by Tommy Twist
But maybe he wasn't as smart as she had him pegged for, or maybe he was much smarter than she had figured. Maybe—
Erin heard the sound of footsteps coming to a stop in front of the door. She saw the shadow of the figure outside, saw it widen just a bit, and then an envelope slipped under the door. She reached for it and grabbed, but she could already tell that whoever had dropped it was in the wind. They'd taken their sweet time coming up, but the minute that the envelope was all the way through they'd started booking it down the hall, towards the fire escape. It was closer than the elevator.
Right on cue as she opened the door, the fire alarm hit. Someone had gone through the fire door. The heavy door sent a loud slam echoing through the hall. Erin winced as it sounded, and looked down at the envelope in her hands.
Russo, it said. The handwriting was nice, neat, even. She tore the envelope open neatly and tossed the torn-away bit in the trash can by the door. The paper was neatly folded. She unfolded it and started to read.
The handwriting here was atrocious. She knew right away that someone else must have written the letter, than the person who folded it up and addressed it to her.
She could barely decipher it in some parts, but the parts she could told her that what she was looking at was a diary. A diary for the writer and the writer only, or they might have tried to fix the numerous misspellings and mistakes in writing. Then again, maybe they didn't know about them. Maybe this was how the person always wrote, but nobody wrote anything like this.
Nobody wrote anything like this, that is, except for a confession. Erin took a breath and sat down at the little table by the window, flattened the paper out, and pulled out her own pad. If she was going to make a serious attempt at reading this, then she was going to need a copy that was at least halfway legible. And that meant transcribing, which meant a lot of work, considering how poorly written the original was.
She took a breath and a pen and craned her neck forward in the chair. Either way, she had work to do.
Thirty-One
Erin took a long last look at her copy. This was a confession, more than anything. The problem was that she had no idea who she was supposed to pin it on. She didn't recognize the handwriting on the paper, nor did she recognize the handwriting on the envelope. But they spoke of two completely different individuals. People who were so completely separate on the scale that someone might wonder if they were, strictly speaking, the same species.
Erin knew better. Or at least, she certainly thought she did. There were bad people out there, and there were uneducated people out there, and there were people out there who had unsteady minds. This guy was all of those things.
She took a deep breath. There was one question that had been in the back of her mind, and now it came forward again. Why all the specifics? There was something fetishistic to the murders. Seven, exactly seven. Why exactly seven? Nobody knew.
Well, this was a confession. Stabbed seven times. It felt good. Blood on my hands. Most of all, a young woman. Erin had trouble believing that there was anything that would make the guy who she'd shot describe her or her sister as 'young' women.
They were the same age. If anything, Ryan looked a year or two younger than them. They weren't young to him. This person had described her as a 'young' woman, sometimes even as a 'girl.'
Which raised more difficult questions about who had written this diary. This journal. This confession. Confession to a murder.
Without knowing more, she couldn't begin to look into the murders. Not effectively, anyways. She took a deep breath. That meant taking this in to the station, and that meant having to see Roy. Schafer was head on this investigation. Taking it somewhere else would have been an insult, and as much as she wanted a clean break, she respected him as a cop.
She wanted to stop feeling anything for him—not to insult him in front of his coworkers. So she was going back into the lion's den again, after all. It took her a minute before she felt ready, then she dressed in professional clothing, slipped her wallet into her trousers pocket, and started off.
It took her exactly ten minutes and twenty-eight seconds to get there, though she wasn't timing it and didn't know. But for those six-hundred twenty-eight seconds, she was feeling exactly how long the trip was. Every one of those seconds, she thought about how much she didn't want to go inside that station.
She ignored that tugging, the same way that she was ignoring the niggling feeling that she should apologize and beg for Roy's forgiveness. The feeling that he was all she had left. Maybe he was all she had left, or maybe he wasn't, but that didn't define her. He was a colleague, and he was a man she'd spent some good times with, but he wasn't the end of the line for her, and it wasn't going to underscore her whole career.
Erin made it through the door moving fast enough that she could ignore her doubts. As long as she kept up her forward momentum, it didn't matter that she wasn't one damn bit certain if what she was doing was going to help or if she was being played like a damn fiddle.
The elevator opened with a ding and Detective Green turned. His desk was right by the elevator and he had a bad habit of looking to see every time someone came up. It was a distraction.
"I thought you were out of here for a while."
"I am," she answered, already moving towards Schafer's office.
"If you're looking for Agent Schafer, he's gone."
"Gone?"
"Out."
"Out where?"
"Out of here."
Oh. Erin swallowed hard and tried to think. He needed to see this, and if he was gone…
She turned and headed for the door. If she hurried, she could make L.A.X. before they departed, she hoped. It burned her ass, but she pulled out her phone as she slipped back into the Jeep and dialed Roy's number.
It rang twice before going to voicemail. She called again. No rings this time. He'd turned the phone off.
She might have done the same thing in his position, but now it was God damned important that she got in touch with him before he left the ground. Why did he have to pick right now to be a hurt child? Why had she picked that exact moment to piss him off?
She put her foot down harder. How long had he been gone for? An hour? Two?
A question hit her. Why would they leave? Had there been something new? Had they been pulled out?
At some point, sure. They'd go back to Quantico. But there had been a murder here less than twenty-four hours ago. They'd just arrested a suspect in the murder, but that left at least one more. Likely two.
Without being able to reach Schafer, she couldn't begin to guess what the hell had happened, and nobody in the station would want to tell her about it, even if they knew. After all, she was on leave. She wasn't involved in the case in any official way, and that was how it had always been. Why would it be any different now that Schafer and his suits had left?
She took a breath. She needed information, and she needed to cooperate with the F.B.I. to get it. How was she supposed to do that?
The thought occurred to her a minute after it came through. The field office might at least be able to hand information like the page in her hand. If it looked useful, they could at least get in touch with Schafer or one of his boys. Maybe before they took off, or maybe they would be able to head back.
She turned the Jeep around and got back on the gas. She didn't know where the F.B.I. field office was in California, but it couldn't be too far. She jabbed it into the G.P.S. while she drove, and started following the directions. It took five minutes to get there, another minute to find parking, and a seventh to get inside.
"I need to speak to someone."
"May I ask you what this is regarding?" The man behind the counter looked like a kindergarten teacher more than a law-enforcement agent. Thin and bookish and retreating.
"I've been given evidence in an ongoing murder investigation."
The man nodded to himself, clicked his mouse a few times and tapped a few keys. "Can I have the details?"
&
nbsp; "I need to get in touch with Special Agent Roy Schafer. It's with regards to a series of murders committed across the country."
"What's your evidence?"
"A confession. Someone slipped it under the door of my hotel room."
"May I have your name?"
"Erin. E-R-I-N. Russo. R-U-S-S-O."
"Can you give me the paper?"
"What? Uh." She'd been building up the moment that they were forced to see each other again. The moment she handed him the paper. It was one last chance to make her apology in the end. It should have occurred to her that the office would want to take custody of any evidence involved in an ongoing investigation. "Sure."
She handed it across. The man smiled and set it aside, got on an intercom and asked someone to come take it into evidence, along with her transcription. Then he tapped another few keys, looked up at her as if he was surprised to see her standing there.
"Thank you very much." She let out a breath. "We'll be in touch if we need to reach you."
Thank you very much, indeed.
Thirty-Two
Erin's phone rang, waking her from the catnap she hadn't quite stopped taking for the past several hours. What was the point of not resting? She had nowhere to be. Still suspended. She'd probably remain on paid suspension until Internal Affairs finished looking into the shooting.
It was Roy.
"Russo."
"Erin, I'm so sorry."
She didn't like that. She'd been the one being a bitch, not him. He hadn't done anything wrong. Which meant that as much as she didn't want to think it, he wasn't that kind of sorry. Not the kind of 'please forgive me' sorry, anyways. He was the kind of sorry that people are when you find out you've got cancer, or when you find out someone's house burned down.
"What happened?"
"I've got a guy coming over with plane tickets right now, on the Bureau."
"Tell me what happened, Schafer, or I'm not going anywhere."
"It's about your father."
"Dad? What about him?"
"I think it would be more appropriate to do this in person."
"No, you'll tell me now."
"It's our guy. He got your father."
"What?"
"Your father's dead."
She didn't expect the news to hurt the way it did. She'd spent the last ten years hating him, and that was after a slow buildup of bitterness that had begun almost as soon as they reached the west coast. It was inevitable that he was going to leave them as soon as he set foot on California soil and crinkled up his face at the smell. Everything after that had been… denouement.
But it still hit her. She was thankful for having answered the phone in bed. Her body slumped down further into the corner where the mattress met the headboard.
"You're sure it's him?"
"It fits, as much as it can. Seven wounds. But, uh… it's ugly."
"What is that supposed to mean? They're all ugly, Roy."
"Look, the details aren't important. Just take the plane tickets from Agent Creed, and I'll see you in a little while. And Erin?"
"What?"
"Pack for cold."
She said goodbye and hung up the phone, then rubbed her face to get the last bits of sleepiness out. She grabbed her suitcase and dumped it out on the hotel room floor. She'd need to get back to the apartment before she could leave, but she had to wait for this F.B.I. guy to get here with the tickets.
A knock came at the door, and she opened it automatically, not bothering to look at the guy. She had unpacked just enough that it was going to be a hassle. She heard him step inside behind her as she grabbed her shampoo off the rack.
"Hey, babe."
She froze. There was no way for him to know where she was staying. She'd even parked the Jeep on the far end of the parking lot. How had he gotten her room number? How had he gotten any of it?
"Craig. I thought you were going to be out of town a few days?"
"I took care of it faster than expected," he murmured. "This is a nice place."
"Yeah, sure, I guess."
"What are you paying to stay here? You like it?"
"I dunno, insurance is paying the whole thing. It's fine, I guess."
"Insurance? No shit."
She came back out with a baggie full of bathroom sundries. "I'm sorry, Craig, but this isn't a good time."
"Is everything okay?" He looked concerned, or as concerned as he could look. Something about him painted every expression with a tinge of dark sarcasm.
"Family stuff."
"Yeah? What happened?"
"My father's sick."
"Oh yeah? Is it serious?"
"He might not wake up again."
"That's a damn shame," he said softly. She grabbed her empty suitcase and shoved her toiletries bag into it, zipped it up and started moving. It would hurt to have to pay for the plane tickets, but it would hurt that much more to have Craig see her meeting with F.B.I.
"Not really, but I figure with Becca being—" she stopped herself. "Nobody's seen her, you know? So someone needs to go check on the old man."
"Oh, for sure. I get you."
He followed her close behind as she left the room locked behind her. With luck they wouldn't decide to throw her out before she could get back and grab her stuff, but if that was what happened—she hadn't brought anything too important, she hoped.
He stuck close behind her on her way down the hall, into the elevator. The elevators were glass, and let her see as they descended that a man in a charcoal suit was ascending, passing them. Erin let out a breath of relief. That was another bullet dodged, as long as she could get away from Hutchinson at some point, she was free and clear.
The door opened and she stepped out. No time to waste, not any more. She was walking past the reception desk when a man turned. Navy. God dammit. He raised his eyebrows at her.
"Erin Russo?"
She looked at him, looked at Hutchinson, and looked back at him. Trying to burn the message in with just her eyes that now was absolutely not the time for too much information.
"Yes, what's wrong?"
"Uh…" He'd gotten the message, thank God. "I've got the plane ticket you called down for, your boarding pass is right here."
The man handed over a yellow kraft-paper envelope that Erin slipped into her pocket.
"Thank you very much."
"Is everything okay?"
"Everything's fine," she said, feigning a smile. Everything was completely fine. Nothing to worry about. At least, she had to let Hutchinson think so, and she had to get him to stop following her as soon as possible.
"Have a nice day, ma'am."
She kept going out the door. Craig followed her, only splitting off a few feet before she got to her Jeep. He'd parked in the striped No-Parking zone beside her, slung one leg over the bike and kicked it to life as she slid into the Jeep.
"Maybe later?" She called to him over the sound of his too-loud engine.
He nodded, and took off. She took off a little way behind.
She took the drive to her apartment faster than she'd have liked. Someone was following her. No, that wasn't totally accurate. At least two someones were following her. The government car was harder to place than Roy's.
Then again, they seemed to be trying to stop her from noticing. They were taking it smart, switching cars. But she knew in her gut, and when she saw the same two cars again, she knew outside her gut, too.
The other was less subtle, but further back. Maybe if Craig hadn't put her on edge, she wouldn't have noticed it, but without a doubt, there was someone else following her, as well. If she had noticed the government cars, then she had to assume they had as well. Which meant that things were about to get very messy indeed.
She got into the apartment, pulled aside the police tape, and stepped through the door. She packed light and packed for cold and was back out the door in thirty minutes. And just like clockwork, within two turns of leaving the apartment, two cars were following her.
>
She lost them in the chaos of L.A.X.
She wasn't stupid enough to assume that meant they had lost her, though. That would have been a big mistake, and as much as she made big mistakes, she wasn't going to make that one. Not when things were as ugly as they seemed to be now.
She wasn't going to calm down until they touched down in Minneapolis, and then she was going to have something else to worry about.
Thirty-Three
The touchdown was more exciting than the plane ride, and it went completely as-expected. It was almost strange to feel so panicked for nearly two hours, knowing for sure that someone was following you, and then to be free and clear. It felt no different than her ears popping as the cabin started to lose pressure on the plane's ascent. As if she were reacclimating to a whole different environment.
In some ways, she thought, she was. This wasn't her world. This wasn't L.A. any more. For the second time, she was in deeper than she had any desire to ever be. Now she was out of her jurisdiction—not that it mattered, with her badge confiscated—and more than that, she was in Dad's territory. This was his place, and it was the number one reason that she had promised herself she would never come back here.
But here she was, now that the old man was dead. Here to investigate another murder that broke the pattern. They'd gotten nine women. Nine younger women, aged between sixteen and twenty-six. Why on earth would the person responsible for those murders commit a tenth on an old man? It broke the pattern so wildly that it made no sense.
More than that, their work up to this point had been in L.A. this year. The others hadn't moved around, not this fast. Why now? Why her father, who never hurt anyone but his daughters and the wife who was beyond getting hurt again?
A man in a suit had a paper with her name on it. She introduced herself to him, and he flashed her an F.B.I. badge before motioning for her to follow.
Erin felt strange walking behind him. The cold wind blew hard, but she barely felt it through the heavy down coat. Her body wouldn't move right, though, with all the fabric in the way. Who chose to live like this? Who wanted to live in a place where this kind of weather existed?