Of course he could. I had hoped the dim interior light would hide me, but luck hadn’t been kind to me lately. Swallowing a curse, I flipped open the dead bolt.
“Hi, Robert,” I said crisply, as coldly as I could considering the fact that he held out a bouquet of pink tulips, his face contrite and apologetic. It had been years since I’d gotten flowers. I took them from him and struggled not to bury my face in them and inhale their scent.
“I know it’s late, but I needed to apologize.”
With the flowers in hand, I had limited ability to bar the door, so I settled for my stoniest tone. “Go ahead.”
“I shouldn’t have looked at the file. Shouldn’t have gone in your office. Honestly, I shouldn’t have even fixed breakfast without you. I’m sorry.”
I digested the apology and found that it tasted sincere. A stronger woman would have argued some key points, dressed him up and down for his actions, then ripped the heads off his flowers and thrown them back into his face, but it was chilly outside, my sleep shorts weren’t warm enough to combat the open door, and it was hard to be cruel to anyone who had suffered the loss of a child. “Okay,” I said agreeably. “Thanks for the flowers.”
He looked surprised at the easy acceptance, then slowly nodded, stepping back from the door. “Sure. I really am sorry.”
“Yeah.” I studied him in the porch light. He was in a suit, this one without the third piece, his tie undone and hanging around his neck, the top button of his shirt unfastened. He looked like he needed food and sleep, and I could help with one of the two.
I stepped back and held open the door. “Want to come inside? I’ve got lasagna I can heat up if you’re hungry.”
He smiled sheepishly, and it was criminal how good the expression looked on his handsome features. “Sure,” he said slowly. “If you’re up for the company.”
Robert ate three huge squares of lasagna, then attacked the ongoing puzzle. I sat cross-legged on a padded dining room table chair and watched his hands move across the board like a Mensa kid in front of a Rubik’s Cube.
“Plus, there’s travel.” He clipped a dark piece into the border trim. “I don’t want to worry about them in a crate at a kennel.”
He was naming the reasons he didn’t have a pet, which were all valid, if you were considering pets as sterile objects and completely discounted the joy they brought to your life.
“How much do you travel?” I swirled the wineglass and watched the dark liquid sweep around the sides.
“Not much,” he admitted. “I went to Tahoe last summer. But, you know. At some point I will.”
“Sure.” I took a sip. “A workaholic married to his job. From one addict to another, traveling isn’t actually going to happen. You know that, right?”
He grimaced.
I picked up a piece and studied the design. “I’m sorry about your son.”
In the days since Robert had left my house, I had researched him online. His impressive court record and legal accolades were buried on the sixth page of results behind the national news stories, press releases, and hundreds of videos and posts looking for leads and justice for Gabe Kavin. Half the news results were from the disappearance period. The other half were after they found his son’s body behind a recycling plant in Burbank, a crude heart carved into his chest, his genitals tossed into the trash. The BH Killer’s signature marks, and his official sixth victim.
He looked up from the puzzle, and our eyes met. In the dim light of the bar, I hadn’t seen the full extent of his sorrow. The drench of pain was haunting his eyes. Pulling at his face. Heavy in the sag of his posture.
I’d treated a few parents after the loss of a child. The grief wouldn’t go away. It would dilute in his eyes. He would grow better at masking it, disguising it, but it would always be there. Losing a child was like losing a limb. You were reminded of it every time you moved, until the consistent adjustments to life became a permanent part of you.
His mouth pinched together in a flat line. “Nothing to be sorry about. The apologies don’t bring him back.”
No, they wouldn’t. I changed the subject. “I’m assuming you’re being kept abreast of the arrest.”
“Yep.” He picked through the pile of homeless pieces. “Are you familiar with the BH deaths?”
Killers were my obsession, and Los Angeles’s most famous serial killer had been under my microscope from the beginning. I half rose from the chair and lifted the wine, pouring more in my glass. Without asking, I topped his off. “It’s in my wheelhouse, so yes. I’ve kept a professional interest in the killings.”
“You said on the night we met that you do a lot of expert testimony.”
“I do.”
“Psychological profiles?”
“At times.” Where was he going with this?
“Done one on a serial killer before?”
“Just in med school.”
He said nothing, and I waited out his thought process. Spotting a potential connection, I fit the puzzle piece in and locked it into place.
“I’d like to hire you.”
“For what?”
“A psychological profile on the BH Killer, to start.”
With what I already knew about his kills, I could whip up a half-decent profile within a day. But half-decent probably wasn’t what Robert Kavin was looking for. “Why?”
“My son died at his hands.” His glare challenged me to question the request. “Do I need another reason?”
“No,” I said slowly. “But your son was found nine months ago. Why wait until now for a psych profile? They have the killer.”
“I didn’t know you nine months ago.”
I bought a few seconds by taking a slow sip of merlot. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to do it. I was itching to push him out the door and sharpen my pencil. But something was off here, and I needed to put my finger on what it was. “Do you have the case file on your son?” He shouldn’t. It’d be a horrible thing for him to possess. Yet something in his self-assured manner told me he did.
He nodded.
Ah, the psychological trauma that each autopsy photo, every casual case note, had to cause. I tried not to outwardly wince.
“I have his, and I can get you the others soon—in the next few days.”
The others? I inhaled at the possibility of reviewing the full details of all six victims. “How are you getting those?”
“Just know I can get them.”
I frowned, skeptical. “Right.” If it was true, if I could look at all six of the BH victims and their circumstances . . . it’d be a psychologist’s dream. And to make it all better—the killer was already behind bars. I could visit him. Talk to him. Do a proper psych analysis, assuming I could get authorization from his legal team.
I realized I was staring at him. I straightened in the chair. “Okay. I’ll do it.” I tried to keep the excitement out of my voice, but it still coated the words.
The corners of his mouth lifted, but it wasn’t a smile. It was disappointment, and I didn’t have time to process it before he spoke. “I’ll bring you a copy of Gabe’s file tomorrow.”