“Yes, definitely. I remember watching the news while I was in New York the very night after I had talked to Slater.”
Salman had spilled enough details in the previous hour to make his testimony credible. Sam had been in New York four months ago. She knew the pub Salman referred to, a low-class joint frequented by your typical mix of unsavory characters. A CIA task force had set up a sting at the joint to flush out an Iranian whom they suspected had ties to a bombing in Egypt. The man had exonerated himself.
“Okay.” She turned to Steve Jules, the agent who’d accompanied her from the Houston office. “I’m done. Thank you for your time, Mr. Salman. It was invaluable.”
“Perhaps I could make you a suit,” he said with a grin. “I have a new shop here. There aren’t so many tailors in Houston as in New York.”
She smiled. “Maybe next time I’m in Houston to escape the heat.”
They left the bar in Steve’s car. This wasn’t what she’d wanted to hear. In fact, it was downright dreadful. What if she was right about the rest of it? Dear God, dear God.
She wanted only one thing now: to be with Kevin. Kevin needed her more now than ever. The despondent look on his face as she sped off to the airport haunted her.
Her childhood friend had grown into quite an incredible man, hadn’t he? Tormented by his past, perhaps, but he’d escaped that hellhole he called a home and flourished. Part of her wanted nothing more than to run back to him and throw herself in his arms and beg him to marry her. Sure he had his demons; everyone did. Yes, he had a long struggle ahead of him; didn’t they all? But he was the most genuine man she’d ever known. His eyes shone with the excitement and wonder of a child, and his mind had absorbed the world with stunning capacity. His progress was nearly superhuman.
On the other hand, she could never marry Kevin. Their relationship was too valuable to compromise with romance. He saw that too, otherwise he never would have allowed room for any attraction to Jennifer. Their occasional romantic innuendo was simply teasing. They both knew that.
She sighed.
“Tough interview,” Steve said beside her.
She picked up her cell phone and punched in her boss’s number. It would be late, but she had to get this to him. “I thought it went pretty smoothly,” she said.
Roland picked up the phone on the fourth ring. “It’s midnight.”
“He was two hours late,” Sam said.
“And?”
“And he knew Slater.”
“Our guy?”
“Very possible. Tattoo like that is extremely unusual. But he claims to have known Slater in New York.”
“So.”
“So it was four months ago. Over a period of about a month. The Riddle Killer was in Sacramento then, killing Roy Peters.”
“So Slater’s not the Riddle Killer.”
“That’s right.”
“Copy cat?”
“Could be.”
“And if Slater is the boy, he’s no longer walking around with a dagger tattoo on his forehead because he had it removed.”
“So it seems.”
Roland covered the phone and spoke to someone—probably his wife unless he was in a late meeting, which was entirely possible.
“I want you back in Sacramento tomorrow,” he said. “If Slater isn’t the Riddle Killer, he’s not your concern.”
“I know, sir. I have three days left on my leave, remember?”
“We called you back in, remember?”
“Because we believed that Slater was the Riddle Killer. If he’s not, the trail’s cold.”
Roland considered her argument. He wasn’t the most reasonable man when it came to time off. He put in eighty hours a week and expected his subordinates to do the same.
“Please, sir, I go way back with Kevin. He’s practically family to me. I swear, three more days and I’ll be back in the office. You have to let me do this. And there’s still the chance that I’m wrong about Salman’s testimony.”
“Yes, there is.”
“It’s still possible that Slater knows the Riddle Killer.”
“Possible.”
“Then give me more time.”
“You heard about the library?”
“The whole world heard about the library.”
He sighed. “Three days. I expect to see you at your desk Thursday morning. And please, tread lightly down there. This is unofficial. From what I’ve heard the whole scene is one big snake pit. Every agency in the country has a stake in this.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Roland hung up.
Sam considered calling Jennifer but decided it could wait until morning. She could tell her only that Slater wasn’t the Riddle Killer. She needed to satisfy herself as to the rest before she said anything that might do Kevin more harm than good.
She’d already checked on flights back. No red eyes, one at 6 A.M. and one at 9 A.M. She needed sleep. The nine o’clock United flight would have to do. It would take her through the Denver hub and put her in Long Beach at noon.
“Okay . . .” Kevin watched Jennifer pace the warehouse floor. They’d delayed plans to share details of the warehouse with the police and instead decided to use the place as a staging area. It was the only way to keep Milton off her back, Jennifer said.
“Let’s review what we doknow.”
Agents Bill Galager and Brett Mickales straddled chairs by the table, chins in their hands, focused on Jennifer. Kevin leaned against the wall, arms crossed. It was hopeless. They were beat; they were clueless; they were dead. They’d rehashed a hundred ideas in the two hours since Slater’s note had been discovered.
“We know that he’s escalating. Car, bus, building. We know that all of his other threats made reference to damage of some kind. This one did not. We know that we have until 6 A.M. to solve or . . . or what we don’t know. And we know the riddle. Who escapes their prison but is captive still?”
Jennifer spread her hands.
“You’re forgetting the most crucial bit of knowledge,” Kevin said.
“Which is?”
“The fact that we’re toast.”
They stared at him as if he’d just walked in and flashed his pecs. A wry grin crossed Jennifer’s face. “Humor’s good.”
“People,” Mickales said. “He’s gonna do people this time.”
“There were people every time.”
“But he went after a car, a bus, and a building. This time he goes straight after people.”
“Kidnapping,” Kevin said.
“We’ve suggested that. It’s a possibility.”
“If you ask me, it’s the best one,” Mickales said. He stood up. “It fits.”
Jennifer crossed to the table, eyes suddenly wide. “Okay, unless anybody has a better idea, we’ll chase that.”
“Why would Slater kidnap anyone?” Kevin asked.
“For the same reason he threatened to blow up a bus,” Mickales said. “To force a confession.”
Kevin stared at the man, suddenly overwhelmed. They’d been at it ad nauseam and they kept coming up with the same thing, which was essentially nothing. In the end it always came back to his confession.
“Look.” He could feel the heat rising up his spine. He shouldn’t be doing this—he was beyond himself. “If I had the slightest clue as to what this wacko wanted me to confess, you think I would hold out?”
“Easy, man. Nobody’s suggesting—”
“I don’t have the foggiest notion what his crazy confession is! He’s nuts!” Kevin stepped toward them, aware that he’d crossed a line already. “They’re out there screaming bloody murder for Kevin’s confession. Well, I gave them one, didn’t I? I told them I killed someone as a kid. But they want more. They want real blood. They want me to bleed all over their gossip columns! Kevin, the kid killer who brought down Long Beach!”
His fingers were trembling. They looked at him in silence.
He ran his fingers through his hair. “Man . . .”
“Nobody’s screaming bloody murder out there,” Jennifer said.
“I’m sorry. I’m just . . . I don’t know what to do. This isn’t all my fault.”