Dark Revelations (10 page)
Authors: Duane Swierczynski,Anthony E. Zuiker
The laptop
ping
meant that the DNA sample of the homeless man matched with an identity. Again, Graysmith’s clandestine databases had come in handy. This man did indeed exist. Dark spun the ultrathin laptop so that he could see the screen, then tapped a few keys.
ping
meant that the DNA sample of the homeless man matched with an identity. Again, Graysmith’s clandestine databases had come in handy. This man did indeed exist. Dark spun the ultrathin laptop so that he could see the screen, then tapped a few keys.
“So who is it?” Graysmith asked from the other side of the plane.
“Coming up now.”
This short, seven-word exchange was the only conversation they’d had since boarding the Gulfstream. She pointed Dark in the direction of the laptop and perched herself on a seat opposite with a cup of herbal tea, earphones, and a tablet computer.
Dark waited for the results.
And their mystery homeless man turned out to be . . .
. . . nobody.
Not literally. The man had a life, a background. Just not a terribly distinguished background—certainly not one that would cause his fingerprints and identity to be stripped from every known law enforcement database worldwide. His name was Aldi Kutishi, and he was an Albanian shopkeeper who was thought to have been killed during a looting spree in the early 1990s. Only Graysmith’s underground resources revealed this tiny piece of biographical data. His whereabouts for the past two decades?
Unknown.
It was as if the man had stepped into a pocket alternate universe, contracted an untraceable disease, then manifested in L.A. on a balmy fall day, living long enough to deliver a strange package to the police.
So this . . . “Labyrinth.”
For starters, he’d given himself that moniker. That was significant. Most killers were branded by the media or law enforcement, but Labyrinth had identified himself from the beginning. Did Labyrinth see himself as the master at the center of a dizzying and hopelessly confusing maze? Or was he trapped inside as well, and killing people was his only way out?
He was careful to use a courier who had no background. Therefore, Labyrinth must have some kind of access to law enforcement databases around the world to ensure that his man was a proper, untraceable nobody.
Labyrinth also had access to, or could forge, LAPD stationery, as well as a rare sketch of a Hollywood starlet. He was either an expert thief, or employed one, or several of them. Not unusual for someone to parcel out a job.
Why would he pick this courier, though? What about Aldi Kutishi made him the ideal human bomb?
“Does the name mean anything to you?” Dark asked.
Graysmith shook her head. “Not a thing. But the people you’re about to meet may have some ideas.”
“How long have you worked for them? Or are you just a freelancer who goes around worming your way into people’s lives?”
“I’ve worked for Damien for a long time. By the way, I understand what you’re doing. You’ve felt like you’ve been betrayed or abandoned by most of the people in your life. Naturally, you’re taking some of this hostility out on me. I not only understand it, but I expected it. Because I used this sense of betrayal and abandonment to enter your life. But this was carefully considered, and we saw no other way. You had just left Special Circs. You were not about to join another organization, no matter how appealing it may have sounded. I had to lead you to it, which is all I’ve done. If you hate me for it, I’m prepared to accept that.”
“I don’t hate you,” Dark said. “How can you hate someone you don’t even know?”
Graysmith said, “Oh, I don’t think you really believe that, Steve.”
Dark turned his attention back to the laptop. How he got here didn’t matter; the fact remained that there was another monster out there. And Graysmith had touched on the truth. The idea of an organization with unlimited resources and access—and no red tape—
did
appeal to him now. As long as he got to take this monster out.
did
appeal to him now. As long as he got to take this monster out.
When they deplaned it was night, and very cold. A wind from the north picked up a chill from the ocean and slammed it into their bodies. Dark tried to compute the time difference, and wondered what his daughter was doing right now. Getting ready for school?
As they walked down to the tarmac a black limousine rushed toward them, intent on arriving at the bottom of the staircase the very moment they’d reached it. Graysmith rummaged through her bag and pulled out a fabric hood. Wordlessly she held it out for Dark to take. He just stared at it.
“You’re fucking kidding.”
“Sorry, it’s a requirement. I told you, Blair values his privacy. Unless you want to turn around and fly back home?”
“This is insane.”
“Blair insists. He operates in total secret, and the existence of his organization depends on it. There’s always the chance, however slim, that you’re a wildly brilliant sociopath who’s seen through my cover all along, and in fact have been hunting me to get to them.”
“Gee, you’ve figured me out.”
“I thought as much. Now please, indulge me? It won’t be for long. You’ll hardly know you’re wearing it.”
But he took the hood anyway. The fabric was soft and breathable, at least. He slipped it over his head.
The hood turned out to be a diversion. For the moment he slipped the hood over his head Dark felt a sting in the side of his neck, and then his vision went black for real.
AP News
Breaking: Norman Wycoff under indictment, accused of abusing Defense Department powers.
chapter 15
RIGGINS
T
he restaurant was quiet, dim, empty. Just the way Riggins liked it.
he restaurant was quiet, dim, empty. Just the way Riggins liked it.
“Come on,” he said. “It’s
me
. Don’t you think I could find out anyway?”
me
. Don’t you think I could find out anyway?”
Constance Brielle smiled. “Well, I
could
tell you . . .”
could
tell you . . .”
“But you’d have to kill me, right?” Riggins smiled, swirled the ice around in his drink. “Well, sweetheart, many have tried, and somehow I’m still walking around.”
“Yeah,” she said. “Me, too.”
Riggins had spent a lot of time with Constance in the hospital in the aftermath of the Tarot Card Killer case. She had gone head-to-head with a psychotic ex–Navy Seal in a fire tower of the largest building in San Francisco—the Niantic Tower. She had barely survived the encounter. Her arm had been broken in two places. She had been choked and then finally driven headfirst into a concrete wall, giving her a concussion. The fact that she had survived meant that Constance was tougher than any of them realized—including Constance. But it was Riggins who had carried her out of the burning Niantic Tower. Riggins who had stayed with her, holding her hand, telling her how tough she was. How if it had been him, he would have been curled up into the fetal position crying for his mommy. Constance had smiled, even through the morphine-drip haze, and Riggins knew she’d be all right.
Riggins turned out to be wrong about that. Constance was not okay.
And now, just six months later, Constance was quitting Special Circs.
“Guess we’re born survivors,” Riggins said.
They’d met up at a joint not far from Quantico—a dark, old-school chophouse with huge wooden booths and white tablecloths. Riggins liked it because it was quiet. It was also a good place for drinking. Constance ordered a bourbon, Black Maple Hill, neat, her first alcoholic beverage since getting out of the hospital. Riggins ordered a crème de menthe with pineapple juice on the rocks. Which was absolutely disgusting. And, which was the point. Riggins needed a drink, but he figured that sipping something disgusting would keep him from getting too drunk. He didn’t want to go bad on himself now, of all times. He eyed Constance’s bourbon, though.
“Any news from King Asshole?” Constance asked.
King Asshole = code word for Wycoff.
“No. The man’s going down in flames, that much is clear.”
“What’s that mean for you?”
“Going to ignore it, do my job.”
There was a sudden brightness in Constance’s eyes. “You’re on this Labyrinth thing, aren’t you?”
“Yeah,” Riggins lied.
Truth was, in the week since that first creepy video had been uploaded, nobody had said
boo
to him. Riggins decided to pursue it anyway. No evil overlord meant no accountability. At least in the short term.
boo
to him. Riggins decided to pursue it anyway. No evil overlord meant no accountability. At least in the short term.
“You should be working this one with me,” Riggins said. “I need someone like you on this.”
“Tom . . .”
“I know, I know. And I lied. I don’t need someone like you. I need you, and I know I can’t have you.”
“I just feel like I . . .”
“You don’t have to explain. I understand better than anybody.”
And she did. Tom Riggins knew the crush of the job better than anybody. The fact that he was still in it, after all of these years, was either a miracle or a statistical anomaly. Special Circs agents lasted anywhere from forty-eight hours to six months, tops. An unusually long career might mean a year or two of service. Somehow Riggins had lasted a quarter of a century. Only Steve Dark and Constance Brielle came in at a distant second and third spot on the longevity list.
Dark had quit earlier in the year; Constance was pulling the plug now.
She was headed to a job in the intelligence community; she’d been scouted. Riggins did some intradepartmental digging. Turns out, Constance had been scouted quite often over the years, but turned down all offers flat. She preferred to stay with Riggins. And, of course, Steve Dark, her unrequited paramour.
Dark, who hadn’t visited her in the hospital.
Not once.
They’d never spoken about it, but Riggins knew it bothered the both of them.
Riggins thought about the last time he saw Steve Dark. Six weeks ago, on the westernmost edge of California, in the wake of a bloodbath. For a period of time, a horrible, excruciating length of time, Riggins had worried that Dark had gone to the place of no return. That he might even
be
the Tarot Card Killer. Riggins knew things about Dark’s lineage that not even Dark himself knew. So when Riggins had the gun in his hand and pointed at the closest thing he had to a son . . . he was fully prepared to pull the trigger. And what an awful moment that had been.
be
the Tarot Card Killer. Riggins knew things about Dark’s lineage that not even Dark himself knew. So when Riggins had the gun in his hand and pointed at the closest thing he had to a son . . . he was fully prepared to pull the trigger. And what an awful moment that had been.
I’m not crazy, Tom. I’m as sane as I’ve ever been,
Dark had said.
What have you been doing?
Riggins asked.
My job. Just not for you.
Was he still doing the job, out there in L.A.?
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