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boss, she added on a chuckle. Only a week ago, he d have had Coltrain admit you to the hospital.
He just feels sorry for me, Grace said, not getting her hopes up. That niece of Mrs. Tabor s brought
food to the house, she said. She told me that she d worried I was some sort of competition until she
saw me. She was very insulting.
You should tell the boss.
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No, Grace returned. I couldn t. She must have something going with him.
An invitation to a party, Miss Turner replied. He may find her interesting, but she isn t the proper sort
of companion for a man in his position. Law enforcement types tend to be extra conservative. She s
being gossiped about all over town, and not in a good way. The woman s a nymphomaniac. She doesn t
even stop at married men.
What do you mean?
They say she made a play for Leo Hart, and Tess walked right up to her in Andy Webb s office and
told her she d tar and feather her if she ever made a move on her husband again. Andy s still laughing
about it.
What did she say?
There was nothing she could say. Tess was furious, and she didn t lower her voice any, either. I
wouldn t say the woman was embarrassed, exactly, but Calhoun Ballenger was walking past the office
when Tess said it, and he gave the woman a look that meant trouble. She got out of Tess s way real
fast.
Tess couldn t resist a smile. Redheaded Tess was a tiger when she lost her temper.
GARON AND MARQUEZ had gone together to the outskirts of the city to interview, among many
others, a witness who said he saw a shadowy figure take the child out of her house late one night. Garon
had a BlackBerry, like Marquez s. It came in handy here.
Couldn t swear to it, the witness, Sheldon, told them. He lived next door to the child who had been
abducted. But he looked sort of like a drifter I saw near the computer shop in town. I write software,
he added in a lazy tone. The man was tall, thin, completely bald on top. Middle-aged. He looked dirty.
And he limped.
Could you see the child? Garon asked.
He shrugged. He was carrying something. It could have been a bundle of clothes for all I know. I was
up late. I went to the kitchen for water, and there he was. It wasn t until the next morning that I heard the
child was missing. I did tell the police.
Yes, we had the patrolman s report, Marquez replied. He gave the man a long, steady scrutiny, noting
his gloves. Why do you wear gloves in the house? he asked.
I had an accident when I was a child, the man replied, his eyes growing cold. I have scars on them.
People stare.
Sorry, Marquez said.
Can you type like that? Garon queried, noting how very white the wrists were above the gloves.
Yes, they re kid leather, very thin.
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Well, thanks, Garon said, putting away his BlackBerry.
Anytime, he replied, rising from his chair. He was a tall, timid sort of man who seemed to like the best
computers money could buy. He had two, a base computer and an expensive laptop. He said he had a
girlfriend, but he lived alone in the small apartment complex just inside theSan Antonio city limits.
How long have you lived here? Marquez asked.
About a year, he said. He smiled pleasantly. I don t stay one place much. I get restless. And my job
is portable. All I really need is a post office.
Well, thanks again. If you think of anything else, give us a call, Marquez added, handing him a business
card.
The man looked at it curiously. Sure. Sure I will. He smiled oddly. How s the case coming? Any
leads?
We re hoping you might have given us one, Marquez said.
I can see how you d need help finding this guy, he remarked. You cops aren t required to have much
education, are you? I was invited to join MENSA.
MENSA, the organization for geniuses. Garon gave the man an odd look. Were you?
Hey, I might only have two years of college, but the Fed here Marquez indicated Garon he s got
a degree.
The man stared at Garon without blinking. It was disconcerting. Fed?
Sure, Marquez said. He s FBI.
I& I didn t know they d called the Bureau in on this case, the man stammered.
We requested his help, Marquez said. He didn t say why.
The man looked less confident. Well, of course, the FBI would have experts on serial murder, he
murmured, almost to himself, and you d need one for this case.
Garon frowned. Why do you think this case is a serial killing?
The man laughed hollowly. No reason. It s just, there was a very similar case in the papers last year
sometime. That was a child, too. It was inTexas somewhere. Two of them would make it serial, wouldn t
it?
Garon stared at him. We re not prepared to call it that just yet.
The man was all smiles as he walked them out. Anything more I can do, I ll be here. Just ask.
Marquez and Garon left, walking slowly back to the Bureau car that Garon had driven here in. The man
watched them leave, waving again as they got into the car and pulled away.
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I don t like him, Marquez said suddenly.
Why not?
Marquez shifted, adjusting his seat belt. I don t know. There s something about him. Something not
right.
Garon gave him a curious look. How long have you worked homicide?
Four years. Why?
Garon smiled to himself. You carry a gun with you when you empty your trash can.
Marquez s eyes widened. How the hell did you know that?
You keep one by the bed, one in the bathroom, one in the kitchen and you wear a spare in an ankle
holster.
Who s being investigated here? the younger man demanded.
I m right. You know I am.
Marquez made a rough sound in his throat. They aren t catching me off guard, he said firmly.
You need to work in another area for a while, he commented. Too many homicides will burn you
out.
And you d know this, how?
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