by Blake Pierce
Judy was startled by Amanda’s wistful gaze. Amanda had seldom made eye contact like this with her before.
“You don’t know what it’s like,” Amanda said.
“What what’s like?” Judy asked.
Amanda shrugged a little, still looking into Judy’s eyes.
“Being surrounded by people you can’t fully trust. People who seem to care about you, and maybe they do, but then again, maybe they don’t. Maybe they just want something from you. Users. Takers. A lot of people in my life are like that. I don’t have any family, and I don’t know who my friends are. I don’t know who I can trust and who I can’t.”
With a slight smile, Amanda added, “Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Judy wasn’t sure. Amanda was still speaking in riddles.
Does she have a crush on me? Judy wondered.
It wasn’t impossible. Judy was aware that people often thought she was gay. That always amused her, because she’d never really given any thought to whether Judy was gay or not.
But maybe it wasn’t that.
Maybe Amanda was simply lonely, and she’d come to like and trust Judy without her even realizing it.
One thing seemed certain. Amanda was emotionally very insecure, probably neurotic, certainly depressive. She must be taking quite an array of prescription medicines. If Judy could get a look at them, she might be able to come up with a cocktail especially for Amanda. She’d done that before, and it had its advantages, especially at a time like now. It would be good to skip the thallium recipe this once.
“Where do you live?” Judy asked.
An odd look crossed Amanda’s face, as if she were trying to decide what to tell Judy.
“On a houseboat,” Amanda said.
“A houseboat? Really?”
Amanda nodded. Judy’s interest was piqued. But why did she have the feeling that Amanda wasn’t telling her the truth—or at least not the whole truth?
“Funny,” Judy said. “I’ve lived in Seattle off and on for years, and there are so many houseboats in the waterways in these parts, but I’ve never actually been on one. One of the few adventures I haven’t had.”
Amanda’s smile brightened and she didn’t say anything. That inscrutable smile was starting to make Judy nervous. Was Amanda going to invite her to visit her on her houseboat? Did she even really have a houseboat?
“Do you do at-home visits for your clients?” Amanda asked.
“I do sometimes, but …”
“But what?”
“Well, I’m not supposed to in situations like this. This rehab center would consider it poaching. I signed an agreement not to.”
Amanda’s smile turned a little bit mischievous.
“Well, what would be wrong with your paying me a simple social visit? Just stop by. See my place. We could chat. Spend some time together. See where things go. And then, if I decided to hire you … well, that would be different, wouldn’t it? Not poaching at all.”
Judy smiled. She was starting to appreciate Amanda’s cleverness. What she was suggesting would still be bending the rules, if not breaking them outright. But who would ever know? And it certainly suited Judy’s purposes. She’d have all the time she needed.
And the truth was, Amanda was starting to fascinate her.
It would be exciting to get to know her before she killed her.
“That sounds marvelous,” Judy said.
“Good,” Amanda chirped, not sounding the least bit sad anymore.
She reached into her purse, took out a pencil and notepad, jotted down her address and phone number.
Judy took the note and asked, “Do you want to make an appointment?”
“Oh, let’s not get all regimented about it. Sometime soon would be fine. During the next day or two. But don’t stop by unexpected. Call me first. That’s important.”
Judy wondered why that was so important.
She’s certainly got a secret or two, Judy thought.
Amanda got up and put on her coat.
“I’ll check myself out now. But remember. Call me.”
“I’ll do that,” Judy said.
Amanda walked out of the room into the hall, singing some more of the lullaby, her voice sounding happier and surer now.
No need to weep,
Dream long and deep.
Give yourself to slumber’s sweep.
As Amanda’s voice vanished down the hall, Amanda sang the rest of it quietly to herself.
No more sighs,
Just close your eyes
And you will go home in your sleep.
Things were going Judy’s way after all.
And this killing was going to be special.
CHAPTER TEN
Riley tried to ignore the tensions inside the FBI vehicle as she and Bill headed out to interview the wife of a poison victim. She thought that Barb Bradley could be a viable suspect. The fact that she delivered linens struck her as possibly significant. If the woman made medical deliveries, maybe she’d also had access to Cody Woods, who had admitted himself to a hospital and died there.
It was obvious that nobody in Seattle law enforcement was happy with the presence of two agents from Quantico. But then, none of those working on this case seemed happy with each other either.
Maybe the local animosity is catching, Riley thought. She had already found herself annoyed with both of the agents that Sanderson assigned to work with them. She told herself it was an irrational feeling, but her dislike persisted.
In spite of all that, it was good that she and Bill were going to interview Barb Bradley right away.
Are we going to really get lucky and solve this thing today? she wondered.
She knew better than to get her hopes up. Breaks like that were few and far between. It was more likely that progress was going to be slow and tough, especially due to all the infighting and power plays in the air.
The rain had ended and the air was starting to clear.
At least, Riley thought, that could help make the trip more pleasant.
Agent Jay Wingert was driving, and Riley and Bill were sitting in the back seat.
Wingert had the physique and good looks of a male fashion model—and the same complete lack of personality. Riley couldn’t imagine that there was a single thought in that well-formed head with its perfectly groomed hair.
Agent Lloyd Havens was sitting in the passenger seat. Lean and wiry, he sported a pretentious pseudo-military posture and spoke in short, abrupt sentences. A chronic sneer didn’t add to his charm as far as Riley was concerned.
Havens turned toward Bill and Riley.
“I thought you guys were here in an advisory capacity,” he said. “To help develop a profile. Not to actually investigate the case. Agent Wingert and I are the team on this.”
Riley heard Bill grumble and hurried to get in a reply first.
“Interviewing a suspect can help us develop a profile,” she said. “We need as much information as we can pull together.”
“Seems like overkill, the four of us interviewing Bradley,” he said. “Might spook the suspect.”
Riley was surprised to hear him say so. After all, Sanderson had insisted upon sending all four of them. But she couldn’t disagree. Four was definitely going to be a crowd.
“Agent Paige, Agent Jeffreys,” Havens added in that clipped, official-sounding manner of his. “No need to trouble yourselves. Agent Wingert and I will do the interview. You can wait in the car.”
Riley exchanged shocked glances with Bill. Neither one of them knew what to say.
Is this brat really giving us orders? Riley thought.
Then it occurred to her that this was Sanderson’s idea, and Havens was acting on his instructions. Maybe it was Sanderson’s way of making his guests from Quantico feel thoroughly unwelcome.
Havens continued in his brazenly self-assured tone.
“Unusual case for a serial. Poisoning’s not at all typical. A lesser-used method. Strangulation is much
more common. After that, attack-type weapons—knives, guns, blunt objects, and the like. Up close and personal, that’s the usual serial killer for you. This doesn’t fit the usual parameters.”
He was directing his comments to Riley, as if giving her a lecture on criminology.
A mansplainer if ever there was one, she thought with rising distaste.
And of course, he wasn’t saying anything that she and Bill didn’t know already.
“Oh, but there are always outliers,” Riley said, fully aware of her own condescending tone. “Agent Jeffreys and I have seen all sorts. Our last serial killer shot people completely at random, purely for the love of killing.”
Bill added, “My guess is that this killer isn’t that type. Poisoning’s personal. This one picks victims for a reason.”
Riley nodded in agreement.
“Still, this one is definitely an outlier,” she said. “Consider the gap between the poisonings and the actual deaths. Most serials want to witness the whole thing. They yearn for the satisfaction of watching their victims die by their own hands. This killer doesn’t feel that way.”
Riley took care to address her words directly to Havens, sounding as authoritative as she could.
“And that just might make the killer elusive, hard to catch. A whole segment of the usual clues is missing. There’s no issue of transporting or not transporting the body—no disposal of it or trying to conceal it. You’re right, this case definitely doesn’t fit the usual parameters. Perhaps you’ve got your own theory, Agent Havens.”
Agent Havens was looking distinctly uncomfortable now.
Still holding his gaze, Riley continued, “Agent Jeffreys and I know all about the usual parameters. Serial murder often provides some type of sexual gratification—or perhaps you already know that. We hunted down an impotent psychopath who posed female victims as dolls and another who had it in for prostitutes. But then, other perps go after a particular sex for different reasons. One of our cases went after women who were unusually thin, another targeted helpful women wearing uniforms. And still others are driven by something entirely different. That could be especially true if the killer is in fact a woman.”
Bill chimed in, “And that’s just part of what we have to sort out when we’re working out a profile for you.”
Riley added, “I wonder if these killings have a sexual component. Or not. What do you think, Agent Havens?”
Agent Havens looked truly cowed.
“Agent Jeffreys and I will take charge of the interview, if you don’t mind,” Riley said.
Havens nodded, then looked away from her. Riley couldn’t help but smile. It felt good to put this arrogant little jerk in his place. Now she could focus where they needed to be—on the upcoming interview.
Again, she wondered if maybe they were about to get lucky. She deeply hoped so. It would be great if they could wind up this case and get out of this uneasy scene.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Riley saw that the Seattle mist was lifting as Agent Wingert drove them south along the broad interstate that cut straight through the city. She hoped the case was about to clear up as well.
To their right, the handsome city stretched out toward Elliott Bay, while on their left lay a lovely park with trees, shelters, and picnic tables. Agent Wingert turned off the interstate onto a street that wound up the side of a hill into a working-class neighborhood. At the top of the hill, Wingert parked in front a modest little house with a spectacular view of the Seattle skyline.
Not far away, the bay sparkled through the waning mist. Riley could well imagine what the view would be like from here on a clear day. One could probably see Mount Rainier and beyond to the Olympic Mountains.
But she wasn’t here to enjoy the scenery. The four agents got out of the car. A van was parked nearby with “Broomswick Linen Services” painted on its side. An old and beat-up Harley-Davidson chopper was pulled up close to the house.
The agents walked up onto the front porch and Riley knocked on the door.
“Who is it?” came a sharp reply.
“FBI,” Riley called back. “We’d like to speak with Barb Bradley. We called ahead. You said you’d talk to us.”
“Oh, yeah.”
A moment later the door opened. Barb Bradley was a brawny woman with close-cropped hair. She was wearing long sleeves, but Riley saw that the backs of her hands and wrists were heavily tattooed. So was her neck down to the cleavage that showed above her shirt buttons. Riley guessed that she was pretty much covered with tattoos.
A gun rack on the wall was stocked with semiautomatic rifles. Riley’s instincts told her that Barb Bradley was enough of a gun nut to also have pistols tucked away in ready reach—probably in the drawers of that nearby cabinet.
She remembered something that Chief McCade had said about her.
“Folks say she has a hair-trigger temper.”
McCade hadn’t mentioned that she was also armed to the teeth.
We need to watch our step with this one, she thought. Things could get messy.
Otherwise, the little house was pleasantly decorated. The presence of soft, pastel colors told Riley that Barb hadn’t had much say in the decor. Like the gun rack, she looked thoroughly out of place here. Her late wife had surely made the interior design choices.
“We’re very sorry for your loss of your wife, Ms. Bradley,” Riley said.
Bradley looked away and said, “Yeah, well. I hope you didn’t come all the way over here just to say that. Seems like kind of a wasted trip.”
The woman didn’t appear at all grief-stricken. Of course, a month and a half had passed since Margaret Jewell had died. But Riley had the feeling that Barb had never been devastated by her loss.
They were in a small room that doubled as a living area and a dining room. As Riley had feared, the four of them plus this burly woman made for something of a crowd.
“Hope you don’t mind if I don’t ask you to sit down,” Barb Bradley said with a sneer. She crossed her arms in a defiant posture.
“So what do you want to know?” she said. “Seems to me the local cops asked me everything anybody could want to know.”
“There have been some new developments,” Bill said.
“It now looks like your wife’s death wasn’t an isolated incident,” Riley said.
Bradley looked only mildly interested.
“No kidding,” she said. “Well, as far as I’m concerned, it was still her own damn fault.”
Riley was surprised.
“Why do you say that?” she asked.
“It happened after she’d been to a rehab center,” she said. “I don’t trust those kinds of places—hospitals neither. Maggie was always checking herself into hospitals. I make deliveries, and I see what’s going on. Things go wrong, doctors fuck up, people get infections and die. I’m sure you know that. Who doesn’t? But she didn’t listen. She was in too much pain, she said. She went to that place for a couple of nights, and sure enough she died in her sleep the night she got home.”
Riley looked at Bill. She could tell that he was puzzling over the same questions as she was.
“Ms. Bradley, I’m not sure you understand,” Bill said. “Traces of thallium were found in your wife’s system. Thallium didn’t get there by accident. Margaret was murdered.”
Bradley shrugged.
“Like I said,” she replied. “She shouldn’t have gone to that place.”
Riley struggled to make sense of Barb Bradley’s callousness. She’d come here thinking the woman would be a likely suspect. But now Riley simply didn’t know what to think.
“What rehab center did Maggie go to?” Riley asked.
Before Bradley could answer, Wingert spoke up.
“She went to Natrona Physical Rehabilitation.”
Riley was annoyed. Of course she wasn’t surprised that the local FBI already knew about the rehab center. But she wanted to hear everything she could from Barb Bradley’s own lips. Wingert had barely said a word
during the drive here.
He picked a hell of a time to get talkative, she thought.
She gave him a stern look that she hoped would shut him up.
Then she said, “Ms. Bradley, what was the nature of Maggie’s condition when she went to the center?”
Bradley scoffed loudly.
“‘Condition’? Shit, she didn’t have a condition. It was all in her head. She was always getting treatments of one kind or another. Cost us all kinds of money, put us in a world of debt. Doctors had a fancy name for what was supposed to be wrong with her.”
“Fibromyalgia,” Riley said.
“Yeah, and I looked it up,” Bradley said. “Sure sounds to me like it’s all psychological. And that was Maggie all over. Always complaining about numbness, aching, tingling, and being tired all the time. A regular psychological mess. Doctors just love to get their hands on suckers like her.”
Riley thought for a moment.
Then she said, “Ms. Bradley, you’re in the linen delivery business. Do you ever make deliveries to South Hill Hospital?”
“No. That’s not in my zone. Why?”
“That’s where the other victim died.”
Bradley shrugged again.
“What’d I tell you?” she said. “Fucking hospitals.”
“Do you happen to know a man named Cody Woods?” Riley asked.
“Name doesn’t ring a bell,” Bradley said. “Why?”
Riley studied the woman’s face closely. But she couldn’t tell if she was lying.
Meanwhile, Riley had been eyeing a colorful woman’s scarf that was draped over a kitchen chair. She doubted that it had been there during the whole month and a half since Margaret Jewell died. And it didn’t look like something that Barb would wear.
Riley walked over to it and fingered it.
“Nice scarf,” she said. “Maggie’s?”
“No,” Bradley said.
She obviously didn’t want to elaborate. Riley waited for her to say something more.
“It belongs to a neighbor. Lulu. She spends some time over here.”
