The 7th Victim - Alan Jacobson [67]
Oh, some are, indeed, afraid to go out. He’d seen the news reports, read the papers. Experts advising single women to go places in groups. To avoid high-risk areas—as if he preyed in high-risk areas!—and to be aware of their surroundings. Yeah, that sage advice would do them a lot of good when he’s standing at their front door in a suit holding up his FBI badge and asking for assistance.
He stood behind the blonde bitch, the sweet peppermint scent of her shampoo whispering across his nostrils. He sniffed deeply, enjoying the smell. He looked at her left hand, at the diamond ring on her finger. Such an unimaginative setting. Plain vanilla. Probably what she would produce with the clay. Not art, but something only marginally better than a gaudy, imperfect piece later tossed in the garbage—or the equivalent, sold in a garage sale for fifty cents. His impressions about her creative ability were suddenly reinforced.
But more important than the horrid design of the ring was the fact that she was married. And blonde. With blue eyes. Clear eyes that reminded him of the sky.
He leaned into her, his arms extending out alongside hers, then took her hands in his. The wheel was spinning, the clay a lump of formless material. He asked her if she realized the power she held in her hands. “To transform this hunk of clay into a work of art, to be able to shape it, to be able to create, is something you mustn’t take for granted.”
She didn’t get it, but she evidently found it funny and giggled, her shoulders jumping a bit. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think she was flirting with him. But maybe it was just him and his skewed view of things. If only she knew.
If only she was brunet, if only she had evil eyes. He could take her right here and now. If only.
twenty-nine
The office of P. Jackson Parker, attorney-at-law, was sparse, with worn industrial carpet, metal-framed reproductions of Monet and Manet on the walls, and molded white plastic lawn chairs in the waiting room. The seats were surprisingly comfortable, but strangely out of place in an indoor environment. The reception area consisted of a museum-piece PC that could not even run Windows, and a two-line phone that had seen better days . . . ten years ago.
His office was on the outskirts of Washington, in a not-so-desirable patch of real estate near Union Station. Vail had gone up against Parker on two occasions, with one being most notable. She was called to testify as an expert witness, having been the agent who profiled his client. He proceeded to ridicule the work of the profiling unit, calling it a blanket of suppositions and assumptions woven together in a veil of crystal ball psychology. The case against serial killer Bobby Joe Dunning was largely circumstantial, but Vail knew the accused was the offender. There was not an ounce of doubt as far as she was concerned. But you couldn’t base a case solely on a profiler’s analysis because there could be thousands of people who fit the profile, and thus no compelling reason for the jury to believe the accused man the police were parading before them was the guilty party.
Parker had done a magnificent job of injecting doubt into the jury’s bloodstream . . . but the prosecution prevailed. Regardless of the positive outcome, Vail never forgot how masterful Parker had been in picking apart the district attorney’s case. It was largely responsible for her ending up in the man’s waiting room today.
P. Jackson Parker poked his head through the beat-up wood door and caught Vail’s attention. “Agent Vail, come on back.”
Vail nodded at the empty receptionist chair. “A one man show? I wouldn’t have thought it.”
“I sent my receptionist for coffee. Our coffee maker’s on the fritz, and I can’t work without my java. Opens the arteries, helps me think.”
She followed him down a short hallway, passing a couple of rooms with equally beat up doors. They entered Parker’s office, and he meandered