The American Temp and the British Inspector

by Pat White

  “Gladly, sir.”

  “Cassie will be with us. Oh, and Late Eddie, contact someone in the FBI and see if they’ve recorded any similar crimes in the past year. Maybe these aren’t his first two victims. That’s it, then. We’ll check in at four-thirty.”

  The group broke up and he motioned to Barnes. “They have everything they need?”

  “It’s all set up, sir.”

  “Good work.”

  “What, sir?” Barnes said.

  “Don’t expect me to repeat it.”

  “Of course not, sir,” Barnes said. “Would you like to visit the crime scene now?”

  “Give me a minute.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The room buzzed with personal introductions and conversation. With a hand gripping his cane, Max aimed for the hallway, welcoming a few of the team members along the way. He made it to the bathroom, locked the door and turned on the faucet.

  Take a deep breath. Count your heartbeats. One, two, three, four. You made it like a pro.

  He splashed cool water on his face and stared at the reflection in the mirror. He could do this. Hell, he’d just done this. They all looked to him, expected him to lead this investigation and catch C.K. before he killed his next victim. They didn’t care about Max’s limp or random spells that left him breathless.

  With a quick swipe of a towel, he dried his face and hands. He took another deep breath and started down the hall in search of Barnes.

  “Mr. Templeton?” Cassie called.

  She came up beside Max, the top of her blond head barely reaching his chin. “Mr. Barnes said for us to wait by the front door.”

  They ambled to the front and he tugged at his tie. “So, how did I do?”

  “What?”

  “In the briefing, how did I do?”

  She opened her mouth, then closed it.

  “That bad?” he said. “I must have really lost my touch.”

  She gripped his arm and the warmth shot straight to his heart. Pathetic.

  “You were very commanding,” she said.

  “And you want a raise.”

  “No, I mean it. It’s just, you never seemed to need reassurance before. It’s a new look for you.”

  “Ah, don’t worry. I’ll be back to my old self again soon.”

  “Too bad,” she whispered.

  “What?”

  “Ready?” Barnes said, coming up behind them.

  Great, how much of that had Barnes heard?

  “Let’s go.” Max took a step toward the door. A high-pitched squeak pinched his eardrums. God, no, not another spell. He tapped at his temple with the heel of his palm.

  “You okay?” Barnes asked.

  Max shook it off and opened the door. “Never better,” he said, stepping into the Chicago sunshine.

  CASSIE WATCHED the men talk, squat, take a few steps one way and a few steps the other, on the sand at the Northside Beach. This city was a beautiful place, when visiting.

  Distant memories whispered to her: a mother and three girls playing in the sand, building castles and chasing waves.

  “You still with us?” Max said.

  “Yes, Mr. Templeton, I’m sorry. I got caught up in this perfect day.” She walked up to the men.

  “A perfect day for finding a killer, you mean.”

  He would bring her back down to earth, robbing her of the simplest pleasure: a peaceful moment at the beach. That’s what Mr. Templeton did: focused on the darkness and shut out the light.

  Some days she wondered why she’d hung around this long. Then she’d find him screaming in his sleep, and she knew why.

  Of course, she’d initially taken the job because no one else at her temp agency wanted the assignment. Two of the girls had already quit due to his demanding nature and high expectations. Not only did he expect them to do computer work, but occasionally he’d ask his assistant to pick up groceries and run errands. The first two girls were offended by the request, but Cassie didn’t mind. Money was money, and she was getting paid a decent wage for a part-time job, which afforded her time to volunteer at the women’s shelter.

  “It doesn’t add up,” Mr. Barnes said. “If the boy was killed here, why didn’t anyone see or hear anything? If the body was dumped, it would have taken quite a bit of time to stage it.”

  “Which means?” Mr. Templeton said.

  “I haven’t a clue.”

  “Which is why I was your boss.”

  Max smiled, thoroughly enjoying taunting Mr. Barnes.

  “Nice guy,” Cassie said in sympathy with Mr. Barnes.

  “Well, thank you, Miss Clarke.” Mr. Templeton brushed sand from his fingers. “One thing I didn’t lose in the bombing is my hearing. Might want to keep that in mind next time you’re going to talk behind my back in my presence.”

  “I was kidding. Sorry, sir.”

  “Nothing to be sorry for. I’m an ogre. I know it.”

  “And such an intuitive man,” Barnes added.

  Mr. Templeton almost smiled, but the smile faded and his jaw clenched tight.

  She dreaded his silence more than his angry temperament. It meant he was having one of his episodes, like a seizure, but not. It was like something lit up his brain, and he tried desperately to focus the many pieces into a clear picture.

  Cassie touched his arm to ground him. That’s about all she could do. She felt helpless. After it passed, as always, they would both pretend nothing had happened. They’d never talk about it; he’d never formally thanked her.

  But she’d seen appreciation in his eyes, if only for a few seconds. She knew that vulnerability was appalling to a man like Max Templeton.

  “Are you okay?” Barnes asked.

  “Give him a minute,” Cassie said. “He’ll be fine.”

  Jeremy hadn’t had a second thought about bringing Max into this case, until now. Was he in a trance? Was this a post-traumatic stress attack of some sort?

  Jeremy remembered when Max had tried returning to SCI after the bombing. On the third day Jeremy had found him at his desk breathing as if he’d run a marathon. Jeremy had guessed Max was suffering from post-traumatic stress syndrome. And who wouldn’t be after being nearly blown to bits?

  A few days later Max had taken his leave of absence and guilt had torn Jeremy apart. It should have been Jeremy at King’s Cross Station that day. Instead, he was stuck in traffic at Heathrow. He’d never forgiven himself for that.

  Nor had Max. Well, for that and for being healthy, active and taking Max’s job as the new team leader at SCI. Max would malign Jeremy to his own grandmother if given the chance, yet loyalty held Jeremy firm to Max’s side. He cared about the talented, genius bastard. A fact he’d never openly admit. Nor would he ever admit how hard he’d fought to get Max the lead position for the Blackwell Group.

  “I’m okay.” Max wavered on his cane; it seemed a little wonky on the unsteady sand.

  Cassie held on to his arm. “You’re not used to sand, sir.”

  “Or the heat,” Max said.

  It was a mild fall day in Chicago, maybe seventy degrees. Jeremy considered what to say next. Was this too much for Max? He didn’t want to put the man at risk.

  “Barnes?” Max said.

  “Sir?”

  “I need to see the last victim’s belongings.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Immediately.”

  Chapter Three

  Max hated the dizziness and disorientation. Maybe it was time to see another specialist. A neurologist, perhaps? He’d been avoiding doctors for fear they’d only give him worse news.

  Can’t get much worse, mate.

  Sure it could. He could lose his trusty assistant, the girl who held him up and wasn’t scared off by his freakish episodes. He needed her more than he wanted to admit, and the thought of needing someone that much drove him mad.

  Max and Cassie waited for Barnes, who was getting evidence from Spinelli. Spinelli relied on his connection with the Chicago PD to get the team
a brief look at the evidence, which is why they waited here, at a coffee shop close to property storage.

  Tapping his fingers on the table’s cool surface, he thought about the killer’s games, and the way he’d taunted Max during the London investigation. C.K. had sent Max running in circles.

  “Are you nervous?” Cassie asked.

  Hell, he’d forgotten she was with him.

  “Not nervous, why?” he said.

  “Your fingers. You’re tapping them like a musician.”

  He leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest. This girl should be the detective.

  “You kept a steady beat with your fingertips,” she said. “Do you play an instrument?”

  The door opened and in walked Barnes with a brown paper bag.

  Saved by Barnes. Ironic. The last thing Max wanted was to share intimate secrets with Cassie. Secrets about sneaking into Tula’s Jazz Club after hours to hear the boys jam. Anything to avoid lying awake and realizing his failures, berating himself for not catching C.K.

  And berating himself for being unable to help innocent victims of the bombing because he’d been pinned by the wreckage.

  Barnes pulled up a chair. “These are from the victims. I have to get it back to Spinelli in thirty minutes.”

  Max opened the bag and inspected the contents.

  “The first victim was Michael Cunningham,” Jeremy started. “Age twenty, student at Jamison College, actually both victims were students at Jamison. Cunningham was from a wealthy family in Pennsylvania. He was studying business, working part-time at a bookstore.”

  Max focused on each item encased in plastic wrap: a scarf, tea bag and key chain.

  “Did Chicago Police trace the scarf?” Max said.

  “Not sure, sir.”

  “Have Spinelli find out.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Red tea, Sterling Brand. Cassie, make a note to find out if this is a popular brand overseas as well as in the States.”

  “Sure,” she said, opening her steno pad. He hoped she wouldn’t mind doing investigative work. Researching tea seemed a safe enough assignment.

  He picked up a wallet, then a house key and a lighter.

  “He smoked?”

  Barnes flipped a few pages in his notebook. “There’s no record of that, sir.”

  Interesting. “Cassie, jot a few things down for me, will you?”

  “Sure.”

  Max sifted through the evidence. “Loose change, credit cards, a student ID and video store gift card.” He looked at Barnes. “Did the boy drive?”

  Barnes flipped a few pages in his notebook. “Yes, he owned a Ford Escort.”

  “There’s no driver’s license here.” He nodded to Cassie to write that down.

  The killer took his license? C.K. had never done that before.

  “No cash,” Max said. “What do you make of this?” He slid the keychain across the table toward Barnes.

  “Looks like a fraternity symbol,” he said. “Both victims were members of Sigma Delta Upsilon.”

  Could it be a cover-up for a fraternity hazing gone wrong? Anything was possible—the motto that had helped Max solve impossible cases at SCI.

  Max inspected an official-looking letter from the college. “Looks like a progress report. The boy wasn’t doing well.”

  “Which could account for his late-night walkabout on the beach?” Barnes offered.

  “I’m not making that jump.” He turned the progress report over and read the scribblings. “‘Screw them all… They’ll all pay… That bitch will die.’”

  Cassie didn’t look up from her note-taking. He could tell by the way she nibbled at her lower lip that the violent nature of the words bothered her.

  He shouldn’t have brought her into this. He should have shelved his anxiety and taken his chances with the post-trauma attacks. Once Cassie knew what Max excelled at, that he loved this kind of gruesome work, she’d find another cripple to care for, one in a more palatable line of work.

  “Agent Barnes, interview his college advisor, female professors, former girlfriends. See if he’s violent towards women, or if he’s a lot of talk.”

  “Respectfully, sir, I don’t see how—”

  “It’s the big picture, Barnes. You know the artist, Seurat? Up close it’s all dots. It’s not until you step back and take in every stroke of the brush touching the canvas that you make out the complete image.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How about the second victim?” Max asked.

  “Peter Stanton from Michigan,” Barnes said. “Upper-crust family, father is a General Motors executive. Premed student.”

  Max sifted through the items. “Similar scarf, same tea bag. Contents of wallet—credit cards, twenty-dollar bill, library card, transit card, no driver’s license. Same fraternity keychain.” He fingered an odd-looking coin. “Hello, what’s this?”

  “Looks like a foreign coin,” Cassie offered.

  Max inspected the copper coin, dulled by age.

  “I’ve also got some photographs,” Barnes said, pulling pictures of the crime scenes out of an envelope.

  Cassie glanced at the photos, then snapped her attention to her notepad. Max reviewed the photos and passed them back. Had the brutal nature of the crimes upset her?

  “Cassie?” he said.

  She hesitated at first and glanced at him. “Sorry, I was distracted.”

  By what, he wondered? “Let’s get some lunch. Barnes, take these back to Spinelli and we’ll meet you at the command center.”

  “Yes, sir.” He packed up and left the coffee shop.

  Cassie continued to study her notepad.

  “Let’s go,” Max led her to the door. She opened the door for him, but he motioned for her to walk through first. He was still a gentleman, although some days he might not act like it.

  “When was the last time you saw a doctor?” she said.

  “I don’t need a doctor.” He gripped his cane and aimed for the street corner.

  She looked up at him. “They’re coming out with new drugs all the time for conditions like yours.”

  “You mean something to make me all better? A miracle drug to stop the nightmares?” He ripped his gaze from hers and studied a group of tourists ahead of them. “Maybe they’ve even got something to help me type. Then I wouldn’t need you, would I?”

  Inside he panicked. She was much more than a secretary. She was his only contact with the outside world. His condition created a kind of isolation he wouldn’t choose for his worst enemy. Even Barnes.

  “I only brought it up because I know how much you hate it,” she said.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he could tell she still looked at him.

  “The episodes, I mean,” she said.

  “I know what you meant.”

  They walked in silence, the strain of their conversation weighing heavy in his chest. She wanted to help, but he didn’t want to be anyone’s pet project, especially not hers.

  What’s that about, mate?

  Nothing, absolutely nothing. He was rattled by the odd evidence of the case. He snapped his attention to Cassie.

  “The photographs, the descriptions of the crimes, it’s only going to get worse,” he said. “This case might be too gruesome for a girl like yourself. It’s totally understandable if you want out.”

  “No, I’m okay.”

  The forced sound of her voice spoke otherwise. Honesty from the people closest to him was critical. He’d have to explain that to her over lunch.

  CASSIE ACCOMPANIED her employer to the corner, puzzling over his concern. He’d never seemed to care about her needs before. He mostly barked orders or criticized the way she made coffee. She didn’t take it personally. She knew he wasn’t mad at her, but at his own vulnerability.

  It troubled her that he thought a few graphic photographs would make her quit working for him. Obviously he didn’t think her tough enough to deal with the ugly details of a murder case.

 
Don’t go there, girl. He doesn’t know you well enough to make that jump.

  Maybe leaving his oppressive apartment had shaken the porcupine-like prickles from his skin. Could there really be a compassionate man living inside that incredible body? Now there was a place she couldn’t go, not if she wanted to keep this job.

  This was the first truly flexible, well-paying job she’d had since the move to Seattle. The others had either paid minimum wage, or demanded forty-plus hours a week. She needed some of those hours for herself, and for the girls at the shelter. With her salary from Max and the bonus offered by Mr. Barnes she’d finally found a little financial stability.

  To think Karl had said she was only good for blow jobs and housekeeping.

  Karl. She hadn’t thought about that monster in a while. She had to admit, putting up with his abuse had hardened her against rude people…like Max.

  But she knew grief fueled Max’s anger. In his mind, the bombing had robbed him of his identity and maybe even his soul as sure as a pickpocket snatching a wallet from a tourist.

  What a shame. He might struggle with post-traumatic stress and a hip injury that caused him to depend on a cane, but he was very much a healthy, intelligent man. His description of Seurat’s work surprised her. A hard-ass like Max actually appreciating fine art? Amazing. His body was in prime form as well. Even with the cane he moved with utter confidence. She envied that.

  “There’s one,” he said, waving a cab. He wobbled slightly.

  “Are you okay?” She knew he didn’t get out much back home. Were all the people and commotion stressing him out?

  “I’m fine,” he said, his voice laced with irritation.

  She guessed he didn’t want to be reminded of his injury, of his weakness.

  “I’d like to review the case files at lunch,” he said.

  A cab pulled to the curb.

  “There’s a pub around the corner from the command center. We’ll eat and you can tell me what’s really troubling you.” He smiled and opened the door for her.

  Great, a heart-to-heart with Max Templeton, intuitive detective, insightful male and demanding boss. She couldn’t climb out the other side of the cab and send it on its way, could she?

  SHE WAS KEEPING something from him; he could feel it in his bones. Max didn’t need another mystery element to this case.