The Profiler

The Profiler Lori A. May Mills & Boon Silhouette FBI agent Angie Davis sees past the crime scene into the twisted criminal mind. It's a skill she hones with the guidance of her mentor, Cain…one that helps Angie predict a killer's next victim before it's too late.But this profiler-in-training's latest case is a headache from the start. For one, she must work with maverick NYPD detective Carson Severo. And then, another kill. And another. Only this serial killer's victims seem to follow a disturbing pattern–they are all somehow connected to Angie. And it's just a matter of days before she becomes the next target…. Praise for Lori A. May’s The Profiler “Lori A. May writes a psychological thriller that will have you turning pages even while chills chase up your spine…. If you love a good mystery with an action-packed plot and more twists and turns than a roller coaster, pick this one up today.” —Cathy Cody, Romance Junkies “…action, mystery, deception and growth…. The story will keep you glued to the pages as you turn them to find out what will happen next….” —Pam Clifton, A Romance Review “Severo, what the hell are you doing? Didn’t I tell you not to follow me?” But as his shadow moves from the backdrop of the sun, clarifying his silhouette, his shoulder width is different from what I expect. This is not Severo. He raises a hand, revealing a container of kerosene. He angles the container downward and fuel drizzles into the room. “Revenge. I’m sure you can understand that, Angie.” He pulls a lighter from his pocket. As I scramble to grasp hold of my fallen gun, a blow finds its way to my head, and the shadows stop. Dear Reader, What’s in your beach bag this season? August is heating up, and here at Bombshell we’ve got four must-read stories to make your summer special. Rising-star Rachel Caine brings you the first book in her RED LETTER DAYS miniseries, Devil’s Bargain. An ex-cop makes a deal with an anonymous benefactor to start her own detective agency, but there’s a catch—any case that arrives via red envelope must take priority. If it doesn’t, bad things happen…. Summer heats up in Africa when a park ranger intent on stopping poachers runs into a suspicious Texan with an attitude to match her own, in Rare Breed by Connie Hall. Wynne Sperling wants to protect the animals under her watch—will teaming up with this secretive stranger help her, or play into the hands of her enemies? A hunt for missing oil assets puts crime-fighting CPA Whitney “Pink” Pearl in the line of fire when the money trail leads to a top secret CIA case, in She’s on the Money by Stephanie Feagan. With an assassin on her tail and two men vying for her attention, Pink had better get her accounts in order…. It takes true grit to make it in the elite world of FBI criminal profilers, and Angie David has what it takes. But with her mentor looking over her shoulder and a serial killer intent on luring her to the dark side, she’ll need a little something extra to make her case. Don’t miss The Profiler by Lori A. May! Please send your comments to me c/o Silhouette Books, 233 Broadway, Suite 1001, New York, NY 10279. Best wishes, Natashya Wilson Associate Senior Editor, Silhouette Bombshell The Profiler Lori A. May www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk) LORI A. MAY began her writing career as a freelancer until one day she decided to aim for a higher word count. While creating thrilling dramas is her primary focus, she continues to pursue other literary interests, and her short fiction and poetry has been published in Canada and abroad by periodicals such as The Claremont Review, Zygote and Coffee Press Journal. Lori lives in Southwestern Ontario and more information about her writing may be found at her home on the Web: www.loriamay.com. Thanks must first be given to Lynda Curnyn who offered encouragement and the first editorial eye in my Bombshell journey. Your kindness and support has never gone unnoticed, and I wish you the best of success forevermore. To Natashya Wilson, who is not only a wonderful and attentive editor, but also shows such tremendous support in developing new authors. You are a gem, and I am honored to be working with you. Without the support of my agent, Jay Poynor, who knows where I’d be? Jay, you are perhaps the most kind and generous person I have ever met. Many thanks for your hard work, luv. To the countless Red Dress Ink authors who have provided words of wisdom and encouragement along the way, I must offer sincere thanks for your willingness to cheer on emerging authors. You ladies—and you know who you are—have my utmost respect and gratitude. Exceptional thanks must go to Erica Orloff for friendship and professional guidance. This road would not be the same without you in the front seat. Without the knowledge of Sandra De Salvo, I would have spent much more time researching the hard way. Thank you for your insight, suggestions and willingness to pick up the phone. Much love to my family for your support and applause throughout the years. And to Zaida, for reminding me to laugh. Contents Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 1 I lean my forearms into the open car window to get a better look at him. He’s clean shaven, wearing a pricey suit, and looks as though he could be my bank branch manager. But he’s not. Smoothing down my black, vampy skirt, I look at him with eager eyes. “Wie h?tten Sie’s denn gern?” He unlocks the passenger door and tilts his head. “Get in.” Sliding into the plush seat, I take in the scent of bleach and notice the immaculate state of the interior. When someone’s car is this clean, they have to be hiding something. I fasten my seat belt and face him. In stunted, slow-motion English I repeat my question. “How would you like it?” His eyes remain on the road as he pulls away from the corner. “I don’t much care for small talk.” I nod my head silently. Traffic on the streets is sparse and the neighborhood is fast asleep at this hour—4:00 a.m. I guess even New York can have its quiet times. There’s the odd cabbie in sight, but little action. But action‘s exactly what this man’s looking for, and I plan on giving it to him. He pulls into a parking lot outside of an old warehouse. Everyone knows the general atmosphere of the meatpacking district. For crack dealers and runaways it’s a haven amid the streets’ reality, but for guys like my john it brings a whole new meaning to hanging meat. The Hudson’s proximity lingers in the air, reminding me of the uncomplimentary reputation this area has come to possess with its history of criminal activity, where strangers seek solace in an abandoned corner of the city. The only remote sign of humanity, in a very generous definition, is the flock of hookers hanging out along the docks. This is a world far removed from Lower Manhattan, yet for someone decked out in Wall Street gear this man sure feels at home. When he turns off the ignition, I wait for his movements before exiting the car. He’s taller than I first noticed, and his walk is swift and rigid. Out of sight from catcalling workers, busy on the end of the night shift, my john maintains his focus on getting me indoors and to himself. Just as I suspected he would. I follow him closely and when I reach his side, he grabs the back of my neck, guiding me into an entrance. With one hand, I reach to my necklace and feel the pendant resting against my throat. It’s safely in place. Inside the deserted warehouse, the man pushes me against the concrete wall. His force is powerful, and I do as he says. He gestures while demanding, “Take off your shirt.” Though his voice at first sounds soft and almost gentle, it has depth to it, as though he is hiding years of being held in subordinate corporate disrespect. It’s as though only now, here in this dark place, he is able to reach beyond his station in that other world, where bottom lines and cocktail parties regulate his worth. I slide my blouse over my head and toss it to the side, careful not to disturb my pendant. With an aggressive shove, he presses his face into my neck, biting at my skin. I feel little shots of pain, but remain calm. This place smells like death and urine. It’s disgusting. Evidence of this man’s previous engagements are sparsely scattered throughout, proving he is no ladies’ man. The floors are caked in mud, blood and piss, and I have to breathe conservatively to keep focused. Rapidly, he scrapes his teeth against my flesh, biting into my bra to access my nipples. He won’t be getting away with more than that today. He holds me against the hard surface of the stained, worn wall. With his eyes intent on my body and one hand placed on my head, he pushes me down so that I am eye level with his crotch. I’ve never wanted to chomp down on something so badly. “Do it,” he says, unzipping his slacks. His voice is threatening, yet defensive, as though part of him cannot believe the words coming from his own lips. “And no spitting.” My pulse is quickening. I can feel my own heartbeat as I try not to struggle against his restraints. When I see his trademark tattoo, I know I’m in the right place at the right time. However much he might vacillate, hot one moment and cold the next, this man’s final actions speak volumes about his struggle for power. This shouldn’t be taking so long. “Open your mouth, bitch!” As if to emphasize his words, he slams the back of his hand against my face. I instinctively fight back, scrambling to my feet to elbow him in the stomach. As I grab hold of his head and knock it against the cement wall, he fumbles for my hair and, with it, pulls my face close to his. His inner contradiction is officially over. “You gonna do what I say or do I have to make it easier on you?” His two hands are cradling my neck, and I know that, with one quick twist, he could garner some animalistic satisfaction. My eyes speak for me as I contain myself, and he licks the creased corner of his lips with pleasure as one of his manicured hands reaches behind him, only to return to my face, revealing an unusual weapon. He playfully slides the edge of his knife, unique with its hook-like point, down past my cleavage, and I brace myself, knowing this is the moment I’ve been waiting for. My nervous perspiration feeds into his needs and, content with my display of fear, he slides me back into position, all the while keeping the knife’s edge within an inch of my flesh. I feel the skin of my knees wear against the friction of my latex-enhanced boots as I dutifully kneel on the pavement. He shoves his hips into my face, and I am fragments of an inch away from the infamous inked image of Zeus. His moaning begins even before I move toward him. Leaning in closer, I slowly slide one hand into the lining of my thigh-high boot and feel the trigger of my Bauer .25. The man moves his groin into my face and I prepare to pull out the pistol. “Put your hands up!” As I hear the familiar voice from a cluttered corner of the warehouse, my blood ignites. With a sweep, I grab hold of the john’s legs, tripping him to the floor to unleash his grasp on the knife, and aim my gun at his dick. “You foreign bitch! You set me up!” Although he wriggles in my grip, having his crotch as my target keeps him in place. With one eyebrow raised, I coyly lean forward and say, “The only thing foreign to me, pal, is how you’ve been able to get away with your bullshit for so long. You got a thing for raping and gutting immigrant prostitutes? Not anymore. Your last victim gave away your trademark, Zeus.” As I wrestle the man into place, I look to my mentor. “It’s about time, Cain.” Approaching with his casual slouch, the old pro winks at me. “You wanna work the big time? Then you do it my way, Angie. I run the schedule. No matter whose dick is in your mouth.” “Very funny.” “Hey,” Cain says with innocence, as though he had little choice in the matter, “we couldn’t make a move on Zeus until we saw that knife. You know that, right? We had to be sure.” I know he’s right, but his candor doesn’t rub me well. With drops of blood sticking my skin to the lining of my boots, I return my focus to the perp. Once the man’s wrists are cuffed, I lean into his body before standing him up. Baring my teeth, I bite close enough to his face to make him wince, but far enough to keep my safety. For fun, I ask in German if he understands me. “Verstehen Sie?” He starts in on a foulmouthed protest, but I bring a finger to my lips and calmly say, “Shh. You really should work on your manners.” He spits in my face, and I don’t wipe it off. “That’s no way to treat a lady,” I say, settling my eyes on his. “Especially one who’s a federal agent. Asshole.” Two arresting suits take the captive from me, and only now do I wipe off the man’s saliva. “Hey, that’s evidence,” Cain jokes as I turn to face him. “Angie, kiddo. Do you have to get so riled up? He wasn’t going anywhere. Not with this entourage.” “Well, what the hell took you so long? This thing not working?” I pull the pendant from my neck. “Or do you just like to hear me suffer?” “You really want an answer to that?” I chuck my pendant at Cain, and he picks the small, clear piece from its backing. The temporary wire is good for forty-eight hours, but it didn’t seem to bring me much benefit in these last few minutes of socializing with my first assigned infamous criminal. “Relax, Angie. You did good. We’ve been tracking this Zeus freak for some time, but it took you and your interchangeable nationality to nab him. You’ll do just fine here in New York.” Cain tosses me my recently earned, gold FBI identification badge and a paper bag containing more preferable work clothing. He leads the rest of the investigators to the main attraction, and I step back to watch the famed profiler live up to his reputation. One criminal down, countless more to go. Just six days back in my hometown and I’m already jaded. But for me, returning to New York City means more than a paycheck. “You clean up good, kid.” I eyeball Cain and reach for my coffee, contemplating the remaining hours of my elective double shift. No one wants to work on holidays, and I’ve quickly learned Thanksgiving is generally “volunteered” by singles such as myself. It’s as though the world assumes a person has nothing to do on a holiday if there’s no one to go home to. Whatever. It’s just another shift, and I’m indifferent to what the calendar has to say. I settle into paperwork, trying to produce order in my new work environment, though it’s not so easy with Cain’s files scattered throughout the office. Now that he no longer has this ten-by-ten-foot box to himself, I suppose the both of us will have to get used to sharing the quaint space. I just want to get some of the clutter organized this morning so I can get home before the Macy’s parade kicks in and holiday hell breaks out on the streets. Cain tosses a balled-up scrap of paper at me and says, “Angie, look pretty.” When I meet his eyes to give a few words of wisdom, I see we are no longer alone in Cain’s twenty-third-floor office at 26 Federal Plaza. “This is Detective Carson Severo from the Fifth Precinct, down on Elizabeth. My darling prot?g?e, you are looking at one of NYPD’s finest.” The detective dons a humble frown, but it does little to affect his overall appearance. He looks as though he’s been on the job all night, too, but it doesn’t bring him below nine on a scale of one to ten. Ten would be too assuming. Though one thing I can assume with ease is this boy is homebred Italian. Severo extends his hand to shake mine and asks, “How are ya?” in just enough of an accent. My observation is confirmed. I study his dark brown eyes, focus and reply. “Molto bene, grazie.” His head tilts a little, and I can see his analytical senses are sizing me up. In a cautious voice, he asks, “Parla italiano?” “Un po’,” I say, before returning my focus to the stacks of paper. “Ignore her.” Cain hands the detective a mug of black coffee. “Or she’ll start in on Russian or Japanese next and we’ll both be screwed.” The detective’s brow rises. “Impressive.” “Yeah, she’s got her mind set on grandiose things, all right. Got in on that Foreign Language Proficiency jazz they’re doing in Quantico nowadays,” Cain explains, and I try to ignore that I’m being talked about within hearing distance. “Anyways, good to see you. What brings ya by?” I let my peripheral vision remain aware as to Severo’s presence, but return intent on getting these files caught up. As soon as this report is out the door, so am I. “Heard you got Zeus tonight. Figured I should drop by and extend my congrats.” Cain sets his ass on top of his desk, gently relaxing his posture into that casual, confident slouch I have seen on a daily basis. I’ve been in this office six days, but the old guy’s habits are as easy to read as a popup book. “My, oh my, news travels fast,” he says, slurping at his office brew. “Sure as shit we did. Couldn’t have done it, though, without this one,” he adds, poking a finger in my direction. “Is that so?” I meet the detective’s glance to measure his comment, but he simply offers me a friendly nod. “Hell if I could pass as a foreign hooker.” Cain’s crusty laugh sends a shiver up my spine. He’s a skilled profiler, but the guy could use some social skills. “My girl Angie’s got what it takes, if you know what I mean.” I toss a discarded wet tea bag at my mentor, but it lands in a corner bucket containing Cain’s dying six-foot-tall, leafy plant. “Now that I think of it,” Cain says, as he watches me stuff my file folders into an internal mail envelope, “maybe you can be of some assistance to me.” “How so?” “I need to grease her up for the field, show her what New York is all about, from the gritty perspective, you know? Seems to me, with you dealing with a variety of crap on a daily basis, you might come across something meaty to share.” “I’m more of the finders, keepers theory, Cain. Unless something comes up that’s task force related…” “Ah, come on. I’m not talking about running off with your caseload, Detective.” I watch as Cain jabs Severo in the side, and I wonder what is it that makes guys display camaraderie through physical force. “I’m just asking for a hand, is all.” I feel the detective’s eyes on me as I shoulder my bag and prepare to head home. “But Cain—” he leans in, whispering to my mentor “—it looks to me like you’ll need more than that.” “What do you think—carrots or corn?” I don’t wait for a reply. My stomach is alerting me of my hunger, and all I want is to wolf down this Thanksgiving spread and get back out there before the sun goes down. The nap did me good, but too many hours at home can lead to too much thought. And my mind’s no place to wander on a holiday—not without my father in my life. “Since you’re not arguing, it’s corn.” The two plates are dressed as though our dinner is formal, but right here—the apartment I grew up in—it’s always been casual. “Dinner’s on!” I set the food down and light a few candles to make this evening’s meal ambient. With a little jazz in the background, reminding me of my father’s favorite choice of music, I almost feel at home again. Though I’ve been back in the city for nearly a week, I have yet to unpack most of my things from Virginia and transform my teenage-style bedroom into one that will represent who I am now. I’m itching to rediscover the neighborhood and absorb all the changes Chelsea has been through over the years. It was more than four years ago when I ventured off to Michigan to pursue my degree, and then went to Quantico for training. But now that I’m back to my native grounds, I want to dig my heels in deep and feel at home again. It’ll be no small feat, considering that the last time I lived here my father was alive. Getting past the hurt and anger will not be easy, especially surrounded by constant reminders of his existence. But I know he would have wanted me to live my life to the fullest. I’m going to do all I can to live up to his reputation and make him proud. Wherever he is. Taking my seat, I hear the familiar footsteps approach. Welcoming my dinner partner, I return focus to the holiday meal. “My, you’re a mighty fine fella. Thanks for joining me.” Muddy lifts his heavy body to the two-seater dining room table and I smooth down his wrinkles. The drool starts from his bloodhound folds, but I don’t mind. It’s in his nature. And he’s been the best damn friend I’ve ever had. Maybe this isn’t your typical family meal for a holiday, but I’ve never lived in a Norman Rockwell portrait. Since Dad… Well, the family’s not a big unit where I come from, so I make do with what and who I have. As soon as I get settled, I’ll be insisting Grandma David pack her things and move home from Detroit. I know returning to NYC will be painful, with so many reminders of what happened to my father within a stone’s throw. But if I can keep that extra connection to him in any way possible, I will. Reuniting her to the city, now that I’m back, has to help in the healing process. Hopefully, for both of us. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.” “How long has it been since your last confession?” With time to spare before my next shift, I’ve detoured to Gramercy Park for a moment of family nostalgia. I peer through the mesh window and hold up a plate of leftovers, still warm from the oven. “Ah, hell if I know. You hungry?” “Angie! I did not see you so well.” Uncle Simon lets himself out into the open, widening his arms to grasp me in a hug. Forget the confession; the months have drifted by quickly since I last saw my father’s brother. He and my grandmother are my only living relatives and I intend to keep closer contact with my uncle, now that I’m back in New York. “I brought you some turkey—slightly burned—and some fixings,” I say, handing him the container. “I figured you’d be here all night, blessing this and that for the holiday, but heck, even us solos need to eat, right?” “Ah well, that’s very fine of you to think of an old man. I am so sorry I could not join you at the apartment, but you know duty calls.” His hands wave about, gesturing to the leftover evidence of the Gramercy Park holiday Mass. Between offering blessings and sharing prayers, he would have had his hands full, I know. “No, I understand. I’m not really settled in yet, so I’d only embarrass myself with the mess I’ve made. I’ll have you over real soon, though, okay?” Simon nods his head as he leads me to take a seat beside him on a pew, and I let him refamiliarize himself with his niece. I have to do the same with him, as it’s been way too long. As far as I can tell, though, this man has changed very little. He’s thin, lanky and slightly hunched. His skin is pale and his features show his age, but I know his heart is still large with love. “Your hair has grown long, I see.” Simon’s hand extends along my cheek, brushing thin fingers through my unruly hair and tucking the strands behind my ear. My current shoulder-length locks are usually pulled back into some makeshift do, but tonight they hang loosely. The last time Simon would have seen me, at my father’s funeral in July, my hair would have been cropped a bit shorter, making it easier to take care of during long days of training in Quantico. If I hadn’t been smack-dab in the middle of starting my career as an agent with the FBI—engulfed in the tenth week of training—I wouldn’t have left my uncle’s side so soon. It still stings that I had to make that choice. With the Bureau being so competitive, I didn’t have much option but to promptly return to Quantico. Had I dropped out of the sixteen-week training program, there would be slim chance I could get back in, despite my top-notch proficiency levels. “Angie, tell me. What day is it?” I know this game all too well. It started when I was barely able to speak English, let alone Latin. “Dies Iovis,” I say, pleasing the frail man. “Yes! It is Thursday. Oh, good for you, for keeping it up. You study hard?” “When I can.” Although I can’t use Latin on an everyday basis, my language skills have come in handy from time to time. Especially since it was my exceptional scoring on the Foreign Language Proficiency tests that moved me into the Special Agent training program. It also proved beneficial in third year for my internship with the FBI’s National Center for Analysis of Violent Crime. NCAVC likes to see well-rounded agents in the field, and I’m willing to use any skill I have to help my goal of becoming a profiler, even if it takes ten years to get into their elite Violent Criminal Apprehension Program. After all, my father worked with NCAVC for a time, and he was so honored when I decided to follow in his career path. His death just makes me want it more. Simon studies my features and places a finger under my chin, bringing my eyes up to meet his. “You work so hard, my sweet. I can see that.” A small smile forces its way across my lips. “You know how it is. Never a dull moment.” Simon rests a palm on my shoulder and he looks at me, his blue-gray eyes growing soft with love and encouragement. “I know it’s difficult for you, Angela. Your father, he was a good man. Such a strong man. He didn’t deserve it. But you cannot feel guilty about not being here, you understand? Your father would be so proud of you.” “I know,” I say, but keep my eyes low while trying not to dwell on the pain. I hate that my father was killed in the line of duty, but I’m even more angered that his death happened during my training. I know my father would be proud of me, but sometimes I wonder whether, if I hadn’t left the city, our lives would’ve been different. If maybe he would still be alive. “You are a wonderful, caring, smart girl, Angie. And a Special Agent! You couldn’t have made your father any happier.” “I just wish… I just wish I had more time with him, ya know? After leaving for college, stopping by for holidays and special occasions…it wasn’t enough. I should have been here more. I should have been here when he died.” Simon wraps his arms around me, and I let my body relax into his hug. If anyone understood the relationship between me and my father, it was Simon. The two of them prodded me to excel through my youthful education, prepping me for my future. My father, though, was the backbone of my training. Growing up, I spent every single day with him, and not one of those days went by without me learning something from him. Without his intensity and skills as a profiler, I would not be the person I am today. “Oh, that kid!” I follow my uncle’s concerned look and spot a thin young man dashing out of the church with the sparse contents of the donation box. “All the time, this kid taking from us!” My uncle’s voice trails into the background as I bolt after the offender. Outside the church, the kid stumbles into the damp streets, and I chase him through an alleyway leading to a small neighborhood park. I can’t tell what he looks like or how old he is, as his hooded pullover conceals his face and the evening light is fading into darkness. He treks down a sloped path, but I veer along the upper side of the bank, hoping to nab him from above. Darting past bushes and weathered trees, I kick into high gear and, when the timing is right, pounce down on him. “Drop the money!” I yell. The thief resists me, anxiously trying to slide away, but I place my booted foot on his chest and pin him to the cold earth. I lean closer and with the barrel of my gun push the hood back from his face and see that he is just a kid. A teenager—maybe thirteen or fourteen—and obviously homeless. His skin is scaly with dirt, and his hair, apparently once greasy, is now dry and brittle. “You think stealing from a church is going to help you?” His eyes flicker back to me with fear and shame, and I don’t know if I want to cuff the kid or take him home and clean him up. “That’s not the way to do it, man.” His silence is unnerving, so I reach out a hand and pull him up from the ground. When he stands, he is a few inches shorter than I am, and I see the wear his clothes have been through. This, at the start of a winter. The boy holds his wrists out in front of him, but I pause. The obvious thing to do is take him in, but all that will do is punish him for looking after his own welfare. Don’t get me wrong; stealing is anything but acceptable. But I know these kids. They’re not the ones who rob banks or assault people. They steal bread and blankets for their own survival. He stares at me as I reach into my back pocket and hand him a tattered card detailing the services of a nearby shelter. When I give him five bucks, I say, “This is your warning. I catch you stealing from anyone—and I mean anyone—ever again, you’re going in. Got it?” He nods his head and a single tear rolls down his cheek. “Now get on over to the shelter and tell them Angie sent you.” The kid’s sea-blue eyes barely make contact with mine as his timid voice speaks. “Is this a friend of yours?” I pause, caught off guard by the personal question. It wasn’t my intention to think of Denise. Not yet. But I guess by sending a needy kid her way, I guarantee she’ll be thinking of me. “Friend of the family,” I say firmly, and then add, “She’ll look after you for tonight and give you something to eat. Go on, get out of here.” The kid hightails it out of my sight, and I collect the loose change from the earth. There wasn’t more than twenty bucks in the box, yet the kid was willing to take his chances for such a small amount. Probably had little choice. For a moment, I let the evening wind push fallen leaves against my feet, let my body and mind settle into New York soil. The constant sounds of city traffic, the mixed aromas of ethnic eateries…it all funnels into faded memories of my youth, enlivening the forgotten shadows within my heart. Denise. I haven’t given much thought to visiting her, but now that I’ve let her name enter my consciousness, I have no choice but to acknowledge her existence. The last time I saw her was at my father’s funeral, and even then I paid little attention to the proximity of this woman. A buoyant plastic grocery bag slaps against my calf and alerts me to reality. As I unwrap the garbage from my leg, my cell phone rings and I focus on the present. “David.” “Angie,” Cain says in his age-worn voice. “Meet me at the men’s mission by St. Augustine’s. Have I got a body for you.” Chapter 2 When the cabbie drops me off at the scene, Cain is standing outside the mission building with Detective Severo, who’s talking to a middle-aged woman. I wasn’t expecting to see him, and now that I do I’m curious as to why he’s here. “Nice Thanksgiving?” he asks as I step up to the curb outside the mission. I shrug my shoulders, not interested in small talk. “Fine,” I say. “Burned the turkey.” Regret for confessing my culinary taboo immediately follows. Severo doesn’t need to learn one of my flaws so easily, but it doesn’t seem to faze him much. “How ironic,” he says, then lifts his cardboard takeout box of stale-looking nachos, offering me a sample. Shaking my head, I step closer to Cain to see what’s going on. “Angie, thanks for getting over here quick. This is the housekeeper for the mission.” I note her fearful eyes, desperate for answers to which I myself have no idea of questions. “She was checking on one of the resident spiritual advisors when she found him…. Hell, I’ll let you have a look for yourself.” As I offer a meek smile to the lady, trying to provide comfort for something I don’t yet understand, I notice the many guests of the mission. People are lined up outside the building, food in their hands, protective of what is likely the best meal they’ve had all week—or longer. The building itself is plain and camouflaged with its unassuming exterior, only now it looks like a disco with the strobe lights of emergency vehicles dancing across its concrete exterior in the darkening night. We climb the narrow staircase to the upper level, and I take in the stink of kerosene mixed with something more potent. Burned human flesh. Inside the advisor’s room, dim in this evening light, I see the corpse propped upright in a wooden rocking chair. One thing doesn’t make sense. The room has no fire damage. “Matthias Killarney. Fifty-two. Caucasian. Dead.” The monotone of Cain’s voice signals the beginning of a long shift and I step closer to the body, interested to understand. A few investigators are rounding up forensic evidence and I’m careful not to step across their boundaries. “This is Severo’s deal,” Cain says to me as I lean closer to the man’s body, covering my nose and mouth with some gauze. “The detective and I were enjoying our own holiday feast of wings and nachos down at Dooly’s Pub when he got called on this one. He was kind enough to invite us over to check it out. You know, so you can get your feet good and stuck in the mud.” “How considerate,” I mumble, wondering how much Cain had to argue to convince the detective to extend that invitation. But I keep my focus on the crime scene. The man is sitting in a firm position, placed in the wooden chair as though he were a puppet. Rigor mortis has reached its full extent, making the victim’s posture as static and flexible as a brick. This condition can last anywhere from twelve to forty-eight hours, and may provide an estimated time of death for the crime scene unit and medical examiner. At first glance, the room appears calm and untouched by any intruder, but trace will undoubtedly disprove that naive impression. I step back from the body and pull the cloth from my face. Despite the stench, I need to breathe freely. “What do we know?” Detective Severo flips open his notepad and runs through the time of discovery and a few comments from resident workers. “But most important, albeit obvious, this guy was set up here on display. We don’t know where the actual crime took place yet, just that he was brought back to his home and propped up for someone to find. Excuse me a moment,” he says, and I watch as he meets up with some of his teammates for a discussion. Cain leads me back outside, letting Severo’s team do their job. “The medical examiner will provide clues as to the fire. Whether this guy died in a blaze or what.” “Why would someone go through all that trouble?” I lean on a tree and watch as the detective makes his way to meet us outside. I look from him to Cain, realizing in some ways the two men are complete opposites, yet by some arguments they are one and the same. Cain’s hunched body, beaten with years and the streets, is deceiving. His appearance may be worn, but the profiler is like wine, only getting better with age. His exterior belies the solid, analytical man inside. His reputation alone…well, it’s enough to make a rookie agent like me drool with envy. Though Severo is much younger, Cain obviously has respect for him, so there must be worlds of experience beyond his facade. Cain lights up a cigarette and peers at me with narrowed eyes. “You’d be surprised, kid. And that’s for you to figure out, my little profiler in training.” “But burning this man, and then bringing him back here—especially seeing how this is a busy place this time of year—it’s like he wanted to make a point. Why not just leave him at the original scene?” As I speak aloud, I find myself running the events through my mind, trying to make sense of them. “The housekeeper says the last time anyone saw Killarney was yesterday afternoon. Wednesday,” Severo interjects. “But anything could have happened overnight, when only resident staff are around and likely asleep. But, yeah, seems risky.” Before much silence has passed, Cain turns toward his car and motions for me to join him. “Come on, Angie. We’ll let the detective do his job here. And Severo—you know where to find us. If you don’t mind, once your CSU team cleans the place I’d like to give Angie here a chance to mull over the findings.” I slide into Cain’s passenger seat and look back at Severo, who peers at me suspiciously before walking back to the mission. “You know Detective Severo well?” As we drive along the dimly lit street, spotted with decorations in preparation for the holiday season, I try to look occupied with my seat belt so Cain doesn’t get any funny ideas as to my inquiry. “Severo? Shit, we’ve had our moments.” He pulls up to a street corner deli cart, hops out to retrieve two extra-large coffees, then shuffles back to his seat before starting out on the road. I hold the takeout cups as Cain slides his seat belt over his chest. “Ah, he’s a pain in the ass sometimes. His bark is worse than his growl, though, that’s for sure.” I hand Cain a steamy cup to balance while driving. “Thing is, kid, working in this city is like fighting for your corner of the playground, ya know? Everyone has their turf and no one likes sharing the dirt. You better get used to that, and quick, too. Best advice I can give you is don’t piss anyone off unless you have good reason.” “Nice,” I say, vowing to remember that bit of insider knowledge. Quantico was definitely competitive, but Cain is making NYC sound like a battlefield. “Don’t get me wrong, Angie. The guy knows his stuff and he’s a pro on the job, no argument there. He’s a good guy to let loose and sling back a few beers with, too.” Cain leans his head in my direction and briefly lifts his brows, then returns his focus to the road. “But his noggin… He got messed up by a dame and I think it’s got him all in a bunch, you know?” I nod and sip my coffee. Almost a week in his presence and the guy can’t remember that I take cream, so the black liquid is a little harsh to the palate. As I swish the beverage in my mouth, letting it cool before swallowing, I try to imagine Severo in a relationship. Just doesn’t seem to suit him. Maybe his hard-to-read exterior is just a front. Guess I won’t be playing poker with him anytime soon. “Yeah, he got dumped, all right,” Cain says, barely containing a tainted laugh. “She did a job on him, boy. Just a few days before the wedding, too.” The information jolts me, and I look to Cain for more. “Ah, hell, everyone knew it was over months before she ditched him. He was just too stubborn to give up that easy. She was a detective, too. A real good one, I might add.” Cain reacts momentarily as a bump in the road causes coffee to spill onto his sleeve. After he licks his wrist, he continues. “She was offered a promotion. Well, a transfer and a promotion. I guess it came down to choosing one or the other. No way in hell Severo was going to move his ass out of the city.” “So she took the job?” Cain hands me his cup as he parks the car in his designated spot outside 26 Federal Plaza, then takes it back from me before getting out of his seat. “Yup. The dumb schmuck was scrambling the week before the wedding to tell a hundred guests not to bother showing. Gotta love drama. I doubt he’s ever really gotten over it.” I slam the door shut with my butt, coffee in hand, and walk with Cain to the entrance. “He still loves her?” I’m smug to think he can retain feelings for someone who humiliated him days before saying “I don’t.” “Nah. I mean, I doubt he’s ever gotten over a dame leaving him for a job.” Cain stops at the double doors and looks at me, sort of surprised, and asks, “You mean, you haven’t noticed?” I shrug. “He’s got a chip on his shoulder about the whole thing. But he’s a dedicated sap, whether with women or on the job, so whatever makes him tick is apparently working. Unlucky in love, but a damn good detective. Schmuck.” I tail Cain’s echoing laughter through the white-walled halls of the New York FBI Field Office, ready to start in on our night of business. Cain has much to familiarize me with yet in the office I’ll be calling home for at least four years. It’s good to get the formalities over and done with so I know what to expect of my work environment…and of my coworkers. Though I still can’t shake the concept. Carson Severo hurt by love? Anything’s possible. I guess it explains his suspicious glances toward me. Maybe he thinks I’m one of the bad guys. Then again, I’ve never been all that skilled at being good. “Me llamo Denise. Tome asiento.” I keep my presence unknown, outside the reception window of the shelter, and listen to Denise welcome a new intake on this Friday morning. With only a few hours of sleep to my credit, curiosity couldn’t keep me away before heading into work for my next twelve-hour shift. The young Hispanic man takes a seat, as instructed, and allows the social worker to touch his shoulder. Despite my attitude toward her, I have to give Denise credit where it’s due. She’s mild mannered and truly attentive, giving strays and misfits comfort they can’t find on the streets. But just because I respect her doesn’t mean I have to accept her as a friend. Even though I’ve never really welcomed her into my life, I suppose I can understand why my father was so enamored of her. She’s a smart dresser and always smells like vanilla. Not like the simulated scents you can find at the perfume counters. More like Grandma’s kitchen vanilla. More important, at least to my father, would be Denise’s ability to find the good in almost anyone. Her motherly approach to dealing with strangers in need of help must have melted my father’s heart. I wasn’t so quick to embrace her, though. The newcomer catches my eye from inside the window, and Denise’s gaze naturally follows his. I’ve been made. The door swings open as I push through, and Denise offers a meek smile as she approaches. “Pase. Come in.” Her slender hand flows in the direction of an empty chair across from the man. I nod at him as I take a seat, and he asks Denise if I understand his language. A broad, almost proud smile crosses her lips as she says, “S?, y tambi?n habla franc?s y portugu?s,” letting him know I also speak French and Portuguese. To name a few. I study his scarred face and he lowers his head. I don’t know this man’s misery, but he wears it full frontal. I wait until his eyes again meet mine and say, “Hola.” It seems to lessen his shyness. When I shake his hand, which he offers reluctantly, his skin is rough with calluses, and I feel for whatever unfortunate circumstance has brought him to this place. Denise suggests Miguel follow a shelter volunteer to the kitchen and get something to eat, and when he does, we are left alone in the pastel-painted room. “It’s nice to see you,” she says, retrieving a bottle of juice from the vending machine. “I half expected you would drop by, but I didn’t want to get my hopes up.” I remember the thief I sent her yesterday and am glad he took my advice. “Is he still here?” She nods her head but doesn’t elaborate. Maybe she thinks she needs to protect him from the law. It doesn’t matter. That’s not why I came. Now that I think of it, I’m not sure exactly why I bothered to stop in. I’d been carrying the shelter’s business card in my pocket since arriving back in NYC, but I can’t honestly say I planned on visiting Denise. Not this soon, anyway. At least I have to work later. I can use that as an excuse to leave anytime I want. But Denise senses my unease, and when she speaks it’s as though she’s encouraging one of her clients to open up hidden wounds. Her voice is coated with sweetness, but the concern is evident. “I see you have your badge now. Your father would be so pleased, Angela.” Her smiling eyes measure me for a response as she continues. “It’s hard to believe July is so far behind us now, isn’t it? That’s enough time to start healing. Or fester in pain. Which has it been?” I don’t want to be treated like a street kid. Actually, I’m not sure what I want. There’s too much connection between the two of us to talk as strangers, yet this woman hardly knows me. And vice versa. My momentary lapse of nostalgia has faded. “Look, Denise. I just came here to… Well, I don’t know exactly why I came. I guess I wanted to see you were doing okay. And you are, so—” As I get up to leave, Denise rushes to my side and gently wraps a hand around my arm. My nose takes in a waft of her feminine fragrance as she softly begs, “Please don’t.” Sadness fills her brown-sugar eyes, and though I can relate, I don’t want to share my pain with her. Not yet. I need to allow my feelings to settle on their own, before I can open up to a woman I never really took to in the first place. I don’t sit, but I let my shoulders release some tension and I look her in the eyes. “I can’t. I’m not ready for this.” Her hands slip to her stomach, and she presses her palms to the tiny belly hidden under her sheath dress, emphasizing her emotions. “I miss him, too, Angie. But you have to let it go. You have to let him go.” She steps back, out of my immediate space, and looks me up and down as a mother would. Only she’s not my mother. “It was his job. His life,” she begins. “And he was shot during a terrible, terrible accident. It shouldn’t have happened. He didn’t deserve it. No one does. But you have to let him go, Angie. You saw the reports yourself. He died while out there doing what he loved best—fighting for justice. You have to accept it and get on with your life. It’s what he would have wanted for you.” They all make it sound so easy. Just accept his death and move on. I’m trying. Really, I am. There is nothing worse, however, than growing up to be just like my father only to have him miss out on everything he wanted to see me do. I face Denise and release the cold words. “I have to go.” “Wait!” she says desperately, grabbing hold of my hand. I pause, my patience running low, and stare blankly at her with little curiosity as to why she is dragging out my stay. “Please, Angel,” she begs, and I cringe when I hear the pet name. No one except my father called me Angel, and hearing it now, from Denise, is like being sucker-punched without warning. “I know you haven’t always accepted me as part of your father’s life. I don’t blame you. The two of you were inseparable, like twins who have their own language. Believe me, it was hard on me, too. The two of you had something most people could never understand, and I respected that. It’s what made you both so special.” It’s true. Growing up as I did in a single-parent home, the relationship I had with my father was unique and indescribable, the passions of both of us revolving around solving crimes and understanding the motives of those who commit them. “But you cannot remain chained to the past. I know you feel regret and sorrow for having to go back to your work, just as you need to feel guilty for leaving the city after Joshua’s death. You mustn’t, Angela. You must look toward your future now. It’s what your father would have wanted you to do. You must let your heart begin to heal.” She means well, I know. Every word she utters about my father, though, reminds me of all that I have lost. And I don’t need any more reminders. There are enough at home, on every street, with every breath I take. “Goodbye, Denise.” Her eyes moisten as I turn away, but I can’t stay here. They were involved for years. Her attachment to him is still clear, and the fact that she put up with me—the protective daughter—every step of the way…. But I’m just not ready to make friends with Denise. Accepting her condolences would mean accepting my father’s death, and I’m not yet ready to do that. As I exit the shelter, my cell phone vibrates against my hip and I’m surprised at the feeling. I must have leaned on it at some point, causing it to switch to an unobtrusive vibe. “Angie, I’ve been trying to reach you. Where ya at?” I peer at my watch and note I still have several hours before my shift officially starts. But apparently Cain enjoys shuffling the schedule. “I had an errand to run. What’s up?” Through the earpiece, I hear Cain exhale from a cigarette before he speaks. “I got something you’ll wanna see.” “All right, all right. Where are you?” Through his cursing and spitting sounds, I decode my destination. “Riverside and 112th? Why?” “Angie, you’re going to church.” Chapter 3 I hail a cab to the curb, and just as I am about to open the back door, my hand meets that of a stranger. “Oh, sorry,” I say, looking at the man, whom I gather is also leaving the shelter where Denise works. His clothing, specifically a tattered bomber jacket with the hood pulled over his head, and old worker-style jeans, looks frumpy and worn, clearly aged from the streets. He quickly steps back to allow my entrance to the cab, and his slumped, limping body begins to walk away from me, the fabric of his jacket pocketing air with the wind that recently picked up. With December just around the corner, the city streets are no place to wander, and I get the feeling this man spends more time in alleyways than indoors. “Hey, mister?” I call after him, my hand keeping the cab door open. “You take this one. It’s okay.” He pivots slightly, taking his time to evaluate my offer, and I think of Cain awaiting my arrival. “Or better yet, we can share it on my dime. I’m going to Riverside and 112th. Does that work for you?” I watch as he stands there, obviously debating my offer, and then gradually accepting it by walking toward me. I know the city is no place to pick up strangers, and maybe I shouldn’t have offered. But my father taught me to accept people regardless of their position in life, and to not hold prejudice against those who are less fortunate than others. Over the years, I’ve developed a soft spot for the homeless, poor and needy. This city, despite its magnitude, can be lonely for most of us, even on a good day, with countless strange faces walking by and in and out of our lives. For those with little hope, it must be so much worse. I give the driver my directions and twist in my seat to face my fellow passenger, who smells faintly of cheap cologne and musty newspapers. “Just tell him where you need to stop,” I say, and his hooded head nods, acknowledging me without meeting my glance. Peeking out from the fabric are loose curls, mousy-brown hair long and matted, the streaks of gray evidence of his tired age. Some mystery is concealed by his bundled clothing, but it’s not my business to ask. “I can’t believe winter is just about here.” My small talk may not offer much to this man, but at least it’s keeping the quiet between us from turning into discomfort. “I just got back to the city after spending some time in Virginia. I forgot how cold it gets.” Only a few states away, it’s amazing what difference a few degrees makes once winter kicks in. Thankfully, the stranger’s hands are covered with woolly gloves, keeping his fingers protected against the weather. Today is bitterly cold, and though the sun shines on deceivingly, it wouldn’t take much to lose body heat out in the wind. I can’t imagine spending my days without the shelter of a warm home or even the comforts of a caf?. My thoughts prompt me to reach into my wallet and hand this man a voucher for a free beverage at a coffee shop in my neighborhood. I doubt he ever hangs out in Chelsea, but who am I to judge? Maybe it’ll add some warmth to his life, even if just for a few minutes. His gloved hands wrap around the voucher, his covered fingers momentarily grazing mine, and he nods again. I have to wonder if he’s shy and reserved, mute, or simply doesn’t want to speak with me. But he shoves the coupon into the ragged pocket of his jeans and I have to leave the rest up to him. Dialing some digits into my cell phone, I spare this stranger from any more useless chatter as I wait for my next-door neighbor to answer the phone. “Hey, Mrs. Schaeffer, it’s Angie,” I say when the widow answers. “Looks like I’m starting work earlier than expected, so I was wondering if you’d be able to check on Muddy later this afternoon?” “Sure, sure. That’s fine, Angela. He’s about due for a visit with me.” Her friendly voice brings a smile to my face, and I’m glad I can depend on her, knowing Muddy has a friend to walk his old bones around the neighborhood block. After all, it was she who took care of Muddy during the months between my father’s death and my return to New York. Said she liked the company in my father’s absence. “Thanks. I appreciate it.” We say goodbye and I tuck my cell phone back into its cradle against my hip. “This is good here,” I say to the cabbie, seeing our approach to the cathedral across the street. I hand the driver twice as much as I need to. “Drop him wherever he wants to go,” I say, trying to make eye contact with the stranger, to no avail. He modestly turns his head a little to the left, away from me, so I simply wish him well. “Stay warm.” Before I shut the door, however, the man leans across the back seat, reaching to give me something. His cupped hand contains a wooden rosary, but I shake my head at him. “Oh, no, thank you. But I’m not actually going to church.” He persists, shoving his cupped hand toward me, and I don’t want to be rude so I take the beads from him. “Thank you.” I watch as the cab peels off from the corner with the strange man sitting in the back seat, and I slip the wooden beads into my coat pocket, not knowing what I’ll ever do with them. Hailing Mary just ain’t my style. As I cross the street, I spot Detective Severo standing tall atop a hill that acts as a gateway to the historic place of worship. Despite his angelic smile, he looks more like a devil with those dark tinted shades. “This way, Agent.” I follow his lead across the brown grass of the cathedral yard, pushing thoughts of Denise out of my head. Maybe it was too soon to visit her, though I’m glad I at least got it out of the way. My duty, as the daughter of the man she loved, is now fulfilled. There will be no need to visit her again anytime soon. With my focus returning to the task at hand, I shorten the distance between me and Severo, but maintain a six-foot separation. I notice the detective is not dressed formally, but has casual gear on—cargos and a light sports jacket. Not a bad rear view, either. As we hike down the slope, I see Cain hanging out by a decaying water fountain, grumbling some sort of vulgarity about the scene, but I’m not yet sure what the issue is. I can’t see much of anything in the glaring sunshine streaming through the leafless trees and shrubbery of this landscaped yard. “I’m here. What’s the deal?” “Looks like this is it, Angie. The scene where our spiritual advisor guy got barbecued.” Detective Severo leans against a concrete statue of Christ and gives me more to work with. “The landscaper thought something smelled a little funky when he was taking care of the courtyard this morning. When he saw the lock on the tomb had been busted, I got called in to check it out. Since Cain wants you to see the forensic reports on Killarney, I figured I’d go one step further and invite you to the point of origin.” He gestures to the west and I follow his movement to see where the rest of his team is working. Beyond the footpath, there’s a door propped open in the earthen bank, accessing an underground staircase. “They used to use it for cremation, so it’s fireproof down there. Now, though, it acts as a sightseeing highlight.” Severo hands me a tattered brochure outlining the tourist attractions of this 120-year-old masterpiece. “Seems kind of grotesque, but hey, whadda I know?” The promotional pamphlet describes the former methods of burial and gives detailed explanations of cremation history. Like I need to see the accompanying photos. “Anyways,” Severo adds, “the place has been used recently, and that’s what set off Mr. Dunbar.” “The groundskeeper?” “He prefers landscape technician,” Cain says with a smug chuckle. “Gardener’s more like it.” As Severo leads us along the path, Cain takes on a more serious tone, prepping me for the scene. “Now, Angie, you’re going to see some pretty freaky shit out in the field, so go easy and take it one step at a time. It’ll take some getting used to. But NCAVC doesn’t accept just anybody, ya know. The only way to get quality field experience is to get tangled right up in its disgusting face, okay?” Cain’s got a point. Since I was placed at the Virginia field office for only a few months—until Cain agreed to work with me, allowing for my placement in New York—there was little opportunity to get anything solid accomplished. In order for NCAVC to take me on as a candidate for the profiling program, I need to do a lot more in these next few years with my mentor to attract their attention. That’s why I agreed to work with the well-respected, though sometimes socially dysfunctional, Special Agent Marcus Cain. “So is NYPD handing this one over?” Severo looks at me as though I’ve just threatened his life. “I wouldn’t get too excited, Agent. I’m just doing Cain a favor. Ran it by my captain, and he didn’t have any problems with me bringing Cain along. Who knows, I might even learn a thing or two from the old master.” My gaze narrows on Severo’s deep-set eyes. Amid the late autumn landscape and the increasingly cool breeze, this hotshot looks fearless. Which makes me very curious as to who he is. “Why would you bother doing this for Cain?” I notice my mentor has moved on down the path, and I don’t feel my question will bring any immediate falsity. “We have a history, having worked together on a multiunit task force. He’s a good guy. He wants to find something juicy where you can get some field experience, so why should I argue? What the hell? Maybe he knows a thing or two about God.” “I highly doubt it.” Cain just doesn’t seem the type to know anything more than a few variations of blasphemy. “But what about you, Detective? Are you not a God-fearing man?” Severo nearly spits when he says, “Phsts! Yeah, right. I go to church on Sundays and pray every night.” As he continues toward the scene, I follow at his side and offer a few words of advice. “Well, maybe you should. From what I can tell, you’re no angel.” He turns his face to the side, and just the corner of his lips curl before he comes back at me. “And you are?” “Hey!” Detective Severo and I both turn our attention to Cain, who appears bored and bent with frustration. “Can we please get on with this? I’d like to retire soon.” A genuine laugh escapes Severo for the first time and it surprises me a little. They say you can judge people by their laughter, and if that’s the case, my guess is Severo has a softer side I haven’t yet seen. Yet? Hell, I doubt I ever will. Not with that chip on his shoulder protecting him from evil. Cain’s hollering about picking up the slack, and Severo shouts, “Per l’amor di Dio!” I laugh. “So you do believe in God?” I ask, eyeing him playfully. Severo seems almost disappointed when he looks at me. “Oh, right, I forgot you understand Italian.” “Among other things.” In my delivery there is a little bit of flirtation even I wasn’t expecting. Cain mutters, “Christ almighty,” as we reach his side, before venturing down to the pit of the tomb. Even though he is referring to me and Severo, when I enter the burial site I feel like whispering blasphemies of my own. “What is that smell?” “Eh, didn’t I tell you?” Cain chuckles, handing me some gauze to cover my nose. “You should recognize it from the men’s mission, only it’s a bit more potent here. Burned human flesh, my dear. Ten times worse than animals, and all the more horrifying to look at.” At least with the body placed at a different scene I don’t have to deal with visuals and smell all in one take. “The church once used this?” I can hardly believe it when I see the timeworn ruins. The place is like a catacomb, only scarier due to the knowledge of what this labyrinth of rooms was used for. Inside the main chamber, there are countless burn marks on the broken concrete, and the stench seems more than a century old. A path winds on to smaller rooms under the earth, and even though this is New York City, I feel as though I’ve been transported through time to a more dark and sinister world. One that is consumed by death. “Watch it. Ya don’t wanna compromise the scene, Angie,” Cain says, holding me behind the yellow tape. “You trying to make fast enemies with the CSU?” I look on as the forensics team begins to separate trace evidence from useless material, and am amazed how decisive they are in their actions. To tell one piece of dirt from another and know for certain it is a crucial piece of evidence takes skill and dedication. Not to mention a great deal of patience. “So this is where Matthias Killarney was killed?” I ask, wanting to know what connects the two scenes. “It seems so, but we’ll find out for certain,” Cain says, pointing to the forensics experts. “They’ll take this stuff to the lab and once they’re on to something, we’ll have a look and see what we can do to get you some profiling experience, kiddo.” I hate that he calls me that. Especially in front of Severo. I realize Cain has taken me under his wing, and for that I’m eternally grateful. But the last thing I want is some detective thinking I’m inferior. I bring my focus back to this case, though, as I am anxious to prove my interest in profiling. Forensics will lead us to scientific answers, but I’m interested in fingering any indication of what sort of person does this to another. It’s not every day a person is burned up in a crematorium. At least not with criminal intent. As I let my eyes drift along the walls, my attention is quickly diverted by a small carving in the concrete to my left. It’s Latin. “In nomine Dei.” Cain looks at me quizzically, shaking his head. “Angie, can’t you stick to one freakin’ language when you’re around me?” But when I point to my findings, the Cain I know as a serious and effective profiler returns, and his badass, bad-attitude exterior leaves. “What is it?” I scan the walls to see if there’s more to decode, but finding nothing, I explain. “It’s Latin, meaning ‘In the name of God.’” Severo steps closer to the wall, and thereby closer to me. I feel his breath cross my shoulder as he inspects the carving, and briefly, I am caught in his scent. Man. Masculine. In just enough of a whisper to keep the detective close, I ask, “Now who knows a thing or two about God?” “Looks fresh, too,” he says, breaking eye contact and taking a step back from me. He signals to the photographer and leads us aside. “Well, folks, I think we may have ourselves a note. Let’s say we get out of CSU’s way and wait for the lab to fill us in on the findings.” As we exit the tomb, I begin to tail Cain back to the road, then I spot some movement in one of the ill-tended gardens. When I spy a man in his twenties looking perfectly suspicious, my hand slides down my side toward my holster. The movement prompts him to flee. “Stop! FBI!” I pick up speed, hurtling over bushes and forensics gear, passing the groundskeeper and Severo. Tree branches bat against my cheeks as I snake in and out of the brush. “FBI! Stop!” The man continues on, hopping over stone carvings and winding along pathways. The garden is a maze and, clearly, this guy knows it well. I race forward, gaining on the man, and vaguely hear Severo trailing behind me. His voice warps through the air but I ignore it. When I see the man hop the fence separating the neighboring apartment building from the church property, I scramble under the wire to make time. He turns back to check our distance, and with the twist in his body, loses ground and tumbles into a ditch. “Lemme see your hands!” As I close in on the guy, he gets up and begins to bolt, but I make it to his side just in time. He swats at me with fury and I duck my head, then hook a foot behind his knee to pull him down. When he hits the ground, he swings his leg and nearly knocks me on my face, but I quickly leap up and hop over it. Still standing, I pull the man up by the collar of his jacket, and when I do, he uppercuts me and doesn’t miss. The hit doesn’t slow me, but it does bring his body closer to mine. I don’t miss a beat, wrapping my left arm around his neck in a choke hold while he writhes about, trying to get free. I slam him against the fence and lean into him, ready to snag him with my cuffs, despite his slippery attempts to escape. One of his arms loosens as I reach to my side, and within a heartbeat I see the knife he has pulled from his pocket. I slide an inch to escape his swift swipe, but when the gunshot goes off it alarms me, and the guy wriggles from my grasp, dropping his weapon as he runs. “What the hell d’ya do that for?” I yell at Severo, while speeding down the grassy slope. Severo yells some explanation as to his tactics of protecting me from the knife, but I ignore his annoyance. Beyond the apartment building’s entrance, I see a tunnel leading to the underground garage. The hunted man darts in, and I run to the opposite side, where the garage roof meets the hill of the cathedral’s garden. Severo is yelling, “Angie!” He’s trying to get me to follow him through the garage entrance, but I can see the fire escape exit protruding from the east side of the roof. With my Bauer .25 in hand, safety off, I slow my pace as I walk along the garage roof. I listen closely, feeling the crisp late autumn air hitting my cheek. As I expected, the man bolts up the fire escape ladder and onto the roof, facing me. “Put your hands up!” The guy is freaking out and shouting, “I didn’t do shit, man! I didn’t do nothing!” But no one innocent ever runs. I go to his side, aiming my pistol, and cuff his wrists before walking him across the roof, back to the garden. Severo meets up with me and I want to cuff him, too, but I just tilt my head and say, “You think I need you to protect me?” The guy is read his rights, but it only takes a minute until the gardener runs up to Severo, who seems rather disgruntled at the moment. “That’s my boy! My boy don’t do no wrong. Please!” Severo wipes his brow—as if he worked up a sweat out there—and tells the old man, “That’s for us to determine, Mr. Dunbar. Come on, you can ride with me and we’ll get this sorted out.” “Eh, Severo,” Cain says with a grimace, showing his smoke-stained teeth. “My girl Angie give you a run for your money out there, huh? Didn’t I tell you…” Severo smirks and turns away, while I yell at him, “Do you always shoot prematurely, Detective?” He looks back to me, small beads of sweat trickling down his jawline. “Cute. Real cute.” “Where the hell did ya learn all that kung fu shit from?” Severo asks, handing me a foam cup with black coffee. “Am I the only person in New York who uses cream?” I suck it up, though, and take in Severo’s Fifth Precinct stomping grounds. I wouldn’t say it’s comparable to the Ritz, that’s for sure. Especially in this contained interrogation room. You’d think we were the bad guys, being holed up in here, but Severo insisted it would provide the most quiet work space for now, instead of having us pile up around his desk in the open concept offices of the Elizabeth Street Detective Squad. I can’t help but feel a little claustrophobic, though. I find a can of no-name whitener and add a dose to my mug while I inform him, “That wasn’t kung fu. Just common sense.” Severo drops into a plastic interrogation chair and eyes me. “Here I thought you were trained in some fancy-schmancy karate or something.” “I was.” I take a seat opposite him and start peering through files I have yet to absorb. “Among other things.” “Like?” I attempt to let my heavy sigh inform the detective I’m not particularly interested in swapping macho locker room talk, but he eggs me on. “Krav Maga, hapkido, Jeet Kune Do. And a little Ninjitsu for good measure.” “Jesus. I don’t even know what any of that is. Where’d you learn all that razzmatazz?” My coffee is room temperature, but I’m getting heated. Especially after the gunshot stunt he pulled on the scene. I realize he suspected the guy was about to knife me, but I know what I’m doing, and I know what I’m capable of. Hell, out of thousands of applicants for my term at Quantico, I was one of few to get accepted, and one of even less to earn a badge. I don’t need a bodyguard or a babysitter. The detective will learn that soon enough on his own. “My father. Mostly. Some in Quantico,” I say, getting up to reheat my coffee. Severo rolled in a portable microwave cart and all we’d need to make us feel at home in this room, but frankly, I’d have preferred it if we ventured to the other side of Columbus Park to the Federal Plaza. I fare better on familiar ground. “I took a lot of classes, too, but my father’s the one who got me interested in it. Knew his stuff.” “Does he kick ass, too?” My eyes lower, but I’m quick to recover. It’s not Severo’s business and I don’t want him—or anyone, for that matter—to see I’m still saddened by my father’s death. My grief could be deemed as weakness, and I can’t afford that interpretation. “He’s dead.” Severo starts to get up from his chair, but when my eyes focus on his, he realizes it’s best to stay put. “Sorry. I didn’t know. He wear a badge?” For the sake of getting it out of the way, I provide enough information to satisfy his curiosity. “Fed. Damn good one, too.” For a moment, I don’t think of his death, but recall his living years. “Great one. Knew his shit. Not just martial arts, either. He was just so amazing. He could sniff out a killer like no one. Great instincts, great control. He was a profiler who knew how to hunt. He always got his way.” Severo snorts a chuckle and says, “Sounds like you.” “Well,” I say, sipping at my now hot coffee, letting the stale taste distill my emotions. “He was a great mentor. I couldn’t have asked for better training.” Before I take a seat across from the detective, I remove my Special Agent ID and wallet. Flopping into my seat, I give an annoyed sigh when Severo reaches across the table to inspect my credentials. “Agent David?” I lick my lips clean of the hot coffee. “What now?” “Angela David?” Severo’s look is one of confusion, and I’m starting to relate to that emotion. “Yes.” I speak slowly, making fun of the detective and his momentary lapse of sanity. “I am Angela David. Do you know who you are?” “So your father—” as he ignores my sarcasm, the words come slowly from Severo “—was Joshua David?” I stand up and grab my badge from the detective. “Did you know him?” My pulse increases as I watch for his reaction, but I have little patience left today. “Severo? Are you saying you knew my father?” With his head shaking and a softer look on his face, the detective speaks in a calm voice. “Hey, cool down. I know of your father’s reputation. I didn’t know him. Not personally.” “But you knew enough to recognize his name.” Sitting back down, urged by Severo’s hand wrapped around my arm, I look into his narrowed eyes to measure his sincerity. “Of course I’ve heard of him, Angie. How could I not have? He had a reputation that could kick some serious ass around here. That’s good to hear, right?” “Yeah, no, of course that’s good. It’s just…strange, I guess.” I take a few deep breaths to put things into perspective. Of course he’s heard of my father. He’s a detective. Anyone on the job would have at least heard of Agent Joshua David. But any time a stranger mentions my dad, it’s as though there is a piece of him left behind, for me to discover, and the feeling is bittersweet. “Hey, it has to be hard. But bad shit happens to good people all the time. Part of the job. I know that doesn’t make it any easier, but hey, my condolences. No wonder you’re so feisty. You got some big shoes to fill.” Cain enters the room, so I pull my energy back to focusing on this case. I do have a lot to live up to, with my father’s reputation, but it’s Marcus Cain who’s going to be there for me as I make the right moves to get into NCAVC. Cain looks at each of us. “I guess we’re up to our asses, uh?” Severo nods his head knowingly, but I have to ask for clarification. My mind has too much new information to deal with to keep up with subtleties. Cain leans on the table and explains. “The gardener’s kid? Yeah, he was up to something, all right. But nothing to do with the case.” He slides my files closer to him, glancing over the sparse paperwork. “Just a grower, is all. Planted pot in the garden where his pops wouldn’t blow his cover, but he was all freaked out when he saw us. Too doped up to know we weren’t DEA. Gotta feel bad for his pops, though. Didn’t know what the hell to think of it. Poor sap.” “He’s taken care of?” Severo asks, which I think is kind of sweet, being concerned for the unfortunate events the gardener had to go through today. “He’s gone. He’s just relieved his kid’s no murderer, ya know? Speaking of which, where we at?” Severo straightens in his chair and spreads out the files before us. “It’s all yours, Agent David.” He lays the photos across the table for viewing. “Cain wants you assessing something scandalous, so I guess this is your lucky day.” I peer at the remains of the scene, captured on film, then look to Severo, knowing this is his case. Cain warned me to be mindful of the turf war, so I have to ask. “You really don’t mind if I look?” “Knock yourself out. Captain Delaney doesn’t mind me sharing, and it’s all right by me. I’m going to call the lab and see if any results have come in to verify these two scenes match up.” As I watch the detective pass through the door, Cain fills me in on the process. “Severo’s got them looking at the bits of stone found on the body, to make sure it does come from the crematorium. It doesn’t look like we’ll get much other trace from that scene, which tells us what, kiddo?” “The doer knew what he was doing.” “Right. Which doesn’t always make it easy, but it most certainly makes it interesting,” he says, before slurping coffee from his mug. Cain dabs at his chin with his cuffed sleeve and then glances at me. “You hurt?” “Excuse me?” “From that little chase out there with the gardener’s kid. You got a bit of a bruise coming through,” he says softly, placing the edge of his thumb against my chin, right where the kid landed an uppercut. “You know Severo was only trying to do right, out there. Don’t be mad he tried to save your ass.” “Yeah, I know. I’m fine.” “Like I said, you can’t be making enemies around here, so lighten up a little and try to warm up to the detective. He’s a good guy with a good heart. He may seem like a horse’s ass some days, but he’s a team player. Give him a chance, Angie.” “I’ll do my best,” I say, taking in my first scolding. “I hope so. Now, tell me what you see.” Cain pushes aside his mug, making room to spread out the crime scene photos. Inspecting them closely, I try to look beyond the obvious and open my mind to discovery. I realize Cain wants me to find my own way, which I appreciate. It’s nice to have the opportunity to work with a reputable profiler, but it’s even better when that person really accepts his position as mentor and doesn’t incessantly impose his own theories. Guess I got lucky being matched up with Cain. “Come on,” he urges, tapping the photos. “What does Killarney’s body tell you?” I edge off of my seat to get closer to Cain as we review the black-and-whites. “He’s burned.” “Look harder.” Cain slides a close-up of Matthias Killarney directly in front of me. I take in the details and am a little surprised. “His foot. It kind of looks like a stab wound.” “Now what would Killarney be doing with a stab wound?” In the center of the victim’s right foot is a delicate slice, easily made by a pocketknife or other small weapon. It’s barely noticeable in the photo, but definitely strange. “The killer messed up?” “Are you asking me or telling me?” Cain retorts. “I’m not sure,” I say, which is true. It seems strange that the killer would make a superficial cut on the victim’s foot. If he was burning the man to death, why bother? As I get up to circle the table and walk through my thoughts, I see Severo outside the doorway, hanging up from his telephone conversation. He catches my stare when he enters the room, but Cain speaks before he does. “Well?” The detective crosses his arms across his chest, looking to me first, then smiling at Cain. “They’re still working on the bulk of things, but it looks like we’ll have an ID.” “On the killer?” I ask, intrigued to peg our man. “They pulled two sets of prints from the crematorium. My guess is when the killer was roasting our victim, he got caught in the flames and lost a little flesh of his own.” Cain gets up to stretch out his muscles. “Good job. Did AFIS bring anything up?” I look to him, knowing I should recognize the acronym, but he quickly clarifies. “Automated Fingerprint Identification System.” “They’re running the prints now,” Severo says, topping up his stale office coffee. “If this guy’s got priors, we’ll get a name, address and anything else you want to know about him. Just one thing we need to figure out though… Why?” Cain wraps an arm around my shoulders, grinning. “And that’s where you come in, my dear prot?g?e. Welcome to the land of profiling.” Chapter 4 Cain and Severo have gone to check on the AFIS results, so I take the opportunity to do what any self-respecting agent would do—spy on the competitor’s turf. Severo’s desk is a mishmash of unruly paperwork, discarded fast-food containers and personal effects. I was hoping his work space would reveal more of his personality, and I can’t say I’m disappointed. A couple of coworkers nod at me, acknowledging my trespass into the apparent boys’ club. I think one even puckers his lips in a chauvinistic display, but I just nod and say “How’s it goin’?” before turning my back to their curiosity. The beaten, old oak desk is layered with all the official stuff, but right now I’m more interested in the quirky photos, gadgets and stress relievers. As I lay a finger on the head of a windup toy chicken, it begins to peck with every stunted step of its mechanism. When its progress is halted by a glitter-trimmed picture frame, I lift the image to inspect it further. The wooden square is decorated as though it’s made for a child, but when I look into the young girl’s eyes, I wonder if it was simply made by her, for Severo. A daughter? A friend? A friend’s daughter? No identifying marks lead to an answer. There’s a stack of CDs on the corner of Severo’s desk, yet I don’t recognize any of the artists’ names. Sea of Is. My Dad vs Yours. Mike O’Neill. Who are these bands? They’re certainly not the tunes I was raised with. My father found his passion with jazz and blues. Sunday breakfasts of sausage and eggs, when we would linger over the city stories found in newspapers, were accompanied by old records by Louis Armstrong, Thelonious Monk and Muddy Waters. Heck, Dad even named our dog after his favorite. It seemed to suit the bloodhound perfectly. My memories are set aside as I inspect a group photo that undoubtedly provides pleasant memories for the detective. The group of men, all in casual attire, sit around a table with half-full glasses in what is apparently a neighborhood pub. Third from the left is Severo, giving a slightly inebriated grin to the camera. They all seem a little happy and under the influence, if you ask me. “You won’t find a better group of guys,” Severo says, startling me as he approaches, before eyeing the surrounding onlookers. “Unlike this crew. Don’t you guys have work to do?” Content with his boyish authority, Severo sidles up beside me, putting a finger to the glossy image as he begins to name the strangers. When his finger stops at the last man, he says, “And that there, well, that’s our friend Cain.” I peer at the slightly younger version of my mentor and can’t help but gawk. “Really? God, he’s so…happy.” “It was a good day. We’d just cracked a very large case, and that night we all went out to celebrate. But I gather you figured out the celebration part.” Pushing a few unorganized stacks of files out of the way, I take a seat on the edge of his desk. “Now, this may seem like a dumb question, but I have to ask. How is it you and Cain work together so much? If I believed everything I saw on TV, I’d say the PD and the FBI don’t always get along so well as the two of you. What gives?” “The Violent Crime Task Force,” he explains, flopping into a tattered chair identical to all others in this office. “The task force brings together some of the PD, a few feds, a sprinkle of DEA…a little bit of every law enforcement agency. It’s the state’s way of combating serious crime, in a very serious way. It’s actually how I met Cain.” “So that explains why you feel so at home in the Plaza?” “Yeah, you could say that. I get a few extra privileges, like being able to use the gym and some of the resources. Now how about you. Why’d you hook up with Cain?” “He’s the best,” I state matter-of-factly. “He knows my history, my style. If it weren’t for him, I might still be stuck in the Virginia office. But Cain agreed to be my mentor, and when the paperwork for my requested Hardship Transfer was approved, well, the rest is history.” “Hardship what?” “The FBI has a bit more compassion than you might think, Detective. If an agent has a sick parent, or family emergency,” I say, tapping the windup chicken for kicks, “they can transfer to an office closer to home, wherever that may be.” “So after your father died…” “I wasn’t officially an agent yet. But once I made it through training, I immediately asked to come to New York. No offense to Virginia, of course.” “Of course.” Severo’s breathy chuckle stirs the stale office air, and his intense eyes focus on mine for a moment. His irises are like liquid dark chocolate, glimmering, yet slowly cooling into an even darker center. As Cain approaches us, Severo’s warmth disappears as though a switch has been flicked. For the life of me, I can’t put a finger on him. I wouldn’t go so far as to say he’s complex, but he certainly seems to have a few crossed wires. One minute he’s mouthing off and shooting his gun at the sky, the next he’s quiet and contemplative. I can’t figure it out, but I guess we all have multiple dimensions to our personalities. Standing in front of us now, Cain unpleasantly scratches his chest, letting an unruly hair or two peep through the cotton of his shirt. “It’s for certain,” he acknowledges, hands in his pockets as he teeters back and forth, rolling on the balls of his feet. “AFIS positively identified the mystery man from the crematorium. We got fingerprints, evidence, so now we go knock down our fire starter’s door. Jean something or other.” “Forensics find anything else at the men’s mission?” “Nope. That place was clean as a baby’s ass. We’re dealing with someone who knows his stuff, gentlemen.” My glance at Cain does little to shake him. I guess anyone with a badge is a man to him, so I let it slide. The three of us gather our gear and head off to the identified address. I hop in with Cain, as usual, and I watch as the detective takes the lead in a sporty Jeep Liberty. “What’s the suspect’s name? You said it was Jean?” Keeping his left hand on the wheel, Cain slides some files to me and I sort through the findings. Jean La Roche. “I gotta hand it to you, kiddo. Yeah, you got a long way to go for NCAVC, but you’re doing all right. I imagine it’s overwhelming to get back into the city and dive right in, but it’s looking like I made a good choice.” “Thanks. I appreciate it, you know. Virginia was fine, and I’m sure I would have done okay there, but it was important that I come back here and be with my uncle.” “You all settled in?” I grimace wryly as I look to my mentor. “Um, no? Let’s just say there’s lots to be done before I can have any company over. Between unpacking and figuring out what to do with some of my dad’s old stuff, and me reuniting with Muddy…oh shit!” “What?” Fumbling for my cell phone, I gasp as I fiercely enter the digits. “Mrs. Schaeffer? Hi, it’s Angie again,” I say, and then cover the mouthpiece to explain to Cain, “I have to ask my neighbor to check on my dog.” Returning to Mrs. Schaeffer, I ask for the favor. “I’m real sorry to do this again, but it seems I’m going to be a while. Still. Again. I dunno. Would you mind—” “Sure, sure, Angela. He’s actually still with me, you know. Sleeping at the foot of my bed, if you can imagine,” she says, happy to oblige. “Yes, I can definitely imagine that. Thanks so much, again. I really do appreciate it.” Mrs. Schaeffer has been our neighbor for as long as I can remember, and she was all too pleased to find out I was moving back into the old apartment, instead of selling it off after my father died. We reside in a tiny, three apartment walk-up, with Mrs. Schaeffer living just below me on the second floor. It’s quaint and small, and if you don’t like your neighbor it can feel even smaller. But Mrs. Schaeffer, she’s fantastic. I didn’t realize it at the time, growing up, but I’m so lucky she’s always there. I love that dog about as much as my father did, and I hate that I am away from him so much. Once I get settled in, and between hot cases, it may not be so bad. In the meantime, though, she’s really coming to the rescue for me. Well, for Muddy, too. “You gave her a key?” Cain asks after I hang up. “Actually, my father did years ago. It’s tough being on the job and having a dog at home. But Mrs. Schaeffer loves Muddy and swears she looks forward to spending time with him.” Thoughts of my father push my gaze to the outside world passing us by. It’s a crisp day, and the sun has faded behind a collection of dense clouds. The evening streets are occupied with New Yorkers bundled up in sweaters and jackets, oblivious to the crimes occurring around them just one day after eating their turkey and stuffing. Sometimes I wish I felt how they do. Content to discover life through caf?s and museums, rather than through corpses and trails of blood. But I’m like my father in more ways than one. I didn’t just get his genes, I also inherited his passion for wanting to understand the motivations behind people’s crimes. For the first time in what seems like days, I notice my appearance in the reflection of the side-view mirror. The sleepless hours have taken a toll and my skin has turned a muted color. Even my hazel eyes are looking a little foggy. I pull at my elastic hairpiece and tidy up the loose knot clinging low against my nape. With a few facial stretches, I try to bring some life back to my tired skin. Cain lowers his foot to gain more speed, and I press back in the seat for stability. He takes corners as if the car’s on rails. I know we’re on our way to take someone down, but sometimes I have to question Cain’s driving skills. As we round a corner, the little keepsake picture frame dangling from Cain’s rearview mirror sways violently. I hadn’t really paid much attention to it before, but now that its swift movement has caught my eye, I have to ask. “Who are they?” “Ugh, well…they’re my kids.” “What?” I take a good look at them, then twist in my seat to gaze at him full on as I analyze my mentor and this unexpected statement. “I didn’t know you have kids.” Cain reaches a hand to steady the swaying photo, and clears his throat before smiling with pride. “Gregory is eleven and Gracie’s nine. Good kids.” “Wow. I had no idea you were married.” “Were is right, kiddo. Got divorced nine years ago, one month after Gracie was born, in fact.” “I’m shocked.” This is an understatement. I had no idea Cain had a family, as he hasn’t brought them up in conversation this past week. During our telephone interview, Cain asked most of the questions, and though I had no reason to assume one way or the other, I just figured he must be a bachelor with the way he carries on. “What happened?” Cain lights up a smoke and drags on it before rolling down his window a bit. “Shelley didn’t like my job. Well, she did at first, mind you, ’cause she thought it was so damn exciting. Sure enough, though, she grew to hate it. Every bit of it. That included hating me, of course.” Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/lori-may-a/the-profiler-39934922/?lfrom=688855901) на ЛитРес. Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.