Chapter 12

 "I don't know why I'm back here.”

Ryan circled the table. I sat.

“You're back here because you have some explaining to do.” Ryan said, standing behind me. Olivia Rose glared.

“What am I explaining? Why I don't want to be here?”

“No, actually,” I began, “You're explaining why you feel the need to keep things from us.”

Olivia scoffed. “Really now? And what such things have I kept from you?”

Ryan placed two hands on my shoulders. “Maybe the fact that you slept with Pablo Tacolini hours before his death? Or maybe it was that you were seeing Robert Nichlson, the psychiatrist that died three weeks ago, for anger issues?”

Olivia fidgeted in her chair. “None of that information was pertinent to your investigation, Agent Carr.”

Ryan sighed loudly and started circling again. “Not pertinent? You had sex with the third victim hours before he was found decapitated in his own home. You were seeing a psychologist for anger issues. A psychologist, who once determined you were a blossoming psychopath, was stabbed and decapitated. How is that not pertinent to my investigation?”

“For one, my sexual activities with any victims are not relevant to your investigation if you cannot connect me to the initial crime itself.”

It was my turn to scoff. “I hate to burst your bubble, sweet heart, but they certainly do. In fact, you never would have been connected to the crime at all, had we not found your bodily fluids on that thong.”

Her eyes widened angrily. “Are we back to that again?” She shrieked, staring me straight in the eyes, “I told you, I didn't put that thong there. That's a completely retarded thing to do!”

Something about her tone wasn't convincing.

“You're right,” Ryan began, “But everyone makes mistakes.”

She leaned back in her chair, then leaned forward again, “Look, I'm going to tell you this once. I did not have any involvement in those murders whatsoever. I didn't even know who the first one was! I did not kill Pablo Tacolini, and I did not kill my therapist. And you know what?”

“What's that, Ms. Rose?” Ryan asked, standing still behind her.

“I know when to ask for a lawyer.”

I looked to Ryan. He looked tired and just cranky in general.

“Whatever.”

When we got into the hallway, Ryan turned to look at me.

“We need to look at her place. The cops still have her in custody, she can't go home until we say so, and Chaytor got the DA to get me a warrant. You coming?”

I nodded. The both of us nearly sprinted to the black Sequoia in the FBI parking lot. The drive to Olivia's home was quick and uneventful. Neither Ryan nor I spoke much, and when we pulled into Olivia's driveway, we both hopped quickly out and ran to the door. Ryan stopped.

“And of course, I don't have a key.”

I raised an eyebrow, turned, and picked up a rock from her garden.

When windows break, glass flies everywhere. I don't recommend doing it purposely. I looked down at my palm. Red was blossoming across my pale skin. I sighed.

“Okay, not so smart. Just...come on.”

Ryan shook his head. “Do I have to pull of my shirt so we can use it to compress your wound?”

I have to tell you, I honestly considered it.

“It'll be fine. Let's go.”

Ryan reached through the broken side window and grabbed the door knob from the inside, looking for the lock. I heard a click and Ryan turned the knob. I was about the advance into the house when Ryan held up a hand.

“Stay back, okay?” He whispered quietly, pulling his gun from the holster on his belt. I nodded.

Ryan took the first few steps into the quiet house, gun raised. I followed slowly behind. He pressed himself up against the wall of the entry hall, slowly looked around the corner.

“Clear.”

We entered the kitchen. Ryan checked the other two rooms connected to the kitchen. All clear. Surprisingly, the house had no top floor. Ryan placed the gun back in the holster.

“Kitchen first. Got the gloves?”

I nodded and handed him a pair of latex gloves. I took a few more steps into the kitchen.

It was a fairly large room. Stainless steel stove and a matching fridge were pushed against the north wall, a marble counter top decorating the cupboards. Nothing unusual in the kitchen. Not a thing out of place. Fridge completely devoid of any decoration.

“This is unnaturally clean.” I said. Ryan nodded.

“It's like she cleaned it up just before we came.”

Next room. Living room. Leather couch sat upon hardwood floor, glass coffee table with a broken wooden leg perched precariously on three books.

“Someone's cheap. Look at the table.”

A book case was pressed against the wall. I looked over a few of the titles. Most were journalism related. A few were pop fiction, Clockwork Orange, Finnegan's Wake.

“Girl's got some tough books here.” I said, nodding towards Finnegan's Wake.

A closet door sat next to the book case. I pushed it open.

“Holy s**t.”

Ryan came up behind me. I could almost hear his jaw drop. The closet inside was piled three quarters of the way up with stiletto shoes. I shook my head.

“That's psycho.”

Ryan nodded. “I knew women liked shoes, but good Lord.”

I left the door open and headed for the bedroom. It certainly had not been cleaned. Clothes lay sprawled on the floor, dirty and wrinkled. Cords fell from VCR's, laptops, and DVD players. A wastebasket sat in the corner, crumpled paper overflowing.

“I think maybe this is where she worked,” Ryan said. He grabbed a piece of paper from the garbage can and unravelled it, “Oh, what do you know, an advice column! Hey, maybe I can get some help with my serious mental issues.”

I burst out laughing. Ryan turned at stared blankly at me.

“I'm completely serious.”

I stared back and shook my head. “Look, we need to find something. Anything.”

Ryan and I shuffled around the room, upturning drawers and shelves. Nothing. I stood back and sighed.

“There's nothing.” I said. Ryan looked at me.

“She cleaned it all out before she came in. God d****t. Stupid w***e.”

We both sighed. There was something still pulling at my mind. I felt like I was missing something. Not something about Olivia, per se, but something about the case. I shook the thought away and checked my watch. 11:34 in the morning.

“It's almost twelve,” I said, “Ready to go back?”

Ryan looked at me, down at the gash on my hand that was still leaking blood, and then at my stomach.

“How about we go to my place, fix your hand up, and grab some lunch?”

“Fine.” I nodded.

Ryan lived about a block and a half away from Olivia Rose. His apartment building was small, but cozy, and he lived on the very top floor, where he got a view of the spectacular Lake Ontario. As he held open his apartment door, I walked in.

Ryan is an avid hockey fan. That probably explained why his living room was decorated with pictures of hockey teams and players. Beat up couch, wobbly coffee table, twenty four inch TV. I smiled. Ryan came up behind me. I could hear his voice over my left shoulder.

“It's not much, but I call it home.”

I turned and punched his bicep. “I love it.”

He chuckled. “Yeah, I kinda got that impression,” He began, “Have a seat, I'll get the first aid kit.”

I sat on the couch as Ryan headed towards what I assumed to be the bathroom. I still had that tugging at the back of my mind, but I couldn't connect it to any conscious thought. Ryan came back into the room, holding a white case. He grabbed a chair from the kitchen and sat it close to me. He reached for my hand.

Gently, he took a wet cloth and cleaned the dark red, dried blood from my hand. I winced as it stung, and Ryan pulled the cloth away.

“Sorry.” He whispered. I shrugged.

“Necessary pain.” I responded. Peroxide cleaned the wound, made tears spring to my eyes, and then Ryan placed a square gauze patch on my palm, brought it to his mouth, and kissed it.

“All better.” He said, looking at me. I smiled and shook my head.

“Let's go. I'm starving.”

We drove silently to the diner across the street from the FBI.

“What are you thinking?” Ryan broke the silence.

I looked to him. “I feel like I'm missing something. I don't know specifically whether it's a connection to Olivia herself or the case in general, but...I don't know, it's just bugging me.”

Ryan grabbed my hand. “You'll figure it out. I know you will.”

I smiled over at him. “Probably.”

We pulled into the diner's driveway just ten minutes later. Ryan held the door open for me as I walked into the air-conditioned building. We sat in a booth, ordered drinks and meals, and waited quietly. Ryan looked into my eyes.

“You look tired, kiddo.” He said.

I was. It was beginning to be a fight to keep my eyes open. I knew there were dark shadows under my eyes that signified the hours of sleep lost due to reports, nightmares, and my active mind.

“I am.” I sighed, resting my heavy head on the back of my hand.

“You should go home and get some sleep when we're finished eating.” He said. I was about to respond when the waitress brought our food. When she'd finished placing my coke and garden salad in front of me, I looked back to him.

“I am not going to sleep,” I checked my watch, “At one o'clock in the afternoon.”

Ryan snorted through a mouthful of chicken burger, “Yes you are. If I have to come into your apartment and lay beside you until you pass out, I will.”

“Whatever.”

We ate, debated over the bill, and hopped back in the Sequoia. Ryan rove to my apartment fairly quickly. When he pulled into my parking garage, I jumped out, grabbed my laptop, and turned for the elevator.

“Hey!”

I turned back. “What?”

Ryan had his head leaning out of the window. “Are you going to go to sleep when you get in there?”

I scoffed. “No.”

Ryan sighed, got out of the car, and shut the door, locking it. “Let's go! Up the elevator and into bed!”

I raised an eyebrow. “You really think you're doing this?”

He nodded as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Yes.”

I shook my head and walked with him to the elevator. As soon as the doors opened, Ryan pushed me through them and down the hall to my apartment. While I unlocked the door, Ryan grabbed my free wrist, and pulled me through the door and into my home.

“Hello? Can I not put anything down first?”

He shook his head, grabbed my laptop from me, and tossed it on my couch. I tried to rip my wrist from his hand to no avail.

“Ryan, let go!” I yelled. He kept dragging me until we reached my room, where he let go of my wrist and locked the door.

“In bed, now.” He demanded.

I sighed. I could use the sleep. But how did he expect me to accomplish it with him laying beside me?

“Fine!” I said dramatically, “Turn around.”

“Why?” He asked.

“Oh, I don't know, maybe so I can change?” I said. I felt like punching him.

“Oh, good point.” He spun around and stared at the wall. I pulled my shirt and jeans off and replaced them with sweats and an oversized t shirt.

“Alright, done.”

Ryan spun back around, grabbed my wrist again, and led me to my side of the bed, pulling back the covers. I slid under and pulled them up to my chin. I watched as Ryan moved to the other side of the bed.

“Move over, cupcake.” He said. I complied, and Ryan slid in next to me. I rolled to my left side and looked away from him. As I tried to get comfortable, I felt Ryan's stare on my back.

“Stop looking at me.” I whispered.

It was going to be one long afternoon.