He made a clucking sound. “Relax. I won’t ask anything too personal.”
She tried not to shudder as his gaze raked over her. “What do you want to know?”
“Tell me your first name.”
“It’s Prudence.”
He gave a delighted laugh. “How charmingly old-fashioned. Is it a family name?”
“No. My mother is a Beatles fan.”
“Ah, your mother.” He sat back in his chair, his smile turning enigmatic. “Tell me about her.”
“I’m not going to talk about my mother.”
He sighed. “We can’t talk about you, we can’t talk about your mother. I’m losing my patience with you, dear Prudence.”
She tried to control the shivers tracing up and down her spine. “Why can’t we talk about the pictures?”
“We will, I promise. I’m a man of my word. Just answer one question about your mother.” Slowly, he licked his lips. “Is she a natural blonde, too?”
Pru’s stomach roiled. “I beg your pardon?”
“I prefer blondes. They’re my weakness, you might say.” He cocked his head. “It’s a shame that you feel you have to disguise your true nature. That is why you color your hair, isn’t it? To fool people into thinking you’re something that you’re not.”
Beneath the table, Pru’s hands were clammy with sweat. “A lot of people color their hair.”
“Very few natural blondes dye their hair that unattractive mousy brown,” he said with a disapproving frown. “Why do you?”
She didn’t want to answer him, but she had no choice. It was obvious he had no intention of cooperating until he’d had his fun. “I guess I never felt like a blonde.”
“Or is it because you’re afraid if you let people see the real you, no one will take you seriously?” He gave her a sympathetic smile. “A pretty, blond agent would undoubtedly have a hard time getting the respect she deserves, so you’ve found a way to adapt to your hostile environment.”
Pru was startled by his insight. She winced at how close to home he’d struck.
“I see I’ve hit a nerve,” he murmured. “You have very expressive eyes. Far more revealing than you know. I could tell what you were thinking the moment I first saw you with Agent Cahill.” He paused, his own eyes mocking her. “Does he know, by the way?”
Pru swallowed. “What do you mean?”
“Agent Cahill. Does he know?”
She wanted to believe he was still talking about her hair color, but somehow she knew that he wasn’t. Her face colored and he laughed at her. “Don’t worry. Your secret is safe with me.”
CAHILL GLANCED at Pru as they headed south on I-45 toward Houston. She still looked a little shaken by her meeting with Stiles, and Cahill couldn’t say that he blamed her. He had listened to her private interview from the room behind the two-way mirror. It had been a hell of an initiation. Not every day, even in this job, that one had to confront a monster.
She’d barely spoken since they left the prison. As soon as they got back to the car, she took out her laptop and had been busily writing up her notes ever since.
Cahill studied her profile as she scowled at the computer screen. For some reason, her furrowed brow made her seem young and inexperienced, although she was neither. She was twenty-eight years old, and she had five years of experience and glowing performance reports under her belt.
Cahill was still confident in his choice, but only time would tell whether his instincts about her had been right. His decision yesterday to approve her transfer had probably seemed impulsive to her, but in fact, nothing could have been further from the truth. He’d studied her résumé for weeks. He’d talked to her supervisors, past and present, and a number of agents with whom she’d worked closely in the past five years in order to determine if she had the personality and the emotional fortitude required of the job.
He’d come away from all the interviews with the impression of an intelligent, focused, extremely dedicated young woman who was grounded professionally and personally. He liked what he’d heard about her and, in spite of her nervousness today, he thought she’d acquitted herself well with Stiles.
She was also attractive and that could work for or against her, depending on the circumstances. And her perspective, he supposed. It wasn’t so much that she was pretty, but she had an interesting, intelligent face. Stiles had picked up on that, too. He seemed intrigued by her, and that could prove useful in the future.
Taking his gaze from the road, Cahill gave her an other quick assessment. She had a gorgeous complexion, nearly flawless from what he could tell, and clear blue eyes, the kind of crystalline color normally associated with someone very fair.
He glanced at her brown hair. It was pulled back and fastened in the back with a clip. She looked fine to him, but he could tell she wasn’t the type to primp or fuss with her appearance. Her simple black jacket and slacks looked as if they’d been chosen as much for comfort as style.
As if sensing his perusal, she glanced up and caught him staring at her. Their gazes collided and something twisted inside Cahill’s gut.
Whoa, he thought. He hadn’t expected that.
“Am I bothering you?” she asked suddenly.
He almost choked. “I beg your pardon?”
“Here I am, typing away, oblivious to everything else. I can see how that might seem rude.” She gave him an apologetic smile. “I just wanted to record my first impression of Stiles before I lost something.”
“That’s a good idea.” He cleared his throat. “You aren’t bothering me.”
“Good.” She glanced away, then her gaze reluctantly came back. “What he said back there…when he asked if you knew…” She bit her lip, plainly uncomfortable with whatever was on her mind. “Maybe we should clear the air about that.”
“You mean what he said about your hair?” Cahill didn’t give a damn if she colored her hair, although he did wonder why she seemed so ill at ease about it. His ex-wife used to drop a small fortune every time she visited her stylist.
“My…hair?” She looked startled, then relieved. “Uh, yeah. That’s what I meant.”
Cahill shrugged. “As long as it doesn’t interfere with your work, I don’t care what color you dye it.”
“It’s just…Stiles seemed so fixated on it.”
“Now that part does trouble me,” Cahill admitted. His gaze went to her hair. “How the hell could he tell that you’re a natural blonde? Are you, by the way?”
“Yes,” she admitted grudgingly. “And I don’t know how he knew. Maybe he could tell by my skin tone. Or maybe it was just a good guess. I don’t know. I just wish he’d been as focused on those pictures. He barely glanced at them. I couldn’t get anything out of him,” she said with obvious disappointment.
“On the contrary,” Cahill said. “He told us a great deal. Did you catch what he said about our driving ‘up’ to Huntsville to see him? How did he know we weren’t driving ‘down’ from Dallas? He assumed we were from the Houston office because he anticipated why we were there.”
“Because he already knew about the murders, you mean.”
“That’s my guess. And maybe the reason he didn’t seem interested in the pictures is because he’d already seen them.”
“Even if that’s true, I’m not sure it would prove anything,” Pru said. “The victims’ photographs were on the news.”
Cahill rubbed the back of his neck. “I’ve been thinking about the Web sites Pickett mentioned. He said the inmates set up an account and the mail starts pouring in. If those women are willing to send money to someone like Stiles, it stands to reason they’d also send photographs of themselves.”
“And he chooses his surrogate’s victims from among his pen pals?” Her tone sounded a little incredulous. “I don’t know, Agent Cahill. All the victims were successful, independent women. I can’t see someone like Clare McDonald striking up a pen pal relationship with a convicted murderer.”
“Can you see her letting a ki
ller into her life and into her home?” he asked bluntly. “All of the victims were vulnerable in some way, and whoever killed them knew how to play on their weaknesses.”
She shrugged noncommittally, but he could tell she wasn’t yet convinced of his theory. And that was fine. It was just that…a theory. For now.
“When we get back to the office, I want you to find out whatever you can about those Web sites,” he said. “Who runs them, how they’re funded and so on.”
She nodded. “I’m on it. Sir…what about the P.I. firm I told you about yesterday? The one that designs coincidences. If someone hired that agency to investigate Clare, then that could be a significant lead, especially if we can find a connection to the other two victims.”
“Agreed.”
“So…I should follow up?” she asked cautiously.
“You’ll need some help. Do you know Tim Sessions?”
Wariness flickered in her eyes. “Yes…I know him. We’ve worked together before.”
Cahill wondered about her guardedness, but he let it pass. “Good. Then you know he’s an excellent tech. I want you to take him with you to Clare McDonald’s office and have him go over her computer. The police confiscated her laptop, but they may not have had a chance to get by her office yet.”
“Yes, sir.” She hesitated again. “I need to ask you a question. Just so I’m clear on procedure. This is still technically HPD’s case, right?”
“They asked for our support, and we’re giving it to them,” Cahill said with a frown. “Is that clear enough?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Aren’t you the one who pointed out a possible conflict of interest with HPD?” he reminded her.
“Yes, but you know as well as I do that some of the detectives are going to resent our involvement in the investigation.”
“By some, you mean Janet Stryker.”
Pru shrugged. “I didn’t get the impression that she’s exactly eager to cooperate.”
“I’ll coordinate with HPD, Agent Dunlop. You just do your job and let me worry about Sgt. Stryker.”
Her features froze at his abrasive tone. “Yes, sir.”
Cahill hadn’t meant to come off as such an arrogant ass, but he didn’t bother to apologize. If Agent Dunlop could deal with someone like Stiles, she could damn well learn to put up with his bad disposition.
“SO WHY DID YOU WANT this transfer?” Cahill asked a little while later. They were nearing Houston, and he decided it was time to offer an olive branch. She’d been staring out the window for the past half hour.
She gave him a suspicious look. “Is this another test?”
He almost smiled. “No. It really is small talk this time. How long have you been interested in SKURRT?”
“Since its inception eight years ago.”
He glanced at her in surprise. “You must have still been in college. How did you even know about it?”
“I was a Criminal Justice major, remember? We talked about it in class, plus I discussed it with my dad.” The tension seemed to seep out of her bit by bit. She sat back against the seat and folded her arms. “He knew I wanted to be in the FBI since I was fifteen years old.”
“What did he think about that?”
“If he had reservations, he kept them to himself. He never once tried to change my mind. It wouldn’t have done any good anyway. Besides, he knew I was doing it for the right reasons. I wasn’t trying to follow in his footsteps, be the son he never had, or what ever. Not that he wasn’t a great role model. I’ve always admired him. When I was growing up, he and the other special agents I knew were my rock stars.” Her tone turned rueful. “Well, maybe rock star is the wrong term. They were more like superheroes to me.”
“That sounds like a pretty big image to live up to,” Cahill said dryly.
She smiled, displaying a single dimple at the left corner of her mouth. “Is it wrong of me to think John Douglas is cooler than Brad Pitt?”
“Brad might think so.”
She laughed, and Cahill thought with a pang that it had been a long time since he’d heard that sound. It had been a long time since he’d met anyone like Agent Dunlop. Unless she’d fooled him, her dedication was genuine, her motives completely altruistic.
A real crusader, he thought, not without admiration.
“What about you?” she asked. “Are you a legacy?”
“No.” He fiddled with the air conditioner for a moment. “My dad operated a charter fishing boat out of Galveston. He didn’t make much money, but he was probably the most contented man I ever knew. I wouldn’t have minded following in his footsteps, but I never could get my sea legs. I used to crew for him during my summer breaks, and I’d get sick as a dog every time we went out.”
“I can see how that would pose a problem,” Pru said sympathetically. “So how did you end up at the FBI?”
“I was in my first year of law school, married with a new baby and bills piling up. The Bureau had a recruiter on campus one day. He gave me an application, I sent it in, and six months later, I was at the academy.” He shrugged.
She looked a little crestfallen by the story. “That’s it? You never even considered it before?”
“Unlike you, being a fed wasn’t a lifelong ambition. I just needed to support my family.” He glanced at her. “I’m not one of your superheroes, Agent Dunlop.”
“Are you kidding?” She turned in her seat to face him. “I still remember the class you taught while I was at the academy. You held us all enthralled. I wanted to be just like you…” She trailed off, then added, almost shyly, “You’re practically a legend. You realize that, don’t you?”
He grimaced. “God, how old does that make me sound?”
“Old?” She looked stricken. “That’s not what I meant at all. Your career…it’s inspirational. I’m honored to be working with you.”
The words were so sincerely spoken and she looked so earnest that Cahill was humbled. It wasn’t a feeling he often experienced. Frustrated, yes. Even helpless at times. But humble was a new one.
Their gazes connected again, and the way she looked at him made him catch his breath. He felt that punch of attraction he’d experienced earlier, only stronger this time, and he wondered suddenly if he’d made a terrible mistake with Agent Dunlop.
Chapter Six
On first glance, Tim Sessions looked like the quintessential computer geek—tall and lanky with shaggy brown hair, dark-rimmed glasses and a blatant disregard for fashion.
After that initial impression, however, one noticed the humor and curiosity glinting in his gray eyes and the effortless way he carried himself, as if completely comfortable in his own skin. Even his wardrobe made sense once you got to know him.
When Cahill had asked if she knew Tim, Pru had purposely failed to mention that she’d gone out for drinks with him a couple of times. Nothing had come of it. They’d simply been two colleagues unwinding after a long day of work, so there was really nothing to tell.
Still, Pru wondered what Cahill’s reaction would be if he knew. And she also wondered about the real reason she’d withheld the information. How simple it would have been to say in a breezy manner, “Yeah, I know Tim. We’ve had drinks after work a couple of times.” She couldn’t bring it up now, though. It would be too awkward and would make her seem as if she were trying to cover for something.
Pru wanted to mull over the dilemma for a while, but Tim was in such a talkative mood all the way downtown that she didn’t have a chance to brood. Which was probably a good thing, she decided as they rode the escalator up from the tunnels to the glass-and-granite lobby of the Texas National Bank Building.
Linney, Gardner and Braddock occupied two of the upper-level floors in one of the tallest skyscrapers in downtown Houston. As Pru and Tim got off the elevator on the seventy-eighth floor, she was struck immediately by the view through the wall of windows in the reception area.
The space-age skyline melded so seamlessly with the decor, Pru felt as if she h
ad stepped onto the set of a futuristic movie. The design was sleek, stark and modern, and the young woman seated behind the glass and brushed stainless-steel desk might have been a Hollywood starlet, she was that attractive. Her black, formfitting dress provided a dramatic contrast to hair so pale it could almost have been called platinum. She wore it swept back from her face, highlighting her stunning bone structure. Her makeup was flawless, her demeanor almost robotic as she watched them approach her desk.
“May I help you?” she asked with a cool, dismissive smile.
“I’m Special Agent Dunlop and this is Special Agent Sessions. We’re federal agents,” Pru said, whipping out her identification. “We’re here regarding the murder of one of your associates…Clare McDonald.”
The woman’s perfectly arched brows lifted. “Clare? But the police have already been here. We’ve already told them everything we know.”
“We’d like to have a look around her office,” Pru said.
The woman worried her glossed lip. She seemed nervous, but that wasn’t unusual. The sudden appearance of FBI agents was always a little unsettling.
Her hand fluttered to her throat, and Pru absently noticed her French manicure. Tasteful and elegant, like everything else about her. “If you would care to take a seat, I’ll notify my supervisor that you’re here.”
“Thank you.” Pru and Tim moved away from the desk.
He whistled as he glanced around. “Some place.”
Pru nodded. “They probably don’t even need air-conditioning, this place is so cold.”
“Not to mention the receptionist’s attitude.” He gave a fake shudder.
High heels clicked down the granite hallway, and Pru turned to see a woman enter the reception area. She was an older and, if possible, blonder version of the receptionist. Slender, stately and elegant, she came forward and offered her hand.
“I’m Miriam Taylor,” she said. “I understand you’re with the FBI.”
Pru made the introductions as they once again presented their identification. “We’d like to see Clare McDonald’s office.”
“Of course,” the woman said in a carefully refined tone. “Her office is right this way.” She beckoned toward the hallway, and the two of them followed her past a series of ornate, frosted glass doors through which Pru caught glimpses of color and movement.
Matters of Seduction Page 7
