Terrorbyte (34 page)

The confusing part was the conflict. I wondered if Carla would feel it too. On one hand the relief – no more hell – on the other, better the devil you know.

I was procrastinating.

We crawled up Carla's road. The line of vehicles and flashers in front of the apartment building lit up half the road. How did the Russian miss all the activity in the apartment block once the mother was discovered? Did she think she could still take the kid and disappear, with cops crawling all over the building?

People gathered around the taped section. Gawkers. Morbid rubberneckers hoping for a glimpse of something dreadful. Something that would make them the center of attention at the water cooler in the morning.

“Why are the police at my building?” Carla asked, pensive, almost as if she knew the answer but the realization was too awful for her.

I saw the medical examiner's car parked near the ambulance.

First rule when dealing with kids: age-appropriate simple truths.

I turned to her. It was time.

“Carla, we found your mom. I'm very, very sorry but she was already dead when we found her.”

Tears welled in Carla's dark-lashed eyes. I watched as she fought them back.

“Mommy is dead?” Disbelief rang in her young voice.

“Yes.” I struggled with the knowledge that my words had collapsed her world.

“She's at home?”

“Yes.”

“Can I see her?”

“Not yet. I need to do my job first. When we're done.”

“Why were you talking about Selena?”

“We've been looking for her.” I watched Lee and Praskovya leave the vehicle and speak to a uniformed officer. “I need to go inside now, Carla.” I looked at Mac. “Mac here is going to stay with you.”

Mac smiled. “Yes, ma'am.”

She nodded, tears flowing down her cheeks. I think she would've agreed to anything at that moment. I slipped out of the car as she turned her attention to Mac.

I recognized Josh Konstram at the door.

“Ellie,” he said with a smile. “This is getting to be a habit.”

“Josh. What have we got?”

“Dead woman: Jane Torres, in 7B. A Russian woman held for questioning in 3A.”

“Excellent.”

Praskovya and Lee caught up with me and waited just inside the foyer.

“Let's go, “I said. “View the body then we'll question the woman.”

Josh spoke, “The Russian says she has legal guardianship of the girl.”

I bared my teeth in a mock smile. Finally. “Now I know how they get the kids out of the country; brilliant. Josh, keep a close eye on my car.”

“I sure will.”

I walked between Praskovya and Lee.

“They're getting guardianship before killing the mothers. This is the break we needed. Lee, first thing in the morning hit the courts and find out how many petitions for guardianship have been filed recently.”

“This case has reached tipping point,” Lee muttered.

“Yes, it has. It's going to go like Topsy any second.”

Lee stared at me with a mystified look on his face. “Go like Topsy?”

I shrugged. “Dad says it. Don't ask me where it came from; all I remember is that she grew and grew, but it fits.”

Praskovya spoke, “How do they get this guardianship and what does it mean?”

“You can appoint guardians for your children, in case you die; that person is then legally responsible for the child.”

“Is there some proof required, a death certificate?”

“Yes, if the mother is declared dead. I don't think they're making any declarations. I think they are having guardianship papers signed, like maybe you would if a child was attending a boarding school. So that in the event of an emergency, the school can consent to medical treatment but also the school is responsible for the child on field trips and camps.”

“They can take the child, get a passport, and leave the country?”

“I think that's what they're doing. I'm not entirely sure they're leaving the country with passports, however.”

Praskovya nodded.

The three of us viewed the body and the crime scene. I attempted to filter out the bourbon and blood smell. It didn't work and made me wonder if that was why the Unsub covered the crime scenes in bourbon. He or she was trying to mask the smell of the chlorine. I stepped carefully to Jane's head, knelt down, and sniffed her hair.

A trace of chlorine.

I touched her hand; she was cool but not cold. I whispered to her, “Carla is safe. I'm sorry we didn't get to you in time.”

She looked so peaceful, as if she were asleep, not dead. Her last few hours ran through my mind. Swim, coffee, drugged, stabbed, adorned with ribbon, dead. At what point did she think this is not how her night was supposed to go? The look on her face suggested the realization never happened. She never saw death approach. Was that a blessing?

Praskovya cleared his throat to attract my attention. I stood up. He pointed to the walls. More lines of the same poem written in black pen. Lee found the Post-it note.

I read it. My eyes locked on Lee's. “ ‘A pig is an animal,' ” I said with deliberation.

“Yes, of course it is,” Praskovya replied tersely. “What does this have to do with anything?”

“Don't force me to sing,” I replied.

His eyes shrouded with confusion, he shook his head from side to side. “I don't understand.”

“Pig is a slang term for police, or it could be a reference to Hudson Hawk and the song ‘Swinging on a Star',” I explained.

Praskovya nodded. “I see now, a sentence with two meanings.”

I moved to the far side of the kitchen and viewed the body from a different perspective. Mostly it was the same as the other victims. Mostly. She lay on her back with her legs bent at the knees in a pool of blood and bourbon. Blood congealed into gelatinous lumps near her back. The bourbon was concentrated more towards her feet, thinning the blood into a shiny puddle. The first notable difference was her clothing – it was intact; she was fully clothed. The second thing was gold ribbon laced at her ankles. Crisscrossed and then wrapped, like a ballerina would lace her pointe shoes.

Lee stepped back to stand beside me. “That's freaking creative,” he said, cocking his thumb at the victim.

In a quiet voice, Praskovya said, “Selena was ballerina. In her youth. With the Russian National Ballet.”

“Thank you,” I said. At least I had an explanation for the use of the gold ribbon this time. “Do you by any remote chance have anything to add regarding the gold ribbons on each victim – other than this one?”

“On all victims, not ones you think killed by Selena?” he asked.

“On all.”

“Perhaps this is Selena's idea. Maybe for her, he does this and she for him.”

“Why?”

“She always wore gold ribbon somewhere.” He looked back at the victim. “Even when in Spetsnaz, she had gold ribbon tied in bow sewn inside her clothes.”

That was interesting. I suspected the ribbons were messages but never imagined they could be messages between the killers. Which made me wonder if the cameras weren't so much to watch us carry out scene investigations but for each to see the other's handiwork? My skin crawled.

“Let's go. We're done in here,” I said.

Outside the apartment door, we huddled for a short conversation. Praskovya began to offer more of his thoughts.

“The orphanages, the ones we think harbored these killers, could they also harbor missing children?”

“That would be a great place to hide the children before auctioning them off to the highest bidder,” Lee commented.

“Praskovya, see if you can find out if any of the orphanages have new children, foreign, English-speaking children,” I said, hoping my tone conveyed the urgency of the request.

“I'll do it now. I will make phone calls from outside.”

“They don't have swimming pools do they, these orphanages?” I wasn't being entirely facetious. I'd build a pool for orphans if I had millions handed to me.

Praskovya gave an indulgent smile. “You are thinking of country clubs, not orphanages.” 

I turned to walk down the hallway towards the front of the building and the apartment where the woman was held.

There was a pop, pop noise from outside, followed quickly by screaming and more popping. Lee stepped past me, his gun in his hand. Praskovya took my arm and moved me into a doorway. He towered over me. I was unable to see down the hall and couldn't tell where Lee had gone.

The popping stopped but the screaming and shrieking continued. I flipped my cell phone open and called Mac.

His phone rang and rang.

The ringing stopped. I heard his voice. His voicemail introduction started up.

I hung up and called back.

Same again.

I shut my phone and put it back in my pocket. Staring at Praskovya's back was less interesting than wondering why Mac didn't answer his phone.

I tapped Praskovya on the shoulder. “Let's go.”

“Yes.”

We made our way to the foyer of the building with care and caution. Neither of us knowing what lay ahead.

Screaming.

Shrieking.

The smell of fear.

I guessed the crowd of gawkers now had water-cooler stories that would make them the envy of the workplace for weeks to come. It was a good bet that they'd also need counseling and that the FBI would be paying for it.

Lee was nowhere to be seen as we entered the foyer, nor was Josh. Three armed police officers crouched in defensive positions near the doorway.

“What's happening?” I asked, trying not to scare anyone by sneaking up behind them.

“Two gunmen opened fire on an FBI car outside.”

And that statement stopped my mind from spinning.

Stopped it dead.

“Did you get them?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Where did they come from?”

“We think they were in the crowd, ma'am,” the officer replied. “Both carried an Albanian passport and tourist visas.”

Albanian. Interesting.

“Casualties?”

Before the officer could answer, Lee strode back in the door. He shook his head at the officer. Who promptly fell silent.

Lee addressed him, “Thanks, Tim.”

Officer Tim Whoever-he-was nodded.

“With me,” Lee said to Praskovya then looked at me and chose careful words. “You need to come, Agent Conway.”

I didn't feel like arguing, mainly because I knew something bad had happened. Mac wasn't answering his phone and Lee had gone all Special Agent on me.

I tried to determine how I felt as I walked with Lee and Praskovya back out onto the street.

Numb.

From the front steps, I could see our car. The windscreen was shattered. A buzz of activity around the car drew everyone's attention. I saw flashes of white shirtsleeves and high visibility vests from the paramedics working on someone beside the car; the police and FBI agents were standing around looking helpless. The medical examiner stood by the back of the car, near the other opened door. His face bore the telltale signs of stress and horror.

I figured the kid was hurt. Mac was hurt.

Or they were both dead.

“Lee?”

“They're working on Mac. He took four rounds to the back.”

“What happened to his vest?” I had a horrible thought. “Were they armor-piercing rounds?”

“No, he wasn't wearing his vest. He put it on the kid.”

“Where's the kid?”

“In the back of that ambulance.”

“Shot?”

“No, she's fine. Shaken but fine. Mac must've seen something. He used his body to shield her.”

“But he'd already given her his vest!” Idiot! He should've kept it on! “Fuck! I'm going to interview the woman. Before they kill her too.”

My eyes seized on the paramedics. I couldn't process what I knew was happening and turned away. There was nothing I could do to help. I wanted to shove them out of the way, to scream, to make Mac stand up. What I did took every ounce of my strength.

Praskovya and I hurried to apartment 3A. Two police officers stood outside the door. They greeted us with concerned expressions. They'd heard.

“Is someone with her?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Have you checked on them, since the gunfire started?”

Panic flared in the young officer's eyes.

“You haven't checked?”

“There's been no noise.” He looked at his partner, who verified that all was quiet.

“Good thing people don't die quietly,” I snarled. “Open the door.”

The officer swung the door open. He was right, it was quiet. He was also a numbskull who would never make that mistake again.

From where I stood, I could see legs. Someone wearing police issue trousers was lying on the living room floor.

“Praskovya,” I indicated to the left.

He drew his gun. We swept the apartment and found an open window, a dead officer and a dead suspect. Without thought, I made the sign of the cross over the dead police officer. I moved to the suspect and sniffed her hair. Chlorine.

I don't want to be here.

Praskovya spoke, “What did you do?”

“She's been swimming, I could smell the chlorine just like on Carla's mom.”

A sinking feeling hit my gut. They were cleaning up loose ends and moving out. As soon as they saw we had the kid, it was over. I flipped my phone open and pressed a few numbers.

I was in no mood for chitchat or to even be polite. “Caine, they're on the move.”

“We've alerted Customs and all airports.”

“What about Air Force bases?”

“Air Force?”

“Anything military that involves offshore travel. Navy. Army. Air Force. They had a link to an army base, they might use the military as an escape valve.”

“Ellie, Director O'Hare called me earlier. Anything we need, we just have to ask.”