by Kay Hooper
“Focusing on her how? We've accounted for all her movements the week before she was killed.”
“We'll have to go further back than that. Months, maybe even years; the pressure built inside him for a while before he acted, and during that time their paths crossed.”
“If she was the trigger.”
Isabel nodded. “If she was the trigger.”
“And if she wasn't?”
Isabel shrugged. “Still a valid, even critical, investigative approach, knowing who the victim was. Who all of them were. We won't understand him until we understand the women he's killing. Something more than superficial appearance connects them.”
“They were all unusually successful at their jobs,” Rafe said, relaying the information without the need to consult any file or notes. “Jamie had been Broker of the Year with her company the past three years; Allison Carroll had been recognized both locally and statewide as an outstanding teacher; and Tricia Kane not only had a very good job as a paralegal to one of our most successful attorneys but also was a very talented artist gaining regional recognition.”
“It might be the public recognition of their abilities as much as their success that drew his interest,” Isabel mused. “They stood in a spotlight, lauded for their achievements. Maybe that's what he likes. Or doesn't like.”
“You mean he could be punishing them for their success?”
“It's a possibility. Also a possibility that he was attracted to them because of their success and was rejected by them when he expressed his interest.”
“Men get rejected all the time. They don't turn to butchery.”
“No. The vast majority don't. Which is a good thing, don't you think?”
Rafe frowned slightly, but she was going on before he could comment.
“It means this particular man has some serious, deep-seated emotional and psychological problems, which have apparently lain dormant or at least were hidden here in Hastings until about three weeks ago.”
“Hence the trigger.”
Isabel nodded. “There's no question about that, not as far as we're concerned. Something happened. To him, in his life. A change. Whether it was an actual event or a paranoid delusion on his part remains to be seen. But something set him off. Something definitive.”
Rafe glanced at his watch, wondering if there was time today to visit all three crime scenes.
“Starting with the actual crime scenes,” Isabel said, “would probably be the best way to go. According to the map I studied, they're within a five-mile area. And it's still hours till sunset, so we have time.”
“Where's your partner?” Rafe asked. “I was told there'd be at least two of you.”
“She's settling in. Wandering around, getting a feel for the town.”
“Please tell me she isn't blond.”
“She isn't.” Isabel smiled. “But if you're wondering, she doesn't resemble the conventional FBI suit any more than I do. The SCU really is an unusual unit within the Bureau, and few of us conform to any sort of dress code unless we're actually on FBI grounds. Casual and understated are sort of our watchwords.”
Rafe eyed her but decided not to comment on that. “And do you normally show up unarmed?”
“Who says I'm unarmed?” She lifted one hand and gently wiggled her fingers, each one adorned with a neat, but hardly understated, red-polished oval nail.
Hearing the faint note of mockery in her voice, Rafe sighed and said, “Let me guess. Martial-arts expert?”
“I've trained,” she admitted.
“Black belt?”
“Got that when I was twelve.” She smiled again. “But if it makes you feel better, I'm also wearing a calf holster—usually my backup, since my service automatic is worn in a belt holster. Our unit doesn't break all the rules, just some of them; on duty, we're expected to be armed. Since I was taking a casual look around town, a visible weapon would have been a bit conspicuous, I thought.”
Rafe had noticed that her jeans were very close-fitting from waist to knees, so he couldn't help asking, “Can you get to that weapon in a hurry if you have to?”
“You'd be surprised.”
He wanted to tell her he wasn't sure he could take too many more surprises but instead said only, “We've set up a conference room here as a base of operations, so all the reports, evidence, and statements are there. Couple of good computers with high-speed Internet access, plenty of phones. Standard supplies. Anything else that's needed, I'll get.”
“In a situation like this, the city fathers generally say to hell with the budget.”
“Which they pretty much did.”
“Still, you and I both know it'll come down to basic police work, so the budget is likely to go toward overtime rather than anything fancier. As for the crime scenes, I really would like to take a look at them today. And it would help if it's just you and me out there this time. The fewer people around me when I'm studying a crime scene, the better.”
“Fewer distractions?”
“Exactly.”
“We've kept the scenes roped off,” Rafe said, “but I'd bet my pension that at least a dozen kids have tramped all over them despite the warnings. Or because of them.”
“Yeah, kids tend to be curious about crime scenes, so that's to be expected.”
More than a little curious himself, Rafe said, “It's rained since we found Tricia Kane's body on Monday; what do you expect to find?”
“I'm not likely to find anything you and your people missed,” Isabel replied, her matter-of-fact tone making it an acknowledgment rather than a compliment. “I just want to get a sense of the places, a feel for them. It's difficult to do that with only photographs and diagrams.”
It made sense. Rafe nodded and rose to his feet, asking, “What about your partner?”
“She may want to take a look at the scenes later,” Isabel said, getting up as well. “Or maybe not. We tend to come at things from different angles.”
“Probably why your boss teamed you up.”
“Yes,” Isabel said. “Probably.”
Caleb Powell wasn't a happy man. Not only had he lost his efficient paralegal to the killer stalking Hastings, he had also lost a friend. There hadn't been the slightest romantic spark between Tricia and him, particularly since she was almost young enough to be his daughter, but there had been an immediate liking and respect from the day she first began working for him almost two years before.
He missed her. He missed her a lot.
And since the temp he had hired was still trying to figure out Tricia's filing system—and kept coming to him with questions about it—his office wasn't exactly his favorite place to be right now. All of which explained why he was sitting in the downtown coffee shop sipping an iced mocha and staring grimly through the front window at the media-fest still going on across the street at the town hall.
“Vultures,” he muttered.
“They have their jobs to do.”
He looked at the woman seated at the next table, not really surprised she had responded to his comment because people did that in small towns. Especially when there were only two customers in the place at the time. He didn't recognize her, but that didn't surprise him either; Hastings wasn't that small.
“Their jobs stop when they cross the line between informing the public and sensationalizing a tragedy,” he said.
“In a perfect world,” she agreed. “Last time I checked, we didn't live in a perfect world.”
“No, that's true.”
“So we have to cope with less than the ideal.” She smiled faintly. “I've even heard it said that the world would be better off without lawyers, Mr. Powell.”
Just a bit wary now, he said, “You have me at a disadvantage.”
“Sorry. My name is Hollis Templeton. I'm with the FBI.”
That did surprise him. An attractive brunette with a short, no-fuss hairstyle and disconcertingly clear blue eyes, she looked nothing at all like a tough federal cop. Slender almost to the point
of thinness, she was wearing a lightweight summer blouse and floral skirt, an outfit eerily like the one Tricia had reportedly worn the day she was killed.
His disbelief must have been obvious; with another faint smile, she drew a small I.D. folder from her purse and handed it across to him.
He had seen a federal I.D. before. This one was genuine. Hollis Templeton was a Special Investigator for the FBI.
He returned the folder to her. “So this isn't a coincidental meeting,” he said.
“Actually, it is.” She shrugged. “It was hot as hell outside, so I came in for iced coffee. And to watch the circus across the street. I recognized you, though. They ran your photo in the local paper Tuesday after Tricia Kane was killed.”
“As you noted, Agent Templeton, I'm a lawyer. I don't really appreciate impromptu interviews with federal officials.”
“But you do want to find out who killed Tricia.”
He noticed that she didn't deny it was an interview. “I also don't appreciate typical law-enforcement tactics and questions designed to encourage me to talk carelessly to a cop.”
“Take all the care you like. If a lawyer doesn't know how much is . . . safe . . . to disclose, nobody does.”
“I think I find that offensive, Agent Templeton.”
“And I think you're awfully touchy for a man with nothing to hide, Mr. Powell. You know the drill better than most. We'll be talking to everyone who knew Tricia Kane. You were her employer and her friend, and that puts you pretty high up on our list.”
“Of suspects?”
“Of people to talk to. Something you know, something you saw or heard, may be the key we'll need to find her killer.”
“Then call me in to the police station for a formal interview or come see me at my office,” he said, getting to his feet. “Make an appointment.” He left a couple of dollars on the table and turned away.
“She liked tea instead of coffee, and took it with milk. You always thought that was odd.”
Caleb turned back, staring at the agent.
“She always felt she had disappointed her father by not becoming a lawyer, so being a paralegal was a compromise. It gave her more time for her art. She had asked you to pose for her, but you kept putting her off. And about six months ago, you offered her a shoulder to cry on when her relationship with her boyfriend ended badly. You were working late at the office when she broke down, and afterward you drove her home. She fell asleep on the couch. You covered her with an afghan and left.”
Slowly, he said, “None of that was in the police report.”
“No. It wasn't.”
“Then how the hell do you know?”
“I just do.”
“How?” he demanded.
Instead of replying to that, Hollis said, “I saw some of her work. Tricia's. She was talented. She might have become very well known if she'd lived.”
“Something else you just know?”
“My partner and I got into town last night. We've checked out a few things. Tricia's apartment, for one. Nice place. Really good studio. And some of the paintings she'd finished were there. I . . . used to be an artist myself, so I know quality work when I see it. She did quality work.”
“And you read her diary.”
“She didn't keep one. Most of the artists I know don't. Something about images as opposed to words, I guess.”
“Are you going to tell me how you know what you know?”
“I thought you didn't want to talk to me, Mr. Powell.”
His mouth tightened. “What I think is that alienating me is not at all a good idea, Agent Templeton.”
“It's a risk,” she admitted, not noticeably disturbed by that. “But one I'm willing to take if I have to. You're smart, Mr. Powell. You're very, very smart. Too smart to play dumb games. And at the end of the day I'd really rather not have you as an enemy, never mind the fact that you know all the legal angles and could keep us at arm's length for a long time.”
“You think I'd do that? Potentially put other lives in danger by withholding information?”
“You tell me.”
After a moment, Caleb crossed the few feet separating them and sat down in the second chair at her table. “No. I wouldn't. And not only because I'm an officer of the court. But I don't know anything that could help you find this killer.”
“How can you be so sure of that? You don't even know what questions we want to ask you.” She shook her head slightly. “You aren't a suspect. According to Chief Sullivan's report, you have a verifiable alibi for the twenty-four hours surrounding Tricia Kane's murder.”
“What the thrillers like to call a cast-iron alibi. I spent the weekend in New Orleans for a family wedding and didn't fly back here until Monday afternoon. I got the news about Tricia when Rafe called me at my hotel around noon.”
“And a companion places you in your hotel room from just before midnight until after eight that morning,” Hollis said matter-of-factly. “She's positive you never left the room.”
Without at all planning to, Caleb heard himself say, “A former girlfriend.”
“Former?” Her voice was wry.
A bit defensive despite himself, he said, “We also happen to be old friends, what my father used to call scratch-and-sniff buddies. We see each other, we end up in bed. Happens about twice a year, since she lives in New Orleans. Where we both grew up, and where she practices law, which makes her highly unlikely to perjure herself. Any other nuggets you want to mine from my personal life, Agent Templeton?”
“Not at the moment.”
“Too kind.”
She didn't react to his sarcasm except with another of those little smiles as she said, “About Tricia Kane. Do you think her ex-boyfriend might have wanted to hurt her?”
“I doubt it. She never said he was violent or in any way abusive, and I never saw any signs of it. Besides, unless he slipped back into town in the last three weeks, he's out of the picture. They broke up because he thought his pretty face could earn him screen time in Hollywood and he didn't want Tricia along for what he was convinced was going to be a wild and award-winning ride.”
“Sounds painful for her.”
“It was. Emotionally. She went home for lunch that day and found him packing to leave. That's when he told her he was going. Until that moment, she'd believed they would end up married.”
“Since then had she ever talked about a particular man?”
“I don't think she was even dating. If so, she never mentioned it. She was concentrating on her painting when she wasn't at the office.”
“Do you know if anything unusual had happened lately? Strange phone calls or messages, someone she'd noticed turning up wherever she went, that sort of thing?”
“No. She seemed fine. Not worried, not stressed, not upset by anything. She seemed fine.”
“There was nothing you could have done,” Hollis said.
Caleb drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Oh, I have no illusions, Agent Templeton. I know how quickly random acts of violence can snuff out lives, no matter how careful we think we are. But those acts tend to be committed by stupid or brutal people, for stupid and brutal reasons. This is different. This bastard is pure evil.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
She smiled an odd, twisted smile, and her blue eyes had an equally strange, flat shine to them that made Caleb feel suddenly uneasy. “I know all about evil, Mr. Powell, believe me. I met it up close and personal.”
Thursday, 3:30 PM
Isabel stood gazing around the clearing where Tricia Kane's body had been found. It was mostly in shade now that the sun was no longer directly overhead, which she appreciated since the day was hot and humid. She was conscious of Rafe Sullivan's scrutiny, but she had been at this too long to allow him to distract her.
Much.
Both the blood and the chalk used to mark body position and location had been washed away by the rain, but she didn't need either to know exactly where Tric
ia Kane had suffered and died. She looked down just inches from her feet, her gaze absently tracing the shape of something—someone—that was no longer there.
She had been here, in this sort of place, so many times, Isabel thought. But it never got any easier. Never.
“He got her in the back,” she said, “then jerked her around by the wrist and began driving the knife into her chest. The first blow to her chest staggered her backward, the second put her on the ground. She was losing blood so fast she didn't have the strength to fight him off. She was all but gone when he began stabbing her in the genital area. And either her skirt came up when she fell, or else he jerked it out of the way when he began stabbing her, since the material wasn't slashed. He pulled the skirt back down when he was done. Odd, that. Protecting her modesty, or veiling his own desires and needs?”
Rafe was frowning. “The ME says she died too fast to leave any bruises, but he told me privately he felt she'd been jerked around and held by one wrist. It wasn't in his report.”
Isabel looked at him, weighing him for a moment, then smiled. “I get hunches.”
“Yeah?” He crossed powerful arms over his chest and lifted both eyebrows inquiringly.
“Okay, they're a little more than hunches.”
“Is this where the special in Special Crimes Unit comes in?”
“Sort of. You read the Bureau's brief on our unit, right?”
“I did. It was nicely murky, but the gist I got is that the unit is called in when a judgment is made that the crimes committed are unusually challenging for local law enforcement. That SCU agents use traditional as well as intuitive investigative methods to solve said crimes. By intuitive I gather they mean these hunches of yours?”
“Well, they couldn't very well announce that the SCU is made up mostly of psychics. Wouldn't go over very well with the majority of cops, considering how . . . um . . . levelheaded you guys tend to be. We've discovered through bitter experience that proving what we can do is a lot more effective with you guys than just claiming our abilities are real.”
