The Maze by Catherine Coulter Page B

morning. This was the first time he’d seen her since she’d left for Boston. She looked tired beyond her years. No, it was more than that. She looked flattened, as if she’d lost her best friend, as if someone had pounded her, not physically, but emotionally. He wasn’t at all surprised.
    She was typing furiously on the keyboard, completely absorbed. He waited for a few more minutes, then strolled to her workstation. He’d spoken to her three nights running, each night at 10:30, each night mirroring the previous one and the next, except that on Wednesday, she hadn’t quite been the same. He’d wished he could see her. When he looked at her, her thoughts were clear as the shine Uncle Bob put on his wing tips every Wednesday.
    â€œSherlock.”
    She raised her face, her fingers stilling on the computer keyboard. “Good afternoon, sir. You just get here?”
    â€œYes. Call me Savich. Or Dillon.”
    â€œYes, sir. Dillon.”
    â€œWould you please come in my office? In say ten minutes?”
    She nodded, nothing more, just a defeated nod that she tried to hide from him.
    When she walked into his office, he said immediately, “I don’t like lies or liars.”
    She just looked at him hopelessly.
    â€œYour mother’s sister lives in San Diego. You have three cousins, none of them older than thirty-five, all living on the West Coast. You don’t even have a third cousin in Boston. Also, there’s nary a trace of Alzheimer’s in anyone in your family.”
    â€œNo, I guess there isn’t.”
    â€œSit down, Sherlock.”
    She sat.
    He watched her pull her skirt to her calves. She sat on the edge of her chair like a child ready to be chastised. Only she wasn’t remotely a child.
    â€œDon’t you think it’s about time you leveled with me?”
    â€œNot until I call Chico and take a dozen or so lessons.”
    Humor from her. He appreciated it. At least she had her balance, if nothing else. “I could still wipe up the floor with you. I’m an old hand at karate and other things as well. Speaking of hands, I played right into yours when I requested you for my unit, didn’t I? You must have thought God was looking out for you when Petty told you you didn’t have to go to L.A.”
    It didn’t matter now. He probably knew everything. At least she didn’t have to lie anymore. “It’s true I wasn’t interested in bank robbers. I told you that the day you first interviewed me.”
    â€œOh no, that’s for sure. What you wanted was the chance to track down the serial killer who murdered your sister seven years ago. Her name was Belinda, wasn’t it?”

10
    S HE TOOK the blow, bending slightly inward to absorb the pain of it, the unbearable nakedness of it spoken aloud. She knew she’d blown her chance to hell and gone. It was all over for her now. But maybe it wasn’t. He was in Boston. She would simply resign from the FBI and move to Boston. She had no choice.
    She didn’t stir, just looked at him and said, “They named him the String Killer. Isn’t that a stupid name? String! Something hardly thicker than a thread, a piece of skinny hemp he used to torture the women, all seven of them—psychological torture—and the media reduced it to string, to make it sexy and clever.”
    â€œYes, I remember the case well. And now he’s struck again after seven years, in Boston this time. In fact, it’s seven years to the day.”
    She just sat there, looking at him, and said in that flattened voice of hers, that held no surprise at all, “How do you know?”
    â€œI went into your computer, saw what you’d accessed, and downloaded. I saw that you’d used my password to get into a couple of specialized data banks. Odd, but I never thought one of my own people would steal my password. You just looked over my shoulder one day?”
    She nodded,