Mike gave her a wry look. “Reference books. Of every kind imaginable.” It occurred to him that she was looking particularly attractive this morning—not that she had ever not looked attractive. Had she done something to her hair?
Baxter scanned the desktop. “You’re trying to trace that key chain, aren’t you?”
“You win the Daily Double.” Mike lifted a small baggie that held the elusive bit of evidence. “My gut tells me that whoever killed Sheila Knight left this behind. But I can’t figure out what it is.”
Baxter stared at it, as she had done more or less constantly since they discovered it. “The frustrating thing is, I know I’ve seen it before.”
“I have the same feeling. But I can’t remember what it is. I even showed it around the office. And everyone says the same thing. Yeah, that looks familiar. But no one remembers what it is.”
“What are those curvy things in the middle? Wings?”
“I thought they were hearts.”
“They can’t be hearts. They’re flat on the bottom. Both of them. And why are they drawn so . . . wispy?” She dropped it back onto the desk. “It’s like a Rorschach test, isn’t it?”
“Exactly. When you don’t know what it’s supposed to be, it looks like everything. Or nothing. That’s why I’ve been poring through every pictorial reference I could lay my hands on. And I’ve sent Penelope to the library for more. When you don’t know what you’re looking for—you look at everything.”
“Sounds like a needle-haystack deal.”
“It is.” Mike pushed away from the desk and stretched. “But if I could place that design, I might trace it back to our murderer.”
“About that.” Baxter suddenly seemed nervous, edgy. “I wanted to thank you. For what you did.”
“For what I did?” There wasn’t much room in the cubicle, especially at present. She was standing barely a foot away. Another time, he might complain about cops who invaded his personal space. But at the moment . . .
“In Blackwell’s office. When you . . . you know. Stood up for me. I really appreciate it.”
Mike waved a hand in the air. “I was just correcting my own mistake. It was nothing.”
“It wasn’t nothing. It was something. A big something. You didn’t have to do it. Certainly not the way you did. It . . .” She began fidgeting with her fingernails. “It meant a lot to me.”
Mike shrugged. “Forget about it.” Was she wearing some kind of perfume? Because now that he was up close, it seemed as if she was wearing some kind of perfume.
“Can we talk about the other night? The stakeout, I mean. When we were in the car.”
“Stop beating yourself up about that, Baxter. We had no way of knowing that some killer would—”
“That’s not what I meant.” She averted her eyes. “Could we talk about us? What happened.” Her hand brushed against her lips.
“Oh. That.” Was Penelope messing with the thermostat again? Because it definitely seemed hotter in here. Much hotter than usual. “Sure. If you want to.”
“I feel like you’ve been avoiding me. Ever since we . . . you know.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Really.”
Mike shoved his hands into his pockets. “Well, maybe I have. I didn’t mean to. It’s just . . . you know . . . kind of . . .”
“Awkward.”
“Yeah. Awkward.” Now he was fidgeting.
“I’ve felt the same way. But we can’t go on being partners if we can’t even look at one another.”
“That’s true.”
“I mean, we’ve got to finish this case. But after that . . .”
“Yeah?”
“After that, maybe we should apply for a transfer. I think Blackwell would allow it now. Particularly if we both requested it.”
For some reason, Mike couldn’t think of anything remotely intelligent to say. “Yeah. I think he probably would.”
“If that’s what you want.”
“Yeah. I mean, right.” He looked up. “Is that what you want?”
“I asked you first.”
Mike frowned. “Now this is a bit childish.”
“I did. I asked you first.”
“I asked you second. So?”
Baxter let out a long exhale. “I have another request.”
It was amazing what she did with her mouth when she was nervous. That cute little half-pout thing. How had he never noticed that before? “And that is?”
“Don’t tell any of the other guys on the force. About what happened. Between us, I mean.”
“Of course not. I would never . . .”
“Stand around in the canteen with the other guys making rude remarks about a female officer? Perish the thought.”
Mike tugged at his collar. “I apologized for that.”
“Actually, you haven’t.”
“Well, then I apologize for that. It won’t happen again.”
“You won’t tell anyone?”
His neck stiffened. “What, are you ashamed of it?”
“You know what would happen, if word got around. They’d makes jokes, give me some trashy nickname. Start treating me like I was some kind of tramp.”
“We were both there.”
“Yeah, but if a woman does it, she’s a tramp. If a guy does it, he’s Casanova.”
Mike took a step toward her. The heat was so intense he felt as if he were standing in the fireplace. “I won’t tell anyone.”
“Thank you. That’s all I wanted,” she said, with a note of finality. But she did not step away.
“May I make a request?” Mike asked, inching even closer.
“Fair’s fair, I suppose.” She was looking up, gazing into his eyes.
“It seems to me . . . we never actually got to finish that kiss.”
“And?”
“If I have to keep quiet and forget it happened, it seems as if I ought to at least get to . . . finish.”
Baxter didn’t answer, but she didn’t resist, either. Their heads moved closer together. . . .
“Where do you want it?” A new voice emerged from the doorway.
“Penelope!” Both Mike and Baxter jumped backward, like ionized molecules repelling each other. “I didn’t . . . hear you. . . .”
“Am I interrupting something?”
“No!” they both insisted, much too loudly.
“We were just talking about the case,” Mike said.
“Yes. The case,” Baxter agreed.
Penelope looked at them as if they were wearing their underwear on the outside. “Look, I got those books. You want I should put them on your desk?”
“That would be lovely.”
“Fine.” She pushed a tall stack back to clear a corner. “And don’t forget to go home tonight, Mike. I know how you get when you’re on these big research binges.”
“I won’t.”
“Don’t forget to eat, either. You want me to send up some sandwiches?”
“I’ll manage. Thank you, Penelope.” As soon as she left the office, Mike whirled around. “Baxter?”
She was gone.
His enemy had returned.
The one who had taken his life and dirtied it, turned it upside down. The one who had twisted his mind and turned him into something he never wanted to be. Back. Again.
Gabriel Aravena felt his hand shaking as he turned the doorknob and entered his apartment. His neighbor’s description of the person who had come by looking for him had not been that specific, but he knew who it was. Some part of him had known it would happen one day. It had happened often enough in his dreams. His nightmares.
What did the visitor want? Whatever it was, it was sure to be evil. Filthy.
Not yet. Please not yet. The old feelings had returned with such power. The bad feelings. The ones he couldn’t stop. The ones that rampaged when he saw a small girl with dark eyes, dark coloring. Like Erin Faulkner. Like so many others. That was not what he wanted, was it? He had decided, right? Even without the
medication, he was not going to be a monster!
He had never been able to resist this person, and deep down in his heart, he knew this time would be no different. How could it be? The visitor knew so much, so many secrets. How could he resist? Was he stronger now? No, weaker. Barely off the Depo, his body still mutating.
He had to get out, that was all. Run. Go somewhere, do something. He was pretty low on cash just at the moment, but tomorrow was payday. He would go to work at FastTrak, collect his check—and then run.
Just the thought of it filled him with sorrow. He would lose his job. Lose the managerial position he had worked so hard to obtain. He would not see April again. And he had no idea where he would go. But he had to do it. He had to get out, he had to stop the inevitable from happening. Because if he didn’t—
Never mind that. He had a plan, a way to prevent himself from turning back, from becoming a monster. And that was something. However feeble it might be, that was something.
He would salvage his life. By running away from it.
“You sure you haven’t seen this before?” Mike asked.
“Positive,” Chris Hubbard replied. “Sorry. To tell the truth—I don’t get out of the lab much these days.”
Mike dangled the key chain in front of his face. “And you don’t know who it belongs to. Or where it might’ve come from?”
“ ’Fraid not.” Hubbard leaned back, propping his elbows against the lab table behind him. The young chemist’s face seemed utterly without guile. Mike couldn’t imagine that he was lying. “What made you think I might in the first place?”
“Oh, I didn’t really. I just hoped. I know this thing is the key. If I could just figure out what it is.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
Mike looked up and saw the short stocky form of Dr. Conrad Reynolds. “I’m just having a chat with Mr. Hubbard, here.”
“Oh?” He seemed immediately interested. “Has there been a development in the Erin Faulkner case?”
“No. That’s why I’m here. I’d like to talk to you later, also.”
“About anything in particular?”
“Just general stuff. Since you’re the head of the plant, and you knew both Ray Goldman and Frank Faulkner. Just to make sure there isn’t anything I’ve missed.”
“I see.” Mike watched the man carefully. He seemed a bit thrown, but Mike couldn’t imagine why. “I’ll be in my office. I’ve got an appointment.” He scurried away, more quickly than seemed natural.
As soon as he was gone, Hubbard cocked his head toward Mike and whispered, “Shrink date.”
“Dr. Reynolds sees a shrink?”
“Oh yeah. Lot of the people here do. We have a doc who comes by once a week to . . . how do you say it? Commune with the employees. On-site.”
“I didn’t realize chemistry attracted so many psychological ailments.”
“It doesn’t attract them. It creates them.” Hubbard drummed the eraser end of his pencil on the lab table. “You can’t imagine the kind of stress we have, when a new formula can literally mean millions—even billions of dollars in profits. Half the guys in the plant would probably be drooling into a cup right now if it weren’t for Dr. Bennett.”
“Dr. Bennett?” Mike did a double take. “Dr. Hayley Bennett? She’s the company shrink?”
“Yeah. You know her?”
“I sure do. And she never once mentioned to me that she had patients here.”
“Guess it never came up.”
“Yeah,” Mike said, scribbling furiously into his notebook. “I guess it never did. I don’t suppose you’ve had any sudden revelations since the last time we talked. Remembered anything important about Frank Faulkner.”
“Sorry, no. I was just Ray’s Scrabble buddy. I never knew Frank all that well. Dr. Reynolds would be the one to ask about him.”
“They were pretty tight, huh?”
Hubbard hesitated. “Well . . . they knew each other, anyway.”
Something about the tone of Hubbard’s voice caught Mike’s attention. “Does that mean they weren’t close?”
“I don’t think so. Something was going on between them.”
Mike’s forehead creased. He tried to remember what Reynolds had told him during his interview, or what he’d read in Ben’s report of his interview with the man. “But . . . Reynolds is the boss. How could Frank function if they didn’t get along?”
“Reynolds is the boss now. Not seven years ago. Only after Frank was gone. He could never have been the boss when Frank was alive.”
“And why is that?”
“Because when Frank was around, Frank was the boss. Of everything. He might not have had the title, but he ran the show. He had the clients, he’d come up with the most successful formulae. He was the big cheese. Acted like it, too.”
“That must’ve created some resentment.”
“No doubt. Especially with Dr. Reynolds.”
“Why so?”
“Because Reynolds had to work with him every day. Reynolds was Frank’s lab assistant, way back then.”
“I thought Ray Goldman worked under Frank.”
“He did. Well, technically, I think he reported to Reynolds. Doesn’t matter, really. We all did whatever Frank wanted. But Reynolds got the worst of it. Frank treated him like a servant. He answered Frank’s phone calls, kept his calendar. Acted like a little lapdog.”
“Reynolds can’t have liked that.”
“I’m sure he didn’t. But what Frank wanted, Frank got. He was King of the Hill. And deservedly so. He was brilliant, you know. His work as a flavorist was revolutionary. Everyone wanted him to work for them. He was drawing down huge bucks.” He paused. “Reynolds was number two. At best.”
Mike drummed his fingers. “Dr. Reynolds didn’t mention any of this to me when I interviewed him.”
“No, I don’t expect he would. I’ve always wondered why the cops didn’t talk to him more. I guess they twigged onto Ray right off the bat and became convinced he was their man.”
“And you think that was a mistake?”
Hubbard shrugged. “Maybe I’m prejudiced. For all his eccentricities, especially when it came to women, Ray was my friend. But if it was my job to come up with an alternate explanation for what happened . . . I’d give Dr. Reynolds a good hard look.”
“Thank you for coming to see me,” Ben said as he showed Dr. Bennett to the chair opposite his desk. “I’ve been so busy since the hearing I’ve barely left the office. But I know your schedule is packed, also.”
“Oh, not really,” she said, waving a palm. “It’s my afternoon off. After I finished up this morning, I went home to my butterflies.”
“Fascinating hobby.”
“You think so? Sometimes I wonder.” She chuckled. “I’ve been holding a stiletto so long I think I’m developing a callous. What can I do for you?”
Ben glanced at the notes he’d made before she arrived. He wanted the interview to seem spontaneous, conversational. So she would be at ease. So she wouldn’t see him coming.
“I hope this isn’t going to be more about Sheila Knight,” she said. “I really can’t tell you more than I already did. Especially not now.”
Ben followed her meaning. Especially not now that Erin’s lifelong friend was just as dead as she was. “No, it isn’t about her.”
Bennett was wearing her hair down and holding her eyeglasses which, Ben noted, wrought an amazing change in her appearance. She had never been unattractive, but today, she looked downright sexy. “And please don’t press me to reveal any more confidences from Erin Faulkner. Or anything about her and her father. I simply can’t.”
“I understand. It would violate privilege.”
“Twice over.”
Ben slowed. “Twice over?”
“Right. Since Erin Faulkner was my patient. Just as her father had been.”
“Frank Faulkner was your patient?”
“Oh yes. Up to the time of his death.”
“You
’ve counseled both Erin and her father? This seems quite a coincidence.”
“It wasn’t a coincidence at all. I first met Erin at her father’s plant. Where I counseled some of the employees. Still do. She remembered me years later when she decided to seek therapy herself.”
Ben sat up straight in his chair. “You counseled for the plant where Frank and Ray both worked? Prairie Dog Flavors?”
She nodded. “On a freelance basis. I came in once a week. Helped the eggheads sort out their problems.”
“I’m surprised that work interested you.”
“Are you kidding? At that point in my career, most of my patients were referrals from the Justice Department. Total scum. Murderers, sex offenders. Lots of sex offenders. Some of the most horrible, twisted people who ever walked the earth. After a few days of that, you’ll welcome the chance to talk to some mild-mannered chemists about their impotence.”
“Is that what it was, mostly? Domestic problems?”
“Actually, at that place, it was mostly work-related stress. Still is. When I first started there, the place was just taking off. They were getting their first big-bucks clients. Mostly thanks to Frank, who had hit it big as a flavorist. He was bringing in some major accounts.”
“That must’ve made the bosses happy.”
“Well, yes and no. That was part of the stress he was experiencing, you see. He wanted to quit and go out on his own. Why should the corporation get all the profits when he was the one doing the work? But he was under contract. Everything he did then and for six years into the future belonged to Prairie Dog Flavors, regardless of how or where he devised it. They owned him.”
“I’m beginning to see why he might need a shrink.”
“It was tearing him apart. He was generating tons of income—but not getting enough of it himself. And remember—he had a nice house and a large family to support.”
“Did he get along with the other people at the plant?”
“He tried, but he was convinced everyone hated him. And acted accordingly, I’m afraid. He thought they were all envious, and not without some justification, I imagine. Anyone who did as well as Frank was bound to engender some ill will.”
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