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Ott’s phone rang. It must be noon. When he looked at the phone, he saw the daily call from home was indeed right on time, as usual. He answered it with a cheerful, “Hello!”
“Hello, Papa!” His little girls’ voices in unison sounded like music.
“How are my dumplings today?”
“Good,” his older daughter, Lilly, said. The three-year-old, Tatyana, was probably nodding. The girls told him about a game they had made up. Every time they missed a spelling word, they had to run out the front door and completely around the house. Getting exercise while learning simple words made a good game. He approved.
Then Lilly said, “Mama is making me work on math for an extra hour today. I don’t like math. I don’t think Mama explains it very well.”
Ott had talked to his older daughter about her homeschool classes before. In as even a tone as he could keep, Ott said, “Listen to me. Math is important in life. You’re going to learn it no matter what kind of teacher your mother is. If you can’t do your times tables and division by the time I get home, you’ll be sorry to see me. You understand?”
Lilly said, “Yes, Papa.”
Good. She was learning respect.
Chapter 18
Ott was still in a good mood after talking to his daughters when the manager of the trucking company introduced him to some of the employees, mostly large, unfriendly men and a few women.
One of the women caught his attention when she reprimanded two younger employees about time sheets. He wasn’t looking for a victim at the moment. It was too soon after Elaine. But this woman was attractive and a little older than him, maybe thirty-eight or forty. Her reddish hair and pretty face reminded him of his first victim. He smiled at the memory.
It was not long after he had moved to Omaha. Even then, he already had started to evolve, using a few tricks of stealth and surveillance, evading detection, even planting an electronic bug or two over the years. Although he didn’t like to admit how much he remained in their debt, he had his earliest employer to thank for those skills and the lessons they had taught him, many of which he still used.
Sometimes he thought about the people he used to work with. They were one of the reasons he’d moved to Omaha. In the Midwest, he was less likely to run into any of them.
All he really wanted to do was forget about that experience. He’d rather remember his first murder.
He could recall every detail. It had been a Wednesday afternoon, and he’d been looking for an office in a large building. He had his tools and software to install. He’d inadvertently walked into the wrong office—it turned out to be some kind of staffing group that handled the admin for several companies—and a redheaded woman standing at the front desk had berated him. “You’re in the wrong office. They’re on the fifth floor. What kind of an idiot computer guy are you?”
She clearly had more to say. But he never heard it. His hand had slipped into his tool pouch and found the handle of his box cutter. Just as the woman screwed up her face to let out another burst of insults, he’d pulled out the box cutter and swiped it across her exposed throat.
It was a natural movement and he performed it quickly. She didn’t even seem to realize exactly what had happened, just that she suddenly couldn’t get any air. She quickly raised both of her hands to clasp her throat. Then she staggered back, bumped into her desk, and tumbled onto the carpeted floor.
She made a few gurgling sounds and looked like a fish that had been pulled from the water. Ott stared at her throughout the whole event, still not quite realizing what he had done. That’s when he felt it. The first wave of excitement and joy. The first urge. It washed over him completely as he stared at the woman on the floor with a huge dark puddle of blood spreading across the carpet.
He didn’t understand at the time. It had been an impulse, completely beyond his control. He went about his day and, aside from a few news reports, never heard a word about it. Another cold case that would never be linked to him.
Fortunately, his work assignments kept him moving. He had never killed anyone in the Midwest again.
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The only thing he knew for sure was that he would continue doing this forever.
Chapter 19
I met Emily Parker for lunch at a place called Empanada Mama on Ninth Avenue just south of 52nd Street. It was the kind of place Mary Catherine would like, if we could ever take the time for a night out in Hell’s Kitchen. Boldly colorful art adorned the brick walls and fans rotated along the ceiling.
Emily sat by herself in a booth near the rear of the restaurant. She wore a bright blue skirt and matching blouse. Looking at her, I could see Emily still had a sparkle in her eyes. Working for the FBI hadn’t worn her down at all. Her purse, as always, sat on the bench next to her right hand. That way her gun was never far from her reach. It was good tactical sense, which I appreciated.
Emily really was the total package: smart, funny, and pretty. A deadly combination. And her easy smile was infectious. I was well aware of how close we once came to being a couple. I’m not a robot. I’d had romantic feelings for her. If it wasn’t for Mary Catherine, maybe I’d still have those feelings. But this meeting was strictly business.
As for Emily’s professionalism, she was tops at the Bureau. I always got the impression she was a shark swimming with minnows. And like every shark in the ocean, she was relentless, going all night, night after night, if that’s what it took to break the case.
She smiled as I approached and said, “It’s funny how the NYPD has no use for the FBI, until they need us.”
“Hey, I’m trying to include you. If you’re uncomfortable with the arrangement, I can find another way to get the information I need.”
Emily held up her hands as I took a seat opposite her. She wore a delicate gold ring with a small emerald stone nestled in the heart-shaped center. “Wow, you’re getting sensitive in your old age,” she said.
