Read Online Beautiful Maids All in a Row by Jennifer Harlow - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jennifer Harlow
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Reagan National and made our way to FBI headquarters in the heart of D.C. After I was cleared at reception and got my visitor’s badge, we went up to the fourth floor, where a task force was set up after the third murder, headed by the supervisory special agent. Reginald Lamb, God help me. As senior special agent, Luke was the lead investigator on this major case, a large stepping-stone on the path to becoming director, which was why I was still surprised he asked for my help. Wild cards didn’t always play out. I hoped for his sake I was an ace in the hole instead of a joker. Only time would tell.
Police from all four of the counties the women were found in were there, along with representatives from the state police in the three states. The FBI usually allowed them to come and pitch in just in case the county screamed about jurisdiction. That way they could go home and claim they had a hand in capturing the killer, maybe even become a hometown hero. Mostly all they did was answer the tip line. The FBI didn’t usually get involved unless asked by the county or state police, but sometimes they just took over. The moment the Woodsman crossed out of New York it became the FBI’s case, not that this stopped the infighting. I hoped all the ruffled feathers had been smoothed as I joined the team.
This was a relatively small task force compared to the ones assembled for the Unabomber or even the D.C. Sniper. Only about ten agents sat in the windowless room surrounded by square cubicles tracking this madman, plus the seven interlopers at the phone bank. A murder board with pictures of the women both alive and dead sat in the back of the room, watching over the dedicated group. Beautiful maids all in a row.
Luke and I walked through the room relatively unnoticed. He nodded to a few agents, those not shouting to the forensic techs over the phone, and they nodded back. I looked across the room and noticed one of the rookies gawking at me. He put down the Starbucks he was delivering and started toward me. “Special Agent Ballard,” he called from across the room. The man, or should I say boy, quickly walked over. His eyes were wide, as if he had just seen the President. Had I ever been that young and eager? I doubted it. The boy agent smiled. “Special Agent Ballard, this…”
“It isn’t Special Agent Ballard anymore,” I corrected.
“Right. Of course.”
“Honest mistake.”
“I just wanted to say that I took your seminar on profiling when I was at the Academy. The last one you gave.”
“Really?” I was just being polite now, hoping Luke would save me from this brownnoser, but he appeared to be going through some message slips.
“It was so insightful.”
“Do you hope to join Behavioral Analysis?”
“If I can. That’s why I volunteered to work the phones, so I can say I worked on the Woodsman.”
“The FBI respects a hustler. That’s how you do it. I hope it works out for you.” I tugged at Luke’s sleeve, and he looked up at me. “Isn’t SSA Lamb waiting for us?”
“Yes, he is,” Luke said.
I turned back to the kid. “Nice speaking with you. Good luck.” I took a step toward the office with Luke beside me.
“Eager beaver that one,” Luke said as we walked.
When we reached the door, Luke knocked on it. “Come in,” a deep, booming voice shouted through the door.
Supervisory Special Agent Reginald Lamb sat behind his cluttered desk, sipping Mylanta from the bottle for his ever-multiplying ulcers. You always knew you were important in D.C. when you had holes in your stomach. The pain must have been intolerable, because his ebony skin was covered with a thin sweat, especially along his brow. His bloodshot eyes were on the verge of expelling tears. Ulcers were a bitch. I looked at the small spare tire encircling his waist. He had put on weight since the last time I saw him. Too much deskwork, not enough field. He glanced up at me and the corners of his eyes creased, revealing pronounced
Police from all four of the counties the women were found in were there, along with representatives from the state police in the three states. The FBI usually allowed them to come and pitch in just in case the county screamed about jurisdiction. That way they could go home and claim they had a hand in capturing the killer, maybe even become a hometown hero. Mostly all they did was answer the tip line. The FBI didn’t usually get involved unless asked by the county or state police, but sometimes they just took over. The moment the Woodsman crossed out of New York it became the FBI’s case, not that this stopped the infighting. I hoped all the ruffled feathers had been smoothed as I joined the team.
This was a relatively small task force compared to the ones assembled for the Unabomber or even the D.C. Sniper. Only about ten agents sat in the windowless room surrounded by square cubicles tracking this madman, plus the seven interlopers at the phone bank. A murder board with pictures of the women both alive and dead sat in the back of the room, watching over the dedicated group. Beautiful maids all in a row.
Luke and I walked through the room relatively unnoticed. He nodded to a few agents, those not shouting to the forensic techs over the phone, and they nodded back. I looked across the room and noticed one of the rookies gawking at me. He put down the Starbucks he was delivering and started toward me. “Special Agent Ballard,” he called from across the room. The man, or should I say boy, quickly walked over. His eyes were wide, as if he had just seen the President. Had I ever been that young and eager? I doubted it. The boy agent smiled. “Special Agent Ballard, this…”
“It isn’t Special Agent Ballard anymore,” I corrected.
“Right. Of course.”
“Honest mistake.”
“I just wanted to say that I took your seminar on profiling when I was at the Academy. The last one you gave.”
“Really?” I was just being polite now, hoping Luke would save me from this brownnoser, but he appeared to be going through some message slips.
“It was so insightful.”
“Do you hope to join Behavioral Analysis?”
“If I can. That’s why I volunteered to work the phones, so I can say I worked on the Woodsman.”
“The FBI respects a hustler. That’s how you do it. I hope it works out for you.” I tugged at Luke’s sleeve, and he looked up at me. “Isn’t SSA Lamb waiting for us?”
“Yes, he is,” Luke said.
I turned back to the kid. “Nice speaking with you. Good luck.” I took a step toward the office with Luke beside me.
“Eager beaver that one,” Luke said as we walked.
When we reached the door, Luke knocked on it. “Come in,” a deep, booming voice shouted through the door.
Supervisory Special Agent Reginald Lamb sat behind his cluttered desk, sipping Mylanta from the bottle for his ever-multiplying ulcers. You always knew you were important in D.C. when you had holes in your stomach. The pain must have been intolerable, because his ebony skin was covered with a thin sweat, especially along his brow. His bloodshot eyes were on the verge of expelling tears. Ulcers were a bitch. I looked at the small spare tire encircling his waist. He had put on weight since the last time I saw him. Too much deskwork, not enough field. He glanced up at me and the corners of his eyes creased, revealing pronounced
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