Ashes to Ashes (20 page)

“No wants, no warrants. I called information to get a phone number—she doesn’t have one. I contacted the post office—they say she moved and left no forwarding address. Strike three.”

“She give us a sketch yet?” Yurek asked.

“Kate Conlan brought her in this morning to work with Oscar,” Kovac said, rising. “I’m gonna go see what’s what right now. We’d better pray to God that girl has a Polaroid memory. A break on this thing now could save all our asses.”

“I’ll need copies ASAP for the press,” Yurek said.

“I’ll get it to you. What time are you set to play
America’s Most Wanted
?”

“Five.”

Kovac checked his watch. The day was running double time and they didn’t have much to show for it yet. That was the hell of getting an investigation this size off the ground. Time was of the essence. Every cop knew that after the first forty-eight hours of an investigation, the odds of solving a murder dropped off sharply. But the amount of information that needed to be gathered, collated, interpreted, and acted upon at the start of a multiple murder investigation was staggering. And just one piece ignored could be the one piece that turned the tide.

His pager trilled. The readout gave his lieutenant’s number.

“Everyone who can, meet back here at four,” he said, grabbing his coat off the back of his chair. “If you’re out, check in with me on the cell phone. I’m outta here.”

“SHE DIDN’T SEEM very sure of herself, Sam,” Oscar said, leading him to a tilt-top drawing table in a small office made smaller by a pack rat’s clutter. Papers, books, magazines, filled all available space in precarious towers and piles. “I led her through it as gently as I could, but she was resistant at the core.”

“Resistant as in lying or resistant as in scared?”

“Afraid. And as you well know, fear can precipitate prevarication.”

“You’ve been into the thesaurus again, haven’t you, Oscar?”

A beatific smile peeked through the copious facial hair. “Education is the wellspring of the soul.”

“Yeah, well, you’ll be drowning in it, Oscar,” Kovac said, impatient, digging a lint-ridden Mylanta tablet out of his pants pocket. “So, let’s see the masterpiece.”

“I consider it a work in progress.”

He peeled back the opaque protective sheet, revealing the pencil sketch Twin Cities residents had been promised by their top elected and appointed officials. The suspect wore a dark, puffed-up jacket—hiding his build—over a hooded sweatshirt, hood up, hiding the color of his hair. Aviator sunglasses hid the shape of his eyes. The nose was nondescript, the face of medium width. The mouth was partially obscured by a mustache.

Kovac’s stomach did a slow roll. “It’s the fucking Una-bomber!” he snapped, wheeling on Oscar. “What the hell am I supposed to do with this?”

“Now, Sam, I told you it was a work in progress,” Oscar said in that low, slow voice.

“He’s wearing
sunglasses
! It was fucking midnight and she’s got him wearing sunglasses!” Sam ranted. “Judas fucking priest! This could be anyone. This could be no one. This could be
me
, for godsake!”

“I’m hoping to work with Angie a little more,” the artist said, unperturbed by Kovac’s temper. “She doesn’t believe she has the details in her memory, but I believe she does. She has only to release her fear and clarity will come. Eventually.”

“I don’t have
eventually
, Oscar! I’ve got a goddamn press conference at five o’clock!”

He blew out a breath and turned a circuit around the artist’s small, cramped, cluttered workspace, looking around as if he wanted to find something to throw. Christ, he sounded like Sabin, wanting evidence on demand. He had been telling himself all day not to count on that lying, thieving little piece of baggage he had to call a witness, but beneath the cynicism, he’d been praying for a dead-on, got-you-by-the-balls-now composite. Twenty-two years on the job and the optimist in him still lived. Amazing.

“I’m working on a version without the mustache,” Oscar said. “She seemed uncertain about the mustache.”

“How can she be uncertain about a
mustache!
He either had one or he didn’t! Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck!

“I won’t release it today, that’s all,” he said mostly to himself. “We’ll hold off, get the girl back in here tomorrow, and try to get some better detail.”

From the corner of his eyes, he could see Oscar drop his head a little. He looked to be retreating into his beard. Kovac stopped his pacing and looked at him square.

“We can do that, can’t we, Oscar?”

“I’ll be pleased to work with Angie again tomorrow. I’d like nothing better than to help her unblock her memory flow. Confronting memory is the first step to neutralizing its negative power. As for the other, you’ll have to take it up with Chief Greer. He was in here an hour ago to get a copy.”

“SHE SAW HIS face for two minutes in the light of a burning corpse, Sam,” Kate said, leading him into her office, not sure the small space would hold him. When he was wound, Kovac was a barely contained column of energy that required perpetual motion.

“She looked directly at the face of a murderer in bright light. Come on, Red. Wouldn’t you think the details would be branded, so to speak, in her memory?”

Kate sat back against her desk, crossing her ankles, careful to keep her toes out of Kovac’s way. “I think her memory might improve dramatically with the application of a little cash,” she said dryly.

“What!”

“She got wind of Bondurant’s reward and wants a chunk. Can you blame her, Sam? The kid’s got nothing. She’s got no one. She’s been living on the street, doing God knows what to survive.”

“Did you explain to her that rewards go out
on conviction?
We can’t convict somebody we can’t catch. We can’t catch somebody we don’t have a clue what the hell he looks like.”

“I know. Hey, you don’t have to preach to me. And—word of warning—don’t preach to Angie either,” Kate said. “She’s on the fence, Sam. We could lose her. Figuratively and literally. You think life’s a bitch now, imagine what’ll happen if your only witness skips.”

“What are you saying? Are you saying we should stick someone on her?”

“Unmarked, low-key, and well back. You set a uniform on the curb in front of the Phoenix, it’s only going to make matters worse. She already thinks we’re treating her like a criminal.”

“Lovely,” Kovac drawled. “And what else would her highness require?”

“Don’t bust my chops,” Kate ordered. “I’m on your side. And stop pacing, you’ll make yourself dizzy. You’re making
me
dizzy.”

Kovac pulled in a deep breath and leaned back against the wall, directly across from Kate.

“You knew what to expect from this girl, Sam. Why are you surprised by this? Or did you just want that composite to be a dead ringer for one of your exes?”

His mouth twisted with chagrin. He rubbed a hand across his face and wished for a cigarette. “I got a bad feeling about this deal, Kate,” he admitted. “I guess I was hoping for the witness fairy to touch our little Miss Daisy with her wand. Or poke her with it. Or hold it to her head like a gun. I hoped that maybe the kid would be scared enough to tell the truth. Oscar tells me fear precipitates prevarication.”

“He’s been reading those pop psychology books again, hasn’t he?”

“Or something.” He heaved a sigh. “Bottom line: I need something to kick-start this investigation or I’ll have to go digging in some nasty shitholes. I guess I was hoping this was it.”

“Hold the sketch back a day. I’ll bring her in again tomorrow. See if Oscar can apply his mystic powers and draw something out of her—no pun intended.”

“I don’t think I’ll be able to hold it back. Big Chief Little Dick got his hands on the sketch before me. He’ll want to run with it. He’ll want to present it at the press conference himself.

“Goddamn brass,” he grumbled. “They’re worse than kids with a case like this. Everybody wants the credit. Everybody wants their face on the news. They all have to look important—like they’ve got shit to do with the investigation besides get in the way of the real cops.”

“That’s what’s really grating on you, Sam,” Kate pointed out. “It’s not the sketch, it’s your natural resistance to working under supervision.”

He scowled at her. “You been reading Oscar’s books too?”

“I have a college degree in brain picking,” she reminded him. “What’s the worst that happens if the sketch goes out and it isn’t totally accurate?”

“I don’t know, Kate. This mope barbecues women and cuts their heads off. What’s the worst that could happen?”

“He won’t be offended by the sketch,” Kate said. “He’s more likely to be amused, to think he’s outsmarted you again.”

“Ahh, so then he’ll feel more invincible and be empowered to go out and whack another one! Swell!”

“Don’t be such a fatalist. You can use this to your advantage. Ask Quinn. Besides, if the sketch is even partially accurate, you might get something off it. Maybe someone out there will remember seeing a similar individual near a truck. Maybe they’ll remember a partial license plate, a dent in a fender, a guy with a limp. You know as well as I do, luck plays into an investigation like this in a big way.”

“Yeah, well,” Kovac said, reluctantly pushing himself away from the wall. “We could use a truckload. Soon. So where’s the sunshine girl now?”

“I had someone take her back to the Phoenix. She’s not happy about that.”

“Tough.”

“Ditto,” Kate said. “She wants a hotel room or an apartment or something. I want her with people. Isolation isn’t going to open her up. Plus, I’d like someone keeping an eye on her. Did you go through that backpack she carries around?”

“Liska checked it out. Angie was steamed, but, hey, she came running away from a headless corpse. We couldn’t risk her going psycho and pulling a knife on us. The uniform picked her up should have done it at the scene, but he was all shook up thinking about Smokey Joe. Stupid rookie. He screws up that way with the wrong mutt, he’ll get himself whacked.”

“Did Nikki find anything?”

He pursed his lips and shook his head. “What are you thinking? Drugs?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. Her behavior is all over the map. She’s up, she’s down, she’s tough, she’s on the verge of tears. I start to think something’s off about her, then I stop and think: My God, look what she’s been through. Maybe she’s remarkably stable and sane, all things considered.”

“Or maybe she needs a score,” Kovac speculated, moving toward the door. “Maybe that’s what she was doing in that park at midnight. I know some guys in narcotics. I’ll reach out, see if maybe they know this kid. We got nothing else on her yet. Wisconsin had nothing.”

“I talked to a Susan Frye in our juvenile division,” Kate said. “She’s been at this forever. She’s got a great network. Rob is checking his contacts in Wisconsin. In the meantime, I need to get Angie some kind of perk, Sam. A show of appreciation. Can you kick her something out of petty cash as an informant?”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

Another duty to add to his long list. Poor guy, Kate thought. The lines in his face seemed deeper today. He had the weight of the city on those sturdy shoulders. His suit jacket hung limp on him, as if he had somehow drawn the starch out of it to supplement his draining energy.

“Listen, don’t worry about it,” she said as she pulled the door open. “I can weasel it out of your lieutenant myself. You’ve got better things to do.”

Halfway out the door, he turned and gave her a lopsided smile. “What gave you that idea?”

“Just a hunch.”

“Thanks. You’re sure you’re not too busy tackling armed gunmen?”

“Heard about that, did you?” Kate made a face, not comfortable with the attention yesterday’s incident had gotten her. She’d turned down half a dozen requests for interviews and made too many trips to the ladies’ room to dab makeup over the bruises.

“Wrong place, wrong time, that’s all. The story of my life,” she said dryly.

Kovac looked thoughtful, as if he were considering saying something profound, then shook his head a little. “You’re a wonder, Red.”

“Hardly. I’ve just got a guardian angel with a sick sense of humor. Go fight the fight, Sergeant. I’ll take care of the witness.”

THE TRAFFIC ANNOYS him. He takes 35W south out of downtown to avoid traffic lights and the tedious twists and turns of the alternate route. Stop-and-go traffic until he wants to abandon the car and walk down the shoulder, randomly pulling people out of their vehicles and beating their heads in with a tire iron. It amuses him that other motorists are likely entertaining the same fantasy. They have no idea that the man sitting in the dark sedan behind them, beside them, in front of them, could act on that fantasy without turning a hair.

He looks at the woman in the red Saturn beside him. She is pretty, with Nordic features and white-blond hair done in a voluminous, airy, tousled style that has been sprayed into place. She catches him looking, and he smiles and waves. She smiles back, then makes a gesture and a funny face at the traffic snarled ahead of them. He shrugs and grins, mouths “What can you do?”

He imagines that face drawn tight and pale with terror as he leans down over her with a knife. He can see her bare chest rise and fall in time with her shallow breathing. He can hear the tremor in her voice as she begs him for her life. He can hear her screams as he cuts her breasts.

Desire stirs deep in his groin.

“Probably the most crucial factor in the development of a serial rapist or killer is the role of fantasy.”—John Douglas
, Mindhunter.

His fantasies have never shocked him. Not in childhood, when he would think of what it might be like to watch a living thing die, what it would be like to close his hands around the throat of a cat or the kid down the block and hold the power of life and death literally within his grasp. Not in adolescence, when he would think of cutting the nipples from his mother’s breasts, or cutting out her larynx and smashing it with a hammer, or cutting out her uterus and throwing it into the furnace.