Page 5 of Fatal Pattern

“Just making sure you’re not planning any more psychological experiments with knife-wielding psychopaths.”

“We don’t call them psychopaths. They’re individuals with antisocial personality disorder. And I told you, the only reason I’m riding shotgun is so I can work.”

“Work?” He shot her another look. “You’re supposed to be filing a police report about your stalker.” Was this woman trying to give him an ulcer?

“I haven’t made it that far. I’m reviewing everything we know about Damien Sullivan before we walk into that prison.”

Blade couldn’t blame her for that. She had a lot riding on this trip. More than just catching a lead on her parents’ cold case. “Remind me again how you managed this trip as part of your research sabbatical?”

Her fingers paused on the keyboard. “The book I’m writing is on behavioral patterns in familial homicides. Part of that means consulting on active cases, gathering real-world data.”

“How exactly does interviewing Sullivan fit your research? He isn’t a family annihilator.”

“True, but Sullivan’s case is textbook workplace violence with underlying family dysfunction. Plus, if he can provide a connection to my parents’ case, I’ll have material for my chapter on perpetrator psychology in cold cases.” She closed the laptop and leaned back against the headrest. “The FDLE encourages field research. Keeps me sharp while I’m technically on academic leave.”

“Academic leave.” Blade shook his head. “Most people take sabbaticals to write poetry or learn French. You’re chasing down murderers.”

“Different people, different hobbies.”

“You know, I should turn this car around and haul you straight to the station.” He pointed at her bandage. “Document that knife wound with photos.”

“Ease up a little, Detective. I’m fine with the photos, but I can snap them myself.”

“I swear, woman.” He flicked a look at her. “You’re the reason I’m losing my hair. You know that, right?”

“That’s not my fault. You’ve been thinning since college. I just help the process.”

“Very funny. At least you admit you’re a walking disaster.”

“I prefer magnet for adventure.”

“Yeah, well, I’d prefer adventures that don’t involve knives at four thirty in the morning.”

She stuck her tongue out at him then smiled.

The jokes and easy conversation didn’t cool the rage simmering beneath his skin. A man had attacked Tori. Held a knife to her throat. One different angle, one deeper slice, and he’d have found her body cooling in that parking lot.

He took his eyes off the road for a second. “I’m sorry for what happened back there.”

She dismissed him with a wave of her hand and opened her laptop again. “Look, if you’ll stop yapping, I could actually fill out this report.”

Classic Tori deflection. Fine by him.

He reached over and flipped to a classic rock station. Guitar riffs cut through the car, drowning out the lecture he’d been building in his head about proper threat assessment and the wisdom of actually filing police reports before they became obituaries. The opening chords of a song from his middle school days drifted through the speakers. Since when was this song classic rock? He drummed his thumbs against the steering wheel, singing along under his breath.

“You’re getting all the words wrong,” Tori said, not looking up from her laptop.

“Am not.”

“It’s not ‘can’t find the pyramids.’ It’s ‘can’t find a better man.’”

He shrugged. “Pyramids make more sense. Who goes around looking for better men anyway?”

“Women who date cops?”

“Ouch.” He grinned. “That one stung.”

“I speak the truth.”