The Night Serpent. Anna Leonard

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      She stood up, and then looked down at the agent, remembering that moment of sympathy she had experienced on the scene, over the bodies of the kittens. “Whoever did this, you’ll find him.”

      It wasn’t a question, and Agent Patrick didn’t pretend otherwise.

      “Yes, ma’am.”

      Petrosian found him half an hour later still sitting at the table, a notepad flat in front of him, the unlined paper covered with circles with words scribbled inside them.

      “So what’s the story?” he asked the cop, pushing the notepad away from him in disgust.

      “The store was for rent. Last owner moved out four months ago, but market’s been slow, hasn’t even had anyone in to look at the space since then. It was the Realtor who found the bodies, called us in.”

      “Four months.” Patrick reached for the pad and jotted that down as well. “We’ll need a list of anyone who might have known about the space, had access to the keys, that sort of thing.”

      “Already have someone on it. Anything else you want us to dig into?”

      Jon T. Patrick was smart. More, he was savvy. And he knew blue sarcasm when he heard it. So he dragged himself out of his thoughts and gave the detective his full attention. “You guys have it under control. I’m just working a side investigation, is all. A little project.”

      “Uh-huh.” Petrosian maybe wasn’t as smart, but he was plenty savvy too, so he let Patrick’s comment go without challenge.

      “Although…” Patrick knew it was stupid, but he couldn’t resist. “Tell me about your specialist, Ms. Malkin.”

      Ms. Malkin. Lily. It wasn’t a name that suited her: a lily was a delicate, overscented flower. Malkin’s hazel eyes were tough, her body toned and muscled under the curves, her stride strong, and her scent…unscented. Powder and soap.

      He usually liked perfume on a woman, liked placing his face against her neck and smelling the aroma rising off her skin. But perfume would be wrong on Malkin. It would be overkill.

      He wanted to take her out to dinner. Nothing fancy: pasta maybe, and a bottle of decent wine. He wondered if she drank red wine. He thought maybe she did. Or maybe he was projecting. Patrick was amused at himself, despite the seriousness of the case. Profiler, profile thyself? Why was he so attracted to her? She was a hot little thing, yeah, but he’d seen better. But there was something about her that spoke to him, beyond the physical, and well beyond any use she might have to the case.

      That attraction was bad. He couldn’t afford to be distracted. He had a steady rule: no female distractions on a case. After, yes. But he would be on his way home by then.

      Petrosian looked at him carefully, and then answered. “Lily’s good people. She works as a teller down at West Central, that’s a local bank. Volunteers at the shelter. Lived here, oh, three, four years? About that. Went to school on the West Coast, doesn’t seem to have any family that she’s mentioned. Straight up, all straight up.”

      “And she talks to cats.” She also had skin the color of a sun-ripened peach. He wondered if all of her skin was that exact tone.

      Petrosian snorted. “She does something, that’s for sure. Years ago, I was a rookie, we had a cougar wander into town, get panicked. The local zoo sent over one of their people to try to get it back into a cage. Took us all night, half a dozen tranqs, and earned me a couple of nasty gashes before we got the damn thing cornered and caged. Last year? Lily damn near purred a big cat into walking on its own paws into the cage. Took maybe an hour, all told.”

      Patrick wasn’t sure he entirely believed that, but they’d probably both seen stranger things in their years. “How does she do it?”

      The cop shrugged. “Don’t know, don’t care, and she won’t thank you for poking around.”

      Patrick sat back in his chair. It wasn’t a warning-off. Quite. But he wasn’t on the prowl; he wasn’t going to do anything that would hurt her. His interest in her was about the case; he really did have questions he wanted to ask her. A traditional expert would be by the book. This case didn’t feel by the book. The cats had been clean and well cared for, and killed with what could almost have been reverence. Maybe talking to the cat talker would give him the point of view he needed to understand how and why.

      Petrosian looked at the schoolhouse-style clock on the wall. “I’m still on shift. I’ve got other cases to deal with before they let me out of here. A patrolman will take you to your hotel. If we catch any new info, I’ll give you a call.”

      That was a clear dismissal. Slaughtered animals were a crime, but they weren’t a high-priority one, not even in a relatively sleepy New England city. FBI man could do whatever he wanted, but the cops weren’t going to hold his hand while he did it. That suited him fine, actually.

      Still, Petrosian lingered. “You going to need anything else for your ‘little project’ before I sign off on the paperwork?”

      “No, I think I have everything I need for now.” Clearly, he was supposed to skedaddle, as his mother used to say. Patrick closed his notebook and stood, feeling the joints in his knees and hips creak distressingly. He wasn’t getting old, just road-worn. He’d been on another assignment when the call came about this find. He’d barely had time to hand over his notes to another agent and throw some clean clothing into a case before catching his flight to Newfield. “I think I’ll grab some dinner and do some more research.”

      “You do that.”

      Petrosian watched him walk out; Patrick could feel the man’s gaze between his shoulder blades, like an infrared targeting mechanism. But he had been in cities where the cops were actively hostile, not just cautious, and he had learned not to take offense where none was intended.

      The hotel he’d been booked into was pretty standard: a decent enough bed, small bathroom, inexpensive toiletries. But it had hot water, a desk he could work at and a twenty-four-hour restaurant next door. All the comforts of home. But somehow, showered and dressed, his notes spread out in front of him and covered with his scribbles and yellow Post-its, he wasn’t in the mood to work, or to go downstairs and eat alone.

       You’re on the job, he told himself. Don’t be an idiot. The lady said no, and you shouldn’t have asked in the first place anyway.

      Not letting himself think about it, he pulled out his cell phone and dialed the phone number he had jotted on the edge of his notebook before handing back the original file to the police clerk.

      “Lily Malkin? It’s J.T. Patrick. Agent Pa—yes, that’s right. Hi. Look, I know you said that you weren’t interested in dinner, but I really want to bounce some ideas off you, and…well, I hate eating alone. Especially when I’m away from home. In a new town. Save me?”

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