the number of auditors and work twenty-four/seven. Then… maybe… I don’t know, maybe ten days.”
Barry said, “Drummond, you’re in charge of the audit. You get seven days.”
“What?”
He said, “Sally and I will handle this matter about Nash.”
“No. For one thing, I am legally incompetent to handle an audit. Second, I’m going to remain that way.”
Sally said, “Neither you, nor we, have a choice. It’s the only thing you can work on that’s not a conflict of interest.”
Jessica, smiling, said, “Don’t be such a pussy, Drummond. The real work’s done by the green eyeshades. If a legal issue arises that’s beyond your competence, refer it to Barry.”
Boy, it sure looked like I missed a major agreement being late.
Barry gave me a nice screw-you smile and said, “Sink or swim around here, Drummond. This is the big leagues. But if you’re scared, I’ll find another junior associate to handle it.”
No smart lawyer accepts a task that exceeds his legal competence. Nor did I have the slightest doubt why Barry wanted to stuff this audit down my throat. But the proper response was both obvious and irrefutable. Ignore his infantile goading, and tell him to stuff this job.
So I got up, grabbed my legal pad, looked them all dead in the eye and said, “Sure, no problem.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
He had watched with amused detachment the news coverage of his murders. Two brief articles on page 3 of the metro section of the Post, and a couple of oddly casual mentions by the local TV stations was all.
The police were working overtime to avoid a frenzy. They had withheld the connection between his murders, not to mention a few very glaring and meaningful details. This amused him more than anything.
They were hoping he’d fled, or had fed his craving and stopped. They were telling themselves that staying mum about those details was in the best public interest-the only responsible thing to do, really. Getting the locals all worked up would serve no good purpose. Besides, release everything, every last dirty detail, and the copycatters would make careful notes and regard it as an invitation for a free-for-all. Bodies would start popping up all over, and after exposing all the trademark secrets you can’t tell the real deals from the fakers. Couldn’t have that, they were persuading themselves.
Truth was, they’d invent all sorts of silly excuses and theories, and hang with them as long as circumstances permitted. Human nature and bureaucratic instinct was what it was.
Their luck was about to crash. He assumed they’d already formed a task force to dissect his methods and catch him. They always do. As yet, the cell would be small, a group of local flat-foots scrumming and doing their best, though their expertise in such matters was pathetically limited. They’d likely made a few phone calls to the FBI but weren’t yet on their knees begging for help. Nor were they getting much, he guessed.
Odd how it always took the third. The first nearly always was regarded as an everyday thing or an aberration unlikely to be repeated. Too bad, tragic and all that, but hey, shit happens. Standing over that second corpse, they stroked their chins a bit more doggedly and gave consideration to going frantic, but somehow they always reined back the urge. Three just was the golden number that kicked the scaffold from under their feet.
And what a memorable third she’d be. By afternoon, the local cops would feel hopelessly out of their depth and like all mortals would turn to a higher authority, for guidance, for expertise, for someone else to share the blame. The calls would be frenzied and the Fibbies would start crawling over everything. Their Director lived here. He likely got the Washington Post delivered to his house each and every morning. Right there, on his front doorstep, before he even had that first sip from his morning coffee, it would be rubbed in his nose-a sexually perverted murdering maniac was performing his filthy deeds in his backyard. His wife and kids would see it on TV, for Godsakes.
Truth was, the sooner the FBI got into this thing the better. According to his script their time had come.
Carolyn Fiorio-she’d bring them, stampeding and tripping all over themselves. She would remove any last vestige of doubt that a depraved monster was tormenting Washington.
At that very moment, in fact, he was admiring her cool poise on the tiny TV screen in the back of the big stretch limo. The death sentence was the issue and the debate was passionate and fierce. Only twenty-nine years old, and there she sat with two silver-tongued senators and a fat, tart-mouthed Republican tout, holding her own quite nicely.
The fat Republican was rude and obnoxious, an advocate who interrupted frequently and howled every point. One of the senators, another dyed-in-the-wool advocate, kept trying to exploit his age and prestigious title to condescend to Carolyn, a slyer but similarly poisonous form of rudeness. The other senator was a fence-sitter, too weaselly to take a stand, his head and eyes swiveling back and forth, leaving Carolyn to tote the position of opposition on her own. No problem-she required no help, as best he could tell.
She was lovely and angelic-looking, and the ruder the Republican tout got, the better she looked. Hers was the power of contrast, and every time he got to loudly spouting his crap, the camera veered between them, making him appear somehow fatter, and meaner, and his position became not the one you’d want to associate with. Every time the condescending senator said “Wellll, miss,” in that languorous way he did, she peered into the camera, and somehow, the audience couldn’t help but see him for a pompous, bullying idiot.
She was cunning and her opponents paid savagely for underrating her. CNN tossed her six million big ones a year to orchestrate the most watched talk show on TV, the liberals’ version of that O’Reilly Factor, and she was worth every penny. She banged the Nielsen ratings right out of the park and advertisers lined up and threw in the big dough. She was bunnylike perky, had a fly-trap mind, and murdered her guests with a patina of innocence assassins would die for.
America’s Girl, they called her on the ads. Newsweek, TIME, People, and an assortment of lesser rags had splashed her on their covers, the smart girl everybody just loved to love. She had come out of nowhere and taken the journalistic world by storm. She was some phenomenon, that girl.
He watched her close the show, turning to the camera with those pleading blue eyes and a rueful smile. “The issue is the death sentence. Is it right for a civilized nation to kill as revenge? Remember, when that executioner pulls the lever that sends fifty thousand volts coursing through another human being, he represents you and me. If what he does is wrong, aren’t we all guilty?”
He shook his head, reached forward, and shut off the five-inch screen. Oh yeah, she was good-had the golden touch, that girl. He lifted the black hat off the seat beside him, shoved it over his wig, and climbed out of the backseat. Two minutes later, he was standing attentively in a pitch-dark suit beside the long black car outside the studio.
Carolyn Fiorio was being honored as Newsperson of the Year at a big, fancy dinner at the National Press Club. The royalty of American journalism had flown in from far and wide for the big bash, to bask in the glow of her lovable glory. Her show ended at 7:00, and the dinner kicked off at 7:15, so she frantically dodged out the studio entrance and jogged straight toward the rear door of the shiny black stretch limo.
He held open the door and very politely said, “Evening, Miss Fiorio. Fine show this evening.”
“Thanks,” she murmured and climbed inside. Never gave him a second look. None of them ever did. The limo came from a service that shuttled lookalike cars and anonymous drivers to rich customers throughout the city.
He gently shut the door, admired his own reflection in the blackened windows, then walked swiftly around and got into the driver’s seat, turned the ignition key, and pulled smoothly away from the curb. Miguel Martinez, the service driver, was stuffed on the floor by his feet, a bullet hole in his forehead.
He briefly glanced back and said, “National Press Club, right, miss?”
“That’s right. And I really need to be there in ten minutes.”
He chuckled. “So I gotta hurry, huh?”
“Yes, I’d appreciate it.” She dug into her purse and began pulling things out. “There’s a welcoming party, and some camera crews waiting for my entrance.”
He allowed a respectable minute to pass before he said over his right shoulder, “Tough life you got.”
Her laugh sounded more melodic than on TV. “I’m sitting in the back of a big stretch limo, raking in a fortune, and you think my life’s tough?”
