Profile Durango

“St. Christopher medal?”

“The patron saint of travelers. Legend has it that he once carried an unbearably heavy baby across a wide river and it was later learned that the baby was Jesus Christ.”

He looked at her in surprise. “How do you know that?”

“One of my mother’s best friends was not only a showgirl, but also a Catholic who had statues of most of the patron saints in her apartment,” Callie explained. “She taught me about them whenever she’d babysit me.”

Tom watched as she opened the fingerprinting kit then twisted the top of a bottle of metallic powder. Using the ostrich feather duster, she deftly swirled the powder onto the medal. She frowned as no ridges showed up. She flipped it over and dusted the other side with the same disappointing results. “Nothing,” she said, stating the obvious. “At least no fingerprints, but there are several numbers etched into the back of the coin.”

“Numbers?” He bent closer to take a look and tried to ignore the scent of her, the warmth of her body so close to his own.

“Looks like a seven, a nine and a four. Does that mean anything to you?”

“No.” He frowned and stepped back from her. “Can you dust the map?” He pointed to the piece of paper he’d withdrawn from the envelope.

“Sure.” She pulled out a bottle of black powder and began the process of dusting the paper. “What is this?” she asked as she worked.

“I don’t have a clue,” he replied. He was going to have to look at it more closely, see if he could make heads or tails of it.

“VDG,” Callie breathed softly, reading the initials at the top of the map. “Maybe this is some kind of a clue as to where Del Gardo might be hiding out?”

“Who knows?” At least for the moment the tension that had existed between them was gone, vanished under the bigger questions of the mystery map and the medal.

He picked up the envelope that he knew had probably been handled by too many people for fingerprinting. “It was mailed the day before her murder.”

Callie looked up at him, her eyes wide. “That gives me goose bumps. You think she sensed she was in some kind of danger?”

“I don’t know.” He watched as she finished fingerprinting the paper. She lifted two prints. Tom figured one was probably Julie’s and the other was his own and said that to Callie.

“You’re both in the system so we’ll be able to quickly rule you in or out,” she said as she straightened.

“Do you have a copy machine? I’d like to make a couple of copies of that map, then I want you to put the original in an evidence bag and lock it up.”

“I’ll get some copies made for you.”

Tom looked at his watch. “And then I’ve got to get out of here. I’ve got to be someplace in half an hour.”

It was just after eight when Tom left the building and got back into his car and headed for the park where he was meeting two other FBI agents for a quiet goodbye to Julie.

Julie, Tom, Dylan Acevedo and Ben Parrish all had gone through FBI training together and even though they didn’t often see each other, they’d shared a particularly close friendship that had lasted since their days at the academy. Julie’s murder had devastated them all.

He reached the park and got out of his car. The copies of the map he’d received burned hot inside his pocket, as did the St. Christopher medal that now hung on a cheap chain around his neck. Why had Julie sent them to him? What did they mean? What was he supposed to get from them?

He headed toward the gazebo in the center of the park and saw that Ben and Dylan were already there waiting for him. Ben’s dark blond hair shone in the early morning sunshine while Dylan’s black hair seemed to absorb the sun.

Dylan raised a hand in greeting while Ben merely hunched his shoulders against the cold breeze and kept his hands in his pockets. Ben had always been quiet and brooding, but lately he’d seemed more distant than ever.

“Heard you’re on guard duty,” Dylan said in greeting. “You think it was Del Gardo who tried to take out Callie last night?”

“Him or one of his minions,” Tom replied. “Nothing else makes sense. I’ve got some information that makes even less sense.”

He told the two men about the envelope he’d received containing the medal and the map, then handed them each a copy of the map.

He watched as they studied the pieces of paper, their confused looks mirroring his own. “I can’t get a feel for what’s depicted here,” Dylan said.

“I can’t either,” Tom replied. “What about you, Ben?”

He shook his head. “I can’t figure out the map, but that makes two medals that she sent. You got the St. Christopher medal and I received a St. Joan of Arc—the patron saint of captives.”

“What does it all mean?” Dylan asked. “Why would she send you guys those medals?”

“I don’t know, but we all can guess what the initials VDG stand for,” Tom said, a simmering rage burning in his gut. If Del Gardo was responsible for Julie’s death, Tom would personally like to get the man in a room alone for about ten minutes.

“We need to get that bastard,” Dylan exclaimed, his dark eyes burning bright. “We all know she was probably killed because she got too close to finding Del Gardo’s whereabouts.” He shook the copy of the map Tom had given him. “The answer to where he is might be right here. We just need to figure it out.”

“We owe it to Julie,” Ben said.

Nobody thought it more important than Tom to get Del Gardo in custody once again. While he mourned for Julie, he knew capturing Del Gardo wouldn’t bring her back.

What worried him was that as long as Del Gardo was free, Callie was in danger and he only prayed that when danger reached out for her again he would be in the right place at the right time to make sure she didn’t end up like the strangled Julie Grainger.

Chapter Three

Although one of the most important crimes the lab was involved in at the moment was the Julie Grainger murder, that didn’t mean all other crime in the area had taken a holiday.

Callie’s days were generally spent dividing her time between administrative duties and actual hands-on lab work. Today was no different, except for the fact that she found her thoughts drifting far too often from work to Tom.

It had been difficult to fall asleep the night before knowing he was in her house. Memories of their time together kept drifting through her mind no matter how hard she’d tried to shut them off.

She didn’t want to remember the good times, how they’d laughed together, how they’d made love. He’d been the first man, the only man who had ever owned her heart and as their relationship had progressed she’d begun to fantasize the future they’d have together.

She’d been such a fool. If she’d learned anything living with her mother, it was that love was fleeting and men were temporary.

What she needed to remember was how devastated she’d been when Tom had chosen an assignment over her, when he’d shattered her dreams and walked away without a backward glance.

What she needed to remember was the heartbreak she’d suffered all alone because he was gone and she’d been left to deal with the tragic aftermath all by herself. An edge of grief tried to take hold of her, but she consciously shoved it away, refusing to allow herself to feel.

At five she was seated at her desk when Jerry Griswold ambled through the door and leaned against the wall. “It’s official,” he said. “The gun used in the robbery of the convenience store on Ash Avenue is the same gun used in the robbery of that gas station on Twelfth Street.”

“Patrick suspected it was the same perp,” she said.

“Ballistics don’t lie,” Jerry replied.

Callie smiled at the older man. “And that’s why we love them, right?”

“You got that right. I just figured I’d let you know. Have you heard anything about the investigation of the fire?”

Her smile faltered. “Patrick stopped by earlier and said they were trying to identify the accelerant used, but other than that they have nothing to go on. I doubt if we’ll ever find out who set that fire.”