Diagnosis Murder: The Death Merchant (12 page)

The Federal Building in Los Angeles was an unappealing monolith of white concrete rising from Wilshire Boulevard, directly across the street from the sprawling Veterans Memorial Cemetery. When viewed from the cemetery, the building looked like a gigantic tombstone. Mark wondered if that unfortunate effect was intended as some misguided architectural attempt at stylistic unity, or if it was entirely accidental.

Mark was at the Federal Building at the urgent request of FBI Special Agent Terry Riordan, with whom he'd recently worked on the Silent Partner serial killer investigation. All Terry would tell him was that the meeting regarded the inquiries Mark made to Agent Wagner in Virginia. But Mark was excited. The facial reconstruction must have meant something to the Bureau or he wouldn't have been summoned less than eight hours after he'd sent the file.

Terry Riordan was a big Texan with a gregarious smile and a bone-breaking handshake. Mark knew him to be an aggressive agent, not only when it came to his investigative approach but also in the way he played Bureau politics. Before the Silent Partner investigation, Terry hardly registered on the FBI radar. Now Terry was a player, and he didn't make a move without considering the political ramifications of his actions.

Mark figured Terry owed him a few favors, and he was prepared to cash them in.

The agent, in his usual presidential navy blue suit and red power tie, met Mark at the security checkpoint, gave him a clip-on ID badge, and led him into a conference room, where two other agents were waiting for them. Terry introduced Mark to Special Agents Sandra Flannery and Tim Witten, both from the Las Vegas office. Sandra was a too-thin, short-haired brunette in her early thirties with a cold, focused gaze. She wore a scoop-necked white shirt under a long, almost knee-length black jacket and matching pleated pants. Tim was rugged in a preppy, let's-go-sailing kind of way. He looked like he stepped out of the Abercrombie & Fitch catalog and straight into the FBI. Mark was willing to bet Tim's idea of casual was wearing a sweater over his shoulders, the arms tied loosely around his neck.

The introductions were barely over when Sandra held up a glossy print of Danny Royal's facial reconstruction.

"We want to know where, how, and why you found this man," Sandra said.

"I'll be glad to tell you everything I know," Mark said, "right after you tell me who that is."

Sandra glanced sharply at Terry, who smiled.

"Sandra, Dr. Sloan has helped the FBI out on several investigations," Terry said. "He's what you might call a friend of the family."

"He's a civilian," she said.

"Do you want to hear what Dr. Sloan knows or not?" Terry said, his smile fading.

She sighed and nodded to Tim, who cleared his throat, opened up a thick file in front of him, and stood up, as if delivering a presentation in class.

"The man in that picture is Stuart Appleby." Tim took a photo out of his file and held it up. It looked like a passport or ID photo, but it was clearly the same man. The resemblance to the computer-drawn image was almost perfect. "He's a fugitive, wanted on kidnapping, extortion, and murder charges."

"What happened?" Mark asked.

"We believe he was the point man in the kidnapping of eighteen-year-old Connie Standiford five years ago." Tim laid a picture of the teenage girl on the table in front of Mark. She was in her cheerleader's uniform, a buoyant smile on her face, her cheeks red and her eyes sparkling. "They were waiting for her at home when she came back from school. They cut off her pinkie and left it for her father as evidence that they had her."

"Her father was Roger Standiford," Sandra said. "The casino owner."

Mark was familiar with him. Standiford was widely credited with reinventing Las Vegas with his over-the-top, family-friendly, theme park casinos like the T-Rex and Gilligan's Island. Standiford certainly had the deep pockets to fund a prolonged hunt for the fugitives and pay for their demise.

"Roger Standiford got a call on his private line demanding 4.5 million dollars in cash in six hours or his daughter would be killed," Tim continued. "He did as he was told. He got the cash together and was given delivery instructions by cell phone. After the handover, they told him she was buried alive in a storage container in the desert beside his house."

Tim slid another picture in front of Mark. It showed the teenager, curled in a corner of the storage container, clutching a poorly-bandaged and to her chest. She was obviously dead.

"Her father was too late," Tim said. "There was a pipe to the surface for fresh air, and the kidnappers left her with a couple bottles of water, but it was a hundred-plus degrees out there that day."

"We don't think they meant for her to die," Sandra said. "But that doesn't change the result."

Mark realized the kidnappers had made a crucial miscalculation. They'd assumed all she'd need was air and plenty of water.

They didn't take into account that her terror and pain would change her needs. Fear would have quickened her breathing, increasing the amount of oxygen she needed and carbon dioxide she was exhaling. Her rapid breathing would also have made her become dehydrated more rapidly, moisture escaping from her body with each frantic breath.

With no light in the container, and the claustrophobic horror she must have been enduring, Mark doubted she even touched the water. All of that combined with the suffocating heat, the pitiful airflow, and the buildup of carbon monoxide, and Mark doubted she would have survived more than a couple of hours.

It would have been a horrible death.

"You said 'they' didn't mean for her to die," Mark said. "So there are others."

Tim spread out a fresh array of photos in front of Mark. "Diane Love, William Gregson, and Jason Brennan. They were his crew."

"Are they also still at large?" Mark asked.

Sandra nodded. "It was an inside job. Within hours after the murder, it was apparent who the kidnappers were. Stuart Appleby was one of Standiford's assistants. Diane Love worked in the cashiers' cage at the T-Rex. William Gregson and Jason Brennan both worked for Standiford's construction and development company. They all disappeared the day of the kidnapping and haven't been heard from since."

"If Danny Roy—" Mark stopped and corrected himself. "I mean, if Stuart Appleby is any indication, these pictures are useless. They've all had extensive plastic surgery and are living quiet lives on their shares of the ransom money."

Mark explained how he met Stuart Appleby, the details of his murder, and how the fugitive established his new identity on Kauai. Sandra listened very carefully while Tim took notes.

"The puzzle magazines were a mistake," Sandra said.

"How do you mean?" Mark asked.

"Appleby used to love to do crossword puzzles in his free time," Sandra said. "That and his limp were the two things he couldn't shake."

"You can change your face, your name, and your identity, Agent Flannery," Mark said. "But you can't change who you are."

Terry looked at the two agents. "Looks like you're both on your way to Hawaii."

"I wouldn't bother," Mark said.

Sandra smirked. "With all due respect, Dr. Sloan, just be cause you spent a few days on the island asking questions and looking at some paperwork doesn't mean there isn't more to be learned. We intend to dig a lot deeper and a lot more thoroughly than you did vacationing."

"And while you're there, looking into Appleby's life as Danny Royal, the killer will be continuing to stalk the other fugitives," Mark said. "That's why he burned down Appleby's house and restaurant. He was sending them a warning."

"The murder may have had nothing to do with Appleby's past," Tim said. "It may have arisen out of some conflict in his new life as Danny Royal."

"Perhaps," Mark said. "But I doubt it."

Sandra and Tim shared a look. Clearly they didn't have much respect for Mark's opinion and didn't bother to hide their disdain.

"Really?" Sandra asked. "You're chief of internal medicine at Community General Hospital, is that correct?"

"Sandra," Terry said firmly.

"Hold on, Terry, I'm just getting some clarification here." Sandra looked Mark in the eye. "So in your professional opinion, Appleby couldn't have been killed for any reason except his involvement in this five-year-old kidnapping case."

"Yes." Mark said.

"That's helpful, doctor," Sandra said. "Maybe I should ask my chiropractor for his opinion, too."

"This is only the first killing," Mark said. "The other three kidnappers will be killed, too, their deaths made to look like accidents. It may not be this month, it may not be this year, but this man will find them."

"Not before we do," Sandra said.

"He beat you to Appleby when the Bureau gave up years ago," Mark said. "What makes you think he won't beat you to the others?"

Mark got up and walked out. His odds weren't much better than the FBI's as far as finding the others before the killer did, but at least he knew it. The FBI's arrogance may have been one of the obstacles to its success.

He wondered again what mistake Appleby had made.

How did the killer find him after so many years? What did the killer know and what resources did he have that the FBI didn't?

Mark was committed to the hunt now, but had no idea where to begin or how to develop some kind of edge over his clever adversary.

Terry Riordan caught up with Mark as he was leaving the building.

"I apologize for Agent Flannery's attitude," Terry said. "They just flew in from Vegas and walked in five minutes before you did. I didn't get a chance to brief them. She doesn't know you. She isn't familiar with your track record in this arena."

Mark nodded. He didn't really care what the agents thought about him. He cared about stopping more killings.

"I'd like to take a look at the file on the kidnapping," Mark said, "and anything you have on the four suspects."

Terry snorted. "I'm sure you would, but we aren't a library."

"You just finished complimenting me on my abilities in this arena," Mark said. "What do you have to lose?"

"You mean besides my career?" Terry said. "I know your experience and your abilities. But you're still a civilian as far as the FBI is concerned. Unlike the Silent Partner investigation, you have no standing in this case."

"There wouldn't be a case now if I hadn't discovered the shark attack was a trick, and if I hadn't asked Claire Rossiter to work up a facial reconstruction."

"And we appreciate the effort," Terry said. "We'll reimburse you for what you paid Rossiter. I'll even send you an official commendation on FBI stationery if it will make you feel better."

"What would make me feel better is to catch this killer before he kills another one of the kidnappers," Mark said. "Whoever he is, he's a skilled professional who doesn't come cheap. It took a lot of time, talent, and money to track down Appleby."

Terry pulled Mark aside. "Can I give you some advice? Let it go. We're on the job. We're the FBI. Believe it or not, we're pretty good at what we do."

"Not as good as he is." Mark started to walk away, but Terry stopped him.

"Wait," Terry said, then lowered his voice to barely more than a whisper. "We've been hearing rumors for years, nothing we can substantiate yet, about a man who approaches wealthy families who've lost a loved one to an unsolved violent crime and offers them closure."

Mark felt a chill creep up his back. "He offers them vengeance for a price."

"He says he'll do what the law won't."

"Has he?" Mark asked.

Terry shrugged. "You tell me."

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

It wasn't easy getting a call through to Roger Standiford. Mark didn't actually succeed, but his message got to the man nonetheless.

As soon as he got back home, he called Standiford's office. Mark couldn't get past the hotel magnate's impenetrable front line of executive assistants, so he left his name, number, and a simple message: I saw Stuart Appleby die.

Fifteen minutes later, Mark got a call back offering him an appointment with Standiford at noon the next day. That wouldn't be a problem for Mark. Las Vegas was only a forty-five-minute plane ride from L.A., and flights left from Los Angeles International Airport on an almost hourly basis. Mark made a reservation on the 8:00 A.M. flight and got a return ticket for 8:00 P.M. the same day. He wanted to allow himself plenty of time to talk and snoop around a bit.

Mark knew he'd find Steve at BBQ Bob's, so he drove over to the restaurant for dinner. Business was light, which disappointed Steve and Jesse, but Mark didn't mind, even though he had some money of his own tied up in the place. The slow night gave him a chance to fill Steve and Jesse in on what he'd learned without too many interruptions for delivering ribs to customers or checking on things in the kitchen. He told them about Danny Royal's true identity, the Standiford kidnapping, and the FBI's suspicion that a professional killer was offering wealthy families vengeance for a price.

When Mark finished telling them everything, including that he had an afternoon meeting lined up with Roger Standiford, both Steve and Jesse seemed troubled.

"You're being manipulated," Steve said. "The only reason Riordan told you about the professional killer was so you'd run with it. And you are, just like he knew you would."

"What does Agent Riordan expect me to do that the FBI can't?" Mark asked.

"Get in to see Roger Standiford and press him about the contract killer," Steve said. "The Feds haven't made any progress investigating his daughter's kidnapping and murder. Standiford is probably so disgusted with them that he won't let them in the door, and he certainly won't see them to hear accusations that he hired some hit man. But Riordan knew if he teased you with details of the kidnapping and gave you the lead about the hit man, you'd do his job for him."

"I don't see the downside for me," Mark said.

"You're being used." Steve said, "Isn't that enough?"

"Not if it helps me find the other kidnappers before Standiford's hit man does," Mark said. "The FBI is concentrating on backtracking Stuart Appleby's life in Hawaii."