Читать книгу Cause to Fear - Blake Pierce, Блейк Пирс - Страница 9

Even before Avery and Ramirez were able to get into the precinct, Avery could tell that this situation had gotten out of hand. She had to carefully maneuver the car through the A1 parking lot to not hit reporters or clip news vans. The place was an absolute circus and they had not even gotten inside yet.

“This looks bad,” Ramirez said.

“It does,” she said. “How in the hell did the press find out about this letter if it came directly to the precinct?”

Ramirez could only shrug as they got out of the car and hurried inside. A few reporters got in the way, one of whom practically stepped out in front of Avery. She nearly collided with him but sidestepped him just in time. She heard him call her a bitch under his breath but that was the least of her concerns.

They fought their way to the door, with reporters clamoring for comment and flashbulbs going off. Avery felt her blood boiling and would have given anything in that moment to punch one of those nosy ass reporters directly in the nose.

When they finally made it into the precinct with the doors closed and locked securely behind them, she saw that the inside wasn’t much better. She’d seen the A1 in a state of urgency and disarray before, but this was something new. Maybe there’s a leak in the A1, Avery thought as she walked quickly toward Connelly’s office. Before she reached it, though, she saw him storming down the hallway. O’Malley and Finley were marching behind him.

“Conference room,” Connelly barked.

Avery nodded, taking a right a few feet further down the hall. She noticed that no one else was milling around the conference room door, meaning that this meeting was going to be small. And those types of meetings were typically not pleasant. She and Ramirez followed Connelly into the room. The moment O’Malley and Finley were also inside, Connelly shut the door and locked it.

He threw a sheet of paper down onto the conference room table. It was covered in a clear plastic sheet, causing it to slide almost perfectly in Avery’s direction. She picked it up carefully and looked at it.

“Just read it,” Connelly said. He was frustrated and looked a little pale. His hair was in disarray and there was a wild look in his eyes.

Avery did as instructed. Without removing the single sheet of paper, she read the letter. With each word she read, the room seemed to grow colder.

Ice is beautiful, but it kills. Think of the gorgeous sparkle of a thin layer of frost on your windshield on a late fall morning. That same pretty ice is killing plant life.

It’s efficient in its beauty. And the flower comes back…always comes back. Rebirth.

The cold is erotic, but it maims. Think of being extremely cold coming out of a winter storm and then curling up naked with a lover under the sheets.

Are you chilled yet? Can you feel the iciness of being outsmarted?

There will be more. More cold bodies, floating into the afterlife.

I dare you to try to stop me.

You’ll succumb to the cold before you find me. And while you’re freezing, wondering what happened just like the flowers burdened with frost, I’ll be long gone.

“When did this come in?” Avery asked, setting the letter back on the desk for Ramirez to read.

“Sometime today,” Connelly said. “The envelope itself wasn’t opened until about an hour ago.”

“How in the hell did the press know already?” Ramirez asked.

“Because every local news network also received a copy of it.”

“Holy shit,” Ramirez said.

“Do we know when the media got their copies?” Avery asked.

“It was sent via email a little over an hour ago. We assume it’s so it would get there in time to make the eleven o’clock news.”

“Where was it emailed from?” Avery asked.

“Oh, this is the screwed up part…well, one screwed up part,” O’Malley said. “The email address is registered to a woman named Mildred Spencer. She’s a seventy-two-year-old widow that only has the email address to keep in touch with her grandkids. We’ve got someone talking to her right now, but all signs point to the account being hacked.”

“Can we trace the hack?” Avery asked.

“No one at the A1 has the capabilities. We’ve called the State Police to try to crack it.”

Ramirez was done with the letter, sliding it back to the center of the table. Avery slid it back over to her and eyed it again. She did not read it again, but just studied it: the paper, the handwriting, the odd placement of sentences on the paper.

“Any initial thoughts, Black?” Connelly asked.

“A few. First, where’s the envelope it came in?”

“Back at my desk. Finley, run fetch it, would you?”

Finley did as he had been asked while Avery continued to pore over the letter. The handwriting was pristine but also sort of childlike. It looked like someone had gone to great lengths to perfect it. There were also a few key words that jumped out to her as being quite odd.

“What else?” Connelly asked.

“Well, a few things right off the bat. The fact that he sent us a letter makes it clear that he wants us to know it’s him – without knowing his identity. So while it might not be a game to him per se, it’s something he wants credit for. He also enjoys being hunted down. He wants us to go after him.”

“Are there any clues in there?” O’Malley asked. “I’ve looked it over at least a dozen times and I’m getting nothing.”

“Well, the wording is weird in some places. The mention of a windshield in a letter where the only other concrete thing he references are flowers and bed covers seems strange. I think it’s also worth noting that he used the words erotic and lover. Pair that with the fact that the victim we found today was pretty much gorgeous and there’s got to be something there. The mention of afterlife and rebirth is unsettling, too. But we could go a million different ways with that until we know more.”

“Anything else?” Ramirez asked with his usual not-so-concealed smile. He loved to see her on a roll. She tried to push this to the back of her mind as she went on.

“The way he breaks his lines up…it’s almost like fragmented stanzas of poetry. Most every other letter I’ve ever seen in old case studies where the killer contacted the police or media was usually in blocks of text.”

“How’s that a clue?” Connelly asked.

“It might not be,” Avery said. “I’m just free-styling here.”

A knock came at the door. Connelly opened it and Finley stepped back in. He closed the door behind him, setting the lock. He then carefully placed the envelope on the table. There was nothing remarkable about it. The address to the station had been written in the same carefully practiced script that was on the letter. There was no return address and a Forever stamp in the left corner. The postmark was high on the envelope and mostly to the left, its edges touching the stamp.

“It came from zip code 02199,” O’Malley said. “But that means nothing. The killer could have gone miles outside of his area to mail it.”

“That’s true,” Avery said. “And this guy seems too smart and determined to lead us right to him via a zip code. He’d have thought about that. The zip code is a dead end, I can guarantee it.”

“So then what does that leave us to go on?” Finley asked.

“Well,” Avery said, “this guy seems to be preoccupied with the cold, with ice in particular. And not just because that’s where we found the body. It’s all over the letter. He seems to be fixated on it. So I wonder…can we run a search for anything dealing with ice or the cold? Ice skating rinks, meat lockers, labs, anything.”

“You’re certain the location isn’t purposeful?” Connelly asked. “If he wants to be known, maybe the zip code was like a calling card.”

“No, I’m not certain. Not at all. But if we can find a business or some other organization that deals in ice or just the cold inside of that zip code, I’d maybe start there.”

“Okay,” Finley said. “So do we need to check security tapes around the locations of post offices or drop boxes?”

“God no,” Connelly said. “It’ll take forever and there’s no way we’d know when this particular letter was sent.”

“We need a list of those businesses and organizations,” Avery said. “That’s going to be the best place to start. Can anyone think of any right off the top of their heads?”

After several moments of silence, Connelly let out a sigh. “I don’t know right off the top of my head,” he said. “But I can have you a list within half an hour. Finley, can you get that request rolling?”

“On it,” Finley said.

When he was out of the room again, Avery raised an eyebrow in Connelly’s direction. “Is Finley an errand boy now?”

“Not at all. You’re not the only one up for a promotion. I’m trying to get him more involved in every aspect of high-profile cases. And as you know, he thinks you walk on water so I’m giving him a chance on this one.”

“And why are we locking ourselves in the conference room?” she asked.

“Because the press is on this. I don’t want to take any chances with bugged rooms or tapped phone lines.”

“Seems paranoid,” Ramirez said.

“Seems smart,” Connelly said with a bit of venom.

Wanting to prevent a pissing match between the two, Avery pulled the letter closer to her. “You mind if I eyeball this letter some more while we wait on results?”

“Please do. I’d much rather have someone on the A1 figure it out before the media blasts it all over TV and some nerdy kid in a basement figures it out.”

“We need to get Forensics on this. A handwriting analysis should be done. The envelope needs to be looked over for any trace evidence: fingerprints, dust filaments, anything.”

“They’ve been notified and the letter is going to them right away the moment you’re done with it.”

“It’s got to be done quickly,” she said. “I know you were just making a joke about some kid in his basement figuring it out, but it’s a legitimate concern. And when this thing hits social media, there’s no telling what sorts of eyes and minds might be analyzing it.”

As she started to take a closer look at the letter, Finley came back in the room. “That was fast,” O’Malley said.

“Well, it just so happens that one of the women on dispatch has a father that works near the Prudential Center. And that’s within the 02199 zip code, by the way. Maybe just a coincidence, but you never know. Anyway, her husband works at a tech lab over that way. She says they do these crazy experiments with quantum mechanics and things like that. Some sort of arm of the tech school at Boston University.”

“Quantum mechanics?” O’Malley asked. “That’s doesn’t fit with our guy, does it?”

“It depends on the experiments,” Avery said, instantly interested. “I don’t know much about the field, but I do know that there are areas in quantum mechanics that deal with extreme temperatures. Something to do with finding the durability and central origin points of different kinds of matter.”

“How the hell do you know all of this?” Connelly asked.

She shrugged. “I watched a lot of Discovery Channel in college. Some of it stuck, I guess.”

“Well, it’s worth a shot,” Connelly said. “Let’s get some information on the lab and get out there to speak to the brass.”

“I can get that done,” Avery said.

“In the meantime,” Connelly said, looking at his watch, “the nightly news goes live in about three minutes. Let’s tune in and see how badly the media is going to fuck this case for us.”

He stormed out of the conference room with O’Malley on his heels. Finley gave Avery an apologetic look and then followed out after them. Ramirez looked at the letter over Avery’s shoulder with a shake of the head.

“You think this guy is deranged or just wants us to think he’s nuts?” he asked her.

“I’m not sure yet,” she said, rereading the cryptic letter. “But I do know that this lab is the perfect place to start.”