the country, training other FBI agents to profile criminals as well as promoting your new book. But why are you in New York?”
“To help work out kinks in the bureau’s new, state-of-the-art computer software,” he explained.
“Could you tell us more?”
“Sure. Our new computer software is called Quick Composite. As I mentioned, profilers assemble facts about possible suspects, imagining how the criminal thinks and feels. Now, with Quick Composite, the FBI will be able to input that information into computers and generate pictures of suspects.”
“Pictures?”
He nodded. “Very similar to photographs. We’ll know what the criminal might look like when we find him. Or her. As we work, we deduce facts about the suspect—such as gender and race. Height and weight. Hair and eye color. Now, as we input those facts into Quick Composite, a computer will produce a picture.”
“Like a police artist’s sketch?”
“Exactly, Kate. Except this is more sophisticated. The image is more accurate and of photographic quality.”
“Amazing,” said Kate dreamily, as if captivated. “Do you really think a picture of a suspect—one generated by inputting facts about a crime—might be identical to that of a real criminal when you catch him?”
“Or her,” Oliver added. “And yes. Absolutely. Our computer-generated pictures should resemble the mug shots when we arrest criminals. It sounds amazing, but new technology is emerging all the time.”
Kate’s eyebrows knitted. “But how does using new technology fit with your desire to solve crimes the old-fashioned way?”
He chuckled, as if to say she had a point. “It doesn’t, Kate. I’m of the old school. And I’m here in New York to play devil’s advocate with the team creating the Quick Composite software. My job’s to point out whatever the new technology misses.”
“And then?”
He sounded relieved. “I’m going home to Quantico.”
“Where your personal life is as intriguing as your professional one?”
Oliver shook his head. “Believe me,” he joked, “I get enough excitement at the office. It’s my younger sister, Anna, whose personal life sizzles. She lives here in New York City, and she’s a statistician for…” He paused to build anticipation. “The Sex Files.”
“The Sex Files?” the viewer whispered.
The annual report of fun statistics about North Americans’ erotic behavior was being advertised all over Manhattan—on the sides of city buses and in the subway. Scheduled for its usual Christmas release, the magazine-style booklet was fashioned to look like a red-and-green file folder and was the perfect stocking stuffer.
“Can you give our audience a sneak preview?” urged Kate.
“It’s top secret. I can only say that this is the best Sex Files yet, and you should plan to race out and get your copy.”
As she watched him plug his little sister’s work instead of his own, the viewer’s heart missed a beat. “Family values,” she whispered. “A good sign.” He might be work obsessed, but he seemed to possess integrity.
“Well,” said Kate, wrapping up, “next time you join us on Rise and Shine, I want you to do us a big favor.”
“Anything for you, Kate.”
Kate grinned. “I want you to take the statistics from the Sex Files—all the facts about the most erotic behaviors in North America—and run the information through the FBI’s new Quick Composite software.”
Catching her drift, Oliver chuckled. “I see. You want me to generate photographs, showing what the sexiest man and woman would look like—if they existed?” Before Kate could respond, he continued. “I’ll be glad to, Kate, but before saying goodbye to our audience, I’d like to add that I usually find women the way I solve crimes.”
When Oliver Vargo looked into the camera, the blond woman shivered again, and for the first time since last night, it wasn’t from fear, but from the man’s dark, penetrating gaze. Her belly clenched and her body tingled. “I’d love to see the effect you have on women in real life,” she whispered. Even though he was on TV, her erogenous zones ached. If only her reaction to him could be as simple as raw lust…
For a second, she indulged the feeling, forgetting her troubles. No one had tried to kill her. She could go home and to work and use her bank and credit cards. She was wearing clothes that fit, too. Clothes she now imagined Oliver Vargo removing….
“I find women the way I solve crimes,” he repeated, then added, “the old-fashioned way.”
Did he mean he enjoyed missionary-style sex? Or taking a woman from behind? Or just cuddling, holding hands and kissing?
She shook her head to clear the thoughts. No doubt anything sexual with the man would be great, but at the moment, she had other needs. Even if she didn’t totally trust him, she was going to have to ask for his help.
“OH, C’MON, Big Brother,” Anna Vargo begged the next day at noon, seating herself on Oliver’s desk and digging a hand into an Au Bon Pain bag, pulling out two sandwiches. “Kate Olsen’s idea was inspired! All I want you to do is run the Sex Files statistics through your Quick Composite software.”
Oliver groaned, staring at the computer screen, which was running a list of the country’s most wanted criminals. “I’m working.”
“Be a sport,” she coaxed, unperturbed by his lack of immediate compliance. “I brought ham and Gouda on rye with hot mustard.” She waggled the sandwich in front of him. “Your favorite. And a double mochaccino. Besides, if you don’t help me, I’ll call Mom and Dad and tattle.”
“They’re in Utah. Besides, bribery’s illegal,” he retorted, taking the sandwich and unwrapping it. “You seem to forget you’re talking to an FBI agent.”
“Yeah, right. One I’ve seen in house slippers.”
As he bit into the sandwich, she flashed a smile, her teeth as straight and white as her brother’s. She had his black, wavy hair, too, although she dressed more stylishly, wearing trendy, thick-framed, black glasses and a tailored, front-zippered black leather jacket with black jeans. Oliver was wearing wide-waled corduroys and a white shirt.
He said, “I don’t own house slippers, Anna.”
“I was speaking metaphorically,” she quipped, taking a healthy bite of her own sandwich and washing it down with a gulp of latte. “That’s the problem with law enforcers, you know,” she chided. “You have no imagination. You’re too literal.”
“We have imaginations,” Oliver countered, pretending to be wounded even though his dark eyes were sparkling.
“Oh, really?” Anna didn’t look convinced as she glanced through a glassed-in window of her brother’s office at a sea of open-concept cubicles. “Gray was an inspired choice. All you G-men are regular Martha Stewarts.”
“My
