Convergence Point (15 page)

“What kind of creepy?” Ivy asked.

Connor stole one of her fries since Edwin's were gone. “Just weird. She'd say things that made no sense. Talk about stuff that was going to happen like, ‘Next month when you do this, make sure you don't leave trash all over the place again.' ”

“You made a mess at that one protest,” Edwin said. “I yelled at you, too.”

“You yelled
after
we made a mess,” Connor said. “She was reading me the riot act two weeks before we planned the event. I hadn't even decided we
were
doing it. Tell me that's normal.”

“Do you have a history of littering?” Ivy asked.

Both Connor and Edwin shook their heads.

“My ­people don't litter,” Connor said. “We're earth-­conscious and ecofriendly. Everything we use is renewable, sustainable, and fair-­trade. But we had some antigovernment types stop at the protest. They had plastic water bottles!” He sounded outraged at the idea. “Never mind the oceanic gyres or the needs of sea turtles. They had plastic they left on the ground. I even made sure we had recycling bins.”

Edwin frowned. “You don't usually have recycling bins. I thought you upcycled everything.”

Connor shrugged. “The lady creeped me out. Told me I'd get a fine if I left a mess again.” He held up a finger. “Again? It's the again that gets me. Like she'd already lived through all of this. Between that and Troom talking about rewriting history, I dunno. I didn't like her.”

“But Nealie did?”

“She was kind to Nealie,” Connor said. “She left, then Troom left, so I figured Nealie had gone with them.”

Ivy looked at Edwin again. He shook his head. She nodded. Connor really ought to know.

Connor caught the gesture. “What's up?”

“Edwin wants to eat my gator nuggets,” Ivy lied. She pushed the basket of deep-­fried reptile across the table.

Edwin pushed it back. “Try one first.”

With a reluctant grimace, she snatched up a breaded piece of meat, dipped it in the white sauce, and took a bite.

Edwin and Connor laughed at her expression.

“I told you gator was good,” Edwin said. He pushed the basket back to her. “Connor, go grab another basket. You owe me for all the fries you stole.”

Connor laughed. “Fine. You want a drink.”

“Water is fine,” Ivy said.

Edwin pulled his wallet out and gave Connor some cash. “Bring some of the icy lemonades?”

“Sure.”

Edwin raised his eyebrows as Connor walked away. “What do you think?”

“That this isn't a coincidence. Henry Troom
and
Jamie Nelson are both dead. Jamie died on the anniversary of his mother's death?”

“Do you think the killer picked the date?” Edwin asked.

She shrugged. “It's a working hypothesis.”

“It's sickening.”

“Well, serial killers are usually a bit messed up in the head, aren't they? Maybe this one was trying to ‘right history' and kill ­people they were supposed to.”

“Then Nealie would have died in a car accident.”

“You don't know that. Kids die from asphyxiation in cars, too. A seat belt across the neck or an airbag to the face? That kills kids.”

“That's tenuous.”

“This whole thing is tenuous,” she said.

Edwin stole one of her nuggets. “Agent Rose isn't going to like this.”

“Look on the bright side, at least we don't have to tell her that her Agent MacKenzie is a suspect.”

“Great, now all we need to do is find a short woman with black hair and an accent. That only describes, what, 40 percent of the country?”

Ivy smiled. “At least now we have a lead.”

S
am sat at her desk listening to the sough and whine of the air-­conditioning as she read over two lists. One was the visitor registry for Sea Pines Memorial Gardens, where Dolores Nelson was interred at a family plot. The other was a list of activities on the sheriff's schedule. The name Jamie appeared on the visitor record, no surname given, and the sheriff's schedule put him at the cemetery that day, too, but he hadn't signed the register.

She really didn't like the idea forming in her mind. It sounded . . . sick. Yes, sick was the only word she could think of. Sheriff Gardner had been the last person to see his wife alive. His statement to the investigating officer was in the files Ivy had found. Gardner had met his ex for a brief conference at a public library, where she'd given him a box of his things left at the house after the divorce. The next time he'd seen her was at her funeral.

It was stomach churning to think that the sheriff had suffered the same trauma twenty years later with his son. Her phone rang as she made a note to talk with Sheriff Gardner. With luck, he would have some insight for her. Maybe Jamie had brought a friend along that day.

The phone rang again. “Agent Rose speaking”

“Sammie!”

She smiled. “Hey, Bri, what's up?”

“Remember that little scavenger hunt you sent me on?”

“It wasn't a scavenger hunt. I asked you to go talk to someone because they wouldn't answer their phone. Were you able to go?”

“Done, and done,” Bri said. “The storage place did have a locker rented out to the phone number you gave me, but it was cleared out over Christmas by some guy in Florida. Does that help at all?”

“It does, actually. Did the storage owner know what was being kept there?”

Bri blew a raspberry. “Sam, please. The place was a roach-­infested money-­laundering unit. There could have been bodies stored in there, and the owner wouldn't have known. I could barely get him to look at me, and I was wearing a low cut v-­neck!”

“Professional interrogation shirt of PIs everywhere?” Sam laughed. “TV shows lie, Bri. They lie like dogs.”

“Don't knock it 'til you try it. Cleavage gets you everywhere you want to be.”

“And a few places where I'd rather not,” Sam said. “You're setting feminism back a hundred years, you know that, right?”

“Nah. Feminism means I have the right to do whatever I want with my body. If I take advantage of the way men objectify me, that's evolution at work. Survival of the smartest.”

“It's ‘survival of the fittest.' ”

“Which is still me,” Bri said.

Sam could practically see her smug smile. “I know. How was the marathon last weekend?”

“Great! I took four minutes off my last run time.”

“That's great,” Sam echoed.

“And, this summer, Jake and I are taking the kids on a spelunking tour across North America.”

“I thought you were going to New Zealand this summer.”

“Oh, no no no. We're going to New Zealand for
their
summer. We're leaving in August or September. Jake hasn't worked out all the details yet, but it's a four-­year contract. We'll have plenty of time to go exploring. You'll come visit us, right?”

“Of course!” Not that the bureau would approve an agent's going down to New Zealand, but she could pretend. “Any chance you'll get to Australia while you're there?”

“Ha!” Bri laughed. “Not happening. Ever. Their borders are closed tighter than a nun's knees. The only reason the Kiwis are letting anyone in is because their population is critically low. And even then, it's taking months to get them to approve our moving there temporarily.”

Mac knocked on the door and poked his head in.

Sam held up a finger to tell him to wait for her and motioned for him to leave. “Bri, I got to get back to work. Thanks for running to the storage place for me,” she said, as her door swung shut.

“Anytime, sweetie. Send me pictures from your date this weekend.”

“I don't have a date this weekend.”

“You always say that. I always ask. One day I will get a picture of you on the beach having fun.”

“Right,” Sam said, trying not to be sarcastic.

“For me?” Bri asked. “I worry about you.”

“I'll put on something sexy this weekend and take a picture,” Sam said, as Mac opened the door again.

He raised an eyebrow.

“ 'Bye, Bri.”

The other eyebrow went up. “You're sending sexy pics to Bri now?”

“You were supposed to wait outside!” She sighed. “Bri wants me to go on a date and be happy.”

“I agree with her.”

“Really?” Of course he did. Sam tucked her phone away. “What did you need that couldn't wait three more minutes.”

“You should go out with me this weekend.”

Sam rolled her eyes. “We've had dinner together every night since you got here.”

“So it's tradition.” He grinned.

“Focus, MacKenzie. Whatchya got for me?”

He held the door open. “The ballistic reports for the bullet that killed Henry Troom came back. Come on down to the morgue?”

“Tell me there's a match in the database,” she asked as they walked down to his office.

“There is,” Mac said, smiling with manic glee as he unlocked the morgue door, “and the suspect is already dead.”

“What?”

“The bullet matched the ones fired from Marrins's gun when he shot Dr. Emir last summer.”

Sam nodded, already seeing where this was headed. “Henry went to the field behind the lab . . .”

“ . . . and picked up one of the stray bullets from the tree line,” Mac finished. “He kept it as a souvenir, and during the explosion, it hit a velocity high enough to kill him. It's a nice theory.”

She rubbed the back of her neck as a stress tightened her shoulders. “Okay, but is that how bullets work? A spent bullet shouldn't be able to achieve that kind of velocity.”

Mac smiled in approval. “You've learned something about guns in the last year.”

“You're working up to telling me it isn't a stray bullet from the tree line, aren't you? That's where this conversation is going.”

“Ten points to Agent Perfect.”

Sam slugged him in the arm.

“It's a freshly shot bullet,” Mac said.

“From the gun of a man who is dead?” Sam stared at the wall. “Marrins is dead. His gun went to evidence. It was melted down. Right?”

“I've no idea,” Mac admitted. “That's what
should
have happened.”

“So let's check on that.”

“On the to-­do list.” Mac looked at her. “Do you want to call Alabama, or do I have to do it?”

“You get to make phone calls. I'm going to check out a storage unit Henry rented in January. I've got a hunch it might be an interesting visit.”

H
enry Troom's storage unit was on the western edge of town. Conspicuously out of reach of the faulty street cameras down a cracked road the county hadn't gotten around to repairing yet. If one were inclined to be suspicious, one might almost say it was like Henry wanted to hide something.

Sam parked her rental by the main office, mouth tightening with annoyance at the lack of hookup. At least she'd have her car back by the end of the day. The repairs weren't done, but it was drivable. Tossing her hair, she walked into the office.

An older woman with lines etched into her deeply tanned face looked up with sullen eyes. “No vacancies,” she croaked in a nasal Jersey accent mixed and softened by Florida's sunny tones. “Try Billie's down the street. He's got a ­couple sheds free.”

“I'm Agent Rose with the Commonwealth Bureau of Investigation.” Sam pushed her badge across the Formica counter for inspection. “I need to get into locker 324. The owner is Dr. Henry Troom, now deceased.”

The woman sighed, heavy chest heaving under her faded floral shirt with a sigh. “Only the investigating officer or next of kin can enter the premises. If you want something, you gotta wait until the auction. If no one comes to claim the property six months after final payment, we sell it off. What's in there, honey? Nude photos? Sex tape? Trust me, I seen it all.”

“I
am
the investigating officer, and I'm looking for motive.” Since it wasn't bureau policy to show civilians paperwork or get warrants unless it was a domicile or involved a living person, she felt confident that would be enough. Henry wasn't getting any deader, as they said, and even the broadest definition of the word wouldn't qualify the rental units as domiciles. “How many inquiries have you had about this place?”

The woman frowned. “Oh, let's see. There was that smarmy boy. Talked like a lawyer and had oily hair. Jailbird if I ever saw one. I know someone who's done time. All three of my husbands did time. Sometimes together.”

Sam's thought process lurched to a stop. “Don't you mean ex-­husbands?”

“Nah, divorces are expensive. Nobody checks the paperwork anymore. They're all dead now, anyway. Wasn't even them killing each other like my mom said it would be. Twenty years of three husbands, and nobody said a word.”

“That's illegal,” Sam said, amused despite herself.

The woman shrugged. “So's speeding, honey. You ever gotten a ticket?”

“No . . .” She was a careful driver.

“See? Now, next was the lady with the purple suit. Very pretty I thought. A real bulldog, ya know? She was a reporter for the one of those Spanish-­language channels. Told me she was a detective following a lead, but her badge was fake as my tits. Her accent was so heavy, I didn't even think she was speaking English at first.”

“Which lady?” Sam asked.

“The one who wanted to see locker 324. She bunged up the car she was in trying to get out. Drove forward instead of back. Cracked some paint off the pylons.”

“Oh, that's not good,” Sam said, confused.

“Nah, it was only an Alexian Virgo. Girl like that ought to have a better car. You can't get rich husbands driving working-­class cars.”

Sam rested her arms on the chest-­high counter, fascinated. “What did you say your husbands went to jail for?”