Thr3e (6 page)
“Please, if you’ll just tell me what to confess, I’ll confess. Why are you using riddles? Can I confess without solving riddles?”
Slater remained silent for a moment. “The answer to the riddles and the confession are the same. That’s the first clue and that’s the last clue. The next time you try to squeeze something out of me, I’ll walk in there and cut off one of your ears, or something as interesting. What’s the matter, Kevin? You’re the brilliant seminary student. You’re the smart little philosopher. A little riddle scares you?”
The riddles and the confession are the same.
So then maybe it wasn’t the boy.
“This isn’t fair—”
“Did I ask you to speak?”
“You asked me a question.”
“Which requires an answer, not a lecture. For that you will pay an extra little price. I’ve decided to kill to help you along with your understanding.”
Kevin was aghast. “You . . . you just decided—”
“Maybe two killings.”
“No, I’m sorry. I won’t speak.”
“Better. And just so we’re clear, you of all people are in no position to talk about being fair. You may have that old fool at the seminary fooled, you may have all the old ladies at that church thinking you’re a sweet, young fellow, but I know you, boy. I know how your mind works and I know what you’re capable of. Guess what? I’m about to let the snake out of his dungeon. Before we’re done here, the world is going to know the whole ugly truth, boy. Open the drawer in front of you.”
The drawer? Kevin stood and looked at the utility drawer beneath the counter. “The drawer?”
“Open it and pull out the cell phone.”
Kevin eased the drawer out. A small silver cell phone sat in the pencil tray. He picked it up.
“From now on you keep this phone with you at all times. It’s set to vibrate—no need to wake up the neighbors every time I call. Unfortunately, I won’t be able to call you on your home phone once the cops bug it. Understand?”
“Yes.”
That Slater had been in Kevin’s house was no longer open to question. What else did Slater know?
“There’s one other little matter that needs our attention before we continue. I have good news for you, Kevin.” Slater’s voice thickened and his breathing grew heavier. “You’re not alone in this. I intend to bring someone else down with you. Her name is Samantha.” Pause. “You do remember Samantha, don’t you? You should; she called you recently.”
“Yes.”
“You like her, don’t you, Kevin?”
“She’s a friend.”
“You don’t have a lot of friends.”
“No.”
“Consider Samantha as my insurance. If you fail me, she dies.”
“You can’t do that!”
“Shut up! Shut up, you foul-mouthed lying punk! Listen carefully.
In life he’s your friend, but death is the end
. That’s your little bonus riddle for being so dense. You have exactly thirty minutes to solve it or your best friend will indeed go boom.”
“What friend? I thought this was about me! How will you even know if I’ve solved the riddle?”
“Call Samantha. Ask for her help. The two of you can put your stinking heads together and figure it out.”
“I’m not even sure I can reach Samantha. How will you know what I tell her?”
Slater’s deep chuckle filled the phone. “You don’t do what I’m doing without learning the tools of the trade, boy. I have ears and eyes everywhere. Did you know that with the right toys you can understand a man inside a house from over a thousand yards away? Seeing is even easier. The clock is ticking. You’re down to twenty-nine minutes and thirty-two seconds. I suggest you hustle.”
The line clicked.
“Slater?”
Nothing. Kevin shoved the phone into its cradle and looked at his watch.
4:15
. There was going to be another explosion in thirty minutes, this time involving his best friend, which made no sense because he had no best friends.
In life he’s your friend, but death is the end
. No cops.
F
BI SPECIAL AGENT JENNIFER PETERS hurried down the hall, her pulse hammering with an urgency she hadn’t felt for three months. The Long Beach bomb report had come in several hours ago, but she hadn’t been told. Why? She rounded the corner and shoved the Los Angeles bureau chief’s door open.
Frank Longmont sat at his desk, phone pressed to his ear. He didn’t bother looking up at her. He knew, didn’t he? The weasel had purposefully stalled.
“Sir?”
Frank held up his hand. Jennifer crossed her arms while the chief talked on. Only then did she notice two other agents, whom she didn’t recognize, seated at the small conference table to her left. Looked like East Coast stiffs. Their eyes lingered. She turned from them and steadied her breathing.
Her blue business suit had only the smallest of slits up her left leg, but she couldn’t shake the certainty that what was decent, even conservative in her mind, still drew frequent glances from men. Her hair was dark, to her shoulders, and her eyes a soft hazel. She had the kind of face others might spend their lives trying to imitate—symmetrical with soft skin and rich color. There was no disguising her physical beauty.
Beauty is a gift,
her father used to say.
Just don’t flaunt it
. A gift. Jennifer had found beauty just as often a handicap. Many people of both genders had difficulty accepting both beauty and excellence from the same person.
To compensate, she tried her best to ignore her appearance and instead focus on excellence.
Brains are also a gift,
her father used to say. And God had not been stingy. At age thirty, Jennifer Peters was regarded as one of the best forensic psychologists on the West Coast.
But in the end it hadn’t mattered. Her excellence hadn’t saved her brother. Which left her as what? A beautiful woman who was much more interested in being smart than beautiful, but who wasn’t so smart after all. A nothing. A nothing whose failure had killed her brother. And now a nothing who was being ignored by the bureau chief.
Frank set down his phone and turned to the two men at the table. “Excuse us for a moment, gentlemen.”
The two agents exchanged glances, rose, and left. Jennifer waited for the click of the door latch before speaking.
“Why wasn’t I told?”
Frank spread his hands. “You obviously were.”
She glared at him. “It’s been five hours! I should already be in Long Beach.”
“I’ve been on the phone with the Long Beach police chief. We’ll be there first thing in the morning.”
We’ll?
He was being cagey. She walked to his desk, hands on hips. “Okay, cut the innuendos. What’s going on?”
Frank smiled. “Please, Jennifer, take a seat. Take a breath.”
She didn’t like the tone of his voice.
Easy, girl. Your life’s in this man’s hands.
“It’s him, isn’t it?”
“We don’t have enough yet. Sit.” They locked stares. She sat in one of the large chairs facing the desk and crossed her legs.
Frank tapped his finger on the desk absently. “I was thinking of letting Craig take over the on-site investigation. Let you work here in a coordination role.”
Jennifer felt her face flush. “This is my case! You can’t just remove me!”
“Did I say remove? I don’t remember using that word. And if you haven’t noticed in your six years with the bureau, we juggle agents quite frequently for a host of reasons.”
“No one knows this case like I do,” she said. The chief wouldn’t actually do this. She was way too valuable on the case!
“One of those reasons is the relationship between agent and critical parties, including victims.”
“I’ve spent a year breathing down this guy’s neck,” Jennifer said. She let the desperation creep into her voice. “For heaven’s sake, Frank. You can’t do this to me.”
“He killed your brother, Jennifer.”
She stared at him. “This suddenly becomes germane? The way I see it, the fact that he killed Roy gives me a right to hunt him down.”
“Please, I know this is hard, but you have to try to look at the situation objectively. Roy was the killer’s last victim. We haven’t heard a peep in the three months since. You ever ask yourself why he chose Roy?”
“It happened,” she said. She had, of course. The answer was patently obvious but unspoken.
“He kills four other people in the Sacramento area before you start to close in. You come within five minutes of apprehending him. He takes offense and chooses someone close to you. Roy. He plays his little game of riddles and then kills Roy when you come up short.”
Jennifer just stared at him.
The chief held up one hand. “No, that didn’t come out like I—”
“You’re saying the Riddle Killer killed my brother because of me? You have the audacity to sit there and accuse me of playing a part in my own brother’s execution?”
“I said that’s not what I meant. But he likely chose Roy because of your involvement.”
“And did that fact affect my performance?”
He hesitated.
Jennifer closed her eyes and drew a careful breath.
“You’re putting words in my mouth,” Frank said. “Look, I’m sorry, really I am. I can only imagine how it was for you. And I can’t think of anyone who is more qualified to go after this nut, but the equation changed when he killed your brother. He has it out for you. You’re a critical party, and frankly your life’s in danger.”
She opened her eyes. “Don’t patronize me with the danger nonsense, Frank. We signed on for danger. This is precisely what the Riddle Killer wants, you realize. He knows I’m his biggest threat. He also knows that you’ll likely pull me for the very reasons you’re citing. He
wants
me off the case.”
She said it with a strong voice, but only because she’d long ago learned to stuff emotion. For the most part. The bureau did that. The better part of her wanted to scream at Frank and tell him where he could put his objectiveness.
He sighed. “We don’t even know this is the same killer. Could be a copy cat; could be unrelated. We need someone here to piece this together carefully.”
The Riddle Killer had started playing his little games nearly a year ago. He picked his victims for a variety of reasons and then stalked them until he knew their routines intimately. The riddle usually came out of thin air. He gave the victims a specified amount of time to solve the riddle under the threat of death. Inventive and cold-blooded.
Her brother, Roy Peters, had been a thirty-three-year-old attorney newly employed in Sacramento by Bradsworth and Bixx. A brilliant man with a wonderful wife, Sandy, who worked for the Red Cross. More importantly, Roy and Jennifer had been inseparable right up to college when they’d both pursued law. Roy had bought Jennifer her first bicycle, not because her father couldn’t, but because he wanted to. Roy had taught her to drive. Roy had checked out every boy she’d ever dated, often to her feigned chagrin. Her brother had been her soul mate, the standard no other man could measure up to.
Jennifer had replayed the events leading up to his death a thousand times, knowing each time that she could have prevented it. If only she’d pieced the riddle together twenty minutes earlier. If only she’d gotten to him sooner. If only she hadn’t been assigned to the case.
Until this moment, no one had even hinted at blame—to do so would be beneath the Bureau. But her own blame had beaten her raw over the last three months. The fact was, if she had not been on the case, Roy would be alive. Nothing would ever change that. In some way she
was
personally responsible for the death of her brother.
Her mission in life was now painfully simple. She would stop at nothing to remove the Riddle Killer from the face of the earth.
If Frank knew the depth of her obsession, he might have pulled her from the case long ago. Her survival depended on her ability to remain calm and reasonable.
“Sir, I’m begging you. You have to let me lead the investigation. He hasn’t killed yet. He’s growing bold, but if we let him think he can play the FBI, he’ll grow bolder. Pulling me from the case would send the wrong message.”
The thought dawned on her only as she spoke it. By the look on Frank’s face, he hadn’t considered that angle yet.
She pressed. “I’ve had three months to grieve, Frank. Last time I took inventory I was lucid. You owe it to the public to let me go. No one stands a better chance of stopping him before he kills again.”
Frank looked at her in silence.
“You know I’m right.”
“You’ve got tenacity; I’ll give you that. Tell me that you have no leanings to any kind of personal vendetta.”
“I want him out of circulation. If that’s personally motivated, so be it.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“You think I would compromise justice with a quick trigger?” she said with a bite of sarcasm. “Or withhold information from other agencies to get the collar myself? Do you think so little of me?”
“None of us are exempt from strong emotional pulls. If my brother had been killed, I’m not sure I wouldn’t turn in my badge and go after him outside the law.”
She wasn’t sure what to say. She’d considered the same a dozen times. Nothing would give her more satisfaction than pulling the trigger herself when it came right down to it.
“I’m not you,” she finally said, but she wasn’t so sure.
He nodded. “You don’t see the kind of love you shared with your brother much these days, you know. I’ve always respected you for that.”
“Thank you. Roy was an incredible person. No one will ever replace him.”
“No, I guess not. Okay, Jennifer. You win. You’ll have a half-dozen agencies climbing around; I want you to work with them. I’m not saying you have to spend all day playing footsie with them, but at least give them the respect of keeping them up to date.”
Jennifer stood. “Of course.”
“Detective Paul Milton will be expecting you first thing. He’s not the gun-shy type if you know what I mean. Be nice.”
“I’m incapable of anything less.”
K
EVIN CLEARED THE FIRST FOUR STAIRS in his first step. He tripped on the last and sprawled on the landing. “Come on!” He grunted and jumped to his feet. Samantha’s phone number was on his desk—please say it was still on his desk. He crashed through the door. His best friend. Who could that possibly be?
