So cold, p.3
So Cold, page 3
“You’re not available,” the Boss said. “It’s not your case.”
“Boss—” she began.
“You still have nightmares, Bold?” the Boss interrupted.
Faith felt as though she had been slapped. She blinked twice and didn’t respond.
“Thought so,” the Boss said. “You’re off that case, Bold. You’re a damned fine agent, and I need you healthy and focused.”
“I’m healthy,” she said. “I passed my psych eval. I’m good to go.”
“You passed your psych eval after the Missouri case,” the Boss said. “You think you’ll pass one now if IA finds out you’ve been snooping on this case?”
Faith didn’t respond. If the Boss knew about her nightmares, then it meant that the way this case affected her showed, and that meant it was even odds at best that she would pass another psych eval. If she failed, it meant an automatic suspension and probably a desk job when she was reassigned.
“Back off,” the Boss repeated, “I mean it. You’re a good agent. You really are, and I’ve said that twice in the same conversation, so that should tell you I really mean it. Don’t throw away your career over this. Clark and Desrouleaux are good agents too. They’ll get this guy.”
Faith thought of asking if they would get this guy before he got another half-dozen victims. She thought of asking if the Boss’s real reason for giving them this new case was just to occupy her and not because the Deputy Director was involved. The Boss knew the DA too, and he was owed favors as well. He could have convinced the DA to give the Bureau the case just to keep Faith’s nose out of the Donkey Killer’s case.
She dismissed that line of reasoning as obsessive, but she was still too angry to offer anything other than a clipped, “Understood. Anything else?”
“No,” the Boss said, “but please don’t die on this hill, Bold. It’s not worth it.”
Faith nodded and left the office without saying anything else.
The Boss could say it wasn’t worth it, but he hadn’t been strapped to a chair and butchered alive like Faith had. He hadn’t nearly lost his will to live; Faith had. Maybe this copycat killer was just another case to him, but it wasn’t to Faith. That’s why she was the best choice for the case. That’s also why the Boss saw her as the worst choice for the case. From his perspective, she was too emotionally involved. From her perspective, she had the drive and knowledge to solve it before anyone else got hurt.
That was why, when they got to the car, she said to Michael, “Shoot. Wait a second. Forgot something,” and ran upstairs.
Clark and Desrouleaux were out to lunch right now. They were predictable as clockwork. They were at French’s Deli stuffing their faces with pastrami and sauerkraut, and the case file was exactly where Faith knew it would be, sitting on top of Desrouleaux’s desk.
She glanced in the direction of the Boss’s office, but he was focused on his computer screen and from where he sat, he wouldn’t be able to see Faith unless he intentionally craned his neck and looked at Desrouleaux’s desk.
She walked to the copier, keeping her movements nonchalant so as not to arouse suspicion from the other agents. She made a single copy of the case, using the lowest resolution setting to make the copy as quickly as possible. The copy came out grainy and furry, but Faith’s eyes were sharp, and she could still read the text easily.
She took the original back to Desrouleaux’s desk and took the copy to her own desk. She opened the locked drawer on the bottom of her filing cabinet and set it somewhere in the middle of the paperwork there. She locked the cabinet and headed to the breakroom, getting two cups of coffee before heading back downstairs.
Michael was leaning against his car when she reached him. “What the hell were you doing?” she asked.
Faith lifted the coffee cups in response. “Had to make a new pot.”
“You went upstairs to make a pot of shitty coffee?” Michael asked.
“Turk woke me up early, remember?” she explained. “Besides, I like the coffee. Now do you want your cup or not?”
Michael glanced at the cup, and after a second of deliberation, took it from Faith’s outstretched hand. “Shit coffee’s better than no coffee, I guess.”
They got into the car and Michael pulled out of the space and out of the garage. As he turned onto the road, Faith caught Turk staring at her from the middle of the second row of the SUV. It might have been her imagination, but he looked as though he knew what she had really been up to.
She looked away from him and stared out the window until the guilt faded and her mind turned back to the task at hand.
CHAPTER THREE
Michael glanced over at Faith. She stared out the window at nothing. A shadow fell across her left eye, cast by a lock of hair that never quite seemed to fall into place. Michael smiled softly at that shadow. At one time, it had been the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
He had been in love with Faith once. He supposed a part of him always would be. He had been teasing Faith earlier, but that didn’t mean what he said wasn’t true. For a moment, he had envisioned a future with her in a nice little house with a picket fence and yard, two kids and a dog, all of that stereotypical stuff.
He no longer envisioned that future, and to be honest, he didn’t truly miss his relationship with her. They had both moved on, and he was happy to be her friend and partner and nothing more. Besides, Ellie felt like the real deal. It would be a while before her divorce was finalized and they could truly be together, but she seemed to understand Michael in ways no one, not even Faith, ever had.
Still, when the light fell over Faith’s face the way it did now, he remembered how it felt to be in love with her. Love left scars, and those scars never fully healed.
She caught him staring and said, “Something on your mind, Prince?”
“Yeah,” he said, “I’m hurt.”
She turned to face him, lifting an eyebrow. “You’re hurt?”
“I am,” he said. “You’ve hurt me.”
“Michael, what the hell are you talking about?” she asked.
“I thought we were friends,” he said.
“We are at the moment, but if you don’t start talking sense, that’s going to change,” she replied.
“I’m just saying,” he said, “I told you about Ellie the day I met her. You still haven’t told me you have the hots for Turk’s vet.”
She recoiled in shock, her eyes and mouth dropping open wide. “I didn’t… I don’t… how?”
Michael grinned. “Oh come on, Faith. The day after Turk’s appointment, you were prancing and giggling like it was prom night. This morning when I picked you up, you had the same moon-faced expression. You have a crush. Admit it.”
“I don’t have to admit anything to you!” she cried.
“See?” he said. “That’s why I’m hurt. I told you; you didn’t tell me.”
“Well, I guess I’m more of a gentleman than you,” she retorted, “because I don’t kiss and tell.”
“So you’ve kissed him?” Michael asked.
“No!” Faith cried.
Michael laughed and tried not to notice how attractive Faith was when there was color in her face. He supposed he was over her, but there were times when he wondered if he was really over her or just resigned to the reality that he would never have her again. True, he was the one to put the final nail in that coffin, but the relationship was over long before he called the time of death. That ship had sailed. The train had left the station. There were probably a hundred other idioms.
Still, he didn’t want to push her, and his feelings for Ellie grew stronger by the day. These moments would occur less and less often and, eventually, they would stop altogether.
“Anyway, as long as you’re already more of a gentleman than me,” he said, “I guess I ought to tell you that I’m already thinking about this girl as something more than just a passing, casual thing.”
“Really?” she asked. “That was quick.”
He shrugged. She was probably right about that. “Maybe if we were college kids or something,” he said, “but we’re not. She’s getting over a failed marriage and I’m not getting any younger. You know, when you’re a kid, you’re looking for a boyfriend or, I guess if you’re a guy, you’re looking to get laid regularly. When you’re older, you go on every date wondering if they’re the one.”
“Marriage material,” Faith said.
“Exactly. You don’t want to waste any time.”
“So, is this girl, Ellie, marriage material?”
“I think she might be,” Michael said. This was a good conversation. Already the wistful remnants of longing for Faith seemed far less wistful and hope for a future with Ellie seemed far stronger.
“Okay, Romeo,” Faith said, “why?”
“Why what? Why is she marriage material?”
“What the hell else are we talking about?” she asked.
He chuckled. It was a good question. “Well, she’s beautiful.”
Faith groaned. “Got it. So that’s the key. How in the world do all those porn starlets stay single? Why aren’t all those supermodels engaged?” As they drove past a gas station, a woman was standing at the pump. Faith pointed and said, “That blonde there. She looks like marriage material.”
Michael said, “All right, all right. I get your point. Let me expand on mine.”
“By all means, Casanova,” she said sarcastically, “talk your way out of this one.”
“She’s beautiful to me. I’m attracted to her. I’m not talking about her body, either, though I’m attracted to that. I mean her smile and her eyes. I find her beautiful and I find her most beautiful when we’re having a conversation.”
“You’re not doing a good job of talking your way out of this one,” Faith said. She wore an amused smile and he felt like things had turned around. He’d intended to tease her but now he was on the receiving end.
“Yeah,” he said, “Well I guess it’s possible I’m just a misogynist pig. She’s marriage material because she’s good sexual stock. You got me. It’s all about the sex for me and not her personality. To tell the truth, if she couldn’t string three words together, she’s hot enough that I’d still be ready to slide a ring on her finger. You win. I can’t ever hide anything from you.”
“And don’t you forget it,” Faith said with a laugh, sealing her victory in the exchange.
Michael intended to get back to teasing her about the veterinarian but just then they reached the entrance to the subdivision. “Through this gate or the one on the other side?”
“Either way,” she said. “The house in question is right in the middle so it doesn’t really matter.”
He pulled into the subdivision and immediately let out a whistle. It didn’t look like the Real Housewives here. It looked like the upper-middle-class version of the opening scene to Edward Scissorhands. The perfectly manicured lawns, the only slightly varied profiles of the houses, and the consistent color schemes were jarring rather than inviting. The sameness seemed overwhelming to him.
“How in the world would you even recognize your house without the numbers?” he said. “Geez, even the cars all look the same.”
He dwelt on that thought for a moment. He hated that all new cars had the same soft, rounded look. He remembered back when it was easy to tell a Ford from a Chevy and a Mercedes from a Toyota.
“Ain’t that America?” Faith asked.
“Not my America,” Michael said.
“No, the song. Isn’t that the one that talks about little pink houses?”
“Oh yeah.” He chuckled. “Here we are, everyone with the big American dream. I’m just waiting for the robot wives to show up.”
“Robot wives?”
“Seriously?” he asked. “You remember that song but not the movie?”
“Never mind,” she said pointing ahead, “it’s time to put on your big girl FBI panties.”
She pointed to three police cars that seemed to him like an open sore on the plastic surgery perfected flesh of the subdivision. They were parked (not in spaces, of course) in a little recessed parking lot next to a small grass area with a bench in the middle of the first block. “Open spaces,” he said.
“Amenities everywhere,” she said. “You think they all look the same, too?”
“It’s like a horror show,” he said. “But anyway, do we go to the scene directly or check in with these guys?”
“Let’s talk to them first,” she said, “and get the lay of the land.”
As he pulled into an actual parking space, he said, “Can you imagine what living in a place like this does to a person? It’s like the entire subdivision is like my grandmother’s house. She has those plastic covers on the couches, you know. I’d be afraid to walk on my own driveway without wiping my feet first.”
He turned the engine off and said, “You want to take point here or me?”
She shrugged and said, “I will, I guess. For all we know, some of those deputies are hot. You might decide the sheriff is marrying material.”
“If he is, you can be my best man.”
Faith chuckled and despite his best efforts not to, Michael wondered if she was jealous. He wasn’t too pleased to find that part of him hoped she was.
They approached the scene and Michael saw the officers standing around talking with their arms crossed. Either the scene had already been combed through as much as PD felt necessary or else these were the officers who drew the short sticks and were told to stay out of the way.
One of the officers turned at their approach and Faith flashed her badge. “FBI,” she said, “I’m Special Agent Bold, this is Special Agent Prince and my K9 unit, Turk. Can we talk to the senior officer on scene, please?”
Michael suppressed a smile at the brief look of surprise that flashed across the uniform’s face. They were far enough into the twenty-first century that people born at the start of it were preparing for their second presidential vote, but female authority still shocked some men.
Fortunately, this particular alpha-male was enough a student of the times that he instantly dismissed his shock and answered Faith’s question. “That would be the sheriff,” he said. “He’s in the clubhouse on the other side of the park talking with the sergeant.”
Michael’s eyes widened.
“Sheriff?” Faith asked. “This is a county investigation?”
The uniform shrugged. “I guess it’s your investigation now.”
Faith shared a look with Michael, then nodded to the officer. The uniform returned a respectful nod of his own, then promptly went back to caring as little as possible.
Maybe that was unfair. After all, he was right. This was an FBI investigation now, and an overzealous police officer could be more detrimental to a Bureau case than an under-zealous one.
They crossed the field toward a small building that looked like a rotunda except that instead of being left opened, it was enclosed. Inside, a large man in a hat with a ridiculously large five-pointed star was talking to an even larger man with a mustache that covered his entire mouth and moved like a caterpillar as he spoke.
Faith walked in without knocking, Turk at her side, and Michael followed. Mustache cast an irritated look at the three of them, but when he realized who they were, he adopted a similar expression of “screw it,” as the officers had in the parking lot.
The sheriff betrayed no such emotion. He stood and extended a hand toward Faith. “Sheriff Morton,” he said, shaking first Faith’s hand, then Michael’s, nodding at Turk, who barked formally. Evidently the sheriff didn’t share the police department’s latent chauvinism.
“Detective Sergeant Anglesey,” Mustache offered.
“Special Agent Bold,” Faith replied. “This is my partner, Special Agent Prince and my K9 unit, Turk.”
“Pleasure to meet you agents,” Morton said. He turned to the sergeant and said, “We’ll wrap this up later. Go ahead and tell your boys they can head home. The looky-loos have already lost interest. If we need anything, we’ll call you.”
“What about the homeowners?” the sergeant asked. “Should we bring them in for questioning?”
Morton shook his head. “No, that’s all right. I imagine the agents will want to talk to them after they look at the scene. I’m pretty sure they’re telling us the truth anyway.”
“What truth is that?” Faith asked.
“That they don’t know anything,” Anglesey answered, “And the sheriff’s probably right. They don’t look the type.”
They rarely do, Michael thought. He didn’t say the thought out loud, though, and after a brief handshake for each of the FBI agents, Anglesey left to wrangle his officers.
“Well,” Morton said, “Guess we might as well get this road on the show.”
He offered the turn of phrase without a hint of humor. As they left the clubhouse, Michael tried to form an opinion of Morton. He seemed just as passionless as the officers but carried himself with a professional dignity and walked with an energy surprising for his size and age. His eyes were likewise sharp and while his tone may seem bored, Michael decided that was probably not a true reflection of his feelings but rather a result of long years of suppressing his emotions to lull suspects and witnesses into a state of calm.
Overall, he decided he liked the sheriff. He was definitely an improvement over the sheriff in Morgan County, Missouri, who while nice enough as a person could have had his picture next to the word incompetent.
Turk seconded Michael’s opinion by trotting up next to the sheriff and keeping pace with him as they made their way to the scene. The sheriff led them down one of those winding concrete paths designed to make the residents feel like there was more open space than it seemed--a touch of overkill, Michael thought. As they walked, Morton talked.
“Homeowners called at eight-thirty in the morning,” Morton said. “The husband was digging holes for a new fence the neighbors were harassing them to put up. He saw the body and called his wife to make sure he wasn’t going insane. Too bad for everyone his sanity is perfectly intact.”
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