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Stanley Veers’s M.O., was it not? He killed at least fourteen people over a three-year period in Houston and Austin.”
    “Veers is now on death row in Huntsville Penitentiary.”
    “Thanks to you. He killed people for years before anyone realized they were murders, not accidents. Serial killers usually like the attention, but not him. He created his own private thrill show. He liked the idea of committing murder right under everyone’s noses. I’m sure you thought of him when you were at that crime scene last night.”
    “Of course I did, though it was more ambitious than anything Veers did. The investigators think the killer may have coned off one end for a few minutes and used a truck to block the other. They’re still trying to identify possible staging areas. It’s a staggering feat to pull off. But unlike Veers, this one wasn’t all that concerned with covering his tracks. He wanted the world to know what he had done.”
    “But not immediately.”
    “Probably not. He knew the media would report the accident but that it would soon be revealed as something else. He’d get to have his cake and eat it, too.”
    Lynch nodded. “That’s the way the FBI profilers see it.”
    “And since when did you become the Bureau’s errand boy.”
    “Errand boy?”
    “They sent you to talk me into working with them on this case. Am I right?”
    “In a roundabout way. Senior Special Agent Griffin knew better than to contact you directly. You’ve made your attitude known in no uncertain terms regarding working with them again. He asked some higher-ups in D.C. to have me approach you.”
    “Roundabout is right. Why did he think you would be any more effective than asking me himself?”
    “Because I’m so damn charming and likeable?”
    “Next?”
    Lynch smiled. “You’re not going to make this easy, are you?”
    “Of course not.”
    “I was tasked to talk to you because they thought we worked well together last year.”
    “Oh. Well, we did.”
    “You admit it?”
    “Of course. Sometimes a sledgehammer is the best tool for the job.”
    He laughed. “So I’m a sledgehammer. And I guess that makes you a precision-tooled scalpel.”
    “Well, if you want to push the metaphor … yes.”
    “So be it. The Bureau wants a scalpel to help work this case. And not just any scalpel. They want you.”
    “You said that you were tasked to talk to me. But I thought you only took jobs you wanted to take. You’re a freelancer.”
    “That’s correct. I do only take jobs that interest me.”
    This time there was no high-wattage smile. Just sincerity and maybe a hint of warmth.
    Maybe.
    Lynch’s nickname in the Bureau has been the Puppetmaster, given for his ability to manipulate people and circumstances to his own ends. He had been able to pull off incredible feats by that skill. Was he manipulating her now? Probably.
    He stepped toward her. “Listen, to tell you the truth, I don’t give a damn about working on this case. I was only intrigued with the idea of working with you again. You know I always work alone, but that time with you was different, special. I wanted to do it again. If you tell me to go to hell, I won’t spend another minute on this investigation. I’m actually in the middle of something else right now.”
    “Cloak-and-dagger stuff?”
    “In a way. But the powers that be thought this was important enough for me to try to bring you in. Aside from your, shall we say, unique skill set, you’re one of the few people who’ve had any success dealing with a killer like this.”
    “Only because killers like this are so rare.”
    “You know that’s not the only reason. Modesty doesn’t become you, Kendra.” Lynch paused as a pair of Goth-looking street performers walked past, playing their violins. “By the way, who was the guy?”
    “What guy?”
    “The guy who was tagging along with you last night. I heard something about a blind date, but I figured the cops on the scene got that part wrong. Even