He glanced up at the bedroom window again, and caught himself hoping Tess would be there. What was it about this woman that made him not want to leave? Was he simply imagining that there had been some connection, some special bond? Or had it just been sex?
He checked his wristwatch. He had a long trip back to Boston. He’d be pushing it to get there in time for dinner with Melissa and her visiting parents. It had been the only reason he had taken off a precious Monday from his brand-new job. And here he was, miles away from Boston and miles away from even thinking about Melissa.
Christ! How would Melissa not see the betrayal in his eyes? How fucking stupid was he to risk throwing away the last four years for one night of passion? So if it was such a mistake, why hadn’t he left already? Why couldn’t he get Tess’s fragrance, the taste of her skin, the sounds of her passion…why couldn’t he erase it all? Why did he want to go back up and do it all over again? That certainly didn’t sound like a remorseful guy. What the hell was wrong with him?
He shifted the car into gear and peeled out of her driveway, letting his frustration squeal the tires. He swerved into the street and almost sideswiped a car parked at the opposite curb. Briefly the man behind the wheel glanced up at him. He wore sunglasses and had a map spread over the dash as though he was looking for directions. Tess’s neighborhood was blocks away from any major thoroughfare. Immediately, Will wondered if the guy had been watching the house. Was it possible this was the owner of the expensive sapphire ring Tess wore on the wrong hand?
Will checked the rearview mirror and took one last look at the car. Then he noticed it had District of Columbia license plates instead of Virginia. Maybe because it was a little odd, maybe because he was a new assistant D.A. —hell, maybe it was just out of curiosity about the type of man who thought he owned Tess McGowan. Whatever the reason, Will committed the license number to memory, then headed back to Boston.
CHAPTER 19
The conference room went silent as soon as Maggie walked through the door. Without hesitating she continued to the front, disappointed to find the room arranged for a lecture. Chairs were set side by side, all facing the front of the room instead of at long, narrow tables as she had requested. She preferred more of a business setting where she could scatter crime scene photos in front of the participants. Where they felt more comfortable discussing rather than simply listening. However, the only table in the room was filled with coffee, juice, soft drinks and an assortment of pastries.
She felt her audience’s stares as she pulled up a chair for her briefcase. Then, she began digging through the contents, pretending to search for something she had to have before she could start. Instead, she was waiting for her stomach to settle. She had eaten breakfast hours ago, and never got nauseated anymore before presentations. But her lack of sleep and several additional Scotches in her room last night, long after Turner and Delaney had left her, now punished her with a fuzzy head and a dry mouth. It was definitely not a good way to start a Monday.
“Good morning,” she finally said, buttoning her double-breasted jacket. “I’m Special Agent Margaret O’Dell with the FBI. I’m a criminal profiler with the Investigative Support Unit at Quantico, which some of you may still refer to as the Behavioral Science Unit. This workshop focuses—”
“Wait a minute, ma’am,” a man in the second row interrupted, shuffling uncomfortably in a chair that was too small to accommodate his considerable size. He wore tight trousers, a crisp, short-sleeved button-down shirt that stretched across his swollen belly, and scuffed shoes that refused to look new despite a fresh polish.
“Yes?”
“No disrespect intended, but what happened to the guy who was supposed to give this workshop?”
“Excuse me?”
“The program…” He looked around the room until he seemed to find encouragement from some of his comrades. “It said the guy wasn’t just an FBI profiler, but an expert in tracking serial killers, a forensic psychologist with, like, nine or ten years’ experience.”
“Did the program actually say this person was a man?”
Now he looked puzzled. Someone beside him handed over a copy of the conference’s program.
“Sorry to disappoint you,” Maggie said, “but I’m him.”
Most of the men simply stared at her. One woman in the group rolled her eyes in empathy when Maggie looked her way. Maggie recognized two men in the back. She had briefly met the Kansas City detectives Ford and Milhaven last night at the Westport bar and grill. Both men smiled as though they were in on her secret.
“Maybe they should say that in the program,” the man persisted, trying to justify his objection. “They don’t even use your name.”
“Would it matter?”
“Yeah, to me it would’ve. I came here to learn some serious stuff, not listen to some desk jockey.”
Her evening dosage of Scotch must have desensitized her emotions. Instead of feeling angry, his chauvinism simply made her feel more exhausted.
“Look, Officer—”
“Wait a minute. What makes you think I’m an officer? Maybe I’m a detective.” He shot a smug grin to his buddies, giving himself away and reinforcing Maggie’s initial assessment.
“Let me take a shot here,” she said, walking to the center of the room, standing in front of him and crossing her arms. “You’re a street cop in a metropolitan area, but not here in Kansas City. You’re used to wearing a uniform and not business attire, not even business casual. Your wife packed your bag and picked out what you’re wearing now, but you’ve gained some weight since she last bought anything for you. Except the shoes. You insisted on wearing your beat shoes.”
Everyone including the officer shuffled in their chairs to get a look at his shoes. She failed to point out the subtle but permanent indentations in his close-cropped hair from too many hours spent wearing a hat.
“You’re not able to carry your weapon at the conference, but you feel lost without your badge. It’s inside your jacket pocket.” She motioned to the tan jacket hidden by his hefty bulk and draped over the back of the chair. “Your wife also insisted on the jacket, but again you’re not used to wearing one. Not like perhaps a detective might be used to wearing a jacket and tie.”
Everyone waited as if watching a magic act, so the officer reluctantly twisted around, tugged at the jacket and brought out his badge to show them.
“All lucky guesses,” he said to Maggie. “Whatcha expect from a roomful of cops?”
“You’re right. You’re absolutely right.” Maggie nodded as eyes came back to her face, still waiting, still testing. “Most of what I said might be seen as obvious. There’s a certain profile that goes along with being a cop. Just like there’s a certain profile that goes along with being a serial killer. If you can pinpoint what those characteristics are and which ones apply—though some of them may seem obvious—you can use that information, that knowledge, as the beginning foundation for a profile.”
Finally she had their attention, and with their minds diverted from what she looked like to what she was saying, her entire body began to relax, to access some auxiliary energy and override her initial fatigue.
“However, the tricky part is looking beyond the obvious, picking apart and examining small tidbits that might seem insignificant. Like, for instance, in this case—I’m sorry, Officer, would you mind telling me your name?”
“What? You mean you can’t guess that?” He smirked, proud of what he considered a quick comeback and drawing a few laughs from the others.
Maggie smiled.
“No, I’m afraid my crystal ball leaves out names.”
“It’s Danzig, Norm Danzig.”
“If I were to examine your profile, Officer Danzig, I’d try to break down everything I did know.”
“Hey, you can examine me all you like.” He continued to play with her, enjoying the attention, while looking at his buddies instead of Maggie.
“I’d wonder,” she continued, ignoring his comment, “why your wife had bought clothes for you that were the wrong size.”
Suddenly Officer Danzig sat still and quiet.
