“Okay,” he said, “we’re looking for a tall, skinny, soft-featured employee of the DOT whose wife died. That could work. Let’s go inside and talk to the manager.”

  The manager was a heavyset, middle-aged woman who made it clear with her stoic demeanor and the massive arms folded across her chest that she didn’t care who Michael and Faith were, this was her office, and she was in charge. Faith didn’t mind. She was terrible with those personalities, but the ever-charming Michael ate up people like that for breakfast.

  “Ma’am,” he said contritely, “I’m so sorry to interrupt your workday. I wouldn’t be talking to you if this wasn’t of the utmost urgency.”

  The woman kept her stout expression and irritated tone of voice, but by the way her shoulders rose and her facial muscles relaxed, Faith could tell that her ego was satiated by Michael’s subservient behavior.

  She sighed exaggeratedly and said, “Well, make it quick.”

  “I will,” Michael promised. “My partner and I are investigating some recent murders, and we suspect that one of your employees is responsible.”

  The older woman, whose name badge identified her as Darla, blinked, but her demeanor remained otherwise unchanged. “Who?”

  “We’re hoping you can tell us that,” he said. “My partner nearly caught him outside of your office. Special Agent Bold, would you mind describing the individual to Miss Darla?”

  Faith nodded. “Tall, six-foot-three or -four. 160 pounds. Shoulder-length, wavy, brown hair, bright blue eyes. Soft features, almost effeminate.”

  “Oh my God,” Darla said, eyes widening. Her hardboiled expression vanished, and her voice was thready when she spoke again. “Kevin.”

  Michael whipped out a notepad and pen as fast as an Old West outlaw drawing a pistol. “Kevin who?”

  “Kevin MacGregor,” Darla said, her hand raising to her mouth. “He was out on his lunch break an hour ago and never came back. I thought he was just taking an early day. He’s not the most reliable employee. I only keep him because the state requires me to keep rehabilitated felons.”

  Faith’s ears pricked up. “Felons?”

  “Yes,” she said. “It’s a program that gives felons job opportunities in civil service provided they meet certain conditions—”

  “What was his crime?” Michael asked.

  “He killed his wife.”

  Faith and Michael exchanged a look as Darla continued, “He was ruled not guilty by reason of insanity and remanded to a facility. He was released last year after serving five years and put here. He was flaky, like I said, and kind of quiet, but he never seemed violent, and … I hate to say it, but he was so skinny, I didn’t think he could hurt anyone.”

  “Do you have his address?” Michael asked.

  “Yes,” she said. “Not here. Um … it’s in the office.”

  “Lead the way.”

  They followed her through a crowd of curious visitors and utterly unconcerned employees to a small room in the back of the office. Darla maneuvered her way through cluttered stacks of papers and eased herself into a chair behind a far-too-small fiberboard desk. The computer, like the one at the gym where Antonio Delgado worked, was ancient. She pressed the power button and said, “It’s gonna take a few minutes to boot up. I’m sorry. They won’t give us a budget to upgrade. They want us to hire murderers, but they won’t give me a proper computer.”

  “It’s fine,” Faith said. “You mentioned he was flaky.”

  “Yeah, he … he leaves without asking for permission, shows up late, takes long breaks. Not enough to fire him, I guess. It’s hard as hell to get fired from a government job. I would fire him if I had my way, but it’s not up to me. I’m basically a glorified supervisor.”

  “Do you keep a record of his absences?”

  “Yes, I do. Do you need that?”

  Faith handed her a business card. “Email it to me. Do any dates in particular stand out to you?”

  “Umm, he left work early two days ago. Same thing, didn’t ask, left a stack of paperwork behind that I had to give to other workers to complete. People think we don’t care about deadlines here, but we do our best to keep up, you know? We don’t sit on our asses and forget to send people their tags and—”

  She continued to ramble while Faith and Michael exchanged another glance. Elmore Holland was murdered two nights ago. Faith wouldn’t be surprised to find that his other recent absences coincided with Katherine Navarro’s and Amanda Montgomery’s murders.

  Finally, the computer booted the login screen. “Here,” Darla said, “I’ll have his address in a moment.”

  She punched in some numbers, and Faith looked down at Turk. The dog stared intently at Darla, his tail switching back and forth in barely contained excitement. His confidence boosted Faith’s own confidence.

  You can run, Kevin, she thought, but you can’t hide.

  “Got it,” she said, “122 Baker Street, Unit B. That’s a few miles from here in the new projects they’re building by the old Union Pacific building.”

  “Thank you,” Michael said.

  “You’re welcome,” Darla said. Faith was surprised to see tears in her eyes. “I always knew something was wrong with him,” she said, not realizing the direct contrast to her earlier statement about him. “He always had those crazy eyes.”

  They left her, heading quickly to the car. On the way out, Michael said, “Well, I guess I owe you an apology.”

  “You owe me a lot,” she says, “and I will spend the rest of your life making you pay, but right now, we have a killer to catch.”

  “Fair enough,” he said. “Let’s go get the bad guy.”

  They reached the cruiser, and Michael immediately put his lights and sirens on. He radioed Travis and Derek on the way.

  “Come to bitch at us some more?” Travis answered grouchily.

  “We got him,” Michael said, “for real this time.”

  “You sure?” Travis said. “Because the last time you two said that you nearly got our asses fired and then had the gall to say we lied to our boss about you.”

  Faith bit back the urge to point out that what actually happened was nearly the opposite of what he claimed. “122 Baker Street, Unit B,” she said. “Kevin MacGregor. Killed his wife five years ago. Ruled insane, sent to a facility, rehabilitated last year. I ran into him outside of the DOT office on Broadmont. Turk recognized him, but he lost himself in the crowd.”

  “You let him get away?” Derek said incredulously.

  Faith bristled again, but this time, the detectives were right. “Not if we can get to him now,” she said.

  “Why the hell would he be home?” Derek asked. “If he knows you’re coming after him, wouldn’t home be the last place he goes?”

  Faith had enough of the second-guessing. “Goddammit, Derek, get your ass to 122 Baker Street. If you can’t, then let me know now so I can call your boss and ask him to send someone else.”

  She set the radio back on the hook and sighed. Michael lifted an eyebrow. “It’s good to see you confident again,” he said.

  “Thank you,” Faith replied with a smile. She did feel confident. It was very possible that Kevin wasn’t home, but she had a hunch he would be. He had nowhere else to go.

  You can run, but you can’t hide, she thought again.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Michael pulled the car up to Kevin’s house, and Faith took a deep breath. She felt confident, but also felt inordinately desperate for this to be their guy. She’d looked up his file on the way, and his mugshot showed a man who looked like the man Turk threatened on the street. There were, without question, similarities between the appearance she noted.

  The problem, she imagined, was that there was no real way to compare the quietly defiant expression in the mug shots with the terrified expression on the street. No way to know if the wide, wild eyes she saw were due to lingering insanity or simple fear. She stepped out and then let Turk out. He appeared disinterested, which didn’t encourage her. She would much rather have him agitated, aware of the man he threatened on the street.

  Of course, her theory presupposed the man wore the victims’ rings. After the near miss on the street, it was reasonable to believe he’d disposed of the rings or, at the least, hidden them away somewhere. If he had disposed of the ring, then she would have to hope that they could find some other form of proof besides Turk’s nose to use in court.

  She and Michael took a moment to survey the scene before they approached. Everything seemed quiet, and there were no signs of any activity inside the house. The only encouraging sign was a dilapidated, old pickup, a Mazda, Faith thought. She could only hope that car had been parked at the DOT office a few minutes prior.

  A few minutes later, an unmarked car pulled up kitty-corner to their car. The radio burbled, and Michael answered. “All right,” Travis’s voice said. “We’re here.”

  “Wait in the car,” Michael instructed. “If he runs, cut him off.”

  They stepped up to the door and knocked, and soon Kevin appeared in the doorway. He was calm and composed, but his eyes gave away his fear. He had obviously been expecting them. That was a good sign.

  Turk remained quiet and disinterested. That was very much not a good sign.

  He didn’t look like the man Faith saw on the street. That was a worse sign. He resembled that man superficially, but his features, although soft, were decidedly not effeminate, and his hair, though long, was not wavy.

  Still, she had only glimpsed the man on the street, too busy struggling to control Turk to pay close attention to him.

  "Can I help you?" Kevin asked, his voice tight with tension.

  Faith nodded. “Can we come in?”

  The man sighed. “You haven’t identified yourself. You have to identify yourself.”

  His voice was agitated, which could be a good sign or could simply be a natural reaction to the presence of two, armed law enforcement officers and a large German shepherd, “I’m Special Agent—” she began.

  Kevin interrupted. “Actually, it doesn’t matter. If you don’t have a warrant, we’re done here. Do you have a warrant? You need a warrant to speak to me.”

  “Did you learn how to be a lawyer in prison?” Michael asked.

  Faith knew Michael intended to goad him into a mistake, and for a moment, she thought it would work. The man’s hands curled into fists, and she saw his jaw tense, and he ground his teeth together. He recovered, though, and said in a tense voice, “Show me a warrant or get off my property.”

  Faith said, “A number of people have been killed in the area.”

  The man shook his head. “Oh, so now I’m responsible for all murders?” He chuckled bitterly. “Why not? Pin one on me, may as well pin all of them, right?” He offered another nervous laugh and lifted a trembling hand to scratch his forehead.

  “We’re not so sure you’re the poster child for rehabilitation you pretend to be,” Michael said, pushing a little harder.

  Again, Faith thought it would work. The man resisted, though. He said with what Faith believed to be herculean effort, “I can’t help you. I’ve told you I won’t talk to you, and without a warrant, you’re not coming in. I shouldn’t have to repeat myself.”

  “Did your wife make you repeat yourself?” Michael asked. “Is that why you killed her?”

  At this, the suspect flew into a rage, rushing at Michael until he was inches in front of his face. “How dare you?” he shouted, his face turning red. “How dare you?”

  Michael, his face perfectly calm, said casually, “Why so angry? Do you have a rage problem, Kevin?”

  The suspect’s self-restraint disappeared. He took a swing, which Michael anticipated, of course. A second later, he lay flat on his stomach on the concrete path in front of the porch. He shouted and struggled as Michael fastened the cuffs. “I didn’t kill my wife!” he shouted. “Goddammit, get off of me! You need a warrant!”

  She expected denial, of course, but not denial of the original murder. She didn’t expect the vehemence, either. More than anything, though, she didn’t expect Turk to stand placidly by as though nothing important occurred at all.

  The doubts she had suppressed earlier resurfaced in Faith’s mind. Michael looked questioningly at Turk, then at her. She met his eyes, and he must have guessed her doubt by her face, because his lips thinned grimly before he stood up, lifting Kevin.

  Kevin immediately tried to headbutt him, and Michael pushed him at arm’s length, slowly but surely dragging him down his porch steps. Around the corner, Faith could see Travis and Derek pull their car in front of Kevin’s house.

  “Let go of me!” Kevin shrieked. “Help! I’m being kidnapped! They’re taking me away! Help me!”

  The few neighbors who were home in the middle of the workday looked out their windows, but not surprisingly, no one wanted to help their crazy, wife-killer neighbor. He struggled and pulled on Michael, and when Michael transferred him to Travis, he wrenched free and started to run.

  Finally, Turk reacted, sprinting toward him and tackling him a few yards past his house. Kevin shrieked, and when he looked at Turk, Faith was encouraged to see the same wild, crazy expression she saw from the man on the street earlier.

  Maybe he was their guy. She could only hope so.

  Travis and Derek picked him up off of the ground, and Faith called Turk off. They dragged him, still screaming and struggling, and threw him into the back of their cruiser. Travis turned to the two agents and nodded. “Good collar,” he said.

  Michael and Faith nodded acknowledgment and headed to their own car. On the way to the station, Michael asked, “Are you still sure it’s him?”

  Faith took a breath and then said reluctantly. “No. I’m reasonably sure but not completely. Not anymore.”

  Michael sighed heavily but didn’t say anything. Faith felt a pang of hurt and guilt and silently prayed that she was right. If this turned out to be another waste of time, she doubted Michael would trust her again.

  ***

  Michael and Faith sat across from Kevin MacGregor, arms folded. Kevin had spent the first hour of his incarceration screaming and struggling, only calming when Derek threatened to have him sedated. The two police officers were behind the two-way mirror now, their two hours of questioning establishing nothing more than Kevin’s fervent insistence that they needed a warrant.

  He sniffled and once more said, “You don’t have a warrant. You need a warrant.”

  “No,” Michael said, “we don’t. You ran from my partner on the street when our K9 positively identified you as the murderer, and when we came to your house to talk to you, you assaulted me. Frankly, the assault is enough. We can keep you here indefinitely just for that.”

  That wasn’t true at all, but lying to suspects was an unfortunately common part of interrogation, especially with flight risks. If Kevin didn’t buy it, they could charge him with assault, but then it would become a long, drawn-out process involving attorneys and court dates and officially taking him into Tucson PD custody. If they could avoid that and get answers now, it could save them time and trouble. If Kevin turned out not to be their killer, it could save lives too.

  “I assaulted you because you tried to arrest me without a warrant!”

  “No,” Michael said, “we didn’t. We arrested you after you assaulted me. Now look, I’m a reasonable guy. I haven’t pressed charges yet, and I don’t have to. If you talk to us honestly now, then I don’t need to bring you up for assault on a FBI agent.”

  If he were in his right mind, Kevin would have easily understood that confessing to murder would land him in far more trouble than confessing to assault, but the more agitated he became, the clearer it was to Faith that he wasn’t in his right mind. She knew that often times, patients weren’t truly rehabilitated but managed to a state of compliance that would allow the facility to convincingly take them off of the public’s expense and free a bed for a private citizen whose families could be convinced to pay far more than the government would.

  And that’s how killers made it back to the streets.

  “I’ll take your silence as a sign you want to work with us,” Michael said, “which is just fantastic. To start, can you tell me where you were on the night of September eighteenth?”

  Kevin sniffled and stuck his lip out in a pout. “I was at home,” he said.

  “What time did you get home?” Michael asked.

  Kevin shrugged. “I don’t know, seven or eight.”

  “When did you leave work?”

  His eyes shifted. “My shift ended at five.”

  “Ah, but you left before then, didn’t you?”

  “No,” he said, wiping his nose. “I left at five.”

  “Really? That’s interesting. When I talked to Darla, she said you left hours earlier. In fact, she said you never came back from lunch. Now when would that break be? One? Two? That leaves six hours from the time you left work to the time you got home. What might you have been doing with your time?”

  “I don’t know,” Kevin said. He began to fold his arms over his chest and rock back and forth in his chair.

  “I think you do,” Michael continued. “I think you know exactly what you were doing. I think you went to Elmore Holland’s place and stabbed him to death, then stole his wedding ring.”

  Kevin shook his head from side to side in an almost childish manner. “Nope,” he said. “No, I didn’t. No sir.”

  “Hmm,” Michael said. “How about the night of the fourteenth? What were you doing then?”

  “I was home,” he said. “Got there at five-thirty, right after my shift.”

  Faith checked her email. Darla had sent Kevin’s attendance record as asked. She showed the record to Michael, and Michael shook his head. He lifted his hand and let it drop. “Kevin, why are you lying to me? You know we talked to your boss.”

  “No,” he said, shaking his head. “No, no, no.”

  “Yes, yes, yes,” Michael said, “and what do you know? You left early again, this time even earlier. Eleven a.m. So, let’s say you’re telling me the truth, and you got home at five-thirty. Once more, that’s six hours plus unaccounted for. It’s also the night Amanda Montgomery was killed in her bathroom. Her wedding ring was stolen too. You like rings, Kevin.”