Ashes to Ashes

5

CHAPTER

THE TENSION IN the mayor's conference room was high and electric. Grim excitement, anticipation, anxiety, latent power. There were always those who saw murder as tragedy and those who sensed career opportunity. The next hour would sort out one type from the other, and establish the power order of the personalities involved. In that time Quinn would have to read them, work them, decide how to play them, and slot them into place in his own scheme of things.

He straightened his back, squared his aching shoulders, lifted his chin, and made his entrance. Show time. The heads turned immediately as he walked in the door. On the plane he had memorized the names of some of the principal players here, scouring the faxes that had come into the office before he'd left Virginia. He tried to recall them now, tried to sort them from the hundreds of others he'd known in hundreds of conference rooms across the country.

The mayor of Minneapolis detached herself from the crowd when she spotted him, and came toward him with purpose, trailing lesser politicians in her wake. Grace Noble resembled nothing so much as an operatic Valkyrie. She was fifty-something and large, built like a tree trunk, with a helmet of starched blond hair. She had no upper lip to speak of, but had carefully drawn herself one and filled it in with red lipstick that matched her suit.

“Special Agent Quinn,” she declared, holding out a broad, wrinkled hand tipped with red nails. “I've been reading all about you. As soon as we heard from the director, I sent Cynthia to the library for every article she could find.”

He flashed what had been called his Top Gun smile—confident, winning, charming, but with the unmistakable glint of steel beneath it. “Mayor Noble. I should tell you not to believe everything you read, but I find there is an advantage to having people think I can see into their minds.”

“I'm sure you don't have to be able to read minds to know how grateful we are to have you here.”

“I'll do what I can to help. Did you say you'd spoken with the director?”

Grace Noble patted his arm. Maternal. “No, dear. Peter spoke with him. Peter Bondurant. They're old friends, as it happens.”

“Is Mr. Bondurant here?”

“No, he couldn't bring himself to face the press. Not yet. Not knowing . . .” Her shoulders slumped briefly beneath the weight of it all. “My God, what this will do to him if it is Jillie. . . .”

A short African American man with a weightlifter build and a tailored gray suit stepped up beside her, his eyes on Quinn. “Dick Greer, chief of police,” he said crisply, thrusting out his hand. “Glad to have you on board, John. We're ready to nail this creep.”

As if he would have anything to do with it. In a metropolitan police department the chief was an administrator and a politician, a spokesman, an idea man. The men in the trenches likely said Chief Greer couldn't find his own dick in a dark room.

Quinn listened to the list of names and titles as the introductions were made. A deputy chief, a deputy mayor, an assistant county attorney, the state director of public safety, a city attorney, and a pair of press secretaries—too damn many politicians. Also present were the Hennepin County sheriff, a detective from the same office, a special agent in charge from the Minnesota Bureau of Criminal Apprehension with one of his agents, the homicide lieutenant from the PD—representatives from three of the agencies that would comprise the task force.

He met each with a firm handshake and played it low key. Midwesterners tended to be reserved and didn't quite trust people who weren't. In the Northeast he would have given more of the steel. On the West Coast he would have turned up the charm, would have been Mr. Affable, Mr. Spirit of Cooperation. Different horses for different courses, his old man used to say. And which one was the real John Quinn—even he didn't know anymore.

“. . . and my husband, Edwyn Noble,” the mayor finished the introductions.

“Here in a professional capacity, Agent Quinn,” Edwyn Noble said. “Peter Bondurant is a client as well as a friend.”

Quinn's attention focused sharply on the man before him. Six five or six six, Noble was all joints and sinew, an exaggerated skeleton of a man with a smile that was perfectly square and too wide for his face. He looked slightly younger than his wife. The gray in his hair was contained to flags at the temples.

“Mr. Bondurant sent his attorney?” Quinn said.

“I'm Peter's personal counsel, yes. I'm here on his behalf.”

“Why is that?”

“The shock has been terrific.”

“I'm sure it has been. Has Mr. Bondurant already given the police his statement?”

Noble leaned back, the question physically putting him off. “A statement regarding what?”

Quinn shrugged, nonchalant. “The usual. When he last saw his daughter. Her frame of mind at the time. The quality of their relationship.”

Color blushed the attorney's prominent cheekbones. “Are you suggesting Mr. Bondurant is a suspect in his own daughter's death?” he said in a harsh, hushed tone, his gaze slicing across the room to check for eavesdroppers.

“Not at all,” Quinn said with blank innocence. “I'm sorry if you misunderstood me. We need all the pieces of the puzzle we can get in order to form a clear picture of things, that's all. You understand.”

Noble looked unhappy.

In Quinn's experience, the parents of murder victims tended to camp out at the police department, demanding answers, constantly underfoot of the detectives. After the description Walsh had given of Bondurant, Quinn had expected to see the man throwing his weight around city hall like a mad bull. But Peter Bondurant had reached out and touched the director of the FBI, called out his personal attorney, and stayed home.

“Peter Bondurant is one of the finest men I know,” Noble declared.

“I'm sure Agent Quinn didn't mean to imply otherwise, Edwyn,” the mayor said, patting her husband's arm.

The lawyer's attention remained on Quinn. “Peter was assured you're the best man for this job.”

“I'm very good at what I do, Mr. Noble,” Quinn said. “One of the reasons I'm good at my job is that I'm not afraid to do my job. I'm sure Mr. Bondurant will be glad to hear it.”

He left it at that. He didn't want to make enemies of Bondurant's people. Offend a man like Bondurant and he'd find himself called on the carpet before the Bureau's Office of Professional Responsibility—at the very least. On the other hand, after having Peter Bondurant jerk him out here like a dog on a leash, he wanted it made clear he wouldn't be manipulated.

“We're running short on time, people. Let's take our seats and get started,” the mayor announced, herding the men toward the conference table like a first-grade teacher with a pack of little boys.

She stood at the political end of the table as everyone fell into rank, and drew breath to speak just as the door opened again and four more people walked in.

“Ted, we were about to start without you.” The mayor's doughy face creased with disapproval at his lack of punctuality.

“We've had some complications.” He strode across the room directly toward Quinn. “Special Agent Quinn. Ted Sabin, Hennepin County attorney. I'm glad to meet you.”

Quinn rose unsteadily to his feet. His gaze glanced off the man's shoulder to the woman trailing reluctantly behind him. He mumbled an adequate reply to Sabin, shaking the county attorney's hand. A mustached cop stepped up and introduced himself. Kovac. The name registered dimly. The pudgy guy with them introduced himself and said something about having once heard Quinn speak somewhere.

“. . . And this is Kate Conlan with our victim/witness program,” Sabin said. “You may—”

“We've met,” they said in unison.

Kate looked Quinn in the eye for just a moment because it seemed important to do so, to recognize him, acknowledge him, but not react. Then she glanced away, stifling the urge to sigh or swear or walk out of the room.

She couldn't say she was surprised to see him. There were only eighteen agents assigned to Investigative Support's Child Abduction/Serial Killer Unit. Quinn was the current poster boy for CASKU, and sexual homicide was his specialty. The odds had not been in her favor, and her luck today was for shit. Hell, she should have expected to see him standing in the mayor's conference room. But she hadn't.

“You've worked together?” Sabin said, not quite certain whether he should be pleased or disappointed.

An awkward silence hung for a second or three. Kate sank into a chair.

“Uh—yes,” she said. “It's been a long time.”

Quinn stared at her. No one took him by surprise. Ever. He'd spent a lifetime building that level of control. That Kate Conlan could walk in the door and tilt the earth beneath his feet after all this time did not sit well. He ducked his head and cleared his throat. “Yeah. You're missed, Kate.”

By whom? she wanted to ask, but instead she said, “I doubt it. The Bureau is like the Chinese Army: The personnel could march into the sea for a year and there'd still be plenty of warm bodies to fill the posts.”

Oblivious of the discomfort at the other end of the table, the mayor brought the meeting to order. The press conference was less than an hour away. The politicians needed to get their ducks in a row. Who would speak first. Who would stand where. Who would say what. The cops combed their mustaches and drummed their fingers on the table, impatient with the formalities.

“We need to make a strong statement,” Chief Greer said, warming up his orator's voice. “Let this creep know we won't rest until we get him. Let him know right up front we've got the FBI's leading profiler here, we've got the combined resources of four agencies working on this thing day and night.”

Edwyn Noble nodded. “Mr. Bondurant is establishing a reward of one hundred fifty thousand for information leading to an arrest.”

Quinn pulled his attention away from Kate and rose. “Actually, Chief, I wouldn't advise any of that just yet.”

Greer's face pinched. Edwyn Noble glared at him. The collective expression from the political end of the table was a frown.

“I haven't had the opportunity to thoroughly go over the case,” Quinn began, “which is reason enough to hold off. We need to get a handle on just who this killer might be, how his mind works. Making a blind show of strength at this point could be a move in the wrong direction.”

“And that would be based on what?” Greer asked, his bulky shoulders tensing beneath the weight of the chip he was carrying. “You've said yourself, you haven't reviewed the case.”

“We've got a killer who's putting on a show. I've seen the photos from this last crime scene. He brought the body to a public place, intending to shock. He drew attention to the scene with a fire. This probably means he wants an audience, and if that's what he wants, we have to be careful of just how we give it to him.

“My advice is to hold off today. Minimize this press conference. Assure the public you're doing everything you can to identify and arrest the killer, but don't go into details. Keep the number of people behind the podium down—Chief Greer, Mayor Noble, Mr. Sabin, that's it. Don't get into the specifics of the task force. Don't talk about Mr. Bondurant. Don't bring up the FBI. Don't mention my name at all. And don't take any questions.”

Predictably, eyebrows went up all around the table. He knew from experience some of them had been expecting him to try to take the limelight: the FBI bully jumping in to grab the headlines. And undoubtedly, some of them wanted to show him off at the press conference like a trophy—Look who we've got on our side. It's Super Agent! No one ever expected him to downplay his role.

“At this stage of the game we don't want to set up an adversarial situation where he may see me as a direct challenge to him,” he said, resting his hands at his waist, settling in for the inevitable arguments. “I'm in the background as much as I can be. I'll maintain a low profile with the media for as long as I can or until I deem it advantageous to do otherwise.”

The politicians looked crestfallen. They loved nothing so much as a public forum and the undivided attention of the media and thereby the masses. Greer obviously resented having his thunder stolen. The muscles in his jaw pulsed subtly.

“The people of this city are ready to panic,” the chief said. “We've got three women dead, one of them beheaded. The phones in my office are ringing off the hook. A statement needs to be made. People want to know we're going after this animal with everything we've got.”

The mayor nodded. “I'm inclined to agree with Dick. We've got business conferences in town, tourists coming in for plays, for concerts, for holiday shopping—”

“To say nothing of the anxiety of the general population over the growing crime rate in the city,” said the deputy mayor.

“It was bad enough with the two prostitute killings making the news,” a press secretary added. “Now we've got the daughter of a very prominent citizen dead. People start thinking if it could happen to her, it could happen to anyone. News like this creates an environment of fear.”

“Give this guy a sense of importance and power and this city may well have a reason to panic,” Quinn said bluntly.

“Isn't it just as likely that minimizing the case in the media could enrage him? Drive him to commit more crimes in order to draw more attention to himself?” Greer questioned. “How do you know coming out with a strong and public offensive won't scare him and flush him out?”

“I don't. I don't know what this guy might do—and neither do you. We need to take the time to try to figure that out. He's murdered three women that you know of, getting progressively bolder and more flamboyant. He won't scare easily, I can tell you that. We may eventually be able to draw him into the investigation—he's sure as hell watching—but we need to maintain tight control and keep our options open.” He turned toward Edwyn Noble. “And the reward is too large. I'd advise you to cut it back to no more than fifty thousand to start.”

“With all due respect, Agent Quinn,” the lawyer said tightly, “the choice is Mr. Bondurant's.”

“Yes, it is, and I'm sure he feels information about his daughter's murder is worth any price. My reasoning is this, Mr. Noble: People will come forward for a lot less than one hundred fifty thousand. An amount that extraordinary is going to bring in a flood of kooks and money-grubbing opportunists willing to sell their own mothers down the river. Start with fifty. Later we may want to use raising the amount as a strategic move.”

Noble breathed a measured sigh and pushed his chair back from the table. “I'll need to speak with Peter about this.” He unfolded his long body and walked across the room to a side table with a telephone.

“We've got every reporter in the Twin Cities camped out on the steps of city hall,” the mayor pointed out. “They're anticipating something more than a simple statement.”

“That's their problem,” Quinn said. “You have to think of them as tools rather than guests. They're not entitled to the details of an ongoing investigation. You called a press conference, you didn't promise them anything.”

The mayor's expression suggested otherwise. Quinn tightened his grip on the fraying threads of his patience. Play diplomat. Go easy. Don't lose your cool. Christ, he was tired of it.

“Did you?”

Grace Noble looked to Sabin. “We had hoped to have a composite sketch. . . .”

Sabin cut a nasty look at Kate. “Our witness is being less than cooperative.”

“Our witness is a scared kid who saw a psychopath set fire to a headless corpse,” Kate said sharply. “The last thing on her mind is accommodating your timetable . . . sir.”

“She got a good look at the guy?” Quinn asked.

Kate spread her hands. “She says she saw him. She's tired, she's afraid, she's angry—and rightfully so—at the treatment she's been given. Those factors tend not to create a spirit of cooperation.”

Sabin began to position himself for rebuttal. Quinn blocked the argument. “Bottom line: We have no composite.”

“We have no composite,” Kate said.

“Then don't bring it up,” Quinn said, turning back to the mayor. “Divert their attention to something else. Give them a photograph of Jillian Bondurant and one of her car and make an appeal for people to call the hotline if they've seen either one since Friday evening. Don't talk about the witness. Your first concern here has to be with how your actions and reactions will be perceived by the killer, not how they'll be perceived by the media.”

Grace Noble pulled in a deep breath. “Agent Quinn—”

“I don't normally come into a case this early on,” he interrupted, the control slipping a little more. “But since I'm here, I want to do everything I can to help defuse the situation and bring a swift and satisfactory conclusion to the investigation. That means advising you all on proactive investigative strategies and how to handle the case in the press. You don't have to listen to me, but I'm drawing on a wealth of past experience. The director of the FBI personally chose me for this case. You might want to consider why before you disregard my suggestions.”

Kate watched him as he took two steps back from the table and the argument, and turned his profile to her, pretending to look out the window. A subtle threat. He had established his own importance and now dared them to challenge it. He had attached the director of the FBI to his position and indirectly dared them to defy him.

Same old Quinn. She had known him as well as anyone could know John Quinn. He was a master manipulator. He could read people in a heartbeat and change colors like a chameleon. He played both adversaries and colleagues with the brilliance of Mozart at the keyboard, turning them to his side of an argument with charm or bullying or guile or the brute force of his intelligence. He was smart, he was sly, he was ruthless if he needed to be. And who he really was behind all the clever disguises and razor-sharp strategies—well, Kate wondered if he knew. She'd thought she had once upon a time.

Physically, he had changed some in five years. The thick, dark hair was salted with gray and cropped almost military short. He looked leaner, worn thin by the job. Ever the clotheshorse, he wore a suit that was Italian and expensive. But the coat hung a little loose off the broad shoulders, and the pants were a little baggy. The effect, though, created elegance rather than an eroding of his physical presence. The planes and angles of his face were sharp. There were circles under the brown eyes. Impatience vibrated in the air around him, and she wondered if it was real or manufactured for the moment.

Sabin turned toward her suddenly. “Well, Kate, what do you think?”

“Me?”

“You worked for the same unit as Special Agent Quinn. What do you think?”

She could feel Quinn's eyes on her, as well as the gazes of everyone else in the room. “No. I'm just the advocate here. I don't even know what business I have being at this meeting. John is the expert—”

“No, he's right, Kate,” Quinn said. He planted his hands on the tabletop and leaned toward her, his dark eyes like coals—she thought she could feel the heat of them on her face. “You were a part of the old Behavioral Sciences Unit. You've got more experience with this kind of case than anyone else at this table besides me. What's your take?”

Kate stared at him, knowing her resentment had to be plain in her eyes. Bad enough to have Sabin put her on the spot, but for Quinn to do it struck her as a betrayal. But then, why she should have been surprised at that, she couldn't imagine.

“Regarding this case, I have no basis on which to form an educated opinion,” she began woodenly. “However, I am well aware of Special Agent Quinn's qualifications and expertise. Personally, I think you would be making a mistake not to follow his advice.”

Quinn looked to the mayor and the chief of police.

“You can't unring a bell,” he said quietly. “Put too much information out there now, there's no taking it back. You can call another press conference tomorrow if you need to. Just give the task force this chance to muster their resources and get a running start.”

Edwyn Noble returned from his phone call, his face sober. “Mr. Bondurant says he'll do whatever Agent Quinn suggests. We'll set the reward at fifty thousand.”

THE MEETING ADJOURNED at four forty-eight. The politicos moved into the mayor's office for last-minute preparations before facing the press. The cops gathered in a cluster at the far end of the conference room to talk about setting up the task force.

“Sabin isn't happy with you, Kate,” Rob said in a tone of confidentiality, as if anyone else in the room would be interested.

“I'd say Ted Sabin can kiss my ass, but he'd be on his knees in a heartbeat.”

Rob blushed and frowned. “Kate—”

“He dragged me into this, he can live with the consequences,” she said, moving toward the door. “I'm going to go check on Angie. See if she's come up with any-thing from the mug books yet. You're going to the press conference?”

“Yes.”

Good. She had a witness to spring while everyone else was looking the other way. Where to take the girl was the next problem. She belonged in a juvenile facility, but they had as yet been unable to prove she was a juvenile.

“So you worked with Quinn?” Rob said, still with the voice of secrecy, following her toward the door. “I heard him speak at a conference once. He's very impressive. I think his focus on victimology is dead on.”

“That's John, all right. Impressive is his middle name.”

Across the room, Quinn turned away from his conversation with the homicide lieutenant and locked on her, as if he'd picked up her comment on his radar. At the same instant, Rob Marshall's pager beeped and he excused himself to use the phone, looking disappointed at the lost opportunity to speak with Quinn again.

Kate wanted no such opportunity. She turned away and started again for the door as Quinn came toward her.

“Kate.”

She glared at him and jerked her arm away as he moved to take hold of her.

“Thanks for your help,” he said softly, ducking his head in that way he had that made him seem boyish and contrite when he was neither.

“Yeah, right. Can I have the cervical collar concession tomorrow when you march in here and tell them to challenge this son of a bitch in order to trap him?”

He blinked innocently. “I don't know what you mean, Kate. You know as well as I do how important it is to be proactive in a situation like this—when the time is right.”

She wanted to ask him if he was talking about the killer or the politicians, but she stopped herself. Quinn's proactive theories extended to all aspects of his life.

“Don't play your little mind games with me, John,” she whispered bitterly. “I didn't mean to help you. I didn't offer you anything. You took, and I don't appreciate it. You think you can just manipulate people like pawns on a chessboard.”

“The end justified the means.”

“It always does, doesn't it?”

“You know I was right.”

“Funny, but that doesn't make you seem any less of a jerk to me.” She took a step back toward the door. “Excuse me. I've got a job to do. You want to make power plays, you leave me out of the game plan, thank you very much.”

“Good to see you too, Kate,” he murmured as she walked away, thick red-gold hair swinging softly across her back.

It struck Quinn only belatedly that she had a nasty bruise on her cheek and a split lip. He'd seen her as he remembered her: as an ex-friend's wife . . . as the only woman he'd ever truly loved.