by Tami Dane
“Sorry about my mother,” I said as I opened the back door and dropped my laptop bag on the backseat.
He started the car. “No need to apologize.”
I slid into the passenger seat and snapped myself in. “I’ve tried to tell her she can’t follow an FBI agent. It’s gotta be against the law, isn’t it?”
“It’s against the law to interfere in an FBI investigation.” He maneuvered the car out of the parking spot.
“If you’d explain that to her, it might go better. She’s more likely to believe you than me.”
“Already did.” After waiting for a break in traffic, he pulled the car onto the road.
“Good.” Knowing my mom, that wouldn’t completely stop her from tailing me. She smoked marijuana, and that was against the law. But it might inspire her to keep a wider distance between her and us.
In ten minutes, we rolled up in front of Patty Yates’s home, another typical 1980s construction, with brick facing and vinyl siding. A mound of woodchips graced the perimeter of the foundation. Weeds poked out of the chips, here and there, but otherwise, the outside of the home was tidy.
Inside, we soon learned, was even more pristine. Spotless. Everything was white. Walls. Floors. Window coverings.
Mr. Yates, who was as immaculately groomed as his home, welcomed us, leading us back to the great room in the rear of the first floor. The kitchen was on the left, a sunken family room on the right. “How can I help you, Agent? I’ve already told the police everything I know, which isn’t much.”
“Thank you for talking to us, Mr. Yates,” JT said in his FBI agent voice. “We know you’ve already talked to the police. We’ll make this as quick as possible.”
“Thanks.” All knotted up in a black pinstripe suit, white shirt, and tie, Mr. Yates crossed his arms over his chest.
“Let’s start with the week before your wife’s death. Did you notice her acting differently than normal?”
“No. Differently, how?”
“In any way. Was she ill? Sleeping more? Sleeping less? Eating less? Complaining about any symptoms?”
“Nothing. Patty was training to run a marathon for breast cancer. She ran ten miles the morning she died.”
“Can you tell us the route she took?” I asked.
“Patty didn’t run outside. She has a treadmill. Or she goes to a local gym.”
“Okay. Thank you.” I jotted some notes. Another runner. Could it be a coincidence?
“Had she mentioned making any new acquaintances recently?” JT asked.
“No. Nothing’s sticking out. I don’t get it. When I left for work that morning, everything was normal. A couple of hours later, and everything was wrong. My wife, who never got sick, was dead from some tropical disease I’ve never heard of. I just don’t understand.”
For the first time since stepping into the house, I saw a sign of the grief this man was feeling. His hands shook as he straightened his tie, tugging the knot tighter.
“Can you tell us about your neighbor, Mrs. Ester?”
“That woman’s batty. She told me my wife is—was—a lesbian.” He wandered over to a cupboard and pulled out a mug. He pointed at us with the cup. “I can tell you, without any doubt, that my wife was not gay.” He cleared his throat. I think his male pride was a little bruised. “You can’t believe a word that woman says. I’m not trying to be mean. She’s diabetic. Never takes her medication. Her son comes over once a day at dinnertime to make sure she’s eaten, and gives her a shot of insulin. But she’s getting worse. Seeing things and hearing things that aren’t there. Won’t be long before she’s in a nursing home.”
“Thank you.” JT motioned to the stairs. “Would you mind if we took a quick look around?”
“The police searched the house, but sure. Do what you have to do.” Mr. Yates went to the coffeemaker. “Coffee?” He filled the cup and offered it to us.
JT and I both said, “No thanks,” and headed for the staircase in the foyer. Upstairs, we found the master bedroom and bath first.
“What are we looking for?” I asked. “We know from the previous three victims that we’re not going to find any signs of illness. No open aspirin bottles, even.”
JT went to the window and peered outside. “They have a nice view of the park from this room.”
“Is that significant?”
“I doubt it.” He turned around. “We’re looking for anything that doesn’t fit. I can’t be more specific because I don’t know either. I won’t know until I see it.”
“Okay.” I opened the closet. The clothes were organized by color, his on the left, hers on the right. “These people are OCD. Look at this closet.”
“And yet the front flower bed was weedy.”
“Do you think that’s significant?”
“Probably not.” JT went to one of two dressers in the room and opened the drawer. “The dressers are organized too.”
“I’ll check the bathroom.” I wandered into the attached full bath. It was the picture of luxury with one of those fancy super-deep, jet-action soaker tubs. It was spotless, as was the rest of the room. No medications whatsoever in the medicine cabinet. “Nothing interesting in the bathroom, though I have a serious case of tub envy.” I headed back out to the bedroom.
JT was holding a medicine bottle.
“What did you find?” I asked, hoping it would be useful.
“Cialis. It was hidden in Yates’s underwear drawer.”
“Hidden? Do you think his wife knew he had a little problem?”
“I’m guessing she did. But if she didn’t, it doesn’t matter.” He put the bottle back in the drawer and closed it.
I sighed. “This case is so frustrating.”
“We’ll get a break sooner or later.” JT motioned toward the hallway. “I think we’ve taken up enough of Mr. Yates’s time. Let’s head out.”
After thanking Mr. Yates, we went back to the car.
I plopped into the passenger seat and rubbed my temples. I didn’t have a headache. I was hoping the massage might stimulate the circulation to my head, and thus increase the blood flow to my brain cells. I was desperate. “The unsub’s going to kill again. We’re running out of time, and we’re no closer to having a profile than we were the first day.”
“Sure, we are. We know who he’s hunting. We just don’t know why. I have a plan.” He gave me a look. I didn’t like it. “You’re going undercover.”
“Undercover?” I echoed.
“Yeah. I called the agent handling a bank-owned house on the next block. You’re going to stay there.”
“I’m going to offer myself to a killer?”
“The house will be wired. You will be wired. You’ll be watched twenty-four–seven. Not just by me, but by several agents.” JT set a hand on my knee. I looked down at it, then up into his eyes. “I won’t let anything happen to you. I promise.”
I believed he meant those words.
Still, I wasn’t liking this plan. Not at all. Even if he was watching me around the clock, and his intentions were noble, things happened. Even the best-laid plans went wrong.
But on the other hand, it was the opportunity I had been waiting for. I would be doing something, taking action, helping solve the case. I would finally be a productive member of the team. Nobody else could do this, except for maybe Chief Peyton. We both were brunettes, although I was too young and she was too old, if the killer stuck with the same MO.
JT fiddled with his keys. “Do you have a gun, to protect yourself ?”
“A gun?” Those two words scared me, almost more than the idea of becoming a killer’s target. “No, I’ve never touched a gun. Unless you count a Super Soaker.”
After a tense moment, JT said, “Sloan, if you don’t want to do this, you don’t have to. I’ll be close by. At all times. But it’s still dangerous.”
“What about your promise not to let anything happen to me?” I challenged. “Reneging already?”
“No way. But legal, and Chief Pe
yton, told me I have to inform you of all the risks.”
I laughed. It was a weird moment for a guffaw, I’ll admit. But I couldn’t help myself. I guess it was the fear bubbling up inside of me and bursting out.
JT gave me an odd, worried look. “I went to the chief with this plan days ago, before Patty Yates was found. The chief shot it down right away, said there was no way we could use an intern in an undercover operation. Something must’ve made her change her mind, though. She called me today and gave me the thumbs-up.”
Lucky me.
“Give me a minute,” I said, holding up an index finger.
JT nodded.
I turned and stared sightlessly out the window.
All along, I’d felt like I was failing, like I was letting down the victims who had died, and the ones who were yet to die. Out there, somewhere, was a woman who didn’t realize her time was almost up. And out there, somewhere, were God only knew how many more women who might lose their lives if the killer wasn’t caught.
Up to this point, following the path of victims, of death, wasn’t doing us a damn thing. We needed to anticipate the killer’s next move. How else could we do that?
There wasn’t any other way.
“I’ll do it,” I said, sounding less resolved than I wished I did.
JT lunged forward and hauled me into his arms. And I, being a little overwhelmed for a lot of reasons, sank into his embrace. I closed my eyes and simply enjoyed the moment. He smelled so good. And he was so big, so strong. I felt safe in his arms. Protected.
“I wish you could stay with me,” I said.
“Me too.” His flattened hand skimmed up and down my back, and little waves of tingles swept through my body. Those tingles were nice. Very nice. And bad. Very bad. “But the more time you spend alone, the more likely we are to lure the killer to you.”
“I agree.”
He loosened his hold and leaned back enough to look me in the eye without either of us going cross-eyed. “I won’t let you down, Sloan.”
I glanced at his mouth. At his eyes. At his mouth again. I wanted to kiss him. And I think he wanted to kiss me too. But I knew that would be a mistake. An enormous one.
“I believe you,” I said.
He eased back. Something changed in his eyes.
The moment was over.
He said, “I need to ask you something. Did you get that sample analyzed yet?”
“What sample?” I knew I was looking guilty as hell, but I couldn’t admit the truth.
“The one you stashed in your car.”
The hairs on my nape prickled. “Were you the one who broke my window?”
“No. But I did go back to your car later to get the sample. When I got to it, the window was already broken. The sample wasn’t under the seat, where I’d seen you put it. I was hoping you’d stashed it somewhere else.”
Hoping? He was hoping I’d stashed it somewhere else? Why? Did he want me to get it analyzed? “Just say you had found it in my car, what were you going to do with it? Put it back?”
“No. I was going to take it to a friend and have it analyzed. I want to know what the other lab found. Peyton said the results were inconclusive because the sample was tainted. And she said the bureau isn’t going to pay for another test. We were going to have to wait until we had another victim to swab.”
“Um. Oh.” I looked down at my hands. They were clenched in my lap. I was petrified that JT was lying, that he was just trying to trick me into admitting I was hiding evidence. But I was more afraid of not getting the test run. “How long will it take your friend to do the analysis?”
“He can do a quick and ugly analysis in a day and a half.”
“I guess that’s better than nothing.” I snapped on my seat belt. “Take me home.”
Like a morning dream, life becomes more and more bright the longer we live, and the reason of everything appears more clear. What has puzzled us before seems less mysterious, and the crooked paths look straighter....—Jean Paul Richter look straighter... .
—Jean Paul Richter
14
JT dropped me off at the office before taking the sample to his friend. I didn’t need the backward-ticking clock to know we could have another victim tomorrow morning. The sense of time slipping away, not to mention my growing concern about Katie, made me jittery. When I’d gone home to get the sample, she’d been in her room, sleeping. I’d found the soup container, full, in the refrigerator.
I couldn’t sit still. I couldn’t concentrate. And I’d made at least ten trips to the bathroom in the last hour.
I don’t know how long Chief Peyton had been watching me, but about fifteen minutes after I’d finally settled in, ready to map out our crime scenes, she pulled a chair up to my cubicle and sat down.
“How are you doing, Skye?” The chief crossed one knee over the other.
I wanted to tell her the truth, that I was frustrated, scared we wouldn’t solve the case, worried that dozens—or even hundreds—of women would die because I couldn’t do this job. But I couldn’t say those things. “I’m doing fine.” I pointed at the map on my computer screen. “I’ve plotted out the homes of all four victims. And where they died. There’s no connection between the crime scenes. But three out of four—Richardson, Miller, and Yates—live in the same subdivision. And all three backyards are adjacent to the same school playground. It’s unclear, at this point, what tie-in Hannah Grant has with the other victims. She lives close, walking distance from the others, but not in the same neighborhood. In addition, a couple of them are runners. We don’t have much of a profile of the unsub yet, though.”
Peyton took a closer look at the map. “That’s a good start.”
“We also have an eyewitness who claims she saw one of our victims, Patty Yates, being attacked. But, unfortunately, the witness’s eyesight is horrible. She was a fair distance from the alleged attack, and the testimony is a little too far-fetched to believe.”
“Remember, Skye, it’s your job to check out the far-fetched.” The chief stood. “Where is JT?”
“He ... got a call from another potential witness.”
“Why didn’t you go along?”
“He wanted me to stay here and get all the details of my undercover operation hammered out. We’re going to do some surveillance early tomorrow morning, since all four victims died in the morning.”
“Good idea. Be sure to keep me updated. I’m counting on you and JT to handle this. Be careful, Skye. Keep your eyes open.”
“Will do, Chief.” I didn’t take a deep breath until the chief was back in her office. Acting as nonchalantly as possible, I dug my cell phone out of my laptop case and dialed JT’s number. But before he answered, somebody nudged me on the back. I swear, my butt flew at least a foot off my chair. The phone flung out of my hand. It clattered on the floor, and the battery and back cover skidded across the tile, traveling one way, the phone the other.
“Shit,” I said.
“Sorry.” Gabe scooped up the backless phone while I went for the rest of the parts.
“It’s okay.”
“Jumpy, a little?” He handed me the phone.
“Thanks. A bit.” I snapped the pieces back together and crossed my fingers, hoping it would work. I don’t have good luck with cell phones. It didn’t power up. “Damn it. This is all I need right now. Looks like I’ll be making a trip to the cell phone store once again. I wonder if they make phones that are kidproof ?”
“I saw your car.”
“Yeah,” I said, pushing buttons and hoping for a miracle. “I don’t know what to think about that. Was it an accident? Was it not? Being on a military base, I would think the parking lot would be secure.”
“Yeah, you’d think. Was anything missing?” He gave me a look, the kind that said it was a certain something he was asking about.
“No. Nothing was missing.”
His shoulders descended at least a couple of inches. “Good.” He sprawled into the chair Peyton had
abandoned. “So what’s new?”
“About ... ?” I asked.
“The case.”
“Nothing yet.” I sighed. “To tell you the truth, this case is making me mad. We just can’t catch a break. I was hoping the witness we interviewed today would give us something.”
Gabe leaned closer. “You had a witness come forward?”
“Yeah, a hundred-year-old blind woman with diabetic dementia who claims she saw a woman leap over a six-foot fence like a kangaroo to have a lesbian encounter with Patty Yates.”
Gabe’s eyes bugged. A wide grin spread over his face. “Sorry, I can’t help myself.” He laughed.
That did nothing to lighten my mood.
“By the way, I passed your mom on the way in.” And that made it even worse. “She parked in a lot across from the base’s entry. I think she’s waiting for you or something.”
I didn’t even try to hide the eye roll. “She told me she’s working as a private investigator. I’m not convinced someone is actually paying her. But at least it’s keeping her busy. She hasn’t shorted out her apartment building since she started.”
“Who is she investigating?”
“ Me.”
Once again, I got to listen to Gabe have a good laugh, at my expense. But it was my fault. I was the one who’d volunteered the information.
After he’d settled down, he added, “It’s too bad she can’t come on base. If she could, she might’ve seen who busted out your window.”
“Yeah, it’s too bad.” I decided a change of topic was a good idea. “What’s your case about?”
“Missing kid.”
“Oh. A kid. That explains why the chief would pull you off the other case. But why did it end up a PBAU case?”
“Because a witness claimed the unsub lifted a car off the ground and tossed it about twenty yards. And our witness isn’t a hundred-year-old blind woman.”