Private Sector (52 page)

“Tell me about it.”

He bent closer and studied me. He said, “I promised you could hear my life story, but didn’t I also say I’d be slicing off body parts as we spoke?”

“Yeah. But maybe you should rethink that. I mean, I’ll try my best to be an attentive listener, but if you’re cutting and chatting, I might be a bit distracted.”

He dipped his head to acknowledge this obvious wisdom, but pointed out, “Yeah . . . but time is sort of an issue for me. Tell you what. You get five questions before I begin.”

“Just five?”

“Yup, just five.” He laughed. “Ooops . . . now four.”

“Shit.”

“Was that another question?”

“Uh . . . no.” He laughed again, and I really wanted to get my hands around his thick neck. I said, “Why?”

“Why what? Why do I kill? Why did I kill the women? Why can’t Oliver Stone make a halfway decent movie?” He frowned and added, “Specificity, Counselor. Don’t they teach you assholes that in law schools?”

“Fine. Why did you kill the women?”

“Money. It’s how I make my living. Like you, I used to be a soldier. I was trained to kill for ideology and idiotic political decisions. Well, shit . . . it got old. The empty wallet got old. So I shifted to the private sector, and set up my own shop. Travel, adventure, great kicks, and the money . . . you wouldn’t believe the money . . . it’s great. I offer good, speedy service, reliability, and a guarantee on my work. And you know what?”

“Wha— Uh, no. I don’t know what.”

He laughed. “Nice catch. Two points.”

This was almost comical. I mean, I’m stuck with a psychopathic idiot who thinks he’s Jay Leno. But I knew his type. He
had
to tell me how smart he was, how very fucking superior, how good he was at the game. Because, like any standard psychopath, for him this was a game. He needed to domineer, to win, at murder, and, I guess, at being a wiseass. I couldn’t touch him at the former, but I could bury his ass at the latter. Yet it struck me that I’d better start pulling my punches—as long as he stayed good-humored and chatty, he wasn’t cutting me into pieces. Right.

I said, “Okay. Why did you kill the women that way?”

“Aw, I knew you’d ask that next. Okay, the deal was Merriweather found those e-mails about Morrow sending them packages. So Lisa had to be first because if I killed Julia or Anne before her, she would’ve known. You see that, right?” He paused, then said, “Hey, smartass, you ever figure out how those three knew each other?”

“No. But I don’t want to waste a question on that.”

He smiled. “You’re learning. But here’s a freebie. They were all in some young women’s professional group. You know, where a bunch of stupid feminist bitches get together once a month to complain about glass ceilings, male-dominant environments, and how hard it is to get ahead without spreading your legs. If a bunch of white male assholes got together and did that, they’d call it discriminatory behavior. What a fucking country, huh?”

I wasn’t really interested in this idiot’s sociological opinions, so I said, “You’re getting away from my question.”

“No, I’ve saved the best for last.” He laughed. “Janet’s last. I figured, she’s not an accountant, or an SEC attorney, so even if she understood the spreadsheets, it would take her the longest to figure out what to do with it.”

I said, “Hey, I’ve got good news.”

“Yeah?”

“Her package was a birthday gift Lisa wanted her to give their father.”

“Yeah?”

“No kidding. A complete misunderstanding. So it ends with me.”

When he did not respond to that, I said, “She’s under tight security, you know. And now there’s no reason to kill her.”

He appeared to be swallowing this, so I added, “You don’t have to add the risk. Good deal for her, good deal for you.”

He shook his head. “Nah, she dies.” He studied my face and asked, “Hey, you got a thing for her?”

“Review the deal, jerk-off. I didn’t say I’d answer your questions.”

He chuckled. “Ah, now you’re pissed. Well, I’ll be sure to tell her you said hi in a few days.”

Shit.
Then he said, “Hey, we forgot all about Fiorio, didn’t we? Aren’t you wondering about her?”

“No.”

Of course I was. But I knew he
had
to tell. And he did.

“Mind games, Drummond.” He began ticking down fingers. “Fiorio had nothing to do with this. But she was famous, the cops and FBI would flip over backward to solve her murder, and get more totally misled and lost.” He paused a moment, then confessed, “And, hey, I was a little starstruck. I was nuts for her show. I really wanted to meet her. But I regret it now. There’s a real hole in my life at six-thirty every evening.” He laughed. “Do you believe, I got her autograph before I killed her?”

He glanced down at his watch, and somewhat cavalierly said, “Hey, I hope you don’t mind if I start making preparations. I’m sure you understand.” He bent down and starting pulling items out of the duffel bag. He said, “Next question, please.”

I looked at what he was pulling out of the bag, and given the situation and all I probably should’ve asked him to read me
War and Peace.
But instead I asked, “Who hired you?”

“You don’t know already?”

“Maybe I do.”

“Merriweather, initially. He didn’t say who he was working for, and in this business, you don’t ask. But he offered big money. Ten million up front, five million bonus if the job was done to complete satisfaction. He explained his problem, I briefed him on my plan, and he loved it.”

“Hal was impressed by a cheese sandwich.”

He frowned at me. “You’re
still
pissed at me about Morrow, aren’t you? But see if you can look at this professionally. Four victims in a chain, and they had to be done quick. I thought about arranging four accidents, but arithmetically, you know, it’s a loser. The accident thing, you know the problem with that? It’s high risk, never a sure thing. When you have to do multiples, the copycat thing’s the only way. Someone else gets blamed, no suspicion about ulterior motives, and the cops end up chasing their own asses.”

I said, “Who hired you to do Merriweather and Morris?”

He laughed. “I don’t know, and I don’t care. It was all handled over the phone. Five million to do him and Morris.”

He had stood up and started stripping out of his uniform. Uh-oh. The game plan, obviously, was he’d get naked to do his slicing and dicing, and you could tell he’d really planned it out in advance, and remembered all the little things. A pile of tools lay on the floor, several sharp knives, a hacksaw, wirecutters, and so forth. Also three fluffy towels and four boxes of babies’ Handi Wipes he’d use to clean up, before he got back into the uniform, packed everything back inside the duffel, marched out of the building, and disappeared.

By this time he was totally naked, except for a pair of shower clogs he had slipped onto his feet. The guy made even my brother John look like a stud stallion. Why is it guys with tiny pudleys always feel like they have something to prove? It’s not the size that counts, it’s the technique—any woman will tell you that.

So what if they’re lying.

And I had a really juicy dig about that I wanted to get in, and this was really a nuisance, but I couldn’t, because the second I finished asking about Merriweather and Morris, Mr. Asshole had reached over and slapped a tape gag over my mouth. I think this meant our conversation was over and it was time for the real fun to begin.

As you might imagine, I found this both frustrating and very annoying.

He bent over, picked up a serrated knife, and studied me. He said, “I believe we agreed that I would start with the middle finger of your right hand.” I nodded. He said, “I don’t want to upset you, Drummond, but I lied. I’m doing your dick first.”

He reached forward and undid my zipper. He was bent over, and just about to pull Mr. Willie out, when a shotgun blast ripped into his ass. He stood up straight and dropped the knife. He looked quite surprised, actually.

Then came two more blasts in quick succession that nearly blew the guy in half, and splattered his blood and viscera all over me.

Then a voice said, “Military police. Please drop your weapon and place your hands over your head. Don’t make me shoot.”

By this time the big asshole was standing somewhat precariously on his stout legs, teetering and wobbling, and staring down at his abdomen, very surprised to see his entrails oozing out of some fairly large holes. His eyes shifted to my face. The tape over my mouth kept me from smiling. But I did put forth my very best effort to make my eyes look really, really happy.

His legs collapsed beneath him.

I looked over at the window where the shots had come from, and Danny Spinelli was peering in at me and smiling. The next moment, the door to the classroom crashed open and two MPs with a SWAT battering ram rushed in, followed by Feds in their wind-breakers and then more MPs.

Well, it took a few minutes before everybody got organized and settled, before I was untied and ungagged, and before a team of medics provided the official verdict on Mr. Asshole’s medical condition—definitely dead. But frankly, I was a little peeved; and in fact, they immediately regretted untying the ropes before they undid my gag, because within seconds, you could see they all wanted to slap that tape back over my mouth. I was howling at everybody in sight.

Finally, the pair I really wanted to talk to, Spinelli and Meany, showed up. Spinelli I was particularly annoyed at. I mean, the deal I’d made with Phyllis was that I’d be bait for this guy, but on one condition. The Army had to be involved, and Spinelli had to be in charge of the Army contingent. Not that I completely trusted Spinelli. I didn’t. I just
definitely
did not trust George Meany.

Never put your complete faith in a man with a score to settle. I didn’t think Meany would deliberately leave me hanging in the wind or anything like that, but these matters often come down to split-second timing, and a little voice in the back of his head might have said,
Okay, George, wait one more second . . . look, he’s about to cut off Drummond’s dick . . . his dick, George . . . remember what he did to you and Janet, George . . . now, one more second,
and before you know it, Sean doesn’t need zippers for his pants anymore.

So I looked at Spinelli and said, “That guy was two inches from altering my life, you asshole.”

He said, “Ah, Jesus, you’re such a friggin’ ingrate.”

“What took you so long?”

“How the fuck were we supposed to know the guy made it in here?”

How about because the guy wasn’t supposed to have made it in here in the first place? They had stakeouts set up around this building, and around the BOQ. Make sense? Sure did to me.

But an MP, who was studying the array of tools on the floor, looked up and said, “Chief, the guy wore a uniform. No wonder he got past us. It’s right here. He’s an Army guy, and his name’s Smith.”

Spinelli looked at me, and said, “You see what I got to work with here?” He shook his head and repeated sarcastically, “Says his name is Smith.” Then he asked, “Hey, think this will get me promoted to chief warrant five?”

I shook my head.

Meany, looking not at all apologetic, said, “When we saw your class depart, we decided to give you fifteen minutes. We thought you were packing your materials, maybe a student stayed after to talk, whatever.”

Right. And I’ll bet George was out there arguing to give me thirty minutes. But I left that one alone.

Well, it had been damned close, and my legs were still a little shaky and wobbly, but I stumbled to the window, where I stared up at the sky for a while. Everybody sensed I needed a moment of privacy and left me alone.

As I mentioned, I’m Catholic. Yet, I have to confess I harbor a few visceral doubts about that heaven and hell thing. If God had a criminal lawyer’s soul, it would make sense, Saint Peter at the gate with his ledger of sins, the whole pattern of eternal justice, the blessed and the damned, good people in one chamber, evil people cast into another.

It has a nice ring, but it’s a little too pat. But I most definitely do believe in a spirit that exists after death, and I hoped Lisa had seen this bastard get his due.

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

T
HE DAY WAS BITTERLY COLD, AND THE SNOW WAS COMING DOWN IN SHEETS of frozen white tears.

The chapel ceremony was blessedly short. Lisa would have appreciated that—it wasn’t her way to overstate her case to a jury, or to dwell too long on a point, or to overstay her welcome. Her killer had been stopped, the investigation was ended, so the coroner finally released her body for the funeral. The Episcopalian minister who had flown down from Boston had known her from birth, and interspersed his eulogy with tales of her childhood, of her steady progress through life, of her goodness and her spiritual loveliness. There were no dry eyes when he was done.

The Army’s Old Guard did their usual splendid job, and we all fell into step with the steady clomp-clomp of the horse hooves dragging the caisson, and her body.

And so I looked out at all the souls who had gathered here, who had all, in some way, large or small, been touched by Lisa. I picked out Clapper and a large retinue of JAG officers in Army greens. I saw Imelda Pepperfield, my hard-bitten legal assistant, who tried to appear stoic and miserably failed. I picked out the faces of Jack MacGruder, and his boss Phyllis, and she was looking at me in a way that worried me a bit. I think I had impressed her with my slyness and my ruthlessness. I had gone into that room and strangled my wife, and the CIA doesn’t forget people like that.

I saw Lisa’s family, of course, Mr. Morrow in a wheelchair, Aunt Ethel glowering angrily at the skies, and Elizabeth, and Carol, and of course, Janet. I had picked up Felix, Lisa’s apartment manager, on my way over. I couldn’t see him, but he was there. Cy had sent flowers, but he was not there.

And I looked out at them all, a quiet, huddled mass, and I then looked at the black casket poised over the rectangular hole. I said, “I have the great honor to say the last words. I promise to be brief, because Lisa would not want me to be otherwise. Seneca once warned, ‘Men do not care how nobly they live, but only how long they live, although it is within the reach of every man to live nobly, but within no man’s power to live long. ’”