Blood of Eden Read online

  When my alarm went off at six-thirty, my eyelids felt like they were swollen. My eyeballs were scratchy, like they’d been plucked out, rolled in sand, and stuffed back into my sockets. My head was foggy. I needed another hour of sleep, and after that, caffeine. Lots of it.

  Katie had already left for class by the time I dragged my weary self off the couch at seven-thirty. I put the side table back where it belonged and hauled Mom’s invention to the coat closet—it weighed a freaking ton. I shoved it as far back as I could so she’d be less likely to mess with it. I rubbed my eyes as I padded barefoot into the kitchen, rummaged in the back of the cabinet for the instant coffee, and lit the gas stove to boil some water.

  Mom joined me just as I was guzzling my second cup. I set a clean mug on the counter and motioned to the hot kettle. “Water’s hot. Help yourself. I need to get going.” Over my shoulder, I motioned to the cupboard. “For lunch, you can cook some noodles. Add boiling water, let them sit for three minutes, and you’re good to go. I’ll call the office a little later and find out how long we’ll be living like Neanderthals.”

  “Thanks, honey. Again, I’m sorry about the accident.”

  Twisting, I gave my mother a wilted semismile over my shoulder. I swear, if I didn’t love that woman as much as I did, I’d have gone ballistic on her ages ago. But I did love her, and I couldn’t be cruel to her. No matter how much trouble she caused. “Promise me, you’ll keep your word from now on. No powering up your inventions until I’ve tested them.”

  Mom smacked her right hand over her heart. “I swear I won’t get anywhere near a wall outlet until you tell me it’s safe.”

  I headed into the shower, wondering how long she’d keep her word this time.

  The big red numbers on the digital clock hanging on the conference room wall read twenty-five hours, fifty-nine minutes, and thirty-three seconds, and it was counting backward. To what deadline, I had no clue yet. But it was safe to assume it wasn’t counting down the hours till the season finale of The Bachelor or the premiere of the next Twilight movie.

  I wasn’t the last to hurry into the conference room for our morning meeting. That made me feel a little better. Chief Peyton, the only member of the team who wasn’t waiting in the conference room, was in her office, on her phone. But I knew I had to have been the last to arrive at the unit, thanks to a side trip to my apartment complex’s office.

  Good news: the official “cause” was faulty wiring—I wasn’t about to argue, especially with my bank account balance approaching zero.

  The bad news: no power for another day or two.

  JT gave me a half grin as I settled into a chair. His dark, come-hither eyes said something I didn’t want to try to interpret right now. So, to avoid thinking too much about how charming he looked this morning, I busied myself, setting up my Netbook, gathering a pen and notebook to jot notes, and sneaking bits of a stale granola bar into my mouth. I’d forgotten about putting that in my purse a couple of months ago, thank goodness.

  The chief rushed in just as I swallowed the last mouthful of chocolate and granola. She pointed at the clock and announced, “This is how much time we have until the next victim dies.”

  It was all very Hollywood.

  Absolutely, I was extremely skeptical about this whole thing. Who wouldn’t be?

  Granted, because I’d dragged in much later than everyone else, I had to assume I didn’t know everything the other members of the team did. In my book, the deaths were strange, perhaps a little fishy, but hardly clear-cut murders.

  “This is what we have so far.” Chief Peyton clicked her laptop’s mouse and an image displayed on the white wall behind her.

  Nifty. PowerPoint.

  The chief pointed at the picture of the Baltimore victim. “Jane Doe Two. Approximate age, thirty-five. She collapsed a few minutes before ten yesterday morning in Baltimore, within walking distance of a hospital. Cause of death, complications of malaria.” She clicked the mouse again, and this time, an image of the woman from the morgue we’d visited yesterday displayed. “Hannah Grant. Collapsed and died outside of a coffee shop in Frederick, exactly forty-eight hours before Jane Doe Two. Age, thirty-one. COD, complications of typhoid fever.” She clicked the mouse a third time, and another photo appeared. It was of a dead woman who looked a great deal like the first two. “And this is the unsub’s first victim, Jane Doe One. Age, early thirties. Collapsed and died outside of a fabric store in Arlington, exactly forty-eight hours before Hannah Grant. COD, complications of dengue hemorrhagic fever. That’s three women, very close in age and appearance, all with identical bite marks on their necks. Each died within forty-eight hours of the previous from an infectious tropical disease. The one victim who has been identified has not traveled outside of the United States, and thus the mode of infection is unknown. Also, she didn’t seek medical care because, according to family members and coworkers, she didn’t show any symptoms prior to her collapse.”

  Okay, when Chief Peyton put it like that, I had to admit there did seem to be something going on here. But I still felt we weren’t the right team to solve this case. It sounded more like some kind of epidemic.

  I raised my hand, gaining the chief’s attention. At her nod, I asked, “Wouldn’t it be wise to turn this case over to the Centers for Disease Control, since the victims died from infectious diseases?”

  Chief Peyton nodded. “I’ve sent the case files, including each victim’s full medical reports, to my contact at the CDC. But at this point, I’m not ready to drop our investigation. The CDC will tackle it from its angle, and we’ll continue from ours.”

  Having two federal agencies investigating the same case seemed like a waste of resources to me, but who was I to judge? I was, after all, nothing but a lowly summer intern. I supposed the chief wasn’t too eager to hand off the unit’s first case, because that might prove the unit wasn’t really necessary.

  And where would that leave us?

  Out of a job, that was where.

  “Sounds good to me.” I glanced down at my notes, trying to figure out what we might do next. I had no idea. Since learning I’d be working for the FBI this summer, I’d watched every cop/FBI/PI show on TV. Those television cops/agents/ private investigators made it look so freaking easy.

  “We’re going to work this case like it’s a serial murder. Which means we need to find the connection between the three victims,” Chief Peyton said. “We’ll start with victimol-ogy. Why did these three women die? I’m going to split up the team.” She pointed at me and JT. “Skye, JT, I want you to take the Arlington victim.”

  I glanced at JT. His gaze met mine, and something sparkled in his eyes. I felt my cheeks warm. I hoped they weren’t Day-Glo red. “Yes, Chief.”

  “Fischer, I know you have your hands full, reviewing other cases for the unit. But we need your help with this. I’d like you to take the Baltimore victim. I’ll take the second, Hannah Grant. Hough’ll stay here and lend support.” Chief Peyton stood. “I want to know everything about those three women. Where they work and live, what they eat for breakfast. Who their friends and enemies are. Everything.” After a beat, she smiled. “Good luck.”

  Orders assigned. Of course, I was paired off with the one man I shouldn’t be left alone with.

  “So ...” I fell into step beside JT as we strolled out of the room. When he stepped around a trash can, my shoulder bumped his arm. Another rush of heat blasted to my face. It was pathetic. I was pathetic. I hoped he didn’t notice. “Where do we start? We have a corpse with no identification on it. How will we figure out who she is, let alone what she eats for breakfast?”

  “By now, she must have been reported missing. We’ll begin by looking into new missing persons reports.” Instead of going to his desk, JT turned toward a doorway I hadn’t noticed before.

  Inside. Nirvana! The IT nerd jackpot. The unit’s analyst Brittany had a wall full of monitors, all displaying something different. Being something of a computer geek myself, I was in
awe.

  “Hey, Hough,” JT said. “Can you give me a list of all new missing persons reports in Maryland, Virginia, and DC?”

  “Sure. On it.” Fingers flew across the keyboard to the sound of snapping gum. Several screens flickered and pictures blinked across the screen. Done with her rapid-fire commands, she spun around and smiled at JT, pushing a pair of hot pink framed glasses up a pert nose. “Couldn’t you give me something a little more challenging?”

  Not as young as I’d first thought she was, Brittany looked to be more my age than a teenager. It was her funky Forever 21 style that had thrown me off. I could take a few hints from her.

  “How about female, ages twenty-five to forty?” JT asked.

  “Done.” A couple of taps and the printer behind us whirred as it powered up to print out the report. “You’re in luck. There’s only five.”

  JT glanced over his shoulder at the printer. “Great. Now we just need photographs.”

  “Let me see what I can do.” Brittany’s fingers danced over the keyboard. A Facebook page popped up. “Here’s one of them, a Maryanne Levinstein.”

  Standing behind Brittany, I squinted at the screen. The crime scene photograph in the file wasn’t the best, so I had no idea if Maryanne Levinstein was our victim or not. I shook my head. “What do you think, JT?”

  “Hmm. Not sure yet. Can you check the profile for more pictures, Hough?”

  Brittany clicked the tab, but the photo section was blocked. “You have to be a friend to view them. Let me see what I can do... .” A second later, the folder opened, revealing over twenty images of the woman, smiling in every one of them. In some, she was posing with other women; in a few, with a man; and in a lot, she was with a couple of kids. It really hit home then that this woman, who might be dead now, had once been a mother, a wife, a sister, someone important to somebody. And those somebodies would hurt like I had when my father died.

  If she was our victim.

  This morning, I’d been skeptical and hadn’t taken the case as seriously as I should have. But these pictures made it more real to me.

  Unfortunately, even though I was taking the case much more seriously now, I felt useless. I wasn’t a hotshot FBI agent. My ridiculous IQ, my knowledge of foreign languages, psychology, mathematics, and science wasn’t doing me a damn thing. My head was full of useless facts like the incubation period of the GBV-C virus and how to speak in Ket. While Brittany and JT were actually working, I was standing there like a dork, being useless.

  “I don’t think Maryanne Levinstein’s our victim. But I’ll give the name to the lead detective and let him check it out.” JT swiped the printout off the printer’s tray and starred the name. Frowning, he read through the list. “We have Hannah Grant’s address. Hough, can you run these addresses, see if any of them are in the same area as Grant’s?”

  Brittany nodded. “Sure. Give me a minute.” A few more taps, and she had all five addresses plotted on the map, along with Grant’s, whose address was indicated by a little red virtual pushpin.

  JT pointed. “We should start with that one.” He pointed at the little yellow pointer closest to the red one. “Deborah Richardson.” He handed the list to me. “Let’s start by faxing this to the BPD.”

  “I’ll do it.” Heading for the door, I asked, “Are we going to wait until someone verifies the victim’s identity before we get in touch with the family?”

  “We have to wait.” JT nodded.”Unless we find something more concrete. But it won’t take long for the detective to check it out. In the meantime, we can do some work on this end.”

  “You’d be surprised how much dirt I can dig up on a person,” Brittany boasted, her smile stretching from ear to ear, her eyes flicking over to me. It made me wonder if she wasn’t talking about me, instead of our victims.

  Feeling slightly violated—and I wasn’t even sure if I should—I headed out of Brittany’s computer cave to fax the list of potential victims to the Baltimore detective. That menial task done, I headed back toward Brittany’s office. At the sound of her giggle, though, I stopped and peered in.

  JT was standing very close to Brittany, looking over her shoulder. Brittany was looking up, into his eyes; the smile that had been devious was now dazzling.

  It felt like somebody had kicked me in the gut.

  “Shit,” I muttered under my breath as I backed slowly from the door. There was no way I was walking in on that ... whatever it was.

  Instead, I went back to my desk. My Netbook had been cleared to use on the network, so I flipped it open and Google Mapped Deborah Richardson’s address, using Street View to get a good look at the house. While I knew Google Maps wasn’t always 100 percent correct in identifying the exact address, it was still worth checking. It wasn’t usually off by much. The building looked very ordinary: a typical middle-class vinyl-sided Colonial on a typical street. The backyard was adjacent to a large park. Nothing suspicious there. Next I mapped Hannah Grant’s residence, also—assuming Google was correct—a suburban home. The brick-and-vinyl Colonial was also located very close to a park—this one with a playground, outdoor skating rink, and nature trails.

  Could I have found something?

  When JT finally emerged from Brittany’s office, I waved him over.

  “I was wondering what happened to you,” he said, leaning a hip against my cubicle wall. He dropped his notebook on my desk.

  Hoping I was hiding my uneasiness, I motioned toward my computer screen. “I was making myself useful while you were busy... . Er ... I found something.”

  “Yeah? So did we. You first.” He set a flattened hand on my desktop and leaned over my shoulder, just like he had with Brittany. I decided it was annoying.

  I shifted slightly to the left, away from him, even though there were a few bits of my anatomy that liked being in close proximity to some of his. Those parts weren’t the most intelligent. “If Deborah Richardson is one of our victims, and Google mapped their homes correctly, two out of three victims live in homes with lots that are adjacent to a park,” I told him, pointing at the map displayed on my computer’s eight-inch screen.

  “Really?” His brows rose as a look of surprise spread over the face I was trying hard not to admire. Evidently, he hadn’t uncovered the same fact I had. “We found out Deborah Richardson works less than half a block from where our Jane Doe collapsed. She’s a secretary for a church. I’m confident enough that she’s our victim. I’m not waiting for confirmation. Let’s head out.”

  There can be no good without evil.

  —Russian Proverb

  5

  Have you ever been really bothered by something, and then been disturbed by the fact that it bothered you in the first place? This wasn’t a first for me, but it was the most frustrating time. And annoying. And irritating.

  When I closed my eyes, I saw in my head Brittany’s big, girly grin. It made me grit my teeth. The fact that it bothered me so much made me even madder. Thus, I probably wasn’t the best company during the drive to Deborah Richardson’s hometown. I had no idea if JT noticed or not. He didn’t say anything.

  By the time JT’s car rolled up the Richardsons’ driveway, I didn’t need to know the lead detective had called JT to confirm her identity. The cars parked out in front of the house told the whole story.

  JT parked. We hurried up to the house.

  Inside, we found a tired man in his midthirties with a pale face, made paler by bloodshot eyes. He was talking to a detective, arms crossed over his chest.

  “Agent Jordan Thomas and Sloan Skye,” JT said to the detective.

  The detective nodded. “Agent?”

  “FBI,” JT explained.

  “Agent Thomas, this is Trey Chapman,” the detective said. “And I’m Detective McRoy.”

  JT offered a hand to McRoy first, then Chapman. “Sir, we’re very sorry for your loss.”

  The man blinked. His lips quirked. Not in a smile, but in a grimace. He sniffled. “Thank you. This is all such a shoc
k.”

  “I’m sure it is.” I offered him my hand next, and he accepted it, giving it a firm shake.

  JT pulled his notebook from his pocket. “We’re going to do our best to find out what happened to your ... ?”

  “Fiancée,” Chapman finished. “We’ve been engaged for over two years.” He sighed, shoved his hands through his hair, and mumbled something under his breath.

  I didn’t catch what he’d said. Sure wish I had.

  McRoy checked his phone. “I’ve gotta take this call. I’ll be in touch, Mr. Chapman, as soon as I have any more information.”

  “Thank you, Detective.” Chapman turned to JT. “I don’t understand. Why all the fuss? FBI? Debbie got sick and she ... and she died. There’s no crime to solve.... Is there?”

  “We’re not saying there is, sir. We’re just checking out some information that may or may not be related to your fiancée’s death.”

  “What information?” Chapman crossed his arms over his chest.

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you that.” JT flipped to a fresh page in his notebook. “Would you mind answering a few questions for us?”

  “I ... don’t know. Do I need a lawyer?” He looked at me, as if I would tell him whether he was under any kind of suspicion or not. What was I supposed to say?

  “You don’t have to answer any question you’re not comfortable with,” I told him. That, I figured, was a safe answer.

  Chapman gave me another look, then nodded. “Okay.”

  I glanced around the living room. “Do you mind if I take a look around the house while you’re talking to Agent Thomas? See if I can find anything that might tell us how your fiancée became ill?”

  He scowled. “I—I guess that would be okay.”

  I gave him a reassuring smile. “Thank you.”

  Now what? I had permission to search the house, and I had no freaking idea what I was looking for. Because my time was limited—I couldn’t wander around all day—I headed upstairs to the victim’s bedroom first, thinking I’d start in one of the most private parts of her home.