Laurel winced. “Probably because smart girls think they can heal bad boys.” At least that’s what she’d learned by observing young adults in college when she’d just been thirteen. By the lifting of the doctor’s bushy eyebrows, his question had been rhetorical. “I think the best strategy would be to speak with both kids.”

“I was thinking that maybe, I mean with your connections, that you could perhaps conduct a background search? The FBI can get into anybody’s records, even a juvenile’s, right?” Dr. Ortega set his file atop the others and carefully patted it into place, not looking at her.

She waited until he did meet her gaze. “That would take a warrant, and we don’t have grounds for a warrant.” Surely the doctor wasn’t asking her to break the law or circumvent the judicial process. The man appeared to be ethical and accomplished at his job, but it was possible his concern for family was clouding his judgment. She could sympathize but wasn’t going to break procedure.

He flushed more deeply. “You’re right. Of course, you’re correct.” Standing, he gestured toward the door. “I hope we can forget this entire conversation.”

Laurel stood and scooted around the chair toward the exit. “I don’t forget anything, Dr. Ortega. But I will keep this confidential, if that’s what you meant.” She opened the door and walked out into the quiet hallway with its perfectly mopped tiles. “Thank you for the expedient results on the autopsy.”

He followed her. “Do you think this is a serial? I mean, with the symbolism of the black dahlias and such?”

“I don’t know yet.” But the ache in her solar plexus was one of instinct and experience, and everything inside her knew they had to find this killer and fast. She wouldn’t confirm the truth out loud, but even statistics told her that this was only the beginning, and he’d strike again.

Probably soon.

* * *

Back at her office, Laurel shed her coat and snowy outerwear before trudging past Kate, who was arguing with somebody on the phone about what sounded like more office equipment. She walked down the center aisle, stopping as a young man emerged from the makeshift computer room. “Hi.”

“Hi.” He held out a hand. “I’m Agent Nester Lewis. You must be Special Agent in Charge Laurel Snow.” His shake was brief and professional.

“Laurel. Please.” She studied him. He had to be around twenty-four, not much younger than she. He stood to about five nine or ten with a bald head, light brown eyes, an engaging smile, and russet-colored skin. For his first day on the job, he’d dressed in gray slacks, a cream-colored shirt, and a green silk tie. Then she looked beyond him to the room. “You managed to bring new computer equipment.” Although it was still perched on old doors set on cinder blocks.