Insidious (3 page)

“Cam, I told you one of the reasons we selected you is because of your L.A. connections. You were born and grew up in Malibu, and as you know, Connie Morrissey’s murder happened in the Colony, in Malibu, not far from your parents’ house. Your folks are actors. They’re still active, aren’t they?”

“Oh yes. I guess you could say acting is their life. They play stock characters now, mostly. Movies, TV, anything they can get. They enjoy working as much as Michael Caine, Dad told me, only for a lot less money.” She gave him a fat smile, showing nice white teeth and a dimple in her left cheek. “I do know the alligators in this particular swamp and they’re a special breed. Their brains, well, they don’t work quite like ours do.”

“You mean normal, like cops?”

She laughed. “My folks think an alien deposited me in the hospital nursery, since I’ve never had any interest in the business. Thank you for asking for me, Agent Savich— Dillon.”

He smiled at her. “Try to remember that only bad guys call me Agent Savich.”

“When you have them in a half nelson, right?”

“Sometimes. With the murder in Las Vegas, we have five dead movie stars, all young women, in four different jurisdictions. The Serial’s M.O. is
always the same. He cuts the alarm wires, comes in through the back door, cuts their throats during the night when they’re in bed, asleep. There’s never been any signs of a struggle. Then he’s gone. Clean, fast, silent. Now, something that’s been kept out of the news: he takes their tablets or laptops and their cell phones.”

Cam sat forward. “Any idea why? You think he’s afraid there’s something to connect them to him?”

“We don’t know yet, but we know they’re important to him. This past Saturday night in Las Vegas, not even the burglar surprising the Serial was enough to rattle him. Even when he couldn’t catch the burglar, he didn’t panic. He went back and took the victim’s Toshiba and her cell phone that she’d left charging on her night table. Very cool, very together.

“Molly Harbinger had a boyfriend, name’s Tommy Krug, a car salesman. Agent Poker said the guy wouldn’t stop crying, admitted he was there until sometime after midnight. A buddy picked him up on a motorcycle. The buddy is a blackjack dealer at the Mirage casino, verifies Tommy’s alibi. The two of them went to Tommy’s place and played cards.”

Savich gave her Agent Poker’s email and cell phone. “If you have questions, or as Aaron gets more information, he’ll call you or you’ll call him.

“But you’re not going to Las Vegas, Cam, you’re going to the Lost Hills Sheriff’s Station in Calabasas, to work with a Detective Daniel Montoya. He’s the lead on Connie Morrissey’s murder. He was also the first to realize we had a Serial. He’s been working the case, and he’ll be the one to brief you.”

“Why won’t I be working with the LAPD? The last murder was in North Hollywood and they have more resources. Why a sheriff’s detective?”

“First let me tell you about Montoya. He’s thirty-one years old, a
year out of Army Intelligence, and fairly new to the job. He was bright enough and experienced enough to get promoted into a newly retired detective’s slot. He’s got the background for it.

“As I told you, he was the first to figure out we were dealing with a Serial and alerted all the law enforcement agencies in the L.A. area. It took Montoya and three murders to get that far, even though the first two victims were both young actresses who had their throats slashed and their computers and cell phones taken. And why is that? I wonder.” He arched an eyebrow at her.

Hallelujah, Cam knew something about that. “So many young people in L.A. are would-be actresses. On the Hollywood food chain, the victims were still guppies. They were all hoping to luck into that one glowing role that would put them on the red carpet, but hardly any of them ever walk it. My parents told me these women were a very long way from being household names. So, to the detectives, at the beginning at least, they’d simply be individual cases.”

Score one for Wittier. “So that’s one question you’ve answered. Another you’ll have to address is how and why the Serial picked them.

“We don’t want you staying at your parents’ house while you’re on the job, it could get complicated. You’ll be staying at the Pinkerton Inn in Malibu. As you know, the Calabasas sheriff’s station handles Malibu. The sheriff—”

“—Dreyfus Murray. I know him, Dillon. My mom dated him before she met my dad. Way back in the day.”

And with those few words, she knew she’d proved her value to him. Of course, she would bet her next paycheck he already knew all about Dreyfus Murray.

“That should assure your cooperation with that office, unless your mother broke his heart and he hasn’t gotten over it.”

“Nah, he’s been married twenty years. Mom said they’re good friends, wife, too.”

“Mr. Maitland spoke to the LAPD chief of police Martin Crowder. They’ve known each other a very long time, he told me, and he could speak frankly.” He paused, raised a brow.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know him.”

“That’s okay. Chief Crowder is a bit peeved that his people won’t be running the case, but he’s resigned it to. He informed Mr. Maitland that the LAPD would have tagged the Serial by now if two of the murders hadn’t happened in outlying sheriffs’ districts. David Elman, head of their Homicide Special Section, had already spoken to the sheriffs’ people. Mr. Maitland asked him to arrange a meeting at LAPD headquarters tomorrow with all the sheriffs’ detectives and LAPD detectives who’ve been working the case, get everyone together, face-to-face, with Montoya. Make it perfectly clear you’re in charge, Cam, that it’s you who will decide what directions to take them.

“I’ll download all the separate murder books to your iPad so you can review them on your flight to L.A. this afternoon—autopsy reports, crime scene reports, bios of all the detectives working the cases.

“You’ll have to start by not shooting any of them at the meeting tomorrow. I doubt the sheriff’s department detectives will give you any trouble, but you never know. Sherlock told me you deal well with male egos at the gym.”

An eyebrow went up. “Me? I marvel at her skill at that, Dillon. There’s never any bloodshed.”

Since he did as well, he couldn’t disagree.

4

Savich watched Cam Wittier stroll through his unit, taking her time because there were eight agents to touch base with, and, of course, there was Shirley the unit secretary. Cam had her smiling and talking—about her health, her family’s health, about all her pets’ health. That was smart. Any agent with a brain knew the unit secretaries ran the FBI universe. Shirley was grinning from ear to ear when she handed Cam her airline tickets and itinerary.

He’d picked the right agent to work with the local cops in L.A. It wouldn’t be easy with all those territorial egos vibrating when a
federale
walked through the door. There was something about Special Agent Cam Wittier, something shining and vital. Energy seemed to pulse in the air around her. She could draw people in like a magnet, maybe even some of those suspicious L.A. cops who would think she was there to bigfoot them. Yes, he’d picked right. If an outsider had a chance of navigating the alligator-infested waters of L.A. without undue carnage, it was Wittier.

Sherlock appeared in his doorway. “She’ll knock ’em dead, Dillon. The way she reads people, not to mention that brain of hers—it’s all good. I’ve
come to haul you off to lunch. I’m thinking maybe some Chinese—”

His cell belted out Jessie J’s Bang Bang.

He answered and heard a whispery voice, thin as old parchment. “Dillon?”

“Venus? Is that you? What’s wrong?”

“Yes, Dillon, it’s Venus. I daren’t speak louder. Someone might hear me, the wrong someone.”

“Venus, I can hear you fine. What’s going on? What’s wrong?”

“Dillon, someone’s trying to kill me.” Dillon stared at his cell. Kill Venus Rasmussen? Was she losing it? No, not Venus. At eighty-six she still had her shark brain, still ran Rasmussen Industries with an iron fist. He’d spoken to her a couple of weeks before, and she’d been fine.

“Talk to me, Venus.”

Her voice sounded a bit stronger now, but still muffled. Was she hiding in a closet, a handkerchief over the phone, so no one would hear her? “Last night we were celebrating Alexander’s acquisition of some quite-valuable Japanese watercolors from the Fukami collection for the Smithsonian. Well, of course I did some groundwork for him, helped him convince Mrs. Fukami to donate the watercolors, but he pulled it all together, well, mostly. We had champagne after dinner and I only drank enough for two toasts. An hour later, after I was in bed, I began shaking, my stomach cramping, and I threw up. Veronica—you know Veronica, my companion—she called my doctor and he was there in fifteen minutes. He said it was an old lady’s stomach, sensitive to food I’m not used to. That’s what he said the first time too.” She snorted. “Dillon, the thing is, the first time wasn’t bad, but then it happened again a second time, and then this third time. And I keep getting this ‘old lady’s stomach’ tripe from him. Dillon, I know it wasn’t because I’m a sensitive old lady. This time it was
really bad, much worse than before. I felt ill for three hours. I told Dr. Filbert I wasn’t allergic to anything—he already knows that, of course—that it had to be something else. I reminded him I’m eighty-six years old and after all these years I know my body. This wasn’t old lady’s stomach; this is something else entirely. I told him I believed I was being poisoned. He didn’t laugh, smart man, even said I could go to the hospital and be tested, but I wasn’t about to do that. You know what the media would do if they got hold of a tidbit like that.”

He heard her draw in a deep breath. “I looked up some poisons on the Internet by myself. Dillon, I think it may be arsenic. And whoever is feeding it to me came close to killing me this time.”

He couldn’t get his brain around what he was hearing. He knew Venus wasn’t an alarmist. She was solid as a rock, and sharper than his dad’s hunting knife. “Have you told anyone in the household of your suspicions?”

“Of course not. I’m old, but I’m not a moron.”

Good, that was the Venus he knew, tough and no-nonsense.

“Dillon, I’ll admit it, I’m frightened, but more than that, I’m angry. Someone close to me, someone in my household, is trying to kill me. I mean, it’s not like I’m tight-fisted with Guthrie or Alexander. For goodness’ sake, Alexander is my heir apparent. He will eventually run Rasmussen Industries after I step down. Or I’m dead. As you know, both Alexander and his father live with me, so neither of them have any big expenses to deal with. They both have all the money they need. And Hildi, I’d bet my last dime she’s happy, painting to her heart’s content. Years ago I settled a lot of money on her, hired a manager to see to both her and little Glynis. Well Glynis isn’t so little now, is she?”

“We’ll talk about all that when we get there. Twenty minutes, Venus.”

“Thank you. I’ll tell Veronica and Isabel that you’re coming for lunch. I don’t want anyone to know why you’re really here.” She
paused, then she spoke through her pain, loud and clear, “I can’t bear it, Dillon. What if it’s one of my family? Could any of them hate me so much they want me dead?”

After he punched off, Savich told a puzzled Sherlock exactly what was going on as they walked to the garage. Neither of them wanted to accept it. If it was true, if Venus was being poisoned, it was a betrayal they couldn’t imagine.

Sherlock said as she fastened her seat belt, “Your plate’s full, Dillon, but there’s no way you can say no to your grandmother’s best friend. Do you remember that article about her in the
Washington Post
a couple of months back? They called her a local treasure.”

“That fits her well,” Savich said as he pulled the Porsche out into traffic. “Can you imagine how she feels thinking one of her own family wants to murder her? I know Guthrie and Alexander are both, well, not exactly selfless, loving human beings, and I know there’s resentment there on Alexander’s part. I’m afraid what this would do to her if it turns out to be poison and one of the family is responsible.”

“Venus is tough, one of the toughest people I’ve ever met. Whatever happens, she’ll deal with it, she always does. Don’t worry, Dillon. We’ll help her figure this out. We won’t let anything happen to Venus.”

5

RASMUSSEN MANSION

WASHINGTON, D.C.

MONDAY

The Porsche was impatient to move out on this bright warm day in June, but Savich couldn’t let his baby roar, not in the city. When he turned onto 19th Street NW, Sherlock said, “Venus may be wrong, Dillon, about the arsenic. Her symptoms weren’t very specific, and you know how easy it is to get misled about medical problems on the Internet.”

“You’re right, for most people. But remember I told you Venus regularly beats my mom at Scrabble? And Mom’s a whiz. I have to doubt Venus would ever be misled. We’ll have Dr. Amick in the forensics lab test her for all the toxins and poisons he might think could have caused this.” And Savich made the call, got the ball rolling.

Five minutes later, he pulled the Porsche to the curb in front of what Realtors everywhere called the Grand Chateau, Venus Rasmussen’s home for more than fifty years, the A-list Washington property.

Sherlock always loved visiting this house. Venus had told her a famous architect, Andre Pellier, had built the three-story pale yellow brick French chateau in 1911. He’d been lavish with terra-cotta and limestone floors, a sweeping staircase, a mansard roof, and tall dormer windows. Full-grown oak trees were thick around the house, their leaves
shading all but the double front doors. Several embassies had asked to purchase the house over the years, but it was always a nonstarter.

Venus had remodeled the mansion in grand style in 2006, and now she shared it with her eldest son, Guthrie, and his son Alexander, as well as her long-term companion, Veronica Lake. Together they occupied only four of the eight large bedroom suites.

“I wonder exactly how large this place is, Dillon.”