Tate considered that, then settled back in his chair.

"Why did you lie about knowing Justine Ramsey?"

Tate rubbed his head. "I wanted the interview to be over. I didn't want to get messed up in anything- especially murder. You can understand that, can't you?" He looked at Gillian for reassurance. "You can, can't you?"

She didn't reply or respond in any way.

"It makes it harder for everybody when you don't tell the truth," Wakefield said. "Because chances are, we already know the answer to the question we're asking. And if we don't, we'll find out."

"I'm not falling for that."

"Did I tell you I know your dad?"

That got his attention.

"We went to the same high school," Wakefield said. "He was two years ahead of me, but we were in band and Academic Bowl together. I wasn't surprised when he went into politics. He knew the ins and outs of everything. How's your dad doing nowadays? I heard he was going to run for state senator."

"Maybe. I don't know. I don't talk to him much."

"Only when you're in trouble, right?"

"I see him other times. Christmas, usually."

"Where were you Friday-the night Justine Ramsey's body was dumped near Lake Harriet?"

"Listen, if you're trying to say I killed Justine Ramsey just because I may have hit her once, you're crazy."

"We're not accusing you of anything. We're interviewing everybody who knew Justine. It's standard procedure."

Tate relaxed a little, but kept his arms crossed at his chest, his attitude belligerent. "I was at a party."

"Were you there all night?"

"I stayed a few hours, then went barhopping. Everybody goes barhopping on Fridays."

"Were you with anybody? Someone who can corroborate your story?"

"I left the party by myself."

"What about the bars? Can you give me a list of the bars you went to and the people you saw?"

"Some of them. Listen, I was drunk. I can't remember exactly where I went and who I saw."

Wakefield pulled out a tablet and a piece of paper. "Why don't you try?"

Half an hour later, Wakefield had several bars and names written down, and Tate was out the door.

"What do you think?" Wakefield asked.

"Other than the fact that he's an arrogant ass?" Gillian asked.

"Yeah, other than that."

Ben joined them. "That guy's got the hots for you." He seemed to think that was extremely funny. "He's so not your type."

"I found Tate's reaction to you as telling as anything we got out of him," Wakefield said, flashing Ben a look of resigned irritation.

"He didn't seem at all interested in hiding his attraction," Gillian said. "Which makes me wonder if what we just witnessed was some kind of strategy-or was he just trying to look cool?"

"I wouldn't be surprised if he's been in more trouble than we know and Daddy's gotten him out of it. He's avoided getting his name on the public-access sex offender blacklist. He avoided a prison sentence by agreeing to become a full-time student. That kind of thing is bullshit."

"I've seen him on campus," Ben said. "Girls seem to dig him."

"Not this girl," Gillian said.

"We'll try to get interviews with school acquaintances," Waken"eld said. "See if we can come up with anything."

Outside the police station, Gillian and Ben split up. He headed for a class on West Bank. She needed to report back to the BCA in St. Paul.

She was walking toward her car on the third floor of the Federal Courthouse parking garage when someone jumped out from behind a cement pillar and landed flat-footed in front of her.

She let out a frightened yelp, at the same time recognizing Sebastian Tate.

"Hi." He flashed her a smile, proud of himself.

Her heart was pounding madly in her chest. "What the hell are you doing?" she shouted at him in disbelief.

"It's almost noon. I thought you might want to grab a bite to eat."

"Are you kidding?" If he hadn't just scared the hell out of her, she may have been a little more discreet in her response. As it was, she did nothing to hide her disgust.

He gestured with hands in the pockets of his unzipped, black leather bomber jacket, walking backwards while she strode toward her car. "Why not?" he asked innocently, as if expecting her to say she was too busy.

"Why not? Because you're a fucking asshole, that's why not!"

He stopped walking, and his jaw went slack. She shoved past him, unlocked her car with the remote, and slid behind the wheel. With a trembling hand, she jabbed the key in the ignition. Oh, that was good, she thought sarcastically. She locked the door and pulled the seat belt across her shoulder. Real professional. Cussing out a suspect. She was sure Mary did that all the time.

"Would you like to try out my new potter's wheel while you're here?" Blythe asked. She and Mary were sitting at the bistro table in the kitchen sharing a light lunch. "You were getting pretty good at one time."

"I think that may have been Gillian." Mary was trying to ignore the throbbing in her shoulder, which had been getting increasingly worse since her encounter with Hitchcock. It hadn't helped that she'd been working on the profile for almost forty-eight hours straight. "I was never very good at throwing pots."

"Oh, you were too! Let's make an evening of it. Gillian can come. We'll get a bottle of wine. Be creative. What do you think?"

"Let's not rush into things."

Mary had come to terms with the fact that she and Gillian would be working together. She didn't like it, but she was a professional, and professionals had to adapt to unpleasant situations. That didn't mean she was ready to hop in the sandbox with her sister.

"Later, maybe," her mother said, momentarily deflated. Blythe gathered up a large canvas bag, water bottle, and car keys. "I've gotta run. Try to get some rest." She gave Mary a kiss on the cheek, then left to teach her afternoon and evening pottery classes at the Pot House.

Mary went upstairs and took a hot shower. She'd hoped the heat might help the pain, but by the time she'd dried off, her shoulder was aching even more. She made an ice pack out of a plastic bag and kitchen towel, then settled in bed with the pack on her shoulder and laptop on her lap.

Her phone rang.

Gillian was calling to tell her about a suspect they'd brought in for questioning. "Sebastian Tate," she said. "He's a student at the university and dated the third victim a few times."

"What did you find out?"

Gillian filled her in on Tate's rap sheet and how he'd reacted to her.

"I'm not sure you should be involved in the questioning of suspects," Mary said, surprised that they'd sent Gillian out on the initial canvas.

"It's my job." Gillian didn't bother trying to disguise her resentment.

"Didn't anyone stop to think that you fit the victim-ology?" Mary had to work to keep her voice smooth, even though she was irritated by Wakefield's lack of judgment. She'd expected more from him.

"I know I fit the victimology. I thought my going on the canvas was a good strategy."

Had she really thought it out that thoroughly? Mary wondered. More than likely, it had come to her later, when Gillian was face-to-face with the suspect.

"The last victim was also identified," Gillian said. "Justine Ramsey."

"Had she been reported missing?"

"No. Lived alone, no close friends."

"Like the first girl."

"Exactly." The conversation shifted. "How are you coming on the profiles?"

"I'll have the preliminary paperwork ready to present to Detective Wakefield by early tomorrow. Hopefully I can get the Behavioral Science team to sign off on it in two or three days so the profile can be made official and the information gotten to the public."

There was a pause, as if Gillian were weighing her next words. "You sound tired."