CHAPTER TWO

Michael grinned at her when she stepped out of her car, a 2009 Crown Victoria that wasn't nearly as classic as the '49 Chevy she referenced in her session with Dr. Perth but was still a damned fine example of American automotive engineering. She sighed and said, "Please don't ask, Michael. Seriously."

"You know I have to."

"You really don't."

The two of them started walking to the office, Turk trotting happily in between them.

"Okay. I will make a statement, then. Therapy was irritating because Dr. Perth might actually get you to talk about things instead of letting you bottle them up."

"Therapy was irritating because I can't have things that are just my own damned business and no one else's. I feel like I should start tracking my bowel movements."

"It's not a bad idea. Get the habit started early. You're not getting younger, you know."

She frowned at him. "I'm sure there was a joke in there somewhere, but it didn't come close to landing."

He shrugged. "Hey, you miss one hundred percent of the shots you don't take."

She lifted an eyebrow. "Didn't figure you for a hockey fan."

His brow furrowed. "What?"

"Never mind."

The two of them walked into the building and headed for the Boss's office. Faith steeled herself for the meeting to come. If anything, it would be even more uncomfortable than the therapy session had been.

"You okay?" Michael asked.

"Ask me that again," she groused. "I dare you."

He lifted his hands placatingly. "Okay."

They walked into the office, and the Boss fixed them with his trademark scowl. Special Agent in Charge Grant Monroe—known affectionately to his subordinates as The Boss—was a twenty-five-year veteran of the Bureau who had spent the past fifteen of those years as the head of the Philadelphia Field Office. He was notorious in the Bureau both for the militant way he ran the Philadelphia office and for his willingness to call Bureau leadership out for their poor decision-making. This had earned him the ire of the directors but also their grudging respect. He would never advance beyond SAC, but his position here was secure.

They took their seats and waited for the Boss to speak first. He took his own seat and sighed. Not a good sign. If something had him worried, then it was serious.

Of course, Faith didn't need to hear the Boss sigh to know this situation was serious. "I take it we haven't learned anything about the murder."

The murder Faith referenced was the death of a clerk at a mom-and-pop electronics store near downtown. The clerk was a forty-five-year-old overweight balding man by the name of Bob Hosier who was found with his gut cut open, and a small portable television placed on the cavity with a note written on the screen in red marker. THIS IS YOUR FAULT, BOLD.

That murder had occurred a week ago, and no one had yet figured out who could be responsible or whether or not this really was intended to send a message to Faith. As a precaution—mostly to keep Faith from the media circus, she guessed—the case had been given to Desrouleaux and Chavez, two of the Boss's other agents.

"No," the Boss replied. "We've been looking online for anything that could suggest someone has it out for you, but nothing's popped up. We even checked the Franklin West fan page."

"He has a fan page?" Michael exclaimed.

Faith wished that the news surprised her as much as it surprised Michael.

"I'm afraid so," the Boss replied, his lip curling in contempt. "People are foolish. But the people in that fan club are mostly teenagers who think it's funny to act like they're attracted to serial killers. No one mentioned anything about the murder, and no one seems to care that Faith exists other than to mention that she really isn't Dr. West's type, and he should go for someone with a darker aesthetic."

Faith chuckled softly. "Would this be a bad time to ask if I could work the case?"

"Every time will be a bad time to ask that question," the Boss replied. "We can't risk any more questions with you. People are already picking you and the Bureau apart over the West case. You're walking the line from now on. You're too close to this case, so the answer's no."

"But is she in danger?" Michael asked. "Do we think this person will come after her?"

"We still don't know if the person who did this is really concerned with Faith at all. The M.O. is theatrical, but it's not remotely the same as West's M.O. If this person is an admirer, then they're showing their admiration in a very odd way."

Michael scoffed. "What's a normal way to show admiration for a serial killer?"

The Boss met his eyes. "The way West did."

Michael pressed his lips together and said nothing.

"If I'm not part of the case, then why are we talking about it?" Faith asked. "No offense, sir, but if I can't be involved in the resolution of this murder, then it would be better if I don't hear about it."

"Nine hundred ninety-nine times out of a thousand I'd agree with you," the Boss replied, "but your name was mentioned. So I thought I should at least ask and see if you've heard or seen anything unusual over the past few weeks."

Faith shook her head. "Nothing. My neighborhood's been quiet as a cemetery." She immediately regretted using that analogy.

The Boss sighed. "Well, let me know if anything changes. For now, I think it's safe to say this was probably just a one-off."

"Hell of a one-hit wonder," Michael muttered.

"Don't hold your breath, Prince," the Boss said, reaching into his desk drawer. "I've got a beautiful little psychopath of your very own to hunt."

"Oh joy," Michael said drily. "Christmas already?"

The Boss dropped a file on the desk. "Cassidy Holt, twenty-eight. Found naked in a botanical garden. The body was covered in a black powder and was posed with her knees tucked to her chest and her arms wrapped around her feet."

"Cute," Michael quipped.

"Sexual assault?" Faith asked.

"No."

"Couldn't be that simple," Michael said.

"It never is, is it?" the Boss agreed. "As nearly as we can tell, she was killed on site. The cause of death was a severed spinal cord caused by extreme torsion of the cervical vertebrae."

"In English?" Faith asked.

"Someone snapped her neck."

Faith grimaced. She had seen plenty of gruesome crime scenes, most of them far nastier than what the Boss had just described, but there was something so animalistic about breaking someone's neck. It wasn't the work of a sick mastermind or a mad scientist. Just a brute.

The rest of it, though—the posed nude body and the mysterious black powder—was right up her alley.

"You mentioned black powder," Michael asked. "Do we know what that is yet?"

"No. The lab's still checking it out."

"When did this murder occur?" Faith asked.

"Four days ago."

"And we're only hearing about it now?"

"You know the rules, Faith. Three murders before we're called, or two murders that look freaky."

"So there's a second victim?"

The Boss flipped the picture of Cassidy Holt over to reveal a second victim. "Samantha Reynard, thirty-two. Found in her loft apartment this morning. Covered in white powder, also naked, also not assaulted sexually. Posed with her limbs spread like a starfish."

"So our boy's getting creative," Michael said.

"We don't know if it's a boy yet," the Boss pointed out.

"True, but come on," Michael said. "It's a boy."

The Boss sighed. "Yes, probably. But we're going to do our jobs and not assume anything."

"Of course," Faith agreed. "Cause of death for Samantha?"

"Same as for Cassidy."

"Lovely," Michael said. "Why is it always girls?"

"It's not," the Boss said. "But for this guy, it probably is."

"A better question is why does he strip them of clothing if there's not a sexual component?" Faith asked. "Or does the sexual component not require sexual release?"

"I mean… well, we don't have to get into gory details just yet," Michael deflected. "Anything else we don't know that we should, Boss?"

"Yes. You're taking a private flight to Chicago."

Faith lifted her eyebrow. "We're not flying coach?"

"No. I'm using some of the field office's surplus to pay for a charter plane to O'Hare. You're too much of a celebrity for us to put you on an airplane."

Faith shrugged. "I mean, I still go to the convenience store without getting mobbed by the press."

"Yes, but the Bureau thinks it's too risky to have you in public. They didn't want me to give you this case at all, but I ignored them and just found workarounds to take their excuses away."

Faith frowned. "They're still blaming me for the media circus surrounding West's trial."

"No. But they're still pissed about it. Not to be an asshole, Faith, but they have a point, too. We're not the CIA, but it still helps if our field agents aren't celebrities. I know you're not Margot Robbie, but enough people know your name and face to make it a liability to have you in the field."

"But you're still sending me to Chicago."

"Because I don't think the liability outweighs the benefits," he said. "But you need to be aware that there are eyes on you. So you need to do things by the book this time. And you need to be prepared for heightened media attention if it comes to light that you're working the case."

"Meaning we need to try to keep it from coming to light," Michael guessed.

"I don't know if you can," the Boss admitted, "but you need to be prepared to have flashing lights pointed in your face, and you need to find a way to tell them to fuck off without telling them to fuck off."

Faith chuckled. "I can promise to be as polite as you are, sir."

The Boss slumped slightly. "I was afraid you'd say that. Just tell them that you can't discuss details of an active case. If they press you, feed them the usual bullshit. You're following up on leads, you'll provide more information once you've made an arrest, and so forth."

"Maybe we'll get lucky," Michael offered. "Maybe we can use the attention to ask the public to help us out. I know that usually means a thousand pieces of crap info to get one nugget of gold, but that'll give the locals something to do to keep them out of our way."

The Boss looked Michael up and down. "By God, Prince, I think you just had a good idea."

"That happens from time to time," Michael said drily.

"Well, whatever you need to do, get it done as professionally as you can. We need a reason to keep you in the field, Bold. Otherwise, the decision will be taken out of our hands. Now get out of here. Go catch a bad guy."

"Hey," Faith protested. "That's my catchphrase."

"Well, here's mine. Fuck off."

Faith chuckled. "You got it, sir. When does our flight leave?"

"Soon. Go to the airport, and someone will meet you there with a sign."

"How exciting," Michael quipped. "Just like a movie."

"Yeah," Faith agreed. "Except the victims don't get to walk away after the director calls cut."