Laurel smiled. “Before we go, do you have anything else to add?”
“I do.” Abigail settled her elbows on the desk and cradled her hands, watching Laurel. “A colleague of mine is conducting a research trial on people with heterochromatic eyes. While six in a thousand may have different-colored eyes, most aren’t discernible. It’s rare to find such an obvious differentiation of color, and to have a partial heterochromia within a complete heterochromia? You’re the most unusual of humans.”
“My mother always did say I was a unicorn,” Laurel said. “Thank you for the offer, but I don’t have time to participate in a study.”
Abigail shrugged. “Also, are you cognizant of the fact that only one to two percent of the population has genuinely red hair?”
“The red highlights in my hair are from a bottle. It’s good to know my hairdresser does a decent job,” Laurel returned.
Abigail’s smile was more catlike than sweet. “For a federal agent, you’re not a very accomplished liar.” She crossed her legs. “Your tendency to nictate gives you away.”
“Blinking?” Laurel retorted.
“Indeed. This has been a particularly riveting interlude, Agent, quite outside the quotidian. What are your thoughts, Captain Rivers?” She brushed her white-blond hair off her shoulders.
Huck kept his neutral expression in place. “I wonder if professors use such large words to prove that they’re smart or that their audience is dumb.” What the hell did quotidian mean?
Abigail paused and focused entirely on him as if actually seeing him for the first time. “Aren’t those one and the same?”
“No,” he said shortly, glancing at his watch. If they didn’t get a move on, he’d miss lunch, and he was already becoming irritated at the time wasted on this interview. “Now. I have a series of dead young blondes on my mountain, and I’d really like to catch the bastard who put them there. Do you, or do you not, have anything to add to my case?” He glanced at Laurel. “Our case, I meant.”
To her credit, she didn’t roll her eyes.
“Well, I haven’t seen anybody murder and then toss a woman off a cliff.” Abigail tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, revealing light pink diamonds at her lobes. “I can’t think of anything to help you right now, but if you’ll leave your cards, I’ll be in touch. Often after I’ve meditated, I can recall events more clearly.”
Huck stood and tugged a business card out of his back pocket. “Here you go.” He had to get out of there.
Laurel stood and reached for a card from her phone case. “Use the cell phone number at the bottom because I’m not in DC right now, and we don’t have office phones set up in Genesis Valley as of yet. I hope you can recall something helpful.”
Abigail took the cards and tapped them against her palm. “I hope so as well.”
Huck waited for Laurel to exit the office and followed her, walking briskly down the stairs and outside where he could breathe again. He sucked in freezing cold air and forced his body to simmer down.
“Are you all right?” Laurel asked as snow dotted her stunning hair.
“Yeah. Sometimes I feel claustrophobic and need to just get outside. I didn’t like her office.” Why, he didn’t know. “What is wrong with that woman?”
Laurel smiled, looking like a blazing fire in the midst of a pale world. “Well, based on our brief meeting with her, I’d hazard a guess that she has narcissistic personality disorder.” She shoved her hands in her coat. “Or she’s just a total bitch.”
Huck burst out laughing.
Laurel chuckled and headed for the passenger side of his truck.
The hair at the base of his neck itched, and he looked up to the second-floor windows. Dr. Abigail Caine lifted a hand in good-bye.
His gut clenched.
* * *
Tempest County’s ME’s office was located adjacent to the hospital, and no doubt there was a corridor tunnel between the two. They had to leave Aeneas in the truck, but Huck had made sure the heater was on in the back seat, and the dog was already napping.
Laurel let Huck take the lead once they were inside and followed him through a labyrinth of offices and labs to an elevator that took them to the basement level. She rubbed her arms.
“Cold?” Huck asked as the elevator opened.
“I’m not ready for winter, and these aren’t my clothes,” she admitted. DC had enjoyed an unusually warm autumn, Los Angeles had been downright warm, and now she had to acclimate herself to rapidly freezing temperatures.
“Those clothes don’t look like you.” Huck held the door open for her. The man seemed to be a gentleman, even though he kept his distance and didn’t talk much. The moment she’d made him laugh earlier had been a treat for her. He had an excellent laugh. Deep and rumbly with genuine humor in it. Her Uncle Blake had a similar laugh, but it wasn’t quite as deep. “You don’t know what clothes do or do not look like me,” she said, emerging into a quiet area with a set of blandly upholstered chairs against a wall.
