packing tape. These guys were pros at what they did; he had to give them that much.
But who the hell was hurting these girls in the first place? What was the big picture here? Who was the killer?
He dragged both "packages" out of the trunk and onto the canvas tarp he’d already spread. His tools were laid out on a big hickory stump, and there was an extra gallon of gas next to the chipper.
"Which one’d you say was shot?" he called over to the spooks.
"Tall one. Left chest. What a waste. Girl was a real looker."
He rolled her over and slit the plastic down the middle, pushing just hard enough with the tip of his bowie knife to leave a thin red trail in its wake. When he pulled back the wrapper, he found a small crater just above the very well-formed left breast. The body was still warm — in the nineties or high eighties. Dead only a few hours at most.
"Okay, got it. You want me to pull the slug or do you care?"
"Pull it. Get rid of it."
"All righty.
Done
. Anything else?"
"Yeah. Close the trunk."
A few seconds later, the two smartass bastards were gone.
Distrust aside, Remy didn’t mind their arrogance, mostly because he knew it worked in his favor. It probably never even occurred to those two how expendable
they
were.
Or how vulnerable.
In fact, they’d already done a good bit of the work for him when they erased their own identities. Now they were just a couple of spooks, and Remy knew as well as anyone that when the time came, there was nothing easier to make disappear than a ghost.
He could do that — hell, he’d done it before. Made a career of it, actually.
He unwrapped the second girl — another real looker. Seemed like maybe she’d been strangled. And bitten? He massaged the girl’s lukewarm breasts, played around a little bit more, then took the two of them up the hill to the chipper.
What a waste
was right.
Who the hell would do such a thing? Somebody even crazier than he was
?
Chapter 42
I HAD ANOTHER clandestine meeting with Ned Mahoney Saturday afternoon — this time at a busy parking garage on M Street in Georgetown.
As I pulled in, I couldn’t help thinking about those Deep Throat scenes in
All the President’s Men
, the book and the movie. There was a definite cloak-and-dagger thing happening here. Why was that? What in hell was going on?
Ned was already waiting when I got out of the car. He handed me a manila folder with the Bureau’s seal on it. Inside, I found some notes and a collection of photos, copied two to a page. "What’s this?"
"Renata Cruz and Katherine Tennancour," he said. "Both missing, presumed dead."
Each picture showed one of the girls, in several locations around town, with a variety of mostly white, much older men.
"Is that
David Wilke?
" I asked, pointing at someone who looked very much like the current chair of the Senate Armed Services Committee.
Ned nodded. "That’s David Wilke, all right. Both women have powerful men as regular clients, which is why we’ve been tracking them to begin with. And Katherine Tennancour, at least, worked at the club out in Virginia."
I didn’t say a word, just stared at Mahoney.
"I know exactly what you’re thinking," he said. "Might as well break out the legislative directory while we’re at it."
This whole thing was getting more insidious by the minute. There was no way to track this killer — or this network, if that’s what we were looking at — without exposing all kinds of very dirty laundry in the process. A lot of innocent family members’ lives would be ruined — and that was just the start of it.
House and Senate majorities, not to mention presidential elections and governorships, had been lost over a lot less than this. No one would be going down without a fight either; I already had a bad taste of that from Internal Affairs. Anyone who thinks that cops look forward to these sensational "career-making" cases has never been in the middle of one.
"Jesus, Ned. It’s like waiting for a hurricane
But who the hell was hurting these girls in the first place? What was the big picture here? Who was the killer?
He dragged both "packages" out of the trunk and onto the canvas tarp he’d already spread. His tools were laid out on a big hickory stump, and there was an extra gallon of gas next to the chipper.
"Which one’d you say was shot?" he called over to the spooks.
"Tall one. Left chest. What a waste. Girl was a real looker."
He rolled her over and slit the plastic down the middle, pushing just hard enough with the tip of his bowie knife to leave a thin red trail in its wake. When he pulled back the wrapper, he found a small crater just above the very well-formed left breast. The body was still warm — in the nineties or high eighties. Dead only a few hours at most.
"Okay, got it. You want me to pull the slug or do you care?"
"Pull it. Get rid of it."
"All righty.
Done
. Anything else?"
"Yeah. Close the trunk."
A few seconds later, the two smartass bastards were gone.
Distrust aside, Remy didn’t mind their arrogance, mostly because he knew it worked in his favor. It probably never even occurred to those two how expendable
they
were.
Or how vulnerable.
In fact, they’d already done a good bit of the work for him when they erased their own identities. Now they were just a couple of spooks, and Remy knew as well as anyone that when the time came, there was nothing easier to make disappear than a ghost.
He could do that — hell, he’d done it before. Made a career of it, actually.
He unwrapped the second girl — another real looker. Seemed like maybe she’d been strangled. And bitten? He massaged the girl’s lukewarm breasts, played around a little bit more, then took the two of them up the hill to the chipper.
What a waste
was right.
Who the hell would do such a thing? Somebody even crazier than he was
?
Chapter 42
I HAD ANOTHER clandestine meeting with Ned Mahoney Saturday afternoon — this time at a busy parking garage on M Street in Georgetown.
As I pulled in, I couldn’t help thinking about those Deep Throat scenes in
All the President’s Men
, the book and the movie. There was a definite cloak-and-dagger thing happening here. Why was that? What in hell was going on?
Ned was already waiting when I got out of the car. He handed me a manila folder with the Bureau’s seal on it. Inside, I found some notes and a collection of photos, copied two to a page. "What’s this?"
"Renata Cruz and Katherine Tennancour," he said. "Both missing, presumed dead."
Each picture showed one of the girls, in several locations around town, with a variety of mostly white, much older men.
"Is that
David Wilke?
" I asked, pointing at someone who looked very much like the current chair of the Senate Armed Services Committee.
Ned nodded. "That’s David Wilke, all right. Both women have powerful men as regular clients, which is why we’ve been tracking them to begin with. And Katherine Tennancour, at least, worked at the club out in Virginia."
I didn’t say a word, just stared at Mahoney.
"I know exactly what you’re thinking," he said. "Might as well break out the legislative directory while we’re at it."
This whole thing was getting more insidious by the minute. There was no way to track this killer — or this network, if that’s what we were looking at — without exposing all kinds of very dirty laundry in the process. A lot of innocent family members’ lives would be ruined — and that was just the start of it.
House and Senate majorities, not to mention presidential elections and governorships, had been lost over a lot less than this. No one would be going down without a fight either; I already had a bad taste of that from Internal Affairs. Anyone who thinks that cops look forward to these sensational "career-making" cases has never been in the middle of one.
"Jesus, Ned. It’s like waiting for a hurricane
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