Dead Even (11 page)

“Cahill . . . yes. Thanks. Give me a minute to find something to write that down.” She disappeared into the house, then returned a few minutes later. “I appreciate the information. Thanks so much . . .”

“Telford PD,” she explained as she tucked the phone back into her jacket pocket. “I’d asked them to check Unger’s room for a business card from anyone who might be a writer. They found one with the name Joshua Landry on it. Sound familiar?”

“Of course. True-crime writer. Picks up on cold cases and tries to solve them. Does all the talk shows, the morning shows. Made a big splash a year or so ago when he solved an old murder in Wisconsin, then another in Michigan. I have a bunch of his books.”

“Me, too. He’s really good.”

“Agreed. So, he was the writer who came to see Al Unger a few weeks back. Not too tough to figure out what he was interested in. Wonder what his angle was going to be.”

“I think we should ask him.”

“I think you’re right.”

“Should we call, or pay a visit?”

“I think we should speak with him in person.”

“I agree,” Miranda told him. “I’ll call him first just to make sure he’s home today.”

“Where does he live?”

From her pocket Miranda pulled the slip of paper on which she’d written the information given to her by the Telford police.

“New Jersey. Near Princeton.”

“Maybe we can catch an afternoon flight.”

“Last minute on a Saturday? Doubtful. It will take less time to drive.” She dialed Landry’s number and smiled up at Will. “Especially if I drive . . .”

The ride to Joshua Landry’s home wound through several miles of flat farmland outside the Princeton borough limits. Following the directions Landry had given them over the phone, they found his two-hundred-year-old farmhouse at the end of a long lane, guarded by trees splendid in autumn golds and reds and overlooking a small, peaceful pond. Mature woods along the back of the property added yet more color, and a large well-kept barn completed the picture of pastoral serenity. All was as perfectly composed as a painting, and impeccably maintained.

“Who says crime doesn’t pay?” Miranda said dryly as she parked next to a Jeep near the barn.

“He’s sure found a way.” Will got out of the car and stretched the kinks from his long legs. He wished Miranda had fallen in love with a car that had a little more legroom.

“Wow. He’s got, what, twenty, thirty acres here. Pool and pool house out back. Tennis courts over near the barn. Looks like a little guesthouse out there as well. Nice.” Miranda nodded as they walked to the front porch. “Very, very nice.”

Will leaned past her and rang the doorbell.

A moment later, the door opened, and a woman in her mid-thirties greeted them. She wore faded jeans and a cornflower-blue sweater that matched her eyes. A haze of blonde hair framed her pretty face.

“Agent Cahill?” the woman asked.

“Yes. This is Agent William Fletcher,” Miranda replied.

“I’m Regan Landry. Please come in. My father is waiting for you in his study.” She smiled and stepped aside to permit her guests to enter, then closed the door behind them. “This way . . .”

They followed her down the hall, over highly polished oak floors upon which lay a well-worn carpet of reds and creams and golds. American primitive artwork flanked the walls on either side, and a huge bouquet of fresh flowers sat on an antique table. The overall impression was one of comfort and quiet wealth.

“Dad, your visitors are here,” Regan announced as she showed the two agents into a large square room, three walls of which were lined with bookshelves. The fourth wall was mostly glass and looked out over the pond.

“Well, come in, come in.” Joshua Landry rose from his leather chair near the window and greeted them with enthusiasm. He was a tall, well-built man in his late sixties, with broad shoulders and a shock of white hair and piercing eyes that were the same intense shade of blue as his daughter’s. “Please, sit. Here, Agent . . .”

“Cahill. Miranda Cahill.” Miranda shook the hand he offered.

“Will Fletcher,” Will introduced himself.

“Welcome, both of you. Here, let’s sit over here.” He ushered them toward the sofa. “You’ve met my daughter. . . .”

“Yes.” Miranda smiled as she took a seat.

“What can we offer you? Tea? Coffee?” Landry seemed to hover.

“You don’t need to—”

“Of course, we do. It isn’t every day that we get a visit from the FBI.”

“Tea would be fine,” Miranda said, “if it isn’t too much trouble.”

“I was just making a pot.” Regan smiled hospitably. “My mother was English, and she and Dad lived outside of London for years. They always had tea together around this time every day, so we still do. Old habits die hard.” She turned to Will. “Agent Fletcher?”

“Actually, water would be fine.”

“I’ll just be a minute, then.” She glanced over at her father before leaving the room. “Need anything, Dad?”

“Just tea. Thanks, sweetheart.” After she left, Landry turned to Miranda and Will and said, “I had a bit of a go-round with my cardiologist this week, and everyone’s acting like they expect me to keel over at any minute. Which I can guarantee you is not going to happen.”

“Oh. Are you sure you want to—” Miranda began.

He waved away her concern.

“It’s nothing. Doctors always make a big deal out of the least little thing, don’t you think? I wish I hadn’t even mentioned it to Regan. Since her mother died, she thinks she has to watch over me, you know? Only child and all that.”

“Well, I’m sure she’s concerned . . .” Miranda said, and once again he waved her off.

“I keep telling her, Get on with your life. But she keeps taking these guest lectures within a stone’s throw of my front door. This semester she’s at Penn, so she’s just an hour away in Philly.”

“Does she live here, then?” Miranda asked.

“No. She’s staying with a friend from college in the city until she finishes up there, then she’ll go back to her own place. She bought herself a nifty little place on the Eastern Shore, spends most of her time there. These days she just drops in often enough to get on my nerves.” He laughed. “I know she means well. And I appreciate her, I do. I just don’t want her to worry so much about me. Now,” he moved past the subject of his health, “you mentioned on the phone that you were looking into the death of Albert Unger. Why would the FBI be interested in the death of an old man whose claim to fame was the murder of a junkie prostitute some thirty years ago?”

“We wanted to ask you the same question about your interest, Mr. Landry,” Will said. “Unger told us you paid a visit to him, not so long ago.”

Landry sat back in his leather chair and crossed his legs. “It certainly shouldn’t surprise you that I’d be interested in speaking with him. After all, he is the man who killed the mother of Curtis Alan Channing, a man whose . . . career . . . is most interesting to me. And to the public. He’s become quite notorious in a very brief time. With his death earlier this year, and the coming to light of his crimes, well, naturally, I’m going to gather all the information I can.”

“Unger mentioned that you and Channing had corresponded at one time,” Miranda said.

“I was about to get to that, yes. Actually, it was a bit one-sided at first.” He paused as Regan came into the room with a tray. “Do you need help with that?”

“No, thanks.” She set the tray on the table that stood between the chair in which he sat and the sofa. She proceeded to pour tea and pass out cups.

“Yes, I received my first letter from Channing about six or seven years ago. Right after the publication of
The Killer Next Door.
”

“I remember that book,” Will told him as Regan handed him an ice-filled glass and a bottle of spring water. He thanked her and continued. “It followed the careers of several serial killers who had committed most of their murders right under the noses of their unsuspecting neighbors.”

“Yes.” Landry nodded. “People always seem to have this idea that serial murderers are evil-looking men whose very appearance gives them away. The truth is, there is no type; there is no look. It can be—and often is—the boy next door.”

“In every case—at least, in every case you wrote about in that book—when the arrests were made, the neighbors all said, ‘But he was such a nice young man. . . .’ ”

“Exactly the point of the book,” Landry told him.

“Why did Channing write to you?” Miranda asked.

“Because he’d read the book. He said that at first he’d picked it up because he thought perhaps there was some connection, some psychic nonsense—my middle name happens to be Channing—that our having the same name was a sign that he should read the book. Later I realized he probably meant, his being a serial killer, and my studying, writing about them.”

“He told you he was a killer?” Miranda’s eyebrows rose.

“No, no. It wasn’t difficult to figure out over time, though. Of course, by the time I figured it out, he’d disappeared.” Landry stirred his tea absently. “The first letter, he took me to task, telling me where I’d gotten it all wrong.”

“Where you’d gotten what all wrong?”

“I delved quite deeply into the backgrounds of the four men I’d written about, which, of course, one would have to do if one was looking to explain such violent, aberrant behavior. All of these men were from terribly abusive homes, and had all either run away from home or had been shoved out of the nests by the time they were in their early teens. I stressed environment as the determining factor in making them what they had become.”

“And Channing disagreed?” Will asked.

“Channing believed you were born bad and stayed bad. That environment played no part,” Landry explained.

“He must have been in denial.” Miranda set her cup on the saucer. “You’d think that coming from his background—where his own mother had traded him, as a very young child, for drugs—he’d know damned well what part environment played.”

“Ah, but he never mentioned any of that to me. He spoke of his parents as exemplary folks, loving, kind. Perfect parents,” Landry said.

“Those would have been his foster parents,” Miranda told him. “They knew of his background and made every effort to help him overcome it. They were, by all accounts, wonderful people. But by the time he’d gotten to them, he’d been irreparably broken.”

“Of course, I didn’t know that at the time.” Landry nodded. “It certainly explains a lot. He was very adamant that I did not know what I was talking about and insisted that I should write another book and admit I was wrong.”

“How many times did he write to you?” Will asked.

“Several times, but he stopped writing when I started asking him questions about how he knew so much about the criminal mind. I invited him here to chat, offered to give him an opportunity to explain his point of view, but I never heard from him again. After a time, I just chalked him up as a crazy and forgot about him,” Landry said. “Then, a few months ago, I read about his long life of crime, and I looked up the letters—”

“You still have the letters?” Miranda appeared surprised.

“Yes. I don’t know why I kept them, frankly. Must have subconsciously suspected I’d hear of him again.”

“May we see them?” Will asked.

“Certainly. They’re in my office.” He started to get up, and Regan stopped him.

“I’ll get them, Dad. I know exactly where they are.” She turned to Miranda and Will and said, “I’ve reviewed them several times over the past few weeks, ironically, in preparation for a new book.”

“R. J. Landry,” Will said. “You’ve cowritten several books with your father.”

“Yes.” Regan nodded and appeared to be pleased by the recognition. “I’ll be right back with the letters.”

“She’s the real brains.” Landry tilted his head in his daughter’s direction. “Much better writer, much cleaner insights. Sharper instincts . . .”

Regan rolled her eyes and laughed as she left the room.

“Now, tell me, what exactly are you looking for in Channing’s letters?” Josh Landry ran a hand through his thick white hair. “I mean, the man is dead, and I can assure you he never mentioned a thing about having killed anyone. I would, of course, have gone straight to the police had he done so.”

“We’re sure you would have, Mr. Landry, but the truth is, we’re not investigating an old murder. We’re trying to prevent a future one,” Miranda told him. “Let me explain . . .”

She proceeded to tell him about the unholy trio who had put into play a game that required each man to kill three people who had, in some way, been a thorn in the side of one of the others.

“Hmmmm.” Landry stroked his chin, his eyes bright as he contemplated the scenario. “So you think this last fellow, this Lowell, is going to kill three people named by Channing. Interesting.”

Regan came back into the room carrying a red file, which she handed over to Miranda.

“Most of the letters are here,” Regan told her. “There are several others we’re still looking for. I think a few might have been misplaced when Dad hired a new secretary. She moved some files around, and there are some things still missing. But these will give you a start.”

“Thank you.” Miranda opened the folder.

“This Lowell . . . you say he’s not the killer type?” Landry directed the question to Will.

“We certainly didn’t think so. At least, not until Al Unger was murdered,” Will replied. “Even our profiler believed that Lowell wouldn’t play it out.”

“Wait a minute. What did I miss?” Regan asked. “Who is Lowell?”

“Archer Lowell,” Miranda said, and repeated the connection of Lowell to Channing.

“Three killers?” Regan’s eyebrows raised, and she glanced at her father. “There’s a story for you.”

“Indeed. I admit to being intrigued by what Agent Cahill has shared with us. Now, back to this Lowell fellow. You were saying that your profiler thought he wasn’t the killer type. Most people are repelled by the notion of killing, you know. Most normal people, anyway.”

“According to the reports I’ve heard, Lowell was definitely repelled by the photographs of Giordano’s victims,” Miranda told him as she skimmed the contents of the file.