I went to the nursing station and used the phone to inform Janet’s cell phone answering service that I was in Boston, and I left her Spinelli’s cell phone number.
I huddled with Spinelli. I said, “Okay, she’s in the city. But where?”
He replied that he had already arranged for the Boston PD to dispatch a car to Janet’s townhouse in downtown Boston, and another to her sister Carol’s apartment located somewhere in Belmont. Had the sisters shown up at either location Spinelli would’ve gotten a call.
So that told us where they weren’t. Not where they were. Janet made her living dealing with murderers, and maybe, after hearing that her father’s house had caught fire, suspected something was amiss. But she didn’t know yet about the connection between her sister and the other two victims, so maybe not. In fact, maybe she was at that very moment having her neck snapped.
All those maybes were giving me a headache.
I suggested to Spinelli that we should persuade the Boston police to issue an all-points on all three sisters. He suggested that was a dumb and unworkable idea, that APBs require legal authorization we were unlikely to get on such thin logic, that the sisters had been up all night and had to return to their apartments and town-houses to shower, change, eat, and so on. I responded that he had a good point, but if Janet did suspect something, she probably would be clever enough to avoid her own lair, as that was obviously the most likely place the killer would stake out. He noted that I had a good point also, except the Boston PD had a squad car parked in front of her townhouse. Well, yes, I replied, but maybe Janet and her sisters didn’t know that.
Stalemate. We were both tired and our tempers were fraying. We were also hungry and thirsty, so we went down a few floors and found the cafeteria. We got a couple of bran muffins and cups of coffee and sat at a table.
Considering that we had become sort of partners, I decided I should get to know Spinelli better, and so I asked him, “So Danny, what brought you into the Army?”
“Poverty. You?”
“Nothing better to do.”
He chuckled. I think he was starting to like me. I wasn’t sure whether I was starting to like him.
I asked him, “You started out as an MP?”
He nodded. “Made it to staff sergeant, then went to the CID course.”
“Like it?”
“There are days.”
Okay, enough with these deep, probing questions. We now knew each other intimately, what made the other guy tick, and so forth. I asked, “You’re the expert here. What do you think’s going on?”
“Ain’t got a friggin’ clue.”
“The other day you suggested this guy was a copycat.”
“Yeah.”
“Still think that?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“Curiosity.” I added, “Incidentally, I saw no sign that Lisa knew Carolyn Fiorio.”
“Maybe she didn’t. Maybe there’s some other connection or motive with Fiorio.”
I thought about that. It made sense-possibly the killer knocked off Lisa, Cuthburt, and Carrol for one reason, and Fiorio for a different reason altogether. Then I gave a little more thought to that copycat idea.
Spinelli, I was coming to appreciate, was my kind of cop. The other law enforcement officials involved in this case so overintellectualized the problem, made it so fucking complicated, devised so many intricate theories and complex hypotheses that they ended up chasing their own asses. Spinelli was the meat-and-potatoes type.
I was sipping from my coffee and contemplating meat and potatoes, don’t overthink, the answer is usually right under your nose, when it hit me. I slammed the cup down and said, “Follow me.”
I raced back up the stairs, Spinelli sprinting behind me all the way back into the ICU and over to the nurses’ station.
A heavyset black nurse was staring intently at some monitors, but glanced up when I said, “Excuse me. Were you here when Mr. Morrow’s daughters left?”
“Yes.”
“Did they leave a number for you to contact them?”
“They did.” I explained that this was a police matter, Spinelli flashed his shield, and she gave us the number.
I smiled at her and asked, “Mind if I use your phone?”
“Go ahead. Just don’t be long.”
I dialed and a woman’s voice answered, “Hello.”
“This is Sean Drummond. May I ask whom I’m speaking with?”
“Ethel Morrow.”
“I’m trying to contact Janet Morrow. Would you know where I can find her?”
“I’m her aunt. Of course I know where to find her.”
“Right. Could you tell me where to find her?”
“Well… she’s right here, young man. But this isn’t a good time to talk with her.”
I recalled Lisa once mentioning a spinster aunt, her father’s sister, the dragon lady of the clan, who had helped raise the girls after their mother died. She was, according to Lisa, a nosy, eccentric, tart-tongued old biddy. But she was a parental figure of sorts, I guess. And it made sense that the girls went to see her at a moment like this.
I explained, “Listen, I’m standing outside your brother’s hospital room. I flew up on a military helicopter. It’s urgent that I speak with her right away.”
“Oh, all right. But keep it short. She’s quite upset.”
A moment later, Janet came on the line. I said, “It’s Drummond. I’m at the hospital. Where are you?”
“My aunt’s house. What are you doing in Boston… at the hospital?”
“I’ll explain later. Give me the address.”
She did. And I wrote it down and handed it to Spinelli, who then dashed off in search of the patrolman who had met us on the roof.
I said to Janet, “Listen closely. Lisa knew Julia Cuthburt and Anne Carrol. She e-mailed them several times before they were all murdered.”
“Oh my God.”
“Spinelli’s here, too. Don’t leave your aunt’s house. We’ll be there soon.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
We jumped into the squad car, a cop at the wheel, Spinelli in front, Drummond in back. The cop punched his lights and siren, and we screeched out of the parking space. Then it struck me that this was wrong, wrong, wrong.
I ordered the cop to pull over and shut it down, then said to Spinelli, “What’s this guy doing right now?”
“Who the hell knows? Watching her apartment, I guess.” He scratched his nose, appeared briefly perplexed, and then commented, “Nah. He breaks into the house while the old man’s at work, positions some igniters and fuel, and a few minutes after the old man gets home, he torches the house. Right?” I nodded, and he continued, “He finds a vantage and watches the fire. He sees the fireman haul out the body, then follows the meat wagon to the hospital, so he knows which one.”
I suggested, “Where he picks up Janet’s trail. He follows her when she leaves.”
And he concluded, “He’s probably watching her aunt’s house right now.”
We then spent a few moments batting this scenario around. Of course, there was a very good chance the killer wasn’t behind the fire, that we were on a wild-goose chase, and Sean was earning himself a long session on a big couch with a very nice, very inquisitive shrink. But my instincts told me he was here. So did Spinelli’s.
If we roared into the neighborhood, horns blaring, lights flashing, we’d blow this thing. The track record
