Split Second

CHAPTER 23

Early Tuesday morning

March 31

Maggie opened her hotel-room door to Delaney. Without a word or an invitation, she turned and walked back into the room, leaving him there while she continued the pacing he had interrupted. Out of the corner of her eyes, she saw him hesitate. Even after coming in, he held on to the doorknob, looking as though he wished he could escape. She wondered how he and Turner had decided which of them would talk to her. Had Delaney lost the coin toss?

She ignored him as he walked across the room, careful to stay out of her path. He sat down at a small table that wobbled when he leaned his elbows on it. He picked up her empty plastic glass and fingered the miniature bottle of Scotch, giving both a sniff before replacing them. His shirtsleeves were rolled up. His collar button opened. His tie removed. He looked wrinkled and tired. During one of her turns, she saw him rub his hands over his bristled face and up through his thinning hair. She’d make him speak first. She was in no mood to talk. And certainly in no mood for a lecture. Why couldn’t they just leave her alone?

“We’re worried about you, Maggie.”

So there it was. He’d have to start with a low blow, all that worrying-and-caring stuff. Plus, he was using her first name. This was serious stuff. She almost wished Turner had come instead. At least he would yell a little.

“There’s no need to worry,” she said calmly.

“Look at you. You’re wound so tight you can’t even sit still.”

She shoved her hands into the pockets of her trousers, briefly alarmed, noticing for the first time how baggy the pants felt. When had she lost weight? She continued to pace, keeping her hands hidden in her pockets. No sense in showing Delaney how badly her hands had been shaking since she’d returned to her room.

“It was an honest mistake,” she defended herself before he had a chance to make the obvious accusation.

“Of course it was.”

“From the back he looked exactly like Stucky. And why the hell did he ignore my instructions three times?”

“Because he doesn’t understand English.”

She stopped and stared at him. The thought had never occurred to her. Of course it hadn’t. She had been convinced it was Stucky. There had been no doubt in her mind.

“Then why did he run from Turner?”

“Who knows.” Delaney dug his fingers into his eyes. “Maybe he’s an illegal alien. Point is, Maggie, you not only made him splatter his veal capellini all over the pavement, you almost blew his frickin’ head off.”

“I did not almost blow his head off. I followed protocol. I couldn’t see Turner. I couldn’t see what this fucking idiot had in his hands, and he wasn’t responding. What the hell would you have done, Delaney?”

His eyes met hers for the first time, and she held him there, despite his discomfort.

“I probably would have done the same thing.” But his admission made him look away.

Maggie thought she saw a hint of embarrassment. There was more to this little visit than concern or a lecture. She braced herself and leaned against the chest of drawers, the only solid piece of furniture in the room.

“What’s going on, Delaney?”

“I called Assistant Director Cunningham,” he said, glancing up at her but avoiding her eyes. “I had to tell him what happened.”

“Goddamn you, Delaney,” she said under her breath, and began pacing once more to steady the brewing anger.

“We’re worried about you, Maggie.”

“Right.”

“I saw the look in your eyes, Maggie, and it scared the hell out of me. I saw how much you wanted to pull the trigger.”

“But I didn’t, did I? Doesn’t that count for anything? I didn’t pull the goddamn trigger.”

“No, not this time.”

She stopped at the window and stared down at the lights of the plaza below. She bit her lower lip. The lights were beginning to blur. She would not cry. She closed her eyes tight against the urge. Behind her, Delaney remained still and quiet. She refused to give him anything other than her back.

“Cunningham wants you to return to Quantico,” he said in a low, apologetic voice. “He’s sending Stewart to finish your workshop. He’ll be here in a couple of hours, so you don’t need to worry about the morning session.”

She watched several cars below as they glided through intersections. At this height, they reminded her of a slow-motion video game. Streetlights flickered, confused whether to stay on or shut off as the sky lightened in anticipation of sunrise. In less than an hour, Kansas City would be waking up, and she hadn’t even been to bed yet.

“Did you, at least, tell Cunningham about Rita?”

“Yes.”

When he offered nothing more, she turned to him, suddenly hopeful. She watched his face when she asked, “Does he believe it was Stucky?”

“I don’t know. He didn’t say, and I didn’t ask.”

“So maybe he wants me to return to finally help on the case?”

Again, Delaney looked away, staring at the tabletop. She knew without any response that she was wrong.

“Jesus! Cunningham thinks I’m losing it, too,” she said quietly, and turned back to the window. She leaned her forehead against the cool glass, hoping it would steady her nerves. Why couldn’t she just feel numb, instead of all this anger and now this sudden feeling of defeat?

After a long silence, she heard Delaney get up and start for the door.

“I already made arrangements for you. Your flight leaves a little before one this afternoon. I don’t have any sessions today, so I can drive you to the airport.”

“Don’t bother. I’ll take a cab,” she said without moving.

She heard him waiting, fidgeting. She refused to give him her eyes. And she certainly would not give him the absolution she knew Delaney would feel guilty without. Down below, cars began to fill the video-game slots, black and red and white, stopping and going.

“Maggie, we’re all just worried about you,” he said again, as if it should be enough.

“Right.” She didn’t bother to disguise the hurt and anger.

She waited for the soft slap of the door to close behind him. Then she crossed the room and turned the dead bolt. She stood with her back leaning against the door, listening to her heart pound, waiting for the anger and disappointment to leave. Why couldn’t she replace it with acceptance or, at least, complacency? She needed to go home to her new, huge Tudor house with her belongings stacked in cardboard boxes and her shiny new state-of-the-art security system. She needed to let this go, before she did slip so far over the edge there would be no return.

She waited, pressed against the door, staring at the ceiling and listening, if not for her heart to stop banging then at least for her common sense to return. Then making up her mind, she stomped to the middle of the room. She began stripping out of the clothes she had worn since yesterday morning. In minutes she was dressed in blue jeans, a sweatshirt and an old pair of Nikes. She slipped on her shoulder holster, shoved her badge into the back pocket of her jeans and wrestled into a navy FBI windbreaker.

Her forensic kit hadn’t been used in months, but she still didn’t leave home without it. She pulled out several pairs of latex gloves, some evidence bags and a surgical face mask, transferring the items to the pockets of her jacket.

It was almost 6:00 a.m. She had only six hours, but she wasn’t leaving this city until she connected Albert Stucky to Rita’s murder. And she didn’t care if that meant checking every last Dumpster and every last discarded take-out container in Westport’s market district. Suddenly feeling energized, she grabbed her room’s key card and left.