“HAVE YOU EVER WORKED WITH A FORENSIC PSYCHOLOGIST, Ms. Hayes?” Eighteen empty chairs had offered themselves, but after removing his coat and tossing it onto the conference room table, Detective Stiles had chosen to sit on the one directly beside me. crowding me again. Was it deliberate? He watched me closely, as if studying my reactions, and his voice was muted, as if what he was saying were to be held in the utmost confidence.
“You mean a profiler? No. I haven’t.”
“But you know what they do, right?”
I nodded. “I watch TV like everybody else.”
There was that crooked smile again. As if half his face were happy, the other half grim. There was a shadow on the grim half, some kind of scar.
“These days, everybody’s an expert, with all the crime shows on the tube.” The smile faded. His eyes moved quickly, taking in details of the room, returning to me. “Reality’s a little different, though. The department works with various profilers, experts who analyze crime data and come up with a set of characteristics belonging to the perpetrator. They get pretty good results, too. Profilers described the character and lifestyles of serial killers like Ted Bundy and the Boston Strangler and locally, if you remember, Troy Graves, the center city rapist.”
I recalled the name. Graves had raped several women and murdered one, terrorizing the city in the late nineties.
“Police profilers nailed Graves’s race, age, sexual history, social tendencies, physical build, and personality traits and the general location of his residence at the time of the crimes.”
“But, as I recall, he wasn’t caught here. Wasn’t he arrested out in Colorado?”
“He was. But the profilers had the information just right. You’ve got a woman on staff here at the Institute who does profiling for the department. Beverly Gardener? You know her?”
Everyone knew Beverly Gardener. She was a celebrity, a tall, ambitious, confident, self-possessed brunette with legs to die for and a list of academic credentials as long as my arm. She hosted a call-in radio show, testified at trials as an expert witness, and wrote mass-market books on topics like the sex drives of mass murderers, the childhoods of serial killers, and the spiritual lives of death row prisoners. At the Institute, she was on staff as much for public relations as for her research. The board of directors was in awe of her. She was handled like a superstar, and, aloof and self-absorbed, she carried herself like one. As many times as I’d attended meetings with her or passed her in the hall, she’d never acknowledged me. Never as much as nodded hello.
“The department tends to consult Dr. Gardener, but since I’ve usually worked with the FBI, this is my first case with her. So far, I’m impressed.”
I nodded, having no idea why we were having a conversation about Beverly Gardener. I waited for him to explain. The pause was heavy as he continued to study me. Why was he staring? We sat in adjacent chairs, knee almost to knee. Again, too close. I fidgeted, shifted in my chair, wished I’d tweezed my eyebrows. My knees tingled. I was aware of the muscles in my thighs. And in his.
Finally, I cleared my throat. “So. What does Beverly Gardener have to do with the finger?” I assumed that the finger was what he wanted to talk about.
“The finger?”
“The finger on my doorstep? Isn’t that what you’re here about?”
“Oh, of course. Well, yes and no. If not for the finger, I wouldn’t be here, but actually I’m here to talk about you.”
About me? Again, my face warmed. His eyes were riveted onto mine. Lord. What was he staring at? Was my hair messed up? Was my mascara clumped?
“Let me explain, Ms. Hayes. It’s not a sure thing, but you might be able to help us.”
I wasn’t following. “Help you? How?”
“First, you’re a psychotherapist.”
“No, I’m not—I’m just an art therapist.”
“Okay, then. An art therapist—”
“Well, it’s an important distinction. I don’t work alone—I’m part of a team of therapists, psychologists, and psychiatrists who work together. I work specifically with creative expression using visual media.”
“So you do what? Analyze your patients’ artwork? Try to figure out what it means?”
“Sometimes. Mostly, I help patients find ways to express themselves—”
His cell phone rang, but he nodded, apparently not interested in a description of my profession. “Anyhow, you’re trained, an expert in human behavior.” He took the call, and I remembered that Stiles had a degree in psychology. Shouldn’t he know what an art therapist did? Why was he playing dumb? On the phone, he gave gruff instructions in words of one syllable, then continued as if there had been no interruption.
“Not only are you trained, but you’re also in a unique position. You live smack in the middle of the area where serial crimes are being committed. Women are being abducted within a five-block radius. Experience and two profilers tell me that the perp most likely lives or works within that radius.” I swallowed. What was he saying? That the person taking the nannies was one of my neighbors?
“What I’m about to say is between you and me, okay?” He leaned closer. I smelled aftershave. “I want to enlist your help. Unofficially, of course. You know the neighborhood, the people, as no outsider can. You’re also a mom, right? Presumably, you know at least some of the victims and potential victims—local babysitters and nannies.”
I closed my eyes. Yes, indeed. I did.
“And you know people who’ve been in contact with those women. We want to find out who has links to the victims. Especially men who’re connected somehow to all of them.”
I blinked, remembering gymnastics. The conversation about coach Gene asking out Tamara and claudia, getting rejected by both. Did he know the other missing women, too? I thought about him while Detective Stiles kept talking. Everyone liked and trusted Gene; kids loved him. No one would suspect a peppy, friendly guy like him. And, working with young children, he had daily contact with lots of nannies.
“Think about it,” Detective Stiles was saying. “As you come up with names, make me a list. Also, I’d like you to study Dr. Gardener’s perp profile. See if you recognize anyone who fits the picture. Anything that rings a bell. Even if nothing does, I’d like you to be on the lookout, keep your eyes and ears open.”
I was confused. I pictured Charlie on his porch, alert, standing guard. Was I supposed to join him? “You want me to spy on my neighbors?”
Half his mouth rose in its lopsided smile. “That’s pretty cold, Ms. Hayes.” The smile disappeared. “But no. It’s nothing that extreme. Just read the profile, look around you, and communicate any relevant thoughts directly to me. What do you say?” His eyes waited, alert and intense.
What did I say? I pictured myself leaping a fence, chasing suspects around the corner like a damn charlie’s Angel. He couldn’t be asking for that. More likely, he wanted me to be his local informer. A snitch. How did I feel about that? Did I want to sleuth around the neighborhood, hunting a dangerous psychopath? I had a child, a home. A bubble to protect. But that was the whole point, wasn’t it? I wanted to protect my home and child and Angela and Bonita and the whole neighborhood. Yes, I’d help. You bet I would.
“Of course, I’ll do whatever I can.”
Stiles gave me a hearty half grin. “Good. Let me get you a copy—” His cell phone rang again and he picked it up. His free hand rubbed his eyes, then brushed through his hair. What had happened? What was wrong? His gaze returned to me and stayed there. What was he looking at so hard? Was there paint on my nose? His eyes were disturbing, intense. Something awful had happened. “Mother of God,” he blinked. “Give me five minutes.”
He stood there, watching me. “Sorry, I have to cut this short.” He stood, reached for his coat.
Again, I saw the finger drop into the Baggie, felt a dizzy spin.
Stiles’s coat was on, the doorknob in his hand. “You all right, Ms. Hayes?”
No. I was cold as ice. “Yes. Fine.”
“We’ll need to go over the profile some other time. To talk, uninterrupted.” Detective Stiles glanced at his watch. “How’s dinner?”
Dinner?
“You know Ristorante La Buca? Near Washington Square? I can have a car pick you up—”
Wait. Detective Stiles was asking me to dinner? “No, that’s okay—thanks.”
He winced. Why was he wincing? “Oh, well. Then, maybe we can meet in the—”
“Oh—I mean, La Buca is close to my house. I can walk.” He brightened and I understood; he’d winced because he’d thought I was turning him down. “It’ll be dark. You sure?” “I’ll be fine.”
“Great. It’ll be my way of apologizing for scaring you before. How’s eight o’clock?”
What was I doing? I couldn’t have dinner with him. What would I do with Molly? Angela couldn’t sit at night—and I wouldn’t ask her, not with so many nannies missing. No, I couldn’t go.
“Fine,” I heard myself say. “Eight o’clock’s fine.” My voice had answered on its own. “Great. See you there.”
I stayed in the conference room, jumbled, as if awakening from a nonsensical dream that I had to sort out. Why was Stiles asking me—a civilian—to get involved in a police investigation? And why had I agreed? No matter how much I wanted to help, I had Molly to think about. For her sake, I had no business putting myself at risk. I’d been impulsive. Maybe I should back out. Even as I had that thought, I knew it was wrong. I wouldn’t back out.
Molly, Angela, our home and neighborhood—they were being threatened, and I had a chance to help protect them. No way would I turn it down.
For the rest of the day, my eyes wandered to the clock, counting hours until dinner. I couldn’t wait. I was going to assist the police, however slightly. To be on the inside of this case. To help catch the damn kidnapper.
But there was something else on my mind as evening approached. I was intrigued by Detective Stiles, how his mind worked, how he approached a case. And, aside from all that, I liked the way he smelled.