“They gave you a message for us?” I asked him.
“Yes, sir. A message for both of you. ‘You like this bank?’ one of them asked me. I said that I liked my job. He called me a dumb spade asshole. Then he said that I was to be their messenger. I should tell FBI Agent Cavalierre and Detective Cross that there was a mistake made at the bank. He said there could be no more mistakes. He repeated that several times. No more mistakes. He said, ‘Tell them the message is from the Mastermind.’ Then they shot everybody else. They shot them where they lay on the floor, in cold blood. It’s all my fault. I was the guard on duty at the bank. I let it happen.”
“No, Mr. Strickland.” Betsey Cavalierre spoke softly to the bank guard. “You didn’t. We’re the ones at fault, not you.”
Chapter 46
THERE CAN BE NO MORE MISTAKES.
The Mastermind knew all about the FBI’s Betsey Cavalierre and Detective Cross. He was on top of everything, even the police officers assigned to the case. They were part of his plan now.
It was a gorgeous day for his excursion into the countryside outside Washington. The lilies were in bloom, and the sky was clear; it was bright china blue, with just a couple of cloud puffs placed symmetrically to the east and west.
The current bank-robbing crew was staying in a farmhouse just south of Hayfield, Virginia. It was a little more than eighty miles southwest of Washington, almost in West Virginia.
He rounded a bend on an unpaved road and saw the rear end of Mr. Blue’s van jutting out of a faded red barn. A pair of dogs were roaming in the yard, biting at horseflies. He didn’t see any of the gang yet, or their girlfriends, but he did hear their loud rock-and-roll music: guitar-heavy, Southern-flavored rock that they played constantly, morning and night.
He walked into the farmhouse living room, which had been remodeled to resemble a loft. He saw Mr. Blue, Mr. Red, Mr. White, and their girlfriends, including Ms. Green. He could smell coffee brewing. A broom was leaning against one wall, which meant they had cleaned up a little before he arrived. Next to the broom was a Heckler and Koch Marksman’s rifle.
“Hello, everybody,” he said, and waved shyly, his way. He smiled, but knew that they considered him a geek. So be it. Ms. Green was looking at him as if he were a geek with the hots for her.
“Hey, mon professor,” Blue said, and gave him a lighthearted grin that was so insincere it hurt. The Mastermind wasn’t fooled. Mr. Blue was a stone-cold killer. That was why he had been chosen for the First Union, First Virginia, and Chase robberies. They were all killers, even the three girls.
“Pizza.” He held up two boxes and a paper bag. “I bought pizza. And some excellent Chianti.”
Chapter 47
KILLJOY, he was thinking.
Killing machine.
Killing time.
Killer idea.
Killing fields.
The Mastermind smiled thinly at his own obsessive wordplay. It was the kind of half smile that didn’t feel good on his face, though. It felt false and a little forced. It was just past four o’clock, and it was still brightly sunny outside. He’d gone for a nice walk in the fields. He’d thought everything through. Now he was returning to the farmhouse.
He entered through the front screen door and let his eyes crawl over the bodies. The crew members were dead, all six of them. Their bodies were strangely twisted and contorted, the way metal can get in a firestorm. He had seen that phenomenon once, after a fire that raged through the hillsides outside Berkeley, in California. He’d loved that: the sheer beauty of a natural disaster.
He stopped and studied the dead. They were murderers, and they’d suffered for it. He’d used Marplan as the poison this time. Interestingly, the antidepressant was most potent when ingested with cheese or red wine, especially Chianti. The odd chemical combination induced a sharp increase in blood pressure followed by cerebral hemorrhage, and finally circulatory collapse. Voilà.
He looked more closely at the dead, and it was extraordinarily fascinating. Their pupils were dilated. The mouths were open in horribly twisted screams. Bloated bluish tongues hung out of the sides of the mouths. Now he had to get them out of here. He had to make the bodies disappear, almost as if they had never existed.
A girl named Gersh Adamson was sprawled on the floor near the front door. She’d tried to run outside, hadn’t she? Good for her. She was Ms. Green, a tiny blond lady who said she was twenty-one, but who looked no more than fifteen. Her mouth was frozen in an anguished scream that he simply loved. He almost couldn’t tear his eyes away from Gersh Adamson’s lips.
He figured that she was the lightest to carry; she probably weighed no more than a hundred pounds.
“Hello, Ms. Green. I’ve always liked you, you know. I’m a little diffident, though. I should say that I used to be shy. I’m getting over it.”
He reached out and touched her small breasts. He was surprised to find that Ms. Green wore a push-up bra under her blouse. Not quite the little dippie-hippie she seemed to be. He unbuttoned her blouse, then pulled it off and stared at her breasts.
He unbuttoned the dead girl’s jeans. Then he inserted a finger inside her panties. The flesh was a little cool. She had a silver ring in her belly button. He touched it. Pulled on it like a pop-top.
She was wearing satiny gray platforms with high heels, and he carefully took those off her feet. He pulled the tight jeans down and then wriggled them off, too. Ms. Green’s toenails were painted bright blue.
The Mastermind unclasped the lacy push-up bra and kneaded her smallish breasts. He rubbed them together with his palms. Then he pinched the tiny, perfect nipples hard. He’d wanted to do that from the first time he saw her. He’d wanted to hurt her a little, or maybe a lot.
He looked out the farmhouse window, then around at the dead bodies again. “I’m not grossing any of you out, am I?” he asked.
He dragged Ms. Green by her bare feet to the faded rug at the center of the room. Then he took off his own trousers. He was getting hard. He never got this way anymore. Maybe the FBI was right: He might be a pattern killer, after all. Maybe he was just beginning to understand who he really was.
“I’m a ghoul,” the Mastermind said, then he pulled aside her panties and thrust himself inside the dead woman’s vagina. “I’m crazy, Ms. Green, and that’s the biggest joke of all. I’m the one who’s crazy. If the police only knew. What a great clue.”
Part Three
HANGING WITH THE BIG DOGS
Chapter 48
THREE DAYS PASSED without another robbery. One of them was a Saturday, and I got to spend the afternoon with the Boy. At around six, I finally brought him back to Christine’s.
Before we went inside, I carried little Alex around the flower garden behind her apartment in Mitchellville. Her “country estate,” I liked to call it. The garden was glorious. Christine had planted and nurtured it herself. It was filled with a variety of roses: hybrid teas, floribunda and grandiflora. It reminded me of how she had been before the kidnapping in Bermuda. Everything about the garden was visually pleasing. Which was probably why it felt so damn sad to be there without her.
I carried the Boy easily on my hip, talking to him, pointing out the manicured lawn, a weeping willow tree, the sky, the setting sun. Then I showed him the similarity in our faces: nose to nose, eyes to eyes, mouth to mouth. Every few minutes I’d stop to kiss Alex’s cheek or neck or the top of his head.
“Smell the roses,” I whispered.
I saw Christine hurrying out of the house a few minutes later. I could tell she had something on her mind. Her sister Natalie trailed close behind her. For protection? I had the feeling that they were about to gang up on me.
“Alex, we have to talk,” Christine said as she came up to me in the garden. “Natalie, could you take care of the baby for a few minutes?”
Reluctantly, I handed Alex over to Natalie. It didn’t sound like I had much of a choice. Christine had changed so much in the past months. Sometimes, I felt as if I didn’
t even know her. Maybe it all had to do with her nightmares. They didn’t seem to be getting any better.
“I have to get out some things. Don’t say anything, please,” she began.
Chapter 49
I BIT DOWN ON MY TONGUE. This was the way it had been between us for months. I noticed that Christine’s eyes were red rimmed. She’d been crying.
“You’re off on another murder case now, Alex. I suppose that’s good — it’s your life. You’re obviously very skilled at it.”
I couldn’t keep silent. “I’ve offered to leave the police department, to go into private practice. I’d do that, Christine.”
She frowned and shook her head. “I’m so honored.”
“I’m not trying to fight you,” I said. “I’m sorry, go ahead. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“I have no life here in Washington anymore. I’m always afraid. Petrified is a better word. I hate going into the school now. I feel as if my life has been taken away from me. First George, and then what happened in Bermuda. I’m afraid that Shafer is coming back for me.”
I had to speak. “He’s not, Christine.”
“Don’t say that!” She raised her voice. “You don’t know. You can’t!”
The air in my lungs was slowly being sucked away. I wasn’t sure where Christine was going with this, but she seemed on the edge. It was like the night she’d had a nightmare that Geoffrey Shafer was in her house.
“I’m moving away from the Washington area,” she said. “I’ll leave after the school year. I don’t want you to know where I’m going. I don’t want you looking for me. Please don’t try to be a detective with me, Alex. Or a shrink.”
I couldn’t believe what I’d heard. I hadn’t expected anything like this. I stood there speechless, just staring at Christine. I don’t think I’d ever felt so devastated, so saddened and alone in my life. I felt hollowed out and empty.
“What about the baby?” I finally said in a whisper that came out hoarse and strangled.
Tears suddenly welled in her beautiful eyes. Christine began to sob, and to shake. Uncontrollably. “I can’t take Alex with me. Not the way I am. Not like this. The baby has to stay with you and Nana for now.”
I started to speak, but nothing came out, not a word. Christine held eye contact with me briefly. Her eyes were so sad, so hurt and confused. Then she turned away and walked back to her house. She disappeared inside.
Chapter 50
I WAS ANGRY AND SAD and I was holding it all inside. I knew better than to do that, which only made it worse. Physician, heal thyself.
I happened to see my psychiatrist, Adele Finally, in church on Sunday morning. We were attending the nine o’clock service with our families. We moved to the rear vestibule to talk. Adele must have seen something in my eyes. She doesn’t miss much and knows me well, since I’ve been seeing her for almost four years.
“Did Rosie the Cat die or something?” she asked, and smiled.
“Rosie’s just fine, Adele. So am I. Thanks for your concern.”
“Uh-huh. Then why do you look like Ali the morning after he fought Joe Frazier in Manila? Can you please explain that for me? Also, you didn’t shave for church.”
“That’s a nice dress,” I told her. “The color looks good on you.”
Adele frowned and would have none of it. “Right. Gray is definitely my color, Alex. What’s wrong?”
“Not a thing.”
Adele lit a votive candle. “I just love magic,” she whispered, and smiled mischievously. “I haven’t seen you in a while, Alex. That’s either very good or very bad.”
I lit a votive candle myself. Then I said a prayer. “Dear Lord, continue to watch over Jannie. I also wish that Christine wasn’t moving away from Washington. I know you must be testing me again.”
Adele winced as if she’d been burned. She looked away from the flickering votive flame and into my eyes. “Oh, Alex, I’m so sorry. You don’t need any more tests.”
“I’m all right,” I told her. I didn’t want to get into it now, not even with Adele.
“Oh, Alex, Alex.” She shook her head back and forth. “You know better than that. I know better.”
“I’m fine, really.”
Adele looked completely exasperated with me. “Fine, then. That will be one hundred for the visit. You can put it in the collection basket.”
Adele walked back to her family, who were already seated about halfway down the center aisle. She turned, and looked at me. She wasn’t smiling now.
When I got to our pew, Damon asked me who the pretty lady was that I’d been talking to in the back of the church.
“She’s a doctor. A friend of mine,” I said, which was true enough.
“Is she your doctor? What kind of doctor is she? She looks like she’s kind of mad at you,” he whispered. “What did you do wrong?”
“I didn’t do anything wrong,” I whispered back. “Don’t I get any privacy?”
“No. Besides, we’re in church. I’m hearing your confession.”
“I don’t have any confession for you to hear. I’m all right. I’m fine. I’m at peace with the world. I couldn’t be happier.”
Damon gave me the same look of exasperation that Adele had. Then he shook his head and turned away. He didn’t believe me, either. When the collection basket came, I put in a hundred dollars.
Chapter 51
THE MASTERMIND was keeping everything on a tight schedule. The clock inside his head was ticking loudly, always ticking.
The best of the bank-robbing crews, the crème de la crème, was scheduled to meet with him in his suite at a Holiday Inn near Colonial Village in Washington. They were on time, of course. He had made it a formal condition of the meeting.
Brian Macdougall swaggered into the suite ahead of the others. The Mastermind smiled at the absurdly cocksure way Macdougall carried himself. He knew that Macdougall would lead the way into the room. He was followed by his subordinates, B. J. Stringer and Robert Shaw. The three of them look like anything but high-level thieves, he thought. Two of the three wore royal-blue-and-white T-shirts from the same Long Island softball league.
“Mr. O’Malley and Mr. Crews?” the Mastermind asked from behind the screen of lights that prohibited them from seeing him. “Where are they, might I ask?”
Macdougall spoke for the group. “They have to work today. You gave us kind of short notice, partner. Three of us took off this morning. It’d look suspicious if we all called in sick.”
The Mastermind continued to observe the three New York men sitting behind the lights. Each looked like your average Joe. In truth, they were the most dangerous of the bank-robbing crews he’d used. They were exactly what he needed for the next test.
“So this is what, an audition?” Macdougall asked. He had on a black silk shirt, black trousers, and loafers. He had slicked-back black hair and a goatee.
“An audition? No, not at all. The job is yours, if you want it. I know how you work. Know all about you. I know your track record.”
Macdougall stared ahead at the bright lights, almost as if his gaze could penetrate them. “This needs to be a face-to-face meeting,” he said stonily. “That’s the only way we’ll do the job.”
The Mastermind rose quickly. He was stunned and angry. The legs of his chair made a loud scraping noise against the floor. “You were told from the beginning that wasn’t possible. This meeting is over.”
A heavy silence filled the hotel room. Macdougall looked over at Stringer and Shaw. He scratched his goatee a few times, then he laughed out loud. “I was just testing, partner. I guess we can live without seeing your face. If you have our payment with you?”
“I have the money, gentlemen. Fifty thousand dollars. Just for meeting with me. I always keep my promises.”
“And we walk away with the payment if we don’t like your plan for the job?”
Now it was the Mastermind’s turn to smile. “You’ll like the plan,” he said. “You’ll especially like the p
art about your share. It’s fifteen million dollars. I’ll contact you later.”
Chapter 52
“DID HE SAY FIFTEEN MILLION?”
“That’s what the man said. What the hell are we supposed to rob?”
Vincent O’Malley and Jimmy Crews weren’t at work that day. They were waiting inside a Toyota Camry and an Acura Legend, respectively. They were in contact with each other by headset. Their cars were parked on opposite sides of the Holiday Inn in Washington. They were watching for the Mastermind to appear outside, so that maybe they could follow him, find out who the hell he was.
O’Malley and Crews listened to the meeting through Brian Macdougall, who was wired for sound. They heard fifteen million mentioned and they wondered what the hell the job could be. The guy who called himself the Mastermind was something else. He talked, or rather lectured, and he made the mind-boggling job sound like a walk in the park. Six to eight hours of work; thirty million to split. The most impressive thing of all was that he answered all of Brian Macdougall’s tough questions.
O’Malley stayed in contact with Crews in the other car. “You listening to this shit, Jimmy? You believe it?”
“He has my rapt attention. I’d love to see the fricking look on Macdougall’s face right about now. This asshole has his number. It’s like he knows everything about Brian. Hey, I think the meeting’s breaking up.”
O’Malley and Crews remained silent for the next few minutes. Then O’Malley spoke. “He’s outside the hotel. I see him, Jimmy. He’s on foot. He’s walking south on Sixteenth Street. Doesn’t seem concerned about being followed. I got him!”
“Maybe he’s not so fucking smart, after all,” Crews said.
O’Malley laughed. “Shit. I was kind of hoping he was this smart.”
Crews said, “I’ll go parallel down Fourteenth. What’s he look like? What’s he wearing?”