A Perfect Evil. Alex Kava

in her head. The lack of intimacy with her husband allowed her to keep her scars—physical and mental—to herself.

      “Maggie?”

      “I need to keep working, Kyle. Please don’t take that away from me.” She kept her voice strong, grateful the tremor was confined to her hands and stomach. Would he detect the vulnerability, anyway? He tracked criminals by reading between the lines. How could she expect to fool him?

      There was silence, and she covered the mouthpiece of the phone, so he couldn’t hear her staggered breathing.

      “I’ll fax over the details,” he finally said. “Your flight leaves in the morning at six o’clock. Call me after you get the fax if you have any questions.”

      She listened to the click and waited for the dial tone. With the phone still pressed against her ear, she sighed, then breathed deeply. The front door slammed and she jumped.

      “Maggie?”

      “I’m in the kitchen.” She hung up the phone and gulped some water, hoping to shake the queasiness from the pit of her stomach. She needed this case. She needed to prove to Cunningham that, although Albert Stucky had assaulted and toyed with her mental state, he had not stolen her professional edge.

      “Hey, babe.” Greg came around the counter. He started to hug her, but stopped when he noticed the perspiration. He manufactured a smile to disguise his disgust. When had he started using his lawyer acting talents on her?

      “We have reservations for six-thirty. Are you sure you have time to get ready?”

      She glanced at the wall clock. It was only four. How bad did he think she looked?

      “No problem,” she said, guzzling more water and purposely letting it dribble down her chin.

      She caught him wincing at her, his perfectly chiseled jaw taut with disapproval. He worked out at the law firm’s gym, where he sweated, grunted and dribbled in the appropriate setting.

      Then he showered and changed, not a shiny golden hair out of place by the time he stepped out into public again. He expected the same from her, had even told her how much he hated her running in the neighborhood. At first, she had thought it was out of concern for her safety.

      “I’m a black belt, Greg. I can handle myself,” she had lovingly reassured him.

      “I’m not talking about that. Christ, Maggie, you look like hell when you run. Don’t you want to make a good impression on our neighbors?”

      The phone rang, and Greg reached for it.

      “Let it ring,” she blurted with a mouthful of water. “It’s a fax from Director Cunningham.” Without looking at him she could feel his annoyance. She raced to the den, checked the caller ID, then flipped on the fax.

      “Why is he faxing you on a Saturday?”

      He startled her. She didn’t realize he had followed. He stood in the doorway with hands on his hips, looking as stern as possible in khakis and a crew-neck sweater.

      “He’s faxing some details on a case I’ve been asked to profile.” She avoided looking at him, dreading the pouty lip and brooding eyes. Usually, he was the one interrupting their Saturdays together, but she convinced herself it was childish to remind him. Instead, she ripped off the fax and began transferring details from paper to memory.

      “Tonight was supposed to be a nice quiet dinner—just the two of us.”

      “And it will be,” she said calmly, still not looking at him. “It may just need to be an early night. I have a six o’clock flight in the morning.”

      Silence. One, two, three …

      “Damn it, Maggie. It’s our anniversary. This was supposed to be our weekend together.”

      “No, that was last weekend, only you forgot and played in the golf tournament.”

      “Oh, I see,” he snorted. “So this is payback.”

      “No, it’s not payback.” She maintained her calm though she was tired of these little tantrums. It was fine for him to ruin their plans with only half an apology and that charming, smug “I’ll make it up to you, babe.”

      “If it’s not payback, what do you call it?”

      “Work.”

      “Work, right. That’s convenient. Call it what you want. It’s payback.”

      “A little boy has been murdered, and I might be able to help find the psycho who did it.” The anger bubbled close to the surface, but her voice remained amazingly calm. “Sorry, I’ll make it up to you.” The sarcasm slipped out, but he didn’t seem to notice. She took the fax and started past him to the door. He grabbed her wrist and spun her toward him.

      “Tell them to send someone else, Maggie. We need this weekend together,” he pleaded, his voice now soft.

      She looked into his gray eyes and wondered when they had lost their color. She searched for a flicker of the intelligent, compassionate man she had married nine years ago when they were both college seniors ready to make their marks on the world. She would track down the criminals, and he would defend the helpless victims. Then he took the job in Washington at Brackman, Harvey and Lowe, and his helpless victims became billion-dollar corporations. Still, in just a moment of silence, she thought she recognized a flicker of sincerity. She was on the verge of giving in to him when his grip tightened and his teeth clenched.

      “Tell them to send someone else, or we’re finished.”

      She wrenched her wrist free. He grabbed for it again, and she slammed a fist into his chest. His eyes widened in surprise.

      “Don’t you ever grab me like that again. And if this one trip means we’re finished, then maybe we’ve been finished for a long time.”

      She brushed past him and headed for the bedroom, hoping her knees would carry her and the sting behind her eyes would wait.

      CHAPTER 8

       Sunday, October 26

      And so it begins, he thought as he sipped the scalding-hot tea.

      The front-page headline belonged on the National Enquirer and not a newspaper as respectable as the Omaha Journal. From the Grave, Serial Killer Still Grips Community with Boy’s Recent Murder. It was almost as hysterical as yesterday’s headline, but, of course, today’s large Sunday edition would attract more readers.

      The byline was Christine Hamilton again. He recognized the name from the “Living Today” section. Why would they give the story to a newcomer, a rookie?

      Quickly, he turned the pages, searching for the rest of the story which continued on page ten, column one. The entire page was filled with connecting articles. There was a school photo of the boy. Beside it ran an in-depth saga of the boy’s sudden disappearance during his early-morning paper route just a week ago. The article told how the FBI and the boy’s mother had waited for a ransom note that never came. Then, finally, Sheriff Morrelli had found the body in a pasture along the river.

      He glanced back at the paragraph. Morrelli? No, this was Nicholas Morrelli, not Antonio. How nice, he thought, for father and son to share the same experience.

      The article went on to point out the similarities to the murders of three boys in the same small community over six years ago. And how the bodies, strangled and stabbed to death, had each been discovered days later in different wooded, isolated areas.

      The article, however, made no mention of details, no description of the elaborate chest carving. Did the police hope to withhold that evidence again? He shook his head and continued to read.

      He used the fillet knife to scoop jelly and spread it on his burnt English muffin. The stupid toaster hadn’t worked right for weeks, but it was better than going down to the kitchen and having breakfast with the others.