Daniels merely smirked. “Like an old gas-guzzler on the freeway.”
“That’s shameful,” Tate said.
“Maybe they didn’t overlook anything,” Ronnie mused. “Just because they said the tunnels would be destroyed—because that’s the way the public demanded it—doesn’t mean it’s what actually happened. They could have secretly rebuilt one or more of them.”
The government was all about secrets these days. She could definitely see that happening. The country didn’t want the reminder of how vulnerable they’d been; but since the president would never actually live in the White House, mightn’t the CIA, the Secret Service, or somebody have fought to preserve the historically significant pre-10/20/17 tunnels? Not just for security, but perhaps as some weird, twisted kind of memorial to be used sometime in the future.
She could almost see it as a tourist attraction. Here, ladies and gentleman, was where a team of terrorists detonated the first high-tech device; the one that turned the Oval Office into a round pile of cement and rebar, burying President Turner and three members of his cabinet.
Yeah. That’d bring in the lookie-loos.
“That would certainly explain how a head could have remained out of sight for twenty-four hours,” Sykes speculated. “And how our unsub could be getting in and out without anybody knowing about it.”
Daniels for once seemed to agree with Sykes. “I’ve pulled maps of the old tunnel system—it woulda been easy for somebody to get out and blend with the crowd pretty quickly on the 4th.”
“Perhaps I can assist you,” said Tate. “If the lead architect is not being forthcoming, I can put in a call to the president. I imagine he would know the truth of the matter and order the full details of the reconstruction be made available.”
Daniels, eyes wide and more than a little impressed, slowly nodded. “Uh, yeah, if you could do that, I’d appreciate it.”
“Let’s go up to my office and I’ll call right now.”
When they reached the private floor on which Tate’s offices and personal labs were located, they all followed the scientist out of the elevator. Just as she’d been the first time she’d come here, she found herself a little turned-off by the obvious grandeur and opulence of the place. Though a high-tech scientific facility, the center boasted some incredible décor that seemed like it would be more appropriate for a gallery or a five-star hotel.
She spotted several pieces of artwork, including a few paintings that looked like genuine Monets—stuff people might have actually gotten to see at the National Gallery in the old days. The carpeting beneath her feet was thick enough to sleep on and the entire exterior of the building was glassed so walking down the hallway toward Tate’s office felt like being inside a fishbowl big enough to be seen from space.
There was tasteful, and then there was overdone. This place went a tiny step beyond overdone, venturing into pretentious territory, and she strongly suspected Philip Tate had been the one responsible. Phineas just didn’t seem like the type who’d give a damn what hung on the walls as long as he had the best electron microscope in the world.
Inside Tate’s office, Ronnie stood in a comfortable seating area, eschewing the plush leather couch. She felt a little too much like a guest and what she wanted was to forget about all the trappings and get into the lab. Still, this side trip would serve one purpose. Neither she nor Daniels had said anything out loud, but they both knew that Sykes’s presence here meant there really was no legitimate excuse for him to stay, other than to serve as her chauffeur. And she could just as easily call for someone from the precinct to come up and get her. Or, hell, cab it. So Tate helping her partner get an entrée to do more detective work would be an excellent note upon which they could split up for now.
She, Sykes and Daniels all watched, ears open and mouths closed, as Tate sat behind his desk and reached for the handset of his video phone. He pushed a button.
Twenty seconds later, a face appeared on the monitor.
Holy shit. The guy really did have the president of the United States on speed dial. That was him, wearing a T-shirt and a golf cap, having a video conference with Dr. Tate. Bizarre-o.
Their discussion was brief, but cordial. Though she couldn’t hear everything the president was saying from across the room, it was easy enough to make out Dr. Tate’s side of the conversation. He explained the situation, answered a few of the president’s questions, then nodded and hung up.
He laced his fingers together on top of his desk and smiled at Daniels. “You can proceed directly to the Phoenix Group’s offices at your earliest convenience, Detective. The president will make sure that Jack Williams is available to you, and will instruct Williams to bring in any other project supervisors or architects you wish to consult.”
Daniels walked over and extended his hand to the scientist. “Thank you very much, sir, you’ve saved me a lot of legwork.”
The older man shrugged off the thanks. “Partly selfish of me. I want this project to succeed, of course, and will not stand for obfuscation or territorialism blocking this investigation.”
“It won’t,” Daniels promised. Then he returned to face Ronnie. “I’ll keep you posted on how it goes.”
“You gonna be able to play nice without me around to referee?”
He snorted. “Since when do you play nice?”
“Good point.”
“Call me when you’re ready to leave and I’ll swing back up and get you home.”
“That’s not necessary,” Sykes said, “I’ll take her.”
“I brought her up here,” Daniels said, his face reddening a little bit.
“Look, I’m not anybody’s prom date,” she snapped. “I’ll get a damn cab.”
“I’d be happy to have my personal driver on standby to take Detective Sloan wherever she wishes to go,” said Tate, his tone holding the tiniest bit of reproof.
Ronnie thanked the man, shot her partner a last quelling look as he headed for the door, then said, “Okay, where do we work?”
“Let’s go to the lab and meet Eileen,” said Tate. “She’s expecting you and has a work area all set up for you.”
Falling into step on either side of the old man, Ronnie and Sykes pressed him for the latest information on the program. Though this was the first real case either of them had worked, there were plenty of other investigators in other major metropolitan cities, so theirs could hardly be the first one altogether. Hearing that theirs were the first test subjects who’d been murdered wasn’t a huge surprise. So far, the only other cases being worked around the country had included robberies, petty crimes and domestic abuse. A few test subjects had died, but of natural causes, not murder.
“So it appears you two are the only ones working an active murder case,” Tate concluded.
Which just turned up the heat on the stove on which they sat. The pot was already simmering, the longer it took to solve this thing the closer they’d get to boiling over.
“Lucky us,” she mumbled.
“Now,” said Tate as they reached the elevators and he punched the call button, “tell me about this second victim, Agent Sykes. I have been given only the sketchiest of details.”
“Ditto,” said Ronnie.
Sykes began to rattle off the facts. “Brian Underwood. Male, age thirty-four, Caucasian. He worked for the Department of Labor in the Office of Public Affairs in Philly. Had an excellent performance record and had just received a promotion.”
“Personal life?” asked Ronnie.
“Reportedly a very happy marriage with two young kids and a house in the burbs. Bank accounts all look normal—no red flags. Friends all say he was the nicest guy in the world and didn’t have a single known enemy.”
“Huh,” Ronnie said, not quite trusting that. Everybody always said the deceased was the greatest guy in the world at first, while the shock of a murder was still on them. Later, when the numbness wore off and it didn’t seem quite so disrespectful to dish about the dead, his friends and co-wor
kers would spill their guts. They’d find out the dude had a skeleton or two in his closet, of that she had no doubt.
The elevator arrived and they boarded it, heading for a higher floor on which this highly-regarded Dr. Cavanaugh worked. Another employee was already aboard and immediately launched into a conversation with Dr. Tate, who answered his questions with patience and intelligence.
Now feeling more than a little tired and still ever-so-slightly dizzy, Ronnie edged close to the side wall of the mirrored elevator. Trying to be surreptitious, she leaned her shoulder against it, thankful for the support.
Of course, Sykes noticed. The damn man noticed everything. A concerned frown creased his brow. His voice lowered, he asked, “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.”
“If you’re not up to it, I don’t mind starting this on my own. I’m assuming by your occasional grimaces that you have a headache the size of Mount Rainier, and by the way you’ve been swaying when you walk that you feel a little bit off-balance.”
“I said I’m fine,” she snapped, jerking herself upright. And instantly regretting it when the elevator started to spin.
He immediately moved closer, sliding an arm around her waist to steady her. Part of her wanted to slap his hand away, another sincerely appreciated the support. The most traitorous part of her liked his nearness a little too much.
“You’re not totally fine, Veronica,” he murmured, gentle concern lacing his voice.
It got to her, that gentleness, that worry, when accusation might not have. The brush of his fingertips on the small of her back distracted her, as did the warmth of his exhalations as he leaned close to speak softly, as if he’d already realized that to argue with her was one sure way to make her push herself even harder.
“Please don’t overdo it. If you need to take the rest of today off in order to be up for working tomorrow, then do it. Because as much as I’d like to see you go home and stay in bed for an entire week, I need you too much.”
Those words landed in her brain in a mixed jumble. Him needing her, being in bed for a week. Whoa. That caused a seriously dangerous juxtaposition of images.
“I promise not to solve these murders without you. Or at least to pretend you were indispensable to my investigation,” he said, obviously trying to tease her into a better humor.
“Cocky jerk.”
“Stubborn female.”
She had been accused of being stubborn on occasion but she certainly didn’t like to think that one personality trait defined her. Though determined, she wasn’t stupid.
Sykes had a point—she wouldn’t be any use to anybody if she pushed herself too hard and sidelined herself for a week. So she forced herself to calmly evaluate the situation and consider the options. She straightened her back, lifted her shoulders, flexed her fingers, shifted her hips, turned her head, gauging how every movement affected her.
Wince, wince, wince, wince, cringe.
Wincing was no big deal. Cringing she could survive.
She could do this. Her head might feel like she’d out-drunk an entire football team last night, but otherwise, she was fine. A cold glass of water and a comfortable chair would do her wonders.
“You’re right, I’m not feeling great.”
Jeremy reached out to punch a button on the elevator, but she grabbed his hand and stopped him.
“That said, I’m not at death’s door, either. I do not intend to push myself back into a hospital bed. So once we get to our work space, I promise I’ll sit down and take it easy. Just get me there, okay?”
“Do you promise you’ll let me know if it gets to be too much?”
“I do. And thanks for your concern.”
“Hey, we’re partners now, at least for a little while.”
That felt so strange, like she was a wife cheating on her husband, that she didn’t reply. Fortunately, she didn’t have to. The fourth occupant of the elevator got off, leaving just her, Sykes and Tate again.
Sykes stepped away from her, turning his body a little, to face the elderly doctor, but keeping his hand pressed very lightly against her spine. Just that tiny hint of support gave her everything she needed right now.
“I apologize for the interruption,” Tate said.
“Not a problem.” Sykes returned to their previous conversation. “Now, back to our Philadelphia victim?”
“Yes, please.”
“Apparently Underwood and some friends went to a co-workers apartment after work to play cards and celebrate his promotion. He left at a little after eleven, alone.”
“May I ask the, er, means of death?” Tate murmured.
“He was decapitated. Most of his body was found on the ground in a back alley.”
Though she suspected she knew what he meant, Ronnie couldn’t help asking, “Most?”
“The head was sitting on top of a garbage can behind an Italian bakery with a rotten cannoli stuffed in its mouth.”
“Such an exhibitionist,” she muttered.
Having had her own run-in with a disembodied head, she could imagine how the person who’d found that one had reacted. Hopefully he or she didn’t have a concussion to show for their gruesome interaction.
“The owner came in at five this morning to get the day’s baking started and found Underwood staring at her from the trash pile. She flipped out, ran right out to the nearest city street for help and got hit by a garbage truck.”
Ronnie slowly shook her head. Okay, so there were worse things than a concussion. Garbage truck trumped two-by-four any day.
Sykes added, “They think she’s going to make it.”
With lots of scars and horrible memories, undoubtedly. She had to wonder if their killer had been hoping that would be the case. Obviously he got off on displaying his kills in shocking ways, liking the pageantry and drama of it. Leanne had been scattered all over a basement, and her head disposed of on another floor altogether. This Philadelphia victim had been dumped like…well, like garbage. It was simply twisted.
They reached the twenty-second floor. Dr. Tate gestured toward the door as it opened.
Stepping out, Ronnie said, “So there’s a lot of showmanship.”
“Very much so,” Sykes said, following her out.
“Can you do any FBI woo-woo profiler magic to help us out with this guy?”
“You know as well as I do that I’m not a profiler. But, off the top of my head, I’d say he’s smart—though probably not as smart as he thinks he is. He wants to be recognized, there’s definitely an element of ‘look at me!’ to these murders, not only because he likes the attention, but it’s as if he’s saying, ‘I know you can’t catch me.’”
“That’s what he thinks.”
“That ego is probably what will trip him up.”
“Fascinating,” said Dr. Tate, who’d been listening silently to the conversation. “I suppose I never really considered the perpetrator to be anything other than a madman.”
“Oh, he’s nuts all right,” said Ronnie, not doubting it. “This isn’t a run-of-the-mill killer who’s killing to accomplish a specific purpose. He’s getting off on it.”
“Horrible,” the old man said, shaking his head delicately, as if his sensibilities were truly offended by the whole thing. She supposed his reserved, secluded, scientific mind didn’t usually have to think about things like that.
They turned a corner and headed down a long hallway lined with closed laboratory doors on either side. Occasionally one opened and a white-coated technician or researcher scurried out, only to stop and suck up to the boss before moving on. The building seemed to go on forever, she honestly couldn’t imagine how much the government had invested in it. Of course, given the miraculous things coming out of it—and out of the head of Dr. Tate—she suspected they were getting their money’s worth.
Sykes cleared his throat. “Once the I.D. chip identified Brian Underwood as an O.E.P. participant, I guess they got in touch with you, Dr. Tate?”
“Indeed.”<
br />
“Then I got called in and went up to nose around. The M.E.’s doing an autopsy this afternoon and said he’d call me with the results. I figured once I had his chip and most recent downloads—which I do—there wasn’t much else I could do there and came back here to get to work on them.” Though his lips didn’t twitch, a small twinkle appeared in his blue eyes as he added, “I didn’t want Detective Sloan to think I wasn’t just as anxious to get started working with her as she is with me.”
If a nice, genteel old man hadn’t been with them, she might have snapped back a nice, genteel fuck you. But probably not. She and Sykes had formed some kind of truce. She wouldn’t go nose-to-nose with him again until she felt a whole lot better.
They had apparently reached their destination at last, because Tate stopped in front of a locked door with a high-tech identification panel on one side. He held his arm under a bar code reader, which I.D.’d his chip, then went a step further and put his hand on a palm-reader, which further confirmed his identification, and the lock automatically clicked open.
“High-tech security,” Sykes said.
Tate nodded, pushed a few buttons and said, “Might as well get you two cleared through so you can access the building by yourselves. I know you might need to work odd hours when there aren’t always people around.”
He gestured toward the panel and nodded at Ronnie.
“Just my palm?”
“Yes. I’ve already entered your chip information—actually, my assistant did that before you got here. That will get you inside the building. But in order to get into Dr. Cavanaugh’s labs, you must take this further step.”
Wondering if they were figuring out how to spin straw into gold behind this door, considering they acted like they were guarding Fort Knox, Ronnie did as he asked and pressed her palm against the screen. It flashed twice, a red button lit up, then it turned green and beeped.
“All done,” Tate said. “Now, Agent Sykes?”
Sykes did the same thing. Afterward, gave her a thumbs up, grinning, as if to silently congratulate them both on having made it into the super-exclusive smart guy’s club.
Don't Look Away (Veronica Sloan) Page 14
