“You haven’t read it?” Mahoney said.
“This is your case, Ned,” Loughlin said, holding up his palms. “I learned to respect jurisdictional boundaries my first day on the job as a cop, walking a beat around Fenway at a hundred fricking degrees in the—”
The pilot put the chopper in a tight, downward spiral then landed in the cul-de-sac right in front of White’s property. The LA media had gotten wind of the case. There were several satellite trucks parked back down the road and reporters standing at the barricades.
Many of them seemed to recognize Loughlin as he exited because they ran forward in a crouch beneath the rotor wash. When he stood up, they began yelling questions at him, wondering why the FBI was there instead of local law enforcement.
“Isn’t it obvious?” Loughlin shouted back. “An FBI agent is the victim. Use your brains for once, will ya? You have them, don’t ya?”
Then he walked away, leaving the reporters slack-jawed. We followed him up the driveway as he griped, “Worst part of the frickin’ job, talking to reporters. Not one of those bozos knows how to listen. But can they talk! Just like hens, always squawking.”
I was barely listening, too impressed by Special Agent White’s home. And the grounds too were beautiful, even at night.
“Did you know he lived this way, Pat?” Mahoney asked.
“Honestly, I didn’t,” Loughlin said. “But I did hear more than once that the wife’s family has a lot of dough.”
I asked, “Where is she? The wife?”
“Under protection at her parents’ place in Pasadena. Poor thing was ripped apart when we spoke.”
“We’ll need to talk with her.”
“First thing in the a.m. Tonight, I want you both to see White in situ before we put him on ice pending autopsy.”
An agent at the door gave us blue booties, latex gloves, and hairnets before we entered. The furnishings were high end. You could see it within two steps. No money had been spared building or decorating this house.
“I could afford the bathroom in this place,” Loughlin said. “Maybe a closet too. That’s about it, though.”
The agent led us into the great-room area where Mason White was still tied to a ladder-back chair. A sheet had been laid over his lap.
But the first thing I saw was White’s bulging eyes and the wire garrote cinched so tight around his neck, it had cut arteries. The room reeked of blood and other body fluids expelled as he died.
“He’s a big boy,” I said, circling the corpse. “Look at the neck on him. Have to be someone awful strong to do that to a former offensive lineman. And what’s that wound low on the left side of his torso?”
An FBI forensics tech said, “A puncture. Looks like it was done with, like, a thin knitting needle.”
“Or a hypodermic dart from a high-powered air gun,” I said. “Look at the bruising around it.”
The tech stepped forward and peered at the bruise and hole. “Might explain it too.”
Mahoney said, “Has the scene been photographed?”
“Yes, but not processed,” the tech said.
Mahoney picked up the envelope marked CONFESSION / FBI EYES ONLY.
“I think we qualify,” Loughlin said.
Ned nodded, cut the flap with the blade of his pocketknife, and extracted four handwritten pages. The three of us studied them.
I wasn’t two paragraphs down page one when Loughlin said, “Jesus H. Christ of Latter-Day Saints. Is this for frickin’ real? A Mormon assassin?”
Chapter 19
Paris
Bree entered the crowded Toujours Printemps café and patisserie on the Left Bank the morning after she’d gone to the Canard de Flaque. Marianne Le Tour was seated at the same table, dressed in basic black, her eyes locked on an iPad.
The head of Bluestone Paris was so engrossed, it wasn’t until Bree pulled back her chair that Le Tour startled and looked up. “Bree!”
“Marianne,” Bree said, sliding into the seat. Le Tour was studying her like she was an interesting art object.
“I just saw the data from the GPS chip. Where you went last night.”
“That’s why I turned it on,” Bree said and smiled as the waiter arrived.
They ordered cafés au lait and croissants this time. When the waiter left, Le Tour leaned across the table. In a voice that sounded both upset and admiring, she said, “You went straight to Canard? It’s like his dining room.”
“Exactly. I wanted to observe him in an environment where he feels comfortable.”
Her eyebrows raised. “And did you see him? Abelmar?”
“He was sitting two stools down from me at the bar,” Bree said. She described the scene in detail, including his interaction with his latest personal assistant, Valentina. “I believe she’s being set up to be his next victim.”
Le Tour frowned and crossed her arms. “You do not know that.”
“I’m sorry. Did you read those sealed files?”
The head of Bluestone Paris shrank back a little and shook her head.
“Most of his victims mentioned the restaurant,” Bree said. “Several said they believed they were drugged at Canard before—”
Le Tour held up her hands. “No details. Those files are still sealed here and I do not wish to lose my investigative license.”
“I understand.”
Le Tour sighed. “But I do not understand men like this. I have never met Abelmar, but I have seen his pictures. He is quite handsome.”
“Ruggedly handsome and insanely rich,” Bree agreed. “You’re right. It doesn’t make sense, until you realize that it’s not really about sex. It’s about domination and power, the fact that he can use these women, discard them, pay them off if need be. But most of all, I think he likes it because he gets away with it.”
The head of Bluestone Paris thought about that, then asked, “What will the board of Pegasus need in order to make its decision?”
“My report,” Bree said. “When I’m done investigating.”
The waiter returned with their breakfast. After he left, Bree said, “We also have someone in the London office working on Abelmar’s financials.”
“Really?” Le Tour said, perking up. “Desmond Slattery?”
“Yes. You know him?”
“We met just last year,” Le Tour said and Bree thought her cheeks flushed a little. “He’s quite the character. Scotland Yard. Man’s man.”
“If your idea of a man’s man is someone who wears Savile Row bespoke suits.”
“And wears them well,” Le Tour said and laughed a little girlishly.
Bree grinned at her. “Shall I tell Des you say hello the next time I talk to him?”
“Don’t you dare.” Le Tour smiled, then went to her purse. “Here, you e-mailed me about these last night.” She pushed a thumb drive across the table. “Profiles of the judges.”
Bree took the thumb drive and put it in her pocket, impressed. “That was fast.”
“We have several freelance researchers and hackers on speed-dial.”
“Helpful.”
“Extremely,” she said and checked her watch. “I have one still trying to find copies of the blueprints for Abelmar’s remodel. Can you tell me why you want to see them without giving me any details?”
Bree hesitated. “I’m trying to confirm the existence of secret rooms.”
Le Tour winced, drank her coffee. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“Put someone other than me in Canard tonight and tell me what he does.”
The head of Bluestone Paris shook her head. “That I cannot do. If I put one of my own in there, it will soon be common knowledge in the office that we are looking at Abelmar. And I do not think you want Abelmar knowing that. Correct?”