Page 82 of The Last Close Call

The color in her cheeks faded, and she sat back in her chair.

“Shit,” she whispered. Her eyes welled with tears, and she glanced down.

Jack watched her, caught off guard by her response. All that fury seemed to have evaporated.

“Shit,” she said again, and looked up at him.

“That information is not public,” he reiterated. “Do you understand? I’m not authorized to share that with you, and if you repeat it to anyone, it could compromise our investigation.”

“So, you haven’t found him yet?”

“No.”

She looked down at her lap and bit her lip.

“Is there anything you know about him that might help us—”

“No.” Her head snapped up. “Nothing like that, I was just... I was thinking, How is that possible? You’re the police, right? Can’t you just track him down digitally?”

“We’re working on it,” Jack said.

“I mean, someone tracks me down if I get a freaking parking ticket in another state. Don’t you have databases and phone numbers and... and what about the FBI? Shouldn’t they be involved if you’re looking for a serial killer?”

“We’re working on it,” he said again.

She shook her head and looked away. “Sorry, I’m just... This is all very upsetting.”

“You need to understand what I said about his name being confidential. It’s critical that you not—”

“I won’t tell anyone.”

She pushed back her chair abruptly and stood. “He killed his parents, too. In their own house. You know that, right?” She hitched her purse onto her shoulder. “What am I saying? Of course you do.” She reached for the door. “Thank you for meeting with me.”

“I need to reiterate—”

“I won’t tell anyone. Don’t worry about me.” She jerked open the door. “Just focus on finding him.”

SEVENTEEN

Rowan watched in her rearview mirror as the black Jeep pulled up behind her and parked. She slid from her car, and nerves flitted in her stomach as Jack approached her.

“What happened to your face?” she asked, eyeing the scrape on his chin.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“I tripped at a crime scene.”

“What crime scene?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

He turned to look at the small gray bungalow where Dara rented an office. It was one of the many downtown houses that had been converted to commercial use.

“I’m surprised she works Sundays,” Jack said, obviously changing the subject. But his evasiveness made Rowan only more curious.

“Dara keeps odd hours.”

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