The press conference ended and Ian led Susan into the task force offices. The press in attendance had rushed off to write their stories and edit their videos. Susan saw immediately why they had chosen to have the press conference outside. The office was in chaos. Half-unpacked boxes were everywhere. The bank transaction counter had been removed and what was left was a large open space with a few offices in the back and what Susan presumed was the old vault. The furniture was bank furniture—dingy mauve couches with oak armrests, cherry-laminate desks with shiny brass hardware, plastic floor mats, and cloth task chairs. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. The industrial carpet was gray, with a worn footpath to and along the now-missing counter. The walls were painted a funereal pale rose. Detectives and support staff unpacked boxes, nailed large dry erase boards to the walls, plugged in computers, and transformed the space into a police station. Susan wondered how much time they were losing setting up shop that might be used to find Kristy Mathers before she was murdered. Their faces were pinched; there was no small talk.
The mayor finished the soliloquy he was performing for a group of aides and Ian stepped in to introduce Susan.
“Mayor, this is Susan Ward, the writer who will be doing the piece on the task force,” Ian said. Susan noticed that he used the word writer and not reporter.
The mayor’s eyes widened at Susan’s appearance, but he smiled and shook her hand firmly, placing his other hand on her upper arm. He was tall, with painstakingly sculpted, prematurely silver hair, and the kind of hands that are always warm. His fingernails were buffed to a bright sheen and he wore a gray suit that was just as luminous. Susan thought he looked like Robert Young in Father Knows Best, a TV show she loathed only because her own life had always seemed so tawdry in comparison. She made a mental bet with herself that he would be a senator within five years. Assuming he was rich enough.
“It’s a pleasure,” he said, his eyes positively brimming with paternal amiability. “I’ve heard great things about you. I’m looking forward to reading the series.”
Susan felt a strange self-consciousness wash over her. She didn’t like it. “Thank you, sir,” she said.
“I want to introduce you to Archie Sheridan,” the mayor said. “You know, I served on the Beauty Killer Task Force with him. Years ago. Before I was even chief. I was actually the first detective to lead the task force. Archie didn’t have the seniority then. It was his first case. I was something of a hotshot in the department, so they put me in charge. I lasted three years. Hell of a thing. No one I’d rather work with than Archie Sheridan. There is no one out there I’d trust more with my daughter’s life.” He waited a moment, and when Susan didn’t open her notebook, he added, “You can write that down.”
“You don’t have a daughter,” Susan said.
The mayor cleared his throat. “Figure of speech. Have you had a chance to look around?” He led her farther into the bowels of the bank, his hand settled firmly just above the small of her back. “As you can see, we’re still setting up office equipment. When we’re done, we’ll have a working squad: interrogation room, conference room, state-of-the-art computer system, et cetera.” They reached an office with a large glass panel that overlooked the main room. The white venetian blinds were closed. “This is the old bank manager’s office,” the mayor explained. “But it appears our current bank manager isn’t here.” He turned to a small dark-haired woman walking past with a badge clipped to the waist of her jeans. She was eating a half a burrito wrapped in a paper towel and her lips were stained with hot sauce. “Detective Masland? Where’s Sheridan?”
She was caught mid-bite, and they had to wait while she finished chewing and swallowed. “The school. Just left. He went over there to conduct some interviews and get the checkpoint set up. I’m heading over there now.”
A trace of agitation crossed the mayor’s face. “I’m sorry,” he said to Susan. “I told him I wanted him to meet you.”
“I realize that he’s busy,” Susan said. “But eventually, I will have to meet him. I can’t profile him without talking to him.”
“Come by tomorrow morning at nine A.M. I’ll make sure he’s here.”
I bet you will, thought Susan.
Ian and Susan drove back to the paper in silence. When they pulled into the parking garage, Ian swallowed hard. “Can I come over tonight?”
Susan pulled at a wisp of pale pink hair. “Where’s your wife?” she asked.
He looked at his hands, still gripping the steering wheel. “Up in Seattle.”
Susan hesitated. “Make it late,” she said. She felt a twinge of guilt, bit her lip, and opened the car door. “You’ll find that stomaching the whole adultery thing is easier if we don’t spend too much time together.”
CHAPTER
9