Dead End by Mariah Stewart

phone as soon as he heard who was on the other end of the line. “Should I be encouraged?”
    “A little optimism is always good,” Annie replied. “And in this case, warranted. I have the lab results from the Bureau. I’d like to go over them with you. When would be a good time?”
    “How soon can you get here?” He sat up straight in his chair, hopefully anticipating a break in this god-bloody-awful case. Praying for one.
    “Fifteen, twenty minutes.”
    “You’re still in town, then. Terrific. I’ll be waiting. Okay if we have Chief Malone and Detectives Crosby and Weller in on this?”
    “Certainly, whomever you feel you need. You might want to include the three agents the Bureau sent up as well,” she replied. “I’ll see you soon.”
    The D.A. buzzed for his secretary without bothering to hang up the phone. “Lois, I need Malone, Crosby, and Weller here in fifteen minutes. No excuses.”
    He stood and went to the window to look out. Those damned news vans were everywhere. Outside the courthouse, in the parking lots, down the side streets. He knew a press conference was overdue, but he had nothing, not one bone to toss to the reporters who badgered his every move once he stepped out of the safety of his office. They followed him home, had even followed him to his son’s softball game last night. He knew he owed them, but wasn’t about to speak until he had something real, something legit. He’d seen too many D.A.s make asses out of themselves on television by calling conferences when they had nothing to talk about but yesterday’s news. He wasn’t going that route. Never let it be said that Arthur M. Sheridan wasn’t smart enough to learn from the mistakes of others. When he called the press in, he’d have something solid. End of story.
    Still, he was hoping that day was close at hand. He was up for reelection in November and was looking forward to blowing out the competition, a man he’d gone to law school with and had never liked.
    “Sanctimonious ass,” he muttered to himself. The mere thought of his rival always brought out the worst in him. Now,
he
would be just the type to call a premature press conference just to get his pretty face on national TV one more time. Well, Sheridan wasn’t going to play that game.
    The D.A. just hoped that whatever the FBI had was something he could use, and use now. The pressure was mounting daily. Even his wife had gotten into the act, since their children attended the same private school as one of the victims.
    “Honestly, Art, I’m afraid to show my face at Northgate. Everyone wants to know what you’re going to do about this monster who killed the Fuhrmann girl. Everyone’s scared.”
    “Everyone should be scared,” he’d told her at the time. Christ, like we’re dragging our feet here . . .
    “What’s going on?” Chris Malone stuck his head through the doorway.
    “Come on in. Where are Crosby and Weller?”
    “Crosby’s on his way in, Weller is right behind me.”
    As if on cue, Jacqueline Weller tapped on the door, then entered without waiting for an invitation. She was tall, plain, humorless, and a decent detective with lofty ambitions. She’d been at the job three years longer than Evan and had earned the respect of everyone in the county. Those who knew such things whispered her name as a possible successor for Sheridan once he moved up the ladder.
    “Jackie, take a seat.” Sheridan motioned to the five matched chairs that had been arranged in a semicircle around his desk. “We’re going to be joined by Detective Crosby and the profiler the FBI sent us. Apparently, she’s received the results from their lab and is eager to share with us. I’m hoping she’s going to be bringing us good news.”
    “I suspect she’d merely fax it if she didn’t have something solid,” Malone observed. “She doesn’t seem to be the type to waste her time.”
    “May I come in?” Annie rapped on the door much as Jackie Weller had done.
    “Dr.