The Profiler Read online

  Before much silence has passed, Cain turns toward his car and motions for me to join him. “Come on, Angie. We’ll let the detective do his job here. And Severo—you know where to find us. If you don’t mind, once your CSU team cleans the place I’d like to give Angie here a chance to mull over the findings.”

  I slide into Cain’s passenger seat and look back at Severo, who peers at me suspiciously before walking back to the mission.

  “You know Detective Severo well?”

  As we drive along the dimly lit street, spotted with decorations in preparation for the holiday season, I try to look occupied with my seat belt so Cain doesn’t get any funny ideas as to my inquiry.

  “Severo? Shit, we’ve had our moments.”

  He pulls up to a street corner deli cart, hops out to retrieve two extra-large coffees, then shuffles back to his seat before starting out on the road. I hold the takeout cups as Cain slides his seat belt over his chest.

  “Ah, he’s a pain in the ass sometimes. His bark is worse than his growl, though, that’s for sure.” I hand Cain a steamy cup to balance while driving. “Thing is, kid, working in this city is like fighting for your corner of the playground, ya know? Everyone has their turf and no one likes sharing the dirt. You better get used to that, and quick, too. Best advice I can give you is don’t piss anyone off unless you have good reason.”

  “Nice,” I say, vowing to remember that bit of insider knowledge. Quantico was definitely competitive, but Cain is making NYC sound like a battlefield.

  “Don’t get me wrong, Angie. The guy knows his stuff and he’s a pro on the job, no argument there. He’s a good guy to let loose and sling back a few beers with, too.” Cain leans his head in my direction and briefly lifts his brows, then returns his focus to the road. “But his noggin… He got messed up by a dame and I think it’s got him all in a bunch, you know?”

  I nod and sip my coffee. Almost a week in his presence and the guy can’t remember that I take cream, so the black liquid is a little harsh to the palate. As I swish the beverage in my mouth, letting it cool before swallowing, I try to imagine Severo in a relationship. Just doesn’t seem to suit him.

  Maybe his hard-to-read exterior is just a front. Guess I won’t be playing poker with him anytime soon.

  “Yeah, he got dumped, all right,” Cain says, barely containing a tainted laugh. “She did a job on him, boy. Just a few days before the wedding, too.”

  The information jolts me, and I look to Cain for more.

  “Ah, hell, everyone knew it was over months before she ditched him. He was just too stubborn to give up that easy. She was a detective, too. A real good one, I might add.”

  Cain reacts momentarily as a bump in the road causes coffee to spill onto his sleeve. After he licks his wrist, he continues. “She was offered a promotion. Well, a transfer and a promotion. I guess it came down to choosing one or the other. No way in hell Severo was going to move his ass out of the city.”

  “So she took the job?”

  Cain hands me his cup as he parks the car in his designated spot outside 26 Federal Plaza, then takes it back from me before getting out of his seat. “Yup. The dumb schmuck was scrambling the week before the wedding to tell a hundred guests not to bother showing. Gotta love drama. I doubt he’s ever really gotten over it.”

  I slam the door shut with my butt, coffee in hand, and walk with Cain to the entrance. “He still loves her?” I’m smug to think he can retain feelings for someone who humiliated him days before saying “I don’t.”

  “Nah. I mean, I doubt he’s ever gotten over a dame leaving him for a job.” Cain stops at the double doors and looks at me, sort of surprised, and asks, “You mean, you haven’t noticed?”

  I shrug.

  “He’s got a chip on his shoulder about the whole thing. But he’s a dedicated sap, whether with women or on the job, so whatever makes him tick is apparently working. Unlucky in love, but a damn good detective. Schmuck.”

  I tail Cain’s echoing laughter through the white-walled halls of the New York FBI Field Office, ready to start in on our night of business. Cain has much to familiarize me with yet in the office I’ll be calling home for at least four years. It’s good to get the formalities over and done with so I know what to expect of my work environment…and of my coworkers.

  Though I still can’t shake the concept. Carson Severo hurt by love? Anything’s possible. I guess it explains his suspicious glances toward me. Maybe he thinks I’m one of the bad guys. Then again, I’ve never been all that skilled at being good.

  “Me llamo Denise. Tome asiento.”

  I keep my presence unknown, outside the reception window of the shelter, and listen to Denise welcome a new intake on this Friday morning. With only a few hours of sleep to my credit, curiosity couldn’t keep me away before heading into work for my next twelve-hour shift.

  The young Hispanic man takes a seat, as instructed, and allows the social worker to touch his shoulder. Despite my attitude toward her, I have to give Denise credit where it’s due. She’s mild mannered and truly attentive, giving strays and misfits comfort they can’t find on the streets. But just because I respect her doesn’t mean I have to accept her as a friend.

  Even though I’ve never really welcomed her into my life, I suppose I can understand why my father was so enamored of her. She’s a smart dresser and always smells like vanilla. Not like the simulated scents you can find at the perfume counters. More like Grandma’s kitchen vanilla.

  More important, at least to my father, would be Denise’s ability to find the good in almost anyone. Her motherly approach to dealing with strangers in need of help must have melted my father’s heart. I wasn’t so quick to embrace her, though.

  The newcomer catches my eye from inside the window, and Denise’s gaze naturally follows his. I’ve been made.

  The door swings open as I push through, and Denise offers a meek smile as she approaches.

  “Pase. Come in.” Her slender hand flows in the direction of an empty chair across from the man. I nod at him as I take a seat, and he asks Denise if I understand his language.

  A broad, almost proud smile crosses her lips as she says, “Sí, y también habla francés y portugués,” letting him know I also speak French and Portuguese. To name a few.

  I study his scarred face and he lowers his head. I don’t know this man’s misery, but he wears it full frontal.

  I wait until his eyes again meet mine and say, “Hola.” It seems to lessen his shyness.

  When I shake his hand, which he offers reluctantly, his skin is rough with calluses, and I feel for whatever unfortunate circumstance has brought him to this place.

  Denise suggests Miguel follow a shelter volunteer to the kitchen and get something to eat, and when he does, we are left alone in the pastel-painted room.

  “It’s nice to see you,” she says, retrieving a bottle of juice from the vending machine. “I half expected you would drop by, but I didn’t want to get my hopes up.”

  I remember the thief I sent her yesterday and am glad he took my advice. “Is he still here?”

  She nods her head but doesn’t elaborate. Maybe she thinks she needs to protect him from the law. It doesn’t matter. That’s not why I came.

  Now that I think of it, I’m not sure exactly why I bothered to stop in. I’d been carrying the shelter’s business card in my pocket since arriving back in NYC, but I can’t honestly say I planned on visiting Denise. Not this soon, anyway.

  At least I have to work later. I can use that as an excuse to leave anytime I want. But Denise senses my unease, and when she speaks it’s as though she’s encouraging one of her clients to open up hidden wounds. Her voice is coated with sweetness, but the concern is evident.

  “I see you have your badge now. Your father would be so pleased, Angela.” Her smiling eyes measure me for a response as she continues. “It’s hard to believe July is so far behind us now, isn’t it? That’s enough time to start healing. Or fester in pain. Which has
it been?”

  I don’t want to be treated like a street kid. Actually, I’m not sure what I want. There’s too much connection between the two of us to talk as strangers, yet this woman hardly knows me. And vice versa.

  My momentary lapse of nostalgia has faded. “Look, Denise. I just came here to… Well, I don’t know exactly why I came. I guess I wanted to see you were doing okay. And you are, so—”

  As I get up to leave, Denise rushes to my side and gently wraps a hand around my arm. My nose takes in a waft of her feminine fragrance as she softly begs, “Please don’t.”

  Sadness fills her brown-sugar eyes, and though I can relate, I don’t want to share my pain with her. Not yet. I need to allow my feelings to settle on their own, before I can open up to a woman I never really took to in the first place.

  I don’t sit, but I let my shoulders release some tension and I look her in the eyes. “I can’t. I’m not ready for this.”

  Her hands slip to her stomach, and she presses her palms to the tiny belly hidden under her sheath dress, emphasizing her emotions. “I miss him, too, Angie. But you have to let it go. You have to let him go.”

  She steps back, out of my immediate space, and looks me up and down as a mother would. Only she’s not my mother.

  “It was his job. His life,” she begins. “And he was shot during a terrible, terrible accident. It shouldn’t have happened. He didn’t deserve it. No one does. But you have to let him go, Angie. You saw the reports yourself. He died while out there doing what he loved best—fighting for justice. You have to accept it and get on with your life. It’s what he would have wanted for you.”

  They all make it sound so easy. Just accept his death and move on. I’m trying. Really, I am. There is nothing worse, however, than growing up to be just like my father only to have him miss out on everything he wanted to see me do.

  I face Denise and release the cold words. “I have to go.”

  “Wait!” she says desperately, grabbing hold of my hand. I pause, my patience running low, and stare blankly at her with little curiosity as to why she is dragging out my stay.

  “Please, Angel,” she begs, and I cringe when I hear the pet name. No one except my father called me Angel, and hearing it now, from Denise, is like being sucker-punched without warning.

  “I know you haven’t always accepted me as part of your father’s life. I don’t blame you. The two of you were inseparable, like twins who have their own language. Believe me, it was hard on me, too. The two of you had something most people could never understand, and I respected that. It’s what made you both so special.”

  It’s true. Growing up as I did in a single-parent home, the relationship I had with my father was unique and indescribable, the passions of both of us revolving around solving crimes and understanding the motives of those who commit them.

  “But you cannot remain chained to the past. I know you feel regret and sorrow for having to go back to your work, just as you need to feel guilty for leaving the city after Joshua’s death. You mustn’t, Angela. You must look toward your future now. It’s what your father would have wanted you to do. You must let your heart begin to heal.”

  She means well, I know. Every word she utters about my father, though, reminds me of all that I have lost. And I don’t need any more reminders. There are enough at home, on every street, with every breath I take.

  “Goodbye, Denise.” Her eyes moisten as I turn away, but I can’t stay here.

  They were involved for years. Her attachment to him is still clear, and the fact that she put up with me—the protective daughter—every step of the way…. But I’m just not ready to make friends with Denise. Accepting her condolences would mean accepting my father’s death, and I’m not yet ready to do that.

  As I exit the shelter, my cell phone vibrates against my hip and I’m surprised at the feeling. I must have leaned on it at some point, causing it to switch to an unobtrusive vibe.

  “Angie, I’ve been trying to reach you. Where ya at?”

  I peer at my watch and note I still have several hours before my shift officially starts. But apparently Cain enjoys shuffling the schedule. “I had an errand to run. What’s up?”

  Through the earpiece, I hear Cain exhale from a cigarette before he speaks. “I got something you’ll wanna see.”

  “All right, all right. Where are you?”

  Through his cursing and spitting sounds, I decode my destination. “Riverside and 112th? Why?”

  “Angie, you’re going to church.”

  Chapter 3

  I hail a cab to the curb, and just as I am about to open the back door, my hand meets that of a stranger.

  “Oh, sorry,” I say, looking at the man, whom I gather is also leaving the shelter where Denise works. His clothing, specifically a tattered bomber jacket with the hood pulled over his head, and old worker-style jeans, looks frumpy and worn, clearly aged from the streets.

  He quickly steps back to allow my entrance to the cab, and his slumped, limping body begins to walk away from me, the fabric of his jacket pocketing air with the wind that recently picked up. With December just around the corner, the city streets are no place to wander, and I get the feeling this man spends more time in alleyways than indoors.

  “Hey, mister?” I call after him, my hand keeping the cab door open. “You take this one. It’s okay.”

  He pivots slightly, taking his time to evaluate my offer, and I think of Cain awaiting my arrival. “Or better yet, we can share it on my dime. I’m going to Riverside and 112th. Does that work for you?”

  I watch as he stands there, obviously debating my offer, and then gradually accepting it by walking toward me. I know the city is no place to pick up strangers, and maybe I shouldn’t have offered. But my father taught me to accept people regardless of their position in life, and to not hold prejudice against those who are less fortunate than others.

  Over the years, I’ve developed a soft spot for the homeless, poor and needy. This city, despite its magnitude, can be lonely for most of us, even on a good day, with countless strange faces walking by and in and out of our lives. For those with little hope, it must be so much worse.

  I give the driver my directions and twist in my seat to face my fellow passenger, who smells faintly of cheap cologne and musty newspapers.

  “Just tell him where you need to stop,” I say, and his hooded head nods, acknowledging me without meeting my glance. Peeking out from the fabric are loose curls, mousy-brown hair long and matted, the streaks of gray evidence of his tired age. Some mystery is concealed by his bundled clothing, but it’s not my business to ask.

  “I can’t believe winter is just about here.” My small talk may not offer much to this man, but at least it’s keeping the quiet between us from turning into discomfort. “I just got back to the city after spending some time in Virginia. I forgot how cold it gets.” Only a few states away, it’s amazing what difference a few degrees makes once winter kicks in.

  Thankfully, the stranger’s hands are covered with woolly gloves, keeping his fingers protected against the weather. Today is bitterly cold, and though the sun shines on deceivingly, it wouldn’t take much to lose body heat out in the wind. I can’t imagine spending my days without the shelter of a warm home or even the comforts of a café.

  My thoughts prompt me to reach into my wallet and hand this man a voucher for a free beverage at a coffee shop in my neighborhood. I doubt he ever hangs out in Chelsea, but who am I to judge? Maybe it’ll add some warmth to his life, even if just for a few minutes.

  His gloved hands wrap around the voucher, his covered fingers momentarily grazing mine, and he nods again. I have to wonder if he’s shy and reserved, mute, or simply doesn’t want to speak with me. But he shoves the coupon into the ragged pocket of his jeans and I have to leave the rest up to him.

  Dialing some digits into my cell phone, I spare this stranger from any more useless chatter as I wait for my next-door neighbor to answer the phone. “Hey, Mrs. Schaeffer
, it’s Angie,” I say when the widow answers. “Looks like I’m starting work earlier than expected, so I was wondering if you’d be able to check on Muddy later this afternoon?”

  “Sure, sure. That’s fine, Angela. He’s about due for a visit with me.”

  Her friendly voice brings a smile to my face, and I’m glad I can depend on her, knowing Muddy has a friend to walk his old bones around the neighborhood block. After all, it was she who took care of Muddy during the months between my father’s death and my return to New York. Said she liked the company in my father’s absence.

  “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

  We say goodbye and I tuck my cell phone back into its cradle against my hip.

  “This is good here,” I say to the cabbie, seeing our approach to the cathedral across the street. I hand the driver twice as much as I need to.

  “Drop him wherever he wants to go,” I say, trying to make eye contact with the stranger, to no avail. He modestly turns his head a little to the left, away from me, so I simply wish him well. “Stay warm.”

  Before I shut the door, however, the man leans across the back seat, reaching to give me something. His cupped hand contains a wooden rosary, but I shake my head at him. “Oh, no, thank you. But I’m not actually going to church.”

  He persists, shoving his cupped hand toward me, and I don’t want to be rude so I take the beads from him. “Thank you.”

  I watch as the cab peels off from the corner with the strange man sitting in the back seat, and I slip the wooden beads into my coat pocket, not knowing what I’ll ever do with them. Hailing Mary just ain’t my style.

  As I cross the street, I spot Detective Severo standing tall atop a hill that acts as a gateway to the historic place of worship. Despite his angelic smile, he looks more like a devil with those dark tinted shades.

  “This way, Agent.”

  I follow his lead across the brown grass of the cathedral yard, pushing thoughts of Denise out of my head. Maybe it was too soon to visit her, though I’m glad I at least got it out of the way. My duty, as the daughter of the man she loved, is now fulfilled. There will be no need to visit her again anytime soon.