Текст книги "Touching evil"

Автор книги: Kay Hooper

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“You didn’t mention Christina,” John forced himself to say.

Andy gazed at him steadily. “I didn’t think I had to. She did the best she could for us, but she didn’t see anything either.”

“Maggie Barnes talked to her, didn’t she? That’s what you told me, what the report said.”

“Yeah, she talked to Christina.”

“Without witnesses?”

Slowly, Andy frowned. “Without anybody in the observation room, if that’s what you mean.”

“Then maybe she can tell me something none of the rest of you can tell me.”

“Like what?”

“Like why Christina killed herself.”

CHAPTER TWO

As she’d expected, Maggie quickly found that Ellen Randall had withdrawn again into her frozen shell. Pushing her would only make matters worse. So Maggie didn’t protest when Lindsay announced she was taking her sister home, and she didn’t try to arrange another meeting.

Even though she could hear the clock ticking away in her head. Time was running out, she knew it. She felt it. And every day that passed with the police no closer to catching the animal the newspapers had begun calling the Blindfold Rapist brought them closer and closer to another victim.

Another life ruined.

Another soul marked.

Worse, Maggie knew that he would only become more violent as time passed. It would take more cruelty to satisfy whatever unnatural hunger drove him to do what he did. Soon, very soon, he would begin killing his victims. And when that happened, when the police were denied even the shaky recollections of living victims, then they would have no chance at all of stopping him-unless and until he made a mistake.

So far, he hadn’t made a single one.

Maggie glanced into the bullpen and saw John Garrett sitting at Andy’s desk. She didn’t want to talk to Garrett, not now. Not yet. She retreated to an unoccupied office near the interview rooms and sat down with her sketch pad open before her.

There was very little on the page. Just the vague shape of a face surrounded by hair so long that Maggie suspected he’d worn a wig. At their first meeting a few days before, Ellen Randall had given Maggie that much. Longish hair, she’d felt it brush her skin when he bent over her.

But no other useful details, nothing for her to build on. Maggie had no feeling for the shape of the face, whether his forehead was high or low, his jaw strong or weak, his chin jutting or receding. She didn’t even know if his complexion was smooth or rough; both Ellen and one other victim thought they remembered the touch of cool, hard plastic covering his face, as though he’d worn a mask.

Just the possibility disturbed Maggie, on a level as much instinctive as it was analytical. What man would be so wary of discovery, of being identified, that he would wear a mask even after blinding his victims? Of course, criminals seldom wanted to be identified, but Maggie had talked to the cops working on the investigation, and all of them agreed that this particular criminal was going to unusual extremes to protect his identity.

Why?

Was there something about his face even a blinded victim could recognize when it touched her? Scars, perhaps, or some other kind of deformity?

“Maggie?”

She didn’t look up and swore silently at him for disrupting a mental musing that had often, in the past, produced results for her. “Hey, Luke.”

He came into the office and sat down in the visitor’s chair across from hers. “Any luck?”

“No, unless you count bad luck.” She closed the sketch pad with a sigh. “Ellen froze up again. We were… interrupted, and it broke the connection I was trying to establish. I’ll have to wait a few days and then get her back in here.”

“I just talked to Hollis Templeton’s doctor,” Drummond said. “She’s doing even better than he’d hoped, physically at least. He’s hopeful the surgery was a success. If it was, if she can see again, then maybe…”

“Maybe what?” Maggie looked at him steadily. “Maybe she’ll be a little less traumatized and able to help us?”

“It’s possible, Maggie.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I know it is. It’s also possible she noticed things the other victims wouldn’t have. Since she was an artist, I mean.”

“Would you go try to talk to her? She hasn’t said shit to any of us, but she might talk to you.”

“I’d rather wait until she leaves the hospital. The atmosphere there isn’t exactly conducive to the kind of conversation I need.”

“I know, but… there’s a lot of pressure, more every day. The newspapers, citizens’ groups, the mayor. There’s a panic building out there, Maggie, and I can’t stop it. Get me something I can use to stop it.”

“I can’t work miracles, Luke.”

“You have before.”

She shook her head. “That was different. This guy is determined his victims will never testify against him. He’s not letting them see him, he doesn’t speak to them, he makes damned sure they don’t get their hands on him. The only sense left is smell, and so far all I’ve got is that he smells like Ivory soap. Deliberately, of course. He’s using the scent of the soap to block anything else they might smell.”

“Yeah, I know he hasn’t missed a trick so far. But, like you said, his most recent victim was an artist, and I’m told artists are trained to use their senses differently from most of the rest of us. Hollis Templeton might be able to give you more to go on. Try, Maggie. Please.”

She had stopped wondering if he had any idea what he asked of her, of the victims. He didn’t. Luke Drummond was a fair cop, an able administrator, and a good politician, but he didn’t have much in the way of imagination or empathy, not when it came to victims.

Did he even guess she was as much a victim as the women she talked to? No, probably not.

“I’ll go over there tomorrow,” she said. “But if she won’t talk to me, I can’t press her, Luke. You know that.”

“Just try, that’s all I ask.” He got to his feet, visibly relieved. She could almost see him silently deciding what he was going to tell the chief of police and the mayor. He wouldn’t mention her by name, of course, just say that they were “pursuing a good lead in the investigation.”

It wasn’t that Luke Drummond didn’t want to share the credit, it was just that he mistrusted what he didn’t understand, and he didn’t understand how she did what she did. He wouldn’t have understood even if she had explained it to him-and she had no intention of doing that.

“I’ll try,” Maggie said, because there was nothing else he would hear.

“Great. Hey-have you talked to Garrett yet?”

“No, not yet.”

“He’s waiting out in the bullpen, I think.”

“Yeah, I know.”

Drummond looked down at her with a little frown. “Don’t tell him any more than you have to. He might have the mayor and the chief in his hip pocket, but I don’t like civilians being handed all the details of an ongoing investigation.”

“Such as they are,” Maggie murmured.

“You know damned well we’re holding back a few things publicly. Like the Ivory soap bit. I’m just saying I’d rather we kept that stuff within the unit-to rule out copycats, if nothing else. I’m serious, Maggie.”

“I know you are. Don’t worry. John Garrett doesn’t want to talk to me about things like that.”

Drummond had started to turn away but paused as his attention was caught by what she’d said. “I thought you hadn’t talked to him yet.”

“I haven’t.”

“Then how do you-” He broke off and frowned. “Oh, yeah. I guess it makes sense he’d have only one thing on his mind, at least when he’s talking to you. You were the last one to talk to Christina Walsh, weren’t you?”

“So they tell me.”

“I read the report,” he said unnecessarily. “Garrett read it. I don’t know what the poor bastard thinks you can tell him.”

“I don’t know either,” Maggie said, lying.

“Tread lightly, Maggie. He can cause us a lot of trouble if he wants to.”

She nodded but didn’t say anything else, and Drummond left her alone in the office. Pushing John Garrett from her mind, at least for the moment, she opened her sketch pad again and stared down at the vague outline of a man’s face.

“Who are you?” she murmured. “Who are you this time?”

Andy said, “I doubt Maggie knows the answer to why Christina killed herself, John. She hasn’t mentioned it, and I think she would have.”

“Maybe not. If it had nothing to do with your investigation, she might have kept it to herself.”

Carefully, wary of what he knew was still an open wound, Andy said, “John, after what happened to Christina, suicide was probably the only option she felt she had left.”

“His other victims didn’t kill themselves.”

“He didn’t do to them what he did to her, you know that. The bastard was apparently still experimenting with ways of blinding his victims, and that acid did more than take her sight. Jesus, John-I know a lot of strong men who would have taken the same way out under those circumstances.”

“Not Christina.” John’s voice was level with the sort of control that was about as stable as nitro. “As bad as things were, it would have taken more, much more, before she gave up. She was one of the strongest people I’ve ever known. I’m absolutely certain of that, Andy.”

“Okay. But everybody has a breaking point, and none of us can be that sure of somebody else’s. I’m just saying, don’t expect too much from Maggie.”

“All I expect is the truth.”

Andy grimaced. “Well, I’m pretty sure you’ll get it from her. If she talks to you at all, she’ll tell you the truth as she sees it. But…”

“But?”

“If you want my advice-and you probably don’t-you’ll be careful how you ask. Maggie’s very independent, John, and I mean on the prickly side. From what I’ve seen, she doesn’t take any shit from anybody, no matter who they are. I don’t think you could piss her off to the point that she’d walk away from her work here, but I’d rather not take any chances. She’s committed to helping us, and I’d like to keep it that way.”

“Why?”

“Why would I like to keep it that way?”

“Why is she so committed to helping you? You said yourself she has to listen to horror stories, that she could make a fortune as an artist. So why does she do this instead?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’ve never asked her?”

“Sure I have. So have some of the others. But whatever her reasons are, they’re obviously private. This time, take my advice-and don’t go there.”

It wasn’t in John’s nature to accept being warned off, not when he was curious. And not when he was feeling an unaccustomed sensation of frustrated helplessness about this entire situation. But all he said was “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Andy knew when he was being humored. “Yeah, yeah. Look, you want more lousy coffee?”

“I just want to talk to Maggie Barnes.”

“I saw Ellen Randall and her sister leave a little while ago, so Maggie’s probably free. But I don’t know-”

“I’m free,” Maggie said from just behind John’s left shoulder. “You wanted to speak to me, Mr. Garrett?”

He got to his feet quickly. “If you can spare me a few minutes, I’d appreciate it.”

“Drummond’s office is empty right now,” Andy offered. “He’s headed across town for a meeting.”

“With who?” Maggie asked.

“Dunno, but probably another citizens’ group. He’s catching a lot of heat, Maggie.”

“He told me.”

“Yeah. I’ll just bet he did.”

Maggie shrugged. “Can’t really blame him for pushing. Or for not understanding he didn’t have to.”

Andy sighed an agreement.

Maggie turned away, clearly assuming John would follow her as she led the way to Luke Drummond’s office. When they went in, she took one of the visitor’s chairs in front of the desk, shifting it so that it faced the other one. After closing the door behind them, John took the other one and turned it as well.

The closed door would keep them from being overheard, but that was the extent of privacy; the partitions between this office and the bullpen were glass from the waist up, and though there were blinds, all were wide open. John was aware of several curious stares directed their way, but Maggie didn’t seem to notice.

“I don’t know what you expect to learn from me, Mr. Garrett,” she said. “There’s nothing I can tell you that isn’t in any of the numerous reports I’m sure you’ve read.”

He caught himself listening to her voice more than what she said, trying to identify that elusive sense of a half-remembered song. “I know what’s in the reports.”

She nodded and looked down at the sketch pad in her lap. “Then you know it all.” She really didn’t want to talk to him like this. She didn’t want to have to answer the question she knew he wanted to ask her.

“Miss Barnes-” He shook his head. “Look, I’ll be around until this bastard is stopped, even if I’m not officially part of the investigation, so why don’t we drop the formality? My friends call me John.”

She made herself look at him and nod again. Tried to distract herself with an artist’s automatic inventory. He was a good-looking man, in a commanding sort of way. Big, broad-shouldered, athletic-or at least worked to stay in good shape. Though he was undoubtedly both impressive and formidable in a business suit, the more casual jeans and black leather jacket lent him a slightly dangerous air that was probably, Maggie thought, not the least bit deceptive.

His hair was very dark, but she knew there’d be a hint of red in the sunlight. Eyes an unusual shade of blue-green, and deep set beneath brows that flared slightly upward at the outer corners so perfectly an artist might have drawn them.

He’d look mean as hell when he scowled, she thought idly. Probably be mean as hell mad. But there was humor in the curve of his mouth, in the laugh lines fanning out from his eyes, and more than enough intelligence and self-control in those eyes to mitigate whatever temper he had.

Most of the time, anyway.

“Okay, John it is. I’m Maggie,” she said, wishing she hadn’t been here today or he hadn’t. Anything to postpone this conversation a little longer. “But I still can’t tell you anything about the investigation that you don’t already know.”

“That isn’t what I wanted to talk to you about. At least, not directly.” He drew a breath. “There’s something I wanted to ask you.”

She hadn’t intended to, but Maggie found herself nodding. “Yes. About Christina.”

“I guess it’s not so surprising that I’d want to ask you about her,” he said after a moment.

“No. But there’s nothing I can tell you.” Until that moment, Maggie hadn’t known what she would say. She hadn’t known she would lie. It required an effort to keep meeting his eyes steadily.

“You were the last person to see her. The last one to speak to her before she died.”

“I interviewed her. Just the way I interviewed Ellen Randall today. Asked her questions, asked her to relive what had happened to her. It was painful for her.”

“So painful she decided to kill herself twelve hours later?” John demanded, his voice suddenly harsh.

Maggie didn’t blink or flinch. “It wasn’t our first interview. We were going over what we’d discussed before, there was nothing new. No new impressions from her, no new questions from me. She seemed… the same as always when I left.”

“You left her alone.”

She did flinch at that. “The nurse had always been there, in the next room. I assumed she was there that day, even though I hadn’t seen her. I didn’t find out until later…”

John relented, uncertain in his own mind whether it was because he knew she wasn’t to blame or because that haunting voice of hers affected him in a surprisingly powerful way. “You couldn’t have known what she’d do. She was always… a very good actress.” He gazed into those strange cat eyes and had the sudden realization that here was another woman entirely capable of hiding her thoughts. But before he could do more than wonder if he wanted to pursue that, she spoke again in the same level tone.

“In any case, there’s nothing helpful I can tell you. I’m sorry you wasted your time.”

“I didn’t waste it. I’ve wanted to meet you since Andy first told me they had a uniquely talented sketch artist working on the investigation. I’m curious about how you work-which is why I barged in on your interview today. I really am sorry about that, by the way.”

She didn’t respond to the apology, other than with a brief nod. “There’s nothing extraordinary about the way I work. It’s the way sketch artists have always worked. I talk to victims, ask them questions, gain impressions, and then I draw what I think they saw. Sometimes I get lucky.”

“According to Andy, it’s more than luck. And more than just sometimes.”

Maggie shrugged. “Andy’s a friend. He’s biased.”

“And is the police chief also biased? He was singing your praises to me yesterday.”

She dropped her gaze briefly to the sketch pad in her lap, then said in a matter-of-fact tone, “His niece was abducted from her school playground about five years ago, and I helped them find the guy before he could hurt her.”

“With a sketch? There were witnesses?”

“The other kids. The oldest was only nine, so it was… difficult. Kids tend to elaborate, to invent details using their imaginations, so we had to weed through what they said they saw to get at the truth.”

“How were you able to do that?”

Maggie hesitated only an instant. “I listened to them.”

“And you knew truth from an elaboration-how?”

“I… don’t know. I mean, I don’t know how to explain it. Andy calls it intuition, instinct. I guess that’s as good a word as any. I’ve been doing this a long time.”

Surprised, John said, “It can’t have been all that long. You’re-what?-twenty-‌five?”

“Thanks, but it’s thirty-one. The first time I sketched a face for the police I was eighteen. So I’ve been doing this almost half my life.”

“Isn’t eighteen awfully young to work for the police?”

“I wasn’t working for them then, not officially.” Maggie sighed. “I happened to witness a crime and I was the only one present who saw anything. I also happened to be able to draw. One thing led to another, and by the time I was in college I was also officially on the police payroll.”

John had more questions, but before he could ask them Andy knocked on the door and opened it to say, “Sorry for the interruption, but-Maggie, we just got a call. Hollis Templeton says she’ll talk to you Saturday afternoon at the hospital.”

Maggie got to her feet. “She called us?”

“Yeah. After ignoring us for weeks.”

“Did she say why?”

“No, but…” Andy shifted his weight the way he did when he was uneasy. “You two haven’t met, right?”

“Right.”

“Know each other by reputation?”

“I don’t know her work. Don’t see how she could know mine. Why?”

“She asked for you by name, Maggie. Said she’d only talk to you.”

John got up. “Why is that strange?” he asked.

“Because,” Andy said, “none of us has told her Maggie’s name. And there’s been no publicity about her being our sketch artist; we keep that quiet. So Hollis Templeton really shouldn’t have known who to ask for.”

FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 2

The hotel room in Pittsburgh was like every other hotel room he’d ever stayed in, and Quentin Hayes wondered idly if there was a hotel decorators’ association and they met secretly two or three times every year to decide what all the hotel rooms in America were going to look like. Because surely it was beyond coincidence that they all used variations of the same floral-print bedspreads and drapes and hung the same bland landscapes on the walls. And arranged the furniture in the most unreasonable way so that there was never an outlet where one was needed and it was always necessary to unplug a lamp in order to plug in a computer or fax machine.

No, it was obviously a conspiracy. He expressed that opinion to his companion, and she gave him a wry response.

“You’ve been on the road too long,” Kendra Eliot said.

“That does not,” Quentin said, “negate the probability I’m right.”

Kendra typed another sentence into her report, keeping her gaze on the laptop even as she said, “A vacation, that’s what you need. A nice, long one. A couple of weeks spent not chasing after bad guys or coming up with imaginative reasons to explain how you know the things you know.”

“How can you talk and type at the same time? If I try that, I end up typing what I’m saying.”

“My uniquely flexible mind. I’m telling Bishop you need a break.”

“A change of scene is what I need.” Quentin lay back on the bed and clasped his hands together behind his neck, resting his blond head against the headboard. “I’m tired of this place. It’s going to snow tonight.”

“According to the weather reports?”

“No. It’s going to snow.”

She glanced at him, then continued typing. “Well, we should be able to get out before the bad weather moves in. Right?”

“Mmmm.”

“And maybe our next assignment will be someplace warm and sunny.”

“Mmmm.”

Kendra stopped typing, this time turning in her chair to study him. He appeared to be looking at the ceiling, but she knew that inward-turned gaze, the utter stillness, and waited patiently.

Finally, softly, Quentin said, “Shit.”

“Trouble?”

He sat up, raked his fingers through his rather shaggy hair, and swore again beneath his breath. He looked at his cell phone lying on the nightstand, and five seconds later it rang.

Kendra lifted an eyebrow but went back to her report.

Quentin answered the phone. “Hey, John.”

“I wish you wouldn’t do that,” John Garrett said.

“Answer the phone? It rang, so I answered it. That’s what they’re for, you know.”

“I know what they’re for, and you know what I meant. Even if you do know it’s me calling, I wish you’d pretend otherwise.”

“But that would be denying my deepest self,” Quentin said solemnly.

John sighed.

Quentin grinned, then said, “Okay, okay. But it’s just so much fun to poke holes in your certainties.”

“Oh, is that what you’ve been doing all these years?”

“It’s what I’ve been trying to do. Without visible results. One of these days, my friend, you’re going to admit that there are more things in heaven and earth than you can find in those balance sheets of yours.”

“I never denied that.”

“No, you just deny precognition.”

“How can you see something that hasn’t happened yet?” John demanded.

“I don’t see anything, I just know what’s going to happen before it happens.”

“Bullshit.”

“I knew you were going to call.”

“Lucky guess.”

Quentin laughed. “Yeah, I just guessed it’d be you calling on a Friday morning in November when we haven’t talked for more than a month. Use that hard head of yours and admit the paranormal exists.”

It held the sound of an old argument, and Kendra tuned out Quentin’s side of it until something he said a couple of minutes later caught her attention and made her realize the friendly debate was over.

“… again? So it’s four victims now?” He shook his head. “I had no idea, John. We’ve been caught up in something in Pittsburgh for the past few weeks, and I’ve barely looked at a newspaper. They’re sure it’s the same guy?”

“They’re sure. He’s still blinding his victims, for one thing. And I’ve got a hunch there are a few more similarities they haven’t put in their reports. At least, not the reports I’ve seen.”

“You said the detectives handling the investigation were good.”

“Not good enough. Quentin, they don’t know a bit more than they did when Christina died, and that was three months ago. Two more women have been maimed for life, and the cops don’t even have a decent description they can broadcast so the rest of the women in Seattle know who to be wary of. It isn’t a real fun time to be a man in this city, I can tell you that.”

“You’re staying out there?”

“For the duration.”

Surprised, Quentin said, “I know all those companies of yours practically run themselves these days, but is it wise for you to spend so much time away from L.A.?”

“I can fly down if I have to. I need to be here, Quentin.”

“Okay, but the cops there may not be happy to have you breathing down their necks, John. Why don’t you back off and give them room to work?”

“They can’t work when they have nothing to work with.” John drew a breath. “If you’re really convinced that this new FBI unit you’re with can get results using… unconventional methods, then now’s the time to prove it. The usual five senses aren’t accomplishing a goddamned thing.”

Quentin frowned. “Have you persuaded the lieutenant in charge to call us in?”

“Not exactly.”

“By not exactly, do you mean he’s wavering? Or do you mean this is all your idea?”

“The latter.”

“Oh, hell, John.”

“Look, I know it should come through official channels, but the lieutenant in charge is stubborn as a mule and he’s not going to yell for help until he’s up to his ass in outraged citizens. So far, he’s handling the flak and pushing his own people to work harder. But with nothing to go on, all they can do is sit around and wait for this bastard to make a mistake. That means more victims, Quentin.”

“I know what it means. But this is out of our jurisdiction, you know that. And without an official request for help made through official channels, the Bureau is not going to send us in. We’re walking a tightrope as it is, bending over backward to be careful as hell every time we are called in so the locals don’t get the peculiar idea that we use witchcraft to solve their crimes.”

“I won’t let you be burned at the stake.”

“Very funny.” Quentin sighed, and looked across the room to find Kendra watching him with raised brows and her patented don’t-do-anything-you’‌ll-regret expression. He sighed again. “You’ve still got political juice there, right? Can the mayor or governor put pressure on the chief of police to call us in?”

“They’re reluctant. The lieutenant has some juice of his own, and he wants his team to handle this.”

“Because he’s a good cop and sure of his team?”

“No. Because he wants to sit in the governor’s mansion himself one day.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah. I just don’t think he’s going to ask for help, Quentin. At least not officially.”

“I knew you were going to say that.”

“Then you know what I’m going to say next. You’ve probably got vacation time coming.” John’s voice was persuasive. “Spend some of it here. You haven’t been home except for flying visits in years. I’ll pay the tab-send the jet for you, best hotel suite, you name it.”

“Best hotel suite, huh?” Quentin gazed around at the repressively unoriginal decor of the room he was in.

Kendra murmured, “Oh, God.”

John was saying, “Absolutely the best. Say the word, and I’ll send the jet. Where did you say you are?”

“Pittsburgh.”

“Why?”

Quentin almost laughed at his friend’s astonished tone. “I told you, we had a case. Unfortunately, it was here.”

“Is the case over?”

“Yeah. We won in overtime.”

“Good. Then you most certainly need a break.”

“I’ll agree with that much-but I’m not sure I can take one right now, John. It all depends on whether there’s another assignment waiting for me. Let me check with the office and get back to you.”

“All right. Call me on my cell.”

“I’ll let you know something by this afternoon, I hope. Talk to you then, John.” Quentin turned off his phone and set it on the nightstand.

Patiently, Kendra said, “We aren’t supposed to work unofficially, Quentin, you know that.”

“I know that.”

“Bishop won’t like it.”

“I know that too.”

Kendra sighed. “Seattle, huh?”

He smiled slowly. “Seattle.”

“Because he’s your friend?”

“Yes. And because his sister was.”

CHAPTER THREE

Since she was forced to wait until Saturday afternoon to see Hollis Templeton and knew better than to try arranging another interview with Ellen Randall so soon, Maggie found herself at loose ends on Friday. Her small house was too quiet and the bright studio where she painted held no appeal, so late in the morning she picked up the sketch pad that went virtually everywhere with her and drove across town to another small, rather shabby house.

She went around to the back door that was never locked, pushing it open and calling out a hello.

“Studio,” he called back.

Maggie picked her way through the usual clutter of books, magazines, newspapers, and half-finished craft projects to the studio, an addition to the house that was in stark contrast to the rest. Not only was it roomy and very bright due to numerous windows and skylights, it was also extremely neat and well organized, with paints and brushes stored precisely and canvases stacked in wooden bins. Various props and materials for drapes were kept ready on shelves between the windows, and the assorted chairs, lounges, and tables often used for backgrounds were arranged simply to comfortably furnish the large room.

In the center of the room an artist worked at an easel on a nearly completed canvas. The subject was a woman, and though she wasn’t present in the flesh it was clear from the charcoal sketches pinned to another easel nearby that she had posed more than once for the artist.

The artist himself was about thirty, a tall and lanky man with the face of an angel-or so Maggie had always thought. She’d never seen an angel, but she had seen traffic literally stop and mouths drop open when this man walked by, and she figured he was about as close to heavenly perfection as earthly mortals were likely to get. He had long, wheat-gold hair he wore tied back at the nape of his neck, and his faded jeans and work shirt were, as usual, flecked with paint.

“Half a minute,” he said without looking at her, his attention fixed on the careful shading beneath his subject’s left ear.

“Take your time. I was tired of my own company and just came by to visit,” Maggie said.

He sent her one quick glance from very pale blue eyes that were almost unnervingly discerning, then continued with his work. “Not like you to be bored,” he said.

Maggie sat down at a clean but scarred wooden table and watched him. “Not bored exactly. Restless. I’m supposed to go talk to the most recent victim tomorrow, and until then there isn’t a whole hell of a lot I can do. It’s very wearing on the nerves, just sitting around waiting for the next attack.”

“I warned you,” he murmured.

“I know you did. But why didn’t you also warn me that Hollis Templeton would ask for me by name?”

He stopped working and looked at her steadily. “Nobody told her your name?”

“No.”

“What do you know about her?”

Maggie shrugged. “She’s an artist, but she’s new in Seattle and I think the work she did on the East Coast was mostly commercial stuff, so we wouldn’t have heard of her. Late twenties, single. From the photo I saw, she was attractive before the attack. I don’t know about now.”