"Plane, train, boat, car, swam, hiked, parachuted in. Have I missed anything?" I shook my head and she said, "At this moment, they're showing his composite at every terminal in the city."
"So they should."
Janet was sharp, though, and quickly concluded, "You're suggesting he came in a rental car?"
"And he would've parked it nearby... for his getaway."
She finished that thought, saying, "But after what happened at the river, he couldn't come back here."
So we began walking, through the backyard, then out to the street, where we started checking license plates. Rental cars tend to be fairly new, well-kept, clean, and shiny. Plus, if he'd driven up from D.C., the car should have out-of-state plates.
I moved to the other side of the street, and Janet stayed on the near side. We walked swiftly up the block, then took a right and did the cross street. We did the next block over, and the next. It was a residential neighborhood and early afternoon, and there weren't that many cars. Also, Janet reminded me that because of Boston's car theft rates, the smart citizens respond by buying inexpensive, crappy eyesores, which are cheaper to insure and less attractive to thieves. And in fact, most of the cars I saw were junkheaps.
We were moving quickly and we marked a few cars as possibilities, but they all had in-state plates. The third block over, I spotted a fairly new, forest green Ford Taurus with Pennsylvania plates. Virginia or D.C. plates seemed more logical, but this car was parked within twenty feet of a street corner, in fact, forward of the legal parking distance. If it was a getaway car, this was a smart stunt, because nobody else could park in front and hem it in. But this is America, where every privilege comes with a pricelike a ticket on the windshield. I yanked the ticket off and noted it had been issued five hours before.
So, the right kind of car, in the right kind of place, and it had sat there the right amount of time. I waved at Janet and she jogged over. A swift inspection revealed a thin valise lying on the rear floor of an otherwise empty car.
The right and proper thing to do in this situation was call the Boston PD and have them dispatch a squad car. We'd have to wait for the cops, they'd have to call the DA's office, legal cause would have to be established, a lawyer would have to go see a judge, the judge would have to be persuaded to issue a search warrant, and around and around we go.
In any regard, the .22 in Janet's pocket apparently had a mind of its own. It was really weird, the way it somehow leaped out of her pocket, and then flew through the air and slammed its own butt against the driver's side window, which shattered inward. Well, what can you do?
Janet appeared shocked. "Damn it, Sean, I'm a city prosecutor and you just broke the law." As she issued this warning she was eagerly unlocking the doors and scrambling into the backseat.
I clambered in behind her. She already had the valise open and carefully withdrew two manila folders, pinching them with her shirt sleeves to avoid fingerprints. She dropped the first folder on the seat and the contents spilled out.
"That's me," she said, pointing at a large black-and-white photo.
"Good picture, too," I replied. And indeed it was, as were three more shots of her, taken from various angles, in different backgrounds and lighting, with her wearing a variety of outfits. Janet had obviously been under observation for a period of at least several days.
"Do you recall when you wore those clothes?"
She studied the photos and pointed at one. "Incredible. I wore that pantsuit before I went to D.C." She paused. "The same day Lisa died."
We jointly pondered that fact a moment.
Beneath the pictures were three or four printed sheets, and we spread them around using our elbows and shirt sleeves. The pages were neatly typed and paginated, with proper spelling, flawless punctuation, and so forth. The killer appeared to be one of those anal-retentive assholes who always did three more pages than the teacher asked for. I never trusted that type. Future serial killersall of them.
Two pages were filled with carefully organized personal data about Janet: home address, phone number, automobile type and license number, family members, historical information, and so on. Nearly everything on these sheets could be obtained from public sources, though the sheer quantity of information indicated somebody who knew where to look and how much he could get.
But the next page did not appear to have been taken from public sources.
I pointed at a list of names and asked her, "Who are they?"
"Close friends." She looked horrified. She pointed at a few entries on the bottom of the page. "My dry cleaner . . . my gym . . . my doctor . . . the deli where I usually get lunch."
Janet swept her file sheets aside, then allowed the contents of the second folder to drop onto the seat.
The first item to spill out was a photograph of an extraordinarily good-looking man in a gray pinstriped Brooks Brothers suit, climbing into a green Jaguar sedan.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN.
A Long moment passed where Janet and I avoided verbal and eye contact. It was somewhat of a jolt to discover my name on this asshole's to-do list. It was unexpected, for one thing. Also, I'd seen this guy in action, and while I'd like to say I handled this news with my normal aplomb, in fact I felt a rumble of fear in my chest.
But shock aside, all kinds of pieces suddenly began tumbling into place. We both needed a moment to think about this.
She rifled through two more pictures, graciously allowing me a moment to think about updating my life insurance. I was wearing the same gray pinstriped suit, so presumably all the photos were taken on the same day There was a mere half sheet of personal data: address, phone number, car type, license number, place of employment, and so on. The information on me was notably skimpier than her sheetsnothing about family, personal habits, or favorite haunts.
"I wore that suit only two days ago," I mentioned after I got my emotional sea legs back.
"You're a starter project. He's building his profile on you."
"I see that, but why am I on his list?"
"Before we get to that, I'll tell you what this confirmshe's not the L.A. Killer. Nor a sex maniac. At least, not just a sex maniac."
"Agreed. But why me?"
She correctly understood that my question wasn't rhetorical, that we had stumbled onto something very important, if we only knew what. She leaned back against the seat and hypothesized, "Sean, I make my living convicting murderers. They come in all stripes, and are driven by countless motivations. Sometimes they don't know why they're killing. A voice inside their head tells them to, it's a rite of passage into a gang, or the Mafia. Sometimes it's a response to boredom or rage."
"None of the above apply. You specialize in murdernow, what kind of killer compiles lists, creates files, methodically organizes his assaults, and makes sure someone else gets the credit for his handiwork?"
"I've noticed his . . . uniqueness." Actually, I was sure she had noticed considerably more, and probably knew exactly what I was getting at. But like a good prosecutor she wanted to hear it from my lips. In fact, she asked, "Do you think you know his motivation?"
"I think I do."
But Janet was putting the materials back into the briefcase, and she asked, referring to the contents, "What should we do about this?"
"Good question." As lawyers, we were both aware that we had created a sticky problem here. All right, I had created the problem, but Janet charitably did not mention that. I hate I-told-you-so women, incidentally. She was really nice. We smiled at each other.
But evidence illegally obtainedfor instance, by breaking into an automobile without a warrantis impermissible in court. Ironic as it might sound, Janet and I could be charged with breaking and entering, and destruction of property, even as a key piece of evidence was ruled as too contaminated for use. Well, we couldn't allow that to happen.
I said, "Slide it under the front seat. We'll report the car as damaged, let the cops tow it to the impound, and at least our killer won't be able to recover it. If we ever get this guy into a court, we'll figure out some slick way to have it discovered and introduced as evidence." That is, if we live through this, I failed to add.
She nodded. "I'll call the Boston PD on my cell phone." She added, "I won't give them my namejust that I saw somebody break a car window, and I'll tell them where to find it."
"Good idea."
She made the call and we then began walking back to Aunt Ethel's. Back to the other matter, I said to Janet, "Look, this guy. . . Down by the river, I formed a few impressions."
"I'm listening."
"Before I became a JAG, I made my living in special operations. You develop an eye for the talent and the type."
"What's his type?"
I wasn't ready to get into that yet, so I said, "Review what happened this morning. He selected a partner to jog with, a very attractive young lady who would draw the attention and make him less noticeable."
"I already figured that one out."
"Remember how he and the young lady first ran by you?"
"Yes . . . so?"
"Reconnaissance. He was sizing up his target, looking for surveillance, plotting where to take you, and where and how to make his escape. A mental rehearsal."
"Okay."
"He chose his approach to keep you between us and him. He'd seen us and he used your body as a screen, so we'd be lousy witnesses."
She thought about this a moment, then asked, "You think he was that calculating?"
"There's more." I then asked her, "What was he doing when you fired at him?"
She thought back, then said, "I. . . yes, it was some kind of strange weaving motion."
"He stepped closer to you?"
"Yes. He did. Then he started weaving."
"Because you communicated that you had a gun. It was the look in your eye, maybe, but I'd bet you jammed the barrel against your coat, and he detected it. Certain self-defense courses teach that in close-quarters situations, you move right up to the shooter, then start a quick shifting of the feet and midsection, intended to throw off a shooter's aim."
"You think I missed him?"
"I do." She appeared disappointed as I added, "Now, think about the way he aborted the mission, then rushed you and knocked you over. Or afterward how he dodged around like a broken Ping-Pong ball, moving unpredictably from side to side. That's another technique taught in certain specialty courses."
She thought about all that, then asked, "So you think he's former military?"
"Maybe. They're not street skills. And it was reflexiveno confusion, no hesitation, he just responded, fluidly and automatically. You understand what I'm saying? Eye-to-synapse-to-muscle coordination like his is extraordinarily rare. He's a natural. Also, he trains constantly to have that edge."
Janet considered all this, then said, "Sean, he's not a machine. He's human, and therefore fallible. He fell for our trap."
"That won't happen again."
She considered this, then asked, "He is coming again, though?"
"Guys only get that good if they invest a lot of ego into their work. They don't regard failures as failures, just notices to do better next time."
She cracked a faint smile, confirming my earlier suspicion. She definitely wanted to go another round with this guy. Also it confirmed she was a selective listenerwe should have both been on the next flight to Mongolia.
But I knew she wasn't going to be talked out of it, and I said, "So, what do you conclude?"
"He's hired help. But was he hired by somebody in your firm?"
"Somebody in the firm is connected."
"Somebody Lisa worked with obviously."
"Yes. And now we know it has to be somebody I work with also."
I then spent a few minutes updating Janet on everything I had learned about Morris Networks and Grand Vistas. I was careful to couch it just right; these are the things I know, these are the things I only suspect, and these are the harebrained meanderings of a paranoid mind. Unfortunately, the latter outweighed the former, but in our business circumstantial cases are often the best you can get.
When I finished, she said, "It makes sense. Money and scandalthose are the motives."
"Maybe."
"Do you have another idea?"
"Well, I'll share a random theory. Morris Networks has a clutch of Defense contracts, and it's about to win a contract with DARPA, the organization that handles most of our most secretive projects."
"Go on."
"Morris Networks can read all its customers' e-mails and listen in to their traffic."
"Really?"
"So, here's this big company that hocked its soul to a secretive foreign conglomerate. And through its networks runs some of the most sensitive secrets in this country. War plans, top-secret technologies, troop movements, you name it. What if this foreign conglomerate is a front? What if it actually belongs to a foreign intelligence agency?"
"And is eavesdropping on sensitive information?" She considered that a moment, then said, "Is that possible?"
"During the cold war, we found out the Soviets had underwater cables running through some of its military harbors. We learned those cables were used by the Soviet military to carry some of their most sensitive information. We sent in subs to tap those cables. For years, we moved subs in and out of the harbors, right under their noses, tapping into the traffic. It was a gold mine."
"And we got away with this?"
"Right to the end. What I'm suggesting is the possibility that Grand Vistas might be a front operation. Maybe they have some kind of deal with Morris Networksmoney for the Defense Department's mail."
"Sean, this is big."
"I know."
"If those are the stakes, the murders make even more sense."
"Right. But it is only a theory, not a fact."
She then said, "I'd better call George and inform him."
"Not yet."
"I sense you and he have . . . issues. But don't underestimate him."
When I failed to respond, she insisted, "He knows his job."
"The guy who sent Bob knows his job?"