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  “Can you blame him?” Tanessa said. “Watching my door for eight hours? I’d go insane.”

  “Maybe, but he won’t do any good if Jovan shows up here,” Mitchell said. “They should relocate you somewhere safe. Just until we catch him.”

  “What if you don’t, Mitchell?” Tanessa asked him, her voice low. “What if he just disappears? How long do I stay in hiding? A month? A year?”

  He was about to answer when his phone rang. He checked the screen. It was an unrecognized number. He nearly didn’t answer, but Tanessa had already gotten up and gone back to the kitchen. She was probably getting some chocolate. That was Tanessa’s answer to all of life’s problems. Chocolate. He answered the call.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, uh… Mitchell?” a feminine voice said.

  “Yeah, who’s this?”

  “It’s Zoe Bentley.”

  “Oh!” he was surprised. “Hi!” He almost added Why are you calling me? but stopped himself. “Is this about the case?” he asked instead.

  “Well… sort of. I’ve been reassigned. I’m no longer on the case.”

  “Oh, okay,” he said, frowning. “I’m not involved anymore. You should tell Jacob, he’s the lead detective.”

  “He knows,” she said. “He’s no longer the lead detective. There’s an ass… a lieutenant from the state police who’s leading it now.”

  “I see,” Mitchell said. “So… did you call to say goodbye?” He felt confused. They’d exchanged no more than a hundred words the entire time she was working with him, and she’d somehow still managed to irritate him a few times.

  “No. Listen, the guys that are now leading the investigation are taking it in a completely different direction, and I want to keep pursuing Jovan’s background. I’m acting on my own here.”

  “Okay,” Mitchell said. The conversation felt surreal. Sometimes it was just best to lay things flat on the table. “Zoe, why did you call me? What do you want?”

  “I want you to work with me on this,” she said.

  “Oh,” he said.

  Tanessa came into the living room holding a bowl full of M&Ms in one hand, and two chocolate bars in the other hand.

  “Sure,” he told Zoe. “Where do you want to meet?”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  As far as Mitchell was concerned, there was only one place in Glenmore Park to get Indian food, and that was Bhopal’s Indian Eatery. To be fair, there were only two Indian restaurants in the city, and Delhi’s Cuisine was infamous for serving food that was spicy to the point of inferno, so there wasn’t a lot of competition. Still, Bhopal’s Indian Eatery served very good food, and Mitchell loved to go there. Pauline hadn’t liked Indian food, so they’d never gone there together, a detail that was very much in his thoughts as he gave Zoe the address.

  She was waiting for him outside, dressed in a thin black coat and tight jeans. He realized it was the first time he’d ever seen her out of her gray suit. It made her look much younger, as did the embarrassed smile on her face.

  “I didn’t want to walk in without you,” she said. “I’m not sure why. I didn’t want to be the girl sitting alone at a table for two.”

  “Okay,” he said, and stopped in front of her. There was that smell again. Pauline’s shampoo. He blinked, trying to dispel the jumble of emotions that hit him when he smelled that scent.

  “Let’s go in,” he said, clearing his throat.

  The sharp, spicy smells that hit them as soon as they opened the restaurant’s door obliterated any lingering effect of the emotional shampoo scent. The red and orange colors of the eatery were a sharp change from the dark black and blue shades of the night sky outside, and Mitchell paused for a second to get his bearings. The waitress led them to their table, and they sat down. Zoe took off her coat to reveal a low cut white shirt, and Mitchell managed to locate huge reserves of willpower and keep his eyes fixed on her face. That was a problem as well, since her stare made him feel, yet again, as if she had X-ray vision that could easily bypass his skull and reach for his brain.

  The waitress handed them menus and asked if they wanted to order drinks.

  “Water, please, and thali,” Zoe said, without looking at the menu.

  “I’ll have thali as well,” Mitchell said. “And a pint of Julius, please.”

  The waitress took their menus and left.

  “So… you like Indian food?” Mitchell asked.

  “When it’s good,” Zoe said.

  “Oh, it’s very good here.”

  “I certainly hope so.”

  They sat in silence for a moment.

  “I talked to Jacob,” Mitchell said. “He sounded really surprised to hear that you called me.”

  “Yeah?” Zoe grinned.

  “Jacob is never surprised at anything,” Mitchell said. “He’s three hundred years old. He’s seen everything.”

  “Yes. He might have hinted that this would be a good idea.”

  “Okay. I’m not exactly sure what this is,” Mitchell said. “I mean… the staties and the FBI took over, right? It sucks for us that we didn’t get the guy, but it sounds like a lot of very talented people are now looking for him. They’ll get him.”

  “Maybe,” Zoe said. “Probably. But how long until they do? Two weeks? Three? Four? That could potentially mean two or three victims. The killer is getting impatient and impulsive.”

  “You can’t know that.”

  “The frequency of the murders is accelerating, Mitchell. The memory of the murder is no longer enough; he has to commit them to feel the same thrill. He feels a compulsion to keep killing to chase that feeling.”

  “Maybe, but he could be feeling vulnerable right now, because he’s just been shot,” Mitchell pointed out. “So that might make him slow down.”

  “I find that very unlikely. His central drive is thrill-seeking. He won’t become dormant just because he got hit. He survived it, didn’t he? He’ll want to experience the stimulation again, and there’s only one way he can do that. By—”

  “Stop doing that!” Mitchell snapped. “Cut it out with all the bullshit! What you just said could apply to any psychopath out there, and it means fuck-all. It doesn’t get me closer to catching the guy—”

  Zoe flushed, her eyes becoming angry slits. “This was a mistake,” she said, and stood up.

  “Look—” Mitchell began.

  “Shut up, Mitchell, okay? I don’t go shitting all over your job, don’t go shitting over mine. I get that you have girl problems in your life or whatever, but taking it out on other women is frankly disgusting. And I don’t think you’re in any shape to find where you parked your car, never mind locate a serial killer!” She whirled around and walked out.

  “Damn,” he muttered. He realized the waitress was standing next to him, two servings of thali in her hands. “Just put them down,” he said. “I’ll get her back.”

  She seemed skeptical, but nevertheless put the dishes on the table as Mitchell dashed after Zoe.

  “Zoe!” He caught up to her as she was unlocking her car.

  “Fuck off!”

  “Look… Can we start over? I’m sorry I… acted like an asshole. You didn’t deserve that.”

  “Yes, you were very much an asshole. I’m going home.”

  “Look, you’re right,” Mitchell said, his voice earnest. “He’s out there, and he’s dangerous. There’s no time to lose, and you and I can prevent another murder. Just… don’t leave, okay?”

  She turned to him. “Fine,” she said curtly. “But you’re paying for dinner.”

  “I was going to do that anyway,” he muttered as they walked back to the restaurant.

  They sat down and started to eat. Mitchell didn’t say anything, letting Zoe cool off.

  “It’s not bad thali,” she finally said.

  “It’s the best,” Mitchell said.

  “I’ve eaten better.”

  “Yeah? Where?” he asked, his tone challenging.

  “In India.”
>
  “Oh.” He felt deflated. This woman made him feel ridiculous at every turn.

  “It’s really fine, though.”

  Mitchell ate another bite. “So… Did Jacob tell you about Pauline?”

  “Who’s Pauline?”

  “My ex. When you said I have girl problems, I just assumed…”

  “Oh.” She waved her fork dismissively “It’s all over your face. You’ve been walking around like a lost puppy for about a week. I know a broken heart when I see one.”

  “Because you’re a psychologist?”

  “No,” she said, her mouth twisting into a small smile. “Because I’m me.”

  He realized he was grinning at her. “Okay,” he said. “So what’s your plan?”

  “Well… we’ve been researching Jovan Stokes’s history, right? Why?”

  “To understand him better, I guess,” Mitchell said.

  “Right. If we get why he kills the way he does, we might be able to predict where he hits next, right?”

  “Theoretically.” Mitchell was wary of angering Zoe again.

  “I want to find out the connection between Jovan Stokes and Gwen Berry. She’s what molded him, what turned him into what he is. She was his first victim, and it’s likely that his entire M.O. is related to that first murder. Now, that idiot Talbot—”

  “Who?”

  “That’s the new guy in charge of the investigation. He doesn’t care about old crimes. He’s focusing on the recent murders.”

  “Sounds like the smart thing to do.”

  “Don’t start with me, Mitchell. Anyway, this is an abandoned angle, and I think it’s important, so I was thinking we should check it out ourselves.”

  Mitchell ate his food, thinking about it. He doubted it would get them anywhere, but he could sure use the distraction. And the idea of working with Zoe Bentley was strangely alluring.

  “Okay,” he finally said. “It’s worth checking out.”

  She smiled at him, and laid her hand on his wrist. Startled, he almost pulled his hand back. Her fingers were warm, soft. “We’re going to make a great team,” she said.

  For the rest of the evening, they sifted through possible leads, of which there was a long list, trying to determine how to tackle the case. They finally decided to try and find people who went to school with Jovan Stokes and Gwen Berry, hoping to get lucky and find someone who really knew one of them.

  In the following days, they came up with plenty of people who had known Gwen, and no one who remembered Jovan. Gwen, it turned out, had been popular, just like her mother said. Mitchell and Zoe met three different girls who claimed they were Gwen’s best friend, and two ex-boyfriends. Since she had disappeared and was presumed dead, the memories were colored somewhat. They all remembered a perfect version of Gwen: loving, caring, couldn’t hurt a fly, everyone loved her, beautiful, funny, smart… It was difficult to pry for a reason anyone would want her dead. One of the ex-boyfriends said he recalled she didn’t really like dogs, but that hardly seemed like a motive for murder.

  Then again, Zoe said, it was very likely Jovan had killed Gwen precisely because she had been beautiful, funny, and popular.

  Jovan, as far as his schoolmates were concerned, was invisible. People remember their best friend in high school, the beautiful girl they had a crush on, the bully who harassed them, the guy in class who was the first to own a car… No one remembered the silent student who aced his tests.

  It didn’t help that Zoe was wrong—they didn’t make a great team at all.

  Detective partners developed a routine of questioning. Everyone knew the “good cop, bad cop” routine, but it was just one of many. Mitchell and Jacob were “cold cop, warm cop,” with Jacob questioning about the hard facts, and then Mitchell taking control of the conversation, with his sorrowful eyes understanding and kind. Hannah and Bernard had a routine that could best be described as “human cop, Incredible Hulk cop,” as Hannah performed the entire interrogation calmly until, at a moment of impasse, Bernard would explode with rage, extracting a confession from the terrified suspect.

  Mitchell and Zoe had not yet developed a routine, and their natural chemistry was pretty much crap. At first, Mitchell thought they were simply like oil and water, two professionals who did not mix well. Later, he began to suspect a better analogy would be a dieting book and a chocolate cake, or running shoes and an elegant suit. Two things that actively negated each other and disrupted each other’s efforts.

  In one interview, a tearful woman told them how Gwen had confided in her that someone had been following her. Mitchell was holding her hand, leaning forward, his face full of compassion as she told them what a burden the memory had been all these years.

  And then Zoe asked, her voice dry, why the woman hadn’t mentioned it before. The spell was broken. The woman fumbled for an explanation, and finally said she wasn’t sure she was remembering right. Then she recalled that she had to take her boy to a piano lesson. When Mitchell confronted Zoe, she said the woman was just inventing tales to feel important. Mitchell suspected this was true, but he asked Zoe to shut the hell up next time.

  A few hours later, they were interviewing a man who thought he remembered Jovan. He was talking endlessly, just to fill in the silence. Whenever he stopped, Zoe repeated the last sentence he’d said, and he would start anew. But Mitchell grew impatient with the man’s long, winding stories about cafeteria food and their strange-smelling history teacher, and he asked point blank what the man remembered of Jovan. After a second, the man said he didn’t remember much, really. The rest of the interview was halting and pointless. Zoe said nothing when they left, but Mitchell could feel her judgmental vibes as they got into the car.

  Some of the people they questioned had their yearbooks available. They were all happy to talk about Gwen’s disappearance, contributing their own theories, which ranged from her eloping with a sailor to her being kidnapped by a secret cell of Russian spies. When pointed to Jovan’s picture, some would blink and shrug, while others would frown and say hesitantly that they thought they remembered seeing him around. No one connected Jovan to Gwen.

  “Let’s try to zoom out a bit,” Mitchell said. They were sitting in Raul’s Cafe, taking a short break. Mitchell was sipping an Americano, while Zoe ignored her cafe latte and messed around with a cinnamon roll, which she was slowly taking apart with her fingers. Mitchell tried to concentrate on his thoughts, but the cinnamon roll massacre in front of him was distracting.

  “Yeah, sure, okay,” Zoe said. “Zoom out. What do you mean?”

  “Let’s stick to the facts. What do we think happened?” Mitchell asked, prying his stare from Zoe’s sticky fingers.

  “We think that Jovan killed Gwen, and kept a lock of her hair as a souvenir in his home,” Zoe said.

  “Are we sure that’s what happened?” Mitchell asked. “Could he have killed a different redhead?”

  “That’s your department,” Zoe said. “I just make up amusing psychological theories.”

  “Well…” Mitchell raised a finger. “We don’t really know how old that hair is, nor do we have DNA proof that it was Gwen’s. But it seems like the most plausible explanation. We have a missing redheaded girl. We have a serial killer who went to school with her. We have a lock of red hair in the killer’s apartment which really seems to match her hair color. I’m sold on the Jovan killed Gwen theory.”

  “Me too,” Zoe said, finally putting a piece of the roll in her mouth. “Okay, wess affume that Jova—”

  “I can’t understand a word you’re saying,” Mitchell interrupted. “Didn’t your mother teach you not to talk about serial killers with your mouth full?”

  Zoe chewed a bit, lifting her finger as if to claim the next sentence in the conversation for herself. Mitchell drank the rest of his Americano in one gulp. He was drinking a lot more coffee these days. He was hardly sleeping.

  Finally, Zoe swallowed her bite, sipped noisily from her mug, and said, “Let’s assume that Jovan killed G
wen.”

  “Right.” Mitchell nodded. “But is that really interesting?”

  “Yes,” Zoe said. “It’s the murder that molded him into—”

  “Yeah, yeah, I get it. But apart from that. We have no witnesses, any evidence is gone, and even if we found out what happened, it probably won’t help us find him now.”

  “Stop trying to cheer me up,” Zoe muttered.

  “Let’s talk about the second murder for a bit, okay?”

  “The second… you mean Isabella Garcia?”

  “No. I mean his wife. He probably killed his wife, right?”

  “Probably,” Zoe said.

  “Do you think he killed anyone between Gwen and his wife?” Mitchell asked.

  “I don’t know. Maybe. But suppose he didn’t.” Zoe thought for a moment. “We know that his wife disappeared, and then all those girls start dying. One after the other. And he’s accelerating. Yes, I think he was dormant for all those years. I think he killed his wife, and she was his second victim.”

  “You can’t do that,” Mitchell said impatiently. “You can’t conjecture a whole story without a shred of evidence, and then say that’s what happened.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s unprofessional.”

  “I think you’re just unimaginative,” Zoe said, her eyes twinkling at him infuriatingly. “Fine. Let’s assume for a minute that his wife was his second victim, okay?”

  “Great, let’s.” Mitchell said. “So why don’t we investigate that murder?”

  “Well…” Zoe seemed unhappy. “We agreed we’d investigate Gwen’s murder, remember? Because it’s what molded him into—”

  “Zoe, I’m going to say something, and I need you to not get up and throw a fit, okay?”

  Zoe nodded silently.

  “I don’t give a damn about what molded him, okay? I just want to catch the guy. I’m not shitting on your job. You’re amazing, and you have great instincts, and you’re probably right about everything, but we need to stop him. And investigating a thirty-year old murder won’t do that.”