Nowhere Pure, page 6
“Could be an easy target,” Cole said, sensing a connection. “He stumbles out of the bar, half-drunk. The parking lot is dark. Pretty easy for the killer to ambush him.”
There was a glow of excitement in Callaway’s eyes. “Makes sense. The car was never found, so I’m guessing the killer used it to get to the silo, then dumped it.”
“Which plays into the homeless theory,” Cole said. “Might as well use the victim’s car when he doesn’t have his own.”
More and more, she was liking the idea that the killer lived in the silos full-time, venturing out to gather supplies from the outside world—and occasionally hunt his next victim. If this was so, how might they track him? Talk with the local police in the areas where the victims had been found, ask if there were any suspicious homeless men on their radar?
Callaway grunted. “That’s funny.”
“What?”
“Just the person Jesse put down as his emergency contact. Wasn’t his wife, but this other character. Ernesto Pico. A cousin, apparently.”
“That’s odd,” Cole said, surprised. “Think Jesse and his wife were having problems?”
“Or he just trusted this Ernesto guy like a brother.”
Curious now, Cole unlocked her phone and searched the web for Ernesto Pico. She came up with profiles for three different people with that name. That stumped her for a moment. Then she searched each profile to see if they were friends with Jesse Vega, and she found one match.
She stared at a picture of a young man with a shaved head and sharp, dark eyes, grinning at the camera with his hands thrust into his pockets as he stood in front of a backdrop of majestic buttes. Cole scanned the information listed on the profile.
Suddenly, her blood seemed to freeze in her veins.
“What?” Callaway asked, gesturing for her to show him the phone. “What’d you find?”
“His background,” she said. “He goes to your alma mater, Cibola College … and you’ll never guess what major he’s pursuing.”
Callaway waited, his eyes fixed on Cole.
“Chemical engineering,” Cole said.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“You’re sure he’s in there?” Cole asked Ray, holding the phone a few inches from her mouth. As she spoke, she glanced across the Jeep’s interior at Callaway, who was staring at the phone with a thoughtful expression on his face. Through the windshield, they could see a sea of parked vehicles, and beyond them the blocky, interconnected buildings of Cibola College, its dark windows glittering in the sunlight.
Ray Ranganathan was a young techie who freelanced for the Bureau—and relentlessly hit on Cole whenever he got the chance. Despite his unwanted attentions, Cole knew the young man was harmless, and she had actually developed a grudging sort of fondness for him. It didn’t hurt that he was practically a savant when it came to technology, either.
“Of course, I’m sure,” Ray replied. “Do you know how many times I’ve used phones to track people?” He paused. Then, apparently realizing his mistake, he hastily added, “Not that I’ve ever done so on my time. That would be a misuse of government software.”
“Indeed, it would,” Cole said, wondering how often Ray had used that very software to keep tabs on her. She didn’t want to know the answer.
“I can even monitor what he’s doing, if you want,” Ray added. “Tell you what apps are running, even hijack his camera.”
“Is that legal?”
Ray laughed softly. “Would it be any fun if it was?”
Callaway cleared his throat. Cole glanced at him, noted the impatience in his eyes, and decided it was time to get going.
“Better not,” she said to Ray. “Just send me that picture.”
“Will do.”
Cole was about to thank Ray and end the call, but before she could do so, he spoke up.
“If this is your guy,” he said, “and you’re able to wrap the case up, you have plans for the evening?”
Cole might have laughed, had the situation been different. He could be so predictable—which, in a way, made him likable, though she wasn’t about to admit that to him.
“Sorry, Ray,” she said, grabbing her door handle. “My job’s a jealous husband.”
He sighed, disappointed. “Well, you can’t fault a man for trying, can you?”
“Goodbye, Ray. Try not to break any laws before we talk again, alright?”
Cole ended the call and opened her door, stepping out onto the hot asphalt below. It was early afternoon, the day hot and still, not a single bird in the burnished sky. Despite the number of vehicles in the parking lot, there was hardly anyone to be seen anywhere. Most of the students, Cole supposed, must be in classes.
“Strange, being back after all these years,” Callaway said as they began weaving through the vehicles, heading toward the university’s columned entrance. “Last time I was here, I was just a kid who thought he had the whole world figured out. Now, I’m old enough to have my own kids enrolled here.”
“Now, you’re making me feel old, too,” Cole answered, playfully nudging him with her elbow.
He grinned. “Just wait till you have kids of your own someday. That first baby comes along, and you lose track of all the things you thought were so important: sleep, food, spending time with friends. And forget about ‘me time.’” He laughed. “You age twice as fast, I swear. But it’s all worth it.”
Cole eyed him curiously, wondering where all this was coming from. “Is your wife pregnant again or something?”
“Sarah?” Callaway raised his eyebrows, surprised. “She’s … we’re not really together anymore.” He cleared his throat, looking flustered.
Cole did not know what to make of this information. She had known Callaway’s marriage was rocky at best, but she hadn’t known the two were separated. Suddenly, his advances toward her made a lot more sense.
“Anyway,” he continued, “I guess I was just thinking how quickly time passes. Makes it that much more important who you spend that time with.”
Neither looked at the other, but Cole felt as if Callaway’s eyes were on her, nonetheless. What was he implying? Did he still have feelings for her, even though she had turned down his advances multiple times now?
She was still pondering this when she and Callaway reached the building’s glass doors. Callaway tried to open one, but it didn’t budge.
“Damn,” he muttered. “I had a feeling it was only a matter of time before they upgraded their security.”
“What do we need, a keycard?” Cole asked. She wasn’t familiar with the campus, and it had been a long time since she had been part of the college scene.
“Student badge. Or we can go to the main office, but I’m pretty sure the classroom we’re looking for is in here.”
“How far is the main office?”
“Other side of campus,” Callaway said. “Fifteen-minute walk or so.”
Cole shook her head, not liking the idea of spending half an hour just getting someone to unlock the door for them. She didn’t know how long Ernesto’s class would run, but she couldn’t risk him getting away while she and Callaway were on their way to the office.
Just then, while she was peering through the tinted glass at the carpeted hallway beyond, she heard a burst of laughter behind her and turned to see a trio of young men carrying backpacks as they jostled one another. They fell silent as they noticed the two agents, as if sensing they were in the presence of law enforcement. Then one of them stepped forward and slipped his badge into the slot above the door handle.
A green light blinked on, and there was a faint click. The young man opened the door, and he and his companions walked through.
Cole’s foot shot out, stopping the door from closing. “After you,” she said to Callaway.
He shrugged and entered.
A wave of cool air washed over Cole as the door closed behind her. The hallway stretched out in both directions, the walls lined with trophy cases, murals, posters, and a few notices reminding students of school rules. Several drinking fountains broke up the monotony.
“Which way?” Cole asked, feeling lost.
Callaway pointed down the hallway in the opposite direction from which the three teenagers had gone. “Should be down here, unless they’ve changed things up.”
Cole kept pace with Callaway as they ventured down the quiet hallway, occasionally passing knots of students who cast them curious glances but otherwise kept to themselves. Cole considered asking for directions, but she sensed it was important to Callaway to lead the way. She just hoped he knew where he was going.
At last, after passing several doors, they reached a plain, unmarked door. Through the vertical, rectangular window, Cole could see a grinning young man at a table laden with, of all things, a jar of mayonnaise, a tube of mustard, several slices of bread, and a few other sandwich items. Behind the young man stood a woman in her fifties or sixties, her hands clasped behind her back as she looked on with a wry smile.
The young man finished whatever demonstration he was participating in, clapped the two halves of the sandwich together, and bit into it. The students clapped.
“Very good, Paul,” the teacher said, dismissing him with a gesture. “Now,” she continued, addressing the class, “as you can see, we have both limiting reactants and excess reactants. Who can tell me which is which?”
“Beats me,” Callaway muttered. “Chemistry was never my strong suit.”
Cole leaned to the side, now focusing her attention on the rows and rows of students going all the way to the back of the room. There had to be at least fifty of them, maybe more. She searched their faces, trying to identify Ernesto Pico.
“Now,” the teacher went on, “this wouldn’t be chemistry without an equation, right?” She turned to the chalkboard and began writing with quick, practiced strokes.
“I don’t see him,” Cole said, frowning. “Then again, I’m not sure I’d recognize him at this distance, anyway.”
“Maybe he’s just not here today,” Callaway said. “Could be playing hooky.”
Cole was still debating what to do when the door flew open and a young woman with blonde highlights strode out, her head down as she texted on her phone. She hardly noticed the two agents.
The teacher, however, did notice them. “Can I help you?” she asked, setting down the piece of chalk pinched between her thumb and forefinger.
Cole caught the door before it could swing closed. Reluctantly, she stepped into the room. She was not about to raise her voice and risk being overheard by Ernesto, should he be nearby.
“Sorry for the interruption,” she said with an apologetic smile, her voice low. “My name’s Agent Cole, and I’m with the FBI.”
“What’s wrong?” the woman asked, a note of alarm in her voice as her eyes darted toward the students. “Has someone made a threat?”
“Nothing like that. We just need to speak with one of your students: Ernesto Pico. Is he here today?”
The woman gazed at Cole for a few seconds, as if evaluating her. Cole suspected the woman was about to ask to see her badge or demand to know what she wanted with Ernesto, but to her surprise, the woman merely nodded.
“Right side, third row from the back,” she said, keeping her attention on Cole. “Dark baseball cap.”
Cole turned to look. After a moment’s search, she identified the baseball cap—as well as the eyes of Ernesto, which were fixed on her. He was sitting up straight and rigid, as if an electric current had traveled through his body.
Damn it! Cole thought. We should have waited outside and grabbed him after the class ended. And she would have done so had the teacher not seen her.
The cat was out of the bag, however, so there was no sense in playing coy now.
“Ernesto Pico?” she called. “Could we have a word with you?”
The room fell silent as a number of students turned toward Ernesto. For a few seconds, he did nothing. Then he rose, his chair falling back behind him with a clatter.
“Stop right there!” Callaway called.
Ernesto, however, did not listen. He moved along the wall, pulling a fire alarm as he hurried to the exit at the back of the room.
The room filled with the sound of the alarm. Several students, looking bewildered, rose from their seats and crowded the aisle, stooping to stuff laptops, notebooks, and other items into their backpacks.
“Move, move!” Cole said, frustrated as she tried to push through. Her path was effectively blocked by a big kid in shorts and an unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt who was anxiously looking around as if waiting for someone to tell him what to do. Cole detoured around him, leaping over chairs and stumbling to the ground.
Ernesto reached the door well before Cole. He glanced quickly over his shoulder, then hurried through.
Cole managed to reach the door before it closed. She caught it, hauled it open, and rushed out. Left and right, classroom doors were opening, spilling scores of students into the hallway.
“Which way did he go?” Callaway asked as he caught up with her, raising his voice to be heard above the commotion.
She shook her head, growing desperate. “I don’t know! I didn’t see!”
Then, as she looked to the right, she saw a door swing open and a young man with a black baseball cap run through it. Was it Ernesto, or someone else? Cole did not know, but there was no time to second guess herself now.
She raced down the hallway, pushing through the traffic of students streaming toward the exits. What was his plan? To head back to the parking lot and drive off? Surely, if he was living on campus, he wouldn’t head back to his dorm.
If he gets to his car, she thought, you might never see him again, but that doesn’t mean you won’t hear from him.
She had a feeling that their killer wasn’t going to stop murdering his victims simply because of a close call with the Feds.
Just as the pneumatic door was closing, Cole reached it and threw it open, revealing a concrete stairwell. She glanced down just as Ernesto paused to look up at her. Their eyes met. There was something feral in Ernesto’s face, like the expression of a cornered cat not afraid to use its claws.
“We just want to talk to you!” Cole called. “There’s no need to make this harder on yourself.”
He stared at her a moment longer, then he darted away.
Cursing, Cole hurried down the stairs, Callaway right beside her. The door at the bottom opened into a recreational room with pool tables, a Ping-Pong table, shelves of books, card tables, and even an old-fashioned jukebox. There was only one other exit: a door at the far end.
“Come on,” Callaway said, hurrying toward the other door. Cole, however, did not follow, and after a few seconds, Callaway looked back, puzzled.
“He’s getting away!” he said. “What are you waiting for?”
In answer, she pressed a finger to her lips. She didn’t think Ernesto would have had time to sprint across the room, throw open the door on the far side, and close it behind him before the two agents entered behind him. And if Cole was right, that meant Ernesto was close by.
Very close by.
Drawing her sidearm, she began to move about the room, peeking behind chairs and tables, while Callaway lurked close to the stairwell door, ready to pounce if Ernesto should come out of hiding.
“We know you’re here, Ernesto,” Cole said, peeking around the side of a sofa. Her whole body was tense, every muscle ratcheted tight. “You’re only making things worse for yourself.”
She spotted a recliner in the corner of the room. Motioning to Callaway to get ready, she approached the chair. The alarm abruptly cut out, bathing the room in silence.
In that sudden silence, she could hear a man’s heavy breathing.
“You’re starting to make me think you’ve got something to hide, Ernesto,” she said as she neared the recliner. “If I were you, I’d—”
Before she could finish the sentence, Ernesto sprang from hiding. He was a blur of movement, leaping over the chair and crashing into Cole’s shoulder. The impact spun her, and she staggered, putting out her hand to stop herself from falling.
Meanwhile, Ernesto sprinted toward the door. He had almost reached it when Callaway stepped out from behind the sofa. As the two men collided, Callaway grabbed Ernesto and shoved him against the wall, twisting an arm behind his back.
“Well done,” Cole said, nodding with relief as she joined the two of them. She pulled out her handcuffs.
“Teamwork makes the dream work,” Callaway said.
As Cole snapped the cuffs around Ernesto’s wrists and tightened them, Ernesto cast a wild glance over his shoulder at her.
“It wasn’t my idea!” he said, his voice edged with panic. “It was never my idea!”
CHAPTER NINE
He’s a big kid, alright, Cole thought, studying Ernesto. Looks like he spends plenty of time in the gym.
They had brought Ernesto back to the field office’s interview room, a white, featureless cube with no furnishings except a pair of chairs and a table. The soft, almost clinical glow of the overhead light scoured everything, leaving no place for shadows to hide.
Despite Ernesto’s impressive physique, he had a bookish look to him, accented by the dark-rimmed glasses that drew rectangles around his suspicious, gray eyes. His knee bounced nervously in place, sending a faint tremor through the table, and he kept moving his tongue around in his mouth as if it had suddenly gone dry.
He’s hiding something, Cole thought. The question is, what?
The door opened, and Callaway entered with two bottles of water. He placed one in front of Cole, then slid the other across the table to Ernesto. Having accomplished his task, he leaned back against the wall, crossing his arms and staring at Ernesto.
Ernesto untwisted the cap and greedily sucked down several swallows of water. Then he lowered the bottle, rubbing his thumb across the plastic as if to provide the comfort he himself needed.
