Killing Hour - Lisa Gardner [17]
The end result was a leanly muscled physique that seemed to appeal to women of all ages. Mac did his best to bear this hardship stoically. It helped a great deal that he was fond of women. A little too fond, according to his exasperated mother, who was dead-set on gaining a daughter-in-law and oodles of grandkids. Maybe someday, he supposed. At the moment, however, Mac was completely wedded to his job, and days like this, boy, didn’t he know it.
His gaze returned to the doorway. Two young girls walked in, followed by another two. All were chatting happily. He wondered if they would leave that way. Together, alone, with newly met lovers, without. Which way would be safer? Man, he hated nights like this.
“You gotta let it go,” Genny said.
“Let what go?”
“Whatever’s putting lines on that handsome face.”
Mac tore his gaze away from the door for the second time. He regarded Genny wryly, then picked up his beer and spun it between his fingers. “You ever have one of those cases?”
“The kind that gets beneath your skin, jumps into your brain and haunts your dreams, until five, six, ten, twenty years later you still sometimes wake up screaming? No, sugar, I wouldn’t know a thing about that.” She stubbed out her cigarette, then reached in her purse for another.
“Sugar,” Mac mocked gently, “you’re lying through your teeth.” He held up a lighter again and watched how her blue eyes appraised him even as she leaned toward his hands and accepted the flame.
She sat back. She inhaled. She exhaled. She said abruptly, “All right, pretty boy. There’s no dealing with you tonight, so you might as well tell me about your meeting.”
“It never happened,” he said readily.
“Blew you off?”
“For bigger fish. According to Dr. Ennunzio, it’s now all terrorism all the time.”
“Versus your five-year-old case,” she filled in for him.
He grinned crookedly, leaned back, and spread out his darkly bronzed hands. “I have seven dead girls, Genny. Seven little girls who never made it home to their families. It’s not their fault they were murdered by a plain-vanilla serial killer and not some imported terrorist threat.”
“Battle of the budgets.”
“Absolutely. The Behavioral Science Unit has only one forensic linguist—Dr. Ennunzio—but the nation has thousands of whackos writing threats. Apparently, letters to the editor are low on the list of priorities. Of course, in my world, these letters are about the only damn lead we have left. National Academy prestige aside, my department didn’t send me here for continued education. I’m supposed to meet this man. Get his expert input on the only decent lead we have left. I go back to my department without so much as saying boo to the fine doctor, and I can kiss my ass good-bye.”
“You don’t care about your ass.”
“It would be easier if I did,” Mac said, with his first trace of seriousness all night.
“You ask anyone else in the BSU for help?”
“I’ve asked anyone who’ll give me the time of day in the hall for help. Hell, Genny, I’m not proud. I just want this guy.”
“You could go independent.”
“Been there, done that. Got us nowhere.”
Genny considered this while taking another drag from her cigarette. Despite what she might think, Mac hadn’t let the great set of boobs fool him. Genny was a sheriff. Ran her own twelve-man office. In Texas, where girls were still encouraged to become cheerleaders or, better yet, Miss America. In other words, Genny was tough. And smart. And experienced. She probably had many of those cases that got under an investigator’s skin. And given how hot it had become outside, how hot it would be by the end of the week, Mac would appreciate any insight she could give him.
“It’s been three years,” she said at last. “That’s a long time for a serial predator. Maybe your guy wound up in jail on some other charge. It’s been known to happen.”
“Could be,” Mac acknowledged, though his tone said he wasn’t convinced.