Kill Fee (10 page)

S
tevens met Windermere and Mathers at the FBI office the next morning. He’d driven back from Fergus Falls the night before, arriving home in Saint Paul well after dark, dinner already cleared from the table and the kids in bed. He’d reheated some meat loaf and watched TV with Nancy, though they’d both been too tired to say much more than good night.

He’d mulled Paige Pyatt’s words all two hundred miles home. Still couldn’t decide what he thought of it all. Eli Cody had loved her; that much was certain. Somewhere, deep inside, she’d felt something in return. She’d kept all his letters; hell, it could have been love.

The easy answer, the answer that Stevens kept circling back to, would have been obvious if Cody himself hadn’t been murdered. The hitch in Paige Pyatt’s voice when she’d talked of Cody’s hate for her husband—it didn’t take much to jump to conclusions. Cody was a recluse with a hateful obsession. Not a huge stretch to picture him a killer. But why
now
? Why wait so long?

You don’t have the whole puzzle,
Stevens thought as he stepped off the elevator into CID.
Maybe Windermere has a few more pieces.

But Windermere didn’t have much. She sat Stevens down and told him all about her day with Alex Kent—“And Agent Davis, remember him?”—and when she came to the end, she had less than Stevens, just some history teacher with a stolen identity.

“So I let him go,” said Windermere. “Davis didn’t like it, but whatever. Kent isn’t going anywhere.”

“Means Salazar’s probably clean, too.”

Windermere shrugged. “Yeah,” she said. “I mean, yeah. He doesn’t know anything. Has a decent alibi and he sure as hell didn’t look guilty. Anyway, our guy murdered Cody with Salazar behind bars. There’s no connection between Salazar and Kent. How many accomplices could our shooter have?”

“So our shooter’s stealing identities,” said Stevens. “Using them for the killings and then disappearing again.”

“That’s what I’m thinking.”

“Still doesn’t explain
why
he’s killing people,” said Mathers.

Windermere rolled her eyes. “Ask Stevens what I think about motive.”

“Mathers has a point,” said Stevens. “Paige Pyatt said Cody had loved her for years. Said he was jealous of Spenser Pyatt. Hated him. Perfect motive, except—”

“Cody’s dead, too,” said Windermere. “And by the same hand as killed Pyatt, assuming the Liberty agent in Duluth gave a good description. Doesn’t really fit the spurned-lover scenario.” She paused. “Any other connections between Cody and Pyatt? Anything concrete?”

“Money,” said Mathers.

Stevens shook his head. “Cody was nearly broke. Nobody stood to gain from his death.”

“Family,” said Windermere. “You said Mickey Pyatt is afraid someone’s targeting his relatives.”

“He is,” said Stevens. “I had Fergus Falls Police post a guard outside the Pyatt’s lake house. I’ll talk to Mickey Pyatt and find out if there are any other family members we should watch.”

“Good. What else?”

“Spenser Pyatt was one of the richest men in the country and he was straight-up assassinated,” said Mathers. “There’s gotta be a lead somewhere.”

Stevens nodded. “Do we know what he was doing at the hotel that day?”

“Meeting friends for lunch,” said Windermere. “Guess it was a weekly tradition, the good old boys’ club. Pyatt’s death seemed to shock the lot of them. No obvious connection to the murder there, either, but we’re running full backgrounds on everybody at the table anyway.”

“I’ll take a closer look at Cody’s situation, too,” Stevens said. “Just to round things out. Maybe I’ll ask Duluth PD to snoop around his place a little more, see what else they can dig up.”

“You’re from there, right?” said Windermere. “Call in some favors.” She clapped her hands. “Okay,” she said. “Let’s get back to work.”

S
tevens called Duluth PD and left word for Donna McNaughton. McNaughton called back a half hour later. “What’s up, Kirk?”

“I need Eli Cody’s last will and testament,” Stevens told her. “His finances, too. If you can find a willing judge, I’ll fax through the paperwork.”

“I know a guy,” said McNaughton. “But what’s the point?”

“Chasing our tails down here. Kind of hoping Cody’s hiding something that’ll spark some inspiration. Speaking of which, you mind combing through the old house one more time?”

“You gonna tell me what I’m looking for?”

“Anything that looks suspicious, Donna. Anything at all. Personal correspondence. Receipts. Maybe Cody was less of a recluse than we thought.”

“I don’t get it, Kirk. He’s the victim.”

“More to the point, he was a target,” said Stevens. “And people don’t just become targets without a reason. I want to know who wanted him dead.”

“Got it,” said McNaughton. “I’ll head over there now. You owe me for this, though. Especially if I find something.”

“Dinner’s on me next time I’m in town.” Stevens hung up the phone and found Windermere watching him, one eyebrow raised. “Old friend,” he said.

Windermere nodded. “Uh-huh.”

STEVENS SPENT THE DAY
putting together the paperwork for Donna McNaughton. Faxed it up to Duluth and went home to Nancy and the kids. Friday morning, he went to see Mickey Pyatt.

Pyatt was a handsome fifty-something with an easy smile and a firm grip. Stevens warmed to him quickly. Unfortunately, the man had no answers when it came to his father’s murder.

“I’m afraid I don’t know,” he told Stevens. “My dad had competitors, sure, business rivals. But enemies?” Pyatt shook his head. “He was a good man.”

“He was rich,” said Stevens. “Could money be the motive?”

“You mean his estate,” said Pyatt. “Someone in the family. It’s not out of the question—though, like we told the FBI, anyone who would have gained from Dad’s death was already pretty well taken care of. He looked after his loved ones.”

“What about Eli Cody?”

Pyatt’s face darkened. “Yeah,” he said. “Kind of weird, huh? He was family, I guess, but just barely. He kept to himself, as I’m sure you’re aware.”

“He was broke.”

“He wasn’t in the will, if that’s what you’re asking. He wouldn’t have gained from Dad’s death any more than you would have.”

“Except he was in love with your mother.”

Pyatt nodded. “I take it you don’t consider Eli to be merely a victim in this case. Do you think he had some involvement in my father’s death?”

“I don’t know,” Stevens told him. “Frankly, we don’t know much at this point. Your mother implied that Cody held a long grudge, but I can’t figure any reason he’d have wanted your father dead now in particular.”

“As opposed to when my father married my mother, say?”

“Exactly.”

Pyatt hesitated. “There is one thing.” He glanced at Stevens. “This year—this spring, in fact—would mark fifty years that my father had known my mother. Not their wedding anniversary, but the anniversary of their actual meeting. I only remember because Dad always talked about meeting Mom on the night Wilt Chamberlain scored his hundred points. March second, 1962, remember?”

“Your mother told me that Cody’d known her first.”

“Indeed he had,” Pyatt said. “In fact, he was apparently on a date with my mother when my dad stole her away. A particularly disastrous date, to hear my mother tell it.”

“Fifty years,” Stevens said.

“It’s a long time to hold a grudge,” said Pyatt. “And in any case, Eli Cody is dead. So maybe the whole point is moot.”

Stevens nodded. “Cody’s death is a strange development, that’s for sure.”

“The whole situation is strange, Agent Stevens. I’ve seen the sketches of my dad’s killer. He’s nobody I’ve ever seen before, I know that.”

“I saw him in person,” Stevens said, standing. “You’d remember.”

STEVENS LEFT PYATT
and drove back to Brooklyn Center. Just as he arrived at the FBI building, his cell phone started to ring. Stevens parked the Cherokee quickly and answered it. It was Donna McNaughton.

“Processing your paperwork now,” the cop told him. “Give it a day on the outside. Took a spin through Cody’s house while I waited, didn’t find much but an old desktop computer. We’re bringing it in for the techs to have a look.”

“Good thinking. Who knows what Cody had kicking around on that thing.”

“Yeah, exactly. Anyway, I got something else for you.”

“Shoot.”

“Had to make a run out to the airport just now. Pick up my brother and his family. Anyway, while I’m waiting, the Liberty woman flags me down. Said she thought of something that might help us out.”

Stevens frowned. “Yeah?”

“Said she was thinking about the guy who’d rented that little blue Kia, how weird it was that he came up on the computer as Alex Kent, since she was pretty damn sure his first name was Richard.”

“Richard.” Stevens fumbled in his glove box for a pen. “She get a last name?”

“Couldn’t remember. All she knew was his first name was Richard and he was flying to Minneapolis. So, you know, maybe that helps.”

“Sure does. We can use it.”

“Good. I’ll keep you posted on Cody’s computer. And his bank statements, when they come in.”

“Thanks, Donna.” Stevens ended the call. Sat in the Cherokee, staring out the front windshield.
Richard something,
he thought,
out of Minneapolis.

T
he pretty girl wasn’t working at the Delta counter when Lind checked in for his flight on Friday morning. The man behind the desk smiled and handed Lind his ticket—“Enjoy your flight, Richard”—and Lind walked away, relieved.

He passed through security and sat in the lounge beside a Japanese family, a father, a mother, and two very young girls. They smiled at Lind when he sat down beside them. Lind smiled stiffly back and then looked away.

The oldest girl must have been three or four. She rolled a little toy truck along the carpet toward Lind. Reached his boot and paused. Looked up at Lind, a mischievous smile on her face. Then she rolled the truck over his boot.

Lind stiffened. He had to stifle every urge in his body to keep from kicking out at the girl. He gripped the armrest beside him. Planted his boots on the floor. The little girl giggled and drove the truck over his foot again.

“Yumi.”
The girl’s mother smiled at Lind. “I’m so sorry.”

Lind steadied his breathing and forced another smile. “It’s okay,” he told her. “It’s okay.”

The woman’s smile faded as she studied Lind’s face. She snapped her fingers and said something in Japanese to her daughter, who giggled and ran to her mother, steadying herself on Lind’s knee as she passed. The woman gathered up her daughters and said something fast and sharp to her husband, who glanced at Lind and nodded and reached for his suitcase.

Lind watched the family relocate a couple of rows down. Pretended not to notice the little girl’s parents stealing concerned glances in his direction. The little girl playing happily on the carpet. He stared straight ahead and tried not to think about them, tried to ignore everything around him and relax.

THE FLIGHT TO MIAMI
took just over two hours. Lind sat in his seat and drank coffee. The visions had returned last night, just before the phone rang. Showtime again, and Hang Ten, the strangled man and the chained-up young soldier. The visions had been worse than before, visceral, almost real. Lind had fought against them. Fought to wake up. He’d thought he might die if he stayed under any longer.

He woke up sweaty, a scream on his lips. The phone was ringing. It was the man, his seductive words promising relief. Salvation. He had another job for Lind. Another task to accomplish. Just a few more little errands, he said, and then he’d make the visions disappear.

Lind touched down in Miami and rented a little Chevy from the Liberty desk in the rental car terminal. He took a map from the counter and studied it in the parking lot, and then drove east through the city and across the MacArthur Causeway into Miami Beach. He checked in to a Marriott overlooking the ocean, turned on every light in his room, blasted the air-conditioning, and pumped the volume on the TV set. Then he brewed a big pot of coffee and sat on the edge of the bed, watching music videos and reality TV, anything to stave off the fatigue.

Around six in the evening, there was a knock at the door. Lind answered and found a bellman in the hallway. He held a package about the size of a cake box. “You’re Richard O’Brien, right?” he said. “This came for you this morning. Overnight express.”

Lind took the package back into his room and opened it on the bed. There was a picture inside, and a rifle, slick steel, in component parts.

Lind studied the picture until he’d memorized the face. Then he
burned the papers in the wastebasket in the bathroom. Sat back on the bed and drank more coffee and watched more TV, assembling and disassembling the rifle and waiting for the hours to pass.