Chapter Thirty

Esperanza read from the tablet on her lap.

"So the only names PT actually said were Tracy Keating and Robert Lestrano?"

They sat in Win's parlor, all three ensconced in the burgundy leather armchairs.

Esperanza looked up at Myron and sighed. "What?"

"When was the last time the three of us were here like this?"

"Last month," Esperanza said. "Ema's birthday party. Your nephew was here."

"I don't mean for a party. I mean, just the three of us." Myron motioned with his arms. "Like this."

Esperanza shook her head. "You're such a wuss." She turned to Win and held up the snifter of cognac. "This is pretty good stuff."

"Remy Louis XIII Black Pearl Grande Champagne Cognac," Win said.

"You say so."

Win frowned. "Myron?"

"Uh-hmm."

"It's gauche to check prices on your phone."

Myron stopped typing. "Is the bottle more expensive than a car?"

Win considered that. "Not my car."

Touché.

"Can we get back to this?" Esperanza asked. "Hector comes home tonight."

"Where is he?"

"Down in Florida with his father."

Esperanza split custody fifty-fifty with her son's father.

"How old is Hector now?" Win asked. "Nine, ten?"

"He's fifteen, Win."

Win considered that. "Nothing ages you faster than someone else's child."

"Deep," Esperanza said with the slightest hint of sarcasm. All three of them favored a pinch of sarcasm in their voice, but none could deliver the full potpourri of sarcasm's spices and herbs like Esperanza. She was a sarcasm savant. "Speaking of sons, how's it going with Jeremy?"

"It is what it is," Myron said. Then: "I told him I want him to meet my folks."

"Good," Esperanza said. "He should have them in his life."

"He's also not stationed overseas anymore."

Win arched an eyebrow. "Since when?"

"I don't know."

"Where then?"

"It's classified."

Win didn't like that. "But somewhere in the United States?"

"That's what he said."

"Can we get back to this?" Esperanza asked. "Like I said, I have to get home."

"Of course." Win put the snifter down and stood. "Do you need the large screen?"

"It would be helpful."

Win approached what appeared to be a bronze bust of Shakespeare on the marble fireplace mantel but was, in fact, a prop used in the 1960s Batman television series. Bruce Wayne (Batman) or Dick Grayson (Robin) would tilt the head of Shakespeare's bust back, revealing a hidden switch. Once the switch was hit, the bookcase behind the Caped Crusaders would slide open and reveal two poles (one pole said "DICK," one pole said "brUCE," as though they might forget which pole was whose) and then Bruce Wayne, played by the brilliant Adam West, would exclaim, "To the Batpoles!"

Like the famed Caped Crusader before him, Win now tilted back the Shakespeare head, flicked the switch, and voilà, the bookcase slid to one side. Instead of Batpoles, there was a large flat-screen television mounted to the wall. Blackout curtains automatically lowered over the windows, converting Win's parlor into a man cave–styled theater room—albeit one serving Remy Louis XIII Black Pearl Grande Champagne Cognac.

Myron looked over at Win. Win smiled and arched an eyebrow. The man loved his gadgets.

Esperanza quickly mirrored her tablet to the television so they could all view the files on the big screen.

"Okay, so here's what I put together from what PT told you," she began. "We already know about Jordan Kravat in Las Vegas. And we have the Callisters in New York. Adding to that"—she clicked the pad and a new slide appeared—"PT told you about Tracy Keating. I got this off her LinkedIn page."

A photograph appeared of a woman with curly blonde hair and dark glasses and the kind of smile that hit every part of her face and made you want to smile back.

"Tracy Keating was allegedly killed in Marshfield, Massachusetts, by a stalking ex, a guy named Robert Lestrano. She was in the process of getting a restraining order. PT already filled you in on some of this, but I was able to make up pretty extensive files on these three cases—Kravat, Callister, Keating. Win, you may be happy to know your pal Taft Buckingham's kid was helpful in putting this together for me."

"I'm ecstatic," Win said. "Enthralled even."

"Super. So next we dug a little deeper to unearth the other cases. PT mentioned an online abuser getting murdered by a brother. I think we found the case." Esperanza tapped the iPad and a man's face appeared. "The murder victim was Walter Stone. Age fifty-seven, two grown kids, a wife. Spent most of his days abusively trolling online and really went hard after a woman named Amy Howell. She lives in Oregon."

Myron read the file. "Sheesh, this guy was pretty sick."

"You have no idea what we see at the law firm," Esperanza said. "People spiral. They'd never act this way in person. But online? Not to get too deep into it, but social media wants eyeballs. Period, the end. The best way to get that? Divide people. Make them angry. Turn them into extremists."

"Not unlike cable news," Myron said.

"Exactly. Fear and divisiveness offer engagement. Agreement and moderation do not. Anyway, here is the evidence against Howell's brother Edward Pascoe."

Myron read down the list. "Car spotted, CCTV of the car by a water reservoir, murder weapon found there.… It's a lot."

"Yes. The cops consider it open and shut. Two things in Pascoe's favor though. One, his wife was home that night. She said that her husband never left the house, but she also admitted that she was up in the bedroom and that he was downstairs watching television. The DA claimed that—one—she's the wife, she could be lying to protect her husband, and—two—he could have sneaked out without her knowing. The wife testified that the second was impossible, that they have alarms on the house and every time the door opens it pings, but of course, the DA will argue that those can be easily switched off. I have all the details on the case, but let's move on for the moment."

She touched the iPad.

"PT also told you about a father-son murder in Austin, Texas. What's interesting is, it really wasn't hard for me to figure out the cases from what he told you. We think murders are common, but these kinds are pretty rare. I literally just put in my search engine ‘father son tech executive murdered in Austin' and the right case came up."

The screen filled with crime scene photos and articles.

"From what we can tell, the murdered father was a rich guy, his son a ne'er-do-well. A few months before the murder, the father—Philip Barry—disowned the son, Dan. In return for what the son saw as a huge betrayal, the police theory goes, Dan Barry killed his father with a knife. The police got an anonymous call purportedly from a neighbor about a man screaming for his life. They went to the house. The front door was open. They found the dead dad in the kitchen, throat slit. They found the son upstairs still asleep. A bloody knife was under his bed. There were also blood traces on the clothes and sheets, on the stairway, on the path from the kitchen to the son's room. DNA would show they all belonged to the victim. Only one set of fingerprints on the knife—you guessed it, the son's."

"Dumbest killer in history," Win said.

"There were plenty of drugs in his system. The police theory was old-school—he was hopped up on coke, remembered how he'd been disinherited, killed the dad, and probably didn't even realize it."

"Still," Myron said. "An easy conviction."

"To be fair, the son's attorney offered an alternative theory—someone broke into the house while the son was sleeping, killed the dad, planted the knife upstairs, and then called the police anonymously. He pointed out that when the police called, no neighbors admitted making the call and none heard a scream. The call came from an untraceable line."

"So maybe the killer made the call," Myron said.

"Yes."

"That didn't fly in court?" Win asked.

"It didn't fly enough. Dan Barry was hardly a sympathetic witness. He had a record, including vehicular manslaughter. He killed someone in a DUI."

"Did the police look into that?" Myron asked.

"What do you mean?"

"Like, maybe the DUI victim's family was seeking revenge?"

"I don't know. But you hit on a good point."

"That being?"

"Motive. In all these cases, the person convicted of the crime had a motive, so when they claimed that they were framed in some outlandish schemes…"

"It was easy to dismiss," Myron said.

"Right. Imagine, like in this case, the time and planning it would take to get in Barry's house, drug the son, whatever—well, who would buy that someone would go to all that trouble? What would be the killer's motive?"

"Unless," Win said, "there was no motive."

"Like in the case of a serial killer," Myron added. "It all makes horrible sense. Anything else?"

"Not much. PT mentioned a soybean farmer killed by two immigrants who worked for him. The media was quieter on this. I don't think they wanted to arouse trouble for other immigrants in the area. I'm still going through it, but again, blood from the victim was found in the immigrants' bunkhouse."

Myron and Win spent a few moments studying the information on the screen.

"The evidence," Win said. "It's overkill."

"Agree," Esperanza said.

"Murderers are oft careless, of course," Win continued. "And if we view these cases separately, yes, the convictions are solid. But when we group them together, one must marvel at the overall stupidity. Who in our modern world doesn't know your phone location can be tracked? Who doesn't know about CCTV or E-ZPass or DNA?"

"And the gun found in Robert Lestrano's toolshed," Myron added, rising and pointing to the photograph on the screen. "According to the police report, he readily admits to the police that he owned a gun. He tells the police he kept it in a locked case next to his bed. They even watch him open the drawer to retrieve it, and by the cops' own admission, he looks genuinely shocked to see it's missing. How dumb do you have to be to use your own gun and say it's next to your bed and then just hide it in a shed in your yard?"

"Overkill," Win said again.

"Except prosecutors never question overkill," Esperanza added.

"Because," Myron said, "it plays into their preconceived narrative."

Win nodded. "And again to be fair, viewing any one case in a vacuum, there would be no reason to doubt anyone's guilt here."

Myron walked toward the screen on the wall. "Something else is bothering me."

Win and Esperanza waited.

Myron's eyes moved from case to case. Then he asked, "How did the FBI put it together?"

No one replied.

"I mean, think about it. Nothing links these cases. No strands of hair. No locations. No victim type. The killer has been careful about that. Ingenious even. So what made them put it together now?"

"Greg Downing?" Esperanza asked. "Isn't that the point? He's the link."

"Yes, but only in two of the cases set, what, five years apart? How do you go from that to a serial killer? Chronologically, the first murder was Kravat. Greg is linked to that murder because his girlfriend's son was involved with the victim."

"Pretty loose link," Win said.

"And again, going in chronological order, the, what, third or fourth murder, is Cecelia Callister's. Okay, that's a big link obviously. DNA and all that. But how did the FBI link those two murders to Keating or Barry or Stone or…? Wait, hold the phone."

Myron stopped, looked up, didn't move.

Win leaned toward Esperanza and said sotto voce: "I think our boy has a thought. I wish he'd cry ‘Eureka' so we could be sure."

"Funny." Myron suddenly took his phone out of his pocket and hit the fourth number on his speed dial. Terese answered right away.

"Hey," she said.

"I have you on speakerphone," Myron said. "I'm with Win and Esperanza."

Everyone did the quick-greeting thing.

"So what's up?" Terese asked.

"The Ronald Prine murder case."

"What about it?"

"He was killed, what, two days ago?"

"That's right."

"And you said they've already arrested someone?"

"A woman named Jacqueline Newton," Terese replied. Then she said, "Oh, I see where you're going with this. I was starting to wonder the same thing."

"Tell us."

"Newton insists she had nothing to do with it, but the murder weapon is her father's hunting rifle."

"Where did they find the rifle?"

"In her closet. Right where she said it was. Newton claimed that it hadn't been fired in years, but a quick lab test showed it'd just been used."

"Any DNA tying her to it?"

"Not yet, but it's really early. Prine was murdered only forty-eight hours ago."

"Where is Newton now?" Myron asked.

"Being held overnight. Bail hearing is in the morning."

"Do you know her lawyer?"

"Very well. A guy named Kelly Gallagher. He's a solid public defender. He'll do his best."

"Any chance you can get me in to see her?"

"You mean see Jacqueline Newton?"

"I do."

Terese thought about it. "I'll call Kelly."

"I love you, you know," Myron said.

"I do too," Win added.

"I just think you're hot," Esperanza called out.

"I'll take it," Terese said through the speakerphone. "Group hug next time we are all in the same room. Myron?"

"Yes."

"I'm staying at the Rittenhouse Hotel, room 817. I just checked my traffic app. You can be down here in one hour and forty-eight minutes."

"Start the timer," Myron said.

Myron made the drive in about ninety minutes.

Terese had left a key for him at the front desk. He took the elevator up to the eighth floor. When she opened the door, Terese was drying her dirty-blonde hair with a towel. When she smiled at him, Myron felt it in his toes and forgot all about dead bodies and serial killers. For the moment anyway. She wore the hotel's terry-cloth robe. Myron flashed back to the first time he'd seen Terese in a terry-cloth robe, when they'd met up at the H?tel d'Aubusson on the rue Dauphine in Paris.

"Well, hello," Myron said.

"I love how you always open with the smoothest lines."

"It's the ‘well' before the ‘hello.'"

Forget your merry widows, your frilly lace, your G-strings, your baby dolls, your camisoles, your bodysuits, your whatevers. There is nothing sexier than the woman you love drying her hair in a hotel-room terry-cloth robe.

"Want to see something that will really turn you on?" she asked.

Myron managed a nod.

She moved to the side. There was an overstuffed binder on the bed.

"Are those photos of you in a terry-cloth robe?"

"Close," Terese said. "It's a copy of the murder file on Ronald Prine."

"Take me now."

"God, you're easy. Shall we?"

They sat on the bed. Terese paged through the file and told the story. Myron listened intently and resisted the impulse to untie her terry-cloth belt. When they got to the emails Jackie Newton sent to Ronald Prine, Myron began to see a pattern. In the beginning, while the Prine Organization was stalling, Jackie Newton's emails were professional but firm. They increased in frustration and anger in a completely organic way. For the most part, Jackie Newton was contacting a Prine vice president named Fran Shovlin and copying in Ronald Prine.

The Newtons had done the work. She offered up evidence in photographs and videos, in invoices and pay stubs. The Prines didn't care.

"How do companies get away with stuff like this?" Myron asked.

"You're cute when you're na?ve."

"Am I?"

"Not really, no," Terese said. "I wish the Newtons had come to me. I mean, as a journalist."

"Now who's being na?ve?"

Terese considered that before nodding. "Fair."

Still, the story arc of emails, evolving from desperation to anger to finally despair, felt natural. Then a week ago, after months of no contact, Ronald Prine received an email that police claim came from Jackie Newton's home ISP. It simply read:

We haven't forgotten what you did to us.

And then, two days before the murder, one final email:

You think you can just destroy our lives and not pay any price. Get ready.

"Overkill," Myron said.

"Come again?"

He explained what Win had said. "Did Jackie Newton make any statement?"

"Just that she insists she's innocent."

"And her father?"

"He tried to take the fall, but he doesn't have the physical capacity to have done it."

"That can't be good for her," Myron said. "The dad thinking he has to take the fall. Makes her look guilty."

"Right. Gallagher got him to retract."

"That's her attorney, right? Speaking of which, can I talk to Jackie Newton tomorrow?"

"Gallagher said if you'll sign up as part of her legal team, yes, you can speak to Jackie. First thing in the morning." Terese checked the time. "It's getting late. Why don't you take a shower and we can get into bed?"

"You're good with the ideas."

"There's another terry-cloth robe in the bathroom. You can put it on if you want."

"And if I don't want?"

"You be you. Go."

Myron didn't have to be told twice.

An hour later, when they lay spent in the dark, Myron pulled Terese in close for that perfect drift-off-to-sleep spoon.

Terese whispered, "What are you thinking?"

"That you smell good."

She smiled. "What else?"

He thought about it. "For tonight, can that be enough?"

"Hold me closer."

His arm was loose around her waist. He pulled her in tight, closing his eyes, feeling the warmth of her skin.

"Closer," she whispered.

"Any closer and I'll be in front of you."

"Now you're catching on."