He leaned over to rub a patch of dust off the toe of his black cowboy boot and then walked down the long, quiet corridor. His boots made a clack clack sound as he went that he found reassuring.
In the inner sanctum of Mueller's office, Mueller's secretary glanced up and smiled.
"Hello, Betty," he said, tipping an invisible hat.
"Hi, Rick. Sit down. He should be right out."
With a nod, Swain moved slowly to the small industrial-looking couch and passed it, stopping at the wall. He was too wired to sit. The room had seemed larger the last time he was there. Looking for a comfortable place to rest, he propped one foot against the wall and waited.
Under Hoover, the Bureau had fired people for no reason at all. Hoover was known for his idiosyncrasies when it came to running the FBI. These days it was better, but Swain had still heard stories about agents who'd been asked to resign for reasons that seemed unwarranted in the best of moments. They'd be idiots to fire someone with his talent.
The door clicked, and Swain looked up to see Dan Jamison walk out of Mueller's office.
"Hey," Swain said, pulling his foot off the wall and taking a few steps toward Jamison.
With only the slightest sideways glance, Jamison walked through the room without a pause. His normally pink, fleshy cheeks were a deep red, but his expression was one of cold detachment.
Betty and Swain exchanged glances. Before Swain could gather the nerve to ask her what she thought that was all about, she turned her back to him and began pecking loudly at her keyboard.
Fuck Jamison, Swain thought. He was only holding Swain back. Swain needed to go straight to the big boy. This was his chance to tell Mueller how it was.
"Swain?" Mueller called.
"Yes, sir," he replied, following Mueller into his office. Swain hadn't seen Mueller since his reprimand after the Cincinnati incident. Mueller's dark curls sat short and matted against his head, his dark eyes focused skeptically on Swain. The man seemed shorter than he had back then. Mueller was only five-seven or so and heavyset, all in the belly—like a young version of Santa Claus.
From the rumors Swain had heard, Mueller ate like a horse, but, of course, Swain had never had the pleasure of dining with the assistant director.
For months, Swain had been trying to get an audience with him. He had wanted to plead his case, to ask for another chance.
"Come on in." Mueller waved Swain into the office then turned to his assistant. "Betty, hold my calls."
Betty said something Swain couldn't make out as he was ushered into Mueller's office and the door was closed.
"Sit, sit," Mueller directed, pointing to a comfortable-looking armchair across from his desk.
Unlike the industrial blandness of the outer office, Mueller's office was warm and personal. Frames were huddled in the corners of his large desk as though his family were watching over him. The white walls were covered with awards and letters of commendation. Behind his desk a picture of him and President Bush hung next to one of him and President Reagan. Clinton remained noticeably absent from the wall. A Republican. Well, at least he wouldn't hear Mueller talk to him about the necessity of budget cuts.
"How are things?"
Swain felt a blow coming. Mueller had never been one for small talk. If he was starting it now, it was surely on the road to something unpleasant. But why not have Jamison do the dirty work?
"Agent Swain?" Mueller repeated.
"Fine. Thank you, sir. How are you?" he replied.
Mueller laughed. "I know that tone. Cut the bullshit, right?"
Swain straightened in his chair. "Without disrespect, sir, I don't believe you called me up here to ask how I am."
"You're right, I didn't. I respect straight talk. I'm going to cut the crap, Swain." Mueller shifted in his chair, leaning back and putting his arms behind his head. Studying the ceiling, Mueller was silent.
Swain could feel the cool sweat on his back as he waited.
Mueller put his arms down again and rested his elbows on the table. "You remember Agent McKinley, don't you, Agent Swain?"
"Of course."
"She's out in California now."
Swain nodded.
"You already knew that, didn't you?"
Swain nodded, shifting as sweat pooled at the base of his back.
"Well, the Bureau feels somewhat responsible for what happened to Agent McKinley. She was a damn good profiler. I'm sure you feel badly about it, too."
"Every day, sir. And I've been wanting to discuss the Cincinnati incident. I'd like to know what happened. I think I deserve—"
Mueller held a hand up to stop him. "I know. Are you interested in a chance to make it up to the Bureau?"
Relief rained on Swain harder than the sweat. "I'd love it, sir. Anything." He imagined himself back in the action, another mission. He'd be better this time, he swore. He'd prepare himself as though the Bureau expected a full-on attack—even if they told him it would be a simple surveillance. He'd be ready for anything.
"We're sending you to California, then. You'll leave in the morning. Betty can help you make travel and hotel arrangements."
Swain wondered about the case he'd be working on. "And the briefing will be out there?"
"Nope. The briefing is right now."
Swain frowned. "I don't understand."
"It's quite a simple mission, actually. Surveillance. There's a murder investigation going on in San Francisco that involves Agent McKinley." Mueller shifted in his chair. "We haven't exactly been invited to help on the case, but we'd like to keep an eye on what's going on with it."
Swain frowned but didn't comment.
"I trust you can do your job without letting on that you're there?"
Mueller presented it as a challenge, and part of the game was always accepting the challenges. "Of course."
"Good."
"Who am I surveying?"
"Two people actually. A man named Jordan Gray. He's an inspector with the San Francisco Police Department, handling a case of serial child murders."
"And I'm supposed to watch him?"
"Him and Casey McKinley."
Swain had learned early in the Bureau not to ask why higher-ups made decisions. But this one made no sense. "Is this Inspector Gray a threat to McKinley?"
Mueller shook his head. "Our sources say he's very highly spoken of within the department. And McKinley seems to get along with him quite well."
Then, why track him? "Are they in danger?"
Mueller looked pensive. "You can assume that. We need photographic evidence, video, audio—whatever you can get on everyone they come into contact with. We had audio surveillance on Agent McKinley's house, but unfortunately, it was disrupted."
The FBI had bugged ex-Agent McKinley's house. What the hell for? Swain kept his mouth shut.
"We believe the threat is related to the child murders," Mueller continued. "We're hoping you can find our man. Betty has copies of the newspaper articles, so you can brief yourself."
Swain held himself from smiling outright. He was on a killer's trail again. And this time he wouldn't make a mistake.
"You are not, however, to go after him on your own. If and when you find him, you will make contact and we will send a task force."
Swain thought about Dan Jamison's reaction in the outer office. "And Jamison thinks this is a bad idea?"
Mueller smiled thinly. "Jamison doesn't have the faith in you that I do."
Holding his composure, Swain asked the logical questions. "Any idea who we're looking for? Male, female? Black, white?"
"White, male."
Swain waited for him to elaborate. When he didn't, Swain nodded and stood, taking the silence as his cue to leave.
"One more thing, Agent Swain," Mueller said.
Swain looked back to meet the concerned stare of the assistant director. "There's a chance we're dealing with the same killer."
"The same killer?" he echoed, trying to remember the last time he'd worked on
a murder case.
"The same killer as Cincinnati," Mueller added, his tone and expression solemn.
Swain felt the surprise on his face. "The Cincinnati Butcher?"
Mueller nodded, studying him as though testing Swain's ability to think through a problem before committing him to the assignment.
Swain looked up, the rush of adrenaline that came with a new case stirring his blood. "You think the killer is after McKinley." It wasn't a question. It was a statement.
"And you're there to make sure nothing happens to her."
Swain thought about McKinley's departure from the Bureau. They hadn't wanted to lose her. Was that it? "You want her back."
"If she's ready. But I also expect this killer to go after her again. I want to make sure he doesn't get to her again."
Again, Swain thought. Had the FBI known the killer would go after Casey last time? Had they somehow set her up as bait, and when it failed, blamed him? His mind churned.
"You understand the assignment, Agent Swain?"
"I'll make sure she's safe," Swain promised, and then turned to leave. This time he would.
Chapter 29
Hurrying up the stairs to his office, Jordan couldn't escape the image of the marks on Casey's leg. He had assumed there was more to the case, more to her injuries. But he never would have imagined the killer had carved his signature in her. She was downstairs waiting in the car while he picked up his messages and the latest news before taking her home.
Thankfully, she had been anxious to get away from the crime scene. And after he'd shown her those pictures of Jean and Karen Allister before their murders, she'd been spooked.
Jordan had been anxious to leave the crime scene, too. The blue hat on the last victim had affected him more than he cared to admit. He could still see Ryan, a blue hat strapped to his tiny head. This killer could not be allowed to take another victim. Jordan just didn't know how to stop him yet.
The last clue Jordan had was the doctor who had performed reconstructive surgery on George Allister. With the doctor and two of his nurses dead, and the records burned, there was only one person who could provide him with the information he needed. Jordan needed to find the one remaining nurse—Nina Rodriguez. He only prayed Leonardo hadn't taken care of her, too. So far, he had been very resourceful at cleaning up the loose ends.
Renee nearly barreled into Jordan as he stepped foot in his office. "Oh, thank God."
Jordan felt a new tightness in his jaw. Not again.
But instead of looking grim, Renee smiled, waving a piece of paper in the air. "I found her. I found her right here in Palo Alto!"
Jordan shook his head. "Who?"
"Nina Rodriguez, of course. Only now she goes by Christina Loman. She's married."
"She's here? In Palo Alto?"
"Works for a plastic surgeon named Wharton. I get the feeling Dr. Wharton's a real bigwig. Nina did a great job of covering her tracks when she left Kentucky, too. Police reports show she complained several times about a stalker in August and early September of 1998, two months after Allister's accident.
"Then, she was attacked on September 28—a young man came to her rescue. Two days later, she left town. No forwarding address—didn't tell anyone where she was going. But I found her."
Jordan could tell Renee wanted to tell the story. And even though he would have preferred just the information, he asked, "Okay, so how did you find her?"
Renee smiled, knowingly. "I have to tell you, but I'll keep it short. I figured to be a nurse, you've got to be licensed, right?"
Jordan nodded.
"So, I got her license number from Kentucky and asked if it had been transferred. Anyone who changes states has to renew the nursing license in the new state. Kentucky confirmed that she had moved out here, but that's all they could tell me. I knew she could've been anywhere.
"Well, I have an old friend who works for the California Nursing Board. I called in a huge favor, and she gave me the doctor's name and address."
"That's fantastic."
"There's more. I just called, and she gets off at four-thirty. If you go this second, you can get there before she leaves." Renee gave him a smug grin and handed over the directions.
Jordan took the paper and stared at the address. "You know, Renee, I could kiss you."
Renee blushed. "You can buy me lunch is what you can do."
"You got it." Jordan grabbed his keys and jogged toward the door.
* * *
Dropping the third Sports Illustrated back on the table, Jordan shifted again and looked around the waiting room. It was well after five o'clock. Casey seemed absorbed in a Time magazine that had to be a year old. He had seen a half-dozen patients enter the inner office and never emerge again. They probably shuffled them out some side door. He supposed people didn't want to run into someone they knew right after a nose job.
Standing, he approached the glass window in the corner of the waiting room and rang the bell again. He'd never been in a doctor's office where they locked the window. From the look of the patients he'd seen, it wasn't for security reasons. Confidentiality, more like it.
A blond woman with an obvious boob job opened the window, her open blouse a perfect view for those standing above her. Jordan wondered if the boobs had been a perk of the job.
"Yes?" she asked.
"I'm looking to speak with Christina Loman," he repeated.
The woman glanced at him as though she'd never seen him before, although he had requested the same thing twice already. From her. "And that was regarding what, again?"
"Roy McAllister," Jordan said for the third time. The woman couldn't possibly have forgotten him. From what he'd seen of the clientele, a six-foot-two black man shouldn't have been hard to remember.
"Right," she finally said. "One moment, please." The woman slid the glass closed again.
Jordan remained standing at the window, listening. He heard soft discussion and then silence.
"She's running," Casey called out.
Jordan spun around and saw a woman dressed in nurse's whites cast a nervous glance in his direction as she hurried through the parking lot. "Damn."
Casey right behind him, Jordan ran outside and headed her off before she could lock herself in a blue Honda Accord. "Ms. Loman?"
She shook her head and tried to close the door.
Jordan held it open. "Ms. Rodriguez, I'm Inspector Gray with the San Francisco Police Department. I need to speak with you."
"You've got the wrong person," she insisted.
But from the fear in her eyes, Jordan didn't think so. "You can make this easy and talk to me now, or you can make it rough and we can go to the station."
The woman hesitated, looking around.
"This will only take a few minutes, Ms. Loman. We really need your help," Casey added, softening Jordan's threats.
The woman shook her head.
"It's a long drive to San Francisco and back. Is there somewhere we could talk?" Jordan pressed.
Her body slumped in the seat, and Jordan recognized the defeat in her shoulders.
"Please," Casey added.
"There's a coffee shop across the street." She pointed to a Starbucks.
"Perfect." He held the door open and waited for her to get out of the car. "We can walk."
Nina Rodriguez got out of the car and locked the door behind her. She remained a careful distance from Jordan and Casey, as though simply by association, someone might assume her guilt. In his peripheral vision, Jordan studied her.
Inside Starbucks, Nina made a beeline for a corner table and sat facing the wall.
"What can I get you?" Jordan asked.
"Decaf, please. Black."
"Grande latte, two sugars," Casey added.
Tossing Casey a stare, Jordan ordered the coffees and brought them to the table, setting one in front of Nina. Casey took hers and pulled off the top, shaking the sugars softly before awkwardly tearing off the tops and dumping them into her drink.
As Jordan sat, his knees knocked the underside of the small table, and he tried to find space to stretch out his long legs.
Her eyes downcast, Nina was fiddling with the coffee Jordan knew she wouldn't drink.
"Do you know why we're here?" Casey asked.
Nina nodded without meeting her gaze.
Her reaction was one he couldn't quite place. As far as he knew, she had nothing to feel guilty about. But the overwhelming sense he got from her was guilt. "Why don't you tell us about it?"
"What's to tell? I don't know anything about him."
"Nina," Casey cut in. "Let me tell you where we're coming from." She put her hands flat on the table, and Nina looked at them and then away.
"He did that?" she whispered, her voice shaking.
Casey nodded. "I was an FBI agent working his case. He found me alone in an apartment. Now he's here, and he's killing children. We know what he looked like as a kid, but he's had some major surgery from what we understand. You can help us with what he looks like now."
Nina hesitated, stared down at her coffee and then back at Casey's hands. Finally, she nodded. "What do you need to know?"
Jordan opened his notebook and looked at his notes. "Tell us about your employment with Dr. Ballari in Kentucky. When did you start there?"
"January of 1994." The tone of her voice was almost robotic.
"And when did you leave?"
"September 21 of 1998."
"Can I ask why you left?"
Her gaze flickered around the room, and Jordan felt the chill in her eyes. "I felt my life was threatened."
"By whom?"
She met his gaze for the first time, and the fear was as clear in her eyes as the blue. "Roy McAllister."
"Tell us about McAllister."
"What about him?"
"Everything you remember."
"If you promise not to use my name, ever. Not in a file, not even in your notebook. He'll get it, he'll find me. I've got children to think of, Inspector."
Jordan nodded, knowing there was no way to appease her entirely, though he would speak to Renee. "Your name isn't written here at all." He turned the notebook to face her. "See?"
She scanned the page and then wrapped her sweater protectively across her front and took a tentative sip of the coffee. "He had some surgery," she began. "He'd been in a car accident—not wearing a seat belt. Went through the windshield face first. According to him, he'd been fired from a job and ran his car off the road—rolled it twice. Said it was a rough patch in his life." She shivered. "I'd seen a fair number of car accidents, but nothing like that. His whole face was—" She stopped and shuddered. "He was in terrible shape."
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