Nancy was watching lake as she spoke. He never took his eyes off her.
When she was finished speaking he leaned forward.
Thank you for your honesty. I know my intrusion into the task force is resented and I'm glad you told me how everyone feels. I'm not worried about my practice.
My associates will keep it going without me and I've made so much money that I could live nicely without it.
What matters to me is catching this killer before he hurts someone else."
Lake reached across the table and covered Nancy's hand with his.
"It also matters to me that you're concerned. I appreciate that."
Lake stroked Nancy's hand as he spoke. It was a sensual touch, clearly a come-on, and Nancy was struck by the inappropriateness of his action, even if Lake was not.
"I'm concerned for you as a person who is the victim of a horrible crime," Nancy said firmly, as she slid her hand out from under Lake's.
"I am also concerned that you might do something that would jeopardize our investigation. Please think about what I've said, Peter."
"I will," Lake assured her.
Nancy started to open her purse but Lake stopped her.
"Dinner's on me," he smiled.
"I always pay my own way," Nancy answered, laying the exact amount of her dinner on top of the check and putting a dollar tip under her coffee cup. She slipped out of the booth and started toward the door.
Peter placed his money next to hers and followed her outside.
"Can I give you a lift home?" he asked.
"My car's in the lot."
"Mine too. I'll walk you back."
They walked in silence until they reached the police station. The lot was dimly lit. Patches were in shadow.
Nancy's car was toward the back of the station where the windows were dark.
"it could have happened someplace like this," lake mused as they walked.
"What?"
"The women," Lake said. "Walking alone at night in a deserted parking lot. It would be so easy to approach them. Didn't Bundy do that? Wear a false cast to elicit sympathy. They would be in the killer's trunk in a minute and it would all be over for them."
Nancy felt a chill. There was no one in the lot but the two of them.
They entered an unlit area. She turned her head so she could see Lake.
He was watching her, thoughtfully. Nancy stopped at her car.
"That's why I wanted to walk with you," Lake continued. "No woman is safe until he's caught."
"Think about what I said, Peter."
"Good night, Nancy. I think we work well together.
Thanks again for your concern."
Nancy backed her Ford out of its space and drove off. She could see Lake watching her in the rearview mirror.
Nancy stood in the dark and pumped iron, following the routine she and Ed had worked out. Now she was doing curls, with the maximum weight she could manage. Her forearm arced toward her shoulder, slowly, steadily, as she muscled up the right dumbbell, then the left. Sweat stained her tank top. The veins stood out on her neck.
Something was definitely wrong. Lake had been coming on to her. When Ed died, she had lost — all interest in sex for months. It had hurt just to see couples walking hand in hand. But when Lake held her hand, he had stroked it, the way you would caress a lover's hand.
When he said he thought they worked well together, it was definitely a proposition.
Nancy finished her curls. She lowered the weights to the floor and took a few deep breaths. It was almost six.
She had been up since four-thirty, because a nightmare woke her and she couldn't get back to sleep.
Frank had considered Lake a suspect and she had disagreed. Now she was beginning to wonder. She remembered what Dr. Klien said. Lake was bright and personable. It would have been easy for him to gain the confidence of the victims. They were the type of women he met every day at his clubs, and he was the type of man the victims encountered at theirs.
The organized nonsocial was a psychopath who could not feel pity or care for others. The type of person who would have to fake emotions. Had Lake been caught off guard in the coffee shop between remembering his first meeting with Sandra Lake and making the appropriate reaction to that memory? There had been a brief moment when Lake's features had been devoid of emotion.
Klien also said that these killers were interested in police work. Lake, an experienced criminal defense attorney, would know all about police procedure. Nancy dropped to the floor and did fifty push-ups. What was normally an easy set was difficult. She couldn't focus. Her head filled with a vision of Lake, alone in the shadows of the parking lot, waiting.
How did he know about Bundy's fake cast? Dr. Klien had not mentioned it.
After the weights, she and Ed would run a six-mile loop through the neighborhood. Ed was stronger than Nancy, but she was the faster runner.
On Sundays, they raced the loop. The loser cooked breakfast. The winner decided when and bow they made love. Nancy could not touch the weights or run the loop for two months after the shooting.
One hundred crunches. Up, down, up, down. Her stomach tight as a drumhead. Her thoughts in the dark, in the parking lot with Lake. Should she tell Frank and Wayne? Was she just imagining it? Would her suspicions sidetrack the investigation and let the real killer escape?
It was six-fifteen. The weights were in a small room next to the bedroom. The sun was starting its ascent over the wealthy suburbs to the east. Nancy stripped off her panties and top and dropped them in the hamper. She had put on weight — after Ed died. Except for a month when she was recovering from a hamstring pull in her sophomore year, it was the first time since junior high that she had not worked out regularly.
The weight was off now and she could see the ridged muscles of her stomach and the cords that twisted along her legs. Hot water loosened her up. She shampooed her hair. All the time, she was thinking about Peter Lake.
Why were there no bodies found before? Why were the Lake murders different from the others? Sandra Lake had apparently been killed quickly, suddenly. Why? And why would Peter have killed her? Had she discovered something that would link him to the other murders and confronted him with the evidence? And that still left the hardest question of all, was Lake such a monster that he would kill his own daughter to cover his crimes?
As she dressed, Nancy tried to find one concrete fact that she could present to the other detectives. One piece of evidence that linked Peter to the crimes. She came up dry. For the moment, she'd have to keep her feelings to herself. Frank Grimsbo ran a forearm across his forehead, staining the sleeve of his madras jacket with sweat. He was wearing a short-sleeve, white shirt and brown polyester pants, and had jerked his paisley print tie to half mast after unbuttoning his top button. The heat was killing him, and all he could think about was cold beer.
Herbert Solomon answered the door on the third ring. Wearily, Grimsbo held up his shield and identified himself "This is about the Lakes, right?" asked Solomon, a stocky man of medium height who sported a well groomed beard and was dressed in loose green-and-red checked Bermuda shorts and a yellow T-shirt.
"That's right, Mr. Solomon. My partner and I are canvassing the neighborhood."
"I already spoke to a policeman on the evening it happened."
"I know, sir. I'm a detective on the special task force that's investigating all of the killings, and I wanted to go into a little more detail with you."
"Have there been other murders? I thought these women just disappeared."