Second Honeymoon Part 20

That's when her cell rang.

Oh, no. Please, no...

It wasn't her personal phone. That she could've ignored. This was her satellite-encrypted work phone, property of the FBI.

On the other end was her boss, Dan Driesen, and he wasn't calling just to say hi. He'd already sent his congratulatory e-mail for the Kingslip capture. This was something else.

"Sarah. Need you back here for a briefing," he said. "Fast. Today."

In person, Driesen was relatively easygoing and patient. On certain subjects-government bureaucracy, fly fis.h.i.+ng, or cla.s.sic cars, for instance-he could even talk your ear off.

But on the phone, he was like a talking telegram.

"Three homicides submitted to ViCAP from three different states," he continued. "All pointing toward a lone serial killer on the move."

ViCAP stood for Violent Criminal Apprehension Program, the FBI's national inventory of every violent crime committed in the United States.

"Over what time period are we talking?" asked Sarah.

"Two weeks."

"That's fast."

"Superfast."

"Three murders?"

"Yep."

"Three different states?"

"So far," said Driesen.

"What's the connection?"

"The victims," he answered. "They all have the same name. O'Hara. d.a.m.ndest thing I've ever heard."

Chapter 31

THE SANDWICHES WERE a dead giveaway.

Sarah had attended countless briefings conducted by Dan Driesen, and not once had he provided anything remotely edible for the occasion. No m.u.f.fins or bagels, no cookies or anything else to snack on. Certainly no sandwiches, not ever. It just wasn't his style. You want catered briefings? Go work for Martha Stewart.

Yet there they were. Sandwiches in the center of the conference room table.

After catching the first flight back from Tallaha.s.see, grabbing a cab straight from Reagan National to Quantico, dropping off her suitcase in her office, and making a beeline for the conference room with only seconds to spare before Driesen's four o'clock briefing, it was the first thing she noticed. A platter of sandwiches. Never had a.s.sorted cold cuts carried so much subtext.

This was not your average briefing.

More to the point, Driesen wasn't completely calling the shots. He was catering to someone else.

Sarah figured she'd know soon enough. Driesen hadn't arrived yet.

In the meantime, she accepted congratulations for her work in Tallaha.s.see from the rest of the room-a mix of agents and a.n.a.lysts, heavy on the a.n.a.lysts. The BAU, or Behavioral a.n.a.lysis Unit, was first and foremost about the gathering and interpretation of information. For every agent in the field, there were three a.n.a.lysts back home in Quantico.

"So what's the story?" asked Ty Agosta, the unit's criminal psychiatrist and perhaps the last man on the planet who routinely wore corduroy jackets with elbow patches. Not only did he wear them, he made them work.

"I was hoping you knew," said Sarah.

"Driesen's been locked in his office for the past hour," said Agosta. "That's all I know."

"With whom?"

He nodded toward the door. That's who.

Sarah turned to see Dan Driesen walking into the room with his typical long strides. Accompanying him were three men in dark suits, sporting visitor badges and the rigid posture that usually came with wearing a shoulder holster all day long.

One of them looked familiar. Sarah had seen him before, but couldn't quite place the face. Surely Driesen would introduce him, as well as his two cohorts, to the room.

Only he didn't. Instead, Driesen simply started the briefing. The three men, as if they were only on hand to observe, took seats in the row of chairs along the perimeter of the room.

After they each grabbed a sandwich, that is.

"Nevada, Arizona, and Utah," began Driesen, the room lights dimming courtesy of Stan, the audio/video technician, who worked all the feeds to the monitors at the front of the room.

The largest of the flat screens illuminated behind Driesen as he continued, the specifics of the top-line summary he'd given Sarah over the phone that morning appearing as bullet points.

Three different states.

Three dead men.

All within a two-week span.

And all with the same first and last name.

The screen wiped clean as the final bullet point shot up in large type behind Driesen.

THE JOHN O'HARA KILLER, it read.