The Soul Catcher - Alex Kava [65]
That Cunningham had even agreed to Maggie’s request for Gwen to be a part of the case meant he was feeling desperate. He usually didn’t call in outsiders. In the early days, yes, but not now, not since the FBI had come under considerable scrutiny. Gwen knew Cunningham well enough to detect a hint of desperation in his voice yesterday when he called. He had asked if she would share her new research and expertise. Her response was that he had some amazing agents in his Behavioral Science Unit, including Maggie, who could tell him just as much, if not more, about the criminal workings of the adolescent male’s mind. She told him she wasn’t sure she could add much to the investigation.
“As an outsider, you might be able to point out things we’re missing,” he countered. “You’ve done that with some of our cases in the past. I’m hoping you’ll be able to work your magic on this one.”
Flattery. Gwen smiled as she clipped on her badge. The man could be charming as hell when he wanted to be. Then she read the words on the badge under her name and immediately frowned: Member, Special Task Force.
Task force. Gwen hated the term. It reeked with bureaucracy and brought to mind visions of red tape. Already the media had trounced every tidbit of information that had been released on this case, hounding poor Senator Brier from outside his apartment to the Capitol. When Gwen checked her office this morning for messages, her assistant, Amelia, had already received calls from the Washington Times and the Post wanting to know about Gwen’s involvement. How the hell did they find out these things so quickly? It had been less than twelve hours since Cunningham had even called her.
Supposedly, it was one of the reasons they were meeting at Quantico instead of in the District. The murder of a senator’s daughter—let alone having it occur on federal property—warranted a federal investigation. Yet, it surprised Gwen that Cunningham had been asked to head the task force. Now she wished she had been able to get ahold of Maggie last night. Her friend may have answered some of the questions Cunningham wouldn’t.
“Gwen, you’re here.”
She leaned around the counter to find Maggie coming down the hall. She looked good, dressed in burgundy trousers, matching jacket and a white turtleneck sweater. Only now did Gwen notice that her friend had finally put back on some of the weight she had lost last winter. She looked more her athletically trim but strong self rather than the emaciated waif Albert Stucky had driven her to become.
“Hi, kiddo,” Gwen said while she managed a one-armed hug, her briefcase and umbrella occupying her other arm.
She knew Maggie only tolerated the gesture, but this morning she felt the younger woman hugging her back. As Maggie pulled away, Gwen kept a hand on her shoulder, keeping Maggie from escaping too quickly. The hand moved to Maggie’s face, gently lifting her chin for a closer inspection. Maggie put up with this, too, even managing a smile while Gwen examined the red lines in Maggie’s eyes and the puffiness underneath that was concealed with makeup to fool those who were less adept at reading this intensely personal and private woman.
“Are you okay? You look like you didn’t get much sleep.”
This time she casually shifted away from Gwen’s touch. “I’m fine.” There went the eyes—someplace, anyplace, as long as they could no longer be scrutinized.
“You didn’t return my call last night,” Gwen said, treating it like no big deal and trying to keep the concern from her voice.
“Harvey and I didn’t get back from our run until late.”
“Jesus! Maggie, I wish you wouldn’t go out running that late at night.”
“It’s not like I was alone.” She started back down the hall. “Come on, Cunningham’s waiting.
“I figured as much. I can feel him frowning at me through the walls.”
As they walked, Gwen found herself absently patting