Agnes Hahn (25 page)

Bransome worked at Jason’s side in the computer room, running the prints as fast as Jason could scan them. He used a direct comparison with Agnes’s stored prints since that was faster than going into the AFIS database. He explained that anything that came up negative for a match could be run the more thorough way.

The only prints that did come up different turned out to be Jason’s, and they were restricted to the dining room. He was in the database through his work. People in his business covered so many crime scenes, they volunteered their prints so no confusion would result if they touched something inadvertently.

Eleven o’clock came and went, and Jason was tiring. “What do you think? Looks like Agnes was the only one in there.”

Bransome rolled his chair back. “I think we can eliminate one of the three.”

“Three?”

“Yeah. Lilin, Eddie, and Agnes herself.”

“Which one are you throwing out?”

“Eddie.”

“Eddie? Why?”

“We can’t throw Agnes out based on anything we get from her house. And Lilin killed all those men and only gave us a single, crappy print. She obviously uses gloves. On the other hand, Eddie didn’t wear gloves. He’d have left at least one print somewhere.”

“He could have worn gloves here.”

“Anyone who’d kill his own sister without gloves isn’t likely to slip some on to abduct his daughter. People usually don’t change their tendencies.”

“Experience?”

“Every bit of it.”

Jason sighed. “You mind if I knock off? I’m fading fast. I can come back tomorrow and help you finish it up. I’ve got a lot of free time lately. I decided to take some vacation time.”

Decided. What a laugh. It was a tactical move. The gossip had Mulvaney putting Torres on the story and yanking Jason’s leash. Mulvaney couldn’t argue about the leave. And it was a good compromise. Mulvaney got continued coverage of the story for free. Jason was relieved of the steady stream of piddly assignments that kept him wet to his ankles. Yolanda Torres had backup, which was also good. Despite everything Mulvaney had said, he liked working with Yolanda.

Bransome jolted Jason back to the workroom. “Does that mean you’ll be hanging around here all the time?”

“I’m in on it now. You expect me to just give it all up? I can give you more time. You already paid me, and I cashed the check.” Jason pulled out his wallet and withdrew a crisp dollar bill.

“You’ve been a lot of help. I like the way you work and the way you think. It’ll free up Saroyan. He has a full plate with other cases. You can roll in when you roll in. I know how to get you if I need to.”

“Aw, gee, Detective.” He tilted his head and forced a sappy smile.

“I didn’t say we were on joking terms. I still don’t like some of the things you did in the past or some of the things you stand for. Being on this end of a case may turn your mind around.”

Jason smiled. Or help me forget, or at least feel better about it.

Jason threw his keys on the table in his room, kicked off his shoes, and collapsed onto the bed. He didn’t expect to make it into the covers tonight. His mind spiraled outward, but the ring of the phone pulled him back.

“Hello?” The nicotine smell of the receiver nearly made him retch.

Silence.

“Hello …?” He grunted to a sitting position. “Who is this?”

Silence.

“Agnes? Is this you?”

Silence.

He swung his feet over the side of the bed. “Lilin?”

Silence.

He listened for breathing or background noises. Nothing.

“Tell me what you want, damn it. Do you have Agnes?”

Silence.

He slammed the phone down, paused, and picked up the receiver. He punched the number for the front desk.

“Did anyone call and ask for my room?”

The clerk seemed annoyed. “We don’t screen a guest’s calls.”

“Anyone can call a room without going through your switchboard?”

“You got it, dude. Can I help you with anything else?”

Jason slammed the receiver down, walked over to the window, and parted the drapes a crack. Even the sodium vapor lights hurt his eyes. Nothing suspicious in the parking lot. The window lock included a chained pin that inserted into a hole in the frame. No slack in this one. He checked the dead bolt and chain on the door. Secure. Fatigue took hold once again, so he fell back on the bed. There was no way he would get in the covers now.

T
HE DAY WITHOUT A WORD ABOUT AGNES PASSED LIKE
chilled syrup, further congealed by the shift from unique discovery to tedious processing of the humdrum pieces of crime scene evidence. But playing the tourist, or the hibernator, produced more anxiety than relaxation for Jason. Waiting was time wasted, and all he could do was wait, so any small contribution to the forward movement of the case represented added value.

He collapsed on the motel bed. Before he closed his eyes, the blinking red message light on the phone caught his attention.

He pushed the message button and let the short message run through. “A letter? Here?”

He jumped from the bed and hurried out of the room.

The stamp stood alone across the top of the envelope, with no return address, and it didn’t have a cancellation imprint or postmark. The letter must have been slipped into the motel mail, either at the motel or through the mail carrier.

He rushed back into his room and threw all of the locks. The envelope had the same cursive loops and circular dots as on Agnes’s first letter—the letter from Lilin.

Hair raised on his arms. Lilin knew where he was staying.

He turned the envelope over. Should he open it here, or at the police station? Bransome was at home, and it wasn’t a good night to bother him. He’d give up his plans in the time it’d take him to hang up the phone, but he needed the time away with his wife.

Jason sat on the bed. Should he open the letter or leave it until tomorrow morning? Would Bransome be mad if he brought it in opened and contaminated? But how could he wait? It was addressed to him, Jason Powers. It was a message to him, maybe time sensitive. Maybe Agnes’s safety was at stake.

He tapped the short end of the envelope on the tabletop a few times and grasped the other end to tear it open, but stopped. Gloves. He had a pair of gloves in his jacket pocket. He pulled them on and tore the edge off the envelope. A single, folded sheet was inside.

He wiped a spot on the top of the thigh-high chest of drawers and carefully opened the paper, pulling it flat on the wood. The hand that addressed the envelope also wrote the message—Lilin’s hand.

Nearly done? he thought. Kill off Eddie and it’s all over? Is that what she meant? Is that the finish of her work? If so, maybe it would be best to let her do it. Eddie’s death wouldn’t be a loss to the world. If that stopped the killing, it would be a reasonable compromise.

But what about Agnes? The letter said she was all right. For now. What if she was a target? It could be jealousy that was driving Lilin. Jealousy over the life Agnes had, and she didn’t.

A strange twinge tugged at Jason’s stomach. The sensation felt like fear. The kind of fear one has when someone close was in danger. He had an overwhelming urge to find Agnes. Make sure she was safe. This wasn’t a reporter’s desire for a story; it went beyond that.

Jason slumped on the bed. Why was Agnes so important to him? Why was she occupying his thoughts, motivating his actions? Eugenia. Was that it? It was strange. When he thought of Agnes, Eugenia didn’t pop into his mind. Not like she did with other women. Something in other women always reminded him of his ex, always made him feel like she was there with him, encouraging him, setting him up again. But not with Agnes. Why?

Jason went into the bathroom and splashed water on his face. Was he developing feelings for Agnes, as Lilin thought? Was he being selfish to suggest her life was more valuable than Eddie’s? But Agnes hadn’t killed anyone. That was his gut feeling, even though it went against Bransome’s instincts. Who was right? Who would win the battle of waistline intuition?

Jason walked back out of the bathroom and froze. Maybe Lilin’s goal was to kill them both, to clean out the whole family. To pull out all of the family secrets, like weeds. Roots and all.

It didn’t matter. Agnes was in trouble no matter how it was figured.

He wished he could induce a temporary lobotomy so he could live in the present without having to plan for the future or to worry about it. So he could go to sleep. So the morning would appear in an instant of conscious time.

There was a way, but it clouded the following day with a hangover. It would also dull his defenses. If Lilin knew his whereabouts, he needed to stay sharp. The swish he had heard go past his ear when he jumped over his patio wall was probably from the razor she used to emasculate her prey. It was close then and it was still close now.

Jason startled awake. His hands groped for his crotch. He last remembered watching the clock flick past three. That was a bad dream ago. He rolled on his side and looked at the clock. It glowed a red 6:05. Bransome would be in by seven, even if he and his wife partied hard last night.

Jason turned the faucet in the shower stall. One of his favorite cinematic sequences was the shower scene from Alfred Hitchcock’s
Psycho,
but he always viewed it through Anthony Perkins’s point of view, going with the eye of the camera. Now he stood in Janet Leigh’s bare feet, the water beating on his shoulders, the steam flowing across his visual field.

He had lined the floor with all of the extra towels he could find and pulled the curtain halfway, so he had a clear view of the bathroom doorway. Through the mirror he could see the edge of the front door. He twisted the water valve toward cold. It would have to be a lukewarm shower today, so the mirror wouldn’t fog.

Bransome spread the letter on a clean piece of paper on the laboratory bench. “No sense doing the envelope. If she wore gloves for the letter, she’d wear them for the envelope as well. Besides, there’d be several other sets of prints all over the envelope.”

Jason stepped closer. “I disagree. The letter wasn’t run through the post office. It doesn’t have cancellation imprints. She could have delivered it directly to the motel.”

Bransome shrugged. He grabbed the can of ninhydrin, sprayed the letter and envelope, and hung them in the modified film drying cabinet. “We’ll have to process all the prints. We’ll compare them to yours first. Then we’ll see if the motel clerk is in the system. We’ll have to do a side-by-side with Agnes’s prints to see if there are general similarities. You want to continue with them, or are you getting bored with the grunt work?” He closed the cabinet and flipped the fan switch. “I really appreciate it.”

“I better not. I have a funny feeling about handling anything that involves my own prints. Besides, I have to send some information to one of my colleagues in Santa Rosa to keep the paper up on the case. It won’t take long.” He studied Bransome’s face. “How’d it go with the missus last night?”