LURING Read online

  None of them knew anything about where Phil’s brother Harvey might be.

  Finally Jake and the sheriff stopped by Earl Gibson’s physician’s office. The doctor was still seething about Phil Cardin’s release, and was further angered to hear that Harvey had disappeared. Jake managed to calm him down enough to ask him some questions, but Gibson wasn’t able to shed any light on who else might have wanted to kill his wife.

  Their inquiries only deepened the mystery as far as Jake was concerned. He was looking for any indication that the two Cardin brothers had committed the two murders by turns, or even that the missing Harvey Cardin had committed both murders …

  But if not?

  Jake didn’t have any alternative scenarios just yet. He’d gotten no gut instinct about anybody else in Hyland committing either of the two murders. Alice seemed well-liked by everyone they talked to that day, and nobody in Hyland seemed to know Hope Nelson except by name. Neither, apparently, had Alice Gibson. The two women were from the same part of the state, but had spent their lives in different towns and different social circles.

  When they found themselves back at the police station after a fruitless day, Jake told Tallhamer’s deputy to keep a close eye on Harvey Cardin, especially to make sure he didn’t try to leave town.

  “One more stop,” he told Tallhamer, “and then I’ll give up for the day.”

  The sheriff drove Jake out to the first murder scene.

  Dusk was falling by the time they got there. The fence post where Alice Gibson’s body had been found dangling was marked by an X that Sheriff Tallhamer’s deputy had painted on it. Like the spot where Alice Gibson’s body had been found, the fence bordered on a gently rolling pasture.

  Jake suppressed a sigh as he imagined the hideous bundle hanging there …

  This’d be nice place to visit under different circumstances.

  He figured it must have taken a remarkably sick man to leave such a grisly object in such a lovely location.

  Was Phil Cardin such a man?

  Might his brother be such a man?

  Jake crouched down by the fence post and breathed long and slowly, hoping to catch some feeling about what had happened here. Jake was known for making intuitive leaps at murder scenes, oftentimes getting an uncanny sense of the mind of a criminal. Jake knew of nobody else who could do that—except for young Riley Sweeney, and her instincts were still erratic and undisciplined.

  This morning at the other crime scene, Jake hadn’t been able even try to make such a connection—not with all the hubbub going on around him and the arrival of a TV news helicopter.

  Can I do it now? he wondered.

  Jake closed his eyes and focused, trying to get some sort of gut feeling.

  Nothing came.

  When he opened his eyes, he saw that three black and white Black Angus cows had wandered over and were eyeing him curiously. He wondered—had they seen what had gone on that night? If so, had the horror of what they’d witnessed had any impact on them?

  “If only you could talk,” Jake said to the cows under his breath.

  He rose to his feet, feeling thoroughly discouraged.

  It was time to head back over to Dighton and check in with his forensics team. He’d go over the day’s notes and get some sleep in the town’s only motel, then get a fresh start early tomorrow. Jake had left some unfinished business in Dighton, including a serious interview with Hope Nelson’s husband, the mayor. Mason Nelson had been too incapacitated with shock for Jake to talk to him when they’d met at the other murder scene.

  As for trying to track down Harvey Cardin’s whereabouts, Jake knew that it wasn’t a job for either the local cops or the forensics crew he’d brought along. He’d have to call for technical support from Quantico.

  He said to Sheriff Tallhamer, “Take me back to my car, I’m leaving.”

  But before they could get into the sheriff’s car, Jake saw a van approaching with a TV station’s logo on it. The van pulled to a stop nearby, and a crew poured out with lights, camera, and a microphone.

  Jake let out a groan of despair.

  There was no way of getting away from the media this time.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Riley was disappointed when she went to the computer room after a day of tours, classes, and her first dinner in the Academy cafeteria. There was still no email from Ryan. For the moment she ignored the others in her box.

  Last night she had emailed Ryan to let him know that she’d arrived at Quantico and was settling in. She hadn’t heard anything from him in reply. She asked herself—should she send him another note, telling him about her day? Or should she give him a phone call?

  Riley sighed deeply as she tried to come to terms with the truth …

  He’s still angry.

  She wondered if maybe she’d made a mistake by catching the first train she could to Quantico. Maybe she should have returned home before she’d left to talk things out with him, find out where things stood between them. She couldn’t imagine how they were ever going to do that as long as they were separated like this.

  But she couldn’t help thinking …

  If I’d gone back home yesterday, I’d probably still be there.

  She decided it was best not to try to do anything about it now. Maybe tomorrow morning she’d send Ryan another note.

  One other email in the box was junk, which she deleted. But when she opened the remaining message, Riley was unsettled and alarmed.

  “Brant Hayman,” she whispered, with a shudder.

  Hayman was the professor who had killed Riley’s two college friends in Lanton. He had tried to kill Riley.

  The email was from a Virginia circuit court summoning her to testify next week at his trial for murder, which was already in progress.

  Riley gulped hard as she remembered how close to death she herself had come at Hayman’s hands.

  Doubtless she would have to face him when she gave her testimony.

  Did she have the courage to do that?

  She shrugged slightly and thought …

  It’s not like I’ve got any choice.

  Besides, giving testimony against Hayman might give her some closure, make her feel that her ordeal was over at long last. She printed that email and left the computer room.

  Back in their small dorm room, Riley’s roommate Frankie, was sitting on her bed perusing materials in her orientation folder.

  Frankie looked up and said with a slight grin …

  “Still worried about whether your fiancé is pissed off with you, huh?”

  Riley was startled. She and Frankie had talked very little since they’d first met. Riley certainly hadn’t mentioned that she was engaged, let alone that there was any friction between herself and Ryan.

  “How did you know?” Riley asked.

  Frankie chuckled and said, “Oh, it doesn’t take a detective. Your engagement ring was just about the first thing I noticed about you. And you went to the computer room three times last night, and once again this morning, and I’m willing to bet you came from there just now. It’s what you might call classic ‘worried girlfriend’ behavior. So what’s the guy’s name?”

  “Ryan,” Riley said, sitting down on her own bed.

  “Well, don’t tell me,” Frankie said, “Ryan’s got ambivalent feelings about you going into this line of work, am I right?”

  Riley shook her head sadly.

  “‘Ambivalent,’” she said. “Yeah, I guess that’s one word for it—although outright disapproval is more like it.”

  Frankie let out a hearty laugh.

  “Well, don’t ask for my advice. I’ve got kind of a jaundiced view of men in general. I was married for four years—and good riddance, as far as I’m concerned.”

  Then Frankie pointed to Riley’s ring and added …

  “But I do think you should take that thing off and put it in a drawer, at least for the next few days. It’s liable to distract you, and you’re going to need all the concentration y
ou can muster.”

  Riley looked at her ring and twisted it on her finger.

  She said, “I don’t think I can do that.”

  Frankie tilted her head and said, “Suit yourself. Anyway, tell me about yourself. There aren’t too many kids your age starting at the Academy. What brings you here?”

  Riley heaved a deep, long sigh.

  Where do I begin? she wondered.

  She showed Frankie the email from the circuit court and sketchily told the story of how she’d gotten mixed up in the murder case in Lanton. Then she described how she’d worked on the Clown Killer case earlier this summer. Frankie’s eyes widened and she asked …

  “You mean you worked with Special Agent Jake Crivaro?”

  Riley was surprised at the question.

  She said, “Well, it wasn’t exactly my idea. I just sort of got mixed up in things. Agent Crivaro’s kind of my … mentor, I guess you could say. I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for him.”

  Frankie stared at Riley for a moment, then said …

  “Wow. I mean you do know that Jake Crivaro’s a living legend in the law enforcement profession, right?”

  Riley didn’t know what to say. She knew that Crivaro was known to be an exceptional agent, but …

  A legend?

  Frankie continued, “They say he’s got the best instincts in the business. Like, hellish great instincts. I’m impressed. I mean, Jake Crivaro … there’s a name you can drop around here if you want to impress people.”

  It felt strange to hear Frankie talk like this. Until now, Riley had felt anonymous here at Quantico—quite unlike when she’d gone into the summer program back in DC. Then all the other interns had known she’d already worked on two murder cases. She was possibly the only intern with that kind of experience, which stirred up quite a lot of envy and resentment. Here, she was one of the least experienced NATs around. Who cared that she’d gotten caught up in a couple of murder cases?

  She remembered how Crivaro had praised her instincts when he’d talked her into going into the program …

  “Do you realize how amazing that is, for someone with no training in law enforcement?”

  Now Riley couldn’t help wondering—what did it say about her that a living legend thought she had great instincts?

  Careful, she told herself. Don’t get carried away.

  Also, she quickly decided that dropping Crivaro’s name around Quantico wasn’t a good idea. It was probably better to just stay anonymous to almost everybody, at least until she started to prove her own capabilities …

  If that ever happens.

  Riley asked Frankie, “What about you? I’m sure you’ve had a lot more experience than I have.”

  Frankie stared at the wall for a moment, then said …

  “Well, yeah, I guess you could say that. I was a cop for several years in Cincinnati. It didn’t end well—kind of like my marriage, you might say.”

  Sensing Frankie’s uneasiness, Riley said …

  “You don’t have to talk about it. I mean, it’s probably none of my …”

  Frankie interrupted, “No, I’d probably better tell you. We’re going to be in this thing together for the whole program. It’s best that you know.”

  Frankie heaved a long sigh and said …

  “I spent six months working undercover, bringing down drug dealers.”

  Riley almost gasped with amazement. She’d seen sensational stories about undercover drug agents on TV shows, but she couldn’t begin to imagine what that kind of work was really like.

  Frankie hesitated for a moment, then said …

  “I was good at it, in case you’re wondering. And I went the whole hog, living on the streets, pretending to be a homeless junkie. I’d approach a dealer or he’d approach me, and I’d make a purchase, then report him back to the drug squad, and they’d arrest him. The trick, of course, was to keep right on doing that without anybody figuring out my connection to the arrests.”

  “That must have been tough,” Riley said.

  Frankie shrugged slightly and said, “Like I said, I was good at it. ‘Indigo’ was my name on the street. And I learned all kinds of tricks and maneuvers. I can remember the first time a dealer got suspicious of me, asked flat-out if I was a cop. I was scared to death, but managed not to show it. I acted offended, said I wasn’t an f-ing narc, and if that’s what he thought of me, he could just get out of my face and not do business with me.”

  Frankie chuckled a little, then added, “I was relieved when it worked, and a little amazed too. One day I was sitting around with another homeless user who asked me, ‘Is it true that undercover cops have to tell the truth if you ask them if they’re cops? Is that the law?’”

  Frankie scoffed and said …

  “Well, it’s not the law. But I told the guy, ‘I don’t know. Let’s go and ask somebody.’ I walked with him right up to the nearest dealer, and I asked him whether undercover cops had to tell the truth or not. The dealer said no, and that we should always watch out for narcs, because they could be anybody you might meet. Anyway, that sort of behavior worked well for me. After a while, pretty much everybody stopped asking me if I was a cop.”

  Frankie frowned and shuffled her feet and added …

  “You’ve probably heard all kinds of crazy stories about working undercover—that you’ve got some kind of license to break the law left and right, do all kinds of drugs, maybe even kill people, anything just to keep your cover, until you wind up becoming a criminal and an addict yourself. None of that’s true. You’re not supposed to do anything illegal. And that goes for taking drugs. That’s not easy to pull off when you’re surrounded by addicts who keep expecting you to do what they’re doing.”

  Riley’s mind boggled at how tricky and dangerous that must have been.

  “How did you do it?” she asked.

  “I developed my own tricks, learned how to fake it. I experimented around with incense and cologne until I found a recipe that smelled pretty much exactly like grass. I kept my clothes saturated with that smell, so people just sort of assumed that I was stoned all the time. It got to the point where nobody paid much attention to whether I was using or not.”

  Frankie’s expression darkened as she continued …

  “But one day along came this dealer who called himself Wormwood. From the minute I met him, I felt like he could see right through me. I should have known better than to try to sting him. For one thing, he had three big goons with him, like they were his bodyguards or something.”

  Frankie inhaled sharply and said, “Finally I scored some smack—heroin—off him. But before I could turn and walk away, he grabbed me by the arm pulled out an hypodermic and demanded that I use the stuff right in front of him. I stammered around, trying to make excuses, until one of his stooges pulled a huge knife and held it to my throat. I had to use right then and there, or else I’d get killed.”

  Frankie let out a long sigh.

  “So—I did it. Before I stuck the needle in my vein, I was scared half to death. I figured Wormwood and his goons would probably kill me as soon as I was high. But then I felt the drug take hold and …”

  To Riley’s surprise, Frankie wiped away a tear.

  “I didn’t care if I lived or died,” Frankie said.

  Frankie choked back a sob and said, “Oh, Riley, you’ve got no idea what it’s like—the euphoria, the bliss, like everything in this rotten world is suddenly perfect and beautiful. If I’d died right then, I’d have died happy.”

  Frankie paused for a moment to calm herself.

  Then she said, “For some reason, Wormwood and his goons didn’t kill me. I lay there like a dead woman on my cardboard mat surrounded by homeless junkies until the drug wore off. Then I headed straight to the police station and reported what I’d done. That’s the correct procedure, and I didn’t get a reprimand. In fact, I got praised for all the good work I’d done until then. It’s understood that every undercover agent might face that situation sooner
or later. You can’t take drugs just to keep your cover, but you’re allowed to if it’s a matter of life and death. And it sure was a matter of life and death for me.”

  Frankie shrugged and added …

  “That was the end of it. I got taken off the undercover gig, of course. They don’t want any cops out there who’ve ever, ever taken a drug like heroin. It ruins you for good for that kind of work. It’s too dangerous. You could get hooked for good.”

  Frankie squinted thoughtfully for a moment, then continued, “You know, until that happened, I thought I was doing good work. And as scary as it got sometimes, I enjoyed the thrill. But after I’d experienced that incredible high … I realized the whole mission was wrong—the ‘War on Drugs,’ I mean. It’s a war that can’t be won. There’s got to be some way to deal with all that sickness and suffering. But locking people up isn’t the way. All I’d really accomplished during that six months on the street was make life worse for people whose lives were already miserable.”

  Frankie nodded and said, “So that’s why I came to the Academy. Maybe here I’ll get the chance to start doing something to really help people. That’s all I want from life.”

  Frankie sat staring off into space.

  Riley was stunned by what she’d heard. As traumatic as her own ordeals at the hands of killers had been, they seemed like nothing in comparison to what Frankie had been through.

  Finally Frankie laughed nervously and said, “Next time I get started, just tell me to shut the hell up.”

  “I’m glad you told me,” Riley said.

  Frankie got to her feet and said, “Come on, let’s head on over to the commons room, maybe grab a snack and see what’s on the tube.”

  Riley and Frankie walked down the hall to the commons room. Several other NATs were lounging around, nibbling on snacks from the vending machine, and watching a 24-hour news channel.

  Right now on the TV, a reporter was standing in an open field. The banner across the bottom of the screen read …

  FBI BROUGHT IN TO INVESTIGATE SECOND MURDER IN WEST VIRGINIA

  The reporter held a microphone to a man’s face.