Kate’s face brightened the way it always did when they had a lead.He wondered if she knew she did that.“Yeah?Tell me.”
He told her.When he finished, she grinned.“Outstanding.Let’s go talk to her.”
That was Kate.Easy to talk to, easy to communicate with, dedicated to her job, sometimes to a fault.Maybe that was why he was dwelling so much on thoughts of them together.Cheryl couldn’t understand what it was like to be an FBI agent, what that job required of him.Kate knew full well the toll the FBI had on both of them.
But Marcus also knew full well that exploring these feelings would only end in tragedy, not just for his marriage to Cheryl but also for his friendship with Kate.Some things just weren’t meant to be.
So, for the final time, he let his thoughts slide away and focused on bringing the latest minion of Elijah Cox to justice.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Dr.Hartwell’s office was located in a medical center in the West Side.While the West Side in general was the poorest of Chicago’s three “sides,” the medical center was located in a gentrified enclave of West Town, a community on the banks of the Chicago River that featured densely packed but well-maintained apartment buildings and boutique shops along with convenient access to Bloomingdale Trail Park, a three-mile-long walkway lined with trees, flowers, and grass to fool people into thinking they weren’t in one of the largest cities in the United States.
The medical center was in a large gabled stucco building that looked like it was supposed to be a replica of a dwarven castle from a fairy tale.It was painted a shade of tan that Kate thought of as Every Building Beige and had a parking lot that sported a collection of not-quite-new middle-class cars: Toyotas, Hyundais, and Kias with the occasional Buick parked in a reserved spot to indicate that it belonged to one of these sort-of-privileged doctors.
The receptionist at Hartwell’s office was a bright pixie of a girl, maybe nineteen or twenty, with short brown hair, an eager smile, and the palest skin Kate had ever seen on a human being, nearly whiter than the paper in the copier behind her.
“Good morning!”she announced.“Welcome!Did you have an appointment?”
“No,” Kate said.“We’re with the FBI.We need to speak to Dr.Hartwell about a couple of cases.”
The receptionist blinked.“Oh, gotcha.The Wilkerson case?”
Kate almost asked what the Wilkerson case was, but Marcus interrupted and saved them what was probably an unnecessary conversation.“I’m afraid we can’t talk about it.”He smiled apologetically.“It’s an ongoing case, so we’re not allowed to share information.”
“Right.”The girl winked at him, wiggled her shoulders, then got up and said, “I’ll go tell her you’re here.”Apparently, the office didn’t have an intercom.
“What was that?”Marcus asked.
“What was what?”
“The shoulder thing and the wink.”
“Oh.She’s clearly smitten with you.She’s hoping you’ll take the hint and run away with her.”
Marcus rolled her eyes.“Ha ha.”
Kate chuckled.“She probably thinks we’re here for that Wilkerson case, whatever it is.Probably something in the news.”
“Let’s hope it’s not another murder.”
“Fingers crossed.”
While they waited, Kate looked around the practice.It sported the usual collection of vinyl waiting room chairs and ancient issues of magazines no one read.The walls were decorated with pictures of Hartwell in various places: in court, speaking at a conference, accepting an award, featuring on the cover of a psychology journal that even fewer people read.
“Humble girl, Dr.Hartwell,” Marcus quipped.
The receptionist returned, bouncing like her feet were made of springs instead of flesh and bone.God, Kate missed being young.
Behind her came an older woman, beautiful, with long dark hair, full lips decorated with scarlet lipstick, big dark eyes, and high cheekbones.She wore a black sport coat and blouse and a pair of stiletto heels that emphasized the tone of her calves.Her skirt ended about halfway between her knees and hips and revealed equally toned thighs.
She gave them a pleasant smile.“Good morning.May I ask what this is about?”
“Could we talk in your office?”Kate asked.
The older woman—Hartwell, obviously—hesitated for the briefest of seconds, then said, “Sure.All right.”
She led them through the half door that separated the waiting room from the patient area, unusual for a psychology practice, but maybe this had been something else before she rented it.The receptionist gave Marcus another wink and shoulder-wiggle, and Kate amended her earlier opinion that the girl was just winking about the Wilkerson case.
