“You lying, manipulating, cold-hearted bastard!” She took a good wind-up and he came to his senses just in time to block the blow, twist her arm behind her back, and turn her into the solid restraint of his body. She, of course, tried to flip him over her back.
“Sugar,” he murmured in her ear. “I appreciate your enthusiasm, but maybe you’d like to wait ’til we’re alone.”
He felt the outrage scream through her stiffened frame, but then his words must’ve penetrated. She seemed to become aware of their surroundings. For example, as students generally didn’t assault other students in the halls of the Academy, she now had everyone’s full attention. Genny’s gaze was most amused. She had it locked on Mac’s face with blatantly unconcealed interest.
“Just practicing a little drill,” Mac drawled out loud. “You know, always happy to help out a new agent.” He gingerly released Kimberly’s arm. She didn’t hit him, or stomp on his foot, so he figured he was making some progress. “Now then, darlin’, why don’t we go outside where we can discuss other ways for ambushing a possible suspect?”
He hightailed it for the double doors. After another awkward moment, Kimberly scrambled after him. She managed to make it all the way around the corner of the building to a somewhat isolated flagstone patio before she went after him again.
“Why didn’t you warn me about the stitched-up mouth!” she yelled.
He threw up his hands in surrender. “Warn you about what? I still don’t know what you’re talking about!”
“He left a rattlesnake in her mouth. A real live rattler!”
“Well, that’ll put hair on your chest. Did you hit the rattler as hard as you hit me?”
“I threw a knife at it!”
“Of course.”
She scowled. “But I missed. Special Agent Kaplan shot it with his gun.”
Ah, no wonder she was pissed. Her big moment, and she missed throwing a knife at a striking viper. The girl did have her standards.
“I want my Glock!” she was still raging.
“I know, honey, I know.” His arms had come down. He was thinking hard. “A live snake,” he said at last. “I didn’t see that coming. Once he left an alligator’s egg down a girl’s throat. And for the last one, Mary Lynn, he used a snail. But I never . . . A live rattler. Damn, give a guy three years and he goes and gets mean.”
And that frightened him. God, that frightened him all the way down to his big Southern bones.
Kimberly didn’t seem to have heard him. Her hands were rubbing her arms compulsively, as if she were trying to ward off a chill in hundred-degree heat. She was also holding herself carefully, a woman made out of glass and trying not to shatter.
Shock, he realized. He belatedly pulled out one of the wrought-iron chairs and gestured to the seat. “Come on. Sit. Take a minute. Autopsy’s over, honey. Nothin’ can happen to you here.”
“Tell that to the dead girl,” Kimberly said roughly, but she accepted the chair and, for a moment, they both simply sat in silence.
Kimberly didn’t know it yet, but Mac had been doing his own investigative work that afternoon. For starters, he’d inquired all about her. And boy, it had been quite an education. In the good news department, his current partner-in-solving-crime came with a genuine law enforcement pedigree. Her father had reputedly been a brilliant profiler in his day. Handled a lot of cases, put away a lot of very bad guys.
Rumor had it that his daughter had inherited his brains and aptitude for anticipating the criminal mind.
Bad news, however—the daughter was also regarded as a little bit of a head case. Didn’t like authority figures. Didn’t like her fellow classmates. Didn’t seem to actually like much of anyone, which may explain why every time Mac ran into her, she was trying to kill him.
Of course, then there was what had happened to her family. Losing most of your relatives to a homicidal maniac was bound to make an impression on you. Perhaps Mac should just be grateful she hadn’t actually inflicted bodily harm on him yet.
Mac stole another glance beneath the cover of his eyelids. Kimberly’s gaze was off in the distance, her eyes unfocused. She appeared profoundly exhausted, haggard beyond measure, with deep shadows bruising her eyes and a patchwork of red scratches still welting her skin.
The girl definitely wasn’t sleeping at night. And that was before she’d met him.
“Was it an overdose?” he asked at last.
She seemed to rouse herself from her daze. “I don’t know the results of the tox screen. But she was hit first—and forcefully—by something in the upper left thigh. Later, probably after twelve to twenty-four hours had passed, she received the fatal injection in her upper left arm.”
“Intramuscular injections?” Mac asked.
“Yes.”
“All her clothes were intact? Her purse? No sexual assault?”
“Yes on all counts.”
“What about defensive wounds? Blood, skin, anything?”
“Nothing.”
“Shit,” Mac said heavily.
She nodded.
“They have an ID?”
“Not yet. They took her prints. They’ll need time to run them through the system.”
“We need to know who she is,” Mac murmured. “We’ll need a list of her friends and family, who she was out with last night. Where they went, what was the make and model of their car . . . Jesus.” He ran a hand through his hair, his mind beginning to race. “It’s already been at least twelve hours . . . Jesus. Who’s in charge of the case?”
“Special Agent Kaplan.”
“I’d better go talk to him.”
“Good luck,” Kimberly snorted.
“He let you watch the autopsy.”
“Only because I promised to throw up.”
“Did you?”
“I was thinking about it,” she admitted. “But the rattler put a damper on things. Then Kaplan exploded its head, and then we all had to debate how carefully to clean up snake guts, as you could consider them evidence.”
“You had quite a first autopsy,” Mac said seriously.
“Yeah,” she sighed. She seemed rather surprised by the notion herself. “I think other ones will be easier after this.”
“I think they will be.”
They both lapsed back into silence, Kimberly probably thinking of the snake she still wished she’d killed; Mac contemplating past cases that once more loomed larger than life.
The heat settled in on them, rolling in like a heavy blanket and pressing them deep into their chairs while their clothing glued to their skin. Mac used to not mind heat like this. It was perfect for sitting next to his parents’ pool. Put on a little Alan Jackson, drink a lot of homemade lemonade. And later, when dusk fell, watch the fireflies flicker and dart in the purple-tinged air.
He didn’t think of idyllic summer days anymore. Summer had become the enemy, when heat waves would roll in, and girls would no longer be safe, even when traveling in pairs.
He needed to call Atlanta. He needed to figure out how to best approach this Special Agent Kaplan. And then they were going to need resources. ASAP. The best experts they could find. A botanist, biologist, a forensic geologist, an entomologist, and God knows what other kind of ologists. Was there an expert on snakes? They should find someone who knew everything about rattlers and what it signified when one burst out of a dead girl’s mouth.
Then there was the rock, of course, which Mac hadn’t even gotten to see. And the leaf they’d recovered this morning, but he’d had no luck tracing. And that was just the clues/evidence he knew off the top of his head.
He needed the body, that was the deal. The clothes would be good to study as well. And her purse, her hair, her sandals. This guy liked to leave clues in the damnedest places, and it sounded like he was refining his technique all the time. A live rattlesnake crammed into a body . . .
Shit. Just plain . . . shit.
Nearby doors opened. Mac heard footsteps approach, then a shadow fell across t
heir patio. A man stood in front of them. Mac didn’t recognize him, but he could tell from the look on Kimberly’s face that she did.
“Kimberly,” the man said quietly.
“Dad,” she said with equal reserve.
Mac’s eyebrows had just disappeared beneath his hairline when the man, older, trim, and very impressive looking in a deep gray suit, turned toward him.
“And you must be Special Agent McCormack. Pierce Quincy. Pleased to meet you.”
Mac accepted the man’s handshake. And then he knew. A funny grin came across his face. The bottom dropped out of his stomach, and he heard a faint ringing in his ears. He had been so concerned that the NCIS had done nothing in the past eight hours. But, apparently, they had done something after all.
Pierce Quincy shouldn’t know his name. Former FBI Agent Pierce Quincy should have no reason to know anyone at the National Academy. Unless he had been explicitly told to look for Mac. And that could only mean . . .
“If you two would follow me, we need to have a meeting,” Quincy was saying in that carefully modulated voice.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Kimberly said tightly.
“I was invited.”
“I didn’t call you!”
“I would never presume that you did.”
“Dammit, did they tell you about the body?”
“Kimberly—”
“I am doing just fine!”
“Kim—”
“I don’t need help, especially from you!”
“K—”
“Turn around. Go home! If you love me at all, please for God’s sake just go away.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not!”
Pierce Quincy sighed heavily. He didn’t say anything right away. He simply reached out a hand and touched his daughter’s battered face. She flinched. And his arm instantly dropped back to his side, as if burned.
“We need to have a meeting,” Quincy said again, turning toward the front of the building. “If you’ll please just follow me.”
Mac finally rose. Kimberly much more grudgingly shoved back her chair. They both fell in step behind her father, Mac’s arm settling lightly around her waist.
“I think we’re in trouble,” Mac murmured in Kimberly’s ear.
And she said bitterly, “You have no idea.”
CHAPTER 13
Quantico, Virginia
5:44 P.M.
Temperature: 97 degrees
QUINCY LED THEM TO AN OFFICE in the main administrative wing. The sign on the door read Supervisor Mark Watson. Inside, the man in question was leaning against the edge of his desk, facing two guests. The first person Mac recognized as being the NCIS officer from the crime scene. The second person was actually a very attractive woman. Late thirties, Mac would guess. Gorgeous long chestnut hair. A face that was startlingly angular, more arresting than classically beautiful. Definitely not FBI. For one thing, she already looked annoyed as hell with Watson.
“Kimberly!” the woman said. She stood the moment Kimberly walked in the room, and gave the girl a quick hug.
“Rainie,” Kimberly acknowledged. She offered the woman a faint smile, but immediately appeared wary again as Watson pushed away from his desk. It was clearly the supervisor’s show. He was now holding up his hands and awaiting everyone’s attention.
He started with the introductions: Rainie turned out to be Lorraine Conner, Quincy’s partner in Quincy & Conner Investigations out of New York; the NCIS officer was Special Agent Thomas Kaplan from General Crimes out of Norfolk.
Quincy & Conner Investigations, Watson announced, had been retained by NCIS to assist with the case. Given the location of the body on Marine grounds and near FBI facilities, the powers-that-be had determined the presence of independent consultants would be in everyone’s best interest. Translation: Everyone was keenly aware of what it would mean if the bad guy turned out to be one of their guys and it looked like they’d tried to cover it up. Score one for the politicians.
Mac settled in next to the door, which had now been closed for privacy. He noted that Kaplan stood next to Watson, while Quincy had taken the seat next to Rainie Conner. Kimberly, on the other hand, had put as much distance between herself and her father as possible. She stood in the far corner of the room, arms crossed in front of her chest, and chin up for a fight.
So everyone had their alliances. Or lack thereof. Now they could get down to business.
Mark Watson addressed his opening comments to Kimberly. “I understand you saw Special Agent Kaplan earlier today, New Agent Quincy.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I thought we had reached an understanding this morning. This is NCIS’s case. You are not to go near it.”
“As part of my pledge to cooperate with NCIS,” Kimberly replied evenly, “I found the officer in charge in order to volunteer my statement. At the time, interestingly enough, he was about to observe the autopsy of the body. I asked if I could join him. He graciously let me in.” Kimberly smiled stiffly. “Thank you, Special Agent Kaplan.”
Watson turned to Kaplan, who shrugged big Marine shoulders. “She told me her name. She asked permission. What the hell, I let her join us.”
“I never lied,” Kimberly spoke up promptly. “And I never misrepresented my interests.” She scowled. “I did, however, miss the snake. For that I apologize.”
“I see,” Watson said. “And earlier in the day, when you directly violated my orders and attempted to revisit the crime scene, were you also thinking of the urgency of NCIS’s investigation?”
“I was looking for Special Agent Kaplan—”
“Don’t play me for dumb.”
“I was curious,” Kimberly immediately amended. “It didn’t matter. The Marines obediently chased me away.”
“I see. And what about after you harassed the Marines in the woods, New Agent Quincy? What about the hour you then spent talking to Special Agent McCormack, after you were explicitly told not to discuss your find with anyone in the Academy? How would you care to explain that?”
Kimberly stiffened. Her gaze flickered to Mac, uncertain now, while he swallowed back a fresh curse. Of course: their meeting in the Crossroads Lounge. In full view of everyone. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
This time, Watson didn’t wait for Kimberly to reply. He was on a roll—or maybe he was aware of just how tense Quincy had grown in the seat opposite him.
“Imagine my surprise,” Watson continued, “when I discovered that far from returning to her room as requested, my student first wandered into the woods, and then was seen in animated discussion with a National Academy student who just happens to have once worked a case bearing a startling resemblance to the homicide discovered this morning. Were you sharing information with Special Agent McCormack, Kimberly?”
“Actually, I was getting information from him.”
“Really. I find that extremely interesting. Particularly since ten minutes ago, he became Special Agent Kaplan’s primary suspect.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Mac burst out. “I’m doing my best to help with a case that is only the beginning of one long, hot nightmare. Do you have any idea what you’ve waded into the middle of—”
“Where were you last night?” Special Agent Kaplan interrupted curtly.
“I started the night at Carlos Kelly’s in Stafford. Then I returned to Quantico, where I ran into New Agent Quincy on the firing ranges. It doesn’t matter—”
Kaplan’s gaze had swung to Kimberly. “What time did you see him on the ranges?”
“Around eleven. I didn’t look at my watch—”
“Did you see him go back to the dorms?”
“No.”
“Where was he headed?”
“I don’t know. I was heading back to the dorms. I didn’t pay attention to him!”
“So in other words,” Kaplan homed in on Mac, “no one knows where you were after eleven-thirty last night.”
“Don’t you think it’s an awfully big coincide
nce,” Watson spoke up, “that we should just happen to get a homicide that bears so many resemblances to one of your past cases, while you’re staying here at the Academy?”
“It’s not coincidence,” Mac said. “It was planned.”
“What?” Watson finally drew up short. He shot a glance at Kaplan, who appeared equally perplexed. Apparently, they’d both been big fans of the Georgia-cop-as-a-killer theory. Why not? Get a dead body at eight A.M., wrap up the case before six P.M. It made for good headlines. Assholes.
“Perhaps,” Quincy interjected quietly, “you should let the man speak. Of course, that’s only the advice of the independent consultant.”
“Yes,” Rainie seconded beside him. “Let him speak. This is finally getting to be good.”
“Thank you.” Mac shot Quincy and Rainie a grateful look, while carefully avoiding Kimberly’s gaze. How must she feel right about now? Hurt, confused, betrayed? He had honestly meant none of those things, and yet there was nothing he could do about that now.
“You can verify everything I’m about to say with my supervisor, Special Agent in Charge Lee Grogen from the Atlanta office. Yes, starting in ’ninety-eight, we had a string of murders similar to the one you discovered today. After the third incident, we formed a multi-jurisdictional task force in charge of the investigation. Unfortunately, seven murders later, the man we were seeking, the so-called Eco-Killer, simply vanished. No new crimes, nothing. The task force started out with over a thousand leads. Three years later, our work was down to a trickle. Until six months ago. When things went hot again.
“We got a letter in the mail. It contained a newspaper clipping of a letter to the editor similar to the ones our guy used to send the Atlanta Journal-Constitution. Except this letter wasn’t sent to a Georgia paper. It was sent to the Virginian-Pilot. And then I started getting phone calls—”
“You?” Quincy interrupted. “Or the task force?”
“Me. On my cell phone. Hell if I know why, but lucky me has received six calls now. The caller’s voice is always distorted by some kind of electronic device and he/she/it always has the same message—the Eco-Killer is getting agitated again. He’s going to strike. Except this time, he’s picked Virginia as his favorite playground.”