Michelle nodded in understanding. “Do you think the killer’s watching?”
“Of course he is,” snapped King. “The notoriety’s all part of it.”
“Do you really think the killings are random?”
“There’s no obvious connection among any of the victims.” King fell silent for a moment. “Except the reference to only one kid in the Canney and Pembroke letter. The question is, which kid?”
“I’m not following.”
He looked at her. “If Pembroke was targeted specifically, for example, and Canney just happened to be there when it happened, that means there was a reason for Pembroke to die. Now, if there was a reason for her to die, then maybe there’s a reason why the others died too. And maybe those reasons are connected somehow.”
“And the watches?”
“The guy’s trademark obviously, but maybe there’s more to it.”
“Hopefully, Sylvia will have some answers soon.”
King checked his watch. “I’ve got a dinner I need to get to.”
“Where?”
“The Sage Gentleman, with people in from out of town. You want to tag along?”
“Nope. I’ve got some stuff to do too.”
“Date?” He smiled at her.
“Yeah, with my kickboxing instructor. Our plan is to sweat and groan a lot with our clothes on.”
They headed off in opposite directions. As was typical for her, Michelle clocked an average of twenty miles over the speed limit in her white Toyota Sequoia that she’d nicknamed the Whale, in honor of Melville’s fictional creation, Moby Dick. She passed the last little-used intersection about thirty seconds before she would reach the gravel road that wound through the woods to her cottage. As soon as she cleared the intersection, the lights of the pale blue VW came on and the driver put the Bug in gear, turned right and started following her.
He slowed as she turned onto the gravel road, and watched as her wheels kicked up dust and bits of rock and then she was quickly out of sight in the gathering darkness. A quarter mile up and then to the left, he knew, having been up there already while Michelle wasn’t at home. There were no other residences within a half mile of the place. It backed to the lake where she kept a scull, kayak and Sea-Doo at her small floating dock. The cottage was around fifteen hundred square feet and designed with an open floor plan. He’d ascertained that she lived alone with not even a dog to keep her company, and safe. However, she was a former federal agent with specialized skills; a person not to be underestimated. He drove a little farther down the main road, parked his car on a dirt patch behind a screen of trees and set off on foot through the woods toward the cottage.
When he arrived there, he saw that the Sequoia was parked in the roundabout by the front door. The lights were on in the house. He pulled out his binoculars and ran them over the front of the cottage. No sign of her. Keeping well back in the trees, he made his way to the rear of the house. A light was on in one of the rooms back there, upper floor. Her bedroom, he surmised. There was a sheet across the window, but he caught her silhouette twice. The movements were straightforward: she was undressing. He lowered his binoculars while she did so. She came out a few minutes later dressed in workout clothes, jumped in her truck and spun dirt as she headed off.
He came back around in time to see her taillights winking at him before disappearing in the darkness as she rounded the curve and then was out of sight. She certainly moved fast, he thought. He eyed the front door. It was locked, but that didn’t pose much of a problem. There was no security system; he’d checked on that too. He pulled out the appropriate pick and tension tool from the set he carried.
A couple of lock-picking minutes later he was inside and looking around. The house was a mess; he marveled at the woman’s ability to function amid such chaos. He placed the device behind a pile of books and CDs gathering dust in one corner of the living room. It was an FM test transmitter about the size of a quarter. He’d soldered a microphone to the transmitter, which was illegal under U.S. law because it turned the transmitter into a surveillance bug, not that he was concerned about that violation of law and privacy. He hustled upstairs to Michelle’s bedroom, where he scanned her closet and found several black pantsuits, two white blouses, a trio of battered dress heels and also an abundance of jeans, sweatshirts and workout clothes and a variety of athletic shoes.
He went back downstairs. She didn’t have a formal office area here; still he sorted through the stack of mail haphazardly scattered on the kitchen table. Nothing unusual there so long as one considered subscriptions to the Shooting Magazine and Iron Women normal.
He slipped outside; he had one last task to perform. Because he was hiding these bugs at different locations, he wouldn’t be able to be present at all of them at the same time. Thus, he’d modified the transmitter such that it would connect wirelessly with a voice-activated digital microrecorder that he was now hiding outside of Michelle’s cottage. The transmitter had an open range of a hundred meters inside a building, and the recorder had a hard drive that would allow it to store hundreds of hours of recording. He went back inside the house, spoke and then hurried back out to check the microrecorder. His snatch of conversation had been captured on it. Satisfied, he drove off. He’d already bugged King’s houseboat, as well as the private investigators’ office and phones. He had quickly discovered that Chief Williams was using King and Maxwell in the investigation. He realized how very helpful that could be to him. So now at least two of the people trying to find him would unwittingly provide him with advance information. As King had predicted, he had been listening to the news. He was well aware that an army of lawmen was being assembled to capture him. Well, he’d die first. And he’d take as many others with him as possible.
CHAPTER
26
LATER THAT NIGHT KYLE
Montgomery, Sylvia’s assistant and rock star wannabe, parked his Jeep in front of the morgue and got out. He was dressed in a dark hood coat with “UVA” printed across it, rumpled dungaree pants and hiking boots without socks. He noted that Sylvia’s navy-blue Audi convertible was also parked in front. He checked his watch. Almost ten o’clock. Pretty late for her to be here, but there was the latest victim to dissect: the lawyer woman, he recalled. His boss had not requested his help on that one, a decision for which he was very appreciative. However, her presence here tonight made what he’d come to do a little dic
ey because he didn’t know which facility she was in. Probably the morgue, yet if she was in the medical office, he could always make up an excuse if she discovered him. He swiped his security card in the slot by the front door, heard the lock click open and went inside Sylvia’s medical office.
Only the low-level emergency lights were on. He threaded his way through the familiar surroundings, pausing only when he passed Sylvia’s office. The light was on, but there was no one in there.
He slipped into the pharmacy area of the office, used his key to open one of the cabinets and withdrew a number of bottles. He took one pill from each, taking care to segregate them into Baggies which he’d earlier labeled with a black Magic Marker. He’d hack into the practice’s computer system later and fudge the inventory numbers to mask his theft. Kyle only took a few pills each time, so it was easy to cover his tracks.
He was about to leave when he remembered he’d left his wallet in his locker at the morgue earlier that day. He put the pills away in his backpack and quietly unlocked the door that separated the two offices. If he ran into her, he could just tell the truth, that he’d left his wallet. He passed Sylvia’s office at the morgue. It was unoccupied. He went on to the scrub area. The autopsy room was at the very back of the facility; that’s where Sylvia would be attending to her silent companion. He wasn’t going anywhere near there. He listened intently for a few seconds, straining to hear the sounds of the Stryker saw, water running or sterilized instruments clattering on metal, but there was only silence. That was a little unnerving, although much of what happened during an autopsy involved such quiet. The dead were not going to complain about all the poking and prodding after all.