“That would be great.” I watched as he tossed a piece down without finding its place.
“I’m going to head home. Thanks for the food and the hospitality.”
I rose. “Sure. And I appreciate the flowers. They’re beautiful.” Two polite people, circling a dead teenager.
“Thanks for not slamming the door in my face.” He paused in the foyer, then leaned over and kissed me gently on the cheek. The stubble of his cheek brushed against my skin, and he smelled like the night we met, minus the cigarette smoke from the bar. Good. Really good.
“Night.” He stepped away and moved through the door, tripping on the first step and catching himself.
“Careful. Good night.” I held the door open until he was halfway down my stepping-stones, heading toward a glistening black Mercedes parked in my drive. I pushed the door shut and flipped the lock, then reached up and engaged the dead bolt.
Returning to the dining room, I collected our glasses and the empty wine bottle, then flipped off the light, leaving the rest of the puzzle for another night. Standing at the sink, I squirted lavender dish soap onto a fresh sponge and washed his plate.
He was an interesting man. Very high emotional intelligence. He could read me as well as or better than I could read him. Behind the charm, he hid his emotions well. My father would have said he played his cards flush against his chest, and he would have been right. He was a man with grief and history, but also . . . there was something deeper there. I couldn’t put my finger on it, and it was driving me crazy.
Maybe it was just raw attraction. My body responded to his presence in unsettling ways, and I had struggled, when we parted, to not lean in for a kiss.
I picked up a fluffy white dish towel and ran it around the surface of the red ceramic plate. I also had to face the possibility that my attraction to Robert Kavin had increased when I’d realized his connection to the BH Killer. And now, with him hiring me for a psychological profile, my skin was practically humming with excitement.
Careers were made from opportunities like this. If Randall Thompson was the killer—and all reports seemed to indicate he was—then these events would be studied by psychology professionals for decades. Motives. History. The transition of thought into action in cyclical fashion. Randall Thompson would be compared with Lonnie Franklin Jr. and Joseph James DeAngelo, and I would have an inside look at every single detail. For Robert to give me that access . . . screw the flowers and the orgasms. This was huge, and as unbelievable as it seemed—all six case files?—I believed his confidence when he said he could get them.
That arrogance, the opportunity, the memories of our night together—sheets twisting, mouths hot and frantic—all of it had Robert Kavin stuck in my mind. A fixation, and not an entirely healthy one.
The man was grieving. Damaged. Gabe Kavin had died, along with five other innocent boys. A monster was responsible, and I shouldn’t be salivating at the thought of studying him. I opened the cabinet and stacked the plate on top of the others.
Six boys had died, and soon, I would be given the keys to figuring out why.
CHAPTER 11
The next day, I walked my four thirty appointment to the lobby and paused at the sight of Robert Kavin. The tall attorney was standing at Jacob’s desk, and I zeroed in on the thick file in his hand. I glanced back to my client, a Peeping Tom with unresolved mother issues. “I’ll see you next week, Jeff.”
Jeff Maven nodded, then beelined for the stairwell.
“Dr. Moore?” Robert ambled toward me with the confidence of an alpha male. “Do you have a moment?”
“Of course.” I held the heavy office door open and nodded to Jacob. “Please hold my calls.”
Robert passed into my office, and I caught the faint whiff of an expensive cologne. Inside the office, he paused, surveying the room. “Nice digs.”
“We got lucky with our lease. If we signed on today, we’d be paying triple net rent.” I took a seat in one of the low-slung leather chairs beside the love seat.
He noticed the breakfast bar in the corner of the room. “Mind if I get a cup of coffee?” He set the file folder on my desk.
“Not at all. In fact . . .” I leaned over and plucked my almost empty mug off the side table. “Can you top me off?”
“Sure.” He reached for the cup, and his fingers brushed mine. Our eyes met, and I let go of the ceramic handle.
He turned away and stopped in front of the coffeepot. “You’re a doctor, so I’m assuming our conversations are protected by doctor-patient confidentiality?”
An interesting question. “You’re hiring me, so yes. But, as I’m sure you’re well aware, that confidentiality is limited.”
“Oh yes, I’m aware.” He turned toward me, two cups in hand. “If a patient is an imminent danger to himself or others, you’re obligated to tell the authorities. Right?”
It was interesting, the way he delivered questions, as if every one was accusatory. A by-product of thousands of hours on the stand or—and just as likely—a deep-rooted inclination to suspect the worst in people. I skipped the urge to point out the psychological tic and nodded. “Yes. If a patient is likely to cause himself or someone else harm, we’re required to report it.”
“I have a feeling, given your clients, that you’ve bent that rule before.” He settled into the seat in front of me and lifted his cup to his lips.
Where was he going with this? I crossed my legs, but his gaze stayed on my face. Impressive focus, especially given the length of this skirt. It was one I rarely wore, and one that tiptoed on the edge of unprofessional, but it was a good card to pull out when I needed to test a man. Robert Kavin had passed. I ignored the comment and glanced at the file he’d placed on my desk. It was fat and red and had a rubber band around its midsection, pinning it closed.
“What’s with the confidentiality question?” I placed my notebook down on the table between us and relaxed in the seat, hoping the new body language would ease the tension from his shoulders.
It didn’t. If anything, his brow furrow deepened. “Just wondering if you’re trustworthy.”
I picked up the cup of coffee Robert had set before me. “It’s a necessity in my line of work. If clients couldn’t trust me, they wouldn’t talk about their problems.”
“They confess things they’ve done?”
I made a face, annoyed with the question, one I received frequently. “Their actions come out sometimes when we talk about guilt.” I cupped my hands around the mug, comforted by the warmth of the ceramic. “Each client is different. For some, it’s healing to talk.”
His jaw tightened, and I studied him closely, trying to read between his questions. Some evasiveness was to be expected in his line of work. But there was more than just curiosity in his tone. And more than distrust. There was also a tight edge of . . . anger. That was interesting.
I poked the emotion. “Why all the questions?”
In response, he gestured to the folder. “That’s Gabe’s file. Let me know if you have any questions.” He straightened the line of his tie but didn’t meet my eyes. With another client, I’d consider it a deceptive tell, but this I read as pain.