Dreaming Death

by Heather Graham

  He realized they were both grinning. In the midst of it all. And yet, he knew that if you didn’t take time out to smile and laugh and appreciate things—and people—in this vocation, you would end up burning out.

  “Hmm, if only you weren’t such a warty little thing,” he said, keeping pace with her.

  “Little?” she protested. “Five-five is quite respectable. And come on, I try to hide the warts.”

  “You know that you’re beautiful,” he told her, surprising even himself with the serious tone he had taken. “You don’t play against it, though you don’t play it up.”

  She arched a brow slowly. He wondered why he had lost the teasing banter, and now he didn’t know where to go from here. They had stopped walking and were standing close. And it was occurring to him that his words were true: she was beautiful—and electric, and smart as a whip. He forced a broad smile and turned to the car.

  His phone rang.

  It was Jackson.

  “Dr. Simpson says you might want to get into the autopsy,” Jackson said.

  “We might have an ID,” Keenan told him. “Lindsey Green. It’s the name the woman was going by, at any rate.”

  “Lindsey Green. Hopefully, we’ll verify. Dr. Simpson is starting his autopsy.”

  “Autopsy? Do they even have the body at the morgue?”

  “They took the body right after you left. Under the circumstances, Beau put the autopsy as top priority. You might want to join him.”

  Stacey was looking at him.

  “Autopsy,” he said.

  “Tomorrow?” she asked. “Later today?”

  “Now.”

  “But that’s—”

  “For this case? Apparently, it’s not just possible. It’s happening.”

  * * *

  The morgue was kept spotlessly clean—antiseptically clean. And yet, despite the multitude of products used to keep germs and bacteria at bay, Stacey felt as though the smell of death somehow seemed to permeate the place, from the autopsy rooms to the reception and the hallways.

  It didn’t, really; Stacey simply knew that she was in the morgue. She supposed that now she associated the specific smell of the place with death.

  Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Death, she knew, was a part of life. Part of the natural world. But sometimes, life was stolen. And that was why she so passionately wanted to be right where she was, seeking to stop those who would steal life.

  Beau had really moved swiftly, pulling out all stops, sailing through paperwork and getting the job done. The body was lying on the autopsy table when they arrived; the Y incision had been made. Beau was speaking into the microphone above the body, clearly stating details for his recording of the autopsy.

  Jackson was already in the room, observing. He caught Stacey’s arm as they entered, stopping her and Keenan.

  “Your source was right. Her name is Lindsey Green,” Jackson told them quietly. “She worked for Billie Bingham. Positive fingerprint match came in quickly; she was arrested three years ago for soliciting close to the Smithsonian. The DC police have her on file. Apparently, Billie found her after her release and taught her how to ply her trade legitimately.”

  They both nodded. Beau Simpson was in the process of removing the organs.

  “Liver, enlarged. The damage has caused injury to the spleen as well. Other organs most likely bearing an effect as well.”

  It seemed to Stacey that the autopsy went on forever. She wanted very badly to escape it.

  “Any sense of anything?” Jackson whispered softly to Stacey.

  She looked up at him, frowning, and then she knew what he meant.

  In her experience, she’d never seen ghosts at an autopsy. But then, she’d never been at an autopsy before she’d joined the bureau. Ever since her second dream, she had seen the spirits of the dead, sometimes in a cemetery, more often where there was life, music, sunshine—things they might have enjoyed in life. But here, now... She blinked, cringing at the thought that the dead might return and witness something so horrible as the autopsy of their own body.

  She saw that Keenan was shaking his head. He was frowning and moved closer, ostensibly listening to Beau, leaning forward—and touching the victim’s arm lightly—while asking a question.

  Nothing.

  Finally, it ended, and Beau left the sewing of the body to his assistant, stepping out to speak with the three of them.

  “I’m sorry to call you in. I know you have the living to question. But this seemed important. No one would have stolen this woman’s organs. I suspected when I initially examined the body. She was suffering from cirrhosis. I have a feeling that they might have charged her for drunk and disorderly behavior as well as solicitation, but someone kindly forgot about that charge. For Billie, it wouldn’t have mattered. Lindsey might have made a fun drunk.”

  “Thank you, Beau,” Keenan told him. He was anxious to move on. He looked at Jackson. “Whether the killer is trying a sham with a mask of the Ripper to steal organs, or if he’s really just a Jack-the-Ripper wannabe, he’s got the pattern down.”

  “If he’s following the pattern, the next murder will be indoors—and it will be horrendous,” Stacey said. “All murder is horrendous, but according to most who have studied the case, law enforcement and others—”

  “Mary Kelly was the last, murdered in her home, viciously torn apart. Yes,” Jackson said. “I talked to Fred Crandall. He was interviewing the maids. I’m going to join him back at the house with the CSI team. I have a hard time believing that Billie Bingham didn’t have a hidden camera somewhere. What’s your plan from here?”

  Keenan looked at Stacey. It was getting late. They would have to rest at some point. There were other agents who could be called in.

  “I want to figure out a way to, er, diplomatically speak with Congressman Colin Smith. If we go in too hard too fast, we’ll have ourselves and the bureau in trouble, and might be shut out when we need to be in. Until then, I want to speak with Fred quickly and then hit the streets. Someone had to have been friends with Jess Marlborough. Just a...hunch, I guess. We need to go back to the beginning.”

  Jackson nodded.

  Stacey didn’t protest. But she addressed Jackson. “Sir, with recent discoveries, I’m worried about Tania Holt. She’s terrified. I don’t think she was lying to us—she was stunned to find out that a woman had been murdered in the basement and is scared that she might be next. Is there any way we could put an FBI protection detail on her?”

  “Do you think she’s so terrified because she knows something?” Jackson asked.

  “No,” Stacey said.

  “There’s always the possibility that she knows something that she doesn’t realize she knows,” Keenan said. “I don’t think it would hurt, if we could spare the resources.”

  Jackson nodded gravely. “I’ll find a few agents just in from the field. Guard duty calls for vigilance but also allows for a little rest and relaxation. I’ll see to it. Go on.”

  “Thank you,” Stacey said.

  They walked out the door of the autopsy room, removing their masks and ripping off their gowns. Stacey was surprised when she felt Keenan’s hand on her shoulder. Surprised by his touch and the little electric jolt that seemed to pass through her.

  The look in his eyes, too. Honesty. Deep blue honesty.

  “Stacey, that was brilliant. It occurred to me how right you are—Tania might be in danger. Not just because she could be a target for this killer, but she could be a target if someone thought that she might know too much. Tania just might be in real danger.”

  She swallowed. “I...um...thanks.” She grinned, trying for humor. “I wouldn’t want your girl hurt.” She grimaced once she said the words. “Sorry. That was...dumb.”

  “Hey, don’t worry. Sometimes we have to try to joke in this business, right?”

  A
s they left, Keenan called Fred Crandall, asking about the area where Jess had worked. He kept the phone on speaker so that Stacey could hear.

  “She was found right near her usual corner. Rough neighborhood. Be careful even questioning people. The girls there have rough pimps. No one works those streets without protection. Make sure you watch out for your partner.”

  “She’s right here, Fred. And after getting to know her better, I think the bad guys better be watching out for her.”

  “Thanks, Fred,” Stacey said. “We’ll watch out for each other.”

  “Well, sure, watch the giant’s back,” Fred said.

  They ended the call and headed out to the car.

  As they drove, Stacey asked him, “Keenan, do you think that the killer might be planning on getting to Tania for his last attack?”

  He turned to her and asked dryly, “Do you think that there is going to be a ‘last’ attack? If you’re right, and these killings are to steal organs, they’re not going to stop. Jack the Ripper lives in infamy because of the horror of his attacks, and because he remains a mystery. But there have been other mutilation murders in history. Unfortunately, many of them. I’m afraid that if we don’t stop this lunatic—or businessman—now, this will just go on and on. Maybe in a different city. I do know that we have to stop this.” He hesitated. “Brutal hours, lousy food, little sleep. You okay with that?”

  She smiled. “I’m just fine with it.”

  “Here we are. I’m going to park. We’ll do a little cruising on foot and see what we can find out.”

  They were, beyond a doubt, on the wrong side of town. Keenan had pulled over at a corner with broken parking meters—new ones, but smashed, nonetheless. The building they’d parked in front of was a liquor store with bars covering the glass windows. Next to it was a dark alley, where graffiti covered the walls.

  A haze seemed to linger over the area. Steam rose from the subway below and combined with the smoke from various greasy restaurants to coat the figures walking casually along.

  Women in short-shorts and spiked heels, slinky dresses, halter tops.

  “Jess Marlborough was found just ahead, about fifty feet. The alley is a known thoroughfare for working girls and those seeking their business,” Keenan told her. He shrugged with a grimace. “Be careful out here. You may find that you’re getting some pretty good offers.”

  “In this alley? I doubt it!” she told him.

  “Shall we?”

  “They may all bolt the minute they see us. We look like cops.” She indicated her dark suit. Stacey hesitated and then said, “Think you ought to let me go first? I’ll stay where you can see me.”

  When he didn’t answer right away, she spoke again quickly. “Keenan, I’m sure your size comes in handy for lots of things. But it’s also intimidating. I’m a little overdressed for this, but I’m not half as intimidating as you. Especially to women who might be scared of guys they don’t know right now.”

  After a moment, he nodded. “I’ll get out after you do and lounge on the wall there. Stay in sight. I don’t want anything happening to you.”

  “Ah, so you do care!”

  “Jackson would kill me if I lost a new partner right off,” he said.

  She smiled and stepped out of the car.

  She headed down the alley, aware that he exited the car soon after her and did as he said, walking to the side of the building facing the alley and leaning casually against the wall, his hands in his pockets.

  The figures moving through the haze stopped to stare as Stacey approached, walking at an even pace toward them.

  “Well, lookie what we have here!” a voice exclaimed.

  She found herself facing a tall woman with an elaborate bouffant hairdo. She was wearing a sequined skirt and bra top. She was probably in her late twenties or early thirties but appeared to be older. She looked tired.

  “You in the market for a good time, cutie? Hey, girls, this one is a cutie! One of us could pay her!” She chortled with laughter.

  At that, a group of five women slowly appeared out of the haze, coming closer.

  Curious.

  “I’m not on the market or in the market,” she said. “I’ve come here for your help.”

  “Cop.” A dark-haired woman sniffed. “You can smell ’em a mile away. Look at that suit.”

  “I’m FBI. And I’m here because I need your help.”

  “Our help?” a sandy-haired girl—who seemed so young—asked skeptically.

  “There’s a killer on the streets,” she said. “Targeting women who—”

  “Targeting whores!” the woman with the bouffant snapped.

  “Yes,” Stacey said simply. “Your friend was mercilessly butchered and left here to be seen by all—and you all have to know you’re in danger.”

  “I told you!” the young, fair-haired girl said. “Nan, I told you that it was too dangerous for us to be out here. Someone else is going to get killed. I heard on a news thing that there’s another woman dead, too!”

  “Great. And what about us?” the woman with the bouffant, the one the younger girl had called Nan, replied. “What about surviving? I don’t know about you, honey, but I like food in my mouth and a roof over my head, wretched as that roof is. And again, I don’t know about you, but I’m just as scared of...other people,” she said, glancing Stacey’s way.

  “Your pimp?” Stacey asked flatly.

  It was at that moment that she heard the footsteps behind her. She spun around, hand on her holster.

  There was a man behind her; he’d moved up quickly. He was dressed in jeans and a hoodie but had several thick, gold chains at his neck, and a shiny watch flashed at his wrist. And she could see that he had a knife in his hand.

  Well, he’d brought a knife to a gunfight.

  He had almost reached her.

  “Stop right there, asshole!” a male voice called out.

  The man froze and dropped the knife; his hands went up.

  Keenan was right behind him, the nose of his Glock pressed against the man’s back.

  “Officer. Hey, man, I just came on back here to see why this woman was harassing these fine ladies.”

  “Right.” Keenan had reached into the man’s jacket pocket for his ID. “So, Mr. Rafael Sabatini—entrepreneur. One way to call it. Well, you can explain at headquarters. Oh, I’m not an officer—I’m an agent. Small detail. But there is an officer on the way. Sorry to mess up your night, but you threatened a federal agent.”

  “What? No, man! I was just going to chat—”

  “With a knife. Sorry,” Keenan said.

  They heard the sirens then; flashing lights showed at the end of the alley.

  For a moment, Rafael Sabatini looked as if he meant to flee—but Keenan was like a brick house in front of him, and when he turned, Stacey had her Glock aimed at him as well.

  “Bastard and bitch!” he muttered. “I’ll be out before you know it. And these streets aren’t safe, you know. Not for bastards and bitches. You mark my words. You beware. I’ll be calling my lawyer. This is a setup! You’ll be facing the charges, not me!”

  “We’ll have some paperwork to do now,” Keenan told Stacey, regret in his voice. “But that’s okay. I’ll get Fred’s guys to take it slow until we have a chance to chat here.”

  Police officers in uniform came walking down the alley.

  The girls shied back several steps, as if they could disappear in the haze.

  “It’s all right. No one is after you,” Keenan said, turning then to speak more loudly as the officers approached. “It’s this man—he threatened a federal agent with a knife!”

  “We’ll meet you down at headquarters,” one of the officers, a stocky man with a buzzed cut to his hair, said. “Why, Jimmy,” he said to his partner, “if it isn’t Rafael Sabatini, better known as Harold Johnso
n down at the station. Why, goodness, Harry, I think we have you on something with proof at last!”

  The man was handcuffed and taken away, protesting all the while.

  “I’ll see you to the car,” Keenan told the officers, glancing at Stacey with a nod as he followed the officers and the pimp.

  Stacey watched him go, then turned as the women came out of the haze, forming a half circle around her.

  The sandy-haired girl let out a sigh, staring after Keenan longingly, a sigh worthy of the finest princess in an animated film.

  Stacey forced a smile. Work. Whatever managed to get these women to trust them was worth it.

  “Not to worry, he’ll be back,” she said. “But for now, please, help me. Your lives might depend on it!”

  Five

  “Candy can help you most,” a big blousy woman in a glittery dress was saying as Keenan returned to the alley.

  “Candy?” Stacey asked.

  They were now surrounding her as if she were the head cheerleader and a school game was about to begin.

  She’d been right; they had her trust. And he supposed they might trust him now, too, because he had come up at the right moment.

  “Yeah, and it’s my real name,” a young woman with ash-blond hair said. “Well, Candace. And I loved Jess. She was truly a kind person. We’re out here trying to survive, and she’d still run in and buy food for Dave, the homeless guy on the other corner. She was a good person—a really good person, though I’ll bet more than half the world would never see her that way,” she finished bitterly.

  “Hey, we all do what we have to do. And we can only ever do what we think is right—or necessary—when we do it, right?” Stacey asked.

  The girl flushed. “Yeah. I guess we do.”

  “So, can you help us?” Stacey asked.

  The bouffant woman moved in again. “Why, honey, if we could nail the bastard, we would. You see the group of us here? We live together, about a block away. And we do our best to look after one another.” She hesitated and seemed pained. We didn’t talk to the cops before because we didn’t want them at our place. It’s a dump, but it’s all we’ve got. Cops might have got us evicted or the whole building condemned. So we said we all lived on the streets or took rooms when we could. We were also worried about the place where we slept getting out, just in case. You have to be so careful who you trust. Cops coming to our place couldn’t help Jess. Anyway. We tried to look after Jess. Candy can best tell you her story.”