“We’re still trying to work out how he got in,” Bingham said. “The security company had no indication anything was wrong. Actually, it wasn’t. A couple of army surplus smoke canisters. Some oily rags and rubber gaskets to give the stuff the right color and odor. The smoke detector he used to lure you downstairs wasn’t connected to the security system, so…” The detective shrugged. “Until you called 911, nobody had any idea anything was wrong out here.”
A few minutes after 3:00 a.m. If the severity of Sean’s headache was any indication of the length of time he’d been unconscious, that could have been several minutes after he’d been hit. All he was sure of was that when he’d come to and stumbled outside, Jenna was gone.
During their preliminary search, the cops had found nothing useful, either in the house or on the grounds. As with all the other victims, they had no clue who’d taken Jenna. Or where. And right now, the latter was the only thing that mattered.
He wished to hell he could think. He’d refused whatever they’d tried to give him because he was familiar with the mind-numbing effects of anything powerful enough to work against this level of pain. And if ever he’d needed his faculties intact, it was now.
He’d also refused the paramedics’ insistence that he go to the hospital for observation and to have the cut on his forehead sewn up. He had allowed them to bandage it, but nothing else.
Stitches weren’t going to help the headache, and he knew from experience that the double vision he was also dealing with would eventually resolve itself. In the meantime—
“What about the lead you had on the car?” he asked.
“We’re working it. But you have to understand that all we’re doing with that is narrowing the pool of suspects to a few thousand people. In a city this size—”
“Anybody else come forward?”
“A couple of people. Frankly…” Bingham shook his head. “Frankly, we don’t believe they’re credible. Typical out-of-the-woodwork nutcases, if you ask me.”
There had to be something else, Sean thought, struggling to contain his despair. Somewhere to begin to look. Someone to question. If there was, he couldn’t think who or where.
That was the problem. He couldn’t think. And the pain was bad enough that he was fighting an accompanying nausea.
He closed his eyes, forcing his mind away from it by remembering Makaela’s face when they’d pulled out the morgue tray. Remembering the details of the autopsy it had taken him more than three days to read because he could only stomach a paragraph or two at a time of the coroner’s detailed chronicling of what had been done to her.
So there had to be somewhere to start. Someone—
“Paul Carlisle.” He opened his eyes as he said the name, bringing Bingham’s face into focus by squinting.
“Dr. Carlisle? What about him?”
“Jenna told him where we were. He told you.”
Obviously the lieutenant wasn’t getting the connection. The only one Sean had right now. “Maybe he told somebody else.”
The detective’s eyes widened, before he nodded. “We can ask.”
“Not we. I want to ask.” Sean eased off the tailgate of the rescue truck where he’d been sitting.
Everything wavered as the air thinned around his head. He put his hand on the door to maintain a necessary contact with something unmoving.
“Let’s get you to the hospital,” Bingham said, taking his elbow. “You ain’t gonna do her any good this way.”
“Carlisle.” Sean freed his arm, straightening his body through an act of will. “I want to know everybody that son of a bitch has talked to about Jenna in the past two days.”
“If you’re implying that I somehow—”
“This isn’t about you, Dr. Carlisle,” Sean broke in. “You do understand that a madman who cuts women to pieces has Jenna. And we have no idea where. All I’m asking from you are the names of the people you talked to about her in the past couple of days. Nothing that’s confidential. Just some information that might help us find a woman you profess to care about.”
The psychiatrist closed his mouth, looking at him a long moment. “Why don’t you come into my study and sit down before you fall down? That isn’t going to help find Jenna.”
“Can you?”
Despite his mental acknowledgment that Carlisle was right, at least about the probability of him falling facedown onto the black marble floor, Sean refused to move. As a concession to the possibility, however, he leaned forward, placing the knuckles of his right hand on the long, narrow table that centered the right-hand side of Carlisle’s foyer.
Unwilling to wait until daylight, Sean had made the detective drive him to the home of Jenna’s boss. Although Carlisle lived more than twenty miles from the Kincaids, the houses were eerily similar. Both too big, ornately and expensively decorated.
They’d gotten the psychiatrist out of bed. Despite the hour and the presence of a police cruiser in his driveway, Carlisle had still taken time to throw a cashmere robe on over his silk pajamas.
When he’d discovered why they were here, he’d seemed shocked by the news of Jenna’s abduction. His first question had been what he could do to help. Yet as soon as Sean asked who he might have told about where they’d been hiding, he’d taken the inquiry as a personal insult.
“I don’t know that I can,” Carlisle said. “Believe me, I would do anything in my power to help find Jenna. The problem here is that you’re mistaken in your assumption—”
“Maybe you didn’t do it deliberately. Maybe you said something that inadvertently gave her location away. Until you tell us the people you discussed Jenna with, we have no way of checking that out.”
“You intend to question every person I mentioned Jenna to in the past few days? Do you really think that’s the best method of finding her?” The psychiatrist’s gaze shifted to Bingham. “Or is it simply the best you can come up with? If so, I’m afraid I have serious doubts about the efficiency of your investigative techniques.”
“Let me be frank, Dr. Carlisle. We got nothing here.”
The detective’s voice was remarkably calm, considering the accusation that had been made. And although his answer was accurate, it was a truth Sean didn’t need to hear again.
“We got a description of a car,” Bingham went on. “One that fits thousands, maybe tens of thousands, of vehicles in the area. All of which we’re checking out the only way we can. One vehicle at a time. In the meantime, we got no other clues. And no suspects.”
Sean let the silence build a few seconds before he patiently said again, “All we’re asking for—”
“I told Lieutenant Bingham where Jenna was because he asked,” Carlisle broke in. “You know that. I didn’t feel that was information I had a right to withhold from the police. Not in the middle of a homicide investigation. If you have a problem with that—”
“I don’t. It’s whoever else you may have told.”
Sean put his other hand on the table, leaning forward. Although it was a matter of maintaining his somewhat precarious balance, the posture must have appeared threatening. Carlisle’s eyes widened.
If you only knew how empty any threat coming from me right now would be…
“Several people on the staff,” the psychiatrist said, “friends of Jenna’s, asked me if I’d talked to her. I tried to reassure them that she was being adequately protected, but at no time did I tell anyone her location.”
“A list, please.” The economy of words was necessitated by the realization that any movement, even the minimal amount required for talking, would make the nausea start again.
“A list of our staff members?”
“Just the ones you talked to.”
Carlisle’s lips pursed as he thought about the request. “Beth Goldberg is the person who asked the original question. There were others in the room at the time. I’m not sure who was listening to the conversation. Actually, I’m not sure why any of this intrastaff communication is pertinent to your investigation. I’ve assured you I gave the information about Jenna’s whereabouts to no one other than Lieutenant Bingham.”
Sean wasn’t going through that again. He wasn’t up to it. “Then maybe the question we should be asking is where you were around 2:00 a.m. this morning.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“We know that you knew Jenna was at her parents’. And you’re the only person we know she told. So…where were you, Dr. Carlisle, when she disappeared?”
“I was here, of course. Asleep. Not that I acknowledge your authority to ask me for that information.”
“Anybody who can verify that?” Bingham’s intervention prevented Sean from having to come up with a response to the psychiatrist’s challenge. No one could argue with the lead detective’s right to ask where Carlisle had been tonight.
“Are you seriously suggesting that I could be a serial killer, Lieutenant? I’m flattered that you think I could work my ass off for twenty years in this town to build a practice of this size and reputation and at the same time manage to commit a series of apparently unsolvable murders in different parts of the country. Flattered, but still, I’m afraid I’m going to have to plead not guilty. I’m not Superman. Nor am I the Inquisitor.”
“What makes it easy these days for someone to do what this guy has done is transportation,” the detective said. “Last time I looked, we got plenty of planes flying out of the airport here. And you obviously got money to get on any of ’em you want to and fly wherever you want to go. So…I’m gonna ask you one more time, Dr. Carlisle. Is there anybody who can verify that you were here all night?”
Bingham’s repetition of the question was controlled, but he’d made it clear he’d not been amused by the psychiatrist’s sarcasm. Carlisle was intelligent enough to pick up on that. And smart enough to also know how unpleasant this could become.
“I live alone. I was alone tonight. Look, if I were planning to abduct Jenna, as ludicrous as the idea is, I certainly wouldn’t have given away to you that I knew where she was hiding. I should be the last person you suspect of this.”
“Unless you’re just clever enough to figure out that by telling us her location, we’d consider you to be the last possible suspect.”
“Lieutenant—”
“Provide us with the list of people you talked to about Dr. Kincaid,” Sean demanded, carefully straightening away from the table. “All we want are those names.”
Having recognized that he obviously had no choice, Carlisle complied. “Beth Goldberg. I mentioned her before. Gary Evers. Jeffrey Burrows. Ceil Rogers. One of the secretaries. Jenna’s, perhaps. I really don’t remember. She seemed highly interested in what I said, in any case. As for who else was in the room at the time…I’m sorry. I can’t be more specific.”
“And all those folks will be at your office this morning?” Bingham asked.
“As they are every weekday morning. We do all work for a living, despite common misconceptions to the contrary.”
“We can’t wait,” Sean warned, turning to look at the cop over his shoulder.
Bingham glanced at his watch and then shook his head. “It’s nearly five. In the long run it’ll be quicker to meet them there. By the time we round up the addresses and roust these folks out of their beds…” He shrugged.
“Personnel files?” Sean turned back to shoot the question at Carlisle.
“Of the staff?” It was clear he wanted to protest, but one glance at the detective’s face stopped him. “At the office, of course.”
“We’ll need to see those, too.”
“If you’re implying that one of Jenna’s colleagues—”
“She swore to me you were the only person she told. I don’t think she was lying. You say you had nothing to do with her disappearance, and we’ve taken you at your word, but someone must have given something away.”
“You believe you’ll discover who that was by going through the personnel records of my staff?”
“I believe that by examining their résumés we can eliminate any suspicion the police might have about your people being involved in these homicides. You can’t possibly object to that.”
There was a moment’s hesitation, but the psychiatrist nodded. Maybe he figured that the quicker he gave them what they wanted, the quicker this would be done.
“And we’d like time to go over them before they arrive,” Sean added.
“Before they arrive? You mean—”
“As soon as you’re dressed, Doctor. If you don’t mind.”
Carlisle’s expression said that he did. “I can meet you there. Shall we say in…an hour?”
“We’ll wait,” Sean said.
The hazel eyes were momentarily furious, but with an effort that was visible, the psychiatrist controlled the emotion. “I have to shower.”
“Don’t be long.” Bingham’s admonition seemed low key until he added, “After all, we have no idea how long Dr. Kincaid has before he begins.”
Carlisle took a breath, deep enough to be visible. It was evident that, despite his doctor-as-God arrogance, Bingham’s reminder had shaken him.
Maybe he did care about Jenna. Maybe he’d told the truth about the conversation he’d had with her colleagues. If he had…
They were right back where they’d started.
“Sergeant…Murphy, is it?” The psychiatrist had taken a few steps toward the staircase when he turned back to address Sean.
“Tell me something, if you don’t mind. You said he killed the cop.”
“Cut his throat,” Bingham supplied bluntly.
Carlisle’s eyes focused on the detective before they returned to Sean. “Then…why would he leave you alive?”
“He knew I couldn’t identify him.”
“You didn’t see him?”
“Nothing more than a shape coming out of the darkness.”
“Still…One would think he wouldn’t be willing to take that chance. It seems like too big a risk. Especially since he so obviously has no qualms about killing.”
The psychiatrist’s question was only what everyone else involved in this had probably been thinking. Something Sean had already come to terms with.
“It’s a game,” he acknowledged.
“A game?”
“The kind with winners and losers.”
Carlisle studied his face a moment. “And he wants you around so you can understand that he’s won and you’ve lost.”
“Something like that.”
“I believe Jenna said your sister was one of his victims.”
Sean nodded, unsure where the question about Makaela was going. Wherever it was, he probably wasn’t going to like it.
“You know it’s all about control, don’t you? With the women, I mean. It isn’t sexual. It’s domination. It’s just as obviously about control with you, too.”
“Possibly.”
“He wants you to do what you’re doing right now. To try and find Jenna. To imagine what’s happening to her. And to finally realize that you can’t do anything to stop it.”
“That’s where he’d be wrong,” Sean said softly. “If you’re looking for someone to bet on in this, don’t choose him.”
For a dozen heartbeats, the psychiatrist held Sean’s eyes. Then he nodded. “For what it’s worth, I’m glad Jenna has someone like you on her side, Sergeant Murphy. And whether you believe it or not right now, I’m on her side, too. If any of my people are involved—” He stopped, obviously controlling the emotion that had crept into his voice. “That wouldn’t be good for the practice. So…whatever records you need, you’ll have access to. I promise you that.”
Carlisle could couch the reason for his cooperation however he wanted. The important thing was that it seemed he was finally on board with what they needed him to do.
Believing that a slip of the tongue made by one of Jenna’s co-workers had led to tonight’s events was a reach. Still, it was the only thing Sean had right now.
He’d always believed you played the hand you were dealt. At least until it was time for the cards to be reshuffled. That’s what he had to try to do. Otherwise, the Inquisitor still held all the aces.