I was sitting at the window of a coffee shop in Adams Morgan. When Joe Greenbaum came in, I looked down the street in both directions. There was no obvious tail.
“Jesus, Joe, that stuff will kill you,” I said, when he sat down with an enormous mug of cream-topped coffee. “So, what have you discovered?”
“The house in Georgetown is owned by a company called N.E.W.S. Properties,” he said, swallowing from the mug.
“Mean anything to you?”
The reporter grinned. “Sure. It’s a subsidiary of Woodbridge Holdings.”
That rang a bell. “Woodbridge Holdings?” I repeated. “That was the name on the logging truck I stowed away on in Maine.” The logo came back to me, too. “The words were written on an open newspaper.”
“You got it, Matt,” Joe said, licking cream from his mustache. “It’s kinda interesting. Woodbridge Holdings owns numerous papers across the country, including that rag the Star Reporter. They also own large stretches of forest and produce their own stocks of paper. Guess where?”
“Not Maine by any chance?”
“Bull’s-eye again, Matt.”
“The camp I escaped from-maybe Woodbridge Holdings owns that, too.”
Joe gulped down the last of his coffee. “They certainly have enough of Maine under their belts. There’s more. They also have interests in drug research and production. And, to advise them on their substantial foreign investments, they use a London-based bank by the name of-”
“Routh Limited. Employers of one Gavin Burdett.”
“Correct. Did you never see Woodbridge Holdings in Karen’s files, Matt? She must have known about them, since she was after Burdett.”
I shrugged. “I may have, but I don’t remember.” I broke off as a nasty thought came to me. “Maybe they wiped stuff like that from my memory at the camp.”
“Doesn’t seem to have been wholly successful,” Joe observed.
“Not wholly.” Then, suddenly, I felt as if the furniture in my brain had started to rearrange itself. Things I hadn’t been able to connect came together. “Karen must have found evidence linking Woodbridge and Routh. So she was kidnapped.”
“And so were you, after you kicked up such a fuss.” Joe looked down at his empty cup. “But that doesn’t explain the occult murders. I can’t believe they’re doing them just to frame you. Besides, the first one happened before you escaped.”
I remembered the BlackBerry I’d taken from Gavin Burdett and handed it to Joe. “See what you can find in that. Back in London I tailed Burdett to an occult supplies shop. Maybe there’s some link between him and the killings.”
The reporter looked at me doubtfully. “You think he’s the murderer?”
“He’s a sleazy bastard,” I said, then shook my head. “But I doubt he’s capable of murder. Anyway, he’s the kind of tosser who would pay somebody else to do his dirty work.”
“He works for Woodbridge Holdings, so that puts the focus on them. And we’re in luck there. They have their head office in this fair city.”
“Is that right? What about the Antichurch? Did you find anything on it?”
Joe sighed. “A few references on the kind of Web site that’s written and read by crazies. People seem pretty much in awe of it, though. Or scared shitless. I sent my e-mail address and asked them to contact me, but don’t hold your breath.”
“Jesus, Joe, that was taking a chance. You’ve made yourself a target.”
He shrugged. “Not for the first time. They’ll have to get in line.”
I was impressed by his understated courage. “What happened at the FBI press conference?”
“Nothing much. They didn’t release the dead man’s name-they say they’re contacting the family. They seemed pretty sure the occult killer got him. There’s some evidence linking the victim to the others, but they didn’t give details.”
I stood up.
“What are you going to do, Matt?” Joe asked apprehensively.
I smiled. “Don’t worry. I’ve kicked enough kneecaps for one day.”
That didn’t seem to reassure him much. “They’ll really be after you now,” he said.
“Give me the Woodbridge Holdings address, will you?”
Joe tore out a page from his notebook and scribbled some words, then handed it over. “Don’t do anything rash, Matt.”
I laughed. “What, like stand outside shouting ‘Give me back my memory’?”
“That would fit the bill.”
I squeezed his shoulder. “Don’t worry, my friend. I’ll be careful. I’ve got Karen to worry about.”
I felt his eyes on me as I headed for the door.
Chief of Detectives Rodney Owen was standing outside an apartment building in southeast Washington. Although the lights of Capitol Hill were under a mile away, the area wasn’t much of a picture. Apartments were gradually being taken by yuppie types, but the recession had made things hard for them and many of the buildings were still occupied by people with little to their names. Uniformed officers had strung barrier tape around the entrance and were keeping the curious at bay.
Clem Simmons arrived and saw the chief immediately. He sighed in relief when he saw no sign of Peter Sebastian or Dana Maltravers.
Owen came over. “I broke the speed limit.”
“I was wondering,” Simmons replied.
“Yeah, well, I want this case. Till we’re sure it’s the same killer, it’s definitely ours. That asshole Sebastian can kiss my ass.”
Simmons smiled. If he’d been a nervous man, he’d have felt bad about the meeting with Matt Wells and Joe Greenbaum, but that didn’t bother him. He reckoned they were reliable. Whether this murder was in the series or not, law enforcement needed all the help it could get.
A taxi pulled up and disgorged Pinker, without his false mustache.
“Cool threads,” one of the uniformed officers said, provoking a scowl from the detective.
Owen grinned. “Sure you aren’t overdressed, Vers? I hear it’s pretty messy up there.”
“Do my brother good to get the real world’s substances on his clothes.” He accepted overshoes and gloves from his partner. “What do we know?”
Owen glanced at his notebook. “Patrolmen were called by a neighbor who heard a scream from the vic’s apartment on the top floor. He looked through his peephole and saw a figure in a hooded jacket come down the stairs-didn’t see the face. The call was logged at 8:26 p.m. Our heroic citizen stayed behind his locked door. He says he didn’t look down at the street.”
“Can’t blame him for prioritizing his own skin,” Simmons said. “You ready?”
Pinker nodded. The pair headed into the building.
“Check out the buzzer panel,” Owen called. “Second button from the top.”
“Crystal Vileda,” Pinker read. “Diviner.” He looked at his partner. “What the hell does that mean?”
“Means she read the future,” Simmons said, walking into a hallway that had once been elegant but was now very shabby.
“Oh, yeah? Unless she had a death wish, she couldn’t have been much good.”
Clem Simmons shook his head. Sometimes he found Vers too much.
A CSI was working at the elevator, so they walked up to the fourth floor. The house was narrow, one apartment per level. The door at the top was open, another technician dusting the panels for prints. They went inside, stepping around a CSI who was on her knees, examining the rug.
“Gentlemen,” said Dr. Marian Gilbert, stepping back from a large armchair. Her face was flushed. “I was wondering where you’d got to.”
“Jesus,” Pinker said involuntarily.
The detectives took in the naked body sprawled across the chair, arms wide and legs sprawling. The woman was white, though olive-skinned. She looked to be in her thirties and was in good physical condition. Pinker was reminded of poses taken by women in porn movies-except they didn’t usually have chopsticks projecting from their nostrils.
“Quite,” the M.E. said, glancing at the police photographer. “Are you done?”
The man nodded and stepped back.
“What do you see, Doc?” Simmons asked. He was trying to resist the temptation to throw his coat over the victim-he felt ashamed to be looking at her in such an exposed state.