Under Cover of Darkness

by James Grippando

  “There you go. She could be flying the friendly skies as we speak.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Why not?”

  “Come on, Carla. I know what’s going on here. I’ve suspected for months.”

  “Suspected what?”

  “She’s seeing someone, isn’t she?”

  “Another man? No way. You’ve soured her on the species for life.”

  “Carla, be straight with me. If she spent the night with another man, that’s between her and me. But if that’s not the case, then something scary is going on, and I need to call the police so they can start looking for her. So tell me, and you’d better tell me the truth. Things haven’t been good between me and Beth lately. But this is Morgan’s mother we’re talking about. Your niece.”

  “I honestly don’t know what to tell you.”

  “Stop covering for her.” He was louder than he’d intended. He drew a deep breath, but he still spoke harshly. “This is serious. Does a woman leave her husband without a suitcase? Without a purse, a wallet, her driver’s license? Without so much as a fifty-dollar withdrawal from our bank account? Don’t make me drag in law enforcement if you know this boils down to another lover. But if we can agree she might be in trouble, it’s time to call the cops. Which is it, Carla?”

  There was a pause on the line, as if she were trying to put aside the lifetime of anger she’d built up against her brother. Finally, she answered in a shaky voice. “I think you’d better call the police.”

  The response chilled him. He didn’t say thank you. He didn’t say good-bye. He just hung up the phone and dialed the police.

  Four

  The Meany Science, Math and Arts Academy let out at three-thirty. Five hundred middle-school students burst through the exits like escaped prisoners. Some headed for the playground until their ride arrived. Others went straight for the long line of yellow buses. Noisy groups of kids who lived close enough to walk home were escorted off the school yard by volunteer patrollers. Benny Martinez and his two sidekicks walked alone.

  Benny was big for a sixth-grader, confident to the point of cockiness, a natural leader. As to whether he’d devote his talents to good use or gang life, the verdict was still out.

  He walked slowly down the sidewalk and away from the school, passing the crowded buses. He wore a flashy blue and gray NFL Seattle Seahawks athletic jacket. Once outside the school property, he clipped a chain dog leash to his oversized blue jeans, just for effect. Although his parents wouldn’t allow the skinhead haircut that was a gang trademark, his hair was cropped as short as his scissors could possibly cut it.

  “Come on, Benny,” his buddy said. His voice shook with nervousness. He was clearly in a hurry.

  “Be cool.” Benny clutched his knapsack, which concealed a stolen football. Experience had taught him never to run when carrying stolen goods. Some twenty percent of his classmates had been suspended at some time during the school year. Benny had yet to be tagged for anything. Fools, all of them. Coolness was key.

  He smiled at the patrolwoman on the corner as he and his two buddies crossed the street. His friends looked as if they were about to wet their pants. Benny muttered beneath his breath, “Run and I’ll kill you both.”

  His friends slowed their pace. Past poundings from Benny had taught them to do exactly as he said.

  Benny seemed to glide across the street, not anxious in the least. His friends tagged along on either side of him, with Benny a half step ahead. They walked as a unit for several blocks until Benny signaled halt. They’d reached the entrance to Washington Park Arboretum, a two-hundred-acre woodland northeast of downtown. A light breeze from Union Bay stirred the towering fir trees before them. The sun was just a fuzzy amber ball behind a patchy blanket of clouds. Benny unzipped his knapsack and removed the leather football. Only now did he allow himself a smile.

  “Go long,” he said.

  His friends sprinted into the park. Benny waved, telling them to keep going. He heaved the football with all his strength. Wind-aided, it nearly made it to his friends. They wrestled with each other and rolled in the grass to gain control of the bouncing ball. Benny ran to catch up with them. His friend pitched it back to him, rugby-style. The threesome ran along the asphalt bicycle path, pitching the ball back and forth among them. The winding trail took them up and over a hill, deep into a lush green meadow. The impressive Japanese tea garden loomed ahead. The boys were more focused on the ball than the sights. The long run had them breathless, but no one wanted to be the sissy who stopped the game. Benny pitched a high one. His friend got a hand on it but missed. The ball rolled down the hill into a heavily wooded area.

  “Idiot!” shouted Benny.

  “Me? You threw it!”

  They stood at the edge of the bike trail. The hillside dropped off at a steep forty-degree angle. The longpole pines were nearly thirty feet tall, the Douglas firs even taller. Yet the ravine was so deep that some of the treetops were at the boys’ eye level. They could hear running water splashing against the rocks somewhere below, but the evergreens were too thick to actually see the creek.

  Benny glared at this friend. “Go get it.”

  “No way.”

  Benny shoved him off the ledge. He rolled about thirty feet down the hillside before grabbing hold of a tree. Loose gravel continued down the hill. He looked up in fear, about ready to cry. Benny didn’t flinch. “Get the ball,” he said.

  The other boy spoke up. “Just forget it. It was stolen anyway.”

  “You afraid?” asked Benny.

  “No. Are you?”

  Benny’s eyes narrowed. “If you get there before I do, you can keep the ball.”

  His pal smiled at the challenge. Quickly but carefully they started sliding on their butts down the side of the hill. It was grassy at the top, making it easier to control the descent. But the mud near the bottom made the slide even faster. Too fast. They were bouncing, then tumbling out of control. Low-hanging branches slapped their faces. Mud was flying everywhere, into their shoes and up their shirts. The farther the descent, the darker it got. The sound of the creek grew louder, until finally they landed with a thud at the foot of the hill.

  Benny groaned. His friend groaned louder. They were only a few feet apart, but there was barely enough light for them to see one another.

  “Benny?”

  He shook his head, getting his bearings. “Yeah?”

  “What the heck is that?”

  “What?”

  His friend pointed. “That. Up there, behind you.”

  Benny turned. His eyes were slowly adjusting to the dimness. Something was in the tree, a good twenty feet overhead. He stared, trying to focus. Finally, he could see it. Turning. Twisting. His eyes widened. There was no mistaking it.

  A body was hanging at the end of a rope.

  The boys looked at each other, then screamed in unison as they ran the other way along the side of the creek.

  For a special agent in the FBI, it was hard to define a “typical” Monday. The Monday after a wedding like Andie’s definitely was not typical.

  Andie had been in the FBI for three years, all in the Seattle field office. The bureau wasn’t exactly a lifelong dream of hers. It was more of a safe landing for a self-assured thrill seeker who might well have courted the other side of the law had Mr. and Mrs. Henning not adopted her at the age of nine and channeled her energy in the right direction. She was a Junior Olympic mogul skier till her knee gave out and a certified scuba diver by the time she was sixteen. She went away to college at the University of California, Santa Barbara, thinking she would build a life near the beach. To everyone’s surprise she chose a rather serious major, psychology. Her grades were good enough to get her into law school, and, yet another surprise, she went. But it wasn’t until her final year that real inspiration struck. At a recruitment panel on alternative careers, she was mesmerized by a woman who had just returned from an investigation of a terrorist bombing. That had settled it
. She would join the FBI.

  The decision had thrilled her father, himself a cop who had introduced her to guns at an early age. During her training at the academy, she had become only the twentieth woman in bureau history to make the “Possible Club,” a ninety-eight-percent-male honorary fraternity for agents who shoot perfect scores on one of the toughest firearms courses in law enforcement. Despite the distinction, she’d spent her first six months doing routine background checks on prospective federal employees. It was a career dead end reserved for marginal agents, or for someone like Andie, who simply looked young for her age and wasn’t taken seriously. Fortunately, one of the supervisory special agents spotted her talent: “Unmatched drive and a healthy spirit of adventure,” he had written in her evaluation, “tempered by serious brainpower and exceptional technical skills.” He got her assigned to the bank-robbery squad, where she’d made a name for herself over the next eighteen months. At twenty-seven she still looked young. No one, however, had trouble taking her seriously anymore.

  At least not before the wedding.

  Andie struggled to keep smiling throughout the day. It wasn’t easy. Nobody said a word about the wedding, though a group of secretaries at the watercooler had giggled after she’d passed. Everyone knew about it, of course. Some of them had been there. One of them was sporting a black eye to prove it.

  “See ya mañana,” said Andie on her way to the elevator. The receptionist waved and buzzed her through the electronically secured door.

  It was early, around four-thirty. Thanks to the canceled honeymoon, her calendar was completely clear, making it a stretch to fill her day with anything meaningful. She didn’t feel like going straight home, another night alone. Nights were awfully long this time of year, even without a heartache. She headed a few blocks south from the federal building toward historic Pioneer Square, the old downtown business district where quaint cobblestone streets and nineteenth-century brick buildings were home to trendy galleries, boutiques, and restaurants. Andie stopped at J&M Cafe, a popular saloon that boasted the most impressive wooden bar this side of San Francisco. It was her favorite place for nachos, the perfect sinful ending to the rabbit food diet she’d endured for the bikini she wouldn’t wear on the Hawaiian honeymoon she’d never take.

  The bar was crowded and noisy, as usual, but she felt alone. A steady stream of patrons brushed against her back as they squeezed past on the way to the rest rooms. Halfway through her mound of gooey tortilla chips, she sensed someone standing close behind her. She glanced over her shoulder.

  A handsome black man was staring at the empty stool beside her. “Excuse me,” he said, still looking at the stool. “But is this woman taken?”

  Andie raised an eyebrow. “That has to be the lamest pickup line I have ever heard.”

  “Thank you.” He pulled up the stool and extended his hand. “Bond’s the name. B.J. Bond.”

  She shook his hand. “What’s the B.J. stand for?”

  “Bond James.”

  “So your full name would be…?”

  “Bond James Bond.”

  They lost it simultaneously, sharing a laugh as they let the charade go.

  “Isaac,” she said playfully, “nice to know I can count on your goofball sense of humor to lift my spirits.”

  He grinned widely, then caught the server’s eye and ordered a cup of American coffee. Isaac Underwood was the assistant special agent in charge of the FBI’s Seattle field office, or ASAC, the number two man in an office of a hundred and sixteen agents. He had been Andie’s immediate supervisor for eighteen months before the promotion.

  He settled into the stool and reached for a fully loaded nacho. “Pretty decadent dinner,” he said with his mouth full.

  “Like they say, we didn’t work our way to the top of the food chain to eat tofu.”

  “Amen to that.” The server brought his coffee. Isaac reached for the sugar. “So, kiddo. You doing okay?”

  “Yeah,” she said, adding a quick nod for emphasis. “I am.”

  His expression turned serious. “Andie, if there’s anything you need. Time off. Even a transfer.”

  She raised a hand, halting him. “I’m okay. Really.”

  He sipped his coffee. “If it’s any consolation, I always thought that guy was a bit of a prick.”

  “Now you tell me.”

  “You didn’t notice?”

  “He wasn’t always that way. We were inseparable all through law school. Even talked about opening up a firm together. When I ditched the idea of practicing law and joined the FBI instead, I think he had it in his mind that the bureau would eat me alive, that I’d quit before long. He definitely didn’t think it would last three years.”

  “Plenty of people change their minds about marrying cops. Most of them just cancel the engagement.”

  Andie lowered her eyes. “In hindsight, I think he tried. We had a huge fight last week. From the day we got engaged, we always talked about raising a family. All of a sudden he tells me no kids so long as my job description includes bullet dodging.”

  “Sounds like you should have canceled.”

  “I know. My mother talked me into going through with it. She had me convinced we could work it out, that Rick was just bluffing. I guess he wasn’t bluffing. Just wish he hadn’t picked such a sleazy way to keep us both from making a terrible mistake. And now I really wish I hadn’t turned it into a circus.”

  “I’m sorry, Andie.”

  “Thanks. But don’t be. I just want to get back to normal as soon as possible.”

  “I’m glad you see it that way. Because I’ve got an assignment for you.”

  “Isaac, how sweet. You arranged to have a bank robbed just to take my mind off my personal problems.”

  “Not exactly.” He smiled, then was serious again. “Victoria Santos is coming over from Quantico tomorrow morning.”

  Andie didn’t know Santos, but she certainly knew of her. Santos had taught the course on criminal psychology to Andie’s class of cadets at the academy. More to her credit, she was a legend among criminal profilers in the FBI’s elite Investigative Support Unit.

  “What for?” asked Andie.

  Isaac glanced at the crowd of customers hovering around them. “Let’s talk about this outside, all right?”

  They paid the bill, poured their coffee into paper go-cups, and stepped outside. The busy city street crackled with the sound of rush hour on wet pavement. A damp chill cut through their overcoats. The sun had set only minutes ago, but the temperature had dropped precipitously. Andie sipped her hot coffee. Isaac kept talking as they walked together down the wide, tree-lined sidewalk.

  “Local police have asked the FBI for assistance,” he said. “They have some homicides that may be related. Possibly a serial killer at work.”

  “How many victims so far?”

  “Two that they’re pretty sure of. A third was found today.”

  “What makes them think they’re related?”

  “The first two took place in different parts of the town, about a week apart. But they were virtually identical.”

  “You mean the similarities are in the killer’s m.o. or in the victims’ characteristics?”

  “Both. From the victimology standpoint, it’s like one was a carbon copy of the other. Both white males. Both fifty-one years old. Same color hair and eyes. Both divorced. They even drove the same kind of vehicle. Ford pickups.”

  “How did they die?”

  “Basically strangulation. But there was a lot of evidence of overkill. Multiple stab wounds, blunt trauma. Even some burns.”

  “So we’ve got a serial killer who hates middle-aged white men?”

  “Not exclusively. The third victim is a white female in her mid-thirties. Some kids found her body this afternoon.”

  “Why do the police think her murder is connected to the men’s?”

  “She was strangled, for one thing. And like the others, her body showed significant signs of overkill. But the cops aren’t
sure there’s a connection. That’s why they called in the FBI. I’m not even sure the geniuses back at Quantico think it’s a serial killer just yet. I presume that’s why they’re sending Santos from ISU as opposed to a profiler from CASKU.”

  Andie nodded, though she wasn’t entirely familiar with the FBI’s division of labor between the Investigative Support Unit, which had pioneered criminal profiling, and the Child Abduction and Serial Killer Unit, which was a more recent creation.

  They stopped at the corner near Andie’s car. “What do you want me to do?” she asked.

  “I want you to be the local coordinator. Team up with Santos. Help get her whatever she needs while she’s out here.”

  Andie hesitated, surprised. “You know there’s nothing I’d rather do than work side by side with Victoria Santos. But there are at least fifteen other agents in the office who’d kill for this assignment.”

  “You’re the only one with a degree in psychology. These days that’s virtually a prerequisite for any agent who hopes to get a foothold with the ISU. Why waste this assignment on someone who has no chance of breaking in?”

  “Isaac, I really do appreciate this. But let me be straight with you. I don’t want it if your decision is based on sympathy for what happened to me on Saturday.”

  “This isn’t charity. It’s just good timing. You’re qualified. This is what you’ve always wanted to do. And you’re available. Frankly, now that you’ve canceled your honeymoon, you’re the only agent in Seattle with a completely clear calendar for the next two weeks.”

  “I guess Rick did me a favor.”

  “Maybe he did both of us a favor.”

  For a split second she thought maybe he was talking on a personal rather than professional level. Before she could even sort out her thoughts, he had popped open his briefcase and was handing her a file.

  “Here’s a copy of the materials we sent to Santos. Police reports, autopsy protocols, crime-scene photos—everything she wanted from the first two homicides. Look it over tonight.”

  The traffic light changed, allowing pedestrians to cross. Isaac stepped off the curb. Andie tucked the file under her arm and remained at the corner by her car.