I ease Sierra to a stool and we both quickly put our clothes back in order. I’m about to reach for her when she steps to me first and jabs a finger in my chest. “You push too hard, too fast.”
I catch her hand between us. “It’s necessary. It’s about protecting everyone near this.”
“I know that. I want that, too, but I know none of these people well. My husband, the man I married, whose bed I shared, wants to kill me. That is the kind of betrayal I’ve experienced, and yet I told you everything. You Asher. Just tonight. Give me a few hours, to process that. To talk to you about. To breathe. Do you understand at all?”
And there it is. The reality check she told me I needed. She’s right. She’s been cut and cut deeply. Even an FBI agent turned on her. “I do,” I say, my hands settling at her waist. “You’re right. I’m wrong. Let’s breathe. And eat while we do. I’m starving. Are you starving?”
“Yes. I’m starving.”
“Good. Because someone once said that pancakes make everything better.”
“Did you say that?”
I laugh. “Yes. You’re catching onto me.” I kiss her firmly on the lips and then release her, but the minute I start to move away, she catches my arm. “I know we need to tell the Walker brothers, and soon. I just want time to talk through how that looks with you. Okay?”
“Completely fucking okay. What else?”
“Can I look at the Ju-Ju file now while we eat?”
I decide right then with that turnaround and refocus that going after Ju-Ju somehow gives her purpose, which I get. She needs to feel like she’s doing something and that something is good. It’s the entire fucking reason I joined the SEALs. I kiss her temple. “You got it.” I release her and walk around the table, grabbing the file from the paperwork beside my computer and setting it in front of the seat next to mine. “It’s all yours.” I grab the bags and turn to the counter. “This may not warm up well,” I say over my shoulder. “But we’ll give it a try. We might need to order something new.” She doesn’t reply, and I stick a plate in the microwave.
“This is the entire file?” she asks.
“That’s a big file,” I say. “What are you looking for?”
“More information on his family,” she says, turning in her seat to face me.
I lean on the counter next to the microwave. “There’s basics in there, though I admit that’s not an area I focused on. What is it you want that isn’t there?”
“Just more,” she says. “Maybe it’s here.” She turns to the table again and starts digging through the pages.
The microwave buzzes and I pull out the food inside, only to find it rubbery. “This is not going well.” I throw the food in the trash.
“Ju-Ju is rich?” she asks, sounding astounded. “As in he doesn’t have to work, let alone sell drugs?”
“That’s right,” I say, grabbing a box that holds my favorite muffins and joining her. “He inherited a ton of money from his stockbroker father.” I set the muffins on the table between us. “That’s one of the reasons they wanted me on this case. Because I come from a wealthy background. Blake felt I might have some insight someone else might not.”
“You might,” she says. “If the right situation arises.”
I lift the top to the box and show her the contents. “Chocolate chip.”
Her eyes go wide. “Those are the biggest muffins I’ve ever seen in my life and they look amazing.”
“They taste like Tollhouse cookies.”
“Sold,” she says, tearing off a piece of the muffin while I grab the rest of it. “Does Ju-Ju live like he has money?” she asks before taking a bite of her muffin, which immediately distracts her. “Okay, wow,” she says, pointing into the box. “These are incredible and probably a thousand calories a muffin. I really need to get back to jogging.”
“I’ll take you in the morning,” I promise. “Or even later tonight. And as for Ju-Ju. He lives in a place off the Hudson River that is valued at five million and we traced the funds. It’s not bought with drug money.”
“In other words,” she says. “He has no logical reason to sell drugs. This has to be driven by something in his past that isn’t in this file. It says nothing about his mother. There is no career. No details on her beyond age and birthdate, with a few random, inconsequential facts. But she, who is petite with brown hair, like the victims, is not inconsequential. Did she have a job that I don’t see listed?”
“She didn’t work outside of the home is my understanding,” I say. “There is not much to know about her.”
“If Ju-Ju is the killer, in theory and usually in application, there’s something in his past that will connect him to these murders. It has to be related to her. Can you use your hacking skills and find out more?”
“We’ve hacked. We’ve looked.”
“Have you looked up his old school friends? His old neighbors? Have you asked them questions about Ju-Ju and his family?”
“No. We have not. We’ve been focused on who he is now and what he might do next.”
“Which is logical, of course,” she says. “But if we talk to the people in his past, someone will know more about his family and maybe even him. If he’s really your guy, there is something in the past we can use to link him to the murders before he kills again.”
“Our guy,” I correct, opening a bottle of water. “You’re in this now, too.” My cellphone buzzes with a text and I grab it, only to laugh. “Blake says he forgot to get the key to your apartment.” I type a message.
Sierra laughs. “Did you tell him to try the thrift shop or the subway?”
“I told him to take a tool kit.”
“If I’m staying here, I need my things from there.”
“If? And what things do you really need?”
“I didn’t mean if, and I guess nothing. I have nothing.”
“Now you do have things,” I assure her. “And a paycheck that will be regular. They’ll use you for other jobs.”
“I don’t want them to feel obligated to pay me because of you. That’s not how I need, or want, to operate my life.”
“I didn’t tell him to pay you. Let me see the check.” She grabs it and hands it to me. I open it and look inside before setting it back down. “That’s our standard consulting fee, and it’s exactly what they’d offer someone else. The Walker men are good men. They don’t screw people. They do what’s right.” I hand her back the check.
“It’s ten thousand dollars. That’s standard?”
“They’re billing the client, and if your role grows, they’ll pay you additional fees.”
“I don’t even have my Ph.D.”
“You have more experience than any of us with serial killers and we’re all pretty damn experienced. That’s the thing about Walker. We run a deep pool of experience and when we come up short, we fix it. We win. Turns out, we fix it and win with you this time.”
“About that.” She reaches for her own file and opens it, digging through it to find her new driver’s license. “This and the money. You know I could leave.”
“I’ve asked you before, and I’ll ask you now: Is that what you want?”
“No. I don’t want to leave here. Not as long as you’re here, but am I being selfish? Because I want to be here with you? Because it feels good and safe to have you and your people around me?”
“No. You are not.”
“If anyone dies because of me, I will never forgive myself.”
I stand up and take her hand. “Come with me.”
“Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.” I lead her back up the stairs and down the hallway to the left and I don’t stop until I’m at the locked door at the end. I key in a code there and look at her. “5571,” I say. “Got it?”
“Got it.”
I open the door and lead her inside, where there is a long wooden table facing us with chairs on either side. I point at the walls left and right. “Both have nearly invisible panels built in that lower and open. If you know they are there, you can see them.” I motion to the one on the left and lead her across the wooden floor. I drag a finger down a small line in the wall. “That’s the seam.”
“It’s nearly impossible to see. This really opens?”
“It really opens.” I move to the center of the wall and point down. “Step on the seam in the wood that is at the exact center of the wall. It’s a sensitive pressure point. You touch it, it responds.” I lower my foot and tap it. The wall folds down, as if we’ve opened a suitcase lid, to display my collection of small firearms.
“What is all of this?”
“Every member of the Walker crew has a collection of weapons that could supply at least a half dozen of our staff if ever needed.”
“Is all of this legal?”
“Every last bit of it.”
“Then why hide it?”
“This is no different than the caution I gave you with the mace. Anything you can use to hurt someone, they can use to hurt you. Protect it. Protect yourself.” I remove two small firearms from the shelf that I know will be suitable for her and motion behind us. We move to the table and I round it to sit facing the wall, and at my prodding she claims the seat across from me. I settle the weapons between us, resting side-by-side on the wooden surface. “What do you know about guns?”
“Nothing except the idea of holding something that can kill someone is rather intimidating.”
“It is to most people but knowledge and hands-on experience eases that feeling, as does the peace of mind, in knowing you can protect yourself.”
“I want to learn,” she says. “What’s the difference in the two guns?”
“This is a Ruger LCR Revolver,” I say, indicating the weapon on the left. “Small, light, and it’s going to have a small kickback when you fire, which you should be able to handle with ease. It’s the best choice for you now, until you learn to how to handle a semi-automatic.”
“Why is this my best choice now?”
“You don’t have to load a magazine, which can be intimidating and make you freeze up if you have to reload. And you don’t have to cock the gun under pressure. You’ll just point and shoot.” I open the cylinder. “This is where your bullets go, but we’re not going to load it right now.” I close the cylinder. “It’s basically point and shoot, but it’s not as easy to hit a target as you think. We’re going to work on hand position and target practice. Once you master the revolver, we’ll move to a semi-automatic.”
“Why use the semi-automatic over the revolver?”
“Semi-automatic weapons will recoil, or punch back, less. The triggers are easier to manipulate. The sights are usually much bigger and better. They’re prone to less malfunctions and failure than the average revolver. And most importantly, semi-autos have two to three times the ammo capacity of a revolver of equal size and weight. That means you can keep shooting if you need to.”
“Then shouldn’t I just jump straight to whatever this other gun is?”
“Sig Sauer PS238,” I say. “And no. I’ve heard women say that a handgun is like a pair of shoes. It has to fit right and while I agree with that statement, what’s more important to me is that handling it becomes as second nature as holding a pen in your hand to write. You need to be able to load fast and aim correctly. If you take a bad shot, or hesitate with the recoil, while you’re recovering, the weapon can be taken from you.”
“Now I’m intimidated.”
“You won’t be. We’ll practice and practice until you don’t even have to think to handle the weapon. Until you are so confident, and skilled, that if someone comes at you, you have a bullet with their name on it.”
“You mean a bullet with Devin Marks’s name on it.”
“You’re learning to protect yourself because it’s smart. Because that skill erases a fear you don’t want to live with the rest of your life. Because you’re now one of the Walker staff and that is a mandatory part of working with us. As for Devin Marks, he’s mine. I have a bullet in my gun with his name on it. You can count on it.”