Bad Girl and Loverboy

by Michele Jaffe

  “Do you trust anyone?”

  “No.”

  His face looked like she’d slapped him. He said, “Fine. Check my meetings.”

  “I will.” When he opened his mouth, probably to explain more about the credentials his money had bought him, Imogen interrupted. “Look, Mr. Arbor. I am trying to find a murderer and save your friend. You can either cooperate with me or get out of my way. I don’t want your help and I don’t need it.” She glared at him.

  “I would not be so sure about that,” Benton retorted, glaring back.

  They stood in the middle of her suite glaring at each other, two overgrown schoolyard bullies having a staring contest. Then Benton’s expression changed, and he moved his eyes.

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Page. I have handled this badly. I should let you do your job. I am unaccustomed to ceding command.”

  Imogen continued to stare at him.

  “And, before, downstairs. I did not want to admit that there could be anything going on here besides kidnapping. That was bad enough, but the idea of Rosalind in the hands of a killer . . .” His voice trailed off. When she still did not speak he said, “Also, I am sorry about your brother.”

  Imogen shook herself. “What do you mean? How do you know about my brother?”

  “I saw the obituary. I knew him slightly.”

  “How?”

  “We were in ROTC together in college.”

  “Why?”

  “Why?” he repeated.

  “Why did you do ROTC? Why didn’t you just have your father write a check for the tuition?”

  “Are you this great with everyone or are you trying especially hard to be nice to me?”

  Imogen appeared to think about that for a moment. “I think it is you,” she replied flatly. And astonished herself by starting to laugh. She tried to hold it back, knew she should hold back. It was the most inappropriate kind of laughter, completely unprofessional, most likely to end in tears. But she couldn’t stop.

  And then Benton started laughing too, in the same way. When they were done, Benton blurted, “My father lost all our money and could not afford the tuition. That is why I did ROTC.”

  Imogen recognized the offering for what it was and reciprocated. “Our parents died when we were both young and our aunt thought college was a waste of money,” she said.

  Their eyes met and held again, but this time not with challenge. After another silence Benton went on. “Sam and I trained together—as much as anyone could be said to have trained with your brother. He was a legend, Sam Page. No one else was even in his class. I thought I was so great, going for the Army Rangers, Special Forces, but he made the rest of us look like amateurs. He broke every record ever set in basic training, you know, easily. And he was so modest about it. You would never have guessed he was an Olympic fencer.”

  Imogen nodded, her heart beating fast, filled with pride for Sam, to hear him spoken of that way. In her mind she saw him at the hospital, lifting his arms, and she had to press her lips together hard to keep them from trembling. She swallowed softly, said, “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. It’s the truth.”

  She said, “I am sorry about Dr. Carnow. We will find her. I promise you that.”

  “I know I can count on you. I am just afraid of what we will find.”

  Her mobile phone rang and they both jumped. Imogen grabbed it.

  “We picked up your alert and got a trace on that call,” Lex’s voice said at the other end of the line.

  Imogen frowned. Reporting on a routine phone trace wasn’t something the director’s left-hand man did.

  “You’re not going to like it, Gigi.”

  “I told you not to call me that. What did the trace say?”

  “It was a cell phone, so even if we can triangulate its position when it called, there’s little hope of finding out where it is now.”

  “I see.” That was bad news, but not as bad as Lex had made it sound.

  “There’s more Gi—Imogen. The phone was registered to someone. Someone you know.”

  “Who?”

  “Professor Martina Kidd. The Connoisseur killer herself.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Martina Kidd sent Imogen a holiday letter every year that described the twelve new ways she had devised to torture the special agent, were she ever to get out. They were extremely creative.

  Imogen made her voice extra calm. “Are you telling me that Martina Kidd has escaped?”

  “No,” Lex said, dragging the syllable out to reassure her. “You know she’s in max security. No way out.”

  “That might not stop her. But if she’s not on the loose . . .”

  “We don’t know how she got the phone. We’re looking into it. Possibly identity fraud of some kind. The woman is ingenious.”

  “You don’t have to tell me that,” Imogen said, thinking of the drawing that came with the last letter.

  “I know. The thing is, we are fairly sure that there is a connection between Kidd and the Hide-and-Seek Kill—”

  “Loverboy,” Imogen interrupted.

  “What?”

  “His name is Loverboy. That doesn’t matter. Look, I need to see Professor Kidd.” She glanced at her watch. It was a quarter to one. Even if she could get on a flight to Ohio immediately, she would not arrive at White Haven Maximum Security Correctional Facility in time to get in to see the professor before visiting hours were over. “Can you make an appointment for me first thing tomorrow morning? I’ll need you to call ahead to Dirk Best and arrange it so he can’t stand in my way.”

  “I think you’re jumping the gun a bit,” Lex said, his voice measured.

  “There is something you aren’t telling me.”

  “No, something I haven’t told you. In light of this development, the link between Kidd and the Hide-an—Loverboy, we have decided that you are not the right person for this case.”

  Imogen went very still. “I beg your pardon?”

  “You know that Martina Kidd has it in for you. She makes no secret about it. What if she is using this Loverboy to get to you? That makes you a potential victim. And takes you out of the running as an investigator.”

  “You are taking me off the case?” Imogen repeated. Her mind flashed to what she had seen in the collage that morning. “You have no idea, no—”

  She felt the phone being taken from her hands and the next moment heard a voice saying, “This is Benton Arbor. Who am I talking to?”

  Pause.

  “Right. Of course, at the director’s house. Yes, I am Congresswoman Arbor’s cousin. She is charming, isn’t she? Yes. What is this I hear about you taking Imogen Page off the case?”

  Pause. Benton turned to look at Imogen, who was staring at him with her fists clenched. He winked at her.

  “I see what you are saying, but I disagree completely. I think she is the only one for the job. You certainly don’t need me to tell you she’s the best. I’ve been reading the file about her that your office sent over. I’ve seen your own reports.”

  Benton dodged as Imogen grabbed for the phone, saying, “They sent you my personnel file?”

  Benton spoke not to her but to Lex, saying, “No, that won’t be good enough. Look, Lex, if we take the date on the collage as day zero, that gives us only thirteen days counting today to find this bastard. I don’t think anyone besides Imogen Page can do it.”

  Benton listened for a while more, then covered the mouthpiece and told Imogen, “I’m on hold. Did you know they play Muzak when they put you on hold? I would have thought the FBI would be— Yes, I’m still here. What is that? Really? Excellent, I’m sure she’ll agree to that. Hold on, I’ll get her for you.” He held out the phone. “Lex wants to talk to you.”

  Imogen took it and turned her back to him. “What have I agreed to?”

  “That you will work with Mr. Arbor. He sounds like a reasonable man, so that should not be a problem.”

  Imogen looked over her shoulder at Benton, who gave her a tenta
tive smile. She turned her back to him again and stared out the window. “And if I don’t?”

  “We pull you off the case. There are a few other things here that can use your attention. I would prefer that, actually, because—”

  “I agree to your terms. I’ll work with Mr. Arbor.”

  “I hope you know what you are doing, Gigi.” Lex’s voice sounded genuinely worried.

  Imogen looked at the dusty red mountains that circled the Las Vegas valley like the walls of a gladiator’s arena. The city spread before her, the stage set and waiting for her and Loverboy to fight it out. If she could find him.

  “I know exactly what I am doing,” she lied, and hung up.

  She contemplated the view for a moment longer before turning around. When she did, Benton was on the couch, hunched over the collage. He looked up as she came toward him.

  “Thank you,” she said because she had to. She sat down on one of the chairs facing the sofa.

  “I don’t want gratitude and I’m not going to try to use my connections to take control. I did it for Rosalind, not you. I believe what I said. I think you are the only one who can find her. I’ve been staring at this”—Benton indicated the collage—“for the past two hours, and I can’t make heads or tails of half the things in it. I read your reports on the other collages, so I have an idea of how they work, but I’m still at a loss. Can you explain it?”

  “Which part?”

  “Start with this. I know we are looking for clues about where he is holding her. On the collage before this one, the Boston killing, you found them by interpreting the ISBN numbers on the back of a book as longitude and latitude markers. Could these be the same thing?” He put his finger on the poster from the show Emergency! that hung over the desk and pointed to the fire truck with the California license plate N390W1. “Could this indicate north thirty-nine degrees, west one degree?”

  “Yes, but that’s a place in the middle of the ocean off the coast of Spain. I already looked into that. Besides, it says something different.” This was what she had discovered earlier that morning. She had decided not to tell anyone, because she knew what the upshot would be. But Lex was ready to pull her off the case, and sharing confidences built allies.

  She said, “Do you see how the ICU sign seems to point to the license plate?” Benton nodded and she turned the collage upside down. “Now look at what the plate says.”

  Benton frowned at it. Upside down it looked like 1MO6EN. He gave a low whistle. “It spells Imogen. ICU Imogen.”

  “Right. ‘I see you, Imogen.’ It’s a message for me. He put me in his collage.”

  “Why?”

  “To tell me he knows about me. To taunt me.”

  “To challenge you.” He looked at her. “You were right, I am a bastard. If I weren’t, I’d call Lex back and have you taken off the case because of this. He’s got Rosalind, but he is obviously targeting you. I should not let you endanger your life this way.”

  “Mr. Arbor, you have absolutely no control over what I do with my life. The better you remember that, the better we’ll get along.”

  Benton opened his mouth to say something, then shut it. His eyes were fixed on the wall opposite them but his hand rummaged in the pocket of his pants and came out with a pack of Juicy Fruit gum. He ripped the foil off three pieces, shoved them in his mouth, and began to chew savagely. He shook himself. “I’m sorry, that was rude of me. Would you like a piece?”

  Imogen felt the corner of her mouth twitch in a smile. This, she imagined, was Benton Arbor’s version of losing control. Not minding his manners. “No, thanks.” She picked up her phone and started dialing. “I’ve got to go to Ohio tomorrow morning first thing,” she explained, to cut the silence, as she waited for the call to connect with the Bureau travel office.

  “Where in Ohio?”

  “I guess I’ll have to fly to Cleveland and rent a car. I don’t expect there is a direct flight from here to Westport.”

  “Yes, there is. What time do you want to go?”

  “What?”

  “I need to file a flight plan. We can leave on my plane whenever you want.”

  “You have a plane?”

  “Yes. When do you want to go?”

  Imogen hung up the phone. A private plane. As the price for her soul, it beat the hell out of a case of Asti Spumanti.

  CHAPTER 14

  The most nervous Bugsy had ever been in his life, he thought, was the time he met Sam Page, Imogen’s brother. More nervous than his exams at Quantico or when he came out to his grandmother during his father’s birthday party. Of course, the five tequila shots had helped then. The time with Sam he was nervous because he was worried that the man would think him unworthy. Unworthy to be Imogen’s protector, her friend. But Sam had given him a hug and told him how highly Imogen spoke of him and, right before they said good-bye, had said, “Thank you for standing by her.”

  “I’m just doing my job.”

  “That’s not what Gigi says.”

  “You know how she is. Clueless.” And they’d laughed. Because it was totally untrue. Except about herself.

  Like how she did not even notice the effect she was having on her team that first night in Vegas, the way Tom, Harold, and Dannie (or, as Bugsy thought of them, Tom, Dick, and Harry, despite Dannie being short for Danielle), the three FBI agents Elgin sent, were watching her every move like at some moment she might create lightning. Bugsy loved watching them whisper to one another for fear of disturbing her as she paced in front of the blown-up version of the collage that was pinned to the wall. Next to the collage was a map of Las Vegas, and on a sheet of paper Imogen had begun a list of guesses based on street names from the map—Mead, Paradise for the pair of fuzzy dice on the fire truck, she explained, Audrie, Elm because of the lumber reference. Bugsy could sense her frustration, her tension, and he knew that it wasn’t just because none of the street names felt right to her. He also knew with her in that mood her team could have made gorilla mating noises and she wouldn’t have heard them.

  After about an hour of her pacing and their whispering, there was a knock on the door and J.D. came in, wearing his slick-guy dark glasses, carrying a glass fishbowl. “I brought this for Rex,” he said, holding it toward Imogen.

  She said, “Thanks,” without turning around.

  He set the bowl down and said, “The forensics lab report just came back. The fibers in the construction channel match the ones in the dresser drawer. They were definitely from Rosalind’s sweater.”

  “Of course they were.” Again without turning around. “I told you they would be.”

  Bugsy would have guessed that behind the lenses of his glasses J.D.’s eyes showed surprise mixed in with lust. Not that you could see, but Imogen had that effect on men during an investigation, he knew.

  He was watching J.D. try to organize his face when there was another knock and Benton came in. He was carrying a big fish tank, complete with little rocks on the bottom and an electric-pump filtration system. He started to say, “I brought this for Rex,” then stopped when he spotted the fishbowl already on the table.

  It took every moment of the special-agent training Bugsy had had at Quantico to keep him from cracking up at the way the two men looked at each other. Both of them coming in like they’d laid the golden egg, offering the moon and stars. Imogen not even noticing.

  She never noticed that kind of thing, the way all the men working a case with her would fall on their faces trying to get her attention. He had not been on a single case where the other men on the team hadn’t been totally smitten by her. One guy had been ready to leave his wife and kids; another, a D.A., was ready to sail off to Brazil with her just because she once mentioned she’d always wanted to cha-cha in Rio.

  Despite all the offers—and some of them were from men Bugsy wouldn’t have minded going out with—she remained stubbornly single. The only times she seemed even moderately interested in a guy, he was the kind you could see a mile away wouldn’t last for
her. She wouldn’t admit to it, and maybe it wasn’t conscious, but she always dated the bad ones.

  That gave J.D. an edge over Benton, Bugsy decided. Not that there was anything wrong with J.D.; he just didn’t seem like the kind of guy you’d build a life with. More like a hot, torrid affair. Which he would have thought was good for Imogen at times, but not right now. Right now, he decided, she was too fragile. Only someone who knew her well would have been able to see it, but it scared him how vulnerable she seemed. Particularly with what she had planned for the next day.

  At one A.M. Bugsy realized that Imogen had disappeared fifteen minutes earlier, and he decided to send everyone home. When the suite was empty he walked into her bedroom, empty, then spoke to the closed door of the bathroom.

  “Boss? You okay?”

  From inside, muffled: “Fine. Great.”

  “Everyone is gone. Do you want to come out?”

  “No.”

  “Can I come in?”

  Pause. “If you want to. The door is unlocked.”

  He walked in and found her sitting, fully clothed, knees under her chin in the empty bathtub. Rex, still in the ice bucket, was next to her, and she had a book in her hand. Her eyes and nose were red. As Bugsy pulled up the little chair from the vanity table and sat next to her he saw the book was Grieving for Not-So-Dummies.

  She said, “I needed some time alone. Everyone out there talking, making so much noise.”

  He nodded. He would have hugged her but you didn’t hug Imogen Page. He said, “Of course. Perfectly understandable.” His eyes went to the pile of Kleenex on the floor next to the bathtub.

  “I seem to have some allergies. And I think there’s something wrong with me,” she went on, opening the book and pointing to a CHAPTER headed “Go Ahead, Get Angry!” “I don’t feel the way they say I am supposed to.”

  “You can’t grieve from a book.”

  “Why not? It says on the cover if I do the exercises inside, I’ll be able to expedite my grieving and move on.”

  “That’s not how it works.”