"Hi, Smoky!"
"Hi, sweetheart. How are you?"
"I'm fine. Elaina made macaroni and cheese."
Elaina Washington is the wife of Alan, a member of my team. She's one of my favorite people, a Latin woman who was born to provide love and support to those in her life. Not in some sugar-sweet, overly sentimental way; Elaina can love you as much by chastising you when you need it as by hugging you. She was the first to come visit me in the hospital after Sands's attack. She held me in her arms and got me to cry, and I'll always love her for that. Elaina watches Bonnie when work situations like this one pop up. She also homeschools my adopted daughter.
"That's great, babe."
"Alan left. Does that mean you're going to be away longer?"
"It looks like it. I'm sorry."
"You need to stop doing that, Momma-Smoky."
Bonnie has been aged well before her time, both by circumstance and her own gifts. Her mother's murder and what came after scarred her inside, gave her a terrible emotional maturity. Her gifts lie in her art--she is a painter--and in the depth of her insight. But "MommaSmoky," the title she bestows on me when she tries to comfort me, or sometimes for no reason at all, never fails to make me smile inside. It's evidence of a younger heart, the voice of a child.
"Doing what, babe?"
"Apologizing for something you can't control anyway. People don't get murdered on a schedule, you catch people who murder, so your life isn't on a schedule. I'm fine with that."
"Thanks, but some Momma-things just don't bow down to logic. I'm still sorry for being away."
I hear the sound of AD Jones's shoes against the tile and turn to see him looking at me. He nods his head toward the observation window.
"I have to go, sweetheart. I'll call you tomorrow, okay?"
"Smoky?"
"Yes?"
"Is Aunt Callie really getting married?"
I grin.
"She really is. Good night, honey."
"Night. I love you."
"I love you back."
DR. JOHNSTON POINTS TO A pan containing Lisa Reid's heart.
"Her heart was punctured. The hole was small, on the right side of her rib cage." He points this out to us. As he said, the hole isn't very big, but the bruise it created is the size of both of my hands put together. There are vertical slits above and below the hole. I'd missed the wound earlier in my shock at finding out Lisa was Dexter.
"That makes sense," AD Jones says. "Lisa had a window seat and her killer was seated on her right."
"What could do that?" I ask.
"Anything long, cylindrical, and sharp. The killer would need strength, determination, and some basic knowledge of anatomy." He makes a fist and pumps it once by way of demonstration. "One clean thrust, through the lung, up into the heart, and it's done."
"She'd have to be drugged for him to do that on a plane," I murmur.
Johnston nods his massive head in agreement. "Yes. Death would be very quick, but it would be very painful too. It would have been to his benefit to anesthetize her in some way."
I consider this. "He would have wanted something he could administer orally," I say. "Nothing that would have required a hypodermic, nothing that would induce seizures. Any theories?"
"GHB, ketamine, or Rohypnol would all work, but they all pose problems. All can bring on vomiting. Ketamine can induce convulsions." He crosses his gi-normous arms. "No, if I were him, I would have gone old school. Chloral hydrate."
"Mickey Finns," AD Jones opines.
"It works best with alcohol, and I smelled some in her stomach contents. It's fast, and he could have given her an overdose amount to induce unconsciousness quickly."
"True," I say. "He wouldn't have been worried about her dying of an overdose. You'll check for all of this on tox?"
"Yes. I'll rush it through. I should have it tomorrow afternoon, along with my findings."
Something else occurs to me. "I wonder how the hell he got whatever he stuck her with onto the plane?"
Dr. Johnston shrugs. "Not my department, sorry."
I give him my cell phone number. "Call me when the findings are ready and I'll send someone to come get them. Make a single copy for yourself and put it in a safe place." I look him in the eye. "This is a federal case for three reasons, Dr. Johnston. One, because it happened while flying the friendly skies. Two, because it involves a congressman and could be a precursor to an attack on Dillon Reid himself. Three, because it could be a hate crime. But the cloak-and-dagger is a courtesy to the Reids, not a cover-up. I want you to know that. My priority is catching whoever did this."
His smile is a little tired. "I appreciate the candor, Agent Barrett, but don't worry. I'm not conspiracy-minded. I've dealt with three other politically connected deaths, including one that involved a powerful man and a male prostitute. I'm familiar with the territory."
It occurs to me that Dr. Johnston is pretty damn competent. I shouldn't be surprised; most of those I've met who deal with the dead take what they do very seriously.
"I appreciate that." I look down at Lisa Reid, lying on what we still call a slab, though it's been made of steel for a very long time. "Anything else probative?"
"Oh yes. Something very, very unusual. I was just getting to that."
He grabs another pan and holds it out. "I found this inserted into her body. He widened the wound on her right side. You noticed the cuts?"
"Yes."
"He was smart; he cut her postmortem, after the blood flow had stopped. Then he stuck this inside her."
I peer into the pan and see a medium-sized, silver cross.
"Where are your gloves?" I ask.
He nods to a box of latex gloves on a nearby counter. I grab a pair and slip them on. I reach into the pan and pick up the cross.
"It's heavy," I say. "Dense. Probably a silver alloy."
The cross is a humble one, simple. It's approximately two inches tall and one inch wide. I turn it over in my hand and squint. There appears to be an engraving on the back, but it's far too small to read with the naked eye.
"Do you have a magnifying glass?"
Johnston finds one and hands it to me. I place it over the cross. I see a symbol, very small, very simple: a skull and crossbones, patterned after the universal sign for poison. It's been engraved into the back of the head of the cross. Along the crosspiece are some numbers.
"Number one forty-three," I say out loud.
"What the fuck does that mean?" AD Jones asks.
"I don't know." I place the cross back in the pan. "Let's make sure we withhold this particular detail, Doctor, if anything does end up getting to the media."
"Of course."
"Anything else?"
He shakes his head. "Not at the moment."
AD Jones glances at his watch, points a finger at me. "Then let's head to the airport. Your team should be arriving shortly and I need to get back to California."
We say our good-byes to Dr. Johnston and head down the hall toward the front of the building. Our shoes click-clack on the linoleum, eerie in the context of our surrounds.
"What's your game plan?" AD Jones asks.
"The basics. Forensics on the plane where Lisa was killed, interviews of the passengers, start working up a profile. From there . . ." I pause. "From there we need to get on to identifying other potential targets as quickly as possible."
I don't state the obvious and most worrisome thing: A death's-head and "#143"--there's only one thing a killer would count. Leading, of course, to the next concern: how high will the counting go?
4
IT'S PAST ELEVEN O'CLOCK AT NIGHT, AND IT'S FREAKING cold. I hate the cold.
The wind isn't fierce, but it is steady and it blows across the tarmac in short gusts that have numbed my cheeks. The moon is huge and bloated in a sky devoid of clouds. It has that look to it, the look that says it's the same moon that shone on the cavemen: it was here before me, it'll be here long after I'm gone. It took us about an
hour to make our way to this private airport near Washington, DC. It's small and lonely, just a single hangar and a landing strip. My team and I will make our way from here to Dulles International Airport, where the plane Lisa died on awaits. I hug myself as we watch the private jet taxi on the runway. It's a white Learjet and I've been on it many times.
AD Jones seems unmoved by the temperature. He's smoking, a habit I gave up but still miss, particularly when I see someone smoking my old brand, as he does. I had been loyal to my Marlboros and in return they had always been there for me. They gave me comfort, I gave them years off my life. It was an equitable arrangement until it wasn't.
"Listen, Smoky, I need to talk to you about something." He sucks in smoke, holds it, blows out a cloud. I watch and wait and envy. "I want you to keep me in the loop. Daily. This is a different playing field than you're used to. Rathbun is decent enough for a Director, but in the end, he'll cover himself and feed you to the lions if it will help him." His gaze is penetrating. "Don't be fooled. You're expendable to him."
"I can take care of myself, sir."
"I know. Keep your eyes open anyway."
"Aye, aye." I click my heels and give him an exaggerated salute. He's unamused. "This isn't a joke, Smoky. People at the DC level make a career out of hanging each other out to dry. You're a gifted agent, and God knows you're tough enough, but you're inexperienced on that playing field."
"Okay, okay. I understand."
"The area where he can really help you out is with the media. Do exactly what he says--don't answer any of their questions and refer them all to the Director. You've dealt with the media before, I know, but if this leaks it will be huge. The FBI has people that live for that shit, let them handle it."
"Scout's honor."
"Keep a gag on Callie."
"I can control her."
The look he gives me is doubtful. He flicks his cigarette into the night.
"Plane's done taxiing. Let's go."
"GOOD GOD, HONEY-LOVE, IT'S TOO cold here," Callie complains the moment her high-heeled feet hit the tarmac. "Why are we here and not back in a place with civilized weather planning for my upcoming wedding?"
I smile, as always. I'm never immune to Callie. I don't think many people are.
Callie is a tall, skinny, leggy redhead, with model looks that only seem to deepen with age. She just turned forty, and if anything, she's more attractive now than she was five years ago.
Callie is aware of her beauty, and she's not above using it to her advantage, but appearance is unimportant to her in the larger scheme of life; it's her mind she's honed the sharpest. She holds a master's degree in forensics with a minor in criminology and has been hunting killers with me for the last decade-plus.
Callie has a sense of humor that not everyone appreciates or understands. Her use of "honey-love," for example, a favored phrase, is a total affectation. It comes from the South; Callie comes from Connecticut. I imagine she adopted it to poke fun at herself and annoy others, emphasis on the latter. Local legend says that she has a reprimand on file for calling the Director of the FBI, Mr. Rathbun himself, honey-love. It wouldn't surprise me in the slightest. Callie's humor isn't mean-spirited. It simply says: If you take yourself too seriously, you'll have a hard time around me, so lighten up-- honey-love.
Then there is the other side of Callie, a darker part, the side the criminals get. She is ruthless in her search for truth, because truth is everything to her. If I were to commit a criminal act, Callie, who loves me, would hunt me. She might grieve as she did it, but she'd take me down. To do otherwise would be to deny her basic self and that's one thing Callie is not about.
She's set to marry Samuel "Sam" Brady, the head of the LA FBI SWAT. It's a move that's caught everyone by surprise. Callie has been chasing men for years and enjoying them to their fullest for the pleasure they could give her, a kind of female Lothario. Emotional longevity has never been a part of the picture. Callie is intensely private about the serious goings-on inside her, but I know some of her secrets. Like her current addiction to Vicodin, the legacy of a spinal injury she got two years ago that nearly crippled her. Like the fact that she hadn't allowed herself to be close to a man for so long because she got pregnant when she was fifteen and was forced to give up her child. She's since reconciled with her long-lost daughter, and maybe that's a part of this sea change inside her. I don't know. I only have glimpses of her secret self, small treasures she's entrusted me with over the years.
Callie's greatest gifts to me have been her unswerving demand that we enjoy the moment, the now of life, and the invulnerable constancy of her friendship. I can count on her. It was Callie who found me in the aftermath of Joseph Sands, Callie who took my gun away and pulled me to her without a second thought, Callie who held me as I shrieked and screamed and ruined her perfect suit with my blood and tears and vomit.
"Political hoo-hah," I say in response to her questions. "And I don't like the cold either."
"It's not so bad," a low voice rumbles. "Least there's no snow. I hate snow."
Alan Washington is the oldest member of my team and the most seasoned. He didn't go straight into the FBI, but spent ten years working homicide as a member of the LAPD.
Alan is African-American. He's a big man, as in the startling "big"
of a linebacker or a great oak, the kind of man who might make you cross to the other side of the street if you saw him coming your way late at night. His form hides the truth: Alan is a deep thinker with a big heart and a meticulous nature. He can sift through details for days, patient, never getting exasperated, never looking for shortcuts, sticking with it until he's broken a complexity down into its component parts. He's also the most skilled interrogator I know. I've watched him reduce the hardest of the hard to quivering, blubbering messes. The best testaments to the soul of Alan are that he's married to Elaina and that he loves her so obviously, so unashamedly, with a mix of wonder and pride. I was loved that way by Matt; it's nice, and it speaks to the character of the man who does it.
Alan smiles at me and tips a nonexistent hat.
"Thank God for small favors," I reply, smiling in return. The next voice I hear is sour with disapproval.
"Why are we here?"
This question comes from the last member of my team. The tone of it--blunt, unfriendly, impatient--irritates me, as always. James Giron is brilliant, but he is about as unlikeable as a human being can be. We sometimes refer to him as Damien, after the son of Satan from The Omen. He has no social veneer, no interest in softening the blow, no visible regard for the feelings of others. He takes the concept of thoughtlessness to new heights.
James is a book of blank pages. I don't know if he even has a personal life. I've never heard him talk about a song or movie he enjoyed. I don't know what TV programs he watches, if any. I'm not aware of any personal relationships he's had. James doesn't bring his soul to work.
What he does bring is his mind. James is a genius in the fullest sense of the word. He graduated high school at fifteen, got a perfect score on his SATs and finished college with a PhD in criminology by the time he was twenty. He joined the FBI at twenty-one, which had been his goal all along.
James had an older sister, Rosa, who was murdered by a serial killer when James was twelve. He decided what his path would be the day they buried her. The fact of this is the only real evidence I have of James's humanity.
In most ways, James and I grate against each other, two positive poles repelling, a zero attractant. There is one exception: he shares the ability I have, to peer into the minds of those who murder for pleasure.
"Because someone's dead and someone with the power to do so has ordered us to deal with it," I answer him.
He frowns. "This is out of our jurisdiction. It's not our job to be here."
I glance at AD Jones. He's glaring at James with a mix of resignation and mild disbelief.
"Stop whining," Callie tells James, "or you're not invited to my wedding."
He sneers. "Is that supposed to be a threat?"
"I can see how you might not consider it to be one, but"--and at this Callie smiles--"your mother would be very disappointed. We had a wonderful talk on the phone, Damien, and she's looking forward to meeting the people you work with."
James scowls at her. "Don't call me that."
I hide a smile and allow myself some secret satisfaction at Callie's end run around James. I've never met his mother, but I know he visits Rosa's grave with her every year on Rosa's birthday, so in theory they are close.
"You want to brief us here?" Alan asks, cutting through the banter.
"Hold that thought," AD Jones says. He turns to me. "Remember what I said. Keep me in the loop."
"Yes, sir."
One nod and he walks away without another word.
"We have a car waiting over there," I say. "Let's get inside and fire up the heater and then I'll brief you."
It's a big Crown Vic, a little battered but serviceable. Alan takes the driver's position, with me riding shotgun. James and Callie squeeze into the back.
"Heat, please," Callie says, rubbing her arms and giving off an overdramatic shiver.
Alan starts the car and puts the heater on high. The big engine rumbles on idle as the heated air blasts out from the vents like wind from the mouth of a cave.
"How's that?" Alan asks.
"Hmmmm," Callie purrs. "So much better."
Alan gestures to me. "Floor is yours, then."
WHEN I FINISH TALKING, EVERYONE is silent, thinking. James looks out the window in the back. Callie, next to him, taps her front teeth with a red-painted fingernail.
"Pretty theatrical," she says after a moment. "Killing that poor woman mid-flight."
"A little too theatrical," Alan replies.
"Yes," I muse, "but he pulled it off. He killed her on the plane--"
"Her?" Alan snorts.
I frown. "Legally, yes. It says 'female' on her driver's license. What's the problem?"
The Darker Side sb-3 Page 4
