Next Victim (25 page)

"You wanted to continue."

"Damn straight, I did. This was a golden opportunity to get close to this guy, learn about his operation." And she had been young, eager. Another thing she’d nearly forgotten.

"It’s not every day you have a chance to date a drug lord," Dodge said.

"He wasn’t a drug lord. His end of the business was money laundering. He cleaned the cash for the cartels and took a hefty percentage of the proceeds."

"Hence his ability to finance his shrimp habit."

"He financed more than that. He had an estate on Key Biscayne, a house in Boca, a penthouse condo in South Beach. Limo, couple of sports cars, not to mention personal bodyguards and assistants, half the cops in Miami on his payroll…" She remembered that she was talking to a cop. "Uh, sorry."

"No offense taken. I’ve heard there might even be a few corrupt cops in the LAPD."

She finished her inventory of Black Tiger’s assets. "Onshore and offshore holding companies and shell companies. A porno movie production company. An orange grove. Some real estate near Walt Disney World. And a yacht."

"This guy sounds like quite a catch. Why didn’t you marry him?"

"I’m allergic to shrimp. Anyway, the upshot of our squad’s emergency meeting was that I would be allowed to reinitiate contact, but if it looked like I was getting in too deep, I would be pulled out."

"What constitutes ‘too deep’?"

"A, uh, bedroom situation. Or a threat to my safety. Of the two, I think the bedroom worried me more."

"What were you trying to find out?"

"His contacts in the drug trade. We knew he did business with the cartels, but we didn’t know who he was meeting or where or when. We had his phones bugged, his mail intercepted and opened, his homes under surveillance, his movements watched—but we never caught him with anybody who could be linked to drug trafficking."

"Until you came along and busted him."

"How’d you know?"

"Nobody tells stories about cases that didn’t clear."

She couldn’t argue with that. "Well, you’re right. I figured it out on our third date. You know what clued me in? At the shrimp restaurant he always looked at the menu."

She waited for Dodge to catch on, but he said only, "I don’t get it."

"He ordered the same thing every night—black tiger shrimp. So why read the menu?"

"Because there’s more to it than the catch of the day?"

She nodded. "The menu he got was a communication from the other bad guys, giving him account numbers and other instructions. Black Tiger might not have been much to look at, but he had a photographic memory. He would glance over the information and memorize it all. When he paid his bill, he wrote his answer. The restaurant’s owner was the middleman who passed the messages back and forth."

"And you worked all this out just by dining with this gentleman?"

"I’m very perceptive. Also I was strongly motivated to solve the case before things got hot and heavy."

"Were you in on the collar?"

"I was in on the kill."

She looked off into the shadows in the far corner of the room. This was the part of the story she didn’t enjoy.

"I couldn’t get away from him that night. He wanted to show me his latest toy—a plane he’d bought, a Cessna. He drove me to the airfield. I thought I had backup behind me. I knew they wouldn’t let him take me on the plane. Trouble was, while I was figuring him out, he’d figured me out. I don’t know how, but he’d made me. And he’d had his people create a traffic accident to block the road and cut off my pursuit. I was alone out there, and all of a sudden he wants me aboard the plane and he’s not so friendly anymore."

"How many of them were there? I mean, I have to assume he hadn’t arranged a one-on-one encounter."

"Three. Black Tiger, his driver, and the pilot."

"You were carrying…?"

"Sig Sauer nine in a thigh holster under my skirt. But no way could I get to it with all of them watching me."

"Tight situation."

"I just knew I couldn’t get on the plane. Do that, and I’m dead. I put up enough resistance so one of them tries to push me on board. That gives me an excuse to stumble and fall, and when I hit the tarmac I draw the nine-millimeter and roll under the plane and empty the clip at them."

"A regular Jane Wayne," Dodge said.

Tess wasn’t sure she appreciated the comment. "It was just instinct. And I can’t honestly say I knew what I was shooting at. I found out later they were all wearing vests, but I was low enough to catch them where they were vulnerable—knees, groins."

"Ouch."

"The driver and pilot went down wounded and basically gave up. Black Tiger had more fight in him. He has his piece out, and he’s trying to cap me under the plane, and I really think only the landing gear saved me—deflected the rounds or messed up his aim. Anyway, I…I got him with my last cartridge."

"A kill shot?"

"In the neck. Not intentional—I couldn’t even see the bastard. It was luck or divine providence or something."

"You believe in that? Divine providence?"

She shut her eyes, remembering Paul. "I think I used to."

"Well, that’s a hell of a war story, Special Agent. I’m surprised the feebs—pardon me, I’m surprised the
feds
haven’t made you their poster child for recruitment."

"They sort of did. For a while, at least. I’ve heard they still teach the case at the academy."

He seemed to catch her tone of voice. "And you’re unhappy about that?"

"It’s just…It all happened really fast. It was ten seconds, probably less. It shouldn’t be such a big thing. It shouldn’t—Hey, wait a minute."

She had found something.

It was a small metal object, rectangular, its exterior badly oxidized by the heat of the fire and the subsequent dousing of the flames. When she turned it over, she saw a row of small buttons.

"Could be part of the computer gear," Dodge said. "Zip drive or CD burner or something."

"No. It’s a tape recorder."

"Maybe the vic was listening to some tunes."

"Probably." She opened the compartment containing the tape and saw a cassette inside. "But I’d like to be sure."

The cassette appeared to be intact. The player’s metal casing had protected it from damage. There was no label on the cassette. It seemed to be a blank tape that the owner had recorded himself. She wanted a closer look. Maybe something was written on the other side.

The eject button wouldn’t work. Without touching the cassette, she pried it loose with a ballpoint pen from her purse, then held it by the corners. No label on side two, no indication of the tape’s contents. This struck Tess as odd. Normally when people dubbed a CD or a batch of MP3 downloads onto a cassette, they would label the tape so they knew what they had.

The cassette was made of clear plastic, the spools of tape visible inside. She peered at it closely.

"It wasn’t Scott Maple who brought this here," she whispered. "It was Mobius."

Dodge frowned. "Where’d you get that idea?"

"Look at the tape. See how it’s twisted? A single twist in the ribbon."

"Tapes get snarled sometimes."

"This was done deliberately. The twist was put in to make the double-sided tape into a continuous loop." She looked at him. "A Möbius strip. That’s what it’s called."

There was nothing else in the lab, or at least nothing they could find. They emerged blinking into the daylight of late afternoon.

"What now?" Dodge asked.

"I call my AD about this." Tess tapped the two plastic evidence bags into which she’d inserted the tape player and cassette.

"You’re not even slightly curious about what’s on the tape."

"I’m curious. But I don’t carry a Sony Walkman around with me, and the machine we recovered is inoperable."

"There’s a cassette player in my car."

Tess hesitated only a moment. She knew it was a violation of procedure to play the tape before the forensics technicians had a look at it. She also knew that the sun would set soon, that Mobius might well be planning to strike tonight, and that time was of the essence.

"Let’s do it," she said.

Dodge slid into the driver’s seat and started the engine, and Tess sat on the passenger side and carefully removed the tape from its bag. With a gloved hand she inserted it into the dashboard tape deck. The tape began to play automatically in the middle of a song.

No lyrics. Just guitar chords, drums. A fast, hectic beat.

"Recognize it?" Tess asked.

"No. Maybe. It’s almost familiar."

The song ended, then began again—an endless repetition courtesy of the Möbius strip. At the start of the song there was a peal of tittering laughter and a falsetto voice simpering, "Wipe out."

"I know it now," Dodge said. "Shit, that goddamn song always did creep me out."

"It’s called ‘Wipe Out,’ I assume?"

He nodded as the song played on. "Surf music from the early sixties. Some Beach Boys wannabes, as I recall. I don’t remember the name of the group. Why the hell would Mobius be carrying this around?"

"I guess it’s his theme song."

"But what’s it mean?"

"That," Tess said, "is the million-dollar question."

They sat in the car as the song played again and again over the dashboard speakers.

Standing next to Dodge’s car, Tess used her cell phone to call the AD. Andrus answered on the fourth ring. She told him what she’d found.

"All right," he said. "We’ll have to see if the tape is playable—"

"It is."

"You listened to it? Without letting the lab have a look at it first? What if there was a fingerprint on the play button and you destroyed it?"

"The exterior of the player is oxidized. No fingerprints. Anyway, Detective Dodge and I—"

"Who?"

"LAPD homicide detective. He’s assisting me. We played the tape, and it’s a song—"

"Right, fine. We’ll talk about it, but not over the phone. I’m dispatching Larkin to pick up the evidence. He’ll deliver it to me, and I’ll hand carry it to the lab. I’m also sending a crime-scene squad to the campus. I want you to stay there and watch the site until they arrive."

"I can get a security guard to do that."

"I want
you
to do it. That’s an order."

"Gotcha." She was a little peeved to have to waste time hanging around, but there was no point in arguing.

"And, Tess?" he added. "Don’t touch that tape player again."

Andrus clicked off. Tess stuck the phone back into her purse, fuming.

"You look unhappy," Dodge observed with a smile.

"My boss is an asshole sometimes."

"Whose boss isn’t?" The smile lingered, incongruous on his hard, cynical face. "So after we’re done here, you want to get together, go over what we’ve learned?"

She didn’t quite understand. "Go over it?"

"At my place, say. I’ve got a house in the Hollywood Hills. Great view of the city."

Well, she got it now. It was their little dialogue in the elevator all over again.

"I think I’m going to be busy tonight. There’s kind of a crisis, in case you hadn’t noticed."

"This is LA. There’s always a crisis. Anyhow, we’ve done our part. We’re entitled to some downtime."

"Sorry. I’m pretty sure I’ll be otherwise engaged."

The smile on his face flicked off, as simply as if he had flipped a switch. "Okay, then," he said in a tone that would have been more appropriate to
Fuck you
. "I’ve gotta get going. Write this up. Paperwork, you know."

She disliked him, but she didn’t want to be rude. "Thanks for your help," she said feebly.

"Protect and serve, that’s my motto." He was already getting back into his car.

"Detective?"

He stopped, possibly wondering if she’d changed her mind.

"Keep quiet about this, all right? It can’t get out to the media."

Dodge smiled again—a smile that was subtly different from before, in a way she couldn’t quite define.

"I hear you, Agent McCallum." He zipped his lips with a forefinger. "Mum’s the word."

29

"I don’t mean to be rude, but today’s not a good day for you to be jerking my chain," Myron Levine said as he slid into a banquette at Lucy J’s.

Dodge gave him a cool smile. "That’s uncalled for, Myron. My feelings are hurt. I’m getting all weepy." He let the smile go away. "Since when have I ever fucked with you?"

"You’re fucking with me right now. Right this very minute. And I’m on a tight schedule. I’m on the air live at six o’clock. I don’t have time for any crap."

"Then I’ll get right to the point. I got something major. And it’s gonna cost you."

"I’m all tapped out—"

"You want to sling bullshit, or you want to talk straight? It’s your call. You’re the one in such a goddamn hurry."

Levine looked away. Dodge knew the guy was a coward. He talked big, but it was an act, as phony as his bad toupee or the lifts he wore to look taller. He was a scared little man, and one of the things he was scared of was Dodge himself.

"What kind of money are you looking for?" Levine asked after a short pause.

"Ten thousand."

Levine’s eyebrows shot up like two moths singed by a flame. "That’s ridiculous. That’s totally out of the question."

"It’s a bargain. It’s the sale of the motherfucking century."

Something about Dodge’s coolness seemed to communicate a sense of sobriety to Levine. He calmed visibly. He became almost thoughtful. "What is it, more about Grandy?"

Dodge waved this away. "Fuck Grandy. When this gets out, nobody’s gonna give two shits about police brutality. Even the fucking spooks won’t care. They’ll be too busy getting the hell out of town like everybody else."

Levine tried not to look interested, but as a poker player, he frankly sucked, and Dodge knew he had the reporter’s complete attention.

"Why will anybody be leaving town?" Levine tried for humor. "Stage-three smog alert?"

"More like DEFCON One in a fucking war."

Levine blinked. "War? What is it, the goddamn Arabs again?"

"It’s better than that. Imagine if I were to tell you that we have a weapon of mass destruction floating around in this city, only it’s not in the hands of your run-of-the-mill little-dicked camel jockey. This time it’s in the possession of a bona fide serial killer. What would you say about that?"