"By not exactly, do you mean he's wavering? Or do you mean this is all your idea?"
"The latter."
"Oh, hell, John."
"Look, I know it should come through official channels, but the lieutenant in charge is stubborn as a mule and he's not going to yell for help until he's up to his ass in outraged citizens. So far, he's handling the flak and pushing his own people to work harder. But with nothing to go on, all they can do is sit around and wait for this bastard to make a mistake. That means more victims, Quentin."
"I know what it means. But this is out of our jurisdiction, you know that. And without an official request for help made through official channels, the Bureau is not going to send us in. We're walking a tightrope as it is, bending over backward to be careful as hell every time we are called in so the locals don't get the peculiar idea that we use witchcraft to solve their crimes."
"I won't let you be burned at the stake."
"Very funny." Quentin sighed, and looked across the room to find Kendra watching him with raised brows and her patented don't-do-anything-you'll-regret expression. He sighed again. "You've still got political juice there, right? Can the mayor or governor put pressure on the chief of police to call us in?"
"They're reluctant. The lieutenant has some juice of his own, and he wants his team to handle this."
"Because he's a good cop and sure of his team?"
"No. Because he wants to sit in the governor's mansion himself one day."
"Shit."
"Yeah. I just don't think he's going to ask for help, Quentin. At least not officially."
"I knew you were going to say that."
"Then you know what I'm going to say next. You've probably got vacation time coming." John's voice was persuasive. "Spend some of it here. You haven't been home except for flying visits in years. I'll pay the tab-send the jet for you, best hotel suite, you name it."
"Best hotel suite, huh?" Quentin gazed around at the repressively unoriginal decor of the room he was in.
Kendra murmured, "Oh, God."
John was saying, "Absolutely the best. Say the word, and I'll send the jet. Where did you say you are?"
"Pittsburgh."
"Why?"
Quentin almost laughed at his friend's astonished tone. "I told you, we had a case. Unfortunately, it was here."
"Is the case over?"
"Yeah. We won in overtime."
"Good. Then you most certainly need a break."
"I'll agree with that much-but I'm not sure I can take one right now, John. It all depends on whether there's another assignment waiting for me. Let me check with the office and get back to you."
"All right. Call me on my cell."
"I'll let you know something by this afternoon, I hope. Talk to you then, John." Quentin turned off his phone and set it on the nightstand.
Patiently, Kendra said, "We aren't supposed to work unofficially, Quentin, you know that."
"I know that."
"Bishop won't like it."
"I know that too."
Kendra sighed. "Seattle, huh?"
He smiled slowly. "Seattle."
"Because he's your friend?"
"Yes. And because his sister was."
CHAPTER THREE
Since she was forced to wait until Saturday afternoon to see Hollis Templeton and knew better than to try arranging another interview with Ellen Randall so soon, Maggie found herself at loose ends on Friday. Her small house was too quiet and the bright studio where she painted held no appeal, so late in the morning she picked up the sketch pad that went virtually everywhere with her and drove across town to another small, rather shabby house.
She went around to the back door that was never locked, pushing it open and calling out a hello.
"Studio," he called back.
Maggie picked her way through the usual clutter of books, magazines, newspapers, and half-finished craft projects to the studio, an addition to the house that was in stark contrast to the rest. Not only was it roomy and very bright due to numerous windows and skylights, it was also extremely neat and well organized, with paints and brushes stored precisely and canvases stacked in wooden bins. Various props and materials for drapes were kept ready on shelves between the windows, and the assorted chairs, lounges, and tables often used for backgrounds were arranged simply to comfortably furnish the large room.
In the center of the room an artist worked at an easel on a nearly completed canvas. The subject was a woman, and though she wasn't present in the flesh it was clear from the charcoal sketches pinned to another easel nearby that she had posed more than once for the artist.
The artist himself was about thirty, a tall and lanky man with the face of an angel-or so Maggie had always thought. She'd never seen an angel, but she had seen traffic literally stop and mouths drop open when this man walked by, and she figured he was about as close to heavenly perfection as earthly mortals were likely to get. He had long, wheat-gold hair he wore tied back at the nape of his neck, and his faded jeans and work shirt were, as usual, flecked with paint.
"Half a minute," he said without looking at her, his attention fixed on the careful shading beneath his subject's left ear.
"Take your time. I was tired of my own company and just came by to visit," Maggie said.
He sent her one quick glance from very pale blue eyes that were almost unnervingly discerning, then continued with his work. "Not like you to be bored," he said.
Maggie sat down at a clean but scarred wooden table and watched him. "Not bored exactly. Restless. I'm supposed to go talk to the most recent victim tomorrow, and until then there isn't a whole hell of a lot I can do. It's very wearing on the nerves, just sitting around waiting for the next attack."
"I warned you," he murmured.
"I know you did. But why didn't you also warn me that Hollis Templeton would ask for me by name?"
He stopped working and looked at her steadily. "Nobody told her your name?"
"No."
"What do you know about her?"
Maggie shrugged. "She's an artist, but she's new in Seattle and I think the work she did on the East Coast was mostly commercial stuff, so we wouldn't have heard of her. Late twenties, single. From the photo I saw, she was attractive before the attack. I don't know about now."
"He took her eyes."
"Yes. Removed them-very neatly, according to her doctors. No acid this time. He used a knife or scalpel and seems to have known what he was doing. Little damage to the optic nerve, to the eye socket and eyelids. Which is why they decided to try the transplant."
"Was it successful?"
"You tell me."
He smiled slightly and turned back to his painting.
"I hate it when you do that," Maggie told him.
"Do what?" His tone was innocent.
"Ignore a question. I start really dreading it when you don't want to answer."
"Whether Hollis Templeton sees again is entirely up to her."
"Well, that's cryptic enough. Did they teach you to talk like that at seer school?"
"I didn't go to seer school."
"Prognosticator's school, then."
He chuckled. "That either."
When it became clear he wasn't going to say anything else, at least for the time being, Maggie sighed and opened her sketch pad. For several moments she stared at the vague outline of a rapist's face, then swore beneath her breath and closed the pad again.
"I really hate this, Beau," she said.
"I know you do. I'm sorry."
"But not sorry enough to be a little less cryptic."
"Being sorry has nothing to do with it."
"Free will."
He nodded and stepped away from the easel to begin cleaning his brushes. "Free will. You have to make the decisions and choices facing you of your own free will."