Hmm. One key that fit into place. Strong disdain toward homosexuality. And there was something in those eyes, in the flare of emotion, that read predator. I’d been around too many dangerous individuals to not recognize one in the flesh. This one was slow and old—would probably wheeze over and die while chasing you through the woods—but there was still something rotten behind that wary stare.
My impressions of him clicked through my mind. What matched my profile, what didn’t. My instincts on his character versus my clinical opinion and the profile. He wasn’t an innocent man, despite what Robert protested. Had mild signs of paranoid schizophrenia, but poor hygiene and slow movements weren’t unique identifiers.
The big question was, was he the BH Killer?
Robert waited until we were out of the jail and halfway across the parking lot before asking my thoughts.
“I don’t know yet. Let me go through my notes.” I noticed a news van at the far end of the lot, a camera pointed our way, and increased my speed.
“Gwen . . .” It was more of a warning than a plea. He unlocked his car, and the lights on the Mercedes flashed.
I met his eyes over the roof of the car and fished in my purse for my own keys. “These aren’t building blocks, Robert. I can’t just tell you if a round peg fits in a hole. I need to absorb everything he said.”
“Fine. Let’s talk later tonight. Drinks at my house.”
I glanced toward the cameras, aware that one was headed our way. “What about tomorrow? I’ll call your office and schedule an appointment.”
His grin was almost wolfish when it unfurled across that mouth. “Oh, come on. If I spend any more time in my office, I’ll go batty. We can relax at the house. Sit by the outdoor fire. Trust me, I’ll be a perfect gentleman.”
And he always had been. The issue was on my end. I had never been to his house, but I was assuming it was like the rest of him. Smooth. Tempting. A siren’s call to slip off your heels, unbutton your blouse, and guzzle wine like a cheap whore. “Tomorrow,” I tried again. “I’m free in the afternoon.”
He opened his car door and prepared to step inside, his final words tossed over the roof of the car as he disappeared inside. “Come by the house at eight. I’ll text you the address.”
No, I thought. No. His engine purred to life, and I took a step back, then glanced around for my car. Spotting it three rows over, I headed toward it. As Robert’s Mercedes swung past me, I didn’t turn my head and didn’t acknowledge it.
No, I thought. I will not be at your house at eight. I needed a desk between us. Papers and folders and staples and desk lamps. A receptionist in the background. Order applied to the chaos.
The stance sounded good, but I was already picking out lingerie and shaving my legs, my body humming in anticipation of what the night might bring.
I stepped into the warmth of my car and unlocked the roof, needing as much fresh air as I could get. I had a bigger problem than my libido, and that was that both men inside that jail—Robert and Randall—had been lying to me. I would face one of them again in a courtroom, and the other in just a few hours in his home.
Both were lying, but were both of them dangerous?
CHAPTER 33
Nita flipped through a catalog of patio furniture at the kitchen counter. Beside her, Beth, their chef, started the mixer on a large batch of brownies.
“Would you like me to turn off the television, Mrs. Harden?”
Nita glanced at the screen that hung above the stainless double ovens. The news had moved off their discussion of restaurant regulations and was now showing an aerial view of the jail where Randall Thompson was being kept. “No, it’s okay.” She set down the catalog and watched as the camera showed a close-up of the jail’s sign. Was this the moment that they would share the update on Scott? Ever since he’d changed his story and admitted he’d lied . . . she’d been tense, waiting for the media to sniff out the news and explode into action.
It hadn’t happened yet, but it would. Any minute, any day, the story would break, and they would become instant villains. Accused of obstructing justice. Lying. Scott’s hero status would immediately be stripped, his reputation forever tarnished.
The newscaster spoke. “Randall Thompson’s legal defense team has grown to include Dr. Gwen Moore, a psychiatrist who specializes in criminal behavior.”
The camera zoomed in on the entry doors, where Randall’s attorney ushered out a tall brunette in a black suit. Nita’s stomach instinctively rolled at the sight of Robert Kavin. When Scott had first gone missing, Kavin had been one of the first to reach out. It had been nice, speaking to someone who had gone through the same thing she and her husband had, someone who could truly understand the horrible roller coaster of emotions involved in losing a son and being helpless to find him.
But he’d been a snake, one with a handsome smile and a sharp knife hidden behind his back. As soon as Scott had identified the killer, he had reemerged, offering free legal services to Randall Thompson and building a case to discredit Scott.
George’s theory was that Robert Kavin was bitter that Scott had lived and his son had died. He thought Kavin was punishing them because he’d lost Gabe, so he wanted to make Scott’s life hell.
Nita refused to believe that a parent would be that selfish. Even in her darkest moments, she had never wished ill on a child. Even the BH Killer’s own, if he had one. Randall Thompson did not.
“Dr. Gwen Moore is known for her work with the Los Angeles Police Department on the Red River shooter.” The camera flipped to show a close-up of Gwen, who was striding through the parking lot. She was a beautiful woman. Dark hair, pale porcelain skin. She had a slightly upturned nose, which gave her a sense of youthfulness. Her eyes caught the camera, and she stared at it coolly, then continued walking.
She looked like a woman who had all the answers, which must be nice. At the moment, Nita was swimming in questions, all of which concerned her son. She glanced toward the ceiling, in the direction of Scott’s room. It had been a week since he’d confessed the truth to the police, and she had barely seen him during that time. He stayed in his room, the door locked, and ignored any offers for food or attempts to get him out of the house. Their interior security cameras had caught him sneaking downstairs in the middle of the night to eat, then quickly retreating back to his room.
Maybe she should get him to a doctor. This was probably PTSD. There were programs they could get him into, mental exercises that would help his emotional fortitude. And protection dogs—huge, intimidating creatures that could crawl in car windows and keep his fears of attack at bay. She had already found one in Germany, which could be here within two weeks.
Attack dogs and counseling sessions—was that what her parenting options had come to? Earlier this morning, she had researched obstruction-of-justice laws and criminal attorneys, in case the LAPD pressed charges against Scott. And last night, she had logged in to their cell phone billing system and looked at his call and text activity.
She didn’t recognize herself. Spying on her son. Tracking his movements, monitoring his calls, watching him on their home security cams. Six months ago, her concerns would have been centered on drugs and girls. Now she was afraid of losing him mentally, physically, and emotionally. When faced with those possibilities, she had to break boundaries and invade his privacy. She wouldn’t apologize for that, even if he hated her for it one day.