Sleep Tight

by Anne Frasier

  "Twenty-eight."

  That was followed by his address and phone number.

  "What do you do for a living?"

  "I'm a full-time student." With every answer, he looked in Gillian's direction and smiled.

  "Where do you attend school?"

  "The U."

  "Would that be the University of Minnesota?"

  "Uh-huh."

  "What's your major?"

  "Theater."

  "Have a minor?"

  "Photography."

  Fraternities were big at the U, and Tate had the closely cropped hair and pumped-up body of a frat weight-room addict. If Tate were the murderer, Gillian found something especially unnerving about a psycho hiding in plain sight while posing as an average student.

  "Have you ever seen any of these girls?" Wakefield spread three eight-by-tens on the table. The third victim's name was Justine Ramsey, a twenty-two-year-old former university student who had a reputation for going home with a new guy every night.

  Tate leaned forward and looked at the photos one at a time, then fell back in his chair. "No."

  "Are you sure? Care to take another look?"

  "I don't need to take another look. I've never seen any of 'em."

  Wakefield separated the photo of the Ramsey girl from the others. "We checked school records and discovered you had some classes with this individual." He pushed the photo across the table in case Tate wanted to examine it again.

  "So? Some of my classes have four hundred kids. How would I recognize everybody?"

  "Someone said you and Ramsey went out a few times."

  "Who told you that?" he asked, his face turning red.

  "Someone reliable-that's all you need to know. Did you maybe forget about going out with Justine Ramsey?" Wakefield paused, giving Tate time to think about the corner he'd painted himself into. "You're a good-looking guy. Probably gone out with a lot of girls. I know how girls can be. Maybe you stop and say hi to one of them, and pretty soon she's telling everybody you're dating."

  Gillian had watched several of Wakefield's interviews. He had a nice technique, relaxed, friendly, not too aggressive. And he never directly accused the interviewee of anything if he could give him a way out.

  Tate shot Gillian a nervous smile, some of his cool beginning to melt. "What'd you say her name was?" he asked, backpedaling.

  "Ramsey. Justine Ramsey."

  "You know… maybe that does sound kinda familiar. Yeah, now that I think about it-it does. I totally forgot about her, man. And this picture-" He tapped the photo. "It doesn't really look like her."

  "But you remember her now?"

  "Yeah. Yeah, I do."

  "Do you happen to remember a 911 call she made from her residence about eight months ago? You beat her up and she required ten stitches. Do you remember that?"

  Tate completely lost his too-cool-for-this-place attitude. "Those charges were dropped. It was an accident."

  "What color was Justine Ramsey's hair?"

  Tate looked down at the photo, then back up. "Blond. So what?"

  "Maybe you can tell me."

  "I don't know what you're talkin' about."

  Wakefield shifted gears. "How you could forget the name and face of a woman you beat up, someone who called the cops on you? That doesn't make any sense to me," he said with false puzzlement.

  "Am I under arrest?"

  "Should you be? Is there something you want to tell me?"

  "I've had enough of this bullshit." Tate grabbed his jacket and started to get to his feet.

  "All I need to do is get a court order and you'll be right back down here. It always looks better if you come in of your own free will." Wakefield put a sincere expression on his face. "A guy just seems less guilty that way."

  Tate considered that, then settled back in his chair.

  "Why did you lie about knowing Justine Ramsey?"

  Tate rubbed his head. "I wanted the interview to be over. I didn't want to get messed up in anything- especially murder. You can understand that, can't you?" He looked at Gillian for reassurance. "You can, can't you?"

  She didn't reply or respond in any way.

  "It makes it harder for everybody when you don't tell the truth," Wakefield said. "Because chances are, we already know the answer to the question we're asking. And if we don't, we'll find out."

  "I'm not falling for that."

  "Did I tell you I know your dad?"

  That got his attention.

  "We went to the same high school," Wakefield said. "He was two years ahead of me, but we were in band and Academic Bowl together. I wasn't surprised when he went into politics. He knew the ins and outs of everything. How's your dad doing nowadays? I heard he was going to run for state senator."

  "Maybe. I don't know. I don't talk to him much."

  "Only when you're in trouble, right?"

  "I see him other times. Christmas, usually."

  "Where were you Friday-the night Justine Ramsey's body was dumped near Lake Harriet?"

  "Listen, if you're trying to say I killed Justine Ramsey just because I may have hit her once, you're crazy."

  "We're not accusing you of anything. We're interviewing everybody who knew Justine. It's standard procedure."

  Tate relaxed a little, but kept his arms crossed at his chest, his attitude belligerent. "I was at a party."

  "Were you there all night?"

  "I stayed a few hours, then went barhopping. Everybody goes barhopping on Fridays."

  "Were you with anybody? Someone who can corroborate your story?"

  "I left the party by myself."

  "What about the bars? Can you give me a list of the bars you went to and the people you saw?"

  "Some of them. Listen, I was drunk. I can't remember exactly where I went and who I saw."

  Wakefield pulled out a tablet and a piece of paper. "Why don't you try?"

  Half an hour later, Wakefield had several bars and names written down, and Tate was out the door.

  "What do you think?" Wakefield asked.

  "Other than the fact that he's an arrogant ass?" Gillian asked.

  "Yeah, other than that."

  Ben joined them. "That guy's got the hots for you." He seemed to think that was extremely funny. "He's so not your type."

  "I found Tate's reaction to you as telling as anything we got out of him," Wakefield said, flashing Ben a look of resigned irritation.

  "He didn't seem at all interested in hiding his attraction," Gillian said. "Which makes me wonder if what we just witnessed was some kind of strategy-or was he just trying to look cool?"

  "I wouldn't be surprised if he's been in more trouble than we know and Daddy's gotten him out of it. He's avoided getting his name on the public-access sex offender blacklist. He avoided a prison sentence by agreeing to become a full-time student. That kind of thing is bullshit."

  "I've seen him on campus," Ben said. "Girls seem to dig him."

  "Not this girl," Gillian said.

  "We'll try to get interviews with school acquaintances," Waken"eld said. "See if we can come up with anything."

  Outside the police station, Gillian and Ben split up. He headed for a class on West Bank. She needed to report back to the BCA in St. Paul.

  She was walking toward her car on the third floor of the Federal Courthouse parking garage when someone jumped out from behind a cement pillar and landed flat-footed in front of her.

  She let out a frightened yelp, at the same time recognizing Sebastian Tate.

  "Hi." He flashed her a smile, proud of himself.

  Her heart was pounding madly in her chest. "What the hell are you doing?" she shouted at him in disbelief.

  "It's almost noon. I thought you might want to grab a bite to eat."

  "Are you kidding?" If he hadn't just scared the hell out of her, she may have been a little more discreet in her response. As it was, she did nothing to hide her disgust.

  He gestured with hands in the pockets of his unzipped, black leath
er bomber jacket, walking backwards while she strode toward her car. "Why not?" he asked innocently, as if expecting her to say she was too busy.

  "Why not? Because you're a fucking asshole, that's why not!"

  He stopped walking, and his jaw went slack. She shoved past him, unlocked her car with the remote, and slid behind the wheel. With a trembling hand, she jabbed the key in the ignition. Oh, that was good, she thought sarcastically. She locked the door and pulled the seat belt across her shoulder. Real professional. Cussing out a suspect. She was sure Mary did that all the time.

  Chapter 7

  "Would you like to try out my new potter's wheel while you're here?" Blythe asked. She and Mary were sitting at the bistro table in the kitchen sharing a light lunch. "You were getting pretty good at one time."

  "I think that may have been Gillian." Mary was trying to ignore the throbbing in her shoulder, which had been getting increasingly worse since her encounter with Hitchcock. It hadn't helped that she'd been working on the profile for almost forty-eight hours straight. "I was never very good at throwing pots."

  "Oh, you were too! Let's make an evening of it. Gillian can come. We'll get a bottle of wine. Be creative. What do you think?"

  "Let's not rush into things."

  Mary had come to terms with the fact that she and Gillian would be working together. She didn't like it, but she was a professional, and professionals had to adapt to unpleasant situations. That didn't mean she was ready to hop in the sandbox with her sister.

  "Later, maybe," her mother said, momentarily deflated. Blythe gathered up a large canvas bag, water bottle, and car keys. "I've gotta run. Try to get some rest." She gave Mary a kiss on the cheek, then left to teach her afternoon and evening pottery classes at the Pot House.

  Mary went upstairs and took a hot shower. She'd hoped the heat might help the pain, but by the time she'd dried off, her shoulder was aching even more. She made an ice pack out of a plastic bag and kitchen towel, then settled in bed with the pack on her shoulder and laptop on her lap.

  Her phone rang.

  Gillian was calling to tell her about a suspect they'd brought in for questioning. "Sebastian Tate," she said. "He's a student at the university and dated the third victim a few times."

  "What did you find out?"

  Gillian filled her in on Tate's rap sheet and how he'd reacted to her.

  "I'm not sure you should be involved in the questioning of suspects," Mary said, surprised that they'd sent Gillian out on the initial canvas.

  "It's my job." Gillian didn't bother trying to disguise her resentment.

  "Didn't anyone stop to think that you fit the victim-ology?" Mary had to work to keep her voice smooth, even though she was irritated by Wakefield's lack of judgment. She'd expected more from him.

  "I know I fit the victimology. I thought my going on the canvas was a good strategy."

  Had she really thought it out that thoroughly? Mary wondered. More than likely, it had come to her later, when Gillian was face-to-face with the suspect.

  "The last victim was also identified," Gillian said. "Justine Ramsey."

  "Had she been reported missing?"

  "No. Lived alone, no close friends."

  "Like the first girl."

  "Exactly." The conversation shifted. "How are you coming on the profiles?"

  "I'll have the preliminary paperwork ready to present to Detective Wakefield by early tomorrow. Hopefully I can get the Behavioral Science team to sign off on it in two or three days so the profile can be made official and the information gotten to the public."

  There was a pause, as if Gillian were weighing her next words. "You sound tired."

  Her concern took Mary by surprise. "I am," she admitted.

  "Try to get some sleep."

  "As soon as I wrap this up." Her voice was once again distantly polite.

  "I'll let you get back to work," Gillian said, sounding rebuffed.

  "Gillian?" Mary paused. "If Tate comes around, call the cops."

  "I am a cop."

  "You know what I mean. Don't try to deal with him by yourself. He could be dangerous." Mary disconnected.

  The ice in the plastic bag had turned to tepid water; Mary dropped it and the towel on the floor. Would Gillian follow her advice about Tate? Probably not. Mary shouldn't have said anything about her being careful around the guy. Gillian had a history of doing the opposite of whatever her sister suggested.

  For the next two hours Mary fine-tuned the killer and victim profile, adding the finishing touches before shutting off the computer and lying back in bed.

  She was almost asleep when the doorbell rang.

  She kept her eyes closed, trying to pretend she hadn't heard anything. The doorbell rang again. It was probably some sweet-faced kid selling something she didn't want to buy but would anyway. Dressed in navy blue cotton pajamas, she made her way downstairs, leaning forward to peer through the peephole.

  Anthony Spence stood on her mother's front porch.

  She blinked. He was still there.

  She opened the door, the chain lock catching. She slammed the- door, undid the chain, and opened it again.

  Instead of a greeting, he got directly to the point: "You look like hell."

  On the other hand, he looked great. But when didn't Anthony look great? He was dressed in the FBI black he was so fond of, complete with trench coat.

  "Nice to see you too."

  The pain was making her dizzy. She turned around and plopped down on the steps, wincing as she jarred her arm. "What are you doing here?"

  "Are you sick?" He stepped inside and closed the door behind him.

  "A headache." It was the first thing that popped into her mind. It seemed childish and immature-always evading everyone-but she hated to be fussed over.

  Anthony put a hand to her forehead. She closed her eyes for a moment, enjoying the coolness.

  "You feel warm."

  "Think so?"

  "How's the shoulder?"

  "A little sore," she admitted reluctantly.

  "A little?" From his expression of disbelief, it was apparent she hadn't fooled him for a second. "I know your definition of 'a little.' Like the time you had a little pain in your side and ended up having an emergency appendectomy."

  She gave him a weak smile, then tried to steer the attention away from her. "What are you doing here?"

  "I thought you might need some help."

  "You should have told me you were coming. I'd have met you at the airport."

  "Let me see your shoulder."

  "No."

  "Come on."

  "For some reason, you seem to think you own me now. That you own my shoulder." She was uncomfortably aware that she was in pajamas while he was fully dressed.

  "Is that so unreasonable? I'm partially responsible for that shoulder."

  Without asking permission, he unbuttoned the top button of her shirt. He slipped his hand inside, under the fabric. His touch felt wonderfully cool.

  He frowned. "Hot."

  Her heart sank, and then began to beat rapidly. What did that mean?

  "Do you have your doctor's phone number?"

  "Upstairs. In my data book." She started to get up.

  "Stay there." His voice held urgency. "I'll get it."

  "Take a right at the top of the stairs."

  He disappeared, then quickly returned with a small leather booklet. Anthony flipped through the pages and located the number. He sat down near her on the stairs, pulled out his mobile phone, and dialed.

  Dr. Farina was in surgery, but the problem was relayed to him and he insisted that Mary get to a Minneapolis physician immediately. "It could be one of three things," his nurse explained. "Inflammation due to overexertion, infection that has been incubating since the surgery, or staph." The nurse gave them the name of a reputable physician and added that Dr. Farina would call Mary that night.

  Staph. Mary and Anthony looked at each other, and she saw her own fear reflected back at her
. The best possible staph scenario might mean weeks in an isolation room while they pumped antibiotics into her veins in an attempt to kill the resistant bacteria. A bad scenario could mean a lost limb. It could mean death.

  It took thirty minutes to get to the Edina office where Mary's doctor suggested they go.

  Once there, she was put through a series of tests. She had blood drawn, cultures taken, and was sent to an adjoining hospital for an MRI. When that was completed, she met with Dr. Tabora. Anthony insisted on being in the room when the verdict was announced.

  "You have quite a bit of inflammation," he said, "but the preliminary quick test didn't show any evidence of staph."

  No staph. Mary wilted in relief and looked at Anthony. He was leaning against the wall, head tipped back, eyes closed, sending up his own thank-you.

  "I'm going to put you on an anti-inflammatory drug. That should take care of the problem. Come back and see me in two weeks unless you're in Virginia. In that case, see Dr. Farina. I'll be sending him a copy of my report."

  He handed Mary the prescription order. "Rest and take it easy. Try not to use your arm for the next few days; then begin exercises gradually, much the way you did after surgery. There are some excellent physical therapists in the building. I'll have the receptionist set up an initial visit."

  At the front desk, Mary was handed a card that gave the date and time of her therapist appointment.

  She would cancel it later.

  At the pharmacy Mary turned in the script, then moved away from the counter to wait. She was sensing a strong, negative energy coming from Anthony, and it put her on the defensive.

  "I can tell you're thinking about having me pulled from the case," she said as soon as they were in his rental car. "Well, I'm not leaving." Which seemed weird when she thought about it, since she hadn't wanted to come in the first place. But it was like that first plunge into cold water. Once you were wet, you might as well stay in and swim.

  "The doctor told you to take it easy."

  "Anthony, I want to remain on the case. If you have me pulled off, I'll continue to investigate on my own."

  "Why are you being so hardheaded about this?"

  Anthony didn't know about Fiona. Once, he'd asked her why she'd wanted to become an FBI agent, and she'd mumbled something vague about the challenge and the desire to help people.