Invisible, Page 3

  I remain quiet, hoping he’ll keep going.

  “Chief said there was no evidence of an accelerant used. He said it looks like—well, he said, ‘One of those stupid things people do,’ falling asleep with a lit candle.”

  And with some stray newspapers conveniently lying around. “You’re sure the fire originated in the bedroom?”

  “Yeah, fire chief said no question. No question of cause or origin.”

  “What about the candle?” I ask.

  “What about it?”

  “Any theory as to how it fell over?”

  He doesn’t answer. It probably seems like a minor point to him, but really, how likely is it that a candle sitting on a desk would just fall over? It was indoors, after all. It’s not like a harsh wind blew it over.

  “If you don’t mind me asking,” says the lieutenant, “why does the FBI care about this?”

  “Wish I could answer that, Lieutenant. You know how it goes.”

  “Well…okay, then.”

  “Will there be an autopsy?”

  “I don’t think so, no.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, for one thing, I’m not sure there’s a body left to autopsy. And the better question is why? The chief says there’s no sign of foul play. We don’t know of any reason anyone would want to hurt her, and we don’t have any evidence that anyone did hurt her.”

  “That’s why you perform an autopsy, Lieutenant. To find the evidence.”

  There is a pause in the action. Over the speakerphone it is dead silence, as if he’s hung up. Maybe he did. Cops don’t like being told their business by anyone, but especially not by the Feebs. “I know why you perform an autopsy, Ms. Dockery, but you don’t autopsy every death. There’s nothing at all suspicious about this, according to the experts—”

  “You guys have an arson task force out there, don’t you?” I ask. “Can you refer it to the task force?”

  “We have a countywide arson task force, yes, ma’am, but we don’t refer every fire to the task force or they’d never have time to work on the real arsons. Now, do you have some information to give me about Joelle Swanson that would make us believe that foul play was involved?”

  “I don’t know the first thing about Joelle Swanson,” I concede.

  “Well, then, I think we’re done, ma’am. I’m busy.”

  “I know you are, Lieutenant, and I sure do appreciate your time. Can I ask for one more favor?”

  An audible sigh, loud enough to make sure I hear it. “What?”

  “The bedroom,” I say. “What can you tell me about the layout of her bedroom?”

  11

  LIEUTENANT RESSLER promises to send me that information on Joelle Swanson’s bedroom as soon as he can. That could mean ten minutes, and it could mean never. I probably could have managed his ego a little better; it tends to facilitate cooperation. But I’m getting tired of hearing about firefighters who know a lot about suppressing fires but precious little about starting them, closing up files before a thorough investigation has taken place. If this were a warehouse with millions of dollars’ worth of damage, they’d dig through the ash and investigate the shit out of this. But a relatively small fire, with an obvious cause staring them in the face, is enough to make them shut down the investigation before it’s started.

  Needing a break from the computer, and having no appetite for microwaved mac and cheese, I start scrubbing the kitchen floor. I’m kind of a neat freak, and it’s what the real estate agent wants, anyway; he was glad to hear that I was moving into the place after my mom moved to Florida and put it up for sale. It’s easier to sell a house that someone is occupying. It was convenient for me, too, when I got suspended from the FBI. My condo in Georgetown was well beyond my financial capacity without a monthly salary.

  So this is my life: I’m living in my mother’s house in Urbanna, Virginia, for now, while Mom heads for sunnier skies in Naples. Living at home, unemployed, and not in a relationship. Emmy at thirty-five!

  When the kitchen floor is clean, I sit on my haunches and stretch my arms. I’m tired in every way, physically and mentally. I got my hopes up with Books, I have to admit. He has the FBI director’s ear, and if anyone would believe in me, it would be Books. But I can’t blame him. He had every right to react the way he did. That’s probably what bothers me the most.

  I mean, what did I expect? I broke up with him three months before the wedding. I freaked out, basically, and broke the heart of a wonderful man. Now, two years later, I come waltzing back into his life and expect him to say How high? when I say Jump.

  So now I’m back to a one-woman show, the Emily Jean Dockery Task Force, combing through data in the most amateurish way possible and calling local law enforcement all around the country, most of whom think I’m a lunatic.

  And they might be right.

  A knock at my door. A cold wave runs through me. I don’t have many acquaintances here, much less friends. And it’s past eight o’clock now.

  I don’t have a weapon, either. I have my sponge and bucket. I could threaten to clean the guy to death.

  “Who is it?” I yell from the hallway.

  The voice that comes back is familiar.

  I exhale and open the door.

  Harrison Bookman is wearing a different shirt but the same blue jeans as the other day. Under one arm, like school homework, is the stack of files I left him.

  “He never kills on Sundays,” he says.

  “Never.”

  Neither of us speaks for a long beat.

  “You better have good coffee,” he says.

  “I do.”

  “Sure, now you say ‘I do.’”

  That’s twice I’ve smiled this week.

  12

  WE ARE walking, Books and I, along Pennsylvania Avenue Northwest, past where D’Acqua used to be—our place, if any place was our place, selecting dinner from the fresh catch of the day on the iced display in the dining room and sipping white wine, or sitting outside and looking over the fountains of the Navy Memorial. A bit froufrou for both of our tastes, but it was our indulgence. It was our Friday night date.

  But things change. The restaurant’s business lost steam, and so did our relationship.

  “This is only happening because you’re a man,” I say to Books.

  Books appears to consider that seriously and gives a curt nod. “That’s one possibility,” he concedes, his brow furrowed. “Or maybe…” He strokes his chin like he’s Sherlock Holmes puzzling over a riddle. “Maybe it’s because I’m considered to be sane by a few people in the building, and you aren’t.” He snaps his fingers, like that sounds right to him.

  “No, it’s a gender thing. It’s because I’m a woman.”

  “A woman with sanity issues.”

  “Books,” I say, but then he stops cold just outside of FBI headquarters.

  “You wanted this, not me,” he snaps. “I’m trying to get you something you want. Why can’t you just be happy about it without analyzing it to death?”

  Yowza. That’s a little more hostility than I would have expected.

  He brushes past me. We give our names in the lobby. There was a time when each of us could flash a badge and walk on through. Now we’re visitors, Books by design and me against my will.

  “Just a moment,” says the woman at reception. Books clasps his hands behind his back. It’s always little things that bring back the memories. He always held himself that way when he was on the job, always the formality. Get him alone and he could have me in stitches, but to work with him, you’d think he was a typical humorless agent, Joe Friday, just the facts, ma’am. I used to make fun of him, in happier days, clasping my hands like him, walking like a robot and saying, Yes, ma’am, no, sir.

  “Remember, Emmy, this is my meeting.” Books turns and looks at me.

  “I’ll be good. Pinkie promise.”

  “I’m not a girl. So I don’t know what the hell that means.”

  “But you do have a pink
ie, don’t you?”

  He sighs. “It better mean that we do this my way.”

  “That’s what it means. I wouldn’t have it any other way, Books.”

  He lets out an exasperated grunt that tells me he doesn’t believe me. He knows how high-maintenance I can be.

  “You’re the big man,” I tell him. “I’m the little girl carrying your bag.”

  “You’re not carrying my bag.”

  “But I will, if you want.”

  We get visitor badges from the receptionist, our bags are thoroughly checked, and we head to the elevators.

  “You’re full of vinegar today,” Books says.

  He’s right. I’m hyped up, anxious, and this is how I’m compensating. This is the most important meeting I’ve ever had, so much is at stake, and here I am, cracking wise.

  “You understand that even getting this meeting is a favor,” Books says.

  “I do.”

  Books shoots me a look before we step into the elevator. He won’t speak, not a word, as we rise. It’s one of his rules, his super-secret-spy mind-set. No discussing business in front of strangers.

  But I know what he wants to say. I strung those two words together again: I do.

  In my defense, I did break it off three months in advance. We got back the deposit on the banquet hall and the invitations hadn’t gone out yet. I wonder if Books would consider that consolation? I’m guessing…not.

  We give our name to some woman, and she shows us down the hall to one of the big conference rooms used by FBI director William Moriarty.

  I can see Books tense up as we approach the room. This is the first time he’s returned since he handed in his papers—over the director’s objection—the first time he’s roamed these halls with the thin carpeting and cheap artwork and the air of intensity, the thrilling whiff of the chase, hunting bad guys and keeping the nation safe. This can’t be easy for him. I’ve asked for a lot from him, not that I deserve any courtesy from him whatsoever after what I did to him. Mental note: Books is good people.

  I mean, he not only got a meeting, he got one with the top dog. He managed to bypass my boss, the Dick, who clearly would have shot it down if he had the chance. I’m glad he won’t be in this meeting.

  The door opens. Standing at the end of a long table is Director Moriarty, flanked on his left by his chief of staff, Nancy Parmaggiore.

  And to his right, the executive assistant director for the Criminal, Cyber, Response, and Services Branch. Also known as Julius Dickinson. Also known as the Dick.

  “Shit,” I whisper, as Books gently shoves an elbow into me.

  13

  WILLIAM MORIARTY, former FBI agent, federal prosecutor, congressman from New York, and federal judge in Washington, DC, now the director of the FBI for the last three years, lights up when he sees Books. Books worked under Moriarty during Moriarty’s previous stint with the Bureau, and Moriarty didn’t get where he is by forgetting people. “I took credit for a lot of this guy’s good work,” he tells his chief of staff and the Dick, both of whom smile and nod with appreciation like good little soldiers. “Didn’t want to let this one go. Now he’s selling books!”

  The director takes a seat and motions for everyone else to do the same. Then he makes a point of checking his watch. “I have to brief the president at three, so I only have about ten minutes,” he says.

  Ten minutes? To talk about the worst serial killer in our nation?

  “Assistant Director Dickinson has briefed me on the particulars,” he says, “and I have to agree with him that if this is the work of one man, it’s the most incredible story I’ve ever heard.”

  The Dick nods eagerly. After a moment, his eyes make their way over to mine. The dirty little bastard. But I promised Books I would behave. And anyway, the point is to get the Bureau to investigate, whoever gets the credit.

  But for the record: fuck him.

  “Now,” says the director, raising a hand, “I don’t know the details like Julius does, but from what he’s told me, I agree with him on something else, too.”

  That he’s a conniving, backstabbing, brownnosing ass?

  “It’s very, very premature to believe that this is one man’s work. Or that these are even crimes in the first place.” Moriarty looks over at the Dick. “Julius suggests that we take this slowly, before we commit too many of our precious resources to this issue. Julius is recommending that we open a preliminary investigation.”

  Is that what Julius recommends after his careful review of the evidence? How great of Julius!

  “Books, do you want in on the Bureau’s team?”

  “Yes, Mr. Director,” says Books.

  “Sir.” The Dick raises a hand. “With Agent Bookman retired, we’d have to iron out some details for reinstate—”

  “Then iron them out.” The director looks at the Dick. “You can iron them out, can’t you, Julius?”

  “Yes, sir, of course.”

  The director nods in Books’s direction. “Maybe he’ll have so much fun, we’ll get him back for good.”

  Books clears his throat. “Mr. Director, will I be running the team, then?”

  Moriarty jabs a finger to his right. “Assistant Director Dickinson will run it and report to me.”

  “You gotta be kidding,” I say, before I can stop myself.

  All eyes turn to me. I’ve just violated the one rule of behavior laid down by Books before we came in, but really—the Dick is going to run this operation? Are you freakin’ kidding me?

  Books puts a hand on my arm. “Very good, Mr. Director. But will I have a say in the staffing of the team?”

  Moriarty looks surprised, like he can’t understand why something like that would require his attention. “I’m sure you and Julius can work that out.”

  “Very good, sir, but specifically—Emmy Dockery here, one of your research analysts, the one who put together all of this…”

  Books stops talking because the director is no longer listening. The Dick has leaned in to whisper something to the director, and the chief of staff is now huddling with them as well. While his underlings are chatting in his ear, the director looks up at me. I try to look like a stable and composed research analyst, not someone whose head is about to spontaneously combust.

  Finally, Director Moriarty waves them both off. “Ms. Dock—Dockery?”

  “Yes, sir,” I say.

  “Give us the room, if you would.”

  Give them the room? What the heck does that mean? I look at Books.

  “He wants you to step outside so we can talk about you,” says Books.

  “Oh.” I get to my feet and don’t even look down the table at the big shots, for fear that daggers will spring from my eyes and pin back their ears.

  “Thank you,” I say, not sure why I’ve chosen those words. I close the door behind me, so people more important than I am can decide my fate.

  14

  A RECEPTIONIST or some lackey meets me when I step out of the conference room—nobody’s allowed to just wander around up here—and I find myself in a small waiting area reading a Time magazine story about how our nation is getting really fat. No shit—just discovering that now, are we?

  Once I’ve been let in on the shocking revelation that the reason for childhood obesity is that kids are sitting around playing video games and eating lard-filled fast food and sugar-coated, chemically enriched sodas and snacks, Books appears and sits across from me. I raise my eyebrows with expectation.

  He smiles and shakes his head, then claps his hands. “Tomorrow at five o’clock sharp, we’re meeting in Dickinson’s office, and he’s going to give us our marching orders,” he says. “And we’re going to follow them, Emmy.”

  “So that means I’m going to be a part of this team?”

  “That’s what it means. The director agreed—over Dickinson’s objection, of course—that you can assist the team. Under my supervision.”

  “I don’t like how any of that sounds.”

 
; “I don’t, either, Emmy. I’m questioning whether I should be doing this at all.”

  I can see from his pained expression that he means it. He probably had to fight for me in there, and I should be grateful. I am, I guess. I just don’t like being treated like someone who has to be babysat. This whole stupid, male-dominated place—

  “Smile, Emmy,” he says. “Because if you don’t like this, I’ll just go back to Alexandria and sell books. And without me, you’re back on suspension.”

  “You don’t get to order me to smile, Books.”

  He actually laughs, but not because he finds me humorous or because he’s in a good mood. I know that laugh. It’s a laugh of exasperation, his other emotions—frustration, anger—depleted.

  “You have a personal interest in this investigation,” he says. “No agent would ever be allowed on a team with a personal interest. No agent would ever be allowed to investigate her own sister’s death—”

  “I’m not an agent,” I say, batting my eyes like a schoolgirl. “I’m just a mere research analyst.”

  “And lucky for you,” he replies. “Because the only reason you get a pass is that, as a technical matter, you’re merely assisting in the investigation. You get to be a part of the team.”

  He’s right. I know he’s right. I’m supposed to be happy right now. I throw my head back, swallow hard—very, very hard—and take a deep breath.

  “You got this meeting with Moriarty and it worked,” I say. “And you fought to have me be a part of this team. I appreciate all of that, Harrison. I do.”

  Shit, I said “I do” again.

  His index finger waves at me, a tsk-tsk motion. “Don’t call me Harrison. I came back because it’s possible—possible—that we have a serial killer on the warpath, and I don’t like serial killers as a rule. And you’re the reason we even know about him. If this person is real, if this is a real thing, then he’s not like anybody I’ve ever seen.”

  “And we’re going to catch him,” I add.