Natural Born Killer - Chapter 8 (Veronica/Logan) R
Title: Natural Born Killer
Author: glasheen25
Characters/Pairings: Veronica/Logan, Mac, Wallace, Keith
Word Count: 3050
Rating: R for language and violence
Spoilers: none
Summary: Estranged from Logan, Veronica is working a particularly violent series of murders for the FBI. Post-series three.
Sitting in the comforting familiarity of her father’s kitchen, Veronica dug a fork happily into her lasagna. Heaped with melted cheese and Keith’s signature addition of dollops of sour cream, the dish would be a dieter’s worse nightmare. Veronica, however wasn’t worried. Long days and late nights, coupled with a strenuous workout most days in the gym, ensured that her slim figure never gained so much as a single pound.
“I was surprised to see you the other morning,” Keith commented pointedly and alarm bells started sounding in Veronica’s head.
This had been a trap. A typical Keith Mars trap, sweetened by the promise of a lasagna dinner.
Veronica should have known. The clues were all there.
The fact that Alicia just happened to have a dinner date with a friend that night and the conspicuous absence of Darrell sprawled out in front of the television all pointed to one thing. Keith Mars was going to give her the talk. The Logan Echolls talk that is. Veronica had been treated to her father’s cautionary words a number of times before and she would be damned if she was going to sit through them again.
“Dad, just don’t even start,” Veronica sighed resignedly, taking a weary bite from her steaming food. “I’ve had a long, crappy day at work and I really don’t need this right now,”
Catching his daughter’s gaze, Keith stared at her in amusement. “Start what, Honey?” he asked innocently, reaching out and breaking off some of the crusty garlic bread in his hand. “I didn’t do anything other than make some, nice fatherly conversation. No need to be so touchy.”
The meal resumed then in silence, Veronica looking up occasionally to shoot a suspicious look at her father, before returning her attention to the admittedly delicious meal.
“How’s the case progressing?” Keith finally asked, his curiosity forcing him to finally break the silence. “Any more leads?”
Taking a sip from her small glass of wine, Veronica’s blue eyes looked up to meet her father’s expectant gaze.
“There might be,” she replied evasively, a hint of a smile crossing her pretty face. “But you know, I’m not at liberty to tell you anything,”
“There’s been some murmurings around town, that the murders of those two high school kids up at the state park are connected to the murder of the sorority girls at UCLA,”
Keith sat back in his chair and took a drink from his glass of red wine as he waited for Veronica to answer.
“You know what they say, Dad, no smoke without fire,” Veronica replied, aiming a meaningful glance at her father before laying down her fork, defeated. Keith Mars always was over generous with his portion sizes.
“That’s all you’re going to eat?”
Keith sounded disappointed, seeing Veronica push her plate away.
“I guess, I wasn’t as hungry as I thought,” Veronica replied with a shrug, the headache that had been throbbing lightly in her head all day, now starting to pound violently.
I shouldn’t have drank that red wine, she cursed herself inwardly, already anticipating climbing into bed and passing out cold until the first glow of orange shining through the curtains would force her into the shower to begin yet another day.
“I’ve got some ice-cream, V,” her dad offered temptingly and Veronica had to smile. Headache or no headache, her father knew she could never resist the lure of rocky road ice-cream smothered in chocolate sauce.
Veronica was about to dig her spoon into the ice-cream when her father cleared her throat meaningfully.
“Veronica, I know you don’t want to hear this but I want you to be very careful when it comes to Logan,”
“Dad, just stop,” Veronica cut in with a angry sigh, the headache threatening to reach explosive proportions. “I know you don’t trust Logan’s motives but he’s changed, I swear,”
“People don’t change just like that, Veronica,” Keith replied with a helpless shrug. “I just don’t want you to get hurt,”
“I won’t,” Veronica retorted, her jaw clenched tightly in anger.
Things hadn’t ended well after that. An exchange of angry, heated words had resulted in Veronica storming out of her father’s house, in a display that hadn’t been matched since she had been four and embroiled in a temper tantrum over a missing doll.
The surrounding darkness was almost suffocating as Veronica negotiated the journey back to her apartment, her body rigid with anger when she recalled the conversation with her father. Well, to hell with Logan, anyway, she cursed him angrily, knowing a little bit that her father was right and hating him for it. Cushioned by the newness of her relationship with Logan, it had been easy to forget all the sleepless nights and screaming matches that had forced her to walk out in the first place.
The headache pounding unmercifully behind her eyes, Veronica was about to turn into her apartment building when the low buzz of her cell phone startled her.
Logan, she realized dully, seeing his name lit up on the display. She couldn’t deal with him right now.
Her finger hovering over the button, Veronica deliberated for a moment before tossing the phone dejectedly away.
--
Pushing her way wearily into her apartment, Veronica tossed her shoulder bag onto the floor before poking her head tentatively into the cramped kitchen. Distracted by work and her very pleasurable nocturnal activities with Logan, Veronica had neglected her apartment dreadfully and it showed. Grease streaked dishes lay stacked in the sink and a bottle of spoiled milk still sat in the fridge. Reaching for the carton of milk, Veronica wrinkled her nose in disgust as she emptied the curdled mess down the sink.
I really have to move out of here, Veronica concluded despairingly, wiping a cloth briskly over the cheap, stained countertops. The tired, faded apartment had served it’s purpose but Veronica was quickly growing weary of the cramped living space and the unpredictable hot water situation.
Reaching for the bag of trash, Veronica held it gingerly away from her before heading for the front door. The garbage run was a chore Veronica never particularly relished; the dim lighting and the uneven steps making the journey perilous. She had made several attempts to approach Mr. Daniels, the building supervisor with her concerns but they had simply been shrugged off, the man muttering non-committedly that he’d deal with it.
Of corse, he never did and now navigating the poorly lit staircase, Veronica shivered despite herself, her mind wandering unpleasantly to the grisly remains of Helen Bloomberg’s body.
Get a grip, Veronica, she instructed herself, pushing open the door and walking out into the bitter night air.
The night was inky black, the moon a mere sliver in the sky and the stars obliterated by LA’s notorious light pollution. The darkness was unnerving and throwing open the lid of the dumpster, Veronica was about to toss the garbage bag hastily inside before a soft rustling sound caused her to stop in her tracks.
Probably just that damn cat, Veronica reassured herself uncertainly, having been startled by Mrs. Jenkins black cat running through her feet more than once before.
Throwing the bag into the dumpster, Veronica was about to head back inside, when the sound of a muffled cough had her reaching instinctively for her gun.
What the hell was that? she wondered nervously, her blue eyes scanning the darkness.
Mr. Daniels had long gone home, she knew and Veronica couldn’t imagine any reason as to why another resident of the apartment building would be lurking in the shadows.
“Hello,” she called out nervously, edging towards the welcoming glow of light that spilled out from the open back door. Despite the gun that was clutched tightly in her hand, Veronica couldn’t deny that she felt incredibly vulnerable knowing that there was someone watching her in the darkness.
Breaking into a run, Veronica didn’t stop until she was safely inside her apartment, the door bolted securely behind her.
She slept with her gun on her bedside locker that night.
--
Number Eight, St. George’s Place was a small, shabby bungalow, the white paint peeling away and revealing the gaudy pink of a previous owner underneath. The garden was vast and overgrown, brambles and weeds snaking through the high iron railings. A Do Not Enter sign hanging from the gate made the owner’s wishes very clear while the angry snarl of a ferocious looking German Shepard ensured that those wishes were obeyed.
“What the hell?” Burke grumbled from beside her, the dog pacing threateningly from inside the gate. “Marilyn must think we are insane if she expects us to question Davis with that mutt in the way. He looks like he’s ready to tear us apart limb by limb,”
“I’ll call Marilyn,” Veronica agreed, shooting a nervous look at the dog. Backup, even in his most threatening displays had nothing on this dog. His teeth bared, he looked ready for an early lunch and was eyeing Veronica with definite intent.
Pulling her cellphone out of her pocket, Veronica was about to dial Marilyn’s number when the front door was pushed open and an elderly man stepped out. His hair an untidy shock of white and his bones protruding from his skin, John Davis was evidently not in the habit of taking care of himself and Veronica shuddered to imagine the inside of the cramped bungalow.
“You those FBI agents?” he demanded suspiciously, his steel colored eyes glaring at them.
“Agent Mars and Agent Burke,” Veronica introduced herself promptly, the pair pulling out their ID badges and holding them up for the man to inspect. “We just want to ask you a few questions pertaining to the murder of Helen Bloomberg over at The Lucky Motel. I understand that you have CCTV,”
“It’s those damn kids,” the man muttered irritably, calling to the dog and instructing him to be quiet. “They are always hanging around, causing trouble. My house was broken into twice in the last year, you know?” he added, muttering angrily under his breath as he gestured for the pair to follow him into the house.
The house smelled old and musty as though the windows hadn’t be opened for years and stepping into the cluttered hall, Veronica felt instantly nauseated. The night’s sleep hadn’t succeeded in soothing Veronica’s raging headache and her stomach had outrightly rejected the tentative breakfast of coffee and an apple she had attempted to consume.
“You okay, Veronica?” she heard Burke ask and looking up Veronica her partner gazing at her concern.
“Fine,” she answered dismissively, following Davis into his equally chaotic kitchen, the sink piled high with what must have been an entire week of dishes.
“I’d offer you coffee but as you can see the place is kind of a mess,” the man began apologetically and Veronica sighed inwardly in relief.
“The seventh of November, you say?” Davis asked distractedly, poking through a cupboard piled high with all kinds of assorted junk, before finally producing a video tape triumphantly.
“I hope you find him,” Greenberg finished with a shrug, passing the tape to Burke before ushering them out of the house.
--
“Veronica, is that you?”
Glancing around, Veronica was happily surprised to see Mac and Brian walk hand-in-hand across the street, a steaming coffee clutched in both of their hands. Mac was dressed in a deep plum and looked amazing, the color succeeding in bringing out the blue of her eyes. A gold bracelet glinted on her wrist and her dark hair was arranged in a glamorous chignon. Brian, of course was as attentive as ever, his eyes straying over to glance adoringly at his wife-to-be as she chatted happily with Veronica.
“What are you guys doing here?” Veronica demanded happily, Burke having wandered into a local deli in search of some much needed coffee.
“There’s a bakery out here that does the most amazing wedding cakes,” Mac replied with a wide smile before taking a tentative sip from her Starbucks. “I had to literally drag Brian out here as I really want to get the wedding cake sorted before I head to New York this evening for a conference,”
“I hardly think drag is the appropriate word, Honey,” Brian retorted teasingly, pulling his wife into a one armed hug.
“Well maybe, gently encourage, is a better phrase then,” Mac amended indulgently, flashing her fiancee a brilliant smile before turning her attention back to Veronica.
“I was reading about that prostitute that was murdered,” Brian cut in then, casting an uneasy glance at the motel that was looming in the background. “Brutal stuff. You’d wonder are we a civilized society at all, when you hear about things like that.”
“Too true,” Veronica agreed, with a solemn shake of her head. Across the street she could see Burke trying to angle the door of the deli open with his elbow, his hands overburdened with containers of coffee and a brown paper bag which Veronica suspected to contain her partner’s beloved poppy seed bagels.
Teased by the knowledge that the tape was secured in the inside pocket of Burke’s coat, Veronica was suddenly desperate to see if the murderer had indeed been captured on his late night stroll with Helen Bloomberg.
“Guys, we have to get back to the office. Duty calls and all that,” Veronica informed the couple with an apologetic smile, her entire body tensed with excitement at the prospect of viewing the footage of Helen’s last moments alive.
“I’ll call you when I get back from New York,” Mac promised her friend, as she drained the end of her coffee, before pulling Brian in the direction of his car.
--
Veronica had six missed calls and six matching messages on her cell phone when she pulled it hastily out of her bag on the way to the FBI headquarters. All from Logan. All in the past two hours. These calls were in addition to the four earlier calls Logan had put in the night before and the four voice mails, each one getting more progressively desperate than the last.
Veronica couldn’t being herself to call Logan right now; that task to be relegated to a time when Veronica had a glass of wine in her hand and a headache that wasn’t threatening to explode behind her eyes.
Goose pimple rose on Veronica’s skin as Burke slid the tape into the video recorder and the footage crackled onto the screen. The date and time on the right-hand top of the screen, revealed the footage to be shot mere hours before Helen Bloomberg met her demise. It was an eerie thought and a shiver ran through Veronica’s spine as she regarded the television screen warily. The quality of the footage was poor though, the CCTV equipment used by Davis at least ten years old.
“That street is almost deserted at night,” Burke commented idly, his arms crossed in front of his chest and his expression arranged in one of absolute concentration. “Explains why the murderer could flaunt Helen Bloomberg on his arm so openly,”
“He wasn’t afraid of being seen because the chances of running into a potential witness were very low, or so he thought,” Veronica continued, her blue eyes never leaving the screen.
The darkness was unnerving and even from her safe perch in the FBI headquarters, Veronica couldn’t help but feel a distinct sense of unease as the same unlit street, remained stationary on the screen, an occasional cat stalking through the darkness seemingly the only sign of life.
“Fuck, there she is,” Burke barely exhaled, his eyes frozen on the screen.
Her blonde hair piled up on her head in a messy bun, Helen Bloomberg was walking slowly along the sidewalk with a dark-haired guy by her side. Nothing about Helen indicated that she was in any danger, her gait almost lazy and her body language simply implying that she was sharing a comfortable conversation with her male companion.
The man walking alongside Helen, with his arm placed lightly on her waist looked innocent enough but her few years of working as an FBI agent, had taught Veronica that evil could be disguised in all sorts of unassuming faces. The footage wasn’t exactly clear and the fact that the couple were walking on the opposite side of the street to Greenberg’s house wasn’t helping matters. But Helen’s blonde hair was instantly identifiable as was the short leather skirt, which had been found a few hours later, on Bloomberg’s horrifically mutilated remains. Although it was difficult to get an accurate image of the man, Veronica could immediately ascertain that he was at least six foot, having a couple of inches on Helen Bloomberg and his neatly cut hair was a dark brown. He was wearing a suit, probably expensive, she concluded, noting the perfect fit of the jacket and the leather shoes he wore.
After a couple of seconds, the pair had walked out of the view point of the camera and into the unknown, the short piece of footage poignant as it represented some of the last moments of Helen Bloomberg’s life before she met her brutal, savage death.
“We need to get this footage cleaned up,” Burke stated in a matter-of-fact tone as he ejected the tape from the video recorder. “I’ll send it up to Kevin right away and let him work on it. Hopefully, he’ll find something that will help us catch the bastard before he gets the chance to murder anyone else.”
Author: glasheen25
Characters/Pairings: Veronica/Logan, Mac, Wallace, Keith
Word Count: 3050
Rating: R for language and violence
Spoilers: none
Summary: Estranged from Logan, Veronica is working a particularly violent series of murders for the FBI. Post-series three.
Sitting in the comforting familiarity of her father’s kitchen, Veronica dug a fork happily into her lasagna. Heaped with melted cheese and Keith’s signature addition of dollops of sour cream, the dish would be a dieter’s worse nightmare. Veronica, however wasn’t worried. Long days and late nights, coupled with a strenuous workout most days in the gym, ensured that her slim figure never gained so much as a single pound.
“I was surprised to see you the other morning,” Keith commented pointedly and alarm bells started sounding in Veronica’s head.
This had been a trap. A typical Keith Mars trap, sweetened by the promise of a lasagna dinner.
Veronica should have known. The clues were all there.
The fact that Alicia just happened to have a dinner date with a friend that night and the conspicuous absence of Darrell sprawled out in front of the television all pointed to one thing. Keith Mars was going to give her the talk. The Logan Echolls talk that is. Veronica had been treated to her father’s cautionary words a number of times before and she would be damned if she was going to sit through them again.
“Dad, just don’t even start,” Veronica sighed resignedly, taking a weary bite from her steaming food. “I’ve had a long, crappy day at work and I really don’t need this right now,”
Catching his daughter’s gaze, Keith stared at her in amusement. “Start what, Honey?” he asked innocently, reaching out and breaking off some of the crusty garlic bread in his hand. “I didn’t do anything other than make some, nice fatherly conversation. No need to be so touchy.”
The meal resumed then in silence, Veronica looking up occasionally to shoot a suspicious look at her father, before returning her attention to the admittedly delicious meal.
“How’s the case progressing?” Keith finally asked, his curiosity forcing him to finally break the silence. “Any more leads?”
Taking a sip from her small glass of wine, Veronica’s blue eyes looked up to meet her father’s expectant gaze.
“There might be,” she replied evasively, a hint of a smile crossing her pretty face. “But you know, I’m not at liberty to tell you anything,”
“There’s been some murmurings around town, that the murders of those two high school kids up at the state park are connected to the murder of the sorority girls at UCLA,”
Keith sat back in his chair and took a drink from his glass of red wine as he waited for Veronica to answer.
“You know what they say, Dad, no smoke without fire,” Veronica replied, aiming a meaningful glance at her father before laying down her fork, defeated. Keith Mars always was over generous with his portion sizes.
“That’s all you’re going to eat?”
Keith sounded disappointed, seeing Veronica push her plate away.
“I guess, I wasn’t as hungry as I thought,” Veronica replied with a shrug, the headache that had been throbbing lightly in her head all day, now starting to pound violently.
I shouldn’t have drank that red wine, she cursed herself inwardly, already anticipating climbing into bed and passing out cold until the first glow of orange shining through the curtains would force her into the shower to begin yet another day.
“I’ve got some ice-cream, V,” her dad offered temptingly and Veronica had to smile. Headache or no headache, her father knew she could never resist the lure of rocky road ice-cream smothered in chocolate sauce.
Veronica was about to dig her spoon into the ice-cream when her father cleared her throat meaningfully.
“Veronica, I know you don’t want to hear this but I want you to be very careful when it comes to Logan,”
“Dad, just stop,” Veronica cut in with a angry sigh, the headache threatening to reach explosive proportions. “I know you don’t trust Logan’s motives but he’s changed, I swear,”
“People don’t change just like that, Veronica,” Keith replied with a helpless shrug. “I just don’t want you to get hurt,”
“I won’t,” Veronica retorted, her jaw clenched tightly in anger.
Things hadn’t ended well after that. An exchange of angry, heated words had resulted in Veronica storming out of her father’s house, in a display that hadn’t been matched since she had been four and embroiled in a temper tantrum over a missing doll.
The surrounding darkness was almost suffocating as Veronica negotiated the journey back to her apartment, her body rigid with anger when she recalled the conversation with her father. Well, to hell with Logan, anyway, she cursed him angrily, knowing a little bit that her father was right and hating him for it. Cushioned by the newness of her relationship with Logan, it had been easy to forget all the sleepless nights and screaming matches that had forced her to walk out in the first place.
The headache pounding unmercifully behind her eyes, Veronica was about to turn into her apartment building when the low buzz of her cell phone startled her.
Logan, she realized dully, seeing his name lit up on the display. She couldn’t deal with him right now.
Her finger hovering over the button, Veronica deliberated for a moment before tossing the phone dejectedly away.
--
Pushing her way wearily into her apartment, Veronica tossed her shoulder bag onto the floor before poking her head tentatively into the cramped kitchen. Distracted by work and her very pleasurable nocturnal activities with Logan, Veronica had neglected her apartment dreadfully and it showed. Grease streaked dishes lay stacked in the sink and a bottle of spoiled milk still sat in the fridge. Reaching for the carton of milk, Veronica wrinkled her nose in disgust as she emptied the curdled mess down the sink.
I really have to move out of here, Veronica concluded despairingly, wiping a cloth briskly over the cheap, stained countertops. The tired, faded apartment had served it’s purpose but Veronica was quickly growing weary of the cramped living space and the unpredictable hot water situation.
Reaching for the bag of trash, Veronica held it gingerly away from her before heading for the front door. The garbage run was a chore Veronica never particularly relished; the dim lighting and the uneven steps making the journey perilous. She had made several attempts to approach Mr. Daniels, the building supervisor with her concerns but they had simply been shrugged off, the man muttering non-committedly that he’d deal with it.
Of corse, he never did and now navigating the poorly lit staircase, Veronica shivered despite herself, her mind wandering unpleasantly to the grisly remains of Helen Bloomberg’s body.
Get a grip, Veronica, she instructed herself, pushing open the door and walking out into the bitter night air.
The night was inky black, the moon a mere sliver in the sky and the stars obliterated by LA’s notorious light pollution. The darkness was unnerving and throwing open the lid of the dumpster, Veronica was about to toss the garbage bag hastily inside before a soft rustling sound caused her to stop in her tracks.
Probably just that damn cat, Veronica reassured herself uncertainly, having been startled by Mrs. Jenkins black cat running through her feet more than once before.
Throwing the bag into the dumpster, Veronica was about to head back inside, when the sound of a muffled cough had her reaching instinctively for her gun.
What the hell was that? she wondered nervously, her blue eyes scanning the darkness.
Mr. Daniels had long gone home, she knew and Veronica couldn’t imagine any reason as to why another resident of the apartment building would be lurking in the shadows.
“Hello,” she called out nervously, edging towards the welcoming glow of light that spilled out from the open back door. Despite the gun that was clutched tightly in her hand, Veronica couldn’t deny that she felt incredibly vulnerable knowing that there was someone watching her in the darkness.
Breaking into a run, Veronica didn’t stop until she was safely inside her apartment, the door bolted securely behind her.
She slept with her gun on her bedside locker that night.
--
Number Eight, St. George’s Place was a small, shabby bungalow, the white paint peeling away and revealing the gaudy pink of a previous owner underneath. The garden was vast and overgrown, brambles and weeds snaking through the high iron railings. A Do Not Enter sign hanging from the gate made the owner’s wishes very clear while the angry snarl of a ferocious looking German Shepard ensured that those wishes were obeyed.
“What the hell?” Burke grumbled from beside her, the dog pacing threateningly from inside the gate. “Marilyn must think we are insane if she expects us to question Davis with that mutt in the way. He looks like he’s ready to tear us apart limb by limb,”
“I’ll call Marilyn,” Veronica agreed, shooting a nervous look at the dog. Backup, even in his most threatening displays had nothing on this dog. His teeth bared, he looked ready for an early lunch and was eyeing Veronica with definite intent.
Pulling her cellphone out of her pocket, Veronica was about to dial Marilyn’s number when the front door was pushed open and an elderly man stepped out. His hair an untidy shock of white and his bones protruding from his skin, John Davis was evidently not in the habit of taking care of himself and Veronica shuddered to imagine the inside of the cramped bungalow.
“You those FBI agents?” he demanded suspiciously, his steel colored eyes glaring at them.
“Agent Mars and Agent Burke,” Veronica introduced herself promptly, the pair pulling out their ID badges and holding them up for the man to inspect. “We just want to ask you a few questions pertaining to the murder of Helen Bloomberg over at The Lucky Motel. I understand that you have CCTV,”
“It’s those damn kids,” the man muttered irritably, calling to the dog and instructing him to be quiet. “They are always hanging around, causing trouble. My house was broken into twice in the last year, you know?” he added, muttering angrily under his breath as he gestured for the pair to follow him into the house.
The house smelled old and musty as though the windows hadn’t be opened for years and stepping into the cluttered hall, Veronica felt instantly nauseated. The night’s sleep hadn’t succeeded in soothing Veronica’s raging headache and her stomach had outrightly rejected the tentative breakfast of coffee and an apple she had attempted to consume.
“You okay, Veronica?” she heard Burke ask and looking up Veronica her partner gazing at her concern.
“Fine,” she answered dismissively, following Davis into his equally chaotic kitchen, the sink piled high with what must have been an entire week of dishes.
“I’d offer you coffee but as you can see the place is kind of a mess,” the man began apologetically and Veronica sighed inwardly in relief.
“The seventh of November, you say?” Davis asked distractedly, poking through a cupboard piled high with all kinds of assorted junk, before finally producing a video tape triumphantly.
“I hope you find him,” Greenberg finished with a shrug, passing the tape to Burke before ushering them out of the house.
--
“Veronica, is that you?”
Glancing around, Veronica was happily surprised to see Mac and Brian walk hand-in-hand across the street, a steaming coffee clutched in both of their hands. Mac was dressed in a deep plum and looked amazing, the color succeeding in bringing out the blue of her eyes. A gold bracelet glinted on her wrist and her dark hair was arranged in a glamorous chignon. Brian, of course was as attentive as ever, his eyes straying over to glance adoringly at his wife-to-be as she chatted happily with Veronica.
“What are you guys doing here?” Veronica demanded happily, Burke having wandered into a local deli in search of some much needed coffee.
“There’s a bakery out here that does the most amazing wedding cakes,” Mac replied with a wide smile before taking a tentative sip from her Starbucks. “I had to literally drag Brian out here as I really want to get the wedding cake sorted before I head to New York this evening for a conference,”
“I hardly think drag is the appropriate word, Honey,” Brian retorted teasingly, pulling his wife into a one armed hug.
“Well maybe, gently encourage, is a better phrase then,” Mac amended indulgently, flashing her fiancee a brilliant smile before turning her attention back to Veronica.
“I was reading about that prostitute that was murdered,” Brian cut in then, casting an uneasy glance at the motel that was looming in the background. “Brutal stuff. You’d wonder are we a civilized society at all, when you hear about things like that.”
“Too true,” Veronica agreed, with a solemn shake of her head. Across the street she could see Burke trying to angle the door of the deli open with his elbow, his hands overburdened with containers of coffee and a brown paper bag which Veronica suspected to contain her partner’s beloved poppy seed bagels.
Teased by the knowledge that the tape was secured in the inside pocket of Burke’s coat, Veronica was suddenly desperate to see if the murderer had indeed been captured on his late night stroll with Helen Bloomberg.
“Guys, we have to get back to the office. Duty calls and all that,” Veronica informed the couple with an apologetic smile, her entire body tensed with excitement at the prospect of viewing the footage of Helen’s last moments alive.
“I’ll call you when I get back from New York,” Mac promised her friend, as she drained the end of her coffee, before pulling Brian in the direction of his car.
--
Veronica had six missed calls and six matching messages on her cell phone when she pulled it hastily out of her bag on the way to the FBI headquarters. All from Logan. All in the past two hours. These calls were in addition to the four earlier calls Logan had put in the night before and the four voice mails, each one getting more progressively desperate than the last.
Veronica couldn’t being herself to call Logan right now; that task to be relegated to a time when Veronica had a glass of wine in her hand and a headache that wasn’t threatening to explode behind her eyes.
Goose pimple rose on Veronica’s skin as Burke slid the tape into the video recorder and the footage crackled onto the screen. The date and time on the right-hand top of the screen, revealed the footage to be shot mere hours before Helen Bloomberg met her demise. It was an eerie thought and a shiver ran through Veronica’s spine as she regarded the television screen warily. The quality of the footage was poor though, the CCTV equipment used by Davis at least ten years old.
“That street is almost deserted at night,” Burke commented idly, his arms crossed in front of his chest and his expression arranged in one of absolute concentration. “Explains why the murderer could flaunt Helen Bloomberg on his arm so openly,”
“He wasn’t afraid of being seen because the chances of running into a potential witness were very low, or so he thought,” Veronica continued, her blue eyes never leaving the screen.
The darkness was unnerving and even from her safe perch in the FBI headquarters, Veronica couldn’t help but feel a distinct sense of unease as the same unlit street, remained stationary on the screen, an occasional cat stalking through the darkness seemingly the only sign of life.
“Fuck, there she is,” Burke barely exhaled, his eyes frozen on the screen.
Her blonde hair piled up on her head in a messy bun, Helen Bloomberg was walking slowly along the sidewalk with a dark-haired guy by her side. Nothing about Helen indicated that she was in any danger, her gait almost lazy and her body language simply implying that she was sharing a comfortable conversation with her male companion.
The man walking alongside Helen, with his arm placed lightly on her waist looked innocent enough but her few years of working as an FBI agent, had taught Veronica that evil could be disguised in all sorts of unassuming faces. The footage wasn’t exactly clear and the fact that the couple were walking on the opposite side of the street to Greenberg’s house wasn’t helping matters. But Helen’s blonde hair was instantly identifiable as was the short leather skirt, which had been found a few hours later, on Bloomberg’s horrifically mutilated remains. Although it was difficult to get an accurate image of the man, Veronica could immediately ascertain that he was at least six foot, having a couple of inches on Helen Bloomberg and his neatly cut hair was a dark brown. He was wearing a suit, probably expensive, she concluded, noting the perfect fit of the jacket and the leather shoes he wore.
After a couple of seconds, the pair had walked out of the view point of the camera and into the unknown, the short piece of footage poignant as it represented some of the last moments of Helen Bloomberg’s life before she met her brutal, savage death.
“We need to get this footage cleaned up,” Burke stated in a matter-of-fact tone as he ejected the tape from the video recorder. “I’ll send it up to Kevin right away and let him work on it. Hopefully, he’ll find something that will help us catch the bastard before he gets the chance to murder anyone else.”