secretaries—too damn many politicians. Also present were the Hennepin County sheriff, a detective from the same office, a special agent in charge from the Minnesota Bureau of Criminal Apprehension with one of his agents, the homicide lieutenant from the PD—representatives from three of the agencies that would comprise the task force.
He met each with a firm handshake and played it low key. Midwesterners tended to be reserved and didn't quite trust people who weren't. In the Northeast he would have given more of the steel. On the West Coast he would have turned up the charm, would have been Mr. Affable, Mr. Spirit of Cooperation. Different horses for different courses, his old man used to say. And which one was the real John Quinn—even he didn't know anymore.
“. . . and my husband, Edwyn Noble,” the mayor finished the introductions.
“Here in a professional capacity, Agent Quinn,” Edwyn Noble said. “Peter Bondurant is a client as well as a friend.”
Quinn's attention focused sharply on the man before him. Six five or six six, Noble was all joints and sinew, an exaggerated skeleton of a man with a smile that was perfectly square and too wide for his face. He looked slightly younger than his wife. The gray in his hair was contained to flags at the temples.
“Mr. Bondurant sent his attorney?” Quinn said.
“I'm Peter's personal counsel, yes. I'm here on his behalf.”
“Why is that?”
“The shock has been terrific.”
“I'm sure it has been. Has Mr. Bondurant already given the police his statement?”
Noble leaned back, the question physically putting him off. “A statement regarding what?”
Quinn shrugged, nonchalant. “The usual. When he last saw his daughter. Her frame of mind at the time. The quality of their relationship.”
Color blushed the attorney's prominent cheekbones. “Are you suggesting Mr. Bondurant is a suspect in his own daughter's death?” he said in a harsh, hushed tone, his gaze slicing across the room to check for eavesdroppers.
“Not at all,” Quinn said with blank innocence. “I'm sorry if you misunderstood me. We need all the pieces of the puzzle we can get in order to form a clear picture of things, that's all. You understand.”
Noble looked unhappy.
In Quinn's experience, the parents of murder victims tended to camp out at the police department, demanding answers, constantly underfoot of the detectives. After the description Walsh had given of Bondurant, Quinn had expected to see the man throwing his weight around city hall like a mad bull. But Peter Bondurant had reached out and touched the director of the FBI, called out his personal attorney, and stayed home.
“Peter Bondurant is one of the finest men I know,” Noble declared.
“I'm sure Agent Quinn didn't mean to imply otherwise, Edwyn,” the mayor said, patting her husband's arm.
The lawyer's attention remained on Quinn. “Peter was assured you're the best man for this job.”
“I'm very good at what I do, Mr. Noble,” Quinn said. “One of the reasons I'm good at my job is that I'm not afraid to
He left it at that. He didn't want to make enemies of Bondurant's people. Offend a man like Bondurant and he'd find himself called on the carpet before the Bureau's Office of Professional Responsibility—at the very least. On the other hand, after having Peter Bondurant jerk him out here like a dog on a leash, he wanted it made clear he wouldn't be manipulated.
“We're running short on time, people. Let's take our seats and get started,” the mayor announced, herding the men toward the conference table like a first-grade teacher with a pack of little boys.
She stood at the political end of the table as everyone fell into rank, and drew breath to speak just as the door opened again and four more people walked in.
“Ted, we were about to start without you.” The mayor's doughy face creased with disapproval at his lack of punctuality.
“We've had some complications.” He strode across the room directly toward Quinn. “Special Agent Quinn. Ted Sabin, Hennepin County attorney. I'm glad to meet you.”
Quinn rose unsteadily to his feet. His gaze glanced off the man's shoulder to the woman trailing reluctantly behind him. He mumbled an adequate reply to Sabin, shaking the county attorney's hand. A mustached cop stepped up and introduced himself. Kovac. The name registered dimly. The pudgy guy with them introduced himself and said something about having once heard Quinn speak somewhere.
“. . . And this is Kate Conlan with our victim/witness program,” Sabin said. “You may—”
“We've met,” they said in unison.
Kate looked Quinn in the eye for just a moment because it seemed important to do so, to recognize him, acknowledge him, but not react. Then she glanced away, stifling the urge to sigh or swear or walk out of the room.
She couldn't say she was surprised to see him. There were only eighteen agents assigned to Investigative Support's Child Abduction/Serial Killer Unit. Quinn was the current poster boy for CASKU, and sexual homicide was his specialty. The odds had not been in her favor, and her luck today was for shit. Hell, she should have
“You've worked together?” Sabin said, not quite certain whether he should be pleased or disappointed.
An awkward silence hung for a second or three. Kate sank into a chair.
“Uh—yes,” she said. “It's been a long time.”
Quinn stared at her. No one took him by surprise. Ever. He'd spent a lifetime building that level of control. That Kate Conlan could walk in the door and tilt the earth beneath his feet after all this time did not sit well. He ducked his head and cleared his throat. “Yeah. You're missed, Kate.”
Oblivious of the discomfort at the other end of the table, the mayor brought the meeting to order. The press conference was less than an hour away. The politicians needed to get their ducks in a row. Who would speak first. Who would stand where. Who would say what. The cops combed their mustaches and drummed their fingers on the table, impatient with the formalities.
“We need to make a
Edwyn Noble nodded. “Mr. Bondurant is establishing a reward of one hundred fifty thousand for information leading to an arrest.”
Quinn pulled his attention away from Kate and rose. “Actually, Chief, I wouldn't advise any of that just yet.”
Greer's face pinched. Edwyn Noble glared at him. The collective expression from the political end of the table was a frown.
“I haven't had the opportunity to thoroughly go over the case,” Quinn began, “which is reason enough to hold off. We need to get a handle on just who this killer might be, how his mind works. Making a blind show of strength at this point could be a move in the wrong direction.”
“And that would be based on what?” Greer asked, his bulky shoulders tensing beneath the weight of the chip he was carrying. “You've said yourself, you haven't reviewed the case.”
“We've got a killer who's putting on a show. I've seen the photos from this last crime scene. He brought the body to a public place, intending to shock. He drew attention to the scene with a fire. This probably means he wants an audience, and if that's what he wants, we have to be careful of just how we give it to him.
“My advice is to hold off today. Minimize this press conference. Assure the public you're doing everything you can to identify and arrest the killer, but don't go into details. Keep the number of people behind the podium down —Chief Greer, Mayor Noble, Mr. Sabin, that's it. Don't get into the specifics of the task force. Don't talk about Mr. Bondurant. Don't bring up the FBI. Don't mention my name at all. And don't take any questions.”
