Brian Haig - PrivateSector

The files in the rental car placed Janet ahead of me in the killer’s queue. Had she obeyed Meany’s very sound advice and retreated into protective custody, her odds of living a long and fulfilling life would be excellent. But even the President’s security detail couldn’t protect her out in the open-against this guy, nobody could.

I had held back on the throttle a little in my talk with Janet. I mean, there’s what you see-what we all saw-but to really get inside his head, it helps when you once walked in his shoes.

So, back to what we all saw-his physique. A build like that is the product of thousands of hours in the weight room, careful dieting, probably steroids, and colossal willpower. He probably had a teeny weenie and was compensating, but the shrinks could nail the tail on that particular donkey. Also, nobody gets that expert at the killing game without abnormal drive, discipline, and a vicious competitive streak.

But psychotic minds are individualistic, distinguishable by their unique fetishes and idiosyncrasies. Thus, back to his signature style. It had been his intention to arrange Janet’s murder without drawing parallels to the other victims, right? So why not snuff her with a drive-by shot? Or whack her with sniper rifle from a distance? Atomize her with a bomb? All of these options offered less chance of witnesses and less risk of failure. Also, given her public profile as an ADA who messed around with mob cases, both the torching of her father’s home and her murder could easily be blamed on the goombahs. No-he used a knife and you have to ask, why? My guess was because he wanted her to see him, and he wanted to see the fear in her eyes. This guy drew sustenance and satisfaction from fear. For him, killing had to be personal, a contest where triumph depended on the victim having some chance of winning, but ultimately losing.

All of which suggested an outsized ego driven by a particularly twisted narcissistic complex.

Inside my head I could picture this guy jerking heavy iron bars over his head and gazing adoringly at his own sculpted image in the mirror. By extrapolation, I was betting he followed his own publicity compulsively. He fed on the public fear and outrage. It made him feel oh so fucking smart and superior to outsmart the FBI and the great American public. At risk of getting too wrapped around the twisted metaphysics of this thing, for him, the public image, the way he shaped that image, the way he manipulated that image, that was another mirror.

So, back to my motive. He would understand why I was shooting off my mouth. I was alerting him that I was aware I was on his list, and in a visceral, machismo, one-badass-to-another way, I was pissing on his mirror. Here he had gone to all this time, trouble, and effort to copycat, and I was tearing off his disguise, yanking down his drawers, and telling the world he had a teeny weenie. Metaphorically speaking. Three points on the board for Drummond. He would now feel the need to recoup those points. Also, he would assume I wasn’t guarded, whereas Janet was guarded, and every professional killer knows to go after the low-lying fruit first.

I truly didn’t really want this guy coming after me. I used to be quite good at this game, a long time, a few serious wounds, and too many cheeseburgers ago. He was clearly still at the top of his game, in tip-top shape, a creature honed and sharpened to a murderous edge. But I definitely didn’t want him coming after Janet. In fact, what I really wanted was to convey to George Meany that I had no hesitation about going into protective custody, especially if the FBI had a safe house in Bermuda. In the interest of the federal budget, I’d even agree to shack up with Janet.

But Janet wouldn’t go, so I couldn’t go. I was therefore telling myself that Janet’s odds of stopping this monster were less than mine. Also, I was developing a very deep crush on her, despite the fact that she was once actually engaged to George the Dork.

I withdrew my wallet and pulled out Lisa’s picture.

The calculus had just changed. This guy had snuffed out a beautiful life, actually, several beautiful lives, and when I thought that was the product of madness, I could live with the state meting out whatever penalty twelve of his peers thought he deserved. Now that I knew he had murdered my beautiful and talented friend for filthy lucre, I wanted to strangle him with his own guts.

Predictably, George Meany threw a monumental hissy fit when Janet informed Bob, and Bob then unhappily informed his boss, that she had insisted on returning to D. C. for business. After what sounded like a fairly good tongue-lashing, an ashen-faced Bob handed Janet his cell phone.

She said to Meany, “George, let’s not get into an argument about this.”

He said something, and she nodded, and replied, “That’s right. My mind is made up. I have work to do, and I’m going to do it.” And they went back and forth like that for a while, sounding like an old married couple.

But apparently, experience had taught him that with the lady in question he wasn’t going to win this, or any, argument. A compromise of sorts was reached; he would have two more special agents meet us at the Delta departure gate, to be reinforced by two more agents when we arrived at Ronald Reagan National.

Janet and her aunt and sisters then spent some time doing the emotional good-bye thing, and I used the occasion to draw Spinelli out to the back porch. We had a deal, and to show I honored my word, I gave him a swift rundown on our suspicions about the firm, what we’d found inside the car, and so on. He got the sanitized version, of course. Daniel Spinelli was motivated by self-interest, and to protect my self-interest I carefully held back a few key issues I might need in exchange for later favors. He seemed to really appreciate my confidences, however, so I exploited his good mood to arrange another deal.

In fact, two guys in nondescript clothing were cooling their heels by the curb when we pulled up to the Delta entrance at Logan International in Bob’s black sedan. From the look of them, Meany had apparently concluded that the search for the killer was going nowhere; or his boss had ordered him to move Janet’s safety up a few pegs on his priority list, because these two were clearly members of the A-team. Grim-faced, hard-nosed, and well-built, they had already completed the paperwork to fly with their guns, and in fact had persuaded Delta to whisk us through the ticketing procedure and allow us to cool our heels in the VIP lounge until three minutes before takeoff.

I like guys who take no chances when my safety is at stake. Also, I was really hungry, and I stuffed my pockets with free peanuts.

But they obviously had been prebriefed that we were difficult cargo, because they put up almost no fight when Janet insisted they sit no closer than six seats forward or aft, so she and I could have a discussion about confidential legal matters. It wasn’t like this guy was going to come running down the aisle and whack us, anyway, so they obliged us, and we had two hours to jointly ponder our dilemma and plot our strategy.

The dilemma was fairly straightforward-somebody in the firm was an accessory to murder. Janet commented that this was like one of those old closed-room mysteries English people go nuts about, where somebody killed the host-but who? The shortlist included Harold Bronson, Cy Berger, Barry Bosworth, Sally Westin, and Hal Merriweather. I wanted it to be Hal, or Barry, or Harold.

The trifecta would be Hal, and Barry, and Harold. I believe I mentioned I have a vindictive streak, and the beast demanded to be fed. I could live with it being Sally, though I’d be very surprised. I’d be disappointed if it was Cy, but only mildly surprised.