Jamilla appeared at my desk around quarter to eight. She had been working down the hall. She had a very pretty face, but tonight she just looked tired. There is a simple fact of life about police work. Adrenaline gets flowing during bad cases. It makes everybody's feelings more intense. Attractions grow and can cause unanticipated problems. I had been there before, and maybe so had Jamilla. She acted like it. Maybe that was why we were a little tentative around each other.
She leaned over my desk, and I could smell a light cologne. "I have to go back to San Francisco, Alex. I'm heading out to the airport now. I left beaucoup notes for you and Kyle on some of the files I was able to get through. I'll tell you what, though: It doesn't seem, to me, that all the murders were committed by the same killers. That's my contribution for today."
"Why do you say that?" I asked. Actually, I'd had the same feeling. Nothing to substantiate it, though. Just a gut reaction to the evidence we had gathered so far.
Jamilla rubbed the bridge of her nose, then she wrinkled it some. Her mannerisms were funny and made me smile. "The patterns keep changing. Especially if you look at the most recent murders versus the ones from a year or two ago. In the earlier murders the killers were methodical, very careful. The last couple of murders are slapdash, Alex. More violent too."
"I don't disagree. I'll look at all the files carefully. So will Kyle and his folks at Quantico. Anything else bothering you?" I asked.
She thought about it. "A strange crime was reported this morning. Might be something. Funeral home in Woodland Hills. Somebody broke in, ravaged one of the bodies. Could be a copycat. I left the file for you. Anyway, I have to run if I want to catch the next shuttle… You'll keep in touch?"
"Of course I will. Absolutely. You're not getting off the hook this easily."
She waved once, and then she was gone down the hallway.
I hated to see her leave.
Jam.
Chapter 25
Ten minutes after Jamilla left to catch her plane back to San Francisco, Kyle appeared at my desk. He looked like a rumpled, tweedy forty-something professor who had just emerged from his library carrel after days of researching a scholarly piece for a criminal justice journal.
"You crack the code?" I asked him. "If you did, can I get a flight out of here tonight? I'm catching hell at home for being out here."
"I didn't crack a goddamn thing," he complained. Then he yawned. "My head feels a little cracked. Like there's a slow leak or something." He rubbed his knuckles back and forth against his skull.
"You believe in new age vampires yet?" I asked. "Role players?"
He gave me one of his crooked little half smiles. "Oh, I always believed in vampires. Ever since I was a boy in Virginia and then North Carolina. Vampires, ghosts, zombies, other diabolical creatures of the night. Southerners believe in such things. It's our Gothic heritage, I suppose. Actually, ghosts are more our specialty. I definitely believe in ghosts. I wish this were only a ghost story."
"Maybe it is. I saw a ghost the other night. Her name was Mary Alice Richardson. These bastards hung and murdered her during one of their pleasure fests."
Around nine, Kyle and I finally left the station house in Brentwood to get some grub and maybe a few beers. I was pleased to have some time with him. Bad thoughts were buzzing in my head: disconnected feelings, suspicions, and general paranoia about the case. And, of course, there was always the Mastermind to worry about. He might call, or send a fax, or e-mail.
We stopped at a small bar called the Knoll on the way back to the hotel. It looked like a quiet place to have a drink and talk. Kyle and I often did this when we were on the road together.
"So how are you doing out here, Alex?" Kyle asked after he'd taken a sip of Anchor Steam. "You all right? Holding up so far? I know you don't like being away from Nana and the kids. I'm sorry about that. Can't be helped. This is a big case."
I was too tired to argue with him. "In the words of Tiger Woods, 'I didn't have my A game today.' I'm a little stumped, Kyle. This is all new and all bad."
He nodded and said, "I don't mean today. Overall. In general. On balance. How the hell are you doing? You seem tense to me. We've all been noticing it, Alex. You don't volunteer much at Saint Anthony's anymore. Little things like that."
I looked at him, studied his intense brown eyes. He was a friend, but Kyle was also a calculating man. He wanted something. What was he after? What thoughts were going through his mind?
"On balance, I'm totally fucked. No, I'm okay. I'm happy with the way the kids are doing. Little Alex is the best antidote for anything. Damon and Jannie are doing fine. I still miss Christine: I miss her a lot. I'm troubled about how much time I spend investigating the sickest, most fucked-up crimes that anyone can conjure up. Other than that, I'm just fine."
Kyle said, "You're in demand because you're good at this. That's just the way it is. Your instincts, your emotional IQ, somethingsets you apart from the other cops."
"Maybe I'd rather not be so good anymore. Maybe I'm not. The murder cases have affected every aspect of my life. I'm afraid they're changing who I am. Tell me about Betsey Cavalierre. Anything on the case? There must be something."
Kyle shook his head. His eyes showed concern. "There's absolutely nothing on her murder, Alex. Nothing on the Mastermind either. That prick still calling you any time of day or night?"
"Yeah. He never mentions Betsey or her murder anymore."
"We could set up another trace on your phones. I'll do that for you."'
"It wouldn't do any good."
Kyle continued to look deep into my eyes. I sensed he was concerned, but it was hard to tell with him. "You think he might be watching you? Following you?"
I shook my head. "Sometimes I get that feeling, yeah. Let me ask you something, since I have you here. Why do you keep pulling me into these messed-up cases, Kyle? We worked Casanova down in Durham, the Dunne and Goldberg kidnapping, the bank robberies. Now this piece of shit."
Kyle didn't hesitate to spell it out. "You're the best I know, Alex. Your instincts are almost always on target. You give these investigations the best shot they could get. Sometimes you solve them, sometimes not, but you're always close. Why don't you come join us at the Bureau? I'm serious, and yes, this is an offer."
There it was: Kyle's agenda for the meeting. He wanted me at Quantico with him.
I roared with laughter, and then he did too. "To tell you the truth, I don't feel close on this one, Kyle. I feel lost," I finally admitted.
"It's still early in the game," he said. "The offer stands, win or lose out here. I want you to come to Quantico. I want you working close to me. There's nothing that would make me happier."
Chapter 26
This was a good break. Better than they could have expected or hoped for. William and Michael followed the two hotshot police dicksfrom the station house in Brent-wood. They stayed a reasonable distance back in their van. The brothers didn't particularly care if they lost them. They knew what hotel they were staying at. They knew how to find them.