Aphrodite Part 15

Ed Marion was confused and annoyed by the phone call from the manager of the Weston Mall. He was certain there was some mistake. Why the h.e.l.l would anyone break into Growth Industries? And, if he did, what the h.e.l.l was he going to steal? A bunch of used answering machines? A cheap fake-leather swivel chair? It didn't make sense. There was nothing of value; there was no meaningful paperwork. There wasn't even any indication of what the company did. But none of that mattered now because someone had been inside and he actually had to go there and check things out. He hated going into that office, stopped by only once a month, perfunctorily. He didn't really need to do it, but he felt as if he should. He needed to rea.s.sure himself that things were untouched and safe.

Only now things weren't untouched. And now things might not be safe.

The best he could hope for was that this was the work of some incompetent burglar. The worst he could expect was ...

Ed Marion didn't want to think about the worst. He knew that when it came to the realities of the game he was playing, he was in way over his head. The people he worked for were scary and they were nasty. They frightened him. They paid awfully well, though. And as long as they left him alone to do his work, he could live with what he was doing for them. His extracurricular duties were reasonably un.o.btrusive and not all that time-consuming. They were also extraordinarily valuable from a professional perspective. But he knew that if they ever decided he was a liability, if, G.o.d forbid, he ever f.u.c.ked up, well-that was what he didn't want to focus on. He didn't like thinking about his wife being a widow or his kids going through the rest of their lives without a father.

He drove his nine-month-old Lexus out of the driveway of his two-story white colonial, turned left on his quiet suburban street, and headed past a series of manicured lawns and freshly painted houses, toward the mall. Marion paid no attention to the blue-gray Buick that started up and chugged along behind him. He was so lost in thought that when he stopped at the first stop sign he came to he didn't even notice the man who was standing on the corner. He didn't see the man step toward his car and tap on the pa.s.senger-side window. The man was holding a map and looked confused, so Ed Marion instinctively touched the b.u.t.ton to his left, the one that automatically rolled down the pa.s.senger window. Ed was still so lost in thought it took him a full three seconds to register that instead of the map, the pedestrian had shoved a gun through the open window. The gun was pointing straight at him, Marion realized, and the man, perfectly calm-there was even the hint of a rea.s.suring smile on his face-was saying, "It's time we had a little talk, Ed."

Justin had Ed Marion pull the Lexus over to the side of a quiet street, about three blocks from the man's house. Deena pulled the Regal up behind them and cut the motor; she and Kendall stayed in that car, as Justin had instructed.

"Whatever you want," Marion said, staring at the gun in Justin's hand, "it's yours. I don't have a lot of cash but just take it. I have credit cards, a bank card, this watch is worth a few hundred dollars. Here, take the watch."

"I'm not here to rob you, Ed."

Marion studied him now, his eyes taking in Justin's posture, his clothes, the serious expression on his face. "Oh my G.o.d," Marion said, "you're going to kill me."

Justin decided to play things as they unfolded. This guy was clearly afraid. The question was, of what? Right now he was afraid of Justin. Might as well take advantage of that, give him some room and hope he'd lead the conversation somewhere worthwhile.

"I have some questions," Justin said. "Why don't you give me some answers and we'll see how things go."

"I don't know anything about the break-in, I swear. I didn't do anything to cause it."

"No? How about the f.u.c.kup with the girl?"

"What girl?"

"The one you spoke to about Bill Miller."

Marion looked genuinely confused. "I did what I was supposed to, didn't I? I called Newberg, he called ... whoever he calls. Maybe he called you. Then he told me to call the girl back, keep her calm, he was taking care of it."

"By having her killed?"

"Look, I don't ask about things like that. It's not my business."

"It is now. Somebody screwed up. There was a witness."

"I know. I saw it on the news. But that's not my fault." Marion was sweating profusely now. "Look, I took care of my end. I was told told to call her. They to call her. They told told me to give out the number. What happened there, it's just not my fault. I never said a word. I mean, I'm not even supposed to be on this side of things. They said this kind of stuff would never happen. Let me just talk to Newberg. Let me talk to Kransten. I've done everything they want and I haven't said a word to anybody. I swear to G.o.d, even the people I work with don't know anything about Aphrodite. My me to give out the number. What happened there, it's just not my fault. I never said a word. I mean, I'm not even supposed to be on this side of things. They said this kind of stuff would never happen. Let me just talk to Newberg. Let me talk to Kransten. I've done everything they want and I haven't said a word to anybody. I swear to G.o.d, even the people I work with don't know anything about Aphrodite. My wife wife doesn't know!" doesn't know!"

Amfer. Or Afro. That's what Deena thought she'd heard Susanna's killer ask about. Afro. Aphrodite? It made as much sense as anything else.

Justin wasn't sure where to head next. He didn't know any of the names Marion had just tossed out. And clearly he was supposed to. He wasn't confident of his ability to draw out information. He needed the basics-who and why and where-but he didn't have enough info to go the subtle route. And he didn't know how much longer he could keep Marion on the hook. So he took the plunge and went direct. "Tell me about Lewis Granger," he said.

"What?"

"What's the connection between Granger and Bill Miller?"

"What? What do you mean?" Marion's eyes narrowed.

"Do you know how old Miller was?"

"Who are are you?" Marion asked. "How old is Lewis Granger?" you?" Marion asked. "How old is Lewis Granger?"

"Jesus Christ," Marion moaned. "I know who you are. You're the cop on the news."

So much for direct. "I may not be who you thought I was," Justin said, tapping his gun on his thigh, "but I can still pull the trigger. So answer the questions, Ed."

"You don't know what the h.e.l.l you're doing."

"You work for the Ellis Inst.i.tute. What do they research?"

"You're the one who broke into the office. Oh my G.o.d, you don't know what you've done."

"What's Aphrodite? Why do you think Susanna Morgan knew anything about it?"

The guy had his head in his hands now. Justin thought he might begin to rip his own hair out. "They'll know you found me. Jesus Christ, they're going to kill me now."

"Who?"

"You're gonna lead them right here. You're definitely dead and so am I." Marion glanced back at the Buick. "And so's whoever you're with. Everybody's Everybody's dead." dead."

"I can get you help," Justin said.

"It's too late now."

"No it isn't. But you have to talk to me."

"I can't," Marion said. His words were barely audible now. They were coming out as half-gasps, half-sobs. "I can't talk to you. They'll know you got to me. You're killing me."

"Who?" Justin asked. "Who'll know? Newberg? Kransten?" Marion just shook his head. His hands were shaking now. And he was biting his lower lip so hard that a thin trickle of blood was forming on his chin.

"What about the FBI?" Justin said suddenly. "Will you trust them them?"

Marion stopped his moaning and keening just long enough to look up questioningly. Justin continued. "They can protect you, can't they?"

Marion seemed to regain some color. "The FBI?"

"I can get somebody here pretty quickly."

"They can help me?"

"Yes," Justin said. "But you have to tell me everything that's going on."

"Not you. I'll tell them. I'll talk to the FBI."

Justin raised his gun an inch but he knew it was an empty threat. So did Marion.

"Go ahead and shoot me," Marion said. "If I don't get to the FBI, I'm as good as dead anyway."

Justin hesitated, then reached for his cell phone. He dialed, heard Gary answer at the East End station, didn't even bother with a h.e.l.lo, just said, "Get Rollins."

Thirty seconds later, the a.s.sistant director was on the line. "Where the h.e.l.l are you?" was his opening line.

"You know, you've got to learn to vary your questions. I'm doing you a favor, Rollins. So try not to step on your own d.i.c.k for a couple of minutes while I tell you something."

"What kind of favor?" Rollins said.

"I'm with someone who can lead us to the guy who killed Susanna Morgan. And Brian Meves."

"Who is it?"

"Slow down a second. The guy's terrified. And for good reason. He thinks that whoever killed those two is also going to come after him. I said I could get FBI protection."

"You've got b.a.l.l.s, you know that, Westwood? You've got some real b.a.l.l.s."

"Rollins, there is some very weird s.h.i.+t going on which I will be happy to tell you about at some point. But in the meantime, my contact needs protection. In exchange for which he will answer any and all questions. Those answers should lead to the capture of a man who murdered a police officer. A police officer working on your investigation."

Rollins sighed and said, "Where do we go?"

Justin turned to Ed Marion. "I need to tell him where to come. I have a motel room I can stash you in. Can I give him your name and that address?"

Marion thought for a moment, then nodded.

"His name's Edward Marion. I'm going to put him in a room in a motel in Weston, Connecticut." Justin gave Rollins the address of the motel near the mall. "You sending someone from there?"

"No," Rollins said. "I'll see if I can get somebody who's closer. It'll be quicker."

"Have your guy follow up on Susanna and Brian. My guy'll talk. Make sure he's asked about two people named Newberg and Kransten."

"Who?"

"I don't know who they are but they're involved. Also make sure you get details about Bill Miller and Lewis Granger. And a company in New York called the Ellis Inst.i.tute and one in Boston called the Aker Inst.i.tute."

"Is that it?"

"No. He's got a partner whose name is Helen Roag. She lives outside of Boston, in Marblehead."

"Got it."

"When Susanna Morgan was killed, the killer wanted information. Our witness heard something like Afro or Amfer. According to Marion, it's Aphrodite. Check that out, too."

There was a silence from Rollins's end.

"You want me to spell it for you?" Justin asked. "I know that whole 'ph' for 'f' thing gets kind of tricky."

"Where are you are now, Westwood? Are you at the motel?"

"I'm hanging up now, Rollins. It's always a pleasure talking to you."

"Are you in Connecticut, for chrissake? Just tell me that."

"I'll call you tomorrow to see what you found out."

"Westwood-"

"Good-bye, Agent Rollins."

Justin ended the call. Turned to Ed Marion, told him the gist of the conversation. Then he said, "Head toward the mall. I'll put you in a room and once you're inside lock every door and window. Don't let anybody in until you can see some FBI identification. You got it? I want you to see it, don't just trust voices. The guy I spoke to is named Rollins. He probably won't come himself but make sure whoever shows up knows that name."

Marion nodded but didn't move.

"Ed," Justin prompted. "You've got to turn the key and start the car if you're gonna do all that."

Marion still didn't speak. Just kept nodding. But he reached for the key and turned it. Justin rode back with him the few miles to the motel. He walked the terrified man inside, checked him into a room, closed the curtains, and told Ed Marion once again not to open the door for anyone until the FBI arrived. Then he walked outside and stepped behind the wheel of the Buick sedan, which was waiting in the parking lot. He began to fill Deena and Kendall in on what had happened. But even as he spoke, his mind was elsewhere. Another song lyric forced its way into his head. A Randy Newman lyric: I'm dead but I don't know it. I'm dead but I don't know. I'm dead but I don't know it. I'm dead but I don't know.

And as he drove slowly away, Justin Westwood was busy wondering, as he almost always did when his work took him too far beneath the surface, how a world like the one in which Edward Marion lived, a world that looked so clean and pure and manicured and untroubled, could hold, in its heart, such violence. Such terror.

18.

Gordon Touay liked killing things.

There were other things he enjoyed; he did not consider himself one-dimensional in any way. He got great pleasure, for instance, out of looking in the full-length mirror that hung in the hallway. He had to concede he never really tired of that. Especially when he was wearing nothing but his beige bikini underwear, the one with the little blue stripes on the front, which was what he was wearing now. He loved looking at his washboard stomach, at the ripples, the flatness. He didn't have an ounce of fat on his sides, either. At thirty-one years old, there wasn't even the slightest hint of love handles. And his chest was perfectly formed. Not like a bodybuilder's, more like a swimmer's. Thin and tight and hard. Like Charles Bronson's used to be in those early Westerns. Gordon liked to turn sideways and flex his arms, too; liked the way the muscles on his back and shoulders and even his neck bunched up and bulged and made him look so powerful. He particularly admired his hair, so very blond and straight, cut short on the sides, medium on top, a tiny lock tilting forward over his forehead. He often thought he was as handsome as Brad Pitt or DiCaprio or any of those guys. He'd practice smiling into the mirror, looking c.o.c.ky, and he'd think: I should have been a movie star. I've got what it takes. I would look magnificent up there on a giant screen, looking down on an adoring audience. I should have been a movie star. I've got what it takes. I would look magnificent up there on a giant screen, looking down on an adoring audience.

Then he'd think: We both would. We both would.

Wendell, his younger brother, was just as handsome. Gordon liked looking at his brother's body, too. The same hard stomach, the perfect b.u.t.tocks and powerful back. Long legs, but not too long. The short blond hair. In the eyes of the world, they were identical. No one could tell the difference between them. But Gordon could, of course. He knew the small mole on Wendell's shoulder. Could see that Wendell used just a touch more mousse in his hair, that the forehead lock was slightly stiffer and s.h.i.+nier. Gordon was seven minutes older than his twin, and he was convinced that Wendell looked younger, that the skin under his eyes was smoother, that his forehead had one less crease. He wasn't jealous. It was fine with him. He loved his brother. There was no one on earth he loved more. And he was happy to be the elder. The mentor. The decision maker.

Staring at himself in the mirror, Gordon smiled. He loved his smile. He thought it made him look elegant and mysterious. Relaxed but deep. He decided he should show it more often. Then he went back to thinking about all the things that could keep the smile on his face.

That show on Fox about animals that turned violent and attacked their owners. He liked that a lot. War movies. He loved war movies. Black Hawk Down Black Hawk Down was a great one. Very gory. was a great one. Very gory. Private Ryan Private Ryan was good. At least the first part, the battle. After that it was pretty sappy. Of the old ones, he liked was good. At least the first part, the battle. After that it was pretty sappy. Of the old ones, he liked The Dirty Dozen The Dirty Dozen, particularly the part where the Spanish guy parachutes out of the plane and breaks his neck, and Paths of Glory Paths of Glory, where everybody gets marched off to the slaughter. He had a collection of filmed disasters that he watched over and over again. The Challenger Challenger exploding, he never got tired of that. The exploding, he never got tired of that. The Hindenburg Hindenburg going down. Various a.s.sa.s.sinations. He had that L.A. robbery, where the guys in masks kept firing their automatic weapons on the street and finally got cut down by the cops. He paid a lot of money over the Internet for several home movies of fiery plane crashes. And he owned several bona fide p.o.r.no snuff films, which cost him a fortune. All those things were satisfying diversions. But nothing was as good as actually killing something. going down. Various a.s.sa.s.sinations. He had that L.A. robbery, where the guys in masks kept firing their automatic weapons on the street and finally got cut down by the cops. He paid a lot of money over the Internet for several home movies of fiery plane crashes. And he owned several bona fide p.o.r.no snuff films, which cost him a fortune. All those things were satisfying diversions. But nothing was as good as actually killing something.

Although he couldn't really take credit for it, he liked to think that his first victim was his mother. She died in childbirth, right after he and Wendell came out of her womb. Gordon never forgave her for leaving them so unexpectedly because when their father remarried it was to a woman who wanted her own children, who resented the two boys as unpleasant reminders of a past that had nothing to do with her. She didn't bother to hide her distaste for the twins; in fact, she reveled in it. And that distaste was soon championed by her husband, their own father. He saw his sons as two beings who had destroyed his first marriage and whose sole reason for existence was to interfere with his new one. The first time Gordon remembered their father beating them was when they were five years old. It was with a ruler he'd picked up off the desk. He made both boys lie down on the floor while he struck the backs of their legs over and over again. After that the beatings never stopped. Sometimes he used the ruler, sometimes his fists, occasionally a belt. Once he used a broomstick. But he gave Wendell a concussion and social service workers got suspicious when the boy was rushed to the hospital, so good old Dad went back to less obvious tools and body parts.

Gordon was seven years old when he killed his first animal. It was a squirrel. In their backyard in the small house in New Jersey. He watched it scamper down the trunk of a tree, perch on a patch of gra.s.s, and nibble on something, a nut maybe. The squirrel's head was c.o.c.ked as he ate, and the boy thought it looked cute. While he was watching, Gordon saw a rake propped up against the back of the house, had an image in his mind of the handle cracking against his brother's skull, and the next thing he knew, the squirrel was on its back, its head smashed in, its eyes still and lifeless. Gordon was surprised how good it made him feel.

Three weeks later he killed another squirrel. A month after that he killed a cat, a stray that was always coming into their yard looking for sc.r.a.ps of food. He fed it for several weeks, won its trust, then strangled it. After that, he killed on a regular basis, at least every two weeks or so. More squirrels, cats, dogs, birds. He preferred strangling, although poison was also acceptable. Stabbing was fine, too, as was fire. Methodology and type of victim didn't much matter to him. He just liked the moment when he could actually see life disappear, when movement stopped and something warm turned cold and colorless.

When the twins turned eight, Gordon told Wendell about the animals. Wendell's eyes lit up and he smiled. He said he wanted to try it too.

A few days later, their father took them into town to go shopping. They asked if they could go into the diner and have a soda. He agreed, told them to wait there for him until he came to pick them up. The boys sipped their c.o.kes at the counter until Gordon looked at Wendell and nodded. In the corner of the diner, by the cas.h.i.+er, there was a myna bird. A big black one that talked all the time. His name was Randy and he was always saying, "Randy wants a coffee and a Danish," which everyone thought was hilarious. The diner was pretty empty and no one was minding the cash register, so when Gordon gave the signal, Wendell walked by the myna's cage, quickly stuck his hand in, and broke the bird's neck. Then he continued on his way to the bathroom. When he returned, the cas.h.i.+er and the waitress were standing by the cage, distraught. Wendell walked up to them, asked what had happened. They told him it was something terrible, that their bird had died. They told him not to look, that he was too young to see a dead thing. Wendell nodded, said he was sorry about Randy, he seemed like a nice bird, then went back to sit beside his brother and order another c.o.ke.