by Mike Omer
“Glad to hear it. I’m on my way to Mancuso. She said she wants to talk to me.”
Zoe nodded grimly. “I just came back from there. She’s . . . not happy. We had a long talk.”
“But she didn’t fire you, right?”
“Not yet.” A grudging smile made it through to her mouth.
His grin widened. “Excellent. Well, I’ll go see where she’s shipping me. I heard there’s good fishing near the field office in Alaska.”
“Good luck,” Zoe said, worried. She looked forward to working with Tatum, but she knew Mancuso might have to get rid of him to protect herself. She regretted not saying something about Tatum earlier. She could have told Mancuso it was all her doing, that Tatum had wanted to do things by the book this time. She doubted the chief would have believed her, but still . . .
“Thanks.” He winked. “I’ll drop by on my way out.”
He closed the door, and Zoe stared at it, her heart heavy. She resolved to talk to Mancuso later. Perhaps she could still take the fall for Tatum.
Her phone rang, dancing on her desk. The ringtone was Rihanna’s “Where Have You Been,” Andrea’s assigned ringtone. She picked up the mobile, answered the call.
“Hey,” she said, feeling distracted.
“Did you see the story they published about you?” Andrea half asked, half shrieked.
“Mancuso mentioned it,” Zoe said, turning the phone’s volume down. “I haven’t had a chance to read it yet.”
“Holy crap, Zoe. You know I just searched your name online, and this story is quoted everywhere.”
“Don’t get excited. It’ll die off very quickly.”
“Two of my friends called me to ask if Zoe Bentley is really my sister,” Andrea said. “They wanted autographs.”
“That’s idiotic,” Zoe said. She began skimming her Sorenson interview again as Andrea droned on.
“I mean, you’re famous, sis. Like, national news famous. It’s crazy. A guy stopped me on the street today and wanted to know if you were my sister. Asked to take my picture.”
“Yeah, right.” Zoe laughed.
“Hey. You can shun your fame all you want, but I am cashing in. From now on, you can call me Andrea My-Sister-Is-Zoe-Can-I-Have-Free-Stuff Bentley.”
“You coming over tonight?” Zoe asked.
“Nah. Got a late shift. But I’ll probably drop by tomorrow.”
“Okay. I’m not making anything fancy.”
“That’s fine. I’ll cook dinner and drink your booze.”
“Bye, Andrea.”
“Bye.”
She disconnected the phone and began reading the interview again, her mind elsewhere. She wondered how bad it was going for Tatum.
CHAPTER 77
Tatum sat comfortably in the chair of the condemned while Mancuso read a multipage report on her desk, pointedly ignoring him. Her lips were tight, and she flipped the pages sharply and angrily, as if the paper were hurling insults at her. Tatum suspected her rage had less to do with the report she was reading and more to do with him. Was he about to be transferred to another city again? Or kicked out of the bureau altogether? He couldn’t rule it out. He glanced at the aquarium behind the chief, wondering if the fish could sense their owner’s moods. All the fish were currently flocking in the farthest corner from the chief. Not a good omen.
He decided to prepare a complex facial expression. He knew a perfect recipe for angry managers. One-third atonement, one-third humbleness, and the rest divided in equal measures between good humor and sympathy. Serve cold, with a little lime and some apologies, not necessarily heartfelt.
Finally, Mancuso looked up at him.
“So,” she said.
“Chief—”
“Shut up and listen.”
Good. Probably for the best, since he had no follow-up.
“I talked to Martinez this morning. At length. You’re goddamn lucky, Agent Gray. First of all, you’re lucky that Jeffrey Alston survived and was placed under arrest. Second, you’re lucky that Laura Summer gave a very long account of how you and Zoe saved her life and the life of her children and that you did the only thing you could do. Third, you’re lucky because of this article.” She rummaged in her drawer, pulled out a newspaper, and slammed it on the table. It was the Chicago Daily Gazette. The headline on the front page read, “Strangling Undertaker Arrested.”
“It’s a four-page article,” Mancuso said.
“Oh.” Tatum allowed himself a small grin. “So it says nice things about me?”
“Well,” Mancuso said, “let’s read the part about you together.”
She scanned the article, flipping a page, and finally nodded. “There we go. ‘Second to the scene was Agent Gray from the FBI.’”
Tatum waited. Mancuso folded the paper.
“That was it?” Tatum asked, shocked.
“Yes. It’s one of the longest articles about the arrest. You can thank H. Barry for his glowing praise.”
“It’s a four-page article. That’s all he wrote about me?”
“Not exactly. I rephrased a bit.” Mancuso reopened the paper and turned it around so Tatum could see it. She pointed at the correct line. He read it.
“Second to the scene was Agent Dray . . . Agent Dray?” Tatum grabbed the paper and shook it, as if the typo would be corrected if jolted sufficiently.
“Reporter H. Barry received long interviews from Lieutenant Martinez, the Chicago chief of police, and me,” Mancuso said. “And all of us wanted to . . . minimize the involvement of the FBI.”
“There are”—he scanned the article—“two pages about Zoe here. And he got her name right.”
“Yeah, but you’ll notice he mentions her as a consultant and doesn’t say who she worked for, so you see, everything turned out well.”
Tatum put the paper on the desk, shrugging. “I don’t get it. This is good press. Why would you want to minimize—”
“I don’t need an article praising us,” Mancuso said sharply. “Sure, it would have been nice, but next time a serial killer hits, do you think the police would call us? This business is full of inflated egos that bruise easily. I want this unit to have a solid reputation for consulting. We don’t swoop in and take control, we don’t conduct our own investigation under the police’s nose, and we don’t arrest the killer ourselves, nearly killing him in the process.”
“Okay.” Tatum raised his hands in surrender. “I don’t care. I have no ego at all.”
“Right,” Mancuso said, grabbing the paper and shoving it into her drawer. She closed it silently this time.
“What happens with me now?”
“You go to your allocated desk, which I assume you have never even seen, and you compose some reports. I might want you to look at some cases later, give me your opinion.”
Tatum chewed this over. “You’re not transferring me?”
“Agent Gray, I’m not blind. I saw the work you did on this case. And while I don’t approve of some of the methods you and Dr. Bentley employed, I think you could be a fantastic agent with the right guidance.”
“And by ‘right guidance,’ you mean—”
“You do exactly as I say.”
“Awesome.”
“And quite frankly, you two make a good team. I was thinking of creating a small field task force for cases such as the last one. And you and Bentley . . . well. We’ll see.”
“Okay.” Tatum felt unsettled by the progression of this meeting.
Mancuso read something on her desk and then raised her eyes. “Why are you still here?”
“Uh, right. I’ll be off, then.” He stood up and approached the door.
“Agent Gray.”
He paused and looked back at her.
“There won’t be a third chance.”
CHAPTER 78
Zoe’s apartment was silent as she fried some chopped carrots and peas in a wok. She enjoyed the quiet. She hadn’t had much time for herself lately. Even when she had been alone these past weeks,
she was always thinking about the case, turning it in her mind frantically, trying to piece together the puzzle. The stillness of her thoughts was soothing. She chopped the ginger and added it to the wok, the sharp smell filling the kitchen. Zoe breathed it in.
She was relieved Tatum was still assigned to the BAU. He was unclear about his current role in the unit, but it was fine. The thought of occasionally meeting him for lunch or running into him in the hallways made her feel warm and happy.
She stirred the vegetables a bit more and then tipped the wok’s contents onto a plate, then emptied a bowl of rice into the wok, letting it fry and get a bit crunchy. As she stirred, she glanced at the newspaper lying beside the plate on the counter.
The front page had a picture of Jeffrey Alston handcuffed to his hospital bed, and next to it was a photo of her above one of Martinez. She shook her head in irritation and picked up the plate. She added the fried vegetables into the rice and stirred it all. Then she used a spoon to create a small hole in the middle of her fried rice. She cracked two eggs inside the hole and began scrambling them. Her phone rang again. The screen read Harry Barry.
She answered. “You have some nerve calling me after writing this ridiculous article.”
“You don’t like it? You’re a hero.”
“Half of it is completely taken out of context. Some claims are almost lies—”
“Embellishments, really.”
“And you only told part of the story.” She stirred the scrambled egg into the rice and the vegetables, her movements sharp and angry, resulting in some rice and carrot refugees on the floor.
“I write whatever is interesting to my readers.”
“Yeah? Tatum was there too. Did you know that? Do you even know who he is?”
“Yeah, yeah. Listen, people don’t care about FBI agents. They have FBI agents up the wazoo. People care about everyday heroes. Now, a profiler who has caught two serial killers, after encountering one when she was young—that’s a real hero.”
Zoe added soy and stirred. “Bullshit. And my job title is forensic psychologist.”
“I prefer to keep it simple. Is this a good time to talk about my book deal?”
“What book deal?” She took the wok off the stove, imagining how it would feel to bash Harry’s face with it.
“I’ve received a book deal to write about Zoe Bentley. Now, I have a few good stories about you, but I’d really be interested in some more.”
“Go to hell.”
“I’d like to point out that I didn’t mention some things you probably preferred were left in the dark.”
“Like what?”
“Like your theory that the serial killer in Chicago was the Maynard serial killer. Or like the fact that for some reason you were wearing nothing but your underwear when Jeffrey Alston was shot.”
Zoe gritted her teeth.
“You can cowrite this book with me. You’ll have final say on everything we put in. Or I can write a book about a profiler who shows her boobs to distract killers. It’s really your—”
She hung up, seething. Trying to calm down, she transferred the rice from the wok to her plate. She poured herself a glass of red wine. Then she walked to the living room and sat down on the couch with the plate and the wine. She turned on the stereo. Beyoncé’s album I Am . . . Sasha Fierce was in it. She skipped “If I Were a Boy,” going straight to “Halo.” As the claps began to accompany the music, she rocked her body in pleasure, taking a sip from the red wine. Beyoncé got her; that was for sure. She scooped some rice and put it in her mouth, closing her eyes. The leftover wine colored the taste of the ginger and rice as Beyoncé sang only for her.
Someone rang the doorbell. Annoyed, she put down the plate and the glass on the table and walked to the door.
She glanced through the peephole. A man in a courier uniform.
“Yeah?”
“Letter for you, ma’am.”
She opened the door and glanced at the brown envelope in his hand, her heart sinking. She signed for it.
“Do you know who sent it?”
“No. I just got it from the central—”
“Yeah.” She had tried to follow this path before, always ending in a dead end.
She closed the door and looked at the envelope. Maybe this time, she’d show it to Tatum. Maybe they could investigate it together. The thought made her smile, the envelope suddenly a lot less threatening. She tore it open. A gray tie, of course.
There was something else inside. A square laminated piece of paper. She pulled it out in trepidation.
Dread and horror crawled up her spine as she stared at the picture.
A guy stopped me on the street today and wanted to know if you were my sister. Asked to take my picture.
Andrea’s face smiled at her from the printed selfie, her upper arm hugged by a grinning Rod Glover.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This, like all my other books, would never have been written without the support of my wife, Liora. When I interrupt a conversation about our children’s education by asking her if she thinks an embalmed body would be flexible enough to pose, she does not flinch or search for a good divorce lawyer. Instead, she brainstorms with me. We create a better story together. Then we resume talking about our children’s education. This book, specifically, was plotted during our vacation, and she spent much of it talking about serial killers.
Christine Mancuso provided invaluable comments that helped shape this novel to be sharper and more engaging. She keeps telling me to let the readers feel as if they’re really experiencing the events of the book from the characters’ eyes, and she always points out the sections where I fail to do just that. One day, I’ll learn.
Elayne Morgan wrestled with and edited this book’s first draft, with its endless grammar mistakes and plot holes, and came out winning.
Thanks to Jessica Tribble for giving this book its chance and for her awesome editorial notes. Zoe’s past was a mess before her notes. It is still a mess, but it’s a mess by design, not by accident.
Bryon Quertermous, my developmental editor, made this book much better by singling out the story’s weaknesses and clobbering them with his editor’s pen. The book’s ending was a sad caterpillar when Bryon first approached it, and it turned into a bloody, violent butterfly by the time he was done.
Stephanie Chou received the final draft and demonstrated that “final” is a relative term, her sharp editor’s eye correcting numerous mistakes and inconsistencies.
Thanks to Sarah Hershman, my agent, for believing in my book, for pushing it forward, and for giving it this magnificent chance.
Thanks to Richard Stockford, the retired chief of the Bangor Police Department, who answered all of my questions with the patience and diligence of a saint.
Robert K. Ressler wrote the book Whoever Fights Monsters, which is mentioned in this book. It was instrumental to my knowledge, and to this novel, more than anything else I found in my research.
Thanks to all of the authors in Author’s Corner for being there every step of the way, giving me endless, much-needed advice, cheering me on, and helping me when I needed them the most.
Thanks to my parents for both their invaluable advice and their endless support.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photo © 2017 Yael Omer
Mike Omer has been a journalist, a game developer, and the CEO of Loadingames, but he can currently be found penning the next in his series of thrillers featuring forensic psychologist Zoe Bentley. Omer loves to write about two things: real people who could be the perpetrators or victims of crimes—and funny stuff. He mixes these two loves quite passionately into his often-macabre, suspenseful mysteries. Omer is married to a woman who diligently forces him to live his dream, and he is father to an angel, a pixie, and a gremlin. He has two voracious hounds that wag their tails quite menacingly at anyone who dares approach his home. Learn more by emailing him at [email protected].
bsp; Mike Omer, A Killer's Mind (Zoe Bentley Mystery Book 1)
