“What about a young woman? Elizabeth Morrow?”
“Not listed.” She then informed me, “But the inspectors haven’t entered the premises to look for corpses inside. It has to cool down. Tomorrow, after-”
“Do you know the cause?”
“No… not yet. We’ll of course dispatch an arson specialist with the inspectors in the morning. Do you think it’s-”
“Thanks.” I hung up.
The fire started around five, and Janet checked out of her hotel around six. What was going on here?
I started the Jag and left the parking garage without any particular idea where I was going, just sure I should be going somewhere.
The cold fresh air must have cleared my mind a bit, because I suddenly found myself wondering about that firewall around Lisa’s file. I probably should’ve asked Cheryl if that was standard procedure for all departed attorneys. Law firms are more protective of privacy rights than most employers, and it would make sense to seal the files of departed attorneys. But say it wasn’t. Answer: Somebody in the firm knew there was evidence in the server that showed a connection between the three deceased women, evidence that was technically impossible to eradicate, so the next best solution was to hide it and slap a firewall around it. Ergo: Somebody in the firm had to be involved in the murders.
Which triggered another revelation. Lisa had referred to packages in her e-mails to both Julia and Anne, and one message to Janet also referred to a package. Janet was sure she had never met and had no acquaintance with Anne or Julia. But all three had gotten packages from Lisa. Was that the connection?
Boston-I needed to go to Beantown pronto. Drive? Too long. And Reagan National Airport didn’t spit out its first morning flight till six.
I was pondering my other options, and driving past the White House, when it hit me. I pulled over to the curb, dug through my briefcase, and withdrew a business card. I dialed the number and three rings later a groggy voice replied, “Spinelli.”
“It’s Drummond. Wake up.”
“I’m on the fuckin’ phone, ain’t I?”
I would say he was being grumpy, but Spinelli’s mood seemed inalterable. I said, “I’m offering you the chance to be a hero.”
“Ah shit.”
“So here’s the deal. What if I told you Lisa Morrow, Julia Cuthburt, and Anne Carrol knew one another?
“How do you know that?”
“I just do.” I added, “And Janet Morrow might know why.”
“No shit.”
“But she’s gone.”
“Yeah?”
“The other shoe-her father’s house burned down last night. He might be dead. She checked out an hour later, and we should assume she flew home.”
He pondered this a moment, then suggested, “Then call her on her cell phone.”
“Well, shit. Why didn’t I think of that?”
“Not answering, huh?”
“And I don’t want to think of why. Capisce? Now you earn your brass balls.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Standby helicopters are always kept at Andrews Air Force Base and the Marine base at Quantico, fifteen minutes from the White House and Pentagon. Tell your bosses you need one- now.”
“Fly to Boston?”
“My thought was we’d walk and pull the helicopter behind us. But now that you mention it, this flying thing, that might be better.”
“Fuck you.”
“You want to lose your key witness?”
“What the fuck are-”
“We know this killer has shown himself to be very clever and resourceful, don’t we?” I allowed him a moment to think about that, and then said, “Hey, forget it. Sorry I bothered you. I’ll call Meany and let the FBI-”
“Don’t even think it.” He paused a moment, then said, “Here’s the deal. I handle this, I get credit for the collar.”
“I don’t care who gets credit.”
“I do. I gotta promotion board comin’ up.”
“If she dies, I’ll put that in your records.”
“Thirty minutes, the Pentagon landing pad. And don’t be fuckin’ with me, or I’ll-”
“What’s this in my hand? Wow… George Meany’s business card.”
“Thirty minutes.”
I tried Janet again and left another message to call me pronto. This was when it struck me that there were other possible explanations for what was going on here. Maybe J. stood for Jeanie, and A. for Alice. And maybe poor old Mr. Morrow came home from work, tossed a frozen pizza in the oven, forgot to remove the cardboard, and presto, a two-alarm blaze. We all know how forgetful some old people get.
But, as the French like to say, “L’audace, l’audace,” which translates roughly to, “Attack, forget the risks, gamble, and win.” Forget that the French haven’t won a war in a couple of centuries.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
We landed at 6:20 on the roof of the Harvard University Medical Center, where Mr. Morrow had been rushed by ambulance after the fire.
Spinelli had remained busy the whole flight chattering into his headset, calling Boston to arrange police escorts, tracking down the whereabouts and condition of Mr. John Morrow- severe burns on 50 percent of his body, condition critical, in the ICU of Harvard Medical-and struggling to explain to his dubious bosses why all this was necessary.
I huddled on a seat in the back of the Blackhawk, stared out the window at the lights below, and tried again to piece the fragments together. What did Janet, Anne Carrol, and Julia Cuthburt have in common? After giving it great thought, I came up with nothing.
Anyway, a bored patrolman was awaiting us by the rooftop landing pad, and ushered us through an entrance and down a few floors to the ICU. We were led to a room with no doors. Inside, a body was laid out on a bed, covered with some form of burn sheeting, respirator on his face, IVs pumping liquids into both arms, two nurses and a young doctor huddled together and discussing something.
The doctor noticed us and came over. “Can I help you?”
I offered brief introductions and inquired, “How’s our patient?”
“Touch and go.” He glanced back over his shoulder. “The burns were quite severe. His legs and lower torso particularly.”
Spinelli asked the doctor, “What are his chances?”
“Burns… they’re tough.” He frowned and pointed a finger at the patient. “He’s stable for the time being. But he’s old. And as I said, burns are tough.”
In other words, John Morrow’s chances were pretty good. Were I to paraphrase the young doctor exactly, he said, My malpractice insurance is killing me, and didn’t one of you gentlemen mention you were a lawyer?
I explained to him, “We’re here looking for his daughter Janet Morrow. Dark-haired, slender, very attractive.”
He nodded. “She was here earlier. Two other sisters also. They were here all night, in fact. They left about”- he glanced at his watch-“about an hour ago, after we got him stabilized.” For good measure, he added, “Of course, you never know with burns. They’re tough.”
