"Piss off to you, too," Joyce muttered under her breath, gathering her dress from the counter and swooping from the store with as much dignity as she could muster.
The door swung closed behind her. Joyce paused, and looked up and down the street, hoping another "same-day cleaning" sign would miraculously appear. There must be other places in town, but she had no idea where they were. She'd only moved there three months ago to take a job from a sympathetic friend.
She inhaled sharply. Okay, maybe she didn't know where there was another cleaner, but she could find out. Joyce strode to the nearest phone booth, pushed open the doors, reached for the phone book...and found an empty chain.
"God-fucking-damn it!"
She hiccuped a laugh. Now that felt better, didn't it? She glanced down at the dress slung over her arm. Ten years old. Ten years out of style. Made for a woman ten years younger. Screw this. If she was going on a date, she was doing it right. Break the bank and buy a new dress. Maybe something from the sales rack at Barneys. She checked her watch. Not yet seven. If she started work early, she could take an extended lunch hour, use the time to buy a dress. She smiled. Problem solved.
Joyce drove into her office building's underground garage. The lot was almost completely empty. She shivered as she walked toward the elevator. Picked up her pace. Slid her car key between her index and middle fingers, the way her daughter had taught her after taking a self-defense course at college. Any guy jumps you, Mom, go for his eyes.
Joyce reached for the elevator button, then paused. Was this such a good idea, getting onto an elevator so early in the morning? What if it stopped between floors and she was stuck there alone? Or what if she wasn't alone? Yes, it was silly, but still...She glanced toward the stairs. A five-floor climb. It wasn't like she didn't need the exercise.
As she rounded the second flight of stairs, she caught sight of something on the step. Folded green paper. She paused, leaned over. Twenty dollars. She laughed, the sound echoing through the empty stairwell. Twenty dollars toward a new dress. How perfect was that?
As her fingers brushed the bill, a current of air swished behind her. She looked up to see a blur flying toward her head. Over her head. The world went white. She opened her mouth, but something jammed against it. She bit down, tasted plastic. A plastic bag over her head. A hand or arm pressing it into her mouth, cutting off her screams.
Her hands flew up. Too late she felt the keys slide from her fist, heard them tinkle against the concrete. She panicked, clawing, kicking, but hitting only air. She tumbled forward. Felt a hand between her shoulder blades. A shove. Her head struck the sharp edge of the step. Light and pain flashed. Her daughter's face. Go for his eyes, Mom. Darkness.
The man looked down at her body, sprawled awkwardly over the steps, skirt shoved up to reveal one cellulite-pitted thigh above her knee-highs, her arm stretched over her head, fingers grazing the twenty as if, in death, still reaching for it. He almost laughed.
A twenty placed at eye level. A human trap, guaranteed to catch the first person who climbed these stairs. There was an element of risk here, something he'd never allowed himself before. If she hadn't been alone, he'd have had to scrap the whole plan. But the thrill of it, the purest surge of power, came from knowing that if this attempt failed, it made no difference in the overall plan. Kill this person, kill another. Kill here, kill there. Kill now, kill then. For once, it didn't matter. There was no contract, no obligation. He could take risks, enjoy them even, and, to his surprise, he found that he did.
He looked down at the woman. His penultimate strike, perhaps even his last. That was the plan anyway. He'd make this last hit and then, if all went well and the police stayed stumped, he'd stop here. If it didn't go smoothly--and one always had to plan for contingencies--he had one more victim in mind, someone who could take the blame.
But now he wasn't so sure he should stop. He told himself it wasn't the unexpected thrill of this newfound power--that would be unprofessional. Instead, he wondered whether he hadn't been shortsighted. Perhaps five wasn't enough. He'd gotten this far and the Feds were still chasing their tails. Why not add another couple of bodies? He always had the backup hit--his scapegoat--if things went bad. And, more likely, another body or two would only add to the confusion. Then he could stop, free and safe.
He smiled and walked away, leaving her lying there, the bag still over her head. As he passed, he glanced down at the twenty lying by her outstretched hand. Let them tie up their labs pulling scores of fingerprints from it, running them through the database. They wouldn't find his...on the bill or in the database. He took the folded book page from his pocket, unwrapped it and tucked it under her hand, beside the twenty.
One last visual sweep. All clear. He adjusted his driving gloves, picked up his briefcase, then walked down to the main floor door, cracked it open and peered through. Closed doors, darkened windows, an office building still slumbering. He straightened his tie and walked out.
* * *
SIX
I ran into the convenience store and bought Time, Newsweek and Cosmopolitan. No, Cosmo wasn't running an in-depth analysis of the Helter Skelter killings. I'm sure they would have, but, apparently, the breaking news of "10 Ways to Drive Your Man Wild in Bed" took precedence.
As I climbed into the car, Jack plucked the magazines from under my arm. "Time. Newsweek. And...?"
He looked at the half-naked supermodel on the cover of Cosmopolitan. Most guys would have looked closer. Or at least looked interested. Jack frowned.
"Chock-full of articles on catching a man," I said. "I thought it might help us."
Jack shook his head.
"Hey, in this outfit, do I strike you as a Time and Newsweek kinda girl? But if you see anything in there that interests you, it's all yours."
Another head shake. He turned the key in the ignition and the subcompact's engine puttered to life. "I'll drive. You read."
The articles contained only a single line on each victim, descriptions so brief even Jack would be hard-pressed to condense them further. That's not to say the articles were short. Each magazine contained not less than three separate pieces on the case, each running several pages. So what did they write about? The killer. Theories, motivations, expert opinions, editorial comments.
The list of victims was almost identical in both publications.
Alicia Sanchez, 21, Hispanic, college student, suffocated in her dorm room, October 5, Beaumont, Texas.
Carson Morrow, 36, African American, stockbroker, stabbed in a parking lot, October 8, St. Louis, Missouri.
Leon Kozlov, 53, Caucasian, retired, shot in his apartment, October 12, Norfolk, Ohio.
Mary Lee, 68, Asian American, business owner, strangled in her shop, October 14, Atlanta, Georgia.
Four lives and four tragedies reduced to factoids.
I studied the four minuscule photos and wondered what they'd been doing the days they'd been killed, what they'd been thinking, planning, dreaming.
In just over a week, four lives had been taken and countless more thrown into turmoil--husbands, wives, lovers, children, parents, siblings, friends, wondering why this had happened, and what they could have done to prevent it, and whether their loved one had suffered, and why hadn't they said something more meaningful the last time they met. And, most of all, why. Just why.
Four lives taken, countless more awaiting justice. But when I read that article, I saw no end--no justice--in sight. Just more deaths. More victims. More mourners. More questions.
Neither magazine mentioned the possibility of a hitman killer, but that likely wasn't a theory investigators would release to the media. The murders, though, had all the earmarks of professional hits--the deaths clean and cold.
"Four murders in four parts of the country, four very different victims, four separate methods," I said. "Linked by a calling card. A page from Helter Skelter."
"Yeah. Heard about that."
"It's a book, isn't it?"
"About Manson."
"Charles Manson? The freak with the cult? He killed some actress, didn't he?"
"Before your time, I'm guessing."
"The sixties. Peace, love and drug-induced murderous rages. Hippie stuff."
"Now I feel old."
"Right, like you were more than a baby yourself. From what I remember, the Manson case was textbook disorganized crime. Definitely not the work of a pro. So what's the connection?"
"None, other than that it scared the shit out of a lot of people. Like this guy's doing."
I glanced over at him. "According to Newsweek--or their contacts, at least--the Feds have evidence suggesting there's something to the Manson connection."
"Then we don't ignore it. But don't focus on it."
"Okay. So where do you want to start?"
A small frown my way. "No idea. That's your area. Yeah, you weren't a detective. But you think like a cop. Good enough. We'll work something out."
So we did, laying out theories. We had a hired killer making random hits. Option one: system overload. When a pro chess player goes nuts, he becomes obsessed with the game. A pro killer goes nuts? No mystery what might obsess him. Option two was more likely. Why does a hired killer kill? Because he's been hired to.
"The guy beside me on the plane mentioned that Leon Kozlov had a record," I said. "That's a good place to start--checking criminal records and arrests. I have contacts in U.S. police departments--lodge regulars--but I'd really rather not use--"
"Agreed. Last resort."
"Good. There are legit ways we can check for criminal backgrounds, though it'll take some time and legwork."
He stared out the windshield, fingers drumming on the steering wheel.
"Got another way," he said finally. "Contact. Couple hours' drive. Find out about Manson, too."
We pulled off at a diner for coffee. We had to be getting close to Jack's contact, and I certainly wasn't hungry, but Jack insisted.
As I sat there, coffee untouched, I swore I could hear my watch ticking. For one person, somewhere out there, time was ticking. How much longer before the killer took another life? Judging by his schedule so far, maybe a day.
Time was passing and somewhere my target was planning his next kill while I sat in a diner, across from my "partner," who looked as anxious to get to work as any time-card puncher on Monday morning.
I vented my frustration with chatter.
"--two hours, not a single nibble and my butt is frozen to the ice. So I check the guys' hooks, and no one has any bait. 'Bait?' one says. 'What for? We don't want to catch anything. We just wanted an excuse to toss back a few before lunch.'"
Jack opened his mouth, but a burst of static cut him off. Across the room, a server moved a portable radio onto the counter. The three customers there all leaned forward, like fans listening to the last inning of the World Series. I caught the words "number five" and "Boston." A game this early in the day?
"Turn it up," someone yelled.
The server obliged. I made a face, then caught the first rush of the announcer's words and stopped with my coffee cup halfway to my lips.
"--received confirmation that this is definitely murder number five. It appears the Helter Skelter killer has taken another victim--"
"Fuck," Jack muttered.
"--Boston. Police have released few details at this time. They will say only that an unidentified woman has been found suffocated in the stairwell of her office complex."
Customers crowded around the counter to hear better. Not so much as a fork clinked against china.
"--approximately 7 a.m. Police have confirmed that a page from the book Helter Skelter was found with the body. A news conference is scheduled for later this morning. More details are expected at that time. We return now..."
Jack pulled his chair forward, legs scraping the linoleum. He jerked his head toward the door.
Jack got into the car and drove. Not a word about what had happened inside. Yet the news had been enough to get him up and moving.
After less than a thirty-minute drive, Jack pulled into Fort Wayne, Indiana. He drove to a strip mall and parked far enough from the storefronts that no one would notice or care that we were taking up a spot and not shopping.
He got out. I followed. He looked at me over the roof.
"Uh, let me guess," I said. "When you said 'stop by' the pronoun you left off was 'I' not 'we,' right?"
"You want to come?"
"I'm not going to spend this investigation hanging out in the car, getting secondhand information. But I'm not in a hurry to be introduced to all your underworld contacts, either. You know this guy--it's your call."
"You should come." He locked the car. "Get it over with."
Before I could say anything, he was already striding across the parking lot, leaving me jogging to catch up.
We stood before a small two-story house on a street that was mostly brick bungalows, with the occasional two-story thrown in for variety. An old neighborhood in every way, from the massive oaks that looked as if they'd seen the first colonists to the front porches adorned with wicker rockers, mobile scooters and wheelchair ramps.
Down the street, an army of young men worked their way from lawn to lawn, mowers and hedge-clippers in tow. A patrolling security car slowed to give us a once-over, then drove on. It looked like an upper-middle-class retirement community, where the owners kept their houses small, saving their money for Alaskan cruises and European vacations. A strange place for an underworld contact meeting.
"Something I should tell you." Jack peered up at the house. "Things I didn't mention before. Probably should have. But..." He paused, then shook his head. "Too late now. You'll understand or you won't."
With that, he headed for the front steps.
* * *
SEVEN
White curtains in the windows. Fresh dark green trim to complement the yellow brick. A black metal mailbox. The space for an engraved surname under the brass door knocker was blank. Jack motioned for me to knock.
"This contact," I said. "Is he a civilian or..."
"Pro."
I adjusted my jacket, making sure my Glock was in place, then banged the knocker. Inside, a dog barked, then another joined in. They sounded big.
A distant door opened, then shut. The barking resumed, now coming from the rear yard.
"What should I call myself?" I said. "I need a name, right?"
Before he could answer, a dead bolt clanked. The door opened. There stood a petite white-haired woman wearing a silk blouse, wool slacks and leather pumps. She looked from me to Jack, back to me, then pointed a finger at Jack.
"You are in deep shit, Jacko."
The woman stepped back and Jack propelled me through the doorway.
She smiled at me. "Let me hang your jacket. Gun on or off, it doesn't matter. A guest's comfort comes first." Her blue eyes sparked. "Though I'll be flattered if you think you might need it."
I handed her my coat and kept my gun holstered.
"I'll join you in the living room," she said. "Jack can hang his own damned jacket, though he might be wise to keep it, in case I decide to boot his ass into the yard with the dogs."
I glanced at Jack. He waved me in. I walked along the hall and turned into the living room. Thick navy blue carpet, smoke-gray walls, yellow leather sofa set, high-end stereo, Apple computer and built-in bookcases.
If I had my own living room, this is what I'd want it to look like. Scary thing was, this was what it would look like: immaculate and organized to the point of compulsion. The computer was turned off, keyboard shelf closed, all cords tucked out of sight. On the bookshelf, every spine was aligned with its neighbor, the books grouped by subject, alphabetical within each subject. Though I couldn't read the rows of CDs behind the glass stereo doors, I knew they'd be organized the same way.
I'd assumed this woman lived with our contact. Seeing this room, I knew I'd been wrong--she was the contact.
Jack pointed to the love seat, then sat besi
de me. I turned to whisper a question but, before I could, the woman joined us. She took a seat across from us, sat and waited. And waited.
"How long do we have to sit here before you do the courtesy of performing introductions?" she finally said.
"Dee, Evelyn. Evelyn, Dee."
"Oh yeah," she said. "That helps. Fucking rude mick. And what the hell kind of name is Dee?" She turned to me. "He picked it, didn't he? I just hope it doesn't stand for Diane."
I frowned.
"'Jack and Diane'?" she prompted.
"Ah, the song. John Cougar. Or whatever he calls himself now."
"Melonhead or something like that. A perfect example of the importance of names. Cougar, you remember, but the minute you decide to call yourself Melon-shit..." She shook her head. "Names create an impression. Dee makes me think Sandra Dee, and that's all wrong for you. Now Diane wouldn't be so bad if you made it Diana. Goddess of the hunt. That would work."
Jack snorted.
"Shut up or get out," Evelyn said. "You screwed me over. It'll take a lot of ass-kissing to make up for this one." She shifted to face me. "I'm the one who tracked you down."
"What--?"
I looked from her to Jack. Jack met my gaze and dipped his chin, eyes dark with something like apology.
Heart hammering, I turned back to Evelyn. "How--?"
"When it comes to finding people, I'm the best there is. I could tell you where Jimmy Hoffa is...but it'd cost you."
"She didn't find you," Jack said. "Frank Tomassini mentioned you."
"But I found her from there, didn't I? Frank didn't exactly hand me her name and address."
"He told you about me?"
"Special case. He wouldn't mention it to anyone else."
"But how do you know Frank--?"
"As I was saying, I found you. Women in this business always interest me, and your background was...intriguing. Unfortunately, travel to Canada is a bit problematic for me. Some bad business in Quebec back in the seventies, which I'm sure your authorities have forgotten all about, but I prefer not to test that theory. So I decided to send my favorite protege--"
"Favorite?" Jack muttered. "Only one still talking to you."