by Tami Dane
Feeling my face turn red, I smacked my arms over my chest. “If there’d been any way I could have changed, I would have.”
“I thought that was why it took you so long to get here.” His smile drooped a bit. “You mean, you didn’t wear that for my benefit?”
“Absolutely not.” I shoved him back. He was getting much too close, and looking way too scrumptious. What those sexy glitters in his eyes did to me! “While I was out playing delivery girl for my mother—it was a pie emergency—my apartment building burned to the ground.”
“Oh.” Poof, the sparkles were gone. “Sorry, Sloan.”
“Yeah, sorry. My father’s work was in my apartment. I’ve only memorized half of it. Unless he kept a copy somewhere, the rest of it is lost.”
His eyes widened. “Oh.”
“I’ll call him later. Hopefully, he stowed a backup copy somewhere. If not, the rest of the summer could be really rough. His research helped us catch two killers already.”
You cannot teach a man anything; you can only help him discover it in himself.
—Galileo Galilei
3
Mike Barnett might live less than a mile away from his former wife and daughter, but in terms of neighborhood, his was light-years away. Whereas Brookline Street was lined with pretty Cape Cods and stately Colonials, with nicely landscaped lots, wide driveways, and a very large wooded park, Woodbine Street looked tired and bleak. None of the neglected homes had driveways. The lawns were weedy, and the only color brightening the area was the mustard-yellow hue of dandelions. The cars lining the narrow roads were just as neglected and as tired as the houses.
An unmarked police car angled up to the curb in front of Mike Barnett’s house as we were trotting up the walk from opposite directions.
“We’re too late,” I said when I met JT on the sloping front porch of the vinyl-clad, two-story house.
“Maybe not.” JT knocked. And knocked. And knocked.
“Maybe he’s not home.” I suggested the obvious, since it seemed JT wasn’t aware of it.
He pointed at the small window on the upper level, facing the street. “Someone just peeked out at us.”
The detective came stomping up the front steps. “No answer?”
Knocking yet again, JT shook his head. “Not so far, but he’s in there. Sloan Skye.” JT pointed at me. “Detective Forrester.”
Forrester acknowledged me with a nod, then hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “That’s Barnett’s truck parked across the street. The one with the trailer.” He stepped up to the door and banged hard with his fist.
Finally we heard the sound of movement inside. The door swung open, and a man who looked like he’d been to hell and back, or on a three-week bender, blinked bloodshot eyes at us. “Yeah?” he said. The odor of alcohol on his breath was so strong, it made my eyes water.
“Good morning, sir. Are you Michael Barnett?” Forrester said.
“Yeah.” Mike Barnett’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“Detective Forrester, Baltimore Police Department. Can I come in for a minute?”
Barnett’s eyes became even more squinted. “What for?”
“We’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“About what?”
Forrester wasn’t earning this guy’s trust. I decided to poke in, see if I could help. “Your daughter, sir,” I said, donning my most convincing I’m-no-threat look.
Barnett’s gaze jerked from me to JT to Forrester, then back to me again. Finally, the self-proclaimed vampire stepped aside. I took a few mental notes. First, if he was an honest-to-God vampire, he had no problem with direct sunlight. And second, he was able to consume at least one variety of beverage, and it would appear, from his swaying, that the beverage had the desired effect on him. “Fine. But I don’t have a lot of time. Need to get to work.”
“This won’t take long,” Forrester said, leading the charge through the front door.
Inside, we congregated inches from the entry.
Mike Barnett crossed his arms over his chest. Not the friendliest body language. “What about my daughter? What’s she done now?”
The girl was an honor student and not the kind to get into trouble, from what we’d been told by her mother. Why he’d say such a thing escaped me, but I was anxious to find out. Perhaps her mother either didn’t realize her daughter was in trouble or was in denial.
Before I could ask a question, though, Forrester said, “I’m sorry to inform you, sir, but your daughter passed away last night.”
The man’s expression shifted from confusion to disbelief to confusion again. “What?”
“Sir, your daughter is deceased,” JT said gently.
The stunned father said nothing for several long moments, merely stared at me, brows scrunched, mouth agape. It was a convincing display of surprise. Then he started shaking, and his eyes watered. The sobs followed as he stumbled to a nearby chair and sat. After several painful minutes, he stuttered, “I . . . W-when? How?”
“She was found collapsed in her home. The medical examiner hasn’t determined a cause of death yet. When was the last time you saw your daughter?” Forrester asked.
Mike Barnett shook his head. “Wait, if she collapsed, why are you asking . . . ? Was she . . . murdered?”
“There is a possibility,” Forrester said.
The grieving father jerked ever so slightly. His gaze dropped to the floor, then moved to the left. “I . . . haven’t seen her in days.”
That, right there, was a sign he was lying, if you believed Richard Bandler’s and John Grinder’s research on Neuro-Linguistic Programming.
I glanced at JT. If he’d caught Barnett’s eye movement, he was keeping it to himself. His gaze found mine for a brief moment; then it wandered off, taking in our surroundings. I turned my attention back to the father, who was doing a lot of stammering, also a sign of deception.
“My ex-wife and I haven’t been on the best of—of terms lately,” he said. “But—but still . . . you’re not thinking . . . ?” He shook his head.
Something buzzed.
Forrester pulled a cell phone out of his pocket and glanced at it. He lifted an index finger. “I need to take this.” Out he went, to take his call, leaving JT and me alone with a man who was lying.
That man focused on me. “My daughter was murdered?”
“There is reason to suspect it,” I answered. “There will be an investigation.”
“I’m guessing her mother told you it was me.” His jaw clenched. “We’ve had our problems, her and me. But I have never, and would never, hurt the girl.”
“The girl?” I silently repeated his odd description of his daughter.
“Where were you last night, between the hours often and two?” JT asked as he scrutinized a nearby side table, piled with soiled paper plates and crumpled napkins.
“Right here.” Mike Barnett pointed at the worn recliner. “I watched a movie until midnight, then went to bed.”
“Were you alone?” I asked.
“Yeah, I was alone.”
“Can anyone verify you were home last night?” JT asked.
“I doubt it. My neighbors don’t give a damn about my comings and goings.” He sat, shoving his fingers through hair the color and texture of steel wool. “I can’t believe this.”
“Sir, when we first mentioned your daughter,” I said, “you asked what she’d done this time. Why did you say that?”
“Well, lately Stephanie’s been having some problems with her mother. Nothing too bad. Sneaking out. Normal teenage stuff. Her mother has been going off the deep end, though. Overreacting, if you ask me. I thought maybe she’d been caught at a party or something.”
“I see.”
“Maybe her mother wasn’t overreacting, after all,” Mike Barnett said to the floor.
JT lifted his phone, signaling he’d received a call too.
“Thank you for answering our questions. If you happen to think of anything, why someone would want to
harm your daughter, please feel free to call me.” JT handed him a card, poked the button on his cell phone, and headed toward the door. “Thomas,” he said. “What do you have?”
I thanked the extremely remorseful-looking father and followed JT outside. I noticed Forrester’s car was gone. After JT hung up, I motioned to the empty spot where the detective’s car had been parked. “Does this mean Mike Barnett has been cleared?”
“No. Forrester was called on another case. He’ll be back later.”
“Ah. And what’s our next step?” I asked. “You didn’t mention anything about the mother saying he was a vampire.”
“No, I don’t want him knowing about the bite marks. Yet. We’re heading back to the office. I need to get on a computer.”
“Okay. See you there.” I tossed him a wave and we each climbed into our respective vehicles and motored down I-95, toward Quantico. I put in a call to Dad while I was driving. He didn’t answer, so I left a message on his voice mail, asking if he had backup copies of his research somewhere. I wasn’t expecting good news on that front. When I’d asked him for some help with our last case, he’d pretty much told me he didn’t remember anything and hadn’t kept copies.
Just as I was pulling into our building’s lot, my phone rang. I was hoping it was my father, telling me he’d found something. It wasn’t. It was Katie.
“I have good news and bad news,” Katie said, sounding unhappy. “Which do you want first?”
I’d already had more than my share of bad news today, and it wasn’t even noon yet. “The good.”
“The complex has units for everyone in our building.”
“That’s great! So what’s the bad news?”
“It’s going to be at least two weeks before our new apartment will be ready,” she said.
Not the news I was hoping for, but I wasn’t surprised. Our complex had very few vacancies. When we’d first applied for a unit, we’d had to wait a couple of months for one to open up.
This left us with a couple of options. One: find a new complex, which made no sense, since we’d probably face at least a two-week wait no matter where we went. Two: stay in a hotel, which would be insanely expensive. Neither of us could afford that. Or three: stay with my parents.
“I was really hoping . . . ,” Katie said.
“I know. Living with Mom can be difficult, but their new house is huge. It’ll be nothing like when she came to stay with us in our little apartment.”
“Call me back after you talk to her?” Katie’s voice was laced with doubt.
“You bet. Bye.” I ended that call. After I parked, I hit the speed dial for my parents’ place. Sergio, Mom and Dad’s full-time pool boy/butler/eye candy/whatever, answered on the third ring.
“Irvine residence,” he said. His accent was so thick that I could barely understand him.
“Hi, it’s Sloan. Is my mother available?”
“She’s . . . occupied at the moment. May I take a message?”
“That’s okay. I’ll call her back later.”
“Okay. Good-bye.”
I dropped my phone into my bag and headed inside.
The PBAU is located in the same building that houses the Behavioral Analysis Unit. Like the other units in the National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime, or NCAVC, the PBAU’s primary mission is to provide behavioral-based operational support to law enforcement agencies involved in the investigation of unusual or repetitive violent crimes. Both units have a chief in charge of operations. Both units have agents who travel across the country to work cases. But that was where the similarities ended. I was a summer intern. If I’d kept my original assignment, working for the BAU, I’d be schlepping coffee and lunch orders to agents and performing other mindless tasks that nobody else wanted to do—just like other interns. Instead, I’ve spent a fair amount of my internship working undercover, while trying to develop a profile that would help police determine what species our unsub (that’s FBI speak for “unknown subject”) was.
After I dumped my laptop bag on my desk, I wandered back to JT’s cubicle to see what he was up to.
As it turned out, he wasn’t there. But on my way back to my cubby, I was intercepted by another intern, one I had known, very well, for many, many years. Gabe Wagner gave me a little wave and flashed a smile that would stop traffic. “What’s new, Skye?” he purred.
I waved back. “If you haven’t read today’s ScienceDaily, it’s been reported that injected progenitor cells can slow the aging of mice with progeria. But that comes as no surprise to me. And we’re working a new case. A teenage girl. Puncture wounds on the neck.”
“Interesting.”
“Which? The research or the case?”
“The fact that you haven’t mentioned your shirt.” He pointed.
I swear, my internal temperature must have rose to nearly fatal levels. I slammed my arms across my chest and tried not to act like I was about to experience spontaneous combustion. “Oh. That. I . . . Our building caught fire, and I was wearing this . . . to sleep in. . . .” I clamped my lips shut when his brows rose at the word “sleep.” While he said nothing, I knew his dirty mind was painting pictures of me in bed. “I need to make a quick run.” I snatched my purse and scurried toward the door leading out to the hallway.
Until recently, Gabe and I had been more enemies than friends. After an ugly breakup a long time ago, we’d gone from swapping DNA to ugly insults. But things have changed lately. Right before he’d been shipped out of state to work on another case, Gabe admitted he still had feelings for me. Romantic feelings.
I’ve had some time to think about how I felt about his confession. I’ve decided I had no interest in traveling down that bumpy road again. Sure, his body makes my heart rate, breathing, and blood pressure increase, and certain parts of my anatomy get warm and tingly, but we share too much ancient history. Starting over just wasn’t going to work.
But that didn’t mean I was completely immune to his charms. Or that the raised-brow, twinkly-eyed look wasn’t making bits of my anatomy stand up and take notice. Oh, no, quite the contrary. Already I was hoping he would be called off to somewhere far, far away, where I wouldn’t have to be subjected to his irritatingly amusing dry wit, his perfectly symmetrical features, or his rip-off-his-clothes body.
For now, I would just have to stay strong. Stay focused.
“Skye?” JT called to my back just as I was about to head out. I had no idea where he’d come from.
I jerked a look over my shoulder. “I’ll be back in a half hour. That’s all I need. Thirty minutes.”
“For what?” JT asked, his gaze settling on my arms, which were still covering my chest.
“I need to go shopping.”
“Why?” both guys said in unison.
“Because clearly you both have dirty minds.” I unfolded my arms and jerked up my chin. There was nothing wrong with my shirt, and I was mad at myself for letting those two . . . boys . . . make me think there was. The picture in the center was of a peapod . . . that did look a little like a penis—but only if you squinted. It didn’t help that the stupid pod had a smiley face. The text said: Obey Mendelian principles. It’s the laws of inheritance. I’d picked it up during my last visit to the Smithsonian. “You’re immature children. Both of you.”
They didn’t look a bit remorseful.
“A half hour,” I said. My phone rang. Mom. “Consider it my lunch break.”
“Fine, Skye.” JT waved me off. “See you in a half hour.”
I punched the button, taking Mom’s call as I stepped out into the hall. I poked the down elevator button. “Mom. Katie and I need a place to stay for a couple of weeks. Can we camp out at your house?”
“Why? Did you have another firefly infestation?” Mom asked. You might wonder why she’d ask such a crazy question. There was a good reason for it. “No.”
“Lose power from a major electrical short?”
“Not that either.” We only had those when Mom was stay
ing with us. Among her many bizarre habits was the building of contraptions she called inventions. So far, one, in hundreds, maybe thousands—I’d lost count—had been somewhat useful. She’d actually built a trap for our last unsub. It had failed at trapping the killer, but it had saved a life.
“There was a fire,” I admitted. The elevator door opened and I stepped into an empty car. “Not our fault—this time.”
“You know I love Katie, but . . . ,” Mom said, sighing.
“Sloan, I’m pregnant. I can’t have any benzene in my kitchen.”
“I promise, your kitchen will remain benzene free.” I pushed the lobby button.
“Yes, you said that last time—”
“You weren’t pregnant then, and Katie was working on an important project. Besides, she’s using toluene these days. The solvent properties are almost identical, but toluene is less toxic.”
“No toluene either,” Mom warned.
“You have my word.” The elevator landed, bouncing a little.
“Fine.”
“Thank you.” I stepped out into the main-floor lobby and set my sights on the exit. “I’ll call Katie and let her know. See you later, Mom.”
“Okay. And, Sloan?”
“Yes?”
“Would you mind picking up some pie on your way home?”
The main door swooshed open. “You bet. Let me guess. Something tangy and something sweet?”
“That’s perfect. I think I’m going to like having you living at home. Yes, I think it’ll be just fine.”
Exactly what I was afraid of.
Why—oh, why—did it have to be our building that burned down?
A sudden bold and unexpected question doth many times surprise a man and lay him open.
—Francis Bacon
4
Five hours later, all I’d accomplished was procuring a basic wardrobe, a new toothbrush, and two pies—French silk and cherry. We’d made no headway on the case. There’d been little to go on, and we were still waiting for the ME to give us a final determination on the cause of death. I was now whizzing along I-95, a few miles from my exit, pondering the COD, when my phone rang.