Random Victim (14 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY

Imperfect Matches

Leal watched Hart picking away at her salad as he ate a burger and fries. Their trip all the way out to the Fifth District
had gone pretty much as he expected, with the added benefit of his getting to see Sharon, since he’d remembered that she said
she had a meeting there this morning. He was struck by the differences between her and Hart as he’d introduced them, Sharon
looking drop-dead gorgeous with the jacket of her gray suit draped over her arm. Hart had looked angular and very sleek, like
a thoroughbred racing horse, or rather, a professional athlete. But, hell, he thought, that’s what she is. For the first time
he wondered what it would be like to go to bed with Hart, eyeing the sweep of her sleeveless shoulders. He’d already dismissed
Ryan’s theory that she was gay. But she might as well have been. She was his partner, and thinking carnal thoughts about somebody
you worked with every day was not a good thing. He noticed her watching him.

“What?” he asked.

“Just wondering what you were thinking,” she said.

“Trying to figure out our next move,” he said, smiling. “You sure are drinking a lot of water today.”

“I got up early and ran.” She speared some more lettuce and began to raise it to her mouth. “So is that the person you’ve
been seeing? Sharon?”

Leal nodded, remembering that Sharon had kept it pretty much professional as they all met in the hallway. She’d introduced
him to her supervisor, Jack Fretters, and he’d introduced them to Hart. Sharon sat in for a few minutes as they began to explain
the basics of their case and ask about the wiretap.

“Don’t you guys work up by the Fourth District?” Fretters had asked. “Why did you come all the way down here?”

“We were in the neighborhood,” Leal said.

Sharon smiled slightly and stood to go, giving Leal a surreptitious wink and mouthing, “Call me,” so only he could see. A
promise of good things to come, he hoped.

“Yeah, that’s her,” Leal said.

“She’s very pretty,” Hart said. “Too bad her boss shot down our hopes for a tap.”

“I figured he would,” Leal said. “We just don’t have enough right now. That’s why we need to start pressuring our buddy Martin
a little.”

“You know, I thought of something,” Hart said, pushing aside her plastic plate and wiping her fingers on a napkin. She reached
for her purse and took out the big envelope with the pictures of Miriam Walker inside. “I looked in the case file while you
and Ryan were up with the LT. Martin gave the original investigators a picture, and there’s no note that it was ever returned
to him.” She handed him the photos. Leal wiped his own fingers before accepting them. “Notice anything?”

Leal scanned the photos. The original had a matte finish and was on heavy card stock. The copies were glossy, thinner, and
obviously cheaper.

“These are the duplicates,” he said, indicating the copies.

“Which means that after all this time, he didn’t even inquire about getting the original back,” she said. “Don’t you think
that’s just a little bit strange?”

Leal nodded approvingly, then grabbed his chin. “You still set on working out this afternoon?”

“Yeah, I need to, especially since we have the meeting tonight. Why?”

“How about a little ride downtown first? Then I’ll join you for the workout.”

She canted her head and looked at him.

“What have you got in mind?”

“In India, when they used to go tiger hunting, they’d send a bunch of natives in to beat the bushes,” he said. “It’s usually
to stir the tigers out of hiding so the hunters could shoot them.”

“I’ve always kind of liked tigers,” she said. “There’s not a lot of them left, you know.”

Leal smiled. “Yeah, I like real tigers, too. But this guy’s made of paper. If we start to push, he’ll crumple.”

Martin Walker’s secretary was an attractive, dark-haired woman who looked to be in her midthirties. She eyed the badges that
Leal and Hart hung in front of her, then dutifully picked up the phone and spoke very softly into the receiver. Leal pocketed
his badge and removed the cigar that he’d bought in the tobacco shop in the lobby. Hart had looked at him quizzically until
he explained his plan in the elevator.

“Mr. Walker will see you now,” the secretary said.

They followed her to a sturdy-looking, darkly stained wooden door. The office itself was sumptuous, with thick carpeting,
a large polished oak desk, and several black leather chairs. One wall contained a built-in bookcase and wet bar. Martin Walker
stood up and slipped his jacket over his narrow shoulders, nodding curtly.

“I’m very busy, Officers,” he said. “I hope this is important.”

Leal moved forward and held out his hand. Walker shook it with reluctance.

“We wanted to return your wife’s picture,” Leal said, opening the envelope and removing one of the cheap copies. “We appreciate
you loaning it to us.”

Walker set the picture on his neatly arranged desk. “That’s perfectly all right.” He looked down at it, then back to Leal.
“Do you have any new information?”

“We’re exploring some new leads,” Leal said, sticking the envelope under his arm and peeling open the cigar.

“New leads?” Walker asked.

“Yeah,” Leal said, taking out a book of matches. “You mind if I smoke?”

“Well, this is not a designated smoking area,” Walker said. “But go ahead. What type of new information do you have?”

Leal shook his head. “I’d better not do this. I’ve been trying to quit anyway.” He dropped the book of matches onto Walker’s
desk and went around behind the desk. “Is that a trash can?”

“Yes.” Walker’s gaze dropped to the desk, and he seemed to be visually startled. “What, err, what were you saying?”

Leal dropped the unlit cigar into the can, and looked at Walker.

“Ah, it’s nothing we can go over at the moment,” he said. “But rest assured, when the time is right, you’ll be the first to
know.” He smiled again.

“Sarge,” Hart said, “we’d better get over to see the state’s attorney like the lieutenant wanted.”

“Yeah, right,” Leal said. He held out his hand again. “Like I told you before, Mr. Walker, we’ll get whoever did this to your
wife. You can count on it.”

“I would like to be kept informed of the progress of the investigation,” Walker said, extending his hand to shake Leal’s.
But Leal snared just the ends of Walker’s fingers and pumped his hand.

“Well, now that you mention it,” Leal said, “there is something else you can do.”

“What’s that?”

Leal kept squeezing Walker’s fingers while he spoke. “The list of your wife’s friends you were supposed to make for us. Have
you finished them yet?”

“No, I’ve been rather busy.”

Leal released Walker’s hand and clucked sympathetically.

“Yeah, I know how that is,” he said. “But you know what else? Could you also include a list of the people who were with you
the night your wife disappeared?”

“Yes,” Walker said slowly. “I guess I could do that.” He inhaled quickly. “If you think it’s pertinent.”

Leal smiled. “Everything’s pertinent until we figure out what isn’t. Right, Hart?”

“It factors in the reconstructive process,” she said. “We try to learn as much about the victim as possible, to better understand
her actions.”

Walker swallowed, then nodded. “I’ll get to it.”

“Thanks, we appreciate it,” Leal said. “Maybe we’ll drop by later in the week.”

“Why don’t I give you a call instead?” Walker said. “I have a very busy schedule.”

“Sure. You still got my card?”

Walker nodded.

“We can always drop by your house,” Hart said. “We work a lot of nights.”

“I’ll call you as soon as I finish,” Walker said.

In the elevator going down Hart smiled at Leal.

“He didn’t even look at the picture,” she said. “Don’t you think you’d notice it was a copy if you really cared about someone?”

“He’s nervous. And nervous people make mistakes.”

“Well, if he needs a cigarette,” she said, “at least you gave him back his matches.”

Richard Connors was just setting up his traditionally carved white-and-black chessmen for a game against his computer adversary
when his private line rang. It helped him, when he had a lot on his mind, to keep the game going on the actual board as well
as the screen. Frowning, he picked up the phone and listened to a frantic Martin Walker describe what Connors knew must be
an embellished version of the visit by the two cops.

“Marty, Marty, Marty, you’re making more out of it than it really was.”

“Easy for you to say. They weren’t in your fucking office breathing down your neck. They know, I tell you. They know.”

“Calm down, for Christ’s sake.” Connors set the white queen on her square. “I got things covered.”

“Yeah, right. That’s what you said the last time.” Walker’s voice sounded close to cracking.

“They don’t have anything,” Connors said. “Believe me, I know.”

“Oh no? Well, what about the matches?”

“It don’t mean shit. I told you, I’ve got things covered.”

“Your supposed inside man?” Walker said. “Well, you’d better do something fast, Richard, because I don’t plan on going down
alone.”

Connors picked up the white king and set him beside his queen. “Like I said, calm down. And call me tonight at seven thirty,
as planned, okay?” He could hear the other man’s rapid breathing on the line.

“All right.”

“Good,” said Connors, setting a black knight in place. “I’ll be expecting your call, so don’t forget. I should have some very
good news for you.”

After a few more reassurances, Connors hung up. The chess pieces were still in their places from his half-played game. He
studied the uneven symmetry of the board. Marty had been useful to him, in his own way, but he was too stiff and unimaginative.
Plus he panicked. Couldn’t deal with the pressure. Sort of like a bishop, powerful, but only able to move along one set of
colors. This guy Leal was a knight, capable of outmaneuvering Marty, as long as the cop stayed one move ahead. The two rooks
were the insurance. With the business dealings pretty well set in place, Connors felt it was time for a bold move. He imagined
pieces scattered all over the board, himself a king, directing others to cut down pawn and knight. And bishop as well. A sacrifice
move. Marty had outlived his usefulness, having completed the setups of all the dummy corporations, the foreign accounts,
the realty trusts in the names of more dummy companies. The complex layering that would insulate him, just as the rows of
pawns and other pieces safeguarded their king.

A king must remain above the fray, Connors thought, as he made a castling move with his king’s rook. Nuke was this rook, his
insurance. The sacrifice move would be necessary to eliminate the swirling turbulence below him. Perhaps at a later date Nuke
would have to be sacrificed, too, but, after all, there were two rooks.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Perception Becomes Reality

At seven P.M. sharp they met outside Brice’s office. Leal was a bit miffed that Ryan had paged both him and Hart reminding
them to “dress nice.” As if we’d dress sloppy? he thought. He mulled over the events of the day in his mind, wondering if
they’d catch any flack over rattling Martin Walker’s cage a little bit. But what the hell, he thought, sometimes you just
gotta take the bull by the tail if you can’t reach the horns.

Suddenly Brice’s door opened and he ushered them in, asking, “Where’s Smith?”

Leal shrugged. “Guess he’ll be along shortly.”

Inside Ryan was seated next to a big guy Leal knew was Murphy. Murph hadn’t changed much since Leal had last seen him, except
the expanse of his gut seemed a bit more magnified. His cheeks had the red flush of someone who’d already had a couple at
dinner.

Ryan looked at them and flashed a thumbs-up. Turning, he introduced Murphy.

“Glad to meet you,” Murphy said, rising to shake hands with Hart. “I know who I want for
my
partner.” He looked at the rest of them and laughed. “Wanna go out for a drink later?”

“I don’t drink,” Hart said, extricating her hand from his.

“That’s okay,” Murphy said, “I probably drink enough for both of us.” He laughed again and shook hands with Leal.

Leal wondered what the three of them had been discussing behind closed doors. The “nineteen hundred, sharp” order obviously
hadn’t applied to all of the team, but Leal figured he wouldn’t really have wanted to come in any earlier to listen to any
more of Brice’s half-assed theories. Or his personal problems. Leal caught a glimpse of the framed photo on the desk of Brice,
his wife, and their two sons.

This one must be the one having the problems, Leal thought, looking at the fat, rotund face that stared back from the photo
like a leering buddha, the strange-looking eyes enlarged behind the lenses of thick glasses. He remembered the kid’s name
was Max or something.

Brice returned to his position behind the desk and looked at Ryan.

“You tell Smith to be here at nineteen hundred?”

“He’s usually running on colored people’s time,” Ryan said.

Murphy laughed out loud and grinned. Leal shot a harsh look at the man, then said, “Give the guy a break, why don’t ya? His
wife’s almost due and he’s all excited about it.”

“We ain’t here to get excited about nothing but catching a killer,” Brice said. He looked at his watch again, and said to
Ryan, “Go call him.”

Ryan started to get up when the door opened after a shallow knock and Smith came in.

“Sorry, Lieu,” he said. “Heavy traffic.”

“Nice of you to join us,” Brice said as he motioned Smith to the empty chair beside Hart. “Joe Smith, this is Bill Murphy.
He was assigned the case before you guys.”

Smith and Murphy shook hands.

“All right,” Brice said. “I had a chance to go over all the report summaries thus far, and I got to say that you’ve done a
pretty decent job of getting this investigation off the ground again. I also want to say that I agree with Leal that we should
be looking at the husband more closely.”

Leal raised his eyebrows. At last he’s seen the light, he thought, and knew he should keep his mouth shut. But he couldn’t
help himself.

“Why the change of heart, Lieu?” Leal asked.

Brice stared at him before answering.

“No change really,” Brice said. “Just going through basic investigative procedure. You
always
should look at the spouse in cases like this, but this time he happens to be a rather prominent citizen, not to mention an
attorney, too. So we had to eliminate the random victim possibility first, understand, Sergeant?”

The way he said “Sergeant” made it clear what he meant. Leal just nodded, figuring it was best to back off. He saw Hart widening
her eyes in warning as she looked at him.

“His alibi was rock solid,” Murphy said, after clearing his throat. “Don’t mean that he couldn’t have hired somebody, though.”

“I want to start looking into that alibi,” Brice said. “Start focusing on this fucker.” He pointed at Hart. “What did the
state’s attorney say?”

“Not enough for a wiretap.”

“Figures,” Brice said. “So we’re gonna start zeroing in on Martin Walker. His relationship with his wife, associates, any
history of domestic violence, all that shit. Let’s see if Financial Crimes can give us anything, too.” He turned and looked
at Leal. “Miriam’s old man called me. Said you talked to him.”

Leal nodded.

“The old guy was pretty impressed with you two. Feels you’re gonna get to the bottom of this.” Brice glanced at his watch
again. “All right, it’s time to go downstairs and meet with the sheriff. Everybody take a five-minute break and hit the john.
Make sure your hair is combed and your ties are on straight.” He stood up.

What the hell, thought Leal. Is he losing it, or what?

Martin Walker listened to the loud dialogue of some television program on the other end of the line and lit another cigarette.
He hated waiting, and this was trying his patience even more. Finally he heard some fumbling and Richard’s voice came back
on the line.

“Sorry, Marty, I had to make another call.”

“Well, why did you make such a big deal about me calling you at seven thirty then?” Walker asked, the anger and stress spilling
into his voice. “I don’t appreciate being on hold for two minutes, either.”

“You weren’t on hold,” Connors said. “And I told you, I had to page someone.”

“Whatever. Now what’s the plan to get rid of these fucking cops?” Walker’s voice was close to cracking. He blew out a lungful
of smoke. “You said you could handle things. Well, it sure doesn’t seem that you’re doing a very good job.”

“Take it easy, Marty. I told you, I got it covered.”

“How?”

Suddenly Walker heard the sound of an electrical motor, followed by a slight vibration. Then he realized it was his garage
door opener.

“You okay, Marty?” Connors asked.

“Yes, I just heard something.” He got up and moved to the upstairs windows overlooking his sloping rear yard and driveway.
“My garage door is going up. There’s some kind of van down there.”

“Yeah, I know,” Connors said. “It’s Nuke. I told him to drop by.”

“What? I don’t want him
here
. What if my neighbors see?”

“Will you relax. I told him to pull around to the back, just like the last time,” Connors said.

Walker felt a shiver go up his spine. The last time had been when they’d killed Miriam.

“Well?” Connors asked. “Look out the window again. The van’s out of sight, right?”

“Yes, but that’s not the point. What is that big idiot doing here?” He took another drag on the cigarette. “And how did he
get my garage door open?”

“He has the frequency, remember? From the garage door opener in Miriam’s car.”

Walker could hear the heavy sounds of footsteps on the stairs coming up to the second level. It sounded like more than one
person.

“Richard, is this your idea of how to handle things? Sending some big clown over here?”

“Relax, Marty. Just go give the phone to Nuke. I gotta talk to him.”

Walker sighed heavily and walked to the dining room and stood by the door to the circular staircase. He pulled it open and
saw Nuke standing there grinning in a dark-colored shirt and his dirty Levi’s jacket with the sleeves cut off. The shirt was
sleeveless, too, showing the obscene tattoo on the overdeveloped shoulder. Walker could see the two young stooges behind him,
the heavyset one with the exotropic left eye, and the skinny blond one with the collar-length hair.

Oh, God, thought Walker. I hope none of the neighbors saw them come in. Luckily, he remembered, the garage was set under the
bedrooms, and the cement reinforcement wall would block the sight of the van from his neighbor’s house.

He handed the phone to Nuke and said, “Here, it’s Richard.”

Nuke accepted it and spoke into the receiver, moving up into the dining room from the stairwell. The other two followed. Walker
noticed that their hands looked funny. Slick and almost shiny, and he realized they were all wearing latex gloves. The wall-eyed
one, Moose, moved forward and closed the drapes. Nuke set the phone down and looked at Walker.

“You alone?” he asked.

“Yes,” Walker said. “Did anyone see you come in?”

Nuke smiled and shook his head. The soft rubber squeaked as he squeezed his hands together.

“What does Richard want?” Walker asked, wishing he had retrieved the snub-nosed .38 he kept in his desk drawer. He tried to
make his voice sound forceful. “I said, what does he want?”

“Shut up, bitch,” Nuke said. He moved forward and gave Walker a hard shove. “Bring the shit over here,” he said over his shoulder.

Walker did a little stutter step to regain his footing, then turned and tried to run into the living room. But Nuke grabbed
him, snaring his shirt. A second latex-covered hand closed over the top of Walker’s face.

Walker tried to scream, but couldn’t. A huge arm had circled his throat, cutting off his air. He reached up, scratching furiously
at the arm. He heard Nuke grunt, almost like an animalistic hiss. Or roar. Walker felt himself being lifted off his feet as
the powerful grip around his neck tightened and his air was cut off. He stuck the burning end of the lit cigarette to Nuke’s
forearm as he struggled for a few more moments, kicking and scratching until the myriad of black dots that swarmed before
him leapt up and engulfed his consciousness.

Undersheriff Lucas was standing just down the hall from the conference room, watching their approach. Lucas was a waspish
man with brown glasses and a neatly trimmed haircut. His slender right hand held the bowl of an unlit pipe, and his other
hand rested in the outside pocket of his suit, the thumb outside. Leal thought the guy looked like he was trying out for an
ad in
Gentlemen’s
Quarterly
.

“Who’s this man?” Lucas asked, pointing the pipe stem at Murphy.

“That’s Bill Murphy,” Brice said. “He used to work on the Walker case and was here for a meeting.”

Leal watched Lucas give Murphy a quick once-over. The big man’s face seemed to stretch into a nervous smile and it looked
as though he was trying to hold in his massive stomach.

“I think we’ll just go with these four,” Lucas said, waving his hand. “Thank you, Murphy.”

Murphy sputtered some reply and turned to go, his huge gut billowing outward again. Leal silently chuckled. Lucas opened the
door to the conference room and ushered them in. Several sets of large wooden chairs had been placed around an oval table.
Sheriff O’Hara sat at the head, while a thin guy with a ponytail leaned over him. The thin guy held a towel and an eyebrow
pencil. A white bib covered the sheriff’s shirt, and the jacket of his blue suit was draped over a nearby chair. Leal could
see the large circles of sweat under each of the man’s arms.

“Please, Sheriff, hold still,” the thin guy said. His voice was a couple of octaves above tenor. “I’m trying to eliminate
some shadows. And remember to keep your chin tucked when we shoot.”

The sheriff grunted as the thin guy leaned back, studied him, and picked up a powder puff and makeup brush. In the corner
two men were setting up some video equipment. One held a camcorder on his shoulder. The other had a camera mounted on a tripod
base. A television monitor sat on the table. A third man in a dark brown suit came forward to talk to Lucas. “Are you almost
finished, Henry?”

“He’s about as good as I can get him, Mr. Tillis,” the thin guy said.

“Okay,” Tillis said, looking at Leal. “Let’s do the Latino guy next. Can you make him more swarthy?”

Latino guy? thought Leal. What the hell is this?

Henry moved over toward Leal, his makeup brush and powder puff poised for action.

“Touch me with that and I’ll shove it up your ass sideways,” Leal said, his voice pitched low and tight.

“Goodness,” Henry said, recoiling.

“Dammit, Ted,” Tillis said. “How the hell am I supposed to get this right if your people won’t cooperate?”

“Take it easy, Glenn,” Lucas said. “Now listen to me, all of you. We’re going to tape this meeting tonight, and I expect each
of you to cooperate in the fullest. Is that clear?”

A murmur of lukewarm assent went through the group. Henry moved forward, more cautiously this time, and handed Leal a green
bib similar to the one the sheriff had been wearing. Leal blew a slow breath out his nostrils and tied it around his neck.

“Sit down and close your eyes, please,” Henry said.

“Do it!” Nuke shouted as he used his superior weight to force Martin Walker’s body to the floor. “Do it now!”

Moose came forward, his left eye staring off at some odd angle as he fumbled with the purple Crown Royal bag he was holding,
spilling the contents on the rug.

“Which arm?” he asked.

“Who the fuck cares,” Nuke said. He face was a contorted mask of rage. Walker’s body flailed effetely, his legs making spasmodic
kicks.

Nuke flopped the limp man over onto his back. Moose rolled up Walker’s left shirtsleeve and tied a rubber band around his
bicep. He then uncapped the syringe and tapped it twice, looking at the fluid reservoir.

“Just fucking do it,” Nuke said. “I don’t give a shit about air bubbles.”

Moose nodded and began scanning Walker’s bare arm.

“Shit, man, this fucker’s veins ain’t coming up.”

Nuke grunted and released his grip from around Walker’s neck and watched the flabby shoulders slump lifelessly to the floor.
The phone, next to them on the floor, was repeating in a computerized tone, “If you’d like to make a call, please hang up
and try again.”

Nuke squeezed Walker’s cheeks together and touched a thumb to the hooded, blank-looking eyes. No reaction.

“Shee-it,” Nuke said. “Gimme that phone.”

After Henry had finished prepping each of them, the “meeting” began with O’Hara back at the head of the table, Leal and Hart
on one side, and Smith, Ryan, and Brice on the other. Leal had taken particular pleasure in watching Brice get the fluffy
treatment. It almost made the whole thing worth it. But, Christ, he thought, what a waste of time.