all. How's Mrs. Sabin?”
“Fine.” The reply was absent of thought. He focused on her as he hitched his pinstriped trousers and perched a hip on the corner of his desk. “Just reacted? The way they taught you at the Bureau.”
He was obsessed with the fact that she had been an agent in what she now deemed a past life. Kate could only imagine the lewd fantasies that crawled like slugs through his mind. Dominatrix games, black leather, handcuffs, spanking.
She turned her attention to her immediate boss, the director of the legal services unit, who had taken the chair next to hers. Rob Marshall was Sabin's opposite image—doughy, dumpy, rumpled. He had a head as round as a pumpkin, crowned with a thinning layer of hair cropped so short, it gave more the appearance of a rust stain than a haircut. His face was ruddy and ravaged by old acne scars, and his nose was too short.
He'd been her boss for about eighteen months, having come to Minneapolis from a similar position in Madison, Wisconsin. During that time they had tried with limited success to find a balance between their personalities and working styles. Kate flat-out didn't like him. Rob was a spineless suckup and he had a tendency to micromanage that rubbed hard against her sense of autonomy. He found her bossy, opinionated, and impertinent. She took it as a compliment. But she tried to let his concern for victims offset his faults. In addition to his administrative duties, he often sat in on conferences with victims, and put in time with a victim's support group.
He squinted at her now from behind a pair of rimless glasses, his mouth pursing as if he'd just bitten his tongue. “You could have been killed. Why didn't you just call for security?”
“There wasn't time.”
“Instinct, Rob!” Sabin said, flashing large white teeth. “I'm sure you and I could never hope to understand the kind of razor-sharp instincts someone with Kate's background has honed.”
Kate refrained from reminding him yet again that she had spent most of her years with the FBI at a desk in the Behavioral Sciences Unit at the National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime. Her days in the field were longer ago than she cared to remember.
“The mayor will want to give you an award,” Sabin said brightly, knowing he would get in on the photo op.
Publicity was the last thing Kate wanted. As an advocate, it was her job to hold the hands of crime victims and witnesses, to shepherd them through the justice system, to reassure them. The idea of an advocate being chased down by media hounds was likely to spook some of her clients.
“I'd rather she didn't. I don't think it's the best idea for someone with my job. Right, Rob?”
“Kate's right, Mr. Sabin,” he said, flashing his obsequious smile—an expression that often overtook his face when he was nervous. Kate called it the bootlicker's grin. It made his eyes nearly disappear. “We don't want her picture in the paper . . . all things considered.”
“I suppose not,” Sabin said, disappointed. “At any rate, what happened this morning isn't why we've called you in, Kate. We're assigning you a witness.”
“Why all the fanfare?”
Most of her client assignments were automatic. She worked with six prosecuting attorneys and caught everything they charged—the exception being homicides. Rob assigned all homicides, but an assignment never warranted anything more than a phone call or a visit to her office. Sabin certainly never involved himself with the process.
“Are you familiar with the two prostitute murders we've had this fall?” Sabin asked. “The ones where the bodies were burned?”
“Yes, of course.”
“There's been another one. Last night.”
Kate looked from one grim face to the other. Behind Sabin she had a panoramic view of downtown Minneapolis from twenty-two stories up.
“This one wasn't a prostitute,” she said.
“How did you know that?”
“Lucky guess.”
“You didn't hear it on the street?”
“On the street?” Like he was in a gangster movie. “No. I wasn't aware there'd been a murder.”
Sabin walked around behind his desk, suddenly restless. “There's a chance this victim was Jillian Bondurant. Her father is Peter Bondurant.”
“Oh,” Kate said with significance. Oh, no, this wasn't just another dead hooker. Never mind that the first two victims had fathers somewhere too. This one's father was
Rob shifted uncomfortably in his chair, though whether it was the case or the fact that he insisted on wearing his pants too small around the waist was unclear. “Her driver's license was left near the body.”
“And it's been confirmed that she's missing?”
“She had dinner with her father at his home Friday night. She hasn't been seen since.”
“That doesn't mean it's her.”
“No, but that's the way it worked with the first two,” Sabin said. “The ID left with each hooker's body matched up.”
A hundred questions shot through Kate's mind, questions about the crime scene, about what information the police had released about the first two murders and what had been held back. This was the first she'd heard about the IDs being left at the scene. What did that mean? Why burn the bodies beyond recognition, yet leave the victim's identity right there?
“I assume they're checking dental records,” she said.
The men exchanged looks.
“I'm afraid that's not an option,” Rob said carefully. “We have a body
“Jesus,” Kate breathed as a chill ran through her. “He didn't decapitate the others. I never heard that.”
“No, he didn't,” Rob said. He squinted again and tipped his head a little to one side. “What do you make of it, Kate? You've had experience with this kind of thing.”
“Obviously, his level of violence is escalating. It could mean he's gearing up for something big. There was some sexual mutilation with the others, right?”
“The cause of death on the other two was ruled strangulation by ligature,” Sabin said. “I'm sure I don't need to tell you, Kate, that while strangulation is certainly a violent enough method of murder, a decapitation will throw this city into a panic. Particularly if the victim was a decent, law-abiding young woman. My God, the daughter of one of the most prominent men in the state. We need to find this killer fast. And we can make that happen. We've got a witness.”
“And this is where I come in,” Kate said. “What's the story?”
“Her name is Angie DiMarco,” Rob said. “She came running out of the park just as the first radio car arrived.”
“Who called it in?”
“Anonymous caller on a cell phone, I'm told,” Sabin said. His mouth tightened and twisted as if he were sucking at a sore tooth. “Peter Bondurant is a friend of the mayor's. I know him as well. He's beside himself with grief at the idea that this victim is Jillian, and he wants this case solved ASAP. A task force is being put together even as we speak. Your old friends at the Bureau have been called. They're sending someone from the Investigative Support Unit. We clearly have a serial killer on our hands.”
“Rumors are already flying,” Sabin muttered darkly. “The police department has a leak big enough to drain the Mississippi.”
The phone on his desk was lighting up like the switchboard on a disease telethon, though it never audibly rang.
“I've spoken with Chief Greer and with the mayor,” he continued. “We're grabbing this thing by the short hairs right now.”
“That's why we've called you in, Kate,” Rob said, shifting in his chair again. “We can't wait until there's been an arrest to assign someone to this witness. She's the only link we have to the killer. We want someone from the
