it's A-okay to murder, and then they all start believing it for real?'
'Yeah. Like that.'
'Sounds like
'That's what she's afraid is happening. That the Web is actually enabling these monsters and the community is getting stronger.'
Gino put down his half-eaten banana and stared at it.
Long ago he'd come to the point in his life where he believed he'd seen it and heard it all, the worst of the worst that humanity had to offer. But if this were really happening, he'd been pretty goddamned wrong about that. 'How can she sleep at night with all that crap running through her head? I mean, I've come up with some pretty crazy scenarios over the years, but even I couldn't dream that shit up. How the hell are we supposed to keep up with something like this?'
Magozzi shook his head. 'I think that's why Cyber Crimes is task-forcing this thing nationally.'
'I should have known this day was gonna suck the minute that asshole in the SUV gave me a shower. So what did she think about my traveling-serial-killer theory?'
Magozzi looked to the side with a pained expression. 'That, believe it or not, would be the best-case scenario, just like you said. Unfortunately, she thinks it's a disconnected group of killers talking to each other on the Web, playing some sick kind of one-upmanship game.'
'Aw, man, Leo, that so sucks. Say it ain't so.' Gino cocked his head and listened. 'On the bright side, do you hear AC/DC?'
Magozzi pulled his cell phone out of his breast pocket. 'New ring tone.'
''Highway to Hell.' How appropriate.'
'Hang on, it's Grace. Hey, Grace.' He was quiet for a long time, his face growing darker the longer he listened. 'Are you sure? Shit. Okay, read it to me and we'll work it.' He grabbed a pen and tablet and started scribbling furiously. 'Got it. I'll get back to you.' He snapped his phone closed and shoved the tablet over to Gino. 'They found pre-posts for all the murders, plus two more. Willy Loman's looking less likely every second. They think this one is in Minnesota, and want us to make some cop-to-cop phone calls and see if we can match it with a body.'
Gino spun the tablet around and read what Magozzi had written. 'Huh. Hello, of course that's Minnesota. Big water, North Shore, hell, that's Lake Superior, the Norwegian Riviera. Let me give old Ole Olssen a call. He's been a Duluth cop for about a hundred years.'
Magozzi looked at him. 'Tell me there's not really an Ole Olssen in Duluth.'
'Tons of them. Where'd you think the Ole-and-Lena jokes came from?'
'And you know him because…?'
'He was down here for that BCA crime-scene deal last year, remember? I went to the stupid lectures and you went to the movies with Grace, thank you very much. Anyway, Ole and I bonded over krumkakke.'
'I don't know what that is.'
'Those hollow cookie things the Swedes make, or maybe the Norwegians or the Dutch, damned if I know. Shit, they were good.' He started punching numbers into the phone.
'You know his number by heart?'
Yeah, we talk now and then.' He raised his eyes and looked at Magozzi. You said they found two more posts. What's the other one?'
'They're working that one with the Feds. They don't think it's happened yet.'
Gino's lips pursed in a silent whistle until he was distracted by the phone. 'Hey, Ole, you son of a bitch, you know that recipe you sent me? It sucked big time. Tasted like dead sheep with the wool still on. And while we're talking about dead things, you have any homicides up there for last January? Well, do a little digging and get back to me ASAP. This is more important than you would believe, and I am not going to tell you what it's about until you deliver the goods.'
Chapter Sixteen
Grace couldn't explain it, not even to herself, and it was embarrassing. She missed her house. They all spent a lot of nights at Harley's when they were working on a pressure deadline – it was a natural, comfortable thing. She had a guest room designated just for her, as they all did, with furniture, a stash of clothes, and everything in the world Harley thought would make her comfortable. But it wasn't her house.
It was too big, for one thing; three nightmare stories of too many points of ingress and egress to watch; too many big open rooms that put you endless yards away from anyplace to hide. She could take a breath in her tiny house with its tiny rooms, steel doors, and barred windows, but here, she never felt really safe. Harley understood that, and occasionally reminded her that he had a gate across his driveway and enough weapons stashed to arm a small country. But he didn't have enough security cameras; didn't have a pressure pad on his front porch; didn't even have a gun on his person at all times, or a wary eye and ear for anything out of order.
Harley couldn't get over the silly idea that most people were basically good. He didn't think the UPS guy was a terrorist, or that the mailman was a psychopath. None of them did. Only Grace.
That difference in perspective had put her at her computer station, searching for the worst this morning, while Harley, Roadrunner, Annie, and Special Agent John Smith frantically scrambled to grab the brass ring that was the victory of good over evil. They had to believe they had a chance. That given just a little time, they could find whoever it was that was Bert's barmaid in a city of roses, near deer, before a killer took that person's life.
'Okay, okay,' Harley filled the room with his voice in boom mode. 'No liquor licenses in Portland with the name of Bert, which may not mean anything. Could be a grandfathered license that goes with the establishment instead of the current owner – Annie, can you check city of Portland ordinances, see how the licensing works?'
'You got it.' Annie clicked at her keyboard with fingers flat, so she didn't chip her nails. They were still polished pearl to match the Gatsby outfit she'd worn yesterday instead of today's maroon silk, a tragic measure of how quickly she'd been forced to make herself presentable when Roadrunner had wakened them in a panic. The jacket was feather-trimmed and cropped, the pants were wide and fluttery, and thank God she'd remembered the T- strap pumps or she would have looked totally undone. She focused on her task and blanked out Harley barking orders to the rest of them.
'So Portland was the City of Roses – maybe too easy. Let's do some free association. Forget the city's nickname or moniker; what other cities bring roses to mind?'
'Pasadena,' Agent John Smith piped in. 'The Rose Parade.' 'Exactly. Check the liquor licenses there, see if you can find a Bert. What else have you got, Roadrunner?'
'Austin, surprisingly. They've got rose growers all over the place.'
'Christ.' Harley slapped his forehead. 'Every rose I ordered for the back gardens came from Jackson and Perkins. Damn. Where the hell are they? Medford, Oregon. That's it. Grace, can you check that out?'
'I'm working another angle,' Grace replied, never taking her eyes from her screen.
'Okay, I'll tackle that one…'
And so it went.
Ten minutes later Harley clapped his hands together and shouted, 'Hallelujah! I got a Bert on a liquor license for Medford. Place is named Chesterfield's.'
'You have a number for Medford Police?' John Smith had his cell phone flipped open, and started punching in numbers as Harley rattled them off.
Grace sighed and rolled her chair back from her desk, although she kept her eyes on the monitor. 'Wait. You need to see this first.'
FBI Agent John Smith watched, mystified, as the others rose slowly from their stations and moved toward Grace's desk. No questions, no uncertainty. If Grace MacBride said they needed to see something, they dropped what they were doing and moved. Grace's screen was blacked out, her hand poised over the mouse. She looked up at them one by one. 'Are you ready for this? It isn't pretty.'
Smith said, 'Go.'
The film was remarkably steady and clear; obviously not produced by some cheap handheld. The camera
