The Maze

suddenly she began to laugh. "You look like Heathcliff: brooding, piercing eyes, and dangerous. I remember thinking once that you had summer-blue eyes, a dreamer's eyes. But not now. You could kill easily now."

    He wanted to smile, but he didn't. Dreamer's eyes? Jesus, that was nuts. He said, "I've reviewed the seven murders this guy did seven years ago. I called Ralph Budnack in Boston and asked if he'd heard of any murders committed with this same M.O. other than the one they'd had just the other day. He said they hadn't heard about other murders, but that they'd just realized they had a serial killer on their hands, a guy who'd struck in San Francisco seven years ago." He paused a moment, turning at the unearthly cooing of a pigeon.

    "I finally managed to get in to see Detective Budnack," Lacey said. "He wouldn't even talk to me. He said I was a sicko and that they didn't need any help."

    "I know. I spoke to him right after he kicked you out of his office."

    She wanted to hit him. "That was Tuesday afternoon. You didn't say a damned thing about it when I called you that night!"

    "That's right. Why should I?"

    "Well, so you really didn't have to, but you knew. You knew all the time what I was trying to do."

    "Oh yes. Tell me, Sherlock, what did you do for the other two days?"

    "Nothing that got me anywhere. The medical examiner wouldn't talk to me even when I managed to lie my way in.

    With my background, it wasn't that hard. But he was close-mouthed, said he didn't like outsiders poking their noses in his business. I spoke to the main reporter at the Boston Globe. His name's Jeb Stuart, of all things. He didn't know much more than was in the paper. I bought him dinner and he spilled his guts, but there wasn't much I could use. Then I came home. To you. To get the ax for being a fool."

    Savich looked out over the park. He leaned back, stretching out his arms on the bench back. Horns sounded in the background, the sun slivered through the thick canopy of oak leaves, a father was shouting at his kid. "The Boston police have asked for our help. Why didn't you tell Lieutenant Budnack that you were FBI? Chances are good he would have cooperated."

    "I knew that if I did, you'd hear about it and aim your computer toward Boston and you'd find out everything. Of course you did that anyway. I should have shown my badge. Maybe I would have gotten something before Budnack tossed me out on my ear. I was stupid. I didn't think it through. I thought if I pretended to be a member of the Ramsgate family, it would be my best shot at getting information." A pigeon darted close to her feet, then away again. "They're used to being fed," she said, watching the pigeon begin to pace in front of her. "I hope the person who feeds them isn't dead."

    "Old Sal usually sits here. She isn't here this afternoon because she's picking up her Social Security check. Her health is better than yours. She has names for all the pigeons. Now, what are you planning to do?"

    She stood abruptly and looked down at him, hands on hips. "What do you want from me? I already told you I'd resign."

    "Then I suppose you'll hightail it up to Boston and go on a one-woman hunt for the String Killer?"

    "Yes. I have to. I've prepared myself. I've waited a very long time for him to strike again."

    "Very well. I don't seem to have any choice." He stood up abruptly. He was very big. Inadvertently, she took a step back.

    He looked impatient. "You afraid I'll throw you here in the park?"

    No, she'd been afraid that he'd kill her. Just as that man had killed Belinda. She tried to shrug it off. "I guess I'm just a bit nervous. Sorry. What don't you have a choice about? You have a choice about everything."

    "If you only knew," he said, and plowed his fingers through his hair. "I had you call me every night from Boston because I was afraid you'd get yourself into trouble."

    "I'm a trained FBI agent. What trouble? Even if I couldn't get to my gun, I sure know how to fall."

    He grinned down at her, raised his hand, then lowered it. "Okay, here's what's going to happen. You know more about this guy than any other living person. Would you say that's accurate?"

    "Yes." Her heart began to beat in a slow cadence. "I guess you know I printed out all the police and autopsy reports from the seven murders in San Francisco?"

    He nodded, looking toward an old woman who was pulling a grocery cart loaded with bags filled with old clothes, cardboard, empty cola bottles.