Sense of Evil

by Kay Hooper

  “I wasn't told about any of this in the initial profile.”

  “No. The first profiler wasn't a member of the SCU. And even though the two earlier sets of murders came up on the computer as possibly connected, he discounted them because it was believed at the time that the most likely suspect was killed trying to escape police in Alabama. His car went off a bridge. But they never found the body.”

  “So do you and Bishop believe he didn't die—or that the suspect the police were chasing wasn't the killer?”

  “We believe the latter, actually. The man the police were after had a few violent crimes on his rap sheet, but neither Bishop nor I was convinced he had the right psychological makeup to be the clever serial killer we were after.”

  “So he kills his six victims, lays low for five years, and then starts up all over again. That's a hell of a cooling-off period.”

  “And unusual. We believe he uses the time to relocate and get to know the people around him. We also believe there's always a trigger, as I said. Something sets him off. Something always sets him off.”

  Again, Rafe heard a note in her voice that made him wary. “There's another reason you believe this is the same killer. What is it?”

  Isabel answered without hesitation. “Standing where Tricia Kane was murdered, I felt him. Just the way I felt him five years ago when I first encountered Bishop and joined the team. And the way I felt him ten years ago when he killed a good friend of mine.”

  It was nearly midnight when Mallory Beck pulled herself reluctantly from bed and began getting dressed. “Dammit. Where on earth did my bra get to?”

  “Over there by the bookcase. You could stay, you know. Spend the night.”

  “I'm back on duty at seven,” she said. “First big meeting of our task force, FBI agents included, starts at eight. That's off the record, Alan.”

  “Mal, I've told you before, anything you say to me privately is off the record.” His voice was patient. He propped himself up on an elbow and watched her dress. “I'm not going to cross that line.”

  She was reasonably sure he wouldn't. But only reasonably sure.

  “Okay. But I still need to go home. I won't sleep much if I stay here, and I want to be rested tomorrow.”

  “You don't have anything to prove, you know. To these FBI agents, I mean. Or to Rafe. You're a damned good cop, everybody knows that.”

  “Yeah, well, being a good cop hasn't been enough so far, has it?”

  He frowned a little as he watched her, wondering as he so often had in the last few months if he would ever really know her. It was undoubtedly part of the attraction as far as he was concerned, he knew that very well; there was so much of her beneath the surface, and his instinct was to dig, to explore and understand.

  She wasn't making it easy for him.

  Maybe that was part of the attraction as well. Plus the mind-blowing sex, of course. Either it was sheer natural talent, or else Alan had to take his hat off to the men in her past, because Mallory was something else in bed.

  Addictive was the word that came to mind.

  “You can't blame yourself,” he said finally.

  “To Protect and Serve. It says that on the sides of our cruisers and Jeeps. It's what we get paid for. Our entire reason for being, so to speak.”

  “It's not a one-woman police force, Mal. Let some of the others carry the weight.”

  “They do. Especially Rafe.”

  “Yeah, give him his due. He wasn't too proud to yell for help.”

  Mallory sat down on the bed to put her socks and shoes on, eyeing her lover. “We've both known him a long time. Pride is never going to be his downfall.”

  “No. But failing to trust himself might be.”

  Since she'd had the same thought herself, Mallory could hardly disagree. But she felt uncomfortable on several levels discussing her boss with Alan, so she simply changed the subject. “I'm sorry I missed the press conference today. I hear you cracked up the room.”

  “Rafe did—with a joke at my expense. I gather that gorgeous blonde he left with is one of the FBI agents?”

  “Mmm. Isabel Adams—and I better not see that name printed in the paper unless and until it's released officially.”

  “You won't, dammit.” Still, Alan couldn't stop asking questions. “She's not down here alone?”

  “No, she has a partner. Another woman. I haven't met her yet.”

  “Did it occur to anybody at the Bureau that sending a blond female agent down here at this particular time might be a little dicey?”

  Mallory shrugged. “They wrote the profile. I have to assume they know what they're doing.”

  “I bet Rafe is pissed.”

  “You'll have to ask him about that.”

  “Jesus, you're pigheaded.”

  “It'd be more polite to call me stubborn.”

  “And less accurate. Mal”—he leaned over to grasp her wrist before she stood up—“is something wrong? I mean, aside from the obvious maniacal-killer-stalking-Hastings thing.”

  “No.”

  That mild syllable didn't give him much room to maneuver, but he tried. “I know you're preoccupied. Hell, we all are. But sometimes I get the feeling you're not even here.”

  “I didn't hear you complaining a little while ago. Even though I always wonder when a guy calls out God's name instead of mine.”

  Refusing to be sidetracked, Alan said, “You barely caught your breath before you were up and dressing.”

  “I told you. I have to go to work early.”

  “If you'd leave some stuff here, you could spend the night occasionally and still get to work early.” He heard the note of frustration in his own voice, and the familiar resentment prickled inside him. Why does she make me do this?

  “Alan, we've been over this. I like my own space. I never leave any of my stuff at a man's apartment. I don't like sleepovers except for vacation trips out of town. And I'm not real comfortable being in bed with a reporter in the first place. Conflict of interest rings a rather ugly bell.”

  Her patient tone grated, but he managed to keep his own voice calm. Even careless, around the edges. “It's that last that really bugs you, and don't think I don't know it. You don't trust me, Mal. You don't believe I can separate my work from my personal life.”

  “Why should you be different from the rest of us?” she asked dryly, pulling away from him and rising to her feet. “My job is in my head twenty-four seven. And so is yours. We're both career people. We live on takeout and caffeine. Half the time our socks don't match, and when we realize it we just buy new socks. We do our laundry when we run out of clean clothes. And when the biggest, baddest bad to ever hit Hastings rears its ugly head, both our careers kick into high gear. Right?”

  “Right,” he agreed reluctantly.

  “Besides, let's not kid ourselves. Neither one of us is looking for anything more than a few hours of stress-busting sex every week.” She smiled down at him. “Don't get up. I'll let myself out. See you.”

  “Good night, Mal.” He remained where he was until he heard the front door of his apartment close. Then he fell back against the pillows and muttered a heartfelt “Shit.”

  Outside Alan's apartment building, Mallory stood on the sidewalk for a moment breathing in the slightly breezy but otherwise mild night air. It was a well-lighted sidewalk close to downtown Hastings, and Mallory shouldn't have felt particularly threatened.

  The breeze intensified suddenly, blowing an empty soft drink can across the sidewalk a few feet away, and Mallory nearly jumped out of her skin.

  “Shit,” she muttered.

  She could hear the trees whispering softly as the wind stirred their leaves. Hear the occasional swish of a car passing a block or so away. Crickets. Bullfrogs.

  Her name.

  Not that she really heard that, of course. It was just that she had the uneasy feeling she was being watched. Even followed sometimes.

  She'd been conscious of it for some time now, days at least.
At odd moments, usually but not always when she was outside, like now. If she were a blonde, she would have been getting really nervous about it; as it was, the sensation just made her wary and a lot more careful.

  And jumpy as hell.

  She had to wonder if this killer, like so many she'd read about in the police manuals, kept an eye on the cops as they investigated his crimes. Was that it? Was some wacko watching gleefully from behind the bushes, congratulating himself on his cleverness and their incompetence?

  If so, maybe it made sense that he'd concentrate on one—or more—of the female officers rather than the guys. She made a mental note to herself to ask some of the other women in the department if any of them had been aware of this creepy feeling. And if they had, or maybe especially if they hadn't, she'd have to ask the FBI profiler about it.

  The gorgeous female blond FBI profiler.

  Mallory knew Rafe was pissed and unhappy about that; he'd never been a man to hide his feelings. But she also knew that Isabel Adams had somehow managed to persuade him to accept her presence in the investigation.

  And it hadn't been by batting her baby greens at him either.

  No, there was a lot more to this than sex appeal; she knew Rafe too well not to feel sure that his reasons for accepting Isabel were logical and completely professional. She was still here because he believed she was an asset to the investigation. Period.

  Which wasn't to say he was immune to the effects of a beautiful face, green eyes, and a body that looked really good in clingy summery clothing. He was a man, after all.

  She half laughed under her breath but kept a wary eye on her surroundings as she unlocked her car and got in. Then again, she thought, maybe she wasn't being quite fair to Rafe. Maybe having her own man problems at the moment made her overly sensitive to undercurrents.

  Not that Alan was being particularly subtle. Mallory was somewhat bemused to find herself, for the first time in her adult life, on the traditionally male side of things in their relationship: she was the one who was perfectly happy with casual sex a couple of times a week, no strings or promises.

  Alan wanted more.

  Sighing, Mallory started the car and headed off toward her own apartment on the other side of town. It was relatively easy to push Alan and the various problems he presented to the back of her mind, at least for the moment, because in the forefront there was still the vague but persistent feeling that she was being watched.

  All the way home, she couldn't shake the feeling, even though she didn't see anyone following her. Or anyone in the vicinity of her apartment building. She parked her car carefully in its slot in a well-lighted area and locked it up, then kept her key-chain pepper spray in one hand and her other hand resting on or near her weapon all the way inside and up to her apartment.

  Nothing.

  No one.

  Just this nagging feeling that someone was watching every move she made.

  Once inside, Mallory leaned back against her locked apartment door and softly muttered, “Shit.”

  “Let me get this straight.” Isabel rubbed the nape of her neck, staring at her partner. “You met Caleb Powell in that coffee shop on Main Street, and you spilled all that stuff I picked up at Tricia Kane's apartment?”

  “Not all of it.” Hollis shrugged. “Just some . . . selected bits. I told you, he didn't want to talk to me. And from the jut of his jaw, I'd say he wouldn't have been willing to talk to any of us. So I got his attention. What's wrong with that?”

  “Did he ask you how you obtained this information?”

  “Yeah, but I distracted him. More or less.”

  “Hollis, he's a lawyer. They don't get distracted, as a rule. Not for long, anyway. What happens when he starts asking questions?”

  “I don't think he will. He wants to find out who killed Tricia Kane. Besides, you told Chief Sullivan.”

  “As closely as we'll have to work with Rafe and his lead investigator on this case, he had to know. So will she. But a civilian?”

  Hollis sighed, clearly impatient with the discussion. “Somehow I don't think a lawyer finding out we're psychics is going to be our major problem. I'm new at this whole thing, and you might as well have a bull's-eye target on your back. In neon.” She stood up. “Since we have that early meeting in the morning, I think I'll go back to my own room and get some sleep, if you don't mind.”

  Without protest, Isabel merely said, “I'll be up and ready for breakfast at seven if you want to meet me here.” The small inn where they were staying didn't provide room service, but there was a restaurant nearby.

  “Okay. See you then.”

  “Good night, Hollis.”

  When she was alone in her room again, Isabel got ready for bed, brooding. Just as the night before, she barely noticed the uninspired, any-hotel-in-any-town-U.S.A. decor, and out of habit she filled the silence by having the air-conditioning on high and the TV tuned to an all-news network.

  She hated silence when she was in an unfamiliar place.

  She had put off calling Bishop, undecided despite what she'd told Rafe as to what she intended to report. So when her cell phone rang, she knew who it was even without the caller I.D. and answered by saying, “This is supposed to be one of those lessons you're always saying we have to learn, right? A reminder from the universe that we don't control anything except our own actions? When we're able to control them, that is.”

  “I don't know what you're talking about,” Bishop replied, calm and transparently unconvincing.

  “Yeah, yeah. Why team me with Hollis? Answer that.”

  “Because you're the one most likely to help her through this first real test of her abilities.”

  “I'm not a medium.”

  “No, but you understand how it feels to be forced suddenly to cope with abilities you never even dreamed were possible.”

  “I'm not the only other team member who wasn't born a psychic.”

  “You're the best adjusted.”

  “That's an arguable statement. Just because this stuff no longer scares the hell out of me doesn't necessarily mean I'm all that well adjusted.”

  “I didn't say well adjusted. I said best adjusted.”

  “Which only proves my point. I would think you'd want somebody well adjusted to help Hollis.”

  “You're going to keep arguing about this, aren't you?” Bishop said.

  “I thought I might.”

  “Are you asking me to recall Hollis?”

  Isabel hesitated, then said, “No. Dammit.”

  “You can help her. Just listen to your instincts.”

  “Bishop, we both know mediums are fragile.”

  “And we both know how difficult it's been for us to find a medium for the unit. They're rare, for one thing. And, yes, they're emotionally fragile. Most can't handle the job, and those who can tend to burn out quickly.”

  “So far,” she reminded him, “we haven't found a single one who was able to gain information for us by contacting murder victims. I mean an agent. Bonnie did it, but she wasn't an agent. When she grows up, though—”

  “She still has a lot of growing to do. Right now, she's preoccupied with being a teenager. It's not the easiest time of life, remember? Especially when you're gifted.”

  “Or cursed. Yeah, I remember. Bonnie aside, the few mediums we've found and tried to bring into murder investigations have either been terrified of opening that particular door or else didn't have enough strength or control to do it in any way helpful to us.”

  “Which is another reason you're teamed with Hollis and why she's in Hastings. She's strong enough to handle the work, and her control has been steadily improving.”

  “Maybe, but her field experience is zilch. And she's not ready to open that door, not yet. Strong or not, she's one of the scared ones. She doesn't show it, unless you count the chip on her shoulder, but she's terrified of facing death.”

  “Can you blame her? She fought like hell to keep death at bay on her own account hardly more than
six months ago. Willingly opening that door and confronting what's on the other side is going to be the hardest thing she'll ever have to do.”

  “Yeah, which is one reason I don't think she's ready for this job, not yet. Look, I'm as sympathetic as anyone about what Hollis has been through, but—”

  “She doesn't need sympathy. She needs to work.”

  “She isn't ready to work, if my opinion counts for anything.”

  “She believes she is ready.”

  “And what do you believe?” Isabel challenged.

  “I believe she needs to work.”

  Isabel sighed. “This killer is vicious. The attacks have been vicious. If Hollis is even able to nerve herself to open the door, she's going to find a hell of a lot of terror and pain barreling through at her.”

  “I know.”

  “I can't push her, Bishop.”

  “I don't want you to.”

  “Just be here to catch her when she falls?”

  “No. Don't focus on that. It's not what this is about. You investigate your case. Hollis is intelligent, curious, intuitive, and observant, and that plus the training we've given her means she'll be an asset to the investigation. If she's able to use her psychic abilities, we'll find out in a hurry whether she can handle the fallout.”

  “And whether I can. She could end up a basket case.”

  “Possibly, but don't count her out. She's exceptionally strong.” Bishop paused, then added dryly, “The more imperative problem, I'd say, is that this killer you and I are both all too familiar with has noticed you this time around. For all we know, he may remember you. In any case, you're on his hit list.”

  “Damn,” Isabel said.

  4

  Friday, June 13, 6:15 AM

  HE WOKE UP with blood on his hands.

  It wasn't an instant realization. The alarm was droning on and on, and he had the vague notion that he had overslept. Again. He'd been doing that a lot lately. The bedclothes were tumbled, tangled around him, and it took a considerable amount of effort just to roll himself over and slap at the irritating alarm clock to stop the damned noise.

  He froze, hand on the now-silent clock.