Читать книгу Identity Crisis - Kate Donovan - Страница 9

“Say your prayers, blondie, because tonight, I’m gonna flatten you!” Kristie Hennessy aimed a high-flying kick straight at her target’s smiling face and shouted, “Take that!”

The five-foot-high bop bag careened backward, dipping nearly to the floor, then bounced back up, still grinning.

“Curse you, Betty Bop!” Kristie’s fists began to pummel the bag with feigned ferocity, interspersed with high kicks. “Take that! And that!”

Her aim was getting better, and she congratulated herself as she danced around the toy, attacking it from every direction. This was so much more fun than hitting and kicking the twin-bed mattress that was still propped against the wall of her spare bedroom, having served as her target for weeks while she worked through the introductory lessons of a kickboxing videotape.

“No more faceless enemy,” she crowed. “Just two blondes kicking each other senseless. There’s a dumb-blonde joke in there somewhere, Betty, but I can’t think of a good punch line.”

Landing a final kick, she stood back and bowed to her synthetic opponent, which had been painted to resemble a popular computer-game heroine sporting yellow hair, ample—albeit two-dimensional—breasts and a gold leotard.

Turning to catch a glimpse of her own ensemble—cutoff jeans and a gray halter top soaked with sweat—Kristie grimaced. Not exactly a superheroine, but that was okay with her. After all, she didn’t plan on ever putting these skills to use. She just liked understanding what her operatives went through so that she could design more effective cover stories for them.

Because you’re Super-Spinner, she reminded herself playfully, acknowledging that she was indeed living a kind of fantasy, thanks to having been lucky enough to land a job in Washington, D.C., with the Strategic Profiling and Identification Network, otherwise known as SPIN. Where else could she hope to spend hours every day brainstorming by phone with agents from the FBI, DEA and ATF, as well as detectives from sophisticated metropolitan police departments like the NYPD and LAPD?

Although closely associated with the FBI, SPIN had been designed and established as a separate federal entity working on a contract basis with various law-enforcement agencies. Sometimes the task was straightforward, such as profiling a suspect or confirming a profile that had already been developed. Other times, a spinner became immersed in a particular case by designing an undercover identity for an agent and then providing phone support for the duration of the operation. The contracting agency decided the level of support needed, and budgeted the project accordingly. SPIN’s own internal budget was small, focusing on high-tech equipment and a core staff of profilers and strategists.

In her six months with the agency, Kristie had demonstrated an aptitude and commitment that had earned her the respect of her team, the confidence of director Ray Ortega and a portfolio of complex and highly sensitive cases that absorbed her every waking thought.

And at the moment, the most absorbing of those assignments was the assistance she was providing to Special Agent Justin Russo of the FBI, who in turn was assisting police in locating a kidnapped child.

“Justin, why don’t you call?” she entreated her favorite operative aloud as she stripped off her drenched clothes and headed for the shower, taking the cordless phone with her into the bathroom, just in case. “It’s almost nine o’clock. You always call by eight, so what gives?”

Turning up the spray of hot water until it was at full force, she stepped into the shower and allowed her muscles to relax.

He’ll call. He always does. He’s not like McGregor, thank heavens. The world could be coming to an end and he wouldn’t think to pick up the phone.

McGregor, McGregor, McGregor…

Of all the agents she had worked with thus far at SPIN, Will McGregor was the most confounding to Kristie. No matter how many times she came through for him—designing identities, profiling informants, strategizing her heart out—he had never once contacted her for follow-up. And certainly never to say thank-you. The FBI agent was darned independent, and while she knew from his psych evaluation that it was simply his nature, she still resented it.

All the other operatives phoned her routinely during active cases. And her favorite—the intrepid Justin Russo—spoiled her rotten, calling each and every night to report, amuse and flirt. He had even named her “Essie,” insisting that her official contact name, S-3, was too impersonal for such a beautiful and talented girl.

Beautiful and talented…

She sighed as she turned off the water and began to dry herself. In actuality, Justin had no idea what she looked like. None of the operatives did. That was part of Ray Ortega’s system—complete anonymity for the spinners.

In contrast, she knew everything about her operatives—or, at least, everything their files could tell her, plus whatever she could manage to glean over the phone. Which made the phone-free situation with Agent Will McGregor all the more frustrating.

Forget about him, she advised herself. McGregor’s a loner. Always has been, always will be. Just be glad Justin and the others are more sociable.

As if on cue, the phone began to ring, and she dashed for her desk so that her home copy of the kidnapping file would be close at hand. Then she took a deep breath and answered with a crisp, professional, “This is S-3. Please identify yourself.”

“Hey, Essie.”

“Justin! Thank heavens. Is everything okay?”

“Yeah. We wrapped this one up tonight. I can only talk for a minute, but I knew you’d want to know.”

“Wrapped it up?” Kristie sank into a chair, completely unnerved. “What does that mean? Did you find Lizzie? Was she…?”

“We didn’t find the body yet,” he murmured. “The local authorities are gonna take it from here. We made the arrest. Got the confession. The rest is just…well, they can handle it from here.”

The body.

Those two words told her all she needed to know.

“At least she didn’t suffer much,” Justin was insisting. “Apparently, she fell and hit her head. Never regained consciousness. And there was no sexual assault. That’s a blessing, right? I’m not saying death is preferable to that, or vice versa, but—”

“Don’t worry, Justin. This is no time for political correctness. If the choice is between death and molestation, there’s no choice at all.”

“Right.”

His mournful tone reminded her that he must have gone through hell the last few hours, so she forced herself to find the bright side for both their sakes. “It really is a relief that she didn’t suffer. We can be grateful for that.”

“Yeah. Real grateful.”

“Try not to think about it anymore tonight. Just be proud that you brought that bastard to justice before he could hurt anyone else.” A million questions invaded the spinner’s brain. “What finally made Horton confess? Did a new witness step forward? And why didn’t he tell you where he hid the—the body? That doesn’t make much sense.”

“Horton?” Justin sounded as confused as Kristie. “You thought it was him? Why?”

Kristie winced. “You’re saying it wasn’t? Sheesh, I was so sure. Who was it then?”

There was a long silence. Then Justin murmured, “I didn’t see anything in the file to indicate he was your top suspect. I mean, he was on your list, but so were seven other people.”

“What difference does it make?” she demanded. “Tell me who did it.”

“Tell me why you thought it was Coach Horton,” he countered.

“I don’t know. Instinct, I guess. But I didn’t have any facts to back it up, which is why I didn’t highlight him in the file. You know Ray’s rule—we can follow any hunch we want in-house, but if there’s nothing in the file to support it, we have to be objective in the analysis we send to the field. And now I see why,” she admitted, half to herself.

She had been so sure Horton was the kidnapper. Had felt it in her bones, so much so that she had spent two long hours in Ray Ortega’s office, trying to force the facts into the traditional abductor profile. All because her gut told her she was right, and until now, her gut had never betrayed her.

But Ray didn’t believe in gut instinct, or hunches, or female intuition. And apparently, in this case at least, he had been right.

So?” She returned to her no-nonsense approach. “Who killed poor Lizzie? The neighbor with the motorcycle?” When the agent didn’t answer right away, she felt a twinge of foreboding. “Justin? Who was it?”

“The kid.”

“Pardon?” It didn’t make any sense for a moment, then she realized he was referring to the victim’s fourteen-year-old brother, Randy, and she gasped the boy’s name in disbelief.

“Yeah. It’s been rough all around,” the operative confirmed. “As if that family didn’t already have enough grief.”

Kristie was shaking her head, still stunned. “When you say he confessed, what exactly do you mean?”

“I mean he did it. He told us he did it. He’s racked with guilt, Essie. They had to sedate him, and even then, he was a mess. It was one of the most painful things I’ve ever had to witness.”

“Oh, Justin. How horrible.”

“It was an accident. The kids had an argument, then Randy pushed her, and she hit her head. When he realized she wasn’t breathing, he panicked and threw her in the river. They’re dragging it again as we speak, so it’s only a matter of time.”

Kristie struggled not to picture how Lizzie Rodriguez’s little body would look after six days in icy water. The poor, sweet angel…

“This is so awful, Justin. Do you know what made Randy decide to confess? It’s been almost a week. Why today?”

“I asked him that. And he said…” The agent’s voice trailed into silence.

“Justin? What’s wrong?”

“Tell me why Coach Horton was your top suspect.”

“Pardon?”

He exhaled audibly. “I spent the whole day at the school, conducting another round of useless interviews. Just when I was leaving, Randy approached me and said he wanted to turn himself in. I was surprised, because I had been watching him in the cafeteria during lunch. He was talking to his friends, and it was the first time I’d seen him look halfway relaxed since—well, since I got here. I remember thinking to myself, the days are probably getting a little easier, but I bet the nights are still a bitch. Missing his baby sister. Hearing his mom cry.”

“Go on.”

“I even mentioned it to the vice principal—that the kid’s mood seemed to be improving. And she said the staff were all trying to be sensitive and supportive. To be aware but not crowd him. Then she said she saw Horton take him aside after lunch—probably to do that very thing. You know, give him moral support. Horton’s a part-time guidance counselor as well as the track coach, you know, so it made sense.”

“Randy talked to the coach this afternoon? And then out of the blue…?” Kristie stopped herself from finishing the sentence, prompting the agent instead. “So? What did he say when you asked him ‘Why today?’”

“He said Coach Horton reminded him that he was just a kid. That he shouldn’t carry his grief inside. That no matter what he said or did, his teachers and parents and community cared and would support him. It made sense, Essie.”

“It still does,” she assured the agent. “That’s just the kind of thing a really good guidance counselor would say. I just didn’t think…”

“You didn’t think Horton was a ‘really good’ one? Why not?”

She took a deep breath, then admitted, “Instinct, pure and simple. I’ll admit he didn’t fit the profile in several key respects. At least, no more than any of the other men the cops questioned. But there were those two years of his life, in his late twenties, when he suddenly didn’t have a real job. I just kept coming back to that.”

“His mother was dying. Emphysema, right? She needed him to come home. And she had enough retirement money so he could afford to help her full-time. That’s what the file said. His relatives and neighbors made it sound like he was a frigging saint,” Justin added, his tone slightly frantic. “But you don’t think so? Is that it? You think…what?”

“I guess I don’t think anyone’s a saint,” Kristie admitted. “And I don’t think twenty-eight-year-old men who’ve been holding themselves out as Mr. Macho for years suddenly quit their jobs and break their engagement to their high-school sweetheart and move home to play nursemaid for two whole years—no matter how sick their mom is—unless there’s something else going on.”

“Geez, Essie, don’t say that.” Justin heaved an exaggerated sigh, then muttered, “Okay, say it. Your gut instinct has been flawless in every case we’ve worked together. Almost eerie. So…?”

Her heart was pounding again. “Either I’m right or I’m wrong. Obviously. But if I’m right—”

“If you’re right, Lizzie might still be alive? That’s what you’re thinking? Based on what?”

“Horton wants the search directed elsewhere. Away from him. Buying himself more time—more time to spend with Lizzie. He doesn’t really think he’s going to get away with it, but he wants it to last as long as possible. It’s right there in his file, Justin. I see it, even though I can’t explain it.” Kristie’s voice almost cracked with desperation. “He’s not finished yet, Justin. We still have time.”

“Damn, Essie, I want that to be true.”

“I know you do. Her big brother does, too. So—” She took a deep breath, then exhaled and instructed him briskly, “Just do exactly what I say.”

Kristie had promised Justin Russo she’d wait a full half hour before putting their plan into action, allowing plenty of time for him to smuggle a phone into Randy’s room at the juvenile detention center. The agent was risking his case by putting her in touch with a detainee without alerting defense counsel, and was probably risking his career as well, all because of his faith in a woman he had never met.

Now it was up to Kristie. Or rather, up to Melissa Daniels. Because Kristie Hennessy definitely intended to delegate this particular assignment to her red-haired counterpart. Melissa had gotten her this great job, and had been a virtual operative for several of her most challenging assignments. Now she was going to crack this kidnapping case.

The spinner propped three pictures on a shelf in front of the phone for inspiration. The first was a photo of fourteen-year-old Randy Rodriguez, a typical boy with bravado to spare, yet gentleness behind his soft brown eyes. According to all reports, Randy had played hero in his five-year-old sister’s life since the very day she’d been born.

Little Lizzie Rodriguez. She had the same brown eyes and dark hair as her brother and was just as adorable. Staring back at Kristie from the second photo, her eyes danced as playfully as the teddy-bear emblem on her pink polo shirt.

Each of those photos was an inspiration, but given the chutzpah needed for this endeavor, Kristie focused on the third picture—a computer-generated image of Melissa Daniels. Long legs and a perfect body, cut-and-pasted from the Internet and clad in black leather. Luxurious red curls framing a face that was based on Kristie’s, but with shamrock-green eyes, sharper cheekbones and a sinfully generous mouth, all accentuated by sultry makeup and a saucy smile.

When she was just about as psyched up as she could hope to be, Kristie glanced at her watch, confirmed that it was time, then took a deep breath and reached for the no-frills cell phone she kept in the top drawer of her dresser.

She didn’t dare use her home phone to make this call, knowing that SPIN monitored and taped it. Her cell, on the other hand, wasn’t registered, since she had purchased it solely for the purpose of making private calls. Not that she generally made any such calls, but she had always hoped her love life might one day reactivate itself, and when it did, she didn’t want anyone, much less Ray Ortega, listening in.

Meanwhile, this phone’s day—or rather, its night—had apparently arrived.

Bracing herself, Kristie entered the phone number, then began to count the rings. One, two, three—

“H-hello?”

The plaintive voice brought a lump to the spinner’s throat, but she banished it and spoke confidently into the phone. “Hi, Randy. My name is Melissa Daniels, and it’s my job to help little girls in trouble. I’m six feet tall with flaming-red hair and a black belt in karate. And I’m not afraid of a damned thing in the whole damned world. How does that sound to you?”

Dead silence greeted the announcement.

“Randy? Are you still there?”

“I already told the police—”

“I know what you told them. I also know why you told them that. I’m very proud of you, Randy, but you and I both know there’s more to be done, don’t we? And we have to act fast. Right?”

“I don’t know.”

“That’s because you’ve never done this before. But I’ve saved hundreds of children, so I know exactly what to do. Just stay on the phone with me, and keep listening to my voice, and everything will be fine. Okay?”

He didn’t reply, but the sound of rapid breathing told her he was beginning to panic.

“Take a deep breath, sugar. I’m going to ask you a question, and you’re going to answer it yes or no. And after that, we’re going to go find Lizzie and bring her home. Okay?”

A small sob that sounded suspiciously like his sister’s name was his only response.

“Are you ready for the question, Randy?”

“Y-yes.”

“Okay. When Coach Horton talked to you today—”

“I can’t talk about him! Please don’t make me! If I do—”

“If you do, he’ll hurt Lizzie? That’s all I needed to know.” Kristie’s pulse began to race. “Horton told you she’s alive, right? That’s why you confessed—to keep her alive. You did the right thing. The smart thing. The only thing. And now with your help, I’m going to make sure he never has a chance to hurt her again.”

“You don’t understand! He doesn’t have to do anything to her. He already did it.”

“Did what?”

“He buried her in the dirt, in the middle of the woods, and he’s the only one who knows where she is. If he gets arrested, we’ll never find her and she’ll run out of air. Oh God, now what? I promised him—”

“Randy! Listen to me. Take a deep breath.” She waited a moment, then demanded, “What color hair do I have?”

“R-red.”

“And what am I afraid of?”

“Nothing,” he whispered.

“And how many little girls have I saved?”

The boy was silent for a few seconds, then answered in a voice rich with innocent hope. “Hundreds?”

“You bet your ass, sugar. So, what do you say we make it hundreds plus one?”