Pretty Girls Dancing(75)
So Claire hadn’t called Strickland. Because she hadn’t needed him? If that was the reason, why wouldn’t she have reported that to him? The cell in his hand vibrated. An incoming text. Finally. David opened it to read it. From Janie, and maddeningly cryptic.
Everything will be fine. Taking care of Mom.
Will be? Damn it, what was that supposed to mean? Were they home, then? They’d have to be, in order for Janie to access her phone, wouldn’t they? He called his daughter. Felt his blood pressure rise when once again it went to voice mail.
Fuming, he considered his options. He was going to have to drive back to West Bend. There was another get-together set here for tomorrow night, drinks this time with a client Kurt was courting. It could be done without David, but he was loath to miss out. It was unusual for him to be included at this juncture in the process. The invitation made it likely that if the account was won, it would be added to David’s roster. He wouldn’t miss it, he decided in the next moment. With any luck, he could drive back tomorrow evening after dealing with whatever was going on at home.
Decision made, he rose.
“What are you doing up? Who were you talking to?” He looked over his shoulder at the woman silhouetted in the hallway. Just the outline of her figure in the filmy nightgown was enough to have desire stirring.
“I have to go.” The regret in his voice was genuine. “Something’s come up that I have to deal with. Hopefully, I’ll be back tomorrow.”
“David, no.” There was a pout in her voice. “You just got here. Surely it can wait until Monday.”
“If I had a choice, I wouldn’t go, believe me.”
He crossed to her and drew her into his arms, pressing a lingering kiss on her mouth. After a moment’s hesitation, she returned it with enough heat to get his pulse racing. “I’ll make it up to you,” he whispered against her lips. “I promise.”
Special Agent Mark Foster
November 13
10:48 p.m.
“Are my eyes bleeding? Check and tell me if my eyes are bleeding.” Sloane pushed away from the table and yawned delicately, stretching her arms over her head to arch her back. After a rundown of their respective days, they’d worked largely in silence, transcribing their reports and reading over those submitted by the various law-enforcement entities partnered on the case before turning their attention to the seemingly endless information from the Willard and TMK investigations.
Ignoring her remark, Mark sat back in his chair, staring broodingly at the computer screen. “Did you know the agency has another profiler? I hadn’t heard they’d replaced Luther Sims in that position.”
The woman moved her shoulders tiredly. “Who, Greg Larsen? I knew he’d been taking some extra training. I haven’t ever worked with him in that capacity, though. Why?”
“Because my SAC mentioned that Larsen is familiar with the Willard case. If he’s acting as agency profiler, I’m guessing he’s pored over the TMK files.” He tapped the screen, indicating the e-mail he’d been reading. “Might not hurt to get his perspective on the offender. I talked to Sims and got his.”
“You did?” Sloane eyed him. “You didn’t tell me that.”
Mark shrugged, avoiding her gaze. It probably wasn’t necessary. She’d reverted to a casual businesslike persona that he already knew could be turned on and off at will. For the first time, he wondered if he’d been the first colleague she’d come on to during a case. And if he’d been the first to turn down her offer. Sloane Medford was a tenacious investigator and an assertive agent. She was doing a fast rise at the BCI. A year ago, he wouldn’t have doubted that her ascent was based solely on merit.
Now he was questioning that perception. But not as much as he was questioning himself. His conversation with Kelli last night had been stilted. They’d been fine as long as they’d stuck to Nicky. But when she’d asked about the older agent’s replacement, Mark had frozen. Finally muttered something about Kelli not knowing him and changed the subject.
Him. A lie, because Sloane Medford was definitely not male. He’d deliberately worked past the time for a call tonight. It was getting harder and harder to rationalize the omissions and half-truths.
He hadn’t cheated five months ago. Mark’s face flushed as he shoved aside the memories that threatened. Yeah, he was ashamed at how close he’d come. In bed. Both half-undressed. Hands racing . . . everywhere. But he’d come to his senses. He’d walked away. Eventually.
The memory was uncomfortable. Shunting it aside, he refocused. “I wouldn’t mind comparing Larsen’s take to Sims’s.” In fact, it might be interesting to see where the two men’s views on the case intersected and diverged. Before he could forget, he quickly composed an e-mail to that end and sent it to Larsen. Since it was the weekend, he probably wouldn’t hear back from the man until Monday.
She shrugged disinterestedly. “I don’t put a lot of stock in that kind of thing. Evidence is what solves a case.”
“Yeah, well, you may not have noticed, but there’s been a shortage of that so far in this investigation.” They had plenty of unanswered questions. Lots of potential subjects of interest. But they’d struck out with the Starkey family, and they hadn’t yet landed on the one solid lead that would put this case to rest. And until they did, Whitney DeVries remained in the hands of a monster.