Play To Kill

Chapter Thirty-seven

Grace was standing at the marble counter in Harley's kitchen, picking her way through a chicken pot pie - she was eating purely for sustenance, not pleasure, so it seemed appropriate that she do it standing up. Huttinger's hard drives had arrived, and they were all staring down a long night's work.

She looked up when John Smith walked in a few minutes later. He was clearly exhausted, which was understandable, and yet there was something almost peaceful in his face, as if gravity had granted him a temporary kindness.

'You've had quite a night,' she said, laying down her fork. 'We caught the news. Congratulations.'

'None deserved. The credit belongs to all of you and your extraordinary software, and to Detectives Magozzi and Rolseth, of course. They're quite an impressive pair.'

Yes, they are. But I'll bet they didn't feed you,' she raised her plate in an invitation. 'There's more in the oven if you're hungry.'

'What about the others?'

'They ate earlier.' She started to move toward the oven but he stopped her with a gentle hand on her shoulder. 'Don't interrupt your meal. I'll get it, and thank you very much. It smells delicious. When on earth did you find time to make this today?'

'I make them in advance, and keep them in Harley's freezer for nights like this.'

He asked for permission to sit after he'd filled his plate, and Grace pulled out stools for both of them. They sat side by side, looking straight ahead, eating in a silence that was oddly comfortable for two people who didn't really know each other at all.

'I have a boat,' John said abruptly, ruining everything.

Grace chased a piece of carrot around her plate, letting the statement hang there. Damnit. And it had all been going so well. She should have known he'd turn out to be just like everyone else. It was one of the reasons she avoided people. 'Hello' always turned into some inane conversation that would interest her not at all. What did she care if he had a boat? Now he'd tell her how long the boat was, what he'd named it, where he parked it, or docked it, or whatever it was you did with boats, as if all this information would be important for her to know.

'This is important,' he said, which was almost as weird as saying 'I have a boat.'

She looked up from her plate, annoyed with herself for being a little curious. 'I have no interest in boats,' she told him. Best to nip conversations like this in the bud.

'Neither do I. But I like where they take me.'

'Right. On the water.'

He almost smiled, but he didn't look at her. 'Not where they take me physically, where they take me in my head. I called my boss tonight and resigned. When I get back to D.C., I'm going to get on the boat and just sail away.'

Grace couldn't help herself. She actually turned her head and looked at him, because, damnit, that was interesting. And stupid. 'That wasn't very smart, John.

You're going to lose part of your pension. Why would you do that?'

'Because you looked at me the other day, saw your future, and didn't like it. I don't like it much, either. So I'm going to change it. You want to come along?'

She snatched up the plates and walked to the sink. 'Don't be ridiculous.'

'Okay. Do you want me to cover the leftovers with plastic or tinfoil?'

'Tinfoil.'

He went right to the correct drawer and pulled out the tinfoil. Grace watched from the corner of her eye. Harley had about fifty drawers in his kitchen. How the hell did he know where it was? Did he sneak down here when they were working and inventory everything? She spun away from the sink and folded her arms over her chest. 'Why did you ask me that?'

John shrugged. 'Because I didn't know how much butter you put in the crust. A lot, and plastic wrap would make it soggy-'

'Not that, the boat thing'

'Oh. Because you're a great cook and you don't talk much.'

Upstairs in the office, Harley, Roadrunner, and Annie were deep into Huttinger's hard drives, and were about to break when Harley roared from his station, 'NO WAY!'

'Christ, Harley, give us a warning when you're going to go ballistic in a quiet room,' Roadrunner complained. 'What's up?'

Harley spun his monitor around for his gathering audience. 'I just found a hit list.'

'What?'

He tapped his finger on the screen. 'Look. Every single name. All seven of the Web murder victims. This is completely off the chain.'

They all looked over Harley's shoulder and read:

Richard Groth, Duluth, Minnesota.

Elmore Sweet, Cleveland, Ohio.

Cy Robertson, Chicago, Illinois.

Evan Eichinger, Seattle, Washington.

Sean Pasternak, Los Angeles, California.

Gregory Quandt, Austin, Texas.

Alan Sommers, Minneapolis, Minnesota.

'Where on God's green earth did you find this, Harley?' Annie asked.

'Better you should ask how, because I was friggin' brilliant. Huttinger visited this creepy Ilovetokill.com website a lot, so I signed into the site - and this is the brilliant part - typed in a few of the vie names. This is the thread that popped up. AND… the date on the thread is December of last year, over a month and a half before the first murder.'

'Shift back in the thread, Harley,' Annie told him. 'What comes before the list?'

'Okay, I'm going to give you the Cliffs Notes, because the thread's about twenty miles long. Basically it's a bunch of freaks bragging about how many people they've killed, how they killed them, what they did to them before and after they killed them… it just goes on and on. But then one of the posters who calls himself "Killer" - real creative, huh? - says, "I've killed twenty so far this year, and I'm shooting for twenty more. I'll kill anybody anywhere just for fun.'"

Annie made a face. 'Sounds like some sick psycho blowing a lot of hot air.'

Harley shrugged. 'Maybe, but then a new guy popped up, and get this: his handle on the website is Hole In One.'

Roadrunner's mouth dropped open. 'Jesus. That was in the post of the first murder, the one up north.'

'Bingo. Now look at the single line he posted before typing in all the names and locations.' He scrolled up to the top of the hit list, one line below Killer's post about killing anybody anywhere.

Hole In One: Bullshit, Killer. Prove it.

Start at the top.

Roadrunner was shaking his head. 'I take it these guys are untraceable.'

'Good guess, little buddy. We are never, ever going to be able to find these people.'

'Not this way,' Roadrunner said.

Annie looked at him. 'You know another way?'

Roadrunner shrugged modestly. 'I had a thought.'