The Perfect Husband (38 page)

“What if he uses the safe house as a ruse? The police are watching me in it, so he seizes the opportunity to get you. That would be something he'd do.”

“Absolutely.” Quincy thrummed the table with his fingers. “I'll be in the surveillance van with Lieutenant Houlihan for most of the watch. They can guard my back.”

“Snipers?” J.T. quizzed. “Three's nothing for a town.”

“Williamstown is small,” Lieutenant Houlihan interjected. “You can walk from one end of it to the other in just twenty minutes. Basically it's a collection of old buildings that make up Williams College, with some historic storefronts for the tourists. Tess's house is on Elm Street, ten minutes from Main Street. The whole block is old, restored row houses. We'll position the snipers on the corners, providing aerial coverage of the street.”

“One corner will be uncovered.”

“True, but visibility is pretty good. We'll put one guy mid-block on the right with the other two on the left-hand corners, forming a triangle around Tess's house. It should keep the roof clean.”

“And the officers on duty?” J.T. persisted skeptically. It was obvious he didn't think much of the police or their efforts.

“We'll have a main surveillance van, two unmarked cars, and three pairs of cops walking the city. It's a college campus with a lot of young coeds. We'll warn everyone of the danger and maintain a strong police presence throughout the campus. Williams College security and the local police will also provide regular patrols.”

“Uh-huh. Won't a surveillance van parked outside the house be a bit obvious?”

“It won't be on Elm. Arnold, Hall, Maple, and Linden all intersect. We'll pick one of the streets as a starting point and move around between them.”

“Why are you so sure he'll come?” Marion pressed no one in particular. “It's the way you caught him the first time, so he knows it's risky. Two, it doesn't fit his pattern. JIM BECKETT WAS HERE or JIM WAS NUMBER ONE makes sense. JIM BECKETT WAS W? I don't see how it can fit.”

“He'll come,” Tess said.

“Because he's deteriorating?”

“Because he always finishes what he starts,” Tess murmured. “Always.”

Marion sat back. “I guess I just don't understand that kind of anger.”

“You can't,” Quincy spoke up. “You're a woman.”

When Marion tried to protest, Quincy waved her down tiredly. “I'm talking statistics, not chauvinism. Most serial killers are male. Maybe part of it's hormones, but certainly it's also behavioral. When men get angry, they are taught to lash out at others. When women get angry, they are taught to turn in on themselves. Quite simply, your mothers torment you and you become alcoholics or anorexics or suicide risks. You don't become killers.”

His gaze slid to Tess. He spoke matter-of-factly.

“Beckett will come, Ms. Williams. And when he does, it will be bloody.”

MARION WAITED FOR her brother and Tess to return to their motel before she made her move. It was after six, but the war room showed no sign of slowing down. Phones were ringing, operators answering. Lieutenant Houlihan was yelling at some young officer while simultaneously crunching Tums. The mood in the building was stark.

She kept walking, looking for a vacant interview room or forgotten corner. Instead, she ran into Officer Louis, a straw-haired kid who looked too much like Richie Cunningham for his own good. He spotted her coming, froze, and gulped noticeably.

She'd run into him earlier that day. Perhaps someday he'd be a good police officer, but personally she thought he had the spine of a jellyfish. In turn, he seemed to view her as the human equivalent of a black widow spider, waiting to seduce him into answering her questions, at which time she would calmly bite off his head to complete the mating.

“I'm looking for Special Agent Quincy.”

Officer Louis couldn't get the words out. He backed against the wall and pointed down the hallway. Shaking her head, Marion walked past him. His sigh of relief was audible.

She found Quincy sequestered in his own little space, surrounded by crime scene photos. He didn't look up right away. She used the opportunity to glance at the color photographs. They didn't appear to be from Jim Beckett's files. Most of these victims were middle-aged women. They'd been carved up brutally by a serrated knife.

Quincy sifted through them one by one, as though he were shuffling a deck of cards. At long last he sighed, shook his head, and finally set them down, clearly not having found what he was seeking.

“Another case, sir?” she asked respectfully. She'd automatically assumed a cadet's stance, legs apart, shoulders square, hands behind her back.

“Santa Cruz,” he muttered, his gaze still on the photos. “Can you believe that at one time Santa Cruz was the serial killer capital of the world with three active murderers? Now we have another there. It makes you wonder what's in the water.”

He pushed back from the rickety table. Marion could see the exhaustion deeply stamped into his face. His hand was rubbing the back of his neck.

“And her?” Marion asked, suddenly feeling too unnerved to state her real purpose for finding him. She gestured to the framed portrait of a smiling brunette.

“Oh, her? My wife. I mean ex-wife.” He smiled ruefully. “Divorce came through a few weeks ago. I guess I'm still adjusting. I've always traveled with her picture, you know. Set it up in every cheap motel and overheated police station in the country. Now I find I can't work without it. Silly, isn't it?”

Marion shifted, even more discomfited by this personal insight. “Not really, sir. My… uh, my husband and I recently split as well. After ten years. It's a big adjustment.”

“Hard to be married and be an agent.”

“That's what everyone says.”

He smiled. “It is a platitude, isn't it?”

“I don't know, sir.”

They drifted into silence, but it was too unsettling for both of them. “What can I help you with, Agent?” Quincy asked briskly.

“I… I want to speak with you about my role in this case.”

“Your role? You're not even officially on this case, Agent. So far your involvement is due to circumstance, not assignment.”

“I understand. I would like to change that if it's possible. I've been interested in this kind of work for a long time.”

“I pulled your file.”

Marion waited patiently.

“You have a good record. Seems that you can be rigid at times, but you keep a cool head and have above-average analytics.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“But from what I could tell, your experience is in white-collar crimes, mostly bank frauds—”

“There have been some homicides,” she interjected. “Deals gone bad, informants who were found out, that kind of thing.”

“But always in conjunction with a fraud case.”

“Dead is dead, sir. They were connected with our work, crime scene came under our jurisdiction, and we got to figure out who killed them.”

“The Investigative Support Unit is different, Agent. It's all we do. A typical cop may see a gruesome murder two or three times a year. They might see a serial killer once in their
career
.” Quincy gestured to the pictures spread out on the table. “This is all I see. One hundred and fifty cases of killing, rape, child molestation, and kidnapping. I deal only with the extremes, day in, day out. On the road, in the office, this is it.”

“I understand.”

“I would be lying if I said it didn't get to you.”

Her chin came up. “I think I can handle it, sir.”

“I don't think you know what ‘it' is.”

“Is it because I'm a woman?”

“Don't insult me, Agent.” His voice held clear warning. She persisted anyway.

“You talk statistics, sir. Well, the Bureau statistics show that female agents are disproportionately assigned to white-collar cases and not homicides.”

“That's the Bureau. We have female profilers in the Investigative Support Unit — and they're damn good. And you're not them, Agent. They paid their dues. They served as cops, forensics pathologists, or criminologists. They all joined with extensive homicide experience. If you're serious about the ISU, talk to your director about getting on some different cases. Prove yourself in the kiddie pool before you jump into the ocean.”

“I have this opportunity now.” Her voice was steady but her eyes burned. She was being put in her place and she hated it. Sometimes it seemed her whole life had been spent being put in her place by men who should've known better. Who should've trusted her more.

“I have some ideas,” she persisted.

“Agent—”

“Just hear me out. I looked at Jim Beckett's file. I've spoken to Tess Williams at length. I think it's clear, I think it's obvious, Jim Beckett must have an accomplice. You said he can't go long without female companionship. Tess also stated that he charms and seduces women as a hobby. I think there is someone helping him with everything, someone who helped him two and a half years ago, when he disappeared for the first time. And I think I may know how to find that person.”

Quincy appeared skeptical but he didn't interrupt.

She kept talking before she lost her courage. “Let's assume for a moment that the woman isn't a random stranger but someone he's known for a while. That means he would need to maintain the relationship even while in prison.”

“Shelly Zane was his only visitor ever logged.”

“Yes, but what about
called
? I checked with Walpole. Beckett was a model prisoner. He didn't have any disciplinary tickets written up, and as a ‘ticket free' maximum security inmate, he was entitled to four phone calls a month, up to thirty minutes apiece.”

“I know, Agent. And as you must have found out from Walpole, those calls are monitored. Prisoners must file all numbers with security to be approved. They don't even get to dial. The guard brings the phone down to the cell, plugs it in, places the phone call, and then passes the phone through the window for the inmate to pick up. A four-digit security code has to be entered for any number to go through, so the prisoner can't try to covertly hang up and dial a different number. Any sign of two-way calling, and the phone automatically disconnects. The system is pretty rigid, and we checked Beckett's numbers. He called Shelly Zane about twice a month and his lawyer for the other calls.”

“I know, sir,” Marion forced herself to say patiently. “I did look into the matter. I know two-way calling shuts off the phone, but what about call forwarding?”

“Who would forward a call for a prisoner?”

“Shelly Zane.”

Quincy was silent for a moment. Then he blinked his eyes. “I don't know if Zane has call forwarding.”

“She does. I checked. She used it a lot. In the last two years calls were forwarded to two hundred and forty-seven different numbers. I compiled a list.”

Slowly Quincy nodded. “We should look into that. We can ask Houlihan to have Task Force A start in on it immediately. They could use a few good leads.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“You can sit in the surveillance van with Houlihan and me,” he said abruptly. “If there's action, you'll see it.”

“What about assisting Team A?”

“That would be stepping on the team leader's toes, Agent. First thing you learn in crossjurisdictional investigations — don't step on local law enforcement's toes.”

Marion knew a lecture when she heard one. “I would like to sit in the van. Thank you, sir.”

“Then it's settled. You may not agree, but even being invited to take part in surveillance on this kind of case is a huge responsibility. Don't blow it.”

His tone was curt and dismissive. His attention was already returning to his gruesome stack of photos, and it was clear he didn't want to speak to her anymore.

She nodded her head once and left. Her throat was thick with frustration. She had wanted more. More praise for her ideas, more inclusion into the male-dominated world of violent crime. More recognition that she was smart, savvy, and capable. Instead, she'd been dressed down as thoroughly as any rookie, then tossed a bone to keep her from whining too much.

She thought Quincy was wrong. She had her own opinions, her own ideas. And she was suddenly sick of spending her life playing by other people's rules.

Opportunities were not given. They were made.

She knew how she would make hers.

THE PHONE RANG in the motel room. Tess snatched up the receiver.

“Yes?” Her voice was hopeful. Lieutenant Houlihan had told her he would call if they learned anything about Sam. Tess had been staring at the phone for the last two hours as the sun had sunk, the room had darkened, and she and J.T. had become too weary to even snap on a light.

“Oh, hi, Marion.” Her shoulders slumped. “No, we're fine here. It's just a motel, you know how motels are. It does have a pool, so J.T. got to swim. I don't think it helped much. He's about to wear a hole in the carpet. Do you want to speak to him?”

J.T. halted mid-stride. The look on his face was wary and torn.

Tess held out the phone to him. Marion's answer had equaled his expression. At least they were both trying.

“Hello?” J.T. said carefully. “No, it's fine. Tess is playing solitaire, I'm going insane. The usual.” He nodded his head and just listened for a bit. “He wasn't the right one for you,” he said finally. He sounded awkward. “You'll… you'll find someone else. Someone better. It's tough. I know. But there are other fish in the sea, you know?” His gaze rested on Tess.

After another few minutes he said good-bye and hung up. He resumed pacing immediately.

“Is she okay?” Tess asked quietly.

“The divorce papers arrived today. Her housekeeper called her with the news.”

“Oh,” Tess said with feeling. “That must be very difficult. Especially now, with everything else going on.”

J.T. nodded, but she couldn't read his expression.

“It was good that she called, J.T. She's reaching out to you.”

“Yeah.” He was silent for a moment. “I'm not good at this.”

“You're doing fine.”

“I don't know what I'm supposed to say.”

“No one does. Have you ever tried explaining to a four-year-old that her father's an ax murderer? In the end, we all make it up as we go along.”