Catherine Coulter - Split Second

Lucy said, “We don’t know, sir; she’s refused to speak to us.”

Director Mueller was shaking his head. “There’s always something loony that finds you, whether you’re looking or not. I expect all of you to be careful. Keep me in the loop.” The director shook their hands, turned, and said, “Ted Bundy—I didn’t think I’d ever hear that name again in the context of an investigation. This will keep all the TV shrinks in business for a good long time.” He looked tired, Coop thought, watching him walk away surrounded by half a dozen agents and aides.

Washington, D.C.

The Willard

Sunday afternoon

Coop thought the Abraham Lincoln Suite on the sixth floor of The Willard was a smart choice for a wannabe congressman. Was he sending the subliminal message that he was a trustworthy straight shooter? The Willard was only one block from the White House, another nice pointer.

A buff dark-haired thirtyish man in a dark blue suit, Lansford’s aide, Coop supposed, answered their knock, gave the three of them an emotionless look from behind very cool aviator glasses, and, without a word, ushered them into the sitting room with its trademark Prussian-blue-and-gold color scheme. The suite was large, about the size of his condo, Coop thought, maybe fifteen hundred square feet of gracious luxury.

George Bentley Lansford was a tall man, taller even than his aide, a nice plus for a budding politician. He was elegantly dressed in English bespoke that didn’t look too expensive but that any donor worth his salt would recognize for what it was. He was healthy, fit, fifty-five, not as darkly tanned as his aide, and blessed with a full head of silver-black hair that would no doubt help him with some of his women voters. He looked, Coop thought, stalwart.

He stood between two men, both younger, probably the lawyers, both wearing severe black suits. They looked at Coop like rottweilers ready to go for a handy throat.

As for Mr. Lansford, Coop saw he was focused on Savich. He looked royally pissed, his hands in fists at his sides. He said from a distance of at least ten feet, “I assume you are all FBI agents and we can forgo the introductions. I recognize you, Agent Savich, from the FBI press conference on TV. I am very angry. You and that reporter from The Washington Post have destroyed my chances of being elected to Congress by releasing my name to the media. My lawyers tell me I cannot sue you, but let me tell you, I feel like hounding you until I die. I am innocent of any wrongdoing, but I am finished before I had scarcely begun my political career because of my connection to this—this unfortunate young woman. Now, let’s get this interview over with. I want all of you out of here as soon as possible. What exactly is it that you want?”

Savich said in his calm, deep voice, “You’re right about a lot of that, of course, Mr. Lansford. Actually, your political career was over when your stepdaughter openly murdered a woman in San Francisco nearly six months ago. You just didn’t know it yet. I agree it isn’t fair, but there is nothing for me to apologize about. Once we had Kirsten’s DNA, once we’d identified her, we were led inevitably to you, Kirsten’s stepfather.

“I understand your anger, your sense of unfairness, but you’re an experienced man, sir, a savvy man, and so you know there are always leaks, it doesn’t matter the organization, whether it be a police department or a high-tech company like your own. Our news conference was a response to such a leak. Your relationship to Kirsten Bolger had to come out, it was inevitable, so I wasn’t at all surprised when a reporter brought it up. It required only a modicum of research.”

“It doesn’t matter! It shouldn’t have happened! It is not right that it should come out. Her mother and I are ruined, do you understand? Ruined!”

“May I remind you, sir, this isn’t some sort of vendetta waged against you by the FBI or the San Francisco Police Department. Five innocent women are known dead at the hands of your stepdaughter. It is very likely Kirsten murdered another six women.”

“But it isn’t—yes, of course I’m distressed by the murders. Wait, what did you say? She killed before? Another six women? That’s insane. I never heard such a thing. There was no news about it, nothing at all.”

Lucy spoke for the first time, aware that Lansford’s aide was standing six feet away, arms crossed over his chest, and he hadn’t looked away from her. Why? “The reason you haven’t heard of the other dead women is that Kirsten must have hidden the bodies of her early victims. It seems she was practicing, Mr. Lansford, honing her skills.

“Sooner or later the media will pick up on these other women we fear she murdered. You can count on it, since something this heinous can’t be kept under wraps for long.”

George Bentley Lansford looked like someone had punched a big hole in his elegant suit coat. They all saw that the murders were no longer an abstraction to him, that he’d finally realized to his bones that Kirsten had brought violent death to a dozen human beings, to people just like himself. He ran his tongue over his lips. “Practicing?”

Coop said, “Serial killers often refine their approach, discovering what sorts of killing methods give them the greatest satisfaction. Yes, we believe she murdered at least six more women, actually some of them young girls, and buried them deep so no one would ever find them.”

Lansford looked sick, his anger defeated, and older than he had when they’d stepped through the door ten minutes before. “All right, I understand. I had no clue, none at all. I saw her very few times over the years. I thought she was sullen, indifferent to me, nothing more. You’ve got to believe me. If her mother had noticed anything, she would have said something to me. But, of course, her mother hadn’t seen Kirsten for a very long time before her last birthday party; neither of us had. A dozen women? She’s murdered a dozen women?”

Coop said, “When we catch her, we’re hoping she will tell us where she buried them all.”

Savich said, “Let me add that these six are the only ones we know about so far, all of them from the Bay Area. There could be more, out of the area, even out-of-state, but I personally tend to doubt it, because we’ve discovered that each of the women who disappeared knew Kirsten. They weren’t strangers to her.

“Mr. Lansford, as Agent McKnight said, not all of them were grown women. Annie Sparks was only sixteen years old when she went missing. She attended Mount Elysium High School in San Francisco, shared a biology class with Kirsten. Would you like to hear about the other five women who were almost certainly victims of your stepdaughter?”

“No! Listen, you can’t be sure about these other missing women—girls—not really.” There was no more heat in Mr. Lansford’s words. He scrubbed his face with his hands. “I simply can’t imagine that she would do such a thing, over and over—and enjoy it.”

Coop had wanted to dislike this man, but the shock and despair he saw in his eyes was painfully real. Even the lawyers were trying hard not to show their horror. Mr. Lansford’s aide, Mr. Buff Tan, hadn’t moved an inch since assuming his nearby guard position. “You are in no way to blame, Mr. Lansford,” Coop said. “We know you married her mother twelve years ago, which would have made Kirsten twenty-one years old, an adult. What would be helpful is if you would give us your impressions of Kirsten, any personal information you think could help us find her.”

Lansford began to pace the suite’s living room, his lawyers hovering close, wanting to object, but to what? Then, with perfect timing, one of the lawyers said, “There is nothing Mr. Lansford can tell you that would be of any assistance in finding her. After all, as you said, she was already an adult when he married her mother. As he has already said, he rarely saw her. She was nearly a stranger to him.”