After he parked the car, Lorenzon led the way into the police department, where Morgan felt he’d stepped through some sort of time warp.
Police stations just didn’t look like this anymore. Hotch and JJ had both commented on the place as a security nightmare and were they right: no bulletproof glass, three officers within sight of the front door, making easy targets. A female officer, who had probably stood on her tiptoes to meet the height requirement, paused on the other side of the counter from them.
‘‘May I help you?’’ she asked.
Before either man could say a word, a door to their right swung open and a tall man in jeans and a blue work shirt sauntered in. He had a shaved head and dark eyes that clouded with anger when he spotted Lorenzon.
‘‘What the hell,’’ he said, his voice carrying through the nearly empty room, ‘‘are you doing back here, Lorenzon? Don’t they give you any crimes to solve in Chicago?’’ He moved through the swinging gate.
Unshaken, Lorenzon turned to Morgan. ‘‘Supervisory Special Agent Derek Morgan, meet Detective Jake Denson, Wauconda PD.’’
‘‘Another goddamn fed?’’ Denson asked, making no effort to shake hands as he drew closer.
Morgan grinned, refusing to rise to the bait. ‘‘Yeah, I know you must feel invaded. But we need to talk to you. . . .’’
‘‘What about?’’ Denson demanded, really putting on a show for his buddies now.
‘‘. . . in private.’’
Morgan removed his grin and gave Denson a hard stare.
‘‘You strut in here and tell me what to do?’’ Denson said. ‘‘Suppose I don’t feel like talking to you?’’
Morgan took a half step closer and dropped his voice so only the detective could hear. ‘‘That’s cool. Then I’ll have the supreme pleasure of disarming you, cuffing you, and, with the help of my friend Lorenzon here, dragging your ass out in front of all your pals, and all the way down to the FBI field office to question you there. If that’s how you want this to play out, hey, it’s your call.’’
A tense silence hung in the room as Denson’s eyes bore into him and Morgan let the detective see the calm determination that told the local boy he meant every word.
‘‘All right,’’ Denson said. He nodded behind him. ‘‘The chief’s office.’’
‘‘Lead the way.’’
Denson took off quickly, Morgan and Lorenzon keeping up. A minute later, they were behind the closed door of an office.
‘‘Where’s Chief Oliver?’’ Lorenzon asked.
‘‘Family vacation,’’ Denson said. ‘‘He won’t be back for a week. Now, what the hell are you two doing, coming on my turf and threatening me?’’
‘‘I didn’t threaten you,’’ Morgan said coolly. ‘‘I was just providing you an option.’’
‘‘Fuck you, fed! You can’t come in here and bully me like I’m your dog and I just crapped on the rug. This is my house. We don’t want to join your goddamn task force, so you’re wasting your time coming back around trying to bully me into it.’’
Morgan laughed, once. ‘‘That’s why you think we’re here?’’
Denson’s face turned crimson as his hands balled into fists.
Lorenzon stood close to their host. ‘‘You better dial it down a notch or two, Jake, because my friend here will break your ass in public or private, doesn’t matter to him. And you definitely want to scale back the fuck-you rhetoric.’’
Morgan, not really wanting a fight in either place, said in a businesslike way, ‘‘We’re here to talk to you about Bobby Edels.’’
Denson’s face morphed from anger to confusion. ‘‘Who the hell is Bobby Edels?’’
Is that genuine surprise? Morgan wondered. If it’s an act, it’s damn good. . . .
‘‘Bobby Edels,’’ Lorenzon said, ‘‘is the kid who ended up dead in a barrel in Chinatown—I showed you that picture.’’
‘‘That’s his name?’’ Denson asked. ‘‘You didn’t give me a name.’’
‘‘We didn’t have one at the time.’’
Again, Morgan wondered if they were being put on. ‘‘He was identified this morning, Detective Denson.’’
‘‘Doesn’t mean diddly to me.’’
‘‘It should—you filed a complaint against him and the crew he worked with at Fix-It Mate.’’
‘‘What? This vic was on that worthless crew?’’
‘‘That’s right.’’
‘‘Hell, I didn’t know any of those guys,’’ Denson said, with a dismissive wave. ‘‘Did it say I singled out this Edel or Edsel or whatever? ’Cause I don’t think I did. I remember complaining about the entire crew, because they did a lousy-ass job and left a humongous mess behind.’’
Morgan studied the man. ‘‘That’s all it was? Just some bad craftsmanship?’’
‘‘Hey, come home with me now, if you don’t believe me,’’ Denson said, his voice rising as his agitation grew again. ‘‘Look at my damn garage and make up your own mind about the ‘craftsmanship.’ ’’
Looking to keep his quarry off balance, Morgan asked, ‘‘Aren’t you investigating the murders of Donna Cooper and Casey Goddard?’’
‘‘What of it?’’
‘‘I was just curious—did you know either of them before they were murdered?’’
‘‘Yeah,’’ Denson said. ‘‘I knew them both—they worked at the convenience store up around the corner. It’s a small town, in case you didn’t notice. That’s why I’m working so hard to catch the bastard that did this. What are you getting at?’’
Morgan held Denson’s eyes. ‘‘There have been five bodies in this case and you’ve got ties to three of them.’’
‘‘Wait a minute,’’ Denson said, his eyes narrowing. ‘‘Wait a minute. . . . You’re not trying to muscle us into joining your damned task force? You’re here because you think I’m a suspect?’’
‘‘You’re a detective,’’ Morgan said. ‘‘Look at the facts—what would you think? Person of interest, certainly.’’
Denson pointed at the door like a father banishing a wayward daughter in an old-time melodrama. ‘‘I think you need to get the hell out! And I’m not going to talk to you again without a lawyer present.’’
Morgan and Lorenzon didn’t move.
‘‘You think I’m bullshitting you?’’ Denson demanded, eyes and nostrils flaring. ‘‘Get the hell out of here! You’re not dragging me into your shit.’’
They surely didn’t have enough to bring Denson in, so—having no choice—they left before the confrontation degenerated any further.
As they pulled away slowly from the PD, Morgan thought he could feel Denson’s eyes on him through the chief’s window, but he did not turn to look. He kept his focus on the windshield, looking for the convenience store Denson had mentioned.
He asked the Chicago detective, ‘‘What’s your gut telling you?’’
Lorenzon stopped at a red light. ‘‘My gut believes him, and so do I. I think it’s a coincidence.’’
‘‘You have any idea, bro, how many serial killers have tried to join law enforcement over the years? The mental test can’t screen them all out.’’
‘‘I hear you,’’ Lorenzon admitted. ‘‘But I just don’t think anybody’s that good an actor.’’
‘‘I’ll give you that,’’ Morgan said. ‘‘But we’ll see.’’
They traded a look.
‘‘Do me a favor,’’ Morgan said. ‘‘Take a right and stop at that convenience store on the next corner. I want to get something to drink.’’
Lorenzon shook his head. ‘‘Your boss is going to kick your ass, and I’m going to get mine fired.’’
After a chuckle, Morgan said, ‘‘Is that all? Tate, I want a damn Coke. Is that against the law in Chicago?’’
‘‘We’re not in Chicago. We’re in Wauconda.’’
‘‘Do they sell Cokes at convenience stores in Wauconda?’’
Lorenzon shook his head. ‘‘Damn. This is a
bout as bad as when you wanted us to steal that car when we were kids.’’
‘‘Hey, we never did that.’’
‘‘ ’Cause you got scared.’’
‘‘Bull,’’ Morgan said. ‘‘I got smart. We rolled up on that heap and I just got this flash we’d get caught and go to jail and then to prison and—’’
Interrupting, Lorenzon said, ‘‘Funny, I just had that flash now.’’
He turned the car to the left, away from the convenience store. ‘‘You can get a damn Coke when we get to the expressway.’’
Morgan patted his friend’s arm. ‘‘Yeah, I’ll settle for that. Right before we get on the expressway. I’m buying.’’
‘‘You’re all heart, bro. Gonna buy me dinner too?’’
‘‘I might at that.’’ Morgan took his phone off his belt and punched the speed dial and got an answer after only one ring. ‘‘Mom, how are you?’’
‘‘Derek! Fine, fine—you’re in town?’’
‘‘Sure am. You and the girls free for dinner?’’
‘‘We can be, if you’re coming by. I can cook us something, real quick, and—’’
‘‘No sale, Mom! Home-cooking another night. We’re going out. Tate’s driving, and we’ll be by to pick you up in . . .’’
He glanced at Lorenzon who mouthed, ‘‘An hour or so.’’
‘‘. . . an hour or so,’’ Morgan said. ‘‘Can you call the girls?’’
‘‘I’ll take care of it,’’ his mother said. ‘‘It’ll be good to see Tate! He’s been way too long a stranger.’’
‘‘An hour then. Love you, Mom!’’
He ended the call.
‘‘That woman loves me like I was her own, you know,’’ Lorenzon said. ‘‘Always treated me like family.’’
Morgan chuckled. ‘‘Much as you were eatin’ our food, maybe she thought you were family.’’
‘‘Ain’t my fault she kept inviting me to stay for dinner.’’
She had done that many a night because Tate’s mother wasn’t always home. Both Morgan’s mom and Tate’s were single parents working hard to make a better life, but Mrs. Lorenzon worked a lot more nights than days and Tate had done more than his fair share of homework at Morgan’s. They had also found lots of ways to get in trouble together.
Glancing at his old friend, Morgan decided they had both turned out pretty well. They could easily have wound up going down the wrong path, but thanks to their mothers—and each other—they had stayed true to the way they’d been raised.
Morgan knew that very likely their UnSub’s family life had been far worse than either his or Tate’s. People who mistreated their kids raised people who mistreated others—sometimes such people took their rage out as verbal and even physical abuse on their own families; but sometimes that rage became something even more monstrous and reached out into the world, to make the world suffer, too. . . .
But one thing was certain: UnSubs usually had a lot more trouble in their family histories than Tate Lorenzon and Derek Morgan.
And as they wove through traffic, Morgan couldn’t help but wonder what kind of home life Jake Denson had had.
Chapter Six
July 30 Chicago, Illinois
Supervisory Special Agent Aaron Hotchner had his back to the laptop screen when Garcia’s voice behind him called, "Sir?"
Hotchner turned to the flat screen, and for one odd moment he recalled watching the old I Dream of Jeannie show on TV as a child—their computer tech’s pleasant, pretty face on a laptop screen somehow made her the BAU’s resident genie, capable of modern magic.
‘‘You have something, Garcia?’’
‘‘Yes, sir. I think I found Bobby Edels’s car.’’
‘‘Where?’’
‘‘There’s a navy blue 1995 Honda Civic,’’ Garcia said, ‘‘with a vehicle identification number matching Edels’s in a lot owned by a towing company in Lincoln Park.’’
‘‘And where is that?’’
‘‘It’s an area of the city that runs from Lincoln Park Zoo on the east to Clybourn on the west, from Diversey Parkway on the north to, fittingly enough, North Avenue on the south.’’
Hotchner couldn’t help but smile; Garcia always overdid it a little with him, and was more formal than with anyone else on the team, since she’d embarrassed herself in front of him, a few times, with her chummy, even flirty relationship with Derek Morgan.
‘‘I’m sorry, Garcia. I meant where’s the towing company?’’
‘‘Oh. Sorry, sir. On Lincoln Avenue between Armitage and Dickens.’’
‘‘Do we know how the car got there? And how it escaped notice of the local police?’’
Garcia brightened. ‘‘Yes, sir. It took a little digging, but I tracked that down.’’
‘‘And?’’
‘‘Bobby Edels disappeared on March twenty-first. The North Barrington police ran his plates the next day and came up empty. The car disappeared until this morning, when the company, Buccaneer Towing, filed to get the title of the car, so they could sell it. That’s how I found it. And that’s where it’s sitting— in Buccaneer Towing’s lot.’’
‘‘How could they file for title? What’s that about?’’
‘‘That means the vehicle has gone unclaimed for one-hundred-twenty days. And that gives Buccaneer the right to file title claim.’’
‘‘They’re an aptly named company.’’
Her face on the screen froze a little; he could almost see a dozen quips passing behind those eyes, but because it was Hotchner, she wouldn’t share an ‘‘Aye aye, matey’’ or ‘‘Arrrrrr’’ with him. He was tempted to share one with her, but, truth be told, he preferred her in this more businesslike mode.
So he just told her, ‘‘Good job,’’ and signed off.
The area detectives were out in the field with Rossi, Reid and Morgan, running down leads. Jareau was upstairs with SAIC Raymond Himes going over logistical matters. That left only Prentiss, hard at work on the victimology of the crimes, in the conference room with Hotchner. He considered not bothering her and going upstairs to request an agent from the local office, but talked himself out of it.
Turning to Prentiss, who was hunkered over her laptop computer, Hotchner asked, ‘‘Interested in taking a break?’’
Prentiss stretched. ‘‘When the boss suggests I take a break, I take a break. What did you have in mind?’’
‘‘How about taking a ride?’’
Prentiss displayed her dazzling smile and said, ‘‘Let me guess—this is not an invitation to enjoy a gently breezy day in the Windy City. You have somewhere you want to go, and you don’t know your way around the city.’’
Shrugging, Hotchner said, ‘‘It still qualifies as a break.’’
‘‘A break, or work away from this conference room,’’ Prentiss said. ‘‘Either way, I’m in.’’
‘‘Do you know where Lincoln Park is?’’
‘‘Yes, sir. Piece of cake.’’
An hour later, they’d made the jog up Lincoln Avenue, past the Lincoln Park Zoo, and the legendary Second City comedy club just off Lincoln on Wells. Cruising northwest now, as they passed Armitage, Prentiss started looking for a parking place.
They were a block up and around a corner before she found one. The Buccaneer Towing lot would have been hard to miss, with its sign painted on the side of a junked car sitting atop a twenty-foot-high steel pole. The lot was surrounded by a seven-foot cyclone fence with canvas attached on the inside, in an effort not to be a neighborhood eyesore— meaning, someone figured a square block of seven-foot green canvas was somehow less of a blight than a lot full of parked cars.
A mobile home next to the lot’s front gate served as the office of Buccaneer Towing. Hotchner held the glass door open for Prentiss, then followed her in.
The interior design was 1980s metal desk chic. They stood temporary sentinel between the front door and a twelve-inch color TV and a coffee urn that were perched on a table against the back wall.
Louvered windows were just clean enough to let in light but little more.
The desk on the left, nearer the door, was occupied by an Hispanic woman in her early twenties, her long, black hair pulled up in a bun; she had the high cheekbones of a model and the world-weary smile of not a model, and wore a black sleeveless button-down blouse and jeans. One the desk itself were a huge logbook, a telephone with five lines, a computer keyboard and monitor. The computer tower resided on the floor next to the desk, a mouse on the pull-out leaf.
The desk at right was recessed a foot or two from its twin and Hotchner’s reading of the setup was that the woman had secretary/receptionist duties, while the male occupant of this other desk actually ran the place. The male’s desk had a stacked in-and-out box, a newspaper open to a crossword puzzle, a pen next to it, and a phone. On the back wall, a two-way radio perched on a shelf.
The boss, maybe fifty and balding, had a squat, troll-like look, as if he’d hopped off a tall building, landed on his feet and compacted himself. He wore a white short-sleeve shirt and what was probably a clip-on tie, red-and-blue stripes.
Prentiss showed her credentials to the probable receptionist, who immediately glanced over at the boss.
‘‘That’s okay,’’ Hotchner said to her with a trace of a smile. ‘‘We’ll introduce ourselves.’’
Turning to the heavyset man behind the other desk, Hotchner again displayed his credentials.
‘‘FBI—Supervisory Special Agent In Charge Aaron Hotchner and Supervisory Special Agent Emily Prentiss.’’
The squat little man made no move to stand or to offer a handshake. His eyes held a cold but unconcerned suspicion. In an undistinguished second tenor, he asked, ‘‘What can I do for you?’’
Putting away his credentials, Hotchner said, ‘‘To start with, what’s your name?’’
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