Angel Face (3 page)

“That would be the truth,” she said. “I don’t get out at all.”

Her smile turned rueful, and Sammy wondered, as he had for the zillionth time, where she went when she left the facility, what kind of life she led, and why he kept thinking that no one knew who Angela Lowe really was, not him, not Peter, and maybe not Angela herself.

She was a serious soul and much too solitary, even by Sammy’s standards. She didn’t interact with anyone much and Sammy only minimally. She spent all her time buried in research, and yet Sammy had seen her do things he wouldn’t have believed possible.

Shortly after she arrived at SmartTech, there’d been an accident in the lab. One of the interns had swallowed some caustic lab chemicals on a dare and severely burned his throat. The paramedics didn’t get there fast enough, and none of the efforts to save the kid’s life worked. He would have suffocated if Angela hadn’t performed an emergency tracheotomy with the tiny blade in a Swiss Army knife.

Sammy had been astounded. He would not have been
capable of performing the procedure nor would anyone else in the lab, he was sure. Since then, he’d noticed other things about her that didn’t compute. But the oddest thing that day was that Angela herself seemed surprised. Afterward, she looked at the miniature scalpel in her hand and dropped it like a hot rock. When asked how she knew how to perform an emergency tracheotomy, she seemed dazed by the whole experience and said in the softest voice imaginable, “I have no idea.”

A
sudden beeping noise made Birdy look up from her grooming. It was coming from somewhere in the vicinity of the living room couch. She cocked her head and, apparently overcome by curiosity, hopped to the end of her perch and nimbly negotiated the twiglike rope ladder that reached to the floor.

Like radar, the beeps guided the cockatiel straight to Jordan’s lost pager, which lay in relatively plain sight beneath the end table next to the couch. A string of words appeared on the digital display. Birdy tapped the screen with her beak, oblivious to the ominous tone of the text message.

I KNOW YOU, BUT YOU DON'T KNOW ME. I THINK IT'S TIME WE MET.

The sender’s name came up next. It was Angel Face, which meant nothing to Birdy, of course. There was no way to know what the message might have meant to Jordan or if he would ever have a chance to read it. Birdy was already busy dragging the pager off to the secret place where she’d stashed several of Jordan’s lost possessions.

* * *

“T
URN
off the music. We’ve done all we can here.”

Somebody handed Jordan a towel for his hands. He wiped them absently and handed it back. The operating microscope came off his head first, and then he shoved up his surgical cap. The elastic was pressing a vein and had given him a fierce headache, but he hadn’t noticed it until now.

“Okay, close her up.” He nodded to Dr. Teri Benson, the team’s senior surgical resident. Jordan had been compared to Denton Cooley, the celebrated transplant pioneer, for a couple of reasons, one of which was his preference for operating room music. The other reason was his ability to focus, but Jordan knew what he was good at and what he wasn’t. Despite all the talk about his hands, Teri Benson had the touch when it came to needles and thread. The delicate scars she left looked like lacework.

“Let’s get that rib spreader out of there,” Teri said as she prepared to remove the device. “Carefully!” She called out instructions over the drone of the equipment and reports of the OR nurse, whose job it was to monitor the patient’s stats.

The procedure they’d just performed had been a long and grueling one. The patient was a sixty-two-year-old woman with a history of diabetes, and her aorta had blown out like a tire. The team had pulled out all the stops to save her, and they were exhausted now, every one of them, physically and emotionally.

Jordan was, too, but the ordeal wasn’t over for him. He was facing the most difficult part, talking to the family. Whether the operation was a success or a failure, the raw emotion in the waiting room always ripped at him for some reason. Still, it was as much a part of his job as the surgery.

In this case, there was only the woman’s husband, and as Jordan walked into the lounge, still dressed in his surgical cap and gown, he saw the man sitting on a couch
in the corner, hunched over the coffee table. He looked as if he didn’t know why he was there. His eyes were unfocused, his face ashy with fatigue. His hands had forgotten their purpose, too. One was half raised, as if he’d started to pick out a magazine at some point; the other was useless at his side.

Jordan had seen this many times, the numbed grief that overtook the loved ones. They cycled through the entire grieving process again and again while they waited for news, and eventually their hearts gave out, too. By the time Jordan got to them, many of them had already resigned themselves to the worst. They’d given up hope. Or were afraid to hope.

It seemed especially difficult for the men. They weren’t used to being racked with emotion, and they didn’t have the resilience to deal with it. Honestly, neither did Jordan. Something stopped him in the doorway of the lounge, and he didn’t move for a moment. It was a powerful need to be in control, he realized. But it was too late for that now. There wasn’t time to regroup. The man had seen him and stumbled forward. Hope quivered in his eyes, but fear held him in place.

Jordan went to him quickly. “Mr. Jenkins.”

Ned Jenkins struggled to speak, and his jaw nearly cracked with the effort. He had something to say, and Jordan went quiet, listening out of respect.

“I promised her she would never have to cook a meal or clean or do another piece of laundry,” Jenkins said. “I told her I’d take care of all of that from now on. She wouldn’t have to lift a finger if she just wouldn’t die—”

His voice went hoarse, and he ducked his head, trying to hide his tears. This was some kind of atonement for his wife’s years of patient toil, and Jordan was the one who had to hear it. That was what tore him up, the things people said to expiate their pain, and yet somehow he knew this tough old man had never been so vulnerable
before. Ned Jenkins was coming apart, perhaps for the first time in his life.

“If you really did make that promise,” Jordan said quietly, “then you’re going to be a busy man.”

Jenkins looked up. A wildness flared through his grief-stricken eyes. “What are you saying?”

“She made it.” Jordan barely got the words out before the other man hauled him into a bear hug and wept like a baby.

Jordan hugged him back, trying to hold him together, trying to hold both of them together. As Jenkins sobbed, and Jordan struggled with his own emotions, he began to understand why this was so difficult for him. He’d never loved anyone like Ned Jenkins had. He’d never felt anything this deeply. There was something missing in his life that Ned Jenkins had—a partner, a soul mate—and an existence that was rendered meaningless without her.

Jordan’s throat tightened when he tried to swallow. Now there was some irony for you. He wondered how many people might think they had reason to be envious of Jordan Carpenter when the person they ought to be envious of was Ned Jenkins.

Jordan was.

J
ORDAN
had one thing on his mind. Well, maybe two. He wanted a hot shower and a cold beer. It was late, going on ten, and he was just getting home from the hospital. His last surgery had run long, and there’d been pre- and postop rounds afterward. The heavy schedule had left him walking into walls, which was probably why he didn’t notice that all the house lights were off until he was on the porch and had gripped the doorknob.

He stopped, backed up, and checked out the situation. It was pitch dark inside the house, and even the porch light was out. He always left that on.

His muscles went liquid from a blast of adrenaline.

There was someone in there.
Through the door’s glass panels, he could see a flashlight moving in the darkness. He touched the knob again, and the door rocked open. It was unlocked.

If he used his cell to call 911, he would have to wait until the police arrived. By that time, the intruder might be gone. Everything he owned was inside, and this looked like a burglary in progress. On the other hand, maybe someone would steal Birdy.

Jordan’s smile was grim. He didn’t have that kind of luck.

“Jordan, please! Your sense of humor is totally inappropriate!”

His grade school teacher’s voice rang out in his head, as it often did at times like this. Miss Davenport had never appreciated his gift for irony.

Jordan slipped off his shoes and crept into the living room. He could hear music playing low, but he couldn’t tell where it came from. It sounded like one of his Bruce Springsteen CDs. Fortunately, the hardwood floors were as slick and soundless as glass. Nothing creaked as he made his way through the living room, and nothing appeared to be disturbed, although the lack of light forced him to use other senses. The old place smelled faintly of lemon oil, floor wax, and dusty June heat, as it had for all the summers he’d lived there.

He moved along the wall toward the kitchen door, wondering if that was where he’d seen the flickering light. An unfamiliar sound made him hesitate. Papers were rustling, and someone was swearing under his breath in the kitchen.

Next to the fireplace was a brass bin of potential weapons. Jordan unsheathed an iron poker. At least he had the advantage of surprise, although when he got there, the view from the kitchen doorway was not at all what he expected. It looked like there was a man crouched on the floor going though his trash. Jordan moved closer and got a whiff of floral fragrance. Correction: There was a
woman
on the floor going through his trash.

“Huloooo! Anybody home?”

Garbage flew like shrapnel as the woman screamed and leaped to her feet. It wasn’t Jordan who’d spoken. It was Birdy, the idiot-savant cockatiel. But the intruder didn’t know there was a talking bird in the living room.

She took a wild swing at Jordan, and he caught her by
the arm. There was a struggle for the flashlight, which Jordan easily won, but it was tougher subduing her long enough to shine the light in her face. They were both panting by the time he had her backed up against the refrigerator.

The flashlight beam blinded her. She winced and turned her head away, but Jordan had already recognized the startled blue eyes and the long, amber pageboy. She had hair the color of apricots, he’d once told her.

“Penny? What the hell are you doing?”

“Jordan? Is that you?” His kid sister gasped with relief. “Let me go! I thought you were a burglar!”

He released her immediately. “I thought
you
were. What were you doing in the trash?”

“I knocked over the can. You have no electricity, big brother. Obviously, you forgot to pay the bill.”

“Shit—”

“Shit!”

“Birdy, pipe down!” Jordan barely had the expletive out of his mouth before the reigning queen of excrement herself was echoing it in her little bird croak. Maybe he was a little oblivious about everyday things, but it was only because of his preoccupation with work. Unfortunately, his sister had always thought he needed a keeper, and now he would never get rid of her. Or the bird.

“Galooreeeee days . . .”

There went Springsteen, rocking softly in the background. Apparently, Penny liked to raid the trash to musical accompaniment. Jordan had a portable, battery-operated CD player on the countertop, and she’d probably bumped it when she fell.

“There are more important things in life than light bills.” Infallible logic in his book. “They barely make the list—”

“And that,” she cut in, “is why you
need
someone in your life. Someone who does care about light bills. If
nothing else, have the bank handle it, Jordan, or your office staff—or even Bernard at the country club. He
runs
Pacific Electric. The point is you’re an important man. Pull some strings.”

“No, the point
isn’t
my importance, whatever the hell that means. It’s my privacy. Can you spell
privacy,
Penny?”

“Fine,” she huffed. “I apologize for worrying about you and bringing you food so you won’t starve. And while I’m at it, let me apologize for tripping over your garbage can because you don’t have any damn lights in the house.”

It sounded like his meddling sibling was on the defensive, which gave him a moment’s satisfaction. He couldn’t see her with the
damn
lights out.

“What’s that in your hand?”

“This?” She held up what looked like a large bubble-pack envelope. “How would I know? It just flew out at me.”

“Hang on.” Jordan traded his flashlight for the candles and matches he kept on top of the fridge. No one could accuse him of being unprepared for emergencies like earthquakes and unpaid light bills. And as long as he was there, he grabbed a beer. It was still cold, which either meant the electricity hadn’t been off for long or Penny had brought him a six-pack of Kirin Lager.

Maybe he could see his way clear to forgive her.

He unscrewed the bottle cap and took a deep pull. He’d developed a taste for Japanese beer while he was over there studying valve repair techniques, which were generally trickier procedures than valve replacements, but they were more effective, in Jordan’s opinion. The Japanese surgical innovations were fine, but their beer was ambrosia. Exactly the tonic for a man’s flagging spirits.

When he had the candles going and the kitchen alight, Jordan saw that the envelope Penny held had been opened. He didn’t need to ask if she’d gone through the
contents. She’d found the CIA dossier on Angel Face, the serial killer.

He cocked a shoulder. “You should be happy. You keep saying I need a woman in my life.”

“Jordan,
darling,
this is not a woman. This is a lust murderer. Even I draw the line at fixing you up with wanton killers.”

“Lust murderer? Does it say that in there?”

Jordan grabbed for the packet, and Penny snatched it back. “Not until you tell me what’s going on. Who is this Angel Face person, and why do you have a file full of information on her?”

Jordan’s next try got him the gold. Penny’s concerns faded to a distant echo as he opened the envelope and pulled out the contents. There was a sheaf of CIA case notes, a videotape, a cell phone, and an eight-by-ten glossy of a woman. But not just any woman. This
was
an angel.

Christ, how could she have killed anyone?

Jordan’s heart thudded with a hollow sound. That alone should have warned him something was wrong. He was an expert on hearts, after all. She had one of the most tender, heartbreakingly lovely smiles he’d ever seen. Her eyes were big and brown and trying hard not to be sad, but their wistful pull reached in and grabbed a man right where he lived.

Penny was saying something, but Jordan didn’t respond. He barely heard her. The picture had taken hold of his thoughts, and it wasn’t letting go. He’d fallen into a focus as intense as if this were one of his most intricate surgeries, and the odds were mounting against him. Nothing about her looks and her reputation meshed in his mind, and he wasn’t good with cognitive dissonance, a term one of his college professors lovingly applied to anything that was intuitively puzzling.

If he stared hard enough, studied her long enough,
maybe something would tell him how this woman could possibly be a killer. He couldn’t imagine an evil thought would have a chance against all that radiance. She wasn’t a classic beauty, but the innocence she projected was mixed with a ravishing sensuality. This angel could have seduced the devil right out of his horns and tail . . . and maybe she had.

Lust murderer?

“Jordan, you’re not going to get involved in this, right? Whatever it is they want you to do, you’re not getting involved.”

“Right,” he said absently, “I’m not.”

“Not what?”

“Not getting involved.”

“What are you smiling about then? Would you look at me, please?”

Jordan knit his brows, trying to frown, but the smiled widened.

“You look exactly like a fiend,” Penny announced with an exasperated sigh. Her blond hair bounced as she shook her head. “You just do this to frustrate me, don’t you? You won’t date anyone I suggest, and then you go out and pick wildly inappropriate women.”

“Penny, I didn’t pick Angel Face. She picked me. And she doesn’t want to date me, she wants to kill me. I’m next on her death list.”

“Death list?” Penny tried to steal the envelope back. “Is that what the report says? I didn’t get that far.”

The two of them staged another quick tug of war, which ended with Jordan releasing the file and Penny stumbling backward. Letting her read it was preferable to having her paw through his garbage again, Jordan reasoned. But as Penny skimmed the text, she clamped a hand over her mouth and looked up at him in alarm. For once in her life, Jordan’s little sister didn’t seem to know what to say.

She read on, gaping at him, disbelieving.

It was a moment or two before a grin dared to appear. “If you forgot to put down the toilet seat, she’d kill you, right? Maybe you
should
date her.”

“Get your nosy butt outta here, or you’re going to be on
my
death list,” Jordan growled. “And take your bird with you.”

Birdy squawked something from the living room that sounded like “Help, murder!”

Jordan ignored them both. He was staring at the picture in his hand and thinking about the call he’d received from his former patient, Mitch Ryder. Mitch was doing private eye work now, but his background in intelligence should have given him inside access. Still, even he hadn’t been able to penetrate the CIA’s shield far enough to get any information about an agent named Edwin Truitt or a serial killer called Angel Face. Jordan had told him to stay with it.

Meanwhile, Jordan didn’t know anything more about this woman than he had before, but he had a gut feeling about her, and someone might as well have told him that Bambi had turned into a bloodthirsty predator. That would have made as much sense.

I
F
there was anything more sensual than watching a man lick a melting ice cream cone, she didn’t know what it was. This particular man’s style was to take lapping strokes, followed by a round of quick, delicate cleanup work. It was a pleasure watching his tongue swirl over the creamy rivulets and his jaw muscles tighten against the coldness. She could easily imagine the rich flavors bringing his taste buds alive, melting in the steam heat of his mouth, and then pooling to drizzle down his throat.

Her own mouth became a hot little well at the thought.

It was her educated guess that he lived through his senses, a passionate soul, but certainly not limited to the
animal passions. A lover of music and language, she reasoned, and probably the more evocative periods of artistic expression, like the misty dreamscapes of the impressionists.

Maybe it was fanciful on her part, but she was inclined to read sensitivity and compassion, even a hint of spiritual transcendence, into his luminous profile. And he definitely had an eye for beauty. Feminine beauty. She could see that by the depth of his PC3 wave.

The wheels of Angela’s lab chair squealed as she rolled forward.

Feminine beauty? Who was Alpha Ten looking at?

She peered at her computer screen as if she might be able to see what the subject himself was seeing. Of course, that was impossible. She was looking at a multimodal display, which meant the screen was divided into quarters to allow several different scans of the same brain at once—a functional MRI, an EEG, a near-infrared spectroscopy and a 3-D SPECT image.