Double Vision (19 page)

J
enna climbed out of the SUV at the home of Nancy Winthrop on Peake Road. The place was already buzzing with police, but she knew it would be. Despite the fact that she had no clue why Yancy didn't want the local cops involved, she'd pushed away her wildest guesses at how Yancy could be mixed up in this and her desire to find out just that before calling
any
police. Instead she just did what he'd asked: trusted him. She called the staties since she had no choice but to take the team, but if she'd taken the team and
no
cops were at the home, everyone in the BAU would be suspicious of Yancy's tie to the case before she had a chance to figure out what it was and what to do about it. They might still figure out something was awry, but hopefully they'd just think a trooper was closest when a 911 call came in. At least until she could come up with another plan, anyway.

Just because she'd trusted him didn't mean she couldn't kill him when this was over if it turned out to be crazy.

Saleda led her and Porter toward the house. They'd left Teva and Dodd at Quantico to go through some of the profiles of the “candidates” Molly had identified, looking for rudeness or immoralities that might anger a Fury, and Irv was working overtime to churn out even more intimate life details for each.

A cop stood guard at the door, apparently there to determine the looky-loos and reporters from the legitimate experts. Saleda flashed her badge, and Jenna and Porter followed suit.

“Right through to the kitchen,” the officer said. “Officer Ellis is already inside and can catch you up, though I'm 'fraid there's not much to go on at this point.”

Jenna followed Saleda through the halls, Porter trailing her.
Officer Ellis?

But she saw him before she had a chance to wonder too much. Victor Ellis was in uniform. He looked both like Hank and so different at the same time. He carried that same official air, but something about him was less cocky, cooler.

Softer.

Jenna tore her gaze away from Victor and looked across the kitchen table. An aging man she guessed to be Eldred Beasley, a brunette she assumed was Nancy Winthrop . . . and Yancy.

God help me, Yancy, when I get you alone, I'm going to grill you like a cheese sandwich . . .

“Officer Ellis, pardon the interruption. I'm Special Agent in Charge, Saleda Ovarez. May I have a word?”

Victor nodded to her. “Excuse me, folks.”

The little group meandered into the hallway they'd just come through. Victor turned around.

“Well, well, well. If it isn't Hardass,” he said.

So much for professionalism.

Saleda's head whipped in Jenna's direction. “You two know each other?”

Jenna had never been one to share a lot of personal details at work, even with her own team, so she hadn't mentioned Victor's visit to any of them yet. “Um, we're acquainted.”

Saleda's eyes narrowed a second as she studied Jenna, but finally, she relaxed and let it go. Jenna would probably hear about this later, but for now, the case was more important.

“What happened here tonight?” Saleda asked.

“Looks like an attempted robbery. Perpetrator saw no cars in the driveway, assumed the place was empty. The father, Mr. Beasley, was here on a signed-out visit from the assisted living home where he lives and surprised the robber. Robber knocked him in the head, but Ms. Winthrop came home during the break-in and spooked him. Ran away through the screened back porch, it seems. No sign,” Victor replied. “Now, this would be a normal, everyday case, excepting for the fact that this call didn't come from first responders or the victim or even the next-door neighbor's poodle. It came from the FBI BAU. Anyone care to fill me in on the details of why the hell I'm standing here right now when there's no reason I can tell that this falls into my jurisdiction whatsoever?”

Saleda glanced at Jenna, eyes wide. Might've been good to fill Saleda in on that so she could explain, but Jenna didn't even know the damned answer herself. So Jenna did the only thing she could: she told half the truth.

“Victor, we believe this isn't your cut-and-dry robbery. Eldred Beasley was a witness to the recent shooting rampage at Lowman's Wholesale a few days ago, and we believe he may have knowledge that could lead us to our UNSUB. The problem is, he has severe dementia in the form of Alzheimer's disease, so he, uh, can't remember it all.”

“And this has
what
to do with a robbery in the house, exactly?” Victor asked.

Hell if I know.

“You're telling me
you
wouldn't look closer at an assault that
happens
to involve a key witness in a mass murder?” Jenna countered. “What'd the guy steal?”

Victor's mouth set in a line. “Nothing.”

“Uh-huh.”

Jenna felt Saleda's tap on her arm. Her superior was right. Whatever she felt about the fact that Hank's brother had been following her for months, had found her house, and had delivered the news that Hank's mother was Satan's spawn, this wasn't the place.

“I'm sorry. It's just that to be honest, I have no idea how the UNSUB would've known to find Eldred Beasley here, but if he did, it makes me more sure than ever that he has key information in this case someone doesn't want us to have access to,” Jenna said.

Victor nodded, understanding. “That still doesn't explain what this has to do with me and the state cops.”

Jesus.

“There's a leak,” Jenna blurted. She felt Saleda's stare on the back of her head burning through her. “Someone in the local department leaked sensitive information we were holding on to to help identify the UNSUB to the media, and I don't want them anywhere near this. This man obviously has some memory locked in his mind somewhere, and I don't want anyone else knowing it but us, him, and the UNSUB.”

Victor was quiet a moment, seeming to let the words digest. He gave a curt nod. “Fair enough. So, what can we do for you other than take the report? FBI's obviously in on this . . . Why do you need us?”

Saleda spoke up.

“We don't know the cases are related. We're operating on a hunch. We need someone to treat this like any other attempted robbery and assault, collect evidence, and put it on the books as an open investigation. Our asses are grass for being here without proper cause. We just need the cops investigating this cute little scene to cooperate and give us some room.”

“Done,” Victor said. “I questioned the man, but like you said, his memory's like sand running through fingers. He's shaken up, but EMTs checked him over and gave him a clean bill. If this is what you think, though, he got
damned
lucky.”

“Yeah he did,” Jenna agreed. It was one thing she couldn't quite understand. If this was the Triple Shooter, and their profile of the Triple Shooter was correct, why would he leave him? In fact, why had he left Eldred Beasley alone this long? Something had to have triggered him to come back for the guy, and then, if the UNSUB was schizophrenic and not operating as a stable individual, he wouldn't have been too spooked by Nancy coming home to flee without finishing what he came to do. He'd have just finished off Beasley and killed her, too. And the blunt object was a whole different story in itself. No gun . . .

“Though I do think it's only fair to tell you we found out pretty quickly that this home isn't a stranger to law enforcement visits. Locals have dropped by the house several times just in the past couple months for domestic disturbance calls,” Victor said.

Jenna controlled her breathing, tried not to show what she was feeling outwardly. But here it was, why Yancy was involved. Nancy. CiCi. This was the domestic abuse victim he'd gotten so hung up about.

Apparently, considering he was here in her home, even more hung up than she'd realized.

Her neck burned, whether from embarrassment, nervousness, jealousy, or anxiety, she couldn't tell. Maybe a combination of all of them.
Shit, Yancy.

“Where's the husband?” Saleda asked.

Damn. Good question. Why hadn't she thought of that?

Because you were too busy imagining your boyfriend coming to the rescue of another damsel in distress.

“On a business trip, it looks like,” Victor replied.

“So no chance the break-in could've had anything to do with him and or the domestic abuse calls?” Porter ventured.

Victor shook his head. “Unlikely. Guy's checked in at a hotel in Detroit right now. Hotel staff confirmed with one of my guys about twenty minutes ago. If he was here to break into his own place, he had to have hopped a flight and snuck back, but I'm guessing whoever he's meeting for business would miss him if he didn't hightail it back fast.”

“Let's double-check it to be sure, but sounds pretty cut-and-dry,” Saleda replied. She turned to Jenna. “Shall we take a crack at Eldred?”

Jenna rubbed the sweat from her palms on her slacks. Saleda hadn't asked about Yancy's involvement yet, but she knew she would. Any opportunity to delay
that
awful moment, she'd take. And talking to Eldred might be cake compared to talking to
Yancy
. Or finding out what the heck he had to do with this to make him not want the locals here.

“Ready when you are,” Jenna said.

E
ldred's head felt swimmy, his thoughts bleeding into each other so he couldn't tell where one started and another began. He glanced around the room. A kitchen. So many people. He didn't know them. His head hurt so, so much, and he just wanted to sleep.

Now a young lady sat across from him in the place the black policeman had sat moments before. He didn't know her . . . did he? She might be familiar. Or maybe he was just trying to force her to be.

“Mr. Beasley, my name is Dr. Jenna Ramey. You called me yesterday to tell me what you knew about the shooting at the Lowman's grocery store. Do you remember that?” she asked.

It was as if he was hearing her through a tunnel. A phone call? He'd called this woman? He'd never even seen her before! Had he? No. Surely he hadn't. That was nonsense.

“Miss, I think you're confused. If you received a phone call, it didn't come from me . . .”

She nodded, but something about the tightness in her face told him she didn't believe him. He knew whether he'd made a phone call or not, damn it!

His cheeks tingled. He didn't like this. He wanted her out.

“Can you tell me how you got that bump on your head, Mr. Beasley?” she asked.

Bump . . . ?

Eldred reached up and touched the side of his head where the woman's gaze rested. Immediately, he winced. The skin there was tender, raised.
But how . . .

“Must've fallen,” he muttered. Yes. That was it. He'd taken a spill. This floor always
was
slippery. He'd told Sarah over and over she needed to dry it with a rag after she mopped, but she
never
listened to him!

“Is everything all right, Mr. Beasley?” the woman asked.

He followed her eyes to his hands, which were fisted on the table. He must have banged them down. He didn't recall doing it, but somehow, he knew he had.

He unfolded them and placed them in his lap. “Oh, yes. Yes. Just lost in thought is all.”

“Mr. Beasley, a man was in this house earlier. We think he could've been the same man who hurt those people in the grocery store. We also believe he might've hit you in the head,” the woman said. She'd called herself doctor, hadn't she? If she was a doctor, maybe she could make his head stop hurting . . .

“Man? Nonsense . . .”

But even as he said the words, something prickled in Eldred's mind, an itch he couldn't quite locate to scratch. The kitchen table still smelled of sandwiches, the cold cuts they'd eaten for early lunch. He was used to eating lunch early at the home.

“They eat lunch almost right after breakfast,” he said out loud, chuckling. Those fools!

“Pardon me?” the woman doctor said.

He glared at her, the cold-cut smell and how it was helping him scratch his itch, lost all because she'd interrupted him. “I wasn't talking to you. You
never
listen to me! You don't understand! How come you do this
every single time
?”

The woman doctor had stood up and taken a step back when he felt a hand on his arm.

“Dad, it's okay. Dr. Ramey is just trying to help us, all right?” Nancy said.

It was only then that he realized he, too, was standing, and his hands had gripped and lifted the kitchen chair in front of him slightly off the ground. He let it drop back down. What had come over him?

“I'm sorry,” Nancy said. “He gets a bit frustrated sometimes.”

“No problem at all,” the doctor woman replied.

No problem, his left arse-cheek. The two of them, standing here with him in the room, talking about him as though he weren't present. Or worse, as though he was a child. He wasn't a child! Hadn't been for some time. If he was still a child, he'd eat peanut butter for lunch instead of the ham and cheese.

Again, the smell of the deli meat and cheese took hold of him, sending his thoughts back the way they had come.
The grocery store. An itch.
Can't scratch.

“Mr. Beasley, I think it's best if you get some rest, but do please call—or tell your daughter to call—if you remember anything else, all right?” the woman doctor said.

He nodded as the smell and the thought again slipped away.

J
enna followed Saleda out of the kitchen toward where Porter was chatting with Yancy. Her boyfriend looked awful. Somehow, she hadn't noticed this morning that he hadn't shaved, nor did he look like he'd taken a shower. He had to have gone straight to work from her house. What could've been going on with him that he went to work like that? Was it their fight or more?

“Porter and I will talk to the daughter. I'm going to give you five minutes alone with him to find out what in the fresh ninth circle of hell he has to do with this before I come in there and gouge out his eyeballs myself,” Saleda whispered.

“Your generosity knows no ends,” Jenna replied. Her boss wouldn't have to gouge any eyeballs; if Yancy didn't tell her everything—and fast—she'd be removing a few other choice parts herself.

She gestured for him to walk outside with her. “Walk and talk.”

Yancy trudged toward her, hanging his head. She didn't blame him. She'd be dreading this, too, if she was him. It was bad enough on her end.

When he'd shut the front door behind them, Jenna turned on the stoop to face him. “Spill it.”

•   •   •

H
alf-truths were still lies, weren't they?

Yancy bit his lip, looking into the eyes of the woman he hoped to marry. He shoved his hands in his pockets. The cool circle that was the engagement ring brushed against his right fingers, and he immediately removed his hands again.

Telling her would be bad. Not telling her would be worse. Or was it vice versa?
Shit, cool guy. How ya gonna worm your way out of this one?

If he told her about the dead guy, he'd be asking her to cover up what amounted to a homicide, no matter how you sliced it. She'd have to turn him in to stay out of trouble, and no matter how mad she'd be, she wouldn't do it. He didn't have to see people as colors to know things about them, and Jenna loved him. Snitching wasn't her style. Protecting was.

“The husband on the business trip? He's involved in some heavy stuff,” Yancy said, conveniently leaving out the fact that even if the husband
didn't
happen to be on a business trip when the cops checked in on him, he wouldn't have been in the house anyway. The only way Yancy could keep Jenna safe was to twist all the details he had available to him to try to make it make sense without her getting too involved.

“What kind of stuff?”

“He's a pimp,” Yancy said.

Lie number one.
Fuck.
Make a man you don't even know out to be a pimp. Great idea.
Poor bastard was already being painted as an abusive ass by his estranged wife for God knew what reason, and now he was a pimp in rumor, too. For him to walk out on CiCi
and
for her to throw him under the bus and say he abused her every time a pimp beat her up meant he couldn't be a prince, but damn. Yancy'd hate to be him and ever find out the stories flying about all the shit he
hadn't
done. So far, all Yancy knew he was guilty of was being in an obviously fucked-up marriage.

“Okay,” Jenna said slowly.

Yancy held his breath as he watched her. He could tell by the way her forehead scrunched and she cocked her head that she was weighing what he'd said.

“So what does that have to do with not calling the local cops?” she asked.

Yancy blew the giant breath out. His heart thundered under his shirt so hard he was surprised the fabric wasn't fluttering with the beats. “He's involved in a prostitution ring that is run by some local cops.”

He paused. Fuck.
And why, if there's no evidence of a dead body in that house, would it matter if they dropped by? Hell, if anything, they'd be more protective of someone they knew was in their circle than ready to arrest him, you moron.
As if mixing truths with giant lies wasn't enough, he was doing it and still digging himself deeper.

“He's been holding out on them money-wise, though, to pay for CiCi's dad's medical bills and everything. So far, they haven't found where he lives since he does all his dealings with them, uh, elsewhere. The home, car, all their registrations, are in CiCi's name. But if they come here . . .”

“Their cover's blown,” Jenna filled in.

You could say that.

“Yes,” Yancy mumbled, ashamed of how easy the lies had come out.

Lying to Jenna wasn't like lying to anybody else in the world. First of all, she didn't deserve it, and second of all, he loved her. But third, he never knew when she was going to pull her weird human trick and call him on it because she saw a festival of tangerine or whatever exact shade of orange she associated with untruths.

But the moment passed, and apparently no color clues had de-camouflaged him. The relief he expected to come didn't. Instead, a painful clenching wrapped his chest.

“You need to talk to . . . CiCi,” Jenna said slowly. “She's not gonna like it, but we almost have no other option besides putting her father into protective custody. The killer is aware he knows something, and this guy is desperate and dangerous. He'll come back.”

Yancy was already shaking his head. Sooner or later, the cops involved with the pimp cop Yancy'd killed were going to notice he was gone. Hopefully they'd never realize CiCi's house was the last place he was, but if they did, and her father was in protective custody, it would be the
least
safe place for him. Alzheimer's might be what Jenna was thinking, but all Yancy could consider were the ways they could use Eldred against CiCi if anything went wrong.

“You can't do that, Jenna. You just can't. It'd kill her,” he said.

Jenna looked taken aback. “You must know her pretty well . . .”

Yancy sighed. “It's not like that . . .”
Yeah, you tell her as she finds you at the woman's house and knows you've walked by it before. How can you expect this vibrant, intelligent woman to buy your crap when
you
don't even believe your bullshit?
“He's a weak guy, Jenna. Even you can see that. He's confused enough around people he's known for decades. How terrifying would it be for him to wake up in, what, a jail cell?”

“There are lots of ways to keep someone in protective custody that don't involve jail cells,” Jenna said.

“Still. He won't understand where he is, and these might be the last years . . . hell, months of his life he'll recognize his own daughter. Do you really think it's fair to deprive him of that?”

“Are you sure you don't mean ‘her of that'?”

Yancy swallowed hard. “I deserved that. But I'm serious. Plus, if he
does
know something, from what I've heard of this disease, Alzheimer's patients tend to have the most access to their memories when surrounded with familiar environments and people to jog them. If you want to find out what information about the shooting he's got locked in that head of his as bad as the killer
doesn't
want you to, wouldn't it be more beneficial to keep him in a place conducive to making that happen?” Yancy begged.

Jenna scratched her cheek absentmindedly as she sometimes did when she thought about something hard. God, he loved her. He should really just pull the ring out right now. Right here. After all, a crime scene would be appropriate as a proposal spot for them, right? If only things were like last year and they were working side by side, they'd never have drifted so far apart that he would have gotten so wrapped up in his own stupid, fucking self-pity. He'd never have tried to play Superman with CiCi, and he wouldn't be lying to the woman he loved.

“Hey,” he said, something snapping in his brain. “I could stay with them.”

Jenna's gaze jerked toward his face, an eyebrow raised.

Way to go, buddy. That sounded right. “Hey, how about I hang out at the home of this girl you found me with who you're clearly threatened by if for no other reason than that I'm a douche . . .”

“Look, I'm doing a really awesome job of shoving my foot in my mouth, which blows, because I
really
can't stand the taste of metal, but I'm being serious. Remember when I stuck around at Zane's last year because you couldn't leave a cop, since it would spook the bad guy we wanted to lure? It could be like that again. You know me. I can handle myself, and I can handle protecting these two. It'd be a way for you to make sure Eldred stays safe and sound while you work your magic to abracadabra the memories out of him, and at the same time, he won't be scared shitless or too confused to try to remember.”

“And you think her husband will be all right with that when he comes back from his business trip?”

Shit. Hadn't thought of that one, had you, buster? Care to explain why you're not even worried about the dude coming back?

Yancy shook it off. “Let me worry about that.”

Jenna swayed back and forth on her feet, staring at the cement of the door stoop. Finally, she looked up. “Okay, but
only
if Saleda gives the go-ahead, and
only
if you swear you're not going to yank the secret gun out of your leg unless the killer is on the porch trying to slip in under the guise of selling Girl Scout cookies or something. You won't make a move like that unless there is real,
confirmed
danger.”

Her words bit at him like a cool breeze. If only she knew how close she was to the truth. God, if only he could tell her he
had
perceived a real danger. That he
had
shot when he was sure he needed to.

Instead, he forced a weak smile. “How many times a year do you think most FBI agents get to say, ‘swear you're not going to yank the secret gun out of your leg' and really mean it?”

She smiled back, leaned forward, and brushed her lips against his. She smelled perfect, like honeysuckles and pancake batter.

“Not enough, I'd guess,” she said as she pulled away from him. “Now come on. I've got a really awful plan to sell to a superior.”

Yancy followed her through the door. “Use the leg line. Gets 'em every time.”