Killing Hour - Lisa Gardner [82]
In the basement, the elevator door opened to a wood-paneled lobby area, with corridors going off every which way. Here, visitors could sit on the leather sofa while admiring various posters advertising BSU projects. “Domestic Violence by Police Officers,” declared one, promoting an upcoming seminar. “Suicide and Law Enforcement,” said another. “Futuristics and Law Enforcement: The Millennium Conference,” advertised a third.
When Rainie had first met Quincy seven years ago, he’d been conducting research for the BSU. His project of choice—developing a schema for the effective profiling of juvenile mass murderers. Never let it be said that the BSU researchers were a bunch of lightweights.
And just in case someone thought the group was without a sense of humor, a new addition had been included in the lineup of agent photographs adorning the wall. Last photo in the middle row—a lovingly framed headshot of an extraterrestrial. Complete with a cone-shaped head and big black eyes. Really, it was the best-looking photo of the bunch.
Kaplan took off down the middle corridor and Rainie and Quincy followed in his wake.
“Miss it?” Rainie whispered in Quincy’s ear.
“Not in the least.”
“It’s never as dreary as I expect.”
“Wait until you’ve spent an entire week working without any natural light.”
“Whiner.”
“Be nice, or I’ll lock you in the bomb shelter.”
“Promises, promises,” Rainie murmured. Quincy squeezed her hand, the first contact he’d made with her all day.
From what Rainie could determine, the space down here was basically a large square, bisected by three rows of hallways sprouting narrow offices. Kaplan came to the last door of the middle row, knocked twice and a man promptly opened it as if he were expecting them. “Special Agent Kaplan?” he asked.
Rainie bit her lower lip just in time. Wow, she thought. A Quincy clone.
Dr. Ennunzio wore a trim-fitting navy blue suit with proper Republican-red tie. In his mid-forties, he had the lean build of an avid runner and the intense gaze of an academic who always took work home at night. His short-cropped hair was dark, but beginning to gray at the temples. His manner was direct, his expression slightly impatient, and Rainie already had a feeling he considered this meeting a waste of his very valuable time.
Kaplan made the introductions. Ennunzio shook Rainie’s hand briefly, but paused with genuine sincerity in front of Quincy. Apparently, he was familiar with the former agent’s work.
Rainie simply kept gazing from the linguist to Quincy, back to the linguist. Maybe it was an FBI hiring requirement, she thought. You must wear these suits and have eyes this intense to ride this ride. That could be.
Ennunzio gestured to his cramped office, much too small to hold four grown adults, then ushered them back down the hallway to an unused conference room.
“This used to be the director’s office,” he explained, his attention returning to Quincy. “Back in your day. Now it’s a conference room, while the bigwigs are across the way. It’s not so hard to find their new offices. Just follow all the posters for the Silence of the Lambs.”
“Everyone loves Hollywood,” Quincy murmured.
“Now then,” Ennunzio said, taking a seat and placing a manila folder in front of him, “you had questions about Special Agent McCormack from the GBI?”
“Yes,” Kaplan spoke up. “We understand you were supposed to meet with him.”
“Tuesday afternoon. It didn’t happen. I got held up at a conference in D.C., sponsored by the Forensic Linguistics Institute.”
“A conference for linguists,” Rainie muttered. “That had to be a blast.”
“Actually it was quite fascinating,” Ennunzio told her. “We had a special presentation on the anthrax envelopes sent to Senator Tom Daschle and Tom Brokaw. Were the envelopes sent by someone whose first language was English or Arabic? It’s an extremely interesting analysis.”
Rainie startled, intrigued in spite of herself. “Which one was it?”
“Almost certainly a native English speaker trying to impersonate