“I gave him a list of conversation starters before he left,” Sloane told me seriously. “In case he and his mom need something to talk about.”
Knowing Sloane, that probably meant she’d encouraged Michael to break the ice by informing his family that the last word in the dictionary was zyzzyva, a form of tropical weevil.
“Michael,” Briggs cut in, “will be fine.” Something about the way the agent’s jaw clenched told me that Briggs had made sure that Michael’s father knew his continued freedom depended on Michael’s continued well-being.
We’d all come to the Naturals program in different ways. Michael’s father—the one who’d taught him all about being hit—had traded Michael to the FBI for immunity on white-collar crimes.
“There, there,” Lia cut in flatly, “everyone’s fine, Kumbaya. If the comforting-Cassie portion of our daily ritual is over, can we get on with something a bit less tedious?”
One good thing about Lia: she didn’t let you indulge in worry or angst for long.
“Wheels up in five,” Briggs replied. “And Sloane?”
Our resident numbers expert bent her head back so she was staring up at Briggs. “There’s a high probability you’re going to tell me to get off the table,” she said.
Briggs almost smiled. “Get off the table.”
We’d been airborne for about twenty minutes when Briggs and Sterling started briefing us on where we were going—and why.
“We have a case.” Sterling’s voice was calm and cool. Not too long ago, she would have insisted that there was no we, that minors—no matter how skilled—had no place in an FBI investigation.
Not too long ago, the Naturals program had been restricted to cold cases.
A lot had changed.
“Three bodies in three days.” Briggs picked up where Sterling had left off. “Local police didn’t realize they were dealing with a single UNSUB until an initial autopsy was done on the third victim this morning. They immediately requested FBI assistance.”
Why? I let the question take hold. Why didn’t the police connect the first two victims? Why request FBI intervention so quickly after victim number three? The busier my brain was, the easier it would be to keep it from going back to the body the police had found.
Back to a thousand and one memories of my mother.
“Our victims seem to have very little in common,” Briggs continued, “aside from physical proximity and what appears to be our UNSUB’s calling card.”
Profilers used the term modus operandi—or MO—to refer to the aspects of a crime that were necessary and functional. But leaving a calling card? That wasn’t functional. It wasn’t necessary. And that made it a part of our Unknown Subject’s signature.
“What kind of calling card?” Dean asked. His voice was soft and had just enough of a hum in it to tell me that he was already shifting into profiling mode. It was the tiny details—what the calling card was, where the police had found it in each case, what, if anything, it said—that would let us understand the UNSUB. Was our killer signing his work, or delivering a message? Tagging his victims as a sign of ownership, or opening a line of communication with the police?
Agent Sterling held up a hand to stave off questions. “Let’s back up.” She glanced over at Briggs. “Start from the beginning.”
Briggs gave a curt nod, then flipped a switch. A flat screen near the front of the plane turned on. Briggs hit a button, and a crime scene photo appeared. In it, a woman with long, dark hair lay on the pavement. Her lips had a bluish tint. Her eyes were glassy. A sopping wet dress clung to her body.
“Alexandra Ruiz,” Agent Sterling narrated. “Twenty-two years old, college student majoring in pre-occupational therapy at the University of Arizona. She was found about twenty minutes after midnight on New Year’s Eve, floating facedown in the rooftop pool at the Apex Casino.”
“The Apex Casino.” Sloane blinked several times. “Las Vegas, Nevada.”
I waited for Sloane to tell us the square footage of the Apex, or the year it was founded. Nothing.
“Pricey.” Lia filled the void. “Assuming our victim was staying at the Apex.”
“She wasn’t.” Briggs brought up another photo, inset to one side of Alexandra’s, this one of a man in his early forties. He had dark hair with just a dusting of silver. The photo was a candid one. The man wasn’t looking at the camera, but I got the distinct feeling that he knew it was there.
“Thomas Wesley,” Briggs told us. “Former internet mogul, current world poker champion. He’s in town for an upcoming poker tournament and rented the penthouse suite at the Apex, with exclusive access to the rooftop pool.”
“I’m guessing our boy Wesley likes to party?” Lia asked. “Especially on New Year’s Eve?”