Spiders in the Grove (In the Company of Killers #7)(10)

But Mr. Ware, like all men, has a weakness, a chink in his armor: my baby face. And every time I meet with him, I play him like fingers moving smoothly, skillfully over piano keys.

“So, what new information do you have for me, Mr. Ware?”

He smiles, and with eager hands he reaches for his briefcase on the table and flips it open. Two seconds later, a file is in front of me.

“You’re going to love this,” he says, closing the briefcase and sliding it aside.

I pull the folder closer, but wait before opening it; I don’t want to appear as eager as he does—it’s such a vulnerable look.

Instead of elaborating, it’s apparent he just wants me to open the file already. And I guess I better, or else he’s going to have an anxiety attack over there caused by the anticipation from waiting too long.

Placing two fingers into the folder, I open it slowly. There are no photos this time, no gruesome crime scenes; just a bunch of text, with a few small paragraphs here and there in bold font. I skim the information at first, but when I see a few keywords sticking out at me like bright red blood on a sterile-white floor—hair sample, DNA, female—I read everything word-for-word instead. Because I had a feeling this day might come; good thing I prepared for it in advance.

When I’m finished, I close the folder and look at Ware, unimpressed.

“It’s a possibility,” I say, “but doubtful.”

Ware blinks. “Doubtful?” His excitement turns to disappointment. “But it’s all right here”—he gestures at the file—“and it’s the biggest break in this case I’ve seen in ten years. How can you brush off the theory so easily without giving it a chance?” He is truly beside himself over this.

Because you’re getting too close, Mr. Ware, and I can’t have that.

“Even the fact that all of the victims are male,” he goes on, “is a concrete clue—how could you think otherwise?”

“Because based on the case files,” I begin, “the crime scenes, everything about this killer, in my expert opinion, points in one direction.”

Ware leans away from the table, and crosses his arms; he gives me a look that basically says: Well, I’m listening; and he seems a little aggravated, too; as pissed as he can be at someone he admires so much, of course.

I slide my briefcase over this time, enter the code to unlock it, and then reach inside for my own files. As I’m spreading out crime scene photos on the table between us, Ware’s eyes veer off nervously, worried someone else will walk by and see such horrific things.

Sliding one photo toward him, I say, “Tell me what you see in that photo.” Before giving him a chance to answer, I put a few more next to it. “Tell me what you see in all of these photos.”

Ware looks down at them, studies them for a moment. “I can tell you exactly what I see, but we both know you’re going to point out something I obviously do not. So, it’s probably better you just tell me what it is.”

I point at the bookcase behind the victim’s head. “A mirror.” I point at various spots in the other photos. “There’s a mirror in every single crime scene—maybe not in all of the photos you’ve ever shown me, but I can guarantee that if you go back and look at every photo ever taken of each crime scene, you’ll find a mirror at all of them.”

He mulls it over a moment. “OK, so even if there’s a mirror in all of them, what is that supposed to mean?”

I shuffle the photographs into a stack and place them back into my briefcase as a woman walks by. I feel her eyes on us, glancing over my shoulder covertly. Sensing she probably saw or heard something she shouldn’t have, I watch her from the corner of my eye as she makes her way toward the restrooms. This is why I hate meeting in public places about things like this; everyday people are so foolishly curious. And nosey.

“This killer hates himself,” I tell Kenneth Ware, “but he wants to love himself.” I slide the first sheet of paper into Ware’s view, and point at the text while explaining. “All of the victims, not only are they men, but they’re fairly large men”—I point at one line in particular—“Kamir Rashad weighed two-hundred-forty pounds, all muscle.” I shuffle another sheet on top, and point again. “Abner Marin was a black-belt in Brazilian jiu-jitsu—”

“I see what you’re getting at,” he cuts in, and then leans forward again, resting his arms upon the table, “and we’ve already considered this information, but that doesn’t mean it can’t be a woman. I’ve known women who could kick my ass, and I’m six-two and weigh one-ninety-three.”

“I’m not done,” I point out, and his lips snap closed.

I move the papers aside.

“All of the victims were men. Most of them were physically strong, and bigger than the average-sized woman; and some of them, like Abner Marin, were skilled in some kind of martial arts—and one was a cop, another was military—so, what I’m seeing here, rather than the obvious it-must-be-a-woman-because-the-victims-are-men theory, is that all of the victims were manly men, and that the killer is also a manly man, and that’s why he chooses them—because that’s the part about himself he hates. It also better explains how the killer could take down so many men of their size and skill, on his own, and not get himself killed doing it. If the killer was a woman, she probably wouldn’t have lasted this long.” I know that’s not true—at least not with most women I’ve ever known—but whatever steers Ware in the other direction…