Demeanor: Confident, possibly quite charming.
Mental Problems: Phobias. Some type of stressor most likely occurred to bring about the first kidnapping and murder.
Grafted Rose Branches: Symbolic of his need to seek perfection in a mate along with his need to manipulate his victims in impossible ways.
The next file contained the victimology, which was every bit as important as the offender profile.
Sex: Female
Race: White
Age: 15 to 25
Height: 5'4" to 5'8"
Weight: 110 to 135
Hair color: Blond Victim will most likely be someone who is young and healthy, dresses stylishly, yet can be manipulated. Offender is an opportunist, and if the right victim can't be found, he makes do.
A note at the bottom proposed sending the profiles to the media as soon as the FBI signed off on them.
As Anthony shut down the computer and put it aside, he heard a key turn in the front lock. He was getting to his feet when the door swung open and an attractive woman walked in. Mary's sister? Mother?
He didn't want to frighten her, so he quickly pulled out his ID, nipped open the leather case, and introduced himself. Did she know who he was? he wondered. Had Mary ever mentioned him? "I'm Mary's partner," he explained in case she hadn't.
"Anthony! How wonderful!" the woman said, extending a hand. "I'm Blythe. I'm so glad to finally meet you." She was looking at him with curiosity.
"Excuse my hands," she said, smiling warmly. "I've been mixing clay all afternoon, and you know how hard clay is on your skin."
He hadn't known, but now he did.
She glanced around. "Where's Mary?"
It was tempting as hell to blow Mary's cover for her own good, but if he did, he doubted she'd ever speak to him again. "She didn't feel well, so she's upstairs sleeping."
"I knew something was wrong with her earlier today." Blythe frowned. "Is it Bu, do you think?"
This was Mary's mother. How could he lie to Mary's mother? "Hard to say," he replied uncomfortably.
"I'll just go up and check on her."
Blythe disappeared, then returned a few minutes later. "She's sound asleep, poor dear." She clasped him on the upper arm. "What about you? Did you just fly in? Have you had anything to eat? Come in the kitchen, and we'll have a chat while we wait for Mary to wake up."
She led him through the house to a kitchen that was as cluttered and as warm as the living room, with copper pans hanging above the stove. He noticed in particular a wire mesh bust in the corner. She talked while she pulled out condiments and heated water for tea. "Would you prefer beer? Wine? Soda? Oh, please sit down."
He could see that she was the kind of person who loved taking care of people, who would love to be taking care of Mary. Mary had recently told him she hadn't been home in five years. Not for the first time, he wondered why.
There was a little table in front of sliding glass doors that looked out onto a deck and backyard. He chose one of the stools at the kitchen counter.
"You and Mary don't look much alike," he observed.
"Mary's dark, like her father," Blythe said. "And Gillian's light like me. As far as personality, Mary and I are nothing alike either," she added, slicing a tomato. "But believe it or not, she used to be a lot more like me."
"Really?" He was having a hard time picturing Mary fluttering around a kitchen, wearing bright colors and talking nonstop.
"You should have known her before."
"Before? Before what?"
"Why, before Fiona died."
Mary awakened abruptly.
She could hear the soft, indistinct murmur of voices coming from downstairs. Disoriented, she turned on the lamp next to the bed and checked her watch. A little after seven.
She changed clothes, slipping into a pair of jeans and digging out a long-sleeved top. Downstairs, she found her mother and Anthony huddled together in the kitchen.
Blythe got to her feet. "I was just getting ready to come up and check on you." She gave Mary a quick hug. "How are you feeling?"
"Much better."
She leaned back to examine her. "Do you think it's the flu?"
Mary glanced at Anthony, thankful he hadn't told her mother everything. "It's not the flu; it's my arm."
"I was afraid," Blythe said with drama, "that there was more to your injury than you were letting on."
"I'm going to have to take it easy for a few days."
"Can I get you anything?"
"No." She put her uninjured arm around her mother and gave her a hug. "Everything's going to be fine."
Blythe was an optimist, so it was easy to convince her that there was no reason to worry. Satisfied with Mary's response, she excused herself, leaving the two of them alone to "talk business."
"Did you look at the profile?" Mary asked once her mother was gone.
Anthony nodded and lifted a glass to his mouth. The liquid was light green-Blythe was already plying him with herbal tea. "The profile looks pretty good as far as I can tell."
"Do you have anything to add, or anything you feel different about?" When it came to crime scene psychology they were a perfectly synchronized pair, and Mary had total faith in his judgment.
"He has some strangely conflicting qualities."
"I know. I keep going over everything and coming up with descriptions that seem more suited to two people than one. That's why I wanted to get your reaction."
"I really can't say until I have time to go over the victims' case files."
She waved her hand in impatience. "I promised Detective Wakefield a rough draft by tomorrow morning."
"I'll try to get everything read before that. What about the decomposed victim? Were you able to link her to the other two murders?"
"It's going to take a crime lab to do that."
He gave her a disapproving look. "This wasn't quite the break I envisioned for you."
"I didn't need a vacation."
"Come on, Mary." It had to be one of his favorite lines.
"You're not going to win this argument. Believe me, I'll be fine. I'm feeling much better already."
He seemed to be considering something and then finally said, "I'm sticking around."
"To keep an eye on me?"
"You weren't sent here to do the work of two people. Take tomorrow off. I've got a reservation at a hotel a few blocks from police headquarters, so I'll deliver the profile to Detective Wakefield in the morning. If he has any questions, he can call you. How does that sound?"
His idea seemed a fair compromise. "You're welcome to stay here," she offered. "There's a private area at the back of the house that used to be my father's work space. It has a bed and shower."
He stared at her for what seemed like a full minute.
Why was he looking at her like that? Had he misconstrued her invitation? she wondered. She was just trying to be friendly. But of course he wouldn't want to stay at their house. Not when the government was putting him up in a nice hotel.
His eyes cleared as if he'd finally made sense of her offer. "You're not trying to keep me under your thumb, are you, Mary?"
"Idiot." They were back on familiar ground. That evasive cat-and-mouse teasing that was so much a part of their relationship.
"You really are feeling better."
"I was just trying to be nice."
"Well, cut it out. You're scaring me."
She laughed.
"Thanks for the offer, regardless of how it came about," he said. "But I have to turn it down. I wouldn't want to be any trouble."
"It's too late for that."
"I'm afraid you're right." He glanced at her shoulder.
"That's not what I meant."
A look of resignation crossed his features, and she suddenly became aware of how tired he was.
She cupped his face with her hands, feeling abrasive stubble against her palms. She'd never touched him in such a way. "Quit beating yourself up about my injury," she whispered. "It happened. It's over. Forget about it."
"I can't."
It was unsettling to catch herself looking so deeply into Anthony Spence's eyes. She broke contact and moved away, suddenly embarrassed by her impulsiveness.