Strings of Fate (Mistresses of Fate)

by Dore, Deirdre

  “Okay,” Chris said, “I’ll call you. Ten bucks says that Raquel will show up at my door after work.”

  “No deal.” Tavey smiled.

  16

  SLEEP HADN’T BEEN a big part of Ryan’s evening. He’d gone back to his apartment in Rome and run about ten miles on the treadmill he kept in his living room while he watched episodes of Dr. Who that he’d recorded on his DVR. He’d gone to bed thinking about the case, about the unsub who talked of strings. After about an hour, he’d given up on sleep and pulled his laptop into bed, running a Google search on strings and the human body, on strings and creators, puppeteers, strings and Fate. He’d found one obvious connection to a Chinese story about people who were fated to love each other. They were said to be connected by a red string of fate. The concept the unsub described seemed similar, aside from the fact that he referred to multiple strings and claimed that he could see them, the strings that connected people to each other.

  Ryan found it slightly ironic that when studying the connections of victims to killers, to each other, to the world around them, the agents often drew network diagrams with lines that they would color based on the relationship—brother to brother, lover to friend, business associate to accident victim.

  He thought maybe this unsub believed he could see these connections and that his actions—the cutting of the ankles, knees, wrists, elbows, and throats—were somehow symbolically removing the victims’ connections to the world. He didn’t know; it was all fucking crazy.

  He stopped thinking and rubbed his forehead. If it weren’t so late, he’d call his brother Jake, get his take on the situation. Jake was a musician, the only artist Helmer that Ryan was aware of. He was a good sounding board, since he’d never worked in law enforcement and was pretty good with people. Come to think of it, though, Jake was probably awake, since he was an hour behind in Texas.

  Ryan reached over to the nightstand and detached his phone from the charger. After a quick scroll through his favorites, he located his brother’s number, and pressed call.

  Jake answered after two rings, his voice smooth as melted chocolate, the sounds of laughter and the distant chords of a guitar in the background.

  “What’s up, man?”

  “Hey, Jake, how’s it going?”

  “Pretty good, just wrapped up a set at Mucky Duck in Houston. You remember it?”

  Ryan did. It was a small venue that ran toward indie rock, folksingers, and country bands. “That’s good. Things going well for you out there?”

  “They are indeed. Mom and Dad are doing well, and our big brother just helped catch the group responsible for killing a bunch of district attorneys.”

  “I heard about that,” Ryan acknowledged. “I need to call him.”

  “You’ve been pretty busy yourself.”

  “Heard about that, did you?”

  “Sure did.” Jake didn’t say anything else, waiting for Ryan to talk or not talk as the case may be. Ryan loved that about his brother, but he wasn’t going to keep him if he was hanging out with guys in his band.

  “It’s pretty fucked up,” Ryan allowed.

  “You close to catching him?”

  Ryan gave a short laugh that had nothing to do with humor. “Maybe. Hard to tell.”

  “So what’s up, bro, what’s bothering you?”

  Ryan sighed, closed his eyes, and leaned his head back against his headboard. “There’s a woman involved. She’s different.”

  There was a small silence in which Ryan could imagine his brother sitting back, an ice water in front of him, a girl pouting by his side because he wasn’t paying attention to her. “Well,” he drawled, “different good or different bad?”

  “I don’t know. I need to find out, for the case, but . . .” Ryan trailed off, running a hand through his hair.

  “You’re gun-shy.”

  “What?”

  “The last woman you were attracted to turned out to be a crazy bitch, so . . .”

  Jake didn’t usually talk about women that way. Ryan’s ex had a special place in his brother’s heart. “Now I think they’re all crazy bitches?”

  “Yeah.” Jake sounded thoughtful. “Pretty much.”

  “I don’t think that. Besides, there’s plenty of evidence that this is one to avoid. She’s reckless, obsessive, and has no regard for rules.”

  Jake laughed. “Uh-huh. Those are usually the ones you like.”

  “Look who’s talking, old man. I bet the girl next to you is hoping to break as many rules as she can before she turns twenty-five.”

  “She probably already has.”

  “Uh-huh. I’ll let you get back to her before she loses patience.”

  “I’m not worried about that. You need something, you call.”

  “I’m good, man, talk to you again soon.”

  “All right, brother, be safe. Catch the bad guys.”

  “You, too, Jake.” Ryan hung up, feeling better without exactly knowing why. He set his laptop aside and plugged his phone back in, scrolling through the numbers until he stopped at Ms. Pascal’s. He could text her, make sure she was okay, see what she’d come up with on the case.

  He hesitated. Or he could go to bed, and not buy into her particular brand of crazy.

  Bed. Bed was good.

  “Shit,” he muttered, and pulled the pillow next to him over his head. It was going to be a long night.

  17

  IT TOOK CHRIS nearly an hour to reach Rome and find a place to park in the visitor parking lot of the redbrick building that housed the FBI resident agency as well as other government agencies. There were several news vans in the parking lot and reporters were gathered outside, some holding microphones, cameras, cell phones. She hadn’t thought about the press, but she should have. Serial killers always drew the cameras. She wondered where the press had been last night. For all she knew, her two Feds had ditched them.

  She leaned back in her old Subaru Outback and snagged the Braves cap she left back there for emergency hair days. It also worked for avoiding-the-press days; she just wished she had a pizza box. Oh, wait, she did. Thankfully empty of all but one dried-up crust.

  She walked nonchalantly past the reporters into the building, carrying the pizza box as if she were delivering it to the Feds, ditching it in a trash can near the door. She had to stop at the security checkpoint, tell them her name, and let them scan her bag and the light jacket she’d worn.

  She rode the elevator to the third floor with a policeman from Rome. He eyed her UGG boots askance, as if he couldn’t believe someone would go out in public wearing them.

  She was greeted by another checkpoint when she arrived at the third floor; the officer was allowed through, but her bag and jacket had to be scanned again.

  “Who are you here to see?” asked the FBI officer manning the security checkpoint, a black woman with a broad face and large, round eyes.

  “Special Agent Midaugh, FBI.”

  “And you are?”

  “Christina Pascal. He should be expecting me.”

  Only it wasn’t Agent Midaugh who came to pick her up. It was Agent Helmer, his face carefully expressionless. He motioned for her to join him while he spoke with the security officer. She stepped to his side, careful to keep enough distance.

  “Grab your stuff,” he told her, and then turned to the officer again. “Thanks, Shawna.”

  The two of them walked silently down a long hall lined with those horrible white-blue lights that made everyone look like a corpse. He walked quickly while Chris trailed slightly behind, figuring she’d let him deal with any retinal scans or thumbprint identification. He had broad shoulders and lean hips. She was so focused on his back view that when he stopped abruptly in front of a solid brown door, she crashed into him.

  She kept herself from falling on her ass—barely—and he caught her arm to ste
ady her.

  His hands were strong and warm—callused. She glanced down to where he held her, trying to recall if she’d ever been this aware of a man’s hands before.

  He released her, stepping back and turning away from her, opening the door.

  Chris followed behind him, more carefully this time. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected. Something like Raquel’s station, maybe, people scurrying around shouting, waving fistfuls of paper while phones rang. Instead there was a small waiting area with a few plaques on the wall and a ficus. The receptionist, an older woman with shockingly orange hair, looked at Chris above her reading glasses but didn’t comment.

  Helmer led her through another door on the other side of the secretary’s office and here was the organized chaos she’d expected. A set of cubicles in the center of the room were crowded with people looking at computer screens and manning phones. Cops in a variety of uniforms, some local PD from Rome, others from the county sheriff’s office, were talking on phones or consulting with each other and the FBI over maps of north Georgia.

  At the far end of the room were what looked like two conference rooms with floor-to-ceiling windows covered with blinds. Helmer led her through most of the madness to the conference room on the left. Inside was Agent Midaugh, along with Sandeep, who was sitting at a long glossy wood table looking at a laptop.

  Two huge rolling display boards had been set up behind him. The board on the left had pictures of women pinned to it, of all ethnicities, shapes, and ages, their names combined with a date below. For each there was another name with a question mark, and these she recognized as identities she had created. She felt a little sick, so much so that she barely noticed when Agent Helmer pulled out a chair for her next to Sandeep.

  She sat automatically, her attention locked on the faces of the eight women on the board. It wasn’t until Helmer spoke and she looked toward him that she focused on the other board and realized it contained possible victims as well—five men, and once again there was very little homogeneity in the group.

  “Ms. Pascal, did you put together a list for us?” Agent Helmer was looking at her as if she’d developed some kind of mental deficiency or a drug habit since they’d last met. She realized that she’d been staring at the boards, avid and hungry, feeling almost like she did when she was hunting for one of the missing.

  “Yeah.” She pulled her bag across her lap and retrieved both the printed list of identities that she created and the list of clients she’d created them for. She also pulled out printouts of the images she’d created for each identity.

  Helmer and Midaugh—still standing—began sorting through the pile, separating the identities based on whether or not they had already identified that person as having been in contact with a victim.

  Chris stood and walked to the boards, studying the faces of the women she had—inadvertently—endangered.

  I’m sorry, she thought quietly, fervently, and wished it were enough. She glanced at the board to her left, where the men, though fewer in number, were attached in a tidy row. “Are the men victims as well?” She’d hoped she was wrong.

  A frown had gathered between Helmer’s red-gold eyebrows as he turned away from the table to look at her. He crossed his arms over his chest. She imagined he looked at suspects that way—as if he read meaning into every twitch and shudder.

  “Yes,” he answered, but didn’t elaborate.

  Chris looked at Agent Midaugh for a more detailed explanation.

  “We think so. We expanded our search to include men whose wounds fit the unsub’s pattern, and these are the five we’ve identified so far by searching through ViCAP. We also have people calling the local police forces to make sure we haven’t missed anything.”

  Chris nodded. “Okay, so if you cross-reference my list of identities with these victims, you can reasonably determine whether or not these victims are those of the unsub or an unrelated crime.”

  The three men stared at her as if she’d just started speaking Chinese. Jeez, it wasn’t that hard to figure out; it was just relationship analysis, she did it all the time.

  “I can help,” she offered. “Get me a laptop and I can start tracking everything my identities have been doing. I can make a network diagram with their contacts, activities, etc. It’ll be able to tell whether it was part of my original contract or something the unsub has done on his own. I can also—”

  “You’ve involved yourself enough, Ms. Pascal,” Agent Helmer said, cutting her off. “We have agents ready to work on researching the names you give us.”

  Chris turned to face him, unconsciously mimicking his position—arms crossed, chin defiant.

  “They aren’t me. They don’t know these people the way I do.”

  “They aren’t people,” Helmer snapped back, his gray eyes illuminating like sunlight on fog as he glared at her. “They’re paid fabrications cobbled together with bits and pieces of genuine human beings. They aren’t real.”

  “They’re real to him,” she challenged, waving her arm to indicate the unsub, wherever he may be. “He calls me the Creator, doesn’t he?”

  “That’s not exactly a rousing endorsement for your inclusion in this case,” he shot back.

  “I’m already included. The asshole has made me a part of it.”

  “Civilians shouldn’t be involved in—”

  “Enough.” Agent Midaugh cut them both off.

  He pointed at Chris first. “Ms. Pascal, why don’t you have a seat and work with Sandeep for the moment? You can assist him in looking into any communications between the unsub and the personas you created.” He turned to Agent Helmer. “Helmer, can I speak with you outside for a moment?”

  Agent Helmer turned around and left without saying a word, and Agent Midaugh followed him. Chris looked at Sandeep, who seemed to be doing his best to pretend that he hadn’t noticed the argument.

  “Is he always like that?” Chris scowled. “I just want to help.”

  Sandeep gestured to the chair next to his, but didn’t answer her question. “Come sit here. I’ll have someone bring another screen.”

  “Okay.” Chris glanced at the door, but she had a feeling Agent Helmer wouldn’t be returning for a little while. She didn’t know what his problem was—protocol shouldn’t trump finding a killer, no matter how unorthodox her methods.

  She sat down next to Sandeep, knowing that she would be restricted to legal means of helping as long as he was sitting with her.

  “Where do you want to begin, Ms. Pascal?”

  Chris took a deep breath and drummed the fingers of her right hand on the table. She had trouble organizing her thoughts without her keyboard in front of her. Okay, more than trouble; between the argument with Agent Helmer and not having her own computer, her thoughts were scattered like leaves after a storm.

  She sighed. “Not to be a control freak or anything, Sandeep, but if you want me to be remotely useful, you’re going to have to let me drive.”

  He chuckled. “Okay, Ms. Pascal.” He slid over the mouse and keyboard. “Whatever you need.”

  “Thanks.” She smiled and turned her attention to the screen, fingers already seeking familiar keys. At least some people at the FBI were reasonable.

  “YOU WANT TO tell me what that was about?” Midaugh sounded only mildly curious as he shut the door to his office behind Ryan.

  Ryan paced in front of two brown leather chairs while Midaugh took a seat behind his desk.

  “She doesn’t need to be any more involved in this case than she is already.” Ryan tried for reasonable, but he could feel his pulse in his temples and doubted that Midaugh was fooled for a second.

  “You get any sleep last night?” Midaugh pressed, studying Ryan’s face.

  Ryan sat abruptly, sprawling out in one of the chairs, undoubtedly wrinkling his suit.

  “No,” he answered shortly.

/>   “Normally I’d agree with you: civilians don’t belong on cases. But this one’s different. She can help.”

  Ryan felt his jaw clench and made a deliberate effort to relax. “I get that, but she’s a wild card. Give her too much information, and odds are she’ll involve herself to a level we’re not comfortable with.”

  “Seems like you’re already there.”

  Ryan knew there was a question in there somewhere. “I’ve just seen this before—worked with someone on a case who was personally involved—and it didn’t turn out well. This woman can help, but I get the feeling she isn’t going to stop trying to help when she leaves this office.”

  “You thinking about the last serial you worked—the one down in Texas?”

  “Yeah. I knew one of the mothers.”

  “So we’ll keep an eye on this one.”

  “Yeah,” Ryan agreed, but shook his head in mute frustration. Part of him was looking forward to keeping an eye on her—that was the problem.

  THREE HOURS LATER, Chris had reviewed the identities she’d created, scanning their browsing history, friends, and online communications. She’d eliminated some and added others to the list the FBI had gathered so far. Agents Midaugh and Helmer had mostly left her alone to work with Sandeep, conferring most of that time with someone from the BAU who had come by to discuss the profile of the killer with them.

  With Sandeep supervising, she’d identified four personas that had been used in addition to the ones identified by the FBI: two men and two women. One of them was the Dylan Fennick ID she’d finished creating last night. He’d used the Yahoo! email and Messenger ID and the profile she’d built on Facebook to create an account on Match.com, Plenty of Fish, and two other dating sites. She’d made a list of people who’d contacted the Fennick identity and given it to Sandeep, who had a crew of techs helping him enter the data into computers for analysis. She assumed some officer had also been tasked with calling all the men and women on the list, but one name in particular stood out to her.