"He was a bright kid, but in trouble a lot at school. He couldn't relateto other kids. His mind was full of thoughts of domination and controlof his peers. He was cruel to animals and to other children. He startedfires, he stole things. He was a pathological liar at an early age.

"In high school he had trouble concentrating because of his addiction tohis s.e.xual fantasies, which were already becoming violent. He got intotrouble with authority figures, maybe had run-ins with the police. Hismother smoothed over the problems, rationalized for him, got him off thehook, thereby reinforcing a pattern where he was never held accountablefor his destructive actions toward others. This empowered him andencouraged him to try even more extreme behavior. It also reinforced alack of respect for his mother."

Tippen raised his hands. "And unless the guy sitting next to me tonightturns and says, "Hi, my name is Harry. My mother had s.e.x with me when Iwas a kid,' it's all just so much c.r.a.p."

"I think you're full of c.r.a.p, Tippen," Liska said. "When I'm digging upstuff on Vanlees, if I see any of these red flags, I can use them."

"The a.n.a.lysis is a tool," Quinn said. "You can make it work for you oryou can leave it in the toolbox.

"When you're in the crowd tonight, watch for anyone who seemsoverstimulated-excited or nervous or too conscious of the people aroundthem. Listen for anyone who seems to have too great a command of thefacts of the case, anyone who seems unusually familiar with police work.Or you can take Detective Tippen's approach and wait for someone to tellyou he f.u.c.ked his mother."

"G, you know what you can do with that smart mouth?" Tippen said, risingagain.

Kovac stepped between them. "Take yours over to Patrick's and stick asandwich in it, Tippen. Go now, before you p.i.s.s me off and I tell younot to come back."

A sour look twisted Tippen's face. "Oh, f.u.c.k this," he muttered,grabbing his coat and walking away.

Kovac looked askance at Quinn. A phone was ringing in one of the roomsdown the hall. The rest of the task force began to disperse, everyonewanting to grab a bite or a drink before the big event.

"Being a good cop and being an a.s.shole are not exclusive," Liska said,pulling on her coat.

"You talking about him or me?" Quinn said with chagrin.

"Hey, Sam!" Elwood called. "Come take a look at this."

"Tippen's a jerk, but he's a good detective," Liska said.

"It's all right." Quinn gave an absent smile as he slipped his trenchcoat on. "Skepticism makes for a good investigator."

"You think so?" She narrowed her eyes and looked at him sideways, thenlaughed and popped him on the arm. "Just a little cop humor. So, we'vegot some more background on Jillian and the two hookers. You want to sitdown over dinner and go over it? Or maybe after the meeting tonight wecould get a drink somewhere.. .."

"Hey, Tinks," Kovac barked as he strode back into the room with a fistful of fax paper. "No hitting on the fed."

Liska reddened. "Go bite yourself, Kojak."

"You'd pay money to see that."

"I'd throw pennies at your ugly b.u.t.t."

He hooked a thumb in her direction as she walked away and gave Quinn awry look. "She's crazy about me."

Liska flipped him off over her shoulder.

Kovac shrugged and turned to business. "You up for a ride, GQ? I need anextra hammer in my toolbox."

"What's the occasion?"

His eyes were as bright as a zealot's as he held up the fax. "JillianBondurant's cell phone records. She made two phone calls after midnightSat.u.r.day morning---after she left the old homestead. One to theheadshrinker and one to Daddy Dearest."

HE SAW THEM coming. Standing in the immaculate music room beside thebaby grand piano that held a small gallery of framed photos of Jillianas a small child, he saw the car pull up at the gate. A dirtbrowndomestic piece of junk. Kovac.

The intercom buzzed. Helen hadn't left yet. She was in the kitchenpreparing his dinner. She would get the buzzer and she would let Kovacin because he was with the police, and like every older middlecla.s.sAmerican woman in the country, she would not defy the police.

Not for the first time he thought he should have brought his personala.s.sistant in from Paragon to guard his gates both figuratively andliterally, but he didn't want another person that close to him now.

Bad enough to have Edwyn n.o.ble at his heels every time he turned around.

He had purposely sent his media relations coordinator away from him todeal with the news and sensation seekers, who insisted on crowding hisgate nevertheless.

Car doors. Quinn walked around from the pa.s.senger's side, an elegantfigure, head up, shoulders square. Kovac, disheveled, hair sticking upin back, finished a cigarette and dropped it on the driveway. His trenchcoat flapped open in the wind.

Peter stared at the photographs for another minute. Jillian, too seriousat the keyboard. Always something dark and turbulent and sad in her eyes.

Her first recital. And her second, and third. Dressed up in frillyfrocks that had never suited her-too innocent and prim, representativeof the kind of carefree girlishness his daughter had never possessed.

He left the room as the doorbell sounded, shutting the door on thatsegment of his regret as voices sounded in the front hall.

"Is he in?" Quinn.

Helen: "I'll see if he's available. Have you had any new developments in the case?"

"We're working on some things." Kovac.

"Did you know Jillian very well?" Quinn.

"Oh, well-"

"You've been given instructions to reach me through my attorney," Peter said by way of greeting.

"Sorry about that, Mr. Bondurant," Kovac said, blatantly unrepentant.

"John and I were just on our way over to the community meeting we've set up to try to help catch your daughter's killer, and we decided to swing

by kinda spur-of-the-moment like to run some things by you. Hope it's not a bad time."

Bondurant leveled a heavy look at him, then turned to his housekeeper.

"Thank you, Helen. If you're finished in the kitchen, why don't you head

home?"

The housekeeper looked worried that she'd screwed up. Quinn watched Bondurant as the woman started back toward the kitchen.

The stress of the last few days was telling on him. He looked as if he

hadn't eaten or slept. All dark circles and sunken cheeks and a pallorthat was unique to people under tremendous pressure.

"I don't have anything useful to say to you," he declared, impatient. "My daughter is dead. I can't do anything to change that. I can't evenbury her. I can't even make funeral arrangements. The medical examiner'soffice won't release the body."

"They can't release the body without a positive ID, Mr. Bondurant,"Quinn said. "You don't want to bury a stranger by mistake, do you?"

"My daughter was a stranger to me," he said enigmatically, wearily. "Really?" Kovac said, moving slowly around the foyer, like a sharkcircling. "Here I thought she might have been telling you all about whoshe really was when she called you that night--after she left here.

After you said you never heard from her again."

Bondurant stared at him. No denial. No apology.

"What'd you think?" Kovac demanded. "Did you think I wouldn't find that

out? Do you think I'm a moron? Do you think I've gotta have a f.u.c.kingFBI shield in order to have a brain?"

"I didn't think it was relevant." Kovac looked astounded. "Not relevant? Maybe she gave a clue where shewas when she made the call. That would give us an area to canva.s.s forwitnesses. Maybe there was a voice in the background, or a distinguishing sound. Maybe the call was interrupted."

"No on all counts."

"Why did she call?"

"To say good night."

"And is that the same reason she'd call her shrink in the middle of the night?"

No reaction. No surprise, no anger. "I wouldn't know why she calledLucas. Their relationship as doctor and patient was none of mybusiness."

"She was your daughter," Kovac said, pacing fast, the frustrationbuilding. "Did you think it wasn't any of your business when herstepfather was f.u.c.king her?"

Direct hit. At last, Quinn thought, watching anger fill PeterBondurant's thin face. "I've had all I want of you, Sergeant."

"Yeah? Do you suppose that's what Leblanc said to Jillian that drove herto try to kill herself back in France?" Kovac taunted, reckless, skatingon a thin edge.

"You b.a.s.t.a.r.d." Bondurant made no move toward him, but held himselfrigid. Quinn could see him trembling.

"I'm a b.a.s.t.a.r.d?" Kovac laughed. "Your daughter's maybe dead and youdon't bother to tell us jack s.h.i.t about her, and I'm the b.a.s.t.a.r.d?

That's rich. John, do you f.u.c.king believe this guy?"

Quinn gave the big sigh of disappointment. "We don't ask these questionslightly, Mr. Bondurant. We don't ask them to hurt you or your daughter'smemory. We ask because we need the whole picture."

I've told you," Bondurant said in a low, tight voice, the fury cold andhard in his eyes. "Jillian's past has nothing to do with this."

"I'm afraid it does. One way or another. Your daughter's past was a partof who she was-or who she is."

"Lucas told me you'd insist on that. It's ludicrous to think Jilliansomehow brought this on herself. She was doing so well-"

"It's not your job to try to dissect this, Peter," Quinn said, shiftingto the personal.

I'm yourftiend. You can tell me. Giving him permission to let go of thecontrol slowly and voluntarily. Quinn could see the logical part ofBondurant's mind arguing with the emotions he kept so firmly boxed. Hewas wound so tight that if Kovac pushed him hard enough and he snapped,it would be like suddenly loosing a hightension wire-no control at all.

Bondurant was smart enough to realize that and a.n.a.l enough to dread thepossibility.

"We're not saying it was Jillian's fault, Peter. She didn't ask for this to happen. She didn't deserve to have this happen."

A sheen of tears glazed Bondurant's eyes.

"I realize this is difficult for you," Quinn said softly. "When yourwife left, she took your daughter to a man who abused her. I can imaginethe kind of anger you must have felt when you found out."

"No, you can't." Bondurant turned away, looking for some kind of escapebut not willing to leave the hall.

"Jillian was an ocean away, in trouble, in pain. But everything was overby the time you found out, so what could you do? Nothing. I can imaginethe frustration, the anger, the feeling of impotence. The guilt."

"I couldn't do anything," he murmured. He stood beside a marbletoppedtable, staring at a sculpture of ragged bronze lilies, seeing a past hewould rather have kept locked away. "I didn't know. She didn't tell meuntil after she'd moved back here. I didn't know until it was too late."

With a trembling hand he touched one of the lilies and closed his eyes.

Quinn stood beside him, just encroaching on Bondurant's personal s.p.a.ce.

Near enough to invite confidence, to suggest support rather thanintimidation. "It's not too late, Peter. You can still help. We have thesame goal-finding and stopping Jillian's killer. What happened thatnight?"

He shook his head. Denying what? There was a sense of something -guilt?

shame?-emanating from him almost like an odor. "Nothing," he said.

"Nothing."

"You had dinner. She stayed till midnight. What happened that made hercall Brandt? She must have been upset about something."

Still shaking his head. Denying what? Her emotional state, or justrefusing to answer? Shaking off the questions as unacceptable becausethe answers would open a door he didn't want to go through? The daughterwho had come back to him after all those years had not come back theinnocent child she had been. She had come back different, damaged. Howwould a father feel? Hurt, disappointed, ashamed.

Guilty because he hadn't been there to prevent what had driven hisdaughter to try to end her own life. Guilty because of the shame he feltwhen he thought of her as damaged, as less than perfect. Emotionstangled and dark, tied in a knot that would take the skill of a surgeonto unravel.

He thought of the photograph in Bondurant's office: Jillian, so unhappyin a dress meant for another kind of girl.

Kovac came up on Bondurant's right. "We're not out to hurt Jillian.