A Glimpse of Evil

by Laurie, Victoria

  Harrison’s eyes moved back to the whiteboard and he shook his head ruefully. “Oh, of that I’m certain, Abby. It’s the end of day one for this squad and you’ve already managed to get us halfway to our goal for the entire month.”

  “So,” Dutch said, “should we carry on?”

  Harrison picked up a stack of blank audit forms and dumped them into the recycling bin next to his waste-basket. “By all means,” he said. “Beginning tomorrow, Abby, you will be the only person on audit duty, and you’ll weigh in on which of our investigators should take the cases that require follow-up. I want to make sure that we give them to the right agent. Can you come in early tomorrow to get a jump start on another box so that we have enough cases for the entire squad?”

  “I can.”

  “Excellent,” he said with a broad smile as he reached out to shake my hand. It still threw me when Harrison was happy. I’d seen only glimpses of his lighter side and I almost didn’t know how to react when he was anything but cool and reserved.

  Dutch and I stood to go then and I was almost out the door when Harrison added, “Oh, and one more thing.”

  I turned back to him. “Yes?”

  “I’d like you to start training the other agents to use their own intuitive abilities. Eventually I’d like them to audit these files using your techniques.”

  I opened my mouth to tell him there was no way I could turn his squad into a bunch of psychics like me, but I thought better of it. Why put limits when I wasn’t sure how naturally intuitive these guys were? Maybe one or two of them would prove to be every bit as good as me.

  Then again, maybe not.

  Chapter Three

  I arrived at the office at six fifteen a.m. It would have been closer to six if I hadn’t gotten lost. Twice.

  And no sooner had I made it to my desk than my cell phone rang. “Where are you?” Candice asked.

  “At the office,” I told her, trying to unload my purse, keys, sweater, and coffee without spilling the last all over my desk.

  “It’s six fifteen.”

  “Thank you, Madam Time,” I said. “Are you going to give me the weather report next or are you all about the clock this morning?”

  Candice chuckled. “Didn’t we have a date at the gym in my building this morning?”

  I did a mental head slap. “Crap on a cracker!”

  That won me another chuckle. “Look’it who’s gotten creative now that she can’t use expletives.”

  “I’m really sorry, Candice. I forgot.”

  “It’s okay,” she assured me. “But what the heck are you doing at the office so early on your second day?”

  “Brice piled a ton of work on my shoulders last night and I needed to come in early and get a jump start.”

  Candice was quiet for a moment before she said, “That man has tunnel vision when it comes to work. Do you need me to talk to him?”

  I took a sip of my Starbucks, which was still delightfully hot. “No. Thanks, though. I don’t really mind. And if I start minding, I’ll come to you and you can beat him up for me, ’kay?”

  Candice laughed. “Wouldn’t be the first time I had to use a little muscle against him on your behalf.”

  I smiled as the memory of Candice forcefully pinning Brice against the side of a house to protect me floated to my mind. “Yeah, well, hopefully we can avoid revisiting those fun times.”

  Candice cleared her throat then and said, “I really did want to talk to you, Abs. Can I pull you away for lunch?”

  Her voice sounded serious and I wondered what was up. My radar was hinting that I’d better say yes, so I did and we made plans to meet outside the building at noon. “But do me a favor,” she said before signing off. “Don’t tell Brice you’re having lunch with me, okay?”

  I thought that was curious, but I didn’t probe because I was already pressed for time.

  The minute I was off the phone with Candice, I turned in my chair and regarded the boxes behind me. They were stacked about three tall all along the filing cabinets arranged by date. One of the things that I noticed now that I hadn’t before was that a vast majority of the boxes were dated 2005.

  I also looked around to those boxes still remaining on the other agents’ desks. I got up from my chair and wandered over to take a look at their progress. I had to smile when I realized most of these guys had gotten through only about six audits apiece.

  I figured they’d warm up to me once they saw how much time I’d save them. Still, I wondered how Harrison was going to break the news to them that they’d be focusing their efforts only on those files I had a good gut feeling about.

  With a sigh I headed back over to the boxes against the cabinets and stood there for a moment with my hands on my hips. My task seemed incredibly daunting. But standing around staring at a bunch of boxes wasn’t going to get the job done, so with another sigh I reached for one of the 2005 boxes and trudged with it to my desk.

  When I opened it, I was surprised at how many files it held. Most had precious little paperwork in them, and as I focused my radar on file after file that I eventually marked, “Dead,” I knew why. The box was filled with reports that ran from late November 2005 to the end of January 2006. I noticed that in several of the cases either the suspects or victims had come from Louisiana after Hurricane Katrina.

  Even though Katrina hadn’t directly hit Texas, Houston, Corpus Christi, and San Antonio had all taken in a large number of former New Orleans residents and with the increase in population had come an uptick in crime.

  It seemed that the FBI was handling a lot of the local-police overflow and the bureau itself had quickly become overwhelmed too.

  So little follow-up was done on so many of the files that it was impossible for me to get anything from them.

  By seven a.m. I’d gone through two more boxes from ’05 and was seriously frustrated. Nearly all the files I’d focused my intuition at felt like dead ends.

  I decided that it might be best to do what I’d done the day before, and point my radar at the boxes to feel which ones might contain the most bang for my buck. Immediately a set of three boxes from 2008 and 2009 caught my attention. With a bit of chagrin I saw that they had been sent over by the Dallas bureau, so whatever cases were in there were probably more thoroughly investigated.

  I got up and began to cart these over to my desk and was just lifting the last one when the agent who had the desk next to mine entered. “Morning,” he said.

  “Hey,” I said casually. These guys hadn’t rolled out the welcome wagon for me, so I didn’t think I was going to work too hard to win them over with my own sunny disposition.

  The agent took his seat and set down his coffee. Something rang my radar and while I struggled with my box, I said, “Watch that cup. You don’t want your coffee to spill.”

  The man eyed the cup, which was in the center of his desk and well away from the edge, then barely hid his disdain before shrugging out of his suit coat. As he moved to wrap it over the top of his chair, however, the sleeve caught his coffee cup, tipping it over, and black liquid spilled all over his desk.

  I pressed my lips together firmly, working to conceal a smile, while he just stood there, dumbfounded at the mess on his desk.

  I set the box down and hurried over to the credenza at the back of the room where Katie had arranged a coffeepot and various condiments and paper supplies.

  Grabbing a handful of napkins, I rushed back and began to mop at the mess on the desk. “Thanks,” said the agent as he took a few of the napkins I offered him and scooped the coffee into his wastepaper basket.

  I left him with the napkins and retrieved a whole roll of paper towels from the ladies’ room. After about five minutes we had the mess cleaned up and I handed him what remained of the paper towels. “Might want to keep these nearby,” I told him. “Just in case.”

  He smiled sheepishly and surprised me by sticking out his hand. “Oscar,” he said. “Rodriguez.”

  I took his hand and pum
ped it a few times. “Abby Cooper. Nice to meet you, Agent Rodriguez.”

  I moved to take my seat after our introduction, but he stopped me by asking, “How’d you know I was gonna spill the coffee?”

  I laughed. “Haven’t you heard? I’m psychic.”

  He cocked his head curiously at me, and I could tell he was trying to sum me up. “I heard,” he said. “But no one believes it.”

  I shrugged and took my seat. “Yeah, I get that a lot. Still, there is the coffee”—I then motioned with my head over to the whiteboard—“and Agent Rivers and I did solve three cases yesterday. Er . . . using my sixth sense of course.”

  Rodriguez took his seat too and stared at me thoughtfully. “So, you’re for real?”

  “I’m for real.”

  “Okay,” he said, leaning back in his chair, his eyes challenging me, “then tell me something about me that no one else knows.”

  “What am I, a circus act?” I snapped, shaking my head. I’ve had my fair share of people demanding that I prove myself with a little demonstration, and it always pisses me off that they think I should jump through hoops at the first snap of their skeptical fingers. “I don’t do party tricks, Agent Rodriguez.” And I focused on the box at my feet.

  “Sorry,” he said, in a way that suggested he clearly wasn’t.

  “Whatever,” I muttered. “Who cares what you think?”

  “You got a problem, lady?”

  Our conversation was quickly heating up. I looked up, and glared at him. “Yes,” I said. “I do.”

  He attempted to laugh. It was a hollow sound. “Why? ’Cause I’m not falling all over myself just because you told me my coffee might spill? Where I come from, we call that a coincidence.”

  My eyes narrowed a little more. “Of course it was. Just like it’s a coincidence that I know you have a trip to South America coming up at the end of the month to visit with family. And it’s a coincidence that I know that you own a silver car that you drive way too fast and that you recently got a ticket that you’re using your badge to get out of.

  “You’ll get out of it all right, but the judge is going to let you know it’s your last freebie. It’s also a coincidence that you’re going to need to see a doctor about that sore shoulder of yours very soon. And it’s also a coincidence that I know your girlfriend recently broke up with you, but within the next week you guys’ll get back together because she’ll call and you’ll tell her what a jerk you’ve been. What a jerk you are.”

  Rodriguez stared hard at me for a long time, but all he said in reply was, “I don’t have a bum shoulder, lady.” Then he got up and walked over to the coffee area at the back of the room to brew a fresh pot.

  I sighed at his departing figure and got back to my own work.

  Dutch came in around a quarter to eight and I’d gotten through two more boxes by then, but I hardly felt good about it. Instead, I had a raging headache and was hungry as hell. (Heck. I meant hungry as heck!)

  “How’s it going?” he asked, stopping by my desk with a fresh cup for me from Starbucks and a muffin.

  I took the coffee and muffin gratefully, then pointed to the pile of several folders marked “Solvable.” “It goes,” I said. “But some of these . . .”

  My voice trailed off and Dutch picked up the nearest file from the late fall of 2008. Opening it, he whistled low. “That’s gotta sting,” he said.

  Unfortunately I knew exactly what he was looking at. The file opened to a picture of a decapitated corpse, lying prone on the side of the road with his head tucked gruesomely under one arm.

  The case had come to the FBI because the killing had all the marks of a Mexican drug cartel’s hit. Except that the victim, twenty-nine-year-old Jason Cushing, had a clean record except for two DUIs and a couple of drunk and disorderlies, including an incident where he’d been drunk enough to accept a dare from a buddy and had streaked across the stage of a huge Unity church during one of their live Sunday morning television broadcasts. How this prankster had ended up being the target of the Mexican Mafia was anyone’s guess.

  My notes on the file had been embarrassingly lacking in detail, but I couldn’t let go of the feeling that the case could be solved. I felt deep in my gut that there was more than met the eye to Jason Cushing’s murder.

  “Fun stuff,” I muttered, rubbing the back of my neck. After looking at so many crime-scene photos, I felt like I needed a shower and my head throbbed and I just wanted to eat a little something, then lie down for a while.

  Dutch must have noticed because he asked, “You okay?”

  I closed my eyes and rubbed my temples. “I’m fine. It’s just a headache.”

  Other agents began filing into the office then and Dutch squeezed my shoulder before he headed off to his own office.

  Harrison walked in promptly at eight a.m. and made sure to stop by my desk with a warm hello before strolling to his office with nothing more than a casual nod to the other agents.

  For all the guff I gave Harrison, I had to admire his political savvy and how he looked out for me. He knew full well that I was the odd man out with this group, and by continually singling me out with a little extra attention, he was telling the group that I was special and they’d better be careful how they treated me.

  About ten minutes later my desk phone rang. I jumped and picked it up quickly. “Hello?”

  “Did I startle you?”

  “No, sir,” I said, peeking toward Harrison’s office. He was smiling at me from behind his desk. “Okay, maybe a little.”

  “Candice says that you were in the office by six a.m. this morning.”

  Good ol’ Candice. Giving me that extra fifteen minutes to make me look good. “She did?” I said. I wasn’t about to correct her, but I didn’t want to lie to Harrison.

  “Yes,” he said. “And I appreciate it. So, can I pull you away for a minute so you can catch me up on your progress before our meeting?”

  “Of course,” I said, already getting to my feet. “Be there in a sec.”

  I gathered all the files and trotted into Harrison’s office. Dutch was right behind me and he shut the door. “What have you got for us?” Harrison asked as I settled into a chair.

  “Well,” I said, picking up several files and handing them to Harrison. “Those definitely need some follow-up. I’ve made notes where I felt there were witness statements that weren’t jibing or if it was more of a case of missing forensics, and that one just needs someone to go pick up the car.” I pointed to the file Dutch was currently holding.

  “You know where it is?” he asked me, pivoting the file around so I could see the crime scene. The case was a hit-and-run of a census worker who’d been canvassing a rural area in Waco.

  I nodded. “The car was hidden right after the accident. All you have to do is haul it in and gather the forensic evidence. Then you can bring in the guy I’ve circled on the suspect list. I think he’ll give you a full confession.”

  Harrison squinted at the photo “He will?”

  I nodded again more vigorously. “Every time I focus on him, all I get is waves of guilt. He feels terrible about what he did.”

  The man I circled was one of several suspects who’d owned the make and model of a car that fit the description given by a witness, but the car had never been found, and the suspect had sworn that he’d given the car in question to a cousin who’d taken it back to Mexico several months earlier. Because the man had several cars on his property and a whole host of relatives that often drove his cars, it had been a difficult case to prove.

  Harrison leaned forward looking keenly at me. “So where’s the car?”

  “It’s in a pipe.”

  Dutch cocked his head. “A pipe?”

  “Yeah,” I said, pointing to the small sketch I’d drawn at the bottom of my notes. “See that? That’s one of those big drainage pipes near a retention pond or something. There’s got to be one near the suspect’s home, and I believe he somehow managed to get the car into it.”
>
  Harrison made a few notes of his own and asked, “Any input on which agent we should give it to?”

  I smiled. I could well imagine that the agent assigned would have to muck around in the mud and scrub to find the car, and I had just the candidate. “Rodriguez,” I said. “He strikes me as just the kind of go-getter this case needs.”

  “Excellent. What else?”

  I weeded through several more files for Dutch and Harrison until I got to the files left in my “Maybe” pile. One of them was Jason Cushing; the other was poor little Keisha. “These two I believe can be solved, but I’d like your permission to keep working on them for a bit until I feel confident I have something solid to hand one of your agents.”

  Harrison motioned for me to give him the files, and I waited while he opened Cushing’s first, grimaced at the crime photos, looked through the details, and landed on my notes.

  I felt a little embarrassed about what I’d written, which was simply, “Not drug related,” and left it at that.

  “And this one?” Harrison asked, switching over to Keisha’s file. “You think you know where this little girl is?”

  “I think I might be able to narrow down where her body is, yes, sir.”

  Harrison’s eyes came up to meet mine. “You’re certain she’s dead?”

  “Yes.”

  Harrison sighed heavily. “Damn,” he said. “She’s a cute kid.”

  I nodded. “Yes, sir. She was.”

  “Okay,” Harrison said, closing both files and handing them back to me. “Keep them as long as you need and let one of us know when you want to assign either of them out.”

  “Thank you, sir,” I said.

  “All right, then,” Harrison said, getting to his feet. “Let’s assign the cases we have so far. Abby, are you all right to continue with the file audits?”

  I barely stifled a sigh. My noggin was still throbbing and I knew I was pushing the limit of what I could do intuitively in a day. “I believe so, sir.”