The Killing League (15 page)

“Hello,” Nicole said.

“I have good news and bad news,” the investigator said.

Nicole felt a little piece of glass shard drop into the pit of her stomach.

“The good news is I was able to verify quite a bit of information on your friend, Kurt Wilson.”

The woman paused and Nicole patted Salvatore’s head.

“The good news is, he has no criminal record that I can find. A few parking tickets here or there. He’s been employed by Sterling Pharmaceuticals for twelve years as a manager.”

Sal dropped the tennis ball at her feet. Nicole picked it up and chucked it again. He lumbered after it.

“So what’s the bad news?” Nicole said.

The private investigator told her.

Nicole watched Sal pounce on the ball.

Yes, she thought, letting the private investigator’s news sink in, that would qualify as very bad news.

59.

Family Man

The 44 foot Bertram cruiser named “Guilty Pleasures” rocked in its mooring as its owner, the Honorable Circuit Court Judge Arthur Lyons made his way from the flying bridge to the stern.

He wasn’t going out today, but the vessel was just what its name proclaimed — a pleasure. One that relaxed him between high-profile murder trials.

Hell, half the time he came down to the marina, he didn’t even take the big girl out. He just checked the battery systems, cleaned out the cabin even though it was already immaculate by anyone’s standards, and “changed the air” as he liked to tell Davone, his wife of nearly thirty years. She knew what he was doing, that he needed some time to himself, some time to decompress and put his mind at ease.

Judge Lyons worked for another hour straight through, vacuuming, wiping surfaces down, and bringing everything back up to full charge. He restocked the bar, too, with bottles brought from home. You never, ever wanted to run out of vermouth when you were hours from land and a martini was in high demand.

When he was done, he sat down in one of the stern chairs, and looked out over the marina. It was a nice marina, not too big, not too small. His boat was not the biggest, by far. He fell somewhere in the ‘high-middle’ as he liked to think of it. Even now, he looked out and spotted the dozen or so boats bigger than his and almost laughed at himself. So competitive. A marina was like a giant swordfight on water. Guys, and a few girls, swinging their dicks around by buying the biggest boat they could afford. He happened to know that the owner of the biggest boat at this marina was a dermatologist who invented some kind of skin cream that he’d sold to a big company for a few bazillion dollars.

He smiled at the contradiction. The swashbuckling yachtsman owing all of his success to a skin cream-

He felt the paralyzing tightness around his throat and his first thought was that the heart attack he had feared for so long and had worked so hard to prevent, had finally come.

But when he was pulled from his chair, felt the knee press into his back, he realized that someone had thrown a garrote around his throat and was choking him to death.

He put his hands beneath his chest, pushing upward, his face smashed against the deck of the boat. He tried to get up, but couldn’t. His mind was exploding with darkness, little flashes of light. A horrific pain shot down his arm and his chest seized. He put his hands to his throat, trying to work them under the metal wire cutting into his skin. His hands felt wet and he knew it was blood.

The popping light slowed down, like the end of a fireworks show until one last light winked out.

He felt everything go, his bowels, the air from his lungs, his life.

His last thought was of the mess he was making on his freshly cleaned deck.

60.

Mack

Mack held up his FBI badge to the security guard at the J. Edgar Hoover FBI building in Washington, D.C.

Of late, whenever he’d come to headquarters, he always half-expected the guard to swipe his card, frown, and tell him it was no longer valid.

But not this time.

The guard waved him through and Mack took a brief detour to the men’s room. It had been a short flight from Florida, but he had a feeling it was going to be a long meeting.

He took the elevator to the fifth floor, showed his badge again and found Reznor near the coffee pot, filling up a mug that said, “Life, liberty and the pursuit of chocolate.”

She raised the pot toward him but he shook his head. His stomach was already on edge, knowing what he was about to encounter.

“Let’s go,” Reznor said. She scooped up a thick file, and led Mack to a conference room. She walked in, flicked the lights on and dropped her files on the big oval table.

Neither took a seat, but stood side by side.

Mack set his briefcase in a chair, and pulled out a thick sheaf of papers, which he spread out next to Reznor’s folders.

A moment later, Mack smelled obnoxiously strong cologne. Assistant Director Paul Whidby strolled into the room. He carried no folders, no pen, no notepads. Just a Blackberry phone in his large, finely manicured hand.

“Let’s get this over with,” he said. “I’ve got a meeting with the Director in twenty minutes.” He plopped into the chair at the head of the table. Mack and Reznor sat on each side.

Reznor wasted no time. “Mack, you go first.”

Mack took out a pen and a notepad.

“What I’ve got is a murder in Chicago,” Mack said. He briefly described the untimely demise of former homicide detective William Dragger.

Whidby looked at his Blackberry, then back up at Mack, as if to say… “Yeah?”

Mack ignored Whidby’s obvious contemptuous tone. “The murder weapon was a lethal combination of drugs injected into his right thigh. The specific drugs and their respective quantities are identical to what was found in the deaths of six people at the Charleston Municipal Hospital in Charleston, South Carolina.”

Whidby set his Blackberry down and stared at the ceiling, then glanced at Reznor. “Please tell me this is going somewhere.”

Mack bit his tongue. “Two days ago, in San Francisco, former district attorney Deborah Nahler was murdered in the parking garage of her law firm. Fibers found at the scene of the crime match fibers found in four of the victims associated with the serial murderer operating along the I-75 corridor in Georgia and Florida.”

Mack pushed a stack of papers across the table to Whidby. “Here are the results from the respective crime labs. I’ve highlighted the essential parts.”

Whidby ignored the paperwork.

“My turn,” Reznor said.

She pointed at one of the folders. “Less than 36 hours ago, the journalist Patrick Tomlinson was found murdered in a hotel room in Philadelphia.”

She pointed at a second folder. “Less than 24 hours ago, the body of Judge Arthur Lyons was found on his boat in San Diego. He’d been strangled.”

Another folder. “Psychologist and courtroom expert Dr. Frank Mueller. While jogging yesterday in his neighborhood outside Kansas City he was struck by a hit-and-run driver. But before the driver took off, he or she slit the doctor’s throat.”

Reznor reached out and tapped the last folder. “Victoria Pugh. Bestselling crime novelist. Shot to death at a book signing last night in Seattle.”

Mack saw a subtle change in Whidby’s demeanor. At first, Mack wasn’t sure what it meant, but then he got it.

For the first time, Mack realized, the man was actually paying attention.

61.

The Messiah

The scene in Santa Monica was typical. Dozens of beautiful people wearing designer shirts and pants mingling with dozens of other beautiful people wearing designer jeans and costume jewelry, all in a sea of cologne, perfume and ambition.

Andrew Venuta stood in the small backyard, near the fire pit, smoking a joint with a long-haired, long bearded freak he’d just met.

It was some seriously good dope, though. Christ, he’d barely tokked his way through half of it and his brain was buzzing like a goddamned Stihl chainsaw. Shit, that was some sweet nastiness.

Andrew Venuta reveled in it. In everything. The fact that he had escaped the wheat fields of Nebraska and was even in Los Angeles to begin with. The fact that he had starred in a low-budget hit movie about a serial killer raping and killing his way through South America. And the fact that he was standing in the backyard of someone he didn’t know, smoking pot with someone he didn’t know, and probably waking up tomorrow in bed with someone he didn’t know. Hopefully, a hardbodied young woman that he didn’t know and most likely wouldn’t remember.

“This is great motherfucking shit,” he said to the weird dude.

“Thank you,” the man said, his brilliant blue eyes staring at him with wayyyyyy too much intensity. Venuta wondered, how could a guy with this incredible pot be so tense?

There was a lot of good pussy at this party, Venuta thought. In fact, he’d been pretty close to sealing the deal with a short-haired brunette who’d just landed a part in a series on the WB. She was a little older than he was normally interested in, but he liked that. Maybe they’d do a little Demi Moore/Ashton Kutcher type thing.

But they’d been interrupted by ol’ long hair here, who suggested they go outside for some Grade A pot. The actress had slipped away, but Venuta was never one to turn down free drugs.

Now, he chuckled slightly at the idea of his buddies back in Nebraska. They were probably getting off work at the meat packing plant, maybe downing some beers on the back porch of a shitty little house, talking about the Cornhuskers recruits and how they’d do this season.

Venuta drank in the moment, the crowd, and the drug’s power as it washed another gentle wave of narcotic goodness across his temporal lobe. It felt so good he almost went weak at the knees.

And then he realized that he was, in fact, kneeling. And that the freaky long haired guy was trying to pry his lips apart with something. Even in his brain dead stupor, Venuta realized it was the long haired guy’s cock that was being shoved into his mouth. He tried to stand up, but the little fucker was strong and then his throat was full and he couldn’t breathe.

For a brief moment the lack of oxygen and the power of the drug combined to give Venuta a moment of pure, crystalline euphoria.

The euphoria slowly faded along with the last vestiges of his life.

62.

Mack

Assistant Director Paul Whidby steepled his large hands together and drummed his fingertips against each other.

“Interpret, please,” he said, gesturing at the file folders and crime lab reports spread out on the conference room table in front of him.

He glanced at Reznor, but Mack spoke first. He had a feeling this wasn’t going to go over well, and he wanted the shitstorm that he knew was going to erupt to hit him, not his old partner. He was retired, it didn’t matter. Reznor still had a career to worry about.

“Two of the murders, Dragger in Chicago and Nahler in San Francisco, match other victims in other suspected serial killer cases, albeit in different parts of the country.”

This was where he had to make a leap, and he knew Whidby wasn’t going to come along for the ride. “The other four murders, Judge Lyons, Dr. Mueller, the author Victoria Pugh and the journalist Tomlinson, all were involved in violent crime.”

Whidby rolled his eyes.

Mack plowed on. “Tomlinson wrote a series of exposés on cold cases that resulted in the arrests of two serial killers. Victoria Pugh’s books involve serial killers and homicide detectives. Judge Lyons presided over three mass murder cases. Dr. Mueller’s testimony helped put away dozens of murderers.”

Whidby looked at Reznor. “Please tell him to get to the point, I will not be late for a meeting with the Director.”

Mack’s temper got the better of him. “What I’m saying, jackass, is that someone is recruiting active serial killers and giving them targets. It’s like a game or a competition or something.”

Whidby threw his head back and roared with laughter.

“You’re a fucking lunatic Mack!” he said. “Are you sure you’re not the one with brain damage?”

Mack lunged across the table, but Whidby had pushed himself away from the table. Reznor was between them.

“You’re a fucking asshole,” Mack said, his teeth clenched. He could take all the insults in the world, but Janice was off-limits.

Reznor pushed him back into his chair, and Whidby rolled back to the table, a smirk on his face. Reznor stood between them.

“I hate to interrupt this Love Fest, but I have a piece of information that neither one of you are going to like.”

Mack looked up at her.

“This is going to change everything,” she said.

63.

Nicole

Ever since her attack, and her recovery from it, Nicole had not necessarily avoided news of crime, but she hadn’t sought it out, either.

When she logged onto her computer, her home page appeared. It was the website of the Los Angeles Times. Nicole normally scanned the headlines before clicking to the Living section, then the Food section where her favorite column The Daily Dish appeared.

But the headline on the front page stopped her. It was about the murder of Andrew Venuta, a young actor. She wasn’t sure why she stopped, maybe it was something about the man’s handsome young face, or that she saw it occurred in Santa Monica.

She read the story and confirmed that yes, Venuta had been killed at a home less than a mile away from Nicole’s house.

Nicole experienced a wave of nausea followed by a slight uneasiness in her stomach. Was it fear? Anger? A combination of the two?

Or maybe it was the sheer savagery and boldness of the crime. Andrew Venuta had been strangled and perhaps sexually assaulted at a crowded house party. How had it happened? Nicole looked again at his picture. She couldn’t tell, but he looked like a well-built young man. Had he been overpowered? Or drugged?

She thought again about how grateful she was that she had found the courage, and the opportunity, to fight back against her attacker.