Noah merely turned his head to stare.
His friend released an audible breath. “Fine, he did it because of you. We might think all pen pushers are jackasses, but one or two of them actually have a brain. Liz and Angel are good, but official or not, you’re the prize Bergman’s after. Your boss wants you to back off this one—word’s already out on that—so Bergman had to go for your Achilles’ heel. Namely, Angel Carter.”
Noah turned back to his view. “So far, she can tell me as much or more than I can tell her.”
“What are you—ouch—okay, you moved that table, right?” Joe stopped to rub his shin. “What’s going on in your head about Foret’s death?”
“If you know what my boss is up to, you already know what’s going on.”
“You think it’s that guy again, don’t you, the one who did that string of murders that started seven years ago?”
“Eight.”
“We’ll call that an affirmative. Why?”
Noah propped his other foot up. “You did Foret’s autopsy. You tell me.”
“Team’s still running the results, but from the prelim, I’d say the wounds are fairly consistent. Still, a lot of murderers use knives. I think you’re reaching if your goal is to resurrect a serial killer who’s been off the map for half a decade.”
“We’ll see.”
Joe came to perch on the ledge. “Let’s get personal, shall we? How’re you doing these days? I cook a mean pot roast, and Liz’s angel food cakes are as divine as their name implies. Break down and have dinner with us. Liz is dying to meet you, and Jaynie turned four last Friday. We’ll have a second birthday party. You can give her money to buy new shoes.”
Noah smiled. “Your four-year-old likes shoes?”
“She takes after her adopted aunt. Angel loves shoes more than life. Liz only loves them more than paying bills.” Leaning forward, he tapped Noah’s knee. “We’ll eat by candlelight, tell the girls you’re a vampire with a soul, or whatever the deal was for that Buffy character. They’ll be mesmerized.”
Noah let his head fall back on the chair. “Thanks just the same.”
Joe emitted a sound of frustrated acceptance. “It isn’t healthy, you know, how you live—or don’t live as the case may be.”
“My life, my business, Dr. Thomas.”
“Don’t Dr. Thomas me. I’ll bet the house that you’ve seen Angel live and in person without her having a clue she’s been observed. The least you could do is return the favor.”
Okay, now that was too personal. Noah shot him a look that had Joe’s mouth ratcheting closed.
“Yeah, fine, got it. Back off or take off. But I have to tell you, she’s pretty spectacular up close.”
“I’ve seen her, Joe.”
“Nuh-uh, not up close, you haven’t, and animated. I’ll take a page out of Graeme’s book and wax poetic for a moment, because she’s—well, beautiful.” He used his hands. “Hair the color of Mayan coffee, miles of it, gorgeous hazel eyes, legs that go from here to my waist and incredible skin. Of course, being married, I’m not supposed to notice things like that, and I know better than to say any of them around my wife, but truth’s truth, and you’re missing the boat where Angel’s concerned, because I promise you, she’s interested, even if you are just a disembodied voice in the night…Now you really are going to tell me to shove off, aren’t you, so end of speech. What say we work on our chess game? I believe it’s my move.”
Joe’s move, yes, but not his game to play. Not his risk to take.
Not his dragon to slay.
Draining his mug, Noah said, “She’s better off out of it. She doesn’t need my demons added to her own.”
“If you mean her daddy dearest, she doesn’t mourn the loss. Some fathers are great—no names, please. Others are total jackasses. You got the cream of the crop in that regard. Angel lucked out physically.” Joe walked to the sofa, hesitated, then blurted an impatient, “You’re not a monster, you know.”
Noah couldn’t help it, he laughed. “Man, do all pathologists take drama as a minor in college?” He dropped his feet. “I’ll meet her when I meet her, okay? Right now, Foret’s the focus. Mine and hers. And your king’s in serious trouble.”
“Nothing new there.” Joe waited until they were seated on opposite sides of the board before meeting Noah’s stare. “You really think it’s him, don’t you? The guy who went on that three-year killing spree, then suddenly stopped.”
“Yeah, I do.”
“Even though the evidence in some of those cases was dicey.”
“Still a yes.”
His friend’s hand trembled visibly. “Noah, Liz…”
“Won’t die, okay?” Noah held his gaze without a flicker. “Neither will Angel.”
“A statement you hope is true, but can’t be sure of—unless that patch you wear shoots psychic vibrations directly into your brain.”
Noah didn’t respond, merely rested his forearms on his knees and regarded the chessboard. He spoke to more than his friend when he said softly, “Your move.”
Chapter Three
“Okay, so Lionel Foret was what? A Munster wannabe?” Liz stomped her feet on the porch of what was possibly the most decrepit house in Boston. In front of her, Angel rattled an old-fashioned key in the rusted-out lock.
They’d already gone through Foret’s Boston apartment, top to bottom, and found nothing except a million newspapers, enough fast-food containers to fill a city Dumpster and one very fat canary which Foret’s mother, currently en route from Virginia, was planning to take home.
“You heard his mom.” Angel used her shoulder on the stuck door. “Lionel wanted to fix and flip this place. He spent as much time here as he did in his apartment. The other third of his life unfolded in Washington.”
“We’ve got people checking the DC condo, right?”
“Yeah, and his buddy the Secretary is all over them. Bergman’s going down to talk to the man live and in person.”
“Better him than us…Can I help you push?”
“Nope.” Angel braced, gave a hard shove—and almost wound up flat on her face in the foyer as the engorged wood gave. “Got it.”
She shone her flashlight over the wall. “I smell old dust, fresh paint and foo yung. What a combo.” Locating the switch, she flipped it up. “Well, that made a world of difference. One twenty-five watt bulb spread over how many hundreds of junk-filled square feet? Still, the foo yung and paint say he’s been here recently.” She pivoted in a slow circle. “Wow—this is great.”
“It’s cold, it stinks, and it’s probably crawling with bugs.” Liz inspected the sagging ceiling. “Bergman’s a supreme ass for sticking us with this job while he takes a cushy flight to Washington.”
Angel gave her shoulder a tap with the flashlight. “Better him than us, remember? Come on, Liz, where’s your sense of adventure? This is the Munster house. Scratch fixing and flipping. Foret should have added costumed workers to the cobwebs and marketed it as a hotel.”
“You’ve got to be joking.”
“People said that about ice hotels, and look what happened there. Do you want up or down?”
“Kitchen’ll