‘It seems unfair,’ Emma says diplomatically.
‘It does.’ The girl looks back, runs a reassuring hand through her long fringe of white hair. Her expression is determinedly buoyant. ‘But Simon will never let them separate us. It’s not in his nature.’
Emma thinks on this as they fly the rest of the way to Pittsburgh.
After a somewhat bumpy landing, the Piper taxis away from the main hub of Pittsburgh Airport, closer to a US Air Force facility. They’re met on the tarmac by Bell, in dark sunglasses, his suit tails lashing in the breeze. He stands beside a navy field office Lincoln until the Piper’s propellors slow. Then he comes closer, takes Emma’s backpack as she descends the stairs on shaky knees. The air outside the plane feels warm and damp, and there’s sun. It’s the first time Emma’s experienced Pittsburgh when it hasn’t been raining.
Bell speaks at volume over the noise of the Piper’s idling engines.‘Glad you made it. The angel-wing stamp had a hit – we think it belongs to a nightclub on Sixth Street, called Paradise.’
‘That’s good news!’ Kristin shouts back.
Bell nods.‘We need to get to Pittsburgh police HQ. Westfall is gonna be on the horn real soon to confirm.’
Francks takes the wheel of the Lincoln, and Kristin takes the front passenger seat, leaving Emma with Bell in the rear. He undoes the button on his suit jacket, hands her a piece of paper from his satchel in the footwell. ‘Here’s the comparison pictures. We’re pretty much one hundred percent, but we need Westfall to sign off on it.’
They speed past the airport Marriott on the 376 Airport Expressway. It’s much quieter in the car than in the plane. Emma examines the comparison pictures, rubs the sleeve of her thermal shirt across her cheek and jaw. She feels grimy from travel. ‘What will Carter do once we have a confirmation? Organize a stakeout?’
Bell shrugs, noncommittal. But his energy speaks for itself.
‘I’ve got some information that might help with the Huxton analysis,’ Emma says.
Bell gives her a sharp look. ‘What did Gutmunsson tell you?’
‘Something important.’ She recalls Simon’s contemplative expression as he blew on the tip of his cigarette. ‘The surveyor’s tripod you found in the Huxton crime scene shots – I don’t think it was a surveyor’s tripod. I think it was a camera tripod, for taking pictures.’
Bell leans back in his seat. ‘You think that’s how the College Killer knows the details of the Huxton case.’
‘Yeah. I think he saw photos.’ Emma squeezes the back of her neck.
Bell frowns. ‘Not film?’
‘In ’79? It would have been pretty unlikely. No, it has to be photos. But how he got access to photos, I have no idea.’
‘Gutmunsson suggested all this?’ Bell’s tone is skeptical.
Emma shakes her head. ‘He gave me some ideas about the College Killer’s inspiration and motives. I put the ideas together.’
When she looks again, Bell’s bottom lip is caught between his teeth. He smooths the front lapel of his jacket. ‘If you wanted to talk to someone with psychology experience about motive, you could’ve spoken with Dr Klein.’
‘Not for this.’ Emma waits until he meets her eyes. ‘I needed someone who thinks like a killer.’
They return to police headquarters in the Pittsburgh Public Safety building on Grant Street: the building is twenty years old, but it looks more dated. The foyer is all glass and metal, and 1960s beige easy-wash tile.
Howard Carter – in a different brown suit, no jacket, glasses on a chain – meets them on the third floor after they get out of theelevator. His suit vest is buttoned over his tie, and he smells faintly of perspiration and English Leather. Emma hasn’t seen him since they last spoke in the Grant Street Tavern.
Carter’s carrying a manila folder, one finger holding his place as he ushers them toward the detectives’ bullpen. ‘Welcome back. Sorry about the twin-prop transport, that was the only plane I could requisition on short notice. Miss Gutmunsson, Miss Lewis, I suppose Mr Bell has filled you in on what’s going on about the nightclub stamp.’
Emma has already thought ahead. ‘You’ll be able to narrow down a location. A hunting ground.’
‘Yes.’ Carter has a five o’clock shadow, but the new information seems to have given him a core of brittle energy. ‘That insight – and your input about the killer’s targeting, Miss Gutmunsson – could give us a real chance. Come on in, we’re waiting on a call from Scientific Analysis. And we have coffee.’
‘Goodness, yes,’ Kristin says.
Carter pauses by the glass entryway, beside dusty venetian blinds. ‘Miss Lewis, before we go in … I’d like to apologize for putting you up front of that police briefing on Monday.’
Emma doesn’t know where to look. ‘Okay.’
‘I didn’t ask you.’ Carter’s face has deeply weathered frown lines. ‘It was insensitive. I’m very sorry, and I hope you understand that I’ll try to do better.’
