Abandoned: A Thriller (39 page)

“What can you tell us?” I ask.

“A few things. First: He’s probably from the western seaboard. My guess would be Southern California or hereabouts.”

“Why?”

“The victims we’re aware of come from Los Angeles, Oregon, and Nevada. It’s a broad area, but it’s still a comfort zone of sorts. That’s why I say Western Seaboard. I’m thinking SoCal because of the victim in Nevada. A perpetrator living in Oregon is less likely to stray to Vegas as a hunting ground than one who either lives in or grew up in Los Angeles.”

“That actually makes sense,” James allows.

Cooper ignores him. “You said the perpetrator is probably driven by finance as the primary motive, and I agree with you. Then why stay out here, where real estate’s so expensive? It’d be cheaper to set up shop in the Midwest, the South, or some areas in the East. He probably tells himself he’s here because it’s a good victim pool, and there is truth in that, but I think he set up shop here because it’s familiar territory.”

“I can see that,” I say, warming to this line of deduction.

“There are other things we can ascertain in the victim dumps. In both here and Oregon, he left the victims near the police. One on the steps of a police station. In Vegas, he left the victim on a side street.
That would suggest he’s much more comfortable in California and Oregon than he is in Nevada.”

“Which means he’d spend more time there, meaning we should concentrate our efforts in those two states, right?” I ask.

He smiles at me, tips that imaginary hat again. “Yes indeed. It’s where he’ll be most predictable. He’ll stray away from the profile more in those areas outside his comfort zone.”

“But if that’s so,” Callie says, “wouldn’t that also be where he’s most likely to make a mistake?”

“You’d think so, but no. He’d be far more careful in unfamiliar territory, whereas he’d be more relaxed—however infinitesimally or subconsciously—in those comfort zones.”

“What else?” James ask, interested now.

“Prefacing all of this with ‘in my opinion,’ of course, I’d say that you can ignore all suburban neighborhoods. They’re too small and packed too close together. Neighbors want to know you and your business. I considered the woods in Oregon and the desert in Nevada but rejected those. I agree with the idea that he’d keep an eye on his victims while traveling, and that requires that he be on at least the outskirts, where Internet connectivity is still available.” He consults his notes briefly. “Business districts are a good choice, because people are by and large keeping their heads down. They don’t own a business zone the same way they do the space where they live, and so they’re less observant. It also would allow him to rent or buy the space he needs in the name of a business, giving his personal information another layer of protection. I considered warehouses, and while that’s still a possibility, I don’t think that’s how he’d go. Warehouses tend to be in out-of-the-way areas—good for him—but they also have a higher probability of being the victim of attempted burglaries or squatters.”

“Somewhere in between,” James says.

Cooper nods. “Just so, young Jim. Those side streets, away from the strip malls and the main arteries. Where they put the business parks and such. That setting would fulfill his needs for privacy while keeping him within shouting distance of the streets and freeways, which he requires based on his abduction pattern. He’s taken the victims we know of from what are essentially urban areas. That’s an uncertain affair, and he’d want to get them back to his lair as quickly as possible.”

“Urban areas seems so risky,” I say.

“Yes and no. People tend to be more observant in your residential enclaves. If he’s decisive enough—and it surely seems that he is—urban areas are better in many ways. You have the highways, you have the streets. You can get almost anywhere in Los Angeles, at the right time of day, within forty-five minutes.”

“That’s true,” James says. “He timed these abductions mid-evening, which would be after most rush hours.”

“Right again,” Cooper says. He shuffles through his notes, seems to find his place. “Here we go,” he continues. “He’d own the properties he’s using. He doesn’t want to have to deal with a landlord snooping around. The victim described concrete walls. That doesn’t point to office space, though I suppose he could have bought the building and put in some aftermarket changes.”

“That would leave a trail,” James says.

“I thought the same. If I were going to do it—and keep in mind that we’re in the realm of pure guesswork now—I’d buy a piece of land and build myself a small storage unit building.”

“Personal storage?” I ask.

“Just so. Build it, but don’t advertise, and make sure the front office is never open. No one thinks twice about places like that getting few visitors, or getting visitors at odd times of the day or night. They’re generally gated off, and there are places where you can pull a car in and empty it out without anyone seeing a thing. Security-camera placement isn’t unusual either.”

“Or climate control,” James adds. “More upscale places offer it as an option, for people who are storing climate sensitive belongings, such as paintings or books.”

“It does make sense,” I allow.

Cooper shrugs. “That’s where my road ends, I’m afraid. Not sure if it’ll help you much in the final analysis, and there’s more guesswork than certainty there, but you asked and I answered.”

I stare at the whiteboard, seeing it but not seeing it. My gaze unfocuses.
Workmanlike
, I read.
Torture
, I think.
Decisive.

Something’s knocking, wanting to be seen.

“I know that look,” Earl says, his voice soft. “Whatcha thinking, Ms. Barrett?”

The vagueness coalesces.

“I’m thinking about a man with, so far as we know, a perfect record of abduction. He follows his prey, gets to know their routine, and then he swoops in and takes them cleanly. It’s something you said. He’s decisive. Confident.” I look at Cooper. “Trained?”

James responds first. “Possible. These abductions are precision activities. You don’t arrive at that level of competence naturally.”

Earl twirls his mustache. “Military? Law enforcement?”

“It’s just a thought.”

“That makes sense as much as anything else. Still guesswork, but good guesswork, I think.”

“We’ll look into it.” I hold my hand out for Cooper to shake, which he does. “Thank you, sir. I appreciate the insight.”

“My pleasure. What’s your next move, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“I’m going to talk to someone I know who could do exactly what our perp does without breaking a sweat.”

“He’s ex-military, I take it?”

“She’s an ex-something.”

Kirby comes into my office and takes a seat without being asked. She’s dressed in jeans, a white button-down shirt, and tennis shoes. She puts her feet up on the desk and smiles as she chews her gum.

“What’s up, boss woman?”

“I need the perspective of a professional.”

“Professional what?” she asks. I can’t tell if she’s teasing me. Kirby lives in a state of perpetual unconcern, and, as usual, the only hint of what lies inside her floats transiently through her eyes. A certain watchfulness. A certain deadness.

“Operative. Killer. Whatever.”

She grins. “Oh that. Sure, shoot.”

“We’re chasing a guy who could have had some training. It’s just a theory, but I’d appreciate your perspective.” A hint of interest. “Tell me about him.”

I brief her on Dali. Kirby is technically a civilian, but I imagine there are times in the past that she’s had a security clearance higher than anything I’ll ever see. She asks no questions throughout, just listens, intent. When I finish, she leans her head back and stares at the ceiling, chewing her gum.

“Well,” she says finally, “I’d agree with your assessment that he
might have had training. Smooth abduction in an urban environment, batting a thousand on not getting caught or noticed?” She nods. “That’s some highly effective activity. You could learn stuff like that in the Special Forces branches, though it’s always possible that he went directly into the private sector, like I did.”

“What do you mean?”

“They’re really funny about women in those branches of the military. It’s the law, boss woman. No fems allowed. But I knew what I wanted to do from an early age, and if you’re really extra-special motivated to get that kind of training—the kidnap and interrogate and kill kind of training—there are places you can find it, for a price.”

“Like?”

“Central and South America. The Middle East. Israel. Shucks, right here in the good old USA. The CIA has a program or two, but you have to be a little bit too true-blue for my tastes.”

“Let’s say he did go the military route. How long does that take?”

She considers it. “Minimum of four years after joining, as an average. You have to be Mr. Perfect Soldier, be in tip-top shape, and pass various and sundry physical and psychological tests. Even then there’s no guarantee of placement.”

“Which branch would be most likely to prepare you for abductions?”

“Who knows? The truth is, it could be any one of them, depending on how they’re tasked. Not to mention that someone in the Green Berets, for example, could always be cherry-picked for recruitment into the CIA.” She grins. “It’s all one big happy family in the end. Common goals and all that cool stuff.”

I think about everything she’s told me, factoring it in with my current picture of Dali.

“We know he’s been operating for at least fifteen years, probably longer,” I muse. “If he joined the military before he started his current ‘career,’ he’d be … what? Forty-five?”

“If he was lucky.”

“The question is, did he decide to get trained so he could become a criminal or did the idea come after his training?”

“From personal experience, people like Mr. Nut Job and me tend to know what we are from an early age.”

I cock my head at her. “You think you’re the same?”

“Pish. There’s no way he’s as good as me.”

I smile. “There’s more difference than that.”

“Maybe, maybe not. How are you so sure?”

“Two reasons. One, I trust you with my daughter. Two, you’d never do something like what was done to Heather Hollister, an innocent, a civilian, a mother. You have limits, Kirby.”

She assesses me with those oft-dead eyes. “Once, down in South America,” she says, her voice low and reasonable, a talking-about-the-weather voice, “the team I was a part of was captured by a group of paramilitaries. I’d been doing recon prior to the attack and capture, so they didn’t get me. One guy stayed behind to guard their rear.” A wink. “His mistake! I reached out and touched him, just like the old phone commercials. I needed him to tell me where they were, but, gee, he was
against
the idea, soooo … I pulled out his teeth with pliers until he changed his mind.” She grins, and I force myself not to recoil. I’m disturbed less by what she’s saying than by the lack of madness I see in her eyes. She’s lucid now, she was lucid then; Kirby is entirely present in everything she does.

“He was a tough one; he held out through ten teeth.
Marathon Man
in spades. He told me what I needed and then I put a bullet in his head.” Her gaze goes distant. “I caught up with them and found out that they’d executed the rest of my team.” She shrugs. “So I executed them too. All ten of them. It took me five days, tracking them through the jungle. Picking them off at night, catching some while they were taking a pee pee, others while they were sleeping. One of them was yanking his little pud when I crept up behind him. He couldn’t have been more than sixteen. I let him finish and then I watched him beg and cry like a baby before I blew his brains out.”

She smiles, and it’s a normal Kirby-grin again. The blue eyes that had been so dead and empty just a second before sparkle with mischief.

I’ve sat in badly lit rooms looking across the table into the eyes of a man who strangled children in front of their mothers. I’ve watched psychotics have involuntary orgasms as they related the grimmest details of rape and murder to me. These people have a darkness to them, a terrible gravity that cannot be faked. Kirby is Kirby, I have no illusions about what she is, but I know what she is not.

I reach over and pat her cheek, once. “You may be twisted, beach bunny, but you’re not evil.”

A space of silence, a drop of time where, for just a split second, I think I see something akin to gratitude roll through her eyes. It’s there, maybe, then it’s gone. She grins and pretends to wipe sweat off her brow.
“That’s
a weight off my shoulders.” She stands up. “We done here, boss woman?”

“We’re done.”

“Catch you on the flip side,” and she’s gone, leaving something always strange but definitely not evil in her wake.

My cell phone rings.

“Barrett.”

“We got a bite,” Alan says.

“The guy’s screen name is Dali,” Alan says. “He approached Leo via private message.”

Dali types:

It’s asked without preamble or introduction.