Into Darkness Read online

  First the twitch of a smile, then he broke out in the full Flatbush cemetery, teeth ivory white and Chiclet big. “That’s what she claims, yes.”

  “She also claims that, after she said no, a little later, in the back of the restaurant, you groped her while she waited to use the ladies’ room.”

  The grin faltered just a bit, but Spencer persisted with it. “Crazy world we’re living in today, isn’t it? When people can just say whatever they want?”

  “Well, we’ve lived in that world for a while now. Isn’t that free speech, Mr. Spencer?”

  He dropped the grin and stared at her. She glanced at Heinz, who lifted his eyebrows, as if to say, I think you’ve made him mad. It was true she’d quickly shifted from charming Spencer to baiting him, but it was deliberate. She sought his pressure points. What would his reactions reveal?

  “You know what I mean,” Spencer said. “I understand all about the court of public opinion. But that’s not a function of what I do. That’s what people do – they make up their minds before due process. Like you, sitting there right now, judging me. What I said a couple of minutes ago – it’s other people who make the judgments.”

  “Mr. Spencer, like you – a journalist with integrity – I traffic in facts. Things I can prove.”

  “Traffic. That’s a good line. You should be a writer.”

  “And what the facts are here is that Jordan Baldacci filed in civil court just days before she died in the explosion. That’s number one.”

  Spencer leaned forward in one quick motion and stabbed the table with his finger. “You think I rigged some fucking explosives because of a sexual harassment case? Boy, where did they pull you from, huh? Some corn-fed town in the Midwest?”

  From behind him, Heinz said, “That’s enough.”

  Spencer ignored Heinz, but he sat back, simmering, still clocking her.

  “Fact number two,” Shannon said, “is that you also knew Eva Diaz.” She took the photos she’d been holding onto and tossed them onto the table. “You worked at WCBS-TV until a little less than a year ago. As a cameraman. And while Eva Diaz never filed a lawsuit, she did lodge a complaint.”

  The room went silent, the air heavy; Spencer breathed with a mean energy.

  Shannon said, “And finally, fact number three – you have no alibi for Wednesday afternoon.”

  “I was home writing.”

  “Yes, that’s what you told Detective Heinz.”

  “Check my laptop. I was online. Look at my searches. Time stamps.” There was a bead of sweat running down his temple.

  “That would be very helpful,” Shannon said. “But, of course, anyone could have been on your–”

  “So look for fingerprints. I didn’t do this shit, bitch.”

  “Hey,” Heinz said, stepping forward.

  Spencer spun around on him. “Go ahead, motherfucker, and touch me. Go ahead. I’ll sue the shit out of you and this whole piss-stained facility. Come on. Put your hands on me. Do it in front of the federal fucking agent, why don’t you.”

  Two such wonderful personalities, Shannon thought, Torres and Spencer, and in just one day.

  The thing was, being a sexist pig and a prick weren’t chargeable offenses. And while Todd Spencer didn’t have an alibi for Baldacci, his daughter could attest to his whereabouts when Eva Diaz was abducted. Spencer was divorced and shared custody with his ex. Spencer had been with his daughter during the hours of Eva Diaz’s estimated time of death.

  “A daughter,” Caldoza said after Spencer was gone. He slumped against the wall in the viewing room. “How does a guy like that have a daughter? What’s wrong with the world?”

  Shannon had just finished a phone call. Tyler had wanted to fill her in. He also had given her a fresh assignment: “These people, these media people, they have their annual awards thing tomorrow night. Put together by an organization called the Crunchtime Club. It’s in Manhattan at the Harvard Building. I spoke to the AD at the field office, and he’s in agreement – we’d like you to go. NYPD is going to be there, bomb-sniffing dogs, extra security – the whole nine yards. Getting a lot of pressure on this. Two days, and we have no solid answers and people are starting to panic. You go, you put on a nice outfit. You know, smile at some people and assure them the FBI are on it.”

  It was a mouthful, but she’d gotten the picture: go to the journalism awards dinner and make people feel comfortable. Make them feel heard.

  “Yes, sir,” she’d said.

  Caldoza was still stewing about Spencer, and when Shannon shared her supervisor’s request with the detectives in the room, Caldoza widened his eyes and jerked a thumb at the window on the now-empty interview room. “He’s gonna be there, you know. This Spencer guy is going to be there at this awards thing. He’s a presenter.”

  “Good,” Shannon said. “I was hoping I’d get to see him again. Be around him. There’s something about him that kind of grows on you.”

  Caldoza just gaped at her until the humor penetrated. Heinz waggled his eyebrows and Whitaker headed for the door, saying, “All right. Looks like we’re all going to the newspaper-fucking-Oscars, or whatever it is.”

  15

  Saturday

  It was an excuse to dress up.

  Since she’d been living in the city, Shannon had gotten fancy only one other time, and that had been to celebrate her own graduation and subsequent induction into the New York City division of the FBI. A friend from back home, plus one from college, together with Shannon, had painted the town red. Which for her meant four drinks instead of two, and staying up all the way past one o’clock in the morning. Life in the fast lane.

  She still had the outfit, a black number called a Cold Shoulder Little Cocktail Party Skater Dress. The name was long, but maybe the dress was too short. She showed it off in front of the mirror in her bedroom. The hem was above her knees. It hadn’t bothered her to celebrate with friends in it, but representing the FBI at a public event?

  But that wasn’t really what bothered her, or why she covered up with a black sweater. Bandages and burns didn’t complement a skimpy dress too well. At least the marks on her face and neck were fading, and the makeup took care of the rest.

  If Tyler wanted her there looking good, then this was what he got.

  Caldoza picked her up, eyes bugging out. “And with the cane,” he said, holding the door for her, “you’re killing me. I’ll never think of my grandfather the same way again.”

  They made small talk as they drove out of Brooklyn. As they crossed the Williamsburg Bridge into a thousand sparkling lights, the conversation drifted to serial killers.

  Caldoza said, “I always thought these guys kept trophies from their criminal acts. Or at least some way to relive, replay things. Dahmer with his freezer of body parts.”

  She watched the people thronging the streets as Caldoza drove them north through Manhattan. “Bundy didn’t, and he was one of our most prolific.”

  “Why’d he do it?”

  “Bundy? Because he was evil.”

  Caldoza jerked his head back, glancing at her as he drove. “Wow. Didn’t expect that.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. You don’t seem like the type. What did you, ah, go to school for?”

  “I double-majored in psychology and sociology. Got my master’s in mental health counseling and worked as a psychiatric social worker for three years at a county clinic.”

  “Did you evaluate violent offenders in jail?”

  “I did. Sometimes.”

  “I got a cousin who does that. Same type of thing.”

  Shannon said, “Environmental factors can switch genes on and off – abusive homes, trauma – there’s that. Some killers have chemical imbalances. They might have tumors. So there’s reason for compassion. There’s reason to say, it’s not the perpetrator who’s evil, it’s the act. I’ve spent years looking at all of that.”

  Caldoza looked at her again. “But?”

  “I’m okay calling it
evil, too. Because if there was evil, why wouldn’t it use these things to get the job done? The fact is, I don’t know. I’m not going to know. But a little shorthand can help get the job done. And that’s what I’m here to do – get it done.”

  “Ah shit,” he said.

  “What?”

  “I just realized you’re smarter than I am.”

  “Stop it.”

  “It won’t be a problem. I can handle it.” He grinned and darted a playful look at her.

  “My point is that you have to have some principles. Some things that are hard ground under you. And I understand – trust me – you’ve got to check your assumptions from time to time. But you can’t be a couch.”

  “A couch?”

  “A couch just bears the impression of the last person who sat on it.”

  Caldoza was silent a moment, pondering, then broke into a raucous laugh. He gave her another look when it passed. “This is the most I’ve heard you talk all week.”

  A few minutes later, her eyes devoured the scene: a red carpet and sweeping skylights, their beams sliding over the steel and glass of surrounding buildings.

  Midtown Manhattan. Times Square was a block away. They were surrounded by it all: Rockefeller Center, Radio City Music Hall, Grand Central Terminal. Limousines were dropping people off. Valets were handling the rest, parking the cars as far away as Bryant Park. It felt more like the opening of a new dance club than an awards night for journalists. She’d been expecting something a bit drier – not quite conference tables and PowerPoint presentations, but more in that direction. And there was a strong police presence. Like Tyler said, extra security. Guys in black suits, white cords curling out of their ears. Most of them older, like ex-cops. A K9 unit was posted at the entrance, bomb-sniffer dogs getting a whiff of every guest coming through, in case any of them had C-4 in her purse.

  Shannon showed her ID to security and was waved through. A coat-check room, a small lounge, a larger bar. The crowd was currently three persons deep.

  “There’s our boy,” Caldoza said, in her ear. “Two o’clock. In the double-breasted suit.”

  “I see him,” Shannon said. She’d spotted Spencer half a minute before Caldoza had pointed him out. Spencer looked over, as if sensing their thoughts. He met her eyes and smiled in that smug way he had. Shannon said to Caldoza, “I’m going to go say hi.”

  “Good luck. Tell him I’m pulling for him.”

  “Thanks. Yeah, will do.”

  “I’m serious. One look at you and he’s done for. Putty in your hands. He’ll confess everything.”

  She flashed Caldoza a smile and then made her way through the throng of people until she was next to Spencer. “I didn’t know journalists were such rock stars,” she said.

  Spencer gobbled her up with his eyes. “Oh yeah,” he said. “We all have huge egos.” She could see him calculating. Wondering where he stood after his antics the day before. Wondering, perhaps, what else he could get away with. “What are you drinking? Or are you on duty?”

  “I’ll have whatever you suggest,” she said, giving him a long blink and another smoldering smile. Not quite her best one – she was withholding that for later – but her third best. It was enough to blow away the skepticism he showed in his face.

  “Vodka tonic,” he said. “All I ever drink.”

  “Sounds good.” She looked around, as if already bored. Setting the hook deeper.

  Spencer said, “You really off duty?”

  “Put it this way,” she said, gazing at the people around them, all the mahogany and candle-colored lighting sconces. “I’m here to be a presence. Like you said last night, this is an attack on the fourth estate, an attack against free speech. And so it’s the opening salvo in an attack on our republic, as far as I’m concerned.” She met his eyes and said, “The FBI doesn’t tolerate that kind of shit.”

  “No? Didn’t Thomas Jefferson say something about the tree of liberty and the blood of patriots?”

  “He wasn’t talking about cowards killing women.”

  For the first time, Spencer’s bravado flickered. He glanced down. “I got a little upset last night …”

  “I know,” she said.

  He started to say more, but noticed an opening and moved in on the bartender. He leaned close and shouted his order over the music. He didn’t look at her while he waited for the drinks. She spotted Caldoza talking to Heinz, who was dressed a little more casually in jeans, a white button-down and a dinner jacket. Tyler would be around somewhere, too. Tyler would want to introduce her to people. People he thought were important and needed to be both assured and impressed by such an attentive law enforcement presence.

  Was she already getting cynical?

  Spencer pushed a drink in her hands. He moved the red straw aside in his own glass and took a swallow. They moved away from the bar, to more open space near a grouping of high round tables. She caught Caldoza’s eyes as she went.

  She asked Spencer how he’d gotten into TV and journalism, and he started talking. The awards show officially started at nine, and it wasn’t yet eight fifteen, so there was time for him to rattle on. He told her how he’d started out his career not knowing where he fit in. How he’d worked as a cameraman for a time. Then Spencer said abruptly, “I know why you’re here.”

  “Oh yeah?” Trying to be coy.

  “I’m a suspect, I get that.”

  She took a sip of her drink. Help me, she thought, only someone like Todd Spencer would actually say things like that.

  “You’re amazingly beautiful,” he said with a put-on smile. “But it takes a lot more than a little batting of your eyes and having a drink with me. I mean, you’re pretty obvious.”

  “You know two of the victims,” Shannon said, setting her drink on the table. “And you have a lawsuit pending with–”

  “I know all three of the victims,” Spencer said. He leaned closer to Shannon, getting in her face. “I worked with Monica Forbes a bunch of times when she was a producer. And I’ve had Diaz on camera. I’ve had Forbes on camera – just for focus and white balancing, but whatever.” He gave her a big wink, and his trendy glasses flashed in the lights. “So? How do you like me now, Agent Ames? Am I a major suspect because I’ve spent time with all of the victims? Let me tell you, this is a small world. Everybody knows everybody in this business. We bump into each other while working, or at things like this. So just relax. Enjoy yourself.”

  Something brushed the back of her dress. A split second later, she had his hand in hers. She used a little move where she dug the sharp knuckle of her middle finger into the pressure point on the outside of his thumb.

  “Ah!” He jerked his hand back and started rubbing it. “Jesus,” he said, his eyes bright with surprise and anger.

  “It can get worse,” she said. “Touch me again.”

  She was impressed he maintained his calm. But then, maybe he didn’t want to draw any more attention. She spied two women at the nearest table who seemed to have noticed things, and if anything, they looked ready to cheer her on.

  She picked up her drink and downed the rest of it, keeping her eyes locked on Spencer’s. He knew all three victims, small world or not. He’d made a move on her, an FBI agent considering his potential guilt in a serial killing case. Maybe it was only meant to piss her off, or make her feel cheap. Maybe it was a cry for help. A narcissistic prick who couldn’t stop himself and his terrible impulses. Touching women, harassing them, threatening them, strangling them.

  The music continued to thump, and the din of voices grew louder as more people arrived, as more alcohol loosened inhibitions and raised volumes. Spencer moved close enough for her to hear him; he spoke in a voice just above a whisper. “Fuck you,” he said. “You fuckin’ farm girl.”

  She stepped away from him, found his eyes – smug bastard eyes if there ever was a pair – and nodded once at him. “I’ll be seeing you again, I’m sure,” she said. Then she left the table and submerged into the crowd.

>   16

  “He’s what?”

  “He’s the emcee,” Caldoza said.

  She’d just given Caldoza a quick version of Spencer’s loathsome behavior, and now they were in the next room, the massive dining room with its high ceiling and enormous chandelier, thirty tables, two giant projection screens. Everything glittered and clinked and smelled of garlic and red wine. She and Caldoza sat at a table on the end of one of three rows. “He’s the host for the whole night,” Caldoza said. “The piece of shit.”

  The music lowered and a voice said over the system that there was ten minutes left before the start of the evening; would people start making their way to their seats? Shannon watched a few guests begin to drift from the bar in the next room, but the music and din of voices from the bar were still going strong.

  While waiting, she found herself entertaining a scenario in which Todd Spencer was friendly with Paul Torres: Torres wants to shut down negative news coverage of the development deal in Pelham Bay. Maybe he’s getting pressure from Nikolay Lebedev. So he turns to Spencer, a friend from the media. Spencer has names, phone numbers, addresses …

  Or maybe Spencer was just a psychopath who belittled women, who verbally and physically abused them. Diaz and Forbes had been cleaned – there might’ve been a sexual component to the crimes after all. Diaz and Forbes – he performs some sick act on them, then washes it away. He strangles them. But with Baldacci, because she would see him coming, he had to do it another way. Or maybe he did it that way because it was extra violent. How dare she file a lawsuit against him? He would show her who was boss …

  Shannon looked down at her bare legs, seeing the goosebumps. It was cool in here, for one thing. But drawing out the poison in Spencer had worked faster than she’d anticipated, and had left her slightly shaken. Not with fear, or the humiliation Spencer had intended, but with anticipation. He was really fitting into the role of prime suspect.