The Blue Zone

CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

Phil Cavetti parked his car across from the blocked-off blue-shingled ranch in Orchard Park, New York, which was ablaze in flashing lights. He dropped his shield in front of a local cop guarding the taped-off walkway leading up to the front door. The cop waved Cavetti through. There was a doggie bed on the landing, and a little plaque nearby that read HOME OF CHOWDER. WORLD’S FAVORITE CANINE.

The door was open.

Stepping into the house, the first thing Cavetti saw was the outline on the floor of the first victim, Pamela Birnmeyer. She’d been an agent with the U.S. Marshals Service, out of the Warrants and Bonds Division, for six years. He’d met her once. She had a husband who taught computer science at a local college and a two-year-old at home. Probably why she’d put in for hazardous duty. Extra cash.

Cavetti swallowed a rush of bile. He hadn’t been to a fresh crime scene in years.

He followed the commotion into the kitchen. He had to avoid a couple of FBI crime-scene specialists who were kneeling, trying to lift shoe prints off the floor. The body of the second victim had been removed, but a bright scarlet smear was still visible on the white fridge where her body had crumpled to the floor.

The gnawing feeling in his gut returned.

Alton Booth met his eyes from across the room. The FBI agent nodded for Cavetti to come over.

“And just when you thought you were getting ready to retire…” the FBI man said with a cynical snort. He handed Cavetti a stack of black-and-white prints.

They made Cavetti sick to his stomach. In twenty-six years, he’d never dealt with anything like this. He’d never lost a witness. He’d never had an identity uncovered. He’d never, ever been penetrated.

Now this.

The woman had died from a nine-millimeter bullet to the brain, but that wasn’t what made him feel like a queasy rookie looking over his first grisly kill. It was her hands. He’d read about it in the report, but the pictures were worse. The palms were charred black. Both. From the burner on the stove. She’d been tortured, just as Maggie had been. One hand was all it would have taken for the killer to be certain she didn’t know a damned thing. But two, both palms-that was just for the sport.

“Least now I guess we have an idea what Maggie Seymour may have divulged.” Booth rolled his eyes.

Cavetti knew these people. The woman’s husband was more than just an asset in an investigation. Cavetti had placed him in his current identity twenty years ago. He’d watched him build a new life. Get married.

He felt responsible.

“What makes it worse is, I’m pretty sure the poor woman didn’t even know.” Cavetti sighed disgustedly. “She had no idea who her husband really was.” He handed back the photos. “Any leads?”

“Dry-cleaning truck,” Booth replied. “A woman across the street said one was parked in front of the house around the TOD last night. We found it at a closed water-treatment plant down the hill. The delivery kid took two in the chest. He was thrown in with the dress shirts and sheets. That totals five. Not including the pooch. So tell me”-the FBI man looked around-“who kills like this?”

Cavetti didn’t reply. They both knew the answer. The Russian mob. The drug cartels. Colombians.

“This Raab fellow.” Booth shook his head. “You starting to get the feeling we may have been duped?”

This wasn’t just Raab. Cavetti was sure. Raab wasn’t a killer. At least, not like this. Still, Raab led to Margaret Seymour. Maggie led to Mercado. Mercado led here.

Raab and Mercado.

Cavetti suddenly had a premonition about who might be next.

He handed the photos back to Booth. “You know how to reach me. Let me know if anything turns up.”

The FBI man smiled. “Seen enough? Where you headed?” he called after him.

“Blue Zone,” Cavetti answered. “That’s where the hell everyone else seems to be, right?”