The Profiler Page 5

  “Hey, it has to be hard. But bad shit happens to good people all the time. Part of the job. I know that doesn’t make it any easier, but hey, my condolences. No wonder you’re so feisty. You got some big shoes to fill.”

  Cain enters the room, so I pull my energy back to focusing on this case. I do have a lot to live up to, with my father’s reputation, but it’s Marcus Cain who’s going to be there for me as I make the right moves to get into NCAVC.

  Cain looks at each of us. “I guess we’re up to our asses, uh?”

  Severo nods his head knowingly, but I have to ask for clarification. My mind has too much new information to deal with to keep up with subtleties.

  Cain leans on the table and explains. “The gardener’s kid? Yeah, he was up to something, all right. But nothing to do with the case.” He slides my files closer to him, glancing over the sparse paperwork. “Just a grower, is all. Planted pot in the garden where his pops wouldn’t blow his cover, but he was all freaked out when he saw us. Too doped up to know we weren’t DEA. Gotta feel bad for his pops, though. Didn’t know what the hell to think of it. Poor sap.”

  “He’s taken care of?” Severo asks, which I think is kind of sweet, being concerned for the unfortunate events the gardener had to go through today.

  “He’s gone. He’s just relieved his kid’s no murderer, ya know? Speaking of which, where we at?”

  Severo straightens in his chair and spreads out the files before us. “It’s all yours, Agent David.” He lays the photos across the table for viewing. “Cain wants you assessing something scandalous, so I guess this is your lucky day.”

  I peer at the remains of the scene, captured on film, then look to Severo, knowing this is his case. Cain warned me to be mindful of the turf war, so I have to ask. “You really don’t mind if I look?”

  “Knock yourself out. Captain Delaney doesn’t mind me sharing, and it’s all right by me. I’m going to call the lab and see if any results have come in to verify these two scenes match up.”

  As I watch the detective pass through the door, Cain fills me in on the process. “Severo’s got them looking at the bits of stone found on the body, to make sure it does come from the crematorium. It doesn’t look like we’ll get much other trace from that scene, which tells us what, kiddo?”

  “The doer knew what he was doing.”

  “Right. Which doesn’t always make it easy, but it most certainly makes it interesting,” he says, before slurping coffee from his mug. Cain dabs at his chin with his cuffed sleeve and then glances at me. “You hurt?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “From that little chase out there with the gardener’s kid. You got a bit of a bruise coming through,” he says softly, placing the edge of his thumb against my chin, right where the kid landed an uppercut. “You know Severo was only trying to do right, out there. Don’t be mad he tried to save your ass.”

  “Yeah, I know. I’m fine.”

  “Like I said, you can’t be making enemies around here, so lighten up a little and try to warm up to the detective. He’s a good guy with a good heart. He may seem like a horse’s ass some days, but he’s a team player. Give him a chance, Angie.”

  “I’ll do my best,” I say, taking in my first scolding.

  “I hope so. Now, tell me what you see.” Cain pushes aside his mug, making room to spread out the crime scene photos.

  Inspecting them closely, I try to look beyond the obvious and open my mind to discovery. I realize Cain wants me to find my own way, which I appreciate. It’s nice to have the opportunity to work with a reputable profiler, but it’s even better when that person really accepts his position as mentor and doesn’t incessantly impose his own theories. Guess I got lucky being matched up with Cain.

  “Come on,” he urges, tapping the photos. “What does Killarney’s body tell you?”

  I edge off of my seat to get closer to Cain as we review the black-and-whites. “He’s burned.”

  “Look harder.”

  Cain slides a close-up of Matthias Killarney directly in front of me. I take in the details and am a little surprised. “His foot. It kind of looks like a stab wound.”

  “Now what would Killarney be doing with a stab wound?”

  In the center of the victim’s right foot is a delicate slice, easily made by a pocketknife or other small weapon. It’s barely noticeable in the photo, but definitely strange.

  “The killer messed up?”

  “Are you asking me or telling me?” Cain retorts.

  “I’m not sure,” I say, which is true. It seems strange that the killer would make a superficial cut on the victim’s foot. If he was burning the man to death, why bother?

  As I get up to circle the table and walk through my thoughts, I see Severo outside the doorway, hanging up from his telephone conversation. He catches my stare when he enters the room, but Cain speaks before he does. “Well?”

  The detective crosses his arms across his chest, looking to me first, then smiling at Cain. “They’re still working on the bulk of things, but it looks like we’ll have an ID.”

  “On the killer?” I ask, intrigued to peg our man.

  “They pulled two sets of prints from the crematorium. My guess is when the killer was roasting our victim, he got caught in the flames and lost a little flesh of his own.”

  Cain gets up to stretch out his muscles. “Good job. Did AFIS bring anything up?” I look to him, knowing I should recognize the acronym, but he quickly clarifies. “Automated Fingerprint Identification System.”

  “They’re running the prints now,” Severo says, topping up his stale office coffee. “If this guy’s got priors, we’ll get a name, address and anything else you want to know about him. Just one thing we need to figure out though… Why?”

  Cain wraps an arm around my shoulders, grinning. “And that’s where you come in, my dear protégée. Welcome to the land of profiling.”

  Chapter 4

  Cain and Severo have gone to check on the AFIS results, so I take the opportunity to do what any self-respecting agent would do—spy on the competitor’s turf.

  Severo’s desk is a mishmash of unruly paperwork, discarded fast-food containers and personal effects. I was hoping his work space would reveal more of his personality, and I can’t say I’m disappointed.

  A couple of coworkers nod at me, acknowledging my trespass into the apparent boys’ club. I think one even puckers his lips in a chauvinistic display, but I just nod and say “How’s it goin’?” before turning my back to their curiosity.

  The beaten, old oak desk is layered with all the official stuff, but right now I’m more interested in the quirky photos, gadgets and stress relievers. As I lay a finger on the head of a windup toy chicken, it begins to peck with every stunted step of its mechanism. When its progress is halted by a glitter-trimmed picture frame, I lift the image to inspect it further.

  The wooden square is decorated as though it’s made for a child, but when I look into the young girl’s eyes, I wonder if it was simply made by her, for Severo. A daughter? A friend? A friend’s daughter? No identifying marks lead to an answer.

  There’s a stack of CDs on the corner of Severo’s desk, yet I don’t recognize any of the artists’ names. Sea of Is. My Dad vs Yours. Mike O’Neill. Who are these bands? They’re certainly not the tunes I was raised with.

  My father found his passion with jazz and blues. Sunday breakfasts of sausage and eggs, when we would linger over the city stories found in newspapers, were accompanied by old records by Louis Armstrong, Thelonious Monk and Muddy Waters. Heck, Dad even named our dog after his favorite. It seemed to suit the bloodhound perfectly.

  My memories are set aside as I inspect a group photo that undoubtedly provides pleasant memories for the detective. The group of men, all in casual attire, sit around a table with half-full glasses in what is apparently a neighborhood pub. Third from the left is Severo, giving a slightly inebriated grin to the camera. They all seem a little happy and under the influence, if you ask
me.

  “You won’t find a better group of guys,” Severo says, startling me as he approaches, before eyeing the surrounding onlookers. “Unlike this crew. Don’t you guys have work to do?”

  Content with his boyish authority, Severo sidles up beside me, putting a finger to the glossy image as he begins to name the strangers. When his finger stops at the last man, he says, “And that there, well, that’s our friend Cain.”

  I peer at the slightly younger version of my mentor and can’t help but gawk. “Really? God, he’s so…happy.”

  “It was a good day. We’d just cracked a very large case, and that night we all went out to celebrate. But I gather you figured out the celebration part.”

  Pushing a few unorganized stacks of files out of the way, I take a seat on the edge of his desk. “Now, this may seem like a dumb question, but I have to ask. How is it you and Cain work together so much? If I believed everything I saw on TV, I’d say the PD and the FBI don’t always get along so well as the two of you. What gives?”

  “The Violent Crime Task Force,” he explains, flopping into a tattered chair identical to all others in this office. “The task force brings together some of the PD, a few feds, a sprinkle of DEA…a little bit of every law enforcement agency. It’s the state’s way of combating serious crime, in a very serious way. It’s actually how I met Cain.”

  “So that explains why you feel so at home in the Plaza?”

  “Yeah, you could say that. I get a few extra privileges, like being able to use the gym and some of the resources. Now how about you. Why’d you hook up with Cain?”

  “He’s the best,” I state matter-of-factly. “He knows my history, my style. If it weren’t for him, I might still be stuck in the Virginia office. But Cain agreed to be my mentor, and when the paperwork for my requested Hardship Transfer was approved, well, the rest is history.”

  “Hardship what?”

  “The FBI has a bit more compassion than you might think, Detective. If an agent has a sick parent, or family emergency,” I say, tapping the windup chicken for kicks, “they can transfer to an office closer to home, wherever that may be.”

  “So after your father died…”

  “I wasn’t officially an agent yet. But once I made it through training, I immediately asked to come to New York. No offense to Virginia, of course.”

  “Of course.” Severo’s breathy chuckle stirs the stale office air, and his intense eyes focus on mine for a moment. His irises are like liquid dark chocolate, glimmering, yet slowly cooling into an even darker center.

  As Cain approaches us, Severo’s warmth disappears as though a switch has been flicked. For the life of me, I can’t put a finger on him. I wouldn’t go so far as to say he’s complex, but he certainly seems to have a few crossed wires. One minute he’s mouthing off and shooting his gun at the sky, the next he’s quiet and contemplative. I can’t figure it out, but I guess we all have multiple dimensions to our personalities.

  Standing in front of us now, Cain unpleasantly scratches his chest, letting an unruly hair or two peep through the cotton of his shirt. “It’s for certain,” he acknowledges, hands in his pockets as he teeters back and forth, rolling on the balls of his feet. “AFIS positively identified the mystery man from the crematorium. We got fingerprints, evidence, so now we go knock down our fire starter’s door. Jean something or other.”

  “Forensics find anything else at the men’s mission?”

  “Nope. That place was clean as a baby’s ass. We’re dealing with someone who knows his stuff, gentlemen.” My glance at Cain does little to shake him. I guess anyone with a badge is a man to him, so I let it slide.

  The three of us gather our gear and head off to the identified address. I hop in with Cain, as usual, and I watch as the detective takes the lead in a sporty Jeep Liberty.

  “What’s the suspect’s name? You said it was Jean?”

  Keeping his left hand on the wheel, Cain slides some files to me and I sort through the findings. Jean La Roche.

  “I gotta hand it to you, kiddo. Yeah, you got a long way to go for NCAVC, but you’re doing all right. I imagine it’s overwhelming to get back into the city and dive right in, but it’s looking like I made a good choice.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate it, you know. Virginia was fine, and I’m sure I would have done okay there, but it was important that I come back here and be with my uncle.”

  “You all settled in?”

  I grimace wryly as I look to my mentor. “Um, no? Let’s just say there’s lots to be done before I can have any company over. Between unpacking and figuring out what to do with some of my dad’s old stuff, and me reuniting with Muddy…oh shit!”

  “What?”

  Fumbling for my cell phone, I gasp as I fiercely enter the digits. “Mrs. Schaeffer? Hi, it’s Angie again,” I say, and then cover the mouthpiece to explain to Cain, “I have to ask my neighbor to check on my dog.”

  Returning to Mrs. Schaeffer, I ask for the favor. “I’m real sorry to do this again, but it seems I’m going to be a while. Still. Again. I dunno. Would you mind—”

  “Sure, sure, Angela. He’s actually still with me, you know. Sleeping at the foot of my bed, if you can imagine,” she says, happy to oblige.

  “Yes, I can definitely imagine that. Thanks so much, again. I really do appreciate it.”

  Mrs. Schaeffer has been our neighbor for as long as I can remember, and she was all too pleased to find out I was moving back into the old apartment, instead of selling it off after my father died. We reside in a tiny, three apartment walk-up, with Mrs. Schaeffer living just below me on the second floor. It’s quaint and small, and if you don’t like your neighbor it can feel even smaller. But Mrs. Schaeffer, she’s fantastic.

  I didn’t realize it at the time, growing up, but I’m so lucky she’s always there. I love that dog about as much as my father did, and I hate that I am away from him so much. Once I get settled in, and between hot cases, it may not be so bad. In the meantime, though, she’s really coming to the rescue for me. Well, for Muddy, too.

  “You gave her a key?” Cain asks after I hang up.

  “Actually, my father did years ago. It’s tough being on the job and having a dog at home. But Mrs. Schaeffer loves Muddy and swears she looks forward to spending time with him.”

  Thoughts of my father push my gaze to the outside world passing us by. It’s a crisp day, and the sun has faded behind a collection of dense clouds. The evening streets are occupied with New Yorkers bundled up in sweaters and jackets, oblivious to the crimes occurring around them just one day after eating their turkey and stuffing.

  Sometimes I wish I felt how they do. Content to discover life through cafés and museums, rather than through corpses and trails of blood. But I’m like my father in more ways than one. I didn’t just get his genes, I also inherited his passion for wanting to understand the motivations behind people’s crimes.

  For the first time in what seems like days, I notice my appearance in the reflection of the side-view mirror. The sleepless hours have taken a toll and my skin has turned a muted color. Even my hazel eyes are looking a little foggy. I pull at my elastic hairpiece and tidy up the loose knot clinging low against my nape. With a few facial stretches, I try to bring some life back to my tired skin.

  Cain lowers his foot to gain more speed, and I press back in the seat for stability. He takes corners as if the car’s on rails. I know we’re on our way to take someone down, but sometimes I have to question Cain’s driving skills.

  As we round a corner, the little keepsake picture frame dangling from Cain’s rearview mirror sways violently. I hadn’t really paid much attention to it before, but now that its swift movement has caught my eye, I have to ask.

  “Who are they?”

  “Ugh, well…they’re my kids.”

  “What?” I take a good look at them, then twist in my seat to gaze at him full on as I analyze my mentor and this unexpected statement. “I didn’t know you have kids.”

>   Cain reaches a hand to steady the swaying photo, and clears his throat before smiling with pride. “Gregory is eleven and Gracie’s nine. Good kids.”

  “Wow. I had no idea you were married.”

  “Were is right, kiddo. Got divorced nine years ago, one month after Gracie was born, in fact.”

  “I’m shocked.” This is an understatement. I had no idea Cain had a family, as he hasn’t brought them up in conversation this past week. During our telephone interview, Cain asked most of the questions, and though I had no reason to assume one way or the other, I just figured he must be a bachelor with the way he carries on. “What happened?”

  Cain lights up a smoke and drags on it before rolling down his window a bit. “Shelley didn’t like my job. Well, she did at first, mind you, ’cause she thought it was so damn exciting. Sure enough, though, she grew to hate it. Every bit of it. That included hating me, of course.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “Said it wasn’t a suitable environment for raising kids. Maybe it was different in your home, what with you having an interest in it all, but Shelley hated me coming home to the kids after being out all night tracking down murderers and the like. Couldn’t deal with it anymore, I guess.”

  “Sorry to hear that.” Cain’s right. It was different in my home, and I can’t imagine growing up in any other environment. My father’s livelihood was what drove him, pushed him to succeed in all other areas of his life, and I had utter respect for what he did out there on the streets. Though, from time to time, I do hear stories of how hard it is for some families. “That’s sad. Do you see them? Your kids?”

  “Every other weekend. I’m up for a visit this Sunday, in fact. It’s not much, but I’ll take it. They’re off at some stuck-up preppy school learning how to be proper robots of society, and Shelley’s shacked up with some theater snob or something. But I visit the kids when I’m allowed.”

  “She remarried?”

  Cain’s chuckle seems full of spite. “Hell, no. If she were to do that she wouldn’t be able to rake in all this child support and alimony she gets from me. She’s living it up on the Upper West Side with that hoity-toity director fellow, and I’m the one footing the bills. Must be nice. No one sure as hell is gonna do that for me, kiddo.”