Lacey blinked up at Hannah Paisley, an agent who'd started with the Unit some six months before. She'd been in the Bureau five years. She was very tall, beautifully shaped, and was very smart. Lacey had seen her do her dumb blonde act on a witness at the Academy, on video. She'd made the guy feel like the stud of the universe. Then he'd spilled his guts. She was very good, which was why she was loaned out on sting operations. She also seemed to have a sixth sense about killers, which was why she'd joined this unit. Lacey envied her this ability.
Hannah wanted Dillon Savich? She was jealous because Savich thought Lacey was flabby? What was all this about? "I wasn't going after him, Hannah. Actually, I was just thinking that he was a jerk, criticizing my deltoids."
"I know. I was joking. Are you doing work on the Radnich case?"
Lacey nodded. Was Hannah joking? She didn't think so. She didn't need this. Hannah gave her a small salute and went back to her desk and computer.
Lacey was working with Ollie Hamish on the Radnich case. It had flummoxed everyone, including Savich. It wasn't the "who" of it that was driving everybody nuts; it was the "how." Lacey was feeding in more data they'd just gotten from the various local police reports and the autopsies and the forensic evidence, and in the back of her mind, she was also trying to figure out how this weirdo guy could have gotten into four nursing homes-the count as of today-and strangled old women with no one seeing a single thing. The first nursing home was in Richmond, Virginia, eight months ago. Then four months ago, it happened again in northern Florida, home of the nonagenarian. Norma Radnich was the old woman strangled at the South Banyon Nursing Home in St. Petersburg, Florida. They'd been called in by the SPPD only after this last murder. To date there were no leads, no clues, no guesses that were helpful. The Profilers were working on it now as well. Ollie was committed to this one. He was the lead agent on it, and Lacey wanted it that way.
She wanted to go digging. She'd figured out how to access everything sne needed. Perhaps tonight after Dillon let her leave the gym she would come back here and work. If he didn't kill all her body parts, if she'd still be able to walk once he was through with her.
No one would know. She'd be very careful, do her work for the unit during the day and search at night. She felt her heart speed up at the thought. She'd get him. She had to get him. But he'd lain low for nearly seven years. It would be seven years in three days. An anniversary. Just as the past six years had each been an anniversary. Had he died? Had he simply stopped? She didn't think so. He was a classic psychopath. He would never stop until he was dead or locked away. Cycles, she'd thought many times. He was into cycles and so far it hadn't triggered yet for whatever reason.
The weekly update meeting was at two o'clock. There were nine agents in the conference room: six men, including Savich; three women; one secretary, Claudia, a gum-chewing grandmother with bright red hair and a brain like a razor; and one clerk, Edgar, who would bet on just about anything and won the pool on the birth weight of Ellis's baby.
Everyone presented what he was doing, the status, what he or she needed.
The status meeting went quickly, no wasted time. All the agents felt free to speak up when another agent wanted advice. Savich moderated.
When it was Ollie's turn, he said, "I'm working the Rad-nich case with Sherlock. She's up to speed on it now. We just got the last pile of stuff today from the Florida cops. Sherlock, you just finished inputting all the data just a while ago, didn't you?" At her nod, he said, "Then we'll push the magic button this afternoon."
Savich turned to her. "Sherlock? You got anything to add?"
She sat forward, clasping her hands together. "It's like a locked-room murder mystery. How can this guy just saunter into these three nursing homes in Florida and the one in Richmond at ten o'clock at night and kill these poor old women with nobody seeing or hearing a thing? Naturally, all the old women killed were in single rooms or suites, but that shouldn't matter. This whole thing is nuts. There has to be something we're missing."
"Obviously," said Hannah. "But we'll get there, we usually do."
Savich said, "Actually, Ollie and I are going to St. Petersburg tomorrow morning. I just got another call from Captain Samuels. There's been another murder. That means that our guy is going into overdrive. The Profilers don't like it. It means he's losing control. Five murders in eight months, the last two in the past week and a half. Captain Samuels really wants us to go down there and poke around, look at everything with new eyes. So, that's where we'll be for the weekend."
Ollie nearly leaped out of his chair in excitement. "When, Chief?"
"Eight A.M. United flight from Dulles."
Suddenly Ollie blanched and raised his eyes heavenward. "I won't get too up for this. No, I'm a fatalist. If I really want to go, then my future mother-in-law will tell Maria that I'm a workaholic and lousy husband material and Maria will dump me. It's the way my life works."
"Don't worry, Ollie," Savich said, closing his folder. "It's no big deal. We'll just go down there to see if there's anything they haven't seen. I think it's time to look the situation over firsthand."
"Do you already know who did it?" Sherlock asked, sitting forward, her hands clasped on the conference table.
Savich heard that utterly serious voice, looked at that too-intense face, at that thick curling auburn hair trying to break free of the gold clasp at the back of her neck. "Not this time- sorry. Now, Ollie, don't panic. Nothing to it."
Still, Ollie looked doubtful. Lacey had heard that he'd already wagered with at least a dozen other agents that his wedding wouldn't come off because either a terrorist would blow up the church or the preacher would be arrested for stealing out of the collection plates.
"I sure want to catch this creep," Ollie said.
"I do too," Savich said. "Like you and Sherlock and every cop in Florida, I want to know how he keeps pulling off this ghost act." He stood. "Okay. Everyone is cooking along just fine. No big problems of breakthroughs. Cogan, see me for a minute. I've got an idea about those murders in Las Vegas."
At six o'clock, Lacey walked into the World Gym on Juniper Street, wearing shorts, a baggy top, and running shoes, her hair pulled back and up high in a ponytail. She paid her ten dollars and went into the huge mirror-lined room. There was the usual complement of bodybuilders who watched every move they made in the mirrors. She got a kick out of watching them walk. They were overbulked and couldn't really get around normally. They moved like hulks.
There were beautiful young women who were six feet tall, professional women on the StairMasters, looking at their watches every few minutes, probably thinking about their kids and what they were going to cook for dinner and did they have enough time if they did just five more minutes.
And there were quite a few professional men, all ages, all working hard. She didn't see a single slacker. Then she saw Savich. He was wearing shorts, running shoes, and a sleeveless white cotton tank. He was doing lat pulldowns.
He was slick with sweat, his dark hair plastered to his head. He looked good. Actually, he looked better than good; he looked beautiful. Then she saw him glance over at a clock, do two more slow pulldowns, then release the bar and slowly stand up. He turned, saw her immediately, and waved. Seeing him from the front made her realize that she hadn't seen any male as a man in a very long time. She let herself appreciate the clean definition of his muscles, the smooth contours of sinew, then she set him away from her, back into his proper role.