find out about his victims, the closer we will be to stopping him.”
“I'm familiar with your theories, Agent Quinn. I've read some of your articles. In fact, I think I have the textbook you coauthored somewhere on 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 forefinger against his lips, and nodded slowly. “The deviation from the pattern. I see. That makes her the logical centerpiece to the puzzle. You think he's saying 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 prostitutes? Perhaps all the victims were situational.”
“No,” Quinn said, studying the subtle, curious light of challenge in Brandt's eyes. “There's nothing random in this guy's bag of tricks. He picked each of these women for a reason. The reason should be more apparent with Jillian. How long had she been seeing you?”
“Two years.”
“How had she come to you? By referral?”
“By golf. Peter and I are both members at Minikahda. An excellent place to make connections,” he confessed with a smile, pleased with his own clever business acumen.
“You'd make more if you lived in Florida,” Quinn joked.
“Three if we have spring,” Brandt shot back, settling into the rhythm of repartee. “A lot of time spent in the clubhouse. The dining room is lovely. You golf?”
“When I get the chance.” Never because he enjoyed it. Always as an opportunity for a contact, a chance to get his ideas through to his SAC or the unit chief, or supposed downtime with law enforcement personnel he was working cases with across the country. Not so different from Lucas Brandt after all.
“Too bad the season's over,” Brandt said.
“Yeah,” Kovac drawled, “damned inconsiderate for this killer to work in November, if you look at it that way.”
Brandt flicked him a glance. “That's hardly what I meant, Detective. Though, now that you've brought it up, it's a shame you didn't catch him this summer. We wouldn't be having this conversation.
“Anyway,” he said, turning back to Quinn. “I've known Peter for years.”
“He doesn't strike me as a very social man.”
“No. Golf is serious business with Peter. Everything is serious with Peter. He's very driven.”
“How did that quality impact his relationship with Jillian?”
“Ah!” He held up a finger in warning and shook his head, still smiling. “Crossing the line, Agent Quinn.”
Quinn acknowledged the breach with a tip of his head.
“When did you last speak with Jillian?” Kovac asked.
“We had a session Friday. Every Friday at four.”
“And then she'd go over to her father's house for supper?”
“Yes. Peter and Jillian were working very hard on their relationship. They'd been separated for a long time. A lot of old feelings to deal with.”
“Such as?”
Brandt blinked at him.
“All right. What about a general statement, say, about the root of Jillian's problems? Give us an impression.”
“Sorry. No.”
Kovac gave a little sigh. “Look, you could answer a few simple questions without breaching anyone's trust. For instance, whether or not she was on any medication. We need to know for the tox screen.”
“Prozac. Trying to even out her mood swings.”
“Manic depressive?” Quinn asked.
The doctor gave him a look.
“Did she have any problem with drugs that you knew of?” Kovac tried.
“No comment.”
“Was she having trouble with a boyfriend?”
Nothing.
“Did she ever talk about anyone abusing her?”
Silence.
Kovac rubbed a hand over his mouth, petting his mustache. He could feel his temper crumbling like old cork. “You know this girl two years. You know her father. He considers you a friend. You could maybe give us a direction in this girl's murder. And you waste our time with this bullshit game—pick and choose, hot and cold.”
Quinn cleared his throat discreetly. “You know the rules, Sam.”
“Yeah, well, fuck the rules!” Kovac barked, flipping a book of Mapplethorpe photographs off the end table. “If I was a defense attorney waving a wad of cash, you can bet he'd find a loophole to ooze through.”
“I resent that, Detective.”
“Oh, well, yeah, I'm sorry I hurt your feelings. Somebody tortured this girl, Doctor.” He pushed away from the credenza, his expression as hard as the stone he shot into the wastebasket. The sound was like a .22 popping. “Somebody cut her head off and kept it for a souvenir. If I knew this girl, I think I would care about who did that to her. And if I could help catch the sick bastard, I would. But you care more about your social status than you care about Jillian Bondurant. I wonder if her father realizes that.”
He gave a harsh laugh as his pager went off. “What the hell am I saying? Peter Bondurant doesn't even want to believe his daughter could be alive. The two of you probably deserve each other.”
The pager trilled again. He checked the readout, swore under his breath, and went out of the office, leaving Quinn to deal with the aftermath.
Brandt managed to find something amusing in Kovac's outburst. “Well, that was quick. It generally takes the average cop a little longer to lose his temper with me.”
“Sergeant Kovac is under a great deal of stress with these murders,” Quinn said, moving to the credenza and the Zen garden. “I apologize on his behalf.”
The stones in the box had been arranged to form an X, the sand raked in a sinuous pattern around them. His mind flashed on the lacerations in the victim's feet—a double X pattern—and on the stab wounds to the victim's chest—two intersecting Xs.
“Is the pattern significant?” he asked casually.
“Not to me,” Brandt said. “My patients play with that more than I do. I find it calms some people, encourages the flow of thought and communication.”
Quinn knew several agents at the NCAVC who kept Zen gardens. Their offices were sixty feet below ground —ten times deeper than the dead, they joked. No windows, no fresh air, and the knowledge that the weight of the earth pressed in on the walls were all symbolic enough to give Freud a hard-on. A person needed something to relieve the tension. Personally, he preferred to hit things—hard. He spent hours in the gym punishing a punching bag for the sins of the world.
“No apology needed on Kovac's behalf.” Brandt bent down to pick up the Mapplethorpe book. “I'm an old hand at dealing with the police. Everything is simple to them. You're either a good guy or a bad guy. They don't seem to understand that I find the boundaries of my professional ethics frustrating at times too, but they are what they are. You understand.”
He set the book aside and sat back against his desk, his hip just nudging a small stack of files. The label read BONDURANT, JILLIAN. A microcassette recorder lay atop the file, as if perhaps he had been at work or would still work on his notes from his last session with her.
“I understand your position. I hope you understand mine,” Quinn said carefully. “I'm not a cop here. While our ultimate goal is the same, Sergeant Kovac and I have different agendas. My profile doesn't require the kind of evidence admissible in court. I'm looking for impressions, feelings, gut instinct, details some would consider insignificant. Sam's looking for a bloody knife with fingerprints. You see what I mean?”
Brandt nodded slowly, never taking his eyes from Quinn's. “Yes, I believe I do. I'll have to think about it. But at the same time, you should consider that the problems Jillian brought to me may have had nothing whatsoever to
