‘Carter said about five days.’
‘It’s variable.’ He sifts through the file papers. ‘This new girl, we don’t have an ID yet, but if we count back, then she was probably taken no earlier than last Wednesday.’
For Emma, the scent of the hunt is the smell of human putrefaction. ‘What do we have on him so far?’
Bell peels a page out of the file and hands it to her. His gaze is intent. ‘He’s a white male. Twenty-five to thirty-five years old.He has a house and a vehicle. Organized. He’s got brown hair. Type O secretor. Extrapolating from his hand size, he’s between five-seven and six-two.’
They know so much already. It’s still not enough. ‘How is he replicating the details of the Huxton case?’
‘Apart from keeping you safe,’ Bell says, ‘finding out the answer to that question is the reason I brought you in.’
CHAPTER SIX
There was no way she was going to be able to sleep, Emma thought – right up to the moment she rested her head on the desk, before being woken with a startle, Bell’s hand on her shoulder.
‘Lewis. Hey. Have they given you a room? I can walk you up.’
Of course, once she’s installed in a single room on one of the upper levels of Jefferson – the FBI have put her, Travis, and Kristin all in the same building this time, to keep things streamlined – she finds sleep elusive. She lies under the comforter, wondering if a hot shower would settle her or make her feel more awake. She’s running on adrenaline.
The room smells faintly of carpet shampoo. It’s a world away from her homey dorm at Hanley … where she forgot to share the raspberries with Leanne. Dammit. She hopes Leanne’s date was successful. Someone should get a victory out of today. Although it’s not Tuesday anymore: dawn will be peeking over the Quantico oaks in a few hours.
Emma talks herself out of taking a Valium, thinks about the case and Leanne’s glitter polish. In her ragged state, Leanne’s face is replaced by the face of the girl in the morgue, her ring fingerchopped clean off and the rest of her fingers tipped in pink …Pink nails – did they all have pink nails?
Her eyes feel dry, and she dozes awhile, until the sun hits the curtains and bounces off the mirror near the study desk. By the time Bell knocks at 07:00, she’s washed and dressed and mostly alert.
‘Did you sleep?’
‘A little.’ She tosses the towel she’s using to rub at her hair through the nearby bathroom door. ‘Bell, the latest victim, her nails were done. I think he painted her nails.’
‘Okay.’
Emma looks at the way he’s holding himself. ‘What’s happening?’
‘Carter called. He wants us in Pittsburgh for a police briefing at nine.’
‘He couldn’t have thought of this last night?’ She sees Bell’s face. ‘Ah geez, fine. Let me get my bag.’
It’s anyone’s guess if she’ll be back in this room again. Habitually meticulous in her packing, now she’s jamming underwear and toiletries together in Bell’s presence. Great.
She makes small talk to reduce the discomfort, although small talk was never really their thing. ‘So, um, you’re doing okay here? The job is okay with study and stuff?’
‘It’s good, yeah.’ He stands by the door, eyes politely averted. ‘I get the theory in school, and now with the case, it’s all practical. I was in Pittsburgh last week, pounding pavement like everyone else – door-knocking, taking witness statements, helping with street searches. The fast track is kinda brutal, but it’s okay. And Carter’s one of the good guys.’
Emma examines him this time via a series of glances. Apartfrom signs of fatigue, Bell looks good. His eyes are clear and he’s put on some muscle – they’re surely sending him to physical training classes, but that was always something he enjoyed. He looks strong. The work obviously suits him, and if Carter’s been honest, Bell’s good at it. He’s turning into a proper law enforcement officer, which is what he’s always wanted.
It shouldn’t create a pang, that he looks like this. She should feel happy for him.
She refocuses on her packing. ‘How are your mom and your sisters?’
‘They’re well. Your family’s okay?’
‘Yeah. You know, I just saw them on Labor Day. They’re fine.’ Maybe not so fine, these last twelve hours. Better not to think about it. Emma rolls a pair of socks, shoves them down. ‘So we’re heading for Washington National?’
‘We’re heading for the roof. Carter’s ordered a Marine helicopter.’
She twists around. ‘Pardon?’
‘You need to collect your ID from Behavioral Science first, though.’
