Next Victim Read Online Free PDF

face.
    "They picked him up at the safe house at nine-thirty," Andrus said finally. "He was carrying a roll of duct tape. Tried to use it on Tyler."
    "Same brand of tape as before?"
    "No."
    "How about the knife?"
    "Either he didn’t have one, or he ditched it. I have two people scouring the safe house now."
    This sounded less and less promising. Wrong brand of tape, no knife…
    "Does he fit the profile?" she asked, looking for a reason to be hopeful.
    Andrus waved off the question. "Profile. You know how much confidence I have in that psychobabble crap. I’ll trust my gut instinct every time."
    Tess did her best not to smile. If there was one thing Assistant Director Andrus lacked, it was gut instinct.
    He had never been much of a street agent. His skills were managerial, bureaucratic. He was a paper pusher, a desk jockey. He knew how to cut overhead, allocate resources, do more with less. These talents had made him popular with his superiors on Ninth Street—bureau-speak for FBI headquarters—but had done nothing to endear him to agents in the field.
    Then there was the family connection. Andrus’s father had been a top man under Hoover, part of the inner circle of those days. It was generally assumed that if his daddy hadn’t been a bureau man, Andrus would be pushing papers for a blue-chip corporation, not working for Uncle Sam. Tess found it admirable, in a blanched, joyless sort of way, that Andrus had devoted himself to law enforcement when he might have been happier and wealthier pursuing other goals. Other agents merely resented him for the fast career track that came with being a privileged son.
    "Well," she said evenly, "sometimes Behavioral Sciences gets it right. Does he fit the profile or not?"
    "He fits," Andrus conceded. "Of course, we hardly need a profiler to tell us the more obvious things—residence in Denver at the time of the last murders, above-average intelligence, knowledge of mathematical concepts."
    "This man is from Denver?"
    "Colorado Springs," Larkin said, wanting to join the conversation. "And he’s a civil engineer."
    Tess looked at them both. "An engineer."
    Andrus nodded. "Worked on the Metro Red Line, the subway system, or so he says. But before you get excited, let me reiterate what I said earlier—it’s thin."
    "Because of the tape and the knife?"
    "Yes. And the assault on Tyler. It was clumsy, tentative. Not what we would expect from Mobius."
    Mobius.
    Even now, Tess hated to hear that name spoken aloud. The three syllables seemed to hang in the office’s recirculated air like a death rattle.
    "Nothing about this case," she said softly, "is what we would expect. Not in a rational world."
    Andrus shook his head with paternal benevolence. "Who ever said it was a rational world, Tess?"
    Larkin allowed himself a little laugh.
    Tess didn’t answer. Andrus was right. Yet there had been a time, not so long ago, when she had thought the world made sense. Part of her still wanted to believe it.
    Another part of her, the dominant part, could not forget the evening of February 12.
    The key in the lock…the door opening…and in the kitchen, the water running in the sink…
    Briskly, Andrus reviewed the details of the bust. The suspect was William Hayde, forty-two, never married. His age, his Colorado background, his solitary lifestyle, his job as a civil engineer—it all fit.
    "And even so," Andrus finished, rising, "I still say Hayde is a red herring. I’ll bet you lunch at Giuseppe’s on that."
    Tess smiled. "Giuseppe’s?"
    "Great restaurant. You’ve got to try it."
    "I haven’t had much of an appetite lately."
    Andrus didn’t respond. He straightened his jacket—in the years Tess had known him, she had never once seen him with his jacket off—and shrugged on a dark trench coat, just like in the movies. Tess asked where he was going.
    "Home…where all decent self-respecting people should be on a Friday night. I have a Yorkshire terrier who needs to be fed—assuming he