“That is what immediately means, yes.”
“May I ask what this is about?”
“Assistant Director in Charge Joseph Pistillo would like to see you.”
Pistillo? That made him pause. Pistillo was the top agent on the East Coast. He was the boss of Tickner’s boss’s boss. “But I’m on the way to a crime scene.”
“This isn’t a request,” Fisher said. “Assistant Director Pistillo is waiting. He expects you here within the half hour.”
The phone went dead. Tickner lowered his hand.
“What the hell was that about?” Regan asked.
“I gotta go,” Tickner said, heading down the corridor.
“Where?”
“My boss wants to see me.”
“Now?”
“Right now.” Tickner was already halfway down the hall. “Call me when you know something.”
“This isn’t easy to talk about,” Rachel said.
I drove. The unanswered questions had started to gather, weighing us both down, sapping our energy. I kept my eyes on the road and waited.
“Was Lenny with you when you saw the photos?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Was he surprised by them?”
“Looked that way to me.”
She settled back. “Cheryl probably wouldn’t have been.”
“Why’s that?”
“When you asked for my number, she called to warn me.”
“About what?” I asked.
“About us.”
No further explanation required. “She warned me too,” I said.
“When Jerry died—that was my husband’s name, Jerry Camp—when he died, let’s just say it was a very hard time for me.”
“I understand.”
“No,” she said. “Not like that. Jerry and I, we hadn’t worked in a very long time. I don’t know if we ever did. When I went for training at Quantico, Jerry was one of my instructors. More than that, he was a legend. One of the best agents ever. You remember that KillRoy case a few years back?”
“He was a serial killer, right?”
Rachel nodded. “That capture was mostly due to Jerry. He had one of the most distinguished records in the bureau. With me . . . I don’t know how it happened exactly. Or maybe I do. He was older. Something of a father figure maybe. I loved the FBI. It was my life. Jerry had a crush on me. I was flattered. But I don’t know if I ever really loved him.”
She stopped. I could feel her eyes on me. I kept mine on the road.
“Did you love Monica?” she asked. “I mean, really love her?”
The muscles in my shoulder bunched. “What the hell kind of a question is that?”
She was still. Then she said, “I’m sorry. That was out of line.”
The silence grew. I tried to slow my breathing. “You were telling me about the photos?”
“Yes.” Rachel started fidgeting. She only wore one ring. Now she twisted and tugged at it. “When Jerry died—”
“Was shot,” I interjected.
Again I could feel her eyes on me. “Was shot, yes.”
“Did you shoot him?”
“This isn’t good, Marc.”
“What isn’t?”
“You’re already angry.”
“I just want to know if you shot your husband.”
“Let me tell it my way, okay?”
There was a touch of steel in her voice now. I backed down, gave her a suit-yourself shrug. “When he died, I pretty much lost it. I was forced to resign. Everything I had—my friends, my work, hell, my life—was wrapped in the bureau. Now it was gone. I started drinking. I sank deeper into a funk. I hit bottom. And when you hit bottom, you look for a way to bounce back up. You look for anything. You get desperate.”
We slowed at an interchange.
“I’m not saying this right,” she said.
I surprised myself then. I reached through the red and put my hand on hers. “Just tell me, okay?”
She nodded, keeping her gaze down, staring at my hand on hers. I kept it there. “One night, when I had too much to drink, I dialed your number.”
I remembered what Regan had told me about the phone records. “When was this?”
“A few months before the attack.”
“Did Monica answer?” I asked.
“No. Your machine picked up. I—I know how stupid this sounds—I left a message for you.”
I slowly took my hand back. “What did you say exactly?”
“I don’t remember. I was drunk. I was crying. I think I said that I missed you and hoped you’d call back. I don’t think I went further than that.”
“I never got the message,” I said.
“I realize that now.”
Something clicked. “That means,” I said, “that Monica listened to it.”
A few months before the attack, I thought. When Monica was feeling her most insecure. When we were starting to have serious problems. I remembered other things too. I remembered how often Monica had cried at night. I remembered how Edgar had told me that she’d started seeing a psychiatrist. And there I was, in my oblivious little world, taking her to Lenny and Cheryl’s house, subjecting her to that picture with my old lover in it—my old lover who had called our house late at night and said she missed me.
“My God,” I said. “No wonder she hired a private investigator. She wanted to know if I was cheating on her. She probably told him about your call, about our past.”
She said nothing.
“You still haven’t answered the question, Rachel. What were you doing in front of the hospital?”
“I came to New Jersey to see my mother,” she began. There was a hitch in her voice now. “I told you that she has a condo now in West Orange.”
“So? Are you trying me to tell me she was a patient there?”
“No.” She went quiet again. I drove. I almost flipped on the radio, just out of habit, just to do something. “Do I really have to say this?”
“I think so, yeah,” I said. But I knew. I understood exactly.
Her voice was stripped off all passion. “My husband is dead. My job is gone. I’ve lost everything. I’d been talking to Cheryl a lot. I could tell from what she said that you and your wife were having problems.” She turned to me full. “Come on, Marc. You know we never got over each other. So that day I went to the hospital to face you. I don’t know what I expected. Was I really naïve enough to think you’d sweep me into your arms? Maybe, I don’t know. So I hung around and tried to work up the courage. I even went up to your floor. But in the end, I couldn’t go through with it—not because of Monica or Tara. I wish I could say I was that noble. I wasn’t.”