Double Vision (20 page)

A
fter Saleda grudgingly agreed that the best thing for Eldred Beasley's memory was to remain home—with Yancy as an impromptu bodyguard—she, Jenna, and Porter left the Winthrop home and headed back to Quantico. When they arrived, Jenna shoved aside the buzzing in her head about Yancy's predicament, him being in the line of danger, and CiCi's role in said danger to focus on the files strewn across the table.

“Welcome back,” Teva muttered, not looking up from the folder she was perusing.

Dodd, however, stood. He pushed his way past two chairs turned sideways to hold a slew of papers the two of them had apparently categorized in some way, and he thrust a folder into Jenna's hand. “Pictures from the surveillance footage at the college. These are the few shots taken during the timeframe Diana described that happen to be from angles that caught others present. When she and Brooklyn were in the Student Life Center forecourt with the homeless guy, I mean. I'm not gonna lie . . . it's not too helpful.”

Jenna opened it, but only half looked at the grainy images inside. She knew Irv had done his best to catch these frames, but these pictures looked like they were taken from cameras made the same year surveillance equipment was invented.

“What about the homeless dude himself?” she asked.

Dodd shook his head. “We talked to him, but he's more burned out than a rock star at his retirement party. He couldn't tell us a thing.”

“Damn. So any luck judging the books by their covers?” Saleda asked.

Dodd let out a sigh. “I wish. We haven't found anything damning about Donalyn Greer other than that she teaches elementary Sunday school and volunteers at a pet shelter.”

“Which one was she again?” Saleda asked.

“The woman who ate the grapes she wasn't buying from out of the bag on the shelf,” Jenna supplied.

“I guess she was just late for lunch that day,” Porter said.

Jenna smirked. Trying to weed out potentially “immoral” people present on a random day in a grocery store based on statements made by a six-year-old was never going to be the perfect scientific method. But it was all they had, so she'd resigned herself to the fact that some silliness would accompany anything functional. Plus there was every chance that whatever had caused the Triple Shooter to go after whichever of the potential targets was something that wouldn't be obvious in the profiles Irv dug up, something they couldn't possibly find by looking through employment histories or socioeconomic backgrounds. The things Molly had told them were details Irv couldn't hunt down in any online search. After all, Brooklyn Satterhorne probably looked fine on paper, but the killer watched her intentionally mind-fuck a homeless man. That was all it took.

“So grape lady is probably a no. Next?” Jenna said.

Teva pushed a folder across the table at Dodd. “Connie Ehrenhaft isn't a princess by any means. She's the one Molly saw rushing and rolling her eyes at her nineteen-hundred-year-old father in the toilet paper row. She said the woman had seemed frustrated and in a hurry. Well, it was probably because she
was
in a hurry. Her license is suspended right now because she missed a court appearance for a speeding ticket. Still, do Furies hate speeding?”

“Speeding
is
against the law,” Dodd said.

“Poor old guy. Getting ratted on for taking his time in the toilet paper row. I mean, when you lose the dignity to take as long as you want making an ass-wiping decision, what do you have left to lose?” Porter chuckled.

The cardinal red Jenna associated with stupid cockiness flashed in. Porter wasn't a jerk, but the joke was the kind she'd have expected from the guys at her high school who thought it was hilarious to chase and slap each other with wet towels in the locker room.

“Grandpa Ehrenhaft's ass isn't the only thing shitty in this room,” Dodd interjected.

At this, Jenna laughed. She was starting to enjoy Dodd's presence more and more, especially any time he proved he had a drop or two of human DNA in him.

The biggest problem with this entire method was that even if Connie “Fast and Furious” Ehrenhaft had enough speeding tickets to supply her father with rough toilet paper for a year, there was no guarantee the shooter knew about and was offended by them. All they were doing here seemed to be taking some good guesses at which person on their short list was a more likely target than the others. But even then, the real target could be missing from the short list altogether. Molly couldn't have seen every action of every single person in the store, and even if she had, surely some people went to a grocery store, bought their items, and left without ever giving away that they were banging their pool boy while their husband played golf. She just had to trust that Irv could cross-reference the names they narrowed it to and that they'd get lucky.

“Didn't Calliope Jones mention dishonor of parents as one of the Furies' pet offenses?” Saleda asked.

Jenna nodded. That did sound familiar. “Okay, so we put a gold star by Connie Ehrenhaft's name and don't exclude her yet. What about the guy Molly saw demanding that the employee fetch some detergent he couldn't reach from the top shelf?”

“You mean Mr. ‘I Like To Treat Lowly Store Employees Like Dirt' Stevens? He's also a resident of Carmine Manor. Came on the bus that day. Other than that he's a World War II vet who enjoys checkers and long walks on the beach—and also likes the toilet paper row. I can't find anything that makes him undesirable on paper,” Dodd answered.

They ran through the remaining list of potentials, including the woman who spanked her screaming child right in front of the salad dressing, the man who bumped into someone and didn't say “excuse me,” and the guy who wouldn't surrender the last box of graham crackers to the mother who requested them because they were the only brand her toddler wasn't allergic to. None of them presented promising leads.

“We never talked about the man who didn't tip the bagger,” Jenna said, remembering Molly's short rant about feeling as though it was unfair that the store's official policy required employees to refuse tips. “Even when employees at a place like that comply with the rules and try to turn down tips, it's more common than not that customers at least try to give them a little something even if they ultimately don't shove it in their pocket and insist they keep it. So common that a child noticed it and mentioned it, anyway. Regardless of the fact that any rational adult probably wouldn't think of failing to offer a tip as a slight given the store policy, the Triple Shooter's profile says he's not necessarily rational. He might have his own logic, but his rules are most likely like a child's in the way that his concepts of fair might be more based on instinct and feeling than technicality.”

“You're right. We don't know for sure he's schizophrenic, but we all know we believe it. If hearing goddesses has shaped the skewed social reality his cognitive bias suggests, the real rules are irrelevant. His perception of events is all that matters. The Furies
do
have a thing for protecting poor people, as we well know,” Saleda replied.

Dodd yawned. “That may be, but unless the UNSUB followed Vince Zolfer on a spree of stiffing the working poor of America or observed as the guy screamed in the bagger's face all the reasons he would never tip him even if he could, the simple act of doing nothing probably didn't trigger any outbursts. And on paper, the guy is a paragon of virtue. He probably didn't tip the bagger because he's out of money after the three thousand he donated to charity last year alone.”

“Yipes,” Teva said.

“I know what you mean.
Three
dollars is my limit,” Dodd said.

Jenna glanced over her list again. “The employee Molly overheard blowing off the coworker she was supposed to cover for?”

Dodd shook his head again. “Oath-breaker-in-chief's records didn't send up any red flags.”

Jenna groaned. They were getting nowhere, and fast. Game plan number two would've looked better and better, only she had no clue what it was.

“What about Beasley himself?” Saleda ventured.

Jenna looked up at her. Blinked.

Saleda was right. Eldred Beasley might be a harmless old man, but he
did
have a temper, even if it was out of frustration with his failing memory.

But as soon as the thought had intrigued her, she felt herself shake her head. “It doesn't make sense, though. If Beasley was the target, why would the Triple Shooter—”

“UNSUB,” Dodd interjected.

“UNSUB! If Beasley was the target, why would the UNSUB go to his place to silence him and knock him in the head instead of putting three bullets in his chest?”

Plus Jenna couldn't get past the fact that every previous Triple Shooter victim was female, even if the profile didn't dictate that as a necessary victimology for him, other than it had happened up to this point. Well, until the grocery store killings, anyway.

“He ran out of bullets?” Teva suggested.

“If Beasley was the target, he'd have killed him when he went back for him in the style he kills all his victims. MO doesn't change
that
much. If it's the Triple Shooter, even if the grocery store shooting
was
different, the weapon wouldn't change that dramatically, would it?” Dodd asked.

The last bit of the statement had been directed at her.

“I don't think so. There's still just so much we're missing somewhere. Something we're missing about the grocery store massacre that doesn't add up. Beasley is somehow involved, but he wasn't the target. I'm sure of it. He's still alive, and if the Triple Shooter—”

“UNSUB,” Dodd cut in.

Jenna groaned. “If the UNSUB has proven anything, it's that he's good at not leaving people that way,” Jenna said. As she said it, something nagged at her. Not a female. The Triple Shooter kills easily.

“Whoa, wait. That's one thing that keeps bugging me. The Triple Shooter—and yes I mean the Triple Shooter,” Jenna said, shooting Dodd a glare, “is really good at swooping in, carrying out his little chores for the Furies, and leaving without anyone being the wiser, even in places like the Target parking lot during business hours. The grocery store shooting doesn't follow his normal protocol, but the break-in at the Winthrop house doesn't fit his MO, either. And I don't just mean that he didn't shoot anyone.”

“You mean because most of his kills were in broad daylight and in public? Don't forget he killed victim three in her apartment,” Teva reminded her.

“Maybe, but there's just something about the style that's different that I can't put my finger on. Both are audacious . . . reckless, even,” Jenna said as a shade of blue flashed in with the word “reckless,” alongside thought of the break-in. Not quite the cornflower she associated with disorganization. This one was more confident, a little mixed with some sort of red or pink, though it definitely wasn't the purple of impulse, either. Periwinkle. Reckless blue. The break-in at CiCi's house, the blunt trauma to Eldred, the running away . . . it was reckless, for sure. She blew out a breath, relaxing for the color she associated with the spirit behind the other Triple Shooter crimes to wash over her, something that would mix the reckless periwinkle with the pomegranate red of confidence. A shocking pink flashed in that seemed to mix recklessness, impulse, and confidence combined. Daring. Bold. “He does what he wants when the Furies dictate it. He's bold. He doesn't have it in him to ignore it when he thinks someone needs to die or to wait until the circumstance is absolutely perfect. Three of his victims, not counting the grocery store fiasco, were killed and left in public places in the daylight. This guy just doesn't feel like the stealth break-in type. Sure, he killed Ainsley Nickerson in her apartment, but I have this feeling it was only because it was where she happened to go right before he was ready to strike.”

“You mean if Ainsley had, say, gone to the mall, he'd have killed her there because he was ready to kill her?” Porter asked.

“Yes.”

“So what exactly are you thinking accounts for the difference here?” Saleda asked.

Jenna didn't speak at first. After all, it was she who'd said all along that this grocery store massacre was the work of the Triple Shooter. Her opinion hadn't changed. The colors matched . . . mostly. The times, date. The Triple was their maniac with the gun.

Only now she'd seen those other colors mixing in with his attitude toward the crimes, colors that didn't belong to him alone. Somehow they were being influenced, and suddenly she was no longer sure who was pulling his strings.

Y
ancy got off the phone with his supervisor. He'd called to let work know he would be taking a few personal days while he stayed with a friend after an attempted break-in at her house. They didn't need to know he was staying just in case a murderous nutjob came back for CiCi's father. He also texted Jenna to remind her about feeding Oboe.

When he hung up the phone, CiCi stood in front of him, carrying a stack of sheets, a pillow, and a folded blanket. At some point she'd changed into a pair of fluffy pink pajama pants after the attack.
Some days all that's left is to give up and hole up until it's over and the next day finally comes around
. “I'll go get Oboe and bring him over in the morning. Jenna said she could stop by and feed him later this evening,” he said.

She nodded. “So now that the pooch is taken care of, right this way, knight in shining armor,” she said. “I'll get you set up in your room.”

He followed her up the winding staircase and into the guest bedroom off to the left. The oak bed had four posts, and each was draped with willowy, whitish-gray chiffon. In stark contrast to the fancy bed, the mattress was bare. CiCi lay the stack of sheets and blankets on the bed.

“I usually keep the sheets and comforter from the other bedroom Dad's using on this bed, but he wanted them in there. They were his and Mom's. Bed was, too, actually, but he can't sleep in it anymore because it's too high for him to climb into,” she said. “If you get cold, there are more blankets in the linen closet at the end of the hallway, so just help yourself. There are quite a few books in the corner cabinet down in the living room, along with the TV, though you might have to fight Dad for it around now.
Andy Griffith
's on. If you get really bored, you're welcome to explore the basement. There is some neat stuff down there. Mom and Dad used to love to travel together, and Dad collected stuff from everywhere he went. The more bizarre, the better. It's where he used to spend most of his free time. Said each thing represented a good memory. He doesn't go down anymore, though.”

As she turned and walked out the door, he couldn't help but notice the way her waist curved into her hips, how those loose pink pajama pants didn't quite manage to hide the perfect, round shape of her ass.

He shook his head hard.

You're in a relationship, cool guy. There's a ring in your pocket,
and
this woman is still technically married, even if her husband isn't living here
or
abusing her. And she's a prostitute. Don't forget that part, cool guy. You feel me?

When CiCi was out of sight, he closed the bedroom door. He made the bed using the sheets CiCi had supplied. When he'd finally managed to get the fitted sheet, regular sheet, blanket, and comforter onto the queen size bed, he sat down on the edge. This bed was softer than his . . . or Jenna's, for that matter. He removed his gun from its secret compartment and laid the piece on the nightstand for easy reach should he need it. Then he leaned back.

He practically sank into the lush bedding. God, he could sleep for years in this thing. He'd better hope if Eldred
did
need protecting while Yancy was here that he wouldn't be in too much of a comfortable stupor to help him.

Yancy stared at the ceiling. Tired as he was, he wasn't
sleepy
at all. Too much on his mind. He'd killed a man, hidden his body. They might never find it, but if they did, there'd be hell to pay. And Jenna. He was lying to her over and over again. How was he supposed to ask a woman to be his wife if he couldn't even tell her about one simple little act of manslaughter? But he wanted Jenna so much, and if she got pulled into his screwups, she stood to lose way more than him.

He couldn't take Ayana's mom from her. He wouldn't.

A light knock on the door.

“Come in,” Yancy said softy.

The door opened, and there stood CiCi, this time wearing a satin pink bathrobe over the too-big pajama pants from before. “I just wanted to make sure you didn't need anything,” she said.

Her dark hair spilled around her shoulders, still damp from a midday shower. A droplet or two of water had fallen from her locks to her neck, where it lay sparkling against her fair skin.

“Nah, I'm great. But hey, um, would you want to come sit for a little while? Just talk? It's been kind of a long day for all of us . . . I figured you could use the ear or the company,” Yancy replied.

She glanced back toward the other guest room where they had gotten Eldred settled, then back to him. “Yeah. That might be nice. God knows I'm not going to get any sleep anyway. That's for sure.”

Once CiCi'd stepped in and closed the door behind her, she walked over to the wicker chair in the corner. She tugged the pink satin ribbon around her robe, and the robe loosened. She took it off, revealing the same solid white cotton T-shirt she'd been wearing with her pajamas earlier. She flung the robe onto the chair, then sat on top of it.

“So you never told me. Why did you come that day? To take me to coffee? It's not like all nine-one-one dispatchers make coffee dates with callers,” CiCi said.

“It's not? I thought that was the thing now. In fact, I've heard it's going to totally replace Match.com and eHarmony in the dating market. All the emergency dispatchers make dates with their callers these days. You're just behind the times,” Yancy said, smiling.

Did you really just make a date reference, cool guy? You're the moron who kept rationalizing how getting coffee wasn't a date.

“You're a real innovator, huh?”

“Franklin, Edison, and me,” Yancy said; his chest felt heavy but he managed a halfhearted smile.

A shadow crossed CiCi's face, and she looked down at her pink-polished toes. “Are you ever going to tell me what happened when you left that day?”

The anxiety in her voice took over the worry in his own mind. She didn't need this, either. She had enough problems to dwell on, what with owing a bunch of dirty cops money and the sick dad. The burden of knowing everything that had happened that night would be enough to break anybody.

Yancy shook his head. “Nope.”

“But . . .”

He sat up and scooted to the foot of the bed until he was directly across from her. He held a finger to her lips.

“You're only safe if you
don't
know anything. I've got you, CiCi. I've taken care of it, but you have to let me, okay?”

CiCi nodded hard, tears welling in her eyes. Yancy could tell she wanted to protest but at the same time, wanted to do as he wished. She reached out and took both of his hands in hers, squeezed.

“You know, I never knew someone . . . anyone . . . in the world would protect me just because it was, well, because they thought it was the right thing to do. Usually I'm all I have. I know I'd better take care of myself, because if I don't . . .” She choked as a sob came out, and tears streamed her cheeks. “Well, nobody will.”

Watching CiCi's tears fall made something inside Yancy ache. He couldn't stop himself. Before he knew it, he'd leaned forward and enveloped her in his arms. He rubbed her back through the soft material of her T-shirt, and she laid her head on his shoulder, his neck a cradle for her tear-stained cheeks.

He inhaled deeply as he gathered her closer to him. She felt so small in his embrace, so unbelievably soft. “Well, somebody's here to take care of you now.” He leaned into her more, squeezed her tighter. He gently kissed the top of her head.

Strands of her long brown hair brushed his lips as he whispered, “I've got you, CiCi. I've got you.”