They let themselves out of the apartment and locked the place behindthem. The wind blew down the river, sweeping along the scents of mud anddecaying leaves and the metallic tinge of the city and the machines thatinhabited it. Moss pulled her jacket tight around her.

Liska shoved her hands deep in her pockets and hunched her shoulders.

They walked back to the car, complaining in advance about how longwinter was going to be. Winter was always too long in Minnesota.

As they backed out of the parking slot, Gil Vanlees stood looking outthe door of the house he no longer lived in, watching them with a blankexpression until Liska raised a hand and waved good-bye.

"WHY DON'T WE try again, Angie?" the forensic artist said gently.

His name was Oscar and he had a voice the consistency of warm caramel.

Kate had seen him lull people nearly to sleep with that voice: AngieDimarco wasn't about to be lulled.

Kate stood behind the girl and a good six feet back, near the door.

She didn't want her own impatience compounding Angie's nervousness. Thegirl sat in her chair, squirming like a toddler in a pediatrician'swaiting room, unhappy, uncomfortable, uncooperative. She looked like shehadn't slept well, though she had taken advantage of the bathroomfacilities at the Phoenix and showered. Her brown hair was still limpand straight, but it was clean. She wore the same denim jacket over adifferent sweater and the same dirty jeans.

"I want you to close your eyes," the artist said. "Take a slow, deepbreath and let it out-" Angie heaved an impatient sigh.

'@-Slooowly .. ." Kate had to give the man credit for his tolerance.

She personally felt on the verge of slapping someone, anyone. But then,Oscar hadn't had the pleasure of picking up Angie from Phoenix House,where Toni Urskine had yet again unleashed her frustration with theCremator cases on Kate.

""Rvo women brutally murdered and nothing gets done because they wereprost.i.tutes. My G.o.d, the police even went so far as to say there was nothreat to the general public-as if these women didn't count as citizensof this city! It's outrageous!"

Kate had refrained from attempting to explain the concept of highriskand low-risk victim pools. She knew too well what the reaction wouldbe-emotional, visceral, without logic.

"The police couldn't care less about women who are driven by desperationinto prost.i.tution and drugs. What's another dead hooker to them-one lessproblem off the street. A millionaire's daughter is murdered andsuddenly we have a crisis! My G.o.d, a real person has been victimized!"she had ranted sarcastically.

Kate made an effort to loosen the clenching muscles in her jaw even now.

She had never liked Toni Urskine. Urskine worked around the clock to keep her indignation cooking at a slow burn. If she or her ideals or"her victims," as she called the women at the Phoenix, hadn't beenslighted outright, she would find some way of perceiving an insult soshe could climb up on her soapbox and shriek at anyone within hearingdistance. The Cremator murders would give her fuel for her own fire fora long time to come.

Urskine had a certain amount of justification for her outrage, Kateadmitted. Similar cynical thoughts about these cases had run throughKate's own mind. But she knew the cops had been working those first twomurders, doing the best they could with the limited manpower and budgetthe bra.s.s allowed for the average violent death.

Still, the only thing she'd wanted to say to Toni Urskine that morningwas "Life's a b.i.t.c.h. Get over it." Her tongue still hurt from biting it.

Instead, she'd offered, "I'm not a cop, I'm an advocate. I'm on yourside."

A lot of people didn't want to hear that either. She worked with thepolice and was considered guilty by a.s.sociation. And there were plentyof times when the cops looked at her and saw her as an enemy because she worked with a lot of bleeding-heart liberals who spent too much timebad-mouthing the police. Stuck in the middle.

Good thing I love this job, or Id hate it.

"You're in the park, but you're safe," Oscar said gently. "The danger ispast, Angie. He can't hurt you now. Open your mind's eye and look at hisface. Take a good long look."

Kate moved slowly to a chair a few feet from her witness and easedherself down. Angie caught Kate's steady gaze and shifted the other wayto find Oscar watching her too, his kindly eyes twinkling like polishedonyx in a face that was drowning in hair-a full beard and mustache and abushy lion's mane worn loose around his thick shoulders.

"You can't see if you won't look, Angie," he said wisely.

"Maybe I don't want to see," the girl challenged.

Oscar looked sad for her. "He can't hurt you here, Angie. And all youhave to look at is his face. You don't have to look inside his mind or his heart. All you have to see is his face."

Oscar had sat across from a lot of witnesses in his time, all of themafraid of the same two things: retribution by the criminal sometime inthe vague future, and the more immediate fear of having to relive thecrime over and over. Kate knew a memory or a nightmare could cause asmuch psychological stress as an event taking place in real time. Asevolved as people liked to believe the human race had become, the mindstill had difficulty differentiating between actual reality andperceived reality.

The silence went on. Oscar looked at Kate.

"Angie, you told me you'd do this," she said.

The girl scowled harder. "Yeah, well, maybe I changed my mind. I mean,what the h.e.l.l's in it for me?"

"Keeping safe and taking a killer off the street."

"No, I mean really," she said, suddenly all business. "What's in it forme? I hear there's a reward. You never said anything about a reward."

"I haven't had time to talk to anyone about it."

"Well, you'd better. "Cause if I'm gonna do this, then I d.a.m.n well wantsomething for it. I deserve it."

"That remains to be seen," Kate said. "So far you haven't given ussquat. I'll check into the reward. In the meantime, you're a witness.

You can help us and we can help you. Maybe you don't feel ready forthis. Maybe you don't think your memory is strong enough. If that'swhat's really going on here, then fine. The cops have mug books stackedto the rafters. Maybe you'll run across him in there."

"And maybe I can just get the f.u.c.k out of here." She shoved herself upout of the chair so hard, the legs sc.r.a.ped back across the floor.

Kate wanted to choke her. This was why she didn't work juvenile: Hertolerance for drama and bulls.h.i.t was too low.

She studied Angie, trying to formulate a strategy. If the kid reallywanted to leave, she would leave. No one was barring the door. WhatAngie wanted was to make a scene and have everyone fuss over her and begher to come back. Begging was not an option as far as Kate -wasconcerned. She wouldn't play a game where she didn't have a shot atcontrol.

If she called the kid's bluff and Angie walked, Kate figured she couldjust as well follow the girl out the door. Sabin would put her careerthrough the shredder if she lost his star and only witness. She wasalready on her second career. How many more could she have?

She rose slowly and went to lean against the doorjamb with her armscrossed.

"You know, Angie, I gotta think there's a reason you told us you sawthis guy in the first place. You didn't have to say it. You didn't knowanything about a reward. You could have lied and told us he was gonewhen you came across the body. How would we know any different? We haveto take your word for what you saw or didn't see. So let's cut the c.r.a.p,huh?

I don't appreciate you jerking me around when I'm on your side. I'm theone who's standing between you and the county attorney who wants to tossyour a.s.s in jail and call you a suspect."

Angie set her jaw at a mulish angle. "Don't threaten me."

""That's not a threat. I'm being straight with you because I thinkthat's what you want. You don't want to be lied to and screwed over anymore than I do. I respect that. How about returning the favor?"

The girl gnawed on a ragged thumbnail, her hair swinging down to obscureher face, but Kate could tell she was blinking hard, and felt a swiftwave of sympathy. The mood swings this kid inspired were going to driveher to Prozac.

"You must think I'm a real pain in the a.s.s," Angie said at last, herlush mouth twisting at one corner in what looked almost like chagrin.

"Yeah, but I don't consider that a fatal or irreversible flaw. And Iknow you've got your reasons. But you've got more to be afraid of if youdon't try to ID him," Kate said. "Now you're the only one who knows whathe looks like. Better if a couple hundred cops know too."

"What happens if I don't do it?"

"No reward. Other than that, I don't know. Right now you're a potentialwitness. If you decide that's not what you are, then it's out of MYhands.

The county attorney might play rough or he might just cut you loose.

He'll take me out of the picture either way."

"You'd probably be glad."

"I didn't take this job because I thought it would be simple andpleasant. I don't want to see you alone in all this, Angie. And I don'tthink that's what you want either."

Alone. Goose b.u.mps chased themselves down Angie's arms and legs. Theword was a constant hollowness in the core of her. She remembered the feeling of it growing inside her last night, pushing her consciousnessinto a smaller and smaller corner of her mind. It was the thing shefeared most in the world and beyond it. More than physical pain. Morethan a killer.

"We'll leave you alone. How would you like that, brat? You can be aloneforever. You just sit in there and think about it. Maybe we'll nevercome back." She flinched at the remembered sound of the door closing,the absolute darkness of the closet, the sense of aloneness swallowingher up.

She felt it rising up inside her now like a black ghost. It closedaround her throat like an unseen hand, and she wanted to cry, but sheknew she couldn't. Not here. Not now. Her heart began beating harder andfaster.

"Come on, kiddo," Kate said gently, nodding toward Oscar. "Give it ashot. It's not like you've got anything better to do. I'll make a phonecall about that reward money."

The story of my life, Angie thought. Do what I want or I'll leave you.

Do what I want or I'll hurt you. Choices that weren't choices.

"All right," she murmured, and went back to the chair to giveinstructions on drawing a portrait of evil.

CHAPTER 10.

THE BUILDING that housed the offices of Dr. Lucas Brandt, two otherpsychotherapists, and two psychiatrists was a Georgian-style brick homeof gracious proportion. Patients seeking treatment here probably feltmore like they were going to high tea than to pour out their innermostsecrets and psychological dirty laundry.

Lucas Brandt's office was on the second floor. Quinn and Kovac were leftto cool their heels in the hall for ten minutes while he finished with a patient. Bach's Third Brandenburg Concerto floated on the air as soft asa whisper. Quinn stared out the Palladian window that offered a view ofLake of the Isles and part of the larger Lake Calhoun, both as gray asold quarters in the gloom of the day.

Kovac prowled the hall, checking out the furniture. "Real antiques.

Cla.s.sy. Why is it rich crazies are cla.s.sy and the kind I have to haulinto jail just want to p.i.s.s on my shoes?"

"Repression."

"What?"

"Social skills are founded and couched in repression. Rich crazies wantto p.i.s.s on your shoes too," Quinn smiled, "but their manners hold themback."

Kovac chuckled. "I like you, Quinn. I'm gonna have to give you anickname." He looked at Quinn, taking in the sharp suit, considering fora moment, then nodded. "GQ. Yeah, I like that. GQ, like the magazine. Glike in G-man. Q like in Quinn." He looked enormously pleased withhimself. "Yeah, I like that."

He didn't ask if Quinn liked it.

The door to Brandt's business office opened, and his secretary, a pet.i.tewoman with red hair and no chin, invited them in, her voice alibrarian's whisper.

The patient, if there had been one, must have escaped out the door ofthe second room. Lucas Brandt rose from behind his desk as they enteredthe room, and an unpleasant flash of recognition hit Kovac.

Brandt. The name had rung a bell, but he wouldn't have equated theBrandt of his a.s.sociation with the Brandt of Neuroses of the Rich and Famous.

They went through the round of introductions, Kovac waiting for thatsame recognition to dawn on Brandt, but it didn't-which served only tofurther sour Kovac's mood. Brandt's expression was appropriatelyserious. Blond and Germanically attractive with a straight nose and blueeyes, he was of medium build with a posture and presence that gave theimpression he was bigger than he really was. Solid was the word thatcame to mind. He wore a trendy silk tie and a blue dress shirt thatlooked professionally ironed.

A steel-gray suit coat hung on one of those fancy-a.s.s gentleman's racksin the corner.

Kovac smoothed a hand self-consciously over his J. C. Penney tie.

"Dr. Brandt. I've seen you in court."

"Yes, you probably have. Forensic psychology-a sideline I picked up whenI was first starting out," he explained for Quinn. "I needed the moneyat the time," he confessed with a conspiratorial little smile that letthem in on the joke that he didn't need it now. "I found I enjoyed thework, so I've kept a hand in it. It's a good diversion from what I seeday today."

Kovac arched a brow. "Take a break from rich girls with eating disordersand go testify for some sc.u.mbag. Yeah, there's a hobby."

"I work for who needs me, Detective. Defense or prosecution."

You workfor whopulls his wallet outfirst. Kovac knew better than to sayit.

"I'm due in court this afternoon, as a matter of fact," Brandt said.

"And I've got a lunch date first. So, while I hate to be rude,gentlemen, can we get down to business here?"

"Just a few quick questions," Kovac said, picking up the toy rake thatwent with the Zen garden on the credenza by the window. He looked fromthe rake to the box as if he expected it was for digging up cat feces.

"You know I can't be of much help to your investigation. Jillian was mypatient. My hands are tied by doctor-patient confidentiality."

"Your patient is dead," Kovac said bluntly. He picked up a smooth blackstone from the sand and turned to lean back against the credenza,rolling the stone between his fingers. A man settling in, making himselfcomfortable. "I don't think her expectations for privacy are quite whatthey were."

Brandt looked almost amused. "You can't seem to make up your mind,Detective. Is Jillian dead or not? You implied to Peter she may still bealive. If Jillian is alive, then she still has the expectation ofprivacy."

"There's a high probability the body found is Jillian Bondurant's, but.i.t's not a certainty," Quinn said, moving back toward the conversation,taking the reins diplomatically from Kovac. "Either way, we're workingagainst the clock, Dr. Brandt. This killer will kill again. That's anabsolute. Sooner rather than later, I think. The more we can find outabout his victims, the closer we will be to stopping him."

"I'm familiar with your theories, Agent Quinn. I've read some of yourarticles. In fact, I think I have the textbook you coauth.o.r.ed somewhereon those shelves. Very insightful. Know the victims, know their killer."

"That's part of it. This killer's first two victims were high risk.

Jillian doesn't seem to fit the mold."

Brandt sat back against the edge of his desk, tapped a forefingeragainst his lips, and nodded slowly. "The deviation from the pattern. I see.

That makes her the logical centerpiece to the puzzle. You think he'ssaying more about himself in killing Jillian than with the other two.But what if she were just in the wrong place at the wrong time?

What if he didn't choose the first two because they were prost.i.tutes?

Perhaps all the victims were situational."