Jenna Ryan - A Voice in the Dark

“On the surface, nothing. But I checked the files, too. She lived in Danvers. Maybe she was a closet witch. Wicked as opposed to Wicca.”

“You’re grasping, partner.”

“At really flimsy straws.” Angel drummed her fingers. “The woman was killed eight years ago, yeah?”

“That’s what Joe said Noah said.”

Propping her chin in her hand, Angel nudged her bowl aside and let her mind wander. To an inappropriate place, she had to admit, but she was as human as the next person and female to boot.

“Liz, why will Noah let Joe see him and not me?”

Her partner swallowed a spoonful of Irish stew and groaned. “This is so good. If I knew, Angel, I’d tell you, I really would. For what it’s worth, I haven’t seen him either, or even spoken to him on the phone. No one I know has. Anyway.” She used her index finger to scoop the hair from Angel’s eyes. “You don’t want to see him right now. That cheekbone of yours is bruising nicely.”

Angel touched the mark, sighed, dropped her hand. “‘Suffering is the bridge to understanding.’ That’s not cryptic, it’s the inside of a fortune cookie.”

“Written on a napkin, with a stencil.”

“Noah says that’s how the guy does it. He prints a piece of philosophical gibberish on a scrap of paper, or a napkin, or a candy bar wrapper and slips it to his victims. More often than not, and Foret’s no exception, there’s a partially eaten meal or half empty glass nearby. Which suggests a follow up form of contact at some point, instructing the victim to meet him.”

“Or else…” Liz finished the threat.

Angel glanced over as her cell phone began to vibrate.

“Speak of the invisible devil.” Liz dipped into her stew again. “Listen, I hate to beg favors of a man I’ve never met, but could you ask Mr. Graydon to stop beating my husband at chess? It’s deflating to his ego, and we get enough of that from Graeme and his centerfold girlfriends.”

“It’s not Noah.” Angel tried to stem the feeling of disappointment that made her want to ditch the call. But that was a childish response—and all the more disturbing for that reason. She picked up with a pleasant, “Hey, Brian. What’s the news?”

“What’s the noise?” her dour-sounding coworker countered.

The restaurant Angel and Liz had chosen played edgy flute music at mid-volume. The atmosphere was dusty Irish Goth, with the barest hint of an underlying maritime theme. Not that they could see the ocean, but they could certainly hear the storm blowing in from it as belts of wind battered the weathered outer walls.

“That,” she replied, “is the sound of a glorious autumn rainfall in New England. Any prints on the napkin?”

“Only Foret’s.”

Angel massaged a spot on the back of her neck. “Brian, you were in Boston when the murders stopped five years ago. How many victims did the Penny Killer have?”

“How much wood could a wood chuck chuck…” He offered back a verbal shrug. “Seven that we know of, and I can still name them all.”

She visualized him puffing up as he rattled off the list.

Brian Pinkney, better known as the Brain in Bureau circles, whizzed around the office on his electric wheelchair, getting in everyone’s face and just as frequently on their nerves. He could walk—Angel had seen him do it—but after a car accident several years ago had left him with nerve damage to his spine, he preferred not to tax himself and usually rode instead. He was fiftysix years old, beefy, bald and seemed to sport a new tattoo every time he rolled up his sleeves. No one really liked him, but they couldn’t deny he knew his stuff. Which was probably why he’d lobbied Bergman for the first crack at profiling the Penny Killer.

That he hadn’t succeeded in his bid would make the lives of everyone in the office hell for a good long while, but as Angel saw it, life was all about facing challenges. Another one more or less wasn’t likely to affect her day.

“Five of the victims came from Massachusetts,” Brian continued now. “Two from Philadelphia. Three of the Massachusetts five lived in Boston. The others were from Danvers and New Bedford. Does that help you, or is your head still wobbling from that scrap you had this morning?”

“My head’s fine.” She rubbed her nape. “If the same guy’s responsible for Foret’s death, Bri, that pushes the Boston count to four, and both Danvers and New Bedford are an easy drive, so there’s a better than average chance the killer lives here.”

“Cheery thought, huh?”

“Yeah, if you’re in L.A.” She broke off a chunk of bread, but didn’t eat it. “Some suspects would be good. So far, everyone we’ve connected to Foret is either alibied or out of reach. Case in point, his pal the Secretary.”

“Guy’s clean enough as politicians go.”

Angel grinned. “Glad to know it.” Then sighed. “You’re profiling, aren’t you?”

“My free time’s my own.” He sounded defensive and angry. “Bergman gave the job to Pruneface—Bill Skater. The guy has one speed: turtle.”

“He’s also Bergman’s brother-in-law. Do the math.”

“Did that creep at Foret’s do something to your neck?” Liz asked.

“I—no.” Angel frowned. “Why?” Then she realized she was rubbing the same spot again.

Still holding the phone, she peered around the side of the booth, but saw only tables, more booths and a roomful of people who were paying no attention to anything except their food.

“What?” Liz followed her gaze.

“Someone’s watching us.”

Her friend tugged her back by her hair. “Eat your stew, Angel. A full stomach’ll make the feeling go away.”

“I know how hungry feels, and it isn’t hallucinogenic.” She made another quick circuit. “Brian, does the killer stalk his victims?”

“Ask Skater.”

She forced patience. “I’m asking you.”

“Don’t they all?”

“Okay, well that doesn’t make me feel any better, actually. Liz, we need to lose the Goth cafés for a while.”

“Food’s good at this one.” Liz spooned up more stew. “Not that you’d know, since all you’ve done is play with your bread.”

“Oh, hell.” Angel’s eyes fixed on the door. “Paul Reuben just slithered in. And he’s wearing his media hat.”

“There’s the last bite done, thank you, God.” Liz wiped her mouth and fingers. “How does he always know?”

“Afternoon, ladies.” At Liz’s exasperated look, he pressed an exaggerated hand to his chest. “What am I supposed to say? Afternoon, Feds?”

Angel smiled. “‘I just stopped in to say good-bye’ works.”

“Thanks, I’d love to join you.” He scraped a chair across the floor and straddled it.

“You know, Paul, it’s just possible we’re busy here.” Angel waved her cell phone. “You want a story, talk to Bergman’s assistant. That’s why he’s there.”

Paul Reuben’s flinty eyes gleamed. “Is Noah Graydon helping you with your busy work?”

“Go away.” She enunciated the words, then smacked at his hand. “Touch my lunch, and I’ll cite you for something really unpleasant.”

When her skin continued to prickle, she glanced around again. An old man in a hat with earflaps stared back at her. So did a much younger one with a heavily pierced face.

“Do me a favor, Paul, take a stroll and check out the booths.”

“For what?”

“Perverts, peeping Toms.” She summoned a sweet smile. “Murderers.”

“Like the one who offed Lionel Foret early Sunday morning behind a dockside processing plant?”

“There you go. If you know that much, you’re as up to date as we are. Bye.”

“Cut the guy some slack, Angel,” Brian suggested on the phone. “He might know something.”