All these years working around men in the unit has been good for something. Go figure.
17
January 22, 1984
Scott Meece sat on the floor in the corner of the living room behind the paisley couch. Man after man entered the apartment, each bearing a six-pack of beer.
Nick James, a six-foot-three man who strained the scales at 280 pounds, greeted his friends from the Brooklyn ironworkers union as they passed through the door.
Nick had moved his stuff into the apartment two weeks ago, the latest plaything Mary brought home from a bar off Fifty-Ninth Street. He made himself at home, arriving with a couple of suitcases that he left at the front door and made Scott and Phillip struggle to carry into the bedroom.
“Better get used to him,” their mother said. “Nick’s movin’ in. You’ll listen to him like you listen to me. You hear?”
That evening, he gave Scott an intense look, his gaze lingering way too long before Scott got creeped out and ran into his room. A week later, Nick stepped into the bathroom while Scott was peeing. He watched until Scott put himself away and flushed. Nick nodded approval, then left. Scott wanted to tell Phillip but was too embarrassed.
Now, as the small apartment crowded with men who looked and acted a lot like Nick—as if one was not enough—Scott decided to get out before it was too late and they started bossing him around. What’s more, he did not care about some stupid football game. In fact, he cared more about a different game, one that he could play himself instead of watching other guys, on television, having fun.
He slowly got up, hoping to slip out unnoticed, and headed for his room.
“Hey,” one of the men yelled. “Mary—get me a beer!”
“Get it your own fuckin’ self, Vinnie. What the hell do I look like, ya maid?”
“Super Bowl’s startin’. Don’t wanna miss the kickawf.”
“Giants and Jets ain’t playin’, so why do ya care?”
“It’s the big game,” Nick said, as if that would settle the matter. He held up a bottle. “This shit sucks.”
“Ain’t as good as Rheingold,” his friend agreed. “Miss it.”
Barry Manilow sang the National Anthem and the faces of Pat Summerall and John Madden filled the screen as the teams readied for the kickoff.
The Los Angeles Raiders scored first, a blocked punt recovered in the end zone toward the end of the first quarter.
By the third, Nick and his friends were laughing loudly, peeing all over the floor in the bathroom, and lounging on top of—and in front of—the sofa. They were talking nonsense, cheering, booing, and yelling.
Then a commercial during a break in the action caught their attention: some kind of futuristic scene from a movie none of them was familiar with, ending with a fit woman carrying a sledgehammer and hurling it at a movie screen. The impact caused an explosion, the following words scrolling up from the bottom:
On January 24, Apple Computer will
introduce Macintosh. And you’ll see
why 1984 won’t be like “1984.”
“I don’t get it,” Nick said.
“Yeah,” one of his less inebriated friends, said. “Like that book, 1984. Orwell. That’s what that was, like a scene from 1984. Big brother.”
“Whose big brother?” Nick asked.
Mary slapped the back of his head. “Phillip is Scott’s big brother, you doofus.”
Nick looked up, his body swaying left to right in the La-Z-Boy lounger. “I think I had too much.”
“You think? No question ’bout it,” Mary said. “Time for everyone to leave.”
“No fuckin’ way!” one of the men slurred.
“Game’s almost over,” Nick said. He held up his bottle. “Jusss like fifteen minutes left. Maybe an hour.”
Mary shook her head in disgust. “Last time we do this.”
“Gotta pee,” Nick said. He pulled himself out of the soft chair and, carrying his half-empty bottle with him, stumbled into the bathroom. After peeing—in the toilet, all over the toilet, and on the floor—he flushed and walked out. Passing Scott’s room, he stopped and heard something. Turned the knob.
Scott was hunched over the Nintendo Game & Watch. He must have heard the door open because he looked up. Nick tipped back the beer and drained the last ounce. He kicked the door closed behind him and locked it. Seconds later, his thick moist right hand was clamped over the boy’s mouth and he was pulling down his pants with the left.
He repeatedly jammed the end of the bottle into Scott’s rectum.
18
Russell sat back in his car seat and reclined it a few degrees. Vail was still in the office with the journalist. What the hell could they be discussing this long?
He stared at the roof and ran through the facts of the case. As he mulled some of Vail’s comments regarding the killer, his phone rang.
He leaned his left shoulder against the door and dug the handset out of his pocket. “Chief.”
“We need to talk, Detective.”
“Okay, sure. I’m listening.”
“Face-to-face.”
“I’ll be in at nine tom—”
“Not tomorrow. Tonight.”
Russell’s gaze flicked over to the dashboard clock. “It’s real late, Chief. Can’t we do this over the—”
“It may be late, but you’re still working.”
Russell moved his seat back into a driving position. “True. But … uh, how do you know?”
“I’m in the car behind you,” Ferraro said. “I expect my detectives to have better observational skills.”
Seconds later, Russell’s passenger car door opened and Ferraro sat down heavily.
This is kind of creepy.
“You just happen to be in the car behind me, Chief?”
“Yeah. That’s right. And good thing, too, because we need to discuss your collaboration with the FBI.”
“By FBI, do you mean Agent Vail? I, uh, I picked up on something when I introduced her and I hoped I was just reading into it.”
“And what did your honed detective skills detect?”
“Well, some … animosity on your part.”
“Oh,” Ferraro said with a sardonic chuckle, “you’re mistaken.”
Russell paused. He knew he had not misread Ferraro’s demeanor.
“Sir, with all due respect, I don’t think so.”
“Well here’s where you’re wrong. You sensed a lot more than just animosity. She’s a cancer. I don’t want her within two states of any of our cases. But since you already made the request and the taxpayers incurred significant expense to fly her here, I’ll give you a pass. Just make sure she doesn’t fuck us over.”
“She’s been helpful. No problems.”
“Give it time.”
Russell was not sure what to make of that comment. “Sir, if you can provide me some details as to what happened, I can be better prepared to handle—”
“Nothing I care to discuss. Just watch your back.”
“She was referred to me by an inspector with SFPD. I was there in San Francisco when she helped with a serial case. Couldn’t have broken it without her.”
“I don’t trust her. And I don’t know about you, but I value my career.”
“Thanks for the advice,” Russell said.
“It’s more than advice. It’s a warning.” Ferraro turned away and looked out the windshield.
Russell was quiet, staring—without realizing it—at his boss’s profile. When Ferraro turned to face him, Russell asked, “Can I ask why you don’t trust her?”
“I don’t owe you an explanation.”
“Of course not, but—”
“That said, I’ve been very happy with your work, so I’ll give you the courtesy of an answer. Let’s just say that I’m not comfortable with her working one of my
cases.”
Russell did not think much of that explanation. He shook his head. “I don’t understand, sir. Like I said, she’s been helpful. What’s the issue? Is it personal?”
Ferraro turned away. “That’s not a question for you to ask. And it’s not something you need to be concerned with. All you need to know is that she’ll cause problems.”
“I’ve obviously kept her in check. And I’ll continue to do that.”
“You’d better.” Ferraro swiveled and grabbed hold of the handle. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
A moment after Ferraro left his car, Vail returned. She slammed the door closed. “Bitch.”
“I take it things didn’t go as you’d planned.”
“Since I didn’t really expect much, I guess I can’t say I’m disappointed. Per se.”
“How’s that?”
“Disappointment is when reality falls short of expectations.”
“Ah. And yet you’re reacting as if you did expect a different result.”
“I had the journalist ready to say yes, that he’d hold the story for three days.”
“So a moral victory? No white lies?”
“No white lies, black lies, purple or blue. I told the truth. And I had him. I had him!” Vail slammed her right foot against the floorboard. “But then Queen Bitch walked in and shoved a rusty stake through my heart.”
Russell cringed. “That’s quite an image.”
“Kind of how I feel.”
“Wow.”
Vail turned to face him. “Wow? What’s that mean?”
“I didn’t take you as someone who’d admit defeat so easily.”
“You’ve known me … how many hours?”
“Doesn’t matter. I’ve seen you work. In San Francisco, remember? And here. You don’t let anyone or anything stand in your way.”
Vail grunted. “Yeah.”
“So we’ll deal with it. Okay?”
She nodded. Then yawned. “I’m just … very tired. That protein bar wore off.”
“So let me get you in bed.” He held up a hand. “So to speak.”
She yawned again.
He waved a hand in front of her face. “Sexually provocative Freudian slip. And no retort. Man, you are tired.”
She let her eyes close. “I wasn’t lying.”
He twisted the key and turned the engine over. “I set you up at a place in Waikiki. My buddy’s got an apartment in one of those high rises that’s mostly time-share condos.”
“Does it have a view of the beach?”
“Well not now. It’s midnight.”
Vail cracked open her left eye and pointed at him. “I deserved that.”
“I’ll leave it a mystery. You’ll see when you wake up.”
19
Vail’s lids fluttered open at 5:30 am. It was still dark out, so she made a cup of coffee, showered and dressed, then spent some time thinking about the case. When the sun rose, she pulled open the patio curtains and slider, stepped outside—and smiled. It was seventy degrees and the bright ball of orange was shimmering along the rippling surface of the Pacific Ocean.
Beach view? Check.
She stood there sipping her coffee and letting her mind wander somewhere out among the rolling waves. Her phone vibrated and she turned and retrieved it from the coffee table. “Hey honey. How’s it going?”
DEA Special Agent Roberto Enrique Umberto Hernandez laughed. “It’s snowing and twenty-one degrees in DC. How’s it going there?”
“About seventy. Sun is rising over the ocean and I’m enjoying a cup of rich Kauai coffee on the patio.”
“Sounds like life’s tough. Was that info on Hancock helpful?”
Vail laughed. “For sure. Now I know why the assistant chief of Honolulu PD hates me. Before it was just a mystery.”
“Sounds like you’re off to a great start.”
“Par for the course.”
“I’m glad you said it, not me. How’s the case going?”
“Different. Got us a poisoner. Another vic last night. But I think we’re making headway.”
“How long you expect to be there?”
Vail took another sip. “Who knows. As soon as I can get a better handle on what we’re looking at, where I can feel confident in what I’m seeing, I’ll give them my assessment and get the hell out of here. Doing a back-to-back isn’t my idea of a good time. I just want to feel your body next to mine.”
“Amen to that.”
“How’s your case going?”
“Eh.” Robby grunted. “Change the subject. Something happy.”
“I can do happy. Let’s talk about our wedding. How about doing it in Oahu?”
“You want everyone to fly to Hawaii? Like … a ten-hour flight? Kind of expensive.”
“Well we were talking about getting married out of town.”
“New Orleans. Or Boston. Or Rhode Island. An hour or two by plane.”
Okay, fine. “Have you seen Jonathan?”
“Had a late dinner with him last night. On campus. Big test coming up so probably won’t see him till after.”
“Miss you.”
“Steer clear of the serial killer, okay?”
“Don’t I always?”
“No, Karen, you don’t. That’s why I felt the need to say that.”
“Fair enough. And you—DEA Special Agent Roberto Hernandez—just say no to drugs.”
“I do, every day. Love you.”
“Love you too.”
Vail hung up and spent another moment watching the sun clear the horizon, then phoned Russell.
“Like the view?”
“What view?”
There was a second’s hesitation before Russell said, “The beach.”
“That’s cruel,” she said, gazing out over the Pacific. “My room overlooks a parking lot.”
“No way. He told me it was one of his nicest units in—”
“It’s fantastic. The ocean is so … I don’t know … calming.”
“Unlike your personality.”
“Ow. That hurts.”
“You’re such a liar,” Russell said. “But I still want your help. I’ll be by in half an hour.”
“Make it a couple of hours. Pick me up at the beach.”
“Negatory,” Russell said. “Half an hour. Out front by the valet stand.”
20
Vail reluctantly bypassed the beach and instead headed to the elevator, mulling the particulars of the case and the paucity of behaviors the UNSUB exhibited. Was she wrong about the gender?
No. Could I defend it in the unit’s Wednesday morning roundtable? No again.
If there was a rock nearby, she would kick it.
As she exited in the lobby, she saw a stack of Waikiki Vacationer newspapers on the concierge counter. The bold headline screamed at her as if it had a voice:
Famous FBI Profiler Spotted
At Local Crime Scene
Serial killer loose on Oahu
I’m famous?
Vail snagged a copy of the issue and looked at the byline: Travis Sharkey. She now had his last name—but still could not place him. Google, however, gave her the answer within thirty seconds: Sharkey was a longtime journalist who cut his teeth in Napa County on the Crush Killer case, which Vail not only worked, but it was one that had significant implications for her personally as well as her career.
Regardless, she did not remember him. Maybe there was nothing more to it than that: he covered the case for his newspaper. Perhaps they had a passing interaction—or altercation. And perhaps not. He could be trying to get inside her head by implying there was something more between them. Or he was merely trying to establish familiarity so she would talk to him.
Joke’s on you, Travis. Didn’t work.
But Sharkey and Warren got the last laugh, because they published the piece despite her pleas not to. Time would tell whether or not the offender would react.
She realized she was clenching her jaw.
Take a breath, Karen. Nothing you can do about it now. Cat’s out of the bag.
Which made her wonder … why was the cat in the bag in the first place?
Humor did not help. She scrutinized the photo of her, which was an old one from her early Bureau days.
Damn, I looked so much younger.
She started to read the article while slowly making her way to the front of the resort, taking care not to trip on the granite steps.
A few moments later, she heard, “Hey, babe. Come take a walk on the wild side.”
She looked up, ready to slug the asshole. But it was Adam Russell, leaning over in the driver’s seat and peering through the open passenger window. A broad smile spread his lips.
Vail climbed into his sedan and held up the paper.
“What?” he said. “We knew that was coming. Don’t act so surprised.”
“I’m not. I’m pissed. Frustrated. Because now the UNSUB knows the cops are keyed in to him.”
“Not exactly,” Russell said as he turned left onto Ala Moana Boulevard. “All he can conclude is that we realize this wasn’t a natural death. For all he knows, you’re here on vacation.”
“Nice try. Unless he’s dumb as a sack of hammers, there’s no way he won’t put two and two together. Profiler at a crime scene—his crime scene—and multiple victims in one city. This is what we used to call an organized offender. A bright planner. I were him, I’d be heading for the airport, if he’s not already on the way.”
“I’ve put TSA on alert. They’ve increased the number of frisks on males over forty.”
Vail looked at the article again.
“At least they chose a nice photo of you.”
She snorted. “Yeah from about twenty years ago. Just reminded me that I don’t look like this anymore.”
“I could comment here, give you a compliment, but then you could sue me for harassment.”
“Do you really think I’d sue you for harassment?”
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