Shades of Darkness - by Pho
part - 01
Present day - in the darkness:
"Damn, it's cold in here."
"Watch your elbow."
"Well, if you'll watch where you're putting your hands."
"Oh, sorry."
"It's okay, it's not your fault."
"Think if I can just get my..oh, sorry Skipper."
Embarrassed silence.
"Will you just sit still for five minutes, Ryan!" An exasperated sigh.
"We can't be found like this, Harry."
"Don't you think I know that. I would never hear the end of this. I would be the main topic of conversation at the next Captain's dinner. Oh my...my ears are burning already."
"What about me? Cass would be dining off this one for years."
"Not at my expense she won't. We've got to think this out. There is always a solution when you think calmly and clearly. Damn it Ryan, hold still!"
"Funny you should put it that way, Skipper, and it's a bit hard to think calmly and clearly when you're tied to your Captain, in nothing but..."
"Don't say it Ryan, I'm still blinded from the flash from your iridescent love hearts."
"They were a gift."
"And you just happen to be wearing them on the day we get robbed and stripped down to..."
"Well mother always said..."
"Yeah, I know the same thing mine did. Wear clean underwear in case of an accident. Somehow, I don't think either of our mothers had this particular accident in mind."
"Did you hear that?"
"Tom? Harry? Where are you?"
"Oh shit!" Two voices groaned in unison.
******
One month earlier - in the stationhouse:
"Well?"
Tom peered innocently over the top of a manila folder at his partner. "Well what?"
"You know very well what."
"Pretend I don't."
Arms folding across her chest, Cassy cast an icy look at Tom. "Fine. You lost the bet on the Florida game, fair and square. You are *supposed* to be wearing Georgia Bulldog boxers."
"I am."
"Show me."
Hazel eyes widened with horror as his index finger waved in her face. "Oh, no, no, no. We're not married anymore, remember?"
"Really, Thomas, don't be a prude. There's nothing you've got that *I* haven't seen." She reached for his zipper, yelping as his hand smacked hers away.
Attempting to retain a semblance of dignity while surrounded by the smirks of his fellow detectives, Tom replied haughtily. "You haven't seen any of my underwear since we divorced. I see no reason to change that. If my word isn't good enough..."
"It isn't."
"I'm hurt."
"Your one feeling maybe, now show me or..."
"Or what?" He rose from his chair to meet the challenge, adding his height to their argument.
Cassy smiled slyly. "Try an intra-departmental email denouncing you for a welsher."
"No one would believe you."
"You did renege on that trapeze bet."
"I didn't make a trapeze bet, you did."
"But it was for you and you reneged. Everyone says so." Her index finger stabbed his chest for emphasis. "So show me."
Glancing around the squadroom, Tom knew he'd lost this round. "Fine, but not here."
"Where then? And don't even think of heading for the men's room." Sparks flashed in her eyes at the all-too-forgettable memory of a men's room joke.
Tom glanced around in desperation, finally focusing on the captain's empty office. "In there. Harry's closeted with the chief this morning."
"After you, Sergeant Ryan." Cassy swept her arm toward the door.
"Okay." Tom bit back a grin as he preceded the blond into the organically challenged office of Harry Lipschitz. Only that morning maintenance had removed two dead ferns, replacing them with living specimens for the captain to nurture. Or not. Once inside, Tom waited for her then shut the door quickly.
She reached again for his zipper, dodging as he slapped at her hand again.
"Ah, ah, ah. *I'll* do it." Undoing his belt, Tom cringed slightly as he eased the zipper down just enough so that the Georgia Bulldog could be recognized. "Seen enough?"
Cassy shrugged nonchalantly. "Adequate ... as usual."
Tom's outraged, "What the hell did that mean?" coincided with the captain's outraged, "What the hell is going on in here?"
Tom and Cassy exchanged alarmed looks then Cassy stepped to one side, drawing Harry's attention away from Tom, "Harry, how was your meeting with the chief?"
"Long. Now am I wrong or is this my office?" Harry glared at the woman as Tom quickly rearranged his clothing.
"Oh, when you're right, you're right, Harry. This is definitely your office."
"I'm glad you agree. Now, what was going on?"
Tom chimed in quickly. "Did the chief have anything important he wanted to discuss?"
Harry knocked a fern out of the way as he stalked to his desk, slamming a manila folder down on his desk. "As a matter of fact, yes. Now I'm going to talk to you. Sit."
Another meaningful glance passed between the partners as they took seats opposite Harry's desk. Tom frowned as he noticed the somber expression on his commander's face. "Harry, what's wrong?"
Sighing, the captain pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, staring at his hands. "The Jane Doe you're working on."
"You know who she is?" Cassy was delighted, identification of the corpse often went a long way toward revealing the identity of the killer.
"No. But I know who killed her." Harry looked unusually grim.
Tom's brow furrowed with confusion. "Harry, you're not making any sense. How do you know who killed her?"
"Better yet," Cassy interjected, "who killed her?"
"As you requested, this girl's clothing and other belongings were sent to the FBI along with her fingerprints and dental records. They're a tad touchy where the Angel of Darkness is concerned and assigned the lab work to the analyst who's done most of the work on this particular serial killer."
Tom laughed shortly. "Harry, I've read the reports, serial killers are a bizarre breed. Bizarre but consistent. The Angel of Darkness works solely on the West Coast. This has got to be a copycat, not the real thing. The angel branded into her palm, surely spelled copycat. That damn brand's made news all over the country. That's why we wanted the items sent to the FBI lab. To rule out the real thing."
Harry's troubled eyes rose to meet his detectives'. "Well it didn't. Jane Doe is positively victim thirteen." Thrusting the folder in front of him toward the pair, he added. "Second page, paragraph three of the lab results. Carpet fibers found stuck to her sweater material match fibers pulled from eight of the victims. And the brand? Well, it's a perfect match as well."
The captain sat silently as he watched the pair read the important sections of the report. When they'd finished, Cassy could only mumble a horrified, "Oh, my God!"
Tom, however, swallowed convulsively, then asked, "What now?"
Harry's eyes narrowed in fierce determination. "You're scheduled to meet with Agents Rogers and Kim at two this afternoon. As of right now, you're assigned to the Angel of Darkness task force. This son-of-a-bitch is *not* going to play his games in my territory."
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part - 02 ↑
"I don't like them." Cassy's foot swished irritably back and forth as she sat on the edge of the burnt orange side chair in the waiting room at the local FBI headquarters.
"You don't know them."
"They're late. An hour and a half late. I don't have to know them."
"There's probably a very valid reason for them being late. They are cops, you know." Tom replied reasonably.
"Yes, well--"
"Sergeants St. John and Ryan?" The young receptionist, who'd left them in the seventy's horror story pretending to be a waiting room, poked her head around the door. "Agents Rogers and Kim will be back in the office in twenty minutes. Would either of you care for coffee, or tea?"
"NO. Thank you."
"Yes. Thank you!" Tom avoided looking at his partner as he spoke.
The young woman did a double take at the almost simultaneous responses, then asked, "Um, what will you have?"
"Coffee, lots of sugar."
"Coffee, decaf, black."
Looking more than a little startled at the hastily snapped replies, and sensing something was slightly amiss in the waiting room, the young woman nodded quickly, and fled.
Tom glanced at Cassy. "Thought you didn't want anything."
"Didn't want the poor girl to become a waitress, but since *you* were having something..." Cassy's smile did not reach her eyes.
"Ok..ay." Tom responded slowly. Cassy was in a vicious mood, one he was all-too-familiar with. Unless he did something, and quick, Agents Rogers and Kim would be greeted by Palm Beach's own version of Jekyll and Hyde, with Hyde definitely in the driver's seat. Reflecting back over years of failed strategies designed to pull his partner out of her funk, he decided that desperate times called for desperate measures. He'd be completely honest and up front with her. "Cassy, it's obvious that you're in a very bad mood and I wish you'd get over your snit before we talk to the FBI."
The blond's eyes narrowed, and her upper body moved into the position Tom had come to think of as the 'cobra stance'. "I am *not* in a bad mood. And what do you mean by 'snit'?"
Tom sighed, wondering how and when he was going to pay for this confrontation. "You've been grumbling for the last hour, jumping up and down to get a new magazine from the rack every fifteen minutes, none of which you've read, and are obviously upset about our upcoming meeting with the FBI. So, what's wrong?"
"I have too been reading the magazines." Cassy was obviously offended.
Stifling a smile, Tom reached out and turned the magazine over. "Not upside down you're haven't."
Cassy stared at Tom for a moment, then looked downward, blinking in surprise at the righted magazine. "Oh."
"Right. Oh."
"They've got to be wrong, Tom. The Angel of Death is a West Coast killer. I simply cannot believe he's in Florida. I mean, why? Do serial killers take vacations? God, I cannot believe I said that!"
******
"I don't like them." Agent Michael Rogers groused as he stepped into the elevator, savagely jabbing the third floor button.
"You don't know them." His pretty brunette partner managed to cover her laugh with a cough.
"They're locals. What's to like?"
"Really Michael, I don't see how you could possibly form an opini... you're teasing me."
"No, really?" A broad smile pulled his eyes into narrow slits, obliterating their normal dark gray color.
Angela Kim slapped him hard on the arm. "You are so full of it."
Cringing away from her he yelped. "Ouch! Watch it, woman."
She shook her head, then asked quietly. "Did you even read their service records?"
"I stopped after finding out they were divorced ... from each other. Weird."
"I read a little further than that."
"How much further?"
"All the way to the end." She smiled at his discomfiture. "Well, *one* of us had to."
"Okay, I'll hand you that. What'd you find out?"
"That they're considered the best homicide detectives in this part of the country."
"That's refreshing, and not bad on the eyes either." Michael watched his partner out of the corner of his eye.
"No, he's not." Angela stared at a spot on the elevator doors, ignoring her partner's startled look as the doors parted on the third floor.
******
Empty coffee cups sat on the octagonal side table next to Tom's ochre chair. The Palm Beach detectives sat bolt upright as the door swung open.
"Detectives Ryan and St. John?" The receptionist smiled as she entered the waiting room. "Agents Rogers and Kim will see you now. If you'll come with me, please?"
Grateful to finally be leaving the seventies' retro colored room, Cassy and Tom leaped toward the young woman, once again startling her badly. Walking much more quickly than normal, the receptionist led the pair through a maze of brown and white cubicles, stopping in front of a conference room. "In here, please." She motioned them past her, then closed the door.
"Ah, Ryan, St. John. I'm sorry we have to meet under these circumstances. I'm Michael Rogers, and this is Angela Kim. Please sit down."
Cassy took the seat nearest Rogers. "This isn't a mistake. Our Jane Doe is really the thirteenth victim?"
Rogers nodded grimly. "I'm sorry. We've had ... indications ... that our killer was going to make a change. Nothing concrete, just slight differences that said he wasn't enjoying the game anymore."
"Game!" Cassy and Tom spoke in unison.
Angela spoke up quickly. "Unfortunately, yes. To him it's one big game and we don't know the rules, just the plays he's already made."
Tom frowned angrily. "Those 'plays' Agent Kim, are thirteen dead young women."
"It's Angela, Tom, and I'm quite aware of what the plays are." The brunette replied with no rancor in her voice.
Tom blushed slightly. "My apologies ... Angela. No offense meant."
"None taken."
Cassy spoke up. "Okay, if he's really here, and I ... we'll take your word on that. What do we do now? Will his profile stay the same?"
"Or will he go back to the earlier California pattern?" Tom asked.
Rogers looked at Tom curiously. "Exactly what California pattern?"
"The first three victims were killed under a full moon and so was our Jane Doe."
Cassy frowned as she glanced at Tom. "There's another full moon in less than a week."
Michael exchanged a glance with Angela before replying, "We know. Very good, Tom. And quite frankly, we have no idea. Why do you ask?"
Tom replied somberly, "He's switched coasts. No one's reported any 'angel' murders in the landlocked states. It occurred to me that he might be looking for a fresh start and just might repeat his earliest pattern."
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part - 03 ↑
The moon shone big and round in the sky, but few in the city took note. The mall was crowded with shoppers aiming for bargains in the semi-annual moonlight madness sale. The early hours of the evening were devoted to the midnight countdown, where percentages off grew larger as the hours grew later. Only the hardy managed to avoid grabbing their chosen purchases from the racks at the first markdown. The shopping savvy female crowd ran roughshod over both their more inexperienced counterparts as well as the few men foolish enough to hunt for bargains.
One such male stood blushing in the men's department as his female companion scavenged through the thirty percent off silk underwear. "What part of 'no' do you not understand, Cassy?"
"The part that won the bet on the Florida game. *I* get to choose your underwear for the next six weeks. One week for each point over the spread. I'm sure you remember."
Tom's eyes shot daggers at his partner. "I draw the line at Tweety-Pie. I don't care *who* thinks I'm a welsher. And no, absolutely nothing smaller than a brief. That leaves out bikinis and, God, G-strings."
"Spoilsport." Holding a pair of silk boxers up against her partner's tummy, she studied the positioning of the Tasmanian Devil carefully. "Think he'll show?"
"What?" Tom glanced downward automatically, causing Cassy to smack him hard on his arm. "Ow! Why'd you do that?"
"You're a man, figure it out. Seriously, Tom, do you think that devil will show?"
Tom's eyes narrowed with concern. "I hope not, but it'd be too much to ask for him to just leave and go back to the West Coast."
Cassy stared for a moment at the Tasmanian Devil, before throwing the boxers over her shoulder, ignoring Tom's groan as she did so. "We've got enough undercover cops in this mall to have a convention. If he does try something..."
"Don't get your hopes up, Cassy. All we know is that he's Caucasian, with brown hair. Hell, *I* fit the description."
"Well, unless he's into full body make-up, you might as well limit that to white male. The hair can be changed at will."
"Hopefully, if he does make a move, one of our people will see it."
"Yeah, but not in time to stop it. Blast!" Cassy savagely yanked an innocent pair of briefs from the pile.
"May I help you?" A young saleswoman wearing an overlarge nametag proclaiming her to be 'Bianca' smiled pleasantly as she approached them.
"Yes, we'd--"
"No, thank..." Tom's words faded away as he caught the expression in Cassy's eyes.
She fixed him with a glare for another short moment, then continued. "Yes, we'd like these three, Taz, Bugs and Daffy, for certain. And do you have the boxers, size 34 in Tweety?"
******
"If I didn't know better, I'd say this was Southern California." Angela winced as she examined the palm trees in center court. "Even down to the fake... Oh!"
"What's wrong?" Michael frowned at her puzzled expression.
"They're real."
"What are real?"
"The trees. That means... Gosh, the plants are alive."
"Angela, have I ever mentioned that you need a vacation?"
"Frequently. We don't have time. There's a nutcase out there killing young women for fun. Nobody has time--"
"Yo, Angie, you're preaching to the choir." Michael frowned suddenly. "What's going on over there?" He impolitely pointed at a mall security guard being verbally waylaid by a young woman. She'd backed the startled man into the glass front of Sears, and continued her lecture, forefinger waving frantically in his face. A small crowd had begun to gather around the pair.
"I don't know, but we better break it up. A scene like that could cause our asshole to hit the road." Angela moved quickly toward the pair, with Michael in tow.
The ... conversation, if it could be called that, was becoming even more heated as they approached in time to catch the tail end of the woman's diatribe. "...that, stupid!"
Michael, playing the concerned citizen, stepped forward quickly. "Is this man bothering you, miss?"
The security guard shot him an astonished, then hateful look, sputtering wildly. "BOTHERING? Me? Her?"
Michael ignored him as he moved closer to the young woman, who he could see was in her mid-twenties, and quite upset. "Miss?"
"No. He's not bothering me, except for the fact that he's an idiot! I've told him and told him that April would not just leave like that!"
Angela quickly moved in. "Leave like what?"
Too angry to ask why they wanted to know, the young woman responded. "We'd spent our budget. At least April had." Glancing at Angela, she added, "She's saving for a car, you see."
"I see." Angela and Michael spoke in unison, a fact missed by the frustrated woman.
"I wanted to check out the new shoe palace. April said she'd go back to the car and move it closer so that someone of my advanced age - I'm twenty-five, she's twenty - wouldn't have to walk so far." She paused to catch her breath. Angela's sympathetic smile compelled her to finish her story. "I bought three pairs of shoes - one really neat looking wedge, by the way - and went to the East Entrance. That's the closest one to my car. She wasn't there. I figured she got stuck in the traffic around the mall so I waited for a few minutes, then walked to where I'd parked. The car was there. Her packages were there. But she wasn't. That's what I was trying to explain to that *idiot*." She glared at the confused security guard. "The car was unlocked. Even if she had to go back into the mall for something, April wouldn't leave the car unlocked, not with her stuff in it."
Angela exchanged a quick glance with Michael, who moved a short distance away to radio the Palm Beach duo. "Ms..."
"Bering. Susan Bering."
Angela showed both Susan and the guard her FBI credentials. "Is there someplace a little more private that we can talk?"
******
A rough, scarred hand gently stroked the soft red hair of his sleeping passenger. She'd come to him more easily than the others. So open, so trusting. Such beauty and goodness did not belong in this world of hellish images and obscene gestures. Perhaps *she* was the chosen one. The one who would win the game. If not, she'd join his other angels and the temptations of this earthly plain would trouble her no more.
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part - 04 ↑
Footsteps echoed hollowly in the chill of the gray room as the group approached the far wall. The only sound was the faint sniffling of a woman attempting to control her emotions, and failing badly. A balding man stepped forward and released the catch on the square metal door. Reaching inside, he pulled out a metal tray. Glancing briefly at the officers in the room, Sterling Morton fixed his gaze on the young woman in their midst. "Ms. Bering, are you ready?"
Angela and Michael watched with something akin to shame as Cassy and Tom took instinctive steps forward when Susan Bering nodded a reluctant yes. Wondering when they'd become so jaded, so uncaring, they took on the roles of silent observers as the pathologist pulled the sheet back to reveal the face of a young woman. Far too young to sleep as she did in death. A barely repressed scream told the officers what they needed to know. Tom nodded quickly to Morton who obliged by returning the body to the vault as quickly as possible.
"OhGodOhGodOhGodOhGodOhGodOhGodOhGodOhGod..." Susan's hands were shaking as she clamped them firmly over her mouth, trying to stop the words, the screams, the absolute nightmare of the moment. The Palm Beach duo half-pushed, half-pulled the woman into the outer office, where she folded into the nearest chair.
The FBI agents followed, and stood silently in the doorway, watching as Tom poured a glass of water from the water fountain and handed it to the shaking woman. "Drink. It's only water, but it will help." Tom knew from experience that just doing something, even something as automatic as downing a glass of water, was often all that was required to calm shattered nerves long enough for him to ask what needed to be asked.
Susan gulped it down, oblivious to the detectives' sympathetic stares. Slamming the glass down hard on a nearby table, she focused all her rage and despair on the officers around her. "It's April. Goddammit! Who did this? She didn't have an enemy in the world. She was the kindest, sweetest ... what the hell? Even if she was a miserable bitch, she didn't deserve to *die*!!!!"
"No, no she didn't." Michael moved into her line of sight. "Ms. Bering, I know you've answered a lot of questions over the past twenty-four hours, but we have a few more."
"More? God. Why are you bothering me rather than running her killer to ground and shooting his balls off? Some...some maniac kills April and you want to ask me questions?" Her voice was taut with rage, and her fists clenched white-knuckled in her lap as she railed at the detectives.
Cassy knelt beside her. "Ms. Bering, we understand how upsetting this--"
Flashing eyes shot daggers at the Palm Beach officers. "Do you? Do you really? My best friend and roommate is dead in there, lady. How can you possibly..." Susan stopped the irate flow of words, and simply looked around her. "I..I'm sorry. This isn't helping anything. You people didn't kill her." She took a deep breath and exhaled shakily. "What do you want to know?"
******
Harry glanced up as two dejected detectives slipped quietly into his office and slumped heavily into his chairs.
"You wanted to see us, Harry?" Cassy's voice sounded as tired as she looked.
Wincing, the captain nodded. "Yes. I understand Ms. Bering made a positive id on victim ... fourteen."
"Yes." Both detectives responded in a dull monotone.
"That's good."
Tom frowned at the older man. "Right. What's up, Harry? Surely you didn't get us up here for that?"
Harry sighed, then pushed his glasses back up onto the bridge of his nose. "The FBI has formally requested that all evidence be turned over to them. They've also requested no local involvement."
"What!" Cassy leaped to her feet angrily. "Why? We've--"
An outside call interrupted the beginning of her tirade. "Lipschitz!" Harry's frown deepened and his brow furrowed in confusion. "What? I don't ... yes, but..."
******
"You asked for what!" Michael Rogers was obviously furious as he leaped to his feet. Angela Kim winced at his volume all the while agreeing with his sentiment. He raged for a few more minutes, then settled back into his chair. Angela studied him closely, determined it was safe, and unmuted the speaker phone.
The deep voice at the other end sounded confused. "Obviously there's been some sort of misunderstanding."
Michael mouthed a silent "yeah and it's yours" at the phone, almost reducing Angela to inappropriate laughter. Taking a deep breath, she glared at Michael, daring him to blow this, then put on the most appalled tone in her almost unlimited repertoire of voices. "I should hope so. *We* like working with the locals. They know the territory, we don't."
"Who made the request?" Michael had regained his composure.
The disembodied voice of the speakerphone could be heard rustling papers. "Looks like the Miami office. Agents Spencer and Hernandez."
"Would that be Ralph Spencer and Steven Hernandez?" The tension was once again building in Michael's voice, and Angela was no longer making a move to calm him.
"Uh, that would be a yes. Why?"
"Martin, did you happen to notice that they were pulled from the Angel case and reassigned to Miami after victim six?"
A loud crackling sound indicated that paper was now being frantically rustled around. "Shit! You're right. What the... Oh, crap. You two requested their removal. Yikes!"
"Yeah, the 'yikes' have it. Shit, Martin, those are the two most self-serving, egotistical, publicity seeking--"
Angela interrupted. "--agents to ever be a burden to us. Fix this, Martin, and quickly." Without waiting for a response, she disconnected the speakerphone.
"Angie?"
"Yes?"
"It's not nice to hang up on the East Coast boss."
"Let him complain to the West Coast boss."
"You hang up on him too."
"Well, they can now exchange stories." Standing she gave Michael an earnest look. "Let's go find Tom and Cassy, and see if we can make amends. Of all the stupid, time-wasting--"
The ringing phone interrupted her tirade as Michael answered. "What? I don't ... yes, but... Right. The lab. On our way."
******
The FBI agents and the Palm Beach detectives nearly collided as the hallways they were traversing merged. Michael caught Cassy before she could hit the floor, and Tom reciprocated by preventing Angela's spill. Ignoring what could have been an awkward moment, Tom interjected quickly. "We got a call..."
Cassy's voice overlapped Tom's, "...from the lab."
Michael and Angela made it a quartet. "They've id'd victim thirteen."
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part - 05 ↑
An awkward silence filled the hallway as the four officers faced each other. Finally, Tom braved the silence. "We, uh," he glanced at Cassy for a short moment, "understand that the request to remove us from the case was a mistake."
"Yes. Yes, it was."
"No. No it wasn't." Angela's eyes narrowed in angry disbelief as Michael's statement contradicted her own.
Cassy was equally angry. "Well, which is it, yes or no?"
A grin burst across Michael's homely face. "Well, actually. Yes, and no."
"What?" A trio of confused voices shouted at him.
"Ouch!" Wincing at the decibel level, Michael held up his hand for silence. "Okay, I'll make this quick. Ralph Spencer and Steven Hernandez, unfortunately both agents--"
"If you can call them that." Angela's whisper quiet interruption did not go unnoticed by the Palm Beach Detectives.
"--of the FBI, were assigned to the Angel case out West. Their absolute--"
"Ineptitude?" Angela added helpfully, relieved to finally understand where her partner was going with his confession.
"Much too kind, Angie. Absolute ... criminal stupidity, not to mention their desire to be forever in the public's eye, obstructed our investigation at every turn. We finally asked for their transfer. Needless to say, they were *not* happy."
"For a short story, it's entirely too long, Michael."
"You wound me, partner dearest." The FBI agent grinned broadly at his now-irritated partner. "Anyhow, to shorten this sucker up, those assholes requested you be pulled. It won't happen again."
"I certainly hope not. We'd hate to have to continue this investigation without you." Cassy smirked slightly as she spoke, and Tom ducked his head in a desperate attempt to keep from laughing.
"Ah ha. Shall we?" Michael motioned toward the door to the war room. The small conference room had been turned into a workroom for the personnel assigned to the Angel of Death case. The door swung wide to reveal a technological playground. Four state-of-the-art PC's occupied workstations designed for getting the most benefit out of the least possible space. An equally high-tech info board stood across from the door, with the information from all the previous murders carefully laid out on its surface. The gruesome evidence of all fourteen crimes caused all four officers to be grateful that they'd missed lunch.
******
'Welcome to Jacksonville.' The sign warmly welcomed visitors to the city. As the convertible slid easily in and out of traffic, the balding man behind the wheel smiled at the billboard portraying a beautiful young woman on a beach, with a written plea to 'come play at Daytona.' "No, thank you." He shook his head as he drove past the billboard. "Another angel is here. I know it. I just know it."
He'd been lucky so far. So few angels, spread so far apart. So little time allowed for him to find them. He'd found all the ones in California. They'd been doubly blessed, his West Coast angels. They'd been granted the opportunity to end their journeys in the city of angels, Los Angeles. It was very, very fitting. He frowned slightly as he recalled the instructions to use Palm Beach as he had Los Angeles, as his holy territory. He only wished it had a better name, one more fitting to be the final resting spot of his angels.
The red spot on the top of his head was deepening in color as he steered the car along the interstate, preparing to enter the heart of the city at the first downtown exit. Smiling at yet another billboard, he mumbled quietly. "Don't worry, my darling. I'll find you. I'll save you. I'll send you home where you belong."
******
Tom stared at the board, trying to figure out what he was missing. There was something there, but he didn't quite know ... "OH!"
Angela looked up from the PC she was using, "What's wrong, Tom?"
"The first victim in California was from Sacramento, right? And her body was found in Los Angeles, right?"
"Right on both counts." Michael responded. "What about it?"
"And the second victim was from LA and her body was found in LA, right?"
"Again, right on the money."
Tom now had everyone's attention. Cassy frowned, "Tom, are you thinking--"
"Yes," He looked seriously at his partner. "It's been here all along and we've ignored it."
"WHAT?" Came the frustrated voices of the FBI agents.
"The first victim here was from Tallahassee and her body was found in Palm Beach. The second victim was found in Palm Beach and was from Palm Beach."
"So he's moving around the state, what about it?"
"No," Tom shook his head in frustration. "Sacramento is the capital of California. Tallahassee is the capital of Florida. Both capitals are in the northern part of the state. Both 'first' victims were abandoned in the lower part of the state. The second victims both lived in the cities where their bodies were found."
"We already know that, Tom. But the third victim in California was from Merced, not Sacramento, and the fourth was from LA. As a matter of fact, every other victim, until number eleven, was from LA."
"You don't get it." Cassy retorted. "Merced is south of Sacramento. The fifth victim was from Fresno which is south of Merced, and if I remember my geography correctly, the California trail continues southward, until victim eleven who was from LA. The last three victims were from LA."
"I'm sorry, but--" Michael and Angela spoke at the same time, oblivious to the fact that they were speaking in unison.
Tom sighed. "Ground zero. That's why your man left the West Coast. He worked his way from the capital to LA or ground zero. For some reason - I don't know what, yet - he chose victims from either ground zero or a town between there and the capital. To his way of thinking, he was out of victims in California. That's why he came east."
Angela's eyes widened. "Oh God, you're right. It's insane, but you're right. That means..."
Cassy finished her sentence, "...that the next victim will be taken from somewhere between Tallahassee and Palm Beach."
Michael groaned softly. "And it's one hell of a big state."
Cassy eyed the tactical board with undisguised horror. "We're going to lose another girl, aren't we?"
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part - 06 ↑
Tom Ryan moved swiftly to the washer that he was using as soon as the spin cycle finished trying to vibrate the machine across the floor. Balancing his empty basket on the machine next to his, he began unloading the wet clothes. Not his favorite chore, but a necessary one, and at least the scenery in this laundromat was better than average. So what if it was a twenty-minute drive from his apartment, it was close to the beach, and quite a few of the females present were also wearing beach attire. Some with more success than others, he realized, as an overweight woman in a one-piece floral suit tugged her cover-up down for the third time in as many minutes.
Cries of protest went up as the afternoon soap opera - Tom didn't know which one - was interrupted by a special news report. He continued to empty his wash into his basket as the on-screen reporter came into view.
"We're here in Palm Beach Isles where a police barricade is preventing us from gaining access to the public beach. Sources near to the police have told us that the body of a young female was found less than--"
A sudden channel change brought a loud protest from the detective. "Hey, turn that back!"
The irritated teen who'd switched to MTV quickly opened her mouth to argue, then snapped it shut just as quickly when Tom showed her his badge. "Some of us were watching that."
Glaring at the older man, she mumbled an insincere, "sorry", and wandered back to flop lazily onto the bench near the window.
Amazingly, the special report was still in progress, with the word 'live' emblazoned across the top of the screen, when Tom located the correct channel. His attention remained riveted to the screen as he automatically unloaded this laundry basket into a nearby dryer, while the reporter's voice continued, "...nconfirmed reports that this is the latest victim of the Angel of Death. Witnesses who found the body reported seeing the angel brand on her body."
Popping his last few quarters into the machine, Tom hit a dry cycle at random and checked his pager, groaning as he realized the low battery indicator was showing. He really hoped no one had tried to page him. Pulling out his cell phone, he dialed a familiar number, tensing as Harry Lipschitz answered his office phone.
"Lipschitz!"
"Harry, it's Tom..."
"Are you watching chan...."
"Yes, I'm watching it."
"Since when? I've been trying to reach you since her body turned up. Called your house a few minutes ago and got no answer. Not to mention you aren't answering your pager and your cell phone was off."
"Well, there's a good reason for all of those. One, I don't leave the cell phone on when I have the page. Two, the damn battery in the pager died and I didn't notice it and three, I'm not home. I'm at the laundromat." Tom took a deep breath and asked the critical question, "Is it ... him?"
"No. Initial reports from Morton indicate accidental drowning, nothing more."
"What about the angel?"
"She has an angel tattooed on her shoulder. Scared the hell out of all of us, the sonuvabitch isn't due to strike for three more days. Any break in pattern would be very, very bad."
"Is Cassy there?"
"No, it's her day off too and, unlike you, she answered her page."
"Sorry, Harry. It won't happen again." Tom grimaced as he spoke, if Cassy found out he'd let the battery die, she'd never let him live it down.
"It better not, or I'll tell St. John. Gotta go, got another call." Harry disconnected before Tom could respond.
The Palm Beach detective glared momentarily at the television reporter who was still alluding to the serial killer's involvement in this incident. Noticing the bored teenager was still present, the cop quickly switched the TV set back to MTV, smiling to himself as the girl tried to hide her surprise. Dropping tiredly into a hard plastic chair, Tom settled back to wait on his clothes.
******
"Why'd you ask me to go to Miami, Michael? Angela's your partner." Cassy adjusted the scarf on her head as she watched the FBI agent merge his rented convertible with Highway A1A traffic.
"Bingo."
"I don't understand."
"We're going to talk to Spencer and Hernandez."
"I know, so why bring me?"
Michael smiled slightly, "Well, first off, Angie hates Spencer and the feeling is reciprocated. I've never gotten the gory details but it appears he got kinda touchy-feely beyond the call of duty on a stake-out and she reacted ... badly."
"As in?"
"He found it hard to walk for a while."
"Way to go, Angie." Cassy grinned broadly as she spoke.
Michael glanced in her direction, returning her smile. "At any rate, I need to find out why those two wanted you and Tom off the case so badly. Not to mention, if Angie went, she might try to kill them."
"Why do you think they wanted us off the case?"
"I don't know."
"Right."
"Seriously. I have no idea. Well, maybe an inkling of one."
Cassy started to laugh. "You don't give out information easily, do you?"
Michael's rich laughter joined her own. "Nope, sorry. Okay, here's my theory for what its worth. I, well, Angie and I, strongly suspect that Agents Spencer and Hernandez knew more in the Angel case than they reported. They were involved in the early cases you see, and publicity hounds that they were, I just don't think they turned everything over to Angie and myself when they were ordered off the case."
The horror was evident in her voice. "They deliberately concealed evidence?"
His hands gripped the steering wheel tightly. "I *think* so."
******
"That'll be $1.42." The petite teenage behind the counter smiled politely at the young mother with the very active toddler in tow. Taking the five-dollar bill, she quickly made change, nervously watching the man at the back of the line. She wasn't sure why he made her nervous. Maybe it was the receding hairline, but her dad had one of those. As she handed over the change, she allowed her gaze to come to rest momentarily on his face with its intense gray eyes. Eyes that seemed to watch every move she and her partner made as they waited on their customers. Frowning slightly, the observant girl realized that it wasn't just her and her best friend that he was watching. Those eyes seemed to focus briefly on every young woman he spotted, as if he was looking for something, or, she thought, someone.
******
Tom sighed with relief as the dryer he was using buzzed loudly in the laundromat, informing everyone present that his clothes were dry. Rising to retrieve his clothing, he frowned as the buzzer sounded again. Odd, he'd never had ... oh, the pager. Instantly regretting the brief trip to the drug store across the street, he dialed the number on the cell phone. "Ryan."
"Hi Tom, it's Angela."
Instantly alert, he blurted out, "What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong, but the lab's turned up some fibers on victim 14 that weren't present on any of the others. Carpet fibers that are common to certain foreign makes of cars. Thought you might want to help me check the local dealerships."
"Terrific!" Tom thought for a moment. "Are you certain he didn't drive his own car from California?"
"We're already checking on every tag we run across from the western states, and with the number of vehicles owned by the military contingent in the state that's not an easy job, but at least we can pretty much eliminate most of those, as we find them. I suspect he flew here, bought or rented a car, and took a while to set up a base of operations. Wanta go looking for cars?"
"Are you at your hotel?"
"Yes."
Tom glanced at his watch then the laundry. "I'll pick you up in twenty minutes."
"Right."
Delighted with even the possibility of a lead, Tom yanked the dryer door open, and began unloading his clothes. His blood ran cold as the mottled pink color of his formerly white satin boxers, chosen by his ex-wife, caught his eye. "What the hell?"
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part - 07 ↑
Angela was outside her hotel's lobby door, pacing impatiently between the large white columns, when Tom finally arrived. Without even waiting for him to bring the Mustang to a complete stop, she opened the door and flung herself into the seat beside him. "You're late."
The frost in her tone made Tom cringe, she sounded like Cassy after a bad date. "Sorry, there was a bad wreck on the way over here. I didn't have to stop, but traffic was tied up. I left a message on the phone in your room."
It was Angela's turn to cringe. "Sorry. I was getting claustrophobic in my room so I came down here."
"Apology accepted, and I realized on the way over here that you hadn't mentioned what kinds of foreign cars?"
"That's because it's, well, unbelievable."
"*What* is unbelievable?" Tom impatiently drummed a tune on the steering wheel as he spoke.
"The fibers are from a BMW."
Tom's jaw dropped as he swiveled in his seat to get a better look at his passenger. Surely she wasn't just pulling his leg. "A what?"
"A BMW Z3 Roadster, actually."
"But those cost... a, well, I don't know exactly, but I sure couldn't afford it."
"Neither could I, but the fibers don't lie."
The Palm Beach detective's eyes narrowed as he thought about the woman's words. "This could be even better than I originally thought, the Z3 is made in the States. South Carolina, I think."
Angela frowned. "South Carolina? How does that qualify as a foreign car?"
"It's still a BMW, even if it was made in the States." Tom replied, hiding a smile.
"But, surely the fibers would be used in other cars made in the States."
"I doubt it, BMW is very particular about what goes into their vehicles. Wait a minute. How could the lab possibly know that the fibers came from the Roadster?"
"Seems there are certain colors that are only put in the Roadster. This particular shade of blue is one of them."
"That makes sense. You know, this is really, really good. It solves one of the major confusing issues for me at least."
"What do you mean?"
Tom looked grim. "There have been fourteen young women kidnapped and killed and no one saw a thing. Now if they'd all been runaways, prostitutes, etc., you know, women living in the darker edge of society, I'd have understood that. But these women were all legally employed, living and working in the middle class areas. What if the reason no one saw anything was because none of them were dragged kicking and screaming into a car? What if they went willingly with their abductor, in his nice BMW Z3 Roadster?"
******
Cassy frowned as Michael turned into a downtown parking garage. "This is a bank - one of the ones whose name changes every week - *not* FBI Headquarters."
"Actually, you're half right. The building belongs to the bank, but the twelfth floor has a branch location of the FBI on it." Michael easily maneuvered his car around the garage, passing open parking spaces on the lower decks and finally selecting a space on the fourth deck. "We're here. Come on." Jumping out of the car, he moved rapidly across the cement floor.
"Why the fourth level? There were open spots on the others." Cassy followed quickly, picking up her pace to catch up with the man.
"This level has a direct elevator to twelve. The lobby elevator only goes to the reception area, which doesn't get you to the main part of twelve."
"I see. Actually I don't see, but something tells me I probably don't want to know." Cassy slipped easily past her companion into the elevator. Michael followed quickly, pressing the up arrow as he entered.
The ride up was short and silent and both officers were noticeably relieved when it came to an end as the door slid open to reveal a circular guard's station in the center of the hall. Flashing his badge at the heavyset guard, Michael nodded at Cassy. "Rogers, Los Angeles division. Cassandra St. John, Palm Beach Homicide. I'll vouch for her."
A man's laughter caused them both to whirl. "Oh, that's rich. But who will vouch for you, Michael?"
"Let's keep things civil, shall we, Ralph?"
The other man shrugged. "We'll see. Steve's in back. We've been expecting you, but traveling without the wicked bitch of the west? That's highly out of character." Turning to Cassy, the dark-haired man smirked. "Angela's kinda like American Express, you don't leave home without her or at least Michael doesn't. Now, sweetie, did I hear that you're a *local* cop?"
Cassy smiled sweetly. "I do believe your hearing is defective. Palm Beach is not exactly local to Miami."
"Palm Beach, Miami, same difference."
Michael's eyes narrowed as the other man spoke. "And I see your personality hasn't improved with age. Let's cut the crap and go find Stephen."
"Whatever."
******
Angela practically snarled as they left the first BMW dealership on the list. "Well, they weren't very helpful."
Tom sighed as he put on his sunglasses. "No, but with their clientele, you could hardly expect them to just hand over their sales records."
"Win some, lose some. The FBI credentials are usually enough to get me what I need."
"A court order will get us the records." Tom commented casually.
"And publicity we don't need, but I guess there's no choice... What the hell?" Angela yanked her beeper off of her belt and glared at the number. "I don't... oh wait. This is your office, isn't it?"
Tom took the proffered pager and nodded, just as his own went off. "Great. Stereo." Pulling out his cell phone, Tom quickly dialed. "Ryan."
"Took you long enough. Agent Kim with you?"
"Yes, Harry. What's up?"
"You wouldn't by any chance be at a BMW dealership, would you?"
Puzzled, Tom hesitantly replied, "That would be a yes, Harry. Am I going to regret asking why?"
"The owner's already been on the phone with the mayor, who in turn has communicated with the Chief of Police who in turn has expressed his displeasure with me. So it's your turn. Something about harassment. What ever happened to due process?"
Tom gulped. "Sorry, Harry, it won't happen again." Mouthing 'search warrant' at a puzzled Angela, he added. "But we only asked a few polite questions, nothing harassing at all."
"Don't do it again. At least not without a warrant."
"Right, Skipper. No problem." Sighing heavily, Tom flipped his phone closed.
"Oops?" Angela blushed slightly as she spoke.
"Yep. I suggest we head back to headquarters and, uh, check the DMV for all Roadsters registered recently."
"Good idea, probably should have done that to begin with." Her head suddenly turned and her mouth dropped open. "Uh, Tom, isn't that your car?"
"Huh? What?" Following her line of sight, he realized his Mustang was leaving without him, driven by a kid no older than sixteen. "Sonuva..." Tom raced toward the moving car, frantically gesticulating at the driver, who only laughed.
Angela watched, stunned into momentary inaction, as Tom chased his car. Shaking her head to clear her thoughts, she jerked her cell phone out and dialed for help, then raced after Tom. Reaching the corner just as Tom lunged for the trunk, she cringed as he hit the slick surface, failed to get a handhold on the backseat, and slid, gracelessly onto the pavement. A horn blared as a small pickup barely missed the cop, who rolled quickly to the sidewalk. Climbing to his feet, he angrily cursed. "Goddammittohell! Of all the stupid... this is too good of a neighborhood for this to happen. Shit!"
"I've called it in. Are you okay?" Angela's eyes widened as she studied the slender form of the detective. "Tom, why are you wearing purple underwear?"
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part - 08 ↑
Harry Lipschitz arrived at the Angel HQ from a very unsatisfying lunch - Frannie had them on a diet... again - to find Tom and Angela busily perusing their computer screens, and munching on double bacon cheeseburgers and fries from the greasy spoon diner down the street. To add insult to injury, they'd both brought back extra-large chocolate shakes. Stalking up to Ryan's desk, he glared over Tom's shoulder at the screen. It took a few minutes to register that Tom was *not* looking at DMV records, and confusion replaced the annoyance in Harry's eyes. "What, pray tell, are you doing?"
Tom never looked up. "Looking for the thief."
"Thief? What thief?" Harry's hand edged toward Tom's fries.
"The street urchin who stole my Mustang." Tom swatted his commander's hand before it could reach the fries.
Shaking his stinging hand, Harry gaped in astonishment at his detective. "The Mustang was stolen?"
"Yep. Right off the BMW lot."
Harry's expression of annoyance returned. "Oh, yes. The BMW lot--"
Angela interrupted quickly, "I'm sorry, Harry. That was my fault. I had a hunch and thought we should play it out." She stopped abruptly, studying the screen on her desk. Looking back at Harry, she continued, "It didn't work out that way."
The older man frowned at her as he pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "It certainly didn't. The owner of that BMW dealership is requesting a formal apology."
******
"You're off early, Donna." Brad Jones smiled at the best nurse on the critical care ward.
Donna McIntosh whirled, startled, as the middle-aged doctor's words reached her ears. "Oh, Dr. Jones. You startled me. I didn't hear you come up behind me."
"Sorry, Donna. I'm still wearing my jogging shoes." He opened her car door.
"Thanks, and to answer your question, I'm taking a long lunch, not off for the day."
"Meeting a new boyfriend?"
She blushed. "Dr. Jones. Really."
"Seriously, Maggie and I were talking just the other day about how it's time for you to settle down and have a family of your own. You're what, 24?"
"Twenty-five."
"Ah, a quarter of a century old. Definitely need to settle down."
The pretty brunette's dark eyes laughed. "Well, if it will make you and Mrs. Jones happy, I'm seeing someone on a regular basis." She slipped by him and dropped lightly into the driver's seat.
"Maggie will be pleased and will want to meet him. Have a nice lunch." With that he hurried toward the building.
Donna started the car, then gasped "Oh!" as she realized she'd given him the wrong impression. "Bother. Too late now." As she fought to keep the speed to the requisite ten miles per hour, she wondered what she'd done to be so lucky in her job. Okay, it was true that there were bad days followed by worse ones when one of her pediatric cancer patients lost their battle. But looking at the survival rates from as few as ten years ago, she knew that most of her kids would survive.
Turning left out of the parking garage, she headed for the uptown restaurant where she'd told that odd little Mr. Archibald she'd meet him for lunch. She couldn't imagine what he wanted to see her about, but she had to do something to get him to stop leaving voice mails for her. He'd called at least once a day ever since that benefit to raise money for wigs for the kids in chemo and that was almost, what, three weeks ago? She sighed, fervently wishing she'd never agreed to model swimsuits at the benefit. But she'd lost the toss to her friend Mercedes Hernandez, who'd opted for the evening gowns.
She tapped her fingers impatiently on her steering wheel as she waited for traffic to clear. Turning into the restaurant parking lot, she was oddly relieved not to see Mr. Archibald's car in the front lot. The lack of parking places in the front lot sent her around back, where the first glimpse of his blue BMW Roadster coincided with the sound of her pager. She stopped in the middle of the driveway to check the page and dial in. Leaving a quick apology via phone with the restaurant manager, she drove on around the building and headed back to the hospital and the family that needed her.
******
"A formal what!"
The twin yelps of protest almost brought a smile to Harry's lips, but years of practice, and poker, allowed him to maintain his expression. "You heard me. So we'll give him one. Eventually."
Before he could continue, Tom leaped to his feet. "Ah ha!" Tom's voice held a note of triumph as he looked across the desk at Angela.
"You found him? I don't believe it."
"Believe it."
"Who?"
"The car thief. Pay up."
Harry froze in his tracks as Angela rounded the corner of the desk to stare in annoyance at Tom's screen while the captain asked, "What?"
"Not you, Harry. Angela bet me that I couldn't find him in the online archives, but I did." He smiled the famous Ryan smile at the FBI agent.
Angela sighed. "I do not believe it. Fine. Got change for a twenty?"
"No."
"Then I'll have to owe ya." She slipped easily back to her terminal as Tom sent the image of the thief to the Palm Beach Hot Car Squad, better known as the PBHCS.
The Palm Beach captain shook his head to clear his thoughts. "Now, about that apology..."
"Whatever you think's fair, Harry." Tom nodded absently as he too pulled up a DMV list.
"What...What" Harry sputtered badly, but neither his detective nor the FBI agent noticed his frustration. Wondering when he'd lost control, Harry cleared his throat and opened his mouth. For a short moment he thought he'd actually uttered the high-pitched, excited shriek.
"What?" Tom half-rose to his feet as Angela positively gloated.
"Gentlemen, right here in beautiful Palm Beach, we have a recently registered BMW Z3 Roadster, in just the right color. Registered less than two months ago."
"You're kidding? We couldn't get that lucky."
Harry's eyes widened with astonishment as his detective leaped to see what was on Angela's screen. "Tom, your pants are ripped... Why are you wearing purple underwear?"
Tom glared at the FBI agent. "You *said* no one would notice."
She shrugged at his discomfiture. "Actually, I said no one should notice."
******
"Oh, excuse me, Miss." The balding man smiled at the pretty brunette. "Why Miss ... Hernandez, isn't it?"
Recognition dawned in the young woman's coal black eyes. "Mr. Archibald, what are you doing here?"
He laughed. "Being stood up for lunch. Miss McIntosh was supposed to meet me for a business lunch but got called back to the hospital. Would you care to join me?"
Noticing that the restaurant was unusually crowded, she smiled. "Of course. Thank you for asking me."
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part - 09 ↑
Cassy barely restrained a giggle as Ralph Spencer led the way through the maze of cubicles. The man was slightly overweight; with the bulk of the weight concentrated in his derriere, resulting in a decided waddle. Michael eyed her curiously as he walked beside her, but she studiously ignored him, keeping her attention focused on the back of Spencer's head.
The Miami agent opened a door and ushered his guests inside. A tall, thin man with dark hair, and eyes to match, rose lazily from a chair. "Well, Michael, I'd say it's good to see you, but I really hate to lie without purpose. However, it's no lie to say that your companion is one of the most beautiful women I've ever laid eyes on."
"Stephen Hernandez meet Cassandra St. John." Michael frowned as he performed the introductions. "Watch out for him, Cassy. He's a charmer, or thinks he is at any rate."
"Michael, you wound me." He continued to smile at Cassy.
"Right."
"Will you two cut it out?" Ralph interrupted. "We know why you're here."
"Ray Charles knows why we're here." Cassy muttered under her breath causing Michael to cough abruptly.
Ralph eyed the woman suspiciously. "What?"
"Oh, nothing." She smiled winningly at Stephen. "You were about to enlighten us as to the reason behind our visit?"
"The Angel of Death killings." Ralph responded as his partner nodded his agreement.
"Brilliant. How do you do it?" Michael replied sarcastically.
"Now, Michael, there's no reason for sarcasm. You, Angela, and your lovely companion here need our help. Oh, and let's add that other *local* cop, what's his name?"
"Ryan. Tom Ryan." Cassy filled in the blanks for Ralph.
"Oh, that's right. Ryan. He needs our help too."
"Where are Angela and Sergeant Ryan?" Stephen interrupted the flow of sarcasm coming from his partner.
"Angela had some files to review, and I understand Tom had a personal leave day today." Michael glanced at Cassy for a moment, then added. "But enough about us. Why did you try to have Cassy and Tom removed from the case?"
******
"Shouldn't be noticed?" Tom groaned. "Apparently you were wrong."
Harry shook his head. "*Purple* underwear. Is that bet still on with Cassy?"
"What bet?" Angela asked curiously.
"You know about that?" Tom gasped incredulously. "Cassy said ... well, never mind." The Palm Beach detective frowned as he really looked at his captain. "Harry, why are you really here? What's in the folders?"
The older man smiled. "Well, the interviews have been concluded with all the friends and co-workers of Susan Giles and April Andrews."
"Victims 13 and 14." Angela commented sadly.
"That's right." Harry nodded. "The verdict is that there is nothing of substance in the interviews, but I need you two to take a look just to be sure."
"Harry!"
"Oh, and while you're at it, write the apology to the BMW dealer."
"But...but, he might have sold a car of the right make and color earlier this month." Tom was stunned.
"Fine. Deliver the apology when you subpoena his records."
******
Lieutenant Michael Parker leaned against the doorframe and eyed his quarters with pleasure. Six months at sea, in carrier quarters, always made his small apartment, located in not-so-sunny Norfolk, Virginia, look lavish. And for once, the cleaners had done their job correctly. No musty odors from standing closed too long, and no smell of bleach from a too-recent cleaning. Tossing his duffel bag to the sofa, he made a beeline for his PC. Six months without the Internet was like six months in isolation. Oh, he tried to pull them down in every port they'd docked at, but his ISP wasn't available in most, and his salary couldn't afford the seven dollar a minute hit he'd taken in Taiwan.
Drumming his fingers against his desk, he waited impatiently for his local connection to reach out and touch his ISP's server. "Three hundred forty-seven messages!" He leaned back in his chair. Damn! That would take forever to download. Thank God he'd put his fiction lists on web only. Getting up, he headed for the bathroom and a real shower. Three hundred forty-seven private messages. Maybe he'd get another one from Susan. That last one had been a little odd. Of course, it might be possible that the man she'd described really did want to set up a scholarship fund for underprivileged kids, but he seriously doubted it. No, the jerk probably wanted sex, and Suzie was just naïve enough not to realize it. As he rinsed the shampoo out of his hair, he really hoped she hadn't run into something she couldn't handle.
******
"They're not FBI." Ralph answered quickly. "That's not to say they're not good at what they do, but they're over their heads here."
"Oh, please." Cassy glared at him. "It's not like you haven't worked with local cops yourself."
"We don't--"
"Anh! Officers Paris and McMurter in Ohio, 1999. Juarez and Paulo in California, 1998." She stopped for a moment, then smiled. "What? You didn't think I'd check? Shall I continue?"
Stephen shook his head. "No. That won't be necessary. Michael, the Angel comes to Florida and you pull in the locals not us. Dammit, we worked with you on the case in California, until Angela had us removed. It was *our* case before you two came in. We deserve to be in on the kill."
"The last thing this case needs is more publicity than it's already getting." Michael was working hard to restrain his anger.
Ralph shoved a meaty finger in his chest. "That's where you're wrong, Mikey. Forewarned is forearmed."
"What?"
"The more headlines this killer gets, the harder it will be for him to grab women." Stephen explained quietly.
Cassy's eyes widened. "You can't really believe that."
"Can and do, sweetie."
The Palm Beach detective thought briefly of putting Ralph out of her misery, but opted for a sarcastic reply instead. "Look ... Ralph! The killer *likes* publicity. The profiles on this jerk show that he wants to be noticed. He..." The cell phone interruption probably saved a life. Cassy moved off into a corner to answer it while Michael took up her argument.
"She's right, you know. Profilers on the east and west coasts say the same thing. The Angel of Death is looking for attention."
"Let him have it. But the women of this state deserve all the warning they can get. Particularly..." Stephen's voice faded away as Cassy returned to the group.
Michael watched her with concern. "Cassy? What's wrong?"
"That was Harry. Victim 15 has just been found."
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part - 10 ↑
"Come on, Suzie, answer the phone." Matthew impatiently tapped on his desk as he counted the tenth unanswered ring. "That's odd. Answering machine should have picked up by now."
He was about to hang up when a male voice answered sleepily, "Hello?"
Startled by the deep voice, Matthew found himself stammering, "Uh, I'm, uh, sorry, I'm, uh, trying to reach Susan Giles."
"Wrong number."
"Is this 555-7272?" Matthew read the number from his address book.
"Yes. But it ain't hers no more."
"But, I've called her at--"
"Look, *bud*, I work night shift. I'm trying to sleep. Just had this number put in yesterday and I already regret it."
Matthew's "sorry" was drowned out by the slamming of the receiver. "Okay, Suzie, you changed your number. Why didn't you email me? Or leave a message at the base. Can't hide from the Navy, my girl. We have our ways to find you."
******
"Ralph is a...a...a..."
"Pig?" Michael filled in the blanks for Cassy as she angrily snapped the buckle of her seatbelt.
"That feels like I'm insulting the pig." The blond smiled slightly as she spoke.
Michael nodded. "Angela feels the same way. I think Stephen's okay, but Angie, well, he does partner with Ralph."
"Birds of a feather?"
"Could be. Where are we heading again?"
Cassy checked her notes. "A subdivision, Palm Harbor, just south of Palm Beach. Tom and Angela found a blue BMW registered to a Pat Spencer at that address. It's probably a dead-end, but we've got to check."
"They don't need our help with the body?"
She shook her head quickly. "No, by the time we get back to Palm Beach, they should be almost through at the crime scene. We'd just be in the way." Cassy stared blankly ahead of her for a moment, then slapped the dash hard.
"What's the matter?" Michael asked quietly.
"I was really hoping we could catch this, this SOB before he killed again."
The sigh from the driver's seat was heartfelt. "I stopped hoping that six murders ago.... It hurts too much when another body is found."
Cassy looked long and hard at the somber face of the FBI agent. "Well, if Tom and I have anything to say about it, there won't be another. Not one."
"You have no idea how much I hope you're right."
"Oh, I'm right. Trust me. This killer's going down."
******
"Tallahassee Missing Persons, Rita speaking. May I help you?" The young woman manning the phone lines really hated this part of her job, taking information from frantic friends or relatives trying to find a missing loved one.
"Yes, I'd like to report a missing person."
"Certainly, sir. Name?"
"Susan--"
"Uh, no sir. I'm sorry, I need some basic information about you first."
"Oh, I see. I'm Lieutenant Matthew Parker, US Navy. My ship's in port in Norfolk, Virginia and I'm calling to report an old friend who's missing."
She typed rapidly into the computer screen, making sure she had his correct address and phone number before moving on to the vitals on the missing person. "Thank you, sir. Now, the name of the missing person?"
"Susan. Susan Giles."
The young woman's eyes narrowed as she struggled to remember why the name was so familiar. "Address?"
"307 Orange Street or that's what it was..."
"Sir?"
"Well, she lived in apartment 5C, but someone else has that apartment now or at least according to the superintendent they do. And someone else has her phone number, 555-7272. And...and the super sounded really odd when I spoke with him, but he wouldn't tell me why she moved or if she left a forwarding address."
As the concerned male voice droned on, the young woman entered the information, doing a quick search on the vitals to see if anything else was outstanding on the missing woman. To her horror, a police report popped up in living color declaring Susan Giles to be deceased. "Just...just one moment, sir." Quickly putting the caller on hold, she summoned her supervisor, who frowned deeply when she explained the problem.
Moving to a secondary phone, he put a trace on the line. Giving it the necessary time, he nodded as it pulled up the address the caller had given. His clerk immediately snapped the call back live. "I'm sorry, sir, our computer blipped for a few moments. Now, if you'll just answer a few more questions about Ms. Giles, we'll finish up this report."
******
Tom followed Angela back into the Angel Headquarters, both obviously upset by the most recent murder. Tom angrily tossed his jacket on his chair, then flopped bonelessly into it. Angela leaned heavily against Tom's desk. "Tom?"
"What a waste. What a damnable waste! Her body wasn't even cold, Angela." He hurled his pen angrily across the room. "We found out who we were dealing with not quite a month ago, and we're not one iota closer to stopping him than we were then."
"We have the blue BMW." Angela replied weakly.
"Right. For all the good that does us or her."
"It's more than we had before."
"Well, it doesn't help! There's no telling how long this last girl was in *his* control before he killed her." Tom's shout echoed around the room. The detective paled as his angry voice bounced off the walls. "I'm sorry. It's not your fault."
"It's not yours, either, Tom. Sooner or later, this asshole will make a mistake and we'll catch him."
"Yeah, but how many more women will die?" He glared at his ringing phone, then angrily punched the speaker button. "Ryan!"
"Easy, Ryan, I'm on your side." Harry's very best captain's voice succeeded in grounding his detective.
"Sorry, Harry."
"Okay, we got lucky with victim 15. She worked at a bank a few years back so her prints were on record. Her name is Mercedes Hernandez and she lived and worked in Jacksonville."
"Fantastic!" Tom scribbled the information on his legal pad.
"I've emailed you both copies of her stats."
"When did she disappear, Harry?"
"Today. The last time she was seen alive was when she left for lunch."
Angela's face paled. "Oh, God."
"What's wrong?" Tom's concerned query echoed Harry's as they spoke in unison.
"The pattern. He's changed the God-Damned pattern!"
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"What do you mean 'he's changed the pattern'?" Tom's voice was grim as he looked up at the woman.
Angie took a deep breath. "In California, the first two victims died within hours of being taken. The third victim was grabbed two days before she died."
"Are you sure?" Tom asked solemnly.
The FBI agent rewarded him with an exasperated look, accompanied by a heavy sigh. "Oh course, Tom. Every victim starting with number three was held two days before being killed. It's always been the only ray of hope we had - that any new victims might escape or be found before he could kill them."
"I understand that, Angie. Let me ask you this, what went on in the papers after victim three's body was found?"
She looked at him puzzled. "The press had a field day with how much the poor girl must have suffered at *his* hands before she died. Where are you going with this, Tom?"
The disembodied voice on the phone startled both detectives - they'd forgotten their audience. "Yes, Tom, I'd like to know that myself."
"Right, Harry. What if the third victim wasn't kidnapped on day one? What if she just decided to disappear, then had the misfortune to run into the killer?"
A look of complete disbelief raced across Angela's face, to be replaced by a thoughtful look. "Tom, I just don't--"
"No wait. He got an increase in the amount of press because of her death, right?"
"Y...yes."
"So, is it really so much of a stretch to think that he changed his pattern after victim three?"
"No. I guess not. Shit!" She blushed slightly. "Sorry. We assumed she'd been grabbed and held until she was killed. If what you're proposing is true, then we missed at least twenty-four hours, if not longer, of possible witnesses to her kidnapping. And the odds of finding anything now are slim to none."
"But you'll call it in."
Angie smiled as it hit her that Tom had not asked a question. "Yes, actually, I will."
The sound of the fax machine caught their attention. Tom frowned. "Harry, are you faxing something to us?"
"Yep. While you were theorizing, I got a list of Mercedes Hernandez's friends in Jacksonville. Go there." Without waiting for a reply, Harry broke the connection.
Tom hung up the phone and smiled at Angie. "Road trip tomorrow?"
"It would seem so. Seven early enough?"
"Should be. I'll pick you up then."
******
"Turn left at the next corner." Cassy glanced at the address again. "Based on the numbers, it should be the pink house on the right."
Michael nodded as he turned into the driveway. "It is. You have a lot of pink houses here in Florida."
"Humph. We have a lot of pink *everything* in Florida." Cassy hopped out of the car and frowned at the windowless garage. "I hope he's home."
Together they walked to the front entrance, and Michael leaned impatiently on the bell. He was about to ring again, when they heard footsteps. The door opened wide to reveal a slender, gray-haired woman in a sweat-suit. "Yes?"
"Cassandra St. John, Palm Beach PD. This is Michael Rogers, FBI. We'd like to speak with Pat Spencer, if he's home."
Concern vied with amusement on the woman's face. Amusement finally won out. "I'm Pat Spencer."
Cassy's jaw visibly dropped as she stuttered, "You're... but, the name ... we thought..."
"Many people do. I don't know why. Patricia's just as good a full name for 'Pat' as Patrick. Now, what can I do for you?"
Michael cleared his throat. "Did you just recently register a blue BMW Z3 Roadster?"
"Yes, I did ... oh, my God, don't tell me it was stolen! The dealer looked legitimate and it was just the right shade of blue and they gave me such a nice amount for my 1967 Shelby GT500 that I couldn't resist buying--"
"No, no, Ms. Spencer, I'm sure it's not stolen. We're..." Cassy thought hard. "We're looking for a BMW involved in an incident, but the driver was male. Could a man have been driving your car?"
"Oh, no. I'm divorced."
"Could the car have been borrowed without your knowledge?"
"I don't see how, the garage stays locked."
"Would you object to our forensics unit taking some samples from your car?"
"What kind of samples?"
"Paint chips, mud scrapings, that sort of thing. Nothing that would harm the car."
"Oh." She looked from one officer to the other before asking, "Am I under suspicion for some crime?"
"No, ma'am, but we are looking for a car that matches the description of yours. The tests will allow us to eliminate your car from the field in question."
"Oh, in that case, go ahead."
"Thank you, we'll have them come out early tomorrow morning, if that's convenient."
"Not before nine."
"No, ma'am." Cassy smiled her gratitude as she turned to head for the car, but Michael had other ideas.
Michael asked, "Ms. Spencer, I have to know, why...why did you trade a 1967 Shelby GT500 for a BMW?"
She smiled. "Oh, it was my ex-husband's car. It was all I won in the divorce. The judge was an idiot. He got the house, the dog, and his secretary, if that's what you could call her. The car was his pride and joy. So, I got rid of it."
"I see. Well, thank you for your time." Michael walked to the car with a bemused expression on his face.
Cassy frowned at him. "*What* was that about?"
"Oh, there were only 2,050 1967 Shelby GT 500's made. They're a collector's dream, particularly in mint condition. If she traded it, I really hope it was an even trade, otherwise the dealer got himself one hell of a deal."
******
Harry frowned at the report in front of him. The Tallahassee police had wasted no time in forwarding the call concerning Susan Giles to Angel Headquarters along with the background check on Lt. Matthew Parker. The captain listened to the taped conversation with the lieutenant and shook his head sadly. The man was obviously concerned about his friend. Harry dreaded the upcoming phone call, but the naval officer had to be told of his friend's death. In addition, Harry knew he'd have to ask all the requisite questions, even though the lieutenant had been at sea for most of the year. Sighing heavily, he peered through his glasses at the number, and dialed quickly before he could lose his resolve.
******
Bright and early the next morning, Cassy pushed open the door to Angel Headquarters. "Tom? You here?"
"Gone to Jacksonville, per Harry. Tom." Michael read the note pinned to Cassy's chair.
"Hope they have better luck than we did. Ms. Spencer was a bust, and your FBI friends--"
"No friends of mine." Michael interrupted quickly.
Cassy waved a hand in the air. "Whatever. Those two are really overdue for a ... Oh, my." Without missing a beat she lifted the phone out of its cradle and dialed quickly. Tapping her foot impatiently, she suddenly perked up. "Marnie?"
"Sergeant St. John?"
Michael watched curiously as the blond spoke into the phone. "Yes. Marnie, I need your help."
"Doing what?" The woman's suspicious voice caused Cassy to change tactics.
"Actually, *Tom* needs your help."
"Really?" Her interest piqued, Marnie's tone changed altogether. "What?"
"There're a couple of FBI agents in the Miami office, names are Ralph Spencer and Stephen Hernandez, who've been obstructing o...Tom's case for a while. Tom would be ever so grateful if you'd get into their records and pull all the information they've acquired on the Angel of Death for him."
Michael's eyes widened and he frantically motioned at Cassy, who frowned, puzzled. Speaking into the phone, she said, "Just a minute, Marnie." She put the other woman on hold. "What?"
"Who the hell's Marnie?"
"Our computer whiz. She has a major crush on Tom."
"Oh. Stephen and Ralph turned over all their records. You're barking up the wrong tree."
Cassy merely looked at the man. "Right." Taking the phone off hold, she spoke into the mouthpiece, "Marnie? Will you help Tom?"
There was dead silence on the other end of the line. For a moment Cassy thought Marnie had hung up. Finally, a light giggle proved that Marnie was still there. "Okay, Sergeant St. John. But only if I get to pick his next underwear."
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