week before the first murder in Chicago. Lots of cash, so it isn’t difficult for her to survive. As for any credit cards, she must have also thrown them away. He can’t find anyone in San Francisco who’s seen her since then.”
Sherlock said, “At least having her identity blared on every TV in the country can’t send Kirsten Bolger any deeper underground.”
“Let’s hope not. There really isn’t an option anymore, now that the
Sherlock felt a niggling fear at having Kirsten Bolger focus her mad attention on Dillon. “You want backup?”
Savich watched Sean very nearly tip his cocoa cup. “No, you don’t have to come. Sean, don’t wave your cocoa around while you chase Astro.”
His cell sang out Sarah Brightman and Andrea Bocelli singing “Time to Say Good-bye,” Sherlock’s favorite song of all time. Savich didn’t answer right away, because Sherlock and the two children seemed to be listening to it.
“Savich.”
When he cut off his cell a few minutes later, he said, “That was Lucy. Mr. Maitland asked both her and Coop to be at the news conference.”
“Go make yourself look tough and professional; I’ll watch the cocoa.” But Sherlock simply couldn’t help worrying. That was part of her job description.
The press conference was attended by every media hound inside the Beltway. Savich looked out over the media room, chaotic and noisy, with scores of reporters and TV people setting up their cameras.
Director Mueller outlined the process by which they’d discovered the real identity of the Black Beret. He closed, saying, “I cannot emphasize enough how dangerous this woman is. Just to remind yourself, simply think of her father, Ted Bundy. Being identified like this may make her even more ruthless and desperate. We know all of you will help with publicizing her photo. Please encourage your readers and your viewers to contact the FBI if they see her. No one but law enforcement should attempt any direct contact with her.” He ended with the hotline number, and turned it over to Savich as the questions began.
Savich, as was his habit, said nothing at all, simply waited until there was silence again. He introduced Lucy and Coop, and paused again, focusing every face on him. He pushed a button on the lectern, projecting Kirsten’s photo behind him. “Five days ago, Kirsten Bolger was in Philadelphia. We do not know if she is still there or has gone to another city. We do not know if she will continue to dress as you see her in this photo.” He waited, then put up two more large photos of Kirsten Bolger. In one she had long blond hair and black clothes, and in the second, she was dressed like a man, with black hair and black clothes. “She has experience changing her appearance, from appearing as both a man and a woman, and this gives you an idea of some of the ways she’s dressed in the past.” He leaned forward, looked at them. “I want to emphasize along with Director Mueller that we appreciate your viewers’ and your readers’ help in contacting us if they see the woman in these photos. We don’t know what she’ll do now that her real identity and photos are public, but I am very concerned she may up the ante, as her father did. She is well aware that Ted Bundy was her father.
“I’ll take questions now.”
A tsunami of loud questions rolled toward him. He pointed toward Jumbo Hardy of
Jumbo lumbered to his feet. He looked untidy and unwashed, as if he’d dressed to go out fishing on this fine Sunday morning, and had to hurry all the way back. “Is it true the mother of Bundy’s daughter is an artist who is married to George Bentley Lansford, a candidate for Congress?”
It never failed—Jumbo always had the best sources. Savich saw Lucy was surprised this information was out already.
Savich said, “That appears to be the case, though we are awaiting final confirmation.”
Jumbo said, right on the heels of Savich’s comment, “You interview Mr. Lansford yet?”
“No,” Savich said. “Not yet.”
There were several dozen more questions, most of them about Ted Bundy, not his daughter, and Savich answered each one honestly, until Mr. Maitland shut it down. “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, for your cooperation. We will keep you updated. Let me emphasize that Kirsten Bolger is a very dangerous woman. Ah, I hope all you bartenders out there keep a sharp eye out.”
There was one lone laugh, a few more shouted questions, but there was no one to answer them. Coop said to Savich as they walked off the dais, “Are you going to ask Inspector Delion to interview Mr. Lansford?”
“Nope. You, Lucy, and I are going to do it. Turns out Mr. Lansford and two lawyers are here in Washington. I called. They grudgingly agreed to let us see him in a couple of hours.”
Lucy said, “The lawyers’ll hang over him like a couple of bats, won’t let him help us.”
Director Mueller nodded. “What about Lansford’s wife, Kirsten’s mother? What has she to say about her daughter being a serial killer?”
Lucy said, “We don’t know, sir; she’s refused to speak to us.”
Director Mueller was shaking his head. “There’s always something loony that finds you, whether you’re looking or not. I expect all of you to be careful. Keep me in the loop.” The director shook their hands, turned, and said, “Ted Bundy—I didn’t think I’d ever hear that name again in the context of an investigation. This will keep all the TV shrinks in business for a good long time.” He looked tired, Coop thought, watching him walk away surrounded by half a dozen agents and aides.
CHAPTER 20
Coop thought the Abraham Lincoln Suite on the sixth floor of The Willard was a smart choice for a wannabe congressman. Was he sending the subliminal message that he was a trustworthy straight shooter? The Willard was only one block from the White House, another nice pointer.
A buff dark-haired thirtyish man in a dark blue suit, Lansford’s aide, Coop supposed, answered their knock, gave the three of them an emotionless look from behind very cool aviator glasses, and, without a word, ushered them into the sitting room with its trademark Prussian-blue-and-gold color scheme. The suite was large, about the size of his condo, Coop thought, maybe fifteen hundred square feet of gracious luxury.
George Bentley Lansford was a tall man, taller even than his aide, a nice plus for a budding politician. He was elegantly dressed in English bespoke that didn’t look too expensive but that any donor worth his salt would recognize for what it was. He was healthy, fit, fifty-five, not as darkly tanned as his aide, and blessed with a full head of silver-black hair that would no doubt help him with some of his women voters. He looked, Coop thought, stalwart.
He stood between two men, both younger, probably the lawyers, both wearing severe black suits. They looked at Coop like rottweilers ready to go for a handy throat.
As for Mr. Lansford, Coop saw he was focused on Savich. He looked royally pissed, his hands in fists at his sides. He said from a distance of at least ten feet, “I assume you are all FBI agents and we can forgo the introductions. I recognize you, Agent Savich, from the FBI press conference on TV. I am very angry. You and that reporter from
