Strangled - Brian McGrory [112]
No, I was just about certain that, unlike that deadly debacle on the Boston Public Garden, this was the real thing.
Silence. It was rare for Peter Martin to offer a flawed analysis like that, rarer still for him to be at a loss for words. Maybe this thing was taking a harder toll on him than I realized.
So I said, trying to present at least the veneer of calm, “This presents us with a bunch of problems, most that we don’t know about yet, but some that we do. First and foremost is that I’m not going to be back in Boston in time for that six o’clock pickup.” The clock on the rental car dashboard read 2:06, which meant 5:06 p.m. in Boston. I don’t know if I could have gotten there on the space shuttle, not that I’d be willing to fly on that thing anyway.
Martin said, “I’ve directed the security consultant to reply to the sender from your account, in your name, that you’re out of town until later tonight and you won’t be able to make the six o’clock rendezvous. He’s doing that as we speak.”
Okay, this was reassuring now, to hear Martin talk again like a man in control of a situation, like he usually is. I heard a muffled sound, as if he put his palm over the phone, then he got back on the line and said, “Buck, our new security guy, wants to know what time you’re back on the ground.”
I wondered if Buck would have put his life on the line for me like Edgar Sullivan did, and quickly decided he would not. Maybe it was irrational for me to dislike him, even disdain him, without yet knowing him, but I did. I mean, give me a break on the name: What the fuck is Buck?
“Twelve-thirty. What’s the e-mail address the Phantom’s using?”
More muffled sounds, then, “PFBoston@yahoo.com.”
I asked, “Any chance the origin can be chased and linked to a computer somewhere?”
Martin answered, “Highly unlikely, but Buck’s working on it.”
I was about to ask for funeral arrangements for Edgar when Martin shot out, “Hold on, here, Buck says we have a response. I’m going to make this easier and put you on speakerphone, Jack.”
He pressed a button, because suddenly I could hear a low humming sound, like when you place a shell against your ear at the beach. Martin said, “Jack, I’ve got Buck here. Buck, this is Jack on the phone.”
What followed was the typically awkward start of a speakerphone call. Buck called out, “How are you, Jack? Nice to meet you.”
I wanted to point out that we hadn’t actually met yet, and that it wasn’t bound to be all that nice when we did. Instead I said, “Good, Buck. Where are we with the Phantom?”
Buck said, “He’s just come back and essentially said he wants to meet in Downtown Crossing at one this morning.”
I gritted my teeth. By the way, the Nevada desert was giving way to development, which was leading to the airport, which meant that I was getting close to being wheels up and flying home. I said, “Buck, I don’t want to know what he essentially said. Tell me exactly what he said.”
“Why don’t I just read it…”
“Good idea, Buck.”
“Sure. He wrote, ‘Dear Mr. Flynn, then please appear at the corner of Winter Street and Winter Place at one a.m. Come alone. Do not alert authorities. Do not send anyone in advance. If you violate these conditions, you will suffer even greater consequences, and so will many more women. I will contact you at the appropriate hour and location. PF.’ ”
Buck added in a confiding tone, “I think the PF stands for Phantom Fiend.”
“Thanks, Buck.” I added, “Peter, can I talk to you for a moment?”
The line clicked and became clearer, and then Martin said into the phone, “I don’t like the feel of it.”
He didn’t like the feel of it because he’s the one who put us — namely, me — into this situation by not standing up to Justine Steele’s bullshit.
I said, “But you’re not going to do anything about it. You’re not going to the police. You’re not