Knight, The

by Steven James

  That’s what she would have done if she had a teenager in the house.

  You need to read the stuff in the memory box before you go worrying about the diary—

  “Tessa.”

  “Huh?” They’d arrived at the newspaper building, but she’d been so distracted thinking about her mom and the diary and the memory box that she hadn’t even noticed.

  “I’ll call you on your cell when I’m done.” His voice was tense, and he was obviously in a hurry, all of which added to Tessa’s curiosity about why they’d left the restaurant so abruptly and rushed over here.

  “OK.”

  He slid a “Federal Car. Official Business” sign onto the dash and then jumped out and jogged up the sidewalk.

  She wasn’t stupid. She knew he was on a task force with the cops and she’d seen the news about the string of murders over the last couple days. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out what case he was working on.

  She looked at her watch. Dora wouldn’t be arriving for fifteen minutes.

  Hmm.

  That might be just enough time.

  33

  I crossed the lobby of the Denver News, flipping open my ID as I passed the curly-permed woman doing her nails behind the reception desk near the elevators.

  “Amy Lynn Greer’s office,” I said. “Which floor?”

  “Fourth.” She slid a clipboard and a visitor’s keycard across the counter to me. “You’re s’pposed to sign in.”

  I scribbled my name across the pad, swiped the pass off the counter, and headed for the elevator.

  A few moments later, Cheyenne met me beside the elevator bank on the fourth floor. “Good to see you,” she said.

  “You too.” She led me down the hallway past a shrine of journalism plaques and awards that the newspaper had apparently won. “Any updates on Kelsey’s condition?” I asked.

  “She’s recovering. Her body temp was up seven degrees when I left. Almost back to normal. I think she’ll make it. She’s not talking, though. Still too traumatized. But I asked her if the man who attacked her was Asian, African-American, Caucasian—she stopped me there and nodded. So at least we have that much.”

  “Do we know why she went to the morgue last night?”

  “No, but hospital surveillance cameras show her arriving at 8:19 p.m.; nothing on the guy who attacked her, though. He managed to avoid getting caught on tape.”

  I considered the implications.

  We passed the employee break room and Cheyenne said, “I forgot to mention: Agent Vanderveld’s on his way over here. Should be here in fifteen minutes or so.”

  “Wonderful.”

  Then, in her endearingly blunt way, she asked, “What’s the deal with you two, anyway?”

  I was about to blow off her question when I realized I would have to explain things eventually and I might as well just get it over with. “Six years ago I was geoprofiling a case in Albuquerque. Teenage boys were disappearing—three bodies found, three other boys missing.”

  “I think I might remember hearing about that. They were being abducted from their homes after school?”

  “Yes. While their parents were still at work. The sheriff’s department was, well, let’s just say, less than enthusiastic about my techniques.”

  “Imagine that.”

  “I know.”

  The hallway opened into a large work space, and Cheyenne guided me through a maze of cubicles. Since it was Saturday, I didn’t expect the room to be too full, so I was surprised to see nearly two dozen staff members typing, surfing the Internet, and jabbering into their cell phones.

  “Anyway, the Bureau decided to send in a behavioral profiler and chose Jake; decided to reassign me to a series of shootings in New York City.”

  “Pulled you off the case?”

  “Yes.”

  “And so what happened? Vanderveld screwed things up?”

  “After two days on-site he became convinced that we should be looking for a twenty-four- to twenty-seven-year-old male Caucasian, single, never married, homosexual who had a history of working with kids and could easily gain their trust. A high school teacher, maybe a coach, someone like that.”

  “Lemme guess.” She stopped walking for a moment. “Wild goose chase.”

  “Over the next three weeks, two more boys disappeared before an eyewitness saw a thirteen-year-old boy get into a car with the forty-eight-year-old, divorced, Hispanic city commissioner.”

  “So the only other thing Vanderveld had right in his profile was the killer’s gender and sexual preference?”

  “Yes.”

  “Which was self-evident considering the victim selection.”

  “That’s right.”

  We started walking again.

  “The city commissioner lived near the center of the hot zone. If the police would have listened to me, those two boys might still be alive.”

  I tried holding back the anger that I still carried with me. “But then, here’s the kicker: Vanderveld holds a press conference and explains how quickly the case was wrapped up after he arrived. He milked the media attention as long as he could. He didn’t even give credit to local law enforcement. He loves the spotlight, and when he’s in it, he won’t step out.”

  “But that’s not all, is it?”

  “No.”

  “What else?”

  “Let’s just say I don’t trust him and leave it at that.”

  Just past the watercooler we came to a line of offices along the east wall. Two of the doors were open, and I could see that each office had a window view of the city. I assumed these were the executive offices, or at least the suites for the top-tier journalists.

  “Thanks for the heads-up,” Cheyenne said, then she knocked on a door that had a small metallic sign: Benjamin Rhodes, Assistant Vice President, Editorial.

  “Come in,” a man called.

  Two people were waiting for us inside the office. The man, whom I assumed was Rhodes, appeared to be in his late thirties. Shaved head. Slightly graying goatee. Black turtleneck, blue jeans, black shoes.

  I held out my hand. “Special Agent Bowers. I’m with the FBI.

  We’re working closely with the Denver Police Department on this case.”

  “Benjamin Rhodes.” We shook hands, then he gestured toward the woman, who did not look happy to see me. “And this is Amy Lynn Greer. One of our top investigative reporters.”

  Late twenties, sleep-deprived, pretty. She had kinkily curled brown hair and wore a hemp necklace, blue blouse, stylish shoes. I recognized her face from the picture that ran next to a weekly political column that I now realized was hers.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Greer,” I said. “I met your husband this morning.”

  “Amy Lynn will do.” Her manner was curt. “I saw your photo come through the wire. Something about a shooting in Chicago yesterday?”

  “Yes. It was tragic.” Not something I wanted to be reminded of. My eyes tipped past her to the desk. “Are those the flowers?”

  Amy Lynn and Benjamin nodded.

  Cheyenne stood quietly beside us. I assumed she’d been through introductions and had already taken some time to inspect the flowers.

  The plants had narrow towers of purplish-white flowers and thick leaves. I leaned close and smelled a strong minty odor mixed with an underlying scent of the potting soil’s earthy decay. “Do we know what kind of flowers these are?”

  Benjamin exchanged glances with Amy Lynn. “We’re not sure. We were going to call some people in, see if anyone on the floor was a gardener, but when Amy Lynn told Reggie about the note—”

  “He asked me to keep it quiet,” she said.

  “Good,” I said.

  Earlier that day, on the way to Taylor’s house, Cheyenne had mentioned that both Heather Fain and Ahmed Mohammed Shokr had died of potassium chloride poisoning. I didn’t know what kind of flowers these were, or what they might be covered with, but I didn’t want to take any chances. “Have ei
ther of you two touched the plants?”

  “I did, a little,” Amy Lynn replied. “Why?”

  I didn’t want to scare her. “Probably should wash your hands.”

  She looked at me nervously, then stepped out of the room, and I asked Benjamin, “How many people have handled the pot?”

  “Well.” He looked a little nervous as well. “Amy Lynn, of course. Brett, one of our secretaries. The flower delivery guy who dropped it off. I’m the one who carried it in here.”

  “Cheyenne,” I said. “Can you take Mr. Rhodes and talk with Brett, see if she can give us a description of the man who delivered the flowers? Find out if he said or did anything unusual.”

  She flipped out her notebook and nodded toward the door. “Mr. Rhodes?”

  “Of course.”

  “And hands,” I said, “have everyone wash their—”

  “Got it,” Cheyenne said.

  They stepped into the hallway, I snapped on the pair of latex gloves I carry with me and carefully investigated the petals, then studied the stems to see if there was anything noteworthy about the flowers themselves. Finding nothing, I prodded softly at the dirt, looking for a black recording device like the one I’d found in Heather Fain’s mouth.

  Nothing.

  I heard Amy Lynn return.

  “Where’s the note?” I asked.

  She pointed to the corner of the desk. “Right there. It’s signed John.”

  Picking it up, I read the inscription, then flipped it over and studied the card stock paper it was written on. The paper didn’t seem to have any distinctive or unique markings. It would be hard to trace.

  “I Googled the phrase,” Amy Lynn said. “‘Must needs we tell of others’ tears?’ I didn’t find anything.”

  “All right.” I set down the note. “Any friends named John? Any Johns in stories you’re currently working on?”

  “I looked into that too.” She sounded impatient. “The only one I could come up with is John Beyer, the pitcher for the Rockies. I’m doing a piece on steroid use, but I can’t imagine how that might be related to the flowers.”

  It sounded like a long shot to me, but we could send an officer to speak with him.

  Carefully, I lifted the pot to investigate the bottom; found nothing unusual. Then I felt around the lip of the pot. I was circling the circumference with my finger when I heard the door swing open behind me. I assumed it was Cheyenne and Benjamin returning.

  I caught myself verbalizing my thoughts, “Who are you, John? Why send these flowers?”

  And someone said, “That’s basil.”

  But it wasn’t Cheyenne’s or Benjamin’s voice.

  It was Tessa’s.

  I turned. “What are you doing up here?”

  Her eyes were riveted on the flowers. “They were trying to tow the car.”

  “What! Really? No, they weren’t.”

  “OK, you got me, they weren’t—but you said ‘John’? Just a second ago?” She entered the office.

  “You shouldn’t be up here.” I set down the pot. “You need to go back downstairs.”

  “You say it’s basil?” Amy Lynn asked.

  I stepped around the desk toward Tessa. She was staring at me, her eyes growing wide. “Seriously, you said John, right—‘Who are you, John?’”

  “Yes.”

  “Excuse me,” Amy Lynn said. “But you are . . . ?”

  “This is my stepdaughter, Tessa,” I said. Since this piece of evidence was apparently connected with the killings, I wanted to get Tessa out of here as quickly as I could. “Come on,” I told her. “We’re leaving.”

  “It’s a pot of basil and the note’s from John . . .” Tessa said softly. The blood had drained from her face.

  I looked at her quizzically. “Do you know something about this?”

  “I need to go.”

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “It’s a pot of basil,” she repeated, backing toward the door.

  “A pot of basil,” I said. “Yes. OK. So what?”

  She began to shake her head slowly. “You don’t understand. I gotta go. I’m gonna be sick.”

  Cheyenne and Benjamin appeared behind her, but she pushed past them and ran toward the newsroom.

  “Was that Tessa?” Cheyenne asked.

  “Yes.” I was on my way to the door.

  “Is she OK?”

  “I’m not sure.” I stepped past her. “I’ll be right back. Don’t let anyone else in this room.”

  34

  I caught up with Tessa at the elevators. She was pushing the “down” button over and over, her hand was shaking. “No,” she mumbled. “No, it’s not. It can’t be.”

  “Tessa, do you know who sent those flowers?”

  She shook her head. “Uh-uh.”

  “Then what’s wrong?”

  “Keats.”

  I noticed a trash can beside her. I tugged off the exam gloves I was still wearing and stuffed them inside it. “Keats?”

  The doors opened and she hurried into the elevator. I joined her.

  She punched “Level 1” four times and started muttering, “Yeah . . . I think Keats, or maybe Alexander.”

  “Tessa—”

  “But it doesn’t matter.” The doors closed and she stared at them, anxious, terrified. “It’s the same either way.”

  Her intense reaction was really starting to worry me. “Calm down for a minute and just tell me what you’re thinking.”

  She was tapping her right thumb and forefinger together rapidly. “You don’t think it’s . . . but then why would someone . . . ?”

  I gently put my hands on her shoulders, and when I did, she looked up into my eyes. “Please,” I said. “Tell me what’s going on.”

  Finally, she drew in a deep but shaky breath and said, “There was an artist, right? John White Alexander. In like, I don’t know, 1896 or 1897 he painted a picture, it’s this famous picture called ‘Isabella and the Pot of Basil.’ John White Alexander, see? So that’s why John might refer to him.”

  “OK, so—”

  “But he based the painting on this poem by Keats, John Keats. So either way, it’s John. You know Keats, the poet?”

  “Yes.”

  “The poem is about this woman. Her lover is killed and . . .”

  I thought of Kelsey, her husband, all that had happened in the last two days.

  “She digs him up and . . .”

  The morgue.

  The bodies.

  Oh.

  I felt a chill. Suddenly, I understood what Tessa was saying, realized why she’d reacted so strongly. “That’s enough. I can look it up—”

  “The woman, she . . .” We arrived at the ground floor, and the elevator dinged.

  “I understand. You don’t have to say anything else.”

  But Tessa wasn’t listening to me. She was staring into space.

  “They take it away from her. The pot, and then—”

  “It’s OK. Shh . . .”

  The elevator doors opened, but Tessa didn’t step off, she looked at me instead and bit her bottom lip. “Don’t tell me, OK? When you look. Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know if I’m right.”

  “OK. I promise.”

  Tessa nodded and looked past me. “Dora’s here.”

  I knew that Tessa was terribly upset and I wanted to be there for her, but I also needed to get back upstairs, especially if she was right about the pot. “Do you want me to come home with you?”

  “No. I’m OK.”

  We met Pandora Bender in the lobby near the front door, and she assured me she would stay with Tessa. “She’ll be all right with me, Mr. Bowers. Don’t worry.”

  “Thank you, Dora,” I said, then turned to Tessa. “You’re sure you don’t need me?”

  She nodded. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

  I touched her arm softly. “Call me, all right? You say the word, I’ll come home.”

  “I know.” Dora stepped toward the door, and Tessa mouthed to me
, “Don’t tell me.”

  “I won’t.”

  They stepped outside, and I watched them through the darkened windows until they disappeared around the corner of the building. Then I returned to the fourth floor.

  To look inside the pot.

  35

  Only Cheyenne and Amy Lynn were in the office when I arrived. Cheyenne explained that Rhodes had gone to meet with two of the board members, and I wasn’t sure if I was glad to hear that or not. I suspected they were discussing how to handle the release of information concerning the flowers, but I didn’t have time to deal with any of that right now.

  Just one glance at the flowerpot told me it was the right size. I knew we needed to get it to the lab, but first I wanted to find out if Tessa’s guess was right, and sometimes I’m just not as patient as I should be. “Amy Lynn, can you give us a few minutes?”

  She hesitated.

  “Please go and wash your hands thoroughly.”

  “But I already did.”

  “Trust me.” I didn’t have another pair of gloves, but with the back of my hand, I pushed the pot into the center of Rhodes’s desk past his MacBook and its aquarium screen saver. “This plant may have substances on it that you would not want to accidentally ingest.”

  After one last disgruntled look, she left and Cheyenne said, “What’s going on? Is Tessa all right?”

  I carefully pressed the flowers to the side and observed that the dirt around the base of the plant was loose. “Can you lock the door?”

  “Pat, what’s—”

  “Please.”

  I pulled out my TSAVO-Wraith and flicked out the blade. “She’s OK, Tessa is,” I said. “Thanks for asking.” I slid the knife’s tip gently into the dirt.

  Cheyenne locked the door and then returned to my side. “What are you doing?”

  I pushed aside a small triangle of moist soil. Based on the size of the pot I didn’t think I would need to dig too deeply. “There’s a painting.”

  I brushed some more dirt away. Slid the blade of the knife about five centimeters into the soil. “And a poem by Keats . . . but the point is . . .”

  As I pressed down, I felt the tip of the blade press against something that was not soil.