"With a sketch? There were witnesses?"
"The other kids. The oldest was only nine, so it was… difficult. Kids tend to elaborate, to invent details using their imaginations, so we had to weed through what they said they saw to get at the truth."
"How were you able to do that?"
Maggie hesitated only an instant. "I listened to them."
"And you knew truth from an elaboration-how?"
"I… don't know. I mean, I don't know how to explain it. Andy calls it intuition, instinct. I guess that's as good a word as any. I've been doing this a long time."
Surprised, John said, "It can't have been all that long. You're-what?-twenty-five?"
"Thanks, but it's thirty-one. The first time I sketched a face for the police I was eighteen. So I've been doing this almost half my life."
"Isn't eighteen awfully young to work for the police?"
"I wasn't working for them then, not officially." Maggie sighed. "I happened to witness a crime and I was the only one present who saw anything. I also happened to be able to draw. One thing led to another, and by the time I was in college I was also officially on the police payroll."
John had more questions, but before he could ask them Andy knocked on the door and opened it to say, "Sorry for the interruption, but-Maggie, we just got a call. Hollis Templeton says she'll talk to you Saturday afternoon at the hospital."
Maggie got to her feet. "She called us?"
"Yeah. After ignoring us for weeks."
"Did she say why?"
"No, but…" Andy shifted his weight the way he did when he was uneasy. "You two haven't met, right?"
"Right."
"Know each other by reputation?"
"I don't know her work. Don't see how she could know mine. Why?"
"She asked for you by name, Maggie. Said she'd only talk to you."
John got up. "Why is that strange?" he asked.
"Because," Andy said, "none of us has told her Maggie's name. And there's been no publicity about her being our sketch artist; we keep that quiet. So Hollis Templeton really shouldn't have known who to ask for."
FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 2
The hotel room in Pittsburgh was like every other hotel room he'd ever stayed in, and Quentin Hayes wondered idly if there was a hotel decorators' association and they met secretly two or three times every year to decide what all the hotel rooms in America were going to look like. Because surely it was beyond coincidence that they all used variations of the same floral-print bedspreads and drapes and hung the same bland landscapes on the walls. And arranged the furniture in the most unreasonable way so that there was never an outlet where one was needed and it was always necessary to unplug a lamp in order to plug in a computer or fax machine.
No, it was obviously a conspiracy. He expressed that opinion to his companion, and she gave him a wry response.
"You've been on the road too long," Kendra Eliot said.
"That does not," Quentin said, "negate the probability I'm right."
Kendra typed another sentence into her report, keeping her gaze on the laptop even as she said, "A vacation, that's what you need. A nice, long one. A couple of weeks spent not chasing after bad guys or coming up with imaginative reasons to explain how you know the things you know."
"How can you talk and type at the same time? If I try that, I end up typing what I'm saying."
"My uniquely flexible mind. I'm telling Bishop you need a break."
"A change of scene is what I need." Quentin lay back on the bed and clasped his hands together behind his neck, resting his blond head against the headboard. "I'm tired of this place. It's going to snow tonight."
"According to the weather reports?"
"No. It's going to snow."
She glanced at him, then continued typing. "Well, we should be able to get out before the bad weather moves in. Right?"
"Mmmm."
"And maybe our next assignment will be someplace warm and sunny."
"Mmmm."
Kendra stopped typing, this time turning in her chair to study him. He appeared to be looking at the ceiling, but she knew that inward-turned gaze, the utter stillness, and waited patiently.
Finally, softly, Quentin said, "Shit."
"Trouble?"
He sat up, raked his fingers through his rather shaggy hair, and swore again beneath his breath. He looked at his cell phone lying on the nightstand, and five seconds later it rang.
Kendra lifted an eyebrow but went back to her report.
Quentin answered the phone. "Hey, John."
"I wish you wouldn't do that," John Garrett said.
"Answer the phone? It rang, so I answered it. That's what they're for, you know."
"I know what they're for, and you know what I meant. Even if you do know it's me calling, I wish you'd pretend otherwise."
"But that would be denying my deepest self," Quentin said solemnly.
John sighed.
Quentin grinned, then said, "Okay, okay. But it's just so much fun to poke holes in your certainties."
"Oh, is that what you've been doing all these years?"
"It's what I've been trying to do. Without visible results. One of these days, my friend, you're going to admit that there are more things in heaven and earth than you can find in those balance sheets of yours."
"I never denied that."
"No, you just deny precognition."
"How can you see something that hasn't happened yet?" John demanded.
"I don't see anything, I just know what's going to happen before it happens."
"Bullshit."
"I knew you were going to call."
"Lucky guess."
Quentin laughed. "Yeah, I just guessed it'd be you calling on a Friday morning in November when we haven't talked for more than a month. Use that hard head of yours and admit the paranormal exists."
It held the sound of an old argument, and Kendra tuned out Quentin's side of it until something he said a couple of minutes later caught her attention and made her realize the friendly debate was over.
"… again? So it's four victims now?" He shook his head. "I had no idea, John. We've been caught up in something in Pittsburgh for the past few weeks, and I've barely looked at a newspaper. They're sure it's the same guy?"
"They're sure. He's still blinding his victims, for one thing. And I've got a hunch there are a few more similarities they haven't put in their reports. At least, not the reports I've seen."
"You said the detectives handling the investigation were good."
"Not good enough. Quentin, they don't know a bit more than they did when Christina died, and that was three months ago. Two more women have been maimed for life, and the cops don't even have a decent description they can broadcast so the rest of the women in Seattle know who to be wary of. It isn't a real fun time to be a man in this city, I can tell you that."
"You're staying out there?"
"For the duration."
Surprised, Quentin said, "I know all those companies of yours practically run themselves these days, but is it wise for you to spend so much time away from L.A.?"
"I can fly down if I have to. I need to be here, Quentin."
"Okay, but the cops there may not be happy to have you breathing down their necks, John. Why don't you back off and give them room to work?"
"They can't work when they have nothing to work with." John drew a breath. "If you're really convinced that this new FBI unit you're with can get results using… unconventional methods, then now's the time to prove it. The usual five senses aren't accomplishing a goddamned thing."
Quentin frowned. "Have you persuaded the lieutenant in charge to call us in?"
"Not exactly."