CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
It was nearly two in the morning, Janet was not answering her cell phone, and I sat at Cheryl’s desk and wondered, with monumental annoyance, why not. So I tried again, got three rings again, and then her throaty recorded voice again saying, “Janet Morrow. Please leave a message and I’ll return your call.”
I said, “Hey, it’s me. I found the connection. Listen… Julia, Anne, and Lisa… they knew one another. This is big, right? Call me. Right now.”
But I wasn’t satisfied. Where could a beautiful twenty-nine-year-old single woman be at this hour, other than in her bed? Well, one just could not ignore the very revolting possibility that she and George the Jerk had completely mended fences, and her cell phone was turned off to avoid coitus interruptus. That suspicion, for some reason, really annoyed me.
So I dug out the Yellow Pages, looked up the Four Seasons Hotel, called the desk, and asked the operator to connect me to Janet Morrow.
In that flat impersonal tone affected by backroom help, she replied, “I’m sorry, that party checked out.”
“What?”
“Sir… I said she checked out.”
“But she… when?”
“Today.”
“Why?”
“I’m sure I don’t have that information, sir.”
“What time today?”
“I’m sure I don’t have that information either.”
“But…”
“I’ll put you through to the desk.”
So she did, and the guy at the desk was both more human and more helpful, informing me that Janet had checked out at six o’clock.
Odd.
No-more than odd. She had never informed me she was leaving. And of course, I distinctly heard FBI-boy make a date with her for dinner.
“It’s real late,” Cheryl sleepily informed me. “I gotta get home and get some sleep.”
“Sure. And Cheryl… thanks.”
“Good. Okay. You got what you need?”
I stood up and pecked her cheek. “More. Much more.” I whipped out my wallet and handed her a hundred- dollar bill. “Buy your son that BB gun.”
“Don’t cost that much,” she informed me.
“Right. Get one for his mother, too. You can shoot at each other.”
She smiled. “You a good man.” She lifted up her purse and wandered out.
I remained at Cheryl’s desk for five more minutes and tried to piece this thing together. There was a connection between Lisa, Julia Cuthburt, and Anne Carrol. The nature of their connection I didn’t know, but the three women knew one another, and the fact that they were all three murdered strongly suggested they weren’t picked randomly by a serial killer. It didn’t eliminate a serial killer, but implied-no, not implied, it established that the killer chose them because of that connection.
So-where was Janet?
I rushed downstairs to the parking garage. My briefcase was in the Jag’s trunk and I retrieved it. I dug around till I found the survivor assistance package that contained the phone number to Mr. Morrow, which I then dialed on the carphone.
Her father and I had spoken several times about various matters since our first encounter, so I knew it was a good number. It rang fifteen or twenty times, and I recalled that on my previous calls, after about six rings, a message machine answered. I tried again. Okay, yes, it was late, and Mr. Morrow was old and possibly his ears weren’t what they used to be, but his youngest daughter, Elizabeth, lived with him, and geez… you’d think one of them would hear the damned phone.
Things were getting weirder. I mean, Janet is suddenly out of the loop and her father and little sister aren’t in bed when, or where, they are supposed to be.
Coincidental? Possibly.
Maybe not.
I called the Boston operator, gave her Mr. Morrow’s address, and told her I needed the number for the nearest police station. She connected me to a switchboard person.
The switchboard person said, “Officer Dianne Marino, how can I help you?”
“Major Sean Drummond, D. C. office of the Army’s Criminal Investigation Division.” Regarding this harmless little white lie, cops tend only to take other cops seriously, and I needed her to be responsive and helpful. I informed her, “We’re working on the L. A. Killer murders down here. Perhaps you’ve heard about it, Officer Marino?”
“Are you kidding? I watched the Nightline special on it the other night. Gosh, that guy’s some rotten bastard, isn’t he?”
“Ad infinitum. Thing is, we have an emergency and need your help.”
“Boston’s Finest is here to serve, Major.” You have to love that, right?
“A victim’s parent might be in possession of critical knowledge. Problem is, we can’t seem to reach him.”
“Well, it’s two-thirty in the morning. Other than us idiots on the night shift, that’s bedtime.”
“Officer Marino, the L. A. Killer knows no time.”
“Uh… yes, right. Sorry.”
“Let’s keep our heads in the game here, shall we?”
“Sorry, sir. Won’t happen again.”
I might’ve been less officious and curt, but people have a certain impression about how military people have their lids screwed a little too tight and you have to validate that impression or they might think you’re a phony.
I gave her Mr. Morrow’s address and asked if she could have a patrol car run by the house, wake him up, and get him standing by the phone.
Can do, she replied, clearly on my wavelength now, and I told her I’d wait until she got confirmation from the patrol car. She put me on hold. Ten minutes passed, during which I tried to figure out all the buttons and controls in my fancy new Jag, even as I tried to mentally sort through the possible connections between Lisa and the other victims. It struck me that what I had not seen were e-mails to, from, or about the most famous victim, Carolyn Fiorio. Yet three of four murdered women knew one another, corresponded with some regularity, and Lisa signed off her e-mails, “Friends Always.” Empty sentiments weren’t Lisa’s style and it seemed fair to presume the relationships were more than passing.
“Major, we… well, we have a problem,” Officer Marino interrupted.
“Tell me about it.”
“An incident.”
“Go on.”
“Mr. Morrow’s house burned down yesterday evening.”
While I tried to comprehend this, not to mention her dazzling gift for understatement, she added, “Sorry I didn’t recognize it when you gave me the address. My shift didn’t start till midnight. The fire happened earlier.”
“How much earlier?”
“Just a sec… let me pull it up on my screen.” After a few moments, she said, “A neighbor reported the fire shortly after five. Two alarmer. Those old houses up on Beacon Hill, they’re ritzy, but firetraps. Wood-framed, none of the modern fire retardant materials. It’s a-”
“Was anybody hurt?”
“Hold on.” She read from the report, “One known vic, John Morrow, was severely burned. He was on the upper floor, and had to be pulled out by a fireman, and-”
