"I pulled some of the files from your old cases with the Behavioral Analysis team. Sometimes, you were late. You had times mixed up, but never facts."
Her head snapped up.
He wasn't fazed. Probably because he could take her in a fair fight. He could morph, rip her throat out with his long teeth, leave her for dead and leave no conclusive evidence . . . For the first time she wondered about that. The evidence Aidan Heath—Donovan's father—might have left behind, evidence that no one could place. But Donovan didn't have that in him. Maybe it had been bred out, maybe trained out from watching his father. Either way, he only crossed his arms with no hint of violence, and grinned. "Please, you read up on my history, too."
She had. So she kept her mouth shut.
"It's why I push you." He came over and sat down next to her. The swift intake of her breath was the result of holding back on her instinct. She almost told him not to sit, but he didn't feel what she felt. The people who came here had some serious issues. Now that she'd opened the door, she could feel them around her, almost like hovering ghosts. And she wondered if that was what it was like for Cooper Rollins.
"Eleri, sometimes you say things out of the blue that just put things together. You know about stuff from your dreams, but you would ask me things at the beach, like, 'how was the McClarty's house?' . . . You couldn't have known I'd doubled back and gone that way, but you did. And always after you touched me. This has always been bigger than you thought it was."
She nodded.
He'd cracked it. Or pushed her to crack it. It was even now mildly duplicable.
Eleri stayed in the heavily padded chair, her fingers idly playing with the piping on the seams. "I think I know how it may happen. I think I have to be doing what the person was doing, not just touching something."
Donovan frowned at her. He didn't understand it. How could he?
The bastard. There were others like him, his father, even Wade was like him. But her? No one was like her. Not that she'd met. Donovan said he'd read up on it, but how did she find other people who did what she did? Ones who weren't wearing gold embroidered purple turbans and reading palms. . . .
"I'm sitting in the chair, doing what she was doing, sitting the way she sat, even. When I first sat down, nothing happened, but I shifted, and boom, there it all was. The plane seat was the same way. Then the fridge, I'd opened it and leaned down and looked inside and the cold came out and hit me, along with his memories."
"So . . . Maybe it's a combination of doing what they were doing and feeling something they felt? The chair surrounds you, the cold hit you . . . All down the front, right?" Donovan speculated. She was a mystery to him. An oddity to a man who'd been born an oddity.
Though she stayed seated, she got no more information. Even the feelings, the understanding, it was all gone. It only hovered like the memory of a book she'd just read.
Right then, her phone buzzed. Pulling it out, she checked the message. "Westerfield. He wants to check in."
Donovan shook his head. "That man has disturbing timing." Then he paused, "Do you think it's a . . . gift? Do you think he really does have impeccable timing?"
Sighing, Eleri stood up. "It's entirely possible. You saw the quarter. Why not also have a sense for knowing when to show up? It would be a really useful skill."
"For him." Donovan snorted, putting sound effects to her own feelings.
Regardless, they had to check in. And the news was likely to be disturbing.
She was reaching for the door knob when her phone buzzed again. She heard Donovan's going off at the same time. That couldn't be good. So she closed the door, keeping them inside the office.
Eleri didn't need to say anything to Donovan; she knew he was looking at the same message she was.
"Number three."
Donovan stayed quiet as they followed the directions to the new address.
It took almost an hour to get to Manhattan Beach down I-405—which Vasquez called 'the 405.' The neighborhood was older, and by the time the two of them arrived, Marina Vasquez had been there for fifteen minutes and the place was crawling with local PD. Donovan was wondering if they figured out they had a link yet.
Probably, because Vasquez was there. But maybe she hadn't yet told the police why she'd showed up. Maybe she left that for him and Eleri. Or, for Eleri, because he would want to pass that job onto the 'senior agent' too.
As he climbed out of the passenger seat, the smell of vomit hit him.
The house sat on the upside of the street, though he thought they were too far away to actually see the water, even from the top floor. Two stories tall, the cream colored home could have fit anywhere in the US, and definitely fit into this older neighborhood. The lots were reasonably large for L.A., but not big by any standards.
Vasquez walked uncomfortably down the sloped lawn and ducked under the yellow tape a junior officer was rolling out. As she approached Donovan, he inhaled. It hadn't been her, someone else was puking at the scene here. He examined Vasquez a little more closely. She didn't even look green, just gave a tight smile and waited while he only nodded in return.
She kept her voice low. "Victim number three appears to be Victor Dawson."
"Military?" Eleri also spoke in low tones, aimed her words at Vasquez. His partner knew he would hear them.
"Not a lot of background yet. He was a teacher. English. Local high school, close to retirement. But all that's according to the neighbor there." She pointed to a stunned kid, standing alone in a crowd on the sidewalk. The girl had her arms wrapped around her thin frame and her eyes glazed. "Kid called it in. Heard an odd noise like someone had dropped something very heavy. Then knocked on the door to check on her teacher. No one answered, and she said she smelled something a bit odd. But that Mr. Dawson's car was home. So she called 9-1-1. I heard some details on the scanner, but I'm not sure yet if it's ours."
Donovan felt bad for the girl. One of the cops had come out of the house and puked his lunch up on the lawn. Now they were rolling out crime-scene tape. There was no good outcome for her teacher.
He leaned in, "What might make this case number three?"
"Someone exploded." Vasquez raised her eyebrows and Donovan nodded.
It was an odd enough occurrence that this was probably the third—provided they'd found all the ones before. "Anything else?"
The junior agent shook her head. "That seemed like enough."
"And these guys—" Eleri waved a hand casually at the cops, "—know that the FBI is on the scene?"
"Kindof." Vasquez tipped her head and Donovan waited. "I told them I was driving by and offered to help. So I held tape and stayed out of the way. But the reports from inside sound like this is possibly one of ours."
It was probably for the better. Manhandling a scene away from the cops was not a pleasant thing.
"Who are you?" A gruff senior cop spoke down to them on the sidewalk. He looked like he'd seen it all, except he somehow hadn't seen this yet. Facing to his left, he sidestepped down what was not a steep incline. He needed to get in better shape. As he approached, Donovan noticed that he smelled of baloney and onions and mint gum. Not the puker either.
By the time Donovan had made this assessment, Eleri had her ID out and he was scrambling to keep up, pulling his own FBI wallet even as she was talking. "We're investigating a case that we think may be tied to yours. I'm so sorry, but we need to see the scene to see if it matches."
She didn't flat out pull rank on the man, but Donovan knew she would if she had to.
"I can't let you do that, ma'am." The older man shook his head and planted his feet.
Donovan had seen his father transform more times than he'd like, but right now, it was Eleri undergoing a change almost as dynamic. Any politeness she had fled, her back straightened and her voice flattened. Though he couldn't see her face from where he stood, he had no doubt that it, too, had gone from gentle to demanding. This officer didn't even know that the woman before him could see into his
soul if she chose. Donovan stepped up behind her, lending support she didn't need, and noticed that Vasquez unconsciously mimicked Eleri, as well.
"You don't have a choice. I have the authority to clear every last one of you from this scene and arrest you for obstruction." She paused a moment. "I only want to take a look. Because, frankly, I hope to hell this isn't related to my case. But if it is, you will step the fuck out of my way. Do. You. Understand?"
Donovan fought the smile that threatened to break their stoic line.
The officer didn't verbally concede, but he seemed to grasp that in this his rank was not equal to hers. He also didn't tell his officers that they were coming in, but Eleri seemed to have no problem turning to the nearest one and explaining that he could politely escort them in and the other officers out for a moment, or she could announce to the whole gathering crowd that the FBI was on the scene.
"Yes, ma'am." He offered a quick nod, almost too quick and did exactly as she'd asked.
Donovan was still surprised that she'd managed to speak to the second man so nicely when the first had been such an ass. That ability to turn the eye-daggers off and on at will was such a Southern thing. Eleri had it bred into her bones.
As they walked through the house, his nose picked up what they needed. He reached out to touch Eleri's arm and when she looked back, he only nodded. It saved them from stepping into the scene and altering any of the evidence. Still Eleri leaned forward, stuck her head into the room a bit and then invited Vasquez and then him to do the same.
The far wall was coated in a thin, pink slime. Chunks of what had been Mr. Dawson clung in small places. The couch showed a thicker layer, and the wall to his left was farther away and therefore less covered. As Donovan turned his head, he saw that the wall near him bore some remains as well.
As Vasquez breathed slowly through her mouth behind him, he calculated.
All four walls. Human tissue radiating out from a spot probably standing in front of the couch on the right hand side. This was definitely their scene.
Had the officer struck again? Or the young woman?
It didn't fit, not having a single perpetrator or even a single type of perpetrator for the crime. Westerfield had talked of terrorism when he called them out, but no one was claiming any of these bombings. No group claiming victory, no god, no purpose for the deaths. Vasquez had been listening to police scanners, looking for clue words. No one was afraid yet.
They might be now. The media was bound to get their hands on this.
As he turned around he saw the officer from earlier. Only now did he catalog the white shirt, the bars . . . This was the chief. Great.
But Eleri was already laying it out. "This is our scene. I'm sorry to take it from you, but it matches our current case."
There was nothing the officer could do about it, except be a dick—which he seemed to have a natural aptitude for. He told them they had to wait while he called it in, checked all their badge numbers, and was waiting for confirmation when another car pulled up.
As Donovan turned, his Senior Agent in Charge climbed out of the shiny new car and started up the slope. He was already talking, rattling off credentials interlaced with not-so-subtle threats.
The chief folded his arms and stared at Eleri. "Take it. What do you want me to do? Call you any time someone blows up in my district?"
Even from the back, Donovan could see that she'd snapped. Her voice was quiet. Had she been raised in the rural south, she might have said 'bless your heart' but Eleri knew how to deliver without softeners. "If you're really such a prick that a person being bombed in their own home only warrants a temper tantrum like this, then yes, please do call us the next time—" she raised her hand in air quotes that looked polite from even a short distance "—someone blows up in your district."
His face turned red, but he couldn't seem to speak. Donovan fought the laugh that was burbling up. It was wholly inappropriate.
Westerfield managed to keep his face stoic, and when the asshole cop turned to look at him as though to ask if he was going to let this woman speak to him this way, Westerfield only nodded off to the side as if to say, 'get out of my crime scene.'
Donovan almost missed the person reluctantly unfolding himself from the passenger side of Westerfield's car. He almost shouted Wade's name, but too many things happened at once.
As Westerfield began a conversation with Eleri, the police officers began filing out. Even as Wade approached to say hello, an officer stopped Donovan and handed him several pages out of a notebook.
"I was interviewing the girl . . ." He nodded his head toward the neighbor kid slightly, as it wouldn't do to openly talk about her. "These are my notes. She said someone came to the door. He had a folder in his hand. He left before the noise, so he wasn't there for it . . . That's all I really have, but it's there."
He pointed at the small, torn pages and then walked off. He clearly was on the side of justice, but also on the side of keeping the peace at his job. Donovan wanted to thank him, but a commotion proceeded just behind him.
A car was pushing its way up the crowded street, the passenger repeating, "That's my house! That's my house!"
As Donovan focused on the older man, he climbed out of the car and began running up the sidewalk as fast as a slightly-out-of-shape, fifty-ish man could. Adrenaline seemed to prod him forward and through the milling neighbors.
The high school girl, no longer being interviewed, heard him and turned. She began running toward him. "Mr. Dawson!" The relief in her voice carried across the short but crowded distance. "You're okay. I thought you weren't!"
She was hugging him, her skinny arms barely wrapping his waist. Donovan wanted to stop and savor the idea that a high schooler could feel something positive toward an adult. And apparently a teacher. Which he was just connecting in his thoughts.
He tapped Eleri and Westerfield, breaking up their conversation with Vasquez. Just as three pairs of eyes turned to him and he opened his mouth to say their suspected victim appeared to be walking up the street, the man shouted out behind him.
"Vivian?! Vivian!!!"
10
Eleri turned at the sound of anguish. Suddenly in charge of the scene, she was left with only the retreating backsides of angry cops, a loose and incomplete border of yellow crime scene tape, and a man pushing his way through, claiming to be the victim.
Only clearly he couldn't be.
A touch to her shoulder didn't make her turn. Neither did Westerfield's voice, but it did calm her. "Wade and I will secure the scene and I'll call in the CSU."
Good.
Donovan spoke in a low voice as she passed by him, "I'm on crowd control."
Only then did she notice that everyone was holding up their devices and recording. Some of it was probably already on the web. So much for keeping the investigation under wraps.
As she reached the sidewalk, the man reached her. He didn't stop, not seeing her as the authority figure here. Eleri didn't blame him. He didn't know her at all, and if he was Victor Dawson, then he was in for a horrible shock that he was no longer the authority in his own home. And someone he loved was dead. Very dead.
Somewhere off to her side, she heard the student wailing, "It was his car, I thought it was him!" But Donovan seemed to be corralling her and Eleri didn't stop in her quest to do the same for the man.
"Are you Victor Dawson?"
"Will someone tell me what's going on?" He was frantic, seeming barely able to string the words together, and Eleri understood. So the first thing she did was nod and say, "Yes."
Once she had his attention, she asked, "Are you the homeowner, sir?"
She motioned to the house behind her. This was LA, land of actors. She couldn't give this info out to just anyone. But she wasn't about to be a grade A asshat either and refuse to speak to him without ID and fingerprints.
"My wife and I. Where's Vivian?" He pushed at her, but Eleri held him back.
"I don't know, sir." It wasn't quite
a lie. She had strong suspicions, but given the scene, no one would know for certain until DNA tests came back. "This is your car?"
She pointed to the one in the drive.
"My wife's car was in the shop. I caught a ride." His focus swung wildly but returned to Eleri.
She responded just as she'd been taught. Ask simple questions, give answers, establish trust. "This is your student? You're a teacher?"
His brain didn't want to acknowledge what he suspected. He was more content answering her questions and he did so, looking only at Eleri's face. "Yes, that's Hannah Gilmore. She lives next door. She's a junior where I teach ninth and tenth English. Is something wrong with my wife?"
"I don't know. Was she home?"
"I think so. She's usually at work, but she said she was headed home . . ." He shook his head. "For something. Maybe she forgot?"
"She was driving your car today?"
"All this week." He nodded, getting something out of the give and take.
"Was anyone else home?" Eleri went on with a few more questions, establishing that the body was most likely his wife and that she was Vivian Dawson. When he pushed forward, she touched his arm. "You can't go inside, sir."
"I need to see if it's my wife."
She sighed. "We can't ID the body. I'm sorry. We'll need testing. Can you come with me?"
It took a few minutes to sort out who should go to the Bureau and who should stay behind. Westerfield volunteered himself and Wade de Gottardi, the man he'd brought with him to stay with the house and direct the crime scene unit. An ex NightShade agent, physicist, and current consultant for the division, Wade was also one of Eleri's old friends and recently one of Donovan's new ones. Wade was also like Donovan, maybe he could sniff something out.
She didn't even get a chance to say hello. As much as she wanted to, it would be rude to embrace an old friend and attempt to catch up when she was trying to tell this man that his wife had probably blown up in their home.
In the end, they decided she, Donovan, and Marina Vasquez all needed to talk to Dawson about his wife. Vasquez would be able to sort out anything local he spoke of, to pipe up if anything seemed off.
The NightShade Forensic Files: Fracture Five (Book 2) Page 8