Jayne and Steelie - 01 - Freezing (26 page)

‘This is the office Mark and I share.' Angie pointed into a room as they walked past. Two desks pushed up against each other, both relatively neat, with a potted plant right on the dividing line.

‘And here's the briefing room.' Angie swung open the door that anchored the end of the hallway.

Jayne saw Eric bent over a projector while Scott was at a table to the side. Both men greeted them and Angie introduced them to Special Agent Mark Wilson, sitting at a computer. As soon as he stood up, she saw how tall and trim he was, the brush cut he wore contributing to his air of neatness. He came over with a friendly smile and shook hands with a strong grip.

‘Good to meet you. Welcome to Atlanta. How you guys feeling?'

Jayne replied, ‘Been more awake before but we're ready to help out on this.'

‘Great. Help yourselves to coffee.'

They put their bags on chairs and joined Scott, who was spreading cream cheese across a bagel sitting in halves on a paper plate. He winked at Jayne and she surreptitiously grinned back, noticing that he'd traded his blue suit for a black one, though he wasn't wearing the jacket.

She relished seeing his left side after using the waking hours on the flight to study his right side, which was all she could see of him from one row back and across the aisle, as she continually turned over how he'd behaved after his meltdown on the freeway. He wasn't ashamed of the impact Kate Alston had had on him and he hadn't apologized for almost running them off the road while having a flashback. He'd even told Eric what had happened. He seemed to accept that there could be fallout from his work. Could she follow his lead? And if that kiss was just a prelude to what could happen between them, could he accept in her something she hadn't yet accepted in herself?

A bright light in the briefing room behind her brought her to the present and she turned to see the projection screen lit up with an electronic map. She followed Scott and Steelie to sit at the table.

Angie picked up a remote control and pointed it at the projector. The map on the screen switched to a photograph of a smiling woman. Her face was full, her brown hair showing white roots, and she looked as though she was laughing at being teased. Her shoulders were visible around her sleeveless flowered top.

It was Eric who gave the photo a caption. ‘Eleanor Patterson.'

Jayne and Steelie simultaneously sat up straighter in their chairs. It was a shock to see a photograph of the woman whose dismembered limbs they were so familiar with, whose surgical plate had led to her identification. Eleanor Patterson, of whom only her arms had been found so far.

Scott addressed the room. ‘Patterson is the only identified victim we can associate with the perp's van so we need to do two things as a matter of priority: put her with him while she was still alive and determine if how they met will give us a lead on where he is now.'

Eric said, ‘Starting with what we know about Patterson: the Thirty-two One preliminary analysis suggested that she had been the victim of physical abuse but the misper report filed by her husband made no mention of any scars related to that nor was there any mention of the surgical plate we eventually used to ID her. So we had Carlisle PD talk to the husband. They just sent over their report.'

Eric held up a piece of paper that looked like an email print-out.

‘OK, the husband admits to the beating but said he didn't report it because he didn't realize it would be helpful. Didn't expect her to be found dead because when she left, she didn't take any of her belongings or clothes and left behind her credit cards. He presumed she'd gone off to start a new life with one of the men he alleged she was having affairs with. Oh, and he told the Carlisle cops that he didn't want to have her body returned to him; that he'd only filed the misper report so she would come back and, quote-unquote, get her shit.'

Eric looked up at the group. ‘Apparently, he's still got her “shit” kept perfectly in place in an upstairs room. Carlisle PD has no leads on how Patterson came to be outside of Oregon, let alone dead.'

Steelie cleared her throat. ‘I know Jayne and I are here about the body parts at the suspect's house, but I've just had an idea about this woman.'

Eric gestured with his hand, inviting her to continue.

She glanced at the screen. ‘OK, you said she left without belongings, not even credit cards, and that you have confirmation that she was being beaten?'

Scott said, ‘Yes.' He was looking at her intently.

‘OK. Our sense from the healed fractures on her arm bones was that the abuse had been taking place over a long period of time. So I'm thinking that maybe she finally decided to do something about it.'

‘What do you mean?' asked Eric. ‘She didn't report the abuse.'

‘I don't mean reporting. I mean she decided to get the hell out of Dodge. What about checking with shelters for battered women? And not in Oregon. She was probably trying to get as far away from her husband as possible. I don't know that she came out here to Georgia but you already know she crossed the suspect's path somewhere. You could start by looking at shelters here.'

There was a brief silence and then Eric jumped up from his chair. ‘
That
, my friends, is what I call a lead.' He was at the end of the table in three long strides. ‘Angie?'

Angie had pushed back from the table and was gathering her papers. ‘I'm on it.' She flashed Steelie a smile, and then followed Eric out of the room.

Scott chuckled quietly.

‘What?' Steelie asked, sounding taken aback by the activity her comment had set off.

He put his hand on her shoulder. ‘I was just wondering if you wanted a job.'

Mark got up from the other side of the table and headed toward the food. Jayne joined him so she could get more coffee. She felt good because the agents had made her and Steelie part of their team. She turned back to the room as Scott was advancing the image on the screen.

‘All right. Here's our suspect: a janitor at Atlanta Airport.'

Jayne looked over and then had to grab the back of the nearest chair.

It was Steelie who spoke. ‘Well, Jee-sus Christ. Or I should say, Gene King.'

TWENTY-THREE

T
ripper understood the catalysts for the physical sensations breaking over his body like waves. One part was nerves and the other anger, but the zing brought on by the thought of that idiot Wayne's sedan going to a police yard before he'd ensured it was clean was fear, pure fear. He clenched and unclenched his fingers. He knew he had to control fear. He must repeat in his mind that there was nothing to fear as long as he wasn't Gene King.

Sure, that was King's license plate on the car but he was Tripper full-time now. Indeed, he'd planned this day; it had just arrived sooner than he'd planned. That made him angry again. Who were the cops to dictate when he made The Transition? Which meant the real question was, did he leave anything of Tripper's in that car?
Zing
. No! Control the fear. Clench, unclench.

‘You sure you want me to take Peachtree?'

Tripper looked up to see the taxi driver eyeing him in the rearview mirror. ‘Yes.'

‘The parkway will get you there in half the time.'

‘I said I don't like that route.'

The driver shrugged. ‘It's your dollar.' His eyes went back to watching the traffic ahead of them and he turned up the AM radio.

Tripper refocused. The taxi was working. It kept him off both the streets and the public transit system while the cops might be searching for Gene King during the crucial hours before he completed The Transition. They'd only search hard for him if they knew he'd impersonated a cop, and they'd only know about the assault if that bitch he'd pulled over had reported it already. In case she had, he had done three things: ran until he put distance between him and the hospital, given his house a wide berth, and waited several hours before hailing a taxi. There would have been no point in getting a taxi near the hospital, and at a time of night when the driver would remember him if questioned by the cops later. And he wouldn't take a taxi to the house. No, he was going to the storage unit.

The Transition Plan called for this, naturally, but it was supposed to be late at night when the front office was unattended and he could enter with his access code. But current circumstances dictated that he go during business hours when the gate was already open. He might be seen but would draw little attention to himself and his code would never be used, so it could never be tracked.

He would ask to be dropped off several blocks before the taxi reached the storage place, so the driver would have no idea of his destination. Then he would walk. Now that he'd discarded the uniform's shirt, he knew he was unremarkable in a white t-shirt and dark pants. If anything, he looked like a waiter who'd just come off of a night shift.

Tripper dug his fingers down into his right sock and felt the money he'd hidden there when he'd dressed in the uniform at the beginning of the night. He was surprised to find the cash damp with sweat. He didn't remember sweating. As he sat up straight again, he heard a police siren start up behind the taxi. It took extraordinary effort to not whip around in the seat as he watched the driver's eyes looking in the rearview mirror to something behind Tripper's head.

Scott was looking from Jayne to Steelie. ‘Yeah, Eugene Frederick King. What's wrong with you?'

Jayne couldn't tear her eyes from the screen and absently asked, ‘What?'

‘You know this guy? Steelie?'

Steelie replied, ‘Yeah, we do. You should know him too. Gene was one of you guys, a Fibbie.'

He looked at Mark, who was shaking his head.

Scott insisted, ‘Not according to what we know about him. You sure about that?'

She nodded. ‘He was FBI ten years ago, anyway. A criminalist in the DC Lab. Worked for the UN with us in Rwanda. And Jayne can tell you where he works now; he's not a janitor, that's for sure.'

Mark gaped at Jayne. ‘You're in touch with King now?'

‘I saw Gene last week but I'm not—'

‘Everything stops.' Scott pushed back his chair roughly as he stood up. ‘Right now.'

Everyone watched him as he brought both hands to his face as though in prayer. Then he pointed at Mark. ‘Find out why he's not in our system and go straight to the Director of the Lab to get
any
thing they have. Find out who worked with him and talk to them ASAP.'

Mark nodded, jerked his chair back and headed for the door, which banged shut behind him.

Scott looked at Jayne, then rubbed his lips hard with his fingers. ‘You have some explaining to do.'

‘But . . . I hardly know him.'

‘Let me be the judge of that.' His voice had taken on a harsh edge. ‘I need to pick up some equipment. Wait here.' He left the room.

Scott stood just outside the door of the briefing room, his hand still on the latch, thoughts and images colliding in his head. Jayne calling King –
their suspect
– ‘Gene'. She knew him. She fucking knew this bastard. He envisioned King and Jayne together, the two of them – friends? This morphed into a vision of Jayne in danger, so he pushed it out to focus on King again. A former FBI lab rat; how could they have missed that? Was he such a smooth operator that he'd wiped his own Government record and if so, who were they dealing with? This was no longer a janitor who'd ‘just been lucky' to get away with murder all this time. And if King had been in LA last week, then that tallied with their belief that he was the one who had been driving the van when those body parts fell out. Could it be coincidence that he had seen Jayne that same week or had King known she was involved in the case? What had she revealed? He needed to know how she'd been involved with this sick fuck. Anger and disgust made Scott tense up, so he pushed off from the door and strode down the hall.

Jayne fought the nausea, repeatedly swallowing the saliva that was welling up in her mouth. She stared unseeing, her mind skittering over the night she'd met Gene in LA, recasting him as a murderer, hardly able to believe it, then fully rejecting it. He's an
alleged
murderer only, she told herself, and then felt her stomach twist. I spent an evening with him; he was in my apartment. I let him touch me! Was he sizing me up the whole time? No, no. This is just an allegation. They need proof. I need proof. Jesus, do I
have
some proof and don't even know it? What is Scott thinking? What is he . . . what must he think of me? It's over, isn't it? It's over between us and it had barely even started.

Steelie watched Jayne and could imagine what she was thinking. Steelie herself had no trouble casting Gene as a killer, but she couldn't imagine him being creative enough to spend an evening weaving whatever false stories he'd told Jayne about his life. She also couldn't see him taking a janitorial job unless there was some benefit to him beyond the paycheck. Most of all, she had trouble picturing him pursuing any endeavor where he couldn't get right in front of any kudos that might come his way for being a part of it.

Scott signed out the recording equipment from the supply room and then walked to Mark and Angie's office, holding the case in both hands. He put it down at the doorway and gestured with his head to Eric. Eric left Angie's desk, where she was on the phone with a list in front of her. Mark was across from her, also on the phone, a hand over his free ear as he listened to the instrument.

Eric stepped into the hallway and kept his voice low. ‘Mark told us. They know King?'

Scott nodded, his lips tightly compressed.

Eric registered the case on the floor. ‘You're going to interview them?'

‘Jayne saw him just last week.'

‘Christ.'

‘She could have told him something. Inadvertently, of course.'

Eric's eyes widened and he dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘You are
not
thinking that, man.'