“Another Lincoln?”
I asked.
“This time a 1991, silver-gray. He’s in lockup waiting to see the magistrate, no way they’re going to be able to hold him on a nickel-and-dime class one misdemeanor. Best they can do is stall, take their sweet time processing him. Then he’s out of there.”
“What about a search warrant?”
“His crib’s crawling with cops and the feds even as we speak. Looking for everything from Soldier of Fortune magazines to Tinker Toys.”
“You’re heading out there, I guess,” I said.
“Yeah. I’ll let you know.”
It was not possible for me to go back to sleep. Throwing a robe over my shoulders, I went downstairs and switched on a lamp in Abby’s room.
“It’s just me,” I said as she sat straight up in bed. She groaned, covering her eyes.
I told her what had happened. Then we went into the kitchen and put on a pot of coffee.
“I’d pay to be present when they search his house.”
She was so wired I was surprised she didn’t bolt out the door.
But she stayed inside all day, suddenly industrious. She cleaned up her room, helped me in the kitchen, and even swept the patio.
She wanted to know what the police had found and was smart enough to realize that driving to Williamsburg would get her nowhere, because she would not be allowed entrance into Spurrier’s residence or bookstore.
Marino stopped by early that evening as Abby and I were loading the dishwasher. I knew instantly by the look on his face that his news wasn’t good.
“First I’ll tell you what we didn’t find,” he began. “We didn’t find a friggin’ thing that will convince a jury Spurrier’s ever killed a housefly. No knives except the ones in his kitchen. No guns or cartridges. No souvenirs such as shoes, jewelry, locks of hair, whatever, that might have belonged to the victims.”
“Was his bookstore searched as well?”
I asked.
“Oh, yeah.”
“And his car of course.”
“Nothing.”
“Then tell us what you did find,” I asked, depressed. “Enough weirdo stuff to make me know it’s him, Doc,” Marino said. “I mean, this drone ain’t no Eagle Scout. He’s into skin magazines, violent pornography. Plus, he’s got books about the military, especially the CIA, and files filled with newspaper clippings about the CIA. All of it cataloged, labeled. The guy’s neater than an old lady librarian.”
“Did you find any newspaper clips about these cases?” Abby asked.
“We did, including old stories about Jill Harrington and Elizabeth Mott. We also found catalogs to a number of what I call spy shops, these outfits that sell security survival shit, everything from bulletproof cars to bomb detectors and night vision goggles. The FBI’s going to check it out, see what all he’s ordered over the years. Spurrier’s clothes are interesting, too. He must have half a dozen nylon warm-up suits in his bedroom, all of them black or navy blue and never worn, labels cut out of them, like maybe they were intended to be disposable, worn over his clothes and pitched somewhere after the fact.”
“Nylon sheds very little,” I said. “Windbreakers, nylon warm-ups aren’t going to leave many fibers.”
“Right. Let’s see. What else?”
Marino paused, finishing his drink. “Oh, yeah. Two boxes of surgical gloves and a supply of those disposable shoe-covers you wear downstairs.”
“Booties?”
“Right. Like you wear in the morgue so you don’t get blood on your shoes. And guess what? They found cards, four decks of them, never been opened, still in the cellophane.”
“I don’t suppose you found an opened deck missing a jack of hearts?”
I asked, hopefully.
“No. But that don’t surprise me. He probably removes the jack of hearts and then throws the rest of the cards away.”
“All the same brand?”
“No. A couple different brands.”
Abby was sitting silently in her chair, fingers laced tightly in her lap.
“It doesn’t make sense that you didn’t find any weapons,” I said.
“This guy’s slick, Doc. He’s careful.”
“Not careful enough. He kept the clippings about the murders, the warm-up suits, gloves. And he was caught red-handed stealing license tags, which makes me wonder if he wasn’t getting ready to strike again.”