“Got it. Will do. Sammy J and I will hold down the fort here in the Nod,” Howie promised.
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Connie turning to stare at him. “What?” he asked defensively. He knew that look—it was Connie’s Guilt Glare, usually employed when he said or did something stupid or offensive or both. “What did I do?”
“What did you just say?” she asked, her tone insistent, with an undercurrent of panic.
“I said I’ll hold down the fort with Sam. We be keepin’ it one hundred, dawg. We’ll keep Gramma cool; we’ll check in with G. William to see if the cops learn anything else from that lockbox; we’ll—”
“No. Exactly. What did you say exactly?” Before he could recall his exact words, she filled him in: “You said ‘Sammy J and I.’ Sammy J.”
“Right. It’s just a nickname.” Howie signaled and pulled off the highway onto the access road that led to the airport. “It’s what they called her when she was a kid.”
“And doesn’t Sammy J sound like someone else we know?”
Traffic was light, so Howie risked taking his eyes off the road. Connie strained against her shoulder belt, leaning toward him intensely, staring as if she could burn the answer into him with her eyes. “What are you talking about?” he asked. “Why are you all freaked out all of a sudden? It’s just a nickname.”
“Sammy J. J,” she said, emphasizing the last letter.
The connection clicked. “Jesus, Connie. You think Sammy J is Ugly J? Just because they share an initial? That’s crazy.”
“I’ll tell you what’s crazy: Auto-Tuning your voice if there’s no reason to. Billy wouldn’t do it because I already know who he is. The only reason for someone else to disguise it—”
“Is if you know the voice already,” Howie interrupted. “But you’ve never met Sam.”
“Or to disguise your gender,” Connie told him. “And yeah, I’ve never met her, but I might. As long as she’s in town, staying at Jazz’s, the odds are I would meet her. And hear her voice.”
“That’s nuts,” Howie said in a tone that wasn’t convincing even to him.
“Who’s new to town who I haven’t met yet, but probably will at some point? Who’s the only person in this whole mess who would have a reason to disguise her voice from me?”
“You’re assuming a lot. I mean, Mr. Auto-Tune—”
“Or Ms. Auto-Tune.”
“—could be anyone. I mean, maybe he—or she,” he amended quickly, “is just worried that you’re recording your conversations. Or just doesn’t want you to be able to identify him or her by voice someday. Or…”
“You can keep throwing ‘or’ out there as much as you want, but face it—the most likely scenario is that it’s someone known to me. Or to us. Maybe that’s not one hundred percent guaranteed, but come on, Howie.”
Howie hated to admit it, but she had a point. And all he could think of, suddenly, was the photo album Gramma had showed him. The pictures of Sam as a little girl. I was a late bloomer….
“We know Billy had a confederate out there,” Connie went on. “Someone who coordinated his escape from Wammaket. Someone who was in contact with the Impressionist. What if it was his sister?”
Howie shook his head. “No. I don’t buy it.”
“Because you want to sleep with her.”
“That’s beside the point. I don’t buy it because Sam hates Billy. You should see her when he comes up. She despises that guy. Jesus, she said in public that she would pull the lever if they executed him.”
“Yeah, and I just told my parents that I would never speak to them again if they called the cops on me. I sounded serious enough that they didn’t.”
Howie said nothing as he guided the car into the drop-off lane and stopped. “God,” he said at last. “Have I been macking on a serial killer’s right-hand man? Woman? Are there even… is there even such a thing?”
“I think so. Jazz mentioned one once. Some woman in England, I think. Sam could be a serial killer.”
“Watch it. That’s the mother of my illegitimate children you’re talking about.”
“Howie.”
“But really—what are the odds of a brother and sister serial-killing tag team?”
“Same parents. Same genetics. Same environment. I don’t know the odds, but it’s not impossible.”
“How do we find out? Do we just ask her?”
“Not a chance. There’s got to be some way to find out without confronting her directly.”
“I’ll ask Gramma,” Howie joked.
“Hell, what if she’s involved? I was thinking that before—what if she’s been faking all this Alzheimer’s crap, hiding in plain sight?”
“No way, Connie. Uh-uh. You haven’t been around her as much as I have. Trust me—the woman’s nuts. And not in the way you mean. Not in like an evil mastermind–slash–Hannibal Lecter kind of way. She’s completely off her rocker. Sometimes Jazz has to change her adult diaper, for God’s sake. You think she’s gonna go through that just to keep up a cover story?”
They sat in silent thought in the car, staring at each other until a horn honking from behind them brought them out of their reverie.
“Maybe I should stay here….” Connie said hesitantly, almost unwillingly.
“No. Go to New York. Figure out this bell thing. Get the other clue. This stuff is all connected. What’s happening in New York is connected to what’s happening here. You work the New York angle with Jazz and I’ll figure out what’s going on here.”
“Are you sure?” She was worried, that much was obvious. Howie didn’t blame her; he was worried, too. He sort of liked being alive. He also thought Sam was hot and it would really suck if she turned out to be crazy like her brother.
“Sure? No. But go.” He popped her lock and the horn from behind blared again. “You better get going. And for God’s sake, be careful! There’s crazy-bad juju going down.”
“Howie…”
“I’m serious, for once. Now go. It’ll be all right. I’m not as fragile as I look.”
“I know. That’s the problem—you’re more fragile.”
“This is true.” He leaned over impulsively and kissed her cheek. “Get out of here. You have a flight to catch.”
Once she was through security, Connie had to run for her plane, boarding right before the door closed. She apologized to her row mates and slid into her middle seat.
Was she doing the right thing? She had left Howie—Howie!—completely unprotected, with Gramma, who was crazy enough for any three people, and Samantha, who quite possibly could be crazy, too. Even though he’d encouraged her to go, was it the right thing to do?
She dug into her purse. Howie was right. Time to set aside pride (no matter how righteous) and anger (ditto) and call Jazz. See what he thought. Didn’t it make more sense for him to go to JFK, after all? Sure, it would be a distraction from the Hat-Dog Killer, but Howie was right—these cases were interconnected. It was all interconnected, as cables stretched from the past to the present, from Lobo’s Nod to New York, entangling and binding all of them: Jazz, Billy, Sam, Howie, the Hat-Dog Killer, the Impressionist, Connie herself, the victims…. She couldn’t untangle the knots just yet and see where they’d come from, but she knew they were all connected.
“Miss, no electronic devices,” a flight attendant said just as Connie hit the Call button under Jazz’s name.
“But—”
“Off, please. Now.” Said with a grim little smile that seemed to broadcast Try me, sister.
Connie ended the call before the first ring, then made a show of shutting down her phone. Now she had the entire flight to think about how she might have sent Howie to his death.
And how she might be voluntarily winging her way to her own.
By five that evening, Jazz’s hotel room looked like an evidence locker had exploded inside a math classroom.
But he had the answer. It all worked out.
He stared at the new app on his phon
e, then shifted over to the sheet of paper covered with his most recent scribbles. Yeah. Yeah, it all made sense.
Crazy sense. But sense nonetheless. Somehow, it was fitting that Billy and G. William had said the things that made it all click for him.
Hughes had warned him away from the precinct, but this was too big.
He gathered up a few critical pieces of paper, double-checked his phone, then grabbed Belsamo’s disposable cell before heading out the door.
CHAPTER 44
The 76th Precinct was still mobbed by press. Jazz gnawed on his bottom lip, watching from half a block away. He had no choice but to plunge right in.
For a disguise, he turned up the collar of his coat and pulled his hat down low over his forehead, then slipped on his cheap sunglasses. He pushed into the throng, eyes down, jostling reporters out of the way. Two NYPD uniforms stood at the front door, keeping it clear for civilians, and they ushered him into the precinct without realizing who he was.
Morales stood just inside the front door, leaning against the wall as she swapped a high-heeled shoe for a sturdier sneaker. She recognized Jazz as he whipped off the hat and glasses. “Feeling better?” she asked, only slightly surprised to see him.
“What? Oh, yeah. Much better.” He scanned the entryway. “Got a minute?”
“Headed out,” she said, putting on the other sneaker and dropping her heels into a bag. “Field office wants a report in person, and you don’t keep the field office waiting. First rule of the FBI.”
“But—”
“First rule,” she said again, and breezed out the door.
Jazz ground his teeth together. Should he follow her? She was the one he should convince now, because there was no way Hughes would listen—
“Dent!”
Speaking of Hughes…
Jazz grinned apologetically in Hughes’s direction as the detective bulled through the lobby toward him. “Sorry! I was just leaving.” Yeah, he’d go after Morales and—
“You’re not going anywhere.” To prove it, Hughes clamped a powerful grip on Jazz’s wrist. Jazz tamped down his first reaction, to break the grip in the most painful way possible. Crippling an NYPD detective wouldn’t solve this case any sooner.
“I can go,” Jazz whispered. “Let me—”
“I told you to stay away from here.” Hughes dragged Jazz unwillingly into a smallish office. “Everyone thinks you have food poisoning. And I still haven’t figured out what to do about you after last night.”
Jazz calculated the odds of being able to persuade Hughes that he’d figured out the Hat-Dog Killer before the pissed-off cop tossed him out of the precinct. Hit him with something he won’t expect.
“Belsamo’s on Atlantic,” Jazz said, and Hughes released him immediately. He was in control right now, whether Hughes liked it or not. “There’s an Atlantic Avenue around here, right?”
If Hughes’s reaction weren’t so predictable, it would have been fascinating to watch as he visibly deflated, his face realigning from righteous anger to incredulous shock. “How do you do that?” It was as close to a whine as Jazz could imagine coming from the detective. “He’s been walking up and down Atlantic Avenue all day. Not doing anything illegal. Just walking from the river to over by Flatbush, over and over. Like he’s casing the whole avenue.”
“Not the whole avenue,” Jazz said. “He’s looking for his next dump site.”
It was raw, bloody meat to a starving wolf, and Hughes could do nothing but bite into it. “So it’s him? He’s definitely the Hat-Dog Killer?”
Jazz considered taking mercy on Hughes and just spilling it all at once. But… nah. Where was the fun in that?
“He’s not the Hat-Dog Killer,” Jazz said with authority, and watched the shock return to Hughes’s face, along with a soul-crushing distress.
Jazz gave it a couple of seconds to sink in, then said, “He’s the Dog Killer.”
“There can’t be two of them,” Hughes said. “We’ve been through this already. We considered that months ago and had to discard it. We’ve got DNA from various scenes and it’s all a match. It’s one guy.”
“You found that DNA because they wanted you to find it,” Jazz explained. “They planted it. To make it look like one guy was doing this. This is a game and there are two players: Hat and Dog. You have Dog’s DNA. So even if you catch him, Hat is still free and clear.”
Jazz could imagine it perfectly, as though he’d been eavesdropping on the phone call. It must have been a panicked call, from Dog to Billy, the games master.
“There’s a problem.” Dog would have done his best to cover his worry with calm and reserve. Because that was how Billy would have taught him to act.
“I don’t like problems.” Jazz imagined Billy saying it jovially, with a slight lilt to his voice. A dad ruffling his kid’s hair after a tough Little League at bat. “Why don’t you fill me in and we’ll see what we can do.”
“I didn’t realize. Until I came home. But… he scratched me.”
“What?”
“I have a scratch. On my hand.”
“Didn’t you wear gloves?”
“Yes. The scratch is high up on the hand. Over the wrist. He must have clawed down the glove. I didn’t expect it. He fought like a bitch, not a man. I didn’t realize until just now….”
And Billy would sigh, resigned to working with amateurs. “Okay. Okay, let me think. Let me think.”
“They have my DNA now.”
“I know. That’s not actually a problem. Evidence is only good when you have something to compare it to.”
“So we make sure they never have anything to compare it to?”
And Jazz could hear the familiar chuckle emanating deep within Billy’s chest, low and rumbly. “No. Are you kidding me? That’s what they expect. No. We want to make sure they have something to compare it to….”
“It’s a game,” Jazz told Hughes. “And Billy’s playing, but he’s not on any one side or another. There are three players, but only two sides, you see? But there’s a game on top of the game—Hat and Dog are playing each other with Billy watching them, but at the same time, Billy’s playing with us. Four players. Three sides.”
Hughes wiped down his face with both hands. “Jasper, our forensic people are really good. Every criminal makes a mistake, and when they do, we find them.”
“Exactly! Don’t you get it? That’s what Billy was counting on. Look.” He held up a sheet of paper on which he’d plotted the evidence found at the various crime scenes. “You had no DNA evidence at all until the fourth victim, the guy found at the subway station on, what was it, Pennsylvania and Liberty Avenues, right? That’s when you found some blood and skin cells under the victim’s fingernails.”
“Right. And then we found semen at the sixth crime scene—”
“But not the fifth! That was a Hat crime. The sixth victim was Dog’s first woman. Raped because he had to make it look like one guy, not two. Hat rapes and Dog doesn’t, but for you guys not to catch on, they occasionally had to mimic each other. Dog raped the sixth victim and was so disgusted with himself that he had to reduce her to something less than human—that’s why he disemboweled her. Then Hat had to keep it up. Every time one of them added something to the signature, the other one had to pick it up and run with it.”
“That’s crazy. He deliberately left evidence—”
“It’s so crazy that it worked. Dog was giving DNA to Hat—hairs, semen samples—and letting him plant them so that you guys would think there was one guy, the Hat-Dog Killer, not two, Hat and Dog.”
“If they’re playing a game, what kind of game is it? And why would Belsamo voluntarily walk into—” He broke off at the enormity of Jazz’s grin. Jazz silently lifted his cell phone and held it up to Hughes. A bright Monopoly board filled the screen.
“Jasper, no!” Hughes groaned. “Park Place… that’s just a name. It’s not—”
“I’ve got it on my phone. I bet Belsamo has it on his laptop, in t
he folder titled Game. They’re playing Monopoly,” Jazz insisted, now shoving another paper at Hughes. “Hat and Dog. Two of the player pieces in the game. They carve their symbol into the victims to prove they did it. First two victims, remember? Found behind some place called Connecticut Bagel. Well, both killers started at Go and rolled nines. Bang. Connecticut Avenue. Third victim, in an empty parking space. Free Parking. That’s a Hat. They take turns. Fourth victim, first DNA: a rail stop on Pennsylvania Avenue. That’s the Pennsylvania Railroad, man.”
Hughes scanned the paper, but Jazz could tell he was being humored, not believed. “They don’t always alternate. There are two hats in a row.”
“Right. He rolled doubles, so he got to go again.”
Hughes uttered a single syllable of laughter, without mirth or joy. “So let me get this straight: You think your dad has got these guys playing a game of murder Monopoly, killing people or dumping them based on where they land on the Monopoly board?”
“Follow them. Each murder matches a spot on the board in some way. I did the math—every murder is reachable by a roll of the dice from the one before it… if you assume there’s two players. Look—Park Place,” Jazz said, jabbing a finger at the paper. “A murder at the Coney Island boardwalk.”
“I told you—those are just coincidences. Do you know what apophenia is?” Hughes asked, somewhat paternally.
“Yes.” Apophenia was a form of insanity that made people see patterns where there were none, or imbue meaningless patterns with great import. Like crazy conspiracy theorists. “I know what it is. But this isn’t—”
“Finding these ridiculous patterns… stretching this to fit a board game, of all things… I’m worried about you. Maybe we pushed you too—”