Thr3e Read online

  “Aunt. Let’s face it, dear Aunt Balinda did you more harm than good. When did you finally leave?”

  He walked past her to the kitchen. “Twenty-three. Drink?”

  She followed him. “Thanks. You stayed in that house five years after I left?”

  “Afraid so. You should’ve taken me with you.”

  “You did it on your own—that’s better. Now look at you, you have a college degree and you’re in seminary. Impressive.”

  “And you graduated valedictorian. Very impressive.” He pulled a soda from the fridge, popped the tab, and handed it to her.

  “Thank you,” she said. “For the compliment.” She winked at him and took a sip. “The drink’s nice too. How often do you go back?”

  “Where? To the house? As little as possible. I’d rather not talk about that.”

  “I think that that might be tied to this, don’t you?”

  “Maybe.”

  Samantha set the can down on the counter and looked at him, suddenly dead serious. “Someone’s stalking you. And by the sound of it, me. A killer who uses riddles who’s selected us for his own reasons. Revenge. Hate. The baser motivations. We can’t shut out the past.”

  “Right to the point.”

  “Tell me everything.”

  “Starting—”

  “Starting with the phone call in your car.” She walked to the front door.

  Kevin followed. “Where are you going?”

  “We. Come on, let’s take a drive. He’s obviously listening to everything we say in here—let’s make his life a little more interesting. We’ll take my car. Hopefully he hasn’t gotten to it yet.”

  They climbed into a beige sedan and Samantha drove into the night. “That’s better. He’s probably using lasers.”

  “Actually, I think you’re right,” Kevin said.

  “He told you that?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Every detail, Kevin. I don’t care how insignificant, I don’t care what you told the cops, I don’t care how embarrassing or stupid or crazy it sounds, I want everything.”

  Kevin did as she requested, eagerly, with passion, as if it were his first real confession. Sam drove haphazardly and stopped him frequently to ask questions.

  When was the last time you left your car unlocked?

  Never that I can remember.

  Do you lock your car when it’s in the garage?

  No.

  A nod. Did the police find a timing device?

  Not that he knew about.

  You found the ribbon behind the lamp?

  Yes.

  Did Slater call me Sam or Samantha?

  Samantha.

  An hour passed and they covered every conceivable detail of the day’s events, including the information he’d hidden from Milton. Everything except his speculation that Slater could be the boy. He’d never told Sam the whole truth about the boy, and he wasn’t eager to do so now. If Slater wasn’t the boy, which he claimed not to be, there was no need to dig up that matter. He’d never told Sam the whole truth and he wasn’t eager to do so now.

  “How long can you stay?” Kevin asked after a lull.

  Sam glanced at him with a coy smile. “The big boy needs a girl in his court?”

  Kevin grinned sheepishly. She hadn’t changed a bit. “Turns out girls make or break me.”

  She arched her brow. “I technically have a week off to finish my move. I have boxes overflowing in my kitchen still. The case I was assigned to when I first arrived a couple months ago has been pretty quiet, but it just heated up. I wouldn’t be surprised if they called me in.”

  “California Bureau of Investigation, huh? Big change from New York.”

  “Not really, other than being new. I’ve managed to do a couple things right and have my department head appropriately impressed at the moment, but I still have to earn my stripes with them, if you understand how law enforcement works. Same thing with the CIA before I switched to this job.”

  “CBI, CIA—gets a bit confusing,” Kevin said. “You glad you made the move?”

  She looked at him and grinned. “I’m closer to you, aren’t I?”

  He nodded and turned sheepishly. “You have no idea how much I appreciate this. Really.”

  “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  “Can’t you pull some strings?” He faced her. “Convince them to let you stay down here?”

  “Because I know you?”

  “Because you’re involved now. He knows you, for heaven’s sake!”

  “It doesn’t work that way. If anything, that’s reason for them to remove me from the case.” She stared ahead, lost in thought. “Don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere. The CBI is made of a dozen units, roughly a hundred agents in all. My unit is unique—hardly known to most agents. We work outside the system, technically part of the Bureau, but it’s directed as much by the attorney general. Troubleshooting the harder cases. We have some latitude and discretion.” She looked at him. “You, my dear, are definitely within the scope of the discretion. More than you know.”

  Kevin stared out his window. Black. Slater was out there somewhere. Maybe watching them now. A shiver ran down his spine.

  “So. What do you think?”

  Sam pulled the car to the curb a block from Kevin’s house and shoved the stick into park. “I think that we have no choice but to follow Slater’s demands. So far the demands involve no one but you. This isn’t like a threat of terror, where either we release a hostage or they blow a building. This is either you confess or he blows up your car. Confession doesn’t exactly pose a threat to society.” She nodded to herself. “For now we don’t involve the police like he wants. But we also take him at his word. He said cops—we avoid the cops. That excludes the FBI. We tell the FBI everything.”

  She cracked her window and stared at the sky. “I also think that Richard Slater is someone one or both of us knew or know. I think his motivation is revenge and I think he means to extract it in a way that will never be forgotten.” She looked at him. “There has to be someone, Kevin.”

  He hesitated and then fed her part of the truth. “No one. The only enemy I can even remember having is that boy.”

  “What boy?”

  “You know. Remember that boy who was spying on you when we were kids? The one who beat me up?”

  She grinned. “The one you saved me from?”

  “I asked Slater if he was the boy,” Kevin said.

  “Did you, now? You omitted that little detail.”

  “It was nothing.”

  “I said every detail, Kevin. I don’t care if you think it’s nothing or not. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He said, ‘What boy?’ It’s not him.”

  She didn’t respond.

  A car drove by. SUV with bright taillights.

  “Ever hear of the Riddle Killer?” Sam asked.

  Kevin sat up. “On the news tonight.”

  “The Riddle Killer was given that name for a series of murders up in Sacramento over the last twelve months. It’s been three months since his last victim—the brother of an FBI agent who was on his tail. I can guarantee that the FBI will be all over this. Same MO. Guy calls on the phone with a riddle and then executes his punishment if the riddle goes unsolved. Low, gravelly voice. Sophisticated surveillance. Sounds like the same guy.”

  “Except . . .”

  “Except why would he choose you? And why me?” Sam asked. “Could be a copy cat.”

  “Maybe he’s trying to confuse us. Guy like that’s obviously into games, right? So maybe this just ups the thrill for him.” Kevin lowered his head into his hands and massaged his temples. “Just this morning I had a discussion with Dr. Francis about mankind’s capacity for evil. What’s the average person capable of? Makes me wonder what I’d do if I met up with this guy.” He took a deep breath. “It’s hard to believe that people like this actually exist.”

  “H
e’ll get his due. They always do.” She reached over and rubbed his shoulder. “Don’t worry, my dear knight. There’s a reason I advanced as quickly as I did in the company. I haven’t been handed a case so far I couldn’t crack.” She smirked playfully. “I told you I was gonna be a cop. And I didn’t mean street beat either.”

  Kevin sighed and smiled. “Well, you have no idea how glad I am that it’s you.” He caught himself. “Not that I’m glad he’s after—”

  “I understand.” She fired the car. “We’ll beat this, Kevin. I’m not about to let some ghost from the past or some serial killer push either one of us around. We’re smarter than this psycho. You’ll see.”

  “What now?”

  “Now we go find some bugs.”

  Twenty minutes later Sam held six eavesdropping devices in a gloved hand. One from the living room, one from each bathroom, one from each bedroom, and the infinity transmitter from the phone.

  Her eyes twinkled like a competitive athlete who’d just scored a goal. Sam had always seemed beyond any kind of discouragement; her optimism was one of her most admirable traits. She carried it around her like a fragrance. As far as Kevin was concerned, Sam had what it took to one day run the CBI or CIA or whatever she so desired.

  “Won’t slow him down much, but at least it’ll let him know that we’re engaged. These types tend to get trigger-happy if they think the other side is slacking off.”

  She filled up the sink, dropped the devices into the water, and peeled off the surgical gloves. “Under normal circumstances I’d take these in, but if I’m right, the FBI has jurisdiction. They would scream bloody murder. First thing in the morning, I’ll call my office, explain the situation, and then let Milton’s office know of my involvement. Not that they will care—I guarantee that the town will be crawling with agencies by morning. I’d have a better shot working on my own than through them anyway.” She was talking to herself as much as to him. “You said they’d be out first thing to sweep for bugs?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell them you found these lying around. I’ll make sure they dust for prints. At this point you have nothing else to tell Milton, so let him do his job, and try to stay out of his way. When the FBI makes contact, cooperate. I’ve got a few other things I want to run down first thing. We tracking?”

  “And if he calls?”

  “If I’m not here, you call my cell immediately. We’ll go from there.” She started for the door and then turned back. “Slater will call. You do know that, don’t you?”

  He nodded slowly.

  “Get some sleep. We’ll get him. He’s already made his first mistake.”

  “He has?”

  “He pulled me into the game.” She grinned. “I was born for cases like this.”

  Kevin walked over, took her hand, and kissed it. “Thank you.”

  “I think it would be better if I crashed down at the Howard Johnson. No offense, but you don’t have a second bed and leather couches remind me of eels. I don’t sleep with eels.”

  “Sure.” He was disappointed only because he felt so alive around her. Secure. In his mind, she was absolutely perfect in every way. Of course, he wasn’t exactly a Casanova, groomed to judge these things.

  “I’ll call you.”

  Then she was gone.

  Slater sits in a red pickup one block from Kevin’s house and watches Sam back out of the driveway then drive south. “There you go; there you go.” He clucks his tongue three times slowly, so that he can hear the full range of its sound. There are two sounds, actually—a deep popping as the tongue pulls free from the roof of the mouth, and a click as it strikes the gathered spittle in the base of the mouth. Details. The kind of details most people die without considering because most people are slobs who have no clue what living is really all about.

  Living is about clucking your tongue and enjoying the sound.

  They had found the bugs. Slater smiles. She has come and he is so very glad she has come quickly, flaunting her skinny little body all through the man’s house, seducing him with her wicked tongue.

  “Samantha,” he whispers. “It is so good to see you again. Give me a kiss, baby.”

  The interior of the old Chevy is immaculate. He’d replaced the black plastic instrument panel with custom-fitted mahogany that shines now in the moonlight. A black case beside him carries the electronics he requires for his surveillance—mostly extras. Samantha found the six bugs he’d expected the cops to find, but there are still three, and not even the FBI will detect those.

  “It’s dark down here, Kevin. So very dark.”

  Slater waits an hour. Two. Three. The night is dead when he eases himself out of the cab and heads for Kevin’s house.

  8

  Saturday

  Morning

  JENNIFER CROSSED HER LEGS and stared at Paul Milton across the conference table. She’d made the trip down to Long Beach the previous evening, visited the crime scene where Kevin Parson’s Mercury Sable had blown up, made a dozen phone calls, and then checked into a hotel on Long Beach Boulevard.

  She spent the night tossing and turning, reliving that day three months earlier when Roy had been killed by the Riddle Killer. The killer didn’t use a name, never had. Only a riddle. He’d asphyxiated his first four victims, striking once every six weeks or so. With Roy he used a bomb. She found his body in pieces five minutes after the explosion ripped it apart. Nothing could wash away the image.

  After a couple final hours of sleep she’d headed for the station where she waited an hour for the rest to arrive.

  With Roy’s death the fundamentals of life became stunningly vivid, while virtually all of her aspirations had died with him. She’d taken her relationship with him for granted, and when he was snatched away, she became desperate for every other thing she took for granted. The sweet smell of air. A burning hot shower on a cold morning. Sleep. The touch of another human. The simple things in life sustained her. Life wasn’t what it seemed, she’d learned that much, but she still wasn’t sure what life really was. The parties and the promotions felt plastic now. People rushing around, climbing imaginary ladders of success, fighting to be noticed.

  Like Milton. Milton was a walking media package, right down to the bone, complete with a beige trench coat, which now hung in the corner. He was holding a news conference, of all things, just past sunup when she’d first entered the station.

  There was no new news; they all knew that. His insistence that the media had a right to know at least that much was no more than smoke blowing. He wanted the camera eye, end of case. Not exactly her kind of man.

  Her thinking wasn’t exactly professional; she knew that. He was a law enforcement officer with the same ultimate objective as hers. They were in this together, regardless of any personal differences. But Jennifer didn’t find the process of putting all the nonsense aside as easy as she had before Roy’s death. That was why the Bureau tended to distance agents in her situation from the front line, as Frank had attempted.

  Never mind, she would rise above it all.

  To her left sat Nancy Sterling, Long Beach’s most experienced forensic scientist. Next to her, Gary Swanson from the state police and Mike Bowen from the ATF. Cliff Bransford, CBI, rounded out the gathering. She’d worked with Cliff and found him exceptionally tedious, but smart enough. For him, everything was by the book. Best to stay clear of him unless he approached her.

  “I know you all have varying interests in this case, but the FBI has clear jurisdiction—this guy’s rap includes kidnapping,” Jennifer said.

  Milton didn’t bat an eye. “You may have jurisdiction, but I’ve got a city—”

  “Don’t worry, I’m here to work with you. I’m recommending that we use your offices as a clearinghouse. That puts all the information at your fingertips. We’ll coordinate everything from here. I don’t know what the CBI or the ATF will want to do about personnel placement, but I would like to work out of this office. Fair enough?”

  Milton didn�
��t respond.

  “Sounds good to me,” Bransford said. “We’re fine out of our own offices. As far as I’m concerned, this is your case.”

  Bransford knew about Roy and was giving her his support. She gave him a slight nod.

  “We’ll stand off for the meantime,” the ATF agent said. “But if explosives show up again, we’ll want a larger role.”

  “Granted,” Jennifer said. She faced Milton. “Sir?”

  He stared her down and she knew then that her opinion of him wouldn’t change. Even if he’d linked this case to the Riddle Killer, which was likely given the profile of the killings in Sacramento, Jennifer doubted he knew of her personal stake in the case. Roy’s identity had not been circulated. Even so, she didn’t care for his arrogance.

  “What’s your specialty, agent?” Milton asked.

  “Forensic psychology, Detective.”

  “Profiler.”

  “Psychological profiles based on forensics,” she corrected. She almost spoke the rest of the thought: That’s why they put the word forensics in there, for those who grew up in Backwater, Louisiana.

  “Fair enough. But I don’t want you talking to the media.”

  “I wouldn’t think of robbing you of all that airtime, sir.”

  “I think we have an understanding.”

  “Good. I reviewed your file as of an hour ago.” She looked at Nancy. “You do quick work.”

  “We try,” Nancy said. “You might want to take a look at it again. We found a timer.”

  “Preset?”

  “No. A receiver set the timer off, but from what I can gather, there was no way to terminate the timer once it was engaged.”

  Jennifer glanced at Milton. “So whoever did this had no intention of terminating the detonation, regardless of his threat.”

  “So it seems.”

  “Anything else?”

  Milton stood and turned to the blinds behind his chair. He parted them and looked down at the street. “So what does your crystal ball tell you on this one, Agent Peters?”

  “It’s early.”

  “Humor me.”

  They were undoubtedly thinking Riddle Killer, but she went with a conservative analysis.