Twisted (32 page)

This guy was slick. Damien probably thought stonewalling investigators would help him avoid his brother’s fate.

“Thompson’s statement is crystal clear,” Ric said. “He specifically remembers loaning Damien the van right before Halloween because his wife was nagging him about getting some folding tables out of there that she needed for a Halloween party.”

“I thought the van was registered to his business?” This from Jonah, who was camped at the other end of the table with a can of Red Bull. It had been a grueling afternoon filled with statements and phone calls and paperwork, and no one had stopped even to eat.

“I talked to the owner,” Ric said. “He’s got two pickups he uses for glass and tile deliveries. The van’s old and originally belonged to his wife. He had the seats in back removed and now he uses it for hauling stuff he doesn’t want to get wet—drywall, carpet, that sort of thing.”

“And Mia’s already started on it?” Mark asked.

“She took some swabs of the blood we found. Says she should have something as early as Friday. Roland’s
already been over it looking for trace evidence he might match to Jordan Wheatley’s clothes.”

“Who’s Roland?” Mark asked as his phone buzzed inside his pocket.

“Tracer over at Delphi,” Jonah said. “Allison asked him to do us a favor and run the clothes. He found glass dust that linked back to Thompson’s business, which was how we knew to look there in the first place.”

Mark’s phone buzzed again, and he checked the screen. Quantico. He stepped out of the room to take the call.

“Just saw your mug on CNN,” Rob Doretti said by way of greeting.

“What’s going on?” Mark asked him. No way had the Bureau’s deputy director called to congratulate him on his TV appearance. Doretti had a deep dislike for the media spotlight and encouraged his agents to avoid it at all costs.

“Your buddy Ahmed’s come up again,” he said, referring to a homegrown jihadist Mark had interviewed several months ago. “We’ve matched his saliva to some letters sent last spring to the vice president. Director’s going apeshit, wants to make sure he’s not acting on behalf of Al Qaeda.”

Ahmed sending letters. It was an interesting development, but Mark didn’t have time for it at the moment. Of course, if the director was going “apeshit,” he should at least pretend to care.

“I explained in my report, Ahmed’s a lone operator.” Mark stepped away from the door, although no one seemed to be eavesdropping. The San Marcos station
house had been a hive of activity ever since word of this afternoon’s arrest had hit the news. “I spent two full days with the man. He’s been diagnosed with bipolar disorder and has delusions of grandeur. Any ties he has to Al Qaeda are wishful thinking on his part.”

“Well, he’s not completely incompetent,” Doretti said. “He managed to construct a pipe bomb and plant it in a major shopping mall, didn’t he? The director’s worried that’s just the tip of the iceberg.”

Allison crossed the bullpen with a determined stride, headed straight for her lieutenant’s office. She ducked her head in and said something, then went to her desk and picked up the phone.

“I’m not worried,” Mark said. “We’ve had agents turning his life inside out for six months. No one’s turned up a shred of evidence that connects him to Al Qaeda or any other terrorist group.”

Mark watched Allison’s back as she listened to her voice mail. She’d managed to get a shower, he noted. She wore fresh clothes and had her hair slicked back in a ponytail. Mark moved into an empty interview room where he wouldn’t be tempted to stare at her in front of all her coworkers.

“Well, I’m glad you’re convinced, but the director wants a meeting,” Doretti was saying. “We need you here at nine tomorrow.”

“I’ve still got to interview Damien Moss.”

“Can’t the locals handle it?”

“It’s a tricky interview.”

“You’ll have to go back for it. Anyway, he lawyered up, didn’t he? Thought I saw that on CNN.”

“I still want a crack at him. Deep down, this guy’s itching to brag. With the right kind of pressure, I think I can get a confession.”

“Get it next week, then. Nine a.m. tomorrow, I need you outside the director’s office with an updated report in hand.”

Mark was cornered. When the director got an idea in his head, only carefully presented logic backed up by copious amounts of data could sway his opinion.

“I’ll catch the last flight out.” Mark clicked off and muttered a curse.

“Can I talk to you?”

He turned to see Allison standing in the doorway with her arms folded over her chest. He wondered how much she’d heard.

“I know you’re busy,” she said. “I just need a minute.”

“Sure. I was just about to go get a drink.”

She gave him a baleful look, but he ignored it and led her to the break room, where he figured the odds of her wanting to have a personal discussion were much lower.

He took out his wallet and bought a Coke he didn’t want. Then he turned to face her, all too aware that this was the first time they’d had alone together since their half-naked argument Tuesday morning.

“What’s on your mind?”

Despite his “stay away” body language, she stepped closer and leaned against the Formica counter. He had a flashback of her perched on her kitchen countertop, unknotting his tie.

“I just wanted to say thank you,” she said.

“For what?”

“For not telling Reynolds what happened at the
prison. It means a lot that you listened to me. You seemed very upset the other night.” She watched him closely. “I wasn’t sure you were listening.”

Mark made a conscious effort not to shift on his feet. The other night he’d listened to everything—her sighs, her moans, her breathy voice telling him she wanted to be on top. The only thing he hadn’t listened to was his conscience.

He’d messed up. And the evidence of his mistake was right here watching him with that hint of hope in her eyes. No matter how illogical it was, she thought they had a future together and she was here to argue her point.

And the twisted thing? He wanted to hear her. Some part of him wanted to hear her beg him for something he knew damn well would never work because he needed the stroke to his ego more than he needed not to hurt her.

“So, anyway, thank you. It means a lot.”

“You’re welcome.”

She tipped her head to the side and looked up at him. “You know, there’s something I’ve been wondering. When did you last take some time off?”

The question surprised him. “I took some vacation a few years ago.”

“How much?”

“A couple days for some legal proceedings.” At her quizzical look, he went on. “Trisha and I decided to go the mediation route so we could keep things private and not waste all the money on lawyers.”

“You took a vacation to get
divorced
?” She moved closer and plunked a hand on her hip. “Mark.” Her gaze raked over him, and his pulse automatically picked up.
“I know you take care of your physical health. But what about the rest of it?”

He stared at her.

“You’re the expert in psychology. You shouldn’t need
me
to tell you what chronic stress can do to you.”

He felt like he was in the Twilight Zone. This wasn’t at all what he’d thought she wanted to talk about. He was even less comfortable with this topic than he would have been with a relationship talk.

“I’m fine,” Mark said. “And this is not something you need to worry about.”

“You’re right. You don’t have anyone who needs to worry about you, and maybe that’s part of the problem. But someone has to tell you this because you’re obviously blind to what you’re doing.”

“And what am I doing?”

“Buying a one-way ticket to Burnoutville. What is this compulsion you have to be a martyr for the FBI? What good is it to the Bureau or your cases or
any
one if you have a meltdown and quit?”

He laughed. “I don’t have meltdowns. And I don’t quit.”

“Are you sure? Because you seem very stressed out to me, and I think—no, I
know
—that if you keep on this path like some sort of robot, this career you’ve sacrificed so much for is going to suffer just as much as your personal life.” She stepped even closer, and he could smell the shampoo she used, and he was flooded with memories of being in bed with her.

Mark glanced through the doorway at the crowded bullpen. How had this conversation gotten so derailed? He didn’t want to talk about this here. Or anywhere.

He looked at Allison again and she seemed to be waiting for a response.

“I’m flying out tonight,” he said abruptly. “I’ve got a meeting at nine tomorrow with the director.”

“The director.” Her eyebrows arched. “Of the
FBI
?”

Mark didn’t answer. Instead, he watched her, looking for signs of disappointment because he’d crushed any hopes she might be harboring for a private good-bye. Or maybe he was the one harboring hopes. But this way was better. He felt relieved.

He also felt a stab of panic, and he wasn’t sure why.

“So that’s it?” she asked. “You’re just going to take off in the middle of everything, leaving us high and dry?”

“It’s not the middle. We’ve got our UNSUB in custody.”

“Yeah, but the work is just beginning. We need to interview him. What if there are more victims?” Her cheeks were getting flushed with emotion. “There could be bodies we don’t even know about. We need him to talk to us.”

“I’ll be back to help.”

“When?”
she asked. It was a simple question, but he didn’t have an answer.

“We need you here now, Mark. These early days are critical. What if he digs in and decides never to talk? And what about Jordan?”

“What about her?”

She gaped at him. “Aren’t you planning to circle back with her?”

Mark understood where this emotion was coming from. This wasn’t about Jordan at all. This was about Allison not wanting to accept the fact that he had to leave. And damn it, he’d seen this coming.

“My God, we invited ourselves into that woman’s home and made her relive the most traumatic event of her life so we could get a lead in this case,” she said. “Don’t you think we owe it to her to sit down with her again and tell her how it turned out? You’re obligated to—”

“I’m not obligated to anyone,” he snapped. “My obligation is to my job.”

She pulled back, stung. For a moment she simply stared at him, absorbing the subtext of what he’d said.

“Thanks
so much
for clearing that up.” She walked to the doorway and gave him a long look over her shoulder. “Good-bye, Mark. Don’t be late for that flight.”

Randy’s was packed, especially for a Wednesday night. Weeks’ worth of pent-up stress and frustration were being let loose as task force members traded jokes, slapped backs, and clinked bottles to celebrate a job well done.

Allison had managed to snag a stool at the bar, but she wasn’t feeling very celebratory. Instead, she felt flat. Disappointed. And lonelier than she could ever remember feeling in her life, which was ironic because she was surrounded by some of her closest friends.

“Hey, Ace. What gives? Thought you’d be tying one on tonight.” Sean sidled up next to her and rested an elbow on the bar.

“I am.” Allison lifted her beer and gave his bottle a halfhearted tap.

“
Light
beer? What happened to Jack and Coke?” He glanced past Allison and winked at Kelsey. “She’s going soft on us, Kels. We need to get this girl out more.”

A warm hand settled on Allison’s shoulder and she turned to see Roland standing behind her.

“I hear congrats are in order.” He smiled. “Rumor is you guys made your collar.”

“Allison made it,” Sean said. “Moss never knew what hit him. Arrested by a ho.”

Roland grinned. “I heard. And
that
is something I would have liked to see.” He squeezed her shoulder. “Hey, where’s your fed?”

Allison traded looks with Kelsey. She never should have come out tonight, but she’d had the misguided idea that a crowded bar would take her mind off Mark.

“Just girls tonight,” Kelsey said.

“Man, he cut out on you again?” Roland pretended to be offended. “He worked the case and didn’t even stick around for the party?”

“He had to get back to Quantico,” Allison said. “Said to tell you thanks, though, for your help running that evidence for us.” She clinked his bottle in a lame attempt to be festive.

“All in a day’s work.” Roland eyed her sharply as he tipped his beer back. Allison recognized the look. But he played it cool and shifted his focus to Kelsey.

“Haven’t seen you here in a while, either. What have you been doing with yourself?”

“Working, mostly,” Kelsey said.

“Well, it’s good to see y’all out. You ladies work too hard.” He nodded at Sean. “Make the rest of us look bad. Yo, Sean, how ‘bout some pool? Allison and I versus you and Kelsey.”

“I’m game.”

Kelsey glanced at Allison and then smiled at Sean. “We just ordered another round,” she lied. “You guys go ahead.”