Cross Cut (4 page)

“Well, yeah. He wore a dirty tweed jacket and looked nervous.”

“Go deeper. What did he do during his nervous state?”

“He bit his thumbnails.”

“And then?”

I had to think, but it soon came. “He put his hands—or should I say, thumbs, in his suit pockets.”

“Precisely. And where was the business card found?”

“Inside his suit pocket.”

“Quite. So, ask yourself this. Why would a nervous man intent on putting his hands inside his suit pockets yield, and only place his thumbs inside?”

“Because—” I had to think a little. “Because, he couldn’t. Most suit pockets on the outside are sewn together.”

“Exactly. So how did Mr Lynch’s pocket suddenly become free and open an hour later, with a business card inside it?”

I stood back and clicked my fingers with a smile. “Because, it ain’t the same jacket.”

“Indeed.” Ryder gave a devilish smile. “In all probability, the man that died in Anaheim was not the same man in my office some two hours ago.”

4

I sat back in the sofa and contemplated the bizarre situation that had presented itself. All the while, Ryder grinned like a child when she thought I wasn’t looking. She has a thing for the unexplainable.

She was typing away at her laptop. I couldn’t stand how slow she typed. She was relatively computer literate, but she wouldn’t be hacking the Pentagon anytime soon.

I coughed to get her attention. “I take it you’re looking for Lynch?”

“Indeed,” she said. “It is presumptuous, I suppose, to think the dead victim is the real Mr Lynch, but it would be counter intuitive to think otherwise.”

“You’re certain the one here this morning was a ringer?”

She looked up from her laptop. “Adequately satisfied. No one who is comfortable with their own clothing would try to put their hands into their suit pockets when they know they’re sewn. Unless, of course, the suit is unfamiliar to them.”

“But—Johns showed me the picture. If the guy in Anaheim isn’t the guy from this morning, this impostor, whoever he is, was a bloody good one.”

“Quite. Memory works like that. The false Mr Lynch from this morning would hardly be engraved in your mind. Just his main features. His suit and general appearance. So, naturally, when Johns showed you that picture, you had no reason to doubt it was the same person. I’m assuming the physical features must have been relatively similar for you to not notice?”

“I’ll say. Whoever played that prank thought it through. What was it all for, though?”

Ryder was typing and she waited until she finished her sentence. “That is a good question. Someone wanted us, or someone else, to think the real Mr Lynch was here. Who hired the actor? Was the real Mr Lynch being followed, or was the impostor? These questions are all valid.”

“Maybe Lynch knew the Cutter was after him, so he hired some actor as a decoy.”

Ryder glared at me. “And Mr Lynch decides to stay in California, instead of crossing the continent? Nonsense.”

“You got a better idea?”

“Several,” Ryder said. “But I won’t waste my time speculating. Let us stick to what we do know, and that is, the man in Anaheim is Guy Lynch, Advertising Manager at Gillham and Mane, a cosmetics and fragrance company. One of their offices is five blocks away from where he was murdered.”

I snorted. How she managed to find him on the Internet before I did, I’ll never know. She sent me the link to the company’s website through an instant messaging program. There, on the employee page, was a portrait of Guy Lynch, with his title underneath. I nearly asked how she knew the location of the public restroom, but bit my tongue to save myself the embarrassment. The news sites had most likely updated the details.

“Come to think of it, he does look a little different to the ringer this morning,” I said, noting he was fatter in the cheeks.

“Indeed.” Ryder closed her eyes for a while and then opened them. “When do you think the relevant authorities will find out his identity?” she said, somewhat rhetorically. I had to think she didn’t need me to tell her, but I did anyway.

“Hard to say,” I said. “If they haven’t done it our way, give it a few hours and they’ll get him by some means.”

Ryder sat back in her chair with her hands on her thighs. They’re rather muscular, and it’s evident she does her fair share of exercise. She looked at me, adjusted her position and pulled her chair back under her desk, then flicked her left fringe parting aside. “No time to lose, then. We have work to do.”

I stared at her for a while and then held out my arms bemusedly. “I’m sorry, what?”

“I want you to phone Gillham and Mane and arrange interviews with the senior members of the board.”

“That’s nice,” I said sarcastically. “The hell for? We have no client. Don’t tell me you’ve gone soft. Just because that ringer came here and it’s irritating you. You realize if you arrange those meetings and the right people get wind of it, it will confuse matters even more. And I doubt Lynch’s colleagues will be able to help solve your curiosity.”

Ryder breathed in slowly and shook her head. “You misunderstand. I want you to arrange a meeting with those board members so as to procure a client.”

It was wily, I’ll give her that. There was no way around it either. If I challenged it, she would simply say it was for the sake of the bank balance. Tackling her curiosity was just a bonus. If you believe that, you’ll believe anything.

“And if they don’t want in?” I said. I decided to taunt her. “I guess we’ll forever be in the dark, and that nameless fake Lynch will haunt you every night as you sleep.”

“Nonsense, Ader.” She lifted a finger. “I know I employ you to provoke my senses, but you are flailing, because you think I am approaching a case for the wrong reasons. My curiosity? Don’t be so ridiculous.” She rose and walked over to the French doors, looking out toward the ocean. “I’m a detective who charges a fee, and Gillham and Mane have the means, unlike others affected by this serial killer. They will want closure for Mr Lynch. That is, they will want it known they sought closure. The recipe is there. Why wait for them to come to us?”

I grinned. The reason was, of course, that they probably wouldn’t give a damn, until we provoked them into a sense of responsibility.

“That’s it, then. You finally want to tackle the Cutter,” I said, purposefully omitting the ‘Cross.’

She turned and gave a firm nod. “I—we’ve avoided it long enough.”

“And what if they don’t want to hire you?”

“They will.”

“The BI and the FBI will have a fit.”

“I would assume so.”

She sat back down and gave me my instructions. The result we wanted was for Gillham and Mane to be our client by the end of the working day. So when I looked at my watch and saw it was 3.30PM, you can imagine my work was cut out. We had to wait for the police and company to make progress as well. If we went to Gillham and Mane and announced one of their executives was dead before they were aware of it, we’d never hear the end of it.

There was no secret tactic here. We were just going to poke them into doing the right thing. Make a few suggestive comments, and dangle a few carrots. They could be the company that made the capture of the Cross Cutter possible.

The clincher we had reserved was the fake Lynch. Or, should I say, the activities of the fake Lynch. No one else knew the Lynch who had been in Ryder’s office was an impostor, and the authorities were likely to mention the visit to everyone. As far as anyone knew, the dead Lynch had been in contact with us and feared for his life. We could use that. Although, I didn’t like it.

“Are you sure it’s wise to keep the fake Lynch to ourselves?” I asked. “Could end up coming back to bite us in the ass.”

Ryder glared at my use of language and then nodded. “It probably will. For now, there is a certain level of ignorance we can plead. As far as anyone knows, Mr Lynch is just Mr Lynch. He came here in the morning and met his end in Anaheim.” She cleared her throat and readjusted her hair. “Of course, I can neither prove such a scenario, nor have any desirable suggestions as to what it means.”

“Okay—” I said shakily.

“You sound troubled,” she said.

“No-no. Skeptical, but I’m game.”

“Good. I suggest you make those phone calls in a half hour or so. The news is now ripe with Mr Lynch’s death. It is likely the members of Gillham and Mane are aware of the situation. I have dinner to prepare.” She rose and went into the kitchen. She called for Melissa, whom I could hear run from the hallway. Anytime Ryder called her, she came running. Don’t ask me why. She’s obviously more eager than I am. More eager than I was to pick up the telephone.

Twenty minutes later, after listening to music while on hold, I got a junior receptionist telling me no one from upstairs was available. She sounded panicky and restless. Obviously the news had reached the office. After explaining my reasons for calling, she confirmed as much. I learned an emergency meeting was being held, and that the police were outside, waiting to question people. Receptionists just love to spill information.

After some pushing and shoving in a verbal way, I managed to get one of the executives on the line. A Doreen Sharp, Company Secretary. She seemed aware of who Kendra Ryder was, and prompted a meeting at their offices in Anaheim, to which I declined. We didn’t want to be seen by the police until we definitely had a client, although, by the sounds of it, it didn’t seem like much poking would be required.

Ten minutes later, I had it on good authority at least three members of the board would be here at the beach house, at the ungodly hour of 9PM, to hopefully start the offensive on the Cross Cutter. Ryder would never tolerate any earlier, and neither would I. There was no way I was letting anyone get in the way of whatever she was cooking for me.

I put the phone down and made my way into the kitchen. A divine smell welcomed me. Ryder and Melissa were preparing the vegetables on the marble worktops, while the aroma from the lamb marinade overcame the entire room.

“Bad news,” I said. “I’m afraid you won’t be going fishing tonight. Company’s expected.”

Ryder looked up. She was holding a knife in her right hand and wearing an apron. “As desired. Good job, Ader.”

“Smells good. Keep up the good work, Mel.”

Melissa laughed playfully and Ryder merely grunted disapprovingly, and then went back to chopping some carrots.

Till 9PM, I essentially had the day to myself. During such times I might lie on the sofa, read a book or watch TV. And, of course, write out these memoirs of mine.

I had no such time for writing, though. At 5PM, Ryder was reading a book at her desk while Melissa surveyed the kitchen, and then the bell rang. Ryder’s head didn’t even lift up from her book and I made my way to the study, and observed the pair outside.

For the second time in one day, two law enforcement officers stood outside Kendra Ryder’s beach house.

5

The detectives at the door were Micky Gregg and Luis Flores of the LAPD, Gangs and Narcotic Division.

Just to set the record straight, we don’t know all the cops and agents in this state. But when one department of any particular organization has a pair that Ryder doesn’t scare to death, they send them. As it happens, we were familiar with Gregg and Flores, on account of the fact Ryder helped them put away the head honcho of a syndicate based in Westside LA—Erik Cristescu, leader of a Romanian group that specializes in trafficking anything that brought the bucks. Ryder busted him just over two years ago, albeit inadvertently. A client asked her to track down a stolen shipment of rare artifacts intended for their own private gallery. I’m not clear on the details, as it was before my time, but the trail led to a swanky club in West LA. Half the gang went down, including Cristescu.

I opened the door without enthusiasm. I’m more of a morning or late night person. Evening has always seemed lethargic to me, what with the sun getting ready to go down, people coming home from work to relax. I just inherently synchronize to the mentality of it all.

“If you’re here for dinner, you’re early,” I said.

“I wish.” Flores took off his shades, exposing his tired and bloodshot eyes. He was a hard worker and wore the scars of a history not associated with the LAPD. The Mexican accent was starting to thin, but it was still there. “We have no appointment, but I was hoping she’d make an exception.”

I smiled and shrugged. “Normally I’d tell you to skip, but it should be amusing to see you interrupt her reading.”

“She loves us, amigo. I’m sure she’ll want to hear what we have to say.”

“If you say so.” I grinned. “Follow me.”

Gregg said nothing but had the smile he always wore. Ryder liked him for the simple reason he knew when and when not to speak. She appreciated efficiency, which is why she lets me work on the sofa. Some time ago, I managed to con her into realizing being comfortable makes me more efficient. She knew it was babble, but to argue against it would be inefficient itself.

I showed them into the office and announced them. Ryder’s face lifted from her book when she finished her sentence. The corners of her lips lifted for a fraction of a second and she greeted them amiably.