“Okay,” Zoe said distractedly, trying to organize the folders in her hands.

“Do you have a name, or do I need a higher security clearance to know it?” Tatum asked.

“I’m Zoe,” she said. “Zoe Bentley.”

CHAPTER 3

Tatum gave Zoe a cursory look. At first, he only noticed her angular nose and the way she wrinkled it in irritation when he asked what her name was. But then she raised her face and looked straight at him, and he almost took a step back. Her eyes were light green and intense. He felt like she could look into his brain and pick at his thoughts as if browsing a bookstore. The nose and eyes together almost gave the impression of a bird of prey, but the effect was broken by a sweet, delicate mouth. Her hair was cut just above her shoulders, and a few strands were in her face, the result of their collision. She tossed her head back in a careless manner he found quite charming, removed the offending hairs from her eyes, and smiled thinly at him.

“Well, it was nice meeting you, Tatum,” she said and turned to leave.

“Hang on,” he said. “Can you tell me where Chief”—it took him a moment to recall the name—“Mancuso’s office is?”

She glanced down the corridor. “Three doors down,” she said.

“Are you a part of the BAU?” he asked.

“I’m a consultant,” she said, and he could almost hear the defensiveness in her tone. Her eyes narrowed, as if she expected a snide remark.

“Oh, right.” He recalled someone telling him about her. “You’re the psychologist from Boston.”

“That’s me,” she said. “And you’re the agent from LA.”

“Yeah,” he said, surprised. “You know about me?”

“There was an email yesterday,” Zoe said. “Please welcome Agent Tatum Gray, assigned to us from the field office in LA, and so on and so forth.”

“Oh, right,” Tatum said again and smiled. This woman made him feel distinctly uncomfortable. “Well . . . see you around, Zoe.”

She strode on, carrying her heavy-looking folders. Tatum stared after her, momentarily entranced. Then he realized he was standing in the corridor, essentially watching a woman’s ass as she walked away from him. He quickly turned around, went to Chief Mancuso’s door, and knocked on it.

“Yeah?”

He opened the door. Christine Mancuso, the new unit chief, sat behind her desk, framed by a huge aquarium in the back of the room. He had asked around about Mancuso. She had quite a record in the Boston field office. After managing the task force on a very public kidnapping case, she had been promoted to unit chief in the BAU. There was a lot of resentment about this. The assistant section chief had wanted to promote someone from within the unit but had apparently been ordered to assign Mancuso instead, and she’d immediately begun changing protocols and assignments. Even worse, she’d brought in a civilian as a consultant.

“Chief Mancuso?” he said. “I’m Tatum Gray.”

“Come in,” she said and gestured at the chair in front of her. Tatum closed the door and sat down. He found his eyes were repeatedly drawn to the beauty mark by the chief’s lips.

“So . . .” she said, opening a folder on her desk. “Special Agent Gray, from the Los Angeles field office.”

“That’s me,” he said, smiling.

“Recently promoted after the successful conclusion of a yearlong pedophile ring case.” The way she emphasized the word “successful” made it sound less than successful—almost unsuccessful, in fact, which Tatum resented.

“Just doing my job.”

“Did you? Your chief didn’t see it in the exact same light. And I see there’s a possible pending internal affairs investigation . . .” She flipped a page and appeared to read it, though Tatum guessed she knew it well. He felt a sliver of rage growing in his gut.

She put down the folder. “Let’s lay our cards on the table. You were promoted because this was a high-profile case.”

“Must sound familiar.”

She tensed up.

Nice work, Tatum. Less than five minutes, and your superior already hates you.

“But it wasn’t really a promotion,” Mancuso continued, her voice steely. “They just wanted you out of there, somewhere you can’t do much harm. Behind a desk in the BAU, looking at pictures of crime scenes.”

Tatum said nothing. Mancuso was right. This was essentially what they’d told him behind closed doors when they’d “promoted” him.

“And you were assigned to me,” she continued, “because I’m the new unit chief, and it’s fun to mess with me.”

He shrugged. He didn’t bother with upper-management politics and couldn’t care less where Mancuso stood in the pecking order.

“I’m not going to let you sit behind a desk and look at crime scenes,” Mancuso said. “That would be a waste.”

Tatum said nothing, unsure of where this was going.

Mancuso pushed another folder toward him. He leaned forward, picked it up, and opened it. The top image was of a girl standing on a wooden bridge above a stream, staring at the water, her eyes vacant. Her skin seemed strange, pallid.

“This is Monique Silva, a prostitute from Chicago,” Mancuso said. “She was found dead in Humboldt Park a week ago. As you can see, she’s posed as if she’s staring at the water.”