Grace Noble pulled in a deep breath. “Agent Quinn—”
“I don't normally come into a case this early on,” he interrupted, the control slipping a little more. “But since I'm here, I want to do everything I can to help defuse the situation and bring a swift and satisfactory conclusion to the investigation. That means advising you all on proactive investigative strategies and how to handle the case in the press. You don't have to listen to me, but I'm drawing on a wealth of past experience. The director of the FBI personally chose me for this case. You might want to consider why before you disregard my suggestions.”
Kate watched him as he took two steps back from the table and the argument, and turned his profile to her, pretending to look out the window. A subtle threat. He had established his own importance and now dared them to challenge it. He had attached the director of the FBI to his position and indirectly dared them to defy him.
Same old Quinn. She had known him as well as anyone could know John Quinn. He was a master manipulator. He could read people in a heartbeat and change colors like a chameleon. He played both adversaries and colleagues with the brilliance of Mozart at the keyboard, turning them to his side of an argument with charm or bullying or guile or the brute force of his intelligence. He was smart, he was sly, he was ruthless if he needed to be. And who he really was behind all the clever disguises and razor-sharp strategies—well, Kate wondered if he knew. She'd thought she had once upon a time.
Physically, he had changed some in five years. The thick, dark hair was salted with gray and cropped almost military short. He looked leaner, worn thin by the job. Ever the clotheshorse, he wore a suit that was Italian and expensive. But the coat hung a little loose off the broad shoulders, and the pants were a little baggy. The effect, though, created elegance rather than an eroding of his physical presence. The planes and angles of his face were sharp. There were circles under the brown eyes. Impatience vibrated in the air around him, and she wondered if it was real or manufactured for the moment.
Sabin turned toward her suddenly. “Well, Kate, what do you think?”
“Me?”
“You worked for the same unit as Special Agent Quinn. What do you think?”
She could feel Quinn's eyes on her, as well as the gazes of everyone else in the room. “No. I'm just the advocate here. I don't even know what business I have being at this meeting. John is the expert—”
“No, he's right, Kate,” Quinn said. He planted his hands on the tabletop and leaned toward her, his dark eyes like coals—she thought she could feel the heat of them on her face. “You were a part of the old Behavioral Sciences Unit. You've got more experience with this kind of case than anyone else at this table besides me. What's your take?”
Kate stared at him, knowing her resentment had to be plain in her eyes. Bad enough to have Sabin put her on the spot, but for Quinn to do it struck her as a betrayal. But then, why she should have been surprised at that, she couldn't imagine.
“Regarding this case, I have no basis on which to form an educated opinion,” she began woodenly. “However, I am well aware of Special Agent Quinn's qualifications and expertise. Personally, I think you would be making a mistake not to follow his advice.”
Quinn looked to the mayor and the chief of police.
“You can't unring a bell,” he said quietly. “Put too much information out there now, there's no taking it back. You can call another press conference tomorrow if you need to. Just give the task force this chance to muster their resources and get a running start.”
Edwyn Noble returned from his phone call, his face sober. “Mr. Bondurant says he'll do whatever Agent Quinn suggests. We'll set the reward at fifty thousand.”
THE MEETING ADJOURNED at four forty-eight. The politicos moved into the mayor's office for last-minute preparations before facing the press. The cops gathered in a cluster at the far end of the conference room to talk about setting up the task force.
“Sabin isn't happy with you, Kate,” Rob said in a tone of confidentiality, as if anyone else in the room would be interested.
“I'd say Ted Sabin can kiss my ass, but he'd be on his knees in a heartbeat.”
Rob blushed and frowned. “Kate—”
“He dragged me into this, he can live with the consequences,” she said, moving toward the door. “I'm going to go check on Angie. See if she's come up with any-thing from the mug books yet. You're going to the press conference?”
“Yes.”
Good. She had a witness to spring while everyone else was looking the other way. Where to take the girl was the next problem. She belonged in a juvenile facility, but they had as yet been unable to prove she was a juvenile.
“So you worked with Quinn?” Rob said, still with the voice of secrecy, following her toward the door. “I heard him speak at a conference once. He's very impressive. I think his focus on victimology is dead on.”
“That's John, all right. Impressive is his middle name.”
Across the room, Quinn turned away from his conversation with the homicide lieutenant and locked on her, as if he'd picked up her comment on his radar. At the same instant, Rob Marshall's pager beeped and he excused himself to use the phone, looking disappointed at the lost opportunity to speak with Quinn again.
Kate wanted no such opportunity. She turned away and started again for the door as Quinn came toward her.
“Kate.”
She glared at him and jerked her arm away as he moved to take hold of her.
“Thanks for your help,” he said softly, ducking his head in that way he had that made him seem boyish and contrite when he was neither.
“Yeah, right. Can I have the cervical collar concession tomorrow when you march in here and tell them to challenge this son of a bitch in order to trap him?”
He blinked innocently. “I don't know what you mean, Kate. You know as well as I do how important it is to be proactive in a situation like this—when the time is right.”
She wanted to ask him if he was talking about the killer or the politicians, but she stopped herself. Quinn's proactive theories extended to all aspects of his life.
“Don't play your little mind games with me, John,” she whispered bitterly. “I didn't mean to help you. I didn't offer you anything. You took, and I don't appreciate it. You think you can just manipulate people like pawns on a chessboard.”
“The end justified the means.”
“It always does, doesn't it?”
“You know I was right.”
“Funny, but that doesn't make you seem any less of a jerk to me.” She took a step back toward the door. “Excuse me. I've got a job to do. You want to make power plays, you leave me out of the game plan, thank you very much.”
“Good to see you too, Kate,” he murmured as she walked away, thick red-gold hair swinging softly across her back.
It struck Quinn only belatedly that she had a nasty bruise on her cheek and a split lip. He'd seen her as he remembered her: as an ex-friend's wife . . . as the only woman he'd ever truly loved.
6
CHAPTER
THE CROWD IS large. The Twin Cities are overrun with reporters. Two major daily newspapers, half a dozen television stations, radio stations too numerous to keep track of. And the story has brought in still more reporters from other places.
He has captured their attention. He relishes the sense of power that brings. The sounds in particular excite him—the urgent voices, the angry voices, the scuffle of feet, the whirl of camera motor drives.