Strip Search (28 page)

“It’s something.”

“It’s nothing. It’s a dead-end, dead-wrong theory.”

“Perhaps,” he said, leaning into my face, “but have you got anything better?”

A lethal silence descended upon the immeasurable space between us.

Asshole, I mouthed silently, as I watched his outsized butt recede from my desk. Double-dog-asshole. I excused myself, ducked into the ladies’ room, and tossed back several of the new pills that had arrived in the mail. I wasn’t sure what they all were. Did it matter? Anti-anxiety, anti-depressants—God knows I needed them all. I splashed some cold water on my face and almost instantly felt my heartbeat returning to normal. A pleasantly drowsy umbrella of calm settled over me. Felt a bit nauseous, but that was a small price to pay for the calm. Probably because I hadn’t eaten. I grabbed a couple of doughnuts from the kitchen and returned to my desk.

I looked through the new information that had arrived overnight. Most of the forensic data I already knew. Turned out the vic had been a plaintiffs’ tort lawyer, but contrary to what I kept hearing from Rush Limbaugh, this was not a quick ticket to Easy Street. He’d almost always had to take cases on a contingency fee, which usually meant he had to pay millions of dollars in expenses up front before he even got to trial. And since plaintiffs’ cases were only successful about one time in ten, that meant the other nine times he was stuck holding the bag for all those bills. When he did score a success, he was lucky if it paid the bills for all the cases that didn’t go his way. In his own way, this distinguished member of the bar was one of the highest rollers in Sin City.

His home life seemed perfectly normal. A stay-at-home wife of seven years, two kids, a girl and a boy, ages five and three. He had a shop in the garage where he did some amateur carpentry. He played basketball with friends on Friday mornings. He still drove a perfectly regular car, but he had allowed himself one splurge last year—a backyard hot tub. Even though Granger had desperately wanted to do so, they hadn’t found a trace of porn in his house, nor any evidence of out-of-the-norm sexual activity. No criminal record. No tax problems. If he was messing around with his secretary, he’d managed to keep it under wraps.

My eyelids were getting heavy—too many drugs taken too quickly, I suppose—but I managed to force myself to turn to the next page. Someone in Granger’s team—not Granger, obviously—had the sense to run a full computer sweep on the man, including government agencies. Turned out he was known to my old friends the DHS, the kindly folk who took Rachel away from me and placed her in a foster home. Seemed he had an earlier family, a woman and a daughter. They had never actually been married, but the woman claimed common law marriage based on living and procreating together. Court awarded child support, but he had been difficult about it. They’d constantly had to drag him to court and he finally agreed to pay it only on the condition that they move out of Nevada. He wanted to be able to make a fresh start without being pulled down by the barnacles of his past. The DHS hadn’t liked the idea, but the wife was amenable, and they eventually signed off on it. Family One moved and he hadn’t seen them since. Not even a phone call.

I closed my eyes and let my mind do its thing, let it wander, take me where it wanted to go. Instinct, that was the key to being an effective behaviorist. Taking a liminal sketch and turning it into a person. Taking what seem to be irrelevant details and turning them into a motive.

Hadn’t the first victim had a family, once upon a time? The fast-food kid? Granger kept harping on his porn collection, like that was really unusual for a single guy in his twenties living alone. But he had a wife and…weren’t there children? I dug deeper into my memory. Yes, three girls and a baby boy, and he had been repeatedly called to task for failing to make child support payments.

So one victim is a deadbeat child support dodger, another shoved his children into another state and acted as if they no longer existed.

I wondered if maybe the people at the DHS had some information on Danielle Dunn. She’d had a troubled youth. It would be less than shocking to learn that she had something…something almost no one knew about…the secret she was hiding…what was it her assistant had said…and all those stuffed animals…it wasn’t her childhood she was trying to re-create but…but…something else and…that money for the charity…untraceable…in cash…why would anyone making her kind of income want to make a charitable contribution in cash?…it just didn’t…didn’t…ddddd…

I WOULD NOT SAY it if I did not mean it. I never say things if I do not mean them. I do not understand why other people say things they do not mean but I never do it anyway. That would be like telling a joke but I do not get jokes and I do not like them so I do not tell them. No one should tell jokes. Jokes are evil, like big dogs, and I think they should be outlawed. But yesterday when I told my dad that the bad man was going to kill someone today, he thought it was some kind of joke. I do not like this bad man. He messes around with numbers and he should not do that because numbers are good things and sometimes I think they are the only things you can depend on because they are always the same and they always do what they are supposed to do. But this bad man uses them all wrong, he uses them to kill and he is going to do it again and I told my dad but he did not take me seriously. Did he think I was joking? Or did he think that I did not know what I was talking about? Or maybe he thought I was saying that I was going to go out and kill someone. That would be just like him. He never understands anything I say or anything I want. He does not think I can do anything and he does not want me to try.

So I took the bus downtown and came to see Susan. Susan would listen to me she always listens to me even when I can tell she is tired or funny in the head or talks and acts funny like she has lately but even still she always listens to me. She might not believe me, at least not at first, but it is so obvious! Why am I the only one who can see it? Why would the bad man have left that formula behind if he did not want us to use it?

When I got to Susan’s desk, I saw that her eyes were all closed and she was not moving. I was afraid she was dead. That would be awful if she were dead because I love Susan and if she is dead she cannot love me and we cannot have babies and I cannot go to live with her and get away from my dad, not ever. I do not want her to be dead. I do not want to be in the world if Susan is dead. Please God, do not let Susan be dead. Please please please please please. I promise to be good and I promise to go to church and I promise not to do anything naughty when my dad is not around. I would even give up reading if it would mean that Susan was not dead, and that is almost the only thing I like, except being with Susan. Please God no. Please please please please no!

DAVID WAS KISSING ME. He was a fabulous kisser. He was a fabulous everything. Maybe it was all a show, but it was a damn good one. He would wrap his arms around me and squeeze so tightly I couldn’t catch my breath, then his lips would swoop down onto mine and I felt like Lois being super-smooched by Superman, and I got this heady rush that made me feel like I was losing it, everything, not just my memory but my head, my body, my soul. Everything I had was his. But this must’ve been during that time when he made an abortive attempt to grow a mustache, because he was tickling me on the face, and even though I was trying to be romantic, it was really annoying…

I sputtered and coughed and grimaced. There was hair in my mouth but it wasn’t from any smooching. Someone had his head in my face.

“What in—” I pushed the head away, blinked several times, tried to focus. “Darcy! What the hell were you doing?”

“I was wanting to see if you were breathing. You looked like maybe you were not breathing so I put my ear up to your nose to see if you were exhaling.”

“Don’t put your face next to mine when I’m sleeping! I mean, not that it’s likely to happen again, but—”

“I watched you for a long time. You did not move.”

“I didn’t?” I looked all around. No one was watching, but that didn’t mean they hadn’t been earlier. I must’ve fallen asleep. “I was just catching forty winks, Darcy. I stayed up late last night.”

“You should not do that. Statistics show people live longer if they get at least seven hours of sleep every night. But a study in Stockholm said that too much sleep—”

“Yeah, that’s okay, I don’t really need to know. I’ll sleep double long tonight to make up for it.”

“It is not possible to make up for lost sleep. Your body adapts, but the potential damage—”

“Darcy, did you come here for a reason?” I wiped the sleep from my eyes and tried to look bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. God, I hoped I hadn’t drooled. “’Cause if your dad or Granger see you here with me, my ass will be—”

“Someone is going to be killed tomorrow. Maybe they already have been.”

“Well, I suppose statistically, several people are murdered every day.”

“I mean here, in Las Vegas. By the math man.”

The corner of my lips turned up. Was Darcy intentionally being funny? Punning
math man
for madman. Nah. “How do you know the killer will strike again?”

“The formula. The one I found in the computer.”

“You told me that was for checking prime numbers.”

“Exactly. And why do you think the killer would want to check prime numbers?”

A more telling question would be: Why would the killer want us to know that he’s checking prime numbers? “I give up. Why?”

“Today is the twenty-second day of July. Twenty-three is a prime number.”

I arched an eyebrow. “And that means the killer will—”

He pulled a wadded-up scrap of paper out of his jeans pocket and passed it to me. “I made a list.”

I took it from him and gave it a quick once-over. It was a list of all the murders so far, and the dates on which we believed they occurred. Victim one, the eleventh, victim two, the thirteenth, victim three the seventeenth…

“Those are all prime numbers, aren’t they?”

Darcy nodded enthusiastically, then ran his fingers through his hair. “All of them.”

“And that means someone died on the nineteenth. We just don’t know it yet.”

“And the next one is—”

“Twenty-three. Tomorrow.” I pushed out of my chair, trying to wake myself up. “Gotta hand it to you, Darcy. You’re on to something.”

“Can we stop him? I think that we should try to stop him.”

“But how can we, when we don’t know where he is or who his next victim will be? Or who his last victim was? No murder has been reported since the lawyer was killed.” I snapped my fingers. “Missing persons. If there’s someone who hasn’t come home from work on time, or never returned from a coffee break, it could be the next vic.”

“But—the police receive hundreds of reports about people missing in Las Vegas every day.”

“Yes,” I said, clicking through the databases on my computer terminal, trying to find the one I wanted. “But I think I know how to narrow the field.”

“Do we…do math on the missing persons?”

“No, thank goodness.” I raised a knowing eyebrow. “We cross-reference with the database they keep at the DHS.”

DAMN THE BUREAUCRATS, ANYWAY. Took almost two hours to get clearance to tap into the DHS database. What did they think I was going to do, plant a virus to rescue all the deadbeat dads? Actually, I was tempted to eliminate everything they knew about me, but I knew data left traces even after it was erased—electronic skidmarks, Darcy called them—so I didn’t bother. While we were at it, we uncovered Danielle’s dark secret—an out-of-wedlock child born many years ago, before she found success, and whom she had put up for adoption at—you guessed it—Clark County Children’s Home. The one she gave all the cash contributions—in a way that couldn’t be traced back to her.

Once we had access to the DHS records, the process of cross-referencing the DHS database against all the missing persons reports for the past twenty-four hours was daunting. Darcy wrote some kind of subroutine—whatever the hell that is—that sped up the process, but it was still slow going, especially since Darcy had to duck every time his father or Granger emerged from their offices.

While he worked, I excused myself to the bathroom. I’m sure Darcy wondered why I had such a small bladder today, and as smart as he was, he probably suspected I was up to something. But I would think I could be forgiven this minor non-impairing indiscretion when I was in the midst of trying to save someone who was sure to be dead before midnight tomorrow.

Darcy finally produced a list of three names, all male, who had been reported missing and who also had histories with the DHS. It didn’t take me long to know which one was the likely target.

“Joshua Brazee,” I said, without blinking.

“Why him?” Darcy wondered.

“He’s a celebrity, and twenty-five years ago, he had a pretty good following as a teen heartthrob and recording artist. These other two guys—who knows why they haven’t come home? Probably stopped off at a bar and lost track of the time. But when a celebrity misses a show, and there’s no press release suggesting that he’s collapsed from exhaustion or checked himself into the Betty Ford clinic…something’s wrong. Besides the killer told us on that tape that he was moving into showbiz next.” I grabbed my coat. “I’m going to check it out.”

“Can I come?” Darcy said, his eyes wide and imploring.

I looked both ways, made sure the coast was clear. “Okay. But lay low till we’re far away from headquarters.”

He giggled. “Are we going to act like we are spies? I think that it would be fun to act like we are spies.”

“Something like that.”

“What if they will not let you backstage?”

I smiled. “I have a friend at the Florence. He owes me one.”

THANKS TO MY HEALTHY RELATIONSHIP with Frank Olivestra, I had no trouble getting backstage. Joshua Brazee was still missing, but his manager was on the premises. I entered Brazee’s dressing room, instructed Darcy to stay out of the way, then started talking.