The Strategist (10 page)

“Absolutely,” Graham answered as he stood up, looked at Sullivan and nodded.

“Understood,” Sullivan repeated like the good soldier that she was.

“Good. Now go nail that bastard. I don’t care if it’s Stephen Clemmons, Leroy the crack-head or Satan himself. You just nail his ass.”

“You got it boss,” Graham said with the wide-eyed look of an athlete amped up by his coach’s halftime speech.

Sullivan walked out of Hitchcock’s office without saying another word. From behind her she heard Graham’s voice.

“Hey Chloe. You and I need to talk about a few things.”

Sullivan turned to him with a flat expression. “What things?”

“Later,” was all he said. T
hen he turned and walked in the other direction.

She assumed he was getting to work on the one and only lead that he planned to follow. She would be getting to work too. There were a million other possibilities out there besides the thirty-ei
ght-year-old mail clerk with a solid employment record and no real criminal history. Someone had to pursue them.

Sullivan may have been a good soldier, but she finally decided that it was time to stop
playing along.

CHAPTER 16

J
ulia’s identity was officially revealed during the nine p.m. newscast, as were details about where she worked and the extensive connections she had in the legal and political community. But aside from the rampant speculation that foul play was involved, information regarding how she died was still being withheld, as were any possible motives behind her death.

The televised image of the crime scene that used to be Julia’s house had been a constant throughout the day, and Camille had not been able to pull herself away from it since arriving home fro
m her meeting with Detectives Graham and Sullivan.

Her father sat beside her on the couch the entire time, leaving only for the occasional bathroom or kitchen break. They didn’t speak much. Mostly he just looked at her; sometimes with a reassuring smile, sometimes with a sad glance. But never once did he try to make sense of the situation or offer
a comforting word. He was wise enough to know that there is no such thing as a comforting word on the day your daughter’s best friend is murdered.

When the newscast moved on to a story about the city’s latest budget crisis, he turned off the television. “I’m pretty sure you haven’t eaten today. Do you want me to whip something up?” he asked as he gently squeezed her hand.

“No thank you,” she answered stoically, her vacant eyes staring at nothing.

Paul got up from the couch and stood over Camille, his hand still holding hers. “I’m just going to grab a cup of coffee then. Let me know if you change your mind.”

Camille nodded, her expression unchanged.

Paul stood for a long time before finally letting go of her hand. By the time s
he summoned the will to look up he was already in the kitchen.

As she sat alone in the cold silence of her living room, the shock and overwhelming sadness of the day slowly gave way to a numb detachment that left her feeling as if she were floating above her own body, looking down at a person she no longer recognized. The result was a malaise that was becoming increasingly debilitating, and she worried that if she sat much longer it would eventually paralyze her.

So with every ounce of strength she could muster, Camille stood up from the couch, walked upstairs and into her bedroom. Fighting against the gravitational pull of her bed, she turned her attention to the two suitcases that she had yet to unpack. There wasn’t much inside – a few standard-issue suits from her Bureau days, a handful of dresses that her hectic work schedule rarely afforded her time to wear, and the eight pairs of True Religion jeans that were her only real vice in life. But the unpacking would at least occupy her for a few minutes.

She hadn’t been able to stop thinking about Graham and Sullivan, and how much, or how little, they actually knew about Julia’s murder. She didn’t know the first thing about Stephen Clemmons, and hoped that they were right in their suspicion of him. But Graham’s thinly veiled assertion that Julia was having a secret relationship with him could not have been more off-base. The day Julia Leeds even entertained the thought of dating a mail clerk would mark the official end of the world. And if she did date him, she would never keep it from Camille, even if she saw fit to hide it from the rest of the world. Camille had no doubt that Julia was keeping something from her yesterday. But it had absolutely nothin
g to do with Stephen Clemmons.

As she hung her clothes in the empty closet, Camille was troubled by something else. Why would Clemmons steal Julia’s car, as Graham had suggested, and dump it less than a block from his own house? He would only do that if he wanted every police officer in the city pounding on his door. Camille had dealt with every station of criminal imaginable, and not a single one of them was ever that stupid.

She wondered if Detective Sullivan felt the same way. Clemmons seemed to be Graham’s crusade, and Sullivan didn’t look anything like a wholly devoted follower. Camille hoped that she was as good a cop as she appeared to be. She also hoped that the young detective had the will to dig her heels in when she needed to; that she had learned to trust instincts that were more reliable than she probably realized. Camille may have lost a lot of things in the last two months, but her instincts were fully intact. And those instincts were telling her that something about Graham was not right. She knew it from the moment she met him, and nothing in the subsequent hour that she spent with him dissuaded her of that notion.

But right now there was nothing she could do about Graham or Sullivan except leave them to their jobs and hope that the next time she saw them, they would be delivering the head of J
ulia’s killer to her doorstep.

When Camille finished hanging the clothes from her first suitcase she turned her attention to the second. There were mostly shoes in this one, along with a few other odds and ends that Camille didn’t want to leave in the D.C. storage unit that housed most everything else she owned.

She took a step toward the suitcase but stopped. The feeling of weightlessness that had gripped her for most of the day suddenly returned and her legs buckled. Before she could steady herself, she stumbled backward into the closet, her fall being partially broken by the suitcase she had just unpacked. She tried to pick herself up but the floor rose beneath her, sending her shoulder first into the wall. A searing pain shot through her torso and she covered her mouth to stifle her cries. Struggling to move legs that felt like cement, she pushed off of her elbows to position herself upright against the closet wall. She hadn’t noticed the blood on her fingers until she used them to wipe the tears rolling down her cheek. She was unsure where the blood came from until she put her hand over her mouth again. When she took it away it was covered with a fresh layer of crimson. When she crashed into the wall she must have bitten into her lip with enough force to split it open. It was only when she realized this that the pain actually hit her.

In the dark of the closet she saw flashes of light. Red and blue flares. White hot strobes. The dim yellow of filtered sunlight. When she pressed her palm against the closet wall in an attempt to push herself up, she felt not a smooth surface, but the jagged edges of cobblestone. The wall pulsated with the sounds of screaming – persistent, pleading, distant screaming. She had heard those screams many times before, just as often as she had felt the jagged edges of that cobblestone and seen the flashing lights.  The screams came from the two University of Pennsylvania cheerleaders who were held captive
for three weeks inside Daniel Sykes’ dank cobblestone cellar; the same cobblestone cellar where she cradled the bleeding head of Agent Andrew Sheridan seconds before he died. Now she found herself inside that cellar again. And like before her hands were covered in blood. But this time it wasn’t Agent Sheridan’s or even her own.

When Julia’s pale, battered face suddenly appeared against the backdrop of flashing light, Camille again raised her hand to cover her mouth. Unlike before, she couldn’t stifle the noise that came out of it. In an instant, another figure appeared in front of her. Convinced the massive shado
w standing over her was Daniel Sykes, she retreated deeper into the closet, screaming as loudly as the limited air in her lungs would allow.

Large hands reached for her and she weakly attempted to push them away.
“Camille calm down. It’s me.”

The voice barely registered above the volume of her screams.

“Camille, stop it. Stop it!”

The hands that she initially fought off grabbed her by the shoulders and shook.

“It’s me, Camille. You’re okay. I promise you’re okay.”

The recognition of her father’s voice instantly stopped her. She watched with blurry eyes as he stood up and pulled the cord that hung from the ceiling. The closet suddenly filled with light, momentarily blinding her. When she opened her eyes and saw the startled expression on her father’s face, she finally understood how bad things had gotten.

Camille had dealt with panic attacks of one degree or another since college. They intensified after her mother’s cancer diagnosis, and by the time she and Agent Sheridan found themselves in Daniel Sykes’ basement, the attacks were unbearable in their intensity and inescapable in their regularity. Following the Sykes incident and mental trauma that followed, the attacks were occasionally accompanied by repetitive sounds and images. She refused to call them hallucinations, but acknowledged that they were not real. The red and blue flashes, she had come to realize, represented the patrol car emergency lights that greeted her when she was pulled out of Sykes’ basement. The dim yellow represented the muted sunlight that filtered in through Sykes’ blackened basement windows – sunlight she was convinced she would never see again. And the screams belonged to Candice McPherson and Jessica Bailey, the two University of Pennsylvania coeds that Sykes held in his basement and subsequently killed.

Though these visions had been increasingly intense in the last two months, tonight’s episode was by far the worst. The visions felt real, from the jagged cobblestone on her fingers to the sight of Julia’s blood-caked blond hair. For the longest of moments, Camille actually believed that Danie
l Sykes was standing over her, and it wasn’t until her father nearly shook the life out of her that she realized he wasn’t.

“Put this on your lip. It’s bleeding like crazy.”

Camille felt a cold dampness on her mouth as her father put a wet washcloth over it. She wasn’t even aware that he had left to get one.

“I’m so sorry dad,” she said as she lowered the washcloth.

Paul immediately put it back over her mouth. “Best not to talk right now. You don’t want that cut opening up again.”

Camille agreed that it was best not to talk. She didn’t know what to say anyway. Paul was aware of her anxiety problem, but not the full extent of it. Now he was. She knew there would come a time when she would have to tell him everything.

“It’s okay, baby,” he whispered as he sat beside her on the closet floor, his arms cradling her like the wounded child she was. “I completely understand.”

Fortun
ately that time wasn’t now.

CHAPTER 17

C
amille wore the same black dress to Julia’s funeral that she had worn to Andrew Sheridan’s seven weeks earlier.

When a federal agent is killed in the line of duty, the scale of the service is grand, the list of mourners is long and distinguished, and the remembrances are usually tales filled of bravery, sacrifice, and honor. Agent Sheridan’s service was no different. Camille could still hear ‘Taps’ as if the bagpipes were being played next to her ear. She could smell the gunpowder as if the last round of the twenty-one gun salute had just been fired. And she could clearly see the stars and stripes of the American flag that had been handed to Agent Sheridan’s distraught widow as her husband of fifteen short years was being lowered into the ground. Camille had nothing to say that day aside from the hollow apology she had given to Mrs. Sheridan. She was asked to speak, to offer the service of over four hundred attendees some unknown anecdote on the man whose needless death they had come to mourn. But all she could remember about her par
tner of six-and-a-half-years was the dull black of his eight-ball hemorrhaged eyes and the way the entire left side of his face went slack as he tried to speak his last words. Andrew Sheridan was a hero in every sense of the word. It was he who led the charge into Daniel Sykes’ house without police back up when he found the school ID of Jessica Bailey in Sykes’ abandoned car. It was he who discovered Sykes’ cellar and the two girls trapped inside of it. And it was he who lost his life because his partner was rendered helpless by a panic attack upon discovery of the four other bodies in that cellar that were in various stages of decomposition. That last fact certainly qualified as an unknown anecdote. No one within the Bureau or Agent Sheridan’s family was aware of the full extent of Camille’s role in his death. And she had no intention of sharing it, at his funeral service or anywhere else.

Julia’s service was a much more modest affair. Including family, friends, and the well-dressed, silver-haired men who more than likely headed her law firm, Camille counted roughly sixty people. Julia’s family occupied the first two rows of the church. Camille and her father sat directly behind them. She immedi
ately recognized Nicole Blair, who, aside from her short cropped brunette hair, was a spitting image of Julia. She sat stone faced in between her husband and two adolescent sons. Camille didn’t know anyone else.

The service program was white with pink roses embroidered throughout. Above Julia’s bright face were the
words
In Loving Memory of Julia Leeds: a devoted sister, aunt, and friend
. Camille’s eyes watered as she read the order of service. When she got to the
Remembrances
section, she nearly lost her breath. Much like it had been with Agent Sheridan, Camille knew that she would probably be looked upon to eulogize her friend. Though she didn’t know most of the people in attendance, based upon the number of hugs and condolences she received when she arrived, most of them knew her. But as was the case with Agent Sheridan, Camille had neither the desire nor the courage to offer a proper testimonial. There was plenty she could say about Julia. She had enough warm stories and heartfelt memories to take up five memorial services. But there wasn’t anything warm about the story she had to tell right now. And the only memories she could summon were her own feelings of loss and failure.

No one wanted to hear that Camille had lost two of the people closest to her in the world in less than eight weeks, and that in both instances, she blamed herself for the loss. Julia’s death may not have been her fault directly, but in the three days since, Camille still had not forgiven herself for not taking Julia’s phone call or pressing her harder for answers when it was obvious that she needed some sort of help.

Anyone with even a basic understanding of the situation would tell Camille that what happened to Julia was not her fault. But they would be wrong. Camille would never be able to explain to them why they were. She just knew it. Just like she knew that she could not stand before them now and offer a final tribute to a life that should never have been taken. Her empty words would do justice to neither Julia’s life nor her memory.

The service began with the Lord’s Prayer and a hymn sung by a young woman identified as a member of the church’s youth choir. Following an extended moment of silence that was punctuated by the sobs and sniffles of the mournful, the church pastor approached the podium – a large red bible in his hands and a look of heavy somberness on his face.

“May the Lord’s everlasting grace be bestowed upon us as we gather to remember a remarkable young woman.”

The picture hanging above the closed casket happened to be one of Camille’s favorites. It showed Julia holding her two dogs when they were puppies. Her smile was radiant; a snapshot of happiness that Camille could now only pray was genuine.

After instructing the attendees to bow their heads for yet another prayer, the pastor opened his bible and began reading a verse from the book of Ecclesiastes.

“There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under heaven. A time to be born and a time to die. A time to plant and a time to uproot. A time to kill and a time to heal. A time to tear down and a time to build. A time to weep and a time to laugh. A time to mourn and a time to dance.”

There was indeed a time for everything. There would perhaps come a time when Camille would heal. A time when she would build. And even a time when she would laugh. But right now, for this and every other moment for the foreseeable future, there was only time to mourn.

Beyond her own sense of irreplaceable loss, Camille mourned for a world that would never get to know the Julia that she knew: the generous spirit, the loyal friend, the charismatic charmer. Unfortunately, she was powerless to show the world that side of her friend; just like she had been powerless to do so many other things.

The remembrances from family and friends were plentiful. Some were sad, some were reflective, and some were humorous. All of them were fitting.

When the service concluded and Julia’s ivory casket was being wheeled out of the church, Camille held tight to her father’s hand. He had been quiet for most of the service, his posture rigid and his jaw clenched. Despite his unwavering exterior, Camille knew that every muscle in his body was being charged with the task of keeping his frayed emotions in check.

“How are you holding up dad?” Camille had asked, realizing that it was the first time since this entire ordeal began that she had asked the question.

“Doing okay I guess,” he replied. Then
he squeezed her hand tighter. “And you?”

Camille watched as the casket was being wheeled outside and presumably into the back of the waiting hearse. Then she turned back to Paul, but could not find the words to reply.

The two were silent as they left the church.

When they reached the parking lot they were greeted by a woman and a teenage girl who said they were Julia’s aunt and niece. They all hugged as if they had known each other for years. “Julia talked about you often,” the woman who introduced herself as Meredith told Camille. “It’s a shame that when I finally get to meet you it’s under these circumstances.”

Camille nodded her agreement.

“Will we see you at the gravesite?” Meredith asked. “The procession will be leaving in about twenty minutes.”

“We’ll be there,” Paul answered.

Meredith smiled. “Okay. Oh, and before I forget. Nicole was talking about you earlier. I think she wanted to say a couple of things. Would you mind waiting here while I go find her?”

“Of course not,” Camille replied, although the sudden surge of anxiety swelling in her chest said otherwise. She hadn’t yet spoken with Julia’s sister, but had seen her in numerous interviews since Julia’s death; each one of them a tearful plea from a woman desperate to find out who killed the last remaining member of her immediate family. It was extraordinarily difficult to watch, and Camille dreaded the inevitable day when those tearful eyes would be focused on her. That day had now come.

“Hi Camille,” Nicole Blair said as she approached with extended arms.

They embraced with a force that both surprised and comforted Camille. “I’m so sorry, Nicole.”

Nicole responded by squeezing tighter.

They held each other for several more beats before Camille finally stepped back. “Nicole, this is my father Paul. Dad, this is Julia’s sister Nicole.”

Neither of them hesitated in hugging the other.

“I’m so sorry for your loss, Nicole. But you gave her a beautiful tribute.”

“Thank you, Mr. Grisham. I’m glad you could come.” She turned back to Camille. “You guys are more than welcome to ride with us to the cemetery if you’d like. I’ll be sure the driver gets you back here afterward.”

“I appreciate it, but I think we’ll be okay to drive ourselves,” Camille said, not feeling the least bit comfortable with the idea of riding in the car reserved for Julia’s family.

Nicole looked disappointed but nodded her understanding. “Okay. Do you mind then if we talk for a minute before we leave?”

“Of course not.”

A long silence followed and Paul picked up on the cue. “I’ll wait for you in the car honey. Nicole, we’ll see you at the cemetery.”

Camille smiled at her father’s trademark deftness.

“Nice to meet you Mr. Grisham,” Nicole said after another hug.

Camille waited until Paul was out of sight before speaking. “What did you want to talk about?”

Nicole took a deep breath and held it in, exhaling only after she seemed to find the right words. “The person who killed my sister.”

Camille’s body became rigid with tension. “What have the police told you?”

“Not as much as I would like. They keep asking if Julia was romantically involved with anyone. Whenever I tell them I’m not sure, they start throwing names at me as if that’s supposed to jog my memory. I don’t know if she was seeing anyone or not. She certainly never brought anyone around to meet us. I’ve repeatedly told them that but it doesn’t seem good enough.”

“Do you remember any of the names they mentioned?”

“No. Was there one that I should have remembered?”

Camille considered mentioning Stephen Clemmons but quickly thought better of it. “No. I was just curious.”

“Did they ask you the same questions?”

“They did. But my answer was the same as yours. If Julia was seeing anyone she didn’t tell me about it. And we normally talked openly about those things.”

Nicole’s eyes briefl
y lost their focus, as if she was distracted by a far away thought. “My question is why are they asking about Julia’s boyfriends when everyone seems to think it was a robbery?”

“It’s standard in any type of homicide investigation to learn as much about the victim’s life and the people in it as possible so as to rule out all other motives, including personal ones.”

Nicole looked at her with confused eyes. “So you’re saying there’s a possibility this was something personal? Like some kind of domestic thing?”

Camille was beginning to feel smothered by the weight of Nicol
e’s questions. “I don’t know.”

“Apparently neither do
the police. What sense does it make that her entire house would be ransacked and most everything she owned stolen if she was murdered by someone she knew?”

“Maybe it was purposefully done to make it appear that robbery was the motive,” Camille said, regretting it the instant she did.

Something in Nicole’s delicate face faltered and she looked as if she wanted to cry. “Is that what the police told you?”

“No.”

“But that’s what you think happened.”

“I can’t say right now, Nicole. The truth is that no one can.”

“Except for the monster who killed her. And it seems to me that they aren’t any closer now to figuring out who that is than the day it happened.”

Camille was trying her best to stay level-headed. “I’ve been on the other side of plenty of investigations like this, and unfortunately a resolution always takes more time than we’d like.”

“So as someone who has been a part of these kinds of investigations, what does your gut tell you about this one?” Nicole asked pointedly.

Camille’s stomach dropped. “I don’t think I’m in the best position to offer any kind of analysis.” She paused. “For a multitude of reasons.”

“I understand that you are as emotionally invested in this situation as any of us are. But the fact is that I trust your opinion right now a hell of a lot more than I trust those detectives.”

A quiet desperation was building in Nicole’s voice that frightened Camille. She could feel what was coming next and wanted nothing more than to walk away.

“Nicole, I don’t think you should–”

“Help us find him Camille,” Nicole interrupted.

“I’m not… I don’t do that anymore.”

“I understand that. And I’m truly sorry for everything that happened to you with that Circle Killer case. I know you don’t have a badge anymore, but I’m sure you still have resources. The police are saying all the right things in the media, but it’s obvious they don’t have the first goddamn clue about what happened here. If they had anything remotely solid, I wouldn’t be asking this of you. But we both know that they don’t have anything. Just like we both know that you’re twenty times more capable than anyone
that department has to offer.”