Mortal Sin (32 page)

The intake clerk entered the file room where Lucy was working. “Two police officers are here to see you.”

She hesitated. Was it Cody? Had he brought a friend? He hadn’t called her back; was this unannounced visit his idea of getting back to her?

“Did they say why?”

“No.”

“Can you get their names for me?”

The clerk looked at her oddly, then shrugged and left.

Lucy took her time restacking the papers she’d been sorting and filing and carefully placed them back in the in-box. Her hands were steady, but her heart thudded so loud her ears were ringing. What did they want? Were they good guys or bad guys?

And were the bad guys
really
bad?

When she thought about it, was she more upset that
Prenter was dead or that she’d been used to kill him? What about the other parolees? Too many states no longer had an extensive parole system. They didn’t track parolees, and they rarely detained anyone for parole violations anymore because the prisons were so overcrowded. Unless the parolee had committed a new crime, he rarely went back inside.

Correction. Unless he was
caught
committing a new crime. Another person had to be raped or robbed or killed before the parolee went back in.

The phone beeped and startled her. She picked up the receiver and the clerk said, “Detective Light and Officer Raleigh.”

“Thanks, tell them two minutes. I have to log these files.”

She hung up and bit her lip, relieved that she didn’t have to confront Cody right now but curious about why a detective wanted to talk to her. Could Cody have told his boss about his suspicions? Whether or not he’d implicated Lucy, they could be following up on the Prenter murder.

Lucy had no feelings for the criminals who’d been killed, and that unnerved her. Was she that heartless? Sean had said she was the most compassionate person he knew, but she didn’t see that in herself. Not when she didn’t have even a sliver of grief for the dead felons.

The criminal justice system was far from perfect. Victims were often revictimized in the legal process. Parents of dead children were dragged through the mud during the investigation, their lives dissected by a judgmental society who cast blame on the families for the fate of their children. The media sat in wait outside their homes, outside the schools their kids attended, talking
to friends and family, wanting to know how they felt, what they were doing the minute their child disappeared, why they weren’t with them twenty-four/seven.

Lucy wanted to scream at the stone-throwing media who created fear on which criminals fed. Predators wanted to tear apart society, to have mothers and fathers separate because of their missing child; to have neighbors gossip; to have the police question fathers about having too much or too little affection for their sons and daughters. Question friends about how much attention they give. Question family, casting doubts, making brothers turn against brothers, wives against husbands, fathers against sons, mothers against daughters.

Sisters against sisters.

Lucy had been seven when her seven-year-old nephew—and best friend—Justin was kidnapped from his bedroom in the middle of the night. She was the youngest Kincaid; Nelia was the oldest and gave birth to Justin when she was in law school, but later graduated and became a corporate attorney. The middle sister, Carina, then in college, had been babysitting for Nelia that night.

Lucy was only a child herself, but the hateful accusations that grieving Nelia had thrown at Carina in the days that followed Justin’s murder had been burned into her soul. Lucy heard the whispers that her brother-in-law Andrew had been sleeping with another woman the night Justin was kidnapped. Then, the gossip that Nelia had known about the affair and didn’t care. That she worked late every night so she didn’t have to see her husband.

Nelia had left San Diego and the family, and though
over time she’d begun to talk to most of them, nothing would ever be the same.

But the worst was when Nelia looked at Lucy and Lucy felt the regret pouring off her sister in tangible waves of agony.

Why was it Justin and not you?

She’d never said it, and she’d never admit that the thought crossed her mind, but Nelia had never spoken to Lucy since Justin’s murder eighteen years ago. Not one word.

The file room door opened and Lucy whirled around. “Lucy, they’re still waiting,” the clerk said. “I took them to the employee break room because the conference rooms are being used.”

“Okay, sorry, I’m coming.” She took a deep breath. She didn’t know how long it would take for Sean to arrive, but she could face the police. If they wanted to arrest her for setting up Prenter, she could argue with them long enough to give Sean time to get here.

Lucy didn’t like relying on anyone other than herself, but sometimes just knowing someone was there, if she needed it, was enough to get her through the hardest times. But she could do this alone.

She stepped into the break room. One uniformed officer and a plainclothes detective stood to the side. Both were black, the detective tall and skinny, the cop tall and broad-shouldered. She felt smaller than she was.

“Hello, I’m Lucy Kincaid. I’m sorry to keep you waiting,” she said with a smile, and hoped she didn’t seem nervous.

“We understand, Ms. Kincaid. I’m Detective Light, this is Officer Raleigh. We’re investigating a possible suicide
that’s hit the department very hard. It’s one of our own.”

Her skin burned, as if bathed in microscopic shards of glass.

Cody hadn’t called her back
.

“I’m sorry to be the one to tell you that Officer Cody Lorenzo died last night.”

Her knees buckled and she reached for the table. Slowly she sat down and shook her head. No words came, though she had a hundred questions weighing down her tongue.

“You once had a romantic relationship with Officer Lorenzo, correct? His partner said you remained friends.”

She nodded, still unable to speak.

Detective Light sat in the chair across from her. She couldn’t read his expression. She could barely see anything, as if the room was fading away in front of her.

Cody was dead?

“When was the last time you saw or spoke to him?” Detective Light asked quietly.

“Yesterday,” she whispered. She cleared her throat. Her hands were on the table in front of her, frozen. She stared at her short, unpainted fingernails attached to her long fingers and remembered her last words to him.

“
Why would you think I could be capable of doing such a thing?
”

She’d been so upset, so angry with Cody that he’d thought she’d intentionally set up Prenter, she hadn’t even accepted his apology. She’d walked away knowing he was remorseful, but she hadn’t cared. She couldn’t see past her own emotional pain and overwhelming feelings
of betrayal. That he’d used her act of desperation when she’d killed Adam Scott against her. Had she wanted him to feel guilty? Had she walked away hoping he’d feel bad about his assumptions?

She hoped she wasn’t that shallow. Cody had remained one of her closest friends, even though she hadn’t been able to marry him.

“Ms. Kincaid? Are you all right?”

She nodded, though she was far from all right.

A minute later, Officer Raleigh placed a Styrofoam cup of water in front of her. She sipped automatically but tasted nothing.

“What did you talk about yesterday? Was it personal?”

“No—it was about WCF.” When they looked blankly at her, she explained. “We both volunteer at Women and Children First, a victim’s rights advocacy group.”

Raleigh said, “I’ve heard of it.”

Lucy couldn’t tell them about the dead parolees or Prenter, but what if that had something to do with Cody’s death? She couldn’t withhold information if it kept a killer free.

She asked, “You said
possible
suicide?”

“We’re still investigating. We haven’t made any official determination, but there was a suicide note.”

“Cody didn’t commit suicide,” she said flatly.

“Why are you so sure?”

“He’s Catholic.”

“That’s not always—”

“He wouldn’t do it to his mother. His dad died of a heart attack when he was sixteen, long before I met him; his brothers and sisters all moved out of the area. He
wouldn’t do it to his mom. He wouldn’t.” She put her hand to her mouth and swallowed a sob.

Officer Raleigh unfolded a piece of paper. “This is a copy of the suicide note. The investigators are comparing handwriting samples.”

Lucy took the paper and placed it in front of her. Dark spots on the paper, copies of the bloodstain, marred the bottom corner.

She couldn’t stop shaking. She willed her hands to stop, holding them close to her body. Her stomach dry heaved and she dipped her head down. “Cody. Cody didn’t write this.” Her voice twisted on a cry at the end.

“You don’t recognize the writing?”

“It doesn’t look exactly like his writing, but it could be. I don’t know. But it’s the line about his parents.”

“He might have been thinking about his entire life, and not recently.”

She shook her head. “It doesn’t sound like him.”

“When someone gets so depressed they commit suicide, they’re not always thinking straight.”

“I just … Cody … why?”

The door opened and Lucy looked up to see Sean, his face hard, concern and suspicion in his eyes as he looked
from the cops to her. He crossed the small room to Lucy. “Lucy—what happened?”

She stood on weak legs, and Sean put his arm around her waist to steady her. She leaned against him. “Cody’s dead.”

And then the tears came, and Lucy couldn’t stop them.

When Noah learned that Mick Mallory was in custody, he left Abigail in charge of executing the warrant on Fran Buckley and WCF, and he and Kate went to the Washington Field Office.

He walked into an interview room and was surprised to see Assistant Director Rick Stockton there with Dillon Kincaid and Hans Vigo. But this case was already the most bizarre in Noah’s three-year career in the FBI. He couldn’t recall anything during his tenure in the Air Force that came close, either.

Dillon Kincaid’s friendship with Stockton and Vigo notwithstanding, Noah stated firmly, “I told you to leave Mallory to me.”

“I understand,” Dillon said. “I apologize for any problems I may have caused.”

“Are you protecting Rogan?”

“Pardon me? Protecting?”

“You didn’t apprehend Mallory on your own, since the Herndon police drove you here with Mallory. You couldn’t walk to where you arrested him in Herndon from Georgetown. I told Rogan to stay the hell out of my way—”

Rick Stockton said, “I’ll let you handle the situation, Noah, as you see fit, but I have a meeting with the director
at five, and I need to tell him something, even if it’s that Mallory refuses to talk. We have sensitive media issues with two former FBI agents allegedly orchestrating a vigilante group.”

“I apologize, sir.” He used his military training to tamp down his anger. “Which psychiatrist is going in with me?”

“Hans,” Rick said without comment. “And Kate. I’m sorry, Dillon, you’re too close to the situation right now. If Mallory wants to talk to you later, that’s fine, but I need my agents in there.”

“No explanation necessary,” Dillon said.

Noah asked Hans, “What do I need to know?”

“Mallory is extremely protective of Lucy Kincaid. He failed Lucy six years ago and couldn’t—or didn’t—protect her. When he survived, he sought ways to right wrongs. He needs to appease his guilt, but it will never be satisfied. Which is why he continues. Using Lucy as one of the lures through WCF.”

Dillon said, “He sees it as letting her help, even though she doesn’t know what she’s doing for him. He’s empowering her.”

“Exactly,” Hans concurred. “Lucy was able to put the bad guys back in prison, which gave her power and helped her develop a strong sense of justice and fairness. Getting Lucy to help the vigilantes was easy: she was predisposed to do anything
legal
to get those people off the streets. But our gang of conspirators never approached her to be an active member of the assassination team. Mallory’s own guilt required a blood sacrifice, of sorts. He would most likely decide when someone needed to die, and Fran would target the appropriate felon. In fact, when we analyze the WCF files
we’ll likely see a pattern suggestive of a serial killer. At least one a month, escalating over time because Mallory’s guilt isn’t assuaged by his kills. In fact, his actions make him feel increasingly disconnected from humanity. He sees himself on one hand as a dark knight saving Lucy over and over because he couldn’t do it right the first time, and on the other as a monster, a killer, and that is antithetical to everything he believes in.”

“Morton doesn’t fit the profile,” Noah said. “And neither does Prenter—he didn’t target children.”

“Because Mallory chose those targets, not Buckley. And he didn’t use Lucy for Morton—because Morton wasn’t prowling the online chat rooms. He was too ADHD to sit for long in front of a computer. He needed physical communication, not virtual.”

Kate said, “We don’t have enough evidence. So far, the agents at Mallory’s house have found nothing incriminating. No weapons, other than what was on him, but we already know that the ballistics don’t match on any of the victims—and one of the victims was killed in a hit-and-run, and three stabbed. There’s nothing to tie them together.”

“We need a confession,” Hans said.

“Mallory is tired of this,” Dillon said. “That’s what he told me while we waited for the police. I think, with the right approach, he’ll be willing to tell you everything. You’ll have to earn it. He’s going to want you to be worthy of the information.”