Touching Evil (4 page)

"I'll try," Maggie said, because there was nothing else he would hear.

"Great. Hey—have you talked to Garrett yet?"

"No, not yet."

"He's waiting out in the bullpen, I think."

"Yeah, I know."

Drummond looked down at her with a little frown. "Don't tell him any more than you have to. He might have the mayor and the chief in his hip pocket, but I don't like civilians being handed all the details of an ongoing investigation."

"Such as they are," Maggie murmured.

"You know damned well we're holding back a few things publicly. Like the Ivory soap bit. I'm just saying I'd rather we kept that stuff within the unit—to rule out copycats, if nothing else. I'm serious, Maggie."

"I know you are. Don't worry. John Garrett doesn't want to talk to me about things like that."

Drummond had started to turn away but paused as his attention was caught by what she'd said. "I thought you hadn't talked to him yet."

"I haven't."

"Then how do you—" He broke off and frowned. "Oh, yeah. I guess it makes sense he'd have only one thing on his mind, at least when he's talking to you. You were the last one to talk to Christina Walsh, weren't you?"

"So they tell me."

"I read the report," he said unnecessarily. "Garrett read it. I don't know what the poor bastard thinks you can tell him."

"I don't know either," Maggie said, lying.

"Tread lightly, Maggie. He can cause us a lot of trouble if he wants to."

She nodded but didn't say anything else, and Drummond left her alone in the office. Pushing John Garrett from her mind, at least for the moment, she opened her sketch pad again and stared down at the vague outline of a man's face.

"Who are you?" she murmured. "Who are you this time?"

Andy said, "I doubt Maggie knows the answer to why Christina killed herself, John. She hasn't mentioned it, and I think she would have."

"Maybe not. If it had nothing to do with your investigation, she might have kept it to herself."

Carefully, wary of what he knew was still an open wound, Andy said, "John, after what happened to Christina, suicide was probably the only option she felt she had left."

"His other victims didn't kill themselves."

"He didn't do to them what he did to her, you know that. The bastard was apparently still experimenting with ways of blinding his victims, and that acid did more than take her sight. Jesus, John—I know a lot of strong men who would have taken the same way out under those circumstances."

"Not Christina." John's voice was level with the sort of control that was about as stable as nitro. "As bad as things were, it would have taken more, much more,
before she gave up. She was one of the strongest people I've ever known. I'm absolutely certain of that, Andy."

"Okay. But everybody has a breaking point, and none of us can be that sure of somebody else's. I'm just saying, don't expect too much from Maggie."

"All I expect is the truth."

Andy grimaced. "Well, I'm pretty sure you'll get it from her. If she talks to you at all, she'll tell you the truth as she sees it. But . . ."

"But?"

"If you want my advice—and you probably don't—you'll be careful how you ask. Maggie's very independent, John, and I mean on the prickly side. From what I've seen, she doesn't take any shit from anybody, no matter who they are. I don't think you could piss her off to the point that she'd walk away from her work here, but I'd rather not take any chances. She's committed to helping us, and I'd like to keep it that way."

"Why?"

"Why would I like to keep it that way?"

"Why is she so committed to helping you? You said yourself she has to listen to horror stories, that she could make a fortune as an artist. So why does she do this instead?"

"I don't know."

"You've never asked her?"

"Sure I have. So have some of the others. But whatever her reasons are, they're obviously private. This time, take my advice—and don't go there."

It wasn't in John's nature to accept being warned off, not when he was curious. And not when he was feeling an unaccustomed sensation of frustrated
helplessness about this entire situation. But all he said was "I'll keep that in mind."

Andy knew when he was being humored. "Yeah, yeah. Look, you want more lousy coffee?"

"I just want to talk to Maggie Barnes."

"I saw Ellen Randall and her sister leave a little while ago, so Maggie's probably free. But I don't know—"

"I'm free," Maggie said from just behind John's left shoulder. "You wanted to speak to me, Mr. Garrett?"

He got to his feet quickly. "If you can spare me a few minutes, I'd appreciate it."

"Drummond's office is empty right now," Andy offered. "He's headed across town for a meeting."

"With who?" Maggie asked.

"Dunno, but probably another citizens' group. He's catching a lot of heat, Maggie."

"He told me."

"Yeah. I'll just bet he did."

Maggie shrugged. "Can't really blame him for pushing. Or for not understanding he didn't have to."

Andy sighed an agreement.

Maggie turned away, clearly assuming John would follow her as she led the way to Luke Drummond's office. When they went in, she took one of the visitor's chairs in front of the desk, shifting it so that it faced the other one. After closing the door behind them, John took the other one and turned it as well.

The closed door would keep them from being overheard, but that was the extent of privacy; the partitions between this office and the bullpen were glass from the waist up, and though there were blinds, all were wide open. John was aware of several curious stares directed their way, but Maggie didn't seem to notice.

"I don't know what you expect to learn from me, Mr. Garrett," she said. "There's nothing I can tell you that isn't in any of the numerous reports I'm sure you've read."

He caught himself listening to her voice more than what she said, trying to identify that elusive sense of a half-remembered song. "I know what's in the reports."

She nodded and looked down at the sketch pad in her lap. "Then you know it all." She really didn't want to talk to him like this. She didn't want to have to answer the question she knew he wanted to ask her.

"Miss Barnes—" He shook his head. "Look, I'll be around until this bastard is stopped, even if I'm not officially part of the investigation, so why don't we drop the formality? My friends call me John."

She made herself look at him and nod again. Tried to distract herself with an artist's automatic inventory. He was a good-looking man, in a commanding sort of way. Big, broad-shouldered, athletic—or at least worked to stay in good shape. Though he was undoubtedly both impressive and formidable in a business suit, the more casual jeans and black leather jacket lent him a slightly dangerous air that was probably, Maggie thought, not the least bit deceptive.

His hair was very dark, but she knew there'd be a hint of red in the sunlight. Eyes an unusual shade of blue-green, and deep set beneath brows that flared slightly upward at the outer corners so perfectly an artist might have drawn them.

He'd look mean as hell when he scowled, she thought idly. Probably
be
mean as hell mad. But there was humor in the curve of his mouth, in the laugh lines fanning out from his eyes, and more than enough
intelligence and self-control in those eyes to mitigate whatever temper he had.

Most of the time, anyway.

"Okay, John it is. I'm Maggie," she said, wishing she hadn't been here today or he hadn't. Anything to postpone this conversation a little longer. "But I still can't tell you anything about the investigation that you don't already know."

"That isn't what I wanted to talk to you about. At least, not directly." He drew a breath. "There's something I wanted to ask you."

She hadn't intended to, but Maggie found herself nodding. "Yes. About Christina."

"I guess it's not so surprising that I'd want to ask you about her," he said after a moment.

"No. But there's nothing I can tell you." Until that moment, Maggie hadn't known what she would say. She hadn't known she would lie. It required an effort to keep meeting his eyes steadily.

"You were the last person to see her. The last one to speak to her before she died."

"I interviewed her. Just the way I interviewed Ellen Randall today. Asked her questions, asked her to relive what had happened to her. It was painful for her."

"So painful she decided to kill herself twelve hours later?" John demanded, his voice suddenly harsh.

Maggie didn't blink or flinch. "It wasn't our first interview. We were going over what we'd discussed before, there was nothing new. No new impressions from her, no new questions from me. She seemed . . . the same as always when I left."

"You left her alone."

She did flinch at that. "The nurse had always been there, in the next room. I assumed she was there that
day, even though I hadn't seen her. I didn't find out until later . . ."

John relented, uncertain in his own mind whether it was because he knew she wasn't to blame or because that haunting voice of hers affected him in a surprisingly powerful way. "You couldn't have known what she'd do. She was always ... a very good actress." He gazed into those strange cat eyes and had the sudden realization that here was another woman entirely capable of hiding her thoughts. But before he could do more than wonder if he wanted to pursue that, she spoke again in the same level tone.

"In any case, there's nothing helpful I can tell you. I'm sorry you wasted your time."

"I didn't waste it. I've wanted to meet you since Andy first told me they had a uniquely talented sketch artist working on the investigation. I'm curious about how you work—which is why I barged in on your interview today. I really am sorry about that, by the way."

She didn't respond to the apology, other than with a brief nod. "There's nothing extraordinary about the way I work. It's the way sketch artists have always worked. I talk to victims, ask them questions, gain impressions, and then I draw what I think they saw. Sometimes I get lucky."

"According to Andy, it's more than luck. And more than just sometimes."

Maggie shrugged. "Andy's a friend. He's biased."

"And is the police chief also biased? He was singing your praises to me yesterday."

She dropped her gaze briefly to the sketch pad in her lap, then said in a matter-of-fact tone, "His niece was abducted from her school playground about five
years ago, and I helped them find the guy before he could hurt her."

"With a sketch? There were witnesses?"

"The other kids. The oldest was only nine, so it was . . . difficult. Kids tend to elaborate, to invent details using their imaginations, so we had to weed through what they said they saw to get at the truth."

"How were you able to do that?"

Maggie hesitated only an instant. "I listened to them."

"And you knew truth from an elaboration—how?"

"I ... don't know. I mean, I don't know how to explain it. Andy calls it intuition, instinct. I guess that's as good a word as any. I've been doing this a long time."

Surprised, John said, "It can't have been all that long. You're—what?—twenty-five?"

"Thanks, but it's thirty-one. The first time I sketched a face for the police I was eighteen. So I've been doing this almost half my life."

"Isn't eighteen awfully young to work for the police?"

"I wasn't working for them then, not officially." Maggie sighed. "I happened to witness a crime and I was the only one present who saw anything. I also happened to be able to draw. One thing led to another, and by the time I was in college I was also officially on the police payroll."

John had more questions, but before he could ask them Andy knocked on the door and opened it to say, "Sorry for the interruption, but—Maggie, we just got a call. Hollis Templeton says she'll talk to you Saturday afternoon at the hospital."

Maggie got to her feet. "She called us?"

"Yeah. After ignoring us for weeks."

"Did she say why?"

"No, but. . ." Andy shifted his weight the way he did when he was uneasy. "You two haven't met, right?"

"Right."

"Know each other by reputation?"

"I don't know her work. Don't see how she could know mine. Why?"

"She asked for you by name, Maggie. Said she'd only talk to you."

John got up. "Why is that strange?" he asked.

"Because," Andy said, "none of us has told her Maggie's name. And there's been no publicity about her being our sketch artist; we keep that quiet. So Hollis Templeton really shouldn't have known who to ask for."

FRIDAY,
 
NOVEMBER 2

The hotel room in Pittsburgh was like every other hotel room he'd ever stayed in, and Quentin Hayes wondered idly if there was a hotel decorators' association and they met secretly two or three times every year to decide what all the hotel rooms in America were going to look like. Because surely it was beyond coincidence that they all used variations of the same floral-print bedspreads and drapes and hung the same bland landscapes on the walls. And arranged the furniture in the most unreasonable way so that there was never an outlet where one was needed and it was always necessary to unplug a lamp in order to plug in a computer or fax machine.