Waiting (The Making of Riley Paige—Book 2)

by Blake Pierce

  Crivaro’s mouth dropped open.

  He said to the carney, “And you didn’t report him to the police?”

  The carney blanched, obviously realizing he blurted out something he shouldn’t have said.

  “He told a lot of us about it,” the carney said. “We all just thought it was bullshit. He seemed like that kind of a guy, a regular bullshit artist, trying to impress everybody, especially women.”

  As the cops broke up the group of people, Crivaro and Riley escorted Orson Trilby back to the ticket booth and seated him inside. Trilby was more than willing to talk now. He admitted that he was jumping bail. He’d been convicted last week on charges of drug delivery and was facing a long prison term. So he’d tried to skip out before sentencing took place.

  As Riley listened, she realized the guy wasn’t the least bit bright.

  For one thing, he ought to have fled the DC area right away instead of trying to blend in as just another carnival worker.

  But as Trilby explained to Crivaro, he’d thought he could stay on with the carnival when it left tomorrow and stay clear of DC until he’d been forgotten by the law here.

  Crivaro kept firing off questions at Trilby. Watching them, Riley could sense Crivaro’s growing discouragement. With every answer, it became more and more apparent that Trilby wasn’t the killer they were looking for.

  In fact, Riley now felt sure of it in her gut.

  She had sensed that the killer was both intelligent and sadistic.

  This guy is neither, she thought. Just a dumb minor criminal.

  Finally, Crivaro seemed sure that Trilby wasn’t their killer. He turned the subdued man over to the local cops for arrest. As the cops led Trilby away, Riley and Crivaro started making another tour of the carnival grounds.

  The carney who had called out to them earlier followed them a little ways, asking them whether he’d get a reward for identifying Trilby.

  “If there was bail posted, a percentage is a reward for catching a jumper, right?” he demanded.

  A couple of his friends argued with them that they were the ones who really deserved a reward.

  They all struck Riley as perfectly laughable.

  Crivaro kept brushing them off, telling them they’d have to talk to the police about it. Eventually the guys gave up.

  As Riley and Crivaro walked through the carnival again, they asked workers questions, hoping that maybe someone else might emerge as a suspect.

  But their hopes soon faded. Not only did all the people they talked to seem to be innocent, they hadn’t noticed anybody else except Trilby behaving suspiciously.

  Riley and Crivaro also checked out the carnival’s every nook and cranny, trying to find someplace that might be the “labyrinth” mentioned in the poem—a place where the murderer might have held and tormented and killed his victims.

  The funhouse was the largest single building in the carnival, and it was built entirely inside a semi-trailer. A security guard told them that it was locked up tight at night, and that the grounds were well patrolled during those hours. Riley and Crivaro examined both the entrance and the exit and saw that nobody could possibly get in there without the keys when it was closed up and locked.

  “I don’t think it’s even big enough,” Riley said despondently. “That’s not the killer’s labyrinth.”

  Crivaro replied in an irritated growl, “Come on. Let’s go get something to eat.”

  After that, he didn’t say a single word to Riley as he drove them to the nearest fast food restaurant. She realized …

  He’s mad at me again.

  But she couldn’t blame him. Her theory had been a bust, and the poem probably had nothing to do with the murders after all.

  She must be doing absolutely everything wrong.

  Crivaro maintained a sullen silence as they sat down at a table to eat.

  Riley cautiously said, “I’m sorry, Agent Crivaro.”

  Crivaro shook his head and took a bite from his hamburger. For a long silent moment, he glared at her as he chewed and swallowed.

  Then he snapped, “What the hell were you thinking, Sweeney?”

  Riley’s heart sank.

  This is going to be worse than I thought.

  CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

  Riley braced for the blast of words she was expecting from Crivaro. He looked really upset, but she sensed that was only part of how he felt right now.

  He’s disappointed, she thought.

  That was even worse.

  Riley dreaded Crivaro’s disappointment a lot more than she did his anger.

  Then she realized that he was actually waiting for her to answer his question—“What the hell were you thinking?”

  She stammered, “I—I know I screwed up. But when I read that poem, I really thought—”

  Crivaro interrupted, “To hell with the poem. I’m not talking about the goddamn poem. You were right about the poem, I’m still sure of that. I’m talking about how you took off after that guy. You should have left him to me. You’re not an FBI agent, Sweeney. You’re not trained and you’re not certified. You’ve got no business putting yourself in that kind of danger.”

  Riley was startled. It had barely occurred to her that she was doing anything dangerous.

  She said, “I was afraid he was going to get away.”

  “Well, he wasn’t,” Crivaro said. “All you had to do is tell me you’d spotted him. I mean, I did catch him on my own. And the cops got right there to help. What would have happened if you’d caught up with him first?”

  Riley swallowed hard.

  It was a good question—maybe a better question than Crivaro knew.

  His worry was that Riley might have gotten hurt.

  But Riley remembered the flood of outrage she’d felt when she spotted the guy fleeing from the funhouse—the same naked anger she’d felt while pounding the punching bag in the gym.

  She’d really wanted to beat him to a bloody pulp.

  And if she’d caught him, she might very well have done exactly that.

  The realization surprised her. She’d never thought of herself as a violent person. A momentary image flashed through her mind—her father’s face knotted in anger, as she’d seen it many times.

  Crivaro shook his head again and said, “You’ve got some serious impulse control issues, Sweeney. You’ve got to get over that if you want to keep working with me. Do you think you can do that?”

  Riley hung her head in embarrassment. As she tried to think of what she should say in reply, Crivaro’s phone rang.

  Crivaro took the call, replying mostly in monosyllables while he listened.

  When he ended the call he told Riley …

  “That was Agent Flack. He sent some FBI guys to the newspaper office to find out what they could about whoever wrote that poem. It came in the mail, they said. And there was also a drawing in the envelope with the poem—a sketch of a clown’s face, which looked a lot like how the two victims were painted. The paper didn’t print the drawing with the poem because they didn’t think it was worth the space.”

  Riley’s breath quickened a little.

  “Did the FBI guys find out his name?” she asked.

  Crivaro said, “The picture was signed ‘Joseph Grimaldi.’”

  Riley gasped.

  “The name of the first real circus clown,” she said.

  Crivaro said, “Yeah, just like you told us a while ago. So it’s obviously not the sender’s real name. The killer wrote the poem, all right. If we had any doubts, we can be sure of it now. The picture and the name pretty well prove it.”

  Riley’s head was buzzing with confusion.

  She said, “So how could we have been wrong about the carnival?”

  Crivaro breathed slowly, as if trying to keep his temper under control.

  “Sweeney, that’s the nature of this work. Some clues lead to dead ends. And some suspects turn out to be the wrong guy. And lots and lots of mistakes get made along the way.”

&n
bsp; “I understand all that,” Riley said.

  Crivaro shook his head and drummed his fingers on the table.

  “No, you don’t understand that, Sweeney. If you did, you wouldn’t have run off half-cocked like that. You’d have talked to me first. You’ve got to learn some patience, damn it. You can’t expect to solve a case like this by snapping your fingers.”

  “I’m sorry,” Riley said.

  She hated the way the words came out. They sounded whining and pleading. She sure didn’t want to sound like that right now.

  Crivaro sat and thought for a moment.

  Finally said, “Look, there’s a lot more to do today. I’ve got to check in with McCune and find out how his team has been doing, and what everybody else has been up to. And we’ve got to get the killer’s note and sketch into the hands of the forensics people. Maybe they can learn something from the handwriting, or maybe they’ll get prints. But …”

  Riley dreaded what was going to come after that “but.”

  “I’m giving you a time-out,” Crivaro said.

  Riley cringed.

  A time-out—like I’m a little kid!

  That seemed downright cruel of him.

  She almost protested, but managed to keep her mouth shut.

  Crivaro continued, “I’ll take you back to the Hoover Building. There are other workshops and classes still going on today. Check something out. Learn something. Meanwhile …”

  He paused for a moment, then said …

  “Think about what happened just now. And take a long, hard look at yourself. You’ve got to develop some discipline, Sweeney. Nobody can teach you that. It’s all up to you.”

  As they finished eating, Crivaro called McCune and arranged a time to meet with him. Riley and Crivaro barely spoke at all during the ride back to the Hoover Building.

  When she got there, she found out that a lecture was already in progress in the auditorium where Agent Flack had spoken yesterday. Assistant Director Marion Connor, the assistant director of the intern program, was giving a long talk about criminal statistics.

  It didn’t sound like an exciting subject, but Riley reminded herself of what Crivaro had said …

  “You’ve got to learn some patience, damn it.”

  Of course she knew Crivaro was right. But she felt embarrassed and ashamed that he’d had to tell her that.

  She walked into the auditorium, where a lot of interns were listening to the lecture.

  Of course they turned around to look at her as she came in.

  And of course Connor looked up from his notes in mid-sentence and scowled at her.

  Riley fought down a sigh of despair.

  It’s just that kind of day.

  But as she came on inside, she saw the face of at least one person who wasn’t unhappy to see her. John Welch turned around and waved at her with a smile. Riley noticed that a seat next to him was empty. She wished she could go sit beside him, but he was in the second row, and she’d attracted too much attention already. She found a seat behind everybody else.

  At first, Riley felt daunted by the display of complicated graphs that Connor was pointing to in front of the auditorium. She wondered if she’d come too late to understand what the lecture was all about.

  But the understanding of statistics she’d learned as a psych undergrad quickly kicked in, helping her catch up at least somewhat. And some of the facts and figures were actually fascinating.

  For example, violent crime in America had been declining since its peak in 1993. Property crime was also following a similar pattern. Of course, as Connor explained, the experts didn’t know whether those trends were going to continue into the twenty-first century.

  Riley was surprised at this. After all, everybody she knew acted as though violent crime was getting worse all the time. Indeed, the statistics also showed that Americans had trouble believing that the rate of violent crime was going down.

  I guess people always assume the worst, she thought.

  And in a way, that seemed perfectly natural. After her own horrifying experiences with a ruthless murderer back in Lanton, she found it hard to feel comforted by cold, abstract numbers and graphs. She also thought about her encounters with Janet Davis’s distraught husband and Margo Birch’s grieving parents. What did they care about facts like these? For victims and their loved ones, there would always be too much violence in the world.

  And there would always be work for people in law enforcement.

  Riley felt a pang at the thought. She wanted to be one of those people, dedicated to a lifetime of fighting for justice.

  But was that really going to happen?

  Was she up to the challenges of that kind of life?

  Riley learned many more startling facts during the rest of the lecture—for example, that most crimes were never reported to police, and most of the ones that were reported were never solved.

  There’s so much work to do! she kept thinking

  And there was also a killer to stop—right now, right here in DC.

  She wondered …

  Could anyone stop him before he killed again?

  CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

  Riley had a hard time focusing on the rest of the lecture.

  She kept thinking about the killer, wondering …

  What’s he doing right now, at this very minute?

  What’s he thinking?

  Had he already chosen another victim?

  Had he already taken another captive?

  Or was another woman already dead?

  Was a painted and costumed body lying somewhere, not yet discovered?

  Riley hated being shut out of the case, unable to try to answer such questions herself.

  When the lecture ended, she got up from her chair quickly, hoping to slip away before the rest of the interns. But once she got out into the hallway, she came to a stop.

  She had no place else to go right now.

  She felt stranded as groups of interns came out of the auditorium. As she stood there in indecision, the others made their way past her without comment.

  Was she just being paranoid, or were most of them gawking at her and whispering to each other about her?

  She was relieved to hear John’s voice call out to her …

  “Hey, Riley!”

  She turned and saw John walking toward her. He had a sheepish, embarrassed look on his face. For a moment, Riley couldn’t guess why.

  Then he stood in front of her and shrugged and said …

  “Uh … about yesterday.”

  Then she remembered how he’d fled out of the morgue at the sight of the murdered body.

  She laughed and said, “Oh, come on. That’s nothing to worry about.”

  John grinned, looking relieved.

  Just then an attractive young female intern came toward John, pretty obviously trying to distract him away from Riley.

  She said, “Hey, John—are you still planning on joining us at King Tut’s over in Georgetown?”

  John glanced back and forth between Riley and the young woman.

  He said, “I don’t know, Natalie …”

  Natalie laughed and tugged him on the arm.

  “Well, make up your mind, silly,” she said. “Happy hour isn’t going to last forever.”

  John looked at Riley and said, “Want to come too?”

  Riley could see a look of annoyance on Natalie’s face. Obviously, she was trying to stake her own claim on John and didn’t want any competition from Riley. Riley couldn’t really blame her. John was definitely an attractive and charming guy. Still, the situation felt rather awkward.

  She tugged John aside and whispered to him …

  “You do remember I’m engaged, right?”

  “Sure, don’t worry,” John said. “This isn’t a date. This is more like a group expedition. Hey, maybe your guy would like to join us.”

  Riley hesitated.

  Should she invite Ryan? Would he feel comfortable with this group?

 
Will I even be comfortable with this group? she wondered.

  But she couldn’t see anything wrong with giving it a try.

  “Give me just a minute,” she said to John.

  Taking a few steps away, she got out her cell phone and called Ryan.

  “Hi, Riley. What’s going on?” Ryan asked.

  She said, “I’m heading out to a little get-together with some of the interns. Want to join us? It’s in Georgetown, a bar called—”

  Ryan sharply interrupted, “Can’t. I’m still at work. I have to be here for a while.”

  Riley felt a chill at his tone of voice. He was obviously still angry after their argument last night.

  “That’s OK,” she said a bit weakly.

  “It had better be,” Ryan said. “You’re not the only one who’ll have to work late sometimes, you know.”

  Riley felt her throat tighten. She didn’t know what to say.

  Ryan said, “Go on, have a good time.”

  “I’ll do that,” Riley said.

  They ended the call, and Riley stood staring at the phone.

  Ryan’s words nagged at her …

  “Go on, have a good time.”

  She knew that tone of voice. Obviously he hadn’t meant it.

  And how was she going to enjoy herself as long as he felt like that?

  She felt a twinge of anger.

  He’s not being fair, she thought. That made her determined not to let his pettiness spoil her evening.

  She glanced back at John, who was standing with several other interns, including Natalie. John was looking toward her expectantly, but the others didn’t appear happy that Riley was holding them up.

  Riley gathered her courage and said …

  “OK, I’ll go.”

  John grinned cheerfully, and Riley followed him and the group into the building’s garage. She climbed into a waiting van with the others, and within moments they were on their way to Georgetown.

  When they got to King Tut’s, Riley saw that it was a high-class, two-story establishment with lots of different rooms. The whole place was flashily decorated with Egyptian motifs and images.

  Even on a weeknight, the place was crowded because of happy hour. The clientele was markedly young—mostly well-to-do college students, Riley thought.