Cody McFadyen - Shadow Man

I give her a grim smile. "I sure hope so. Now let's go see Ms. Waters."

We take an agency vehicle, as I want to ensure that we aren't followed or tracked. While the cars belonging to other members of the team have been swept for bugs and tracking devices, it's always possible that he knows them by sight.

On the way to see Leona Waters, I call Tommy Aguilera and tell him about the e-mail.

"One of them must have been there last night. Or this morning. It also means they're well-informed about the people you know. People like me."

"Yeah. So I guess that's it, Tommy. I'll give you a call later, if you don't mind. About getting rid of the bug and the GPS tracker."

"You won't have to."

"Why is that?"

"Because I'm going to keep shadowing you, Smoky. I told you last night. You're my principal. The job isn't over until you catch him and I know you're safe."

I want to protest, but the truth is, part of me had hoped he would say something like this.

"I'll still be watching, Smoky."

The trip takes longer than it should, thanks to an accident on the freeway; a van had run itself into a guardrail. The accident was minor, but the rubbernecking, as always, was major. By the time we arrive, it's nearly two in the afternoon. Leona Waters lives in a very nice apartment building in a not-so-nice area. Santa Monica is a crapshoot of kinds. Many parts of it remain middle-class or even upscale, but much of it has decayed, like the rest of LA. This is the constant tale of this city, leading people to move farther and farther out to try and escape the cancer. It always seems to catch up.

We park and walk up to the front entrance. There are security doors, requiring residents to enter a pass code. A security guard sits at reception. I rap on the glass to make him look up. He gives me his best expression of bored irritation until I place my FBI identification against the glass. He flies out of his chair like it's an ejector seat, rushing over to let us in.

He sees the scars on my face and stops for a moment, staring openly. Then his eyes move to Callie. They crawl up and down her body in a flash, pausing for a noticeable half second on her bust.

"What's going on, ma'am?"

"Just an interview . . . ?"

"Ricky," he offers, licking his lips. He stands up a little taller. Ricky looks to be in his late forties. He has the run-down appearance of someone who used to be in shape but let himself go. His face is lined and tired-looking. Not someone enjoying his life.

"We're just doing an interview with one of your residents. No big deal."

"Do you need any help, ma'am? Which resident?"

"I'm afraid that's confidential, Ricky. You understand."

He nods, tries to look important. "Oh, yes, ma'am. Of course. I understand. Elevator's right over there. Let me know if you need anything." Sneaks another peek at Callie's boobs.

"I will, thanks." I won't, I think to myself.

We get in the elevator. "Revolting little man," Callie remarks as we ride up to the third floor.

"No kidding."

We exit. Arrows direct us to apartment number 314. I knock on the door, and a moment later it opens.

The woman who has opened it and I stare at each other, both at a loss for words. Callie breaks this silence.

"Have a sister I don't know about, honey-love?"

I don't, but it's a fair question. Leona Waters and I could be related. Our height is almost identical. She has my curves at the hips, and lack of them at the bust. The same long, dark, thick hair, and our faces have similarities. Same size nose. Different color eyes than mine. She's missing the scars, of course. Behind my amazement at this, I feel a sick unease. I think it's clear why Jack Jr. chose this particular woman.

"Leona Waters?" I ask.

Her eyes dart from me to Callie and back again. "Yes . . ."

I hold up my identification. "I'm Special Agent Smoky Barrett, with the FBI."

She frowns. "Am I in trouble?"

"No, ma'am. I'm the head of the Violent Crimes Unit in Los Angeles. We're hunting a man who has raped, tortured, and murdered at least two women. We think he plans to make you his next victim." I'm going right for the jugular, maximum shock value.

Her mouth drops open. Her eyes go wide. "Is this some kind of a joke?"

"No, ma'am. I wish it were. But it's not. Can we come in?"

It takes her a moment, but she gathers herself. She steps aside. As we enter her apartment, I'm struck by its tastefulness. Subtle beauty, and very feminine. Very much a woman's home. She indicates for us to take a seat on the couch. She sits across from us in a matching cushioned chair.

"So--is this for real? You say there's some freak out there who wants to kill me?" she asks.

"A very dangerous man. He's killed two other women already. He targets operators of amateur adult Web sites. He tortures them, rapes them, and murders them. Afterward, he disfigures their bodies. He thinks he's a descendant of Jack the Ripper."

I continue to deliver it fast and furious, so as to knock down any misgivings or hesitation on her part. This seems to have worked; she's gone from pink to pale.

"What makes you think he's picked me?"

"He has a pattern. He signs up as a Web site member. He's done this with each woman he's killed so far. He chooses a user name and password combination that ties into his Jack the Ripper theme. We found one of those combinations on your members' list." I point at myself. "He hates me, Ms. Waters. He's obsessed with me. Don't you see our similarity?"

She hesitates, looking me up and down. "Yes. Of course I can see it."

She pauses. "Did he . . . did he do that to you?" She points at my face.

"Not him. Someone else."

"I don't mean to be unkind, but that's not very confidenceinspiring."

I give her a slight smile. Want her to see that I'm not insulted.

"That's understandable. But the man who did this caught me unprepared. That's what we're trying to avoid here. He won't know that we're on to him."

I see understanding break out on her face. "I get it. You want to set a trap for him, right?"

"Yes."

"With me as bait?"

"Not exactly. You are the bait--in that he thinks you'll be here. But I want to put an agent in place of you. I can't take any chances of endangering you as a civilian. It would require that you let us use your apartment. And you'd have to leave it for a little while."

Something passes through her eyes that I can't read. She gets up, walks away. She stands for a moment with her back to us. When she turns back around, her face is set in a resolute look.

"Do you know how old I am?" she asks.

"Um--no," I respond.

"I'm twenty-nine." She indicates herself with her hands. "Not too bad for twenty-nine, huh?"

"No. Not too bad."

"I got married when I was eighteen to the first man I had sex with. I thought he was the love of my life, just the greatest guy in the world. I would have done anything for him. Did, for a while. But then Prince Charming changed. And for the next seven years, he beat me. Oh, he never broke bones. Never left marks on my face. He was too smart for that. But he knew how to make it hurt. And he mixed in plenty of degradation." Her eyes are locked on mine. "Do you know what sex is with a man like that? It's rape. It doesn't matter whether you are married to him or not. He makes it rape." She shakes her head, looking off.

"It took me a long time to grow up. Seven years. For the first six, it just never occurred to me to leave him. The thought didn't enter my mind. He convinced me that what he was doing was my fault. Or his right."

"What happened to change that?" Callie asks.

We know better than to ask her where this is going or what it has to do with the here and now. Whatever she is saying needs to be said; in order to get what we want, we are just going to have to listen. She shrugs, a hard flintiness entering her eyes. "Like I said: I grew up. I knew that he was smart about abusing me. I talked with a few cops. They told me it was going to be an uphill battle to prove it." She smiles.