Identity Crisis. Kate Donovan

o’clock. You always call by eight, so what gives?”

      Turning up the spray of hot water until it was at full force, she stepped into the shower and allowed her muscles to relax.

      He’ll call. He always does. He’s not like McGregor, thank heavens. The world could be coming to an end and he wouldn’t think to pick up the phone.

      McGregor, McGregor, McGregor…

      Of all the agents she had worked with thus far at SPIN, Will McGregor was the most confounding to Kristie. No matter how many times she came through for him—designing identities, profiling informants, strategizing her heart out—he had never once contacted her for follow-up. And certainly never to say thank-you. The FBI agent was darned independent, and while she knew from his psych evaluation that it was simply his nature, she still resented it.

      All the other operatives phoned her routinely during active cases. And her favorite—the intrepid Justin Russo—spoiled her rotten, calling each and every night to report, amuse and flirt. He had even named her “Essie,” insisting that her official contact name, S-3, was too impersonal for such a beautiful and talented girl.

      Beautiful and talented…

      She sighed as she turned off the water and began to dry herself. In actuality, Justin had no idea what she looked like. None of the operatives did. That was part of Ray Ortega’s system—complete anonymity for the spinners.

      In contrast, she knew everything about her operatives—or, at least, everything their files could tell her, plus whatever she could manage to glean over the phone. Which made the phone-free situation with Agent Will McGregor all the more frustrating.

      Forget about him, she advised herself. McGregor’s a loner. Always has been, always will be. Just be glad Justin and the others are more sociable.

      As if on cue, the phone began to ring, and she dashed for her desk so that her home copy of the kidnapping file would be close at hand. Then she took a deep breath and answered with a crisp, professional, “This is S-3. Please identify yourself.”

      “Hey, Essie.”

      “Justin! Thank heavens. Is everything okay?”

      “Yeah. We wrapped this one up tonight. I can only talk for a minute, but I knew you’d want to know.”

      “Wrapped it up?” Kristie sank into a chair, completely unnerved. “What does that mean? Did you find Lizzie? Was she…?”

      “We didn’t find the body yet,” he murmured. “The local authorities are gonna take it from here. We made the arrest. Got the confession. The rest is just…well, they can handle it from here.”

      The body.

      Those two words told her all she needed to know.

      “At least she didn’t suffer much,” Justin was insisting. “Apparently, she fell and hit her head. Never regained consciousness. And there was no sexual assault. That’s a blessing, right? I’m not saying death is preferable to that, or vice versa, but—”

      “Don’t worry, Justin. This is no time for political correctness. If the choice is between death and molestation, there’s no choice at all.”

      “Right.”

      His mournful tone reminded her that he must have gone through hell the last few hours, so she forced herself to find the bright side for both their sakes. “It really is a relief that she didn’t suffer. We can be grateful for that.”

      “Yeah. Real grateful.”

      “Try not to think about it anymore tonight. Just be proud that you brought that bastard to justice before he could hurt anyone else.” A million questions invaded the spinner’s brain. “What finally made Horton confess? Did a new witness step forward? And why didn’t he tell you where he hid the—the body? That doesn’t make much sense.”

      “Horton?” Justin sounded as confused as Kristie. “You thought it was him? Why?”

      Kristie winced. “You’re saying it wasn’t? Sheesh, I was so sure. Who was it then?”

      There was a long silence. Then Justin murmured, “I didn’t see anything in the file to indicate he was your top suspect. I mean, he was on your list, but so were seven other people.”

      “What difference does it make?” she demanded. “Tell me who did it.”

      “Tell me why you thought it was Coach Horton,” he countered.

      “I don’t know. Instinct, I guess. But I didn’t have any facts to back it up, which is why I didn’t highlight him in the file. You know Ray’s rule—we can follow any hunch we want in-house, but if there’s nothing in the file to support it, we have to be objective in the analysis we send to the field. And now I see why,” she admitted, half to herself.

      She had been so sure Horton was the kidnapper. Had felt it in her bones, so much so that she had spent two long hours in Ray Ortega’s office, trying to force the facts into the traditional abductor profile. All because her gut told her she was right, and until now, her gut had never betrayed her.

      But Ray didn’t believe in gut instinct, or hunches, or female intuition. And apparently, in this case at least, he had been right.

      So?” She returned to her no-nonsense approach. “Who killed poor Lizzie? The neighbor with the motorcycle?” When the agent didn’t answer right away, she felt a twinge of foreboding. “Justin? Who was it?”

      “The kid.”

      “Pardon?” It didn’t make any sense for a moment, then she realized he was referring to the victim’s fourteen-year-old brother, Randy, and she gasped the boy’s name in disbelief.

      “Yeah. It’s been rough all around,” the operative confirmed. “As if that family didn’t already have enough grief.”

      Kristie was shaking her head, still stunned. “When you say he confessed, what exactly do you mean?”

      “I mean he did it. He told us he did it. He’s racked with guilt, Essie. They had to sedate him, and even then, he was a mess. It was one of the most painful things I’ve ever had to witness.”

      “Oh, Justin. How horrible.”

      “It was an accident. The kids had an argument, then Randy pushed her, and she hit her head. When he realized she wasn’t breathing, he panicked and threw her in the river. They’re dragging it again as we speak, so it’s only a matter of time.”

      Kristie struggled not to picture how Lizzie Rodriguez’s little body would look after six days in icy water. The poor, sweet angel…

      “This is so awful, Justin. Do you know what made Randy decide to confess? It’s been almost a week. Why today?”

      “I asked him that. And he said…” The agent’s voice trailed into silence.

      “Justin? What’s wrong?”

      “Tell me why Coach Horton was your top suspect.”

      “Pardon?”

      He exhaled audibly. “I spent the whole day at the school, conducting another round of useless interviews. Just when I was leaving, Randy approached me and said he wanted to turn himself in. I was surprised, because I had been watching him in the cafeteria during lunch. He was talking to his friends, and it was the first time I’d seen him look halfway relaxed since—well, since I got here. I remember thinking to myself, the days are probably getting a little easier, but I bet the nights are still a bitch. Missing his baby sister. Hearing his mom cry.”

      “Go on.”

      “I even mentioned it to the vice principal—that the kid’s mood seemed to be improving. And she said the staff were all trying to be sensitive and supportive. To be aware but not crowd him. Then she said she saw Horton take him aside after lunch—probably to do that very thing. You know, give him moral support. Horton’s