The North Face of the Heart - Dolores Redondo Page 0,211
Jim Wilson’s office, working her way through a pile of statements and case summaries. The director had chosen a navy-blue suit for the occasion. Not a good idea; too little color. Verdon, leaning on the full-length window overlooking Pennsylvania Avenue, was far more impressive than his boss. He had the self-assured air of a military officer. Agent Johnson sat beside Amaia in the other visitor’s chair.
Amaia initialed pages and scribbled her signature at the end of each of a dozen documents, put down the ballpoint pen, and glanced over at the packed suitcases she’d left just inside the office door.
The CJIS director followed her gaze. “Are you sure you won’t change your mind and stay with us?”
She handed over the documents. “One hundred percent sure.”
“I really must insist. It would greatly benefit the Bureau if you’d reconsider our offer and agree to stay.”
“My father died in Spain while I was in New Orleans,” she said, offering no further explanation. That was the first time she’d put it into words, and perhaps for that reason, it carried sufficient weight and emotion to put an end to the negotiation.
Wilson studied her thoughtfully. He decided she’d turned the Bureau down because she’d been under terrific stress and affected by her father’s death. “I understand. Maybe later. But we’ll need for you to consult with our forensic psychologists. For them, having a type like Lenx—alive—is a godsend for behavioral analysis.”
“Naturally.”
Wilson checked her initials on each page and her signature at the end of each document. The shit had hit the fan within the Bureau when the media hailed her as a lone-ranger vigilante. He faced down the critics, emphasizing that the operation had resulted in the apprehension of a killer who’d been on their most-wanted list for a long time. They hadn’t even dared to complain that the collar was made by a temporary agent handpicked by Aloisius Dupree for his elite special operations team.
The greatest challenge had been trying to talk her out of returning to Spain. He’d done his best, trying directly and indirectly to impress upon her the vital importance of presenting her to the media as a regular FBI operative.
She’d refused to hear of it, so they made a deal. She’d agreed to appear at the press conference with Johnson, who had his arm still in a sling, and Verdon, the director of the Criminal Investigative Division. In a dark suit with an FBI lapel pin, she was the very image of the no-nonsense professional.
The television at her back now was playing the video of the press conference on a continuous loop.
The arrest of Martin Lenx, dubbed the Family Executioner by the press, was the lead story on news programs, and Amaia knew that a number of producers were trying to dig up enough information for a documentary about the case that had riveted the whole country. There was global interest because of the cold-hearted murder of his first family and his obsession with re-creating every aspect of his former life.
His wives were surprisingly similar. He’d fathered the same number of children, of the same sexes and in the same birth order. He’d glided from a job as an unimpressive office administrator to that of a faceless adjustor at a reinsurance firm. Discreet, formal, and obliging, he was a man of few words, but discriminating and educated.
But what most amazed people was the fact that Martin Lenx hadn’t altered his appearance in the least. He continued to wear his hair razor cut and extremely short. He presented himself in the same correct but inexpensive business attire, the same boring ties, even the same style of horn-rimmed glasses. He’d continued attending Lutheran religious services and participating in church activities. He’d even bought and then replaced the same make and model of car.
Director Wilson turned off the video. “Well, Agent Salazar, you’ll have plenty of time to watch yourself on television. They’ll be talking about you for months: the agent who arrested the most elusive serial killer in recent history. You have plenty to be proud of.”
“Thank you, sir, but I was just doing my job.”
“Modesty doesn’t become you, my dear. Your name will go down in the FBI annals as one of our best agents, the survivor of a point-blank gunshot who arrested a serial murderer of families.” He winked. “And all under my command!”
She inhaled—even though deep breaths were still a bit painful—and nodded without comment.
Director Wilson hadn’t finished. “When I was informed of your audacious analysis of the case,