“Ingesting…?” Bell looks over from his reading, makes a face. “Ah, geez.”

She lets her hand drop. “Again, I’m just speculating, but it’s a possibility. Gutmunsson was hedging about what the killer’s doing. He can’t know with certainty.”

“How could he know at all? He could be stringing you along.”

“I’m thinking he’s taking a highly informed guess. And he’s giving me his ideas in good faith.”

“Yeah—after he’s helped himself to the contents of your head.” Bell glances at Cooper, quiet in front, before holding up the last few pages from her interview transcript. His voice lowers. “You should let me come with you next time. I could be a buffer—”

“No.” She shakes her head, emphatic. “You have personal history with Gutmunsson and he would absolutely lean on that. Don’t put yourself in that position.”

“You’re sacrificing too much. To hell with history—if you can handle this, so can I. I want to help—”

“Travis.” She reaches out and puts a hand on his forearm. Even through the layers of shirt and suit jacket, he feels her fingers squeeze. “You help. Being there, and listening… You’re doing it right.”

They’ve reached FBI headquarters.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Cooper slides the Diplomat into the underground parking lot, hustles them out to the escort desk, where he has a brief argument with security personnel, resolved in his favor. Emma and Bell have to show their lanyard credentials and sign in. They traverse the white corridors to the elevators. Emma stands in the metal box whizzing them skyward, feeling gravity pushing on her.

When they get out, Cooper leads them to a door, leans at an awkward angle to use his ID tag. Beyond the door are the same dropped ceilings and fluorescent tube lights, but unlike conventional offices, the FBI Scientific Analysis section has alarm flashers and air exhaust vents in the case of contamination spills. Examining rooms with large viewing windows are set to the left, and offices and labs to the right, off a central common room cluttered with file boxes and plastic storage containers.

An older man with gold-rimmed glasses and a jowly, stubbled face comes to meet them. He has a smoker’s wheeze, and he’s wearing a brown checked shirt with braces to hold up his trousers. “Welcome back. Congratulations on beating the peak hour traffic.”

“Why I prefer to come by chopper,” Cooper says.

“Ugh, don’t talk to me about those flying death traps.” The man seems to recognize Bell. “Hello again. Do you have another folder to deliver?”

Cooper gestures. “Gerry, you’ve already met Travis Bell, although you weren’t formally introduced, and this is Emma Lewis—they’re part of a new interview unit. Gerry leads the team here. He’s old, but he’s good.”

“I’m keeping that one for my epitaph,” the man jokes. The backs of his hands look weathered, but his palms and fingers are soft when he shakes Emma’s hand. “Gerry Westfall, Latent Prints. Welcome.”

“Thank you for seeing us on short notice,” Emma says.