Cuts Through Bone (32 page)

“After a week of watching him, I had realized that he could tell me what I wanted to know about something, if I sent him to take a look at it for me. His eyes were like cameras, and he could spin details until a picture filled, without adding something wished for or taking away. That's a good scout. Then he didn't have a need to take a shot, or get something started, so people would notice him. Gagneau was satisfied with seeing; he was good at staying out of the way, staying alive.”

Olsen frowned. “Over there, some of the men had their hands dirty. Even before I commanded Alpha, I began overlooking what didn't ruin a soldier. A man can't stop the wind from blowing. I never noticed Gagneau involved in trouble, except when he married Jaime-jan. After we embedded in Khodzai, he fell in love with Nawar Akrami's daughter.

“Nawar Akrami was one of the local lords.…” The big man paused, studying the look on Guthrie's face. “This story isn't new to you, then?”

“The girl was killed by a bomb. Linney told us.”

The big man nodded, rubbing his chin. “Linney might not have known all of it. I don't know how much Pashtun he ever learned. That's what leads to the Shorawi—Russians. The opium goes north in the hands of the Chechens. Even under the Taliban, the drugs never stopped. Too many of the lords were involved indirectly. Nawar Akrami's cousin, Jarul Akbar, borrowed men during the autumns to protect his shipments.”

“Gagneau knew the drug lord?”

“He sat beside me, drinking tea in
jirga
with Nawar and Jarul, enough that I can't remember all of the conversations.”

The big veteran fell silent and watched Guthrie brood on his words. Vasquez stood and returned to pacing. After a minute, Olsen asked, “So that wasn't a help, then?”

“Maybe,” Guthrie replied. “That explains how he would have connected with the Russians. Jarul Akbar called in a favor.

“I suppose I hoped he'd spoken about his places and things here, but you say he claimed to come from Louisiana. I can't add that up with the man losing a brother on nine/eleven. You're saying he never mentioned the city? He wasn't a talker?”

“Gagneau was quiet, mostly. I got along with him not needing to talk. I'll go awhile myself with nothing to say, then not worry if no one else is talking.”

The little detective nodded. “Maybe that leaves me with only the Russians as a place to start. Searching the city, I might find a track, and then I'll find him. Maybe after a while of looking.” He frowned. “If I had you out of here, I would show you a puzzle and see if you solved it, or I would use you to pull him in. He's after you.”

The big man scowled as he listened but then nodded slowly. He could play bait.

*   *   *

After they drove back into the city over the Triborough, Guthrie and Vasquez ate a late lunch at La Borinqueña. Across the table they held a slow council of war. Gagneau wouldn't be found easily on a cold trail, no matter how many tracks he left in the city. Their leads were sparse, and the city was full of unknown people. They held two advantages: Gagneau thought he was anonymous, and despite needing a false identity, he had no reason to conceal his face from anyone on the street.

Guthrie and Vasquez drove back to the office on Thirty-fourth Street. The street was clogged with rack runners, and Vasquez had to park down the block. Michelle Tompkins was waiting for them inside the lobby downstairs, clutching a laptop and a textbook. She looked plain, wearing thick-rimmed glasses, a loose T-shirt, and faded old blue jeans with deck shoes.

“Greg said you know who killed Cammie,” she said, hurrying to join them as they climbed the stairs.

“Sure,” Guthrie replied.

While Vasquez unlocked the office door, Tompkins said, “He didn't seem very enthusiastic, either. Did you really solve the murder, or just find another suspect?”

The little detective let Tompkins come inside and invited her to take a seat. He handed her the picture of Gagneau, then slid out of his suit coat and dropped his fedora onto his desk. The young woman studied the picture but seemed disappointed.

“He's prettier than Justin Peiper,” she said softly, and set the photo down on Guthrie's desk. “Can't we get Greg out of jail?”

“I would if I could. This's going to be a tough job without help, and needing to move slow enough not to spook him.” He pointed at the photo and paused. “What about you? Maybe you have two million and seven?”

Tompkins flushed, and her eyes dropped. “Not yet,” she said. “In a few years.”

“The trust fund hasn't opened wide enough yet?” Guthrie asked.

“
You
shouldn't be smug about Whitney money,” she said.

“Then we're stopped, and moving slow,” the little detective said, “unless you think your uncle will do it on what we've got.”

The tracery of facts, spoken aloud, seemed as thin as the clouds above Manhattan. While murdered witnesses might prove that someone meant to stifle Guthrie's search, the remaining witness had chosen a dead man's picture. Until then, Jeannette Overton had been convincing; afterward, maybe glib but senile. Michelle Tompkins shook her head. The detectives didn't have enough to convince her uncle, but they did have an avenue left to explore. The material from Arlington hadn't been cross-checked. Taking the pictures from Alpha to Overton had seemed simpler.

So the detectives began comparing the lists. Guthrie marked blue dots on Vasquez's map to show home addresses from Alpha. Vasquez continued marking murders. Michelle Tompkins haunted the far end of the office, floating between the windows, where she could watch the traffic and commotion on Thirty-fourth Street, and the office door behind the oxblood couch, where she could trace the reverse of the gold lettering on the frosted glass. Her book and laptop sat unattended on the coffee table.

A direct comparison of the lists provided no connections. The soldiers from Task Force 1127 were all men; the victims of Agent Rackers's signature were all women. Given time to read and mark the map, the addresses began to align in a rough approximation with the locations of the murders. The detectives enjoyed a few minutes of mounting excitement before Tompkins padded over from the windows.

“If you had two random samples of men and women in America,” she said, “it might end up looking the same.” She studied the map. “Lots of people live in Chicago. So you have two soldiers and two victims from Chicago. That's an easy coincidence. You could make an argument about that pair in Iowa, though.”

Guthrie shrugged. “Good thing we had someone here with a college education,” he muttered. “We ain't got time to go out to Iowa and dig through that. Not right now. It's time to get on the telephones.”

He split the list of military records, calling attention to the contact numbers for next of kin. The cold calls would begin with a line of chatter about a survey. They wanted deaths in the last eighteen months, corresponding with the list Rackers had provided. Guthrie fashioned an officious pitch for a Veterans Administration survey, and then they practiced the chatter for a few minutes to smooth out kinks.

The task force list contained over four hundred names. Unanswered rings and quick hangups outnumbered conversations, but in four hours they dredged up a hundred names, finding thirty-two deaths. Six dead men they set aside. Twenty-six mothers, sisters, daughters, wives, girlfriends, and nieces were dead from car accidents, fatal robberies, drunken falls, overdoses, and other morbid circumstances, both unexpected and expected; including one elderly woman who died of cancer, and one infant girl who choked to death at night on a toy rattle that wasn't supposed to be in her crib. None appeared to be victims of deliberate murder.

Guthrie failed to reach the family in Iowa despite three tries, but the coincidences were numerous. With deaths in the task force to compare, Rackers's signature list placed twenty bodies nearby, each within a few days and a hundred miles. Guthrie tried Iowa again, then slapped the cell phone onto his desk after twenty rings.

“One man could do all that?” Tompkins asked softly.

“According to Greg Olsen, this little guy is a force of nature,” Guthrie said. “But I guess you got me again, college girl. Let's put a time line together for the killings.”

“All of them?” Vasquez asked.

“All of them.”

Outside, Thirty-fourth Street was rolling up, signaled by the sound of loading doors sliding down with slams. The Garment District had made another day's money. Bright sunshine reflected from the window ledges and doorways on the gray marble across the street. Inside, more work waited. Late-night calls to the West Coast could continue into the small hours. Guthrie handed Tompkins a phone and a list. He didn't mind if she walked while she talked, but he'd had enough of bright ideas without work.

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

By the end of a weekend spent making phone calls, the coincidences were impressive. Iowa produced a second body to pair with the victim Rackers provided. Even with a long list of murders, the killer never needed to be in two places at the same time. Comparably, New York City was Gagneau's sparsest hunting ground. Across the country, he killed two or three people every week, but his hunting in the city was slower and more calculated. Michelle Tompkins didn't need the matched lists to convince herself; she intended the proof for her uncle. Late Sunday night, they finished their calls, having found crossover bodies on most of the signature murders. George Livingston gave them an appointment with HP Whitridge for early Monday morning.

The old man's office was in a museum on Park Avenue in the sixties. An exclusive suite perched high atop the building like an eagle's aerie, with access through the museum below. Guthrie and Vasquez looked like weekend sightseers who had wandered astray from viewing the collection. The little detective could pass a casual glance in his rumpled suit, if he held his off-colored fedora out of sight behind his back, but Vasquez still looked like a grade-school tomboy on a summer jaunt, maybe with a frog and a handful of mud in her pocket to match up with the black eye and tilted cap. Michelle Tompkins led them upstairs, like an escort uniformed in dark blue Armani, with her dark hair held tightly by combs. Whitridge's office was cool, wrapped in dark woodwork and the smell of old leather. Broad, high windows looked down on Park Avenue.

The little detective outlined their proof against Gagneau, and then Tompkins pitched for Greg Olsen's bail. Whitridge studied her in a long pause after she finished, then slowly shook his head.

“I don't suppose I ever noticed before how much you resemble your aunt Nancy,” he said gently. “Your great-aunt. Sometimes a resemblance skips a generation. Aunt Nancy was a crusader, and you have that same determined look.”

Tompkins flushed with anger. “You would leave him in jail?” she demanded. “He doesn't deserve to be in jail! Don't say you don't believe what we've told you.”

The silver-haired old man sighed. He settled into his wing-backed chair. “I believe I told you how long I've known Clayton Guthrie,” he said. “I also know he's done what was asked: He found the killer. The police can do the rest, or perhaps the FBI is more likely.” He paused to study his niece again. She was standing angrily with her hands on her hips. He continued before she lost her patience. “I don't know Greg Olsen, while you do. That doesn't mean I dislike him if I don't rush to take his side. I can see him for what he is, which isn't far different from the man who killed Camille. Both of them are soldiers from the same elite unit of killers. Gagneau is a loose cannon; he's out in the street exacting vengeance for the death of his fiancée. Greg Olsen isn't a stray cat you'll take home and feed from a dish. If I put Greg Olsen on the street, what do you think he'll do?” Whitridge emphasized his point with a frown.

Tompkins started to speak, but she was shocked. Her mouth closed and the hand she had lifted suddenly dropped, deprived of a gesture.

“That's right,” he continued. “He would run out into the street, bent on taking revenge for Camille. She was your friend, too. That's what you want?”

“That's not fair,” Tompkins said softly. “That's not what I was thinking.”

Vasquez cleared her throat and caught Whitridge's eye. “I gotta admit I thought of that,” the young Puerto Rican said. “That first thing, he would kill Gagneau. I thought of that, and I didn't think it was a bad thing. Gagneau needs to be dead
now,
not a year from now, or however long it takes to convince the NYPD to look for him. I spent the past few days looking at women he's killed. Gagneau's not gonna stop. He's killed almost two hundred
women
over the past year or so. Maybe a man don't find that much to worry about. Mister, he don't
need
another year, or even another week.”

Whitridge frowned, leaning forward. He glanced at Guthrie but then turned back to Vasquez. “You can't find Gagneau?” he asked. “If Olsen comes out, he can help you do it?”

“I don't know,” she replied. “I'm new at this. Maybe
el viejo
works some more magic and finds him—but he don't sound hopeful. Maybe we find him faster with Olsen's help. He knows Gagneau.”

Whitridge glanced at Guthrie, noted the grim look on the little man's face, and leaned back in his chair again. “Michelle, are you determined about this?” he asked. “Are you prepared to accept the consequences?”

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“I think you have more in this than wanting Camille's killer caught,” he said. “Is that worth risking? Because you will be, whether you understand that or not.”

Tompkins seemed bewildered, but she nodded.

“Then I'll call James Rondell and tell him to arrange bail.”

*   *   *

On the ride back into the city from Rikers Island, Greg Olsen sat quietly in the backseat of Guthrie's old Ford and watched the streets slide by through the glass. Thick clouds darkened the sky. Michelle Tompkins sat beside him, clutching a knapsack of his things gathered from the Grove Street apartment like a teddy bear. Crossing the Triborough, she held it out to him silently.