CHAPTER TWO
In Kate’s opinion, Mondays got a bad rap.
Sure, Monday was the end of the weekend, the beginning (for much of the population) of the workweek, and the day when people had to cope with the fact that eighty percent of their lives was spent with their heels dug in grinding away at the millwheel of life, leaving them too exhausted to enjoy the twenty percent of free time they were allowed.
But Tuesday was worse. Monday, at least, allowed the illusion of a new beginning. People could lie to themselves, convince themselves that this week would be different, better, more productive, less draining.
By Tuesday, those illusions were out the window, and since there were still four days before the freedom of the weekend, you couldn’t really even look forward to much either. You were just stuck in the same ol’ same ol’.
This particular Tuesday, Kate's same old was seasoned with newness, but not the kind of newness that brought excitement and wonder. It was more like the kind of newness that came when children inevitably decided to act on their curiosity and pour orange juice over their Fruit Loops instead of milk.
Marcus was here, but instead of joking around with him and making small talk like they used to, she stared at cold case records and listened to his heavy breathing, soft muttering and deliberate avoidance of any eye contact or verbal contact with a woman who three short months ago he had felt up in the front seat of his car.
And gone no further than that thanks to my choice to stop things there. Another missed opportunity I can kiss goodbye forever.
“Do you mind if I make a phone call?”
She looked up from a thirty-year-old cipher that she was ninety percent certain was going to turn out to be "Purple," a code used by the Japanese Foreign Office during World War II.
"Seriously?" she replied. "We've been partners for closing in on two years, and you have to ask to make a goddamned phone call?
I get that things are tense between us, but would you mind not acting like a damned child? "
All of that would have been lovely except that she didn’t actually reply with that. She thought it, but when she opened her mouth, the words that came out were a wooden, “Sure. Go ahead.”
Marcus dialed the number while Kate confirmed that the cipher was, in fact, Purple.
That matched the code used in the diary found on the victim’s bed, written in the same handwriting as the note left in the victim’s hand.
That confirmed that Jiro Isokari did, in fact, murder his wife and leave the coded message as a taunt.
The defense’s claims of racial profiling were unfounded, and his continued incarceration was well-deserved and should continue until the end of his natural life as ordered by Justice Paula Weissman in the Year of Our Lord 1996.
She emailed those findings to Winters while Marcus argued with the Interpol agent on the other end of the phone.
“Are you saying you’d rather wait until he has killed someone else to get involved?
For Christ's sake, inspector. Cox is undertaking a religious crusade, not a political one.
You guys should know all about that." He paused while the Interpol agent made his reply, then exclaimed, "How the hell is that offensive?
Jesus, will you…" He pursed his lips, waited a while longer, then said, "Inspector, Elijah Cox has murdered at least eight people that we know of and indirectly murdered well over a dozen more.
" A briefer pause. "I mean, he told his disciples to kill them.
" Another brief pause. "You want me to forward you the evidence?
It's pretty fucking conclusive." A sigh.
"You know what? Fine. Forget it. I look forward to the phone call begging us for help after you find a dead body with a verse from Exodus carved into its fucking chest."
He hung up and glared at the absence of a hook on which to slam his cell phone. He stuffed it in his pocket and slammed his fist into his palm instead, an expression of petulance that would have been adorable if Kate were allowed to feel that way about him anymore.
He caught Kate’s eye, and a flash of guilt crossed his own. It cut Kate worse than any anger could have.
“Don’t worry, Kate,” he said. “We’ll get this asshole.
He’s not going to stay out of the country forever.
If he’s even out of the country.” He reddened, probably realizing he’d spoken that last sentence out loud.
“I’ll call the Mounties again and see if they’ll proceed to an active search.
We’re only a couple hours from the border, so they’ll have to take this seriously. We’ll get him, Kate.”
Kate bit her lip and tried to think of something, literally anything, to say. Why was it so damned hard? She just needed to pretend she hadn’t flirted with the idea of falling in love with him.
“How’s the divorce coming?”
Jesus Holstein-Friesian Christ, Kate.
Marcus gave her the same incredulous look she gave him when he asked permission to make a phone call.
Then he laughed. It was hard to tell if he thought the question was funny or he was just too emotionally exhausted to care that it was offensive.
“Well, it’s nice to be a working-class man with zero assets,” he replied. “She can only come after my salary.”
“She’s coming after your salary?”
"Yeah. Mostly my health benefits, but a little bit of my salary too."
Marcus’s ex-wife, Cheryl, had waffled between adoring Marcus and treating him like shit.
Kate had never disliked her. She was no worse than most other bleach blond supermodel types who had been raised to believe the world owed them a living and then some.
Better than most, at least from the limited exposure Kate had to her.
She was just a bad fit for Marcus. The largest bone of their contention was the fact that Marcus’s job was the greatest priority in his life, not his marriage.
That was why rates of divorce were so high in law enforcement and particularly the FBI.
Wives (and husbands) typically expected to be the most important things in their significant others’ lives.
That wasn’t an option when your job was to catch people who killed other people.
Then there was Kate, the woman Marcus promised Cheryl she didn’t have to worry about only to start dating before the word divorce even left their lips. Cheryl had always suspected something between them, and good golly if she hadn’t been right.
Got good news for you there, Cher. That something flamed out just about the instant you showed us those pictures.
The pictures in question were pictures of Kate and Marcus in several compromising situations, the most compromising being a steamy makeout session in Marcus’s car on her birthday.
The Seventh Commandment Killer had provided them to Cheryl on Elijah Cox’s instructions.
That had inspired Cheryl to track them down to the Miami field office and have a very public meltdown in front of both of them and the rest of the field office.
Which had brought to light the fact that Marcus was dragging his feet on the divorce, hiding his relationship with Kate from Cheryl, and not even remotely ready to move on.
“Yeah, lawyer thinks she’ll probably end up getting something too. We’re trying to point out that our marriage only lasted a few months, but the images of…” He cleared his throat. “Well, she’s going to win an at-fault divorce, and judges tend to view infidelity with a harsh eye.”
“Well, you weren’t unfaithful,” Kate pointed out. “The closest we ever got to sex was your right hand squeezing my left breast for a half-second in your car.”
Marcus winced. “Yeah, thanks for that. Still counts as infidelity.”
“We’re not bad people, Marcus. We gave your marr—you gave your marriage a shot. She blew it up. We started dating, and for Pete’s sake, we made out once. How can she get alimony?”
Marcus sighed. “You know what, Kate? This is the most you and I have talked in two months, and it’s about Cheryl. Can we just make a rule not to talk about our personal lives?”
This was an excellent time for Kate to back out of the hole she was digging, apologize, and maybe salvage something of their disintegrating friendship. So, of course, she had to say something snarky.
“Sure. Want to hear all about Purple and how it proves that a dude murdered his wife in ’96?”
“What? Purple?”
His phone buzzed. He jumped, cursed softly, and pulled it from his pocket. “Winters,” he said for Kate’s benefit before answering. “Hey.” He listened for a moment, then said, “Yeah, she’s here.”
Kate bristled. Just what she needed right now.
“All right, we’re on our way.” Marcus hung up and jerked his head toward the door for Kate to follow.
Kate did so without comment, because when you and your partner were recovering from a breakup but still had to work together, you put up with minor annoyances. Like your partner gesturing for you to follow instead of using words.
Freaking Tuesday.