Dead Wrong

by Mariah Stewart

  Miranda pushed her hair back from her face and started on the next file. One case in Wyoming caught her attention, as did one in West Virginia. She faxed inquiries to the investigating police departments before checking the time. It was ten after seven in the morning. She’d been at her computer since four.

  She answered her cell phone on the second ring.

  “Miranda?” a deep male voice asked.

  “Yes? Who’s this?”

  “I don’t know if you’ll remember me. My name is Aidan Shields and I—”

  “Oh, for cryin’ out loud, Shields.” She burst out laughing. “What do you think, after a year, everyone’s memory has been erased?”

  “Well, it’s been a while since we worked together—”

  “Aidan, it’s good to hear from you.” She cut him off, sparing him the need to offer further excuses or to explain where he’d been. As if she didn’t know. As if everyone he’d ever worked with at the Bureau didn’t know. “Hey, I hear you’ve got a cushy new gig these days.”

  “Well, it’s not really a—”

  “Oh, come on, I hear you’ve been hanging out with Dr. McCall’s very pretty sister,” she teased. “There are a lot of guys who would have paid handsomely for that privilege, had Annie given them a chance.”

  “Oh, we’re hanging out together, all right. I follow her to work, follow her home, make sure her doors and windows are locked at night. I walk her dog a couple of times a day and stand ready to slay any dragons that might try to slip in. All in all, it’s been a pretty demanding week.”

  “Stop. I’m getting jealous.”

  “I’ll bet.” He paused only momentarily before getting right to the point of the call. “I hear you’re involved in this case. The Mary Douglases.”

  “Annie told you everything, I’m sure.”

  “She did. Anything new?”

  “Not yet. And yes, I’d tell you if there was. I mean, since you’re involved and everything.”

  He was very quiet for a minute, causing her to wonder if he was still on the line.

  “Listen, Miranda, do you remember that case we worked together about six years ago? In Ohio? Rockledge, I think, and I think it was one of your first times in the field.”

  “It was my first time in the field.” She nodded, then realized that she wasn’t so surprised to hear from him after all. “It’s funny you called about that. I’ve been thinking about that case. The victim’s name was Jenny Green. . . .”

  “Yeah. There was something about the way Annie described the murder scenes here that made me think of that one. Not that the women were killed the same way, but the way the scene was set so carefully . . . the way the killer covered the faces of his victims. . . .” His voice trailed off.

  “That’s exactly what I was thinking, too. That something felt the same.”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know if Jenny Green’s killer was ever found?”

  “No.”

  “Me, either. Shortly after I’d finished interviewing several suspects, I was transferred to John’s unit. I never did hear, one way or the other.” She tapped her pencil on the side of a half-empty cardboard coffee cup. “But I know how to find out.”

  “You’ll fill me in?”

  “Give me your number.” She wrote down both his cell and Mara’s home number. “I’ll let you know as soon as I hear something.”

  Her first call was to the Rockledge, Ohio, Police Department.

  Then she dialed FBI headquarters.

  Sitting back in the upholstered chair next to the window, she pulled open the drapes with one hand to see what the world looked like that morning while she waited for her call to be answered. She smiled when she heard the craggy voice of Eileen Gibson, the receptionist for the unit headed by John Mancini and the woman referred to as the Little General by Mancini’s staff. Strictly behind her back of course, though the woman was well aware of the nickname.

  “Hi, it’s Cahill.”

  “Which one?” Eileen asked dryly.

  “Sorry. I wasn’t aware that my sister was checking in through this number these days. I thought she was still out of the country on assignment.”

  “May I assume, then, that this is your way of identifying yourself as Agent M. Cahill rather than Agent P.?”

  “You may.” Miranda paused, then dropped her voice and asked, “Portia hasn’t called in through this line, has she?”

  “Not that I’m aware.”

  “Okay. Just checking. You never know when . . . well, when she’ll pop up.” Miranda’s twin sister, Portia, had joined the terrorist unit that had expanded after 9/11 and had gone abroad. Even Miranda wasn’t sure where.

  “Yes, ma’am.” Miranda heard a rustling sound. Eileen was rummaging in her purse for something. “Now, what can I do for you this morning, Agent Cahill?”

  “I’d like to speak with Mr. Mancini, if he’s in.”

  “He won’t be in until Tuesday of next week.”

  “I thought he was supposed to be back from his honeymoon this past Monday.”

  “He’s in Michigan for something or other.” Eileen’s shorthand for I know but I’m not telling you. “But Agent Snow has been back to work for three or four days now. Not a very romantic way to end a honeymoon, if you ask me, with the groom going in one direction and the bride in another.”

  “I’m sure they’re both used to it,” Miranda noted. John Mancini’s new bride, Genna Snow, was a longtime agent herself. Over the past two years, Miranda figured, the couple had spent almost as much time apart as together but had somehow managed to make that work for them.

  “So,” Eileen said somewhat firmly, the extent of her tolerance for chitchat having been exceeded, “who did you say you wanted to speak with?”

  “I didn’t. I was hoping to catch up with John.” Miranda thought for a moment. “How about Catherine Clark? She in this morning?”

  “No. If you’re looking for someone from your unit, the only one in so far is Agent Fletcher.”

  “Will Fletcher?”

  “He’s the only Fletcher we have.”

  And the last person Miranda felt like dealing with just then.

  Will Fletcher was a loose thread that Miranda just hadn’t gotten around to tying off, and wasn’t sure that she’d be ready to any time soon. For now, she felt it was best to leave it that way.

  “Hurry up, Cahill, my tea’s getting cold.”

  “Could you put me into his voice mail?”

  “Sure thing.”

  “Thanks.”

  “The pleasure’s all mine. Now, Agent Cahill, you be sure to have a nice day.”

  “You, too, Eileen.”

  Miranda drummed impatient fingers on the desk in her hotel room and waited for the recorded message to begin.

  “Fletcher.”

  Damn. She’d specifically asked for his voice mail.

  “This is Agent Fletcher. Who’s on the line?”

  “Cahill,” she sighed, trying not to let her annoyance show.

  “Miranda?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, well.” She could visualize him as he leaned back in his well-worn chair and rocked it slightly from side to side. “To what do I owe the honor?”

  “I need a file.” Might as well cut to the chase.

  “Which one?”

  “One from about six years ago.”

  “Victim? Locale?”

  “Jenny Green. Southern Ohio.”

  He paused. She could almost hear him thumbing through his mental files. “Middle-aged blonde. Attacked in her home. Strangled. Raped . . .” He retrieved the information easily.

  It had been said within the Bureau that Will Fletcher was born with a computer chip in his head and therefore never forgot anything, including the most minute details of every crime scene he’d ever worked. Miranda knew him well enough to know that it was true. She also knew that, for Will, it hadn’t always been a good thing to be able to pull up all of the details so readily.

&
nbsp; “Yes. That’s the one.”

  “What did you need?”

  “I interviewed several suspects. I’d like a copy of the interviews and my report.”

  “Sure. Where do you want them sent?”

  “Can you email the files to me?”

  “Soon as I can pull it out of the system. Assuming it’s in the system.”

  “Thanks.”

  A long, vaguely uncomfortable silence followed.

  “So, how are things in Pennsylvania?”

  “How do you know everything?” She’d promised herself that she wouldn’t let him get to her in any way, but he never failed to exasperate her. “You’re just an agent, like the rest of us. How do you know where everyone is?”

  He laughed good-naturedly. “Process of elimination. Mancini’s in Michigan with Clark and Moss. I’m here with Martinez and Wheeler. Stark and Jeffers are back in North Carolina. I know a team went to PA. You, Jake, and Cosmo are the only ones left, but Cosmo’s wife just had a baby. A case like this, they’d only send two of you anyway.”

  “You’re so annoying, Fletcher.”

  He laughed again. “You’re so easy to annoy, Cahill.”

  Before she could respond, he asked, “So what’s it look like? Are there any leads?”

  “No leads. The police are interviewing all of the remaining M. Douglases in the phone book to see if they can smoke out anything. Other than that, there’s been nothing.”

  “Forensic reports in?”

  “Not all of them. There’s some trace—some carpet fibers that are so totally generic that it would take several lifetimes to track down everyone who has ever purchased it. Our guy wore gloves, there’s no prints, so right now, there’s nothing to compare. He left nothing of himself behind that we can see. Nothing, at least, that we can trace back to him.”

  “So what’s the connection to Jenny Green?”

  “I don’t know that there is one. I just wanted to check into something, that’s all.”

  “That case is still open, last I heard.”

  “I’m aware.” She hadn’t been but didn’t want to admit that to him.

  “I seem to recall that we interviewed about a dozen suspects in that case.”

  “Yes.”

  “Anyone stand out in your mind?”

  “Maybe.” She nodded. “Maybe . . .”

  “His name?”

  “I don’t remember.” She picked at a cuticle. She hated admitting this to him. He would remember, if he’d done the interview.

  “Then I’ll send all the statements that we have to you.” She heard the clicking of his keyboard. He’d be pulling up the information as they spoke. “So what about this crime scene reminded you of that one? Jenny Green was strangled, and these new killings are stabbings, right?”

  “Yes. But there’s a similar note, a similar feel, even beyond the obvious, that the killers covered the victims’ faces. There’s a definite methodology to both crimes, a real deliberate feel to both. . . .”

  “And what stands out in your mind about this one suspect?”

  “I don’t know. I just had an odd feeling about him. The entire time I was interviewing him, he gave me the impression that the whole thing amused him. I felt as if he was playing with me. As if he knew something that he knew I’d never find out.” She sighed. “Then again, it was my first crime scene. Maybe I just imagined—”

  “Nah, your instincts have always been right on track. Trust them.”

  It was the closest thing to a compliment that he’d given her in a long time.

  “Thanks.”

  “Don’t let it go to your head. You going to try to track him down?”

  “May not be that easy. Back then, I had wanted to bring him in for a second interview, but he had already disappeared.”

  “Look, I’ll try to locate your interview and send it to you. Then I’ll run through the system and see if we get any hits on similar unsolved murders, and I’ll get in touch with the police department that investigated—”

  “The system has been searched for like crimes, and I already sent them a fax. Thanks anyway.”

  “Oh. Then why’d you call me?”

  “Because I wanted a copy of my interview with this particular suspect now, not when the Rockledge, Ohio, PD gets around to sending it, that’s why.”

  “I’ll take care of it right away, Agent Cahill.”

  “Thank you, Agent Fletcher.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  She cursed to herself as another one of those silences settled in between them.

  “Cahill?” His voice softened.

  “Yes?”

  “Take it easy, hear? Be careful.”

  “Not to worry, Will. My name’s not Mary Douglas.”

  “All the same, if this turns out to be the same man you interviewed six years ago, chances are he’ll remember you.” He wisely chose not to annoy her by enumerating everything that a man might find memorable about Agent Miranda Cahill. “Stay in the background at the press conferences and try to keep your face out of the newspapers.”

  “Too late. Anne Marie and I were both asked to attend the press conference day before yesterday.”

  “I heard she was putting together a profile. And something about her sister . . .”

  “Annie wasted no time in making sure the Bureau put this one on the front burner. Her sister is named Mara. Her married name is Douglas.” She sighed. “There isn’t much that doesn’t get into your pipeline, is there?”

  “Annie called in, early in the week. She was concerned that the locals couldn’t keep a close enough eye on her sister. She mentioned that she was going to arrange for someone to stay with Mara, someone she could trust to watch out for her.”

  “She has. Aidan Shields.”

  “Yeah, I heard.”

  “Of course you did,” she muttered under her breath.

  “Last I knew, they were still trying to put his leg back together. And I thought he was still out on medical leave.”

  “He is. He’s doing this strictly as a favor.”

  “Annie couldn’t have come up with anyone better than Shields.”

  “I agree.”

  He blew out a long breath. “He was right up there with the best. He and his brothers, the three of them. Damned shame about Dylan. Damned shame.”

  “Think Aidan will ever come back, even if he can pass the physical?”

  “It would be the Bureau’s loss if he doesn’t. Whether he passes the physical or not,” he murmured thoughtfully. Then, all business again, “Anything else I can do you for today?”

  “I think we’ve covered everything we need to,” she said, knowing that was a lie, that they had covered everything except what most needed to be said.

  “Keep in touch, then.”

  “Sure thing. Oh, and don’t forget to call me if you get a hit on the—” But he’d already disconnected.

  She hung up slowly, feeling just a little bruised, as she always did after she’d had a brush with him, and feeling that the air still hadn’t been cleared. That maybe they’d never get around to saying the things that needed to be said. That maybe the loose thread that had been hanging between them for the past seven or eight months was still hanging there, waiting to be pulled . . .

  That maybe it didn’t matter to anyone but her.

  She called room service and ordered breakfast, then turned back to her computer and waited for the promised file to arrive.

  CHAPTER

  EIGHT

  UNDER HER DESK, MARA’S LEFT FOOT TAPPED IMPAtiently as she listened to the judge’s law clerk recite the latest rescheduling of that afternoon’s custody hearing involving five children whose mother and father were both once again incarcerated for possession with intent to deliver a hefty stash of cocaine. The judge had already granted the postponement, meaning that the children would remain in foster care for yet another three weeks at best. Three weeks they could be spending with their maternal aunt, who lived out of state but
who desperately wanted to bring the children to live with her.

  “Don’t growl at me, Ms. Douglas,” the clerk snapped. “I’m just the messenger. Take it up with Judge Fisk if you have a problem with his decision.”

  Mara dropped the receiver quietly into its cradle. How fortunate for the parents that they’d drawn that particular judge, one who was notoriously lenient when it came to protecting the rights of the mother and father. Other judges were not always as accommodating.

  Of course, she thought as she gazed out the window on a perfectly brilliant April morning, she’d heard the judge liked a good golf game, and this was, by all accounts, the first really good golf day in weeks.

  Cynic, she scolded herself and returned that afternoon’s scheduled file and its reports and interviews to the folder. She wouldn’t be needing it for a while. She glanced at her agenda for the following week, debating which case could most benefit from the extra time she had on her hands.

  Jenner v. Jenner was coming up on Friday, and there were still several interviews she wanted to look over one last time. She searched through the piles on her floor until she found the file, then hoisted it onto her desk. She tugged at the inner manila folder to dislodge it from the overstuffed master, then searched for the interviews she’d conducted when she’d first been assigned to the case and settled in to refresh her memory.

  When she finally glanced up to check the time, she was surprised to find it well past noon. She stood and stretched, suddenly mindful of the low rumblings from her stomach. She poked her head from her office, hoping to find someone who might be interested in running out to pick up a sandwich, but it appeared that she was alone in her section of the hall. She hesitated for a moment, then grabbed her purse and set out for the stairwell.

  Of course, it occurred to her to call Aidan to join her, but it seemed, well, silly for him to drive from her house merely to accompany her to the hot dog stand out front. Besides, she was hardly alone in the courthouse, the front lawn of which was filled with employees and jurors and townspeople out to enjoy the sunshine. There was no reason for her not to join them.