Exit Strategy Part 13

"No, thank you."

She laughed. "How very polite you are. Let me guess. You don't want to pry; when he wants to tell you, he will. If that's what you're waiting for, you're a fool. He won't tell you anything."

"Then I guess he doesn't want me to know."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that. With Jack, it's not so much a matter of not wanting to give things away as a.s.suming you wouldn't be interested in hearing them. But if you are..."

I said nothing, but I could feel her gaze boring into me.

"You are interested, aren't you?" she said, voice deceptively light.

I turned and met her gaze. "If I want to know anything, I'll know who to ask."

"This isn't an open-ended offer, Dee."

"You said Jack doesn't talk about anything personal because he a.s.sumes I'm not interested. So if I am am interested, all I have to do is ask him. First thing Jack taught me? Avoid the middleman. The price might look reasonable, but you'll end up paying more for it than you expect." interested, all I have to do is ask him. First thing Jack taught me? Avoid the middleman. The price might look reasonable, but you'll end up paying more for it than you expect."

Evelyn went around front to collect the mail as I headed for the rear door. I'd barely cracked open the gate when a black-and-tan torpedo hit the other side, nearly slamming my fingers in the gap. A dark nose squeezed between the slats, snuffling like a pig finding truffles.

"h.e.l.lo, girls," I said, heaving the gate against their dead weight. "Come on now. Get back so I can get in."

Scotch stuck her head through the opening and tried to wriggle through as Ginger danced and whined behind her. I turned to Evelyn as she came up behind me.

"I thought you left the dogs inside," I said.

"I did. Seems someone made it to his contact and back in record time."

We stepped through the back door into the kitchen. Jack looked up from the newspaper.

"See, she's still in one piece," Evelyn said. "I haven't devoured her yet."

Jack's gaze flicked over my outfit. "And I got s.h.i.t for the wig wig."

"It was a necessary evil," I said. "Very necessary. Very evil. If you'll excuse me, I'm going upstairs to burn this sweater before anyone can suggest I wear it again." I glanced at Jack. "Unless you have news."

"It can wait."

I climbed from the shower and changed into jeans and a pullover. As I tried to finger-comb my curls, a brown blob looked back from the mirror, swirling in the steam. I groped at the wall, fingers searching for the fan. Flicked a switch. The room went dark.

I pulled open the door to get some air just as Jack crested the stairs.

"I seem to have a sauna going here," I said. "Is there a fan?"

"Nah."

I retreated into the bathroom, expecting him to take his duffel wherever he'd been heading. He laid it on the hall floor.

"Need a blow dryer?" he asked.

"Not unless I want an Afro." I raked my fingers through my shoulder-length curls. "This is definitely wash-and-wear."

I sifted through my meager selection of nondisguise makeup and decided against it. If Evelyn was offended by the sight of my naked face, so be it. As for Jack, well, he was still standing there, getting a eyeful of what I looked like without it, so it was too late for vanity.

"Did Evelyn tell you what we found out?" I asked as I pulled on socks.

"Not yet."

Something in his voice made me look up. His face was impa.s.sive...and yet.

"There's been another one, hasn't there?" I said. "Another murder."

"Yeah."

"When did it happen?" I said. "Where?"

He nodded toward the stairs. "CNN's on. When you're ready."

I was crouched over, my sock half on. I yanked it up and he reached out, as if to help me keep my balance. I shook my head, slipped past him and down the stairs.

SEVENTEEN.

That morning, retired naval captain Russ Belding and his dog had gone for their usual morning walk through a wooded park near his home. He was last seen at approximately 7:45 by a jogger. An hour later, two teens taking a shortcut through the woods had found Belding's dog, dragging its leash, and within minutes, found Belding himself, shot through the base of his skull. A bullet through the central nervous system-dead before he hit the ground.

At noon a courier delivered a registered letter to five major media outlets. Inside the envelope were two sheets of paper. One was another page from Helter Skelter Helter Skelter. The other was a letter in which the killer claimed to be the son of Charles Manson.

During the next few hours, every so-called expert the news station could drag out of his lead-lined nuclear-bomb/alien-invasion/Ebola-outbreak underground shelter got his fifteen seconds of fame. We listened to a few of them spout paranoia, then Evelyn started turning down the volume.

Jack lifted a hand to stop her.

Evelyn arched her brows. "What? Don't tell me you're buying this son-of-Manson s.h.i.t."

"There's more." Jack crouched beside the TV set and hit the channel b.u.t.ton. Static fuzz filled the screen.

"It's satellite," Evelyn said, waving the remote. "In the twenty-first century, we use these. What channel do you want?"

"Just flip through. Look for breaking news." He checked his watch and frowned. "Surprised it's not on yet. Leaked two hours ago."

"What leaked?" I asked.

"No idea. Heard about the letter, called Felix. Quinn said something-"

"Wait!" I'd caught a glimpse of the scrolling text that always accompanied breaking news. "Go back. No...one more. There!"

Evelyn stopped on two dour news anchors. Middle-aged news anchors. Never a good sign. When a network wants a report taken seriously, they always pick bleak and Brylcreemed over bouncy and blond.

"The FBI are refusing to comment, but a source within the department claims that completed DNA a.n.a.lysis on the hair found at the second murder..."

"Hair?" Evelyn cut in. "What hair?"

Jack shook his head and waved her to silence. The announcer droned on, regurgitating the details of the second Helter Skelter murder for all those hermits making their annual pilgrimage into town to get the latest news.

"As for that test, the results apparently confirm that the Helter Skelter killer is, as claimed in his letter, a close blood relative of notorious murderer Charles Manson, who is currently being held..."

Jack shook his head. "f.u.c.k. Thought it was a hoax."

"What about this hair?" Evelyn said, cranking the volume. "Where did they find a hair?"

The announcer ignored Evelyn and proceeded to ensure that all those hermits knew who Manson was before continuing.

"We take you now to our regional bureau, where reporter Angela Fry is interviewing Dr. Frederick P. Myers, a leading Manson expert-"

"Screw this," Evelyn said, tossing down the remote. She crossed the room and turned on her computer. "Let's find out more about this hair."

The hair had come from a piece of duct tape used on the second victim. An arm hair. The tape had presumably brushed against the killer's arm.

As for what evidence the FBI could gain from a single arm hair, well, I bet they'd sweated over that themselves for a while. Limb hairs aren't the most studied source of evidence, and with only one, the results are often inconclusive. They could tell whether it was human or animal, where on the body it came from and whether it had fallen out or been pulled. The big question, though, would be whether they could get DNA evidence from it, but they obviously had.

Once we'd cleared up the hair mystery, I suggested we find that letter. It was probably pure bulls.h.i.t, but it wouldn't hurt to see what the killer had to say. We located it on a media Web site.

The letter began without an opening salutation.

You call me the Helter Skelter killer. That name comes from the pages I've been leaving, but let me a.s.sure you there is nothing "helter skelter" about my methods, as you may have determined. I chose that book not for the t.i.tle, but for a deeper, more personal reason. My father, Charles Manson, had a vision. My goal was to take that vision to a new level, which I believe I have accomplished. I am now willing to end the killings, in return for a small favor.

It ended there. Evelyn checked copies posted on a few other sites, but they were all the same-stopping before he made his demand.

"He's playing with us," I said. "With everyone. Claiming to be related to Manson. Nattering on about taking his vision to a new level. Making unspecified demands. He said just enough to stir up speculation and panic."

"What'd you find?" Jack asked.

"Huh?"

"Today. Earlier." He flicked off the television. "Forget this. He wants people to panic? Fine. Doesn't work on us."

Right. I took a deep breath, and told him what Evelyn and I had uncovered. Then I asked about his trip. It turned out that Carson Morrow's "cartel client" was a nephew who'd gone straight, and been out of the business for years. So that lead was dead. When Jack asked whether Evelyn had heard anything on Baron, she checked her messages and found a few tips to check out.

"You do that. I'm gonna take Dee out." He looked at me. "Dinner?"

"Um, sure," I said.

"It's too early for Martini's," Evelyn said. "You know I hate eating there before eight-"

"Didn't invite you. Giving Dee a break."

He waved me to the back door as she sputtered an obscenity-laden answer.

Jaxson

"Jackson," he told the hostess. "With an x."

Even now, ten years after his agent gave him the moniker, he felt silly saying it. Invariably, the other person frowned, not understanding. It wasn't like saying "Brandy with an i." Who the h.e.l.l put an x in Jackson?

"J-A-X-S-O-N," he said when the hostess's brow knitted.

"And your first name, Mr. Jaxson?" she said as she wrote it down beside the reservation list. Before he could answer, her baby blues went double-wide. "Oh, my G.o.d. That That Jaxson. I'm so sorry. I should have recognized-" Jaxson. I'm so sorry. I should have recognized-"

"That's okay. Some days, I'm happy being anonymous. After No Holds Barred, No Holds Barred, I didn't want to be recognized for months." I didn't want to be recognized for months."

Ba-dum-dum. A line he'd used a thousand times, and not worth a snicker, much less the guffaw the hostess gave it. That's the h.e.l.l of being famous. Everything that leaves your mouth is profoundly witty, profoundly charming, profoundly profound.

"Will your guest be joining you later?" the hostess asked as she led him through the darkened restaurant.

"She just got a casting call about an hour ago," Jaxson said. "She might be late."

The hostess smiled, nodded, promised to keep an eye out, all the time doubtless wondering which starlet Jaxson (Jackson...with an x) was bedding now. He almost felt guilty, as if he were robbing her of some bit of gossip she could sell or barter on the social market. No one would be joining him. There was no starlet. There was Melanie, a med student, but she was neck-deep in her internship and had no time-or patience-for media.

Instead, he ate lunch with the Washington Post Washington Post. He plowed through his garlic fettuccine-screw the carbs-and finished up with a slice of chocolate cake-double-screw them. He wasn't in L.A. today, so he didn't need to play by L.A. rules.

After lunch he signed an autograph for the server and left her a twenty as a tip-more than his meal cost, but not so long ago he'd been waiting tables himself. Since he'd graduated from rehab, he had precious little to spend his money on. He might as well give a bit to someone who could use it.

Onto the street. Not much danger of being hounded for autographs here. This town might be small but, having attained a certain cachet in Hollywood circles, it saw stars quadruple his caliber every day.

Earlier, circling for a parking spot, he'd seen a conservation area. He could use the solitude, and the exercise after that meal.