by Alex Kava
Maggie sat back, sipped her Scotch and tried to find something more interesting to watch through the dimly lit restaurant. She half expected to see Nick Morrelli walk in, and then realized she had no idea what she would do if he were to show up. Ford had told Maggie after class that he and Nick had gone to the University of Nebraska together. He said he had left a message at the hotel’s front desk for Nick to join them at dinner. It was ridiculous, but just knowing that he was at the conference had stirred up all those feelings she had tucked away since the last time she had seen him.
That was over five months ago. She and Nick had spent exactly one week together, hunting a religious psychopath who had murdered four little boys. Two men had been captured and were awaiting trial, neither of whom Maggie was convinced was the real killer. Despite all the circumstantial evidence, Maggie still believed the real killer was a charismatic priest named Father Michael Keller. Only, Keller had disappeared somewhere in South America, and no one, not even the Church, seemed to know what had happened to him.
Maggie knew Keller had been the one who had visited Albert Stucky in a Florida prison. Several guards had later identified him from a photograph. And though she had no proof, she also knew it had been Keller who had given Stucky the daggerlike crucifix he had used to cut himself free of his restraints and stab a transport guard.
She was about to order another Scotch when Ford waved down the waitress for the check. Neither detective had allowed any of the FBI agents to pay. Maggie insisted on at least leaving the tip.
The night was clear but crisp enough to provoke a shiver. Before they got to the parking lot, they noticed a gathering in the alley. One cop stood in front of a Dumpster and attempted to keep a small crowd of onlookers at a distance.
“What’s the problem here, Cooper?” Ford knew the officer.
The officer glanced at Maggie and Turner.
“It’s okay,” Ford reassured him. “They’re FBI. Here for the conference.”
Officer Cooper pointed to the Dumpster behind him.
“Dishwasher at the bistro took out the trash about a half hour ago. Noticed a hand sticking up out of the pile. Freaked. Called it in, but not before he announced it to the whole goddamn world.”
Maggie felt the familiar knot in her stomach. The first thing she noticed was a red umbrella, its handle looped over the edge of the Dumpster as if the owner hadn’t meant for it to be mistaken for trash. Or had it purposely been left as evidence?
“Officer Cooper.” She waited for his attention. “You might mention to the detectives when they arrive that there’s an umbrella here. It probably should be bagged and taken in for fingerprints.”
“Will do.”
Without disturbing anything, Maggie could see the woman was naked and lying on her back. Immediately, she knew the scene had been tampered with. Officer Cooper said the dishwasher had noticed only a hand sticking up out of the pile, yet the woman’s entire torso was exposed. Vegetable peels had been tossed onto her face. Her head was turned to the side, her brilliant red hair littered with leftovers.
Maggie could see the woman’s mouth, partially opened. Then she noticed a dot, a beauty mark above the upper lip. The knot in her stomach tightened. She reached in.
“O’Dell, what the hell are you doing?” Turner scolded her.
Gently, she swiped at a potato peel and a clump of pasta stuck to the woman’s face.
“It’s Rita,” she said, wishing she had been wrong.
“Rita? Rita who?”
Maggie glanced at Turner and watched the recognition register on his face.
“Shit! You’re right.”
“You guys know her?” Ford asked as he looked over the top.
“She’s a waitress from the bar and grill down the street,” Maggie explained as she continued to examine Rita’s body.
Her throat had been slashed, so deep it had nearly decapitated her. The rest of her body had few bruises and no punctures except for her wrists, which showed ligature marks. Whatever the method of capture, the struggle had been minimal, suggesting that hopefully death had come quickly. Maggie found herself relieved and at the same time disparaged to be relieved by such a thing.
Then she saw the bloody incision in Rita’s side underneath a mass of spaghetti. She shoved herself away from the Dumpster, rushing a safe distance away before she wrapped her arms around herself to stop the wave of panic.
“O’Dell, you okay?” Turner was at her side. His large hand touched her shoulder, startling her.
“Stucky did this,” she said.
“O’Dell, come on now.”
“I thought I saw him when we were in the bar and grill last night.”
“As I remember, we all had plenty to drink.”
“No, you don’t understand. Stucky must have seen her. He must have noticed us talking, joking with her. He chose her because of me.”
“O’Dell, we’re in Kansas City. You’re not even on the conference roster. Stucky couldn’t possibly know you’re here.”
“I know you and Delaney think I’m losing it. But this is exactly Stucky’s M.O. We should start looking for a container, a take-out container, before someone else finds it.”
“Look, O’Dell. You’re just on edge.”
“It’s him, Turner. I know it. And whatever he sliced out of her is going to show up at some outdoor café table. Maybe even in front of this restaurant.”
“O’Dell, slow down,” he whispered. “I know you’re feeling like you need to be checking over your shoulder, thinking—”
“Damn it, Turner. This isn’t my imagination.”
He went to touch her shoulder again, and this time she jerked back just as she noticed a dark figure across the alley.
“O’Dell, relax.”
The man stood at the edge of the crowd, a crowd that had doubled in only a few minutes. He was too far away, and it was too dark for her to be certain, but he wore a black leather jacket.
“There’s a man in the crowd,” she whispered, “tall, thin, dark, sharp features. It could be Stucky. My God, he’s even carrying what looks like a take-out container.”
“As are a whole bunch of others. This is a restaurant district.”
She started around him, but Turner grabbed her arm.
“Stay put and stay cool,” he said with an exaggerated sigh.
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m gonna talk to the man. Ask a few questions.”
“If it’s Stucky—”
“If it’s Stucky, I’ll recognize the bastard. If it’s not, you’re picking up the dinner tab tomorrow night.”
She reached inside her jacket and kept her hand on her gun. All other motion stood still as she concentrated on the man in the leather jacket. Could it really be Stucky? Could the bastard be so arrogant to kill in a city crawling with law enforcement officers from across the country, then stand back and watch? Yes, Stucky would love the challenge. He’d love to be able to thumb his nose at them all.
Turner didn’t reach the crowd before the man turned to leave.
“Hey, wait a minute.” Turner yelled. “I want to talk to you.”
The man bolted and so did Turner. Delaney started to ask Maggie something, but she didn’t wait to hear. She raced across the parking lot, gun drawn, its nose to the ground. The crowd scattered out of her way with gasps and one scream.
All Maggie could think was this time Stucky would not escape.
22
MAGGIE’S heart slammed against her chest. Turner had disappeared around a corner and into another alley. She followed without hesitation. Halfway down, she made herself stop. The alley was barely wide enough to accommodate a small vehicle. The moon was only a sliver, leaving dim bulbs to light the way.
She squinted, examining the shadows and trying to listen over the pounding in her ears. Where had they gone? She had been minutes, no, seconds, behind them.
She took careful steps as she proceeded. The cobblestone street was old, with uneven
bricks. It would be easy to stumble or trip, to become vulnerable. Still, she didn’t look down. She kept watching, though it was difficult to see beyond fifty feet. Her eyes darted over everything, checking stacks of boxes, doorways, fire escapes, anyplace Stucky could hide. He wouldn’t trick her this time.
Ahead she could see an open space where two cars were parked. A Dumpster blocked her view of the entire area. Behind her in the distance footsteps ran past, missing this narrow alley. From the open space she heard muffled voices. She pushed her body against the grimy brick wall and inched her way along.
She came to the edge of the building and had nowhere else to go. She crouched and snuck behind the Dumpster. Where the hell were Delaney and Milhaven? By now they should have backtracked. Her eyes strained to see to the end of the alley. Now the voices ahead of her were more clear.
“Hold on a minute.” She recognized Turner’s voice. “What the hell do you have there?”
She waited, but there was no answer to his question. If Stucky had a knife, she’d never hear the damage until it was too late. She peeked out just enough to see the back of the leather jacket. Good. He was facing the opposite direction. He wouldn’t see her. But how close was he to Turner?
She heard footsteps, making their way toward her over the cobbles. Damn it! In seconds Stucky would hear them, too, if he hadn’t already.
In one quick motion, she jumped out from behind the Dumpster, legs apart, arms in front, aim focused on the back of the bastard’s head. It wasn’t until she cocked the hammer that she saw Stucky flinch.
“Don’t move an inch, or I’ll blow your goddamn head off.”
“O’Dell,” she heard Turner say.
She could finally see him. He was standing close to the building, a shadow covering most of his face. Maggie couldn’t see if Turner had his gun drawn. Instead, she concentrated on her target, not ten feet away.
“Drop whatever you’re holding and put your hands up behind your head. Do it. Now!” she yelled.
The footsteps behind her slowed. She didn’t turn. Her eyes never left the back of Stucky’s head. He hadn’t moved, but hadn’t obeyed her command either.
“I said hands up. Now, goddamn it!”
“O’Dell, it’s okay,” Turner said.
But there was still no movement, not from Stucky, not from Turner, not from the men behind her. Maggie inched closer. Still, she didn’t flinch. Her finger remained firmly on the trigger, ready to squeeze.
“Last time. Drop what you’re holding and put your hands up, or I’ll blow your skull wide open.” This time the ultimatum came through clenched teeth.
Finally, his hands went up while something slapped against the cobblestone. She could feel it splatter her feet, and knew it was the takeout container he had been carrying. But she refused to look down. She didn’t want to see what part of Rita had been spread all over the ground. Instead, she kept her sights on the base of his skull. At this close range and at this angle, he’d be dead before his body hit the ground.
“Ease up, Maggie,” she heard Delaney say, and suddenly he was beside her.
The others stayed behind them. Turner stepped out so she could see that he hadn’t been injured. Silence filled the alley so completely, she wondered if they were all holding their breaths. Yet, she hadn’t dropped her stance or lowered her weapon.
“Turn around,” she ordered the back of Stucky’s head.
“O’Dell, you can put away your gun,” Turner said, but she didn’t look at him. She wouldn’t slip this time.
“I said turn around, damn it.” Her stomach twisted into a series of knots. Would she be able to look him in the eyes?
He turned slowly. Her finger pressed tighter. All it would take was a split second for her to refocus between his eyes. Then one more second to squeeze the trigger. But she wanted him to see it coming. She wanted him to know what it felt like to know another person had total control over his life. She wanted him to feel fear, and, yes, she wanted to see that fear in his eyes.
The man stared down at her with wide, frightened eyes, a thin, drawn face and shaking bony hands. He looked as if he’d faint from fear. It was the exact reaction Maggie had dreamed about. Only the man was not Albert Stucky.
23
MAGGIE opened her hotel-room door to Delaney. Without a word, she turned and walked back into the room, leaving him there while she continued the pacing he had interrupted. She wondered how he and Turner had decided which of them would talk to her. Had Delaney lost the toss?
She ignored him as he walked across the room, careful to stay out of her path. She’d make him speak first. She was in no mood to talk. And certainly in no mood for a lecture.
“We’re worried about you, Maggie.”
So there it was. He’d start with a low blow, all that worrying-and-caring stuff. Plus, he was using her first name. This was serious stuff.
“It was an honest mistake.”
“Of course it was.”
“From the back he looked exactly like Stucky. And why the hell did he ignore my instructions three times?”
“Because he doesn’t understand English.”
She stopped and stared. The thought had never occurred to her.
“Then why did he run from Turner?”
“Who knows?” Delaney dug his fingers into his eyes. “Maybe he’s an illegal alien. Point is, you not only made him splatter his veal capellini all over the pavement, you almost blew his head off.”
“I did not almost blow his head off. I followed protocol. I couldn’t see what this fucking idiot had in his hands, and he wasn’t responding. What the hell would you have done?”
“I probably would have done the same thing.”
Maggie thought she saw a hint of embarrassment. There was more to this little visit than concern.
“What’s going on, Delaney?”
“I called Cunningham,” he said, glancing up at her. “I had to tell him what happened.”
“Goddamn you,” she said under her breath, and began pacing once more.
“I saw the look in your eyes and it scared the hell out of me. I saw how much you wanted to pull the trigger.”
“But I didn’t, did I? Doesn’t that count for anything?”
“No, not this time.”
She stopped at the window and stared down at the lights of the plaza below. She bit her lower lip. The lights were beginning to blur. She would not cry. Behind her, Delaney remained still and quiet. She refused to give him anything other than her back.
“Cunningham wants you to return to Quantico,” he said in a low, apologetic voice. “He’s sending Stewart to finish your workshop.”
She watched the streetlights flicker below, confused whether to stay on or shut off as the sky lightened in anticipation of sunrise. In less than an hour, Kansas City would be waking up, and she hadn’t even been to bed yet.
“Did you, at least, tell Cunningham about Rita?”
“Yes.”
“Does he believe it was Stucky?”
“I don’t know. He didn’t say, and I didn’t ask.”
“So maybe he wants me to return to finally help on the case?”
Again, Delaney looked away, staring at the tabletop. She knew without any response that she was wrong.
“Jesus! Cunningham thinks I’m losing it, too.” She leaned her forehead against the cool glass, hoping it would steady her nerves.
After a long silence, she heard Delaney get up and start for the door.
“I already made arrangements. Your flight leaves early this afternoon. I don’t have any sessions today, so I can drive you to the airport.”
“Don’t bother. I’ll take a cab,” she said without moving.
She heard him waiting, fidgeting. She refused to give him her eyes. And she certainly would not give him the absolution she knew Delaney would feel guilty without.
“Maggie, we’re all just worried about you,” he said again, as if it should be enough.
“Right.” She d
idn’t bother to disguise the hurt and anger.
She waited for the soft slap of the door to close behind him. Then she crossed the room and turned the dead bolt.
It was almost 6:00 a.m. She had only six hours, but she wasn’t leaving this city until she connected Albert Stucky to Rita’s murder. And she didn’t care if that meant checking every last Dumpster and every last take-out container in the district. Suddenly feeling energized, she grabbed her key card and left.
24
MAGGIE was up to her knees in garbage. Her Nikes were stained with barbecue sauce, her gloved hands sticky. She tossed a bulging bag to the side without opening it. Stucky would never leave it hidden inside a bag. In the past, his surprises had been left in plain sight, where they were easily discovered. Maybe she was wasting her time going through Dumpsters.
Just then she saw the corner of a take-out container. Slowly, she stepped closer, lifting each leg high as if wading through water, ignoring the squish-squash beneath her feet. She felt a surge of adrenaline as she swatted at flies and brushed off wilted lettuce, cigarette butts and wadded tinfoil.
She lifted the container carefully, keeping it level. The box was about the size of a small cake. It’d provide ample room for a kidney or a lung. Neither organ required much space. She had once found a lung from one of Stucky’s victims stuffed in a sandwich container.
She steadied her fingers and sucked in her breath. The surgical mask clung to her mouth and nose. She pulled open the lid. The smell made her turn her head and hold her breath. After a few seconds, she was able to look again. Who’d ever guess spoiled fettuccine would curdle and stink like rotten eggs? At least that was what Maggie thought the contents had once been. It was difficult to tell without lifting the fuzzy green scum off the top.
