Michael Palmer - The Society

Lost in thought, Patty toed the ground and glanced down. A charred lump-probably a portion of a leg with bone protruding out-lay on the lawn just a few feet away. At that instant, two lab people scurried over, labeled it, marked the location on a chart, and dropped it into a large plastic evidence Baggie.

“Chipper,” she asked, “do you think this could possibly have been the work of an amateur-someone who’s just angry at managed-care executives because of something a managed-care company did that hurt them or maybe killed a loved one?”

“Not really,” Dawes replied. “Whoever did this knew what they were doing. It may not look it, but blowing up a car in a driveway without substantially damaging the house twenty feet away is not easy.”

“This woman’s a keeper,” Corbin said. He was an imposingly tall and muscular black man with dark, intelligent eyes, and Patty wondered what life would have been like had someone like him been assigned to her case. “You’d best stick pretty close to her, Wayne. She’ll make you look smart.”

Brasco merely shrugged. His eyes were flint. Even in the dim light Patty could see him flush. She felt like a guerrilla, making quick, annoying strikes at the enemy. Next time maybe you’ll call me.

“There’s more evidence this guy was a pro,” Brown added. “I interviewed Davenport’s wife. She didn’t see or hear anything before the explosion, but she also admits to having had a good deal to drink last night-and from the looks of her, I would bet most nights before that. However, she insists that her husband’s Cadillac was in the garage and the electronic door was closed. That means someone had to get the door open without disturbing anyone, then get through the security system of the car and get it out onto the driveway, then set the explosive.”

“So maybe whoever wanted revenge hired a pro,” Dawes ventured, excited to be one of the gang of detectives.

“Or maybe he was a pro to begin with,” Patty tried, testing the notion out on herself as much as the others. “You know, some HMO doctor or managed-care company just happened to do something to upset the wrong person-a professional killer.” She surveyed the scene again, then thanked Dawes and turned to the Norfolk men, pointedly ignoring Brasco, who looked something like the loser in a round of musical chairs. “Lieutenant Corbin,” she said, “we need to get inside the garage.”

“The three of us were already there briefly before you arrived. As soon as the crime-scene people are done, we’ll be opening the door.”

“We can wait if you insist, but I’d rather not. Lieutenant, as you know, this is the third death in what is almost certainly the work of a serial killer.”

“Yes, I’m well aware of that.”

“Well, did Wayne tell you about the letters?”

“The what?”

One glance at Brasco told Patty she had struck another nerve. If the killer had once again left alphabet letters about, as he had in the first two cases, Brasco clearly wanted to be the one to discover them. Immediately, he inserted himself between her and the Norfolk detectives.

“Yes, Patty, thanks for bringing it up,” he said confidently, clearing the insincerity from his throat. “I was waiting to get clearance from Lieutenant Court to tell you two about the letters when Patty arrived. He hasn’t called back yet, but I assume Jack won’t have any problem with sharing the information with you.”

“That’d be nice of him,” Corbin said, with thinly disguised sarcasm.

“We’ve kept this information internal in case we needed it,” Brasco went on.

“We understand.”

“Well, in each of the other cases, the killer has left a calling card-two, in fact. Each of the first two victims had an envelope alongside them. The first one contained the letters E and R , and the second one the letters R and T . Both envelopes and all the letters were clean. Obviously, the killer couldn’t put an envelope in the car he was about to blow up, so I strongly suspect something is in the garage.”

You wouldn’t suspect your knees were bare if you had forgotten your pants , Patty thought savagely.

“What about the garage?”

The man behind the query, tall and straight, looking as distinguished as any diplomat, wore the full uniform of a lieutenant colonel, complete with a multitiered rainbow of decorations above his left breast. At the sight of him, Brasco stiffened. Corbin extended his hand.

“Colonel,” he said.

“Roosevelt,” Tommy Moriarity replied. “Good to see you again. It’s been a while since that forensics conference in Boston.”

Corbin introduced Brown to the second in command of the state police force.

Patty hesitated, gauging the situation to determine the greeting the man would like from her. Finally, she reached out and took his hand in both of hers.

“Hi, Colonel,” she said. “I’m glad to see you.”

At six-three, Moriarity was nearly a head taller than his daughter. For the briefest moment it looked to Patty as if he was going to bend down to embrace her, or kiss her on the cheek. Then he simply smiled the creased, weathered smile she loved so much, and returned the greeting.

“You know Wayne Brasco?” she asked.

“Of course. Your wife and family okay?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Margo, isn’t it?”

Patty knew her father might have only met Brasco’s wife once, possibly years ago. She wasn’t the least surprised that he remembered her-he remembered everyone.

“Yes, sir, Margo. She’s doing great.”

“So?”

Although the question was directed more or less to the group, Brasco was not about to pass up the opportunity to impress the colonel.

“So, it’s another managed-care executive,” he said. “The other two looked like professional hits. So does this one. Probably Semtex, we’re guessing. I just told Corbin and Brown here about the alphabet letters we found with the other two victims. It’s my guess there must be letters in the garage.”

Patty stifled a groan.

“Roosevelt,” Moriarity said, “do you think you could check with the crime-scene people and get us permission to take a look in there?”

“No problem.”

Moments later, the detective returned and indicated that so long as they were careful, they could enter the garage through the kitchen of the house. Just leave the garage door alone until someone could determine how it might have been opened and closed by the killer without the electronic code and without anyone knowing. Stepping around and between grisly remnants of Cyrill Davenport, they entered the house through the front door.

Using a handkerchief, Patty gently opened the door from the rear hallway to the garage. Then she extracted a slim, powerful flashlight from her purse, located the light switch, and flicked it on with a pen.

It took just three minutes of searching before Tommy Moriarity said, “Well, Lieutenant, it looks as if you are absolutely right.”

He indicated a heavy metal rake, tines propped up against the back wall. Impaled on the tine at each end of the row was a three-inch white square that looked as if it was cut from a file card. Meticulously, artistically printed on one card was the block letter B , and on the other, an E . Careful to touch nothing, the four of them peered at the finding as Patty further illuminated it with her light.

“E, R, R, T, B, E,” she said softly.

“Heartbeat?” Corbin offered.

“Possible,” Patty replied. “Maybe it’s parts of several words in a quote.”

They searched the garage for another five minutes, but found nothing unusual or out of place. Back outside on the driveway, Moriarity encouraged Corbin and Brasco to keep him informed and to contact him if there was anything he could help them with, including passage around any bureaucratic roadblocks to their investigation. Then he motioned Patty to a spot on the lawn where the two of them could talk unheard.