Tatum put the paper on the desk, shrugging. “I don’t get it. This is good press. Why would you want to minimize—”
“I don’t need an article praising us,” Mancuso said sharply. “Sure, it would have been nice, but next time a serial killer hits, do you think the police would call us? This business is full of inflated egos that bruise easily. I want this unit to have a solid reputation for consulting. We don’t swoop in and take control, we don’t conduct our own investigation under the police’s nose, and we don’t arrest the killer ourselves, nearly killing him in the process.”
“Okay.” Tatum raised his hands in surrender. “I don’t care. I have no ego at all.”
“Right,” Mancuso said, grabbing the paper and shoving it into her drawer. She closed it silently this time.
“What happens with me now?”
“You go to your allocated desk, which I assume you have never even seen, and you compose some reports. I might want you to look at some cases later, give me your opinion.”
Tatum chewed this over. “You’re not transferring me?”
“Agent Gray, I’m not blind. I saw the work you did on this case. And while I don’t approve of some of the methods you and Dr. Bentley employed, I think you could be a fantastic agent with the right guidance.”
“And by ‘right guidance,’ you mean—”
“You do exactly as I say.”
“Awesome.”
“And quite frankly, you two make a good team. I was thinking of creating a small field task force for cases such as the last one. And you and Bentley . . . well. We’ll see.”
“Okay.” Tatum felt unsettled by the progression of this meeting.
Mancuso read something on her desk and then raised her eyes. “Why are you still here?”
“Uh, right. I’ll be off, then.” He stood up and approached the door.
“Agent Gray.”
He paused and looked back at her.
“There won’t be a third chance.”
CHAPTER 78
Zoe’s apartment was silent as she fried some chopped carrots and peas in a wok. She enjoyed the quiet. She hadn’t had much time for herself lately. Even when she had been alone these past weeks, she was always thinking about the case, turning it in her mind frantically, trying to piece together the puzzle. The stillness of her thoughts was soothing. She chopped the ginger and added it to the wok, the sharp smell filling the kitchen. Zoe breathed it in.
She was relieved Tatum was still assigned to the BAU. He was unclear about his current role in the unit, but it was fine. The thought of occasionally meeting him for lunch or running into him in the hallways made her feel warm and happy.
She stirred the vegetables a bit more and then tipped the wok’s contents onto a plate, then emptied a bowl of rice into the wok, letting it fry and get a bit crunchy. As she stirred, she glanced at the newspaper lying beside the plate on the counter.
The front page had a picture of Jeffrey Alston handcuffed to his hospital bed, and next to it was a photo of her above one of Martinez. She shook her head in irritation and picked up the plate. She added the fried vegetables into the rice and stirred it all. Then she used a spoon to create a small hole in the middle of her fried rice. She cracked two eggs inside the hole and began scrambling them. Her phone rang again. The screen read Harry Barry.
She answered. “You have some nerve calling me after writing this ridiculous article.”
“You don’t like it? You’re a hero.”
“Half of it is completely taken out of context. Some claims are almost lies—”
“Embellishments, really.”
“And you only told part of the story.” She stirred the scrambled egg into the rice and the vegetables, her movements sharp and angry, resulting in some rice and carrot refugees on the floor.
“I write whatever is interesting to my readers.”
“Yeah? Tatum was there too. Did you know that? Do you even know who he is?”
“Yeah, yeah. Listen, people don’t care about FBI agents. They have FBI agents up the wazoo. People care about everyday heroes. Now, a profiler who has caught two serial killers, after encountering one when she was young—that’s a real hero.”
Zoe added soy and stirred. “Bullshit. And my job title is forensic psychologist.”
“I prefer to keep it simple. Is this a good time to talk about my book deal?”
“What book deal?” She took the wok off the stove, imagining how it would feel to bash Harry’s face with it.
“I’ve received a book deal to write about Zoe Bentley. Now, I have a few good stories about you, but I’d really be interested in some more.”
“Go to hell.”
“I’d like to point out that I didn’t mention some things you probably preferred were left in the dark.”
“Like what?”
“Like your theory that the serial killer in Chicago was the Maynard serial killer. Or like the fact that for some reason you were wearing nothing but your underwear when Jeffrey Alston was shot.”
Zoe gritted her teeth.
“You can cowrite this book with me. You’ll have final say on everything we put in. Or I can write a book about a profiler who shows her boobs to distract killers. It’s really your—”
She hung up, seething. Trying to calm down, she transferred the rice from the wok to her plate. She poured herself a glass of red wine. Then she walked to the living room and sat down on the couch with the plate and the wine. She turned on the stereo. Beyoncé’s album I Am . . . Sasha Fierce was in it. She skipped “If I Were a Boy,” going straight to “Halo.” As the claps began to accompany the music, she rocked her body in pleasure, taking a sip from the red wine. Beyoncé got her; that was for sure. She scooped some rice and put it in her mouth, closing her eyes. The leftover wine colored the taste of the ginger and rice as Beyoncé sang only for her.
Someone rang the doorbell. Annoyed, she put down the plate and the glass on the table and walked to the door.
She glanced through the peephole. A man in a courier uniform.
“Yeah?”
“Letter for you, ma’am.”
She opened the door and glanced at the brown envelope in his hand, her heart sinking. She signed for it.
“Do you know who sent it?”
“No. I just got it from the central—”
“Yeah.” She had tried to follow this path before, always ending in a dead end.
She closed the door and looked at the envelope. Maybe this time, she’d show it to Tatum. Maybe they could investigate it together. The thought made her smile, the envelope suddenly a lot less threatening. She tore it open. A gray tie, of course.
There was something else inside. A square laminated piece of paper. She pulled it out in trepidation.
Dread and horror crawled up her spine as she stared at the picture.
A guy stopped me on the street today and wanted to know if you were my sister. Asked to take my picture.
Andrea’s face smiled at her from the printed selfie, her upper arm hugged by a grinning Rod Glover.