by Alex Kava
“What victims? This is my personal stash. Just put that last can next to the stack of bottled water.”
Maggie slipped off her shoes and threw them in the back with the supplies. The asphalt burned her feet before she got back to the passenger side of the SUV. She opened her window despite the scorching heat. The fumes were already giving her a headache, and by her own calculations they had another three hours on the road.
Wurth slid into the driver’s seat and handed her an ice-cold can of Diet Pepsi, his idea of a peace offering. She accepted.
“You’ll be thanking me that I got a whole six-pack on ice back there for you. By the time we get down to Pensacola most of the shelves will be picked clean. Gas stations will either have long lines or be sold out. And there is absolutely nothing worse than being stuck in a hurricane area just because you can’t get enough gasoline to drive away.”
“I thought you weren’t supposed to drive away. I thought you were supposed to be the cavalry.”
Charlie Wurth laughed and shook his head.
“Where do you come up with these ideas, O’Dell?”
“You never did tell me why you’re being dispatched to the Florida Panhandle when your home is New Orleans. Isn’t New Orleans in this storm’s path, too?”
“New Orleans is where all the media is.” He pulled the SUV back into interstate traffic.
When Maggie realized that was the end of his explanation she prodded. “Yes, so that’s where all the media is and …?”
“You know how this works better than I do. You’ve been a part of this federal bureaucracy longer than me. Media’s all set up in the Big Easy then that’s where the director is. Not the deputy director.”
Of course. She couldn’t believe she hadn’t guessed.
“Which reminds me”—Wurth threw her a glance—“maybe now’s a good time for you to tell me how you managed to get yourself smack-dab in the line of fire yesterday.”
“Is that what you heard?”
“That’s what I was told.”
She shouldn’t have been surprised that Kunze would characterize the incident as her fault.
“What exactly did my boss tell you?”
“I won’t tell you his exact words because I don’t use that kind of language in front of a lady, but I believe the gist of what he said was that you screwed up. Didn’t see it coming.”
“I didn’t see it coming?”
Maggie couldn’t believe it. How dare Kunze blame her for a killer’s unpredictable behavior. And to suggest it publicly to someone outside the bureau. What would be next? Saying that it was her negligence that made him fire his own gun three times into the killer? The first shot had been enough to stop him. Maggie wondered if the head shot that splattered her with the killer’s brains had simply been overkill to do just that—splatter her.
“Did he even tell you what happened?”
“Maybe you should tell me what happened.”
“Or my version. Isn’t that what you’re really saying?”
“Hey, I’m on your side, O’Dell.” He held his hands up in surrender then dropped them back to the steering wheel. “If I believed anything Kunze said you wouldn’t be on this road trip with me.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry.”
“You know what, it doesn’t even matter what happened. You found the son of a bitch, right? And now he’s out of commission. From what I read in last week’s newspapers there were a few body parts involved in that case, too.”
She waited for him to make the same inference Tully had—that somehow she’d become an expert in murders that included body parts. Wurth glanced at her.
“As far as I’m concerned,” he said, “you did us all a favor.”
Maggie settled into the oversize captain seat, tucking a bare foot underneath her, looking out the window, but her mind returned to yesterday’s bizarre shooting. They had tracked down and found … no, that wasn’t right. She had tracked down and found the killer’s torture chamber—a deserted warehouse near the Potomac.
For Maggie it brought back memories of another killer she had caught many years ago. Sometimes she worried that all the killers she had come in contact with were morphing together. That Assistant Director Kunze had shot and killed this one didn’t even bother her. She agreed with Wurth. It meant another monster wouldn’t be hurting another innocent victim. That she didn’t predict he would be there, who cared?
She had dug deep enough into his psyche to figure out where he hid, where he kept his dirty little secret life. Shouldn’t that have been enough? Why had Kunze expected her to read his mind? Didn’t Kunze realize that to dig deeper meant inching her way too close to the edge? Or maybe that was exactly what Kunze wanted. To shove her and see if she’d fall.
CHAPTER 13
PENSACOLA BEACH
Liz Bailey downed her second Red Bull. She checked and rechecked the flight equipment then packed it back where it belonged. She had already gone over medical equipment piece by piece, even though they hadn’t used anything yesterday. She was bored, only it was worse, waiting and knowing, the calm before the storm. Staying alert while staying put and waiting.
In their briefing this morning they were told to prepare to be on emergency standby for the rest of the week. She could see the waves from her post, churning and bucking against the seawall. Surfers were out before she arrived. She knew they’d be here until authorities made them leave and closed the beach. And they’d grumble about leaving, their eyes glazed over with adrenaline. You just didn’t get waves like the ones that came right before a hurricane.
Several of the hotels had started encouraging guests to check out, but the beach was still packed with tourists. Other than the waves there was no indication of a storm, the sky still cloudless and blue, the sun baking the white sand. The last August days before vacations ended for another year. Why would anyone believe they needed to leave this paradise and go home early?
The rest of Liz’s aircrew were down the beach a mile at the heliport, crawling over their helicopter, doing their own preflight assessments, checks, and rechecks. She usually enjoyed the alone time. Today it added to her restlessness. They had been instructed to sit tight and wait. All they were told was that the deputy director of Homeland Security and an FBI investigator were on their way. It sounded like they would be taking over the case. Liz thought it a waste of time for them to be grilled all over again. What new questions could they ask? What more information could their aircrew provide?
She remembered what her dad had said about body parts and felt a bit sick to her stomach. How stupid could Tommy Ellis be? But then how stupid had all four of them been? Sure, Wilson prodded them to open the cooler, but Kesnick should never have gone any further once they realized what they had found. It was Kesnick who pulled out each piece. Except the large one, the one they agreed looked like a torso. The plastic had been wrapped tight but it yielded enough that they could see the parts had been sliced clean. No rips or tears. Whoever had done this knew exactly where to cut and had the tools to do an efficient job.
Now Liz wondered if Kesnick confessed to the authorities yesterday how much he had handled the wrapped pieces. Liz certainly hadn’t said a word. She didn’t lie. But for all the questions, no one thought about asking, “Did you handle the contents? Do you know what you found?”
Instead, the authorities were more concerned with where the cooler had been discovered and whether or not they had talked to anyone on the ground about it. Anyone outside their aircrew. Even later, when the four of them went out for drinks and hot dogs, they stayed away from the topic. Or at least, Liz thought they had. When was it that Tommy Ellis had slipped and told her dad? Had Ellis told anyone else?
She suspected that the deputy director of Homeland Security and the FBI agent would ask more pointed questions. Ones that couldn’t be evaded as easily. Would they dare suspend them all with a hurricane coming?
Liz saw a sleek, black SUV loop around the parking lot, an Escalade with
Louisiana license plates. It didn’t park though there were plenty of empty spaces in front of the building. Instead, it headed back onto Via De Luna Drive. She watched until it turned off into the Hilton Hotel.
They were here.
Her nerves tensed, and she wished she hadn’t had that second Red Bull.
CHAPTER 14
Scott Larsen hadn’t taken time to change out of his suit from Sunday-morning service at First United Christ. Trish was used to him dropping her off at home before he headed over to the funeral home, but this morning she had been on edge about the hurricane.
“We need to start thinking about what we’re going to do,” she nagged at him all the way home. “We probably need some plywood to board up the patio doors.”
“The thing hasn’t even gotten into the Gulf yet,” Scott had countered.
He was impatient with all this worry over something that might not even come their way. Besides, he hated leaving Joe Black the run of his embalming room. The guy insisted Scott give him a key and security code so he could start work. Other than accepting delivery and providing temporary cold storage of a few specimens for Black to pick up en route to one of his doctors’ conferences, this was their first real business dealing.
After months of listening to Joe Black talk—actually there was more insinuation than talk—about the impressive network, the major connections to doctors and medical equipment companies, and all the “big money” there was waiting to be made, Scott had jumped at the chance when Black finally invited him to be a major player. And Scott had already been paid handsomely for the storage fees. It was Joe who told him how to contract with the county to handle indigents. That little tip would bring in five hundred dollars a shot, just for accepting and processing the bodies. Plus, Joe Black was going to pay him another five hundred each. Scott didn’t have to lift a finger.
It was a win-win situation. He couldn’t believe his good fortune. And it came at just the right time. Trish had long ago overspent their budget on the house they were building. He hadn’t told her that he decided to forgo buying hurricane insurance for it. How was he supposed to afford it when they were still paying renter’s insurance on their condo plus the insurance on the funeral home? Now it was too late. He couldn’t buy insurance after the first of June, when hurricane season started. This one sure as hell better take a turn and stay far away. Then he reminded himself that it wasn’t even in the Gulf.
Some days he truly felt like a transplant down here in Florida. Just last week someone at one of his memorial services called him “a Yankee” and jokingly told him, “But maybe you won’t become a ‘damn Yankee.’”
“What’s a damn Yankee?” Scott wanted to know.
“One that stays.”
Days like this, Scott wondered why he hadn’t insisted they live in Michigan. He’d been lured by those emerald-green waters and sandy beaches. And Trish in a bikini, though she hardly ever wore one now that they were married, even though they lived right on the bay.
Scott drove around the one-story funeral home that looked remarkably like an oversize ranch house. Every time he pulled into the parking lot he felt a swell of pride. It was all his … his and the bank’s: three viewing rooms, chapel, visitors’ lounge, and corner office. The embalming room and storage facility were in a separate building that connected to the back of the funeral home via an air-conditioned walkway.
He’d added the twenty-five-foot walkway. It was crazy going even that short distance in a suit and tie and getting sweaty from the humidity or drenched from a downpour. He insisted on presenting a clean, crisply pressed appearance. Likewise, his entire place was kept meticulously.
The public areas—the viewing rooms and visitors’ lounge—were vacuumed daily, stocked with fresh flowers, furniture aligned at straight angles with ample room for foot traffic as well as coffin traffic. Even the back area that included the embalming room and walk-in refrigerator was spotless. The stainless-steel tables and shelves gleamed. The white linoleum floors and porcelain basins always had a glossy finish. The state inspectors constantly praised Scott and told him they wished all the places they had to inspect looked this good.
Now as he pulled up to the back door his eyes darted around, looking for a vehicle. Joe Black had been driving something different every time they’d met. Scott figured he must use various leased cars or perhaps rentals. Last night Joe had walked up the beach so Scott hadn’t even seen what he was driving. But there wasn’t a vehicle anywhere in sight. Could he have finished already? Or maybe he hadn’t started yet.
Scott disarmed the alarm system and had his key in the door when he heard something rattling against the back of the building. He stopped and leaned around the corner. A rusted old shopping cart had been wedged between the trunk of a magnolia tree and his Dumpster.
Damn! He hated people snooping around his property, leaving trash. It cost money to empty that frickin’ Dumpster.
He was shaking his head, still cursing under his breath, when he went inside. He immediately reset the alarm.
Scott understood that there were specific reasons why he had become a mortician. He didn’t really like working with people. Sure, he had to advise and guide the bereaved, but it was easier to work with people when they were at their most vulnerable. They automatically looked to him as the expert. There was a built-in respect that came with the job title.
He actually didn’t mind working with dead people. Trish insisted that much of what he did was creepy and gross: the makeup, hairstyling, and clothes. Sometimes he had to paint the skin or sew up leaking orifices. And there were the plastic lenses he inserted beneath the eyelids to keep the eyes from popping open in the middle of a memorial.
Even the blood didn’t bother him. You drained it out and replaced it with embalming fluid. Oh sure, you couldn’t avoid blood leaking out sometimes, but it never sprayed or splattered like it did from a live, pumping heart. And yet, despite all the awkward and messy jobs Scott had done, nothing had prepared him for what he saw.
He backed up and stayed in the doorway, his hand pressed against the wall, needing it to steady himself.
Pink liquid pooled on the white linoleum floor and filled the troughs alongside the stainless-steel tables. A cardboard box blocked his entry, the type Scott used for bodies transported to the crematory, only this one held wadded-up bundles of clothes. On one of the tables lay a torso—the head, arms, and legs gone. On the other lay a corpse. It looked peaceful until Scott realized its knees and feet were cut and in between its legs.
Joe Black stood at the counter. When he turned around, Scott saw the front of his lab gown, his latex gloves, and his shoe covers, all soaked with blood.
“Oh hey, Scott, you’re just in time. I could use some help.”
CHAPTER 15
Maggie stared at the helicopter and the orange flight suit being handed to her. Obviously she hadn’t given it enough thought when she asked to see the crime scene. It was the Coast Guard, for God’s sake. Didn’t they use boats?
A helicopter. She felt her knees go a bit weak. She could barely handle being trapped on a commercial airliner. How the hell was she supposed to do a helicopter?
“Wouldn’t it be easier to take a look from a boat?” she asked, still not accepting the flight suit that the young woman offered.
She hoped the question didn’t sound ridiculous. Already she felt a bit sick to her stomach just from the thought of climbing into the helicopter. She pushed her sunglasses up and crossed her arms, pretending it was no big deal how they proceeded. She didn’t want the aircrew to interpret her hesitancy as fear. The slip, the tell would not be a great start to the investigation, and it would certainly hamper her credibility, let alone her authority. A refusal or even hesitancy would be a mistake, especially with this macho group. All of them were young (with the exception of Pete Kesnick), lean, and muscular, even the woman, the rescue swimmer named Elizabeth Bailey.
Earlier Maggie had watched Bailey don her wet suit instead of a
flight suit, slipping the formfitting one-piece over the plain white shorts and white CG tank top that showed off her tanned, long legs and broad shoulders but failed to hide her femininity—full breasts and small waist. She wore her sun-bleached hair short, easy to slip under the wet suit’s hood which she kept at the back of her neck, ready instead for the flight helmet she held under her arm.
“We’re the crew that found the cooler,” the pilot, Lieutenant Commander Wilson, told Maggie. “We’re an aircrew.” He was saying it slowly as though explaining it to a child and Maggie realized she had no choice. “Is there a problem?”
During their introductions she had detected an air of annoyance from Wilson. Forever the profiler she had already decided it wasn’t due to the inconvenience but rather that he believed what Maggie was asking was somehow beneath his pay grade. At first she thought his reaction might be a knee-jerk prejudice against Wurth as a black authority figure or herself as a woman. Wurth had left after the introductions to begin his own pre-hurricane duties. And since Wilson’s attitude hadn’t left with Wurth, Maggie realized she might be the one Wilson had a problem with. It was silly to give his prejudices any credence.
“No problem,” Maggie answered. “Just hate to take you away from more important things.”
Wilson nodded, satisfied. The other two men, Kesnick and Ellis, simply returned to their preparations. But Bailey caught Maggie’s eyes as she offered the flight suit again. And in that brief exchange, Maggie realized that Bailey had recognized her fear. Would the woman give her away? Put Maggie in her place?
Bailey handed Maggie the suit, holding on to it a count longer than necessary. With her back turned to the men she let Maggie see that she was slipping something into the flight suit’s pocket.
“It’s gonna be choppy out there today,” Bailey told her. “Be sure to buckle in tight.”