Just a trespasser, she answered lightly.
Yeah, right, like you were invited in.
A dirty trespasser, she continued, who needs glasses desperately. Ive been holding my ID in front of his nose for the past two minutes.
Could be fake. The man snorted. How do I know youre not running a grow op here? All I wanted to do was sleep where its not wet.
Move your hand another inch toward my gun and youll be in a deeper sleep than you can imagine. Liz?
Calls in. Cops are coming.
Climbing out of his truck, Noah welcomed the sting of near-freezing rain on his face. You sure youre not hurt?
Sore cheekbone, she told him. He clipped me before I realized what was happening. Otherwise, Im fine.
He pictured a bruise under one of her stunning hazel eyes, let the rain wash over his face while his system rebalanced.
Noah?
Yeah.
Ive got the note.
The what? He had to drag his mind back, reorient.
You told me to look for a note. Pretty sure I found it. Its written on a diner-style paper napkin. Its not the same as the napkins that came with the Chinese takeout, but its definitely diner-like.
Can you read it?
Clearly. Whoever did it printed the words in caps using one of those art supply stencils. You want cryptic? You got it. It says: SUFFERING IS THE BRIDGE TO UNDERSTANDING.
MAYBE HE SEES HIMSELF as a martyr, she theorized later.
Pseudo and sick, but with the genuine belief that hes ridding the world of evil.
Liz waited for the server to deposit their lunch orders. I went through the records last night, Angel. Explain to me whats evil about a soccer mom with three kids who belonged to the PTA and baked cookies for her husbands geek squad computer repair coworkers.
On the surface, nothing. But I checked the files, too. She lived in Danvers. Maybe she was a closet witch. Wicked as opposed to Wicca.
Youre grasping, partner.
At really flimsy straws. Angel drummed her fingers. The woman was killed eight years ago, yeah?
Thats what Joe said Noah said.
Propping her chin in her hand, Angel nudged her bowl aside and let her mind wander. To an inappropriate place, she had to admit, but she was as human as the next person and female to boot.
Liz, why will Noah let Joe see him and not me?
Her partner swallowed a spoonful of Irish stew and groaned. This is so good. If I knew, Angel, Id tell you, I really would. For what its worth, I havent seen him either, or even spoken to him on the phone. No one I know has. Anyway. She used her index finger to scoop the hair from Angels eyes. You dont want to see him right now. That cheekbone of yours is bruising nicely.
Angel touched the mark, sighed, dropped her hand. Suffering is the bridge to understanding. Thats not cryptic, its the inside of a fortune cookie.
Written on a napkin, with a stencil.
Noah says thats how the guy does it. He prints a piece of philosophical gibberish on a scrap of paper, or a napkin, or a candy bar wrapper and slips it to his victims. More often than not, and Forets no exception, theres a partially eaten meal or half empty glass nearby. Which suggests a follow up form of contact at some point, instructing the victim to meet him.
Or else Liz finished the threat.
Angel glanced over as her cell phone began to vibrate.
Speak of the invisible devil. Liz dipped into her stew again. Listen, I hate to beg favors of a man Ive never met, but could you ask Mr. Graydon to stop beating my husband at chess? Its deflating to his ego, and we get enough of that from Graeme and his centerfold girlfriends.
Its not Noah. Angel tried to stem the feeling of disappointment that made her want to ditch the call. But that was a childish responseand all the more disturbing for that reason. She picked up with a pleasant, Hey, Brian. Whats the news?
Whats the noise? her dour-sounding coworker countered.
The restaurant Angel and Liz had chosen played edgy flute music at mid-volume. The atmosphere was dusty Irish Goth, with the barest hint of an underlying maritime theme. Not that they could see the ocean, but they could certainly hear the storm blowing in from it as belts of wind battered the weathered outer walls.
That, she replied, is the sound of a glorious autumn rainfall in New England. Any prints on the napkin?
Only Forets.
Angel massaged a spot on the back of her neck. Brian, you were in Boston when the murders stopped five years ago. How many victims did the Penny Killer have?
How much wood could a wood chuck chuck He offered back a verbal shrug. Seven that we know of, and I can still name them all.
She visualized him puffing up as he rattled off the list.
Brian Pinkney, better known as the Brain in Bureau circles, whizzed around the office on his electric wheelchair, getting in everyones face and just as frequently on their nerves. He could walkAngel had seen him do itbut after a car accident several years ago had left him with nerve damage to his spine, he preferred not to tax himself and usually rode instead. He was fiftysix years old, beefy, bald and seemed to sport a new tattoo every time he rolled up his sleeves. No one really liked him, but they couldnt deny he knew his stuff. Which was probably why hed lobbied Bergman for the first crack at profiling the Penny Killer.
That he hadnt succeeded in his bid would make the lives of everyone in the office hell for a good long while, but as Angel saw it, life was all about facing challenges. Another one more or less wasnt likely to affect her day.
Five of the victims came from Massachusetts, Brian continued now. Two from Philadelphia. Three of the Massachusetts five lived in Boston. The others were from Danvers and New Bedford. Does that help you, or is your head still wobbling from that scrap you had this morning?
My heads fine. She rubbed her nape. If the same guys responsible for Forets death, Bri, that pushes the Boston count to four, and both Danvers and New Bedford are an easy drive, so theres a better than average chance the killer lives here.
Cheery thought, huh?
Yeah, if youre in L.A. She broke off a chunk of bread, but didnt eat it. Some suspects would be good. So far, everyone weve connected to Foret is either alibied or out of reach. Case in point, his pal the Secretary.
Guys clean enough as politicians go.
Angel grinned. Glad to know it. Then sighed. Youre profiling, arent you?
My free times my own. He sounded defensive and angry. Bergman gave the job to PrunefaceBill Skater. The guy has one speed: turtle.
Hes also Bergmans brother-in-law. Do the math.
Did that creep at Forets do something to your neck? Liz asked.
Ino. Angel frowned. Why? Then she realized she was rubbing the same spot again.
Still holding the phone, she peered around the side of the booth, but saw only tables, more booths and a roomful of people who were paying no attention to anything except their food.
What? Liz followed her gaze.
Someones watching us.
Her friend tugged her back by her hair. Eat your stew, Angel. A full stomachll make the feeling go away.
Someones watching us.
Her friend tugged her back by her hair. Eat your stew, Angel. A full stomachll make the feeling go away.
I know how hungry feels, and it isnt hallucinogenic. She made another quick circuit. Brian, does the killer stalk his victims?
Ask Skater.
She forced patience. Im asking you.
Dont they all?
Okay, well that doesnt make me feel any better, actually. Liz, we need to lose the Goth cafés for a while.
Foods good at this one. Liz spooned up more stew. Not that youd know, since all youve done is play with your bread.
Oh, hell. Angels eyes fixed on the door. Paul Reuben just slithered in. And hes wearing his media hat.
Theres the last bite done, thank you, God. Liz wiped her mouth and fingers. How does he always know?
Afternoon, ladies. At Lizs exasperated look, he pressed an exaggerated hand to his chest. What am I supposed to say? Afternoon, Feds?
Angel smiled. I just stopped in to say good-bye works.
Thanks, Id love to join you. He scraped a chair across the floor and straddled it.
You know, Paul, its just possible were busy here. Angel waved her cell phone. You want a story, talk to Bergmans assistant. Thats why hes there.
Paul Reubens flinty eyes gleamed. Is Noah Graydon helping you with your busy work?
Go away. She enunciated the words, then smacked at his hand. Touch my lunch, and Ill cite you for something really unpleasant.
When her skin continued to prickle, she glanced around again. An old man in a hat with earflaps stared back at her. So did a much younger one with a heavily pierced face.
Do me a favor, Paul, take a stroll and check out the booths.
For what?
Perverts, peeping Toms. She summoned a sweet smile. Murderers.
Like the one who offed Lionel Foret early Sunday morning behind a dockside processing plant?
There you go. If you know that much, youre as up to date as we are. Bye.
Cut the guy some slack, Angel, Brian suggested on the phone. He might know something.
He might also be fishing.
Whats the deal with Graydon? the reporter persisted. Is he in or out? Give me that much at least.
Angel rested her chin on her fist, let her smile ride. How did you hear about Foret, Paul?
I got a tip.
Where and from whom?
None of your businesson both counts.
Okay then, were done. Drive carefully.
He appealed to Liz. Your husbands tight with Graydon, right?
Elbows on the table, Liz pushed on her temples. You know, I didnt have a headache when I came in.
Paul started slurping hot coffeeand Angel found her own fingers straying under her hair again.
Determined to shake the sensation, she returned her attention to Brian. Do I know yet why you called?
Not unless youre a mind reader. Ive been instructed to tell you that Bergmans staying over in Washington. He tried your cell, but the line was tied up. Would that have been before or after your run-in with a sleeping vagrant?
Street person, and he topped your two-thirty by a good ten pounds.
Using?
Definitely.
You know, I was once as quick as you are, and as elusive as Noah Graydon when I chose to be.
You sound bitter, Bri. Sliding to the end of the booth, she made another casual sweep of the restaurant. Get some physio, get in shape and presto, youre back in the field.
On restricted duty. No thanks, kid. Dont forget to check in with Bergmans lackey before you go off shift. And have fun detaching your investigative burr.
Angel ended the call with a distracted press of the button. Her eyes traveled from table to table. Got to be coming from a booth. I can see everyone else.
Reuben waved a hand in front of her face. Why the space flight, Angel?
Looking back, she noted that his mustache, blonde and perpetually droopy, was saturated with coffee. Trust me, Paul, there are times when outer space is preferable to planet Earth.
He snagged her wrist as someone in black brushed past. If you wont talk about Graydon, explain the pennies on Forets eyelids.
Liz breathed out. Dont you have? Then she stopped, met Angels eyes, and bent forward over the table. Well, well, Mr. Reuben.
At a similar look from Angel, the reporter released her. Okay, why have you two turned cat all of a sudden?
But he knew. Angel could tell by the dull red flush creeping up his neck that he understood exactly what hed done.
Smiling, she crooked a leg up and turned companionably toward him. Playing dumb isnt your strong suit, PR. Guess what? There was no mention of any pennies in our official statement. Only a handful of people saw the body, and those who did wouldnt have talked. So Brows arched, she cocked her head to observe. How is it you managed to find out about them?
THE DAY AFTER A DEATH always felt longgoing through the motions, controlling jitters, concentrating. Slipping up was too damned easy, in big ways and in small.
But things had to be put right, and no one else appeared to want the job.
Someone would have to take it on, though, because the end was approaching. Fast. The Thanksgiving season seemed an appropriate time for the finale. Give thanks to the only person who understood.
Extra caution would be needed to pull this last one off. Extra caution and nerves of steel.
An image swam up, solidified. No second thoughts. No regrets. It must and would be done.
Target date: Third week of November.
Target victim: Angel Carter.
Chapter Four
No one Angel knew, except maybe her uncle who ran whale-watching charters out of Juneau, could talk for hours and in the end say nothing. No one, except a reporter like Paul Reuben.
I know how to get into peoples heads, Moscow. She deposited her keys on a tray inside her front door. I know how to get into a rats head even better, and I got nowhere with that guy. I want a hot bath, anything I dont have to cook and a big glass of Chardonnay. She knelt to ruffle the huskys ears. So how was your day?
Pawing the shoulder of her red leather jacket, he nosed her toward the phone.
Someone called?
He barked.
Someone you hear on my voice mail, but never see? A man whose face I try to paint, but who keeps coming out looking like Lamont Cranstons alter ego?
Shedding her jacket and bag, she headed for the bathroom. After washing her hands and splashing cold water on her face, she felt better, not totally alert, but functional. She changed into a pair of drawstring pants and a T, pulled her hair into a high ponytail, left her feet bare and went into the kitchen.
Hot cocoa, she thought with a roll of her head to loosen the tight muscles. And one doggie treat, she told the expectant husky. She held up a single finger. One.
As she passed the phone, she hit the retrieve button on her voice mail. At maximum volume, the messages came through clearly.
Hi, Angel, its Pete Peloni, from Pelonis Place. You left your sunglasses on the table last time you were here. Also, Im trying out a new mushroom-veggie pizza with hot pepper sauce. Im working most of tonight and all day tomorrow. Ill drop off a sample on my way home. Catch you later.