[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
.He turned to her.Suddenly she looked so small, appropriate as her fate now fit in his hands.“What do you think you found in the case file?” he asked her.And so Esme told him: she believed the Buzzards Bay Butcher was a Red Sox fan.Each of the victims, she explained, had a soiled Yankees T-shirt or sweatshirt or ball cap in their luggage.Soiled, because they had already worn it on their trip, worn it outside, worn it within view of someone so psychotically appalled to seeing Boston’s rival team on display so close to Boston itself that he reacted.“Have someone go undercover,” she said.“Have them wear a Bucky Dent jersey.Have them walk around Buzzards Bay.Our guy won’t go after them that day, but maybe the next.And then you’ll have him.”Trumbull rolled his eyes.Tom didn’t.Her theory may have been flimsy (it was the very crossroads of coincidence and conjecture), but what if she was correct?He asked Trumbull for a week to test it out.What was one more week, if Esme’s fate was really in his hands? Reluctantly, the assistant director agreed.Tom called up Bobby Fink and informed him of the plan.Bobby bought a Yankees jacket (not the easiest thing to find in Massachusetts) and spent the rest of the day wandering the shops in Buzzards Bay.The killer made his move the next day, outside of a clambake on the beach.He was tackled to the ground by four officers.Bobby read him his rights.He and Bobby got the credit for nabbing the Buzzards Bay Butcher, and their capital with the Bureau soared.Tom spent his on Esme.He had the charges on her dropped, and a few months later when the deputy director created the task force and put Tom in charge, Esme Shepherd was his first recruit (on her guarantee that she would never—ever—bend the rules again…at least not without his permission first).And now they were in Amarillo, so many years later, and Esme lay unconscious in an ambulance, on the way to Baptist St.Anthony’s in Amarillo, Texas.Somewhere out there, her assailant roamed free.He was targeting them now, and he showed no signs of giving up, or getting caught.11Never before in her life had Lilly Toro so desperately wanted to be home.And not her apartment, either, but her childhood home, her parents’ home, a walk-up in Oakland which perpetually reeked of boiled cabbage and/or cheddar cheese.She hadn’t seen her parents in a while.They didn’t approve of her lifestyle.As far as she knew, they didn’t even look for her byline anymore in the Chronicle.But she so desperately wanted to run into their arms right now, maybe share a bowl of soup, sit with them on the sofa and watch a western on their old TV.Instead, she was here, in a small musty room in the Amarillo P.D., a thousand miles away.They had taken her cell phone.They had taken her wristwatch.“Am I under arrest?” Lilly had asked the two FBI agents.Their names were Hector and Anna Jackson (no relation).“This is just a precaution,” Anna Jackson explained.“In case he comes after you.”Then they left.Lilly had no idea how much time had passed.Maybe hours.The walls lacked a clock.The walls lacked everything except gray paint.The same paint covered the door.The door was locked.She had tried it.She had also pounded the door with her fists and kicked the door with her feet.In one of the corners of the ceiling, a small video camera recorded it all.Lilly gave her viewers the finger and sat back down in her chair.More time passed.She craved a cigarette.She craved answers.She craved home.The door opened.It was Jackson & Jackson.“I want a lawyer,” said Lilly.Hector Jackson and Anna Jackson exchanged a look.They appeared amused.Lilly wasn’t.“I’m an American citizen,” she said.“So am I,” replied Hector Jackson.“Me, too,” replied Anna Jackson.She had a file in her hand.She placed it on the table.“What’s that?”“Your FBI file.”“I have an FBI file?”The agents once again exchanged looks.“You do now.”Lilly stared at the file for a minute, then rose to her feet.“If I’m not under arrest, then—”“Sit down.”“Fuck you.” She headed for the door.It was locked.“Open it.”The agents stood up, and walked toward her.Lilly stepped out of the way.With a buzz, the door unlocked.Hector opened it, and exited.Anna followed him out.Before Lilly could do the same, Anna pulled the door shut.“Damn it!” howled Lilly.She kicked again at the door.They’d left the file on the table.They wanted her to see it.Why?She approached the table.No.She wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.She turned her back on the table, arms crossed.Fuck ’em.More time passed.Maybe hours.Lilly pulled a chair into the corner and sat facing the wall.They wanted to play games with her? She could out-stubborn a donkey.She could out-stubborn her mother, and her mother had a reputation in the Bay Area for her stubbornness.Her mother refused to upgrade from vinyl records.Her mother refused to acknowledge the existence of the Internet.Her mother voted Republican.More time passed.Lilly got tired.And hungry.And bored.She glanced back at the table.The file was thick.It would make a nice pillow.And if she “accidentally” peeked inside while adjusting it, well, these things happened….Lilly “accidentally” peeked inside.The cover page was a drawing, a copy of the sketch taken from her description of Ray Milton.Maybe it was the light, or maybe it was the police artist’s rendition, but the face on the paper looked like, well, Robert Redford.Redford circa 1972.Redford circa Jeremiah Johnson, one of the better westerns in her father’s VHS collection.Lilly turned the page.It was blank.She flipped to another page.Also blank.She rifled through the file.Blank, blank, blank, blank, blank.“What the…?”The door opened.A middle-aged cop strolled in, bald save for the black sideburns that tracked down the sides of his face.“Hi,” he said, and held out his hand.“I’m Ray Milton.”Lilly let go of the file.Hundreds of pages of empty paper fluttered to the hard gray floor.Officer Milton gazed down with sadness at the mess.Then his steely eyes once again found Lilly.“I was at the memorial service,” he said
[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
Darmowy hosting zapewnia PRV.PL