Game (Jasper Dent #2)(96)

“Fine. Fine.” The next exit, it turned out, was for the airport. Howie guided the car down the ramp. “But are you sure about this? It could be dangerous.” Even as he said it, Howie felt idiotic. A mysterious voice was seducing Connie into traveling to New York. Manipulating her. Of course it was dangerous. Either Billy Dent or someone like him was at the other end of that phone call. “Maybe you should just let the cops handle this.”

“What, the NYPD? They have their hands full already with the Hat-Dog Killer. This is personal. I’ll go to New York. Find this clue at JFK, then get to Jazz. Show him what we’ve got, what we know. In the meantime, just to be safe and cover all the bases…” She twisted around in the car seat and retrieved the lockbox from the backseat. “I want you to wait until my flight is off the ground and then take this to the sheriff.”

“Got it. Will do. Sammy J and I will hold down the fort here in the Nod,” Howie promised.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Connie turning to stare at him. “What?” he asked defensively. He knew that look—it was Connie’s Guilt Glare, usually employed when he said or did something stupid or offensive or both. “What did I do?”

“What did you just say?” she asked, her tone insistent, with an undercurrent of panic.

“I said I’ll hold down the fort with Sam. We be keepin’ it one hundred, dawg. We’ll keep Gramma cool; we’ll check in with G. William to see if the cops learn anything else from that lockbox; we’ll—”

“No. Exactly. What did you say exactly?” Before he could recall his exact words, she filled him in: “You said ‘Sammy J and I.’ Sammy J.”

“Right. It’s just a nickname.” Howie signaled and pulled off the highway onto the access road that led to the airport. “It’s what they called her when she was a kid.”

“And doesn’t Sammy J sound like someone else we know?”

Traffic was light, so Howie risked taking his eyes off the road. Connie strained against her shoulder belt, leaning toward him intensely, staring as if she could burn the answer into him with her eyes. “What are you talking about?” he asked. “Why are you all freaked out all of a sudden? It’s just a nickname.”

“Sammy J. J,” she said, emphasizing the last letter.

The connection clicked. “Jesus, Connie. You think Sammy J is Ugly J? Just because they share an initial? That’s crazy.”

“I’ll tell you what’s crazy: Auto-Tuning your voice if there’s no reason to. Billy wouldn’t do it because I already know who he is. The only reason for someone else to disguise it—”

“Is if you know the voice already,” Howie interrupted. “But you’ve never met Sam.”

“Or to disguise your gender,” Connie told him. “And yeah, I’ve never met her, but I might. As long as she’s in town, staying at Jazz’s, the odds are I would meet her. And hear her voice.”

“That’s nuts,” Howie said in a tone that wasn’t convincing even to him.

“Who’s new to town who I haven’t met yet, but probably will at some point? Who’s the only person in this whole mess who would have a reason to disguise her voice from me?”

“You’re assuming a lot. I mean, Mr. Auto-Tune—”

“Or Ms. Auto-Tune.”

“—could be anyone. I mean, maybe he—or she,” he amended quickly, “is just worried that you’re recording your conversations. Or just doesn’t want you to be able to identify him or her by voice someday. Or…”

“You can keep throwing ‘or’ out there as much as you want, but face it—the most likely scenario is that it’s someone known to me. Or to us. Maybe that’s not one hundred percent guaranteed, but come on, Howie.”

Howie hated to admit it, but she had a point. And all he could think of, suddenly, was the photo album Gramma had showed him. The pictures of Sam as a little girl. I was a late bloomer….

“We know Billy had a confederate out there,” Connie went on. “Someone who coordinated his escape from Wammaket. Someone who was in contact with the Impressionist. What if it was his sister?”

Howie shook his head. “No. I don’t buy it.”

“Because you want to sleep with her.”

“That’s beside the point. I don’t buy it because Sam hates Billy. You should see her when he comes up. She despises that guy. Jesus, she said in public that she would pull the lever if they executed him.”

“Yeah, and I just told my parents that I would never speak to them again if they called the cops on me. I sounded serious enough that they didn’t.”

Howie said nothing as he guided the car into the drop-off lane and stopped. “God,” he said at last. “Have I been macking on a serial killer’s right-hand man? Woman? Are there even… is there even such a thing?”

“I think so. Jazz mentioned one once. Some woman in England, I think. Sam could be a serial killer.”

“Watch it. That’s the mother of my illegitimate children you’re talking about.”

“Howie.”

“But really—what are the odds of a brother and sister serial-killing tag team?”

“Same parents. Same genetics. Same environment. I don’t know the odds, but it’s not impossible.”