A Small Degree of Hope. Lyndi Alexander

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СКАЧАТЬ racing. Bet he knew that, too. He certainly appeared jumpier. Back off a little. She scanned the street outside. No one seemed interested in their conversation. “Did you tell me your name?”

      He studied her, a sparkle of curiosity in his eyes. “I did not.”

      “Right. So what’s your name?”

      “Griff.”

      “Griff.” She nodded and wrote that down. “Griff what?”

      “Griff.”

      Did this fool think she wanted to play games? “I got that. What’s your surname?”

      “Sur-name?” he asked. “What is that?”

      Her insanity theory gained ground. The easier to catch you up, my dear. “A second name. A family name.”

      “I have no ‘family.’ Only my brothers.”

      She groaned. “Okay, your brothers are family, right? What’s their last name?”

      “None of them are last. We are all equal.”

      “Moving on,” she growled. The pleasurable effects of the mind-altering substances started to wear away. The windows closed, the air seemed stale and filled with his musky, sharp scent. “Address? Do you live with your brothers?”

      A sad expression crossed his face. “Not at all. I have been cast out.”

      Good, good. One more piece of the twisted psycho puzzle. Her serial murderer perp belonged to the majority race. Check. A younger man, judging by the smoothness of his face. Check. Isolated from his family, perhaps because of their discovery of his acts. Check.

      The checklist faltered on the issue of brains. Serial murderer tended to have above average intelligence. Although in discussing the physical changes, he’d sounded well informed. Maybe his language skills just weren’t up to par, like a non-native speaker.

      Most psychopaths presented as suave, too, and assured of their own superiority. She eyed the man sitting next to her, folded up into the small front seat of her vehicle. Not so much. Huh.

      A ray of moonlight shone in, illuminating his strong fingers. She dwelt on their possibilities then returned to her interrogation. “So where do you live?”

      “I move from place to place.”

      “No home?”

      He shook his head. A drifter could do a lot more damage, certainly, but without somewhere to take the vics to alter them, his crimes became much harder. Unless it could take place on the street.

      “This transformation you described, how long does it take, usually?”

      “A complete transformation? Perhaps seven days. Ten. But none have succeeded. Not yet.”

      She squeezed her trembling fingers on the pen to keep from losing her grip. If that wasn’t a confession, she didn’t know what it was.

      The perp needed a home or at least a workshop to wait ten days for the horrific mutation to take place. “Let me ask you, Griff, in the event we wanted to talk with you again, how would we find you?”

      “I would find you.”

      Yeah, that’s just what she wanted. Griff stalking her.

      Thrilling to the possibility she might have just broken this case, she said, “Griff, I’ve got a better idea. You’re more knowledgeable about this than anyone I’ve talked to. I need to stop by the office to pick up a file to read before bed.” She started the car smoothly. “We’ll stop down there, so you can share your information about these poor women.”

      She reached for the gearshift. The passenger door flew open, and he fled. Her reflexes kicked into delayed action. By the time she jumped out onto the pavement, gun in hand, he’d vanished.

      She checked the nearest doorways, but saw nowhere he could hide. He hadn’t had enough time to reach the next corner. She yelled at the guys across the street. “Which direction did he go?”

      Mistake. More catcalls filled the air. One guy kept shouting, “He just disappeared, man. He just disappeared.”

      Fabulous. She debated going back to the office. Did she really want to admit she’d blown the pop? It would remain just as blown the next morning. That would give her time to tend the headache beginning to bloom in her temples, and maybe even get some sleep. Maybe.

      Damn it.

      She’d tried hard not to spook him. Quickly, she ran over what she’d said. Nothing threatening, to the average innocent person. Yeah, that was the key, wasn’t it?

      He hadn’t bolted until she’d become excited about snagging him. Had he really read her lifesigns? The thought made her shudder. Did he get off, listening to his victims’ heartbeats as they spiked, terrified of what he did to them? What a sicko.

      Waiting for morning would give him a whole shift circle to disappear. If they had any chance of catching him, they’d better toss out the net tonight.

      Sprechan’s bloody birthday. So not where she’d intended to be by this time today.

      She got back in her car and drove to the Cendiary. Granted, she could have tapped into the local police net, but her ego directed her to her own people first. Best of all, it was night shift. No one would be there to view her ignominious failure. Her key card let her in the gate of the mostly-empty garage then the security guard passed her through to the elevator. All the way to the fifth floor, she mentally reviewed what she’d say in her report. At least she wouldn’t have to explain it to her team this time of night. A little of her humiliation could be saved until morning.

      But the elevator door opened onto a scene blazing with bright lights and six men at work. Unsure, she approached slowly. “What’s going on?”

      Sloan Vincent looked up from the documents laid on the table in front of him. “Jaco got a bug up his ass that we’d missed something in the statistical layout, so we’re on until we get it reviewed.” He scoffed, eyeing his empty cup. “Guess you missed the cut because you did the slice and dice.”

      “Eh.” She plopped into the chair at her borrowed desk. The electronics they brought themselves, because no one short of the Governor’s office owned better equipment than they did. She waited for her computer to power up.

      Come on, brain. Function.

      When the computer accepted her password, her input screen opened and she began typing. With any luck, she’d spill enough words on the page she could edit them into something comprehensible.

       BOLO: Possible suspect in Case ALBA-25 made contact with agent Sanderson after dayturn two at…

      Crap. Did she really have to admit she’d run straight to the bar? As a grown-up, it was perfectly legal for her to drink off-duty. She’d deserved it.

      She sighed.

       …at Hawthorn’s, Updike Way. The suspect approached this agent and indicated he had information about СКАЧАТЬ