"It's a Rorschach test," Quinn said. "They're looking to weed out theguys who think it's a woman with three eyes and b.r.e.a.s.t.s on the sides ofher head."

Kovac frowned and stole a last look at the thing before they steppedoutside.

"One phone call from Brandt and my sorry b.u.t.t's in a sling," he grousedas they descended the steps. "I can hear my lieutenant now'what the h.e.l.lwere you thinking, Kovact Jesus, Brandt'll probably sic the chief on me.

They're probably in the same f.u.c.king backgammon league. They probablyget manicures together. Greer'll get up on a ladder, rip my head off,and shout down the the h.e.l.l were you thinking, Kovac?Thirty days without pay!"' He shook his head. "What the h.e.l.l was Ithinking?"

"I don't know. What the h.e.l.l were you thinking?"

"That I hate that guy, that's what."

"Really? I thought we were playing good cop-bad cop."

Kovac looked at him over the roof of the Caprice. "I'm not that good anactor. Do I look like Harrison Ford?"

Quinn squinted. "Maybe if you lose the mustache .. ."

They slid into the car from their respective sides, Kovac's laugh dyingas he shook his head. "I don't know what I'm laughing about. I knowbetter than to go off like that. Brandt yanks my chain, that's all.

I'm kicking myself because I didn't place him until I saw him. I justwasn't expecting .. ."

No excuse was a good excuse. He blew air between his lips and stared outthe windshield through the naked fingerling branches of a dormant bushto the lake in the distance.

"You know him from a case?" Quinn asked.

"Yeah. Eight or nine years ago he testified for the defense in a murdercase I worked. Carl Borchard, nineteen, killed his girlfriend after shetried to break up with him. Choked her. Brandt comes in with this sobstory about how Borchard's mother abandoned him, and how this stresswith his girlfriend pushed him over a line. He tells the jury how we allshould pity Carl, 'cause he didn't mean it and he was so remorseful. Howhe wasn't really a killer. It was a crime of pa.s.sion.

He wasn't a danger to society. Blah, blah, blah. Boo-boo-boo."

"And you knew different?"

"Carl Borchard was a whiny, sociopathic little s.h.i.t with a juvenilesheet full of stuff the prosecutors couldn't get admitted. He had ahistory of acting out against women. Brandt knew that as well as we did,but he wasn't on our payroll."

"Borchard got off."

"Manslaughter. First adult offense, reduced sentence, time served, etcetera, et cetera. The little creep barely had time to take a c.r.a.p inprison. Then they send him to a halfway house. While he's living at thishalfway house he rapes a woman in the next neighborhood and beats herhead in with a claw hammer. Thank you, Dr. Brandt.

"You know what he had to say about it?" Kovac said with amazement. "Hewas in the Star Tribune saying he thought Carl had 'exhausted his victimpool' with the first murder, but, hey, s.h.i.t happens.

He went on to say he couldn't really be held accountable for this littleblunder because he hadn't been able to spend all that much time withBorchard. f.u.c.king amazing."

Quinn absorbed the information quietly. The feeling that he was gettingtoo close to this case pressed in on him again. He felt the people in itcrowding around him, standing too close for him to really see them. Hewanted them back and away. He didn't want to know anything about LucasBrandt, didn't want to have a personal impression of the man. He wantedwhat Brandt could give him , M from an arm's length. He wanted to golock himself in the neat, paneled office the SAC had given him in thebuilding on Washington Avenue downtown.

But that wasn't the way things were going to work here.

"I know something else about your Dr. Brandt," he said as Kovac startedthe car and put it in gear.

"What's that?"

"He was standing in the background at the press conference yesterday."

"THERE HE IS.".

Kovac hit the freeze b.u.t.ton on the remote control. The picture jerkedand twitched as the VCR held the tape in place. To the side of the pressmob, standing with a pack of suits, was Brandt. A muscle at the base ofKovac's diaphragm tightened like a fist. He punched the play b.u.t.ton andwatched the psychologist tip his head and say something to the man nextto him. He froze the picture again.

"Who's that he's talking to?"

"Ahh .. ." Yurek tipped his head sideways for a better angle.

"Kellerman, the public defender."

"Oh, yeah. Worm Boy. Call him. See if Brandt and him were together,"Kovac ordered. "Find out if Brandt had any legit reason to be there."

Adler raised a brow. "You think he's a suspect?"

"I think he's an a.s.shole."

"If that was against the law, the jails would be full of lawyers."

"He jerked me around this morning," Kovac complained. "Him and Bondurantare too cozy, and Bondurant's jerking us around too."

"He's the victim's father," Adler pointed out.

"He's the victim's rich father," Tippen added.

"He's the victim's rich, powerful father," Yurek, Mr. Public Relations,reminded all.

Kovac gave him a look. "He's part of a murder investigation. I've gottarun this investigation as tight as any other. That means we look ateverybody. Family always comes under the microscope. I want to step onBrandt a little, let him know we're not just a pack of tame dogs PeterBondurant can order around. If he can give us anything on JillianBondurant, I want it. And I also want to step on him because he's af.u.c.king tick."

"This smells like trouble, Kovak," Yurek sang.

"It's a murder investigation, Charm. You want to consult Emily Post?"

"I want to come out of it with my career intact."

"Your career is investigating," Kovac returned. "Brandt had a connectionto Jillian Bondurant."

"You got any reason other than not liking him to think this p.r.i.c.k shrinkwould off two hookers and decapitate a patient?" Tippen asked.

"I'm not saying-he's a suspect," he snapped. "He saw Jillian BondurantFriday. He saw her every Friday, He knows everything we need to knowabout this vic. If he's withholding information on us, we have a rightto squeeze him a little."

"And make him squeal privilege."

"He's already singing that song. Skate around it. Stay on the fringes.

If we can so much as get him to mention the name of Jillian's boyfriend,that's something we didn't have before. As soon as we confirm the DB isJillian, then there's no longer an expectation of privacy and we canlean on Brandt for details.

"Something else I don't like about this jerk," Kovac added, pacingbeside the table, the wheels of his brain spinning. "I don't like thathe's been a.s.sociated with G.o.d knows how many criminals. I want a list ofevery violent offender he's ever testified for or against."

"I'll get it," Tippen offered. "My ex works in records for the felonycourts. She hates my guts, but she'll hate this killer more. I'll lookgood by comparison."

"Man, that's sad, Tip." Adler shook his head. "You barely rank above thesc.u.mbags."

"Hey, that's a step up from when she filed the papers."

"And Bondurant," Kovac said, drawing another chorus of groans.

"Bondurant won't talk to us, and I don't like that. He told Quinn he wasworried about his privacy. Can't imagine why," he added with a sly grin,pulling the mini-ca.s.sette recorder out of his coat pocket.

The five members of the task force present crowded around to listen.

Liska and Moss were still out doing victim background. The feds hadreturned to the FBI offices. Walsh was working through the list VICAPhad provided of similar crimes committed in other parts of the country.He would be calling agents in other Bureau field offices, and callingcontacts he had in various law enforcement agencies through hisaffiliation with the FBI's National Academy program that offeredtraining to law enforcement professionals outside the Bureau.

Quinn had sequestered himself to work on Smokey Joe's profile.

The tape of Bondurant's conversation with Quinn played out. Thedetectives listened, barely breathing. Kovac tried to picture Bondurant,needing to see the man's face, needing the expressions that went withthe mostly expressionless voice. He had gone over the conversation withQuinn, and had Quinn's impressions. But questioning someone via a thirdparty was a lot like trying to have s.e.x with someone who was in anotherroom-a lot of frustration and not much satisfaction.

The tape played out. The machine shut itself off with a sharp click.

Kovac looked from one team member to the next. Cop faces: stern withingrained, guarded skepticism.

"That skinny white boy's hiding something," Adler said at last, sittingback in his chair.

"I don't know that it has anything to do with the murder," Kovac said.

"But I'd say he's definitely holding something back on us about Friday night. I want to re-canva.s.s the neighbors and talk to the housekeeper."

"She was gone that night," Elwood said.

"I don't care. She knew the girl. She knows her boss."

Yurek groaned and put his head in his hands.

"What's your problem, Charm?" Tippen asked. "All you have to do is tellthe newsies we have no comment at this time."

"Yeah, on national television," he said. "The big dogs smelled this s.h.i.tand came running. I've got network news people ringing my phone off thehook. Bondurant is news all by himself. Bondurant plus a decapitated,burned corpse that may or may not be his daughter is the kind of stuffthat transcends Tom Brokaw, headlines Dateline, and sells tabloids bythe truckload. Sniff too hard in Peter Bondurant's direction, get thepress leaning that way, I'm telling you, he'll blow.

We'll be hip-deep in lawsuits and suspensions."

"I'll work on Bondurant and Brandt," Kovac said, knowing he'd have to doa h.e.l.l of a lot better job of it than he'd done that morning.

"I'll take the heat, but I need people working them peripherally,talking to friends, acquaintances, and so forth. Chunk, you and Hamillchecking around Paragon? Working the disgruntled-employee angle?"

"Got a meeting out there in thirty."

"Maybe we can talk to someone who knew the girl in France," Tippensuggested. "Maybe the feds can dig up someone over there.

Let us in on some of her back story. The kid was screwed up for areason. Maybe some friend over there knows if this reason has a name."

"Call Walsh and see what he can do. Ask him if there's any word yet onthose medical records. Elwood, did you get anything back from Wisconsinon the DL our witness is running around with?"

"No wants, no warrants. I called information to get a phone number-shedoesn't have one. I contacted the post office-they say she moved andleft no forwarding address. Strike three."

"She give us a sketch yet?" Yurek asked.

"Kate Conlan brought her in this morning to work with Oscar," Kovacsaid, rising. "I'm gonna go see what's what right now. We'd better prayto G.o.d that girl has a Polaroid memory. A break on this thing now couldsave all our a.s.ses."

"I'll need copies ASAP for the press," Yurek said.

"I'll get it to you. What time are you set to play America's MostWanted?"

"Five."

Kovac checked his watch. The day was running double time and they didn'thave much to show for it yet. That was the h.e.l.l of getting an investigation this size off the ground. Time was of the essence.

Every cop knew that after the first forty-eight hours of aninvestigation, the odds of solving a murder dropped off sharply. But theamount of information that needed to be gathered, collated, interpreted,and acted upon at the start of a multiple murder investigation wa.s.staggering. And just one piece ignored could be the one piece thatturned the tide.

His pager trilled. The readout gave his lieutenant's number.

"Everyone who can, meet back here at four," he said, grabbing his coatoff the back of his chair. "If you're out, check in with me on the cellphone. I'm outta here."

"SHE DIDN'T SEEM very sure of herself, Sam," Oscar said, leading him toa tilt-top drawing table in a small office made smaller by a pack rat'sclutter. Papers, books, magazines, filled all available s.p.a.ce inprecarious towers and piles. "I led her through it as gently as I could,but she was resistant at the core."

"Resistant as in lying or resistant as in scared?"

"Afraid. And as you well know, fear can precipitate prevarication."

"You've been into the thesaurus again, haven't you, Oscar?"

A beatific smile peeked through the copious facial hair, "Education isthe wellspring of the soul."

"Yeah, well, you'll be drowning in it, Oscar," Kovac said, impatient,digging a lint-ridden Mylanta tablet out of his pants pocket. "So, let'ssee the masterpiece."

"I consider it a work in progress."

He peeled back the opaque protective sheet, revealing the pencil sketchTwin Cities residents had been promised by their top elected andappointed officials. The suspect wore a dark, puffed-up jackethiding hisbuild--over a hooded sweatshirt, hood up, hiding the color of his hair.Aviator sungla.s.ses hid the shape of his eyes. The nose was nondescript,the face of medium width. The mouth was partially obscured by amustache.

Kovac's stomach did a slow roll. "It's the f.u.c.king Unabomber!" hesnapped, wheeling on Oscar. "What the h.e.l.l am I supposed to do withthis?"

"Now, Sam, I told you it was a work in progress," Oscar said in thatlow, slow voice.

"He's wearing sungla.s.ses! It was f.u.c.king midnight and she's got himwearing sungla.s.ses!" Sam ranted. "Judas f.u.c.king priest! This could beanyone. This could be no one. This could be me, for G.o.dsake!"

"I'm hoping to work with Angie a little more," the artist said,unperturbed by Kovac's temper. "She doesn't believe she has the detailsin her memory, but I believe she does. She has only to release her fearand clarity will come. Eventually."

"I don't have eventually, Oscar! I've got a G.o.dd.a.m.n press conference atfive o'clock!"

He blew out a breath and turned a circuit around the artist's small,cramped, cluttered works.p.a.ce, looking around as if he wanted to findsomething to throw. Christ, he sounded like Sabin, wanting evidence ondemand. He had been telling himself all day not to count on that lying,thieving little piece of baggage he had to call a witness, but beneaththe cynicism, he'd been praying for a dead-on, got-you-by the-b.a.l.l.s-nowcomposite. "Eventy-two years on the job and the optimist in him stilllived. Amazing.