Face of Murder

“But you’re brilliant.” John reached out across the table and touched her hand, and there was a hint of laughter on his face—one that she could not interpret. “Wow. I mean, I wanted to see you again after the first date. But this… you were holding out on me. Seriously, I’m blown away by how brilliant you are.”

Zoe barely knew how to reply to that. Most men were not so complimentary, and when they were she would sense that it was not genuine. But John really seemed to mean what he was saying, at least according to her limited ability to tell.

There was another chord that his words struck, however, and it was not a pleasant one. “If I was so brilliant, I would have figured out what the equations mean already.” She sighed, toying with her empty glass. “But I have nothing. Just a jumbled mess.”

“Hey, you’ll get there,” John was saying, but Zoe’s concentration was drifting away from him. She sat up straighter, frowning a little. Jumbled mess… why did that sound so… right?

Jumbled mess… what was it that James Wardenford had told her, when she had him in for questioning?

Something’s wrong. It’s like all of the elements are there, but they’ve been placed incorrectly. Imbalanced. Too much on one side, not enough on the other.

Imbalanced. Placed incorrectly.

There was something here…

“Zoe?”

Zoe frowned at the unwelcome interruption, shaking her head quickly and throwing her hand up in the air to indicate that silence was needed. Her brain was a little slow, still coping with the effects of the alcohol.

Everything was there. The equations had been written out in full, but they didn’t work. Nothing was missing—no extra parts hidden anywhere on the bodies, no missed signs. She had seen that for herself when they found Edwin North.

If there was nothing more to add, that meant that they already had all of the pieces of the puzzle. Zoe had tried to make sense of them by cutting bits out and putting them together, like some kind of mega-equation birthed from the incorrect parts. But that still left the lines she had not included, and the ones that were put together pointed in the wrong direction. Toward an innocent person.

Which meant that she still didn’t have them in the right order.

Edwin North had been able to afford his grand Georgian colonial because he was a neurologist. Not a professor or a student. He had no real connection with the college, but the cause of death seemed to tie him to the others—not to mention the equation scrawled across his chest. They had been mentioned in the papers, but not printed in full. The only person who would know enough about the other equations to finish off the clue pointing to Dr. Applewhite had to be the killer.

Ergo, there had to be a reason why the killer had stepped outside of the college in order to target a seemingly unrelated neurologist.

And what did neurologists deal with? The brain. The brain, which, when it went wrong—like hers did when she consumed alcohol—could mess things up. Jumble them around.

This was it. This was the breakthrough that Zoe had been waiting for.

She snatched her phone up from the table and dialed Shelley’s number from her call list, hoping she wasn’t asleep or screening her calls. Zoe wouldn’t blame her, after what had happened earlier, but Shelley answered after only a couple of rings.

“Z? Are you all right? I’ve been worried about you. I tried to call you, but—”

“I am sorry about earlier. But I need you to listen now.” Zoe tried to keep the distractions to a minimum, hoping that Shelley would be impressed with the importance of what she was saying enough to stop focusing on the past. “I have had a breakthrough. Meet me at the hospital where Edwin North worked as soon as you can. We need to check some patient records.”

“What? Zoe, what have you found?”

Zoe put the phone down without answering. They could talk as they walked through the hospital corridors to where they needed to be. Discussing it now wasn’t going to get them there any quicker.

Zoe returned her attention to John, who was looking at her with a slightly open-mouthed expression. She glanced at his glass and realized he had made the gesture of switching to soft drinks along with her. “I am not used to drinking, and it goes to my head too much,” she said, by way of explanation. “Did you drive here?”

John nodded silently, reaching into his pocket to draw out a set of car keys.

“Good. I need you to drive me to the hospital—and we need to go now.”

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

Zoe let go of her seatbelt and breathed out slowly, trying to re-center herself.

“Sorry,” John said. “I tried to drive smoothly, but it sounded like time was of the essence.”

“It was,” Zoe said, opening the passenger’s side door. “It is. I get carsick no matter what. Thank you for the ride.”

She got out and shut the door behind her, her obligations of politeness toward John now completely forgotten. There was something more pressing to think about: figuring out who the serial killer stalking Georgetown really was, and clearing Dr. Applewhite’s name.

Zoe strode across smooth flooring laid out in predictable tile patterns, upset at ugly points by the placement of a chair or a desk in an inappropriate place that messed up the lines, passing the waiting area without seeing Shelley. Her home was much farther away than the cocktail bar had been. Zoe figured she wouldn’t arrive for a while yet. There was no time to sit around and wait for her.

“Neurology department?” she barked at the reception desk. She had been in enough hospitals across the country, visiting victims and taking statements, to know that they were often mazelike and impossible to predict unless you knew the entire history of the building. Maybe it made sense that cardiology should be next to the pediatric ward if you knew that the departments had received funding one after the other for new extensions to the building, but no sane person would have built them like that on purpose. It didn’t help that the plane symmetry was thrown off by refurbishments that cut across old tiles, hurting Zoe’s eyes and making it all the more confusing.

The woman behind the desk was, like almost all receptionists Zoe had ever come across, slow and supercilious. On top of that, she had to weigh a hundred and eighty-five pounds, and she was pushing sixty. She raised eyebrows from behind glasses slid low on her nose, and looked Zoe up and down. “Are you a patient or a visitor?”

“Neither. Where is it?” Zoe hated moments like this, the delay of small-minded people. There seemed to be so many of them in the world, totally unfazed by the concept of efficiency or practicality.

“If you are a patient, you have to sign in at the touchscreen here and wait for your name to be called before you go the neurology department,” the receptionist was saying, pointing a lazy, fat wrist in the direction of the device. “If you are a visitor, you need to collect a visitor’s pass and give the name of the person you are here to see. Visiting hours are over, however, so visitor’s passes are not currently available. If you are neither of those things, you will have to leave this hospital.”

Zoe rolled her eyes and yanked her badge out of her pocket, slamming it down on the desk in front of the receptionist. “I can go wherever I like in this hospital,” she hissed, delivering a glower that she hoped would do the desired job of making this woman do her damn job. “Now, tell me the quickest way to get to the neurology department.”

The receptionist made a show of studying the badge, lifting her glasses up by the arm to push them closer to her eyes as she squinted. “Well, Agent,” she began, as slow as was humanly possible, “you first take the second right, then you will need to go up in the elevator to the third floor. Turn left twice at your earliest opportunities, and then take the third right, and you will be at the neurology waiting area.”

Zoe snatched her badge back, already beginning to turn away. “Another special agent is coming. Tell her where to find me,” she shot over her shoulder, not bothering to wait to see if the woman would agree.

She would agree, or Zoe would have her up on charges of obstructing justice. She was not in the mood to be messed around with today.

The directions might have been confusing for someone who did not easily grasp patterns and numbers, but Zoe had laid out a miniature map in her mind even as the woman was speaking. Ignore the first right, then turn, then up and up. She tapped her foot restlessly as the elevator traveled slowly and smoothly, designed not to be uncomfortable for those in need of medical attention. A doctor in whites and two other visitors eyed her strangely, no doubt picking up on her impatience. Now that Zoe had the answer within her grasp, she wanted it as soon as possible. She wanted it five minutes ago. All of this had to end, and now.

The elevator dinged, the doors slid open, and Zoe was shouldering her way out of them almost before there was enough room for her to get through. Left, left, skip two and then right—and there it was. A small and modest sign printed on blue plastic hung above the doorway, declaring this to be the Neurology Department.

And below it, just beyond the doors, another reception desk—with another woman approaching retirement age, another victim of a few too many donuts.

Zoe felt her heart sink, but she pressed on. At least there was someone to talk to. She would need to talk to someone, after all, if she was going to get her hands on the patient records.

This time, she did not waste minutes asking questions that were not going to be answered. She lifted her badge as she approached and then placed it down on the desk in case the woman would want to examine it. “Special Agent Zoe Prime. I need to see this department’s patient records. What kind of search functions do you have available on your database?”

The receptionist stared at her and blinked. Her hair was tinged gray at the very top only. She must have dyed the rest, maybe recently made a decision to stop and let it grow out. She glanced down and read the badge, verifying that it was real, before looking up expectantly. “May I see the warrant?”

Zoe paused.

Ah.

The one thing she did not have.

Truth be told, she had let all thoughts of procedure fly out of her head. Call it a side effect of the alcohol, call it sheer excitement at the thought that she might be able to clear Dr. Applewhite. Whatever it was, she had only thought about reading the records themselves—not about how she was going to do that.

“There is no time to get a warrant. This is extremely urgent. I need to find a person fitting a particular neurological profile.”