Blind Instinct (9 page)

H
alf an hour later, Sara had printed out a number of files from the Internet about German codebooks.

The subject was huge and most of the online material was collated and presented by private citizens, which meant a great deal of the information was slanted toward a particular topic, or shallowly researched and repetitive.

From her own study of cryptology, she had a basic knowledge and understanding of codes and ciphers, although most of her research had been based on secret writing before World War II. Regardless of when the code or cipher was invented, the techniques for deciphering were based on mathematical systems. In a cipher, every letter of
the original message was replaced. Once the key to unraveling a cipher was found, the entire system was broken, and any message written using the cipher could be easily read.

With a code however, this was not the case. Codes were not based on replacing every letter— in effect, creating a new alphabet—but on a code dictionary, or codebook. One word or phrase might be decoded, but the rest of the code dictionary would remain secure. The major weakness of a code over a cipher was that the codebook could be stolen, thus exposing the entire code.

On impulse, she picked up the codebook and the newspapers with the ACE advertisements and sat down at her desk. Pulling a piece of paper toward her, she began checking the line of code against the entries in the codebook.

Minutes later she stared at the result, which was utter gibberish.

Unwilling to give up she began working to “decipher” the text using the St. Cyr Slide—a system using two alphabets, one sliding beneath the other. A key letter is chosen—for example, the letter
P
—and positioned beneath the
A
. From that reference, the clear message was coded into the corresponding letter on the slide.

Applying the method she had used was like reaching into a haystack and expecting to pull out the needle first time. The impulse to try the St. Cyr system had simply popped into her mind. It shouldn't have worked—but the result was grammatically perfect.

Five Down One To Go

She studied the phrase. Her mind instantly made the connection to the well-publicized fact that five members of the cabal had been murdered, most of them by Alex Lopez and, in theory, just one was left. It was more than likely that the message was a game or a joke and had nothing whatsoever to do with the cabal. But that wasn't what worried her. She shouldn't have been able to break the cipher so easily.

She shut down her laptop and closed the codebook, bracing herself against the automatic recoil that just touching it caused. It was just a book, an unpleasant chunk of history.

Too late to wish she had never found it.

The library was cordoned off when she arrived for work at one. The back entrance was blocked by a police officer.

She produced her ID, but he politely refused
to let her in. There had been a homicide. Everyone inside the building was being detained and questioned and no one was being admitted until they were finished. He didn't know how long the process would take, but he guessed another hour at least.

For a split second the world spun and she felt the blood drain from her face. Although the idea that Delgado had come back to finish the job he'd started was definitely wild. “Who was killed?”

“One of the library staff. Her name hasn't been released yet.”

Sara walked around to the front of the building and threaded her way through a gathering crowd. Police cruisers and an ambulance were pulled up outside the library doors. A news crew was already covering the scene. The coroner was crouched over a sprawled body, which was mostly covered by a tarpaulin.

Nicola Gilbert, one of the librarians who was on late shift, and a longtime friend, was standing nearby, gripping her arms, her face white.

When she saw Sara, her eyes widened as if she had seen a ghost. “
You're safe
.” She shuddered as she indicated the mounded tarpaulin. “I thought that was you.”

“It's my half day.”

“I forgot,” she said softly. “Well, I guess that narrows it down. I got a glimpse of her before they put the tarpaulin over. I didn't see much, just long dark hair in a knot.” Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes. “It has to be Janine.”

“Did anyone get a description of the killer?”

Nicola searched in her purse and came up with a damp tissue. “An elderly couple saw the whole thing. Apparently she walked out of the front door on her way to lunch, and a guy walked up the steps, pulled a gun and shot her.”

A brief flash of Delgado's mug shot tightened Sara's tension another notch. It couldn't be related. Why should it be? “Where are they?”

“Over there.” Nicola indicated a police cruiser, the two back doors open. She recognized Detective Rousseau sitting in the driver's seat, taking a statement.

The coroner drew back a corner of the tarpaulin. For a few seconds, Janine Sawyer's face was starkly visible.

Grief and sadness pooled. Janine had a daughter at LSU and elderly parents who depended on her. Her death would devastate her family.

Sara watched as the evidence team moved in.
Medics with a stretcher and body bag stood off to one side. “Did he take her purse?”

“According to the couple, he didn't stop to take anything. He just shot her and ran.”

The reality of the shooting sank in along with a frightening twist. Nicola had thought it was Sara. On any other day it could have been, because she shared the same lunch hour with Janine.

Another salient fact registered. Janine had looked a lot like her, with pale skin and long dark hair. Today her hair was pulled into a neat French twist, a style that Sara often wore, and she was wearing a white blouse and camel pants, a similar outfit to the one Sara had worn to work the previous day.

The idea that the killer had been the same man who had attacked her—twice—and that he had mistaken Janine for her was a leap, but she couldn't ignore the possibility.

Ducking under the crime scene tape she strode toward one of the uniforms guarding the scene. The officer, who was holding a news team at bay, looked harassed.

“I need to talk to one of the detectives involved with Janine Sawyer's shooting. I have information that could help with the investigation.”

Seconds later, Rousseau directed her to a police cruiser. He took the driver's seat and she sat in the front passenger seat. He flipped his notepad open, not bothering to list her personal details, because he had taken her statement the night she had gotten mugged in the parking lot.

Sara stared at the barrier being erected around Janine's body. “I think I know who shot Janine. Check with the report on the complaint I laid yesterday.”

Rousseau's gaze was sharp. “What are you saying? That it was the same guy?”

“It's possible.”

Rousseau looked skeptical. She couldn't blame him. She had trouble believing it herself. “I could be wrong. I
hope
I'm wrong, but in the past two days I've been attacked in the library parking lot, almost run down crossing the road and now a coworker who happens to look a lot like me has been shot on the library steps. Maybe those events are coincidental. All I'm asking you to do is check.”

“If he's trying to kill you, what's the motivation? Is he related to you in some way?”

Rousseau's expression was utterly neutral, his voice flat, but Sara got the distinct impression
that he couldn't imagine why someone might want to either mug or kill a thirtysomething librarian.

She could see where he was going with the question. She was comfortably well-off, but she wasn't drop-dead gorgeous and she didn't drive a flashy car or wear much in the way of jewelry. “His name is Delgado, but I don't know who he is or what he wants.”

She had a theory, but it was so wild there was no way she could air it here. Somehow she had done exactly what Steve had warned her against, and had gotten sucked into the Lopez/cabal investigation. The only reason she could come up with was that somehow, someone knew she had recovered Todd Fischer's personal effects.

“Let me get this straight. You're saying the killer may have shot Janine by mistake.”

“He left her bag. If he didn't want money, why did he shoot her?”

The expression on Rousseau's face didn't change. “Meth? Crack? Who knows? Maybe he was just having a bad day.”

“No.” If it had been Delgado, he had been having exactly the day he had planned.

“Okay, but you're still not telling me what I
need to hear. Why would someone be gunning for you?”

“Ever heard of Alex Lopez and the Chavez cartel?”

It was midafternoon by the time Thorpe, who had been given the job of interviewing her, finally showed her to an empty office and she was able to explain about her family's connection to the Chavez cartel.

Thorpe's gaze sharpened. “You're Steve Fischer's cousin?”

She was used to the reaction. Steve had been an officer in the Navy, a SEAL and a CIA agent. He was a local hero and he had gotten a lot of press lately with the discovery at Juarez. Sara had stayed out of the limelight as much as possible, her focus on her father's illness then death. Only the people closest to her knew that she was related to
that
Fischer family.

Thorpe made a notation, then excused himself. Through the glass door she could see him talking to Rousseau. At that moment Rousseau looked toward the interview room and raised a hand.

Thorpe returned and took his seat.

A few minutes later, Rousseau joined them. He
placed a file on the desk. “We've got an ID on the shooter, which
does
match the description of the guy who attacked you the other night.” He opened the file. “According to this, the same guy—Joe Delgado,
deceased
—nearly ran you down yesterday. We have a few facts, a lot of supposition. What we need is motivation.”

And solid evidence, which she couldn't supply
.

“You're not going to like what I've got to say.” And there was no way she could tell them all of it. She was aware that any credibility she had hinged on the fact that Janine Sawyer had died.

Taking a deep breath, she outlined her discovery of the items in the knapsack and the connection with the ongoing investigation into the Chavez cartel and the cabal.

Half an hour later, they broke for coffee and Sara took the opportunity to use the bathroom. Her face was white and there were dark crescents beneath her eyes, courtesy of lack of sleep and the fact that her mascara had smudged. She splashed cold water on her face, dried off with paper towels then took the time to apply fresh makeup, using the exercise to steady herself, although working with taped palms was difficult.

Thorpe was waiting in the interview room
when she returned. “I rang ACE Photography. It's a disconnected number. I did an Internet search to double-check. A number of hits came up with the keyword
Ace
but nothing for ACE Photography.”

“ACE exists. They've been advertising in the newspapers.”

Rousseau sat on the edge of the desk, his arms folded across his chest. “The situation with the Chavez cartel and ACE Photography aside, is there any other reason you know of for someone to want to kill you?”

“No.”

Thorpe and Rousseau exchanged glances.

Rousseau leaned back in his chair, his expression guarded, his voice flat as he spoke. The Shreveport PD was hamstrung; they had to go on the facts and the major one was that Janine Sawyer had died, not Sara. The homicide investigation had to focus on Janine's life. Sara's angle was interesting, but at this point the possibility that Janine had been the target all along, and not Sara, was far more likely than a case of mistaken identity.

Thorpe shrugged. “We'll do what we can. Check with the papers' advertising departments, run a credit check onACE. If there is an organized crime connection, we can run the data through the IRS.”

He checked his watch. “I'll get a cruiser to drop you back at the library so you can pick up your car. Are you going to be alone tonight?”

Sara suppressed a grim smile as she pushed to her feet and picked up her purse. Both detectives had given her every courtesy but they had made it clear in the politest possible way that they thought she was paranoid, even bordering on hysterical. She couldn't blame them. She was entertaining the same possibility. “I live on my own.”

“Then maybe you should think about spending the night with a friend or a relative.”

And chill out. Lose the paranoia
.

“Thanks, I'll think about it.”

A police cruiser dropped her on the sidewalk just along from the library. As she stepped outside into the heat of late afternoon, the fluttering crime scene tape blocking off the library entrance was a chilling reminder of what had happened.

She lifted a hand as the officer accelerated away. The late-afternoon traffic was a steady hum behind her as she strode toward her car, the only vehicle left in the lot. She checked the shadowed loading bay and the back entrance, and skimmed the shrubs clustered around the parking lot. In
contrast to the noise and activity out on the street, the library and the parking lot, usually busy at this time of day, seemed encapsulated in silence.

Sliding gingerly behind the wheel, because she was still stiff and sore from the previous day, she locked the car and fastened her seat belt. Seconds later, she was in traffic. According to Thorpe, the evidence techs were finished with the crime scene and the library would be open for business as usual in the morning. Tomorrow was Thursday, one of their busiest days. She would be expected at work at nine. She had approximately sixteen hours to decide whether or not she was going to show.

Twenty minutes of rush hour hell later, Sara turned into her street. Thorpe had suggested she stay the night with a friend or relative. He had been concerned for her state of mind, but it occurred to Sara that there was another very good reason for staying away from her apartment. Wild theory or not, if whoever had shot Janine had intended to kill her, then she had a serious problem.