“Did he say ‘the mistakes’ or ‘my mistakes’?”
“The report says ‘the mistakes.’”
“That could be the promise of a man trying to fix things, but it could also mean he’s preparing for something big, something he’s been expecting,” Dupree mused. “‘The mistakes’ suggests he doesn’t see them as his fault, but he does feel the responsibility to correct them. Salazar thinks our man has been postponing the murder of his own family, waiting for the right moment. He’s watching for some kind of sign, and we’re trying to figure out what it is.” Dupree paused, and when he spoke again, the indignation had returned. “Do you two understand the importance of what you just told me? This information is crucial, and Agent Tucker deliberately held it back. She wasn’t thinking! She could have put the whole investigation in jeopardy. If Nelson does turn out to be our man and calls his wife, she could inadvertently tip him off.”
“That’s why we’re calling, Dupree,” Verdon explained. “I’ve authorized measures to protect the Nelson family, and I asked Tucker to head the Tampa team.”
Dupree remained stubbornly silent.
“Aloisius,” Wilson appealed to him. “Just understand and accept it.”
“Are you seriously telling me you’re so blind you don’t see what Tucker’s up to?”
Michael Verdon’s heavy sigh was clear across the line. “Aloisius, I appreciate you, I really do, but you can’t blame us for this one. After what happened in New Orleans the last time you were there, you know we’re going to have some misgivings . . . I’m not going to offend you by asking if this has anything to do with Samedi. I hope to God it doesn’t.”
“I’m not going to comment on that.” Dupree’s voice was unforgiving. “That was completely uncalled for.”
“A professional with your experience should have recognized there are factors in this investigation you should have reported up the chain of command.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“There’s at least one thing you forgot to mention, and it’s in the briefing Salazar sent to Tucker. Sarah Nelson’s maiden name was Rosenblatt. She’s the daughter of a US senator from Florida.”
“I can’t believe it!” Dupree’s tone made it clear he wasn’t kidding. “You’re seriously telling me this whole circus is because Nelson’s father-in-law is a senator?”
“For God’s sake, Dupree! Why are you surprised?” Wilson exclaimed. “You know damn well how that complicates things!”
Verdon intervened, calmly but just as firmly as before. “I don’t think you understand the seriousness of the situation, Aloisius. The naval air station has reported that our New Orleans headquarters has been completely destroyed. The National Guard is doing their best to get the agents and their families out. When the storm’s over and you go out on the streets, you’ll be all alone. If Operation Cage fails and this guy Nelson turns out to be the killer—and if the senator finds out that his daughter and grandchildren were in danger because we failed to protect them—then heads will roll. And I don’t need to tell you that ours will be the first.”
Verdon had more to add. “One thing more, Dupree. We know you feel we’re interfering, but I want to stress we have full confidence in you. I have information concerning Assistant Inspector Salazar, but I’m leaving it entirely up to you how to use it if you think she can advance the investigation. This is an exceptional case and it deserves exceptional treatment. If you decide to keep this information confidential, we’ll do the best we can to follow your lead.”
34
INSOMNIA
New Orleans, Louisiana
10:00 a.m., Monday, August 29, 2005
Amaia put her eye to the slit someone had cut in the brown paper taped across the window. The windowpane mirrored her peering eye. Shading her face to reduce the reflection, she tried to see outside. The city was a leaden gray; the day had begun hours earlier, but the dark skies were as opaque as a bottomless lake. Flames caused by gas explosions flickered low against the horizon.
Several cars floated slowly down the street, bobbing in the water like dead turtles.
After they’d quizzed the rescue team chief by radio, she went back to reviewing the Galveston files. She paid particular attention to a statement by the younger Joseph Andrews, the crime scene analysis, Nelson’s own accounts, and Captain Reed’s summary. She and Johnson had searched archives and databases all the way back to 1982 but found no earlier case that matched the Lenx murders. Everything suggested the serial killer’s spree had begun with the Andrews family.
“Murder was the alpha and will be the omega,” Amaia whispered aloud, praying for insight.
The racket from the operations center made it hard for her to stay focused.
Johnson and the New Orleans cops appeared in the doorway. She shut her laptop and followed them.
The phone lines were jammed. The instant an operator ended a call, another came in. Amaia went to the deputy who’d spoken to her the previous day. The operator raised a finger in acknowledgment as she dealt with a caller. Her voice remained calm and professional throughout the call, though tension was evident in her face.
The supervisor put the calls on speaker phone.
Sobs. “Please help me, my house is off the foundation, I’m here with two little babies, and the water is pouring in!”
“Ma’am, we can’t do anything; I can’t send anybody right now, the police can’t get into the streets until the storm’s over.”
A man, desperate. “Please help us! We here in the attic, they’s no way out, the water’s all the way up to the ceiling down there. Come get us out!”
“Sir, we had to take our officers off the streets; it’s too dangerous out there. I can take your names and address.”
“What you mean, ‘your names’? So you know who we are when you find us here dead?”
“All our calls are like that.”
The supervisor placed an encouraging hand on the deputy’s shoulder. She didn’t react; she put her headset on and went back to work.
“People call us for help, and all we can do is put their names on a waiting list.”
“What’s it like out there right now?” Johnson asked.
Suddenly incensed, the supervisor waved a hand toward the monitors suspended from the ceiling. All of them looked up.
“In one word? Chaos. The city’s without power. High-tension lines are down; cell phones aren’t working. It’s raining into the Superdome where people are massed in the interior passages, human waste is gushing out of the toilets and flooding the place. We’ve received reports of assaults, rapes, and fights, both at the Superdome and the convention center. Reports of several fatal stabbings, rumors of more. Houses are on fire because gas lines broke when the foundations shifted.” He fixed his eyes on the monitor before him. “And as if we didn’t have enough to deal with already, now we’re getting reports of tornados and waterspouts. Bodies are floating in the streets and houses have washed away. As for your successive gunshots, you can forget about them. We have nothing so far.”