Wake the Devil (8 page)

*

They were standing in the second of two offices. The first was a waiting area containing modest furnishings and a desk for a secretary. Leland Walker’s office was appointed slightly better. Wooden floors, oriental area rug, bookshelves lining one wall, and an old-fashioned roll-top desk. Behind that was a credenza with a computer and a flat screen monitor. Above the credenza was an open window that offered an unobstructed view of Rachel Lawrence’s building. Jack noted that all the papers on the credenza had been pushed to one side. Its flat top made a good base to rest a rifle on.

Glen Sheeley asked, “Anybody familiar with Walker or know what he looks like?”

“About sixty, gray hair . . . big fellow,” Janet Newton said.

Everyone turned to the FBI director, who was staring at the back of the desk, or more precisely, at the foot well.

After moving the desk chair aside, Janet squatted down and checked the body for a pulse. A moment later, she stood, smoothed her skirt and shook her head.

“Everyone out please,” Jack said. “Except you, Detective Sturgis.”

*

His voice seemed to be coming from a tunnel. A little while ago, Beth had been thinking of marriage and wedding bands. Now she was thinking of Danny McNamara and whoever was under that desk. Just after she transferred to Homicide, Mac had asked her on a date. He’d been so awkward and so much at a loss for words she wanted to hug him.

Jack’s touch on her elbow seemed to steady her. She pulled herself together and asked Glen Sheeley to send an officer for her evidence kit. Jack went behind the desk to confirm the body was that of Leland Walker. One by one, he checked the man’s pockets and retrieved a wallet and cellphone. After that, he stood and seemed to go inert. The only thing moving were his eyes taking in the room’s details. Months later, if asked, he’d be able to describe everything there down to the last paperclip. Several minutes later, satisfied with his inspection, he turned his attention back to the dead attorney. In the meantime, the officer had returned with Beth’s evidence kit.

Because rigor mortis had set in, it took some effort to move Leland Walker out from under the desk. While Jack managed that, Beth photographed the entire scene and handed her video camera to one of the SWAT officers, who recorded what she and Jack were doing.

Unlike the attorney, rigor had not set in on McNamara yet. No great insight was required to understand what had happened. The Sandman had come in, killed the lawyer, then surprised McNamara before he had a chance to react. Jack said there was a small chance the killer might still be in the building. Sheeley ordered that the search continue and advised all officers to shoot first and ask questions later.

“This place is a disaster,” Beth muttered.

She wasn’t referring to the murders, but the number of people who had tromped through the crime scene. Outside the window, the rain-heavy clouds appeared to be moving off to the east as the sky continued to brighten. Inside the room, the atmosphere was maudlin.

*

While Beth worked the front office and gathered samples, Jack examined the attorney more closely. Leland Walker looked disappointed. Not angry, not in pain, just sad, as if he realized in those last moments that his life was being stolen from him.

At the same time, the image of his late partner, Connie Belasco, came into his mind as she lay dying. His pulse began to quicken and his heart started to pound in his chest.

Not now. Please not now.

As it always did, his mouth went dry when those memories emerged from the recesses of his mind. Using the techniques his doctor, Morris Shottner, had shown him, it took nearly a minute to get himself under control. Self-conscious, he spared a covert glance at the officers in the doorway and at Janet in particular to see if anyone had noticed. They were in conversation with each other and no one seemed to be paying him much attention.

He looked again at Leland Walker and another thought came to mind. Despite the mutilation and horrific pain Connie had been in, her expression in the end was not all that dissimilar to the lawyer’s. Anger began to replace the pressure in his chest.

“Sooner or later,” Morris Shottner had told him, “we all have to give up the dead.”

“Not this time,” Jack whispered to himself and continued his examination of the victim.

There were no signs of a struggle, which he thought was unusual. The lawyer was a large man. Perhaps not in the best condition, but by no means a lightweight. Most attorneys were combative by nature, so why hadn’t he put up a fight?

From the general shape of the wound, he concluded the Sandman had come up behind Walker, pulled his head back, and slashed his
throat from right to left, which meant there was a good chance the Sandman was left-handed.

Beth told him she’d found a number of footprints and was making images but needed to obtain comparisons from everybody who had been inside. Jack nodded absently. Little by little, he was beginning to see the room through the killer’s eyes. The conclusion that came to him was surprising. Selecting this office was no random act. It was the result of careful planning, which scared him even more than the panic attack.

*

Building manager Samantha Pershing, accompanied by a SWAT team member, arrived carrying a file under her arm. She was a brunette in her midtwenties. Jack made the introductions and asked if anyone had explained the situation to her.

“The officer just told me you were looking for a man and asked me to bring Mr. Walker’s file.”

He had the unpleasant task of informing her that the attorney and an Atlanta police officer had just been murdered twenty feet from where she was standing. Some of the color left her face and she took a step back as if to distance herself from the room.

Jack continued, “Miss Pershing, I understand what a shock this is, but we need your help. Did you know Mr. Walker well?”

“Only enough to say hello.”

“I understand. What sort of security does this building have?”

“All our tenants have keys to the front and rear entrances and their own office. We lock the doors at six
PM
. The tenants are also issued a card for after hour access. They can use it to enter the garage, as well.”

“Which is underground.”

“Correct. Is this related to the break-in we had a few weeks ago?”

“I don’t know,” Jack said. “What happened?”

“Nothing much, really. Several offices along this line were broken into. Whoever did it moved some things around and went through the file cabinets, looking for drugs or maybe money. We reported it to the police. They thought it was probably a drug addict.”

Jack filed the information away, unsure if it meant anything, then asked whether the building had security cameras.

“There’s one at each entrance and two for the parking decks,” Samantha said.

While checking Leland Walker’s pockets, Jack had noted there were no car or home keys. He then asked if she knew what kind of car the lawyer drove. The manager consulted her file and told him it was a late model white Audi. She further informed him the only other person authorized to enter the office was his secretary, who was at home ill. Jack thought he already knew the answer, but sent an officer to the garage to check if the Audi was in Leland Walker’s assigned parking space.

At one point, he glanced at Janet Newton. She was in the process of sending another text message, he assumed to Milner, who had still not made an appearance. The deputy director had already lost one case agent. From her expression, it wasn’t hard to guess what was going through her mind. Like her, he was beginning to worry over Milner.

His thoughts were interrupted by the returning officer, who informed him that Leland Walker’s parking space was empty. The Sandman had waltzed right past them and driven off in the lawyer’s car.

T
hankfully unaware of what had happened across the street, Rachel Lawrence was in the office of her partner, Stuart Patterson, a talented orthopedic surgeon. He had just handed her a Dr Pepper and told her he had sent Elaine Reynolds, still unable to stop crying, home.

Having a plain-clothes detective roaming the office, even one as pleasant as Dwayne Stafford, only made matters worse. When the staff asked why a police detective was there, typically forthright Rachel told them the truth.

Patterson also learned their nurse, Lucinda Anglin, after leaving for lunch, hadn’t returned. They found a note on her desk saying she had resigned. Rats deserting a sinking ship.

With no one to cover for him yesterday, he had worked late into the night seeing not only his patients, but those of George, Rachel, and Will Landry. The sixty-five-year-old felt like he was back in Viet Nam doing triage. Despite the fact that it was the middle of the day, the drapes in Patterson’s office were closed, per Detective Stafford’s request. It was the same in the other offices. The result was a dark and heavy atmosphere. To the blunt Patterson, a defensive end at Auburn almost forty-five years earlier, it felt like they were hunkered down in a foxhole, which was more or less true. He had known George and Rachel for a long time and had attended their wedding. Looking at his partner now, he could see the signs of strain. Amazing she was there and able to function at all. Definitely a gamer, he decided. A
gamer who loved children and who’d fight like a wildcat to protect them, even at the cost of her own life.

Patterson plunked down on the couch next to her.

“How you doin’, kiddo?”

Rachel looked at him with a wan smile. “If things got any better, I couldn’t stand it.”

“How are you doing?” he asked again.

It took several seconds for the tears to form in Rachel’s eyes. She hid her face behind her hands. “I’m a mess, Stu. I can’t stop crying.”

Patterson didn’t know what to say, so he gently rubbed her back. “I know.”

Rachel lifted her head and frowned. “Why is it so quiet outside?”

Patterson let out a breath and informed her that Lucinda had quit.

“Shit,” Rachel said. “We can’t continue like this. We’ll go out of business.”

“No, we won’t,” Patterson reassured her.

“I’m sorry this ruined your vacation,” she said.

“You didn’t ruin anything. Las Vegas’ll be there next month. I only go to visit my money anyway.”

The attempt at humor fell flat. She informed him, “They want to put Will and me in a safehouse.”

“That might not be a bad idea.”

“I need to be here. You can’t continue working sixteen-hour days.”

“I can and we’ll manage.”

“How?”

Patterson didn’t have an answer to that. If the cops didn’t catch the killer, there was a good chance they’d have to start referring their patients to other doctors. He was willing to tough it out, but it wasn’t a good situation. Rather than share these thoughts with her, he said, “I don’t know, kid. But we’ll work it out.” The words didn’t sound convincing even to him.

W
esley liked the way the Audi drove. It was very smooth with responsive steering and neat leather seats. He settled back and continued passing through Brookhaven, formerly an Atlanta suburb but now its own city. He maintained a steady speed at the posted limit. No sense being pulled over. He glanced down at the file, found the number he wanted, and placed a call.

“Hi, this is Nick Harris. Is Miss Quinn at home?”

“This is she. Can I help you?”

“Miss Quinn, I’m Lee Walker’s associate. He asked me to touch base with you so we could go over your deposition. I’m lending a hand on the case.”

“I didn’t know Lee worked with anyone.”

“We have a number of cases together. Lee’s on trial in Savannah for the next two days.”

“I see.”

“I was wondering if I might stop by and get your signature on your deposition. It needs to be filed with the clerk’s office this week,” Wesley said, reading the attorney’s note.

“Lee thought the insurance company would settle out of court.”

“He’s probably right. Unfortunately, with these guys, you have to let them know you’re serious.”

“Of course.”

According to the file, Ms. Quinn was a dental hygienist, thirty-nine years old, and lived alone with her parrot. Charming. Also convenient.

“By any chance,” Wesley said, “would you know Jason or Cathy Gibbons?”

“No, why do you ask?”

“I noticed you fell outside Saint Anne’s. Jason and Cathy are congregation members there and old friends of mine.”

“The names are familiar,” Mary Margaret said. “I just switched to St. Anne’s after I moved, so I don’t know that many people. The ones I’ve met have been very nice.”

“I used to belong there, but I’m at Holy Innocents now,” Wesley told her.

Adaptability was the key. Quinn was an Irish-Catholic name. So was the one he had just made up. What better way to put someone at ease than talking to a member of their own congregation?

“My girlfriend Suzanne attends Holy Innocents,” Mary Margaret told him.

“Suzanne?”

“Suzanne Beamis. She’s about thirty-five with brown hair. Very pretty. She’s always asking me to go to services with her.”

“Hm, I don’t think we’ve met,” Wesley said. “You should definitely come visit us. We’re a friendly group.”

“Well, maybe I will.”

“Listen, I’ve just finished my last errand. Would it be convenient for me to stop by now?”

“If you give me fifteen minutes to tidy up. The place is a mess.”

“Don’t go to any trouble, ma’am. Lawyers are tougher than Sunday penance.”

Mary Margaret Quinn giggled and disconnected. Pleased with himself, Wesley smiled and continued driving.

*

When he pulled into the driveway of her home, Mary Margaret was waiting in the doorway to greet him. Her ash-blonde hair was tied in the back with a blue ribbon, and she was dressed in jeans and a plaid shirt that looked like it had been washed about two hundred times. There was a smudge of dirt on her cheek. Wesley waved to show what a regular guy he was as he exited the car.

“Come in,” Mary Margaret said, shaking hands. “I was cleaning out the garage when you called.”

Wesley rolled his eyes. “I promise this won’t take long.”

The home was tidy and pleasant with early American style furniture. As expected, there was a grandfather clock in the hallway and overstuffed sofas covered with white floral patterns in the den. Photographs of Mary Margaret and her family lined the walls.

Growing up, he’d had pictures in his home too, but he couldn’t remember much about them. Every year the memories seemed to fade a little more. He’d only been eight when his parents were killed by a drunk driver. After that, Wesley spent several years in a church-run orphanage with Father Michael. Their motto etched in stone above the entrance read, “With love and the Holy Word, we mentor all God’s children.”

On the bookshelves was a picture of Jesus, eyes cast upward toward heaven. On the shelf directly above that was a sculpture of a pair of praying hands. As Wesley stared at the hands, memories of Saint Ignatius seeped back into his consciousness.

Over the years, he tried to recall if any of those memories were pleasant or if anything good had come from his stay there. It always ended the same way—he thought about something else. Strange how his mind worked, compressing several years into a few images that pushed their way into his dreams at night or hovered on the edges of his consciousness.

For a while, he had managed to avoid Father Michael and the hands that seemed to linger on his shoulder a beat too long. It was the same with the good-natured pats on the butt boys received at the end of their rugby or soccer games. As their coach, Michael always had an excuse for being in the locker room and around the showers. The priest explained to the new boys that it was his job to make sure nothing dirty happened there.

Wesley was observant and a quick learner. He noticed the looks that passed between the older boys when Father Michael would fix his attention on a newcomer.

Arthur Nilson, a friend whose locker was next to his, whispered one day, “Get dressed quick, mate. The cyclops has his eye on you.”

Glancing in the mirror, Wesley saw that Arthur was right. Michael Hardy, with his thick glasses, was watching them from the doorway. Arthur kept his towel around his waist and finished pulling his underwear and pants on. He gave Wesley a meaningful look and hurried out the door.

Did you scrub up good, boy-o?

Yes, Father.

Excellent. Cleanliness is next to godliness.

The priest glanced around to make sure they were alone, then said, Maybe I’d better check.

Five years was a long time to spend in an orphanage. Twice a year when the government sent inspectors from Youth Services, no one complained. At least not often. Father Mike considered gossip malignant and a sign of resistance to the wisdom he was trying to impart. Worse, it was evil. When the priest became agitated, there was a price to pay. He’d appear in the dormitory with a wooden pointer taken from one of the classrooms and tell the offender to follow him. “Spare the rod and spoil the child.”

Eventually, Arthur Nilson, a shy, introverted boy, reached his limit and ran away. Two days later, the police brought him back to the home. Concerned about such behavior, the priests decided the young man was simply confused and in need of guidance. To reflect on his sins, they placed Arthur in their quiet room, where he was visited every day by Father Michael.

It came as a shock to everyone there when they found the young man hanging from a pipe in the ceiling. He had tied his sheets together and looped them around his neck.

When Father Donovan, Saint Ignatius’s head priest, broke the news of Arthur’s death to the boys, he noticed Wesley displayed no reaction at all. Odd, because they were best friends. “Shock. The boy’s in shock,” he had concluded.

The following night, someone set fire to the rectory, killing Father Donovan and two clergy members. Of fourteen-year-old Wesley Simms, who went by a different name at the time, nothing was ever heard again. Ultimately, a prayer service was held for him, as well.

“Hello,” a shrill voice said, pulling Wesley from his thoughts.

Startled, he turned to see who had spoken and found himself looking at a green and yellow parrot, perched on a slender branch in a cage.

“This is Sweetie Pie,” Mary Margaret said, introducing them. “He comes from Venezuela.”

Marvelous
, Wesley thought,
another illegal alien
. He’d forgotten about the parrot.

“Hello, Sweetie Pie,” Wesley said.

The parrot responded with a wolf-whistle and began negotiating its way along the branch. When it got to the bars, it cocked its head sideways, looking at him with a black eye like a tiny marble.

“He’s very friendly,” Mary Margaret said. “If you want a buddy for life, scratch his head. He absolutely loves it.”

“Well, I . . .”

“He won’t bite,” Mary Margaret assured him. “Parrots are very intelligent.”

What the hell does intelligence have to do with biting?

The thought of coming into contact with whatever germs the bird was carrying made his stomach churn. Nevertheless, he stuck his fingers through the bars. Sweetie Pie obligingly lowered his head and exposed the back of his neck. He was surprised at how little substance there was. Just feather stalks and paper thin skin. He desperately wanted to wash his hands.

“Pretty bird,” Sweetie Pie said when he was finished.

Mary Margaret beamed like a proud parent. Wesley felt like throwing up. He managed to force a smile to his face and said, “Quite a talker, isn’t he?”

“A regular chatterbox. If I don’t cover his cage, he’ll keep me up all night. May I get you something to drink, Mr. Harris?”

“Call me Nick. I’m fine,” Wesley said. “Thank you anyway.” Instinctively, he glanced around the room, taking an inventory of its contents. When he was finished, he turned his attention to the outside. A sliding glass door led to a patio with a small round wooden table and four chairs. In one corner was a black-and-tan lounge chair with thick cushions. At the opposite end of Mary Margaret’s little patio was a barbecue grill. The backyard was enclosed with a six-foot-tall pine fence stained to make it look like redwood.

Good privacy. No direct view of the house.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?”

Wesley stared at her.

“The deposition?” she prompted.

“Oh, yes. Sorry.”

“Did you leave it in the car?”

“Actually, no.”