Sunday, July 4
Interstate 95

They had been on the road for almost two hours when Maggie realized she and Racine were discussing the case without disagreement, with no cheap shots or competing theories. Racine had even allowed Harvey to come along, giving him the entire back seat of her Infiniti G35 without cringing or fussing about his huge paws on her immaculate leather.

At first Maggie thought it was all for show, a way to impress her, win her over. But Maggie wasn’t that easily impressed, and Racine wasn’t exactly patient or polite enough to ignore something that rubbed her the wrong way. And a Labrador retriever—even a sleeping one—in your forty-thousand-dollar car would be difficult to ignore.

“On your weirdo-meter, where would you say this guy falls?” Racine’s voice broke into Maggie’s thoughts.

“My weirdo-meter?”

“Hey, I know you’ve tracked down some major mother-fuckers—excuse my French. I’ve been trying to tone down what my dad refers to as my potty-mouth when I visit him.” Racine took a gulp of Diet Pepsi as if to wash it away. “You know what I mean. What category does this guy fall into? Is he a Simon Shelby or an Albert Stucky?”

Racine was referring to two very different serial killers Maggie had encountered in the last several years. Simon Shelby killed his victims to possess their imperfections, bottling brain tumors and sticking diseased hearts in jars to compensate for his own childhood illness. Shelby was sick, mentally, not physically. Albert Stucky, however, was simply evil, or at least that was Maggie’s explanation for why any madman would steal his victims’ organs, drop them into a take-out container and then leave them for someone to discover.

Despite what most people thought, profiling serial killers wasn’t as simple as putting each one into some category and predicting the next move, like some twisted or elaborate chess game. Instead, it required crawling inside the killer’s mind and looking into the dark corners without being sucked in.

“It’s not as simple as figuring out a category,” she finally told Racine.

“Oh, I know that. But try to give me an idea of what kind of brain drain strangles a woman and then chops off her head. Are we talking major loose screws or what? This goes beyond the search for the ultimate boner, doesn’t it?”

“I think this guy is more about rage than sexual gratification.”

“Rage, huh? So you don’t think he’s hanging on to the torsos for convenient boinking?”

“Boinking?”

“Yeah, you know sort of his own preserved blowup doll but without the hot air.”

Maggie smiled at Racine’s lingo and simplistic profile. She glanced at the detective with her hip Ray-Bans, spiky blond hair, pink Key West tank top and Ralph Lauren khakis. She couldn’t remember ever looking or feeling that chic, young and carefree. Only recently had Maggie started to splurge on designer things for herself, like a pair of expensive Cole Hahn leather flats that she let Gwen talk her into buying. Even her two-story Tudor in upscale Newburgh Heights just outside of the District—which had been bought with funds from a trust her father had left her—was decorated in what might be politely called traditional and practical.

She was logical and disciplined, stubborn and determined. She attributed it to the necessity of having to grow up too soon and too fast, of losing her father and becoming a caretaker of her alcoholic suicidal mother all at the young age of twelve. Whatever carefree spirit she may have possessed had easily been squelched sometime during those dark days of fighting off her mother’s drunken suitors or while trying to make sure the electric bill was paid or finding something to eat before getting herself off to school in the morning. She worked her way through college and even her ex-husband, Greg, had once been attracted to her mature and responsible sense of duty. Never mind that those were the same traits that ended up driving him away when she transferred them to her job as an FBI agent.

Racine had lost a parent as a child, too. One more thing they had in common. So it wasn’t as if she had had a fairy-tale or even a carefree life. The difference, however, was Luc Racine, a loving, doting father who made sure his little girl got to be a little girl. Ironic because here Julia Racine had been trying so hard to impress and emulate Maggie and as it turned out, Maggie actually envied Racine. Funny, Maggie thought, how life threw you curveballs just when you thought you had everything figured out. Just when you thought you could trust your judgment of people.

“Hey, earth to O’Dell. Are you still with me? Do you need to get out and stretch?”

Maggie realized she had tuned out Racine for too long.

“No, I’m fine,” she said, twisting around to check on Harvey. The dog was sprawled out and fast asleep.

“You sure you’re okay?”

“Just a little tired, I guess.”

“Another big night, huh?”

Racine gave her a look over her sunglasses and only then did Maggie remember Harvey’s slobberfest that Racine had overheard on Friday evening. She started laughing.

“Hey, it’s none of my business,” Racine said, waving a hand at her as if to say it was no big deal. “You don’t have to tell me anything.”

Maggie couldn’t help it. She kept laughing, harder now, and somehow she managed to say, “It was Harvey.”

“What?”

“It was Harvey you heard the other night.”

It took Racine a second to register. Maggie thought she saw a bit of a blush. It was difficult to tell with the sunglasses. Maggie started laughing again, and soon Racine was joining her.