Blood of Eden (20 page)

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Authors: Tami Dane

BOOK: Blood of Eden
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What I saw wasn't nearly as exciting. I saw plenty of empty yards, the occasional resident hauling a trash can to the curb or dragging the hose out to the front to douse the grass. I saw a few kids racing around on bikes and skateboards. A couple of dogs who'd escaped from their yards chased me, forcing me to up my speed from a slow but steady jog to a hard sprint. One, a poodle, almost caught me. But just as it was about to sink its little fangs into my ankle, someone whistled and it turned a one-eighty and padded back home.
As I approached Debbie Richardson's house, I saw the crime scene tape stretched across the neighbor's home, the bureau's cars parked out front. Could it be a coincidence that there'd been several major crimes in this neighborhood, two of them—a murder and a kidnapping—on this block?
“There's no such thing as coincidence,”
my mother's voice echoed in my head.
What if the crimes were related? What would a kidnapping have to do with the murders?
I slowed to a walk as I passed Tutu Girl's house, watching agents come and go; crime scene investigators were combing the area for tiny bits of evidence.
In stark contrast, all was quiet at the Richardson house. I saw no signs of life. The house was dark, the windows closed, the grass slightly shaggy, ready for a cut. There were no garbage cans at the foot of the driveway. The house was abandoned.
I went on.
I thought I caught a glimpse of some movement between the Richardson house and Tutu Girl's. I twisted to get a better look. I bumped into something sitting on the ground, the rattle of glass echoed through the quiet morning. I wheeled my arms around a few times, frantically fighting to regain my balance. Losing the battle, I fell like a load of bricks onto the driveway.
Just call me graceful; I'd run smack-dab into the recycling bin.
I used it to haul myself back on my feet, noticing there were dozens of glass bottles inside, all of them palm oil bottles.
Palm oil? What the heck did someone do with palm oil? Cook with it? Clean something with it? Bathe in it? Sunbathe with it?
As I jogged across the front of Tutu Girl's house, I stared up at the front window. The drapes fell shut. I guessed Tutu Girl's mother was getting tired of nosy people snooping around. I supposed I would too.
I continued on, my eyes darting around as I ran, while thoughts of one particular FBI agent, skin gleaming, slathered in palm oil, played through my mind as I finished up the rest of the route.
I made it back home without dying. Six miles. I'd run six freaking miles. My legs felt a little wobbly. And my chest a little heavy. And, of course, I was looking a little shiny myself, thanks to the buckets of sweat that had poured out of my pores. But, otherwise, I was okay.
I found JT exactly where I'd left him: in the kitchen. But now the room was filled with the smell of garlic and onion. “I got you an everything bagel.” He shook a paper bag.
“Thanks.” I grabbed a paper towel and mopped my wet face.
Shoving his hand in the bag, he said, “You made good time.”
“I didn't cheat,” I said, feeling quite proud of myself. “I ran the full route.”
“I know. You didn't tell me you were a runner.” He put the bagel on a paper plate.
“I'm not. I mean, I jog a little, to keep in shape. A half hour, tops. And only when my jeans won't snap anymore. But I've been slacking recently. And I haven't run six miles since high school. My mother made me join the cross-country team. She said I spent too much time sitting on my ass, reading.”
JT went to the refrigerator, pulled out a cold water bottle, and handed it to me. “At least you won't have any problems passing the FBI PFT.”
I twisted off the cap and chugged half the bottle. “That's good to know.” I dragged my arm across my forehead. “Whew, I'm thirsty.” I polished off the water. “You have another one of those in there?”
“Sure do.” He traded me a full bottle for the empty one.
After I emptied the second one, I sat down to check out the bagel.
“I bought you a few things—water, some deli meat for sandwiches, fruit.”
“Thanks. That was very thoughtful.”
He handed me a packet of cream cheese and a knife. “My intentions weren't all noble.”
“What's that mean?” I ripped open the cheese and plunged the knife into it.
“You can't stay here alone. Not after what happened last night.” He flinched. “I've decided I should stay here with you.”
I couldn't say exactly how I felt about that. “Um, okay.”
“I thought about it. Talked to the chief. We both agreed it's a good idea.”
“Aren't you worried you'll scare away the unsub?”
After helping himself to a bottle of water, he said, “I was at first, but now ... not so much. Your safety is more important. Besides, two of our victims were married, living with their husbands. That didn't stop the killer.”
I decided I wouldn't put him on the spot right now. “So you'll be playing the part of my husband.” I took a bite of the bagel. Delicious.
“Unless you would rather have another agent stay with you.”
That was probably a good idea. Correction, that was probably a
great
idea.
“No, that's okay. You can stay. I know you. I trust you.” The image of a shirtless JT flashed through my mind again. Skin gleaming, muscles flexing. It was a pleasant image. I took another bite of bagel, chewed, and swallowed. “But we'll sleep in separate rooms, of course.”
JT didn't respond. I have a feeling he didn't like that suggestion. I didn't like it either, but I wasn't going to admit it to him.
A couple of minutes later, he asked, “So, are you going to tell me about the guy who broke into your apartment, or not?”
“There isn't much to tell. I don't know anything about him—other than he has a really creepy voice, sneaks in and out without leaving a trace of evidence, and likes to call me ‘a mouse.' Do I look like a rodent to you?” I tucked my lower lip behind my front teeth.
He waggled his eyebrows. “No, I'd say you're more kitten than mouse.” His expression shifted again, turning more serious. “The fact that he followed you here bothers me.”
“You can bet it bothers me too.” I smeared another glob of cream cheese on what was left of my bagel. I didn't want to talk about this any longer. It was making me second-guess the whole undercover thing. I didn't want to do that. “A silly question.”
“Shoot.” JT dumped some kind of powder from a ziplock baggy into a cup then diluted it with water.
“Why would anyone need bottles and bottles of palm oil?” I asked.
“I don't know. I'm not much of a cook. Why?”
“I sort of fell over Debbie Richardson's next-door neighbor's recycling tub and I noticed it was full of palm oil bottles. I was curious.”
“Hmm ...” He sipped.
“What, ‘hmm'?”
“Was there a reason why you tripped over a recycling tub? They are a little difficult to miss.”
Now I felt like a total clumsy clod. Of course, I was a total clumsy clod. I munched on my bagel before answering. “I was looking between the houses.”
“Why?”
“No reason, really. I guess I thought I saw something in my peripheral vision.”
“That's a reason.”
“There wasn't anyone there.” I took another bite of bagel and washed it down with a swig of water.
“Did you check the backyard?”
“ No.”
“Then you can't say it was nothing.”
“I see your point.” Feeling like I'd screwed up, I polished off my bagel. “Do you think it's a coincidence the kid down the street is missing?”
“What are you thinking?” JT asked, looking at me over the rim of his cup.
“I don't know. It seems a little odd that there would be such a string of major crimes in such a concentrated area without them being related in some way.”
“As a general rule, I'd say you're right. But the nature of the crimes is so different, it's hard to imagine a connection. Are you thinking the unsub has moved from attacking grown women to kidnapping children?”
“It is a
female
child.” I plunged my hand in the paper bag, searching for another bagel. Nothing.
“But that's where the similarity ends. Kidnapping children doesn't fit our profile.”
“We have a profile?” I asked, wadding up the bag and lobbing it toward the garbage can. I missed. I shuffled over, snatched it up, and dropped it into the can. Then I made a beeline for the refrigerator.
“We have the beginning of a profile. I'd have to take a look, but I don't believe, in the history of the FBI, there's been a case of an unsub starting with homicide and moving into kidnapping minors. We're looking at two very different minds, motivations, and drives.”
“I suppose you're right.” I poked my head into the fridge. Grapes sounded good. I plucked a few out of the plastic bag sitting on the shelf. I stuffed one in my mouth.
“And as far as the sudden increase in crime in the area, who knows? Maybe there's been some kind of change in the demographics affecting the crime rate. We don't know enough yet to figure it out.”
“I'll trust you know more about this than I do and concede. So what's next?”
“You change your clothes.” Grinning evilly, he set his cup on the counter and mouthed, “I'll help.”
“Help?” I echoed, my cheeks burning.
“Yeah, help figure out what to do next, of course.” His eyes narrowed. He whispered, “What did you think I meant?”
I squinted at him and turned my lips into a snarly frown. “Be back in a few. I think I need a quick shower.” Much, much quieter, I said, “And before you ask, no, I don't need help soaping my back.”
His laughter followed me up the stairs.
Genius is more often found in a cracked pot than in a whole one
.
—E. B. White
17
JT and I spent the rest of the day following Patty Yates's every last movement from the day she died, talking to everyone and anyone we could—people on the street, the employees of the hair salon she'd been about to enter before she'd collapsed, her friends, family, the people at the gym she visited irregularly. What we had: Patty hadn't complained of any illness before she'd died; she hadn't appeared sick; she was, in fact, in great health. She and her husband were trying to conceive a baby—thus the need for the Cialis. Unlike the other victims, Patty Yates didn't work outside the home. She was a stay-at-home wife who kept to herself, had no close friends, preferred to stay inside her house, and didn't seem to have any enemies.
In other words, we had nothing.
Both agreeing that we were spinning our wheels, we decided to call it a day and head back to the house to review our case and decide our next step. JT drove, as always. I rode shotgun. For the first half of the ride, we were both quiet, lost in our thoughts.
I broke the silence with a question that had been weighing heavily on my mind. “You are going to behave yourself tonight, aren't you?”
JT looked slightly wounded by my question. “Of course, I am. I always behave myself. What are you trying to say?”
Uncomfortable with the conversation—I am so bad at confrontation—I shifted nervously in my seat. “I'm trying to say the house is wired. You told me that yourself. And there will be—how many, dozens?—of people listening in on our conversations.”
“I guess you'd better keep that in mind then. No dirty talk.” He winked.
I smacked him. I think he liked it. So I smacked him again, harder. “I'm being serious here. You're an agent. I'm an intern. There are rules about that kind of thing.”
The car rolled to a stop as we hit a wall of rush-hour traffic. He gave me what could probably pass for a reassuring look. The slightly evil gleam in his eye was the only thing that spoiled the effect. “I told you, the chief said she doesn't care what we do in our personal relationships, as long as we don't bring it into the office.”
“And you think having our personal conversations taped isn't ‘bringing it into the office'?”
The car in front of us moved a foot. JT inched the car forward. “There are ways to avoid having any condemning conversations being taped. Even though we stepped up the security, we didn't bug
every
room.” JT and the lady in the Mercedes on our right exchanged impolite gestures. Evidently, she thought our lane belonged to her, and she didn't appreciate the fact that we were in her way. “Oh, and by the way, we didn't just wire the house with microphones. We also planted cameras.”
“Of course, you did.” I was suddenly feeling a little exposed. I imagined a dozen people gawking at me as I shaved my legs this morning. My stomach twisted into a knot. “Please tell me there's no camera in the bathroom.”
JT blocked the Mercedes from moving into our lane again. “There's no camera in the bathroom.” He gunned the engine, closing the distance between our bumper and the van in front of us.
“Thank God.” I braced my hands against the dash, preparing for impact.
JT stomped on the brake just as we were about to slam into the van. I exhaled for the first time in minutes. He said, “The equipment's mostly set around doors and windows, access points to the interior. There are also some in the main living area and the bedroom, where you were sleeping last night.”
“You said, ‘mostly.'”
“Yeah. We also put a camera in the basement and around the exterior. Nobody's getting in without being caught on camera.” He checked his rearview mirror, jerked the steering wheel, and then hit the gas, sending us lurching into the left lane, which was moving a little faster. Our speed bumped up to ten miles per hour instead of five.
Despite JT's aggressive driving, my gut untwisted. There was no way I'd be surprised by a nighttime visitor again. “That part is reassuring.”
“So, you see, that leaves plenty of other rooms where we can have a conversation without having to worry about eyes and ears.”
My gut twisted back into the knot. “That may be, but ...”
The car rolled to a stop once again, and JT looked at me. “What are you worried about, Sloan?”
I met his gaze and my heart did a little flip-flop. What was I worrying about? JT was incredibly good-looking, and he seemed to like me. No, he seemed to do more than that. He'd held me so tightly last night, like a man who was worried. He comforted me. He protected me. He was the perfect man. And yet, I had a very good reason for being cautious. Not only was I worried about what a relationship with JT might do to my professional reputation, but I was bothered about something else, something I couldn't quite put my finger on.
“This wouldn't be the first time an agent and an intern hooked up.” The car in front of us surged forward, and JT hit the gas. The car smoothly accelerated as the traffic cleared at last.
I turned to stare out the window. “I'm sure it's not the first time.” Maybe that was what I was worried about. JT was so flirtatious, charming, and handsome—surely, he'd had this opportunity before. Probably he had a new intern every summer. A new plaything. “Would it be the first time for you?” I asked, hoping he'd say yes; and hoping, if he did say yes, that he was telling me the truth.
“ No.”
I felt like I'd been kicked in the gut. “I was afraid of that,” I mumbled.
“What do you think of me?”
I didn't answer. I didn't want to tell him, partly because it seemed so easy to think a certain way about him, but it wouldn't be easy to say the words. We were getting closer to the house, and soon we'd be under the watchful eye of a team of FBI agents and their little techy whatchamacallits.
JT poked my knee. “Let me guess, you think I chase all the interns, drag them into my bed, use them mercilessly, and break their hearts.” It wasn't a question. It was a statement. One said with absolutely no hint of malice.
“Well ...”
“It's not like that. There was one. Only one. It was my first month out of the academy. And it almost got me fired.”
“And you think it's a good idea goofing around with me? The way I see it, that's one for one. 100%. You've only been an agent for a year.”
JT checked the traffic in the right rearview mirror and cut across two lanes to catch our exit ramp. At the stop sign at the end of the ramp, he said, “That just goes to show you... . This isn't something I jump into lightly. I care about you.”
He cared about me? He
cared.
A part of me knew that. It was the way he held me when I was scared. But hearing the words did something to my insides. I didn't know how to respond. Men didn't say those words very often. Especially to me. They might flirt. They might tease. They might marvel at my math skills or compliment my knowledge of comparative biology. But they didn't say they
cared
about me. “I ... uh ...” Did he really mean it? I looked at him.
He was driving now, eyes on the road, but he slanted them my way for a moment. Our gazes snagged. I saw no hint of deception. In fact, I could swear I spied something else—vulnerability ? His gaze snapped back to the road before I could figure it out.
 
 
Neither of us said anything for the rest of the drive.
He parked the car in the attached garage. I shuffled around the car, brushing past him as he pulled the door leading into the house open for me. I mumbled, “Thanks”; then I headed for the kitchen. My cell phone rang.
“Hi, Mom,” I said, looking at the caller ID.
“Hi, honey.” That voice wasn't Mom's. She was a female. The voice definitely belonged to a male. The hairs on my arms stood on end.
“Who is this?” I snapped. I glanced around, looking for JT. Where'd he go?
“It's okay. It's just me, Gabe.”
“You?” I sagged against the kitchen counter. “How did you get my mom's phone number to show up on my caller ID?”
“Shush. Just listen. Are there ears listening in?”
“Uh, maybe.”
“Okay, just keep talking like I'm your mother.”
“Sure, Mom,” I said, wondering if his cover wasn't already blown.
He continued, “I didn't want my phone number showing on your phone. In case ... well, in case something comes up. I used a spoofing service. Any word on the sample?”
“No, Mom.” I checked the clock. I'd forgotten all about it. JT had said it would be done by now, but he hadn't mentioned it today. I wondered if that whole thing had been a lie, a way to get the sample back for the chief. “I'll have to check into that for you.”
“I think someone's hiding something.”
“It's possible.” I dug out a diet cola from the back of the refrigerator.
“Be careful. I'm not sure we can trust any of them. Something's fishy about this whole thing.”
“Please don't worry about me, Mom. I'll be fine.” Suddenly I wasn't so sure about that. I wanted to know what was making Gabe think the way he did, but I didn't want to ask when I was standing in the kitchen, where there were cameras and microphones to catch my every word. I headed toward the nearest bathroom, around the corner, off the narrow hallway leading to the front foyer. “There's someone staying with me in the house now.”
“Who?”
“A nice agent. He's ... being a gentleman. Don't worry.”
“Let me guess. It's
JT
?”
What was that I heard in Gabe's voice? “Yes, that's the one.” I closed myself in the bathroom—smaller than the coat closet in the foyer—and turned on the water.
“What's that noise?”
“Running water. I don't want anyone to overhear me.” I cupped my hand around my phone and spoke softly.
“Good idea.”
“Why did you say this looks fishy? Is something going on that I'm not seeing? Everyone seems to be working hard, trying to solve the cases.”
“Yeah, they do.”
“And they have a lot to prove, because the PBAU is sort of a joke to the people who know about it.”
“Sure.”
“So what's wrong? Are they keeping you at a distance, withholding evidence?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Then what is it?”
“I don't know. I can't say exactly.”
“I think you've been hanging around my mother too much.”
“I haven't seen your mother in years.”
I heard something outside the bathroom, footsteps, a thump. “I need to go.”
“Be careful, Sloan. You and I have had our issues, but I've always respected you. Hell, I've admired you for years, if you want to know the truth. I would hate to see something happen to you.”
Was this the day for men to make surprising confessions, or what? “Thanks. That's very touching.”
“I don't trust JT. There's something about him.”
“Yeah, well, I don't either. Not 100%. But I also know there are cameras all over this place, and a team of men outside watching the feed. Nobody's doing anything to me without them knowing about it.”
“Okay.”
JT knocked. “Sloan, are you okay?”
“I'm fine. Just talking to my mother.”
“Call me if you need anything.”
“Will do.” I cut off the call. Then, because I was in the bathroom, I checked myself in the mirror. I decided I looked good, which was probably a bad thing, and stuffed my cell phone in my pocket.
JT was leaning against the wall when I exited. “Everything okay?”
“Yes. That was my mom. She's not used to me being away from her like this.”
“She relies upon you.”
“Maybe a little.”
He gave me a knowing look.
“How much do you know about my family?” I asked.
“Enough to appreciate the fact that you're not telling the whole truth.”
I felt my cheeks heating and tried to hide my embarrassment and discomfort with a little dose of sarcasm. “Sheesh. What happened to confidentiality?”
“What I know I didn't get from a bureau file.”
“Oh.”
He moved toward the bathroom. “Come here.”
I watched as he filled the diminutive space with his bulk. I didn't follow him into the bathroom. There wasn't room. “Um ... I don't think we're both going to fit.”

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