“That did not take place in our county.”
“We don’t know that. We only know where the bodies were found. And one victim, your sister, lived in this very city.”
“That’s stretching it.”
“Second, I am hired to work forty hours a week. I do closer to eighty. You know that. It is why you promoted me. So what I do outside of those forty hours is up to me. Or I’ll up it to one hundred, I don’t care. And before you ask, no, this isn’t just a favor for my boss. Let’s face it, I’m an investigator. Solving it would be a heck of a feather in my cap. So what do you say?”
I shrugged. “What the hell.”
“I’m in?”
“You’re in.”
She looked very pleased. “So what’s step one?”
I thought about it. There was something I had to do. I had avoided it. I couldn’t avoid it any longer.
“Wayne Steubens,” I said.
“The Summer Slasher.”
“I need to see him.”
“You knew him, right?”
I nodded. “We were both counselors at that camp.”
“I think I read that he doesn’t allow visitors.”
“We need to change his mind,” I said.
“He’s in a maximum security facility in Virginia,” Muse said. “I can make some calls.”
Muse already knew where Steubens was being held. Incredible.
“Do that,” I said.
There was a knock on my door and my secretary, Jocelyn Durels, stuck her head in the door. “Messages,” she said. “You want me to stick them on your desk?”
I waved my fingers for her to hand them to me. “Anything important?”
“Not really. A fair amount from media. You’d think they’d know you’re in court, but they still call.”
I took the messages and started sorting through them. I looked up at Muse. She was glancing around. There was almost nothing personal in this office. When I first moved in, I put a picture of Cara on my credenza. Two days later we arrested a child molester who had done unspeakable things to a girl around Cara’s age. We talked about it in this office and I kept looking over at my daughter and finally I had to turn the picture around so it faced the wall. That night, I brought the picture back home.
This was no place for Cara. This was not even a place for her picture.
I was pawing through the messages when something caught my eye.
My secretary uses the old-fashioned pink note sheets, the ones where she can keep a yellow copy in her book, and writes the messages by hand. Her handwriting is impeccable.
The caller, according to my pink message, was:
Lucy??
I stared at the name for a moment. Lucy. It couldn’t be.
There was a work number, a home number and a mobile. All three had area codes that indicated Lucy Double-Question-Mark lived, worked and, uh, mobilized in New Jersey.
I grabbed the phone and hit the intercom. “Jocelyn?”
“Yes?”
“I’m seeing a message here from someone named Lucy,” I said.
“Yes. She called about an hour ago.”
“You didn’t write a last name.”
“She wouldn’t give one. That’s why I put the question marks.”
“I don’t understand. You asked her for a last name and she wouldn’t give one?”
“That’s right.”
“What else did she say?”
“On the bottom of the page.”
“What?”
“Did you read my notes on the bottom of the page?”
“No.”
She just waited, not saying the obvious. I scanned down the sheet and read:
Says she’s an old friend from twenty years ago.
I read the words again. And again.
“Ground control to Major Cope.”
It was Muse. She hadn’t said the words—she sang them, using the old David Bowie tune. I startled up. “You sing,” I said, “like you pick out shoes.”
“Very funny.” She gestured at my message and arched one eyebrow. “So who is this Lucy, big guy? An old lover?”
I said nothing.
“Oh, damn.” Her arched eyebrow dropped. “I was just messing around. I didn’t mean to…”
“Don’t worry about it, Muse.”
“Don’t you worry about it either, Cope. At least not until later.”
Her gaze turned to the clock behind me. I looked too. She was right. Lunch was over. This would have to wait. I didn’t know what Lucy wanted. Or maybe I did. The past was coming back. All of it. The dead, it seemed, were digging their way out of the ground now.
But that was all for later. I grabbed the fax and stood.
Muse rose too. “Showtime,” she said.
I nodded. More than showtime. I was going to destroy those sons of bitches. And I was going to try like hell not to enjoy it too much.
On the stand after lunch, Jerry Flynn looked fairly composed. I had done little damage in the morning. There was no reason to think the afternoon would be any different.
“Mr. Flynn,” I began, “do you like pornography?”
I didn’t even wait for the obvious. I turned to Mort Pubin and made a sarcastic hand gesture, as though I had just introduced him and was ushering him onstage.
“Objection!”
Pubin didn’t even need to elaborate. The judge gave me a disapproving look. I shrugged and said, “Exhibit eighteen.” I picked up the sheet of paper. “This is a bill sent to the fraternity house for online expenses. Do you recognize it?”
He looked at it. “I don’t pay the bills. The treasurer does.”
“Yes, Mr. Rich Devin, who testified that this is indeed the fraternity bill.”
The judge looked over to Flair and Mort. “Any objection?”
“We will stipulate that it is a bill from the fraternity house,” Flair said.
“Do you see this entry here?” I pointed to a line near the top.
“Yes.”
“Can you read what it says?”
“Netflix.”
“That’s with one x at the end.” I spelled “Netflix” out loud. “What’s Netflix, if you know?”
“It’s a DVD rental service. You do it through the mail. You get to keep three DVDs at all times. When you mail one back, you get another sent to you.”
“Good, thank you.” I nodded and moved my fingers down a few rows. “Could you read this line to me?”
He hesitated.
“Mr. Flynn?” I said.