Page 10 of The Last Close Call

“I want to know.” She flipped her phone over, watching his eyes now, even though she was pretty sure she already knew the answer to her question. “You didn’t tell me you were investigating the West Campus Rapist.”

His jaw tightened as he watched her.

She folded her arms. “Well? Is it him or not?”

He didn’t respond. Of course not. Even if he knew for sure, he certainly wasn’t going to tell her.

“Do you think it might be him?” she asked.

“I think...” He studied her face, and she could tell he was deciding whether he could trust her. “I think it’s possible.”

“So, he’s been, what, dormant all this time? I mean, I haven’t read anything about WCR in the news in five years. You’re saying he’s back?”

He watched her, his expression unreadable. She felt self-conscious as she pictured herself through this detective’s eyes. When he’d come to her for help, she’d basically told him to take a hike. Now three days later, she’d shown up at his office demanding to know more about the case.

But like most detectives she had worked with, he was stingy with information and unwilling to comment on an ongoing investigation, especially one as high-profile as this one. Now that the media had made the link between the November rape and a string of unsolved cold cases, Jack and his team wouldn’t be able to escape the spotlight.

He took a deep breath. “I guess I should have figured you keep up with current events.”

“I do, yeah.”

She folded her arms. He’d just given her confirmation without really giving it. Very smooth.

And now she was in a quandary—a quandary she’d created for herself by coming over here and asking for info about his case, the same case she’d refused to be roped into helping with only days before.

“I’ll do it.”

His eyebrows shot up. “You will?”

“You know I will. You knew it the second you saw me here.”

He didn’t bother denying that.

“Thank you,” he said, trying to sound humble. But she doubted that would last long. He wasn’t the humble type.

“I have a condition, though.”

His eyebrows shot up again, and this time his surprise looked genuine. “What is it?”

“I want the original profile.”

“How do you mean?”

“From the DNA lab. I want the raw genetic data.”

He frowned. “As opposed to what?”

“As opposed to some other genetic genealogist’s report that you want me to build on or extrapolate from. Or some other half-baked research that you think is going to give me a head start.”

“Okay.” He sounded wary, as though he didn’t see the point of her condition.

“I do my own research,” she told him. “And I do it from scratch.”

The corner of his mouth ticked up. “You don’t trust other people?”

“No.” She waited a beat. “Do you?”

“Not really, no.”

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