"I'm looking at what he is now," Knight said. "Not what he was fifteen years ago."
“He’d have been thirty-seven then. Younger, stronger. But more in control, I’m not sure.”
"The women on the dock," he said.
Miranda turned, putting her shoulders against the glass and facing her arch nemesis. “What women? You need to be a lot less cryptic, dear. It’s so hard to speak your language.”
He just shot her that look he was so good at where she was concerned. Yes, she was needling him a little, but…it was the two of them now. They were both good at making comments to each other—when they were alone. Sometimes, when she got through Knight’s crusty exterior—that was when the guards came down and he did his best thinking. She’d noticed that several times before.
"The women at the factory," Knight said. "They had very strong opinions about Graves."
"What kind of opinions? Come on, Knight, we are almost having a real conversation here.”
"Constant comments while we basically perp walked him right through the crowd. About a dozen women. They stopped working to watch. And…encourage. Us. They were almost crowing that Graves was in trouble. They do not like him there. And they weren’t shy about making that known to me and your pal Asher.”
"How did he react?” Miranda looked back at the man who’d just entered the room in time to hear Knight’s comments.
“He had a lot to say about the women he worked with. None of it good, all derogatory and sexually based. But not where they could hear him,” Knight finally said. He had that ‘stuck in his own complicated Knight head’ look in his eyes. The one that told her he was thinking. It always intrigued her when he looked like that. Made her needle him a little more, just to get to the good stuff.
“So he was afraid?” Miranda asked.
“I’m not sure it was that.” Knight nodded toward Graves. “Look at him—what would a woman see when she looks at him? Immediate impression.”
“Dirty. Not work dirty—but lack of grooming. He doesn’t care how he comes across to others.”
Slovenly. Sweaty. The clothes were older—not uncommon with factory work, though. And that made perfect sense to her—she wouldn’t want to wear expensive clothes to get torn and stained, either. But what else? Was he the kind that hated women? Was he angry with the entire gender?
The assault on Aimee had been about domination and humiliation. A man punishing a woman for something she represented, not something she'd done. A man who was sexually rejected repeatedly could do that. She had seen it before.
"The general consensus was that most of the women preferred blond men over Knight, but he had his fair share of admirers. Almost half the crowd, I think. Sixty-forty split, I believe. I don’t believe Graves was on the menu this morning at all, though. I think Knight and I certainly were. I’m still recovering."
She had to give it to Pierce. He’d said it with a perfectly straight face.
Miranda looked at him. She could see that. It made perfect sense. He sure did fill out that polo and BDUs rather well. Of course, Knight looked pretty damned good in his heather gray suit, too. There was that. "Oh, I understand completely. But Knight here—while immensely pretty to look at—is a bit too broody and scary for a smart woman, I’m afraid."
Knight didn't take the bait. Damn it. He so rarely did. He was so not fun sometimes.
"I got through to Illinois," Pierce said. "Home invasion in Carbondale a few years back. Couple in their late forties. Graves got in through a back door while they were asleep."
"Middle of the night?" Knight asked. Miranda knew what he meant—time of day could also be a factor in building an accurate profile. Derek Gibson and his son had probably died around seven p.m. Aimee…the next morning. The killer had been in that house a long, long time.
"Around two in the morning. Husband woke up when Graves knocked something over in the kitchen and came downstairs to check. Graves beat him with a lamp. Seventeen stitches, and lucky to be alive. The wife heard the noise and locked herself in the bathroom and called 911. Graves was gone before units arrived."
"He take anything?" Knight asked.
"Jewelry and electronics. And about six hundred in cash. There's more. The wife. She fought him off before she made it to the bathroom. She managed to rip out a few of his hairs. Enough to get a DNA match about a decade later, when technology caught up, apparently. The warrant was issued over a year ago, but no one followed up. Even though he was just across the border for most of that time. I don’t know where the snag was, but I’ll find out before I go.”
"A forty-something-year-old woman fought him off successfully," Knight said.
Miranda knew what he was getting at. Ultimately, this was an act of control.
The Gibson killer had controlled Aimee for twelve hours. Had done whatever he wanted while her husband and son lay dead in the next room. Aimee had been the same size and height as Miranda was herself. And she had been fighting for her child. Miranda knew what that would do to a mother. Unless Terra was dead long before Aimee, and Aimee had just given up. But if that was the case—where had Terra’s body ended up? And why hadn’t they found evidence of where she’d been kept?
Graves hadn’t been able to manage one woman who'd been woken from a dead sleep.
"Occupied home invasion is specific. It's about violation. Where they're vulnerable,” Miranda said, looking at Knight.
Her nemesis nodded. Miranda turned back to face the window, now feeling both men next to her, in her personal space. For once, she almost felt short. They were tall, strong, beautiful men. No denying that. They were the kind of men who would be able to control a scene like the one in the Gibsons’ home that night. But…Peter Graves…somehow, she didn’t see it. "He didn't break in to steal jewelry. He broke in because he wanted to be inside. The theft was secondary."
