He could see the muscles of Bondurant's face tighten against the pain. He could see the suffering in the eyes, that hint of desperation at the knowledge the emotional tidal wave was coming, and the fear that there may not be enough strength to hold it back.
“At least you had that last evening together,” Quinn murmured. “That should be some comfort to you.”
Or it could be the bitter, lasting reminder of every unresolved issue left between father and daughter. The raw wound of opportunity lost. Quinn could almost taste the regret in the air.
“How was she that night?” he asked quietly. “Did she seem up or down?”
“She was”—Bondurant swallowed hard and searched for the appropriate word—“herself. Jillie was always up one minute and down the next. Volatile.”
The daughter of a woman in and out of institutions for psychiatric problems.
“She didn't give any sign something was bothering her, that she was worried about anything?”
“No.”
“Did you discuss anything in particular, or argue about—”
Bondurant's explosion was sudden, strong, surprising. “My God, if I'd thought there was anything wrong, if I'd thought something was going to happen, don't you think I would have stopped her from leaving? Don't you think I would have kept her here?”
“I'm sure you would have,” Quinn said softly, the voice of compassion and reassurance, emotions he had stopped giving out in full measure long ago because it took too much from him and there was no one around to help him refill the well. He tried to keep his focus on his underlying motive, which was to get information. Manipulate, coax, slip under the guard, draw out the truth a sliver at a time. Get the info to get the killer. Remember that the first person he owed his allegiance to was the victim.
“What did you talk about that night?” he asked gently as Bondurant worked visibly to gather his composure.
“The usual things,” he said, impatient, looking out the window again. “Her classes. My work. Nothing.”
“Her therapy?”
“No, she—” He stiffened, then turned to glare at Quinn.
“We need to know these things, Mr. Bondurant,” Quinn said without apology. “With every victim we have to consider the possibility that some part of their life may have a link to their death. It may be the thinnest thread that ties one thing to the other. It might be something you don't think could be important at all. But sometimes that's all it takes, and sometimes that's all we have.
“Do you understand what I'm telling you? We'll do everything in our power to keep details confidential, but if you want this killer apprehended, you have to cooperate with us.”
The explanation did nothing to soften Bondurant's anger. He turned abruptly back to the desk and pulled a card from the Rolodex. “Dr. Lucas Brandt. For all the good it will do you. I'm sure I don't have to tell you that anything Jillian related to Lucas as a patient is confidential.”
“And what about anything she related to you as her father?”
His temper came in another quick flash, boiling up and over the rigid control. “If I knew anything, anything that could lead you to my daughter's murderer, don't you think I would tell you?”
Quinn was silent, his unblinking gaze steady on Peter Bondurant's face, on the vein that slashed down across his high forehead like a bolt of lightning. He pulled the Rolodex card from Bondurant's fingers.
“I hope so, Mr. Bondurant,” he said at last. “Some other young woman's life may depend on it.”
“WHAT'D YOU GET?” Kovac asked as they walked away from the house. He lit a cigarette and went to work sucking in as much of it as he could before they reached the car.
Quinn stared down the driveway and past the gate where two cameramen stood with eyes pressed to view-finders. There was no long-range audio equipment in sight, but the lenses on the cameras were fat and long. His period of anonymity was going into countdown.
“Yeah,” he said. “A bad feeling.”
“Jeez, I've had that from the start of this deal. You know what a man like Bondurant could do to a career?”
“My question is: Why would he want to?”
“'Cause he's rich and he's hurting. He's like that guy with the gun in the government center yesterday. He wants someone else to hurt. He wants someone to pay. Maybe if he can make someone else miserable, he won't feel his own pain so much. You know,” he said in that offhand way he had, “people are nuts. So what'd he say? Why won't he talk to us locals?”
“He doesn't trust you.”
Kovac straightened with affront and tossed his cigarette on the driveway. “Well, fuck him!”
“He's paranoid about details leaking to the media.”
“Like what details? What's he got to hide?”
Quinn shrugged. “That's your job, Sherlock. But I got you a place to start.”
They climbed into the Caprice. Quinn pulled the cassette recorder from his coat pocket and laid it on the seat between them with the Rolodex card on top of it.
Kovac picked up the card and frowned at it. “A shrink. What'd I tell you? People are nuts. Especially rich people—they're the only ones who can afford to do anything about it. It's like a hobby with them.”
Quinn stared up at the house, half expecting to see a face at one of the windows, but there was no one. All the windows were blank and black on this dreary morning.
“Was there ever any mention in the press about either of the first two victims being drug users?” he asked.
“No,” Kovac said. “The one used to be, but we held it back. Lila White. ‘Lily' White. The first vic. She was a basehead for a while, but she got herself straightened out. Went through a country program, lived at one of the hooker halfway houses for a while—only that part didn't take, I guess. Anyway, the drug angle didn't develop. Why?”
“Bondurant made a reference. Might have just been an assumption on his part, but I don't think so. I think either he knew something about the other victims or he knew something about Jillian.”
“If she was using anything around the time of her death, it'll show up in the tox screen. I went through her town house. I didn't see anything stronger than Tylenol.”
“If she was using, you might have a connection to the other victims.” And thereby a possible connection to a dealer or another user they could develop into a suspect.
The feral smile of the hunter on a fresh scent lifted the corners of Kovac's mustache. “Networking. I love it. Corporate America thinks they're on to something new. Crooks have been networking since Judas sold Jesus Christ down the river. I'll call Liska, have her and Moss nose around. Then let's go see what Sigmund Fraud here has to say about the price of loose marbles.” He tapped the Rolodex card against the steering wheel. “His office is on the other side of this lake.”
10
CHAPTER
“SO WHAT DO you think of Quinn?” Liska asked.
Mary Moss rode shotgun, looking out the window at the Mississippi. Barge traffic had given up for the year. Along this stretch, the river was a deserted strip of brown between ratty, half-abandoned industrial and warehouse blocks. “They say he's hot stuff. A legend in the making.”
“You've never worked with him?”
“No. Roger Emerson usually works this territory out of Quantico. But then, the vic isn't usually the daughter of a billionaire captain of industry with contacts in Washington.