Terrorbyte (30 page)

“Signature?”

Praskovya leaned back on the wall by the door, stepped forward, removed his coat and draped it casually over the end of the bed before speaking. His actions made me wonder why he'd put it on to start with. I stifled a smile: maybe it was a quirk. Perhaps it was something he felt he had to do; wear the coat to access the pockets. Could the Russian dark horse have quirks like a regular human being?

Praskovya spoke, freeing me from the ramblings about his quirky coat habits. “All the victims were women and all stabbed; the bodies were found in pools of vodka or Slivovitz, depending on the town.”

“Slivovitz?”

“A plum brandy made in Serbia from blue plums. It is quite delicious. I will bring you some when I get a chance.”

“Why use Slivovitz in Russia?” My immediate response was to wonder if the murders were in Russia, but surely they wouldn't be in Serbia if the FSB were investigating. Hang on. Where had Christopher Sadler traveled to? “Praskovya, didn't you say Sadler took trips to Serbia?”

“
Da
.”

My thoughts flowed on, verbally, “Don't you wonder if he brought back the brandy? Unless it's a normal drink in … where were the murders involving brandy?”

I was trying to determine if he was using alcohol that has a geographical connection, rather than it having a particular message.

Lee waved a hand to get our attention. “Von Crichton arrived in LA two months ago, flew out of JFK in New York four weeks ago to Canada and then into Dulles two after that.”

“From?”

“Toronto.”

“Get a bulletin out on him: wanted for questioning, considered dangerous. Let Customs know. I want him stopped. I want the borders closed for Von Crichton. Add Hawk to that, too, for all we know they're the same person.” I thought for a minute. “Can we get media liaison involved and get his freaking face all over the news channels? He can't hunt if everyone knows who he is.” I stopped myself. “Scratch that. We can't warn the public until we are sure it's him. Unless we can prove this is a national security issue? And who is to say he's making first contact with these women?”

Lee and Mac shook their heads. Lee spoke, “We can't connect the dots; wanted for questioning is the best we can do.”

Mac touched my shoulder. “But you can have your dad put the photo up in the members-only area of the Butterfly Foundation website.”

That was something at least and, I could do more than that.

“Also, Mac, send a bulletin to every member with the photo of Von Crichton, with all our contact numbers. Try not to scare the kids but word it so they know something is going on; include everything we know about Selena. We know she was in the chat room. There must be a photo of her. You must have one, Praskovya. Have it put up on the website. Tell them she's dangerous. That will make everyone take notice; then add that anyone who has seen either of them should call us immediately.” I found myself thinking we should probably get hold of that fax and get copies of the photograph made first.

“Lee, have someone pick up the fax, scan it and put the image on a flash drive; make photocopies of the original fax. I want the original added to the case file and the copies and flash drive delivered to you.”

Lee was thinking while he made notes, “You want me to have a bulletin circulated through the network with a description and the pictures of Von Crichton and Selena?”

“Yes, please. Send out a BOLO with as much information as we have. Add, ‘Considered dangerous – apprehend with caution' and make a note: I want to be able to speak to these people – dead won't work for me. Call the office, have Chrissy get on it. Tell her to meet you somewhere to hand over the documents and flash drive.” I was tempted to have the picture copied to CD but flash drives are so cool and small, and I love technology. Then I had another thought. “Can you ask Chrissy to please use two new flash drives, put the picture on both. I want one given to my dad.”

Lee smiled. “Wouldn't it be easier to email him the picture?”

“Nope, we're dealing with at least one hacker. Physically pick up those drives and I'll have dad meet us for the handover.”

Lee didn't look up as he scribbled some more notes. “Have you considered the hacker is already inside the Foundation?”

“Yes. Let's make that Mac's problem.”

“Thanks,” Mac replied, “Good thing I came along.”

Praskovya spoke, “What is this BOLO you speak of?”

“It's a notice to all law enforcement to Be On the Look Out.” I replied, “It's Agency speak.”

Praskovya nodded. “We have similar thing in Russia.”

Lee stepped up to the mirror over the sink. “I'm going to set up that meeting with Chrissy,” he said, smoothing his short hair and straightening his clothes. He fiddled with the collar of his shirt until it sat exactly how he wanted it, then gave his shoes a quick shine with a paper towel. He likes Chrissy McQueen. Most red-blooded men do. She brought out the man in men.

“Mac, have dad make sure everyone logging in receives a message with a photo. Splash the word ‘dangerous' across the picture. That should get everyone's attention.”

“I'll write the message and add the photo myself, as soon as Lee brings us back those flash drives.”

I wasn't done yet. “I want someone to show the photographs to the military personnel on gate duty; let's see if they recognize Von Crichton. Scratch that: I'm meeting with someone from NCIS. I'll have him do it. They'll be more willing to talk to one of their own, plus he can liaise with his army equivalent.”

“What kind of name is Von Crichton?” Lee asked.

Praskovya replied, “Austrian.”

“Like Hitler?” Lee said.

I attempted to head off the evil pictures building in my own mind and said, “Like Von Trapp from
The Sound of Music
.”

“Much nicer image, thanks, Ellie,” Lee replied. He looked up from his phone. “Office says the photograph is being circulated to all LEOs.”

“Go get our picture, Lee.”

Lee grabbed his jacket, threw a grin back into the room, and headed off to meet Chrissy.

I looked around the small hospital room. Safe; yes, but also constricting. I needed to go back to the office, or I needed an office.

“We need desks, computers and a more conducive work environment.”

Praskovya stepped forward from the wall he leaned on. “There is a temporary office down the hall, it has desks.”

“Excellent.”

Mac, Praskovya and I walked down the corridor to a waiting room already converted to a reasonable workspace.

I felt stranger than I ever had, which was saying something. The whole case to date smelled of something else. I'd missed something. We'd missed something. I sat at a desk with a laptop on it. The desk I chose faced the other two desks. Praskovya and Mac slid into chairs. I could hear them talking quietly as I opened the laptop and switched it on.

By the time I had opened the case files my fingers were drumming a beat on the desk surface and my mind rock ‘n' rolled over fresh ideas, hoping I could secure a new perspective.

Frustrated with the lack of answers I danced around inside my own brain until Praskovya spoke loud enough to shake me from myself.

“Ellie?”

“Uh-huh?”

“Can I help you?”

What an odd thing to say. I was busy – lost in my thoughts – and he thinks I need help. Meddlesome man!

“I don't think so.”

Mac gave one of his knowing looks. As if that was necessary. I knew he knew I was struggling with this case.

“Tell him!” Mac said.

“What?”

“Whatever it is that's bugging you. It's not going to go away unless you face it.”

I took a breath and let it rush out of my body. It was useless to deny anything was wrong. He wasn't just my friend, my colleague, he was my husband. He had a way of reading me, a damned annoying way of knowing me better than I knew myself.

Suck it up, chucklehead, tell him what it is.

“Usually I get a feeling in any given situation – a signal from my gut – that tells me what's going on … then I just have to prove it.” I couldn't help but smile, knowing that was the easy bit.

Praskovya spoke, “Why not this case?”

“Why any case?” I asked.

He tossed it back at me. He wasn't going to fall for my tricks.

“What's special about this case?”

Then he surprised me. “Shut your eyes, Ellie. Take a deep breath and let me ask you again.”

“What the hell for?” Interfering wretch.

“You are a difficult woman. I can help. Shut your eyes.”

“I am not difficult. I do not take orders from you and if you can help, then start talking!”

I knew Mac was smiling. “She's not difficult, Praskovya. She is, however, contrary.”

I flipped him the bird.

“I can help. You have the answers, you have more than you know inside,” Praskovya said, tapping his head.

“Why do I need to close my eyes?”

“It will help you focus.”

“Mmmm …” Skepticism lay heavy in my voice. Possibly because Praskovya had suggested it and not because I thought he was full of crap. I sighed as loud as I could. Contrary?

“How exactly are you going to do this?”

“I learned a relaxation technique a long time ago; it helps unlock things we do not realize we know.”

“And this works?”

“On some people. I think your mind finds meaning where other people can't.”

Mac tapped my hand. “It can't hurt.”

“Fine,” I said and, with great reluctance, closed my eyes.

Moving pictures folded like cloth as Praskovya's voice took me to the seashore and a yellow, sandy beach. Sparkling white-capped waves rolled onto the sand. A heat haze hung over the water, making the world shimmer. Seabirds whirled above, squawking loudly. Their calls interspersed between Russian and English as they dove at the sand. Pulling and pulling. Four birds in a row tugged a cloth from the sand, stretching it between them like a canvas. The images settled.

Still life, exquisitely painted like the gilt-edged scenes on a Fabergé egg. Fragile. Pictures captured by a dream. One by one the images told a story. His words brushed over the canvas illuminating the recesses. It was all so clear.

“What's special about this case?” Praskovya's voice powered its way into my consciousness.

I opened my eyes and looked straight at him. “There is definitely more than one Unsub, maybe even more than one actual killer. I think a minimum of two people are killing.”

Praskovya smiled. His dark cloud parted briefly and I saw a man who didn't always take life so seriously. Someone who was real, not a misplaced character from a cheap romance novel.

“More than one,” he repeated. “More than one killer.” He tapped his fingers on the desk. “We know he has associates. Why do you think they're a part of the killings?”

“He could not have carried out all the surveillance, or picked the victims.  He arrived in the U.S. only two weeks ago. Everything was already set up. He came to kill. He came to get our attention,” I replied, maintaining eye contact.

“And?”

“And he has it,” I said.

“Why?” Praskovya pushed onward.

“It's a mask.”

“What for?”

“That's what I don't understand. Why blow smoke up Delta's ass? What don't they want us to find? We're being played.”

“Delta's directive is what?”

“Serial crime.”

He nodded.

“I still don't understand why they want us tied up.” I left my words out in the space between us and let my mind run over the rest of my thoughts.

It made no sense. Human trafficking in Europe isn't under our directive, so that can't be what they're hiding. Why would they kill mothers connected to the Foundation? Why target me? Why make this personal? What if … this … was … about … American kids? The vulnerable kids of bipolar mothers. Nah! Can't be. Ninety percent of the children involved in the Foundation had fathers in their lives. They're not easy marks and would be too easily missed.

What if
that's
what they're covering up? The real crimes could be the kids who
are
easy marks. Those no one would miss.

My stomach sank as I realized what could be happening.

Praskovya spoke, “What are your thoughts?”

“They're not good,” I said, “Is it possible that he/they kept us busy with crimes that covered up what was really happening.” I paused, letting my thoughts roar. “Mixing the underlying crime with a heavy coating of bloodied murder victims so we become overwhelmed and desensitized?”

“What are you saying?”

“That a few more bodies turning up would be lost in the abundance of crime scenes; we may not notice in time that children are missing.”

Mac asked, “Why the kids?”

Praskovya looked at me. In his eyes I saw a shadow of knowledge he'd rather not have. He spoke to Mac, “They could be filling an order.”

I tapped at the keyboard intent on finding out how many daughters were untraceable after the deaths we were investigating. Five children were missing, presumed out of the area with extended family. No one had found them yet. Five that we knew of.

“Fuck! I've handed these perverts a
smorgasbord
of vulnerable exploitable kids.”

“You didn't do this, Ellie,” Mac said with his usual calmness. “We did.”

I shook my head. “Yeah, I did. In my efforts to help I managed to help these boys and girls right into a pedophile's bedroom.”

He started to argue again. I held my hand up to signal him to stop.

Silence fell.

“There is too much information here,” I said.

The silence continued.