The Killing League (9 page)

He stood, felt his insides shift and sweat broke out along his forehead. He walked into the kitchen and poured a cup of coffee, then went into the living room and sat in his favorite chair, facing the big picture window and the river.

He’d been sitting in this chair a lot more lately, and he didn’t like it.

There was more to life than what he was doing. Truth was, he envied Adelia and her husband. Their easy intimacy with each other. They were life partners, as corny as the term sounded. He’d had work partners, but never someone to share in his life.

He thought of Nicole Candela, then stood, put his empty coffee cup in the sink, changed into a swimming suit, and dove into the pool.

Mack cut through the water, his hands like knives slitting the belly of the pool’s surface, a gifted surgeon leaving no mark.

He drove forward, his legs thrumming with strength and power. He swam steadily for twenty-five minutes and felt re-born. The sick feeling was gone, and when his watch buzzed letting him know he’d hit the half-hour mark, he pulled himself from the pool and plopped into the hot tub where he’d torqued the heat up as high as it would go.

Mack’s body felt the shock of the temperature change and sweat broke out along his forehead. He closed his eyes and sank into the boiling water.

“Good morning,” a voice said.

Mack opened his eyes and Janice stood over him. She had on khaki shorts and a salmon colored polo shirt. In her hand was a card.

“Good morning, Janice. What do you have there?” he said.

He had lost a little bit of control last night, he realized. It didn’t happen often. And he wasn’t sure what triggered it. But he had imbibed more than he usually did, and felt guilty.

He didn’t want to beat himself up too badly. He was old enough, and had gone through enough nights to understand that something was bothering him. Something was getting to him. Mack didn’t really believe in any type of “sixth sense.” But he did understand scientists who said human beings use only 15% of their brain. That there are capabilities, most likely, no one understands. In his line of work, he had seen the extraordinary. The impossible. The inexplicable.

And right now, he was feeling something. In the wake of a bad hangover, something was trying to clarify itself.

Janice handed him the card.

On the front was a funny looking shield with the letters “KL” inside.

He opened the card and it was blank, save for the same symbol on the cover. “KL” inside a shield of some sort.

“Where did you find this?” Mack said. The mail hadn’t come yet, and it surely hadn’t been delivered via FedEx.

“The man gave it to me,” she said.

Mack looked up from the card. “What man?”

“The man who’s been watching me.” Janice turned and looked out at the river. She started humming.

Mack considered questioning his sister, but it was pointless. Whatever answers she gave him, he had no way of determining their validity.

He looked again at the logo.

It was probably a lawn care service, they dropped stuff off all the time at his house. The “KL” was probably something like “Kominski Lawns” or something. If he googled KL.com it would probably take him to the landscaper’s website.

He set it on the ledge of the hot tub.

Janice stood at the edge of the pool, swaying with the rhythm of the palmettos in the early morning breeze.

Mack felt a twinge again and he glanced over at the card.

Whatever this thing was that kept nagging at him, Mack understood on some very deep, impossibly vague level, that it was probably something very bad.

31.

The Commissioner

He dove from the second floor balcony of his Malibu beach house, swam straight down twenty feet to the enormous trap he had fashioned by hand. He unhooked the glove attached to the structure, reached inside and felt the powerful clamp of a lobster.

He, in turn, clamped onto it, and pulled it from the cage. He swam back to the surface, climbed onto the ladder attached to his dock, and heaved himself out of the ocean.

Back in his kitchen, he dropped the lobster into a pot of boiling water.

While his fresh catch cooked, he returned to his office which used to be the home’s great room but now featured a long table with a series of computers and a giant flat panel display.

He stood and looked at the giant screen. It was nearly four feet high and five feet wide.

He tapped the screen with his finger and a series of documents, images and charts came to life. Touch screen capability had been a significant innovation several years back and he had been a major stakeholder in the company that developed the required software.

The profit from selling his share of the company was more than most people made in a lifetime.

It had been a huge success for him, especially after the other part of his life had ended. What a fucking disaster that had been. It hadn’t been his fault, just a few people purposely targeting him. Well, he hadn’t forgotten. So he’d made a fortune a different way, and was now anxious for some payback.

He lined up all of his players on the left side of the screen. He looked at their names.

Florence Nightmare.

Truck Drivin’ Man.

The Butcher.

Lady of the Evening.

Family Man.

Blue Blood.

The Messiah.

On the right hand side, he had all of his targets.

A district attorney.

A crime novelist.

A psychologist.

A reporter.

A retired cop.

A judge.

A governor.

A former victim.

Two FBI agents.

And that was only the beginning.

The Commissioner folded his hands over his chest and surveyed the lists. They represented an incredible amount of hard work. He had searched all over the country. He used his unsurpassed hacking skills and broke into so many databases he had lost count. He had monitored, watched, even stalked both killers and victims. All to produce these diamonds in the rough. It was now time to fashion them into something hard and beautiful.

Using his right index finger, he began moving the players on the board. Although the touch-sensitive technology was not new anymore, he still loved it. Besides, he owned major shares in several more companies developing even newer and more radical interactions. But he still liked this. Still liked the hands-on aspect of it.

He moved the contestants and targets around, switched their order, slid them into different spots.

The matchups were interesting. Deciding which target would give which contestant the most difficulty. Because that’s what he wanted. That’s why he’d gone through so much time and effort. He could have just picked random targets; housewives out picking up laundry, old ladies in nursing homes. But what kind of fun would that have been? No, the only way this competition would be interesting, and serve his ultimate purpose, would be if it represented a challenge. Not just to his contestants. But to the person who would no doubt be the first to realize that a competition had begun.

There was only one person who would reach that conclusion.

The Commissioner smiled.

His old friend.

Wallace Mack.

He stepped back and looked at the screen. The names began moving, but only in his head. He circled, dragged, and juggled them time and time again. He could make a decision any time he wanted to, but enjoyed this. He reveled in it. He loved the control, loved the feeling of having lives in his hands and how and when they might end.

At last, the order clicked into place. He matched the pattern on the screen, then saved the system.

He returned to the kitchen, turned off the pot and pulled out the lobster. He put it on a plate and with his bare hands, cracked its body in half.

The Commissioner smiled.

The Killing League had officially begun.

THE STARTING LINEUP

32.

Blue Blood

Douglas Hampton walked into the main lobby of a Holiday Inn on the outskirts of Omaha, Nebraska. He thought he could practically smell the shit from pig farms that probably surrounded this asshole of a city.

What a fucking dump, Douglas Hampton thought. He envisioned every fat-assed insurance salesman who’d ever schlepped their worn out rollerbag and bulging briefcase into this craphole and jacked off to a porno flick before snoring their way through the night.

“Checking in, sir?” the young woman at the reception desk said to him. He looked at her. Dark hair, a little pudgy. No thanks.

“Unfortunately, no,” he said and smiled. His response earned him a warm and welcoming smile in return. “No, I’m here for a meeting. The KL conference?”

She nodded. “Absolutely, sir. Your meeting is in Conference Room B, just down the hall on your left.” She gave him a big smile and Hampton saw her desire for him like an open invitation.

He found the hallway and walked down to a room with large, double doors. A small placard told him this was Conference Room A. A small sign on a brass stand also told him that this was the location for a meeting of Honda dealers in the greater Omaha metropolitan area.

As he passed by the room, he spotted a cute blonde in a short skirt and white blouse taking a seat. She smiled at him, almost wistfully, he thought.

He returned her expression with a smile of his own and thought that if this bullshit thing he was going to didn’t work out, maybe he’d stop back in and chat up Miss Honda here.

The next conference room, and Hampton could see that it was the last one, had a similar placard out front but adorned with a “B” and he immediately recognized the KL logo from the invitation. Nowhere, however, did he actually see the words “Killing League.” So whatever asshole was running this thing at least had
some
sense.

He smirked at the sign, then checked his Oris dive watch. He had switched from the Panerai. The Panerai was for dress and style, the Oris was a solid piece of rock that could hold up to any dirty work he might encounter.

He debated about even going into the conference room. It had been a long drive from Boston and although the travel information had included a room here at the lovely Holiday Inn, he had no intention of staying here. Fuck that. He’d find a 5-star boutique hotel somewhere downtown, get plastered at the bar, go trolling whatever pathetic bars Omaha had to offer. Maybe he’d find some farm girl with cow shit on her boots and a cowboy hat he could knock off her head.

First, though, he had to get this fuck-ass meeting over with. It was probably going to be a good old-fashioned blackmail attempt. They were going to show a video of him doing something bad, and demand money. Well, the Hamptons had a lot of resources, knew a lot of people who were so bad they would make these knuckleheads wish they’d never been born.

Fuck it. He went in.

There was a big guy with a black jacket, black slacks and a black T-shirt. He had broad shoulders and a thick neck.

Hampton knew security when he saw it.

The big slab of meat gestured at the chairs arranged in a semicircle around a television screen mounted on the wall.

He could have kicked himself. He NEVER was the first to arrive to any kind of meeting or party. Was it because he was deep down kind of excited about whatever might happen? That it was a break from his mundane routine? He thought about it, but was interrupted when a woman who looked vaguely like Robin Williams as Mrs. Doubtfire entered the room.

He almost laughed.

Did this old bag have anything to do with the creepy invitation and the reference to his treasures in Storage Unit #27?

This time, he did laugh out loud.

He took a seat.

This was going to be good.

33.

Mack

Mack opened the front door before Ellen Reznor had a chance to knock.

“Are we on high alert or something?” she said as she gave him a hug.

“Nah, but Adelia’s gone until tomorrow so I’m on full-time duty.”

They went up to the kitchen and Mack poured them both a cup of coffee.

“How’s your Mom?” Mack asked. Reznor’s mother lived in a managed care facility an hour north of Estero. When she made it down for a visit, which was occurring with greater frequency as her mother’s health declined, Reznor always stopped by and saw Mack.

“A little worse than the time before,” she said. “She still recognizes me, though, so we can have a conversation at least. The doctors tell me that may not last much longer.” Reznor’s mother had many health issues, but the onset of Alzheimer’s was perhaps the most immediate.

Reznor took a sip of coffee. “How are you?”

He smiled. “Better now that I’m done with that fucking presentation. I hate doing those lectures.”

“Can you believe Whidby showed up?” she said. “The guy apparently has nothing better to do than drive down to Quantico just to act like an asshole.”

Mack set his cup down. “I still don’t know why he hates me with such a passion. I mean, I get that he doesn’t like me, we certainly butted heads quite a bit. But why is he so emotionally invested in it?”

Reznor smiled. “Everyone hates you, Mack. Even my ex did. He thought we were having an affair. What a dick.”

“Whatever happened to him? Good old Lance.” Mack thought back to the advice he’d given Reznor regarding Lance Gilmore.
Don’t marry him
, was the sum of it, as he recalled. But Reznor was still in her bad-boy phase. The more who told her he was a loser, the more she wanted him.

She nodded. “He left the country, last I heard. Typical. Most guys who leave their wives leave the city, this guy had to leave the country. He’s probably sworn off women, too. Probably living in some Caribbean island chasing the local men around.”

As much as they both tried to avoid it, Mack was always surprised at how often they spoke of that time of their lives. It all peaked around the same time as the Jeffrey Kostner case. His involvement, obsession really, with catching the sadistic killer. Then the aftermath of his involvement with Nicole Candela. Reznor’s marriage ended. And Janice, already deep into the worst kind of alcoholism, fell in love with another drunk and they locked themselves up in a shitty apartment for months on end, drinking their brains to oatmeal.