Double Vision (9 page)

He chuckled, eyes flitting from where his cell phone displayed the contact card to the paper. “Not her
given
name, of course. She changed it several years ago after she took a sabbatical in Turkey in order to read Homer's works in full in the place of his birth. The mythological figure Calliope is widely considered to be Homer's muse, apparently, and what can I say? I guess it struck a chord in my friend.”

Jenna smiled, imagining a kooky woman in huge glasses, a raggedy shawl, and large, gypsy-esque earrings. “No pun intended, huh?”

Gallagher laughed again. He passed Jenna the sheet of paper. “She's a fun gal. Smart as a whip. Tell her I said hello, will you?”

“Of course,” Jenna replied, thinking that if a hello was warranted, this Calliope might not be as good of a friend as Gallagher intimated. Still, she was worth a try. “Thank you so much, Dr. Gallagher.”

“Any time,” he replied.

With that, Jenna shook the man's hand and took her leave.
Calliope Jones, ready or not, here I come.

Y
ancy sat at the kitchen table at Jenna's house, sipping a bottled water and staring at the newspaper even though he wasn't reading it. He was supposed to have a late dinner with Jenna, but as usual, she was running even later.

Vern and Charley were both in the living room watching cartoons with Ayana, and as much as Yancy loved the three of them, he was probably about as pleasant to be around right now as a Chihuahua during a malfunctioning burglar alarm episode. He'd told them he had to go over the updated training manual for emergency dispatchers, and they'd accepted his reasoning to stay in the kitchen without any questions.

Now he glared at the black-and-white paper in front of him, the words blurring together through the mist of his mind. He'd thought maybe tonight he'd take another shot at mustering the courage to yank the ring out of his pocket, but after their fight this afternoon, that courage had deflated into nonexistence. Hell, he wasn't even sure why he was in Jenna's kitchen right now. Sure, the sheer fact that he was allowed in Jenna's military compound of a house was a compliment in itself, but really, what could he offer her? A magnetic surface where she could pin up pictures of Ayana?

“Hey there, Steampunk. How's the studying going?”

Yancy's train of thought dissipated at the sound of Vern's voice, and he smiled despite how crummy he was feeling. Jenna's dad had given him the nickname when he found out Yancy carried a gun in his prosthetic leg, and it always felt like something of an honor. In this family, you got a nickname when you were family, too.

“Eh, kinda distracted to be honest,” Yancy said. What else could he do but be honest? He'd been caught red-handed without a manual in sight. “Decided to save the work for later.”

“Hmm,” Vern said, nodding knowingly as he stood at the sink and refilled his glass with water. Something in his voice told Yancy he hadn't fooled anyone with his fib in the first place. “Later, as in after that tiny thing weighing down your pocket is out in the open?”

Yancy half laughed. “Something like that.”

Vern shut off the faucet and crossed back toward the living room. He stopped in front of Yancy and laid a hand on his shoulder. “I know it didn't work out too well for me, but trust me. Just because my blushing bride turned out to be a psycho killer doesn't mean I don't remember how nauseated I was with that damned diamond burning a hole in my pocket when I was working up the nerve to show it to her. The right time will show itself. You'll see.”

Yancy bit his lip and nodded, guilt biting at his gut. Here he was, feeling sorry for himself, and really, compared to the man in front of him, he didn't have any reason to. Vern had been in love with a woman he'd never even really known, and when he'd vowed to care for her forever, she returned the sentiment by trying to kill him. Twice.

And yet, despite everything Vern had been through, he'd not only welcomed Yancy into his life, but he had trusted him enough to give Yancy his blessing to ask Jenna to marry him.

“Thanks, Vern. For everything,” Yancy replied.

“Eh, no thanks required. Takes a good man to tame El Tigre. I can't ever seem to get her to remember to take a deep breath and play a little Yahtzee every once in a while, so I figure you're doing me a favor. Speaking of workaholics, since your manual seems to have grown legs and run off, why don't you come on in and hit up the La-Z-Boy while you wait?
SpongeBob
marathon going on in the living room and a chair with your name on it. Whaddaya say?”

Vern gave him too much credit. Yancy hadn't tamed Jenna. Didn't want to. All he cared about was staying in stride right there with her, something he didn't seem capable of at the moment.

“Nah, I think I'll pass tonight. Nerves and nausea and hearing about pineapples under the sea might tip a delicate balance,” he said, trying to sound lighthearted.

“Okay,” Vern replied, giving him another pat on the shoulder and walking away. “But if you change your mind, we'll even let you have a turn with the volume remote.”

And he left, leaving Yancy thinking how much he wished he felt like doing just that. This day didn't seem to be conducive to making any decisions that would be right, though.
Yeah, cool guy. Sit here and sulk. It helps everything.

CiCi Winthrop popped into his thoughts, the labored breathing on the other end of the phone as he'd promised her help was coming. One of these days, he was going to be wrong.

Locks turned and the doorknob twisted.

A frazzled-looking Jenna appeared, colored keys in hand. “Hey, you.”

Yancy stood and jammed his hands in his pockets. He moved toward her, kissed her cheek. His fingers brushed the ring in his pocket. “Hard day?”

“Not over yet, either,” she replied. “I might have to postpone dinner . . . again. Trying to get in touch with a source. Some kind of mythology expert.”

“Oh, yeah? What does that have to do with anything?”

Jenna opened the fridge, took out a Coke. “Long story short, Triple Shooter's obsession with threes might be motivated by Greek mythology.”

“Still thinking the Triple Shooter's the guy even though there were seven victims? That
still
makes no sense.”

She leaned against the counter and ran a hand through her chestnut hair. “You're telling me.”

Yancy sighed and sat back down at the table. Once upon a time, he'd have gotten a more in-depth answer to that statement, some glimpse into why Jenna still had reason to think what she did. What kind of problems came with whatever she was thinking to bring on the frustrated sigh she let out after she was quiet again, the little shake of her head that said nothing but,
If you only knew
.

“Where's the crew?” Jenna asked.

Yancy cocked his head toward the den. “It's cartoon hour.”

“Isn't that every hour?”

“Yeah, but who's counting.”
Okay, cool guy. Smooth this over. You're awkward enough without this tension hanging around.
He stood again and stepped around the table. He leaned into her, putting one arm on either side of her on the counter. “So, what do you say I whip us up something here? I'm not a gourmet chef by any means, but I do make a mean BLT.”

She smiled, then laughed, the strain between them melting. “I seem to remember you making more than
that
 . . .”

His arms drifted from the countertop to around her trim waistline. “Is that an offer, Dr. Ramey?”

“Well, A is occupied, dinner is up in the air, at best . . .” She wrapped her arms around his neck. “Think of it as more of a . . . suggestion.”

He leaned in, the smell of her lotion sugary, her breath hot. His lips grazed hers, soft and smooth and so, so sweet.

Her phone rang, and she tensed in his embrace. He pulled back from her.

She frowned. “Sorry.”

“No need,” he said, letting go of her. After all, as much as he hated what the intense nature of her job did to them, if not for her being what she was, he'd have never found her.

Jenna took her phone from the holster on her belt. Yancy liked to kid her about it, but she always claimed its practical use outweighed the fashion flub.

“Jenna Ramey,” she answered.

Yancy paced the kitchen as he listened to Jenna's side of the conversation, and it soon became clear dinner
and
the evening quickie were off the table. She agreed to meet someone in an hour, and it sounded like it was the person she'd been trying, without avail, to get hold of all afternoon.

She dropped the phone from her ear, re-holstered it. “That was Calliope Jones, the mythology expert. Going to meet her at her apartment.”

“Calliope?”

Jenna smiled. “I said the same thing.”

Yancy shrugged. To each his own.

Suddenly his face seared, guilt over the thoughts he was having pummeling his self-worth, heating him from the inside out. He knew it wasn't appropriate, and he knew what she'd say. But still, he couldn't help the burning desire to be back on par with her, part of her life again. The image of the two of them as a team tickled his imagination, and he couldn't stop himself. “Hey, why don't I tag along? Extra ears have been useful in the past . . . maybe I can help you bounce ideas afterward.”

As soon as the words left his lips, he regretted them, if only because he knew he'd resent her answer. Even if she was right.

She didn't disappoint. Her lips pursed, a look that said one thing . . . pity.

“Yance, I'd love to have you along. Really, I would—”

“But.”

Jenna closed her eyes then opened them again, her gaze meeting his. “You know I can't.”

He nodded, turning back toward his unread newspaper.

“Yeah,” he said. “I know.”

“I think I'll sneak out without venturing into the living room. Much as I want to see A, if I go in just to leave again, it'll be worse than if she didn't know I was back yet.” She walked over, kissed the top of his head. “I'll call you later, k?”

Under the table, his fist clenched the ring from outside his pants pocket. “Sounds good.”

And Jenna left, the air of what might have been the only thing to keep him company.

Yancy drummed his fingers on the table. God, he missed that sense of place he'd had last year. He'd never wanted that whole episode, but it had felt so good to be useful. After being out of the action for so long and ending up out of commission before ever finishing his state-level FBI training, last year he'd finally gotten his chance to do what he'd always wanted to do. Hell, he'd even found out he had a knack for it.

He could help again someday, right? Surely his destiny wasn't to sit behind a phone and then come home to a horny dachshund whose idea of fun was humping his leg before passing out cold on the kitchen floor with his tongue hanging out.

CiCi Winthrop popped back to mind. His gut had proved right last year . . . What if his intuition telling him to check up on her was right this time? Jenna acted on hunches all the time. Grapheme synesthesia or no grapheme synesthesia, his instincts were just a different brand.

Stop rationalizing, loser. You don't need to do this.

But even as he talked himself down, he was already visualizing the number on his screen, the cell phone he'd triangulated to get her location. Was it hers? Maybe he'd just call. See if she was okay . . .
Don't do it.

He dialed. A feminine voice he recognized answered the phone. So, she was okay. He could hang up now, and she'd never be the wiser.

Yancy gripped the cell tighter. “CiCi, it's Yancy. From, um, the emergency line. I was just calling to check on you.”

After a long pause, she started to spew how nice of him it was to think about her.
Needed.

“Um, I know this might sound weird, and I know it's late. But how would you feel about grabbing a cup of coffee tomorrow?”

J
enna wandered into Calliope Jones's apartment when the expert on Greek mythology held open her door. It was a good thing Jenna had a lot of practice at seeing and hearing the bizarre, because not reacting to the wacky décor of the place was a task all its own.

The living room walls were covered in artwork depicting winged horses, many-headed monsters, and old men in togas. Statuettes of women with snakes for hair and men with the bodies of animals sat on the sofa end tables, and over the couch a hand-embroidered tapestry bearing the words
PRINCIPAL GODS FAMILY TREE
hung. Jenna stopped in front of a canvas that reminded her vaguely in style of the painting of the Last Supper in Liam Tyler's office. That was, if you could get past the cherubs buzzing overhead and the naked woman smack in the middle of the artwork. Still, Jenna couldn't help but imagine that Molly Keegan would have a great time counting the various people and objects in the painting. Jenna found herself unwittingly counting them herself.
Seven books, two masks . . .

“Do you like it?” Calliope said from behind her. “It's Nicolas Poussin.
Apollo and the Muses.
Of course,
The Rape of the Sabine Women
is the far more famous of his paintings, but I prefer his more whimsical work.”

Jenna turned around and smiled. “Yes, it's beautiful.”

Calliope Jones wasn't exactly what Jenna had expected. She didn't have the shawl, nor the huge glasses. Rather, the fifty-something blond woman was dressed in smart black slacks and a short, light black trench coat. If she'd seen her on the street, Jenna probably would've pegged Calliope for a fashion editor or a television anchorwoman, not someone who had made a life of studying Greek mythology. Some profiler she was.

The woman gestured around the room to her paintings. “These are some of my favorites, though I have a larger collection in my office. Couldn't possibly hang every one at home.”

“Hardly,” Jenna said.

Calliope extended her hand toward the sofa. “Please,” she said.

Jenna obliged, and the mythology expert sat down in a tattered armchair beside the couch.

“Thank you for making time to see me, Ms. Jones.”

“Oh, Calliope, please. I insist!”

“Yes. Calliope. I have a bit of a puzzle here I'm hoping you can help with.”

Calliope leaned back and crossed her legs. “I'm all ears.”

Jenna launched into the best explanation she could about the case and what she thought it could possibly have to do with Greek mythology. She'd decided on the way over to be more open with Calliope Jones regarding the details of the case that had brought her here. In a perfect world, she could keep every little sliver of information about the actual crimes to herself to preserve case integrity while still divulging just enough that the mythology expert would be able to pass along any relevant information she might have to add. But Jenna's conversations with the two professors previously had showed her that while they could circle the neighborhood of answers without being abreast of everything weighing in on the issue, a landing spot would be difficult to suss out without full disclosure to allow for honing in on the path to take where the landing spot would become visible.

Jenna stopped a few times to field questions about schizophrenia, profiling techniques, and certain details about the crime she'd decided to share this time.

“So that's where I am. I have a bunch of bodies; a killer who, until now, killed one person at a time only when threes aligned and who may hear the voices of some Greek god; and a lot of things that don't make sense. I need to figure out if this obsession with threes has to do with a Greek god because if I can crack his thought pattern, I have a better chance of figuring out where to start looking for him. And even if I can't figure out what god he's hearing, maybe I can find
some
connection in the crimes to either make the random murdering of seven people, instead of one who aligned with threes, make sense to give me a more accurate profile of the shooter, or to link the victims in some way I haven't seen yet and keep working with the current profile based on similarities of victims instead of focusing on the number of them. I know it's a tall order, but I'd appreciate any thoughts you might give me on triplicate Greek gods, particularly those to do with death, like the Fates,” Jenna said.

Calliope cocked her head. “This is a wild thought, but have you considered that the voices may have nothing to do with death?”

Jenna blinked. No, actually she hadn't. Not really, anyway. The possibility always existed, of course, but in murders perpetrated by schizophrenics, voices telling them to kill were a common thread. “Well, I suppose if you have a theory . . .”

Calliope waved her hand. “Oh, no. Not yet anyway. Not about a specific set of gods or goddesses. But with that in mind, if I was you, I would consider that in Greek myth, death was more of an . . . incidental occurrence. The gods and goddesses were mostly concerned with carrying out their whims as they pertained to the
living.
”

An auburn color flashed in, though Jenna couldn't yet place it.
Not quite the color of power. Too dark to be aggression . . .

More information needed. “How so?” Jenna asked.

Calliope folded her hands. Some people talked with their hands; Calliope's speech was oddly devoid of animation. “The Greek gods were vain, easily angered. Religious ideas often depict gods as wise and able to determine their actions based on the good of mankind. People like to think gods are infallible. The truth is, though, gods—particularly the Greek gods—tended to act based on their own interests. Poseidon kept poor Odysseus from returning home for a dreadfully long time because Odysseus blinded his son, Polyphemus.” Calliope let out a jovial laugh as though they were sharing an inside joke. “Not unlike the portrayal in the Bible of the God of the modern Christians, Greek gods were wrathful when angered. Only their anger went a step further than simply asking that no gods be worshipped before them, and they were not always considered ‘good' overall.”

“So there were evil gods?” Jenna asked.

Calliope moved her head from side to side as if weighing her thoughts. “Not exactly. Just selfish ones. Ill-tempered ones. And alas, some charged with jobs that were more unpleasant than others.”

“Like what?”

“Well, your example of the Fates was a good one, though their job was perhaps less repulsive than some. I personally don't envy Eileithyia's job, but that's just me.”

Jenna took a deep breath as the thistle color of vanity flashed in, quickly followed by the redwood shade Jenna associated with attention seeking. Sure, Calliope probably didn't get a lot of chances to display her vast knowledge to a willing victim, but name-dropping something obscure for the purpose of coercing another to ask for an in-depth explanation had long been a pet peeve of Jenna's in this line of work.

Nevertheless, she bit. “Who was that?”

Calliope grinned, again lapping up the opportunity presented to her like a thirsty Labrador shown a full water dish. “Goddess of childbirth.”

“Ah,” Jenna replied.
Back to the point.
“Any of these deities with unfavorable tasks come in triad form?”

“Oh, yes. The Judges of the Dead—Rhadamanthys, Minos, and Aiakos—come to mind. But probably my best answer to that one would be the Erinyes.”

This time Jenna didn't ask. Instead, she simply leaned her head forward in a move that clearly said,
Go on . . .

Calliope unclasped her hands and pointed to a painting on the far wall across from both of them. In it, a tortured-looking, mostly naked man covering his ears stood front and center, and behind him, four willowy figures perpetuated chaos. One was a fainting person draped with a red sheet, a golden dagger protruding from the heart. The other three were set slightly deeper into the painting than the stabbed form, and they were somewhat more ethereal. They looked similar physically, and they all stared at the man, each wearing an expression of ire. One wielded a torch, which was raised as though about to strike.

“Behold, the Erinyes. The three sisters known as the Furies.”