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  “To me? Nothing.”

  “You look terrific.”

  “I do?”

  “What am I, a piece of garbage?” Pully asks.

  “Eric, you look like a tired version of Eric. But our Emmy here.” She nods at me, then smirks. “I think our Emmy got some last night.”

  “That’s ridiculous.” She’s wrong about the sex, but in some ways she’s correct. I feel it too. Something about seeing him, sharing with him, just spending time with him again…my batteries are recharged.

  I put my bag on my desk. “The Post dropped a story this morning that Citizen David isn’t a suspect in Chicago.”

  Howls of protest from Rabbit and Pully in their cubicles.

  “Did it mention Darwin?” asks Rabbit. I hear the sound of her fingers peppering the keyboard as she pulls up the article.

  “No—no state secrets given up. Just ruling out David as a suspect.”

  “Who the hell’s leaking?” Pully asks. “Could’ve been any of them, right? The whole task force knew as of last night.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” I say. “I just wanted you to know. We have one focus today, team, and that’s catching our Darwin.”

  Our area goes quiet save for the sounds of our fingers on our keyboards, the efficient hum of team members fully in sync, jumping right in where we left off yesterday. We call out updates as we review the data from the different states, crossing people off our lists, separating out promising possibilities for further review.

  Two hours pass like that, and then the first wave of employees enter. My cell rings. I look at the screen and answer so quickly, I nearly drop the phone in the process.

  “Robert,” I say to Detective Crescenzo, New Orleans PD, the man investigating Nora Connolley’s murder.

  “I just got some additional video,” he says. “You remember we saw the wheelchair guy put the GPS device under the fender of Nora Connolley’s car and wheel out of the parking lot? We lost sight of him. Never saw his vehicle.”

  “Right…”

  “I got it. A pawnshop, three blocks away. You want good security cameras, visit a pawnshop.”

  “He parked at a pawnshop?”

  “No, he parked on the street, but their camera got it. Black-and-white, but we got it. I’m sending it to you.”

  My pulse is hammering. “Cut to the chase, Robert.”

  “We got no better look at his face. This guy is careful. Head down, jacket collar up, the sunglasses on, baseball cap pulled low. We never got a look at his face the whole time he came down the rear ramp and wheeled himself onto the sidewalk. We couldn’t get his license plates either. It was a profile shot of the vehicle.”

  I take a deep breath.

  “But you got the make and model of the vehicle,” I say.

  “I sure did,” he says.

  83

  MY TEAM is buzzing on the final sprint.

  A Dodge Caravan, Robert Crescenzo said. A Dodge Caravan converted for wheelchair mobility, not to be confused with the Dodge vans originally manufactured for wheelchair use.

  We’re looking for a Dodge Caravan registered with disability license plates.

  With that additional characteristic thrown in, the data set for the state I’m working on—Virginia—is narrowed considerably. I shoot through each data point, cross-referencing with tollway cameras in and around the time of Nora Connolley’s death in New Orleans. Nothing.

  I try the highways surrounding Chicago on the relevant dates. No hits.

  Okay—so when he traveled to New Orleans and Chicago, he didn’t use the toll roads. Disappointing but not surprising.

  But with the small data set, I can afford to run through each one of the individuals. I scroll through the alphabetical list of Virginia residents, looking at each of the driver’s-license photos.

  Beamon, Jacob. Cray, Cristina. Davis, Bettina. DiLallo, Janice.

  No…no…no…

  Espinoza, Jorge. Fredricks, Lyle. Halas, Marcia.

  No, no, and no.

  I feel the onset of disappointment but I’m buoyed by the notion that if he’s not registered in Virginia, he’s in one of the other states.

  No…no…no…

  No…no…no…

  The last one alphabetically: Wagner, Martin Charleston. Residing in Annandale, Virginia, not thirty minutes from where I’m sitting. Only ten minutes from my apartment.

  I almost bounce out of my chair. A driver’s-license photo of a white male with hair pulled back into a ponytail. No smile.

  By his right eye, a small, curved scar. The shape of a crescent moon.

  “Everybody, stop!” I shout, my voice trembling.

  My hands shaking, my vision swimming, the gong of my pulse drowning out everything but that face looking back at me.

  I’ve been hunting you for a year. It cost me the man I love. It almost cost me my job. I’ve lost weeks’ worth, maybe months’ worth, of sleep.

  But now I’ve found you, Mr. Martin Charleston Wagner of Annandale, Virginia.

  84

  MICHELLE FONTAINE braces herself, as she always does before a morning session with Lieutenant Wagner. She’s handled all sorts of personalities as a physical therapist—compliant, good-natured, stubborn, flustered, bitter, despondent; it’s part of the job. Especially difficult are the older patients, the ones from a different generation. The men call her honey or sweetie, ask her why she doesn’t have a husband. Some of the older women don’t want to take orders from her because she’s a woman. But she lets it all slide. Takes nothing personally.

  But something about Lew. That horrific comment he made in their last session about the homeless people murdered in the Chicago bombing—Two hundred people off the welfare rolls? I wouldn’t call that a tragedy. I’d call it a good start—and just the way he carries himself, the way he looks at her, the whole…creepy vibe he gives off.

  Yeah, creepy.

  She takes the last sips of her morning coffee in the staff room and then heads to the therapy room. Inside, Tom Miller is already setting up. The lieutenant, in the wheelchair, turns and sees her.

  Let’s get this hour over with, she tells herself. You’re a professional.

  “Hey, Michelle!” Tom Miller sings. At least Tom brings some levity and merriment to the hour. She’ll have to rely on him for a buffer, as usual.

  The first half an hour passes without incident. They walk with him using the walker and brace, they build his leg strength using weights, and soon it’s time for the Lokomat. Not so bad, she thinks, pep-talking herself through it like it’s a dental exam.

  “Michelle is upset with me, Tommy,” says Lew, wiping his face with a towel.

  “No, Lew, that’s not true.” Tom adjusts the straps in the Lokomat.

  You’re a professional, she reminds herself. You’re a professional…

  “She thought my comment about the homeless people dying in Chicago was…insensitive, I suppose.”

  “I’m right here in the room,” Michelle snaps. “And I didn’t think anything. I know it. It was an asinine thing to say. Now, can we leave it alone?”

  Lew claps his hands and chuckles. “That’s the spirit, woman. Speak up for yourself.” He holds out his hands. “Michelle, do you know how much taxpayer money was spent on those homeless people in Chicago? Did you know that most homeless people are homeless by choice?”

  “By choice? Are you kidding me?” She marches over to him, her face burning. “Most homeless people are either mentally ill or destitute. You have no idea what you’re talking about!”

  “She’s right, Lew,” says Tommy, his tone different, asserting himself for the first time. “You’re out of line.”

  Lew seems as surprised as Michelle. “Et tu, Tommy? Well, isn’t that nice. And I suppose it’s our job to care for these people. To pony up cash for them.”

  “We don’t—we should want to help them,” Michelle says. “It’s called compassion.”

  “Fine.” The lieutenant waves. “You want to hand over
part of your salary to people who don’t want to take care of themselves, go right ahead. Nobody will stop you. But the government shouldn’t force us to do it. That’s not compassion. That’s compulsion.”

  Michelle, her stomach full of acid, her hands balled into fists, looks over at Tom, who seems to be searching for words to make this all go away.

  It’s the first time in her life that she’s wanted to punch someone in a wheelchair. But she relaxes her hands. She’s not going to give him this much power over her.

  “You know what?” she says to Tom. “I’m done here. I’m done.”

  “Michelle, wait,” Tom says. He walks up to her, whispers, “Let’s just get through the next twenty minutes and then we can—”

  “No, I’m sorry.” She puts up her hands. “I’m done listening to this idiot.”

  “So she walks away,” says Lew. “The first sign that she’s losing the argument.”

  She stops on that and turns, her blood boiling. “You know what, Lieutenant? Maybe someone should check your alibi for the Chicago bombing.” She walks out. Returns to the staff room, the pot of burned coffee, the torn couches, the bulletin boards with notices and reminders haphazardly displayed on pink and yellow slips. She drops down on the couch and puts her head in her hands.

  Wondering, on the one hand, How can people think that way?, while on the other hand scolding herself for not turning the other cheek. He’s a broken man, she tells herself. He was horribly injured and he’s angry at the world. A professional would have finished the session and not engaged him, just let the whole thing slide…

  Tom Miller opens the door. “Hey.” She glances at the clock over his head. It’s a bit past ten in the morning. She realizes that, while she’s been lost in her thoughts, almost thirty minutes have passed; the session with Lew has ended.

  “Tom, I’m sorry—I shouldn’t have walked out.” But one look at Tom’s face, and she can see that he’s not upset with her. He looks…spooked.

  “What’s going on, Tom?” she asks. “Did Lew do something else?”

  Tom rubs his head, his hand grinding over his buzz cut, a nervous habit. “He wasn’t happy about your last comment, about whether he had an alibi for the Chicago bombing,” he says.

  Michelle sighs. “Okay, fine, I admit I shouldn’t have suggested that he would kill hundreds of people.” She chuckles. “Yeah, it crossed the line. But screw him. He can be as pissed off as he wants. I’m done working with him.”

  Tom starts to speak but then closes his mouth, nods, looks away.

  “What, Tom?”

  Tom clears his throat, chews on his lip. “It’s probably nothing.”

  “Spit it out,” she says, growing concerned.

  “The thing is, he wasn’t pissed off,” Tom says. “He seemed…worried.”

  A cold wave goes through her chest. Worried? Why would Lew be worried about that? Unless…

  “Tell me what he said, Tom.” A sudden tremble in her voice. “Word for word.” The fear on Tom’s face matches her own.

  “He said to me, and this is a quote, ‘You don’t think she’d really go to the FBI with this, do you?’”

  85

  LATE AFTERNOON, and Books is sitting behind the desk in his bookstore. The store is dead, empty this time of day, though he had a good morning—a children’s author did a lunchtime appearance, an event Books had completely forgotten about, despite advertising it like crazy for weeks, despite having signs all over the store. He’d had to scramble when he got in this morning and realized today was the day, unwrapping the books, arranging the chairs and the display. In the end, it was fine. The author, with her full-wattage smile and her singsongy voice, charmed the crowd. He sold thirty-two books. Not bad at all.

  Nobody knew that Books almost blew the whole thing, his attention diverted by his Bureau work.

  His laptop is open to the website for Lieutenant Martin Charleston Wagner, motivational speaker and political activist. “Congratulations,” he says into his earpiece to Emmy. “This validates everything you’ve been saying. You did it, Em. You found him.”

  “Congratulate me when I convince the lawyers from Justice to ask a judge for a warrant. It won’t be easy.”

  “No, it won’t,” Books agrees. “When do you meet with them?”

  “Seven o’clock tonight. Between now and then, I have to come up with everything I can possibly find.”

  “I’ll be there,” says Books, “now that I’m on the team.”

  The door chimes. In walks his homeless friend Petty, bald and clean-shaven, wearing a T-shirt and shorts, his camouflage duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He sees that Books is on the phone and gives a curt wave before heading into the back room, which is set up for him to wash up and sleep.

  “Maybe someday you’ll explain that to me,” Emmy says to him. “How you managed to convince Elizabeth Ashland to let you in on the Chicago bombing investigation.”

  “Simple. I’m investigating you for the leak. This allows me to stay close to you.” Books comes around the counter, folds up the chairs from the author’s appearance, stacks them against a bookcase.

  “You do realize you’re putting yourself at considerable risk, Agent Bookman. You’re on a high wire.”

  “Says the woman who practically dared a serial killer to come after her. Besides,” he adds, “I like the high wire.”

  “Says the man who operates a bookstore.”

  “It’s…thrilling in its own way. Trying to figure out how I’m going to pay the monthly lease, for example—that’s a real heart-stopper.” Books feels a smile on his face, realizes how much he’s enjoying the banter. It feels like old times, when he and Emmy first met, when there wasn’t the pressure of marriage or the future—just the two of them together.

  “Speaking of which—any luck finding someone to mind the store?”

  Petty comes out from the back room, wiping his hands on his shorts, looking around the store. His gaze settles on the open laptop on the counter, and his eyes narrow.

  “So far, nobody can do it,” Books says into his earpiece. He turns away and says, quietly, “Maybe…Petty?”

  “Oh, Books, I love the guy, but—you can’t leave the store in his hands.”

  He turns back. Petty is still looking at Books’s laptop, open to the website of Lieutenant Wagner, his lips moving slightly as he reads.

  Books slinks farther away, folding up more chairs, keeps his voice low. “He’s a helluva salesman. He’s rough around the edges, but he…I don’t know, he gets people. He has a real way with them.”

  “Sure, I know, he’s great. But…what do you know about him? You don’t even know his first name; he’s just Sergeant Petty. He comes and goes at random. Who knows what else he does?”

  Books turns back. Petty has moved in closer to read the laptop.

  “He’s actually pretty regular,” Books says. “Monday through Thursday, he comes in like clockwork in the afternoon, stays the night, and he’s gone before I arrive in the morning. He keeps that back room spick-and-span. He’s had plenty of opportunities to steal something, but he hasn’t. All I have to do is teach him the credit card reader and the cash register.”

  “And what does he do the rest of the week?”

  “None of my business.”

  “It’s your business if you’re going to hand over the keys to your store to him. And today’s Wednesday. Can you count on him for Friday and the weekend?”

  Emmy has to run—she’s scrambling to compile information for the warrant application—so they sign off. Petty comes over and helps carry the chairs to the storage room.

  Books sighs. Emmy’s right. He’s known Sergeant Petty for, what, six months? He met him during the depths of winter, sleeping outside his store, and invited him in. He’s come to enjoy the guy’s company, and he trusts him not to steal or mess up anything in the store—but running it? He can’t place that kind of trust in him. Hell, Petty wouldn’t even take a job as a salesman; he sure as hell wouldn’t a
gree to run the whole store, even for a few days, even if Books asked.

  “Sergeant Petty,” he says, “I’m going to be closing up the store for a few days.”

  Petty emerges from the storage room. “Going on vacation?”

  “No, just some outside work I’m doing. Helping out Emmy on a case.”

  Petty nods, breaks eye contact, as he usually does. His eyes drift back to the laptop. “Another serial killer, I s’pose?”

  “Yeah. She thinks she found her man.”

  “Where this time? California? Texas?”

  “Right here in Annan—well.” Books catches himself. “Not far from here, anyway.” He has to be more careful about revealing information. He probably shouldn’t have left the laptop open to Lieutenant Wagner’s website either. But it’s only Petty.

  “Listen, you gonna be okay while the store’s closed? You can still sleep here. Like always. I can give you a key.”

  “I don’t wanna put you out, Agent Bookman.”

  “It’s not a problem.” It’s no different than he’s been doing, letting Petty sleep here at night. He tosses a spare key to Petty, who catches it in one hand.

  “Actually,” says Books, “I’m probably going to close the shop right now. I have to be at the Hoover Building tonight.”

  “Things are moving that fast, huh?”

  “Yeah, meeting with prosecutors tonight. We could be executing a warrant this evening, although tomorrow is more likely.”

  Petty nods, looks down at the key in his hand, showing Books the crown of his shiny bald head. “It’s…really good of you,” he says. “Trusting me with a key like that.”

  Seeing this homeless veteran with all his worldly possessions shoved into a single bag, it hits Books again, as it does so often, how unfair life is. Why isn’t there some big red button you could push that would give everybody a slice of comfort and success—just enough so that no one has to sleep in an alley or eat out of a garbage can.

  Or whatever it is that Petty does when he’s not here.

  “Of course I trust you, Sergeant,” he says.