Tully checked his watch. It wasn’t like Assistant Director Cunningham to be late for a meeting. He sat back and waited. Maybe his watch was running fast again. According to Emma, it was ancient and uncool.

Tully stared at the huge map spread on the wall behind his boss’s desk. It was Cunningham’s personal log for his twenty years as head of the Investigative Support Unit. Each pushpin indicated a spot where a serial killer had struck. Each pushpin color designated a particular serial killer. Tully wondered how soon the assistant director would run out of colors. Already there were repeats: purple, light purple and translucent purple.

Tully knew his boss had worked on some of the most shocking cases, including John Wayne Gacy and the Green River Killer. By comparison, Tully was a rookie, with only six years’ experience in profiling and most of that on paper, not in the field. He wondered how anyone lived day in, day out for decades examining such brutality without becoming jaded or cynical.

He glanced around the office again. Everything on the desk—a leather appointment book, two Bic pens with the caps intact (a talent Tully had not yet perfected), a plain memo pad with no doodles in the corners and a brass nameplate—all of it was organized in straight lines, perpendicular to one another, almost as if Cunningham used a T square every morning. It occurred to Tully that the tidy but stark office contained not one single personal item. There were no sweatshirts wadded in the corner, no miniature basketballs, not a single photo. In fact, Tully knew very little of who his boss was outside the office.

He had noticed a wedding band, yet Assistant Director Cunningham seemed to live at Quantico. There was never any rearranging of appointments for Little League games or school plays or visits to kids in college. Before this morning, he had never even been late for an appointment. No, Tully knew absolutely nothing about the quiet, soft-spoken man who had become one of the most respected men in the FBI. But at what cost? Tully wondered.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Cunningham said as he breezed in, shedding his suit jacket and swinging it carefully over the back of his chair before sitting down. “What have you found out?”

In the beginning, that brisk, straight-to-the-point attitude had flustered Tully, who was accustomed to the courtesies of the Midwest. Now he appreciated getting down to business with no obligatory exchanges of chitchat or greetings. Though it also prevented the two men from knowing a single thing about each other’s personal lives.

“I just received the files faxed over from the Kansas City police.”

He pulled out the summary sheet from a group of folders he had brought along. He made certain it was the correct one and handed it across the desk. Cunningham pushed up his glasses.

Tully continued, “Early autopsy reports indicate a slashed throat as cause of death. No other defense wounds or injuries. There was one incision in the victim’s right side through which the right kidney was extracted.”

“Any sign of the organ?”

“No, not yet. But then the Kansas City cops weren’t looking for it right away. It’s quite possible someone found it, had no clue what it was and tossed it.”

Tully waited patiently, watching his boss as he finished reading. He laid the report on the desk, sat back and rubbed a hand over his jaw.

“What’s your perspective on this, Agent Tully?”

“The timing is off. It’s much too soon after the delivery girl. And it’s much too far away, entirely out of his territory. There was another latent fingerprint, a thumb. Again, it looks like it was deliberately left behind on an umbrella that belonged to the victim. Didn’t even have the victim’s fingerprints on it. It was definitely wiped down with the print left later. And again, it doesn’t match Albert Stucky.”

Cunningham frowned, squinting at the report and tapping his index finger to his lip. Tully thought the lines in his face seemed more pronounced this morning, his short hair peppered with more gray.

“So is it Stucky, or isn’t it?”

“The M.O. definitely matches Stucky’s,” Tully said. “And there hasn’t been enough in the news or even enough time for a copycat to get motivated. The print may belong to someone who came across the scene. A waiter found her. There’s some speculation the scene had been contaminated. KC’s faxing a copy of the print to the guys at CJIS in Clarksburg. We’ll see if it matches the unidentified one left in Newburgh Heights. There’s a good chance these belong to civilians coming across the scene after everything’s been wiped clean.”

“Okay, let’s say that’s the case. So what if it is Stucky?”

Tully knew exactly what Cunningham was thinking, but he evidently wanted or needed to hear it, to confirm what seemed to be the obvious.

“If it is Stucky, it’s more than likely he followed O’Dell to Kansas City. He may be looking for a way to drag her into this again.”

Cunningham glanced at his wristwatch. “She should be headed back right now.”

“Actually, I checked, sir. I thought I’d meet her at the airport. She changed to a flight later tonight.”

Cunningham shook his head and let out a sigh of frustration as he grabbed his phone and punched several buttons.

“Anita, do you have Special Agent Margaret O’Dell’s hotel phone number in Kansas City?” He sat back while he waited.

Tully imagined the methodical Anita quickly accessing her records. Assistant Director Cunningham had kept the same secretary, inheriting her from his predecessor and yielding to her experience and expertise on important matters he couldn’t saddle himself with. If such a thing was possible, Anita was even more meticulous than her boss.

“Good,” Cunningham said into the phone. “Would you please get in touch with her even if it’s through a message. Track her down if she’s already checked out. I want to see her in my office tomorrow morning at eight.”

He hesitated and listened as he rubbed the bridge of his nose under his glasses. “Oh yes, I forgot about that. Tell O’Dell nine o’clock then. Thanks, Anita.”

He replaced the receiver and looked up at Tully, waiting.

“How long do you intend to keep her off this case?” Tully finally asked what he thought was the obvious question.

“For as long as is necessary.”

Tully studied his boss’s face, but had no clue how to read the composed and reserved expression. He respected the man tremendously, but he didn’t know him well enough to know how far he could push him. He decided to take a chance anyway.

“You realize she’s checking this one out on her own? That’s more than likely why she’s taking a later flight.”

“All the more reason to get her back here.” Cunningham held Tully’s eyes, warning him to step carefully. “What else is happening in Newburgh Heights?”

“We found the pizza delivery girl’s car. It was left in long-term parking at the airport, right next to a telephone company van that was reported stolen a couple of weeks ago.”

“I knew it,” Cunningham sat back and began drumming his fingers on the desk. “Stucky’s done it before. He’ll steal a vehicle, or sometimes only the license plates, from the airport’s long-term parking. Chances are he has the plates or even the vehicle returned before the owner is back home. Has forensics impounded the van?”

Tully nodded, sorting through the information he had on both vehicles. “Not likely they’ll find anything. It’s pretty clean. However, we did find two delivery slips in the girl’s car.

He dug in the folder, pulling out one torn piece of paper and another creased with fold lines. Both had been recovered from the floor of the girl’s car. A red stain on one corner had tested as pizza sauce, not blood. Tully handed both over the desk. “The torn one is from her first route. Number four on the list is Agent O’Dell’s new home address.”

Cunningham sat forward, resting elbows on his desk. For the first time in Tully’s three months of working at Quantico, he saw anger on his boss’s face. The assistant director’s dark eyes narrowed and his hands clenched the paper.

“So the damn bastard not only knows where she lives, but he’s watching her.”

“It looks that way. When I talked to Agent Delaney, he said the waitress in Kansas City had joked and talked with the three of them Sunday evening while she served them. He may be choosing women O’Dell comes in contact with in hopes of making her feel responsible.”

“It’s another of his goddamn games. He’s still obsessed with O’Dell. I knew it. I knew he wouldn’t let it go.”

“It appears that way. May I say one more thing, sir?”

“Of course.”

“You’ve offered me another agent to help on this case. You’ve also offered a forensic psychologist, which O’Dell is. You even suggested we have someone on hand to answer medical-related questions. If I’m not mistaken, Agent O’Dell has a premed background.”

Tully hesitated, giving Cunningham a chance to cut him off. Instead, he only stared at Tully, his face back to its stoic expression as he simply waited.

“Rather than three or four people,” Tully continued, “I’m officially requesting Agent O’Dell. If Stucky is targeting her, she may be the only one who can help us catch him.”

Tully expected a flicker of anger or at least impatience. But Cunningham’s face remained unchanged.

“I’ll give your request careful consideration,” he said. “Let me know what else you find out from Kansas City.”

“Yes, sir,” Tully said as he stood to leave, recognizing the signs of dismissal. Before he reached the door, Cunningham was on the phone again, and Tully couldn’t help wondering if his request had also been dismissed.