He was also a very big man, several inches over six feet tall and unmistakably powerful. The kind of guy you wanted on your side no matter what the fight was about. So he definitely looked the part of a cop, in or out of uniform—and it was mostly out, since he disliked uniforms as a rule and seldom wore his. But anyone, Mallory had long ago discovered, who had him pegged as all brawn and no brain, or who expected the stereotypical dense, cud-chewing Southern cop was in for a surprise, sooner or later.
Probably sooner. He didn't suffer fools gladly.
“That's three murders in barely three weeks,” he was saying, dark eyes still fixed on the body at their feet. “And we're no closer to catching the bastard. Worse, we've now officially got a serial killer on our hands.”
“You thinking what I'm thinking?”
“I'm thinking it's time we yelled for help.”
Mallory sighed. “Yeah, that's what I'm thinking.”
Quantico
Isabel Adams made her voice as persuasive as she possibly could, and her well-rehearsed arguments sounded damned impressive if she did say so herself, but when she finally fell silent she wasn't surprised that Bishop didn't respond right away.
He stood at the window gazing out, only his profile visible to Isabel. In deference to the fact that he was actually on FBI territory, he was dressed more formally than usual, and the dark suit set off his dark good looks and powerful build admirably.
Isabel looked at Miranda, who was sitting on Bishop's desk idly swinging one foot. Even more of a maverick than her husband and far less deferential to the FBI in any sense, she was wearing her usual jeans and sweater, the casual outfit doing nothing to disguise startling beauty and a centerfold body that turned heads wherever she went.
She gazed at Bishop now, seemingly waiting as Isabel waited for his answer, but her electric blue eyes were very intent, and Isabel knew there was communication between the two of them on a level that didn't require speaking aloud. Whatever Bishop's decision turned out to be, he would arrive at it only after Miranda's views and recommendations were added to his own; although Bishop had far greater seniority in the Bureau and in the unit he had created and led, no one doubted that his partnership with Miranda was equal in every possible sense of the word.
“It's not a good idea,” he said finally.
Isabel said, “I know all the arguments against my going.”
“Do you?”
“I've gone over all the material that police chief sent when he requested a profile after the second murder. I even got on-line and read the local newspaper articles. I think I've got a very good feel for the town, for what's happening down there.”
Miranda said, “Your basic powder keg, just waiting for a match.”
Isabel nodded. “Small town on the teetering edge of panic. They seem to have a lot of faith in their police, especially the chief, and they've got pretty fair medical and forensics facilities for a small town, but this latest murder has everybody jumping at shadows and investing in security systems. And guns.”
She paused, then added, “Three murders makes this a serial killer in Hastings. And he's showing no signs of stopping now. Chief Sullivan just officially requested the FBI's help, and he's asking for more than an updated profile. Bishop, I want to go down there.”
Bishop turned at last to face them, though instead of returning to his desk he leaned back against the high window sill. The scar on his left cheek was visible now, and Isabel had been with the unit long enough to recognize, in its whitened appearance, that he was disturbed.
“I know what I'm asking,” she said, more quietly than she might otherwise have spoken.
Bishop glanced at Miranda, who immediately looked at Isabel, and said, “From all indications, this is the sort of killer local law enforcement can handle with very little outside help. Maybe a bit more manpower to ask questions, but it'll be inside knowledge that catches this animal, not an outsider's expertise. The profile marks him as nothing out of the ordinary. He's local, he's killing local women he knows, and he's bound to make a mistake sooner rather than later.”
“But it wasn't an SCU profile,” Isabel pointed out. “None of us developed it.”
“We can't develop all the requested profiles,” Bishop reminded her patiently. “We barely have the manpower to handle the cases we do get.”
“We didn't get the call on this one because this killer is so seemingly ordinary, I know that. Around a hundred serial killers are active in this country on average at any time, and he's one of them. Nothing raised a red flag to indicate that our special abilities are needed in the investigation. But I'm telling you—there's more to the case than the official profile picked up on. A lot more.” She paused, then added, “All I'm asking is that you take a look at the material for yourselves, both of you. Then tell me I'm wrong.”
Bishop exchanged another glance with Miranda, then said, “And if you're right? Isabel, even if the SCU took on this investigation, given the circumstances in Hastings you're the last agent I'd want to send down there.”
Isabel smiled. “Which is why I have to be the agent you send. I'll go get the file.”
She left without waiting for a reply, and as Bishop returned to his desk and sat down, he muttered, “Goddammit.”
“She's right,” Miranda said. “At least about being the one who has to go.”
“Yeah. I know.”
We can't protect her.
No. But if this is what I think it is . . . she'll need help.
“Then,” Miranda said calmly aloud, “we'll make sure she has help. Whether she likes it or not.”
ALWAYS A THIEF
A Bantam Book / June 2003
Published by Bantam Dell
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Copyright © 2003 by Kay Hooper
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