Dead Sleep. Greg Iles
a particular fear for every woman.”
“What about you? You must have placed yourself in some very dangerous situations vis-à-vis rape. War zones full of men. Teenagers with guns.”
“I can take care of myself. Jane’s a lot softer.”
Lenz nods slowly. “If we found Jane tomorrow—alive—what would you say to her? In other words, what have you most regretted not saying to her?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“I’ve explained why—”
“Some things are too personal, Doctor. Let’s leave it at that.”
Lenz rubs his face with his hands, then inclines his head to me. “Some years ago, I worked a very difficult murder case. I lost my wife during that investigation. She was murdered. Violently. Viciously. And I felt responsible. Perhaps I was. We had grown apart in our marriage, but that hardly lessened the agony. We’ve all done terrible things to the people we love, Jordan. It’s our nature as humans. If there’s something like that between you and your sister, it would help me to know. To see her as she really was.”
The pain in Lenz’s eyes looks genuine, but he’s an old hand at this game. He could have a stock of stories like this one, barter beads he uses to elicit intimacies.
“There’s nothing like that.”
He takes a frustrated breath through his nose, and I’m reminded of a surgeon working to remove a bullet, his gloved thumb and finger in forceps, trying first one angle and then another, probing for a route to the heart of the wound.
“Certain types of people become targets for predators,” Lenz says. “The same way that injured or weak animals are chosen as prey by leopards. Certain types of children tend to be molested, for example: the shy ones, those who don’t fit in, who play at the edge of the group, who separate themselves for various reasons. The same holds true for adults. I’m currently profiling every known victim in this case. Some had very low self-image, but others were super-achievers. Some had siblings, others none. Some were housewives, others career women. I must find—”
“I’ve told you all I know, Doctor.”
“You haven’t begun to tell me what you know.” He shifts in his seat, and the cruelty reappears in his eyes. “Why have you never married, Jordan?”
“I was engaged. He was killed. End of story.”
“Killed how?”
“He was an ITN reporter. He was shot down in a helicopter over Namibia and tortured to death.”
“You’ve lost your father, your fiancé, and your sister to violent death?”
“Bad things come in threes, right?”
“You’re forty years old. There must be more to your romantic life than one engagement.”
“I’ve had lovers. Does that make you happy?”
“Did Jane have lovers?”
“One boyfriend through high school, like I said. She never had sex with him.”
“How do you know?”
“I just know. Okay? After him, she dated around, but nothing serious. Then in college she met a guy from a wealthy family in New Orleans. Married him his senior year of law school. She found the handsomest, most reliable provider she could, married him, had two kids, and lived happily ever after.”
For some reason this inaccurate summary brings a wave of tears to my eyes. “I need a drink. Do you think they have any of those little airplane bottles stowed on this plane?”
“No. Jordan, I want you to—”
“Get off it! Okay? You wanted our story, you’ve got it. We’re poster girls for nurture in the nature-versus-nurture debate. We’re identical right down to our mitochondria, but emotionally we’re opposites. Jane acted like she despised me, but she was so jealous of me it made her sick. She was jealous of my name. She thought ‘Jordan’ was exotic, while hers was literally plain Jane. I called her that when I was angry. She hated having to depend on me for money, for her cheerleading outfits and expenses. She wanted Izod shirts and Bass Weejuns, and I made her wear J.C. fucking Penney! That’s how petty it was, okay? But to girls in our situation, that was a big deal. Was she weak or frail in some way? Yes. But weaker people can’t help being weak, you know? I tried to protect her. Until she stopped wanting me to, and even then I tried. Jane became a southern belle because it was the only choice she was capable of making. She had to feel safe.”
“We’re all defined by the choices we make to survive,” Lenz says in a fatherly voice. “The Walter Mittys and the monsters.”
His paternalistic bit finally snaps my patience. “Is that supposed to be profound? Doctor, you may have lost your wife to a killer, but I suspect that most of the trauma you’ve encountered was vicarious. Told to you by patients or prisoners. It can be tough to hear things, I know. I’ve heard some bad things myself. But I have also endured some bad things. I have descended into the pit of hell, if you want to know. I have seen some shit. And all this talk we’re doing means nothing. Jane is alive or she’s dead. Either way, I have to know. That’s the way I’m built. But your games aren’t taking us any closer to an answer. I don’t think anything connects all these victims, except the fact that they’re women.”
“Jordan, don’t you want to—”
“What I want is what Baxter promised me. A complete breakdown of the FBI’s investigation so far. I want it clear and concise, and I want it now.”
Lenz splays his age-spotted hands on the desktop and leans back. “Did that outburst make you feel better?”
“Start talking, damn it!”
“There’s not much to tell. We’re now gathering every known painting that belongs to the Sleeping Women series.”
“Where?”
“The National Gallery in Washington.”
“How many do you have so far?”
“None. Four will arrive by plane tomorrow, several more the next day. Some collectors have refused to ship their paintings but agreed to allow Bureau forensic teams and art consultants to travel to their collections. First we’ll try to match the paintings to the known victims in New Orleans. In some cases it should be easy. Harder with the more abstract canvases, but we have some ideas about that. Then we’ll establish the order in which the canvases were painted, if we can; it may differ from the order in which they were sold. While this is being done, we’ll be searching the canvases for fingerprints, hairs, skin flakes, other biological artifacts. The paint itself will be analyzed and lot numbers traced, if possible. Brush fibers may be found and traced. Connoisseurs will make studies of the painter’s style and try to draw comparisons with known artists. And that’s only the beginning of what the paintings will go through.”
“Who’s in charge of the case for the Bureau?”
“Overall responsibility will be held by the Director. Tactically, there are different tracks to the investigation. Daniel will run the Washington track; he’ll be in charge of all profiling, with me consulting. The New Orleans SAC will run that end of the case.”
“Who’s the SAC? Same one as last year?”
“No. Patrick Bowles. He’s a competent man.” Lenz looks as though he’s about to continue, but he stops himself.
“What is it?”
“Another man in New Orleans may be playing the primary role in the investigation at this point. That’s one of the things I’m going down there to address.”
“Who?”
Lenz sighs. “His name is John Kaiser. He’s a journeyman agent now, but two years ago he was a member of the Investigative