Black Jack

by Diane Capri

  The vacuum roared to life, and all further attempts at conversation were futile. Brennan put the hose beneath the surface at the foot of the tub. The hose was clear so she could watch for foreign objects if she happened to pick up any. Once the tub was empty, the vac would be taken to the lab where the liquid could be analyzed.

  The green liquid traveled sluggishly through the hose, and the level in the bathtub dropped incrementally. Cortez ran a video of the entire process.

  The first thing Kim noticed were the tips of Jane Doe’s toes. Her feet were splayed, each foot pointing toward its side of the tub. Slowly, her feet became visible to her shins.

  Her legs were positioned in a V-shape from her pelvis. Her hands were crossed low over her abdomen, left over right, elbows close to her body. Her torso was next.

  The vac continued to draw the green liquid until she was fully exposed in the bottom of the tub. She was naked. Green liquid had collected in thin lines along the natural crevices of her body emphasizing each one. Her skin showed very little deterioration, considering the conditions.

  On the front of her body, she had no visible tattoos and wore no jewelry. The only body piercing Kim could see was one hole in each earlobe, which had collected a tiny dot of green paint, making the holes easy to spot.

  She was a natural blonde. Her body was achingly thin but well proportioned. And other than the two holes in her ears, there wasn’t a single visible traumatic mark on her. She looked as peaceful as a corpse in a coffin.

  Brennan turned off the vac. Cortez stopped recording.

  The whole team saw the entire body for the first time simultaneously. No one spoke. No one moved.

  Brice clasped his hands over his stomach, unconsciously mimicking the body’s pose. His mouth was set in a firm line. His brow furrowed.

  Grassley was the first to speak. “Let’s get back to work everybody.”

  The team broke up and returned to their various jobs, but the room was much quieter now. Spielberg took charge of the body. When she was satisfied that the team was okay on their own, Grassley motioned to Brice and left the room.

  Kim pulled out her phone, snapped a few photos of the body, and dropped it into her pocket before she followed them. Her photos were automatically uploaded to a secure server, in addition to the photos and the video she’d shot earlier. The Boss should have access to them at this point. If he was paying attention.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Friday, January 28

  10:05 p.m.

  Garrison, New York

  They walked down the corridor to the empty room that had been an office. Grassley closed the door and leaned against it.

  “Why is the FBI interested in this case, Brice?” Her voice was calm and her tone civil. One colleague to another. She looked exhausted. “The NYPD and the FBI work together now, since nine-eleven. We all understand the jurisdictional lines. Routine homicide is not an FBI matter. You’re here. So what’s going on?”

  Brice took a deep breath. He looked tired, too. “The truth is that we don’t know. Not exactly. We may not be interested in the case at all. That’s why we needed to see the body. But until you identify her, there’s nothing more I can say.”

  “My people handle homicides all day every day. We can all agree that this one is weird. If the FBI believes something more is involved here, we need to be prepared. I can’t put my team or the public at risk because you haven’t read me in.” Grassley was right, of course. Kim would have answered her questions. But she didn’t know any more than Grassley knew.

  “I hear you. I understand.” Brice nodded. He wrapped his right palm around the back of his neck, elbow akimbo like he was considering the problem. “At the moment, it’s a homicide. It’s your case. When you identify the body, and the cause, manner, and time of death, things could change. The sooner we know what we’re dealing with here, the better for all of us.”

  “What are you worried about?” Grassley’s face pinched. “Is she carrying a contagious disease? Is she filled with explosives?”

  All good questions, Kim knew. Common sense said that a dead body was harmless. Common sense was wrong and had been for a couple of decades now.

  “Not that we know of. Nothing like that.” Brice shook his head again. “But as you said, standard protocols are in place, and we should all follow them, Mariette.”

  She looked steadily into his eyes for a few moments. “I’ve got to get back to work. Thanks for stopping by.”

  “Let’s keep in touch,” Brice said, as Grassley left the room.

  She flipped him the bird on her way out and didn’t look back. Kim grinned, but she didn’t comment.

  “They’re going to be here all night. We won’t find out anything more until tomorrow.” He grimaced but said nothing about Grassley’s parting salute. “Let’s go. We can talk in the car.”

  They trudged through the frigid cold toward the SUV without speaking.

  Kim tried to puzzle things through. Start with the obvious. Brice hadn’t been straight with her or Grassley. Nothing about this whole thing passed the smell test.

  Brice said Reacher was a person of interest in the case and that’s why the New York Field Office had reached out to her. But the setup, the location, the bathtub, the cause of death, and even the paint? No. All of it was way too convoluted for Reacher.

  Yet, something odd was going on here. She simply didn’t know what it was. Or why and how it involved her. Until she knew, she couldn’t leave. Forewarned is forearmed, and all that. She’d become constantly vigilant since she’d been tasked with investigating Reacher’s background for a highly classified special assignment. But no one knew better than Mrs. Otto’s daughter Kim that you never see the bullet that gets you.

  She thought about the woman in the tub.

  Kim had only seen one old profile photo of Jodie Jacob, the one on Brice’s phone back at the restaurant. She might look entirely different now. Different hair. Heavier. Who knew?

  But if Kim had to place a bet right this moment? Yeah, the odds were short that the woman in the tub was Jodie Jacob. The smart money was on her.

  And if Brice was right about her relationship with Reacher, Jacob had been more important to him than the other women Kim had met so far. Maybe he’d even loved her at one time.

  That simple thought opened up a whole batch of issues that Kim hadn’t considered before. Reacher in love? What would that look like?

  More specifically, how would Reacher’s more human emotions impact her SPTF assignment?

  That question was the last one that popped into her head before they reached the SUV. She filed it away for later.

  They climbed inside, and Brice fired up the big engine. He executed a difficult three-point turn on the narrow road amid all the oversized vehicles parked on the shoulders and headed north on the twisty road toward Newburgh again. No new snow had fallen, and the road had been traveled enough tonight to improve driving conditions.

  After a couple of miles, the engine had warmed up enough and Brice turned on the heat. The cabin began to thaw. Brice found his phone and made a call.

  “We’re on our way back. Couple hours’ drive. Maybe more.” He paused to listen. “Hard to say. No positive ID yet. But looks like her to me. Yeah. Same as the others.”

  He disconnected and gripped the steering wheel while peering into the unnatural darkness. “We’ve got a long drive back to the city. Keep me awake. Ask your questions.”

  Kim was a human lie detector. Like the machines, she needed a baseline. So far, Brice had been evasive, but he hadn’t told any obvious whoppers. Since it was a crime to lie to an FBI agent, and since he was such a straight shooter, he probably would stick close to the truth, at least.

  Might as well start with the easy ones. “Who did you call just now?”

  “Deerfield. He was expecting us quite a while ago.” Brice slowed and swerved around a tree limb in the road, brought down by the heavy snow.

  Probably true. “What did you mean when
you said same as the others?”

  Brice shook his head. “Do you mind if we come back to that one?”

  She shrugged, although he couldn’t see her in the dark cabin. She said, “For what it’s worth, I don’t believe Reacher killed that woman.”

  He seemed surprised when he glanced at her and asked, “Why not?”

  “Several reasons. Starting with his M.O. with women. But mainly, the murder’s not his style.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “You’ve read Reacher’s Army files. You know what his skill sets are. If he’d wanted to kill her, he’d have used one of his usual methods. Guns and mayhem, usually.”

  Brice nodded slowly, soaking up her intel like a dry sponge. “Why do you think that?”

  “Same reason you do. Because that’s who he is. Straightforward. Honest, in his own way.” She paused for a breath. “And because his methods work. They’re fast, effective, and he’s good at deploying them. One of the U.S. Army’s best, by all accounts. Why would he change something that works for a convoluted kill like this one?”

  Brice paused a beat too long before he nodded. “Makes sense. I guess.”

  Kim noticed the pause and let it go. For now. “You think that woman in the bathtub is Jodie Jacob, right?” Kim watched him as carefully as she could in the blue glow of the dashboard lights.

  He breathed deeply, wiped his face with his palm, and snapped his grip to the wheel again. “I’m afraid so.”

  Kim nodded. Interesting phrasing. Not quite yes or no.

  Although if he meant the phrase literally, he was smarter than she’d given him credit for. He should be afraid of Reacher. If he wasn’t, then he was a fool. Good time to find out.

  “And your theory is she was the great love of Reacher’s life. The one who got away.”

  He hesitated as if he knew more, but she hadn’t asked the right question yet. “Yes.”

  “Here’s something to ponder, if you’re right about that.” She cocked her head and offered him a wry smile. She stretched like a cat, working the kinks out of her tired body. Giving him a little time and space to anticipate. Ramp up his anxiety level. “You allowed someone to kill her right under your nose.”

  Brice’s wide-eyed glance came at the same time a deer dashed across the road.

  “Look out!” Kim said, pointing ahead.

  He whipped his eyes to the front and lifted his foot from the accelerator just in time to avoid a massacre. Deer could do a lot of damage to a vehicle. Not to mention the paperwork involved when a government vehicle hit one.

  When the SUV was rolling smoothly north again, and Brice’s breathing had returned to normal, Kim said, “What do you think Reacher will do to you when he finds out you watched the woman he loved go inside that house and you never even checked on her?”

  “I’m not too worried about that,” he said, easily.

  Probably true. Which was also good to know. Her original assessment of his low mental acuity confirmed, she smiled.

  He was a fool. He should be worried. Very worried.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Saturday, January 29

  1:05 a.m.

  New York City, New York

  Unlike Gaspar, who could sleep through the detonation of a nuclear bomb at his elbow, Kim never slept in a moving vehicle of any kind. But Brice didn’t know that. She closed her eyes and leaned her head back, and he spent the drive alone with whatever thoughts rattled around in his head.

  They’d made good time once they reached the interstate and arrived in New York City shortly after one in the morning. Brice maneuvered through relatively light traffic like a pro, heading straight for their destination.

  In Tribeca, he circled the block twice and finally found a parking spot not too far from Mostro’s, a busy Italian restaurant abuzz with a late-night crowd.

  Brice told her the place had struggled for a while until its reputation was made by a rave review from the food guy in the New York Times and all of a sudden, the owner looked like a genius for starting out with a building large enough to house an automobile showroom. The food guy said the portions were small, but the ravioli was to die for. After that, people flocked to the place around the clock.

  They hurried along the sidewalk, which was sloppy with snow and slush, but easier to navigate than the roads, driveways, and parking lots upstate had been.

  At the front entrance to Mostro’s, Brice held the door while several upscale diners filed out, then he and Kim slipped inside. Brice gave his name to the tuxedoed man at the desk. A tuxedoed woman offered to take their coats and supplied a plastic tag in return.

  “Right this way, Mr. Brice. Mr. Deerfield is waiting,” the man said. He led them through two dimly lit dining rooms filled with prosperous New Yorkers enjoying the best food and drink the city had to offer. Toward the back of the restaurant, he opened a door that blended so well into the pale maple paneling Kim might have walked past it, even in broad daylight.

  The private dining room held a single round table set for three. Only the center chair facing the door was occupied. An older man with a thatch of gray hair and calm but tired eyes behind thick glasses. Dark suit, red tie. He looked like what he was, a senior bureaucrat with one of the most important jobs in the country. He didn’t stand up when they entered the room.

  Brice moved to his seat on the man’s right and gestured toward the opposite chair.

  She joined the table and extended her hand. “Special Agent Kim L. Otto.”

  He hesitated and then shook hands. “I’m Alan Deerfield. Assistant Director, FBI. I run the New York Field Office.”

  Kim respected professionalism and competence, which no man in Deerfield’s position could operate without. Meaning he feigned that humble attitude to manipulate her. The interesting thing was that he’d bothered to make the effort. She wondered why.

  She settled into the chair across from Brice. A discreet knock on the paneled door preceded a tuxedoed waiter with a tray. He delivered cookies arranged on a silver platter, coffee in a silver carafe, china cups, cream, and sugar. He withdrew as quietly as he’d entered and closed the door.

  “Sorry for the late night after such a long day, Agent Otto,” Deerfield said. “I won’t keep you long. I’m headed out of town early tomorrow, so tonight is our only chance to talk for a few days.”

  “I appreciate your consideration, sir,” Kim replied. She sipped her coffee and waited.

  “Let me cut right to the meat of this thing. What I’m about to reveal is highly sensitive, classified information. You’re authorized to discuss it only with the two agents sitting in this room. Understood?” He looked over his thick glasses, eyebrows raised as if this were a casual question instead of an order.

  “I have a partner, sir. I don’t feel comfortable withholding information from him.”

  Deerfield replied, “Agent Gaspar’s on medical leave. We should have this wrapped up before he returns to work.”

  Kim nodded, mostly because she figured he wouldn’t tell her anything if she rejected his terms. Besides, she didn’t need his permission to talk to Gaspar. Her orders came from a higher authority.

  Deerfield cleared his throat and leaned his forearms on the table. “A few years ago, a special task force worked an unusual serial killer case. Five victims, all women. They were found in their homes submerged in their bathtubs, each one containing twenty gallons or so of olive green camouflage paint.”

  He paused as if he wanted acknowledgment, so Kim nodded again, and he continued. “There were several other unusual features to the case. The murders were not clustered. The victims lived in various locations around the country. Which meant the killer was mobile, free to travel, and with the means to do so, as well as the means to commit the murders when he arrived. The case became a multi-office, cooperative effort. We had good forensics. Full autopsies were performed. But the cause of death couldn’t be determined for any of them.”

  Kim nodded, acknowledging the likelihood of solvi
ng a series of murders under circumstances like that had to be close to zero. “How did you finally identify the killer?”

  Deerfield shook his head. “The killing stopped, and the case went cold.”

  She shivered as the implications sunk in. “You think the body out in Garrison is the same guy, started up again.”

  “Possibly,” Brice replied. “We don’t know, but that’s the obvious place to start. We need to rule it out.”

  “It’s unusual for serial killers to stop for a long time and then restart. The compulsion that leads them to kill is powerful. They don’t have a strong desire to resist those demons,” Kim said.

  “But it happens, unfortunately.” Brice bowed his head. “I work Organized Crime, so I had to look this up. But the list of cold cases, where serial killings were interrupted but continued after a lengthy pause, is not something anybody in law enforcement likes to brag about.”

  Kim opened her mouth to request more facts, but she didn’t get the chance.

  “You two can cover all that later.” Deerfield waved a hand in the air. “The reason we pulled you in on this, Otto, is because eventually, you’d have reached that old case anyway. Because Jack Reacher was a person of interest.”

  Kim felt her eyes widen in astonishment. “Are you kidding me?”

  Brice shook his head. “Unfortunately, we are not.”

  “But—” Kim’s objection was interrupted by Deerfield again.

  “He knew all the victims. They were Army vets. When Reacher was an MP, he handled cases involving each of them. The connection to Reacher and his motive for murder were the only solid leads we had.” Deerfield paused before he delivered the rest. “We scooped him up, he cooperated with us, and he was ruled out as a suspect. I made the call, after spending some time with him and reviewing the evidence we had available. I’m not pleased to know that I made the wrong decision, believe me.”