Before Another Dies (34 page)

“H & K Agency is a client-oriented personal and business security firm bringing the best in personal guards, electronic protection, and business security services to the private and government sectors. Experienced, government-trained owners who take your needs seriously lead highly trained personnel. With us, everything is life and death. If you must place your life in the hands of someone, make sure they're the right hands. Make sure they're our hands.”

“Cute tagline.” I scrolled down and found a section that said “principal” and found two photos. One of a woman with long black hair and unforgettable features. She was wearing a black pantsuit instead of a bikini. Her hair was longer in the photo but I knew it was the same woman I had met at Hood's home. I read the brief bio. “Katherine Lysgaard received her police training in the United States Army, where she was assigned several top secret duties and decorated for bravery.” It didn't say what kind of bravery she had exhibited.

It was the photo below that took my breath away. The caption read, “Harper Barrymore is a former Army Ranger who brings his skills and training to your special needs.” What stunned me was Mr. Barrymore's photo. Although it had clearly been taken several years before, it showed a man in a neat black turtleneck sweater and black pants—a man I had met before. But he hadn't introduced himself as Harper Barrymore. He had used the name Barry Harper. The annoying stringer who tried to intimidate an interview out of me. It had been a ploy, but why pretend to be a reporter? Why interview me? Then I recalled that he had been the one to take my picture with H. Dean Wentworth.

There's an old saying that if you have enough monkeys and enough typewriters and an infinite amount of time, sooner or later the monkeys will type the complete Encyclopaedia Britannica. I don't know if that's true, but my monkeys had just put it together. It wasn't the world's most famous encyclopedia, but it was enough.

I placed a call to West's cell phone but got no answer. I tried again, this time leaving a message. Odd. Disappointment settled over me. I wanted to share my insights but I couldn't reach him. I called the police station and an officer named Rodriguez answered. After identifying myself I asked if West was in. He had told me he was headed to Hood's house, but maybe he had stopped by his office.

“No, ma'am. I haven't seen him since I came on shift at six.”

“May I trouble you to leave a note for him? Have him call Mayor Glenn as soon as possible.”

“I can try his cell phone,” the officer said.

“I have that number. He's not answering.”

He commiserated with me, then promised to leave the note. There was no chance of sleep now. My mind was running at race-car speed. I moved back to my bedroom, ran the brush through my hair again. It was still wet, but I was too impatient to dry it. I combed it straight back and found a scarf. It wasn't my best look, but I was so battered a scarf wasn't going to make a difference. I stuck my feet into a pair of white slip-on shoes, comfy and easy to don with just one working hand.

Moments later I passed my office and started down the stairs. “Jerry!”

He was at the foot of the stairs before I eased down the first third of risers. “Yes?”

“We're going out.”

“I don't think that's wise. I thought you were going to bed.” He looked puzzled.

“I changed my mind. Get your keys.”

He took a firm tone. “You're not going anywhere except to bed.”

I reached the bottom of the stairs. Mom and Dad looked at me as if their daughter had just sailed beyond the horizon of sanity. “Sweetheart—” Dad began.

“No debating. No buts. No questions.” I looked at Jerry. “Get your keys because either you're driving or you're moving your car off my driveway so I can back out my—”

“Okay, okay. You'll find trouble if I'm not there to watch over you.”

Three minutes later I was seated in the passenger seat of Jerry's SUV giving him directions to Robby Hood's home.

“Will you tell me what's going on?” Jerry sounded irritated. He had every right to be. He was just as battered as I was and needed rest. I doubt he had more than half the sleep I had since last night.

“Of course.” I looked at him and smiled. The dark of night kept him from seeing it. “I know who the killer is.” My Internet search and my ideas poured out. Then I said, “You deserve all the credit.”

“Me? This is your idea.”

“It was something you said.” I looked at him and watched his face as splashes of light from street lamps fell on his skin. “Remember when I asked you why you haven't given up on me?” He said he did. “You said—”

“A man doesn't give up on his heart.”

“Exactly. Unless I'm off my rocker, Harper Barrymore and Katie Lysgaard were more than business partners. West said she and Hood were married two weeks ago. A week later the killings began. He's seeking revenge against Hood and Katie.”

“But why not just attack them directly?”

“Because Hood is paranoid. He uses a pseudonym; his house is in the name of a business. He was hiding behind his corporation, his persona, and the walls that surround his house. He was hard to find. If it wasn't for Floyd's parcel delivery friend and Floyd's off-the-wall thinking, we might still be hunting for him. Sooner or later the police would have gotten a court order to force Hood's network to reveal his location, but that might take another couple of days. Harper would have had the same trouble. Network headquarters is in Cincinnati, you know. In the meantime, people were being murdered each night.”

“This Harper guy is angry at being tossed off for Hood, so he's trying to ruin Hood's show by attaching murders to the topics.” He didn't sound convinced. “That seems extreme, even for a wacko.”

“People have done worse, but I think there's a different motivation. I just can't figure that part out. Not one killing, but several. Certainly that would raise the interest of the police to a new level. It's almost as if he were taunting them.”

“I'm no expert on criminal thinking, but don't serial killers sometimes do just that?” Jerry said as he took the next right. He was driving like my grandmother. “What about that guy in San Francisco, the . . . the Zodiac Killer. He wrote letters to the police.”

“But there hasn't been any taunting, bragging, or baiting. The killer would have to know that the police would find Hood and pro-tect—”The mental monkeys stopped typing.

“What?” Jerry said.

“Where is your cell phone?”

“On my belt where it always is.” I didn't wait for permission. I reached for it. “Hang on. I'll get it.” He shifted in his seat and pulled the flip phone from its holster and handed it to me. “Who are you calling?”

“Whoever I can get to answer.” I tried West again. Nothing. I dialed the number for the police station. Officer Rodriguez answered again. I identified myself and got right to the point. “Can you reach Detective West by radio?”

“If he's in his car. Otherwise we use his cell phone.”

“He's still not answering. Can you get an unlisted phone number for me?”

“No, ma'am. I could get in big trouble doing that. I have no way of verifying who you are and—”

I knew the answer to the next question but I asked anyway. “Chief Webb has gone for the day?”

There was a chuckle. “Yes, ma'am. It
is
getting late.”

I hung up and tried to remember Webb's home phone number. If I had my cell phone then retrieving the number would have been easy, but that phone met a violent end nearly twenty-four hours before. Instead I called home. Mom answered and I assured her I was fine and hadn't lost my mind. I then asked her to go to my office. I had an address and phone book for all key city personnel. A few minutes later I had Webb's phone ringing.

“Yeah.”

“Chief, it's Maddy. I'm sorry to bother you at home, but I need a favor.”

There was a long pause, and I could hear the television playing in the background. “What favor?”

“I need someone to call Robby Hood's home. Detective West is there, and I think there may be trouble on the way.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“I promise to explain later, Chief. This is one of those cases where you have to trust me.”

“You want me to get an unlisted phone number, is that it?”

“You can do that as part of police business, right? I have the address of the home.”

Another long pause. “Give it to me.”

I did. “The house belongs to Robby Hood. His legal name is Robin Hoddle and the phone may be in the name of a corporation.”

“How do I reach you?” I gave him Jerry's cell phone number.

“Sit tight.” He hung up.

We didn't sit tight. I pushed Jerry to press the accelerator. I was developing serious concerns. We had just turned on Hood's street when Jerry's phone chimed. I looked at the caller ID. It read Restricted. I answered. It was Chief Webb.

“I got it and made the call myself. No answer. I tried West's home and cell phone. No answer there either. What aren't you telling me?”

My guts twisted. “I think you better send some officers to Hood's home. I think there may be trouble.” I hung up before Webb could ask any more questions.

“What kind of trouble?” Jerry said. I couldn't hang up on him. He was sitting right next to me.

“We're coming up on the house. Kill the lights and drive slow.” He did and the obsidian night swallowed us. “Pull over and park.”

“That's the best idea you've had all night. I think you need to fill me in.”

The car rolled to a near silent stop. Parked a hundred feet ahead was West's car. The driver's door was open, and the dim dome light proved that the car was empty.

chapter 40

I
'm waiting,” Jerry said.

I stared at West's car and tried to ignore the growing sense that something was horribly wrong. “The problem has always been why. The motivation has bothered me from the beginning. It wasn't just that people were being killed. It was that they were killed in a horrible way and because they provided some loose connection to Hood. Why? Why do that? You asked it yourself. Why not go after Hood directly? The answer was obvious: Hood is difficult to find, but the police could find him faster than anyone else. Once they made the connection between the murders and Hood's program they would naturally hunt down Hood for questioning. The killer—Harper—created a scenario where the police would do what he could not. The police led him to his prey.”

“But Floyd found Hood easily enough.”

“It wasn't that easy, Jerry. Floyd tried all the public records. His break came because he had a friend who delivered to Hood's neighborhood. That's where he got lucky.” I stopped. Was it luck? Maybe it was Providence. “Harper could have asked the same kind of question of the delivery service but he would have encountered the same kind of stone wall as he did with the network. Floyd had an in. Harper didn't.”

Jerry looked out the windshield. I could tell he was putting it all together. “That's West's car out front, isn't it?” I said it was. “You stay here and wait for the police.”

“Where are you going?”

Jerry was out of the car without answering. He walked quickly, crossing the distance between his SUV and the sedan in less than thirty seconds. As he approached, I could see him look in the car from the passenger side, then round the front to the open driver's door. He bent down and then rose a moment later. He held up a small object. It looked like a cell phone. Jerry looked at me, then looked in the direction of the gate. He tossed the object onto the front seat and walked through the gate and out of my sight.

I waited. I told myself to be patient, to wait for the police. I was in no shape to face anyone stronger than a newborn. The police would be here soon, I told myself. Jerry is wise and won't do anything stupid, I told myself. I could wait. I should wait. I exited the car.

I had no thoughts as I crossed the same distance that Jerry had covered. I forced them aside. Thinking only raised my level of fear. Instinct was my choice for now. Like Jerry, I looked in the car. On the seat was the cell phone. Not good. I turned my attention to the automatic gate and found it open. Considering Hood's paranoia, I could only imagine one reason why the gate would not be closed.

Jerry was gone. I could see the massive house. Every light was blazing, pushing against the darkness. Images of haunted houses in movies came to mind. I looked down the street, hoping that any second a police unit would roll up. One didn't. Jerry's car beckoned to me. No one would blame me, a badly beaten woman, for going back and hiding in the backseat.

There was a gunshot.

My nerves fired at random, and my knees weakened. “Oh, God,” I said. It was the longest prayer I could utter. I moved through the gate and fast-stepped my way toward the front door. I wanted to feel courageous. I wanted to be brave and heroic. Instead, I was fighting to keep Mom's taco casserole where it belonged.

Somehow I made it to the front door. Images of dead bodies lying in puddles of thick blood began to play in the theater of my mind. The door was open a few inches and light poured out of it like water. Heart tripping, lungs laboring, mouth dry, and hands shaking, I put my ear near the opening. I could hear voices.

I peeked in and saw no one. I moved along the front wall and looked through the window at the large living room. I could see expensive furnishings and art but saw no people. Going back to the door, I pushed it open in a single slow motion. I prayed that Hood was fastidious about home maintenance. A squeaky hinge could be deadly. It swung freely.

One deep breath, then another. I stepped inside and listened.

“. . . apologizes won't do it, woman.” I recognized Barry Harper's voice. It was coming from the dinette. “Words can't undo what you've done. You dumped me. You dumped the business. And you did it for this . . . this string bean.”