“I suppose you think we should study them like goddamn rats in a lab?”

“In a hospital.”

“He confessed,” Wainwright said firmly.

“I’d hardly call it a confession,” Farentino said.

“He’s guilty, I know the man. He’s capable of extreme violence.”

“I’m not saying he’s not. I just don’t think he’s our killer.”

“Our killer? Jesus . . .” Wainwright let out a low laugh.

Louis stepped forward. “Enough!”

They both stared at him.

“Listen to you, both of you,” Louis said. “We have a suspect in there. Let’s deal with him. And each other, for Christ’s sake.”

Wainwright was still staring at Louis. “Do you agree with her?” he asked.

Louis hesitated. “Everyone is a suspect until cleared,” he said. “Levon needs to be examined and—”

“Take a stand, Kincaid,” Emily said firmly.

Louis looked Wainwright in the eye. “I don’t think Levon’s the killer.”

Wainwright drew back, just a step. His eyes moved from Louis to Emily with a sudden coolness Louis could almost feel on his skin.

“We still hold him on the other charges—resisting arrest and evading,” Wainwright said in a tight whisper. “Is that okay with you, Agent, or do you want to send him home to Mommy?”

“Lock him up for the rest of his life, if you want. It’s not going to make him guilty of these murders,” Emily said.

Wainwright shook his head slowly. “I need some air,” he said.

Louis waited until he had gone through the door before he turned to Emily.

“Why did you have to make it confrontational?” he said.

“What do you mean?” Emily said.

“We’ve got Levon. You could evaluate him, we could investigate Van Slate and anyone else. Why do you have to push so hard?”

“Someone has to,” she said.

“Get off his back, Farentino,” Louis said.

“He’s in over his head,” she snapped. She started toward the conference room. “Maybe you are, too.”

Louis spun away in anger.

Damn her. Damn Wainwright. Damn Levon for not being the goddamn killer.

He drew in a breath, hands on hips. Shit, this was falling apart. Mobley was going to get the case by default if they kept this up. He went quickly into the conference room. Emily was sorting through some files.

“Hey, Farentino,” he called.

She looked up. “What?”

“Truce. Come to the Dodies’ for dinner. That’s where I’m staying,” he said. “Dan’s coming. The Dodies would like to meet you.”

She stared at him. “I . . . I’m not good at parties—”

“It’s just us, Farentino,” Louis said. “Just cops.”

Her small shoulders rose and fell. She looked out toward the outer office, shook her head slowly, and looked back at Louis.

“I’ll bring the wine,” she said.

Chapter Twenty-five

Emily’s glass of Chianti sat untouched on the patio table. She was sitting on the edge of her chair, elbows on knees, hands clasped. Wainwright was prone in a lounge chair, his beer on his belly, eyes closed.

Louis glanced back at Farentino, watching her from behind sunglasses that he would soon need to remove. The sun was setting behind her, casting her in a soft, orange light, turning her red hair copper.

The three of them had barely said a word in the last half hour.

Louis had not told Wainwright that Emily was coming, and when she had shown up—a half hour late—Wainwright simply cracked open his second beer and headed to the patio. Louis knew Wainwright was pissed that he had invited her. This patio had become their sanctuary, their platform for discussing the gruesome aspects of their case. Outsiders weren’t allowed in, although Louis and Wainwright had given Dodie a sort of special dispensation. But women weren’t welcome. Even Margaret understood that.

The small talk had died quickly. After that, Margaret had lured Dodie inside to help with dinner. Wainwright had downed his beer too quickly and retreated to the lounge. Louis wondered how in the hell they were going to get through dinner, let alone any productive discussion of the case.

Emily looked at him suddenly and he knew he had been caught staring at her. There was this strange look in her eyes, this plea for some kind of communication, some kind of acknowledgment that she was here.

Louis took off the glasses and stood up. “Refill, Farentino?”

She shook her head, her eyes flitting to the comatose Wainwright and then back out to the canal. Louis could hear Dodie and Margaret. They were arguing about something, trying hard to keep their voices low. But not low enough that Louis didn’t hear Emily’s name . . . and his own. To his horror, he realized that Margaret was talking about how he should ask Emily out.

He glanced at Emily and knew she had heard it.

“Margaret thinks I’m lonely,” he said.

“I gather,” she said with a small smile.

He was glad when she let it go at that.

After a moment, she reached down and dragged forward her huge briefcase.

“I have something to show you,” she said, pulling out some manila folders. “It’s why I was late.”

She tossed the stack on the table between them with a thunk.

“I spent the day going through VI-CAP,” she said. “He’s killed before.”

Louis stared at the folders, then slowly came forward and picked up the top one. “Where?” he said.

“I found three other cases, similar MOs. All unsolved.”

Louis was scanning the first file, a report out of the Ocean County, New Jersey, Sheriff’s Department. A black man, shotgun wound, beaten, stabbed, and painted. His body was found August twenty-eight of last year.

He picked up another file. The second and third cases were from Broward County, Florida, in November of last year. Both with the same MO, including that the two men were likely killed on Tuesdays.

Louis looked over at Wainwright. His eyes were open.

“There could be more, but this was all I found,” Emily said.

Louis nodded as he read the Jersey file. He knew a little about VI-CAP. The Violent Criminal Apprehension Program was new, a national system designed to identify serial murderers. The idea behind it was to bring together the fragmented efforts of law enforcement agencies around the country so data could be fed into computers for analysis. The problem was, few police departments and agencies had the equipment and manpower to either input or access the pool of information. Things had gotten even more muddied two years ago when VI-CAP was merged into the FBI’s labyrinthine control.

But Farentino had cut through the red tape. Louis glanced again at Wainwright. He struggled up to a sitting position in the lounge chair and was looking at Emily.

“We have to start talking about patterns,” Emily said.

“The only pattern is the day of week,” Wainwright said.

“There’s got to be more,” Emily said.

“If there was, we’d have seen it,” Wainwright said.

“Maybe you don’t know what to look for,” Emily said.

Louis shot her a glance. She looked away.

Wainwright stared at her for a moment, then slowly hoisted himself out of the chaise. “I need another beer,” he said.

Louis waited until he went inside. “Farentino, he’s got thirty years on you. For God’s sake, show some respect.”

She dropped her gaze, then started sorting through the papers in the briefcase sitting between her knees. “Okay, I’m sorry,” she said after a moment.

“Tell it to Dan,” Louis said. He went back to reading the file from New Jersey.

She waited a moment, then let out a long sigh. “This isn’t easy, you know,” she said. “Most cops think the stuff I do is voodoo, or that I’m like some weirdo psychic called out to the scene to pick up vibrations from the victim’s shoe or something.” She paused. “This is science and I believe in it. I believe it can help.”

“Tell that to Dan, too,” Louis said.

Wainwright shuffled back out onto the porch, a fresh Budweiser clutched in his hand. He paused, then came over to the table. He picked up one of the files and squinted to read it in the spare light of the Japanese lanterns. Finally, he retreated back to the chaise, taking the file with him. Emily watched him.