Hellbound/L.M.Lewis
Chapter 3
"Crap," Hardcastle huffed, "Like I said."
It had really only been a second or two; it had just felt much longer. Long enough for Mark to thrash around mentally to try and establish exactly where he'd been during the intervals that would be in question. Now he let out a long breath that he hoped went unnoticed.
Harper, of course, got the full implication of what had been said, even if Noman had just thrown the thing out without any awareness of who he was pointing at.
Now Frank fidgeted slightly—the number of people he was willing to make eye contact with was dropping rapidly. "Might be 'crap', Milt, but it's gonna be official crap pretty soon. Dr. Noman here, will be submitting his findings to the head of the task force tomorrow."
McCormick was fairly certain that Frank hadn't heard the last part of the theory before just a moment ago. In fact, it sounded almost as if Noman had supplied it off the cuff, in which case it might not be too late to correct his trajectory. Mark only hoped it could be done without drawing too much attention to who the target currently seemed to be.
A couple more seconds of silence passed, with Noman waiting expectantly for the judge to reconsider his original, hasty assessment. Hardcastle sat there looking aggravated. It must have only taken an instant for the man to decide that he and Frank weren't going to be the only two people for whom the shrink's description would bring a blinding flash of recognition, but now he seemed to be giving his options a little thought.
He finally spoke again; still brusque, but slightly more tempered. "Listen, there's a whole bunch of people out there who know me and maybe I'm not the easiest guy to get along with—"
Mark couldn't help it, but he did at least manage to half-stifle the snort. The judge shot him a glaring glance and Noman seemed to pick up on the interchange.
"But there are probably only a few," the psychologist gave Mark a longer, more considering look, "maybe only one, who—"
Frank jumped into it abruptly. "Mark was here when I called about Shelia Storm's death. That was only a little while after it happened . . ." Harper frowned, obviously trying to figure out how little a while and what the transit time between the estate and the victim's building might be.
"He was here with me all that evening," Hardcastle finished for him.
Noman was sitting up straighter, now that he had an actual suspect to go with his conjecture. "But, as you said, either one or both of the first two victims might have been suicides."
Mark thought the guy had let go of his original set-up pretty damn easily. This was someone who was absolutely willing to adjust the facts on the fly to fit his theory.
"The perpetrator might merely have gotten his idea from the circumstances of the first two deaths," Noman continued. "He may have only started taking an active part in the deaths with the third event."
Okay, that narrows down the opportunities for alibis. Mark swallowed once and stared very hard at the floor in front of him.
"He was here," the judge said firmly, "on the estate, with me, the afternoon Romney and Walthall were killed." McCormick noticed he'd skipped right over the Harleson murder. That one was impossible.
And now Mark said absolutely nothing. There'd been at least four hours between Hardcastle's original call to Romney and the time they'd left for the appointment, and the mobster's home was less than twenty minutes away.
On top of that, Hardcastle had spent almost all of that interval in the basement with his files. He wouldn't have known if his associate was on the grounds or not. Mark wasn't sure if the judge had thought it through to that part, or if he would admit to it, should the questioning get more detailed.
For now Noman merely nodded and appeared to be willing to move on. He didn't even seem to think there ought to be any awkwardness about it.
Oh, but by tomorrow it'll be official crap.
Mark suppressed a shudder, fueled by previous experience with the way the law enforcement mentality worked. Previous guilt counted for a lot in the system, and it didn't matter how different the earlier crime was. Add to that the natural bureaucratic desire to have things over and done with—to close the books—and the charm of a clever theory . . . damn it all for coming up with that first, and Hardcastle blurting out that you had. That'll look bad, too.
But the judge seemed calm, and now he was at least feigning a spirit of cooperation. The Romney file had been passed across the desk, and Noman was even being given permission to borrow what he thought relevant. It might have been an attempt to win his trust, Mark thought, or maybe the quickest way to be rid of the man. McCormick appreciated the effort, either way.
The man was finally on his feet, smiling and nodding his thanks. Frank was up, too, looking relieved to be going. Mark stayed put as Hardcastle saw the other two to the door. He was still in the chair when the judge returned.
"Well . . . that was interesting." McCormick said with very little attempt to hide his worry.
He looked up and caught a glimpse of what Hardcastle had done a pretty good job of concealing while company had been present. The man was seething.
"It's a damn pile of crap." He'd dropped down in his chair behind the desk. "And you had to come up with it first." The judge shook his head in what appeared to be disbelief, then leaned forward, elbows on the desk and fixed McCormick with a look. "You don't suppose it's true, do ya?"
"Which part?"
"The first part, dammit. I know you didn't do it."
Mark almost had to smile at this rather aggravated vote of confidence. But as to the rest, he gave a long shrug. "I hope it's not a case of great minds thinking alike. Hearing that guy say it out loud made me realize why it was such a hard sell when I was peddling it."
"Well, you were more convincing." Hardcastle let out a heavy sigh and worked the bridge of his nose pretty hard with his fingers, as though he had a headache he just couldn't shake.
Then he sat back suddenly and said, "From now on, you stick close to home. No trips out on your own."
From this Mark gathered that the judge no longer thought it was all over, maybe he was even hoping it wasn't. Just one more murder, that's all we need. But it wouldn't be just one more, if the theory was right and neither fate nor the LAPD intervened.
"You want the Cliff Notes or the Longfellow translation?" he offered.
"Longfellow, huh? 'By the shores of Gitche Gumee' Longfellow?"
McCormick frowned. "I think there's only the one."
"So, does it rhyme?"
Mark shook his head.
"Gimme the notes."
Mark nodded and got to his feet wearily. He was up the steps and in the doorway before he stopped and half-turned back. "What about at night? I could be out hunting down heretics at night; you'd never know."
"Heretics." Hardcastle rolled his eyes. "See, that's what I mean. A pile of crap . . . Okay, you take the guest bedroom. I'll tie a string of tin cans to your ankle maybe. It's either that or I have Frank find you a bunk down in the lock-up."
This time Mark really did shudder. "No. No thanks. Tin cans, handcuffs if necessary."
"Like that'd do any good."
00000
Nervous tedium, and too much togetherness. By the following afternoon, Mark was starting to wonder if the next murder might take place at Gull's Way. It was worry, pure and simple, at least on his side, and he thought maybe on Hardcastle's, too. He'd seen the man twitch every time the phone rang, but he'd decided to let him do the answering for a while, figuring it might as well be him who intercepted the one requesting that his parolee come in for an interview.
It was only as afternoon wore into evening, and the logical time for official action had passed, that he felt himself relax just a notch or two. He made dinner. He even managed to eat some of it, and he noticed the judge had, too.
He finished the dishes, and joined Hardcastle in the den, feeling as weary as if he'd dug ditches all day. He found the man leaning back in his chair, legs crossed, turned partway round and looking out the window at the darkness.
He slouched in, trying not to interrupt whatever was going on in the guy's head. He slipped into a chair.
"What?" Hardcastle asked, after a couple more moments had passed.
"I didn't say anything."
"I know, but you were thinking awfully loud. I just could quite make it out. So . . . what?"
"Oh, I was just wondering. You think maybe they didn't buy into what Noman was saying? Or maybe they aren't even considering me?" He couldn't help the edge of pleading hopefulness that had crept into the last part.
Hardcastle held one hand out flat and waggled it, just twice. Then he sighed. "Wouldn't count on it. Committees, ya know—coming to the wrong conclusion might take 'em a little while, but that doesn't mean they won't get there eventually."
Mark felt his shoulders slump and he was sure his face revealed at least part of his anxiety, because Hardcastle hastily amended his position, adding, "But you got nothing to worry about, kiddo. I'd say that's a pretty solid alibi you got for Romney and Walthall."
McCormick swallowed. Even now, after almost a year, he wasn't always sure what was being left unsaid intentionally. Every once in a while the judge seemed to operate on a need-to-know basis that didn't even include himself.
Still, this time out, Mark thought it might be better to be up-front about things. It could be that the judge hadn't quite thought this through.
"That afternoon," he started, then hesitated. The judge was just giving him a puzzled look. Mark shook his head once and pushed forward again. "You were downstairs going through files. You were down there for a few hours."
"Yeah. So?"
"You don't even hear the phone ring when you're down there. I could have been . . . anywhere."
"But you weren't. You were up here slouching around, the way you always are when there's stuff to be done and you don't much feel like doing it."
Mark frowned. He didn't know how to make it any clearer except by saying it straight out.
"Listen," he said, very intently, "They'll haul me downtown. Then they'll pull you aside and start asking about the specifics. They'll want to know exactly where you were, and exactly how much of the time you knew where I was. What you said to Noman isn't going to be enough." He paused again, just for a half-second, and then he said, "The truth won't be enough."
Hardcastle looked back at him, just as intently, and said, "So, you think I should lie?"
"No." He was surprised at that. He shook his head and revised it slightly. "Well, maybe not. Not exactly." He ran his fingers through his hair. "It's some kinda damn nightmare. No," he finally said, "I don't want you to lie. Probably wouldn't work, anyway. You don't get enough practice." He managed a quick, small smile at that. It faded almost as swiftly. "I just want you to realize, I'm not out of the woods yet, and from here it looks pretty damn dark."
"Yeah, lying probably wouldn't work," Hardcastle heaved a deep breath. "But I'm not as bad at it as you think," he added defensively. "It's just that there's guys down there who figure I would do it. Maybe I'm not all that hot as an alibi in the first place."
"So, maybe you should have Frank find me a nice cell. Maybe I can be a material witness or something," Mark said glumly.
"Let's not put ideas in their heads. People tend to look more guilty once they're behind bars."
Mark's eyebrows went up. "You admit that?"
Hardcastle shrugged. "Just human nature, that's all. Wouldn't need the presumption of innocence if people's minds actually worked that way."
"Hah." McCormick sat back—again the momentary smile, again it was pursued and shot down by worry. "And in the meantime . . .?"
"We sit tight."
"You think there'll be another murder?"
The expression that briefly crossed Hardcastle's face was perilously close to wistful. "Don't know," he said, "maybe a little straightforward mob retaliation—something with a semi-automatic in the back of a warehouse. Not a goddamn heretic, I hope."
"Yeah," Mark added with heartfelt sincerity on both counts, then wondered which circle of hell accommodated people who hoped for just one murder more.
00000
He woke early again the next morning, and slightly confused by his surroundings, though he recognized it for one of the guest bedrooms in the main house, and the why of it came crashing back down on him only a moment later. It was barely daylight. He frowned, wondering if there was any hope of getting back to sleep and then deciding the answer was no.
He supposed he ought to stay put until Hardcastle was up, but that seemed just as silly as the rest of this ritual of close confinement. He sat up, got his feet on the floor, and headed down to the kitchen.
He was partway into making that vital first pot of coffee when the phone rang. He froze where he was standing, though he was pretty sure his heart hadn't actually stopped.
Hardcastle couldn't have been too deeply asleep; it was picked up on the first ring. Mark resisted for a few seconds longer, then decided that a call at this hour was almost undoubtedly his business, too. He put the carafe down and picked up the receiver, gently and just in time to hear Hardcastle say, 'When?'
"'Bout a half-hour ago." It was Frank. "You comin' down?"
"Yeah," the judge muttered. "It'll take a couple minutes." Mark heard rustling, the man getting out of bed. "What time is it?"
"Ah, 6:25 . . . you'll bring Mark?"
Hardcastle grunted an affirmative.
McCormick wasn't sure if Harper's question had fit under 'wanted for further questioning' or whether he, too, had already concluded that Mark now needed a rolling alibi. He heard the lieutenant hang up, without anything more than the 'good-bye' of a harried man.
He hung up as well, using no particular precautions. He heard Hardcastle on the stairs a moment later.
"You heard that?" the man asked as he came into the kitchen.
"Not the first bit," Mark admitted.
"Eternal Peace Cemetery. Someone driving by this morning noticed flames, called it in. It was a family crypt, an old one."
"Not much to burn in one of those."
"There is when you pour in a couple gallons of gasoline and toss a match. They said the flames were shooting up through the grating about six feet. There's bodies, of course, but they're still trying to sort out what's what. Frank says at least one is fresh, well, not so fresh anymore. But he wasn't in a box, at any rate."
"They got an ID on him? Any known religious leanings?" Mark asked wearily. "Not a defrocked priest or anything like that?"
"They're still working on it."
"Well, I've only been up for a couple of minutes. Honest. Haven't even had any coffee yet."
00000
Mark drove and they took turns yawning. It was now clear daylight, and the entrance to the cemetery was made obvious, even from a distance, by the collection of official vehicles that were gathered there. The crypt was obvious, too; its white marble now stained sooty black along the front and above the barred but broken window on the one visible side. Mark pulled himself up out of the car and took it all in. The coroner's wagon was off to one side. The door of the crypt appeared to have been forced. It was now off its hinges completely and set aside.
A technician and a plainclothes guy were bent over something on the ground. It took Mark a moment to recognize it for a corpse. Hardcastle was already out of the car and heading that way. He was intercepted by Harper, with Parks closing in right behind him. Mark decided reluctance could only be interpreted the wrong way. He finished extracting himself from the Coyote and went to join the others.
Parks gave him a quick, pointed look as he sauntered up. He'd obviously been talking and now continued on, "So somebody leaked word to the press and the rumor is it's on page five this morning as 'The 'Inferno' Killer'. This'll probably bump it to page one in the late edition. All we were missing up till now were some open flames," he added bitterly.
"And the body?" Hardcastle was obviously trying to drag the discussion back to the facts.
Parks frowned. "No ID yet. No wallet. He went in alive and most likely conscious. The passerby reported hearing screams." The detective grimaced. "There was a chain across the door handle; the original lock was rusted through. The door must've opened without too much persuasion: victim inside, door chained, gas in through the broken window, match. That's it."
"But," Hardcastle insisted, "the murderer had to have known that in advance, about the door, I mean. Must've hung around here some, checked things out beforehand."
"We're looking into all that, Milt." Harper had a somewhat peeved expression, but his gaze was directed slightly up and past Hardcastle. Mark turned to follow it and saw Dr. Noman, standing a little ways off, looking at everything with rapt attention. He appeared to have arrived recently.
Seeing them gathered there, Noman nodded once briskly and strolled over. "Good morning gentlemen." There was a particular nod in Park's direction. "I trust there'll be no more equivocating about the direction this investigation ought to be heading in."
"We don't even know who the hell the victim is," Harper said.
"He's a man in a burning tomb. I think you'll find other connections to the current case, once you've identified him."
Noman looked almost satisfied with the development. Mark would have been appalled, if he hadn't himself been wishing very hard for a gangland shooting the night before.
"What time did it occur?" the psychologist asked curiously.
"Just before dawn," Harper said.
Noman shifted his gaze to McCormick, who cast a quick glance at Parks before answering the unasked question, quickly and quietly. "I was at home, asleep."
Noman cocked his head at this and smiled thinly, as if he'd expected not much more.
"We're forty-five minutes from the cemetery," Hardcastle interjected. "I clocked it. Frank's call came in to us at six twenty-five. What time did this get called in?"
Park didn't need to consult his notebook this time. "Five fifty-five. That's when the dispatchers were alerted. They relayed it to me. And I called Harper right after that."
"Which fits," the judge added sharply. "Sunrise right around six this time of year. I think you're gonna have to open up your suspect list a little more, Noman."
The psychologist smiled thinly. "Well, that's not really my department, is it? I just come up with the general outline. I've already indicated that the profile includes risk-taking behavior. That looks like quite the fast vehicle you have over there, Mr. McCormick. Anyway," he sighed wearily, "it's up to the Task Force to implement or reject my suggestions."
"We haven't ruled anyone in, or out." Parks sounded like the soul of caution, or a man who might've said some things the day before that he wished he could take back. "Like Harper said, we haven't even ID'd the damn victim. I think an arrest would be kinda premature."
Noman nodded one more time and walked away, sidling in for a closer look at the body. Parks shook his head and said nothing more before he departed as well.
Frank was frowning. "It's a good thing the doc is so abrasive. He kinda takes the pressure off of you in the 'aggravating your colleagues' department, Milt."
"The hell with that. I'm always cooperative. Damn collegial. You know that," the judge said grumpily. "If the damn cemetery was just five minutes further out—"
"So, what's next?" Harper interrupted.
"The Violent." Mark said solemnly. "It gets more complicated. Three flavors: rivers of boiling blood, Harpies, and burning plains. I think things might get a little symbolic."
"They haven't already?" Hardcastle asked. "That was a swimming pool, not the River Styx."
McCormick didn't have time to answer before Parks, now standing with an evidence tech nearer to the entrance, waved them over. Noman was still inspecting the remains and hadn't noticed the summons. As they approached, Parks gestured to something the gloved tech was holding.
"Got some ID here, a wallet, found by the gate." There was something in the man's expression that seemed to indicate he wasn't happy about this development.
Frank leaned in to study the driver's license the tech had extracted. "Shit." He looked over his shoulder in the direction of the now-covered remains. "It was Joe. Joe Henebery." Frank shook his head. "I sure as hell didn't recognize him."
"There wasn't much to recognize," Parks said grimly.
Hardcastle just stood there, looking equally grim. Mark nudged him and half-whispered. "Who—?"
"Assistant D.A.," Hardcastle muttered. Then he looked at Frank. "He was involved in the Romney case. I remember seeing his name on a couple of the affidavits. Dammit, I haven't got the file along, but I'm pretty sure of it. Somebody should notify them, and we ought to find out what he was working on more recently."
"He's not with the D.A,'s office anymore." Frank frowned. "Not for, what? Maybe a year now?"
Parker nodded. "He was up and coming, too. Kept his conviction rate all bright and shiny. Never took anything into court that he wasn't sure was a slam-dunk."
"Yeah," Frank agreed. "Then he quit. Somebody said he got a nice fat six-figure job as a corporate lawyer."
"Oh, yeah." Mark let out a breath and, before he could stop himself, added, "Sounds like heresy to me."
00000
He got the lecture most of the way home, which was forty-five minutes by the clock. Pretty impressive considering that it consisted, in multiple variations but the one consistent, overriding theme, of Hardcastle telling him he ought to know by now when to keep his mouth shut. They were back on the PCH and only a few minutes from the estate, when Mark got his first couple of words in edgewise.
"Maybe I was the one who said it, but everyone else was thinking it. Especially you. Besides, the guy cleans out his desk in the prosecutor's office and waltzes into the corner office of a big firm. Maybe we ought to be looking at what else he did to get that plum."
Hardcastle put his forehead in his hand. He looked like he was trying to maintain a stern visage, but it seemed to McCormick that he liked the idea more than he was willing to admit.
"Okay," the judge finally gave it one reluctant nod as they turned into the drive. "Might be so. Not proven guilty yet, though. So far he's just a victim. But I'm just saying, it shouldn'ta been you pointing out the possibilities—not with Noman breathing down our necks and trying to make you look like some sort of vigilante nut-case."
"I didn't even know who Henebery was."
"Doesn't matter. You've had access to the files, and hell, maybe you've been sitting around listening to me complain about the guy's career choices for a year now; that's how Noman'll spin it. And he'll hint that you were rolling out before dawn and going off to the dump, and now the cemetery—"
"This is a fantasy."
"Well, I know that, and you know that, but maybe it would help if you'd stop trying to look so damn eager to connect the dots. We've already got to get 'em to swallow the idea that you just happened to notice the Dante thing before their profile guy did—"
"So that's it, huh?" McCormick snapped it off bitterly. They were stationary now, parked by the front steps for almost a minute already and neither man attempting to get out. Mark shook his head. "I couldn't possibly have connected those dots unless I put 'em down on the paper myself first, huh? Okay, well, then I should be off the hook. Can't have it both ways, can they? Too dumb to see the pattern but smart enough to have thought it up in the first place. Shit."
He lifted himself up out of the seat. Hardcastle was still sitting there, finally silent. Part of Mark saw it for what it was—a stupid fight between two people who had already had too long a day when it wasn't even nine o'clock in the morning yet.
He had both feet on the ground, though he was still braced against the sill, arms crossed, with his back to the judge. The silence was somehow harder to deal with than the long, ragging diatribe he'd had to put up with for most of the drive home. He finally let out a sigh, but it was Hardcastle who spoke first.
"I didn't say that." Then he paused, as though he was trying to remember exactly what he had said. "But you gotta admit, the whole thing is kinda weird. Look, Parks must not have even believed Noman yesterday. I'll bet that's why they didn't call you in for a little talk."
Mark frowned worriedly to himself and finally said, "It's okay, you know . . . you not believing me, I mean. I wasn't even sure myself at first, if it was real." He looked back over his shoulder at the older man. "And, anyway, that was pretty good this morning with the fifty minutes and the time of sunrise and the phone calls and all that. Sounded reasonable to me."
"Well, Parks didn't whip out a pair of cuffs, so we're okay for now." Hardcastle was getting up out of the car slowly, like a man who was tired.
"Is it time for the holding cell, yet?" Mark asked quietly.
The judge thought about that one for a moment but then shook his head.
"Okay," McCormick pushed up, away from the car and trudged toward the front door. He looked back over his shoulder again. "But it is time for breakfast. Can't argue on an empty stomach."
00000
He'd been right, Mark decided, after they'd both put away a decent breakfast. He'd even had an appetite, despite the early-morning crime scene. He thought maybe he'd eventually wind up like those evidence techs—all in a day's work. He hoped he wasn't going to get that much practice.
McCormick eased forward in his chair and made a move to get up and clear the table. Hardcastle was still sitting across from him, looking thoughtful and a little removed. He glanced up as Mark cleared his throat and started to reach for his plate.
"You know, I've been thinking," the judge said quietly.
"Looks like it." Mark was standing now. "Hey," he smiled ruefully, "if it's about what I said out there—"
"Nah," Hardcastle waved that one away, "we've had better fights than that over who gets the sports section first. No, I was thinking about the whole approach. Our timing stinks."
Mark set the stack of dishes in the sink and turned to look back at him again.
"Well, see," Hardcastle gestured, "we're letting this guy call all the shots. He kills somebody; we run and look."
"Maybe that's partly on account of nobody realizing there was a guy calling the shots," Mark said.
"Okay, don't start up on me again."
McCormick opened his mouth, then shut it and shook his head once.
"I'm just saying," the judge smiled and leaned forward, elbows on the table, "it'd be nice if we got there once ahead of the killing, if we figured one out before the fact."
"How? This guy makes up the rules, picks the when and the where and the who. It makes some kind of weird sense afterwards but, come on—"
"Okay, well, maybe the next one is a little easier."
"You're kidding, right? 'The Violent'? We're talking about organized crime, here. They're all violent. Heck, Romney would have qualified big time if he hadn't already been tagged."
"Yeah," Hardcastle nodded in thoughtful agreement, "but think about it, even in the mob they've got specialists."
"Hit men, enforcers?"
Hardcastle nodded again. "Exactly. And, you know, they've always been kind of a hobby for me, like some people follow baseball—who's getting traded to whom, who's got a hot arm, who's going back down to the minors."
"You keep score?"
"Yeah. . . rumors, mostly. Trends. You never know when something's going to firm up into admissible evidence. Got a file-cabinet full downstairs."
"How we going to figure out which one?"
"It's three, right?"
Mark frowned. "Most likely. I'm just guessing here."
"Yeah, well, I read that bit last night, too. Three seems like a good bet. And that fits together with what I've been thinking about Romney's murder."
Mark sat back down and gave him his undivided attention.
"See, that whole thing at Romney's house, didn't that strike you as kinda strange?"
"You mean beyond the obvious—chaining a guy up in his swimming pool and watching him drown?"
"Okay, yeah, beyond that. Think about it. The mechanics for one thing. Sure Walthall's a bookkeeper; he might let somebody sneak up behind him and bash him over the head, but Romney, now, he's a shark, and pretty near the top of the food chain. Nobody gets the drop on someone like him."
"But somebody did."
"Not one guy, not likely. And, like I said, just the mechanics of it. Someone had to get him into that pool. There must've already been some water in it, couldn't have filled it from scratch, not even halfway, between the time I talked to him, and when we found him dead."
Mark nodded at that.
"So, I'm figuring at least three guys. One to hold the gun on him, maybe one—a pretty big one—to just keep him in position, and one more, and he musta pulled the short straw, to get down in the water that was already standing there and fasten things down."
"Hired killers?"
"Looks that way. And they must've been ones that Romney trusted. Guys he'd used before."
"You've got a list of those?"
"I can make a few educated guesses."
"But," Mark hesitated, "if the killer hired people to take out Romney and Walthall—"
"Heck, maybe even Piggy, too; it's possible. He would've been pretty big for one man to handle."
"Great," McCormick sighed. "There goes all hope of an alibi. Doesn't really matter if I can prove where I was, does it, if I'm bringing in hired guns?"
"Oh," Hardcastle smiled thinly, "not a chance in hell you could afford these guys, even for an ordinary hit. And a contract to take out Romney? That'd be way out of your league. It'd be cash on the barrel, half down, up front."
Mark looked only slightly relieved. "So, our serial killer is hiring help, and he's got deep pockets."
"And whoever he used, there's a good chance he'll be taking them out next, both to further his design, and to neaten up some loose ends."
"So," Mark frowned, "all we have to do is figure out which hit men he used, find 'em, convince 'em that they're on the short list for getting killed, and get them to tell us who hired them."
"Yeah," Hardcastle smiled. "See? Simple."
