“Remind me again why I picked some place that was so hot to hole up in?” she grumbled as she and Scott walked from Jackson Square toward Bourbon Street.
“Because as far as anyone knows, you have no connection to New Orleans,” Scott said. He paused to skirt around an old woman walking a Pomeranian, her purple tracksuit staind with faint marks of perspiration, like she’d already been out for most of the morning in this heat. “And that Damon wouldn’t have any reason to suspect you’re here.”
“Yeah, well, there are plenty of other places he’d have never found us,” she said. “Next time we decide to go on a run, make sure I pick a place north of the Mason-Dixon line, especially if it’s summer.”
Scott didn’t respond. Instead, he pointed ahead to the corner of Bourbon and St. Ann and asked, “What the hell’s going on up there?”
Flashing blue lights from dozens of police cars strobed over the intersection, and police officers and crime scene technicians swarmed the area, which was roped off with the ubiquitous crime scene tape every police department in the country must order by the truckload. A small white canopy—the kind usually found at outdoor barbecues and festivals—had been erected in the middle of the intersection, protecting the crime scene both from the elements and the possibility of a car driving through it.
Riley looked to Scott, raising her eyebrows to telegraph a suggestion that they go over to check things out; he nodded to indicate his agreement to her unspoken idea. They shoved past a small gathering crowd to the crime scene tape closest to the body, both of them fishing out their fake FBI badges. She was suddenly thankful that they’d kept the ones Damon had given them in Tuscaloosa. She held hers up as she waved a nearby cop over.
“Hi, I’m Agent Hartley, and this is Agent Hunter,” she introduced, motioning to Scott. “We’re with the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit.” Scott stepped on her foot, hard, but she ignored it; Criminal Minds was one of her favorite TV shows, and she’d been dying to use that line at least once in her life. She did her best to try for deadpan like Aaron Hotchner, but she was pretty sure she was coming off more like Spencer Reid. Oh, well. She couldn’t have it all. “We’re in town on some unrelated business, saw what was going on over here, and figured we’d see if you needed a hand with anything.”
The cop—handsome, clean shaven, with dark hair and eyes, a lovely skin tone that suggested he was mixed race, and a lean, fit body that made Riley wish he and she were in any other time and place in her life—hesitated then said, “Wait here, ma’am. Let me go speak to my supervisor.”
Riley watched the lovely man walk away, almost unconsciously tilting her head to the side as he did so, and she earned a hard jab to the ribs with Scott’s cast. “What?” she asked irritably, rubbing at the sore spot with the heel of her hand.
“If you stare any harder, your eyeballs are going to fall out,” Scott teased. Despite the tone of his voice, he sounded almost bothered by the way she was ogling the police officer. A pang of guilt twinged in her chest, and she tried to shove it back down.
“Oh, shut up,” she grumbled. “I can look, can’t I? You men do it all the time.”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever you say,” he said. “If that’s what makes you feel better.”
Riley wrinkled her nose at him, but before she could muster a reply, the gorgeous officer approached them, bringing a second officer along with him. This one was older, with deep crows’ feet around his eyes and a smattering of gray at his temples. He was handsome, too, but in a distinguished, elder statesman sort of way; he held a hand out to her, and she shook it briskly.
“Agents,” he greeted. “I’m Detective Mike Butler. I’m in charge of the scene. You said you’re with the BAU?”
Riley hesitated, just for a split second, hoping her moment of ridiculousness wasn’t about to bite her on the ass. For all she knew, this guy was acquainted with a bunch of people in the actual BAU and would call her out on her stupid statement. Despite the risk, she plunged ahead, saying, “Yes, sir. We came across the scene and wondered what was going on.”
“Wonderful timing,” the detective said. “We could use your thoughts on this one. It’s pretty…strange. Maybe you’ve seen it before or have some insights we don’t.”
“We’ll be happy to take a look,” Scott spoke up, “though I’m afraid anything we do will have to be on an off-the-books basis. I’m technically on leave from field work due to an injury.” He held up his cast-swathed arm, as if to emphasize the point.
“Not a problem,” Butler assured him. “Just looking for ideas.”
He held the crime scene tape up for Scott to duck under, and the other officer did the same for Riley. She smiled as she straightened, glancing at his name badge to see “Tate” engraved on it. Then she made a beeline for the corpse under the white canopy, following Scott in a winding path through the crime scene.
It was a man, judging by the strong jawline and short hair—and that was all she had to go off of, really, because everything from the neck down was a shredded, bloodied mess, like a side of beef and a bolt of fabric had been put through a meat grinder at the same time. It was a gruesome sight, made worse by the fact that his insides were not only visible but no longer recognizable as individual organs. She’d never seen anything like this—and she’d seen a lot of dead bodies in her years in the Agency—and she had to struggle to not lose her breakfast.
“What do you think?” she asked Scott, swallowing back a small surge of bile.
“I’m thinking I shouldn’t have eaten the biscuits and gravy at breakfast,” he replied. He squatted beside the corpse, just outside the penumbra of blood surrounding the dead man like a horror movie version of a halo. He leaned forward, carefully, studying the body, his eyes scanning it from head to toe. Riley could practically see the gears grinding and wheels spinning between his ears.
“What is it?” she asked, keeping her voice low so none of the officers around them would hear her.
“I’ll explain when we get back to the hotel.”
“Have you seen something like this before?” she asked.
“No,” he answered. “Not exactly. It just reminds me of something that I read, but I can’t put my finger on it. I might have to make a phone call first.” He rose from his crouch, and Riley mimicked the movement. This time, Scott addressed the detective. “When was he found like this?”
Butler motioned to a thin, reed-like woman in a flowy dress and entirely too many bangle bracelets on her arms. Her hair was a bird’s nest, and the expression on her face could only be described as shell-shocked. She looked for all the world like Professor Trelawney from the Harry Potter movies. “That’s Emelda,” he explained. “She runs a shop down on St. Ann’s, some sort of psychic tarot card thing.”
“You’d think she’d have seen this coming,” Riley muttered under her breath, and Scott discreetly jabbed her in the ribs with his cast again.
“She got here early, maybe around six, to open for the day,” Butler continued, “and she found him like this. There was no one else around, but another shop owner showed up a minute or so after she did, and since he had a cell phone, he called 911.”
“What’s your theory of the case right now?” Scott asked.
“Right now? I don’t have a theory. I’ve never seen anything like this before. It’s not every day you get called out to a homicide and find the body shredded into unrecognizability.”
Riley wondered if that was even a word.
“It’s almost like a wild animal got a hold of him,” Butler added. “Do you have any ideas? I’m at a loss. I’m not even sure what to tell my boss. Hell, we don’t even know who he is. He has no ID on him. How am I supposed to notify the family if I have no idea who he even is?”
Scott patted his shoulder awkwardly. “Don’t worry about that. The medical examiner will figure out who he is. In the meantime, you should focus on how he died. Is it common for wild animals to come through here?”
“And for that matter, are the
re any wild animals native to this region that could inflict damage like this?” Riley added.
The detective shook his head. “The only things that come to mind are coyotes, and they usually go after small animals, puppies, cats, that sort of thing. I’ve never heard of one attacking a person, and I’ve never heard of one doing this to someone.”
Scott hummed thoughtfully and glanced at Riley, like he was looking to her for any suggestions. She shook her head; once again, she found herself looking at something that was probably outside of her pay grade. She figured the best thing they could do right now—if there was anything they could do—was get out of there, go to their hotel, and give Zachariah or Ashton a call, as reluctant as she was to do so. If anything, they could eliminate the possibility that this was anything to do with their particular line of work.
Knowing their luck, within the next few days, they’d end up stuck in another bad situation involving some creepy monster, psychotic demon child, or slavering beast out of a horror movie, and once again, it’d be up to them to put the thing out of its misery.
All in yet another day’s work, she thought caustically.
After Ashton had unceremoniously kicked him out of Zachariah’s apartment, Damon went to the parking garage attached to the building, fishing his cell phone out as he strode toward the spaces Zachariah rented. He activated the phone’s screen but hesitated; he had no idea who he thought he was going to call. Zachariah was, presumably, busy helping Angelique; Riley and Scott hadn’t answered his calls since they’d taken off for Heaven only knew where; and Ashton was clearly pissed at him and didn’t want to talk.
For the first time in a while, he felt at a loss for what to do next.
As he slid into his car, he glanced at his watch and realized it was earlier than he’d thought. He should go home, maybe cook some breakfast and get a little sleep; if his calculations were right, he’d been up for just shy of sixty hours straight, and he could use some rest before it started affecting his job performance. Decision made, he started his car and pulled out, heading in the direction of his home with a stir of enthusiasm in his gut.
That enthusiasm was quickly tempered when his cell phone began to ring and he saw Brandon’s name on the navigational screen on his car’s dashboard. He grimaced, scowling at the screen as the phone rang three more times and trying to decide if he should answer it; then he sat up straighter and punched the answer button on the screen.
“Why the hell are you calling me?” Damon demanded by way of greeting.
“You greet everybody who calls you like that?” Brandon asked, and Damon could hear the nasty smile in his voice.
“No, I reserve that for you,” he snapped. “Why are you calling me?”
“Been to work lately?”
“I’ve been to too much work lately,” he replied, “no thanks to you.”
“Then you know that a meeting of the Committee has been called.”
Damon almost slammed on the brakes but refrained, though he did grip the steering wheel tighter. “The Committee,” he repeated. The last time the Committee had met, it was to declare Tobias Ismay incapable of performing his duties as deputy director and to issue orders for Damon to choose a new second-in-command.
“They’re meeting about you,” Brandon said. “I thought I’d give you a friendly heads up for you to get your affairs in order while you have a chance.”
“Why are you telling me this?” he asked.
“I owe you,” Brandon said plainly. “Multiple times over from assignments in the past. And even if you think I’m a bastard—and I am one, make no mistake about that—I do have some sense of respect for you. Your children, on the other hand…” He trailed off, and Damon had the sudden, odd sensation that someone else was listening in on this conversation. Regardless, he shook it off and soldiered on.
“Don’t bring them into this,” he snapped. “Whatever the outcome of the Committee’s meeting, I will kill you if you hurt them.”
“Why do you even care about them?” Brandon asked. “You gave one away, and you let that woman walk away with the other. You didn’t bother trying to find them until they were old enough to be useful to you. Why bother with them now?”
“Because I’m their father.”
“You’re not a very good one.”
“I never claimed to be.” Silence fell between them. Damon smoothed his fingers over the leather-covered steering wheel and tried to focus on driving as he waited for Brandon’s response. When he failed to answer by the time he’d turned onto his street, Damon asked, “Why are you doing all this?”
“I already answered that—”
“No, that’s not what I mean,” he interrupted. “Why are you doing this? All of this?”
There was a long pause, the silence filled only with the sound of Brandon’s breathing on the line. Then a sigh filtered down and Brandon said, “I have my reasons. They’re my own. And they’re none of your business.”
Damon had a feeling Brandon was trying his damnedest to not tell him something he desperately needed to know. “This isn’t going to end well,” he warned. “You know that as well as I do. This shit you’re mixed up in…it’s going to get you killed.” He steered his car into the driveway and put the vehicle in park, sitting back in his seat with a sigh.
“Well, as I said, it’s none of your business.” There was a thud through the line, the distinctive sound of a car door closing. “Since I’ve called and said what I needed to say, I think I’ll hang up. Now. Are you heading to the office later?”
Damon didn’t answer. He just stared at the dashboard display and wondered what Brandon’s game was, wondered what the hell he was doing calling him. There had to be something beyond him wanting to warn Damon about the Committee’s planned meeting. Brandon didn’t do things out of the kindness of his heart, not anymore. Sure, he used to when they were younger, when they’d been partnered up on the odd assignment here or there, when they’d still been regular field agents and not engrossed in the political machinations of Agency leadership, but they weren’t the same people anymore. They hadn’t been for a long time now. And the people they were now would never warn a potential enemy of trouble coming his way.
No, Brandon was up to something, as usual, and he’d have to tread lightly from here.
That was why, after Damon hung up and went into his house, he searched it top to bottom before he made a move to go to bed.
Three
“Son of a bitch, that smells nasty,” Zachariah commented half to himself as he approached the crime scene in Meridian Hill Park and caught a whiff of the smell of decomposing flesh, riding on the breeze. There was something inherently disturbing about the sickly sweet stench combined with a vague impression of gasoline. He shuddered and resisted the urge to scrub his nose with the back of his hand, as if he could rub the smell away. Police swarmed the area, giving off a distinct “don’t fuck with me” sort of vibe, and evidence technicians processed the area, gathering whatever they found that looked relevant. He had a feeling there wouldn’t be much evidence to process. It stank of a professional body dump. And when he took another step forward to get a look at the body, his initial thoughts were confirmed.
This was most definitely a professional body dump.
He spotted Angelique nearby. She had her arms folded over her chest and a tight expression on her face that spoke of every bit of irritation and annoyance she felt. It was already warm enough outside that her dark skin had begun to glisten with a fine sheen of sweat. She didn’t look like she wanted to be messed with, but Zachariah approached her anyway, though admittedly with a little trepidation. “Hey,” he greeted once he was within earshot. “What we got?”
“Young female,” she reported, “somewhere in early adolescence, judging by the overall mass of the remains. She was dumped here sometime between three and five. A police officer did his patrol round through here at three, maybe three-fifteen. No body. Joggers found it about five. Badly burned and dead for quite s
ome time, maybe somewhere close to a month.” She paused and looked at him with a raised eyebrow. “How is Ashton?”
“About as well as you’d expect, considering everything he’s been through lately,” he said. “Since he’s essentially homeless after what happened at HQ, he’s back at my place.”
“Can I come by and see him?” she asked. “I just want to see with my own eyes that he’s okay.”
“He’s not really up for visitors right now, but you’ll be the first to know when that changes.”
“Good,” she said, giving him a dazzling smile that had quite a bit of relief mixed into it. Then her smile faded as she turned her eyes back onto the scene. “I haven’t been able to get close enough yet to tell if this is something for The Unnaturals,” she said. “But I was also waiting for you.”
“Why?”
“Because you know more about investigating this sort of thing than I do,” she said. “Or at the very least, you’ll be able to recognize whether or not it’s something for us better than I can.”
Zachariah nodded, though he wanted to contest her assertion. Angelique had been recruited straight into The Unnaturals and had never passed through the Agency’s training programs. As such, he’d trained her completely, and he’d made sure she was rigorously capable in not only physical, hand-to-hand combat and beyond-expert marksman, but he’d given her a very thorough course in investigations. She should have been able to take a look at the corpse and figure out if it was something up their alley or not.
He pawed in his pockets and found his FBI badge, holding it up for the police officer near the crime scene tape as he ducked under the yellow streamer. He straightened and heard the officer comment, “What sort of FBI guy wears blue jeans?”
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