But she’d saved the priest. Maybe it would buy her time.
Ethan smiled unpleasantly.
“This will be fun, right?”
“Right.”
Fun. This wasn’t fun anymore, it was work. She shivered as they walked in the shadows away from the church, toward Lawrence Bartleton’s house.
Karin did not look back.
CHAPTER
SEVEN
Loud knocking startled Megan from a deep sleep. For a split second, she opened her eyes and forgot she was at her loft. Mouse jumped from her lap with an irritated meow and papers and photographs slid to the floor. The privacy blinds in her fourth-floor loft apartment were only half drawn; dawn crept through Sacramento to the east. She’d fallen asleep in her living room for the second night in a row.
The pounding resumed and she walked to her door, looking through the peephole and seeing the young attorney who lived across the hall. He worked in Matt’s office and had been the one who told Matt about the new lofts when Megan moved to the city four years ago.
She opened the door. “Jesse.”
He was dressed for work. “Sorry to wake you up, Agent Elliott, but I have an early court hearing and this came for you yesterday. I signed for it.”
He handed her an overnight envelope. It was so light Megan wondered if anything was inside. She moved it right to left. Something small and thin shifted to the side. The label came from a shipping company out of Reno, Nevada. She didn’t think she knew anyone in Reno, at least no one well enough that they would have her home address.
“Thanks, Jesse. I needed to get up anyway.”
“I didn’t want to leave it on the doorstep in case it was valuable. They claim this is a secure building.” He shook his head. There had been two robberies in the past year.
“I appreciate it, Jesse. And don’t call me Agent Elliott. I told you that.”
“Can’t help it,” he answered, sheepishly. “Gotta go. Bye.”
She closed the door and yawned widely. She started coffee, fed Mouse, who made his hunger loudly known, then picked up the envelope again. Reno … She glanced at the return address, squinted to read the small handwritten letters. Sacramento. 4800 Broadway.
Her heart raced and she dropped the envelope on the counter.
Broadway … the morgue.
There was no reason the morgue would send her a package at her residence. None. She hardly knew anyone at the morgue. Phineas Ward, the supervisor, was a mere acquaintance. He obviously knew Matt, though … would Matt have given him her home address? Never. He was as security conscious as she was. And why would it have been shipped from Nevada? It made no sense.
She ran to her bedroom and opened her emergency Evidence Response Team kit. She extracted two plastic gloves from a box and slid them on, and put a simple cloth and elastic mask over her nose and mouth— worthless in a gas attack, but she could avoid breathing in any fine particles, like anthrax. She closed her door, locking Mouse inside so he didn’t inadvertently contaminate potential evidence or get hurt.
At her small kitchen table, she picked up the envelope and examined it more carefully. It didn’t appear that there was anything bigger than a business card inside, but she wasn’t taking chances. The anthrax scares after 9/11—while she’d still been an agent out of D.C.—had her expecting the worst. She felt like a fool. But better a fool than dead.
Holding her breath, she carefully opened the cardboard envelope with her Swiss Army knife.
Almost immediately she ascertained that there was no biological contaminant. In fact, the envelope was empty.
No … there was a small weight at the bottom.
She took a sheet of paper from her notepad and carefully tapped the contents of the envelope onto the paper.
A small metal plate fell out.
An identification tag. The stamped metal landed upside down and backward, but she could read the name nonetheless.
PRICE, GEORGE L.
Less than thirty hours after Jack Kincaid left Hidalgo he returned to the small private airfield outside the city limits. He regularly used the unmanned strip for his operations. He didn’t have his own plane, but Scout had been the pilot for so long that Jack didn’t think he’d ever need one. He had a nest egg stashed away for his retirement— and in this line of work, he had only a few good years left before age defeated him. When he was ready, he had a friend who’d sell him a nice little Skyhawk at a good price.
The idea of retiring came more often now—ever since Lucy’s kidnapping and rescue and Patrick’s near death. He had a plan to set up a private soldier training facility. He didn’t know much else except for being a soldier, but he saw a need, especially to protect missionaries and other do-gooders who thought they could change the world. Too many were dying. Jack couldn’t protect them all, but he could train up a force to do it.
He landed and decided to poke fun at Scout. He called his cell phone, half expecting Scout to pick up, though he’d probably have a hangover. He tended to drink heavily after a mission because Jack forbade drinking on assignment.
Scout’s voice mail picked up.
“Leave a message if it’s important.”
Jack grinned. Scout. “Buddy, it’s Jack. I’m having a bit of a problem with the Caravan. Don’t know what happened, can you call me back?”
He hung up, then remembered that Scout had plans with his girlfriend and her two sons. Good. Jack liked Rina, she was good for Scout. Maybe he would finally cut back on the drinking and take some personal responsibility. Since Padre had retired from soldiering, on the job Jack trusted no one more than Scout. But personally, Scout didn’t care much about anything except hitting the bar.
Jack took his truck to his favorite diner just outside Hidalgo on the interstate. It served up a real breakfast— eggs, bacon, toast—cheap. Nothing fancy, but everything tasted great. Jack could cook, but he didn’t care to. He kept it simple and functional when he was home; out on assignment, meals weren’t his responsibility.
It was eleven when he hit town and drove past Scout’s house on his way to talk to Padre at the church. A police car was stopped in front of Scout’s place. The chief of police himself was getting out of the driver’s seat as Jack passed. That couldn’t be good.
Jack pulled his truck over and jumped out. Scout’s drinking was usually under control, but sometimes … he’d gotten into a fight last year. Had to pay restitution and do a bit of community service. Swore to Jack it wouldn’t happen again. And then of course that bar fight with Perez’s deputy …
As Jack approached, he took in everything around him. Art Perez. Rina, standing across the street with her boys and a couple other folks. They all looked worried. Another police car turned the corner. And Padre was standing on the porch, pale, but looking more like the warrior from yesterday than the man of God he was today.
“Kincaid, stop—” Art began.
Jack walked past him. “Padre—”
“Don’t.” His eyes were sharp. “Scout’s dead.”
The truth sunk in instantly. Jack had no denial. He’d seen dead men before. Friends. Men he took orders from, and men who took orders from him. He’d seen women and children raped and murdered. No denial, but that didn’t stop the hot anger from flooding through him, or the raw pain that filled him.
“How?”
“Jack.” Art followed him up to the small porch. They were three large men; it was crowded.
Jack didn’t look at him.
Padre said, “He was murdered.”
Surprise lit Jack’s face. “Murdered. At the bar?”
Padre shook his head, glanced through the window.
Jack stepped inside as Art exclaimed, “You can’t! This is a crime scene.”
Jack ignored him, but didn’t touch anything. The foul, familiar scent of death—blood, urine, feces—sat heavy in the hot, thick air. He walked through the bungalow— living room on one side, two small bedrooms down a short hall to the right with a bathroom between
them. The sunroom Scout had built himself a couple years back where he spent most of his free time watching sports was in the back of the house, behind the kitchen and dining room.
Scout lay prone on his kitchen floor, eyes open, dried blood pooled around his head and the back of his knees. Instantly, Jack knew that Scout had been hamstrung— he’d seen it before, in another country, another life.
Flies had already found the body—it was ninety degrees at noon. Scout was naked, but he’d soiled himself. The smell was worse in here.
A chair was on its side. Cut duct tape still attached to the armrests. Blood on the chair and on the terra-cotta tile floor. Jack had helped Scout put in the tile when he bought the place years ago.
“Jack.” Padre spoke quietly.
“Who?”
“We don’t know. But—”
Jack turned. “What do you know about this?”
“Come to the rectory with me.”
Jack shook his head. He pinched the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath through his mouth. “Tell me.”
Art Perez spoke. He could be a boisterous, uncouth bastard, and he and Jack had had it out more than once; this morning, however, he seemed to understand that professionalism went a long way.
“Rina’s sons came over this morning because Lawrence had offered to take them into Brownsville for a special Toros game. He was supposed to pick them up at ten, but didn’t show and Rina told the boys to go over and wake him up.” Perez frowned. “She’s torn up about it. Juan found the body.”
The body. Scout was a body now.
“Juan called me,” Padre said. “I came right away, called Art, then Rina. Jack—”
Jack didn’t have anything to say. Scout had been murdered. The method was vicious, cruel. How had he been surprised? Why was he naked? Had he been with a woman? Had a woman done this to him? Scout wouldn’t let himself get conned, but he was known to turn his head toward a pretty face. Why, dammit? Why had Scout been killed? Jack mentally reviewed their most recent assignments. He didn’t know of anyone or any organization who would do this … like this. It looked both personal and like an execution. Had Scout known his killer?
Perez said, “You need to leave. My men will process the scene, collect evidence, and remove the body.”
Hidalgo had its unfair share of murders—Perez had investigated enough of them—but this was wholly different from a drug hit or a barroom brawl. Not something Art Perez could handle. Hell, he could barely handle being chief of police on a good day.
“Call the Rangers,” Jack said before he thought about tact and diplomacy. “This isn’t a random act of violence.”
Perez reddened. “Don’t tell me how to do my job, Kincaid.”
“Jack—” Padre began, and Jack put up his hand.
Jack would find Scout’s killer. He would call in every favor, every chit, spend every dime he had to do it.
“I will find out who killed Scout,” he said, his words clipped to stifle the emotion.
“Stay out of my way, Kincaid. You’re already pushing it. Don’t think I won’t lock you up. Just give me a reason. One fucking reason to put you behind bars.”
Jack stepped forward and said in a low voice, “I’ll be watching, Perez. Don’t fuck this up.”
Jack looked back at Scout’s body. Rage and sadness battled and his teeth clenched.
“Rest in peace, friend.”
When I find who did this to you, they won’t walk away.
CHAPTER
EIGHT
Wednesday morning, less than two hours after she had opened the overnight envelope, Megan sat in SAC Bob Richardson’s office with two other agents, Detective John Black, and the speaker phone. Richardson had contacted Assistant Special Agent in Charge Hans Vigo at Quantico. Hans had been a friend and mentor to Megan since he’d recruited her into the FBI while guest lecturing at Georgetown, where she’d been studying law. Hans was a profiler, though he had declined a post in the prestigious Behavioral Science Unit. He was often sent out into the field to consult, and Megan had immediately thought of him when Price’s dog tag fell from the express envelope. This murder had taken on a whole new importance.
She’d finished briefing Hans about the case as she knew it, with the only known connection among the three victims being their time in the army. “Bob has made a request with the DOD to pull their military records, but you know how slow they are. By the time we get them, if at all, more people could die.”
“Will die,” Hans said. “Three dead in two months. The first victim was on February 11. The second on April 2. Price early on April 13.”
“They’re escalating,” Richardson said.
“Possibly, but more likely they have a plan. They are exceptionally well-organized for sadistic killers.”
“Sadistic? Is there a sexual component in the murders? There was no evidence of that at any of the crime scenes.” Megan pulled out her reports, worried that she had missed something important.
“Sadistic doesn’t necessarily mean sexual gratification, though the killers likely received sexual gratification either in the planning of the murders or after the fact. The actual murders were methodical, well-planned, but at the same time reckless.”
“Non sequitur, Dr. Vigo,” Richardson interjected.
“Bear with me, Bob. Let’s look at the actual murders. Two people come together to kill a specific target—their victims are not random, they were selected because of who they are or what they represent. Victimology in this case is critical: if they were killed because of something they did or didn’t do, it’ll be much easier to identify potential suspects, particularly if all three victims were involved in the same event. If they were killed because of what they represent—the military, or the army specifically—it will be more difficult. In the latter case, you’d probably be looking for a soldier or former soldier who felt he had been treated unfairly by the military or his unit. Possibly suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder and reliving a horrific event, accompanied by some sort of psychosis that leads him to believe killing other soldiers will relieve his anxiety. But I don’t see this type of killer as working with a partner or going through the elaborate ritual.”
Megan leaned forward. “So you think the killers knew the victims personally?”
For a moment, Hans didn’t say anything. “Possibly, or at least knew of them if they had never met them before. They were singled out specifically, and that’s why I want you to meet me in Austin.”
“Austin, Texas?” Megan asked.
“There’s far more going on here than the reports indicated. I need to talk to those who knew Duane Johnson. He’s the first known victim, and the killers waited nearly two full months before killing again, which makes me think they were waiting for something.”
“Like what?”
“Could be for the second victim—Perry—to be in a position where they could get to him, or because they wanted to see what the police would do, or because they feared they’d screwed up somehow.”
Megan took notes while shaking her head. “I can’t go to Austin, I have to get Price’s body back, work with the CID on the evidence and autopsy—”
Richardson interrupted. “They’re not going to give you a thing, Megan. And we have a far more important situation here.”
Hans said over the speaker, “I agree. How did the killers know you were on the Price case, Megan?”
Megan had been thinking about that since she opened the package. “I don’t know. Maybe one or both of them were observing us Monday morning at the crime scene? Our office gets a lot of attention, especially after the O’Brien case last year. I did that interview—” She frowned at Richardson. She hadn’t wanted to talk to the press, but her boss felt that having her on prime-time news would help with public relations. “They could have picked up on my position on the Violent Crimes Squad.”
“Why you and not the SPD detective? Or the media?”
“Okay, I’ll bite. Why?” She wasn’t sure
she wanted to know the answer.
“I don’t know.”
“Great. If you don’t know, how does that help?”
“It could be nothing—the killer taunting police—and because the FBI is considered the higher law enforcement agency—no offense, Detective Black—the killers would want to taunt the FBI. But they had your home address, Meg.”
“I know,” she said quietly.
“I think it’s a good idea to get out of town,” Richardson said. He used the intercom to ask his assistant to book a flight ASAP for Megan to Texas.
“I’m not running away.”
“I’m not suggesting you do. Dr. Vigo wants your help and the FBI has already determined this is a serial murder investigation. We have the authority to go in if we need to. And you can’t do anything here that SPD can’t do—I have confidence that Detective Black will keep us informed if anything important arises.”
“Absolutely,” Black said. “And,” he added, “the information you bring back from Austin and Vegas can help us here because we have next to nothing after losing the evidence to CID.”
“Is this connected to Price being AWOL?” Megan asked the group. “Price was living on the streets; how did the killers know him? Know where to find him?”
“Aw, that’s the million-dollar question.” Hans said. “If you can figure that out, I think you’ll have a much greater chance of capturing them. They have inside information—suggesting that they personally know these men or have access to their records.”
“But CID didn’t know where Price was until he was dead and we flagged his record.”
“Which narrows their information source exponentially. We have to learn everything we can about Duane Johnson and Dennis Perry. One or both of them could have known where Price was.”
“Agent Vigo,” Black interjected, “you said that the crimes were both methodical and reckless. Can you expand on that?”
“Sorry, I got sidetracked. Methodical in that they were well planned. They waited for their victim, hamstrung him to prevent escape, restrained him, and tortured him with needles for an indeterminate length of time, but probably between one and five hours. Then they executed him.”
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