Before Evil

by Alex Kava

  One gentleman waved her down for a salad fork. He had a fork, but it was a dinner fork. He needed a salad fork. And then there was the well-dressed couple at the table near the far end of the patio. A table they had requested for privacy sake. They hadn’t ordered yet, but were on their second basket of bread. Rita tried to ignore their gestures for a third.

  She longed for just a few minutes to feed her news addiction. On her way to and from the kitchen her eyes scanned the captions streaming on the bottom of the television screen. Earlier this morning she learned that the little girl—the lone survivor of the brutal murders in Warren County—had been moved from the hospital to an undisclosed location.

  Undisclosed. That sounded ominous.

  Rita wondered what that meant. Did they believe the girl was still at risk from whoever murdered her family?

  But the big news this morning was that a body had been found in a shallow grave outside of Richmond. They’d identified it as the councilwoman from Boston: Brenda Carson. The woman’s photo had been plastered all over the news since she went missing. She was only thirty-four, just two years younger than Rita. She ended up a long way from home, and Rita thought that was the saddest part of the story. But the whole thing was intriguing. It was probably good that she was working the lunch shift, or she would have wasted her entire Sunday glued to the television.

  Rita’s biggest complaint about working the Sunday lunch was that she’d miss working with Drew that evening. Her daughter, Carly, had her very first art show opening. Actually it wasn’t Carly’s show. Four of her sculptures were included with five other artists. But all the others were adults. Carly was the only teenager. Of course, her daughter hated when Rita fussed over her. Rita was just so proud, and of course, she wouldn’t miss this event for all the Drew Nilsens in the world.

  Still, she considered telling Drew about it, inviting him to drop by the gallery. It was only a block away on the other side of the Gateway Mall’s courtyard. There was a reception with wine and hors d’oeuvres. It started before his shift. Maybe he could swing by. She had planned the invitation in her mind for days and had it down pat, making sure she chose words that sounded cool and casual.

  No big deal. Drop by if you want. She could hear it in her head.

  She’d mentioned that she heard Chef Luigi from Aperto’s was doing the food. After all, Drew was going to culinary school. He’d appreciate checking out another chef’s specialties, wouldn’t he? Her daughter Carly loved going to other art shows to check out other artists’ works. It couldn’t be that much different?

  But Rita had chickened out and didn’t ask him last night. She figured she had one more chance. She knew he sometimes stopped by early on Sundays to pick up his check. So through all the waving hands and come-hither gestures from her customers, she kept an eye out for Drew.

  Just then, Rita heard a crash behind her. So did everyone on the patio.

  In the corner by the door, one of the busboys had left a wobbling stack of dirty dishes on a table he had started clearing. One of the glasses had tipped from the pile and shattered on the brick patio. And of course, the busboy was nowhere in sight. All eyes darted between the mess and Rita.

  “It’s okay, folks,” she said, a tray in each hand. “We’ll get it cleaned up.”

  For the first time ever Rita was relieved and happy to see J.P. Morgan with his artillery of broom, dustpan and handheld vacuum. She smiled at him, and when his eyes met hers, her immediate reaction was, I’m gonna regret that smile.

  She delivered all her plates to her customers and weaved her way around the tables on her way back to the kitchen. That’s when she noticed that the young couple had left after eating two baskets of bread. However, it did look like they left her a tip under a water glass.

  But there was something else on the table next to the empty breadbasket. It looked like a white foam takeout container.

  50

  Gainesville, Virginia

  Maggie almost missed the entrance for Conway Robinson State Forest. Her mind was preoccupied. Before she left Quantico she had called her mother’s hospital room. She hardly recognized the cheerful voice that answered the phone. Her mother was doing “just fine,” but thanked Maggie for asking like it was an ordinary courtesy call. Then she told Maggie that she’d need to call her back, because they had just brought her a “lovely lunch.” She made it sound like Maggie had interrupted her stay at five-star resort. There was no relief in hearing that her mother was back to her old self.

  Maggie followed the half circle drive on the edge of the forest. It was a narrow curve of cracked asphalt flanked on both sides by tall pines and hardwood trees. The parking space at the top of the half circle had room for about ten cars. Small wooden signs marked the trailheads.

  Maggie parked away from the two cars already there. When she got out of her vehicle she was surprised that the busy traffic she had just left on Route 29 could barely be heard as little more than a hum. Other than the two cars, there was no obvious sign of anyone. She stood at the top of each trail to see how far into the forest she could see. But the trails curved and turned. There were no straight shots.

  Did he wait for Paige to come back from her run? Or did he take her before she started? The Collector wouldn’t have surprised her down on one of the trails. It’d be too difficult to bring her unconscious body back to this parking space. And he wouldn’t have risked being seen.

  Maggie remembered the fluorescent orange running shoe Paige Barnett had worn. She probably bought the shoes because they’d be an unnatural color in the middle of the forest. Many of Virginia’s forests were open to hunters. A splash of orange could protect a runner from being mistaken as a fleeing deer. Ironically, Paige’s orange shoes had made her an easy target for the Collector.

  He took her from this spot. But was she a random catch? Had he simply parked here and waited? Something told Maggie there was nothing random in the way the Collector worked.

  She pulled a plastic evidence bag from her pocket and gathered a handful of the pebbles that made up the walkway from the parking lot to the trailheads. Then she left.

  As she drove to the Gateway Mall, Maggie noted how many miles it was from the state park. This time it took her awhile to find a parking spot, but she finally scored one on the edge of the promenade.

  The Runner’s Shop, where Paige worked, was several blocks in the other direction, but Maggie wanted to spend some time walking and getting a feel for the area. Unlike the park, the streets were busy with shoppers. The lunch crowds spilled out onto the outdoor patios.

  The shopping center had a small-town feeling. Storefronts were brick with lots of glass windows for browsing, and there were pavers for sidewalks. Hanging from the street lamps were colorful banners. Potted plants and a floating ball sculpture decorated the courtyard. Shop windows advertised specials, and she could smell the wonderful aromas from the restaurant grills.

  She walked by a pastry shop and took in the scent of fresh baked bread. She had gone almost half a block past it before she backtracked. In The Dessert Stop window was a neon sign with the store’s logo. The cheerful lettering circled around a frosted donut with pastel sprinkles. She had seen this logo somewhere recently, but where?

  That’s when a woman’s scream startled her and stopped every shopper. The second scream sent people fleeing in the opposite direction.

  Maggie ran toward the scream.

  51

  “FBI. Don’t touch it!”

  Maggie yelled at the waitress standing over the takeout container. She held up her badge in one hand while the other stayed inside her jacket on the butt of her revolver. But she could see that someone had already opened the lid.

  Still, the woman in the emerald green apron stepped back. Maggie could see she wasn’t the one who had screamed. A younger woman sitting close by—close enough to see the bloody glob inside the container—was now b
eing helped away.

  “Are you really FBI?” an older man asked from a nearby table. “Are you filming for a movie or something?”

  Maggie saw the waitress’s nametag then locked eyes on her. “Rita, can you please make sure no one touches that?”

  The woman nodded.

  Maggie rushed back out into the courtyard then turned at the first corner where she could see the closest parking lot. People were still hurrying away. Then she backtracked. She examined faces including those on the street and in the shops looking out the windows and standing in the doorways.

  He’s here. He has to be. He likes to watch.

  Was he surprised to see her? He couldn’t have possibly guessed that she would be here.

  She looked for ordinary. A regular guy who fit in. Who belonged. He wouldn’t look out of place. Somehow he could disguise himself in such a way that he made everyone look past him. Discount him.

  She stopped and did a double take at an elderly man using a cane, trying to hurry along, but then a young girl joined him, taking his hand.

  Where are you?

  By the time Maggie made it back to the patio a uniformed police officer was arguing with the waitress named Rita.

  “Who the hell told you that?” he wanted to know.

  “I did,” Maggie said, wishing her pulse would stop racing.

  She held out her badge for him while her eyes scanned over the customers and restaurant staff. Most of the customers had left or had moved to the brick courtyard outside the restaurant. Some stayed to watch. The older man who had asked if she was filming a movie, smiled at her when her eyes came to his, as if he was in on her secret.

  “What the hell does the FBI have to do with this?”

  She glanced at his nametag before she said, “Officer Vaughn, I’m Special Agent Maggie O’Dell. I just happened to be in the area.”

  From the look he gave Maggie, she wouldn’t have been surprised if he also asked if she was filming a movie.

  “I need you to secure this area as a crime scene,” she told him as she pulled out her cell phone. “You’ll need to call some backup. We’ll want to start talking to people before they leave.”

  “What? You can’t—”

  “Yes, actually I can.” And she stared him down until he gave in and reached for the radio strapped to his shoulder.

  “Rita, can I ask you something?”

  “Of course.”

  “This was your area today?” Maggie asked, gesturing to the patio.

  “Yes. It sure was.”

  “Are you the one who opened the container?’

  She looked away, embarrassed then nodded before she said, “I thought one of the customers had forgotten it, but I knew I hadn’t boxed up anything.”

  “It’s okay,” Maggie assured you. “We will need to fingerprint you, just to eliminate you from any other prints that might be on the container.”

  “Okay.”

  “I have to make a phone call then I’d like to talk with you.”

  Two other officers were hustling up the promenade. Earlier people had scattered. Now there was a crowd gathering around the restaurant.

  Ganza answered on the third ring.

  “It’s Maggie,” she said. “I have another container for you to come get.”

  She gave him the directions. He was quiet for so long she thought she’d lost the connection.

  “Be careful, Maggie. He might still be there.”

  Hearing Ganza—Mr. Cool—tell her to be careful set her on edge. Her eyes started darting around the faces in the crowd. That’s when she saw the security camera on the corner of the building pointing down at the restaurant’s patio area. Again, her pulse began to race.

  Don’t stare at it, she told herself. Pretend you didn’t see it.

  She didn’t want the Collector to see that she’d noticed it. And at the same time she wanted to shout, “Gotcha.”

  52

  From up close, she was prettier than Stucky expected. At the moment he stood less than twenty feet away. Earlier when she first rushed through the restaurant and onto the patio, she had actually brushed past him. So close he could smell her scent. Something citrus with coconut. And he caught a glimpse of her eyes. They were caramel brown.

  He had been so focused on the container, watching the responses to it, that he didn’t immediately notice the woman shoving her way through the crowd. Of course, he recognized Agent Maggie before she pulled out her badge. From that moment on, he found it difficult to restrain his excitement.

  When she raced back out of the restaurant looking for him, it took every ounce of discipline to stop from shouting after her, “Here I am.”

  Now the uniformed officer was making them move back. Two more joined him. Stucky wanted to see Maggie take a good look at his handiwork, but so far she’d only glanced at it like she knew exactly what to expect. But this one was different. He wanted to tell her that. If she’d just read the note, she’d know how different. He longed to see the look on her face when she discovered that he had made a fresh kill just for her.

  He liked the way she moved. Within minutes she took charge of the situation. Even the male officers were following her instructions. There was confidence and authority in her words and gestures. It was hard to believe this was the same woman he had witnessed less than a week ago, on her hands and knees, vomiting up her lunch.

  Stucky was sure he had contributed to her new strength. Yes, she had him to thank. Little by little she was becoming a worthy adversary. A few more scavenger hunts, and she would be ready.

  53

  Ganza arrived with Turner. Maggie saw them making their way across the crowded promenade. She couldn’t help thinking that they looked like an aging rock and roll star and his personal bodyguard. Today on his day off Keith Ganza wasn’t wearing his lab coat, just his signature black jeans and a black T-shirt with a white skull across his chest. Agent Turner was parting the crowd in front of Ganza, adding to the perception that he was leading the way for a celebrity.

  Ganza set his forensic case on a chair next to the table with the container and got to work without a word.

  “Girl, you do keep finding messes,” Turner said to Maggie.

  She turned her back to the crowd behind them and whispered, “I think we got him this time.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Try not to look and be obvious,” she kept her voice low. “Up on corner of the building, right behind you is a security camera. The restaurant’s owner is pulling up the feed.”

  “You know these types of cameras are notoriously awful.”

  “It’s pointing down almost exactly on the table,” she told him.

  “The Collector is smarter than that. He had to know there was a camera.”

  “Maybe not. Come on.” She tugged on his elbow. “He should have it ready for us. He has the monitor in his office.”

  She led Turner between the tables. The crowd inside the restaurant parted for them. Turner followed her past the kitchen and down a hallway. She knocked on the office door but didn’t wait for a reply. Maggie thought Henry Gibson looked more like a high-priced lawyer in Greg’s law firm than an owner of a bar and restaurant. His close-cropped hair was silver at the temples. He was handsome, tall and lean and wore a polo shirt with chinos.

  “I have it for you, Agent O’Dell,” he said, standing up from his desk. He had been polite and almost overly cooperative.

  “Mr. Gibson, this is Agent Turner.”

  He came around his desk to shake Turner’s hand. Then he pointed back to the monitor. “It’s pretty easy to work. Buttons are down below. Play, rewind, pause. Sorry, no zoom. There’s also no sound, but I set it up for five minutes before that poor woman starts to scream. She’s in the upper left part of the screen. You’ll see her put her hand to her mouth. Unfortun
ately, the camera’s angle only captures a corner of the table.”

  “Is this your only camera?”

  “Yes. I actually had it installed because we had a few patio customers walking off without paying their bill.”

  “But there’s a wrought iron fence around the patio.”

  “I put that in at the same time as the camera. Can I get you two something to drink? Something to eat?”

  Maggie caught Turner’s face lighting up, and she wanted to roll her eyes.

  “I’m fine,” she said as she started settling down in Mr. Gibson’s chair and hit play.

  “Only if it’s not too much trouble,” Turner said.

  “It’ll give my staff something to do while they’re waiting. How do you like your burger?”

  “Any way you bring it to me will be fantastic. Thanks.”

  As soon as the office door closed Maggie said, “Really, you’re hungry?”

  “I haven’t had lunch.”

  He came around the desk and kneeled down beside her. His bulk filled the small space. Even on his knees he was eye-level with her.

  “What is that?” he asked as he sniffed the air. “Coconut?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Shampoo?”

  This time she did roll her eyes at him.

  “What? A guy can’t compliment a woman on how she smells?” But he turned toward the monitor and said, “These cameras are usually too grainy. But this one is pretty good quality.”

  Maggie fast-forwarded until she saw the woman put her hands to her mouth. She stopped and pushed rewind. Then she hit play again. The corner of the table was empty though she could see there were other items on the other side—flatware, the edge of a glass and what she knew was the bottom of a basket. Earlier, out on the patio, she had already taken note of the contents on the table and their proximity to the takeout container.

  She thought she had rewound the tape too far when there was a flurry of customers getting up and walking in between the camera and the table. When they cleared out of the way the foam container was there.