face. He stepped inside, carefully shutting the door behind him. The motion showed off shoulder blades sharp as razor blades.
“What’s your name, child?”
“I don’t—”
“What’s your name, child?”
“They call me Scott.”
“Well, Scott, this is your lucky morning. My name’s Rita, and I was just fixin’ to make more eggs.”
He didn’t argue, but took a seat in the nice warm kitchen that smelled of scrambled eggs and fresh toasted bread.
Rita cooked. She fed. She cooked some more. Finally, when his stomach was a tight, round drum beneath the faded expanse of his yellow-striped shirt, he pushed his empty plate away.
“Rita,” he said at last. “What do you think of spiders?”
SEVEN
“When the spider first spins the silk, it is liquid, but it soon hardens into thread that can be stronger than steel.”
FROM
Freaky Facts About Spiders,
BY CHRISTINE MORLEY, 2007
SPECIAL AGENT SAL MARTIGNETTI WAS WAITING FOR Kimberly outside the station. Minute she exited, he flashed his lights. She glanced at his unmarked car, then pointedly looked at her watch. She was tired, hungry, and not in the mood.
In the end, however, she crossed over. Mostly because he’d taken Mac’s advice and was holding up vanilla pudding.
He had the heat blasting, a welcome change from the early morning chill that stung, even in Atlanta. She took the six-pack of pudding, the offered bottle of water, and a plastic spoon. After an internal debate, she grudgingly offered him one pudding back, but he waved her off.
“No, no, all for you. The least I can do.”
He’d been listening to the radio. Some conservative talk-show host ranting about how the ACLU was ruining the world. As Kimberly settled in, however, Sal snapped it off.
“Been waiting long?” she asked, digging into the first pudding. She knew Sal only in passing. Had bumped into him at a barbecue, some police function somewhere. Both the GBI and the FBI were large organizations, meaning more of the agents were names she’d heard rather than faces she knew, and Sal was no exception.
Small, dark, and wiry, he possessed the sinewy build of someone who grew up hard, probably not far from the streets he now patrolled. He wore a light gray suit this morning, but still managed to look more like an up-and-coming hoodlum than a state investigator.
“Been here twenty minutes,” he commented, held up a greasy fast-food bag. “Had my breakfast.”
“More comfortable inside the station,” Kimberly said.
“Not sure what I think of ’em yet,” Sal stated, jerking his head toward the Sandy Springs PD, which was an icebreaker of sorts coming from a GBI special agent.
Kimberly finished the first pudding, opened a second. Something about this felt all wrong. A GBI agent’s insistent middle-of-the-night phone call that she needed to talk to some pinched prostitute. Then the same special agent waiting for her afterward. Kimberly tried working the angles in her mind, but came up empty.
“Sal,” she said at last, “much as I appreciate the pudding, I’m not giving away the keys to the kingdom for snack packs. So if you want something, start talking. I have another appointment in thirty minutes.”
Sal laughed. It brought a spark to his eyes, eased the tightness around his jaw. He should laugh more. Then again, so should she.
“Okay, here’s the deal: You know I’m on VICMO?”
Kimberly nodded.
“One of the whole points of VICMO being to bring law enforcement agents together from all across the state to look for larger patterns of crime.”
“I’m an FBI agent, Sal. I know my acronyms. We’re tested every Friday.”
“Really?”
“No.”
He laughed again, dark eyes flashing bright. “Okay, well, I have a theory on a larger pattern of crime: I believe someone’s picking off prostitutes.”
Kimberly frowned, dug into her pudding. “What do you mean you have a theory? The girls are declared missing or they’re not. Missing stats go up, or they
“What’s your name, child?”
“I don’t—”
“What’s your name, child?”
“They call me Scott.”
“Well, Scott, this is your lucky morning. My name’s Rita, and I was just fixin’ to make more eggs.”
He didn’t argue, but took a seat in the nice warm kitchen that smelled of scrambled eggs and fresh toasted bread.
Rita cooked. She fed. She cooked some more. Finally, when his stomach was a tight, round drum beneath the faded expanse of his yellow-striped shirt, he pushed his empty plate away.
“Rita,” he said at last. “What do you think of spiders?”
SEVEN
“When the spider first spins the silk, it is liquid, but it soon hardens into thread that can be stronger than steel.”
FROM
Freaky Facts About Spiders,
BY CHRISTINE MORLEY, 2007
SPECIAL AGENT SAL MARTIGNETTI WAS WAITING FOR Kimberly outside the station. Minute she exited, he flashed his lights. She glanced at his unmarked car, then pointedly looked at her watch. She was tired, hungry, and not in the mood.
In the end, however, she crossed over. Mostly because he’d taken Mac’s advice and was holding up vanilla pudding.
He had the heat blasting, a welcome change from the early morning chill that stung, even in Atlanta. She took the six-pack of pudding, the offered bottle of water, and a plastic spoon. After an internal debate, she grudgingly offered him one pudding back, but he waved her off.
“No, no, all for you. The least I can do.”
He’d been listening to the radio. Some conservative talk-show host ranting about how the ACLU was ruining the world. As Kimberly settled in, however, Sal snapped it off.
“Been waiting long?” she asked, digging into the first pudding. She knew Sal only in passing. Had bumped into him at a barbecue, some police function somewhere. Both the GBI and the FBI were large organizations, meaning more of the agents were names she’d heard rather than faces she knew, and Sal was no exception.
Small, dark, and wiry, he possessed the sinewy build of someone who grew up hard, probably not far from the streets he now patrolled. He wore a light gray suit this morning, but still managed to look more like an up-and-coming hoodlum than a state investigator.
“Been here twenty minutes,” he commented, held up a greasy fast-food bag. “Had my breakfast.”
“More comfortable inside the station,” Kimberly said.
“Not sure what I think of ’em yet,” Sal stated, jerking his head toward the Sandy Springs PD, which was an icebreaker of sorts coming from a GBI special agent.
Kimberly finished the first pudding, opened a second. Something about this felt all wrong. A GBI agent’s insistent middle-of-the-night phone call that she needed to talk to some pinched prostitute. Then the same special agent waiting for her afterward. Kimberly tried working the angles in her mind, but came up empty.
“Sal,” she said at last, “much as I appreciate the pudding, I’m not giving away the keys to the kingdom for snack packs. So if you want something, start talking. I have another appointment in thirty minutes.”
Sal laughed. It brought a spark to his eyes, eased the tightness around his jaw. He should laugh more. Then again, so should she.
“Okay, here’s the deal: You know I’m on VICMO?”
Kimberly nodded.
“One of the whole points of VICMO being to bring law enforcement agents together from all across the state to look for larger patterns of crime.”
“I’m an FBI agent, Sal. I know my acronyms. We’re tested every Friday.”
“Really?”
“No.”
He laughed again, dark eyes flashing bright. “Okay, well, I have a theory on a larger pattern of crime: I believe someone’s picking off prostitutes.”
Kimberly frowned, dug into her pudding. “What do you mean you have a theory? The girls are declared missing or they’re not. Missing stats go up, or they
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