but she did, and if he wasn’t willing to talk to her, help her keep awake, then tough. “I’m sorry,” she said, pushing her chair back. “I can’t work any longer tonight.”
“You’re certain?”
“So you do remember how to communicate?”
He didn’t reply.
“Yes, I’m certain. I’ll need several hours of rest if you want a decent drawing, and then I’m going running. I presume you want everything to remain here?”
“Yes.”
Sydney left her briefcase, drawing tools, and sketch pad behind, walked over, picked up her overnight bag, then stood there, waiting for him to unlock the door, let her out. When he hesitated, she held up her arms. “Either search me, or open the damned door. I’m tired.”
He glanced back at her things on the table, perhaps to assure himself she took nothing with her, then unlocked the door, letting her out before locking it behind him. And if that wasn’t secure enough, he escorted her to the elevator, then to the front lobby, where the guard who had taken her gun for safekeeping gave her the key to her room for the night. When it seemed her self-appointed escort intended to accompany her to her dorm, she held up her hand. “I can take it from here, thank you. Know the place well.”
A nod and he stepped back, allowing her to enter the elevator on her own. In her entire twelve years in law enforcement, the last four in the FBI, she wasn’t sure she’d ever experienced security this tight. Definitely not for a drawing, she thought, feeling the agent’s gaze on her even as the elevator door slid shut and she began her ascent.
Her room was on the third floor, a short walk through one of the many glass-enclosed hallways that connected each of the buildings. The glass enclosures reminded her of the tubes in a hamster cage and were often referred to as the same by the recruits housed there. Outside, a light dusting of snow covered the moonlit landscaping below, and all looked peaceful—as long as she didn’t think about the crime scene photo. It bothered her. She’d seen plenty of crimes over the years, plenty of violent scenes and photos. But this one was different. Forensic artists weren’t usually ushered into Quantico under cover of darkness, secreted away to a room where no one had entry, then guarded the entire time…
So who was the woman? Clearly someone of significance. Or a case of significance.
The photo had showed a woman who was made out to be a prostitute—or something similar, if the condoms were to be believed. Over the years, Sydney had seen dozens of sexual crimes, and this had all the earmarks of such a case. Until one thought of the overkill on security while she did her drawing.
Which certainly made her think twice when she unlocked her door, stepped into the room.
She tossed her bag on the twin bed, then shut and bolted the door behind her, slipping her phone from her belt and calling her former partner, Tony Carillo, back in San Francisco. He answered on the second ring, his voice sounding as though she’d woken him. She glanced at the clock, after two A.M. Eastern time.
“Sorry,” she said, then looked around the room, taking stock of the spartan surroundings. “Just missing everyone back home. How are you?”
A slight hesitation. “Fine. Everything okay?”
“Yeah, yeah. Just trying to unwind. You know. If I can’t sleep, why should you,” she said, walking into the bathroom, closing the door. She checked the door leading to the dorm room on the other side, made sure it was empty, told herself she was just being paranoid, then locked it, before turning the shower on full force, trying to keep her voice low. “You ever hear of a guy named Zachary Griffin? Special Agent?”
“For the Bureau?”
“So it seems. Do me a favor. Find out what you can on the guy? Code Two,” she said, giving the old cop term for “without delay.”
“Yeah, sure. What’s going on?”
“Other than they’ve got me locked up with this drawing tighter than an alchemist’s formula for gold at Fort Knox? I haven’t the foggiest. Call you tomorrow.”
She hung up, thought about calling Tasha to find out what she could offer on the case, but realized it was too late, she’d be in bed. Then again, Sydney could leave a message on her voice mail at her office, and called that number instead. When she heard the doctor’s voice mail kick in, she said, “Hey, Tasha. This is