Ashes to Ashes

He denied it again, shaking his head, his eyes on the floor as he paced. “I didn't. I don't care what that bitch told you.”

“What bitch is that?” Quinn asked calmly.

Vanlees stopped and looked at him. “That friend of hers. She said something about me, didn't she?”

“That friend whose name you didn't know?” Liska asked. She stood between Quinn and Kovac, looking tough. “You told me you didn't know her. But you said her name not five minutes ago, Gil. Michele. Michele Fine. Why would you lie to me about knowing her?”

“I didn't. I don't know her. Her name just slipped my mind, that's all.”

“And if you'd lie to me about a little thing like that,” Liska said, “I've got to wonder what else you'd lie about.”

Vanlees glared at them, red in the face, tears in his eyes, mouth quivering with temper. “Fuck you people. You've got nothing on me. I'm leaving. I came here to help you and you treat me like a common criminal. Fuck you!”

“Don't sell yourself short, Mr. Vanlees,” Quinn said. “If you're the man we're looking for, there's nothing common about you.”

Vanlees said nothing. No one stopped him from throwing open the door. He stormed out, his steps hurried as he made for the men's room down the hall.

Kovac leaned against the doorjamb, watching. “Touchy guy.”

“Almost like he has something to feel guilty about.” Liska looked up at Quinn. “What do you think?”

Quinn watched Vanlees bull the men's room door open with his shoulder, already reaching for his fly with his other hand. He adjusted the knot in his tie and stroked a hand down the strip of silk. “I think I'll go freshen up.”

The stench in the men's room was hot and fresh. Vanlees was not at the urinals. One pair of thick-soled black work shoes showed beneath the stalls. Quinn went to the sinks, turned on a faucet, filled his cupped hands, and rinsed his face. The toilet flushed and a moment later Vanlees emerged, sweaty and pale. He froze in his tracks at the sight of Quinn.

“Everything all right, Mr. Vanlees?” Quinn asked without real concern as he dried his hands on a paper towel.

“You're harassing me,” he accused.

Quinn raised his brows. “I'm drying my hands.”

“You followed me in here.”

“Just making sure you're all right, Gil.” My buddy, my pal. “I know you're upset. I don't blame you. But I want you to realize this isn't personal. I'm not after you personally. I'm after a killer. I have to do what I have to do to make that happen. You understand that, don't you? What I'm after is the truth, justice, nothing more, nothing less.”

“I didn't hurt Jillian,” Vanlees said defensively. “I wouldn't.”

Quinn weighed the statements carefully. He never expected a serial killer to admit to anything. Many of them spoke of their crimes in the third person, even after they had been proven guilty beyond any doubt. And many referred to the side of themselves that was capable of committing murder as a separate entity. The evil twin syndrome, he called it. It enabled those with some small scrap of conscience to rationalize, to push the guilt away from themselves and onto their dark side.

The Gil Vanlees standing before him wouldn't kill anyone. But what about his dark side?

“Do you know someone who would hurt Jillian, Gil?” he asked.

Vanlees frowned at his feet. “No.”

“Well, in case you think of someone.” Quinn held out a business card.

Vanlees took it reluctantly and looked at the front and the back, as if searching for some tiny homing device embedded in the paper.

“We need to stop this killer, Gil,” Quinn said, giving him a long, level stare. “He's a bad, bad guy, and I'll do whatever I have to do to put him away. Whoever he is.”

“Good,” Vanlees murmured. “I hope you do.”

He slipped the card into his breast pocket and left the men's room without washing his hands. Quinn frowned and turned back to the sink, staring at himself hard in the mirror, as if he might be able to see some sign in his own visage, some secret sure knowledge that Gil Vanlees was the one.

The pieces were there. If they all fit together right . . . If the cops could come up with just one piece of evidence . . .

Kovac came in a moment later and reeled backward at the lingering smell. “Jeez! What'd that guy eat for breakfast—roadkill?”

“Nerves,” Quinn said.

“Wait'll he figures out there's a cop on his tail every time he turns around.”

“Let's hope he bolts. If you can get in his truck, you might hit pay dirt. Or maybe he's just another pathetic loser who's a couple of clicks to the right of killing anybody. And the real Smokey Joe is sitting home right now, jerking off as he listens to one of his torture tapes.”

“Speaking of, the techno-geek at the BCA called,” Kovac said. “He thinks we'll want to come listen to that tape from last night now that he's played with it.”

“Could he pull out the killer's voice?”

“Killers, plural,” Kovac said soberly. “He thinks there's two of them. And get this. He thinks one is a woman.”

KATE WALKED INTO Sabin's office, thinking it had been just a matter of days since the meeting that had brought her into this case. In some ways it seemed like a year. In that span of days, her life had changed. And it wasn't over yet. Not by a long shot.

Sabin and Rob rose from their chairs. Sabin looking tired and dour. Rob sprang up. His small eyes seemed too bright in his pumpkin head, and he looked as if he had a temperature. The fever of self-righteous indignation.

“So where's the guy with the black hood and the ax?” Kate asked, stopping behind the chair intended for her.

Sabin frowned as if she'd just spoiled his opening line.

Rob looked to him. “See? That's exactly what I'm talking about!”

“Kate, this is hardly the time for cracking jokes,” Sabin said.

“Was I joking? I've managed to lose the only witness in the biggest murder investigation the Cities have seen in years. You're not giving me the ax? After last night, I'm surprised Rob isn't holding it himself.”

“Don't think I wouldn't like to be,” Rob said. “You're entirely too flip, Kate. I've had it with your attitude toward me. You have no respect.”

She turned to Sabin, discounting her boss without saying a word. “But . . . ?”

“But I'm intervening, Kate,” Sabin said, taking his seat. “This is a highly charged situation. Tempers are running high all around.”

“But she always treats me like this!”

“Stop whining, Rob,” Sabin ordered. “She's also the best advocate you've got. You know it. You suggested her for this assignment for very specific reasons.”

“Need I remind you, we no longer have a witness?”

Sabin glared at him. “No, you don't need to remind me.”

“Angie was my responsibility,” Kate said. “No one is more sorry about this than I am. If I could do anything— If I could go back to yesterday and do something differently—”

“You delivered the girl to the Phoenix last night yourself. Isn't that right?” Sabin said in his prosecutor's voice.

“Yes.”

“And the house was supposedly under surveillance by the police. Isn't that right?”

“Yes.”

“Then I blame this nightmare on them. Whatever became of the girl—whether she was taken or left on her own—is their fault, not yours.”

Kate glanced at her watch, thinking the autopsy was long over by now. If there had been any definitive proof