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  Rossi said, ‘‘The police have given us a good picture of the night your daughter and her boyfriend were killed. We want to know what led up to that moment.’’

  ‘‘How on earth can I help with that?’’

  With a small, respectful smile, Rossi asked, ‘‘Mr. Andrews, would you call yourself an observant man?’’

  With a shrug, Andrews said, ‘‘I try to be.’’

  ‘‘Let me ask you then—did you see anyone watching your house or the neighborhood in the weeks before your daughter was shot? Someone who didn’t belong here?’’

  The grief-stricken father considered that for a long moment.

  Finally, he said, ‘‘You know, I never gave it a second thought before . . . but Addie told me one night, last March? That she had thought someone was watching her and Benny, when they were parked next to the house. Actually, it was a kind of accusation—she assumed it was her mother or me, spying on her. At the time, I was so worried about convincing her that she should trust us, that she must’ve just been imagining things, that I . . . I never took in account that someone might actually be watching them.’’

  Reid asked, ‘‘Did Addie say why she’d thought you were watching her and Benny?’’

  ‘‘She said . . . said it felt like someone was there in the darkness when they were sitting in the car. With all the trees around the house, she assumed it was Doris—that’s her mom. Or me.’’

  ‘‘And it wasn’t?’’

  ‘‘No. I’m as protective as the next father. But we were young once, we knew the kids needed some time to themselves . . . and, anyway, we trusted Benny. He was a good kid, too. We liked him. I’m pretty sure Addie loved him, though she hadn’t told us that.’’ He looked at Tovar. ‘‘You’re a parent, Detective. You understand.’’

  Tovar nodded gravely. ‘‘It’s a balancing act between trying to protect them and letting go.’’

  ‘‘Yes,’’ Andrews said, and swallowed. ‘‘I should have protected her more. Did I screw up?’’

  Rossi said, ‘‘No, sir. No . . .’’

  ‘‘Should I have taken what Addie said more seriously, about someone watching her? I screwed up, didn’t I?’’

  Gently, Rossi touched the father’s sleeve. ‘‘No. You didn’t. Let go of that thought. It’s no good.’’

  Andrews swallowed again, and nodded. ‘‘But I can’t help but blame myself, Mr. Rossi.’’

  ‘‘We’re going to find the one to blame, Mr. Andrews,’’ Rossi said firmly. ‘‘And it’s not you.’’

  As the four men stood in a loose semicircle, a short, heavyset woman in a blue T-shirt, jeans and tennis shoes emerged from around the house. The blue T-shirt was emblazoned with a white cross next to which the words St. Vincent’s Parents Association were printed. The woman’s blonde hair was trimmed short.

  Reid could easily see the resemblance between mother and deceased daughter.

  ‘‘This is Doris,’’ Andrews said. ‘‘My wife.’’

  She gave them a wan smile. She still seemed shell-shocked from the loss of her daughter, even though months had passed.

  Reid also knew that the haunted look would probably never go away, not entirely. He had seen it far too many times in his relatively short tenure with the BAU. Parents never got over the loss of a child. Not really.

  They asked her the same questions they had posed to her husband. She, too, shook her head when asked if she had seen anyone watching the neighborhood; she, too, commented that her daughter had accused her parents of watching her and Benny.

  Frustrated, Reid turned to Rossi who shrugged. They would get the police to canvass the neighborhood again, but so much time had passed that they would be incredibly lucky if anyone remembered anything.

  ‘‘I’m sorry,’’ Andrews said. ‘‘It looks like we’ve let you down. And if we’ve let you down, we’ve let Addie down.’’

  Rossi jumped in. ‘‘I know it’s natural to blame yourselves. You have to understand, you didn’t have anything to do with what happened to your daughter.’’

  Andrews nodded, but it was clear he didn’t believe Rossi. His wife merely appeared dazed.

  Reid looked at Rossi and wondered what had gotten into the longtime profiler. Those supportive words were what Reid would have expected from the compassionate Jason Gideon, not the more professionally impersonal David Rossi.

  The three of them were about to climb into the SUV and leave what was left of this family to their grief when Mrs. Andrews said, as if to herself, ‘‘What about the gray car?’’

  They all turned to her.

  ‘‘Pardon?’’ Rossi asked.

  ‘‘The gray car,’’ she said. ‘‘I remember seeing it last spring, before the . . . before what happened. I thought we were getting a new neighbor, I saw that gray car so much. I saw it around the neighborhood and in the park, oh, three or four times.’’

  ‘‘What kind of car?’’ Tovar asked.

  She shrugged. ‘‘I don’t know cars. Four doors, boxy, gray. That’s all I remember.’’

  Rossi asked, ‘‘When did you see it last?’’

  ‘‘After what happened . . . the car stopped coming around. I just never saw it again. Or at least I didn’t notice it.’’

  Rossi turned to Tovar. ‘‘Let’s see if we can get tape from any security camera within a five-mile radius. Go back to a month before the crime.’’

  ‘‘That’s going to be a lot of security video,’’ Tovar said.

  ‘‘I hope so,’’ Rossi said. ‘‘The more video we have, the better chance that someone caught this car on screen.’’

  Mrs. Andrews, vaguely apologetic, said, ‘‘It might not be anything.’’

  Rossi nodded. ‘‘That’s true. Or, you might have seen the assailant stalking the neighborhood.’’

  Mrs. Andrews looked stricken. ‘‘You mean . . . I could have saved her. . . .’’

  ‘‘No! You had no way to know. What’s suspicious about a gray car? And that’s the way he wanted it. This is a predator we’re dealing with. He’s made it his job to blend in . . . and he’s good at it.’’

  The mother and father did not appear terribly reassured by Rossi’s words.

  The profiler seemed to sense it. ‘‘Hey, it’s our job to catch this guy,’’ Rossi said. ‘‘We’re good at that, too.’’

  Andrews gave Rossi a stricken look. ‘‘But what if he’s better than you?’’

  Rossi gave the man a crooked smile that Reid had previously seen the older man flash only on talk shows.

  ‘‘Trust me,’’ Rossi said, ‘‘he’s not.’’

  Chapter Three

  July 28 Wauconda, Illinois

  Nearing five o’clock that afternoon, as Rand Road turned into Main Street to curve around Bangs Lake, Supervisory Special Agent Jennifer Jareau could see, between the buildings, boats and jet skis tearing across the middle of the lake. She could also see, within section areas nearer the beach, swimmers and sunbathers.

  Hotchner had the wheel while Lorenzon navigated them through the town of twelve and a half thousand souls. As they eased around to the three hundred block, Lorenzon said, ‘‘Over there, on the right. You can park in front.’’

  Hotchner heeled the Tahoe to the curb in front of a one-story, flat-roofed brick building with a big window on either side of the door, a sign proclaiming it the Wauconda Police Department. They got out of the SUV, then made their way toward the building, Hotchner in the lead and Lorenzon pausing in gentlemanly fashion to allow Jareau to go in front of him.

  The Midwest, she thought. Gotta love it. . . .

  When they walked in, Jareau thought the place looked more like a renovated post office than a modern day police station, noting in particular the long black counter dividing the room: most other departments across the country had erected bulletproof glass to separate the police from the populace. This memo had not reached Wauconda.

  Behind the counter, several desks were spread out in open bullpen fashion, some with uniform
ed cops sitting at them, some not. Occasional doors around the perimeter of the bullpen indicated offices, though others obviously led to other parts of the building.

  A diminutive brunette wearing a Wauconda PD uniform rose from a desk and approached the counter, planting herself opposite Jareau. The officer, whose name tag read JAMES, asked, ‘‘May I help you?’’ The woman, younger even than Jareau, had her hair tied up and regarded them skeptically with big brown doe eyes that dominated her face.

  Jareau flashed her credentials. ‘‘I’m SSA Jennifer Jareau with the FBI’s behavioral unit. This is Supervisory Special Agent In Charge Hotchner, and that’s Detective Lorenzon from Chicago PD.’’

  ‘‘The murders,’’ Officer James said, and while her voice had a typical cop matter-of-factness, something hushed was in there, too.

  ‘‘That’s right,’’ Jareau said, keeping it friendly. ‘‘How did you know that’s why we were here?’’

  ‘‘I’ve been on the job in Wauconda for over two years, Agent Jareau, and I’ve never so much as sniffed the FBI. Two girls die, and now I’m looking at two agents and a Chicago PD detective, no less. I don’t need a gold shield to do the math on that equation. You’ll want Denson.’’

  ‘‘Denson?’’ Jareau asked.

  ‘‘Jake Denson. He’s the lead detective and crime scene analyst on the case.’’

  ‘‘He does both jobs?’’

  James nodded. ‘‘We’re a small department. Most of the detectives have been to crime scene class. Saves the town money and manpower.’’

  Jareau asked, ‘‘Is Detective Denson here?’’

  ‘‘Let me see,’’ James said. She walked back to her desk, and punched buttons on her desk phone. She waited a few seconds, then said, ‘‘Jake, it’s Ellie, out front. There’s some FBI people and a Chicago detective here to see you.’’

  She listened for a moment, then hung up and said to them, ‘‘He’ll be here within five minutes. Sit down if you like.’’

  But they chose to stand and, anyway, the wait was more like two minutes before a tall, sinewy man with a shaved head and a prominent nose came through a door to their right, moving with considerable purpose of stride. He swung open the gate at the far end of counter and approached them.

  Wearing a blue work shirt, jeans, and black Rockys, Denson looked more like a construction worker than a detective—or he would have if construction workers packed nine-millimeter automatics on their right hips. He had dark eyes set in a perpetual squint and bore the thin-lipped half smirk of someone who was pretty sure he knew something you didn’t. His ears were pressed flat against his skull and he carried himself as if every move, every breath, was about something.

  He picked out Jareau. ‘‘Detective Jacob Denson. What can I do for you?’’

  Hotchner stepped forward. ‘‘I’m Supervisory Special Agent In Charge Aaron Hotchner.’’

  ‘‘In charge of what exactly?’’ Denson asked, eyeballing Hotchner now.

  ‘‘The Behavioral Analysis Unit team helping investigate.’’

  Denson gave a little chuckle. ‘‘Well, now. I’ve heard of you—profilers. But my understanding is you people have to be asked aboard a case. And, all due respect, I don’t remember asking.’’

  Hotchner smiled—Jareau knew of no one who could summon a smaller or chillier smile than her boss. ‘‘You’ve had a killing in your community that fits in with several that have been committed in other nearby jurisdictions.’’

  ‘‘Okay,’’ Denson said, and shrugged. ‘‘So?’’

  ‘‘We’re here to help oversee a joint task force to share information and bring this killer to justice.’’

  ‘‘Thanks, but no thanks.’’

  ‘‘Maybe you don’t understand,’’ Hotchner said. ‘‘We’re offering our help.’’

  Shaking his head, Denson said, ‘‘No, I followed you just fine. Even though you think we’re all stumbling around in the dark out here in the boonies, local cops smack dab in Flyover Country—some of us actually understand English, even if we do move our lips when we read.’’

  Jareau’s enthusiasm for the Midwest was fading.

  ‘‘We’re getting off on the wrong foot, somehow,’’ Hotchner said, his hands shooting up in a stop gesture. ‘‘I didn’t mean in any way to suggest you weren’t on top of this crime. It’s just that your crime is one of a series of crimes, by the same UnSub, and—’’

  ‘‘Unknown Subject, right? That kind of jargon supposed to impress me, Agent Hotchner?’’

  ‘‘No. Not at all . . .’’

  ‘‘Right,’’ Denson said bitterly. ‘‘Well, here’s the reality of the situation. I don’t put up with the condescending attitude you feds take. And that’s not all you take—you waltz in, take all our information, all our hard work, then you take something else: all the credit. Bullshit, boys and girls. Not this time. Not on my watch. This is our case, and we’ll catch the killer ourselves, thanks very much.’’

  Other cops behind the counter turned their way now, listening to the detective’s controlled rant. Some even smiled.

  Jareau knew that many cops felt the same resentment that Denson had just articulated. This anger wasn’t reserved just for the FBI, either. She had heard similar sentiments expressed about the ATF, DEA, and the Secret Service, even the Peace Corps. No one seemed immune from the wrath of locals who felt they provided the inspiration, perspiration, and dedication, while the feds provided consternation and accepted all the congratulations.

  ‘‘That’s not how we do things,’’ Hotchner said. ‘‘We don’t take over investigations. We consult.’’

  Denson’s grin couldn’t have been nastier. ‘‘Really? So then, I take it I’d be heading up this task force you mentioned?’’

  Seeing that Hotchner was crashing and burning with the local detective, Jareau decided that maybe this needed a softer touch.

  Quietly, smiling gently, she asked, ‘‘Detective Denson, is there somewhere more private we could talk?’’

  He said, ‘‘No.’’

  She removed the smile. ‘‘All right. Then why don’t we meet with you and your chief, and then you can make your decision. I left a message about this on the chief’s phone, before we flew out—he may be expecting us.’’

  Denson stared at her with something approaching open contempt. She was not used to having a man look at her that way—an attractive woman with considerable diplomatic skills, Jareau had to work not to be taken aback.

  Denson was saying, ‘‘You want to get to my chief because you think he’ll be easier to deal with? Well, good luck.’’

  ‘‘That’s not it at all, Detective.’’

  ‘‘Isn’t it?’’ the detective snapped. ‘‘Let’s see. Come along.’’

  He returned to the short gate and went through, stopped and looked back.

  The trio hadn’t moved.

  ‘‘You coming?’’ Denson asked.

  Jareau turned to Hotchner, asked the question with her eyes, and her supervisor nodded.

  She led the way, Hotchner and Lorenzon close behind as they followed Denson across the bullpen and through a door leading to a short corridor.

  The bald detective led them to the last door on the right, a corner office. The sign on the door said CHIEF LEONARD OLIVER.

  Denson knocked, opened it and, as he entered, said, ‘‘Chief, FBI’s here.’’

  ‘‘What do they want?’’

  ‘‘They want to talk to you. I don’t seem to be able to satisfy them. Supposedly they called ahead, left a message.’’

  Jareau didn’t wait for the exchange to go any further, and came on through the door.

  The office was good-size, the desk on their left in front of a wide window overlooking the parking lot on the building’s east side. Two chairs sat in front of the desk. Various diplomas and other framed citations filled most of the walls, and some framed family photos sat on the desktop, but no decorative touches asserted themselves in this no-nonsense office. Jareau wa
s not a profiler herself, but she didn’t have to be one to know that this stark space reflected the personality of its tenant.

  Behind the desk sat the chief, his hands flat on the desk, his face a blank mask. The brown hair on his blocky head was parted, laser straight. His eyes were dark blue and clear and moved little as he took in his guests, a doll’s eyes. His mouth formed a thin line and he had the pallor common to gamblers and bureaucrats.

  Jareau watched with interest as the chief’s eyes met Hotchner’s, the two men immediately starting to size each other up.

  Though her sense of time had slowed, Jareau knew only seconds had passed before the chief rose and stretched his hand across his desk to Hotchner.

  ‘‘Leonard Oliver,’’ their apparently reluctant host said. ‘‘Chief here in Wauconda.’’

  Shaking Oliver’s hand, Hotchner introduced himself, Jareau and Lorenzon, the latter having stayed mute through all of this so far. When the ceremonies were over, Oliver offered them each a chair, getting Denson to have two brought in for Lorenzon and himself. Denson’s chair ended up next to Oliver’s desk, separating him from the others. Soon they were all seated.

  ‘‘What can I do for you?’’ Oliver asked, his smile perfunctory.

  Sitting forward, Hotchner said, ‘‘We were hoping we could do something for you.’’

  ‘‘Really,’’ Oliver said, still smiling, though his tone wasn’t.

  Before Hotchner could say anything, Denson jumped in. ‘‘They want to take credit for solving the murders of the two girls we found in the preserve.’’

  ‘‘Is that so?’’ Oliver asked.

  Hotchner said, ‘‘Have you already solved this case, Chief Oliver?’’

  ‘‘No. Of course not.’’

  ‘‘Then perhaps Detective Denson could explain how it is we’re taking credit for something that hasn’t happened yet.’’

  Not liking where this was heading, Jareau smiled and spoke up. ‘‘Chief Oliver, if I might? I’m the police liaison here.’’

  Oliver turned to her, his expression slightly amused. Such condescending looks were something Jareau was used to. More than one cop, and criminals too for that matter, had made the mistake of underestimating young, pretty Jennifer Jareau; she no longer felt annoyed about such attitudes, knowing they provided her with an advantage.