A Killer Cup of Joe Read online

  Convinced that everything was undisturbed, Ellie walked down the hall to her office, locked away her Glock, and hung her jacket on the back of the chair while the computer booted up. A quick glance at her e-mail didn’t produce any urgent requests, so she turned to her mailbox and pulled out two FedEx boxes from California.

  Three years ago she’d gotten a nearly dead case from Agent Peters in San Francisco. He’d written her a note that he was submitting this to her only because his supervising agent had commanded him to do so. He thought it was a waste of his time and had reminded her not to lose any of the paperwork while she had the file. It had taken her three hours, but five questions had come to mind while looking at the evidence he’d sent her. After typing up a summary report, she'd sent it back to him. A week later, she'd received an e-mail from the very same agent, apologizing for being a jerk and thanking her for the help. Apparently, one of the questions had given him a new approach, and after following her lead, he'd been able to finally crack the case that had been plaguing him for so long.

  After that, she'd gotten files from Agent Peters every month or so. He sent them whenever something didn’t feel right and he couldn’t put his finger on exactly what was bugging him. She never questioned his gut instinct that there was a problem, and he never made fun of the tiny things that stood out to her. So far, he’d successfully solved every case he’d gotten her help on. They’d joked that since their case resolution rate was a hundred percent, that made them the most effective partnership in the FBI. They occasionally shared personal details about interests or activities, but they’d never met, and if she had anything to say about it, they never would.

  Ellie had a feeling he pictured her as a matronly hag who worked in the basement because she was incapable of working anywhere else, and she didn’t want to disrupt the working relationship they had if he learned that wasn’t true. While she wasn’t what anyone would describe as a stunner, on the few occasions she allowed a girlfriend to drag her to a club, she never failed to have someone approach her for a dance. According to her mother, with a little more effort, she could turn heads easily. Of course, her words had the opposite effect, as Ellie wanted to draw as little attention to herself as possible, so she put only enough effort into her appearance as was necessary. She wanted to be the girl that was just attractive enough to make people comfortable, without being good-looking enough to be memorable. The fact that she shared an apartment with only a betta fish named Henri proved she’d been abundantly successful in that area.

  That wasn’t to say she was without friends. She'd stayed in touch with Anne, her best friend since third grade, who kept Ellie up-to-date on all the current challenges in the life of a stay-at-home mother to four. If anything made Ellie want to buckle down and do a good job, it was the horror stories Anne told of the things her children had put her through. Compared to Anne’s day-to-day life, the gruesome crime scene photos Ellie stared at all day were a walk in the park.

  There were a few people at work she would go out for drinks with on occasion after a long week, and across the hall from her apartment was Agent Phillips. He was a field agent working from the same office as her, except he was on the fifth floor. It wasn’t where the high brass worked, but it was only one floor removed. He and Ellie were nearly the same age, but he’d finished at the academy a year ahead of her and had started his career off with the single-minded purpose to be the best agent the bureau had ever seen. He had it all—charisma, good looks, brute strength, a sharp mind, and the ability to make a stellar cup of coffee. She had allowed him to talk her into reviewing a case file on the weekend on more than one occasion, just for a cup, freshly poured from his coffee pot.

  Ellie thought of Phillips as the goofy big brother she was glad she never had growing up, but liked more than she’d ever admit to now that she was on her own. He didn’t take life seriously and refused to let her do so when she was around him. Ellie assumed his self-proclaimed prophesy that he would die early in the line of duty accounted for his approach to life. He believed you had to squeeze as much fun into every day as you possibly could. While she didn’t approve of the string of women he paraded through his front door, she did like the way he said what he was thinking without worrying about the consequences. He often told her, “Life’s too short to worry about pissing people off, Michaels. If everybody likes you, then you haven’t stepped on enough toes.” She could never take on his cavalier attitude, but she did enjoy watching him get into trouble and then charm his way back out of it.

  As she looked at the cup of Dunkin' Donuts coffee, she sighed at the fact that she wasn’t more patient. Mocha Joe’s would have been infinitely better. Realizing pining over a cup of coffee wasn’t accomplishing anything, she returned to the task at hand and tore into one of the packages from California. On top was a handwritten note from Agent Peters.

  I’m stuck again, Ellie, and hoped you could work your magic to point me in a direction I haven’t thought of yet. I hear your fine city will be hosting a singer/songwriter showcase next month. Are you going? I’ll be jealous if you get front row seats to the next big sensation. Thanks for your help, as always. ~ Bobby

  Agent Peters—whose first name was Bobby, even if she couldn’t force herself to use it—shared her love of undiscovered songwriters who chose to perform their own creations in order to sing them the way they were intended to be sung. They lacked the polish and glamour of most of the big bands you heard on the radio, but what they lacked in fancy equipment and effects, they more than made up for with lyrics that were challenging, relevant, and touching. She loved the simplicity of showcases like what would be coming up next month. Most would be a single person playing a guitar, standing in front of the microphone, brave enough to open their mouths and sing the words that came straight from their heart. Ellie might think of herself as a detail-oriented nerd, but she loved good music, and the concert coming up all but guaranteed to have it. It was the kind of event she definitely wanted to attend, but only if she had someone to take with her.

  She opened the file, frowning at how thin it felt. Either this was a nearly impossible case, or he’d gotten lazy on her. For the next two hours, she read his notes of the interviews he’d conducted with family members of the two victims of a killer who seemed to seek out young girls and strangle them in the parking lot of the club where they’d been hanging out for a good time. With only two victims so far, there wasn’t enough to warrant bringing in a profiler, so her first suggestion had already been shot down because of a lack of unifying factors.

  There were only two photos of each of the crime scenes, which was also upsetting. Usually when the FBI processed a murder, there were dozens of pictures trying to get every possible angle of the area to ensure nothing was overlooked. Two pictures guaranteed a whole bunch was missed. On the top of the final snapshot was a Post-it note that said: Local police had jurisdiction and handled both scenes. These pictures were all they took. We have since taken over the investigation. If there’s another victim, the local cops will secure the perimeter and allow us to run it from there. But I’d love to crack this before someone else has to die just to settle who’s got the better crime scene techs.

  She agreed with him and moved to the white table in the center of her office. She’d gotten it from a restaurant that was going out of business, because it was the perfect height to stand and review data without bending over. For some reason, she seemed to think better when she was standing. Plus, the top was perfectly white, so there were no distractions around the items she wanted to focus on. Holding a magnifying lens that looked like an inverted bar glass, she set the photos on the table and looked at them for similarities.

  Obviously, the cause of death tied them together. Even in the limited photos the bruising around their necks made it clear they’d been strangled. Ellie hoped it was just the angle, but the bruising almost looked smeared, as though the killer had moved their hands around while strangling them so that no clearly traceable prints would be visi
ble to use the size of the hands as part of an identification of the killer.

  Both girls were wearing red, which could be a coincidence with a data sample of only two. They both had long hair, worn down, which wasn’t at all unusual at a club where women are looking to be picked up. Having gotten the preliminary impressions out of the way, she set about focusing on the details.

  They were both wearing necklaces that appeared to have an oval-shaped medallion on them. Another note was made to pick up the necklaces and see if it was just the angle of the photo or if they had similar taste in jewelry. She decided to try enlarging up one of them later to see if she could figure out what it was. The second victim’s picture was not as clear. It wasn’t going to give as much detail, so she glossed over it, not wasting her time there.

  They were both wearing what looked like class rings, most likely from college. Ellie pointed that out, suggesting the schools they attended might be important. Both girls were on the ground beside the driver’s side door of their own car. The door appeared to be slightly ajar, as though they’d been in the process of opening it when they were interrupted.

  The only other thing of note was that neither of the women had long fingernails. It might be nothing, but it stood out to Ellie because they were both in gravity-defying high heels, their faces were perfect—either because they had flawless complexions or were wearing makeup that had been professionally applied—and even after suffering a violent death, their hair still had the look of being treated well. Since long nails, professionally manicured, were so popular these days, and the victims both appeared to be current in all their other fashion choices, it seemed out of place that their fingernails would be short and unpolished.

  Once again, she picked up the info that Agent Peters had compiled and saw that one was an attorney and the other worked at an advertising agency. It was possible they might not like long nails because of the amount of time their jobs required them to spend at a computer, but there were literally dozens of women in this building that you could hear clicking away all day with their acrylic nails on the keyboard. Something told her that if these women wanted them, they could have worked around them, too.

  After re-reading their files, she noticed their ages spanned five years apart, so it was doubtful they’d attended college together, ruling out one unifying thread possibility. She kept coming up with new theories and ruling them out nearly as fast so that by lunch, she had nothing left to show for her work, other than the worrisome issue about their fingernails.

  Knowing that Agent Peters was an early bird like she was, Ellie called his cell phone.

  “Agent Peters,” his smooth, deep voice came over the phone.

  Ellie sat back in her desk chair and held the curly cord out of the way to reply, “Hi, it’s Ellie Michaels.”

  “Ellie.” His tone warmed instantly. She could hear him shuffling and then the background got quiet before he spoke again. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your call?”

  “I got your file,” she started, wondering if he thought she’d reach out for a reason other than a case file—or if he’d even want her to.

  An intake of breath interrupted that thought. “I know there wasn’t much to go on. My boss suggested I read it all to get myself up to speed so that if there’s another murder that fits in with those two, we could jump in and gather evidence the local PD missed. But after reading everything, I just couldn’t let it go and hoped you’d come up with an angle I hadn’t thought of.”

  “I’ve read everything you sent, and there isn’t much to go off of. I’m going to try to get a better look at the medallions they were wearing. Do you have a contact at the station that would hand over the necklaces?”

  “I can throw around a badge bigger than mine and get them if you think it would help,” he volunteered.

  “At this point, anything would help,” she told him. Then she decided to go for broke and lay out the only other thought that had surfaced. “Any ideas why neither of the women would have had fancy fingernails?”

  There was a moment of silence before Agent Peters said, “I figured maybe half the women in the world chose not to do anything with their nails, so it didn’t matter. Why? What are you thinking?”

  “Not much, but something in the back of my mind won’t let it go because of how particular they were about the rest of their appearance. Do you have time to go back to someone that knew each of the women and see about interests outside of work and family? Like...were they into karate, or pottery, something that would make long nails impossible to keep up?” As she said it out loud, she knew it was, at its best, a guess and possibly a waste of his time.

  “Do you think this is important?” he asked.

  “My gut says it is, but on paper, it doesn’t mean much,” she confessed, feeling the need to be up-front. She’d learned early on that holding back never helped. She’d rather sound crazy at the beginning than have somebody go on a wild goose chase and prove her insanity after the fact.

  “I’ll get on it this afternoon,” he replied, and she was glad he seemed to trust that if she thought it was important, it probably was.

  They turned to lighter subjects, and she let him know she was aware of the showcase next month. Before she realized it, another ten minutes had passed with random chitchat, and somehow, Phillips was standing right in front of her desk, grinning. He glanced at the phone number she’d dialed on the display of the phone, and his eyes bounced over to the FedEx box showing the address and sender name before he leaned over and hit the speaker phone button on the desk unit, turning her private conversation into a public one.

  “Hey, Bobby. How’s life in Northern California?” Phillips blurted out.

  There was a long pause before Agent Peters spoke. “Ellie, I’d have thought for all you do at the bureau, there would be someone there to filter the walk-in trash that appears in your office.”

  “I think there’s so little traffic down here, the bureau would see it as a waste, since the guard would no doubt fall asleep,” she replied, giving Phillips a glare to make him aware of the fact that she didn’t appreciate his sudden appearance.

  “I’ll send you an e-mail if I can get any more information. Thanks for your help, Ellie.”

  “Anytime, Agent Peters,” she replied professionally, sitting up straight in her chair to disconnect the call herself.

  As soon as the line was dead, the man in front of her desk asked, “Why do you call him Agent Peters?”

  What an odd question. “He’s a field agent; it’s the appropriate way to refer to him.”

  “True, but you just call me by my last name, and never use the title,” he pointed out with a grin.

  Ellie laughed because they both knew he didn’t care about his title. He corrected anyone he met by telling them to use his first name, so she wasn’t sure what the fuss was about. “You don’t like the title,” she reminded him, before adding, “Besides, after seeing you try to get that little blonde down to the waiting cab while you were wearing nothing but a pair of boxers that had cartoon characters on them, I don’t think I could call you Agent with a straight face.”

  “You know, if you’re curious about what other boxers I might have, I’d be glad to provide a private viewing,” he teased. Phillips was a notorious playboy, but that didn’t make him a bad neighbor for sharing the occasional pizza or game.

  “No, thanks,” she said, effectively shooting him down. “Besides, your idea of a private showing of your underwear drawer would probably be asking me to help you do your laundry.”

  He laughed at that. She knew he never minded it when she got the upper hand in teasing. “All right, then, how about you explain why he calls you Ellie.”

  “It’s my name,” she replied straight-faced, not sure she wanted to have this conversation.

  “It’s your first name,” Phillips corrected. “Don’t you think since he refers to you by your first name, and he signs his notes to you that way, that he wants to hear you say his, as well?
” He was holding the note that had been the cover letter to the file as proof of his point.

  She shrugged, hoping her poker face was still as good as it used to be. “Don’t know, but he’s a co-worker that I help with case work, nothing else, so all he’s going to get from me is Agent Peters.”

  “Good to know,” Phillips replied, looking strangely happy about the response. “You think my apartment has a revolving door, but it’s nothing compared to the reputation Bobby has.”

  “Is that why he sounded less-than-thrilled to hear your voice?” she wondered.

  Now it was Phillips’s turn to shrug. “I doubt it. He was probably pissed to think of me having regular contact with the asset he uses to help solve all his cases.”

  “What is this? Junior high?” she blurted out, regretting it instantly. Feeling the need to put a more professional slant on her words, she added, “I do a job as defined by the FBI, and Agent Peters is completely within his rights to call on me whenever he needs help.”

  “Relax,” Phillips said, lifting his hands. “I’m just saying that I think he uses your skills to make himself look good, and he doesn’t give you the credit you deserve for doing his job.”

  “I’ve looked at cases for you, too,” she pointed out.

  Phillips began to step back, putting a little more distance between them. “Yes, and every single time you’ve given me something, I’ve recorded it in the file and credited you with it.”

  “I don’t do this for the glory,” she reminded him.

  “Obviously,” he replied, glancing around the slightly dim office with no windows, only twice the size of the janitor’s closet on his floor. “But you still do it, which is all the more reason to ensure you get the credit you’re due.”

  “Thanks,” she said uncomfortably. She liked talking to Agent Peters and didn’t want to begin second-guessing why he sent her twice as many files as anyone else. “Was there a reason you dropped by?”