The Beginning (52 page)

“You stuffed?”

“To the gills.” She sighed, sat back in her chair, and crossed her arms over her stomach. “I didn't realize I was so hungry.”

“If Marlin didn't kill Belinda, then someone else did. Who was it, Sherlock?”

“I don't know, truly, I don't.”

“But you've been thinking about it a whole lot, ever since Marlin told you he didn't kill her. Who had access, Sherlock? Who?”

“Why don't we talk about Florida instead? Or Mississippi?”

“Fine, but you're going to have to face up to it soon. I do have some new information from Florida for you. The latest murder wasn't on the projected map matrix, as you already know. MAXINE is trying to come up with something else. We poor humans are trying too. This time the police made an effort to question everyone in sight. They herded all the residents into the rec room. They wanted to catch your old woman in disguise. The initial word I got back, and what you heard, was that it wasn't someone disguised as an old woman. However, I found out before we left this afternoon that a new cop had had two of the old folks get sick on him because of the murder and he'd let them go. One was an old woman, one an old man. Was one of them the murderer? No one knows.

“As for the new young cop being able to identify the two old people, we can forget it. All old people look alike to him. He remembers that one was an old man and he fainted; the other was an old lady and she puked. You can bet your life that he got his ears pinned back, probably worse.

“So, it's still unclear whether or not your theory is right. You know, the likeliest person to kill a wife is the husband.”

He'd steered so smoothly back on course that the words spilled out of her mouth: “No, Dillon, Douglas loved Belinda. All right, for argument's sake, let's say that I'm wrong and he hated her. He would simply have divorced her. There's no reason he would have killed her. He's not stupid, nor, I doubt strongly, is he a murderer. There was no reason for him to kill her, none at all.”

“No, not that you know of. But one thing, Sherlock, he does seem to think too much of you, his sister-in-law. How long has he been looking at you, licking his chops?”

“I'm sure that's recent. And I think he's over it now.” She remembered him staring at hers and Belinda's photos in her bedroom—all that he'd remembered, all that he'd said about her innocence. She felt a knot of coldness settle deep into her. She was shaking her head even as she added, “No, not Douglas.”

“Your daddy's a judge, but he wasn't a judge seven years ago. He couldn't have had access to everything on the String Killer case.”

She wondered only briefly how he knew that, but then wanted to laugh at herself. That was easy stuff. Actually she wouldn't be surprised if Savich knew what the president's next speech would be about. She had complete faith that MAXINE could access anything Savich wanted. “No, impossible. Don't lie to me. I'll bet you know my father did have access to everything. He came out of the D.A.'s office. He knew everyone. He could have accessed anything he wanted. But Dillon, how could a man kill his own daughter? And so brutally?”

“It's been done more times than I can remember. Your dad's not all that straightforward a guy, Sherlock, and Belinda wasn't his daughter. He appears to have this mean streak in him. He didn't much like Belinda, did he? He thought she was nuts, like his wife, who claimed that he'd tried to run her down in his BMW.”

She scooted out of the booth, the tablecloth snagging on her purse strap. His two remaining slices of pizza nearly slid off the table.

“Then there's Mama. Does she have mental problems, Sherlock? What did she think of Belinda?”

He was standing there in front of her, very close, and she couldn't stand it. “I'm going home. You don't have to see me there.”

“Yeah, I do. You've got to do some thinking. You know very well Burt York has sent his findings to the SFPD. They might reopen Belinda's case or they might not. No way of telling yet. At the very least though, everything we're talking about they'll be talking about too. Douglas could be in some warm water, Sherlock, no matter how you slice it. Daddy too.”

“Since everything is so inconclusive, it's very possible the San Francisco police won't do a thing. I think once they talk to Boston, they'll know it was Marlin. They won't have any doubts. They'll shake their heads at Burt's report.”

“I think they will pay some attention. We're all the law. We're all supposed to try to catch the bad guys, even if it might mean opening a can of worms.”

“I've got to call Douglas, warn him. This can't be right, it can't. I never meant for this to happen.”

He rolled his eyes. “Maybe I'll understand you in another thirty years, Sherlock. Do what you must. Come on. I've got things to do tonight.”

“Like what?”

“My friend James Quinlan plays the sax at the Bonhomie Club on Houtton Street, owned by a Ms. Lily, a super-endowed black lady who admires his butt and his soulful eyes as much as his playing. He tries to be there at least once or twice a week. Sally, his wife, loves the place. Marvin, the bouncer, calls her Chicky. Come to think of it, he calls every female Chicky. But Sally to him is a really nice Chicky. I'll never forget that Fuzz the bartender gave them a bottle of wine for a wedding present. It had a cork. A first. Amazing.”

Now all this was strange. She said slowly, willing, happy to be distracted, even if only for a moment, “So you go to support him?”

He looked suddenly embarrassed. He didn't meet her eyes. He cleared his throat and said, “Yeah.”

He was lying. She cocked her head to one side. “Maybe I could go with you sometime? I wouldn't mind supporting him either. Also, I've never gotten together with Sally Quinlan. I heard she's an aide to a senator.”

“Yeah. Okay, sure. Maybe. We'll see.”

She didn't say a word. They were nearly at her town house. There was a quarter moon showing through gothic clouds—all thin and wispy, floating past, making sinister images. It was only eight-thirty in the evening, cool with only a slight breeze. “You should keep a light on.”

“The FBI doesn't pay me all that well, Dillon. It would cost a fortune.”

“Do you have an alarm system?”

“No. Why? All of a sudden you're worried? You were mocking all my locks just a while ago.”

“Yeah, and I wondered why someone who faced down Marlin like a first-class warrior would need to have more locks in her house than the president has guards.”

“They're two very different things.”

“I figured that. I don't suppose you'll tell me about it, will you?”

“There's nothing to tell. Now, what's all this about an alarm system?”

“Someone tried to run you down. That changes things, big-time.”

They were back to that. “It was an accident.”

“Possibly.”

“Good night, Dillon.”

Lacey unlocked the front door and stepped into the small foyer. She reached for the light switch and turned it on. It flickered, and then the light strengthened. She turned to lock the front door—the dead bolt, the two chains. From habit, she looked into the living room, the kitchen, before she went to her bedroom. Everything was as it should be.

She stopped suddenly. Slowly, she lowered the gym shoe she'd just pulled off to the floor. She turned, silent as stone now, and listened. Nothing.

She was losing it. She remembered that long-ago night in her fourth-floor apartment when she'd awakened to hear noises and nearly heaved up her guts with terror. Then she'd gotten a grip and gone out to see what or who was there. It had been a mouse. A silly little mouse, so scared he didn't know where to run when he saw her. And that had been the night she'd changed.

She took off the rest of her gym clothes and went into the bathroom. Just before she stepped into the shower, she turned the lock on the door, laughing aloud at herself while she did it. “You're an idiot,” she said, unlocked the door, then stepped into the shower.

Hot, hot water. It felt like heaven. Dillon had nearly killed her, but the hot water was soaking in. She could feel her shrieking leg muscles groan in relief. He'd told her that working out kept his stress level down. It also gave him a gorgeous body, but she didn't tell him that. She was beginning to wonder if he didn't have something about bringing down the stress. For the hour they'd exercised, she hadn't given a single thought to Marlin Jones or to the inconclusive report from Wild Burt York.

She finally stepped out of the shower some ten minutes later and into the fog-heavy bathroom. She wrapped a thick Egyptian-cotton towel around her head, then used the corner of her other towel to wipe the mirror.

She stared into the masked face right behind her.

A yell clogged in her throat. She froze. She realized she wasn't breathing, couldn't breathe, until air whooshed out of her mouth.

The man said in a soft, low voice that feathered warm air on the back of her neck, “Don't move now, little girl. I expected you to come home a bit later. You seemed well ensconced at that pizza place with that big guy. What's the matter, didn't the guy push hard enough to sleep with you? I could tell he wanted to, just the way he was looking at you. You told him no, didn't you? Yeah, you're here a little earlier than I expected, but no matter. I had a chance to settle in, get to know you a bit.”

His mask was black. His breathing was quiet, his voice so very soft, unalarming. She felt the gun pressing lightly against the small of her back. She was naked, no weapon, nothing except a ridiculous towel wrapped around her head.

“That's right. You're holding perfectly still. Are you afraid I'll rape you?”

“I don't know. Will you?”

“I hadn't thought to, but seeing you all buck naked, well, you're good-looking, you know? It turned me on to hear you singing that country-western song in the shower. What was it?”

“‘King of the Road.'”

“I like those words—but they fit me, not you. You're just a little girl playing cop. The king of the road goes to Maine when he's all done, right? That's where I might go once I'm through with you.”

Slowly, very slowly, she brought the towel down in front of her. “May I please wrap the towel around me?”

“No, I like looking at you. Drop it on the floor. Leave the one wrapped around your head. I like that too. It makes you look exotic. It turns me on.”

She dropped the towel. She felt the gun pressing cold and hard against her spine. She'd had training, but what could she do? She was naked, without a weapon, in her bathroom. What could she possibly do? Talk to him; that was her best chance, for the moment. “What do you want?”

“I want to talk you into going back to him, all the way back to San Francisco.”

“Did you try to run me down?”

He laughed, actually laughed. “Do you think I could have done something like that, little girl? Though you ain't all that little, are you?” The hand holding the gun came around and stroked the dull silver barrel over her right breast.

She flinched, leaning back, only to feel him against her back, his groin against her hips.

“Now that's nice, isn't it?” He continued to press the cold metal against her breast, then downward to her belly. She was quivering, she couldn't stop it, her flesh trying to flinch from him. Fear was full-blown now, and she didn't know if she could hold herself together. She gasped out, “Why do you want me to leave Washington?”

The gun stopped. He drew his hand away. “Your mama and daddy need you at home. It's time you went back there and took care of your responsibilities. They don't want you here, involved in conspiracies and shooting people, the way the FBI does. Yeah, they want you home. I'm here to encourage you to go.”

“I'll tell you why I can't go back yet. You see, there's this murderer, his name is Marlin Jones, and he killed this woman in Boston. He's a serial killer. I can't leave yet. I'll tell you more but it could take a while. Can't I put on some clothes? We can go in the kitchen, and I'll make some coffee?”

“Hard-nosed little girl, aren't you? It doesn't bother you at all with my dick pressing against your butt.”

“It bothers me.”

He stepped back. He waved the gun toward the bedroom. “Go put yourself in a bathrobe. I can always take it off you if I want.”

He followed at a distance, not getting close enough for her to kick out at him. She didn't look at him again until she had the terry-cloth robe belted tightly around her waist.

“Take the turban off your head and comb out your hair. I want to see it.”

She pulled off the towel and began combing her fingers through her hair. Had he moved closer? Could she get him with her foot? It would require speed, and she'd have to be accurate or he'd kill her.

“Use that brush.”

She shook her head, picked up the brush, and brushed her hair until he finally said, “That's enough.” He reached out his hand and touched the damp hair. He grunted.

Keep calm. She had to keep herself calm, but it was hard to do, really hard. She wanted to see his face, to make him human, and real, to look hard at his eyes. The black ski mask made him a monster, faceless, terrifying. He was dressed in black too, down to the black running shoes on his feet. Big feet. He was a big man, big arms, long, but his belly was flabby. He wasn't all that young, then. His voice was low, sort of raspy, as if he'd smoked too much for a long time. Keep thinking like this, she told herself over and over as she walked into the kitchen. Keep calm.

She watched him from the corner of her eye. He was leaning against the counter, the gun—a small .22—still pointed at her, as if someone had told him that she'd had some training, that he shouldn't just assume that because she was a woman she had no chance against him.

“Who are you?”

He laughed. “Call me Sam. You like that? Yeah, that's me—Sam. My pa was named Sam too. Hey, I'm the son of Sam.”

“Someone hired you. Who?”

“Too many questions, little girl. Get that coffee on. Now start talking to me about this Marlin Jones. Tell me why you're so important to this case.”

Nothing she told him about Marlin Jones would make any difference that she could see, and it would buy her time. “I was the one who was the bait to catch him in Boston. FBI agents do this sort of thing. There was nothing unusual about it. I was the bait because he'd killed my sister seven years ago in San Francisco. He was called the String Killer. I begged the cops to let me bring him down. They let me and I did bring him down, but it's not over yet. I can't go back home yet.”

He pushed off the counter, walked to her, and very calmly, very slowly, pulled back his arm and brought the gun sharply against the side of her head. Not hard enough to knock her unconscious, but hard enough to knock her silly. Pain flooded through her. She cried out, grabbed her head, and lurched against the stove.

“I know a lie when I hear it,” he said in that low, soft voice of his and quickly stepped back out of her reach. “This guy butcher your sister? Yeah, sure. Hey, you're bleeding. Scalp wounds bleed like stink, but you'll be okay. Tell me the truth, tell me why you really want to stay here or I'll hit you again.”

She suddenly heard an accent. No, her brains were scrambled, she was imagining it. No, wait, the way he'd said “bleed like stink.” It was faintly southern; yes, that was it. And wasn't that phrase southern as well?

He raised his arm. She said quickly, “I'm not lying. Belinda Madigan, the fourth victim of the San Francisco String Killer, was my sister.”

He didn't say anything, but she saw the gun waver. Hadn't he known? No, if he didn't know, why else would he be here? He said finally, “Keep going.”

“Marlin Jones said he didn't kill her. That's why I've got to stay. I've got to find out the truth. Then I can go home.”

“But he did kill her, didn't he?”

“Yes, he did. I wondered and wondered, then I even had some tests done on the wooden props used in all the murders in San Francisco, the hammering and screwing techniques, stuff like that. There's an expert in Los Angeles who's really good at that sort of thing. But his results were inconclusive. Marlin Jones killed her. He must have realized who I was and lied to me, to torture me. Who are you? Why do you care?”

“Hey, I'm a journalist.” He laughed again. He was big into laughter, this guy. She felt blood dripping off her hair onto her face. She wiped it away with the back of her hand.

“Yeah, I'm a journalist and I like to know the inside scoop. You guys are so closemouthed that none of us know what's going on. Yeah, I'm with the
Washington Post
. My name's Garfield.” He laughed. He was really enjoying himself.

Then just as suddenly, he straightened, and she knew that if he weren't wearing that mask, she'd see that his eyes had gone cold and dead. “Is that all, little girl?”

“Yes, that's all,” she said now, her voice shaking with fear. No, she thought, it wasn't enough. More shaking, more show of fear. “But why do you care whether or not I go home? Or does the person who sent you want me to leave? Why? I'm no threat to anyone.” Marlin Jones was in her mind. Was he somehow behind this?

The man was silent for a moment, and she knew he was studying her, weighing his options. Who was he?

He said finally, reaching out his hand to touch a clump of bloody hair, “You know what I think? I think that maybe old Marlin didn't kill your sister. You're like a little terrier, yanking and jerking and pulling, but you won't find anything.

“Now I believe that's all I need to know. I'll tell you one last time. Leave Washington. Stay with the FBI if you want to, but transfer. Go home, little girl. Now, let's have us a good time.”

He walked toward her, the gun aimed right at her chest. “I want you to march your little butt to the bedroom. I want you to stretch out all pretty-like on the bed. Then we'll see.”

She knew pleading wouldn't gain her anything. She turned and walked out of the kitchen. He was going to rape her. Then would he kill her as well? Probably. But the rape, she wouldn't take the rape, she couldn't. He'd have to kill her before she'd let him rape her. Who had hired him?

What to do? He didn't think Marlin had killed Belinda? Why did he care? What was going on here?

“Please, who are you?”

He motioned the gun toward the bed.

She was standing now beside her bed, not wanting to lie down, hating the thought of him being over her, of him in control.

“Take off that bathrobe.”

Her hands were fists at her sides. He raised the gun. She took off the bathrobe.

“Now lie down and open those legs real wide for me.”

“Why don't you think Marlin killed my sister?”

“Business is over. It's party time. Lie down, little girl, or I'll have to hurt you real bad.”

She couldn't do it. She couldn't.

He took a step toward her, the gun raised. He was going to hit her with the butt again, probably break her jaw this time. She had to do something.

The phone rang.

Both of them stared at it.

It rang again.

“It might be my boss,” she said, praying harder than she'd ever prayed in her life. “He knows I'm home. He said he might call. There was an assignment he wanted to talk to me about.”

“That big guy who brought you here? That's your boss?”

She nodded and wished again that she could see his face, see his expression.

Another ring.

“Answer it. But you be careful what you say or you're dead where you stand.”

She picked up the phone and said quietly, “Hello?”

“That you, Sherlock?”

“Yes, sir, it's me, sir.”

He was silent a moment. She was praying, hard.