Unsolved Read online

  Yeah, sure—and maybe his car will turn into a pumpkin at midnight, and the glass slipper will fit Emmy’s foot.

  But he goes over it in his mind, his fantasy solution, praying that some scenario like that will play out and make everything better, that Emmy will snap out of this funk and get her head straight.

  Something, anything, to make this nightmare go away.

  23

  HIS INSIDES still burning, Books walks into the bedroom with the Sunday paper under his arm, holding two empty mugs and a pot of coffee. Primed for an argument, loaded for bear, he pauses as he watches Emmy sleeping.

  So tranquil, so defenseless. Emmy has had little peace since the attack by Graham, between the pain and the nightmares and the panic attacks and her obsessive need to continue her work and find the next serial-killer-eluding-detection. She has changed. It would be impossible not to. He has tried to hold her hand throughout this process, but she has, for the most part, yanked her hand free and demanded that he let her find her own way. Maybe he has failed her.

  But maybe this is beyond his control. During his tenure in law enforcement, first as a cop and then with the Bureau, he saw the toll that violent crime took not just on the victim but on family and friends. He saw how the death of a child could destroy a marriage. He saw how vicious attacks completely changed some people, made them unable to cope with the new reality suddenly forced on them. He saw victims of crime leave their spouses, quit their jobs, completely reverse course on issues like religion or politics, take up or give up various pursuits or, in some cases, give up altogether.

  Maybe, due to forces beyond their control, he and Emmy never had a chance after she was attacked. But he refuses to believe it.

  Emmy moans and rolls her head from side to side on the pillow, her eyelids fluttering. Is she dreaming? Is it a nightmare? Is she about to start screaming No, no, no! before opening her eyes wide, frightened and disoriented?

  Her hair is mussed and flattened on one side, and she’s wearing nothing but a V-neck T-shirt, so Emmy’s scars, the ones she goes to great lengths to obscure, are plain as day. The scars from the sutures along her hairline. The skin grafts on her chest and neck to repair the second-degree burns she received. Asleep, unguarded, she looks so much like the very thing she refuses to see herself as—a victim.

  Let me take you away from this, Em, he thinks. Let’s forget about all of this. Everything. You’ll get better. I know you will. I’ll help you. Let me do that. Take my hand, and let’s start running.

  No more lies. No more of you pretending to be strong enough to handle all of this alone. No more hiding all the pain.

  Let me back into your life.

  24

  I OPEN my eyes, turn my head, and feel a pain shoot down my neck. I’m always stiff when I get a lot of sleep.

  I blink, try to focus. The smell of coffee, Books’s favorite Italian blend. We both savor these slow weekend days, but something immediately feels different about this particular morning.

  Books stands in the corner, a coffee mug in his hand, looking out the window at the rainfall. On the bed next to me is the Sunday Washington Post, folded, slightly damp from the rain. I see the headline “Citizen David Targeting NYC?” above Shaindy Eckstein’s byline.

  Well, that didn’t take long.

  I stir and moan, enough for Books to hear me, but he is lost in thought, still as a statue, looking out the window. He is always up first on the weekends, and he always crawls into bed with me when I wake up.

  Not this time.

  “Morning,” I say.

  “Morning,” he answers. No movement.

  Is he worried about the bookstore? It isn’t easy, in these days of digital sales, to run a bookstore, but he has had some success focusing on books that people like to hold in their hands—kids’ books, self-help books, some nonfiction—and doing endless promotions with local authors and reading groups to generate interest.

  I grab my phone and check my e-mail. It is flooded with Google alerts and breaking-news items about various deaths around the country based on my search terms, data that will take me days to pore through and plug into my algorithms. But one particular article steals my breath away.

  It is from a New Orleans paper, the Times-Picayune. “FBI Links Local Death to Serial-Killer Spree.” It’s by that reporter who accosted me by phone. I thought we had a deal, that she would hold the story. Apparently not.

  My head drops back on my pillow. I am so screwed. Dwight Ross will have my head for this. And Books…oh, Books.

  Books raises the mug to his mouth, takes a sip, lowers it.

  “News out of New Orleans this morning,” he says. “Don’t know if you had a chance to see it yet.”

  I do a slow burn. He saw it. He’s probably read more than a dozen stories online already. He always reads articles involving the Bureau. He may have left the job, but he hasn’t lost his interest in all things FBI.

  “I was going to tell you,” I say.

  “Meeting up with college friends, you said. A mini-reunion, you said.”

  “Books—”

  “You left out the part about investigating a slip-and-fall in a shower as part of a serial killer’s crime spree.”

  “Will you please turn around and at least face me?” I say. I get out of bed, feel a stabbing pain in my right ankle; I put too much pressure on it too quickly.

  He turns to me, red-faced, his eyes blazing. But it’s not anger I see. Anger, I could handle. Anger, I deserve.

  The arched eyebrows, the straight line of his mouth. If I had to name it, I’d call it fear.

  “I was going to tell you this weekend,” I say. “Today.”

  He tries to give me an ironic smile, but he can’t manage even that. “We’ve been together since Friday night. Why the delay?”

  I cut the distance between us in half but I don’t get too close. I’m still hobbling a bit. “Because I knew it would start a fight.”

  He nods. “That’s quite a standard for honesty you have there. Only tell me things I want to hear.”

  I drop my head. What can I say? He’s right.

  He sets his coffee mug on the windowsill. His forehead wrinkles and his shoulders rise. “How—how many times do you have to learn your lesson, Emmy? It wasn’t, what, two months after the attack, you could hardly move from your bed, you still had tubes sticking out of you, for God’s sake, and you were killing yourself trying to solve that rash of deaths of homeless people in Los Angeles. Remember that? I do. I sure do. The doctors had to confiscate your computer.”

  “I know, I—”

  “Oh, and then,” he says, circling the room, “then you were convinced a bunch of senior citizens in Scottsdale who’d died of natural causes were being murdered. You were barely out of the hospital, your health was precarious at best, and you took pills to stay up at night. Remember how that turned out?”

  The bad combination of meds that the papers described as an overdose. How could I forget?

  “I stand by that work,” I say. “Los Angeles? Scottsdale? Those weren’t deaths due to natural causes. Those were murders.”

  “Right, because old people never die naturally,” he says. “And homeless people are always so healthy. Of course. They all must have been murdered!” He throws up his hands.

  “They were murdered,” I say. “I just never got the chance to prove it. You may think I’m crazy for doing this work, but I’ve never heard you say I was wrong.”

  “It doesn’t matter if you’re right or wrong.” He shakes his head. “You swore to me,” he says, pounding the nightstand with his fist. “You swore to me it was over.”

  I walk to him and put a hand on his chest. He recoils. I realize he’s shaking.

  I ask, “If you knew somebody was out there killing people, and the police didn’t even know he was doing it, would you do something about it? Or would you do nothing?”

  He steps back from me. He opens his mouth as if searching for words. I think it’s a legitim
ate question—the only question. And he seems to think, judging from his reaction, that I am missing the point entirely. That we are missing each other entirely.

  My phone buzzes, a call. Instinctively, I look at my phone. Then back at Books, who is slowly shaking his head.

  “Go on, check it,” he says, pushing past me. “I’ll be downstairs.”

  25

  THE MAN who calls himself Charlie has time on his hands. He rolls his wheelchair along the red-brick sidewalks of Old Town, enjoying the mild morning air, whiling away the hours until Emmy drives her Jeep from Harrison Bookman’s house back to her own. The GPS tracker in his pocket has shown no movement in Emmy’s car since it was parked by Bookman’s house Friday night, when he planted the device under the fender. He drove by the house once on Saturday just to be sure.

  True, he had hoped that, at most, she would spend Friday night at his house and then return home the following morning. He hadn’t expected her to spend the entire weekend at his house. But it’s not a total loss. Alexandria is quite beautiful, especially Old Town—the scenic waterfront of the Potomac, the historic architecture. The George Washington Masonic National Memorial is his personal favorite.

  He hums to himself as he rolls along the empty sidewalk, empty because it is not yet seven in the morning, enjoying the early sparks of dawn as the world stretches and yawns. Down the way, a few places are coming to life—a pastry shop emits delicious aromas of baked goods and fresh coffee, and a waiter is setting up outdoor tables in preparation for brunchers. But Charlie, on the sidewalk near a real estate agent’s office, its window filled with photos of gorgeous and charming and adorable properties for sale, is completely alone.

  The sidewalk ends in a slope down to pavement, something that most people wouldn’t think about. But if you’re in a wheelchair, you notice a change in the surface. You are constantly on the alert for anything that might bar your way or force you to rethink your route.

  It’s an alley, a narrow one between two buildings, wide enough for a single truck to travel through.

  Wide enough, as well, for a homeless person sitting against the brick wall, long hair jutting from a maroon baseball cap on backward, wearing a filthy shirt that barely covers his navel, baggy gray trousers, and sandals. An empty McDonald’s bag is near him, as are three stray, half-smoked cigarettes.

  “Spare change for the train, mister?” he mumbles, straightening up a little.

  Charlie uses the remote on his wheelchair to turn toward the homeless man. He would guess that the man is in his mid-thirties, although it isn’t possible to discern much of anything given the grunge and foul odor.

  “Train fare, mister?” the man says again.

  Charlie tilts his head. “That would be an easier sell if you were more presentable, if you really looked like a commuter. From you, I’d expect something more along the lines of spare change for a cup of soup or coffee.”

  The homeless man blinks, his eyes unfocused, the smell coming off him horrific. “Please, mister, train fare, mister, please?”

  Charlie sighs. “I’ll bite. Where are you headed, friend?”

  The man looks everywhere but at Charlie. “Met—Metro…station.”

  “Tell me your destination,” says Charlie, “and I’ll gladly provide your fare.”

  A pause. This is bordering on painful.

  “Cap—capital,” he says.

  “Wonderful! Where in the capital, friend?” Charlie looks about. Still nobody nearby. It’s been several months for him—in terms of a homeless person, that is. Not since Los Angeles. It was like shooting fish in a barrel out there, but he’d stopped after eleven. A pattern was developing. He couldn’t have that. He’s checked on the investigation from time to time, and, not to his surprise, the LAPD has lost interest in it, if it ever had any.

  The senior citizens in Scottsdale were just as easy, but again he had to abort after nine. He didn’t have the patience to wait, and even the elderly didn’t die that consistently in one area over one small window of time. Another dreaded pattern.

  It’s why he branched out. He’s thinking bigger now. Spreading out the geography and the time lapse. And his targets now are more meaningful. The homeless and elderly—their life spans weren’t that long anyway. What he’s doing now is having far more impact.

  And now he’s perfected his technique. Now he has an ace in the hole.

  Now he’s ensured he will never be caught.

  “The…White House, White—” says the homeless man, doing his best. “White House.”

  Charlie can’t suppress a small burst of laughter. “Lunch with the president?” he asks. “A meeting with the Joint Chiefs?”

  Oh, it’s tempting.

  Charlie prides himself on his discipline. He lives it, day in and day out. It’s what makes him different. He has thrived on it. He has never, ever acted impulsively, not once, not even when he was commissioned, especially when he was commissioned. Everything always carefully, meticulously planned, every detail considered, every small step executed with precision.

  But he can live a little, can’t he?

  “There is no such thing as unselfish charity,” Charlie says. “Pure fiction. Charity is, in fact, quite selfish. People don’t give charity to help the recipients. They do it to feel good about themselves. And all the while, we grow weaker and slower as a society. Wouldn’t you agree, friend?”

  The man seems to shiver. His eyes still won’t connect with Charlie’s.

  “Come closer,” Charlie says. “You want money, right?”

  The man comes to life again, leans forward and positions his legs to rise as Charlie reaches into the pouch at his waist.

  “Th-thanks, yeah, thanks, mister,” says the homeless man.

  When the man has risen enough to expose his midsection, Charlie fires the darts. They strike the soft flesh of his stomach. He immediately convulses from the electric shock, spit shooting from his mouth, his eyes rolling back, and then falls flat.

  Charlie lifts himself from the wheelchair and falls to the ground, still holding the trigger down, still delivering the electric charge to his helpless, convulsing friend. In one fluid, practiced motion, he sets down the Taser, throws the plastic bag over the man’s head like a cowboy’s lasso, pins one side of the bag down, and wraps it taut over the man’s stunned face.

  Then he picks up the Taser with his free hand in case he needs to give another jolt.

  The man, almost completely immobile, utterly helpless, tries to suck in frantic breaths, drawing the plastic into his mouth and out.

  “This is not personal,” Charlie says. “I’m doing everyone a favor.” He looks away from the man’s bulging, desperate eyes. It really isn’t personal. It’s for the best. This man is nothing but a drain on society.

  Or he was, at least.

  When it’s over, quicker than Charlie would have expected—he might have had a heart attack before suffocating, hard to say—Charlie removes the plastic bag, stuffs it back in his pouch, takes the darts from the man’s stomach, and climbs back into the wheelchair.

  He uses the remote to reverse his wheelchair, ready to shout, Help, someone, help, this man needs help!, should anyone happen to be strolling along the sidewalk.

  But the street remains empty. He wheels himself forward again, back along the sidewalk, recognizing the recklessness of what he has just done but relishing the minor indulgence, silently congratulating the world on one more step forward. The weekend hasn’t been a total waste.

  26

  I FIND Books in the kitchen, washing the dishes from dinner last night. I’m about to walk over to him but decide against it.

  He tilts his head, his back still to me.

  “You didn’t answer my question,” I say. “If you knew somebody was running around killing people and nobody even knew it was happening, would you do nothing, or—”

  “I didn’t answer the question,” he says, putting down the dish in his hand, “because it’s beside the point.”


  “How—how could that ever be beside the point?”

  Books turns to me and peers into my eyes. He’s squinting as if he’s searching for something, but I don’t know what. “You know what’s funny?” he says. “You were the one who opened my eyes to the fact that there was more to life than the job. It turns out I’ve learned that lesson from someone who hasn’t learned it herself.”

  “There can’t be room for the job and for us?”

  “Oh, forget about us for a second.” He waves his hands. “What about you, Em? You’re not even taking care of yourself. Twice you went back to these maniacal wild-goose chases and almost crashed and burned. Twice you promised you’d stop. And here you are again. You show up on Friday nights looking like you haven’t slept all week. You’re not doing any of the things you promised to do.”

  “I’m doing fine.”

  His face falls and his shoulders slump in disappointment and pain. Books doesn’t wear those emotions well. He’s the stoic type. It hits me now as it never has before: I have hurt him. I have hurt us.

  His eyes return to mine. He says slowly, softly, “How’s therapy going?”

  I bite my lip.

  “Don’t.” A minute shake of his head. “I can’t stomach another lie. I know you stopped going months ago. I talked to the receptionist at Dr. Bakalis’s office. That’s right,” he goes on, steel in his voice, seeing my reaction, “I did, I pretended to be your assistant calling for an appointment, and she told me you hadn’t been there in months. Months, Emmy.” He brings a hand to his forehead, pushes back his hair. “Months.”

  I step away, lean against the refrigerator for support.