Acts of Mercy (17 page)

“You don’t mind if I try to get a little nap in, do you?” she’d asked. “I haven’t had a full night’s sleep in eight days and I am close to the stupor zone right now.”

“Of course not. Go ahead and sleep while you can,” Fiona had replied with as much sincerity as she could muster. She knew what it was like to go for days without enough sleep, knew exactly how it felt to just want to crash. She couldn’t begrudge Annie her nap. She just wished she’d had a little time to ask a few questions, though.

Like, do you know if Sam has dated anyone since his wife’s death? Or, do you think he’s moved past his wife’s murder enough to consider going out with someone else?

Fiona didn’t want to appear ghoulish, didn’t want Annie to get the wrong impression. After all, Sam’s wife had been dead for three years now, and a lot of guys move past their losses in a lot less time than that. Still, she suspected perhaps nearly as many did not. Sam might well fall into the latter group.

Fiona just couldn’t read Sam at all—at least, not yet, she couldn’t. She’d only been in his company twice, but she was looking forward to working with him on this case. Certainly the case itself was intriguing, but Sam intrigued her just as much. Something about him drew her, and for someone as notoriously picky as Fiona Summers, that in itself said something. She wasn’t quite sure what it was, but she thought it might be worth exploring. If he hadn’t been dating, hadn’t gotten past his wife’s death, she wasn’t willing to make a fool out of herself by letting him know she might be interested. She’d figured Annie McCall was her best bet in terms of finding out where Sam’s head was, but Annie had nodded off almost as soon as they’d pulled through the gates of Robert Magellan’s mansion.

Fiona turned the radio on low and headed south, thinking that maybe it was for the best. Maybe it wouldn’t be the wisest thing to let anyone—even Annie—know that she was attracted to the former agent. She’d learned long ago not to discuss her private life with anyone. You never knew who you could really trust, and who would sell you out in a heartbeat. By the time she turned seventeen, Fiona had learned the very hard lesson of not speaking her heart to anyone. She’d kept very close counsel ever since.

It wasn’t that she didn’t have any friends. She had a few. Mostly, she acknowledged, within the Bureau. But wasn’t it natural to become friendly with the people you spent the most time with? There were friends to go to dinner with, friends from her unit she could hang out with at the local bars on those rare times when she let her hair down and went out for a few beers at the end of the day. But, she admitted, there were no confidants, no girlfriends—or boyfriends, for that matter—with whom she’d bare her heart and soul. It had been a long time since she’d wanted one.

For a moment, her life sounded crappy even to her.

It’s not that bad, she told herself. She had a job she loved—the only job she’d ever wanted—and she was damned good at it. She’d decided that the FBI was her future when she was seven years old, and had never considered any other path. She’d majored in criminal justice in college, minored in history. Upon graduation, she taught at a community college for three years to get her work experience in before applying to the FBI. She knew she’d be accepted. She was in top physical shape and she tested well, interviewed well. She’d been concerned that perhaps her personal background—her childhood—could be an obstacle, depending on who interviewed her, but that hadn’t proven to be the case. The woman who interviewed her had known exactly who she was, and had appeared to be tickled that Fiona was applying to join their ranks. She’d been twenty-four years old on the day she applied, and had been delighted to find herself included in the next class to begin training at the academy.

The Bureau had been her goal for so long, she’d known exactly what she needed to do to excel at the physical challenges. She worked out daily at a gym to build strength and stamina, and long before she was eligible to apply, she started spending several hours each week at a local firing range. Before she entered the academy, she’d become quite a marksman. The very few people who knew who she really was were impressed by her determination and her dedication. Of those few people, fewer still understood why she’d chosen the FBI. To Fiona—and those who did understand—it seemed the most natural thing in the world for her to do.

Of course, there were many more who thought she’d lost her mind, and who could not understand why she’d give up what she could have had to play “cops and robbers,” as someone had put it.

That that someone had been her mother still rankled.

She made the turn onto Annie’s street slowly, so as not to jar the sleeping woman; better to wake her gently once the car was stopped. Fiona pulled up in front of the town house Annie shared with her husband, Evan Crosby, and turned off the engine.

“Annie.” She leaned across the console. “Annie, wake up. You’re home.”

“Hmmm?”

“I said, you’re home.”

“Home?” Annie’s eyes flew open. “As in …
my
home?”

“Yes.”

“Wow.” She tried to sit up but the seat was leaning
too far back. “Talk about an ungrateful passenger. You should have poked me awake so I could keep you company.” She reached down and found the lever that moved the seat into a sitting position. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be. I’m used to traveling alone. It’s okay,” Fiona assured her.

“At least come in and let me feed you.”

“No, no. That’s not necessary. I’m not very hungry, but I am a little tired.”

Annie got out and opened the rear passenger door and grabbed her briefcase. “Why don’t you bunk here for the night, rather than drive the rest of the way home tonight?”

“It’s only another forty-five minutes. Besides, I have to meet Sam tomorrow morning. If I stay over, I’ll have to get up super early to get home and change my clothes. I’m better off just going now. But I do appreciate the offer.”

“As long as you’re sure you’re not too tired to drive.”

“I’m not. I’ll be fine.”

“Well, if you think of anything else you want to talk about or if something else comes up on this case, give me a call.”

“I will.”

Annie was just about to slam her door when Fiona said, “Annie, did you know Sam’s wife?”

“Carly? Sure.”

“What was she like?”

Annie set her briefcase on the ground and leaned into the car. “Oh, Carly … let’s see. Well, she had a
good sense of humor. Liked to play practical jokes. Short and cute, blond and bubbly. Cheerleader type, if you know what I mean. Very perky. Impulsive. Lively.”

“How long were they married before she was killed?”

“I don’t know exactly, but I’d guess maybe five or six years.” Annie angled her head to meet Fiona’s eyes. “Is this professional or personal curiosity I’m hearing? Not judging, just asking.”

Fiona could not look Annie McCall in the eye and lie. “A little of both.”

Annie nodded as if she understood.

“Carly and Sam knew each other slightly in college—he was three years older, and she was in the same sorority as his sister, Andrea. After he graduated, he went into the service. She went to graduate school. They met up again at his sister’s wedding.”

“Did you like her?”

“I liked her okay.” Annie seemed to be thinking it over. “Carly and Sam were so different. You’ve seen what he’s like. Very smart, very focused, very serious about what he does. She never seemed to take things very seriously. Sometimes she did things that struck me as, well, as not very smart.”

Fiona couldn’t keep herself from asking, “Like what?”

Annie slid back onto the seat, facing Fiona. “Okay, I’ve never said this to anyone, not even Evan, but you know how Carly died, right?”

“A serial killer broke into their house and murdered her.”

“Uh-uh.” Annie shook her head. “There was no break-in, no signs that he’d gotten into the house any way but through the front door. Which had either been unlocked, or she’d opened it to him.”

The two women stared at each other, Fiona not sure what Annie was implying.

“Fiona, her husband was an FBI agent who specialized in understanding the behavior of serial killers. That night, he was out of town, at the funeral of one of the victims of the killer he was tracking. She knew what’s out there, she’d been hearing about it for years. So the front door is unlocked at nine o’clock at night? Or you open your door to a stranger at that hour? That doesn’t strike you as reckless?”

“How do you know the killer was there at nine?”

“One of the neighbors saw a strange car park at the end of the street, and a few minutes later saw a man walking up the DelVecchio’s driveway.”

“They didn’t call the police?”

“Why would they? There hadn’t been any sign of anything being wrong. There’d been no screams for help, no call to the police.”

“No description?”

“Only that he was tall and well built. The neighbor later said she’d thought it was Sam, but at the time, it had been too dark to really see him.”

“Sam said Donald Holland killed her.”

“Don Holland admitted to having killed a lot of women, but steadfastly denied having killed Carly DelVecchio.”

“Do you believe him? That he didn’t kill her?”

“John does. I think it’s a possibility. One Sam will not entertain, by the way.”

“Curious,” Fiona mused. “You’d think he’d want to find the truth.”

“He thinks he already has.”

“But you think it’s possible that this stranger the neighbor saw wasn’t Don Holland?”

Annie nodded. “I think there’s a chance that Holland is telling the truth about this. He didn’t bother to lie about any of his other victims. Bragged about it, actually.”

“What if it wasn’t a stranger that night?” Fiona said thoughtfully. “What if it was someone she knew?”

“Well, if it wasn’t Holland, I suppose that would fit.”

“Maybe she did have her door locked. Maybe she didn’t open it to a stranger.”

“Well, that’s never been considered. They dusted the house for prints and found Holland’s. The MO was the same as Holland’s other victims. It looked like a duck, it walked like a duck …”

“But maybe it wasn’t a duck at all.”

“Are you interested in Sam, Fiona? As something other than a colleague?”

“I was just curious about it all, you know.” Fiona tried to shrug it off, then laughed at her feeble effort. “Okay, yes, I am interested in Sam.”

“He’s a great guy. I’d love to see him start to have a real life again.”

“I guess what I really want to know is, has he been dating at all since Carly died?”

“Not that I know of, but then again, I don’t know that he’d go out of his way to tell me. He was obsessed with bringing Holland to justice, obsessed with making sure her killer received the maximum sentence, which of course he would, having admitted to so many murders. Then, once the dust had settled, Sam quit the Bureau and took off on this trip to all different parts of the world. From what we could tell, he mostly roamed, like a nomad, from one place to another. What he did while he was wandering, and with whom …?” Annie shrugged. “Next thing we heard, he was back in the States and had been hired by the Mercy Street Foundation, which may be a good move for him. John was happy that it brought Sam back into our orbit. We’ve all missed him and some of us were a bit worried. I was relieved to see him looking well and getting back to work again.” Annie smiled. “Even if it isn’t for us. Does that sum it all up for you?”

“Quite nicely, yes. Thank you.”

“Well, good luck.” Annie reached over and patted Fiona’s hand. “I’ve been where you are. Evan caught my eye the minute I first saw him. There’s never really been anyone else for me. It was as if I was waiting for him—and I knew right away that he was the one I’d been waiting for.”

“Wow. Who’da thought cool, analytic, precise Anne Marie McCall …”

“Would be the one to fall in love at first sight?” Annie laughed and got out of the car. She slammed the door, then leaned in the window and said, “Trust me when I tell you that no one was more surprised than I was. So again, I repeat, good luck.”

“Thanks.” Fiona waved as she drove away from the curb, thinking that it would take more than luck for Sam to notice her.

All the way home, she thought about Annie’s description of Carly. “Liked to play practical jokes. Short and cute, blond and bubbly. Cheerleader-type, if you know what I mean. Very perky. Impulsive. Lively.”

Could Fiona be more different than Carly?

Short and cute? Fiona was tall and leggy and hadn’t been called cute since she was ten years old.

Blond and bubbly? Fiona was dark-haired and was positive that no one had ever described her as bubbly. Simmer was more her speed.

Liked to play practical jokes, for God’s sake?

Fiona had had enough played on her as a child that she cringed at that sort of humor. She knew that on the best day of her life, she’d never have been considered perky, nor was she impulsive. She was—had always been—serious and deliberate.

The cheerleader type? Hardly. Fiona hadn’t had many friends in college. She’d made a habit of spending more time alone in her room or at the library than she’d really needed. She’d requested a single room her freshman year and after that lived alone off-campus, which practically eliminated her social life, which was fine with her. The fewer people she had contact with, the fewer times she’d have to answer the question, “Say, aren’t you the girl who …?” That too was fine. As long as people saw her only as the person she had been, she’d never be anyone else.

So, yeah, she was about as different from Carly DelVecchio as night was from day.

On the other hand, now at least she knew that she was not the sort of woman Sam was looking for, if in fact he was looking at all. Better to know now, she told herself, than run the risk of making a total fool out of herself later.

She pulled into the driveway and turned off the engine, gathered the bag of Chinese takeout she’d picked up on the way home, then took a few files from the trunk and locked the car with the remote. There was no mail to be picked up—Irene Lentini, her thoughtful next-door neighbor, brought it in for her when she was away for more than a day—and no newspapers lying on the front porch or the lawn. If she wanted a paper, it was easier and more efficient to pick one up in the morning when she stopped for coffee. Most days, she read her news online.