“Yes. While their parents were still at work. The sheriff’s department was, well, let’s just say, less than enthusiastic about my techniques.”
“Imagine that.”
“I know.”
The hallway opened into a large work space, and Cheyenne guided me through a maze of cubicles. Since it was Saturday, I didn’t expect the room to be too full, so I was surprised to see nearly two dozen staff members typing, surfing the Internet, and jabbering into their cell phones.
“Anyway, the Bureau decided to send in a behavioral profiler and chose Jake; decided to reassign me to a series of shootings in New York City.”
“Pulled you off the case?”
“Yes.”
“And so what happened? Vanderveld screwed things up?”
“After two days on-site he became convinced that we should be looking for a twenty-four- to twenty-seven-year-old male Caucasian, single, never married, homosexual who had a history of working with kids and could easily gain their trust. A high school teacher, maybe a coach, someone like that.”
“Lemme guess.” She stopped walking for a moment. “Wild goose chase.”
“Over the next three weeks, two more boys disappeared before an eyewitness saw a thirteen-year-old boy get into a car with the forty-eight-year-old, divorced, Hispanic city commissioner.”
“So the only other thing Vanderveld had right in his profile was the killer’s gender and sexual preference?”
“Yes.”
“Which was self-evident considering the victim selection.”
“That’s right.”
We started walking again.
“The city commissioner lived near the center of the hot zone. If the police would have listened to me, those two boys might still be alive.”
I tried holding back the anger that I still carried with me. “But then, here’s the kicker: Vanderveld holds a press conference and explains how quickly the case was wrapped up after he arrived. He milked the media attention as long as he could. He didn’t even give credit to local law enforcement. He loves the spotlight, and when he’s in it, he won’t step out.”
“But that’s not all, is it?”
“No.”
“What else?”
“Let’s just say I don’t trust him and leave it at that.”
Just past the watercooler we came to a line of offices along the east wall. Two of the doors were open, and I could see that each office had a window view of the city. I assumed these were the executive offices, or at least the suites for the top-tier journalists.
“Thanks for the heads-up,” Cheyenne said, then she knocked on a door that had a small metallic sign: Benjamin Rhodes, Assistant Vice President, Editorial.
“Come in,” a man called.
Two people were waiting for us inside the office. The man, whom I assumed was Rhodes, appeared to be in his late thirties. Shaved head. Slightly graying goatee. Black turtleneck, blue jeans, black shoes.
I held out my hand. “Special Agent Bowers. I’m with the FBI.
We’re working closely with the Denver Police Department on this case.”
“Benjamin Rhodes.” We shook hands, then he gestured toward the woman, who did not look happy to see me. “And this is Amy Lynn Greer. One of our top investigative reporters.”
Late twenties, sleep-deprived, pretty. She had kinkily curled brown hair and wore a hemp necklace, blue blouse, stylish shoes. I recognized her face from the picture that ran next to a weekly political column that I now realized was hers.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Greer,” I said. “I met your husband this morning.”
“Amy Lynn will do.” Her manner was curt. “I saw your photo come through the wire. Something about a shooting in Chicago yesterday?”
“Yes. It was tragic.” Not something I wanted to be reminded of. My eyes tipped past her to the desk. “Are those the flowers?”
Amy Lynn and Benjamin nodded.
Cheyenne stood quietly beside us. I assumed she’d been through introductions and had already taken some time to inspect the flowers.
The plants had narrow towers of purplish-white flowers and thick leaves. I leaned close and smelled a strong minty odor mixed with an underlying scent of the potting soil’s earthy decay. “Do we know what kind of flowers these are?”
Benjamin exchanged glances with Amy Lynn. “We’re not sure. We were going to call some people in, see if anyone on the floor was a gardener, but when Amy Lynn told Reggie about the note-”
“He asked me to keep it quiet,” she said.
“Good,” I said.
Earlier that day, on the way to Taylor’s house, Cheyenne had mentioned that both Heather Fain and Ahmed Mohammed Shokr had died of potassium chloride poisoning. I didn’t know what kind of flowers these were, or what they might be covered with, but I didn’t want to take any chances. “Have either of you two touched the plants?”
“I did, a little,” Amy Lynn replied. “Why?”
I didn’t want to scare her. “Probably should wash your hands.”
She looked at me nervously, then stepped out of the room, and I asked Benjamin, “How many people have handled the pot?”
“Well.” He looked a little nervous as well. “Amy Lynn, of course. Brett, one of our secretaries. The flower delivery guy who dropped it off. I’m the one who carried it in here.”
“Cheyenne,” I said. “Can you take Mr. Rhodes and talk with Brett, see if she can give us a description of the man who delivered the flowers? Find out if he said or did anything unusual.”
She flipped out her notebook and nodded toward the door. “Mr. Rhodes?”
“Of course.”
“And hands,” I said, “have everyone wash their-”
“Got it,” Cheyenne said.
They stepped into the hallway, I snapped on the pair of latex gloves I carry with me and carefully investigated the petals, then studied the stems to see if there was anything noteworthy about the flowers themselves. Finding nothing, I prodded softly at the dirt, looking for a black recording device like the one I’d found in Heather Fain’s mouth.
Nothing.
I heard Amy Lynn return.
“Where’s the note?” I asked.
She pointed to the corner of the desk. “Right there. It’s signed John.”
Picking it up, I read the inscription, then flipped it over and studied the card stock paper it was written on. The paper didn’t seem to have any distinctive or unique markings. It would be hard to trace.
“I Googled the phrase,” Amy Lynn said. “‘Must needs we tell of others’ tears?’ I didn’t find anything.”
“All right.” I set down the note. “Any friends named John? Any Johns in stories you’re currently working on?”
“I looked into that too.” She sounded impatient. “The only one I could come up with is John Beyer, the pitcher for the Rockies. I’m doing a piece on steroid use, but I can’t imagine how that might be related to the flowers.”
It sounded like a long shot to me, but we could send an officer to speak with him.
Carefully, I lifted the pot to investigate the bottom; found nothing unusual. Then I felt around the lip of the pot. I was circling the circumference with my finger when I heard the door swing open behind me. I assumed it was Cheyenne and Benjamin returning.
I caught myself verbalizing my thoughts, “Who are you, John? Why send these flowers?”
And someone said, “That’s basil.”
But it wasn’t Cheyenne’s or Benjamin’s voice.
It was Tessa’s.
I turned. “What are you doing up here?”
Her eyes were riveted on the flowers. “They were trying to tow the car.”
“What! Really? No, they weren’t.”
“OK, you got me, they weren’t-but you said ‘John’? Just a second ago?” She entered the office.
“You shouldn’t be up here.” I set down the pot. “You need to go back downstairs.”
“You say it’s basil?” Amy Lynn asked.
I stepped around the desk toward Tessa. She was staring at me, her eyes growing wide. “Seriously, you said John, right-‘Who are you, John?’”
“Yes.”
“Excuse me,” Amy Lynn said. “But you are…?”
“This is my stepdaughter, Tessa,” I said. Since this piece of evidence was apparently connected with the killings, I wanted to get Tessa out of here as quickly as I could. “Come on,” I told her. “We’re leaving.”