Unsolved Page 8

  Books lets out a deep sigh, as if preparing for something. I hold my breath.

  “You’re on a downward spiral, Emily. And I love you, and I’ll be there with you every step of the way. I’m all in, if you’re willing to let me in. Whatever it takes. But you can’t live in denial. You can’t do God knows what all week and then show up on the weekend and pretend—to me, to yourself—that everything’s okay.”

  I let out air slowly, a tremble working through me. “I can make adjustments,” I say. “I can. I will. But I can’t just turn away and let this monster roam the country killing people. I can’t just walk away from this job.”

  He stares at me a long time. “I did,” he says.

  “I never asked you to leave the Bureau.”

  “It’s not a question of—” He shakes his head and almost laughs, although there is no trace of amusement in his look. “I know you didn’t. I did it on my own. Because I realized that the job was swallowing me whole. That I was going to wind up at the end of my life sitting in a rocking chair with nothing to show for myself but a bunch of solves. That if I stayed there, I’d never share my life with anyone, never have kids, never travel, never take time to enjoy the world. I realized that there would always be bad people doing bad things, but I didn’t have to solve every problem. I had the right to a life of my own.”

  “I…I…” I just can’t let this go. How can I? I know in my heart that a monster is out there and that I can catch him—that I’m the only one willing to make the effort to catch him. How can I let more people die?

  Books winces, closes one eye. “I just got it,” he says. “Boy, am I slow…I guess it took this”—he draws a finger back and forth between us—“for me to see it.”

  “See what?”

  “This is the life you want.” He says the words like he’s delivering a eulogy, eyes down, face drawn, posture defeated. “Working all hours, day and night, obsessing during the week and taking a breather with me on the weekends. I’m your break in the action. I’m your weekend getaway.”

  His eyes rise up to meet mine. It lies there before us, a big ugly truth spreading like some horror-show slime, threatening to engulf us both.

  I’ve never loved anyone like I love Books; I’ve never felt such an effortless connection. I’ve never met anyone who could open me up and flip on the switches. I love the way he cuts to the brutal truth. The spark when he touches me. How he’s so sure of who he is and what he wants.

  “I love you” is all I say, a lump forming in my throat, because I know I’m saying it differently than I usually do. We both know it.

  I rush to him, wrap my arms around him. He wraps his arms around me too. His body starts to tremble. I have never seen or heard Harrison Bookman cry.

  He turns his head, brings his mouth to my forehead. “Please give it up,” he whispers to me. “Please stop the chase.”

  I have lied to Books, both by omission and flat-out, for too long now. I can’t do it anymore. He deserves better—so, so much better. I suddenly realize, like a slap to my face, how selfish I’ve been to do this to Books.

  “I will always love you,” I say. I force myself to move away from him, the tears streaming down my face, my body quivering. I remove the engagement ring from my finger and place it on the kitchen counter next to him.

  I gather my things and go to the door, crying into my purse, then onto my keys, my hands shaking so hard I can’t even put the strap of my pocketbook over my shoulder.

  “Emmy.” Books, his voice flat, drained of emotion. Altogether different than it usually is. I turn to him.

  But he is not looking at me. He squeezes his eyes shut. “I’m not supposed to—but I—I can’t not tell you…”

  I wipe my face. This is something else entirely.

  He lets out a sigh and opens his eyes, but he’s still looking far off, not at me.

  “The Bureau thinks someone’s leaking secrets on the Citizen David investigation.”

  How would he—why would he—

  But it comes to me quickly. Moriarty. The director thinks of Books like a son. Begged him not to leave the Bureau.

  “I know,” I manage.

  “They—they think it’s you, Emmy.”

  I put the strap of my bag over my shoulder. Take one last long look at the man I love.

  “I know,” I say, and I walk out the door.

  27

  I SIT at my desk as dusk falls, as the lights begin to go out on another weekend, trying to do my job, trying to push aside everything else and keep banging away at my search for a serial killer nobody else thinks exists, knee-deep in the irony that this hunt, this project, was so important to me that I was willing to lose Books over it but now I can’t focus on it because all I can do is think of him.

  I stare at data. I stare at theories about serial killers scribbled on sheets papering the walls of my home office. I stare at article after article on my computer screen reporting recent deaths that appear to be accidental or natural or suicides.

  I stare but I don’t see. The words rush past me like landscape on a highway drive. The only thing that holds my focus, gripping it like a boa constrictor and refusing to let go, is the photo of Books in a simple silver frame on my desk.

  He hadn’t wanted me to take the picture. He was unshowered, his hair sticking up, wearing a flannel shirt over sweatpants, and holding a cup of coffee. It was a lazy Sunday morning just like this one had been before it went down in flames like the Hindenburg.

  It isn’t fair, I tell myself. If a child was drowning and he asked you to choose between rescuing the child and marrying him, would you let the child die?

  No, of course not, I answer myself, anger and bitterness gripping me.

  But what if there was a child drowning every day? What if all you did, every waking moment of every day, was save drowning children? Would it be fair to expect him to stick around while you’re wrapped up in your little world, throwing him crumbs of attention only when you can spare a moment?

  No, of course not. Tears blur my vision.

  Another e-mail lands in my in-box. Another inquiry from a reporter, greedily latching onto the story in today’s New Orleans Times-Picayune that there might be another monster out there eluding detection, and do I have any comment, is this another Graham, has the FBI assembled a task force—

  My phone beeps. A text from Dwight Ross telling me to be in his office at noon tomorrow. He saw the article out of New Orleans, of course. It rippled across the internet in hours. This is all he needs. If he wants to run me out of the Bureau, this will be more than enough.

  I should care about that.

  And then my phone starts buzzing. If it’s Ross, I’m not picking up. He can yell at me tomorrow.

  But it’s not. It’s my mother. Right. She would be done with her daily happy hour right about now. This is when she usually calls me, when she’s nursing a slight buzz, when her emotions are most raw, when she misses me, her only living daughter, the one she was never really able to relate to, the odd duck who was so different than her cheerleader-popular-girl twin sister.

  “Hi, Mom.”

  “Hi, sweetie.” A puffing sound. The faint noise of automobile traffic. She never smokes inside her condo, only on the balcony and usually, these days, only after drinks with her other tanned, retired friends. “And how was your weekend?” she sings.

  Well, let’s review. I lost the only man I’ve ever loved, and my off-the-record investigation is now known to my superiors at the Bureau. Tomorrow’s gonna be even better—that’s when they’ll fire me! Give me another week or two, and I’ll probably be indicted for leaking sensitive information. Other than that, things are great!

  “It was fine,” I say.

  “Are you still at Harrison’s?”

  I’ve never understood why she likes to call him by his first name. “No, I’m home.”

  “I don’t know why you don’t just marry him. Or at least move in with him. Don’t you think it’s time you stopped fo
oling around?”

  I touch my face. “You’re right.” The easiest path with my mother is swift surrender.

  But she won’t let me surrender. “Listen, kiddo, once you find the person you want to spend the rest of your life with, you want the rest of your life to begin as soon as possible. Take it from me.”

  Or from Billy Crystal in When Harry Met Sally. My mother’s advice usually comes from old movies or country songs. Next she’s going to tell me that I’ve got to know when to hold ’em, know when to fold ’em.

  I seem to know when to walk away and when to run. Just ask Books.

  “I’m serious now, Em. Listen to your mother. It’s time to marry that man before he gets tired of waiting.”

  I grip the phone so tightly that if I had any strength right now, it would burst into pieces. “That’s good advice,” I manage.

  “Take it from me,” she says, and I know she’s not going to quote some old movie or song. This time, she’s going to speak from personal experience.

  “You don’t want to be alone,” she says.

  28

  BOOKS STRUGGLES to stay alert on the dark, predawn drive to Maryland. He’s normally a morning person, but when you haven’t slept the previous night, when you tossed and turned and paced back and forth and watched snippets of wretched movies and passed your eyes over the latest must-read novel, getting out of bed in the morning feels like starting a ten-mile run after having just completed a marathon.

  He can’t focus. He was halfway through his first cup of coffee this morning before he realized he was drinking coffee-flavored hot water, that he had forgotten to put coffee grounds in the coffeemaker.

  A cup of coffee without coffee. Books without Emmy.

  He parks his vehicle on the curb behind the black SUV with Secret Service agents inside. The kitchen light is on in the imposing brick Victorian. Bill Moriarty is a creature of habit, and apparently nothing has changed since Books left the Bureau. The director still leaves for work at five thirty a.m., and Books would bet his modest pension that right now, Moriarty is having the single cup of coffee he allows himself along with a bowl of cornflakes lightly dusted with a sugar substitute from a blue packet.

  Books waves to the agents, including Dez, the director’s head of security, and walks up the cobblestone path to the house. The FBI director, showered and scrubbed and dressed in a suit and tie, greets him at the door.

  “Good God, Harry, what happened to you?”

  This takes Books back to his first case with the new FBI director. When he told Moriarty that he went by the name Books, the director seemed amused and stuck with Harry for a time. When Moriarty finally started calling him Books, Books felt like he had passed some test.

  “Long night,” says Books. “This won’t take long. Hi, Betsy.”

  Books waves to the director’s wife, now wheelchair-bound after a stroke five or six years ago that left her brain intact but her legs weakened enough that she cannot reliably walk. Bill built a ground-floor master bedroom and installed an elevator lift on the stairs.

  Betsy is up at this ungodly hour because this is probably the only time she sees her husband all day. She waves at Books, then retreats to the kitchen. This is not the first time someone has stopped by at dawn on official business, and she knows enough to withdraw on those occasions.

  Bill directs Books to the sitting room, the kind of room that children would not be allowed to play in, with elaborate crown molding on the walls and custom shelving, photos and awards and trophies everywhere. Bill has lived in this house for over thirty years. He has been married to Betsy for over thirty years. He has been in public service for over thirty years. Books feels a twinge of envy for the director’s stability, the simplicity with which he has lived his impressive life.

  Before they sit, Books says, “Don’t fire Emmy.”

  Moriarty reacts the way he usually reacts to the unexpected, by processing the information with a noncommittal expression. He taught that to Books, once upon a time. Never let them see your first reaction. Don’t let them know what you think until you want them to know what you think.

  “I know she embarrassed the Bureau with her side investigation, the New Orleans story,” says Books. “I know she broke protocol. I know it’s grounds for dismissal. But think about what she’s doing, Bill. She’s trying to track down a killer.” Books raises his hands as they both sit down. “Whether she’s on a wild-goose chase or not, her heart’s in the right place.”

  Moriarty, his right leg crossed over his left, doesn’t look well. Running the FBI takes its toll on a person. All the bad things you stop, nobody notices. The one time you miss, the single thing that slips through the elaborate filter created to protect the American people, everyone blames you.

  It’s not just the hair loss, Books thinks, not just the added layer of wrinkles beneath his puffy eyes, not just the added weight in his midsection. It’s his overall look beneath that regal bearing, something that Books might be able to discern better than most—this job is slowly breaking him down.

  “Tell me something,” he says to Books. “You’ve seen most of the evidence on the leak investigation. Do you think Emmy’s the leaker?”

  Books does not want to answer. Yes, he does think Emmy’s the leaker. He thinks Emmy is privately rooting for Citizen David, who seems to share Emmy’s passion for liberal causes and who has thus far managed to do everything he’s done without physically harming another human being.

  Add that to the fact that the reporter with the inside scoop is Emmy’s good friend Shaindy, not to mention the photos of them together last Friday at that bar—

  And then there’s the fact that when Books confronted Emmy yesterday, when he told her that she was under suspicion for leaking, she didn’t deny it or even act surprised—

  Yes, he thinks Emmy’s the leaker.

  He doesn’t say anything, but his nonanswer is an answer.

  “You’d rather we indicted her?” asks the director.

  Books thinks about it, puts it together. He should have figured it out sooner. “You’re saying firing her would be a replacement for a criminal charge,” says Books. “She gets her punishment, but it’s not based on her leaking information—it’s based on this unauthorized side investigation she was doing. A nice, quiet administrative termination. The Bureau avoids the public embarrassment about one of its own leaking to a reporter.”

  “And your fiancée avoids prison,” Moriarty adds. “She gets to marry her wonderful bookseller and have a nice life without a felony record.”

  Those last words slam into Books like a bus, but now is not the time. He has to sort this out. He hasn’t played it out this way. It hadn’t occurred to him that being fired by the Bureau might be the best thing that ever happened to Emmy. But would she see it like that?

  “This…isn’t my decision to make,” he says. “It’s Emmy’s.”

  “No, it’s mine,” says the director. “We can’t lay out this choice for Emmy. She doesn’t know that we’re targeting her in the leak investigation.”

  Books nods and breaks eye contact. She does now. He shouldn’t have told her, but, he rationalizes, she already seemed to know.

  “We have to decide,” says the director with a heavy sigh, “whether to fire her now, for her own good, or let her stay on, continue to leak information to that Post reporter, dig a deeper hole for herself, and go to prison.”

  Books doesn’t know what he would do if he were the director, but he knows what he’s hoping for. Emmy would hate to lose her job, but Emmy being in prison is unthinkable. “So…what are you going to do?” he asks.

  “I’m going to delegate, that’s what I’m going to do,” says Moriarty. “I’m leaving it up to Dwight Ross.”

  29

  THE MAN who calls himself Charlie is outside the door of Emmy Dockery’s apartment. The infrared scanner confirms that the neighbor across the hall isn’t home; there’s no sign of life. The hairpins—crude but effective, easy to transport,
easy to explain if discovered—are all he needs for Emmy’s rudimentary pin-and-tumbler lock.

  He opens her door with his gloved right hand, wheels himself in manually with the same hand. Looks to his right and sees the security alarm on the wall, the light flashing red, wanting to blare out a high-pitched whine. But it doesn’t, because the Repressor Ultimate in Charlie’s left hand, the handheld UHF transmitter, is blinding the master receiver and scrambling the signal, telling the wall unit that everything is fine, nothing to see here, stop trying to talk to the master receiver. It shouldn’t take long for the wall unit to agree to stay quiet, ten or fifteen seconds at most.

  Once, in Dubai, when his target was a vacationing Kuwaiti sheikh who was becoming too friendly with interests hostile to the United States, it took more than sixty seconds for the alarm to shut itself off. It was, at the time, the longest minute of his life.

  This time, after twenty seconds, the wall unit is quiet, the light a solid red again, as if nobody had ever opened that front door.

  He closes his eyes and inhales deeply. Everyone has a smell. He wants to know her scent. All that returns is a vaguely musty, sweaty odor overlaid by strong coffee. But that’s okay; that’s a scent, and a perfect one for Emmy.

  “You don’t wear perfume,” he whispers. “Of course you don’t. My lady wouldn’t bother with such frivolities.”

  He opens his eyes and looks around. The place is dark. Drapes are pulled over the window in the main living space. The kitchen looks like the kitchen of someone who favors a microwave over a stove. The living room is carpeted, with a stationary bike and a treadmill for her extensive physical therapy. No artwork on the walls. Simple furniture. Emmy is all business. He wouldn’t have her any other way.

  He moves down the hall. A bathroom on the left. Two bedrooms, facing each other, on the end. One has a door that’s swung open. There is a cheap full-length mirror nailed to it, allowing Charlie to see all of himself, which, he realizes, he rarely gets to do.