“Bullshit. Special Agent Meany informed us that he gave you his business card.” He added nastily, “Had you called us, this entire disaster would have been avoided. Think about that, wiseass.”
Okay, I thought about it. The two dead Boston PD detectives and the escaped felon were on my shoulders because I called the wrong kind of cop? Did I need this nonsense?
In truth, two hours of this bullshit had convinced me that had I gone to the Fibbies instead of Spinelli, Janet Morrow would be a chalk outline beside the Charles River. They wouldn’t have believed a word. Despite my arguments, and the corroborating physical descriptions of four witnesses, they continued to insist this guy was the L. A. Killer.
However I had surmised he would turn up in Boston, they were convinced I had reached the right conclusion from completely idiotic assumptions. Go a step further, and Spinelli and my theory about this guy being a copycat contradicted the very public assurances the FBI had given John Q. Public. Obviously, this was inconvenient, and nobody in that room, and Mr. Meany particularly, wanted egg on their face by admitting they fingered the wrong guy. But also, in a big bureaucracy like theirs, everything has to be run up the flagpole before anybody knows what they think.
Mysteriously, another gray suit slipped into the room, walked over to the interrogator, whispered something in his ear, and then stepped back. A lot of these guys had those earphone thingees, and suddenly a lot of hands were adjusting their volume or getting them better seated in their ears. It looked like a Twenty Stooges skit.
Special Agent Arnold stood and straightened his suit. He informed me, “This interrogation is over. You plan to return to D. C., correct?”
I indicated I did.
“We know how to reach you. We’ll pick this up there at a later time.”
And on that ominous note, bodies began racing for the door. What the…? I mean, one moment I’m the Man of the Hour, ticket scalpers are in the hallway making a fortune off me, and suddenly I’m in an empty room. I finally got up and walked out.
Janet and Danny Spinelli were waiting in the hallway, sipping from paper coffee cups and looking mildly anxious.
Janet pushed off the wall and said to me, “You were in there almost two hours. Is anything wrong?”
“Wrong? No, it just took a while for them to, you know, tell me how much they admired the brilliant way this was conceived and conducted, and how swell it all turned out for everybody.”
She rubbed her temples and groaned. “I’m sorry. I know you were right.” She then said, “They… well, they found another body.”
“Whose? Where?”
“Ten blocks from the two dead officers. A man named Harold Boticher. His throat was slashed, and his wallet and car keys were stolen. His body was found in a Dumpster, like Anne Carrol’s.”
The implication was obvious. “Did they get the make of his car?”
“Make, model, and tag numbers.” That explained why the room emptied.
Spinelli commented grumpily, “It’s a fuckin’waste of time. He’s already got himself another.”
He was right, of course. Perversely, Spinelli and I both appeared to be getting a bead on this guy. The FBI was still running everywhere he wanted them to go.
And right on cue, Dudley Do-Right came cruising around a corner, trailed by three of his stooges. Special Agent Meany was waving his arms and barking instructions, and the three agents were scribbling notes and nodding obsequiously. I mean, it was just too frigging obvious that this jerk was trying to impress his former belle with what a busy, roundly admired, take-charge kind of guy he was.
He suddenly glanced in our direction, like he had just noticed us, then sent his three aides scurrying. He approached, shaking his head, oozing with concern, and said to Janet, “My God, honey, that was a very dumb thing you did. You’re lucky to be alive.”
Honey? Had I missed something here?
Janet replied, “That’s not the way it looked at the time. We had him, George. He was within three feet of me. I fired two shots at him.”
His hands were all over her arms again. “I understand. And I admire your courage. Really… I don’t blame you.” He glanced at me and said, “I blame the idiots who let you expose yourself. You were responding to your grief…” Still looking at me, he said, “Why didn’t you call me? You needed advice from someone you could trust. Don’t do anything again without checking with me. That’s an order, honey.”
Well, fuck you, George.
“There wasn’t time,” Janet said. “We had a narrow window of opportunity, and we didn’t want to lose him.”
“I understand.” His hands moved to her shoulders and he looked into her eyes and added, “But I don’t want to lose you. Not now… not again. Now that we’ve resolved our little problem, I… well, I’m glad you’re okay.”
Yuck. I mean, there’s a murderous maniac out on the streets, and I’m stuck with this asshole in a live episode of Days of Our Lives. Turn the channel, please.
But Janet appeared to buy his malarkey, and replied, “Well, I’m fine, George.” She then asked him, “What are the odds of catching him?”
“Hard to tell. I’ve put out a multistate alert. I’ll be directing the search from the Boston Field Office. Also, I’ve distributed the composite sketch you provided-that’s an edge I didn’t have before.” He paused a moment, his expression turned all oozy and charming, and he said, “You know, I can’t believe you had the coolness and presence to study him that closely. You are really something, babe.”
Geez. I’ve had tiffs with some formers, and of course you have to work it a little if you want to get back into their good graces and panties. But there’s a point where you give your whole sex a bad name. Meany was working her too hard. And I wondered why.
And as if that wasn’t enough, his expression turned grave, and he added, “Honey, I don’t want to worry you, but there’s a chance he’ll come after you again. We think he fled the city, but you can never be sure. You’re the only living witness who can ID him in a courtroom.” He paused, like this pained him greatly, then said, “You know the standard procedure in these things.”
Janet was already shaking her head. “I’m not going into protective custody, George.”
“But-”
“No. Don’t even think about it.”
He studied her face a moment. “Oh, come on. It would make things easier for all concerned.”
She stared back at him.
As much as I hated to agree with George on anything, I said, “Do what he says. He’s right.”
She said to both of us, “We all know I cannot be forced into this program. This asshole is not going to chase me into protective custody.”
I opened my lips, but she cut me off: “No-Subject closed.”
I looked at her and tried to figure out what was going through her head. Playing Parcheesi with a bunch of Fibbies in a hotel room for a month or two was bad, but dying was very, very bad. Unless… well, unless Janet wanted this guy to strike again. To draw him back to her, she had to remain accessible and vulnerable.
Anyway, Meany was shaking his head, saying, “I knew you’d say that.”
“Well then, you’re right.”
“But you will be guarded and protected until the picture clarifies. Refusal is not an option.” She did not say yes; nor did she refuse.
He continued, “Remember Bob Anderson from my old office? He’ll stay with you until I can spare more agents. But at the moment, with this search, I just can’t.”
Janet said, “Thank you, but I’ll be fine, George. Sean and Danny are here also.”
He smiled knowingly. “Right. I’ll get Bob to ask the Boston PD to back him up.”
Boy, George was racking up big-time points.
Then his beeper went off, he yanked it off his belt, studied the screen, scrunched up his forehead, and said, “Got a fast-breaking emergency here, babe. The New York State Police think they’ve just spotted the stolen car on the New York Thruway. They’re initiating a chase.” And off he raced.
Something about George really bothered me. Well, a lot about George bothered me, but something, I don’t know, something I couldn’t put my finger on, really bothered me. I was sure he was very smart, and all those
