A Rush of Wings

14 Lost in the System « ^ »

HEATHER GLANCED AT THE Clock. One fifteen p.m. Sucking in an irritated breath, she walked to the glassed-in records area where two busy clerks ignored her. She rapped on the glass shield with one knuckle.

The rapid clacking of fingers across a keyboard stopped. The male clerk looked at Heather, one eyebrow raised, expression unhappy.

“You positive Doctor Anzalone knows I’m here?” Heather asked. “I’ve been waiting nearly two hours.”

Heather noted the clerk’s bedhead-gelled hair and the übergeek short-sleeved white shirt he wore paired with a skinny black tie. Retro. And wishing I’d give up or vanish or wither and die.

“Yes, ma’am, she knows,” he said, his voice muffled by the thick shield. “But she’s very busy.”

“So am I. Check with her again.”

Heather returned to the ass-numbing bench she’d been sitting on and perched on the edge. Let’s see if Collins is faring any better. Pulling her cell from her purse, she punched in the detective’s number. He answered on the second ring.

“Hey, Wallace,” he said, his voice tight.

“Hey, Collins. Is that police report ready yet?”

“Get this. It’s lost in the system. They can’t fucking find it.”

Warning prickled along Heather’s spine. She lowered her voice. “Lost…I see. And the officer’s handwritten report?”

“Funny you should ask. Misplaced. They’re looking, but…”

“Ah. And the officer himself?”

“Left this morning on vacation. Accrual. Had to use it up—”

“Or lose it,” Heather finished. The warning prickles intensified. “Things aren’t much better here. I’ve been on physical hold ever since I arrived.”

“I’ll keep poking around with a sharp stick. See what turns up.”

“Ditto.” Heather thumbed the off button, then slid the cell back into her purse.

What the hell is going on? Heather rubbed her forehead. She scrolled her thoughts back, trying to pick out other off-kilter details, to discern a pattern.

Denial of access to the CCK files; ViCAP and NCAVC.

Blood messages left at two crime scenes. The anarchy symbol.

A dead perp—supposedly the CCK himself, and caught in the act.

Missing reports, misplaced evidence, a vacationing cop.

Her inability to connect with her SAC. Her calls unreturned.

But the puzzle kept shifting every time she tried to put a piece in place. Face in hands, Heather closed her eyes. She needed sleep. The few hours caught in a chair at Dante’s house hadn’t been enough. Her thoughts lagged and her reflexes were sluggish.

“Agent Wallace?”

Heather dropped her hands and straightened. The übergeek clerk stood before her. A nervous smile twitched across his lips.

“Doctor Anzalone asked that you wait in her office,” he said.

Heather stood. “Great.”

The clerk led her down a hall, past the metal double doors leading to the autopsy theater, to an office marked CORONER. Opening the door, the clerk stepped aside as Heather walked into the office.

“Thanks,” Heather said smiling. With a quick nod, the clerk hurried away.

Ignoring the chairs positioned in front of the desk, Heather returned to the doorway. Looked down the quiet hall to the autopsy theater.

Given that Anzalone doesn’t seem to be real big on courtesy or protocol…Heather walked out of the office and down the hall, her stride brisk and, she hoped, silent. I’ll return the favor.

She shoved through the autopsy theater’s doors. A startled, lab-coated assistant looked up from the body he was suturing.

“Hey!” he exclaimed, disbelief on his face. “You can’t be in here!”

Heather smiled. “I’m the lead investigator in the Cross-Country Killer case,” she said, pulling her badge from her purse and flipping it open. “Doctor Anzalone expects me.”

“She didn’t say anything to me,” the assistant said. “Really, you can’t be in here.” Placing the suture needle on the corpse’s belly, he hurried across the room. He stopped in front of Heather, his gaze on her badge. He frowned. “I don’t think—”

“That the vic? Rosa Baker?” Heather nodded at the body.

“Yeah, it is. But seriously—”

“Where’s the perp’s body?” Heather stepped past the assistant, walking to the body-laden table. She paused beside a tray of bloody instruments positioned near the head of the table.

“The perp’s body?” the assistant repeated, voice unsure. “Uh…you’d have to ask Doctor Anzalone for sure, but I think it was sent to the funeral home.”

Heather froze. No way she’d heard right. No way. She whirled around to face the assistant. She met his gaze, took in his tight-muscled stance, the anxious way he rubbed his hands together.

“Did you say funeral home?”

“Uh…yeah. The body might’ve been sent there. Accidentally.”

Lost. Misplaced. Missing. The assistant shifted his weight from one hip to the other. Glanced away. Heather felt a tight smile curve her lips. Holy hell, there’s more.

“Don’t tell me,” Heather said, voice flat. “He was cremated. Accidentally.”

Without looking at her, the assistant nodded. “Might’ve been.”

“You’d better fetch Doctor Anzalone.”

Swallowing hard, the assistant turned, the soles of his sneakers squeaking against the tile floor. He pushed through the double doors.

Heather breathed in deep and slow. Rage knotted her muscles, but blurred her thoughts. Deep and slow. After a few moments, she looked the body over: middle-aged woman, a little heavy, ash-blonde hair, her eyes half-open and reflecting nothing. Stab wounds, bruises at throat and thighs.

Heather’s gaze dropped to the threaded suture needle. Given the Y-incision the assistant was closing, the autopsy had already been performed. The interrupted sutures stopped just below the belly button.

A day ago, Rosa Baker had been a living, breathing woman: washing her face, folding her laundry, planning lunch. Now…Heather shifted her attention back to Rosa’s lax, pale face and empty eyes. Now nothing remained of Rosa Baker. And nothing remained to her but the grave or the fire.

Could I have prevented this death?

One killer would always replace another and she’d always stand beside a metal table bearing the slashed/shot/bludgeoned/strangled remains of yet another victim.

For some, their brutal death would be the most attention they’d ever receive. In dying, in being murdered, they were noticed for the first time, then just as quickly forgotten.

But she remembered. Each and every one. Carried their images in her mind: a mental photo album of the dead, a yearbook of ended lives.

Empty promises. Silent victims.

She yearned to be a finger pointed at a murderer; to be the mouth through which they could speak one last time: It was him. He killed me.

Heather looked up at the ceiling, at the bright overheads, the microphone dangling down. One victim wasn’t dead yet. He still breathed in New Orleans and—she glanced at her watch—slept. She could keep her promise to Dante. But first she needed to find out why the situation here reeked of cover-up.

Rolling back her shoulders and swiping stray wisps of hair from her forehead, Heather walked the room until she found the transcribing station that the microphone connected to, recording the M.E.’s comments and observations. Heather clicked it on, typed in MOST RECENT, then walked back to the table.

The medical examiner’s impassionate voice ended the silence.

“The victim is a well-nourished female Caucasian in her mid-to-late forties…”

Heather kept her gaze on Rosa’s face as Anzalone spelled out what Heather already suspected: wrong victim type, wrong M.O., wrong killing site. She grew colder with each word.

JOHANNA KEYED IN HER code and opened the door. Closing it, she reset the lock. The keypad beeped. UNAVAILABLE scrolled in red across its tiny window. She stared at the word, trying to make sense of it. She must’ve punched in the wrong numbers. Frowning, she carefully punched the code in again.

The keypad beeped. UNAVAILABLE.

Johanna went still. Listened. The refrigerator hummed in the kitchen. Water dripped from the bathroom faucet. Outside, car tires crunched on the snow and ice-layered street.

Nothing breathed in the house but her. No heart beat but her own.

Still…delayed Sleep had stolen her edge, numbed her senses.

Johanna turned away from the door. She scanned the empty room: plush sofa, leather easy chairs, dark fireplace, photos and small treasures on the polished wood mantel; lamps on low. No footprints on the carpet.

Johanna set her purse down on the side table and withdrew her Glock 36. She kicked off her shoes and moved silently across the carpet, gun in a two-handed grip. Ghosting down the hall, she paused when she noticed footprints in the carpet. Too large to be her own.

A burglar? Expensive neighborhood. Fancy toys. Possible.

She swung into the bathroom, flicking on the light, and clearing right, then left. Empty. No shadows behind the beveled-glass shower door. The medicine cabinet was closed. No smudges. Untouched.

Not looking for drugs, then.

Leaving the light on, Johanna stepped back out into the hall and pressed her back up against the wall. The footprints trailed on down the hall.

What if E had come home? What if he’d brought S with him?

Johanna froze, heart hammering against her ribs. Blood rushed in a frenzy through her veins, yet she was cold, colder than the layers of ice outside on the concrete.

She stepped into the spare bedroom, flicking on the light. Nothing.

If E or S were here, bullets would help only where E was concerned. It would take more than bullets to keep her True Blood child down.

Whoever had broken into her home, violated it with their uninvited presence, was long gone. She felt nothing but her own panic.

Johanna strode out of the guest bedroom and into the hall, gun held at her side. She stepped into her office and flicked on the light. She crouched in front of the black file cabinet, pulled on the handle. The drawer slid open.

It had been locked when she’d left the house.

Rising to her feet, calmer despite the knot in her stomach, she circled around to her desk and opened the drawers. All had been locked—just like the file cabinet. She searched the contents of the deep bottom drawer—all files seemed to be in place, all disks and CDs accounted for. But that didn’t mean files hadn’t been photographed. Or disks copied.

Nothing jimmied. Nothing damaged. She’d been black-bagged by a pro.

Which meant FBI or CIA or DOD.

She ran a hand through her hair. Who and why? Who’d have the balls? And for what? Whirling, she walked back to the living room and fished her cell phone from her purse. She speed-dialed Gifford’s cell, her adrenaline rush already fading. He answered on the first ring, but said nothing, waiting for her to speak first.

“I’ve been black-bagged,” she said, voice thick with Sleep. “Call security. Have them check the office. Then go there yourself.”

“Consider it done.” His voice was steady, unruffled.

She thumbed the off button. The Glock slipped from her fingers and thudded onto the carpet. Sleep. She’d waited too long.

Johanna staggered from the room and into the hall. She pulled herself along the wall, her gaze locked on her bedroom doorway. It seemed she never got any closer. Her head thumped against the wall and her eyes flew open. She was on the floor.

She curled up in the hallway, lips parting, drinking in Sleep like blood. Just before conscious thought winked out, she realized what had been missing. What she’d been reviewing—for pleasure—at home. The file on S and the CD documenting his experiences as a member of Bad Seed.

DR. ANZALONE SLAMMED THROUGH the double doors into the autopsy theater. Heather spared her a quick glance, then pulled the sheet over Rosa Baker. The playback ended abruptly as the M.E. hit the stop button on the transcriber.

“You have no right to barge in here,” Anzalone said. “I don’t care if you’re FBI—”

“Who requested that the forensics be altered in this case?” Turning from the table, Heather locked gazes with the medical examiner. “Altered to match the Cross-Country Killer’s M.O.?”

Hazel eyes, curly brunette hair, a little on the heavy side—like Rosa—Anzalone’s brows knitted together, her hands jammed into her lab coat pockets. Defensive.

“How dare you imply—”

“My perp is left-handed,” Heather said, crossing the floor. “These stab wounds were inflicted by a right-hander.” She stopped in front of the tight-jawed medical examiner. “But the transcription I just listened to indicated that the killer was left-handed.”

Anzalone stiffened. “Before you make any accusations, you’d better check with your superiors.” She spun around and strode from the autopsy theater.

Heather stared after her as the doors swung closed. Check with your superiors.

Dante was still being stalked.

And she’d been lured away.

Was Stearns part of it?

Half walking, half running out of the theater, Heather yanked her cell from her purse and called Collins. “We need to get back to New Orleans right away. Stay there. I’ll pick you up.”

Shoving through the front entrance, Heather raced for the rental, punching Dante’s home number on her cell. The phone rang and rang. She unlocked the Stratus and slid inside. C’mon! Answer! She glanced at her watch. Almost four, Pensacola time, which made it almost three in New Orleans. Maybe Dante was still sleeping.

Starting the car, Heather threw it into reverse and hit the gas pedal. The tires screeched as she whipped the car out of the slot, spinning the wheel one-handed into a quick reverse-to-drive L. She wished she had her Trans Am with its get-up-and-go.

The ringing stopped. De Noir’s deep voice said, “Agent Wallace.”

“I need to speak to Dante.” Heather stepped on the gas. The Stratus arrowed out into traffic. “It’s urgent.”

“He’s sleeping.”

“Dammit, De Noir! Wake him!”

“Not possible. But I will take a message for him.”

“I don’t fucking believe you.” Throat tight, lightheaded with anger, Heather pressed harder on the gas pedal.

She glanced over her shoulder as she switched lanes, smoothly merging with the heavy traffic. “He’s still in danger. The killer isn’t dead. Don’t let Dante leave the house and don’t leave him alone.”

“Dante does as he wishes,” De Noir said, voice amused. “But I will tell him your concerns. When he awakens.”

“Great,” Heather snarled. She threw the phone down onto the passenger seat.

Either De Noir didn’t get it or he didn’t believe her or he thought he could keep Dante safe. Any of those reasons would be enough to get Dante killed.

Keeping her gaze on the traffic, Heather fumbled for the cell phone, then tapped in Stearns’s number.

“Wallace,” he said, answering on the first ring.

Heather didn’t know whether to feel relief or concern. “Sir. I’m leaving Pensacola right now. We’ve been deliberately misled. The M.E. falsified—”

“The case is closed,” Stearns said. “The investigation’s over.”

Someone honked and Heather realized the light had turned green. She stepped on the gas. Her heart thudded against her chest. “Who closed the case, sir?” she finally managed to say.

“That’s not the issue, Wallace.”

Stearns’s voice was flat. Stoic. Was her mentor repeating words he had no wish to say? Or was he a willing party? Heather felt sick.

“I think it is. The CCK is not dead, sir. Who’d want to protect him?”

“The investigation’s over.” Stearns’s voice sounded weary, drained. “Get back to Seattle ASAP.”

“He has another victim targeted.”

“Forget Dante Prejean, Wallace. He’s not what he appears to be.”

At Dante’s name, Heather’s blood ran cold. “What do you mean?”

“He’s no longer your concern.”

“With all due respect, sir, are you a part of the cover-up?”

“Heather, listen carefully.” Desperation weighted Stearns’s voice. “Stay out of New Orleans. Your safety depends upon it. You are not among friends.”

“Apparently that’s nothing new, is it, Craig?” She hung up.

What had happened? Was the CCK the son of a government star? The brother of a diplomat? And why was the investigation being halted now?

Something to do with Dante. Think. Someone wanted him dead. Why not just shoot him in his sleep? Could it be something to do with the past he didn’t remember?

A bloodred anarchy symbol caught Heather’s attention. She stared, breath caught in her throat, heart pounding. A sign in the window of a music store.

Above the anarchy symbol: Just in! The latest release from New Orleans’s INFERNO! Deliberately Set. And below it: Wake up and smell the fire!

WAKE UP written in blood at two different crime scenes. A past Dante doesn’t remember. Heather hung a right, then pulled to a stop in front of the precinct house. Collins waited on the steps.

Dante didn’t remember, no. But someone wanted him to remember.

“We’ve got trouble,” Heather said as Collins scrunched into the car. She hit the gas before he’d closed the door.

Unruffled, the detective strapped on his seat belt. He glanced at Heather. “The bastard’s not dead, is he?”

“They made you detective for a reason,” Heather murmured, goosing the Stratus through two high-speed lane changes. “It gets worse. It’s a deliberate cover-up.”

“Shit.” Collins stared straight ahead, jaw tight, face grim.