previous night’s storm. “My source thinks they’ll take it to Quantico. We’re looking into it.”
“I want to know everyone who is even remotely connected to this case.”
Westgate opened the window, flicked his cigarette into the dirty slush in the street below. “Arrangements are already being made.”
Sydney Fitzpatrick stepped off the plane that Sunday at San Francisco airport, looking forward to time with her family, especially her eleven-year-old sister. Her vision of two weeks of relaxation culminating in a home-cooked turkey dinner evaporated the moment she was greeted by SFO airport police.
“Special Agent Fitzpatrick?” the uniformed man asked her, after the flight attendant pointed her out.
“Yes.”
“You need to call Quantico at once.” He checked a piece of paper he held. “Contact SAC Harcourt.”
“Thank you,” she said, taking out her phone and powering it on, then hitting speed dial for Harcourt’s cell phone.
“Hate to cut your vacation short,” Harcourt said, once they connected. “But we need you for that drawing.”
“What happened to that spiel about the full list of artists available at a moment’s notice?” she asked.
“Think of it this way. You come do the drawing, and you’re back in San Francisco before the turkey’s thawing on the counter.”
As much as she wanted to decline the job, if they’d gone to this much trouble to get her, she knew she couldn’t. She’d accepted the transfer to Quantico for a reason. True, she needed the rest and respite from her last case that almost ended her career, never mind her life. She’d gone out of her comfort zone on that last assignment, and she wasn’t about to venture out again. But the hard truth she didn’t want to face was that she’d pushed the envelope so far, the Bureau was watching her, and wanted to know if she was a team player. Besides, Thanksgiving was nearly two weeks away. A drawing with a forensic anthropologist couldn’t take more than a day, maybe two, depending on the condition of the body. “Let me check on flights and I’ll call you back.”
“We have a plane standing by. The officer will take you to it.”
And that didn’t make any sense. Since when did the Bureau have private planes waiting for something that could have, should have been dealt with before she ever left Washington, D.C.? Like they were expecting to fly her back?
Something was up.
3
At precisely 9:53 P.M., Sydney’s plane touched down at the marine base at Quantico. She looked out the window and saw a lone jeep waiting on the tarmac. SAC Harcourt and Special Agent Griffin stood by the jeep. Other than that, the airstrip seemed surprisingly empty, especially considering the grounds were shared with the marines…
She grabbed her overnight bag and briefcase, exited the plane, bracing herself against the chill of the mid November air. Patches of dirty slush lined the runway, remnants from the early fall snow promising that it wasn’t about to get much warmer, even come morning. How had she ever thought of San Francisco as being cold during the few months she lived there? She was definitely going to miss the West Coast.
The men standing by the jeep watched her, and as she approached, SAC Harcourt put his hand on her shoulder. “Thanks for interrupting your vacation and coming at such short notice.”
“Not a problem,” she said. “So we’re starting first thing in the morning?”
“Tonight,” Griffin said. “A lot to cover and little time. You brought what you need for the sketch?”
“Never leave home without it.” She patted the soft-sided briefcase slung over her shoulder.
“Good,” Harcourt said. “We have a room ready for you.”
“I have a place in D.C.,” she said, slinging the overnight bag onto her shoulder, trying to sound pleasant. Okay, so it was the standard apartment in the standard building used for temporary housing for agents. But even with the bare white walls and rented furniture and still-packed boxes, it was a damned sight better than what they had at Quantico in the academy dorm, which consisted of a twin bed with a shared bathroom. “I’d rather be able to go home tonight.”
Griffin held the jeep door for her. “Like I said, very little time and a lot to get through, so if you can manage one night here…”
She stood there a moment, looked him right in the eye. “Just out of curiosity. Why me?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Of all the forensic artists, in all the towns, in all the world, you call me. Why?”
“The gin joints were closed, and you came recommended. Any more questions?”
“Not yet.”