In the Belly of Jonah (22 page)

“She’s not dead,” I said.

He said nothing.

I eventually slumped back into the couch across from him.

“She was murdered,” he stated. “We think it was de Milo, but we’re not sure.”

“How? Why?” I asked, stunned by the news and numb to the implication and meaning behind it all.

“We don’t know yet. She may have been on to something. Her files were compromised.”

“Compromised? Her files? She had left everything here, spread out on the desk and table I had set up for her. Why didn’t she leave the files here? With everything else?”

He looked at me and blinked.

I didn’t understand any of this.

In a steady monotone he said, “She didn’t take her files anywhere, Miss Ber—Liv.”

“But that means . . . ” My eyes must have bugged out of my head, because his words came quickly.

“She was killed here. In your home.”

I slapped my hand over my mouth, fighting the urge to blow chunks all over the man’s custom-made suit.

“We think he came in through the front door. There was no sign of forced entry. We think he caught her off guard. Agent Henry put up a good fight. A great fight.”

My head was spinning. Lisa was dead. She’d been murdered. In my home. If only I hadn’t invited her to stay here. If only I had been more persistent about my phone call earlier. If only I had not resisted the urge to come home. Maybe I could have stopped this whole nightmare from happening.

I registered his words as though from a great distance. “Agent Pierce asked me to stay with you until this is over. He’s concerned for your safety and regrets the FBI’s presence here having compromised or endangered you in any way the past two days. He wanted me to share with you his appreciation and deepest condolences on the loss of your friend.”

Was this really happening? One minute my employee is murdered, the next my friend is murdered.
In my house
. How could this be?

“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, but I have swept the house and prefer to stay in the room where Lisa was staying so I can be close to your room. I will be able to protect you best from there. Will that work for you?”

I was half listening. Lisa was dead. I had just talked with her this morning. Shared a cup of coffee with her. Agent Pierce was still sleeping when we two had talked. She had just rolled out of bed, yet she was still as beautiful as a princess with her long black hair in tangles and blue eyes heavy with drowsiness.

A flurry of thoughts rushed into my head. “Maybe it was a student.”

“A student?”

“Maybe that’s who killed Lisa. A student.” My mind was racing. “The guy who left the book for Jill. Jonah. In
Crime and Punishment
, a graduate student killed someone thinking he would never be caught. Maybe Jonah’s a student. Maybe he left the book as a way to flaunt his murders to the rest of the world, like he’s smarter than all of you—all of us. Maybe the Venus de Milo murderer is a student, thinking he can get away with this.”

Agent Kelleher looked at me as if I’d completely lost my mind.

Then I remembered the conversation I’d had with Lisa about Boeing and the carpet cutting methods. “Did she tell you about the water?”

“The water?”

“Cutting carpets with water. At Boeing, where I used to work. Was that how he killed her? With water?” I gasped.

For the first time, Kelleher loosened his tight smile and shook his head. He looked much younger now. “Agent Henry told Agent Pierce of your idea about water being the potential murder weapon.”

I stared at him, willing him to tell me more. I couldn’t bear the thought of feeding Lisa with the information that led her to being killed.

“You were right,” he said.

My head was swimming. “I got her killed with that suggestion?”

He shook his head. “De Milo would have no idea we’re on to that lead. You were right about the water being the murder weapon. The coroner is doing further lab tests to confirm the speculation.”

“So it wasn’t in her files? The files that were compromised?”

“We don’t think so,” Agent Kelleher said. “What we’re missing are her latest additions to the profile she completed last night. The one that Agent Pierce read. We believe de Milo deleted Lisa’s updated report from the computer.”

It was hard to imagine de Milo having been right here. In my living room. Standing a few feet from where I was sitting, hunched over the computer in broad daylight, deleting Lisa’s files from her laptop. Murdering Lisa in this house, my home.

I buried my head in my hands and cried, finally feeling the gravity of this situation.

Between sobs, I heard Agent Kelleher say, “Computer forensics will be able to recover what she typed,” and “They think they might have a partial fingerprint lifted from the bathroom sink,”and “But you’re in no danger of de Milo coming back here again.”

I didn’t want to hear any of it. I understood now why Detective Brandt had called this afternoon, why he had sounded so strange. I understood why Agent Pierce moved out and found a new location to call headquarters, an
undisclosed location
, because clearly they could be in danger of being targeted by de Milo too. I understood why Agent Kelleher was here to protect me. I understood why Lisa hadn’t answered my call.

I just didn’t understand the destruction, the senselessness of murdering good people like Lisa and Jill.

I didn’t understand why God made people like de Milo.

THE LIVE BAND’S BASS
pounded just like his heart had mere hours ago when Agent Lisa Henry put up the fight of her life. She was something. She had punched him in his jaw harder than any man had ever hit him. And the clawing she did on his neck and cheek had left angry marks. He’d been careful to conceal the bruising and scratches with makeup, but it stung.

Tonight his head pounded with exhilaration. His sensitive fingers slipped into his pocket, seeking his trophy. His fingertips brushed against the jagged edges of the crystal, the rock he had lifted from Liv Bergen’s dresser earlier that day, just before the photo shoot of Awakening. It felt solid, fragile, healing, and dangerous.

The strobe light blinked in time with the melodic thump, and his bar-stool vibrated, sending an erotic wave through his body. That, coupled with the gyrating movements of the patrons on the dance floor, most of whom were scantily clad summer school students, made his excitement grow. His eyes were fixed on Shelby’s tight ass and round tits, bouncing, rotating, spinning.
The beauty of youth and twenty-year-old bodies
, he thought. They were all splendid desserts for an insatiable appetite.

“The gang’s all here,” he shouted, lifting his glass of water with a twist of lime toward his friends, who were all out on the dance floor.

They responded with loud whoops and hollers, lifting their beer bottles and tumblers toward him.

Life was good. So good.

Agent Streeter Pierce was probably beside himself tonight. Blaming himself, cursing de Milo, pacing the floor as if that would provide him with the answers he needed. He hoped William Tell and Awakening had been lovers and he’d just killed Tell’s only reason to live. He hoped Tell would be so distraught over Awakening’s death that he’d collapse in a heap and die. But that would be too good for him. He’d hoped he could have sampled a little of Awakening, just as he’d wanted to with Nutrition. But he was smarter than that. He would never indulge his desires with his subjects, his models for the masterpieces. Not only would it lead them to him were he to leave such DNA evidence, it might alter the models and ruin the purity of their expression. For a genius such as he, work always came first.

What he really wanted was for William Tell to be his seventh work of art, right alongside Awakening on his wall. Awakening was such a beauty, and thanks to the makeup he’d borrowed from Liv Bergen, she looked nearly perfect in her pose.

Just as he envisioned what William Tell would look like on his wall of fame, the door to the bar opened and in he walked. Agent Streeter Pierce, soon to be his William Tell.

Streeter stood inside the doorway, daring the bouncer to check his ID and allowing his eyes to adjust to the darkness and the strobes. How he despised the life of a barfly. The dark, the smoke, the noise, the crowds, the desperation. He thought of the many nights he’d spent in bars after Paula died, how desperate he’d been to find the answer to life’s mysteries by looking into an empty shot glass. Or more like how he’d used that shot glass as an escape hatch from reality, the sequence of chutes sending his player slipping farther from the finish line rather than climbing the ladders that would help him win the game.

He hadn’t been in a bar for years, either to socialize or to drink away misery. But he had spent his share of nights in places like this, working the crowds in search of that special rock to turn over and see what slithered out from beneath.

Handing the bouncer his credentials, rather than his license, Streeter glared at the meaty young man. “You’ve got regulars?”

Baby Bull Bouncer nodded. His neck was thick, his hair cropped short. His eyes had brightened when he returned the credentials to Streeter. He was more than the typical bored big boy seeking a job that required little exertion, some authority, and the perk of sleeping in. This brawny youth liked security, Streeter figured, and he would work it to his advantage.

“I need your help,” Streeter said in a lowered tone.

Baby Bull leaned toward him, excited, yet trying to pretend he was disinterested in case others were watching. Streeter figured him for not much older than twenty-four or twenty-five, probably from a farm, or he might just be a hobbyist mechanic, given the callused hands.

“Jill Brannigan,” Streeter said, scanning the room. “Is her circle of friends here tonight?”

Baby Bull nodded again and stuck out his hand, palm up. Streeter hadn’t a clue what he wanted. Was he expecting a bribe?

“We’ve got a five-dollar cover charge. You just want to fit in, right? Pay or my boss will be on me like flies on shit. He’ll want to know why I gave you special treatment, and he don’t like cops or giving up any information on our patrons. So keep up appearances for me and I’ll do you a favor.”

Streeter nodded and reached for his wallet, fishing out the necessary bill.

As he did, Baby Bull put his thick hand in front of his mouth as if rubbing his nose and cheeks, covering his words. “See the chick on the dance floor with the cutoff shorts and orange tank top? The one with the blonde hair piled high on her head?”

Streeter said, “Mm hmm.”

“Her name’s Shelby. One of the most sought-after chicks in Jill’s clique. But if you ask me, all of them are babes. And Jill was the best. A natural beauty. Didn’t need all that makeup or skimpy clothes. Best because she was sincere, not a flirt like the others. Good-looking
.
The guys ain’t bad looking either, if you swing that way. I don’t.”

Streeter handed him the five-dollar bill and said, “Thanks.” For added measure he asked, “Ever think of applying at the Bureau?”

The kid’s face lit up, his hooded eyes brightening. “Think I should?”

Streeter nodded once and walked toward the least crowded end of the bar. He ordered a Wild Turkey on the rocks and sipped the elixir, keeping his eyes focused on the activities of Shelby: who she talked with, how she approached them, and her body language and facial expressions with each individual she came in contact with during a series of five dance songs, one of which she had chosen to sit out to talk instead to two guys sitting at the other end of the bar. Those two were part of Jill’s circle of friends, as were the two girls next to Shelby on the dance floor: the brunette with braids and the Dolly Parton look-alike.