by Tami Dane
JT shook his head. “I agree, Chief. We need the suit.”
“What suit?” I asked, hoping it was a maternity business suit, something that looked more professional.
The chief escorted me to her office and handed me a bag. “Sloan, we all appreciate the sacrifices you’re making.” She patted me on the back.
I pulled out a white garment. Didn’t look like a business suit to me. “What’s this?”
Imagine a full-body girdle, the old-fashioned kind with wide shoulder straps and a padded cone bra. That was what I was holding. But this girdle had a huge, round protuberance sewn onto the front. And it weighed about ten tons.
So much for the somewhat decent sundress.
“It’s a pregnancy suit. You can’t expect anyone to believe you’re nine months pregnant looking like that.” She pointed at my midriff, which was concealed by ample yellow-flowered yardage.
I bit back a groan and hauled the pregnant bodysuit back to my cubicle. I selected another dress. This one looked like an enormous toddler dress. I went back to the bathroom for another change.
When I returned, JT, the chief, and Hough all looked pleased.
“Now that’s a pregnant woman,” the chief said.
Feeling slightly hormonal, I hurried back to my cubicle, flung my laptop case over my shoulder, and practiced my mother-to-be waddle as I headed toward the elevators.
At exactly ten o’clock, JT and I were standing at Dr. Rosenstein’s check-in desk, registering for my first appointment. The kind lady at the desk took a look at my stomach and said, “Please take a seat and we’ll call your name as soon as possible.”
I didn’t even have time to get comfortable in an empty seat before my name—or rather, my new undercover mother-to-be name—was called.
“Mrs. Thompson?”
JT gave me a nudge.
“Already?” I asked as my ass hovered over a chair.
He shrugged.
I met a smiling nurse, wearing scrubs with grinning cartoon baby faces, at a doorway.
She handed me a little paper cup. “Please write your name on the cup, collect a urine specimen, and leave it in the bathroom, on the metal tray.”
I did as I was told, wondering how many of the employees at the doctor’s office knew I wasn’t really pregnant. A simple dipstick test and my cover would be blown. When I exited the bathroom, she steered me to a small area set off from the hustle and bustle of the main check-in counter. Stopping there, she had me stand on a scale. It was off. Way off. Even taking the extra pounds the fake belly added. Next she had me sit and then checked my blood pressure. Those numbers looked good. Then she sent me back to a room. JT was waiting there, sitting in a chair.
“Kind of reminds me of the last time we were here,” he said.
“Do you think anyone recognizes me?”
“I doubt it.” JT motioned to the bed. “Aren’t you supposed to strip your clothes off or something?”
I glowered. “Don’t you think you’ve seen enough women naked from the waist down?” Low blow, I realized. I regretted it the minute I said it.
A knock sounded before he could respond. That was probably a good thing. Our conversation was bound to go downhill from there.
Dr. Rosenstein came strolling in, all smiles. He took a look at me, eyes twinkling. “Mrs. Thompson, you’re looking very good.” Of course, he knew I wasn’t pregnant. It was unavoidable. Not that we were too concerned. We’d pretty much eliminated him, and all the other doctors, in his practice. For one thing, he was the wrong gender. The purpose of my visit was hopefully to catch the eye of the unsub, if she was one of the contract workers the practice regularly employed.
“Thanks, Doctor,” I said.
He shut the door. “How can I help you, Agents?”
JT said, “We’d like to make sure my wife’s name, address, and phone numbers appear on all paperwork that would normally be processed for a new patient. We’ve concluded someone who contracts for several local doctors is either our killer or is somehow supplying a list of names and addresses to the killer.”
The doctor’s expression darkened. “I can’t see anyone who works for me doing such a thing.”
JT continued his explanation. “Because several of the victims aren’t your patients, we have to assume it’s nobody who works directly for you. We’re following up on one person of interest, an ultrasound technician. Can you think of any other contract workers who have access to patient files?”
The doctor thought about it for a moment. “Could be billing.”
“Billing,” I echoed.
“Sure. I don’t do any billing in-house. It’s contracted out. Saves me over thirty thousand dollars a year, when you take into account benefits and taxes. I’m sure other doctors in the area do the same thing.”
“We’d like information on that company if you can get it to us,” I said.
“I’ll be back in a few minutes.” He left.
I sat on the edge of the examination table, legs crossed at the ankles.
JT stared at me. “I meant to tell you earlier, nice dress.”
I shot him a gesture that was more biker chick than pregnant suburbanite. “We expectant mothers have ways of making you pay.”
“I don’t believe for a minute that Hough was trying to make you look like an idiot, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
I kicked a leg, sending the lower part of the skirt fluttering. “But you agree, I do look ridiculous.”
“Maybe not ridiculous. But ...”
“Silly,” I offered. “Pathetic. Laughable. Absurd.”
“No. You could never look pathetic. Or absurd.” JT pulled out his wallet, slid a credit card from a slot and waved it. “But since you feel so strongly about it, how about you do some shopping after we’re done here? I can’t have my wife walking around looking like an overgrown two-year-old.”
My sour mood instantly improved. “Thank you, dear husband. I wouldn’t mind picking up a few things.”
The doctor returned, handed us a business card, reminded me to take my prenatal vitamins, winked, then told me he’d like to see me in a week. And that was that. With any hope, my name, address, phone number, and fictitious due date were now in the hands of a bloodsucking killer.
As JT and I strolled out of the building, we passed Hough, on her way in. As would be expected, she pretended not to know us.
In the car, I stared at the building’s entry. “Shouldn’t Hough change doctors?”
JT buckled himself into the driver’s seat. “We told her it would be a good idea, but she said she likes her doctor. She trusts him, and she’s not going to change, unless it’s absolutely necessary. I can’t argue with her. She’s still in the early weeks of her pregnancy, so her risk may be limited.”
“True. I keep telling myself the same thing, when it comes to my mother.”
“Exactly. The unsub’s MO has been consistent. I agree, there’s no need to get paranoid. Yet. Besides, in the end, it’s her choice. Nobody at the bureau can force her to change doctors. But if we don’t catch the killer soon, by the middle of her second trimester, you bet I’ll be putting pressure on her to make a change.”
“Good idea.”
Strength does not come from physical capacity. It comes from an indomitable will.
—Mahatma Gandhi
19
The first thing I wanted to do when we returned to the unit was change my clothes. The pregnant bodysuit was heavy and hot and uncomfortable. My back was aching. My center of gravity and balance were out of whack. And I hated how my protruding stomach kept knocking into things. That thing seemed to have a mind of its own.
So, of course, when we strolled into the office, I made a beeline for my regular clothes, folded on my desk.
The chief stopped me. “Skye, I need you and JT to go to this address and interview a woman named Quaid.” She set a piece of paper on the stack of clothes now cradled in my arms. “She claims to have seen something suspicious outside
of her neighbor’s house last night. Her neighbor is pregnant.” Her gaze flicked down to the clothes. “You’ll need to stay in the maternity clothes until we’ve either caught this killer or at least ID’d her.”
“Even when I’m here in the office?”
“Considering the fact that none of us, with the exception of Hough, stay here long, I’d say yes.”
“Okay.” I dropped my normal clothes back on my desk, Google Mapped the address, and went in search of JT. I found him rummaging around in Hough’s computer lair. He scurried out when he saw me.
“JT, the chief needs us to go to this address.” I handed him the paper. “It’s not far from our new rental home, so maybe we should drive separately. That way, we won’t have to come back here later.”
“Fine. Go on ahead without me. I’ll be there in a bit.”
“Sure.” I started toward my cubicle, but JT stopped me with a tap on my shoulder. “Skye, leave the box of clothes. I’ll take it down.”
“But I can carry it. It’s not that heavy.”
“How do you think that would look, a very visibly pregnant woman hauling a huge box by herself?”
“Ah, good point. Thanks.” I headed down to my car with just my laptop case. My other stuff—shoes, personal items, a box with some of my dad’s research, etc.—were still in my trunk. I motored to the witness’s house, parked at the curb, and, with notebook and pen at the ready, knocked on the door.
A woman in her early thirties answered. She opened the door just wide enough to peer out.
“I’m Sloan Skye,” I explained. “I work for the FBI. Are you Tricia Quaid?”
“That’s me.” Peering over my shoulder, Tricia Quaid motioned me inside, then shut and locked the doors. We walked into the foyer of what seemed to be a nicely kept Colonial home. “I’m so glad you came so quickly. I’m absolutely petrified to leave the house.”
“What happened?” I flipped to an empty page in my notebook.
A little dog yapped somewhere in the house. I love animals. Really, I do. But, unfortunately, they don’t love me so much. I inched closer to the front door, readying myself for a hasty getaway.
Quaid launched into her story. “Mitzy had gotten out of our yard last night. When I went looking for her, I found her standing under the neighbor’s window, fighting with some gnarly-looking blackbird.”
“Okay.” I had no idea if it was a normal thing for a dog to attack a bird. Possibly. But it did seem to be an interesting coincidence that there’d been a mangy blackbird outside of a pregnant woman’s house when a similar bird had been seen by other witnesses. Maybe my mother was right, about that bird hanging around outside my apartment. “Was there anything unusual about the bird? What made you call the FBI?”
“There was some kind of long pink tube coming out of its mouth. And when I say long, I mean, really long. I’d never seen anything like it. And it seemed to have been caught in my neighbor’s window. I read the article in the paper, about the Baltimore Vampire. A black bat or bird was mentioned. This seemed suspicious enough to at least make a call.”
“Can we go see where your dog attacked the bird?”
“Sure.” Tricia Quaid led me out the front door and around the side of her house. “It was right about”—she looked up, at the side of the neighbor’s house—“here.” She pointed at an area of grass.
I stooped down; or rather, I tried to stoop down. It was no small feat. Neither was seeing the ground. The stupid belly was in my way. I duckwalked back a bit so I could search the area a little better.
From the general vicinity of the front of the house, a familiar male voice said, “Hello.”
Tricia Quaid headed toward the voice, which belonged to JT.
I shifted forward, taking on a froglike crouching position to comb my fingers through the grass. I could just imagine what a freakish sight I was.
“How’s it going, Skye?” JT asked.
“Oh, just fine. As you can tell, it’s so easy for a pregnant woman to search for clues on the ground.”
“Please let me.” JT caught one of my hands in his, placed the other under my elbow, and helped me to my feet. Instantly I had a new respect for all pregnant women around the world. “I noticed the neighbor’s car just pulled in.”
“Thanks for the help. Sheesh, I’ll never again take certain things for granted.” To Tricia Quaid, I said, “This is Special Agent Jordan Thomas. He’s going to finish up the search here while I go talk to the neighbor.”
“Okay.” Quaid said, taking a step back. “Is Mitzy going to be okay? Is it safe for me to let her out?”
I didn’t answer right away. These things had to be handled carefully, to keep people from panicking, jumping to conclusions, or spreading rumors that could hamper our investigation.
JT responded, “Ma’am, the best advice I can give you is to take your dog to a veterinarian if she appears ill, or you have any concerns for her health. Otherwise, I believe she should be okay.”
“That’s a relief.” Quaid visibly exhaled. “But what does the bird have to do with the murders? I read an article in one of those newspapers in the grocery store. They’re saying it’s a bird-monster. That’s just silly, right? You don’t believe that there’s some freakish bird-monster out there killing people. I mean, nobody believes in monsters.”
“Of course not,” I answered.
“Then why are you here?” she asked.
“We’re merely doing our jobs,” JT replied. “With the Baltimore Vampire on the loose, we’ve been told to investigate any report of suspicious activity near the home of a pregnant woman.”
I pointed at the neighbor’s house. “I’m going to talk to your neighbor. What’s her name?”
“Paula Wahlberg.”
“Thanks.” I rounded the front of Paula Wahlberg’s house and rang the bell.
A pretty women who was very pregnant answered the door. Her gaze dropped to my belly, and she smiled. “Hi, may I help you?”
“My name’s Sloan Skye. I work for the FBI. We’re checking out a report of some suspicious activity outside your home last night.”
Paula Wahlberg’s perfectly plucked brows scrunched together. She looked confused. But for some reason, I wasn’t buying it. “Suspicious activity?”
“Yes. Did anything unusual happen last night?”
“Well ...” Paula Wahlberg looked at me. She blinked a few times. “Did someone say something about a rope?” Her gaze flicked over my shoulder, outside, as if she was expecting someone to be out there.
“Rope?” I echoed, wondering if she’d mistaken the creature’s proboscis for something else.
“My husband and I have been experimenting lately. He tied me up last night. But I swear, he didn’t hurt me. And the baby’s just fine.” A blushing Paula Wahlberg ran a hand over her stomach, as I was beginning to notice so many pregnant mothers did.
An image—bizarre and a smidge disturbing—flashed in my mind. “I don’t believe that’s the suspicious activity that was reported.”
“Oh.” Her cheeks turned the shade of a cherry.
I reassured her with a smile. “No worries. Your secret is safe with me.”
“Thanks. So, if it wasn’t ... that ... what was it?” Paula Wahlberg asked.
“When you were falling asleep, did you happen to feel or hear anything unusual?”
Her eyes lifted as she visibly searched her memory. “No, not that I can remember.”
“Would you mind if I went up and took a look at your room? I promise it’ll only take a minute.”
“Well ...” Paula Wahlberg’s face turned an even deeper shade of red. “Are you sure it’s necessary?”
“It would be a big help.”
“Okay.” She led me upstairs, hesitating at the top of the staircase before opening the door. Finally she opened it.
And I could understand why Paula Wahlberg had hesitated.
My gaze swept the room. It was my turn to falter and blush. The room looked like something f
rom one of those bizarre bondage porn sites. There were several pieces of wood and leather bondage furniture lining one wall. The bed had four thick posts, and chains were hanging from huge metal rings bolted to them.
Trying to pretend like I saw this kind of thing all day long, I wandered over to the window. It was open now. If the Wahlbergs had central air-conditioning, they weren’t using it. The weather had been unseasonably cool the last week or so. But there was a window fan shoved in the window, held in position by the sliding frame. After cutting off the motor, I moved the fan out of the way.
I used a flashlight to look for traces of blood and tissue on and around the window. “Was this window open last night, by any chance?”
“Yes, for a while. But when it started to rain, my husband shut it. Why?”
Pulling out a swab, I ran it all along the edges of the frame and sash, then dropped it into a plastic bag. Next I checked the screen. My finger slipped into the small hole at the corner of the frame. Goose bumps prickled my skin. My stomach turned.
How close had this woman come to being the killer’s next victim?
It had been only a matter of sheer luck that we hadn’t been called to this house this morning, to investigate Paula Wahlberg’s death.
“Do you have central air-conditioning?” I asked.
“Sure. But with it being so cool at night, I prefer sleeping with the window open. Fresh air is so much healthier for the baby.”
“I strongly recommend you use the air-conditioning.” Turning to face her, I stared at her stomach. “Until after you deliver.”
In an attempt to avoid answering the flurry of questions that were sure to follow, I thanked her and headed downstairs. Outside, I found JT sitting in his car. He waved me over. I climbed into the passenger seat and shut the door.
“I picked up a few specimens. What did you get?” JT asked.
I handed him the plastic bag. “Some tissue from the window. The screen has a hole, like the others. Paula Wahlberg doesn’t know how lucky she is that it rained last night.” I glanced up at the window, which was visible from my vantage point. It was shut now. I hoped that meant she was taking my warning to heart.
