Insidious
Page 4
Savich said, “Duke told me about those crooks in suits in Philadelphia—two bankers and three of their lawyers, was it?—you took down for fraud and embezzlement. And recovered twenty million dollars they’d stashed offshore. Congratulations. He told me he did a punk-rock duet with you as your reward.”
“Thank you, sir. It was a lovely reward, since Duke likes to dance when he celebrates. The only problem is he had no idea how to dance to punk rock, but that small detail didn’t slow him down. Quite a sight.
“He told me I was to be on special assignment with you, sir. But he didn’t tell me what it was about.”
“Call me Savich or Dillon.”
She tried it out. “Dillon. Please call me Cam, not Camilla, as in Prince Charles’s longtime love. My dad named me after her, said she had more guts than the queen.” She shut up, seeing his smile was distracted. It was understandable. Here she was being a motormouth, since she was still flying high over bagging those overdressed scum in her fraud case. After seeing the huge smile on the federal prosecutor’s face, she knew she had an “in,” that Duke might give her another plum assignment. Who knew Dillon Savich would request her?
“Cam, I asked for you because you’re a good boots-on-the-ground investigator. Your boss tells me you can see connections others don’t, and you’re a pretty good interviewer, gifted at getting people to trust you. Let me add that Sherlock recommended you. She was very impressed when you tied your legs around her neck at the gym. To be honest, though, the biggest plus you have for this assignment are your L.A. connections. Even Mr. Maitland believes you’ll be a perfect fit for this particular case. Let me add you’re a lifesaver, since the unit is swamped.”
She basked in his words. “Sir— Dillon, what would you like me to do for you?”
“We have a Serial out of Los Angeles who broke pattern and jumped state lines. He killed an actress in Las Vegas Saturday night, and that makes the whole business federal. We’d like you to go to L.A. and coordinate with all the various sheriff’s departments and the LAPD and catch this guy.”
She held back from jumping out of her chair and pumping her fist, but her eyes were shining. “My mom’s been keeping me up to date on those murders. She called me when the murder in Las Vegas hit the news yesterday, said she’d worked with that young woman who was killed, Molly Harbinger, last year. Mom thought she was talented, could really sing and dance, and she was still wide-eyed and sweet, not to mention gorgeous. Same M.O., killed in her own bed like the other four? About midnight?”
He nodded.
“Mom’s neighbors are really on edge since the third serial murder. It was in the Colony, you know, in Malibu, and a lot of people knew the murdered girl, Constance Morrissey. She was always nice, Mom said, probably sleeping with Theodore Markham, the influential producer who was renting her his house, not that anyone cared. And then that fourth actress was murdered in North Hollywood. My parents had never worked with her, didn’t know her.”
Savich nodded. “We don’t have much of anything on the four murders in L.A., but in Las Vegas—I think we’ve caught ourselves a break. I spoke to Police Chief Moody, who knew all about the Serial and was happy to hand it off to the FBI. There are anomalies in the murder Saturday night.”
She was sitting so far forward in her chair, Savich was afraid she might tip over onto his desk.
“The Serial’s M.O. is cutting the alarm wires, then coming in through the back door. But in this case, however, a glass cutter was used to cut a circle out of a window in the second bedroom to open the lock. Chief Moody tells me he’s convinced there was a burglar in the victim’s house that night as well as the Serial. The burglar saw the Serial or the murder scene and ran for his life. He threw himself back through the window to escape, left big jagged shards of glass outside and he cut himself. Forensics found blood drops leading away from the house. The shape of the blood splatter showed the wounded man was moving fast, probably running all out.
“Believe it or not, the same man ended up in the Valley ER early Sunday morning to get his hand stitched. He used a phony name and address, paid cash. We have him on video at the hospital. He was wearing a hoodie, so the cameras didn’t get enough of his face to identify, but the blood means DNA for us. If he’s in CODIS, we’ll have a name right away. The chief put a rush on it.”
“Going to a local ER wasn’t especially bright,” Cam said. “If he’d been thinking straight, he’d have wrapped it up and driven a hundred miles to another town.”
“Agreed. A sketch artist is working with the doctor who stitched him up. We should be hearing soon from Agent Poker in Las Vegas.”
Her eyes lit up. “His name is Agent Poker? Is that a joke?”
Savich grinned. “Special Agent Aaron Poker requested Las Vegas, said he knew he’d fit right in, and evidently he does. I’m thinking it’s his own little joke. He’s been there four years now, and has a good close record. I spoke to Aaron this morning, and needless to say, he’s pumped, and all over this.”
Cam said, “So another criminal—a burglar—might identify the Serial. Now there’s irony for you.”
“If he pans out, and talks, I’ll personally offer to clean his slate, buy him a beer and a pizza.
“You’ll have a lot of politics to untangle in L.A.” Savich looked at MAX’s screen. “The first murder was February 26th a twenty-four-year-old actress, Davina Morgan, from Lubbock, Texas. That was in Van Nuys, LAPD jurisdiction. The second was April 2nd, in San Dimas, which is a sheriff’s jurisdiction. Her name was Melodie Anders, twenty-six, from San Diego. Constance Morrissey, your parents’ neighbor, was murdered May 3rd in Malibu, again a local sheriff’s jurisdiction. The fourth victim was Heather Burnside, twenty-eight, from Atlanta, Georgia. She was killed in North Hollywood, LAPD, June 2nd. For whatever reason, the Serial then traveled from there to Las Vegas in order to murder Molly Harbinger this past Saturday.
“Cam, I told you one of the reasons we selected you is because of your L.A. connections. You were born and grew up in Malibu, and as you know, Connie Morrissey’s murder happened in the Colony, in Malibu, not far from your parents’ house. Your folks are actors. They’re still active, aren’t they?”
“Oh yes. I guess you could say acting is their life. They play stock characters now, mostly. Movies, TV, anything they can get. They enjoy working as much as Michael Caine, Dad told me, only for a lot less money.” She gave him a fat smile, showing nice white teeth and a dimple in her left cheek. “I do know the alligators in this particular swamp and they’re a special breed. Their brains, well, they don’t work quite like ours do.”
“Thank you, sir. It was a lovely reward, since Duke likes to dance when he celebrates. The only problem is he had no idea how to dance to punk rock, but that small detail didn’t slow him down. Quite a sight.
“He told me I was to be on special assignment with you, sir. But he didn’t tell me what it was about.”
“Call me Savich or Dillon.”
She tried it out. “Dillon. Please call me Cam, not Camilla, as in Prince Charles’s longtime love. My dad named me after her, said she had more guts than the queen.” She shut up, seeing his smile was distracted. It was understandable. Here she was being a motormouth, since she was still flying high over bagging those overdressed scum in her fraud case. After seeing the huge smile on the federal prosecutor’s face, she knew she had an “in,” that Duke might give her another plum assignment. Who knew Dillon Savich would request her?
“Cam, I asked for you because you’re a good boots-on-the-ground investigator. Your boss tells me you can see connections others don’t, and you’re a pretty good interviewer, gifted at getting people to trust you. Let me add that Sherlock recommended you. She was very impressed when you tied your legs around her neck at the gym. To be honest, though, the biggest plus you have for this assignment are your L.A. connections. Even Mr. Maitland believes you’ll be a perfect fit for this particular case. Let me add you’re a lifesaver, since the unit is swamped.”
She basked in his words. “Sir— Dillon, what would you like me to do for you?”
“We have a Serial out of Los Angeles who broke pattern and jumped state lines. He killed an actress in Las Vegas Saturday night, and that makes the whole business federal. We’d like you to go to L.A. and coordinate with all the various sheriff’s departments and the LAPD and catch this guy.”
She held back from jumping out of her chair and pumping her fist, but her eyes were shining. “My mom’s been keeping me up to date on those murders. She called me when the murder in Las Vegas hit the news yesterday, said she’d worked with that young woman who was killed, Molly Harbinger, last year. Mom thought she was talented, could really sing and dance, and she was still wide-eyed and sweet, not to mention gorgeous. Same M.O., killed in her own bed like the other four? About midnight?”
He nodded.
“Mom’s neighbors are really on edge since the third serial murder. It was in the Colony, you know, in Malibu, and a lot of people knew the murdered girl, Constance Morrissey. She was always nice, Mom said, probably sleeping with Theodore Markham, the influential producer who was renting her his house, not that anyone cared. And then that fourth actress was murdered in North Hollywood. My parents had never worked with her, didn’t know her.”
Savich nodded. “We don’t have much of anything on the four murders in L.A., but in Las Vegas—I think we’ve caught ourselves a break. I spoke to Police Chief Moody, who knew all about the Serial and was happy to hand it off to the FBI. There are anomalies in the murder Saturday night.”
She was sitting so far forward in her chair, Savich was afraid she might tip over onto his desk.
“The Serial’s M.O. is cutting the alarm wires, then coming in through the back door. But in this case, however, a glass cutter was used to cut a circle out of a window in the second bedroom to open the lock. Chief Moody tells me he’s convinced there was a burglar in the victim’s house that night as well as the Serial. The burglar saw the Serial or the murder scene and ran for his life. He threw himself back through the window to escape, left big jagged shards of glass outside and he cut himself. Forensics found blood drops leading away from the house. The shape of the blood splatter showed the wounded man was moving fast, probably running all out.
“Believe it or not, the same man ended up in the Valley ER early Sunday morning to get his hand stitched. He used a phony name and address, paid cash. We have him on video at the hospital. He was wearing a hoodie, so the cameras didn’t get enough of his face to identify, but the blood means DNA for us. If he’s in CODIS, we’ll have a name right away. The chief put a rush on it.”
“Going to a local ER wasn’t especially bright,” Cam said. “If he’d been thinking straight, he’d have wrapped it up and driven a hundred miles to another town.”
“Agreed. A sketch artist is working with the doctor who stitched him up. We should be hearing soon from Agent Poker in Las Vegas.”
Her eyes lit up. “His name is Agent Poker? Is that a joke?”
Savich grinned. “Special Agent Aaron Poker requested Las Vegas, said he knew he’d fit right in, and evidently he does. I’m thinking it’s his own little joke. He’s been there four years now, and has a good close record. I spoke to Aaron this morning, and needless to say, he’s pumped, and all over this.”
Cam said, “So another criminal—a burglar—might identify the Serial. Now there’s irony for you.”
“If he pans out, and talks, I’ll personally offer to clean his slate, buy him a beer and a pizza.
“You’ll have a lot of politics to untangle in L.A.” Savich looked at MAX’s screen. “The first murder was February 26th a twenty-four-year-old actress, Davina Morgan, from Lubbock, Texas. That was in Van Nuys, LAPD jurisdiction. The second was April 2nd, in San Dimas, which is a sheriff’s jurisdiction. Her name was Melodie Anders, twenty-six, from San Diego. Constance Morrissey, your parents’ neighbor, was murdered May 3rd in Malibu, again a local sheriff’s jurisdiction. The fourth victim was Heather Burnside, twenty-eight, from Atlanta, Georgia. She was killed in North Hollywood, LAPD, June 2nd. For whatever reason, the Serial then traveled from there to Las Vegas in order to murder Molly Harbinger this past Saturday.
“Cam, I told you one of the reasons we selected you is because of your L.A. connections. You were born and grew up in Malibu, and as you know, Connie Morrissey’s murder happened in the Colony, in Malibu, not far from your parents’ house. Your folks are actors. They’re still active, aren’t they?”
“Oh yes. I guess you could say acting is their life. They play stock characters now, mostly. Movies, TV, anything they can get. They enjoy working as much as Michael Caine, Dad told me, only for a lot less money.” She gave him a fat smile, showing nice white teeth and a dimple in her left cheek. “I do know the alligators in this particular swamp and they’re a special breed. Their brains, well, they don’t work quite like ours do.”
