“Sam, I’m so sorry. I was hoping … we were all hoping … that the others would turn out to be a fluke somehow.”
“Yeah. Me too.” No one more than me. “So, is Will working on that list of cases?”
“He said as soon as he’s done he’ll email it to all of us at the same time.”
“Thanks, Fiona.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow, Sam.” She disconnected before he could say anything else.
Sam sat for a while staring out the window trying to collect his thoughts, his palms sweating and his stomach in knots. Another death. Each one felt so personal to him, obscene gestures only he could see.
He’d been in Barcelona on August fifteenth, one of those places he and Carly always talked about visiting but never found time to get to. His entire trip had been planned that way, taking her memory to every place they’d talked about visiting someday but hadn’t gotten around to. The weeks he’d spent traveling had exhausted him. Mind, body, spirit—all had suffered through every leg of his trip. He’d spent the last two weeks with his parents at their B and B in Tuscany, trying to heal, trying to find the strength to move on. He thought he’d been making some real progress—and then this.
“Sam? Did you get tied up on the phone or something?” Emme called from the hallway. “Everyone’s downstairs in the kitchen, waiting for you.”
“I’ll be right there,” he answered.
He blew out a long hot breath, then went downstairs to join the others. There was no avoiding the meeting, since Robert was the one who’d called it. Besides, Sam told himself, he wanted to get it all out there in the open. Maybe then it wouldn’t feel so much like a festering wound.
In the end, it hadn’t been as bad as he’d feared. Once the initial shock had passed, and the appropriate sympathy had been offered, the core of the Mercy Street Foundation got down to work.
Mallory and Emme—both having been police officers in the past—thought maybe Sam shouldn’t be involved in the case. Kevin, Susanna, Trula, and Robert—none of whom had ever worked in law enforcement—agreed that he should stay at the forefront of the investigation as long as he was comfortable doing so.
“The decision could be taken out of our hands,” Sam told them. “The FBI might want us to back off.”
“Can they do that?” Trula frowned. “If this is a private firm, and we have a client who has asked us for help, how can the FBI make us butt out?”
“I think they can strongly suggest it. But let’s not jump to conclusions. I’m only bringing it up because my former boss—who is head of the special investigative unit I worked with—along with the agent who is handling the federal case and their top profiler will be here in the morning.” Sam turned to the side of the table where Mallory and Robert both sat. “Will it be all right if we use the conference room?”
“Absolutely. Use whatever you need. I don’t think I want us to go head-to-head with the FBI. There are going to be times when we will need them to cooperate with us.” Robert appeared thoughtful.
“I think I might have mentioned to Fiona—Special Agent Summers—that we had a contract with Lynne Walker.” Sam thought he should clear this up. “Do we?”
“No, but we should.” Mallory nodded. “We definitely should. I’ll draw one up right after lunch and email it to our attorney. Once he signs off on it—assuming there are no problems with it—I’ll email it to Lynne Walker. She can fax it back to me.”
“Do we know if she has a fax in her house?” Trula asked.
“She faxed me some information she’d forgotten to send with the file, and the number was the same as her home number,” Mallory told her, “so yes, it should be simple for her. I’ll tell her I just realized we’d neglected to send it before. I don’t expect a problem with her.”
“Great. So unless we have a problem with the FBI, we’re all agreed that Sam should stay with this case.” Robert scanned the faces around the table.
“I’m not agreeing one hundred percent,” Emme told him, “but I’ll go along with it.”
“Mal?” Robert asked.
“Sure. We’re already into it. Let’s stick with it.”
“Suse?”
“As long as Sam is willing, why not?”
“Trula, Kevin, and I have already voiced our opinions, so Sam, unless you want out, as far as the Foundation is concerned, this one is still yours.”
“I don’t want out,” Sam told them. “I never wanted out. But I do think Lynne Walker deserves an explanation.”
“And I think you should give her one at the appropriate time.” Robert nodded in agreement. “I trust you’ll know when that is.” He slapped a hand on the table. “So that’s that. Sam stays in.”
Robert turned to Mallory. “So tell me how we’re going to go about finding some really great lab people. And what do we think about the lab itself? Should we buy a building somewhere, or should we build one here …?”
Just like that, Sam thought, his head spinning. A little discussion, a little consensus or not, and the matter was decided by committee. Then on to the next topic, whatever that might be. Coming from the FBI, he wasn’t used to a democratic approach.
He smiled. Robert Magellan’s process could very well grow on him.
TWELVE
So. How are you doing?” It looked to Sam as if his former boss and longtime friend, John Mancini, was trying a little too hard to appear relaxed. John’s fingers were tapping on the side of his coffee mug, and Sam knew from experience that John rarely tapped on anything unless he was agitated, impatient, or tense. Given the circumstances, Sam was going with tense.
“I’m good, John. Going away for a while was a good move.”
“You get a chance to visit with your folks while you were in Italy?”
Sam nodded. “Spent the last two weeks there. What a life those two have. They’re living their dream.”
“Genna and I are planning a trip to Italy for October. We’re going to visit some of my father’s family this time—a cousin is getting married—but we’re thinking a few days in a villa in Tuscany would top off the trip quite nicely.”
“You should definitely go. Give my mom a call and tell her you want the second-floor suite with the balcony that overlooks the gardens.”
“I’ll do that. Do they miss Nebraska?”
“With its winters? What do you think?” Sam grinned. “My mom does miss her friends and her family, but the deal she and my dad made when they got married was that they’d do the Nebraska farm thing until the kids were off on their own and then they’d move to Italy and open a B and B. As far as I can see, they’re both really happy with the decision.”
“Gen and I saw the website. Villa DelVecchio looks beautiful. But it’s a long way from the corn farm.” John took a sip of coffee. “How’s your brother doing with the farm, by the way?”
“He and Kitty are still plugging away, though I think she’d be happy to sell it tomorrow. It’s a hard life, farming.” Sam remembered his growing-up years, before he left for college. He knew exactly how hard life on a farm could be. “On the one hand, I’d hate to see it sold. Mom’s family has owned that land since 1871. You can still see traces of the original sod house out near the barn. But on the other hand, like I said, it’s hard work, and I can’t blame anyone who doesn’t want that life. Tom figures he has about ten, fifteen more years there. Hopefully one of his boys will want to take it over so it can stay in the family.”
“Any chance you’d want it?”
“Me?” Sam laughed. “Uh-uh. Farming’s not my thing. Never was. I couldn’t wait to get to college and leave all those chores behind.”
“So how are you, really?”
“I’m doing fine, John.” Sam studied his old friend’s face and clearly read the tension there. “Seriously. I’m fine.”
“Bullshit.” John raised the mug halfway to his mouth before stopping to read it. KNOW THYSELF. SOCRATES. “I’ve known you too well for too long to buy that. There’s a lot going on her
e, buddy. I don’t know if I should pull you off this or not.”
“John.” Sam quietly put his own mug down on the tabletop. “I mean this with all respect for you, but, you know, I don’t work for you anymore. You can’t really pull me off this case.”
“Yeah, I know.” John sighed. “I was hoping I could just bluff you on this one.”
Sam laughed. “Nice try. Now why don’t you tell me why you’re here. And skip over the part about how much you miss me and go right to the truth.”
“Well, yeah, I do miss you. But that’s not why I came.” John averted his eyes for a moment. “I’m concerned about you.”
“I’m a big boy, John. I can take care of myself. I’m not afraid to take this guy on, whoever he is.”
“That’s not the part I’m concerned about.” John paused. “Do you own a gun?”
“Yeah, but I don’t have a license to carry in Pennsylvania yet. Thanks for reminding me that I need to take care of that.”
“It’s going to take a while to get that through. Maybe we can do something to expedite that.”
“I’d appreciate it. Thanks. But you still haven’t told me why you’re here.”
“Look, we’ve been friends for many years. I know how you are,” John told him. “I know how you think.”
“So, what am I thinking?”
“You’re thinking that this whole thing is somehow your fault. That somehow, you’re to blame for these murders.”
“John …” Sam shifted uncomfortably in his seat, thinking that the problem with people you’ve known for a long time is that they always seem to know where your head is.
“I’ve been where you are, Sam.” John’s voice dropped to a near whisper. “And it almost destroyed me.”
“Sheldon Woods.” Sam nodded. The child rapist/murderer who’d terrorized the East Coast for three full years had saved his best form of terror for the FBI agent who’d hunted him relentlessly. Woods had made a game of abducting a child, and then calling the agent and making him listen helplessly while he tortured the young boy. John Mancini had been that agent, and for six months after Woods’s trial, he’d been MIA while he tried to heal from the emotional trauma. John had almost lost his job, as well as the woman he loved. Sam knew the story all too well.
It wasn’t much of a stretch to see the parallels.
“Yeah. Sheldon Woods.” John swallowed hard. “For months after we caught him, I got the shakes every time my phone rang. I was afraid to fall asleep because of the nightmares. I had a hard time talking to people, even my family, even Genna—especially Genna. I had a hard time relating to anyone. I’d lost Genna, and nearly lost my mind.”
“Genna’s always loved you. She understood. That’s why she took you back.”
“I paid the price for walking away from her for those six months, believe me.” John smiled, as if he were making a joke, but they both knew better. There’d been nothing funny about the situation. “What you need to remember here is that this isn’t about you. It’s about the killer.”
“The killer is someone who’s pissed at me for some reason, and he’s taking it out on innocent people. So it very much is about me.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. That’s the same mistake I made. I carried the weight of all those dead little boys for a long, long time before I realized I didn’t have to.” John leaned toward Sam slightly, closer, his voice lowering, as if sharing something very personal, which he was. “I could have been anyone. It just so happened that I was the one who was assigned to his case, so I was right there in his line of sight. But it was Woods making the decision to snatch those kids, Woods making the decision to kill them. It took me a long time to really understand that I had no control over what he was doing.”
“This is different. This is personal. Otherwise, why me? Why places, dates, that have a direct relation to me? I’m not even with the Bureau anymore.”
“But does he know that?”
“What?” Sam cocked his head to one side.
“Maybe the killer doesn’t know you aren’t with the Bureau anymore.” John let that sink in for a moment. “Let’s assume that somehow you got on this guy’s radar for some reason. For the purpose of this conversation, it doesn’t matter what that reason is. As best we know right now, he started over a year ago planning ways to get your attention.” John paused again. “It’s got to be someone who knows you, or knows of you, someone who would know you were working as a profiler in the unit that handles serial murders. Someone who would assume that the case would either be assigned to you, or that you’d be called in to consult because of the Nebraska locations.”
“That’s what I’m talking about.” Sam’s stomach clenched again. “He knows I handled cases like this. He knows the case will get my attention, that’s why he’s doing it. He wants my attention.”
“He’s doing it because he likes it, Sam,” John said softly. “You’re not the reason he kills. You’re just the excuse he gives himself.”
Sam fell silent. Intellectually, he knew John was right, yet he could not shake the feeling that there was something more to the killings than someone looking for an excuse to kill.
“In any case, I just wanted you to know that I know what it feels like to have someone use you to cause pain to other people. I know how heavy that burden is. If you let it, the guilt will destroy you. And then he’s won. He’s off the hook.” John looked straight at Sam. “Don’t let him have that peace of mind, Sam. For God’s sake, don’t let the killer know that you’re willing to accept responsibility for what he’s done. Work with Fiona. Between the two of you, figure it out. Find him. Kill him or bring him in. But do not let him ease his conscience by letting him know how willing you are to take on his guilt.”
“It’s hard to convince myself that it doesn’t fall on me.”
“I didn’t say it would be easy. But if you’re going to work on this case, you’re going to have to put your own feelings aside or you won’t be effective.”
Sam nodded slowly. He’d be saying the same things to John if the tables were turned. Come to think of it, he had said those same words to John, back when Woods was doing his best to make John crack.
“Fiona said Annie was coming with her,” Sam said. “Is she coming to read me, or the killer?”
“Probably both.” John smiled. “But mostly the killer. I think she figures you’re smart enough to figure out the rest of it yourself.”
“Apparently not.” Sam looked slightly chagrined. “Since you had to come all the way up here and point it out to me.”
“That’s what friends are for. And for the purpose of this meeting, we’re friends, not colleagues. Former colleagues,” he corrected himself. “By the way, did you get your annual love note from Laurie Heiss?”
“Yeah, but I didn’t open it. I was out of the country on August fifteenth, and when I came back, I did pick up my mail at the post office. But I know what her card says. I’m sure there’s nothing new there. I just haven’t been in the mood to read it.”
“When was the last time you saw Don Holland?”
“A month or so before I left on my trip.”
“He’s still denying that he had anything to do with Carly’s murder?”
“Yes,” Sam said, “and I don’t know why. His fingerprints were all over my house …”
“Which he explained by saying he’d broken in there when neither of you were home, just to prove he could, and that he could get away with it. That always bothered me.”
“What, that he admitted he was in my house a few days before the murder?” Sam snorted. “That’s just another way of tweaking me.”
“That’s the point I’m making. He’s giving you the finger.”
“And he’s still flipping me off by continuing to insist that he didn’t kill Carly. By having his wife tell me every year that the real killer is still out there.” Sam dragged a hand through his hair. “They want me to believe that someone is walking the streets free because no one is loo
king for him. That’s what pisses me off.”
“What if it’s true, Sam?”
“What if it’s …?” Sam stared at John as if he hadn’t heard correctly. “It’s not. He’s fucking with me from his prison cell and she’s helping him.”
Sam got up and smacked a hand on the back of the leather chair he’d been sitting in. “They’re lying.”
“Just stop and think for a moment.”
“I’ve thought about nothing else for the past three years. You know the evidence. Holland’s prints were in my house. He killed Carly in exactly the same way he killed all those other girls. Same MO, same signature.” Sam grimaced. “Right down to cutting off her fingertips.”
“Why weren’t hers with the others?” John swiveled around to face Sam. “You found the souvenirs Holland took from every other victim. Nothing from Carly. Why not?”
“Maybe he didn’t have time to put them with the others,” Sam snapped, annoyed that John would even question this. He must know that Sam needed to believe that the man who had taken his wife from him had been caught and punished. Sam had to believe that the system had worked for him, that Carly had gotten justice. Anything less was unthinkable.
“Maybe he didn’t have them.”
“Are you serious?”
“John Mancini is always serious,” a feminine voice floated into the room from the doorway. “He doesn’t have a nonserious bone in his body.”
Sam turned as Anne Marie McCall came into the room, accompanied by Fiona.
“Annie.” Sam opened his arms to hug his former colleague. “It’s really good to see you.”
“Good to see you, too, sport.” The petite blond profiler was, as always, impeccably dressed in a linen suit in spite of the ninety-degree weather.
“How’s the husband? Still holding on to his cop job?” Sam asked.
“Holding on with everything he has.” Anne Marie dropped her briefcase to the floor with a thud. “But not to worry. We’ll bring him around sooner or later.”
“I’ve been trying to lure Evan to the Bureau for the last few years without success,” John said. “He likes being a detective, so until I can offer him something better …” John shrugged. “Our loss.”
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