"He saw him," Jack said as he opened the car door.
I stopped, fingers grazing the handle, and looked over the roof at him, but he just climbed in and started the engine. As I slid into my seat, he continued, "Kozlov witnessed a hit. Probably the one that got him fired. Didn't just let his guy get whacked. Saw the hitman. Maybe even recognized him. Been sitting on it all these years."
"And he called in the marker?"
"Maybe. Or maybe Kozlov wasn't the only one retiring."
I frowned over at him as he pulled out of the parking lot.
"Gotta clean up before you retire. Clip the loose ends. Otherwise--" He shrugged. "No sense quitting. Always looking over your shoulder."
I took a moment to unravel this and fill in the missing parts. "You mean that if a hitman wants to retire to a normal life, he needs an exit strategy, to make damned sure there's nothing, and no one who can finger him?" I twisted to look at him. "Do you think that's what this guy is doing? Tying up all his loose ends by killing witnesses?"
"Could be."
* * *
TWENTY-NINE
When I rapped on Evelyn's door, she shouted a muffled welcome. We found her in the living room, tapping away on her keyboard, gaze fixed not on the monitor, but on the TV across the room. Before I could say hello, she gestured for silence and pointed at the television screen.
"--have confirmed the existence of a second letter, reportedly from the person responsible for the killings," a news anchor was saying. "In it, the alleged killer speaks disparagingly of the federal agents assigned to the investigation--"
"Disparagingly?" Evelyn snorted. "Like I speak 'disparagingly' about the damned property taxes in this neighborhood."
"--agents are defending their actions, stressing that at no time did they consider the psychiatric patient a viable suspect. However, as several staff members at the hospital have confirmed, the FBI has taken a serious and ongoing interest in Benjamin Moreland--"
Evelyn waved us to the computer. On the monitor was the letter from the killer.
Dear Mr. & Mrs. Citizen,
For two weeks now, I have been taking lives where I wish, and the federal agents assigned to catch me are no closer to their goal today than they were after the first death. In jest, I left a small trail of bread crumbs for them to follow--pages from a book, a letter claiming kinship with the subject of that book, a hair plucked from the arm of one who is indeed kin to that subject.
The joke is that the man to whom the hair belonged is one Benjamin Moreland, a schizophrenic who has been in a mental institution for the last six months. When I led the FBI to Mr. Moreland, I assumed they would see that it was a prank. Not only has he been in a secure facility since the crimes began, but he is diagnosed with a condition that would make it impossible for him to carry out murders as methodical and careful as these, as your experts will tell you. And yet, the FBI has turned their investigative efforts in his direction and are even now on the verge of arresting Mr. Moreland. This is how your premier law enforcement agency protects you.
So who can protect you? You can. I will ask for no more than you can afford--a laughably small price to pay for the safety of yourself and your loved ones.
"Scroll down," I said.
"That's it."
"But there's no demand. See if you can find a complete version--"
"That's all there is, Dee. I've searched every copy, and every summary. There is no demand."
Evelyn showed us a few sites where people were already debating the missing demand, and the significance of its absence. The prevailing theory was that the demand portion of the letter had been suppressed, that someone had managed to scare every news agency in the country into not printing it.
Bullshit, of course. The killer had intentionally held back his demand to leave people dangling. Let the panic mount, and the conspiracy theorists feed off it.
As for the ineptitude of the Feds, that was more misleading fear-mongering. He'd put the federal agents in the awkward position of defending themselves to Joe and Jane Citizen, who've read too many stories about inept, ineffectual or corrupt cops.
"Head games, Dee," Jack murmured. "Remember that. We're getting closer."
"Are we?" I said, unclenching my jaw, but keeping my gaze down, hiding the dark rage bubbling in my gut. "This throws a big wrench in our theory, doesn't it?"
Evelyn flicked off the monitor. "Tell me this theory."
I explained what we'd learned from Volkv.