The Beginning (42 page)

“Your aunt is elderly?”

“Not really, well, she's got Alzheimer's. She's gotten suddenly worse.”

“A relative called you?”

Why was he asking all these questions? Didn't he believe her? “Yes, my cousin called me. He, well, he's not well himself so there's no one but me here on the East Coast.”

“I see,” he said slowly, not looking at her directly now. She looked pale, scared, and excited—an odd combination, but that's what he saw in her face. Her hair was pulled severely back, held in the same gold clasp at the nape of her neck. It looked like she'd flattened it down with hair spray. She couldn't seem to be still, her fingers now flexing against her purse, one foot tapping. She'd forgotten to put on any makeup. She looked very young. He said slowly, “How long do you think you'll need to be away?”

“Not more than three days, just long enough to see that her care is all locked into place.”

“Go, Sherlock. Oh yes, I want you to call me from Boston tonight and tell me what's going on, all right?”

Why did he care what she was doing away from Washington? More lies. She hated lies. She wasn't particularly good at them, but she'd rehearsed this one all the way in. Surely he believed her, surely. “Yes, sir. I'll call you this evening.”

He jotted down his cell number on a piece of paper. “If it's late, call me at home.” He handed her the folded paper. He said nothing until she was nearly at the outer door, then, “Good luck. Take care.”

He turned back to his office only after she was out the door. He listened a moment to the sound of her quick footfalls.

This was odd.

Why was she lying to him?

 

IT
was 10:30 that night when the phone rang. Savich muted the sports talk show and answered the phone.

“Sir, it's Sherlock.”

He grinned into the phone. “What's going on?”

“My aunt is fine. I have more details to tie up but I'll be back by Thursday, if that's all right.”

He said easily, “I have a good friend at Boston Memorial, a doctor who specializes in geriatrics. Would you like his name so you can speak to him about your aunt?”

“Oh no, sir. Everything's under control.”

“That's good, Sherlock. What's the weather like in Boston?”

“It's chilly and raining. Everything looks old and tired.”

“About the same here. I'll see you on Thursday. Oh yes, call me again tomorrow night.”

There was a pause, then, “Very well, sir, if that's what you want.”

“It is. You sound tired, Sherlock. Sleep well. Good night.”

“Thank you, sir. You too.”

 

HE
watched her from his office. It was nearly one o'clock Thursday afternoon. He'd been in meetings all morning. This was the first time he'd seen her since she'd left for Boston. She looked tired beyond her years. No, it was more than that. She looked flattened, as if she'd lost her best friend, as if someone had pounded her, not physically, but emotionally. He wasn't at all surprised.

She was typing furiously on the keyboard, completely absorbed. He waited for a few more minutes, then strolled to her workstation. He'd spoken to her three nights running, each night at 10:30, each night mirroring the previous one and the next, except that on Wednesday, she hadn't quite been the same. He'd wished he could see her. When he looked at her, her thoughts were clear as the shine Uncle Bob put on his wing tips every Wednesday.

“Sherlock.”

She raised her face, her fingers stilling on the computer keyboard. “Good afternoon, sir. You just get here?”

“Yes. Call me Savich. Or Dillon.”

“Yes, sir. Dillon.”

“Would you please come in my office? In say ten minutes?”

She nodded, nothing more, just a defeated nod she tried to hide from him.

When she walked into his office, he said immediately, “I don't like lies or liars.”

She just looked at him hopelessly.

“Your mother's sister lives in San Diego. You have three cousins, none of them older than thirty-five, all living on the West Coast. You don't even have a third cousin in Boston. Also, there's nary a trace of Alzheimer's in anyone in your family.”

“No, I guess there isn't.”

“Sit down, Sherlock.”

She sat.

He watched her pull her skirt to her calves. She sat on the edge of her chair like a child ready to be chastised. Only she wasn't remotely a child.

“Don't you think it's about time you leveled with me?”

“Not until I call Chico and take a dozen or so lessons.”

Humor from her. He appreciated it. At least she had her balance, if nothing else. “I could still wipe up the floor with you. I'm an old hand at karate and other things as well. Speaking of hands, I played right into yours when I requested you for my unit, didn't I? You must have thought God was looking out for you when Petty told you you didn't have to go to L.A.”

It didn't matter now. He probably knew everything. At least she didn't have to lie anymore. “It's true I wasn't interested in bank robbers. I told you that the day you first interviewed me.”

“Oh no, that's for sure. What you wanted was the chance to track down the serial killer who murdered your sister seven years ago. Her name was Belinda, wasn't it?”

She took the blow, bending slightly inward to absorb the pain of it, the unbearable nakedness of it spoken aloud. She knew she'd blown her chance to hell and gone. It was all over for her now. But maybe it wasn't. He was in Boston. She would simply resign from the FBI and move to Boston. She had no choice.

She didn't stir, just looked at him and said, “They named him the String Killer. Isn't that a stupid name? String! Something hardly thicker than a thread, a piece of skinny hemp he used to torture the women, all seven of them—psychological torture—and the media reduced it to string, to make it sexy and clever.”

“Yes, I remember the case well. And now he's struck again after seven years, in Boston this time. In fact, it's seven years to the day.”

She sat there, looking at him, and said in that flattened voice of hers, that held no surprise at all, “How do you know?”

“I went into your computer, saw what you'd accessed, and downloaded. I saw that you'd used my password to get into a couple of specialized data banks. Odd, but I never thought one of my own people would steal my password. You looked over my shoulder one day?”

She nodded, didn't say anything, which was smart. He was very angry.

He drew a deep breath, tamping down on the anger. “I checked the security log. You spent three and a half hours here Monday night. You read the paper Tuesday morning and left for Boston the same day. I bought a
Boston Globe
. The story was on the third page.”

She rose slowly, like an old woman. “I'll clean out my desk, sir, then go see Mr. Petty.”

“And what will you tell Petty?”

“That I lied, that you discovered it, and I've been dismissed. I'm really sorry, sir, but I had no choice.”

“I haven't canned you. If you think I intend to let you loose on the Boston Police Department, you're mistaken, Sherlock. But you've already spoken to them, haven't you? They kissed you off, right? No matter, don't tell me just yet. I'll call Ralph Budnack.”

She looked as if he'd struck her. Then she gave him the coldest smile he'd ever seen. Her chin went up. “I know how the killer got into the nursing homes in Florida to strangle those old ladies.”

He realized in that instant that he admired her brain. Was she trying to bargain with him? Make a deal? Gain some kind of leverage? “I see,” he said easily, sitting back in his chair, fiddling with a pen between his fingers. “I give you something and you give me something in return?”

“No. I guess I want to show you that I'm not a complete fool, that I do care about something other than the man who murdered my sister. I really don't want any more old ladies to die. I just wanted to mention it before I forgot and left.”

“You wouldn't have forgotten, as you couldn't bring yourself to put your sister's death behind you and go on with your life. Now, I already told you. You're not leaving. Go back to your desk, Sherlock, and write out your ideas on the Ghost. We'll talk later.”

She didn't want to talk to him. She wasn't in his league. Her very first attempt at deception, and he'd nailed her but good. She hadn't realized she'd been so obvious. But she had been. He'd seen through everything. His anger was frightening, since he didn't yell. It was cold, so very cold, that anger of his. Why hadn't he fired her? She'd betrayed him.

Why?

He would, soon enough; she was certain of that. She'd fire herself if she were in his shoes. She would pull everything else out of the database and then she would slip away. He would know what she'd done quickly enough, but who cared? She couldn't continue here. He wouldn't allow it; the breach had been too great, her conduct too far beyond the line. No, he wouldn't allow her to stay, no matter what game he was playing with her now.

She'd barely sat down at her desk before Hannah Paisley said from behind her, “You're stupid, Sherlock, or does he call you by your cute little first name, Lacey?”

“I'm not stupid, Hannah, I'm just very tired. Well, maybe I am stupid.”

“Why are you so tired? Did Savich keep you up all night? How many times did he fuck you, Sherlock?”

Sherlock flinched at the harshness of Hannah's voice, not the naked word. That naked word conjured up some smutty, frankly silly photos in
Playboy
, showing contorting bodies. Now that she thought about it, they hardly ever showed the men completely naked, only women. Really naked.

“Please, Hannah, there's nothing at all between us. Savich doesn't even like me. In fact—”

“In fact what?”

Sherlock just shook her head. No, let Hannah hear it from Savich. It would happen soon enough.

“Look at me, Hannah. I'm skinny and very plain. You're beautiful—surely you must know that. I'm no threat to you, please believe me. Besides I don't like Savich any more than he likes me. Would you try to believe at least that?”

“No. I spotted what you were the minute you walked into the Unit.”

“What am I?”

“You're a manipulative bitch. You saw Savich at the Academy and you got him interested so he'd bring you into the Unit. But you listen to me, you stay away from Savich or I'll take you apart. You know I can. Do you hear me?”

Ollie came walking over, nearly sauntering, whistling, if Sherlock wasn't mistaken, as if he didn't have a care in the world, but she saw his eyes. He recognized what he was seeing and he didn't like it. “Hey, Hannah, what's happening with the Lazarus case? What does the guy use all those Coke bottles for?”

She wasn't shaking because of what Hannah had said—no, Hannah and her ridiculous jealousy meant less than nothing to her. Sherlock had seen other women in Savich's office, young women, nice-looking women. Did Hannah go after all of them as well?

Who cared? Forget Hannah. She turned her back on both Hannah and Ollie and booted up her computer, tapped her fingers while she waited, then punched in Savich's password. Nothing happened.

Then suddenly, there appeared:
Not this time, Sherlock.

The screen went black. The computer was her enemy. As long as Savich was still breathing, the computer would remain her enemy. She lifted her fingers from the keyboard and laid her hands in her lap.

“Your aunt all right?”

It was Ollie. He pulled up a chair and sat beside her. “You don't look so good, Sherlock.”

“Thanks. Yes, my aunt is fine now.”

“You look like you're ready to go over the edge.”

She'd lived on the edge for seven years; no reason to go over now. She smiled at him. “Not really. I'm tired, and that's what I told Hannah. Thanks for drawing her fire, Ollie. I wish she'd open her eyes and realize that I'm about as much a threat to her as a duck in the sights of a hunter.”

“That's an odd thing to say, Sherlock. Savich told me to tell you to come into the conference room. What's it all about?”

 

“TELL
the agents how the Ghost gets into the nursing homes, Sherlock.”

She sat forward, her hands clasped together. “The Ghost is disguised as an old woman, a nursing home resident. Ollie showed me how to mix and match report data and plug it into two overlapping protocols. I did it with data from what the witnesses had said after each of the murders. No one found anything unusual in any of these reports—not the witnesses, not the cops, not us. But the computer did.” She handed out a piece of paper. “These are direct quotes from the witnesses, just the pertinent parts, naturally, the parts that, once tied together, pull the killer out of the bag.”

Savich read aloud: “‘No one around, Lieutenant. Not a single soul. Oh, some patients, of course. They were scared, some of them disoriented. Perfectly natural.'” He raised his head. “This is from a night floor nurse.” He read down the page. “This one is from a janitor: ‘There wasn't anybody around. Only our old folks and they're everywhere. Scared, they were. I helped several of them back to their rooms.'”

Romero nearly squeaked when he read: “‘There was this one old lady who felt faint. I carried her into the nearest room, the recreation parlor. Poor old doll. She didn't want me to leave her, but I had to.'” Romero had a long narrow face, rather like Prince Charles's. He had thick, black brows that nearly met between his eyes, eyes that were black and mirrored a formidable intelligence. He shook the paper toward Sherlock. “Good going. That last quote was from a cop. A cop! It was there all the time.”

Savich was sitting back in his chair, looking at each of the agents, one by one. “So,” he said finally, once all of them were looking at him, “do you think this is the answer? Our killer is disguised as an old woman, a patient?”

“Looks good to me,” replied George Hanks, a thirty-five-year veteran of the Bureau who had the oldest eyes Lacey had ever seen.

Savich turned to Ollie. “You're the lead on this case. What do you think?”

Ollie was staring at Sherlock. He looked wounded, his mouth pinched. “I didn't know anything about what Sherlock was going to do. It seems fairly straightforward, put like this. Like it's so out there that we were all fools not to catch it. Of course they did already check this once, and we mulled it over too, but I guess none of us went deep enough. The first thing to do is call that cop and ask him who that old lady he carried into the recreation room was.”

“Good idea,” Savich replied. “That could pretty well clinch it if the cop remembers.” He turned to Sherlock. “I don't suppose you know if the killer is Jewish, Sherlock? Or hates Jews? Not necessarily the residents, since only two of the five old ladies who were killed were Jews. The owners, you think? Or have you dismissed the Star of David idea?”

“I don't know, sir, about either. Listen, this idea just came to me, that's all. It was blind luck.”

“Yes, I rather suppose it was,” Hannah said as she rose, “since you're so new at this.”

Ollie was dogging Sherlock's heels out of the conference room. “Why?” he said, lightly touching her arm.

“There honestly wasn't time, Ollie. No, of course there was time. It's just that I, oh damn, this sounds ridiculous, but I really wasn't even thinking about it until it popped right into my head. Surely you've done the same thing.”

“Yeah, sure, but then when I find something, the first thing I do is tell my partner. You didn't say a word. You tromped into the conference room and showed everyone how great you were. It wasn't a very nice thing to do, Sherlock.”

“No, you're right. It wasn't. I can only say I honestly wasn't thinking about it.” It was true. She hadn't known that Savich would put her on the spot in front of the whole Unit, but he had. There'd been no time then to say anything to Ollie. No, there'd been time. She just hadn't thought about it. “Listen, Ollie, what happened was this. When I was on the plane going to Boston, I was pushed into this old woman coming out of the gangway. She turned on me and blasted me with the foulest language I'd ever heard. She looked mean. She looked at me as if she wanted to kill me. She's the one who should get all the credit if this works out.”

“How did Savich know that you'd come up with something?”

“I can't tell you that, Ollie. I'd like to, but I can't. I'm sorry. Please. I might not be around much longer. I don't know.”

“What's going on?” Even though Ollie was a fatalist, he forgot anger very quickly. He laid his hand on her shoulder. “It's something heavy, isn't it?”

“Yes. Very heavy.”

“Sherlock. In my office. Now.”

Ollie spun around at Savich's voice. “Would you like to tell me what's wrong?”

“No, this is between the two of us, Ollie. Stop looking like a rottweiler. I'm not going to pound her into the floor—at least not yet, not here. Come along, Sherlock.”

But they didn't go to his office. He led her out of the Hoover Building to a small park that was catty-corner to it. “Sit.” She sat on the narrow bench. Fortunately, she didn't have to wake up a homeless person and ask him to leave. It was a beautiful day, the sky clear, just a light, cool breeze. The sidewalks were crowded with a batch of fall tourists. There were two families with small kids eating picnic lunches on blankets. It was utterly foreign to her, this family thing. It hadn't been, a long time ago. That was before her mother had become ill. At least before Sherlock had realized how very ill she was.

“I've given this a lot of thought.”

“You found me out so quickly, I'm sure that you've had plenty of time to figure out everything.”

“Look at me, Sherlock.”

She looked. Then suddenly she began to laugh. “You look like Heath-cliff: all broody, piercing eyes, and dangerous.”

He wanted to smile, but he didn't. He said, “I've reviewed the seven murders this guy did seven years ago. I called Ralph Budnack in Boston and asked if he'd heard of any murders committed with this same M.O. other than the one they'd had the other day. He said they hadn't heard about other murders, but that they'd realized they had a serial killer on their hands, a guy who'd struck in San Francisco seven years ago.” He paused a moment, turning at the unearthly cooing of a pigeon.