William Bernhardt - Dark Eye

“You did?” I said, totally nonplussed.

“Absolutely. It made the rounds at Quantico. First-rate work. Thorough and innovative.”

Did I say he looked like a nice guy? Obviously, he was the spawn of Satan. “We got lucky on that one.”

He blew air through his lips. “There’s no such thing.”

“Look,” I said, “I’ve got all the files you’ll want to see. I’ll clear out and let you dig in.”

“I’d rather you walked me through it.”

Yet another surprise. “You would?”

“Absolutely.”

My eyes narrowed. “So… when you say you’re from the FBI, would that be the one in D.C.? In the J. Edgar Hoover Building? Or is this perhaps some kinder, gentler FBI?”

He laughed. “Let me clarify, okay? This is still a Vegas PD case. Two killings, weird as they are, aren’t enough to put it on our threshold. I was just asked to help. Although with you on retainer, I’m not sure why they bothered.” He flashed his smile, the sort of smile that turned George Clooney into a twenty-million-a-flick property. “Think we can work together?”

My chin rose slightly. “Possible.”

Granger looked disgusted. “I’ll leave you two psychos alone,” he said, chuckling quietly at his own nonjoke. Nebbish.

Patrick clapped his hands together. Did I mention that his eyes were blue? Oh, man, his eyes were blue. Vivid, liquid blue. “Shall we get started?”

As it turned out, he wasn’t reading anything until he had a shot of java in him. A man after my own heart. Literally, I hoped. I took him down to the kitchen. Despite his initial generosity to me and my favorable first impression, I thought it was important to set a few ground rules.

“Let’s just get this straight up front,” I said, passing him a Styrofoam cup filled with the brackish stuff that passed for coffee around here. “You may be the big-shot FBI behavioral specialist. That’s okay, I can respect that.”

He took it straight-no cream, no sugar. Brilliant. “I sense a but coming.”

“But I know my stuff, too, even if I didn’t train at Quantico. I’ve been working this beat for nine years and I’ve earned my propers.”

“Understood.”

“So let’s skip the usual business of lording it over me because you’re fed and I’m not. I’ve studied John Douglas’s work on sexual killers, all the interviews, all the compare-and-contrast. Hell, I’ve read every word the man wrote.”

“I was trained by John Douglas.”

“And I’m not inexperienced. My work has led to the capture of twenty-seven sexual or habitual offenders.”

“Excellent. I’ve caught forty-two, myself.”

“And I am up-to-date on the new research in my field. I read the Behavioral Science Unit’s annual report from cover to cover. I read last year’s twice.”

He smiled. “I wrote it.”

I leaned back in my chair. “You’re doing this to me on purpose, aren’t you?”

“And loving every minute of it.” The twinkle in his eye was irresistible, even though every instinct in my body told me I should resist.

“They gave you the scoop on me, didn’t they?”

“I’ve seen your resumé, yes.”

“That’s not what I mean.” I watched his eyes carefully.

“What do you mean?”

“I think you know.”

“That your father was a cop-till he was murdered? And the case remains unsolved.”

“That was a long time ago. What I’m concerned about…”

“The drinking?”

I nodded.

“I’m okay with that.”

“Not a problem?”

“Long as you’re sober when we’re working, I don’t figure it’s any of my business.”

“You aren’t afraid I’ll relapse and destroy the case or something? Everyone else is treating me like the Creature from the Black Lagoon.”

He shrugged. “I might have a little more perspective on this than they do. I used to be hooked on heroin.”

“Heroin? You?”

He spread his hands. “See? Least booze is legal.”

“Heroin?”

He nodded. “But I kicked it. You will, too.” He crumpled his empty cup in his fist. “Tell you what. Let’s hold off on the files. Show me the crime scenes. Take me to the house where the first victim lived. We can read papers later. Make it a late night. Maybe an all-nighter.”

“Sounds great.” I headed toward the door.

“So,” he said, stopping me. “You think we can work together?”

What could I say? I gave him my best squinty-eyed, tell-me-no-lies look. “Did you really have a heroin habit?”

He grinned a little as he led the way out. “You’ll never know.”

After two burials, a hanging was almost exhilarating. He had allowed himself to have fun with this one-why not? If the eyes of the world were going to be focused on his work, as it now seemed evident they were, he should make the most of it. He should see that the word was given to those with the perspicacity to understand it. And for the rest-well, at the very least, he could entertain them.

He’d almost fallen asleep waiting for the owners to shut off the power. It had been a sea of lights, a blazing neon panorama, garish and lovely all at once. And so much to choose from! What sort of message should he seek? The profound? The prophetic? The risible? Most of the older casinos had deposited signs here, as well as restaurants, hotels. Even theme parks. There were so many possibilities…

In the end, the choice was obvious. Puns might be the bailiwick of the insipid humorist, but this was irresistible. A huge, towering, crane-held sign. The front proclaimed FIRE SALE. While the back read HALF OFF.

That was where he left Lenore, the biggest part of her, anyway. Hanging beneath the HALF OFF.

Such a beau geste! How would dear Susan react? he wondered. It was amazing how completely the woman had come to dominate his thoughts in so short a time. It was impossible to resist thinking about her. Somehow, knowing that there was someone out there with the potential to appreciate his work made what he did so much more thrilling. The thought of carrying on without her was intolerable. But what if she was replaced? He had read in the paper that the FBI was sending the LVPD a federal expert in the same field. What if O’Bannon decided Susan’s services were no longer needed?

He couldn’t let that happen. He would have to do something to prevent it.

Oddly enough, Granger had not arranged high-speed Internet access for me, possibly because he hadn’t arranged a computer terminal for me, so I had to sneak into O’Bannon’s office while he convoked his top detectives in the conference room. Once I was in, I checked out Helen Collier’s Web site. She had obviously done it all herself. The signs of amateur webmastering were everywhere. The layout was functional but unadorned. A lot of hyperlinks led to nothing. But what was there was interesting.

Helen had scanned some of her own artwork, the same kind of drawings and collages I’d found stuffed in the bottom drawers of her desk. I wasn’t surprised. One look at the meticulous living room was sufficient to tell me that Mrs. Collier was never going to put her daughter’s art on display in the house. Not even on the refrigerator. So Helen had found another way to exhibit it. She’d kept a blog, too-a Web diary. It hadn’t been updated for two months, but what she had written was fascinating. Darcy was right-she’d been creeping out at night through the bedroom window for at least a year and a half.

All the photos of Helen were distorted, maybe for security reasons, maybe just because she thought it was cool. But using my imagination, I could get a pretty good idea what she had looked like when she hit the street in that outfit. False eyelashes, black fingernails, big hoop earrings. She would definitely attract attention. Even more clearly, she had a taste for the dark side. I could see this dodgy girl talking to a stranger, particularly if he gave her some reason to trust him. I could even see her getting into his car. Making the biggest mistake of her too short life.