The phone rang, and Rivera ripped it from its cradle.
“Rivera,” he said.
“Rivera, it’s the Nailgun.”
“Did you find something?” Rivera fumbled for a cigarette from the pack on his desk. He found it impossible to talk on the phone without smoking.
“I think I have a connection, but it doesn’t work out.”
“Don’t be cryptic, Nailsworth. I need something.”
“Well, first I ran the names through the Social Security computer. Most of them are deceased. Then I noticed that they were all vets.”
“Vietnam?”
“World War One.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No. They were all World War One vets, and all of them had a first or middle initial E. I should have caught that before I even input it. I tried to run a correlation program on that and came up with nothing. Then I ran the addresses to see if there was a geographical connection.”
“Anything there?”
“No. For a minute I thought you’d found someone’s research project on World War One, but just to be sure, I ran the file through the new data bank set up by the Justice Department in Washington. They use it to find criminal patterns where there aren’t any. In effect it makes the random logical. They use it to track serial killers and psychopaths.”
“And you found nothing?”
“Not exactly. The files at the Justice Department only go back thirty years, so that eliminated about half of the names on your list. But the other ones rang the bell.”
“Nailsworth, please try to get to the point.”
“In each of the cities listed in your file there was at least one unexplained disappearance around the date listed — not the vets; other people. You can eliminate the large cities as coincidence, but hundreds of these disappearances were in small towns.”
“People disappear in small towns too. They run away to the city. They drown. You can’t call that a connection.”
“I thought you’d say that, so I ran a probability program to get the odds on all of this being coincidence.”
“So?” Rivera was getting tired of Nailsworth’s dramatics.
“So the odds of someone having a file of the dates and locations of unexplained disappearances over the last thirty years and it being a coincidence is ten to the power of fifty against.”
“Which means what?”
“Which means, about the same odds as you’d have of dragging the wreck of the Titanic out of a trout stream with a fly rod. Which means, Rivera, you have a serious problem.”
“Are you telling me that this suitcase belongs to a serial killer?”
“A very old serial killer. Most serial killers don’t even start until their thirties. If we assume that this one was cooperative enough to start when the Justice Department’s files start, thirty years ago, he’d be over sixty now.”
“Do you think it goes farther back?”
“I picked some dates and locations randomly, going back as far as 1925. I called the libraries in the towns and had them check the newspapers for stories of disappearances. It checked out. Your man could be in his nineties. Or it could be a son carrying on his father’s work.”
“That’s impossible. There must be another explanation. Come on, Nailsworth, I need a bailout here. I can’t pursue an investigation of a geriatric serial killer.”
“Well, it could be an elaborate research project that someone is doing on missing persons, but that doesn’t explain the World War One vets, and it doesn’t explain why the researcher would write the information on matchbook covers and business cards from places that have been out of business for years.”
“I don’t understand.” Rivera felt as if he were stuck in the Spider’s web and was waiting to be eaten.
“It appears that the notes themselves were written as far back as fifty years ago. I could send them to the lab to confirm it if you want.”
“No. Don’t do that.” Rivera didn’t want it confirmed. He wanted it to go away. “Nailsworth, isn’t possible that the computer is making some impossible connections? I mean, it’s programmed to find patterns — maybe it went overboard and made this one up?”
“You know the odds, Sergeant. The computer can’t make anything up; it can only interpret what’s put into it. If I were you, I’d pull my suspect out of holding and find out where he got the suitcase.”
“I cut him loose. The D.A. said I didn’t have enough to charge him.”
“Find him,” Nailsworth said.
Rivera resented the authoritarian tone in Nailsworth’s voice, but he let it go. “I’m going now.”
“One more thing.”
“Yes?”
“One of your addresses was in Pine Cove. You want it?”
“Of course.”
Nailsworth read the name and address to Rivera, who wrote it down on a memo pad.
“There was no date on this one, Sergeant. Your killer might still be in the area. If you get him, it would be the bailout you’re looking for.”
“It’s too fantastic.”
“And don’t forget to check on Roxanne for me, okay?” The Spider hung up.
30
JENNY
Jenny had arrived at work a half hour late expecting to find Howard waiting behind the counter to reprimand her in his own erudite way. Strangely enough, she didn’t care. Even more strange was the fact that Howard had not shown up at the cafe all morning.
Considering that she had drunk two bottles of wine, eaten a heavy Italian meal and everything in the refrigerator, and stayed up all night making love, she should have been tired, but she wasn’t. She felt wonderful, full of humor and energy, and not a little excited. When she thought of her night with Travis, she grinned and shivered. There should be guilt, she thought. She was, technically, a married woman. Technically, she was having an illicit affair. But she had never been very technically minded. Instead of guilt she felt happy and eager to do it all again.
From the moment she got to work she began counting the hours until she got off after the lunch shift. She was at one hour and counting when the cook announced that there was a call for her in the office.
She quickly refilled her customer’s coffee cups and headed to the back. If it was Robert, she would just act like nothing had happened. She wasn’t exactly in love with someone else as he suspected. It was… it didn’t matter what it was. She didn’t have to explain anything. If it was Travis — she hoped it was Travis.
She picked up the phone. “Hello.”
“Jenny?” It was a woman’s voice. “It’s Rachel. Look, I’m having a special ritual this afternoon at the caves. I need you to be there.”
Jennifer did not want to go to a ritual.
“I don’t know, Rachel, I have plans after work.”
“Jennifer, this is the most important thing we’ve ever done, and I need you to be there. What time do you get off?”
“I’m off at two, but I need to go home and change first.”
“No, don’t do that. Come as you are — it’s really important.”
“But I really…”
“Please, Jenny. It will only take a few minutes.”
Jennifer had never heard Rachel sound so adamant. Maybe it really was important.
“Okay. I guess I can make it. Do you need me to call any of the others?”
“No. I’ll do it. You just be at the caves as soon as you can after two.”
“Okay, fine, I’ll be there.”
“And Jenny” — Rachel’s voice had lowered an octave — “don’t tell anyone where you are going.” Rachel hung up.
Jennifer immediately dialed her home phone and got the answering machine. “Travis, if you’re there, pick up.” She waited. He was probably still sleeping. “I’m going to be a little late. I’ll be home later this afternoon.” She almost said, “I love you,” but decided not to. She pushed the thought out of her mind. “Bye,” she said, and hung up.