Agent Ren Bryce Thriller Series Books 1-3: Blood Runs Cold, Time of Death, Blood Loss

Ren pulled another slim pile of print-outs from the back of Jean’s desk.

What the hell?

At the same time, she tipped over the mug of coffee Gressett had left on her desk.

‘Shit.’ She shouted louder than she wanted to. She jumped to her feet, scooping up a phone charger before it got wet. She found some napkins in Jean’s drawer and slapped them down on the desk. ‘Oops,’ she said, looking over at Gressett’s impassive face. She wrapped the phone charger in a napkin and put it in a dry corner. ‘Did Jean use a Motorola?’

‘Yes,’ said Gressett.

Ren sat quietly staring down at the print-outs, dabbing at pools of coffee where she noticed them. She had been too late to stop the coffee soaking into the edges of most of the files.

‘Gressett, sorry to bother you again, but do you know what Jean was doing with these print-outs on Domenica Val Pando?’

He paused. ‘I have no idea.’

I’m fucking here to go through Jean’s things to help the investigation, you dickhead.

‘I mean,’ said Ren, ‘I don’t even know why –’

‘That is some woman, Domenica Val Pando,’ said Gressett, sitting up. ‘Seven shades of crazy.’ He reached out his hand. ‘Give me a look at those.’

Why don’t you come get them yourself? Ren got up and handed them over to him.

‘Domenica Bin Killin,’ he said.

Not funny.

‘Now, this is where there is no justice in the world,’ said Gressett. ‘You have Domenica Val Pando, an amoral, psychopathic – female! – spends years holed up in New Mexico, killing and maiming and drug-running and all the rest of it, sending other people to kill and maim and … avoids arrest. And now, she’s probably lying on some beach somewhere in Aruba. And then you have Jean Transom, a wonderful person, a helpful person, an excellent agent … and she’s the one who …’ He hit the back of his hand off the pages. ‘It was a damn shame she didn’t get finished off back then.’

For a moment, Ren thought he was talking about Jean. ‘Oh. Val Pando …’

‘For one of the most successful undercover jobs the FBI ever worked on …’ said Gressett. He shook his head. ‘Todd Austerval started Gary Dettling’s Undercover Program, but he didn’t make the grade. He said that on day one Dettling scared the living daylights out of the trainees with the Val Pando case. He held it up as the gold standard of undercover work: one agent, under deep cover with Val Pando for a whole year, absolutely undetected. And still, still, after all that, it was screwed up at the end. So that was the big lesson from Gary Dettling at the start of the course – this is what you should aspire to. And here’s how it can go wrong. Do you know how it went wrong in the end?’

A man would never ask another man a question like that. The I-know-something-you-don’t-know tone.

‘It would be very interesting to hear your take on that,’ said Ren.

‘Agent safety,’ said Gressett. ‘That was it. Pull one agent out instead of bringing a whole organized crime operation down. And that is Bureau policy. That’s what has to be done.’

‘Yup,’ said Ren. ‘It sucks that the Bureau can’t recruit suicide agents.’

‘I don’t mean that,’ said Gressett. ‘It’s just … it all seemed like a waste.’

Don’t even think of criticizing Gary Dettling to me. ‘Agent safety is what it is,’ said Ren. ‘The same reason SAR doesn’t always go back up mountains to recover bodies. You just can’t risk lives like that.’

‘To a point, to a point,’ said Gressett.

‘To what point?’ said Ren. As you sit here in your comfortable out-of-the-firing-line office.

Gressett was obviously not used to having his opinions questioned. Todd was either too dumb or too used to tuning him out.

‘Well, to the point that you achieve your goal,’ said Gressett.

‘Tell that to a dead agent’s wife and family,’ said Ren. ‘Todd is a lucky man he didn’t make the grade.’

Gressett opened his mouth and closed it again. Todd stood in the doorway, sweating, straight from the gym.

Shit.

He pulled headphones out of his ears.

‘Hey,’ he said. ‘Hey, Ren. I’m just …’ he gestured out the door. ‘Let me go take a shower.’

Gressett was smiling a smile that told Ren she was on her own and that he was glad there was a little black mark against her funny little name.

None of the drawers threw up anything interesting. None of the undersides had anything taped to them, there were no secret compartments, there was no note saying: If you are reading this, then you know I am dead. There was nothing other than what Ren would have expected from the contradiction that was Jean Transom. A private, open book.

* * *

Jean had lived in a two-bedroom ranch house in Rifle, a town of six thousand, twenty-seven miles west of Glenwood Springs, where the cost of living was not so high. Ren wanted to visit the house alone so she could go through it in silence, without a backing track of shouting, wisecracks or sports scores.

Jean’s was a house of neat rows. In the living room: DVDs, CDs, candles, cushions. In the kitchen: mugs, ceramics, spice jars. In the bedroom: bears, dolls, pillows, books. In the bathroom: soap, supermarket shampoo, conditioner and moisturizer.

Ren stood in Jean’s lavender-and-white bedroom, quaint and warm, even without the lamps and candles that looked as though they burned every night. On the shelf above the bed, there were romance novels, perfectly preserved Care Bears, a Strawberry Shortcake doll and a Cabbage Patch Kid. Ren couldn’t resist taking it down. After all these years, you’re still creepy. Ren had the Garbage Pail Kids – collectible cards with grotesque drawings: interpretations of Cabbage Patch Kids with missing teeth, eyes, limbs and green slime spewing from their noses and mouths.

Ren went to the chest of drawers under the window. She pulled out the top one. It had a handful of pastel cotton multi-pack panties. Ren smiled. One of her friends called them darkroom panties; things would only develop if the lights were out. Every woman had a couple, but they didn’t make up their entire underwear collection. The next drawer down had bras – big, plain and seamless sporties or minimizers. My head would fit in one cup. You go, girl. The rest of the drawers were filled with neatly folded T-shirts and shirts from Gap and J. Crew.

Jean’s office was like a preserved room on a historic tour, but without the human touches of a cup or a pair of folded glasses or a diagonal pen. Everything was laid straight. There was no sense of interruption. Her laptop had already been taken away, so there were no files to go through, except the paper ones, organized perfectly in the cabinets behind the desk. A phone charger was plugged in with the lead wrapped around it.

All over the house, there was sad, unfinished business: leftovers of salad wrapped on a shelf in the refrigerator, sticks of carrots and celery, a hand-washed sweater lying flat on a dryer, a pile of photographs. Ren flicked through them – they were from inside the house. She looked around and could see everything in the photographs, wide shots, macros, with flash, without. Jean Transom was testing a new camera and a new printer. A house and its contents suspended, waiting to strike up again when the right person came through the door.

Ren looked at the family photos on the wall; Jean and Patrick Transom, his wife, their children. And no shadows in the background.

Chapter 15 (#u8bb60e53-87b4-54e1-a600-62c12d8c99b9)

‘Hey,’ said Ren, walking toward the next-door garden. An older woman was backing down the path, bent forward, dragging a rug, giving it an emergency shake-out. She was wearing red oversized pajamas and giant silver snow boots. A cigarette was gripped tightly in her mouth at a ninety-degree angle.

She turned to Ren and rolled her eyes. Ren looked down at the rug.

‘Ooh, sick dog,’ said Ren.

The woman nodded, stood up and pulled out the cigarette. ‘Why do you think I’ve got this under my nose. Whooo.’ She batted her hand in front of her face. ‘Stay back,’ she said. ‘This shit is some age-old curse coming back to wreak vengeance on the world.’

Ren laughed. And stayed back, watching the woman from Jean’s drive. People unde restimated how much neighbors noticed. They had quiet, familiar eyes. Depending on what they thought of you, they could store a massive amount of accurate details about you, or they could process it all through a filter of distorting emotions – dislike, bitterness, jealousy, lust, love, hatred, mistrust. One person’s hot neighbor was another person’s freak. Or to a third person – both. Ren talked to neighbors from the neck up, distracting them from the hand she was shoving through their belly to wrench out their gut for inspection. There was no face value with neighbors.

‘Seriously,’ said the woman, pulling a black garbage bag from the waistband of her pants, ‘let me wrap this up tight and I’m all yours. I presume you’re with the FBI.’

‘Yes, ma’am. My name is Ren Bryce.’