by Tami Hoag
Kate had refrained from attempting to explain the concept of high-risk and low-risk victim pools. She knew too well what the reaction would be—emotional, visceral, without logic.
“The police couldn't care less about women who are driven by desperation into prostitution and drugs. What's another dead hooker to them—one less problem off the street. A millionaire's daughter is murdered and suddenly we have a crisis! My God, a real person has been victimized!” she had ranted sarcastically.
Kate made an effort to loosen the clenching muscles in her jaw even now. She had never liked Toni Urskine. Urskine worked around the clock to keep her indignation cooking at a slow burn. If she or her ideals or “her victims,” as she called the women at the Phoenix, hadn't been slighted outright, she would find some way of perceiving an insult so she could climb up on her soapbox and shriek at anyone within hearing distance. The Cremator murders would give her fuel for her own fire for a long time to come.
Urskine had a certain amount of justification for her outrage, Kate admitted. Similar cynical thoughts about these cases had run through Kate's own mind. But she knew the cops had been working those first two murders, doing the best they could with the limited manpower and budget the brass allowed for the average violent death.
Still, the only thing she'd wanted to say to Toni Urskine that morning was “Life's a bitch. Get over it.” Her tongue still hurt from biting it. Instead, she'd offered, “I'm not a cop, I'm an advocate. I'm on your side.”
A lot of people didn't want to hear that either. She worked with the police and was considered guilty by association. And there were plenty of times when the cops looked at her and saw her as an enemy because she worked with a lot of bleeding-heart liberals who spent too much time bad-mouthing the police. Stuck in the middle.
Good thing I love this job, or I'd hate it.
“You're in the park, but you're safe,” Oscar said gently. “The danger is past, Angie. He can't hurt you now. Open your mind's eye and look at his face. Take a good long look.”
Kate moved slowly to a chair a few feet from her witness and eased herself down. Angie caught Kate's steady gaze and shifted the other way to find Oscar watching her too, his kindly eyes twinkling like polished onyx in a face that was drowning in hair—a full beard and mustache and a bushy lion's mane worn loose around his thick shoulders.
“You can't see if you won't look, Angie,” he said wisely.
“Maybe I don't want to see,” the girl challenged.
Oscar looked sad for her. “He can't hurt you here, Angie. And all you have to look at is his face. You don't have to look inside his mind or his heart. All you have to see is his face.”
Oscar had sat across from a lot of witnesses in his time, all of them afraid of the same two things: retribution by the criminal sometime in the vague future, and the more immediate fear of having to relive the crime over and over. Kate knew a memory or a nightmare could cause as much psychological stress as an event taking place in real time. As evolved as people liked to believe the human race had become, the mind still had difficulty differentiating between actual reality and perceived reality.
The silence went on. Oscar looked at Kate.
“Angie, you told me you'd do this,” she said.
The girl scowled harder. “Yeah, well, maybe I changed my mind. I mean, what the hell's in it for me?”
“Keeping safe and taking a killer off the street.”
“No, I mean really,” she said, suddenly all business. “What's in it for me? I hear there's a reward. You never said anything about a reward.”
“I haven't had time to talk to anyone about it.”
“Well, you'd better. 'Cause if I'm gonna do this, then I damn well want something for it. I deserve it.”
“That remains to be seen,” Kate said. “So far you haven't given us squat. I'll check into the reward. In the meantime, you're a witness. You can help us and we can help you. Maybe you don't feel ready for this. Maybe you don't think your memory is strong enough. If that's what's really going on here, then fine. The cops have mug books stacked to the rafters. Maybe you'll run across him in there.”
“And maybe I can just get the fuck out of here.” She shoved herself up out of the chair so hard, the legs scraped back across the floor.
Kate wanted to choke her. This was why she didn't work juvenile: Her tolerance for drama and bullshit was too low.
She studied Angie, trying to formulate a strategy. If the kid really wanted to leave, she would leave. No one was barring the door. What Angie wanted was to make a scene and have everyone fuss over her and beg her to come back. Begging was not an option as far as Kate was concerned. She wouldn't play a game where she didn't have a shot at control.
If she called the kid's bluff and Angie walked, Kate figured she could just as well follow the girl out the door. Sabin would put her career through the shredder if she lost his star and only witness. She was already on her second career. How many more could she have?
She rose slowly and went to lean against the door-jamb with her arms crossed.
“You know, Angie, I gotta think there's a reason you told us you saw this guy in the first place. You didn't have to say it. You didn't know anything about a reward. You could have lied and told us he was gone when you came across the body. How would we know any different? We have to take your word for what you saw or didn't see. So let's cut the crap, huh? I don't appreciate you jerking me around when I'm on your side. I'm the one who's standing between you and the county attorney who wants to toss your ass in jail and call you a suspect.”
Angie set her jaw at a mulish angle. “Don't threaten me.”
“That's not a threat. I'm being straight with you because I think that's what you want. You don't want to be lied to and screwed over any more than I do. I respect that. How about returning the favor?”
The girl gnawed on a ragged thumbnail, her hair swinging down to obscure her face, but Kate could tell she was blinking hard, and felt a swift wave of sympathy. The mood swings this kid inspired were going to drive her to Prozac.
“You must think I'm a real pain in the ass,” Angie said at last, her lush mouth twisting at one corner in what looked almost like chagrin.
“Yeah, but I don't consider that a fatal or irreversible flaw. And I know you've got your reasons. But you've got more to be afraid of if you don't try to ID him,” Kate said. “Now you're the only one who knows what he looks like. Better if a couple hundred cops know too.”
“What happens if I don't do it?”
“No reward. Other than that, I don't know. Right now you're a potential witness. If you decide that's not what you are, then it's out of my hands. The county attorney might play rough or he might just cut you loose. He'll take me out of the picture either way.”
“You'd probably be glad.”
“I didn't take this job because I thought it would be simple and pleasant. I don't want to see you alone in all this, Angie. And I don't think that's what you want either.”
Alone. Goose bumps chased themselves down Angie's arms and legs. The word was a constant hollowness in the core of her. She remembered the feeling of it growing inside her last night, pushing her consciousness into a smaller and smaller corner of her mind. It was the thing she feared most in the world and beyond it. More than physical pain. More than a killer.
“We'll leave you alone. How would you like that, brat? You can be alone forever. You just sit in there and think about it. Maybe we'll never come back.”
She flinched at the remembered sound of the door closing, the absolute darkness of the closet, the sense of aloneness swallowing her up. She felt it rising up inside her now like a black ghost. It closed around her throat like an unseen hand, and she wanted to cry, but she knew she couldn't. Not here. Not now. Her heart began beating harder and faster.
“Come on, kiddo,” Kate said gently, nodding toward Oscar. “Give it a shot. It's not like you've got anything better to do. I'll make a phone call about that reward mone
y.”
The story of my life, Angie thought. Do what I want or I'll leave you. Do what I want or I'll hurt you: Choices that weren't choices.
“All right,” she murmured, and went back to the chair to give instructions on drawing a portrait of evil.
11
CHAPTER
THE BUILDING THAT housed the offices of Dr. Lucas Brandt, two other psychotherapists, and two psychiatrists was a Georgian-style brick home of gracious proportion. Patients seeking treatment here probably felt more like they were going to high tea than to pour out their innermost secrets and psychological dirty laundry.
Lucas Brandt's office was on the second floor. Quinn and Kovac were left to cool their heels in the hall for ten minutes while he finished with a patient. Bach's Third Brandenburg Concerto floated on the air as soft as a whisper. Quinn stared out the Palladian window that offered a view of Lake of the Isles and part of the larger Lake Calhoun, both as gray as old quarters in the gloom of the day.
Kovac prowled the hall, checking out the furniture. “Real antiques. Classy. Why is it rich crazies are classy and the kind I have to haul into jail just want to piss on my shoes?”
“Repression.”
“What?”
“Social skills are founded and couched in repression. Rich crazies want to piss on your shoes too,” Quinn smiled, “but their manners hold them back.”
Kovac chuckled. “I like you, Quinn. I'm gonna have to give you a nickname.” He looked at Quinn, taking in the sharp suit, considering for a moment, then nodded. “GQ. Yeah, I like that. GQ, like the magazine. G like in G-man. Q like in Quinn.” He looked enormously pleased with himself. “Yeah, I like that.”
He didn't ask if Quinn liked it.
The door to Brandt's business office opened, and his secretary, a petite woman with red hair and no chin, invited them in, her voice a librarian's whisper.
The patient, if there had been one, must have escaped out the door of the second room. Lucas Brandt rose from behind his desk as they entered the room, and an unpleasant flash of recognition hit Kovac. Brandt. The name had rung a bell, but he wouldn't have equated the Brandt of his association with the Brandt of Neuroses of the Rich and Famous.
They went through the round of introductions, Kovac waiting for that same recognition to dawn on Brandt, but it didn't—which served only to further sour Kovac's mood. Brandt's expression was appropriately serious. Blond and Germanically attractive with a straight nose and blue eyes, he was of medium build with a posture and presence that gave the impression he was bigger than he really was. Solid was the word that came to mind. He wore a trendy silk tie and a blue dress shirt that looked professionally ironed. A steel-gray suit coat hung on one of those fancy-ass gentleman's racks in the corner.
Kovac smoothed a hand self-consciously over his J. C. Penney tie. “Dr. Brandt. I've seen you in court.”
“Yes, you probably have. Forensic psychology—a sideline I picked up when I was first starting out,” he explained for Quinn. “I needed the money at the time,” he confessed with a conspiratorial little smile that let them in on the joke that he didn't need it now. “I found I enjoyed the work, so I've kept a hand in it. It's a good diversion from what I see day today.”
Kovac arched a brow. “Take a break from rich girls with eating disorders and go testify for some scumbag. Yeah, there's a hobby.”
“I work for who needs me, Detective. Defense or prosecution.”
You work for who pulls his wallet out first. Kovac knew better than to say it.
“I'm due in court this afternoon, as a matter of fact,” Brandt said. “And I've got a lunch date first. So, while I hate to be rude, gentlemen, can we get down to business here?”
“Just a few quick questions,” Kovac said, picking up the toy rake that went with the Zen garden on the credenza by the window. He looked from the rake to the box as if he expected it was for digging up cat feces.
“You know I can't be of much help to your investigation. Jillian was my patient. My hands are tied by doctor-patient confidentiality.”
“Your patient is dead,” Kovac said bluntly. He picked up a smooth black stone from the sand and turned to lean back against the credenza, rolling the stone between his fingers. A man settling in, making himself comfortable. “I don't think her expectations for privacy are quite what they were.”
Brandt looked almost amused. “You can't seem to make up your mind, Detective. Is Jillian dead or not? You implied to Peter she may still be alive. If Jillian is alive, then she still has the expectation of privacy.”
“There's a high probability the body found is Jillian Bondurant's, but it's not a certainty,” Quinn said, moving back toward the conversation, taking the reins diplomatically from Kovac. “Either way, we're working against the clock, Dr. Brandt. This killer will kill again. That's an absolute. Sooner rather than later, I think. The more we can find out about his victims, the closer we will be to stopping him.”
“I'm familiar with your theories, Agent Quinn. I've read some of your articles. In fact, I think I have the textbook you coauthored somewhere on those shelves. Very insightful. Know the victims, know their killer.”
“That's part of it. This killer's first two victims were high risk. Jillian doesn't seem to fit the mold.”
Brandt sat back against the edge of his desk, tapped a forefinger against his lips, and nodded slowly. “The deviation from the pattern. I see. That makes her the logical centerpiece to the puzzle. You think he's saying more about himself in killing Jillian than with the other two. But what if she were just in the wrong place at the wrong time? What if he didn't choose the first two because they were prostitutes? Perhaps all the victims were situational.”
“No,” Quinn said, studying the subtle, curious light of challenge in Brandt's eyes. “There's nothing random in this guy's bag of tricks. He picked each of these women for a reason. The reason should be more apparent with Jillian. How long had she been seeing you?”
“Two years.”
“How had she come to you? By referral?”
“By golf. Peter and I are both members at Minikahda. An excellent place to make connections,” he confessed with a smile, pleased with his own clever business acumen.
“You'd make more if you lived in Florida,” Quinn joked. Aren't we buddies—so smart, so resourceful. “The season here has to be—what?—all of two months?”
“Three if we have spring,” Brandt shot back, settling into the rhythm of repartee. “A lot of time spent in the clubhouse. The dining room is lovely. You golf?”
“When I get the chance.” Never because he enjoyed it. Always as an opportunity for a contact, a chance to get his ideas through to his SAC or the unit chief, or supposed downtime with law enforcement personnel he was working cases with across the country. Not so different from Lucas Brandt after all.
“Too bad the season's over,” Brandt said.
“Yeah,” Kovac drawled, “damned inconsiderate for this killer to work in November, if you look at it that way.”
Brandt flicked him a glance. “That's hardly what I meant, Detective. Though, now that you've brought it up, it's a shame you didn't catch him this summer. We wouldn't be having this conversation.
“Anyway,” he said, turning back to Quinn. “I've known Peter for years.”
“He doesn't strike me as a very social man.”
“No. Golf is serious business with Peter. Everything is serious with Peter. He's very driven.”
“How did that quality impact his relationship with Jillian?”
“Ah!” He held up a finger in warning and shook his head, still smiling. “Crossing the line, Agent Quinn.”
Quinn acknowledged the breach with a tip of his head.
“When did you last speak with Jillian?” Kovac asked.
“We had a session Friday. Every Friday at four.”
“And then she'd go over to her father's house for supper?”
“Yes. Peter and Jillian were working very hard on their relat
ionship. They'd been separated for a long time. A lot of old feelings to deal with.”
“Such as?”
Brandt blinked at him.
“All right. What about a general statement, say, about the root of Jillian's problems? Give us an impression.”
“Sorry. No.”
Kovac gave a little sigh. “Look, you could answer a few simple questions without breaching anyone's trust. For instance, whether or not she was on any medication. We need to know for the tox screen.”
“Prozac. Trying to even out her mood swings.”
“Manic depressive?” Quinn asked.
The doctor gave him a look.
“Did she have any problem with drugs that you knew of?” Kovac tried.
“No comment.”
“Was she having trouble with a boyfriend?”
Nothing.
“Did she ever talk about anyone abusing her?”
Silence.
Kovac rubbed a hand over his mouth, petting his mustache. He could feel his temper crumbling like old cork. “You know this girl two years. You know her father. He considers you a friend. You could maybe give us a direction in this girl's murder. And you waste our time with this bullshit game—pick and choose, hot and cold.”
Quinn cleared his throat discreetly. “You know the rules, Sam.”
“Yeah, well, fuck the rules!” Kovac barked, flipping a book of Mapplethorpe photographs off the end table. “If I was a defense attorney waving a wad of cash, you can bet he'd find a loophole to ooze through.”
“I resent that, Detective.”
“Oh, well, yeah, I'm sorry I hurt your feelings. Somebody tortured this girl, Doctor.” He pushed away from the credenza, his expression as hard as the stone he shot into the wastebasket. The sound was like a .22 popping. “Somebody cut her head off and kept it for a souvenir. If I knew this girl, I think I would care about who did that to her. And if I could help catch the sick bastard, I would. But you care more about your social status than you care about Jillian Bondurant. I wonder if her father realizes that.”
