“Would you feel better if you knew where they were going?” Sloane asked. Dean didn’t reply, but Sloane texted Lia anyway. I wasn’t surprised when she got a reply. Lia was the one who’d told me we were at issue capacity. She wouldn’t ignore Sloane—not in a city where Sloane had spent most of her life being ignored by her own flesh and blood.
“So?” Dean said. “Where are they going?”
Sloane walked over to the window and stared out—through the spiral. “The Desert Rose.”
It was forty-five minutes between the time Michael walked out the door and the time Judd walked in. Agent Sterling followed. Briggs entered last. He came to stand in the middle of the suite, staring at the papers covering the floor.
“Explain.” Briggs resorting to one-word commands was never a good thing.
“Based on Sloane’s projections, we’re looking at nine victims every three years for a period of at least sixty years, with a different signature underlying each set.” Dean kept it brief, his voice remarkably dispassionate, given the content of what he was saying. “The cases are spread out geographically, no repeating jurisdictions. The methods of killing go in a predictable order, and that order mirrors our UNSUB’s first four kills. We believe we’re dealing with a fairly large group, most likely one with a cult-like mentality.”
“Our UNSUB isn’t a part of the cult,” I continued. “This isn’t a group that advertises its existence, and that’s exactly what the additional elements of our UNSUB’s signature—the numbers on the wrists, the fact that the Fibonacci sequence determines not only the dates on which he kills but also the exact location—effectively do.”
“He’s better than they are.” Sloane wasn’t profiling. She was stating what was, to her mind, a fact. “Anyone can kill on certain dates. This…” She gestured to the papers carefully arranged on the floor. “It’s simplistic. That?” She turned toward the map on the window, the spiral. “The calculations, the planning, making sure the right thing happens in the right place at the right time.” Sloane sounded almost apologetic as she continued, “That’s perfection.”
You’re better than they are. That’s the point.
“We knew the numbers written on the victims’ wrists were a message,” I said. “We knew they mattered. We knew it wasn’t just our attention he wanted.”
It’s theirs.
“That’s it.” Judd’s voice was rough. “You’re done.” He couldn’t order Agent Sterling off this case. That was outside of his purview. But the rest of us weren’t. He was the final word on our involvement in any investigation. “All of you,” he addressed those words to Dean, Sloane, and me. “It’s my decision. It’s my call. And I say we’re done.”
“Judd—” Sterling’s voice was calm, but I thought I could hear a note of desperation underneath.
“No, Ronnie.” Judd turned his back on her, staring at Sloane’s window, his entire body bow-string tight. “I want Nightshade. Always have. And if there’s a larger group involved in what happened to Scarlett, I damn well want them, too. But I won’t risk a single one of these kids.” The idea of walking away was killing Judd, but he refused to waver. “You’ve got what you need from them,” he told Sterling and Briggs. “You know where the UNSUB is going to strike. You know when. You know how. Hell, you even know why.”
I could make out a hint of Judd’s reflection in the window. Enough to see his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed.
“It’s my call,” Judd said again. “And I say that if you’ve got anything else you need a consult on, you can damn well ship it to Quantico. We’re leaving. Today.”
Before anyone could respond, the door to the suite opened. Lia stood there, looking supremely satisfied with herself. Michael stood behind her, soaked from head to toe in mud.
“What—” Briggs started to say. Then he corrected himself. “I don’t want to know.”
Lia strolled into the foyer. “We never left the suite,” she announced, lying to their faces with disturbing conviction. “And I certainly didn’t beat the pants off a bunch of professionals playing recreational poker at the Desert Rose. In related news: I have no idea why Michael’s covered in mud.”
A glop of mud fell from Michael’s hair onto the tile floor.
“Get cleaned up,” Judd told Michael. “And all of you, get packed.” Judd didn’t wait for a reply before turning to retreat to his own room. “Wheels up in one hour.”
“I do hope you found your stay to your liking.” The concierge met us in the lobby. “Your departure is a bit abrupt.”
His tone made that sound like a question. It was closer to a complaint.
“It’s my leg,” Michael told him in a complete deadpan. “I walk with a limp. I’m sure you understand.”
As far as explanations went, that one held little to no explanatory power, but the concierge was flustered enough that he didn’t question it. “Yes, yes, of course,” he said hurriedly. “We just have a few things for you to sign, Mr. Townsend.”
While Michael dealt with the paperwork, I turned to look back at the lobby. At the front desk, dozens of people stood in line, waiting to check in. I tried not to think about the fact that in three days, any one of them—the elderly man, the guy wearing the Duke sweatshirt, the mother with three small children—could be dead.