Private Sector (30 page)

Janet faced Spinelli and asked, “Danny, what’s your view?”

“Mine?” He glanced pointedly at Meany and said, “We got a guy tryin’ to act like the L. A. Killer.”

“A copycat?”

He nodded. “That L. A. guy, he liked to squeal to the local news about the finer points of his handiwork, right?”

“So you’re suggesting a copycat might have a profile to fit into.”

“A fuckin’ textbook.”

“And what makes you think this isn’t just the same guy?”

“The sperm thing. The L. A. wacko didn’t toss somebody else’s. This guy’s jerkin’ us around.”

Meany, who was
still
holding Janet’s arm, said, “We of course considered what Spinelli’s suggesting. Look, the Director’s directly involved and our top people are on it. We’ve carefully, blah, blah . . .” He launched into this incredibly long spiel about how his all-knowing and beloved FBI looks at everything, similarities, differences, and so forth, and computes them into its assessments. I tuned him out.

Not that I don’t admire the FBI; I actually think they’re a wonderful bunch and all that, but if these guys were
that
good, how come they didn’t catch the Rosenbergs till after they gave the commies the blueprints for a nuclear device? I mean, you fry these two people
after
they already told the Sovs how to incinerate a hundred million folks? If there’s such a thing as postmature ejaculation, these guys had it.

However, Janet’s eyes never left his face, and, incidentally, his hand never left her arm. I found this annoying for some reason. The same guy who shoved a shiv in her back now shows up, all smiley and dimple-chinned, the white knight promising to slay the nasty old dragon. Give me a break—the only reason this jerk slapped on the kneepads and begged his bosses for this case was to wheedle his way back into Janet’s knickers. Surely she saw right through him. Right?

But there was this moment after Meany finished his FBI-knows-all tutorial where everybody just sat and pondered what he’d said. Or maybe, like me, they’d all tuned out so long that they needed a moment to restart their motors.

Janet finally said, “Thank you, George.”

Another moment passed before Janet suggested, “The theory was the L. A. Killer ejaculated. Either the torture or the act of killing got him off, right?”

Meany replied, “That’s what our profilers concluded. The victim abuse and killing were sexual fantasies for him. We believe he experienced orgasm at some point during the torture, then snapped their necks.” He added, “Roughly speaking, this case appears to follow the same model.”

“Then shouldn’t there be traces of his semen?”

“I know this is going to sound silly,” Meany informed her. “Our profilers hypothesize that our killer now wears a condom.”

Silly? I believe I mumbled, “Boy, it sounds so obvious now that you mention it.”

Meany stared at me—three demerits.

Janet faced Meany again. “And what about the increasing ferocity toward the victims?”

“Not uncommon,” he replied. “Success goes to their heads. We see it all the time. They start with certain inhibitions. The more they get away with, the more those inhibitions erode. Also, it gets harder to achieve sexual arousal. They push the envelope and experiment more.”

Janet appeared to ponder this point, then said, “And you think that accounts for it?”

“There’s a second theory we’re wrestling with. He may see this as a competition . . . a game. The women are pieces on the board. The provocative postures of the victims, the calls to the networks, the splashed semen as a calling card, the whole process of physical escalation could mean he sees this as a match. He makes the rules, maybe even alters the rules, and we have to play.”

Spinelli, I noticed, was hunched over, staring at the floor, feet tapping, a sort of sardonic expression pasted on his face. And it struck me that he and I, we had a few things in common. We both thought George Meany was an asshole. Also, this prolonged discussion about sperm and DNA made for great cocktail conversation—or possibly not—but nothing more.
Debates
about the queer habits of this ghoul weren’t going to catch him. Maybe it made everybody feel better, but it was a substitute for actually dropping this guy. The score was Killer 4, Cops 0;they’ve got no tangible evidence to tie him to the crimes, no idea who he is or how they’re going to catch him, and everybody’s trying to figure out whether he slaps a poolie over his pudley.

Eventually, even they drew the conclusion that the subject had been exhausted, and after a few more closing comments, special thanks from Martin for coming in, and so forth, the group began to break up. Hands were shaken, fond adieus were exchanged, and then Meany escorted Janet and me back through the warren of detective desks and out to the parking lot.

In fact, we were at my car when Meany said to me, “Excuse us, Drummond. Janet and I need to talk about a few things. In private.”

He then led Janet about thirty feet away. They squared off, about five feet apart, and faced each other. I had no intention of eavesdropping, because it was absolutely none of my business. I believe respect for others’ privacy is next to Godliness. However, the hearing in my left ear happens to be better than my right, and if I kept my head twisted just so, snatches of the conversation did inadvertently drift into my aural cavity.

For instance, Meany, in a whiny tone, complaining, “. . . and you just disappeared out of my life, walked out . . . without giving me any chance to explain.”

And Janet replying, “What did you expect, George? You shouldn’t have gone to my boss on me. You betrayed me.”

“I didn’t. I swear I didn’t. My supervisors in D. C. made that call. I swear that’s—”

Well, the wind suddenly whipped up and there was a long exchange I couldn’t catch. But I have a good eye for body language. And Meany was bending toward her, appearing earnest, that scrunched-up forehead pickled with sincerity, his hands roving all over her arms and shoulders. Also, Meany was one of those guys who closes the airspace, and the gap had narrowed from five feet to a few inches.

Then the wind died down and I overheard Meany say to her, “. . . and I
still
love you.”

And Janet reply to him, “Well . . . I, uh, I’m confused about my feelings toward you.”

I mean, please. Wake up, Janet. The guy was lying. From fifty feet away I could tell that—his lips were moving.

Anyway, the wind whipped up again, and they chatted for another few minutes, and you could tell it was getting pretty cordial before they finally concluded the discussion and headed back in my direction. I wouldn’t say they were lovey-dovey or anything. But from their expressions and the relaxed, amiable way they moved, George had really twisted her ear and was back in some form of good graces.

In fact, Meany had his arm over Janet’s shoulder and was whispering something.

Geez, somebody had to do something, so I interrupted and said, “Hey, George, you mentioned you were sure you’d catch this guy. How?”

As I mentioned previously, cops hate it when you try to pin them down. Plus, somebody needed to bring Janet back to her senses and show her this guy was full of shit.

In fact, Special Agent Meany appeared not to appreciate my inquiry, because his eyes sort of narrowed as he said, “Good detective work, great technology, and brainpower.” He added, “Why? What business is it of yours?”

“Well, you know . . . curiosity.”

“Great. I love curious witnesses. I’ve got seventy-five agents working around the clock, the media, public relations people, and my bosses jumping all over my ass, and I’ve got all the time in the world to answer questions from some clown like you.”

Well, goodness. Janet gave George an odd look and said, “It was a perfectly fair question.”

He shot me a curt glance and replied to her, “I’m sorry. You’re right. I haven’t gotten much sleep since I took over this investigation. I guess I’m a little irritable.” He then leaned against the side of my car and said to me, “All right. You asked, so I’ll fill you in on what I’ve discovered. I’ve reconstructed the murder sites and reviewed every element of the evidence and crime reports. You should always do that, right?”

“Right.”

“Because sometimes . . . well, sometimes you pick up things others missed. Not that they’re incompetent, but in the heat of battle, as you people call it, certain details can slip through the cracks.”

I didn’t want another long tutorial from this jerk, and I said, “Well, this is very interesting, but—”

“And,”
he continued, “with a second look you pick up some of those things. Here’s an example. Lieutenant Martin’s log says that on the night of Lisa’s murder you arrived at the Pentagon parking lot at 9:27 P.M. Martin’s people estimate she was murdered about thirty minutes prior. You told Martin you were supposed to meet her in that parking lot. You see the problem?”

I was starting to explain what the problem was when he added, with a nasty smirk, “Of course, I’m not blaming you, but I did wonder why Lisa was standing around in a big empty parking lot, late at night, vulnerable to this monster. She was well-known for being cautious, efficient, and punctual. Then I put two and two together. And, this is just a guess . . . but I concluded that her date didn’t have the courtesy to be on time.” He added, “In fact, had you been on time, it wouldn’t have happened.”

Janet was giving me a queer look.

I looked at her and explained, “I was late because I was getting a ticket from a cop.”

He slapped a hand on my shoulder and said, “Don’t make up excuses for my sake, pal. I told you . . . nobody’s blaming you.”

He turned to Janet and said, “Why don’t I give you a lift back to your hotel? It’ll give us a chance to catch up, and discuss our arrangements for dinner.”

It struck me, as I watched them drive away, that I might have underestimated Mr. George Meany.

Did I get my ass kicked, or what?

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

T
HE ACCOUNTINGFEST WAS IN ITS DEATH THROES WHEN I POPPED BACK INTO the conference room. The two dozen accountants who had inhabited this room had disappeared back into whatever hobbit hole they crawled out of. Three guys in gray coveralls were feeding reams of now useless spreadsheets into shredders, and a techie was noisily disassembling the phones in the corner.

The end of an audit is a sad and ugly sight, and a tear of regret spilled down my cheek.

Right.

Martha, the head number-cruncher, was huddled in the far corner with Jessica Moner, Morris’s beefy legal counsel and possibly my future boss, and beside her, to my surprise, was Barry, my backstabbing buddy and current boss.

They noticed me, and the conversation died. I mean, if Brutus and his buddies had been so ridiculously conspicuous, Caesar never would’ve had those shivs stuffed in his back, the Visigoths would’ve ended up a lost tribe, and we’d all be speaking Italian. But the lawyers, clever as they are in the arts of treachery, responded instinctively, smiled, and tossed a few innocuous waves. Martha stared at the floor and shuffled her feet, the picture of a troubled conscience.

I said to Barry, “Checking up on me?”

“What? . . . No, I, uh. . . I just dropped by to see how things are coming.” He patted my shoulder and added, “And everything’s great. Congratulations on making the timeline.”

“Well, you know, Barry, it was a great team effort. Yes, my legal contributions were both brilliant and crucial, but Martha and her people deserve a little of the credit.” I winked at Martha.

“Well . . . whatever.” He said to Martha, “Why don’t you get the audit?”

And Martha actually looked relieved as she left the room to retrieve it.

Jessica, still smiling, said to me, “We’re glad you showed up. Great timing. This is working out perfectly.”

“Why?”

“Your strategy concerning the Nash issue worked.”

“Of course. Am I some guy, or what?”

She explained, “In fact, the Defense Department held a protest conference this morning. Silas Jackler from Fields, Jason, and Morgantheau led a joint team representing Sprint and AT&T. Barry and I were present on our behalf.”

Barry chuckled and commented, “History was made this morning, Drummond. Silas Jackler developed a sudden case of lockjaw.”

Jessica also chuckled and explained, “The Defense Department lawyers asked Jackler to specify his concerns.”

I asked, “And did he?”

“He insisted it just
looked
suspicious. Apparently, he and his people were well aware of the legal risks.”

Always one to get in the last word, Barry said, “He tried to throw a few peripheral jabs about Nash and we sat and acted dumb.”

“That must have been very difficult for you,” I said to Barry, tongue in cheek.

“So,” Jessica summarized, “good work and we’re proud as shit of you.”

“Well, shucks.”

“The best news of all,” Barry added, “is that we persuaded the Defense lawyers to decide the protest by Friday.”

“Wow. . . Friday. . . imagine that.”

He added, “But we did have to guarantee the full audit immediately. And Jackler has until Thursday to submit any further documentation or the Nash issue goes away.”

Jessica grinned. “Get it, Drummond? You sign the audit, we submit, end of fucking story.”

The door opened and Martha hurried in, gripping a thin black looseleaf binder. She handed it off to Barry, who flipped it open, glanced at the cover sheet, and announced for my benefit, “Excellent. It all looks in order.”

He then tossed it at me, whipped his Mont Blanc power pen out of his pocket, and jammed it in my face. “Bottom of the third page, scribble your name, and we’ll get this over with.”

I took the notebook, flipped it open, and read the three cover pages. Jessica and Barry smiled, crossed their arms, and patiently waited.

I knew what it said, but in situations like this you go through the motions anyway. It was all pro forma crap—I was confirming the legal sufficiency of the audit, a lofty assurance open to fairly broad inter-pretation. In street talk, if anything illegal or unethical was done, moi’s ass was on Le Chopping Block.