“If you had the perp’s knife,” said Riker, “you’d see the damage from the rock coming down on the top edge of the blade. But what are the odds he’ll get caught with the murder weapon? He can buy a new pocketknife in any pit stop on this road.”
Dale Berman took this as his cue to leave the table, and when he was gone, Charles turned to Riker. “You really think the killer used a knife to cut off the hands?”
“Naw,” said Riker, “it was probably a hatchet, but that was fun.” The detective watched the ongoing parking-lot search. Agents had opened the mobile home that dispensed camping equipment to newcomers, and now scores of brand-new hatchets were being laid out on the ground. “What a waste of time. What are the odds of finding a bloody hatchet with a store of new ones for the taking? That trailer’s never locked. Dale’s losing more IQ points every day.”
“What did that man do to you and Mallory?”
“Nothing. It was what he did to Lou.”
Charles smiled-patiently.
Reluctantly, Riker gave up the story of Inspector Louis Markowitz and the FBI. Between puffs of smoke, he described the day when Agent Berman joined the task force-to everyone’s surprise. “Dale used to be a public relations man for the Bureau. That means he sat on a lot of barstools with angry cops and nosey reporters. After getting blind drunk with Dale, sometimes I forgot why I hated feds.”
“You liked him then,” said Charles.
“Well, the drinks were free.”
“He used to be your friend. That’s why you always use his first name.”
“He talked more like a cop in those days,” said Riker. “Or maybe that was all for show. He said he always wanted to be a field agent. Well, he wasn’t b lowing smoke that time. He actually
asked
for a demotion. Lower pay, and no expense account for barstool duty. It made more sense to me later on-after Dale screwed us over. FBI careers are made on big cases- big wins, but the PR guys only come out of the woodwork when things go sour. So it was a good career move for Dale. His first time out with a task force, he talks Lou into taking his help on a kidnapping. A little boy was being held for ransom. Well, normally that’s a slam-dunk for NYPD. Hard to make a ransom pickup without getting caught, and the perps who try it are bone stupid. But this case was high profile. The kid came from money-big money, lots of pressure to wrap it fast. So we split the legwork with the feds. Lou had a prime suspect early on, but Dale alibied the guy with a bogus field report, and then he leaked the kidnapping to the press. Now the police phone lines are choked with calls and leads that go nowhere.”
“But why would he-”
“It kept us busy while Dale followed up on Lou’s suspect.”
“The one he alibied.”
“Right. So Dale’s crew works the case around the cops, and they bungle it. The suspect gets maimed in a high-speed chase across the bridge into Jersey. The kidnapper’s comatose. The victim’s s t ill out there-God knows where. And Lou Markowitz is so pissed off, he kicks all the feds out of the house. Now the old man puts every dick and uniform on the street to work their snitches. We get the name and address of our guy’s favorite whore-and that’s where we find the kid.”
“Alive?”
“Oh, sure. The NYPD always brings them home. But the FBI? Not such a great record. So the boy was fine. He thought this prostitute was his new nanny. And the kid really liked that whore. She let him stay up late on school nights.”
“And that’s why you and Mallory hate Dale Berman?”
“No, Charles, that’s not what you asked.”
“But, the other day, Berman was right when he said no one died.”
The detective bowed his head. This was Charles’s only clue that someone
had
died. And there would be no more discussion on this matter. It was too hard on Riker.
Mallory appeared beside Charles’s chair, and he wondered how long she had been standing there. He smiled, fully realizing that this expression gave him the look of a lunatic in love. “Hello! Sit down. Your lunch is cold. Sorry.”
No matter, for she was in the company of a young state trooper, who juggled a plastic bag and a tray with one hand so he could pull out a chair for her at the table. Once she was seated, the officer laid a plate of hot food in front of her.
“I hope it’s the way you like it, ma’am.” The eager young man in uniform removed his hat before he sat down at the table. As Charles introduced himself and Riker, it was clear that the trooper only had eyes for Mallory, who was making short work of her steak and fries.
Riker explained the trooper’s presence to Charles. “I asked the state cops to find the Pattern Man. He defected again.”
“Oh, if you mean Mr. Kayhill,” said the trooper, “we found him for you, sir. He’s dead.” The young man continued to smile at Mallory as he relayed this sad news. “Found him in the desert. A helicopter spotted his mobile home a mile from the nearest road.”
“Was one of his hands missing?” Mallory bit into a French fry drenched with ketchup.
“Ma’am, I couldn’t name three things that
weren’t
missing, and there’s not much flesh on what was left behind.”
“So the buzzards got him,” said Riker.
“No, sir, no buzzards. We do have turkey vultures out there, but they didn’t make off with his head. I guess every bobcat and coyote for miles around had a turn at the body. We’re still looking for arms and legs.”
“So tell me,” said Riker, “how’d you make the identification?”
“Well, sir, we had a good portion of the torso, so Mr. Kayhill’s doctor made the ID over the telephone. The man was born with an extra rib. It’s him all right.” The trooper handed a black plastic bag across the table. “Some of his things-if you wouldn’t mind having a look. Oh, and a Detective Kronewald in Chicago sends his regards.” The trooper nodded to the plastic bag. “He said you might want to check that out.”
Riker opened the bag for a quick look. Inside was the canvas tote bag with the collection of Route 66 maps. The familiar small crosses in pencil and ink were visible on one. “Good night, Horace.” He looked up at the trooper. “It’s his stuff all right. So I guess there’s no way to tell what killed the little guy.”
“A car killed him, sir. We found Mr. Kayhill’s shirt. Tread marks all over it.”
This could hardly be a traffic accident if the body had been found in the middle of nowhere-no roads. Charles leaned toward the young man, saying, “So Horace was murdered?”
“Yes, sir.” Unacquainted with rhetorical questions, the trooper phrased his words ever so politely. “With all that open space, you’d really have to aim a car at a man to hit him. In this case, we got cross tread marks. That means the car hit him more than once. So, yes, sir, we thinks it was real deliberate.”
“Well, poor man.” Charles was somewhat put off his meal. “This is sad news.”
“You don’t know the half of it,” said Riker with genuine remorse. “I really liked that little guy. He was on my shortlist-right up near the top.”
“I always liked him, too.” Mallory opened a small notebook and crossed Horace Kayhill’s name off her own suspect list. After slinging her knapsack over one shoulder, she picked up the laptop computer and left the table.
The trooper was rising, anxious to follow her, perhaps with the idea that they could be close friends. Riker, with the kindest intention in his smile, placed an avuncular hand on the younger man’s shoulder, saying, “No, kid. Only if you
like
pain.”
On the pretense of returning
Kayhill’s bag of maps to the state trooper, Detective Riker carried his cell phone out to the parking lot. He needed privacy for his incoming call. After settling into the front seat of the Mercedes, he resumed his conversation with New York’s chief medical examiner. “Hey, Doc, thanks for waiting. So how’s it going?”
“Kathy Mallory never answers her phone,” said Dr. Slope.
Thank you, God.
“That’s okay,” said Riker. “I take messages.” And before the medical examiner could make contact with his partner, Riker would have to officially notify her that Savannah Sirus was dead. Otherwise, Dr. Slope would find it odd that she had never been told, and the old man might have a few questions.
“Tell her this,” said Slope. “I am
not
her personal funeral director. Then tell her the crematorium called. They’d like to know when she plans to pick up Miss Sirus’s ashes… Riker?… Still there?”
“Yeah, Doc.”
“So what should I tell them?”
“Soon-a few more days. So when did you talk to Mallory?”
“She might’ve called the day after we found the body. I didn’t s peak to her myself. I assume you were the one who told her about the suicide.”
“Yeah,” said Riker, in his first lie of the day. In Mallory fashion, he cut off the call with no good-bye.
How had she known that Savannah was dead? Was the woman’s suicide so predictable? Had Mallory made the connection between a LoJack tracker on her tail in the state of Illinois and sudden death in New York City? Maybe she had phoned her apartment that night and got no answer from her erstwhile houseguest. Was the morgue her next call?
He did not suspect Mallory of murder. Thanks to Charles Butler, there was no doubt that Savannah had shot herself. What made him close his eyes just now was the possibility that Mallory had stayed to watch.
Dr. Paul Magritte
held his cell phone to one ear as he checked the rearview mirror. He was not expecting to see the FBI moles driving behind him. Those two were so preoccupied with one another. He doubted that they would notice his absence for some time yet. He was looking in the mirror for a car that would keep pace with him. He slowed down, and all the traffic went whizzing past his Lincoln.
For the past few miles, he had believed that he was being closely observed as he followed his orders and left the parking lot to ride the interstate. However, now he realized that his caller was not behind him, but up ahead-waiting. The constant phone requests for his exact position could have no other explanation.
He pulled onto the shoulder of the interstate and left the car, removing his jacket as he walked toward an exit sign. He trusted that Mallory, who missed nothing, would remember this article of clothing. Even if she did not recall its color and herringbone pattern, the sight of it waving in the wind-that would be meaningful to her. He devoutly believed that the young detective would be the one to find him.
He laid his plans on faith-in her.
Riker opened the car’s trunk
and tossed in the black plastic bag with Horace Kayhill’s maps.
He heard the shouts before he saw Mallory winding her way through the haphazard lanes of parked cars. Dale Berman called out to her, hurrying now to match steps with her longer legs, and then the man put one hand on her shoulder. Never breaking stride, she turned to give him a look that made him think better of annoying her anymore. Finally the fed gave up and returned to the restaurant.
And Mallory kept coming.
Riker closed the trunk and leaned back against the car. When she joined him, his eyes shifted to the retreating back of Dale Berman. “What was that about?”
She set the laptop on the trunk of the Mercedes and opened it. “I told him I knew he was dragging out this case.”
“Well,” said Riker, “I guess the longer he drags it out the greater the glory. Some people just like to see their names in the newspaper.”
“That’s not it. He did everything he could to keep the media away from this case.” She powered up the laptop and turned the screen so he could see it. “You thought Dale Berman was just incompetent.”
“Well, yeah, but that’s true.”
She shook her head. “I told you the screwups were over the top-even for Berman. So I followed the money.”
Ah, Mallory’s all-time favorite. Trust her to find a money motive in the slaughter of little girls. He stared at the glowing screen of number columns. “What am I looking at?”
“Dale Berman’s payroll records. He’s been reporting fifty hours of overtime every week.” She pulled a notebook from her back pocket and pointed to a November date. “That’s when Berman takes early retirement from the Bureau. I found the paperwork in his car.” She turned back to the laptop screen. “Now look at these figures for earnings with overtime.”
Riker whistled in appreciation of the large sum. “Dale’s really building up his retirement fund.”
“You’re close,” said Mallory. “This has been going on for years. He started padding his paychecks after the Bureau buried him in North Dakota.”
“You see? I told you he was an idiot. That state only has a handful of people and some buffalo. Nobody does overtime.”
“And Dale worked in a satellite office-no oversight. That’s what triggered this audit.” Mallory diddled the keyboard to show him a new set of figures. “Lots of pressure-the auditors are coming. He has to explain the overtime. A federal payroll scam is worth five years in prison. So he makes a bogus file for Mack the Knife, and he backdates it.”
Riker shook his head in disbelief. “That’s good for another charge- falsifying government documents. More jail time. I told you he was an idiot.”
“No,” said Mallory, “he was a man with a high-maintenance wife and a field agent’s pay grade.”
“And he was stuck in a backwater office with no action, no overtime.”
“So he gave himself a bigger salary,” said Mallory. “That’s how it started, and then it snowballed. Berman can’t c lose out a bogus case with no results-not right after an audit. It has to look like an ongoing investigation. Then he gets posted to a Texas field office. He’s running it-all those eyes on him every day. More pressure. He can’t leave the bogus case with another agent in North Dakota. So he develops a false lead in the Texas jurisdiction. The overtime keeps rolling in, but he’s not doing it for the money now. He can’t stop. He only has two years to retirement, and he needs a real live serial killer.”