Today it did. When the waitress returned to ask him if he’d like another cup, he smiled and declined like a gentleman.
A gentleman who, at midnight tonight, would receive a fresh shipment from a very small, very poor Central American country where the chief export was its children, and its import was the money sent back by the workers who had fled illegally to the United States to work as laborers.
Luther took out the wish list he’d compiled from his roster of usual clients and studied it carefully.
Four of the older girls, between the ages of ten and twelve, were to go directly to a lovely Tudor-style house in a northern New Jersey suburb. At this most unlikely-looking brothel, they would replace four girls who were being sent to a house outside of Philadelphia, where they would be traded for four girls who would move on to D.C.
“Keep ’em moving, keep ’em confused,” he told the owners of the houses. “And keep the product fresh. Make sure there’s always something new. That’s the way to build up that repeat business.”
And when the girls reached their midteens, worn out in mind, spirit, and body?
“You just dispose of them. You can’t send them back to their families.” He’d given this speech to all of his customers at one time or another. “Look, you got a cop or two on your payroll, right? Of course you do. Now, if I were you, when the girls just don’t have it anymore, when they start losing that fight, I’d give ’em to the cops, a little reward for their loyalty. When they’re done with the girls, they can take care of them. Trust me, no one knows how to get away with murder better than a cop.”
He drained the coffee in the cup and left a ten on the table with the bill for his breakfast. Once outside in the swelter of an early August Virginia morning, he paused and took a deep cleansing breath, just as he’d been instructed to do.
To have a good day, keep the anger at bay.
It had become his mantra. Not that it always worked, but today, it was good enough to take the edge off. He got into his car and prepared for his meeting.
Then it was off with the Rolex, on with the Timex.
Damn, but he loved that gold watch with the diamonds, loved the feel of it on his wrist, loved the way it looked, so classy, so expensive. With a sigh, he dropped it into its box and placed it in his briefcase.
He had yet to meet the FBI agent who could afford a watch like that. The watch, the house in Myrtle Beach, the condo in Manhattan, the apartments in Paris and London-all real estate in his mother’s name, of course-the new Jaguar… who could live like that on what the government paid?
He wondered idly how his good friend Agent Shields spent his share of the money they’d made since he’d recruited him three years ago. He hoped Shields was as smart about it as he himself had been. Maybe he should have a chat soon, find out where it was stashed. In the unfortunate event that something should happen to his good buddy, shouldn’t someone know where to find the cash?
After all, in their line of work-legitimate as well as illegal-an untimely accident could occur at any time.
And as far as Luther was concerned, Connor Shields was headed for an accident, as soon as he’d taken care of one little loose end.
Maybe sooner.
6
Annie sat cross-legged on the floor of her apartment, the contents of the thick file stacked around her in piles. Police reports here, photos of the crime scene there, autopsy report and photos on the edge of the coffee table.
In her hand she held the master list of the contents of the file. She’d read through the reports of Dylan’s death many times, but this time she thought she’d put them in the same order in which they appeared on the list. It would be easier for Evan, who’d be taking his first look at the records this weekend. It would go a lot faster if he could just follow along and check off each report as he read it. Unfortunately, the file had been taken apart and read by so many people over the past two years, nothing was where she’d expected it to be.
The photos were easy to put in order. They were numbered in chronological order. The witness statements were a little more challenging. It seemed that few of them had been returned to their rightful place.
No time like the present, she told herself as she proceeded to search the file for the first report on the list. She found it near the bottom of the stack. She checked it off, then went on to the next. Three hours later, she had most of the reports where they should be. There were three, however, she’d not been able to find.
One was a report attributed to Connor Shields. She frowned, trying to recall if she’d previously seen a report from Connor in the file. She didn’t think she had. And why would there have been a report from Connor? Hadn’t he been out of the country at the time of Dylan’s death?
If he hadn’t been there, hadn’t been involved, what could he possibly have contributed to the investigation?
She was tempted to call and ask him, then thought better of it. Who knew where he was, or with whom? Better to send an e-mail that he could read at his leisure.
She opened her laptop and typed her message.
TO: CShields00721
From: AMMccall00913
RE: Report
Hey, Connor-Just a quick question. Brought Dylan’s file home tonight, it’s all out of order (too many hands in this pot over the past couple of years)-quite the mess. Started trying to organize, using the master list as a guide. Found all but three items in file, including a report that was attributed to you. Could I ask you about the nature of your report? Do you remember? Did this reflect directly on the op, or did this deal with identifying Dylan at the M.E.’s office, maybe? Am confused, since I was not aware you had been involved in this op in any way.
Just curious-would like to tidy up the file, as well as try to find some closure. I guess we all would like that.
Annie
She turned her attention back to the file and its master list, which continued to guide her in her quest to put the file in perfect order before sharing its contents with Evan. Some minutes later, she heard the
To: AMMccall00913
From: CShields00721
Re: Yours
Hey, Annie-You’re sure that report isn’t stuck inside another folder or something in the file? Definitely turned it in. Didn’t contribute a whole hell of a lot to the investigation. They just wanted me to confirm that I had been pulled from the op at the last minute and that Dylan substituted for me and why-how that whole thing had been set up. All before-the-fact stuff. Nothing that shed any light on the events later that night.
Anything I can help you with, any other questions, I’m here.
Connor
Annie read the e-mail, then reread that one line over and over.
Annie stared at the screen. Connor had originally been part of this operation? Dylan had been sent at the last minute as a substitute for Connor? Why had she not heard this before?
Or had she? In the dense fog of confusion and pain she’d been trapped in for weeks after Dylan’s death, had someone mentioned this?
Maybe.
She doubted it, but then again, there was much from that time she couldn’t remember. She was hard-pressed to remember Dylan’s funeral, had little recollection of the viewing, and none whatsoever of the graveside services, though certainly she’d been there. Maybe someone had mentioned that Connor originally had been slated for this assignment, and the information had been lost in the midst of her grief. She couldn’t honestly say she hadn’t been told. On the other hand, she couldn’t say she had.
She drummed her fingers on the side of her laptop, trying to determine the importance of this new information.
She dialed Evan’s number and was grateful that he picked up on the second ring. She told him about the e-mail from Connor, then said, “I’m trying to decide how-or if-this changes things.”
“I guess the only way to answer that is to know what else Connor had been involved in back then.”
“You mean, if he’d been involved in something someone might have wanted to kill him for?” She laughed roughly. “That’s every assignment Connor’s ever been on.”
“Look, why not just ask him if there was anything going on back then that sticks in his memory.”
“Even if there was, he wouldn’t be able to tell me.”
“Maybe not, but maybe it’s something he can look into himself. You won’t know if you don’t ask.”
“True. Maybe I’ll just e-mail him…” She opened her laptop and debated on how best to put forth the question.
“Good idea. Bring it all with you this weekend and we’ll toss it around a little more.”
“How’s your case going?”
“Not well.” His voice dropped with something more than disappointment. “In the past week, we’ve had three victims. I was going to call and ask for your opinion on this. Have you ever known a serial killer to target different types the way this guy is? I mean, two distinctly different types of victims? This guy is going back and forth between the pampered and privileged to girls who haven’t even been reported missing a week after we’ve found their bodies. It just doesn’t make sense to me.”
“It is odd. And no, to answer your question, I’ve never heard of a case like this one.” She pondered the facts he’d given her. “Maybe I should take a
