They stared at each other for a moment, and he saw the indignation leave her. He understood the reaction. She probably dealt with sexism on a daily basis. It was unfortunately commonplace in law enforcement.
She remained silent, mollified. The tense hands unclenched and she sat back in her chair. She nodded slowly, conceding the point, acknowledging her rush to judgment.
Calm and levelheaded, reasonable and intelligent. And incredibly sexy. God, where had this woman been all his life?
Forcing that insane thought away, he muttered,“We’ve got more screen shots, if you need more verification.”
“Agent Taggert, please listen.”
Her serious tone told him she wasn’t just playing I-can-keep-up-with-the-boys-in-the-schoolyard, as if he’d ever for a moment thought she would. She offered him a small, rueful smile. Her expression held warmth for the first time since she’d greeted him in the lobby. Knowing how those tightly sealed boxes of emotion had to be screaming for release behind those green eyes, he could only do as she asked.
“I appreciate your concern, and believe me, if it weren’t important, I wouldn’t press the issue. I can think of a thousand things I’d rather do than sit through what I suspect is probably going to be the worst thing I’ve ever seen in my life.”
Giving up had never been one of Dean’s strong suits, so he couldn’t help saying, “No probably about it. It’ll be worse than your darkest nightmare. This unsub-unknown subject-is among the sickest, most perverse killers I’ve ever seen. Why put yourself through this? Are you having second thoughts that it’s her?”
“It’s her.”
“Then why?” She sure wasn’t the type to get off on voy euristic violence. If he was wrong about that, then he’d learned nothing in his twelve years in law enforcement.
Her answer took Dean completely by surprise. He’d been prepared for protestations that she had to be sure, for the family’s sake. That it was her job. What he didn’t expect was the answer he got.
“I have to watch the film, Agent Taggert, because I think I might be able to tell you where Lisa Zimmerman died.”
Stacey could probably have told the FBI agents sitting in her office where she thought Lisa had been killed without watching that horrific home movie of the slaughter. Considering she was now leaning over the bathroom sink, having puked her guts out one minute after the clip had ended, she almost wished she had.
Almost.
Her only solace was that there had been no audio accompaniment. If she’d had to hear Lisa’s anguished screams, she doubted she’d ever get their echoes out of her ears.
But she’d needed to see it. Having a hunch based on the shimmer of something in the background of one of the original three pictures wasn’t enough. Not for a case like this. Not when Stacey was going to have to go tell Winnie Freed her daughter was dead.
Another parent mourning another child. It was too much. She’d come here, back to Hope Valley, specifically because she never wanted to see such anguish again. Never wanted to witness the pain she’d seen in her last days as a state cop, when parent after parent had cried their grief for the children they’d sent off to school and never seen again.
God, how could they possibly bear it? How would Winnie bear it?
“Sheriff?” Someone knocked on the closed bathroom door. Fortunately, it wasn’t one of the two agents. The voice was female.
“I’m okay, Connie.” She wet a paper towel, holding it to her forehead and her cheeks, trying desperately to get her heart to stop racing and her stomach to stop heaving.
Finally, either because she’d gotten herself under control or because there was nothing left inside her to spew out in protest of what had been done to Lisa, Stacey rinsed her mouth out and left the bathroom. Reentering her office, she found the two men sitting where she’d left them.
The agents looked up at her return, but didn’t rise to their feet in some antiquated show of courtesy. “I apologize for the interruption, gentlemen,” she murmured, returning to her seat.
“We quite understand,” the supervisory special agent, Blackstone, said. “It’s not something any normal person would ever want to see.”
He was stiff, dispassionate, his black suit starched and crisp despite the heat and humidity. Probably in his early forties, the man was almost too elegant to be in law enforcement. She suspected he kept a wall of formality and coolness around himself at all times. Even the way he sat, one leg crossed over the other, hands folded in his lap, displayed an almost visible disdain for any macho law enforcement posturing. Yet he was so intense and focused, she dared anyone to think the pose was at all feminine.
“Are you all right?” a gruff voice asked. That was the other one-Special Agent Dean Taggert. And he was not stiff, dispassionate, and aloof. Definitely not cold, either. Not one tiny bit.
“I’m fine.”
From the moment they’d shaken hands in the vestibule, Stacey had been unable to help noticing the coiled strength of the man. While Blackstone was all calm, controlled professionalism, Taggert appeared tense and hard, wary and maybe even belligerent. Blackstone’s grip had been cool and smooth, Taggert’s powerful and rough. The older agent never looked around, appearing completely at ease and comfortable with his surroundings. The younger one never stopped checking things out, eyeing entrances and egresses, always on alert, edgy and ready for action. With his thick dark hair, flashing eyes so deep brown they were almost black, and strong-boned face, he looked almost too streetwise to be in the eminently professional FBI.
The senior agent emanated authority. The junior one, pure physical excitement.
“Here,” Taggert muttered, tossing a pack of mint-flavored gum toward her.
Stacey caught it in midair.
“Believe it or not, it helps get the taste of imaginary blood out of your mouth.”
Perfect description. Watching Lisa’s final moments, she’d felt as if she were swallowing the horror whole. “Thanks.”
She took a piece, hoping her stomach could handle the simple act of chewing, then pushed the pack across the desk toward its owner, watching him pocket it.
“Want some water or something, too?” he asked, displaying concern that completely surprised her.
“No, really, I’m okay.”
Though as polite as his colleague, Special Agent Taggert’s gravelly voice, tight tone, the tension in his body, and the fire in his eyes told her the man wasn’t used to playing nice, to asking courteously and talking quietly.
Right now, he watched her with an assessing stare. But there was also a hint of warm compassion. Understanding. It was as unexpected as it was genuine, just like the offer of the gum. Stacey found herself staring back at him for a brief moment, their eyes locking as they took silent measure of each other.
“Did you find what you were looking for in the footage?” Blackstone asked, sounding courteous, yet not quite so… What was that tone in his colleague’s voice? Protectiveness, maybe. Yes, when she thought about it, the near-stranger had seemed almost protective of her. Such a novel thing. Nobody had tried to protect her in years. She did a damn fine job of it herself, and part of her should have been offended.
She wasn’t. She’d evaluate why later, when she didn’t have to look across her desk at those deep brown eyes.
“Sheriff?” Blackstone prodded.
Determined to get past the awkward moment of her sickness, she nodded and reached for her notepad. She’d jotted down specific moments of interest in the film. “You said this video was made public last April? About a month after she disappeared?”
The senior agent nodded. “But we believe it had been made sometime prior to that, given the wintry appearance of the background location.”
She thought about the scene, the stark, skeletal bareness of the trees. Then she recalled the early spring they’d enjoyed last year; her pollen allergies had been in high gear by the first week of April. The timing definitely fit. “I noticed that, too.”