“No. It looks like something a teenage girl might do.”
“Of course, if this note was from Justin,” Morgan said, “he could have gotten someone to write it for him by convincing them it was a practical joke.”
That possibility hadn’t occurred to me, but I still didn’t believe the note was Justin’s handiwork.
“He was too upset to do something like this,” I said. “I don’t think he would have bothered with it.” A thought suddenly occurred to me. “Do you think the people he’s frightened of could have left the note? If he told them about me as he threatened he would, maybe they left the note on the door.”
Morgan’s eyes dropped to my desk, and he was silent for a moment. “Did anyone here see a stranger in the hall?”
“I asked at the office, but the secretaries said they hadn’t seen anything unusual.”
Morgan put his hand over his mouth and yawned. “This is probably nothing more than a sick prank. I’ll send it to the lab, and maybe they can pull some prints off of it. We’ll need to get a set of your prints so we can eliminate them.”
“Okay.” I offered a sheepish smile. “I’m sorry I touched it.”
Morgan shrugged. “There’s no reason you should think like a cop.”
I cleared my throat. “My first intuition when I saw the note was that it looked like something Toni Hunt might do.”
Morgan nodded. “I spoke with Miss Hunt today, and she is unstable. I don’t know that she’s capable of planting a bomb, but this note would be within her realm. Even though I didn’t mention your name, she probably suspects you told me about her, and this may be her way of revenge.”
I remembered the story about Bill’s smashed pickup. “I’ll watch my back if she’s mad at me. I don’t trust that little girl. There’s something else I just found out,” I said. “George Wall, the guide with the grudge against Simms, is here on the island. He’s working as a freight handler for Afognak Air.”
“Yes,” Morgan said. “We haven’t had a chance to question him.”
I sat forward and leaned across my desk. I locked eyes with Morgan. “This guy has a violent past and a job that gives him access to all the commercial floatplanes.”
Morgan matched my look of intensity as he bent his head toward mine. “I understand, Dr. Marcus, and we will question him. At this point, he is not our primary suspect, but we won’t ignore him.”
I sat back. Morgan had made his point by using my title. I was not an FBI agent and not Morgan’s boss. I had no right to second guess him.
“Sorry,” I said. “I guess I’m a little tense. My friend tells me that I shouldn’t be so involved in this.”
“Your friend is right.” His face broke into a broad smile, and my apprehension dissolved. “Of course, I have appreciated your help.” He stood. “Tell you what. If you aren’t busy now, why don’t we go by the police station, get you fingerprinted, and drop off this note? Then, I’ll take you to dinner.”
“Dinner?”
“No shop talk. We’ll just relax for a couple of hours.”
I thought about the gold band on his hand and knew I should say no, but his smile weakened my thin resolve. After all, it was only dinner. I grabbed my jacket and purse, locked my office door, and followed him out of the marine center.
Morgan explained that a city policeman had dropped him at the center, and he was supposed to call when he wanted to be picked up. Had he planned to catch a ride with me, I wondered, and if so, what else did he plan? Did I look like an easy mark, someone he could seduce? Was I this assignment’s R & R? The muscles in my neck tightened. This man was attractive, and I was lonely. However, I wasn’t desperate, and I had no desire to get burned again. I would go no further than dinner and conversation.
I expected an ink pad and a fingerprint card, but I should have known that my fingerprints would be recorded electronically. Nevertheless, the process unsettled me and left me feeling like a suspect.
I looked up at Morgan as we walked out of the police station. “You took my prints so you could eliminate them from the note, right?”
Morgan stopped walking. “Yes, of course. Why?”
“I don’t know. I guess I feel like a criminal.”
Morgan smiled, and this time I could see a gleam in his eyes. “You’ve been watching too much CSI.”
“SVU,” I said.
“Whatever.”
“I want to know if I become a suspect.”
Morgan’s eyes widened, but the smile stayed on his lips. “Should you be?”
“I feel guilty about sending Craig on that collection trip instead of going myself, but that is the extent of my guilt.”
“Good. I make it a practice never to take a suspect to dinner.”
Was he joking or flirting with me, and why couldn’t I judge the difference? Other people seemed to understand the nuances of human relationships, but I never had been good at that—the price I paid for being a science nerd.
Morgan wanted to return to his hotel to check his messages, so we decided to dine at the hotel restaurant. I didn’t complain. The restaurant at the Baranov Inn was one of the best in town.
I waited in the bar while Morgan went to his room. I downed a glass of Merlot too quickly and decided to wait until Morgan arrived before I ordered a second glass. The muscles in my neck and back relaxed as the wine worked its magic. It had been a bad day, and the end to this nightmare was not in sight. Why couldn’t I simply take Dana’s advice and stay away from the investigation? It didn’t matter now; it was too late. I already was involved.
I watched Morgan walk through the door of the bar, and his attire surprised me. He had changed from his suit and wore a dark blue sweater, jeans, and hiking boots. Even though I had seen him wear jeans before, he struck me as the kind of man who was more comfortable in a suit.
He gestured at his clothes as he approached the table. “I hope this is okay for this restaurant.”
I laughed. “You’re fine. Kodiak doesn’t have many dress codes, and since this restaurant is near the harbor, it’s a favorite of fishermen. I once saw a guy eating here whose hands and clothes were black from diesel fuel.” I shrugged. “No one cared.”
“Maybe I’m overdressed.” Morgan pulled out the chair opposite me and began to sit. He stopped halfway down. “Are you starving, or do I have time for a drink?”
“I think I’ll survive a few more minutes.”
Morgan ordered scotch and water and I got another Merlot. We watched the bartender pour our drinks and then sipped in silence for a few minutes.
“I needed that,” Morgan said.
“You look tired.”
Morgan nodded. “It’s important to solve a case like this quickly, because the trail cools down fast. We have several leads, but nothing feels right.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
Morgan gripped his drink with both hands. “Oh, nothing. I shouldn’t have said that much. We need to talk to Jack Justin. I hope we’ll find him tonight.”
“Okay,” I said. “You said no shop talk, so why don’t you tell me a little about yourself.”
Morgan’s gaze drifted from his glass to my face. I couldn’t read his eyes. The lighting was dim in the bar, and a shadow fell across his face.
“My job is my life,” he said slowly.
“That sounds like something they teach you to say at the academy.”
Morgan chuckled. It was a low, musical sound that caused me to feel warm inside. “That’s right,” he said. “The J. Edgar Hoover Oath.”
“You’re married,” I said, my voice low. If he was trying to hide this detail from me, he should have taken off his ring.
His eyes dropped to the table. “Yes,” he said.
“Any children?”
“No children. Angela says I was never home long enough for that.”
I nodded. “Your work keeps you away from home.”
Morgan gripped his glass in both hands and swirled the ice cubes. “I like my job
; it’s challenging.” His eyes lifted to my face. “But it’s difficult to have a family when you’re away from home more than you’re there.”
His face flushed, and I felt I was prying. “So tell me about work,” I said.
I saw the tension melt from his shoulders as he sat straight and smiled. “Thousands of hours of frustration hopefully followed by ten minutes of triumph,” he said.
“Why did you choose the FBI?” I asked.
“Good question. One I ask myself at least once a day.” He leaned back and took a long sip of his drink. “Believe it or not, I started out as a scientist. I have a bachelor’s degree in chemistry, a master’s degree in psychology, and a PhD in forensic science from George Washington University. An FBI recruiter approached me when I was working on my doctorate.” He shrugged. “I had nothing planned, and I was tired of being broke. The money and job security sounded good to me.”
“And you work with the Behavioral Science Unit?”
Morgan nodded. “It’s called CASKU now. That’s Child Abduction Serial Killer Unit. Most of the time I’m there, but I specialize in terrorist behavior, so I spend a lot of time with the Counterterrorism Unit.” He drained his glass. “Or on location at a crime scene.”
“Are you ready to eat?” I asked.
Morgan pushed back his chair and stood. He waited for me to stand and collect my purse and wine glass and then followed me into the dining room. The hostess seated us by one of the three large windows that offered a view of the bay and the boat harbor. The evening was grey, but the fog had lifted.
I pointed out the window. “Maybe we’ll get a weather break.”
“That would be nice,” Morgan said, as he eased himself into the chair across from me. “I’d like to get back out to that crash site.”
“I don’t know how Jack Justin managed to get out there,” I said. “Steve Duncan told me that a few pilots made trips during this storm, but it’s nothing I’d fly in.”
Morgan shook his head. “It’s been below minimums since I’ve been here.”
The waitress brought us menus, and Morgan ordered another drink. When she returned, I ordered grilled salmon, and Morgan chose beer-battered halibut.
When the waitress left, he smiled at me. “Fish is healthy, right?”
“Yes,” I said, “when it’s prepared any way except the way you ordered it.”
“I can’t get the hang of eating right.”
Did he have a dimple, or was that just a shadow in the low light? I decided I would not have more wine.
“I’m impressed,” I said. “You have a much stronger chemistry background than I do, and I work in a chemistry lab.”
“I don’t do much forensic work anymore,” Morgan said. “When I first started out I did that, but now I investigate and profile suspects. I know just enough about explosives to know when I should call the experts, and when I should send something to the lab.” He rubbed his chin. “I’m usually the only profiler on a case, and I like that. I don’t like being second-guessed by other profilers. This job is hard enough, but when you begin doubting yourself, it’s impossible.”
“Where do you live?” I asked.
Morgan took a sip of his drink, put it on the table, and played with his glass. A minute passed.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “Did I say something wrong? Am I getting too nosy?”
“No, no. I’m sorry.” He didn’t look up. “Right now, that’s not an easy question to answer. My wife and I have recently separated, so I don’t have a home. We lived in Virginia, about forty-five minutes from Washington D.C. I work at Quantico.”
“I’m sorry,” I said again.
“My wife would tell you it’s my fault, not hers.” Morgan looked up at me and tried to smile but failed. “We’re trying to work it out. Maybe after this case.”
He looked at the table, and I could see he was thousands of miles away. The waitress arrived, as if on cue, and set our salads in front of us. We ate in silence, and I noticed how much better my appetite was tonight than it had been when I’d eaten with Jack Justin.
As soon as we finished the salads, our dinners arrived, and except for intermittent comments about the food, we didn’t talk during dinner. The quiet was relaxing, and the only thing that bothered me was how comfortable I felt with Nick Morgan. Keep your distance, I warned myself. You’re too old to make this mistake again.
We both ordered coffee after the meal, and the restaurant’s strong brew helped clear my head. “I’ve read a little about you FBI profilers,” I said. “You’ve done some amazing things.”
Morgan set his coffee cup in the saucer. “When the profiles work, they’re impressive.” He shrugged. “Lately, though, I’ve been investigating more than profiling. I like to be out in the field, and profiling is depressing work. Day after day, you are bombarded with cases of depraved crimes, and you only have time to help a fraction of the law enforcement agencies who need your help.”
“It must feel good when something you’ve told the police helps them catch a serial murderer or a terrorist, though.”
Morgan nodded. “Sure, there are some good, ego-building moments, but those are interspersed between hours of looking at mutilated bodies and listening to tapes of young girls being tortured. It warps your everyday life. The world becomes one big crime scene, and everyone is either a victim or a predator. I was no picnic to live with.”
“And this is easier?” I asked.
A smile lifted the corners of his mouth. “A little. At least I’m involved in one case at a time and will hopefully see it through from beginning to end.”
“Profiling,” I said, not wishing to drop the subject quite yet. “How do you learn it? I’ve heard some amazing predictions about a criminal, based on only a few facts.”
Morgan took another long sip of coffee. “All we do is offer educated guesses based on common sense. You’d probably have trouble doing it, because our guesses don’t require the scientific proof you’re used to dealing with. We base our assumptions upon past trends and what little physical evidence we have.”
“Like Sherlock Holmes.”
“Exactly, although I’m not as smart as he was.” Morgan shifted in his chair and then gestured with his right hand. “There are certain clichés that are true, such as a criminal often returns to the scene of his crime. You’d be surprised how often that happens, and how often that’s what traps the criminal.”
I felt chilled and pulled my jacket around my shoulders. “Knowing how to profile must be a great help to you when you’re investigating.”
“It is, if I can keep it in the back of my mind. The facts must come first, and when they are lacking or aren’t getting me anywhere, then I begin using my profiling skills.”
“And what do your profiling skills tell you about this case?” I asked as I lifted the coffee cup to my lips.
The waitress arrived with the coffeepot, and both Morgan and I accepted refills.
“I thought this conversation was off-limits.” He smiled, and then the smile faded. “This isn’t an easy case. As you have pointed out, most of the people on that plane could have been the target. Our experts in the Explosives Unit believe the bomb was crude, with a simple timer. An unsophisticated device doesn’t rule out a terrorist group, but it does make personal revenge a more viable motive.”
I rubbed my finger across the surface of the table. “Wouldn’t it be smart for a terrorist group to use a simple bomb to mislead you?”
Morgan shrugged. “That’s possible. As I said, this isn’t an easy case. The media thinks that because the blast occurred in a remote corner of the world, we should be able to solve the case quickly. But, by the time we got here, the trail was already cold, and now all this weather has kept us from thoroughly investigating the crime scene.”
The waitress brought the check, and Morgan tossed the credit card on the cash tray. I objected to him paying for my meal, but he waved away my protest. “This has been the most relaxing evening I’ve had in mo
nths,” he said.
I felt the same, but I didn’t tell him that.
“I’ve been talking about myself all evening,” Morgan said. “How about an after-dinner drink in the bar? I have a few questions for you.”
Don’t do it, I told myself, and then said, “Sure.”
Morgan signed the credit-card receipt and then we moved back to the same table we had occupied earlier. He ordered a brandy, but I only allowed myself another cup of coffee.
I watched his face as he sipped his drink. The muscles looked looser now, the lines around his eyes and mouth relaxed and faint. The alcohol and conversation had served to lessen his reserve.
“Tell me about your job; it sounds interesting.”
I smiled. “Now you’re just being nice. Most people’s eyes glaze over when I begin talking about toxic dinoflagellates.”
He laughed. “You’re solving a mystery, much like I am.”
I nodded. “That’s the way I look at it, and I feel good about my work most of the time.”
“Why only most of the time?” Morgan asked.
“I usually feel as though I’m trying to save lives,” I said, “but then reality slaps me in the face, and I know I will probably never develop a simple field-test kit for measuring paralytic shellfish poisoning toxins. I think the best thing to come out of this study is that we are slowly educating the public and convincing people not to eat bivalves from untested beaches.”
“Explain the problem to me.” Morgan settled back in his chair with his brandy.
“It’s complicated. PSP toxins are called saxitoxins. There’s not just one toxin to worry about, but at least twenty-one different molecular forms.”
“Twenty-one related molecular forms?”
I nodded. “You’re beginning to see the problem. These twenty-one forms undergo transformations that change one toxin into another. The forms vary in toxicity.”
“Doctor Marcus,” a low, deep voice said.
I looked up into the square face and thick-lensed glasses of Doctor Barry Gant, one of my associates at the marine center.
“Doctor Gant.” I smiled at him and hoped etiquette would not force me to introduce Special Agent Nick Morgan to my coworker. I had never thought of Gant as a gossip, but the marine center was a small place, and rumors spread like the plague. I did not want my colleagues to think that the FBI was investigating me.
Murder over Kodiak Page 13
