The Profiler Read online

  “How so?”

  “I need to grease her up for the field, show her what New York is all about, from the gritty perspective, you know? Seems to me, with you dealing with a variety of crap on a daily basis, you might come across something meaty to share.”

  “I’m more of the finders, keepers theory, Cain. Unless something comes up that’s task force related…”

  “Ah, come on. I’m not talking about running off with your caseload, Detective.” I watch as Cain jabs Severo in the side, and I wonder what is it that makes guys display camaraderie through physical force. “I’m just asking for a hand, is all.”

  I feel the detective’s eyes on me as I shoulder my bag and prepare to head home. “But Cain—” he leans in, whispering to my mentor “—it looks to me like you’ll need more than that.”

  “What do you think—carrots or corn?”

  I don’t wait for a reply. My stomach is alerting me of my hunger, and all I want is to wolf down this Thanksgiving spread and get back out there before the sun goes down. The nap did me good, but too many hours at home can lead to too much thought. And my mind’s no place to wander on a holiday—not without my father in my life.

  “Since you’re not arguing, it’s corn.” The two plates are dressed as though our dinner is formal, but right here—the apartment I grew up in—it’s always been casual. “Dinner’s on!”

  I set the food down and light a few candles to make this evening’s meal ambient. With a little jazz in the background, reminding me of my father’s favorite choice of music, I almost feel at home again. Though I’ve been back in the city for nearly a week, I have yet to unpack most of my things from Virginia and transform my teenage-style bedroom into one that will represent who I am now.

  I’m itching to rediscover the neighborhood and absorb all the changes Chelsea has been through over the years. It was more than four years ago when I ventured off to Michigan to pursue my degree, and then went to Quantico for training. But now that I’m back to my native grounds, I want to dig my heels in deep and feel at home again.

  It’ll be no small feat, considering that the last time I lived here my father was alive. Getting past the hurt and anger will not be easy, especially surrounded by constant reminders of his existence. But I know he would have wanted me to live my life to the fullest. I’m going to do all I can to live up to his reputation and make him proud. Wherever he is.

  Taking my seat, I hear the familiar footsteps approach. Welcoming my dinner partner, I return focus to the holiday meal. “My, you’re a mighty fine fella. Thanks for joining me.”

  Muddy lifts his heavy body to the two-seater dining room table and I smooth down his wrinkles. The drool starts from his bloodhound folds, but I don’t mind. It’s in his nature. And he’s been the best damn friend I’ve ever had.

  Maybe this isn’t your typical family meal for a holiday, but I’ve never lived in a Norman Rockwell portrait. Since Dad… Well, the family’s not a big unit where I come from, so I make do with what and who I have.

  As soon as I get settled, I’ll be insisting Grandma David pack her things and move home from Detroit. I know returning to NYC will be painful, with so many reminders of what happened to my father within a stone’s throw. But if I can keep that extra connection to him in any way possible, I will. Reuniting her to the city, now that I’m back, has to help in the healing process.

  Hopefully, for both of us.

  “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”

  “How long has it been since your last confession?”

  With time to spare before my next shift, I’ve detoured to Gramercy Park for a moment of family nostalgia. I peer through the mesh window and hold up a plate of leftovers, still warm from the oven. “Ah, hell if I know. You hungry?”

  “Angie! I did not see you so well.”

  Uncle Simon lets himself out into the open, widening his arms to grasp me in a hug. Forget the confession; the months have drifted by quickly since I last saw my father’s brother. He and my grandmother are my only living relatives and I intend to keep closer contact with my uncle, now that I’m back in New York.

  “I brought you some turkey—slightly burned—and some fixings,” I say, handing him the container. “I figured you’d be here all night, blessing this and that for the holiday, but heck, even us solos need to eat, right?”

  “Ah well, that’s very fine of you to think of an old man. I am so sorry I could not join you at the apartment, but you know duty calls.” His hands wave about, gesturing to the leftover evidence of the Gramercy Park holiday Mass. Between offering blessings and sharing prayers, he would have had his hands full, I know.

  “No, I understand. I’m not really settled in yet, so I’d only embarrass myself with the mess I’ve made. I’ll have you over real soon, though, okay?”

  Simon nods his head as he leads me to take a seat beside him on a pew, and I let him refamiliarize himself with his niece. I have to do the same with him, as it’s been way too long. As far as I can tell, though, this man has changed very little. He’s thin, lanky and slightly hunched. His skin is pale and his features show his age, but I know his heart is still large with love.

  “Your hair has grown long, I see.” Simon’s hand extends along my cheek, brushing thin fingers through my unruly hair and tucking the strands behind my ear. My current shoulder-length locks are usually pulled back into some makeshift do, but tonight they hang loosely.

  The last time Simon would have seen me, at my father’s funeral in July, my hair would have been cropped a bit shorter, making it easier to take care of during long days of training in Quantico. If I hadn’t been smack-dab in the middle of starting my career as an agent with the FBI—engulfed in the tenth week of training—I wouldn’t have left my uncle’s side so soon.

  It still stings that I had to make that choice. With the Bureau being so competitive, I didn’t have much option but to promptly return to Quantico. Had I dropped out of the sixteen-week training program, there would be slim chance I could get back in, despite my top-notch proficiency levels.

  “Angie, tell me. What day is it?”

  I know this game all too well. It started when I was barely able to speak English, let alone Latin. “Dies Iovis,” I say, pleasing the frail man.

  “Yes! It is Thursday. Oh, good for you, for keeping it up. You study hard?”

  “When I can.”

  Although I can’t use Latin on an everyday basis, my language skills have come in handy from time to time. Especially since it was my exceptional scoring on the Foreign Language Proficiency tests that moved me into the Special Agent training program. It also proved beneficial in third year for my internship with the FBI’s National Center for Analysis of Violent Crime.

  NCAVC likes to see well-rounded agents in the field, and I’m willing to use any skill I have to help my goal of becoming a profiler, even if it takes ten years to get into their elite Violent Criminal Apprehension Program. After all, my father worked with NCAVC for a time, and he was so honored when I decided to follow in his career path. His death just makes me want it more.

  Simon studies my features and places a finger under my chin, bringing my eyes up to meet his. “You work so hard, my sweet. I can see that.”

  A small smile forces its way across my lips. “You know how it is. Never a dull moment.”

  Simon rests a palm on my shoulder and he looks at me, his blue-gray eyes growing soft with love and encouragement. “I know it’s difficult for you, Angela. Your father, he was a good man. Such a strong man. He didn’t deserve it. But you cannot feel guilty about not being here, you understand? Your father would be so proud of you.”

  “I know,” I say, but keep my eyes low while trying not to dwell on the pain. I hate that my father was killed in the line of duty, but I’m even more angered that his death happened during my training. I know my father would be proud of me, but sometimes I wonder whether, if I hadn’t left the city, our lives would’ve been different. If maybe he would still be alive
.

  “You are a wonderful, caring, smart girl, Angie. And a Special Agent! You couldn’t have made your father any happier.”

  “I just wish… I just wish I had more time with him, ya know? After leaving for college, stopping by for holidays and special occasions…it wasn’t enough. I should have been here more. I should have been here when he died.”

  Simon wraps his arms around me, and I let my body relax into his hug. If anyone understood the relationship between me and my father, it was Simon. The two of them prodded me to excel through my youthful education, prepping me for my future. My father, though, was the backbone of my training. Growing up, I spent every single day with him, and not one of those days went by without me learning something from him. Without his intensity and skills as a profiler, I would not be the person I am today.

  “Oh, that kid!”

  I follow my uncle’s concerned look and spot a thin young man dashing out of the church with the sparse contents of the donation box.

  “All the time, this kid taking from us!” My uncle’s voice trails into the background as I bolt after the offender.

  Outside the church, the kid stumbles into the damp streets, and I chase him through an alleyway leading to a small neighborhood park. I can’t tell what he looks like or how old he is, as his hooded pullover conceals his face and the evening light is fading into darkness.

  He treks down a sloped path, but I veer along the upper side of the bank, hoping to nab him from above. Darting past bushes and weathered trees, I kick into high gear and, when the timing is right, pounce down on him.

  “Drop the money!” I yell.

  The thief resists me, anxiously trying to slide away, but I place my booted foot on his chest and pin him to the cold earth.

  I lean closer and with the barrel of my gun push the hood back from his face and see that he is just a kid. A teenager—maybe thirteen or fourteen—and obviously homeless. His skin is scaly with dirt, and his hair, apparently once greasy, is now dry and brittle.

  “You think stealing from a church is going to help you?”

  His eyes flicker back to me with fear and shame, and I don’t know if I want to cuff the kid or take him home and clean him up. “That’s not the way to do it, man.”

  His silence is unnerving, so I reach out a hand and pull him up from the ground. When he stands, he is a few inches shorter than I am, and I see the wear his clothes have been through. This, at the start of a winter.

  The boy holds his wrists out in front of him, but I pause. The obvious thing to do is take him in, but all that will do is punish him for looking after his own welfare.

  Don’t get me wrong; stealing is anything but acceptable. But I know these kids. They’re not the ones who rob banks or assault people. They steal bread and blankets for their own survival.

  He stares at me as I reach into my back pocket and hand him a tattered card detailing the services of a nearby shelter.

  When I give him five bucks, I say, “This is your warning. I catch you stealing from anyone—and I mean anyone—ever again, you’re going in. Got it?”

  He nods his head and a single tear rolls down his cheek. “Now get on over to the shelter and tell them Angie sent you.”

  The kid’s sea-blue eyes barely make contact with mine as his timid voice speaks. “Is this a friend of yours?”

  I pause, caught off guard by the personal question.

  It wasn’t my intention to think of Denise. Not yet. But I guess by sending a needy kid her way, I guarantee she’ll be thinking of me.

  “Friend of the family,” I say firmly, and then add, “She’ll look after you for tonight and give you something to eat. Go on, get out of here.”

  The kid hightails it out of my sight, and I collect the loose change from the earth. There wasn’t more than twenty bucks in the box, yet the kid was willing to take his chances for such a small amount. Probably had little choice.

  For a moment, I let the evening wind push fallen leaves against my feet, let my body and mind settle into New York soil. The constant sounds of city traffic, the mixed aromas of ethnic eateries…it all funnels into faded memories of my youth, enlivening the forgotten shadows within my heart.

  Denise.

  I haven’t given much thought to visiting her, but now that I’ve let her name enter my consciousness, I have no choice but to acknowledge her existence. The last time I saw her was at my father’s funeral, and even then I paid little attention to the proximity of this woman.

  A buoyant plastic grocery bag slaps against my calf and alerts me to reality. As I unwrap the garbage from my leg, my cell phone rings and I focus on the present.

  “David.”

  “Angie,” Cain says in his age-worn voice. “Meet me at the men’s mission by St. Augustine’s. Have I got a body for you.”

  Chapter 2

  When the cabbie drops me off at the scene, Cain is standing outside the mission building with Detective Severo, who’s talking to a middle-aged woman. I wasn’t expecting to see him, and now that I do I’m curious as to why he’s here.

  “Nice Thanksgiving?” he asks as I step up to the curb outside the mission.

  I shrug my shoulders, not interested in small talk. “Fine,” I say. “Burned the turkey.” Regret for confessing my culinary taboo immediately follows. Severo doesn’t need to learn one of my flaws so easily, but it doesn’t seem to faze him much.

  “How ironic,” he says, then lifts his cardboard takeout box of stale-looking nachos, offering me a sample.

  Shaking my head, I step closer to Cain to see what’s going on.

  “Angie, thanks for getting over here quick. This is the housekeeper for the mission.” I note her fearful eyes, desperate for answers to which I myself have no idea of questions. “She was checking on one of the resident spiritual advisors when she found him…. Hell, I’ll let you have a look for yourself.”

  As I offer a meek smile to the lady, trying to provide comfort for something I don’t yet understand, I notice the many guests of the mission. People are lined up outside the building, food in their hands, protective of what is likely the best meal they’ve had all week—or longer.

  The building itself is plain and camouflaged with its unassuming exterior, only now it looks like a disco with the strobe lights of emergency vehicles dancing across its concrete exterior in the darkening night.

  We climb the narrow staircase to the upper level, and I take in the stink of kerosene mixed with something more potent.

  Burned human flesh.

  Inside the advisor’s room, dim in this evening light, I see the corpse propped upright in a wooden rocking chair.

  One thing doesn’t make sense. The room has no fire damage.

  “Matthias Killarney. Fifty-two. Caucasian. Dead.”

  The monotone of Cain’s voice signals the beginning of a long shift and I step closer to the body, interested to understand. A few investigators are rounding up forensic evidence and I’m careful not to step across their boundaries.

  “This is Severo’s deal,” Cain says to me as I lean closer to the man’s body, covering my nose and mouth with some gauze. “The detective and I were enjoying our own holiday feast of wings and nachos down at Dooly’s Pub when he got called on this one. He was kind enough to invite us over to check it out. You know, so you can get your feet good and stuck in the mud.”

  “How considerate,” I mumble, wondering how much Cain had to argue to convince the detective to extend that invitation. But I keep my focus on the crime scene.

  The man is sitting in a firm position, placed in the wooden chair as though he were a puppet. Rigor mortis has reached its full extent, making the victim’s posture as static and flexible as a brick. This condition can last anywhere from twelve to forty-eight hours, and may provide an estimated time of death for the crime scene unit and medical examiner.

  At first glance, the room appears calm and untouched by any intruder, but trace will undoubtedly disprove that naive impression.

 
; I step back from the body and pull the cloth from my face. Despite the stench, I need to breathe freely. “What do we know?”

  Detective Severo flips open his notepad and runs through the time of discovery and a few comments from resident workers. “But most important, albeit obvious, this guy was set up here on display. We don’t know where the actual crime took place yet, just that he was brought back to his home and propped up for someone to find. Excuse me a moment,” he says, and I watch as he meets up with some of his teammates for a discussion.

  Cain leads me back outside, letting Severo’s team do their job. “The medical examiner will provide clues as to the fire. Whether this guy died in a blaze or what.”

  “Why would someone go through all that trouble?” I lean on a tree and watch as the detective makes his way to meet us outside. I look from him to Cain, realizing in some ways the two men are complete opposites, yet by some arguments they are one and the same.

  Cain’s hunched body, beaten with years and the streets, is deceiving. His appearance may be worn, but the profiler is like wine, only getting better with age. His exterior belies the solid, analytical man inside. His reputation alone…well, it’s enough to make a rookie agent like me drool with envy.

  Though Severo is much younger, Cain obviously has respect for him, so there must be worlds of experience beyond his facade.

  Cain lights up a cigarette and peers at me with narrowed eyes. “You’d be surprised, kid. And that’s for you to figure out, my little profiler in training.”

  “But burning this man, and then bringing him back here—especially seeing how this is a busy place this time of year—it’s like he wanted to make a point. Why not just leave him at the original scene?” As I speak aloud, I find myself running the events through my mind, trying to make sense of them.

  “The housekeeper says the last time anyone saw Killarney was yesterday afternoon. Wednesday,” Severo interjects. “But anything could have happened overnight, when only resident staff are around and likely asleep. But, yeah, seems risky.”