Monument to the Dead by Sheila Connolly Page B

than it took
     you.”
    “So the three people who have died all shared connections, past or present, with these
     three institutions, or with each other through secondary links.”
    “Have you talked to a profiler?” I had no idea if the local FBI office had a stable
     of such people, but I knew James had found one who specialized in arsonists and who
     had previously been extremely useful to us.
    “Since this is not an official investigation, I can’t go to them.” He got up and started
     pacing, although in his small place he couldn’t go far.
    “James, what would it take to convince the police to call it a murder?”
    “I don’t know!” It looked as though he wanted to punch a wall, but then he controlled
     himself and said less vehemently, “That’s the problem. I have nothing concrete that
     I can take to the police, or to my bosses, who could override the police. Everybody’s
     so damn budget-conscious these days that they won’t look at anything that doesn’t
     have a high probability of producing a solution—it has to look good in the Metro section.
     And even if everyone agreed that these deaths were somehow connected, we still don’t
     have a motive. Why would anyone want these particular people dead?”
    “I wish I could help,” I said softly.
    James stopped pacing and dropped back into his chair. “You already have, Nell. You
     put together information that we couldn’t. You let me blow off steam. You believe
     me, and you tell me I’m not imagining things.”
    “And I mean it. James, we—Shelby, Marty, and me—all agree with you that something
     hinky’s going on, we just can’t quite put a finger on it. But why now, all of a sudden?
     Was there some trigger, or a deadline?”
    “I don’t know! And I’m getting damn tired of saying that. Marty’s right—we don’t know
     who’s safe and who’s at risk.”
    Poor James—even with his years of FBI experience, he couldn’t figure this out. And
     if he couldn’t, who could? Together we had cobbled together a glimmer of . . . something.
     But people were dying, and we weren’t getting any closer to figuring out where to
     look next. Maybe sleeping on it would prod something to a higher level of our consciousness.
     Or maybe a distraction would jump-start our brains into working on the problem. A
     physical distraction, that had nothing to do with crime or society or museums. And
     I wasn’t thinking of a fast game of tennis.
    I stood up, walked deliberately around the table, and held out a hand. James looked
     up at me, confused, and when he took my hand I pulled him to his feet, and close to
     me. The man wasn’t dumb: he figured out pretty fast where I was going with this.
    We succeeded in distracting ourselves, or each other, for, oh, an hour or so. But
     who was counting? When I finally looked at my watch, I realized I had about thirteen
     minutes to catch my train. The alternative was showing up the next morning wearing
     the same clothes, which seemed a little tacky. Lucky men—no one cared if they wore
     the same necktie two days in a row, and it was easy to keep a clean shirt in a desk
     drawer.
    “I’ve got to go,” I whispered in James’s ear.
    “Maybe you should start keeping some clothes here,” he responded.
    “Maybe I will, in the future. But for now, we could both use some sleep. You know,
     to recharge the batteries and all that?”
    “I’ll drive you home. I don’t have to be in early tomorrow. Besides, you’re my consultant.
     I need to do some more consulting.”
    I didn’t argue.

CHAPTER 10
    James and I drove back to the city together in the morn ing. What would it be like to do this more often? I wasn’t sure. I valued my “alone”
     time on the train, where I could read the paper or a book, or just sit and think.
     Time alone with the leisure to think was a rare commodity in my life.
    At least I’d succeeded in cheering him up. The recharging part had been great, but
     the thinking part