Split Second (31 page)

“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.”

T
ully checked his watch. It wasn’t like Assistant Director Cunningham to be late for a meeting. He sat back and waited. Maybe his watch was running fast again. According to Emma, it was ancient and uncool.

Tully stared at the huge map spread on the wall behind his boss’s desk. It was Cunningham’s personal log for his twenty years as head of the Investigative Support Unit. Each pushpin indicated a spot where a serial killer had struck. Each pushpin color designated a particular serial killer. Tully wondered how soon the assistant director would run out of colors. Already there were repeats: purple, light purple and translucent purple.

Tully knew his boss had worked on some of the most shocking cases, including John Wayne Gacy and the Green River Killer. By comparison, Tully was a rookie, with only six years’ experience in profiling and most of that on paper, not in the field. He wondered how anyone lived day in, day out for decades examining such brutality without becoming jaded or cynical.

He glanced around the office again. Everything on the desk—a leather appointment book, two Bic pens with the caps intact (a talent Tully had not yet perfected), a plain memo pad with no doodles in the corners and a brass nameplate—all of it was organized in straight lines, perpendicular to one another, almost as if Cunningham used a T square every morning. It occurred to Tully that the tidy but stark office contained not one single personal item. There were no sweatshirts wadded in the corner, no miniature basketballs, not a single photo. In fact, Tully knew very little of who his boss was outside the office.

He had noticed a wedding band, yet Assistant Director Cunningham seemed to live at Quantico. There was never any rearranging of appointments for Little League games or school plays or visits to kids in college. Before this morning, he had never even been late for an appointment. No, Tully knew absolutely nothing about the quiet, soft-spoken man who had become one of the most respected men in the FBI. But at what cost? Tully wondered.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Cunningham said as he breezed in, shedding his suit jacket and swinging it carefully over the back of his chair before sitting down. “What have you found out?”

In the beginning, that brisk, straight-to-the-point attitude had flustered Tully, who was accustomed to the courtesies of the Midwest. Now he appreciated getting down to business with no obligatory exchanges of chitchat or greetings. Though it also prevented the two men from knowing a single thing about each other’s personal lives.

“I just received the files faxed over from the Kansas City police.”

He pulled out the summary sheet from a group of folders he had brought along. He made certain it was the correct one and handed it across the desk. Cunningham pushed up his glasses.

Tully continued, “Early autopsy reports indicate a slashed throat as cause of death. No other defense wounds or injuries. There was one incision in the victim’s right side through which the right kidney was extracted.”

“Any sign of the organ?”

“No, not yet. But then the Kansas City cops weren’t looking for it right away. It’s quite possible someone found it, had no clue what it was and tossed it.”

Tully waited patiently, watching his boss as he finished reading. He laid the report on the desk, sat back and rubbed a hand over his jaw.

“What’s your perspective on this, Agent Tully?”

“The timing is off. It’s much too soon after the delivery girl. And it’s much too far away, entirely out of his territory. There was another latent fingerprint, a thumb. Again, it looks like it was deliberately left behind on an umbrella that belonged to the victim. Didn’t even have the victim’s fingerprints on it. It was definitely wiped down with the print left later. And again, it doesn’t match Albert Stucky.”

Cunningham frowned, squinting at the report and tapping his index finger to his lip. Tully thought the lines in his face seemed more pronounced this morning, his short hair peppered with more gray.

“So is it Stucky, or isn’t it?”

“The M.O. definitely matches Stucky’s,” Tully said. “And there hasn’t been enough in the news or even enough time for a copycat to get motivated. The print may belong to someone who came across the scene. A waiter found her. There’s some speculation the scene had been contaminated. KC’s faxing a copy of the print to the guys at CJIS in Clarksburg. We’ll see if it matches the unidentified one left in Newburgh Heights. There’s a good chance these belong to civilians coming across the scene after everything’s been wiped clean.”

“Okay, let’s say that’s the case. So what if it is Stucky?”

Tully knew exactly what Cunningham was thinking, but he evidently wanted or needed to hear it, to confirm what seemed to be the obvious.

“If it is Stucky, it’s more than likely he followed O’Dell to Kansas City. He may be looking for a way to drag her into this again.”

Cunningham glanced at his wristwatch. “She should be headed back right now.”

“Actually, I checked, sir. I thought I’d meet her at the airport. She changed to a flight later tonight.”

Cunningham shook his head and let out a sigh of frustration as he grabbed his phone and punched several buttons.

“Anita, do you have Special Agent Margaret O’Dell’s hotel phone number in Kansas City?” He sat back while he waited.

Tully imagined the methodical Anita quickly accessing her records. Assistant Director Cunningham had kept the same secretary, inheriting her from his predecessor and yielding to her experience and expertise on important matters he couldn’t saddle himself with. If such a thing was possible, Anita was even more meticulous than her boss.

“Good,” Cunningham said into the phone. “Would you please get in touch with her even if it’s through a message. Track her down if she’s already checked out. I want to see her in my office tomorrow morning at eight.”

He hesitated and listened as he rubbed the bridge of his nose under his glasses. “Oh yes, I forgot about that. Tell O’Dell nine o’clock then. Thanks, Anita.”

He replaced the receiver and looked up at Tully, waiting.

“How long do you intend to keep her off this case?” Tully finally asked what he thought was the obvious question.

“For as long as is necessary.”

Tully studied his boss’s face, but had no clue how to read the composed and reserved expression. He respected the man tremendously, but he didn’t know him well enough to know how far he could push him. He decided to take a chance anyway.

“You realize she’s checking this one out on her own? That’s more than likely why she’s taking a later flight.”

“All the more reason to get her back here.” Cunningham held Tully’s eyes, warning him to step carefully. “What else is happening in Newburgh Heights?”

“We found the pizza delivery girl’s car. It was left in long-term parking at the airport, right next to a telephone company van that was reported stolen a couple of weeks ago.”

“I knew it,” Cunningham sat back and began drumming his fingers on the desk. “Stucky’s done it before. He’ll steal a vehicle, or sometimes only the license plates, from the airport’s long-term parking. Chances are he has the plates or even the vehicle returned before the owner is back home. Has forensics impounded the van?”

Tully nodded, sorting through the information he had on both vehicles. “Not likely they’ll find anything. It’s pretty clean. However, we did find two delivery slips in the girl’s car.

He dug in the folder, pulling out one torn piece of paper and another creased with fold lines. Both had been recovered from the floor of the girl’s car. A red stain on one corner had tested as pizza sauce, not blood. Tully handed both over the desk. “The torn one is from her first route. Number four on the list is Agent O’Dell’s new home address.”

Cunningham sat forward, resting elbows on his desk. For the first time in Tully’s three months of working at Quantico, he saw anger on his boss’s face. The assistant director’s dark eyes narrowed and his hands clenched the paper.

“So the damn bastard not only knows where she lives, but he’s watching her.”

“It looks that way. When I talked to Agent Delaney, he said the waitress in Kansas City had joked and talked with the three of them Sunday evening while she served them. He may be choosing women O’Dell comes in contact with in hopes of making her feel responsible.”

“It’s another of his goddamn games. He’s still obsessed with O’Dell. I knew it. I knew he wouldn’t let it go.”

“It appears that way. May I say one more thing, sir?”

“Of course.”

“You’ve offered me another agent to help on this case. You’ve also offered a forensic psychologist, which O’Dell is. You even suggested we have someone on hand to answer medical-related questions. If I’m not mistaken, Agent O’Dell has a premed background.”

Tully hesitated, giving Cunningham a chance to cut him off. Instead, he only stared at Tully, his face back to its stoic expression as he simply waited.

“Rather than three or four people,” Tully continued, “I’m officially requesting Agent O’Dell. If Stucky is targeting her, she may be the only one who can help us catch him.”

Tully expected a flicker of anger or at least impatience. But Cunningham’s face remained unchanged.

“I’ll give your request careful consideration,” he said. “Let me know what else you find out from Kansas City.”

“Yes, sir,” Tully said as he stood to leave, recognizing the signs of dismissal. Before he reached the door, Cunningham was on the phone again, and Tully couldn’t help wondering if his request had also been dismissed.