The Beginning (40 page)

What did Douglas mean by that? That he could have told the FBI that she was unstable, that she'd gone around the bend seven years ago? Yes, he could have said that. She wondered if anyone had told the FBI that. No, if they had, then she wouldn't have been accepted, would she?

“I know my father was positive when the agents came to interview him.”

“Yes, he told me you'd given him no choice. I said good for you, it was your life and he should keep his mouth shut if he ever wanted to see you again. He was pissed at me for a good month.”

“Thank you for standing up for me, Douglas.” She had assumed at the time that the people doing the check on her background simply hadn't considered it all that important. But they had, evidently, and they'd asked questions. “I had no idea, but I am grateful. No one dredged up anything about that time. Do you know that you haven't changed? You really are looking good.” He was thirty-eight now. There were just a few white strands woven into his black hair. He was very probably more handsome now than he had been seven years ago. She remembered that Belinda had loved him more than anything. Anything. She felt the familiar hollowing pain and quickly picked up the champagne bottle. She poured each of them another glass.

“You've changed. You're a woman now, Lacey. You're no longer a silent kid. You still have a dozen locks on your door, but hey, this is D.C. I'd probably have a submachine gun sitting next to the front door. What does the FBI use?”

“A Heckler and Koch MP-5 submachine gun. It's powerful and reliable.”

“I have trouble imagining you even near something like that, much less holding it and firing it. Ah, that sounded sexist, didn't it? You spoke of change. As for me, perhaps I haven't changed all that much on the outside, but well, life changes one, regardless, doesn't it?”

“Oh yes.” She was the perfect example of what life could do to a person.

“You're on the thin side. Did they work you that hard at the Academy?”

“Yes, but it was a classmate of mine—Ford MacDougal—who worked me the hardest. He swore he'd put some muscle on my skinny little arms.”

“Let me see.”

He squeezed her upper arm. “Flex.”

She did.

“Not bad.”

“My boss works out. Don't picture him as a muscle-bound, no-neck bodybuilder. He's very strong and muscular, but he's also into karate, and he's very good. I was on the receiving end of his technique once at the Academy. The other day I saw him eyeing me. I don't think he liked what he saw. I'll bet he'll have me in the gym by next Tuesday.”

“Boss? You mean this Savich character?”

“I suppose we're all characters in our own way. He's a genius with computers. One of his programs helped nail Russell Bent. He's the chief of the unit I'm in now. I was very lucky that he asked for me. Otherwise I would have ended up in L.A. chasing bank robbers.”

“So may I take you out to lunch to celebrate your first case? How about we have lunch at one of the excellent restaurants you've got in this neighborhood?”

She nodded. “How long will you be here, Douglas?”

“I'm not certain. Perhaps a week. Did you miss me, Lacey?”

“Yes. And I do miss Dad. How is his health?”

“You e-mail him every week, and I know for a fact that he e-mails you back every week. He told me you don't like the telephone. So he has to e-mail. So you know he's fine.”

Of course Douglas knew very well why she hated phones. That was how she'd been told about Belinda. “Everybody e-mails now. In my unit you hardly ever hear a phone ring.”

“I'll write my e-mail address down for you before I leave. Let's go eat, Lacey.”

“You look like a prince and I look like a peasant. Let me change. It'll take me just a minute. Oh yeah, everybody calls me Sherlock.”

“I don't like that; I never did. And everybody has to make a stupid remark when they meet you. It doesn't suit you. It's very masculine. Is that what the FBI is all about? Turning you into a man?”

“I hope not. If they did try, I'd flunk the muscle-mass tests.”

Actually, she thought, as she changed into a dress in her bedroom, she liked being called Sherlock, just Sherlock. It moved her one step further from the woman she had been seven years ago.

It was at lunch that he told her about this woman who claimed he'd gotten her pregnant.

Savich stopped by her desk Monday morning and said, “Ollie told me you still didn't have any stuff for your apartment. I thought you were going to take care of it this weekend. What happened?”

She looked over at Ollie Hamish and cocked her elbow at him, tapping it with her other hand. He waved back at her, shrugging.

Why should Savich care if she slept in a tent? “A friend from California came into town. I didn't have a chance.”

“Okay, take off today and shop yourself to death.” Then he frowned. “You don't know where to shop, do you? Listen, I'll call a friend of mine. She knows where to find anything you could possibly invent. Her name's Sally Quinlan.”

Lacey had heard all about James Quinlan, presumably this woman's husband. She'd heard about some of his cases, but none of the real details. Maybe when she met Sally Quinlan, she'd find out all the good stuff.

It turned out that Sally Quinlan wasn't free until the following Saturday. They made a date. Sherlock spent the day learning about PAP, the Predictive Analogue Program, and all the procedures in the unit.

That Monday evening, she found two lovely, but small, prints at Bentrells in Georgetown, which would probably look insignificant against that long expanse of white wall in her living room. She bought some clothes at another Georgetown boutique. When she got back to her apartment, there was Douglas waiting for her. He'd been busy Sunday, hadn't even had time to phone her. She said, “I'm starving. Let's go eat.”

He nodded and took her to Antonio's, a northern Italian restaurant that wasn't trendy. Over a glass of wine and medallions of veal, he said, “I guess you want to know about this woman, huh?”

“Yeah, you dropped that bomb and then took off.” She fingered a bread stick. “If you don't want to tell me, Douglas, that's all right.”

“No, you should know. Her name is Candice Addams. She's about your age, so beautiful that men stop in midstride to stare at her, smarter than just about anyone I know.” He sighed and pushed away his plate. “She claims I got her pregnant and I suppose that I could have, but I've always been so careful. Living in San Francisco, you're probably the most careful of any American.”

“Do you want to marry her?” Odd how it hurt to say the words, but they had to be said. Although she didn't know what she wanted from Douglas, she did realize that she valued him, that he attracted her, that he amused her, that he stood up for her, at least most of the time. And he'd been there for her through it all. She'd been closer to him during those awful months than to her father. Of course no one was really close to her mother. That was impossible.

“No, of course not. She's a local TV reporter. I can't imagine she wants to have a baby at this point.”

She felt suddenly impatient with him. “Haven't you spoken about all this with her? Does she want to have the baby? An abortion? Does she want to get married? What, Douglas?”

“Yeah, she says she wants to marry me.”

“You said she's smart and beautiful. You said you always wanted to have kids. So marry her.”

“Yeah, I guess maybe I'll have to. I wanted to tell you about it in person, Lacey. I don't want to marry her, I'm not lying about that. I'd hoped that someday you and I could, well, that would probably never have happened, would it?”

“I don't know,” she said finally, setting down her fork. The medallions of veal looked about as appetizing as buffalo chips. “There's been so much, Douglas, too much. I'm very grateful to you, you know that. I wish I could say that I wanted to be with you—”

“Yeah, I know.”

“What will you do?”

“I'd turn her down flat if you'd have me, Lacey.”

She wondered in that moment what he'd do if she said yes. She'd thought several times in the last few years that she was a habit to him, someone he was fond of, someone he would protect, but not as a woman, not as a wife. No, she was Belinda's little sister and she probably always would be in his mind. She dredged up a smile for him. “I hope she hasn't given you an ultimatum.”

“Oh no, Candice is far too intelligent to do that. I'm hooked, but she isn't pulling at all on the line.”

It was his life. He had to forget and move on. It had been seven years. And as for her, well, she would move on as well, toward the goal she'd always had, toward the goal she would pursue until the monster was caught and dead, or she was.

She'd heard that Russell Bent had gotten himself a hotshot lawyer who was claiming police brutality and coercion. The press was speculating that the lawyer might get him off. She wouldn't let that happen to him. Never.

 

ON
Thursday, Savich said, “I don't want you to flab out on me, Sherlock. You don't live more than a mile from me. My gym is right in between. I'll see you there at six o'clock.”

“Flab out? I've only been out of the Academy for two weeks. And I've walked every square inch of Georgetown since Monday, shopping until I dropped, just as you ordered me to do. Flab out?”

“Yeah, you haven't been lying around, but your deltoids are losing tone. I'm an expert. I can tell these things. Six o'clock.”

He strolled away, singing,
“Like a rock, I was strong as I could be. Like a rock, nothin' ever got to me…”
He walked into his glass-enclosed office. That wasn't country-and-western, that was a long-ago commercial. Was it Chevrolet? She couldn't remember. She watched him sit down at his desk and turn immediately to his laptop.

Flabby deltoids, ha. She grinned toward his office. He was just being a good boss; that was it. She was new in town, and he didn't want her to get lonesome. She shook her head and went back to work. She jumped a good six inches when a woman's voice said from behind her, “Don't even consider going after him.”

Sherlock blinked up at Hannah Paisley, an agent who'd started with the Unit some six months before. She'd been in the Bureau five years. She was very tall, beautifully shaped, and very smart. She'd seen Hannah do her dumb-blonde act on a witness at the Academy, on video. She'd made the guy feel like the stud of the universe. Then he'd spilled his guts. She was very good, which was why she was loaned out on sting operations. She also seemed to have a sixth sense about killers, which was why she'd joined this unit. Sherlock envied her this ability.

Hannah wanted Dillon Savich? She was jealous because Savich thought Sherlock was flabby? What was all this about? “I wasn't going after him, Hannah. Actually, I was thinking he was a jerk, criticizing my deltoids.”

“I know. I was joking. Are you doing work on the Radnich case?”

Lacey nodded. Was Hannah joking? She didn't think so. She didn't need this. Hannah gave her a small salute and went back to her desk and computer.

Lacey was working with Ollie Hamish on the Radnich case. It had flummoxed everyone, including Savich. It wasn't the “who” of it that was driving everybody nuts; it was the “how.” Sherlock was feeding in more data they'd just gotten from the various local police reports and the autopsies and the forensic evidence, and in the back of her mind, she was also trying to figure out how this weirdo guy could have gotten into four nursing homes—the count as of today—and strangled old women with no one seeing a single thing. The first nursing home was in Richmond, Virginia, eight months ago. Then four months ago, it happened again in northern Florida, home of the nonagenarian. Norma Radnich was the old woman strangled at the South Banyon Nursing Home in St. Petersburg, Florida. They'd been called in by the SPPD only after this last murder. To date there were no leads, no clues, no guesses that were helpful. The Profilers were working on it now as well. Ollie was committed to this one. He was the lead agent on it, and Sherlock wanted it that way.

She wanted to go digging. She'd figured out how to access everything she needed. Perhaps tonight after Dillon let her leave the gym she would come back here and work. If he didn't kill all her body parts, if she'd still be able to walk once he was through with her.

No one would know. She'd be very careful, do her work for the unit during the day and search at night. She felt her heart speed up at the thought. She'd get him. She had to get him. But he'd lain low for nearly seven years. It would be seven years in three days. An anniversary. Just as the past six years had each been an anniversary. Had he died? Had he simply stopped? She didn't think so. He was a classic psychopath. He would never stop until he was dead or locked away. Cycles, she'd thought many times. He was into cycles and so far it hadn't triggered yet for whatever reason.

The weekly update meeting was at two o'clock. There were nine agents in the conference room: six men, including Savich; three women; one secretary, Claudia, a gum-chewing grandmother with platinum hair and a brain like a razor; and one clerk, Edgar, who would bet on about anything and won the pool on the birth weight of Ellis's baby.

Everyone presented what he or she was doing, the status, what he or she needed.

The status meeting went quickly, no wasted time. All the agents felt free to speak up when another agent wanted advice. Savich moderated.

When it was Ollie's turn, he said, “I'm working the Radnich case with Sherlock. She's up to speed on it now. We got the last pile of stuff today from the Florida cops. Sherlock, you finished inputting all the data, didn't you?” At her nod, he said, “Then we'll push the magic button later.”

Savich turned to her. “Sherlock? You got anything to add?”

She sat forward, clasping her hands together. “It's like a locked-room murder mystery. How can this guy just saunter into these three nursing homes in Florida and the one in Richmond at ten o'clock at night and kill these poor old women with nobody seeing or hearing a thing? Naturally, all the old women killed were in single rooms or suites, but that shouldn't matter. This whole thing is nuts. There has to be something we're missing.”

“Obviously,” said Hannah. “But we'll get there. We usually do.”

Savich said, “Actually, Ollie and I are going to St. Petersburg tomorrow morning. I just got another call from Captain Samuels. There's been another murder. That means our guy is going into overdrive. The Profilers don't like it. It means he's losing control. Five murders in eight months, the last two in the past week and a half. Captain Samuels really wants us to go down there and poke around, look at everything with new eyes. So, that's where we'll be for the weekend.”

Ollie nearly leaped out of his chair in excitement. “When?”

“Eight
A.M.
United flight from Dulles.”

Suddenly Ollie blanched and raised his eyes heavenward. “I won't get too up for this. No, I'm a fatalist. If I really want to go, then my future mother-in-law will tell Maria that I'm a workaholic and lousy husband material and Maria will dump me. It's the way my life works.”

“Don't worry, Ollie,” Savich said, closing his folder. “It's no big deal. We'll just go down there to see if there's anything they haven't seen. I think it's time to look the situation over firsthand.”

“Do you already know who did it?” Sherlock asked, sitting forward, her hands clasped on the conference table.

Savich heard that utterly serious voice, looked at that too-intense face, at that thick curling red hair trying to break free of the gold clasp at the back of her neck. “Not this time—sorry. Now, Ollie, don't panic. Nothing to it.”

Still, Ollie looked doubtful. Sherlock had heard he'd already wagered with at least a dozen other agents that his wedding wouldn't come off because either a terrorist would blow up the church or the preacher would be arrested for stealing out of the collection plates.

“I sure want to catch this creep,” Ollie said.

“I do too,” Savich said. “Like you and Sherlock and every cop in Florida, I want to know how he keeps pulling off this ghost act.” He stood. “Okay. Everyone is cooking along fine. No big problems or breakthroughs. Cogan, see me for a minute. I've got an idea about those murders in Las Vegas.”

 

AT
six o'clock, Lacey walked into the World Gym on Juniper Street wearing shorts, a baggy top, and running shoes, her hair pulled back and up high in a ponytail. She paid her ten dollars and went into the huge mirror-lined room. There was the usual complement of bodybuilders who watched every move they made in the mirrors. She got a kick out of watching them walk. They were overbulked and couldn't really get around normally. They moved like hulks.

There were beautiful young women who were six feet tall, professional women on the StairMasters, looking at their watches every few minutes, probably thinking about their kids and what they were going to cook for dinner and did they have enough time if they did just five more minutes.

And there were quite a few professional men, all ages, all working hard. She didn't see a single slacker. Then she saw Dillon. He was wearing shorts, running shoes, and a sleeveless white cotton tank. He was doing lat pulldowns.

He was slick with sweat, his dark hair plastered to his head. He looked good. Actually, he looked better than good; he looked beautiful. Then she saw him glance over at a clock, do two more slow pulldowns, then release the bar and slowly stand up. He turned, saw her immediately, and waved. Seeing him from the front made her realize that she hadn't seen any male as a man in a very long time. She let herself appreciate the clean definition of his muscles, the smooth contours, then she set him away from her, back into his proper role.