understanding of the man and his intentions. To do that, she would search her recordings for subtle nuances, crucial words she’d missed before, anything that would identify his intended victim.
She retrieved the tape recorder from the center section of the carry-on, then turned the bag over. A bullet had pierced the outside pocket. She dug inside, her heart pounding. Only one of the three tapes had survived undamaged. She peered at the label, breathing a sigh of relief when she saw the tape was of their latest session, the one she considered to be the most critical.
Sitting cross-legged on the bed, she inserted the tape, then put on the headphones and hit the play button.
She heard herself say, “You seem very agitated today, Andy. Do you want to tell me why?”
There was a noticeable pause on the tape.
“Did something happen?” she prodded.
After a while, he muttered, “Should have been a perfect MIOG op. Instead, megascrewup.”
“What are you talking about?”
He mumbled, “Research is the key. Most of the time.”
Even though she had had no idea what he meant, she’d said, “Go on. Tell me what went wrong.”
“IPO was a bad choice. Who knew?”
“I don’t understand. Can you talk more plainly?”
A long silence followed her request. “You might be sorry you asked.”
“I won’t be.”
She recalled uttering those words with complete confidence, unaware that he would soon shock her.
“Nobody stops me from getting what’s mine.”
“Is that what somebody did?”
“Oh, yeah.”
She remembered his fists clenching and had the first inkling that rage was fueling his agitation. “So what will your response be?”
“I like that blouse you’re wearing. The color suits you.”
“Thanks, but you’re trying to change the subject.”
He let out a low chuckle. “Is that what I’m doing?”
“Tell me what you intend to do about this problem person of yours.”
“Why do you assume I’m going to do anything?”
“Because turning the other cheek isn’t your style.”
“You think?”
“I think I’m not in the mood for games. If you don’t want to be open with me, then it’s time for you to leave.”
“But I’ve only been here for ten minutes,” he objected.
“I see no point in wasting more of my time. The choice is yours.”
He had looked disconcerted by her ultimatum, but she’d grown sick of sessions that went nowhere. Andy Forrester wasn’t the only agent who gave her the runaround.
“What’s your decision?” she asked. “Are you willing to discuss the situation with me?”
“No reason to. I’ve already figured out a permanent fix to the problem.”
Even now, the memory of his sly smile sent a shiver up her spine.
“What do you mean?”
He had stared at her, his eyes as devoid of humanity as those of a snake.
Suddenly, she had known Andy Forrester posed an imminent threat to an unknown party.
“Who’s on the receiving end of your ‘permanent fix'?” she demanded.
“You don’t need to worry about that.”
“Tell me who it is.”
The tape reproduced his theatrical sigh. “I’m just making an observation, doc. No need to get all worked up.”
“I think we need to consider why you’re so angry and find a way to—”
A piercing wail had made further conversation impossible. The fire alarm.
Later, she’d learned there was no fire, that some prankster had pulled the alarm. But by then the damage had been done. Forrester had refused to continue the session. However, his “permanent fix” remark coupled with his cold eyes and sly smile had her believing him capable of violence, possibly murder. So she’d arranged for him to be taken to Ridsdale for a full assessment.
She rewound the tape and played it again, this time cranking up the volume and stopping at intervals throughout their conversation. Forrester’s references to “MIOG op” and “IPO” remained unfathomable, but her anxiety deepened. A would-be killer wouldn’t take kindly to her interference.
Had Forrester been the shooter last night? Gene believed the man wanted to harm her, and Brent clearly thought Forrester was responsible for the bullets that had smashed through her window, but she still wasn’t convinced.
During their first session, Forrester had openly admitted that after growing up in foster care, he had joined the FBI because he wanted respect. Then he’d asked her what she thought was fair compensation for risking his life. She hadn’t known how to answer him, but the question had prompted her to delve deeper into his priorities since it was apparent the financial aspect of the job had not lived up to his expectations.
Money was a recurring issue with him. One bitter childhood memory was of his third foster mother stealing his paper route money. He had contemplated pouring drain opener in her drink, but fear of her boyfriend’s rock-hard fists had stopped him from doing it. Forrester might kill if he felt cheated out of money, but not because she’d sent him to Ridsdale for a few days. The outburst to the nurse had been angry venting, not proof of deadly intent toward her.
Of course, her opinion would have to change if physical evidence linked him to the crime scene that encompassed her house.
A tantalizing smell redirected her thoughts to her immediate surroundings. Was that coffee? Brent must be awake. She could use a cup. Or three. But to get to the coffee, she’d have to see Brent, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to do that just yet. Following his revelations the night before, he’d clammed up, then stalked off to his room.
She’d made her way to the other bedroom, the one that had been Sanderson’s. Even though she was exhausted, she’d had trouble falling asleep, her mind filled with unanswered questions and images, many of them involving her cabinmate.
The unwelcome attraction she felt continued to baffle her. And her late-night sensual fantasies starring Brent had to be a manifestation of stress. She certainly wasn’t going to have hot, grinding sex with him to relieve it. If the symptoms persisted, she would try a different solution. Like a career change.
She checked her watch. 9:04 a.m. She’d
