Boneyard (26 page)

This was a bullshit assignment, anyway. Little FBI bitch was just trying to keep him busy, having him stake out Grafton Lakes State Park, the place where they’d found the last body. New York had refused to close off anything but the immediate area where the kid was found, which was probably smart. If another local swimming hole had been blocked off, people would’ve really raised a stink. Besides, no way in hell the killer was going to show up here again. He’d already jumped around to a couple different parks since they’d found his boneyard. In this neck of the woods he could pick and choose from another dozen without putting a dent in his gas tank.

Another car eased up the road, slowing to the five miles per hour speed limit when it spotted his cruiser. It pulled alongside and eased to a stop. The passenger side window rolled down. Doyle leaned forward and squinted to see the driver, grinning when he recognized him.

“How the hell are you, Sam?” he asked.

“Not bad, Lieutenant. You on duty?”

“Yup, undercover,” Doyle nodded. He’d been given strict orders to stay out of sight, which he’d chosen to disregard.

Sam Morgan dubiously examined the patrol car. “Yeah? Guess I shouldn’t trouble you, then.”

“No, that’s all right. I’m going nuts with boredom. See you got your girls with you.” He nodded toward the two sets of blond ponytails poking up from the back seat.

“Thought we’d take a swim, cool off a bit. Unbelievable, this heat. Figured it would’ve broken by now.”

“Yeah, well, I hear there’s a storm coming. Probably hit sometime tomorrow,” Doyle noted.

“Thank God. Hey, by the way, saw something kind of strange the other day, thought maybe I should mention it. The wife and I were coming back from dinner, a bit later than usual. Guy drove past us like a bat out of hell.”

“C’mon, Sam, you know I don’t handle traffic violations.” Doyle said, cutting him off.

“No, I figured. Thing was, he turned in here. And then the next day, I read about that boy you found…anyway, it was probably nothing. Just figured I’d mention it.”

Doyle rubbed the stubble that was already establishing a beachhead on his face. “You get a make or model?”

Sam shrugged. “It was a piece of junk, pretty old. It was definitely a sedan, though. A Toyota, maybe? Sorry, I’m not good with that sort of thing.”

“Anything distinctive about it?”

Sam cocked his head to the side, thinking. “I’m pretty sure the hood was a different color, darker than the rest of the car. And one of the taillights was replaced with tape. Sorry I can’t be more helpful.”

“Well, don’t worry about it. Probably just a bunch of kids looking for a place to knock back some beers.”

“Yeah, probably. Well, have a good one.” Sam waved and put the car back into gear, rolling past slowly.

Doyle waved in return, watched as the car rounded the bend fifty yards ahead. Wasn’t much of a lead, but it was something. If he managed to solve this case on his own, without the help of the damned task force, he’d be a hero and Internal Affairs wouldn’t be able to touch him. He’d sure as hell love to show up that FBI pain in the ass. He brooded for a minute, then picked up his radio.

“Georgia? Doyle here. Listen, honey, I need you to run a search for early model Toyotas and Hondas. I want you to look through the yearly inspections, find one with a different color hood. Check Massachusetts first, then Vermont and New York. Oh, and Georgia? Keep this between us and there’s a steak dinner in it for you.”

Jan clicked her fingernails angrily on the van hood. Her cameraman, Mike, stood off to one side uncertainly. She hadn’t said anything since returning from the precinct’s rear parking lot. Clearly she was in one of her snits again.

“Uh, boss? You want to stick around here a while longer, or should we—”

“Shut up and let me think, would you?” she snapped.

He raised a hand to calm her and stepped back, moving to the rear of the van.

The doors were open. Joe the sound guy was there, perched on the rear ledge, playing some sort of handheld video game. He glanced up as Mike approached. “How’s the princess?” he asked in a low voice when Mike dumped the camera next to him.

“In rare form,” Mike grunted in response.

Joe bobbed his head once. “Figures. Doesn’t look like she’s getting that scoop she was hoping for, huh? Hope she didn’t actually put out for that bastard Doyle.”

“Not that it would be the first time,” Mike noted.

Around the front of the van, Jan stared off into the distance without seeing anything. She’d heard a rumor that one of the network bigshots had nailed an interview with Sommers, an interview that as a local should have been hers. Probably that bitch from CNN, the one who always looked so pleased with herself in her tailored Chanel suits. Jan tugged self-consciously at her skirt. It wasn’t cheap, but it wasn’t Chanel, either. No way she was affording that, not on her salary.

This case was supposed to be her big break, the one that would finally launch her out of this backwater into a major market. When she’d started in weather after graduating with her communications degree, she’d known it would be a hard climb, that not having attended a prestige school she was already at a deficit. But she’d worked hard, and had known enough to cultivate some of the right friends along the way. Those relationships had gotten her this far. It was time for the next step, though, past time. She was a pragmatist, knew that New York or D.C. was unlikely, but Boston was certainly within her grasp. And after a few years in the anchor chair there, once she’d paid her dues, who knew. Maybe a major morning show.

She stepped back to examine herself in one of the oversize side mirrors mounted on the van. The problem was that she was pushing her late twenties, and no one over thirty had ever managed such a major leap up the career ladder. At least, no woman had. Doyle had turned out to be a total wash, not worth the time and energy she’d invested in him. So far he hadn’t told her anything that the captain didn’t blather on about at the daily press conferences. And that goddamn FBI bitch…Jan’s fists clenched and her cheeks flushed at the memory of her humiliation in the parking lot. She squinted, examining the slight creases at the corners of her eyes. If she didn’t get a break in this case soon, she’d have to consider Botox. Her cell phone chimed and she glanced at the caller ID, not recognizing the number. She snapped it open anyway.

“Jan Waters here.” She listened for a minute, her eyes narrowing shrewdly. She nodded as if the person on the other end could see her. When she spoke, her voice was saccharine-sweet. “Really? Why, Dorothy, I swear I owe you a hug and a kiss for that one. Or at least a big old margarita.” She listened again, then laughed. “All right, then. Drinks on me next time. Bye now.”

She clicked the phone shut triumphantly and marched to the back of the van. Mike and Joe eyed her balefully. She assumed a false brightness and said, “Good news, boys, one of my contacts gave us a lead. Cops were at the Registry of Deeds today asking about a house where a bunch of the victims stayed. Let’s head over there and check it out. Joe, get in touch with research back at the station, see if they can find out who the owner is.”

She swiveled without waiting for a response and sashayed to the passenger side of the van, swinging inside and buckling up. It wasn’t the best lead, but it was something. And she knew the other stations were completely in the dark, so if nothing else she had a scoop for the six-o’clock show. The station head would be pleased. As she waited for Joe to clamber into the driver’s seat, she flipped down the visor and checked her makeup in the mirror. Looked like Botox could wait a few more months, she thought, smiling grimly as she applied another layer of lipstick.

Twenty-Five

Dwight paced back and forth. His hair jutted out from his head in greasy spikes that morphed into new formations every time he frantically ran a hand through it. His eyes were red rimmed and wild, and his chest heaved as he crossed the room again. “Motherfucker. Motherfucker!” he muttered, over and over again.

When he first got home he figured Ma must’ve left early for bingo to make sure she got the best seat in the house—she did that sometimes. He was halfway to his room when he turned, puzzled. Something niggled at his mind, telling him things weren’t right. He’d turned back to the kitchen and there it was, a carton of cigarettes dangling on a wire strung from the overhead fan. He knew immediately what had happened. It was a nasty reference to a prank the Captain had played on him, the reason he’d sworn vengeance in the first place. During a training expedition, they’d gone deep into the woods, backcountry camping. He was the only one who had done it before; hell, without him, a few of them might not have survived the night. He’d gotten the fire started without using matches, dug them a latrine, showed them how to filter stream water through dead coals, strung up the food so that bears couldn’t get to it. He’d gotten pats on the back; for once everyone seemed pretty damned happy he was along. He’d gone to sleep feeling like he was finally part of something.

Then the next morning Dwight awoke to find that they’d left him. Worse yet, they’d strung up his clothes and thrown the end of the line out of reach, so he’d had to shimmy up the tree in his goddamn thermals like some asshole. He’d been good and pissed when he caught up with them a few hours later. They joked around, patted him on the back, said it was all in good fun. He’d known better. Caught the Captain grinning at him, muttering to the others, and knew he’d been behind it. As Dwight had stormed away that day he told them they’d regret it, that someday he’d get back at them. And he was keeping that promise. It just hadn’t occurred to him that the Captain might figure out the war before the final battle.

He compulsively rubbed his scalp again, sending tendrils of hair shooting off in new directions. Taking his mother—that was low. He might not always get along with her—usually didn’t—but it was his mother, for chrissake. His first impulse had been to grab the twelve-gauge and dash out of the house. He was going to drive right up to the Captain and threaten to blow his head off if he didn’t let her go. But halfway down the driveway he ground to a halt, throwing the car into Park. That was exactly what the Captain would be expecting. Deep down Dwight knew that when it came to thinking he was outmatched; the Captain always had a plan, he never did anything half-cocked. Hell, he was probably planning on laying all the murders at Dwight’s doorstep. If he wanted to get his mother back, first he’d have to figure out what the Captain was up to.

His eyes squeezed tightly shut as he pictured what might be happening to her. The Captain wouldn’t kill her, not right away. He never did, always kept them alive for some time while he played with them. Dwight had seen him coming and going through that hatch, popping up blinking and smiling, then descending again after eating lunch or taking the dog for a walk. “Sick fuck,” he said, gritting his teeth. No, if he wanted to beat him, he’d have to try to think like him. Luckily he’d already had some practice doing just that.

“So you’ve never met him in person, then? I find that…unusual,” Monica said, arching an eyebrow.

Gino Brondello shrugged as one hand scratched his belly through a stained undershirt. He was standing in the screen door of a duplex a few blocks away from the flophouse. “Listen, the guy paid cash. And that place was such a dump, figured I was lucky to rent it. It was empty for years after my dad died.”

“So you inherited the house,” Monica confirmed.

Gino nodded. Not surprising, Monica thought, taking him in. He barely looked as if he could manage himself, never mind multiple properties. “Yeah, money was always in my mailbox May first.”

“What did he pay you?”

He examined the ground, seemingly distracted by a beetle scurrying across the peeling porch floorboards. “Thirty grand,” he finally said in a low voice.

“Excuse me? Thirty grand for four months?”

He nodded again, looking painfully uncomfortable. Monica let out a low whistle. Even if the place had been a palace, that was at least twice the going rate for a summer rental in the Berkshires. No wonder Gino hadn’t asked any questions, for him thirty grand was the equivalent of winning the lottery. It certainly explained the big-screen TV she could see dominating the living room behind him. Hell, he probably lived off that cash all year. “How long has this been going on?” she asked reproachfully.

“Dunno. Ten years, maybe?”

“Ten years is a hell of a long time, Mr. Brondello. You ever stop by the house, check in to see how the tenant was getting along?”

He shook his head. “That was part of the deal. I got a few complaints from neighbors sometimes, about parties there. Called the number I was given for emergencies and he said he’d take care of it.”

“Who said that?” Monica pressed.

“Some guy. Didn’t get his name.”

“So let me get this straight, Mr. Brondello. You rented a house to someone who answered an ad you posted in the paper. But you never made him fill out a rental application, never even got his name or social security number, because he offered you a lot of cash to keep your mouth shut. That pretty much cover it?”

He glanced over his shoulder, as if help might arrive from the depths of the house. The TV blared in the background.

“You know, Mr. Brondello, at least three of the boys who were staying in that house have been murdered.”

“I don’t know nothing about that,” he replied sullenly.

“I’m sure you don’t. Still, I think you better come down to the station with me. I have a few more questions to ask you.”

“Yeah? Like what?”

“Like where were you last weekend, Mr. Brondello? And have you been claiming this chunk of cash on your income tax forms?” Gino looked visibly uncomfortable at the accusation, and she knew she had him. Monica didn’t think he was their guy. He didn’t seem motivated enough to get off the couch to make a sandwich, it was doubtful he’d meticulously planned and executed multiple murders. But so far he was the closest link to their killer, so she kept her hand close to her hip holster as she said, “After you,” nodding to her patrol car.