Violets Are Blue - James Patterson [21]
I did believe in the weird and horrible things people could sometimes do to one another: savage bites, sadistic hangings, draining blood out of bodies, attack tigers. For once, I couldn’t begin to imagine what the killers might be like. I couldn’t profile them. Neither could the FBI’s behavioral science unit. Kyle Craig had admitted as much to me. That was one reason he was out here himself. Kyle was stumped too. There was no precedent for this string of murders.
Jamilla appeared at my desk around quarter to eight. She had been working down the hall. She had a very pretty face, but tonight she just looked tired. There is a simple fact of life about police work. Adrenaline gets flowing during bad cases. It makes everybody’s feelings more intense. Attractions grow and can cause unanticipated problems. I had been there before, and maybe so had Jamilla. She acted like it. Maybe that was why we were a little tentative around each other.
She leaned over my desk, and I could smell a light cologne. “I have to go back to San Francisco, Alex. I’m heading out to the airport now. I left beaucoup notes for you and Kyle on some of the files I was able to get through. I’ll tell you what, though: It doesn’t seem, to me, that all the murders were committed by the same killers. That’s my contribution for today.”
“Why do you say that?” I asked. Actually, I’d had the same feeling. Nothing to substantiate it, though. Just a gut reaction to the evidence we had gathered so far.
Jamilla rubbed the bridge of her nose, then she wrinkled it some. Her mannerisms were funny and made me smile. “The patterns keep changing. Especially if you look at the most recent murders versus the ones from a year or two ago. In the earlier murders the killers were methodical, very careful. The last couple of murders are slapdash, Alex. More violent too.”
“I don’t disagree. I’ll look at all the files carefully. So will Kyle and his folks at Quantico. Anything else bothering you?” I asked.
She thought about it. “A strange crime was reported this morning. Might be something. Funeral home in Woodland Hills. Somebody broke in, ravaged one of the bodies. Could be a copycat. I left the file for you. Anyway, I have to run if I want to catch the next shuttle. . . . You’ll keep in touch?”
“Of course I will. Absolutely. You’re not getting off the hook this easily.”
She waved once, and then she was gone down the hallway.
I hated to see her leave.
Jam.
Chapter 25
TEN MINUTES after Jamilla left to catch her plane back to San Francisco, Kyle appeared at my desk. He looked like a rumpled, tweedy forty-something professor who had just emerged from his library carrel after days of researching a scholarly piece for a criminal justice journal.
“You crack the code?” I asked him. “If you did, can I get a flight out of here tonight? I’m catching hell at home for being out here.”
“I didn’t crack a goddamn thing,” he complained. Then he yawned. “My head feels a little cracked. Like there’s a slow leak or something.” He rubbed his knuckles back and forth against his skull.
“You believe in new age vampires yet?” I asked. “Role players?”
He gave me one of his crooked little half smiles. “Oh, I always believed in vampires. Ever since I was a boy in Virginia and then North Carolina. Vampires, ghosts, zombies, other diabolical creatures of the night. Southerners believe in such things. It’s our Gothic heritage, I suppose. Actually, ghosts are more our specialty. I definitely believe in ghosts. I wish this were only a ghost story.”
“Maybe it is. I saw a ghost the other night. Her name was Mary Alice Richardson. These bastards hung and murdered her during one of their pleasure fests.”
Around nine, Kyle and I finally left the station house in Brentwood to get some grub and maybe a few beers. I was pleased to have some time with him. Bad thoughts were buzzing in my head: disconnected feelings, suspicions, and general paranoia about the case. And, of course, there was always the Mastermind to worry about.