CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Faith paced back and forth across the hotel room, arms crossed, fingertips tapping her shoulders, lips pressed into a thin line. The sky outside was now completely dark, and at any moment, she expected a phone call telling her about another victim found murdered with an oath taped to their body.
It occurred to her that they probably wouldn’t find out about any other bodies until the morning. That did nothing to improve her attitude.
“Faith, you need to eat,” Jessica said. “I know you won’t sleep, and I probably won’t either, but if we need to chase this guy and it turns into a fight, you need your strength.”
Faith rolled her eyes, but Jessica was right. She picked up her sandwich and bit into it, continuing to pace across the room.
Turk sat in between the beds, following Faith with his head and wagging his tail. He didn’t seem particularly worried, maybe because he knew that they were on the cusp of breaking this open, and he could finally catch the bad guy.
Faith wished she could have his attitude, but every minute that passed was another minute that an innocent person could be dying. Damn it, how long did it take to clean up a damned video clip? Fort Worth understood that innocent lives were on the line, right?
She took another bite from her sandwich and glanced at Jessica. Despite her semi-scolding advice to Faith, her own sandwich sat forgotten on the table in front of her. Jessica looked up and saw Faith’s gaze, then smirked and picked up her own sandwich. “Yeah, yeah, I know.”
Faith pushed air through her nose, the closest thing to a chuckle she could get right now. Her hand strayed to her phone, but she stopped herself. Harassing them wouldn’t make the process any faster.
She lifted the sandwich to her mouth, but when her phone rang, she tossed the sandwich onto the table and pulled the phone from her pocket. The sandwich opened and spread meat, vegetables, and sauce all over the table, but she'd deal with cleanup later.
“Bold.”
“Bold, it’s Dunn. We have the image enhanced. I’m sending it over to you right now.”
“And?”
“And… that’s it. He’s not on the wanted list, whoever he is.”
“You didn’t think to run his image through NCIC?”
The National Crime Information Center was a computerized index of missing persons and criminal information used by law enforcement organizations across the country, including the FBI, for identifying suspects.
It only identified people with criminal records, but more often than not, spree and serial killers had past criminal histories.
Dunn sighed. “Agent, we’re in the middle of a lot of other shit right now. I’m not trying to minimize your case, but we’ve helped as much as we can. You need to take it from here.”
Faith pressed her lips together. “Right. Of course. Thank you for your help.”
“Not a problem. Chin up, Bold. You’re on the right track. You’ve got this guy.”
Yes, but what if we don’t have him in time? “Thank you, again.”
She hung up and turned to Jessica to see her partner already pulling the image from the email and running it through NCIC. Faith took the seat next to her, accidentally putting the sleeve of her uniform into a splotch of mustard, but that was another thing she could deal with later.
Turk trotted softly to the table, glanced at Faith, then began gingerly eating the remains of her sandwich off the table. Faith stared at Jessica’s laptop screen while the NCIC searched its records for the man in the image Dunn had sent.
He was in his late thirties with reddish hair sprinkled with gray.
His eyes were a shocking sapphire blue, although that could be a result of the image enhancement and not exactly their true color.
He wore an oversized windbreaker above a Harley Davidson t-shirt and a pair of blue jeans above scuffed tan boots.
In the enhanced image, it was clear that he was watching the three victims and not the commotion taking place between Anthony Pierce and the security officers.
There was murder in his eyes.
The laptop chirped, and an image came up. Faith and Jessica both cried out with excitement when they finally stared into the eyes—genuinely a deep sapphire blue—of their suspect.
“James Caldwell,” Jessica read. “Forty-one—looks pretty good for that age, not that it matters—former US Army Staff Sergeant and K9 handler. Honorably discharged three years ago once he hit twenty years.”
She scrolled down the file. He applied to adopt his service dog, Hunter, and was denied because both he and his dog were diagnosed with PTSD.
The dog was sent to the Dallas Doghouse for rehabilitation.
The Doghouse worked with Hunter for three weeks, then kicked him to the Plano Animal Shelter.
It looks like he was put up for adoption, but they couldn't find a family they deemed qualified.
He was sent to the Fort Worth animal shelter and euthanized. "
“Well, there’s our connection to the victims,” Faith said. “Why’s he in the system?”
“Had a meltdown after Hunter was euthanized. Got into a bar fight and put a guy in the hospital. Looks like the charges were reduced, and he was ordered into court-mandated grief management. Passed that with flying colors, and he’s been a model citizen ever since.”
Faith experienced a stray moment of sympathy for Caldwell.
She had fought in a war. She knew the kind of hell that put people through.
She knew the sacrifices people were called upon to perform in the service of their country.
This man had been through that hell, fought hard to come home to a place free of violence, then lost the only living thing he had to share that journey with.
It was tragic that he’d lost his way so much.
But he was killing people. Tragic or not, Faith couldn’t allow that. “Address?”
Jessica clicked back to the first page, revealing an address near downtown Arlington.
“Perfect,” Faith said. “Call Arlington PD and get officers on scene ASAP. We’ll meet them as soon as we can. How long is that drive?”
Jessica punched the route into her GPS. “About forty-five minutes.”
“Okay. Let’s get going then.”
The three agents left the hotel room, jogging to the stairs and taking them to the ground floor rather than waiting for the elevator.
Jessica called Arlington, PD on the way, and got them to send a pair of cruisers to the apartment to detain Caldwell until they arrived. They would be there in five minutes.
Faith looked up at the stars popping to life in the night sky. She hoped those stars were good omens and not dispassionate observers watching the desperate ants scramble to stop a crime that had already been committed.
***
Michael’s phone buzzed just as he broke through the surprisingly heavy traffic of the beltway and headed south down I-95.
He was about forty-five minutes from Quantico now.
He glanced at his clock and cursed. He was an hour behind schedule.
Not that it likely mattered, but considering the massive pile of shit David had stepped into, it made Michael nervous.
His phone buzzed again, and he pressed the talk button on his car so he could speak with the caller over Bluetooth and not give some overzealous state trooper a chance to write a ticket. “Prince. What’s going on, Hozier?”
Markham Hozier was the Special Agent-in-Charge of the Washington, D.C.
field office. He was a colossal prick and so by-the-book he probably slept with a copy of it hugged to his chest, but he was far enough away that Michael could manage to be polite to him the few times they were forced to interact with each other.
“Did you hear about the break-in at the FBI Academy?”
Michael’s blood ran cold. “No. What happened?”
"Someone threw cherry bombs over the north wall, and while the security team responded, someone else broke into the K9 School. Looks like they broke a stained-glass piece and broke into the veterinary office, but didn't take anything."
A tremor ran through Michael, powerful enough that his Grand Wagoneer swerved a little before he got himself under control. God damn it. “Did they catch the people responsible?”
“No. They’re pretty sure it was some college kids pulling a very ill-advised prank. I just thought you might have heard something from Agent Bold.”
“No, she’s out of town on assignment.”
“Oh, that’s right. She’s with Torres in Texas. Someone’s knocking people off at animal shelters.”
Jesus Christ, Hozier, how do you now know where your agents are?
Hozier's incompetence, or laziness, or whatever it was, placed very low on Michael's list of priorities right now. He needed to be in contact with David ASA-fucking yesterday. "Hey, Hozier, I'm on the road right now, and traffic's being a bitch, so I'm gonna let you go, but keep me posted, yeah?"
“Yeah, sure thing. Later, Prince.”
Michael hung up and immediately said, “Jeep, call David.”
“Taking you to David’s Deli in Falls Church, Virginia.”
“No, call David.”
“David is a given name of Hebrew origin, popular among Western nations for its Biblical associations—”
“Jeep, call Doctor… Fuck it.”
He reached for his phone, tapping the voice assistant away before the AI could tell Michael what it thought Dr. Fuckit was. He dialed David’s number and pressed the call button, then placed his phone back on the charging pad with another curse. “Goddamned useless AI.”
The phone rang. And rang. And rang. Michael’s shoulders slumped, and he whined inwardly, Come on. Seriously?
“Hello!” David said cheerfully.
“Oh, thank God,” Michael gushed. “David, where are you right—”
“You’ve reached Dr. Friedman. If you meant to call my office, the phone number is—”
Michael lifted his right hand, clenched it into a fist, and counted to three before slowly lowering it back to the steering wheel.
The last time he’d lost control and slammed the steering wheel, he’d broken it and had to pay Jeep nine thousand dollars to fix it. He really didn’t want to do that again.
He hung up and tried again. When he got voicemail a second time, he resigned himself to the growing clusterfuck this was turning out to be and waited for the beep.
As soon as it arrived, he said, “David, wherever you are right now, get in your car and drive. It doesn’t matter where.
As soon as you’re in your car and on the road, call me. Do this immediately.”
He hung up, took a deep breath, and pushed air through his nose.
He thought for a moment and decided a voicemail wasn't enough.
If David were in trouble, he wouldn't be able to answer, and if Michael floundered around Quantico looking for him at his house or the FBI Academy, he would just waste time.
The phone rang, so it was still on, which meant he could track it.
He pulled to the side of the road and activated the FBI tablet bolted to the passenger side dash.
He punched David’s number into the cell phone tracker and waited while the system triangulated the signal.
When it popped up, and Michael saw where David was, his heart dropped to his feet again. “Oh, God damn it, David.”
He hit the gas, and the massive SUV rocketed forward.
The Jeep was bigger than some continents, but it had a powerful engine and hit sixty miles per hour in under five seconds, as fast as some sports cars.
There were very few situations where Michael would ever drive the big SUV that fast, but this was one of them.
He didn't have police lights on this vehicle, so he'd just have to hope the State Police were elsewhere tonight. He tapped the steering wheel, glanced at the GPS, which helpfully told him he was forty-two minutes from his destination.
If David died, Faith would break completely. The goal Franklin West had strived for would finally be achieved, not by the torment of a serial killer but by the well-meaning stupidity of a big-hearted veterinarian who, like his wife, didn’t know when to let things go.
“God damn it, David,” he said softly.