Death Match (18 page)

Mauchly picked up the sheet on which a single name had been printed. “Gary Handerling. Doesn’t ring a bell.”

“He’s part of the scrub crew,” Tara said.

“The what?” said Lash.

“Data scrub. They’re in charge of data storage and security.”

Mauchly glanced at her. “You’ve started the internal trace on him?”

“It should be completed within twelve hours.”

“Highest degree of confidentiality?”

“Of course.”

“Then I’d better get started on the three clients.” Mauchly picked up the other sheet. “I’ll have Rumson in Selective Gathering do complete workups.”

“What’ll you tell him?” Tara asked.

“That we’re running some random prototyping on a few obsoletes. Just another system test.”

Obsoletes
, Lash thought to himself. Eden-speak for disqualified candidates.
Guess that makes me an obsolete, too
.

“Dr. Lash, we should have the results back by midmorning tomorrow. We’ll meet then, run them by your profile.” Mauchly checked his watch. “It’s almost five. Why don’t you two head home. We’ve got a long day tomorrow. Tara, if you wouldn’t mind taking Dr. Lash through the checkpoint, make sure he doesn’t get lost on the way out?”

By the time they pushed through the revolving doors onto the street, it was quarter past five. Lash stopped at the fountain to button his coat. The clamor of Manhattan, almost forgotten in the hushed spaces of the Eden tower, reasserted itself with a vengeance.

“I don’t see how anyone could get used to that,” Lash said. “Going through those checkpoints, I mean.”

“You can get used to anything,” Tara replied, slinging a satchel over one shoulder. “See you tomorrow.”

“Hold on a minute!” Lash trotted to keep up with her. “Where are you going?”

“Grand Central. I live in New Rochelle.”

“Really? I live in Westport. Let me drop you off.”

“That’s okay, thanks.”

“Then let me buy you a drink before you head home.”

Tara stopped and looked at him. “Why?”

“Why not? It’s a thing coworkers do sometimes. In civilized countries, I mean.”

Tara hesitated.

“Humor me.”

She nodded. “Okay. But let’s go to Sebastian’s. I don’t want to catch anything later than the 6:02.”

Sebastian’s was a sprawl of white-covered tables on the upper level of Grand Central, overlooking the main passenger terminal. The cavernous space had been completely restored in recent years, and was more beautiful than Lash ever remembered seeing it: creamy walls rising to a ceiling of groined vaults, green spandrels, and constellations of glittering mosaic. The voices of countless commuters, the squawk of the dispatch loudspeaker calling out arrivals and departures, mingled together in an oddly pleasing patchwork of background noise.

The two were shown to a small table perched directly in front of the railing. Within moments, a waiter bustled up. “What can I get you?” he asked.

“I’ll have a Bombay martini, very dry, with a twist,” Tara said.

“A vodka Gibson, please.” Lash watched the waiter thread his way back through the tables, then turned to Tara. “Thanks.”

“For what?”

“For not ordering one of those horrible martinis
du jour
. Somebody I was dining with the other week ordered an apple martini. Apple. What an abomination.”

Tara shrugged. “I don’t know.”

Lash looked over the railing at the streams of commuters. Tara was silent, twisting a cocktail napkin between the fingers of one hand. He looked back at her. Hazy light slanted down, catching the gentle curve of her auburn hair. Her eyes, framed by perfect high cheekbones, looked serious.

“Want to tell me what’s up?” he asked.

“Up with what?”

“With you.”

She wrapped the napkin around one finger, twisted it tight. “I agreed to a drink, not a psychiatric session.”

“I’m not a psychiatrist. Just a guy trying to get a job done, with your help. Only you don’t seem too eager to help.”

She glanced up at him for a minute, then returned her attention to the napkin.

“You seem preoccupied. Disinterested. That doesn’t bode well for our working relationship.”

“Our temporary working relationship.”

“Exactly. And the better we work together, the more temporary it will be.”

She dropped the napkin on the table. “You’re wrong. I’m
not
disinterested. It’s been—a rough couple of days for me.”

“Then why don’t you tell me about it?”

Tara sighed, her gaze wandering toward the soaring vault overhead.

“I’m buying. It’s the least you can do.”

Their drinks arrived, and they sipped a moment in silence.

“Okay,” Tara said. “No reason you shouldn’t know, I guess.” She took another sip. “I didn’t learn about any of this until yesterday, when Mauchly called to tell me I’d be your liaison while you were inside the Wall. That’s when he told me about the problem.”

Lash remained silent, listening.

“The only thing is, just this Saturday, I got the nod from Eden.”

“The nod?”

“That’s what we call getting notification your match has been found.”

“Your
match
? You mean that you . . .” He stopped.

“Yeah. I’d been a candidate.”

Lash stared at her. “I thought Eden employees weren’t allowed to be candidates.”

“That’s always been the policy. But a few months ago they started a pilot program to phase in employee applicants, based on merit and seniority. In a pool with other Eden employees, not the general pool.”

Lash sipped his drink. “I’m not sure I see why the policy was needed in the first place.”

“The staff shrinks recommended it from day one. They called it the ‘Oz effect.’”

“As in, pay no attention to the man behind the curtain?”

“Exactly. They thought employees wouldn’t make desirable candidates. See, we know too much of what goes on,
how
things go on, behind the scenes. They thought we’d be cynical.” Then she leaned toward him suddenly, an intensity in her face he hadn’t seen before. “But you have no idea what it’s like, day after day. Bringing people together. Sitting in the dark behind one-way glass, watching couples at class reunions talk about how wonderful everything had become. How Eden changed their lives,
completed
their lives. I mean, if you’ve already got someone and you’re happy, maybe you can rationalize. But if you don’t . . .” She let the sentence hang in the air, unfinished.

“You’re right,” Lash said. “I don’t have any idea what it’s like.”

“I carried that letter around with me all weekend. I must have read it a hundred times. Matt Bolan, in our biochemistry section, was the match. I’ve never met him, but I’d heard the name. They’d made a dinner reservation for us this coming Friday. One If By Land, Two If By Sea.”

“In the Village. Beautiful place.”

“Especially this time of year.” For a moment, Tara’s expression brightened. Then it clouded again. “Then, first thing yesterday, I get the call from Mauchly. He tells me about the supercouples, the double suicides. Would I be kind enough to shepherd you around.”

“And?”

“And right before I meet you, I send an email to the Applications Committee withdrawing my name as a candidate.”

“What?”

Tara’s eyes blazed. “How was I supposed to go ahead, knowing what I know? And worse, what I
don’t
know?”

“What are you saying? That the application process is flawed?”

“I don’t
know
what I’m saying!” she cried. Frustration brought an edge to her voice. “Can’t you see? The process
can’t
be flawed, I work with it every day, I
see
it perform miracles over and over. But then, what happened to those two couples?”

As quickly as it came, the violent emotion dissipated. Tara sank back. “Anyway, how can I go forward now? If Eden is about anything, it’s about lifetime commitment to a relationship. Can I begin such a relationship with a secret I can never reveal?”

The question hung in the air. Tara lifted her drink.

“There you have it,” she said with a dry laugh. “I’ve had a lot on my mind. Happy now?”

“I feel anything but happy.”

“Just please don’t bring it up again. I’ll be fine.”

The waiter reappeared. “Another round?”

“Not for me,” Lash said. The cocktail might have been a mistake: tired as he was, he’d probably fall asleep at the wheel halfway home.

“Me neither,” Tara said. “I’ve got to catch my train.”

“Just the check, please,” Lash told the waiter.

Tara watched the man recede toward the bar, then looked back at Lash. “All right. Your turn. I heard you tell Dr. Silver that your orientation was cognitive behavioral.”

“That was your first time in the penthouse, too. You never told me what you thought of the place.”

“We’re talking about you now, not me.”

“As you wish.” The waiter returned with the check; Lash fumbled for his wallet, dropped a credit card onto the leather folder. “Cognitive behavioral, that’s correct.”

Tara waited until the waiter had scooped away the bill. “I must have dozed off during our psych orientations. What does that mean?”

“It means I don’t focus on unconscious conflicts, on whether somebody got enough hugs from his mother at age two. I focus on what a person’s thinking, what his ruleset is.”

“Ruleset?”

“Everybody lives by a set of internal rules, whether they know it or not. You understand enough of a person’s rules, you can understand, predict, their behavior.”

“Predict. I assume that’s what you did for the FBI.”

Lash finished off his drink. “Something like that.”

“And if this—this turns out to be the work of a killer, will you be able to predict what he’ll do next?”

“Hopefully. But the profile is extremely contradictory. Anyway, maybe that won’t be necessary. We’ll know tomorrow morning.” As he spoke, Lash became aware of the waiter standing at his elbow.

“Yes?” Lash said.

“I’m sorry, sir,” the waiter said. “But this card has been declined.”

“What? Run it again, please.”

“I already ran it twice, sir.”

“That’s impossible, I just sent in a check last week . . .” Lash opened his wallet. It was as he feared: he was only carrying one credit card. He sounded his pocket for cash and found two dollars.
Half asleep and forgot to go to the damn ATM
, he thought.

He replaced his wallet and looked sheepishly at Tara. “Would you mind picking this up?” he asked.

She looked at him.

“I’ll pay you back tomorrow.”

And then, suddenly, her blank expression dissolved into a grin. “Forget it,” she said, dropping a twenty on the table. “It’s worth it just to see that smug psychoanalyzing look wiped off your face.” And then she laughed: briefly, but loud enough to turn heads halfway to the entrance of Sebastian’s.

TWENTY-THREE

B
y the time Lash broached the Eden lobby Wednesday morning, threaded the complex network of security, and gained the sixteenth floor, it was almost nine-thirty. He walked down the pale violet corridor, bypassing his darkened office and heading directly to the cafeteria.

“A jumbo espresso, right?” asked Marguerite, the counter woman who seemed to know everyone’s needs before they did.

“Marguerite, your espresso is the best in the tri-state area. I was dreaming about it the whole drive in.”

“Sugar, the amount of caffeine you ingest, they could put a set of wheels on you and you’d drive yourself.”

Lash sipped, sipped again. The hot liquid warmed his tired limbs and accelerated his heart. He smiled at Marguerite, then made his way back down the corridor.

He’d been slow to rise, feeling a lethargy that had little to do with weariness. The desperate urgency of their search seemed, ironically, to have a retarding effect on him. All his former field experience told him this wasn’t the way to work the case. You didn’t sit in an office, poring over computer transcripts. Sure, they were helpful enough in classification and profiling. But when you were hunting a suspected killer who might be about to strike again, you pounded the pavement, hunted up leads, talked to family and eyewitnesses. Sitting in a skyscraper, far from bodies and murder sites, gathering data, seemed like lunacy.

Yet Eden’s unmatched ability to gather data was all they had.

Reaching his office, Lash saw through the door pane that one entire wall was now hidden behind stacks of evidence lockers. He barely had time to step inside and place his cup on the desk before Mauchly entered, Tara Stapleton at his side.

“Ah, there you are, Dr. Lash,” Mauchly said. “As you can see, the gathering process finished earlier than expected.”

Tara smiled at Lash. As she moved to the terminal and scanned her bracelet, Mauchly closed the door and lowered the blinds. “Let’s begin with the three obsoletes.”

“What if we don’t find our killer?”

“Then we’ll move on to the Eden employee, Handerling. Though that seems a remote possibility.”

“Whatever you say.” Lash was highly skilled at reading people, but Mauchly remained an enigma. His seemed a monochrome personality, unburdened by mood or even emotion.

“Let’s get started,” Tara said. For the first time, she had a brisk, eager air about her. The prospect that filled him with lassitude seemed to give her energy.

They took seats around the table. Lash sipped his coffee while Mauchly broke open the first of three summary folders, put the contents on the desk.

“Grant Atchison,” Mauchly said, reading from the top sheet. “Completed initial application July 21, 2003. Age twenty-three, male Caucasian, graduated Rutgers with a bachelor in economics, residing at 3143 Auburn Street, Perth Amboy, New Jersey.”

“Is that his own home, or his parents’?” Lash asked.

Tara had taken up a few of the sheets and was riffling through them. “Parents.”

“So far, so good.”

“Employed at a chemical dye plant in Linden.” Mauchly turned over a sheet. “Passed our initial screening, came in for applicant evaluation in August. Was rejected by the senior evaluator, Dr. Alicto.”