Solomon slammed his phone down in anger. Grace had asked him more than once to be gentle with it, but today he was too upset to remember her reprimand. His media coordinator, Jacqueline Cross, had spent almost an hour on the phone with Jerry Acosta, asking him to wait to print the poem. Jerry had given her the runaround. Jackie had no idea if she’d gotten through to him. The last thing the Bureau wanted was to tip off the killer. They needed time to go over the evidence and develop a strategy to catch him.
“Jerry’s slippery, Sol. I did my best, but I’m just not sure. I don’t trust him or the slimy editor he works for.”
“Thanks for trying, Jackie. We’d better plan for the worst.”
They both knew that when the story hit the papers, especially after the death in Forest Park, every Tom, Dick, and Harry would be certain his neighbor was a serial killer. Women would turn in their ex-husbands, husbands would point at their ex-wives. It would be a mess. Press coverage could also push the UNSUB to change his game plan. Something they didn’t need.
He checked his watch. It was late. He should have left long ago. Jackie should be at home too, instead of writing up a report about her conversation with Acosta. He’d told her that, but she’d ignored him.
“Working late again, boss?” Jackie had countered.
“Yes,” he’d responded gruffly. “Is that something I need to clear through you?”
“It’s not your job to take care of me. I’m a grown man.”
Jackie had laughed. “Grown men. They’re the biggest babies on the planet. Go home, boss.”
He wanted to be irritated with her, but it was hard to get angry at people who cared about you. A mild heart attack last year had made his agents think they needed to mother him. They didn’t. His doctor had given him a clean bill of health. He was fine.
He shuffled through the papers on his desk, not really seeing them, debating with himself about telling Noah and Kaely about the article. He didn’t want to distract them, but at the same time he didn’t want them to feel ambushed. He decided he had no choice but to warn them.
He hated working with the press. The previous editor at the Journal had been much more accommodating, but this guy, Banner, had ink running through his veins and sales figures for brains. Jackie had experienced problems with him many times before. Once in a great while, he’d consent to hold back a story when it helped them close a case, usually only after the promise of an exclusive story down the road, but those instances were happening less and less. Any time someone in the media put their headlines above the safety of citizens and law enforcement, it made Solomon furious.
During a previous case, they’d contacted the owner of the paper. That got them nowhere. He was an out-of-touch businessman who left all management decisions to Banner. Talking to the owner was like trying to have a conversation with a brick wall.
His phone jingled, and he picked it up.
“Sol, Unit Chief Donald Reinhardt . . .”
“I don’t have time to talk to him now,” Solomon said, interrupting her. “It’s late. Tell him I’m—”
“Uh, Sol? He’s not on the phone. He’s here. In the building.”
Solomon froze. What was Reinhardt doing here all the way from Quantico? He sighed. “This can’t be good,” he said. “When are you leaving, Grace?”
“When you do.”
“I might be working late tonight.”
A long drawn-out sigh came over the receiver. “Joyce is dealing with empty-nest syndrome, Sol. She doesn’t need her husband to abandon her too.”
Solomon snorted. “I’m not abandoning her.”
“Then get Reinhardt out of here and go home. I’ll walk you out.” With that, she hung up.
Solomon shook his head. This was the second time someone had encouraged him to leave. Grace was a good friend and wasn’t afraid to challenge him when he needed it. Maybe she was right. He’d get rid of Reinhardt as quickly as he could and head home. Evenings had grown quiet, he and Joyce finally ending up in front of the TV. Usually, he fell asleep and when he woke up, he’d find himself alone on the couch. He wished he knew what to do. How to talk to her.
He hung up the phone more gently this time. Today wasn’t a good day for a visit from Quantico. Reinhardt was a unit chief within the FBI’s Critical Incident Response Group, called CIRG, which included the Behavioral Analysis Units, Kaely’s specialty. Reinhardt was the one behind Kaely’s transfer from Quantico after the article written by Acosta revealed the FBI had a special agent who was the daughter of a serial killer. Don’t embarrass the FBI was a motto not touted to the public but was front and center within the Bureau. Although Reinhardt had been instrumental in Kaely’s training, now it seemed he had a problem with her.
Not long after the first article that revealed Kaely’s past, Acosta published another one that detailed her strange profiling process. Although it was something Kaely usually kept private, someone at the FBI leaked the story. Reinhardt had come unglued. He wanted profilers who played it by the book, and that wasn’t Kaely Quinn. He believed she was a lone wolf who didn’t follow the policies and procedures he and others in the unit prescribed. He pressured the powers-that-be at Quantico to kick Kaely out. Eventually, they gave in and sent her to St. Louis. Solomon had decided to ignore Reinhardt’s warnings about Special Agent Quinn. He had no authority over the St. Louis field office. Frankly, Solomon didn’t care if Kaely dressed in a clown suit and stood on her head when she worked a profile—if it got results. If she wanted to use a unique method to help them catch criminals, so be it. Besides, Solomon was certain Reinhardt had been intimidated by Kaely when she was at Quantico. If she’d stayed, she might have been a unit chief by now.
He sighed. Why did Reinhardt have to show up today? Just when this new case had popped up? When the Journal was ready to push Kaely into the spotlight again? He pushed his chair back and waited. Finally, the phone buzzed again. He picked it up.
“Unit Chief Reinhardt to see you, sir.”
“Send him in.”
Solomon stood up and waited, his body rigid with resentment. The door swung open, and Reinhardt stepped inside. He was an imposing figure. Tall and distinguished-looking with a full head of silver hair, black-framed glasses that made his blue eyes look larger than they were, manicured nails, his dark suit pressed and perfect, and his tie straight even though he’d probably just flown from Virginia to St. Louis. He looked like a man who knew what he was doing. And he did. But the parameters he used to judge himself and others were narrow, and not many people fit them.
Solomon stuck out his hand. “Hey, Don. Good to see you. You should have told me you were coming.”
“It was a quick decision, Sol,” he said, grasping Solomon’s hand and shaking it firmly. “Didn’t have much time to notify anyone.”
Solomon gestured toward one of the chairs in front of his desk. “Sit down. Coffee?”
“That sounds great. Thanks.”
Solomon called Grace and asked her to get Reinhardt a cup of coffee. He covered the mouthpiece with his hand. “You take it black, don’t you, Don?”
“Yes. I’m surprised you remembered.”
After telling Grace what he needed, he hung up. “I remember the conversation we had once about froufrou coffee at Quantico.”
Reinhardt grinned. “I recall that too. I believe we decided real men drink their coffee black.”
“Yeah, and then an attractive waitress at a local restaurant encouraged us to try their new . . . what was it?”
“Special Christmas mocha peppermint latte.”
“And we both ordered it like a couple of whipped puppies.”
They both laughed at the memory. Solomon had almost forgotten that he and Reinhardt weren’t always adversarial with each other. He actually missed those days.
“So how can I help you today, Don?” Solomon asked.
Reinhardt’s expression immediately shifted, and any trace of humor vanished. “Heard something about your new case, Sol. Came to offer our help.”
Solomon pushed back a powerful surge of annoyance that fought for expression. He resisted giving it a voice and smiled. “My goodness, this thing is still fresh. How in the world did you guys get hold of it already?”
“I have friends at the SLMPD.”
At that moment, Solomon would have given a thousand dollars to know exactly what nincompoop with the St. Louis Metro Police Department contacted Reinhardt. Probably some rookie cop hoping to be accepted into the FBI’s training program. Reinhardt must have jumped on the next plane to St. Louis and come straight to Solomon’s office.
“Actually, this case still belongs to the local PD,” Solomon said, hoping to deflect his offer of assistance. “We’re only offering support.”
Reinhardt frowned at him. “When one of our agents is threatened, we can get involved without being asked. And if the murder is connected . . .”
Reinhardt wore his professional face. Solomon recognized it immediately. It meant You’re really not up to this, and I’m here to save the day. Solomon prepared himself, and he wasn’t disappointed.
“We feel you’re going to need assistance,” Reinhardt continued. “Especially from BAU. Kaely Quinn isn’t . . . well, she shouldn’t be working this case, not when she’s personally involved. There’s a definite threat to her, and a promise of more killings to come. You have a serial on your hands. You know that, right?”
The door to his office opened, and Grace came in with two cups of coffee. She studied her boss for a moment and seemed to pick up on the tension. She put the cups down and quickly left the room.
“We’re not sure if it’s a serial yet. As I said, this is still new. I have confidence in the St. Louis Police Department. They’ll probably capture the UNSUB before it goes any further.” He paused. “Or maybe he’s a one-hit wonder. We just might never hear from him again.”
Solomon stood, hoping Reinhardt would follow his lead. Right now, he wanted this smug so-and-so out of his office. “I appreciate your offer, but let’s see what we’ve got first. If we need your help, we’ll contact you immediately.”
Even though Reinhardt had no authority to tell him what to do, he could stir up trouble. For now, Solomon just wanted to placate him until he could figure out how to put him in his place. Unfortunately, Reinhardt didn’t take the hint and stayed right where he was.
“I’ll go in a minute,” he said in a low voice. “But Quinn needs to stay out of it. I mean that, Solomon.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way, Don. I don’t want to fight with you, but I believe in Kaely Quinn. She has expertise, training . . . and something else. Call it a gift or a mission. I can’t explain it. No matter what you say or do, I’ll back her all the way.”
Reinhardt scowled. “The FBI doesn’t need psychics or people who think God speaks to them. . . .”
“Agent Quinn has never claimed to be psychic—or a mouthpiece for God. And you know that.”
“I don’t care. Perception is reality. We have trained behavioral analysts who rely on facts and evidence. Those are the people I respect . . . and trust. Not some unbalanced young woman who thinks she’s the Joan of Arc of the FBI.”
Solomon could feel his temper rising past his ability to control it. If Reinhardt didn’t leave right away, they could have a problem that might not be easily solved. “Special Agent Quinn respects facts and evidence, Don. She’s pointed us to the right UNSUB more times than I can count. She’s completely qualified. You should know that. You trained her.” He waved his hand toward Reinhardt as if trying to dispel a bad smell. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore. Let’s stop before one of us says something we’re going to regret.”
Finally, Reinhardt stood up. “I can’t tell you what to do, but I think you should keep Quinn in check. If you don’t, you may be sorry.” He turned on his heel and strode toward the office door. But before he left, he turned back and stared at Solomon through narrowed eyes. “I’m doing what I feel is best for the Bureau. I think you know that.” He hesitated for a moment. Then he said, “Your UNSUB’s no one-hit wonder. He’s in for the long haul, Sol. More people are going to die.” With that, he pushed the office door open and left.
Solomon slumped down in his chair. Whatever Reinhardt’s faults, one fact was irrefutable. He was great at his job. He had talent and instinct. In his heart of hearts, Solomon knew Don was right about their UNSUB. Unless they found a way to stop him, more people were definitely going to die.