Me, Myself and Why? (17 page)

“Let me get this junk out of the way and then we can go to Culver’s to celebrate.”

“Culver’s?”

“Frozen custard,” I wheedled. “Chocolate. Nuts. Hot fudge sauce. A Mountain Dew with lots of ice.
Two
Mountain Dews.”

He brightened. “You promise?”

“Sure! But later. I have to get this done.”

“Okay.” He jumped up. “Okay! So, later. Okay.” He rushed off, to whatever destiny awaited federally employed sociopaths on their birthdays.

I got back to it, realizing I’d been dealing with people for almost an hour as opposed to actually working. As I’m pretty sure I said, trudging through reams of paperwork created a bit of resentment.

I scanned the file as rapidly as I could and still retain the info. I stared at the crime-scene photos, read up (again) on the victims.

The victims. I was sure that was where the common thread was lying around, just waiting for someone (me!) to pick it up. ThreeFer was driven to these particular people.

He’d killed tourists and lifelong residents of the area. He’d killed men and he’d killed women. African Americans and whites. Models and tax attorneys. Waitresses and doctors. The only thing—the
one
thing—they had in common, the thing obvious since the first crime scene, was there were always three of them, set in some sort of odd tableau that stumped us but clearly had deep, deep meaning for the killer. And they were killed the same way.

Killed gently, if such a thing was possible (it was, actually). Stab wounds to the chest—the heart, specifically.

No defensive wounds.

Not so much as a scratch. ThreeFer wasn’t drugging them, wasn’t getting them drunk. He was soothing them, calming them—and they never fought when the knife slipped in.

Not a single one of them fought. That, more than anything, stuck in my brain, stuck in Shiro’s, too. We knew people fought to live. It was both awful and wonderful, the way we clung to life. The damage we could take, would take—to stay alive.

Yes. Awful. And wonderful.

A painting didn’t fight; neither did a sculpture. They just let themselves be made.

Could Tracy Carr be right? Was he working on what he thought was his art? Could he stop himself if he wanted? Like my friend Cathie couldn’t
not
scrub her kitchen floor with a toothbrush? Or how George could never walk away from his own reflection, physically or metaphorically?

No. ThreeFer couldn’t stop. He wouldn’t stop. That whole “please catch me before I kill again; I secretly wish to be stopped which is why I left a fingerprint at the last crime scene” is one of the biggest myths in law enforcement.

Because they never wanted to stop. If they wanted to stop, they would. ThreeFer wouldn’t, and why? Because making his art made him Leonardo da Vinci, Picasso, and God rolled up into one divinely talented sandwich. He would never, ever give that up.

It made me wonder: what wasn’t
I
giving up?

Chapter Forty-nine

After a couple hours of analytic drudgery, I decided I owed Cathie (or did I owe myself?) a quick call. I shoved some folders off my desk, found my cell phone (neatly clipped to my belt—thank goodness they’d started making them small!), and tapped her number.

It rang, and rang, and rang, until it was snatched up and a very groggy voice moaned, “Whoever this is? Mmm. You better be on
fire
. D’you know what time it is?”

“It’s me. Cadence.” Ever helpful, I added, “Cadence Jones?”

“Cadence, we’ve been friends for over a decade. I know your frigging last name. Why are you bugging me at the crack of dawn?”

“Because it’s the crack of noon. How’d your meeting with the art guy go?”

Another pitiful sound, this time between a groan and a whimper. “Why d’you think I’m so damned hungover?”

I eyeballed a few e mails—oh man, they were going to try the Secret Santa thing
again
. Why, why, why? Hadn’t they learned from last year’s debacle? The Secret Santa ritual was the perfect thing to make paranoids more paranoid, the kleptomaniacs steal more, and the social misfits fit worse.

One poor colleague thought I was shooting rays into her brain from my bra straps, to punish her for taking the gift I had specifically bought for her. I went braless for a week (in January!
January!
) but she would never believe I wasn’t stealing her thoughts with my C cups. It’s better now. She’s more comfortable in the lab than she ever was in the field.

“It was great! He was great.” Uh-oh. Cathie was still sharing the lewd details of her evening. I’d better pay attention.

Her dates were, apparently, more energetic than mine. Hey, I could date. I
have
dated. So have my sisters. Adrienne, of course, dated too much. But even Shiro had a girlfriend a while ago. Lucy (or was it Lucia?) dumped her the second time Adrienne showed up.

This suggests Shiro’s gay, but I think she’s more attracted to the person inside. So far, the people inside—Lucy, Betty, Ellen, and Madi-son—have all been women. According to Cathie, who asked my sister (since I couldn’t), she had loved every one of them exclusively, and had her heart broken each time. Because of her sisters, one of whom wasn’t gay, and one of whom was
everything
.

Meanwhile, Cathie was still twittering in my ear. “That guy knows his Rembrandts from his van Goghs, if you know what I mean.”

“I don’t, actually.” Tina wandered by and set a Frappuccino on my desk, and I winked at her. I clawed frantically for my purse, dug, and waved another pasta recipe at her for her party this weekend. She nodded, took it, and went on her way.

I decided to rejoin the conversation. Not that I ever had the upper hand when it came to Cathie. “So, I’m glad you had a good evening.”

“To put it mildly, fruitcake.” Only Cathie could disparage my admittedly ragged neurosis without suffering a loud, agonizing death. “Sorry about missing breakfast yesterday. I haven’t talked to Patrick. How’d it go?”

“You haven’t seen him today?” It occurred to me she might not even know about the date. A mild panic set in. What if Patrick never came home?

“No. Hang on.” I heard her walking down the hall with the portable. “Patrick? He’s not in his room. Of course, if it’s noon, he’s probably wheeling and dealing around town. . . . But I’ll check the kitchen.”

A few moments later, we had our answer. “He left a note on the counter.” She giggled. “It says: ‘Don’t ask.’ ”

I couldn’t hold back a snort. “You wouldn’t have believed it if you’d been there.”

“No way!” Right away Cathie sounded more awake. “So dish on the breakfast. Shiro hopped out of you and julienned his ham loaf?”

“Don’t I wish. It was Adrienne. She threw syrup on him and he liked her. He liked Shiro, too. He asked us out that night, and we went!”

“Which one?”

“All of us!” I howled, the true horror of the situation finally sinking in.
I ended the date by coldcocking him. Who does that?

“All right, calm down before you pop a vein.”

“You never mind my veins.”

“So how’d the date go?”

I told her.

She hung up, laughing.

I was just about to return to work when

Chapter Fifty

I turned my attention to the screen, and the desk full of files around it. Cadence had gotten the investigation off to a good start, but she was clearly overwhelmed emotionally. She needed help, she was feeling resentful, and it was time to pitch in with more than a flying sidekick.

Pam glided by, dressed in her penguin flannel pajamas and carrying several case files. I snapped my fingers to get her attention.

“What, I’m your dog? I’m a trained seal?”

I was unmoved by the girl’s irritation. I had a job to do and so did she. And I was really very hungry. Some things could not wait. “Hush. I require copies of this, this, and this. And please arrange a data dump within the next two hours.”

“Do I look like I’ve cloned myself?” She nodded down at the paperwork she was dragging around. “Can’t you see I’m just a teeny bit busy, and maybe you could torture one of
six other assistants
instead of throwing more work at me?”

I checked my watch. “George and I are going to leave for lunch in less than a minute. I require these tasks to be finished upon our return thirty minutes from now.”

Pam narrowed her big dark eyes. “Oh,” she said slowly. She took a step backward but I was certain she had not realized it. “It’s you. I thought—yeah. Sure, it’ll be ready when you get back.”

“Excellent.” Pam rushed away, the fluorescents bouncing off her bald, stubbled head. She had one of the most aesthetically pleasing complexions I had ever seen, all dark skin with mahogany undertones, and the cheekbones of an Egyptian princess.

I stood, walked past the printer, and caught George at the elevators. “Lunch,” I ordered, and he sensibly complied.

Chapter Fifty-one

George stared at the innocuous-appearing, environmentally unfriendly plastic foam take-out box, and at the cheap chopsticks and black plastic utensils gripped in my fist.

“Is that it, Shiro?” His voice was hushed; he was looking at the take-out equivalent of the Ark of the Covenant. When I had explained my culinary mission, he abandoned all hope of Culver’s frozen custard and accompanied me. “Is that actually it?”

“It is,” I confirmed, restraining myself from stroking the box. I had been on a mission for decent duck for several years. Then, a few weeks ago, the hideously named Lotus Garden EZ Take ’N’ Go had hired a new chef who was getting rapid local attention for his Roast Duck with Apples, a dish the
Pioneer Press
dubbed “ambrosia in a soggy carton.”

I have a couple of weaknesses, gustatory curiosity being one. Thus, I determined to have ambrosia in a soggy carton before the first snowfall. And now it was mine.

We were almost back at headquarters, where I planned to savor my lunch at my desk while studying files. The smell coming out of the box was beyond heavenly—almost beyond imagining. Ahhhh, duck.

George shook his head. “I’m not believing you dropped twenty bucks for a retarded chicken.”

I ignored him.

“We should’ve gone to Culver’s. Ah, shit.”

“Stop whining.”

“I’ve got a lot to whine about—and so do you.” As we walked through the lobby I saw what George had seen first: Frick and Frack had stepped from the elevator banks and were headed straight for us.

I suddenly felt very protective toward my duck. My grip tightened on the doggy bag holding the soggy carton.

“Awwww, if it in’t the loving couple,” Frack oozed.

“Didja enjoy your noon quickie?”

I answered them with a cordial “Shut up.”

They traded glances. “Hey, we’re not judgin’. So who are you now? You’re the weapons expert now, arencha?”

“And you care why, precisely?”

“
We
got seniority,” the other one said. “We’re next up and we got this goddamned fraud case while you’re chasin’ psychos.”

“Takes one to catch one,” Frack jeered, an interesting comment from a confirmed kleptomaniac and arsonist. A thief with impulse control who likely wet the bed until he was twenty-four, in other words. “How come Michaela dumped ThreeFer on you?”

“Ask Michaela,” George suggested. “She loves it when guys second-guess her.”

Frack then did an incredibly stupid thing, even for him: he reached out and grabbed George’s horrific tie and yanked.

Would have yanked. I dislocated his thumb before he could complete the move.

“Aw,” George said happily over Frack’s drilling shriek. “I didn’t know you cared, Shiro.”

“I do not.” This was nothing but the truth. However, I needed to stop this chain of threats before it started. If these bullies felt comfortable reaching for George’s tie, they would feel comfortable reaching for my duck. And my duck was inviolate. Preventative violence was the most efficient answer here.

As Frack thrust his wounded hand between his thighs and hunched over in pain, Frick suddenly pushed past his partner until we were almost chest to chest.

“You fuckin’ make me sick, you crazy bitch. Walkin’ around here like your shit don’t stink. You’re nothing in a real fight, Shiro. I wish I could see you take someone on without all that fancy Jew-jitsu shit, you won’t last two—”

Without dropping my duck, I swung a right hook into his nose, switched the doggy bag to the other hand, followed up with a left cross, and then smashed him across the lower jaw with the back of the same fist. He crashed spectacularly into the receptionist’s desk, and I heard several things break. Her mouse. Her computer screen. Her collection of tiny crystal dolphins. His lower left ribs.

“Wish granted.”

“Say hi to the ER attending for us,” George added.

I stepped past them to get back to work, George on my heels like an evil puppy.

Chapter Fifty-two

About thirty minutes later, I glanced up to see Pam with the work I had given her. She had changed out of her green-and-white sushi pajamas and into her pink-and-black poodle set. Not much of an improvement.

“Your witness is here.”

I arched my eyebrows and picked my teeth with a tiny duck wing bone. “Oh?”

“Tracy Carr? She said she needed to see you?”

I frowned but did not comment. I loathed it when people made statements into questions? Like that? Was that not pathetic?

“She didn’t say exactly which one of you . . . er, your sisters, she wanted to speak to. Probably she doesn’t know.”

“Very well. I will come out and collect her momentarily.”

I finished my notes for Cadence, tossed the bone in George’s top drawer (where I found two more ties with disturbing dead-animal patterns), then went out to talk to Tracy Carr.

“Good afternoon.”

She stood at once, the only one in the reception area besides the receptionist, whose name frequently escaped me (Cadence would know: she knew everybody’s name, no matter how inconsequential—that woman was a genius at wasting time) and Opus, the floor’s janitor. He was emptying the recycling bins in that methodical way of his, slowly answering Tracy Carr’s questions.