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room for twenty minutes."
    "If he’s our guy, he’d have to be cold."
    "Yeah. If ."
    He must be , she thought. He had to be.
    They turned a corner and came upon two closed doors. The one on the left had a sign on it reading, DO NOT DISTURB—INTERVIEW IN PROGRESS.
    Behind that door was Mr. William Hayde, who might or might not be the only man Tess hated on this earth.
    Larkin reached for the other door, then turned to her. "I know this case has cost you, Tess."
    She wanted to say that he had no idea how much it had cost her, but she held back, because he had addressed her without irony for the first time.
    "I met him once, you know. Paul Voorhees."
    Her voice caught. "Did you?"
    "In New Orleans. I was working a multiple rapist, and Paul came in to consult. Helped us a lot. We snagged the guy. Eddie Mullen—they called him the Devil, because he wore a Mardi Gras devil mask. Paul must’ve told you."
    "I don’t think he did." She wondered how many other cases he had left undiscussed.
    "Well, anyway, Paul was a good guy. And I know it’s tough—losing any colleague, let alone your partner."
    Let alone someone who was more than a partner , she thought, but Larkin didn’t know about that part of it, and didn’t have to know.
    "You’ve been through a lot." Larkin looked away. "I hope tonight ends it. For everybody’s sake…but most of all for yours."
    "Thank you," she said with a quick, faltering smile that her mouth couldn’t quite hold.
    "Okay, then." Larkin clapped his hands, signaling an end to whatever sort of moment they had shared. "Let’s settle in for some Q and A."
    He pulled open the door and gestured for her to enter the observation room, where agents Tyler, Hart, and DiFranco stood before a bank of TV monitors watching the suspect from several angles.
    From this distance Tess couldn’t see his face on the multiple screens. She wondered what he would look like. She wondered if he would match the face that visited her in nightmares.
    Larkin was waiting for her to enter. She brushed past him, trembling just a little as she stepped inside the room.
     

 
    5
     
     
    At 10:45, Amanda Pierce drove into the short-term parking lot of Los Angeles International Airport. She ditched her Sunbird at the curb, grabbing her small suitcase out of the backseat, and disappeared into the concourse.
    She had chosen the airport because it was large and brightly lit and would be crowded on the first night of a holiday weekend. Also, she didn’t know if the feds realized that LA was her final destination. There was a chance she could convince them she was taking a flight to another city.
    LAX offered an additional asset, one that might prove critical—the ready availability of taxicabs. Not many places in this city were so accommodating.
    But the taxis would be of use to her only if she could shake free of the people who had trailed her for a thousand miles, all the way from northeastern Oregon to southern California. The first step was to force them out of their cars so she could get a look at them and see how many there were.
    The terminal was enormous, and despite the late hour, plenty of shops and eateries were still open. The place was like a garish shopping mall, crowded with stores and bars and luridly decorated restaurants. Palm trees were planted along the concourse under skylights and before wide windows. The floor shone beneath the bright overhead lights.
    Toting her suitcase, Pierce entered a store selling magazines and souvenirs, then feigned interest in a selection of Dodgers T-shirts while watching the store entrance from the corner of her eye.
    A man entered, glancing at her in a way that was not quite casual. He seemed to mutter something to himself, but she knew he was actually speaking into a throat microphone, reporting his reacquisition of the target.
    She called him Alpha, using standard law enforcement code. Alpha lingered near the entrance. But there was another way of leaving the store, a second exit