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here. It wasn’t just about jurisdiction or expertise. It was about stroking the right egos, playing the game. She should have presented herself as a helpful federal agent, here to observe and lend a hand. Instead, she’d come across as a know-it-all, and Breck had been more than happy to put her in her place.
    She pulled out her cell and called her best friend.
    “Weaver.”
    She sighed. Just the familiar sound of his voice made her feel better.
    “I’m at the Sandhill Inn,” she told him.
    Pause. “Didn’t they release that crime scene, like, three months ago?”
    “I’m spending the night here.” She sat down on thebed and started unbuttoning her shirt. Even the room felt humid. “I got a flat tire.”
    “So call a tow truck,” he said in a low voice. “You’re only what, fifty miles from here?”
    “Forty.”
    “Why are you staying, then?”
    “Why are you whispering?”
    “I’m in the surveillance van with Scarborough and Garcia,” he said. “Southwest Bank branch office.”
    “I shouldn’t keep you.”
    “Forget it. They’re both on the phone.”
    But she felt guilty, anyway. Elaina’s partner was possibly the only agent Scarborough liked less than he liked her. It was probably the magenta ties. Her boss was of the don’t-ask-don’t-tell-don’t-advertise persuasion.
    “So what happened? Why’d you decide to stay?”
    “I don’t know,” she said. “I guess because they wanted me to leave.”
    “Atta girl. Hey, you need a ride tomorrow?”
    “I’ll be fine. I think I’ll spend the weekend here, see if I can get anything.”
    “Good luck. See you in the office Monday.”
    She felt bolstered, like she always did after talking to Weaver.
    Hanging up, she scanned the room again with a fresh eye. It was quaint. Charming, actually. With the right man, the place might even pass for romantic.
    Had Gina brought a man back to this room during her brief vacation? Did she pick up strangers at bars? Was she a loner? Most profilers focused their attention on the perpetrator. Elaina—possibly because she was a woman—believed it was just as important to study the victim.If she understood the victim, she had a much better chance of figuring out how she’d crossed paths with her attacker.
    Elaina walked into the bathroom and turned on the light. The tiny room had a black-and-white-checkered floor and a claw-footed tub. She caught her reflection in the mirror above the sink. Strands of hair had come loose from her bun, and mascara smudges darkened the skin beneath her eyes. How did women wear makeup in this climate? It practically melted off as soon as she left her apartment every morning.
    She unwrapped the soap and scrubbed her face clean. Then she returned to the bedroom and snatched up the carryout menu from the nightstand. She gave it a brief perusal, then called in an order for pepperoni pizza and a two-liter bottle of Coke.
    After hanging up the clunky phone, she crossed the suite to the sliding glass door. This room had a view of the beach, according to the hotel clerk. Elaina pulled back the curtains, gazed down at the lock, and sighed. Whatever she’d been, Gina Calvert hadn’t been very security conscious.
    Elaina slipped off her heels and stepped outside. The sound of breaking waves lured her toward the edge of the patio. A half moon had risen in the east, and she gazed at it for a moment, then turned back to face the suite.
    The slider’s lock was flimsy but had shown no sign of damage, according to police reports. Ditto the lock on the bathroom window.
    Had he come in through the hallway? If so, noone on staff had seen him. Or if they had, they hadn’t reported it. So how had the killer entered her room?
    “He came in off the beach.”
    Elaina gasped and reached for her gun.

CHAPTER 3
 

    He stepped into the light, and suddenly she remembered.
    “Troy Stockton,” she said accusingly.
    “In the flesh.” His gaze dropped to her Glock. “Long as you don’t blow me away