Touching Evil

CHAPTER TEN

Andy greeted them at his desk but led the way immediately to the conference room, where two more detectives rose to meet them. Or, rather, to meet John; Maggie obviously knew both and murmured hello to Jennifer Seaton and Scott Cowan and then took a seat at the long table while they were being introduced to John.

He wasn't so preoccupied by meeting new people that he didn't notice Maggie had isolated herself, choosing a chair between two others that each held large file boxes. When the introductions were over and everybody sat down, he deliberately moved one of the file boxes and sat beside Maggie.

She sent him a quick glance but otherwise kept her gaze fixed on the blank bulletin board placed several feet away from the other side of the table. He didn't have a clue what she was thinking, but he knew stress when he saw it and he saw it in Maggie. From the moment she'd shown up at the hotel this morning, he'd been absolutely certain that something else had happened, something that had shaken her badly.

Was this it? Had Maggie realized somehow that she'd been wrong in saying Samantha Mitchell was in the hands of the Blindfold Rapist? Or was it something else?

"I have three more detectives on the case full-time," Andy told them, "but right now they're out trying to find out if this note is legit. Since the rest of us are here, I thought now would be the time to go over a few things." He pushed the plastic-bagged piece of paper toward John. "I want to know what you two think about this."

The note was block-printed on what looked like an ordinary sheet of notepaper torn from a pad, and the message was chillingly simple.

IF YOU EVER WANT TO SEE YOUR WIFE AGAIN IT'LL COST YOU 100K

There were three smears on the paper-two that looked like black fingerprint powder, and one that looked like blood.

"Prints?" John asked.

"Yeah, couple of real clear ones. One of my guys was with Mitchell when he got the note, so it was handled properly. The prints likely belong to whoever sent it. We're checking the state and federal fingerprint databases. So far, no matches, but we just got started looking."

John slid the note over to Maggie. "Is he stupid, or just an amateur?"

"Well, that's part of the problem we're having with this whole kidnap thing. Mitchell, he's all ready to pay the so-called ransom, but we've got quite a few questions. I'm sure you can guess what they are."

"Why a kidnapper would have asked for such a ridiculously small sum from somebody like Mitchell," John said. "Why he would carelessly put his own fingerprints on the note. How somebody that seemingly incompetent could have beaten a first-class security system in order to snatch Samantha Mitchell out of her own house, leaving virtually no evidence behind. How am I doing?"

"Full marks," Andy said. "That's pretty much what we thought."

Maggie pushed the bag away from her and murmured, "But?"

Andy nodded. "But. That is blood on the note, and the type matches Samantha Mitchell's. We can try for a DNA match, but that'll take weeks. My hunch is the situation's going to get resolved long before we'd get the results."

"How was the note delivered?" John asked.

"Just stuck in his mailbox on top of the regular mail. Nobody saw anyone near the box except for the usual mail carrier, and she swears she didn't put it there. I'm inclined to believe her, especially since she's been at her job for fifteen years without so much as an unauthorized sick day."

John thought about that. "Nobody saw anyone… I assume we're talking about the press? Don't they still have the house staked out?"

"Yeah. And tried to interview my guys instead of answering the questions, damn them. But the bottom line is, they didn't see anything unusual. Not especially surprising. With a bunch of them milling around near the end of the driveway-and the mailbox-it wouldn't have been too hard for somebody with a camera around his neck to wander past the box and pause for a half a minute without being noticed."

Maggie stirred slightly. "Andy, do you believe Samantha Mitchell was kidnapped and is being held for ransom?"

"Can't say that I do. Everything we know about her disappearance matches the M.O. of our guy, and if I'm certain of anything, it's that he doesn't give a flying fuck about money."

Jennifer said, "Scott and I agree with Andy. We think the rapist snatched her, and he's not going to get all helpful and leave us his fingerprints at this late date. So the question is, who sent the note?"

"Somebody who knows the rapist?" John suggested. "Or, hard as it is to believe, somebody who read all the news reports and decided to try to cash in on a disappearance?"

Andy grimaced. "That last is the most likely, we think. Helluva world we live in."

"What about the blood?" John asked.

Scott shrugged. "The guy could have pricked his own finger and just got lucky with the blood type. I mean, except for the way he left the note without being seen, he isn't coming across as too bright, is he?"

"There's another possibility," Maggie said. She wasn't looking at any of them but gazing at the bagged note. "The blood could be hers. Whoever sent the note… could have found her body."

Andy looked at her steadily. "You think she's dead?"

"Yes. I think she's dead."

John was also watching her face, and as she spoke he felt a little chill of certainty. Maggie didn't just think Samantha Mitchell was dead. She knew it.

Kendra slipped back into the passenger side of the car and said, "Let's go-before one of those guys back there decides to ask for a closer look at my I.D." She removed the camera strap from around her neck and returned the camera to its case.

Quentin pulled the car smoothly away from the curb half a block up from the Mitchell house. "That I.D. is designed to stand up to scrutiny, you know."

"Even so, no reason to push it."

"Okay. So, did you get anything useful?"

"The reporters all bought the kidnapping story-at first. But whether because the Blindfold Rapist is better copy or somebody just reasoned it out, now they're pretty much agreed that it's probably just an attempt to cash in on the disappearance."

"Mmm. Any ideas on who might be making that attempt?"

"None they were willing to share with me."

"You mean your charm had no effect on them?"

"Not so you'd notice."

"Or your big brown eyes?"

"I suppose they all prefer blue."

"Or your uniquely flexible mind?"

"That barely impresses you." Kendra pulled a small black address book from her shoulder bag and began turning the pages. "What we need is someone who knows the disreputable side of Seattle a lot better than we do."

"You forget-Seattle was my childhood home."

"I didn't forget. But you've been away from here- what?-twenty years?"

"About that, but I come back for regular visits."

"Still, I imagine things might have changed around here since your childhood."

"Sure, which is why I keep in touch with people who have a very firm finger on the pulse of this place. Joey, for instance. Joey is a living testament to the adage that only the good die young. Because if the bad died young, Joey would have dropped in his crib."

"You think he might have sent that note?"

"No, figuring out and executing a plan of any kind would take Joey longer than a few hours. Give him a few weeks, and he might come up with something, but not a few hours. I think he might know who did come up with the kidnapping idea, though. If anybody would know, it would be Joey."

"And do you know where we can find him?"

"Give me ten minutes," Quentin said.

It turned out to be an optimistic estimate, but knowing her partner, Kendra was ready for that. In a distinctly seedy neighborhood, she waited patiently at the end of a long alley Quentin had disappeared into, keeping one eye on their car while standing ready to back him up if need be. For the half hour or so he was gone, she politely refused three invitations for a "date" and not so politely warned off an interested pimp.

When Quentin reappeared abruptly, she said, "You picked this corner deliberately, didn't you?"

He grinned. "Still a busy place for the trade, huh?"

"Bastard," she said without heat.

"Well, I knew you could take care of yourself. Think of it as a compliment."

"Yeah, right." She eyed him and waited.

"Okay, I've got to know," he said. "What was the top offer?"

"You seriously expect me to tell you what several lonely men offered for my body?"

"Several?"

"Don't push it, Quentin."

He grinned again. "Who knows when we might have to go undercover in the trade, and I'd need to know your street worth, that's all."

"Go to hell," she said politely. "Did you or did you not find out where Joey is?"

"I did."

"Then let's go."

Five minutes later, sitting beside him in their car, Kendra said, "Five hundred."

Astonished, Quentin said, "As much as that? Jeez, either the streets around here have changed since my day, or inflation must be a real factor."

"Bastard!" she said, this time with considerable heat.

John closed the folder containing the forensics report on the Mitchell house as well as case notes and a photograph of the missing woman, lifted a questioning brow at Maggie, and when she shook her head pushed the file back across the table to Andy. "Thanks for letting me take a look," he said. "Not that I see anything helpful."

"That's the way it always is with the disappearances. Not a damned thing to go on. And not much more when the women are found."

She knew it wasn't a pointed reference, but Maggie nevertheless said, "I wish I could give you a sketch of this animal, Andy. But he's been so careful, none of the victims have been able to remember any helpful details."

"I know that, Maggie."

"I should try talking to Ellen Randall again. I wanted to give her a few days to calm down after-"

"After I intruded and messed things up," John finished. "I really am sorry about that."

Maggie nodded. "I know. She probably wasn't ready to talk to me then anyway. And I doubt she'll be able to give me anything useful. But I have to try. I'll call her this afternoon, find out if she'll meet with me, maybe tomorrow."

"Here?" Andy asked.

"I think I'll leave it up to her. She might be far more comfortable at home."

"Well, let me know if you'll need an interview room."

"Okay."

Andy tapped the Mitchell file with one finger. "So that's where we stand," he said. "On the Mitchell investigation, at any rate. I've got people out trying to find out what they can about this damned note, and I've got people looking for Samantha Mitchell-dead or alive. Since there's not much more we can do in either case, at least for the time being, there's something else we wanted to discuss with you two."

John glanced at the two younger detectives, then looked steadily at Andy. "I had a feeling there was."

"I wasn't keeping anything back because of orders but because this is… pretty far-fetched, John."

"In what way?"

Andy leaned back and gestured slightly toward the other cops, clearly inviting them to explain.

Jennifer said, "We were sure this guy was picking particular women, but with all the varied descriptions of them and where he grabbed them, nothing pointed to how, to any sort of common denominator. And even though we're pretty sure he's been active only for six months or so, we kept hearing from the shrink that his ritual was too well established to be so recent. So Scott and I started wondering if maybe he was getting his ideas from somewhere specific. Like maybe accounts of old, unsolved crimes."

"I wouldn't call that far-fetched," John commented. "In fact, it sounds pretty reasonable."

"It is reasonable-except for what we found when we started digging through files."

"Which was?" Maggie asked.

John glanced at her quickly, suddenly aware of another of those odd little certainties; this was something else she knew.

"Which was a little creepy," Jennifer said. "What we found was a very similar string of rape-murders that took place here in Seattle in 1934. Six women for certain, though possibly eight in all, killed within an eighteen-month period."

"So he is copying earlier crimes," John said.

"Here's the creepy part." Jennifer rose from the table and went to flip one of the bulletin boards so that they could all see the other side. Under the heading 2001, four photographs were pinned in a vertical row, pictures of Laura Hughes, Christina Walsh, Ellen Randall, and Hollis Templeton. Beside that row and under the heading 1934 was another row, this one containing three sketches and two photos.

"You'll notice," Jennifer said, "that the first sketch done in 1934 shows a woman virtually identical to Laura Hughes. The second sketch is pretty amateur and didn't help them I.D. the victim, but it and the description of her taken together closely match Ellen Randall. The third sketch is backed up by a photograph, and as you can see, this victim resembled Hollis Templeton. We only have a crime-scene photo of the fourth victim, but the description matches Christina Walsh."

Maggie said, "He's picking look-alikes."

Andy said, "I doubt it's coincidence that these women just happened to be attacked in much the same way as their virtual doubles were almost seventy years ago."

John said, "So he has access to police files?"

"Maybe. But there've been books written about unsolved crimes here in the city, so we can't be sure he would have had to use police files."

Jennifer said, "And there's something else." She told them about the note found in her car, finishing, "Needless to say, we don't know who wrote the note, how they got into my locked car, or why they picked me. We also don't know if he, she, or it was trying to be helpful or is bent on leading us on a really big wild-goose chase."

"But," Andy said, "we have to assume the 1894 date could be important, at least until we prove otherwise. Problem is, we've had no luck running down any files at all from that year. Not really surprising, since Seattle was only founded a few decades earlier."

Maggie said, "Maybe it's… some other place. Some other city."

"Maybe," Andy said. "But if it is, I don't see how we have a hope in hell of figuring out where."

Kendra hadn't really pictured Joey in her mind, but she was definitely surprised when they ran him to ground in a crowded backstreet poolroom. It was a disreputable place by and large, where the other patrons scrupulously minded their own business when Quentin strolled up behind a hulking redhead who was pocketing his winnings from a game and tapped him on one meaty shoulder.

"Hey, Joey."

Joey swung around, his fierce expression a neon warning to any sane person.

Quentin, of course, didn't so much as step back. He just smiled that curiously sweet and wholly deceptive smile of his and added, "How've you been?"

Kendra didn't draw her gun, but she kept a hand near it; she had a lot of faith in her partner's abilities, but despite Quentin's height and undoubted strength, Joey was taller and looked as though he could have lifted an all-pro tackle over his head and heaved him across the room.

But it was Joey who backed up a step, a funny little grin twisting his lips. "Oh. Hey, Quentin. Long time no see."

"Oh, it's just been a few months," Quentin said cheerfully. "Still, we have so much to catch up on. What say we step into your office and talk about old times, okay, Joey?"

Without protest and with rather astonishing meekness, Joey turned and led the way to a back hall and an incredibly filthy men's room. Kendra did her best not to touch anything and wondered vaguely if she could throw her shoes away the moment they got out of here; there was something crunching underfoot and she really didn't want to look down and see what it was.

Joey didn't object to her presence, which was hardly surprising since he didn't take his eyes off Quentin.

"You back for good?" he asked, hoping transparently for a negative response.

"Nah, just visiting, as usual. You keeping your nose clean, Joey?"

"Sure I am, Quentin."

Quentin lifted a disbelieving brow.

"Okay, I mighta been in a little trouble here and there, but nothing major."

"You haven't killed anybody else, have you, Joey?"

"No, I swear."

"I can find out if you're lying to me. You know I can."

Joey's lips twisted again in that sick little grin. "Yeah, yeah, I know. Honest, Quentin, I been good. Ask anybody."

"I'll do that, Joey. In the meantime, I'm looking for a little information."

"Okay, sure. Shoot."

"You know about the disappearance of Samantha Mitchell?"

Joey frowned for a moment, gears almost visibly turning, then nodded. "Oh, yeah. S'posed to be another one grabbed by that rapist."

"That's right. But now somebody's claiming to have kidnapped her. And that somebody wants her husband to cough up a ransom."

Joey shifted uneasily. "It ain't me, Quentin."

"Then who is it, Joey? What sorry son of a bitch decided to take advantage of that poor lady's misfortune?"

"I dunno, Quentin, honest."

Gently, Quentin said, "I want you to find out for me, Joey. And I want you to find out fast. Understand?"

Joey nodded. "Okay. Okay, Quentin, I can ask around, sure. Guys owe me some favors, somebody's bound to know what's going on."

Quentin produced a card and handed it to Joey. "The underlined number is my cell phone. Use that to call me as soon as you find out what I want to know."

Joey accepted the card gingerly. "Right. Gimme a couple hours, and I'll see what I can dig up."

"Don't make me wait any longer than that, okay?"

"Sure, sure."

"Call me quick enough, and I might not have time to ask around and find out what you've been up to, Joey."

Once again, the gears turning behind Joey's round blue eyes were almost visible, and his hopeful understanding definitely was. "Yeah. Okay, yeah, I got it. I'll call, Quentin. Count on it."

They left him there, his back literally pressed up against the grimy wall between two disgusting sinks. He showed no inclination to follow them out and, in fact, when Kendra glanced back as they were leaving the poolroom, he still hadn't come out of the bathroom.

"That is one very nervous incredible hulk," she commented as they got in the car. "I'd swear he was terrified of you."

Quentin smiled as he started the car but didn't respond to the comment.

Kendra eyed him, then said, "So Joey's an old childhood pal, huh?"

"More of a childhood acquaintance, you could say."

"Uh-huh. I don't suppose you'd want to tell me about this interesting childhood of yours?"

"Oh, it's not interesting. Boring, really."

"Really?"

"Sure."

"Mmm. Somehow I doubt that. But never mind- for now. Who did Joey kill?"

"I think that's 'whom,' " he said thoughtfully.

"Stop correcting my grammar and answer the question."

"Yes, ma'am. Joey killed his father. Shotgun blast full in the face."

"Jesus. And he's running around loose? Our judicial system sucks."

"Not so much in this case. Joey was eleven when it happened, and his old man had just beaten his mother into unconsciousness for about the hundredth time. Joey walked in on it, took one look-and something snapped. He very coolly went into the bedroom, found and loaded the old man's gun, then came back and blew him away."

Kendra turned slightly in her seat to study her partner. "That was his story?"

"Well, his story for the record was that he got the gun only to defend his mother and that when his father charged toward him with murderous rage in his evil face, Joey acted purely in self-defense."

"The evidence backed him up?"

"It didn't contradict his version of events. Especially with a witness testifying on his behalf."

"A witness?"

"Yeah. A classmate had come home with him to borrow a schoolbook. That was back when Joey actually showed a glimmer of turning into something better than his old man. Anyway, the witness backed him up, and Joey got probation and therapy."

"The therapy doesn't seem to have done him much good, if he's been in trouble since then."

"No, and he dropped out of school as soon as he could outrun the truant officer. Given his genetic heritage and environment, not so surprising. His father really was one of those pure evil bastards life sometimes produces, and I hear his grandfather was worse. But Joey got enough of his mother's blood-and her influence-to make him a lot more manageable. He'd con you six ways from Sunday and pick your pockets if he found you unconscious or dead, but he's terrified of his own strength and temper; he doesn't want to turn out like his old man. To his credit, he usually manages not to turn violent."

Kendra nodded. "So why is he wary of you? Afraid you'll tell the truth after all these years?"

Quentin smiled faintly. "I wouldn't. But the possibility does help me keep Joey in line."

"Even from the other side of the country?"

"Well, I try to come back here at least once a year or so. And I always look him up, find out what he's been into." He chuckled. "Ever since I joined the Bureau, Joey's kept his nose pretty clean. I think he's seen one too many Hollywood distortions of the power of the FBI."

"So your badge helps keep him in line as well."

"So far. Joey's down as a one-time impulse killer, and I'd like to keep it that way. It's the difference between being bad and crossing over into being evil."

"Mmm." Kendra studied him a moment longer, then said, "Why do I get the feeling your enigmatic past contains a number of stories like Joey's?"

"Probably your vivid imagination."

She sighed, unsurprised. "That was a filthy place you dragged me into."

"Sorry about that."

Kendra turned her gaze to the windshield. "You owe me a new pair of shoes."

With their questions left hanging unanswered in the air but providing a definite spur, both John and Maggie volunteered to stick around for a few hours and help go through the file boxes in search of more information about the earlier crimes. Within an hour, they had files stacked on every available chair but nothing else to show for their efforts.

It was nearly one when Scott and Jennifer left to bring back a late lunch for them, and John took the opportunity to tell Andy about Quentin and Kendra.

"Shit," Andy said, though clearly more startled than angry. "FBI agents-and unofficial? I didn't know the Bureau did anything unofficially."

"They belong to a fairly new unit of investigators and have a bit more autonomy than most. They're very good, Andy, and completely trustworthy. And they aren't interested in taking any credit no matter who breaks the case."

"It was damned officious of you, John."

"I know. And I'll apologize if you want me to-not for calling them in but for not telling you I was going to."

"Gee, that's big of you."

John chuckled.

Unwilling to relent just yet, Andy gave Maggie a hard stare. "You knew about this too?"

She met his gaze squarely. "I don't much care who gets the credit either, Andy. Or who helps. Just as long as we get this animal in a cage where he belongs."

"Drummond's going to shit a brick." Andy sighed. "He's already blasted me once today, John, thanks to you. Do me a favor and keep that famous profile of yours off the front page from now on, will you?"

"I'll do my best. And none of us wants Drummond to find out too soon, believe me. If and when he does find out, it'll be me who called them in-not you or anyone under Drummond."

Andy eyed him wryly. "You got a death wish?"

"I can handle Drummond." John smiled. "I've been handling men like him for fifteen years."

"He's got a lot of juice in this town, John."

"So have 1.1 just haven't used much of it yet."

"Okay, okay. As long as you understand he will not be happy. And as long as none of my people gets the blame."

"They won't."

"In that case-when do I get to meet these agents of yours? I like to know who I'm working with."

"We can meet up at the hotel whenever you like, but Quentin and Kendra are out now trying to find out all they can about this supposed kidnapping. They didn't think it was any more likely than your people did, but like Maggie said-whoever sent that note might know something about Samantha Mitchell, and we need to find out what that might be."

"Think they can find out something before my people can?" It wasn't-quite-a challenge.

John smiled. "Well, let's just say I've learned never to bet against Quentin. One way or another, he usually finds what he goes looking for."