“So it’s not stress,” she said, picking her chopsticks back up. “It’s the glow of sexual satisfaction. Unless it was a disappointment?” She glanced at me for confirmation.
I colored, trying not to think of the sexual peaks the night had delivered. “Very satisfying,” I assured her. “But I think it’s still stress. I haven’t had a solid night’s sleep in weeks.”
Her response was cut off by her phone. As she answered the call, I lifted the teakettle and poured myself a small cup.
It was a little annoying that I hadn’t heard from Robert. Our sex history aside, I’d been hired for a job and was waiting on the rest of the victim files he had promised me. Granted, in the last five days, he had retained the most high-profile killer in California history. His office must be flooded with press calls, discovery requests, and prehearing prep. My voice mail was probably buried in a mountain of other messages.
“So, what’s in the file?” Meredith ended her call and moved on from my sexual exploits as easily as she did the dumplings. “Have you started the psychological profile yet?”
“I don’t have enough to go on. I need to see all the victims’ files, which I should be able to get.” No wonder he’d been so confident about getting them. He’d have a mountain of information if he’d secured Randall Thompson as a client.
“Girl, that’s like gold for you. The Bloody Heart files?”
“I know. Six murders.” I smiled.
“Try not to look so gleeful about it.”
I shrugged. It was exciting, especially since he was behind bars. I said as much, and she nodded slowly, something clearly on her mind.
“Why do you think he’s representing him? I mean, I watched the news bit. You believe what he says, that he thinks Randall is innocent?”
It was the question of the hour, and I sighed. “I don’t know. If someone killed my child, I couldn’t be in the same room without clawing their eyes out, so that part of me says that he must believe in Thompson’s innocence. But then again, how would he know?”
“Unless he’s the real killer,” she pointed out.
“He killed his own son?” I shook my head. A decade of studying habitual killers had taught me that they didn’t get around to their own children on the sixth victim, then continue on.
“Don’t look at me like that. First off, people kill their kids. And Robert could be the BH Killer and not kill his son. Maybe Gavin—”
“Gabe,” I corrected her.
“Gabe died some other way. And everyone assumed it was the BH Killer because the kid was a hot young stud, and his dad disposed of his body in the same way.”
I pulled my gaze off a couple who had entered the restaurant, the man’s hand clamped on his girlfriend’s shoulder. She was going to have a problem with him, if she didn’t already. I mused over Meredith’s hypothesis, which could have legs. “That’s a stretch.”
She shrugged. “Why? Because he was good in bed? Trust me, the better the motion, the more screwed up the ocean.”
I laughed. “Okay,” I mused, going down her path of reasoning. “So you’re saying that Gabe Kavin dies from some other cause. And Robert Kavin is the real BH Killer, but Scott Harden points the finger at Randall Thompson for some reason, and then Robert Kavin defends him because he may kill teenagers for a hobby, but he has a conscience and doesn’t want an innocent man to go down for his crimes.”
“Or, he killed his son, staged it to look like the BH Killer, though that would have required him to hold him prisoner for over a month . . .” She frowned. “Okay, so there are a few gaps in the logic,” she allowed.
“Lots of gaps in the logic. Pretty much no logic at all.” I moved my tea to the side as our entrées arrived.
For the next half hour, we ate, discussed bad TV and industry politics, and didn’t mention dead teenagers at all.
It was a nice reprieve—one that ended as soon as I stepped from the restaurant and glanced at my phone.
I had a missed call and a voice mail. Robert Kavin had finally called me back.
CHAPTER 19
The voice mail had been from Robert’s secretary, who requested that I meet with him the following morning at the ungodly hour of 7:00 a.m. I returned her call with a stiff refusal in place, then yielded at her dignified and maternal tone and agreed to a 7:30 a.m. meeting.
After another fitful night, I paired a conservative high-neck wrap dress with my tallest heels and spent an extra ten minutes wrestling my thick hair into a French twist. I made quick time to Beverly Hills and entered the sleek and intimidating entrance of Robert’s building fifteen minutes early. After riding up in the elevator, I exited to find a statuesque older woman waiting for me at the entrance to Cluster & Kavin.
“Dr. Moore,” she said warmly, “Robert is expecting you in our conference room.”
Robert was seated at the far end of a long table, his cell to his ear, his gaze immediately latching on to me. He didn’t smile, didn’t react, and I placed my purse in the first seat, then sat in the second. I crossed my legs, and this time, his attention traveled down the length of them and lingered.
I could feel the heat of his gaze as it caressed its way down my calf and around my ankle. I folded my arms over my chest and adopted an aloof air. Despite our history, we were in a business relationship, which drew a very clear line in the sand in the eyes of my profession and his.
He ended the call. “In case you haven’t heard, I’m now representing Randall Thompson. I have copies of the remaining six case files available for your review, including Scott Harden’s. Are you done with Gabe’s?”
And, just like that, he skipped past the elephant in the room. I considered the evasion and decided to let it slide for the meantime.
“I am.” I reached over and pulled the file from my purse. “Your wife’s was in there, also.”
“And?” His face was blank, and I realized that he would be hell to face at a poker table.
“I reviewed it.”
“I expected you would.” He rose from his chair and walked down the length of the table until he was at my seat. He rested his weight against the table. “You look tired.”
I grimaced, annoyed with myself for putting extra effort in my appearance this morning. “Thanks.”
“I didn’t mean it as an insult.” His voice deepened a little, and I was reminded of when he had leaned into me in the cab, his chest warm, cologne faint, voice husky. He’d kissed the side of my neck, and I had been instantly done for.
I forced the memory away. “Well, I am tired. Meetings at the crack of dawn will do that to you.”
The edge of his mouth twitched, but the smile didn’t break. Picking up Gabe’s file, he slowly flipped through it, verifying its contents. He looked at me over the top of the file. “Any insight?”
I gave him my honest opinion. “Given the loss you’ve experienced, I’m not sure I’d be able to function if I were you.”
He looked down at the file, then slowly placed it on the surface beside him. “Work, Dr. Moore, has been the only thing that has kept me functioning.” His attention returned to me, and there was no confusing the look in his eyes. “Work, and a few rare distractions.”