The 7th Victim - Alan Jacobson [46]
Bledsoe’s eyes narrowed a bit, then he turned and led the way into the kitchen. They waited until the front door closed, then he brought his eyes up to Hancock’s. “We’re alone, what’s on your mind?”
“I was reading the files you put together for me. Thanks, by the way, I appreciate it.”
“No problem. Is that what you had to tell me?”
“No, no. I found something in the crime scene manifest for vic number two.” He opened a file he had tucked beneath his arm. “Here, under fiber analysis.” He handed Bledsoe the report.
“Yeah, so? A red hair. What’s the problem?”
“Vail has red hair. The conclusion is that the comparison microscope study matched it to comps on Vail.” He paused, the corners of his mouth sinking, as if Bledsoe should’ve caught on by now. “Vail’s hair was found at the second vic’s crime scene. Why wasn’t anything done about it?”
“Done?” Bledsoe asked. He folded his arms across his chest and stared at Hancock. “What would you have wanted us to do?”
“Did you investigate her?”
“Karen Vail? Special Agent Karen Vail? The woman who has trouble sleeping because this killer is still out on the street?”
Hancock shifted his feet again. “You don’t know her like I know her. She’s devious, ruthless—”
Bledsoe held up a hand. “Okay, Hancock. Thanks for the tip—”
“You need to investigate her. She could be our killer.”
The statement left them both quiet. Bledsoe sighed, then settled into a chair. “That’s a very serious allegation you’re making, you realize that? Based on a strand of hair found at a crime scene?”
Hancock did not answer.
Bledsoe continued: “When an investigator steps into a crime scene, it’s possible his or her fibers, fingerprints, DNA—hell, any trace evidence could be deposited there. That’s one of the challenges we face when our guys answer a call. That’s why we rope off and secure the area—”
“Don’t talk down to me, Detective.”
“I’m explaining why Karen’s hair was at the vic’s house.”
“And you’re sure that’s the reason.”
Bledsoe shook his head in disgust.
“Vail was an art history major. We’ve got these blood murals all over the vics’ walls that look like the work of someone with a background in art. Still not convinced?”
Bledsoe pushed out of his chair and stepped up to Hancock, toe to toe. “Look, Vail told me you were a prick. I’ve tried to keep an open mind, because both of you have biases against each other. If this is a cheap shot to discredit her, to get back at her for your problems with the Bureau several years ago—”
“This has nothing to do with that.”
Bledsoe’s head was tilted back, his gaze fixed on Hancock’s eyes. Neither of them blinked. “You want to investigate Karen Vail on your own time, go for it. Have a picnic. Just don’t poison my investigation.” Bledsoe pushed past Hancock and headed out of the kitchen.
“You’ll see,” Hancock called after him. “You’ll see that I’m right.”
nineteen
Robby walked Vail to her car and stood there a bit longer than necessary after she’d said good-bye and closed the door.
She opened the window and looked up at him, shielding her eyes from the sky’s dreary glare. “Something wrong?”
“I, well . . . no.” He looked down at the ground, then gazed at the houses on the street.
“Robby?”
“How would you like to grab some lunch. Or dinner. I’ve got some more questions. Profiling questions.”
Vail sat there staring at him, wondering if he was, in fact, asking her out. This wasn’t the best timing, after what had happened with Deacon—
“You agreed to tutor me, remember?”
But maybe it was exactly what she needed. Take her mind off all the negatives, bring some happiness into her life. Everyone needs balance; it was a lesson she’d learned many years ago. She spoke before allowing herself to think the situation to death. “Lunch or dinner, huh?”
“Or coffee. Whatever.”
“You know, a sharp profiler might conclude she’s being asked out on a date.”
His gaze drifted off to the surrounding houses again. “But a plain old small-town detective might just think it’s two colleagues getting together