Cross Cut (6 page)

She brought her head down and looked at her watch. “Yes, please.”

It may be hard to believe, but once it passes a certain time, she can be quite a drinker. I doubt she could drink me under the table, but on the other hand, I’ve never seen her remotely intoxicated.

“Well, that was a waste of time,” I said.

She downed her glass in one. “I wasn’t expecting anything.”

“Sure. Suppose it would be stupid to expect anything when we’re tracking down a serial killer.”

“On the contrary.” She signaled for the bottle. “It was partially insightful.” She poured another glass.

“Oh—right you are. Care to share?”

“In due time. Now, however, I would like to ask a favor.”

“Shoot.”

“You may remember some time ago we made an agreement. That we never ask or tell each other about our pasts, specifically, when we were in the army. I would like permission to breach that agreement.”

I took back the bottle and shrugged. “Can’t see the harm.”

She sat back and placed her hands on her thighs. “You will wish to comment on it, I have no doubt. In any case—you may recall I was a special agent for the United States Criminal Investigation Command, or CID, as it’s known.”

I nodded, and she continued.

“We’re going back twelve years. I was young and had barely passed the selection process. But, I had my wits about me. Our unit was sent to investigate the effort in Afghanistan, after the civil war had allegedly ended. The so called Taliban massacres that occurred throughout that period were brought to our attention. So we—”

I held out my hand. “If you’re going that far back, I’m going to need the popcorn.”

She glared at me. “You wish for me to be concise?”

“Not to be rude or anything, but a story at this time of night just isn’t my thing.”

“Very well. There was a series of civilian and military killings in Jalalabad. After an initial investigation, it surfaced that the real perpetrator wasn’t a militant, rather, a member of the army.” She paused for a while and signaled for the bottled again. “It was I who found the one responsible.”

“That’s nice,” I said. “Is this going anywhere?”

“Those people were murdered—no, slain. Cut deep, both horizontally and vertically across the chest.”

I rested the tip of my glass on my lips, paused, and put it back down on the sofa arm.

“What the f—” I stopped myself. Excessive language is one of the three strikes. “Are you for real? You’re saying the Cross Cutter was—and you knew all this time?” I didn’t even care that I said ‘Cross’ this time.

Ryder’s eyes widened and she grunted. “Don’t be absurd. The man responsible back then is most assuredly not involved in these killings. He was tried and convicted. Probably thrown into a hole somewhere that doesn’t exist, to never be let out.”

I had to stand and walk to give it some thought. It was a hell of a reveal. I’m all for pulling little stunts like the fake Lynch scenario, but her not mentioning this before was too much.

“So, after eight murders in California, with the same MO, you suddenly mention it?” I said, and then I turned my head. “Nerks.”

Ryder wagged her finger in defense. “That’s pretty specious of you. Of course, I expected this reaction. No doubt you side with the authorities, who say I have no soul. But see it from my point of view. It took a year for these current murders to become widespread news. And even so, the possibility of relevance was around one percent. It’s not as if the method of killing stands to attention as unique.

“Well, that’s okay then.” I reconsidered. “No, wait, run that past me again—I still don’t understand why you never mentioned it. You realize you’re in trouble if you crack this on such a lead. The BI and FBI aren’t as understanding as I am. They’ll hang you out to dry.”

“No doubt. But I highly doubt the relevance is high. It may even be coincidence. But it is an avenue worth investigating.”

“So you say. But why are you mentioning it now? What changed?”

“My opinion changed when Guy Lynch was murdered this afternoon. That and the nonsense this morning. After that, the relevance factor rose to ten percent.”

I snickered. “Wow, a whole ten percent—why?”

“Because—” She paused in consideration. “The man who killed those people in Afghanistan went by the name of Lynch.”

I remained still for a while and tried to wrap my head around it. By the time I spoke again, I had taken to my own desk chair as opposed to the sofa. “That makes zero sense,” I said. “The guy from twelve years ago happens to have the same surname as a victim of the person now killing like he did? If it’s a coincidence, it’s a bloody good one. If it is somehow relevant, then it’s ass backwards, especially if it’s certain he’s imprisoned.”

Ryder gave a glare and rolled her right eye. Don’t ask me how she manages to roll a single eye, she just can.

“Your crass language aside, I agree. Either way we consider it, it is egregious. But there is an obvious angle we need to approach straight away. You shall venture out to Quantico tomorrow, and learn of the whereabouts of Lee Lynch, murderer of seven in Afghanistan. If possible, secure an interview with him. Although, I would take anything he says about the events twelve years ago with caution. I dare say he has very little affection for me.”

“He isn’t the only one.” I poured my last glass of the night and felt the sweat coming down my brow. “What about the Romanians? I’m flattered you think I’m a top marksman, but I can’t snipe them out from Quantico.”

“Pah.” She rose from her chair and took off her blazer. I doubt she noticed, but her blouse was wrinkled and the top bottom undone, exposing the white sliver of her diagonal scar. “You and your humor. I am retiring for the night.”

“You’re actually going to sleep?”

“Yes, of course. I suggest you do the same. We have a long task ahead of us.”

“I think it would be useless. I’m not going to sleep when we have a target on our backs. And my mind is practically spinning with possibilities after what you’ve told me.”

“Your mind is spinning because of that awful excuse for whiskey. Do not fall asleep on the sofa and make sure to lock the door. Goodnight.”

“Night,” I grunted.

I could have told her that she was going past the front door herself, but decided to skip it.

She was right, too, the scotch was awful. I drained it down the sink, gulped some orange juice and rested my eyes on the sofa.

7

I count myself lucky that I woke at around 4.30 AM the next day. Thirty minutes later and Ryder would have found me laid out on the sofa. As it happens, I managed to get upstairs before she rose for her morning routine. I watched her from my window as she walked out toward the pier with her gear. She walks steadily, without a care in the world. She nods to passersby, as if she’s proud to be a part of the same club; the club that all strange people join when they venture outside at such a ridiculous hour. Me, I’ll happily stare at the ceiling till 8AM, then have a leisurely breakfast in the kitchen until she arrives back at 9AM.

Staring wasn’t the only activity on the agenda, unfortunately. I packed a bag for the trip I had been volunteered for. Light: two changes of clothes, toothbrush and extra socks. Always pack extra socks. You never know.

It was grating me somewhat. It would be a nine hour flight with connections, which meant I’d be gone for two whole days, maybe three. I’d probably land at night and have to wait until morning to head for a meeting that may or may not be granted. But, hell, I get paid for it, so I won’t complain—much.

Melissa and I ate poached egg on toast at the table by the kitchen window. The sun occupied the cloudless sky outside and our thoughts turned to the new case of ours. While it’s true Melissa rarely has anything to do with the detective work, she was always happy to act as the office sounding board, while secretly being interested. As it turned out, she had a very good point about the situation yesterday.

“Why was everything taken except the business card?” she said, swirling a glass of orange juice. While the lack of personal effects had certainly been raised, the key word here was
taken.
I don’t think anyone really made a point that the killer may have taken Lynch’s stuff, but had ignored the card for some reason or other.

Of course, Ryder would have already contemplated such a thought. Probably yesterday, mere seconds after Johns and Mantle had given us the details. As for myself, I was too busy scratching my skull at the two Lynches. One of my major defects, Ryder tells me, is there is only room for the complex. I exhaust my brainpower on the one thing that cannot be approached without taking into consideration the smaller, perceptible items available. I’m not sure I agree. After all, I’m not the one calling for a long-shot flight across America, which could amount to a waste of shoe leather.

I gave Melissa’s point a few minutes. Given the charade with the fake Lynch, it wasn’t a stretch to imagine it was left there intentionally by the Cross Cutter, or another party, to lead the trail back to us. For reasons unknown. Of course, it could just be simple. Perhaps Lynch really did have nothing else but the card on his person. I doubt I’m the only one who constantly forgets his wallet.

At 9AM on the dot, Ryder walked through the French doors and strolled past the office. She nodded at us and made her way upstairs to change. Twenty minutes later I was sitting at my desk, looking for available hotels in Richmond, near the airport, when Ryder walked to her desk, gave it a frown, and then straightened it. She was wearing a blue blouse this time. You could barely see her neck. Her hair possessed a slight shine after her morning shower.

She sat first and said, “Good morning.”

“It is,” I said. “Any pearls of wisdom?”

She looked toward the aquarium to her right and smiled faintly at the seahorses before answering. “I’ve told you repeatedly, that despite myth, I do not think on cases at the pier. If anything does come to me, it is only by coincidence.”

“Yeah, I know. I was just hoping you’d come to your senses, and that you were going to tell me to cancel this flight.”

She shook her head and tried to seem apologetic. “It’s necessary. Once out of the way, we will know how to approach this.”

“I still don’t see it. Unless the guy from back then somehow got free and is on the loose again, and then killed his namesake because deep down inside he hates himself, while at the same time leaving that card because he wants you to catch him—”

Ryder almost grinned and tapped a single finger on her macassar ebony desk. “Your imagination casually flows like a stream, before developing into the rapids that hurtle down a waterfall. Nevertheless, I commend such thinking.” Melissa came in from the kitchen and laid down a cup of coffee and Ryder pressed her lips to the cup. “I would personally like to ignore conjecture until you return.”

By now I had booked the hotel. I retreated to the sofa to sift through my duffel bag. I packed my laptop inside the side compartment and said, “What about getting started on the crime scenes and the case history? It could take days to go through the material. And that’s if the bureaus are cooperative.”

“That will still be here when you return. I will arrange a meeting with the FBI. Not the BI. I can’t and won’t tolerate having to deal with agents Hacket and Bloom. If all goes well, I can examine the material here, in my office. If they have any sense, they won’t object.”

“What’s the deal here, are the FBI on lead?” I asked.

Ryder pondered it and put her hands beneath her chin. “From the third murder, I would assume the FBI took keen interest. Perhaps even the second. They and the BI supposedly coordinate.” She grinned. “It always puzzles me how two law entities can be at odds with each other.”

“Surprising the difference a letter can make.”

“Indeed.” She closed her eyes. “In any case, their procedure problems are not ours. When you return, we will pursue, with or without their help.”

I gave an affirmative hum while I tied my shoelaces. I went up to her desk, with my bag over my shoulder, and we simply nodded at each other.

“Your gun’s inside your drawer, right?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Loaded?”

“Pah.”

I took that as a yes and walked over to the kitchen and said farewell to Melissa. Outside, the heat is immediately obvious but there is a nice ocean breeze finding its way over Newport Beach. I hopped in the car and looked to the sky and suddenly remembered why I left my home country.

Such a glorious day.

8

On the way to LAX I fight off my urge to take Route 55, which would lead me in the direction of Anaheim, and instead take Route 73. I smile at the lavender patch at the side of the road and then take
the 405
, the busiest freeway in the whole damn world. Which is okay, because the crime scene in Anaheim will wait for me. Apparently.

I drive a Lexus with manual transmission, which Ryder imported especially for me. I don’t mind the cars she has in the garage as such, but you just can’t beat the control of a manual gearstick. When I drive I listen to music. I have no definitive taste and it usually changes with the seasons. To me, music is an emotion. During the summer I listen to stuff from the eighties. Rock and pop music mostly. In the autumn and winter, or specifically, when the sky is gray, I like to put on some Radiohead. It may interest you to know that Ryder is quite the fan, but she can listen to them in the summer. I’m not sure what that says about her, emotionally or otherwise.