Текст книги "Evil Dark"

Автор книги: Justin Gustainis

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  Looking at Karl's monitor, I could see a woman sitting at her own computer. The room behind her looked not very different from the one we were in.

  "Stan, meet Roz Pavlico," Karl said. "Roz, this is my partner, Stan Markowski."

  "Pleased to meet you, Stan," she said. Detective Pavlico looked to be about forty, with brown hair worn short and a round face. She had a hard look about her, but then I've yet to meet a female cop who doesn't. Funny how I never notice that on male cops – maybe because I take it for granted.

  "Likewise, Roz – or do you prefer Detective Pavlico?" Even though Karl had introduced us by first names, I thought I'd ask. Women in this job can be touchy about respect, maybe because of all the shit they have to take from male cops.

  "Roz is fine," she said. "Karl tells me that you're interested in a guy who we like for a series of killings."

  "Have there been more since you talked to Karl about the guy at that conference?" I asked.

  "Three or four. We're pretty sure he travels around a lot, although Chicago seems to be his home base."

  "So you know who's doing it, but you have no evidence to nail him?"

  "Yeah, you know how it is with guys like this. People talk to us but refuse to get on the stand, or witnesses disappear before a grand jury can be convened. And every witness who goes missing, or who's found dead, makes the next witness that much more reluctant."

  "You were telling me that this dude seems to specialize in supes?" Karl said. Interesting how he continues to use that word, although some supernaturals consider it a slur.

  "That's right," Roz said. "Vampires, mostly, although we've found his trademark on a couple of trolls and an ogre. A few humans as well."

  "This guy took down an ogre? With a knife?" Karl sounded impressed, and I didn't blame him.

  Roz nodded. "Looks that way. Around here, he's pretty much regarded as a bamf."

  "As a what?" I'd never heard the word before.

  "Bamf," Roz said. "B-A-M-F. Stands for Bad Ass Motherfucker."

  Karl gave a snort of laughter. "Sounds appropriate," I said. "So, what is this bamf's name, anyway?"

  "Neil Charles Duffy," she said. "He's known locally as 'Duffy the Vampire Slayer'."

  "Cute," Karl muttered. Clearly, he didn't think it was.

  "Any chance you could send us a copy of this vampire slayer's file?" I asked her.

  "I'll have to check with my boss," Roz said, "but he'll probably be cool with it. Anything that gives somebody a shot at nailing Duffy is fine with us. If you guys manage to take him down, we'd probably chip in and send you a bottle of Scotch, or something."

  "Thanks, we appreciate it," I said. I gave her my email address and we said our goodbyes. Karl touched a button to deactivate the spell, and the monitor went dark. I stood up and wheeled my chair back where it belonged.

  "Think she might be persuaded to send a bag of AB plasma along with the Scotch?" Karl asked.

  "If she doesn't, I'll buy you one myself," I told him. I glanced at the wall clock and said, "We've got about an hour before we knock off. You got anything to do – paperwork or something?"

  He gave me half a smile. "When don't I have paperwork?"

  "Why don't you work on that for a while? I want to give Lacey Brennan a call."

  "Oh, you mean about the–"

  "The woman in the snuff film, yeah. The resemblance looks too close to be coincidental, although I hope I'm wrong."

  "I hope you are, too," Karl said. "I like Lacey – but even if I didn't…"

  "Yeah, I know."

  "Sure, Stan, go ahead. If I run out of forms to fill out, I can always play Angry Bats for a while."

  "I think I'll call her from outside. Get some air at the same time."

  Karl looked at me for a second, then nodded. "Sounds like a good idea."

  I went down to the parking lot. Since we were between shifts, I had the place to myself. I got in my car and called the number for the Wilkes-Barre Supe Squad. On the second ring I heard, "Occult Crimes Unit – how may I help you?"

  "Hi, Sandy. It's Markowski again."

  "Good evening, Sergeant – or morning, as the case may be. You still lookin' to talk to Detective Brennan?"

  "That's right. Is she available?"

  "Yep, she's sittin' right at her desk. Hold on just a sec."

  There was a click, and a few seconds later Lacey's voice was in my ear. "Hey, Stan."

  "Hi, Lacey."

  "So, two vamps are in some bar, having a blood together. And in walks this human chick – and she is hot. Know what I mean?"

  "Sure," I said. I knew better than to interrupt – I'd just have to endure.

  "She goes over to the bar and orders a drink. One of the vamps is married, and scared of his old lady besides, so he's out of the running. But the other one's single and something of a stud, as vamps go. So the married one says, 'Get a look at that, will ya? Go on over and buy her a drink, man.' And the other vamp gives this chick the once-over and says, 'Nah, I'll pass.' The married one says, 'How come? She's gorgeous.' The other vamp shrugs and says, 'She's just not my type'."

  "I don't get it," I said, although I did. "Ohhh, you mean 'type' as in blood type. Hey, that's pretty funny, Lacey." It's an unspoken rule between us that I never laugh at Lacey's supe jokes.

  "Yeah, whatever," she said. "What's up, Stan? You're not in the hospital again, are you?"

  I'd picked up a bad concussion a few months back while saving the world from a race of super-vampires, and Lacey had come over to visit me a couple of times. She'd also sent a few smutty get-well cards, but she doesn't have some kind of a thing for me. Probably.

  "No, I'm fine, Lacey. But I want to ask you something kind of unusual."

  "It's shaved bare, except for a little landing strip of hair just above. That what you wanted to know?"

  For Lacey, the concept of too much information doesn't really exist.

  "Uh, no," I said, "but thanks for the image. This is something serious – potentially, anyway."

  "Now you've got me intrigued," she said. "What is it, Stan?"

  "Do you have a sister?"

  After a brief silence she said, "Yeah, I have two. One older, one younger. I'm in the middle. Why?"

  "Do either or both of them live in the area?"

  "Sarah's been in Oregon for years, but Mary Beth lives in Exeter someplace."

  "She's the older one, right?"

  "Yeah, but how do you know that? What's going on, Stan?" I could hear a thread of unease running through her voice now.

  "Maybe nothing. It's hard to say yet. Listen, Lacey, um, your sister, Mary Beth. Have you seen or heard from her lately?"

  "We're not close. I get a card at Christmas, that's about it. And I'm not answering any more questions until you stop fucking around and tell me what this is all about, Stan."

  "All right," I said. "It's like this: we've come into possession of a video recording which shows a woman being… murdered. And I'm pretty sure it's real, not some fake shit for the pervs to drool over."

  "Sweet Christ," Lacey said softly.

  "The woman in the video… she bears a resemblance to you. A pretty strong resemblance, actually. In fact, when I first saw it, for a couple of seconds I thought…" I had to stop and clear my throat. "But then Karl pointed out to me – you remember Karl."

  "Yeah, sure. Go on."

  "Anyway, Karl pointed out that the woman in the video appeared to be older than you, and a bit heavier – maybe twenty pounds or so. She also had a scar on one leg."

  "Oh, dear God. Dear Jesus God." It was almost a whisper.

  "We don't have any way to ID the victim, apart from the video. There's no, uh, body that's been found, so far. So, since I thought it was possible that there was some kind of family connection–"

  "How did she die?"

  "Excuse me?"

  "You fucking heard me." Her voice was like flint. "How did she die?"

  "Lacey, there's no need for this. We don't even know if the woman is–"

  "Stan, I want you to listen to me very carefully. I'm going to speak slowly, and I want you to get every word. Understand?"

  "Sure." What else was I gonna say?

  "If-you-ever-want-even-the-slightest-chance-of-gettingin-my-pants-from-now-until-the-day-you-retire-you-will tell me how she died."

  For me, getting into Lacey's pants wasn't quite the Holy Grail she seemed to think it was. Or maybe she assumed that was all any man would want from her. I wasn't moved as much by a desire to do her someday as I was swayed by the passion behind her words. That, and the knowledge that if I didn't give her what she wanted, she would probably never talk to me again – and that would hurt a lot more than being denied her charms.

  All this went through my mind in a second or so.

  "All right, Lacey. But I promise it'll only add to your pain. It's gonna put images in your head that you'll wish had never got there."

  "That's my problem. Tell me."

  "She died hard, Lacey."

  "Somehow, I figured that. Tell me. All of it."

  So I did.

  I tried to pretend that I was giving a deposition to a grand jury or coroner's inquest. I tried to describe what had been done to the victim in proper sequence, to the best of my recollection. I tried to be cold and clinical, neither adding unnecessary details nor leaving anything out. I tried not to pay attention to Lacey's breathing and the other small sounds she was making. I tried to do all those things, and the only one I failed at was the last one.

  At some point, Karl came out of the building and headed for his car. He saw me on the phone and waved, to let me know he was going home. I nodded, but didn't stop talking to Lacey.

  "And then she became unresponsive," I said finally, my voice flat as a corpse's EKG, "even to flame from the blowtorch. From this I concluded that the woman had expired. The video ended shortly thereafter."

  It was a cool evening, but I hadn't turned the heat on in the car. Still, I was sweating buckets.

  Now that my "deposition" was finished, I didn't know what else to say, so I sat there and listened to the sound of Lacey quietly crying. Finally she spoke, in a voice that sounded like she was being choked. Maybe, in a sense, she was.

  "Thank you, Stan. That must have been very… difficult for you."

  "It was a lot more difficult for you – I know that. I only did it because you wanted me to, Lacey – and it had nothing to do with getting into your pants someday. Nothing."

  "I-I believe you, Stan. Thank you."

  What was I supposed to say now? You're welcome? I told you so? I decided to keep my mouth shut, a decision I should make more often.

  Eventually, Lacey managed to say, "I have to go now, Stan. I will always remember that you did this for me."

  "Lacey – you're not about to do something stupid, are you?"

  "No… nothing like that. I am going to sign out early, and tell them I'll be taking a vacation day tomorrow. Then I'll go home, where I will proceed to get very, very drunk. I'll talk to you in a few days, Stan."

  "Lacey, if there's anything…" I let my voice trail off.

  "I know, Stan. I know. Gotta go. Bye now."

  "Bye, Lacey."

  Sometimes I hate my job, my life, and the world I live in. I wondered if Rachel had a potion for that.

After I finished ruining Lacey's life, I didn't waste any time signing out and heading home. Even so, there were only about five minutes left until sunrise as I pulled into the garage – which was, fortunately, goblin-free this time. I was relieved to see Christine's blue Ford Carpathia parked in the driveway. Worrying about her was about the last thing I needed right now.

  Christine was at the kitchen table with the paper, but she stood up as soon as I walked in the door.

  "Daddy! Oh my God, are you all right?"

  She threw her arms around me and hugged me more vigorously than usual. If it was anybody else applying that much pressure, I'd have made them stop – vampires are pretty damn strong, and I was starting to worry about my rib cage when she finally let go.

  She stepped back, and must have seen something in my face because she said, "Oh, my gosh – that must've hurt! I'm sorry, I wasn't thinking. I've just been so worried."

  I opened the refrigerator and was glad to see that we still had some pineapple juice. It's pricier than OJ, but nothing tastes better after a long night than a tall glass of cold pineapple juice. Actually, a couple of beers would have been even better, but I had to stay awake for the locksmith, who was coming at 9am. After the shift I'd had, two beers would probably put me in dreamland.

  As I poured my juice I asked, "What's got you so upset, babe? Is there something in the paper about my little goblin infestation last night?"

  "Oh, is that what the smell is? No, there's nothing in the T-T, but the driveway's half covered with this sticky green stuff and it smells just awful. And I found some of these, too."

  She picked up several small round objects from the table and showed them to me. I knew at once they weren't silver, or she couldn't have handled them.

  "Let me see," I said, and took them from her.

  Each little sphere was the size of a dried pea and the color of an old nickel. "Shotgun pellets," I said. "Double-ought buckshot, looks like. These appear to be cold iron. And the green stuff in the driveway is definitely goblin blood."

  "Why were you shooting goblins with a shotgun in our driveway?"

  "I wasn't," I said. "Not with a shotgun, anyway. That was my guardian angel."

  She ran a hand over her face. "Now I am really confused."

  "I'll explain everything later," I said, and looked out the window. Dawn was just reaching the horizon. "You better get downstairs, babe, and quick. I'm OK. Stressed beyond belief, but physically undamaged. Now go – I'll fill you in at sundown."

  "OK. She gave me a quick kiss on the cheek. "I'm glad you're all right." And then she was through the cellar door and gone. Vampires can move fast when they want to. And at thirty seconds to sunrise, they usually want to.

  Hank, the locksmith, showed up at 9.05am and installed state-of-the-art locks on the front and back doors. I've known him for years, and can trust that he won't be giving out duplicate keys to anybody but me. He noted the window alarms and said, "Never saw much point in those. They don't do much good, some guy breaks in while nobody's home."

  Or while Christine is – literally – dead to the world. I kept that thought to myself.

  "These don't make noise," I said. "Anybody breaks the circuit, they send a signal to the security company, Semper Fi."

  "Oh, I see." Hank nodded, keeping his face blank.

  "I know – you're thinking that rent-a-cops are pretty much worthless, and you're right, for the most part. But Semper Fi only hires ex-Marines with combat experience. And they're all licensed to carry."

  "That's not too bad, then."

  Next, I had him install a heavy-duty deadbolt on the basement door. I told him that I wanted the kind that could be opened by a key, from either side.

  "Why would somebody wanna lock themselves inside the basement?" Hank asked me. Guess he didn't have any vampires in the family.

  "Sometimes I throw an orgy down there," I said, my voice as matter-of-fact as my expression. "My guests like their privacy – you know how it is."

  He looked at me for a couple of seconds, as if unsure whether he was being kidded. Then he snorted and set to work.

  After Hank left, I was finally able to stagger off to bed. As my head hit the pillow, I prayed that I wouldn't dream. But, like most of my prayers, that one went unanswered, too.

It was full dark when Christine and I shared breakfast – well, we shared the table, but our menus were different – and I told her about my eventful night. I left out the part about the end of my visit with Rachel, since I wasn't sure yet what exactly she had done, or how I felt about it. But Christine heard everything else.

  "Just listening to it makes me feel like my head's going to explode," she said. "I can only imagine what it must have been like to go through it. Pretty tough dude, my old man. Takes a real lickin' and keeps on tickin'." I knew she was referencing an old Timex commercial.

  "We'll see how well I keep time tonight," I said. "I feel like the crystal's cracked and the mainspring is about to break from being wound too tight."

  "You'll be fine," she said. "But poor Lacey – what an absolutely horrid thing to listen to."

  "I only told her because–"

  She held up a pacifying hand. "I know, I know. I'd have done the same thing in your place – and in her place too, for that matter. Sometimes there's no easy way out."

  "Yeah, I think I heard that somewhere," I said.

  "And speaking of easy ways out," she said, "who the fuck is sending goblins after you?"

  "Oh, that would be Mister X," I said.

  She cocked an eyebrow at me. "Really? Is that his first or last name?"

  "For now, it stands for both."

  "OK. So who is Mister X, and why does he have it in for my daddy?"

  "He's probably the guy – or the gang – behind the snuff films. Karl's theory is that he's like the Columbians. Apparently down there, if somebody so much as whispers something about going after those guys, they take him out. Don't even wait for him to become a nuisance. Just bang-bang."

  "And Karl feels Mister X has the same bloody mindset?"

  "It explains why somebody took out Milo – who, as far as I know, hadn't turned up anything new about the snuff film operation," I said. "Although he did have Sharkey waiting in the wings, just in case."

  "And now Sharkey's your guardian angel."

  "I figure Milo paid him to follow me – well, Karl and me – around until we found Mister X. Then Sharkey would step out of the shadows and hit him. And since I can't lead him to Mister X if some goblin sticks a knife in my gizzard, he's keeping me alive until then. And the way this case is going, Sharkey's gonna have to watch my back for a long time to come."

  "Even though Milo's dead," she said.

  "Sharkey's the most ethical man in the business, they say. As well as the deadliest."

  "Well, it would seem better to have him on your side, rather than on your case."

  "Amen to that," I said.

  "I don't know who Mister X is, obviously," she said. From deep in her eyes, I saw a glint of red. "But if I ever meet him, he'd better guard his throat."

  "That's my girl."

  "And in the meantime, somebody's killing supernaturals, in the hope of starting this Helter Skelter race war?"

  "They're killing humans, too, and framing supernaturals for it."

  "This Howard guy you were telling me about," she said.

  "Lester Howard, yeah. If he was really the victim of a vampire, then I'm Mary, Queen of Scots."

  "Let's hope you're not," Christine said with a grin. "You wouldn't like the wardrobe, and she came to a bad end, as I recall."

  "I'm probably safe," I said.

  She took a sip from her cup of heated plasma. "And who's behind this Helter Skelter bullshit?"

  "I'm still working on that. For now, let's call him Mister Y, although 'he' is probably a 'they'."

  "Except you think X and Y are one and the same."

  "I think they might be," I said. "At first, we all figured that the motive behind the snuff films was purely financial – same as the pervs who make kiddie porn."

  "Let's not talk about kiddie porn – please. I may be a vampire, but those fuckers are the real monsters."

  "No argument from me. But their motive is to make money, and we figured the same was true of the guys behind the snuff films. But now…"

  "The press has got hold of the story."

  "Looks that way," I said. "Maybe some nosy reporter just stumbled over it. But if info about these videos was deliberately leaked – well, a lot of people are gonna get real upset when they hear about these supernatural torture sessions." "More ammunition for Helter Skelter." "Could be, honey. Could just be."

I could see that McGuire had visitors. Thorwald and Greer were in the office with him, looking serious. I think there's a course they offer down there at Quantico called "Federal Gravitas 101." Or maybe it's just that their job doesn't present too many occasions for giggles. Come to think of it, neither does mine.

  I looked at Karl, who was sitting at his desk. "How long have J. Edgar's finest been in there with the boss?"

  "Beats me," he said. "I just rolled in a couple of minutes ago myself, and they were already here."

  "I want to talk to the Feebies, but I don't think we oughta just sit here with our thumbs up our asses waiting for the privilege."

  "Amen to that," he said.

  "Let's get out of here," I said. "I had a long, painful talk with Lacey last night. I wanna tell you what she–"

  McGuire must have noticed that I'd come in, because he went to his office door and waved me over.

  "Great," I said to Karl. "Well, let's go."

  "Not sure I was included in the invitation."

  "You are now," I said. "Come on – maybe you can intimidate Thorwald with your fangs."

  "I've got something else I could intimidate her with," he said, getting to his feet. "But the boss probably wouldn't appreciate my whipping it out in his office."

  "You mean your pistol."

  "'Course I do," he said. "What else?"

  McGuire's office wasn't built to accommodate five people comfortably, but then sometimes comfort's overrated.

  I guess Thorwald didn't think so. "It's kind of cramped in here, so perhaps Detective Renfer could excuse us?"

  "No, he couldn't," I said. "We work as a team, just like you and your partner."

  "If it gets bad, I could always turn into mist and float above everybody," Karl said.

  "You can really do that – create mist?" Greer asked him.

  "Sure," Karl said. "Every time I fart."

  "Let's cut the crap," McGuire said. "Agents Thorwald and Greer have been working on identifying the victims in the snuff videos," he said. I guessed the issue of Karl's presence was settled.

  I looked at Thorwald. "Any luck?"

  "At the Bureau, we don't believe in luck," she said. "But intelligence and hard work did pay some dividends, yes."

  Looks like Greer wasn't the only one to complete the "How to Be a Federal Asshole" course.

  I kept my mouth shut. Next to me, Karl muttered a word in my ear that sounded like "hunt", but probably wasn't.

  Seeing that I wasn't going to rise to the bait, Thorwald said, "We have been able to identify three of the victims. None of them are from Scranton, which is why they didn't appear on your department's missing persons list. But only one of the three even had an MP report filed – by his mother, who lives in Arizona and became alarmed when her son never answered his phone or returned her calls. These are solitary men, which probably explains why they were marked for abduction by the snuff film makers."

  She reached into her big leather bag and pulled out three manila folders. She put them, one at a time, on McGuire's desk.

  "Albert Becht, 41, of Old Forge. Daniel Cossick, 29, of West Pittston. And Gregory Ryfa, 38, of Wilkes-Barre."

  I noticed that the files didn't look very thick. But at least they were files, and they did have victims' names on them.

  Thorwald pulled a notebook from the bag, opened it, and flipped some pages. "Becht was in video number 2 as the torture victim. Cossick and Ryfa both appeared in video number 3 – Cossick the possessed torturer, Ryfa the victim."

  "Did they know each other?" Karl asked.

  "We're working to determine that," she said. "Thus far, I'm inclined to say no. As I said, they tended to keep to themselves."

  "Didn't they have jobs?" I asked her.

  "No, they didn't. Cossick and Ryfa were both on public assistance, while Becht was living off a trust fund."

  "Welfare and a trust fund," I said. "Can't get much more different than that."

  "Naturally, we obtained warrants to search their residences," Thorwald said. "They each owned a personal computer, which isn't surprising. The hard drives have been removed and sent to Washington for analysis."

  "So now you're looking for common factors," I said.

  She nodded approvingly, as if the special needs kid had actually answered a question correctly in class. "Exactly. A cursory study of their homes doesn't tell us much. They shared the usual male interests – sports, beer, and pornography, but the last reflected nothing as extreme as the snuff films. Just the usual tits, ass, and gash."

  I wondered if she'd used that last word to prove that she was really one of the guys, or to show her contempt for us.

  "Oh, and they all seemed to have an interest in vampires," she added.

  If I didn't know better, I'd have said it was chance that she happened to be looking at Karl when she said that last part.

  "Lots of people do, from what I hear," Karl said evenly. He wasn't letting himself be provoked, either. "How'd you establish that as a common factor?"

  "Different things that we found," Greer said. I guess he felt he was supposed to contribute something. "Books, DVDs, magazines, posters – stuff like that."

  Karl nodded. "Makes sense to me. I assume you also checked the contents of their furniture – bureaus, and like that."

  "Of course." Thorwald sounded mildly offended.

  "Did all three of these guys, by any chance, have… a sock drawer?"

  Thorwald gave McGuire a "See? Told you we should've kicked him out" look and said, "Is there some point that you're attempting to make, Detective?"

  Karl shrugged. "Since they all have socks in common, I was just wondering if maybe we were dealing with a bunch of foot fetishists."

  I tried to keep the smile from growing on my face, I really did. Greer appeared puzzled, and McGuire apparently felt the need to cough.

  It's a pity that nobody took a photo of Thorwald's face right then. It would have been a perfect illustration in some dictionary, next to the definition of "Rage (barely suppressed)".

  Before Thorwald could grab a pencil from the nearby desk and try to drive it through Karl's heart, McGuire said, a little louder than necessary, "Is there anything else we have to talk about here?"

  "Well, there's one thing," I said. McGuire shot me a look that said, "This better not be something smart-ass." I went on, "I think I have an ID on the female victim in the latest snuff video."

  Thorwald had her notebook out again before I'd even finished speaking. Fast hands. I hoped I'd never have to outdraw her – or try to.

  "I think her first name's Mary Beth. If it is, then her maiden name was Brennan, although she might've gotten married along the way and changed it. She lives – lived – somewhere in Exeter, which is a little town–"

  "I know where Exeter is, Sergeant," Thorwald said. "What I'm uncertain about is exactly what you know. I'm hearing 'think', 'might've', and 'somewhere'. None of that exactly inspires confidence in your information. Do you have an ID on the victim, or don't you?"

  Karl had her pegged, all right. Hunt – or something like that.

  I took a deep breath and let it out, in an effort to calm myself down a bit. Then I said, "I used all those qualifiers because I wanted to be precise about what I know at this point, and what I don't. I think it's highly probable that the female vic started life – and maybe ended it – as Mary Beth Brennan. I'll probably have more solid information in a day or so, including an ID based on a screen cap of the woman's face, if you'll loan me that DVD again, or let me burn a copy."

  "Why 'a day or so', Markowski?" Greer said. "You holding out on us?"

  Control. Keep calm. Shooting FBI agents is a felony, even if they deserve it.

  "I'm not holding out anything," I said. "It's just that the situation's complicated. Here's why."

  I told them about my initial mistaken ID of the victim, then about my phone conversation with Lacey the next day. I left out the part where she threatened to deny me access to her beautiful ass forever if I didn't spill the beans – it would've given them the wrong impression, both about Lacey and about me.

  When I was done, both Thorwald and Greer were looking at me with the kind of expression you see on a Statie when he pulls you over for doing fifty in a school zone.

  "I cannot believe," Thorwald said, "that you would be so unprofessional as to reveal the very existence of these videos, let alone the contents of one, without clearing it with us first."

  "I would have," I said, "but you two haven't been around the last two nights. And I understand that you refused to give your contact information to our PA."

  McGuire looked at me, then at Thorwald. "You haven't given us any way to contact you?"

  "That information is released on a 'need to know' basis," Thorwald said.

  "And you don't think that these officers," McGuire said, "who are working on the case that you brought to us, might have a need to know how to get in touch with you?"

  "Messages left at the local FBI field office will be forwarded to us," Thorwald said primly. "And right now I don't wish to be distracted from the issue of Sergeant Markowski's carelessness in revealing what is essentially confidential information."

  "I didn't give it to the New York Times," I said, "or even to the Times-Tribune. I told a veteran detective who knows how to keep her mouth shut."

  "A veteran detective who's now got an emotional involvement in the case," Greer said.

  "Some people are funny that way," I said. "When you tell them that one of their close relatives has been tortured to death, they get all upset."

  "I still say you shouldn't have told her," Thorwald said. "She could have been shown one of those screen caps you were talking about earlier, and asked to make an identification of the woman in the photo."

  "Yeah, that would work," I said. "You show Lacey Brennan a photo of a woman's face and ask, 'Is this your sister?' And when she wants to know why you're asking, you say 'Sorry, that's classified information.' I'm ninety-nine percent certain she'd tell you to–" I turned to Karl. "What's that expression she uses?"

  "You mean 'Go fuck yourself'?"

  "That's the one." I turned back to the Feebies. "She'd tell you to go fuck yourself. And you know what – she'd be right."

  The two FBI agents looked at each other for a couple of seconds, then Thorwald gave a long-suffering sigh. "Well, since the cat's out of the bag, we may as well make use of it. I'll need contact information for this Detective Brennan."