Private Sector (33 page)

I noticed several e-mails to Janet, and of course I opened those, too. Nothing too personal, though from the jovial, intimate tone you could tell that Lisa and Janet shared more than just sisterhood. Lisa updating Janet on her day, Janet updating Lisa about the family, about some mutual friends, and in one of her last e-mails from Lisa a promise that a package would arrive for her any day. I checked the date, about two weeks before Lisa’s murder, and made a note to ask Janet about that package.

After another thirty minutes of this, the Jacks and Harrys and Barbaras and Marys of Lisa’s life started running together into a big friendly blur. Once or twice I read an e-mail and something funny went off in the back of my head. But nothing went off in the front of my head.

By one-thirty, Cheryl was curled up in her chair and snoring. I was on an e-mail sent by Lisa to ANCAR@SEC. GOV that read, “Dear A. , Meet at Starbucks at 7:00 tomorrow AM for package. Friends Always, Lisa.”

Next was a message to DCOULTER@AOL. COM, something about providing an affidavit, when a bell went off inside my head.

I returned to the previous message and wondered what it was. I pondered this . . . and pondered this, and . . . nothing.

I moved on, and 122 messages later was one sent to JCUTH@JOHNSMATH. ORG that read, “Dear J. , Appreciate your views and expertise greatly. I’ll deliver package to your apartment tomorrow night. Friends Always, Lisa.”

Ding, ding, ding.
What?
I studied it again. In every other e-mail Lisa referred to the recipient by their full name, not an initial. Actually, there had been another initial—A. So I went back to A. , then back to J. , and back and forth a few more times, and bingo!

I slapped my forehead hard enough that Cheryl suddenly shot up in her chair.

I had no idea what Lisa’s messages to them were about, and in fact, didn’t really care about the messages—the connection was the only thing that mattered.

J. —well, J. was Julia Cuthburt of Johnson and Smathers. And A. —that was Anne Carrol of the SEC.

Put the two together, and I was staring at the second and fourth victims of the L. A. Killer.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

I
T WAS NEARLY TWO IN THE MORNING, JANET WAS NOT ANSWERING HER cell phone, and I sat at Cheryl’s desk and wondered, with monumental annoyance, why not. So I tried again, got three rings again, and then her throaty recorded voice again saying, “Janet Morrow. Please leave a message and I’ll return your call.”

I said, “Hey, it’s me. I found the connection. Listen . . . Julia, Anne, and Lisa . . . they knew one another. This is big, right? Call me. Right now.”

But I wasn’t satisfied. Where could a beautiful twenty-nine-year-old single woman be at this hour, other than in her bed? Well, one just could not ignore the very revolting possibility that she and George the Jerk had completely mended fences, and her cell phone was turned off to avoid coitus interruptus. That suspicion, for some reason,
really
annoyed me.

So I dug out the Yellow Pages, looked up the Four Seasons Hotel, called the desk, and asked the operator to connect me to Janet Morrow.

In that flat impersonal tone affected by backroom help, she replied, “I’m sorry, that party checked out.”

“What?”

“Sir . . . I said she checked out.”

“But she . . . when?”

“Today.”

“Why?”

“I’m sure I don’t have that information, sir.”

“What time today?”

“I’m sure I don’t have that information either.”

“But . . .”

“I’ll put you through to the desk.”

So she did, and the guy at the desk was both more human and more helpful, informing me that Janet had checked out at six o’clock.

Odd.

No—more than odd. She had never informed me she was leaving. And of course, I distinctly heard FBI-boy make a date with her for dinner.

“It’s real late,” Cheryl sleepily informed me. “I gotta get home and get some sleep.”

“Sure. And Cheryl . . . thanks.”

“Good. Okay. You got what you need?”

I stood up and pecked her cheek. “More. Much more.” I whipped out my wallet and handed her a hundred-dollar bill. “Buy your son that BB gun.”

“Don’t cost that much,” she informed me.

“Right. Get one for his mother, too. You can shoot at each other.”

She smiled. “You a good man.” She lifted up her purse and wandered out.

I remained at Cheryl’s desk for five more minutes and tried to piece this thing together. There was a connection between Lisa, Julia Cuthburt, and Anne Carrol. The nature of their connection I didn’t know, but the three women knew one another, and the fact that they were all three murdered strongly suggested they weren’t picked randomly by a serial killer. It didn’t eliminate a serial killer, but implied—no, not implied, it
established
that the killer chose them because of that connection.

So—where was Janet?

I rushed downstairs to the parking garage. My briefcase was in the Jag’s trunk and I retrieved it. I dug around till I found the survivor assistance package that contained the phone number to Mr. Morrow, which I then dialed on the carphone.

Her father and I had spoken several times about various matters since our first encounter, so I knew it was a good number. It rang fifteen or twenty times, and I recalled that on my previous calls, after about six rings, a message machine answered. I tried again. Okay, yes, it was late, and Mr. Morrow was old and possibly his ears weren’t what they used to be, but his youngest daughter, Elizabeth, lived with him, and geez . . . you’d think one of them would hear the damned phone.

Things were getting weirder. I mean, Janet is suddenly out of the loop and her father and little sister aren’t in bed when, or where, they are supposed to be.

Coincidental? Possibly.

Maybe not.

I called the Boston operator, gave her Mr. Morrow’s address, and told her I needed the number for the nearest police station. She connected me to a switchboard person.

The switchboard person said, “Officer Dianne Marino, how can I help you?”

“Major Sean Drummond, D. C. office of the Army’s Criminal Investigation Division.” Regarding this harmless little white lie, cops tend only to take other cops seriously, and I needed her to be responsive and helpful. I informed her, “We’re working on the L. A. Killer murders down here. Perhaps you’ve heard about it, Officer Marino?”

“Are you kidding? I watched the
Nightline
special on it the other night. Gosh, that guy’s some rotten bastard, isn’t he?”

“Ad infinitum. Thing is, we have an emergency and need your help.”

“Boston’s Finest is here to serve, Major.” You have to love that, right?

“A victim’s parent might be in possession of critical knowledge. Problem is, we can’t seem to reach him.”

“Well, it’s two-thirty in the morning. Other than us idiots on the night shift, that’s bedtime.”

“Officer Marino, the L. A. Killer knows no time.”

“Uh. . . yes, right. Sorry.”

“Let’s keep our heads in the game here, shall we?”

“Sorry, sir. Won’t happen again.”

I might’ve been less officious and curt, but people have a certain impression about how military people have their lids screwed a little too tight and you have to validate that impression or they might think you’re a phony.

I gave her Mr. Morrow’s address and asked if she could have a patrol car run by the house, wake him up, and get him standing by the phone.

Can do, she replied, clearly on my wavelength now, and I told her I’d wait until she got confirmation from the patrol car. She put me on hold. Ten minutes passed, during which I tried to figure out all the buttons and controls in my fancy new Jag, even as I tried to mentally sort through the possible connections between Lisa and the other victims. It struck me that what I had not seen were e-mails to, from, or about the most famous victim, Carolyn Fiorio. Yet three of four murdered women knew one another, corresponded with some regularity, and Lisa signed off her e-mails, “Friends Always.” Empty sentiments weren’t Lisa’s style and it seemed fair to presume the relationships were more than passing.

“Major, we . . . well, we have a problem,” Officer Marino interrupted.

“Tell me about it.”

“An incident.”

“Go on.”

“Mr. Morrow’s house burned down yesterday evening.”

While I tried to comprehend this, not to mention her dazzling gift for understatement, she added, “Sorry I didn’t recognize it when you gave me the address. My shift didn’t start till midnight. The fire happened earlier.”

“How much earlier?”

“Just a sec . . . let me pull it up on my screen.” After a few moments, she said, “A neighbor reported the fire shortly after five. Two alarmer. Those old houses up on Beacon Hill, they’re ritzy, but firetraps. Wood-framed, none of the modern fire retardant materials. It’s a—”

“Was anybody hurt?”

“Hold on.” She read from the report, “One known vic, John Morrow, was severely burned. He was on the upper floor, and had to be pulled out by a fireman, and—”

“What about a young woman? Elizabeth Morrow?”

“Not listed.” She then informed me, “But the inspectors haven’t entered the premises to look for corpses inside. It has to cool down. Tomorrow, after—”

“Do you know the cause?”

“No . . . not yet. We’ll of course dispatch an arson specialist with the inspectors in the morning. Do you think it’s—”

“Thanks.” I hung up.

The fire started around five, and Janet checked out of her hotel around six. What was going on here?

I started the Jag and left the parking garage without any particular idea where I was going, just sure I should be going somewhere.

The cold fresh air must have cleared my mind a bit, because I suddenly found myself wondering about that firewall around Lisa’s file. I probably should’ve asked Cheryl if that was standard procedure for all departed attorneys. Law firms are more protective of privacy rights than most employers, and it would make sense to seal the files of departed attorneys. But say it wasn’t. Answer: Somebody in the firm knew there was evidence in the server that showed a connection between the three deceased women, evidence that was technically impossible to eradicate, so the next best solution was to hide it and slap a firewall around it. Ergo: Somebody in the firm had to be involved in the murders.

Which triggered another revelation. Lisa had referred to packages in her e-mails to both Julia and Anne, and one message to Janet also referred to a package. Janet was sure she had never met and had no acquaintance with Anne or Julia. But all three had gotten packages from Lisa. Was that the connection?

Boston—I needed to go to Beantown pronto. Drive? Too long. And Reagan National Airport didn’t spit out its first morning flight till six.

I was pondering my other options, and driving past the White House, when it hit me. I pulled over to the curb, dug through my briefcase, and withdrew a business card. I dialed the number and three rings later a groggy voice replied, “Spinelli.”

“It’s Drummond. Wake up.”

“I’m on the fuckin’ phone, ain’t I?”

I would say he was being grumpy, but Spinelli’s mood seemed inalterable. I said, “I’m offering you the chance to be a hero.”

“Ah shit.”

“So here’s the deal. What if I told you Lisa Morrow, Julia Cuthburt, and Anne Carrol knew one another?

“How do you know that?”

“I just do.” I added, “And Janet Morrow might know why.”

“No shit.”

“But she’s gone.”

“Yeah?”

“The other shoe—her father’s house burned down last night. He might be dead. She checked out an hour later, and we should assume she flew home.”

He pondered this a moment, then suggested, “Then call her on her cell phone.”

“Well, shit. Why didn’t I think of that?”

“Not answering, huh?”

“And I don’t want to think of why. Capisce? Now you earn your brass balls.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Standby helicopters are always kept at Andrews Air Force Base and the Marine base at Quantico, fifteen minutes from the White House and Pentagon. Tell your bosses you need one— now.”

“Fly to Boston?”

“My thought was we’d walk and pull the helicopter behind us. But now that you mention it, this flying thing, that might be better.”

“Fuck you.”

“You want to lose your key witness?”

“What the fuck are—”

“We know this killer has shown himself to be very clever and resourceful, don’t we?” I allowed him a moment to think about that, and then said, “Hey, forget it. Sorry I bothered you. I’ll call Meany and let the FBI—”

“Don’t even think it.” He paused a moment, then said, “Here’s the deal. I handle this, I get credit for the collar.”

“I don’t care who gets credit.”

“I do. I gotta promotion board comin’ up.”

“If she dies, I’ll put that in your records.”

“Thirty minutes, the Pentagon landing pad. And don’t be fuckin’ with me, or I’ll—”

“What’s this in my hand? Wow . . . George Meany’s business card.”

“Thirty minutes.”

I tried Janet again and left another message to call me pronto. This was when it struck me that there were other possible explanations for what was going on here. Maybe J. stood for Jeanie, and A. for Alice. And maybe poor old Mr. Morrow came home from work, tossed a frozen pizza in the oven, forgot to remove the cardboard, and presto, a two-alarm blaze. We all know how forgetful some old people get.

But, as the French like to say, “L’audace, l’audace,” which translates roughly to, “Attack, forget the risks, gamble, and win.” Forget that the French haven’t won a war in a couple of centuries.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

W
E LANDED AT 6:20 ON THE ROOF OF THE HARVARD UNIVERSITY MEDICAL Center, where Mr. Morrow had been rushed by ambulance after the fire.

Spinelli had remained busy the whole flight chattering into his headset, calling Boston to arrange police escorts, tracking down the whereabouts and condition of Mr. John Morrow— severe burns on 50 percent of his body, condition critical, in the ICU of Harvard Medical—and struggling to explain to his dubious bosses why all this was necessary.