The lawyer's ears turned red around the rim. "Sergeant, Peter's justlost his only child. He'd like to have a little time to collect himselfbefore he has to be subjected to any kind of questioning."

"Questioning?" Kovac's brows arched as he glanced up from a sculpture ofa racehorse. He exchanged a look with Quinn. "Like a suspect? Does Mr.Bondurant think we consider him a suspect? Because I don't know where hewould have gotten that idea. Do you, Mr. n.o.ble?"

Color streaked across n.o.ble's cheekbones. "Interview. Statement.

Whatever you'd like to call it."

"I'd like to call it a conversation, but, hey, whatever you want."

"What I want," came a quiet voice from beyond an arched doorway, "is tohave my daughter back."

The man who emerged from the dimly lit interior hall was half a foot shyof six feet, with a slight build and an air of neatness and precisioneven in casual slacks and a sweater. His dark hair was cropped so closeto his skull it looked like a fine coating of metal shavings. He staredat Quinn with serious eyes through the small oval lenses of wire-framedgla.s.ses.

"That's what we all want, Mr. Bondurant," Quinn said. "There may stillbe a chance of making that happen, but we'll need all the help we canget."

The straight brows drew together in confusion. "You think Jillian mightstill be alive?"

"We haven't been able to conclusively determine otherwise," Kovac said.

"Until we can positively identify the victim, there's a chance it's notyour daughter. We've had some unsubstantiated sightings-" Bondurant shook his head. "No, I don't think so," he said softly.

"Jillie is dead."

"How do you know that?" Quinn asked. Bondurant's expression was somber,tormented, defeated. His gaze skated off somewhere to Quinn's left.

"Because she was my child," he said at last. "I can't explain it anybetter than that. There's a feeling-like a rock in my gut, like somepart of me died with her. She's gone.

"Do you have children, Agent Quinn?" he asked.

"No. But I've known too many parents who've lost a child. It's aterrible place to be. If I were you, I wouldn't be in any hurry to getthere."

Bondurant looked down at Quinn's shoes and breathed a sigh.

"Come into my study, Agent Quinn," he said, then turned to Kovac, hismouth tightening subtly. "Edwyn, why don't you and Sergeant Kovac waitfor us in the living room?"

Kovac made a sound of dissatisfaction.

Concern tightened the lawyer's features. "Perhaps I should sit in,Peter. I-"

"No. Have Helen get you coffee."

Clearly unhappy, n.o.ble leaned toward his client across the hall like amarionette straining against its strings. Bondurant turned and walked away.

Quinn followed. Their footfalls were m.u.f.fled by the fine wool of a thickOriental runner. He wondered at Bondurant's strategy. He wouldn't talkto the police, but he banished his attorney from a conversation with anFBI agent. It didn't make sense if he was trying to protect himself.Then again, anything incriminating he said in the absence of hisattorney would be worthless in court, audiotape or no audiotape.

"I understand you have a witness. Can she identify the man who didthis?"

"I'm not at liberty to discuss that," Quinn said. "I'd like to talkabout you and your daughter, your relationship. Forgive me for beingblunt, but your lack of cooperation with the police thus far comesacross as puzzling at best."

"You think I'm not reacting in the typical way of a parent of a murderedchild? Is there a typical reaction?"

"Typical is maybe not the word. Some reactions are more common thanothers."

"I don't know anything that would be pertinent to the case. Therefore, Ihave nothing further to tell the police. A stranger abducted andmurdered my daughter. How could they expect me to have any informationrelevant to such a senseless act?"

Bondurant led the way into a s.p.a.cious office and closed the door.

The room was dominated by a ma.s.sive U-shaped mahogany desk, one wing ofwhich was devoted to computer equipment, one to paperwork.

The center section was meticulously neat, the blotter spotless, everypen and paper clip in its place.

"Take your coat off, Agent Quinn. Have a seat." He gestured a thin handtoward a pair of oxblood leather chairs while he went around the desk toclaim his own place in a high-backed executive's throne.

Putting distance and authority between them, Quinn thought, shruggingout of his topcoat. Putting me in my place. He settled into a chair,realizing immediately that it squatted just a little too low to theground, just enough to make its occupant feel vaguely small.

"Some maniac murdered my daughter," Bondurant said again calmly. "In theface of that, I can't really give a good G.o.dd.a.m.n what anyone thinks ofmy behavior. Besides, I am helping the investigation: I brought youhere."

Another reminder of the balance of power, softly spoken.

"And you're willing to talk to me?"

"Bob Brewster says you're the best."

"Thank the director for me the next time you speak to him. Our pathsdon't cross that often," Quinn returned, deliberately unimpressed by theman's implied cozy familiarity with the director of the FBI.

"He says this type of murder is your specialty."

"Yes, but I'm not a hired gun, Mr. Bondurant. I want to be very clear onthat. I'll do what I can in terms of building a profile and advising asto investigative techniques. If a suspect is brought in, I'll offer aninterview strategy. In the event of a trial, I'll testify as an expertwitness and offer my expertise to the prosecution regarding thequestioning of witnesses. I'll do my job, and I'll do it well, but Idon't work for you, Mr. Bondurant."

Bondurant absorbed this information expressionless. His face was as bonyand severe as his attorney's, but without the relief of the toowidesmile.

A hard mask, impossible to see past.

"I want Jillian's killer caught. I'll deal with you because you're thebest and because I've been told I can trust you not to sell out."

"Sell out? In what way?"

"To the media. I'm a very private man in a very public position. I hatethe idea that millions of strangers will know the intimate details of mydaughter's death. It seems like it should be a very private, personalthing-the ending of a life."

"It should be. It's the taking of a life that can't be kept quiet-foreveryone's sake."

"I suppose what I really dread isn't people knowing about Jillie's deathso much as their ravenous desire to tear apart her life. And mine-I'lladmit that."

Quinn shifted in his chair, casually crossing his legs, and offered thebarest hint of a sympathetic smile. Settling in. The1-could-be-yourfriend guise. "That's understandable. Has the press beenhounding you? It looks like they're camped out front."

"I refuse to deal with them. I've pulled in my media relationscoordinator from Paragon to handle it. The thing that angers me most istheir sense of ent.i.tlement. Because I'm wealthy, because I'm prominent,they think they have some right to invade my grief. Do you think theyparked their news vans in front of the homes of the parents of the twoprost.i.tutes this maniac killed? I can a.s.sure you they didn't."

"We live in a society addicted to sensationalism," Quinn said.

"Some people are deemed newsworthy and some are considered disposable.

I'm not sure which side of the coin is worse. I can just about guaranteeyou the parents of those first two victims are sitting at home wonderingwhy news vans aren't parked in front of their houses."

"You think they'd like people to know how they failed as parents?"

Bondurant asked, a slim shadow of anger darkening his tone. "You thinkthey'd like people to know why their daughters became wh.o.r.es and drugaddicts?"

Guilt and blame. How much of that was he projecting from his own pain?

Quinn wondered.

"About this witness," Bondurant said again, seeming a little shaken byhis last near-revelation. He moved a notepad on his desk a quarter of aninch. "Do you think she'll be able to identify the killer? She doesn'tsound very reliable."

"I don't know," Quinn said, knowing exactly where Bondurant had gottenhis information. Kovac was going to have to do his best to plug thatleak, which would mean stepping on some very sensitive, influentialtoes. The victim's family was ent.i.tled to certain courtesies, but thisinvestigation needed as tight an environment as possible. PeterBondurant couldn't be allowed total access. He in fact had not been ruled out as a viable suspect.

"Well .. . we can only hope Bondurant murmured.

His gaze strayed to the wall that held an a.s.sortment of framedphotographs, many of himself with men Quinn had to a.s.sume were businessa.s.sociates or rivals or dignitaries. He spotted Bob Brewster among thecrowd, then found what Bondurant had turned to: a small cl.u.s.ter ofphotographs on the lower left-hand corner.

Quinn rose from his chair and went to the wall for a closer inspection.

Jillian at various stages of her life. He recognized her from a snapshotin the case file. One photograph in particular drew his eye: a young woman out of place in a prim black dress with a white Peter Pan collarand cuffs.

Her hair was cut boyishly short and bleached nearly white. A strikifigcontrast to the dark roots and brows. Half a dozen earrings ornamentedone ear. A tiny ruby studded one nostril. She resembled her father in noway at all. Her body, her face, were softer, rounder. Her eyes were hugeand sad, the camera catching the vulnerability she felt at not being thepolitely feminine creature of someone else's expectations.

"Pretty girl," Quinn murmured automatically. It didn't matter that itwasn't precisely true. The statement was made for a purpose other thanflattery. "She must have felt very close to you, coming back here fromEurope for college."

"Our relationship was complicated." Bondurant rose from his chair andhovered beside it, tense and uncertain, as if a part of him wanted to goto the photographs but a stronger part held him back. "We were closewhen she was young. Then her mother and I divorced when Jillie was at avulnerable age. It was difficult for her-the antagonism between Sophieand me. Then came Serge, Sophie's last husband. And Sophie's illness-shewas in and out of inst.i.tutions for depression."

He was silent for a stretch of time, and Quinn could feel the weight ofeverything Bondurant was omitting from the story. What had precipitatedthe divorce? What had driven Sophie's mental illness? Was the distastein Bondurant's voice when he spoke of his successor's bitterness over arival or something more?

"What was she studying at the university?" he asked, knowing better thanto go directly for the other answers he wanted. Peter Bondurant wouldn'tgive up his secrets that easily, if he gave them up at all.

"Psychology," he said with the driest hint of irony as he stared at thephoto of her in the black dress and bleached boy-cut, the earrings andpierced nose and unhappy eyes.

"Did you see her often?"

"Every Friday. She came for dinner,"

"How many people knew that?"

"I don't know. My housekeeper, my personal a.s.sistant, a few closefriends. Some of Jillian's friends, I suppose."

"Do you have additional staff here at the house or just thehousekeeper?"

"Helen is full-time. A girl comes in to help her clean once a week.

There's a grounds crew of three who come weekly. That's all. I prefer myprivacy to a staff. My needs aren't that extravagant."

"Friday's usually a hot night on the town for college kids. Jillianwasn't into the club scene?"

"No. She'd grown past it."

"Did she have many close friends?"

"Not that she spoke about with me. She was a very private person.

The only one she mentioned with any regularity was a waitress at a coffee bar. Michele something. I never met her."

"Did she have a boyfriend?"

"No," he said, turning away. French doors behind his desk led out to a

flagstone courtyard of vacant benches and empty planters. He staredthrough the gla.s.s as if he were looking through a portal into anothertime.

"Boys didn't interest her. She didn't want temporary relationships.

She'd been through so much .. ... His thin mouth quivered slightly, anda deep pain came into his eyes. The strongest sign of inner emotion he had shown. "She had so much life ahead of her," he murmured. "I wish this hadn't happened." Quinn quietly moved in alongside him. His voice was low and soft, thevoice of sad experience and understanding. "That's the hardest thing to cope with when a young person dies-especially when they've beenmurdered. The unfulfilled dreams, the unrealized potential. The people close to them-family, friends-thought they had so much time to make up formistakes, plenty of time down the road to tell that person they lovedthem. Suddenly that time is gone."

He could see the muscles of Bondurant's face tighten against the pain.

He could see the suffering in the eyes, that hint of desperation at the

knowledge the emotional tidal wave was coming, and the fear that there may not be enough strength to hold it back.

"At least you had that last evening together," Quinn murmured.

"That should be some comfort to you."

Or it could be the bitter, lasting reminder of every unresolved issue

left between father and daughter. The raw wound of opportunity lost.

Quinn could almost taste the regret in the air.

"How was she that night?" he asked quietly. "Did she seem up or down?"

"She was"- Bondurant swallowed hard and searched for the appropriate