by Cat Connor
“Not on the phone. Trust me. Shut down any avenues you have open.”
“We need a face-to-face.”
“Yeah, we do. As soon as I get a minute.”
Twenty-Five
Take This Job And Shove It
I zipped my jacket against the freshening breeze. Kurt and I waited on the tarmac close to the FBI hangar.
“Keep your hand up by your shoulder,” Kurt instructed. “It’ll help reduce the swelling and the pain.”
I held my hand across my body and rested it on my collarbone as I watched the jet making its final approach. Mallory Stevens remained under guard in hospital, waiting to be released into our custody. Lee and Sam were on standby to grab her the minute the hospital gave them the green light. Sean had closed down all investigation into Gerrard’s disappearance. My hand ached like a bitch.
Today was going well.
I checked my phone. No messages.
“You want to tell me why you hit whatshisname?” Kurt said, watching the plane.
“I owed him.”
“I gathered you two had history.”
Not pretty history. He was part of the team I was seconded to.
Words spilled from me before I could check them. “Once upon a time in the sandbox, Miller was to be on the other end of a rifle. My backup. My eyes. Everything turned to custard. I was on the verge of proving that Dion was working both sides. All of a sudden, I had nothing. It looked like he was dead. Miller couldn’t confirm because he wasn’t in place. Jump forward to New Zealand eight months later and an explosion that took out some good people and then just eighteen months ago to a spate of deaths in Virginia of Conway women.”
“Miller?”
“Not directly, but because he wasn’t in place when I needed him, people died and people kept dying.” I looked at Kurt. “I owed him.”
Kurt nodded.
My phone rang. Unknown number. Something told me I needed to answer it. I planted my injured hand back on my collar bone and used the phone with my left, which was less awkward than it felt.
“Conway,” I said, watching the aircraft taxi toward us.
“I don’t have long,” said a familiar quiet voice. He shouldn’t have called but I listened in silence. “I screwed the pooch. When this is over, you’ll get a package. It will explain everything. Sanitize it before sharing with my mother.”
“Stay frosty, Oscar Mike.”
The phone beeped in my hand as Gerrard disconnected the call.
The aircraft taxied to the hangar.
Kurt coughed lightly attracting my attention. “Do I want to know who made that call?”
I moved in and whispered, “No.”
But he knew anyway. “He okay?”
My head shook. “I don’t know what’s going on and I can’t pull resources to find out.” I scrolled through a flurry of emails on my phone while the crew opened the door and let our guest alight. Kurt nudged me. I looked up in time to see Sasha Petrovovich walking toward us.
“He looks like Misha,” I said, turning to Kurt.
“Uncanny, isn’t it?” Kurt replied.
I let lightness wash over me and the concerns about Noel Gerrard float away. “Do all Russian men look like they’ve escaped from a romance novel?”
Kurt chuckled. “Maybe.”
I stepped into a small patch of sunlight and extended my busted hand to the tall man wearing a long leather coat. I pulled it back as soon as I realized what I’d done. His brow furrowed then smoothed as he smiled. Swooping in, he kissed both my cheeks. Charming.
“Agent Conway,” he said. “I am Sasha Petrovovich.”
“Thank you for coming,” I replied. “This is SSA Kurt Henderson.”
“Agent Henderson,” Petrovovich said with warmth as they shook.
“Kurt will do fine.”
Introductions over, we escorted our charge to the waiting car. Kurt gave him a bit of background regarding the case. I dragged on the seat belt with an uncooperative hand, not quite making it to the clip before it snapped back.
Jeez.
I reached across and used my good hand. Hoping to keep my silliness to myself.
Kurt’s mouth turned up at the edges. I ignored him.
“I saw something about the case on the news this morning, right before I left New York,” Petrovovich said. “It seems challenging.”
“That’s one way of putting it,” I replied, clicking the belt in place.
Forty minutes later we were back at the Hoover Building and I handed him a folder of photos to look at. No bodies included, just photos of the contents of the bathrooms.
Sasha Petrovovich sat at my desk and pored over the photos and notes I’d made regarding scent. Kurt insisted I sit on the couch and let him play doctor. Not as much fun as it sounds. After a close inspection of my hand and rather more pain than I appreciated, he declared the possibility of fractured knuckles on the fourth and fifth metacarpal. The bruises and grazes weren’t very attractive either. On the plus side, I’d suffered no displacement.
“I’m taping your fingers. But this needs X-raying.” Kurt took strapping tape, scissors, iodine and gauze squares from his backpack and set it all on the table in front of him. He cleaned my hand with iodine. It stung but I’ve had worse. He strapped my pinky and ring finger together then taped them to my middle finger. No birds would be flying from my right hand anytime soon.
“That’ll do until we can get that checked,” Kurt said. “Try not to use that hand. Keep it elevated as much as possible and let me know if you lose feeling in those fingers.”
“Feels a bit better,” I said with a small smile. “Thanks.”
“Just doing my job,” Kurt said. “Don’t hit anyone else.”
“No promises.”
Owen sprang to mind. If the thought of Owen ramped up my blood pressure, no telling what would happen if the Evil Troll Queen appeared before me.
Kurt packed away his medical stuff and picked up his laptop. I wandered into the corridor outside my office in search of coffee or water. Four paces down the hall I knew it was water I wanted.
Footsteps ran toward me; I spun around. Sandra running in the halls of the FBI. Really? We don’t run.
“Ellie!” she called, waving a manila folder.
“Problem?”
Stopping abruptly and puffing, Sandra thrust the file at me. “New victim.”
“You could’ve called me,” I replied, taking the folder.
“Check your cell. I’ve been calling. Where were you?”
I tucked the folder under my right arm and hooked my phone from my pocket. Six missed calls. All from Sandra.
“Sorry.”
“I was worried,” Sandra said, her breathing returning to normal. She focused on my right hand. “Looks like I had reason to worry.”
“I tripped,” I replied, brushing off her inquisitive look.
A cloud of disbelief crossed her face but she let it go. “Kurt wasn’t answering either. Sam and Lee are following up a lead.”
And somehow this week Sandra had become camp leader?
“Kurt was with me. He was driving. We picked up a perfumer from the airport. Kurt is with him in my office.”
I opened the file. A DMV photo and crime scene report from local police. Ashley Stewart, twenty-six years old, slim, blonde, attractive. A Middle school teacher in Fairfax. The next fifteen photos weren’t so pretty.
“You all right?” Sandra asked.
“Sure. Kurt and I will head over to the crime scene as soon as we can. Have police secure the scene and wait for us.”
Sandra nodded. “You’re worrying me. Never have I seen you look so pale.” Her gaze hardened, scrutinizing me. I wanted to hide or leave. “And now the broken fingers?”
“Possible fractured knuckles. It’s nothing. I’m tired is all.”
“Heard you’ve been ill. Some sort of stomach flu?”
“Probably. I’m okay now.”
“Funny no one else has had it. Maybe
food poisoning?”
Don’t push it.
“Maybe.”
“You’re still very pale. Take it easy, Ellie. Let the team pick up any slack.” She paused and smiled. “Wedding soon, what is it, eight days?”
“Yep.”
“Mitch will want you to be able to enjoy your honeymoon.”
So much concern for my well-being. I felt like a fish caught on a hook. Didn’t matter how much I squirmed and pulled, I wasn’t breaking free.
“I’d better go,” I said.
“Before I forget, Emilio Herrera from HR has called a few times wanting to know how the case is progressing.”
“Emilio … ah, Jane Daughtry’s carpool pal,” I replied. Why did I get the feeling Herrera was buddies with the Evil Troll Queen Owen? I shrugged it off. Just because she breathed her rank stench down my neck doesn’t mean she’s pals with Herrera.
“Do you want to talk to him yourself?”
“No. Just give him the standard line about us doing everything we can to find the person or persons responsible and to bring closure to the families.”
“I’ll let him know. You sure you’re feeling all right?”
“Thanks, Sandra, and yeah, I’m okay.” I turned and tried for a casual stroll back to my office but suspect it came off like a panicked escape and I knew Sandra still watched me.
I scooped up my laptop from my desk with one hand and sat in one of the large armchairs opposite Kurt. Setting the laptop on the coffee table between us, I checked the alerts on my phone. Texts from Holly, my sister-in-law, and two from Mitch’s mom. Voicemail. Two Voxer messages from my brother. Several dozen emails. I answered the texts as best I could. Holly and Joan wanted to catch up for coffee. That wasn’t going to happen until the case was closed. Aidan wanted to know if he’d be looking after my cat while we were on honeymoon; his next Voxer message suggested he should just keep the cat. I answered him and told him he should. Shrek liked him more than he liked me anyway.
Voicemail was next. Dad, touching base. The last thing he said was, ‘Stay frosty.’ I knew he’d spoken to Gerrard. Dad trained Gerrard so maybe he’d decided to confide in someone he could trust. I hoped that’s what happened and moved on. I put my phone down and checked the emails on my laptop, mostly requests from other divisions or police for information regarding various Delta operations. I forwarded a lot of them to agents who could better answer the queries. The last email wasn’t from law enforcement.
The subject line read ‘Psycho.’
I opened it. As I read the contents, my blood cooled. Slowly at first then faster and colder. My bones ached as the cold took over. I read the contents four times.
A partial poem, signed Kristopher Lette.
I was right about the crime scene memos. But the email contained another line, one we hadn’t seen.
“Kurt …” My eyes stayed fixed on the screen in front of me.
“Conway? Whatcha got there?”
“Part of a poem.”
“Yours?”
“No.”
He crouched next to my chair and read the email.
“God,” he said. “You think it’s Lette?”
“He’d have to be pretty stupid to sign it and send it from his email address.”
He’d signed it and the email address appeared to be his. I copied the source information into a little program we liked to use that gave us the ISP emails were sent from and then the physical address of the sender. Our cyber division kept us up to date with the latest developments.
Don’t take it personally
It wasn’t easy
Just listen
I broke when you looked at me
Life cracked wide open
I reached forward and picked up my phone. Kurt went back to the couch. Dad answered on the sixth ring.
“It’s me. Have you met Rosanne’s son yet?”
“No. I was supposed to meet him the other day. Rosanne invited him to lunch with us but he didn’t show.”
“You’ve been seeing Rosanne for a while and have never met the son?”
“That’s right. He’s a strange lad by all accounts.”
No kidding.
“He’s an artist?”
“Yes, I believe so. Is there a problem, El?”
Ignoring Dad’s question I continued, “What sort of artist?”
“Fiber, whatever that means. I’ve never seen anything he created. Rosanne hasn’t talked about exhibitions or anything. Maybe his artistic endeavors are fledging.”
“Does he write as well?”
“I don’t know, love. What’s going on?”
“Just need some background information is all. What do you suppose a fiber artist does?”
“Something with fabric or yarn … I really don’t know.”
“A knitter?” Knitting might have started with fishermen back in the day but not what I expected in this instance. A knitting vampire. Large diameter wooden needles became stakes and rammed into his soulless heart.
“I don’t know if he knits, Ellie, but fiber art could be anything. He might weave, or sew, or throw paint at fabric.”
“Does Rosanne talk about him much?”
I wanted to ask if he knew she had a brain tumor and what the hell he thought he was doing. Dating the nearly-dead didn’t seem like a good life choice. Instead, I stuck to questions about Kristopher. Safer ground.
“We’ve only been seeing each other about six months, El, and she’s a private person.”
Private or secretive? There is a difference. Six months and he hadn’t met the son. A little light went on in my head. She hadn’t met me, officially, either. And by Aidan’s reaction at the family dinner, he hadn’t met her either. Dad could be pretty secretive himself.
My silence filled the airways. I could hear Dad thinking. I knew what was coming.
His voice changed, his wording quiet and deliberate, “What has this got to do with the case you’re working on?”
To lie or spill the beans?
Maybe partial truth; I was getting good at that. Before I had time to form my partial truth Dad said, “Just tell me, Ellie. I know your silence and don’t need sugar coatings or partial truths. Just tell me.”
A sigh escaped. I looked over my shoulder at Petrovovich sitting at my desk. Not here. Standing, I left the room.
“Just got an email containing part of a poem. It’s comprised of memos we found at the crime scenes but not entirely. The email is signed Kristopher Lette, it came from his email address, it tracked back to a fixed ISP belonging to Kristopher Lette.”
Having had someone send emails from my ISP not so long ago, I knew it was possible that Lette didn’t send the email but it really wasn’t looking good.
“I see.”
“Dad, I never mentioned the memos in the media briefing. Only people directly involved with the case know about the poetry.”
“Rosanne doesn’t know?”
“No one outside the investigation knows.”
“And this is my heads-up that all isn’t right?”
“Not exactly, Dad, I needed information … but …”
“I’ll let you know if I hear anything.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
I hung up and went back into the office. The email still sat on my screen. My gut said Lette didn’t send it because why would he send it to me unless he wanted to be caught? Wouldn’t be that unusual for a killer to almost cry out to be stopped. We needed to find him and bring him in.
Knitting? I didn’t think so. I called Sandra and asked for in-depth background on Lette. It was a simple request: get me everything.
Sasha Petrovovich coughed lightly from my desk attracting my attention. I moved chairs to sit in front of my own desk, facing Petrovovich.
“The person responsible for these crimes is layering fragrance. He’s collecting components from the crime scenes. When you layer, you start at the base. Body wash or soap, shampoo and conditioner, body lotions and finally perfume.”
“Do you know what the fragrance is that he’s drawn to?”
“I think you know, Agent. You’re looking for confirmation.”
Maybe I do. “Tell me, please.”
“Base notes of bergamot, pepper, neroli, tobacco, citrus and cedar.”
I nodded. I’d smelled all those at various crime scenes.
“And that matches?”
“Dolce & Gabbana pour Homme.”
“I think the Unsub wears that cologne,” I said. “I smelled it at one of the crime scenes. Residual scent in the air.”
Petrovovich smiled at me. “You have a sensitive nose.”
“I’m pretty good at identifying scents on people if I’ve smelled them before.” Even diluted by the wind in a tunnel at a concert. Scents change, they become individual as they warm on the skin, making identification easier for me.
“Can I see the bodies? This will sound bizarre but I’d like to see if I can detect perfume on their skin?”
“Yes. I want to see them again myself. We can do that. If you’re sure?”
“By the look of the products you say are missing, he’s building layers by taking particular items containing base notes he’s drawn to from the scenes. Therefore, the women should have that scent on them. If so, I can probably narrow down the brand of lotion or body wash. Would that be helpful?”
“Yes, it would.”
“When can we leave?”
Eager.
“We have a new crime scene, which I need to get to. Do you mind tagging along?”
“Not at all.”
“I will ask you to stay in the car unless I require your help within the crime scene.”
A civilian traipsing about a crime scene potentially contaminating evidence? Not on my watch.
“That will be acceptable.”
Twenty-Six
Painting Pictures Of You
I stood next to Kurt looking at Ashley Stewart in the shower. Obvious stab wounds. No blood. At first glance, her crumpled body told the same story as the previous victims; not getting any easier. Blonde, pretty, slim, dead.
“You want to do your thing before I start?” Kurt asked.