by Alex Kava
“Find anything interesting?”
The deep voice startled her. She grasped the Dumpster’s edge so she wouldn’t slip and fall backward into the trash. When she turned, she found Detective Ford staring up at her.
She tugged off the surgical mask and let it dangle at her neck.
“I’m finding that we waste entirely too much food in this country,” she said, dropping the container and climbing out of the Dumpster.
“I didn’t realize the FBI was trying to police that sort of thing.”
“So are you undercover or off duty?” she asked, pointing to the baseball cap as she peeled off the latex gloves.
“I should ask you the same thing.”
“I had some free time this morning,” she said, as if that should be explanation enough for her to be knee-deep in garbage.
“Hey, Ford, where the hell did you disappear?” a familiar voice called from around the corner.
“Over here,” Detective Ford answered.
Nick Morrelli looked just as handsome as she had remembered, tall and lean with a confident stride. He was at Ford’s side before he recognized her, and when he did his smile revealed dimples in a square jaw.
“Maggie?”
“Hi, Nick.” She pretended to sound casual while wading the rest of the way out.
“I keep forgetting you two know each other.” Ford was smiling, too. “Maggie had some free time this morning,” he said to Nick.
“Jesus, it’s good to see you, Maggie.”
Immediately, she felt her face flush.
“It might not be so good to smell me,” she said, needing to stop any sentimental reunion.
“So,” Ford said, glancing back into the Dumpster, “did you find anything interesting?”
“No, I didn’t find anything.” She needed to change the subject before Ford discovered it was body parts she had been rummaging for and not simply overlooked evidence. “Is this your case now?”
“Not officially. More than likely Milhaven and I will be putting in some hours on it. Today’s supposed to be my day off. Nick and I were just about to get an early lunch.”
“And you always take the alleys? Come on, Detective Ford.” She needed to keep things light, to keep Ford from realizing she had no business snooping around in his jurisdiction. “You’re down here taking another look, too, right?”
“Okay, you caught me.” He held up both hands as if in surrender. “I was telling Nick about last night.”
Maggie cringed, and again she wondered what exactly had been discussed. Nick knew the whole story, all the gory details about her and Stucky. Truth was, she didn’t care if Ford thought she was losing it. But maybe she did care if Nick thought it. She waited and Ford continued.
“You sorta got my curiosity up last night, O’Dell. All that talk about Albert Stucky sorta spooked me.”
She glanced from Ford to Nick, looking for some indication of whether they were taking her seriously.
“You think I’m being paranoid?”
“No, that’s not at all what I meant.” Ford looked genuinely confused. “Well, that’s not exactly true. I guess I was thinking that last night.”
“Albert Stucky has the financial wherewithal and the intelligence to go anywhere he wants. Don’t think for a second Kansas City is safe, simply because he hasn’t struck in the Midwest before.”
“That was my way of thinking last night. Like, why in the world would this Stucky guy just happen to pick Kansas City instead of the East Coast? But before I met Nick this morning, I sat in on the autopsy of your friend, Rita.”
Ford glanced at Nick, and it was obvious this was what the two of them had already discussed. “Seems our victim is missing her right kidney.”
25
TULLY checked his watch. It wasn’t like Cunningham to be late for a meeting. Maybe his watch was running fast again. According to Emma, it was ancient and uncool.
He sat back and stared at the huge map spread on the wall behind his boss’s desk. It was Cunningham’s personal log for his twenty years as head of the Investigative Support Unit. Each pushpin indicated a spot where a serial killer had struck. Each pushpin color designated a particular killer. Tully wondered how soon he would run out of colors. Already there were repeats: purple, light purple and translucent purple.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Cunningham said as he breezed in. “What have you found out?”
In the beginning, that brisk, straight-to-the-point attitude had flustered Tully. Now he appreciated getting down to business with no obligatory exchanges of chitchat.
“I just received the files faxed over from the Kansas City police. Early autopsy reports indicate a slashed throat as cause of death. No other defense wounds or injuries. There was one incision in the victim’s right side through which the right kidney was extracted.”
“Any sign of the organ?”
“No, not yet. It’s quite possible someone found it, had no clue what it was and tossed it.”
“What’s your perspective on this, Agent Tully?”
“The timing is off. It’s much too soon after the delivery girl. And it’s much too far away, entirely out of his territory. There was another latent fingerprint, a thumb. Again, it looks like it was deliberately left behind on an umbrella that belonged to the victim. Didn’t even have the victim’s fingerprints on it. It was definitely wiped down with the print left later. And again, it doesn’t match Albert Stucky.”
Cunningham frowned at the report, tapping his index finger to his lip.
“So is it Stucky, or isn’t it?”
“The M.O. definitely matches Stucky’s,” Tully said. “And there hasn’t been enough in the news or even enough time for a copycat. The print may belong to someone who came across the scene. A waiter found her. KC’s faxing a copy of the print to the guys at CJIS in Clarksburg. We’ll see if it matches the unidentified one left in Newburgh Heights. There’s a good chance these belong to civilians coming across the scene after everything’s been wiped clean.”
“Okay, let’s say that’s the case. So what if it is Stucky?”
Tully knew exactly what Cunningham was thinking, but he evidently wanted to hear it, to confirm what seemed to be the obvious.
“If it is Stucky, it’s more than likely he followed O’Dell to Kansas City. He may be looking for a way to drag her into this again.”
Cunningham glanced at his wristwatch. “She should be headed back right now.”
“Actually, I checked, sir. She changed to a flight later tonight.”
Cunningham let out a sigh of frustration as he grabbed his phone and punched several buttons.
“Anita, do you have Special Agent Margaret O’Dell’s hotel phone number in Kansas City?” He sat back while he waited.
Tully imagined the methodical Anita quickly accessing her records. If such a thing was possible, Cunningham’s secretary was even more meticulous than her boss.
“Good,” Cunningham said. “Would you please get in touch with her? Track her down if she’s already checked out. I want to see her in my office tomorrow morning at eight.”
He hesitated and listened as he rubbed the bridge of his nose under his glasses. “Oh, yes, I forgot about that. Tell O’Dell nine o’clock, then. Thanks, Anita.”
He replaced the receiver and looked up at Tully, waiting.
“How long do you intend to keep her off this case?” Tully finally asked what he thought was the obvious question.
“For as long as is necessary.” Cunningham held Tully’s eyes, warning him to step carefully. “What else is happening in Newburgh Heights?”
“We found the pizza delivery girl’s car. It was left in long-term parking at the airport, right next to a telephone company van that was reported stolen a couple of weeks ago.”
“I knew it,” Cunningham began drumming his fingers on the desk. “Stucky’s done it before. He’ll steal a vehicle, or sometimes only the license plates, from long-term parking. Chances are he has the plates or
even the vehicle returned before the owner is back home. Has forensics impounded the van?”
Tully nodded. “Not likely they’ll find anything. It’s pretty clean. However, we did find two delivery slips in the girl’s car.”
He dug in the folder, pulling out one torn piece of paper and another creased with fold lines. Both had been recovered from the floor of the girl’s car. A red stain on one corner had tested as pizza sauce, not blood. Tully handed both over the desk. “The torn one is from her first route. Number four on the list is Agent O’Dell’s new address.”
For the first time in Tully’s three months of working at Quantico, he saw anger on his boss’s face. The assistant director’s dark eyes narrowed and his hands clenched the paper. “So the damn bastard not only knows where she lives, but he’s watching her.”
“It looks that way. When I talked to Agent Delaney, he said the waitress in Kansas City had joked and talked with the three of them Sunday evening while she served them. He may be choosing women O’Dell comes in contact with in hopes of making her feel responsible.”
“It’s another of his goddamn games. He’s still obsessed with O’Dell. I knew it. I knew he wouldn’t let it go.”
“It appears that way. May I say one more thing, sir?”
“Of course.”
“You’ve offered me another agent to help on this case. You’ve also offered a forensic psychologist, which O’Dell is. You even suggested we have someone on hand to answer medical-related questions. If I’m not mistaken, Agent O’Dell has a premed background. I’m officially requesting Agent O’Dell. If Stucky is targeting her, she may be the only one who can help us catch him.”
Tully expected a flicker of anger or at least impatience. But Cunningham’s face remained unchanged.
“I’ll give your request careful consideration,” he said. “Let me know what else you find out from Kansas City.”
“Yes, sir,” Tully said as he stood, recognizing the signs of dismissal. Before he reached the door, Cunningham was on the phone again, and Tully couldn’t help wondering if his request had also been dismissed.
26
MAGGIE couldn’t wait to peel off her smelly clothes. Everyone in the lobby had confirmed her suspicions—she reeked. The brave souls who rode up with her in the elevator looked as though they had held their breath for all twenty-three floors.
Ford had dropped her and Nick at the door, then drove home to explain to his wife why he smelled like garbage on his day off. Nick’s room was in the south tower of the hotel complex, explaining why they hadn’t run into each other before. Which meant both banks of elevators would need disinfecting.
The three of them had spent hours digging through Dumpsters and looking for discarded containers on window ledges, fire escapes and flower boxes. Maggie hadn’t even noticed the thick, gray thunderheads that had rolled in until the rain came in sheets, forcing them to take shelter. She would have continued if she had been alone.
Detective Ford had assured her that Stucky would, indeed, be considered a suspect in Rita’s murder, despite their not finding the missing kidney. Maggie couldn’t understand why Stucky would deviate from his game. Could someone have placed the container in his refrigerator without knowing what was inside? Maggie didn’t even want to think about it. The fact was, there was nothing more she could do.
As soon as she came into her room, she noticed the phone’s message light flashing. Who could be calling? There was only one message, and it was, indeed, marked urgent.
“This is Anita Glasco calling for Assistant Director Cunningham. He needs to see you in his office tomorrow morning at nine. Please call me back if you won’t be able to make it. Thank you and have a safe trip home, Maggie.”
Maggie smiled at Anita’s soothing voice, though the message itself set her on edge. It was Cunningham’s way of seeing to it that she returned immediately. He knew she would never blow off a request to meet with him. She wondered what he already knew about Rita’s murder, or if he had even considered looking into it. After all, Delaney had probably made it sound as though she was losing her mind.
She checked her wristwatch and scraped something dry and crusty from its face. She still had about six hours before her rescheduled flight. It was the last one to D.C. tonight. If she was to make the appointment with Cunningham, she couldn’t afford another delay. But how could she leave Kansas City knowing Stucky was here? Maybe looking for his next victim this very minute.
She made sure the door was locked. She added the chain and rammed the desk chair under the knob, kicking the legs until it was secure. Then she stripped down to her underwear and tossed her smelly clothes into one of the dry-cleaning bags in the closet.
She brought her Smith & Wesson with her to the bathroom, leaving it on the counter. She left the door open, slipped out of her bra and panties, then crawled into the shower.
The water beat and massaged her skin. She turned the temperature as hot as she could stand it. She wanted to be rid not only of the smells, but of that crawly feeling just under her skin. That infestation of maggots that invaded her system every time she knew Stucky was nearby.
When she stepped out of the shower, she wiped at the foggy mirror. The brown eyes stared back at her with that damn vulnerability so close to the surface. And the scars were still there, too. Her body was becoming a scrapbook.
The scar began just beneath her breast. With her fingertip, she forced herself to touch it. To trace its puckered line down her abdomen.
“I could gut you in seconds,” she remembered him telling her—no, promising, not telling. By then, she had resigned herself to death. He had already forced her to watch while he bludgeoned and gutted two women. He had threatened that if Maggie closed her eyes he would simply bring out another woman and start all over. And he had been true to his word.
There was still no escaping those images and sounds: bloodied breasts, the crack of bones, the thud of baseball bat against skull. There had been so much blood from knives sinking into flesh, into abdomens and vaginas. No place was sacred for Stucky. He carved and sliced, encouraged by the screams.
After making her feel the splatters of blood, the pieces of bone and brain, hear the mind-shattering cries for help and smacks of bloodied flesh, what more could he have done to her? Death would have been a relief. So he left her with a constant reminder of himself, a scar.
Maggie snatched a T-shirt and wrestled into it, anxious to cover herself despite her skin being damp. She marched to the dresser and pulled out clean underwear and khakis. Her hair was still dripping as she rummaged through the service butler, relieved to find two new miniatures of Scotch. Thank God for the hotel staff’s efficiency.
A soft tap on the door startled her. Before pulling the chair away, she checked the peephole. Nick’s hair was damp. He wore clean jeans and a crisp shirt.
She returned the chair to the desk and slipped the revolver into her waistband. It wasn’t until she opened the door and his eyes slid down her body that she realized she had nothing on underneath the T-shirt that clung to her damp body.
“That was fast,” she said, ignoring the flutter this man seemed to activate on sight.
“I was anxious to crawl out of those clothes. I think I might need to throw out my shoes. There’s gunk on them that I don’t even want to know about.”
They stared at each other. She felt hot and damp. She told herself it was from her shower and the extra-hot water she had used.
“I thought maybe we could get something to eat or drink,” he said. “You do still have time before your flight?”
“I should…um…put something else on.”
His eyes wouldn’t let her go. Suddenly it unnerved her how much she wanted to touch him. She needed to close the door, pull herself together. Instead, she heard herself saying, “Why don’t you come in?”
He hesitated, enough so that she could have taken back the invitation. Instead, she retreated to the dresser, pulling things out at random, pretending to be sea
rching while giving herself any excuse not to look up at him.
He came in and closed the door behind him.
“We seem to spend a lot of time in hotel rooms.”
She glanced at him, immediately annoyed that the reminder brought a flush to her cheeks. In a small hotel room in Platte City, Nebraska, they had come dangerously close to making love. Five months later, she could still feel the same rush of heat.
She pulled out a white crew-neck sweater, the cotton knit cool but bulky and comfortable. She snatched a bra from the drawer as well.
“I’ll just be a minute,” she said as she disappeared into the bathroom.
She changed quickly, avoiding any extra touches. She reached to remove her gun, hesitated, and left it in her waistband, pulling the loose sweater down and checking in the mirror to make sure it couldn’t be seen. She knew she’d have to grab her badge on the way out.
Nick was at the window and watched as she tugged on socks and slipped on shoes.
“Ready?” she asked as she headed for the door. She almost tripped over the room-service tray on the floor outside. She stared down at the single dinner plate covered by a silver insulator. The two empty glasses and accompanying silverware sparkled on a crisp white napkin.
“Did you order something from room service?” she turned to ask, but Nick was already by her side.
“No. And I didn’t hear a knock, either.”
He stepped over the tray and out into the hallway to look in both directions. Maggie listened. There were no slamming doors, no footsteps, no wisping elevators.
“Probably just a mistake,” Nick said, but she could hear his tension.
Maggie kneeled next to the tray. Her pulse quickened. Carefully, she slipped the linen napkin out from under the silverware. She unfolded it, then used it to lift the handle of the metal insulator. Immediately the smell filled the hall.
“Jesus,” Nick said, jerking back a step.
In the middle of the shiny dinner plate lay a bloody glob Maggie knew was Rita’s missing kidney.
27
