LITMIR.BIZ

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knew, Philip Cardin might have a partner who committed this new murder, or else …

      God knows what might be going on.

      At this point in an investigation, there were always thousands of questions and no answers. Jake hoped that would change before too long.

      While Messenger kept talking on the phone, Jake walked over to the victim’s husband, who was leaning against a police car staring off into space.

      Jake said, “Mr. Nelson, I’m very sorry for your loss. I’m Special Agent Jake Crivaro, and I’m here to help bring your wife’s killer to justice.”

      Nelson nodded only slightly, as if he were barely aware that he’d been spoken to.

      Jake said in a firm voice, “Mr. Nelson, do you have any idea who might have done this? Or why?”

      Nelson looked at him with a dazed expression.

      “What?” he said. Then he repeated, “No, no, no.”

      Jake knew that there was no point in asking the man any more questions, at least not right now. He was clearly in a deep state of shock. That was hardly surprising. Not only was his wife dead, but the way she had died was especially grotesque.

      Jake headed back over toward the crime scene, where his forensics team was already hard at work.

      He looked all around, noting how isolated the place seemed to be. At least there wasn’t a crowd of gawkers hanging around …

      And so far no sign of the media.

      But right then he heard the sound of another helicopter. He looked around and saw that a TV news helicopter was descending toward the meadow.

      Jake sighed deeply and thought …

      This case is going to be tough.

      CHAPTER SIX

      Riley felt a sharp tingle of expectation when the speaker stepped in front of the 200 or so recruits. The man looked like he belonged to a different era, with his thin lapels and his skinny black tie and his buzz haircut. He reminded Riley of photos she’d seen of 1960s astronauts. As he shuffled through a few notecards, then looked out over his audience, she waited for his words of welcome and praise.

      Academy Director Lane Swanson began much as she had expected …

      “I know that you’ve all been working hard to prepare for this day.”

      He added with a half-smile …

      “Well, let me tell you right now—you’re not prepared. None of you.”

      An audible sigh passed through the auditorium and Swanson paused to let his words sink in.

      Then he continued, “That’s what this 20-week program is about—getting you as prepared as you can get for life in the Federal Bureau of Investigation. And part of that preparedness is learning the limits of preparedness, how to deal with the unexpected, learning to think on your feet. Always remember—the FBI Academy is called the ‘West Point for Law Enforcement’ with good reason. Our standards are high. Not all of you are going to get through this. But those of you who do will be as prepared as you can hope to be for the tasks that await you.”

      Riley hung on his every word as Swanson spoke about the Academy’s standards of fostering safety, esprit de corps, uniformity, accountability, and discipline. Then he went on to talk about the rigorous curriculum—courses in everything from law and ethics to interrogation and evidence collection.

      Riley felt more and more anxious at every word as the truth sank in …

      I’m not a summer intern anymore.

      The summer program seemed like some kind of teenage day camp in comparison to what she was now facing.

      Was she hopelessly out of her depth?

      Was this a bad idea?

      For one thing, she felt like a kid as she looked around at all the other seated recruits. Scarcely anyone here was her age. She sensed by the faces around her that almost everybody here already had at least that much experience under their belts, and some of them considerably more. Most were over the age of 23, and some looked like they were verging on the maximum recruitment age of 37.

      She knew that they came from all kinds of backgrounds and work fields. Many had been police officers, and many others had served in the military. Others had worked as teachers, lawyers, scientists, business people, and at many other occupations at one time or another. But they all had one thing in common—a powerful commitment to spend the rest of their lives serving in law enforcement.

      Only a few were here fresh out of the intern program. John Welch, who was sitting a couple of rows ahead of her, was one of them. Like Riley, he had been given a waiver to the rule that all recruits had to have at least three years of full-time law enforcement experience to enter the Academy.

      Swanson finished his speech …

      “I look forward to shaking the hands of those of you who make the grade here at Quantico. On that day, you’ll be sworn into service by FBI Director Bill Cormack himself. Good luck to all of you.”

      Then he added with a stern chuckle, “And now—get to work!”

      An instructor took Swanson’s place at the podium and began to call out the names of recruits—“NATs,” they were called, meaning “New Agents in Training.” As the NATs answered to their names, the instructor assigned them smaller groups that would be taking their classes together.

      As she waited breathlessly for her name to be called, Riley remembered how tedious things had been when she’d gotten here yesterday. After she’d checked in, she’d stood in line after line, filled out forms, bought a uniform, and gotten her dorm room assignment.

      Today was already turning out to be a lot different.

      She felt a pang as she heard John Welch’s name called out for a group that she wasn’t chosen for. It might help, she thought, to have a friend close at hand to lean on and commiserate with during the tough weeks to come. On the other hand, she thought …

      Maybe it’s just as well.

      Given her somewhat confusing feelings about John, his presence might prove to be a distraction.

      Riley was finally relieved, though, to find herself in the same group as Francine Dow, the roommate she’d been assigned yesterday. Frankie, as she preferred to be called, was older than Riley, perhaps almost 30—a high-spirited redhead whose ruddy features hinted that she’d already experienced a lot in life.

      Riley and Frankie hadn’t gotten to know each other at all to speak of. They’d had time yesterday for little except getting unpacked and settled in their little dorm room together, and they’d gone their separate ways for breakfast.

      Finally, Riley’s group of NATs was summoned together in the hallway by Agent Marty Glick, the group instructor. Glick looked like he was in his thirties. He was tall and had the muscular build of a football player, and he wore a serious, no-nonsense expression.

      He said to the group …

      “You’ve got a big day ahead. But before we get started, there’s something I want to show you.”

      Glick led them into the main entrance lobby, an enormous room with an FBI seal in the middle of its marble floor an enormous bronze badge on one wall with a black band across it. Riley had passed through here when she’d arrived, and she knew that it was called the Hall of Honor. It was a solemn place where martyred FBI Agents were memorialized.

      Glick led them to a wall with two displays of portraits and names. Between the displays was a framed plaque that read …

National Academy Graduates who were killed in the line of dutyas the direct result of an adversarial action

      Small gasps passed through the group as they viewed the shrine. Glick didn’t say anything for a moment, just allowed the emotional impact of the display sink in.

      Finally he said, almost in a whisper …

      “Don’t

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