Michael Prescott: Next Victim

She was in Westwood now, coursing down the wide corridor between rows of high-rise apartment buildings. Ahead, on her right, was Westwood Village, a cluster of movie theaters and T-shirt shops crowded with UCLA students.

Her destination lay to her left, at the southwest corner of Wilshire and Veteran-the twenty-story Federal Building that housed the Los Angeles field office of the FBI.

On most homicide investigations, local law enforcement authorities had jurisdiction and took the lead, and the bureau was brought in, if at all, only to provide consultation and analysis. But not this one. This was a federal case, and had been ever since the night of February 12, two years ago.

February 12.

The key in the lock. The key, turning. The key…

But she couldn’t think about that now.

She pulled into the large, open parking lot adjacent to the building. Ordinarily it would be almost empty at night, but on weekends the lot was used by visitors to the Village. Even so, she found an available slot after less than a minute of searching.

She killed the Crown Victoria’s engine and hurried inside, where she stabbed the elevator button and waited, shifting her weight restlessly.

The key in her hand, key in the lock, turning, no resistance…

Reliving the event was a symptom of posttraumatic stress. Her therapist had explained it to her. A traumatic event triggered stress hormones; the more hormones were pumped out, the more intensely the memory would be burned into the amygdala, a bundle of neurons in the brain. Whenever the experience was relived, new stress hormones were produced, further reinforcing the memory.

To break the cycle, it was necessary to brush aside the memories. Think about something else.

Something else. But there was nothing else. There was only the key in the lock, forever turning…

Turning, and the door opening as she stepped into the house…

The elevator arrived, chiming faintly. The sound startled her into the present.

When the doors slid apart, she saw two men in suits.

Cops, not feds. She knew instantly. They had to be cops because she saw the faint outlines of their firearms under their jackets. But they weren’t FBI, because their suits weren’t stylish enough. Elitist but true.

She got in, pressing the button for the seventeenth floor.

"Going up?" one man asked. "So are we."

"We are?" the other cop asked with a lifted eyebrow.

"We are now," the first man said.

She looked at him. He was about forty, trim and self-possessed, but with a vaguely disreputable air. It was nothing she could pinpoint, just a suggestion of cunning that she disliked and distrusted.

"Didn’t you just come down?" she asked.

"From eighteen." The elevator began to rise. "We were meeting with Tom Danner. Know him?"

"No." Distantly she remembered that Danner was a profiling consultant, like Gaines. Profilers often acted as liaisons with the local police. "If you’ve just seen him, why are you heading back up?"

He smiled. "No special reason. It’s just a nice night for a ride."

Just what she needed. Don Juan in a cheap suit.

She looked at the numbers above the doors, not wanting to continue the conversation.

"I’m Jim Dodge," the cop said. "West LA Homicide. This is my partner, Al Bradley." Bradley was a big, broad-shouldered man with sleepy eyes.

"Nice to meet you," Tess said, turning away.

Dodge wasn’t deterred. "And you are…?"

"In a hurry."

"Hey, this is LA. Everybody’s in a hurry. But you’ve got to slow down sometime. Stop and smell the flowers."

"I haven’t had a lot of flowers in my life lately." The words came out fast, and instantly she regretted them. He would take the statement as a flirtation.

"You must have a name," he pressed. "It comes standard issue with the birth certificate."

"Tess McCallum." It was easier to tell him than to argue.

"You’re new to this field office."

"Temporary assignment."

"Not too temporary, I hope."

Dodge was looking her over without a hint of self-consciousness. She found herself wondering if she looked all right in her gray suit and white blouse and Western-style string tie. The thought irritated her.

"Where you from?" he asked.

She wished the elevator would move faster. "Denver."

"Nice town. Enjoying LA?"

"I’m not here for enjoyment. I’m working."

"You can’t work all the time."

"Look, Detective-"

"Jim."

"I’m involved with a case right now."

"So am I. Whole bunch of cases. How many open cases we got, Al?"

"More than I can count, Jimbo." Al Bradley spoke in an exhausted baritone.

"More than he can count," Dodge said, "and that’s using his fingers and toes. We catch one bad guy, another pops up to replace him. The job never ends. To stay sane, you’ve got to loosen up a little. Not everything is life-and-death."

"That’s a funny attitude for a homicide detective to take."

"I’m just saying you can’t let a case take over your life."

"I already have."

"Oh, I get it. This time it’s personal."

He wanted to be funny, but the joke hurt her like a slap.

"Extremely personal," she said.

The doors opened, and she stepped out. Behind her, Dodge said, "Hey." He was holding a business card. "In case you get lonely."

"No, thanks."

"Take it. It’s good for a free dinner."

Because she didn’t have time to debate the issue, she took the card and stuffed it in the side pocket of her jacket without even giving it a look.

"That’s my cell number. You can reach me anytime." He smiled. "It’s my snitch card. You know, the one I give out-"

"To informants. I’m glad to join such elevated company."

She walked away, not looking back, and heard Al Bradley ask his partner, "What the hell was that all about?"

The elevator doors slid shut before she heard Detective Dodge’s answer.

She had been rude to him, but-oh, hell, it didn’t matter.

Larkin buzzed her into suite 1700 and greeted her in the reception room. "You must’ve exceeded a few posted speed limits," he said.

"All in a good cause. Which room is he in?"

"Whoa, not so fast. Andrus wants to brief you first."

"Can’t you handle that?"

"You know, Agent McCallum, most people wouldn’t turn up their nose at a meeting with the AD."

"I guess my instinct for personal advancement isn’t as refined as it could be."

"I’d say that’s obvious." Larkin opened the door to the interior corridor with a card key and led Tess out of the reception area.

Tess waited almost a full minute before allowing him to know that he’d gotten to her. "What made you say that?" she asked as they strode down a carpeted corridor past rows of squad room doors.

Larkin didn’t bother to glance back at her. "Say what?"

"Don’t play around. It’s boring."

"You mean my comment about your career advancement? All I meant was that you’re still stuck in the Denver office, when by now you probably could’ve been-should’ve been-an SAC or at least an ASAC somewhere."

"By now. After Black Tiger, you mean."

"You got everybody’s attention with that bust, but you didn’t know how to use it. So now you’re taking orders from guys like Michaelson-and taking a lot of shit from people like me."

She couldn’t argue. By his own petty logic Larkin was right. She had been on the fast track, and if her career had stalled, it was no one’s fault but her own.

"Speaking of Michaelson, did I beat him here?" she asked.

"Got here a few minutes ago."

"Damn."

"Don’t get your knickers in a twist. You haven’t missed much."

"How would you know?"

"The interrogation is just under way. They’re probably still working up the nerve to Mirandize the guy."