“Peoria, Arizona.”
A screenshot of a newspaper, a headline from the Peoria Times:
Home Fire Kills Peoria Woman
“Marta Dockery was killed in that fire in Peoria. Officials said the fire was an accident. Everyone agreed. Everyone but Marta’s twin sister, Emmy.”
A photograph of two girls in their teens, tanned and squinting into the camera, one a bit shorter than the other, with darker hair and fuller cheeks. The twin thing, you could see it, but they were anything but identical, these two. The camera zooms in on the taller and ganglier girl.
“Emmy insisted that it wasn’t an accidental fire. That it was murder.”
The screen goes dark.
Then a shot of the J. Edgar Hoover Building in Washington, DC, headquarters of the FBI.
“Emily Jean Dockery was a data analyst for the Federal Bureau of Investigation,” says the narrator. “Her life was numbers and statistics. She wasn’t a field agent. She wasn’t a fire investigator. So when Emmy Dockery insisted that her sister’s death was murder, nobody believed her.”
Images of excerpts from another newspaper article, enlarged:
Eight months after her sister’s death in a house fire, Emmy Dockery is still on a crusade to convince the Peoria Police Department that Marta Dockery’s death was not an accident, but murder.
“All forensic evidence points to death by an accidental fire.” A middle-aged woman appears on the screen with the caption Nancy Parmaggiore, chief of staff to the director of the FBI. “Emmy was able to convince a very skeptical team of seasoned veteran investigators not only that her sister was murdered but that a serial killer was out there committing some of the most gruesome crimes imaginable.”
Now there’s an elderly man on the screen; the caption identifies him as Dennis Sasser, special agent, FBI (ret.). “Nobody believed Emmy. I didn’t. But we never would have caught Graham if it weren’t for Emmy. In fact, we never would have even known that crimes were being committed in the first—”
Charlie fast-forwards the video. He knows this part. Everyone does. The manhunt across the country. And then the final showdown, Graham dead and Emmy, well…alive, at least.
He stops about forty-five minutes into the documentary. The screen has faded to black again.
Then the narrator: “And what has become of the FBI analyst who caught and killed Graham?”
An image of paramedics hauling a woman on a gurney down a driveway toward an ambulance, the entire scene filled with police cars and flashing lights and armed law enforcement. This, Charlie knows, was after Emmy’s face-to-face encounter with Graham.
“According to reports, Emmy Dockery suffered extensive injuries that day: deep scalp lacerations, burns over a large portion of her body, a punctured lung, a broken ankle.”
Dennis Sasser again: “Emmy was horribly injured. She endured terror that is difficult to put into words.”
Then the narrator: “It took half a dozen surgeries and three months before Emmy Dockery was released from the hospital. And then…”
The screen goes dark. An ominous sound, a single beat of a soft drum.
And this newspaper headline:
Paramedics Called to Graham-Catcher
Home in Urbanna
The screen fades to black again. Then an older woman, her gray hair pulled back, wearing a defiant expression, appears. The caption reads Dorian Dockery. “My daughter wasn’t trying to kill herself,” she says.
Charlie pauses the video and takes a breath. He’s read many of the various reports that came out afterward—that Emmy Dockery had suffered a nervous breakdown, that she’d gone into hiding, that she was receiving both death threats and love letters from purported serial killers.
“You broke into pieces, Emmy,” he whispers. “But you put yourself back together. You survived. Just like me.”
Charlie closes his eyes and does what he always does when he remembers. First he beats back their garbled shrieks, the hot breath of their terror, the smells of scorched flesh and splattering blood and perspiration and pure human fear burning his nostrils even now.
And then he accepts them. Lets their contents settle inside him, mix together, and jell.
His body cools. His pulse slows.
“It is a thinking man’s war,” he reminds himself. A quiet war, Charles Darwin said, lurking just beneath the serene facade of nature.
His eyes open. On the screen, the video is still paused, having just transitioned from the words of Emmy’s mother to a photo of Emmy, her hair in a ponytail, a fierce look on her wounded face. Her eyes on his. His eyes on hers.
Lonely, determined eyes.
“We could do so much together,” Charlie says.
4
HARRISON BOOKMAN—known as “Books” to everyone—feels his phone buzz at his hip as he helps a customer choose the right nonfiction selection for her grandfather, a history buff. They decide on a book about LBJ’s struggle to get Congress to pass the Civil Rights Act of 1964. He feels a small flicker of satisfaction as he rings up the transaction. He loves everything about books, but this is his favorite part of the business, talking with a customer and finding just the right novel or nonfiction work, like a sommelier helping diners choose the perfect bottle of wine to pair with their meal.
Now if only there were more customers.
At least he has Petty, bald and clean-shaven, sitting in the corner in one of the comfy chairs reading The Sun Also Rises by Hemingway; next to him is a cup of the coffee Books always has brewing. It probably isn’t the greatest idea to let a homeless man hang out in your store, but Petty keeps to himself and keeps himself reasonably presentable, and, really, how could Books turn away a guy who served two tours in Desert Storm and gave up so much for his country, not least of which was his sanity?
Petty is a part-time resident of the inventory room in the back of the store. He’s slept there a few nights a week every week since Books first met him six months ago, last December, sitting on the sidewalk outside the store. He shaves and washes up in an old shower that Books revived after converting the space from an old apartment.
Books watches his customer leave. His eyes wander over to the front window, where the name of the store—THE BOOK MAN—is stenciled prominently; the newest releases and local favorites are arranged just so to lure in the shoppers and the passersby in downtown Alexandria.
Then he turns the belt pouch holding his phone upward so he can see who just called. He glances at it, then does a double take.
Moriarty.
William Moriarty, the director of the FBI.
Not a social call. Bill never makes social calls.
Books considers returning the call right away. No customers in the store now, after all. And he can’t deny that tiny surge of adrenaline. You can take the boy out of the FBI, but you can’t take the FBI out of the boy.
The door chimes behind him. A customer. That makes the decision for Books. The FBI will have to wait.
He turns and sees two people enter the store, men in dark suits, each of them removing sunglasses. Jesus, they really have to stop reinforcing that stereotype.
One of them he doesn’t know, but the other, the taller one, is familiar. Desmond, part of the director’s advance team.
“Hey, Books,” Desmond says, glancing around.
“Hey, Dez…” Books gives him a confused look.
“The director needs a moment. He called.”
Yeah, he called two minutes ago. It’s not like he made an appointment last week or anything.
“Somewhere private you could talk for a moment?”
Books lets out a breath. “Sure. The stockroom. There’s a service entrance out back where—”
“He’s already parked there.” Dez nods.
Of course he is. “Okay,” says Books. “Let’s do it.”
5
BOOKS LEADS the advance team into the back room. There are piles of inventory, books ready to be placed on shelves, books ready to be sent bac
k to the publishers, a stand-up display for the children’s author who did an appearance last week. Dez arranges two chairs at a table while his partner pushes open the back door.
“There he is, the bookseller.” Director William Moriarty has aged, and not so gracefully, in this job. He has been a public servant all his life, first as a special agent, then as a federal prosecutor, later as a congressman, and after that as a federal judge. The stress of all of those, he said, paled in comparison to running the FBI. He has lost most of his hair, and his face and torso have widened, but he still has that same no-nonsense stare.
Bill had made no secret of his profound disappointment in Books when he resigned. He’d tried everything to keep Books in the fold. He offered him a promotion, a raise, a better office. He even threatened to take him into federal custody, though Books was reasonably sure that was a joke.
“Hi, Bill.”
“You married yet?”
They take seats across from each other at the table Books uses when he’s balancing his ledgers.
“No.” That answer, Books thinks to himself, is accurate but tells Bill nothing. Not yet would be more informative. So would No, the wedding’s this September. No could mean a lot of things, including No, we’re not married yet, and I’m not sure we ever will be.
It’s been nearly a year and a half since he proposed to Emmy (for the second time) and she said yes (for the first time). And yet no date has been set, no china patterns picked out.
“But you two are still…together?”
It’s not like Bill to make small talk. Not like him at all. What does he care about whether Books and Emmy are heading down the aisle or toward separate lives?
“Yeah,” Books says. Two loaded questions from the director, two single-word responses from Books. The director’s a smart guy. He’s read between closer lines than these.
“I need you, Books. An assignment. A special assignment.”
“The Bureau is filled with talented and dedicated agents.”
“I need someone from outside the Bureau.”
“From outside,” says Books. “A double-I?”
Internal investigations are typically handled in-house, just like all other investigations. The Bureau rarely wants to admit that it needs outside help. If the director is asking, this is not the typical double-I. This is not about a boss chasing a subordinate around a desk. This is not about an agent using a Bureau computer to sell beauty products or surf porn. It means something far bigger than that.
It means the director doesn’t know whom to trust within his own agency.
“You have a mole.”
The director nods, some color to his face. “We do. You’d run the investigation. You’d report directly to me. Nobody else.”
“I pick my team,” says Books, realizing how quickly he jumped so many hurdles in his mind, how easily and almost naturally he said yes. Like there was never a doubt. “Starting with Emmy,” Books says, “and not because she’s my fiancée. Because she’s the best analyst the Bureau’s ever had. I know she hasn’t been the same since—”
“She is the best.” The director makes a face. “No question. But I have to say no. You can pick anyone else, Books, but not Emmy. Not this time.”
Books stares at the director, reading him, noting the averted eyes, the discomfort. This is also not like him. Not like him to beat around the bush. Not like him to ask about Books’s personal life either, especially his relationship with Emmy.
Books feels something sink inside him. “No,” he says, as if he can will it away.
“Gives me no pleasure to say it.” The director shrugs. “But Emmy is the target of the investigation. We think your girlfriend is the mole.”
6
I PUT it all together, everything I’ve been able to collect on Nora Connolley, on a biography sheet, the same kind I’ve compiled for each of the victims on my wall. It’s missing some pieces, but it’s enough for the time being.
Now if only the New Orleans PD would call me back. I e-mailed them yesterday. I usually get a phone call, at least, even if the person’s voice is laced with skepticism.
Speaking of which, why hasn’t Detective Halsted called me back about Laura Berg?
The clock says 11:45. I should probably eat lunch. No, I should sleep. I did put my head down on a pillow last night for a few hours. I didn’t sleep, but I rested. My mother used to say that to me when I was kid, when I tossed and turned, that at least I was resting. I never really understood that. Either you sleep or you don’t.
I don’t.
My laptop—my main one—pings with an e-mail. An invitation from some prosecutors’ association to speak at their annual event. I type a quick no-thank-you.
Another e-mail. A Google search alert, not my normal one that produces hundreds of stories a day, my needle-in-a-haystack search. No, this one is more specific.
When I see the headline, I suck in my breath.
Vienna PD Detective Found Dead in Home
“No,” I whisper. “No!”
Vienna Police Department detective Joseph Halsted, 48, a nineteen-year veteran of the force, was found dead this morning in his condominium. He was unresponsive when paramedics arrived. A spokesman for the department said that the cause of death was a heart attack.
I drop my head into my hands. “Oh no. No, no, no!” My phone buzzes on my desk. “I did this…I did this…”
I told him to look into Laura Berg’s death. He never would have given a second thought to it if it weren’t for me. I led Joe Halsted to the slaughter.
It means something else, I realize, though it’s hard to focus on it right now. It means I was right about Laura Berg.
My phone is lighting up, grunting at me. I reach for it. The caller ID shows a New Orleans area code. Oh, right, New Orleans—
“Hello?” I manage.
“Agent Dockery?” A New York accent. “This is Sergeant Crescenzo with the New Orleans PD. You e-mailed us about Nora Connolley?”
“Yes…um…uh…thanks for getting back to me.”
“Bad time to talk?”
I have to get a grip. This is my chance. I clear my throat. “No, sorry—I’m fine. Thank you for the call.”
“Ms. Connolley fell in her shower, Agent Dockery.”
I’m not a special agent, but I don’t correct him. He’s assuming this is an official investigation of the FBI and that I’m a special agent, even though I never said either of those things. I haven’t lied to him.
“And you’ve been to the scene?”
“I was there, yes. You have some reason to believe—”
“She was selling her house, wasn’t she?”
“She—what was that?”
“Her house was for sale.”
“Uh…hang on.” I hear muffled voices, the sergeant asking someone else about whether Nora Connolley’s house was for sale. I already know it was.
“Yeah, guess so,” he says, returning to the phone. “You coulda figured that out from any old computer.”
That’s the point, Sergeant.
“So how does that make a slip-and-fall in the bathroom a murder?” he asks.
“I think it fits into a pattern,” I say. “I’m investigating the possibility of a killer who’s making the victims’ deaths appear accidental or natural.”
“Huh. That sounds like that case you all had a couple years ago, that guy who tortured people and torched the crime scenes.”
“Something like that. But someone even more skilled.”
A pause. “Well, listen, who am I to tell the FBI to stand down? But I gotta say, it sounds like a stretch to me. You wanna take over this investigation, it’s all yours.”
But that’s the thing. I can’t. I don’t have the authority, and I won’t unless I can make a case to the Bureau. That’s the catch-22. I can’t open an investigation to prove that an investigation’s warranted. I need this guy. I need Sergeant Crescenzo.
“Would you be willing to open the investigation loca
lly?” I ask. “I’d prefer to stay below the radar for now.”
“You want me to start an investigation based on the fact that someone put her house up for sale and then slipped and fell in the shower?” Sergeant Crescenzo lets out an amused grunt. “I need more than that to open a homicide investigation.”
Sure he does. I can’t blame him.
“Graham—the arsonist you mentioned? Graham was good,” I say. “But this guy’s better. Graham brutally tortured the victims, then covered up the crime scenes by setting fire to them. This guy? His victims show no sign of foul play. He comes and goes without a trace. He’s a ghost.”
Another pause. I’ve got him thinking, at least. “I’ll come to New Orleans tomorrow,” I say. “We’ll take a look at the crime scene, nice and quiet, and if you still think I’m full of hot air, I’ll leave you alone.”
“Tomorrow, huh?”
“And one more thing, Sergeant. Please keep this out of the press. For everyone’s sake.”
He’s apparently mulling this over.
“I’ll call you when I land,” I say, and I hang up before he can protest.
7
THE FLIGHT into New Orleans is bumpy, but luckily the weather is clear. Rain is the last thing I need. I drive a rental car to St. Roch, a neighborhood still struggling to bounce back from the beating it took from Katrina. There are vacant homes and plenty of potholes in the roads, but there are also planters of fresh flowers in the boulevard medians and some new construction in the commercial areas.
When I pull up to the house on Music Street, a graying African-American man in shirtsleeves, tall and broad, is leaning against a sedan and reviewing a document. When I get out of my air-conditioned car, he nods at me.
“Sergeant Crescenzo,” I say, startled by the blazing heat.
“Call me Robert,” he says, shaking my hand. “Agent Dockery, you are a master of understatement. You didn’t tell me you were the one who caught Graham.”
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