‘Like corn futures, hog futures, only wine. Reads like a Robin Leach script for “Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous,” doesn’t it?’
Gino looked up. ‘This is bizarre. But not necessarily incriminating. I was hoping for a correspondence course in serial killing, something like that.’
Magozzi smiled. ‘He’s got a Victoria’s Secret charge account that runs him a few grand a year.’
‘What?’
‘Yep.’
‘Is he wearing it or giving it away?’
‘That, Tommy couldn’t tell us. But put that together with dinners out and his romantic weekend getaways to Saint Bart’s and I’m guessing he likes the ladies.’
Gino looked thoroughly depressed. ‘Shit. And I wanted to hate this guy. How can you hate a guy like that? What about the Human Pencil?’
Magozzi pulled up a chair next to Gino. ‘Can’t tell much from the kind of records Tommy was able to access, except the shrink thing. He’s got a nice fat investment portfolio he leaves pretty much alone, a house on Nicollet Island, and nothing really interesting in the money trail. Aside from bicycle and computer stuff, and some pretty generous charitable donations, he doesn’t seem to spend any.’
‘What kind of charities?’
Magozzi shrugged. ‘Homeless shelters, domestic-abuse centers, youth-at-risk programs, stuff like that.’
‘The kind of places he probably spent a lot of time in as a kid.’
‘Probably.’
Gino sighed and closed the folder. ‘He’s kind of a sad sack, isn’t he?’
‘A sad sack with a carry permit and four registered guns.’
‘Not exactly a standout in that group. Still, he’s a misfit weirdo loner who most likely had a bad childhood, keeps to himself, and likes his guns. Is that classic, or what?’
Magozzi sighed and ran a hand through his hair. ‘Actually, it sounds like half the cops on the force.’ He stood up and went back to the blackboard. ‘The truth is we could plug in any one of the five and make them fit some psycho-in-training profile. These are strange people, Gino.’
‘Tell me about it.’
‘But there’s nothing solid that says any of them are doing the killing.’ Magozzi bounced his chalk in his hands a few times, then drew an X with a circle around it beneath the list of Monkeewrench names.
‘That’s a kiss inside a hug, right?’ Gino asked.
‘That’s our other option, Mr X. Some creep fixated on Grace, did the killings in Georgia, lost track of them, or maybe went to the big house for a while on another rap. He gets out, finds them, and starts killing again.’ He cocked his head and looked at Gino. ‘It’s a possibility. We’ve got to consider it.’
‘Along with the possibility that the two series of murders aren’t related at all. That this is just some new psycho playing their stupid-ass game.’ He blew out a disgusted sigh. ‘So basically we’re nowhere, right where we’ve been all along.’
Magozzi nodded. ‘I’d say that just about sums it up.’ He tossed the chalk in the tray and brushed the white dust from his fingers. ‘And I’ll tell you something else. We’ve got to find a way to put round-the-clock tails on these people.’
‘What are we going to use, the Girl Scouts? Half the law enforcement in the state is out at the mall. We’re so short on the street I was thinking of robbing a bank myself.’
‘We’ve got to do it. Monkeewrench is in this too deep. If it’s not one of them, it’s someone with a serious beef against one or all of them. And you can bet your pension that if he’s starting to make contact, he’s feeling a need to get closer. That’s straight out of Profiling for Dummies. And e-mails aren’t going to keep him satisfied for long.’
Gino swiped a hand over the top of his thinning hair. ‘So you think he’s going to try to make personal contact soon.’
‘I think it’s a pretty safe bet.’
Detective Aaron Langer stopped by one of the huge concrete pillars that supported the parking deck above and watched two women and four kids pile out of an old Suburban. He followed them with his eyes until they made it to the walkway that led to Macy’s, wondering what the hell was wrong with people these days. You tell them there’s probably going to be a shooting at the Mall of America and what do they do? They bring their kids. Jesus.
He started walking back toward Nordstrom, head swiveling right and left, trying to watch everything. It was just after one o’clock and the parking decks were almost full. When he’d dressed for work this morning he’d imagined patrolling an enormous empty slab of concrete, so he’d worn the warm Perry Ellis overcoat his wife had gotten him for his birthday. Now the black wool was filthy from brushing up against cars that weren’t supposed to be there, that shouldn’t have been there if their owners had had half a brain. The upside was that the killer probably wouldn’t be able to find a parking space.
They had two uniforms and four mall security types on each level of the massive parking decks, twenty unmarkeds cruising the ramps nonstop, and ten detectives on foot coordinating the patrols. He was responsible for levels P-4 through P-7 in the West ramps, an assignment that had particularly pleased his wife since he’d be close to Macy’s, and that had simply blown him away. Here he was putting himself in the line of fire, and all she could think of was that he could go in on a break and pick up a pair of the nylons she liked while they were still on sale. He’d told her he probably wouldn’t have time, what with dodging a psychopathic killer and all, and she’d just rolled her eyes and told him not to be silly, that there was no way a murderer would show up at the one place everyone was expecting him.
And that, he assumed, was undoubtedly the same logic all these other shoppers were employing today. And they were probably right.
He was scanning the rows to his right and nearly ran into a guy from Channel 10 with a handheld. Another reason for the killer to stay home. The media was damn near as strong a presence on the parking decks as law enforcement. So far he’d had six requests for on-camera interviews, interrupting his surveillance, irritating the hell out of him.
‘Hey! Watch where you’re going, buddy!’ the cameraman complained.
Langer tapped the leather badge clipped to his breast pocket.
‘Oh, sorry, Detective.’ The camera whirred to life. ‘Could you answer a few questions, Detective?’
‘Sorry, I’m working.’
The cameraman trotted after him, infuriatingly persistent. ‘How long do the police plan to keep up this kind of intensive patrolling, Detective? Are there other areas of the city being left without protection while so much of the force is diverted to the Mall of America?’
Langer stopped and looked down at the shoes that were too thin-soled for walking on cold concrete, then he looked straight up into the camera and smiled. This guy wanted an interview? He’d give him a friggin’ interview. ‘What are you doing here, buddy? Making a snuff film? Trying to catch a murder on tape so you can show it to the kiddies on the five-o’clock news?’
The camera shut off abruptly, and the cameraman eased the unit off his shoulder and looked at Langer with a wounded expression. ‘Hey, I’m just doing my job here. Covering the story.’
‘Really. You know maybe I could buy that if you’d just come down here to film all the hullabaloo and then left, but the fact is you’ve all been here as long as I have.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘That’s three hours so far, so don’t give me that business about covering a story when what you’re really doing is waiting for it to happen, which in this case means you’re waiting to film one of your viewers getting her head blown off. Now I don’t know what that makes you, but I do know it ought to make you ashamed.’