Page 68 of Girl, Unseen

‘Yeah, about that.’ Luca scratched his neck. ‘The whole meeting's kind of fuzzy now. Maybe best not to mention it to him.’

She turned on her partner. ‘Seriously? You spent two hours breathing mercury fumes with the guy.’

‘Which might explain why it's fuzzy.’ He spread his hands. ‘Look, Ezra might be our unsub, and that’s great. But he’s also got seven lunatics who’d crawl through glass for him, and they’ve all got guns.’

‘You’ll be safe. You’re the FBI,’ Ross said.

‘Where I’m from, FBI still stands for Full Blooded Italian. If they can assassinate our old director, they can assassinate me.’

‘Fair point,’ Ella said. ‘Either way, I need to go speak with this guy. You want to come, Hawkins?’

‘Not really, but I will.’

She nodded. Two pairs of ears were better than one, especially when someone was trying to sell you a story. ‘Stay out of sight if you want. Just listen. See if our guy trips up.’

‘Roger that.’

‘Ross, let us through please.’

Time to find out who Todd Peterson really was. And whether Ezra Crowley was just a mask or something worse.

Either way, someone had killed three people in the name of ancient wisdom. Ella intended to know whether the creature in cell three had earned his place in federal housing.

CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN

Ella thought that Ezra Crowley – or Todd Peterson – looked nothing like a serial killer. Killers were weedy and unimposing, like plastic bags in human form.

But the man on the other side of the bars had something about him. Presence, maybe, and dare she say it – a hint of charisma, even just sitting there like a Viking who'd stumbled through time and landed in police custody. That blonde hair hung past his shoulders in a way that belonged on an album cover, not a mugshot. Circuit board tattoos decorated the shaved sides of his head in precise geometric patterns that followed the curve of his skull with military accuracy. Despite what true crime documentaries wanted you to believe, serial killers didn’t have an ounce of charisma in them.

Ella stood outside the bars while Luca hung back in shadows. ‘Comfortable?’ she asked.

Ezra shrugged. ‘I’ve had worse.’

‘When?

‘In past lives.’

‘Don’t get philosophical on me. Again.’

‘Again? Have we met before?’

‘Not in person. But let’s ask some real questions – why were you at a crime scene today?’

Ezra stared at the ceiling as though his excuse was written up there in mold. 'I wasn't the only person there.'

‘True. But something tells me you weren’t there to get the scoop.’

The suspect traced a pattern on his knee, then shrugged again.

‘Not talking?’ she asked. ‘Funny, because from what I heard, you usually love the sound of your own voice.’

That got his attention. His head came up like someone had yanked a string. ‘What's that supposed to mean?’

‘Transmutation. Transformation. Alchemy. The elements flow through us all. Sound familiar? You’re quite the philosopher when you get going.’

Peterson rose from the bench in one fluid motion. He moved to the bars and peered into the shadows beyond. Then his face split into a grin.

‘Oh, now I get it. This was the guy pretending to be Felix last night. Very good.’

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