been unlucky. A bullet had ricocheted off the door frame and hit him in the head.
I knew for certain that the surviving pursuers would be phoning for reinforcements. It was also likely that some public-spirited resident had witnessed the scene and called the cops, so I dumped the limo three streets down and walked as nonchalantly as I could onto M Street. A taxi was passing and I immediately hailed it, telling the driver to take me to Union Station. I could melt into the crowds there and pick up the Metro. I was glad I’d studied the city map before leaving my hotel.
I took frequent glances over my shoulder and thought about what I’d done. Had showing myself to Gavin Burdett been worth it? On balance, I reckoned it had. I was now completely sure that he’d been involved in Karen’s disappearance, and mine, too, most likely. Joe would probably be able to trace the owners of the house-they might not be too clean, either. As for the damage I’d done to the banker’s knees and the accidental death of the man I’d taken hostage, I didn’t waste time on remorse. I had the feeling that I hadn’t always been as hard-edged as that. Then I recalled what had been done to innocent people at the camp. I could only hope that Karen was still alive and well. At least the bad men knew I was on their case now. That meant I was going to have to stand tall-and I wasn’t sure if I was up to that.
Another thought struck me. Maybe what had been done to me in the camp was behind my ability to evade capture and get as far as D.C.-maybe I’d been turned into a callous killer. I’d killed before, as the FBI notification had indicated in Maine. But now I was really good at it.
Thirty-Four
Gerard Pinker was cold, hungry and seriously bored. He’d been in the cocktail bar around the corner from Gordy Lister’s office for three and a half hours while the newspaperman got more and more drunk. The detective was wearing a mustache that came down to his chin and a suit that Chief Owen, the department’s resident fashion critic, would have seen as way too preppy. Pinker had borrowed it from his younger brother Leonard, who worked for a D.C. lobbying company and was conveniently the same size.
If his man had done anything interesting, Pinker could have hacked the evening. It would also have helped if he’d been able to drink more than a couple of beers. But Gordy Lister had sat at the bar, talking to no one except the male barkeep. He’d used his cell phone a few times, but never for long; none of the conversations had made him noticeably happier, either. Pinker hadn’t trusted his disguise enough to go nearer, so he hadn’t heard what Lister had been saying. He was about to call Clem and ask him to take over early, when a tall guy with short fair hair walked in and stood next to Lister. Pinker decided to go for broke. When he got to the bar, he still couldn’t hear much because of a couple of guys whining about the Redskins nearby.
Gerard Pinker ordered another beer and leaned forward, pretending he was scoping the female barkeep’s ass. For a few moments he thought Lister had made him. The newspaperman caught his eye, but there was no sign of recognition in the bleary gaze. The tall guy was talking in a low voice more or less directly into Gordy’s ear, his eyes never wavering from the other man’s face. Pinker got the feeling that the verbal shit was being kicked out of his target. Then, with no warning, the other man and Gordy headed rapidly out the door.
Pinker threw some money on the bar and went after them, counting fifteen before he opened the door. When he hit the street, the pair was already moving away to his right. The detective waited another fifteen seconds-that had been the unit of time he’d been taught to stick to by a veteran cop when he was young-then set off after them. At the end of the street they stopped, forcing him to slip into a doorway. When he looked out again, he saw they had separated. It was decision time-should he follow Lister or the guy who’d been chewing him out?
In any event, Pinker never had to make his mind up. His cell phone vibrated against his thigh and he answered quietly.
“You better can the tail, Vers. There’s been another murder,” Clem said in a low voice. “There’s been another murder.”
“Shit. Our killer?”
“Sounds like it. The vic’s a woman over in Lincoln Park. She read tarot cards for a living.”
“What about the Feds?”
“If we get there first, it’s ours till they start crying to Chief Owen.”
“I’ll drink to that.” Pinker scribbled the address down in his notebook and looked around for a taxi.
Lister and his interlocutor had already disappeared.
I was sitting at the window of a coffee shop in Adams Morgan. When Joe Greenbaum came in, I looked down the street in both directions. There was no obvious tail.
“Jesus, Joe, that stuff will kill you,” I said, when he sat down with an enormous mug of cream-topped coffee. “So, what have you discovered?”
“The house in Georgetown is owned by a company called N.E.W.S. Properties,” he said, swallowing from the mug.
“Mean anything to you?”
The reporter grinned. “Sure. It’s a subsidiary of Woodbridge Holdings.”
That rang a bell. “Woodbridge Holdings?” I repeated. “That was the name on the logging truck I stowed away on in Maine.” The logo came back to me, too. “The words were written on an open newspaper.”
“You got it, Matt,” Joe said, licking cream from his mustache. “It’s kinda interesting. Woodbridge Holdings owns numerous papers across the country, including that rag the Star Reporter. They also own large stretches of forest and produce their own stocks of paper. Guess where?”
“Not Maine by any chance?”
“Bull’s-eye again, Matt.”
“The camp I escaped from-maybe Woodbridge Holdings owns that, too.”
Joe gulped down the last of his coffee. “They certainly have enough of Maine under their belts. There’s more. They also have interests in drug research and production. And, to advise them on their substantial foreign investments, they use a London-based bank by the name of-”
“Routh Limited. Employers of one Gavin Burdett.”
“Correct. Did you never see Woodbridge Holdings in Karen’s files, Matt? She must have known about them, since she was after Burdett.”
I shrugged. “I may have, but I don’t remember.” I broke off as a nasty thought came to me. “Maybe they wiped stuff like that from my memory at the camp.”
“Doesn’t seem to have been wholly successful,” Joe observed.
“Not wholly.” Then, suddenly, I felt as if the furniture in my brain had started to rearrange itself. Things I hadn’t been able to connect came together. “Karen must have found evidence linking Woodbridge and Routh. So she was kidnapped.”
“And so were you, after you kicked up such a fuss.” Joe looked down at his empty cup. “But that doesn’t explain the occult murders. I can’t believe they’re doing them just to frame you. Besides, the first one happened before you escaped.”
I remembered the BlackBerry I’d taken from Gavin Burdett and handed it to Joe. “See what you can find in that. Back in London I tailed Burdett to an occult supplies shop. Maybe there’s some link between him and the killings.”
The reporter looked at me doubtfully. “You think he’s the murderer?”
“He’s a sleazy bastard,” I said, then shook my head. “But I doubt he’s capable of murder. Anyway, he’s the kind of tosser who would pay somebody else to do his dirty work.”
“He works for Woodbridge Holdings, so that puts the focus on them. And we’re in luck there. They have their head office in this fair city.”
“Is that right? What about the Antichurch? Did you find anything on it?”
Joe sighed. “A few references on the kind of Web site that’s written and read by crazies. People seem pretty much in awe of it, though. Or scared shitless. I sent my e-mail address and asked them to contact me, but don’t hold your breath.”
“Jesus, Joe, that was taking a chance. You’ve made yourself a target.”
