The Scarlett Bell FBI Series

by Dan Padavona

The DC snipers proved almost impossible to catch. As long as the unknown subject stayed hidden inside his trunk and carefully selected targets and escape routes, he’d remain as elusive as a phantom.

  “So we should expect another murder in the next twenty-four hours.”

  Gardy’s face was grim.

  “Unless he possesses enough self-control to go underground for a while. At least until the fervor dies down. People see him on every corner, and the false alarm rate is already ridiculous. The next time he kills he runs a higher risk of being seen.”

  “Or someone shooting back.”

  “Yeah. That, too. Exactly what we need. Armed vigilantes squeezing the trigger every time someone cries wolf. I can’t see him stopping. He has a taste for it now and wants to relive the first kill.”

  “Like chasing ghosts.”

  “Exactly my thought.”

  Bell gathered up her coffee.

  “On that happy note, I think I’ll head back to the room. I didn’t sleep much last night.”

  “When was the last time you ate?”

  She lifted the coffee cup.

  “That’s not food, Bell. You haven’t eaten since breakfast, have you?”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “Come on. Let me take you out for dinner. We’ll put the case notes away and pig out on cheeseburgers and greasy fries.”

  Bell’s stomach lurched at the thought of heavy comfort food forming a brick in her belly.

  “Thanks, but I’ll pass this time.”

  “Or something healthy. How about sushi or poke bowls?”

  Nothing appealed to Bell. Gardy was right. She needed to eat or her body would shut down, yet she couldn’t stomach food.

  Against his better judgment, she retired to her room. Hers was gloomier than Gardy’s, the drapes drawn with a slice of California sunshine permeating the edges. Housekeeping had made the bed, yet the bedspread was ruffled as if the blankets and sheets couldn’t sit still. The overnight bag spilled clothes from the top. She noticed a pair of underwear hanging off the side and stuffed it into the bag in embarrassment. When did she become a slob?

  She flopped onto the bed. Swirls were drawn into the white ceiling, making her think of wind eddies curling between mountains. Her eyelids felt heavy and wanted to close, but the case kept running inside her head, a wind-up toy she couldn’t shut off.

  The killer was the alpha dog now. The entire country, not just Milanville, feared him.

  It wasn’t enough. It would never be enough. He needed to prove his prowess again.

  “On a larger scale.”

  Her voice was loud in the quiet hotel room. It surprised Bell, scared her a little.

  The unknown subject might contact the police. Or maybe the media. She didn’t expect a manifesto. No, he wanted to frighten the public, make certain they knew he was in charge.

  Bell closed her eyes and felt sleep pull her into the mattress. Each time her consciousness wavered some random thought jolted her awake.

  Rubbing her eyes, she sat up and slapped the mattress. The light around the curtains had grown grayish-blue. It was almost dusk. Maybe she had slept for a while.

  She shuffled to the bathroom and filled a glass with water. Drank it down in three gulps. Filled it again and took it slower this time, not wanting stomach cramps on top of insomnia.

  The television remote lay on the coffee table. News about the shooter was the last thing she wanted to watch, let alone two talking heads debating the maniac’s motivations. Instead, she padded to the curtains and pulled the cord. The drapes parted a few feet, enough for her to view the setting sun.

  That’s when she saw him.

  Logan Wolf.

  There. Among the trees bordering the parking lot. Staring at her with black eyes.

  She stepped back from the drapes and into the shadows of the hotel room.

  Blinked.

  He was gone.

  Bell ripped the cord until the curtains were completely open. Her breath fogged the glass as she pressed against the window and scanned the parking lot.

  Nobody was there.

  She stepped back from the window and saw the Glock-22 upon the dresser. Grabbing it up, she rushed to the door and unfurled the chain. Her hand was on the handle when she thought better of going after Wolf. Not alone.

  Bell crept back to the window, careful to stay far enough back so Wolf couldn’t see her. The parking lot was empty, save for sleeping vehicles. Darkness crawled out of the trees.

  Had the serial killer been there at all?

  Bell sat on the edge of the bed with her head buried in her hands. She was going crazy.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  Gardy’s stare was hard and unwavering. Bell sat across from her partner at a corner table, away from the crowd swarming the hotel’s free breakfast buffet.

  “What do you mean you think you saw Wolf?”

  She picked at a bran muffin. The glass of orange juice sat untouched.

  “It probably wasn’t him. Look, I was exhausted and hadn’t eaten since breakfast. It could have been anyone in the woods. One of the grounds crew, someone taking a walk. Hell, it might not have been anyone.” She rubbed her eyes. “Dammit, I’m losing my mind.”

  Gardy put down his fork and touched her arm.

  “Hey, look at me.”

  She did.

  “You’re not losing your mind. It’s the letter, the case, the fight with your parents.”

  Bell hadn’t spoken with her parents since they’d visited. She threw them out after her father espoused women weren’t cut out for law enforcement.

  “I don’t know.”

  “But you should have come to me right away, Bell. If Wolf is following you—”

  “How could he know where I am? It’s not like the BAU advertises where their agents are headed. Oh, shit.”

  “What?”

  “The reporter. The one hounding me after the second shooting. Gardy, he wrote about me.”

  Gardy pushed the waffle around with his fork. He appeared to lose his appetite, too.

  “All right. It’s probably nothing. You’re under pressure, and as you said, you hadn’t eaten. Easy to imagine seeing faces which are already in the backs of our minds. But just in case it was Wolf, I don’t want you alone.”

  “Gardy, I still think we’re overreacting.”

  “I’m not taking chances. You’re staying in my room tonight.”

  She straightened her spine in surprise.

  “What?”

  “It’s not a problem. The sofa pulls out into a sleeper, and I can—”

  “Gardy, no.”

  “It’s just for a few nights. Until we close this case.”

  Bell sighed.

  “I don’t like this. I’m a federal agent with a big honking gun. I can take care of myself.”

  “I know you can. That doesn’t mean you walk blindly into a room without your partner watching the corners. Think about it. At the very least you’ll have peace of mind. You’ll sleep better.”

  She nodded absently. He stuffed a piece of syrupy waffle into his mouth and chewed.

  “And now you’re going to eat. I can’t have you dragging behind me at half-speed when I take the shooter down.”

  Bell’s eyebrows raised.

  “Half-speed? Gardy, I can run laps around you.”

  “Prove it.”

  “Fine,” she said, pushing back her chair.

  He grinned victoriously as she joined the buffet crowd. She bit her cheek realizing he’d somehow fooled her into being hungry. Her stomach assailed her with anxious growls, and soon she loaded her plate with scrambled eggs, hash browns, a green-and-red pepper medley, and dear God, she found grits and gravy.

  By the time she made it back to the table she was performing a balancing act, one hand carrying the overloaded plate, the other somehow gripping a bowl of grits and a toasted bagel.

  “You know, Bell. You’re allowed to make multiple trips.”

  “Shut it.
I’m hungry.”

  As Bell shoveled the food into her mouth she caught him laughing.

  It took a half-hour before Bell’s stomach caught up to her brain. During that time, Gardy attempted to make another waffle and burned it to a crisp.

  “That’s what the alarm is for,” Bell said. “When it beeps, the waffle is done.”

  “It’s not so bad.”

  He scrunched up his lips and chewed the blackened monstrosity.

  “This is why you need a girlfriend. You’re not domesticated.”

  “The bachelor pad is spotless.”

  “And you eat dinners out of a box.”

  “Truth. Just keep your side of the hotel room clean. No underwear hanging out of the travel bag.”

  Her cheeks burned.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  The Chief of Police, Rob Harrington, wore a graying beard and mustache over a ruddy face. Though Harrington gingerly tottered on feet which walked too many beats, his chiseled arms stretched the sleeves of his uniform.

  A table served as the briefing room’s focal point, and Bell was surprised to find it was a smart board when Harrington turned on the PC workstation. Floodlights were cut into the ceiling, but the room was plenty bright from late-morning sun beaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

  Gardy had Harrington’s ear off in the corner. The chief glanced in Bell’s direction and nodded, then Gardy slid into the chair beside her.

  Bell leaned toward her partner.

  “What was that about?”

  “Nothing, just going over the Hostetler interview.”

  Gardy didn’t look at Bell when he spoke, something she found odd. He busied himself with the case notes while they waited for the meeting to begin.

  Harrington manned the meeting from the head of the table. Bell and Gardy took up two chairs on one side, while Detective Ames and three uniformed officers sat across from them. The arrangement made it seem like two different teams, a concept which bothered Bell.

  Moving the mouse, Harrington clicked an icon and the smart board displayed a map of Milanville. Two red dots marked the kill sites.

  Harrington led a brief round of formalities and introduced the players. The detective’s hard eyes continued to fume over Hostetler.

  “The anonymous tip line is up and running,” Harrington said, sitting forward with his hands clasped on the table. “The phone number is plastered on the television news, so we’re getting plenty of coverage. As you might expect the signal-to-noise ratio is running wild. Lots of erroneous reports, and the loonies are out in full force with their conspiracy theories. Regardless, we’re manning the line twenty-four hours per day in the hope someone saw something important on the days of the shootings.”

  Gardy tapped his pen on the table.

  “The shooter will call the tip line.”

  “Okay. What makes you think that?”

  “He needs to interject himself into the search. Boast and show us he’s the one in control.”

  “Additionally,” said Bell. “The shooter’s acceleration tells us he’s at a breaking point. When the unknown subject kills civilians and contacts the department, he’s demonstrating his power.”

  Harrington surveyed the room.

  “Anyone object to the agents’ profile?”

  The three uniformed officers didn’t budge, but Ames tossed her pen on the table.

  “You already know how I feel about this, Chief. We interviewed the most likely suspect and let him walk.”

  Wonderful, Bell thought. The detective threw them under the bus.

  Harrington switched the view and two images of the victims materialized.

  “Are you certain the shootings are racially motivated? Both victims are white males.”

  “If Hostetler isn’t the killer, he knows who is.”

  “We’ll put that theory to the test this evening. Channel-12 is bringing in so-called experts to analyze and debate the shootings. The program will run live, including callers. To my ears, it sounds like a dog-and-pony show, but the program manager invited us to monitor the calls from their control room in the event the killer checks in.”

  Gardy rocked back in his chair.

  “Will they allow a trace?”

  “I’m working on that. She’s not in favor of the idea. The lines are owned by the media, and there’s a lot of hand-wringing over us monitoring their callers. But we’ve been good to her station in the past. We can work something out.”

  A tall officer with a shaved head and a face full of stubble raised his hand.

  “Picard?”

  “I suggest we contact campus security. If the shooter is a student, we can monitor messages originating from their network. That would bypass the television station.”

  “Not a bad idea except we can’t confirm the shooter is a student or lives on campus. If he has an apartment, he’ll use private broadband. That will take a long time to track unless Agent Gardy’s connections get us national support.”

  “I’ll call Quantico,” Gardy said.

  “Good. In the interim, we have our own tip line to monitor. Lots of lines cast. He’s bound to bite one.”

  They stood when the meeting ended, the low murmur of voices rolling around the room. Bell was packed and ready to leave when Harrington approached.

  “Agent Bell.”

  “Yes, Chief?”

  “I’d like your assistance overseeing the tip line operation. We have half-a-dozen officers monitoring the calls, and frankly they don’t have the experience to determine if a caller is our shooter.”

  Bell swung her eyes toward Gardy, who’d quietly moved to the other side of the table with the officers and Detective Ames. Was Gardy behind this?

  “I’m happy to train the operators, but I feel I’m of greater benefit in the field.”

  “It’s a matter of strategically deploying our resources. We have more than enough bodies to ferret out the shooter and take him down. You’re our best profiler.”

  Bell bit her cheek as she nodded. Gardy was halfway out the door when she caught him.

  “What the hell was that about?”

  “What?”

  “You know. Locking me in a call center for the duration of the case.”

  Gardy glanced around and lowered his voice while the others filed out of the room.

  “Not for the duration of the case. Only until we find the shooter.”

  “Is this Harrington’s plan, or did you plant the idea in his head?”

  “Come on, Bell.”

  “Tell me the truth.”

  He sighed and studied the carpet.

  “You’re best qualified to identify the killer if he calls. And to be honest, you could use a break from fieldwork.”

  Her ears sizzled.

  “Explain.”

  “The last few months have been rough. Hodge almost killed you, then you were knocked unconscious in a hurricane. Until this morning you hadn’t eaten, and you’re not sleeping.”

  She self-consciously rubbed the bags under her eyes.

  “I can do my job, Gardy.”

  “Of course, you can.”

  “This is about Logan Wolf.”

  He pursed his lips and stared down the vacant hallway. The officers’ voices were far away and unintelligible.

  “I never should have told you I saw Wolf. Face it, there are only two possibilities. Either I saw him and you think I’m incapable of protecting myself, or I imagined the whole thing. Which makes me crazy.”

  “You’re not crazy, and you’re more than capable of defending yourself.”

  “Then talk to Harrington. Get me back in the field.”

  “He needs you to identify the shooter. We need you there.”

  Bell folded her arms. She didn’t want to look at Gardy.

  “Besides, if it really was Logan Wolf, it’s a good idea to keep you around other officers.”

  “Stop trying to protect me, Gardy.”

  “I’m not. This isn’t your father talk
ing. If the situation were reversed, you’d want someone watching my back.”

  “Yes, and you’d refuse and be back in the field an hour later. I know how this works.”

  She bolted off the wall and stared straight ahead so he couldn’t see her eyes well up.

  “Where are you going?”

  She didn’t answer.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  Children giggle and shove each other around his legs. The inside of the fast food restaurant smells of grease, salt, and burned meat. The din of voices makes his head hurt.

  The food is bad for Meeks, but he’s too hungry to care. The scents cause his mouth to water. Pavlov’s dog, unleashed and rabid.

  The fat couple in front of him slide to the other end of the counter and await their meal. A pretty girl with a ponytail who looks no more than sixteen puts on an artificial smile, a trained monkey who grins on demand.

  “May I help you?”

  His brow is slick with sweat as he shuffles to the counter. Meeks knows he stinks. The day’s excitement and cramped trunk have left ugly wet stains on the underarms of his shirt. She crinkles her nose when he reaches the counter but maintains the plastic grin. Inside his pocket is a multi-tool with a jackknife. He flicks it open with his thumb. Imagines plunging the blade through her ear. That would get rid of her smile.

  “Sir?”

  The girl looks uncertainly toward the back. A mustached man, probably the manager, battles to keep up with the endless stream of orders.

  “I’d like a hamburger.”

  He doesn’t remember wanting a hamburger. The words flow automatically as though he reads from a script. She turns back to him as his eyes blink. The girl tries to wear the costume smile again, but it no longer fits. She punches the order into the computer and leans over the microphone.

  “One hamburger.”

  Moves her mouth away from the microphone.

  “Anything else?”

  Yes, he thinks. I’d like to open your throat and watch you twitch and bleed.

  “A strawberry shake. And a large fries.”

  “Do you want to mega-size it?”

  He doesn’t know what the hell mega-size means, but it sounds good. Bigger is better. He nods slowly.