angrier she'd become.
She didn't hear the knock on her door because she was cursing too loudly, saying, “Why doesn't O'Rourke just get Matisak a fucking fax machine in his cell?”
“ Sorry if I caught you at a bad time,” Alan Rychman said. “Is everything all right? You want me to come back later?”
“ No, no, come on in. Sorry about the tantrum.”
“ No reason you should be having tantrums, any more than I.” He tried a laugh and this brought a small smile to her lips.
“ That's pretty,” he said.
“ What's pretty?”
“ That smile of yours. Does it get better with a little help?”
“ Haven't had much to smile about in a long time.”
“ Then this is a good sign?” he asked, but she only looked back at the fax machine, finishing what she had to send, speaking with her back to him.
“ It's a wonder I can find anything to smile about, if that's what you mean. We've got one hell of a problem on our hands, Rychman.”
“ So what's new? And what's got you so riled up?”
“ Long story,” she said, finishing with the fax and wheeling around in her chair to face him again. “It'd just bore you.”
“ It's going to be a long night. Why not tell me about it over dinner?”
“ Dinner? Jesus, what time is it?” she asked, and glanced at her watch. “How'd it get so late? I missed the six o'clock meeting. I'm… I'm sorry.”
Rychman waved it off. “Forget it. You didn't miss much. Assignments, fresh leads that don't smell too fresh; nothing I can't fill you in on, Doctor. But I can tell you that you were missed by all.”
This made her smile again. “Really? By everyone?”
“ Heard you were up here working hard, so I came to haul you out.”
“ Haul me out? You do have a way with words, Captain.”
“ For dinner, I mean.”
“ I've had some training in cryptology; I figured you meant, 'Would you care to have dinner with me?' when you said, 'Haul you out,' but I'm just a little rusty, so it took me a moment.”
He half frowned and squinted at her. “Is that a yes?”
“ You haven't deciphered it yet?”
“ Working… I'd say it was an affirmative reply.”
Nine
Rychman suggested an Italian restaurant named Donatel-lo's Greatest Achievements, in the heart of Manhattan. Along the way, she filled him in on what the FBI had been trying to accomplish with Gerald Ray Sims before his suicide, and what they were trying to do with Matisak. Rychman agreed that her bosses were pandering to Matisak, to the point that any information gained from him was suspect. He was sympathetic and very understanding about her earlier outburst. He seemed genuinely concerned about her well-being, she felt. She sensed a gentleness that perhaps only a few were privy to.
“ So what credence do you give to Matisak's theory, if it can be called that? I mean maybe it's not a demonic possession but what about a pair of madmen?”
“ I'm sorry, it's just too early to tell,” she replied, saying nothing of her own suspicions along these lines. “Have you any reason to believe it could be two men instead of one?”
“ No, not really,” he readily admitted.
After arriving at the restaurant and being seated, they ordered a carafe of Chablis and she was soon asking him about his home life. “Any children?”
“ A pair of 'em. Sweet, gentle kids. Raised far from their father's profession, thanks to their mother.”
“ You get to see them on weekends?”
“ When the job doesn't interfere, which isn't often, lately. My ex jokes that I'm a merchant marine and I come around when my ship's in.”
She dipped her head and bit her lip. “It doesn't sound like the perfect amicable divorce, but it takes a special person to understand how important the job is to a dedicated cop, or agent, as in my case.”
“ It's been difficult, to say the least, not seeing the kids when I come home at night, and as for a woman's company… well, let's just say, I miss that, too.”
“ Guess we've got some things in common, Captain.”
“ I think it'd be okay if you called me Alan under the circumstances.”
“ Maybe not. Wouldn't want to slip around your men.”
“ We're not around my men. Go ahead. Try it. A-L-A-N, Alan.”
“ Alan,” she said.
“ You've got it, and you make it sound better than 'Captain.' “
“ I'm starved,” she replied. “Where's that waiter?” In a moment someone was there taking their orders. He opted for a small New York strip steak, she for the red snapper.
She caught him staring at her before he realized what he was doing. To cover, he said abruptly, “I'm given to understand that you're extremely good at reading people, at psychologically dissecting killers; that you have an instinct for it.”
“ I have some talent in that direction, yes.”
“ Then you've already made some judgments about our friend or friends, the Claw?” He seemed to be drawing inward again. Maybe he wanted their relationship to remain on a firm professional footing, too. Perhaps talking about the case would accomplish this.
Or was he slicker than she'd given him credit for? Was this Alan Rychman's way of maneuvering her into talking more openly about her initial impressions and findings than she had intended?
“ I know that the Claw's appetite grows,” she said.
“ Grows? You mean the stepped-up calendar of his kills?”
“ I mean that with each victim, apparently, he has either eaten more or walked off with more of the organs. He's working his way up to feeding jackal fashion on the brains of his future victims.” Rychman stared across at her. “You can tell that from what you've seen in the lab?” The same notion had crossed his mind at the Hamner murder scene.
“ First victim was only lightly hit over the head. Now he's murderously battering the cranial matter, splitting open the skull. He'll take the brains of his next victim, because he has been working his way through the organs, tasting each in turn. He gorges himself on the entrails, disinterested in the intestines themselves, but fascinated with the organ tissues. He's fed on heart, lung, liver and kidney tissues, as well as the eyes of his victims. He's bored now with this and he'll go on to their brains next.”
The waiter gulped back bile as he stood listening to her. She'd been unaware of his presence. Rychman looked up at the man and said, “We're testing dog food materials at the plant. Don't mind us.”
The waiter quickly deposited their meals and backed off, hurriedly asking if they needed anything else, quite anxious to make his exit. Rychman waved the poor man off.
They dug in, both hungry, the aroma of the hot meals and juices swirling about them. Rychman poured them both more wine until she placed a hand up to him.
Jessica's cane slid softly away from the unoccupied chair she'd propped it on, slapping the floor. She reddened and began to reach for it, but Alan was faster, lifting it and laying it gingerly across the arms of the chair.
“ That'll do better there.” He stared at the Irish shillelagh. Its clublike pearl handle had a brass band around it, like the markings on the neck of a wild goose, the rest of the cane a simple black.
“ Nice cane, a real beauty.”
