“Okay, so what do you want to do about it?”

“I don’t know,” Will said, giving in and fidgeting with the ketchup on his sleeve. “I guess maybe I want to see her again, just to talk, to see…hell, I don’t know, Nick.”

“So call her. What’s stopping you?”

“I tried. She won’t return my messages.”

“Then stop by and see her, buy her lunch. Women like a guy taking action, not just talking.”

“It’s not that easy. It’s a five-hour drive. She lives in this little town outside D.C.—Newton, Newberry, Newburgh. Yeah, Newburgh, I think.”

“Wait a minute. Outside D.C.? Newburgh Heights? In Virginia?”

“Yeah. You know it?”

“I think a friend of mine bought a house there.”

“Small world.” Will watched Nick, whose mind suddenly seemed preoccupied. “You think they know each other?”

“I doubt it. Maggie’s an FBI profiler.”

“Hold on. Is this the same FBI Maggie who helped you on that case last fall?”

Nick nodded, but he didn’t need to answer at all. Will could see it was the same woman. Will had noticed months ago that this woman couldn’t be mentioned in general conversation without Nick getting all weirded out. Maybe this woman was Nick’s obsession.

“So how come you’ve never called this Maggie or stopped by to see her?”

“Well, for one thing I didn’t realize until a few days ago that she was getting a divorce.”

“A few days ago? Wait a minute. Was she at the Kansas City thing?”

“Yes, she was at the Kansas City thing. She was one of the presenters.”

“And?”

“And nothing.”

Will noticed Nick’s demeanor had changed to frustration with a hint of irritation. Yep, he was all weirded out again.

“But you saw her, right? You talked to her?”

“Yeah. We spent an afternoon digging through garbage together.”

“Excuse me? Is that some new code for foreplay?”

“No, it isn’t,” Nick snapped, suddenly not in the mood for Will’s attempt at humor. “Come on. Let’s get back to work.”

Nick stood, straightening his lopsided tie and buttoning his jacket, indicating that was the end of this conversation. Will decided to ignore it and press on.

“It sounds like this Maggie is your Tess.”

“Jesus, kid. What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Nick shot him a look, and Will knew he was right.

“This Maggie drives you as crazy as Tess drives me. Maybe we both need to make a trip down to Newburgh Heights.”

CHAPTER 36

Maggie was surprised to find that Agent Tully had managed to make her old office look smaller than it was. Books that didn’t fit in the narrow floor-to-ceiling bookcase formed leaning towers in the corner. A chair intended for visitors was hidden under stacks of newspapers. On his desk, the in-tray was crushed under a pile of lopsided documents and file folders. Strings of paper clips were left in odd places, a nervous habit of a man who needed to keep his fingers occupied. One lone mug teetered on a stack of legal pads and computer manuals. Peeking from behind the door, Maggie glimpsed gray running gear where normal people hung a trench coat or rain slicker.

The only thing in the office that held some prominence was a photo in a cheap wooden frame that sat on the right-hand corner of the desk. The entire corner had been cleared for its place of honor. Maggie immediately recognized Agent Tully, though the photo appeared to be several years old. The little blond girl had his dark eyes, but otherwise looked exactly like a younger version of her mother. The three of them looked so genuinely happy.

Maggie resisted the urge to take a closer look, as if doing so might expose their secret. What was it like to feel that completely happy? Had she ever felt that way, even for a brief period? Something about Agent Tully told her that happiness no longer existed for him. Not that she wanted to know. It had been years since she had worked with a partner, and the fact that Cunningham had made it one of the conditions of her return to the Stucky investigation was annoying. She felt as if he was still punishing her for the one stupid mistake of her career—going to that Miami warehouse alone. The warehouse where Stucky had been waiting for her. Where he had trapped her and made her watch.

Okay, so partly she knew Cunningham was doing it to protect her. Agents usually worked together to protect each other’s backs, but profilers often worked alone and Maggie had grown accustomed to the solitude. Having Turner and Delaney hanging around had been stifling enough. Of course, she would abide by Cunningham’s rules, but sometimes the best agents, the closest partners forgot to share every detail.

Agent Tully came in carrying two cartons, stacked so that he peered around the sides of them. Maggie helped him find a clear spot and unload his arms.

“I think these are the last of the old case files.”

She wanted to tell him that every last copy she had made for herself had fit nicely into one box. But instead of pointing out what a little organization could do, she was anxious to see what had been added to the case in the last five months. She stood back and allowed Agent Tully to sort through the mess.

“May I see the most recent file?”

“I have the delivery girl on my desk.” He jumped up from his squatting position next to the cartons and quickly riffled through several piles on his desk. “The Kansas City case is here, too. They’ve been faxing us stuff.”

Maggie resisted the urge to help. She wanted to grab all his piles and make order of them. How the hell did this guy get anything done?

“Here’s the file on the delivery girl.”

He handed her a bulging folder with corners of papers and photos sticking out at odd angles. Immediately, Maggie opened it and started straightening and rearranging its contents before examining any of them.

“Is it okay if we use her name?”

“Excuse me?” Agent Tully continued to rummage over his messy desktop. Finally he found his wire-rimmed glasses, put them on and looked at her.

“The pizza delivery girl. Is it okay if we use her name when we refer to her?”

“Of course,” he said, grabbing another file folder and shuffling through it.

Now he was a bit flustered, and Maggie knew he didn’t know the girl’s name without looking. It wasn’t a matter of disrespect. It helped to disconnect. Profilers often referred to a body simply as “the victim” or “Jane Doe.” Their first introduction to the victims came when they were bloody, tangled messes, often sharing little or no resemblance to their former selves. Maggie used to be the same, using general terms to disassociate, to disconnect. But then several months ago she met a little boy named Timmy Hamilton who took time to show her his bedroom and his baseball card collection just before he was abducted. Now it suddenly seemed important to Maggie to know this girl’s name. This beautiful, young, blond woman who she remembered being so cheerful when she had delivered Maggie’s pizza less than a week ago. And who was now dead simply because she had done so.

“Jessica,” Agent Tully finally blurted out. “Her name was Jessica Beckwith.”

Maggie realized she could have found the girl’s name just as easily. The top document was the medical examiner’s autopsy report, and the girl had already been identified at that point. She tried not to think of the parents. Some disconnection was necessary.

“Any trace recovered at the scene that could be used for DNA testing?”

“Nothing substantial. Some fingerprints, but they aren’t matching Stucky’s. Weird thing is, everything looked wiped clean except for this set of fingerprints—one index, one thumb. Chances are they belong to a rookie cop who touched stuff he wasn’t supposed to touch and now he’s afraid to admit it. AFIS hasn’t come up with anything yet.”