Kill Fee Page 5

  Lind nodded.

  “Why don’t you try sleeping? The time always goes quicker when you’re asleep.”

  Lind let go of the woman’s hand and turned to face the seat back in front of him. He could feel her eyes on him, but he didn’t look at her. He stared at the seat back and tried to relax. “It doesn’t work that way,” he said. “Not for me.”

  19

  Triple A Industries,” Mathers told Windermere, “is a joke.”

  They were back in the office, having dropped Stevens at his Cherokee and returned to CID to try and hammer out the shooter’s credit card situation. Windermere left Mathers at his computer while she focused on grilling Salazar, who continued to claim innocence.

  “I sell fertilizer,” he told her, shadows under his eyes and two days’ stubble on his cheeks. “I never heard of this guy Pyatt before in my life, I told you.”

  “Triple A Industries,” said Windermere.

  Salazar stared back at her, blank-faced. “Yeah?”

  “What do you know about it?”

  Salazar sighed and sat back, shaking his head. “I know nothing,” he said. “What do you want me to say? I never heard of it in my life.”

  Windermere studied his face for a long time. He wasn’t lying, she decided. There was no way she could prove it, but she was pretty damned sure at this point that Allen Bryce Salazar had nothing to do with Spenser Pyatt’s shooting. Somehow, though, somebody had thrown him into the mix.

  Salazar leaned forward and ran his hands through his hair. “My wife,” he said. “I just want to go home.”

  “I know,” Windermere told him. “I’m working on it.”

  She left the big man in the interview room and walked back out into CID proper. By now it was evening, and the office had mostly cleared out; only Mathers and a few diehards remained at their cubicles. The whole place was quiet.

  Mathers looked up from his computer as Windermere approached. “Nothing,” he said. “Triple A Industries is a joke.”

  Windermere pulled up a chair. “Explain.”

  Mathers gestured to his screen. “I traced the company back. It’s nothing but a P.O. box in Richmond, Virginia. The company itself is a wholly owned subsidiary of a numbered offshore corporation based in the Cayman Islands.”

  “So who owns the numbered company?” said Windermere. “We follow the trail long enough, there’s bound to be a person at the end of the line.”

  “Yeah,” said Mathers, “except there’s no following any further.” He gestured at his screen again. This time, Windermere turned to look.

  The screen was blue. There was a government seal in the background, a log-in prompt center stage. Windermere blinked. “I don’t get it,” she said.

  “Department of Defense,” said Mathers. “Access restricted.”

  “You’re saying you traced Triple A to this numbered company, and when you tried to go deeper, the Defense Department stonewalled you?” Windermere stared at the screen. “How does that make any sense?”

  Mathers shrugged. “Either the government’s got a stake in Triple A, or someone inside doesn’t want us to look further. Either way, this is some conspiracy-level shit.”

  “Essentially, the Defense Department rented our shooter a car. That’s what you’re saying.”

  Mathers held up his hands. “I don’t know,” he said. “That’s kinda what it looks like.”

  “Christ.” Windermere looked around the office, feeling her frustration start to mount. “Nothing’s ever simple in this job, is it?”

  20

  Stevens wasn’t at BCA headquarters longer than fifteen minutes Tuesday morning before Tim Lesley summoned him into his office.

  “Kirk.” The SAC motioned across his desk to a chair. “Come on in and sit down.”

  Stevens sat, feeling a sort of familiar dread as he did. A former homicide cop, Tim Lesley was lean and tough as a piece of old jerky, and his glare could silence even the hardest state cop.

  “The Springfield report,” Stevens said. “I’ll have it for you first thing. Just polishing her off this morning.”

  Lesley held up his hand. Stared at Stevens over thin, wire-rimmed glasses. “Heard you paid the FBI a visit yesterday. Saw your friend Windermere.”

  Stevens nodded. “Sir. She needed to take a formal statement as regards the Spenser Pyatt shooting. The FBI’s taken over the case.”

  Lesley nodded. “You give it to her?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Lesley tented his fingers. Didn’t say anything. Stevens waited. The SAC’s disdain for his federal counterparts was well documented, and he’d allowed Stevens to join Windermere on that first kidnapping case only grudgingly. He’d been even less thrilled with Stevens’s involvement in the Carter Tomlin fiasco, and now Stevens chose his words carefully, knowing that Windermere’s name was tantamount to blasphemy in Tim Lesley’s office.

  “Sir, I’m not looking to get involved in Agent Windermere’s case,” Stevens said finally. “As far as I’m concerned, I’ve played my part. The FBI can solve their own case this time around.”

  Lesley pursed his lips. Showed the hint of a smile. “Funny you should say that, Agent Stevens.”

  “Sir?”

  “I happen to be friends with Spenser Pyatt’s son,” Lesley said. “Mickey Pyatt. Old classmate. He called me just now.”

  Stevens frowned. “Sure.”

  Lesley gave it a beat. “There was a murder yesterday,” he said finally, “in Duluth. A cousin of Spenser’s, Elias Cody, was found strangled to death in his home.”

  Now Stevens sat forward, almost despite himself. “Strangled,” he said. “A home invasion?”

  “No sign of a robbery,” said Lesley. “Nothing else disturbed. The killer gained entry by breaking a window and unlocking the back door. Local homicide figures he walked in, killed Cody, and walked out again.”

  “Jesus. Motive?”

  Lesley shook his head. “Mickey Pyatt was, understandably, quite concerned. Two relatives murdered in the span of three days.”

  “He thinks someone’s targeting his family.”

  “He’s scared,” said Lesley. “He asked me for help. That’s where you come in.” Lesley studied Stevens across his vast desk. “This Cody thing, it’s probably a coincidence. I want you to check it out anyway, see what you make of it. Decide if the Pyatts are in any real danger. Then report back.”

  “Sure,” said Stevens. “Yes, sir.”

  Lesley paused again. “You’re my top agent,” he said. “That’s half of why I’m giving you this assignment. I’m sure you can figure out the rest.”

  Stevens looked at his boss. “Windermere.”

  “Exactly. You’re close with the Feds, Stevens. This is their investigation, but I want you beside them, at least until you can determine that the Pyatts are safe.” Lesley gave Stevens the hint of another smile. “I don’t imagine that will pose any problems for you.”

  Stevens grinned back. “No, sir,” he said. “I don’t reckon it will.”

  “Good.” Lesley stood. “Then get moving. You’re on the next flight to Duluth.”

  21

  Lind woke with screams echoing in his ears. He sat up on the couch. It was morning. Gray, gloomy light filtered in through the windows. The rain drizzled down outside. His heart pounded.

  He’d been dreaming again. Despite his best efforts, he’d fallen asleep. The visions had returned. They always did.

  Lind pushed himself off the couch. Stood and, rubbing his face, walked to the window. Then he turned away. The view was the same. It was always the same.

  He stood in the center of the room and waited for his heart to slow down. Tried not to replay the visions he’d seen in his dreams. Even when he was awake, they were inescapable. He remembered.

  He remembered Showtime screaming. Hang Ten’s limp body
. He remembered, also, the man from the house in Duluth, struggling in his grasp. Dying in his hands.

  Lind blinked. Looked across the apartment, seeing nothing. Feeling a coldness like ice water start to seep through his body.

  He’d dreamed of the man in Duluth. He’d seen the man’s liquor bottle topple just as clearly as he’d seen Mini-Me burning inside the Humvee. Heard the man gasping for breath, choking, the same as he’d heard Showtime’s crazy laughter. It wasn’t just the man in Duluth, either. He’d dreamed of them all.

  The white-haired man in Saint Paul, just a crumpled newspaper picture and a speck in the sniper scope. The woman in Manhattan, the adulteress and her sexy young fling. The movie executive in Los Angeles, that Mulholland Drive mansion, the roar of the gun. Lind remembered. He’d dreamed of them all.

  Above all, he’d dreamed of the first. His first target. It was the target’s desperate screams that had rung in his ears as he jolted awake. It was those screams he could hear even now.

  Lind closed his eyes. Shook his head. Ran his hands through his hair and tore at his face. He sank down to the floor and gave in to the visions again.

  That face, that smiling face. The man who had taken him from the doctor’s office out to that gray sedan, who had driven him away into blackness. That man. That face. He was smiling. He was holding a gun.

  A revolver.

  He pressed it into Lind’s palm. Wrapped his fingers around it, firm. He was speaking to Lind, soft and incessant. He was promising things. He was promising safety, relief. His promises were a mantra. He never stopped smiling.

  The man waited until Lind gripped the gun. Then he stepped back. He took Lind by the shoulders and turned him around. Gentle, like a father. Lind let himself turn. Lind gripped the gun. He let the smiling man turn him to face the target.

  The target.

  The target was a young man, about the same age as Lind. His head was shaved close. There was a scar on his face, a thin line down his cheek. He was chained to a bloody concrete wall.

  The smiling man’s voice was like syrup in Lind’s ear. He kept speaking, kept promising wonderful things. Lind couldn’t escape it. Couldn’t fight it. He felt himself giving in. Felt himself start to obey the smiling man.

  He felt himself raising the gun.

  The young man’s eyes went wide. He struggled against the chains, shouting at Lind, pleading. Lind blinked. Shook his head. Couldn’t escape the voice. The voice promised relief. The voice told him to pull the trigger. He did.

  The young man screamed. He kept screaming. He screamed every night until Lind jolted awake.

  22

  The plane to Duluth was tiny, a cramped regional jet that rattled and shuddered its way slowly north. Stevens folded himself into a window seat and gripped the armrests tight, feeling every turbulent gust like a palm tree in a hurricane, praying for a safe landing.

  There was a plainclothes city cop waiting for Stevens inside the terminal in Duluth. She grinned wide when she saw him. “Kirk Stevens,” she said. “Back from the big city at last.”

  Stevens stopped and stared. “McNaughton,” he said. “Holy shit.”

  The cop laughed and held out her hand. Stevens shook it, studying her face as he did. It had been nearly twenty years since he’d shared a shift with Donna McNaughton in West Duluth, and though she’d aged somewhat in her path up the ranks, Stevens still remembered the Cheshire cat grin—and the finger-busting grip. He took his hand back and wrung it gingerly as he followed his old colleague out to an unmarked Crown Vic.

  “So what gives?” he asked her. “They kick you out of your squad car?”

  McNaughton shot him the finger. “Violent crimes,” she said, grinning back at him. “Downtown, baby. Going on ten years.”

  “No kidding?” said Stevens. “I mean, congratulations.”

  “Nothing like your life,” McNaughton said as she slid behind the steering wheel. “I mean, with those FBI cases and all. But it works. Met a girl, settled down.” She shrugged. “It’s a life.”

  “More than a life,” Stevens said. “You’ve done well for yourself.”

  McNaughton waved him away. “Shut up,” she said. “Anyway, you’re back. And we’re working together again for a while.”

  Stevens nodded. “Elias Cody.”

  “The hermit.” McNaughton glanced at him as she drove away from the terminal. “Guy had rich parents. Kind of coasted through life. Fell off the map about twenty years back. More of a neighborhood bogeyman than anything else.”

  Stevens blinked. “I remember,” he said. “Family owned a grain elevator or something. He never left his house.”

  “Definitely a weirdo. You guys think his killer’s the same guy who did Spenser Pyatt?”

  Stevens gazed out the window as Duluth came into view. Felt his nerves finally starting to calm. “Don’t know,” he said. “Guess I’ll try to find out.”

  HAD STEVENS APPROACHED Elias Cody’s home at night, he might have been forgiven for suspecting it was haunted. The place was your classic scary-movie locale: a dreary, run-down old relic on a lonely side street, cut off from the neighbors and hidden from the road by a thick, gloomy forest. Anytime after dark and the place would have been spooky. As it was, it simply looked sad.

  McNaughton parked the Crown Vic at the foot of the driveway. “Forensics came and went,” she said. “Body’s gone, but I can show you pictures.”

  “Sure,” Stevens said. “Who called it in?”

  “Housekeeper. Said she came by weekly to bring groceries and tidy the place. Probably the only human contact our man had.”

  They climbed out of the sedan and walked up the long driveway. There was a beat-up brown Mercedes parked by the house. “Cody’s,” said McNaughton.

  “Seen better days.”

  “Be surprised if she still runs at all.” The cop dug a key from her pocket and unlocked the front door. Stevens followed her inside the dark house.

  “So here’s the place.” McNaughton led Stevens through a dismal front foyer and into the back of the house. “Guy broke a window and unlocked the back door. Found his way to the living room, where Cody was watching TV.”

  Stevens followed his colleague through the house to a living room, where a cracked leather couch faced a dusty TV. There was a table and an empty plate and a spilled bottle of whiskey.

  “Snuck up behind him, we figure,” said McNaughton. “Strangled him from behind. Cody kicked over the whiskey before he kicked the bucket.”

  Stevens looked around the room. “Forensics find anything?”

  “Still early, but the victim had fabric in his fingernails. Like he was clawing at our killer’s shirt. Maybe we get lucky and we find some skin in there, too.”

  “Sure,” Stevens nodded. “Anything else?”

  “Our killer wore gloves,” McNaughton said. “There’s some dirt by the back door, but not enough for a tread pattern. A couple leaves and some pine needles, like he came through the forest.”

  “Witnesses?”

  “Not that we know of.”

  Stevens nodded again. “Huh,” he said. He surveyed the living room a little longer, and then walked back out to the hall. “This guy have any enemies?”

  “No enemies. No friends, either. Nobody to care whether he lived or died.”

  “He had money, though.”

  McNaughton shook her head. “Not really. Sold the grain elevator around the time you skipped town. Lived off the proceeds, but all indications are they’re pretty much gone.”

  “And he wasn’t robbed.” Stevens wandered into a dining room. “You guys are pretty sure about that.”

  McNaughton nodded. “Housekeeper said nothing’s disturbed.”

  “She have an alibi?”

  “She’s about four foot eleven, but, yeah. She cleans office buildings, too. Was downtown all day.” />
  Stevens circled the dining room table. The room looked like it hadn’t seen a meal in months. A window looked out onto the front lawn. There were pictures hung around the walls. Stevens looked at them. “Who’s this?”

  McNaughton came over. “My eyes,” she said, squinting. “Getting old sucks. That’s Spenser Pyatt. Must be fifty years ago, easy.”

  “Yeah,” said Stevens. “And the woman?”

  McNaughton grinned at him. “You’re the big BCA guy. Figure it out.”

  Stevens studied the picture, frowning. The woman with Pyatt was a pretty blonde, young and vibrant. She stood close to the billionaire, both of them smiling, on some lake somewhere. She was in other pictures, too. Not all of them featured Pyatt. In many of them, the woman was alone.

  She’d aged gracefully. The pictures were arranged in chronological order. At the end, another picture with Pyatt. She was much older now; both of them were. Her hair was shorter, and white, and her face was lined with age. There were still signs, though, of the beauty she’d been.

  Suddenly, Stevens recognized her. “That’s Paige Pyatt. Spenser’s wife.”

  McNaughton nodded. “Exactly,” she said. “So why is she here?”

  “Had a crush on her, I guess. Kind of weird.”

  McNaughton stepped back from the wall. “Everything about Cody was weird, Kirk,” she said. “You’re just clueing in?”

  23

  Stevens walked through the house. “Humor me,” he told McNaughton. “I want to figure this stuff out for myself.”

  McNaughton rolled her eyes, but she followed, and an hour or so later, Stevens was forced to admit his former colleague was right: there was no sign, anywhere, that Elias Cody had been robbed.

  There were, however, more pictures of Paige Pyatt, and not all of them so neatly framed. Many of them were torn from magazines or newspapers. They lay in a stack beside Cody’s bed, and amid vast reams of paper strewn across his office. Stevens examined the pictures and felt something start to gnaw at the back of his mind. Tim Lesley’s words echoed in his ears, and he thought about Mickey Pyatt and his fear that his family was in danger.