through the dark bedroom, directly out the window. With the lights off she could see outside. She had a clear view of the parked cars on the street, the sidewalk, the apartments on the other side. The alley, however, was pitch-black. Anyone could have hidden there, and Copeland would never have known it.
She was about to switch on the bedroom light, then stopped. With narrowed eyes she stared out the window.
She could have sworn that in the alley’s dark recesses lurked a tiny, glowing orange dot. She inched closer to the window, leaving the bedroom lights off. Halfway across the room she stopped and took another hard look.
Ever so slightly, the orange dot had seemed to move—but it was definitely still there, deep in the alley across the street.
Someone, she realized, was standing there smoking.
Her heart raced. She knew from countless other profiles created back at Quantico that, when it came to serial killers, the old stereotype was often true: They did return to the scene of the crime. They’d even been known to
“help” with the manhunt, so curious were they about the progress of the case. She pulled her gun from the holster and raced downstairs. If she could get down in time, she might trap him in the alley.
At full speed she rushed out the door, down the front steps and across the street. She took cover 99
THE INFORMANT
behind a car parked in the front of the alley and aimed her pistol across the hood.
“FBI!” she shouted. “Come out with your hands up!”
She waited a moment, squinting as she searched for the orange dot. It was gone.
“FBI!” she shouted, then listened. She heard nothing at first, but then came a slamming noise from somewhere in back. She suddenly realized it wasn’t a blind alley with only one way out—it must have had a rear exit. She jumped out from behind the car but stopped at the edge of darkness. She knew better than to run headlong into a dark alley, alone with no backup. She sprinted up the sidewalk a half-block to the next alley, which was lighted.
“Shit!” In the light, she could see plainly that the alley ran clear through.
She did the hundred-yard dash uphill, all the way through to the narrow street that ran along the back of the buildings. Her pace quickened as she rounded the corner and headed back up the block to the dark alley.
She stopped twenty feet away from the back entrance.
The wooden gate was wide open—the slamming noise, she realized, had been the sound of the orange dot getting away.
“Damn.” She was breathing heavy from the all-out sprint. She looked one way, then the other, but the street was empty. With her gun drawn she stared into the blackness. The thought of being so close brought a tinge of fear, but she didn’t let it show.
If he could somehow still see her, she wanted him to know: She was the one who’d crush him like his cigarette.
100
Chapter 14
o n Wednesday morning Victoria and the field coordinator from the FBI’s San Francisco office computer-interfaced via ISDN circuit with their videotape analyst in Washington, D.C. The security camera at the bank’s automatic teller machine had recorded the informant’s transaction last Friday afternoon, and Victoria had sent the tape back for analysis at the FBI laboratory’s Video Support Unit on the third floor of the J. Edgar Hoover Building.
Special Agent Brent Schullman looked fiftyish with yellow-gray hair and a dogged expression that had probably served him well in his early years in the military police. He had the huge calloused hands of a man who liked to fix cars or work in the yard, which didn’t seem to mesh with his designer suit and gold cufflinks. Victoria figured his wife must do his shopping, and the way he cleaned his eyeglasses with his silk Armani necktie seemed to confirm her suspicion.
The two agents sat beside each other facing the 101
THE INFORMANT
keyboard, computer and big twenty-inch color display monitor. Victoria worked the keyboard and mouse
She was about to switch on the bedroom light, then stopped. With narrowed eyes she stared out the window.
She could have sworn that in the alley’s dark recesses lurked a tiny, glowing orange dot. She inched closer to the window, leaving the bedroom lights off. Halfway across the room she stopped and took another hard look.
Ever so slightly, the orange dot had seemed to move—but it was definitely still there, deep in the alley across the street.
Someone, she realized, was standing there smoking.
Her heart raced. She knew from countless other profiles created back at Quantico that, when it came to serial killers, the old stereotype was often true: They did return to the scene of the crime. They’d even been known to
“help” with the manhunt, so curious were they about the progress of the case. She pulled her gun from the holster and raced downstairs. If she could get down in time, she might trap him in the alley.
At full speed she rushed out the door, down the front steps and across the street. She took cover 99
THE INFORMANT
behind a car parked in the front of the alley and aimed her pistol across the hood.
“FBI!” she shouted. “Come out with your hands up!”
She waited a moment, squinting as she searched for the orange dot. It was gone.
“FBI!” she shouted, then listened. She heard nothing at first, but then came a slamming noise from somewhere in back. She suddenly realized it wasn’t a blind alley with only one way out—it must have had a rear exit. She jumped out from behind the car but stopped at the edge of darkness. She knew better than to run headlong into a dark alley, alone with no backup. She sprinted up the sidewalk a half-block to the next alley, which was lighted.
“Shit!” In the light, she could see plainly that the alley ran clear through.
She did the hundred-yard dash uphill, all the way through to the narrow street that ran along the back of the buildings. Her pace quickened as she rounded the corner and headed back up the block to the dark alley.
She stopped twenty feet away from the back entrance.
The wooden gate was wide open—the slamming noise, she realized, had been the sound of the orange dot getting away.
“Damn.” She was breathing heavy from the all-out sprint. She looked one way, then the other, but the street was empty. With her gun drawn she stared into the blackness. The thought of being so close brought a tinge of fear, but she didn’t let it show.
If he could somehow still see her, she wanted him to know: She was the one who’d crush him like his cigarette.
100
Chapter 14
o n Wednesday morning Victoria and the field coordinator from the FBI’s San Francisco office computer-interfaced via ISDN circuit with their videotape analyst in Washington, D.C. The security camera at the bank’s automatic teller machine had recorded the informant’s transaction last Friday afternoon, and Victoria had sent the tape back for analysis at the FBI laboratory’s Video Support Unit on the third floor of the J. Edgar Hoover Building.
Special Agent Brent Schullman looked fiftyish with yellow-gray hair and a dogged expression that had probably served him well in his early years in the military police. He had the huge calloused hands of a man who liked to fix cars or work in the yard, which didn’t seem to mesh with his designer suit and gold cufflinks. Victoria figured his wife must do his shopping, and the way he cleaned his eyeglasses with his silk Armani necktie seemed to confirm her suspicion.
The two agents sat beside each other facing the 101
THE INFORMANT
keyboard, computer and big twenty-inch color display monitor. Victoria worked the keyboard and mouse
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