Maps of Hell (14 page)

“Y
ou boys want to tell me just what the hell is going on in this city?” Chief Rodney Owen said, looking around the top-floor room where early-morning sunlight was glinting through the windows and Abraham Singer’s body lay still.

Detective Simmons glanced at his partner. Gerard Pinker wasn’t showing much interest in replying. Two CSIs were working on different parts of the room, doing their best to appear cloth-eared.

“Well, sir,” Simmons said, “the indications are that this murder is linked to the previous two.”

“The indications being the piece of paper with the boxes drawn on it,” Owen said.

Simmons nodded. “And the M.O.”

The three men looked at the paper that had been attached to the victim’s back with carpentry nails.

“It looks like the paper and ink will match the previous sheets,” Pinker said. “The squares and rectangles are not in the same pattern, just as with the first and second ones, but they’re broadly similar.”

The chief nodded. “Go on.”

“Then there’s the M.O. This vic was killed by the insertion of wooden-handled skewers into each eye. The skewers match the Loki and Monsieur Hexie murders.”

“Sweet Jesus,” Owen said, shaking his head. “What does it mean, Clem?”

“We’re working on that.”

“Meaning, you’re hoping the Bureau’s experts come up with something.”

Simmons raised his shoulders. “They’ve got the ‘database.’” He recalled the first view he’d had of the old professor. He was lying on his front, the familiar transparent plastic file containing the piece of paper pinned to his back. Observing Marion Gilbert and her assistant as they turned the body over had not been pleasant.

“Any witnesses?” Chief Owen asked. “Who found the body?”

Pinker tugged on his cuffs and opened his notebook. “Another professor, name of Albert Rudenstein. He saw the vic’s lights still on and came up. That was just after midnight. Rudenstein had been at a faculty dinner. No witnesses to an intruder so far. Apparently Professor Singer was often the last to leave. Apart from him, there was only a graduate student called Lawrence Jones in the building after seven last night, and he was gone by eight. He didn’t notice anyone or anything out of the ordinary.”

Rodney Owen was examining at the dark stains on the floorboards. “What does the M.E. think about time of death?”

Simmons glanced at his notes. “Provisionally, between nine and eleven.”

“I don’t see any sign of a struggle,” the chief said.

Pinker had moved over to the victim’s desk. “No, Professor Rudenstein said he didn’t see anything out of place or missing. Not that we thought it was a burglary.”

“What was this Singer’s field of expertise?” Owen asked.

“Jewish culture.”

“Oh, shit,” the chief said, with a scowl. “Now every Jew in D.C. is going to be on my back.” He glanced at Simmons. “Please don’t tell me we’ve got an anti-Semitic serial killer on our hands, Clem.”

The detective rubbed his cheek. “If he is, he’s also anti-black and anti–thrash metal.”

“Well, I can understand the second of those. The Loki murder doesn’t fit the pattern in that respect. I mean, where does a long-haired, white vic come in?”

“Search me, boss,” Pinker said, peering at the papers on the desk. “Jeez, this guy had small writing. I can hardly make out a word of it.”

“Well, you better get used to it,” the chief said. “Until we find out otherwise, the professor’s specialization has to be our focus. What exactly was he working on?”

Pinker turned over the book that was lying open. “This is called
De Occulta Philosophia
, whatever that means.” His major at college had been criminology.

Simmons swallowed a laugh. “On Occult Philosophy?” he hazarded.

“Not one of your voodoo books, is it?” Pinker smile sardonically. His partner hadn’t been able to find anything linking Monsieur Hexie’s death to his interest in the religion.

“Cool it, you two,” their boss ordered. “That’ll really get the tabloids going, another occult link. We’ve already had articles about witches’ covens in Congress and satanic rituals beneath the Washington Memorial.” He buttoned up his raincoat. “I’m going back to the office. See if I can keep dodging the bullets.” He looked at each of his men. “You two need to find a good lead, and soon. Or the Feds will take over all three cases.”

The detectives watched him leave.

“Fuck this shit,” Versace said, in a low voice. “This guy’s running rings around us, Clem.”

“Just as well there’s no woman in your life these days, eh, Vers? Since these murders started, you haven’t had time to unzip your very expensive flies.”

The smaller man gave his partner a scornful look. “When did you last get any, my man?” Then his expression changed. “Aw, shit. I’m sorry.” Simmons’s wife, Nina, had died of cancer a year earlier. They had been like a normal couple, with none of the strains of most police marriages. Pinker knew that Clem had never got the hots for another woman when Nina was alive, and he probably never would now she was gone.

“Forget it, Vers.” Simmons headed for the door.

They met Dana Maltravers on the stair.

“Ah, Detectives,” she said, enthusiastically, “I was hoping you could give me an update.”

Gerard Pinker ran his eye over the young woman. Beneath the dark blue FBI jacket, her body was trim, and curved in all the right places. He might have made a move, but he knew he would never live it down at the MPDC building. Feds were the enemy, strictly off-limits.

“You were here a couple of hours ago,” Simmons said, with a soft smile. “What do you think’s happened since then, Special Agent?” He brushed past her, his partner close behind.

Maltravers followed them downstairs. “Tracked down any witnesses, Detective? How about you, Versace?”

The detective froze. His nickname was not for public use.

Dana Maltravers immediately realized her mistake. “I mean, Detective Pinker.”

“Yes, you
do
mean Detective Pinker. Tell you what, you tell me your nickname and I’ll think about letting you use mine.”

The agent’s cheeks reddened. “Oh, I don’t think…”

“Come on now,” Pinker said. Special Agent Maltravers is quite a mouthful.” He laughed. “So to speak.”

The young woman didn’t acknowledge the double entendre.

“Okay, what’s
Sebastian’s
handle?”

“I can’t tell you that, Detective.”

“Oh, well, there goes that update.”

They had reached the hall inside the building’s main door.

“Is that what you mean by inter-agency cooperation, Vers?” Simmons said. “I don’t think the chief would approve.”

Gerard Pinker looked at him as if he were a traitor. “I just think that knowing our colleagues’ nicknames would make cooperation so much easier.”

“Oh, all right,” Maltravers said, looking away. “I’m known as Princess and he’s called Dick—behind his back only, of course.”

“Princess?” Pinker said. “Yeah, I suppose you do look kinda like that Diana woman. Apart from the hair color.”

“Dick?” Simmons said. “By any chance, would that be followed by
head?
”

“So you are a detective after all,” Dana Maltravers said, her eyes still averted despite her smile.

“Dick,” Pinker guffawed. “I like it. Where is the man in question, by the way?”

“On his way back from Maine. He should be here soon.”

Pinker’s expression became more serious. “You realize the English guy Matt Wells has to be in the clear for this murder—assuming that was him up in lobster-and-moose land.”

Maltravers nodded. “I’ve checked the airport security films. He wasn’t in Reagan National. He would have really had to move to get up there by rail or car.”

“Is it theoretically possible?” Simmons asked.

She nodded. “Yes, at least by train. Our people are looking at the Union Station films. Driving would be a real tester—it’s over seven hundred miles.”

“And why would he bother?” Pinker asked.

Simmons rubbed his chin. “But Wells is still in the frame for the Monsieur Hexie murder. He could have done Loki, as well, without leaving any prints there.”

“Or he could have planned the Loki killing and the latest one,” Maltravers said.

“You’ve really got a hard-on for him,
Princess,
” Pinker said. “I checked our files. He reported his girlfriend’s disappearance back in late August, and then he vanished himself a couple of weeks later. Why suddenly turn into a killer?”

Maltravers stepped closer as a CSI walked past. “Maybe you didn’t read the background documentation I sent over. He’s killed before—in London.”

“I know that,” Simmons said. “But it was in self-defense. Just because he’s capable—”

“He’s certainly that,” Maltravers put in. “A black belt in karate and judo, training in armed and unarmed combat from a former special forces sold—”

“So what?” Pinker demanded. “His girlfriend is a senior English police officer, for Christ’s sake. She was over here to meet with your bosses.”

“Among other people,” Dana Maltravers mumbled, before straightening up.

“What about the Bureau’s experts?” Simmons asked. “They come up with anything on the drawings?”

The agent’s shoulders slackened. “Not yet.”

Pinker moved closer again. “All right, Princess, let’s hear your theory. What exactly is going on here?”

Dana Maltravers held his gaze. “It’s…it’s not
my
theory,” she stammered.

“Oh, it’s Dick the Dickhead’s, is it?” Pinker said with a wide grin. “Never mind, lay it on us.”

She took a deep breath. “Well, the idea is that Matt Wells’s woman got picked up by the people she had in her sights—she was in charge of corporate crime and there are several companies that would love to see her dead.”

“The Bureau been investigating them?” Simmons asked.

“It’s not my department. But, yes—the financial-crime people are on the case. It’s sensitive, though. These are household names.”

“Who no doubt have a lot of pull on the Hill,” Pinker said. “But what’s that got to do with her man Matt Wells? Why would he suddenly hit on these particular victims? A metal singer with far-right connections, a voodoo huckster and a Jewish professor. They have anything in common that we’re missing?”

Maltravers was chewing the inside of her cheek. “Not much,” she said, in a low voice. “The drawings are the key, I think.”

Pinker gave a bitter smile. “The very-hard-to-understand key.”

Clem Simmons caught his eye. “Come on, Vers, we’ve got work to do.”

“What about my update?” Maltravers asked.

“You’ll get it when we do,” Gerard Pinker said. “Hot off the press.”

“I take it that means you haven’t come up with anything new?”

“Correct,” Simmons said. “You’ve got our cell-phone numbers.”

Dana Maltravers did not look impressed.

Richard Bonhoff had gone back to the building the twins had come out of. Although the stone facade was crumbling, the door was secured with a heavy padlock and the windows barred. He hammered and yelled to no avail. After waiting for over three hours, he went back to the hotel to catch up on his sleep.

The next morning, after doing some writing, he went over his options. He wasn’t sure how long his credit cards would remain unblocked, but he didn’t care. He’d scavenge for food in garbage bins if he had to, but he wasn’t leaving Washington till he found the twins. The obvious plan was to watch the building and approach them again. But he was outnumbered there and even his marine training would be little use against a gang of armed inner-city kids with their brains fried on whatever shit was popular these days. Better to concentrate on Gordy Lister. He was on his own most of the time, and when he had goons, Richard could handle them. Not that he expected Lister to repeat the mistake of underestimating him.

So what was he to do? There was only one option—tail Gordy Lister and squeeze him again. Now that the initial shock of seeing Randy and Gwen had faded, Richard had more questions for the newspaperman—such as, how had he known where to find them? And why did he have musclemen he could whistle up? Lister didn’t seem to be a reporter. Richard reckoned he was more of a fixer.

He went out of the hotel to the store on the corner. He bought some bread and cheese. The usual tabloids were displayed in a rack. He picked up the
Star Reporter.
Today’s edition led with a story about another murder—D.C. Prof Killed in Ritual Blinding? The article inside tried to link the murder in Georgetown to earlier ones with occult connections. Richard shook his head. At least they didn’t have lunatic killers like that in Iowa.

On his way back to the hotel, he came up with a plan of action. He would head into the city center by bus and buy some different clothes, if his card allowed him. After that, he would follow Gordy Lister till he found out what he needed to know.

The blood was flowing fast in Richard’s veins as he set out. He was doing something positive and he didn’t plan on letting anything knock him off course.

A visitor to Joe Greenbaum’s study would not have registered his presence behind the piles of books, folders and box files on his desk—until he lit one of the Cuban cigars, obtained from contacts in the intelligence world, and the smoke billowed up like a Native American signal.

Joseph Martin Greenbaum, doctorate from Harvard Business School, had grown up in Brooklyn. As the class genius, he’d been bullied at school until he’d put on enough weight to fight. Since then, he’d always had an interest in the underdog, which led him to investigate companies that mistreated their customers and workers. He had started writing the coruscating freelance reports that made his name during the Reagan presidency. His victims included a cigarette company that had paid for a whistle-blower to be run over, a bank that had used depositors’ funds to finance cocaine smuggling, and a blue-chip accountancy firm that had signed off on an oil company’s false tax returns. The magazines and newspapers who bought his articles knew they were always reliable. That was why Joe’s apartment was in a secure block in Adams Morgan, his doors reinforced by steel and his triple-glazed windows impenetrable by all but the heaviest caliber weapons.

Joe loved his work, but he was the first to admit it had disadvantages. He could never make a relationship with a woman last more than a month, though wearing spectacles with bottle-lenses probably didn’t help, either. He ended up staying in his apartment far too much. It wasn’t that he was afraid of the scumbags who were out to get him, it was rather that he enjoyed digging in companies’ entrails so much. And then there was his weight—250 pounds on a good day, more when he’d hit the Ben and Jerry’s big-time.

Right now none of that mattered to Joe. First, he had seen the news of Abraham Singer’s murder on the TV. He had only met the professor occasionally, but he’d liked his dispassionate take on Jewish culture and history. Joe himself had been brought up in the old ways, but he’d broken free of them at college. That didn’t mean he’d lost all respect for the faith. Singer hadn’t, either—he just put it under a more critical gaze than most believers. Joe’s immediate feeling was that the horrible way the professor was killed had nothing to do with rituals, as some of the reporters were saying. Joe was as socially progressive as it got, but he remained old-school in one way: whenever a Jew was killed, he put it down to anti-Semitism—until there was evidence to the contrary.