Sacred Sins

she associated with than they knew of her. “Do you always do background checks on a date, Detective?”
    “Habit,” he said easily. “You spoke about curiosity yourself last night. Senator Jonathan Writemore's your maternal grandfather, a little left of center, outspoken, charismatic, and tough as nails.”
    “He'll be pleased you said so.”
    “You lost your parents when you were fourteen. I'm sorry.” He lifted his drink again. “It's always hard to lose family.”
    She caught the tone, the empathy that told her he'd lost someone too. “My grandfather made a difference. I may not have recovered without him. How did you find out so much?”
    “Cops don't reveal a source. I read your profile.”
    She stiffened a bit, expecting criticism. “And?”
    “You feel our man's intelligent.”
    “Yes. Cunning. He leaves what he chooses behind, but no trail.”
    After a moment Ben nodded. “What you said made sense. I'm interested in how you came to the conclusions.”

    Tess took a sip of her drink before answering. She wouldn't ask herself why it was important she make him understand. It simply was. “I take facts, the pattern he leaves behind. You can see it's almost identical each time, he doesn't vary. I suppose in your business you call it an M.O.”
    He smiled a little as he nodded. “Yeah.”
    “The pattern forms a picture, a psychological picture. You're trained to look for clues, evidence, motives, and apprehend. I'm trained to look for reasons, causes, then to treat. To treat, Ben,” she repeated, meeting his eyes. “Not to judge.”
    He lifted a brow. “And you think that's what I'm doing?”
    “You want him,” she said simply.
    “Yeah, I want him. Off the streets and in a cage.”
    He crushed out a cigarette, slowly, methodically. It was a measure of control. But his hands were strong.
    “You want him punished. I understand that, even if I don't agree.”
    “You'd rather open his head and make him all better. Christ.” He tossed back his drink. “You don't want to let your heart bleed over a man like this.”
    “Compassion's part of my business,” she said tightly. “He's ill, desperately ill. If you read my profile, and understood it, you'd know what he does, he does in pain.”
    “He strangles women. If it hurts him to tie a knot around their necks, it doesn't make them any less dead. I've got compassion, Tess, for the families of those women I've had to talk to. I have to look at their faces when they ask me why. I don't have an answer.”

    “I'm sorry.” She reached for his hand without thinking. Her fingers closed over his. “It's a hideous job. One that wakes you up at night. I've had to talk to families—the ones left stunned and bitter after a suicide.” She felt his hand tense, and soothed automatically. “When you lie awake at three A.M., you still see the questions in their eyes, and the grief. Ben…” She leaned toward him, needing to draw him closer. “I have to think like a doctor on this. I could give you clinical terms—impulse disorder, functional psychoses. Whatever label we use, it equals illness. This man isn't killing for revenge or for profit, but in despair.”
    “And I have to think like a cop. It's my job to stop him. That's the bottom line.” He was silent a moment, then pushed his drink aside. “We talked about your Monsignor Logan. Harris is checking it out.”
    “That's good. Thank you.”
    “Don't. I haven't a lot of faith in the idea.”
    She drew back with a little sigh. “We don't have any common ground, do we?”
    “Maybe not.” But he remembered how small and warm her hand had been on his. “Maybe we just haven't found it yet.”
    “What do you like to do on a Saturday afternoon?” she asked abruptly.
    “Sit down with a beer and watch the ball game.”
    She wrinkled her nose. “That won't work. What about music?”
    He grinned. “What about it?”
    “What do you like?”
    “Depends. I like rock when I'm driving, jazz when I'm drinking, and Mozart on Sunday mornings.”
    “We're getting closer. How about Jelly Roll Morton?”
    Surprised, he grinned again. “Yeah.”
    “And Springsteen?”
    “He caught me with The River .”
    “Marvin Gaye?”
    Ben sat back and took another long look. “Maybe we've got a start.” His leg brushed hers under the table. “Wanna go back to my place and listen to my record collection?”
    “Detective Paris…” Tess chose one last almond. “Trained psychiatrists don't fall for