Under Cover of Darkness (4 page)

The bar was crowded and noisy, as usual, but she felt alone. A steady stream of patrons brushed against her back as they squeezed past on the way to the rest rooms. Halfway through her mound of gooey tortilla chips, she sensed someone standing close behind her. She glanced over her shoulder.

A handsome black man was staring at the empty stool beside her. "Excuse me," he said, still looking at the stool. "But is this woman taken?"

Andie raised an eyebrow. "That has to be the lamest pickup line I have ever heard."

"Thank you." He pulled up the stool and extended his hand. "Bond's the name. B
. J
. Bond."

She shook his hand. "What's the B
. J
. stand for?" "Bond James."

"So your full name would be . * * ?"

"Bond James Bond."

They lost it simultaneously, sharing a laugh as they let the charade go.

"Isaac," she said playfully, "nice to know I can count on your goofball sense of humor to lift my spirits."

He grinned widely, then caught the server's eye and ordered a cup of American coffee. Isaac Underwood was the assistant special agent in charge of the FBI's Seattle field office, or ASAC, the number two man in an office of a hundred and sixteen agents. He had been Andie's immediate supervisor for eighteen months before the promotion.

He settled into the stool and reached for a fully loaded nacho. "Pretty decadent dinner," he said with his mouth full.

"Like they say, we didn't work our way to the top of the food chain to eat tofu."

"Amen to that." The server brought his coffee. Isaac reached for the sugar. "So, kiddo. You doing okay?"

"Yeah," she said, adding a quick nod for emphasis. "I am."

His expression turned serious. "Andie, if there's anything you need. Time off. Even a transfer."

She raised a hand, halting him. "I'm okay. Really."

He sipped his coffee. "If it's any consolation, I always thought that guy was a bit of a prick."

"Now you tell me."

"You didn't notice?"

"He wasn't always that way. We were inseparable all through law school. Even talked about opening up a firm together. When I ditched the idea of practicing law and joined the FBI instead, I think he had it in his mind that the bureau would eat me alive, that I'd quit before long. He definitely didn't think it would last three years."

"Plenty of people change their minds about marrying cops. Most of them just cancel the engagement."

Andie lowered her eyes. "In hindsight, I think he tried. We had a huge fight last week. From the day we got engaged, we always talked about raising a family. All of a sudden he tells me no kids so long as my job description includes bullet dodging."

"Sounds like you should have canceled."

"I know. My mother talked me into going through with it. She had me convinced we could work it out, that Rick was just bluffing. I guess he wasn't bluffing. Just wish he hadn't picked such a sleazy way to keep us both from making a terrible mistake. And now I really wish I hadn't turned it into a circus."

"I'm sorry, Andie."

"Thanks. But don't be. I just want to get back to normal as soon as possible."

"I'm glad you see it that way. Because I've got an assignment for you."

"Isaac, how sweet. You arranged to have a bank robbed just to take my mind off my personal problems."

"Not exactly." He smiled, then was serious again. "Victoria Santos is coming over from Quantico tomorrow morning."

Andie didn't know Santos, but she certainly knew of her. Santos had taught the course on criminal psychology to Andie's class of cadets at the academy. More to her credit, she was a legend among criminal profilers in the FBI's elite Investigative Support Unit.

"What for?" asked Andie.

Isaac glanced at the crowd of customers hovering around them. "Let's talk about this outside, all right?"

They paid the bill, poured their coffee into paper go-cups, and stepped outside. The busy city street crackled with the sound of rush hour on wet pavement. A damp chill cut through their overcoats. The sun had set only minutes ago, but the temperature had dropped precipitously. Andie sipped her hot coffee. Isaac kept talking as they walked together down the wide, tree-lined sidewalk.

"Local police have asked the FBI for assistance:' he said. "They have some homicides that may be related. Possibly a serial killer at work."

"How many victims so far?"

"Two that they're pretty sure of. A third was found today."

"What makes them think they're related?"

"The first two took place in different parts of the town, about a week apart. But they were virtually identical."

"You mean the similarities are in the killer's m
. O
. or in the victims' characteristics?"

"Both. From the victimology standpoint, it's like one was a carbon copy of the other. Both white males. Both fifty-one years old. Same color hair and eyes. Both divorced. They even drove the same kind of vehicle. For
d p
ickups."

"How did they die?"

"Basically strangulation. But there was a lot of evidence of overkill. Multiple stab wounds, blunt trauma. Even some burns."

"So we've got a serial killer who hates middle-aged white men?"

"Not exclusively. The third victim is a white female in her mid-thirties. Some kids found her body this afternoon."

"Why do the police think her murder is connected to the men's?"

"She was strangled, for one thing. And like the others, her body showed significant signs of overkill. But the cops aren't sure there's a connection. That's why they called in the FBI. I'm not even sure the geniuses back at Quantico think it's a serial killer just yet. I presume that's why they're sending Santos from ISU as opposed to a profiler from CASKU."

Andie nodded, though she wasn't entirely familiar with the FBI's division of labor between the Investigative Support Unit, which had pioneered criminal profiling, and the Child Abduction and Serial Killer Unit, which was a more recent creation.

They stopped at the corner near Andie's car. "What do you want me to do?" she asked.

"I want you to be the local coordinator. Team up with Santos. Help get her whatever she needs while she's out here."

Andie hesitated, surprised. "You know there's nothing I'd rather do than work side by side with Victoria Santos. But there are at least fifteen other agents in the office who'd kill for this assignment."

"You're the only one with a degree in psychology. These days that's virtually a prerequisite for any agent who hopes to get a foothold with the ISU. Why waste this assignment on someone who has no chance of breaking in?"

"Isaac, I really do appreciate this. But let me be straigh
t w
ith you. I don't want it if your decision is based on sympathy for what happened to me on Saturday."

"This isn't charity. It's just good timing. You're qualified. This is what you've always wanted to do. And you're available. Frankly, now that you've canceled your honeymoon, you're the only agent in Seattle with a completely clear calendar for the next two weeks."

"I guess Rick did me a favor."

"Maybe he did both of us a favor."

For a split second she thought maybe he was talking on a personal rather than professional level. Before she could even sort out her thoughts, he had popped open his briefcase and was handing her a file.

"Here's a copy of the materials we sent to Santos. Police reports, autopsy protocols, crime-scene photos--everything she wanted from the first two homicides. Look it over tonight."

The traffic light changed, allowing pedestrians to cross. Isaac stepped off the curb. Andie tucked the file under her arm and remained at the corner by her car.

"Beyond that," he said, "just be in my office at eight A
. M
. sharp. And prepare to work your ass off."

A cold rain started to fall. Andie popped her umbrella. "Need a ride to your car?"

"Nah. I'm just a half block away." He turned.

"Isaac," she said, stopping him. "Thank you."

The rain was falling harder. He gave her a mock salute and dashed across the street. Andie watched from the curb. Halfway across, he slipped on the wet pavement, then raised a fist triumphantly as he regained his balance with hardly a break in stride.

B
. J
. Bond, she thought, smiling as she headed for her
Car.

Chapter
Five.

The
police weren't the help Gus had hoped they would be. To them, a thirty-five-year-old woman in a rocky marriage who was missing less than twenty-four hours seemed a more likely candidate for an extramarital affair than foul play. They did let him fill out a missing-persons report. Beyond that, Gus was pretty much on his own.

He canceled his Monday appointments and spent the morning and most of the afternoon trying to reconstruct Beth's weekend. He called the credit card companies to see where she had charged things, then visited those stores and restaurants. It was privately embarrassing, but his most recent photograph of Beth was almost a year old; things had gotten that bad between them. Even so, one of the assistant managers at Nordstrom's department store recognized her. She hadn't seen Beth in weeks. No one else could even place her.

Around three o'clock he got an emergency call from one of those ever so considerate clients who just wouldn't take "family crisis" for an answer. Two minutes turned into ten, ten into thirty-five. Gus finally had to fake a dead battery in his cell phone to shake free. He spent the balance of the afternoon at home making phone calls. Beth kept an address directory on their computer. He scrolled down the list alphabetically, calling each entry, asking if they'd seen her.

The process became mechanical after a while, and he lost track of time. He was phoning the P's when the doorbell rang.

Gus answered it. Carla was standing in the doorway with a covered dish.

"I brought Morgan dinner."

Before he could even invite her inside, she was heading for the kitchen. Gus followed. "Okay if I eat some, too?"

The ribbing didn't break the ice. He said, "Actually, Morgan's having dinner over at a friend's house. I've been making phone calls all day. I didn't want her around."

"Business never stops for you, does it?"

"It wasn't business. I've been trying to find Beth." "Oh," she said sheepishly. Her combativeness dropped a notch. "Actually, so have I."

"Any luck?"

She laid her casserole on the counter and removed her gloves. "No. But that doesn't mean anything. It hasn't been that long."

Gus looked away, then back. "Can I ask you something kind of personal?"

"It depends."

"Just forget for a minute that you're my sister. Put on your hat as Beth's best friend."

"Okay."

"Lately, I can't really say I've seen the two of you together all that much. Sometimes best friends can be like sisters. Sometimes it's just a label. Were you and Beth close?"

She made a face, as if the question were complicated. "We were at one time."

"But not lately?"

"We've been closer. There was no big blowout or anything. It's like I told you this morning. Beth has been really unhappy the last few months. She was pretty unapproachable."

Gus nodded. "That's what I'm finding out. I've been going down her address book, calling all her friends. I haven't talked to anyone who's seen her or even talked to her on the phone in the past two months."

"Maybe she was too embarrassed. Abused women often blame themselves."

He turned away, exasperated. "I never laid a hand on Beth. I don't know why she said that. Other than to hurt me."

"Gus Wheatley a victim? I don't think so. From what I saw of Beth lately, she was more likely to hurt herself than to hurt you."

Their eyes locked, as if a light had just gone off. Each could tell exactly what the other was thinking. Gus said, "You don't think--"

"God, I hope not."

The phone rang. Gus grabbed it on the second ring. "Hello. Yes, this is he." He started to pace, listening intently. The eyes widened with concern, borderline panic.

"I can be there in twenty minutes," he said finally and hung up.

Carla seemed on the verge of explosion. "What?" she asked with urgency.

"Police found a body in Washington Park Arboretum. Looks to be a woman in her mid-thirties."

She raised a hand to her mouth in horror. "Is it--"

"Don't know. They want me to come down for an ID." He swallowed hard, his voice cracking. "They think it could be Beth."

Like most FBI agents, Andie didn't often go to the medical examiner's office. Barring some connection to the federal government or some congressionally legislated federal offense, dead bodies were basically a matter of state and local jurisdiction. Locals frequently did call upon the FBI for assistance in certain areas of expertise. The FBI crime lab
,
for one. Criminal profiling, for another. Andie didn't need to be reminded, however, that the locals still ran the investigation, even after the FBI answered the call for assistance.