The true mystery of the
world is the visible, not the invisible.
—Oscar Wilde
11
I whirled around and forced a smile,
hoping the person behind me couldn’t tell I was absolutely
petrified. Considering JT worked for the FBI, profiling
criminals—and therefore a pro at reading body language—I doubted
I’d be successful pulling it off. “Heya, JT. I was ... looking for
my ... cell phone. It fell off the seat when I was
driving.”
“Can I help you look?”
“Oh, no.” I dove into the car, shoving
my hand under the seat. My fingers hit the envelope. It crinkled.
“Wow, there’s a lot of trash under here. This might take a few. I’m
sure you have more important things to do. You don’t need to be
wasting time out here with me.”
“Well, the sooner you get inside, the
better. You’re a valuable member of the team too.”
If you asked me, that was a bald-faced
lie, but I decided calling him on it wasn’t the best idea at the
moment.
“Thanks.” I grimaced as my fingers
brushed against something sticky. It had been a long time since I’d
cleaned out my car. There was no saying what that might be. “If I
don’t find it in the next few seconds, I’ll head inside,
anyway.”
“Okay.”
I shooed him off with the hand that
wasn’t elbow deep under the front seat. He loped away. And even
though he was beyond my line of sight within thirty seconds, I kept
up the looking-for-my-phone act for a while longer, trying to
decide where else I could hide the envelope. I’d be stupid to leave
it where it was. Granted, I didn’t think JT was the kind who’d
sneak out to my car and look to see what I’d lied to him about. But
I couldn’t take the chance.
I glanced around the parking
lot.
Where could I hide the envelope?
Where?
I popped the trunk but slammed it shut
right away. That was too obvious. I considered stashing it in a
wheel well, then popped the hood and shoved it into the first
crevice I found that was big enough. I took a few minutes to calm
myself down before heading back inside.
Everyone was in the conference room,
except for Brittany Hough. They all stared at me as I joined them.
I slinked to the closest chair. JT was on my right; Gabe was on my
left. They both shoved a blank piece of paper and a pen at
me.
I muttered, “Thanks.”
“And so,” Chief Peyton said, continuing
a conversation I had missed, “I’m afraid we will be forced to split
the team. JT will be lead for the first case. Fischer will take the
reins on the second. Skye, you’ll continue with JT. Wagner will go
with Fischer. I’ll be supporting both teams.”
A second case. I wondered what it
involved.
“The next team meeting will be tomorrow
at oh-eight-hundred. Good luck.”
Evidently, the PBAU worked a seven-day
schedule, including Sundays.
I turned to JT. “I guess you’re stuck
with me.”
He didn’t look too put out. “We make a
good team.”
Gabe and I exchanged a look as he
followed Fischer out of the room.
“So what’s on our agenda this
afternoon?”
“I need to bring you up to date, since
you were out today. Then I say we’ll call it a night.”
“That’s it? You’re sending me back
home? With someone else on the verge of dying?”
“Skye, I’m doing you a favor. You can’t
let this job take over your life. You won’t last long if you
do.”
I glanced at the countdown clock. It
still displayed all zeros. Chief Peyton hadn’t reset it. “But women
are dying so quickly. I feel guilty—”
“Don’t.” He shook his head. “There’s no
reason to. If you push yourself too hard, you’ll either get
burned-out or sick. The bottom line is, how many people do you
think you’ll be able to help if you catch the flu or stop caring
because you’re just too damn tired?”
“I guess I see your
point.”
“The file’s on my desk. Let’s get you
up to speed and then I want you to go home and get a good night’s
sleep.” JT followed me to my desk, pointed at my phone, which I’d
forgotten had been sitting in plain view when I’d gone out to the
parking lot. Stupid, stupid, stupid. “Well,
look at that.” JT raised his brows, motioning toward the
phone.
“I swear, I don’t remember bringing it
in.” I shoved the dumb thing in the front pocket of my laptop
case.
“You didn’t sleep today, did
you?”
If the phone thing didn’t make me look
sleep deprived, I supposed the enormous bags under my eyes did. “I
slept. For an hour. I had a little problem to handle at
home.”
“I swear, if you come in tomorrow
morning looking like you do today, I’ll turn in a recommendation to
the chief to put you on sick leave immediately.”
“That wouldn’t be very
nice.”
He gave me a squinty-eyed glare. “Don’t
make me do it, Skye.”
He used my last name.
He must mean business.
“Fine.” I was tempted to do something
nasty behind his back when he turned and sauntered toward his desk.
Of course, I didn’t. Instead, I plunked down in the chair he’d
pulled up to his desk and waited for him to give me a rundown of
what he’d been up to since we’d parted ways.
“At this point, we don’t have much on
this unsub. DNA analysis was inconclusive. The samples were all
tainted with foreign DNA. About the lead I was following last
night, turns out Debbie Richardson’s best friend was sleeping with
Chapman for the last six months. They got married last night in
Vegas.” JT handed me a thick file. “I haven’t had a chance to dig
into the friend’s background yet. Been too busy. I’d have Hough do
it, but she doesn’t work weekends. We spent most of the day
collecting information about the latest victim. Name’s Patty Yates.
She lives in the same subdivision as Debbie Richardson. Age,
thirty-four. Married. No kids. A nurse. COD, complications of
dengue hemorrhagic fever. Hasn’t traveled recently. We’re looking
into the possibility that she was exposed to dengue at work, though
the bite marks suggest she was infected the same way the other
victims were. She showed no symptoms prior to collapsing.” JT
paused for a moment. “So we’re up to four victims, most of them
living within a one-mile radius of each other, all of them
displaying the bite marks, and all of them dying from infectious
diseases while showing no symptoms prior to death. Now go
home.”
“Okay.” I tucked the file under my arm
and stood. “I guess I’ll do some reading tonight. That’s allowed,
right?”
JT caught my arm as I turned. “Skye ...
Sloan ... I’m not trying to be a prick. You know that, don’t
you?”
“Yeah, sure.” I pulled my arm out of
his grip.
“I haven’t been with the Bureau long,
and yet I’ve seen two good agents burn out and walk away from it
all. Everyone suffers when that happens. The unit. The agent. The
victims. You’ll make a damn good agent someday, and you’ll save
lots of lives, but only if you learn to pace
yourself.”
I couldn’t argue with him. In one
respect, what he said made a lot of sense.
I thanked him, packed up my stuff, and
headed out to my car. I popped the hood and fished out the envelope
before climbing in. I didn’t notice the broken window until I sat.
One piece of glass stuck me in the ass. I lifted my laptop case to
find the majority of the remains of the passenger-side window lying
in the front passenger seat. The rest of it was scattered on the
floor, the center console, and, unfortunately for my ass, the
driver’s seat.
Someone had broken into my car. Who?
And why? Had they been looking for the envelope? Or something
else?
I’d left the unit before JT had. He
couldn’t have done this. But if not him, who had? I cleared my seat
with a snow brush and sped out of the lot, watching my rearview
mirror for a tail. I took a few turns, going out of my way to make
sure nobody was following. After the fourth turn, I noticed the
car.
I knew that car.
I pulled into a 7-Eleven parking lot
and waited for the tail to park next to me. I knocked on the
window. “Mom, what are you doing?”
Mom adjusted her very large, very dark
sunglasses. If that was her idea of a disguise, she was in for a
big surprise. If I made her, anyone could. For one thing, the
copper penny hair was a little hard to ignore. “I’m following
you.”
“I see that.” I pointed at the
sunglasses. “Nice disguise.”
“It was the best I could come up with
at the spur of the moment.” As if she read my mind, she added, “I
didn’t think it would work.”
She climbed out of the car. She was
wearing sneakers, a black T-shirt, and jeans. I can’t remember the
last time I saw my mother wearing jeans and a T-shirt, let alone
tennis shoes. Of course, they all looked very familiar. Ironically
enough, I owned a pair of black canvas shoes just like those. And
my drawers were full of black cotton T-shirts. And ... now that I
got a better look ... those jeans were familiar too. I hadn’t worn
them in ages. Way too tight. Yet, I couldn’t make myself part with
them. Wishful thinking, I guess. What bothered me more than
anything—she looked good in that getup. Decades younger than she
had earlier today.
“Mom, did you happen to borrow those
clothes from my closet?”
Mom hurried toward the store’s entry.
“It’s a good thing you stopped here. I’m in the mood for a Slurpee.
Do you want one too?”
I followed her into the store.
“Mom.”
She made a beeline for the Slurpee
machine in the back, pulled a cup from the stack, and then started
filling it. “Yes, Sloan. I did borrow the clothes. I don’t have any
good PI clothes. I didn’t want to take the time to go shopping. It
can take hours to find a pair of jeans that fit right, you know.”
Wasn’t that the truth? “Plus, I’m a little short of cash until my
next Social Security check comes. You don’t mind, do
you?”
“No, I guess not.” I decided a Slurpee
sounded good. Standing next to her, I began dispensing yellow
banana–flavored frozen beverage into a paper cup. “So ... you’re a
private investigator?”
“Yes, I am. And I’m on my first
case.”
“You are?” I was confused. And slightly
worried. “Who hired you?”
“I can’t tell you that. I have to
respect my client’s privacy.”
“Okay. So, can you tell me what I have
to do with your case?”
“Sorry. No.” Mom snapped the domed lid
on her cup and carried it to the cash register. At the counter, she
motioned toward me. “My daughter’s taking care of
this.”
“Yes, madam,” the clerk said, punching
buttons on the cash register. When I strolled up to the counter, he
announced, “That’ll be two ninety-eight.”
I stuffed my hand into my pocket,
withdrew my cash, handed him three singles, and headed for the
door. “Put the change in the ‘Feed the Hungry’ jar.”
“Thank you,” the man mumbled, dropping
the two pennies into the jar.
I felt a little guilty and went back to
the counter. I shoved a dollar into the jar and headed
outside.
Mom and I stood between our parked
cars, sucking down ice-cold frozen drinks.
“You can’t tell me who you’re working
for, or what you’re investigating. What can you tell me?” I
asked.
Mom smacked her lips. “I can tell you
... this is very delicious.”
Argh! “Mom, you know that’s not what I
meant.” Slightly perturbed, I yanked open my car door.
“Where are you heading now,
Sloan?”
“Home.” I slid into my seat, started
the car, and rolled down the window. “Mom, were you watching my car
in the FBI parking lot?”
“No, of course not.” She strolled
around the front of my vehicle. “What happened to your
window?”
“Someone broke it.”
“Well, that’s not very nice. Why would
anyone do such a thing?”
“That’s what I’d like to know.
Unfortunately, I don’t have time ...” A lightbulb blinked in my
brain. “Would you like to take on another case?”
“Oh, I don’t know. The one I have now
is going to keep me pretty busy... .”
“I’ll pay you.”
“How much?”
I didn’t have a lot of expendable cash
at the moment, thanks to Mom’s antics. But I had to wonder if
hiring her would keep her away from her so-called experiments,
thereby saving me money in the long run. I didn’t believe for one
minute that she’d been hired by anyone, yet. She was just telling
me that, so she could follow me around and make sure I stayed safe
... and alive. “A hundred dollars.”
“I’ll think about it.” Mom slurped. “My
other client’s paying me a lot more. But I might do it for you at
that price, as a favor. Since you are my daughter.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“I’ll let you know tomorrow.” She got
into her car and smiled. “Ready to head home?”
“Yep.” I pulled out of the store
parking lot, with Mom tailing behind me. She followed me into my
apartment’s parking lot, parked the car, and met me at my apartment
door.
“I thought, since I was here, anyway,
I’d join you for dinner.”
“Sure, come on in. Everything’s all
cleaned up now.” I followed Mom into the apartment. It was dark,
quiet. There was no scent of burned chemicals. No sound of
clattering chemistry equipment. No Katie. The kitchen, I noticed,
was spotless, just as I’d left it. No spilled liquids of unknown
identity stained the counter. No powders collected where the
counter met the wall. The kitchen hadn’t been used at all. I could
actually cook in there, if I wanted. Not that I would. That was
plain silly.
I snatched the stack of take-out menus
from the closest drawer—the one that most people kept cooking stuff
in—and asked, “What’re you in the mood for tonight? Chinese? Thai?
Italian?”
“How about Mexican?”
“We can do that.” I found the menu for
the closest Mexican restaurant from the stack, scribbled down her
order, and called it in. “It’ll be ready in twenty minutes. I’ll
run out and pick it up in a few.” I headed for my room, anxious to
change into a pair of sweats and a T-shirt. I halted in my tracks,
though, when I saw Katie standing just inside her bedroom, staring
at the wall. She was so still—she looked like a mannequin. The
light was off. She wasn’t moving. It was weird. “Hey, Katie. What’s
up?” When she didn’t respond, I gave her shoulder a little
shake.
“Don’t touch me,” she snapped, her
upper lip curled like a snarling dog’s.
I jerked my hand away. “O-okay.” I half
stumbled back out into the hall. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle
you.”
Katie didn’t move. She didn’t speak.
She just stood there, staring at the wall.
I headed to my room, changed my
clothes. On my way back out to the living room, I checked on Katie.
She hadn’t budged. “We’re getting Mexican for dinner. Do you want
anything?”
Katie didn’t answer.
“Mom, there’s something wrong with
Katie.” I checked the clock on the microwave. I needed to leave in
a couple of minutes to get our food.
“What’s wrong with her? Is she sick?”
Mom looked concerned. Katie and I had been close for years. Her
folks were both dead. Mom had basically adopted her before we’d
finished our first year of college.
“I don’t know. She’s staring at the
wall, and I swear she snapped at me like Mrs. Heckel’s Chihuahua,
Daisy, when I touched her. Her eyes look a little buggy too, like
Daisy’s.”
“She’s probably just stressed-out.
School did that to you too.”
“I don’t know.” I grabbed my license
and debit card, slouched into a hoodie and stuffed the cards in my
pocket. “I’ve been living with Katie for years, and she’s been in
school since I met her. She’s never acted like this.”
“We all handle stress differently,” Mom
said, following me out the door.
Stress could cause some bizarre
symptoms. And couple that with PMS, and the effects of whatever
medication Katie might have taken for her migraine, and it was no
wonder she was acting oddly. “I guess that’s possible. Are you
going with me?” I asked.
“No, I’m following you. I have a job to
do, remember?”
“Mom, I’m just going to the restaurant
down the street to pick up our dinner.”
“That’s okay.” She went to her car. I
went to mine. She tailed me the half mile to the restaurant, parked
a few spaces away from me, and waited as I walked in. Then she
followed me as I drove home, parked in the lot, and followed me
back into my apartment. It was silly. I wondered who in their right
mind would pay someone to follow me 24-7.
Nobody, that was who.
“Mom, don’t you get a dinner break or
anything? Do you clock out after six?”
“Nope. This is an important client. An
important job. If he, or she, wants me to follow you everywhere,
then that’s what I’m gonna do.”
“That’s fine and dandy, but the FBI
might have a problem with you tailing me while I’m
working.”
“Not a problem.” Mom shrugged. She
didn’t seem at all concerned. This made me even more curious who
she thought her mystery employer was, and what he or she was
looking for.
I set us up with glasses of diet cola,
napkins, plates, knives, and forks while Mom clicked through the
science channels on television, looking for something to watch
while we ate. She settled upon Mystery
Diagnosis. Lately she’d become quite the television watcher.
She’d done a complete one-eighty from a few years ago, when she’d
vowed TV would lead to the ruin of our culture. Cell phones, social
networking, and other portable gadgets had recently taken its place
as the bane of her existence.
Mom had the mystery illness solved
before the first commercial break.
Katie strolled in just as we were
digging into our food. “What’s this? Mexican? Smells so good.” She
inhaled. “Where’s mine?”
“I asked you if you wanted some, but
you didn’t answer.”
“Of course, I answered. I told you I
wanted a beef-and-bean burrito, with extra sour cream.” Katie
glared at me. Then her squinty, mean eyes slid south, to my full
dinner plate and the beef-and-bean burrito sitting in the middle of
it. “Why would you order one for yourself, but not for
me?”
“I ... uh ...” I looked down at the
delicious meal on my plate, cursed under my breath, and vowed to
find a way to get my roommate in to see a doctor if she kept acting
so strangely. “Mom?”
“I thought I heard her ask for the
burrito dinner.” Mom chewed, then nodded. “Yes, I’m pretty sure
that’s what I heard.”
Of course, the schizophrenic who
regularly heard voices would say that.
With my mouth full of saliva, at the
mere thought of digging into that plate full of Mexican heaven, I
handed the dish to Katie and stood. “My mistake. You can take mine.
I’ll dig up a little something in the kitchen.”
“Thank you.” Katie settled next to Mom
and plunged her fork into what should have been my Mexican rice and
beans, smothered in sour cream. It was probably for the better. My
jeans were getting a little snug in the thighs.
In the kitchen, I found a jar of olives
in the refrigerator and a box of stale Cheez-Its in the cupboard.
After that piddly dinner, my jeans would be fitting better by
morning. I choked down the old crackers and tried to convince
myself they were yummy, while Mom and Katie stuffed themselves full
of beef, cheese, and rice. A little while later, Mom left, hauling
what was left of her meal in a little foam box. Katie wandered off
to her room without so much as a “good night.” I decided I’d wait
until tomorrow to ask her about the DNA sample, and placed it in
the freezer for safekeeping. After getting the weather report—we
were in for a deluge tonight—I took a trash bag and roll of duct
tape out to the car to close up the gaping window. Once that minor
task was finished, I decided to go to bed. When I was asleep, I
wouldn’t feel hungry.