Alex Kava Bundle

  The Neanderthal brought in Ben’s duffel bag and set it on the table. Then he left, closing the door behind him. Racine pulled out a chair and put up one foot, trying to look tough. The other woman leaned against the wall, crossed her arms and began examining Ben.

  “So, Garrison, glad we could finally arrange that little meeting you wanted,” Racine said. “This is Special Agent Maggie O’Dell with the FBI. Thought maybe you wouldn’t mind if we made this a threesome.”

  “Sorry, Racine. If this is your idea of intimidation then you’re gonna be really disappointed when I tell you you’re giving me an incredible hard-on.”

  She didn’t blush, not even slightly. Maybe Detective Racine was tougher than Officer Racine.

  “This case is a federal investigation, Garrison. It could mean—”

  “Cut the crap, Racine,” he stopped her, glancing at O’Dell, who stayed put, looking official while she continued to lean against the wall. He knew who the real power broker was, so when he spoke again, he addressed O’Dell. “I know you just want the photos. I always intended to hand them over.”

  “Really?” O’Dell said.

  “Yeah, really. I have no idea what Racine misunderstood. Probably all that sexual tension from not knowing who or what to fuck this week.”

  “Oh, I think you’ll certainly feel fucked, Garrison, when we’re through with you,” Racine said without so much as a blink, playing out her role as the bad cop.

  O’Dell, also, remained cool and calm. “You have the photos with you?” she asked, nodding at the duffel bag.

  “Sure. And I’m more than willing to show them to you.” He lifted his hands and clanked the handcuffs against the steel chair. “Hell, I’ll give them to you. As soon as all the charges are dropped, of course.”

  “Charges?” Racine glanced at O’Dell, then back at him. “Did the boys give you the impression you were under arrest? I’m sure you must have misunderstood, Garrison.”

  He wanted to tell her to go fuck herself, but instead he smiled and held up his hands again for her to remove the cuffs.

  O’Dell reached over and knocked on the door, bringing in the thick-necked cop to unlock the handcuffs. Then he left again, without a word to either woman.

  Ben rubbed his wrists, taking his time before he pulled over the bag and began digging through his equipment. He didn’t want them messing with his stuff. He set his camera, lens and collapsible tripod out on the table. Then he removed a couple of T-shirts, a pair of sweatpants and a towel to get the manila envelopes at the bottom. He opened one and spilled its contents on the table: negatives, contact sheet and the prints Harwood’s people had developed and given him copies of. He laid five eight-by-tens on the table, putting them in chronological order for the full effect.

  “Jesus!” Racine said. “Where and when was this?”

  “Yesterday. Late afternoon. Boston.”

  From one of the other envelopes, he pulled out several prints from the Brier girl’s crime scene along with about a dozen from Everett’s rally in the District. One showed Everett with a young blond-haired girl and Ginny Brier, alongside two of the same boys in the Boston photos. He slid them across the table.

  “Pretty easy to recognize some of these good Christian boys,” Ben told them. “When I was at the District rally, Saturday night, I heard them talking about some kind of initiation they were planning in Boston Common on Tuesday. I played my hunch that it might be something interesting.”

  “Funny how you didn’t mention that to me. You didn’t even mention that you had been at that rally,” Racine said.

  “Didn’t seem important at the time.”

  “Even though you knew you had photos of the dead girl attending the rally?”

  “I took lots of photos over the weekend. Maybe I didn’t know exactly what or who I had shot.”

  “Just like you didn’t know that you hadn’t turned over all the film you shot at the crime scene?”

  He smiled again and shrugged.

  “Was Everett in Boston?” O’Dell asked as she picked up each photo, carefully scrutinized it, then moved on to the next.

  “No sign of him, but I heard them talking like maybe he was.” He pointed to Brandon in several of the Boston photos and in the District one. “This one seemed to be in charge. They were all drunk. You can see in one of the photos that they had beer bottles and were spraying the women.”

  “I don’t believe this,” Racine said. “Where were the cops?”

  “It was a Tuesday afternoon. Who knows? I didn’t see any around.”

  “And you just watched?” O’Dell was staring at him now as if she was trying to figure him out.

  “No, I took pictures. It’s my job. It’s what I do.”

  “They were attacking these girls, and you just stood around and took pictures?”

  “When I’m behind the lens, I’m not there as a participant. I’m there to record and capture what’s going on.”

  “How could you do nothing?” O’Dell wasn’t going to give it up. He could hear the anger in her voice.

  “You don’t get it. If I had put down my camera, you wouldn’t have these fucking photos so you can now go out and charge these motherfuckers.”

  “If you had put down your camera and tried to stop them, maybe we wouldn’t need any photos. Maybe those girls wouldn’t have had to go through this.”

  “Oh, right. Like this is my fault. Let me tell you, it takes a lot more work and planning to make news happen, Ms. FBI Agent. I record the images. I capture the emotions. I’m not a part of what happens. I’m a part of the instruments. I’m fucking invisible when I’m behind the camera. Look, you’ve got your photos. I’m outta here.”

  He grabbed his duffel bag, stuffed his camera and lens inside and started to leave, expecting one of them to stop him. Instead, they were both busy examining the photos. Racine was already jotting down notes.

  Fuck them! If they didn’t get it, he didn’t need to explain it. He left, a bit disappointed that even the Neanderthal wasn’t around for him to shove or at least flip off. Guess Racine won this round.

  CHAPTER 59

  “Do you believe this?” Racine said, standing over the pictures and shaking her head as if she was truly having a tough time believing it. “You think this is what happens to them?”

  Without any more of an explanation, Maggie knew Racine was talking about the murdered women: Ginny Brier, the transient they had found under the viaduct and the floater in Raleigh. And now, after talking to Tully, they could add this poor woman whom the Boston PD had just identified as a stockbroker named Maria Leonetti to their list.

  “Is it possible?” Racine continued when Maggie didn’t answer. “Could it be some savage initiation? Some rite of passage for Everett’s young male members?”

  “I don’t know,” Maggie finally said. “I almost hope not.”

  “It would sure answer a lot of questions. Like why they weren’t killed right away. You know. Some crazy game they play with them. And it makes sense that it would coincide with the rallies.”

  “But there was no rally in Boston,” Maggie reminded her.

  The two women fell silent again, standing side by side, staring at the photos scattered across the table, neither touching them.

  “Why do you say you almost hope not?” Racine broke the silence.

  “What?”

  “You said you almost hope it’s not the way the murders happened.”

  “Because I hate to believe one man can incite a group of boys to do something like this. That one man could convince a group of boys to rape, brutalize and possibly murder women simply on command.”

  “Wouldn’t be the first time in history. Men can be such bastards,” Racine said, letting some anger slip through.

  Maggie glanced at her. Perhaps her anger came from personal experience. Perhaps it came from spending several years on the sexual assault unit. Whatever the reason, it seemed a bit personal, and not something Maggie wanted to know.


  “It means Everett is much more dangerous than we ever thought,” Maggie said, then added in almost a whisper, “Eve was right.”

  “Who’s Eve?”

  “An ex-member I talked to. Cunningham and Senator Brier were able to set up the meeting. I thought she was being silly for being so paranoid.”

  “So what do we do now?”

  Maggie finally began to sort through the pile of stuff Garrison had left behind when he’d emptied the duffel bag. He had been in such a hurry to leave that he had taken only his camera and a lens. She pushed aside the strange metal contraption, a smelly T-shirt and sweatpants and reached for the manila envelope. She opened it and spilled its contents—more photos—onto the table alongside the Boston ones. These all looked like shots from Ginny Brier’s crime scene. They had to be from the roll of film he had kept for himself—leftover prints from what he had sold to the Enquirer.

  “I still can’t believe I was so stupid,” Racine said as soon as she saw what the prints were. “Chief Henderson is so pissed.”

  “You made a mistake. It happens to all of us,” Maggie told her without accusation. She felt Racine staring at her.

  “Why are you being so understanding? I thought you were still pissed at me, too.”

  “I’m pissed with Garrison. Not you,” Maggie said without looking over at Racine. Instead, she sorted through the photos of Ginny Brier. Something about the close-ups bothered her. What was it?

  “I meant the DeLong case.”

  Maggie stopped at a close-cropped shot of Ginny Brier’s face, but she could feel Racine’s eyes on her. So the DeLong case was still bothering her, too.

  “You were pretty upset with me.” Racine wouldn’t let it go. Maybe she was feeling she needed some absolution. “I made a mistake and some evidence got leaked. Is that why you’re still so pissed at me?”

  This time Maggie glanced at her. “It almost cost us the conviction.” She went back to the shot of Ginny Brier’s face, the eyes staring directly out at her. Something was different about this photo, about her eyes. What the hell was it?

  “But it didn’t cost us the conviction,” Racine insisted. “It all worked out.” She wasn’t finished. “Sometimes I wonder…” she hesitated. “Sometimes I wonder if that’s really why you got so pissed at me.”

  Now Maggie looked at her, meeting her eyes and waiting for Racine to get whatever it was she needed off her chest, although she had a pretty good idea what it was. “What exactly are you talking about?”

  “Are you still pissed at me because I made a mistake and leaked evidence? Or are you still pissed at me because I made a pass at you?”

  “Both were unprofessional,” Maggie said without hesitation and without any emotion. “I have little patience for colleagues who are unprofessional.” She went back to the photos, but she could feel the detective still watching, still waiting. “That’s it, Racine. There really isn’t anything more to it. Now, can we get on with this case?” She handed her the photo. “What’s different about this one?”

  Racine shifted her stance, but Maggie could tell the woman wasn’t quite comfortable about moving on. “Different how?” she asked.

  “I’m not sure,” Maggie said, rubbing at her own eyes and feeling the effects of too much Scotch from the night before. “Maybe I need to see the other crime scene photos. Do we have those handy?”

  But Racine didn’t make an attempt to search. “Do you still think I’m unprofessional? I mean with this case?”

  Maggie stopped and turned to face the detective. They were eye level, almost the same height. The normally cocky detective waited for an answer with one hand on her hip and the other tapping the photo on the table’s surface. She held Maggie’s eyes in that same tough stare she probably thought she had perfected, but there was something—a slight vulnerability in her eyes as they blinked, darted to one side then quickly returned, as if it took a conscious and silent reminder not to flinch.

  “I haven’t had any complaints,” Maggie finally said. Then she relinquished a smile and added, “Yet.”

  Racine rolled her eyes, but Maggie could see the relief.

  “Tell me what you know about Ben Garrison,” Maggie said, hoping to get back to work, despite the nagging sensation she had about Ginny Brier’s dead eyes, staring out from Garrison’s illicit photos.

  “You mean other than that he’s an arrogant, lying bastard?”

  “It sounds like you worked with him before.”

  “Years ago, he sometimes moonlighted for second shift as a crime scene photographer when I was with Vice,” Racine said. “He’s always been an arrogant bastard, even before he became a big-shot photojournalist.”

  “Any famous shots I may have seen?”

  “Oh, sure. I’m sure you’ve seen that god-awful one of Princess Diana. The blurred one, shot through the shattered windshield? Garrison just happened to be in France. And one of his Oklahoma City bombing ones made the cover of Time. The dead man staring up out of the pile of rubble. You don’t even see the body unless you look at the photo closely, and then there’s those eyes, staring right out at you.”

  “Sounds like he has a fascination with photographing death,” Maggie said, picking up another photo of Ginny Brier and studying those horrified eyes. “Do you know anything about his personal life?”

  Racine shot her a suspicious look with enough distaste that Maggie knew it was the wrong thing to ask. But Racine didn’t let it stop her. “He’s hit on me plenty of times, but no, I don’t know him outside of crime scenes and what I’ve heard.”

  “And what have you heard?”

  “I don’t think he’s ever been married. He grew up around here, maybe someplace in Virginia. Oh, and someone said his mom just died recently.”

  “What do you mean, someone said. How did they know?”

  “Not sure.” The detective squinted as if trying to remember. “Wait a minute, I think it was Wenhoff. When we were waiting for you at the FDR scene, right after Garrison left. I don’t know how Wenhoff knew. Maybe somehow through the medical examiner’s office. I just remember he made the comment that it was hard to believe someone like Garrison even had a mother. Why? You think that means something? You think that’s why he’s suddenly so reckless and anxious to be famous again?”

  “I have no idea.” But Maggie couldn’t help thinking about her own mother. What kind of danger was she in just by being a part of Everett’s group? And was there any way Maggie could convince her she was in danger? “Are you close to your mother, Racine?”

  The detective looked at her as though it were a trick question, and only then did Maggie realize it wasn’t a fair question, certainly not a professional one. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to be personal,” she said before Racine could answer. “Mine’s just been on my mind lately.”

  “No, I don’t mind,” Racine said, appearing relaxed and casual with the subject even when she added, “My mom died when I was a girl.”

  “Racine, I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

  “It’s okay. The bad part is, I have few memories of her, you know?” She was flipping through the crime scene photos, and Maggie wondered if perhaps Racine wasn’t as comfortable with the topic as she pretended. She seemed to need to have her hands occupied, her eyes busy somewhere else. But still, she continued, “My dad tells me stuff about her all the time. I guess I look just like her when she was my age. Guess I need to be the one to remember the stories, because he’s starting to forget them.”

  Maggie waited. It felt like Racine wasn’t finished, and when she glanced up, Maggie knew she was right. Racine added, “He’s starting to forget a lot of stuff lately.”

  “Alzheimer’s?”

  “Early symptoms, but yeah.”

  She looked away again, but not before Maggie caught a glimpse of vulnerability in the tough, wise-cracking detective’s eyes. Then she began sorting through Garrison’s stuff as if looking for something and asked, “What do we do about Everett? Everett and his little gang of boys?
”

  “Are the photos enough for an arrest warrant?”

  “For this Brandon kid, I’d say definitely. We have these photos and an eyewitness that puts him with Ginny Brier in the hours before her murder.”

  “If we can get a DNA sample, I bet we’ve got a match to the semen.”

  “We’ll need to have the warrant served at the compound,” Racine said. “We might not have any idea what we’re walking into out there.”

  “Call Cunningham. He’ll know what to do. It’ll probably require an HRT unit.” As soon as she said it, Maggie thought of Delaney. “Hopefully this won’t get messy. How long do you think it’ll take to get a warrant?”

  “For the possible murder suspect of a senator’s daughter?” Racine smiled. “I think we should have one before the end of the day.”

  “I need to make a quick trip down to Richmond, but I’ll be back.”

  “Ganza said he needed to talk to you. He left a message earlier.”

  “Any idea what about?” But Maggie was already headed for the door.

  “Not sure. Something about an old police report and a possible DNA sample?”

  Maggie shook her head. She didn’t have time. Besides, maybe it was a different case. “I’ll call him from the road.”

  “Wait a minute.” Racine stopped her. “Where are you going in such a hurry?”

  “To try to talk some sense into a very stubborn woman.”

  CHAPTER 60

  Gwen slid into the window seat while Tully shoved their bags into the overhead compartment. During the cab ride to Logan International Airport, they had managed to fill the awkward silences with niceties about the weather and some details about the crime scene. So far they had avoided talking about last night and what Nick Morrelli’s phone call had interrupted. She caught herself thinking that it might be best if they pretended it had never happened. Then she realized how stupid that probably was for a psychologist to even consider. Okay, so she wasn’t good at practicing what she preached.