Ashes to Ashes

11

CHAPTER

THE BUILDING THAT housed the offices of Dr. Lucas Brandt, two other psychotherapists, and two psychiatrists was a Georgian-style brick home of gracious proportion. Patients seeking treatment here probably felt more like they were going to high tea than to pour out their innermost secrets and psychological dirty laundry.

Lucas Brandt's office was on the second floor. Quinn and Kovac were left to cool their heels in the hall for ten minutes while he finished with a patient. Bach's Third Brandenburg Concerto floated on the air as soft as a whisper. Quinn stared out the Palladian window that offered a view of Lake of the Isles and part of the larger Lake Calhoun, both as gray as old quarters in the gloom of the day.

Kovac prowled the hall, checking out the furniture. “Real antiques. Classy. Why is it rich crazies are classy and the kind I have to haul into jail just want to piss on my shoes?”

“Repression.”

“What?”

“Social skills are founded and couched in repression. Rich crazies want to piss on your shoes too,” Quinn smiled, “but their manners hold them back.”

Kovac chuckled. “I like you, Quinn. I'm gonna have to give you a nickname.” He looked at Quinn, taking in the sharp suit, considering for a moment, then nodded. “GQ. Yeah, I like that. GQ, like the magazine. G like in G-man. Q like in Quinn.” He looked enormously pleased with himself. “Yeah, I like that.”

He didn't ask if Quinn liked it.

The door to Brandt's business office opened, and his secretary, a petite woman with red hair and no chin, invited them in, her voice a librarian's whisper.

The patient, if there had been one, must have escaped out the door of the second room. Lucas Brandt rose from behind his desk as they entered the room, and an unpleasant flash of recognition hit Kovac. Brandt. The name had rung a bell, but he wouldn't have equated the Brandt of his association with the Brandt of Neuroses of the Rich and Famous.

They went through the round of introductions, Kovac waiting for that same recognition to dawn on Brandt, but it didn't—which served only to further sour Kovac's mood. Brandt's expression was appropriately serious. Blond and Germanically attractive with a straight nose and blue eyes, he was of medium build with a posture and presence that gave the impression he was bigger than he really was. Solid was the word that came to mind. He wore a trendy silk tie and a blue dress shirt that looked professionally ironed. A steel-gray suit coat hung on one of those fancy-ass gentleman's racks in the corner.

Kovac smoothed a hand self-consciously over his J. C. Penney tie. “Dr. Brandt. I've seen you in court.”

“Yes, you probably have. Forensic psychology—a sideline I picked up when I was first starting out,” he explained for Quinn. “I needed the money at the time,” he confessed with a conspiratorial little smile that let them in on the joke that he didn't need it now. “I found I enjoyed the work, so I've kept a hand in it. It's a good diversion from what I see day today.”

Kovac arched a brow. “Take a break from rich girls with eating disorders and go testify for some scumbag. Yeah, there's a hobby.”

“I work for who needs me, Detective. Defense or prosecution.”

You work for who pulls his wallet out first. Kovac knew better than to say it.

“I'm due in court this afternoon, as a matter of fact,” Brandt said. “And I've got a lunch date first. So, while I hate to be rude, gentlemen, can we get down to business here?”

“Just a few quick questions,” Kovac said, picking up the toy rake that went with the Zen garden on the credenza by the window. He looked from the rake to the box as if he expected it was for digging up cat feces.

“You know I can't be of much help to your investigation. Jillian was my patient. My hands are tied by doctor-patient confidentiality.”

“Your patient is dead,” Kovac said bluntly. He picked up a smooth black stone from the sand and turned to lean back against the credenza, rolling the stone between his fingers. A man settling in, making himself comfortable. “I don't think her expectations for privacy are quite what they were.”

Brandt looked almost amused. “You can't seem to make up your mind, Detective. Is Jillian dead or not? You implied to Peter she may still be alive. If Jillian is alive, then she still has the expectation of privacy.”

“There's a high probability the body found is Jillian Bondurant's, but it's not a certainty,” Quinn said, moving back toward the conversation, taking the reins diplomatically from Kovac. “Either way, we're working against the clock, Dr. Brandt. This killer will kill again. That's an absolute. Sooner rather than later, I think. The more we can find out about his victims, the closer we will be to stopping him.”

“I'm familiar with your theories, Agent Quinn. I've read some of your articles. In fact, I think I have the textbook you coauthored somewhere on those shelves. Very insightful. Know the victims, know their killer.”

“That's part of it. This killer's first two victims were high risk. Jillian doesn't seem to fit the mold.”

Brandt sat back against the edge of his desk, tapped a forefinger against his lips, and nodded slowly. “The deviation from the pattern. I see. That makes her the logical centerpiece to the puzzle. You think he's saying more about himself in killing Jillian than with the other two. But what if she were just in the wrong place at the wrong time? What if he didn't choose the first two because they were prostitutes? Perhaps all the victims were situational.”

“No,” Quinn said, studying the subtle, curious light of challenge in Brandt's eyes. “There's nothing random in this guy's bag of tricks. He picked each of these women for a reason. The reason should be more apparent with Jillian. How long had she been seeing you?”

“Two years.”

“How had she come to you? By referral?”

“By golf. Peter and I are both members at Minikahda. An excellent place to make connections,” he confessed with a smile, pleased with his own clever business acumen.

“You'd make more if you lived in Florida,” Quinn joked. Aren't we buddies—so smart, so resourceful. “The season here has to be—what?—all of two months?”

“Three if we have spring,” Brandt shot back, settling into the rhythm of repartee. “A lot of time spent in the clubhouse. The dining room is lovely. You golf?”

“When I get the chance.” Never because he enjoyed it. Always as an opportunity for a contact, a chance to get his ideas through to his SAC or the unit chief, or supposed downtime with law enforcement personnel he was working cases with across the country. Not so different from Lucas Brandt after all.

“Too bad the season's over,” Brandt said.

“Yeah,” Kovac drawled, “damned inconsiderate for this killer to work in November, if you look at it that way.”

Brandt flicked him a glance. “That's hardly what I meant, Detective. Though, now that you've brought it up, it's a shame you didn't catch him this summer. We wouldn't be having this conversation.

“Anyway,” he said, turning back to Quinn. “I've known Peter for years.”

“He doesn't strike me as a very social man.”

“No. Golf is serious business with Peter. Everything is serious with Peter. He's very driven.”

“How did that quality impact his relationship with Jillian?”

“Ah!” He held up a finger in warning and shook his head, still smiling. “Crossing the line, Agent Quinn.”

Quinn acknowledged the breach with a tip of his head.

“When did you last speak with Jillian?” Kovac asked.

“We had a session Friday. Every Friday at four.”

“And then she'd go over to her father's house for supper?”

“Yes. Peter and Jillian were working very hard on their relationship. They'd been separated for a long time. A lot of old feelings to deal with.”

“Such as?”

Brandt blinked at him.

“All right. What about a general statement, say, about the root of Jillian's problems? Give us an impression.”

“Sorry. No.”

Kovac gave a little sigh. “Look, you could answer a few simple questions without breaching anyone's trust. For instance, whether or not she was on any medication. We need to know for the tox screen.”

“Prozac. Trying to even out her mood swings.”

“Manic depressive?” Quinn asked.

The doctor gave him a look.

“Did she have any problem with drugs that you knew of?” Kovac tried.

“No comment.”

“Was she having trouble with a boyfriend?”

Nothing.

“Did she ever talk about anyone abusing her?”

Silence.

Kovac rubbed a hand over his mouth, petting his mustache. He could feel his temper crumbling like old cork. “You know this girl two years. You know her father. He considers you a friend. You could maybe give us a direction in this girl's murder. And you waste our time with this bullshit game—pick and choose, hot and cold.”

Quinn cleared his throat discreetly. “You know the rules, Sam.”

“Yeah, well, fuck the rules!” Kovac barked, flipping a book of Mapplethorpe photographs off the end table. “If I was a defense attorney waving a wad of cash, you can bet he'd find a loophole to ooze through.”

“I resent that, Detective.”

“Oh, well, yeah, I'm sorry I hurt your feelings. Somebody tortured this girl, Doctor.” He pushed away from the credenza, his expression as hard as the stone he shot into the wastebasket. The sound was like a .22 popping. “Somebody cut her head off and kept it for a souvenir. If I knew this girl, I think I would care about who did that to her. And if I could help catch the sick bastard, I would. But you care more about your social status than you care about Jillian Bondurant. I wonder if her father realizes that.”

He gave a harsh laugh as his pager went off. “What the hell am I saying? Peter Bondurant doesn't even want to believe his daughter could be alive. The two of you probably deserve each other.”

The pager trilled again. He checked the readout, swore under his breath, and went out of the office, leaving Quinn to deal with the aftermath.

Brandt managed to find something amusing in Kovac's outburst. “Well, that was quick. It generally takes the average cop a little longer to lose his temper with me.”

“Sergeant Kovac is under a great deal of stress with these murders,” Quinn said, moving to the credenza and the Zen garden. “I apologize on his behalf.”

The stones in the box had been arranged to form an X, the sand raked in a sinuous pattern around them. His mind flashed on the lacerations in the victim's feet—a double X pattern—and on the stab wounds to the victim's chest—two intersecting Xs.

“Is the pattern significant?” he asked casually.

“Not to me,” Brandt said. “My patients play with that more than I do. I find it calms some people, encourages the flow of thought and communication.”

Quinn knew several agents at the NCAVC who kept Zen gardens. Their offices were sixty feet below ground—ten times deeper than the dead, they joked. No windows, no fresh air, and the knowledge that the weight of the earth pressed in on the walls were all symbolic enough to give Freud a hard-on. A person needed something to relieve the tension. Personally, he preferred to hit things—hard. He spent hours in the gym punishing a punching bag for the sins of the world.

“No apology needed on Kovac's behalf.” Brandt bent down to pick up the Mapplethorpe book. “I'm an old hand at dealing with the police. Everything is simple to them. You're either a good guy or a bad guy. They don't seem to understand that I find the boundaries of my professional ethics frustrating at times too, but they are what they are. You understand.”

He set the book aside and sat back against his desk, his hip just nudging a small stack of files. The label read BONDURANT, JILLIAN. A microcassette recorder lay atop the file, as if perhaps he had been at work or would still work on his notes from his last session with her.

“I understand your position. I hope you understand mine,” Quinn said carefully. “I'm not a cop here. While our ultimate goal is the same, Sergeant Kovac and I have different agendas. My profile doesn't require the kind of evidence admissible in court. I'm looking for impressions, feelings, gut instinct, details some would consider insignificant. Sam's looking for a bloody knife with fingerprints. You see what I mean?”

Brandt nodded slowly, never taking his eyes from Quinn's. “Yes, I believe I do. I'll have to think about it. But at the same time, you should consider that the problems Jillian brought to me may have had nothing whatsoever to do with her death. Her killer may not have known anything at all about her.”

“And then again, he might have known the one thing that set him off,” Quinn said. He took a business card from a slim case in his breast pocket and handed it to Brandt. “This is my direct line at the Bureau office downtown. I hope to hear from you.”

Brandt set the card aside and shook his hand. “With due consideration for the circumstances, it was a pleasure meeting you. I have to confess, I'm the one who suggested your name to Peter when he told me he wanted to call your director.”

Quinn's mouth twisted as he started for the door. “I'm not so sure I should thank you for that, Dr. Brandt.”

He left the office through the reception area, glancing at the woman waiting on the camelback sofa with her feet perfectly together and her red Coach bag balanced on her knees, her expression a carefully blank screen over annoyance and embarrassment. She didn't want to be seen there.

He wondered how Jillian had felt coming here and confiding all to one of her father's sycophants. Had it been a choice or a condition of Peter's support? She'd shown up every week for two years, and only God and Lucas Brandt knew why. And very possibly Bondurant. Brandt could preen for them and display his ethics like a peacock fanning his tail feathers, but Quinn suspected Kovac was right: When it came down to it, Brandt's first obligation would be to himself. And keeping Peter Bondurant happy would go a long way toward keeping Lucas Brandt happy.

Kovac was waiting in the foyer on the first floor, staring in puzzlement at an abstract painting of a woman with three eyes and breasts growing out the sides of her head.

“Jesus Christ, that's uglier than my second wife's mother—and she could break a mirror from fifty feet away. You suppose they hang it there just to give their crazies an extra little tweak on the way in and out?”

“It's a Rorschach test,” Quinn said. “They're looking to weed out the guys who think it's a woman with three eyes and breasts on the sides of her head.”

Kovac frowned and stole a last look at the thing before they stepped outside.

“One phone call from Brandt and my sorry butt's in a sling,” he groused as they descended the steps. “I can hear my lieutenant now—‘What the hell were you thinking, Kovac?' Jesus, Brandt'll probably sic the chief on me. They're probably in the same fucking backgammon league. They probably get manicures together. Greer'll get up on a ladder, rip my head off, and shout down the hole—‘What the hell were you thinking, Kovac? Thirty days without pay!'”

He shook his head. “What the hell was I thinking?”

“I don't know. What the hell were you thinking?”

“That I hate that guy, that's what.”

“Really? I thought we were playing good cop—bad cop.”

Kovac looked at him over the roof of the Caprice. “I'm not that good an actor. Do I look like Harrison Ford?”

Quinn squinted. “Maybe if you lose the mustache . . .”

They slid into the car from their respective sides, Kovac's laugh dying as he shook his head. “I don't know what I'm laughing about. I know better than to go off like that. Brandt yanks my chain, that's all. I'm kicking myself because I didn't place him until I saw him. I just wasn't expecting . . .”

No excuse was a good excuse. He blew air between his lips and stared out the windshield through the naked fingerling branches of a dormant bush to the lake in the distance.

“You know him from a case?” Quinn asked.

“Yeah. Eight or nine years ago he testified for the defense in a murder case I worked. Carl Borchard, nineteen, killed his girlfriend after she tried to break up with him. Choked her. Brandt comes in with this sob story about how Borchard's mother abandoned him, and how this stress with his girlfriend pushed him over a line. He tells the jury how we all should pity Carl, 'cause he didn't mean it and he was so remorseful. How he wasn't really a killer. It was a crime of passion. He wasn't a danger to society. Blah, blah, blah. Boo-hoo-hoo.”

“And you knew different?”

“Carl Borchard was a whiny, sociopathic little shit with a juvenile sheet full of stuff the prosecutors couldn't get admitted. He had a history of acting out against women. Brandt knew that as well as we did, but he wasn't on our payroll.”

“Borchard got off.”

“Manslaughter. First adult offense, reduced sentence, time served, et cetera, et cetera. The little creep barely had time to take a crap in prison. Then they send him to a halfway house. While he's living at this halfway house he rapes a woman in the next neighborhood and beats her head in with a claw hammer. Thank you, Dr. Brandt.

“You know what he had to say about it?” Kovac said with amazement. “He was in the Star Tribune saying he thought Carl had ‘exhausted his victim pool' with the first murder, but, hey, shit happens. He went on to say he couldn't really be held accountable for this little blunder because he hadn't been able to spend all that much time with Borchard. Fucking amazing.”

Quinn absorbed the information quietly. The feeling that he was getting too close to this case pressed in on him again. He felt the people in it crowding around him, standing too close for him to really see them. He wanted them back and away. He didn't want to know anything about Lucas Brandt, didn't want to have a personal impression of the man. He wanted what Brandt could give him from an arm's length. He wanted to go lock himself in the neat, paneled office the SAC had given him in the building on Washington Avenue downtown. But that wasn't the way things were going to work here.

“I know something else about your Dr. Brandt,” he said as Kovac started the car and put it in gear.

“What's that?”

“He was standing in the background at the press conference yesterday.”

“THERE HE IS.”

Kovac hit the freeze button on the remote control. The picture jerked and twitched as the VCR held the tape in place. To the side of the press mob, standing with a pack of suits, was Brandt. A muscle at the base of Kovac's diaphragm tightened like a fist. He punched the play button and watched the psychologist tip his head and say something to the man next to him. He froze the picture again.

“Who's that he's talking to?”

“Ahh . . .” Yurek tipped his head sideways for a better angle. “Kellerman, the public defender.”

“Oh, yeah. Worm Boy. Call him. See if Brandt and him were together,” Kovac ordered. “Find out if Brandt had any legit reason to be there.”

Adler raised a brow. “You think he's a suspect?”

“I think he's an asshole.”

“If that was against the law, the jails would be full of lawyers.”

“He jerked me around this morning,” Kovac complained. “Him and Bondurant are too cozy, and Bondurant's jerking us around too.”

“He's the victim's father,” Adler pointed out.

“He's the victim's rich father,” Tippen added.

“He's the victim's rich, powerful father,” Yurek, Mr. Public Relations, reminded all.

Kovac gave him a look. “He's part of a murder investigation. I've gotta run this investigation as tight as any other. That means we look at everybody. Family always comes under the microscope. I want to step on Brandt a little, let him know we're not just a pack of tame dogs Peter Bondurant can order around. If he can give us anything on Jillian Bondurant, I want it. And I also want to step on him because he's a fucking tick.”

“This smells like trouble, Kojak,” Yurek sang.

“It's a murder investigation, Charm. You want to consult Emily Post?”

“I want to come out of it with my career intact.”

“Your career is investigating,” Kovac returned. “Brandt had a connection to Jillian Bondurant.”

“You got any reason other than not liking him to think this prick shrink would off two hookers and decapitate a patient?” Tippen asked.

“I'm not saying he's a suspect,” he snapped. “He saw Jillian Bondurant Friday. He saw her every Friday. He knows everything we need to know about this vic. If he's withholding information on us, we have a right to squeeze him a little.”

“And make him squeal privilege.”

“He's already singing that song. Skate around it. Stay on the fringes. If we can so much as get him to mention the name of Jillian's boyfriend, that's something we didn't have before. As soon as we confirm the DB is Jillian, then there's no longer an expectation of privacy and we can lean on Brandt for details.

“Something else I don't like about this jerk,” Kovac added, pacing beside the table, the wheels of his brain spinning. “I don't like that he's been associated with God knows how many criminals. I want a list of every violent offender he's ever testified for or against.”

“I'll get it,” Tippen offered. “My ex works in records for the felony courts. She hates my guts, but she'll hate this killer more. I'll look good by comparison.”

“Man, that's sad, Tip.” Adler shook his head. “You barely rank above the scumbags.”

“Hey, that's a step up from when she filed the papers.”

“And Bondurant,” Kovac said, drawing another chorus of groans. “Bondurant won't talk to us, and I don't like that. He told Quinn he was worried about his privacy. Can't imagine why,” he added with a sly grin, pulling the mini-cassette recorder out of his coat pocket.

The five members of the task force present crowded around to listen. Liska and Moss were still out doing victim background. The feds had returned to the FBI offices. Walsh was working through the list VICAP had provided of similar crimes committed in other parts of the country. He would be calling agents in other Bureau field offices, and calling contacts he had in various law enforcement agencies through his affiliation with the FBI's National Academy program that offered training to law enforcement professionals outside the Bureau. Quinn had sequestered himself to work on Smokey Joe's profile.

The tape of Bondurant's conversation with Quinn played out. The detectives listened, barely breathing. Kovac tried to picture Bondurant, needing to see the man's face, needing the expressions that went with the mostly expressionless voice. He had gone over the conversation with Quinn, and had Quinn's impressions. But questioning someone via a third party was a lot like trying to have sex with someone who was in another room—a lot of frustration and not much satisfaction.

The tape played out. The machine shut itself off with a sharp click. Kovac looked from one team member to the next. Cop faces: stern with ingrained, guarded skepticism.

“That skinny white boy's hiding something,” Adler said at last, sitting back in his chair.

“I don't know that it has anything to do with the murder,” Kovac said. “But I'd say he's definitely holding something back on us about Friday night. I want to re-canvass the neighbors and talk to the housekeeper.”

“She was gone that night,” Elwood said.

“I don't care. She knew the girl. She knows her boss.”

Yurek groaned and put his head in his hands.

“What's your problem, Charm?” Tippen asked. “All you have to do is tell the newsies we have no comment at this time.”

“Yeah, on national television,” he said. “The big dogs smelled this shit and came running. I've got network news people ringing my phone off the hook. Bondurant is news all by himself. Bondurant plus a decapitated, burned corpse that may or may not be his daughter is the kind of stuff that transcends Tom Brokaw, headlines Dateline, and sells tabloids by the truckload. Sniff too hard in Peter Bondurant's direction, get the press leaning that way, I'm telling you, he'll blow. We'll be hip-deep in lawsuits and suspensions.”

“I'll work on Bondurant and Brandt,” Kovac said, knowing he'd have to do a hell of a lot better job of it than he'd done that morning. “I'll take the heat, but I need people working them peripherally, talking to friends, acquaintances, and so forth. Chunk, you and Hamill checking around Paragon? Working the disgruntled-employee angle?”

“Got a meeting out there in thirty.”

“Maybe we can talk to someone who knew the girl in France,” Tippen suggested. “Maybe the feds can dig up someone over there. Let us in on some of her back story. The kid was screwed up for a reason. Maybe some friend over there knows if this reason has a name.”

“Call Walsh and see what he can do. Ask him if there's any word yet on those medical records. Elwood, did you get anything back from Wisconsin on the DL our witness is running around with?”

“No wants, no warrants. I called information to get a phone number—she doesn't have one. I contacted the post office—they say she moved and left no forwarding address. Strike three.”

“She give us a sketch yet?” Yurek asked.

“Kate Conlan brought her in this morning to work with Oscar,” Kovac said, rising. “I'm gonna go see what's what right now. We'd better pray to God that girl has a Polaroid memory. A break on this thing now could save all our asses.”

“I'll need copies ASAP for the press,” Yurek said.

“I'll get it to you. What time are you set to play America's Most Wanted?”

“Five.”

Kovac checked his watch. The day was running double time and they didn't have much to show for it yet. That was the hell of getting an investigation this size off the ground. Time was of the essence. Every cop knew that after the first forty-eight hours of an investigation, the odds of solving a murder dropped off sharply. But the amount of information that needed to be gathered, collated, interpreted, and acted upon at the start of a multiple murder investigation was staggering. And just one piece ignored could be the one piece that turned the tide.

His pager trilled. The readout gave his lieutenant's number.

“Everyone who can, meet back here at four,” he said, grabbing his coat off the back of his chair. “If you're out, check in with me on the cell phone. I'm outta here.”

“SHE DIDN'T SEEM very sure of herself, Sam,” Oscar said, leading him to a tilt-top drawing table in a small office made smaller by a pack rat's clutter. Papers, books, magazines, filled all available space in precarious towers and piles. “I led her through it as gently as I could, but she was resistant at the core.”

“Resistant as in lying or resistant as in scared?”

“Afraid. And as you well know, fear can precipitate prevarication.”

“You've been into the thesaurus again, haven't you, Oscar?”

A beatific smile peeked through the copious facial hair. “Education is the wellspring of the soul.”

“Yeah, well, you'll be drowning in it, Oscar,” Kovac said, impatient, digging a lint-ridden Mylanta tablet out of his pants pocket. “So, let's see the masterpiece.”

“I consider it a work in progress.”

He peeled back the opaque protective sheet, revealing the pencil sketch Twin Cities residents had been promised by their top elected and appointed officials. The suspect wore a dark, puffed-up jacket—hiding his build—over a hooded sweatshirt, hood up, hiding the color of his hair. Aviator sunglasses hid the shape of his eyes. The nose was nondescript, the face of medium width. The mouth was partially obscured by a mustache.

Kovac's stomach did a slow roll. “It's the fucking Una-bomber!” he snapped, wheeling on Oscar. “What the hell am I supposed to do with this?”

“Now, Sam, I told you it was a work in progress,” Oscar said in that low, slow voice.

“He's wearing sunglasses! It was fucking midnight and she's got him wearing sunglasses!” Sam ranted. “Judas fucking priest! This could be anyone. This could be no one. This could be me, for godsake!”

“I'm hoping to work with Angie a little more,” the artist said, unperturbed by Kovac's temper. “She doesn't believe she has the details in her memory, but I believe she does. She has only to release her fear and clarity will come. Eventually.”

“I don't have eventually, Oscar! I've got a goddamn press conference at five o'clock!”

He blew out a breath and turned a circuit around the artist's small, cramped, cluttered workspace, looking around as if he wanted to find something to throw. Christ, he sounded like Sabin, wanting evidence on demand. He had been telling himself all day not to count on that lying, thieving little piece of baggage he had to call a witness, but beneath the cynicism, he'd been praying for a dead-on, got-you-by-the-balls-now composite. Twenty-two years on the job and the optimist in him still lived. Amazing.

“I'm working on a version without the mustache,” Oscar said. “She seemed uncertain about the mustache.”

“How can she be uncertain about a mustache! He either had one or he didn't! Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck!

“I won't release it today, that's all,” he said mostly to himself. “We'll hold off, get the girl back in here tomorrow, and try to get some better detail.”

From the corner of his eyes, he could see Oscar drop his head a little. He looked to be retreating into his beard. Kovac stopped his pacing and looked at him square.

“We can do that, can't we, Oscar?”

“I'll be pleased to work with Angie again tomorrow. I'd like nothing better than to help her unblock her memory flow. Confronting memory is the first step to neutralizing its negative power. As for the other, you'll have to take it up with Chief Greer. He was in here an hour ago to get a copy.”

“SHE SAW HIS face for two minutes in the light of a burning corpse, Sam,” Kate said, leading him into her office, not sure the small space would hold him. When he was wound, Kovac was a barely contained column of energy that required perpetual motion.

“She looked directly at the face of a murderer in bright light. Come on, Red. Wouldn't you think the details would be branded, so to speak, in her memory?”

Kate sat back against her desk, crossing her ankles, careful to keep her toes out of Kovac's way. “I think her memory might improve dramatically with the application of a little cash,” she said dryly.

“What!”

“She got wind of Bondurant's reward and wants a chunk. Can you blame her, Sam? The kid's got nothing. She's got no one. She's been living on the street, doing God knows what to survive.”

“Did you explain to her that rewards go out on conviction? We can't convict somebody we can't catch. We can't catch somebody we don't have a clue what the hell he looks like.”

“I know. Hey, you don't have to preach to me. And—word of warning—don't preach to Angie either,” Kate said. “She's on the fence, Sam. We could lose her. Figuratively and literally. You think life's a bitch now, imagine what'll happen if your only witness skips.”

“What are you saying? Are you saying we should stick someone on her?”

“Unmarked, low-key, and well back. You set a uniform on the curb in front of the Phoenix, it's only going to make matters worse. She already thinks we're treating her like a criminal.”

“Lovely,” Kovac drawled. “And what else would her highness require?”

“Don't bust my chops,” Kate ordered. “I'm on your side. And stop pacing, you'll make yourself dizzy. You're making me dizzy.”

Kovac pulled in a deep breath and leaned back against the wall, directly across from Kate.

“You knew what to expect from this girl, Sam. Why are you surprised by this? Or did you just want that composite to be a dead ringer for one of your exes?”

His mouth twisted with chagrin. He rubbed a hand across his face and wished for a cigarette. “I got a bad feeling about this deal, Kate,” he admitted. “I guess I was hoping for the witness fairy to touch our little Miss Daisy with her wand. Or poke her with it. Or hold it to her head like a gun. I hoped that maybe the kid would be scared enough to tell the truth. Oscar tells me fear precipitates prevarication.”

“He's been reading those pop psychology books again, hasn't he?”

“Or something.” He heaved a sigh. “Bottom line: I need something to kick-start this investigation or I'll have to go digging in some nasty shitholes. I guess I was hoping this was it.”

“Hold the sketch back a day. I'll bring her in again tomorrow. See if Oscar can apply his mystic powers and draw something out of her—no pun intended.”

“I don't think I'll be able to hold it back. Big Chief Little Dick got his hands on the sketch before me. He'll want to run with it. He'll want to present it at the press conference himself.

“Goddamn brass,” he grumbled. “They're worse than kids with a case like this. Everybody wants the credit. Everybody wants their face on the news. They all have to look important—like they've got shit to do with the investigation besides get in the way of the real cops.”

“That's what's really grating on you, Sam,” Kate pointed out. “It's not the sketch, it's your natural resistance to working under supervision.”

He scowled at her. “You been reading Oscar's books too?”

“I have a college degree in brain picking,” she reminded him. “What's the worst that happens if the sketch goes out and it isn't totally accurate?”

“I don't know, Kate. This mope barbecues women and cuts their heads off. What's the worst that could happen?”

“He won't be offended by the sketch,” Kate said. “He's more likely to be amused, to think he's outsmarted you again.”

“Ahh, so then he'll feel more invincible and be empowered to go out and whack another one! Swell!”

“Don't be such a fatalist. You can use this to your advantage. Ask Quinn. Besides, if the sketch is even partially accurate, you might get something off it. Maybe someone out there will remember seeing a similar individual near a truck. Maybe they'll remember a partial license plate, a dent in a fender, a guy with a limp. You know as well as I do, luck plays into an investigation like this in a big way.”

“Yeah, well,” Kovac said, reluctantly pushing himself away from the wall. “We could use a truckload. Soon. So where's the sunshine girl now?”

“I had someone take her back to the Phoenix. She's not happy about that.”

“Tough.”

“Ditto,” Kate said. “She wants a hotel room or an apartment or something. I want her with people. Isolation isn't going to open her up. Plus, I'd like someone keeping an eye on her. Did you go through that backpack she carries around?”

“Liska checked it out. Angie was steamed, but, hey, she came running away from a headless corpse. We couldn't risk her going psycho and pulling a knife on us. The uniform picked her up should have done it at the scene, but he was all shook up thinking about Smokey Joe. Stupid rookie. He screws up that way with the wrong mutt, he'll get himself whacked.”

“Did Nikki find anything?”

He pursed his lips and shook his head. “What are you thinking? Drugs?”

“I don't know. Maybe. Her behavior is all over the map. She's up, she's down, she's tough, she's on the verge of tears. I start to think something's off about her, then I stop and think: My God, look what she's been through. Maybe she's remarkably stable and sane, all things considered.”

“Or maybe she needs a score,” Kovac speculated, moving toward the door. “Maybe that's what she was doing in that park at midnight. I know some guys in narcotics. I'll reach out, see if maybe they know this kid. We got nothing else on her yet. Wisconsin had nothing.”

“I talked to a Susan Frye in our juvenile division,” Kate said. “She's been at this forever. She's got a great network. Rob is checking his contacts in Wisconsin. In the meantime, I need to get Angie some kind of perk, Sam. A show of appreciation. Can you kick her something out of petty cash as an informant?”

“I'll see what I can do.”

Another duty to add to his long list. Poor guy, Kate thought. The lines in his face seemed deeper today. He had the weight of the city on those sturdy shoulders. His suit jacket hung limp on him, as if he had somehow drawn the starch out of it to supplement his draining energy.

“Listen, don't worry about it,” she said as she pulled the door open. “I can weasel it out of your lieutenant myself. You've got better things to do.”

Halfway out the door, he turned and gave her a lopsided smile. “What gave you that idea?”

“Just a hunch.”

“Thanks. You're sure you're not too busy tackling armed gunmen?”

“Heard about that, did you?” Kate made a face, not comfortable with the attention yesterday's incident had gotten her. She'd turned down half a dozen requests for interviews and made too many trips to the ladies' room to dab makeup over the bruises.

“Wrong place, wrong time, that's all. The story of my life,” she said dryly.

Kovac looked thoughtful, as if he were considering saying something profound, then shook his head a little. “You're a wonder, Red.”

“Hardly. I've just got a guardian angel with a sick sense of humor. Go fight the fight, Sergeant. I'll take care of the witness.”