Insidious (12 page)

Detective Allard Hayes of the San Dimas Sheriff’s Department spoke up next. “Daniel and I got together, tried to think outside the
box, explore what isn’t obvious. Maybe it’s part of his ritual, part of how he kills them, over and over again. The laptops and cell phones represent their ties to life itself and he takes those ties, as he takes their lives. That sounds new age dippy, but we have to consider the Serial’s brain isn’t necessarily running on the rails.”

Daniel said, “We know this guy is into control. He thinks, he plans, he acts carefully, always nearly the same. Is he playing out a fantasy? Again and again?”

Jagger, Van Nuys, said, “What do you think, Montoya, he’s killing the same person over and over again, maybe someone he once knew and now hates?”

Corinne sat forward, chin on her clasped hands. “Or maybe he’s terrorizing someone in his own life with these murders, using the murders to threaten someone, to control them. I thought of that after I read the FBI profile.”

One of Chief Crowder’s reps said, voice tentative, “Maybe the guy got turned down by one of the actresses, killed her, and turned it into a blood sport.”

Glen Hoffman, North Hollywood, said, “Or maybe the guy’s so crazy he doesn’t know why he’s doing any of it. Doesn’t know why he takes the laptops and cell phones. God tells him to take them and stash them in a locker at a train station.”

Cam waited, but the room remained quiet. “Let’s step back for a second. The Serial has those laptops and cell phones, for whatever reason. He’s been smart enough not to use the cell phones, so we can’t track by GPS. So what do we have left to work with?”

18

She paused, let the question sink in. She leaned forward, rested her elbows on the podium. She didn’t need the microphone. She had her mom’s voice, it could carry from Malibu to the freeway. “There’s a good hundred years of experience sitting in this room, well versed in every violent thing one person can do to another, with every motive imaginable. So use it, people.”

Frank Alworth, North Hollywood, said, “One motive we can discount is robbery. Heather Burnside owned a very expensive Rolex watch. The Serial could have taken it, but he didn’t.”

His partner, Glen Hoffman, said, “We didn’t think he’d be that stupid, but we checked the local pawnshops, fences, wherever the Serial might have sold the laptops and cell phones. We got nothing. Same with the rest of you. We also tagged Heather Burnside’s bank accounts and credit cards, but there’s been nothing there, either.”

Allard Hayes from San Dimas said, “We all have our theories, but I think there’s something we’re missing, something that’s driving this guy that we haven’t nailed. The talk about his fantasies, it just doesn’t ring true for me, not any longer.”

“Me, either,” said Jagger from Van Nuys. “He might be crazy, but he’s still got a reason for picking out and killing these young actresses.”

Cam realized Detective Alworth out of North Hollywood was holding back. He was older, and he was smart, the alpha dog in this group. She said, “Detective Alworth, what do you think?”

Frank was aware all eyes were on him. He said slowly, “If you know the why, you will find the who. If you don’t know the why, you’ve got to look elsewhere. How is the Serial finding and picking out these women? It’s unlikely he knew them all. He breaks in, they don’t let him in. And if he’s contacted them all beforehand somehow, he’s done a good job disguising himself on their emails, their fan pages. We haven’t heard any of them felt threatened, as far as we know. So how, Morley? Tell us how.”

He looked over at Jagger, sitting slouched back in his chair, looking bored as a lizard on a sunny rook, making it obvious he didn’t hold out any hope that the blonde from Washington could move anything forward.

Cam waited. She saw him shoot Alworth a don’t-you-force-me-to-play-with-this-girl-from-Washington look, but Alworth didn’t let him off the hook. “Come on, Morley, can you help us out or not?”

At that, Cam saw a growing spark of interest in Jagger’s eyes. He sat forward, clasped his big hands in front of him on the table. “I got to thinking about a murder case I was on fifteen years ago. A corporate lawyer was shot in the head at close range, and the only thing stolen was his computer, big old honker, like all of them were back in the day. We finally tracked down a land developer under a layer of fake corporations and proved he was the killer. The motive? The vic was no saint—he was blackmailing the killer, had him nailed for big-time land fraud. The proof was on the computer.”

Daniel said, “So you think all five victims had something on their computers? Some sort of file that existed only there? And he followed
Molly Harbinger all the way to Las Vegas to get it?” He paused a moment, shook his head, looked around the room. “I think that sounds too cerebral, too easy. I think these killings are personal.”

Hoffman, Van Nuys, said, “The motive is personal, with five different actresses? There was nobody who dated all of them. But I don’t think it’s random, either. Maybe it’s personal to him in some other way, and that opens up a whole other can of possibilities.”

Cam nodded. “It’s still possible they all knew one specific person we haven’t found yet. Their families, friends, agents, showbiz contacts—someone might know if any of them kept things on their laptops or cell phones that isn’t easily found elsewhere.”

Frank Alworth clasped his hands, sat forward. “I think the chance of there being some sort of magical tie-in with a single guy’s name on all the laptops and tablets, not to mention the cell phones, is off-the-planet unlikely. Agent Wittier, I think we need to dial that idea back. I’m thinking we’ve got ourselves a sicko Serial, with no fancy motive except a hard-on for pretty actresses. Maybe he dated one of them once, got dumped, and is killing them off as payback to the lot of them. Maybe we’re talking a garden-variety fruitcake here.” He shrugged.

“Detective Montoya believes the Serial is obsessed, with control,” Cam said. “I agree with that. He certainly showed how important it is to him in Las Vegas this past Saturday night. After he killed Molly Harbinger, he chased a burglar from the house, but he still went back and took her laptop and cell phone with him anyway.”

Corinne said, “Maybe our best shot at getting him right now is to find that eyewitness in Las Vegas. You know, people, Serials aren’t Einsteins. So far I’d say our guy has just lucked out.”

Cam nodded to Corinne. “Agent Poker and the Las Vegas police are using all their resources, scouring the area for him, but so far no luck.

“I know that all of you hate it that five young lives have wantonly
been snuffed out, that all of you want to catch this monster as much as I do. I know each of you is involved up to your eyeballs in your own cases, but now you’re going to be part of all of them, because there’s only one case now—our case.

“The FBI has set up a private, encrypted server for our use. On the back of these cards I’m going to give you, you’ll see how to access it and the log-in procedures. We’ve already uploaded your murder books. This site is for all of us to use as our shared worksite. After today, I’d like you to use it for all your records in this case. Tell us what you’re doing, all your ongoing efforts, what you’ve managed to eliminate, whatever you’re thinking that the rest of us might use.

“I know you feel like you’re swimming in mud right now, since the possibilities seem endless. That’s why we need each other. Call me day or night, folks. And talk to each other. I’ll be working directly with Detective Montoya out of Calabasas. Even though I only met him this morning, he’s told me he’s got my back.” And she sent Daniel a big grin.

There were some smiles.

“Okay, let’s get this bastard.”

She pulled out a handful of business cards, walked over to each of the detectives at the table, addressed each by name, and gave them a card. She knew every single name, a show of respect, except for Chief Crowder’s people, and she introduced herself to them, gave them each a card as well. It was obvious she’d surprised them.

She returned to the front of the conference table, looked out at the detectives one final time. Some stares of approval, some lingering wariness. Some open and willing, some not as much. At least she had no doubt Allard Hayes from San Dimas would now have no problem interacting with the LAPD detectives, and Daniel had already made an impact. She gave a curt nod and turned on her heel to exit the room, Daniel following behind her.

Elman escorted them back downstairs. “I thought that went very well, Agent Wittier. You handled some of those crocodiles better than I expected.” Cam wished he’d sounded more hopeful.

He gave her a smart salute in the lobby, and disappeared back into the elevator.

When they stepped out into the bright L.A. sun, Daniel shot her a look while he slipped on his aviator sunglasses. “That group didn’t sound like a bunch of pea-brained local yahoos to me.”

She tapped his arm. “Your words, not mine. Tell me, Detective, how many federal agents have you worked with?”

“Three.”

“Okay, I guess it happens. I kind of like Agent Dillon Savich’s working philosophy—‘Always play nice with locals, you never know when you might need a volunteer for a firing squad.’ ”

Daniel spurted out a laugh. “He really said that?”

“Nah, he said something nice, like one of the locals might throw a touchdown pass.”

“Sounds like a guy I’d like to get to know.” Daniel clicked open the doors of the Crown Vic, already looking forward to the blast of the AC in the dry heat. “Next stop,
Paco’s
.”

19

SAVICH HOUSE

GEORGETOWN

TUESDAY MORNING

Savich took a bite of his Cheerios as he listened to Sean describe every detail of the muscle shirt he’d seen online on his iPad. This was a new one. What, Savich wondered, was a five-year-old doing shopping on the Internet? He shook his head at himself. He shouldn’t have expected Sean to stick to the zillion games and puzzles and books they’d put on his iPad. Sean had cottoned to what Wi-Fi was and what it meant. But a muscle shirt? What was that all about?

“A muscle shirt, Sean?” Sherlock asked as she sliced a bit of banana onto his cereal. “To impress Marty?”

Sean looked up at his mom. “It would make my muscles look bigger, that’s what Marty says. She told me if we put our allowances together, we could buy one on eBay, but the only one we found is nineteen dollars. So far we’ve got eleven dollars and thirty-five cents.” Sean took a bite of Cheerios, spooned up a banana, shoved it in, and frowned. “I think the one we found is too big for me.”

“A muscle shirt needs to fit nice and tight, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. Marty said when we get enough money, we should buy it for you instead, Papa. I told her we could
save the money by Christmas. I think she’s trying to kiss up to you because she wants to marry me.”

Savich, who’d been thinking about Venus and the family meeting the previous night, tried to look solemn, since it wouldn’t do to laugh. He studied Sean’s serious little face, his intense dark eyes, and he marveled at how his boy could bring him back instantly to the real world.

But Sherlock didn’t hold back—she spurted out a laugh, grinning like a bandit at Savich. “Hey, big boy, how would you feel about that?”

“Which?” Savich asked. “The muscle shirt or Marty being our daughter-in-law?”

“Marty’s already a given, so the muscle shirt. I suggest black, Sean, that’d be good. I could show your papa off at the gym.”

Sean looked confused, then his face scrunched up. “I just don’t know, Papa, maybe I should tell Emma about the muscle shirt, too.” He fell silent, stirring his soggy Cheerios around, then grinned, his eyes shining. “Emma gets a really big allowance, so she could put in more money, so maybe we could get it before Christmas.” Then he sighed. “But Marty might get mad, and then I couldn’t play
Flying Monks
with her.” Again, that intense look. “What would you do, Papa?”

Savich looked thoughtfully into his cereal bowl, then at his son. “You want me to be honest, Sean?”

Sean nodded, all his attention on his father, as was Sherlock’s.

“I’d wait for a girl just like your mama. Then I’d beg her to marry me and stay with me forever. And the best thing? I’d only have to worry about one wife. We’d have plenty of time for
Flying Monks
.”

Sean turned his father’s dark eyes to his mother’s face, and slowly nodded. “Maybe that’d be okay. You’re pretty nice, Mama.”

“Thank you, Sean,” Sherlock said. She felt such a burst of love she thought she’d float to the kitchen ceiling.

Savich’s cell rang out
It’s Time
by Imagine Dragons. “Savich.” For Sean’s
benefit, he walked into the hall to take it, and when he returned, he drew a deep breath, and said in as emotionless a voice as he could manage, “That was Venus. Reporters are camped out in front of the mansion again and the neighbors are screaming at the police for not doing anything. Venus’s number is ringing off the hook.

“She also said the shooting yesterday is front and center in the
National Enquirer
, not a big deal in itself, since everyone else is already covering it, but the
Enquirer
got every single juicy detail, the arsenic poisoning, our names, our meeting with the family last night. Everything.”

“But how?”

“Venus’s driver, MacPherson, left her a letter, apologizing but saying they paid him a great deal of money for his story and he has a sick kid to take care of. He resigned. They put his picture on the front page, along with Venus’s.”

Sherlock paused a moment. “Venus must be disappointed, but it doesn’t change the fact that MacPherson saved her life yesterday. I suppose a father afraid for his child will do what he thinks he has to. What’s wrong with MacPherson’s child?”

“She didn’t know. She said MacPherson had never brought it up and his letter didn’t say.”

“But does it really matter? I mean bits and pieces of what happened are all over the news. You don’t suppose she might offer him his job back, do you?”