Читать книгу Sundays Are for Murder - Marie Ferrarella - Страница 17

NICK REACTED instantly, ducking back into the apartment. He grabbed his sheathed weapon from the table.

When he crossed the threshold, stepping just outside of his apartment, his movements were precise as if in slow motion. No one needed to remind him of the value of caution. One misstep could cost him his life, or at the very least, turn him into a target.

There was no one in the immediate vicinity.

Gun cocked, he scanned from left to right, then out into the parking lot that faced the door of his first-floor garden apartment.

Nothing.

The rain had receded to a fine mist. Just annoying enough to keep evening strollers from venturing out of their dry apartments. The streetlights were on. Nick squinted, trying to make out a solitary figure hiding within one of the carports. There was no one. Whoever had rung his doorbell was as fleet as the rabbit they’d left on his doormat had once been.

A noise caught his attention. In the distance he thought he heard the sound of a car pulling away. But that could have just as easily been one of the complex’s residents going out for the evening. It made no sense to attempt to give chase. Especially when he’d only heard the vehicle, not seen it. He had no idea what direction the driver had taken.

Nick lowered his weapon. His adrenaline was another matter.

Pity wafted through him as he looked down at the dead animal on his doorstep. There was no blood, so it had been killed somewhere else and then transported here. He hoped the animal hadn’t been tortured. Something told him that it hadn’t been, that killing the rabbit wasn’t the object. Leaving a message was.

Though a good three thousand miles separated him from his old life, Nick had an uneasy feeling he knew exactly who’d left the dead rabbit on his doorstep.

How the hell had he known where to find him? Granted, Nick’s transfer to the West Coast wasn’t a secret. His superiors knew and his family. But the information wasn’t exactly posted on the Internet.

Apparently Sean Dixon had hidden talents he didn’t know about. The thought did not fill him with joy.

Shaking his head, Nick went back into his apartment to fetch a plastic grocery bag and a pair of plastic gloves. The rabbit was evidence. Nick carefully slipped the animal inside the plastic bag, then tied off the top, making a secure knot.

The rabbit was going to have to spend the night in his refrigerator, he thought grimly. Luckily, it was pretty much empty, except for a few cans of soda and three bottles of beer.

He deposited the rabbit on top of the lettuce crisper. Under the circumstances, it seemed an appropriate temporary resting place.

That done, he crossed back to the table and glanced at the pizza still in the box. For a split second, his stomach threatened to cohabitate with his windpipe.

A man had to keep up his strength, he argued silently. His not eating wasn’t going to matter to the deceased rabbit. With far less enthusiasm than he’d experienced only minutes earlier, Nick picked up another slice of pizza and returned to the living room. The program he had switched on had finished a round of commercials.

Nick sat down in front of the set.

THE FORENSIC LABS used by FBI special agents were located in the basement of the Federal Building that the Bureau occupied. The A.D.’s secretary, Alice something-or-other, had mentioned it to him yesterday in an effort to give him a thumbnail sketch of the area. At the time her description hadn’t been important to him, but he was glad now that he’d paid attention to the woman, even though she had a voice guaranteed to put insomniacs to sleep.

Nick stepped off the elevator. As the doors closed behind him, he became conscious of the stillness. The office was quieter than a tomb. He wondered if anyone was in so early.

Only one way to find out, he thought.

The overhead fluorescent lights seemed to be using up their last wattage of energy. The hallway appeared almost unnaturally dim, enhancing the emptiness. It was just before eight o’clock.

Nick could hear the sound made by his shoes as his soles made contact with the floor. Upstairs, rugs throughout the area muffled the sound of approach. In the basement, the acoustics seemed almost incredibly amplified.

The floor covering here appeared to be some kind of man-made tile. The pattern was speckled and monotonous. He hoped that didn’t say something about the nature of the work being done in this area.

Not knowing exactly where he was going, Nick made his way down the winding corridor until he came across an open door. As he looked into the room, he saw a tall, thin male technician in a white lab coat.

Headphones on his head, the technician seemed to be in his own little world as he sat on a stool next to a long counter that ran half the length of the room. Holding a large eyedropper, the man was depositing a single drop of liquid into each of the test tubes lined up in front of him.

Nick walked into the room and attempted to place himself where the lab technician would be able to see him. The name tag just over his breast pocket identified him as one Hank Garcia. Caught up in his work, Hank Garcia continued humming and dispensing drops of opaque liquid, completely oblivious to Nick’s entrance.

Trying again, Nick leaned over until he was directly in Hank’s line of vision.

Startled, Hank drew in a quick breath. Putting the eyedropper down, he took off his headphones, sliding them down around his neck. The headphones hung there like an incomplete necklace, audible music coming from both earpieces. Hank looked at him, suspicion and annoyance washing over his face.

“Hey man, don’t sneak up on me like that.”

Nick nodded toward the dangling earphones. “Listening to music at that level will make you deaf.”

The next moment, he wondered how his father’s voice had managed to emerge from his mouth. That was the kind of caution his father had been guilty of voicing. He’d always viewed it as the Colonel’s constant attempts to curtail his freedom and control him.

“Hey, Snakepit’s gotta be heard loud in order to be appreciated,” Hank protested. And then he frowned slightly. “Should you be down here?”

Shifting the bag with its carcass to his other hand, Nick fished out his wallet and held it up for the tech’s benefit.

“Special Agent Nick Brannigan,” Nick introduced himself. Tucking his wallet back into his pocket, Nick placed the plastic grocery bag on the counter. He nodded at it. “What can you tell me about this?”

Hank leaned over and took apart the bag’s knot. Very carefully, he exposed what was inside. If he was surprised to find the dead rabbit, he didn’t show it. Nick got the impression that the young tech viewed surprises as uncool. The only indication that Hank found the bag’s contents less than appealing was the slight flaring of his nostrils.

Hank replaced the sides of the bag and looked at his visitor. “Right off the top of my head, I’d say it’s dead.”

“Brilliant deduction,” Nick replied drily. “What else can you tell me?”

A shade of confusion highlighted the young face. “Like?”

Good question, Nick thought. He didn’t really know what he was looking for, except he was pretty certain you couldn’t get prints off fur. But there might be traces of other things, things that might turn his suspicions into certainties.

He left it open to interpretation. Garcia was the forensic tech, not him. “Anything.”

Hank pressed his lips into a tight line. “That’s going to take some time. I’m a little backed up here.” And then Hank laughed under his breath. “But then, I’m always a little backed up here. How fast do you need this?”

That was easy. Yesterday. “As fast as you can get it to me.”

Cocking his head, Hank took another peek at the grocery bag’s contents. His brows knit together, as if he was trying to connect invisible dots in his head. “This part of a case you’re working?”

Nick didn’t believe in lying. Stretching the truth, however, was something else. He knew that, as a rule, the Bureau frowned on using its facilities for personal matters. But then, he argued, maybe he was wrong about the rabbit’s origin. Maybe it was a message from the serial killer. It was a well-known theory that most serial killers started out killing small animals.

But the Sunday Killer wasn’t just starting out.

“In a manner of speaking,” Nick said.

“In other words,” Hank said knowingly, “you’d like to keep this just between us.”

Nick nodded. “I’d appreciate that.” He paused, then added honestly, “I’d consider it a favor.”

When Hank smiled, he looked more like a mischievous boy than a young man who had graduated from Polytech with honors.

“Never know when that might come in handy,” he murmured. “Okay, Special Agent Brannigan, I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thanks.” His mission accomplished, Nick began to leave.

Hank called out, stopping him. “If I find anything, where can I reach you?”

“Seventh floor,” Nick told him. “I’m on the Sunday Killer’s task force.”

Hank looked duly impressed. The next moment, he retreated to his task and his earphones. Nick noted that he hadn’t bothered to adjust the volume level.