“It appears so.”
“He needed medical attention,” Gideon said grimly. “At least Daisy hit him hard. Hopefully this slows him down a little. What’s next?”
“Agent Schumacher and Detectives Sokolov and Rhee go to Portland.”
That detail he vaguely remembered from the night before. “Did you get a hit on the license plates of the beige car?” Because Daisy had reported them when she’d called 911. He vaguely remembered that as well.
“They’re registered to Delfina Borge. California DMV says she lives in Blythe. That’s near the Arizona border. She’s never been reported as missing. We’re going to contact her employer as soon as their office opens. She was a professor in a small college. The last post on social media said she’d quit and was about to go on a two-year trip around the world. That was over a year ago.”
“What about the other victims? What have we done to connect them?”
Irritation flickered in her eyes, but Gideon didn’t sense that it was directed toward him. “The team’s working on it,” she said. “So far they haven’t found any commonalities. Even where the victims’ last movements were traceable, there’s no pattern. A few were last seen at bars. One at a movie theater. She’d just seen a horror movie. One at a concert.”
“Who was performing?” Gideon asked.
Molina shook her head, bewildered. “Barry Manilow, of all people. The venue’s security has been very cooperative. They’re sending us tapes today.”
Tapes. Gideon stilled, his brain reconnecting with an almost audible click. The pet store from Saturday. The shopping center’s security staff had also been cooperative. They’d given him a digital file of the surveillance tapes of the parking lot outside the pet store during the adoption clinic.
The beige car had followed them up to Redding. What if it had been following them even longer?
“Daisy volunteered at a pet store Saturday,” he said. “They were hosting an adoption clinic for an animal shelter.”
“You think he might have followed you from there?”
“It’s possible.”
“I’ll get the tapes from the shopping center,” she said. “Thanks.”
He gave her a brisk nod. “You’re welcome.” He didn’t offer her his copy of the tapes. The Bureau would, he reasoned, have to get their own anyway. Chain of evidence and all that. Especially now that he was involved as a victim. Asshole shooter. Making me a fucking victim.
But I can tell them where to look on the tape if I see him first. He was pretty certain he’d see the beige car. Seeing who was driving it would be the icing on the cake.
Molina stood up, studying his face intently. “You’re to rest, Agent Reynolds.”
He nodded soberly. “Yes, ma’am.”
She rolled her eyes. “You’re so full of it, Gideon.”
She surprised a laugh out of him. “I can’t do much else but rest from here,” he said.
“Uh-huh. You’re on medical leave until you’re cleared to return.”
“I know.”
She sighed. “I’m serious. Do not get yourself hurt any worse. Okay?”
“Hey, I was just on a drive with a pretty girl,” he said lightly. “It’s not my fault some asshole shot me.”
A slight sound came from the chair where Daisy slept. Something between a cough and a laugh. Okay, so she wasn’t really asleep. “Daisy?”
She sat up, rubbing at her eyes. “Sorry. I really was asleep until you laughed, Gideon. I mostly caught the ‘not my fault’ line.”
And the “pretty girl” line, he thought. Her cheeks were a charming pink.
Daisy stood up. “I’ll wait outside if you want to finish your meeting.”
“No,” Gideon said.
“Not necessary,” Molina said at the same time. “I’m on my way out.” Holding the door open, she turned to point her finger at Gideon. “I’m serious,” she said, very soberly. “You are on leave. You will have an agent assigned to your protection detail.”
That was good. They’d keep Daisy safe. “Thank you.”
Molina narrowed her eyes, as if not trusting his easy acceptance of a bodyguard. “You are not to investigate this case. Are we clear?”
He nodded. “Yes, ma’am. Crystal.”
She rolled her eyes again. “Or you will face disciplinary actions.”
“I understand.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Molina muttered, shutting the door behind her.
Daisy blinked, rolling her head side to side. “What was that?”
He smiled at her. “Nothing you need to worry about.”
She stood up, shouldering Brutus’s bag. “I’m going to get coffee. You want some?”
“Yes, thank you.” He hesitated. “And thank you for staying. I didn’t realize how much I needed to see you when I woke up, until I did and you were there.”
Her smile lit up her eyes. “I wanted to.” She cupped his cheek, her thumb riffling through the day-old growth as she stroked his jaw. “I needed to. I needed to see you when I woke up, too.” She brushed a kiss over his lips. “Now do the thing you were planning to do while you were saying all those ‘Yes, ma’ams’ to your boss.”
He snorted. “Yes, ma’am.”
SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA
MONDAY, FEBRUARY 20, 7:25 A.M.
He squinted at the light flooding his bedroom. He’d neglected to pull the shades last night and his damn window faced east. Rolling over, he pulled the pillow over his head, only to peek out when he heard a whimper.
Mutt was pawing at his mattress, a sure sign that the dog needed to go out.
It was the worst part about having a damn dog. But if he didn’t take Mutt out, he’d be cleaning up a pile of shit.
He groaned, swinging his legs over the side of his bed. He needed to walk off this stiffness in his joints. He’d been in a car too much yesterday. And his hand throbbed.
At least he didn’t have to go into work this morning. Hank and the substitute pilot would be flying back from New York City today.
He checked the calendar on his phone for his next shift. Wednesday, round trip to Salt Lake. His hand would not be better by Wednesday. He needed at least a week before he could handle the flight duties safely.
He’d have to call in sick. He’d spend the time finishing what would be a beautiful portfolio of photos for the old man. Lots of photos of him with very bad people. And some very beautiful people. The bad people—notable drug dealers who hired him to carry product in his planes—would get him in trouble with the cops. The beautiful people would get him into trouble with Sydney.
Which will get me into trouble with Sydney.
You’re already in trouble with Sydney. She’s owned your ass since you were twelve years old. You should have killed her then.
Because Sydney had compromising photos of him, too. Of them together. And even though it had never been his choice, the photos made it look like it had been. Once his father saw them, any hope he had of forcing the old man’s hand would be gone. I’ll be lucky if the old man doesn’t order me killed for fucking his wife.
The only good thing to come of the photos Sydney had taken was that it had given him the idea to begin collecting his own blackmail fodder. So at a minimum, they’d all be at a stalemate.
If he was lucky, the sale wasn’t yet finalized and the portfolio he’d gathered would put the brakes on it.
He wanted the airline. He deserved it. He’d earned it. Every time he’d let the old man walk all over him. Every time he’d allowed Sydney to . . .
To fuck me up. To ruin me. I earned it. Again and again and again.
He slapped the sides of his head, hard. “Not having this conversation today.” He’d deal with Sydney at a time of his choosing.
Grabbing the remote on his nightstand, he turned on the TV on his dresser, tuning in to CNN. He was interested to know what the media was reporting on the events of yesterday. And, if he was honest, if it had made the national news yet.
He pulled on his track pants, searching for his shoes as he listened to the anchor welcome them to the “bottom of the hour” and prattle on for a moment about the newest congressional scandal and the war in the Middle East.
“And now for the latest news out of Sacramento,” the woman on-screen said soberly. “The man suspected of killing twenty-six-year-old Sacramento native Trisha Hart has been linked to the deaths of at least six more women, this according to our sources, and is the subject of an ongoing FBI investigation. Many of the victims were found with letters carved into their torsos. Common to all of the victims was a knife found at the scene—washed, bleached, and left to dry. The victims have been found in seven different states over the past ten years. It’s the opinion of one source at Sacramento PD, who requested anonymity because he wasn’t authorized to comment on this case, that this is the work of a serial killer.”
Abandoning his shoe search, he slowly lowered himself to the bed. “Fuck,” he muttered at the TV, where the abduction and safe return of the big-brown-eyed kid was now being discussed—and attributed to the same man, who had left a “trail of death” in his wake.