The Maze (10 page)

“I've given this a lot of thought.”

“You found me out so quickly, I'm sure that you've had plenty of time to figure out everything.”

“Look at me, Sherlock.”

She looked. Then suddenly she began to laugh. “You look like Heathcliff: brooding, piercing eyes, and dangerous. I remember thinking once that you had summer-blue eyes, a dreamer's eyes. But not now. You could kill easily now.”

He wanted to smile, but he didn't. Dreamer's eyes? Jesus, that was nuts. He said, “I've reviewed the seven murders this guy did seven years ago. I called Ralph Budnack in Boston and asked if he'd heard of any murders committed with this same M.O. other than the one they'd had just the other day. He said they hadn't heard about other murders, but that they'd just realized they had a serial killer on their hands, a guy who'd struck in San Francisco seven years ago.” He paused a moment, turning at the unearthly cooing of a pigeon.

“I finally managed to get in to see Detective Budnack,” Lacey said. “He wouldn't even talk to me. He said I was a sicko and that they didn't need any help.”

“I know. I spoke to him right after he kicked you out of his office.”

She wanted to hit him. “That was Tuesday afternoon. You didn't say a damned thing about it when I called you that night!”

“That's right. Why should I?”

“Well, so you really didn't have to, but you knew. You knew all the time what I was trying to do.”

“Oh yes. Tell me, Sherlock, what did you do for the other two days?”

“Nothing that got me anywhere. The medical examiner wouldn't talk to me even when I managed to lie my way in.
With my background, it wasn't that hard. But he was closemouthed, said he didn't like outsiders poking their noses in his business. I spoke to the main reporter at the
Boston Globe
. His name's Jeb Stuart, of all things. He didn't know much more than was in the paper. I bought him dinner and he spilled his guts, but there wasn't much I could use. Then I came home. To you. To get the ax for being a fool.”

Savich looked out over the park. He leaned back, stretching out his arms on the bench back. Horns sounded in the background, the sun slivered through the thick canopy of oak leaves, a father was shouting at his kid. “The Boston police have asked for our help. Why didn't you tell Lieutenant Budnack that you were FBI? Chances are good he would have cooperated.”

“I knew that if I did, you'd hear about it and aim your computer toward Boston and you'd find out everything. Of course you did that anyway. I should have shown my badge. Maybe I would have gotten something before Budnack tossed me out on my ear. I was stupid. I didn't think it through. I thought if I pretended to be a member of the Ramsgate family, it would be my best shot at getting information.” A pigeon darted close to her feet, then away again. “They're used to being fed,” she said, watching the pigeon begin to pace in front of her. “I hope the person who feeds them isn't dead.”

“Old Sal usually sits here. She isn't here this afternoon because she's picking up her Social Security check. Her health is better than yours. She has names for all the pigeons. Now, what are you planning to do?”

She stood abruptly and looked down at him, hands on hips. “What do you want from me? I already told you I'd resign.”

“Then I suppose you'll hightail it up to Boston and go on a one-woman hunt for the String Killer?”

“Yes. I have to. I've prepared myself. I've waited a very long time for him to strike again.”

“Very well. I don't seem to have any choice.” He stood up abruptly. He was very big. Inadvertently, she took a step back.

He looked impatient. “You afraid I'll throw you here in the park?”

No, she'd been afraid that he'd kill her. Just as that man
had killed Belinda. She tried to shrug it off. “I guess I'm just a bit nervous. Sorry. What don't you have a choice about? You have a choice about everything.”

“If you only knew,” he said, and plowed his fingers through his hair. “I had you call me every night from Boston because I was afraid you'd get yourself into trouble.”

“I'm a trained FBI agent. What trouble? Even if I couldn't get to my gun, I sure know how to fall.”

He grinned down at her, raised his hand, then lowered it. “Okay, here's what's going to happen. You know more about this guy than any other living person. Would you say that's accurate?”

“Yes.” Her heart began to beat in a slow cadence. “I guess you know I printed out all the police and autopsy reports from the seven murders in San Francisco?”

He nodded, looking toward an old woman who was pulling a grocery cart loaded with bags filled with old clothes, cardboard, empty cola bottles. “It's Old Sal. I'll introduce you, then we need to get back.”

Old Sal just looked her over with very worldly, bloodshot eyes. She could have been any age from fifty to ninety.

“Get your check, Sal?”

“Yeah, Dillon, I got it. You feed my little birdies?”

“No, Sherlock here wanted to, but I wouldn't let her.”

The old eyes turned to her. “You Sherlock?”

“Yes, ma'am. Nice to meet you.”

“You be good to my boy here, you get me, young lady?”

“I'm not a young lady, ma'am, I'm an FBI agent.”

Savich laughed. “She's right, Sal. I rather think I'll be the one taking care of her.”

“You get your problems solved, dear, then you can play with my boy here. He's a good lad.”

“I will, ma'am.”

“I don't like this ma'am stuff.”

“It's okay, Sal. She calls me sir, right to my face, as if I were her father or something even worse.”

“How old are you, Sherlock?”

“I'm twenty-seven.”

“That's a good age. Dillon is thirty-four. Just turned thirty-four three and a half weeks ago. We had a little party for him
here. Me and my birdies. Is Sherlock your first or last name?”

“It's my last name, Sal. My first name's Lacey.”

“Huh. I like Sherlock better. It gives you distinction.”

“I agree.”

“You need anything, Sal?”

“No, Dillon. I just want to sit in this lovely sun, rest my bones, and feed my birdies. I got them a pound of unsalted peanuts. I don't want to harden their little arteries.”

Lacey was still smiling when they went back into the Hoover Building.

She wasn't smiling ten minutes later.

11

“S
O HE'S
going to take you to Boston. How'd you manage that, Sherlock?”

Hannah Paisley was leaning over her, her voice low and furious in her ear.

“You shouldn't be going. You're new, you don't know anything. You don't deserve to go. It's because you're sleeping with him, isn't it?”

Lacey slowly turned in her chair, looking up. “No, Hannah. Stop this. This is all business, nothing else. Why don't you believe me?”

“You're lying, damn you. I've seen women look at him. They all want him.”

“Ollie told me that Savich doesn't believe in becoming involved with anyone in his unit. That includes all of us, Hannah. If you want him, then I suggest you transfer out. Listen, I just want to catch this monster in Boston. Actually I did lie. I do want Savich's brain and his expertise. Does that count? Is that brain lust?”

Finally Hannah had left.

Now Lacey leaned her head back against her new sofa and grabbed one of the fat pillows to hug. She closed her eyes and thought of the woman who had just about everything and wanted more. She was sorry if Hannah loved Savich, but there was nothing either of them could do about it. Hannah had to get a grip. Lacey was the last woman on earth who was a threat to her. No matter now. She wouldn't worry about it anymore. It was Savich's problem. She leaned over and stared at the phone. She picked up the receiver, stared at it some
more, then took a deep breath. She dialed the number very slowly.

It rang once, twice, then “Hello, Judge Sherlock here.”

“Hello, Dad.”

“Lacey?”

“Yes, Dad.”

“This is a surprise. You usually only write. Is something wrong?”

“No. I just didn't have time to write. How are you? How is Mom?”

“Your mother is the same as ever, as am I. So Douglas tells me you're in this special unit in the FBI and then I read about you and this genius guy catching that murderer in Chicago. You happy now?”

She ignored the sarcasm in his voice, but it was difficult. She'd always hated that awful cutting tone of his that used to annihilate her when she was growing up. In letters, she usually missed it, which was one reason why she only wrote him letters. But there was no time for a letter now. “Dad, he's struck again.”

“What? Who's struck whom?”

“The monster who murdered Belinda. He's struck again in Boston. He killed a woman exactly the same way he killed the seven women in San Francisco. It's been exactly seven years since he stopped. It's a cycle. He's on a seven-year cycle.”

There was no sound, no breathing, nothing.

“Dad? He's begun again. Didn't you understand me?”

“Yes, Lacey, I understand you.”

“I'm going to Boston tomorrow morning with my boss, Dillon Savich, who's the chief of the Criminal Apprehension Unit. I'm going to catch this monster, Dad. Finally, I'm going to get him.”

She was breathing hard. There was nothing but silence on the other end of the line. She drew a deep breath. She had to calm down. She didn't want to sound like some sort of obsessed nut.

But she was. That monster had taken everything from her and left her with a fear she'd managed to control, but it was there still, deep inside of her. No, it wasn't just for her. She
just wanted to get this scum off the streets. She wanted to shoot him herself.

“Lacey? What do you mean, you're going to catch him? You're not involved. Leave it to the professionals.”

“That's what I am, Dad.”

“No,” he said, angry now. “No, you're not. You're a scared little girl. I think you should come home now. Listen to me. Your sister's been dead seven years. Seven years, Lacey. Douglas told me what you were doing, but I didn't want to believe it. We all know you've given up the last seven years of your life. It's way beyond time to let go of it. Forget it. Come home. I'll take care of you. You can play the piano again. You enjoyed that, and it sure as hell won't get you killed. I won't say a word about law school. Come home.”

Forget it? Forget what that butcher had done to Belinda, to her? She drew a deep breath. “How is Mom?”

“What? Oh, your mother. She had a quiet day. Her nurse, Miss Heinz, told me at dinner that she ate well and she watched television,
The Price Is Right
, I believe it was, with seeming understanding.”

“I'm not like my mother.”

“No, certainly you're not. But this has got to stop, Lacey.”

“Why?”

“Let the police catch that madman.”

“I am the police. The highest police in the land.”

He was silent for a very long time, then he said quietly, “Your mother began this way.”

“I must be going, Dad. I had hoped you'd be pleased that I have a shot at catching this monster.”

Her father said nothing at all.

To her shock, a soft whispery voice came on the line. “Is that you, Lacey?”

“Hello, Mom. You sound great. How do you feel?”

“I'm hungry, but Nurse Heinz won't get me anything from the kitchen. I'd like some chocolate chip cookies. You always liked chocolate chip cookies when you were small, I remember.”

“I remember too, Mom.”

“Don't try to catch the man who murdered Belinda. He's
too dangerous. He's insane, he'll kill you and I couldn't bear that. He's—”

The line went dead, then the familiar dial tone.

The phone rang again immediately. It was her father. “I'm sorry, Lacey. I was so agitated that I dropped the phone. Listen, I'm scared. I don't want anything to happen to you.”

“I understand, but I must try to catch him. I must.”

She heard him sigh. “I know. Be careful.”

“I will.” She looked at the receiver a moment, then gently laid it back in its cradle. She looked at the lovely Bentrell paintings on the stretch of white wall. Landscapes—rolling hills, some grazing cows, a small boy with a bucket on either end of a pole, carried across his back and balanced over his shoulders. She slowly lowered her face into her hands and cried. She saw her father's face from seven years ago, silent and still, no expression at all, just the silence of the grave, and he'd leaned down and whispered very softly in her ear, just after Belinda's funeral, when she'd been so blank, so hollow, but not quite yet utterly terrified, “It's over, thank the good Lord. You'll survive, Lacey. She was only your half sister, try to remember that.”

And she'd just stared at him as if he were crazier than her mother. Only her half sister? That was supposed to mean something? It had only been three days later when the first nightmare had come in the deep of the night and her grief had become terror.

When the doorbell rang, she nearly shrieked, memories from the past overlaying the present. It was the doorbell, that was all, just the doorbell. Still, where was her gun? She looked frantically around the living room. There was her purse. She always carried her Lady Colt in her purse, in addition to the holster with her SIG.

She grabbed it, feeling its cold smoothness caress her hand like a lover even as the doorbell sounded again. She moved to stand beside the door.

“Sherlock? You there? Come on, I see the lights. Open the damned door!”

She nearly shuddered with relief as she shucked off the two chains, clicked back the dead bolt, and unlocked the door.

He was standing there in a short-sleeved shirt, jeans, and
running shoes. A pale blue sweater was tied in a knot around his neck. She'd seen male models in magazines dressed like that—with the knotted sweater—and thought it looked ridiculous. It didn't on him. He was frowning at her.

He stepped inside, still frowning. “That's quite a display of gadgets you've got on that door. A strong guy, though, could just kick it in.”

She hadn't thought of that. She lowered the gun to her side, still saying nothing. She would have to reinforce the door. No, she was being absurd.

He closed the door behind him. “I wanted to see if you were furnished yet,” he said, and walked into the living room. He looked around at the very expensive furnishings, then whistled. “The FBI must pay you too much. When did you get all this stuff, Sherlock?”

He was acting as though nothing was wrong. He was acting as though she was normal. She was normal. She gently laid her Lady Colt on the lamp table beside the sofa. “I'm not much of a shopper, and Sally Quinlan had to cancel out on me. I just called an interior designer in Georgetown and told him what I wanted and needed in place before my boss found out. He took care of it. Really fast.”

He turned slowly to look at her. “As I said, we must pay you too much.”

“No, I have a trust fund. Normally I don't ever dip into it. I don't need to, but I wanted this place furnished and I didn't want to take the time to do the shopping myself. I knew you'd keep after me until I at least got a sofa.”

“The trust is from your grandmother, right? If I remember correctly, she died four years ago and left you a bundle.”

“Yes.” She wasn't at all surprised. “Please tell me you have better things to do with your time than memorize my personal history.”

“Yeah, I'll tell you about my better things if you tell me why you've been crying.”

Her hands went to her face. She'd forgotten. She stared at him, straight in the eye, and said, “I have an allergy.”

“Yeah, right. Just look at all the pollen floating around in the air in here. Come on, who upset you?”

“It's nothing, sir, nothing at all. Now, would you like a cup of coffee? Some tea?”

“Tea would be great.”

“Equal in it?”

“Nah, only women use Equal. Make mine plain.”

“No chemicals for you?”

He just grinned at her as he followed her to the kitchen. A whole row of shiny new appliances, from a blender to a Cuis-inart, were lined up on the pale yellow tiles. “No,” he said, more to himself than to her, “not all of them are unused. I see you've pushed buttons on the microwave, but nothing else.”

“That's right,” she said coolly, as she put the teapot spout beneath the water spigot. “However, I've always believed that woman can indeed live by microwave alone,” she added, trying to smile at him, which really wasn't all that difficult. She turned on the electric burner. “As for the toaster, that needs bread and I haven't bought any yet.”

She said over her shoulder as she set the kettle on the stove, “I'm not packed yet, sir, but I will be ready in time. I will meet you at the airport tomorrow morning.”

“I know,” he said, staring at the bread maker that looked like a lonely white block at the end of the counter. “You know how to use that thing?”

“No, but a recipe book came with it. The designer said that every modern kitchen needs one.”

“Why were you crying, Sherlock?”

She just shook her head, went to the cabinet, and got down two teacups and saucers.

“You got any cheap mugs? I don't want to get my pinky fingers near those. They look like they cost more than I make in a week.”

“I guess they do. The guy went overboard on some of the things.”

“I thought women liked to pick out their own dishes.”

“Actually, I thought everyone did, guys included. But I just didn't want to take the time. There's too much happening that's so much more important. I told you.”

“Come to think of it, I did pick out my own dishes. They're microwavable.”

“So are mine. That was the only criterion on my list, that and not too much fancy stuff.”

“Why were you crying?”

“I would appreciate it if you would leave that alone, sir.”

“Call me Savich and I might.”

“All right, Savich. Old Sal calls you Dillon. I think I like that better.”

“What's the guy's name?”