Exit Strategy (7 page)

The man looked down at her body, sprawled awkwardly over the steps, skirt shoved up to reveal one cellulite-pitted thigh above her knee-highs, her arm stretched over her head, fingers grazing the twenty as if, in death, still reaching for it. He almost laughed.

A twenty placed at eye level. A human trap, guaranteed to catch the first person who climbed these stairs. There was an element of risk here, something he’d never allowed himself before. If she hadn’t been alone, he’d have had to scrap the whole plan. But the thrill of it, the purest surge of power, came from knowing that if this attempt failed, it made no difference in the overall plan. Kill this person, kill another. Kill here, kill there. Kill now, kill then. For once, it didn’t matter. There was no contract, no obligation. He could take risks, enjoy them even, and, to his surprise, he found that he did.

He looked down at the woman. His penultimate strike, perhaps even his last. That was the plan anyway. He’d make this last hit and then, if all went well and the police stayed stumped, he’d stop here. If it didn’t go smoothly—and one always had to plan for contingencies—he had one more victim in mind, someone who could take the blame.

But now he wasn’t so sure he should stop. He told himself it wasn’t the unexpected thrill of this newfound power—that would be unprofessional. Instead, he wondered whether he hadn’t been shortsighted. Perhaps five wasn’t enough. He’d gotten this far and the Feds were still chasing their tails. Why not add another couple of bodies? He always had the backup hit—his scapegoat—if things went bad. And, more likely, another body or two would only add to the confusion. Then he could stop, free and safe.

He smiled and walked away, leaving her lying there, the bag still over her head. As he passed, he glanced down at the twenty lying by her outstretched hand. Let them tie up their labs pulling scores of fingerprints from it, running them through the database. They wouldn’t find his…on the bill or in the database. He took the folded book page from his pocket, unwrapped it and tucked it under her hand, beside the twenty.

One last visual sweep. All clear. He adjusted his driving gloves, picked up his briefcase, then walked down to the main floor door, cracked it open and peered through. Closed doors, darkened windows, an office building still slumbering. He straightened his tie and walked out.

SIX

I ran into the convenience store and bought
Time, Newsweek
and
Cosmopolitan
. No, Cosmo wasn’t running an in-depth analysis of the Helter Skelter killings. I’m sure they would have, but, apparently, the breaking news of “10 Ways to Drive Your Man Wild in Bed” took precedence.

As I climbed into the car, Jack plucked the magazines from under my arm. “
Time
.
Newsweek
. And…?”

He looked at the half-naked supermodel on the cover of
Cosmopolitan
. Most guys would have looked closer. Or at least looked interested. Jack frowned.

“Chock-full of articles on catching a man,” I said. “I thought it might help us.”

Jack shook his head.

“Hey, in this outfit, do I strike you as a
Time
and
Newsweek
kinda girl? But if you see anything in there that interests you, it’s all yours.”

Another head shake. He turned the key in the ignition and the subcompact’s engine puttered to life. “I’ll drive. You read.”

The articles contained only a single line on each victim, descriptions so brief even Jack would be hard-pressed to condense them further. That’s not to say the articles were short. Each magazine contained not less than three separate pieces on the case, each running several pages. So what did they write about? The killer. Theories, motivations, expert opinions, editorial comments.

The list of victims was almost identical in both publications.

Alicia Sanchez, 21, Hispanic, college student, suffocated in her dorm room, October 5, Beaumont, Texas.

Carson Morrow, 36, African American, stockbroker, stabbed in a parking lot, October 8, St. Louis, Missouri.

Leon Kozlov, 53, Caucasian, retired, shot in his apartment, October 12, Norfolk, Ohio.

Mary Lee, 68, Asian American, business owner, strangled in her shop, October 14, Atlanta, Georgia.

Four lives and four tragedies reduced to factoids.

I studied the four minuscule photos and wondered what they’d been doing the days they’d been killed, what they’d been thinking, planning, dreaming.

In just over a week, four lives had been taken and countless more thrown into turmoil—husbands, wives, lovers, children, parents, siblings, friends, wondering why this had happened, and what they could have done to prevent it, and whether their loved one had suffered, and why hadn’t they said something more meaningful the last time they met. And, most of all,
why
. Just why.

Four lives taken, countless more awaiting justice. But when I read that article, I saw no end—no justice—in sight. Just more deaths. More victims. More mourners. More questions.

Neither magazine mentioned the possibility of a hitman killer, but that likely wasn’t a theory investigators would release to the media. The murders, though, had all the earmarks of professional hits—the deaths clean and cold.

“Four murders in four parts of the country, four very different victims, four separate methods,” I said. “Linked by a calling card. A page from
Helter Skelter
.”

“Yeah. Heard about that.”

“It’s a book, isn’t it?”

“About Manson.”

“Charles Manson? The freak with the cult? He killed some actress, didn’t he?”

“Before your time, I’m guessing.”

“The sixties. Peace, love and drug-induced murderous rages. Hippie stuff.”

“Now I feel old.”

“Right, like you were more than a baby yourself. From what I remember, the Manson case was textbook disorganized crime. Definitely not the work of a pro. So what’s the connection?”

“None, other than that it scared the shit out of a lot of people. Like this guy’s doing.”

I glanced over at him. “According to
Newsweek
—or their contacts, at least—the Feds have evidence suggesting there’s something to the Manson connection.”

“Then we don’t ignore it. But don’t focus on it.”

“Okay. So where do you want to start?”

A small frown my way. “No idea. That’s your area. Yeah, you weren’t a detective. But you think like a cop. Good enough. We’ll work something out.”

So we did, laying out theories. We had a hired killer making random hits. Option one: system overload. When a pro chess player goes nuts, he becomes obsessed with the game. A pro killer goes nuts? No mystery what might obsess him. Option two was more likely. Why does a hired killer kill? Because he’s been hired to.

“The guy beside me on the plane mentioned that Leon Kozlov had a record,” I said. “That’s a good place to start—checking criminal records and arrests. I have contacts in U.S. police departments—lodge regulars—but I’d
really
rather not use—”

“Agreed. Last resort.”

“Good. There are legit ways we can check for criminal backgrounds, though it’ll take some time and legwork.”

He stared out the windshield, fingers drumming on the steering wheel.

“Got another way,” he said finally. “Contact. Couple hours’ drive. Find out about Manson, too.”

We pulled off at a diner for coffee. We had to be getting close to Jack’s contact, and I certainly wasn’t hungry, but Jack insisted.

As I sat there, coffee untouched, I swore I could hear my watch ticking. For one person, somewhere out there, time
was
ticking. How much longer before the killer took another life? Judging by his schedule so far, maybe a day.

Time was passing and somewhere my target was planning his next kill while I sat in a diner, across from my “partner,” who looked as anxious to get to work as any time-card puncher on Monday morning.

I vented my frustration with chatter.

“—two hours, not a single nibble and my butt is frozen to the ice. So I check the guys’ hooks, and no one has any bait. ‘Bait?’ one says. ‘What for? We don’t want to catch anything. We just wanted an excuse to toss back a few before lunch.’”

Jack opened his mouth, but a burst of static cut him off. Across the room, a server moved a portable radio onto the counter. The three customers there all leaned forward, like fans listening to the last inning of the World Series. I caught the words “number five” and “Boston.” A game this early in the day?

“Turn it up,” someone yelled.

The server obliged. I made a face, then caught the first rush of the announcer’s words and stopped with my coffee cup halfway to my lips.

“—received confirmation that this is definitely murder number five. It appears the Helter Skelter killer has taken another victim—”

“Fuck,” Jack muttered.

“—Boston. Police have released few details at this time. They will say only that an unidentified woman has been found suffocated in the stairwell of her office complex.”

Customers crowded around the counter to hear better. Not so much as a fork clinked against china.

“—approximately 7 a.m. Police have confirmed that a page from the book
Helter Skelter
was found with the body. A news conference is scheduled for later this morning. More details are expected at that time. We return now…”

Jack pulled his chair forward, legs scraping the linoleum. He jerked his head toward the door.

Jack got into the car and drove. Not a word about what had happened inside. Yet the news had been enough to get him up and moving.

After less than a thirty-minute drive, Jack pulled into Fort Wayne, Indiana. He drove to a strip mall and parked far enough from the storefronts that no one would notice or care that we were taking up a spot and not shopping.

He got out. I followed. He looked at me over the roof.

“Uh, let me guess,” I said. “When you said ‘stop by’ the pronoun you left off was ‘I’ not ‘we,’ right?”

“You want to come?”

“I’m not going to spend this investigation hanging out in the car, getting secondhand information. But I’m not in a hurry to be introduced to all your underworld contacts, either. You know this guy—it’s your call.”

“You should come.” He locked the car. “Get it over with.”

Before I could say anything, he was already striding across the parking lot, leaving me jogging to catch up.

We stood before a small two-story house on a street that was mostly brick bungalows, with the occasional two-story thrown in for variety. An old neighborhood in every way, from the massive oaks that looked as if they’d seen the first colonists to the front porches adorned with wicker rockers, mobile scooters and wheelchair ramps.

Down the street, an army of young men worked their way from lawn to lawn, mowers and hedge-clippers in tow. A patrolling security car slowed to give us a once-over, then drove on. It looked like an upper-middle-class retirement community, where the owners kept their houses small, saving their money for Alaskan cruises and European vacations. A strange place for an underworld contact meeting.

“Something I should tell you.” Jack peered up at the house. “Things I didn’t mention before. Probably should have. But…” He paused, then shook his head. “Too late now. You’ll understand or you won’t.”

With that, he headed for the front steps.

SEVEN

White curtains in the windows. Fresh dark green trim to complement the yellow brick. A black metal mailbox. The space for an engraved surname under the brass door knocker was blank. Jack motioned for me to knock.

“This contact,” I said. “Is he a civilian or…”

“Pro.”

I adjusted my jacket, making sure my Glock was in place, then banged the knocker. Inside, a dog barked, then another joined in. They sounded big.

A distant door opened, then shut. The barking resumed, now coming from the rear yard.

“What should I call myself?” I said. “I need a name, right?”

Before he could answer, a dead bolt clanked. The door opened. There stood a petite white-haired woman wearing a silk blouse, wool slacks and leather pumps. She looked from me to Jack, back to me, then pointed a finger at Jack.