Under Cover of Darkness (8 page)

She was slightly taller than Andie, with eyes every bit as intense as Andie had remembered. Up until a month ago, her long, dark hair had been one of her more striking features.. Rumor had it that she'd cut it to shoulder length o
n h
er forty-fifth birthday, that she hadn't gone to some expensive hair stylist, just grabbed the scissors from her desk drawer and whacked it off.

It was no secret that criminal profilers had one of the highest burnout rates in the bureau. Some said Victoria was approaching the point in her career where she'd crawled inside the head of too many psychopaths, that she'd looked into the eyes of too many lifeless victims. Others thought she was still steaming over the inexplicable decision to derail her promotion to unit chief at CAS KU by transferring her to the Investigative Support Unit. Her supporters said she was extremely aggressive. Her detractors said she was extremely aggressive. Bureau politics being what they were, you didn't have to be the highest-ranking woman in a predominantly male unit to get stabbed in the back.

"Ms. Santos?" Andie extended her hand. "I'm Agent Henning. It's a pleasure to meet you. Actually, it's an honor."

Andie cringed at the "honor" bit, concerned that she was sounding like a kiss-ass.

"I hope you're not too honored to call me Victoria," she said as they shook hands.

"Okay, Victoria."

They exchanged smiles, but Victoria looked understandably tired. She'd just flown coast to coast on the red-eye, having left her home in Virginia some time after midnight. Andie glanced at the two bags at her side.

"I see you already got your luggage."

"Yeah. Let's get out of here."

Andie and Victoria reached for the same suitcase at the same instant. They knocked heads. Andie backed away, startled. The rolled-up copy of the Post-Intelligencer slid from under her arm and fell to the floor. The page-one story was right at their feet. Victoria rubbed her forehead where Andie had butted her. She did a double-take at the catchy headline, then picked up the paper and gave it
a q
uick read.

"A serial killer slaying in pairs? Where did this come from?"

Andie cringed as she replied. "It's a theory."

"Who's theory?"

"Mine," she said, shrinking.

"What's it doing in the newspaper?"

"The local police leaked it."

She glowered. "I'd better read this," she said as she snapped open the newspaper.

"I think so, too," Andie said.

Victoria walked as she read. Andie followed behind, toting her bags. Andie said not a word all the way to the car, just trying to gauge Victoria's reaction to the article. Victoria opened the passenger door and got in. Andie tossed the bags in the backseat, got behind the wheel, and drove out of the garage.

Victoria folded the newspaper and laid it on the dashboard.

Andie was bracing herself for a shakedown, but Victoria simply popped open her briefcase and buried her nose in a notepad as Andie maneuvered out of the airport. For ten minutes, Andie endured the silent treatment. Finally, she couldn't take it anymore. "Excuse me, but aren't you going to say anything?"

Victoria glanced up from her notes. "I'm not going to chew you out, Andie. What's done is done. But if you're looking for me to say everything's okay, it's not."

"I wasn't trying to upstage you or impress you. I wasn't trying to impress anyone. It was just a theory."

"And I'm not saying your theory is necessarily a bad one. The real damage is that once any theory hits the press and gets ingrained in the heads of the local police, it's hard to get them to come off it. Makes my job a lot harder than it needs to be."

"But I wasn't the one who leaked it. It was a detective named Kessler."

"That's no excuse. It's your job as coordinator to gain the respect of the locals. If you have their respect, nine times out of ten they'll listen to you if you ask them to keep something out of the press."

Andie felt a pang in her gut, realizing she'd never expressly asked Kessler to keep the theory out of the papers. "You're right. For that I apologize."

Again, there was only silence.

Andie said, "I don't mean to be pushy, but it would make me feel a lot better if you were to say something. Like 'Apology accepted.'"

Andie kept her eyes on the road, waiting for a reply. Finally, she glanced over and caught Victoria's eye. It wasn't the disapproving glare Andie had expected. Quite the opposite. It was as if Victoria had warmed to her fight.

"Apology accepted," Victoria said. "And don't worry about it. Happens to all of us."

Andie was only half-relieved. "Somehow I don't think anything like this ever happened to you."

"Actually, it did."

"Serious?"

"Long time ago. My first year in Quantico. We had a geographically transient serial killer. The only lead was an anonymous newspaper informant who had an uncanny ability to predict each murder, time, place, victim. My unit chief was convinced the informant was himself the killer. I wasn't. I went over his head, straight to the assistant director of the Criminal Division. Laid my reputation on the line."

"How did your unit chief feel about that?"

"About the way you'd expect. He was madder than hell." "How did you smooth things out?"

"Sometimes, things have a way of smoothing themselves out."

"How do you mean?"

"It's simple, really. Now that your theory is printed i
n b
lack and white all over Seattle, you just have to hope for one thing."

"What?"

"That you're right."
,
Andie started to smile, then realized that Victoria wasn't kidding. She cranked up the heater and merged into rush hour on the crowded interstate.

Chapter
Nine.

Gus went back to work after Morgan left, but he couldn't focus on the documents spread across the leather desktop. At eleven A
. M
. he and three of his department heads were scheduled to pitch their services to a Japanese manufacturer seeking Seattle counsel. "Beauty pageants" lawyers call them, where every major law firm in the city trots out its finest lawyers to win the hearts and wallets of major corporations. The analogy had its limits. In Gus's experience, not a single contestant had ever vowed to feed starving children or promote world peace, and never did the runners-up smile and congratulate the winner.

This morning his thoughts were entirely on Beth, swinging from one troubling extreme to the other. One minute he was sure she was safe but had left him. The next, he imagined she was dead. The shoplifting incident had only confused him further. Morgan probably sensed something was wrong and was acting out for attention. Or perhaps it was a symptom of long-standing psychological problems of which Gus had been unaware till now. Maybe even Beth had blamed herself, saw herself as a failure, and in a moment of weakness had run away in despair. Whatever the answer, Gus needed to prepare himself better to deal with Morgan. He could call on professionals for guidance, but it was never his practice to consult anyone cold. Surely ther
e w
ere articles on the Internet about the psychological effects on children who had lost a parent. He pulled up his chair and switched on the computer.

The screen brightened and prompted a message. "Your password is about to expire. Please enter a new code."

For security reasons, the firm required its attorneys to change passwords every ninety days. Gus tried to conjure up a new four-digit number. He usually used dates. The date he was graduated from Stanford. The day he was elected managing partner. This morning, however, he was feeling a little sentimental. He started to type in his wedding anniversary. He entered the month-09--then drew a blank on the exact day. It was either the fourteenth or fifteenth of September. He wasn't sure. It was definitely a Saturday.

Of course it was a Saturday, you idiot.

A reprieve came with a knock on the door. It opened before he could say "come in," which meant it was either the president of the United States or Martha.

"Need a friend?" It wasn't the chief executive.

"Come on in."

Martha had the look of a concerned friend, entering quietly and closing the door behind her. She sat on the edge of the couch, anxious. "Any word on Beth?"

"Just a waiting game now. Police don't really seem to know anything. I'm just trying to stay focused."

"I think that's wise. I wouldn't read too much into what the papers say."

"Papers? What do you mean?"

"You haven't seen this morning's P-I?"

"No. I've been so busy, I didn't even have time to check. Is there something about Beth?"

"I'm sorry. Don't be alarmed."

"What is it?" he said with urgency.

"They don't mention her by name. It's just a story about a possible serial killer who is killing his victims in matching pairs. Two men were the first victims. Now they foun
d a
woman. They don't come out and say it, but from the physical description, it sounds like Beth."

"I was at the morgue last night. They asked me to view a woman's body. It wasn't Beth."

"It must be the unidentified woman they mention in the article."

"And now they think what? That Beth is her match?" "Her bookend is the term they use."

He was suddenly alarmed. "Now that you mention it, there was a slight physical resemblance."

"I'm not trying to scare you, Gus. The police don't come out and say anything about Beth directly. That was my inference. All the article says is that they have two male victims, both strangled, both a lot like each other, very similar crime scenes. Now they have a female victim, also strangled. What they don't have is a second female victim. Only fears that the killer might strike another woman who resembles her."

"Who might be Beth." Gus snatched up the phone and buzzed his secretary, calling for a copy of today's paper. In a matter of seconds she entered, dropped it on his desk, and left without a peep. Gus devoured the lead story in silence. Finally, he lowered the paper and looked at Martha.

"I can't believe this. I was just with the FBI last night. They never said a word to me about a serial killer."

"That's probably because they don't think Beth is a bookend."

"How can you read this article and say that?"

"Because I don't think Beth is a bookend either."

"So you think all this talk of a serial killer is what--premature speculation?"

"I didn't say that. There may be a serial killer in Seattle. He may be killing in pairs. I just don't think Beth is one of his victims."

"And on what crackerjack investigative expertise do you base that opinion?"

She hesitated, then answered. "I'm sorry. But if anyone was to ask me, I'd say Beth probably left you."

He leaned forward. "Have you talked to her?"

"No."

"Do you know something I don't know?"

"Just call it gut instinct."

"Instinct?" His voice had a dubious tone.

"More than that, really. It's an opinion based on observation. You and Beth have a history that can't be ignored. It wasn't that long ago that she accused you of abuse."

"That was over five years ago."

"Whatever. A woman doesn't make false accusations without some agenda. With Beth I think it was a classic case of a wife crying out for her husband's attention."

Gus moved nervously in his chair. Their marriage counselor had said the same thing. The accusations weren't malicious. They were an act of desperation. "What's your point?"

"Obviously, she couldn't make you listen. So she finally left you."

"That's so simplistic."

"Maybe. But I'm one of those people who tends to think the simplest answer is often the right answer. Sure, it's wise to consider all the possibilities. Based on what I've heard this morning at the watercooler, people have already written Beth off as victim number four of this serial killer. But for me, it's clear. Beth is fine. Wherever she decided to go."

She wouldn't just leave without Morgan."

"Maybe she'll come back for her."

"Are you trying to make me feel better or worse?"

"I'm not trying to make you anything. I just want you to know all the facts." She looked him in the eye, her tone softening. "I never told you this before. I never told anyone this before. The last time I saw Beth was at the firm holiday party. I'll never forget the way she looked at me. Death rays all night."

"For what?"

"For being the other woman."

"Other woman?" he scoffed. "Hold on there, Martha. This may come as news to you, but as far as I'm aware, you and I have never had sex."

"There are other levels of marital infidelity."

"What are you talking about?"

"Intimacy. It's not just a physical thing. It's a matter of who you make time to talk to every day. Who you call first to share good news. Who you turn to for advice, who helps you solve your problems. True, we've never seen each other naked. But on every other level, I understand you better than your own wife. In every room but the bedroom, I'm the woman you would rather be with. Two people don't have to jump in the sack to be soul mates."