David Wiltse: The Edge of Sleep

“Yet,” said Karen. “Which means he knows we’re after him in the first place. Now, how would he know that? We weren’t posting rewards, there was no publicity suggesting a connection between these cases.”

“But the Bureau had, in fact, already linked these deaths?”

“I’ve been working on it since Ricky Stine in Newburgh. The computer alerted us to the similarities.”

“You’ve been on the case for a year?”

“Seven months.”

“Two kids killed in seven months’ time?”

“Six months. We found the latest a month ago.”

“He’s accelerating very rapidly.”

“That’s part of the reason I’m here, John. This guy has started to need them so frequently he’s practically in free-fall. If he knows we’re on to him, it hasn’t slowed him down, it’s only made him cagier.”

“So how does he know you’re on to him? Does he have a spy in the Bureau?”

“I’m not that paranoid.”

“Maybe he knows someone has been asking questions.”

“How?”

“Maybe he knew someone who was interrogated?” Becker left it hanging for her.

“Or maybe we interrogated him? Christ, Becker, do you think we might have talked to this guy and let him go?”

“I don’t know. He didn’t change his pattern until after the fifth one was snatched-and before you knew he was dead. I’d go back over the interviews at Stamford; maybe you’ll catch something you missed the first time.”

Karen’s face had turned grim, her jaw clenched.

“If he’s in the interviews. I’ll find him.” she said. “There’s another possibility for covering his tracks in Stamford, of course, that might not have anything to do with his knowing about your investigation. It might just be a special place for him. Maybe he’s from Stamford originally. Maybe someone who knows him is there. Maybe there’s a clue of some kind there that he knows about but can’t change. Just an awareness of his increased vulnerability could cause him to act differently.”

“Still another reason to go back to Stamford.”

“I’d say so. It can’t hurt to go over the ground again. And there’s one other thing the body on the divider can tell us.”

“Why do I have to ask?”

“I’m thinking it through. It’s really a pretty clumsy way to put your pursuers off the track. A far better way would be to dump the body somewhere far away from the highway so there’s no clue as to direction at all. Or better yet, hide the body completely, give yourself months to get away. Or simply drop the body on the right-hand side of the road, turn around and go the other way. He didn’t do any of those things, and my guess is that the reason was he was in too much of a hurry. He’d been seen with the kid or something else happened to panic him and drive him off, fast. Check the incident reports with the Stamford police to see if anything unusual happened within a few hours of the estimated time of death. If he left fast, what did he leave behind? Did he leave owing rent, a mortgage? Most likely not, since he seems to be moving around so much. He’s probably a transient. In a motel, not a hotel; you wouldn’t want to walk through a lobby with a kidnapped child. Check all the motels in the area, see who left that day, particularly anyone who left without paying or ahead of time…”

Becker paused and smiled at her.

“You’ve done all of this already, haven’t you?” he asked.

“Most of it,” she said. “But you’re right, it wouldn’t hurt to check again.”

“It’s not what you need me for.”

“In part. You’re very good at it. I hadn’t considered I might actually have interviewed the son of a bitch and let him go. I can’t tell you how that makes me feel.”

“You conducted the interviews, Karen?”

“Some of them.”

“The second in command of Kidnapping is in the field doing interviews in person?”

Karen shifted uncomfortably.

“I haven’t forgotten how. I’m pretty good at it.”

“I don’t doubt it. Normally.”

“What do you mean ‘normally’?”

“If you’re not too involved.”

“Of course I’m involved. I’ve been working on the case for seven months. I want to hang the bastard by his balls.”

“You were doing interviews in the field in Stamford after the fourth boy’s disappearance. That was after you’d been on the case for only about five months.”

“Five months is a long time.”

“Not really. Certainly not long enough to drive most Deputy Directors out of the office and onto the street. Every one of them I’ve ever known has been more than happy to give up field work. It doesn’t look leader-like, poking around amongst the common folk, asking questions any agent could ask. It doesn’t help someone with ambitions to lay her reputation on the line by going back on the street. It’s a dumb move, Karen, especially if it doesn’t pay off. It makes you look like a poor agent and a lousy executive. That’s why I say too involved.”

“That’s why I came to you.”

“Maybe. Although I doubt that you’d come to me just to save your ass, even assuming I could do it. Or would do it… How old were the victims. Karen?”

“Four of them were ten years old, two were nine.”

“Your file says you have a child. A boy, isn’t it?”

“Jack.”

“About ten?”

“He turns ten in three weeks.”

“Does that have anything to do with your extra involvement?”

“That’s fairly simplistic reasoning, especially coming from you. I don’t see that my son has anything to do with it.”

“You have custody?”

“Of Jack?”

“Someone got custody after the divorce, right? Is it you? Or is it your ex-husband?”

“What the hell does the status of my custody arrangement have to do with anything?”

“I don’t know. What is it?”

“I don’t think you’d be asking a man this question. Would you need to know Hatcher’s ‘extra involvement’? No, you’d just treat him as a fellow professional and get on with it.”

“I happen to know that Hatcher doesn’t have enough creative imagination or sensitivity to get involved in anything other than his own career. You are very different, Karen, although you’re still ambitious as hell. You have both the imagination and the emotional proclivity to get involved.”

“Emotional proclivity? Come on, Becker. Speak English, you’re among friends.”

“You know what I’m talking about.”

“No, I don’t. And I never did. You wanted me to have some twisted involvement in the Bahoud case. I thought I understood why, back then. You were sleeping with me. We were about half in love. I guess. You wanted someone to share what you were feeling about the case because it frightened you and made you lonely, so you imagined I was the same way. But I wasn’t. I almost wanted to be, just because of our relationship, but I’m not that way. I’m just not. Why you need to think I’m that way today is frankly beyond me.”

Becker stood up and put his hands on the back of his chair. The pilot and owner stopped talking and watched him.

“What?” she asked.

“Tell me about the sixth victim,” Becker said.

“Are you going someplace?”

“I’m listening.”

“Why do men always do that? The minute a problem comes out in the open, the very second you have a chance to discuss something, off you all go. Out of the room, out of the house. Don’t want to talk about it, case closed.” She glanced at the pilot, who was watching with interest.

“I haven’t gone anywhere.”

“You’ve got one foot out the door already.”

“I’m right here. I’m just standing.”

“One foot out the door, one eye on the television.”