Chapter 8
Three days earlier, I'd been driving down Morrison Avenue with the windows cracked, letting in the warm Tampa air that carried hints of exhaust and flowering jasmine.
The late afternoon sun glinted off my rearview mirror, momentarily blinding me just before the flash of red and blue lights appeared behind me.
I checked my speed—five over the limit, nothing that usually warranted a stop—and pulled to the curb with the practiced calm of someone who'd spent two decades on the other side of law enforcement.
Just a routine traffic stop. The last normal moment before my entire life imploded.
I watched in my side mirror as the officer approached, noting his unhurried gait and the casual way his hand rested near his holster—relaxed, not anticipating trouble—a routine stop for him, too.
The heat rising from the asphalt created wavering distortions around his figure as he drew closer.
I rolled down my window, the electric motor whirring in protest.
"License and registration, ma'am." His voice carried the flat affect of someone who'd repeated the same phrase thousands of times. Young guy, maybe early thirties, with a neatly trimmed mustache and the beginning of sweat stains darkening his uniform collar.
"Officer." I nodded, reaching slowly for my purse. Twenty years with the FBI had taught me how to interact with law enforcement—deliberate movements, respectful tone, nothing that could be misinterpreted as a threat. "May I ask why I was pulled over?"
"Taillight's out." He leaned slightly to glance at the back of my car. "Driver's side."
I frowned. I'd checked all my lights before we left a week earlier. It was actually Matt’s old car. We had decided to take this instead of my minivan so my daughter Christine could use that back home for her and the baby.
I kept my confusion to myself as I handed over my license and the registration I'd retrieved from the glove compartment. His eyes flickered with recognition as he read my name.
"FBI?" he asked, looking at me with new interest.
"Twenty years," I confirmed. "Though I'm more of a consultant these days."
“You’re the one who wrote that book on the profiler’s code,” he said.
“That would be me. That’s actually why I’m in town. I live over in Cocoa Beach, but was invited to a book signing event here in Tampa this week. My boyfriend and I are leaving town today. Going home to the children.”
He nodded, that subtle shift in posture that comes when one law enforcement officer recognizes another. His shoulders relaxed a fraction. "I'll just run this and have you on your way, Agent Thomas."
I watched him walk back to his patrol car, my fingers drumming lightly on the steering wheel.
Matt was at the mall waiting for me to pick him up.
He had been buying presents to take home to the kids, as we usually did when going places.
They had been staying with my mom while we were gone.
I guess we kind of felt guilty for being away.
I was a grandmother now, and it was hard to be away from that little munchkin.
Ellie was the most adorable little thing in the world, and everyone loved her.
Even my youngest, Angel, Matt’s and my mutual child, who, up until now, had been the adorable one in the family.
She hadn’t seemed to mind leaving her position to Ellie.
Through my open window came the steady hum of passing traffic, the distant wail of an ambulance, the chirping of birds in the trees lining the boulevard. Ordinary sounds on an ordinary day.
The officer returned faster than I expected, his expression now carefully neutral—the professional mask I recognized from my own days of delivering bad news. Something had changed. My fingers stilled on the steering wheel.
"Ma'am, I'm going to need you to step out of the vehicle."
I felt the first flutter of unease in my stomach. "Is there a problem, Officer?"
"Please step out of the vehicle." His hand had moved closer to his weapon, and his stance widened slightly—preparing for trouble.
I complied, moving slowly, my mind racing through possibilities. Outstanding warrant? Some database error? "What seems to be the issue?" I asked as my feet hit the pavement. The heat rose through the thin soles of my shoes.
He didn't answer immediately; instead, he gestured toward the rear of my car. "Ma'am, is there any particular reason why your trunk might smell the way it does?"
The question hit me like a physical blow. "I don't understand."
"When I walked past your vehicle, I detected a strong odor consistent with decomposition." His words were careful and precise—the language of a report being mentally drafted. "Do you mind if I take a look in your trunk?"
Cold dread pooled in my stomach. "Officer, I assure you—"
"Ma'am, I need you to open the trunk." His hand now rested directly on his holster.
I swallowed hard, my throat suddenly dry. "I don't know what you're talking about. There shouldn't be any smell." But even as I spoke, I became aware of it—faint but unmistakable in the heat. That sweet, sickly odor that every experienced investigator knows.
The smell of death.
With trembling fingers, I pressed the trunk release button on my key fob. The lock disengaged with a soft click that seemed to echo in the space between us.
The officer stepped forward and lifted the trunk lid.
His reaction told me everything before I could see inside. His body went rigid, his hand immediately drawing his weapon as he stumbled back a step. "Jesus Christ," he breathed, the professional veneer cracking to reveal naked shock.
I moved to look, even as everything in me screamed not to.
The world narrowed to the contents of my trunk—a man's body, curled in a fetal position, blood had soaked through the light-colored shirt, darkening to rust around what appeared to be a gunshot wound.
His face was turned away, but I could see dark hair and pale skin with the gray undertone of death.
I didn't recognize him. I had never seen this man before in my life.
My training kicked in automatically—assessing time of death (12-24 hours based on early decomposition), wound pattern (gunshot wound to the back of the head, and another in the back at close proximity, personal), body positioning (placed post-mortem)—even as my mind reeled in horrified disbelief.
"Don't move," the officer ordered, his weapon now trained on me. “Hand over your service weapon.”
I reached down, took my gun out of the holster, and handed it to him. His free hand reached for his radio. "Dispatch, I need backup at West Morrison Avenue. Code three. I have a 187 and a suspect in custody." His voice shook slightly on the last word.
Time seemed to stretch and compress simultaneously. I could hear my own breathing, too fast, too shallow. Sweat trickled down my spine. A car passed, the driver slowing to rubberneck before speeding away. The sun beat down mercilessly from a cloudless sky.
"Officer," I managed, my voice sounding strange to my own ears, "I don't know who that is. I didn't put him there. Someone must have—"
"Hands where I can see them," he cut me off, his earlier recognition of me as a colleague completely erased. Now I was just a killer caught with her victim.
I raised my hands slowly, mind racing. If I submitted to arrest now, I would be at the mercy of whoever had planted this body in my car. Someone with enough knowledge and access to frame me for murder. Someone who wanted me imprisoned or worse.
Rule Seven of The Profiler's Code echoed in my head: Truth before badge. The ultimate loyalty is to finding the truth, even when it conflicts with official positions.
The officer had positioned himself between me and the driver's door. His radio crackled with dispatch confirmation. Backup was on the way. Minutes, perhaps seconds, before my chance evaporated.
"Turn around and place your hands on the vehicle," he instructed, shifting slightly to retrieve his handcuffs.
In that moment of movement, I made my decision. Twenty years of respecting the law, of following procedure, of building cases meticulously within the system—all abandoned in a heartbeat of survival instinct.
I lunged forward, driving my shoulder into his midsection. He wasn't expecting resistance from a fellow law enforcement officer. His back hit the pavement hard, the impact knocking the wind from his lungs in a surprised whoosh. His weapon clattered away.
"I'm sorry," I gasped, though he likely couldn't hear me through his own desperate attempts to breathe. "I didn't do this. I have to find out who did."
I scrambled back into my car, hands shaking so violently I could barely get the key into the ignition. The engine roared to life. In my rearview mirror, I could see the officer struggling to his feet, shouting into his radio, his face contorted with anger and disbelief.
I floored the accelerator, tires screaming against asphalt as I pulled away. The red and blue lights receded in my mirror, but I knew they would soon multiply. Every patrol car in Tampa would be looking for me within minutes.
As Morrison Avenue stretched before me, the reality of what I'd just done crashed over me in waves of nausea and terror. I had assaulted an officer. I had fled a murder scene. I had left behind physical evidence connecting me to a homicide.
I had become exactly what the Profiler's Code warned against—a suspect running from justice.