The Sixth Idea (18 page)

T
he Pig's Eye Diner was open all night, and did a brisk business after two a.m. bar close. But an hour before sunrise, the inebriates were long gone, and Magozzi, Gino, and Chief of Police Malcherson were the only customers.

Meeting with the chief in any environment other than his perfectly ordered, spotlessly clean office was disturbing. He was starkly out of place in a greasy spoon with paper napkin dispensers and plastic condiment squeeze bottles sitting on Formica tabletops. The ripped vinyl upholstery in the booth they inhabited was an affront to his finely tailored suit; in fact, it probably wanted to jump off his body and catch the next flight back to Milan.

Malcherson was a solid, stoic third-generation Swede whose coloring reflected his heritage—intense blue eyes and blond hair that was just starting to gray at the temples. It suddenly occurred to Magozzi in his predawn delirium that maybe the blue and yellow colors of the
Swedish flag had been selected to reflect the genetic traits of its people.

The man was normally unflappable, but once he and Gino got to the juicy part of the narrative that involved an ex–KGB agent with a federal access restraint on her fingerprints and a dead sniper, he unraveled in his very special Malcherson way, which meant he set down his fork, abandoned his ham and cheese omelet completely, and stared silently down into his coffee mug for a long time.

“Impressive that you were able to ascertain the dead woman at the Keller house was ex-KGB when there was a federal cover on her fingerprints and you had absolutely no access to her identity,” he warned them. “I'm not going to ask how you obtained this information, but I trust you will omit this detail from your reports.”

“Yes sir,” Magozzi reassured him, hearing the subtext loud and clear. Malcherson knew damn well the information could have only come from Monkeewrench. They'd all walked this gray line together before. “We can't prove it definitively, so it won't be noted in our reports. We just told you because we wanted to emphasize the urgency of the situation.”

Malcherson's shoulders had been riding his earlobes for a while, and Magozzi was happy to see them drop slightly. Everybody's asses were covered.

“The first priority is Lydia Ascher's safety,” he finally said. “MPD doesn't have the manpower or the facilities, and we can't trust the postulation that she has some sort of protector out there, watching over her.” He looked up, and his bloodhound face seemed even more challenged by gravity than usual. “This chain of events has become bigger than the sum of its parts. I have to inform Special
Agent in Charge Shafer. Whatever your private opinions about the FBI are, they are well-versed in witness protection. And if there is some kind of . . . international angle, it should be addressed on a federal level.”

“No argument from us, sir,” Gino said.

“In the meantime, we still have three unsolved homicides in our immediate jurisdiction, possibly multiple killers, two missing elderly men, and not a single piece of conclusive evidence.”

Magozzi wasn't sure if that was an accusation, a dismissal, or a neutral statement of fact. “We're hoping ballistics and crime-scene analysis from Lydia Ascher's house will yield something positive, sir.”

“I'm not assailing your deductive or investigative skills, Detective Magozzi. I've read every single one of your reports thus far, and you've taken what little information the scenes have yielded and gone as far as you possibly could. And that fact, combined with these recent developments, makes it extremely difficult to contrive a theory that doesn't involve some sort of larger conspiracy. Especially in view of the fact that not only were your phones compromised, the entire MPD communications system was.”

Gino's jaw dropped. “Jesus . . . Jeez.” He quickly corrected his language because profanity was absolutely unacceptable to the chief. “Sorry, Chief, but this is kind of unbelievable.”

“All of it is unbelievable, and extremely troubling.”

Magozzi's scrambled eggs suddenly felt like a ball of barbed wire in his stomach. “This all started with Charles Spencer, and the only reason I can think of to monitor us and MPD is because we're working all the connected cases. Like somebody wants to make sure we
don't solve our murders. And frankly, they're doing a pretty good job so far.”

Malcherson tapped his fingers on the table in a measured cadence. “I have our IT people trying to trace the intrusion, but they haven't had much luck so far.”

“Monkeewrench is looking into the same angle—the attack on our personal phones, on the Chatham's server, and the one that took down Charles Spencer's website. Apparently, it's all pretty sophisticated.”

Malcherson pushed his coffee mug away, stood, and laid a twenty on the table. “I'll be in touch, Detectives. If I were you, I'd expect an FBI debriefing in the near future. Was I clear when I told you to omit any speculative evidence from your reports?”

Magozzi nodded. “Crystal clear, Chief.”

“Indeed.”

Gino watched him walk out the door, then put his head in his hands. “Oh, God. Another FBI debriefing. Isn't that why we took vacation this month, because we were so traumatized by the last one?”

“I don't want to wait for a formal debriefing. Let's call Agent Dahl right now.”

“Dahl is pretty high up on the food chain to be dealing with witness protection.”

“I'm not talking the witness protection aspect, I'm talking about this whole big mess. This is sensitive, and we have no idea who's involved. If Shafer decides to put a lid on this locally and go straight to Washington, we don't have a prayer of getting any answers.”

Gino squirmed in his seat, dragged his hand over his prickly
brush of hair. “Dahl's not going to put his neck on the chopping block for us. I mean, he's a decent guy who actually has some ethics, and probably the only Fed I really trust, but still . . .”

“It would have to be totally off the record. He's closer to the devil than we are, and he has access we don't. At least authorized access.”

“So you're going full-blown conspiracy and assuming the U.S. government has something to do with this.”

“Hey, you already went there. I'm just following in your footsteps. But the fact of the matter is, chinchilla lady had a federal access restraint on her prints, and according to Interpol she died three years ago. I want to know who submitted her fake death certificate and why.”

Gino's gaze lingered over his empty, egg-yolk-smeared plate, then to Malcherson's unfinished omelet. Magozzi could tell he was tempted, but civility got the better of him. “Okay. Call Dahl. I'll get us some sticky buns and coffees to go.”

That was the great thing about Gino, Magozzi thought as he watched him walk up to the diner's service counter. His whole world could be crashing down around his ears, but he always managed to stay grounded in life's simplest realities, starting and ending with family and food.

G
race was settled in her bedroom at Harley's, but sleep had been impossible—she'd managed to doze, but fitful, disjointed dreams kept waking her. Fortunately, the Beast never slept; unfortunately, even it had its limitations—if there was no information for it to find, it hit a dead end just like humans did. And it seemed like the Sixth Idea was the deadest end of all. So far, they hadn't even come close to identifying any of the players, all of whom were clearly comfortable operating in the shadows.

She rolled over and clicked on a bedside lamp. Charlie lifted his head briefly, but in the next minute he was snoring again. Lydia's paperback was lying on the table next to her—she'd read most of it, but there was nothing notable about it except for the fact that Lydia's grandfather had most likely written it and self-published it, and this was probably the only copy in existence. So why had he placed such a great deal of import on it and asked that it be kept secret? It could
have just been a personal indulgence, a simple vanity project, but if that were the case, you'd think he would have wanted his daughter, or the whole family for that matter, to know he was the author.

She picked it up and stared at the cover.
In Case of Emergency.
It was an ominous title, or maybe it was a message, because if there were ever an emergency in Lydia Ascher's world, it was happening now. It used to be a common capital-lettered phrase on a lot of things.
IN CA
SE OF EMERGENCY
was on glass cases in every multistory building, right next to the elevator. You didn't have to read through multiple lines of tiny print in many languages to know that in case of emergency, you pulled the alarm lever or broke the glass or pushed the red button in an elevator. Lydia's grandfather probably didn't think of that phrase as simply an intriguing book title. Maybe it was direction for those who came after him.

In case of emergency, break this glass. In case of emergency, push this button. In case of emergency . . . read this book.

The author's name was unusual, too, and a strange choice for a pseudonym. Thea S. Dixid. A dixid was a water midge.

Grace closed her eyes, but all she could see was the book cover, as if it had imprinted on her retinas.

At some point she eventually fell asleep, but what seemed like moments later she lurched up in bed, her eyes wide in the dark.
In Case of Emergency by Thea S. Dixid.

Thea S. Dixid. Scramble the letters and you got Sixth Idea.

She grabbed her phone off the nightstand and dialed Magozzi.

“Grace.”

“Listen, Magozzi, we need Lydia Ascher here. I think her
Armageddon book is some kind of a key after all, and she's the only one in the world who might be able to decipher it.”

“Not a chance, Grace. A sniper took a couple shots at her tonight while she was in protective custody.”

“A
sniper
?”

“Yeah. Sheriff said they had over thirty men guarding her, making sure nobody got close, so the bastard fired from across the lake over half a mile out. Whoever is on the other end of this isn't just trying to kill Lydia, they're dead set on it.”

Grace was shaking her head, even though no one was there to see it. She knew what it felt like to be hunted. She knew what it felt like to run with no clear finish line in sight, no big red arrows telling you
THIS WAY TO ABSOLUTE
SAFETY
. Her heart ached in a very intimate way for this woman she'd never even met. “Is she safe now?”

“Jefferson County still has her, and the sniper is dead, but Gino and I just met with Chief Malcherson. He's going to arrange a safe house with the Feds. Now, what makes you think Lydia's book might be a key?”

“The author's name—Thea S. Dixid. If you scramble the letters, it spells Sixth Idea. And the title:
In Case of Emergency.
I'm hoping that it's some kind of a message and her grandfather embedded something in the actual text, maybe anticipating events like the ones happening now. Has Lydia read the book?”

“I don't know. I'll ask her.”

“She needs to read it word by word and make note of anything—
anything
—that gives her pause or strikes her as unusual. Any tiny detail might be able to help us, which will help us help her.”

“We'll pick up the book and get it to her as soon as we can.”

“You and Gino have enough tails to chase. Bring her here.” She said it without hesitation.

“Absolutely not. She's a target, Grace, and anyone near her is in the line of fire. I don't want you or Harley anywhere near her. Her neighbor bought it just coming to her house for dinner, and a Jefferson County deputy was wounded tonight. He's lucky to be alive.”

Grace held her tongue. But only for a few moments. She understood that there was some knee-jerk, biological compulsion for men to protect women, no matter how capable the woman. She appreciated the sentiment, but she also resented it, at least in this particular situation. “And so is she. You ask the FBI if they have anything within an hour of Lydia's current location that can come close to the mansion's security. My guess is they don't. You do know all of Harley's windows and doors are bulletproof, right?”

“I . . . Really?” he stuttered.

“The perimeter of the property is covered by motion detectors and surveillance cameras that have infrared capability and can read the thermal signatures off everything in their sight lines up to a mile away. If someone is hiding in the bushes or in the alley, we'll see them. There is a biometric keyless entry that incorporates voice, facial, and behavioral recognition. And there's a panic room that would blow James Bond's mind. Twenty-five hundred square feet that looks like a suite at the Four Seasons. And that's only the half of it.”

“When did Harley do all this?”

“Right after we moved the Monkeewrench offices here. He's been upgrading ever since. We're the safest place in the world, Magozzi.” She heard him sigh.

“I believe you. But nobody in law enforcement is going to put civilians in danger, no matter how impressive your security.”

“Which is stupid. The Feds could put a team around Harley's just as easily as they could their own facility, which is just going to be a house that doesn't have one-tenth of what we do. In the end, they rely on agents with guns to protect witnesses. We rely on technology. Combine the two and you have a perfect security setup, at least for the short term, until the Feds can arrange something.”

Grace waited for Magozzi to respond, and the longer he took, the more her impatience flared. “This is an innocent life we're talking about, and this is her best chance, at least for now.”

“This is an impossible choice, Grace. You know that.”

“Of course I do. But it's not your choice to make. It's not ours, either, it's Lydia's. Call Chief Malcherson and let him know what we're offering.”