by Tami Hoag
“With all due respect, Agent Quinn,” the lawyer said tightly, “the choice is Mr. Bondurant's.”
“Yes, it is, and I'm sure he feels information about his daughter's murder is worth any price. My reasoning is this, Mr. Noble: People will come forward for a lot less than one hundred fifty thousand. An amount that extraordinary is going to bring in a flood of kooks and money-grubbing opportunists willing to sell their own mothers down the river. Start with fifty. Later we may want to use raising the amount as a strategic move.”
Noble breathed a measured sigh and pushed his chair back from the table. “I'll need to speak with Peter about this.” He unfolded his long body and walked across the room to a side table with a telephone.
“We've got every reporter in the Twin Cities camped out on the steps of city hall,” the mayor pointed out. “They're anticipating something more than a simple statement.”
“That's their problem,” Quinn said. “You have to think of them as tools rather than guests. They're not entitled to the details of an ongoing investigation. You called a press conference, you didn't promise them anything.”
The mayor's expression suggested otherwise. Quinn tightened his grip on the fraying threads of his patience. Play diplomat. Go easy. Don't lose your cool. Christ, he was tired of it.
“Did you?”
Grace Noble looked to Sabin. “We had hoped to have a composite sketch. . . .”
Sabin cut a nasty look at Kate. “Our witness is being less than cooperative.”
“Our witness is a scared kid who saw a psychopath set fire to a headless corpse,” Kate said sharply. “The last thing on her mind is accommodating your timetable . . . sir.”
“She got a good look at the guy?” Quinn asked.
Kate spread her hands. “She says she saw him. She's tired, she's afraid, she's angry—and rightfully so—at the treatment she's been given. Those factors tend not to create a spirit of cooperation.”
Sabin began to position himself for rebuttal. Quinn blocked the argument. “Bottom line: We have no composite.”
“We have no composite,” Kate said.
“Then don't bring it up,” Quinn said, turning back to the mayor. “Divert their attention to something else. Give them a photograph of Jillian Bondurant and one of her car and make an appeal for people to call the hotline if they've seen either one since Friday evening. Don't talk about the witness. Your first concern here has to be with how your actions and reactions will be perceived by the killer, not how they'll be perceived by the media.”
Grace Noble pulled in a deep breath. “Agent Quinn—”
“I don't normally come into a case this early on,” he interrupted, the control slipping a little more. “But since I'm here, I want to do everything I can to help defuse the situation and bring a swift and satisfactory conclusion to the investigation. That means advising you all on proactive investigative strategies and how to handle the case in the press. You don't have to listen to me, but I'm drawing on a wealth of past experience. The director of the FBI personally chose me for this case. You might want to consider why before you disregard my suggestions.”
Kate watched him as he took two steps back from the table and the argument, and turned his profile to her, pretending to look out the window. A subtle threat. He had established his own importance and now dared them to challenge it. He had attached the director of the FBI to his position and indirectly dared them to defy him.
Same old Quinn. She had known him as well as anyone could know John Quinn. He was a master manipulator. He could read people in a heartbeat and change colors like a chameleon. He played both adversaries and colleagues with the brilliance of Mozart at the keyboard, turning them to his side of an argument with charm or bullying or guile or the brute force of his intelligence. He was smart, he was sly, he was ruthless if he needed to be. And who he really was behind all the clever disguises and razor-sharp strategies—well, Kate wondered if he knew. She'd thought she had once upon a time.
Physically, he had changed some in five years. The thick, dark hair was salted with gray and cropped almost military short. He looked leaner, worn thin by the job. Ever the clotheshorse, he wore a suit that was Italian and expensive. But the coat hung a little loose off the broad shoulders, and the pants were a little baggy. The effect, though, created elegance rather than an eroding of his physical presence. The planes and angles of his face were sharp. There were circles under the brown eyes. Impatience vibrated in the air around him, and she wondered if it was real or manufactured for the moment.
Sabin turned toward her suddenly. “Well, Kate, what do you think?”
“Me?”
“You worked for the same unit as Special Agent Quinn. What do you think?”
She could feel Quinn's eyes on her, as well as the gazes of everyone else in the room. “No. I'm just the advocate here. I don't even know what business I have being at this meeting. John is the expert—”
“No, he's right, Kate,” Quinn said. He planted his hands on the tabletop and leaned toward her, his dark eyes like coals—she thought she could feel the heat of them on her face. “You were a part of the old Behavioral Sciences Unit. You've got more experience with this kind of case than anyone else at this table besides me. What's your take?”
Kate stared at him, knowing her resentment had to be plain in her eyes. Bad enough to have Sabin put her on the spot, but for Quinn to do it struck her as a betrayal. But then, why she should have been surprised at that, she couldn't imagine.
“Regarding this case, I have no basis on which to form an educated opinion,” she began woodenly. “However, I am well aware of Special Agent Quinn's qualifications and expertise. Personally, I think you would be making a mistake not to follow his advice.”
Quinn looked to the mayor and the chief of police.
“You can't unring a bell,” he said quietly. “Put too much information out there now, there's no taking it back. You can call another press conference tomorrow if you need to. Just give the task force this chance to muster their resources and get a running start.”
Edwyn Noble returned from his phone call, his face sober. “Mr. Bondurant says he'll do whatever Agent Quinn suggests. We'll set the reward at fifty thousand.”
THE MEETING ADJOURNED at four forty-eight. The politicos moved into the mayor's office for last-minute preparations before facing the press. The cops gathered in a cluster at the far end of the conference room to talk about setting up the task force.
“Sabin isn't happy with you, Kate,” Rob said in a tone of confidentiality, as if anyone else in the room would be interested.
“I'd say Ted Sabin can kiss my ass, but he'd be on his knees in a heartbeat.”
Rob blushed and frowned. “Kate—”
“He dragged me into this, he can live with the consequences,” she said, moving toward the door. “I'm going to go check on Angie. See if she's come up with any-thing from the mug books yet. You're going to the press conference?”
“Yes.”
Good. She had a witness to spring while everyone else was looking the other way. Where to take the girl was the next problem. She belonged in a juvenile facility, but they had as yet been unable to prove she was a juvenile.
“So you worked with Quinn?” Rob said, still with the voice of secrecy, following her toward the door. “I heard him speak at a conference once. He's very impressive. I think his focus on victimology is dead on.”
“That's John, all right. Impressive is his middle name.”
Across the room, Quinn turned away from his conversation with the homicide lieutenant and locked on her, as if he'd picked up her comment on his radar. At the same instant, Rob Marshall's pager beeped and he excused himself to use the phone, looking disappointed at the lost opportunity to speak with Quinn again.
Kate wanted no such opportunity. She turned away and started again for the door as Quinn came toward her.
“Kate.”
She glared at him and jerked her arm away as he moved to
take hold of her.
“Thanks for your help,” he said softly, ducking his head in that way he had that made him seem boyish and contrite when he was neither.
“Yeah, right. Can I have the cervical collar concession tomorrow when you march in here and tell them to challenge this son of a bitch in order to trap him?”
He blinked innocently. “I don't know what you mean, Kate. You know as well as I do how important it is to be proactive in a situation like this—when the time is right.”
She wanted to ask him if he was talking about the killer or the politicians, but she stopped herself. Quinn's proactive theories extended to all aspects of his life.
“Don't play your little mind games with me, John,” she whispered bitterly. “I didn't mean to help you. I didn't offer you anything. You took, and I don't appreciate it. You think you can just manipulate people like pawns on a chessboard.”
“The end justified the means.”
“It always does, doesn't it?”
“You know I was right.”
“Funny, but that doesn't make you seem any less of a jerk to me.” She took a step back toward the door. “Excuse me. I've got a job to do. You want to make power plays, you leave me out of the game plan, thank you very much.”
“Good to see you too, Kate,” he murmured as she walked away, thick red-gold hair swinging softly across her back.
It struck Quinn only belatedly that she had a nasty bruise on her cheek and a split lip. He'd seen her as he remembered her: as an ex-friend's wife . . . as the only woman he'd ever truly loved.
6
CHAPTER
THE CROWD IS large. The Twin Cities are overrun with reporters. Two major daily newspapers, half a dozen television stations, radio stations too numerous to keep track of. And the story has brought in still more reporters from other places.
He has captured their attention. He relishes the sense of power that brings. The sounds in particular excite him—the urgent voices, the angry voices, the scuffle of feet, the whirl of camera motor drives.
He wishes he hadn't waited so long to go public. His first murders were private, hidden, far between in both time and space, the bodies left buried in shallow graves. This is so much better.
The reporters jockey for position. Videographers and photographers set the perimeter of the gathering. Blinding artificial lights give the setting an other-worldly white glow. He stands just outside the media pack with the other spectators, caught on the fringe of a headline.
The mayor takes the podium. The spokeswoman for the community expressing the collective moral outrage against senseless acts of violence. The county attorney parrots the mayor's remarks and promises punishment. The chief of police makes a statement regarding the formation of a task force.
They take no questions, even though the reporters are clamoring for confirmation of the victim's identity and for the gruesome details of the crime, like scavengers drooling for the chance to pick the carcass after the predator's feast. They bark out questions, shout the word decapitation. There are rumors of a witness.
The idea of someone watching the intimacy of his acts excites him. He believes any witness to his acts would be aroused by those acts, as he was. Aroused in a way just beyond understanding, as he had been as a child locked in the closet, listening to his mother having sex with men he didn't know. Arousal instinctively known as forbidden, irrepressible just the same.
Questions and more questions from the media.
No answers. No comment.
He sees John Quinn standing off to one side among a group of cops, and feels a rush of pride. He is familiar with Quinn's reputation, his theories. He has seen him on television, read articles about him. The FBI has sent their best for the Cremator.
He wants the agent to take the podium, wants to hear his voice and his thoughts, but Quinn doesn't move. The reporters seem not to recognize him standing out of reach of the spotlight. Then the principals walk away from the podium, surrounded by uniformed police officers. The press conference is over.
Disappointment weighs down on him. He had expected more, wanted more. Needs more. He had predicted they would need more.
With a jolt he realizes he has been waiting to react, that for a moment he allowed his feelings to hinge on the decisions of others. Unacceptable behavior. He is proactive, not reactive.
The reporters give up and hurry for the doors. Stories to write, sources to pump. The small crowd in which he stands begins to break up and move. He moves with them, just another face.
“LET'S GO, KIDDO. We're out of here.”
Angie looked up from the mug books on the table, wary, her stringy hair hiding half her face. Her gaze darted from Kate to Liska as she rose from her chair, as if she were expecting the detective to pull a gun and prevent her escape. Liska's attention was on Kate.
“You got the okay to go? Where's Kovac?”
Kate looked her in the eye. “Yeah . . . uh, Kovac's tied up with the lieutenant at the press conference. They're talking task force.”
“I want in on that,” Liska said with determination.
“You should. A case like this makes careers.” And breaks them, Kate thought, wondering just how much trouble she was making for herself springing Angie DiMarco—and how much trouble she would be making for Liska.
The end justifies the means. She thought of Quinn. At least her goal was noble rather than self-serving manipulation.
Rationalization: the key to a clear conscience.
“Are the cameras rolling?” Liska asked.
“Even as we speak.” Kate watched out of the corner of her eye as her client palmed a Bic lighter someone had left on the table and slipped it into her coat pocket. Christ. A kid and a kleptomaniac. “Seems like a good time to split.”
“Run for it while you can,” Liska advised. “You're a double bonus today. I hear your name attached to a certain act of heroic lunacy at the government center this morning. If the newsies don't nail you for one thing, they'll nail you for another.”
“My life is much too exciting.”
“Where are you taking me?” Angie demanded as she came to the door, slinging her backpack over one shoulder.
“Dinner. I'm starving, and you look like you've been starving for a while.”
“But your boss said—”
“Screw him. I want to see somebody lock Ted Sabin in a room for a day or two. Maybe he'd develop a little empathy. Let's go.”
Angie shot one last glance at Liska and scooted out the door, hiking her backpack up as she hurried after Kate.
“Will you get in trouble?”
“Do you care?”
“It's not my problem if you get fired.”
“That's the spirit. Listen, we've got to go up to my office. If anyone stops me on the way, do us both a favor and pretend we're not together. I don't want the media putting two and two together, and you don't want them knowing who you are. Trust me on that one.”
Angie gave her a sly look. “Could I get on Hard Copy? I hear they pay.”
“You fuck this up for Sabin and he'll get you on America's Most Wanted. That is if our friendly neighborhood serial killer doesn't put you on Unsolved Mysteries first. If you don't hear anything else I tell you, kiddo, hear this. You do not want to be on television, you do not want your picture in a newspaper.”
“Are you trying to scare me?”
“I'm just telling you how it is,” she said as they entered the concourse to the government center.
Kate put on her don't-fuck-with-me face and walked as quickly as she could, considering the aches and stiffness from her morning wrestling match were beginning to sink in deep. Time was a-wasting. If the politicians took John's advice and somehow managed to contain themselves, the press conference would break up fast. Some of the reporters would dog Chief Greer, but most would split between the mayor and Ted Sabin, liking their odds better with elected officials than with a cop. Any minute now the concourse could be swarming with them.
&nbs
p; If they followed Sabin into the concourse and caught sight of her, if someone called her name or pointed her out within earshot of the ravenous pack, she was bound to get cornered about the government center gunman. Eventually someone might make the mental leap and connect her to rumors of a witness in the latest homicide, and then the last few hours would truly deserve listing in the annals of all-time shitty days. Somewhere on the lower third of the list, she figured, leaving plenty of room above for the string of rotten days to come.
But luck was with her for once today. Only three people tried to intercept her on their way to the twenty-second floor. All making clever comments on Kate's morning heroics. She brushed them off with a wry look and a smart remark, and never broke stride.
“What's that about?” Angie asked as they got off the elevator, her curiosity overcoming her show of indifference.
“Nothing.”
“He called you the Terminator. What'd you do? Kill somebody?” The question came with a look that mixed disbelief with wariness with a small, grudging flicker of admiration.
“Nothing that dramatic. Not that I haven't been tempted today.” Kate keyed the access code into the security panel beside the door to the legal services department. She unlocked the door to her own office and motioned Angie inside.
“You know, you don't have to take me anywhere,” the girl said, flopping into the spare chair. “I can take care of myself. It's a free country and I'm not a criminal . . . or a kid,” she added belatedly.
“Let's not even touch on that subject for the moment,” Kate suggested, glancing through her unopened mail. “You know what the situation is here, Angie. You need a safe place to stay.”
“I can stay with my friend Michele—”
“I thought her name was Molly.”
Angie pressed her mouth into a line and narrowed her eyes.