The 7th Victim - Alan Jacobson [57]
He hurried there, the heat of the hunt making his neck sweaty. He was close, he could feel it. He turned left down an aisle and slammed into a bitch coming right at him. They’d both been moving at a good clip and were thrown back a bit. Her purse went flying and opened, scattering all sorts of shit across the aisle.
Her hands flew into the air, then came to rest on her sunken cheeks. “You okay?” she asked.
“I’m fine,” he said. You bitch-whore. Next time watch where you’re going. He forced a smile. “Guess we were both in a hurry.”
She bent down to collect her fallen items. He knelt, too, and they were nose to nose. Crows feet hidden below caked foundation, dirty blond hair. And her eyes: hollow, nearly lifeless. This one was dead already. She just didn’t know it. Definitely not the one. He had to disguise his lingering gaze, so he grabbed a lipstick, makeup case, and a pack of Wrigley’s off the floor. He handed them to her and she took them with cold hands and a crooked smile.
But then, a high-pitched voice: “Oh, here. Let me help.”
His head whipped to the right. Brunet twenty-something kneeling beside him, wire-rimmed glasses magnifying her golden tiger eyes. What incredible detail. He’d never seen so many swirling colors before. Golds and browns and tans with a hint of black. He couldn’t move. Yes, yes, yes. Pretty but evil. Like camouflage, you had to look carefully to find it. But once you saw it, it stood out like a green tomato.
You, you’re the one.
The brunet gathered up a handful of the remaining items and handed them to the blond-haired bitch, who held her purse open. “Thanks for your help, both of you.”
He fought back a smile and couldn’t help but think, No, no . . . thank you.
TWENTY-NINE MINUTES LATER, the tiger-eyed brunet came slinking out of the Food & More. He sat back and watched from about thirty yards away. She quickly loaded the groceries into the trunk and got into her car. He started his Audi and drove toward her, timing his arrival with her exit.
He’d taken a quick inventory of her before they’d parted company: a bare ring finger; a smattering of items in her cart: veggies, spices, herbal tea, fresh salmon. No beer or frozen pizza, steaks or pork chops. Not as foolproof as checking the house for large tennis shoes or men’s clothing, but he felt reasonably sure she did not have a male significant other waiting for her at home.
They left the parking lot together and headed home. Her home, where they’d soon be face-to-face. And eye-to-eye.
twenty-four
The drive to the Adult Detention Center was a long one, slowed by rush hour traffic. The deputy moved through the lines of cars using his overhead light bar whenever possible, but even driving the shoulders made the hour-long ride seem twice as long.
Vail kept her head turned away from the window, hoping no one she knew would see her. With her arms drawn back behind her shoulders, she had to sit forward in the seat—and after the first fifteen minutes, her hands had gone numb and her back ached something terrible. But her ego and emotions were in far worse shape. Humiliation was much too weak a word to describe how she felt: the anger, the embarrassment ran much deeper.
For a fleeting moment, she wondered how the arrest would affect her position with the Bureau. She had heard of agents getting into domestic disputes, but it hadn’t happened to anyone she knew or anyone who’d worked out of her field office, so she never learned the agents’ final disposition.
For a fleeting moment, she wondered how her unit would relate to her now. She’d always had difficulty fitting in, even with six years under her belt. Now, having been accused of assaulting her ex-husband, it would feed the stereotype every law enforcement professional had of a female agent: that she had to be buff and butch and aggressive to succeed. She wanted to think it wasn’t true, but another part of her conceded that to some extent, it might just be the case.
For a fleeting moment, she thought of putting a gun to Deacon’s head.
For a fleeting