Savage Art (A Chilling Suspense Novel) (33 page)

Rick Swain felt the rhythm of excitement drum in his stomach. Mueller wanted to see him. He hadn't been excited about the job since Cincinnati. Maybe someone was finally going to tell him what had happened. Maybe they realized the investigator had screwed up, and Swain wasn't at fault after all. Or for all he knew, Mueller was about to fire him.

He couldn't even count how many times in the past year he'd considered quitting the Bureau, but he knew he couldn't leave—not without knowing what had happened in Cincinnati. He knew what people thought of when they saw him. It was like letting his own sister get injured. He had done his job. McKinley's apartment had been carefully wired that night—he'd done it all himself, and he'd checked and double-checked. The question was, what the hell happened after he left?

His worst mistake was not questioning why the apartment had remained quiet even after he'd seen McKinley enter. Shit, how much noise do people make going to bed? But at least he should've heard running water or a toilet flush. They'd wired both Casey's apartment and her partner's as a precaution, but Swain hadn't been expecting activity. It was going to be a cake job. He'd never imagined the killer would actually show up there. The killer had sent McKinley some strange correspondence. Maybe the Bureau actually expected him to show up there, but they certainly never told Swain that.

Swain took a final drag of his cigarette and headed above ground to Mueller's office. It was 9:07. He was supposed to be there at nine sharp, but Swain knew Mueller liked to keep people waiting. It was a sweating game up at his office. He did it to everyone, and Swain was sick of the fucking games.

As he stepped off the elevator, Swain squinted at the bright natural light that streamed into the building. It was cloudy and raining outside, but even the gray sky seemed impossibly bright compared to his lock-down.

He leaned over to rub a patch of dust off the toe of his black cowboy boot and then walked down the long, quiet corridor. His boots made a
clack clack
sound as he went that he found reassuring.

In the inner sanctum of Mueller's office, Mueller's secretary glanced up and smiled.

"Hello, Betty," he said, tipping an invisible hat.

"Hi, Rick. Sit down. He should be right out."

With a nod, Swain moved slowly to the small industrial-looking couch and passed it, stopping at the wall. He was too wired to sit. The room had seemed larger the last time he was there. Looking for a comfortable place to rest, he propped one foot against the wall and waited.

Under Hoover, the Bureau had fired people for no reason at all. Hoover was known for his idiosyncrasies when it came to running the FBI. These days it was better, but Swain had still heard stories about agents who'd been asked to resign for reasons that seemed unwarranted in the best of moments. They'd be idiots to fire someone with his talent.

The door clicked, and Swain looked up to see Dan Jamison walk out of Mueller's office.

"Hey," Swain said, pulling his foot off the wall and taking a few steps toward Jamison.

With only the slightest sideways glance, Jamison walked through the room without a pause. His normally pink, fleshy cheeks were a deep red, but his expression was one of cold detachment.

Betty and Swain exchanged glances. Before Swain could gather the nerve to ask her what she thought that was all about, she turned her back to him and began pecking loudly at her keyboard.

Fuck Jamison, Swain thought. He was only holding Swain back. Swain needed to go straight to the big boy. This was his chance to tell Mueller how it was.

"Swain?" Mueller called.

"Yes, sir," he replied, following Mueller into his office. Swain hadn't seen Mueller since his reprimand after the Cincinnati incident. Mueller's dark curls sat short and matted against his head, his dark eyes focused skeptically on Swain. The man seemed shorter than he had back then. Mueller was only five-seven or so and heavyset, all in the belly—like a young version of Santa Claus.

From the rumors Swain had heard, Mueller ate like a horse, but, of course, Swain had never had the pleasure of dining with the assistant director.

For months, Swain had been trying to get an audience with him. He had wanted to plead his case, to ask for another chance.

"Come on in." Mueller waved Swain into the office then turned to his assistant. "Betty, hold my calls."

Betty said something Swain couldn't make out as he was ushered into Mueller's office and the door was closed.

"Sit, sit," Mueller directed, pointing to a comfortable-looking armchair across from his desk.

Unlike the industrial blandness of the outer office, Mueller's office was warm and personal. Frames were huddled in the corners of his large desk as though his family were watching over him. The white walls were covered with awards and letters of commendation. Behind his desk a picture of him and President Bush hung next to one of him and President Reagan. Clinton remained noticeably absent from the wall. A Republican. Well, at least he wouldn't hear Mueller talk to him about the necessity of budget cuts.

"How are things?"

Swain felt a blow coming. Mueller had never been one for small talk. If he was starting it now, it was surely on the road to something unpleasant. But why not have Jamison do the dirty work?

"Agent Swain?" Mueller repeated.

"Fine. Thank you, sir. How are you?" he replied.

Mueller laughed. "I know that tone. Cut the bullshit, right?"

Swain straightened in his chair. "Without disrespect, sir, I don't believe you called me up here to ask how I am."

"You're right, I didn't. I respect straight talk. I'm going to cut the crap, Swain." Mueller shifted in his chair, leaning back and putting his arms behind his head. Studying the ceiling, Mueller was silent.

Swain could feel the cool sweat on his back as he waited.

Mueller put his arms down again and rested his elbows on the table. "You remember Agent McKinley, don't you, Agent Swain?"

"Of course."

"She's out in California now."

Swain nodded.

"You already knew that, didn't you?"

Swain nodded, shifting as sweat pooled at the base of his back.

"Well, the Bureau feels somewhat responsible for what happened to Agent McKinley. She was a damn good profiler. I'm sure you feel badly about it, too."

"Every day, sir. And I've been wanting to discuss the Cincinnati incident. I'd like to know what happened. I think I deserve—"

Mueller held a hand up to stop him. "I know. Are you interested in a chance to make it up to the Bureau?"

Relief rained on Swain harder than the sweat. "I'd love it, sir. Anything." He imagined himself back in the action, another mission. He'd be better this time, he swore. He'd prepare himself as though the Bureau expected a full-on attack—even if they told him it would be a simple surveillance. He'd be ready for anything.

"We're sending you to California, then. You'll leave in the morning. Betty can help you make travel and hotel arrangements."

Swain wondered about the case he'd be working on. "And the briefing will be out there?"

"Nope. The briefing is right now."

Swain frowned. "I don't understand."

"It's quite a simple mission, actually. Surveillance. There's a murder investigation going on in San Francisco that involves Agent McKinley." Mueller shifted in his chair. "We haven't exactly been invited to help on the case, but we'd like to keep an eye on what's going on with it."

Swain frowned but didn't comment.

"I trust you can do your job without letting on that you're there?"

Mueller presented it as a challenge, and part of the game was always accepting the challenges. "Of course."

"Good."

"Who am I surveying?"

"Two people actually. A man named Jordan Gray. He's an inspector with the San Francisco Police Department, handling a case of serial child murders."

"And I'm supposed to watch him?"

"Him and Casey McKinley."

Swain had learned early in the Bureau not to ask why higher-ups made decisions. But this one made no sense. "Is this Inspector Gray a threat to McKinley?"

Mueller shook his head. "Our sources say he's very highly spoken of within the department. And McKinley seems to get along with him quite well."

Then, why track him? "Are they in danger?"

Mueller looked pensive. "You can assume that. We need photographic evidence, video, audio—whatever you can get on everyone they come into contact with. We had audio surveillance on Agent McKinley's house, but unfortunately, it was disrupted."

The FBI had bugged ex-Agent McKinley's house. What the hell for? Swain kept his mouth shut.

"We believe the threat is related to the child murders," Mueller continued. "We're hoping you can find our man. Betty has copies of the newspaper articles, so you can brief yourself."

Swain held himself from smiling outright. He was on a killer's trail again. And this time he wouldn't make a mistake.

"You are not, however, to go after him on your own. If and when you find him, you will make contact and we will send a task force."

Swain thought about Dan Jamison's reaction in the outer office. "And Jamison thinks this is a bad idea?"

Mueller smiled thinly. "Jamison doesn't have the faith in you that I do."

Holding his composure, Swain asked the logical questions. "Any idea who we're looking for? Male, female? Black, white?"

"White, male."

Swain waited for him to elaborate. When he didn't, Swain nodded and stood, taking the silence as his cue to leave.

"One more thing, Agent Swain," Mueller said.

Swain looked back to meet the concerned stare of the assistant director. "There's a chance we're dealing with the same killer."

"The same killer?" he echoed, trying to remember the last time he'd worked on a murder case.

"The same killer as Cincinnati," Mueller added, his tone and expression solemn.

Swain felt the surprise on his face. "The Cincinnati Butcher?"

Mueller nodded, studying him as though testing Swain's ability to think through a problem before committing him to the assignment.

Swain looked up, the rush of adrenaline that came with a new case stirring his blood. "You think the killer is after McKinley." It wasn't a question. It was a statement.

"And you're there to make sure nothing happens to her."

Swain thought about McKinley's departure from the Bureau. They hadn't wanted to lose her. Was that it? "You want her back."

"If she's ready. But I also expect this killer to go after her again. I want to make sure he doesn't get to her again."

Again, Swain thought. Had the FBI known the killer would go after Casey last time? Had they somehow set her up as bait, and when it failed, blamed him? His mind churned.

"You understand the assignment, Agent Swain?"

"I'll make sure she's safe," Swain promised, and then turned to leave. This time he would.

Chapter 29

Hurrying up the stairs to his office, Jordan couldn't escape the image of the marks on Casey's leg. He had assumed there was more to the case, more to her injuries. But he never would have imagined the killer had carved his signature in her. She was downstairs waiting in the car while he picked up his messages and the latest news before taking her home.

Thankfully, she had been anxious to get away from the crime scene. And after he'd shown her those pictures of Jean and Karen Allister before their murders, she'd been spooked.

Jordan had been anxious to leave the crime scene, too. The blue hat on the last victim had affected him more than he cared to admit. He could still see Ryan, a blue hat strapped to his tiny head. This killer could not be allowed to take another victim. Jordan just didn't know how to stop him yet.

The last clue Jordan had was the doctor who had performed reconstructive surgery on George Allister. With the doctor and two of his nurses dead, and the records burned, there was only one person who could provide him with the information he needed. Jordan needed to find the one remaining nurse—Nina Rodriguez. He only prayed Leonardo hadn't taken care of her, too. So far, he had been very resourceful at cleaning up the loose ends.