Lisa Rayburn worked as a psychologist and part-time counselor at the Women’s Center in Oconomowoc. Probably writing a freaking book. Two days ago he’d gotten a call from Patty Barkley asking him to talk to Rayburn. Patty, from special crimes, acted as liaison between the department and the Women’s Center. Refusing to see Rayburn would have made him seem unsympathetic to women’s issues.

He looked up to see a woman with dark blonde hair standing in front of his desk. She held out her hand. “Hi, my name is Lisa Rayburn. Sorry to interrupt, but the woman at the desk told me I could come back.”

Richard rose, accepting her proffered hand. “No problem. I’ve been expecting you. Have a seat.”

He took in her dark blue pantsuit—he hated pantsuits on women. A legman, they hid his favorite part of a woman’s anatomy. Attractive, about forty, give or take, she wore her hair pulled back on her neck and used little, if any, makeup. Everything about her looked conservative; she reminded him of the female attorneys he saw in the courthouse—unapproachable. He preferred his women colorful, flashy even. Good thing his partner wasn’t around, she was definitely his type. With her even features and generous figure she’d be right up Justin’s alley–not fat, but voluptuous by today’s bony standards.

Lisa felt Conlin appraising her. She got right to the point of her visit.

“I’m sorry to take up your time, but I’ve come across something I believe you should look at. I’ll try to outline it as simply as possible. Then you can tell me whether it’s something that needs your attention.”

“That works for me. Would you like some coffee? It’s not Starbucks, but it’s always strong and hot.”

“No, thanks, I’m fine.

“Okay, give me the crux of it.”

“I’m a clinical psychologist. I have an office in Pewaukee and volunteer one afternoon a week at the Women’s Center of Oconomowoc. I’m writing a textbook for clinicians on the treatment of abused women. Most of the prep work for this kind of book deals with finding appropriate case studies and then gathering statistics relevant to them.“

Lisa had decided he didn’t need to know she hadn’t gotten that far with her book yet—or that the statistic in question had come from a graduate student. He’d winced when she mentioned the book, so she’d have to be brief.

“About a week ago, I received the results of the current stats on abused women in Milwaukee and the surrounding counties.”

When he said nothing, she continued. “What I found alarming, and the reason I’m here today, is to show you this.” She opened a folder and pulled out a sheaf of papers, clipped together except for a top page on which several lines were highlighted.

“One of the statistics is way beyond the norm.” She passed him the top sheet. “The highlighted section shows the number of women who have gone missing following the reporting of one or more instances of domestic violence. The percentage is at least seventeen percent above the norm and is based on numbers for the last three years. Statistical variation has been taken into account. You’ll see references on that sheet explaining how the data was handled and the number arrived at. It is definitely too high to be put off as a statistical aberration.”

Conlin looked at the sheet she’d handed him, his brow furrowed.

She said, “I find this very disturbing. That’s why I’m here.”

“Ms. Rayburn—“

“Please. Call me Lisa,” she interrupted.

“Okay. Lisa. Isn’t this something that should be taken up by the women’s centers? Why homicide?”

Lisa had expected his reaction, but it didn’t make his attitude any less irritating.

“Let me guess,” he said with a wry half-smile, “you think there is a serial killer out there murdering abused women.”

“You know, Detective, I’m not sure what is behind this increase, but I find it alarming. I was hoping you’d share my concern.”

Lisa, regretting that she’d volunteered to come here, began to put her papers back in the folder, preparing to leave.

Conlin handed her the sheet of paper she’d given him. “Give me a minute to explain the realities of this situation.”

Lisa took a deep breath, her ire rising. “The realities?” She fought for patience. “All right, tell me what you think is responsible for this number.”

“The thing is, there could be more than one reason for this statistic to be so high.” He sat back in his chair, offering no additional information.

Lisa, recognizing she would get nowhere with the boor, stood to leave. “Detective, I’m extremely troubled by these disappearances, and have no intention of letting this go. Since I haven’t succeeded in capturing your interest, you leave me no choice but to meet with the heads of all the women’s centers. I’m sure once all of them get behind the issue, your department may have a different opinion.”

His eyes narrowed. “Well, Ms. Rayburn, let me see if I can put you in touch with someone who can explain our position to you.”

Lisa followed Conlin into an elevator, taking a moment to admire his athletic build. She guessed him to be in his mid-forties and thought he might be attractive to a certain segment of women—a segment that did not include her. He wasn’t really handsome, but detectives always had a certain appeal. Must be the shoulder holsters they wore. Lisa liked men softer, a little less worn than the hardened detective—and younger.

She asked, “Who is this mystery person we’re going to see?”

“No mystery—there’s just someone you need to talk to.”

“Someone who will set me straight, you mean.”

“That isn’t what I meant at all. I’m taking you to see James Wilson. He likes to be called a consultant, but he’s actually a full-time employee here. He doesn’t have a formal job title.”

“Then what exactly does he do here?” she asked as they stepped out of the elevator.

“Wilson is the unspoken head of the Computer Crimes department, but officially it’s run by Lt. Marian Bergman. Wilson’s a technical genius and also our stats person. He coordinates computer crime investigations and oversees computerized forensics.”

“Impressive.”

They entered an office sparsely equipped with basic office furniture. No photos, plants, diplomas, awards, or other personal items offered visitors any hint of the person the office belonged to. A man sat with his back to them, concentrating on a large monitor, quietly typing. He looked tall and broad-shouldered, his hair an unusual shade of silvery brown that, seen from a distance, made him appear to be in his forties.

He turned to face them. James Wilson looked nothing like the stereotypical computer nerd and appeared to be in his early thirties. Casually well dressed, he could be described as ruggedly handsome.

Conlin made the necessary introductions.

Wilson rose from his chair, extending his hand. She took his hand, warmed by his firm touch. He had the long slender fingers of a piano player.

“What can I do for you, Ms. Rayburn?”

He had eyes the same silvery brown as his hair—or were they gray? She doubted the faint growth of stubble on his face was a fashion statement. He probably had a thick beard and been at the job since early morning. Before she could respond, Conlin suggested they use the conference room.

Once they’d settled at a long table in the adjoining room, the detective began, “James, Lisa was referred to me by Patty Barkley. She’s writing a book and came across some information she felt we should look at.”

As soon as he mentioned writing a book, Lisa’s experienced radar detected a barely perceptible shift in Wilson’s features. Clearly, police perceived writers as an irritating distraction. Lisa repeated her story as she told it earlier, once more abbreviating it as much as possible. Somewhere in the middle of her narrative, Conlin excused himself and left the room, stating he’d be at his desk if she needed him for anything. He’d pawned her off.