As if on cue, she gave him the information he needed to choose his next victim. “I’d like you to meet Hank. He should be up from his nap after our lunch. He naps more and more frequently. Body giving out, you know...” Her voice trailed off. She avoided his eyes.
Did she know?
She picked at her chicken salad with a fork, not really eating. In this phase, she rarely did.
“Tell me more about him,” he encouraged, and listened with rapt attention as she rattled off a series of inane facts. War veteran. Widowed two years ago. Grew up in these parts. Cancer’s about eaten him through to his bones. In such pain, even with medication...
When she was done, she gave him a look that said, So what are you going to do about it? Maybe she did know. Maybe she did understand, and simply looked the other way because he did it all for her.
No, not all for her. Like turning a valve to release pressure, a good kill made him feel great for a while...relaxed and at peace. And there was no denying that part of him enjoyed making these ordinary people—and even the useless people like Fanta—rock stars in the eyes of others. Just as much as he liked giving the hardened criminals such as Tony a voice. After all, you couldn’t understand the good without the bad.
The only people who understood that were at SSAM.
Of course the killers SSAM hunted were nothing like him. He was a sociologist. A cultural scientist. And someday, scientists everywhere would appreciate his documentation of the stark difference between good and evil, and all the grays in between. Why else had God let him survive all his childhood illnesses? Some had been so painful, he’d begged to die. Yet he’d always survived, because of Mother’s care. He owed her.
He handed her a soda. “I look forward to meeting Hank.”
She reached over to pat his knee. “Such a good son. Did you bring your camera? You haven’t interviewed this latest group.”
“It’s in the car.”
“They always have a glow after you talk to them about their lives.”
Like you, they like the attention.
After their picnic had been dutifully picked at—neither of them particularly hungry, but faking it for each other—he escorted Mother inside. Two women who worked the Monday afternoon shift were hanging out in the kitchen.
“Hi,” the pretty nurse named Mary said. He’d met her the last time he’d been here, a month or so ago. She clutched a half-eaten energy bar and eyed their picnic basket with a wistful smile. “We were just enjoying a rare quiet moment before we start distributing the afternoon meds. And then, of course, the evening routine begins.”
“He knows how things work,” Mother snapped.
Mary looked stunned and the silence stretched on for several long seconds. Mary was new, but clearly the type of nurse others looked up to as a leader. Was this the source of Mother’s recent depression?
Mother patted her hair as if tucking away her unwanted anger. “My son would like to visit with some of the patients.”
My son. As if anybody here didn’t know who he was by now. Sometimes it was difficult being her whole world. He felt the weight of it, and once more was buoyed by the thought he’d soon have a partner. It was almost time to reveal himself to Becca. She should be thrilled with his latest coup...killing the man who’d gotten away from her when she’d been trying to find justice. She’d appreciate that.
“Our tenants would love to visit, I’m sure,” Mary said brightly, as if her feelings hadn’t been wounded. Maybe they hadn’t. She appeared a tough sort.
“I thought I’d start with Hank.”
“That would be great. When he’s lucid, he’s ornery. But I think it’s mostly loneliness. He could use some new people to talk to.”
“I’d be happy to,” he said. “Let me get my camera and I’ll see if he wants to do an interview.”
There was admiration in Mary’s gaze. “That’s quite the documentary you’re putting together.”
You have no idea.
“I’ll get Hank up and by the window where the lighting is better,” Mother offered. “A change of scenery will be good for him, anyway.”
He retrieved his camera from his trunk, giving her time alone with Hank to get him where she wanted him. He’d often wondered if she’d become a geriatric nurse because she could manipulate people more easily. She definitely liked people depending on her...almost as much as she liked them doting on her. When he’d grown up and started community college, she’d entered a major depression. It had been years before he’d realized how entwined their lives were, and what his responsibility was where she was concerned.
After several minutes, Mother reappeared. “He’s still a bit sullen, I’m afraid.” She placed a hand on his arm. “Poor guy would be happier in the afterlife, I think.”
His pulse kicked up. Again, he wondered how much Mother saw, how much she knew. At the open door to Hank’s room, he knocked, but there was no answer. Steeling himself against the odor of the ill who were at death’s door—or inching over the threshold of that door—he entered.
“How’s it going?” He walked to the table where a hunchbacked Hank stared blankly at a puzzle with only the border finished. He wondered which of the nurses had completed that task, since Hank obviously couldn’t care less. The box showed two kittens peeking out of a basket of flowers. Jesus, how demoralizing.
Hank looked up at him and grunted as if he’d read his thoughts.
“That good, huh?” He slid into the chair opposite him and eyed the pieces. There was so much sunny yellow it was depressing.
“Never changes,” Hank finally said. It took him a moment to realize Hank was responding to his initial question.
“Some people find comfort in routine.” The platitude grated on him, even, but he was testing the waters. If he could get Hank to open up about his past, about his life, it would make his obituary, and the documentary, that much more interesting. He had already begun composing the man’s final opus in his head.
Hank’s gaze moved to the camera bag. “What’s that?”
“It’s a service I provide to the hospice,” he said. “I interview people, let them tell their stories. The good, the bad, the ugly. Send the videos to the family, if they want. I’m hoping to make a movie someday.”
Hank grunted again, then turned to look out the window.
“I hear you served in the military,” he tried again. “Were even in a war or two. Bet you have some great stories.”
Hank met his gaze with a rheumy one of his own. “If you’re gonna stay, you can’t talk.”
He cleared his throat. “Right. But if you want to talk...”
“I want silence.”
“You don’t want to be popular? I would have thought a war veteran like you would have liked the notoriety, the acclaim.” Someone to notice him. Wasn’t that what everyone wanted, deep down?
A low rumble that sounded like a growl startled him into looking up at the other man. Hank was laughing. With a great, hacking cough, the man cleared the phlegm and gave a body-shaking laugh. Except his old lungs could barely squeeze out enough air to support the effort. Hank was wheezing a moment later, and the Fan slapped him on the back—not entirely to help.
“Did I say something funny?” he asked.
“Life is funny. Except when it isn’t. And then you die. You young people don’t understand that.”
The Fan bristled. He understood more, saw more, than anyone damn well knew. Soon, they would see. “I think I understand quite a lot.” He snapped the stem of a flower into place in the puzzle.
For some reason, this prompted another round of raspy laughter from Hank.
“Haven’t heard Hank that happy in ages,” Mother said as she entered the room carrying a key ring. Hank’s private medicine cabinet was kept locked up tight. With quick efficiency, her nimble fingers removed prescription bottles from the cupboard and lined them up next to Hank’s little sink.
Just like when, as a boy, the Fan had been sick. He’d had more than hi
s fair share of illness as a child. It was one reason his mother had encouraged him, even after he’d reached adulthood, to stick close to home, where she could take care of him.
Except, somewhere along the way, the roles had reversed.
Hank was still wiping water from the corners of his eyes. The laughter would serve one good purpose, anyway. Nobody would ever expect that a man who’d gone to the trouble of making Hank laugh would later come back and kill him.
“Time for more meds,” Mother said, sounding more chirpy. She opened a bottle and shook out a pill. “We have to be extra careful with this one...too much could kill a guy.”
Hank grunted. “Like anyone would care.”
“This will likely make him sleepy.” She turned her back on the sink, with the open pill bottle and watched Hank take the pills.
“I should hit the road,” the Fan said, standing. He bent to give Mother a kiss on the cheek. “See you at home?”
“Yes.” There was a sparkle in her eye. Or was that his imagination?
“I’ll come back soon,” he told Hank. “And I’ll bring my camera in case you change your mind about that interview.”
The man didn’t even look up, just stared out the window, probably hoping to die. His wish would come true soon enough.
Monday, 12:57 p.m.
SSAM Offices
After hours of reviewing the messages the Fan had left for Damian, Becca sat back in her office chair with a groan.
Diego looked up from where he was reading his own copy, in the chair across the desk from her. “We only have another hour before visiting hours at the prison. Let’s grab a quick lunch, and you can tell me more about Tony.”
“He’s not exactly lunchtime material.” The thought of talking to him again turned her stomach. She lifted her coffee cup. It was empty, which didn’t alleviate her crankiness. “Lunch is already dutifully consumed.”
He looked horrified. “Several cups of coffee are not enough sustenance to survive.”
“Whipped cream is dairy, and packed with calories. Milk is also dairy, and some protein. Chocolate is a vegetable. Caffeine should be included on the list of essential vitamins. That’s a fairly well-rounded meal.”
He shook his head. “And you thought I needed someone to take care of me last summer. If I’d had any idea...”
“You’d what? Have given up your bachelorhood to care for me into my old age and beyond?” Becca scoffed and pushed to a standing position, then arched her back and stretched the muscles in her neck.
“Is that what you wanted?” Diego watched her walk by, then stood and followed her out of her office and down the hallway. “A lifetime commitment?”
She snorted, barely glancing over her shoulder at him. “Hardly.” That was the complete opposite of what she wanted. She’d wanted a fling. Something temporary, so she wouldn’t have to worry about her past getting in the way. But then it hadn’t been enough. It had gotten complicated.
She pushed open the door to the lobby and waved to Catherine, who was in her seat behind the reception desk, talking with someone on the phone.
“Where are we going?” Diego asked as she headed for the elevator.
“Food truck across the street. Best tacos in town.”
“I thought you weren’t going to eat lunch.”
She climbed on the elevator when the door slid open. “You need to keep your strength up.”
“And you?”
Her throat constricted just thinking about what adventures their afternoon had in store. “I’m not sure I can eat.”
Diego followed her off the elevator, then stepped ahead to open the door to the street. “This Tony Moreno sounds like a horrible person.”
“I’m not sure he’s human. But I’ve learned to block the monsters out. Most of the time.”
Because it was personal, James Powell had become a nightmare she’d had to deal with on occasion. The killers and repeat violent offenders like Tony were locked away in her mind after she’d literally locked them away. Unfortunately, memories of those monsters, too, crept out on occasion. Often, she’d wished she had someone to talk to about those times. While Catherine understood on some level, she wasn’t out, living the day-to-day gritty existence of a SSAM agent. Becca suspected Diego would understand, if she chose to talk to him.
Becca had just accepted the soft taco Diego ordered for her and taken a bite when her phone rang.
Diego’s eyebrows went up. Around his own bite of taco, he said, “Want me to answer that?”
She chewed and swallowed quickly. “Not on your life.” He would have had to dig into her front pants pocket, where she’d stuffed the phone before leaving her office. His fingertips would have brushed parts that longed too much for just that—his touch. And he’d made it clear, both in words and by the way he’d walked away from her last night, that he wasn’t going to touch her in that way. At least, not while they were working together.
With a knowing grin, he took another bite of lunch while she quickly swiped at her fingers with a napkin and dug out her phone. It was Einstein calling.
“I was able to trace the threatening text Damian received Saturday morning,” he said. “The one that was meant to have you back away from the Circle investigation. It was sent by Eve Reynolds. She’s a budding investigative journalist based here in Chicago.”
Becca had heard of her. About the same age as Becca, Eve was striking in both her strong physical presence on camera and a voice that was sultry but commanding. Her stories had regularly made local news, and possibly national news a time or two.
“What’s going on?” Diego asked as he polished off his taco. Becca’s was forgotten.
She put the phone on speaker. As it was after the usual lunch hour, they were nearly alone on the street corner. “Is Eve investigating the Circle?” she asked Einstein. “Is that why she wanted me to back off? And why didn’t she just come to me?”
“I’ll leave that to you guys to figure out,” Einstein said. “But I did notice this particular reporter—who is quite beautiful, by the way—has a particular aversion to you.”
“Me? What do you mean?”
“In addition to her occasional on-air segments, she hosts a news blog that covers hot topics. You’re the topic du jour. I’ve notified Damian. I’ll send you the link.”
Stunned, Becca could only mutter a quick thank-you before hanging up and checking her inbox via her phone. His email with the link had already arrived.
Diego crowded in close, so he could read over her shoulder. When the world beneath her feet seemed to be shifting at whim, he was a solid mass she could count on—at least for another few days. But as she read the blog post, she wondered if she should push him away before he got any closer. And when she clicked Play on the embedded video, her fears were confirmed. Her past had just caught up to her.
* * *
Beside him, Becca went rigid as Eve’s voice condemned her through the podcast linked to her blog.
“A so-called agent named Becca Haney, who works with a mysterious agency named SSAM, was nearly arrested for the death of James Powell last evening. The CPD has reason to suspect Haney. Powell claimed she was a jealous liar who framed him years ago. She had sufficient motive, and was found on the scene of the murder when police arrived. So why does she remain free? Because of her connections.” A picture of Damian Manchester filled the screen. “SSAM founder and wealthy businessman Damian Manchester has friends in this city, as well as connections that money can buy. But who will buy justice for James?”
“Bitch.” Becca paused the video. “She doesn’t care that everything Damian does is to put killers behind bars. To protect people. Or that James hurt dozens of women.”
Diego took the phone from her. “Let’s see what else she has to say. We have to know what we’re up against.”
“We?”
“Partners, remember?” He pressed Play.
“Tune in tomorrow for an exclusive interview with James Powell, filmed just hou
rs before his death,” Eve said. “I promise I won’t rest until this is examined further. SSAM and its agents shouldn’t get special treatment because they proclaim to help others. They must obey the rules, just like the rest of us.” She looked confidently into the camera as she signed off.
“She interviewed James hours before his death?” Becca shoved her phone into her pocket and hurried to cross the street to the SSAM building. “Could she have killed him?”
“Doubtful.” Diego matched her strides. “Why would she tell the world that she’d been with him the night of his murder?”
Inside the lobby, she headed for the elevator and pressed the down button, then exhaled shakily. “My parents are going to see this. She must be one hell of an investigative journalist to know they detained me last night.”
Diego took her by the shoulders and turned her toward him, resisting the urge to shake her, or kiss her...anything to get the blood back into her face and revive the passion in her spirit. This Becca, a defeated Becca, was not a woman he recognized. This was the scared Becca beneath the tough exterior.
“You’re not the vindictive woman she hints at in this video,” he said, willing all of his confidence into the words. “Your family will know that...if they even see this. I’m sure Einstein and Damian are working to take this down.”
But Becca didn’t seem to hear the message. She looked away as the elevator arrived. “Sometimes there’s nothing that can be done.”
He took his hands off her shoulders, sensing an invisible wall going up between them as they got on the elevator and descended to the parking level.
Becca unlocked her car and got in, but turned to face Diego instead of starting the ignition. “Why would someone who prides herself in uncovering the truth and achieving justice derail an agency set up to fight for those very things? And why does she want me to back away from the Circle investigation so badly she’d send a threat to Damian?”
“You think she’s dirty? Maybe the Circle is paying her to slam you?”
She shrugged. “She’s got some kind of an agenda. Why else would she interview James Powell unless she was targeting me? It wouldn’t be the first time the Circle paid off people for their own gain.”
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