Lilith: a novel (21 page)

Travis released his grip on the two bills and Alicia quickly pocketed them.

“You can trust me, Travis. I ain’t no idiot, you know.”

You’re a junkie
, Travis thought.
That amounts to the same thing
.

“Okay then. I hope so. You’d better hope so, too.” Travis was confident that Alicia would perceive the underlying threat. He stood up and began walking back toward the Jeep. Alicia remained seated. When he was a fair ways away, she called after him.

“Travis?”

He paused and looked over his shoulder. She was holding the two bills for the phone aloft.

“I’ll be sure to buy the phone. But can I maybe—keep the change?”

Travis sighed and resumed walking. He called out over his shoulder: “Yes, Alicia, you can keep the fucking change.”

“Lilith just texted me!” Dave said.

Alan was at his desk, combing through another law enforcement database for any recent information about Jessica Knox. He had put out an alert on the Jeep, but no law enforcement agency in southern or central Ohio had yet found it. It was possible, he supposed, that Knox and Hall had ditched the vehicle.

In fact, that would be the smart move, from a fugitive’s perspective. Cynthia Knox had almost certainly been lying when she claimed not to have had any contact with her daughter. That would mean that rather than helping the police locate Jessica, she would have tipped Jessica off.

But now this…

“She’s texting you?” Alan asked. He stood and headed over to Dave’s cubicle. “Are you sure it's the same ‘Lilith’?”

“I’ve only talked to one Lilith,” Dave said. “And she’s apologizing for bugging out on our earlier date.”

“That would indicate the same person.”

“Yeah. The phone number is different. But she mentioned our first date, and her taking off like she did.”

Alan paused. This development could have any number of meanings—including that they were pursuing the wrong lead.

“Why don’t you start by running a check on the number.”

“It’s probably a burner.”

“Yeah, it’s probably a burner. But that’s our starting point. I’ll be back over here in an hour. Let me know what you find.”

But the phone that Lilith had used to text Dave wasn't a burner. It turned out to be a government-issued phone, one of the thousands issued to low-income individuals as part of various government assistance programs. This particular phone was issued to an ex-con named William Mofford.

A cross-reference of the government records revealed that this was one of roughly a dozen phones issued to William Mofford. According to the rules of the program, beneficiaries were to be limited to only one phone every two years.

The bitter irony of the situation was not lost on Dave. “Yeah, it torques me off to think that we’re getting squeezed by budget cuts, and another branch of the government is issuing cell phones to convicted felons. So many cell phones, in fact, that a guy like William Mofford is able to collect them.”

Alan was a bit less surprised. He had been dealing with official bureaucracies—state, local, and federal, for more years.

“It wouldn't surprise me to find out that any number of government assistance cell phones are issued to William Mofford. But why would William Mofford be contacting you at all?”

“I don’t believe that he did. I just did some more research on William Mofford. He was listed a few years ago on the birth certificate of a child delivered by one Alicia Susan Griggs. Mofford was the father.”

Dave hit a few more buttons on his keyboard. A DMV photo of Alicia Griggs appeared on the screen.

Like Jessica Knox, Alicia Griggs roughly fit the physical profile of Lilith: She was somewhere in her early- to mid-thirties. Griggs had a slender build and dark hair. Unlike Jessica Knox, however, Griggs’s face had an angular, sunken look that suggested long-term drug use.

“Did you check her record?” Alan asked.

“Yep. Two misdemeanor busts for drug possession. One more for solicitation.”

“And she looks sort of like a ‘Lilith’, doesn't she?”

“She’s got dark hair,” Dave acknowledged. “And her age fits, more or less.”

Alan knew that no photo of Alicia Griggs would match the dating site profile photos of Lilith, as those had already been identified as generic model shots pulled from the Internet. Dave’s memory would be a better guide here:

“Is that the woman you saw at the Terrace View restaurant that night?”

Dave paused for a moment, staring intently at the photo on the screen. Finally he shook his head.

“I can’t be sure. But she might be.”

“How does she compare to Jessica Knox, in terms of the likelihood of being Lilith?”

Dave thought again before replying.

“Sorry, Alan. She was too far away, and I only had my eyes on her for a few beats. I know, I know—I should have tried to get a better look at her.”

“That’s okay,” Alan said. “You didn't know she was going to take off running. You had every reason to believe that you were going to have an hour with her over dinner.”

“Maybe,” Dave allowed. He looked up at Alan. “So now what?”

Alan found himself suddenly thinking again about dead ends and wrong leads. There was a compelling case against Knox and Hall. Especially given the latter’s prison record, there was a better than fifty-fifty chance that the two of them were up to something. And while Seth Greenwald had done his best to protect himself, there was enough truth in the bank manager’s story to cast Jessica Knox in an unfavorable light, with or without Travis Hall.

Nevertheless, it was a circumstantial chain of evidence: The entire case against Travis Hall and Jessica Knox hinged on Travis Hall’s apparent presence at the Terrace View on the night of Dave’s first, aborted meeting with Lilith, and Travis Hall’s connection to Lorelei.

On the way home from his meeting with Greenwald the previous day, Alan had stopped by the Terrace View. Viktor Pudovkin remembered Alan; but when he showed the Russian a photo of Travis Hall, Podovkin had been unsure.

“It might have been him,” Pudovkin had said. “Yeah, it looks like him. I see his tattoo.”

The tattoo was clearly visible in Travis Hall’s prison photo.

But how many ex-cons were there with tattoos in that location? How many who—on a dark night—could possibly be mistaken for Travis Hall?

Moreover, there was no evidence, as yet, connecting either Jessica Knox or Travis Hall to the Internet dating site where Dave had made contact with Lilith.

But William Mofford was now connected. And if Dave’s hunches and investigatory work panned out, this Alicia Griggs—who looked suspiciously like both Lilith and Jessica Knox—was also connected.

“We need to check this out,” Alan said. He clapped Dave on the shoulder. “How would you like to go on another date?”

Alicia Griggs felt a warm wave of relief flood through her body. She pulled the needle from the exposed vein in the well of her elbow, and set the needle on the rickety end table beside her. Then she removed the makeshift tourniquet from her bicep—the length of thick rubber banding that she used to make her veins stand up.

The dinginess of her apartment began to recede into the distance. In the unit next door, a woman was yelling at a child—swearing at him or her—but Alicia barely heard.

She knew, on some level, that she had made a grave mistake a few minutes ago. She had contacted the police detective, Don, using a cell phone that Willie had given her.

Alicia had long ago received a government-issued cell phone of her own, but she had lost it. Or maybe she had panned it during one of her low points, when money was tight and she needed a fix in the worst way. She had applied for a new phone; but each aid recipient was held to a quota: She wouldn't be eligible for another one until next year.

Willie, on the other hand, had a lot of government-issued cell phones. Because Willie had connections.

Willie also had a long criminal rap sheet, of course. But the police wouldn't connect him to whatever it was that Travis and his girlfriend were doing on that dating site.

And what exactly was that? Alicia had tentatively accepted Travis’s explanation that he and his girlfriend were simply blackmailing married men. But she had her doubts. The police wouldn't even be aware of such a scam, in all likelihood. Married men who had been caught with their pants down and then blackmailed wouldn't be likely to complain to the police. They would provide the demanded payoffs, then disappear. In fact, the last thing a married man would want would be police involvement.

Then Travis had said something about the police looking for a killer, while he had insisted that he and his girlfriend hadn’t killed anyone.

And what about his peculiar instructions regarding the cop, and some dead-end street across from the Loft? Why would Travis want to talk to the police detective?

Something in Travis’s eyes had told Alicia that she was being lied to. In the circles in which Alicia traveled, liars were everywhere, and she believed that she knew how to recognize a lie when she heard one.

It’s not my fault
, Alicia thought, as the warmth covered her, surrounded her, blocked out all other concerns.
It isn’t my fault, so it isn’t my problem. The cop named Don can take care of himself.

And there was something else at stake here, too. Alicia had long ago admitted to herself that she had a thing for Travis. That woman he was with now—Jessica what’s-her-face—did Travis really love her? It seemed like more a business arrangement than anything.

Alicia knew that she would be a better lady for Travis. Besides…
Why couldn't she just admit it to herself?
Whenever she was around Travis, she felt like a schoolgirl. Not many men did that for her anymore. Not even Willie—who barely returned her phone calls nowadays.

Whatever happened to the cop, she was in this for Travis. And the money, of course. But she
needed
the money.

It would all work out, she assured herself. Everything was all arranged with the cop named Don, for tomorrow night, Saturday. Don would pick her up near downtown Cincinnati’s Fountain Square. Then they would go to the Loft for their date. Just as Travis had instructed her.

“I made the date,” Dave reported, having suddenly materialized at the edge of Alan’s cubicle. “I’m taking her to the Loft.”

“The Loft?” Alan asked. “What’s wrong with the Terrace View? That’s where you met her the first time.”

“She expressed a strong desire to go to the Loft,” Dave said.

“You can’t let women walk all over you like that,” Maribel said.

Dave turned around suddenly. He had not heard Maribel approach, and had no idea that she had been listening.

“Women like when guys plan the date,” Maribel added.

“This one didn't. She was very clear about wanting to go to the Loft. Tomorrow night.” Dave turned back to Alan. “Is this going to be a problem? Is there anything wrong with taking her to the Loft, if that’s where she really wants to go? I figured since we know that it’s probably going to be Alicia Griggs who shows up, maybe she just wants to go to a high-class place. If she’s got substance abuse issues, then she probably doesn't get out to classy places very often.”

“I wouldn't call the Loft a classy place,” Maribel said. “Nothing more than a bunch of drunken college kids, from what I hear.”

Dave let out a long sigh. “I’m sorry. Look, I’ll admit that I’m much better at the research side of this job than I am at undercover operations with suspects. I repeat: Is there a problem with taking Alicia Griggs to the Loft?”

“No,” Alan said. “That’s kind of a dicey neighborhood; but we’re the police, after all. We should be able to handle it.”

“
We?
So I take it that you and Maribel will be running surveillance?”

“Only me,” Alan said. Before Maribel could object, he said: “No way, Maribel. You’ve got this weekend off.”

Maribel was, in fact, overdue for a full Friday through Sunday break from police work. As Dave had noted, the ODCI had faced state budget constraints in recent years. Alan’s group was officially short one investigator. The result was that three detectives had been doing the work of four for some time.

“This is nothing that Dave and I can’t handle by ourselves.”

“Enough said,” Maribel agreed. “But I would have enjoyed listening to Dave perform on another date.”

“Why is it necessary for you to be at the Loft tonight with Alicia?” Jessica asked.

It was late Saturday afternoon. Travis had just revealed his intention to trail Don and Alicia on their contrived outing that would take place in a few hours.

Travis’s presence there made absolutely no sense to Jessica. The entire purpose of the exercise was to convince the police that she and Travis had no connection to any of the men who had been murdered, and no connection to the online profile they had created: Lilith.

If Travis were seen at the Loft, or anywhere in the vicinity, then any successful diversion they might have accomplished through Alicia’s little game would be undone. The police would be right back on top of them. If they weren’t nabbed later tonight, then that creepy bald cop would show up at her mother’s house again within a matter of days.

“I want to talk to that cop,” Travis muttered, looking away from her. He sighed aloud. “Oh, what the hell? I might as well tell you. No harm in you knowin’, I guess.”

Then Travis revealed what Alicia was really supposed to do: She was supposed to lure Don the cop outside, into a little dead-end alley across the street from the Loft.

“What do you mean, you ‘want to talk to that cop’?” Jessica shot back. “And in an alley in the middle of the night? What kind of a crazy idea is that?”

Then she noticed the gym bag full of guns that Travis had left on the floor of the cramped space that passed for the living room of their tiny, pay-by-week apartment. There were three or four handguns in the bag, and one that looked like an Uzi.

It was far more weaponry than they could possibly need. Travis didn't realize that he was nothing more than a smalltime con who had happened upon a moderately profitable idea.
(And that idea was just about played out and burned out, given that the bald cop and the lady cop had found their way to her mother’s house in Iron Mills.)

Travis, however, apparently had some fantasy image of himself as a flamboyant, larger-than-life outlaw. It was part of his personal code of masculinity: He couldn't let Don the cop and the bald cop—whom he saw as lesser men—force him to run. And he probably couldn't even conceive the idea of running from the lady cop.

She now grasped the full import of what Travis was planning: It all added up, suddenly.

“Travis, I’ve told you before: You can’t kill a cop.”

“That cop made a fool of us, baby. Or at least he tried to. But we’re going to do something about that.”

Who is ‘we’?
she thought.
Leave me out of that. Stop talking about we.

Like she had told him before: It was one thing to kill a nobody like Robert Billings. It was another thing to kill a cop. The death of one cop brought down all of them in force, and they would be relentless.

“Travis, you can’t kill a cop,” she repeated. “You can’t even lay your hand on a cop. You can’t
threaten
a cop.”

“People kill cops everyday. Don’t you read the news?”

“Yes, and usually when people kill cops, they are tracked down.”

Travis nudged the gym bag with his foot. “They ain’t trackin’ nobody down. I’m ready.”

With that he turned away from her, so as to put a peremptory end on this conversation, which was simultaneously absurd and deathly serious.

Travis disappeared into the bathroom and slammed the door behind him. Thirty seconds later she heard the shower running.

Travis was losing his mind, she decided.

She didn't care about “Don” the cop. Don knew what team he was playing on, the risks. If he died, there would be a big public funeral—with speeches from important people, and maybe even other cops playing bagpipes. She had seen that on television once. (Or was that something they only did in big cities like New York? She didn't know.)

In any event, though, Don would get a better send-off than Robert Billings, or Harold Markey, or Scott Green—the three men they had killed under the guise of ‘Lilith’.

More to the point, she and Travis would get no send-off. When they died in a shootout with the cops (which was a distinct likelihood given the plan that Travis had mapped out) no one would mourn them—probably not even their relatives.

Well, there wasn't going to be any ‘Jessica and Travis’ anymore. At least not until she had dissuaded Travis from his foolhardy intentions.

Listening to Travis fumble around beneath the hot water, she bent silently down and picked a pistol from the gym bag.

She lifted the gun and examined it. She already knew that it was loaded. Travis had said many times that guns should always be kept loaded. Otherwise, they were perfectly useless in the event that you actually needed one. Jessica was no expert on firearms, but she also knew that the gun in her hand was a semiautomatic pistol. The logo on the barrel of the pistol consisted of an intertwined S and W inside a closed circle. Smith and Wesson.

Could she really use a gun against Travis? Oh, she figured she would never actually shoot Travis. He was far too beautiful to kill, and she knew that she wouldn't have the nerve.

But she could use the gun to shock some sense into him, in a worst-case scenario. And they were definitely headed for the worst-case scenario. Serious times called for serious measures, right?

Before she did that, she would try to find Alicia at the Loft and warn her from luring the cop outside. Even Travis would balk at shooting a cop inside a crowded nightclub.

She hoped.

Jessica slipped the pistol underneath the cushion of the nearby sofa. If Travis wouldn't listen to reason, perhaps he would listen to the gun.