The Knight pbf-3

by Steven James

  She tried it just to make sure, but no, it didn’t fit.

  Then she heard the front door swing open.

  Patrick had arrived to pick her up for lunch.

  31

  As soon as Tessa heard the door open, she realized she needed more time to read the letters in the box and she didn’t really want Patrick to know that she’d found them, so she jammed everything back inside, except for the key, which she put in her pocket, and quickly snuck the box to her room, then hid it under her bed next to her own memory box.

  “Tessa, are you ready to go?” he called.

  “I’ll be right there!” she shouted through her bedroom door. “Gimme one minute.”

  So, ask him about it, or not?

  She thought about the picture of the little girl, the items in the box, all the enveloped letters that she still hadn’t read.

  He kept this from you. He should have given it to you.

  But maybe he just forgot?

  Either way she needed to know the truth.

  But he’s having a hard day, remember? The breakup? A carnage of hearts? Don’t accuse him of keeping it from you. It wouldn’t be right.

  So then, ask him about it, but be tactful.

  Yeah, that shouldn’t be a problem.

  When I stepped into the house I heard Tessa yell from her room that she’d be ready in a minute-which probably meant I had at least ten-and that was good because it gave me a chance to get dried off and change clothes.

  Partly I wished I were back at the morgue, looking for evidence, but my job wasn’t to process individual crime scenes but rather to help focus the direction of the investigation.

  And that was proving harder than I imagined.

  In my bedroom, I noticed that one of the packing boxes was open but nothing more had been packed, which irritated me a little since Tessa’d had all morning and she knew we were leaving for DC on Wednesday.

  Deal with that later.

  I changed clothes, and as I was putting on my SIG’s holster I thought of Grant Sikora and the gun he’d aimed at my head less than twenty-four hours ago. He’d somehow loaded it before it was brought into the courtroom…

  Or found someone to load it for him.

  I speed-dialed Ralph.

  “What’s up?” he said.

  “Are you still in Chicago?”

  “Yeah. Helping the field office here deal with the shooting, get some tighter security measures in place for next week…” His voice seemed muffled, his words jumbled. It sounded like he had something in his mouth.

  “What’s that sound? You’re not eating more of those yogurt raisins, are you?”

  A moment of silence. The faint sound of swallowing.

  “Nope.”

  “Listen, Ralph, about the shooting; that’s one of the reasons I called. You’re thinking the evidence room, right?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “The gun was in a sealed evidence bag when it was brought into the courtroom. All someone would have needed to do was get in the evidence room, load the gun, and then wait for it to be brought into the courtroom. After all, why would anyone check to see if a gun that’s stored in a sealed evidence bag from a case thirteen years ago was loaded?”

  “Exactly. Have a talk with Officer Fohay. He was working the security checkpoint at the courthouse yesterday.”

  “You got something on him?”

  “No. But he had strong views about Basque’s guilt, and he mentioned that he works in the evidence room. He would have had access to the gun. If there’s any kind of personal connection between Sikora and him-”

  “Gotcha. Anything else?”

  “I’m concerned about Calvin.”

  “What? Werjonic?”

  “Yes.”

  I took a few minutes to summarize the previous night’s conversation with Calvin. When I was done, Ralph asked what I wanted him to do.

  “His office is there in Chicago. I’m wondering if you can keep an eye on him. I’m worried that he might make a move on Basque over the weekend.”

  “A move? You’re kidding me.”

  “No. I’m not.”

  A pause. “Basque is secure. After that attempt on his life, they’re not letting anyone near him.”

  “Remember who I’m talking about here. Calvin is one of the smartest criminal scientists to ever live. If he wants to get in there-”

  “Yeah, all right,” he muttered. “I’ll make sure he doesn’t pay Mr. Basque a visit. Don’t worry.”

  “Thanks.” We ended the call, and when I emerged from the bedroom I found Tessa waiting for me in the hallway.

  “Ready?” I said.

  “Yeah,” she replied. “Let’s go to Fruition.”

  32

  Tessa took a seat beside Patrick in a booth at the back of the restaurant.

  She’d ordered a California alfalfa salad and Patrick had gotten a falafel burger, probably because it reminded him of meat more than anything else on the menu.

  She ate her salad for a few minutes while he smothered his falafel patty with ketchup. In between bites he told her he’d managed to arrive in time to save a woman’s life earlier in the morning.

  “Are you serious? What happened? Wait. Let me guess; you can’t tell me.”

  “No, not all the details. But I can tell you it felt good to get there in time for once. It felt… right.”

  She watched him eat for a few minutes, and she realized she was proud of him, of what he did for a living, that he made a difference.

  “Well, that’s cool,” she said. It was a little lame, but it looked like he could tell she meant it. Finally, when the time felt right, she asked him about the box. “Hey, um, while I was packing, I was wondering if there’s, like, any of my mom’s stuff still around?” She downed some of her root beer. “You know, that you haven’t already given to me?”

  Patrick was eating his falafel burger way too fast to really enjoy it. “Nope.”

  “You sure?”

  He swallowed, wiped a napkin across his chin. “Pretty sure.”

  “Huh, well, that’s weird then, ’cause I found the shoe box.”

  “The shoe box?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What shoe box?”

  “The one with my mom’s stuff in it, and I want to know why you never gave it to me.”

  I stopped eating.

  “Well?” she said.

  “I forgot I even had that.”

  “How could you forget? It’s her special stuff!” The whole atmosphere of the meal had shifted almost instantaneously, and I needed a few seconds to regain my footing.

  I tried to explain that when we moved to Denver I’d just stuck the box in the closet and piled some camping equipment in front of it; tried to help her understand that it had been a hard time for me and I hadn’t thought any more about it, but she didn’t seem to buy it.

  When I’d finished, she held up a key. “I found this too. What does it open?”

  I couldn’t be certain, but I was pretty sure I knew which key that was.

  I went for my Coke and used the time it took me to drink it to stall and collect my thoughts.

  “Well?” Tessa demanded. “I’m waiting.”

  You don’t have to tell her about it. You could say it was lost or damaged or destroyed. You don’t have to let her read it.

  I set down my drink. “I’m not positive, but I think that’s probably the key to your mom’s diary.” Rather than elaborate, I waited for her to respond. I finished my falafel burger. It tasted like toasted sand. Even the ketchup didn’t help.

  “Her diary?”

  I nodded. “She gave it to me before she died, but she told me-” “Mom kept a diary?”

  “Yes, before I met her. I think when she was in college. And she said I wasn’t supposed to give it to you until-”

  “Well, where is it? I want to read it.”

  “Tessa, stop cutting me off. Your mom told me not to give it to you until you turned eighteen.”

  A sh
ort, awkward silence. “Why?”

  “I don’t know. The point is, if I gave it to you now I’d be breaking the promise that I-”

  My ringing cell phone interrupted me mid-sentence. I looked at the screen. Kurt. “Just a second,” I told her.

  She set the key in front of her and drummed her fingers on the table while I answered my cell. “What’s up?”

  “We might have something. Someone sent flowers to a reporter at the Denver News. He left a note: ‘Must needs we tell of others’ tears?’”

  I was missing something here. “And?”

  “The reporter’s husband is one of the CSU techs-Reggie Greer. You met him this morning.”

  I rubbed my forehead. “His wife is a reporter?”

  “Don’t worry. He knows not to share anything about his cases with her. But here’s the thing, she called him wondering if he sent the flowers. She emailed him a photo of the flowers and the note, and he realized right away that the handwriting matched the handwriting on the note the killer left for you in Taylor’s garage.”

  Now he had my attention. “Go on.”

  “Reggie is still finishing up at Taylor’s house. Two officers are giving Cheyenne a lift from the hospital, so she’s on her way to the newspaper office right now. Can you get over there? I don’t want anyone else touching those flowers until we’ve had a chance to look at them. Something came up with Cheryl, I’m at home right now, but I’ll get downtown as soon as I can.”

  The Denver News building was less than two miles away.

  “I’ll be there in five minutes.”

  “All right. The reporter’s name is Amy Lynn Greer.”

  We ended the call, and before I could say a word to Tessa, she blurted, “You have to give me the diary.”

  “Don’t push things right now, Tessa. And don’t demand things from me.” I stood to go.

  “I’m old enough to read it. I’ll be eighteen this fall.”

  “We can talk about the diary later. I need some time to think about this. Your mother was very insistent-”

  “Does it tell who my dad is?”

  The question took me off guard.

  “I never read the diary. I wanted to respect your mother’s wishes-”

  “Does it tell who my dad is?” Her voice had turned into something solid and cold.

  “Tessa, do not interrupt me.” I understood that she was upset, but I wasn’t in the mood to be cut off every time I started a sentence. “I promised her I’d wait until you were eighteen, and right now you’re not giving me any reason to break that promise.”

  She opened her mouth as if she were going to respond but must have thought better of it because she closed it again without making a sound. The look of anger she gave me was mixed with something more profound-a deep sense of sadness or disappointment-and I felt bad she was hurting.

  “We’ll talk about this later. Right now, I need to go.” I was still standing beside the table; she hadn’t moved. “Come on.”

  Finally, she stood. “Is it a case? Are you taking me along to a crime scene?”

  “It’s just something I need to look into. Maybe you can call Dora, have her pick you up when we get there.”

  All during the drive to the Denver News building, Tessa stared out the window, but she wasn’t really watching anything. Mostly she was just thinking.

  Her mom kept a diary.

  A diary.

  And she wanted you to have it, but not until you’re eighteen.

  But why not?

  And why was Patrick making such a big deal about it? It wasn’t fair to make her wait, especially now that she knew about it. What would it hurt to read it a few months early?

  She glanced at her watch.

  Dora had agreed to pick her up at one o’clock-still twenty minutes away.

  If Dora took her back home, they could maybe look for the diary, but that would mean unpacking everything-and besides, Patrick might have it in his office at the federal building just to make sure she wouldn’t have accidentally found it.

  That’s what she would have done if she had a teenager in the house.

  You need to read the stuff in the memory box before you go worrying about the diary “Tessa.”

  “Huh?” They’d arrived at the newspaper building, but she’d been so distracted thinking about her mom and the diary and the memory box that she hadn’t even noticed.

  “I’ll call you on your cell when I’m done.” His voice was tense, and he was obviously in a hurry, all of which added to Tessa’s curiosity about why they’d left the restaurant so abruptly and rushed over here.

  “OK.”

  He slid a “Federal Car. Official Business” sign onto the dash and then jumped out and jogged up the sidewalk.

  She wasn’t stupid. She knew he was on a task force with the cops and she’d seen the news about the string of murders over the last couple days. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out what case he was working on.

  She looked at her watch. Dora wouldn’t be arriving for fifteen minutes.

  Hmm.

  That might be just enough time.

  33

  I crossed the lobby of the Denver News, flipping open my ID as I passed the curly-permed woman doing her nails behind the reception desk near the elevators.

  “Amy Lynn Greer’s office,” I said. “Which floor?”

  “Fourth.” She slid a clipboard and a visitor’s keycard across the counter to me. “You’re s’pposed to sign in.”

  I scribbled my name across the pad, swiped the pass off the counter, and headed for the elevator.

  A few moments later, Cheyenne met me beside the elevator bank on the fourth floor. “Good to see you,” she said.

  “You too.” She led me down the hallway past a shrine of journalism plaques and awards that the newspaper had apparently won. “Any updates on Kelsey’s condition?” I asked.

  “She’s recovering. Her body temp was up seven degrees when I left. Almost back to normal. I think she’ll make it. She’s not talking, though. Still too traumatized. But I asked her if the man who attacked her was Asian, African-American, Caucasian-she stopped me there and nodded. So at least we have that much.”

  “Do we know why she went to the morgue last night?”

  “No, but hospital surveillance cameras show her arriving at 8:19 p.m.; nothing on the guy who attacked her, though. He managed to avoid getting caught on tape.”

  I considered the implications.

  We passed the employee break room and Cheyenne said, “I forgot to mention: Agent Vanderveld’s on his way over here. Should be here in fifteen minutes or so.”

  “Wonderful.”

  Then, in her endearingly blunt way, she asked, “What’s the deal with you two, anyway?”

  I was about to blow off her question when I realized I would have to explain things eventually and I might as well just get it over with. “Six years ago I was geoprofiling a case in Albuquerque. Teenage boys were disappearing-three bodies found, three other boys missing.”

  “I think I might remember hearing about that. They were being abducted from their homes after school?”

  “Yes. While their parents were still at work. The sheriff’s department was, well, let’s just say, less than enthusiastic about my techniques.”

  “Imagine that.”

  “I know.”

  The hallway opened into a large work space, and Cheyenne guided me through a maze of cubicles. Since it was Saturday, I didn’t expect the room to be too full, so I was surprised to see nearly two dozen staff members typing, surfing the Internet, and jabbering into their cell phones.

  “Anyway, the Bureau decided to send in a behavioral profiler and chose Jake; decided to reassign me to a series of shootings in New York City.”

  “Pulled you off the case?”

  “Yes.”

  “And so what happened? Vanderveld screwed things up?”

  “After two days on-site he became convinced that we should be looking for a twen
ty-four- to twenty-seven-year-old male Caucasian, single, never married, homosexual who had a history of working with kids and could easily gain their trust. A high school teacher, maybe a coach, someone like that.”

  “Lemme guess.” She stopped walking for a moment. “Wild goose chase.”

  “Over the next three weeks, two more boys disappeared before an eyewitness saw a thirteen-year-old boy get into a car with the forty-eight-year-old, divorced, Hispanic city commissioner.”

  “So the only other thing Vanderveld had right in his profile was the killer’s gender and sexual preference?”

  “Yes.”

  “Which was self-evident considering the victim selection.”

  “That’s right.”

  We started walking again.

  “The city commissioner lived near the center of the hot zone. If the police would have listened to me, those two boys might still be alive.”

  I tried holding back the anger that I still carried with me. “But then, here’s the kicker: Vanderveld holds a press conference and explains how quickly the case was wrapped up after he arrived. He milked the media attention as long as he could. He didn’t even give credit to local law enforcement. He loves the spotlight, and when he’s in it, he won’t step out.”

  “But that’s not all, is it?”

  “No.”

  “What else?”

  “Let’s just say I don’t trust him and leave it at that.”

  Just past the watercooler we came to a line of offices along the east wall. Two of the doors were open, and I could see that each office had a window view of the city. I assumed these were the executive offices, or at least the suites for the top-tier journalists.

  “Thanks for the heads-up,” Cheyenne said, then she knocked on a door that had a small metallic sign: Benjamin Rhodes, Assistant Vice President, Editorial.

  “Come in,” a man called.

  Two people were waiting for us inside the office. The man, whom I assumed was Rhodes, appeared to be in his late thirties. Shaved head. Slightly graying goatee. Black turtleneck, blue jeans, black shoes.

  I held out my hand. “Special Agent Bowers. I’m with the FBI.