Mindhunters 4 - Deadly Intent (24 page)

But the other name had memory rising up like a red-hot poker, searing inside him. John LeCroix.

He read the pages more carefully. Bigelow had been at this game for a long time if he’d corresponded with LeCroix. From the gist of the messages, it seemed that Bigelow had received some photos from the other man ten years ago. He’d thanked LeCroix, praised the detail and content of the pictures, and informed him he was a girl lover, asking if he had any other images to share.

Adam’s empty eye socket throbbed in phantom pain. “LeCroix liked little boys. We know he showed off his work. But none of the photos would have had him in them. He was a careful bastard.”

“What do you want us to do with this?”

Adam considered for a moment. “Send it to Paulie. He keeps a file on LeCroix.” Then he grabbed his cane and used it haul himself to his feet. “Stay on the Bigelow lead until I let you know otherwise.”

Without another word, he let himself out of the West Virginia motel room. At his appearance, the driver of his rented town car started up the car and did a slow U-turn in the lot and headed toward him. And all the while the name repeated itself in his mind like echoes of clanging metal.

John LeCroix.

The man he’d chased across Florida, Georgia, and into the Louisiana bayou country. The man responsible for the kidnap, rape, torture, and murder of twenty-seven boys under the age of ten. Adam had managed to rescue his latest victim, but LeCroix had captured him shortly after.

And that memory was destined to haunt him for the rest of his life.

John LeCroix had cost him his eye. Very nearly his leg. Unconsciously, he raised his hand to finger the scar across his throat. It’d been three long days before he’d escaped from the makeshift torture chamber in the dark swamp.

The only positive memory about the whole mess was the one where he’d sent the son of a bitch to his grave.

Martin Becker vigorously cleaned his wire-framed glasses with his handkerchief. “This is highly unsettling.” There was a hint of Long Island in his voice and a sheen of nerves to his expression. “I’ve already talked to some CBI agents. Just hours after Ellie was found missing. I gave a statement then. I haven’t recalled any other useful information to give you.”

“What can you tell me about your observations of Ellie Mulder?” Macy suggested. She had a copy of the man’s statement. Of all the statements gathered in the course of the investigation. And although what she was after was a handwritten communication from the man, she couldn’t resist the opportunity to gather a few details about the girl they were seeking.
Know the victim, know the crime
. It was Raiker’s most oft-repeated mantra.

The request seemed to startle the man. “Ellie? Well, she’s an average eleven-year-old girl, I suppose.”

When Macy raised her brows, he seemed to flush. “Academically speaking, of course. She’s bright enough. I don’t believe she received any schooling for two years . . . um, when she was gone before. But under my tutelage, her deficits were remediated. She not only caught up but surpassed other students her age. Not that she always works up to her potential—she can be a bit disengaged at times—but she’s an intelligent, if unimaginative student.”

The compliment was couched in rather unflattering terms. “Unimaginative. You mean creatively? In her artwork and writing?”

“More in her problem-solving ability. Ellie tends to approach things in a rather pragmatic, concrete way. Functional, certainly, but until she has a better grasp of the abstract, she won’t be a truly great thinker.”

Stemming a strong urge to remind the tutor that the child was only eleven, Macy asked, “What are her interests? What kind of music and books does she like?”

Martin settled his glasses back on his rather pointed nose. “I don’t teach her music. She has a piano instructor for that.”

It took a deep breath to summon patience. Macy was beginning to wonder if Becker wasn’t the unimaginative one. “I mean, how does she like to spend her free time?”

His brow furrowed. “Well, she spends more time with that horse of hers than she should, but other than that, I really couldn’t say. It’s not my area.”

He’d managed to startle her. “Not your area? You talk to her, don’t you? You must spend more time with her daily than even her parents, at least during the week. How can you not know what she likes?”

“Ms. Reid.” Becker smoothed his thinning blond hair. “I have three advanced degrees. I was an adjunct professor for an Ivy League college, on the fast track for tenure, when I accepted Mr. Mulder’s offer for a position here. My duties were clear. To catch young Ellie up on her studies and ready her for whatever university her parents choose for her. I assure you, I take my obligations seriously. But they don’t encompass befriending the child. I’m her teacher, not her counselor. Our conversations focused solely on her academics, as is fitting.”

Macy had wanted to get a better picture of the child, but this man was shedding very little light on that question. She was, however, getting a better understanding of the girl’s days, and thinking of her spending hours at a time cooped up with this humorless, priggish man was discouraging.

Having spent her life shuttling between one embassy post to another meant that Macy had experienced her share of tutors. Becker bore an unfortunate resemblance to one in particular, a Reginald Fox. The only difference that she could see was that her stepfather had gotten rid of the man when he learned how much Macy disliked him.

She wondered if Ellie had ever complained about Becker to her parents.

Sliding the yellow legal pad across the table, she simply said, “I need a sample of your written communication. Why don’t you write me one hundred words on developing imaginative abstract reasoning skills in eleven-year-old students.”

“You do a lot of gaming, David?”

The sullen fifteen-year-old barely looked up at Kell’s question. He seemed more concerned with the computer that an agent was currently boxing up in the adjoining room. “Some.”

“What system do you prefer? The Wii? PlayStation?”

“I’ve got a Wii. Mom won’t get me a PlayStation.” It was clear from his tone that the boy found her refusal to be totally unreasonable.

“I’m a pretty good Wii boxer.” Kell settled his shoulders more comfortably against the wall and crossed one booted foot over the other. “What about you, Agent Pelton? You look like a
Mario Brothers
man to me.”

Pelton looked mystified. “What?”

But he’d managed to capture the kid’s attention. David’s lip curled. “
Mario Brothers
is stupid. I like
Killer Instinct
.
Mortal Kombat II
.
No More Heroes
.”

Kell hid his reaction. The kid liked his gore. “Takes a lot of practice to be good at those games. You spend a lot of time on it?”

The kid shrugged, already losing interest. “When are we going to get our computer back?”

“I don’t know. A few weeks, probably.”

“How much time do you spend online, David?” Pelton steered the conversation back to the interview.

Lifting a shoulder again, the teenager said, “I don’t know. Some.”

“Every day?”

“Sure. Facebook and e-mail . . .” He frowned, throwing Kell an anxious look. “Hey, you guys can’t hack into my Facebook account, can you? That’d be like an invasion of privacy, right?”

“We served a warrant,” Pelton said impatiently. “You have no reasonable expectation of privacy.”

Seeing the kid’s panicked expression, Kell said mildly, “But we’re looking for certain information. Anything else we find doesn’t interest us.” When the kid’s anxiety didn’t lessen appreciably, he added, “No reason for us to share any of that information with your mom, unless it’s illegal.”

Tension eased from the boy’s shoulders. “Yeah? It’s not illegal. But she would freak. I’ve got e-mail messages saved from my dad.”

“And she doesn’t want you communicating with him?”

He shook his head, then hunched his shoulders. “They hate each other, y’know? But I hardly get to see him. He lives in Oregon.”

Agent Pelton leaned forward in his chair, his hands clasped between his open knees. “What’s his name?”

“Walter Elliott.”

“And he hasn’t been by to see you recently?” Pelton tried for a friendly smile that came off looking, in Kell’s estimation, pretty damn creepy. “Maybe slipped into town and met you on the sly? Without your mom knowing?”

“I wish,” David muttered. “He doesn’t have any money. Lost his job last year. He had to move back in with my grand-parents.”

Kell could see where Pelton was going with the questioning, but he was angling a bit far off base. Even if the man were destitute, even given the snowball’s chance in hell that he could be involved in this, why would the guy take the chance of implicating his son by sending a ransom note bearing their IP address?

“What time do you get up in the morning, David?” Pelton looked annoyed at his interruption.

“Not until I have to. School starts at eight thirty. Usually seven or so.”

“I remember high school. Can’t say homework was high on my priority list. Used to have to pull a few all-nighters to get papers done sometimes.” He uttered the lie without a flicker of conscience. It had been more his style to pay someone to write the papers for him, but he doubted that was something to be shared with a fifteen-year-old who looked to lack his own work ethic. “You ever do that? Have to stay up late to get something done for school?”

The kid looked at him like he was crazy. “No, I’d rather take the F. But sometimes if I can’t sleep, I might use the computer or play Wii all night. I did that a few days ago. Got my highest score on
Mortal Kombat
ever. Wanna see?”

Kell exchanged a look with Pelton. “Okay if we continue this in the boy’s room?” In answer, the agent got up and they followed the kid out of the dining room and up the stairs.

It was, Kell figured, a normal enough teenage boy’s room. There were clothes strewn on the floor and on the foot of the unmade bed. Glasses and empty plates littered the desktop next to the TV and gaming system on the desk. He was constantly surprised by the gadgets and high-tech equipment kids scored these days. He’d been lucky to have a couch to sleep on when he was young. And when he was David Elliott’s age, he’d had to pick the lock on his mother’s door to get inside the house at all. Carrie Burke was about as nurturing as a rabid wolverine.

With the most animation he’d shown all day, David crossed to the system and flipped it on. “I’ve got a buddy who’s always bragging that he beat the game, but I did it with a higher score than he got. Look at this.” Pelton peered over the kid’s shoulder, but Kell’s attention was diverted to the window. The bedroom was in the front of the house, directly above the room where the computer was kept downstairs. Blinds covered the window that faced the street, but they were askew, as if the cord had gotten yanked hard and jammed. The result left the blinds halfway up, hanging at a diagonal. “Bet your buddy was impressed.”

“Are you kidding? He’s pissed. Won’t hardly talk to me. The dick.”

Kell peered at the time stamp on the screen. Yesterday at three thirty A.M. Adrenaline kick-started inside him. He jerked a thumb to the window. “You see any activity on the street out front when you were playing?”

The kid shook his head furiously. “I was busy concentrating on the game, you know. People don’t realize you have to have intense concentration. Good reflexes. Take your eyes off the action for a minute, and you miss your chance of reaching the next level.”

Pelton had picked up Kell’s train of thought as smoothly as if they’d been working together for years. “But you’d notice if a car went by that time of night. Quiet street like this, you must not get a lot of traffic. Headlights would shine right in your window.”

The boy was silent for a long time. Then, “Maybe there was a car out there. Parked across the street in front of Gorley’s. But it took off while I was playing.”

Kell and the agent exchanged a look. “Can you describe the vehicle?”

The boy started playing a game that resulted in a lot of machine gun fire and obscenities from the characters on the screen. “I’m not that good with cars. But I know it was silver.”