by Alex Kava
So it was without hesitation or confusion that when Maggie told him she’d have her “usual,” he said, “Of course. I’ll have your Diet Pepsi with a twist of lemon right out.” Just like that. No further questions. No lectures, or worse, sympathetic glances. She liked that.
Marco handed her a menu, “May I suggest some fresh escargots for an appetizer?”
“No,” Maggie said too quickly. “None for me,” she added, hoping she hadn’t already telegraphed her disgust at the very idea. After an afternoon filled with maggots, she wasn’t sure she could stomach a plateful of snails.
“None for me, either,” Gwen agreed.
“But perhaps we could start with an order of stuffed mushroom caps?” Maggie suggested. The scent of garlic had already primed her mouth for the delicious appetizer.
“Excellent choice,” Marco said, rewarding her with a smile. “I’ll have those out to you right away.”
When Maggie glanced at her, Gwen was smiling, sipping her wine.
“What?” Maggie asked. “I’m starving, but I’ll share.”
“I wish you could have seen your face when he recommended the escargots. So it must have been one of those afternoons, I take it?”
“Maggots. Way too many maggots,” she said as she pushed strands of hair off her forehead, surprised to find them still damp. She had gone back home for a quick shower, hoping also to wash away the memory and the feel of the wormy critters even though she hadn’t touched a single one this time. Then she added, “The District PD finally called us in on the decapitated Jane Doe cases.”
“Does that mean they believe both were killed by the same killer?”
“It looks like the same M.O. Plus—” Maggie stopped while Marco placed a goblet of Diet Pepsi with a wedge of lemon in front of her.
“I’ll be back with your appetizer. Is there anything else I can get either of you at this moment?”
“No thanks,” Gwen told him. Then to Maggie, she said, “Go on,” before Marco was gone.
Maggie, however, waited until he was out of earshot. She couldn’t believe Gwen. Usually she wasn’t so abrupt and never was she indiscreet. In fact, lately she seemed to be only humoring Maggie by listening, at times appearing bored and tired of the grisly details. Why was she so anxious? Almost overly anxious. Maggie leaned forward, wrapping her hands around the goblet and keeping her voice hushed. “A third head was found today.”
“Jesus,” Gwen said and Maggie watched her sit back as if the comment had shoved her against the booth’s cushion.
“Oh, and Racine’s first detective on this one,” Maggie said, shaking her head as she took a sip. “I think she’s already in over her head.” Then she gulped half her glass. When she had raced back home to shower and change, Harvey convinced her they had time for a quick run. Only now did she realize how thirsty she was.
“Are you sure you’re being fair?” Gwen asked. “After all, you’re not Racine’s biggest fan.”
It wasn’t the first time Gwen had reminded her that she wasn’t exactly objective when it came to Detective Julia Racine. Maggie thought about it while she chewed some ice, a recent nervous habit that kept her from replacing her empty Pepsi goblet with a Scotch. Whether she liked it not, Gwen was right. She had started out years ago with very little respect for Julia Racine. The detective had advanced her career by taking advantage of too many shortcuts given to her just because she’s a woman, while Maggie had always fought to be treated like any of her male FBI colleagues. The result was that sometimes Racine got careless, oftentimes even reckless. It didn’t help matters that she had made a pass at Maggie several years ago while they worked their first case together. Throw into the mix the fact that Racine had saved Maggie’s mother from committing suicide. But Maggie had repaid that favor by rescuing Racine’s father from a serial killer. Theirs was, indeed, a complex relationship. Okay, so maybe Maggie wasn’t quite objective when it came to Julia Racine, let alone her job performance.
“She’s dragging her feet on identifying the other two victims,” she said anyway.
“Is that her responsibility or the M.E.’s? Maybe it’s him who’s dragging his feet? Sounds like you need to give Racine a break.”
Maggie shrugged. She wasn’t sure why Gwen wanted her to play nice with Racine all of a sudden. How could Gwen defend a woman she’d never met? “She doesn’t play by the rules,” Maggie offered as a weak defense and realized her mistake as soon as she saw Gwen’s smile.
“And you do?”
“Sometimes I bend the rules. Weren’t you the one who told me about a dozen years ago that there are no rules in battling evil?”
“There are always rules,” Gwen said, serious again. “Good is held to them, evil is not. Sort of an unfair advantage right from the start.”
Marco chose that moment to deliver the plate of steaming, garlic-scented mushroom caps and small serving plates. “Ladies, enjoy. I’ll return in a few minutes.”
Both of them stared at the appetizer even though Maggie had been starving.
“So what about Stan?” Gwen said and scooped up several of the mushroom caps onto Maggie’s plate. She served herself a couple as well, but kept her plate to the side. “Why is he dragging his feet?”
“From what I understand there was little tissue left.” Maggie glanced around the restaurant. The tall wooden booths allowed much privacy, but this was also a regular hangout for high-level politicos. Which meant plenty of eavesdroppers, too. Satisfied that no one was trying to listen to their conversation, Maggie continued, “There were no dental records to match, either. Stan says he wasn’t able to do an autopsy, but he also hasn’t sent them to a forensic anthropologist.”
“And you’re thinking you’ve got just the forensic anthropologist he could send it to.” There was another knowing smile, and Maggie tried to suppress a blush.
“That’s not exactly what I was thinking.” She knew Gwen was referring to Adam Bonzado, a professor in West Haven, Connecticut, with whom Maggie had worked the previous year. A professor of forensic anthropology who had made it quite clear he was interested in more than Maggie’s bones.
“Seriously, though,” Gwen continued, letting her off without what Maggie had come to expect was Gwen’s regular lecture about her nonexistent love life. “What are the chances of using an outside expert like Professor Bonzado? Would Stan be offended?”
“Actually, I would hope he’d welcome it,” she said, slicing off a bite of mushroom. “I’ve already mentioned the idea to Racine that the other two victims should be handed off to an expert. It’s up to her to bring it up with Stan. As soon as I got to the site today, he reminded me that technically this wasn’t even his case.” Maggie gulped the remainder of her Diet Pepsi and started looking for Marco.
“What did he mean, it wasn’t his case?”
“Traditionally when a body’s been dismembered, or in this case decapitated, whoever has the heart has jurisdiction.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Gwen said with enough force to make Maggie stop searching for a waiter and get her attention. Evidently she realized her mistake. Gwen sat back and in a much calmer, more controlled voice she said, “It’s silly, isn’t it? I don’t remember such an archaic rule. I mean, what if the rest of the body is never found?”
“First, Racine needs to check the computer again and see if any torsos have shown up. The killer could be traveling to dump them somewhere else.” Maggie watched her friend out of the corner of her eye as she opened the menu and pretended to be interested. What was it that seemed to have Gwen on edge? In the dim gaslight of the restaurant Maggie tried to study Gwen, only now noticing that her strawberry-blond hair was tousled, her usually manicured fingernails looked neglected, and there were dark lines under her eyes.
“That would mean he has a job that includes travel or it allows some flexibility in his schedule.” Gwen’s tone was back to normal, but Maggie noticed her fingers nervously curling the tips of her cocktail napkin.
“Quite p
ossibly. But whatever the killer’s doing with the torsos, Stan won’t be able to just shrug off his responsibility. Right now jurisdiction is the last thing we need to worry about.”
Gwen sipped her wine, and this time Maggie thought she could see a slight tremor in her hand. She wondered if Gwen was simply tired, perhaps stressed about a particular patient. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe Maggie was looking for something that wasn’t there. She’d ask anyway. “Are you okay?”
“Of course.”
Gwen’s answer came too quickly, and she must have noticed the concern on Maggie’s face.
“I’m fine,” Gwen said, sounding a bit defensive, but then catching herself and adding, “Just a bit tired.”
She smiled at Maggie as she pretended to be interested in her menu, closing the subject as she strategically hid her eyes. Maggie couldn’t help wondering if Gwen was afraid she might reveal something more than exhaustion.
She followed Gwen’s lead and reopened her own menu, but kept it slanted so she could watch her friend. What in the world was it that was Gwen wasn’t telling her?
CHAPTER 6
Eppley Airport
Omaha, Nebraska
Detective Tommy Pakula hated messes. He didn’t really mind the blood. After almost twenty years as a cop there wasn’t much he hadn’t seen. He could handle splattered brain matter or sawed-off body parts. None of that bothered him. What he absolutely hated was a contaminated crime scene.
He ran his hand over his shaved head, the bristles becoming a bit pronounced at the end of what had already been a long day. He had been home only long enough to change his shirt and socks, the latter at his wife, Clare’s, insistence. They’d been married for as long as he’d been a cop, and his stinky feet still bothered her. The thought made him smile. There were a lot worse things she could complain about. He should be grateful. Things like calls interrupting dinner, forcing him to leave behind homemade lasagna and hot garlic rolls in order to take care of some dead guy in a toilet at the airport.
From the doorway he could easily see what irritated him most, at least three different sets of footprints. One set trailed blood from inside the bathroom out into the hallway, leading all the way around the cleaning cart that had been parked in front of the doorway to block the entrance. The footprint’s owner had ignored the yellow plastic Out Of Order sign. From what Pakula had been told, the cart had been placed there after the stiff was found, so this set of tracks belonged to one of the sightseers. If all that wasn’t bad enough, the stiff just happened to be a priest, a monsignor, according to his driver’s license.
“Holy crap,” Pakula said to no one in particular. “My eighty-year-old mother can’t get past airport security without disrobing and being patted down, but every Tom, Dick and Harry can drop by to take a piss and see the dead guy on the bathroom floor.”
“Guy who found him said he asked a janitor to pull his cart in front of the doorway while he went to get help.” Pete Kasab consulted his two-by-four notebook, jotting down more chicken scratch.
Pakula tried not to roll his eyes at the wet-behind-the-ears junior detective and instead, watched the young black woman from the Douglas County Crime Lab. She hadn’t reacted or responded to any of their chatter. Instead, she had already finished with the video camera and was now starting to work her grid on gloved hands and padded knees, filling specimen bags and bottles with items at the end of her forceps, items that seemed invisible from where Pakula stood. He had never worked with her before, but he knew Terese Medina by reputation. If the killer left something behind, Medina would find it. He wished he could trade Pete Kasab for Medina.
“The guy said he may have bumped into the killer,” Kasab continued, reading it as if it were just another of his scribbles.
“He said what?” Pakula stopped him in midflip of his pages.
“The guy thinks he may have bumped into the perp on his way out of the bathroom.”
Pakula winced at his use of the term “perp.” Was this kid for real? “This guy have a name?”
“The guy he bumped into?’
“No.” Pakula shook his head, biting down on the word idiot before it escaped his lips. “The witness. The guy who found the body.”
“Oh, sure.” And the pages started flipping again. “It’s Scott…” Kasab squinted, trying to read his own notes. “Linquist. I’ve got his work phone, home phone, cell phone and home address.” He tapped the page, smiling, eager to please.
“Happen to have a description?”
“Of Linquist?”
“No, damn it. Of the supposed killer.”
Kasab’s face looked crushed, and he flipped more pages as he mumbled, “Of course I do.”
Now Pakula felt like the asshole. It was a little like stepping on a puppy. He rubbed his hand over his face, trying to get rid of the exhaustion and his impatience. Overdosing on caffeine only made him cranky.
“Linquist said he looked young, was shorter than him. I figured Linquist at about five-ten. He said he had on jeans and a baseball cap. Said the kid bumped into him, you know, in a hurry, on his way out of the bathroom just as Linquist came in. In fact, Linquist said he saw the body and the blood, turned around and raced back out to get help and the kid was nowhere in sight.”
“How young a kid?” Pakula doubted this was the killer. Probably a kid in shock, not knowing what to do or not wanting to get involved. Maybe even afraid he’d get blamed for it.
“He couldn’t say,” Kasab said, but he continued to check his notes. “Oh, here it is. He said he never got a look at the kid’s face.”
“Then how’d he know he was a kid?”
Kasab looked up at him as if checking to see if the question was a test. “I guess by his demeanor or maybe his stature.”
Great, Pakula thought. Now the rookie was guessing. Brilliant police work. Pakula wanted to groan, but instead turned and glanced back at Terese Medina who had meticulously made her way to the corpse. Pakula watched Medina pick at the back of the stiff’s polo shirt with her forceps. Maybe they’d get lucky and there’d be some interesting transfer debris. Now, that would be brilliant police work. Just then Medina held up something at the end of her forceps.
“This is weird,” she said, turning it around for a more thorough inspection. To Pakula it looked like a piece of white fuzz, no bigger than a dime.
“What is it?” Pakula came closer while she slipped it into a plastic bag and was picking another off the monsignor’s polo shirt.
“I could be really off base,” she said, holding it up to her nose this time, “but it looks like crumbs.”
“Crumbs?”
“Yeah, bread crumbs.”
Before Pakula could respond, his cell phone started tinkling, the sound of a million tiny little bells. He should never have let his daughter Angie—the techno nerd—program the damn thing. He had no idea how to change the tone and instead he resorted to ripping the phone off of his hip, breaking his record at two rings.
“Pakula.” All he got was static. “Hold on.” He turned his back and walked down the hallway, hoping for a stronger signal. “Yeah, go ahead.”
“Pakula, it’s Carmichael.”
“Where the hell are you, Carmichael? I could use your butt down here at the airport.”
“I’m still at the station.”
“I’ve a got a sliced-up priest on the bathroom floor with idiots walking around him to take a piss and maybe even eat a sandwich over his dead body.”
“What?”
“Never mind.”
“Well, that all sounds like a lot of fun, but I thought you might be interested in the phone call I just got. A Brother Sebastian from the Omaha Archdiocese’s office wants to know the condition of Monsignor William O’Sullivan’s body.”
“You’ve gotta be kidding. How the hell did he already find out? We just ID’d the padre less than an hour ago.”
“Said he received an anonymous phone call.”
“Really?”
Pakul
a could hear Detective Kim Carmichael crunching, a nervous habit that added to her waistline. Then the rest of them would pay, having to listen to her complain in a burst of choppy Korean expletives. But he’d trade Kasab for her, too.
“Here’s the thing, Pakula, actually two items I think you’ll find interesting. Brother Sebastian seemed awfully concerned about the monsignor’s personal effects, particularly one leather portfolio. Second, he wanted us to know that Archbishop Armstrong would help us, so it certainly wouldn’t be necessary to bring in the FBI.”
“The FBI?” Pakula laughed. “Okay, Carmichael. Very funny. But it’s been a long day, and I’m really not in the mood for—”
“I’m not kidding, Tommy. That’s what he said. I even wrote it down.”
“Why the hell would we call in the FBI for a local homicide?”
“He tried to sound nonchalant about it when he said it,” Carmichael replied, “but I could hear something, you know. He was nervous and careful with his words, and yet, trying to be all like it’s no big deal.”
Pakula stopped, leaned against the wall, keeping out of earshot of the coffee and doughnut counter. He couldn’t remember seeing a leather portfolio. From the beginning he thought this was a random hit, maybe a robbery gone badly despite the padre’s wallet left behind filled with euros. Euros were worthless to a local petty thief. But what if the killer hadn’t been looking for quick cash? What if he knew exactly who he had followed into the men’s bathroom? Was it possible someone intended to kill the good monsignor? That made it a whole different case.
“Hey, Pakula, you fall asleep on me?”
“Do me a favor, Carmichael. Give Bob Weston a call and fill him in on the details.”
“You sure you wanna do that?”
“The archbishop says he doesn’t want us to bring in the FBI. Yeah, maybe I might check with the FBI to see why that is.”
