A Necessary Evil (3 page)

CHAPTER 4

Omaha, Nebraska

G
ibson McCutty found the back door unlocked, just as he had left it. He stumbled into the kitchen, bumping into the vegetable bin and cursing under his breath when he heard something thump to the floor. He hesitated, listening. It was difficult to hear over his gasps for air.

Why couldn't he breathe?

He had raced all the way from the airport, standing and pedaling, pumping and pushing his Ironman Huffy through red-lighted intersections, ignoring honks and slowing only to climb up the final incline. So of course he was gasping for breath. He just needed to stop for a minute. He leaned against the refrigerator, waiting to catch his breath. He was surprised to feel an immediate sense of comfort from the appliance's familiar noisy hum. He was home. He was safe. At least for now.

He could feel the stupid refrigerator magnets digging into his shoulder blades __ annoying little garden creatures his mom used to tack up his brother's "artwork." Like she was even a gardener. No way would she allow dirt under her fingernails. The thought made him smile, and he forced himself to remember each of the magnets, hoping the tactic would block out the image of all that blood. He closed his eyes __ bunny, squirrel, raccoon, hedgehog. Was a hedgehog a garden creature? Had anyone really seen a hedgehog?

It wasn't working.

The details had been scorched into his mind __ that face all twisted in pain. Blood coming out of his mouth. And those eyes, staring without blinking. Had he recognized Gibson? Had he been able to see him? Of course not. He was dead. Wasn't he?

Gibson shook his head and pushed away from the refrigerator. He stumbled into the living room and stepped over the laundry basket left at the bottom of the staircase. Then he took the steps slowly, counting them out in his mind, stopping when he reached number eight. Using the handrail, he pulled himself up, bypassing the creaky ninth step. Once he made it past his mother's door he was home free. Sometimes she watched the five o'clock news in her room while she changed from work. He couldn't risk her hearing him. How would he explain where he had been? And she would certainly ask, especially when she saw he was one smelly, wet glob. Even his hair was plastered to his sweaty head under his baseball cap.

As he got closer, he didn't hear anything coming from behind her door. Maybe she wasn't home yet. And then he remembered. Of course she wasn't home yet. It was Friday.

No work tomorrow, plus tonight was his little brother's sleep-over. He remembered her telling him that she might treat herself and join the other ladies from the office for drinks after work. Was that tonight? Yeah, it was Friday night. He was sure of it. What a stroke of luck. Maybe things weren't as bad as he thought,

Still, he hurried to his own room and closed the door behind him, careful to muffle the noise. He tossed his backpack on the bed, then he pressed his entire body against the door as if the extra pressure was necessary to turn the lock. He held his breath and listened again, not trusting his good fortune on a day where none had existed. He heard nothing. He was home alone. He was safe. And yet, he was shaking, not just shivering, but shaking like some convulsing idiot.

He wrapped his arms around his chest, but jerked them away when he felt the wet front of his T-shirt. He really was a sweaty mess. He had almost wiped out on his bike several times as he jumped curbs and sped through blind intersections. Now he pulled off his ball cap and threw it on his bed, then wrestled out of the T-shirt, getting tangled in it and almost ripping it at the seams just to be free of the smell of sweat and diesel and vomit. The stink reminded him that he had upchucked his fast-food meal, leaving it somewhere just past the exit ramp from the airport parking garage.

Finally, he allowed himself to turn on the small desk lamp. Immediately, he noticed the blood caked under his fingernails. He tried to dig it out, wiping it on the T-shirt. Then he opened his closet door, wadded up the T-shirt and stuffed it into an empty Best Buy plastic bag he found on the closet floor. He slung the T-shirt and bag hard into the back of the closet, away from everything else. He knew his mom would never find it. After she discovered the moldy, half-eaten bologna sandwich tucked in his sock drawer, she had threatened that she wouldn't be responsible for any of his things except those in the laundry chute. He supposed she thought it was a way to make him more responsible for taking care of his own things, but he wondered if it was just another way for her to avoid seeing or knowing any negative stuff going on with him.

He kicked his running shoes off without untying them, leaving them in the middle of the floor. That's when he saw the icon flashing on his computer screen. He stared at it, approaching slowly. There wasn't a game scheduled, and any messages usually came through the chat room.

He lowered himself into his desk chair, continuing to stare at the skull-and-bones icon that blinked at him from the corner of the computer screen. Any other time he'd be anxious and excited and ready to play. Instead, he felt his stomach churning again. His finger hesitated, then he double clicked the icon. The screen jumped to life immediately, the words filling the space in bold type.

YOU BROKE THE RULES.

Gibson gripped the chair arms. What the hell was this? Before he could figure it out, the screen came alive with a new message.

I SAW WHAT YOU DID.

CHAPTER 5

Old Ebbitt's Grill
Washington, D.C.

M
aggie waved off the busy hostess. She made her way through the crowded restaurant, trying to ignore the heavenly aromas of grilled beef and something garlic. She was starving.

She found Gwen waiting in their usual corner booth. A large goblet of what Maggie guessed was Gwen's favorite Shiraz sat untouched in front of her.

"Did you not want to start without me?" Maggie asked, pointing to the glass as she slid into the opposite side of the booth.

"Sorry, just the opposite. This is my second glass."

Maggie checked her watch. She was ten minutes late, if that. Before she could respond, Marco appeared alongside their table. "Good evening, Ms. O'Dell. May I interest you in a cocktail before dinner?"

Maggie marveled at his ability to make them feel as though they were his only concern in the crowded, noisy restaurant. Despite the crow's feet at the corners of his eyes, she thought he still had that youthful, tanned sleek look of an experienced and well-paid cabana boy. One who took pride in knowing his clientele. He sure knew Gwen and Maggie well enough that when they reserved a table he made sure it was this corner booth.

So it was without hesitation or confusion that when Maggie told him she'd have her "usual," he said, "Of course. I'll have your Diet Pepsi with a twist of lemon right out." Just like that. No further questions. No lectures, or worse, sympathetic glances. She liked that.

Marco handed her a menu, "May I suggest some fresh escargots for an appetizer?"

"No," Maggie said too quickly. "None for me," she added, hoping she hadn't already telegraphed her disgust at the very idea. After an afternoon filled with maggots, she wasn't sure she could stomach a plateful of snails.

"None for me, either," Gwen agreed.

"But perhaps we could start with an order of stuffed mushroom caps?" Maggie suggested. The scent of garlic had already primed her mouth for the delicious appetizer.

"Excellent choice," Marco said, rewarding her with a smile. "I'll have those out to you right away."

When Maggie glanced at her, Gwen was smiling, sipping her wine.

"What?" Maggie asked. "I'm starving, but I'll share."

"I wish you could have seen your face when he recommended the escargots. So it must have been one of those afternoons, I take it?"

"Maggots. Way too many maggots," she said as she pushed strands of hair off her forehead, surprised to find them still damp. She had gone back home for a quick shower, hoping also to wash away the memory and the feel of the wormy critters even though she hadn't touched a single one this time. Then she added, "The District PD finally called us in on the decapitated Jane Doe cases."

"Does that mean they believe both were killed by the same killer?"

"It looks like the same M. O. Plus __ " Maggie stopped while Marco placed a goblet of Diet Pepsi with a wedge of lemon in front of her.

"I'll be back with your appetizer. Is there anything else I can get either of you at this moment?"

"No thanks," Gwen told him. Then to Maggie, she said, "Go on," before Marco was gone.

Maggie, however, waited until he was out of earshot. She couldn't believe Gwen. Usually she wasn't so abrupt and never was she indiscreet. In fact, lately she seemed to be only humoring Maggie by listening, at times appearing bored and tired of the grisly details. Why was she so anxious? Almost overly anxious. Maggie leaned forward, wrapping her hands around the goblet and keeping her voice hushed. "A third head was found today."

"Jesus," Gwen said and Maggie watched her sit back as if the comment had shoved her against the booth's cushion.

"Oh, and Racine's first detective on this one," Maggie said, shaking her head as she took a sip. "I think she's already in over her head." Then she gulped half her glass.

When she had raced back home to shower and change, Harvey convinced her they had time for a quick run. Only now did she realize how thirsty she was.

"Are you sure you're being fair?" Gwen asked. "After all, you're not Racine's biggest fan."

It wasn't the first time Gwen had reminded her that she wasn't exactly objective when it came to Detective Julia Racine. Maggie thought about it while she chewed some ice, a recent nervous habit that kept her from replacing her empty Pepsi goblet with a Scotch. Whether she liked it not, Gwen was right. She had started out years ago with very little respect for Julia Racine. The detective had advanced her career by taking advantage of too many shortcuts given to her just because she's a woman, while Maggie had always fought to be treated like any of her male FBI colleagues. The result was that sometimes Racine got careless, oftentimes even reckless. It didn't help matters that she had made a pass at Maggie several years ago while they worked their first case together. Throw into the mix the fact that Racine had saved Maggie's mother from committing suicide. But Maggie had repaid that favor by rescuing Racine's father from a serial killer. Theirs was, indeed, a complex relationship. Okay, so maybe Maggie wasn't quite objective when it came to Julia Racine, let alone her job performance.

"She's dragging her feet on identifying the other two victims," she said anyway.

"Is that her responsibility or the M. E.'s? Maybe it's him who's dragging his feet? Sounds like you need to give Racine a break."

Maggie shrugged. She wasn't sure why Gwen wanted her to play nice with Racine all of a sudden. How could Gwen defend a woman she'd never met? "She doesn't play by the rules," Maggie offered as a weak defense and realized her mistake as soon as she saw Gwen's smile.

"And you do?"

"Sometimes I bend the rules. Weren't you the one who told me about a dozen years ago that there are no rules in battling evil?"

"There are always rules," Gwen said, serious again. "Good is held to them, evil is not. Sort of an unfair advantage right from the start."

Marco chose that moment to deliver the plate of steaming, garlic-scented mushroom caps and small serving plates. "Ladies, enjoy. I'll return in a few minutes."

Both of them stared at the appetizer even though Maggie had been starving.

"So what about Stan?" Gwen said and scooped up several of the mushroom caps onto Maggie's plate. She served herself a couple as well, but kept her plate to the side. "Why is he dragging his feet?"

"From what I understand there was little tissue left." Maggie glanced around the restaurant. The tall wooden booths allowed much privacy, but this was also a regular hangout for high-level politicos. Which meant plenty of eavesdroppers, too. Satisfied that no one was trying to listen to their conversation, Maggie continued, "There were no dental records to match, either. Stan says he wasn't able to do an autopsy, but he also hasn't sent them to a forensic anthropologist."

"And you're thinking you've got just the forensic anthropologist he could send it to." There was another knowing smile, and Maggie tried to suppress a blush.

"That's not exactly what I was thinking." She knew Gwen was referring to Adam Bonzado, a professor in West Haven, Connecticut, with whom Maggie had worked the previous year. A professor of forensic anthropology who had made it quite clear he was interested in more than Maggie's bones.

"Seriously, though," Gwen continued, letting her off without what Maggie had come to expect was Gwen's regular lecture about her nonexistent love life. "What are the chances of using an outside expert like Professor Bonzado? Would Stan be offended?"

"Actually, I would hope he'd welcome it," she said, slicing off a bite of mushroom. "I've already mentioned the idea to Racine that the other two victims should be handed off to an expert. It's up to her to bring it up with Stan. As soon as I got to the site today, he reminded me that technically this wasn't even his case." Maggie gulped the remainder of her Diet Pepsi and started looking for Marco.

"What did he mean, it wasn't his case?"

"Traditionally when a body's been dismembered, or in this case decapitated, whoever has the heart has jurisdiction."

'That's ridiculous," Gwen said with enough force to make Maggie stop searching for a waiter and get her attention. Evidently she realized her mistake. Gwen sat back and in a much calmer, more controlled voice she said, "It's silly, isn't it? I don't remember such an archaic rule. I mean, what if the rest of the body is never found?"

"First, Racine needs to check the computer again and see if any torsos have shown up. The killer could be traveling to dump them somewhere else." Maggie watched her friend out of the corner of her eye as she opened the menu and pretended to be interested. What was it that seemed to have Gwen on edge? In the dim gaslight of the restaurant Maggie tried to study Gwen, only now noticing that her strawberry-blond hair was tousled, her usually manicured fingernails looked neglected, and there were dark lines under her eyes.

"That would mean he has a job that includes travel or it allows some flexibility in his schedule." Gwen's tone was back to normal, but Maggie noticed her fingers nervously curling the tips of her cocktail napkin.

"Quite possibly. But whatever the killer's doing with the torsos, Stan won't be able to just shrug off his responsibility. Right now jurisdiction is the last thing we need to worry about."

Gwen sipped her wine, and this time Maggie thought she could see a slight tremor in her hand. She wondered if Gwen was simply tired, perhaps stressed about a particular patient. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe Maggie was looking for something that wasn't there. She'd ask anyway. "Are you okay?"

"Of course."

Gwen's answer came too quickly, and she must have noticed the concern on Maggie's face.

"I'm fine," Gwen said, sounding a bit defensive, but then catching herself and adding, "Just a bit tired."

She smiled at Maggie as she pretended to be interested in her menu, closing the subject as she strategically hid her eyes. Maggie couldn't help wondering if Gwen was afraid she might reveal something more than exhaustion.

She followed Gwen's lead and reopened her own menu, but kept it slanted so she could watch her friend. What in the world was it that was Gwen wasn't telling her?