Absolute Pleasure

by Jamie Denton

  “I’m a real sensitive guy.” He emitted a raspy chuckle. “Just ask my wife.”

  “Jack?” Her patience began to wear thin. “Tremont? Have you seen her?”

  “She cut out of here a couple of hours ago,” he said. “Problems?”

  “No, no problems.” Only concern, she thought and frowned. “Did she happen to say where she was going?”

  “Sorry, can’t help you there.”

  She thanked him and hung up the phone. It wasn’t like Georgia to not check in, and Sunny could think of no good reason for her to be delayed.

  The phone on her desk rang. “About time,” she muttered, and picked up the receiver again. “Mac, here.”

  “Agent MacGregor?”

  She straightened at the sound of a deep voice she didn’t immediately recognize. “This is Special Agent MacGregor,” she said cautiously.

  “Reece Klabo,” the caller said. “ISU.”

  Her heart nearly burst out of her chest. Reece Klabo was the number one man in the Investigative Support Unit and number two man of the National Center for Analysis of Violent Crime, or NCAVC. Unlike the head of NCAVC, Klabo remained an active profiler.

  “How can I help you?” There was only one reason she could think of for him to call her. Any agent interested in joining ISU knew Klabo was the man to impress. If he said “Jump,” every wannabe-profiler within hearing distance asked, “How high?”

  “Can you be at Quantico within the hour?”

  “Yes, sir,” Sunny said, not about to become an exception. “I’ll be there.”

  “Good. I’ll be expecting you.”

  The line went dead.

  She hung up the phone, afraid to move for fear she might wake up from what could be a dream about to come true. The rumor mill had been grinding the past few weeks about a possible spot opening up in ISU, and she hadn’t hesitated to make a point of informing her unit chief, Clint Burrows, she wanted consideration for the position. Her boss hadn’t been the least bit encouraging. All she’d received had been a dismissive response of “duly noted.”

  She cleared off her desk and locked the SEDSCAM files in her desk drawer. Not wanting to suffer disappointment later, she tried not to read too much into Klabo’s request to see her, but the hope that she may be moments away from becoming not only a member of the elite team of profilers, but also the youngest woman in the Bureau’s long history to ever hold the post, was simply too hard to resist.

  THE WINDOWLESS offices of the National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime at Quantico, were located sixty feet below ground. Only the best in law enforcement were allowed within these subterranean walls.

  Sunny glanced into the empty offices she passed, her body humming with excitement. She caught glimpses of varying degrees of clutter, from organized chaos to plain messy and disordered. Every available flat surface was littered with mountainous stacks of case files. Corkboards, easels and in some cases, the cinderblock walls themselves, were peppered with newspaper headlines, grisly shots of crime scenes and the brutal reality of victim autopsy photographs. She didn’t shrink from the horrific images, but viewed them with the dispassionate eyes of a professional.

  At the end of the corridor, she turned right, coming to a stop outside Klabo’s office. The door stood open, but the office was deserted. Since she’d been instructed by the armed Marine guard at the front desk to wait inside, she walked into what she considered sacred ground, the hallowed domain of legendary criminologist, Reece Klabo.

  Rather than taking up space in a power-position, the plain government-issue, gray metal desk was crammed into one corner of the office. A bookcase overflowing with books, files and documents sat behind the desk, serving as a makeshift credenza. The leather sofa on the opposite wall was old and weathered from years of use in what, she imagined, were many late-night sessions developing profiles of the country’s most notorious killers.

  The walls of Klabo’s office were decorated with a series of charts and a South Carolina state map, flagged with colored pushpins indicating several cities around the Charleston area. Above the map and charts, a long row of seven eight-by-tens with the faces of pretty young girls, ranging in age from late teens to early twenties, smiled innocently at her.

  She read the bold headlines tacked to the wall with blue adhesive putty to the right of the map. She understood the headlines had been designed to sell newsprint, but in her opinion, the press had gone overboard when they’d gruesomely dubbed the killer the Charleston Carver.

  She shifted her attention to the worktable next to the sofa and the neatly arranged columns of photographs. A composite drawing sat off to the left of what she assumed was the unknown subject.

  “Give me your first impression.”

  Sunny spun around at the unexpected sound of Klabo’s voice. He wasn’t an old man, in fact he was only fourteen years her senior, but he looked beyond his years due to the constant stress of the job. The deep lines of his face were those of a much older man, and his thinning, light brown hair was peppered heavily with gray at the temples. Not a big man, she estimated his height a couple inches shy of six feet, but he was fit, as evidenced by the ease with which he moved.

  On the drive from her office to Quantico, she’d imagined various scenarios for this meeting, so she wasn’t too surprised he was testing her abilities. She was more than ready for the challenge.

  Returning the drawing to the table, she gave him a direct look. “White male, mid-to late-thirties,” she said confidently. “Impulsive. Short-tempered.”

  Klabo walked to the front of the desk and leaned against the edge. He crossed his ankles and folded his arms over his chest. “Not bad,” he said with a nod of approval. “Go on.”

  She scanned the headlines again, followed by a study of the crime scene photos of the seven victims spread over the table. The first thing she noticed was the similarities in the scenery. “The UNSUB uses a dumpsite to dispose of his victims,” she said. “The damage he does to them takes time. These aren’t the murder scenes. They’re too public.”

  She continued to study the photos. “He’s using force to overwhelm his victims,” she said. “He wants to be an organized killer, but he lacks the patience to be truly successful. Sometimes he goes too far, though, and ends up killing the vic before he can complete the fantasy.”

  She picked up two particularly chilling postmortem photographs and carried them over to Klabo. “His impatience frustrates him,” she continued without hesitation. “This angers him. It explains, if you’ll excuse the term, the overkill evidenced in these vics. He’s not arrogant, so you won’t find him hanging around the investigation like most organized killers. And he’s becoming more desperate, more deeply frustrated. His impatience will cause him to make mistakes.”

  Klabo set the two photographs facedown on the desk behind him. “Why mid-to late-thirties?” he questioned her.

  “Two reasons,” she said, walking back to the table. “The impatience of his kills indicates he hasn’t reached an older man’s maturity. Second, the hair.”

  She picked up the composite and handed it to Klabo, indicating the UNSUB’s hairline. “It’s thinning on top and receding. Hair loss at an earlier age is a possibility, but the deeper lines on the forehead provide a more accurate estimate of his age. The problem is that composites aren’t a reliable source since no two witnesses will view the UNSUB the same way,” she concluded, speaking from her own experience with the SEDSCAM investigation.

  Klabo looked impressed, which boosted her confidence a few more notches. She’d been born to do this job.

  “Why do you think the UNSUB is impulsive and short-tempered?” he asked.

  “The shape of the nose is crooked and the bridge flat,” she said. “That would indicate it’s been broken, probably from fights. Says short fuse to me.”

  Another approving nod. “Is that why he overwhelms the vics?”

  “No,” she said. “Women don’t find him attractive. The eyes are too cold. He does
n’t have the kind of charm Bundy or Wilton had with women. I don’t see any woman going with this UNSUB willingly.”

  “He could be hunting prostitutes,” Klabo suggested.

  Sunny shook her head and hitched her thumb to indicate the row of photographs on the wall. “We know he’s not after prostitutes,” she said. “Even if he were, he’d still have to overpower them. They’re more streetwise, so it wouldn’t take them long to realize something isn’t right with this guy. They’d reject him, which would only infuriate him more because his prey hasn’t cooperated. His temper would kick in and his attack would be over the top.”

  She glanced pointedly at the overturned photographs on Klabo’s desk. “I suspect that’s what happened because of the excessive damage in those two vics. He killed them before he could fulfill the fantasy. He blamed the vics and took out his rage on them. Even without studying the medical examiners’ findings, I’m willing to bet his recent vics have shown more postmortem mutilation than his earlier kills.”

  She held her breath and waited.

  Klabo tossed the composite on the desk with the photos. “Have a seat, MacGregor.” He indicated the worn sofa. “You can breathe now. You impressed me. That was well thought out and methodical. A damned good analysis, even with the limited evidence available to you.”

  “Thank you, sir.” She couldn’t help but feel a huge sense of accomplishment. Klabo wasn’t only a legendary criminologist, he also had a reputation for being impossible to please.

  “You just profiled one of my agents, MacGregor.” The lines of Klabo’s face deepened when he smiled at her. “That drawing was someone’s idea of a joke. There is no composite of the UNSUB in this case.”

  Her confidence fled as she sank into the brown leather. So much for a good impression. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t realize.”

  He waved away her apology. “Your analysis of the scene photos is what interests me. That was eerily accurate, MacGregor. How is it an agent from nonviolent crime can pull off what has taken some of my own agents months of intensive training to accomplish?”

  She wasn’t certain whether he’d just praised her or issued a veiled criticism. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “You don’t have a lot of experience working violent crime,” he said. “Your work in the D.C. field office consisted of background checks, the occasional surveillance and backup when necessary. Until two years ago when your involvement in the Romine incident resulted in the end of the careers of several agents, including the former assistant director of the Bureau, you were just another badge in a blue suit.” He regarded her with a direct stare. “Your move to CID has produced some exemplary investigation work, but it’s a hell of a lot different than what we do here.”

  “I’m aware my experience is limited in the violent crime area, but—”

  He silenced her with a wave of his hand, then grabbed one of the photos she’d handed him during her analysis. He stalked across the office and thrust the photo in front of her. “Take a good look, Agent MacGregor,” he said in a harsh, biting tone. “That’s the kind of sick shit we see down here every single day, sometimes it’s a hell of a lot worse. Sometimes it’s kids in this condition. I’ve watched seasoned agents under my command puke all over their shoes at less.

  “This isn’t exactly a Hallmark card,” he continued, his dark brown eyes were as hard as his voice. “This is the handiwork of a sociopath with no regard for human life. How can you look at the mutilated corpse of a nineteen-year-old college student and not so much as blink?”

  “If I blink, I might miss something,” she said without missing a beat. This was her big chance, and she didn’t want to screw it up by blowing smoke up his ass, telling him what she thought he wanted to hear. She went with her instincts, and that meant being completely honest. “Emotional involvement is a luxury that can cloud the truth. If you can’t see clearly, then how many more nineteen-year-old college students will end up in this condition?”

  He offered her a brisk nod, then walked back to the desk to resume his previous stance. “This job will eat at you until there’s nothing left,” he said. “The divorce rate in this unit is high. Burnout is even higher. Why do you want to work for me when you can stay in CID, move up the ranks to unit chief in maybe another ten to fifteen years?”

  “Waiting it out in a cushy job until it’s time to draw my pension doesn’t interest me.” She had a good idea where the conversation was headed and it pissed her off that he hadn’t come right out and asked her about it.

  She stood and faced him. “You’ve read my personnel file. I wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t already had me thoroughly checked out,” she said, surprising herself by the steadiness of her voice. “What you want to know is what kind of Freudian bullshit is behind my wanting to join ISU. If the fact that a friend of mine was one of Gary John Wilton’s victims will have an adverse effect on my performance. The answer to both is no, but it is the reason I became an agent.”

  “Think you can save the world from all the monsters hiding under the bed, do you?”

  “No, sir,” she said firmly, wondering when he was going to tell her to hit the pavement. Now, or after he ripped her a new one for her impassioned speech. “Not all. Just the worst of them.”

  He nodded approvingly. “Fair enough.” He circled the desk and sat, the chair creaking under his weight.

  “Relax, MacGregor,” he said. “You’re under consideration for the job. I will personally be monitoring your progress on SEDSCAM. I know it doesn’t fall under my jurisdiction, but you can't be spared to run a test case out of this office. I discussed it with Burrows. He assures me the circumstances surrounding SEDSCAM are similar enough in theory to what we do here in NCACV for the case to be an effective gauge of your talent.”

  Great, she thought, careful to keep her opinion to herself. She was going to be judged on the case with zero leads.

  He looked at her sharply. “Does it bother you that I’ll be watching?”

  “No, not at all.” Liar, liar, pants on fire. “My job is to solve the case.”

  “You’ll have someone constantly looking over your shoulder if you’re going to be working for me. You better get used to it.”

  Great, she thought again. Or as Caruso would say, just goddamn peachy.

  11

  SUNNY WALKED into her office, closed the door and sagged against the smooth wood surface.

  Just like that, she thought, thumping the back of her head against the door, she was one bad guy away from her chances of ever trying out her new masculine-sensitive bedding. At this rate, she’d never have sex.

  She banged her head against the door again. And again before she winced and rubbed at the now tender spot. No way could she continue exploring the possibility of a relationship with Duncan. Not with the top cop she needed to impress breathing down her neck. With the SEDSCAM investigation under close scrutiny she couldn’t afford so much as a whisper of impropriety. One wrong word blown in Klabo’s direction and her shot at transferring to ISU would be history.

  She’d already screwed up. First, she’d allowed him to partake in the interview of a material witness, then to further complicate matters, she not only confirmed his suspicions about the Miami incident, by revealing one of the aliases used by the UNSUB, she’d totally ignored the rules in order to gain information from him. Under no circumstances did the Bureau release information regarding a suspect to a nongovernmental entity.

  She didn’t break rules, she upheld them. Order, structure, those were the words etched on her badge of honor. A badge she’d just gone and tarnished. And for what? So she could have hot, sweaty sex with a guy that set her on fire with a look, an unconscious touch or the sound of his deep, velvety smooth voice?

  Her head met the door for each, “Stupid, stupid, stupid,” she muttered.

  She pushed off the door before she caused herself serious brain damage. As much as it pained her neglected libido, she’d just have to cancel her date with D
uncan for tomorrow night. What else could she do? Once she concluded the SEDSCAM investigation, perhaps they could get involved, but why? Just so she could have her heart trampled later rather than sooner? Eventually he’d end up resenting her job, and if she did receive the transfer, her life would become even more complicated. Klabo had told her the divorce rate in the unit was the highest in the Bureau. She imagined budding relationships didn’t stand a chance with those odds.

  Shrugging out of the dark-olive linen blazer she’d worn over the matching sleeveless sheath, she hung the jacket on the hook on the back of the door, then slipped off her shoulder holster and locked it in the file cabinet. She heard a soft knock before the door opened tentatively.

  Georgia and Ned stood in the doorway, both looking at her expectantly.

  “What?” she said a tad too snappish. Good grief, if she was already getting cranky, by the time she closed SEDSCAM she was sure to be a raging bitch. Duncan was to blame. Him and his effortless ability to awaken her hibernating hormones. “Stop looking at me like that.”

  Georgia rolled her eyes and pushed her way into Sunny’s office. Ned followed on her heels. “How’d it go at ISU?” Georgia demanded.

  Sunny glared at Ned. “Big mouth,” she complained and closed the door again. She’d obviously made another mistake by trusting Ned to keep his yap shut about her meeting with Klabo. With an active investigation underway, she’d felt obligated to inform at least one member of her small team of her whereabouts. Georgia would’ve been her first choice because she knew the other woman could at least keep a secret. But since Georgia had been unavailable, she’d needed Ned around to take the call from the Dallas field office if it came in during her absence.

  “If the Russians get hold of you, our national security doesn’t stand a chance,” she griped at Ned.

  “Russia’s no longer the enemy.”

  He dared to grin at her when she was in the middle of a snit. She seriously considered giving him a good swift kick in his designer-covered backside with the pointed toe of her low-heeled black pumps.