Marion Gilbert pointed at the skeletal horseman. “Death has to do with change, with new beginnings as much as with endings. As for the Seven of Swords, that suggests…could suggest greater knowledge on the part of the killer. The hooded man running off with the swords represents deception and subterfuge.”
“Plenty of that around here lately,” Pinker said. He looked at his partner. “So what are we saying happened here? The murderer hit the vic on the head and, while she was unconscious, arranged the cards?”
Simmons raised his shoulders. “Could be. Then Ms. Vileda came round and screamed before he could stop her. He left the diagram here and went to kill her, then ran out.” He looked back at the dead woman. The M.E.’s people had put her on her back again, and the chopsticks protruded from her face like a pair of ill-fitting teeth.
Just then, Peter Sebastian walked into the apartment wearing a white protective suit, its hood over his head. Dana Maltravers was behind him in a matching outfit.
“Aw, hell,” Pinker said, only partially muffling his voice. “Dickhead and Princess on parade.”
Thirty-Five
I went to the Woodbridge Holdings office, but I only walked past, making sure I didn’t attract attention. I wanted to take a look at the enemy’s lair-not that I knew who the enemy was exactly. I was planning to do some research into that. Then my cell vibrated against my thigh.
There was a text from Joe: “New occult murder reported. Watch yourself!”
That took the wind from my sails. Presumably Clem Simmons or some contact in the FBI had let him know. I wondered if there would be any evidence linking me to the murder this time. I had to move things along. That took me back to Karen. The case notes she’d brought from London were either with the FBI or had been returned to her office, so there was no accessing them. That left me with one option-the Internet.
I headed for Union Station and found a cafe. I bought a large coffee then I sat with my head in my hands, trying to concentrate. There was information in the depths of my memory-I was sure of that-but it wasn’t obliging right now.
I went back over the events since I’d escaped from the camp in Maine. What hadn’t I followed up? I remembered the underground building, the violence, the armed men and women in gray…and there it was-they had worn badges bearing the letters NANR. I had asked one of my pursuers what they stood for. What was the reply? It came back to me after some thought. North American National Revival. I typed the words into a search engine.
Thanks to the glorious lack of censorship on the Web, I found the organization in seconds. The problem was, the North American National Revival seemed to have nothing to do with anything in Maine. Its headquarters were in Butte, Montana, and its manifesto, riddled with spelling and grammatical mistakes, didn’t seem particularly offensive-it called for reductions in federal taxes, a halt to immigration, especially from Mexico, and more teaching of traditional Christian beliefs in schools and colleges. There was nothing overtly anti-government, and certainly no references to an armed wing or camps ringed with barbed wire. Then again, they would hardly have mentioned those in public. I went back to the site’s home page and clicked on “Local Centers.” Glory be-there was an address in Washington, D.C. I wrote it down and then logged on to a city map. I found that the location on Q Street was close to Dupont Circle Metro station. It was well into the evening and the office would probably be closed, but I decided to check it out all the same.
I got there in under half an hour. The building was a low-rise office block. Most of the lights were either dimmed or off, but it was brighter up on the second floor. A security guard was standing outside the glass doors.
“NANR?” I asked.
The elderly black man gave me an impenetrable look and then pointed to the elevators. “Second floor,” he said, with a brief shake of his head that attracted my attention.
I stepped closer. “What are they like? I’m a journalist.”
The guard eyed me for a few moments. “Wonderful people,” he said, the irony almost imperceptible. “Wouldn’t say a thing against them.”
“How about anything for them?”
“That neither,” he said, his lips almost forming into a smile. “Are you really a reporter?”
“I write a weekly column.” That wasn’t a lie, though he wouldn’t have heard of my London paper. Then again, I’d forgotten its name until recently. “On crime,” I added.
That got him interested. “Is that right, son? Well, the NANR is always saying it isn’t a criminal organization.” He looked around-we were still alone. “Some might not agree.”
“Why’s that?”
The security guard leaned closer. “I’ll tell you why. Because it’s run by the worst kind of racist pig-the kind who’s learned how to cover up what he thinks about people like me.”
That was interesting, but I needed more. “You got any examples of racist behavior?”
He shook his head. “No, they’re far too smart for that. I’m just going by my gut. The top man here, a guy called Larry Thomson, is the worst. He looks at me like I’m his best friend, but I know for sure he wants to hang me from the nearest tree.”
“Is he here at the moment?”
“Yup.”
“You wouldn’t care to give me the nod when he comes out, would you?”
“What you going to do?”
“Just see where he goes,” I replied. That seemed to disappoint the guard. There was a large concrete plant holder at the side of the steps that I concealed myself behind. Then I sent Joe a text, asking him to run a check on this Larry Thomson.
About an hour later, a group of people came out of the elevator and walked toward the exit. They all nodded politely to the guard, especially the man at the rear. He was tall and fair-haired, with a prominent nose and probably in his late fifties. He was carrying a black leather briefcase and had the bearing of a leader. I looked over at the security guard. He briefly extended a finger at the tall guy’s back as he headed down the steps.
I followed at about twenty paces’ distance and soon realized that Thomson was heading for the metro station I’d come from-the others had all respectfully wished him goodnight and dispersed. I went inside and loitered on the Glenmont platform, then got on the same train that he did and followed him off it at Metro Central. He exited the station and headed north. I’d been thinking about asking him straight out whether the NANR had an armed wing in Maine, but my bravado had dwindled away. Now I was more interested in where he was going. Then I saw we were on the street I’d scoped earlier. As Larry Thomson approached the Woodbridge Holdings building, I started to walk faster and was only about five yards behind him when he turned up the steps. I whipped out my cell phone and managed to take a photo of him without being noticed either by him or the security man who opened the door for him. I saw Thomson go toward a bank of elevators inside as I walked on nonchalantly.
At the next corner, I stopped and sent the photo to Joe, telling him of the link I’d just established between the North American National Revival and Woodbridge Holdings. I was hoping he’d manage to dig the dirt on the tall man. Meanwhile, I’d be subjecting my memory to another bout of the third degree.
Chief Owen was standing outside the apartment building in Lincoln Park, flanked by Clem Simmons and Gerard Pinker. He was looking at the pavement rather than at Peter Sebastian.
“No, there’s no chance of this being a Metro P.D. case,” the FBI man said firmly. “The pair of weapons and the presence of the drawings clearly link it to the series we’ve already taken over.”
Owen raised his eyes briefly. “What about the floater, then? You haven’t tied that to the other murders. I heard the vic was a farmer from Iowa.”
“Actually, we’re not sure he’s connected, but we’re holding on to him for the time being.” He eyed the detectives wearily. “Haven’t you got enough cases of your own to investigate?”
“What about Matt Wells?” Clem Simmons asked, ignoring Pinker’s immediate alarm.
“Our people have found fingerprints that we expect to be his,” Dana Maltravers said. “We haven’t had any sighting of him. You?”
