Morwood tucked the handkerchief back into his jacket pocket. “Was there something else, Agent Swanson?”

This was it. Swanson took another deep breath. “This is the fifth case I’ve re-evaluated, sir.”

Morwood nodded. “And I’ve seen a steady improvement in both your approach and your efficiency.”

“Thank you.” God, getting complimented made this even harder. “Sir, while I appreciate the opportunity to gain experience by reviewing these cases, I was hoping…I feel that…” She stopped, wishing Morwood would get her drift, finish the sentence for her. He didn’t. “That I’d like a new challenge, sir.”

“A new challenge. You mean, as in an active investigation?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You feel you’ve learned all you can from these open but inactive cases, and are ready to go out and play cowboys and Indians for real?”

Growing up, Swanson had had a legendary temper, but the years spent at John Jay and, especially, the discipline instilled at Quantico—along with her own gradual maturity—had helped her rein it in. She glanced at Morwood. There was no hint of sarcasm or condescension in his sleepy eyes.

“I’m sure there’s always something more those cases can teach me. But I’ve made no real headway, no actionable breakthroughs, in the three months I’ve been examining them. I have extensive training in forensic anthropology. I think…”

This time, Morwood helped her. “You think that you’ve already covered case studies like these at Quantico.”

“Yes, sir.”

“That after three months spent doing cleanup detail at the fort, you’ve put in your time and now you’re ready for something more useful. More interesting.”

Morwood was fond of Western metaphors. Or perhaps, transferred here from Chicago, he was just cynical—Swanson couldn’t read him well enough to tell which. “You could put it that way, yes.”

Morwood sat forward in his chair. “Swanson, I could answer that one of two ways. I could say that, as a rookie just out of the Academy, what you hope and what you feel are of no consequence—to me or anyone else in this office. That, in fact, would be the official, the expected, response.”

As he spoke, an undercurrent of steel crept into his quiet voice. Swanson felt herself stiffen.

“Or I could say that I understand completely.” Morwood put his elbows on his desk, tented his fingers. His voice softened a trifle. “I felt the same way, once upon a time. It’s usually worst about now—three months in. I shouldn’t tell you this, but the staff psychologists at Quantico even have a term for it.”

Swanson sat, still stiff in her chair, uncertain where this was heading.

“Being an FBI agent isn’t like being a doctor. Or even like being a cop. There’s no single path to getting the right kind of experience under your belt. There are plenty of agents—lawyers, programmers—who don’t even wear a weapon and spend their entire careers at their desks. Location makes a difference, too. You happened to catch Albuquerque. A lot of the action around here is drug-related, so the DEA tends to take point.” He leaned forward a little. “But I’ll tell you two more things, Swanson. First—I’m your FTO. That means I’m your judge as well as your guardian angel. While you’re evaluating those cold cases, I’m evaluating you: where your skills lie, where you’ll do the most good—what weak points need the most work.”

Swanson tried not to show her surprise. She’d never considered—certainly never noticed—that Morwood might be watching and evaluating her with any particular attention.

“Second—and you have to believe me on this—your time will come. And it’ll probably come when you least expect it. It might not even be an official assignment. Something might happen while you’re out installing those damn pole cams. Or driving home at night. It might turn out to be the investigation you were born to solve. Or it might be the most boring, most frustrating catch of your career. Either way, I can promise you this: those cold cases you’re reviewing now will come in handy.”

He took a sip of his coffee. After a few moments of silence, Swanson realized the conversation was over and that she was being dismissed.

She stood up. “Thanks for your time, sir.”

“Don’t mention it.” Morwood picked up the phone and began to dial.

Swanson made her way thoughtfully back to her desk. As she reached it, she frowned. There was something on it that hadn’t been there before—a package, sealed in an oversize buff envelope. Picking it up, she tore it open. Inside lay a fat, well-thumbed folder full of photographs and reports.

Cold case number six.

With a sigh, she sat down, pulled out the folder, and—blinking a little blearily—put it to one side while she finished typing up the summary on the I-25 robber, still at large and sought by the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

7

April 22

THE MAN KNOWN as Bricktop had done a lot of weird shit for money in his life, but this job had to take the cake. Grave robbing was supposed to have gone out of fashion two hundred years ago, but here he was, in a cemetery, digging up a body under the full moon. But for five grand, what the hell—it was better than dealing Oxy, quicker, and a lot less risky.

Although he had driven through New Mexico before, he’d never been in this part of the state, and it was a lot greener than he expected. And mountainous, looking more like Colorado. The cemetery was a good twenty miles east of Santa Fe, on a forested hill, with a wrought iron gate and fence. There was a plaque of some sort at the entrance, which he didn’t bother to read. There sure as hell weren’t any tourists coming up at this time of night, and there wasn’t anything else to do around here except chop down trees. The lights of Glorieta twinkled in the valley below, and a ribbon of I-25 could be seen among the hills, the slow-moving lights of cars crawling along. It was chilly at night up here, but Bricktop was glad of it, as he was working up a sweat digging. They were predicting rain later, but for now the clouds were just patchy and the full moon was all the illumination he needed.

Funny how jobs like this came together. He knew a guy who knew a guy, and all of a sudden he was getting precise directions to the spot. Like the rest of the place, there was no tombstone for the grave, just a small stone monument with some kind of old, official-looking metal medallion—almost like a Rotary Club seal—stuck into the ground beside it.

Bricktop paused for a moment and checked his watch: eleven fifty. He had been working for about an hour and was already halfway done. He took a breather, resisted the urge to light up, and then resumed, sinking his shovel into the loose, dry soil, tossing it out onto the tarp, and repeating, all in an easy, rhythmic motion. It wasn’t all that different, he told himself, from working out at his local gym in Kirtland. The song “Brick House” was stuck in his head and the beat provided a rhythm to his work.

Bricktop had not, of course, met the men who actually hired him. All he got was a phone call, in which he was instructed to go to a parking garage and retrieve an envelope with two grand in it and the instructions. Another three grand was promised when he was finished. The instructions not only told him the night and time he was to do the job, with a detailed map, but also included a list of equipment he’d need: a plastic tarp to pile the dirt on, shovel, pick, gloves, a short ladder, and special hooking bars for opening the lid of the casket. He wasn’t actually to rob the grave: instead, he was just to expose the casket and open the lid, so the deceased could be examined “to determine identity.” The two men who were to make this determination would be arriving at one thirty in the morning, and after they’d had their look the casket would be shut, he’d get the other $3,000, and they’d go away while he refilled the hole. Guys who obviously didn’t like to get their pretty hands dirty. Bricktop figured it must be some inheritance business or identity theft, but he wasn’t about to ask questions or show curiosity: the note had contained a warning that if he tried to make off with the two grand, he’d receive a visit after which he’d be left with a very, very high voice.