Cody McFadyen - The Darker Side

"Doing what, babe?"

"Apologizing for something you can't control anyway. People don't get murdered on a schedule, you catch people who murder, so your life isn't on a schedule. I'm fine with that."

"Thanks, but some Momma-things just don't bow down to logic. I'm still sorry for being away."

I hear the sound of AD Jones's shoes against the tile and turn to see him looking at me. He nods his head toward the observation window.

"I have to go, sweetheart. I'll call you tomorrow, okay?"

"Smoky?"

"Yes?"

"Is Aunt Callie really getting married?"

I grin.

"She really is. Good night, honey."

"Night. I love you."

"I love you back."

DR. JOHNSTON POINTS TO Apan containing Lisa Reid's heart.

"Her heart was punctured. The hole was small, on the right side of her rib cage." He points this out to us. As he said, the hole isn't very big, but the bruise it created is the size of both of my hands put together. There are vertical slits above and below the hole. I'd missed the wound earlier in my shock at finding out Lisa was Dexter.

"That makes sense," AD Jones says. "Lisa had a window seat and her killer was seated on her right."

"What could do that?" I ask.

"Anything long, cylindrical, and sharp. The killer would need strength, determination, and some basic knowledge of anatomy." He makes a fist and pumps it once by way of demonstration. "One clean thrust, through the lung, up into the heart, and it's done."

"She'd have to be drugged for him to do that on a plane," I murmur.

Johnston nods his massive head in agreement. "Yes. Death would be very quick, but it would be very painful too. It would have been to his benefit to anesthetize her in some way."

I consider this. "He would have wanted something he could administer orally," I say. "Nothing that would have required a hypodermic, nothing that would induce seizures. Any theories?"

"GHB, ketamine, or Rohypnol would all work, but they all pose problems. All can bring on vomiting. Ketamine can induce convulsions." He crosses his gi-normous arms. "No, if I were him, I would have gone old school. Chloral hydrate."

"Mickey Finns," AD Jones opines.

"It works best with alcohol, and I smelled some in her stomach contents. It's fast, and he could have given her an overdose amount to induce unconsciousness quickly."

"True," I say. "He wouldn't have been worried about her dying of an overdose. You'll check for all of this on tox?"

"Yes. I'll rush it through. I should have it tomorrow afternoon, along with my findings."

Something else occurs to me. "I wonder how the hell he got whatever he stuck her with onto the plane?"

Dr. Johnston shrugs. "Not my department, sorry."

I give him my cell phone number. "Call me when the findings are ready and I'll send someone to come get them. Make a single copy for yourself and put it in a safe place." I look him in the eye. "This is a federal case for three reasons, Dr. Johnston. One, because it happened while flying the friendly skies. Two, because it involves a congressman and could be a precursor to an attack on Dillon Reid himself. Three, because it could be a hate crime. But the cloak-and-dagger is a courtesy to the Reids, not a cover-up. I want you to know that. My priority is catching whoever did this."

His smile is a little tired. "I appreciate the candor, Agent Barrett, but don't worry. I'm not conspiracy-minded. I've dealt with three other politically connected deaths, including one that involved a powerful man and a male prostitute. I'm familiar with the territory."

It occurs to me that Dr. Johnston is pretty damn competent. I shouldn't be surprised; most of those I've met who deal with the dead take what they do very seriously.

"I appreciate that." I look down at Lisa Reid, lying on what we still call a slab, though it's been made of steel for a very long time. "Anything else probative?"

"Oh yes. Something very, very unusual. I was just getting to that."

He grabs another pan and holds it out. "I found this inserted into her body. He widened the wound on her right side. You noticed the cuts?"

"Yes."

"He was smart; he cut her postmortem, after the blood flow had stopped. Then he stuck this inside her."

I peer into the pan and see a medium-sized, silver cross.

"Where are your gloves?" I ask.

He nods to a box of latex gloves on a nearby counter. I grab a pair and slip them on. I reach into the pan and pick up the cross.

"It's heavy," I say. "Dense. Probably a silver alloy."

The cross is a humble one, simple. It's approximately two inches tall and one inch wide. I turn it over in my hand and squint. There appears to be an engraving on the back, but it's far too small to read with the naked eye.

"Do you have a magnifying glass?"

Johnston finds one and hands it to me. I place it over the cross. I see a symbol, very small, very simple: a skull and crossbones, patterned after the universal sign for poison. It's been engraved into the back of the head of the cross. Along the crosspiece are some numbers.

"Number one forty-three," I say out loud.

"What the fuck does that mean?" AD Jones asks.

"I don't know." I place the cross back in the pan. "Let's make sure we withhold this particular detail, Doctor, if anything does end up getting to the media."

"Of course."

"Anything else?"

He shakes his head. "Not at the moment."

AD Jones glances at his watch, points a finger at me. "Then let's head to the airport. Your team should be arriving shortly and I need to get back to California."

We say our good-byes to Dr. Johnston and head down the hall toward the front of the building. Our shoes click-clack on the linoleum, eerie in the context of our surrounds.

"What's your game plan?" AD Jones asks.

"The basics. Forensics on the plane where Lisa was killed, interviews of the passengers, start working up a profile. From there. ." I pause. "From there we need to get on to identifying other potential targets as quickly as possible."

I don't state the obvious and most worrisome thing: A death's-head and "#143"-there's only one thing a killer would count. Leading, of course, to the next concern: how high will the counting go?

IT'S PAST ELEVEN O'CLOCK AT NIGHT, AND IT'S FREAKING cold . I hate the cold.

The wind isn't fierce, but it is steady and it blows across the tarmac in short gusts that have numbed my cheeks. The moon is huge and bloated in a sky devoid of clouds. It has that look to it, the look that says it's the same moon that shone on the cavemen: it was here before me, it'll be here long after I'm gone. It took us about an hour to make our way to this private airport near Washington, DC. It's small and lonely, just a single hangar and a landing strip. My team and I will make our way from here to Dulles International Airport, where the plane Lisa died on awaits. I hug myself as we watch the private jet taxi on the runway. It's a white Learjet and I've been on it many times.

AD Jones seems unmoved by the temperature. He's smoking, a habit I gave up but still miss, particularly when I see someone smoking my old brand, as he does. I had been loyal to my Marlboros and in return they had always been there for me. They gave me comfort, I gave them years off my life. It was an equitable arrangement until it wasn't.

"Listen, Smoky, I need to talk to you about something." He sucks in smoke, holds it, blows out a cloud. I watch and wait and envy. "I want you to keep me in the loop. Daily. This is a different playing field than you're used to. Rathbun is decent enough for a Director, but in the end, he'll cover himself and feed you to the lions if it will help him." His gaze is penetrating. "Don't be fooled. You're expendable to him."