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spent on the Gulf Coast. Turned out
she was probably close to his age. Well, according to some—Ethan,
for instance—that could be considered old. Funny how one's
perception of age changed over a life span.
    He shook her hand and studied her at the same
time. Her hair was red and straight, and she had those kind of
short, Audrey Hepburn-waifish bangs. Her cheekbones were dusted
with the same pink as her nose, making her look as if she'd been
working in a garden all day. She reminded him of somebody. . . .
Who? And then it came to him. Ethan. The coloring. Her blue eyes.
Her cheekbones, the shape of her face.
    He was in control of the handshake. He was
always in control of the handshake. When meeting a man, his grip
was firm and strong, held just long enough to be polite without
seeming too chilly. When meeting a woman, his grip was firm but
nonthreatening.
    He released her hand.
    As he looked into her eyes, he felt a weird
jolt of surprise, or possibly recognition, even though he was
certain he'd never seen her before. Her eyes—they were old. Not
old, as in the old he'd expected, but sad. When she looked at him,
there was no shrinking away, no slow closing of the eyelids, no
pretense. Just that bold, straightforward sorrow. And yet it was
more than sorrow, as if she'd moved past the pain and could now
face anything. In his job as a detective, he'd seen such eyes
before. Like the faces of concentration camp survivors, they always
belonged to someone who had lived through the horrendous.
    For some reason he couldn't explain, the
sight of her made him all the angrier. Christ, he was going to be
baby-sitting. He didn't have time for this shit.
    He wanted to grab her and shake her and ask
her what the hell she was doing there. Instead, he managed to tamp
down his reaction, to pull a mask over the most rampant of his
feelings. Rather than attacking her directly, he said, "You know,
there are people out there being murdered." He wanted to make her
understand this wasn't a game.
    He'd expected her to recoil at his
straightforwardness, at the hostility in his voice.
    Her eyebrows lifted slightly. "I know," was
all she said.
    I know! Didn't she get it? She was in the
way! She was in the damn way!
    She pulled a file folder from her backpack
and handed it to him.
    "What's this?"
    "A profile."
    "I've already seen it."
    "Not this one."
    He held up the folder, trying even harder to
keep his anger in check. "This is your profile?" he asked in
disbelief. The woman was incredibly brazen. Her putting together a
profile and expecting him to take it seriously was like telling him
she was a brain surgeon even though she'd never had any schooling
or been in an operating room.
    "What if we're dealing with a copycat
killing? Then your profile doesn't mean shit."
    "Do you think it's a copycat?"
    "Maybe." He felt no compulsion to fill her in
on his theories.
    "You need to read my profile. I'm interested
in hearing your comments."
    He shoved the folder back at her until she
was forced to take it. He had to stop this now, before it went any
further. And he had to let her know who was calling the shots. "I'm
gonna be straight with you," he said. "Because I don't have time
for bullshit. You can tag along. It'll be a pain in the ass, but
I've got my orders. You can get me coffee, get me newspapers, food.
You can do research when I ask you for it. But nobody said I have
to play cop with you."
    "You're not going to read it?"
    "Hell no, I'm not going to read it."
    "Then I'll tell you what it says."
    She began spouting off the profile. She had
the damn thing memorized.
    "The killer is male, most likely of European
descent, in his early to mid-forties. Graduated from high school.
Went to college, most likely intending to major in mathematics, but
flunked out due to an inability to focus and excessive time spent
in fantasy. He lives with a relative, most likely his mother. As a
child, he lacked a male role model and exhibited traits that make
up the homicidal