“Oh. He was skinning them, tanning their hides and selling them. Apparently he had a nice little sideline going.”

*  *  *

Elliot and Tucker turned out to be pretty compatible when it came to such things as meals and housekeeping. Or as compatible as two people could be who were almost never in the same place at the same time.

The problem was, they were living in limbo.

Tucker’s team was working relentlessly to capture the PSU Killer as the media (to Charlotte Oppenheimer’s horror) had labeled the Unsub, but they all knew in order to catch their man they needed him to strike again—even as they worked to prevent it from happening.

Security was keeping a high profile and there was a new police presence on the PSU campus. There were also reporters everywhere. Elliot had to call security twice when persistent “journalists” refused to take no for an answer.

With so much activity and attention, it was hardly surprising that there were no further attacks on students—nor did Elliot receive any more text messages.

“Maybe he’s left town?” he suggested when he and Tucker managed to meet for a quick dinner that night in Tacoma.

“No way. This guy is no transient. He’s geographically stable.”

“That’s the only stable thing about him.”

“True.”

Tucker’s smile was perfunctory. He seemed preoccupied. In fact, he’d seemed preoccupied since he’d arrived at the restaurant shortly after Elliot, and Elliot said, “What’s up?”

“I’ve got the crime scene and lab reports on Steven Roche.”

Elliot abruptly lost his appetite. He reached for his drink. “And?”

“We struck out on DNA from the wineglass. The Unsub didn’t take a drink. It looks like he opened the bottle and poured the wine for show.”

“I see.” The lack of DNA wasn’t good news, but it didn’t explain Tucker’s somber expression.

“How well did you know Roche?”

There it was. That look again. “We were friendly.” Elliot admitted, “More than neighbors. Friends, but not close friends.”

“He was writing a book about you.”

Elliot nearly choked. He set his glass down quickly and wiped his mouth. “What are you talking about? He was writing about the Charles Mattson kidnapping.”

“I found the Mattson file. There are a lot of notes but no manuscript. There was also a file on you.”

“What was in it?”

“A lot of notes. It looks like he made notes on almost every conversation you ever had. There were also photos I don’t think you knew were being taken, and some snapshots I think he might have lifted from a family album. There was a copy of one of your prescriptions and Montgomery’s reply to your resignation letter…mostly a lot of odds and ends, but none of it anything he should have in his possession.”

“I…” Elliot’s voice failed.

Tucker spared him one quick look, and returned his gaze to the crystal lantern on the table. “There was also a letter to his agent proposing either a biography on you or a novelized account of the Pioneer Square shooting.” After a pause, Tucker added gruffly, “Sorry.”

Elliot nodded automatically. He felt numb. Beyond the hurt of a friend’s betrayal was the stricken comprehension that he had been oblivious to Steven’s spying and pilfering. Until the night he had caught Steven wandering outside the cabin, it hadn’t even occurred to him there might be a problem.

“How was he getting in?” Meeting Tucker’s gaze, Elliot said harshly, “He had to be getting in somehow because I never gave him a key.”

“It looks like he fixed the latch on one of the basement windows so that it closed, but didn’t lock properly.”

Elliot reached blindly for his glass, tossed off the rest of his whisky.

“Do you want to hear this right now?” Tucker asked quietly.

“Hell yes. Go on.”

“The physical evidence indicates that the Unsub entered the cabin on Sunday while you were at Terry Baker’s funeral—suggesting he knew you would be at the funeral. He broke a basement window to get in. Not the same window that Roche was using.”

“He was setting the scene when Steven arrived,” Elliot said slowly. “Which is why he used the corkscrew. He opened the wine with it.”

“That’s the way it looks. Roche slipped into the house thinking you were away for the afternoon and he surprised the Unsub. Forensics leads us to believe Roche tried to escape back out the basement but was caught and killed before he could get out the window. His body was carried upstairs and positioned on your bed.”

“That would have to be someone in excellent physical shape.”

“Yeah.”

“Male.”

“Was there ever really much doubt of that? Most serial killers are male.”

White, male, aged 25 to 45 and generally loners. Mostly. Not always. Organized killers sometimes had strong personal and social skills and were able to maintain a normal family life. It was those exceptions to the rule that sometimes came out of nowhere and hit you over the head with their crowbars.

“Someone who owns a black or navy SUV or truck.”

“It’s possible. That leaves out Ray Mandat. He drives a white pickup.”

“What about the ferry records for Sunday?”

“We’re still crosschecking licenses and registrations.”

They’d be checking parking passes at PSU too and it would be like looking for a needle in a haystack. Black rated well at the top of the five most popular car colors.

Elliot said, “The problem is, if someone borrowed a friend’s car for the day, a connection to the university isn’t likely to flag.”

“Right.”

“It might be a fairly tenuous connection as it is.”

“Maybe.”

“There might be no connection at all.”

Tucker leaned forward. “I know this…” he searched for a word and eventually came up with, “…has thrown you, but I’m convinced we’re on the right track. I can feel in my gut we’re closing in on this guy.”

“That’s probably hunger,” Elliot said, glancing at Tucker’s plate. “You haven’t eaten anything.” Neither of them had, and it didn’t look like either had much appetite now.

“Let’s get out of here,” Tucker said. “Let’s go home.”

Elliot nodded to the waitress for the check. “Yeah, well that brings up another problem, doesn’t it? I can’t stay with you indefinitely. Sooner or later, I’ve got to get back to my own life.”

Tucker didn’t reply.

“We said we’d try it for a week,” Elliot reminded him.

“That’s right.”

Elliot could tell by Tucker’s expression that he was saying the wrong thing, but it had to be said, didn’t it?

“I appreciate your letting me stay. You had a good idea there. It’s been…good. I mean, all things considered.” Tucker was looking more remote and unapproachable with each word. Elliot stumbled, “But eventually I have to go home.”

“Sure,” Tucker clipped out.

The waitress came with the check then and Elliot didn’t have a chance to respond. He wasn’t sure what he could answer in any case. He wasn’t even sure what Tucker wanted to hear.

Chapter Twenty-Five

“But it’s not really late,” Leslie Mrachek said impassionedly Friday morning, attempting once again to hand her plastic binder to Elliot. “I mean, I tried to hand it in last night but everyone was gone and the building was locked. So that shouldn’t count as late. I mean, I couldn’t know that you’d have left by then.”

“My office hours are nine to eleven on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, and two to four on Tuesdays and Thursdays. In fact, I stayed till five yesterday.” And got hell from Tucker for deviating from his schedule without checking with the prison warden first.

They’d had their first genuine argument last night over it, and things had still been strained this morning when they’d kissed goodbye. In fairness, Elliot knew Tucker did have grounds for complaint. There was no point in putting together a timetable if Elliot was going to vary from it by hours at a time. It wasn’t fair to resent Tucker for doing his best to protect Elliot while not getting on his nerves. The only person to blame for the restrictions placed on him was the Unsub.