“Special Agent Quinn,” she declared, holding out a broad, wrinkled hand tipped with red nails. “I've been reading all about you. As soon as we heard from the director, I sent Cynthia to the library for every article she could find.”
He flashed what had been called his Top Gun smile—confident, winning, charming, but with the unmistakable glint of steel beneath it. “Mayor Noble. I should tell you not to believe everything you read, but I find there is an advantage to having people think I can see into their minds.”
“I'm sure you don't have to be able to read minds to know how grateful we are to have you here.”
“I'll do what I can to help. Did you say you'd spoken with the director?”
Grace Noble patted his arm. Maternal. “No, dear. Peter spoke with him. Peter Bondurant. They're old friends, as it happens.”
“Is Mr. Bondurant here?”
“No, he couldn't bring himself to face the press. Not yet. Not knowing . . .” Her shoulders slumped briefly beneath the weight of it all. “My God, what this will do to him if it is Jillie. . . .”
A short African American man with a weightlifter build and a tailored gray suit stepped up beside her, his eyes on Quinn. “Dick Greer, chief of police,” he said crisply, thrusting out his hand. “Glad to have you on board, John. We're ready to nail this creep.”
As if he would have anything to do with it. In a metropolitan police department the chief was an administrator and a politician, a spokesman, an idea man. The men in the trenches likely said Chief Greer couldn't find his own dick in a dark room.
Quinn listened to the list of names and titles as the introductions were made. A deputy chief, a deputy mayor, an assistant county attorney, the state director of public safety, a city attorney, and a pair of press secretaries—too damn many politicians. Also present were the Hennepin County sheriff, a detective from the same office, a special agent in charge from the Minnesota Bureau of Criminal Apprehension with one of his agents, the homicide lieutenant from the PD—representatives from three of the agencies that would comprise the task force.
He met each with a firm handshake and played it low key. Midwesterners tended to be reserved and didn't quite trust people who weren't. In the Northeast he would have given more of the steel. On the West Coast he would have turned up the charm, would have been Mr. Affable, Mr. Spirit of Cooperation. Different horses for different courses, his old man used to say. And which one was the real John Quinn—even he didn't know anymore.
“. . . and my husband, Edwyn Noble,” the mayor finished the introductions.
“Here in a professional capacity, Agent Quinn,” Edwyn Noble said. “Peter Bondurant is a client as well as a friend.”
Quinn's attention focused sharply on the man before him. Six five or six six, Noble was all joints and sinew, an exaggerated skeleton of a man with a smile that was perfectly square and too wide for his face. He looked slightly younger than his wife. The gray in his hair was contained to flags at the temples.
“Mr. Bondurant sent his attorney?” Quinn said.
“I'm Peter's personal counsel, yes. I'm here on his behalf.”
“Why is that?”
“The shock has been terrific.”
“I'm sure it has been. Has Mr. Bondurant already given the police his statement?”
Noble leaned back, the question physically putting him off. “A statement regarding what?”
Quinn shrugged, nonchalant. “The usual. When he last saw his daughter. Her frame of mind at the time. The quality of their relationship.”
Color blushed the attorney's prominent cheekbones. “Are you suggesting Mr. Bondurant is a suspect in his own daughter's death?” he said in a harsh, hushed tone, his gaze slicing across the room to check for eavesdroppers.
“Not at all,” Quinn said with blank innocence. “I'm sorry if you misunderstood me. We need all the pieces of the puzzle we can get in order to form a clear picture of things, that's all. You understand.”
Noble looked unhappy.
In Quinn's experience, the parents of murder victims tended to camp out at the police department, demanding answers, constantly underfoot of the detectives. After the description Walsh had given of Bondurant, Quinn had expected to see the man throwing his weight around city hall like a mad bull. But Peter Bondurant had reached out and touched the director of the FBI, called out his personal attorney, and stayed home.
“Peter Bondurant is one of the finest men I know,” Noble declared.
“I'm sure Agent Quinn didn't mean to imply otherwise, Edwyn,” the mayor said, patting her husband's arm.
The lawyer's attention remained on Quinn. “Peter was assured you're the best man for this job.”
“I'm very good at what I do, Mr. Noble,” Quinn said. “One of the reasons I'm good at my job is that I'm not afraid to do my job. I'm sure Mr. Bondurant will be glad to hear it.”
He left it at that. He didn't want to make enemies of Bondurant's people. Offend a man like Bondurant and he'd find himself called on the carpet before the Bureau's Office of Professional Responsibility—at the very least. On the other hand, after having Peter Bondurant jerk him out here like a dog on a leash, he wanted it made clear he wouldn't be manipulated.
“We're running short on time, people. Let's take our seats and get started,” the mayor announced, herding the men toward the conference table like a first-grade teacher with a pack of little boys.
She stood at the political end of the table as everyone fell into rank, and drew breath to speak just as the door opened again and four more people walked in.
“Ted, we were about to start without you.” The mayor's doughy face creased with disapproval at his lack of punctuality.
“We've had some complications.” He strode across the room directly toward Quinn. “Special Agent Quinn. Ted Sabin, Hennepin County attorney. I'm glad to meet you.”
Quinn rose unsteadily to his feet. His gaze glanced off the man's shoulder to the woman trailing reluctantly behind him. He mumbled an adequate reply to Sabin, shaking the county attorney's hand. A mustached cop stepped up and introduced himself. Kovac. The name registered dimly. The pudgy guy with them introduced himself and said something about having once heard Quinn speak somewhere.
“. . . And this is Kate Conlan with our victim/witness program,” Sabin said. “You may—”
“We've met,” they said in unison.
Kate looked Quinn in the eye for just a moment because it seemed important to do so, to recognize him, acknowledge him, but not react. Then she glanced away, stifling the urge to sigh or swear or walk out of the room.
She couldn't say she was surprised to see him. There were only eighteen agents assigned to Investigative Support's Child Abduction/Serial Killer Unit. Quinn was the current poster boy for CASKU, and sexual homicide was his specialty. The odds had not been in her favor, and her luck today was for shit. Hell, she should have expected to see him standing in the mayor's conference room. But she hadn't.
“You've worked together?” Sabin said, not quite certain whether he should be pleased or disappointed.
An awkward silence hung for a second or three. Kate sank into a chair.
“Uh—yes,” she said. “It's been a long time.”
Quinn stared at her. No one took him by surprise. Ever. He'd spent a lifetime building that level of control. That Kate Conlan could walk in the door and tilt the earth beneath his feet after all this time did not sit well. He ducked his head and cleared his throat. “Yeah. You're missed, Kate.”