Chapter 2

A man investigating other police officers would have access to information that others did not have. He would also have reasons to keep secrets. And, most importantly, he would not be directly involved in Miranda's investigation, which meant that any leaks coming from Irene would appear to be a coincidence, not interference.

He found it in the basement of the building, in a windowless office that smelled of stale coffee and damp paper. Castel was in his forties, graying black hair, and the posture of someone who had been burly before stress consumed him inside. He did not get up when she entered. She just watched, with eyes that Irene recognized immediately: they were those of someone who had learned to read lies rather than faces.

-Dr. Voss. He made a vague gesture to the chair in front of his desk. His message was dramatic. Do you always lie to get dates, or is it a recent skill?

Irene sat down crossing her legs, aware that the dress slipped a few inches above the knee. It was not accidental. Neither was keeping your back straight, shoulders back, looking direct. She knew how to present herself: professional but not unapproachable, attractive but not desperate to be seen.

"The victim was my patient," he said, omitting that the sessions had ended eight months ago. I have information that could be relevant to the killer's profile.

Castel took a sip of his coffee, watching it over the rim of the paper cup.

-Miranda Cruz's investigation is not public. Not even the media have details of the scene. So, either he has a source within law enforcement, or he is making guesses based on hallway rumors. He put down the glass. What is it?

-Third victim in four months. Women between twenty-eight and thirty-five years of age. All found in hotel rooms, all with ligatures suggesting prior consent or at least familiarity with bondage practices. And all with literary material in their bodies. Verses, paragraphs, fragments of novels. The murderer reads them as they die. Irene tilted her head slightly. That is not in any hallway rumor, detective.

Castel's silence lasted several seconds. Then he leaned forward, elbows on the table, and Irene noticed that his hands were large, knuckles protruding, a white scar on the left back.

-Impossible.

"Then I want you to tell me what you have in common, apart from the obvious. Because there is something, right? Something that they have not made public, something that connects them in a way that is not accidental.

Castel did not immediately respond. She studied her face with the same intensity with which she studied those of her subjects in profile. Irene allowed herself to study it in turn: the tense jaw, the way her thumb absentmindedly brushed the scar, the posture that tried to appear relaxed but betrayed vigilance.

-Why Internal Affairs? he asked at last. I could have gone to any Homicide detective.

"Because you won't tell me the truth, but you won't lie to me shamelessly either. The Homicide police protect their investigations. Those of Internal Affairs protect secrets. There is a difference.

A corner of Castel's mouth moved. It was not a smile, but it was close.

"The three victims," he said, lowering his voice, "were at the same social event, three weeks before the first death. An art gallery, private opening. It is not public because we do not want the killer to know that we know.

"And you were there?"

The question came out before Irene could restrain it. It was not professional, it was instinctive, the kind of jump I made when a skipper started to form.

Castel looked at her with something new in his eyes. It was not hostility. It was evaluation, but of a different kind. The two kinds of people use them when they suddenly are playing the same game.

-Why do you ask?

-Because he is looking at me as if I were a suspect, not a consultant. And because she has an invitation for that inauguration in the top drawer of her desk, partially visible from where I am sitting.

Castel did not look at the drawer. That confirmed Irene's assumption. Instead, he leaned back in his chair and for the first time let something resembling genuine interest cross his expression.

"Dr. Voss, do you know what your profile tells me?" That he is someone who enjoys being one step ahead too much. That confuses observation with intimacy. And that she is here not because she cares about those dead women, but because the killer contacted her and she does not know whether to feel threatened or flattered.

Irene felt the air in the room change weight. He did not move. He did not blink.

"And what does your profile say about me, detective?" Should I be afraid?

Castel finally got up, walked around the desk with deliberate slowness, and stopped beside her, close enough for her to smell her cologne: something woody, low-key, nothing like what she expected from an Internal Affairs policeman.

"He says," he murmured, leaning over so that his mouth was inches from his ear, "that I should decide whether he wants to catch the murderer or fuck him." Because if he is here for the cards, if he is playing the prey that becomes a hunter, he needs to know something: he knows it. And he is enjoying every second of his indecision.

Irene turned her head. His lips almost touched Castel's. Almost.

"And you?" he whispered. Are you enjoying it too?

"Your pulse is racing," he said, and it was not a medical observation, it was a statement of something they both knew. Seventy-two beats per minute, if I had to guess. Eighty if I tell you that I know she does not wear underwear under those stockings.

Irene did not blush. She was not the kind of woman who blushed. But he felt something change in his body, a quiet rearrangement of priorities. Danger, always danger, but now with a different texture.

"Are you investigating me, detective?" Or do you just have the habit of harassing the consultants who come to help?