I nodded. “But you don’t think I’m guilty of them.”
“It’s up to you to convince me of that. Tell me, you got an interest in black magic, that kind of stuff?”
I raised my shoulders. “Interest, no. Involvement, yes. In the past I was chased by a pair of killers who played around with satanic names and imagery.”
“The White Devil and the Soul Collector. I read about them. Seems you’re pretty good at looking after yourself.”
“I took precautions,” I said, and then told him something about the training I’d undergone with Dave. Then I got on to the camp and my escape from it.
When I’d finished, Simmons glanced at Joe and shook his head. “Is this guy for real?”
Joe and I laughed, then saw the serious look on his face.
“It ever occur to you that the Soul Collector could be behind these murders, Matt?” Simmons asked. “I mean, she’s bound to have your fingerprints, isn’t she?”
“Yup,” I said. “But if she is, I’ve no idea how to nail her, especially off my home ground.”
“She couldn’t have got herself involved with this Antichurch of Lucifer Triumphant, could she?” Joe asked.
I didn’t mention that they were at the camp-I didn’t know him well enough to spill my guts completely. “Sara’s capable of anything,” I said. “But we’d be better off tracking the Antichurch itself.”
The detective shook his head. “The FBI has got their Hate Crimes people involved.”
“Any reason why you can’t run a check, as well?” I asked.
“Apart from the fact that I’m off the case?” Simmons shrugged. “I guess I can do that.”
I nodded. I liked the man, but he wasn’t exactly buzzing with solutions to my problems. Karen was as lost as ever, while I was still suspect number one.
“Yeah,” Simmons said, “I can check the Antichurch out, at least here in D.C., but that won’t keep you out of jail down the line, my friend. And I’ve got other cases now.”
“What about the latest victim?” Joe asked. “Any ID yet?”
The detective shook his head. “Not that I’ve heard of. The Feds won’t be telling me anything, though.”
“But he is another occult killing,” I said.
“You tell me, Matt,” Simmons said. “Personally, I’m not convinced. Could be a copycat.”
“Oh, great,” Joe said, with a groan. “Now we’ve got two crazies terrorizing the capital of the world?”
The detective caught my eye. “So, what are you going to do?”
I smiled. “You sure you want to know?”
“Probably not.” He looked at Joe. “I’m trusting you to keep me informed.”
Joe nodded. “Anything helpful you want to drop our way?”
Clem Simmons checked the area. There was no one near us. He slid his hand inside his coat and handed a brown envelope to Joe. “I must be out of my mind,” he said morosely. “You didn’t get these from me. The press doesn’t know about them. Every victim’s body except the last had a drawing pinned to it. See if you can figure out what these mean before the assholes in the Bureau do. And make sure you tell me first.” He walked away at surprising speed for such a bulky man.
Joe and I looked at the photocopies. The names of the relevant victim had been printed on each sheet, along with an arrow pointing upward. I examined the different arrays of geometric shapes, but couldn’t make a meaningful pattern out of them.
“Doesn’t look particularly occult to me,” Joe said.
“No,” I agreed. “Then again, the Antichurch of Lucifer Lunatic notwithstanding, we don’t think the murders really have too much to do with the black arts, do we?”
He shook his head. “In which case, what is this shit?”
“Joseph, I don’t have the faintest idea.”
We split up before we reached the paved road.
Clem Simmons was looking out of the office window. He didn’t register the walls of the neighboring buildings or the pale blue autumn sky above. Instead, he was watching himself as he would soon be-a man in late middle age without a job or, most likely, a pension. Although he’d considered what to do carefully before the meet, after the event his thought processes seemed pathetically flawed. He’d been sure that slipping information to Joe Greenbaum would be an agreeable way of sticking it to the Feds, and perhaps garner some new insight. He had contacts that Clem could only dream about. But the reporter had blind-sided him with Matt Wells. And, even more surprisingly, Clem had been convinced by the Englishman’s crazy story.
He shook his head. Ever since the cancer had taken Nina, he’d been struggling. Until the occult killings, he hadn’t really cared whether he and Vers caught murderers. The only thing he’d wanted was to get back to the house he and his wife had shared for twenty-four years, to take in her scent before it finally faded from her clothes. But these cases were different. He had a burning need to find the killer, no matter the cost. Perhaps it was because a voodoo believer had been murdered, but he thought it was more than that. If he could crack this case, if he could solve it before the Feds, he could retire happy. And now it was more likely he’d be sent packing without a penny to his name.
Gerard Pinker came up. “Where the hell have you been?” he demanded. “I got so bored waiting I went down to the coffee shop to check out the girls in uniform.”
Clem Simmons handed him a sheaf of pages, each one in a transparent cover.
“What’s this?”
“New information, a letter addressed to me by the guy in the Anacostia River.”
“What?”
“Keep your voice down. We’re off the case, remember?”
“Wait a minute.” Pinker looked at his partner apprehensively. “You mean, you haven’t shown this to Chief Owen?”
“Nope. He’d have to pass it to the Feds.”
“What are we going to do with it?”
“Follow it up, of course. You’d better read it first.”
Gerard Pinker went through the text, taking in the photocopied photographs that had been attached. When he’d finished, he dragged his chair over and slumped into it. “Christmas has come early for us this year.”
Clem Simmons finished writing. “Could be… Okay, here are the main points as I see them. The first photo confirms this is the dead man, right?”
Pinker nodded. “Hold up. Where did the letter come from?”
“The owner of the Travel Happy Motel brought it in. The maid found it on the bed this morning. The envelope was marked ‘Urgent.’”
“He must have seen you on the TV.”
“Yeah, that press conference after Monsieur Hexie was found.” Simmons looked back at his notes. “So, the floater is Richard Bonhoff, a forty-three-year-old farmer from Iowa. He came to D.C. a week ago to find Gwen and Randy, his twenty-one-year-old twin children.”
Pinker sat up straight. “Who won a competition in the Star Reporter last December that brought them here, and they were looked after by our friend Gordy Lister. No wonder that fucker looked shifty yesterday.”
“According to the dead man, Lister tried to scare him off with a couple of heavies and Bonhoff, ex-marine that he was, dealt with them as only marines can. Then Lister took him to see his kids. They’ve apparently become junkies. When he went back to find them later, there was no one around.”
Pinker stared at his partner. “What do you reckon? Gordy Lister’s into dope? Or maybe he’s running some kind of white slave ring.”
“You reckon Lister’s up to that, Vers?”
“Hell, yeah. That little prick would sell his mother if the price was right.”
Simmons nodded. “Yeah, he probably would. But I think there’s more to it than Gordy running a solo scam. I think there might be something in what Bonhoff says about Woodbridge Holdings being involved.”
“Could be. They own the Star Reporter, so they aren’t exactly scoring high in the ethical business chart. What else are they into?”
“I’m about to start working on that.”
Pinker stood up. “So what do we do? Haul in Lister?”