The Face of Death

I know that Alan is right. I know it in all the deep-down places inside of me. It still chafes me. To feel so close and realize that, really, we're no closer than we were before.

'Fine,' I say, giving in to the truth. 'Let's get Callie and Gene here.'

'You got it.'

I wander into the den, trying to walk off my frustration, as Alan alerts Callie to her coming task. Like the rest of the home, the den is all about dark wood, dark carpet, brown walls. Old-fashioned and trying for sumptuous; to me it's just ugly. The desk, I notice, is immaculate and ordered. Too ordered. I move closer and nod to myself. Cabrera has some obsessive-compulsive going on. There are three fountain pens on the left side of the desk. Each one is aligned perfectly straight in relation to the other and with the right angles of the desktop itself. Three more pens are on the right side of the desk and a cursory glance confirms that they align not just with each other but with the pens on the left. A letter opener lies horizontally at the top of the desk near the computer screen. Its placement is equidistant between the two arrangements of fountain pens. Curious, I open the middle desk drawer. I see exact arrangements of tacks, paper clips, and rubber bands. I'm not going to count them, but I'm guessing the quantity of each matches the other. Interesting, but unhelpful. I grimace, still frustrated. I stare at the computer screen. One of the icons catches my eyes: Address Book.

I bend over and use the mouse to double-click it. A list of phone numbers and addresses opens up. There aren't many of them, and they are a mix of business and personal. I scroll through. Something flickers in my head. I frown.

I scroll through the names again. Another flicker. Omissions . . .

Something is missing. What?

I scroll through the list five times before I see it.

'Son of a bitch,' I say, standing up straight, shocked. I cover my eyes with my hand, dismayed at my own stupidity. 'You moron,' I mutter, chastising myself.

It's not the evidence that points to him, but the lack of it.

'Alan!' I bark.

He ambles in, eyebrow raised in question.

'I know who The Stranger is.'

59

'THEY GOT THE GIRLS OUT,' ALAN SAYS TO ME. HE'S JUST FINISHED a conversation on his cell phone. 'Jessica and Theresa. They're physically healthy, but we're not sure of anything else yet.' He grimaces.

'Jessica's been inside that place for the last ten plus years. Theresa for five. He gave them ten thousand square feet of room, he fed them--hell, he even gave them satellite TV and music. But they were never allowed outside. And they weren't allowed to wear any clothes. He told them . . .'

Alan pauses, sighs. 'He told them if they tried anything--like escape or suicide--that he'd kill someone they loved. They're both pretty withdrawn and uncommunicative. He might have beaten them.'

'He probably did,' I say. I'm glad the girls are alive, but the thought of their ordeal, like everything else about this case, makes me feel tired and angry.

We'd been in the car, waiting for Callie, when the call came in. A thought occurs to me.

'Call them back,' I tell him. 'Have the agent in charge ask the girls if they ever saw his face.'

Alan dials, waits. 'Johnson?' he asks. 'It's Alan Washington. Need you to ask the girls something for me.'

We wait.

'Yeah?' Alan shakes his head at me. They hadn't seen his face. Damn.

Alan frowns. 'Sorry--can you repeat that?' His expression sobers.

'Oh. Tell her Sarah's fine. And, Johnson? I need you to break some news to Jessica Nicholson.' He explains, then hangs up. 'Theresa asked about Sarah.'

I don't reply. What am I supposed to say?

Callie and Gene are here. Callie hops out and strides over, smiling. She's cleaned herself up and looks perfect again, of course. She nods toward the front of the house, taking in the broken windows, the burnt, bullet-chewed lawn.

'I like what you've done with the place.'

'Hey, Smoky,' Gene says. He doesn't look perfect. He looks tired.

'Hi, Gene.'

I'm about to fill them in when I see another car coming toward the house. Brady appears from nowhere as it approaches.

'AD Jones,' he says.

'Hail, hail, the gang's all here,' Callie murmurs. 'By the way, Smoky, Kirby seemed to be disappointed that she didn't get to shoot anyone.'

'She did good,' Brady says, giving Callie a thoughtful once-over. I watch Callie return the gaze, recognize the semi-lustful spark in her eyes. She holds out a hand.

'I don't think we've met,' she purrs.

'Brady,' the SWAT commander says, taking her hand and shaking it. 'And you are?'

'Callie Thorne. But you can call me Beautiful.'

'Not a stretch.'

Callie grins at me. 'I like him.'

The car arrives next to us, cutting the banter short. AD Jones gets out. He reminds me of both Callie and Brady, tireless and energized, his suit un-rumpled, not a hair out of place.

'Brief me,' he says without preamble.

I fill him in on the assault, and on the subsequent interview with Cabrera. About the girls in North Dakota.

'Any recent update on the girls?' he asks Alan.

'No, sir. But soon.'

I tell him about Juan. Watch as his eyes go wide, then sad. His face falls. He looks off. His mouth moves.

'Christ,' he says. 'We did this.'

I wait, let him gather himself.

'So,' he continues, 'we know who he was. Do we know who he is?

Do we have a name?'

I tell him. Alan knew already. This is the first time Callie's heard this, and her look of shock matches AD Jones's.

'Gibbs?' AD Jones asks. 'The trust lawyer? Are you fucking kidding me?'

'I wish I was, sir. It makes sense, and we should have considered it before. It's a huge misstep on my part. He's right there. I just didn't see it until I was going through the contact list on Cabrera's computer. It wasn't what was there, but what was missing.'

He stares at me, frowning. His face clears as he gets it. 'Gibbs wasn't on the list. Jesus Christ.'

'That's right. A quick search through the office didn't turn up anything relating to Gibbs or the trust. Nothing. But Cabrera isn't just meticulous--he's obsessive-compulsive. His contact list wasn't huge, but what was there was very complete. He had numbers for everyone from the woman who cut his hair to the trash company. Home phones, cell phones, e-mail addresses, fax numbers, alternate numbers--but not his lawyer? No way he'd leave that out by accident. That, combined with something else Cabrera mentioned while he was talking.' I squint at AD Jones. 'Juan was fair-skinned, wasn't he?'

'Yes. He almost looked white. It didn't occur to me to mention it.'

'Gibbs is white. Cabrera called Juan a 'white angel.' I thought it was a figure of speech, but I put that together with the missing piece of the address book and realized that he meant white-skinned.'

'It's not a lock,' Alan says, 'but it feels right. Hiding in plain sight. It's simple, it's smart, and it fits his MO.'

AD Jones shakes his head once, a gesture encompassing disbelief, frustration, and anger. I know just how he