Split Second (35 page)

Washington, D.C.
Wednesday, April 1

H
e could feel Dr. Gwen Patterson staring at him while he stabbed at her furniture with his white cane, fumbling for a place to sit down. Nice stuff. The office even smelled expensive, fine leather and polished wood. But why would he expect anything less? She was a classy woman; sophisticated, cultured, wise and talented. Finally, a challenge to up the ante, so to speak.

He swiped his hand across her desktop, but there wasn’t much to disturb—a phone, a Roledex, several legal pads and a daily calendar, flipped open to Wednesday, April 1. Only now did it occur to him that it was April Fools’ Day. How ironically appropriate. He resisted the urge to smile, instead turning again and bumping into a credenza, barely missing an antique vase. The window above the credenza looked out over the Potomac River. In its reflection, he watched her grimace at his bold and reckless fumblings.

“The sofa is just to your left,” she finally instructed, but stayed seated behind her desk. Though her voice sounded tight, restraining her impatience, she wouldn’t embarrass him by coming to his rescue. Excellent. She had passed his first test.

He put his hand out and patted down the soft leather, feeling for the arm, and carefully sitting himself down.

“Would you like something to drink before we get started?”

“No,” he snapped, being unnecessarily rude. Invalids could get away with shit like that. It was one of the few advantages he could look forward to. Then, to let her know he wasn’t such a bad guy, he politely added, “I’d rather we just get started.”

He set the cane by his side where he could find it easily. He bunched up his leather jacket and laid it in his lap. The room was dark, the blinds half-closed, and he wondered why she had bothered. He adjusted his sunglasses on the bridge of his nose. The lenses were extra dark so that no one could see his eyes. So that no one could catch him watching. It was a lovely twist to voyeurism. Everyone thought they were being the voyeurs, safe in staring at him, watching him, pitying him. No one seemed to question whether or not a blind guy could actually see. After all, why in the world would someone fake something like that?

Except that, ironically, the lie might be coming true. The drugs weren’t working, and he couldn’t deny that his eyesight was getting worse. He had lucked out so many times before, was his number finally up? No, he didn’t believe in such a stupid thing as fate. So what if he needed a little extra help these days, a prop or two, or some assistance from an old friend to bring a little excitement into his life. Wasn’t that what friends were for?

He cocked his head to one side, waiting, pretending to need to hear her before he could turn in her direction. In the meantime, he watched her. Through the dark lenses in the dark room, he found himself squinting. She was still staring at him, sitting back in her chair, looking comfortable and in control.

She stood and reached for her suit jacket on the back of her chair, but stopped, glanced over at him and left the jacket there. Then she came around to the front of the desk, leaning against the pristine top and standing directly in front of him. She looked soft and fragile, curves in all the right places, tight skin and few wrinkles for a woman in her late forties. She wore her strawberry-blond hair loose, letting it brush her jawline in delicate wisps. He wondered if it was her natural color, and he caught himself smiling. Maybe he would need to find out for himself.

He leaned back into the sofa, waiting, sniffing in her fragrance. God, she smelled good, though he couldn’t name the fragrance. Usually he could narrow it down, but this scent was new. Her red silk blouse was thin enough to reveal small, round breasts and the slight pucker of nipples. He was glad she thought she didn’t need the jacket. He tucked his hands into his lap, making sure his folded jacket covered the swelling bulge, pleased that his new diet of porn movies seemed to be helping his temporary lapses.

“As with all my patients, Mr. Harding,” she said finally, “I’d like to know what your goals are. What you hope to accomplish in our sessions?”

He held back a smile. She was already accomplishing one of his goals. He tilted his head toward her and continued to stare at her breasts. Even if she could see his eyes, people accepted, they expected his eyes to be looking anywhere but in their own eyes.

“I’m not sure I understand the question.” He had learned it was good to make women explain. It allowed them to feel in control, and he wanted her to believe she was in control.

“You told me on the phone,” she began carefully as though measuring her words, “that you had some sexual issues you wanted to work on.” She neither emphasized nor hesitated over the phrase “sexual issues.” That was good, very good. “In order for me to help you, I need to know, more specifically, what you expect from me. What you’d like to see come out of these sessions.”

It was time to see how easily she could be shocked.

“It really is quite simple. I want to be able to enjoy fucking a woman again.”

She blinked and her light complexion flushed slightly, but she didn’t move. It was a bit of a letdown. Maybe he should go ahead and add that he wanted to enjoy fucking a woman without wanting to fuck her to death. His new habit really wasn’t much different than many of those in the animal and insect world. Perhaps he should compare his sexual habits to those of the female praying mantis who bites off her mate’s head just as he is beginning to copulate.

Would she understand that the orgasm, the erotic surge was incredibly powerful when it included pain? Should he confess that seeing his women smeared in blood and screaming for mercy made him come in an orgasmic explosion like none he could achieve otherwise? Could she understand that this hideous thing inside threatened to take away the foundation of his being, his last primal instinct?

But no, he wouldn’t share any of this with her—that would probably be a bit much. That was something Albert Stucky would do or say, and he needed to resist the urge to stoop to his old friend’s level.

“Can you do that, Doc?” he asked, sticking his chin out and up as though he was listening for her movement, for her reaction.

“I can certainly try.”

He looked over her shoulder, his body slightly turned to the side, despite her standing in front of him.

“You’re blushing,” he said, and allowed a curt smile.

The color in her cheeks deepened. Her hand went to her neck in the useless attempt to stop the blush.

“What makes you say that?”

Would she deny it? Would she disappoint him this soon and lie?

“I’m guessing,” he said, letting his voice be soft and soothing, encouraging her to confide in him, hoping to gain access to her own vulnerabilities. If he was to accomplish his ultimate goal, he would need Dr. Gwen Patterson not to feel threatened. The good doctor had a reputation for delving into some of the most famous and devious of criminal minds. He wondered what she would think if she knew she was to be the guinea pig this time.

“Let me just say, I’ve been a psychologist quite a while.” She tried to explain her reaction away casually, but he noticed the color remained in her cheeks. “I’ve heard many shocking things, much more so than your problem. You needn’t worry about embarrassing me, Mr. Harding.”

Okay, so she chose to play it safe and cool, refusing him access to her inner self. The idea of this excited him nevertheless. He did so enjoy a challenge.

“Perhaps,” she continued, “we should start by you telling me why you no longer enjoy sex.”

“Isn’t that obvious?” He used the tone he had perfected. The one that sounded angry, offended, yet sad enough to invoke the right amount of pity. It usually worked.

“Of course it’s not obvious.”

He let one of his hands stray under the pile of leather. She was making this so easy. Playing right into his hands, so to speak. He cupped a palm over his erection.

“If you’re thinking your—” she hesitated “—your handicap—”

“It’s okay. You can call it what it is. I’m blind. I don’t mind anyone saying the word.”

“Okay, but your blindness certainly should not mean a loss of libido.”

He liked the way she said “libido.” Though her lips were thin and her mouth small, he liked the shape. He enjoyed watching the upper lip curl a bit at the corner. He detected a slight accent, but he couldn’t place it—maybe upper New York? It made him anxious to hear her say “penis” and “fellatio,” and he wondered how her lips would curl around those words.

“Is that what you’re saying, Mr. Harding?” she interrupted his thoughts.

“That somehow your loss of sight has rendered you incapable of performing?”

“Men are highly visual creatures, especially when it comes to being sexually aroused.”

“Very true,” she said as she reached behind her and grabbed a file folder, his folder, his case history. “When did you begin losing your eyesight?”

“About four years ago. Do we have to talk about that?”

She looked up at him over the open file. She had shifted to the other end of the desk, but he kept his gaze on the spot where she had been.

“If it will help us deal with your current problem, then yes, I do think we should talk about it.”

He liked her decisive manner, her direct tone. She wouldn’t be pussyfooting around him. What a wonderful word—pussyfooting. He rubbed his hidden hand against his bulge.

“Do you have an objection to that, Mr. Harding? You certainly don’t appear to be a man who runs away from a challenge.”

He hesitated only because he didn’t want to interrupt the sensation. It was okay. She’d think he simply needed a moment to think about it.

“I have no objection,” he said, having some difficulty containing a smile. No, anyone who knew Walker Harding would never accuse him of running away from anything. But if he was to accept his new challenge, he’d need to depend on the master criminal mind that Dr. Patterson yet had the pleasure of examining. Yes, despite playing this new role, he would still need to depend on the genius of his old friend, Albert Stucky.

T
ully ripped off the latest fax that had just come in from the Kansas City Police Department. He scanned its contents while he gathered folders and notes and crime scene photos. In ten minutes he was meeting with Assistant Director Cunningham, and yet his mind was still preoccupied with the argument he’d had with his daughter less than an hour ago. Emma had waited until he was dropping her off at school to drop her bomb. Damn she was good. But then what did he expect? She had been schooled in the fine art of surprise attack by none other than the master, her own mother.

“Oh, by the way,” she had announced in a matter-of-fact voice. “Josh Reynolds asked me to the junior/senior prom. It’s a week from Friday, so I’ll need to buy a new dress. Probably new shoes, too.”

Immediately he had gotten angry. She was only a freshman. When had they decided she could date?

“Did I miss that conversation?” he had asked with enough sarcasm that he was now embarrassed in retrospect.

She had given him her best insulted, wounded look. How could he not trust her? She was “almost fifteen.” Practically an old maid compared to her friends who, she assured him, had been dating for two or three years already. He passed on the opportunity to counter with the old argument that just because your friends jump off a bridge…Besides, the real problem was not that he didn’t trust her. At forty-three, he could still remember how horny fifteen-and sixteen-year-old boys could get. He wished he could discuss it with Caroline, but he knew she’d side with Emma. Was he really just being an overprotective father?

He jammed the fax sheets into a file folder, adding it to the pile in his arms and headed down the hall. After talking to Kansas City Detective John Ford late last night, Tully was prepared for Cunningham to be in a foul mood. The waitress’s murder looked more and more like the work of Albert Stucky. No one else would deliver the woman’s kidney to Agent O’Dell’s hotel room. Actually, Tully couldn’t figure out why he wasn’t on a plane to Kansas City to join O’Dell.

“Good morning, Anita,” he greeted the gray-haired secretary who looked alert and impeccable at any hour of the day.

“Coffee, Agent Tully?”

“Yes, please. Cream but—”

“No sugar. I remember. I’ll bring it in to you.” She waved him by. Everyone knew not to set foot into the assistant director’s office until Anita gave the signal.

Cunningham was on the phone, but nodded to Tully and pointed to one of the chairs in front of his desk.

“Yes, I understand,” Cunningham said into the phone. “Of course I will.” He hung up, as was his usual manner, without a goodbye. He adjusted his glasses, sipped coffee, then looked at Tully. Despite the crisp white shirt and perfectly knotted tie, his eyes betrayed him. Swollen from too little sleep, the red lines were magnified by the bifocal half of his glasses.

“Before we get started,” he said, glancing at his watch, “do you have any information on Walker Harding?”

“Harding?” Tully had to think past horny high-school boys and pink prom dresses. “I’m sorry, sir, I don’t recognize the name Walker Harding.”

“He was Albert Stucky’s business partner,” a woman’s voice answered from the open doorway.

Tully twisted in his chair to look at the young, dark-haired woman. She was attractive and wore a navy blue suit jacket with matching trousers.

“Agent O’Dell, please come in.” Cunningham stood and pointed to the chair next to Tully.

Tully stared up at her, shuffling his files, awkwardly shoving them aside.

“Special Agent Margaret O’Dell, this is Special Agent R. J. Tully.”

The chair wobbled as Tully stood and shook Agent O’Dell’s outstretched hand. Immediately he was impressed with her firm grip and the way she looked directly into his eyes.

“I’m pleased to meet you, Agent Tully.”

She was genuine. She was professional. There was no trace of what she must have gone through last night. This certainly didn’t look like an agent who was on the verge of mental collapse.

“The pleasure is mine, Agent O’Dell. I’ve heard a great deal about you.”

Tully could see Cunningham already growing impatient with all these pleasantries.

“Why were you asking about Walker Harding?” O’Dell asked as she sat down.

Tully picked up his files again. Okay, so she was used to the assistant director’s style of getting right down to business. Now Tully wished he had spent some time preparing instead of agonizing over Emma’s virginity. He honestly hadn’t thought O’Dell would show up.

“For Agent Tully’s benefit,” Cunningham began explaining, “Walker Harding and Albert Stucky started an Internet stock-trading business, one of the first of its kind, in the early 1990s. They ended up making millions.”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t think I have any information on him,” Tully said as he riffled through his files, double-checking.

“You probably don’t.” Cunningham sounded apologetic. “Harding was out of the picture long before Stucky took up his new hobby. He and Stucky sold their company, split their millions and went their separate ways. There was no reason for any of us to know about Walker Harding.”

“I’m not sure I follow,” Tully said, glancing at Agent O’Dell to see if he was the only one missing something. “Is there some reason why we should now?”

Anita interrupted, floating into the room and handing Tully a steaming mug.

“Thanks, Anita.”

“Anything for you, Agent O’Dell? Coffee? Or perhaps your usual early-morning Diet Pepsi?”

Tully watched Agent O’Dell smile in a way that said the two women were quite familiar with each other.

“Thank you, Anita, but no, I’m fine.”

The secretary squeezed the agent’s shoulder in a gesture that looked more motherly than professional, and then she left, closing the door behind her.

Cunningham sat back and made a tent with his fingertips, picking up the conversation exactly where they had left off, as if there had been no interruption. “Walker Harding became a recluse after he and Stucky sold their business. Practically disappeared off the face of the earth. There seems to be virtually no records, no transactions, no sign of the man.”

“Then what does this have to do with Albert Stucky?” Tully was puzzled.

“I checked the airline schedules within the last week for flights going from Dulles or Reagan National to Kansas City. Not that I expected to find Albert Stucky’s name on any of the manifests.” He looked from Tully to O’Dell. “I was looking for any of the aliases Stucky has used in the past. That’s when I noticed that there was a ticket sold for a KC flight, Sunday afternoon out of Dulles, to a Walker Harding.”

Cunningham waited, looking for some reaction. Tully watched, tapping his foot nervously but not impressed with the information.

“Excuse me, sir, for saying so, but that may not mean much. It may not even be the same man.”

“Perhaps not. However, Agent Tully, I suggest you find out whatever you can about Walker Harding.”

“Assistant Director Cunningham, why am I here?” Agent O’Dell asked politely but with enough candor to indicate she wasn’t willing to continue without an answer.

Tully wanted to smile. Instead, he kept his eyes and his attention on Cunningham. It was hard not to like O’Dell. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see her shift in her chair, uncomfortable and restless but holding her tongue. She had been kept off this investigation since the beginning. Tully wondered if she was angry with having to sit and listen to these details if she couldn’t be involved. Or had Cunningham changed his mind? Tully studied his face, but saw no clue as to what his boss was thinking.

When he didn’t answer immediately, O’Dell must have seen it as an opportunity to proceed.

“I mean no disrespect, but the three of us are sitting here talking about a ticket that may or may not have been issued to a man who Albert Stucky may or may not have talked to for years. Yet, there is one thing that we can be certain of—Albert Stucky murdered a woman in Kansas City, and most likely he is still there.”

Tully crossed his arms and waited, all the while wanting to applaud this woman he had heard was burned out and slipping over the edge. She certainly soared at the top of her game this morning.

Cunningham caved in his finger tent and sat forward, leaning elbows on his desk and looking as though he had been ambushed in a chess match. But now he was ready for his move, his turn.

“Saturday night about twenty miles from here, a young woman was found murdered, her body tossed into a Dumpster, her spleen surgically removed and placed inside a discarded pizza box.”

“Saturday?” Agent O’Dell fidgeted while she calculated the unusually short time line. “Kansas City is not a copycat. He left the goddamn kidney at my door.”

Tully winced. Forget chess. This would be more like a showdown at the OK Corral. Cunningham, however, didn’t blink.

“The young woman was a pizza delivery person. She was taken while delivering her route.”

Agent O’Dell became agitated, crossing her legs, then uncrossing them as if restraining her words. Tully knew she had to be exhausted.

Cunningham continued, “She had to have been taken somewhere close by. Perhaps in the neighborhood. He raped and sodomized her, slit her throat and removed her spleen.”

“By sodomized are you saying he raped her himself from behind or with another item?”

Tully couldn’t see a difference. Wasn’t either hideous enough? Cunningham looked to him for the answer. This, unfortunately, he could answer without digging through a single file. The young girl had looked too much like Emma for him not to remember every detail. Whether he wanted them to be or not, they were stamped in his memory.

“There was no semen left behind, but the medical examiner seemed convinced it was penile stimulation. There were no traces or remnants that a foreign object might leave behind.”

“Stucky’s never done that before.” O’Dell sat at the edge of her chair, suddenly animated. “He wouldn’t do that. There would be no point. He likes to watch their faces. He enjoys seeing their fear. He wouldn’t be able to see that from behind.”

Cunningham tapped his fingertips on the desktop as if waiting for O’Dell to finish.

“The young woman delivered a pizza to your new home the night she was murdered.”

The silence seemed amplified when the drumming of the fingertips stopped. Cunningham and Tully watched O’Dell. She sat back, looking from one to the other. Tully saw the realization in her eyes. He expected to see fear, maybe anger. It surprised him to find what looked like resignation. She rubbed a hand over her face and tucked strands of hair behind her ears. Otherwise, she sat quietly.

“That’s why, Agent O’Dell, I’m guessing it didn’t matter that you stayed in Kansas City. He’ll follow you.” Cunningham loosened his tie and rolled up his sleeves as though he was suddenly too warm. Both gestures seemed foreign. “Albert Stucky is pulling you into this, no matter what I do to keep you out of it.”

“And by keeping me out of it, sir, you’re taking away my only defense.” O’Dell’s voice had an undeniable quiver to it. Tully saw her bite down on her lower lip. Was it to restrain her words or control the quiver?

Cunningham glanced over at Tully, sat back and released his own sigh of resignation. “Agent Tully has requested that you assist him on the case.”

O’Dell stared at Tully with surprise. He found himself a bit embarrassed and not sure why. It wasn’t as if he had made the request to do her any favors. It could be putting her in even more danger. But the fact was, he needed her.

“I’ve decided to grant Agent Tully’s request on two conditions, neither of which I’m willing to negotiate or compromise.” Cunningham leaned forward again, elbows on his desktop, hands fisted together. “Number one, Agent Tully is to remain the lead on this investigation. I expect you to share all information and knowledge as soon as it becomes available to you. You will not—and I repeat, Agent O’Dell—you will not go off on a wild-goose chase or check on hunches without Agent Tully accompanying you. Is that understood?”

“Of course,” she answered, her voice now strong and firm again.

“Number two. I want you to see the Bureau’s psychologist.”

“Sir, I really don’t think—”

“Agent O’Dell, I said there will be no negotiating, no compromise. I’ll leave it up to Dr. Kernan as to how many times he wants to see you each week.”

“Dr. James Kernan?” O’Dell seemed appalled.

“That’s right. I had Anita set up your first appointment. Check with her on your way out for the time. She’s also setting up an office for you. Agent Tully occupies your old one. I saw no reason in moving both of you. Now, if the two of you will excuse me.” He sat back, dismissing them. “I have another appointment.”

Tully gathered his mess and waited for O’Dell at the door. For a woman who had just been given what she had wanted for the last five months, she looked more agitated than relieved.