Chapter 5
Mateo chugged what was left of his Red Bull, pitching it into a trashcan before entering a crowded conference room in the New Orleans FBI field office.
His team was scattered through the stark space, Smith standing near the coffeepot, Williams sitting behind a computer screen, Jones shuffling through a stack of case files.
A handful of local agents faced the back wall, which had been covered with photos of the latest crime scene.
Low whispers passed between them, hands held over mouths as they witnessed the horror of last night’s murder.
A tall Black man with broad shoulders moved away from the others and approached.
He wore a charcoal gray suit that was almost a match for his eyes, a glimmering, steely gray.
Dark hair was shaved low, slightly tapered on the sides.
His face appeared hardened at first, but as he extended a hand to Mateo, he smiled, which softened him considerably.
“Good morning. I’m SA Jack Donovan, your Field Office Liaison while you and your team are in town.”
Mateo studied Donovan closer, the man’s words at odds with what he could see with his eyes.
He couldn’t be older than twenty-five. His skin was smooth and without the lines of age, and there was a glint in his eye that Mateo knew well.
This agent was both unseasoned and untarnished.
He still had the promise of youth and vitality in his eyes, and an unmistakable energy emanated from him.
Still, Mateo would reserve judgment for now. For anyone to become a Special Agent—not to mention being trusted with the task of liaising—was no small feat. There was more to Donovan than met the eye.
“Morning,” Mateo replied, shaking Donovan’s hand. “It’s nice to meet you. I’m SSA—”
“Mateo Garcia. I looked into you when I heard that this UNSUB had struck in New Orleans. I have to say I’m impressed. For anyone to bring in every suspect they’ve ever chased alive! Man, you’re a legend.”
Mateo grimaced, having never accepted praise well. “I don’t know about that. And now I feel at a disadvantage.”
Donovan clapped his shoulder with one large hand. “We’ll be spending a lot of time together while you’re in town, so that won’t last long. Before we get started, I want to introduce you to someone.”
He steered Mateo to an open door that led into a dark, cramped office space.
Inside, a set of desks sat pushed together in a half-circle, holding several keyboards and monitors.
The screens displayed various programs running simultaneously, lines of code too convoluted for Mateo to make any sense of.
A woman faced the screens, her fingers flying rapidly over the keys.
A set of large headphones covered her ears, keeping her from hearing their entrance.
Mateo could hear the whine of electric guitar and the bass of drums. How she managed to avoid going deaf with it turned up so loud, he didn’t know.
“Darcy!” Donovan called out. He slipped a pen out of his jacket pocket and tossed it in her direction. It bounced off the top of her head and landed somewhere in the shadows.
Swiveling in her chair, a waif-thin girl in her twenties faced them, pulling off the headphones with a smile.
Her pale blonde hair was streaked with pink and purple strands, and a pair of black cat-eye glasses sat on the bridge of her freckled nose.
A nose ring punched through one nostril, while a silver barbell adorned an eyebrow.
She wore a black T-shirt emblazoned with "Metallica" across the chest, and its short sleeves displayed a mishmash of tattoos covering one arm in a sleeve.
She wore a pair of Converse, black to match the shirt.
“Oh, you are so dead,” she said, narrowing her eyes at Donovan.
“Behave yourself; we have a guest. This is SSA Garcia from D.C. He’s our lead on this case.”
“Welcome to the epicenter of the universe,” Darcy said, indicating her screens.
Mateo struggled to keep up as she continued talking, her words spilling out a thousand miles a minute.
“I’m Darcy Hart, your friendly neighborhood intelligence specialist. I can assist you with everything from tracking your suspects and setting up surveillance to infiltrating classified information or destroying someone’s entire database.
I could even tell you where the celebrity of your choice is at any given moment using global positioning satellites, which is how I’m feeding my Pedro Pascal obsession.
Don’t tell. Not that you would tell anyone who cares or would do anything about it, you know?
Unless you happen to know Pedro Pascal? Gosh, what a babe. ”
“Enough,” Donovan said with a chuckle. “We don’t want to scare him off. Garcia, I’ll make sure you get Darcy’s number so you can have direct communication with her.”
“Call anytime, day or night,” Darcy added. “I never sleep anyway.”
“Have you at least eaten today?” Donovan asked.
The desks holding her screens were littered with empty energy-drink cans and crushed Hot Cheetos bags.
“Breakfast of champions,” she declared, jerking a thumb over her shoulder to indicate the mess.
“Real food, Darcy. Not this junk.”
“Let’s get started,” Mateo interrupted, anxious to brief everyone and get moving.
The conference room went silent as he approached the wall where the images from the crime scene had been hung.
“I trust everyone here has had a chance to go over the details of the case, so I’ll jump right in.
While our latest murder did not turn up any new evidence, the crime scene in Little Rock yielded a clue.
Near the body, a matchbook with the word Solstice printed on it was found.
It was also marked as being in New Orleans. ”
“Solstice is a nightclub on Bourbon Street,” Donovan offered. “Maybe our UNSUB has been there recently.”
“And before he turned up in Little Rock,” Williams added. “Which means he’s been here before. He might even live here.”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Mateo replied. “The crime scenes show no discernable pattern, so it’s difficult to triangulate a specific location.”
“Solstice is a nice place, but it’s also a stomping ground for some pretty sketchy peeps,” Darcy chimed in. “Maybe our guy has some dealings there.”
“Maybe. But we can’t exactly go in there and ask if they’ve seen him.
We don’t have a description beyond the basics of the profile.
However, there must be a connection. We just have to figure out what it is.
Darcy, I need everything you can get me on Solstice.
Who owns it? Who does business there and what are their connections? Who’s on their payroll?”
She nodded. “Done and done.”
“And what about the victim? Any progress on her identification?”
“I’m running photos of her from the crime scene in all my databases. I’ll let you know as soon as I get a hit.”
“Williams, get in touch with Little Rock and find out if they’ve made any progress identifying their victim. I’m certain she’ll match the profiles of the others, but any new details could push this case forward. Once we know who she is, I want to know everything about her.”
“I’m on it,” Williams replied.
“Smith, take Jones with you and visit any businesses near Solstice that might have security cameras. We’re looking for footage showing the comings and goings at the club over the past two months, and from every angle possible.
I have to believe the UNSUB was in New Orleans and visited the club before heading to Little Rock.
He’s circled back here to kill again, and we need to know why.
Try to persuade them to hand over the footage without the need for a subpoena. ”
“While they’re doing that, there’s something I want to talk to you about,” Donovan interrupted. “Something I noticed while reading over your case files last night.”
Mateo dismissed the team and followed Donovan to a table littered with evidence from last night’s crime scene. He lifted the small plastic baggie holding the mysterious coin and angled it toward Mateo.
“The markings on this coin … I think I’ve seen them before, but I can’t remember where.”
Mateo lifted his eyebrows. “Really? Due to the ritualistic nature of the murders, we assumed they might be some kind of religious iconography. But some of D.C.’s best experts in spirituality and the occult were unable to identify it.”
“Your experts have nothing on the Vodou priestesses and root workers here. I know someone who might be able to help us identify it. I know the devil-worship shit is a long shot, but we don’t have anything to lose.”
“You know someone? Donovan, don’t tell me you’re into any weird shit.”
Donovan laughed. “She’s just a root worker … an herbalist. But she has deep knowledge of spiritual lore. I’ve consulted her on a few cases in the past.”
Taking the coin from Donovan and studying it through the plastic, Mateo sighed. “It couldn’t hurt. It’s not like we have any other leads. If indulging in the idea that the ritualistic nature of the murders means anything helps find this son of a bitch, I’ll do it.”
“Come on. If we leave now, we can beat the morning traffic.”
Half an hour later, Donovan led him into a building marked with a sign that read Marchand’s Botanica across it in white letters.
The place was nestled in the Treme neighborhood, which had started to come alive for the day.
The smells of boiling crab and crawfish followed Mateo into the shop, which was dimly lit and cramped with shelves and display cases.
A dusty chandelier cast meager light over the shelves and display cases, which Mateo studied as Donovan left him behind to move further into the space.