“And you want to find his killer,” Chilcoate reiterated.
“What I’m looking for is a connection between him and this damned Star-Crossed Killer. I think they’re the same man.” The man’s eyes darkened and his jaw was granite.
“Just a minute,” Chilcoate said, pointing Santana to his worn recliner, which he reluctantly sat in, looking as if he might jump up and attack someone given the least provocation.
Chilcoate then headed into the larger of his two bedrooms, an area designated for his office. He closed the door on the secondhand chairs, scarred cabinetry, and massive television that made up most of his living space. He didn’t like having Santana sitting in the middle of it, but whatcha gonna do with friends like MacGregor?
Within the bedroom’s walls were a desktop computer, several telephones, and radio equipment. This was all a front, containing basic home office equipment when Chilcoate needed so much more. The basement, down a narrow stairway, was where he had a whole intel room set up—his own “control central”—but the basement was an area he had no intention of sharing with anyone, least of all a stranger who knocked on his door late at night. Damn MacGregor! He, better than anyone, knew that Chilcoate needed privacy and secrecy. Chilcoate dealt in information, and it was imperative his world was kept private and under the radar of the general populace.
CHOSEN TO DIE
307
Muttering to himself, he impatiently dialed MacGregor’s cell phone, counting the rings, glancing toward the door as he waited for him to answer. Finally he picked up, his voice sounded distracted and rushed, which pissed Chilcoate off to no end, even though he understood the reason for it. “Hey, man,”
Chilcoate said without preamble. “You send this Santana fellow to me? What the hell are you thinkin’?”
Zane MacGregor was a boyhood friend of Chilcoate’s, his one true friend. Chilcoate had helped Zane recently with that crazy copycat who’d gone after his girlfriend. The copycat they’d all thought was the Star-Crossed Killer.
MacGregor said, “Santana’s after the real StarCrossed Killer. Even though it turned out that Jillian wasn’t one of his targets, the bastard’s still out there, killing women. He’s in your ’hood, Chilcoate. I thought you could join forces with Santana and bring him down.”
“No one knows about me,” he reminded him.
“That’s the deal. You know that.”
“You gotta stop being so paranoid, Chilcoate. You gotta help Santana get the killer.”
“The police are on it.”
MacGregor laughed. “Like you believe any arm of the government is straightforward and capable!
Sure, man. Let the police handle this.”
Chilcoate ground his teeth. He was right, of course. Chilcoate had actually been in the military where he had honed his skills in electronic surveillance and computer hacking. He was considered a genius by some; a serious threat by others. His disillusionment with all things government was a by-product of his own paranoia and secretive nature. But that didn’t make the government right!
308
Lisa Jackson
“You want me to get involved?”
“Yes,” MacGregor stated emphatically.
“You’re putting a real strain on this friendship. It hasn’t been a week since you were here,” he grumbled.
“You want this bastard to keep killing women?”
“Hell, no. But I’m not a one-man army.”
“Santana is.”
Chilcoate thought that over. He glanced toward the closed door and thought about the man seated on the other side of it. “You know him well?”
“Well enough. You’ve probably made a judgment on him by now. What do you think?”
“I wouldn’t want to be tracked by him.”
He grunted in agreement. “Then help him out. Like you helped me.”