Second Honeymoon

Chapter 31

THE SANDWICHES WERE a dead giveaway.

Sarah had attended countless briefings conducted by Dan Driesen, and not once had he provided anything remotely edible for the occasion. No muffins or bagels, no cookies or anything else to snack on. Certainly no sandwiches, not ever. It just wasn’t his style. You want catered briefings? Go work for Martha Stewart.

Yet there they were. Sandwiches in the center of the conference room table.

After catching the first flight back from Tallahassee, grabbing a cab straight from Reagan National to Quantico, dropping off her suitcase in her office, and making a beeline for the conference room with only seconds to spare before Driesen’s four o’clock briefing, it was the first thing she noticed. A platter of sandwiches. Never had assorted cold cuts carried so much subtext.

This was not your average briefing.

More to the point, Driesen wasn’t completely calling the shots. He was catering to someone else.

Sarah figured she’d know soon enough. Driesen hadn’t arrived yet.

In the meantime, she accepted congratulations for her work in Tallahassee from the rest of the room—a mix of agents and analysts, heavy on the analysts. The BAU, or Behavioral Analysis Unit, was first and foremost about the gathering and interpretation of information. For every agent in the field, there were three analysts back home in Quantico.

“So what’s the story?” asked Ty Agosta, the unit’s criminal psychiatrist and perhaps the last man on the planet who routinely wore corduroy jackets with elbow patches. Not only did he wear them, he made them work.

“I was hoping you knew,” said Sarah.

“Driesen’s been locked in his office for the past hour,” said Agosta. “That’s all I know.”

“With whom?”

He nodded toward the door. That’s who.

Sarah turned to see Dan Driesen walking into the room with his typical long strides. Accompanying him were three men in dark suits, sporting visitor badges and the rigid posture that usually came with wearing a shoulder holster all day long.

One of them looked familiar. Sarah had seen him before, but couldn’t quite place the face. Surely Driesen would introduce him, as well as his two cohorts, to the room.

Only he didn’t. Instead, Driesen simply started the briefing. The three men, as if they were only on hand to observe, took seats in the row of chairs along the perimeter of the room.

After they each grabbed a sandwich, that is.

“Nevada, Arizona, and Utah,” began Driesen, the room lights dimming courtesy of Stan, the audio/video technician, who worked all the feeds to the monitors at the front of the room.

The largest of the flat screens illuminated behind Driesen as he continued, the specifics of the top-line summary he’d given Sarah over the phone that morning appearing as bullet points.

Three different states.

Three dead men.

All within a two-week span.

And all with the same first and last name.

The screen wiped clean as the final bullet point shot up in large type behind Driesen.

THE JOHN O’HARA KILLER, it read.