“I see pi,” she insisted. “I haveworked cases like this before. Cases where people get obsessed with certainnumbers and concepts. I helped to take down the Golden Ratio Killer.”
“That doesn’t mean every killer isthe same,” Flynn argued. “Besides, what does it get us? Even if this is pi, howis that a lead? It doesn’t tell us where to look at all.”
“It could help us to narrow downthe suspect list,” Zoe said. She knew he had a point in that, but she wasn’tabout to let him think that he had won. Far from it. She would argue her casefor as long as necessary—at least until he remembered who the superior agenthere was. Who did he think he was, trying to take down her reasoning like this?
“We can’t just jump toconclusions,” Flynn said, with a certain amount of exasperation. He wasgesturing with his hands, performing sweeping motions that Zoe’s eyes traced inthe air, calculating speed and angle and pattern. “Look, pi can be used torepresent certain stress tensors in fluid dynamics. Does that mean we shouldonly be interviewing physicists as suspects?”
Zoe blinked. Stress tensors influid dynamics—that was not the kind of thing she had expected to hear come outof Aiden Flynn’s mouth. He was all talk and a sharp suit, but this time therewas actually substance to what he was saying. Something that went deeper thancocky arrogance in the recent training, the belief most rookies emerged withthat they were now the best agent in the whole of the FBI.
“So what if it is pi?” Flynncontinued, with the air of conclusion. “We still have to do our due diligenceand investigate the old-fashioned way. We can’t just assume it’s some lunaticgoing around marking bodies with pi because he wants to honor the cosmicresonance of special numbers. It’s far more likely to be a family member. Anex-husband. It’s almost always a husband.”
“I never said that we should notconduct a full investigation,” Zoe grumbled.
“I guess we’d better pick this upin the morning, then,” Flynn said, checking his watch. “Too late now to gobarging in on the family members. And we still need to sort out somewhere tostay.”
Zoe pursed her lips, unable to arguewith him. Out of all the numbers she had to deal with, time was the mostannoying—simply because it was incessant, and never stopped to allow her tocatch her breath.
“Fine,” she agreed. “But firstthing in the morning, we get going. I do not want to delay any further thannecessary.”
Partly because she had pride insolving cases fast. Partly because she didn’t want the killer to strike again.But most of all, because the quicker this was over, the quicker she wouldn’thave to deal with the rookie anymore.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Zoe still clutched at herseatbelt, trying not to throw up the last pill along with the slice of butteredtoast as Flynn steered their rental car along twisting roads far too quickly,taking them deeper into Syracuse to seek out the astronomer’s family.
A night in a motel room bed haddone Zoe few favors. As always seemed to be the case in these cheap small-townmotels, the bed was almost as solid as a brick, the sheets scratchy anddubiously clean, and the bathroom far too small to have a satisfying shower.
Still, it was something. At leastZoe had been able to rest, which was a boon for her body as well as her mind.With the antidepressants Dr. Monk had given her also working their way throughher system after a hasty breakfast, she could almost admit to feeling vaguelyhuman.
Except for the nausea that rose upevery time Flynn came up against a bend.
“Can you not take the corners alittle easier?” she groaned, as Flynn threw it around yet another at a speedthat was distinctly terrifying.
Flynn glanced at her beforelooking back at the road. “Sorry. I like getting places fast. There’s lives atstake, right?”
“Yes,” Zoe muttered darkly. “Ours.”
He seemed to ease off a littleduring the last few turns, but it made little difference to Zoe’s roilingstomach—they were already at the address they had gotten from the sheriff,pulling up outside a respectable-looking mid-sized family home with a tiny yardin the front. It put Zoe in mind of Shelley’s home, and she shuddered.
“You’re not cold, are you?” Flynnasked, looking at her curiously.
“No,” Zoe said, shrugging her coatcloser around herself. She’d made good on her intentions to dig out a warmercoat, and the late fall weather wasn’t penetrating it yet. “Come on.”
Flynn, meanwhile, appeared to beperfectly fine in only his suit. He stepped out of the car and buttoned hissuit jacket, smoothing down the edges, and walked to the door with a confidentstride. He seemed unfazed by the weather completely. Zoe privately wonderedwhether he really did feel the cold, and was too vain to consider wearing anovercoat that might wrinkle the lines of his perfect tailoring.
The rookie made three short, sharpraps on the door, and Zoe watched the dimensions of the frame and calculatedthe advancing nearness of the audible footsteps until it opened. A man stoodthere, probably thirty-six, his brown hair, thick brown eyebrows, and theangles of his nose and eyes telling Zoe that he was Elara Vega’s son.
“Carlo Vega?” she asked, beforeFlynn could dive in and take the lead again. “I am Special Agent Zoe Prime withthe FBI. This is my colleague, Agent Flynn. Can we ask you a few questions?”
“It’s about my mother, yes?” Carloasked, his gaze sweeping between the two of them. There was a downwards cast tohis whole face, as though he had spent the night slowly melting.
“That’s right, Mr. Vega,” Flynnreplied. “And may we first of all say, we’re very sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you,” Carlo said, steppingaside. “Please come in. My wife is in the living room.”
Flynn stepped forward before Zoecould, and she ended up trailing along behind him, navigating an entrance
