"I've seen him on campus," Ben said. "Girls seem to dig him."
"Not this girl," Gillian said.
"We'll try to get interviews with school acquaintances," Waken"eld said. "See if we can come up with anything."
Outside the police station, Gillian and Ben split up. He headed for a class on West Bank. She needed to report back to the BCA in St. Paul.
She was walking toward her car on the third floor of the Federal Courthouse parking garage when someone jumped out from behind a cement pillar and landed flat-footed in front of her.
She let out a frightened yelp, at the same time recognizing Sebastian Tate.
"Hi." He flashed her a smile, proud of himself.
Her heart was pounding madly in her chest. "What the hell are you doing?" she shouted at him in disbelief.
"It's almost noon. I thought you might want to grab a bite to eat."
"Are you kidding?" If he hadn't just scared the hell out of her, she may have been a little more discreet in her response. As it was, she did nothing to hide her disgust.
He gestured with hands in the pockets of his unzipped, black leather bomber jacket, walking backwards while she strode toward her car. "Why not?" he asked innocently, as if expecting her to say she was too busy.
"Why not? Because you're a fucking asshole, that's why not!"
He stopped walking, and his jaw went slack. She shoved past him, unlocked her car with the remote, and slid behind the wheel. With a trembling hand, she jabbed the key in the ignition. Oh, that was good, she thought sarcastically. She locked the door and pulled the seat belt across her shoulder. Real professional. Cussing out a suspect. She was sure Mary did that all the time.
Chapter 7
"Would you like to try out my new potter's wheel while you're here?" Blythe asked. She and Mary were sitting at the bistro table in the kitchen sharing a light lunch. "You were getting pretty good at one time."
"I think that may have been Gillian." Mary was trying to ignore the throbbing in her shoulder, which had been getting increasingly worse since her encounter with Hitchcock. It hadn't helped that she'd been working on the profile for almost forty-eight hours straight. "I was never very good at throwing pots."
"Oh, you were too! Let's make an evening of it. Gillian can come. We'll get a bottle of wine. Be creative. What do you think?"
"Let's not rush into things."
Mary had come to terms with the fact that she and Gillian would be working together. She didn't like it, but she was a professional, and professionals had to adapt to unpleasant situations. That didn't mean she was ready to hop in the sandbox with her sister.
"Later, maybe," her mother said, momentarily deflated. Blythe gathered up a large canvas bag, water bottle, and car keys. "I've gotta run. Try to get some rest." She gave Mary a kiss on the cheek, then left to teach her afternoon and evening pottery classes at the Pot House.
Mary went upstairs and took a hot shower. She'd hoped the heat might help the pain, but by the time she'd dried off, her shoulder was aching even more. She made an ice pack out of a plastic bag and kitchen towel, then settled in bed with the pack on her shoulder and laptop on her lap.
Her phone rang.
Gillian was calling to tell her about a suspect they'd brought in for questioning. "Sebastian Tate," she said. "He's a student at the university and dated the third victim a few times."
"What did you find out?"
Gillian filled her in on Tate's rap sheet and how he'd reacted to her.
"I'm not sure you should be involved in the questioning of suspects," Mary said, surprised that they'd sent Gillian out on the initial canvas.
"It's my job." Gillian didn't bother trying to disguise her resentment.
"Didn't anyone stop to think that you fit the victim-ology?" Mary had to work to keep her voice smooth, even though she was irritated by Wakefield's lack of judgment. She'd expected more from him.
"I know I fit the victimology. I thought my going on the canvas was a good strategy."
Had she really thought it out that thoroughly? Mary wondered. More than likely, it had come to her later, when Gillian was face-to-face with the suspect.
"The last victim was also identified," Gillian said. "Justine Ramsey."
"Had she been reported missing?"
"No. Lived alone, no close friends."
"Like the first girl."
"Exactly." The conversation shifted. "How are you coming on the profiles?"
"I'll have the preliminary paperwork ready to present to Detective Wakefield by early tomorrow. Hopefully I can get the Behavioral Science team to sign off on it in two or three days so the profile can be made official and the information gotten to the public."
There was a pause, as if Gillian were weighing her next words. "You sound tired."
Her concern took Mary by surprise. "I am," she admitted.
"Try to get some sleep."
"As soon as I wrap this up." Her voice was once again distantly polite.
"I'll let you get back to work," Gillian said, sounding rebuffed.
"Gillian?" Mary paused. "If Tate comes around, call the cops."
"I am a cop."
"You know what I mean. Don't try to deal with him by yourself. He could be dangerous." Mary disconnected.
The ice in the plastic bag had turned to tepid water; Mary dropped it and the towel on the floor. Would Gillian follow her advice about Tate? Probably not. Mary shouldn't have said anything about her being careful around the guy. Gillian had a history of doing the opposite of whatever her sister suggested.
For the next two hours Mary fine-tuned the killer and victim profile, adding the finishing touches before shutting off the computer and lying back in bed.
She was almost asleep when the doorbell rang.
She kept her eyes closed, trying to pretend she hadn't heard anything. The doorbell rang again. It was probably some sweet-faced kid selling something she didn't want to buy but would anyway. Dressed in navy blue cotton pajamas, she made her way downstairs, leaning forward to peer through the peephole.
Anthony Spence stood on her mother's front porch.
She blinked. He was still there.
She opened the door, the chain lock catching. She slammed the- door, undid the chain, and opened it again.
Instead of a greeting, he got directly to the point: "You look like hell."
On the other hand, he looked great. But when didn't Anthony look great? He was dressed in the FBI black he was so fond of, complete with trench coat.
"Nice to see you too."
The pain was making her dizzy. She turned around and plopped down on the steps, wincing as she jarred her arm. "What are you doing here?"
"Are you sick?" He stepped inside and closed the door behind him.
"A headache." It was the first thing that popped into her mind. It seemed childish and immature-always evading everyone-but she hated to be fussed over.
Anthony put a hand to her forehead. She closed her eyes for a moment, enjoying the coolness.
"You feel warm."
"Think so?"
"How's the shoulder?"
"A little sore," she admitted reluctantly.
"A little?" From his expression of disbelief, it was apparent she hadn't fooled him for a second. "I know your definition of 'a little.' Like the time you had a little pain in your side and ended up having an emergency appendectomy."
She gave him a weak smile, then tried to steer the attention away from her. "What are you doing here?"
"I thought you might need some help."
"You should have told me you were coming. I'd have met you at the airport."
"Let me see your shoulder."
"No."
"Come on."
"For some reason, you seem to think you own me now. That you own my shoulder." She was uncomfortably aware that she was in pajamas while he was fully dressed.