The Pawn (11 page)

“Get down,” I shouted to her. “Back in the car!” I leveled my weapon. She scurried back inside and slammed the door, probably thinking I was the one who’d shot her friend. I could hear her wild shrieks, muffled only slightly by the doors of their SUV.

“Shots fired!” I shouted. I hoped one of the officers had followed me into the parking garage and could hear me. I raced to the victim. “I repeat, shots fired!”

Why did you shoot this man? Why would you kill this man?
Still no visual on the shooter.

I leaned over and held my hand against the victim’s gurgling throat. He was shaking slightly, starting to go into shock. The bullet had missed the center of his neck and passed through the side of it. There was a lot of blood, but the wound didn’t look fatal. It was a good thing our suspect wasn’t a great shot.

“Sir, you’re going to be all right,” I whispered, hoping it was true, all the while keeping one eye on the cars in front of me. “Lie still. Don’t move.” With one hand I applied gentle pressure to the man’s neck to slow the bleeding, being careful not to press too hard or I might constrict his breathing. With the other I gripped the SIG and surveyed the parking garage. A pack of cops burst through the door.

“Get down!” they yelled.

“I’m a federal agent!”

“Shut up. Drop your weapon!”

Just then one of the men recognized me. “Wait, he’s one of us.”

“Get me an ambulance,” I called out. “And the shooter is still in the building!” I pointed toward where I thought the suspect had run, the most sensible escape route. “Down there. Sweep down toward the exit.”

The officers fanned out and began to search the parking garage car by car while I stayed with the injured man.

“Hang in there,” I told him. “Help will be here in a minute.”

Why did he shoot this man? Was he aiming at me? Did he miss
me?

Maybe our suspect wasn’t a very good shot. Maybe. But as I considered the possibilities, a chilling thought struck me: maybe he was an excellent shot. Maybe he knew that if he killed this man with a shot to the torso or to the head I wouldn’t have had to stop to help him. Or, if he hit him in an extremity, the gunshot wound wouldn’t have been serious enough for me to stop. But if he wounded him just right I’d have to make a choice—I’d have to choose between saving this man’s life or continuing the chase. Somehow, he’d thought of all that in the brief moment after this man stepped out of his car. Was that possible? Could he be that smart?

Or maybe he knew this couple would be here. Maybe he’d planned it all in advance. I made a mental note to find out why this man and this girl were here on this night at this time in that parking spot. But the more I thought about it, the more I started to believe that the killer had planned it all out. He might have even waited on that walkway until I saw him there.
He’s in it for the
game. He likes to watch.

I started to wonder how I could catch a guy who could plan his moves like this. He was smarter than I was.

I stayed with the man who’d been shot until the ambulance arrived a few minutes later. There was a little confusion about which paramedics were going to take him to the hospital—apparently several vehicles had responded. Finally, two of the men lifted the gunshot victim onto a gurney and wheeled him away. We searched the entire parking garage complex, the mall, the parking lot, the restaurants. Nothing.

The girl from the van was still screaming when they took her away. I wondered if she would ever be able to stop herself from screaming when she thought of this night. Some people can put events like this behind them and move on. Most of us can’t.

Before leaving, I looked through the Ford Expedition they’d been in. A white pawn was sitting on the center of the dashboard.

19

After the search for the shooter came up empty, I realized there wasn’t much more I could do there that night. Local law enforcement didn’t really want us around, and even though we could have fought them for jurisdiction, we were already stretched thin trying to investigate all the other cases. It seemed like the best strategy was to let them take the lead on this and keep us updated. That meant I could get back to Asheville and spend tomorrow morning piecing together the overall pattern of the crime series.

Since my shirt was soaked with the wounded man’s blood, I turned it in as evidence and bought a sweatshirt from one of the mall stores that was getting ready to close. After cleaning the blood off my hands in the bathroom, I went to sign the chain of evidence papers. That’s what I was doing when Ralph walked over to me, shaking his head.

“What is it?” I asked.

“You.”

“Me?”

“Yup, you. I need to brief the officers in charge here, Margaret is back in Asheville, and that puts you in charge.”

I didn’t like where this was going. “In charge of what?”

“Meeting with Governor Taylor.”

“What?”

Ralph shrugged his huge shoulders, trying unsuccessfully to look helpless. “He heard about the girl; wants someone to bring him up to speed. Word is he’s got a bunch of speeches next week on national security, and he doesn’t want to get blindsided by questions about serial killers in his own hometown.”

I glanced at my watch: 9:41 p.m. “Does he know what time it is?”

“I’m sure he does.”

“Can’t this wait, Ralph?”

He shook his head. “Governor Taylor is one person you don’t keep waiting. He’s spending this weekend at his private residence not far from here, just outside of town. It shouldn’t take you too long to brief him.”

Great. He just had to say the b-word.

“I’m not good with this kind of stuff, Ralph. You know how much I hate—”

But he’d already turned around. “Take Lien-hua along. I hear he likes the women.”

“Who likes the women?” asked Lien-hua.

And before I had a chance to protest any more to Ralph, a car piloted by one of the governor’s security detail drove up, and Lien-hua and I reluctantly climbed in.

“He just lives a few minutes away,” explained our driver. “‘Course, most of the time he’s in Raleigh, but a couple weekends a month he likes to come back home.”

I listened to him but didn’t really listen. Mostly I was thinking about Jolene and the pawn on the dashboard and the killer who was smarter than I was.
He put Jolene’s contacts into Mindy’s eyes. Why?
I also wondered about the man he shot and the chain of events that had brought me to his side. Time and place.

Time and place.

After a few minutes, my thoughts drifted to the other side of the backseat, where Lien-hua sat silently watching the night slide past the car. I was a little disappointed the car was so roomy. I wished the governor had chosen to send something a tad smaller. A Harley would have been nice.

We didn’t talk until we arrived at the front gate to the governor’s mansion and one of the sentries waved us through. That’s when Lien-hua turned to me. “Good work interviewing that kid back there,” she said.

“Thanks. And good thinking to realize she was looking for her car keys. And to check the prescription for the contacts too. Very nice.”

“Thank you,” she said. “I’m just glad I wasn’t too sidetracked by looking for motives.”

Yes. Definitely rephrase that in the next briefing.

Governor Taylor’s mansion lay back from the main road behind a grove of looming oak trees that sprawled along the drive just barely within reach of the headlights. As we pulled to a stop in the circular drive in front of the elaborate manse, I let out a long, slow breath. “Whew . . . Maybe I’m in the wrong line of work. I didn’t know the government of North Carolina paid its public workers so well.”

“Tobacco family,” our driver said wistfully, pronouncing it
tu-backa
famlee
. “They’ve been in politics forever, but it’s cancer sticks paid for this place.” He opened up the door for Lien-hua. “I wonder how much of it I paid for before I quit,” he mumbled. Then we stepped past him and climbed the steps to the porch.

A young woman greeted us at the door. Mid-twenties, blonde, movie star face, dressed in a skirt that must have taken her an hour to squeeze into. She introduced herself as the governor’s personal assistant. “Ms. Anita Banner,” she said in a crisp, professional voice. “Please follow me.”

She led us down the wide hallway toward the governor’s private office. Ms. Banner turned every step into a Spanish dance. I wondered just how personal her assistance to the governor was. Especially this late on a Friday night.

She asked us to wait for a moment in the great room and then slipped through another set of doors to announce our arrival to Governor Taylor.

I glanced around the room. Paintings depicting Civil War battles hung on the walls: Antietam, Fredericksburg, Bull Run, Chancel-lorsville. Apart from some kind of huge fish mounted above the fireplace, the entire room seemed to be decorated to celebrate the war—and the South. A plaque below one of the paintings read: “First at Bethel. Last at Appomattox.” So, a tribute to the soldiers of North Carolina.

Lien-hua picked up a picture that was sitting on the grand piano. “I wonder where the governor’s wife and kids are tonight?”

“She took the boys to Barbados for the week,” I answered.

Lien-hua stared at me, amazed. “How do you know that?”

“I’m tempted to wow you with my Sherlockian deductive powers,” I said. “But actually I heard it on the news last night while channel surfing. His wife loves the spotlight. She’s twenty years younger than him and used to be a model. She just might be the first governor’s wife in history with her own paparazzi.”

“Oh,” said Lien-hua. She didn’t seem impressed.

Brilliant move, Einstein. Next time try and wow her.

Just then Ms. Banner reappeared and led us into the governor’s private office.

He stepped out from behind a vast mahogany desk to greet us. I extended my hand and introduced myself. The governor looked to be in his mid-fifties, but his grip was firm, almost startlingly so. He had cool, calculating eyes that were offset by his wide, practiced smile. He’d loosened his tie but still chose to wear his impeccably tailored suit that moved with him seamlessly as he strode through the room. A small pin with a Confederate flag hung proudly from his lapel.

I was about to introduce Lien-hua, but she beat me to it, stepping forward and taking his hand. “Special Agent Lien-hua Jiang. Pleased to meet you, Governor Taylor.” The governor’s eyes brightened when he took her hand, and they did not linger long on her hand.

“Agent Jiang,” he said with a honey-sweet Southern accent, “the pleasure is all mine.”

Yeah, that’s an understatement.

“Governor Taylor,” I said, nodding toward the room with the fireplace, “you have quite a collection of paintings.”

He smiled thinly. “All who are warriors must be students of war.” He reached for a bottle on his desk. “Drink?”

I shook my head. Lien-hua said, “No thank you.”

“Well, then.” He considered a decanter of cognac for a moment and then refilled his glass.

“That quote,” I said. “Chekhov?”

He lifted his glass to me with a slight nod. “Taylor,” he said, winking at Lien-hua.

OK.

“I especially liked the portrayal of Sharpsburg,” I said. The South often used different names to remember the battles than the North did. In this case, I used the Southern name to refer to the battle of Antietam.

He looked mildly impressed. “One of my favorites as well.”

But then I blew it. “An interesting way to remember the Civil War.” As soon as I’d said it, I realized it. Oh well.

“You’re not from the South, are you, Dr. Bowers?” His tone had turned fatherly, patronizing. I was not in the mood.

“Actually, no. Milwaukee, originally.”
Go on, say it. I know
you’re going to.

He grinned, pleased with himself. “Here in the South, we prefer to call it the War Between the States. Or the War of Northern Aggression . . .”

I knew he was going to say that.

I didn’t respond, just waited for him to go on.

He continued, “There’s nothing civil about war, Dr. Bowers. The phrase is an oxymoron—like giant shrimp, rubber cement, or tight slacks.” As he added that last one, his eyes flickered toward Lien-hua.

“Or act natural,” I said.

He shifted his attention back to me, with one eyebrow raised. “Hmm?”

“Act natural. It’s another oxymoron. Either you’re acting or you’re not. But only one is natural.” I met his gaze, didn’t look away.

“Ah, unless you are a natural actor,” he said with a slight raise of his glass.

Or unless you’re a true counterfeit,
I thought but managed to keep my mouth shut.

“Sir,” Lien-hua said, “you wanted to know about the case.”

“Yes, yes. Of course.” He set his drink on the desk and took his place behind it, in the position of authority. He motioned for us to have a seat in the two tiny chairs facing him. It was a power play, of course.

“Bad back,” I said. “Think I’ll stand.”

Lien-hua sat.

“So,” he said, “this girl tonight. What do you know so far?”

Lien-hua leaned forward. “Governor, if I might ask, what’s your specific interest in this case?”

“Public relations.” He shook his head slightly. “A serial killer? Oh, it’s been a nightmare.” He let his words hang in the air as if he expected us to agree with him that his public relations concerns were somehow more important than the fact that at least six young women had been brutally murdered. I wasn’t sure how much more of this guy I could take.

“I guess no one has informed you about the phone calls?” He asked it as a question even though it seemed like a statement.

“What phone calls?” I asked.

“Let’s see, what was her name . . . Bethanie something . . .”

I wondered where he was going with this. “Not Dixon? Bethanie Dixon?”

“Yes. Yes. That’s it. From what I’ve heard, she called our switchboard a dozen times in less than eight hours. That night she disappeared. Two days later she was found dead.”

I remembered seeing a series of calls in her phone records when I was reviewing her case earlier today, but I hadn’t had time to investigate who she’d been calling.