That was the dark side of the fog. On the bright, or at least the flip side of the fog, there was something—or rather someone else who preoccupied too much of her mind. Someone named Nick Morrelli.
She snatched a chocolate-frosted doughnut out from under Cunningham and took a bite.
"Tully usually beats me to the chocolate ones," she said when Cunningham raised an eyebrow at her. But then he nodded as if that was explanation enough.
"By the way, where is he?" she asked. "He has court in an hour."
Normally she didn't keep tabs on her partner but if Tully wasn't there to testify then she would get stuck doing it, and for once she was taking off early. She actually had weekend plans. She and Detective Julia Racine had scheduled another road trip to Connecticut. Julia to see her father and Maggie to see a certain forensic anthropologist named Adam Bonzado, who showed some hope of taking Maggie's mind off the e-mails, the voice messages, the flowers and cards that a very persistent Nick Morrelli had been showering her with for the last five weeks.
"Court date's been changed," Cunningham said and Maggie had almost forgotten what they were talking about. It must have registered on her face, because Cunningham continued, "Tully had a family situation he needed to take care of."
Cunningham finally decided on a glazed cruller. Still examining the box's contents, he added, "You know how it is when kids get to be teenagers."
Maggie nodded, but actually she didn't know. Her family obligations extended as far as a white Labrador retriever named Harvey who was quite happy with two daily feedings, plenty of ear rubs and a place at the foot of her queen-size bed. Later this afternoon he'd be sprawled out and drooling on the leather backseat of Julia Racine's Saab, happy to be included.
She found herself wondering what Cunningham knew. She couldn't remember her boss ever being late because of a "family situation." After ten years of working alongside him Maggie had no idea about the assistant director's family. There were no pictures on his clutter-free desk, nothing in his office to give any clues. She knew he was married, though she had never met his wife. Maggie didn't even know her name. It wasn't like they were invited to the same Christmas parties. Not that Maggie went to Christmas parties.
Cunningham kept his personal life exactly that—personal. And in many ways, Maggie had modeled her personal life after him, as well. There were no photos on her desk, either. During her divorce she never once mentioned any of it while on the job. Few colleagues knew she was married. She kept that part of her life separate. She had to. But her ex-husband, Greg, insisted it was some kind of proof, another reason for their divorce.
"How can you possibly love someone and keep such an important part of your life separate?"
She had no response. She couldn't explain it to him.
Sometimes she knew she wasn't even good at compartmentalizing. All she did know was that as someone who analyzed and profiled criminal behavior, someone who hunted down evil on a regular basis, who spent hours inside the minds of killers, she had to separate those portions of her life in order to remain whole. It sounded like a convenient oxymoron, separate and divide in order to remain whole.
She found herself wondering if Cunningham had to explain it to his wife. He obviously had been more successful at his explanation than Maggie had been at hers. One more reason she had adopted his nondisclosure habits.
No, Maggie didn't know Cunningham's wife's name or if he had children, what his favorite football team was or whether or not he believed in God. And actually she admired that about him. After all, the less people knew about you the less they could hurt you. It was one of a few ways to control collateral damage, something Maggie had learned the hard way. Something she had learned perhaps too well. Since her divorce she hadn't let anyone get close. No need to separate personal and professional if there was no personal.
"Wait." Cunningham grabbed Maggie's wrist, stopping her from taking a second bite.
He tossed his cruller on the counter and pointed inside the box. Maggie expected to see a cockroach or something as lethal. Instead, all she saw was the corner of a white envelope tucked on the bottom of the box. Through a doughnut hole she could make out bits of the block lettering. A box of doughnuts was a familiar congratulatory gift amongst the agents. That one should include a card and envelope didn't warrant this kind of reaction.
"Anyone know who brought in this box of doughnuts?" Cunningham asked loud enough to get everyone's attention but keeping the urgency Maggie saw in his eyes out of his voice.
There were a few shrugs and a couple of mumbled noes. They all went about their daily routine. This was not a shy bunch. Any one of them would take credit where it was due. But whoever had brought in the box had not stayed and that realization set the assistant director's left eye twitching.
Cunningham took a pen from his breast pocket and slipped it into a doughnut hole, lifting carefully to reveal the envelope. Maggie did think it suspicious someone would place a note at the bottom of the box where it would only be discovered after most of the doughnuts had been consumed. A sour taste filled her mouth. It was only one bite, she told herself. Then just as quickly wondered how many of her colleagues had already devoured several.
"Sometimes one of the other departments sends us down a box with a congratulations card," she made one last attempt, hoping her explanation would prove true.
"This doesn't look like a regular congratulations card." Cunningham pinched a corner of the envelope between his thumb and index finger.
"MR. F.B.I. MAN," was written in block printing across the middle of the envelope in what looked like a first grader's attempt at practicing capitalization.
Cunningham set it down on the counter gently as if it would shatter. Then he stepped back and looked around the room again. A few agents waited for the elevator. Cunningham's secretary, Anita, answered a ringing phone. No one noticed their boss, his darting eyes and the sweat on his upper lip the only signs of his growing panic.
"Anthrax?" Maggie asked quietly.
Cunningham shook his head. "It's not sealed. Flap is tucked."
The elevator dinged, drawing both their attention. But only a glance.
"It's too thin for explosives," Maggie said.
"There's nothing attached to the box, either."
She realized both of them were talking about this as if it were a harmless crossword puzzle.
"What about the doughnuts?" Maggie finally asked. That one bite felt like a lump in her stomach. "Could they have been poisoned?"
"Possibly."
Her mouth went dry. She wanted to believe their suspicions were unwarranted. It could be a prank between agents. That actually seemed more likely than a terrorist gaining access, not only to Quantico, but all the way down into the Behavioral Science Unit.
Once he made the decision, Cunningham took less than two seconds—maybe three—to untuck the flap, barely touching the envelope with a butter knife. Again pinching only a corner he was able to pull out the piece of paper inside. It was folded in half and each side was folded over about a quarter of an inch.
"Pharmacist fold," Maggie said and her stomach did another flip.
Cunningham nodded.
Before nifty plastic containers, pharmacists used to dispense drugs in plain white paper and fold over the sides to keep the pills or powder from falling out when you lifted them out of their envelope. Maggie recognized the fold, only because it was one of the lessons they had learned from the Anthrax Killer. Now she wondered if they had been too quick in simply opening the envelope.
Cunningham lifted the paper, keeping the folds intact, making a tent so they could see if there was anything inside. No powder, no residue. All Maggie saw was the same style block printing that was on the outside of the envelope. Again, reminding her of a child's handwriting.