“From those who worked the scenes.”
“Yes.”
“And that’s what led you to Farraday and Cassidy.”
As she spoke, she pointed to various notes she’d highlighted in the reports. “Take Natasha first. She’s worked every crime in this series, was the first to arrive at the hotel the day you were shot. She was the one who found the wheelchair in room 809, the one who cleared Mahan’s car and the handicapped van, and was even the agent who oversaw the evidence handling when the congressman went to identify Mollie’s body at the hotel.”
“The suitcases.”
“Yes.”
“So of course we would expect to find her DNA at every crime scene.”
“Yes. And we do.”
There had to be more. “What else?”
“The timing of her arrival at the primate center on Tuesday night would have given her just enough time to leave the facility in the guise of Aria Petic and then return with the emergency responders after Sandra Reynolds’s 911 call.”
Hmm.
An idea formed in my mind.
Some aspects of the Bureau’s personnel files are confidential, but some are not. I flipped open my computer, set it on a desk. “Still all circumstantial.”
“Her age fits, she has a build similar to Aria’s, knows forensics, has a submissive personality, and arrived in the DC area shortly before the crime spree began.”
Again, all circumstantial, but admittedly, each additional fact added weight to the possibility that Lien-hua was on to something.
Imagine it, Pat, the thrill of committing a crime, and then returning to process it. It would be overwhelming, the sense of power
…
And it would be very difficult to build a case against you based on the presence of your DNA at the crime scene since your DNA would naturally be present.
“Cassidy found the luggage claim tag,” I said, “but Farraday went through the car first.”
“She could have planted it.”
I shook my head. “But why take that chance if you were the killer? Why not just leave the claim tag when you left the laptop?”
“Hmm,” she said. “Good point.”
I tapped at my computer, brought up Natasha Farraday’s files.
Lien-hua watched me. “I checked, Pat. She lives less than a quarter mile west of the hot zone.”
One step ahead of me.
“So she fits both the psychological profile and the geoprofile.”
“Yes.”
“She’s a new transfer…” I mumbled. Now I was scanning Cassidy’s files. “And Cassidy is her superior, and his personality is more dominant…”
“I know it’s nothing solid,” she admitted. “Just a series of coincidences.”
“But apparent coincidences-”
“Always warrant closer inspection.”
“Very nice,” I said, “word-for-word from my book.”
“What can I say, I’m a fan.”
I glanced over the evidence again. “What have you done so far to try and disprove Farraday and Cassidy’s involvement?”
“Well, of course, that’s the tricky part here. It’s all a house of cards. Circumstantial, like you said. I can’t just start showing pictures of my colleagues to the Rainey children or the taxi driver.”
I considered that.
The Rainey boy had said that the man leaving the alley was scarred, but Cassidy had no scars on his face.
Scars can be faked.
“Could someone be setting them up?”
She shook her head. “I don’t see how. The crime scene assignments came from either dispatch, Margaret, or Rodale. The killers would need to know the ERT’s dispatch protocol and response time.”
Who would know those times?
I’d first met Natasha Farraday at the primate center Tuesday night
… then I saw her at the hotel on Wednesday… then Wait.
SED-UAR.
IPR-OMI.
Said you are…
I promised you are…
Natasha had mentioned she read my books…
She questioned you about Mahan’s car, how you knew that one was the vehicle the killer had used…
I closed my computer. Stood.
“What are you thinking?”
“The lab at Quantico,” I said.
Lien-hua shook her head. “We don’t have enough here to justify talking to them. We barely have-”
“I don’t want to talk to them. I want to look more closely at what they brought back from the scenes.”
She quickly collected her things. “I’ve been in this building since 10:30. I’m coming with you.”
I had no quarrel with that.
“We’ll take my car,” I said. “There are a few tunnels I want you to help me explore on the way.”
Tessa answered the door.
Detective Warren stood on the porch holding a grocery bag in one hand, her computer satchel in the other. “Hey,” she said.
Tessa moved aside. “Come on in.”
Cheyenne held up the groceries as she entered. “How does falafel burgers, humus, and tortilla chips sound? Oh, and some root beer?”
“Righteous.” Tessa closed the door.
The detective’s eyes flitted to the chessboard. “You’re a glutton for punishment, Tessa.”
“Not this time. Tonight you’re the one who’s going down.”
A slight grin. “We’ll see about who’s going down. Come on, let’s get something to eat, and then we’ll get started with the game.”
Margaret stepped into Semansky’s Bar.
A few pool tables. Air that reeked of stale beer. Slow, heavy country music drawled from the speakers hidden in the ceiling. A thin film of smoke creased the air. It was illegal to smoke in restaurants in DC, but it was pretty clear that the owners of Semansky’s weren’t too concerned about that ordinance.
She looked around.
A few sleepy businessmen sat in the shadows, caressing their drinks. Two of them looked up when she walked in but then disappeared into their own little worlds when she ignored them.
What a pit.
No sign of Rodale.
Over the loudspeakers, a country singer was hoping to get his wife back.
She scanned the room again, and this time saw Greg seated by himself in a corner booth, an empty beer glass on the table in front of him. She approached him, and he greeted her a little too warmly: “Margaret.”
“Greg.” She took a seat across from him in the booth. “Thank you for taking the time.”
“Of course.”
A wispy waitress with frenzied hair and too much makeup appeared out of nowhere. “Refill?” she asked him.
“Give me another Strasman Dark.” He looked toward Margaret. “Want a drink?” She wondered how many he’d had already.
“No thanks.”
“You sure?” the waitress asked her.
“I’m sure. But thank you.”
“Thank you,” she replied in that tone of voice that means “Then why are you taking up my table space?”
“Bring us a basket of fries too,” Greg added.
Their server sloughed off into the darkness. Music throbbed.
“So,” he said.
“So.”
“You wanted to discuss some memos.” Obviously he wasn’t interested in wasting any time.
“Greg, you passed along Defense Department files to the private sector before they’d been carefully reviewed, vetted, and cleared.”
“There was nothing top secret in the research, Margaret. Project Rukh had been terminated. Besides, the program had originally been subcontracted to a private firm.”
“Under the oversight committee’s supervision.”
He let a moment pass. Didn’t reply.
“The decision was ill-advised and premature.”
He dismissed her concerns. “So we have a difference of opinion concerning the matter. What else?”
“Tell me about Dr. Renee Lebreau.”
“You’ve been talking to Ralph Hawkins.”
“How do you know her?”
He gazed into the shadowy confines of the room. Ran his finger gently across the tabletop. “Renee and I met at a conference years ago, before I was appointed FBI Director, before she was a professor.” He said the words as if they were a prepared statement.
“Before your divorce.”
He eyed Margaret coolly. Stilled his hand. “Yes. Before my divorce.”
“Did you suggest that she look into Richard Basque’s case two years ago? Is that how she became involved?”