AT NOON THE NEXT DAY, the case seemed to take another terrible, and unexpected, twist. I was in an interview at MetroHartford when Betsey broke in. She asked me to please come out into the hallway. Her face was ashen.
“Oh no, what?” I managed to say.
“Alex, this is so creepy that I’m still shaking. Listen to what just happened. Last night, a twenty-five-year-old woman was raped in her apartment in a suburb outside Hartford. The rapist told her he wanted her to have his baby. After he left, she went to a hospital and the police were called in. In their report, it states that the rapist wore a Clinton mask — like the one worn at the first bank robbery, Alex — and also that he called himself a mastermind.”
“Is the woman still at the hospital? Are the police with her?” I asked. My mind was racing, already filled with possibilities, rejecting the notion of coincidence out of hand. A mastermind in a Clinton mask, just outside of Hartford? It was too close.
“She left the hospital and went home, Alex. They just found her dead. He warned her not to tell anyone, and not to abort. She disobeyed him. She made a mistake. He poisoned her, Alex. Goddamn him.”
Betsey Cavalierre and I went to the dead woman’s apartment, and the scene was beyond horrifying. The woman lay on her kitchen floor, grotesque and twisted. I remembered the bodies of Brianne and Errol Parker. The poor woman had been punished. FBI technicians were all over the small garden apartment. There was nothing Betsey or I could do there. The bastard had been right there in Hartford — maybe he still was. He was taunting us.
This was as stressful as any case I’d ever worked. Whoever was behind the robberies and gruesome murders was impossible to trace, to figure out in a meaningful way.
Who the hell was the Mastermind? Had he really been here in Hartford last night and this morning? Why was he taking chances like this?
I worked at the MetroHartford offices until almost seven. I was trying not to show it, but I was close to a burnout. I interviewed several more employees, and then I went to the personnel office and read nuisance mail aimed at MetroHartford. There were stacks of it. Generally, the hate mail came from grieving and angry family members who had been denied claims or felt the process was taking too long — which it usually did. I talked for an hour or so with the head of the building’s security, Terry Mayer. She was separate from Steve Bolding, who was an outside consultant. Terry gave me the procedures for mail surveillance, bomb threats, E-mail threats, and even a widely distributed form on how to be alert for possible letter bombs. “We were prepared for a lot of potential disasters,” Mayer told me. “Just not for the one that happened.”
I was just going through the motions all day. I kept seeing the poisoned woman. The Mastermind had wanted her to have his baby. That probably meant that he didn’t have any kids of his own. He wanted an heir, a tiny piece of immortality.
Chapter 83
I RETURNED TO WASHINGTON on the last flight out that night. When I arrived home it was a few minutes past eleven. Bright light illuminated the kitchen windows. The upstairs was dark. The kids were probably a
sleep.
“I’m home,” I announced as I edged open the creaky kitchen door. It needed oil, I noticed. I was falling way behind on my home repairs again.
“You catch all the bad guys?” Nana asked from her catbird seat at the table. A paperback book called The Color of Water was propped in front of her.
“We’re moving in the right direction. The bad guy made a couple of mistakes finally. He’s taking a lot of chances. I’m more hopeful than I was. You like the book?” I asked. I wanted to change the subject. I was home.
Nana pursed her lips, gave me a half smile. “I’m hopeful. The man can certainly write up a storm. Don’t stray off my topic, though. Sit down and talk to me, Alex.”
“Can I stand and talk, and maybe put together a little supper for myself?”
Nana frowned, shook her head in disbelief. “They didn’t feed you on the airplane?”
“Dinner on the flight was honey-roasted peanuts and a small plastic cup of Coke. It fit with the rest of the day. This chicken and biscuits any good?”
Nana slanted her head to one side. She frowned at me from the sideways angle. “No, it’s spoiled. I put it away spoiled. What do you think, Alex? Of course it’s good. It’s a down-home culinary masterpiece.”
I stopped peering into the fridge and stared over at her. “Excuse me. Are we having a fight?”
“Not at all. You’d know it if we were. I’m fine myself. You’re working too hard again. But you seem to thrive on it. Still the Dragonslayer, right? Live by the sword and all that?”
I took the chicken out of the fridge. I was famished. Probably could have eaten it cold. “Maybe this whacked-out case will be over soon.”
“Then there’ll be another one and another one after that. I saw a pretty good saying the other day — There’s always room for improvement — then you die. What do you think of that one?”
I nodded and let out a deep sigh. “You tired of being with a homicide detective, too? Can’t say that I blame you.”
Nana crinkled up her face. “No, not at all. Actually, I enjoy it. But I do understand why it might not be to everyone’s liking.”
“I do, too, especially on days like today. I don’t like what happened between Christine and me. I hate it, actually. Makes me sad. Hurts my heart. But I do understand what she was afraid of. It scares me, too.”
Nana’s head bobbed slowly. “Even if it can’t be Christine, you still need someone. So do Jannie and Damon. How about you get those priorities straight.”
“I spend a lot of time with the kids. But I’ll work on it,” I said as I plopped the cold chicken and fixings in a pan.