Another reminder of the balance of power, softly spoken.
“And you're willing to talk to me?”
“Bob Brewster says you're the best.”
“Thank the director for me the next time you speak to him. Our paths don't cross that often,” Quinn returned, deliberately unimpressed by the man's implied cozy familiarity with the director of the FBI.
“He says this type of murder is your specialty.”
“Yes, but I'm not a hired gun, Mr. Bondurant. I want to be very clear on that. I'll do what I can in terms of building a profile and advising as to investigative techniques. If a suspect is brought in, I'll offer an interview strategy. In the event of a trial, I'll testify as an expert witness and offer my expertise to the prosecution regarding the questioning of witnesses. I'll do my job, and I'll do it well, but I don't work for you, Mr. Bondurant.”
Bondurant absorbed this information expressionless. His face was as bony and severe as his attorney's, but without the relief of the too-wide smile. A hard mask, impossible to see past.
“I want Jillian's killer caught. I'll deal with you because you're the best and because I've been told I can trust you not to sell out.”
“Sell out? In what way?”
“To the media. I'm a very private man in a very public position. I hate the idea that millions of strangers will know the intimate details of my daughter's death. It seems like it should be a very private, personal thing—the ending of a life.”
“It should be. It's the taking of a life that can't be kept quiet—for everyone's sake.”
“I suppose what I really dread isn't people knowing about Jillie's death so much as their ravenous desire to tear apart her life. And mine—I'll admit that.”
Quinn shifted in his chair, casually crossing his legs, and offered the barest hint of a sympathetic smile. Settling in. The I-could-be-your-friend guise. “That's understandable. Has the press been hounding you? It looks like they're camped out front.”
“I refuse to deal with them. I've pulled in my media relations coordinator from Paragon to handle it. The thing that angers me most is their sense of entitlement. Because I'm wealthy, because I'm prominent, they think they have some right to invade my grief. Do you think they parked their news vans in front of the homes of the parents of the two prostitutes this maniac killed? I can assure you they didn't.”
“We live in a society addicted to sensationalism,” Quinn said. “Some people are deemed newsworthy and some are considered disposable. I'm not sure which side of the coin is worse. I can just about guarantee you the parents of those first two victims are sitting at home wondering why news vans aren't parked in front of their houses.”
“You think they'd like people to know how they failed as parents?” Bondurant asked, a slim shadow of anger darkening his tone. “You think they'd like people to know why their daughters became whores and drug addicts?”
Guilt and blame. How much of that was he projecting from his own pain? Quinn wondered.
“About this witness,” Bondurant said again, seeming a little shaken by his last near-revelation. He moved a notepad on his desk a quarter of an inch. “Do you think she'll be able to identify the killer? She doesn't sound very reliable.”
“I don't know,” Quinn said, knowing exactly where Bondurant had gotten his information. Kovac was going to have to do his best to plug that leak, which would mean stepping on some very sensitive, influential toes. The victim's family was entitled to certain courtesies, but this investigation needed as tight an environment as possible. Peter Bondurant couldn't be allowed total access. He in fact had not been ruled out as a viable suspect.
“Well . . . we can only hope . . .” Bondurant murmured.
His gaze strayed to the wall that held an assortment of framed photographs, many of himself with men Quinn had to assume were business associates or rivals or dignitaries. He spotted Bob Brewster among the crowd, then found what Bondurant had turned to: a small cluster of photographs on the lower left-hand corner.
Quinn rose from his chair and went to the wall for a closer inspection. Jillian at various stages of her life. He recognized her from a snapshot in the case file. One photograph in particular drew his eye: a young woman out of place in a prim black dress with a white Peter Pan collar and cuffs. Her hair was cut boyishly short and bleached nearly white. A striking contrast to the dark roots and brows. Half a dozen earrings ornamented one ear. A tiny ruby studded one nostril. She resembled her father in no way at all. Her body, her face, were softer, rounder. Her eyes were huge and sad, the camera catching the vulnerability she felt at not being the politely feminine creature of someone else's expectations.
“Pretty girl,” Quinn murmured automatically. It didn't matter that it wasn't precisely true. The statement was made for a purpose other than flattery. “She must have felt very close to you, coming back here from Europe for college.”
“Our relationship was complicated.” Bondurant rose from his chair and hovered beside it, tense and uncertain, as if a part of him wanted to go to the photographs but a stronger part held him back. “We were close when she was young. Then her mother and I divorced when Jillie was at a vulnerable age. It was difficult for her—the antagonism between Sophie and me. Then came Serge, Sophie's last husband. And Sophie's illness—she was in and out of institutions for depression.”
He was silent for a stretch of time, and Quinn could feel the weight of everything Bondurant was omitting from the story. What had precipitated the divorce? What had driven Sophie's mental illness? Was the distaste in Bondurant's voice when he spoke of his successor bitterness over a rival or something more?
“What was she studying at the university?” he asked, knowing better than to go directly for the other answers he wanted. Peter Bondurant wouldn't give up his secrets that easily, if he gave them up at all.
“Psychology,” he said with the driest hint of irony as he stared at the photo of her in the black dress and bleached boy-cut, the earrings and pierced nose and unhappy eyes.
“Did you see her often?”
“Every Friday. She came for dinner.”
“How many people knew that?”
“I don't know. My housekeeper, my personal assistant, a few close friends. Some of Jillian's friends, I suppose.”
“Do you have additional staff here at the house or just the housekeeper?”
“Helen is full-time. A girl comes in to help her clean once a week. There's a grounds crew of three who come weekly. That's all. I prefer my privacy to a staff. My needs aren't that extravagant.”
“Friday's usually a hot night on the town for college kids. Jillian wasn't into the club scene?”
“No. She'd grown past it.”
“Did she have many close friends?”
“Not that she spoke about with me. She was a very private person. The only one she mentioned with any regularity was a waitress at a coffee bar. Michele something. I never met her.”
“Did she have a boyfriend?”
“No,” he said, turning away. French doors behind his desk led out to a flagstone courtyard of vacant benches and empty planters. He stared through the glass as if he were looking through a portal into another time. “Boys didn't interest her. She didn't want temporary relationships. She'd been through so much. . . .”
His thin mouth quivered slightly, and a deep pain came into his eyes. The strongest sign of inner emotion he had shown. “She had so much life ahead of her,” he murmured. “I wish this hadn't happened.”
Quinn quietly moved in alongside him. His voice was low and soft, the voice of sad experience and understanding. “That's the hardest thing to cope with when a young person dies—especially when they've been murdered. The unfulfilled dreams, the unrealized potential. The people close to them—family, friends—thought they had so much time to make up for mistakes, plenty of time down the road to tell that person they loved them. Suddenly that time is gone.”