She raised her eyebrow.
He sighed. “I was working on a pedophile ring case. We were closing in on one of the main suppliers of content. When we were about to arrest him, he ran.”
Zoe nodded, saying nothing.
“I caught up to him and told him to put his hands up. He reached for his shoulder bag, and I shot him.”
“What was he reaching for?”
“We can’t be sure, but we think he was reaching for his camera. There were some photos on it, and we think he wanted to delete them. He had no gun in his bag.”
Zoe thought it over. “Wasn’t the shooting justified? You thought he was reaching for his gun.”
“What I was thinking is a subject of much controversy. We were alone in an alley. No one saw the shooting. Before the shooting, I’d stated more than once my thoughts about this guy.”
“Which were?”
“That I thought he should get the death penalty,” Tatum said, his tone dry.
“So they think you . . . what? Executed him?”
“Some people do.” He shrugged. “In general, they weren’t happy with how I handled the case. Too emotional. Some things weren’t according to protocol. And I guess it wasn’t the first time. But my chief also wanted to present this as a win to the press. There was a lot of data in that guy’s home computer, and we managed to take down a lot of suppliers. So they couldn’t really fire me.”
“They promoted you to work in the BAU instead.”
He smiled. “You keep saying that word. I don’t think you know what it means.”
“What word? Promoted?”
“I was just joking . . . never mind. So what about you? Do you enjoy working in the BAU?”
“It’s what I always dreamed of doing,” she said.
“That’s nice. But doesn’t really answer the question.”
She blinked and looked away. “I don’t really . . . enjoy a lot of things,” she said. “I find them interesting. And I like being busy. But I don’t skip merrily on my way to the office every day.”
“Well, skipping all the way from Dale City to Quantico sounds like quite a chore.”
They were silent for a second, and then Tatum said, “You’re a psychologist. You could be helping people or working with kids. Why did you decide to be a forensic psychologist?”
She broke a piece from her Snickers bar and put it in her mouth, hesitating. “I’m just not . . . I’m not very good with people.”
She was half expecting him to feign shock, mock her. But he said nothing, just looked at her, his eyes soft.
She wasn’t sure if she was talking because of the emotional toll of the evening or because Tatum’s presence reassured her somehow. She found herself saying things she had only told Andrea before. “I seem to always say the wrong thing or offend someone. When I practiced counseling—we do it in front of a class—my peers would always say I was cold, too clinical. I knew I’d never be really good at counseling. I’m too insensitive for that.”
She stopped, looking at the bottle and last bite of her Snickers bar. She ate the final piece of chocolate and then drank the remainder of the bottle, not enjoying them like she’d hoped she would.
“I don’t think you’re insensitive,” Tatum said, his voice breaking the silence. “I think you’re just very focused.”
She smiled weakly. “That’s pretty much the same.”
“No. It isn’t.”
She looked at him, almost as if for the first time. His smile no longer seemed self-satisfied. It was warm. The blood rushed to her face.
He cleared his throat. “Well, for what it’s worth, you’re good at what you do. And you help the victims’ relatives and friends get closure. And prevent others from getting hurt. You’re doing good.”
Zoe nodded. He had a small spot of chocolate by his lips. She was overcome with the image of leaning over and kissing the chocolate off, could imagine his hand on her back, the taste of his tongue, the rough stubble scraping her lips as they kissed.
“You have some chocolate on your face,” she said.
He licked it off. “Gone?”
“Yeah. Listen, I’m really tired. Thanks for dinner. See you tomorrow morning? I’ll ride with you to the station.”
“Sure,” he said. “What time?”
“Nine?”
“You got it.”
He got up, finished his beer while standing, and walked out, bidding her good night.
An overactive, vivid imagination. It was her blessing and curse. Her chest and stomach were warm, her head dizzy. She blamed the beer, knowing it wasn’t that. She lay down in bed, her mind finally clear of thoughts of death.
CHAPTER 41
“Hello, Mr. Gray?” The voice on the other side of the call was collected and calm. It was the voice of a man whose entire life was in order, where nothing was unpredictable, everything was according to schedule, and each event had a reasonable explanation.
“That’s right,” Tatum said. Zoe and he had just entered the task force room when his phone rang. He sat down by his desk, plugging in his laptop as he held the phone between his ear and shoulder.
“This is Dr. Nassar.”
Tatum took a moment to place the name. “You’re Marvin’s . . . my granddad’s doctor.”
“That’s right. Your grandfather was here to see me.”
“Oh, good.” Tatum was pleasantly surprised.
“Not good, Mr. Gray. Not good at all.”
Fear clutched at Tatum’s chest. “Is he ill?”
“I am not at liberty to discuss your grandfather’s medical condition, but I feel that your intervention is required for your grandfather’s health. Apparently, he’s not taking one of the pills I’ve prescribed for him.”
“It makes his throat itchy.”
“Instead, he’s taking a pill that someone else prescribed him—”
Tatum turned his laptop on. “It wasn’t prescribed to him. It was given to him by an eighty-two-year-old woman with a cocaine habit.”
“His blood pressure is extremely high.” Dr. Nassar’s voice was morphing, becoming less calm. “This can’t go on.”
“Did you tell him that?”
“I told him that this would end in a stroke or a heart attack.”
“So he’s taking the pill now?” Tatum leaned back, trying to silence the beating of his heart.
“No, he’s not.”
“Why the hell not?”
“Because,” Dr. Nassar said, his voice becoming unhinged, “he said it makes his throat itch.”
Tatum gritted his teeth, swallowing the endless tirade of curses that threatened to spew from his mouth. “I’ll talk to him.”
“He will die if he doesn’t take his medication.”
“My grandfather isn’t really worried about dying, but I’ll get some sense into his head.”
“In all honesty, sir, your grandfather is one of the most frustrating patients I’ve ever had the pleasure of—”
“Thank you for letting me know. I’ll talk to him.”
He hung up his phone and counted to ten. Then he counted to thirty-nine, since just counting to ten didn’t do the job. He had to get the point across, but Marvin was a stubborn bastard. Tatum suspected that his grandfather thought he was made of stronger material than most and that things like high blood pressure were problems that weak people endured.
He googled the symptoms of high blood pressure and read through them. Finally, he found the key to fight Marvin’s mule-like stubbornness. He dialed him.
“Tatum.” Marvin sounded sleepy. “Do you know what time it is?”
“It’s past nine in the morning. What are you doing asleep?”
“It was a late night.” Marvin yawned.
“I just received a phone call from your doctor.”
“He’s a very nice man, Tatum, but very uptight. He can get really worked up over nothing.”
“He’s worried about your high blood pressure.”
“I told him I feel fine, Tatum. Really, never better. And I stopped taking Jenna’s green pills like he told me to. But really, his blue pill makes my throat itchy.”
“So you feel fine?”
“Totally fine, Tatum. A bit of a hangover, and your cat attacked me again, but other than that—”
“No chest pain?”
“No, don’t worry. I’m as healthy as a mule.”
“No vision problems?”
“I told you, Tatum, I’m fine. There’s really no—”
“No erectile dysfunction?”