Compromised Security

by Cassie Miles

  In a low voice, he said, “Take a breath, Marisa.”

  “There’s a lot I need to do.” She tried to pull away, but he held her firm. “Aren’t you the one who was just reminding me about urgency?”

  “One minute,” he said. “We have time for this. Just sixty seconds.”

  “Time for what?”

  “Clear your mind. We’re in a beautiful place. Just take a minute and appreciate your surroundings.”

  She grumbled, “Since when are you a Zen master?”

  “I’m speaking as someone who’s been obsessed with the Judge before. He gets inside your skull.”

  “My head is just fine, thank you.”

  With his free hand, he made a sweeping gesture that encompassed the surrounding buildings, all of which were smooth adobe. “Taos is famous for the soft, translucent quality of the light. That’s why so many artists settled here.”

  “Yeah?” Her gaze flicked in a quick series of snapshots. “Lovely.”

  “Breathe, Marisa.”

  “I know how to relax.”

  “Prove it.”

  He released her hand, and she allowed it to rest in her lap. She could relax any damn time she wanted.

  Turning away from him, she straightened her shoulders, centered her posture. She inhaled and exhaled slowly, counting to five. A fresh breeze rustled the leaves overhead and cooled the sun’s warmth. Pink petunias in a clay pot bobbed their heads.

  Flynn glided his fingers across her shoulders and reached under the hair at the nape of her neck. When he kneaded gently, the tension she’d been carrying in her nerves and muscles crackled and released. She hadn’t realized how tight she’d been. Last night she might as well have been sleeping on a bed of nails for all the rest she’d gotten. Hadn’t eaten, hadn’t had enough water to stay properly hydrated.

  A relieved moan escaped her lips. Her eyes opened wider, and her vision cleared.

  Removing her sunglasses, Marisa took in the street scene. The warm sun-baked adobe cast subtle shadows. Store windows sparkled. Tourists mingled with the locals, most of whom were dressed in jeans and cowboy shirts as was Flynn. An elderly Native American woman with her long white hair tucked into a bun wore a blue over-blouse with a silver concha belt over a long sienna skirt. From somewhere far away, she heard the plaintive wail of a wood flute. “Almost seems like we’re in a foreign land.”

  “You mentioned something before,” he said. “About déjà vu. It’s not true. I’m not the same man I was before.”

  “I know.” She had noticed the difference the first time she’d seen him at the safe house. It was more than the cowboy hat and jeans. He looked…healthy.

  “Back in San Francisco, I went a little nuts. It felt like I was running in four directions at once. Like I didn’t have a clue. Like I couldn’t stop him. No matter what I did, he was always one step ahead.”

  She remembered the frustration. The tension of waiting…helplessly waiting for the Judge to kill again. “This time, it’s going to be different,” she said.

  “This time, we’ll get him.” He took off his sunglasses to look at her. His light brown eyes warmed her. “Put the past aside. This is a new day, Marisa. A new investigation.”

  A new relationship? She felt herself being drawn toward him. In the enchanted light of Taos, her resistance began to melt. In her mind, she was already kissing him, feeling the familiar pressure of his lips tasting hers, reveling in tingling excitement. She leaned closer toward him.

  “Excuse me.” A female voice interrupted. “Are you Marisa Kelso?”

  She looked up to see a tall woman with pale blond hair and a black blazer that was enough like Marisa’s that they might as well have been wearing an FBI uniform. This had to be Special Agent Jane Montoya from Albuquerque. Marisa rose to shake her hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

  Agent Montoya got right down to business. “We have audio and visual surveillance in place on Eric Crowe’s shop and house. The man is a freak show.”

  “How so?”

  “He’s set himself up as a kind of guru with the locals. Dabbles in the occult combined with some of the practices of Native American medicine men.”

  Marisa thought of Becky at the shop. “He has followers?”

  “Young people and artists. Our bugs have already picked up arguments with his assistant, Becky Delaney. But no mention of a hostage.”

  An air of competence surrounded Agent Montoya. Marisa would be relieved to hand over the surveillance of Eric Crowe to her.

  BY THE TIME THEY APPROACHED the wide box canyon where the university-sponsored archeological dig site was located, it was mid-afternoon—over twenty-four hours since the kidnapping.

  After leaving Jane Montoya in charge of operations in Taos, Marisa and Flynn had choppered back to the safe house, where the manhunt was in full swing. Quadrant by quadrant, federal agents and local cops combed the area. Unfortunately, Mackenzie’s search for a professional hit man had thus far proved futile.

  The atmosphere at the safe house reminded Marisa of the prior investigation in San Francisco when so many law enforcement professionals and ViCAP experts had raced madly, trying to find the Judge, following the slightest hint and finding nothing. Repeated failure had taken a hard psychological toll then, and did so again now. Tempers were short. Nerves, frayed.

  She couldn’t help thinking that the Judge was somewhere nearby. Sneering. Laughing at their efforts.

  When she contacted Dr. Jonas Treadwell, he readily agreed to join them for further investigation, and they picked him up at the safe house. He now sat in the backseat of the black Ford Explorer that Flynn was driving. She turned so she could see Treadwell’s face, and he gave her an encouraging grin. His white teeth made a sharp contrast with his tanned complexion.

  “A very stressful investigation,” he said. “You’re holding up well, Marisa.”

  Thanks to Flynn. His insistence that she take the time to breathe had done wonders for her state of mind. The pressure of the investigation weighed heavily, but he was sharing the burden. They were working together.

  “Dr. Treadwell, I’d like to ask you about—”

  “Please,” he interrupted, “call me Jonas.”

  He reached up and raked his sun-bleached hair off his forehead, his grin widening. Was he flirting with her?

  “All right, Jonas.” Using his first name felt unprofessional. “I wanted to ask you about all the items that Russell Graff purchased from Crowe’s shop in Taos. Why did he need those things? The ceremonial pipe. The drum. The bear-claw necklace.”

  “Interesting question, Marisa. Since I was able to observe and be a part of the Graff investigation, I have an answer for you.”

  He cleared his throat before continuing. “Graff’s murders followed a ritual pattern. Fulfilling each piece of the ritual brought him satisfaction. When he was threatened, he began divesting himself of these objects. An indication that his rituals were at an end.”

  “My question was why did Graff use Native American objects, specifically?”

  “Because of his graduate studies,” Treadwell said confidently. “Graff worked at an archeological dig site, uncovering the history of Native Americans. He was fascinated with their culture, and used these objects as his signature.”

  That dig site—less than an hour away from the safe house—was their current destination. Questioning these students and professors would undoubtedly give them more information on Graff, not just theories. But how would that apply to the Judge and the abduction of Grace Lennox?

  Flynn glanced away from the road. “You consulted on the Judge killings in San Francisco.”

  “Yes. I’m often called in on FBI cases.”

  “Was there evidence of Native American culture in the San Francisco murders?”

  “It’s hard to say. As you know, there was virtually no crime scene evidence in those cases.”

  “There were bits of jewelry,” Flynn said. “A pearl earring. A high school ring. The locket from Cro
we’s store.”

  “Which might have been purchased or stolen by the victim herself,” Treadwell said. “The major thing we had to work with were the threatening notes and letters.”

  Letters that had been addressed most frequently to Flynn. In Graff’s case, the letters had been addressed to their witness, Dr. Messinger. She glanced over at Flynn’s chiseled profile as she framed another question for Treadwell. “Was there anything from those notes that would connect the Judge to Graff or to Native American culture?”

  “His references varied widely, from Shakespearean quotes to nursery rhymes. And the ‘aloha’ sign-off. He showed high intelligence. An intellectual. Possibly an academic.”

  “Why would someone like that turn to murder?”

  “I believe the Judge has something to prove. A judgment, in fact. His criminal behavior might be the result of a psychological trauma.”

  “Like a divorce? Or losing his job?”

  “Or a death in the family,” he said. “I have a client who behaved in a perfectly acceptable manner until his mother committed suicide. His personality then became completely disorganized. The change was nothing short of spectacular.”

  Turning in her seat, she looked directly at Jonas Treadwell. It seemed odd that he’d share information about a client. “What kind of spectacular change? Did this client of yours start committing murders?”

  “I’d be obliged to report it if he had.”

  Why had he mentioned this case? Was there something significant about a mother’s suicide? If so, she wasn’t getting it. “After the Judge identified me and Flynn as the lead investigators, his references focused on us.”

  “As I recall,” Treadwell said, “he placed direct phone calls to both of you.”

  A buried memory clawed its way to the surface of her mind. The Judge had called her at precisely three o’clock in the morning. He’d spoken in a whispery voice like the wind stirring dry leaves, and he’d talked about the death of her sister. A tragedy she’d never shared with anyone, not even Flynn. “He knew a lot about me. Where I lived. What I liked to eat. Even things about my childhood.”

  “Stalking,” Treadwell said, “is part of his profile. I believe he made the same sort of calls to you, Flynn.”

  Flynn’s jaw tightened. She could see his tension in his grip on the steering wheel as they rounded the last curve leading to the dig site. “We’re here.”

  The wide box canyon was probably five miles from one side to the other. On the flat-topped mesa forming the east side of the canyon was a large recess in the sandstone. Tucked inside were the ruins of a cliff dwelling, several crumbling houses made of stone and mortar. The ancient people who lived there must have climbed ladders to reach their houses. A good fortress to escape their enemies. And a good hiding place for a captive.

  The housing for the eight students and two professors who were excavating the site was far more mundane—large tents with wood floors and trailers. She noticed two trucks parked among the vehicles at the site. The tire treads on either truck would likely match the tracks left by the vehicle used to abduct the victim.

  Dr. George Petty—the gray-haired professor in charge of the dig site—was fully cooperative, and the students readily alibied each other. Yesterday, they had all been at the site. None of them had left.

  They made their way to the trailer used by the forensic anthropologist, Dr. Alex Sterling, for collecting and analyzing his specimens. His résumé indicated an intensely brilliant scientist, and she hoped he’d be able to offer observations of Graff that might point to other suspects.

  She gave a brisk rap on the door and entered, followed by Treadwell and Flynn.

  Chapter Seven

  The interior of the trailer was a miniature laboratory. Clean and mostly white. A long counter held microscopes and various other equipment.

  Dr. Alexander Sterling perched on a stool beside a long white table where several disconnected bones were arranged in a form that approximated the shape of a human skeleton. Neatly arrayed on an eye-level shelf was a row of skulls. Clearly, this lab was his domain, and he didn’t like being interrupted.

  Flynn stepped forward and held out his hand. “Dr. Sterling, we met during the Graff investigation.”

  “Agent O’Conner,” he recalled promptly.

  Before shaking hands, Sterling removed his latex gloves. Though he was in his early forties, his features were unlined. His dark hair was thinning and combed back, making his forehead appear larger than it was. He was solemn, showing very little facial expression, but Flynn noticed a glint of appreciation in Sterling’s eyes when he shook hands with Marisa.

  The introduction to Treadwell wasn’t so pleasant.

  “A psychologist,” Dr. Sterling said with barely disguised disdain. “Are you a profiler?”

  “I’ve worked with the FBI.” Treadwell smiled agreeably. “And I have, on occasion, provided profile information.”

  “On the Graff investigation?”

  “I did, indeed.”

  “Wouldn’t brag about it.” Sterling’s nostrils flared slightly. For him, this was a huge emotional display. “You profilers missed the mark on that case.”

  “We didn’t know him as well as you,” Treadwell said smoothly. “Enlighten me. What was Russell Graff like?”

  “A promising student. Meticulous in his work and able to execute my instructions with acceptable precision. This is a complicated dig site with three burial mounds and well over a hundred skeletal remains to catalog and study.”

  Though Sterling’s research was interesting, the study of ancient bones wasn’t why they were here. Flynn glanced at his wristwatch. “Dr. Sterling, we have reason to believe Graff wasn’t acting alone. What can you tell us about his friends and associates?”

  “As a rule, I don’t get involved with the social lives of the students on site.”

  “Did he mention anyone? Eric Crowe? A girl named Becky?”

  “Not that I recall. Russell Graff was my assistant. Our conversations focused on our work.”

  “Perhaps,” Treadwell suggested, “he talked about his parents.”

  “He mentioned them.”

  “In the context of fond memories or—”

  “Let’s not waste time, Dr. Treadwell. Tell me precisely what you’re looking for.”

  “Secretive or compulsive behavior. Suicidal tendencies. It’s likely that Graff suffered from—”

  “Likely?” Sterling interrupted. “I ask for a definitive statement, and you give me vague references. That’s what I dislike about psychology. Such an undisciplined science. You draw conclusions based on an array of unquantifiable perceptions.”

  “As opposed to the study of bones?” Treadwell’s forehead tightened beneath his sun-bleached hair. His easygoing charm frayed around the edges.

  “Bones provide observable facts.” Sterling gestured to the skeleton on his table. “This woman is Native American. No older than fifteen. Five feet tall. She’s given birth. Her diet is omnivorous—meat and plants. She’s a weaver.”

  Marisa leaned forward to study the skull. “How can you tell her occupation?”

  “Stress fractures, similar to what we now call carpal tunnel syndrome, indicate constant repetitive movement associated with the weaving technology of the time. She died in a fall from a high place. These skeletal remains are circa 1200 CE.”

  “Excuse me,” Marisa said. “What’s CE?”

  “CE stands for Common Era,” Sterling explained. “BCE is Before Common Era. Formerly, these terms were BC and AD, standing for anno Domini—a timeline based on the birth of Christ, which was an arbitrary dating system, considering that the Chinese or Mayan calendars are far more ancient.” He turned back to Treadwell. “What can psychology tell me about her?”

  “I deal with the living,” the psychologist snapped.

  These two educated adversaries could go on for hours—nitpicking about whose theories had greater validity. Frankly, Flynn didn’t give a damn. He stepped up to
the white table and leaned across it. “Dr. Sterling, we need your help. There’s been another abduction.”

  His eyes flickered with interest. “How is this abduction connected with Graff? He’s dead.”

  “Graff was committing copycat murders, matching the techniques of the Judge.”

  “So there were two killers,” Sterling said. “I’m not surprised.”

  Marisa stared across the table at him. “You suspected a second killer?”

  “Yes.”

  “Please explain.”

  “I had the opportunity to study three sets of remains. The oldest was about two years old.” He glanced toward Flynn. “That was the body found near the safe house.”

  “I read your reports,” Marisa said. “All of these remains were burned almost down to the skeleton.”

  “A difficult process,” Sterling said. “Intense heat is required to incinerate human flesh. Scarring on the bones indicated that the killer had cut away pieces of flesh and organs, then burned away the rest, possibly with a blow torch. The cutting method used on the two more recent victims was different than in the older remains found near your safe house.”

  “How so?” she asked.

  He pulled open a drawer under the table and took out a metal case. Inside were several medical knives and scalpels. He removed a long, silver blade and held it up. The overhead light cast a sinister gleam on the razor-sharp edge.

  Instinctively, Flynn’s hand edged closer to his holster. Sterling had been Graff’s mentor at the archeological dig site. Had the connection gone deeper? Was Dr. Sterling a viable suspect?

  The anthropologist gestured with the scalpel, gouging the air above the bones on the table. “Nicks on the bone show this was likely the instrument used by Russell. A smaller blade was used on the earlier victim, and there were a variety of cuts, possibly through tendons and muscle mass. All postmortem.”

  Treadwell spoke up. “The second killer spent more time dissecting the corpse.”

  “And more skill,” Sterling said.

  “Indicating a fascination with death,” Treadwell said. “Possible necrophiliac tendencies.”