Love Me to Death

TWO

After ten years as an officer in the U.S. Air Force, Special Agent Noah Armstrong gave and took orders in stride, but even so, he found it unusual to be called into FBI Headquarters for a seven o’clock evening meeting with Assistant Director Rick Stockton. In addition to the time, it was odd that Stockton’s secretary didn’t give Noah a reason for the meeting. He was curious but unconcerned. He could think of no past or current case he’d worked to merit the attention of the higher-ups, and Noah didn’t care much for speculation.

Noah passed his shield and ID through the slot at the main desk on the ground floor of the Hoover Building. Reception was closed, but the night guard was on duty to check credentials. The building was a virtual fortress, protected by bulletproof glass and multiple levels of security just to get upstairs. Once he was cleared, it was smooth sailing to the top floor since it was after business hours.

When Noah stepped out of the elevator, he recognized Dr. Hans Vigo, a behavioral science instructor and assistant director at Quantico, the FBI training institution.

Dr. Vigo extended his hand. “Agent Armstrong, thank you for coming after hours. Rick was delayed in a meeting, so I’ll brief you.”

He shook Vigo’s hand. “Not a problem, sir. I understand.”

“It’s good to see you again. You were in the class—seven-thirteen or fourteen, correct?”

Noah nodded. “Seven-fourteen, sir.”

“I’ve heard extensive praise of your work in the Bureau, most recently the Annapolis murders.”

Noah raised his eyebrow, surprised that someone of Dr. Vigo’s stature would concern himself with a typical mass murder. Under normal circumstances, the FBI wouldn’t have involved themselves with murders by a disgruntled employee, except that it had taken place in a federal building and the shooter and victims were all federal employees.

While he acknowledged that his military experience helped him rise above being merely a competent agent, Noah didn’t see why his record would have been brought to the assistant director’s attention.

“Thank you, sir.”

“Please call me Hans. I’m not one for formalities.”

Noah followed Hans down the quiet hall. Every office door was open, lights off. There were two people meeting in a small conference room, visible through the partly open blinds. But the normally bustling headquarters was nearly empty.

Hans asked, “Coffee? Water?”

“No, thank you, sir.”

Hans turned at the end of the hall and opened the door to Stockton’s office. He closed it behind them, then motioned for Noah to sit at the long table on the far side of the large, organized room.

Hans took a seat across from him. “We have an extremely sensitive investigation we would like you to head up, Noah.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Early Saturday morning, a park service employee found a body at the Washington Sailing Marina, on the Virginia side of the Potomac. The victim was shot once in the back of the head. He had no identification on his person, but his prints confirmed that he was Roger Morton. I got the call early this morning.”

The FBI didn’t handle routine homicides. Noah’s curiosity was piqued.

Hans said, “Morton was released from federal prison in Oregon six months ago, on July first.” Hans opened his file and slid over a prison mug shot. Morton had the hardened expression shared by many violent criminals, the half-snarl curling his lips telling Noah this guy felt remorse only over getting caught.

Hans continued. “This case is sensitive for two reasons. First, the nature of Morton’s crimes. He was the right-hand man for a vicious killer who ran both a legal and illegal pornography business, specializing in online sex videos. Most of Morton’s crimes were committed at the direction of his boss, Adam Scott, who was killed during a confrontation with federal agents.”

The case sounded familiar, but Noah couldn’t remember why. “How long ago?”

“Six years last June. Are you familiar with it?”

“I was still in the Air Force.” He hadn’t even been stationed in the States at the time.

“Scott charged online viewers to watch him rape and kill his victims live on the Internet.”

Now Noah remembered. “The case was discussed in my cybercrimes class at Quantico.”

“The agent who tracked Scott to his hideout made incredible strides in tracing masked Internet feeds. Many of her protocols have been integrated into our e-crimes unit.

“The reason this case is so sensitive,” Hans continued, “is because Morton was killed here, just outside D.C. We’ve taken the case from the local police; all evidence is being sent to the FBI lab. Traditionally, jurisdiction is ours anyway because the murder was on federal land, though we usually let the locals handle routine homicides.”

Apparently, this situation was not routine.

“As part of Morton’s probation,” Hans said, “he wasn’t allowed within ten miles of anyone involved in his case, including his victims and their families. His last victim lives in Georgetown, as well as one of the agents involved in his capture.”

“Victim?”

“He was a repeat rapist.”

“And he only got six years?” Noah frowned. “Sentencing guidelines require—”

Hans cut him off. “There was no trial. It was a plea agreement.” He slid over the file in front of him. “It’s sealed, not public. I made you a copy, but I don’t have to tell you how sensitive the information is. Morton was apprehended while Scott was still at-large. In exchange for leniency, Morton gave us information that helped lead us to Scott, which resulted in saving lives. In addition, he turned over all bank accounts and financial documentation from Scott’s money-laundering operation. The legal sex industry brings in a small fortune, but that doesn’t even touch the amount of money in the illegal sex trade.”

Noah opened the file on Morton, slipped the mug shot back in, and skimmed the summary page while Hans continued to bring him up to speed on the case. A name in the files jumped out at him.

“Kate Donovan.” He looked up from the papers. “It says here she wasn’t an agent, but she’s the e-crimes instructor, correct?”

“Donovan was suspended at the time of Morton’s arrest,” Hans said. “I have another agent flying in from her current assignment to help—she can fill you in on the details not in that file because she was part of the original investigation.”

“Pardon me for asking, but why would you bring in an agent when Donovan—who was also involved in the investigation—is local?” When Hans didn’t immediately say anything, Noah added, “Do you think Donovan is involved in Morton’s murder?”

“No,” Hans said quickly, “but I’m personal friends with Kate and her family. That’s why you are investigating the murder, not me. Morton could have been killed for a hundred different reasons. But—”

Noah finished his thought. “A bullet to the back of the head suggests execution. Punishment.”

“Exactly.”

Noah skimmed the M.E. report. “Was he tortured prior to death?”

“Broken nose, bruising on his right wrist. The medical examiner believes his nose was broken when the killer pushed his head into the ground. However, someone kicked him repeatedly in the groin area while he was prone. So violently that had he not been killed, he would have lost at least one of his testicles.”

Noah shifted in his seat and said, “Morton was a rapist; that sounds like revenge.”

“On the surface.”

More than on the surface, Noah thought, but he continued reading the file. “His last known address is in Denver. Do you know when he moved to D.C.?”

“We just got the case this morning,” Hans said. “We don’t know anything more than you do at this point, and what’s in Morton’s records. Rick Stockton wanted to speak with you directly, to explain the extreme sensitivity. He expects discreet due diligence. You will report directly to me, and I’ll keep Rick informed. Any clearances, anything you need from the U.S. Attorney—warrants, interviews, access—it’s yours. If you need to go to Denver to follow up, it’s approved. Anything you need, consider it approved. Just shoot me an email to CYA.”

“I understand what you need.” They had to believe someone in the Bureau was involved to go to such extreme lengths to avoid traditional channels. “Anything else?”

“You should know that one of Morton’s victims was Kate Donovan’s sister-in-law, Lucy Kincaid. She lives with Donovan and Donovan’s husband, Dr. Dillon Kincaid. Lucy wasn’t told of the plea agreement and as far as I know, she didn’t know Morton was out of prison.”

“Kincaid?” Noah stared pointedly at the assistant director. “The same Kincaid with the private security company Rogan-Caruso-Kincaid?”

“That would be Jack and Patrick, brothers of the victim. Kate is married to Dillon, a forensic psychiatrist and civilian consultant for the FBI.”

Hans leaned forward and eyed Noah. “You have a relationship with the Kincaids?”

Not the Kincaids. Face impassive, he said, “No, but I’ve followed the interesting career of the firm.” RCK was known to skirt the law and had access to information Noah suspected was in the darker gray shades of what a private security company should be able to access, which made him wonder just how many people inside federal law enforcement fed them intelligence.

While his initial assignment of the Morton investigation was sticky, RCK’s potential involvement made this muck as thick and foul-smelling as molasses. Specifically the Rogan part of RCK.

“Do you have any questions?” Hans asked.

“I need the investigator’s files, forensics, everything you have on Morton. Where he served his sentence, terms of his plea agreement and probation.” Noah paused. “And Kate Donovan’s personal contact information. I think it would be better if I went to her house. For the sake of discretion.” He glanced at Hans. “And it would be best if you avoid speaking with anyone involved until I have a chance to interview them.”

Hans agreed. “But don’t delay. While we took over the case, the Kincaids and RCK have a lot of friends in a lot of places. I’m sure no one knows yet—I would have gotten a call—but I’m waiting for the phone to ring.”

Lucy sat on the Metro train pretending to read a book. It wasn’t the writer’s fault that she wasn’t engaged in the story. Any other ride and Lucy would have been absolutely riveted by the action-packed plot, but tonight all she could think about was a rapist going back to prison. When the subway train slowed as it approached her stop at Foggy Bottom, she shoved her unread paperback in her satchel and snapped the buckle without thought—a habit from self-defense training.

Muggers go for the easy mark. Don’t be an easy mark.

She stood and maneuvered toward the doors, eager to meet her brother. Patrick was leaving tomorrow morning for two weeks at Stanford University, where he was working on a security system for their new laboratory. He’d been living in D.C. only a month, she was just getting used to his comforting presence in her life, and already he was going away again.

As soon as the doors slid open, Lucy exited amid the throng of commuters. Starting up the stairs, the back of her neck crawled with the all-too-familiar sensation of being watched. She unconsciously stiffened and stumbled, bumping into the businesswoman in front of her. “Excuse me,” she said automatically, but the woman never looked back. Painful tension started at the base of her skull, spreading rapidly, her heart racing as if she were running a marathon. By the time she reached the top of the stairs, she was fighting a full-fledged panic attack.

You’re in the damn Metro station! Of course people will see you.

But it was more than a casual perusal of her looks; someone’s eyes were focused on her. Dammit, hadn’t she just gone through this thirty minutes ago? When was it going to stop?

Hand shaking, she reached for her pepper spray while simultaneously thinking she was being ridiculous. Her vision was fading and she willed herself to breathe deeply. In and out. Keep moving forward, no one’s watching, you’re fine, just fine. She focused on the exit and calmly strode toward the stairs. Away from the eyes she couldn’t see.

“Lucy—”

She spun to face the voice and backed up at the same time, stumbling over a briefcase resting next to a businessman talking on his cell phone.

Cody Lorenzo reached out and grabbed her before she fell on her ass. “What’s wrong?” he asked, his face all cop, his eyes glancing left and right.

She pushed him back. “Were you following me?”

“I saw you get off the train. I was waiting for you because—”

“It was you.” She breathed deeply and closed her eyes, rubbing her temples until the tension retreated into a tight ball in the back of her head. At least now she could think. “Don’t do that.”

“What?”

“Watch me!”

“I didn’t mean to.”

She shook her head. It wasn’t fair to Cody, but she couldn’t shake the fear. She’d never be normal!

“I thought someone was following me. My fault,” she muttered.

He rubbed her arm. “I should have called. I just got off duty and saw your message, thought I’d take you to dinner to celebrate.”

She discreetly moved out of his reach and said, “I’m sorry, I’m meeting Patrick for dinner. Rain check?”

“Of course. Can I walk with you?”

“Isn’t it out of your way?”

“Not far.”

She relented, though didn’t feel wholly comfortable. She’d met Cody through WCF and they dated for nearly two years before she broke it off. Working with her ex-boyfriend on WCF projects was one thing; socializing with him was completely different.

He took her elbow to steer her through the Metro station and into the chill January mist. She pulled her raincoat tighter around her and tilted the collar up to shield her ears, shivering. Born and raised in San Diego, Lucy still wasn’t used to East Coast winters.

“It’ll snow tonight,” Cody said.

“And you know this because the weatherman is always right?”

“Because I was born and raised in Maryland. The first snowflake will fall before midnight.”

“You sound happy about this.”

He grinned as they crossed the street and turned left on Pennsylvania Avenue toward Georgetown. Cody looked and acted like a cop: broad-shouldered and physically fit, he moved with a swagger and arrogance that came as much from fear as from confidence. He had the Cuban good looks and manners that had Lucy’s mother singing his praises, with just enough wildness on the side that had Lucy enjoying his company. She had thought she’d loved him at one time, but she hadn’t known what love was. She only knew what love wasn’t.

It wasn’t Cody Lorenzo.

When she’d broken up with him, her family took it harder than Cody. They’d parted amicably, as friends, but Lucy knew Cody wanted to get back together. Lucy didn’t.

“Good work getting Prenter,” Cody said as they walked.

“We haven’t put him back in prison yet,” she said. “Do you think the judge will do it? They seem to be big on second, third, tenth chances these days.”

Cody grinned humorlessly. “Fifty-fifty. Though lately we’ve been having more success.”

Her stomach sank. Fifty-fifty. “If he has GHB or another drug on him, that increases our chances.”

“I’m hoping he will. If he’s truly going back to his old ways, he’ll keep doing what worked for him in the past. Possession of a date-rape drug would be hard even for some loony, feel-good judge to overlook. At the very least, Prenter will be spending one night in jail.”

“Small consolation.”

Cody stopped walking, and Lucy turned to look at him. He seemed angry. “I’ll do everything I can to make sure he finishes the full five years, Lucy. I promise.”

“I know—” She frowned, worried about her friend. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Frustrated. I had a domestic violence case earlier that really got to me.” He looked over her shoulder, off in his world, more pain than frustration in his eyes.

“Cody?”

He shook his head, not wanting to talk about it.

She said, “Remember what you told me when I couldn’t stop that teenager from meeting with her online boyfriend?” Lucy had befriended a thirteen-year-old in cyberspace, though WCF strongly discouraged it. Lucy did everything she could to stop the girl from making the same mistakes Lucy had made six years ago. She had failed.

Cody turned to her, gazing deep into her eyes as she spoke.

“You said, ‘We can’t save everyone, so we have to do what we can when we can.’ That changed my life, gave me something to have faith in again. We’re doing what we can. At WCF and on the job.”

His intense stare began to make Lucy feel uncomfortable. Maybe she should have let Cody be angry and frustrated, not tried to talk to him about it. She didn’t want to lead him on, give him any ideas that she wanted to restart their relationship. She smiled, squeezed his hand, then dropped it and started walking. “I’m going to be late meeting Patrick,” she said.

“I’m going to cut through Rock Creek Park to get home.”

She stopped walking and looked back at him. “You sure?”

“It’s only a couple more blocks to Clyde’s. I wanted to make sure you were okay with this Prenter thing, and of course you are. You’re an amazing woman, Lucy.” He stepped forward and kissed her cheek. “See you Saturday at the WCF fund-raiser.”

Cody turned down the pathway through Rock Creek Park and raised his hand in farewell before disappearing from view. She walked briskly toward Clyde’s, already late.

Lucy still had that creepy feeling someone was staring at her. She glanced over her shoulder, but no one even remotely suspicious was there. She stopped, looking in every direction, the street lamps providing ample illumination. The only people not walking stood on the corner waiting for the light to change. No one seemed to be watching her specifically.

She breathed in deeply, the icy air clearing her lungs and her mind. She willed the feeling away, as she’d learned to do six years ago when the sense of being watched by unseen eyes never left her, day or night, in public or locked in her bedroom.

It worked. She smiled to herself and continued toward the restaurant, where her brother was most likely irritated that she’d made him wait.