Split Second (30 page)

Early Tuesday morning
March 31

M
aggie opened her hotel-room door to Delaney. Without a word or an invitation, she turned and walked back into the room, leaving him there while she continued the pacing he had interrupted. Out of the corner of her eyes, she saw him hesitate. Even after coming in, he held on to the doorknob, looking as though he wished he could escape. She wondered how he and Turner had decided which of them would talk to her. Had Delaney lost the coin toss?

She ignored him as he walked across the room, careful to stay out of her path. He sat down at a small table that wobbled when he leaned his elbows on it. He picked up her empty plastic glass and fingered the miniature bottle of Scotch, giving both a sniff before replacing them. His shirtsleeves were rolled up. His collar button opened. His tie removed. He looked wrinkled and tired. During one of her turns, she saw him rub his hands over his bristled face and up through his thinning hair. She’d make him speak first. She was in no mood to talk. And certainly in no mood for a lecture. Why couldn’t they just leave her alone?

“We’re worried about you, Maggie.”

So there it was. He’d have to start with a low blow, all that worrying-and-caring stuff. Plus, he was using her first name. This was serious stuff. She almost wished Turner had come instead. At least he would yell a little.

“There’s no need to worry,” she said calmly.

“Look at you. You’re wound so tight you can’t even sit still.”

She shoved her hands into the pockets of her trousers, briefly alarmed, noticing for the first time how baggy the pants felt. When had she lost weight? She continued to pace, keeping her hands hidden in her pockets. No sense in showing Delaney how badly her hands had been shaking since she’d returned to her room.

“It was an honest mistake,” she defended herself before he had a chance to make the obvious accusation.

“Of course it was.”

“From the back he looked exactly like Stucky. And why the hell did he ignore my instructions three times?”

“Because he doesn’t understand English.”

She stopped and stared at him. The thought had never occurred to her. Of course it hadn’t. She had been convinced it was Stucky. There had been no doubt in her mind.

“Then why did he run from Turner?”

“Who knows.” Delaney dug his fingers into his eyes. “Maybe he’s an illegal alien. Point is, Maggie, you not only made him splatter his veal capellini all over the pavement, you almost blew his frickin’ head off.”

“I did not almost blow his head off. I followed protocol. I couldn’t see Turner. I couldn’t see what this fucking idiot had in his hands, and he wasn’t responding. What the hell would you have done, Delaney?”

His eyes met hers for the first time, and she held him there, despite his discomfort.

“I probably would have done the same thing.” But his admission made him look away.

Maggie thought she saw a hint of embarrassment. There was more to this little visit than concern or a lecture. She braced herself and leaned against the chest of drawers, the only solid piece of furniture in the room.

“What’s going on, Delaney?”

“I called Assistant Director Cunningham,” he said, glancing up at her but avoiding her eyes. “I had to tell him what happened.”

“Goddamn you, Delaney,” she said under her breath, and began pacing once more to steady the brewing anger.

“We’re worried about you, Maggie.”

“Right.”

“I saw the look in your eyes, Maggie, and it scared the hell out of me. I saw how much you wanted to pull the trigger.”

“But I didn’t, did I? Doesn’t that count for anything? I didn’t pull the goddamn trigger.”

“No, not this time.”

She stopped at the window and stared down at the lights of the plaza below. She bit her lower lip. The lights were beginning to blur. She would not cry. She closed her eyes tight against the urge. Behind her, Delaney remained still and quiet. She refused to give him anything other than her back.

“Cunningham wants you to return to Quantico,” he said in a low, apologetic voice. “He’s sending Stewart to finish your workshop. He’ll be here in a couple of hours, so you don’t need to worry about the morning session.”

She watched several cars below as they glided through intersections. At this height, they reminded her of a slow-motion video game. Streetlights flickered, confused whether to stay on or shut off as the sky lightened in anticipation of sunrise. In less than an hour, Kansas City would be waking up, and she hadn’t even been to bed yet.

“Did you, at least, tell Cunningham about Rita?”

“Yes.”

When he offered nothing more, she turned to him, suddenly hopeful. She watched his face when she asked, “Does he believe it was Stucky?”

“I don’t know. He didn’t say, and I didn’t ask.”

“So maybe he wants me to return to finally help on the case?”

Again, Delaney looked away, staring at the tabletop. She knew without any response that she was wrong.

“Jesus! Cunningham thinks I’m losing it, too,” she said quietly, and turned back to the window. She leaned her forehead against the cool glass, hoping it would steady her nerves. Why couldn’t she just feel numb, instead of all this anger and now this sudden feeling of defeat?

After a long silence, she heard Delaney get up and start for the door.

“I already made arrangements for you. Your flight leaves a little before one this afternoon. I don’t have any sessions today, so I can drive you to the airport.”

“Don’t bother. I’ll take a cab,” she said without moving.

She heard him waiting, fidgeting. She refused to give him her eyes. And she certainly would not give him the absolution she knew Delaney would feel guilty without. Down below, cars began to fill the video-game slots, black and red and white, stopping and going.

“Maggie, we’re all just worried about you,” he said again, as if it should be enough.

“Right.” She didn’t bother to disguise the hurt and anger.

She waited for the soft slap of the door to close behind him. Then she crossed the room and turned the dead bolt. She stood with her back leaning against the door, listening to her heart pound, waiting for the anger and disappointment to leave. Why couldn’t she replace it with acceptance or, at least, complacency? She needed to go home to her new, huge Tudor house with her belongings stacked in cardboard boxes and her shiny new state-of-the-art security system. She needed to let this go, before she did slip so far over the edge there would be no return.

She waited, pressed against the door, staring at the ceiling and listening, if not for her heart to stop banging then at least for her common sense to return. Then making up her mind, she stomped to the middle of the room. She began stripping out of the clothes she had worn since yesterday morning. In minutes she was dressed in blue jeans, a sweatshirt and an old pair of Nikes. She slipped on her shoulder holster, shoved her badge into the back pocket of her jeans and wrestled into a navy FBI windbreaker.

Her forensic kit hadn’t been used in months, but she still didn’t leave home without it. She pulled out several pairs of latex gloves, some evidence bags and a surgical face mask, transferring the items to the pockets of her jacket.

It was almost 6:00 a.m. She had only six hours, but she wasn’t leaving this city until she connected Albert Stucky to Rita’s murder. And she didn’t care if that meant checking every last Dumpster and every last discarded take-out container in Westport’s market district. Suddenly feeling energized, she grabbed her room’s key card and left.

“H
ey lady. What the hell you looking for?”

Maggie looked over her shoulder but didn’t stop digging through the rubble. She was up to her knees in garbage. Her Nikes were stained with barbecue sauce, her gloved hands sticky. Her eyes stung from a smelly concoction of garlic, mothballs, spoiled food and general human crap.

“FBI,” she finally shouted through the paper face mask, and turned just enough for him to see the yellow letters on the jacket’s back.

“Shit! No kidding? Maybe I can help.”

She glanced at him again, resisting the urge to swipe at the strands of hair in her face, instead waving at the flies who regarded her as an invader of their territory. The man was young, probably in his early twenties. A scar, still pink and swollen, ran along his jaw and a purple bend in his nose indicated a recent break. Maggie’s eyes darted around the alley, wondering if the rest of his gang was close by.

“Actually, I have more help than I need. The KC cops are a couple of Dumpsters down,” she lied, pleased when the kid immediately began a nervous dance. His head jerked in both directions. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other as if preparing to run.

“Yeah, well. Good luck then.” Rather than decide which direction to risk, he found an unlocked door and disappeared into the back of a warehouse.

She tossed a bulging garbage bag to the side without opening it. Stucky would never leave it hidden inside a bag. In the past, his surprises had been left in plain sight, where they were easily discovered, often by unsuspecting citizens. Maybe she was wasting her time going through Dumpsters.

Just then she saw the corner of a white cardboard take-out container. Slowly, she stepped closer, lifting each leg high as if wading through water, ignoring the squish-squash sounds beneath her feet. The last two containers had yielded one green meatball sandwich and some moldy ribs. Yet, each time she spotted a new one her pulse quickened. She felt a surge of adrenaline as she swatted at flies and brushed off wilted lettuce, cigarette butts and wadded pieces of tinfoil.

She lifted the container carefully, keeping it level and setting it on the edge of the Dumpster. The box was about the size of a small cake or pie. It’d provide ample room for a kidney or a lung. Neither organ required much space. She had once found a lung from one of Stucky’s victims stuffed inside a container no bigger than a sandwich.

Sweat trickled down her back, despite the morning being damp and chilly. By now, she imagined she reeked as bad as the garbage she stood in. She steadied her fingers and sucked in her breath. The surgical mask clung to her mouth and nose. She slipped off the container’s tab and pulled open the lid. The smell made her turn her head and hold her breath. After a few seconds, she was able to look again. Who’d ever guess spoiled fettuccine Alfredo would curdle and stink like rotten eggs? At least that’s what Maggie thought the contents had once been. It was difficult to tell without lifting the thin film of fuzzy green and gray scum off the top. She closed and secured the lid.

“Find anything interesting?”

The deep voice startled her. Had the young gangster changed his mind? She grasped the Dumpster’s edge so she wouldn’t slip and fall backward into the trash. When she turned, she found Detective Ford staring up at her. Only this morning she hardly recognized him. Like her, he was dressed in street clothes, blue jeans, a gray hooded sweatshirt and a blue Kansas City Royals baseball cap. He looked much younger without the suit and tie and without his older partner.

She tugged off the surgical mask and let it dangle at her neck.

“I’m finding that we waste entirely too much food in this country,” she said, dropping the container and wading to the opposite side of the Dumpster where she had left a milk crate on the cobblestone to aid in her climb.

“I didn’t realize the FBI was trying to police that sort of thing.”

She checked to see if there would be a lecture. He smiled.

“So are you undercover or off duty?” she asked, pointing to the baseball cap as she peeled off the latex gloves.

“I should ask you the same thing.”

“I had some free time this morning,” she said, as if that should be explanation enough for her to be knee-deep, sifting through garbage.

“Hey, Ford, where the hell did you disappear?” a familiar voice called from around the corner.

“Over here,” Detective Ford answered.

Even before he came into view, Maggie felt the annoying flutter in her stomach. Nick Morrelli looked just as handsome as she had remembered, tall and lean with a confident stride. He, too, wore blue jeans with a red Nebraska Cornhuskers sweatshirt. He was at Ford’s side before he recognized her, and when he did, his smile revealed dimples in an otherwise strong, square jaw.

“Maggie?”

She tossed the sticky gloves and yanked off the surgical mask from around her neck, adding it to the garbage.

“Hi, Nick.” She pretended to sound casual while wading the rest of the way out, suddenly acutely aware of flies now attracted and interested in her. She swatted at them and tucked wild strands of hair behind her ears and away from her face.

“That’s right. I keep forgetting you two know each other.” Ford was smiling, too. “Maggie had some free time this morning,” he said to Nick.

“Jesus, it’s good to see you, Maggie.”

Immediately, she felt her face flush.

“It might not be so good to smell me,” she said, needing to stop any sentimental reunion.

She gripped the edge of the Dumpster and swung a leg over the side. Her foot dangled, searching for the milk crate. Before she could find it, Nick’s hands were on her waist to help. Her hip brushed against his chest on the way down. Despite being bombarded with smells all morning, she recognized the subtle scent of his cologne.

Once both her feet were on the ground, his hands lingered, but she avoided looking up at him. She avoided looking at either of them, needing the extra time to compose herself while waiting for the unexpected flutter to leave. Damn it! She wasn’t some schoolgirl. Why the hell did her body respond like this?

She occupied herself wiping the sticking garbage from her pant legs and shoes. Unfortunately, when she did look up, both men were watching her. She continued to avoid Nick’s eyes, remembering how they could look deep inside her and uncover vulnerabilities she had hidden even from herself.

“So,” Ford finally said, glancing back into the Dumpster, “did you find anything interesting?”

She wondered how much Turner and Delaney had shared with Ford about her obsession with Stucky. Had Detective Ford seen how close to the edge she had come last night? And what had he discussed with Nick? She didn’t think for a minute he had forgotten they knew each other. After all, Ford had invited Nick to have dinner with them last night, though there had never been an explanation as to why Nick hadn’t joined them. Suddenly she was curious if Nick had simply wanted to avoid seeing her again. After all, if he was now living in Boston, why hadn’t he called? She could feel his eyes taking her in, watching her, smiling at her, but thankfully not making a big deal of their reunion.

“No, I didn’t find anything,” she finally answered. She needed to change the subject before Detective Ford discovered it was body parts she had been rummaging for and not simply overlooked evidence. “Is this your case now?”

“Not officially. More than likely Milhaven and I will be putting in some hours on it. Today’s supposed to be my day off. Nick and I were just about to get an early lunch.”

“And you always take the alleys?”

Ford grinned and glanced at Nick.

“She doesn’t let anybody get away with anything, does she?”

“No, she certainly doesn’t.” Nick’s eyes caught hers, and she knew his simple statement had much deeper meaning, reminding her of the intimacies they had shared and those they had almost shared.

“So come on, Detective Ford.” She needed to keep things light, capitalize on their jovial mood. She needed to keep Ford from realizing she had no business snooping around in his jurisdiction. She was already in enough trouble with Cunningham. “You’re down here taking another look, too, right?”

“Okay, you caught me.” He held up both hands as if in surrender. “I was telling Nick about last night.”

Maggie cringed, and again she wondered what exactly had been discussed. Nick knew the whole story, all the gory details about her and Stucky. He had experienced firsthand her nightmares. Still, she kept her face impassive, pretending last night had been just another routine chase for her. Truth was, she didn’t care if Ford thought she was losing it. But maybe she did care if Nick thought it. She waited and Ford continued.

“You sorta got my curiosity up last night, O’Dell.”

Oh God, she thought, but instead said, “How is that?”

“All that talk about Albert Stucky sorta spooked me.”

She glanced from Detective Ford to Nick, looking for some indication of whether or not they were taking her seriously. If this was Ford’s way of patting her on the head and reassuring her how mistaken she was, she didn’t need to waste her breath responding.

“You think I’m being paranoid?” She couldn’t help it. The beginning anger slipped out. Nick noticed immediately and looked concerned. Ford looked genuinely confused.

“No, that’s not at all what I meant…. Well, that’s not exactly true. I guess I was thinking that last night.”

“Albert Stucky has the financial wherewithal and the intelligence to go anywhere he wants, anytime he chooses. Don’t think for a second Kansas City is safe, simply because he hasn’t struck in the Midwest before.” There it was. She hadn’t meant to let the anger out. She hated how Stucky had such power over her emotions, triggering them with the mere mention of his name. Again she avoided Nick’s eyes, and again she could feel them.

Ford stared at her, but there was no accusation on his face. Instead, he looked as though he was only waiting for her to finish her tirade.

“Can I talk now?”

“Be my guest.” Maggie crossed her arms over her chest, bracing herself and yet doing her best to look defiant. It was a newly acquired talent.

“That was my way of thinking last night. Like, why in the world would this Stucky guy just happen to pick Kansas City instead of the East Coast? I know enough about serial killers to know they keep to familiar territory. But before I met Nick this morning, I sat in on the autopsy of your friend, Rita.”

Detective Ford glanced at Nick, and it was obvious this was what the two of them had already discussed. He looked back at Maggie, waited until he had her full attention then said, “Seems our victim is missing her right kidney.”