"Why?"
"Why would I like to keep it that way?"
"Why is she so committed to helping you? You said yourself she has to listen to horror stories, that she could make a fortune as an artist. So why does she do this instead?"
"I don't know."
"You've never asked her?"
"Sure I have. So have some of the others. But whatever her reasons are, they're obviously private. This time, take my advice-and don't go there."
It wasn't in John's nature to accept being warned off, not when he was curious. And not when he was feeling an unaccustomed sensation of frustrated helplessness about this entire situation. But all he said was "I'll keep that in mind."
Andy knew when he was being humored. "Yeah, yeah. Look, you want more lousy coffee?"
"I just want to talk to Maggie Barnes."
"I saw Ellen Randall and her sister leave a little while ago, so Maggie's probably free. But I don't know-"
"I'm free," Maggie said from just behind John's left shoulder. "You wanted to speak to me, Mr. Garrett?"
He got to his feet quickly. "If you can spare me a few minutes, I'd appreciate it."
"Drummond's office is empty right now," Andy offered. "He's headed across town for a meeting."
"With who?" Maggie asked.
"Dunno, but probably another citizens' group. He's catching a lot of heat, Maggie."
"He told me."
"Yeah. I'll just bet he did."
Maggie shrugged. "Can't really blame him for pushing. Or for not understanding he didn't have to."
Andy sighed an agreement.
Maggie turned away, clearly assuming John would follow her as she led the way to Luke Drummond's office. When they went in, she took one of the visitor's chairs in front of the desk, shifting it so that it faced the other one. After closing the door behind them, John took the other one and turned it as well.
The closed door would keep them from being overheard, but that was the extent of privacy; the partitions between this office and the bullpen were glass from the waist up, and though there were blinds, all were wide open. John was aware of several curious stares directed their way, but Maggie didn't seem to notice.
"I don't know what you expect to learn from me, Mr. Garrett," she said. "There's nothing I can tell you that isn't in any of the numerous reports I'm sure you've read."
He caught himself listening to her voice more than what she said, trying to identify that elusive sense of a half-remembered song. "I know what's in the reports."
She nodded and looked down at the sketch pad in her lap. "Then you know it all." She really didn't want to talk to him like this. She didn't want to have to answer the question she knew he wanted to ask her.
"Miss Barnes-" He shook his head. "Look, I'll be around until this bastard is stopped, even if I'm not officially part of the investigation, so why don't we drop the formality? My friends call me John."
She made herself look at him and nod again. Tried to distract herself with an artist's automatic inventory. He was a good-looking man, in a commanding sort of way. Big, broad-shouldered, athletic-or at least worked to stay in good shape. Though he was undoubtedly both impressive and formidable in a business suit, the more casual jeans and black leather jacket lent him a slightly dangerous air that was probably, Maggie thought, not the least bit deceptive.
His hair was very dark, but she knew there'd be a hint of red in the sunlight. Eyes an unusual shade of blue-green, and deep set beneath brows that flared slightly upward at the outer corners so perfectly an artist might have drawn them.
He'd look mean as hell when he scowled, she thought idly. Probably be mean as hell mad. But there was humor in the curve of his mouth, in the laugh lines fanning out from his eyes, and more than enough intelligence and self-control in those eyes to mitigate whatever temper he had.
Most of the time, anyway.
"Okay, John it is. I'm Maggie," she said, wishing she hadn't been here today or he hadn't. Anything to postpone this conversation a little longer. "But I still can't tell you anything about the investigation that you don't already know."
"That isn't what I wanted to talk to you about. At least, not directly." He drew a breath. "There's something I wanted to ask you."
She hadn't intended to, but Maggie found herself nodding. "Yes. About Christina."
"I guess it's not so surprising that I'd want to ask you about her," he said after a moment.
"No. But there's nothing I can tell you." Until that moment, Maggie hadn't known what she would say. She hadn't known she would lie. It required an effort to keep meeting his eyes steadily.
"You were the last person to see her. The last one to speak to her before she died."
"I interviewed her. Just the way I interviewed Ellen Randall today. Asked her questions, asked her to relive what had happened to her. It was painful for her."
"So painful she decided to kill herself twelve hours later?" John demanded, his voice suddenly harsh.
Maggie didn't blink or flinch. "It wasn't our first interview. We were going over what we'd discussed before, there was nothing new. No new impressions from her, no new questions from me. She seemed… the same as always when I left."
"You left her alone."
She did flinch at that. "The nurse had always been there, in the next room. I assumed she was there that day, even though I hadn't seen her. I didn't find out until later…"
John relented, uncertain in his own mind whether it was because he knew she wasn't to blame or because that haunting voice of hers affected him in a surprisingly powerful way. "You couldn't have known what she'd do. She was always… a very good actress." He gazed into those strange cat eyes and had the sudden realization that here was another woman entirely capable of hiding her thoughts. But before he could do more than wonder if he wanted to pursue that, she spoke again in the same level tone.
"In any case, there's nothing helpful I can tell you. I'm sorry you wasted your time."
"I didn't waste it. I've wanted to meet you since Andy first told me they had a uniquely talented sketch artist working on the investigation. I'm curious about how you work-which is why I barged in on your interview today. I really am sorry about that, by the way."
She didn't respond to the apology, other than with a brief nod. "There's nothing extraordinary about the way I work. It's the way sketch artists have always worked. I talk to victims, ask them questions, gain impressions, and then I draw what I think they saw. Sometimes I get lucky."
"According to Andy, it's more than luck. And more than just sometimes."
Maggie shrugged. "Andy's a friend. He's biased."
"And is the police chief also biased? He was singing your praises to me yesterday."
She dropped her gaze briefly to the sketch pad in her lap, then said in a matter-of-fact tone, "His niece was abducted from her school playground about five years ago, and I helped them find the guy before he could hurt her."
"With a sketch? There were witnesses?"
"The other kids. The oldest was only nine, so it was… difficult. Kids tend to elaborate, to invent details using their imaginations, so we had to weed through what they said they saw to get at the truth."
"How were you able to do that?"
Maggie hesitated only an instant. "I listened to them."
"And you knew truth from an elaboration-how?"
"I… don't know. I mean, I don't know how to explain it. Andy calls it intuition, instinct. I guess that's as good a word as any. I've been doing this a long time."
Surprised, John said, "It can't have been all that long. You're-what?-twenty-five?"
"Thanks, but it's thirty-one. The first time I sketched a face for the police I was eighteen. So I've been doing this almost half my life."
"Isn't eighteen awfully young to work for the police?"
"I wasn't working for them then, not officially." Maggie sighed. "I happened to witness a crime and I was the only one present who saw anything. I also happened to be able to draw. One thing led to another, and by the time I was in college I was also officially on the police payroll."