Without protest and with rather astonishing meekness, Joey turned and led the way to a back hall and an incredibly filthy men’s room. Kendra did her best not to touch anything and wondered vaguely if she could throw her shoes away the moment they got out of here; there was something crunching underfoot and she really didn’t want to look down and see what it was.
Joey didn’t object to her presence, which was hardly surprising since he didn’t take his eyes off Quentin.
“You back for good?” he asked, hoping transparently for a negative response.
“Nah, just visiting, as usual. You keeping your nose clean, Joey?”
“Sure I am, Quentin.”
Quentin lifted a disbelieving brow.
“Okay, I mighta been in a little trouble here and there, but nothing major.”
“You haven’t killed anybody else, have you, Joey?”
“No, I swear.”
“I can find out if you’re lying to me. You know I can.”
Joey’s lips twisted again in that sick little grin. “Yeah, yeah, I know. Honest, Quentin, I been good. Ask anybody.”
“I’ll do that, Joey. In the meantime, I’m looking for a little information.”
“Okay, sure. Shoot.”
“You know about the disappearance of Samantha Mitchell?”
Joey frowned for a moment, gears almost visibly turning, then nodded. “Oh, yeah. S’posed to be another one grabbed by that rapist.”
“That’s right. But now somebody’s claiming to have kidnapped her. And that somebody wants her husband to cough up a ransom.”
Joey shifted uneasily. “It ain’t me, Quentin.”
“Then who is it, Joey? What sorry son of a bitch decided to take advantage of that poor lady’s misfortune?”
“I dunno, Quentin, honest.”
Gently, Quentin said, “I want you to find out for me, Joey. And I want you to find out fast. Understand?”
Joey nodded. “Okay. Okay, Quentin, I can ask around, sure. Guys owe me some favors, somebody’s bound to know what’s going on.”
Quentin produced a card and handed it to Joey. “The underlined number is my cell phone. Use that to call me as soon as you find out what I want to know.”
Joey accepted the card gingerly. “Right. Gimme a couple hours, and I’ll see what I can dig up.”
“Don’t make me wait any longer than that, okay?”
“Sure, sure.”
“Call me quick enough, and I might not have time to ask around and find out what you’ve been up to, Joey.”
Once again, the gears turning behind Joey’s round blue eyes were almost visible, and his hopeful understanding definitely was. “Yeah. Okay, yeah, I got it. I’ll call, Quentin. Count on it.”
They left him there, his back literally pressed up against the grimy wall between two disgusting sinks. He showed no inclination to follow them out and, in fact, when Kendra glanced back as they were leaving the poolroom, he still hadn’t come out of the bathroom.
“That is one very nervous incredible hulk,” she commented as they got in the car. “I’d swear he was terrified of you.”
Quentin smiled as he started the car but didn’t respond to the comment.
Kendra eyed him, then said, “So Joey’s an old childhood pal, huh?”
“More of a childhood acquaintance, you could say.”
“Uh-huh. I don’t suppose you’d want to tell me about this interesting childhood of yours?”
“Oh, it’s not interesting. Boring, really.”
“Really?”
“Sure.”
“Mmm. Somehow I doubt that. But never mind— for now. Who did Joey kill?”
“I think that’s ‘whom,’ ” he said thoughtfully.
“Stop correcting my grammar and answer the question.”
“Yes, ma’am. Joey killed his father. Shotgun blast full in the face.”
“Jesus. And he’s running around loose? Our judicial system sucks.”
“Not so much in this case. Joey was eleven when it happened, and his old man had just beaten his mother into unconsciousness for about the hundredth time. Joey walked in on it, took one look—and something snapped. He very coolly went into the bedroom, found and loaded the old man’s gun, then came back and blew him away.”
Kendra turned slightly in her seat to study her partner. “That was his story?”
“Well, his story for the record was that he got the gun only to defend his mother and that when his father charged toward him with murderous rage in his evil face, Joey acted purely in self-defense.”
“The evidence backed him up?”
“It didn’t contradict his version of events. Especially with a witness testifying on his behalf.”
“A witness?”
“Yeah. A classmate had come home with him to borrow a schoolbook. That was back when Joey actually showed a glimmer of turning into something better than his old man. Anyway, the witness backed him up, and Joey got probation and therapy.”
“The therapy doesn’t seem to have done him much good, if he’s been in trouble since then.”
“No, and he dropped out of school as soon as he could outrun the truant officer. Given his genetic heritage and environment, not so surprising. His father really was one of those pure evil bastards life sometimes produces, and I hear his grandfather was worse. But Joey got enough of his mother’s blood—and her influence—to make him a lot more manageable. He’d con you six ways from Sunday and pick your pockets if he found you unconscious or dead, but he’s terrified of his own strength and temper; he doesn’t want to turn out like his old man. To his credit, he usually manages not to turn violent.”
Kendra nodded. “So why is he wary of you? Afraid you’ll tell the truth after all these years?”
Quentin smiled faintly. “I wouldn’t. But the possibility does help me keep Joey in line.”
“Even from the other side of the country?”
“Well, I try to come back here at least once a year or so. And I always look him up, find out what he’s been into.” He chuckled. “Ever since I joined the Bureau, Joey’s kept his nose pretty clean. I think he’s seen one too many Hollywood distortions of the power of the FBI.”
“So your badge helps keep him in line as well.”
“So far. Joey’s down as a one-time impulse killer, and I’d like to keep it that way. It’s the difference between being bad and crossing over into being evil.”
“Mmm.” Kendra studied him a moment longer, then said, “Why do I get the feeling your enigmatic past contains a number of stories like Joey’s?”
“Probably your vivid imagination.”
She sighed, unsurprised. “That was a filthy place you dragged me into.”
“Sorry about that.”
Kendra turned her gaze to the windshield. “You owe me a new pair of shoes.”
With their questions left hanging unanswered in the air but providing a definite spur, both John and Maggie volunteered to stick around for a few hours and help go through the file boxes in search of more information about the earlier crimes. Within an hour, they had files stacked on every available chair but nothing else to show for their efforts.
It was nearly one when Scott and Jennifer left to bring back a late lunch for them, and John took the opportunity to tell Andy about Quentin and Kendra.
“Shit,” Andy said, though clearly more startled than angry. “FBI agents—and unofficial? I didn’t know the Bureau did anything unofficially.”
“They belong to a fairly new unit of investigators and have a bit more autonomy than most. They’re very good, Andy, and completely trustworthy. And they aren’t interested in taking any credit no matter who breaks the case.”
“It was damned officious of you, John.”
“I know. And I’ll apologize if you want me to—not for calling them in but for not telling you I was going to.”
“Gee, that’s big of you.”
John chuckled.
Unwilling to relent just yet
, Andy gave Maggie a hard stare. “You knew about this too?”
She met his gaze squarely. “I don’t much care who gets the credit either, Andy. Or who helps. Just as long as we get this animal in a cage where he belongs.”
“Drummond’s going to shit a brick.” Andy sighed. “He’s already blasted me once today, John, thanks to you. Do me a favor and keep that famous profile of yours off the front page from now on, will you?”
“I’ll do my best. And none of us wants Drummond to find out too soon, believe me. If and when he does find out, it’ll be me who called them in—not you or anyone under Drummond.”
Andy eyed him wryly. “You got a death wish?”
“I can handle Drummond.” John smiled. “I’ve been handling men like him for fifteen years.”
“He’s got a lot of juice in this town, John.”
“So have I. I just haven’t used much of it yet.”
“Okay, okay. As long as you understand he will not be happy. And as long as none of my people gets the blame.”
“They won’t.”
“In that case—when do I get to meet these agents of yours? I like to know who I’m working with.”
“We can meet up at the hotel whenever you like, but Quentin and Kendra are out now trying to find out all they can about this supposed kidnapping. They didn’t think it was any more likely than your people did, but like Maggie said—whoever sent that note might know something about Samantha Mitchell, and we need to find out what that might be.”
“Think they can find out something before my people can?” It wasn’t—quite—a challenge.
John smiled. “Well, let’s just say I’ve learned never to bet against Quentin. One way or another, he usually finds what he goes looking for.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Andy decided to strictly limit who in his department would know of the FBI agents’ involvement, choosing to tell Scott and Jennifer, but not the other detectives.
“All my people have busted their asses on this case,” he told Maggie and John, “but these two kids took some initiative and thought outside the box. Besides, I know for a fact they’ll be happy about it—and not everybody would.”
Scott and Jennifer were definitely pleased, especially when John told them of both the agents’ profiling expertise, Kendra’s computer skills, and the full range of databases available to them with federal authority.
“Maybe they’ll be able to track down why the 1894 date is important. If it is,” Jennifer said. “In the meantime—Andy, if it’s okay with you, I’m heading over to the Central precinct. Their file clerk isn’t absolutely sure, but there might be some really old file boxes in their storage room. I want to check them out, see if I can find those missing 1934 files or possibly some from 1894.”
Andy looked at the stacks of files on the conference table and sighed. “Yeah, go ahead. Nothing in this mess is helping us.”
Scott asked, “Jenn, want me to come along?”
She grinned at him. “Oh, no, pal. You get to put all these useless files back where they belong and then try to find out what happened to the ones the North precinct clerk swears were lost in the move to their new building.”
With a grimace, Scott said, “It is not fun being the low man on the totem pole.” But he seemed cheerful enough as he picked up a file box and followed Jennifer from the room.
“They need to be busy,” Andy told Maggie and John with a sigh. “Neither one of them has been a detective long enough to be comfortable with the realization that seventy-five percent of police work is sitting around—either going through papers, trying to piece together a jigsaw puzzle of facts, or just trying to talk through the problem until it starts to make sense.”
“Sometimes I think most of life is like that,” John offered wryly.
“I don’t blame them for being restless,” Maggie said, her brooding gaze fixed on the bulletin board. “It’s hell just sitting here waiting. Wondering when the phone is going to ring.”
When it did at that moment, Andy lifted a brow at her and scooped it up. He said, “Brenner,” and listened for several minutes, and didn’t have to mutter, “Oh, Christ,” for everyone in the room to know the news was bad.
As soon as he hung up, John guessed, “Samantha Mitchell?”
“No,” Andy said heavily. “The bastard’s having a busy week. We’ve got another missing woman.”
In the storage room of the Central precinct station, Jennifer found a lot of files. A lot of old files, some going all the way back to the 1890s. But she didn’t find anything of interest for 1894; there had been relatively few murders reported in Seattle around then, and none that even came close to fitting their criteria.
Worse, there was absolutely no sign of any more files for 1934. For that entire decade, as a matter of fact.
After more than an hour of fruitless search, she was dusty, irritable, and had three paper cuts and a headache. She was also inclined to appreciate computers a lot more than she had before all this had started. Those machines had their bad points, but at least they didn’t get dust up her nose or slice up her fingers.
She made her way to the station’s lounge and sat down with a soft drink, glumly considering her options. They weren’t promising. Maybe Scott could track down those files lost in a move to a new building, but it didn’t seem likely. Unless she wanted to physically visit every storage room and basement of every station in the city—and she did not—then she had to accept that this particular trail might well have dead-ended.
Jennifer hated dead ends.
She had been so sure that something useful would be found in the old files. Oh, she’d been offhand about it with Scott, but from the moment she had seen that first sketch from 1934, the adrenaline rush had been intense. All her instincts had been screaming at her. Finally, after all these months, a break in the investigation.
Except that it wasn’t, of course. Dammit.
“Hey, Seaton, what’re you doing in our neck of the woods?”
She looked up and managed a faint smile for Terry Lynch as he joined her at the table. “Slumming, of course.”
He eyed her consideringly, his deceptively open face as friendly and guileless as always but his gaze sharp. “There’s a smear of gray dust on your nose.”
“Because you have a filthy storage room,” she told him, using a paper napkin to dab at her face.
“I wouldn’t be at all surprised. Looking for anything interesting?”
Jennifer gave him an abbreviated version of the Drummond’s-got-us-digging-through-old-files speech, perfectly aware that Terry wasn’t buying it. Not easy, she reflected silently, to lie to an old partner. Or an old lover.
But he nodded gravely, only his wry blue eyes telling her he knew she was bullshitting him. In a chatty tone, he said, “You guys any closer to getting that rapist?”
“Not so you’d notice.”
“Just heard there’s another woman missing.”
“Oh, shit. Do we know it’s him?”
Terry shrugged. “I think your boss is checking it out; any woman goes missing in the city, you guys get the call, you know that.”
Jennifer frowned. “If it is him—he’s moving a hell of a lot faster.”
“Looks like.”
She barely hesitated. “Are you hearing anything on the streets, Terry?” He was a patrolman, having failed the detective exam Jennifer had passed with flying colors; the blow to his ego hadn’t ended their relationship, but her transfer to another precinct nearly a year ago had.
He wrapped both hands around his coffee cup and hunched his shoulders in the thinking posture she recognized with a pang. “Not really.”
“Not really? So you did hear something—but aren’t sure it means anything?”
His smile twisted. “Still reading me like a book. Yeah, there was one thing. I was going to call you, but . . . hell, Jenn, it sounds so screwy.”
“In this case,” she told him dryly, “screwy is beginning to be the order of the
day, Terry. What is it?”
“Well, we picked up a transient day before yesterday, got him for creating a disturbance outside a store. You know how it is. Anyway, the guy was mostly drunk and not making a whole lot of sense, but he did say something that caught my attention.”
“Which was?”
“Said he’d seen a ghost.”
“Oh, come on, Terry—he was drunk and babbling. Probably had the DTs.”
Terry nodded. “Yeah, I thought the same thing. But, see, there were a couple of odd things. For one, he didn’t sound as crazy as he should have, somehow. And it turns out this guy used to be some hotshot computer expert. Apparently, he had too many problems being bipolar to hold on to his job and ended up on the streets.”
“Sad,” she commented. “But sadly not so unusual.”
“No. But here’s the other odd thing. We found him about two blocks away from where that last rape victim was found—Hollis Templeton? And he was staring toward that building while he was babbling about having seen a ghost a few weeks before. So I wondered.”
Jennifer wondered too. “Terry . . . is he back on the streets?”
He grimaced. “Afraid so. But my guess is, he’ll still be in the area. There’s a mission near where we picked him up where guys like him can get a bed and a meal. You might try there. I don’t have much of a description to give you—he was so filthy it was hard to say what he looks like. White male, maybe forty, six feet, not more than a hundred sixty, brown and brown.” He pulled out his notebook and jotted down the name and address of the mission as well as the man’s name, then tore out the sheet and handed it to her.
She accepted it but didn’t get up right away. Instead, she said wryly, “You told the file clerk to suggest I just might find what I was looking for here, didn’t you, Terry?”
He smiled. “You know how fast word gets around, Jenn. Especially with Scott Cowan calling every station, too innocently asking about old files. So I figured one of you’d show up here sooner or later. I just asked Danny to hint we might have the files you wanted here.”