Page 96 of Fatal Pattern

She searched his face for recognition, for some flicker of the brother she’d never known. There was something. A tilt of his chin, maybe the shape of his jaw. But he didn’t look like what she’d imagined Nikos would become.

Edwards straightened in his chair. “Mr. Hoult, I’m Deputy Edwards with the Broward Sheriff’s Office. Before we begin, I need to read you your rights.”

Hoult’s trembling intensified as Edwards recited the Miranda warning. Tori watched his micro-expressions, cataloging each flinch and nervous swallow.

“Do you understand these rights as I’ve explained them to you?” Edwards finished.

Hoult stared at an empty spot on the floor. “I want a lawyer.”

Tori blinked. An amateur would have started talking immediately, either protesting innocence or trying to explain away evidence. Asking for counsel was a sophisticated move, the kind of decision made by someone who understood the system.

Edwards leaned back in his chair. “Interview terminated at 11:47 a.m.”

The uniformed officer stepped forward to escort Hoult back to his cell. As he stood, Hoult’s gaze found Tori’s across the table. For just a moment, something flickered in his expression. Recognition, maybe, or calculation.

Then he was gone.

Tori stood and paced the length of the interview room, her sneakers squeaking against the polished concrete floor.

“How can you be so calm?” she asked Edwards, who remained seated with his hands folded on the metal table.

Edwards shrugged. “I’m used to this dance. Twenty-three years on the job teaches you patience.” He glanced at his watch. “Schmitt will be back soon, and then we’ll see what story Hoult and his attorney cook up.”

“This waiting is killing me.”

“Why don’t you go get some coffee? Clear your head before round two.”

She shook her head. “No thanks. I don’t want to miss even one moment of this interview.”

Edwards raised an eyebrow. “Then get me one. Black.”

Tori gave him a look that could have melted steel, but she headed for the door anyway.

Blade intercepted her in the hallway and fell into step beside her. “That guy doesn’t look like a serial killer to me.”

“What exactly do you think serial killers look like?”

“I don’t know. More intimidating? Less like they’d blow away in a strong wind?”

“Ted Bundy was charming and handsome. Jeffrey Dahmer looked like an accountant. Dennis Rader was a church deacon.” She pushed through the double doors into the bullpen. “They don’t wear signs advertising their hobbies.”

Blade chuckled, wincing slightly. “My job would be a lot easier if they glowed in the dark or something.”

“Wouldn’t that be convenient.” She located the coffeepot and poured Edwards his black coffee. The bitter aroma cut through the stale air. “Unfortunately, monsters tend to look disappointingly ordinary.”

Blade’s hand touched her shoulder, stopping her midstride. “Hey. You doing okay with all this?”

Tori met his eyes and found genuine concern there, not the polite inquiry of a colleague but the worry of someone who’d seen her at her worst and stayed anyway. She’d been so focused on the case, the analysis, the professional distance that she’d forgotten someone actually cared about her well-being.

“Yeah, I’m good.”

“Really?”

“Really,” she said, meaning it this time. “Thanks for asking.”

She retraced her steps to the interview room, where Edwards accepted the coffee with a grateful nod. They settled into another stretch of waiting, the minutes crawling by with agonizing slowness.

After what felt like forever, the uniformed officer brought Hoult back in, followed by his attorney. A thin man in his fifties wearing a rumpled suit and carrying a battered briefcase. His gray hair stuck up at odd angles, and his tie hung slightly askew. Tori spotted what looked like salsa staining his khaki pants.