Steven James - The Bishop

A moment later Doehring joined us.

“It’s not the boyfriend,” Lien-hua went on. “His age doesn’t work for this, and the crime is too involved to put together in twenty-four hours. Besides, Mollie didn’t break up with him. They might have argued, but that’s all.”

“How do you know that?” he asked her.

“Mollie was still wearing the locket with Rusty’s initials on it. If she broke things off, she wouldn’t be wearing it.” Lien-hua averted her eyes from me, looked toward Doehring. “I’m a girl. Believe me. She would have taken it off.”

Her words made sense, but I caught myself wondering if she still had any of the gifts I’d given her. It was painful to picture her throwing or giving them all away.

I buried the thought.

“Also, the sadistic nature of the crime points to a different-and I don’t care if you don’t like the term, Pat-but a motive other than jealousy or anger over a breakup.”

She might have been right about that too, probably was-but that’s the problem with psychoanalyzing someone: you can never be sure.

She finished, “We need to find Mahan and talk with him not as a possible suspect but for information about who else might have wanted to harm Mollie or her family.”

“Why would someone send a video feed to a television store?” Doehring asked.

“Just like the killers who return to a scene to watch,” she replied, “it was his, or their, way of being present, but also of being safe.”

“They knew procedure-that we photograph those who gather at the scene.”

Or the killers could have learned that by watching just about any episode of CSI or Law and Order.

I noticed that the rain was finally letting up. A small tilt in the weather.

“Do we know if there are any security cameras at the store?” I asked Doehring. “Focused on the street? The crowd outside?”

“They’re checking.”

Traffic lights.

Red.

Green.

I let the facts flip though my mind. Tried to lock them in place, but I found myself threading things together with unsupported assumptions rather than evidence.

Yellow.

I slid my speculation aside and went back upstairs to have another look at Mollie Fischer’s body.

I spent two more hours at the scene, and by the time I was ready to leave, neither Georgetown’s campus security nor the Metro PD had been able to locate Rusty Mahan.

We discovered that the security cameras at the electronics store had been disabled, making the job of tracking down whoever might have been present all the more difficult: all we had to work from was the brief CNS News video from the cell phone-which showed no faces-and the earliest the FBI Lab would be able to analyze the video was tomorrow morning.

The Evidence Response Team at the primate center had identified dozens of prints on the facility’s doors and Mahan’s car, but none of them matched anyone in AFIS.

A series of dead-ends.

All the circumstantial evidence pointed to Mahan, but when all the evidence points one way, it’s usually a good idea to start looking in another; otherwise you all too often end up inadvertently confirming your assumptions rather than vigorously trying to refute them.

Margaret had arrived ten minutes ago, much later than I would have expected, especially considering what she’d told me at the Academy about having to make two quick phone calls before coming. I listened in as Ralph and Lien-hua briefed her on what we knew.

Margaret directed them to have reports on her desk by 9:00 sharp, then she turned to me. “Go home, Agent Bowers. I do not want the quality of our class offerings to be negatively affected because you didn’t get enough sleep. We’ll work things from this end and fill you in tomorrow on what we find.”

It wasn’t concern for the students that I heard in her voice but rather a subtle dismissal, as if she felt I’d fulfilled my role and she was now excusing me.

“Come here for a second.” I motioned toward a corner of the parking garage behind a nearby SUV. “I need to ask you a couple questions.”

When we were alone, her hands went to her hips. “Yes?”

“First, why am I on this case? From all indications, this is an isolated homicide. My specialty is analyzing linked serial offenses not-”

“Director Rodale made the assignment, not me. And I’m only guessing here, but I would imagine it’s because of your field experience working cases with high media exposure rather than your area of expertise.” Then, “Next?”

“All right. Detective Warren from Denver. There’s a six-month application process to get into the National Academy. How did she get accepted if she just applied?”

“She is well qualified.” I caught something in her tone. Slyness. “You should know that from working with her.”

“Of course I know that, but you can’t just discover you have vacation time coming and sign up for an NA class. Someone had to pull strings to get her in, and that someone would be-”

“Me.”

“Yes.”

“The chief in Denver was concerned about the emotional toll of the Giovanni case. He wanted to give her some distance from the city.” A smirk. “I would have thought you’d be glad to see her. From what I understand, you two have a close working relationship.”

I eyed her.

“Don’t keep secrets from me, Margaret.”

“And don’t question my decisions, Patrick. I’ll have Agent Hawkins brief you at 11:30 a.m. tomorrow. That should give you enough time to get to NCAVC after your class is done.” The National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime is a section of the FBI that Ralph, Lien-hua, and I work for. The building is a twelve-minute drive from the Academy at Quantico. “Good night.”

She took a step.

“Wait,” I said.

She stopped. Glared at me.

“If Rodale wants me in on this, then I’m all in. Don’t micromanage. Let me do my job.”

“That’s precisely what I’m here to do: to make sure everyone does his job.”

She left.

I thought about the case and about Cheyenne.

Call it a quirk, but I don’t like unanswered questions, so even though it felt like a vague disloyalty toward Cheyenne, I decided to check on any prior ties she might have with Executive Assistant Director Margaret Wellington.

As I headed for my car, I made a wide berth of the cable news feeding frenzy outside the building.

Ever since arriving at the house nearly three hours ago, Tessa had been trying to make her way through Boulders Dancing on the Tip of My Tongue, a collection of poems by Alexi Mar nchivek, a Russian poet mostly unknown in America but someone who understood the paradoxes of life-both its tragedy and its glory.

Tessa didn’t know Russian, only Latin and French, so she was stuck reading an English translation, which was sort of annoying.

Finally she put it aside. Her friend Pandora had been bugging her to read some Sherlock Holmes, which she was totally not into, but Tessa had been hoping to check out some Robert Louis Stevenson, who, unlike so many of the writers of “the classics,” actually could write.

She opted for Stevenson instead of Doyle and pulled out The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.

Every five minutes she’d been checking to see if there was an email from Paul. He always sent his emails by 9:00, but for some reason tonight he was late, and that sort of worried her. She’d emailed him over an hour ago, but he still hadn’t replied.

She found her bookmarked page and read Stevenson’s description of a foggy night in London.

The fog still slept on the wing above the drowned city, where the lamps glimmered like carbuncles; and through the muffle and smother of these fallen clouds, the procession of the town’s life was still rolling in through the great arteries with a sound as of a mighty wind.