Cross Cut (25 page)

I looked at her from a different angle, as my right shoulder sagged. There was a glimmer in her glasses as she looked down at her desk, content with what she had said.

“So—what are you saying? That none of these murders were committed by a real serial killer, as in the psychotic type? It was just an act?”

“An act? Perhaps a dubious way to put it, but yes,” she said, still looking downward. “After which, perhaps Guy Lynch’s murder wasn’t such a wild card after all.”

I had to wonder whether Ryder was on the same page as Cassandra. Of course, if her theory warranted any consideration, it could open up a few more possibilities, and go some way to negate one complication; trying to overlap the Cross Cutter with Andonian’s gang.

Did Ryder know it all along? That this gang created a serial killer to cover up the real intentions of the murders?

But then, I had to think. If that was the case, why the MO from twelve years ago? Who had influenced them to use it? Was the responsibility Guy Lynch’s somehow, or someone else entirely?

“I wonder what they are covering up,” she said.

“
They
?”

“The gang that is separate to the Danturas, of course.”

“How did you—” I trailed off.

“I read the news. It has been clear for some time that all roads lead to Kendra Ryder. If I were to take my assumption on its own merit, then it could have been any group or organization. Then events unfold, somewhat negatively toward yourself and Miss Ryder. There’s only one group it could be.”

“How did you figure it wasn’t the Danturas directly, and that it was a separate group tied to them?”

“The same way you did, I assume. I realized Erik Cristescu wouldn’t have been so stupid. Whatever the reason behind Guy Lynch’s death, someone was willing to mix both their business with their tirade against Kendra Ryder. Cristescu wouldn’t have made that mistake.

“So, what else do we have? Simple, really. The plan to incriminate Melissa Hart would have had zero input from Erik Cristescu. He would have forbid it. Therefore, we have someone acting alone—someone wanting to make an offering to Cristescu by getting back at the person who put him away—someone close, but separate from Erik Cristescu.”

I looked at her with slight awe as I made an effort to sip the wine. It was as if I were talking to Ryder at this precise moment in time.

“I must confess,” she continued. “That I gathered I was hitting the right note as I watched your reaction. Something tells me you have somehow confirmed, at least to yourself, that you know this as truth.”

“How come you haven’t shared any of this with the FBI?” I asked.

She smiled behind her glass. “I think perhaps this is a fight you yourselves should win. I am somewhat romantic like that.” She put the glass down and laughed. “Of course, perhaps I just don’t believe they would take to it. Also, your friend needn’t be innocent. Perhaps she killed Guy Lynch after all, and is involved with said organization. Nothing I have said would give any authority reason to commit, only to investigate. I would suggest that is why Miss Ryder has yet to say anything to you.” She smiled again. “Perhaps you are her authority, Ader.”

I disregarded that entirely. Ryder was her own authority.

“What do you mean they’ve investigated?” I asked. “You said you hadn’t told them about your theory.”

“Agent Gibbs has already questioned Erik Cristescu on account of Agent Cordell’s advice. They got nowhere. Curiously, Agent Cordell hasn’t turned up for work since—”

Her eyes fixed on me for a second. Like they were probing, as if she suspected I already knew of such a fact, and much more.

We went on for a few minutes and nothing of interest was said. I returned conversation, but I wasn’t at my most amiable. I was too involved with her analysis of the situation. It was simple in its reasoning, yet it made a lot of sense. She was capable of creating a play in her mind, much like Ryder.

We had took to looking out the third floor window, commenting on the world outside, when I noticed what looked to be an audio mixer inside one of her cabinets. When I pointed it out I said, “You listen to music?”

“Of course,” she said. “But that’s not what that machine is for. It’s something I use for my hypnotherapy sessions.”

“Oh—like, for quitting smoking and stuff?”

“Amongst other things. It’s my main area of expertise. I have many patients who come, simply to calm themselves. Some who wish to become more equipped mentally for life’s problems.”

I looked at it skeptically and she noticed.

“You should have a session some time.”

“Trying to say I’m not confident?”

She laughed. “Confidence is easier to portray more than it is to possess. I have worked with CEOs of big companies who rule their company like a king, and go home a shivering wreck. Though, I doubt you have that problem.”

She put a hand on my shoulder and took the empty wine glass from my hand. “I’m afraid I have an appointment in ten minutes,” she said. “Perhaps we could drink like this again, outside this office.”

Up close I noticed her eyes were more of a coral blue. She was beautiful, even more so with the glasses. I had an urge to say yes, but realized she probably wasn’t well-matched to me, or I to her. I mean, she was essentially Ryder in a different shell, and that thought jarred me somewhat. I have been told, though, that opposites attract.

I said yes and excused myself to the door. She promised she would get the name of the impostor Lynch, and then said, “The first murder.”

“Sorry?”

“You will find out how this all started with the first murder. Think on it, and you will realize what Miss Ryder does.”

“How do you mean? Do you know more?”

“No, but it is obvious the first is important. If indeed the serial killings were a mere smokescreen, you’ll do well to understand why the person or persons responsible started such a charade.”

“I don’t think we’re really interested in why.”

“You will be. You are a curious man, Ader. Call me later and I’ll have your name.”

32

Out on the street, I walked somewhat vacantly back to the Lexus, still pondering over what Cassandra Bishop had said.

While Ryder had mentioned murder number one before, she seemed to put number three at the top of the list in terms of importance. It was a relief to know they differed a little, even though I had to give credit to Cassandra, considering she had less to go on than Ryder did.

I sat on the hood for a while and contemplated tonight. My senses were rattled over the meeting—an abandoned parking lot in LA—a red flag for a detective, no doubt, but that’s a large part of the job description. I always considered that logic, and my conclusion was that no detective solved a case working through white flags alone. That’s how the cops do it. And if the cops couldn’t solve cases going through white flags, it would be naive to expect a detective to do any better. Genius can only get you so far, and, as you’ve gathered by now, Ryder is no angel when it comes to red flags.

Perhaps Dale Huntington was sheepish. Maybe he possessed information he feared to divulge. Either way, I’d be going with Ryder, prepared, fearing the worst.

I hopped off the hood and glanced down the street. It was relatively quiet. A few spoiled rich kids walked past me with shopping bags in their hands. Just as I approached my Lexus, I saw a car pull up to the sidewalk on the opposite side of the road. I recognized the car, and I didn’t like it. I liked it even less when I saw the man’s face through the windscreen. I’d only seen him previously through a pair of binoculars, but it was Andonian. I was willing to stake a year’s wage on it. He’d been tailing me. The roles from last night reversed. I couldn’t quite make out the person beside him, due to the sunlight resting oh so conveniently on the passenger side of the windscreen, but they were female—possibly blonde hair. It was just a glance, no good for a witness sighting, but, for whatever reason, possibly inference, I thought it might be Kacie. That thought lingered and converged with Agent Swanson’s words from last night, despite Ryder’s advice for me to have faith in her.

I hesitated at how to play out the situation. I decided, recklessly, to make myself known. It may have partly been my ego, but nobody tails me and thinks they have the upper hand. I walked down the street and squared off to the car. It didn’t last long. Andonian looked at me, paused, and then skidded out into the street and then sped away while he glared directly at me.

It was a curious retreat, if that’s what it was. If you’re going to tail a guy, you don’t make a big scene of fleeing in front of him. Either way, I was relieved he didn’t feel the urge to gun me down gangster style with his revolver from out the window, and I still couldn’t make out his female companion. The sun was at that angle where it collides with glass prominently. If it was Kacie, there was always the chance she was under coercion, I told myself. For a split second I considered going after them, but it seemed somewhat futile, even with Melissa’s life possibly in the balance. By the time I’d got into my Lexus and turned round, they’d be down one of dozens of side streets.

In two days, their time was up anyway, and Ryder had told me to stay away from that side of things.

A slight detour was in order.

I had phoned Luis Flores to give him all kinds of hell for Midge the Vulture. He seemed apologetic enough, and gave me his assurance he’d make him regret it.

I wanted more, though. I wanted to see Midge again, and beat something out of him. I wanted to know exactly what he knew about Andonian’s operation.

I found him at the same bar as before. I could see him through the window as I watched from inside the Lexus out on the street. When he left by the back door and walked down a small alley across the street, I followed him. I grabbed him from behind and shoved him into the wall. He coughed and gasped in surprise.

“What the hell—” he said.

“You fly a little too carelessly for a vulture. Stand up and answer me, or I’ll kick your head off. Or is it a beak?”

“Look—I was just playing my game. I gave you as much chance as Andonian.”

“How much of what you told me was true?”

“All of it—kind of. He paid me to keep quiet, and to—discourage you. But—I played fair. I went fifty-fifty with the information.”

I tightened my grip. “How the hell did he know I was coming to you in the first place?”

“I—told him. When I got the call from Luis I thought I’d make the most of it—”

“So you were a goddamned snake from the start. Tell me, why did you give me that crap about a meth lab?”

He looked back at me with a startled glare. “What?”

“There’s no meth lab. They’re gun running.”

“That’s—I don’t know, he told me it was—”

I let go of his arms and let him fall to the dirt on the ground. I laughed at him. “Seems like I’m not the only one being played. Andonian wasn’t telling you the truth, was he? How does it feel to have your own trick played against you?”

He didn’t answer. He simply stared at me with a slightly defeated look on his face.

I pointed at him and wagged my finger. “Okay, so you don’t know shit about the operation. I’ll take that. What about this—did he ever say anything about having a cop or an FBI agent in his pocket?”

Midge cleared his throat and looked to the side. “I think so—I mean, he implied something like that.”

“How did he imply it?”

“I can’t remember—I overheard him once, saying, ‘She’ll sort things out—on the inside.’”

“What about Melissa, does he have her?”

“No,” he said. “I swear he never said anything about having her.”

I glared at him some more, with my inner instinct telling me not to take anything he said as gospel. But, after hearing how Andonian had screwed with him, he had a look of not having anything to lose.

I didn’t say goodbye to him. I just left him on the floor, like a corpse. The vultures above watching him.

33

I arrived back at Sully’s for 3.30PM. He owns a condo in Glendale, which was hardly up to Ryder’s standards, and when I saw her admiring the view of the parking lot from the balcony, I had to wonder if she was cracking.

On my way over I kept looking over my shoulder. Part of me felt that I would run into Andonian again, considering Glendale is Armenian central.

Sully was still working on whatever angle Ryder had assigned him. I tried explaining to her that an extra man would be advantageous at a clandestine meeting should it go sour, but she showed no interest. She had no reservations about this Dale Huntington and what he was going to confirm to her.

After explaining my afternoon to her, she moved back inside and sat quietly on Sully’s solitary sofa. Her eyes were closed, but I doubted she was in conference with herself. Unfamiliarity tended to work her up into a stage of helplessness. She was worried about something. Whether it was the meeting, Melissa, or something else, I could only guess.

“What’s eating you?” I said.

She looked back at me with a tired glance. “Surely, you needn’t ask.”

“You know, what shall we do about the client? Do we talk to them before Sunday, when the FBI takes down the operation, or just leave it?”