Deadly Dance (23 page)

“No.” Harrison shook his head. “I’ve tapped into all of her accounts. Phone, Internet, the works. I can monitor them from here. If she gets anything else from the unsub, I’ll be able to see it here in real time.”

“Talk about big brother watching,” Simon said.

“It isn’t ideal, but she understands the situation.” Harrison shrugged. “And she has more reason than anyone to want us to catch Jasmine’s and Sara’s killer.”

Hannah’s computer emitted a soft beep and stopped scrolling, a flashing cursor indicating that it had found something. “Hang on, guys,” she said. “I think maybe I’ve got a hit.” She scrolled down, her eyes widening as she read. “Actually looks like we have more than one.”

She took a minute to skim the data, frowning as she scrolled through the first two matches. “The first is a partial, taken from the scene of an assassination attempt in Bosnia a few years back. Some UN diplomat. Anyway, the print is unidentified. Just part of the evidence. Looks like they never found the shooter.”

“What about the others?” Avery asked.

“The second one is a full-on match, but again it’s an
unidentified print. This time from a bombing in Dubai. Sixteen people were killed. The print was found on a fragment.”

“Great, so the guy’s a ghost.” Simon’s words gave voice to everyone’s frustration.

“Hang on,” she said, “there’s one more. From a recent police altercation.” Hannah skimmed the pertinent details. “In Atlantic City. Looks like our guy—if it is him—got caught up in a vice sweep. He was booked but later released. And since he wasn’t prosecuted, there wouldn’t have been any reason for them to have checked him out with anyone higher up the food chain.”

“Why? If he’s a foreign national under arrest, wouldn’t that have at least pulled in immigration?”

“Actually, according to this, he’s not foreign. He’s homegrown,” Hannah said. “From right here in New York.” She hit a button and a picture filled the large monitor Harrison had set up on the buffet beside the table. “Meet John M. Walker—aka Martin Vanderbeek.”

“And Daniel Raiser,” Harrison added, putting a second photo next to the first, the two photos unquestionably the same man, although the hairstyles and clothing worn were radically different. “A U.K. citizen, according to his passport. It came up through facial recognition. But like Vanderbeek, the ID’s a fake. He was wanted for questioning in conjunction with one of the London subway bombings.”

“So this guy gets around,” Avery observed. “What have you got on Walker? Is it an alias as well?”

“So far, it seems to be checking out,” Hannah said. “He was born upstate just outside of Syracuse. Went to college in Rochester. But there’s nothing to show that he
graduated. He pays taxes in Kingston. And he’s listed as a freelance technical consultant. Self-employed. Travels quite a bit. There’s not much information about where he goes or what he does once he’s there. Basically, this guy is good at staying off the grid.”

“Can you tie him to any of the locations where he used false ID?” Drake asked.

“Yes,” Harrison answered, clearly doing his own online investigation. “I’ve got confirmation that he was in England at the time of the bombings. Supposedly in Manchester, but it would have been easy enough to slip down to London. And I’ve also got a record of trips to Vienna—although nothing that directly coincides with the arrest of Vanderbeek.”

“Yeah, but I’ve got confirmation here,” Hannah said. “An airline ticket in his name, flying into Geneva. The dates match. And he rebooked his return. Which would match up with his being detained by authorities in Vienna.”

“But why use his real name if he was traveling under an alias once in Vienna?” Simon asked.

“Alibi,” Drake said, taking a sip of coffee. “Dude, can’t be in two places at once.”

“So what are we talking about, here?” Hannah asked. “Some kind of mercenary? Three of the matches put him at the site of some kind of terrorist activity. Two bombings and an assassination attempt. You think he was the shooter?”

“It’s possible,” Avery said, studying the photograph. “Hannah, forward everything you’ve got to the brass at Langley. Maybe they’ll have something more on this guy. And at the very least, they’ll be able to shed some light on
the various investigations he’s been linked to. And in the meantime, if he is our killer, we need to run Mr. Walker to ground. Let’s check rentals and hotels in the area to see if by some chance he’s registered under his real name or one of the aliases we’ve found.”

“I’m already on it,” Hannah said. “And I’m also running the names we know he’s used through several systems CIA analysts have created to analyze chatter. There’s a possibility that the names we have are associated with other names. Which will broaden the list I can check against.”

“Harrison, what about the FBI? Do they have anything on this guy?”

“They don’t have any open files on him. And he’s not in the serial killer or sexual predator database. But I’m not really surprised about that.”

“What do you mean?” Simon frowned. “This son of a bitch has been hacking up girls for fun.”

“That’s just it. He hasn’t been hacking them at all,” Harrison said. “He’s taken them and possibly roughed them up a bit in the process, but according to Tracy’s forensic evidence, he killed them with one surgical slice. They were most likely dead before they had time to realize what happened.”

“What about the stabbing?” Simon asked.

“Again, this guy isn’t interested in torture,” Harrison said. “For the most part, he inflicts the wounds postmortem. And there’s no evidence of either hesitation or rage. It’s surgical. As if he’s—”

“Going through the motions,” Drake finished for him. “We said that before. What if that’s exactly what’s been happening? What if he’s been following a script?”

“The cyber killer’s,” Avery mused. “So using that line of thought, his attempts to get our attention wouldn’t be about a power play, but about pulling us into his game.”

“But for what reason?” Drake asked. “We have no connection with the raid in Vienna, the bombings in Dubai or London, and certainly nothing to do with his arrest in Atlantic City.”

“And it doesn’t seem likely that he would have been connected to any of my cases at the FBI,” Harrison said. “Unless he really is a serial killer, and like you guys, I’m beginning to wonder if that’s truly the case.”

“So what the hell is really going on here?” Simon asked.

“No better way to find out than to take it to the source.” Hannah turned her computer so that everyone could see. “There’s a J. Melrose registered at the Twin Pines motel.”

“Let me guess,” Harrison said, his eyes on the screen. “John Walker’s middle name is Melrose.”

H
ow are you holding up?” Simon asked as they sat across from the Twin Pines.

The motel was T-shaped and set off the main highway at an angle. The pine trees that had inspired the name served as a backdrop, making the whole place look appealing from a distance. Unfortunately, close up, the Twin Pines had seen better days. The kind of motel popular half a century ago, it consisted of small attached units, each with its own front porch. Like little log cabins, they were meant to inspire feelings of warmth and comfort. But clearly that was no longer the case.

At the moment, they were waiting for the Camry parked outside the front office to pull away. A woman, dressed in a form-fitting red dress and four-inch, gold stilettos had emerged from a unit in the front about five minutes ago and pulled her car up to the office, conceivably to check out.

“I’m holding up fine,” Hannah said answering Simon’s question with a frown. “What makes you ask?”

“Nothing specific, just that it’s your TA getting the videos. Plus Sara Lauter was a student of yours, and you were friends with Jasmine Washington. I can’t imagine it was easy finding her or Sara like that.”

“No.” She shook her head. “It wasn’t. And you’re right, it did shake me up.”

“Well, for the record, I didn’t know either of them, and it threw me for a loop, too. I mean, I’ve seen men die in combat. Guys I lived and worked with, but this was different. You know?”

“Evil personified,” Hannah agreed. “I don’t see how Madison does it day in and day out. I don’t think I’d ever sleep.”

“I guess, if you’re exposed to it enough, you develop defenses. Ways to cope,” Simon said, his gaze moving somewhere far away. “Or you just go crazy.”

“Was it bad—the war, I mean? You were with the SEALs, right?”

“Yeah. And the truth is that war seems almost civilized compared to all of this. But it was tough. I did three straight tours, and then I got caught in a firefight that took out three-quarters of my unit and effectively ended my military career. At least with the SEALs.”

“Once a SEAL always a SEAL?”

“Something like that.” He shrugged. “Anyway, let’s just say I could read the writing on the wall. And so I got out before I wound up riding a desk until retiring.”

“I can’t imagine you doing that.” She shook her head with a smile. “But you’re here, so things have gotten better, right?”

“I’m young and healthy, if that’s what you’re asking.” He grinned, his eyes not quite reflecting the sentiment. “But not enough to qualify for special forces.”

“Their loss is our gain,” she said, meaning every word of it. “I’m glad you’re part of the team.”

“Were you there when they found Jason?” Simon asked, his gaze still on the hotel in front of them.

She paused for a moment, surprised by the question, her emotions more on edge than she’d realized.

“I’m sorry, that probably came out of left field.” His fingers tightened on the steering wheel. “I was thinking about losing team members, and so my thoughts just—”

“—moved to Jason. I understand. And it’s never easy,” she said, her voice catching in her throat. “But thankfully, no, I wasn’t there. I’m not sure I could have handled that. It was hard enough to lose him. But at least I don’t have that image branded in my brain.”

They sat for a moment in silence, and then the woman emerged from the office and got into her car.

“Looks like she’s on her way.” Simon nodded as the Camry roared to life and the woman drove away. They waited a couple of minutes and then got out of the car, guns holstered, fake FBI credentials at the ready. The office was located in the center of the top of the T, a rusting sign out front indicating that there were vacancies.

With the departure of the Camry, the place was quiet. No sign of activity at all. Only a couple of cars were pulled up in front of rooms, and most of those were in the back.

“If it’s a woman, I’ll do the talking,” Simon said, with a crooked smile as they headed for the door. “And if it’s a guy, I’ll leave it to you.”

“Nothing like a little sexism to get us going.”

“Hey,” he protested. “I didn’t mean anything by it. Just that it’s usually easier to get cooperation from someone of the opposite sex.”

“Especially when they look like you,” Hannah said, laughing, as they walked into the office. “And you’re right, it’s a good strategy.”

A bell tinkled behind them as they closed the door, the wooden floor creaking beneath their feet. Not exactly a stealthy arrival. But no one had answered the phone when they’d tried to call, so they still needed to find out which room John Melrose had been assigned to.

The front desk took up the length of the tiny room, a doorway behind it sporting rows of swinging beads.

“Looks like this place never left the sixties,” Simon whispered as they waited. A minute passed, and then another one, and then the beads started to shimmy. Hannah reflexively closed her hand around her gun, but Simon shook his head in warning as a white-headed woman stepped into the room.

She was tiny, her face wrinkled with age, but her blue eyes shined with intelligence. “Can I help you?”

“Actually,” Simon said, stepping up to the counter, “we’re looking for a friend. And he told us he’d be staying here. John Melrose?”

The woman’s eyes narrowed as she studied Simon, her gaze appreciative, but her expression resolute. “I keep my customers by keeping their confidence. People who stay with me like their privacy.” She tilted her head, regarding them both now. “If you’d like a room, I can help you. Otherwise…” She let the words trail off.

Hannah reached into her pocket and produced the manufactured credentials, laying them on the counter in front of the old woman. “What we’d like is the key to Mr. Melrose’s room. I’m sure you can understand our need for discretion.”

She picked up the wallet and studied the information inside, then after shooting a look at the bulge beneath Simon’s jacket she reached behind her for a key. “He’s in number fourteen. It’s in the back, almost at the end. You can’t miss it.”

Hannah took the key and the wallet, dropping the latter back in her pocket.

“See that you don’t go wrecking my place,” the woman warned, her tone just on the edge of ornery. “I ain’t got the money to be fixing it up.”

“No worries, all we want to do is talk to the man,” Simon said, his words meant to soothe. “But if by chance you’re thinking of giving him a heads-up—” he shot a telling glance at the telephone mounted on the wall “—well then I can’t be held responsible for what might happen.”