Strings of Fate (Mistresses of Fate) (12 page)

WHEN SHE CAME
back to herself, ten minutes had passed. She stood and dusted off her knees, a little confused. She remembered that moment so clearly that she could picture the clothes they were wearing, the color of the roses in bloom, but Tavey’s grandfather would never have let them play with the puppies, not unsupervised.

She shook it off for the moment and hobbled on legs that had fallen asleep to the little cross that lay, tilted a little, under the shade of the big tree. She stood looking down at it, head bent as if in prayer, and maybe she was praying.

“I miss you forever.”

And with that she turned and made her awkward way across the circle and back to her studio, wishing she had time for a green tea latte. She needed a caffeine boost if she was going to be all calm and soothing for these folks.

ONCE HER CLASS
was over, she showered and changed quickly into jeans, a long-sleeve T-shirt, a jacket, and coral UGGs. She made sure the back door to her apartment, the one that opened to the wrought-iron balcony and spiral staircase, was locked, and went out the door that led to the interior staircase. She was careful to lock it behind her as well, though she usually wasn’t so conscientious.

She continued down to the bottom floor, where there was a small lobby with black and white tiles and a door that led out to the back, behind the circle, where Chris, Tavey, and the employees of the boutique usually parked. On the wall to the right of the staircase were the three inset mailboxes for the building, and to the left was the side door to the boutique. She had a key; Tavey preferred that customers use the main entrance, so she kept it locked.

Chris opened it carefully, since sometimes customers were browsing on the other side, and shut it behind her.

“Hey, it’s Chris,” she called, not wanting to scare Tavey or the manager, Betty, a short, round woman with bright blue eyes.

“Over here,” Betty called.

Chris walked past an aisle of various squeaky toys to the main counter, which was lined with a display case featuring treats that looked good enough for a person to eat, much less a dog. The sounds of clippers and the occasional bark came from the right, where, instead of a bedroom like in her apartment, a small grooming salon had been created. A half door that swung on a hinge had
EMPLOYEES ONLY
written on it.

Betty was sitting behind the counter tallying something, her gray hair in tidy curls, her wrinkled blue eyes delighted to see Chris, as always.

“Hey, Bettes.” Chris approached the counter. “How are you this morning?”

“I’m fine, honey,” she drawled. “How are you?”

Chris shrugged, not wanting to go into details. Betty had a bad habit of suggesting that she stop chasing after missing kids, find a man, and have some kids of her own. “I met a handsome man,” she offered now, which was the truth.

“Did you? Well, that’s good, honey. Are you going on a date?”

Chris considered that. “I’m seeing him today.” Again, not a lie.

Betty set her clipboard down. “I’m so happy for you. I hope this one works out.”

Chris hoped he didn’t end up shooting her. That would be working out, in her opinion.

“Is Tavey around? She asked me to stop by.”

“She’s in the back going over everything with the new groomer. What a sweet girl.”

“Okay, I’ll just—”

“I heard you,” Tavey said as she breezed through the swinging door.

Tavey always looked put-together, even though she dealt with dogs and mud and god knew what else on a daily basis. She was wearing jeans that fit her tall, athletic frame perfectly, knee-high riding boots in a cognac color, and a matching leather belt with a gold buckle. A long-sleeve navy shirt, a colorful scarf, and a tidy French braid completed the look, which radiated confidence.

“Betty, could you show the new groomer where the supplies are and make sure she signs all her paperwork? Courtney has her hands full with that Chihuahua from hell.”

“Sure, I’ll do that. You be sure and ask Miss Christina about the handsome man she met today.” Betty slid out of her chair, made sure she had her balance, and carried her generous frame through the doors to the salon.

Once she was out of sight, Tavey embraced Chris in a hard, brief hug. “You okay?”

“I’m fine.”

Tavey, who was a few inches taller than Chris even without the boots, looked into Chris’s face doubtfully. “Yeah, the bags under your eyes are telling a different story.”

“Well . . .” Chris shrugged. “How would you sleep if you’d just found out that you were partially responsible for a bunch of people dying?”

Tavey pressed her lips together. “Probably not well.”

“Hmm . . .” Chris shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. I’m headed over to the FBI building to see if I can help them figure out exactly which of the identities I’ve created have been used to kill people.”

“You want me to come with you?” Tavey offered.

Chris considered it; she wouldn’t mind having someone as forthright and respected as Tavey along, but she didn’t want to drag her friend into this mess any more than she had already.

“No, it’s okay.”

“All right,” she agreed, “but call me when you get back. I have to head back home after lunch and meet with some people who want to adopt one of the rescue hounds.”

“Okay,” Chris said, “I’ll call you. Ten bucks says that Raquel will show up at my door after work.”

“No deal.” Tavey smiled.

16

SLEEP HADN’T BEEN
a big part of Ryan’s evening. He’d gone back to his apartment in Rome and run about ten miles on the treadmill he kept in his living room while he watched episodes of
Dr. Who
that he’d recorded on his DVR. He’d gone to bed thinking about the case, about the unsub who talked of strings. After about an hour, he’d given up on sleep and pulled his laptop into bed, running a Google search on strings and the human body, on strings and creators, puppeteers, strings and Fate. He’d found one obvious connection to a Chinese story about people who were fated to love each other. They were said to be connected by a red string of fate. The concept the unsub described seemed similar, aside from the fact that he referred to multiple strings and claimed that he could see them, the strings that connected people to each other.

Ryan found it slightly ironic that when studying the connections of victims to killers, to each other, to the world around them, the agents often drew network diagrams with lines that they would color based on the relationship—brother to brother, lover to friend, business associate to accident victim.

He thought maybe this unsub believed he could see these connections and that his actions—the cutting of the ankles, knees, wrists, elbows, and throats—were somehow symbolically removing the victims’ connections to the world. He didn’t know; it was all fucking crazy.

He stopped thinking and rubbed his forehead. If it weren’t so late, he’d call his brother Jake, get his take on the situation. Jake was a musician, the only artist Helmer that Ryan was aware of. He was a good sounding board, since he’d never worked in law enforcement and was pretty good with people. Come to think of it, though, Jake was probably awake, since he was an hour behind in Texas.

Ryan reached over to the nightstand and detached his phone from the charger. After a quick scroll through his favorites, he located his brother’s number, and pressed call.

Jake answered after two rings, his voice smooth as melted chocolate, the sounds of laughter and the distant chords of a guitar in the background.

“What’s up, man?”

“Hey, Jake, how’s it going?”

“Pretty good, just wrapped up a set at Mucky Duck in Houston. You remember it?”

Ryan did. It was a small venue that ran toward indie rock, folksingers, and country bands. “That’s good. Things going well for you out there?”

“They are indeed. Mom and Dad are doing well, and our big brother just helped catch the group responsible for killing a bunch of district attorneys.”

“I heard about that,” Ryan acknowledged. “I need to call him.”

“You’ve been pretty busy yourself.”

“Heard about that, did you?”

“Sure did.” Jake didn’t say anything else, waiting for Ryan to talk or not talk as the case may be. Ryan loved that about his brother, but he wasn’t going to keep him if he was hanging out with guys in his band.

“It’s pretty fucked up,” Ryan allowed.

“You close to catching him?”

Ryan gave a short laugh that had nothing to do with humor. “Maybe. Hard to tell.”

“So what’s up, bro, what’s bothering you?”

Ryan sighed, closed his eyes, and leaned his head back against his headboard. “There’s a woman involved. She’s different.”

There was a small silence in which Ryan could imagine his brother sitting back, an ice water in front of him, a girl pouting by his side because he wasn’t paying attention to her. “Well,” he drawled, “different good or different bad?”

“I don’t know. I need to find out, for the case, but . . .” Ryan trailed off, running a hand through his hair.

“You’re gun-shy.”

“What?”

“The last woman you were attracted to turned out to be a crazy bitch, so . . .”

Jake didn’t usually talk about women that way. Ryan’s ex had a special place in his brother’s heart. “Now I think they’re all crazy bitches?”

“Yeah.” Jake sounded thoughtful. “Pretty much.”

“I don’t think that. Besides, there’s plenty of evidence that this is one to avoid. She’s reckless, obsessive, and has no regard for rules.”

Jake laughed. “Uh-huh. Those are usually the ones you like.”

“Look who’s talking, old man. I bet the girl next to you is hoping to break as many rules as she can before she turns twenty-five.”

“She probably already has.”

“Uh-huh. I’ll let you get back to her before she loses patience.”

“I’m not worried about that. You need something, you call.”

“I’m good, man, talk to you again soon.”

“All right, brother, be safe. Catch the bad guys.”

“You, too, Jake.” Ryan hung up, feeling better without exactly knowing why. He set his laptop aside and plugged his phone back in, scrolling through the numbers until he stopped at Ms. Pascal’s. He could text her, make sure she was okay, see what she’d come up with on the case.

He hesitated. Or he could go to bed, and not buy into her particular brand of crazy.

Bed. Bed was good.

“Shit,” he muttered, and pulled the pillow next to him over his head. It was going to be a long night.

17