Don't Look Away (Veronica Sloan) (15 page)

“Ditto,” said Ronnie.

Sykes began to rattle off the facts. “Brian Underwood. Male, age thirty-four, Caucasian. He worked for the Department of Labor in the Office of Public Affairs in Philly. Had an excellent performance record and had just received a promotion.”

“Personal life?” asked Ronnie.

“Reportedly a very happy marriage with two young kids and a house in the burbs. Bank accounts all look normal—no red flags. Friends all say he was the nicest guy in the world and didn’t have a single known enemy.”

“Huh,” Ronnie said, not quite trusting that. Everybody always said the deceased was the greatest guy in the world at first, while the shock of a murder was still on them. Later, when the numbness wore off and it didn’t seem quite so disrespectful to dish about the dead, his friends and co-workers would spill their guts. They’d find out the dude had a skeleton or two in his closet, of that she had no doubt.

The elevator arrived and they boarded it, heading for a higher floor on which this highly-regarded Dr. Cavanaugh worked. Another employee was already aboard and immediately launched into a conversation with Dr. Tate, who answered his questions with patience and intelligence.

Now feeling more than a little tired and still ever-so-slightly dizzy, Ronnie edged close to the side wall of the mirrored elevator. Trying to be surreptitious, she leaned her shoulder against it, thankful for the support.

Of course, Sykes noticed. The damn man noticed everything. A concerned frown creased his brow. His voice lowered, he asked, “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.”

“If you’re not up to it, I don’t mind starting this on my own. I’m assuming by your occasional grimaces that you have a headache the size of Mount Rainier, and by the way you’ve been swaying when you walk that you feel a little bit off-balance.”

“I said I’m fine,” she snapped, jerking herself upright. And instantly regretting it when the elevator started to spin.

He immediately moved closer, sliding an arm around her waist to steady her. Part of her wanted to slap his hand away, another sincerely appreciated the support. The most traitorous part of her liked his nearness a little too much.

“You’re not totally fine, Veronica,” he murmured, gentle concern lacing his voice.

It got to her, that gentleness, that worry, when accusation might not have. The brush of his fingertips on the small of her back distracted her, as did the warmth of his exhalations as he leaned close to speak softly, as if he’d already realized that to argue with her was one sure way to make her push herself even harder.

“Please don’t overdo it. If you need to take the rest of today off in order to be up for working tomorrow, then do it. Because as much as I’d like to see you go home and stay in bed for an entire week, I need you too much.”

Those words landed in her brain in a mixed jumble. Him needing her, being in bed for a week. Whoa. That caused a seriously dangerous juxtaposition of images.

“I promise not to solve these murders without you. Or at least to pretend you were indispensable to my investigation,” he said, obviously trying to tease her into a better humor.

“Cocky jerk.”             

“Stubborn female.”

She had been accused of being stubborn on occasion but she certainly didn’t like to think that one personality trait defined her. Though determined, she wasn’t stupid.

Sykes had a point—she wouldn’t be any use to anybody if she pushed herself too hard and sidelined herself for a week. So she forced herself to calmly evaluate the situation and consider the options. She straightened her back, lifted her shoulders, flexed her fingers, shifted her hips, turned her head, gauging how every movement affected her.

Wince, wince, wince, wince, cringe
.

Wincing was no big deal. Cringing she could survive.

She could do this. Her head might feel like she’d out-drunk an entire football team last night, but otherwise, she was fine. A cold glass of water and a comfortable chair would do her wonders.

“You’re right, I’m not feeling great.”

Jeremy reached out to punch a button on the elevator, but she grabbed his hand and stopped him.

“That said, I’m not at death’s door, either. I do not intend to push myself back into a hospital bed. So once we get to our work space, I promise I’ll sit down and take it easy. Just get me there, okay?”

“Do you promise you’ll let me know if it gets to be too much?”

“I do. And thanks for your concern.”

“Hey, we’re partners now, at least for a little while.”

That felt so strange, like she was a wife cheating on her husband, that she didn’t reply. Fortunately, she didn’t have to. The fourth occupant of the elevator got off, leaving just her, Sykes and Tate again.

Sykes stepped away from her, turning his body a little, to face the elderly doctor, but keeping his hand pressed very lightly against her spine. Just that tiny hint of support gave her everything she needed right now.

“I apologize for the interruption,” Tate said.

“Not a problem.” Sykes returned to their previous conversation. “Now, back to our Philadelphia victim?”

“Yes, please.”

“Apparently Underwood and some friends went to a co-workers apartment after work to play cards and celebrate his promotion. He left at a little after eleven, alone.”

“May I ask the, er, means of death?” Tate murmured.

“He was decapitated. Most of his body was found on the ground in a back alley.”

Though she suspected she knew what he meant, Ronnie couldn’t help asking, “Most?”

“The head was sitting on top of a garbage can behind an Italian bakery with a rotten cannoli stuffed in its mouth.”

“Such an exhibitionist,” she muttered.

Having had her own run-in with a disembodied head, she could imagine how the person who’d found that one had reacted. Hopefully he or she didn’t have a concussion to show for their gruesome interaction.

“The owner came in at five this morning to get the day’s baking started and found Underwood staring at her from the trash pile. She flipped out, ran right out to the nearest city street for help and got hit by a garbage truck.”

Ronnie slowly shook her head. Okay, so there were worse things than a concussion. Garbage truck trumped two-by-four any day.

Sykes added, “They think she’s going to make it.”

With lots of scars and horrible memories, undoubtedly. She had to wonder if their killer had been hoping that would be the case. Obviously he got off on displaying his kills in shocking ways, liking the pageantry and drama of it. Leanne had been scattered all over a basement, and her head disposed of on another floor altogether. This Philadelphia victim had been dumped like…well, like garbage. It was simply twisted.

They reached the twenty-second floor. Dr. Tate gestured toward the door as it opened.

Stepping out, Ronnie said, “So there’s a lot of showmanship.”

“Very much so,” Sykes said, following her out.

“Can you do any FBI woo-woo profiler magic to help us out with this guy?”

“You know as well as I do that I’m not a profiler. But, off the top of my head, I’d say he’s smart—though probably not as smart as he thinks he is. He wants to be recognized, there’s definitely an element of ‘look at me!’ to these murders, not only because he likes the attention, but it’s as if he’s saying, ‘I know you can’t catch me.’”

“That’s what he thinks.”

“That ego is probably what will trip him up.”

“Fascinating,” said Dr. Tate, who’d been listening silently to the conversation. “I suppose I never really considered the perpetrator to be anything other than a madman.”

“Oh, he’s nuts all right,” said Ronnie, not doubting it. “This isn’t a run-of-the-mill killer who’s killing to accomplish a specific purpose. He’s getting off on it.”

“Horrible,” the old man said, shaking his head delicately, as if his sensibilities were truly offended by the whole thing. She supposed his reserved, secluded, scientific mind didn’t usually have to think about things like that.

They turned a corner and headed down a long hallway lined with closed laboratory doors on either side. Occasionally one opened and a white-coated technician or researcher scurried out, only to stop and suck up to the boss before moving on. The building seemed to go on forever, she honestly couldn’t imagine how much the government had invested in it. Of course, given the miraculous things coming out of it—and out of the head of Dr. Tate—she suspected they were getting their money’s worth.

Sykes cleared his throat. “Once the I.D. chip identified Brian Underwood as an O.E.P. participant, I guess they got in touch with you, Dr. Tate?”

“Indeed.”

“Then I got called in and went up to nose around. The M.E.’s doing an autopsy this afternoon and said he’d call me with the results. I figured once I had his chip and most recent downloads—which I do—there wasn’t much else I could do there and came back here to get to work on them.” Though his lips didn’t twitch, a small twinkle appeared in his blue eyes as he added, “I didn’t want Detective Sloan to think I wasn’t just as anxious to get started working with her as she is with me.”

If a nice, genteel old man hadn’t been with them, she might have snapped back a nice, genteel
fuck you.
But probably not. She and Sykes had formed some kind of truce. She wouldn’t go nose-to-nose with him again until she felt a whole lot better.

They had apparently reached their destination at last, because Tate stopped in front of a locked door with a high-tech identification panel on one side. He held his arm under a bar code reader, which I.D.’d his chip, then went a step further and put his hand on a palm-reader, which further confirmed his identification, and the lock automatically clicked open.

“High-tech security,” Sykes said.

Tate nodded, pushed a few buttons and said, “Might as well get you two cleared through so you can access the building by yourselves. I know you might need to work odd hours when there aren’t always people around.”

He gestured toward the panel and nodded at Ronnie.

“Just my palm?”

“Yes. I’ve already entered your chip information—actually, my assistant did that before you got here. That will get you inside the building. But in order to get into Dr. Cavanaugh’s labs, you must take this further step.”

Wondering if they were figuring out how to spin straw into gold behind this door, considering they acted like they were guarding Fort Knox, Ronnie did as he asked and pressed her palm against the screen. It flashed twice, a red button lit up, then it turned green and beeped.

“All done,” Tate said. “Now, Agent Sykes?”

Sykes did the same thing. Afterward, gave her a thumbs up, grinning, as if to silently congratulate them both on having made it into the super-exclusive smart guy’s club.

They stepped through the door, but rather than proceeding down yet another corridor, Tate hesitated. “It appears, Detective Sloan, that I might owe you an apology.”

“What for?”

“In the briefing the other day, I believe I—what is the expression, steamrolled?—over your suggestion that the killer could have something to do with the project itself.”

Oh, yeah. He had.

“I was convinced the first victim had violated her security clearance. But this new crime obviously changes things.”

It certainly did. Because with the proximity, the histories of the victims, the lack of any connection between them other than the O.E.P., the brutality, and the head-games—emphasis on head—it seemed their murder cases had to be connected. Which made it far more likely that someone with access to the files of the entire program had to be involved. Otherwise, how could anybody know about them
both?

A little excited at this admission, Ronnie asked, “So how much does that help us? I mean, how many people could there be who’d have that kind of information?” They could have narrowed down their list of potential suspects to a handful of people, which would make things a whole lot simpler.

“Well, between my staff, government folks, those involved in the training, the medical and technical professionals dealing with each individual involved…perhaps a few hundred.”

Hundreds. Crap. Still, it was better than the entire populations of Washington or Philadelphia.

“I wish it were that small a suspect pool,” said Sykes, sighing.

She tensed, realizing Sykes was about to make the prospects a little dimmer.

“We have to consider the possibility that the program files have been compromised. Our killer might not have come by his knowledge of the O.E.P. legitimately. Hackers could have gotten into the records.”

“Oh, I shouldn’t think that possible,” said Tate, though he sounded a little doubtful.

“Considering how much of a target you had on your back after the I.D. chip program was implemented a few years ago, I’m sure there are people out there trying to break into your systems or maybe even offering money to your employees to give them data.”

The old man sputtered, but he couldn’t deny it.

Speaking kindly, Sykes continued. “Some anti-medical-technology terrorists might now be staging a new, more violent kind of protest against your inventions.”