Rafe eyed her but decided not to comment on that. “And do you normally show up unarmed?”
“Who says I’m unarmed?” She lifted one hand and gently wiggled her fingers, each one adorned with a neat, but hardly understated, red-polished oval nail.
Hearing the faint note of mockery in her voice, Rafe sighed and said, “Let me guess. Martial-arts expert?”
“I’ve trained,” she admitted.
“Black belt?”
“Got that when I was twelve.” She smiled again. “But if it makes you feel better, I’m also wearing a calf holster-usually my backup, since my service automatic is worn in a belt holster. Our unit doesn’t break all the rules, just some of them; on duty, we’re expected to be armed. Since I was taking a casual look around town, a visible weapon would have been a bit conspicuous, I thought.”
Rafe had noticed that her jeans were very close-fitting from waist to knees, so he couldn’t help asking, “Can you get to that weapon in a hurry if you have to?”
“You’d be surprised.”
He wanted to tell her he wasn’t sure he could take too many more surprises but instead said only, “We’ve set up a conference room here as a base of operations, so all the reports, evidence, and statements are there. Couple of good computers with high-speed Internet access, plenty of phones. Standard supplies. Anything else that’s needed, I’ll get.”
“In a situation like this, the city fathers generally say to hell with the budget.”
“Which they pretty much did.”
“Still, you and I both know it’ll come down to basic police work, so the budget is likely to go toward overtime rather than anything fancier. As for the crime scenes, I really would like to take a look at them today. And it would help if it’s just you and me out there this time. The fewer people around me when I’m studying a crime scene, the better.”
“Fewer distractions?”
“Exactly.”
“We’ve kept the scenes roped off,” Rafe said, “but I’d bet my pension that at least a dozen kids have tramped all over them despite the warnings. Or because of them.”
“Yeah, kids tend to be curious about crime scenes, so that’s to be expected.”
More than a little curious himself, Rafe said, “It’s rained since we found Tricia Kane’s body on Monday; what do you expect to find?”
“I’m not likely to find anything you and your people missed,” Isabel replied, her matter-of-fact tone making it an acknowledgment rather than a compliment. “I just want to get a sense of the places, a feel for them. It’s difficult to do that with only photographs and diagrams.”
It made sense. Rafe nodded and rose to his feet, asking, “What about your partner?”
“She may want to take a look at the scenes later,” Isabel said, getting up as well. “Or maybe not. We tend to come at things from different angles.”
“Probably why your boss teamed you up.”
“Yes,” Isabel said. “Probably.”
Caleb Powell wasn’t a happy man. Not only had he lost his efficient paralegal to the killer stalking Hastings, he had also lost a friend. There hadn’t been the slightest romantic spark between Tricia and him, particularly since she was almost young enough to be his daughter, but there had been an immediate liking and respect from the day she first began working for him almost two years before.
He missed her. He missed her a lot.
And since the temp he had hired was still trying to figure out Tricia’s filing system-and kept coming to him with questions about it-his office wasn’t exactly his favorite place to be right now. All of which explained why he was sitting in the downtown coffee shop sipping an iced mocha and staring grimly through the front window at the media-fest still going on across the street at the town hall.
“Vultures,” he muttered.
“They have their jobs to do.”
He looked at the woman seated at the next table, not really surprised she had responded to his comment because people did that in small towns. Especially when there were only two customers in the place at the time. He didn’t recognize her, but that didn’t surprise him either; Hastings wasn’t that small.
“Their jobs stop when they cross the line between informing the public and sensationalizing a tragedy,” he said.
“In a perfect world,” she agreed. “Last time I checked, we didn’t live in a perfect world.”
“No, that’s true.”
“So we have to cope with less than the ideal.” She smiled faintly. “I’ve even heard it said that the world would be better off without lawyers, Mr. Powell.”
Just a bit wary now, he said, “You have me at a disadvantage.”
“Sorry. My name is Hollis Templeton. I’m with the FBI.”
That did surprise him. An attractive brunette with a short, no-fuss hairstyle and disconcertingly clear blue eyes, she looked nothing at all like a tough federal cop. Slender almost to the point of thinness, she was wearing a lightweight summer blouse and floral skirt, an outfit eerily like the one Tricia had reportedly worn the day she was killed.
His disbelief must have been obvious; with another faint smile, she drew a small I.D. folder from her purse and handed it across to him.
He had seen a federal I.D. before. This one was genuine. Hollis Templeton was a Special Investigator for the FBI.
He returned the folder to her. “So this isn’t a coincidental meeting,” he said.
“Actually, it is.” She shrugged. “It was hot as hell outside, so I came in for iced coffee. And to watch the circus across the street. I recognized you, though. They ran your photo in the local paper Tuesday after Tricia Kane was killed.”
“As you noted, Agent Templeton, I’m a lawyer. I don’t really appreciate impromptu interviews with federal officials.”
“But you do want to find out who killed Tricia.”
He noticed that she didn’t deny it was an interview. “I also don’t appreciate typical law-enforcement tactics and questions designed to encourage me to talk carelessly to a cop.”
“Take all the care you like. If a lawyer doesn’t know how much is… safe… to disclose, nobody does.”
“I think I find that offensive, Agent Templeton.”
“And I think you’re awfully touchy for a man with nothing to hide, Mr. Powell. You know the drill better than most. We’ll be talking to everyone who knew Tricia Kane. You were her employer and her friend, and that puts you pretty high up on our list.”
“Of suspects?”
“Of people to talk to. Something you know, something you saw or heard, may be the key we’ll need to find her killer.”
“Then call me in to the police station for a formal interview or come see me at my office,” he said, getting to his feet. “Make an appointment.” He left a couple of dollars on the table and turned away.
“She liked tea instead of coffee, and took it with milk. You always thought that was odd.”
Caleb turned back, staring at the agent.
“She always felt she had disappointed her father by not becoming a lawyer, so being a paralegal was a compromise. It gave her more time for her art. She had asked you to pose for her, but you kept putting her off. And about six months ago, you offered her a shoulder to cry on when her relationship with her boyfriend ended badly. You were working late at the office when she broke down, and afterward you drove her home. She fell asleep on the couch. You covered her with an afghan and left.”
Slowly, he said, “None of that was in the police report.”