Lisa Starling was pleased. Things were going well. She had scored not one hit on Susana Alvarez Lecter but two.
Ralph Lima had been pleasant on the drive to the airport. He discussed the case with her. He challenged her opinions and kept her on her toes regarding her theories about her cousin, but that was to be expected. She could tell that his intent was to make her a better profiler rather than tear her down as DeGraff seemed to want to do so badly.
The airport was busy and bustling. Lima took the lead in explaining to the airline that they were FBI agents and would therefore be traveling armed. The woman at the ticketing counter handed them forms to fill out and asked to photocopy their ID.
At the security checkpoint, Lisa stopped. She had never gone through a metal detector with a pistol before. Was she supposed to give it to one of them? Walk through with it? Lima stopped and watched her expectantly, a small grin on his face.
That meant he thought she would be able to handle it. She'd learned to profile him a bit herself. She flagged down one of the airport security personnel.
"Excuse me," she said. "I'm Agent Starling, and this is Agent Lima. We're with the FBI." She flashed her ID.
The man in the security uniform nodded and crossed his arms. "What do you need, Agent Starling?"
"Well," she said, "we're armed and I don't know – I mean, I need to know what we have to do to get through this checkpoint."
He nodded again. "Do you have your carry forms? The ones they gave you at the ticketing counter?"
She handed him the pieces of paper they needed.
"Unload your weapons, please, and hand them to me."
Lisa felt a bit embarrassed. She envisioned a panic. But she took her Glock out and carefully pointed the muzzle at the floor. Then she booted the clip. She racked the slide to show the chamber was empty and handed it to him. Ralph Lima nodded and did the same. She walked through the metal detector.
BEEEEEEEEP.
The guard took out the wand. "Forget something?" he asked.
Lisa reached around and felt it. There, the extra clips on her belt. She handed them to the guard and blushed furiously.
A passing matron gave her a look of astonishment. As she walked by, Lisa heard her tones of shock and anger.
"Can you imagine it, Harold? That young girl was armed! She had a gun!"
Lisa's cheeks flushed red. Well, now you know even FBI agents get embarrassed.
"I'm with the FBI, ma'am," she said as officially as she could, her hands still full of clips and handcuffs.
Ralph Lima seemed to think it was all very amusing. He, too, duly handed over his equipment for inspection. Finally, the security guards pronounced them fit to enter the boarding area. Lisa jammed her gun back into its holster, her cheeks still red.
"Did that embarrass you?" Lima grinned.
"If I'd known it was going to be this much damn trouble I'd have left the gun at home," Lisa grumbled.
"You embarrass easily," Lima said, his head tilted. "This indicates that you're not comfortable rocking the boat, or drawing undue attention to yourself, which is probably caused by,--"
Lisa pointed at him. She liked Lima, but she was becoming steadily more aware that behind the grandfatherly blue eyes lurked a very sharp mind. She had no doubt that he could have made an excellent Dr. Lecter, had he wanted to.
"Oh no. Don't you profile me, Agent Lima," she snapped. "We have work to do."
"You look like my daughter when you do that," he observed. "Are you going to ask for the car keys?"
She put her hands on her hips before realizing that was exactly what he wanted. He grinned down at her. Instead, Lisa put her hands in her pockets, composed herself, and said sweetly, "Oh, I didn't know you had a daughter."
"Yup. She's about your age."
"So, obviously, your volunteering to do this with me indicates that you don't feel close to your daughter, and are obviously trying to compensate for that using me as a substitute for your daughter."
"Touche," he grinned.
"Now tell me what DeGraff's problem is," she said.
Lima's pleasant demeanor collapsed. "Peter DeGraff," he admitted, "does not think women should be in the FBI."
"I noticed that," Lisa said bitterly.
"He's not all bad, though. He's a good profiler, he's caught a few UNSUBs himself. He just…he knows all the horrible things we see and thinks women should be protected from that."
"That doesn't excuse him," she pointed out. "There are laws about that sort of thing."
Lima shrugged. "No, it doesn't. But there are always going to be people like him in life. If he crosses the line, take it up with Quincy. Quincy will set him straight. Just try to keep from fighting him." He shrugged again. "Maybe we'll come up with something good in New York."
The flight had been uneventful. The New York field office had lent them a car, and they went from salon to salon, distributing Susana's picture. Lisa thought these places were awfully highbrow: they all seemed to have fancy wood trim and Muzak playing faintly in the halls. They all reeked of chemicals. Lisa wondered why anyone in their right mind would pay to sit in all those chemical fumes. The counter people were routinely well dressed and polite, but the actual nail technicians seemed scared of her badge and gun. Lisa supposed that their work papers would not hold up to close scrutiny.
On the third one, they hit paydirt. Lisa showed her ID and gave the woman behind the counter Susana's picture. The woman looked at it, frowned, and nodded.
"Why, yes," she said calmly. "I remember those eyes. Red eyes, so very rare. She was in a few days ago for her nails. Monday, I think." That would have been the day after Ray Herman's murder.
"Did she sign in? Do you have a book?"
"Of course," the woman said. She took out a large leather binder and flipped through the pages slowly. There it was, in black and white: Susana Alvarez, written in the woman's flowing script.
"Can we take this?" Lisa asked.
"If you'd like." The woman opened the binder and took out the page. Lisa took it and slid it into an evidence bag.
"If you'd like, Officer Starling, we could do your nails now," the woman offered. "We have such respect for the officers of the law."
Lisa smiled tightly and shook her head. "Some other time," she said diplomatically. "Thank you for your help."
On the way out, she shook the evidence bag. "She's using her own name," she said.
"Probably thought it didn't matter. It's a nail salon."
"Means we have a week and a half at least before she gets her nails done again," Lisa said. "God, I can't believe I'm saying this. Lisa Starling, nail detective."
"We ought to see if they'll let someone work undercover. You any good at nails?" Ralph Lima grinned.
"No, and I doubt she'll be back there. She'll leave the city."
Next, they checked the hotels. Lisa believed that her cousin would insist on five-star hotels, and she was right. The Four Seasons hotel, on West 57th st, had a listing for a 'Susana Fell'. Cute, Susana, Lisa thought. She was used to big-city traffic from Washington and fell neatly into New York's traffic patterns. Which mostly meant speeding, honking, and screaming at other drivers. And that was fine. Lisa was a Starling, after all. Ralph Lima blanched as she slewed the car to the right and stopped at the hotel.
"Please," he said half-jokingly. "I have a grandson."
The hotel was certainly grand enough, Lisa thought. The foyer was over 33 feet high, pillared, and very majestic. The concierge was most helpful when Lisa showed him her ID and asked about Susana Fell. Lisa immediately asked what room she had been in.
"Why, room 472, Agent Starling. But--" the concierge said. His hair was slicked back with some sort of gel. It looked like it might turn back bullets.
Lisa immediately began fumbling for her phone. "We'll need to clear the area," she said authoritatively. "We'll need a SWAT or HRT team in here to bring her down." Ralph nodded and took out his own.
"Agent Starling," the concierge said again, attempting to politely intercede.
"Move all guests away from that room," she ordered. "Move them all to other floors. It could get ugly."
"But Agent Starling," the concierge said calmly, "Miss Fell is no longer a guest here. She checked out two hours ago."
Lisa's face fell. Two hours? So goddam close….
"Let me see her room, then," she ordered.
"Of course, ma'am. I'll escort you."
The room was large and possessed very modern furnishings. Pushbutton everything, Lisa thought. Pushbutton controls to pull down the blinds and raise the curtains. The concierge seemed embarrassed that the bed was unmade.
"Housekeeping hasn't been in here yet," he said apologetically. "I'll just,--"
"No, you will not," Lisa said firmly. "We need to have Forensics in here. No one else gets in this room. Oh, and we'll need hair samples from you to exclude you."
She hauled out her phone and called the New York field office to have a forensics team sent out.
Ralph Lima seemed amused. She shooed the concierge out the door and told him to wait there until the forensics team arrived. She tilted her head at Lima and looked at him seriously.
"What's so funny?" she demanded.
"Well,…" he paused. "You're so different out in the field."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, in the meetings, you're this agreeable little don't-rock-the-boat thing, and out here, you're being so in charge and bossy."
"We have a job to do," she said abruptly. "How about you help out instead of sitting there grinning at me?"
"Yes, Chief," he said, and took out two sets of latex gloves. He put on one pair and offered her the other. She slipped them on. They were big, but they would do. On the pillow, she found several brown hairs and carefully put them into a plastic bag. The bathroom yielded little of interest, but once forensics was here and they were able to fingerprint the place, Lisa was sure something would turn up. It wouldn't surprise her if Susana left her another love note.
She felt good. They had tracked the monster to her den. The next question was where she was going next.
Her phone bleeped on her belt again. Lisa grabbed it and pressed TALK.
"Agent Starling," she said importantly. Maybe it was the forensics team. Or Quincy.
It was neither.
"Cousin Lisa! Well, how are you?" The voice was female and spoke with a West Virginia accent much like her own.
Lisa's jaw dropped. Her heart began to pound.
"Susana?" she asked.
"The same," Susana Alvarez Lecter said.
"Where are you?"
"The same as you. The Big Apple. They call Buenos Aires the Big Apple too, did you know that?"
"Susana, tell me where you are," Lisa managed.
The accent came back on with the efficiency of a light switch. The annoying thing about it was that Susana's West Virginia accent was neither overdone nor outright mocking. It simply sounded as if she had come from the next town over.
"Well, I declare, Cousin Lisa. You done and gone lost all your manners since you moved to the big city. Speaking of which, how do you like New York? Much bigger than anything you'll find in North Armpit, West Vir-gin-nigh-ay."
"It's great," Lisa said. "Why not get together with me, Susana? There are people here who'd love to talk to you."
A bitter laugh came through the line. "You mean the FBI?" She pronounced the last letter Ah. "I'm afraid I'll have to say no to that, Cousin Lisa Lee. The FBI ain't too neighborly. I don't take kindly to people with handcuffs. Speaking of which, have you met former Chief Mapp? She's a mite ticked off at me." Incredibly, Susana giggled.
"I spoke with Chief Mapp a few days ago, yes," Lisa said. "Why?"
"You ought to talk to her again," Susana said. "I'd do it myself, but we ain't talking right now. I'll see you sometime, though. Drop by your apartment, maybe? Chin-wag a little?"
The thought that a dangerous killer knew her address occurred to Lisa, and she gripped her gun in its holster firmly. "Susana," she said. "You think you're funny, but I'm gonna get you."
"Why Cousin Lisa Lee, ain't you got no manners? You think you're better than folks? I tell you true, that's why I done and got out of the city." A cold chuckle escaped the speaker.
"How was your nail job, Susana?" Lisa said. "Your nail job at LaChina Nail Salon? The one on 59th street? And what did you think of the Four Seasons?"
"You done gone and found out about that, Cousin Lisa Lee? Well, I declare. You are a real honest-to-goodness dee-tective. Like on tee-vee. I bet your daddy the hog feed salesman would be proud. Well, if he hadn't dropped dead in bed with a hooker, that is."
Lisa's face flushed. "Shut up about my father. You're hardly one to talk."
"My daddy didn't stay out all night at the bars. Nor hit my momma. Nor climb in bed with me. But then again, we ain't from West Virginia, now, are we?"
The last accusation was not true, but the first two were. Lisa gripped the phone tighter, as if squeezing the innocent piece of electronics would stop Susana.
"Shut up about my father, I said," she said dangerously.
"Your pappy? I wasn't talking about your pappy, Lisa." The faux accent turned off again. "I was talking about my own. Really, Cousin Lisa. You're awfully sensitive."
"So what do you want?" Lisa asked. "To torture me? Brag? You're not as good as you think and I'm not as dumb as you think."
"Never said you were," Susana said airily. "Master's degree in psych from U of Virginia, not too shabby. But, dear Cousin Lisa, you're not going to catch me."
"Care to bet on that? We Starlin's can be awful persistent, you know."
"Really, Cousin Lisa? You think you can catch me?"
"Like a bluetick hound after a fox in the henhouse," Lisa said, a tight grin on her face. Two could play at this game. "I'll getcha, Cousin Sue. Come hell or high water, I'll getcha."
Susana sounded surprised. "A fox. I rather like that. You know, a female fox is called a vixen."
"Thank you ever so much for the animal husbandry lesson, Cousin Sue."
"I've been a regular vixen to former Section Chief Mapp, I must say. Call her. Call her and find out, if'n you please. At the least, you'll enjoy Roland's view."
A beep came from the phone. Lisa pulled it away from her face and noticed that the call timer had stopped counting. Susana had hung up.
"Susana?" Lisa asked again, just to make sure.
The phone beeped again. Lisa pressed TALK again and pressed the phone to her ear.
"Why, Susana, I wasn't finished," she said sarcastically.
The voice that boomed in her ear was not Susana's. It was male and much older.
"What are you talking about, Starling? This is Quincy. We just got a call from NYPD. I need you to get your ass down to 1570 W. 32nd st. Looks like our Susie has struck again. Name of the victim is Roland Mapp. Only thing is, we can't find the body on the premises. Looks like she took it. There's a lot of blood there, so it's legit. Go there and tell me what you see."
"But we're at her hotel room now. She was at the Four Seasons," Lisa protested. "She checked out two hours ago. There's hairs on her pillow. One of the towels is still kind of damp."
"Really? Good job, Starling." Lisa took a moment to bathe in the praise. "Let forensics handle the hotel room, though. I want you and Lima there. You know who Roland Mapp is?"
"I presume he's some relative of former Chief Ardelia Mapp," Lisa said.
"Very good. How'd you know?"
"She told me," Lisa admitted.
…
Susana Alvarez Lecter hung up the pay phone and walked out of the highway rest stop to her car. This time, she did not have a Mustang. That was just as well – between her luggage, the things she had bought in New York City, and Roland Mapp's mutilated corpse, she had far too much stuff to fit in the trunk of a sports car.
This time around, Susana had a big Chevy Surburban. Although its performance on the road was nothing compared to the Mustang, it had its advantages. She could pop it into four-wheel-drive and make it up a mountain, if she so chose. Plus, she had enough room for whatever she could think to bring along. And Susana had an awfully good imagination.
She merged back onto I-95 and swiftly discovered that she could make her way along by threatening anything smaller than the Suburban with its great gleaming nose. In the dash lights, she grinned. Ahead, a sign read I-95 South – WASHINGTON DC AND POINTS SOUTH.