Читать книгу The Profiler - Lori A. May - Страница 11

When the cabbie drops me off at the scene, Cain is standing outside the mission building with Detective Severo, who’s talking to a middle-aged woman. I wasn’t expecting to see him, and now that I do I’m curious as to why he’s here.

“Nice Thanksgiving?” he asks as I step up to the curb outside the mission.

I shrug my shoulders, not interested in small talk. “Fine,” I say. “Burned the turkey.” Regret for confessing my culinary taboo immediately follows. Severo doesn’t need to learn one of my flaws so easily, but it doesn’t seem to faze him much.

“How ironic,” he says, then lifts his cardboard takeout box of stale-looking nachos, offering me a sample.

Shaking my head, I step closer to Cain to see what’s going on.

“Angie, thanks for getting over here quick. This is the housekeeper for the mission.” I note her fearful eyes, desperate for answers to which I myself have no idea of questions. “She was checking on one of the resident spiritual advisors when she found him…. Hell, I’ll let you have a look for yourself.”

As I offer a meek smile to the lady, trying to provide comfort for something I don’t yet understand, I notice the many guests of the mission. People are lined up outside the building, food in their hands, protective of what is likely the best meal they’ve had all week—or longer.

The building itself is plain and camouflaged with its unassuming exterior, only now it looks like a disco with the strobe lights of emergency vehicles dancing across its concrete exterior in the darkening night.

We climb the narrow staircase to the upper level, and I take in the stink of kerosene mixed with something more potent.

Burned human flesh.

Inside the advisor’s room, dim in this evening light, I see the corpse propped upright in a wooden rocking chair.

One thing doesn’t make sense. The room has no fire damage.

“Matthias Killarney. Fifty-two. Caucasian. Dead.”

The monotone of Cain’s voice signals the beginning of a long shift and I step closer to the body, interested to understand. A few investigators are rounding up forensic evidence and I’m careful not to step across their boundaries.

“This is Severo’s deal,” Cain says to me as I lean closer to the man’s body, covering my nose and mouth with some gauze. “The detective and I were enjoying our own holiday feast of wings and nachos down at Dooly’s Pub when he got called on this one. He was kind enough to invite us over to check it out. You know, so you can get your feet good and stuck in the mud.”

“How considerate,” I mumble, wondering how much Cain had to argue to convince the detective to extend that invitation. But I keep my focus on the crime scene.

The man is sitting in a firm position, placed in the wooden chair as though he were a puppet. Rigor mortis has reached its full extent, making the victim’s posture as static and flexible as a brick. This condition can last anywhere from twelve to forty-eight hours, and may provide an estimated time of death for the crime scene unit and medical examiner.

At first glance, the room appears calm and untouched by any intruder, but trace will undoubtedly disprove that naive impression.

I step back from the body and pull the cloth from my face. Despite the stench, I need to breathe freely. “What do we know?”

Detective Severo flips open his notepad and runs through the time of discovery and a few comments from resident workers. “But most important, albeit obvious, this guy was set up here on display. We don’t know where the actual crime took place yet, just that he was brought back to his home and propped up for someone to find. Excuse me a moment,” he says, and I watch as he meets up with some of his teammates for a discussion.

Cain leads me back outside, letting Severo’s team do their job. “The medical examiner will provide clues as to the fire. Whether this guy died in a blaze or what.”

“Why would someone go through all that trouble?” I lean on a tree and watch as the detective makes his way to meet us outside. I look from him to Cain, realizing in some ways the two men are complete opposites, yet by some arguments they are one and the same.

Cain’s hunched body, beaten with years and the streets, is deceiving. His appearance may be worn, but the profiler is like wine, only getting better with age. His exterior belies the solid, analytical man inside. His reputation alone…well, it’s enough to make a rookie agent like me drool with envy.

Though Severo is much younger, Cain obviously has respect for him, so there must be worlds of experience beyond his facade.

Cain lights up a cigarette and peers at me with narrowed eyes. “You’d be surprised, kid. And that’s for you to figure out, my little profiler in training.”

“But burning this man, and then bringing him back here—especially seeing how this is a busy place this time of year—it’s like he wanted to make a point. Why not just leave him at the original scene?” As I speak aloud, I find myself running the events through my mind, trying to make sense of them.

“The housekeeper says the last time anyone saw Killarney was yesterday afternoon. Wednesday,” Severo interjects. “But anything could have happened overnight, when only resident staff are around and likely asleep. But, yeah, seems risky.”

Before much silence has passed, Cain turns toward his car and motions for me to join him. “Come on, Angie. We’ll let the detective do his job here. And Severo—you know where to find us. If you don’t mind, once your CSU team cleans the place I’d like to give Angie here a chance to mull over the findings.”

I slide into Cain’s passenger seat and look back at Severo, who peers at me suspiciously before walking back to the mission.

“You know Detective Severo well?”

As we drive along the dimly lit street, spotted with decorations in preparation for the holiday season, I try to look occupied with my seat belt so Cain doesn’t get any funny ideas as to my inquiry.

“Severo? Shit, we’ve had our moments.”

He pulls up to a street corner deli cart, hops out to retrieve two extra-large coffees, then shuffles back to his seat before starting out on the road. I hold the takeout cups as Cain slides his seat belt over his chest.

“Ah, he’s a pain in the ass sometimes. His bark is worse than his growl, though, that’s for sure.” I hand Cain a steamy cup to balance while driving. “Thing is, kid, working in this city is like fighting for your corner of the playground, ya know? Everyone has their turf and no one likes sharing the dirt. You better get used to that, and quick, too. Best advice I can give you is don’t piss anyone off unless you have good reason.”

“Nice,” I say, vowing to remember that bit of insider knowledge. Quantico was definitely competitive, but Cain is making NYC sound like a battlefield.

“Don’t get me wrong, Angie. The guy knows his stuff and he’s a pro on the job, no argument there. He’s a good guy to let loose and sling back a few beers with, too.” Cain leans his head in my direction and briefly lifts his brows, then returns his focus to the road. “But his noggin… He got messed up by a dame and I think it’s got him all in a bunch, you know?”

I nod and sip my coffee. Almost a week in his presence and the guy can’t remember that I take cream, so the black liquid is a little harsh to the palate. As I swish the beverage in my mouth, letting it cool before swallowing, I try to imagine Severo in a relationship. Just doesn’t seem to suit him.

Maybe his hard-to-read exterior is just a front. Guess I won’t be playing poker with him anytime soon.

“Yeah, he got dumped, all right,” Cain says, barely containing a tainted laugh. “She did a job on him, boy. Just a few days before the wedding, too.”

The information jolts me, and I look to Cain for more.

“Ah, hell, everyone knew it was over months before she ditched him. He was just too stubborn to give up that easy. She was a detective, too. A real good one, I might add.”

Cain reacts momentarily as a bump in the road causes coffee to spill onto his sleeve. After he licks his wrist, he continues. “She was offered a promotion. Well, a transfer and a promotion. I guess it came down to choosing one or the other. No way in hell Severo was going to move his ass out of the city.”

“So she took the job?”

Cain hands me his cup as he parks the car in his designated spot outside 26 Federal Plaza, then takes it back from me before getting out of his seat. “Yup. The dumb schmuck was scrambling the week before the wedding to tell a hundred guests not to bother showing. Gotta love drama. I doubt he’s ever really gotten over it.”

I slam the door shut with my butt, coffee in hand, and walk with Cain to the entrance. “He still loves her?” I’m smug to think he can retain feelings for someone who humiliated him days before saying “I don’t.”

“Nah. I mean, I doubt he’s ever gotten over a dame leaving him for a job.” Cain stops at the double doors and looks at me, sort of surprised, and asks, “You mean, you haven’t noticed?”

I shrug.

“He’s got a chip on his shoulder about the whole thing. But he’s a dedicated sap, whether with women or on the job, so whatever makes him tick is apparently working. Unlucky in love, but a damn good detective. Schmuck.”

I tail Cain’s echoing laughter through the white-walled halls of the New York FBI Field Office, ready to start in on our night of business. Cain has much to familiarize me with yet in the office I’ll be calling home for at least four years. It’s good to get the formalities over and done with so I know what to expect of my work environment…and of my coworkers.

Though I still can’t shake the concept. Carson Severo hurt by love? Anything’s possible. I guess it explains his suspicious glances toward me. Maybe he thinks I’m one of the bad guys. Then again, I’ve never been all that skilled at being good.

“Me llamo Denise. Tome asiento.”

I keep my presence unknown, outside the reception window of the shelter, and listen to Denise welcome a new intake on this Friday morning. With only a few hours of sleep to my credit, curiosity couldn’t keep me away before heading into work for my next twelve-hour shift.

The young Hispanic man takes a seat, as instructed, and allows the social worker to touch his shoulder. Despite my attitude toward her, I have to give Denise credit where it’s due. She’s mild mannered and truly attentive, giving strays and misfits comfort they can’t find on the streets. But just because I respect her doesn’t mean I have to accept her as a friend.

Even though I’ve never really welcomed her into my life, I suppose I can understand why my father was so enamored of her. She’s a smart dresser and always smells like vanilla. Not like the simulated scents you can find at the perfume counters. More like Grandma’s kitchen vanilla.

More important, at least to my father, would be Denise’s ability to find the good in almost anyone. Her motherly approach to dealing with strangers in need of help must have melted my father’s heart. I wasn’t so quick to embrace her, though.

The newcomer catches my eye from inside the window, and Denise’s gaze naturally follows his. I’ve been made.

The door swings open as I push through, and Denise offers a meek smile as she approaches.

“Pase. Come in.” Her slender hand flows in the direction of an empty chair across from the man. I nod at him as I take a seat, and he asks Denise if I understand his language.

A broad, almost proud smile crosses her lips as she says, “Sí, y también habla francés y portugués,” letting him know I also speak French and Portuguese. To name a few.

I study his scarred face and he lowers his head. I don’t know this man’s misery, but he wears it full frontal.

I wait until his eyes again meet mine and say, “Hola.” It seems to lessen his shyness.

When I shake his hand, which he offers reluctantly, his skin is rough with calluses, and I feel for whatever unfortunate circumstance has brought him to this place.

Denise suggests Miguel follow a shelter volunteer to the kitchen and get something to eat, and when he does, we are left alone in the pastel-painted room.

“It’s nice to see you,” she says, retrieving a bottle of juice from the vending machine. “I half expected you would drop by, but I didn’t want to get my hopes up.”

I remember the thief I sent her yesterday and am glad he took my advice. “Is he still here?”

She nods her head but doesn’t elaborate. Maybe she thinks she needs to protect him from the law. It doesn’t matter. That’s not why I came.

Now that I think of it, I’m not sure exactly why I bothered to stop in. I’d been carrying the shelter’s business card in my pocket since arriving back in NYC, but I can’t honestly say I planned on visiting Denise. Not this soon, anyway.

At least I have to work later. I can use that as an excuse to leave anytime I want. But Denise senses my unease, and when she speaks it’s as though she’s encouraging one of her clients to open up hidden wounds. Her voice is coated with sweetness, but the concern is evident.

“I see you have your badge now. Your father would be so pleased, Angela.” Her smiling eyes measure me for a response as she continues. “It’s hard to believe July is so far behind us now, isn’t it? That’s enough time to start healing. Or fester in pain. Which has it been?”

I don’t want to be treated like a street kid. Actually, I’m not sure what I want. There’s too much connection between the two of us to talk as strangers, yet this woman hardly knows me. And vice versa.

My momentary lapse of nostalgia has faded. “Look, Denise. I just came here to… Well, I don’t know exactly why I came. I guess I wanted to see you were doing okay. And you are, so—”

As I get up to leave, Denise rushes to my side and gently wraps a hand around my arm. My nose takes in a waft of her feminine fragrance as she softly begs, “Please don’t.”

Sadness fills her brown-sugar eyes, and though I can relate, I don’t want to share my pain with her. Not yet. I need to allow my feelings to settle on their own, before I can open up to a woman I never really took to in the first place.

I don’t sit, but I let my shoulders release some tension and I look her in the eyes. “I can’t. I’m not ready for this.”

Her hands slip to her stomach, and she presses her palms to the tiny belly hidden under her sheath dress, emphasizing her emotions. “I miss him, too, Angie. But you have to let it go. You have to let him go.”

She steps back, out of my immediate space, and looks me up and down as a mother would. Only she’s not my mother.

“It was his job. His life,” she begins. “And he was shot during a terrible, terrible accident. It shouldn’t have happened. He didn’t deserve it. No one does. But you have to let him go, Angie. You saw the reports yourself. He died while out there doing what he loved best—fighting for justice. You have to accept it and get on with your life. It’s what he would have wanted for you.”

They all make it sound so easy. Just accept his death and move on. I’m trying. Really, I am. There is nothing worse, however, than growing up to be just like my father only to have him miss out on everything he wanted to see me do.

I face Denise and release the cold words. “I have to go.”

“Wait!” she says desperately, grabbing hold of my hand. I pause, my patience running low, and stare blankly at her with little curiosity as to why she is dragging out my stay.

“Please, Angel,” she begs, and I cringe when I hear the pet name. No one except my father called me Angel, and hearing it now, from Denise, is like being sucker-punched without warning.

“I know you haven’t always accepted me as part of your father’s life. I don’t blame you. The two of you were inseparable, like twins who have their own language. Believe me, it was hard on me, too. The two of you had something most people could never understand, and I respected that. It’s what made you both so special.”

It’s true. Growing up as I did in a single-parent home, the relationship I had with my father was unique and indescribable, the passions of both of us revolving around solving crimes and understanding the motives of those who commit them.

“But you cannot remain chained to the past. I know you feel regret and sorrow for having to go back to your work, just as you need to feel guilty for leaving the city after Joshua’s death. You mustn’t, Angela. You must look toward your future now. It’s what your father would have wanted you to do. You must let your heart begin to heal.”

She means well, I know. Every word she utters about my father, though, reminds me of all that I have lost. And I don’t need any more reminders. There are enough at home, on every street, with every breath I take.

“Goodbye, Denise.” Her eyes moisten as I turn away, but I can’t stay here.

They were involved for years. Her attachment to him is still clear, and the fact that she put up with me—the protective daughter—every step of the way…. But I’m just not ready to make friends with Denise. Accepting her condolences would mean accepting my father’s death, and I’m not yet ready to do that.

As I exit the shelter, my cell phone vibrates against my hip and I’m surprised at the feeling. I must have leaned on it at some point, causing it to switch to an unobtrusive vibe.

“Angie, I’ve been trying to reach you. Where ya at?”

I peer at my watch and note I still have several hours before my shift officially starts. But apparently Cain enjoys shuffling the schedule. “I had an errand to run. What’s up?”

Through the earpiece, I hear Cain exhale from a cigarette before he speaks. “I got something you’ll wanna see.”

“All right, all right. Where are you?”

Through his cursing and spitting sounds, I decode my destination. “Riverside and 112th? Why?”

“Angie, you’re going to church.”