Paul Johnston - Maps of Hell

Simmons glanced at his notes. “Provisionally, between nine and eleven.”

“I don’t see any sign of a struggle,” the chief said.

Pinker had moved over to the victim’s desk. “No, Professor Rudenstein said he didn’t see anything out of place or missing. Not that we thought it was a burglary.”

“What was this Singer’s field of expertise?” Owen asked.

“Jewish culture.”

“Oh, shit,” the chief said, with a scowl. “Now every Jew in D.C. is going to be on my back.” He glanced at Simmons. “Please don’t tell me we’ve got an anti-Semitic serial killer on our hands, Clem.”

The detective rubbed his cheek. “If he is, he’s also anti-black and anti-thrash metal.”

“Well, I can understand the second of those. The Loki murder doesn’t fit the pattern in that respect. I mean, where does a long-haired, white vic come in?”

“Search me, boss,” Pinker said, peering at the papers on the desk. “Jeez, this guy had small writing. I can hardly make out a word of it.”

“Well, you better get used to it,” the chief said. “Until we find out otherwise, the professor’s specialization has to be our focus. What exactly was he working on?”

Pinker turned over the book that was lying open. “This is called De Occulta Philosophia, whatever that means.” His major at college had been criminology.

Simmons swallowed a laugh. “On Occult Philosophy?” he hazarded.

“Not one of your voodoo books, is it?” Pinker smile sardonically. His partner hadn’t been able to find anything linking Monsieur Hexie’s death to his interest in the religion.

“Cool it, you two,” their boss ordered. “That’ll really get the tabloids going, another occult link. We’ve already had articles about witches’ covens in Congress and satanic rituals beneath the Washington Memorial.” He buttoned up his raincoat. “I’m going back to the office. See if I can keep dodging the bullets.” He looked at each of his men. “You two need to find a good lead, and soon. Or the Feds will take over all three cases.”

The detectives watched him leave.

“Fuck this shit,” Versace said, in a low voice. “This guy’s running rings around us, Clem.”

“Just as well there’s no woman in your life these days, eh, Vers? Since these murders started, you haven’t had time to unzip your very expensive flies.”

The smaller man gave his partner a scornful look. “When did you last get any, my man?” Then his expression changed. “Aw, shit. I’m sorry.” Simmons’s wife, Nina, had died of cancer a year earlier. They had been like a normal couple, with none of the strains of most police marriages. Pinker knew that Clem had never got the hots for another woman when Nina was alive, and he probably never would now she was gone.

“Forget it, Vers.” Simmons headed for the door.

They met Dana Maltravers on the stair.

“Ah, Detectives,” she said, enthusiastically, “I was hoping you could give me an update.”

Gerard Pinker ran his eye over the young woman. Beneath the dark blue FBI jacket, her body was trim, and curved in all the right places. He might have made a move, but he knew he would never live it down at the MPDC building. Feds were the enemy, strictly off-limits.

“You were here a couple of hours ago,” Simmons said, with a soft smile. “What do you think’s happened since then, Special Agent?” He brushed past her, his partner close behind.

Maltravers followed them downstairs. “Tracked down any witnesses, Detective? How about you, Versace?”

The detective froze. His nickname was not for public use.

Dana Maltravers immediately realized her mistake. “I mean, Detective Pinker.”

“Yes, you do mean Detective Pinker. Tell you what, you tell me your nickname and I’ll think about letting you use mine.”

The agent’s cheeks reddened. “Oh, I don’t think…”

“Come on now,” Pinker said. Special Agent Maltravers is quite a mouthful.” He laughed. “So to speak.”

The young woman didn’t acknowledge the double entendre.

“Okay, what’s Sebastian’s handle?”

“I can’t tell you that, Detective.”

“Oh, well, there goes that update.”

They had reached the hall inside the building’s main door.

“Is that what you mean by inter-agency cooperation, Vers?” Simmons said. “I don’t think the chief would approve.”

Gerard Pinker looked at him as if he were a traitor. “I just think that knowing our colleagues’ nicknames would make cooperation so much easier.”

“Oh, all right,” Maltravers said, looking away. “I’m known as Princess and he’s called Dick-behind his back only, of course.”

“Princess?” Pinker said. “Yeah, I suppose you do look kinda like that Diana woman. Apart from the hair color.”

“Dick?” Simmons said. “By any chance, would that be followed by head?”

“So you are a detective after all,” Dana Maltravers said, her eyes still averted despite her smile.

“Dick,” Pinker guffawed. “I like it. Where is the man in question, by the way?”

“On his way back from Maine. He should be here soon.”

Pinker’s expression became more serious. “You realize the English guy Matt Wells has to be in the clear for this murder-assuming that was him up in lobster-and-moose land.”

Maltravers nodded. “I’ve checked the airport security films. He wasn’t in Reagan National. He would have really had to move to get up there by rail or car.”

“Is it theoretically possible?” Simmons asked.

She nodded. “Yes, at least by train. Our people are looking at the Union Station films. Driving would be a real tester-it’s over seven hundred miles.”

“And why would he bother?” Pinker asked.

Simmons rubbed his chin. “But Wells is still in the frame for the Monsieur Hexie murder. He could have done Loki, as well, without leaving any prints there.”

“Or he could have planned the Loki killing and the latest one,” Maltravers said.

“You’ve really got a hard-on for him, Princess,” Pinker said. “I checked our files. He reported his girlfriend’s disappearance back in late August, and then he vanished himself a couple of weeks later. Why suddenly turn into a killer?”

Maltravers stepped closer as a CSI walked past. “Maybe you didn’t read the background documentation I sent over. He’s killed before-in London.”

“I know that,” Simmons said. “But it was in self-defense. Just because he’s capable-”

“He’s certainly that,” Maltravers put in. “A black belt in karate and judo, training in armed and unarmed combat from a former special forces sold-”

“So what?” Pinker demanded. “His girlfriend is a senior English police officer, for Christ’s sake. She was over here to meet with your bosses.”

“Among other people,” Dana Maltravers mumbled, before straightening up.

“What about the Bureau’s experts?” Simmons asked. “They come up with anything on the drawings?”

The agent’s shoulders slackened. “Not yet.”

Pinker moved closer again. “All right, Princess, let’s hear your theory. What exactly is going on here?”

Dana Maltravers held his gaze. “It’s…it’s not my theory,” she stammered.

“Oh, it’s Dick the Dickhead’s, is it?” Pinker said with a wide grin. “Never mind, lay it on us.”

She took a deep breath. “Well, the idea is that Matt Wells’s woman got picked up by the people she had in her sights-she was in charge of corporate crime and there are several companies that would love to see her dead.”

“The Bureau been investigating them?” Simmons asked.

“It’s not my department. But, yes-the financial-crime people are on the case. It’s sensitive, though. These are household names.”