Dark Revelations (8 page)
Authors: Duane Swierczynski,Anthony E. Zuiker
“Or else?”
Dark was keenly aware that his access to databases, forensic tools, parking hangtags—
ever ything
—could vanish in an instant. He almost expected it to happen. He was a man who had been given wonderful presents throughout his life, only to have them ripped from his hands when he least expected. So if you always expect it, you can soften the blow.
ever ything
—could vanish in an instant. He almost expected it to happen. He was a man who had been given wonderful presents throughout his life, only to have them ripped from his hands when he least expected. So if you always expect it, you can soften the blow.
The way Dark was feeling, he wanted it all to go away. Right now. He didn’t need fancy gear to catch this monster.
So he pressed the issue.
“I want to speak to your boss.”
Graysmith smiled, with a hint of sadness in her eyes. Dark’s gut—normally an excellent barometer for these kinds of situations—felt cold.
“You can’t. He values his privacy above all else.”
“Introduce me anyway.”
“Don’t you trust me?”
Every nerve in his body screamed NO. At times they were as intimate as two human beings could be, but Dark was keenly aware of the no-fly zone between them. If Dark wanted the support to continue, he wouldn’t ask any questions.
“Lisa,” Dark said, “it’s not about trust. I want to talk to him. Right
“ now.”
“Impossible. If I could, I would. But that’s just not going to happen.”
“I want to talk to Damien Blair. Now.”
That stopped Graysmith cold.
“How do you know that name?”
chapter 12
DARK
D
ark wanted to tell her:
ark wanted to tell her:
Because I’m a motherfucking manhunter.
After the Tarot Card Killer case, his eyes opened up. Dark was through being pushed around like a pawn. He learned to make his own promises, set his own goals. Create his own fate. As long as he could do that, there was hope. Even when everything else was stacked against him.
So Dark did a lot of investigating on his own over the past six months. He skipped electronic resources and went old-school, following a paper trail. Just like Tom Riggins had taught him, back when Dark was a rookie. And over the past few months he’d been able to trace the supposedly untraceable Lisa Graysmith through financial transactions. Simple fact was if you work for someone, they must pay you. Hard as you might try, it is next to impossible to completely eradicate a money trail from the face of the earth.
Dark didn’t have all of the puzzle pieces. But he did know the name Damien Blair, who had several addresses throughout Europe, South Africa, and Hong Kong, as well as vast fortunes at his disposal. Blair was connected, polished, savvy, and secretive. He was also boring to mainstream media. The only Blair news mention over the past year was that he was a regular attendee at the World Economic Forum’s annual meeting in Davos, Switzerland—where the entrance fee is a cool half million, not including first-class travel fare, chalet rental, car and driver, helicopter rental, and so on.
Nothing troubling emerged from Blair’s public bio, but that could simply mean that he’d spent millions to obscure his life from prying eyes. A man just doesn’t go through all of the trouble of wooing and funding a retired FBI agent unless he wants something specific in return.
However, Dark figured that was enough of a wedge to crack open the truth.
“You want to tell me about him, or should I go on?” Dark asked. “Or maybe I’ll just call Blair’s office myself.”
Dark took another sip of beer and waited her out. Watched the bemusement in her eyes turn to annoyance. And then, finally, resignation.
“Let me make two phone calls.”
The first call was presumably to Blair.
The second, however, was to Dark’s mother-in-law.
Graysmith had met Mrs. Collins in the aftermath of the Tarot Card Killer case, introducing herself as a former FBI colleague of Dark’s. His mother-in-law was too smart to take that at face value; she was like her daughter that way. Intuitive, canny, empathetic, almost to a preternatural degree. Dark sensed he and his mother-in-law would soon be having a conversation about who this Graysmith woman was, and what she meant in terms of her granddaughter.
For now, though, Mrs. Collins would keep those thoughts to herself and relish the time she could spend with Sibby.
“It’s all arranged,” Graysmith said. “Your daughter’s covered.”
“You called my mother-in-law?”
“Finish your beer. We’ve got some traveling to do.”
Graysmith drove, taking the 101 up through Hollywood toward Van Nuys. Their private plane would be waiting, she explained. Dark realized he was wearing a semi-clean T-shirt, a hoodie, and a pair of severely distressed jeans. No weapons, no phone, not even so much as a pen. Wherever they were headed, he supposed he’d gather what he needed along the way.
“I suppose you’re going to draw this out,” Dark said. “Make me work for it.”
“No,” Graysmith said. “I have permission to tell you. But don’t make me repeat myself. I’m a scout for a unique and highly secretive group of investigators who have had their eye on you for a long time. Ever since the Sqweegel case, from five years ago. When the Tarot Card Killer emerged, Damien Blair decided to give you the tools you needed to catch him.”
“What, like a tryout?”
“No. Like, assistance. I’ve never lied to you, Steve.”
Dark processed this, quickly rewinding the past six months, crosschecking their conversations against this new and oh-so-delightful development.
“We wanted you to accept our help so that you could reach your full potential. And you
have
, Steve. Don’t you realize that? Consider where you were even six months ago. Still trying to figure it all out. Still struggling with what you were, and ignoring the potential of what you could become.”
have
, Steve. Don’t you realize that? Consider where you were even six months ago. Still trying to figure it all out. Still struggling with what you were, and ignoring the potential of what you could become.”
“Wonderful,” Dark said. “I’ve blossomed. So where are we going? Specifically?”
“Paris,” she said.
Los Angeles Times
Still no further threats from “Labyrinth,” no clues as to identity. Police chief speculates: “We think he was a one-off.”
chapter 13
LABYRINTH
R
ight now everyone in the lobby of the fancy oil corporation is wondering:
ight now everyone in the lobby of the fancy oil corporation is wondering:
A giant fish tank? Which of these overindulged, overcompensated suits ordered the giant fish tank?
Yet there it was, being wheeled into the headquarters of the Intertrust Petroleum Corporation (IPC), one of the largest such oil concerns in Dubai.
The unofficial company motto seems to be: Money Is No Object. And that ethos is reflected in every design choice throughout the building.
I watch as a confused assistant signs for the tank, assuming that one of the CEOs had ordered it.
Because, you know, CEOs did whimsical things like this.
When money is no object, you seek out increasingly bizarre toys to amuse yourself.
Well, my next package will certainly amuse them.
Two executive assistants approach the tank, peering in at the lone, ugly fish inside.
The moment the packages were signed for at the main IPC reception area, I received a small push alert on a cell phone, which prompted me to log on to the company’s own internal servers.
I eavesdrop, using the hidden cameras and microphones from IPC’s own internal security system.
With the right software, you can pretty much stand inside any room in the world, thanks to the network of security cameras that human beings have wired up to watch themselves obsessively.
It is fun to watch them try to figure out this new gift.
One assistant asks,
What kind is that inside the tank? Do you recognize that kind of fish?
The other says,
No idea. It looks . . . sick.
Why order a fish tank this big with only a single fish inside?
Like I said, no idea. Maybe it’s somebody’s idea of a joke. Maybe in a few minutes, somebody’s going to walk through the front door with a white cap and a set of knives, and this poor wee fella will end up as sushi.
They stifle their laughter. Don’t want the executives to hear them have too much fun.
But jokes helped ease the tension of working for the most high-strung, power-mad people in the known universe.
The executive assistants take their levity where they can get it.
I don’t begrudge them that.
The companion package arrives a few minutes later—a small FedEx box.
An assistant jokes,
Probably fish food.
But when the assistant tears off the cardboard strip, they are more than a little surprised to find a gold watch inside, along with a folded piece of the company’s own letterhead.
This strikes a chord.
One of the assistants says this all reminds her of something she’d just read on the Internet—about that actress and her producer boyfriend.
She says,
Didn’t the LAPD receive all kinds of weird shit in the mail, hours before a bomb went off?
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