“He’s killed before?”

“In at least two previous locations. Ten years ago, he butchered six women in Florida. And five years ago, six women in Alabama.”

“Blondes?” Rafe asked.

“No. Redheads in Florida. Brunettes in Alabama. We have no idea why.”

“And nobody caught him then.”

“Lots tried. But he hit quick-one victim every week, just like here-and then he vanished. Typical serial killer cases, if there is such a thing, usually drag on months, years, and it takes time to get law enforcement organized once a pattern is even noticed. But this monster hit and vanished before the task forces could even get up and running. And he didn’t leave so much as a hair behind to help I.D. him, so they had almost nothing to work with.”

“Then how do you know it’s the same killer?”

“The M.O. The profile. The fact that Bishop himself worked on the second set of murders-one of his very few unsuccessful cases.”

“I wasn’t told about any of this in the initial profile.”

“No. The first profiler wasn’t a member of the SCU. And even though the two earlier sets of murders came up on the computer as possibly connected, he discounted them because it was believed at the time that the most likely suspect was killed trying to escape police in Alabama. His car went off a bridge. But they never found the body.”

“So do you and Bishop believe he didn’t die-or that the suspect the police were chasing wasn’t the killer?”

“We believe the latter, actually. The man the police were after had a few violent crimes on his rap sheet, but neither Bishop nor I was convinced he had the right psychological makeup to be the clever serial killer we were after.”

“So he kills his six victims, lays low for five years, and then starts up all over again. That’s a hell of a cooling-off period.”

“And unusual. We believe he uses the time to relocate and get to know the people around him. We also believe there’s always a trigger, as I said. Something sets him off. Something always sets him off.”

Again, Rafe heard a note in her voice that made him wary. “There’s another reason you believe this is the same killer. What is it?”

Isabel answered without hesitation. “Standing where Tricia Kane was murdered, I felt him. Just the way I felt him five years ago when I first encountered Bishop and joined the team. And the way I felt him ten years ago when he killed a good friend of mine.”

It was nearly midnight when Mallory Beck pulled herself reluctantly from bed and began getting dressed. “Dammit. Where on earth did my bra get to?”

“Over there by the bookcase. You could stay, you know. Spend the night.”

“I’m back on duty at seven,” she said. “First big meeting of our task force, FBI agents included, starts at eight. That’s off the record, Alan.”

“Mal, I’ve told you before, anything you say to me privately is off the record.” His voice was patient. He propped himself up on an elbow and watched her dress. “I’m not going to cross that line.”

She was reasonably sure he wouldn’t. But only reasonably sure.

“Okay. But I still need to go home. I won’t sleep much if I stay here, and I want to be rested tomorrow.”

“You don’t have anything to prove, you know. To these FBI agents, I mean. Or to Rafe. You’re a damned good cop, everybody knows that.”

“Yeah, well, being a good cop hasn’t been enough so far, has it?”

He frowned a little as he watched her, wondering as he so often had in the last few months if he would ever really know her. It was undoubtedly part of the attraction as far as he was concerned, he knew that very well; there was so much of her beneath the surface, and his instinct was to dig, to explore and understand.

She wasn’t making it easy for him.

Maybe that was part of the attraction as well. Plus the mind-blowing sex, of course. Either it was sheer natural talent, or else Alan had to take his hat off to the men in her past, because Mallory was something else in bed.

Addictive was the word that came to mind.

“You can’t blame yourself,” he said finally.

“To Protect and Serve. It says that on the sides of our cruisers and Jeeps. It’s what we get paid for. Our entire reason for being, so to speak.”

“It’s not a one-woman police force, Mal. Let some of the others carry the weight.”

“They do. Especially Rafe.”

“Yeah, give him his due. He wasn’t too proud to yell for help.”

Mallory sat down on the bed to put her socks and shoes on, eyeing her lover. “We’ve both known him a long time. Pride is never going to be his downfall.”

“No. But failing to trust himself might be.”

Since she’d had the same thought herself, Mallory could hardly disagree. But she felt uncomfortable on several levels discussing her boss with Alan, so she simply changed the subject. “I’m sorry I missed the press conference today. I hear you cracked up the room.”

“Rafe did-with a joke at my expense. I gather that gorgeous blonde he left with is one of the FBI agents?”

“Mmm. Isabel Adams-and I better not see that name printed in the paper unless and until it’s released officially.”

“You won’t, dammit.” Still, Alan couldn’t stop asking questions. “She’s not down here alone?”

“No, she has a partner. Another woman. I haven’t met her yet.”

“Did it occur to anybody at the Bureau that sending a blond female agent down here at this particular time might be a little dicey?”

Mallory shrugged. “They wrote the profile. I have to assume they know what they’re doing.”

“I bet Rafe is pissed.”

“You’ll have to ask him about that.”

“Jesus, you’re pigheaded.”

“It’d be more polite to call me stubborn.”

“And less accurate. Mal”-he leaned over to grasp her wrist before she stood up-“is something wrong? I mean, aside from the obvious maniacal-killer-stalking-Hastings thing.”

“No.”

That mild syllable didn’t give him much room to maneuver, but he tried. “I know you’re preoccupied. Hell, we all are. But sometimes I get the feeling you’re not even here.”

“I didn’t hear you complaining a little while ago. Even though I always wonder when a guy calls out God’s name instead of mine.”

Refusing to be sidetracked, Alan said, “You barely caught your breath before you were up and dressing.”

“I told you. I have to go to work early.”

“If you’d leave some stuff here, you could spend the night occasionally and still get to work early.” He heard the note of frustration in his own voice, and the familiar resentment prickled inside him. Why does she make me do this?

“Alan, we’ve been over this. I like my own space. I never leave any of my stuff at a man’s apartment. I don’t like sleepovers except for vacation trips out of town. And I’m not real comfortable being in bed with a reporter in the first place. Conflict of interest rings a rather ugly bell.”

Her patient tone grated, but he managed to keep his own voice calm. Even careless, around the edges. “It’s that last that really bugs you, and don’t think I don’t know it. You don’t trust me, Mal. You don’t believe I can separate my work from my personal life.”

“Why should you be different from the rest of us?” she asked dryly, pulling away from him and rising to her feet. “My job is in my head twenty-four seven. And so is yours. We’re both career people. We live on takeout and caffeine. Half the time our socks don’t match, and when we realize it we just buy new socks. We do our laundry when we run out of clean clothes. And when the biggest, baddest bad to ever hit Hastings rears its ugly head, both our careers kick into high gear. Right?”

“Right,” he agreed reluctantly.

“Besides, let’s not kid ourselves. Neither one of us is looking for anything more than a few hours of stress-busting sex every week.” She smiled down at him. “Don’t get up. I’ll let myself out. See you.”