Have reached vending machine levels of desperation. M&M decision time: plain or peanut?
The message was retrieved two minutes after he’d sent it, but Ellery hadn’t replied. Maybe she’s just busy, he’d told himself as he’d made his selection (no peanuts). But then he’d had to wonder … busy doing what? She was out of work and at loose ends now. If she hadn’t replied, it was because she didn’t want to, not for lack of time. He couldn’t be checking in on her safety all the time like some hovering grandpa type, and his painful efforts at a hip, breezy texting relationship had been rebuffed. Go, she’d said to him, get out of here, and it had sounded like it hurt her, like maybe she’d really meant the opposite, and he’d practically had to throw himself out of her car. He had to face the possibility that her words were genuine and that she truly didn’t want him hanging around, even on the fringes of her life, that he would always be a living, breathing reminder of the worst thing that had ever happened to her.
The next series of texts on his phone did nothing to improve his spirits. They were all from his sisters regarding the big family history project Kimmy had going for their father’s Christmas present.
KIMMY: Reed! Time’s running out! Do U have ur results back??!
Reed had been ignoring her if only for her use of “ur” for “your.” But then his other sisters got in on the act:
SUZANNE: Kimberly would like me to relay to you the fact that Christmas is rapidly approaching. I told her I was sure you had a calendar on your phone like the rest of us, but that I would oblige her and remind you. PS. What does Tula want this year? XXOO
LYNETTE: It only seems fair that if we have to have our spit analyzed, then so should you. We’re family, after all.
Reed switched over to his email program and called up the message from the DNA testing company that had the link to retrieve his results. His finger hovered over the screen. DNA was the holy grail of criminal investigation, the blood or sweat or hair you always hoped you’d find, an inexorable human stain that linked the perpetrator to the victim. DNA could reach out across the decades like fingers from the grave and solve a case that had at one time seemed impossible. It was black magic. It was impenetrable science. It was a laser in the dark, zeroing in on a single suspect. That’s him. That’s the guy.
Reed had grown up without any connection to his DNA. He’d had to look beyond his biology and decide for himself what kind of man he was, this mixed-race orphan boy plunked down in the middle of a modern-day southern fairy tale. Our little prince, his mother used to call him, and Reed had often lain in bed at night and imagined it were true; he was secretly royalty and his mother, the queen, had been forced to abandon him for his own safety. Finding out his mother had been a teenager living on the edge of poverty until the day she’d been murdered had left Reed with few answers and more questions, and he felt sure that the DNA results would do the same. His life was not a mystery to be solved.
He jerked his finger away from the phone just as the front door burst open and Tula bounded into the room, her backpack and coat already flying. “Daddy, Daddy!” Reed was never more sure of who he was than when he heard that word. He opened his arms and Tula flung herself into his embrace.
“I missed you,” he said as he kissed her warm head several times. “Have you been growing again when I wasn’t looking?”
“Daddy. It’s only been a week. I have to check my room ’cause I think I left my Twilight Sparkle here last time.” She wriggled away from him and dashed toward the stairs.
In the doorway, Sarit tilted her head at him as she folded her arms across her chest. “If it isn’t the father of the year,” she said, but in such a way that Reed knew he’d screwed up somehow. He waited for her to come out with it. “You’re so thrilling, apparently, that even Disney World cannot compete. Tula is refusing to go on the trip because she wants to stay here with you.”
Reed didn’t even bother to hide his grin. “She does?”
Sarit glowered at him. “This isn’t good news, Reed. Six-year-olds are supposed to want to go to Disney World. They aren’t supposed to be worried that their fathers will be home lonely at Christmastime. I tried telling her that you will be with your parents and your sisters, but this held no sway with her. Maybe you could talk to her?”
“I think we should let her make up her own mind. Isn’t that what you were always preaching to me about? Respecting her autonomy.”
“That’s for when she wants to wear her ballerina skirt over her dungarees,” Sarit replied in a clipped voice. “Not for when she decides her own custody arrangement.”
“We decided the initial arrangement,” he reminded her. “You’re the one who changed the plans. Tula is simply holding to the original schedule.” Sarit opened her mouth to protest again, and Reed held up his hands. “I’ll talk to her,” he said, and Sarit relaxed. “But I won’t talk her out of it.”
Sarit considered a moment, tapping a finger against her lips. “Fair enough.” She sniffed the air. “I must confess I do miss your cooking. Fried chicken?”
“Tula’s a fan.”
Sarit snorted. “Always her favorite things when she’s at Daddy’s house, right?” Before Reed had formed a response to this jab, she continued, “Any word on that promotion?”
“Nothing will be formalized until later this year, but it’s looking good.” McGreevy had given him an approving nod when he saw Reed back at his desk yesterday morning. However, Reed was surprised to see Sarit looking hopeful about his possible advance. “You want me to take this job?”
She rolled her eyes at him. “Yes, of course I want you to take it. It’s all I’ve ever wanted, to have more of you in our lives. In Tula’s life. I just didn’t know I had to leave you to make it actually happen.” They stared at each other for a moment, and Reed saw an openness, a vulnerability to her that he hadn’t witnessed for several years, back when they were together in every sense of the word. The intimacy disappeared as Sarit pushed herself away from the doorjamb with a sigh. “You’re her favorite because you’re in short supply,” she informed him tartly. “If you’re around more, it evens the odds.”
“Ah, the truth hurts.”
“It always does,” she agreed, and then she frowned at the suitcase still sitting by the stairs. “You’re going away again?”
“No, I just haven’t unpacked. You know how it is.”
“You were in Boston last Thursday, Reed. Your clothes will be moldering in there.”
“I didn’t get back until Sunday,” he said, somewhat defensive. His poor housekeeping had always been a sore spot.
“Sunday.” She raised her eyebrows. “I thought this was meant to be a quick trip.”
“It was,” he said, and did not elaborate. But since it was Sarit, he didn’t have to.
“You saw her, didn’t you? Abigail.”
“Ellery.” Sarit had never met her. She knew her only as the girl from Reed’s story, a character in the book they had written together. Sarit had been hungry for details after the events of the summer, but Reed had told her only what was in the newspaper. Sarit, who prided herself on always getting the inside scoop, had not been pleased. “I saw her.”
Sarit’s frown deepened. “You saw her—for four days? Reed. You’re not seeing her, are you?”
Heat prickled the back of his neck. “No, of course not.”
“Oh, good,” she replied, relieved, and now it was his turn to frown.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” She’d been seeing that Randy guy for months now, the man who wanted to take Reed’s daughter on her first trip to Disney World.
Sarit shouldered her purse as if to leave. “Well, think about it—it wouldn’t be healthy at all. You’re like a god in her world.”
Reed laughed and shook his head. “You clearly don’t know her at all.”
The red spots that appeared on Sarit’s brown cheeks told him he’d said the exact wrong thing. The girl who’d been Abby belonged to both of them in a way, but Ellery
was all Reed’s. Sarit raised her chin and shot Reed a warning look. “I’m just saying, Reed. It would never work. What on earth would you tell people when they asked how you two met?”
This barb landed on its mark, right in his chest, and Sarit turned on her heel to call her good-byes up to Tula. Reed stood there wordless for a few more minutes, and then he slowly climbed the stairs to go find his daughter. She was sitting on the floor of her room, reunited with Sparkle Pony or whatever the heck the purple creature’s name was. “Tula.” Reed’s knees creaked as he crouched down next to her.
“Hmm?” She barely looked up from where she was combing the animal’s unruly mane.
“Your mom told me you turned down the trip to Disney World because you’re afraid I might get lonely.”
Tula’s hand stilled and she looked at the rug. “Mama has Randy and Amanda. You don’t have anyone.”
“That’s not true. I’ll be with Nanny and Papa and all your aunts. I would love for you to be there, too, but you don’t have to stay home from the trip because of me. I’m a grown-up old dad, you see, and you do not have to feel responsible for me.”
She looked up at him, her large dark eyes guileless. “I am, though. Love means being responsible. That’s what Dr. Hargreaves said in church. Mama doesn’t think I listen because I like to draw in the program when he’s talking, but I can hear him just fine even if my hands are busy.” She shrugged. “’Sides, you told me we could go this summer, right?”
It took Reed a moment to find his voice. “Ah, right. Yes.”
She flashed an impish grin. “I’d rather go with you anyway—Amanda gets sick on the rides.” She made a horrible barfing noise and pretended to vomit all over her bedroom in dramatic fashion.
“Thanks for that,” Reed said, pretending to wipe it off his trousers while Tula dissolved into a gale of laughter. “Now … why don’t we eat?”
* * *
Over the next few days, he picked up his phone approximately a dozen times to contact Ellery, but each time he put it down again. She’d said she would contact him if there was a problem, and to be truthful, she had reached out to him twice before for assistance, so he had to take her at her word. What he needed was a legitimate reason to call her so that it wouldn’t seem like he was checking up on her. So this was why he was still working on the Gallagher fire in the background, just a tab or two open, easily hidden if McGreevy happened to pass by. Thus far, however, he had no new developments to report.
The first thing Reed did was to scan the press photos from the scene of the fire so that they could be enhanced using the FBI’s powerful software. Reed had to make do with his own limited skills because he did not want to engage the actual experts and risk McGreevy finding out that he was still mucking around in the case. Despite his meager abilities with the technology, Reed was able to sharpen and clarify the picture well enough that he was now 100 percent certain that Jacob Gallagher was there the night the family store burned down. Reed also spotted Luis Carnevale in several shots, but this wasn’t surprising, since no one disputed Luis was at the scene. Despite looking closely, Reed did not see any sign of a black middle-aged drifter with a distinguishing birthmark on his face who might have gone by the name of The Blaze.
He looked up the other Gallagher brother, David, but didn’t find anything incriminating there. Dave’s Pizza had expanded to two locations in Providence and the restaurants seemed to be doing well, with more than $250,000 in profits amassed last year between the two of them. Dave had been arrested for assault in 1995 but no charges were filed. Reed made a note to try to find out more. As far as the public record went, David Gallagher had been clean ever since.
“Markham!” At the sound of McGreevy’s voice, Reed straightened up and clicked the window closed on his computer.
“Yeah, Puss?”
“I need to ask a favor. I’ve got the deputy chief meeting at four, and he’s going to want to grill me about this.” He handed Reed a file. “We have to get the Florida office something today, ideally before the evening news, because this is a hot one. Sanderson’s got a profile worked up on their possible sniper, and he’s concluded that the two shootings in Tampa are the work of the same offender. Read it over and tell me what you think of his conclusions, especially as to motive. Before we officially pull the pin on this one, I want to make sure we’ve double-checked every line so it doesn’t blow up in all our faces.”
“Sure, but I’m not familiar with all the facts of the case.”
“You don’t need to know all the facts. Just make sure Sanderson cites his sources right, okay? I want another set of eyes on this before we go to the chief with it and all hell breaks loose.”
A sniper, Reed thought with a sigh as he opened the file. And boom goes the dynamite.
Sniper attacks were rare and terrifying, an irresistible media cocktail that guaranteed confirmation of an active shooter in a major American metropolis would be headlining the news not just in Florida but nationwide. No wonder McGreevy was gun-shy. The Bureau had worked the last notorious sniper attacks in D.C. in 2002, and their theory—that it was the work of an angry white man—had turned out to be entirely wrong when two black men were ultimately arrested.
Reed himself had never worked a sniper case, but his reading of Derek Sanderson’s report suggested it was careful and thorough. The first Tampa shooting had occurred in the morning outside a coffee shop, where a fifty-three-year-old African-American man had been gunned down as he walked out with a pair of lattes. The man’s wife had been waiting outside with their pet poodle, and she got to witness the whole thing. The second shooting took place the following afternoon, when a twenty-three-year-old college student named Brittney Albert was shot and killed walking from a Walmart to her parked car. The sniper’s kill wasn’t clean this time, though: he hit Brittney with his second shot, but the first one hit Brittney’s friend, Karen Woods, who had been walking beside her. Karen was taken to the hospital in critical condition but was expected to live. Inexperience? A slip of the finger? Maybe the sniper had been gunning for both young women. The .223 caliber bullets recovered at each scene had been declared a forensic match, but that told them little about the gun, as they could have been fired from as many as seventeen different types of rifles.
Reed scanned through Sanderson’s profile and found nothing that seemed especially controversial. The shooter was most likely a white male, thirty-five to forty-five years old, with military training. He enjoyed creating fear in others but was outwardly unemotional himself. He was far enough away at the time of the killings that he wouldn’t have heard the screams or seen the blood. His targets were somewhat impersonal. The shooter would however relish all the media attention and the atmosphere of terror he had created. It was when Reed got to the end that he found the part that probably made McGreevy break into a cold sweat: Sanderson theorized that the sniper was partly motivated by racial hatred. He believed that Karen Woods, who was black, had been the real target—not her white friend Brittney Albert. The reason for Sanderson’s conclusion was an inked “88” on the roof of the building believed to be the origin of the shots. The double eights were potentially a white power symbol signifying “Heil, Hitler” because H was the eighth letter of the alphabet.
Reed blew out a long breath and closed his eyes as he considered. Brittney was shot second. If Karen was the target, why keep going after she fell down? He picked up Sanderson’s profile again and found the other agent’s potential theories: either the killer flat-out missed and he was really aiming to finish off Karen, or possibly he was punishing Brittney for associating with Karen.
It felt a little thin to Reed and he spent some time combing over the facts of the case. He read an article or two about what was known regarding the psychology of snipers (not much) and some research into white terror symbols (frightening stuff). He noted that Sanderson was concerned enough about Karen’s safety that he suggested she be linked up with FURS, also known as the Florida division of Urgent Relocatio
n Services, a kind of temporary witness protection. Ultimately, Reed called up Sanderson in Florida and had him walk him through the case.
“The eighty-eight was fresh at the scene,” he told Reed. “Tampa had a hard rain two nights before, so the ink would have been washed out if it had been left any earlier.”
“Still,” Reed countered. “It’s a stretch.”
“This guy is racially motivated,” Sanderson insisted. “I’d stake my career on it.”
Reed tapped the file lightly on his desk as he considered. “I think you already have. I’d distribute what you have to the task force but hold back motive from the press at this stage. You don’t need the city any hotter than it’s about to get.”
There was a tense silence on the other end of the phone.
“You have something you want to add, Sanderson?” Reed asked finally.
“It’s just that—don’t you think we ought to tell ’em? Don’t you think people with brown skin ought to know they might be walking around with a target on their back?”
Reed, as someone who, in the right light and with a summer tan, was one of those brown-skinned people himself, gripped his end of the phone a little tighter. “I think unfortunately, Sanderson, they probably already know that. Until you can back up your theory with something stronger than a piece of graffiti—whose meaning is still open to interpretation—discretion is the better part of valor. When we know more, they’ll know more. You hear what I’m saying?”
“Yeah,” Sanderson said after a beat. “I hear you.”
When he hung up with Sanderson, Reed wrote up some notes for McGreevy, including his support for Sanderson’s idea to loop in FURS for Karen Woods. They had temporary housing and people who could bring her groceries, so as to keep her out of sight while the law enforcement personnel figured out whether she was still in danger.
FURS, Reed thought as he wrote it out. Sounds like a convention for those people who like to dress up in fuzzy costumes and rub on each other. Other states, he knew, had related acronyms. In Texas, it was TURS. In California, CURS. Up Ellery’s way, it was MURS.
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