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They were both entirely correct about the other.
Neither ever expressed their opinions to anyone, and certainly not to their partners. On the job they were clinically precise, appropriately efficient, and entirely humorless.
Smith nodded to one of the units whose door opened to the parking lot. A Toyota Rav4 was parked outside.
“Credit card trace says Volker booked that room,” he said.
Jones consulted her iPhone. “Tags match.”
As one they looked from Volker’s car to the one parked next to it, a Crown Victoria nearly identical to theirs. There were no other cars in that part of the lot. Sodium vapor lamps painted the falling downpour a chemical orange. Winds blew the rain across the lot in serpentine waves.
They got out of their car and Jones placed a hand on the hood of Volker’s Toyota.
“Cold,” she said. Neither of them wore hats or used umbrellas, and they were immediately soaked. Neither of them cared.
Smith felt the hood of the Crown Vic. “Warm.”
“Federal tags,” said Jones.
Smith cocked an eyebrow. “CIA?”
“They weren’t scheduled for this pickup,” said Jones, frowning his disapproval. “Not that I heard.”
The agents unbuttoned their jackets to facilitate reaching their guns, crossed to the motel unit’s door, and knocked. It was opened almost at once by a man dressed in a business suit very much like the one Smith wore. He had an ID wallet open to show them his credentials.
“Saunders,” he said.
“What are you doing here?” demanded Jones.
“Volker’s one of ours.”
“We know that,” said Smith. “But we were assigned to pick him up. The Agency doesn’t have jurisdiction here.”
Saunders was a tired-looking man in his fifties. Probably a former field agent relegated to scut work on the downslope of his career track. “Moot now,” he said, and he stepped back to open the door.
Smith and Jones gave him hard looks as they entered the motel room of the man who had created Lucifer 113.
They stopped just inside the door.
There were two other men in the room. One was Saunders’s partner, a gap-toothed and freckle-
faced young man who looked like Alfred E. Newman, except he wasn’t wearing a goofy smile. Instead he was staring up at the second man.
Dr. Volker’s shoes swung slowly back and forth ten inches above the carpeted floor. His arms and legs were slack, head tilted to one side, eyes wide, and tongue bulging from between his parted lips. A length of heavy-duty orange extension cord was affixed to the neck of the ceiling fan and cinched tight around Volker’s throat.
A handwritten note was affixed to his chest with a safety pin.
I gave my research notes to the reporter, Mr. Trout.
This is all my fault.
I hope there is a hell so that
I may burn in it for all eternity.
“Ah, shit,” said Smith.
“Fuck,” said Jones.
