"Well?" Shelby demanded.
"He doesn't know anything about it," Justin replied, joining her in the car.
"Or says he doesn't."
Justin leaned back and eyed her thoughtfully. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but haven't you known Ethan Cole for most of your life?"
"You're not wrong."
"But you suspect him of…what? Knowing more about this series of murders than he's willing to say?"
"At the very least," she replied promptly.
"Why?"
"I told you why."
"You told me why you came to me with the information about George Caldwell and those records he was looking into. Because I'm the most recent hire in the sheriff's department, a virtual stranger to this town and so pretty much off the suspect list, at least in your mind."
He drew a breath. "You haven't told me why any of this concerns you, why you believe anyone in the sheriff's department would be on the suspect list in the first place, and you haven't told me why Sheriff Cole seems to be at the top of that list."
"I guess I should answer the first question first."
"I wish you would."
Shelby half shrugged. "It concerns me because this is my town and because I can't not be concerned. It concerns me because I have an inquisitive nature—as anyone will tell you. And it concerns me because I really, really don't like murder."
"Okay," he said slowly. "And the rest?"
Shelby hesitated for just long enough to make her seeming reluctance look real. "I think someone in the sheriff's department might be involved because of a few things I've seen and heard. Nothing I could explain to somebody else, more of a feeling than a fact."
"That's pretty thin, Shelby."
"Yeah. But am I wrong?"
Instead of replying to that, he said, "What you still haven't explained is why you believe Sheriff Cole is at the top of your suspect list."
"Because I know him. And I know he's not… behaving the way he usually does when he wants to get to the bottom of something."
"And from that you think he's hiding something?"
"That's what got me interested, Justin. It's what made me watch him. And when I did, I went back and checked through all the pictures I'd taken around town in the past year."
"And?"
Shelby reached into her big canvas tote bag and pulled out a manila envelope. "And this is what I found."
Justin opened the envelope and slowly examined each of the photos. "It's hardly conclusive," he said finally.
"No. But it is… interesting, isn't it, Justin? It's very, very interesting."
While Nell was still trying to make up her mind how to answer Max, he said abruptly, "Look, it's after six, and I know damned well you haven't eaten since lunchtime—if then. My housekeeper always leaves supper in the oven for me. Why don't we talk while we eat?" In a dry tone, he added, "It'll give you more time to decide how much to tell me."
Nell didn't protest, partly because she knew food would provide her with badly needed fuel; she was inexplicably tired, a disturbing feeling since the blackouts usually left her feeling rested. So all she said was, "I guess a busy rancher needs a housekeeper."
"He does if he hates housework and can't cook," Max responded frankly. "Come on."
Half an hour later, they were sharing a delicious and definitely man-sized chicken pie and salad, sitting opposite each other at a small oak table in a breakfast nook surrounded by windows that probably, in daytime, looked out over his rolling ranch land. The windows were dark now, of course, and since they were curtained only by valances across the tops, the expanse of reflective black glass gave Nell the creepy feeling she was being watched.
At least, she told herself that was the cause of the feeling.
Max kept the conversation low-key and casual while they ate, an abeyance of at least one kind of tension that Nell appreciated, even if she was still conscious of his unanswered question hanging over her like a sword.
What did Max really want to know?
The truth? Which truth? How much of the truth?
And if she was able to offer him the truth he needed, what then? What would change? How would he feel after what he learned, about the past… about her?
He poured coffee for them and cleared the table, allowing her even more time to brood, and when he finally returned to the table, he asked her again the question he obviously most wanted the answer to.
"Was it my fault that you left?"
"How could it have been? I didn't even see you that day."
"Was it my fault?" he repeated steadily.
"No."
After a moment, Max settled more firmly into his chair, folding his arms over his chest in an attitude that was so clearly the picture of a man courteously and with inhuman patience waiting for explanations that she had to smile.
"You're about as subtle as neon, Max, you know that?"
"Something that hasn't changed. I don't believe in hiding things, remember?"
She did remember. It had been part of what attracted her to him in the very beginning, that tendency of his to show his feelings openly and without apology, to proclaim with every word and gesture and even the posture of his body exactly what kind of man he was.
Nothing hidden. Nothing deceptive. Nothing secret.
She wondered, not for the first time, if it had been a case of opposites attracting, at least in the beginning. Because in that way she had certainly been as different from him as night was different from day, so much of her hidden beneath the surface or disguised as something else. So much of her unrevealed, contained in silence.
The only friction that had ever occurred between them had been over her absolute insistence that their growing closeness remain private. And secret.
Hoping for at least a slight delay, she said, "One thing seems to be different, at least according to the books in your library. You didn't believe in the paranormal once upon a time."
His broad shoulders lifted and fell in a faint shrug. "Like I said, once you're touched by the paranormal, a lot of things change. A lot of…possibilities open up. Or not, as the case may be. I've had plenty of time to think, Nell. Twelve years."
She wanted to apologize for that, or for some of it, but couldn't. Faced with the same situation, she knew she would act in exactly the same way.
All she regretted was the necessity.
Carefully, she said, "Neither of us can go back and alter the past, Max."
"I know that."
"Then why does it matter?"
His mouth tightened. "It matters. What was bothering you so much that week, Nell? If it wasn't me or anything I'd done, then what?"
Nell had made up her mind to tell him, but when it came to the point, she shied away yet again from talking about it. Even from facing it.
Still, she wasn't changing the subject as thoroughly as he might have believed when she said evasively, "Aren't you going to ask me about what I saw in Randal Patterson's basement?"
Max drew a breath and let it out slowly, that neon-obvious attitude of patience still clinging to him. "Okay. What did you see in Randal's basement?"
Nell wrapped both hands around her coffee cup and gazed down at it, frowning. She hadn't been unduly embarrassed by what they'd found in that basement, but the unpleasant details of what she'd seen in her vision were something she had no intention of describing to him. "I saw Hailey again," she replied simply.
"You mean she was… involved… with Randal?"
With a slight grimace she couldn't help, Nell finally met his gaze. "Completely involved. Intimately involved. And it… looked to me as though they were very… familiar with each other. I think Hailey was, for at least a while, his regular Saturday night date."
Max leaned back in his chair, staring at her with a frown. "Jesus. I guess you never really know people, do you?"
"I guess not."
"Then why do I get the feeling that although you were shocked by what you saw, you weren't really surprised? You expected to see her there, didn't you?"
Nell barely hesitated. "Yes."
"Why? Because of her connection to Luke Ferrier?"
This time she did hesitate, but only for a moment. "When Bishop was so sure there was something more he was sensing, some elusive fact we didn't yet know tying the murder victims together, I wondered if he was picking something up from me, if it was a kind of…secondhand connection, and that was why he couldn't get a fix on it."
"So part of his profile was developed by psychic means?"
"Well, not his official profile. There may be psychic aspects to some of his profiles, but more usually they're based on pure police work, investigative experience, and the psychology of the criminal mind. But he sensed something about this killer right from the beginning, even before he sent anyone down here, and I can't think of any other way he could have done that unless he was picking it up through someone connected to this town."
"Which would have had to be you?"
"I think so."
"Why not the mayor? She talked to him before he sent anyone down here."
Nell shook her head. "Even the best telepath can only read a percentage of people he or she encounters. Bishop couldn't read Casey."
"But he can read you?"
"Partly. It's difficult to explain, but some psychics have a kind of natural shield just below the level of their conscious thoughts, especially those of us sensitive to some types of electrical energy. If he touches me, Bishop usually knows what I'm thinking, but he wouldn't necessarily be able to sense anything deeper than my own conscious thoughts. I didn't think about Hailey being a possible connection between the men, not then, but maybe something inside me deeper than thought wondered, and maybe that's what Bishop could sense but couldn't quite bring into focus."
"If he touches you."
"He's a touch telepath; physical contact is required for him to read most other people." Nell shrugged. "Like I said, he couldn't read Casey. So whatever he was picking up had to be through me. It was when I was on my way down here that I wondered if it might have anything to do with Hailey."
For a moment, it seemed as though Max would continue to focus the conversation on her absent boss, but then he shook his head just barely as if in a silent negation to himself, and said, "So you believe we'll find Hailey somehow connected to the other two men as well?"
"I think it's beginning to look like more of a probability than a possibility."
"You're not saying she killed any of them herself? Your boss says he's sure the killer is a male cop."
"Even the best profiler—and psychic—is wrong from time to time. Especially if he doesn't have all the information he needs or if…emotions cloud things. Maybe Bishop is wrong this time. Maybe we're all wrong. Maybe the killer isn't a man, isn't a cop. None of the murders required unusual strength, after all, so a woman could have committed them. It would even explain why Luke Ferrier was drugged before his car was driven into that bayou: because most women could never have overpowered him if he'd been conscious and able to struggle."
"Answer the first question, Nell. You're not saying that Hailey killed any of them herself, are you?"
Nell dropped her gaze to her coffee cup once again and frowned. "No, I'm not saying that. Not that. But I do believe she would be capable of killing—even four men—if she had a good enough reason."
"And your father? Could she have killed him—with a good enough reason?"
She watched her fingers tighten around the cup and tried consciously to relax them.
The truth.
"Nell?"
Trying to sound matter-of-fact as though it were nothing important, she said, "Yes. With a good enough reason, Hailey could have killed him too."
"Did she have it? Did she have a good enough reason?"
The truth.
"Yes," Nell replied finally. "She had a good enough reason."
"I've already searched this place twice myself," Justin said as he and Shelby went into George Caldwell's apartment. It was a fairly typical second-floor apartment, conventionally and professionally decorated, the only anomaly being a conspicuously missing armchair and rug across from the television in the living room.
It was something Shelby noticed. "Is that where… ?"
"We have the chair and rug in the evidence room. They were both—well, they were evidence."
Shelby grimaced. "Oh."
"You did want to do this," he reminded her.
"I know, I know. Look, didn't you say you concentrated mostly on some secret hiding place? Because of the blackmail thing?"
"It seemed most likely."
"And didn't find anything. So let's suppose there is no secret hiding place because there aren't any secrets. Given that, there has to be something here—probably in plain sight—to prove George wasn't a blackmailer."
"You seem very sure of that."
"I am. George was not a blackmailer."
Justin was still astonished at himself that he had confided in Shelby about the little black notebook, but since her reaction had been instant and definite it had at least served to underline his own increasing doubts. Still, he said, "We have the copies of birth records from the courthouse to go through; maybe they'll tell us something."
"I imagine they will," Shelby said absently as she stood gazing around the apartment with a frown. "There are some people who thought George was just nosy, but he was not a man to waste his time. If he was looking through those records with the intensity Ne— I believe I saw, then it was because he was after something definite."
Justin's eyes narrowed slightly, but he didn't comment on what had sounded like a near slip of the tongue. Instead, he said, "You can take it from me there's nothing even remotely helpful in the bedroom. Unless you find old issues of Playboy suspicious."