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“I don’t think she’s going to be awake,” Michael said. “It’s only three in the morning.”
“I don’t care what time it is,” Faith said. “We don’t know how fast this killer operates. She’s the closest thing we have to a witness right now, and I don’t feel like waiting for the information.”
“All right, fair enough,” Michael said. “There’s no need to get pissy with me.”
Faith’s lips tightened again, but she let the jibe go without response. Michael dialed the number, and Faith reached down to stroke Turk behind his neck. The K9 was as irritable as the agents, growling and sniffing in circles around Faith.
“It’s not your fault, boy,” Faith told him. “This is just a tough crime scene. We’ll find him.”
“Yes, Miss Bonaparte?” Michael said. “This is Special Agent Michael Prince with the FBI. I’m calling in regard to your recent report of a murder in the Twin City Terminal yesterday afternoon. I was wondering if my partner and I could come ask you a few questions?” He paused a moment. “Yes, I understand you’ve already spoken with police. I’d like to ask some follow-up questions pertinent to the Bureau’s investigation.” Another pause. “I’d prefer to do it in person.” Another pause. “Thank you, Miss Bonaparte. No, that’s okay, we’ll come to you. I appreciate it.” He pulled a pen and notepad from his suit pocket and said, “Okay, I’m ready, go ahead.” He wrote down the address then said, “Thank you. We’ll be there shortly.”
He hung up and turned to Faith, “You might want to take lead on this one. She seemed very wary of me.”
“Works for me,” Faith said. “Don’t take it personally. She’s probably just choked up after what she saw.”
“I never take anything personally,” Michael said. Seeing Faith’s expression, he added, “on a case.”
“Sure you don’t,” Faith said.
She looked around the terminal, which despite the fact that this was the witching hour was crowded with people. She could only imagine what the place was like during the morning rush. “All right,” she said. “Let’s head out.”
Fortunately, the roads weren’t nearly as crowded as the subway, at least not by urban standards. Michael estimated five minutes to make it to Miss Bonaparte’s apartment. While they drove, Faith took stock of what they knew so far.
Chester McIlhenny, sixty-four, member of the jury that convicted August Hornfeldt and recommended the death penalty. Murdered via means currently unknown and staged in the Twin Cities Terminal on a bench where he was ignored for hours until a barista who had also ignored him for hours decided to check on him. Dressed in an unusual outfit purchased recently, possibly by the killer himself. Or herself. Or theirself.
God, she was tired. Maybe she could convince Miss Bonaparte to make her some coffee while they talked, she thought wryly.
“We need to look into the Hornfeldt case,” she said to Michael. “See if there’s a connection there.”
“That’s next on my list after Bonaparte and the coroner,” Michael replied.
“Your list?”
Michael rolled his eyes, “Ourlist. If that’s all right with you, ma’am.”
Faith looked at him. “I can’t tell if this is banter or if you’re still angry at me.”
Michael sighed, “Let’s just focus on the case.”
“Well, that answers that question,” Faith said.
They reached Miss Bonaparte’s apartment just in time for Michael to avoid responding. Miss Bonaparte lived in a working-class complex that was just this side of being a slum. The major difference Faith noted was that the complex was clean. That was about all the place had going for it. Not that it likely mattered much to a college student living on her own in the middle of the largest metropolitan area in the United States.
Kylie Bonaparte opened the door before the agents even reached her unit. “Saw you through the window,” she explained. “You want to come inside?”
“If that’s all right with you,” Faith said.
Kylie looked at her. “You’re Special Agent Prince’s partner?”
“Faith Bold,” Faith replied. “You can just call me Faith.”
Kylie nodded. Her eyes were puffy and dark bags hung underneath them. Her skin was otherwise pale, and streaks of yesterday’s makeup ran down her cheeks. She had clearly spent a sleepless night crying. No doubt this was the reason she was awake when Michael called.
Kylie looked at Turk and smiled softly. “Who’s the puppy?”
“That’s Turk, our K9 unit.”
“Is he friendly?”
