matched and were in the system. She’d found a good groove. She’d had plenty of experience with the databases being a dead end.
She glanced at her watch-it was nearly midnight. She debated for the briefest of instances, then grabbed her keys. So she’d wake a few people up. Too bad. She was the one with the gun and the badge. She called Bob Parks to run the gauntlet with her; no way was she going to go knocking on doors at midnight alone. He’d recently been moved to the B-shift and was her overnight go-to guy. He was happy to join her; it was a quiet night for Nashville’s criminals and he had nothing cooking.
They hit the four houses closest to town; no one answered. Two of them had garages that could easily house a matching car with a matching license plate, so Parks check-marked them as a yes. She’d send someone out again tomorrow, in the daylight.
Two of the houses looked completely deserted; the addresses were most likely defunct. The DMV databases weren’t necessarily exact and current. They put a question mark next to those two names. The fifth and final address was out in her neck of the woods. They agreed to swing by this last address, and barring unforeseen issues, she would head home after and Parks would go back to prowling the streets.
She followed Parks down Highway 100, the moon lighting their path, careful to watch for deer. They loved to leap across this stretch of road. Close to the Davidson-Cheatham county line, this area was completely rural, quiet and dark.
They both missed the road where they needed to turn off, had to make a U-turn in the middle of nowhere. She pulled ahead of Parks and found the cross street on the second try. The house’s address was stenciled in white on only one side of the black metal mailbox. This was it. She pulled into a long, gravel driveway slowly, then exited her vehicle. Parks rolled in behind her, the lights of his cruiser blinding her for a moment. She shut her eyes, let them re-adjust to the night.
Nothing was happening here either, it seemed. The house was pitch-black, no movement, no lights. No white Prius.
They approached the door anyway, knocked twice. Nothing. Frustrated, they went back to their respective cars, boots crunching in the gravel.
“You givin’ up?” Parks asked.
She stretched, rubbing her fists in the small of her back. “Yeah. It’s late. I’ll send some patrols out here in the morning, try again.”
“You heard from Fitz?”
“No. Nothing.”
“I’m sure he’s fine. Don’t worry your pretty little head about it.”
His radio crackled; Dispatch requesting his assistance in a drunk and disorderly arrest outside The Corner Pub. He rubbed his moustache wearily, gave her a mock salute, then climbed into his patrol car and edged backward out of the driveway.
Taylor waved at him, then stood at the door to her car for a few moments, staring back at the deserted house. Could be whoever was inside was just a heavy sleeper, or no one was home at all. She felt a chill creep up her spine. What if this was their guy, and he was out hunting right now?
Oh, come on, Taylor. You’re making some serious leaps of logic now.
She climbed back in the car, yawning widely.
Time to call it a night.
There were noises. Cars in the gravel, doors slamming. Footsteps walking around the fountain. A shadow… my God, whoever it was just passed his basement window. He wasn’t worried about anyone seeing in; he’d applied a film that allowed him to look out but appeared dark from the outside. But it unnerved him, knowing someone was out there.
He heard the knocking and froze. It was very, very late. He wasn’t even sure it was knocking at first; maybe he’d fallen asleep, was dreaming all of this. He was in the basement, it might be Art, playing. But no, there it was again. All the lights were off. He didn’t move.
The doll whimpered in her sleep. He stood and walked to her, looked into the glass dollhouse. He’d been fighting with himself all night. He wanted to talk to Morte, but he was still so upset at how he’d been treated.
The car doors slammed again, engines revved. Must have been a wrong address.
He kept telling himself that, holding his arms while he shook.
Twenty-Eight
I t was late, past 2:00 in the morning, when Baldwin heard a knock on the door, looked up to see Memphis standing in his office. They’d arrived in Quantico at midnight, and Baldwin had arranged for a room for Memphis in one of the dorms.
“You should be sleeping,” he said. “We have a long day ahead of us.”
“I could say the same of you. I was sleeping, but my body clock thinks it’s morning, so here I am. I don’t suppose you have any real tea, by any chance? Maybe a drop of something stronger?”
Baldwin scrubbed his fingers through his hair. “Yes, I do. I’ll go get it, and then I’ll fill you in on what we’ve got.”
Baldwin took the hallway down to the row of cubicles that housed his team. He was technically the unit chief, though he transitioned between the Nashville Field Office and the Behavioral Analysis Unit in Quantico. There were three Behavioral Analysis Units in the Behavioral Science Unit-Unit One-Terrorism and Threat Assessments, Unit Two-Crimes Against Adults and Unit Three-Crimes Against Children. He managed BAU Two-had been the unit chief for four years. He had his fingers in BAU One as well, though his involvement was tertiary and very, very quiet. Terrorism was the number-one priority of the Bureau, had been since the evolution of their purpose after 9/11. It played well for him-in his other persona, Baldwin profiled assassins for the CIA in a covert operation known as the Angelmakers. That part of his life had been thankfully lacking in necessary endeavors lately.
He had forewarned his BAU team that they’d be needed to help finalize the profile for the Metropolitan police. He’d chosen two excellent lead profilers for this assignment-Charlaine Shultz, a former Little Rock homicide detective with a boisterous laugh and a deadly acumen for murder, and Dr. Wills Appleby, a psychiatrist turned profiler Baldwin did his residency with. They’d met the first day of classes at Johns Hopkins, spent four years grinding through med school together, then a completely grueling psychiatric residency.
When they’d finished up, Baldwin had gone on to George Washington University to get his law degree, thinking he’d be a medical ethicist. Instead, he met Garrett Woods. Garrett recognized the potential in him immediately, potential Baldwin didn’t know existed. He snatched him up for the FBI, and Baldwin hadn’t looked back. He was a Supervisory Special Agent now, and Garrett was running all of the Behavioral Science Unit.
Baldwin recruited Wills in turn. Outside of a few people from Hampden-Sydney, where he did his undergrad, Wills was his oldest friend.
Not all his profilers had doctorates or medical degrees. He’d found early on that instinct can’t be taught-some people have it, and some don’t. Appleby was one of the few psychiatrists who were also profilers; most of his staff were former police officers. It was easier to teach the psychological components of profiling than it was to train instinct. Practical investigative experience, how to read a crime scene, that instinctive ability to assimilate a violent crime, none of those things could be taught. All of his recruits went through an extensive, intensive training program. Very few washed out-he’d gotten very good at picking who would mesh with this type of work.
Except for one. He’d made a massive, colossal blunder when he’d hired a woman named Charlotte Douglas.
He had unconsciously stopped at the office that used to belong to her. Charlotte had deceived them all. She’d passed every psychological test the FBI had, had risen to the position of Deputy Chief of BAU Two. And all the while, she’d been utilizing the tools available at the FBI-specifically CODIS and ViCAP-to track down killers she was interested in, for her.
Whispers had been circulating that Charlotte’s computer contained material that could be used to blackmail certain agents into submission. The investigation was ongoing. Good riddance, Baldwin thought, then felt immediate
