Nick thought for a moment. “If the murders are more than just a business for him, if he truly likes the process of stalking and killing another human being—”
“He does.” Pete grunted. “Far as I can tell, he gets a real thrill out of his damned commissions. Gets depressed when they end.”
“He’s addicted to killing.”
“Yep.”
“In that case the change in the pattern may indicate that he’s losing control of the addiction. He needs more and more of the drug. Or maybe he suffered some sort of psychotic break.”
“He’s already broken,” Pete said. “Probably doesn’t pay to try to analyze him.”
“True.” Nick closed the notebook. “I’ll take a look at your transcript later and see if anything else stands out.”
“You do that. I’ve got a talent for code breaking but I’m not nearly as insightful as you are when it comes to figuring out how the bad guys think.”
Nick looked at him. “You’re getting a kick out of working with Pell again, aren’t you?”
“It’s been a while since I got to do the one thing I do best. The encryption business hasn’t been good since the government closed down the Black Chamber and then went after Luther Pell’s department and fired his team. Idiots.”
Nick raised a brow. “Pell’s team?”
“’Course not. I was talking about those damn bureaucrats back in D.C. After the War they figured that they didn’t need spies and encryption people anymore. What was it Henry Stimson said?”
“According to the legend it was something to the effect that gentlemen don’t read each other’s mail.”
“What hogwash.” Pete heaved a heavy sigh. “Well, those fools back in Washington will soon be scrambling to rebuild their spy apparatus. Everyone can see what’s coming.”
“War.”
“Yep.” Pete stretched out his legs and contemplated the tips of his shoes. “Pell tells me he’s running his own private version of what he used to do when he handled the old Accounting Department. Calls it Failure Analysis, Incorporated. Does contract work.”
“Is that right? Thought he owned a nightclub.”
“Guess you could say Failure Analysis is a sideline of his. He doesn’t advertise it, that’s for damn sure.”
“How does he get his clients?”
“Same way you do,” Pete said. “Word of mouth. From what he told me it sounds like he’s doing occasional consulting work for some of the same people who fired him and his team. He also does jobs for the FBI. He handles investigations that are too sensitive or too damn hot for a government agency or the Bureau. You know how it is. That sort don’t like to get their hands dirty, especially if things go wrong and the cases blow up and land on the front pages.”
Nick smiled. “Sounds like Mr. Pell has created a nice little market for himself. Smart.”
Pete peered at him. “Pell appreciates people like us, Nick. People with certain talents.”
“In our family we don’t call what you and I have a talent. It’s a curse, remember? That’s why you’re still wasting money on every fraud and charlatan who promises a quick fix for the nightmares.”
“Haven’t had any nightmares since I went back to work for Pell. Just the fever dreams that I can control. Feels good.”
“About the fever dreams—” Nick paused and lowered his voice. “I may have found a book with some answers.”
Pete’s expression sharpened. “Yeah?”
“I came across it in an antiquarian bookshop. It’s the journal of a man named Caleb Jones. It was written in the late eighteen hundreds. He was a private investigator who lived in London. He evidently took the existence of what he called psychical talents as a given.”
“Psychical talents?”
“We’d call them paranormal abilities today.”
“Damn it, we’re not a couple of frauds pretending to have psychic powers.”
“What I’m getting at here is that his way of solving a case sounds like a version of the Sundridge family curse. But he figured out how to control the visions, at least to some extent.”
“Booze? Drugs?”
“No. Meditation.”
“Bah. I tried that. Spent good money on a quack who promised to teach me how to meditate. Every time I tried it the nightmares got worse.”
“I know—I’ve wasted some money that way, too. But this technique is a little different. Jones writes that our abilities are actually a kind of intuition. The trick is to control it.”
There was cautious interest in Pete’s eyes now. “You’re sure this Jones character wasn’t one of those charlatans who claims to be able to read minds and see the future?”
“All I can tell you is that it seems to be working for me.”
“But you still get the fever dreams?”
“Yes. The difference is that I have fairly good control over them. I can go into one and out at will.”
“Yeah?” Pete looked skeptical. “How’s that work?”
“I line up the things I want to analyze and then I go into a self-induced trance.”
“You hypnotize yourself?”
“Maybe. I think so. But I control the trance.”
Pete squinted, still dubious. He snapped his fingers. “The answers pop up just like that?”
“No, what pops up, assuming I have enough information going into the trance, is the right question, the one I should be asking.”
Pete nodded in a knowing way. “Ask the right question and the answer is a hell of a lot easier to figure out.”
“Yes.”
Pete studied the entrance of the villa. “How does Miss Brazier feel about your new way of dreaming?”
“She doesn’t know exactly what I do or how I do it.”
“Think she could handle it if she saw you coming out of a dream?”
“She’s not Patricia.”
“But you don’t know how she would react?”
“No,” Nick admitted.
“Best not put her to the test, then. Miss Brazier has reason enough to be worried at the moment. You don’t want to scare her, leastways not until after we figure out who’s trying to kill her.”
Vivian walked out onto the patio. “I heard something about scaring me. I assume you’re talking about the assassin?”