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Authors: James Grippando
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the way to that famous beach where Connie Francis first sang “Where the Boys Are.”
Victoria stopped at the entrance to the outdoor seating area, a cluster of little marbletop tables surrounded by a railing and manicured hedge running along the sidewalk.
She’d seen Mike’s picture in advance, but she would have spotted him without it.
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James Grippando
He had to be the guy munching on tortilla chips, nervously looking around as if trying to figure out which one was the FBI agent, the wrinkled old Canadian speaking French to his left or the Claudia Schiffer look-alike to his right.
“Mind if I join you?” she said from behind.
He looked up, wiping his hands clean of the lemon he was squeezing into his Evian. He seemed startled by the attractive brunette wearing a sleeveless white shell and plaid shorts. Victoria took it in stride, by now well aware of the effect her slender figure and long bronze legs had on men.
“Actually, I’m waiting on someone,” he said.
“I know. Me.” She extended her hand. “My name’s Victoria Santos. Probably wouldn’t be very discreet of me to flash my credentials.” She dropped into the seat across from him.
“I guess you weren’t what I was expecting.”
She smiled. “Not even the FBI wears trench coats when it’s sunny and eighty degrees out.”
The waitress brought menus, and Victoria ordered a Diet Coke. Mike emptied the rest of his bottled mineral water into a glass, then squeezed in another wedge of lemon.
“That’s a scam, you know,” said Victoria.
“What?”
“The whole bottled-water thing. You might as well be drinking tap water.”
“Do you work for the FBI, or for the Surgeon General?”
“I just know these things. Has it ever occurred to you that Evian spelled backwards is naive ?”
Mike chuckled. “Pretty funny for somebody who’s 65
THE INFORMANT
made a career out of chasing homicidal maniacs.” He sipped his water, then dug a little. “How did you get into this line of work, anyway?”
“You dive right in, don’t you?”
“Why not?” He pressed gently: “Your motivation was…?”
She hesitated, then chose the glib response. “When I was a kid I had a thing for Efram Zimbalist Junior.”
Mike nodded. “But Efram never chased serial killers.
Why did you get involved with that?”
She sighed. That same old question again. “Well, looked at one way, it’s the ultimate women’s issue. Most serial killers are sexual sadists, and most of their victims are women.”
He waited for more, but there was only silence. “That all you’re going to say?”
“Excuse me?”
“Your answer. It’s so…abstract, depersonalized. Almost sounds evasive.”
She gave him a curious look. She’d used that answer hundreds of times before, and no one had ever called her on it.
He selected a tortilla chip and dipped it in salsa. “The
‘victim’ angle intrigues me, though. Makes me wonder whether there’s something in your background that makes you feel like one.”
“That’s a very personal question.”
“I’m a reporter,” he said with a shrug. “There’s no such thing as ‘too personal.’”
She arched an eyebrow. “And I’m an FBI agent. There’s no such thing as being too abstract or evasive.”
“Another Evian, sir?” asked the waitress.
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James Grippando
“No,” he said, smirking at Victoria. “Just tap water.”
“You learn fast.” She smiled thinly, and then they ordered. A burger for him, something healthy called the
“New Wave Salad” for her. When the waitress was gone, Victoria turned serious.
“We checked out the FedEx package you received. No fingerprints, except your roommate’s and the delivery man’s. Everything else, however, is as you suspected. It was definitely shipped on Thursday, and we’re now as medically certain as we can be that Kincaid wasn’t killed until Friday. I can’t divulge certain details about our investigation, but I can tell you that the Candler
Victoria stopped at the entrance to the outdoor seating area, a cluster of little marbletop tables surrounded by a railing and manicured hedge running along the sidewalk.
She’d seen Mike’s picture in advance, but she would have spotted him without it.
64
James Grippando
He had to be the guy munching on tortilla chips, nervously looking around as if trying to figure out which one was the FBI agent, the wrinkled old Canadian speaking French to his left or the Claudia Schiffer look-alike to his right.
“Mind if I join you?” she said from behind.
He looked up, wiping his hands clean of the lemon he was squeezing into his Evian. He seemed startled by the attractive brunette wearing a sleeveless white shell and plaid shorts. Victoria took it in stride, by now well aware of the effect her slender figure and long bronze legs had on men.
“Actually, I’m waiting on someone,” he said.
“I know. Me.” She extended her hand. “My name’s Victoria Santos. Probably wouldn’t be very discreet of me to flash my credentials.” She dropped into the seat across from him.
“I guess you weren’t what I was expecting.”
She smiled. “Not even the FBI wears trench coats when it’s sunny and eighty degrees out.”
The waitress brought menus, and Victoria ordered a Diet Coke. Mike emptied the rest of his bottled mineral water into a glass, then squeezed in another wedge of lemon.
“That’s a scam, you know,” said Victoria.
“What?”
“The whole bottled-water thing. You might as well be drinking tap water.”
“Do you work for the FBI, or for the Surgeon General?”
“I just know these things. Has it ever occurred to you that Evian spelled backwards is naive ?”
Mike chuckled. “Pretty funny for somebody who’s 65
THE INFORMANT
made a career out of chasing homicidal maniacs.” He sipped his water, then dug a little. “How did you get into this line of work, anyway?”
“You dive right in, don’t you?”
“Why not?” He pressed gently: “Your motivation was…?”
She hesitated, then chose the glib response. “When I was a kid I had a thing for Efram Zimbalist Junior.”
Mike nodded. “But Efram never chased serial killers.
Why did you get involved with that?”
She sighed. That same old question again. “Well, looked at one way, it’s the ultimate women’s issue. Most serial killers are sexual sadists, and most of their victims are women.”
He waited for more, but there was only silence. “That all you’re going to say?”
“Excuse me?”
“Your answer. It’s so…abstract, depersonalized. Almost sounds evasive.”
She gave him a curious look. She’d used that answer hundreds of times before, and no one had ever called her on it.
He selected a tortilla chip and dipped it in salsa. “The
‘victim’ angle intrigues me, though. Makes me wonder whether there’s something in your background that makes you feel like one.”
“That’s a very personal question.”
“I’m a reporter,” he said with a shrug. “There’s no such thing as ‘too personal.’”
She arched an eyebrow. “And I’m an FBI agent. There’s no such thing as being too abstract or evasive.”
“Another Evian, sir?” asked the waitress.
66
James Grippando
“No,” he said, smirking at Victoria. “Just tap water.”
“You learn fast.” She smiled thinly, and then they ordered. A burger for him, something healthy called the
“New Wave Salad” for her. When the waitress was gone, Victoria turned serious.
“We checked out the FedEx package you received. No fingerprints, except your roommate’s and the delivery man’s. Everything else, however, is as you suspected. It was definitely shipped on Thursday, and we’re now as medically certain as we can be that Kincaid wasn’t killed until Friday. I can’t divulge certain details about our investigation, but I can tell you that the Candler
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