look. “This is on the up-and-up, right, Smoky? The story?”

“If you mean, am I just using you, then yes, I am. But”—I hold a finger up—“every detail will be true. You’ll be reporting the truth. But you’ll also be doing two other things: warning future potential victims, and giving me a chance to piss this killer off. That’s why I have to be the one to say it. Think of this guy as a hand grenade, Brad. I’m going to pull the pin.” I shrug. “Whoever pulls the pin runs a chance of getting caught in the blast.”

He looks into my eyes, searching for a lie. “Fine. I trust you. Lay it on me.”

I spend the next twenty minutes giving him a rundown of what has happened in the last five days. He does his job well, jotting down notes, interjecting questions here and there. When I am done, he sits back.

“Wow,” he says. “This really is . . . something. I assume the thing you want to say concerns the contents of the jar.”

“That’s right. One of the reasons it’s important that I be the one to say it and no one else is that it’s going to piss him off. He’ll probably fixate on whoever delivers that news.”

“Right,” he says, thoughtful. “Well, then, let’s get to it.”

Brad is deft on camera. His questions are sharp and pointed, without being an attack. He arrives at the crucial question.

“Special Agent Barrett. You stated that you have revealing information concerning the contents of the jar he sent to you. Can you elaborate?”

“Yes, Brad. We had the jar opened and its contents analyzed. We found that the flesh inside was not human. It was cow flesh.”

“What does that mean?”

I turn so that I am looking right into the camera. “It means that he is not who he says he is. He is not a descendant of Jack the Ripper. It’s
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most probable that he believes he is. I doubt he knew what was in that jar.” I shake my head. “Sad, really. He’s living a lie, and he doesn’t even know it.”

“Thank you, Agent Barrett.”

Brad leaves more than happy. He promises to get the story on at six and eleven and just manages to keep from running out in eagerness.

“That went well,” Callie remarks. “I’d forgotten how handsome that man is. Perhaps I need to give him a call.”

“If you do, I don’t want all the details this time.”

“That’s no fun.” She pauses. “He’s going to be enraged, honey-love. Jack Jr., I mean. This could push him over the deep end.”

I give her a grim smile. “I sure hope so. Now let’s go see Ms. Waters.”

We take an agency vehicle, as I want to ensure that we aren’t followed or tracked. While the cars belonging to other members of the team have been swept for bugs and tracking devices, it’s always possible that he knows them by sight.

On the way to see Leona Waters, I call Tommy Aguilera and tell him about the e-mail.

“One of them must have been there last night. Or this morning. It also means they’re well-informed about the people you know. People like me.”

“Yeah. So I guess that’s it, Tommy. I’ll give you a call later, if you don’t mind. About getting rid of the bug and the GPS tracker.”

“You won’t have to.”

“Why is that?”

“Because I’m going to keep shadowing you, Smoky. I told you last night. You’re my principal. The job isn’t over until you catch him and I know you’re safe.”

I want to protest, but the truth is, part of me had hoped he would say something like this.

“I’ll still be watching, Smoky.”

*

*

*

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The trip takes longer than it should, thanks to an accident on the freeway; a van had run itself into a guardrail. The accident was minor, but the rubbernecking, as always, was major. By the time we arrive, it’s nearly two in the afternoon. Leona Waters lives in a very nice apartment building in a not-so-nice area. Santa Monica is a crapshoot of kinds. Many parts of it remain middle-class or even upscale, but much of it has decayed, like the rest of LA. This is the constant tale of this city, leading people to move farther and farther out to try and escape the cancer. It always seems to catch up.