“I was asking, professional or home use?” the man says. “What are you cutting?”
He needs a Trim-Meter chain saw. He doesn’t see one.
“Trim-Meter?” The man shakes his head. “Sir, Trim-Meter hasn’t made a chain saw for years.”
Leo rocks on his toes, biting down into his lip.
The man taps Leo on the arm. “I know how you feel. You get loyal to a brand. That’s the kind you’ve always used, am I right?”
Leo looks at him, sizes him up.
“Always had a Husky myself. That’s what I’d recommend. Something lightweight, like a 137 here, will do you fine.” He grabs a saw off a tackboard, a long security cord attached to the model.
Leo stares at the man, his hands at his side.
The man sighs. “Okay, well-place called Varten’s? Over on Pickamee? Guy over there has lots of old, used saws. I mean, if you’re dead set on Trim-Meter, he might have one.”
The man gives Leo directions to Varten‘s, like he’s dumb. Like he’s a five-year-old.
I’m smarter than I look.
Leo walks back across the store. He lost the black guy. He lost them both.
Wait.
The woman’s in line. Okay, different now, she’s not just a watcher, she’s trying to get out of the store ahead of him, she’s going to be waiting for him, or she’s going to tell others-
They make eye contact, but her eyes dart away, she’s in an express line, she’s next up, she swipes her credit card and picks up two bags, lightbulbs, yeah, sure, lightbulbs, like he’s an idiot.
Follow her out, see where she goes, keep close but not too close, not until it’s time, sweep the eyes over the parking lot, lots of cars, but hardly any people, can’t tell where the rest of her team is, or how many of them, how many members of her team, watch for an ambush, they could pop out from between any of these cars, head on a swivel-left-right, left-right-quick check behind, they could be anywhere but she was the one who followed, she was the one who stayed back-
She’s the one who will report back, who will tell them about the Trim-Meter-
A receipt, carried into the wind, he picks it up, yes, a diversion, a diversion will work, slip out the knife, keep it in the right hand, against his side, close the gap with the woman-
She stops and turns, next to an SUV, nobody around her but hard to tell, other trucks parked on each side of her, smart of her, good cover, hard to see, hard to-
Hard to see her with trucks on each side.
He takes a breath and goes cold.
He steps left, gets an angle, and moves in. She has the back door open, throwing the bags of lightbulbs in the backseat.
Ten feet away. Five feet. Leo holds out the receipt. Shows it to her.
“Oh.” Like she doesn’t know him. She’s well trained. She reaches out and takes the receipt. It happens in a snap. She begins a Thank you, looks up at him as his left hand grips her arm, shoving her into the backseat while he sweeps the knife across her throat with his right hand. Hardly has to move the knife, her neck moving across it, doing the work for him.
Not a sound. Her lifeless body falls to the floorboard, which immediately fills with her blood. He pushes her legs in the car and closes the door.
He looks around. All clear. He opens the door again, reaches in, gives the woman his signature touch.
Look around. All clear.
Pick up the keys on the ground, use them to open the back hatch, a blanket and a towel, good enough, take them and cover her. No one will notice unless they’re looking hard.
When he’s done, he wants a drink of water.
Punch the LOCK button on the remote, clenching sounds of the automatic locks responding, do it again, the car beeps twice, do it again, he likes the sound, beep-beep, no time, walk, casual walk, to the rental car.
Get in and wait. Nobody coming. They will soon. He will have to hurry.
Drive in a square, look for tails, look for them, any direction.
Then find that store that sells the chain saw.
I MAKE IT TO the police station before five. I give my name to the desk sergeant, who sends me up. The smells of burned coffee and cheap cologne over body odor, the sure signs of any cop house, greet me before Ricki Stoletti does. Behind her, the station house is buzzing. One cop is typing up a report on a computer, with a distressed woman giving him details. Another, in his office, a captain or lieutenant, is having a heated phone conversation. Other people are moving about, handing each other documents and poring over information. Faces I recognize from this morning. The task force at work.
Detective Stoletti greets me with her usual warmth and enthusiasm. I give her the paper bag that holds the letter I just received from the offender. She hands it off to a uniform and opens her arm to an interview room off the squad room. I follow her in and take a seat. She leaves me in there alone, which feels weird. Before my imagination has the chance to get too far down this road, McDermott walks in with Stoletti. They both make a point of sitting across from me. Stoletti plays with a folder resting in front of her.
“I confess,” I say, trying to lighten the moment, but I get no takers.
McDermott stares at me with the poker face.
“You’ll need to follow up on those messenger services with that last letter,” I add. “See how he got the envelope into my building.”
“We will,” he says. He rubs his face. “Riley, I’m fucking tired. And I’m in a hurry, because our offender seems to be, too. So help me get my arms around a few things.”
“Shoot.”
“You don’t have to-it’s up to you to answer or not.”
I stare at him, then at Stoletti. “You sound like a guy who’s trying to read me my Miranda rights without reading them to me.”
As I finish the sentence, I lose my smile. That matches the expression on the faces of the two cops across from me.
“You’re here voluntarily,” Stoletti says.
That’s what you tell people to avoid a Miranda warning.
I adjust in my seat. “Why don’t you tell me what the hell is going on?”
“Why’s this guy picking you?” he asks me.
“Because I’m the poster boy. I’m the guy who put away Terry Burgos.”
“So he sends you cryptic notes?”
I can’t read this asshole’s mind. I point that out to them.
“Ever heard of the Sherwood Executive Center?” he asks.
I shake my head. I have no idea what he’s talking about.
“Fred Ciancio,” he says. “He’s working that shopping mall as a security guard, right?”
“Right,” I say.
“Well, in June of 1989-about a week before the murders-he puts in for a temporary reassignment. He asks for a transfer.”
“To the Sherwood Executive Center?” I gather.
“Give the man a prize.” A joke without a smile.
“What’s significant about that?”
McDermott makes a face but doesn’t answer. He wants me to answer.
“I have no idea,” I say.
“Cassie Bentley’s doctors were at the Sherwood Executive Center,” he tells me. “Sherwood Heights is right by Highland Woods, where she lived.”
“Okay?” I don’t know what conclusion I’m supposed to draw from that.
“Think it’s a coincidence?” he asks me.
I don’t answer. I wouldn’t know how.
“Reason Fred Ciancio gave for the transfer,” he continues. “He said that his mother was undergoing chemotherapy at the building. He wanted to be close to her. He asked for a three-week reassignment to that building, to cover the course of her treatment.”
I think about that. Fred Ciancio got himself transferred by Bristol Security to one of their other buildings-a building that housed Cassie Bentley’s doctors. I’m not a big fan of coincidences, but life can be strange, and, when it comes to coincidences, this is not exactly earth-shattering.