Finally he continued, “If I remember correctly, Stucky and his partner started one of the first Internet, online stock-trading companies. Made millions and has it stashed in foreign banks.”

“If we could track some of those accounts, maybe we could track him.”

“The problem is we’ve never been able to find out how many different accounts he has or what names he uses. Stucky’s sharp, Agent Tully. He’s cunning, very intelligent and almost always in control. He’s not quite like any of the others. He doesn’t kill because he needs to, or because it’s a mission or some urgency. Or even because he hears some inner voices. He kills for one major reason—because he enjoys it. It’s a game for him to manipulate, to break down the human spirit, to shock people with what he’s capable of doing, and also to thumb his nose at those of us who are trying to catch him.”

“Certainly even Albert Stucky makes mistakes.”

“Let’s hope so. Have you found anything on where the victim may have been taken?”

Again, Tully dug out his notes from a variety of stacks, not wanting to depend on his fatigued memory. Immediately he found himself self-conscious and a bit embarrassed. His notes were scrawled on everything from a deli napkin to a brown paper towel from the men’s rest room.

“We know she was taken before she finished her route. There were some customers who called complaining they hadn’t received their pizzas. The manager is working on getting me a list of the addresses she was to deliver to.”

“Why is that taking so long?”

“They write down the addresses in one place as the orders are phoned in. The delivery person takes the only copy.”

“You’re kidding,” Cunningham sighed, and for the first time Tully thought he saw that it was an effort for him to confine his frustration. “Doesn’t seem very efficient.”

“It’s probably never been a problem until now. The lab is trying to raise the addresses from the indentations on the notepad page underneath. Of course, our best bet is if we find the victim’s car. Maybe the lists will have been left behind.”

“Any luck finding the car?”

“Not yet. I got the make, model and plate number from DMV. Detective Rosen put out an APB. Nothing’s shown up so far.”

“Have Reagan National and Dulles airport security check their long-term parking lots.”

“Good idea.” Tully jotted another note to himself, this time using the cash-register receipt from his lunch. Why the hell didn’t he have notepads like the rest of the world?

“He had to take her someplace,” Cunningham said, staring over Tully’s head, lost in thought. “Somewhere he could have plenty of uninterrupted time with her. I’m guessing he didn’t go far from where he apprehended her. If we could get that list, we might be able to narrow down some possible locations.”

“The thing is, sir, I’ve driven around within a ten-mile radius of where the body was found. The whole area is this picture-book community. We’re not going to find any abandoned warehouses or condemned buildings.”

“It’s also easy to miss the most obvious place, Agent Tully. You can bet Stucky will be gambling on us doing just that. What else do you have?” he asked more brusquely now as he stood away from the bookcase, suddenly in a rush.

“There was a cellular phone recovered from the Dumpster. It was reported stolen a few days ago from a local shopping mall. I’m hoping once I get the phone record, maybe it’ll lead us someplace, depending on what calls were placed.”

“Good. Sounds like you’ve got everything under control.” Cunningham started to leave. “Let me know what help you need. Unfortunately, I can’t promise a whole task force again, but maybe I can pull a few people from other cases. Now, you need to go home, Agent Tully. Spend some time with your daughter.”

He pointed to the photo Tully kept on the edge of his desk. It was the only one he had. It included the three of them, arms wrapped around each other and smiling for the camera. It couldn’t have been taken that long ago, and yet he couldn’t remember them being that happy. It was the first time Cunningham had referred to Tully’s personal life. He was surprised his aloof boss remembered that his wife hadn’t made the move with him.

“Sir?”

Cunningham stopped halfway into the hall.

Tully wasn’t sure how to ask. “Should I give Agent O’Dell a call?”

“No.” The answer was brisk and firm.

“You want to wait until we’re sure it’s Stucky?”

“I’m ninety-nine percent certain it is Stucky.”

“Then shouldn’t we at least tell Agent O’Dell?”

“No.”

“But, sir, she might—”

“What part of my answer did you not understand, Agent Tully?” Again, his manner was firm without raising his voice. Then he turned and left.

CHAPTER 20

Tully reached under his glasses and tried to rub out the exhaustion. As though blaming them for lack of relief, he pulled the glasses off, tossing them onto one of the many piles on his desk. The glasses used to be for reading only. Now he found himself wearing them more often.

Ever since he’d hit forty three years ago, his body parts seemed to be failing him, one by one. Last year it was surgery on his knee, just a torn ligament, but it had put him out of commission for two weeks. Of course, it didn’t help matters having a fourteen-year-old daughter telling him how “out of sync” he was. It seemed as if he couldn’t do anything right as far as Emma was concerned.

Earlier she had been furious with him for having to spend another evening next door with Mrs. Lopez. Maybe that was part of the reason he was still here working, stalling, avoiding going home to his own daughter and the silence she wielded as punishment. Ironically, this was the same daughter he had fought so hard to keep near him.

Though it wasn’t much of a fight once Caroline realized what kind of freedom she might have without the responsibility of a teenage daughter. This was the same woman who couldn’t bear to be separated from her daughter and husband six or seven short years ago, when she took an account executive job at a national advertising firm. But as the high-profile clients rolled in and the promotions took her all the way to the top, somehow those expensive trips to New York City and London and Tokyo seemed to get a lot easier. By the final years of their marriage, she had become a stranger to him. A beautiful, sophisticated, ambitious woman, but a complete stranger.

Tully stretched back in his chair, lacing his fingers together behind his head. God, how he hated change! He glanced around the small fluorescent-lit room. He missed having an office with windows. In fact, if he even thought about being sixty feet under ground, he knew his claustrophobia would easily kick in. He had seriously considered turning down the position at Quantico, knowing the Investigative Support Unit was still located in what he considered the bowels of the training facility.

He was rubbing his eyes again when he heard the tap on his open door.

“Agent Tully, you’re here late.”

Assistant Director Cunningham wore shirtsleeves, but still carefully buttoned at the wrists and collar, whereas Tully’s sleeves were rolled up in uneven folds and shoved above his elbows. Cunningham’s tie was cinched tight at his neck, making Tully self-conscious about his own, now wrinkled and tossed aside somewhere on a file cabinet, leaving his collar unbuttoned and open.

“I was waiting for a phone call from the medical examiner,” Tully explained. “From Dr. Holmes.”

“And?”

The assistant director leaned against the door, and Tully wondered if he should clear off one of the chairs. Unlike his boss’s immaculately neat office, Tully’s looked like a storage closet, with piles of papers, scattered files and overflowing bookcases. He sorted through the stack of notes from his phone call, not wanting to depend on his memory, which at this time of night had shut down like a computer hard drive.