Dark Eye (14 page)

“I can try. He was a big man-strong, obviously.”

“Height?”

“Almost six feet.”

“Hair?”

“Blond. With lots of curls. And he had a beard.”

Her head tilted to one side. She was considering, he realized, running the description through her mental database. And it didn’t fit. Because it wasn’t true. But she couldn’t know that for a fact. Not yet.

“I wish we could be sure the man you saw was the killer. But…” Her voice drifted.

They had rounded a complete city block and returned to the street on which they had started. “I suppose it’s possible this guy had nothing to do with her murder,” Susan said, closing her notebook. “But it’s still worth checking out.” She extended her hand. “Thank you for coming forward, Ethan.” She paused, not in front of headquarters, but across the street from a place called The Golden Bear. A bar and grill. “Now, if you’ll excuse me-”

“Lieutenant?” He took her hand.

“Yes?”

He glanced across the street. “That is not what you need.”

“Excuse me?”

“A little early, don’t you think?” He smiled. “If you start drinking now, you’ll be useless for the rest of the day. Then you’ll become angry at yourself for drinking and being useless. Wouldn’t it be smarter not to start?”

“You’re pretty damned impertinent, Ethan.” He thought she would be mad, but the steam never rose. The corner of her lips turned up. “But you’re right. I guess I needed to hear someone say it.” She checked her watch. “Anyway, I’ve got an appointment with an old friend. Thanks again.”

He hesitated. “I… wouldn’t mind seeing you again sometime, Lieutenant.”

She grinned. “Call me Susan.”

He watched as she made her way up the steps and away from him. He would see her again. He knew it. But there was much work to be done in the meantime. Another offering to be secured-according to the prophet, a trinity was necessary to bring about the holy objective.

And he had to find an axe.

His plan would move forward. And Susan Pulaski would be a part of it. Onward unto glory, now and forever.

I was still thinking about that distinctly decent-looking witness when I arrived-perhaps I should say descended-into Colin’s office.

He peered across his cluttered desk at me, one hand still on the computer keyboard. Was he umbilically attached to the thing?

“You want to consult with me? On a murder case?”

“If you’re willing.”

“Well, sure, yeah. I mean, I guess.” He rubbed his hand through tousled hair that looked as if it hadn’t been combed for days. “But why me?”

“Because of all David’s friends, you were the…” Nerdiest? “The best at solving puzzles.”

“And you think that’s what these are?” He took the photocopies of the two messages left at each of the crime scenes. “Anyone else working on this?”

“Chief O’Bannon has assigned his best and brightest, but I don’t think they have any real expertise in this field. He also faxed copies to the professional code breakers at the FBI and even cryptanalysts at the CIA-but so far, they got nothing. He’s talking about running the messages in the newspaper, a prospect I really dread.”

“Why?”

“Because the press will eat this up with a spoon. They’ve already gone big with the photos of the victims. These coded messages will take the story right into comic book land. The press will glamorize them and hype them and make it all the more difficult to conduct a serious investigation.”

“It may just be delusional psychotic ranting.”

“I’m hoping not.”

“Why?”

“If it’s gibberish, as my superior suspects, it’s not going to be any help to me. But if it’s a message, something the killer so desperately wanted to say that he left behind a potentially incriminating note… well, that could tell me a great deal.”

Colin laid the copies flat on his desk and stared at them. He was wearing a T-shirt and sweatpants, mismatched, but he worked at home and I suppose if you know you’re not going anywhere you don’t have to dress for it. His posture recalled a vulture, his neck craned over the desk, his glasses so thick he could probably perform microsurgery without additional instrumentation. David had met Colin in college and they’d stayed in touch after, right up until David’s death. They weren’t best friends-their tastes were worlds apart, Colin being more cerebral-but they were close enough that I knew him, and I knew what he did for a living, too.

He created puzzles. Crosswords, mostly, but also acrostics and word searches and this godawful impossible wordplay-infused variant of traditional crosswords called cryptics, clearly the products of demented brains. Best of all, I knew he considered himself an expert on cryptograms. An entire shelf on the wall behind him was dedicated to codes and ciphers.

“Well, if it is a code, it isn’t a simple substitution code, I can promise you that,” he said about a minute later.

“Simple substitution code?”

“Yeah. One letter representing another. Like the cryptograms in the newspaper. Easily solved by reference to letter frequency and patterns of orthography.”

“Orthography?”

He grinned. “That’s what the nonpuzzling world calls
spelling.
”

“And how do you know it isn’t one of those… simple substitution codes?”

“Because if it was, I would’ve solved it already.” He continued staring at the pages. “There are more than twenty-six characters in use here, which also rules out a simple substitution. Some of these symbols aren’t letters at all. Decoding is also complicated by the fact that there do not appear to be any breaks for sentences or words. The symbols are grouped in large blocks, and I rather suspect that the blocks may not be in the proper order. Looks like it may contain some decoy characters, too.”

“Decoy characters?”

“Right. Blanks. I see that
Q
appears in here twelve times, far more than any other letter, which would suggest that it represents
E.
But it doesn’t.”

“How do you know?”

“Because if it did, I would’ve solved it already. No, it’s more than just a cipher.”

I wondered if I should subpoena the subscription list to his puzzle magazine. There had to be something wrong with people who spent their spare time busting their brains over stuff like this. “If it isn’t a substitution code, what is it?”

“Well, I’d say there’s a remote possibility it’s a translated anagram.”

“Huh?”

“Letter scrambles. Like those Jumbles in the paper. He takes the message, then rearranges the letters at random. In a message this long, it would come out looking like gibberish.”

“How would I ever solve it?”

“You wouldn’t. Or me, for that matter. A computer might, once it figures out what to do with the nonalphabetic entries. Might at least be able to generate a menu of workable solutions.”

“Any other possibilities?”

“Oh, there are lots. Codes are literally as old as language, and over time people have devised a lot of devious ones. It’s possible that breaking the code requires reference to some external text. Like you have to know what page of the King James Bible to use as a reference key. Those were popular during World War I. Or it’s possible the solution requires a code-breaking machine, like Enigma in World War II.”

“I doubt if that’s the case.”

“Why?”

“Because if this code requires either of those two external devices, we have no realistic chance of solving it. And I have to think at least some small part of this guy wants us to solve it. Otherwise, why would he leave it? He wants it to be hard. He wants us to appreciate his brilliance. But eventually, he wants us to read the message.”

He nodded. “You know, there is precedent for this sort of thing.”

“Codes?”

“Left behind by psychopathic killers, yeah. You heard of Zodiac?”

“Of course. Studied him in school.” I snapped my fingers. “He left messages, too, didn’t he?”

“Yup. Coded. His crypts have appeared in some of the puzzle magazines. They were insidious. Stumped all the experts, including the government. Three of the four were never solved. Only one was. As I recall, it was a schoolteacher who finally cracked it, some regular Joe who saw the codes in the paper and worked on them in his spare time. Took months.”

“I don’t have months, Colin. This guy’s on a killing spree.”

“Understood. I’ll do my best.” He shrugged. “Maybe I just think this because I want to think it, because it would be more fun, but I don’t think this is gibberish. I don’t think it’s the work of an amateur, either. I suspect your killer knows something about codes. A little, anyway. My hunch is there’s a message hidden in there, but it’s incredibly complex. Different. And it’s going to take a different kind of brain to figure it out.”

“Then I’ve come to the right place.”

He sat up, stretching. “I’ll give this top priority. I’ll even put off doing today’s
New York Times.
”

“I’m surprised those puzzles are any challenge for you.”

“I do them without the grid.”

I blinked. “You mean, without the little white and black boxes?”

“Right. I work out the grid on my own, from the clues and their numbering.”

“If you keep talking like this, Colin, I’m going to move you to the head of my suspect list.”

He grinned. “Hey, you holding up okay? I heard you were having some problems.”

My chin rose. “None to speak of.”

“If you need anything-”

“I don’t need any help.” I paused. “But thanks.”

“Okay.” He reached down and pulled up his socks, which didn’t match. God, but this man needed a wife. “You know, when David died like that-it hit us all pretty hard. But I have to think it hurt you most of all.”

“Nothing I can’t handle.” I pushed myself out of his chair, bringing this line of conversation to a dead stop. “If you get anything on those codes, let me know, okay? The sooner, the better. No telling how many young women’s lives may be at stake until we catch this whack job.” I left as I came in, all business, no crack in the exterior.

I couldn’t afford a crack, and I damn well resented his trying to pry one open. We live in such a Jerry Springer world-everyone wants to go public with all their problems. Whatever happened to the virtue of circumspectness? When did we become such a nation of whiners?

Besides, I had work to do.

I was pissed as hell about being forced to report to O’Bannon’s house just so he could make sure I’d been behaving myself. At the same time, I knew if I didn’t appear, he’d jerk my tenuous little consulting position like the handle on a one-armed bandit. For now, I had to play it his way.

I left the top down and stoked myself on the night air. Did I mention that I love this city? People talk about New York and its nightlife, but for my money, Vegas has it beat. People crawled down Fremont till the wee hours of the morning, and for the most part, they enjoyed themselves, acting like kids, blowing money they don’t need, being royally entertained. Granted, our shows may not have the sophistication of Broadway, but people came to Vegas to have fun, not to get clubbed over the head with Pulitzer Prize-winning angst. And for the most part, the tourists were nice folks. Writers always portray them as seekers of sin, but what I see is mostly plain, decent folks who want to get away, play, gamble a little, gorge themselves at a buffet, and sleep sweet dreams.

While I drove, I called Lisa on my cell. To my surprise, she was home.

“How’s it hanging?”

“Oh, fine. I’m washing my nylons.” Which was code for no date. “I checked by your place but you were in absentia.”

“On my way to O’Bannon’s. He’s got me working a new case.”

She gasped a little. “Not those girls who-”

“That’s the one.”

“Oh, geez, Susan. Do you think you’re ready for this?”

I tried not to take offense. Anything she said arose from her concern about me. “Best thing. Keep me off the streets. How was your big date last night?”

“Ohh.” I didn’t have to see her to see her face falling. “Disappointing.”

“Not a tiger?”

“More like a lap dog.”

That was a new one. “I’m not sure I-”

“Visible tongue. Before my mouth was even open. I think I’m going to become a nun. Stop by on your way back?”

“I… it’ll probably be too late. Definite date for tomorrow?”

“All right. You’re sure you’re all right?”

“Couldn’t be better. Couldn’t be better.”

By the time I got to O’Bannon’s, it was almost ten, but I hoped he’d cut me some slack since I’d been working like a busy beaver. I was surprised to find that kid of his on the front porch-sort of. He stood just off the edge of the concrete, about three feet from the door. His entire body was stiff, shoulders hunched, like he’d just been injected with a paralytic drug.

“Hey, Darcy,” I said, flashing my best smile.

“Do I know you?” he said, but his expression almost immediately brightened. He remained stiff. “I like your voice. You’re Dad’s friend from work.”

“Yup. He inside?”

“Yes…”

“Shall we go see him?”

It was difficult for him to speak, but when he finally started, the words burbled out in that strange voice of his, too loud, the inflection all askew. “Would you be afraid of spiders? Because some girls are afraid of spiders. Did you know some, a lot, a lot of girls are afraid of spiders?”

“I’ve heard that.”

“So, if, then, are you afraid of spiders?”

“Nah. I’m not afraid of anything.”

“Do you think that would be poisonous?”

He pointed downward. I didn’t see anything. “Can you be more specific?” I moved in closer and eventually realized there was a small gray spider on the front porch, barely noticeable. “I don’t think it can hurt us, Darcy.”

“Did you know there are four kinds of poisonous spiders indigenous to North America?” He was lecturing me, but he never made eye contact. “The widow spiders, the recluse spiders, the hobo spiders, and the yellow sac spider.”