Alex Kava Bundle

by Alex Kava

  “We have experts who can put together a psychological profile of this guy. Narrow things down for you. Give you a fuckin’ idea of who this asshole is.”

  “Yeah, that would help. That would be good.” Nick kept the desperation out of his voice. Now was not the time to reveal his weakness, despite Weston’s sudden compassion.

  “I’ve been reading about this Special Agent O’Dell, an expert in profiling murderers practically right down to their shoe size. I could call Quantico.”

  “How soon do you think they could get someone here?”

  “Don’t let Tillie cut up the boy yet. I’ll call right now and see if we can get someone here Monday morning. Maybe even O’Dell.” Weston stood up suddenly with new energy.

  Nick untangled his legs and stood, too, surprised that his knees were strong enough to hold him.

  Deputy Hal Langston met Weston at the door. “Thought you guys might be interested in this morning’s edition of the Omaha Journal.” Hal unfolded the paper and held it up. The headline screamed in tall, bold letters, Boy’s Murder Echoes Jeffreys’ Style.

  “What the fuck?” Weston ripped the paper from Hal and began reading out loud. “Last night, a boy’s body was found along the Platte River, off Old Church Road. Early reports suggest the still-unidentified boy was stabbed to death. A deputy at the scene, who will remain anonymous, said, ‘It looked like the bastard gutted him.’ Gaping chest wounds were a trademark of serial killer Ronald Jeffreys, who was executed in July of this year. Police have yet to make a statement concerning the boy’s identity and the cause of death.”

  “Jesus,” Nick spat as the nausea infected his insides.

  “Goddamn it, Morrelli. You’re gonna need to put a gag order on your men.”

  “It gets worse,” Hal said, looking at Nick. “The byline is Christine Hamilton.”

  “Who the fuck is Christine Hamilton?” Weston looked from Hal to Nick. “Oh, please don’t tell me she’s one of the little harem you’re bopping?”

  Nick slid back into his chair. How could she do this to him? Had she even tried to warn him, to contact him? Both men stared at him, Weston waiting for an explanation.

  “No,” Nick said slowly. “Christine Hamilton is my sister.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Maggie O’Dell kicked off her muddy running shoes in the foyer before her husband, Greg, reminded her to do so. She missed their tiny, cluttered apartment in Richmond, despite surrendering to the much-needed convenience of living between Quantico and Washington. But ever since they had bought the pricey condo in the expensive Crest Ridge area, Greg had developed an absurd obsession with image. He liked their condo spotless, an easy task since both their jobs kept them away. Yet, she resented coming home to a place that swallowed her monthly paycheck but felt like one of the hotels to which she had grown accustomed.

  She peeled off the damp sweatshirt and immediately felt a pleasant chill. Though it was a crisp fall day, she had managed to work up a sweat after another night of tossing and turning. She balled up the sweatshirt and shot it into the laundry room as she passed on her way to the kitchen. How careless of her to miss the laundry basket.

  She stood in front of the open refrigerator. A look inside revealed a pathetic view of their lack of domestic talents—a box of leftover Chinese food, half a bagel twisted in plastic wrap, a foam take-out container with unidentified gooey stuff. She grabbed a bottle of water and slammed the door, now shivering in only running shorts, a sweat-drenched T-shirt and sports bra that stuck to her like an extra layer of skin.

  The phone rang. She searched the spotless counters and grabbed it off the unused microwave before the fourth ring.

  “Hello.”

  “O’Dell, it’s Cunningham.”

  She ran her fingers through her wet mass of short, dark hair and stood up straight, his voice setting her at attention.

  “Hi. What’s up?”

  “I just received a phone call from the Omaha field office. They have a murder victim, a little boy. Some of the wounds are characteristic of a serial killer in the same area about six years ago.”

  “He’s on the prowl again?” She began pacing.

  “No, the serial killer was Ronald Jeffreys. I don’t know if you remember the case. He murdered three boys—”

  “Yes, I remember,” she interrupted him, knowing he hated long explanations. “Wasn’t he executed in June or July?”

  “Yes…yes, in July, I believe.” His voice sounded tired.

  Though it was Saturday afternoon, Maggie imagined him in his office behind the stacks on his desk. She could hear him rustling through papers. Knowing Director Kyle Cunningham, he already had Jeffreys’ entire file spread out in front of him. Long before Maggie started working under him in the Behavioral Science Unit, he had been affectionately nicknamed the Hawk because nothing got past him. Lately, however, it looked as though the sharp vision came at the expense of puffy eyes, swollen from too little sleep.

  “So this might be a copycat.” She stopped and opened several drawers looking for a pen and paper to jot down notes, only to find carefully folded kitchen towels, sterile utensils lined up in annoyingly neat rows. Even the odd utensils, a corkscrew and can opener, lay flat in their respective corners, not touching or overlapping. She picked up a shiny serving spoon and turned it in the wrong direction, making sure it crossed over several others. Satisfied, she closed the drawer and began pacing again.

  “It could be a copycat,” Cunningham said in a distracted tone. She knew he was reading the file while he talked, that worried indent between his brows, his glasses low on his nose. “It could be a one-time thing. The point is, they requested a profiler. Matter of fact, Bob Weston requested you specifically.”

  “So I’m a celebrity even in Nebraska?” She ignored the annoyance in his voice. A month ago, it wouldn’t have been there. A month ago, he would have been proud that a protégé of his had been requested. “When do I leave?”

  “Not so fast, O’Dell.” She clutched the phone and waited for the lecture. “I’m sure Weston’s pile of glowing reports about you didn’t include the last case file.”

  Maggie stopped and leaned against the counter. She pressed the palm of her hand against her stomach, waiting, preparing for the nausea. “I certainly hope you’re not going to hold the Stucky case over my head every time I go out into the field.” The quiver in her voice sounded angry. That was good—anger was good, better than weakness.

  “You know that’s not what I’m doing, Maggie.”

  Oh, God. He had used her first name. This would be a serious lecture. She stayed put and dug her nails into a nearby hand towel.

  “I’m simply concerned,” he continued. “You never took a break after Stucky. You didn’t even see the bureau psychologist.”

  “Kyle, I’m okay,” she lied, irritated with the sudden tremor invading her hand. “It’s not like it was the first time. I’ve seen plenty of blood and guts in the past eight years. There’s not much that shocks me anymore.”

  “That’s exactly what I’m worried about. Maggie, you were in the middle of that bloodbath. It’s a miracle you weren’t killed. I don’t care how tough you think you are, when the blood and guts get sprayed all over you, it’s a little different than walking in on it.”

  She didn’t need the reminder. Fact was, it didn’t take much to conjure up the image of Albert Stucky hacking those women to death—his bloody death play performed just for Maggie. His voice still came to her in the middle of the night: “I want you to watch. If you close your eyes, I’ll just kill another one and another and another.”

  She had a degree in psychology. She didn’t need a psychologist to tell her why she couldn’t sleep at night, why the images still haunted her. She hadn’t even been able to tell Greg about that night; how could she tell a complete stranger?

  Of course, Greg hadn’t been around when she had staggered back to her hotel room. He’d been miles away when she tore pieces of Lydia Barnett’s brain out of her h
air and scrubbed Melissa Stonekey’s blood and skin out of her pores. When she had dressed her own wound, an unsightly slit across her abdomen. And it wasn’t the kind of thing you talked about over the phone.

  “How was your day, dear? Mine? Oh, nothing too exciting. I just watched two women get gutted and bludgeoned to death.”

  No, the real reason she hadn’t told Greg was that he would have gone nuts. He would have insisted she quit, or worse, promise to work only in the lab, examining the blood and guts safely under a microscope and not under her fingernails. He had ranted and raved once before when she had confided in him. It had been the last time she had talked about her work. He didn’t seem to mind the lack of communication. He didn’t even notice her absence beside him in bed at night, when she paced the floor to avoid the images, to quiet the screams that still echoed in her head. The lack of intimacy with her husband allowed her to keep her scars—physical and mental—to herself.

  “Maggie?”

  “I need to keep working, Kyle. Please don’t take that away from me.” She kept her voice strong, grateful the tremor was confined to her hands and stomach. Would he detect the vulnerability, anyway? He tracked criminals by reading between the lines. How could she expect to fool him?

  There was silence, and she covered the mouthpiece of the phone, so he couldn’t hear her staggered breathing.

  “I’ll fax over the details,” he finally said. “Your flight leaves in the morning at six o’clock. Call me after you get the fax if you have any questions.”

  She listened to the click and waited for the dial tone. With the phone still pressed against her ear, she sighed, then breathed deeply. The front door slammed and she jumped.

  “Maggie?”

  “I’m in the kitchen.” She hung up the phone and gulped some water, hoping to shake the queasiness from the pit of her stomach. She needed this case. She needed to prove to Cunningham that, although Albert Stucky had assaulted and toyed with her mental state, he had not stolen her professional edge.

  “Hey, babe.” Greg came around the counter. He started to hug her, but stopped when he noticed the perspiration. He manufactured a smile to disguise his disgust. When had he started using his lawyer acting talents on her?

  “We have reservations for six-thirty. Are you sure you have time to get ready?”

  She glanced at the wall clock. It was only four. How bad did he think she looked?

  “No problem,” she said, guzzling more water and purposely letting it dribble down her chin.

  She caught him wincing at her, his perfectly chiseled jaw taut with disapproval. He worked out at the law firm’s gym, where he sweated, grunted and dribbled in the appropriate setting. Then he showered and changed, not a shiny golden hair out of place by the time he stepped out into public again. He expected the same from her, had even told her how much he hated her running in the neighborhood. At first, she had thought it was out of concern for her safety.

  “I’m a black belt, Greg. I can handle myself,” she had lovingly reassured him.

  “I’m not talking about that. Christ, Maggie, you look like hell when you run. Don’t you want to make a good impression on our neighbors?”

  The phone rang, and Greg reached for it.

  “Let it ring,” she blurted with a mouthful of water. “It’s a fax from Director Cunningham.” Without looking at him she could feel his annoyance. She raced to the den, checked the caller ID, then flipped on the fax.

  “Why is he faxing you on a Saturday?”

  He startled her. She didn’t realize he had followed. He stood in the doorway with hands on his hips, looking as stern as possible in khakis and a crew-neck sweater.

  “He’s faxing some details on a case I’ve been asked to profile.” She avoided looking at him, dreading the pouty lip and brooding eyes. Usually, he was the one interrupting their Saturdays together, but she convinced herself it was childish to remind him. Instead, she ripped off the fax and began transferring details from paper to memory.

  “Tonight was supposed to be a nice quiet dinner—just the two of us.”

  “And it will be,” she said calmly, still not looking at him. “It may just need to be an early night. I have a six o’clock flight in the morning.”

  Silence. One, two, three…

  “Damn it, Maggie. It’s our anniversary. This was supposed to be our weekend together.”

  “No, that was last weekend, only you forgot and played in the golf tournament.”

  “Oh, I see,” he snorted. “So this is payback.”

  “No, it’s not payback.” She maintained her calm though she was tired of these little tantrums. It was fine for him to ruin their plans with only half an apology and that charming, smug “I’ll make it up to you, babe.”

  “If it’s not payback, what do you call it?”

  “Work.”

  “Work, right. That’s convenient. Call it what you want. It’s payback.”

  “A little boy has been murdered, and I might be able to help find the psycho who did it.” The anger bubbled close to the surface, but her voice remained amazingly calm. “Sorry, I’ll make it up to you.” The sarcasm slipped out, but he didn’t seem to notice. She took the fax and started past him to the door. He grabbed her wrist and spun her toward him.

  “Tell them to send someone else, Maggie. We need this weekend together,” he pleaded, his voice now soft.

  She looked into his gray eyes and wondered when they had lost their color. She searched for a flicker of the intelligent, compassionate man she had married nine years ago when they were both college seniors ready to make their marks on the world. She would track down the criminals, and he would defend the helpless victims. Then he took the job in Washington at Brackman, Harvey and Lowe, and his helpless victims became billion-dollar corporations. Still, in just a moment of silence, she thought she recognized a flicker of sincerity. She was on the verge of giving in to him when his grip tightened and his teeth clenched.

  “Tell them to send someone else, or we’re finished.”

  She wrenched her wrist free. He grabbed for it again, and she slammed a fist into his chest. His eyes widened in surprise.

  “Don’t you ever grab me like that again. And if this one trip means we’re finished, then maybe we’ve been finished for a long time.”

  She brushed past him and headed for the bedroom, hoping her knees would carry her and the sting behind her eyes would wait.

  CHAPTER 8

  Sunday, October 26

  And so it begins, he thought as he sipped the scalding-hot tea.

  The front-page headline belonged on the National Enquirer and not a newspaper as respectable as the Omaha Journal. From the Grave, Serial Killer Still Grips Community with Boy’s Recent Murder. It was almost as hysterical as yesterday’s headline, but, of course, today’s large Sunday edition would attract more readers.

  The byline was Christine Hamilton again. He recognized the name from the “Living Today” section. Why would they give the story to a newcomer, a rookie?

  Quickly, he turned the pages, searching for the rest of the story which continued on page ten, column one. The entire page was filled with connecting articles. There was a school photo of the boy. Beside it ran an in-depth saga of the boy’s sudden disappearance during his early-morning paper route just a week ago. The article told how the FBI and the boy’s mother had waited for a ransom note that never came. Then, finally, Sheriff Morrelli had found the body in a pasture along the river.

  He glanced back at the paragraph. Morrelli? No, this was Nicholas Morrelli, not Antonio. How nice, he thought, for father and son to share the same experience.

  The article went on to point out the similarities to the murders of three boys in the same small community over six years ago. And how the bodies, strangled and stabbed to death, had each been discovered days later in different wooded, isolated areas.

  The article, however, made no mention of details, no description of the elaborate chest carving. Did the police hope
to withhold that evidence again? He shook his head and continued to read.

  He used the fillet knife to scoop jelly and spread it on his burnt English muffin. The stupid toaster hadn’t worked right for weeks, but it was better than going down to the kitchen and having breakfast with the others. At least here in his room he could have the solitude of breakfast and the morning paper without the burden of making polite conversation.

  The room was very plain, white walls and hardwood floors. The small twin-size bed barely accommodated his six-foot frame. Some nights he found his feet dangling over the end. He had added the small Formica-topped table and two chairs, though he allowed no one to join him. The utility cart in the corner housed the secondhand toaster, a gift from one of the parishioners. There was also a hot plate and kettle that he used for his tea.

  On the nightstand stood the most elaborate of his furnishings, an ornate lamp, the base a detailed relief of cherubs and nymphs tastefully arranged. It was one of the few things he had splurged on and purchased for himself with his meager paycheck. That and the three paintings. Of course, he could only afford framed reproductions. They hung on the wall opposite his bed so he could look at them while he drifted off to sleep, though sleep didn’t come easy these days. It never did when the throbbing began, invading his otherwise quiet life, crashing in with all those foul memories. Even though his room was simple and plain, it brought short periods of comfort, control and solitude to a life that was no longer his own.

  He checked his watch and ran his hand over his jaw. He wouldn’t need to shave today, his boyish face still smooth from yesterday’s shave. He had time to finish reading, though he refused to so much as look at the ridiculous articles about Ronald Jeffreys. Jeffreys had never deserved the attention he had garnered, and here he was, still in the limelight even after death.

  He finished his breakfast and meticulously cleaned the table, no crumb escaping his quick swipes with the damp rag. From his small, brown-stained bathroom sink he removed the pair of Nikes, now scrubbed clean, not a hint of mud left. Still, he wished he had taken them off sooner. He patted them dry and set them aside to wash the one plate he called his own, a fragile, hand-painted Noritake he had borrowed long ago from the community china cabinet. His matching teacup and saucer, also borrowed, he filled to the brim with more scalding-hot water. Delicately, he dunked the once-used tea bag, waiting for the water to turn the appropriate amber color, then quickly removed and strangled the tea bag as if making it surrender every last drop.