Angel Dance (Danny Logan Mystery #1) (27 page)

“I guess, at least, that’s something to be thankful about,” Dwayne said.

“Yeah, I suppose,” Bergstrom said. “The pattern for these serial killers is that their killing spree usually gets more and more intense.”

“But Ridgway managed to keep it going eighteen years,” Toni said. “The story is that he went dark between ’84 and ’98. That, in itself, is pretty inexplicable compared to the norm—that a serial killer could start, then stop, then start again. I guess it just means that it’s hard, maybe impossible, to generalize the behavior of psychotic individuals. The standard deviation of the behavior pattern of the group is so high as to almost render the predictions of the actions of a single individual moot.”

“Standard deviation?” I asked. “You remember that from college?”

“Yeah,” Gus said. “And what’s a moot?” We laughed.

Bergstrom chuckled, and then he answered Toni. “Ignore these statistical ignoramuses,” he said, indicating Gus and me. “I think you’re probably right. As part of my job, I’ve tried to understand what makes these guys tick. I think that you can generalize a couple of things—they have no remorse—they’re going to do what makes them happy at the moment—and they look at everyone and everything around them as being disposable and there for their own use. But when you try to overlay that model across their actual day-to-day reality, things become fuzzy. The outcome can look almost random, because while we may agree on a behavior model, we don’t know how an individual psychotic person interprets and applies this behavior model to his immediate surroundings.”

“So,” I said, “I appreciate the theory. But do you think we can eliminate him?”

“Probably,” Bergstrom answered. “There’s a reasonable probability—better than fifty-fifty I’d say, that based on his previous history, he’s sated himself this year and won’t feel the urge to kill number six until next year.”

“Unless he changes agendas,” Toni said.

“Right. In the real world, as we’ve pointed out, it’s hard to predict the actions of a psycho.”

We thanked Bergstrom and left his office, thinking we were done.

As we waited for the elevator, Dwayne checked his watch. “Perfect. We’ve got one more stop,” he said. “Follow me.”

~~~~

We went back up the elevator to the eighth floor. Instead of turning left off the elevator and proceeding toward Dwayne’s office, we turned right. Halfway down the corridor, we entered a room with no title on the door. Inside, the large room was empty except for rows of file cabinets on the outside and empty bull pen–type cubicles in the center.

“Come on back,” Dwayne said. We followed him. There was a doorway at the back of the bull pen area. Dwayne knocked and said, “Cal? We’re here.”

A voice from inside the office called, “Come in.”

We entered and found ourselves in a large office on the east side of the building. Bright sunlight streamed through the windows in front of us. Four desks, separated by partitions, were located across from the window wall. Two men and a woman were seated at a large conference table that was located near the windows. Both men were sharply dressed in dark gray business suits. The woman was dressed in a dark blue pantsuit. With my shorts and faded Hawaiian shirt, I felt like a nudist at a fashion show.

They stood as we entered.

“Good morning,” Dwayne said.

“Hi, Dwayne,” one of the men said as he approached us.

“Danny Logan and Toni Blair of the Logan agency, meet Calvin Tompkins of Seattle PD’s Special Investigations section.”

Calvin Tompkins was at least six five and probably weighed two-fifty. He was well known in Washington for his play as middle linebacker for the Huskies.

“I watched you play at U-Dub,” I said. “I think you graduated when I was still a sophomore.”

“Class of ’05,” he said with a smile. His hand swallowed mine when we shook, but he didn’t have the bone-crunching grip that Bergstrom applied earlier.

“Zero eight for me and for my partner here as well, Antoinette Blair,” I said.

“Pleased to meet you,” Tompkins said, smiling at Toni. “I love your tattoos.”

“Thanks,” Toni said, fairly beaming. I think she may have batted her eyes, but I’m not sure.

“Allow me to introduce these folks,” he said, turning to the others. “This is Marcus Richards and Jennifer Thomas, special agents for the FBI.”

Richards was trim, average height, and had short dark hair plastered tightly to his head. Not particularly noticeable or memorable. Jennifer Thomas, on the other hand, made an impression. Blonde hair, a little past shoulder length. Blue eyes. Nobody I saw at Quantico when I was there looked like her. She looked like a cable news anchor. Hard to believe she was a federal agent.

“Mr. Logan,” she said, shaking my hand. “Pleased to meet you. When we were told we were going to meet civilian detectives at the police department, I was initially skeptical, so I did a little background checking. I see you spent some time at the FBI Academy?”

“I did,” I said. “I went through advanced training in Quantico the first part of 2006 while I was with Army CID.”

“And then later you got your degree while you were still in the army. When you got out, you opened Logan Private Investigations. Sounds like you had it all planned out.”

I nodded. “Pretty much,” I said.

“How’s it working out for you?”

I smiled. “Living the dream,” I said, holding up my Hawaiian shirt.

She had a beautiful smile when she laughed.

I never know what to make of women when they do this. Was she just making polite small talk? Probably. Was she flirting with me and providing me the keys to some sort of secret opening that I was supposed to recognize and take advantage of? Possible, I suppose, but probably not. If there was some sort of opening for me, it was too subtle for me to recognize. Was she trying to make her partner annoyed for some reason, maybe make him jealous? Could be. He looked annoyed, but maybe he was just a tightass and was always annoyed. Was she trying to make Toni annoyed or jealous—some sort of female competition thing? Maybe, although Toni wore a quizzical look that made her appear more amused than annoyed.

My point is, I have this suspicion that women have agendas when they’re making small talk like this, but it’s beyond my ability to figure it out. So I just take it as it comes and try not to overthink it. This may explain why I’m twenty-nine and single. But I digress. We took our seats at the conference table.

“Would you dim the lights?” Agent Thomas said to Cal. He did. She clicked a mouse on the conference table and a projection screen dropped down from the ceiling. Another click and a picture of a middle-aged man appeared on the screen.

“The reason for our meeting here this morning is because apparently Lieutenant Brown approached Detective Tompkins about the concern that the Calabria crime family out of Chicago may have some interest or involvement in the disappearance case of Ms. Gina Fiore, who is related to, albeit a cousin removed from, the Calabrias.”

She flipped open a steno pad with notes and referred to it. “Here’s what we have,” she said. “Detective Tompkins contacted our Seattle Field Office August 17. We contacted our Chicago Field Office the same day and asked them to keep an eye on any unusual comings and goings of the known senior members or the Calabria family. They had nothing to report until yesterday, when they alerted us that this man, Mr. Francesco Rossi, aka Frank Rossi, aka Frankie the Boot, left Chicago on Northwest Airlines Flight 784 bound for Seattle. Mr. Rossi is a first cousin of the Calabrias.”

I studied the photo. It showed a big guy, probably in his sixties. He was tall, perhaps six two or so judging by the way he filled the doorway in the photo. He had a full head of silver hair. The most noticeable features were the intense dark eyes and bushy eyebrows. The eyes looked like they could bore through granite like a laser.

Agent Thomas continued. “As soon as Chicago was able to identify his destination, they called us. We were able to get an agent to the airport here, and he took the picture you see in front of you as Mr. Rossi arrived at Sea-Tac at 4:15 yesterday afternoon.”

“This is pretty interesting,” I said. “Do you have any idea why this guy would suddenly decide to show up in Seattle?”

“Sorry,” she said. “Not a clue.”

“Do you know where he went after he landed here? Where he is now?”

“We didn’t have authorization to commit the necessary assets to conduct a proper surveillance operation, which would have included a tail,” she said. “Our agent at the airport did manage to follow Mr. Rossi long enough to confirm that he rented a car from the Hertz counter. Presumably, he picked it up at the airport lot.”

Interesting. One of Gina’s Chicago mob relatives suddenly just shows up in Seattle?

“What’s his background?” I asked. “Frankie the Boot?”

“Mr. Rossi was—perhaps still is—an enforcer for the Calabria family. We’re not certain. Plainly speaking, he’s a hit man. He earned his nickname as a young man in the organization when one of his early victims suddenly came back to life after being shot by Mr. Rossi. A group of Calabria made men were standing around the victim, apparently about to celebrate his demise, when the victim decided that he no longer wanted to be the center of attention. Gunshot wound and all, he tried to get up. Mr. Rossi apparently became first embarrased, then enraged so he proceeded to kick the victim back down. Then he stomped the poor man in the head with his boots until he literally crushed the guy’s skull. In the twisted world of the Chicago mob, this apparently made Mr. Rossi quite popular. He was labeled ‘Frankie the Boot’ and his ruthless actions here and later in his career paved the way for his eventual rise to a very high, very trusted position in the organization. We haven’t had him on our radar for a while, but who knows? Maybe Frankie the Boot’s back in business.”

“This just keeps getting curiouser and curiouser,” Gus said.

“Got that right,” I agreed.

Chapter 17

AT A QUARTER
to one, I was in the copy room of our office printing agendas for the staff meeting. I’d already prepared an agenda for what was to have been the meeting this morning. Now, four hours later, much of the information used to create that agenda was obsolete. So I restarted from scratch. I’d just finished typing a new one, and I absentmindedly fed the sheets through the copy machine.

Kenny and Doc were in Kenny’s office next door to the copy room talking about girls—Kenny’s favorite subject. Kenny’s proud of the fact that he is a bona fide geek. He’s twenty-five years old, and he looks like he’s going on seventeen. He probably never got laid once in high school, and he’s working hard to make up for it now. The guy has amazing luck with some surprisingly good-looking women, although most of them are quite young. He’s bold, fearless, and obviously armed with an amazing intellect. He’s also armed with a pretty good-sized wallet, more a result of his side jobs for the IT giants than for the relatively small amount I’m able to pay him. I’m sure this doesn’t hurt the dating situation.

Doc’s the complete opposite. He is the epitome of the strong silent type. And he’s completely monogamous. In fact, I’ve only seen him with one woman, ever. While we were both at Fort Lewis, he introduced me to a dark-haired PFC he called Dot. He was completely ape-shit over her. Dot—her real name was Dahteste Belacho, was a very pretty young army private who was born on the Mescalero Reservation in New Mexico—the same reservation where Doc was born. I suppose it was natural for the two of them to hook up. I knew Doc reasonably well then. I saw them often, in fact, I never saw the two of them apart for the next few months. Dot and Doc—he was as happy and content as any man I’d ever seen, as happy as a man could wish to be. Until one morning he called my apartment early, nearly incoherent.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, alarmed.

“She’s gone,” he said, weeping.

“What do you mean?”

“She’s gone. The MPs just came by. She went out running this morning like she always does, and she got hit by a car. She’s gone, Danny.”

I rushed over and took Doc to the hospital. The doctor met us and told us Dot had died almost instantly at the scene of the accident.

Doc transformed almost instantly right before my eyes—I never saw anything like it. He changed from nearly inconsolably grief-stricken one instant to completely blank—emotionless—the next. One moment, he was crying, barely able to walk. The next, there were no tears, was no waver in his voice, and he had ramrod-straight posture. It was like his mind flipped a switch, and he completely sucked in his external grief. I knew him by then, and I knew the grief wasn’t gone, it was just hidden away from the public. But it was still there.

I was able to arrange it, so I went with Doc back to New Mexico. We buried his woman on the sacred ground of his people. I think a part of Doc died with her, and I’ve never seen him with another woman since.

Four years later, I think Doc’s kind of recovered. He still doesn’t date, but I think he’s happy. He seems to enjoy talking to Mr. Swordsman—Kenny. It seems to amuse him and, I imagine, it’s somehow good for him.

“Did you see that black leather shit she wore yesterday?” I overheard Kenny ask.

“Yeah.”

“I couldn’t get up from my desk, if you know what I mean.”

Doc chuckled.

“All I got to say is that it’s too fucking bad she plays for the other team.”

“What do you mean?” Doc asked.

“You know, she swings from the other side of the plate. She likes the ladies.”

“Bullshit,” Doc answered.

“It’s true,” Kenny said, “I swear it.”

“You’re full of shit. How do you know?”

“You ever see her with a guy?”

“That’s bullshit,” Doc said. “You ever see me with a girl?”

“No,” Kenny answered. “I’ve never seen you with anybody.”

“You go around telling people I swing from the other side?”

“Course not.”

“Good thing. I’ll cut your
huevos
off and feed them to the buzzards if you do.”

“You don’t dress up in black leather.”

“What the hell does that mean? She looks good in black leather, you idiot. She’s making an impression.”