The Profiler. Lori May A.Читать онлайн книгу.
I understand. I’m not really settled in yet, so I’d only embarrass myself with the mess I’ve made. I’ll have you over real soon, though, okay?”
Simon nods his head as he leads me to take a seat beside him on a pew, and I let him refamiliarize himself with his niece. I have to do the same with him, as it’s been way too long. As far as I can tell, though, this man has changed very little. He’s thin, lanky and slightly hunched. His skin is pale and his features show his age, but I know his heart is still large with love.
“Your hair has grown long, I see.” Simon’s hand extends along my cheek, brushing thin fingers through my unruly hair and tucking the strands behind my ear. My current shoulder-length locks are usually pulled back into some makeshift do, but tonight they hang loosely.
The last time Simon would have seen me, at my father’s funeral in July, my hair would have been cropped a bit shorter, making it easier to take care of during long days of training in Quantico. If I hadn’t been smack-dab in the middle of starting my career as an agent with the FBI—engulfed in the tenth week of training—I wouldn’t have left my uncle’s side so soon.
It still stings that I had to make that choice. With the Bureau being so competitive, I didn’t have much option but to promptly return to Quantico. Had I dropped out of the sixteen-week training program, there would be slim chance I could get back in, despite my top-notch proficiency levels.
“Angie, tell me. What day is it?”
I know this game all too well. It started when I was barely able to speak English, let alone Latin. “Dies Iovis,” I say, pleasing the frail man.
“Yes! It is Thursday. Oh, good for you, for keeping it up. You study hard?”
“When I can.”
Although I can’t use Latin on an everyday basis, my language skills have come in handy from time to time. Especially since it was my exceptional scoring on the Foreign Language Proficiency tests that moved me into the Special Agent training program. It also proved beneficial in third year for my internship with the FBI’s National Center for Analysis of Violent Crime.
NCAVC likes to see well-rounded agents in the field, and I’m willing to use any skill I have to help my goal of becoming a profiler, even if it takes ten years to get into their elite Violent Criminal Apprehension Program. After all, my father worked with NCAVC for a time, and he was so honored when I decided to follow in his career path. His death just makes me want it more.
Simon studies my features and places a finger under my chin, bringing my eyes up to meet his. “You work so hard, my sweet. I can see that.”
A small smile forces its way across my lips. “You know how it is. Never a dull moment.”
Simon rests a palm on my shoulder and he looks at me, his blue-gray eyes growing soft with love and encouragement. “I know it’s difficult for you, Angela. Your father, he was a good man. Such a strong man. He didn’t deserve it. But you cannot feel guilty about not being here, you understand? Your father would be so proud of you.”
“I know,” I say, but keep my eyes low while trying not to dwell on the pain. I hate that my father was killed in the line of duty, but I’m even more angered that his death happened during my training. I know my father would be proud of me, but sometimes I wonder whether, if I hadn’t left the city, our lives would’ve been different. If maybe he would still be alive.
“You are a wonderful, caring, smart girl, Angie. And a Special Agent! You couldn’t have made your father any happier.”
“I just wish… I just wish I had more time with him, ya know? After leaving for college, stopping by for holidays and special occasions…it wasn’t enough. I should have been here more. I should have been here when he died.”
Simon wraps his arms around me, and I let my body relax into his hug. If anyone understood the relationship between me and my father, it was Simon. The two of them prodded me to excel through my youthful education, prepping me for my future. My father, though, was the backbone of my training. Growing up, I spent every single day with him, and not one of those days went by without me learning something from him. Without his intensity and skills as a profiler, I would not be the person I am today.
“Oh, that kid!”
I follow my uncle’s concerned look and spot a thin young man dashing out of the church with the sparse contents of the donation box.
“All the time, this kid taking from us!” My uncle’s voice trails into the background as I bolt after the offender.
Outside the church, the kid stumbles into the damp streets, and I chase him through an alleyway leading to a small neighborhood park. I can’t tell what he looks like or how old he is, as his hooded pullover conceals his face and the evening light is fading into darkness.
He treks down a sloped path, but I veer along the upper side of the bank, hoping to nab him from above. Darting past bushes and weathered trees, I kick into high gear and, when the timing is right, pounce down on him.
“Drop the money!” I yell.
The thief resists me, anxiously trying to slide away, but I place my booted foot on his chest and pin him to the cold earth.
I lean closer and with the barrel of my gun push the hood back from his face and see that he is just a kid. A teenager—maybe thirteen or fourteen—and obviously homeless. His skin is scaly with dirt, and his hair, apparently once greasy, is now dry and brittle.
“You think stealing from a church is going to help you?”
His eyes flicker back to me with fear and shame, and I don’t know if I want to cuff the kid or take him home and clean him up. “That’s not the way to do it, man.”
His silence is unnerving, so I reach out a hand and pull him up from the ground. When he stands, he is a few inches shorter than I am, and I see the wear his clothes have been through. This, at the start of a winter.
The boy holds his wrists out in front of him, but I pause. The obvious thing to do is take him in, but all that will do is punish him for looking after his own welfare.
Don’t get me wrong; stealing is anything but acceptable. But I know these kids. They’re not the ones who rob banks or assault people. They steal bread and blankets for their own survival.
He stares at me as I reach into my back pocket and hand him a tattered card detailing the services of a nearby shelter.
When I give him five bucks, I say, “This is your warning. I catch you stealing from anyone—and I mean anyone—ever again, you’re going in. Got it?”
He nods his head and a single tear rolls down his cheek. “Now get on over to the shelter and tell them Angie sent you.”
The kid’s sea-blue eyes barely make contact with mine as his timid voice speaks. “Is this a friend of yours?”
I pause, caught off guard by the personal question.
It wasn’t my intention to think of Denise. Not yet. But I guess by sending a needy kid her way, I guarantee she’ll be thinking of me.
“Friend of the family,” I say firmly, and then add, “She’ll look after you for tonight and give you something to eat. Go on, get out of here.”
The kid hightails it out of my sight, and I collect the loose change from the earth. There wasn’t more than twenty bucks in the box, yet the kid was willing to take his chances for such a small amount. Probably had little choice.
For a moment, I let the evening wind push fallen leaves against my feet, let my body and mind settle into New York soil. The constant sounds of city traffic, the mixed aromas of ethnic eateries…it all funnels into faded memories of my youth, enlivening the forgotten shadows within my heart.
Denise.
I haven’t given much thought to visiting her, but now that I’ve let her name enter my consciousness, I have no choice