Phoenix Read online

  Sara could see Jim and said, “She has burns over ninety percent of her body. We have her in a drug-induced coma because if she was awake she would be in agony.”

  He pulled her to his side and asked, “Let me guess. Hypovolemic shock.”

  Sara nodded and asked, “How do you know that term?”

  “We dealt with field dressing burns in the Corps as well as at the academy. Is your team able to hydrate her at all?” Sara knocked on the glass, and one of the doctors turned around, and she motioned for him to come out. He exited the room, removed the special clothing he was wearing to protect Cynthia, and walked out to greet Sara.

  The doctor approached, and Sara said, “Doctor Ephraim Romady, I would like to introduce you to my husband, FBI Agent John Swenson. Your patient is his case. He has some questions for you.”

  Romady smiled and reached out and shook John’s hand and said, “You want to know if she will survive?” John shook his head and said, “No … I know she won’t survive. I need to talk to her before she dies.”

  The doctor was ill at ease with John’s candor and asked, “Is it the custom of the FBI to pronounce death when there is still life?”

  Jim chimed in and said, “Please spare us the fuckin’ homilies of hope, doctor. We are professionals in our field as you are in yours. The woman is dead. You know that. I know that. The pigeons shitting on the window ledge outside know that. She’s the only living link to a savage killer, and we need to talk to her and get what she knows before we lose the opportunity.”

  John nodded, and Romady looked helplessly at Sara, who nodded as well and said, “I’m sorry, Ephraim, but they’re right. Can you bring her out of the coma long enough to allow these men to get a statement from her?”

  Romady looked into the room at Cynthia and then at Jim and John and said, “Everything that you both say is true, but to put her in such agony is inhumane.”

  John put his hand on Romady’s shoulder and said, “What her killer did to her is inhumane. Look at her, doctor. Just a few short hours ago that woman was walking and talking and living a life, and now, because of some deranged lunatic, she has been effectively burned to death. We need to talk to her. Can she breathe on her own?”

  Romady nodded and said, “Once we take her out of the coma she will be able to breathe, but she’ll probably only live for a few minutes before the shock and pain take her.”

  John and Jim dressed in yellow clean suits as did an artist from the FBI who John called in to create a sketch of the assailant. John leaned down and whispered into Sara’s ear, “Can you mix my painkiller cocktail here and administer it to Ms. Caldwell?”

  “John … she’s not my patient, and it is unethical for me to use what raises to the level of an experimental drug on a patient. Besides, there will be an autopsy.” Sara stopped mid-sentence and said, “But you can have the blood results buried?” John nodded, and Sara told Romady to start to take Cynthia out of the coma, and that she would be right back.

  He started the process, and Sara returned dressed in the yellow protective clothing. Cynthia was moaning and choking as they removed the ventilator, and she was crying and screaming as the medications began to leave her system. John distracted Romady as Sara injected the medication into Cynthia’s IV, and in a matter of seconds, she was calm and lucid.

  Doctor Romady looked at Cynthia and said, “You are in the hospital, Ms. Caldwell. You have been badly burned.”

  She choked a little and said, “I remember being set on fire, but I don’t understand why.” John stepped over to the bed along with Jim and the artist and told Cynthia his name and what he did for a living. He explained that they needed information and a description of the man who had done this to her. Cynthia didn’t miss a beat as she described in great detail the events leading up to her burning. The sketch artist worked feverishly drawing as Cynthia spoke and in a matter of minutes had a sketch that he held up to her.

  John asked, “Is this a good likeness of the man?” She nodded her head weakly. John had his tablet recording, and Jim had his midi recorder out, and John asked, “Is there anyone you can think of who would want to hurt you?”

  Cynthia laughed and coughed a bit and said, “I’m a lawyer. I handled some cases that were … let’s say, dancing on the edge of legal. I hurt a lot of people for the sake of money in my few years practicing law. There are at least a dozen people off the top of my head that I know won’t be sorry to see me hurt or dead.” She rattled off several names and then looked at John and said, “You have the most beautiful blue eyes. Are you single?” John smiled slightly but didn’t get the chance to respond as Cynthia’s pupils began to dilate. She gasped three times and then died as all in the room looked on.

  Howard Cohen was sitting in the living room of his condo when he received the call that Cynthia was dead. It was seven fifteen a.m., and he sat looking at a painting over the fireplace. It was an original Marc Chagall titled “Soleil dans le ciel de Saint-Paul.” It was a gift for a case that he handled in the mid-eighties for one of his wealthiest clients, who was forever thankful that Howard had prevailed.

  He stared at the artwork as the morning sun rose, bathing the painting in light. He was so drawn into the painting he didn’t notice Sandy Hyde standing in the foyer off the living room. She cleared her throat, which surprised Howard, who was engrossed in thought. He jumped, and she said, “I’m sorry to have startled you, Howard.” He waved for her to enter the room, and she sat down next to him on a sofa in the center of the room and looked up at the piece.

  Howard said, “This was done by Marc Chagall in nineteen eighty-three only a few years before his death. It was a gift from a grateful client.”

  Sandy looked up at it and said, “I remember you telling me the story of this painting. It’s quite lovely. It is based on one of the oldest medieval villages in France. If I remember correctly, it’s the village of Saint-Paul-De-Vence on the French Riviera, right?” Howard nodded. She stood up and said, “You know that Cynthia Caldwell is dead, don’t you?” Howard nodded. She walked over to one of the windows and said, “We are being targeted, Howard. Someone has a very, very large grudge against the firm and our partners.” Howard did not gesture. He just stared at the painting. Sandy continued, “Have you spoken to Aston since Benton’s murder?”

  Howard looked away from the painting and over at her and asked, “Why do you ask?”

  Sandy fumbled with a small bag she held in her hands and said, “Because I have a feeling that Aston or someone he controls is behind this.” Howard slowly shook his head.

  “I have spoken to Aston, and he has nothing to do with this. He is upset, but he is now speaking to me after a near ten-year silence.”

  She sat down on a loveseat and asked, “If it’s not Aston, then who is it, Howard? Who has been harmed so badly by this firm that he or she would go to these lengths?”

  Howard walked over to a small table where there was a coffee pot and several cups. “Coffee?”

  Sandy looked at him with a soft look in her eye and said, “Please … black.”

  Howard laughed lightly and said, “I know how you like your coffee, my dear. It hasn’t been that long.” He handed her the cup and then walked over and sat down in a chair across from her.

  Sandy took a sip and said, “It’s been a few years. You and I stopped seeing each other just before Molly Hoffman came back into your life. You were quite the friend to her in the last months of her life.” Howard sipped his coffee and nodded as she continued, “I have a new life, Howard. I’m sixty-three and married with a five-year-old son. I’ll be damned if I’m going to be murdered or lose the firm I have spent my entire career building over some nut job with a grudge.”

  Howard sipped his coffee and said, “I built this firm, Sandy. I recruited you out of Harvard thirty years ago. You have made some great strides in your life and career. How is Ben doing, being home with your son?”
Sandy sat the cup down on the table, pressed her hands against her navy blue Calvin Klein business suit, and tilted her head to one side. He looked at her and said, “Sometimes I forget just how beautiful you are.”

  She smiled. Her short salt and pepper hair neatly groomed, her high cheek bones and deep amber eyes soft in the morning sunlight. “Ben is fine.”

  Howard took another sip of his coffee and said, “You worry about your family, Sandy. Let me worry about the firm. I have feelers out in and outside of law enforcement. We will catch this killer.”

  Sandy stood up, straightened her back, and said, “You do what you need to, Howard, but I am not without influence in this firm. You and I know that Benton and Cynthia’s murders aren’t exactly hurting everyone, and you and I are two of those people. You can pretend you’re saddened over their deaths, but in the end, they benefit the firm.”

  Howard poured himself another cup and said, “Benefit? I don’t understand how those two deaths benefit the firm.”

  Sandy’s face grew grave, and she said while picking up her handbag, “You know and I know that Benton was talking to the feds. You and I also know that Cynthia would sleep with anything that walked to get what she wanted, including Benton. This firm is laundering a substantial amount of money and protecting several high profile clients through, let’s say, less than legal manners. So, don’t keep your nose up in the air with me, Howard. We all have skeletons in our closets. I’m beginning to fear that yours are starting to emerge.”

  Howard didn’t respond. He just watched as Sandy walked into the foyer and down the hall to the elevator. He was standing in the entryway to the hall as she pressed the elevator button. She looked at him and said, “I’m not going down with the ship, Howard. If you can’t deal with this shit, then I will!” With that, she stepped into the elevator and out of Howard’s sight.

  Chapter Six

  “Some things should

  remain secret.”

  The mid-November air was still with wispy fog and just the hint of rain on the early afternoon breeze. Sam sat on the smoker’s bench outside the Sheriff’s headquarters while being chatted up by three high ranking officers vying for her attention and trying to position themselves in her new administration. Jim O’Brian stood off in the distance, leaning against the main entrance and watching Sam try to fend off her fellow officers.

  A black Chevy Silverado extended cab pulled up in front of the office building, and Jim looked on as John stepped out of the brand new truck and started to walk up the path leading to the Sheriff’s headquarters. Sam spotted him and excused herself and headed toward him. John had an intense look on his face when Sam stopped him halfway between the parking lot and the building entrance. “Please tell me that you have a lead in the Cohen murders.”

  John shook his head as he looked down at Sam’s haggard face. “When’s the last time you got a full night’s sleep, Sam?”

  “I can’t remember. So much is happening so fast. I don’t get much sleep these days.”

  John nodded and said, “Get used to it. The higher you go in the law enforcement business, the less sleep you get.” He started walking and saw Jim near the entrance but said nothing.

  Sam joined him and asked, “You’re an FBI profiler, and you have no idea what we are dealing with here? Fuck, John. You and Jim talked to the Caldwell woman before she died. I saw the sketches done by your artists. All that she saw was a masked man?”

  John nodded as he approached the entrance. Sam looked up to see Jim standing in front of the two of them and asked, “How long have you been over here?”

  Jim laughed and said, “Long enough to see that you are getting pressed by all those deputies who just a few short weeks ago were talking you down. Now they want a job in your new administration, and they will do and say whatever it takes to get the jobs, kid.”

  Sam just shook her head, and John said, “I didn’t come here to talk the politics of the LA County Sheriff.”

  Jim looked at John and then the truck and said, “Well, I see you didn’t waste any time getting another vehicle.”

  “A rolling stone gathers no moss, Jim. I purchased the truck myself as I need to make some changes to it. I’m going to drop it off with Lance and Patrick for the necessary modifications.”

  Jim nodded and Sam looked on with a confused look on her face and asked, “You are going to have civilians update a federal vehicle?”

  “It’s not a federal vehicle. It’s my personal truck, and those civilians have forgotten more about working to help law enforcement than you will ever know.”

  Jim looked at John and Sam in a stare off and said, “Well, only one of two things is going to happen between you two if you keep staring at each other. You’re going to fight or fuck. John, you wouldn’t be here unless you had something. What’s up?”

  John looked at him and asked if the three of them could have some privacy. Jim walked the two into the building, and they took over a conference room on the second floor where John pulled out his tablet and plugged in a USB cable and attached it to an overhead projector. Jim sat down along with Sam as John pulled up the sketches from Caldwell’s interview as well as an audio file of their conversation.

  “It took me a while, but I’ve reviewed the sketches, interview, and recordings of the killing that were picked up from the surveillance cameras at Cohen’s law firm, as well as audio from the caller who killed Caldwell.”

  Jim sat back and put a cigarette behind his ear and asked, “Okay. You have me all a buzz, John. What do you know?”

  John played the tapes of the killer’s voice and then the video from the parking structure and said, “Well, first, the killer is using voice manipulation software much like the Eagle uses.” Jim nodded. “Second, after going over the files and running them through several wave testers, I don’t know that the voice we are hearing is male.”

  Sam perked up as Jim sat motionless and asked, “Are you saying that the killer is a woman?” John nodded and said yes and no.

  Jim slammed his fist down on the table, making Sam jump, and asked, “Just what the fuck does that mean? The killer is male. We have seen the surveillance video.”

  John played a section of tape just before the killer set Caldwell on fire and froze it. John said, “Look at the killer. Is there anything in his hands other than the gas can and a match?”

  Jim looked hard at the video and said, “So the fucker has a wireless earpiece, for crying out loud. You drove all the way over here to tell us this?”

  John shook his head and said, “No … the killer is not the one talking on the phone. The voice on the phone is not the killer’s. It’s the person who’s pulling the strings.”

  Jim cocked his head as did Sam, who asked, “Then how do you explain the begging and pleading of the victims that can be heard on the line? Is this second person on scene at the murders?”

  John shook his head and said, “No. The person is talking over the pleading of the victims. The killer is wearing a microphone on his clothing, and he says nothing as he is doing the killing.”

  Jim laughed and said, “So, let me see if I have this right. The killer uses another person that is wired to do the killing and then speaks over the pleading of the victim?” John nodded, and Jim continued, “Okay. I’ll play. If that’s the case, then how is it that the victim is talking to the killer, and the killer is talking back to the victim?”

  John laughed and said, “It’s quite ingenious, actually. The killer is not just wired for sound; he’s wired like a speaker. The person doing the killing never says a word. We’re hearing a voice on the other end of the phone.”

  Jim sat for a long time as did Sam without saying a word. He got up and walked to the front of the room and looked closely at the grainy picture of Caldwell’s killer. “Have you enhanced this yet?”

  John shook his head and said, “No, not yet. I picked up my new truck an
d was watching the video on my tablet when it all fell into place.”

  Sam sat back and said, “John, I know you’re a talented fellow, a tech geek, and have all kinds of talents that only a handful of people know about, but this just seems too far out for me to even entertain.”

  Jim was staring at the video of the killer as John responded, “Sam, one of the things that you are going to figure out really quickly is to follow your gut. Your first instinct is correct ninety-nine percent of the time.”

  With his back to her, Jim asked, “Sam, have you ever heard of Occam’s Razor?”

  “I’ve heard the term, but I don’t understand its use.”

  John said, “Pluralitas non est ponenda sine necessitate.”

  Sam looked at Jim and asked, “Is John speaking in tongues? Is he a religious freak or something?”

  John said, “It’s Latin and means ‘entities should not be multiplied unnecessarily.’” Sam looked at him and told him she still didn’t get it.

  Jim, who was still staring at the screen, said, “In its simplest form, it means the most logical conclusion is usually the correct one.”

  Sam sat back and said, “Oh. So, ‘KISS.’ Keep it simple, stupid?”

  Both men laughed, and Jim said, “Yeah, sure. I guess that’s as good a way to look at it as any other.” He turned from the screen and asked John, “Do you have your magic laptop with you?” John nodded, and Jim asked him to get it.

  When he left the room, Sam asked, “Magic laptop?”

  Jim sat down and put the cigarette between his teeth and started chewing on it and said, “Yeah … it’s not literally magic, but John has software on it that is more advanced than most technology out there, and one of the things that he has on that laptop is the ability to see what other technologies can’t see.”

  Janet Winston had just pulled her new Bentley into the parking lot of the Law Offices of Koswick, Harold, Parody, and Swan. As the valet opened her door, she gently moved her left leg out of the vehicle and turned slowly to give the attendant a cheap thrill. Her long silky legs and sizeable breasts were on parade for all the world to see. She knew the valet knew who she was. Most everyone in LA recognized Janet Winston, formally ‘Janny Fanny,’ one of the most popular porn stars in the city. She stepped out of the car and handed the valet her keys, and he handed her a ticket while staring at her barely covered breasts. At six feet tall, Janet towered over him.