what brain abnormalities have to do with homicide.”
“So you were listening.” She squared off with him and began talking animatedly. “It’s the old ‘nature versus nurture’ debate. How is it that so many people can experience bad childhoods, but only some of them will engage in criminal activity as a result?”
“Not all criminals come from broken homes. Some serial killers came from loving families.”
“Exactly.” Her hands moved when she spoke, her body lit with passion. “Just like not all psychopaths become criminals. I’m trying to understand why we behave the way we do. Wouldn’t it be interesting to isolate a brain structure that predisposes a person to criminal activity? Then we might begin to truly understand the criminal mind. It doesn’t stop there. We may be able to identify physical characteristics of the brain that influence other behaviors, as well.”
He made a valiant effort not to roll his eyes. Hadn’t he seen some brand of similar optimism a thousand times? And each was equally grating. “Don’t tell me. You’re the kind who thinks it’s possible to know another person. To truly know and understand them.”
“Of course. To an extent.”
“What’s that mean?”
“I believe we operate within certain reasonably predictable parameters,” she said. “Our lives are comprised of stressors and responses. It’s my job to try to understand why individuals respond in a particular way to the stressors they encounter.”
“I’ll save you some time. I’ve worked in this job for long enough to know that you can never understand,” Gray said flatly. “You want to boil human behavior down to brain structure? People will surprise and disappoint you.” He shook his head. “No one knows who they are or what they’re capable of when tested. Not me, and not you.”
She stood in place, locking his hidden gaze with her own. Slowly, a smile worked at the corners of her lips, and she took a step forward, closing the space between them. “Anyway, Lieutenant, I promise I won’t distract you or anyone here from their work. I know how to make myself invisible. But while I’m here, I might be able to help you with this scene.”
Gray dragged his gaze across her figure again, making no attempt to hide his appraisal. She was long limbed, curvy and attractive, with high cheekbones and a gracefully arched nose. He had the utmost faith in the men and women who worked beneath him, but any woman who looked the way Mia did was going to present some kind of distraction. “I only allow law enforcement professionals at my scenes,” Gray said. “Stand right where you are, take a good look and then leave the way you came. I’m feeling generous, so I’ll give you five minutes.”
“Fine,” she said, to his surprise. “I’ll take what I can get.” She calmly snapped on a pair of latex gloves. “I may not have graduated the police academy, but I promise you I know how to behave around a dead body.” Her hands found her hips, and she faced him in a silent challenge. “With all due respect, Lieutenant, you’re blocking my view.”
He didn’t move, except to fold his arms across his chest. “What’s your interest in the Valentine case, anyway?”
In all the years Gray had worked with Lieutenant Mathieson, he’d never known him to work with profilers. In fact, Mathieson had referred to profilers with derision more than once, calling them charlatans and “tea-leaf readers.” Gray wanted to know how Mia had managed to convince Mathieson not only to allow her onto the Valentine case, but to put her on the list of persons to call anytime someone matching the profile of one of Valentine’s victims turned up. It was no small feat.
Mia grew quiet. “It happens to be a very personal matter for me.”
“Personal? How?”
This time, she didn’t flash a smile. “My sister was one of Valentine’s victims.”
* * *
Mia should have taken the pill, because her bones and viscera already trembled inside of her skin. Instead she’d nestled it in her pocket, full of good intentions. She’d take it if she needed it, but not a second sooner. Even more than the sometimes-crippling anxiety, she hated those pills and the way they clung to her esophagus, but sometimes she needed help functioning.
It’s not Lena, she thought, releasing her breath from the vise in her chest. She couldn’t have handled seeing that, and yet part of her desperately wanted the not knowing to end. That was the worst part about having a loved one go missing: not knowing whether she would one day pass Lena on the street or pick up the phone to hear her voice. Or open the front door to see police officers charged with delivering the worst possible news.
It’s not Lena.
Mia fingered the pill in her pocket, clutching it against a wad of lint. She hadn’t touched police work in the months since she was injured, and she couldn’t exactly say she missed it. Still, she felt its tug on her, perhaps from some need to bring order to her small corner of the universe or to feel useful again. Here I go, she thought wryly. Her illustrious return to normalcy, where normal meant poring over the handiwork of psychopaths in her spare time. She let the pill fall again to the bottom of her pocket and stared at the stiff body of the woman in front of her. Was this Lena’s fate, too?
“I’m sorry about your sister,” said Gray, his tone shifting to a place somewhere between near-warmth and not-unkindness. “What was her name?”
“Lena Perez. She was a grad student at Boston University. She vanished last August. Before you think I’m some serial killer groupie, I took no interest in Valentine before then. I started working on the case last summer when Lena went missing.” Eager to avoid elaborating, Mia cocked her head at him. “Look, I’m not here to contaminate your scene and create trouble. I’ll stick to five minutes if you’re serious about that, but can I at least walk around a bit?”
He was like a stone wall, filling up her line of vision with his broad shoulders and arrogance, but she saw him flinch as he considered the request, and then he stepped aside. “You can walk, but I’m going with you.”
How gallant. She stifled a groan and didn’t respond other than to shrug and finally step around him to examine the victim.
The woman was fully clothed in jean shorts and a novelty T-shirt. Her feet were bare, her toenails painted a dark pink. “She doesn’t look like she was dressed to go out. She may have been first attacked in her home,” Mia mused, mostly to herself. “Was she a student?”
“We don’t have an ID,” said Gray.
Poor girl. Mia traced her gaze over the sad figure. The woman’s eyes were filmy and stared into nothing. Mia pointed to a wilting bouquet of flowers nestled beside her left arm. “What’s with the flowers?”
“They were left with the body,” said Dr. McCarthy. “Red roses mixed with white carnations. What do you think—is Valentine back from vacation?”
Mia frowned, folding her arms across her chest. She’d memorized the Valentine files, spending hours studying the crime scene photos and autopsy reports. This scene was wrong.
She felt a gaze and looked up to see Gray watching her. “You don’t think so, Dr. Perez.”
When she’d first spotted him from the top of the embankment, she swore her heart had stopped. He was unexpected, standing like some marvelous Greek sculpture by the bank of the river, the fine, straight angles of his body incongruent with the ugly chaos over which he loomed. The morning was hot, but the blood in her cheeks ran still warmer at the intensity of his stare. If he weren’t so grouchy, she might have found him attractive.
“It’s all wrong,” she said, shaking her head. “The flowers, for one. It’s a cheap arrangement, something you’d buy from a grocery store. Valentine has never left bouquets like that.”
“There’s a first time for everything.”
“No.” The word flew from her lips on instinct, and she scrambled to produce a basis for that