“Very inspirational, I gotta say. But still, we’re on the killer’s clock here. What’s the reason you dragged me down here?”
The beautiful clear sky, the warmth of the sun on her face, the image of a little boy who’d grown up to be an architect vanished in a heartbeat. They were here on urgent matters. She pressed her back against the door and stepped into the lobby with Spense on her heels. “You said if we got the profile hammered out, we could chase a wild hair. Well, this is the wild hair.”
She checked her watch. Her friend Suzanne Kristoff was supposed to meet them in ten minutes, and Caitlin wanted to check out the pottery and textile exhibits beforehand. “You saw that lovely mug Jenny gave me—with that Southwestern motif. The more I stared at it, the more something was pinging in my brain. At first I couldn’t put my finger on what, but eventually I realized I’ve seen that design many times.” She paused for effect. “It’s called the Man in the Maze motif.”
His eyebrows lifted. “Whoa. That is interesting. So the Man in the Maze is your wild hair, and that motif is why we’re visiting the museum?”
“You’ve never been here before?”
“I haven’t. Museums aren’t my thing.” He turned his palms up. “Sorry to disappoint you, but I promise I’m teachable. And this place looks swell. Very Southwest, just like the name.”
“That’s because it is Southwest. The museum showcases Native American art and culture. And as it happens, I know the curator. Suzanne and I were at Stanford together. We weren’t in the same classes or anything, but we both spent an inordinate amount of time at the library. It’s really a cute story, if you’d like to hear it.”
“Doll, I’d like to hear anything you want to tell me.” He reached an arm around her shoulder, and she fought the urge to lean into him.
Moving forward, she managed to escape his arm and the dangerous sensations being near him brought on. “I’d bump into her often—she was usually chewing her pencil to shreds. Anyway, one day I smiled at her, and she smiled back. Then I sat down next to her, and lo and behold if she didn’t turn out to be one of those rare individuals who didn’t yap at you the whole time you were trying to study. So I sat next to her again. And after a while, we started saving a seat for each other. And there you have it, a friendship was born.” She didn’t add that Suzanne had turned out to be not only one of the few people who didn’t yap at her, but one of the few real friends Caitlin had.
“Maybe you should try smiling more often. You never know what could come of it.” He winked. Seriously, he winked at her like they were on a date instead of an investigatory excursion. And he was the one who was supposedly all killer’s clock.
“Anyway, that’s where we met. The library. At Stanford,” she said, not cracking a smile at all.
“I see. Well, good for you.” Then, he looked away, rather abruptly, like she’d offended him somehow. Maybe she shouldn’t have brought up Stanford. He’d referred to her education as fancy more than once, and though she’d never known a brighter man, she gathered school had been a real struggle for Spense.
“Anyway, take a look around you.”
He swiveled on his feet, walked the perimeter of the room, and came back to her. “Amazing.” He joked, but she knew he’d seen it, too. The Man in the Maze motif was ubiquitous in Native American pottery, textiles, and other art forms. An entire room of mazes, sometimes called Southwestern labyrinths, surrounded them.
Together, they walked down a long hallway and entered the pottery exhibit. Baskets and bowls, jugs, and plates, abounded. Many depicting the Southwestern labyrinth, and at its center, a man.
Find the Man in the Maze.
Well, she’d not only found the Man in the Maze, she’d found hundreds of them. What was she supposed to do next? Maybe Baskin had been right. Maybe Kramer really had been fucking with her.
“Caity.” Spense’s forehead furrowed. “You feeling okay? Because you look done in.”
“I’m fine.”
“You sure?”
“Spense, it’s super annoying to have to repeat myself. I’ll let you know if I need to take a break. It’s not like I’ve overexerted myself.”
“Fine by me, I’m just checking. But I have to give you credit—you found the Man in the Maze.”
“The pieces are lovely, aren’t they?” a voice behind them said. It was Suzanne, looking stunning as usual in stilettos and a designer suit, gallery lights shining off golden hair, swept into a French twist. Professional and yet so feminine. Suzanne had always had the polish Caitlin lacked, a result of growing up moneyed, no doubt. And yet the two women had more in common than they had differences, and they’d formed a lasting bond.
Caitlin gave Suzanne a quick, shy hug. Even with friends, she’d never felt comfortable expressing affection, or showing emotion, and though they’d kept in touch, she hadn’t seen Suzanne since a Stanford class reunion a few years back. “Thanks so much for taking the time out of your day for us, Suzie.”
“Believe me, I’m thrilled to be of use.” Suzanne’s gaze ran over Spense’s chest, then darted back to Caitlin. The curator gestured to follow her, and then led them through the wing and outside into a breathtaking, stone courtyard.
“We’ll have a good amount of privacy out here. It’s slow this time of day.” They pulled three lawn chairs around a small round table, near the wading pool. Reflected images from the palo verde trees above swayed in the blue water and the fragrance of honeysuckle saturated the air. Caitlin drew in a long, deep breath of Arizona.
Phoenix was her home, and she’d forgotten how much she’d once loved it. She’d forgotten the climbing trails, the birds, the yowl of the coyotes. Like she’d conjured it up with her memories, a coyote in the distance began to sing, and for one moment, she felt at peace. Here in this beautiful place, surrounded by the spiritual images the native artists had created, she felt at long last as if she were home.
Then Spense drummed his fingers on his wristwatch, as if to remind her they were in a hurry.
Time to get down to business, and she’d forgotten her manners. “Suzanne, this is Special Agent Atticus Spenser.”
“Atticus? How wonderful.” Of course Suzanne wouldn’t bother with the special agent title. She always knew just how to talk to a man. Criminal investigative analyst or bartender, it didn’t signify. Suzanne was equally at ease with both.
“Call me Spense. I’m sure you’re busy, so we’ll get straight to the point. What can you tell us about the Man in the Maze?”
Neatly crossing her legs at the ankles, Suzanne tugged at her skirt and shifted in her seat. “Caitlin gave me a heads-up, so I’ve printed out some information for you. And I have brochures.” Suzanne passed them each a booklet and a sheaf of stapled papers. “This gives a detailed history of the Man in the Maze as Southwestern legend and art motif, but I’m happy to give you the Cliff Notes version.”
“If you don’t mind,” Spense encouraged. He was in a rush. Though Caitlin had no idea where they were headed next. If they were supposed to be following up another lead, she wasn’t aware of it. In fact, Gretchen had given her the opposite impression. That Spense and she were supposed to create a profile, then butt out until the locals needed them again.
“All right. Well, for starters, the Man in the Maze motif is what’s known as a unicursal labyrinth.”
Caity didn’t follow, but Spense was nodding. Of course, the puzzle master would be familiar with unicursal mazes. She waited, figuring someone would define the term for her sooner or later.
Spense did the honors. “Unicursal means there’s only one path leading to the center.”
Suzanne uncrossed her ankles and leaned forward. “He’s right. So you see, technically the Man in the Maze is a misnomer because these aren’t mazes at all. Mazes have many branching and confusing paths, but here, we have only one.” She traced an imagined Man in the Maze motif
with her fingertips. “This is not a maze. This is a labyrinth. The motif originally sprang up as an illustration of an indigenous legend.”
“If the Man in the Maze illustrates a legend, can you tell us the story?” Caitlin prompted.
“That’s difficult, because interpretations vary widely. But in general, the Man in the Maze legend is an uplifting one. Many people believe the story is about finding a single path to harmony. When you get to the center of the maze, you are at one with either the creator, or in some versions, mankind. Like most art, I suppose the meaning is in the eye of the beholder.”
Spense pushed his chair out, and the feet made a scratching noise on the cobblestones below. From above, a pygmy owl, perched in a mesquite tree, answered with a soft whoo.
“You look disappointed, Spense.” Suzanne’s voice dropped softly on his name. She had that way of making you feel as if you’d always known her.
“Not at all. It’s a wonderful legend. It’s just that I can’t picture our UNSUB seeking spiritual harmony or oneness with the universe. Doesn’t fit. Maybe this Man in the Maze has nothing to do with anything.”
Suzanne shrugged. “Well, the other detective seemed to think it might.”
That took Caitlin by surprise. To her knowledge, no one else was following up on this angle until other leads had been exhausted, and she wondered why Suzanne hadn’t mentioned it before. Then again, there hadn’t been much opportunity until now. “Who else has been asking?”
“A Detective Baskin from the Phoenix Police Department. I’m meeting with him in an hour.”
Baskin? But he’d specifically said he thought the Man in the Maze was a dead end. She exchanged a glance with Spense. “Why would Baskin steer us away from the Man in the Maze, then turn around and contact Suzanne behind our backs?”
“The locals can be very protective of their turf. This is still their case, Caity, we’re just advisors. And remember, Baskin doesn’t report to us.” Spense turned to Suzanne. “You mentioned there are other interpretations of the legend. Are any of them related to death?”
“Oh yes. Some people view the center of the maze as death rather than enlightenment, and some view death and enlightenment as one and the same thing. So one’s journey to the center is all about learning to accept the ultimate destination.”
Spense leaned forward. “Go on.”
“Then there’s yet another view that the man at the center of the maze is a teacher, a leader who instructed his pupils in the ways of his art, but he became evil, and ultimately his people killed him. Then, according to yet another riff, the Man in the Maze was so powerful, he came back to life.”
Her cell rang. After a brief conversation, she hung up. “I’m so sorry, but we have some VIP guests up front, and I really ought to greet them. Is there anything else I can tell you before I go?”
“You’ve been a great help already. Thank you, but I think we’ll let you get back to your work. And Ms. Kristoff . . .”
“Suzanne.”
“Suzanne then,” Spense smiled affably, but his tone carried a warning. “Anything we discussed is not for public disclosure. If word got out that we’re looking into the Man in the Maze connection, it could compromise a criminal investigation. I assume we can count on your discretion.”
“I’m not supposed to mention our meeting to the detective?”
“Sorry. I meant not to anyone outside of law enforcement. Detective Baskin is lead on this case. Naturally, we wouldn’t ask you to keep information from him.”
With a grace that seemed inherent in her every move, Suzanne rose. “Got it. And you can count on me.” She placed a hand on Caitlin’s shoulder and gave a gentle squeeze. “Lovely seeing you, Caitlin. If you’re going to be in town awhile, you and Spense should come out with Jon and me some night.”
It was clear from her tone Suzanne thought they were a couple. Caitlin didn’t feel the need to correct her. It wouldn’t be worthwhile to get into their personal affairs. “Sounds wonderful. We’ll have to arrange that once things settle down with the case.”
And then Suzanne was off, leaving them on their own. Caitlin wasn’t sure what to make of the various story interpretations, and she was beginning to doubt this Man in the Maze was related to Kramer’s Man in the Maze at all.
“I don’t know what to do next.” Leave it to the locals was one option, of course. But she’d made the mistake long ago of relying on the police and the courts to handle her father’s case, and look how that had turned out. With lives—including hers—at stake, she couldn’t stand by and wait for someone else to find the UNSUB.
“We could start by testing your profiler mettle,” Spense said with a wink.
Chapter Fifteen
SPENSE THOUGHT HE detected a glimmer of excitement in Caity’s eye when he suggested they put her profiler skills to the test. He recognized the effects of an adrenaline rush brought on by the prospect of a solving a puzzle whose solution—or lack thereof—could spell life or death. Her cheeks flushed, her pupils dilated, and her posture, even while sitting, had a certain spring to it.
“I’m game,” she responded without hesitation and without knowing what he would suggest.
A bright twilight was descending on the little courtyard in the Southwest Museum of Art. Spense could see a squirrel nibbling in the flower garden, and with no one else in the area, this quiet, spiritual place provided an ambience conducive to the task. He folded his arms and leaned forward, resting them on the tabletop.
“Close your eyes.”
She didn’t ask why. At his request, she simply let her eyes flutter closed. He grinned to himself at how easily she complied with his commands. He couldn’t deny the charge he got out of that, given the way she normally argued with him over the smallest point. Then he took a good look at her face, full of trust, ready to do his bidding, and his chest grew tight.
She was so damn beautiful.
So damn good, and he was about to send her straight to hell and back. Right now, she was enjoying the game, anticipating the challenge, but there was dark work to be done. Profiling was an art as well as science, and what better time to introduce that subjective element than now, when they were pursuing a lead as ethereal as the Man in the Maze? Sometimes, the only way to break a case was to leave the constraints of your own mind behind and become the predator. Not like a medium, but simply by empathy—a quality that cold-blooded killers lacked, yet one that was absolutely necessary for a profiler. “This is the hard part, Caity. Before we go any further, I need you to understand that this is the moment where things get real—and not in a good way.”
She frowned, but her eyes remained closed.
“We’re about to leave the realm of cold hard facts, the stuff you and I both love, and enter . . .” His voice trailed off before he could finish his thought. If he told her the truth, that she was about to enter the twilight zone she might laugh, and the atmosphere would be ruined. “We’re going to utilize a different part of your brain. I’m going to ask you to put yourself inside the killer’s mind and see the world from his point of view. Are you ready for that?”
He watched as her throat worked in a hard swallow.
She nodded and placed her hands palms down on the table.
“Okay.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “The meaning of art is in the eye of the beholder. So imagine you’re looking at a beautiful tapestry with the Man in the Maze motif. What do you see?”
She smiled. “Peace. A path to understanding.”
“Good. Now let’s do it again, only this time I want you to look at the maze from the inside. Only you’re not Caity anymore. You’re our UNSUB, a stone-cold killer at the heart of a labyrinth. Now what do you see? Describe it for me.”
The evening breeze lifted her hair, and she breathed deeply. Spense inhaled along with her, taking in the scent of the Arizona outdoors—ver
bena, honeysuckle, and wildlife—and nearly reached out to stop her. He hated to send her down the rabbit hole of the UNSUB’s mind. “Close your eyes. You’re the Man in the Maze. Now . . . tell me what you see,” he repeated.
She cleared her throat, as if resisting the descent into darkness. One more breath, then she began: “I’m the Man in the Maze.”
“Where are you, what’s happening in your world?”
“I’m in the museum wandering through the exhibits with my wife at my side. I love to come here on Sunday afternoons with my beautiful lady on my arm, especially when I’ve just found a new girl, and my mind’s buzzing with planning and preparation. It relaxes me, and I like showering my mate with attention before I go on the hunt for fresh meat. She’s been a good wife, and she deserves to feel appreciated. Her favorite room is the textile exhibit, and she likes to hold my hand and lean on me just a little as we walk.” She smiled in a cunning way. “I’m sure we look very happy to everyone who sees us, and that’s a good thing because as long as my wife can convince other people we have a perfect marriage, she doesn’t interfere with my activities. She doesn’t expect me to be a good husband anymore.”
Caitlin paused a long time, so Spense prompted her. “Why not?”
“She knows me too well and gave up on that a long time ago. But appearances are very important to her, to both of us really. So I take her out on Sunday mornings, and in return she doesn’t ask where I go on Saturday nights. The Southwest Museum of Art is her favorite place to pretend we are happy because it also lets her pretend she’s smart. We both like to pretend—so many things. And anyway, I don’t mind a bit of culture. It gives me something to talk about with the coeds other than the usual discussion of their boyfriends and how their boyfriends don’t satisfy them, inside the bedroom or out. I know I can take them to a place where they’ve never been before.”
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