Zack is back behind the wheel. He smiles. Nope.
His manner is more relaxed. He seems to have shaken off the effects of his encounter with the woman in the parking lot.
So, how do you know your way around San Diego so well?
Long story. Ill tell you about it sometime. Right now I want to know your reaction to Haskell.
Smart. Efficient. All business. But her feelings for Amy are real. Shes worried. And it goes beyond her own self-interest in a business that appears to be doing very well.
We should look into the gallerys financials, as well as Amys and her own.
I put in a call to the office and let Johnson know what we need. He says hell get the warrants and put one of our people right on it.
I disconnect. How do you know so much about art? I ask when Ive slipped my cell back into my handbag.
I know a little about a lot of things, he answers.
Did you really like Amys paintings?
You didnt?
By now were making good time. Zack has navigated his way out of La Jolla, and Interstate 5 is wide open.
Give me Giorgiones Sleeping Venus or Hedas Breakfast. I sigh. Thats art.
He laughs. You realize most people our age dont even know who the Old Masters are?
Our age? I stifle a snort.
Age has nothing to do with preference. Its what I say, but actually, it does. I was living in Europe during the fourteenth through eighteenth centuries. While the art was magnificent, living conditions were decidedly not.
Ten minutes later weve pulled off the highway and I sit quietly with my thoughts as Zack winds through the maze of one-way streets downtown. Were not so lucky in finding a parking spot this time. It takes several turns around the block before we spy a driver pulling out of a metered space. Fortunately, we manage to snag it before anyone else.
I look up at the building while Zack feeds quarters into the meter. Nice digs.
Its an upscale condo complex, lots of glass, very modern in design. We let ourselves in through a locked entry with one of the keys on the ring Haskell gave us. Theres a concierge desk, unoccupied at the moment, so we walk straight to the elevators. Amy lives on one of the top floors, requiring use of another key to gain access.
Secure building, I note.
Maybe not secure enough.
The elevator opens and we realize there are only two residences on the floor. Amys is to the left. Zack unlocks the door. We pause for a moment to don gloves, then step inside.
My first impression is that Amy must make a good living with her art. The layout of her apartment is open, airy, with windows overlooking the city and the bay beyond. I take mental inventory. Theres a small kitchen and a dining area just to the left of the entryway. There are no dishes in the sink, nothing on the table or on the counters. I open one after another of the cupboards. A few cups and glasses. A set of dishes. No food. Not even crackers or a box of cereal. The refrigerator contains bottled water.
Zack is looking over my shoulder. She must order in a lot.
Like me, I think.
I look for and find a trash can under the sink. Its empty with a fresh liner.
Someone tidied up.
Haskell? Zack asks. She said she hadnt touched anything.
I move on to the living room. Amys furniture is plain, functional. A couch and a love seat arranged to take advantage of the views. No television or other electronics. I wander over to the windows. There are no curtains or screens. The bay sparkles in the distance and I watch a plane dip into position to land at the airport just visible to the right. The streets below are dotted with houses and other apartment buildings. The city lights must be spectacular at night.
Zack joins me, follows my line of sight across the street.
You thinking what Im thinking? I ask him.
Zack nods. There is one building across the way that looks into this apartment. Maybe someone saw something the day Amy disappeared.
Theres a remote lying on a small table near the windows. It seems out of place since theres no television or stereo in the room. I pick it up, press a button. The window brightens, as if a shield had been lifted.
So much for interviewing the neighbors, Zack says. Ive heard of these windows. Highly energy-efficient. And impossible to see in from the outside. Appears Amy really did value her privacy.
I step toward a closed set of doors. They open onto a bedroom. Theres a queen-sized bed, dresser, walk-in closet. The top of the dresser is bare except for three pictures in silver frames. I recognize Amy in one of themthe one the police copied for her missing persons report. Its an outdoor shot, probably professional, judging from the way the background has been blurred to emphasize a pretty thirtysomething redhead with laughing green eyes and an impish smile.
The second is a picture of an older couple taken on what looks like the front porch of a comfortable suburban home. I hold the picture up to Zack. Her parents?
Probably. And this one. He points to the third picture. Its an informal shot of Haskell and Patterson. They have their arms around each others waists and are grinning into the camera. In the foreground is a birthday cake, ablaze with dozens of candles. Seems to lend credence to what Haskell told us about the two of them being friends.
I cross the room to peek into the bathroom. Towels are hung neatly, cosmetics lined up in orderly fashion next to a toothbrush holder.
What woman goes on a trip without her makeup or a toothbrush? Zack asks. Hes rejoined me and is looking over my shoulder into the bathroom.
From the way she looked this morning, certainly not his ex, I want to say. Instead I keep my mouth shut and shake my head.
Theres one room left and we check it out together.
Amys office is the only room that reflects more personality than orderliness. This is the room where she undoubtedly spends the bulk of her time. In it are two computers, a laptop and a desktop. Her desk is covered with unopened mail and stacks of magazines. The nearby floor-to-ceiling bookshelves contain everything from Nora Roberts to Nietzsche.
A woman of eclectic tastes, Zack says.
There are double doors at the back of the room that I assume is a closet. When I pull the doors open, however, I reassess my opinion that her office is where she spends her time.
This is the heart of Amy Pattersons home.
Its her studio.
Zack pushes past me. Look at this, he says with obvious appreciation. North light, high ceiling, expansive windows. Its the perfect setup.
For what?
For a studio. Zack stops in front of a large canvas spread in the middle of the floor. The northern exposure means the space is bright, but the light is even. Not shining directly onto the canvas or in the artists eyes.
So you know a little about art, huh?
This must be the last project she worked on. He squats down for a closer look.
I join him. All I see is an explosion of red in a pattern that resembles poppies, intertwined with blotches of bright blue, orange, and dribbles of yellow.
Its beautiful, Zack says. Primitive and alive. Soulful.
Yeah. Just what I was thinking. I stand back and let Zack continue his rapt study of the canvas. I move around the room looking for anything that might give us a clue as to what became of Amy. I stop in front of a credenza covered in plastic and topped with cans, bottles, and tubes of paint. There are brushes soaking in jars of some kind of oil. Others are standing upright in an old ceramic vase. A couple have been left to dry on the top of the workspace.
I pick one up. The bristles are stiff with red paint. The other one on the credenza is caked with orange.
Zack has come up behind me. He takes the brush from my hand. Remember when I asked what kind of woman would go on a trip without her makeup and toothbrush?
Yeah.
He turns the brush slowly in his hand. Well, what kind of artist walks out of her studio and leaves an expensive brush to dry without cleaning it first?
Im guessing the answers the same.
He returns to the painting. The canvas is stretched out on the floor, a taut plastic tarp underneath, anchored on the four corners with tacks. Theres a heavy blotch of bright red paint that bleeds from the corners of the canvas onto the tarp as if in her exuberance, Amy overshot her target. Its at these places that Zack focuses his attention. I remember what Haskell said about those short, intense brushstrokes. What Zack said about Amy being controlled and deliberate.
He looks up at me. Im going to call Forensics. I think there might be more than paint here.
CHAPTER 3
Zack and I are seated on an outside patio in a restaurant not far from Amys condo. Our forensics team is busy inside, and since we just seemed to be in the way, Zack and I left to grab lunch while we await their findings.
You really think there might be blood on the floor? I ask to break the silence thats fallen.
Zack takes a pull of his iced tea. I think its worth looking into. Call it a hunch.
Or a Were sensibility. Could it be Zack was able to smell two-week-old blood through the paint? If so, neat trick.
Silence descends once more. Weve exhausted the subject of the case. My choices are small talk or the topic weve been avoiding all day. I suck at small talk. So I drag in a deep breath and go for the second. Its lunchtime. Time for that awkward conversation you and I need to have.
Its hot. Zack and I have both shed our jackets. Our food has been in front of us for all of two minutes. Hes gone for a double portion of slaw with his pulled pork sandwich. Ive picked the corn on the cob and the onion rings. Admittedly the corn was a mistake. The kernels are shriveled like raisins from sitting in water for too long.
Zack makes a face. I was hoping youd forgotten. He scrunches his napkin into a ball and tosses it on the table. Looks like itll be an early dinner tonight. Next time, I pick the place.
Dont change the subject. What are you doing here?
Id say enjoying barbecue, but that would be a bald-faced lie. He pushes his plate back, then combs his fingers through his hair. I notice it looks a little lighter in the full sun.
I lean back in my chair and cross my arms over my chest. You know what I mean.
He sighs. Youre pissed.
You thought I wouldnt be?
He takes a bite of his sandwich and chews. Since hes so eloquently expressed his opinion of the food, I know hes stalling. Im not one of those people who feel the need to fill gaps of silence with needless chatter, so I just wait.
Finally he answers, I guess I hoped you wouldnt be. He leans forward, forearms on the table. I remember what you said about not being able to afford anything complicated. Ive played by your rules. No cards. No flowers. Theres a long pause and then he asks, I suppose its too much to hope for that youre pissed because I didnt send flowers?
Way too much to hope for. At the airport we agreed there wouldnt be any calls, any emails . . .
He nods. And there havent been. Look, I didnt come here with the expectation that wed pick up where we left off in Charleston. You made your feelings perfectly clear.
Im not sure I believe him, but I desperately want to. Then why are you here?
Zack wears a ring on his right hand. Its gold and reminiscent of a wedding band, engraved with a pattern resembling a tangle of thorns. He taps it three times on the table. Then the explanation comes out in a rush. Lets just say Ive been struggling with my career path.
Not the answer I was expecting. It brings a rush of relief right along with a not so surprising flash of disappointment.
Go on, I say.
After the case we worked in Charleston, there was a lot of pressure for me to join the hostage rescue team. It was like at the Academy, only worse.
I dont understand. What happened at the Academy?
He shrugs. My marksmanship scores were perfect. They recommended me for sniper training. Wanted me on the HRT then. Its not what I wanted.
Because?
I have my reasons. Can we just leave it at that?
I nod. For now. The guys in HRT are a tight-knit group. Itd be tough to hide going furry three nights a month in that environment. Thats reason enough for him to avoid the assignment. But Im somehow left with the impression its more than that.
Theres a moment of silence. I can tell hes searching for the right words.
Ive been struggling to find my place. Then I bumped into your boss at Quantico a few months ago. We had a couple beers. I asked about you. He mentioned your partner was leaving. I think my place is here. Youre the best field agent Ive ever met. I want to work with you again, Emma.
There are plenty of good agents. I lean forward and lower my voice. Ones you havent slept with.
He looks away briefly before responding. You might find this hard to believe, but I dont generally have trouble finding sexual companionship. Finding a partner that makes me better than I am alone? Thats far more difficult.
He says the word partner as though it means something special. Having worked alongside him, I dont doubt it does.
That month in Charleston, he continues, we were good together. Damned good. No one has closed as many cases in as little time as you. Youve got one of the best clearance records in the Bureau.
I brush off the compliment. Ive had some terrific partners. Ive been lucky.
Luck doesnt have anything to do with it. Ive seen you in action. The way you handled the Mason interrogation? It was magic.
Hes not wrong. It was magic. In part. After all, a Siren is a Siren. Every once in a while I step over the line, help things along, insinuate myself into the mind of someone in order to extract truth or exert influence. I did it with the case I worked with Zack. It was a kidnapping. We had a suspect, Mason. We were sure he was involved. Zack and I had been tag-teaming him and coming up empty. Hed been taking a hard line with the suspect. I suggested he give me a few minutes alone to play the sympathy card. Then I did what I had to do. I unleashed my gift and discovered the truth, the location of the missing child.
Risky? Yes. I never know when Demeter might be watching. She frowns on any use of my gift that might draw attention to an Immortal on Earth. Having power is a burden. Not using it, a constant struggle. Though each use of my magic risks Demeters wrath, finding one of the missing, saving them, tips the scales in my direction. A justified risk for the greater good. Necessary so that I can continue with the mission, so that I can bring another victim home, so that maybe, someday, I can go home.
Yes, youve discovered my deep, dark secret, Zack. When they get too close, tell the truth. Its too absurd for anyone, even a werewolf, to believe. Im really a goddess with special powers. You may now throw away your lucky rabbits foot. Stick with me and your next promotion is most certainly right around the corner. I punctuate my special brand of sarcasm with a very noisy slurp of tea.
Zacks not deterred in the least. Im not looking to get promoted, Emma. I belong in the field. I want to stay in the field.
Seriously?
He nods solemnly. Seriously.
Strange as it might seem to some, I understand that. Promotion is the furthest thing from my mind. Since joining the Bureau as Emma Monroe, Ive been fortunate enough to be paired with ambitious partners. Unlike them, I havent wanted to move up. My clearance record has benefited all of them as they climbed the Bureau ladder.
Zack may have alpha in him, but theres something else there, too. Hes ambitious and driven, but not for power or control. For what? I have no idea. Zack Armstrong is one complicated man.
I take another slurp of tea. So, how recently did you break up with your ex?
I cant tell if its the fact that I changed the subject or the question itself thats surprised him. Just as I reach the conclusion hes going to tell me to mind my own business, he comes out with her name.
Sarah. Her name is Sarah. Referring to her as an ex makes . . . whatever we had . . . seem more significant than it was. It was a thing. It was casual. Its over. End of story.
End of Zacks version. If she followed him from South Carolina, it couldnt have been that casual.
Okay. You want to work with me, find yourself a girlfriend. I gather up my plate and Zacks, stroll over to a nearby trash can, and toss it all in.
Zacks risen from his chair. Girlfriend? I havent had one of those since I was seventeen.
Somehow I find that hard to believe. Its a condition.
He frowns. Its a stupid condition.
I respond with a show of my hands, palms up to the universe in a take-it-or-leave-it gesture.
So, have I found myself a partner? He slides on his sports coat. We good?
Were good.
For now.
I make a quick stop in the break room and pour myself a cup of coffee. When I return to my desk, I find Zack looking happier than a kid on Christmas morning.
Check this out. They delivered everything on the supply list I sent. He is brandishing a pack of red gel pens in one hand and a pack of black in the other. Theres a pile of various-colored Post-its in front of him.
I slide into the chair at the desk across from his. Pens. Post-its. Very exciting.
You think thats exciting? Look at this.
Zacks fingers fly across the keyboard, and his computer comes alive. Im all hooked up.
I leave Zack fiddling with his computer and settle in to review the printout of Amys appointment calendar. From the way its laid out, Amy spent most days doing what she loved, painting. From time to time shed have a personal appointment in the afternoon. On occasion shed spend an hour or two meeting with someone at the gallery. Thanks to Haskells meticulous notes, we have not only a record of who Amy met with, but a summary of the meeting and what, if any, follow-up was needed. Haskell also added an addendum if a commission was accepted that specified details of the contract such as price to be paid, deadlines, and when that contract was filed.
I whistle softly.
Zack looks up. What?
You should see what Amy gets paid for some of her paintings. Twenty, twenty-five thousand. Apiece.
Told you she was good, Zack says. And shes just getting started.
I meet Zacks eyes. I just remembered something. A case I read about a few years back. An up-and-coming artist was murdered. The killer did it to increase the value of his own collection.
Cant rule anything out. Im thinking if that was the motive, though, wed have found a body. He turns back to his computer. The PD stored copies of Pattersons hard drives. Ive got her emails, browsing history, years worth of documents. He strikes a few more keys. And here are the financials on Amy, Haskell, and the gallery.
That was fast.
He talks as he scrolls. The gallery looks to be turning a nice profit. No red flags. Taxes collected and paid. Amy paid cash for her condo and a bundle to have the second unit converted for the studio. Otherwise, she lives pretty simply. There are some statements for a few personal investments, an IRA with a very nice balance, a smaller rainy-day savings account. Nothing unusual or out of proportion to what shes bringing in from her artwork. Haskells accounts are healthy, but again, not out of proportion to what she earns.
What about email? Browsing history?
Theres been a series of recent email discussions with Haskell about the New York exhibit. Theres a lot here to go through.
Send me the link. You take the documents. Ill take the emails and browsing history.
He nods. Fueled with caffeine, I go to work. The job is tedious. I spend two hours scanning emails, then another reviewing a long list of Web sites. I finally land on hers. Theres a link to her official Facebook page. There are hundreds of posts from worried friends.
By the time I look up, most of the other agents have left for the day. Ive gone back a full month. Theres nothing remarkable in her emails or her browsing history.
I have no idea why I wanted to work with you, Zack says, stretching his arms over his head. Clearly, you suck.
I wad up a scrap of paper thats on my desk and chuck it at him. He doesnt bother ducking. He just casually reaches up and plucks it out of the air. With Were reflexes, he probably could have done it with his eyes closed.
So, what have you got, hotshot?
Nothing concrete so far. Im going to put in a request for her cell records.
I nod. Good idea. Ill dig deeper into her calendar, put together a more comprehensive background check tonight.
So, how often do cases like this end up on your desk? People disappearing with no overt signs of foul play, no enemies, no ransom request, no apparent motive . . . ?
You know the drill. Its not a crime to go missing. There are fewer than two hundred reports filed in San Diego County each month. Seventy percent of those resolve with little to no effort within seventy-two hours. Run-of-the-mill cases barely get investigated by SDPD, never mind our unit.
So practically never?
Practically never.
Zack climbs to his feet. Well, I have to start someplace. Lets hope this Amy Patterson doesnt show up in two days with a hangover and a new husband.
And the blood in her apartment?
He pauses. Might not be a waste of time. . . . He grabs up his mug. Time for another cup of coffee. Want one?
No, thanks.
Zack heads for the break room. I go back to perusing Amys Facebook page. Its after six. I pull up the photo tab and stare at an image of Pattersons smiling face. Where are you? I ask, wishing I could compel the all-knowing Internet to reveal the answer.
I live in a converted carriage house in one of the oldest sections of town. I use the term house loosely. At less than four hundred and fifty square feet, the tiny structure is smaller than the hotel room Liz and I stayed in when we went to Dana Point on her last birthday for a spa weekend. Over the years Ive lived in many apartments this size in buildings that came with noisy and nosy neighbors.
The carriage house is in back of a larger estate in Mission Hills. The owners alternate between their homes in San Diego, Santa Fe, and Honolulu. When theyre absent, which is most of the time, I pick up their mail and water their plants. They love the idea that Im a federal agent. It makes them feel as though they have personal security on the grounds. I put on a show of walking the perimeter once a day, checking the inside when theyre absent. They let me occupy the carriage house for free.
No neighbors, noisy or nosy.
Its a sweet deal.
The first thing I do when I get home is fire up my laptop, which is currently on the dining room table. I have no designated workspace. I work anywhere and everywhere. The dining room, which is approximately ten by ten, is a stones throw to the kitchen, which is smaller. I make a beeline for the fridge, where theres a cold bottle of chardonnay waiting. After pouring myself a glass, I call Expressly Gourmet. Theyre a local delivery service that will pick up from more than a dozen restaurants. I have them on speed dial. Tonight Hector is taking orders. He recognizes my voice.
Emma! Whats up?
Not much. Whats the wait time for China Express?
We can pick up in twenty, have it to you ten minutes after that. Things are slow tonight. Hey, did you hear about that artist whos missing? Are you working the case?
Hector started as a delivery boy a couple of years ago, fresh out of high school. His first day on the job, I answered the door with my gun still clipped to my belt and made the mistake of explaining what I did for a living. I dont have to watch or read the news to keep up with the local crime scene. I just have to check in with Hector.
Yes.
Really? His voice goes up a notch. It occurs to me he always asks me if Im involved in the story of the day and its the first time Ive said yes. That pendejo on Fox is saying its all probably some scam to make money. I guess artists fake their own death all the time so that the demand for their stuff skyrockets. What do you think?
All the time? Quality journalism at its finest.
I cant talk about an ongoing investigation, but I agree wholeheartedly the guy on Fox is a pendejo. Ill take an order of spring rolls, pork fried rice, and the black pepper chicken.
Got it. Wait till I tell my mama youre working on the case. Shes gonna flip. Talk to you later.
Talk to you later. I always wonder if Hector ends every conversation that way, or if he reserves that close for customers who order practically every night, like me.
Like Amy.
A long shot butHector?
Still here.
Amy Patterson wasnt
He sighs. A customer? No. I checked. Just out of curiosity. He sounds disappointed.
Okay, Hector. Thanks.
I take my wine back to the dining room. French doors open onto a small deck where I have potted plants. I open them and take a moment to enjoy the evenings breeze. My thoughts drift to Zack. And how muchor how littleI really know about him. A temporary assignment is one thing. Now that hes my partner, the stakes are higher. Seconds later Im in front of my laptop poking around in his past, using the multitude of resources at my disposal to find out what I can about the Were Im going to be joined at the hip with for who knows how long.
There are the usual stats: hes thirty-two years old, six foot three, two hundred and ten pounds. His most recent fitness scores are off the charts. Not surprising. While in the Academy he achieved a perfect marksmanship score. Nothing I didnt already know. What I really want to know about is what he did before the Academy. Hed previously made reference to being a soldier. Id been under the impression hed served in the marines. But I cant find a matching service record. Maybe it was the Army? I go back to check out his SF-86, knowing it will be there from when he applied to the FBI Academy. There isnt one on record. Theres always an SF-86 on record. Something in it must be highly classified. But what?
Out of curiosity, I run his exs plate. Sarah Marie Louis. Also thirty-two. Born and raised in Hilton Head, South Carolina. No arrests. No warrants. Not even a traffic ticket. I check employment records and come up empty. The address on her drivers license is the same today as it was when she first got her permit at fifteen. I pull up an image of the house on satellite. Its a sprawling beachfront estate a stones throw from the Atlantic. A quick title search reveals it to be in the name of Charles Louis, the colorful and notoriously conservative Republican senator from South CarolinaSarahs father.
Just as Im about to enter Zacks last-known address into the satellite search, my doorbell rings. Its time for dinner and time to get back to work on the other background check. The clock is ticking for Amy Patterson. Shes already been gone two weeks. The odds of finding her alive decrease with time, so the mystery of Zack Armstrong will have to wait for now.
Ill unravel it eventually.
I always do.
CHAPTER 4
Day Two: Wednesday, April 11
Im at the office earlybut evidently not early enough. Zack has beaten me in. He is engrossed in what hes reading but that doesnt stop him from noticing my arrival.
Morning, Monroe, he says as I approach, not bothering to look up.
Pesky Were senses.
He lays down the folder hed been studying and zeroes in on the file Im carrying. He raises an eyebrow and holds out a hand. Homework?
I place it on his palm. Amy Patterson in word and deed.
He turns the folder around. Whats this? he asks, pointing to a stain on the cover.
I shrug. Looks like the sweet red sauce that came with the spring rolls. Did you make coffee?