“That you don’t play games and are unbearably logical.” His broad shoulders visibly relaxed.
“Unbearably?” What in the world did he mean by that? Logic was crucial in finding killers.
He sighed. “To the ego, Laurel. Just to the ego. Don’t worry about it.”
She wouldn’t, mainly because she had no clue what he was talking about, and it didn’t seem relevant to the case. “All right. So we know black dahlias symbolize betrayal, but we shouldn’t assume the killer knows the same. It might mean something else entirely to him.”
Huck shifted his weight on the white chair and swiveled to the side. “Why do your guest chairs have rollers?”
“Why not?” She tapped her finger on her lip. “Where would somebody purchase black dahlias at this time of year?”
“I’ll put an officer on answering that question.” Huck looked over his shoulder at the quiet hallway. “Shouldn’t you be hiring agents now that you’re a permanent team?”
She did need more people to do legwork but she liked the team she’d put together. Small and easy to manage. “It depends if this unit becomes permanent or not. The FBI deputy director has had second thoughts about it.”
His eyebrows rose. “Sounds like you were too successful working that case in DC.”
So he’d known of her activities during the last month. “Apparently so. If the unit becomes permanent, the FBI will assign additional agents. But for right now, I’ll need to rely on state agencies as well as my federal colleagues.”
“Well, keep me in the loop about your plans.” Huck rolled back his chair and stood, looming over her desk. “When you started to handle serial murders in the Pacific Northwest, did you have any idea there would be so many close to your home?”
“I assumed more crimes would be committed in Seattle or even Everett, but serial murders often happen in places like this. Cold and remote with easy pickings.” She’d heard the expression from an agent at Quantico years ago. “Let’s keep in mind that we might not have a serial killer in this case. Assuming anything would be a mistake.” The killer might’ve just wanted the current victim dead. “Leaving flowers at Abigail’s home might be an attempt to distract us. We have to identify that victim.”
Huck walked toward the doorway, turning at the opening to stare at her. “You said something that got under my skin.”
Her breath heated. “How so?”
“About your sister.”
That breath cooled. Of course. “What did I say?” “You said that the victim by the river was beaten with rage that someone like Dr. Caine wouldn’t feel.”
Laurel nodded. “I stand by that assessment.”
He cocked his head. “If she is a sociopath or a malignant narcissist or whatever, she still has emotions, right?”
“Yes. In fact, her feelings might be stronger than most, if not understandable by the rest of us.”
Huck grunted.
Laurel lifted an eyebrow. “Why do you ask?”
“If she feels, you’re the only person in the world she probably experiences true emotion about.” He zipped up his jacket. “If she were to feel rage, aren’t you the person she’d feel it for?”
One lonely chill shivered down Laurel’s back. “Yes.”
Chapter Four
Laurel called the deputy director from her phone while driving home after work. Snow fell almost lazily to dot the vehicle, as if trying to lull the world into relaxation before another winter storm hit. She kept her hands on the wheel and let the Bluetooth do its thing.
“George McCromby,” the deputy director answered, sounding distracted.
“We have a new case, sir,” Laurel said, slowing down when she saw two deer on the side of the road.
He sighed. “I’m doing well, Agent Snow. How are you doing on this fine evening?”
She frowned, keeping an eye on the closest doe in case the animal decided to dash across the road. “I’m driving in the snow. How are you doing?” Sometimes she forgot the niceties.
“It’s so very nice of you to ask,” George said. “I’m knee deep in budget negotiations right now, and my wife wants me to attend the opera.”
