Finally, I had to ponder the tricky ethical territory involved in this mess. The American Bar Association would spank me for confessing this, but I have this simpleminded need for moral clarity. It’s what I love about criminal law-the lawyers enter the fray after the crime has been committed, when we’re only arguing about who gets the final credit. With corporate law, if your client decides to slide over that line that separates the legal from the less than legal, you can end up along for the ride. The textbook calls this abetting and assisting a crime. Added to that, it’s all white-collar stuff, where the laws are vague and mushy, and it’s all about greedy bastards fighting other greedy bastards over a nickel.
So where was the moral clarity in Jason’s charge? Was there moral clarity? After several minutes of tossing the proverbial pros and cons into the ethereal air, I concluded that Morris Networks was offering a needed service at a fraction of what its competitors wanted to gouge. If that freed up an extra shekel or two to, say, buy more tanks and planes for our fighting boys and girls in the field, well, that’s good for the goose and the gander. Right?
That issue settled, my mind drifted to another muddled order of business. Janet had called that morning, and I had agreed to spend my evening with her going through Lisa’s apartment. I had no idea what she expected to find, even if there was anything worth finding. However, she had sounded unusually eager to look-quickly-which gave me an odd sense she had some specific knowledge I didn’t.
Ask that question and you invariably end up asking yourself: Where and how does Sean Drummond fit into her plans?
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The last person I expected, needed, or indeed wanted to find in my new office was lounging on the plush leather couch, sipping an espresso, feet on the coffee table, watching Judge Judy on my office TV.
Chief Warrant Daniel Spinelli glanced up and asked, “Hey, how was Florida?”
“Warm, overpriced, and full of old farts. What are you doing here?”
He punched off the TV, and his eyes shifted around. “Nice place, ain’t it?”
“Actually, the place sucks. But it’s nicely furnished.”
“They’re spoilin’ the shit out of you.”
“Well, I’m the best. I deserve it.”
He chuckled. “You gonna be able to come back home when this is done?”
Spinelli’s idea of inconsequential chatter was wearing thin. I replied, “I’m sure I asked, why are you here?”
He shrugged and set down his espresso. “Ever hear of Julia Cuthburt?”
“Never.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.”
He stood and walked to the window. He said to me, “Nice view, ain’t it?”
“Great view. Incidentally, if I have to ask why you’re here again, we’ll do it with my foot up your ass.”
He continued to stare out the window. “The body of Miss Julia Cuthburt was found in her apartment this mornin’ by the Alexandria Police. Sexually molested, robbed, and dead.”
“I didn’t do it. I’ve got witnesses.”
He faced me. “The victim was twenty-eight, single, a CPA with Johnson and Smathers, some big accounting outfit in the city. She had a long, ugly hour before her neck was broke.”
“Her- What direction was her head twisted?”
“Same as Morrow’s.”
I asked, “And you’re here to ask me if there was a connection between her and Lisa?”
“Was there?”
“I have no idea.”
He thought about this a moment, then said, “Two women, roughly the same age, single professionals, attractive. Similar victim profiles. .. same manner of death…”
“But what about the sexual molestation?”
“Yeah. I thought about that. Try this scenario. He’s waitin’ for Morrow in the parkin’ lot, he tries to drag her into a car, she tries to fight him off, threatens to expose him, and he decides she’s too much trouble.”
I nodded, but said nothing. Spinelli was playing games, and he annoyed me. CID people are all sneaky little bastards anyway. For some, that’s part of the job, a suit they have to wear to work, and if you put enough beers in them, they’ll even admit they find it distasteful. Spinelli was the other type. Also, this news came as a bit of a surprise, and a shock, and emotionally I needed a moment to absorb it, and intellectually, to fit Lisa’s death into this fresh context and perspective. I had imagined any number of scenarios and likely motives-vengeance, theft, and jealousy leading the list, none of which involved a complete stranger. I had not considered that she was a number pulled out of a hat by a maniac.
The manner and style of her death, however, comported with the little I understood about serial killers who actually prey on complete strangers, and the whole concept of murder as something ritualized, personalized, and even illogical. Also Lisa had the kind of fetching looks that stand out from the crowd, and the more I thought about it, the more sense it made. She was a poster child for serial killers and their odd hungers-attractive single women who travel alone, live alone, shop alone, all of which left them available to be raped and die alone.
“All right, I see it,” I informed him. “But it needs refinement.”
“How’s that?”
“You didn’t know the victim. I did. Lisa was a champion runner. Also, she was very smart and alert, not the type to let down her guard. How did he get close enough? How did he keep her from bolting?”
He suggested, “She trusted him.”
We both considered this a moment. I suggested, “Maybe he wore a uniform.”
“Maybe.”
Well, I suppose neither of us wanted to stipulate the next ugly stride in that progression. The military uniform, particularly an officer’s uniform, inspires trust and respect. Fellow officers, like Lisa, regard it as an emblem of comradeship and brotherhood. Even civilians, like Julia Cuthburt, consider it a mark of virtue, integrity, and professionalism. But what is true for military uniforms holds water in varying degrees for other uniforms, including cops, FedEx employees, and garbagemen. A uniform signifies membership in an organization, which implies selectivity and screening, all of which confers trust, or, at least, familiarity and acceptance.
“Have you talked to her sister yet?” I asked him.
“I intend to,” he replied. “I was wonderin’ if you knew how to find her.”
I checked my watch. “I’m supposed to meet her in thirty minutes. Come along, if you wish.”
I offered only to be polite. But the rotten bastard took me up on it. We drove in silence because the only question I could think to ask was how he became such an asshole. If I asked, he might answer.
Janet was waiting in front of the hotel, a convenience I appreciated greatly as it saved me a six-dollar parking fee. And while I was working in a rich firm, driving rich, and even dressing rich, I was all wrapping without the flavor.
Surmise from this that I had decided to remain with the cut-throats of Culper, Hutch, and Westin a while longer. I wanted to pursue Lisa’s killer, and if I was ejected for misbehavior, Clapper would banish me to a job that sucked, in a place that sucked, two commodities the Army has no shortage of. Regarding the firm, handling a few protests couldn’t be that time-consuming, and anyway, Barry and Sally would shove shivs in each other’s backs to solve Jason’s crisis, and battle for credit, partnership, and a cut of the annual take. Sly little Sean would coast on their coattails right to the finish line.
Also, I was getting a lot of compliments on my new wardrobe.
Anyway, Janet peeked in the car, saw Spinelli, and climbed into the backseat. As though they were lifelong pals, she said, “Hi, Danny. How are you?”
He grinned. “Busy as shit. We got a new development on your sister.”
He then proceeded to detail the particulars and question her on the newest deceased-Janet replied that she had never heard of Miss Julia Cuthburt, but yes, the connection to her sister’s death appeared both plausible and taunting.