Blood of Eden (17 page)

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Authors: Tami Dane

BOOK: Blood of Eden
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“Thank you for talking to us, Mr. Yates,” JT said in his FBI agent voice. “We know you've already talked to the police. We'll make this as quick as possible.”
“Thanks.” All knotted up in a black pinstripe suit, white shirt, and tie, Mr. Yates crossed his arms over his chest.
“Let's start with the week before your wife's death. Did you notice her acting differently than normal?”
“No. Differently, how?”
“In any way. Was she ill? Sleeping more? Sleeping less? Eating less? Complaining about any symptoms?”
“Nothing. Patty was training to run a marathon for breast cancer. She ran ten miles the morning she died.”
“Can you tell us the route she took?” I asked.
“Patty didn't run outside. She has a treadmill. Or she goes to a local gym.”
“Okay. Thank you.” I jotted some notes. Another runner. Could it be a coincidence?
“Had she mentioned making any new acquaintances recently?” JT asked.
“No. Nothing's sticking out. I don't get it. When I left for work that morning, everything was normal. A couple of hours later, and everything was wrong. My wife, who never got sick, was dead from some tropical disease I've never heard of. I just don't understand.”
For the first time since stepping into the house, I saw a sign of the grief this man was feeling. His hands shook as he straightened his tie, tugging the knot tighter.
“Can you tell us about your neighbor, Mrs. Ester?”
“That woman's batty. She told me my wife is—was—a lesbian.” He wandered over to a cupboard and pulled out a mug. He pointed at us with the cup. “I can tell you, without any doubt, that my wife was
not
gay.” He cleared his throat. I think his male pride was a little bruised. “You can't believe a word that woman says. I'm not trying to be mean. She's diabetic. Never takes her medication. Her son comes over once a day at dinnertime to make sure she's eaten, and gives her a shot of insulin. But she's getting worse. Seeing things and hearing things that aren't there. Won't be long before she's in a nursing home.”
“Thank you.” JT motioned to the stairs. “Would you mind if we took a quick look around?”
“The police searched the house, but sure. Do what you have to do.” Mr. Yates went to the coffeemaker. “Coffee?” He filled the cup and offered it to us.
JT and I both said, “No thanks,” and headed for the staircase in the foyer. Upstairs, we found the master bedroom and bath first.
“What are we looking for?” I asked. “We know from the previous three victims that we're not going to find any signs of illness. No open aspirin bottles, even.”
JT went to the window and peered outside. “They have a nice view of the park from this room.”
“Is that significant?”
“I doubt it.” He turned around. “We're looking for anything that doesn't fit. I can't be more specific because I don't know either. I won't know until I see it.”
“Okay.” I opened the closet. The clothes were organized by color, his on the left, hers on the right. “These people are OCD. Look at this closet.”
“And yet the front flower bed was weedy.”
“Do you think that's significant?”
“Probably not.” JT went to one of two dressers in the room and opened the drawer. “The dressers are organized too.”
“I'll check the bathroom.” I wandered into the attached full bath. It was the picture of luxury with one of those fancy super-deep, jet-action soaker tubs. It was spotless, as was the rest of the room. No medications whatsoever in the medicine cabinet. “Nothing interesting in the bathroom, though I have a serious case of tub envy.” I headed back out to the bedroom.
JT was holding a medicine bottle.
“What did you find?” I asked, hoping it would be useful.
“Cialis. It was hidden in Yates's underwear drawer.”
“Hidden? Do you think his wife knew he had a little problem?”
“I'm guessing she did. But if she didn't, it doesn't matter.” He put the bottle back in the drawer and closed it.
I sighed. “This case is so frustrating.”
“We'll get a break sooner or later.” JT motioned toward the hallway. “I think we've taken up enough of Mr. Yates's time. Let's head out.”
After thanking Mr. Yates, we went back to the car.
I plopped into the passenger seat and rubbed my temples. I didn't have a headache. I was hoping the massage might stimulate the circulation to my head, and thus increase the blood flow to my brain cells. I was desperate. “The unsub's going to kill again. We're running out of time, and we're no closer to having a profile than we were the first day.”
“Sure, we are. We know who he's hunting. We just don't know why. I have a plan.” He gave me a look. I didn't like it. “You're going undercover.”
“Undercover?” I echoed.
“Yeah. I called the agent handling a bank-owned house on the next block. You're going to stay there.”
“I'm going to offer myself to a killer?”
“The house will be wired. You will be wired. You'll be watched twenty-four–seven. Not just by me, but by several agents.” JT set a hand on my knee. I looked down at it, then up into his eyes. “I won't let anything happen to you. I promise.”
I believed he meant those words.
Still, I wasn't liking this plan. Not at all. Even if he was watching me around the clock, and his intentions were noble, things happened. Even the best-laid plans went wrong.
But on the other hand, it was the opportunity I had been waiting for. I would be doing something, taking action, helping solve the case. I would finally be a productive member of the team. Nobody else could do this, except for maybe Chief Peyton. We both were brunettes, although I was too young and she was too old, if the killer stuck with the same MO.
JT fiddled with his keys. “Do you have a gun, to protect yourself ?”
“A gun?” Those two words scared me, almost more than the idea of becoming a killer's target. “No, I've never touched a gun. Unless you count a Super Soaker.”
After a tense moment, JT said, “Sloan, if you don't want to do this, you don't have to. I'll be close by. At all times. But it's still dangerous.”
“What about your promise not to let anything happen to me?” I challenged. “Reneging already?”
“No way. But legal, and Chief Peyton, told me I have to inform you of all the risks.”
I laughed. It was a weird moment for a guffaw, I'll admit. But I couldn't help myself. I guess it was the fear bubbling up inside of me and bursting out.
JT gave me an odd, worried look. “I went to the chief with this plan days ago, before Patty Yates was found. The chief shot it down right away, said there was no way we could use an intern in an undercover operation. Something must've made her change her mind, though. She called me today and gave me the thumbs-up.”
Lucky me.
“Give me a minute,” I said, holding up an index finger.
JT nodded.
I turned and stared sightlessly out the window.
All along, I'd felt like I was failing, like I was letting down the victims who had died, and the ones who were yet to die. Out there, somewhere, was a woman who didn't realize her time was almost up. And out there, somewhere, were God only knew how many more women who might lose their lives if the killer wasn't caught.
Up to this point, following the path of victims, of death, wasn't doing us a damn thing. We needed to anticipate the killer's next move. How else could we do that?
There wasn't any other way.
“I'll do it,” I said, sounding less resolved than I wished I did.
JT lunged forward and hauled me into his arms. And I, being a little overwhelmed for a lot of reasons, sank into his embrace. I closed my eyes and simply enjoyed the moment. He smelled so good. And he was so big, so strong. I felt safe in his arms. Protected.
“I wish you could stay with me,” I said.
“Me too.” His flattened hand skimmed up and down my back, and little waves of tingles swept through my body. Those tingles were nice. Very nice. And bad. Very bad. “But the more time you spend alone, the more likely we are to lure the killer to you.”
“I agree.”
He loosened his hold and leaned back enough to look me in the eye without either of us going cross-eyed. “I won't let you down, Sloan.”
I glanced at his mouth. At his eyes. At his mouth again. I wanted to kiss him. And I think he wanted to kiss me too. But I knew that would be a mistake. An enormous one.
“I believe you,” I said.
He eased back. Something changed in his eyes.
The moment was over.
He said, “I need to ask you something. Did you get that sample analyzed yet?”
“What sample?” I knew I was looking guilty as hell, but I couldn't admit the truth.
“The one you stashed in your car.”
The hairs on my nape prickled. “Were you the one who broke my window?”
“No. But I did go back to your car later to get the sample. When I got to it, the window was already broken. The sample wasn't under the seat, where I'd seen you put it. I was hoping you'd stashed it somewhere else.”
Hoping? He was hoping I'd stashed it somewhere else? Why? Did he want me to get it analyzed? “Just say you had found it in my car, what were you going to do with it? Put it back?”
“No. I was going to take it to a friend and have it analyzed. I want to know what the other lab found. Peyton said the results were inconclusive because the sample was tainted. And she said the bureau isn't going to pay for another test. We were going to have to wait until we had another victim to swab.”
“Um. Oh.” I looked down at my hands. They were clenched in my lap. I was petrified that JT was lying, that he was just trying to trick me into admitting I was hiding evidence. But I was more afraid of not getting the test run. “How long will it take your friend to do the analysis?”
“He can do a quick and ugly analysis in a day and a half.”
“I guess that's better than nothing.” I snapped on my seat belt. “Take me home.”
Like a morning dream, life becomes more and more bright the longer we live, and the reason of everything appears more clear. What has puzzled us before seems less mysterious, and the crooked paths look straighter
....—Jean Paul Richter
look straighter... .
—Jean Paul Richter
14
JT dropped me off at the office before taking the sample to his friend. I didn't need the backward-ticking clock to know we could have another victim tomorrow morning. The sense of time slipping away, not to mention my growing concern about Katie, made me jittery. When I'd gone home to get the sample, she'd been in her room, sleeping. I'd found the soup container, full, in the refrigerator.
I couldn't sit still. I couldn't concentrate. And I'd made at least ten trips to the bathroom in the last hour.
I don't know how long Chief Peyton had been watching me, but about fifteen minutes after I'd finally settled in, ready to map out our crime scenes, she pulled a chair up to my cubicle and sat down.
“How are you doing, Skye?” The chief crossed one knee over the other.
I wanted to tell her the truth, that I was frustrated, scared we wouldn't solve the case, worried that dozens—or even hundreds—of women would die because I couldn't do this job. But I couldn't say those things. “I'm doing fine.” I pointed at the map on my computer screen. “I've plotted out the homes of all four victims. And where they died. There's no connection between the crime scenes. But three out of four—Richardson, Miller, and Yates—live in the same subdivision. And all three backyards are adjacent to the same school playground. It's unclear, at this point, what tie-in Hannah Grant has with the other victims. She lives close, walking distance from the others, but not in the same neighborhood. In addition, a couple of them are runners. We don't have much of a profile of the unsub yet, though.”
Peyton took a closer look at the map. “That's a good start.”
“We also have an eyewitness who claims she saw one of our victims, Patty Yates, being attacked. But, unfortunately, the witness's eyesight is horrible. She was a fair distance from the alleged attack, and the testimony is a little too far-fetched to believe.”
“Remember, Skye, it's your job to check out the far-fetched.” The chief stood. “Where is JT?”
“He ... got a call from another potential witness.”
“Why didn't you go along?”
“He wanted me to stay here and get all the details of my undercover operation hammered out. We're going to do some surveillance early tomorrow morning, since all four victims died in the morning.”
“Good idea. Be sure to keep me updated. I'm counting on you and JT to handle this. Be careful, Skye. Keep your eyes open.”
“Will do, Chief.” I didn't take a deep breath until the chief was back in her office. Acting as nonchalantly as possible, I dug my cell phone out of my laptop case and dialed JT's number. But before he answered, somebody nudged me on the back. I swear, my butt flew at least a foot off my chair. The phone flung out of my hand. It clattered on the floor, and the battery and back cover skidded across the tile, traveling one way, the phone the other.
“Shit,” I said.
“Sorry.” Gabe scooped up the backless phone while I went for the rest of the parts.
“It's okay.”
“Jumpy, a little?” He handed me the phone.
“Thanks. A bit.” I snapped the pieces back together and crossed my fingers, hoping it would work. I don't have good luck with cell phones. It didn't power up. “Damn it. This is all I need right now. Looks like I'll be making a trip to the cell phone store once again. I wonder if they make phones that are kidproof ?”
“I saw your car.”
“Yeah,” I said, pushing buttons and hoping for a miracle. “I don't know what to think about that. Was it an accident? Was it not? Being on a military base, I would think the parking lot would be secure.”
“Yeah, you'd think. Was anything missing?” He gave me a look, the kind that said it was a certain
something
he was asking about.
“No.
Nothing
was missing.”
His shoulders descended at least a couple of inches. “Good.” He sprawled into the chair Peyton had abandoned. “So what's new?”
“About ... ?” I asked.
“The case.”
“Nothing yet.” I sighed. “To tell you the truth, this case is making me mad. We just can't catch a break. I was hoping the witness we interviewed today would give us something.”
Gabe leaned closer. “You had a witness come forward?”
“Yeah, a hundred-year-old blind woman with diabetic dementia who claims she saw a woman leap over a six-foot fence like a kangaroo to have a lesbian encounter with Patty Yates.”
Gabe's eyes bugged. A wide grin spread over his face. “Sorry, I can't help myself.” He laughed.
That did nothing to lighten my mood.
“By the way, I passed your mom on the way in.” And that made it even worse. “She parked in a lot across from the base's entry. I think she's waiting for you or something.”
I didn't even try to hide the eye roll. “She told me she's working as a private investigator. I'm not convinced someone is
actually
paying her. But at least it's keeping her busy. She hasn't shorted out her apartment building since she started.”
“Who is she investigating?”
“ Me.”
Once again, I got to listen to Gabe have a good laugh, at my expense. But it was my fault. I was the one who'd volunteered the information.
After he'd settled down, he added, “It's too bad she can't come on base. If she could, she might've seen who busted out your window.”
“Yeah, it's too bad.” I decided a change of topic was a good idea. “What's your case about?”
“Missing kid.”
“Oh. A kid. That explains why the chief would pull you off the other case. But why did it end up a
PBAU
case?”
“Because a witness claimed the unsub lifted a car off the ground and tossed it about twenty yards. And our witness isn't a hundred-year-old blind woman.”
“That may be the case, but the witness has to be wrong.”
“Tell that to the uniform who saw it.”
I felt my own brows jump to the top of my forehead. “Your witness is a police officer?”
“Yep.” Gabe leaned closer still. “And get this, the witness swears the unsub is a woman.”
“Crazy.” Maybe I had been right about that.
Gabe moved closer yet. I was really getting uncomfortable. “What's the story with the sample? Did you get it to someone?”
“Kind of,” I mumbled, looking away.
“What's that mean?”
“It's in the hands of the right person.” I wasn't going to tell Gabe about giving it to JT. I had a feeling he'd freak out. “Hopefully, we'll have a ‘fast and dirty' analysis by tomorrow sometime.”
“Cool. You'll tell me what you get?”
“Absolutely.”
Gabe shifted back, thank God. “What are you doing now?”
“Trying to decide how I can make myself look like a thirty-something suburbanite with shoulder-length hair.” I ran my fingers through my hair, currently cut in a no-nonsense, utilitarian chin-length bob. “And trying to convince myself that I won't die if I try to run six miles.”
“So you're going undercover?”
“I guess that's what you'd call it.”
“Damn!”
That was an I-wish-it-were-me damn. I could tell. “Your father can try all he wants, but there's no way you could do this one. I don't think even Mrs. Ester would buy your being a woman.”
“How deep are you going?” Gabe asked.
“At this point, I'll be taking up residence in a bank-owned house for a day or two. Luckily, the people who vacated the property left all their furniture.”
“Good luck.” Gabe leaned forward and set a hand on mine. “And be careful.” When I nodded, he stiffened, pulled his hand away, and stood. “I've got some research to do. The kid's got some crazy allergies, and the parents are worried she might have an allergy attack while she's being held hostage.”
“Good luck to you too. I hope you find her.”
“We will. And we'll find her alive.”
That was one thing about Gabe I was coming to respect—he was always confident, positive, optimistic. Unlike me. I could work on that.
I finished planning out the details of my activities over the next few days, called a hair salon I found on the Net, and begged and pleaded for an appointment for extensions. It was only after I told the salon's receptionist it was for an important FBI investigation that she miraculously found an opening for me. I had ten minutes to make a twenty-minute drive.
I did it in twelve minutes. And, fortunately, I didn't get a speeding ticket. A beaming girl with too much makeup and too much body for the itty-bitty clothes she was wearing fired questions at me, interrogation style, as she led me to a chair in the back of the salon. Most of them I answered with the standard “It's FBI business. I can't answer that question.” But I did indulge her curiosity a little by answering what questions I could.
Mom strolled in just as Carl, the stylist, was introducing himself.
Mom said, “Honey, you just got your hair cut last week. What are you doing?”
“Did you talk to Katie?” I combed my fingers through my natural-for-the-time-being hair.
“Yes, Sloan. She's fine. It was just a little anxiety. Everyone gets anxious sometimes.”
“I'm worried,” I confessed, staring at my reflection in the mirror.
“You're a good friend.” Standing behind me, Mom smiled at me in the mirror. “Now, about your hair ...”
“I have to get extensions. And maybe some color.”
“Really? Why would you do that? Your hair is so cute the way it is. And the chemicals they use in hair dye aren't good for you.” Mom made herself comfortable in the chair next to mine. A female stylist wandered up and asked Mom if she wanted anything: cut, blow-out, or set. “Oh, that sounds lovely. But I can't.”
“Go ahead, Mom. My treat.” I nodded at the stylist. “Give her whatever she wants.”
“In that case, maybe I will get a little something done. Can you give me the same thing my daughter's getting?”
The stylist looked askance at Carl.
“Extensions,” Carl volunteered. “And maybe a little color, to brighten her up.” My credit card was going to be steaming tonight.
“No color!” Mom said. “Unless you have henna.”
The stylist beamed and grabbed a black plastic cape. “We have henna. As well as several other herbal dyes. My name's Crystal.” She pinned the cape on Mom and dug in.
“So, Mom, how's your case going?” I asked, holding my head still as Carl started working.
“Not as well as I'd hoped.”
“Really? What were you hoping for? You should know by now what to expect, since it's me you're tailing.”
“I was hoping you were hiding some things from me. Scandalous things. A steamy affair with a married man, something amusing. I've come to the conclusion you're a very boring person.”
I swallowed a laugh. I didn't want her to think I was amused by her. She might take that as encouragement. “Me? Have an affair with a married man? Never going to happen.”
“Never say never, dear.”
“I totally agree,” Carl said.
“I had an affair with a married man, on and off for three years,” Crystal confessed.
“What about you, Mom?” I asked, not sure how to respond to Crystal's confession.
Mom's cheeks went red.
“No. Really? When?” I asked.
“It was a long time ago, before I met your father. I was young then. I'd had a sheltered childhood. Gone to an all-girls school for most of my life. Didn't know a damn thing about men.”
“Me too!” Crystal said. “I went to an all-girls Catholic school.”
“You were very lucky, then, to find Dad,” I said.
“I was. Very lucky, indeed.” Mom reached across the space between our chairs. Our fingertips barely touched. We all remained silent for a while. It was a sweet moment, the kind I have rarely shared with my mother over the years. The kind I'd craved for most of my childhood. I hated to break it, but I knew I had to.
“Mom, I'm going undercover tomorrow.”

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