Body Count (11 page)

Josh still seems a bit uneasy. I put my hand on top of his.

“Look, the D.C. Slasher has just killed again. We've got at least a couple of weeks before we have to worry about who he's stalking. And by then, he will have forgotten all about the profile,” I say, perhaps with more conviction than I feel. Being the prey for a serial killer is one of my biggest fears. I know how hard it can be to escape, even if you're strong and trained in psychology and martial arts. Often they knock you out and next thing, you wake up tied to a bed or table. Is there any way to win in that situation?

I push the thought away and pick up my plate. I wait until the last bite of tart is eaten before giving Josh the final verdict. “That was a delicious meal.”

“So you'll come over for dinner again?”

I smile. “Definitely.”

Josh puts his arm around me and we lean back into the couch.

“You told anyone?” I ask.

“Just Marty. I didn't want to sit down to dinner and pretend nothing was up. You?”

“I mentioned it to Sam.”

He nods. “Sam'll keep it to herself.” Then he smiles. “We can go public in a few months.”

I'm thrilled and relieved to hear Josh confirm we're starting something real. I agree we should wait a bit, but I already hate the secrecy part of the relationship. Then again, the whole damn FBI's like that.

I clear the plates and stack them straight into the dishwasher. Josh follows me into the kitchen and as I close the dishwasher he puts his arms around me from behind and kisses the back of my neck.

A slight moan escapes my lips and the volume increases as he moves onto my ear. It sends a tingle through my body. He's already found one of my hot spots. He pulls my skirt up and I push myself against him, reaching my hands back and around his buttocks. He keeps kissing the back of my neck and my ear and I run my hands up and down his backside.

My lust for Josh is taking over, but my rational mind is still functioning.

“Condom?” I say.

“Bedroom.” He breathes heavily into my ear and then onto my neck.

I talk in half sentences, distracted by Josh. “We should…go bedroom…anyway…Marty might…come out…for a break.” But I'm enjoying the spontaneity of the kitchen.

Josh releases my earlobe from between his teeth and moves backward. I pull my skirt back down over my hips. We hold hands and tiptoe up the hallway, past Marty's room and into Josh's bedroom.

I always love sex the first couple of times with a new partner. It's so exciting and full of the unknown. Our second time is no exception.

Afterwards we lie on the bed, sweat still glistening on us. I rest my head on Josh's chest. He strokes my back.

“Sophie.”

“Yeah.”

“I'm worried about you.”

“Not the D.C. case again.”

He nods.

I push myself up and rest on my elbow. “I told you, it's not even my case anymore. And it's just a profile, it's not like the Henley case where I was in the field.”

“That was different. I could look out for you on the Henley case.” He pauses, realizing he's dug a very large hole for himself.

He's treating me like a child. “Look out for me?” I pull myself into a sitting position. “You think I need looking out for?” I don't let him answer. “I don't need looking after, Josh. Not only am I a grown woman, I'm also an accomplished police officer—” I move in and lower my voice “—and an FBI agent. You think I would have got
here, to the FBI, if I didn't deserve it. If I couldn't look after myself?” I pause for a breath.

Josh fills the short pause. “I care about you is all.”

I want Josh to care for me. I
want
him to be falling for me. But I'm not going to be controlled by him.

“You of all people should be able to accept what I do for a living. That's important to me.” I throw the sheets off and start fumbling for my clothes, which are scattered around the bedroom.

“What are you doing?” Josh asks.

“Going home.”

“Don't be ridiculous. Stay.”

But I'm too angry to stay. Right now Josh reminds me of my parents, who are constantly trying to get me out of law enforcement. Telling me it's too dangerous for a woman. But they're wrong. I pull on the last of my clothes. “I'll see myself out.”

Josh gets out of bed and pulls his boxer shorts on, but there's no stopping me.

I take the long way home, feeling the need to drive and go over things in my mind. I think of the empty flat and bed waiting for me and start wondering if maybe I over-reacted. If it wasn't for my parents' attitude it wouldn't have bothered me as much, and I shouldn't take that out on Josh. But he does need to realize that I can look after myself.

By the time I arrive at my apartment, my mind is full of conflicting thoughts. But the confusion evaporates the instant I walk into my apartment. I'm uneasy. I hesitate, halfway through the door, and look around. A breeze gently caresses strands of my hair and I notice the kitchen window is open. Open? I jolt into action and draw my
Smith & Wesson. I take the safety off and throw my handbag down, not taking my eyes off the open space in front of me. Besides the window, nothing looks suspicious. I move toward the kitchen to check behind the counter.

I take a deep breath and inch along until the kitchen floor comes into sight. It's clear.

Adrenaline pumps. I do a full sweep of the living room, then on to the linen closet. I'm ready to fire. Nothing. That brings me to the door between my living space and the bathroom. I count to three then throw the door open, hard. It bounces off the wall, nearly flying back into my face. I double-check through the crack and go into the bathroom. The shower curtain is drawn and my heart pumps harder as I jerk back the curtain, gun trained on the shower. Nothing.

I see movement in the corner of my eye and swing around quickly. My finger starts to depress the trigger then I release the tension. I'm staring at my own reflection. Goddamn, I nearly fired at a mirror. That would have been a hard one to explain at the office—I have to report all shots fired.

My shoulders release some of the tension. Only one room left to check. I come out of the bathroom and hold my gun up, pointing toward the bedroom. The door's ajar and I check behind the door through the crack, before edging into the room. It looks undisturbed but I check the whole room, including the wardrobe and under the bed. Again, I find nothing and no one. Satisfied and relieved, I reholster my weapon.

Back in the kitchen I cross to the window, closing and locking it.

I opened it when I got home to let some fresh air in, but did I leave it open? I thought I closed all the windows, but then again I was running late for Josh so I can't be sure.

I inspect the window. The lock's holding and there's no sign of forced entry. I must have forgotten to close it. Suddenly I see a woman lying naked on a narrow surface. She's spread-eagle and ropes tie her to four stakes positioned at the corners. A man leans over her with a knife. He cuts her arm and she screams. I open my eyes and take in a quick gasp of air. The image could have told me much—the victim's identity and the killer's—but it was faded and out of focus. The only thing I can say with certainty is that both the woman on the table and the killer had brown hair…along with more than half the population. Great. Another useless vision.

I take off my clothes, put my gun in my bedside drawer and get into bed, still uneasy. I wish I'd stayed at Josh's house. Doubt and fear take over and I check the apartment again from top to bottom, making sure the windows and doors are securely locked. But I still don't feel safe. I go back to bed and read, hoping the fantasy book will win over my morbid imagination and fears.

An hour later I close my eyes, hoping to sleep. I doze and images flash through my mind.

I wake up; bolt upright, gasping for air, tears streaming down my face. I try to shake the horror. Who is this
woman? Jean? Susan? The D.C. Slasher's next victim? Or is it only a dream this time?

I clear my mind, desperately wanting sleep. My digital clock flashes 4:10 a.m. My thoughts drift to the night my brother disappeared. I experienced his death through the eyes of the killer. I
enjoyed
it as the killer. Nausea hits me. I grab my book and move to the couch, determined not to think of my brother and the role I played in his death. I read for thirty minutes, the story engrossing enough to quiet my fears. I return to my bedroom, leave my bedside light on and gradually fall back to sleep. But immediately I'm back in the dream. The body has been found and I'm there. Then the dream jumps, like a faulty record, and time passes.

I gasp and start hyperventilating, panic taking over. I open my eyes and see a dark shape in my doorway. I stifle a scream. There's someone in my room.

I lie paralyzed. My gun is in the drawer. Can I get it and fire before the killer attacks? Then the figure distorts and I stare at the dark space, trying to decipher the shadows, the shapes. What the hell's going on?

I move as fast as I can, fumbling for the gun and the light switch, ready to shoot. But the light only illuminates the empty room.

I can still smell her clothes. Smell her body. I know her so well, perhaps even better than she knows herself. But she's for later.

I will enjoy this one, for now. She is a fine catch. Now I'll get the recognition I deserve. I'll be noticed.

“Do not fight, darling, you cannot escape.”

“Please. You don't have to do this.”

“No, I don't have to. But I can,” I say with a surge of power. I bend down and kiss her gently on her cheek.

“I haven't seen your face, you can let me go.”

“No, you haven't. Yet. But you've heard my voice. Do you recognize it?”

“No. I've never heard your voice before.”

“No?” I stroke her hair.

“Please, my name is…”

“Shh,” I whisper and put my hand over her mouth. “I know who you are. I know everything about you,” I say as I reach for the duct tape, silencing her and covering her luscious, rose lips. Her skin is flushed with excitement. But that can wait.

“I have to go now. They're waiting for me.” I walk backward to the door, taking in every inch of her beautiful, naked body.

“See you soon, my love.”

The image of her is indelibly etched in my mind. But I must go to work. No one must suspect.

I
t's hard to concentrate on my cases. Another night's restlessness has taken its toll. I know I had another nightmare last night, but once again the foggy, dreamlike veil blocks my memory. My weary body and puffy eyes are a testament to my insomnia. I smile to myself, imagining Sam's response to my obvious lack of sleep. One guess what she'll think kept me up all night! God, Sam. Between work and Josh I never phoned her back to see if she was feeling better.

I pick the handset up, but then sense someone in the doorway. I look up, expecting and hoping to see Josh. I think perhaps I owe him an apology.

Instead it's Rivers.

“Morning, boss,” I say, eager to hide my weariness and my disappointment that he isn't Josh. I fiddle with my keyboard, moving it closer to me. Rivers is silent, I look
up. I'm immediately concerned by the look on his face. “What's up?”

“It's Sam, Sophie.”

“What?” A tiny voice squeaks out of me.

“She's missing. Cops think she's been taken from her apartment.”

“What?” I stand up, sending my chair reeling backward. It hits the wall noisily and bounces back.

Josh enters my office with a strange look on his face.

“Have you heard?” I ask him.

“Heard what?”

Rivers intervenes. “Wright's missing and there's evidence of a struggle at her apartment.”

“Oh my God,” Josh says.

“What happened? When?” I ask, leaning heavily on my desk.

“Her cleaner called it in. She turned up at seven-thirty this morning to find clothes and furniture strewn all over the place. Sam could have been abducted anytime in the last thirty-six hours.”

“She phoned in sick yesterday, didn't she?” Josh says.

I'm too shell-shocked to say anything.

“Yes, but it certainly looks suspicious now.”

I should have known something was up. Sam's never been sick the whole time I've been here. If I wasn't so distracted by Marco…

“Did she speak to Janet personally?”

“Janet swears it was her voice on the phone. Croaky, but her voice. But we can't be certain. We're getting phone records pulled now.”

“What about the drive-bys? Did they see anything?”

“No. Patrol cars have been going by every couple of hours, but nothing so far. We're tracking down the officers on duty in the past thirty-six hours.”

I nod, still not able to absorb what's happened.

“I've got to get over there.” I start for the door, gathering my bag and searching for my keys on the desk. “Who's heading up the investigation?”

“They've got Sandra Couples on it.”

I know Sandra. She's the best in Missing Persons.

I remember the vision I had at Sam's place, an image of the killer. I saw him behind Sam! It wasn't an image from Jean's death, or Teresa's or Susan's—it was a premonition of Sam's abduction!

“Oh my God,” I say, stepping backward and sinking into my chair, nearly missing it. “It's the D.C. Slasher. He's got Sam.”

“Let's not jump to conclusions,” Josh says. “It could be a kidnapping. Someone who figures they'd get a good ransom for an FBI agent.”

“We're looking into both possibilities,” Rivers says.

“Who's working it our end?” I ask.

“The Washington Field Office. They're the best people to investigate it at the moment.”

“I want in.”

“Anderson, you and Wright are friends, you can't be objective.”

“But I know her. I know her movements. For God's sake, I was with her the night before last.” I can't believe Sam's missing. And
he's
got her.

“The night before last?” Rivers says.

I nod.

“If it was a fake phone call yesterday, you might be the last person to have seen her. What did you do?”

“We worked on the Slasher profile at her place.”

“What? Wright was supposed to be off that case!” Rivers shouts, taking his glasses off.

“She was helping me out. Handing over the case. I left around ten-thirty. Please, sir, you've got to let me help with this case.”

Rivers is silent. I think he knows that I was helping Sam out rather than the other way around, but he doesn't pursue it.

Finally he speaks, putting his glasses back on. “Look, go over and tell Couples what you know. I'm not saying you can work the case, but you can go over to Wright's, have a look around and talk to Couples.”

I stand up. “Thank you, sir.”

Josh steps farther into the room. “I'd like to be involved too.”

“Get real, Marco. I'm not sending you both over. We've got D.C.'s finest, Agents Krip and O'Donnell from the field office, Marty from the lab and now Anderson's going over there too. How would it look?”

Rivers is right. If we send over too many from Quantico, it looks as though we don't trust the local forces or even our own field agents. There'd be political ramifications.

“Besides, we want to keep this quiet for the moment. The last thing I need is the press getting hold of it.”

“I'm gone,” I say, maneuvering past Rivers and Josh.

They both look at me, and Josh mouths, “You okay?”

I force a smile and a nod before dashing out the door.

I unlock my car and the memory of last night's dream comes back. Murder. Could it have been about Sam? No, it can't be. Not Sam. I remember the blood in my dream and bile rises. He's got Sam. I begin to hyperventilate and I lean on the car. I take in deep, slow breaths. Think of something reassuring…

He keeps them. He keeps his victims for three to eight days. I've still got time to find her. Time to find him.

Sam's apartment is busy with activity when I arrive. I flash my FBI credentials to the local cop at the front of her apartment block and proceed up the stairs. I show my badge again at the door to Sam's apartment. Inside there are about ten officials. Camera flashes go off every couple of seconds, and several forensics people are at work, looking for fingerprints and other evidence. Marty is directing one of the photographers, getting him to zoom in on a piece of pottery that lies shattered in Sam's hallway. A potted plant. Dirt surrounds the pottery. The place is a mess. There was one hell of a struggle.

Marty sees me right away and comes over. At first he doesn't say anything. What can he say?

Then: “I'll let you know the minute we find something.”

“How does it look?”

He looks away.

“That good?” I bite my lower lip.

“We have fingerprints, but it'll be a day or two before we see if we've got any unfriendlies.”

“You'll need to eliminate mine as well. I was here the night before last.”

Marty nods. “Yours are on the FBI database anyway.”

Sandra Couples sees me and walks over.

“Agent Anderson,” she says formally.

Marty takes this as his exit cue and gives me a forced smile before going back to supervise the forensics team.

Now in normal conversational range and just the two of us, Sandra's tone changes.

“God, Sophie, I'm so sorry. I can't believe this has happened.” She pushes her hand through her neat, graying bob. Her skin is weather-beaten, no doubt from the fifteen-odd years she spent down in Florida, and her large, hazel eyes blink every couple of seconds.

“Thanks, Sandra.”

“I've got my best guys on it.” She looks over her shoulder at the hive of activity.

I get straight down to business. “I was here the night before last.”

She nods and flips open her notepad. “What time you leave?”

“About ten-thirty.”

“Looks like you may have been the last to see her.”

“That's what Rivers said. The call's being checked?”

“Agents Krip and O'Donnell are getting her phone records. So what did you guys do on Wednesday night?”

“We were working on the Slasher case, looking over the profile.” I look at the photos and files, still spread across the dining-room table.

Sandra follows my gaze and nods. “We haven't touched anything there yet. Do you want to have a look? See if it's the way you left it?”

We walk across to the table. Why didn't I realize Sam was in danger? Why didn't I realize that the image of
the killer was a premonition? I wish the visions had never come back.

Come back? Why had they come back? Why now? First John, then Sam. Someone close to me was in danger when I was a child, and that must have triggered my psychic abilities. I shiver, remembering how I felt as John's killer. And now the premonitions are back because someone else I love is in danger—Sam. But I didn't see it.

I'm overwhelmed by guilt. Old guilt from John, and now new guilt from Sam. It's too much.

I pull myself back. I need to be objective to help Sam. To save Sam. I look around the area and the struggle is obvious. The coffee table is cleared of magazines, glasses and the clock. These items are strewn across the floor.

Sandra sees me eyeing the area.

“This is where the struggle started,” she says.

I pull out some surgical gloves from my bag and move straight to the area. I kneel down with my back to Sandra, examining the area. It looks as if Sam was dragged across her carpet, grabbing at the coffee table for leverage and for a weapon.

I look up. Sandra's standing next to me, waiting until I'm finished. I stand up.

“She ran this way—” Sandra points to the only path between the living room and Sam's bedroom “—and into the bedroom.”

The bed is ruffled but not slept in, and the bedroom window is open.

“Have you found her gun?”

“Yeah, it's underneath the counter in the kitchen.

Think it may have been kicked there in the struggle.” We make our way back into the main room.

I look around. “So, how the hell did he get in?”

“No sign of forced entry, but the bedroom window was open.”

I shake my head. “I don't buy it. Sam told me she was checking the locks. Being careful.”

Sandra scribbles in her notepad. “We'll keep looking.”

“Any idea of the time all this occurred?” I ask.

“Yes, actually.” For the first time Sandra smiles and the creases that run between the sides of her nose to the corners of her mouth deepen. “Doesn't get better than this.”

She puts on her gloves and carefully picks up the clock that's usually on Sam's coffee table. She turns it around.

“Ten forty-five.” The hands have stopped.

“So we're either looking at fifteen minutes after you left, ten forty-five the morning she phoned in sick or ten forty-five last night.”

“What about the neighbors?”

“I've got two of my people interviewing everyone they can get their hands on, but most people are at work.”

“Someone must have heard something.”

“That's what we figure. Downstairs particularly, but no one's home.”

The people who live directly under Sam would have been the most likely to hear the scuffle. Glass was broken and the potted plant would have made quite a racket as it toppled over.

“So, do you want to look at this stuff now?” Sandra asks, pointing to the dining-room table and the D.C. files.

“Sure.”

I move toward the table, trying desperately to recall how it had looked when I left on Wednesday night. Was anything missing? Was anything new on the table?

“Is that how you left it?”

“I think so.” I finger the photos with my gloved hands. “To be honest, it would be hard to pick up one missing photo, or one extra.”

“Yeah. I know.”

“We'll have to check the files against the inventory. Make sure everything's there.”

“My guys have photographed it extensively.” She pauses, and then whispers, “Do you think it's the Slasher?”

I look up at her and bite my lip. “Yes.”

My visions are proof of that, but I'm not going to tell anyone about them. Sam is still alive and I'm going to save her. If I can just control these visions, maybe they can help me do just that.

“I might call in Flynn and Jones. Get them to check out the place too,” Sandra says.

“Good idea. We've got to find him, and fast.”

Sandra puts her hand on my arm.

I return my focus to the table and see Sam's completed profile underneath a stack of photos. “Make sure you run this for prints, Sandra.”

“We'll try everything.”

I think about our guy, our perp. He wears gloves but I can imagine him wanting to touch the paper that words about him were written on. It would make him feel closer to it and give his ego a boost—to hold his own profile in his hands. It would add to the thrill.

“I'll give Flynn and Jones a call now.” Sandra flips open her phone.

“Mind if I hang around?” I ask out of professional courtesy.

“Go for it,” she says, dialing the number and walking away.

I look at the table and case notes sprawled across it but I still can't see anything out of place. I lift up some of the photos, careful not to upset the orderly mess. Given that there are over sixty photos and dozens of printed pages, I decide the process is futile. We'll have to compare the contents of the files with the inventory list.

I force myself into Sam's bedroom, hopeful to find something. Some clue. I resist the urge to curl into the fetal position and cry. I need to stay rational and focused on the case. That's the way I can help Sam.

I sink down on the edge of her bed, staring glassily into the mirror above her dressing table. I'm going to assume Sam was taken the night I was here and then the perp forced her to phone in sick, to delay the inevitable discovery of her disappearance. I close my eyes and do the math in my head. I've got between thirty-six and a hundred and fifty hours to find Sam, if the guy sticks with his pattern of holding the victims for three to eight days.