Phin pulled into the driveway and hit the unlock code for the garage door. When he parked inside, I entered the disarm code for one of our three burglar alarms. I walked into the house, disarmed the second alarm, and patted the third one on the head. As usual, Duffy was barking his head off, and truth be told, I trusted him more than I trusted the electronic systems. Though he only weighed about eighty pounds, his bark was loud and deep, and sounded like it sprang from a giant Rottweiler.
Duffy gave my hand a lick, his tail wagging furiously. With his stunted legs and sagging belly, he looked like someone had stepped on a very fat beagle. Duffy the guy had dropped Duffy the dog over at my place a few months ago when he caught wind of my current situation with Luther Kite. I’d grown quite fond of the hound, who liked to sing whenever I took a shower, and he was the only creature on the planet that Mr. Friskers seemed to tolerate.
Phin locked up behind me, and I waddled into my office, kicked off my shoes, and plopped my fat ass into my computer chair. I was exhausted and hungry. But before I could rest or eat, I had some work to do.
First item on the agenda was calling Duffy the guy—Duffy Dombrowski. I met him some time ago on a trip to New York. He was a counselor who moonlighted as a pro boxer, and I guessed he might have had a crush on me. Or vice-versa.
He answered on the third ring. “Yeah?”
“Duff, Jack Daniels.”
“Hey, Jack. How’s stuff?”
“Stuff’s fine. I need you to take Duffy for a few weeks.”
“Everything okay?”
“I’m going to this pregnancy spa, and I don’t want to kennel him. I can give you some money for food.”
“You’ll do no such thing. And I’d be happy to take him for a while.”
“He eats his weight in dog food every five hours.”
“That little? You trying to starve him to death?”
I smiled. “I can ship him to you. You still living in that trailer?”
“Chateau Dombrowski is still my summer home. In winter, I’ve got a Swiss chalet.”
“You can’t even spell chalet.”
“I can’t even spell Swiss. When can I expect the beast?”
“I’ll text you.”
“Looking forward. Everything else, uh, okay?”
“Fine,” I lied. “With you?”
“Life’s a banquet, and I’ve got forks for hands.”
“Thanks, Duff. I owe you one.”
I hung up, then started up Firefox and logged onto the NCIC. The National Crime Information Center was a database maintained by the Feds. Since jurisdictions were local, a cop in Milwaukee had no way of knowing that the killer he was after had the same MO as one in Boston. But if both precincts filled out NCIC reports and uploaded them to the server, then bad guys who crossed state lines could have their movements tracked.
With Duffy sitting under my desk, drooling on my bare feet, I accessed the NCIC data on Andrew Z. Thomas.
While it printed, I refreshed myself on Luther Kite. As I remembered, there was nothing solid. His sister was abducted at a young age and never found. His parents had been killed several years ago. According to NCIC, he was wanted for questioning or warrants in connection with the following:
November 7, 1996 shooting at Ricki’s Bar in Scottsbluff, Nebraska
October 27, 2003 murder of Worthington Family in Davidson, NC
October 27, 2003 abduction of Beth Lancing in Davidson, NC
October 28, 2003 murder of Daniel Ortega in Wal-Mart, Rocky Mount, NC
October 28, 2003 murder of Karen Prescott on Bodie Island, NC
Undated murders connected to numerous bodies uncovered in the basement of the Kite residence on Ocracoke Island on November 14, 2003
November 11, 2003 or thereabouts murder of Sgt. Barry Mullins and Max King
November 11, 2003 murder of Beth Lancing and Charlie and Margaret Tatum
November 12, 2003 Kinnakeet Ferry Massacre
Plus the arrest warrant for the murder of August 10, 2010, with which I was intimately familiar.
Thomas’s data was even slimmer.
October 30, 1996 murder of Jeanette Thomas, his mother
Disappearance of Walter Lancing in early November, 1996
Heart Surgeon Murders, including boxes left at Ellipse in Washington, DC, and the bodies unearthed on Thomas’s lakefront property on Lake Norman, NC, including schoolteacher Rita Jones
November 7, 1996 shooting at Ricki’s Bar in Scottsbluff, Nebraska
November 12, 2003 Kinnakeet Ferry Massacre
Disappearance of Davidson Police Department Homicide Detective Violet King
Duffy the dog fell asleep on my feet, snoring like a chainsaw. I chewed my lower lip, mulling over the data. The connection between the two was the Ricki’s Bar shooting and the Kinnakeet Massacre. I was about to Google them both when I realized that someone, or many someones, might have already done the work for me.
I surfed over to Wikipedia and looked up Thomas, and as expected, user-aggregated content gave me more information than I could have found on my own in an hour of surfing.
Settling back in my chair, I began to read, learning more than I ever wanted to about the world’s most mysterious mystery writer.
March 31, 12:15 P.M.
“I’ll drive,” Rob Siders said as they walked down the sidewalk away from Lewisohn Hall, toward a white Mercedes van with tinted windows, parked on the curb. “Any favorite spots?”
“There’s a great sushi place a couple miles up on State Street. Why don’t you follow me up there? That’d probably make more sense.”
“No, I’m staying down at the Blackstone. I’ve got to come back down this way anyhow.”
Siders disappeared around the front of the van, but Marquette hesitated for a moment on the sidewalk adjacent to the curb. It was stupid and irrational—he knew this—but there was still this voice in the back of his head asking why an editor from Ancient Publishing was driving around in what he and his wife had always laughingly referred to as “a serial killer ride.” A stark white cargo van, nondescript, and possibly filled with horrors.
Of course, that wasn’t the case, but still, some small part of him felt unnerved at the prospect of getting in.
The driver’s-side door slammed.
The engine roared to life.
Hell with it. Life is about taking chances.
He reached for the front passenger door, tugged it open.
As he climbed up into the seat, a strange smell wafted out of the back of the van—something astringent like Windex or ammonia.
“Buckle up for safety,” Siders said, glancing over at him and smiling.
Marquette pulled the harness across his chest and clicked in the buckle.
Siders shifted into drive, eased out into the street.
Marquette stared through the deeply tinted glass, watching as they passed groups of students lounging in Grant Park.
A typical spring day—wet and chilly. It was the first of April, the grass and the trees just beginning to pop with pale baby greens and yellows. He’d always loved this time of year.
Classes winding down.
The blessed summer just within reach.
“How long has Ancient Publishing been in business?” he asked.
“About two years. Mind if I borrow your cell phone?”
Little weird, but whatever. “Um, sure.”