Ancient Shadows

Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Los Angeles, California

At precisely 5:18 a.m., a loud rumble and violent shaking of the earth woke clinical psychologist, Dr. Kira Holt, from a deep slumber. Dogs in the neighborhood barked in fear of the quivering ground. As she sat upright, the earth stilled. She waited a moment, ready to stand in a doorway or run out of the townhouse if the trembler began again. It didn’t.

She switched on her clock-radio to listen for news reports. They would begin to come in almost immediately, and sure enough, a disgustingly cheery-voiced radio announcer let everyone know they weren’t feeling whips and jangles or having nightmares. The Los Angeles area had just experienced what he called “a beaut of a shake.”

Kira took a quick shower and had just finished drying off when the first report hit from the seismology lab at U.C. Berkeley. The quake rated a 5.9. So far, there were no reports of serious damage. More would become known after the sun came up.

Kira made coffee, glad to have been awakened from a disturbing dream, even if by an earthquake. It was one of those strangely recurring dreams, but she had no idea why she kept dreaming it, or what triggered it. In the dream, she was still married to Ben Simmons. Remarkably, she was happy, which was rarely the state of her short, ill-conceived marriage. But then, everything turned fuzzy and tinged with red, including the eyes of some strange black creatures. They weren’t dogs, and she guessed from their tails they might be foxes, although she had never seen a fox except in pictures, and she couldn’t remember ever seeing one completely black. Whatever they were, they frightened her, and she screamed for Ben to run—to run and not look back, to run and be safe.

As a psychologist, she knew if she could connect the bizarre images to real life, she would understand the dream, rationalize it, and overcome it. A tried-and-true formula. But so far, she couldn’t find the link.

After yogurt and half a bagel for breakfast, she dried her long red hair and pulled it straight back into a pony tail. She hated the bright color and found that keeping it tight against her head was the best way to stop people from commenting on its color or speculating on whether her temperament matched the fiery locks. It didn’t, most of the time.

She dressed in a business-oriented gray pants suit with a silk blouse that matched the sky-blue color of her eyes. She didn’t consider herself especially attractive, but she had often been told that her large, penetrating eyes were an effective asset in her line of work. She routinely did all she could to highlight them.

Her nerves were still raw as she reached the Federal Building, a massive, white modern structure on Wilshire Boulevard near Veteran Ave. She showed her badge to get past security. Although her degree was in clinical psychology, she worked increasingly often in criminal profiling. The FBI’s criminal profilers were back in Quantico, but the Special Agent in Charge of the Criminal Division of the Los Angeles field office found the practice useful and set aside funds to hire consultants. After she helped successfully track down a child pornography ring, the FBI called for her services so often she found it difficult to maintain a private practice. She had to admit, however, the scope of the FBI job was far more interesting than holding one-on-one sessions, and capturing criminals was more personally rewarding than listening to wealthy people lament about their low self-esteem.

She stepped onto an elevator filled with government workers and pressed the button for the seventeenth floor. The morning’s earthquake made her nervous about going so high, but she tried to put it out of her mind by thinking about her current case, one that involved a potential serial killer. Five young women had been murdered, three in California, one in southern Nevada, and one in Arizona. Several odd similarities made it appear the same killer could be involved, but she wasn’t one to jump on the “serial killer” bandwagon without hard evidence. They weren’t nearly as common as books and movies portrayed, and that line of pursuit could mean that up to four murderers were getting a pass while all of law enforcement concentrated on only one.

Understanding the criminal mind came easily to her, growing up as she did with a father who worked as a district attorney and a judge. Throughout her childhood, Judge Daniel Holt, now on the Federal Ninth Circuit Court of Appeals and rumored to be the top prospect for the next Supreme Court opening, would often muse aloud about his cases, not particularly directing his thoughts towards her, but she was often the only other person nearby. He would ponder what could make a criminal do some of the outlandish, cold-blooded or downright stupid things he saw in his courtroom day after day.

As she progressed in her study of psychology, she realized the workings of the criminal mind weren’t exactly the sort of thing one should discuss with a child. But if her father hadn’t thought out loud in her presence, he wouldn’t have talked to her at all. He never asked her anything as mundane as whether or not she liked her teacher, or her school, or even what she enjoyed reading or watching on television. He had no idea of her best friend’s name. But she had listened and learned, and that upbringing served her well in taking on the most interesting cases of her career.

On the seventeenth floor, she crossed the large open floor filled with FBI agents’ desks. Hers was in a dark but quiet corner. Only supervisors had private offices.

Someone had placed a couple dozen Krispy Kreme doughnuts beside the staff coffee pot. Kira guessed she wasn’t the only one shaken by the earthquake. She poured herself a cup of coffee and grabbed a glazed doughnut, then sat at her desk and picked up the papers in her “in-tray” eager to inspect the latest evidence from Arizona. She had just begun to read them when Special Agent in Charge Edward Lungren approached.

“Something’s come up, Dr. Holt,” he said. He was tall but rotund, with a fleshy, lined and sagging face that reminded her of a bloodhound. His tie was loose and the top button of his shirt was open. “I have to ask you to put aside your current case for a day or two. I don’t think this will take you long, but it’s high profile, and I want to be sure all the bases are covered.”

He dragged a nearby chair to the side of her desk and sat as he told her about the death of Hollywood horror movie producer Gene Oliveros and his family. “We need a psych profile from you. There’s talk it might be a murder-suicide, but from what we’ve heard so far, he had no reason to do what he did, and was supposedly in love with his wife and kid. Still, the kind of movies he produced showed a warped mind … maybe. Or, he could have made them simply because that was the kind of movie that made him rich. We’re only speculating. We need you to find out for sure.”

He handed her photos from the crime scene. They were horrifying.

“I’ll be glad to help,” she said. “But why is this an FBI case?”

He looked sheepish. “It isn’t yet. It might never be, but right now, you’re our in. The LAPD will do what they can, and that’s plenty, but they don’t have a criminal profiler so we’re happy to assist—with you. If the local police screw-up, or if Washington gets interested given how palsy-walsy they are with Hollywood contributors, we might be asked to help. If so, I want to be on top of things.”

“Got it.” She threw on her jacket and then picked up her handbag and notepad. She was happy to get out of the high rise.