Spector, I—”
“I wish to think about it,” I said, noisily sliding the silver case off the counter. “A man in my position can’t make such a purchase on a whim.”
I watched the dollar signs drain out of his eye sockets. He blinked, the smile returned as warm as ever. “Just so, Mr. Spector…just so. Nonetheless, Spinnaker Sales appreciates your confidence in us.” He held out a hand. The gold Rolex dangled a bit on his wrist. We shook, and then he asked, “Do you have a business card, Mr. Spector?”
“All out.”
“What about a contact number?” G tilted his head. “I will make a few calls, see if I can find out which dealer sold your porthole yacht.”
“Thank you, G,” I said. “I appreciate that. You can reach me at my hotel in Destin.” I gave him the number. Then I left.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
The testosterone years.
Deanna Rezvani smirked, remembering the phrase she used to describe her first three years in the Bureau. She’d met a dizzying array of men during that time. She looked away from her laptop’s screen and laughed. A few of them were more memorable than others.
There was enigmatic Rolf Cursade, the genius criminologist who’d cracked the “bloodletting code” of a ritualistic killer who called himself the Serpent. Rolf was nearly as much a predator as the killers he chased, and he wanted everyone to know it, especially the ladies. He wore a choker necklace adorned with sharks’ teeth and carried a knife big enough to shame Crocodile Dundee.
Rolf could flip a switch and get inside a killer’s mind. And while in “whack-mode,” as his somewhat creeped out colleagues called it, Rolf could often plot the killer’s next move well in advance. Some thought Rolf was crazy, but everyone thought he was brilliant. But Rolf wanted trophies, Dee remembered, not girlfriends.
Dee’s study partner in the academy, Nathaniel Petrikin, was another memorable man. When he was just five, Nathaniel had promised his beloved Momma he would join the Bureau because he knew an Eff-bee-yie man had rescued his grandfather from a bunch of clansmen intent on a lynching. Nathaniel had been true to his word. First in his class at the academy, he’d breezed into the Bureau. But at every turn, even with all the Bureau talent spotters trying to recruit him for leadership roles, Nathaniel stayed in the field. He wanted to fight crime at ground level where things can get dirty. His mother’s rosary in one pocket, a tiny Gideon Bible in the other, Nathaniel was a good man. A good man who got married halfway through his first year on the job.
Special Agent Gerard Stephen Harris was another sort of man. Granite jaw, glinting blue eyes, and a chiseled physique, Agent Harris was stunningly handsome. The man had a way of shaping himself to get what he wanted, a chameleon with an approach for every person and every situation. He cowed other field agents and bulled through jurisdiction disputes. He talked training with Deputy Director Barnes and spoke politics with Director Peluso. And even though Rez thought of him as slimy, she had to admit, Agent Harris was smooth around women. Charismatic, statuesque, and bold, he could walk into a room full of beautiful women and take his pick with no more effort than selecting a peach in the produce aisle. Cursade, Petrikin, Harris—they were remarkable men.
But Dee had never met anyone like Ghost.
Putting her finger on exactly why proved a daunting task. He wasn’t strikingly handsome. Certainly not homely though , thought Dee. Aside of his imposing size and curiously pale skin, there really wasn’t anything unusual about his looks. But Ghost carried a powerful presence. It was as if the man had a kind of inner might that radiated from him, even when he was still and silent. And when he spoke, his words echoed stark white purity…innocence. He seemed without pretense, without guile, and utterly unafraid. Toward the end of
“I wish to think about it,” I said, noisily sliding the silver case off the counter. “A man in my position can’t make such a purchase on a whim.”
I watched the dollar signs drain out of his eye sockets. He blinked, the smile returned as warm as ever. “Just so, Mr. Spector…just so. Nonetheless, Spinnaker Sales appreciates your confidence in us.” He held out a hand. The gold Rolex dangled a bit on his wrist. We shook, and then he asked, “Do you have a business card, Mr. Spector?”
“All out.”
“What about a contact number?” G tilted his head. “I will make a few calls, see if I can find out which dealer sold your porthole yacht.”
“Thank you, G,” I said. “I appreciate that. You can reach me at my hotel in Destin.” I gave him the number. Then I left.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
The testosterone years.
Deanna Rezvani smirked, remembering the phrase she used to describe her first three years in the Bureau. She’d met a dizzying array of men during that time. She looked away from her laptop’s screen and laughed. A few of them were more memorable than others.
There was enigmatic Rolf Cursade, the genius criminologist who’d cracked the “bloodletting code” of a ritualistic killer who called himself the Serpent. Rolf was nearly as much a predator as the killers he chased, and he wanted everyone to know it, especially the ladies. He wore a choker necklace adorned with sharks’ teeth and carried a knife big enough to shame Crocodile Dundee.
Rolf could flip a switch and get inside a killer’s mind. And while in “whack-mode,” as his somewhat creeped out colleagues called it, Rolf could often plot the killer’s next move well in advance. Some thought Rolf was crazy, but everyone thought he was brilliant. But Rolf wanted trophies, Dee remembered, not girlfriends.
Dee’s study partner in the academy, Nathaniel Petrikin, was another memorable man. When he was just five, Nathaniel had promised his beloved Momma he would join the Bureau because he knew an Eff-bee-yie man had rescued his grandfather from a bunch of clansmen intent on a lynching. Nathaniel had been true to his word. First in his class at the academy, he’d breezed into the Bureau. But at every turn, even with all the Bureau talent spotters trying to recruit him for leadership roles, Nathaniel stayed in the field. He wanted to fight crime at ground level where things can get dirty. His mother’s rosary in one pocket, a tiny Gideon Bible in the other, Nathaniel was a good man. A good man who got married halfway through his first year on the job.
Special Agent Gerard Stephen Harris was another sort of man. Granite jaw, glinting blue eyes, and a chiseled physique, Agent Harris was stunningly handsome. The man had a way of shaping himself to get what he wanted, a chameleon with an approach for every person and every situation. He cowed other field agents and bulled through jurisdiction disputes. He talked training with Deputy Director Barnes and spoke politics with Director Peluso. And even though Rez thought of him as slimy, she had to admit, Agent Harris was smooth around women. Charismatic, statuesque, and bold, he could walk into a room full of beautiful women and take his pick with no more effort than selecting a peach in the produce aisle. Cursade, Petrikin, Harris—they were remarkable men.
But Dee had never met anyone like Ghost.
Putting her finger on exactly why proved a daunting task. He wasn’t strikingly handsome. Certainly not homely though , thought Dee. Aside of his imposing size and curiously pale skin, there really wasn’t anything unusual about his looks. But Ghost carried a powerful presence. It was as if the man had a kind of inner might that radiated from him, even when he was still and silent. And when he spoke, his words echoed stark white purity…innocence. He seemed without pretense, without guile, and utterly unafraid. Toward the end of
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