Page 23 of The Grave Artist
Maybe so.
Jake and Sanchez had just had a big win in that criminal investigation involving Tristan Kane, which, not to be too cynical about the matter, Reynolds might be happy to coattail on. Whatever his motive, it was good their nemesis might be warming to their pilot program.
“So, now tell me where we are in this present case of yours.”
Sanchez gave an update, some of which Reynolds would know, but it never hurt to repeat yourself when dealing with government minions. The unsub they were dubbing the Honeymoon Killer had struck twice in Italy and once here. The deaths were meant to look like accidents, but it was now clear they were homicides—the team had eased beyond Declan’s 96.5 factor. They had learned of the overseas crimes by scraping data from the press, largely. A request for information from the Italian authorities had not been answered yet. Williamson hoped for a response any day.
Reynolds jotted notes. He looked up. “The congressional oversight committee will want to know why this is a national security threat and not an ordinary psychopath.”
Sanchez was bristling, Jake noted. She said coolly, “You get killed by an ordinary psychopath, it’s pretty much the same as getting blown up by a White supremacist. And the country’s psyche takes pretty much the same hit.”
Reynolds conceded. “Of course.”
Williamson added, “National securityisat risk. And when word gets out, weddings and other events will be canceled. The consequences will be logarithmic.”
“Interesting,” Reynolds mused. “I never thought something like this could be so disruptive.” He was interrupted briefly as a flight attendant brought him a fresh cup of coffee. “Thank you, my dear.” He sipped.
Sanchez continued to tell him about the status of the investigation. “We’ve been canvassing those at the wedding. We have some video captures. We’re trying to track down potential witnesses.” She shrugged. “HK—”
“Who? Oh, Honeymoon Killer. Got it.”
“He’s unique. Never heard of anything like this.”
Reynolds was looking thoughtful. “What on earth is his motive for targeting newlyweds?”
“Unknown,” Sanchez said. “Is the purpose social disruption? Or is that a by-product? He’s a serial actor, sure, but not for classic serial killer motives—sexual gratification in the case of male, revenge or money in the case of female—statistically speaking, anyway. For this case, we need more facts.”
“And you, Master of Intrusion? What are your thoughts?”
“He was savvy enough to dodge security and video. Not easy nowadays. Highly intelligent.”
“Fair enough.” Reynolds was jotting again. “All right. Grist for the mill of Congress.” A frown. “Their questions can besotedious. They positively make love to the cameras. Oh, one thing ... don’t know ifit means anything, but I mentioned it to Eric. The victim? He worked for the Government Accountability Office. Any chance he was targeted because of that by a foreign state actor? He spotted something on a spreadsheet that a contractor or—heaven forbid—a turncoat government employee didn’t want found?”
Ah, the elusive Russian spy, Sergei Ivanov, had made a reappearance, Jake thought wryly.
“We looked into that,” Sanchez said. “He wasn’t doing anything critical. He was working on audits for the Parks Department.”
“Parks, ah. Of course, could be a clever cover.” He let that linger. “Any connection with Italy?”
“None that we could find. And Declan was full-on deep dive.”
“All right. I’ll toss it in the unlikely pile. Just as important to eliminate suspects as discover them. Well, you folks are doing a stellar job. And I’m sure our congressional colleagues will get tired of the whole thing in record time and move on to something else that’s pointless to everyone except glassy-eyed C-SPAN addicts.” He dabbed at his lips with a dainty napkin. “One other thing, Jake. I appreciate your information about my emails and encryption. I’ve learned my lesson.”
Jake nodded in response. This seemed like a whole new Stanley R. Reynolds. And, in fact, his diagnostic bot had not found evidence that the misstep was a PPI that had let a virus into their system.
Reynolds then looked out the window with a distressed expression. “We’re about to land. I’m a bit of a nervous Nellie on planes. Gravity and all that, so I’ll disconnect and hold on to the armrests for dear life. Thank you, gentlemen and lady. I’ll let you know how the inquisition goes.”
The screen showed the message:The meeting has ended.
“Well, shit,” Williamson muttered. “Can you believe that?”
Sanchez scoffed. “Not the Reynolds we know and hate.”
“I thought he wanted to toss us in the dustbin of bureaucracy,” Williamson said. “Now he actually used the word ‘cheerleading.’”
In a cool, analytical voice, Jake said, “Let’s accept that Reynolds still is a two-faced, power-hungry narcissist—”
“Don’t sugarcoat it, now,” Williamson said as he chuckled.
