“What if I’m a lawyer?”
Steve paused. “I’ll take your money.”
He smiled. “Rest easy. I’m a mathematician, sort of. Self-taught. This all came from computer games.”
“Of course. I thought the name sounded familiar.”
The maid brought out a pitcher of lemonade and two glasses. She set it on a glass-covered wrought iron table.
“Thank you, Selma.” To Steve: “If you biked here, you must be thirsty.” They sat down and he poured two glasses.
“You’ve heard of Hunter.”
“The assistant governor?” Slimeball.
“No. The serial killer.”
“Oh, of course.”
He rubbed his forehead and closed his eyes. “Five years ago… almost six now… my only son was his first victim.”
“My god. I’m sorry.”
“They found, the Georgia police”—his voice cracked—“they found his, his skin and insides. He’d been dressed out like a rabbit or a deer.”
“I’ve read about that. I had no idea it had happened to you.”
“We paid a lot to keep our identity secret. We thought it might have been a kidnapping, for ransom, that went awry. I had two younger daughters to protect.”
“They’re not here?” The place had a bachelor feel.
“No, they live with their mother up north. The marriage sort of fell apart. Understandable.”
“The police weren’t able to…”
“No, nothing. Of course it’s federal now. Homeland Security and the FBI. They have no leads at all. And I just found out there was a new one, the twelfth, last week. A jogger in Alabama.”
“I didn’t know.”
“Nobody does. The man had no family, so they kept it under wraps. If the murderer is after publicity, they think maybe not getting it might make him do something stupid.”
“I read that he’s pretty… not stupid.”
“He’s never left prints or DNA. He’s left tire tracks, but no two are the same.
“I’ll give you the FBI dossier, everything they gave me. I don’t want to look at it anymore. Pictures.”
“So… what do you want me to do? Find him when the FBI can’t?”
“Basically, well, I want you to be a lure.”
“Lure him to you?”
“To yourself. And then capture or kill him.”
“Why would he want to come after me?”
“Everyone he’s killed was alone, on a country road or path. All athletes, either jogging or running or, like my son, biking. All in Florida or Georgia or Alabama.”
“I bike sixty miles a day in Florida. He hasn’t come after me yet.”
“My son and three others seem to have been on the same trail. It can’t be a coincidence.”
“What trail?”
“It’s the Southern Tier Trail, three thousand miles of back roads and bike paths from St. Augustine to San Diego. Thousands of people bike it every year.”
“You’d think the authorities would have it staked out. Parts of it.”
“You’d think. But they call it ‘weak circumstantial evidence.’ None of them died near the trail, but they all were on or near it the day they died. My son’s bike was found right off the trail outside Tallahassee, but he was taken to a remote part of Georgia to be killed.”
“Well, I’m not a criminal lawyer. But I’d call it circumstantial evidence myself.”
“Whatever, I’ll pay you two thousand dollars a week to ride that trail by yourself, alone and apparently vulnerable, but armed. A hundred thousand if you capture the bastard. Two hundred if he’s killed. It beats picking up cans off the road.”
It was a crazy idea, but hell, the man could afford an expensive hobby. A quest. “Well, I’m not camping. I had enough of that in the army.”
“I’ll give you a credit card. Sleep in motels, eat in restaurants, best you can find out there in the sticks.”
Steve rubbed his chin. “That piece of crap I’m riding wouldn’t make it to Tallahassee. Need a new bike—and a new gun, more effective than the little peashooter I’m carrying now.”
He reached into a beach bag and pulled out a fat wallet. “New bike.” He counted out fifteen hundred-dollar bills. “New gun.” Ten more. Then he put the wallet back and pulled out a thick manila folder that had “Dup. Hunter Case File” scrawled on it.
“Thank you, Mr. Steinhart.” He stacked the bills together and folded them and put them in his pocket. “You’ve got a deal. Do you have a contract?”
He smiled. “I don’t like lawyers, either. But if you draw something up, I’ll sign it tomorrow.” He stood up. “And then you’ll be on the road.”
Steve stood and shook his hand. “You’ve bought yourself the most expensive piece of bait in the state of Florida.”
4.
Kit read the last page and set it on the small stack on the kitchen table in front of her. “Well, I like it so far, Jack. But the movie’s script doesn’t have all that stuff about the marriage and betrayal and all.” She’d taken a copy of the script with her and read it on the plane.
“He wanted me to give the guy some depth, some history,” I said. “In the movie, he’s just a private dick with a bike.”
She got up and tousled my hair on the way to the fridge. “Missed your private dick.” She pulled some sandwich stuff out and put it on the counter. “Ham sandwich okay?”
“Sounds good.” I watched her being methodical, four pieces of bread lined up along the edge of the cutting board. Mustard on one and three, mayo on two and four; ham slices folded over to precisely fit the bread. My head felt good where she’d rubbed it.
“Decide about the pseudonym?” The contract allowed me to make one up, or not.
“I don’t think I’ll do it. I’m not ashamed of having to work for a living.”
“Are you sure?” She sliced the sandwiches in neat diagonals. “‘Jack, I mean Christian Daley… wasn’t he the guy who wrote that awful monster book?’ Not that it won’t be a good book.”
“You know, that’s part of it? People will expect a piece of shit, and get a decent book. Besides, the movie might be a big hit. Sell millions of copies of the book.”
She put the stuff back in the fridge. “So then what? You get lots of novelization offers?”
“Maybe a real book or two.” Though in fact I wouldn’t turn down another deal like this. A thousand bucks a day plus a quarter for every copy sold?
She set the sandwiches on plates and brought them over. “I’ve never been to Daytona Beach. Is there really a house like that?”
“No, I wouldn’t risk using a real one. But there are plenty equally tasteful. Good sandwich.”
“We ought to fly down when the snow gets deep. Call it research.”
“Well, not much more of the story takes place there. I had an idea, though, actual research.”
“You’re gonna go kill a deer and cut it up.”
“Hey, I didn’t think of that! Seriously, I want to take a longish bike trip, get a feel for it.”
“How long? You have snow tires for that thing?”
“Just a couple of weeks. Maybe over to Davenport and down the river a bit. Go through state parks as much as possible, no traffic. Maybe you could join me for a couple of days?”
She gave me an intense look. “Sure, pedal along through the deserted woods. Miles from nowhere. Why does that creep me out?” But she laughed.
“Just a thought. I mean, I could do it myself during the week.”
“Actually, I could use the exercise.” She stood up. “Glass of wine?”
“Half one. I’m going back to work.”
“Like that’s stopping me.” She poured the glasses and brought them back. “I’ll tell the boss that I had to have a drink because I just found out I’m in the middle of a Hitchcock movie where my boyfriend the writer is going to lure me out into the woods and dismember me.”