Under Cover of Darkness (11 page)

"How was school today?" he asked.

"Okay."

She was scooping the ice cream at a steady clip. The bizarre combination of flavors alone was enough to lan
d h
er in the hospital. Speed would only hasten the belly ache. "Slow down a little," he said. She ignored him. "Morgan, did you hear what I said?"

She scooped even faster. He was angry for a split second, then concerned. She seemed more hungry than defiant. "Morgan, did you eat lunch today?"

She shrugged.

"Does that mean you don't remember, you don't care, or you don't think so?"

She shrugged again, still dipping into her ice cream. "Are you worried about something, sweetheart?"

She stopped eating, speaking into her * sundae. "Aren'
t y
ou?" *

He knew what she meant, but he didn't want this to be their talk about Beth. Not yet. "Actually, I am a little worried. About you."

"I'm okay."

He looked away, then back. "Morgan, I'm going to ask you a question. I promise you, I won't get angry, no matter how you answer it. So long as your answer is the truth. Is that a deal?"

She nodded. Melted ice cream was dripping from her chin. Gus reached across and wiped it away with the napkin. "Do you remember that little wooden horse in my office? The one I said was not a toy?"

"Yes."

"Did you take it?"

She froze, saying nothing.

"Just tell me the truth. I won't get mad. Did you take it?" She lowered her eyes. Her head moved almost imperceptibly, but it was definitely a nod.

"Why did you take it?"

She shrugged again. "I don't know."

"You know that's wrong, don't you? Did anyone ever tell you that it's wrong to take things without permission?"

Another shrug.

"I'm confused again, Morgan. Are you saying you don't know it's wrong to steal things?"

She just sat there. Gus studied her expression. She seemed troubled, as if she were hiding something. "Morgan, did anyone ever tell you it was okay to steal?"

Her shrug was slower this time, more exaggerated. More ambiguous.

"Is that a yes?"

"No one really told me that. I just .. ."

"You just what?"

She lowered her chin to the tabletop. Her eyes locked on the half-empty ice cream dish before her. "I saw Mommy do it."

He winced, incredulous. "You saw your mother steal something?"

She nodded.

"Where?"

"At Nordstrom's."

That was Beth's favorite department store. "Are you sure?"

"Mmm-hmm."

"Tell me what happened."

"She just . . . put some clothes in her bag."

"Mommy put clothes in her shopping bag?"

"Yeah. And then we walked out."

"You didn't stop at the cash register to pay for it?" She shook her head.

"Are you sure about that?"

Her voice was flat, but the answer was firm. "I'm sure. It happened lots of times."

"What do you mean lots of times? More than twice?" She nodded.

"More than three times?"

Again, she nodded.

"More than five times?"

Morgan was still. Slowly, she nodded.

Gus leaned back in his chair, flabbergasted. Then it hit him, and the shock gave way to pity. He suddenly understood. Morgan was angry, that was all. She was afraid her mommy had left her, and now she was making up bad stories about her.

"Morgan, are you mad at Mommy for something?"

She shrugged. Gus had seen enough of her shrugs to know which ones meant yes, which ones meant no. This was definitely a yes.

"You shouldn't be mad at Mommy. But it's normal to be a little worried. I'm a little worried, too."

"You are?"

He nodded. "In fact, I've already asked some people to help look for your mother."

"Did something bad happen to her?"

"We don't know that. There are certain things I have to do, just to be extra careful."

"What kind of things?"

He paused, afraid it might overwhelm her to talk about the FBI and the media. "Remember last year, when your class took a field trip to the zoo and you got lost for a little while?"

"Yeah."

"Your teacher got really nervous, because you were gone, and she didn't know where you were. She had the other kids looking for you, the other teachers, the zookeepers. I think the chimpanzees were even looking for you."

She smiled a little. "Not the chimps."

"All right, maybe not the chimps. But a lot of people were worried and looking for you. And the whole time you were just standing and watching the polar bears."

"You think that's where Mommy is?"

"No. But it could be something that simple. She coul
d b
e just fine. So promise me you won't get scared if you see people looking for Mommy, wondering where she is. We're all just being very careful."

She stopped eating her ice cream. She was staring down at the table.

"Morgan? You promise?"

She was silent. After a few seconds he noticed a slight movement, a very faint shrug of the shoulders. He decided not to push.

"Come on, sweetheart. Let's go home."

Chapter
Twelve.

Thepersonal phone calls were beginning to take their toll. It seemed everyone had been content to leave her alone for a few days to recover from Saturday's marital disaster. By Tuesday, however, the comfort cushion was over. The whole world suddenly seemed to think it was time to check on Andie. Friends called. Her father called. Her mother called. Several times.

"Mom, really. I'm okay." Her voice was strained. She had one eye on all the work piled up on her desk.

"You're sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure. Honestly, I've been so busy I haven't even had time to think about Rick."

Her mother paused, as if something other than Andie's well-being were on her mind.

"What is it, Mom?"

"Why did you go through with the ceremony, Andie?" "What?"

"If you knew he had cheated on you, you should have just canceled. It would have saved a lot of embarrassment."

"Rick deserved it."

"It's not him I'm talking about. It was embarrassing for the whole family."

"Gee, Mom. Sorry I ruined your day."

"Don't be that way. Your sister made a terrible mistake and immediately apologized."

"Linda couldn't wait to jump out of bed with Rick to come tell me she'd fucked him."

"Andie!"

"It's the truth. That's the real reason she knocked on my door in the middle of the night to give me her so-called apology. She hates me. She always has. What did you think, forcing me to name her as my maid of honor would suddenly make her love her adopted sister?"

"You should have shown more consideration for your guests."

"I was angry."

"It was cruel."

"Cruel? Can't you just let me have my moment and move on? Maybe it's not the way you would have handled the situation. But for me it brought closure. That's just my personality. I need to get even."

"That's not a very Christian attitude."

The mention of Christian values was an all too familiar and infuriating tactic. All her life, whenever she had misbehaved, her mother had found a subtle way of attributing it to the fact that she was half Native American, an adopted child.

There was a knock on the door. It opened a foot, and Victoria poked her head in. "There's a break in the case."

Andie cupped her hand at the receiver, trying not to let Victoria know it was her mother. "I gotta go," she muttered into the phone.

"We're not done," her mother answered.

"Let me put you on hold." With a push of the button she cut off her mother's protest, then waved Victoria in.

"We got a message from someone who may be the killer."

Andie did a double-take. "What kind of message?" "E-mail from a copy center in Seattle. One of those temporary office places where you can rent a computer for an hour and send all the e-mail you want over the Internet." "He sent an e-mail?"

"Photographs, actually. They appear to be our Jane Doe, alive. From the looks of things, however, I wouldn't guess she was alive for very long after the little photo session. Looks very weak, obviously been beaten. The neck was badly bruised, too, which suggests some ligature strangulation."

"You sure she was alive?"

"No question. One look at those eyes, and you know she's looking right at her killer."

Andie fell silent. "How'd you get the photos?" "Minneapolis field office sent them to me."

"He e-mailed the FBI in Minneapolis?"

"No. He sent it to the Torture Victims' Institute, which is in Minneapolis. They contacted the local FBI."

Andie asked, "There's an institute for torture victims?" "Quite an impressive organization, actually. Some ver
y s
killed psychotherapists. Victims of political torture al
l o
ver the world go there for treatment and counseling."

"So maybe he's insinuating there's some politica
l a
genda attached to his killings."

"No political agenda," said Victoria. "His message is more straightforward."

"Which would be what?"

"You said it at the meeting. We're dealing with a sadist. And his agenda is torture. Period."

Andie was suddenly flummoxed. Victoria sensed her discomfort. "Not sure how you should feel, are you?" Andie shook her head.

"That's the thing about profiling. Once you figure out what kind of monster you're dealing with, there's no rejoicing in being right. Not till he's caught."

Andie said nothing.

"I'm having hard copies of the photos reproduced. Yo
u n
eed to get them distributed to the task force as soon as they're ready. You'll also need to coordinate with the Minneapolis field office on their follow-up with the institute. I don't think an airplane trip is necessary, but make sure the personnel records are thoroughly reviewed, with an eye in particular for disgruntled former employees. Certainly if the institute has received any messages like this in the past, you'll want to check that out. And there's also an International Center for Victims of Torture. It's in Denmark. Touch base there, see if this jerk sent them anything."

"Right."

Victoria stepped out of Andie's office and closed the door behind her. Andie went back to the phone. The hold line was blinking. Her mother was waiting, primed to hash out a problem that now seemed more trivial than ever.

Andie punched the button and deliberately disconnected.

In the solitude of his bedroom, he held a pendant in his hand. His newest acquisition was already his favorite. The long braided chain weaved in and out between his fingers like golden rope. He held it higher, toward the light, allowing it full extension. No bigger than a dime, the heart-shaped pendant dangled at the end of the strand. It was a gold frame of diamonds, hollow in the middle. The fluorescent desk lamp made it sparkle. With his eyes narrowed, it looked curiously like the noose at the end of rope. That was what he loved about it.

The so-called experts would have called it a trophy--a keepsake taken from the victim. That was one of those terms he had picked up from the multitude of books written by former criminal profilers. He'd read them all and knew their secrets. It amused him the way those authors denied they were making it possible for future serial killers to avoid apprehension. Sociopaths are psychologically compelled to engage in certain conduct, the experts argued, so publication of those traits couldn't possibly prompt a serial killer to change his behavior and make himself more difficult to catch. They were overlooking one crucial fact. Their assumptions were based on the assholes who got caught.

He turned the chain in his hand, let it twist slowly. Spinning round and round, it reminded him of those afternoons in his garage as a curious teenager. His own body suspended by the neck, hanging for as long as it took to lose consciousness, then falling to the ground with the release of the rope. For added effect he had taken to twisting the cord like a kid on a tire swing. He could spin as fast or as slow as he wanted, depending on how tightly he wound it. Just an added rush for the average fifteen-year-old boy hanging by the neck with an erection to be proud of.

Carefully, almost lovingly, he lowered the gold chain back into the box. It coiled into a felt-lined compartment, next to a pair of earrings. A pearl necklace. A wristwatch. A ring. Each piece brought back its own memory. The ring, however, was a sea of mixed emotions.

It had belonged to someone special.

He closed the lid on the jewelry box and stepped toward the bed. On bended knee he pulled a late manila envelope from between the mattress and the box spring. He emptied it on the bedspread, spilling a collection of Polaroid snapshots. Mostly young women, a. few men. Some naked, some clothed. Frightened faces mixed in with peaceful expressions. It all depended on whether it was before or after.