Criminal Minds by Max Allan Collins Page A

blonde and perky, even for the late hour, and Jareau couldn’t help but remember her own teenage jobs back at East Allegheny High.
    Jareau swiftly scanned the menu on the wall behind the young girl. ‘‘Lemonade, medium.’’
    ‘‘Medium lemonade,’’ the girl said. ‘‘Anything else?’’
    Hotchner leaned in and twitched a smile. ‘‘Make that two.’’
    ‘‘Three,’’ Lorenzon said, making the Boy Scout sign.
    The girl got their drinks. Hotchner paid the bill, then joined Jareau and Lorenzon and their lemonades next to the SUV. Fitting, Jareau thought. We need to make lemonade out of the lemons Chief Oliver and DetectiveDenson have tossed our way. . . .
    Jareau gave Hotchner a look. ‘‘You’re not going to ask her if she was working the day the girls disappeared?’’
    Shaking his head, Hotchner said, ‘‘That would be crossing the line.’’
    After a quick sip of his drink, Lorenzon looked back toward the building. ‘‘I’m not FBI. I could ask her.’’
    ‘‘You’re working with us now,’’ Hotchner said. ‘‘That would constitute breaking the rules, as well.’’
    ‘‘What the hell,’’ Lorenzon said with a smile. ‘‘I’ll just bend ’em a little—they won’t break.’’
    ‘‘Not this time,’’ Hotchner said, easy but firm. ‘‘If we want to win Chief Oliver over to the side of a joint task force, going behind his back is not the way to get that done.’’
    ‘‘What do you call this ?’’ Lorenzon asked, gesturing to himself and them.
    ‘‘I call this,’’ Hotchner said, ‘‘three coworkers sharing a nonalcoholic drink at the end of a hard day.’’
    ‘‘ Riiight ,’’ Lorenzon said.
    Jareau watched as Hotchner sipped his lemonade through a straw, and for one brief moment she could imagine her stoic boss a young man standing on a beach like this, as human as the next guy or girl. But it was just one brief moment. . . .
    Hotch was slowly scanning the lake, then the beach, then the parking lot. A great deal of the lake’s perimeter was wooded. On the south and east sides businesses and houses lined the shore and up the west side were a small marina and more homes. The beach was large enough for a couple of hundred sunbathers as well as swimmers, Jet Ski enthusiasts and boaters. The parking lot was smallish, room for maybe fifty cars, tops. As the sun set and the shadows thickened, Jareau could have sworn she felt the killer somewhere out there. . . .
    As they loaded back into the SUV, Lorenzon asked, ‘‘So, what did we just do?’’
    ‘‘We learned,’’ Hotchner said.
    ‘‘Learned what?’’
    Shaking his head as he put on his seat belt, Hotchner said, ‘‘Not much.’’
    He started up the Tahoe.
    ‘‘But something ,’’ Jareau said.
    As they began the long trip back to the city, Hotchner said, ‘‘We learned there are something like one-hundred places our UnSub could have observed his prey from.’’
    ‘‘A hundred ?’’ Lorenzon asked.
    ‘‘Easily. With high-powered binoculars, he could have been anywhere around the perimeter of the lake.’’
    ‘‘And that tells us what?’’
    Hotchner drew in a breath. Let it out. ‘‘It may tell us he was particular. He was trolling for a specific kind of victim—he picked two girls who were at the lake that afternoon, unaccompanied girls. He might have watched all day waiting for just the right set of victims to satisfy his needs.’’
    Lorenzon asked, ‘‘What were his needs?’’
    ‘‘Not the normal needs of a serial killer, if the word ‘normal’ can be applied. Not sex, although obviously murderous rage. He was coolly seeking two young women like Janice Ott and Denise Naslund, the two young women Ted Bundy abducted from Lake Sammamish State Park.’’
    Lorenzon’s voice was hushed. ‘‘And he found them.’’
    ‘‘He found them.’’ Hotchner glanced at the detective. ‘‘The thing is, with Bundy, several people saw Janice Ott talking to a well-dressed young