Cold Case (24 page)

“You don't know the half of it.” He sat on a rough-hewn bench, and patted the seat beside him. I took it, keeping a good five inches between us. The yellowish glow from the bar illuminated the right side of his face. I wondered if his buddies could see us parked on the bench, if I should prepare for some fumbling attempt at romance, something to tell the guys about.

I said, “I can see why you might get stuck with a hot potato like the Cameron girl's disappearance. What I don't understand is why you took over so soon, just weeks into the case. The investigation started in Dover, spread to Cambridge, Marblehead. It would seem that the state police—”

MacAvoy tossed me a disparaging look, then hawked and spat onto the parking lot. “Thea Dorothy fuckin' Janis Almighty Cameron,” he said with the careful precision of the drunkard. “Goddamn all Camerons, ya should excuse my French. Don't think I feel much like talkin' about that one, thanks all the same.”

“But you're the one who pulled it all together, Mac,” I said, spreading it on thick. “If it hadn't been for you, Dorothy might never have been connected with Albert Albion. Don't tell me you don't remember him. A cop doesn't get many chances to pin a big-time case on a serial killer. Have you been approached by any Hollywood types? Agents? You know, movie deals? Book offers?”

MacAvoy didn't react to a word of it. Not Albert Albion's name. Not the implicit offer of cash.

“Whole bunch of 'em should rot at the bottom of the sea,” he said quietly. “Who the hell do they think they are? They speak and the earth moves, mountains move, cops sure as hell better move. Get outa the way or get the hell steam-rollered.”

Seemed like he was talking about the Camerons—not cops, not serial killers.

“Some cases are like that,” I said, trying again to remind him that I'd been a cop, too, that we'd played for the same team. “You need to gentle them along, like unexploded landmines.”

“Right,” he said, giving a single nod, as if the matter were settled, once and for all. I could barely hear him between the flags and the ocean. To my dismay, the accordion started up again.

I said, “I've seen your case file.”

“Yeah?” His lack of concern seemed too elaborate, faked.

“It's in great shape,” I told him. “What's left of it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Crossed-out pages, missing pages, wite-out, erasures—”

“The case is closed,” he said, shifting his weight. “What's your beef?”

I thought about the gravel, the stones. I could grab a handful, toss them in his face, run.

“Just a few questions.”

“Such as?”

“Why were you put in charge?”

“Musta been my lucky day, girlie. Wanna know how lucky? If it hadn't a been for the Camerons, I'da retired a captain, not a goddamn sergeant. You know the difference that woulda made on my pension?”

I could look it up. Public record.

“Did you ever
see
Beryl Cameron, much less interview her?”

He stared at the bench.

“How about the rest of the family? Franklin, Tessa—”

“The Dover police took statements.”

“The Dover police collected excuses, reasons the Camerons couldn't be interviewed—”

“Really now, darlin', does that surprise ya? The rich gettin' treated different from the rest of us? No wonder ya quit. Or did ya get the boot?”

I ignored the scorn in his voice. “Do you recall the date of Albion's confession?”

“No,” he said carelessly. “My memory seems to be goin' after all. Ya have a cigarette on ya, darlin'? Smokin' always helps me remember.”

“No,” I said. “I gave 'em up.”

He had a pack, almost full. He leaned against the rickety bench, fired the match on the small stretch of wood separating us. It seemed a deliberately threatening maneuver, a “stay clear” warning. In the flickering light, I caught a glimpse of an irregular five-pointed star tattooed on the back of his hand.

The tobacco smelled better than the stale beer and old vomit of the bench, I'll say that for it.

“Do you recall a Dr. Manley, a psychiatrist who may have said that Beryl Cameron was too ill to testify?”

“Can't say I do.”

“Did Beryl Cameron attempt suicide during the investigation?”

“I'm sure I would have noted that in the file,” he said. “Darlin'.”

“How about this one? Do you think the CIA altered the files?” I asked.

“The what?” he said. “Didja say the blessed initials? Have ya been drinkin', or have I been drinkin', or is it the both of us gone mad?”

I took a deep breath of salt air. “Is there any chance Thea Janis is alive?”

“No,” he said. “Not unless you believe in that reincarnation balderdash.”

Hell with it, I thought, standing. It had been a nice ride.

“Who're ya workin' for?” MacAvoy asked suddenly. I made like I hadn't heard him, started the trek back to my car.

“Are the Camerons paying you? Or that other guy who's running for governor? If you're trying to shovel up dirt—”

He lurched to his feet. He was awkward, but quick. I didn't waste any time making tracks. I never broke into a run, but I stayed ready, listening, listening for footsteps.

On the drive home, I couldn't shake the feeling that someone was tailing me. Whenever I glanced in the rearview mirror there was nothing, or the usual run of indistinguishable headlamps. Once, the creepy feeling got so bad that I pulled to the side of the road, yanked open the glove compartment, and slapped my S&W 40 on the seat at my side, its metal cold against my thigh. I made sure the safety was on. Waited, humming softly under my breath.

Took me a while to recognize the song.

“Been on the job too long.”

Maybe I had.

27

The way I drove I made damn sure nobody followed me. I didn't get a ticket, for speeding or any other violation, but not because I obeyed traffic rules. Past midnight, there's a scarcity of patrol cars on the road.

All that caution wasted. A cop lurked on my doorstep. Mooney. He hasn't written a traffic citation in years.

“Come on,” he said.

“I'm tired.”

“Gary Reedy's in the car. The FBI wants you.”

“You told them about me? You gave up your source?”

“No, Carlotta, that's not the way it went. Garnet Cameron has accused you of bearing false witness.”

“‘Bearing false witness'? That might cut the mustard in church, but since when is it a jailable offense?”

“Just talk to Reedy, okay?”

If it had been any cop other than Mooney, I'd have told him to scoot.

Gary Reedy had a FBI man's car, a big Mercury Marquis with a shotgun rack mounted under the roof. He had an FBI man's firm dry handshake, an FBI man's blunt chin and deep gruff voice. I hate to admit it, but I liked the guy. He made me think of the perfect dad, not the perfect J. Edgar Hoover suit-and-tie agent. I'd never even seen him in a white shirt. He wore jeans, as usual. Unfortunately, he tends to label and dismiss me as a gangster's moll because of my involvement with Sam Gianelli.

“Is she game?” he asked Mooney as if I weren't present.

“It's your sell,” Mooney said.

“What would I be buying?” I asked Reedy. “This time of night?”

“Where've you been?” Reedy asked. I ignored him. He only does it for practice. He doesn't expect me to answer so I don't.

“Get in,” he said, indicating the car.

“No, thanks.”

“It would take less time if I drove while I explained.”

“On the other hand, if you ask here, I can just say no.”

“I need you to confront Garnet Cameron.”

“Bull.”

Reedy said, “I'm betting he won't call you a liar.”

I glared at Mooney, but kept my voice steady as I spoke to Reedy, because Reedy stops listening to women if their voices get high or quavery or possess any quality he might be able to label “hysterical.”

“Why on earth not?” I said calmly and reasonably. “Because he went to the right schools? Maybe Garnet won't out-and-out call me a liar. He'll say I was mistaken. That I misunderstood. That Missy—”

“Marissa,” Reedy corrected.

“
Marissa
is just playing some little ol' trick on her hubby. Don't expect him to pass out with guilty chills when he sees my face.”

“I say give it a try.”

I spent a futile five minutes trying to convince the FBI to leave. No dice.

“May I change clothes? I feel a trifle underdressed for Dover.”

“Put on a coat,” Reedy said. Great sense of humor.

I crawled into the front seat of the car, leaving Mooney the rear, with, I devoutly hoped, no leg room at all.

“Aren't you afraid that allowing me to confront Garnet at this time of night—morning—could constitute harassment?” I asked the FBI man.

“Once a kidnapping's been reported, we assume total jurisdiction. We're in a much more powerful position now that we have the original complainant.”

“
Complainant?”
I thought. I love FBI-speak. I didn't bother remarking on the royal “we.” The FBI is a unit, a presence, a “we.” I hoped Mooney was suffering in the back, getting his legs scrambled on every bump.

I gave my head a toss, both to rearrange my hair and wake my brain. I was no longer Tessa Cameron's employee. I'd gone against her son's wishes and reported a crime. I could expect a lousy greeting at best.

Unless Andrew Manley happened to be present.

“Gary,” I said sweetly. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Ask away,” he said, while Mooney snorted in the rear seat.

“When did you guys start the profiling business, Teten and Depue and Douglas, and all those guys at Quantico?”

Every FBI agent knows the proud history of the Bureau. They love to expound.

“It was '
69
or '70 when Teten started his class in applied criminology,” Reedy said. “He asked agents, cops from all over the country, to bring in unsolved cases, you know, the kind that wouldn't let 'em sleep nights. He got a tremendous response.”

“Say a girl disappeared in '71, killed by a guy who'd done at least two others—raped and murdered them. Would the FBI lab have paper on that?”

“Only if it was a big-time case, or took years to solve.”

“It was big time,” I murmured softly, wondering how I could get access to the Fibbie file on the Cameron case.

There was silence in the big car. It moved so differently than my small Toyota that we might have been on a ship at sea.

“Mooney,” I said, “did you review the Thea Janis file before you let me see it?”

“You bet,” he said. “And after.”

“Remember the Albion confessions?”

“I didn't memorize 'em.”

I smiled in the dark. I had, and Mooney'd known I had.

I addressed myself to the FBI man. “Gary,” I said. “Here's a theoretical: A guy kills a woman he
may
know, then kills another woman, then a third who looks like the first woman. Gets caught standing over the third lady's nude body, knife in hand. No vehicle nearby.”

“So?”

“Would you call him an ‘organized' or a ‘disorganized' killer?”

“You kidding? The guy's ‘disorganized.' Miracle he didn't get nabbed after the first killing. No plan of escape on the third murder is enough to indicate ‘disorganization.' But ‘organized' and ‘disorganized' weren't the terms the Bureau used in the early seventies.”

“What did the Bureau call them?”

“We had what we called the ‘simple schizophrenic,' I think. Poor choice of words, but he sounds like the guy you're talking about. And then we had the ‘psychopath.' Your average Ted Bundy.”

Albert Ellis Albion hadn't been found standing over Thea Janis's body. According to MacAvoy's reconstruction of the crimes, she'd been the second victim in the series.

“Does an ‘organized' killer change?” I asked Reedy. “Become ‘disorganized'?”

“Possibly. Over time. Especially if he's starting to lose it psychologically, if he wants to get caught. He could start sending notes to newspapers, bragging to buddies in bars.”

I swiveled to face the backseat. “Any progress?” I asked Mooney in a low voice.

“On what?”

“On getting me in to see Albion.”

“You do this for Reedy, maybe I'll pull a favor for you.”

“I'll expect it,” I said.

After fifteen minutes of happy talk about serial killers of the past, present, and future, we left the main road, squeezed between the gateposts, and started up the tree-lined path to the Cameron mansion. The house was ablaze with lights.

More than a single candle in the window to guide Marissa home.

I hadn't noticed any cars on the way up the drive, but the minute we stopped a man stepped out of the shrubbery and reported through the half-opened window that all seemed quiet. He informed Reedy that two agents had heard engine noise from a side road half an hour ago, maybe a motor scooter or a minibike, but it hadn't approached the house and an attempt to pick up the scooter had failed when it turned off into the woods.

A scooter. Like the one at Avon Hill School, driven by Anthony Emerson's “street urchins.”

“Did anyone see it?” I asked quickly.

“No. The grounds are heavily wooded,” said the agent.

Special Agent Reedy seized control by saying, “I want a full search of the area. Tire tracks. Anything. Have they kept the damned lights on like this all night?”

“No, sir. Place lit up like a Christmas tree about ten minutes—”

The front door opened and Garnet Cameron appeared, elegantly dressed, as if he were expecting the press, not the cops.

“Come in, Agent Reedy. Come in, please.”