Noble knocked softly on the bedroom door and let himself in, leaving Quinn to wait. A moment later, Noble and Brandt came out together. Brandt had his game face on—even, carefully neutral. Probably the face he wore in the courtroom when he testified for whoever was paying him the most money that day.
“Agent Quinn,” he said in the hushed tones of a hospital ward. “I understand you have a suspect.”
“Possibly. I have a couple of questions for Peter.”
“Peter isn't himself this morning.”
Quinn lifted his brows. “Really? Who is he?”
Noble frowned at him. “I think Sergeant Kovac has been a bad influence on you. This is hardly the time to be glib.”
“Nor is it the time for you to play games with me, Mr. Noble,” Quinn said. He turned to Brandt. “I need to speak with him about Jillian. If you want to be in the room, that's fine by me. Even better if you want to offer your opinion as to her mental and emotional state.”
“We've been over that issue.”
Quinn ducked his head, using a sheepish look to cover the anger. “Fine, then don't say anything.”
He started toward the door as if he would just knock Brandt on his ass and walk over him.
“He's sedated,” Brandt said, standing his ground. “I'll answer what I can.”
Quinn studied him with narrowed eyes, then cut a glance to the lawyer.
“Just curious,” he said. “Are you protecting him for his own good, or for yours?”
Neither batted an eye.
Quinn shook his head. “It doesn't matter—not to me anyway. All I'm interested in is getting the whole truth.”
He told the story Vanlees had given him about the window-peeping incident.
Edwyn Noble rejected the tale with every part of him—intellectually, emotionally, physically—reiterating his opinion of Vanlees as a liar. He paced and clucked and shook his head, denying every bit of it except the idea that Vanlees had been looking in Jillian's window. Brandt, on the other hand, stood with his back to the bedroom door, eyes downcast, hands clasped in front of him, listening carefully.
“What I want to know, Dr. Brandt, is whether or not Jillian was capable of that kind of behavior.”
“And you would have told Peter this story and asked Peter this question? About his child?” Brandt said with affront.
“No. I would have asked Peter something else entirely.” He cut a look at Noble. “Like what he was doing at Jillian's apartment before dawn on Sunday that was worth paying off a witness.”
Noble drew his head back, offended, and started to open his mouth.
“Save it, Edwyn,” Quinn advised, turning back to Brandt.
“I told you before, Jillian had a lot of conflicted emotions and confusion regarding her sexuality because of her relationship with her stepfather.”
“So the answer is yes.”
Brandt held his silence. Quinn waited.
“She sometimes behaved inappropriately.”
“Promiscuously.”
“I wouldn't call it that, no. She would . . . provoke reactions. Deliberately.”
“Manipulative.”
“Yes.”
“Cruel?”
That one brought his head up. Brandt stared at him. “Why would you ask that?”
“Because if Jillian isn't dead, Dr. Brandt, then there's only one logical thing she can be: a suspect.”
33
CHAPTER
THE KID LOOKED like hell, Kate thought—pale as death, her eyes glassy and bloodshot, her hair greasy. But she was alive, and the relief Kate felt at that was enormous. She didn't have to bear the weight of Angie's death. The girl was alive, if not well.
And sitting in my kitchen.
“Angie, God, you scared the hell out of me!” Kate said. “How did you get in? The door was locked. How'd you even know where I live?”
The girl said nothing. Kate edged a little closer, trying to assess her condition. Bruises marred her face. Her full lower lip was split and crusted with blood.
“Hey, kiddo, where've you been?” she asked. “People were worried about you.”
“I saw your address on an envelope in your office,” the girl said, still staring, her voice a flat hoarse rasp.
“Very resourceful.” Kate moved closer. “Now if only we could get you to use your talents for the good of humankind. Where've you been, Angie? Who hurt you?”
Kate was at the doorway now. The girl hadn't moved on the chair. She wore the same ratty jeans she'd worn from day one, now with dark stains that looked like blood on the thighs, the same dirty jean jacket that couldn't have been warm enough in this weather, and a dingy blue sweater Kate had seen before. Around her throat she wore a set of choke marks—purple bruises where fingers had pressed hard enough to cut off her wind and the blood supply to her brain.
A ghost of a bitter smile twisted Angie's mouth. “I've had worse.”
“I know you have, sweetie,” Kate said softly. It wasn't until she started to crouch down to take a closer look that Kate saw the utility knife in the girl's lap—a razor-blade nose on a sleek, thick, gray metal handle.
She straightened away slowly and took a half step back. “Who did this to you? Where've you been, Angie?”
“In the Devil's basement,” she said, finding some kind of sour amusement in that.
“Angie, I'm going to call an ambulance for you, okay?” Kate said, taking another step back toward the phone.
Instantly, tears filled the girl's eyes. “No. I don't need an ambulance,” she said, nearly frantic at the prospect.
“Someone's done a number on you, kiddo.” Kate wondered where that someone might be. Had Angie escaped and come here on her own, or had she been brought here? Was her abductor in the next room, watching, waiting? If she could get on the phone, she could dial 911 and the cops would be here in a matter of minutes.
“No. Please,” Angie begged. “Can't I just stay here? Can't I just be here with you? Just for a while?”
“Honey, you need a doctor.”
“No. No. No.” The girl shook her head. Her fingers curled around the handle of the utility knife. She held the blade against the palm of her left hand.
Blood beaded where the tip of the blade bit her skin.
The phone rang, shattering the tense silence. Kate jumped.
“Don't get it!” Angie shouted, holding her hand up, dragging the knife down inch by inch, opening the top layer of flesh, drawing blood.
“I'll really cut myself,” she threatened. “I know how to do it.”
If she meant it, if she brought that blade down a few inches to her wrist, she could bleed out before Kate finished the call to 911.
The ringing stopped. The machine in the den was politely informing whoever to leave a message. Quinn? she wondered. Kovac with some news? Rob calling to fire her? She imagined him capable of leaving that message, just as Melanie Hessler's boss had.
“Why would you want to cut yourself, Angie?” she asked. “You're safe now. I'll help you. I'll help you get through this. I'll help you get a fresh start.”
“You didn't help me before.”
“You didn't give me much chance.”
“Sometimes I like to cut myself,” Angie admitted, face downcast in shame. “Sometimes I need to. I start to feel . . . It scares me. But if I cut myself, then it goes away. That's crazy, isn't it?” She looked up at Kate with such forlorn eyes, it nearly broke her heart.
Kate was slow to answer. She'd read about girls who did what Angie was describing, and, yes, her first thought was that it was crazy. How could people mutilate themselves and not be insane?
“I can get you help, Angie,” she said. “There are people who can teach you how to deal with those feelings without having to hurt yourself.”