"Even from the other side of the country?"
"Well, I try to come back here at least once a year or so. And I always look him up, find out what he's been into." He chuckled. "Ever since I joined the Bureau, Joey's kept his nose pretty clean. I think he's seen one too many Hollywood distortions of the power of the FBI."
"So your badge helps keep him in line as well."
"So far. Joey's down as a one-time impulse killer, and I'd like to keep it that way. It's the difference between being bad and crossing over into being evil."
"Mmm." Kendra studied him a moment longer, then said, "Why do I get the feeling your enigmatic past contains a number of stories like Joey's?"
"Probably your vivid imagination."
She sighed, unsurprised. "That was a filthy place you dragged me into."
"Sorry about that."
Kendra turned her gaze to the windshield. "You owe me a new pair of shoes."
With their questions left hanging unanswered in the air but providing a definite spur, both John and Maggie volunteered to stick around for a few hours and help go through the file boxes in search of more information about the earlier crimes. Within an hour, they had files stacked on every available chair but nothing else to show for their efforts.
It was nearly one when Scott and Jennifer left to bring back a late lunch for them, and John took the opportunity to tell Andy about Quentin and Kendra.
"Shit," Andy said, though clearly more startled than angry. "FBI agents-and unofficial? I didn't know the Bureau did anything unofficially."
"They belong to a fairly new unit of investigators and have a bit more autonomy than most. They're very good, Andy, and completely trustworthy. And they aren't interested in taking any credit no matter who breaks the case."
"It was damned officious of you, John."
"I know. And I'll apologize if you want me to-not for calling them in but for not telling you I was going to."
"Gee, that's big of you."
John chuckled.
Unwilling to relent just yet, Andy gave Maggie a hard stare. "You knew about this too?"
She met his gaze squarely. "I don't much care who gets the credit either, Andy. Or who helps. Just as long as we get this animal in a cage where he belongs."
"Drummond's going to shit a brick." Andy sighed. "He's already blasted me once today, John, thanks to you. Do me a favor and keep that famous profile of yours off the front page from now on, will you?"
"I'll do my best. And none of us wants Drummond to find out too soon, believe me. If and when he does find out, it'll be me who called them in-not you or anyone under Drummond."
Andy eyed him wryly. "You got a death wish?"
"I can handle Drummond." John smiled. "I've been handling men like him for fifteen years."
"He's got a lot of juice in this town, John."
"So have 1.1 just haven't used much of it yet."
"Okay, okay. As long as you understand he will not be happy. And as long as none of my people gets the blame."
"They won't."
"In that case-when do I get to meet these agents of yours? I like to know who I'm working with."
"We can meet up at the hotel whenever you like, but Quentin and Kendra are out now trying to find out all they can about this supposed kidnapping. They didn't think it was any more likely than your people did, but like Maggie said-whoever sent that note might know something about Samantha Mitchell, and we need to find out what that might be."
"Think they can find out something before my people can?" It wasn't-quite-a challenge.
John smiled. "Well, let's just say I've learned never to bet against Quentin. One way or another, he usually finds what he goes looking for."
CHAPTE R ELEVEN
Andy decided to strictly limit who in his department would know of the FBI agents' involvement, choosing to tell Scott and Jennifer, but not the other detectives.
"All my people have busted their asses on this case," he told Maggie and John, "but these two kids took some initiative and thought outside the box. Besides, I know for a fact they'll be happy about it-and not everybody would."
Scott and Jennifer were definitely pleased, especially when John told them of both the agents' profiling expertise, Kendra's computer skills, and the full range of databases available to them with federal authority.
"Maybe they'll be able to track down why the 1894 date is important. If it is," Jennifer said. "In the meantime-Andy, if it's okay with you, I'm heading over to the Central precinct. Their file clerk isn't absolutely sure, but there might be some really old file boxes in their storage room. I want to check them out, see if I can find those missing 1934 files or possibly some from 1894."
Andy looked at the stacks of files on the conference table and sighed. "Yeah, go ahead. Nothing in this mess is helping us."
Scott asked, "Jenn, want me to come along?"
She grinned at him. "Oh, no, pal. You get to put all these useless files back where they belong and then try to find out what happened to the ones the North precinct clerk swears were lost in the move to their new building."
With a grimace, Scott said, "It is not fun being the low man on the totem pole." But he seemed cheerful enough as he picked up a file box and followed Jennifer from the room.
"They need to be busy," Andy told Maggie and John with a sigh. "Neither one of them has been a detective long enough to be comfortable with the realization that seventy-five percent of police work is sitting around-either going through papers, trying to piece together a jigsaw puzzle of facts, or just trying to talk through the problem until it starts to make sense."
"Sometimes I think most of life is like that," John offered wryly.
"I don't blame them for being restless," Maggie said, her brooding gaze fixed on the bulletin board. "It's hell just sitting here waiting. Wondering when the phone is going to ring."
When it did at that moment, Andy lifted a brow at her and scooped it up. He said, "Brenner," and listened for several minutes, and didn't have to mutter, "Oh, Christ," for everyone in the room to know the news was bad.
As soon as he hung up, John guessed, "Samantha Mitchell?"
"No," Andy said heavily. "The bastard's having a busy week. We've got another missing woman."
In the storage room of the Central precinct station, Jennifer found a lot of files. A lot of old files, some going all the way back to the 1890s. But she didn't find anything of interest for 1894; there had been relatively few murders reported in Seattle around then, and none that even came close to fitting their criteria.
Worse, there was absolutely no sign of any more files for 1934. For that entire decade, as a matter of fact.
After more than an hour of fruitless search, she was dusty, irritable, and had three paper cuts and a headache. She was also inclined to appreciate computers a lot more than she had before all this had started. Those machines had their bad points, but at least they didn't get dust up her nose or slice up her fingers.
She made her way to the station's lounge and sat down with a soft drink, glumly considering her options. They weren't promising. Maybe Scott could track down those files lost in a move to a new building, but it didn't seem likely. Unless she wanted to physically visit every storage room and basement of every station in the city-and she did not-then she had to accept that this particular trail might well have dead-ended.
Jennifer hated dead ends.
She had been so sure that something useful would be found in the old files. Oh, she'd been offhand about it with Scott, but from the moment she had seen that first sketch from 1934, the adrenaline rush had been intense. All her instincts had been screaming at her. Finally, after all these months, a break in the investigation.
Except that it wasn't, of course. Dammit.
"Hey, Seaton, what're you doing in our neck of the woods?"
She looked up and managed a faint smile for Terry Lynch as he joined her at the table. "Slumming, of course."