First Daughter

FORTY — FOUR

JACK FELT as if he were walking a tightrope. On the one hand, he had promised Edward Carson to deliver Alli at noon today; on the other, he needed to find some way to get Alli to open up about Ian Brady because she was his only link to him. She'd been with him long enough; it was possible she had seen or heard something that could lead him to the murderer.

"Alli, I know how hard this must be for you," he said as she came down to the kitchen, "I know this man is scary."

Instantly, she turned away. "I don't want to talk about it."

He ignored the deer-caught-in-the-headlights glassiness of her eyes, plowed relentlessly on. This might be his last chance to get her to talk about her ordeal. "Alli, listen to me, we need to know why Kray abducted you. He didn't do it for a lark, he had a plan in mind. Only you and he know what that is. You're the key to what happened."

"I'm telling you I don't know. I can't remember."

"But have you tried?" Jack said. "Really tried?"

"Please, Jack." She began to tremble all over, absolutely certain that she was close to something terrible, that she was approaching a pit of fire into which she could not help but walk and be consumed. Even Jack couldn't save her now. "Please stop."

"Alli, I'm sure Emma would want you to-"

"Don't!" She spun around, her face flushed. "Don't use Emma that way."

"All right." Jack held up his hands. He knew he'd gone too far. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you." The more he pushed her, the more agitated she became. He wasn't going to get anything more out of her this way or any other way he could think of. Like it or not, he had to back off.

He smiled at her. "Are we good?"

Alli tried to smile back, but all she could do was nod numbly.

THEY WERE just sitting down to breakfast when Jack heard a car pull up outside. Assuming it was the Secret Service detail, he crossed to the front door, stepped outside to tell them not to come into the house. Instead, he saw Egon Schiltz's maroon classic station wagon, a superlative 1950 Buick Super Model 59 Estate Woodie Wagon, with its unique Niagara Falls bumper, real birchwood side panels, the original straight-eight-cylinder engine with 124 horsepower and GM's then-i

He raised an arm as he got out of the woodie. "Finally. I tried all yesterday to reach you, but you weren't answering your cell phone, and Chief Be

Jack came down off the porch. The mild air was still in place; there was only the hint of a chill in the air, low sunlight already melting silver hoarfrost.

"How are you, Egon?"

"Ask me in a month." Schiltz gave a wry smile. "I came clean with Candy. I think she would've moved out, except for Molly. Molly must never know, that's something the two of us absolutely agreed on."

"If you agree on one thing, more will follow. You two should see someone."

Egon nodded. "I want to. I'm sure Candy does, too. She just needs some time." He scratched the back of his head. "You're a good friend, Jack, thank you. I feel…" He sighed heavily. "It turns out you know me better than I know myself. Living a lie isn't for me, which is why I've stopped going to church for the time being." He leaned back against the mottled trunk of a tree. "It's not so bad. Truthfully, I don't think Molly misses it at all. I tried to make her see the light, but it's no good, you see. It doesn't work. You want for your child everything you yourself didn't have, only to discover she wants only what she wants. And in the end, you're meaningless, really. It's her life." He rubbed his hands briskly. "She never really got God. Either you believe or you don't. There's no point going through the motions."

"I hope you haven't stopped believing, Egon."

The ME produced a rueful smile. "That would make my entire life a mockery. No, no, I still believe in God, but what you made me realize is that there are many paths to redemption. I've got to find mine. The Church can't help me."

Jack clapped his friend on the shoulder. "Everyone needs the freedom to make up their own mind." He gestured with his head. "D'you want to come in? I can fix you some breakfast."

Egon glanced around. "Not if you have guests."

"In that case," Jack said, "let's take a walk."

They went around the north side of the house. It was colder here; the green Bilco doors were still rimed with a thin layer of ice, the fallen leaves stuck together with the glue of winter.

"Something mighty queer is going on," Egon said.

Jack was automatically on alert. "In what way?"

"You heard about that girl, Calla Myers, being stabbed to death on the Spanish Steps the other day. The District ME is an old bridge buddy of mine. He called yesterday morning, and I met with him. He told me that the stab wound was in the same place as the ones on the two agents guarding Alli Carson. I showed him the photos of the wounds, and he confirmed the one that killed Calla Myers was identical."

"Did you confirm it on her body?"

"Well, that's the thing," Egon said. "The body wasn't in his morgue. The feds whisked it out of there along with his preliminary findings."

Jack was hardly surprised, since it was clear that Calla Myers was Ian Brady's latest victim. But the very fact that he'd targeted her set Jack's synapses to firing overtime. Another Rubik's Cube was forming in his head, and he didn't like the shape of it one bit. He'd heard the president's address. Direct evidence linked Calla Myers, a member of the FASR, to the murders of the SS agents. That was part of the rationale used to close down the Kansas Avenue office and take its members into custody. What did it mean that Brady-a federally protected person-had murdered Calla Myers? Brady had killed the Secret Service detail. In the initial briefing, Hugh Garner had told him that the detail's cell phones hadn't been found. In an instant, the Rubik's Cube in Jack's mind slid into focus. Of course the phones hadn't been found; Brady had taken them. And now he'd planted one with Calla Myers to implicate her and, by extension, the FASR.

Egon broke into his thoughts. "Jack, are you still with me?"

Jack nodded. "I was just thinking about Calla Myers's murderer. I think I know who it is, but I have no idea what his real name is or where to find him."

"I just might be able to help you there." Egon took out a small pad, flipped it open. "As I said, my friend hadn't finished his autopsy on Calla Myers when the feds took her away, but he did note something interesting. He hadn't yet put it in his prelim, because he needed to check it out, so the feds don't have it."

Schiltz consulted his pad. "As per the MO, there were no fingerprints whatsoever except for the vic's, which leads us to the inescapable conclusion that the perp wore gloves of some sort. My friend found traces of a superfine powder on Calla Myers's coat, in the place under her left arm consistent with where someone who had his arm around her would place his hand.

"It took him some time to figure out what this powder actually was." Egon glanced up. "You'll like this, Jack. What was on Calla Myers's coat was logwood powder. Logwood is a heartwood extract from Haematoxylon campechianum, found in Central America and the West Indies. When mixed with a carrier, such as ethyl alcohol, glycerine, or Listerine, it becomes a black pigment used for tattooing." He snapped the pad closed. "And, by the way, Calla Myers had no tattoos."

Jack's heart leapt. "So the logwood powder came from the perp."

Schiltz nodded. "Whatever else this sonovabitch is, he's also a tattoo artist. But here's the best part. Almost all tattoo artists buy pre-mixed pigments. None of those use logwood as an ingredient. Your man mixes his pigments by hand."