building and took the narrow winding stairway up. On the second floor, yellow crime-scene tape had been placed in a crisscross pattern across the doorway to Soneji’s apartment. It didn’t look like the place where a “Mr. Chips” would live. More like a Richard Ramirez or a Green River killer.
The scarred wooden door was open. I could see two FBI techies working inside. A local deejay called The Greaseman was screeching from a radio on the floor.
“Hey, Pete, what’s doin’?” I called inside. I knew one of the FBI techies on the job, Pete Schweitzer. He looked up at the sound of my voice.
“Well, look who’s here. Welcome to the Inner Sanctum.”
“We came over to bother you. See how it’s done,” Sampson said. We’d both worked with Pete Schweitzer before, liked and trusted him as much as you could any FBI personnel.
“Come in and make yourselves at home at Casa Soneji. This is my fellow flyshit finder and bagger, Todd Toohey. Todd likes to listen to The Greaseman in the A.M. These two are ghouls like us, Toddie.”
“The best,” I told Todd Toohey. I had already started to nose around the apartment. Everything was feeling unreal again. There was this cold, damp spot inside my head. Eerie-time.
The small studio apartment was a mess. There wasn’t much furniture — a bare mattress on the floor, an end table and lamp, a sofa that looked as if it had been picked up off the street — but the floor was covered with things.
Wrinkled sheets and towels and underwear were a large part of the general chaos. Two or three loads of laundry were spilled out on the floor. Most of the clutter was books and magazines, though. Several hundred books, and at least that many magazines, were piled in the single small room.
“Anything interesting so far?” I asked Schweitzer. “You look through his library?”
Schweitzer talked to me without looking up from a pile of books he was dusting. “Everything is interesting. Check out the books along the wall. Also, consider the fact that our fine-feathered friend
wiped down this whole fucking apartment
before he split.”
“He do a good job? Up to your standards?”
“Excellent job. I couldn’t have done much better myself. We haven’t found a partial print anywhere. Not even on any of those goddamn books.”
“Maybe he reads with plastic gloves on,” I offered.
“I think he might. I shit you not. Place was dusted by a pro, Alex.”
I was crouched near several stacks of the books now. I read the titles on several of the spines. Most of it was nonfiction from the last five years or so.
“True-crime fan,” I said.
“Lots and lots of kidnapping stories,” Schweitzer said. He looked up and pointed. “Right side of the bed, near the reading lamp. That’s the kidnapping section.”
I walked over and looked at the volumes. Most of the books had been stolen from the library at Georgetown. I figured he must have had an I.D. to get into the stacks there. Was he a past student? Maybe a professor?
Several computer printouts were taped to the bare wall over his private library on kidnapping. I started to read down the lists.
Aldo Moro. Kidnapped in Rome. Five bodyguards killed during abduction. Moro’s body found in a parked car
.
Jack Teich, released after payment of $750,000
.
J. Reginald Murphy, editor of the Atlanta Constitution, released after payment of $700,000
.
J. Paul Getty 3rd, released in southern Italy after $2.8 million ransom paid
.
Mrs. Virginia Piper of Minneapolis, released after her husband paid $1,000,000.
Victor E. Samuelson, released in Argentina after payment of $14.2 million ransom
.
I whistled as I spotted the amounts on his list. What was he going to ask for Maggie Rose Dunne and Michael Goldberg?
It was a really small place, and there hadn’t been much room for Soneji to wipe off fingerprints. Still, Schweitzer said he hadn’t left anything. I wondered if Soneji could have been a cop. That was one way to plan a crime, and
The scarred wooden door was open. I could see two FBI techies working inside. A local deejay called The Greaseman was screeching from a radio on the floor.
“Hey, Pete, what’s doin’?” I called inside. I knew one of the FBI techies on the job, Pete Schweitzer. He looked up at the sound of my voice.
“Well, look who’s here. Welcome to the Inner Sanctum.”
“We came over to bother you. See how it’s done,” Sampson said. We’d both worked with Pete Schweitzer before, liked and trusted him as much as you could any FBI personnel.
“Come in and make yourselves at home at Casa Soneji. This is my fellow flyshit finder and bagger, Todd Toohey. Todd likes to listen to The Greaseman in the A.M. These two are ghouls like us, Toddie.”
“The best,” I told Todd Toohey. I had already started to nose around the apartment. Everything was feeling unreal again. There was this cold, damp spot inside my head. Eerie-time.
The small studio apartment was a mess. There wasn’t much furniture — a bare mattress on the floor, an end table and lamp, a sofa that looked as if it had been picked up off the street — but the floor was covered with things.
Wrinkled sheets and towels and underwear were a large part of the general chaos. Two or three loads of laundry were spilled out on the floor. Most of the clutter was books and magazines, though. Several hundred books, and at least that many magazines, were piled in the single small room.
“Anything interesting so far?” I asked Schweitzer. “You look through his library?”
Schweitzer talked to me without looking up from a pile of books he was dusting. “Everything is interesting. Check out the books along the wall. Also, consider the fact that our fine-feathered friend
wiped down this whole fucking apartment
before he split.”
“He do a good job? Up to your standards?”
“Excellent job. I couldn’t have done much better myself. We haven’t found a partial print anywhere. Not even on any of those goddamn books.”
“Maybe he reads with plastic gloves on,” I offered.
“I think he might. I shit you not. Place was dusted by a pro, Alex.”
I was crouched near several stacks of the books now. I read the titles on several of the spines. Most of it was nonfiction from the last five years or so.
“True-crime fan,” I said.
“Lots and lots of kidnapping stories,” Schweitzer said. He looked up and pointed. “Right side of the bed, near the reading lamp. That’s the kidnapping section.”
I walked over and looked at the volumes. Most of the books had been stolen from the library at Georgetown. I figured he must have had an I.D. to get into the stacks there. Was he a past student? Maybe a professor?
Several computer printouts were taped to the bare wall over his private library on kidnapping. I started to read down the lists.
Aldo Moro. Kidnapped in Rome. Five bodyguards killed during abduction. Moro’s body found in a parked car
.
Jack Teich, released after payment of $750,000
.
J. Reginald Murphy, editor of the Atlanta Constitution, released after payment of $700,000
.
J. Paul Getty 3rd, released in southern Italy after $2.8 million ransom paid
.
Mrs. Virginia Piper of Minneapolis, released after her husband paid $1,000,000.
Victor E. Samuelson, released in Argentina after payment of $14.2 million ransom
.
I whistled as I spotted the amounts on his list. What was he going to ask for Maggie Rose Dunne and Michael Goldberg?
It was a really small place, and there hadn’t been much room for Soneji to wipe off fingerprints. Still, Schweitzer said he hadn’t left anything. I wondered if Soneji could have been a cop. That was one way to plan a crime, and
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