He turned to look at her. “You gonna come out here and sit with me, or just stand there acting like my mother?”
Elaina stared at him. He rarely mentioned his parents. From what little Cinco had told her, she’d gathered they were divorced, like hers were, and that he kept up with his mom but never spoke to his dad. Elaina was just the opposite. And having a dysfunctional family herself, she was tuned in to other people’s weirdness.
Troy flicked an ash on the tile. “Take a load off, Elaina. You’ve had a crap day.”
She stepped onto the balcony and sank down on the end of the lounge chair. She turned her attention to the beach. The surf was up tonight, pounding rhythmically against the sand. She liked the sound. Maybe she’d sleep with the door open tonight.
“I think you’re right about Mary Beth,” Troy said. “I think she was his first kill.”
Then again, maybe she’d sleep with the door closed and locked, and her Glock resting on the nightstand.
She shifted her gaze to him. “It’s really bothering you, isn’t it?”
“Damn straight. I spent two years on that book. I’ve got file cabinets full of research on the Charles Diggins murders. I should have known Mary Beth didn’t fit.”
“The FBI didn’t see it, either.”
He didn’t say anything, which she took to be something of a jab at the Bureau’s competence.
“Anyway, we see it now,” she said. “The thing is finding him before he does it again.”
It sounded so simple. And yet, with each day that ticked by, Elaina felt more and more discouraged about their chances of success. Over and over again, they’d been too late. Why would tomorrow be any different? Or the next day? She thought of Angela Martinez, and her throat tightened.
“You okay?”
She glanced over at him. “Fine.”
He stared at her in the dimness. “You should learn to lie better. Might come in handy.”
For a while, she didn’t say anything. The waves rolled against the sand as her conversation with Loomis echoed through her head.
“Do you think he’s a cop?”
Troy sucked in a drag and watched her. “Why do you say that?”
“I don’t know, really. A combination of things.”
“Such as?”
“He’s very good at avoiding detection. I mean, he’s meticulous. No hair, no prints, no DNA.”
“Mia got DNA off those shorts,” he said.
“Yes, and that’s probably because touch DNA wasn’t widely known about five years ago. These new cases have yielded nothing in the way of forensic evidence. We’ve searched the cars, the crime scenes, the victims. No trace evidence. Don’t you think that’s weird?”
“Well, that in itself should tell you something.”
“And the phone calls,” Elaina said. “His mocking the FBI. Leaving Valerie on federal land like that—it’s as if he wanted to make sure the Bureau got involved. I think he’s playing games with us.”
“You’re saying he’s a law enforcement groupie?”
She paused to chew on her statement before she said it. “I’m saying more than that. I think he’s one of us. Or at least he tried to be. Maybe he’s a washout from some police academy, possibly even Quantico. If he got rejected or fired, that could be a major triggering event.”
“What makes you think Quantico?”
“Just little things, really. The plus-six code, which could be an allusion to Robert Hanssen, who screwed over the FBI. And that other clue Ben showed us just before he left. That one from the cache hidden in Devil’s Gorge.”
“The one that said, ‘Follow the Yellow Brick Road’?” Troy asked.
“Yes.”
“What about it?”
“The Yellow Brick Road is a nickname for the obstacle course at the Academy. It’s the bane of every NAT’s existence.”
“NAT?”
“A New Agent Trainee,” she said. “Otherwise known as ‘gnat,’ which is about how small you feel while you’re there. About how I’m feeling right now, too.”
“Don’t beat yourself up, Elaina. You’ve been working harder on this than anybody. Hell, if it weren’t for you, we wouldn’t even know about the extreme-caching angle. That could lead to an actual name. You told Loomis about it, right?”
Elaina sighed.
“What’d he say?”
“He looked at me like I’d told him I was a member of the Flat Earth Society. I think he thought it sounded wacky. Maybe it did.” She rubbed her eyes. “God, I can hardly even remember the conversation now. It was so damn hot. I could barely see straight.”
Quiet laughter from the shadows. “You probably did sound wacky.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“Try him again tomorrow. Show him the Web site. It’s pretty hard to argue with the theory once you see the aerial map.”
“Maybe you’re right.” Elaina shifted her attention to the waves and rubbed her arms. Now she felt chilly. Just a few short hours ago, she’d felt like she was standing in a frying pan.
Troy dropped his cigarette on the tile and crushed it out with his boot. He took something off the table and stood up.
“You’re leaving?”
“Nope.” He walked over and eased a long leg over her chair, then lowered himself behind her.
All her nerve endings snapped to attention. She felt the brush of his fingers as he twisted her hair into a rope and tucked it in front of her right shoulder. She heard a soft sucking noise, and then he tossed something on the ground.
“What is that?”
“Aloe.” His palms closed over her upper arms, and electricity zinged down her spine. His hands felt cool and slick, and he slid them up and down with gentle pressure.
“Where’d it come from?”
“Gift shop downstairs.” He massaged the gel into her skin, rubbing little circles over her sore tendons with his thumbs. The breeze kicked up, and she shivered.
“Feels cold.”
“I know.” He squeezed more aloe into his palms and gently kneaded the feverish skin at her neck. His touch was light enough not to hurt, but firm enough to send little darts of awareness throughout her body.
She gazed out at the waves, remembering the view from his deck. She closed her eyes and focused on his hands moving over her skin. The throbbing started, deep and low in her body. How could she have such a weakness for this man? All he had to do was touch her, and she was willing to forget everything that mattered and just step into that sensual place where her mind shut down and her body took over and he watched her with that heated look in his eyes. She wanted him to look at her that way again. She wanted to spend the night with him again, and many more nights to come.
She sighed softly, and his hands stilled. For a moment, all she heard was the waves hissing and the rapid pounding of her own heart.
He picked up her hair and let it fan across her back. Then he stood up and stepped away from the chair.
“What are you doing?”
He gazed down at her, and she couldn’t read his face. “Trying this your way, remember?” He scooped the tube of aloe off the ground and handed it to her. “Drink plenty of water tonight.”
He stepped to the door and glanced back at her. “And be careful out there tomorrow.”
“I will.”
Brenda pulled into the driveway, tired beyond belief from working another night shift. She was sick of the hours, but the pay was good, and they needed the money. And it wasn’t as if she was missing out on much at home. When her husband wasn’t working late, he was holed up in that damn garage, or out on one of his drives or fishing trips. And anyway, she liked people. She liked to watch the comings and goings at the inn. It beat the hell out of thinking about her crappy marriage and her nonexistent sex life.
She stepped through the back door and almost tripped on the giant duffel bag in the middle of the laundry room floor.
“What the—” She glanced up and into the kitchen. Th
e entire floor was covered with boxes and Army surplus duffels. Spread across the breakfast table was the gun collection, even the ones her husband never took out of the safe.
“What the heck is going on?” she asked as he walked into the kitchen with a box full of ammo.
“We’re moving.”
She stared at him.
“Get packed. We leave Monday morning, right after you pick up your paycheck.”
She couldn’t talk. She could hardly think. Her brain was working just enough to comprehend the tone of his voice. She’d heard it before. It meant he’d made up his mind, and there was no changing it.
He dumped the box on the table, and Brenda watched him wordlessly as he sorted boxes of bullets. She thought of her tomato plants. She thought of the new wallpaper she’d just put up in the bathroom. She thought of the Sandhill Inn and the friends she’d made there.
She stepped over the duffel and into the kitchen. “But . . . but I like it here.”
“Too bad.”
“Why do we have to move again?” Desperation filled her as she glanced around the kitchen and realized it was done. He’d already decided, without talking to her—same as when he’d packed up their little apartment and announced that they were moving to San Marcos.
“I don’t want to move. I’m sick of moving!” She could hardly see him now through the blur of tears. “I like my job, for once. I like this place.”
“Shut up and pack.” He wouldn’t even look at her as he loaded his handguns into a bag.
“No.” A blanket of calm settled over her as the word left her mouth. She wasn’t going. Not this time. Not for him.
His eyes came up. They were flat again, and an icy finger of fear tickled her spine. She’d pushed too far.
He rested the gun on the table. He walked over. Brenda eased back, against the cool flatness of the wall, and tried to melt into the Sheetrock.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean it. I’ll go. Of course I’ll go.”
He stopped in front of her. His big hand closed around her neck, cutting off the words. Cutting off the air. She tasted blood in her mouth as she bit her tongue and the hand squeezed.
“I’ll say it once more, so listen good.” The grip tightened, and her eyes started to burn. “I’m leaving Monday. And you’re coming with me.”
CHAPTER 22
All right, you’re looking for anything out of place,” Ben said into the phone.
Mia adjusted the air vent to face her. She checked her watch. Then she lifted her thighs, trying to unglue herself from the leather seat of Ben’s Pathfinder. She couldn’t believe she was sweating this much at only ten in the morning.
“Look for natural objects sitting in unnatural ways,” he continued. “Parallel sticks. A pile of rocks. Maybe even just one rock in a place you wouldn’t expect to see one.”
Mia surveyed the marshland stretched out in front of them. Ninety-six hundred acres. A lot of ground to cover. Even with GPS coordinates, she wasn’t confident Elaina and Cinco were going to find an inconspicuous brown box. But Ben seemed to think there would be clues scattered about, just to keep the game interesting.
A movement in the side mirror caught Mia’s eye. A gray pickup pulled over behind them on the shoulder, and Mia recognized the driver even before he climbed down and approached her window.
“Yeah, something like that,” Ben said. “Uh-huh… That’s what I mean.”
Mia rolled the window down, and Ric leaned an arm on the roof of the car. He wore a gray T-shirt today and jeans. Jeans, in this searing heat.
“What are you doing out here?” he demanded.
“Helping.” She nodded at the police cruiser stationed at the entrance to the wildlife park, about a quarter-mile up the road. “They wouldn’t let us in, so we set up this little call center. Ben’s on the phone with Elaina right now, walking them through it. They told Cinco they’re releasing the scene this morning, but I’m beginning to have my doubts.”
Several news vans were pulled over beside the roadblock, filming the officer turning cars away. The footage would probably accompany their breathless updates about the Paradise Killer’s latest strike.
She shifted her attention to the detective looming over her. Ric’s disapproval was nearly as palpable as the humidity.
“What is your problem, anyway?” she asked.
“My problem?”
“Yes, your problem.” She needed to get this off her chest; it had been bugging her since last night. “You approach me in a bar, practically beg me to help you. You show up at my work, my home. I bust my butt running evidence for you, I come down here to share my results, and you treat me like I’ve got the plague or something.”
He shook his head and looked away at the media vans.
“That’s it, that’s it!” Ben gave Mia a thumbs-up.
She closed her eyes with relief. Finally. They’d been out here for hours.
“You should go home, Mia.”
She glanced up at Ric.
“You’re not on the task force. You have no business being down here.”
She laughed. “Unbelievable! And are you on the task force?” She already knew the answer—she’d discussed it with Troy.
“I’m a trained police officer. You’re not.” He leaned closer, and she saw the dark intensity in his eyes. “Have you noticed how many women are part of this investigation?”
Several mosquitoes flew into the SUV, and Mia tried unsuccessfully to shoo them out. “I don’t know. A few?”
“One.” Ric said. “Elaina McCord. That’s it.”
“Yeah. And?”
“And do you know what’s been happening to the one female investigator working this case? She’s been getting phone calls from the unsub. He’s fixated on her.”
Mia stared up at him. “What are you suggesting, exactly?” Surely he didn’t think Elaina was personally in some sort of danger. She was an FBI agent, for heaven’s sake.
“I’m suggesting you go back to San Marcos.”
“Damn it!”
Mia turned to look at Ben, who was gripping the steering wheel now, shaking his head.
“What?” Mia asked, but he wasn’t listening. Whatever was happening on the other end of that phone had his full attention.
“Mia? You hear what I’m telling you?”
She gazed up at Ric now and saw more than hostility in his eyes. Was it concern? Was he actually worried about her?
“I’m leaving tomorrow,” she told him. “As planned. Two heads are better than one. And ten heads are better than two. You got me involved in this thing, and now that I am, I’ll do whatever I can to help.”
Elaina strode through the cubicles and tried to shrug off the curious stares of her colleagues. Flak jackets were one thing, but agents didn’t typically roll into work wearing running gear and looking as if they’d just undergone a chemical peel. Elaina stopped at her cube and shuffled through the message slips and sticky notes littered across her desk. She quickly logged onto the computer and checked her in-box. She found dozens of items that needed her attention, but no word from Special Agent Rey Santos in San Antonio.
“McCord.”
She glanced up to see Loomis standing beside her cube. His starched shirt and tie were a marked contrast to her own flame-broiled appearance.
“Glad you stopped by,” he said. “We need to talk.”
Elaina replaced the phone. Loomis jerked his head toward a nearby conference room, and she followed him without comment. Glad you stopped by? Since when was Loomis in charge of her schedule? Yes, she was on his task force, but she was pretty sure she—like everyone else in this building—still answered to Scarborough.
“Have a seat,” he said, and she couldn’t stop herself from taking a furtive look at her watch. “Am I making you late for something?”
“No,” she lied, and lowered herself into a chair.
He leaned back in his seat. “We missed you at the task force meeting this morning.”
“I was at the wildlife park. Officer Chavez and I—”
“I know, I know.” He waved her off. “The geocaching thing. I heard you struck out.”
“Not exactly. We found two of three caches listed on the Web site, but both were empty, unfortunately. I had the Evidence Response Team collect them for processing.”
He gazed at her with a look that was part annoyance, part disbelief.
“Since joining this team, you’ve missed two task force meetings.”
Elaina held her shoulders rigid and forced herself not to squirm. “I was investigating—”
“You were investigating a lead, I know. But you’re part of a team, McCord. Or at least you were. And it’s not your job to go blazing out on your own to Mexico and wherever else, chasing down dragonflies and buried treasure. We do things as a unit around here.” His gaze veered to her stitches. “Part of that’s for your protection.”
Elaina swallowed the lump in her throat. “I’m sorry. Did you just tell me I’m no longer on the task force?”
“That’s correct.”
She surged to her feet. “But that’s not fair! You haven’t even listened—”
“You haven’t listened. Or followed direction. Or shown common sense. Hell, just this morning you took a POI with you to a closed crime scene.”
“Cinco Chavez isn’t a person of interest,” she protested. “I told you—”
“That’s my call, not yours. You’re off, McCord.”
“But—”
“Save your breath.” He stood up now, too. “It’s not my decision, and even if it was, I wouldn’t change it.”
She stood there, stunned. “Whose decision is it?”
And then her question was answered when Scarborough stepped into the room. Loomis traded looks with the supervisory special agent, then cast a last baleful glance in Elaina’s direction before walking out the door.
Scarborough took Loomis’s place at the conference table. He reached over and snapped shut the mini-blinds on the window facing the bullpen. Elaina’s stomach plummeted.
“Sit down,” he said.
She sat.
The seconds ticked by as he pinned her with a stern expression. He leaned back in the chair and propped an elbow on the table.
Tracers 02 - Unspeakable Page 26
