you’d react. Was he watching? Assessing my character? I hid behind the menu, avoiding his eyes. The waiter’s hands appeared, placing a Manhattan in front of me. I cleared my throat and waited for the hands to leave, ready to steer the conversation to more comfortable ground.
“Detective Stiles—”
“Call me Nick.”
Nick?
“Then call me Zoe.”
It’s okay, I told myself. There’s nothing wrong with first names between consenting adults.
Half his mouth grinned, pleased. My eyes darted away.
“Look, it was nice of you to ask me to dinner—”
“I’m glad you were able to join me. I usually grab a burger or a slice of pizza on the run. Alone. I’m still new around here, and my place is all the way out in Chester County. It’s beautiful, but isolated. So I don’t have much social life. Or much time for one, the way we’re working.”
He did look tired. Maybe even lonely. “Well, I appreciate your invitation. I don’t go out to dinner much, either.” I hadn’t planned to say that. “I mean, because of my little girl.” Or that.
“How old is she?”
“Almost six.”
“Six. First grade?”
“Kindergarten.”
He nodded. “You must be a great mom.”
Lord, I hated small talk. “She makes it easy; she’s a great kid.”
He tilted his head thoughtfully, pausing. Thank God, he was changing the subject. “So,” he began, “have you thought about what we discussed?”
I hesitated; he continued before I could answer.
“I understand if you’re worried about repercussions. Hey, I work in a bureaucracy, too; I know all about in-house politics. But don’t worry about that. Beverly and I have discussed your involvement.”
Dr. Gardener was “Beverly” now?
“She admires you quite a bit.”
“Really?” I hadn’t been aware that Beverly Gardener even knew who I was.
“Oh yes. She praised your work, said you were bright and talented. She went on about you at some length.”
I was uncomfortable, didn’t know what to say. I’d never exchanged as much as “Good morning” with the woman. When we’d passed at the Institute, she’d been intent on her own thoughts, never even made eye contact. How was it that she’d been able to go on about me at length?
“Beverly agrees that your input might prove valuable. So don’t worry about bureaucracy. You won’t be overstepping.” Overstepping? What was he talking about? Politics? Professional protocol? Would it be a problem for an Institute art therapist to help police unofficially on a case in which a hotshot Institute psychiatrist/profiler was officially consulting? Actually, I’d never considered the repercussions of that. I wasn’t sure I’d care about them, even if I had.
I swallowed some Manhattan. It wasn’t a bad drink, once you got past the initial sweetness. The cherry in my glass peered back at me like a bloodshot eyeball. Detective Stiles sat silently in the maddening manner of a detective waiting for a suspect to spill his guts. Finally, I began.
“Actually, Detective—”
“Nick,” he corrected.
“Nick. I’m not concerned about what Dr. Gardener or anyone at the Institute thinks about what I do. I make my own choices.”
“Good. Still, it’s better not to step on bureaucratic toes. Trust me.”
Trust him? Was he crazy? With those eyes? They looked at me but took in everything, the whole room, even the part behind his back. How could anyone trust a man with eyes like that? Or that crooked half smirk that somehow made him look both tough and vulnerable at the same time? I sipped my drink, unable to recall what I’d started to say—what was it again?
Nick continued. “Look, all I ask is that you review the profile Beverly’s created. She’s very insightful; I think you’ll be impressed. And her thoughts might stimulate yours. Just see what it brings to mind.”
I nodded. My lips had begun to ache, an effect of the cocktail. It was stronger than I’d expected. I shouldn’t be drinking while working, even unofficially. I bit on them to stop the throbbing.
“Are you nervous?”
“No. Why?”
“You’re biting your lip.”
“So?”
“So, it’s normal to be nervous. Getting involved in something like this can be tough. Even scary.”
I looked up. Was I ‘getting involved’? Had he intended a double meaning? Or was he still testing my reactions? Or was I drinking too much? “I’m not nervous. Actually, I can’t wait to read the profile.”
His half smile appeared again.
“So, when can you talk to Beverly?” He watched me, waiting for my response.
Talk to Beverly? “I didn’t realize I had to—”
“Well, it would be best if she went over it with you personally. Filled you in. And you should dialogue. You’re colleagues, after all.”
Beverly Gardener was hardly