The Third to Die Read online

  “Not at all. Like I said, she’s a good cop, has Maddox’s trust.”

  “Good,” Matt said.

  “I appreciate your confidence in my department.”

  “I’m confident in you. I’ll glad-hand the chief as much as necessary, but I’m relying on you and Maddox to cut through the bullshit and get what we need. Call me if you find anything.”

  Matt hung up and went outside. He called Ryder to ask if he finally reached Quinn’s supervisor or the FBI office, then ended the call before Ryder answered when he saw her.

  She was leaning against his rental car, eyes closed, her gray hat and scarf blending into the gray day.

  “You must be freezing,” he said, expecting to startle her.

  She didn’t jump. She smiled and opened her eyes. “It’s not LA.”

  “What do you want?”

  Her eyes weren’t smiling. “You verified my credentials. Please don’t call there again.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Whatever you want to know, I’ll tell you, but if you start calling every agency in Southern California, I’m going to be burned.”

  “That makes no sense.”

  “I’ll give it to you straight. I don’t have many friends in the LA-FBI office, and I’d just as soon not have DC calling them and stirring the pot.”

  “Why would my inquiry cause a problem?”

  “I might tell you sometime, but it’s not relevant now. I assume you were following up—after verifying my ID—to see if you can read me in. I saved you the time by going to your briefing. Do you want my help or not?”

  “Mierda, ya no sé.” He really didn’t know what he wanted from her.

  “Fine.” She started to walk away.

  “Joder, no me digas que hablas español,” he mumbled. It was his way of letting off steam.

  She glanced over her shoulder with a half smile. “Suficiente.”

  Great, she understood Spanish. He was going to have to bite his tongue or he’d get himself in trouble with his only witness.

  “Stop,” he said.

  She did, turned, and faced him. “Matt, you want to know more about me to figure out if you can trust me. I get it. Your guy talked to my boss. Lex is not going to give you anything more than my basics, primarily to protect me, and secondarily because he doesn’t like the feds. We work out of Special Operations, and I work undercover. I’m telling you this, even though I don’t tell anyone outside of my unit anything about my work. But I’m stuck up here for ten more days. I’m a good cop—I can help.”

  It was a good speech, but she hadn’t really told him anything. “You’re not homicide.”

  “No.”

  She didn’t expand, and that ticked him off.

  “¿Por qué no puedes darme una respuesta directa por una vez?” he mumbled. Why can’t you give me a direct answer for once?

  He wanted a straight answer, and Quinn didn’t give straight answers. And he really wanted to know what had gone on between her and the LA-FBI office.

  “Trust me or don’t,” she said. “You’re short-staffed and I would really like to stop this guy.”

  “Why?” Maybe that was the crux of his problem with Kara Quinn. “Why do you want to get involved with a 24-7 investigation like this while you’re on vacation? It’s a lot of grunt work.”

  “You know why.”

  “If I knew why, I wouldn’t ask.”

  She looked like she didn’t believe him. “Huh.”

  “Don’t play games, Quinn—I’m freezing my ass off and I have work to do.”

  “I planned on visiting my grandmother for a weekend. My boss told me not to come back until March 15. That’s sixteen days of not doing my job. Somehow, I don’t think you’d be comfortable sitting on your ass for sixteen days.”

  She was right. He hated taking time off, and when he did he played hard, like when he decided to learn how to scuba dive a couple years ago. If he didn’t have something challenging to do, he’d go back to work early. “Why’d your boss tell you to take a vacation?”

  “I wrapped up a tough case and he thought I needed the time. First seventy-two hours were mandatory. And, I created a bit of a problem for the administration because my mouth opened before my brain engaged. But you know what? Time sucks. Time means you think about what you should have done or would have done. There’s nothing that beats working.”

  “Case didn’t end well?”

  “Didn’t end well for the bad guys.”

  Something flickered in her eye. Something definitely happened on her last case, and she was angry about it. But she hid her emotions better than most people. Her reaction was so subtle and well-timed that he wondered if she intentionally showed her anger, then covered it up so he’d be curious.

  That thought was damn Machiavellian.

  “If you want to help, call Andy and find the damn ATV this bastard used.”

  “Yes, boss.”

  She winked and walked away.

  Matt watched Quinn slide into her car and drive away. There was something about her—she was infuriating because she wouldn’t just give him a straight answer, but he didn’t have the time to dig deeper into her. Andy trusted her, and apparently Maddox had mentored her. That should be good enough. He almost went back into the police station to talk to Maddox about her background, but he really had to focus on the case. They were running out of time, and he would do everything in his power to prevent another body from dropping.

  If Kara Quinn could find the ATV, then more power to her.

  He had a feeling she’d find it out of sheer determination and doggedness—because failure wasn’t an option.

  12

  Washington DC

  11:05 p.m. ET

  Catherine was deep in her profile notes when her doorbell rang. She rose, closed her office doors—no sense terrifying one of her neighbors with the crime scene photos that now littered her office—and walked to the door. She looked through the peephole.

  Chris.

  Her husband had a key, of course. She’d owned this apartment since before they were married. She’d kept it because both she and Chris—a pediatric surgeon—often kept odd hours and needed a place to crash in the city instead of commuting the hour to their house in Stafford, Virginia. They’d bought the house when they first married thirteen years ago—when she had already graduated from the FBI academy, but was spending a year as a resident in a psychiatric facility for the criminally insane. Chris had just completed his residency. They’d known each other since medical school, but Catherine always kept people at arm’s length.

  Until Chris.

  Stafford was close to Chris’s new practice and his family in Fredericksburg, though as the demand for his expertise grew, he worked out of Georgetown more often than not. When you were the best at your job, you went where you were needed.

  She loved this man but feared she would break his heart. They were legally separated because she had insisted, but Chris didn’t want a divorce. He assured her that they would work it out. Matt had told her months ago that she walked out because she wanted to punish herself. She hated him for saying it, but he wasn’t wrong.

  She opened the door. “Chris. I wasn’t expecting you.”

  “I drove up to check on a patient at GW who’s being released tomorrow. Joshua.”

  The little boy who had lost his parents and nearly his own life in a tragic accident on the beltway. He’d had a collapsed lung, multiple broken bones, and extensive internal bleeding. The rapid response on scene coupled with Chris’s talent saved Joshua’s life. He would be living with his grandparents now, in Pennsylvania.

  She opened the door wider and Chris walked in. “How are you?”

  “I’m good. Really good. Just seeing that kid smile again after everything he’s been through.” Chris smiled. He looked tired, but con
tent. “Joshua is a great kid—he’s going to be okay. I gave his grandparents instructions, and they’re bringing him back for a checkup next week. Referred them to a local doctor I trust for follow-up care, and the psychiatrist you recommended.”

  “I’m glad I could help in a small way.”

  “It’s truly a miracle he survived, but he’s a strong kid.”

  “I don’t believe in miracles. You saved him—you and the paramedics on scene.”

  Chris didn’t comment. The only thing she and Chris had fundamentally disagreed on—other than her work for the FBI—was religion. He believed in God; she didn’t. It wasn’t that she disbelieved, but she imagined a cruel God or an indifferent God; a bully, a brute, not the loving God of Chris’s church. She didn’t like how Chris deferred his accomplishments to someone else—even if it was someone who couldn’t be seen, touched, or heard. When he gave a speech during his medical school graduation ceremony, he thanked God first.

  She didn’t understand. His parents had paid for his education, he did the hard work to graduate top of his class, he was smart—brilliant—and had more compassion than anyone she knew. Why credit a distant deity who anointed a few and cursed others?

  But as a psychiatrist, she understood that some people—even smart people like Chris—were so humble that they couldn’t accept their accomplishments on their face. Believing they were somehow blessed made their success easier to live with.

  She closed the door behind Chris. “Would you like some wine? I have some food, but I’ll admit I’ve been eating mostly takeout.”

  “Wine sounds good. Thank you.”

  She poured two glasses, handed one to Chris. He was looking at her closed office doors. “You’re working again.”

  How did he know that? How could he see what was behind the doors?

  “Consulting.” She didn’t want to talk about this now. She promised she would quit, make it official. “Just this one case.”

  He didn’t say anything, but opened the den doors and looked at her work.

  “Matt asked,” she said lamely.

  She felt the tension grow in the room. Chris and Matt had once been friends, good friends, but after eight months—she didn’t expect them to mend fences. And that was as much her fault as theirs.

  “It’s an old case of mine,” she said. “The Triple Killer, on the West Coast.”

  “I remember.” He faced her. “You’re not quitting, are you?”

  “I already turned in my resignation.”

  “But you haven’t left.”

  “My boss is stubborn. She ordered me to take a sabbatical before she’ll accept my decision.”

  “Dammit, Catherine, that’s what I told you to do in the first place! Take time. You can’t quit unless you can be at peace with the decision, and you’re not at peace.”

  He had suggested it, but Catherine knew he really wanted her to quit. When she broached the idea of private practice, he’d concurred.

  “You want me home. You want me to leave the FBI.”

  “I want you home, but that doesn’t mean I want you to quit your job. I’ve never told you I wanted you to leave the FBI.”

  “You didn’t have to.”

  “Sometimes, for someone so damn smart, you’re deliberately obtuse.”

  “Chris—”

  “I know you better than anyone, Catherine, and this is in your soul. You can’t walk away from it, not like this. Not because of Beth.”

  She closed the doors again. Because part of her mind would be analyzing, thinking, coming up with questions. And that part of her mind would be closed to Chris and anything he had to say.

  She walked over to her kitchen and topped off their wineglasses with the rest of the sauvignon blanc though they didn’t need to be.

  “How’s Lizzy?” she asked.

  “Come home with me tonight and see her in the morning.”

  “You know I can’t do that.”

  “Why?”

  “It’ll confuse her.”

  “That’s bullshit, Catherine, and you know it.”

  Catherine was taken aback. Chris never swore.

  “She knows we’re separated,” Catherine said. Why was she nervous? She had wanted the separation. Needed it. At least, that’s what she thought.

  You want to punish yourself for Beth. You’re a shrink, you know exactly why you left Chris. If your sister is dead, you can’t allow yourself to be happy.

  “I don’t want to get her hopes up that I’ll be moving back in,” Catherine said.

  “Lizzy is a smart kid. She gets it.”

  “She resents me.”

  “You do not believe that for a minute.”

  “I can’t let this rub off on her. I know I’m not a loving mother. I want to be...but...please. Don’t push.”

  She didn’t want the darkness she dealt with every day to touch her child. What happened with Beth was the final straw—the pain on Lizzy’s face at her aunt Beth’s funeral had affected Catherine in a fundamental way. Lizzy was only ten. She shouldn’t have experienced pain like this: deep, numbing grief.

  She’d put the pain there. She’d brought the darkness to her family. And the darkness had taken her sister. The only good in her world, the only good left that touched her, was Chris and Lizzy, and Catherine would do anything to keep them far away from the dark side of humanity.

  “Lizzy doesn’t resent you,” Chris said. “She knows what you do. She knows how the people you hunt affect you. Like me, she wants to be there for you.”

  “She’s a child. She shouldn’t know anything about this life. About the evil in the world. I’m supposed to be there for her.”

  And that was the crux of her problem. She was never completely present because her mind was always working on tracking a killer. Getting into his head. Doubting her own morality. She couldn’t let it go. She couldn’t leave it alone. Why couldn’t she turn it off? Others could. Chris did. He held life and death in his hands every day and sometimes death won—but he could see blessings where Catherine only saw pain.

  “Lizzy has two strong parents who have careers in life and death. I don’t shield her from reality, I put it in perspective. I don’t have to tell you that she’s an amazing kid. I’m not saying balance is easy—parenthood is not always easy. But kids pick up on everything. It’s better to share from the heart than to keep everything bottled up inside.”

  “Share? This?” She waved her hand toward her den.

  “Like I said, with perspective. You’re not going to show her your crime scene photos, you don’t have to share details, but she knows bad people exist in the world, and she’s proud of you—I am proud of you—that you’re one of the people with the compassion and skill to help put them behind bars.”

  “If only it were that easy.”

  Chris took the wineglass from her hand and put it on the counter. He put his glass next to hers, put his arms on her arms. Stared at her. For that moment, she wanted to go home with him. To their quiet green acres in Stafford. To forget murder, to forget violence.

  But she could never get it out of her mind, never completely. And that’s why she had left.

  He leaned forward, gently pressed his lips to hers, then looked her in the eye.

  “I love you. You’re my wife, separation notwithstanding. I will be here for you, whether you return to the FBI, go on sabbatical, or leave. I’m not going anywhere. I’ve told you this over and over, but you don’t listen. When you fall, I will pick you up. You will always have a home base, and I refuse to let you use our daughter as an excuse not to come home. We both take you as you are.”

  Her voice cracked. “I don’t deserve a family.”

  “Stop.” He kissed her again. She was so tense, so wound up; she was on the edge of destruction.

  But for Chris. He touched her, caressed her, k
issed her. It was new and familiar at the same time. They had loved each other for so long—that would never change. He was a rock, her rock. She returned his kisses, as if no time had passed. As if they hadn’t been living apart for eight months.

  He groaned, as if he, too, sensed her anguish, her fear, her hesitation disappearing. Groaned out of lust, of love, of need.

  She melted under Chris’s love, and they moved, entwined, to the bedroom.

  “I will always love you,” she told him. Then words weren’t necessary.

  Tonight, she could bask in the light.

  13

  Friday, March 5

  Spokane

  7:00 a.m. PT

  Jim Esteban had flown in from Dallas so late the night before that Matt hadn’t had the chance to touch base, but they met in the operations room Ryder had set up in the hotel at seven that morning. The war room—as Matt thought of it—was a regular room that Ryder had cleared of beds and other furniture and installed with four desks. It adjoined both Ryder’s room and Matt’s room. Matt didn’t know how Ryder had accomplished this setup so quickly, but he was more than happy with his young analyst, who seemed also to be a logistics expert.

  Jim drank coffee and munched on a pastry he’d grabbed from the continental buffet downstairs. “I talked to the lab tech before I boarded the plane, got his preliminary report on the crime scene. Read the prelim autopsy report. No tox screens have come back yet—wish my own lab was ready, I could run them faster.”

  “So far, the Spokane lab has been cooperative. I told the head tech, Miles Jordan, to expect you.”

  “I’m meeting with him at nine,” Jim said. “Not many drugs can act almost immediately to knock someone out. There’s usually a risk of the victim screaming or fighting back—even for a minute—or of someone seeing them. And an unconscious body is deadweight.”

  “Maybe you can light a fire under his ass this morning.”

  “I read him my creds. I think we’re good. We’ll go over everything, and I’m bringing over the files for the first six victims. The kid is high-strung, but he’s smart. I’m smart. We’ll find something. Whether it’ll help locate the killer or convict a suspect, I don’t know, but it won’t be because we missed anything.”