“So he’s alone now,” Mira said. “Angry, displaced, and probably feeling very, very sorry for himself. A dangerous mix with a man of his emotional content. His ego has been severely attacked. He should be patting himself on the back now, lavishly. Instead things continue to go wrong—through no fault, in his mind, of his own. He has a very vaulted opinion of himself, so someone else must be to blame. He sacrificed his wife, his brother, both his lovers without a qualm. He has no capability for real emotion, real attachments.”
“Sociopathic?”
“Of a kind, yes. But it’s not simply that he has no conscience. It’s that he sees himself as above the behaviors, needs, attachments, rules of general society. An artist on one hand, a spy on the other. He’s wallowed in the thrill of these parts of him
self, preened on the pleasure of his own cleverness. He’s spoiled, and wants more. More money, more women, more adulation. He would have enjoyed the risk of killing. The planning stages, the idea of playing both ends for his own means.”
“Sparrow did the planning.”
“Yes, our organized thinker, but Bissel wouldn’t see it that way. He was the field operative, thinking on his feet and getting the job done. Adding his flourishes. In his capacity for the HSO, he was, basically, a delivery boy. This has given him the opportunity to show them, show everyone, how much more he is.”
“But if it had worked, no one would know.”
“He would know. He’d have fooled everyone, and he would know. Eventually, he’d have been compelled to share this with someone, to brag. He’d had Kade, his associates within the HSO, he’d had Sparrow. He could show his true face to these people. With them gone, he’d have to seek other outlets. Self-satisfaction wouldn’t hold him long.”
Gently, she brushed Eve’s hair back and treated the laceration on her temple. “Sparrow’s mistake was in not factoring in how much Bissel would enjoy the limelight, the thrill of killing and being a critical part of the plan.”
“Now that it’s all gone to hell?”
“Bissel will only have more to prove. He may go to ground, but he won’t stay there. In the past, his art fed that part of his ego that needed public acknowledgment, praise, admiration. That spotlight’s been taken, too. He needs a show. A platform.”
“If I make it public that he’s still alive, that he’s . . . the star, that would give him the show. He’d need to come out, wouldn’t he? Take a bow.”
“I believe he would. But with his violent tendencies, with his rapid descent into them, he’ll be dangerous. His killing pattern has escalated. The first, though the most brutal, was specific, and personal, and part of a blueprint already drawn for him. McCoy was more cruel, more cold, and orchestrated completely on his own. Powell took it beyond. This was a stranger. And the last—while his target was certainly the man he felt had ruined everything—injured a number of bystanders. They meant nothing to him. No one does but himself.”
She closed her bag. “I’m going to bring the chair back up now. You can get dressed. And have another cookie.”
Eve opened her eyes, looked down at herself. Cuts and bruises were covered with something pale gold that didn’t, in her opinion, look any better than the injuries themselves. But the aches had largely subsided.
“Feels better.”
“I imagine. I used topicals. An internal blocker would help, but we won’t push it.”
“Appreciate it.” She rose, began to dress. “I’ve got the technos on my team working on finding any bolt-holes, and I can continue to tie up his funds, making it tough for him to access anything. The only people I can figure he might go for, out of spite, are his wife and his mother-in-law, and they’re both tucked up. I’m going to let the media have his name as suspect, and enough of the circumstances to light a fire under him. I’m going to smoke him out.”
“It’ll be your fault then. He’ll panic first, but then he’ll try to find a way to punish you for upending the rest of his plans.”
“He’s stupid.” Eve buttoned her shirt. “He’s gotten this far largely on dumb luck. His luck’s about to change. I’ve got to get back, work a release through the media liaison. I want this one real official.”
“Could you sit down another moment?” To ensure she did, Mira sat herself. “Will you tell me what else is hurting you?”
“I think you hit all the hot spots.”
“I’m not talking about physical injuries. I know your face so well now. I know when you’ve exhausted yourself with work, and when there’s something more, something other that’s pushing you to the edge. You’ve worn yourself out. You’re hurt and you’re unhappy.”
“I can’t talk about it. Can’t,” she said before Mira could speak. “There’s a problem, and there’s no point in me telling you there isn’t. I don’t know if it can be fixed.”
“Everything can, one way or the other. Eve, whatever you tell me here stays here. In confidence. If I can help—”
“You can’t.” Despair worked its way to the surface and made her tone sharp. “You can’t help, you can’t fix it, and there’s no point in you saying things you think I want to hear to draw me out, or to put a damn topical on it. I’ve got work.”
“Wait.” Mira got to her feet as Eve did. “What does that mean—that I would say what I think you want to hear?”
“Nothing.” Eve dragged her hands through her hair. “Nothing. I’m in a pisser of a mood, that’s all.”
“I don’t think that’s all. We’ve had what I feel is a good, an important, personal rapport. If there’s something that’s interfering with that, I’d like to know.”
“Look, Dr. Mira, it’s your job to dig under, and to use whatever tools it takes. I appreciate the help you’ve given me, the personal help as well as on the job. Let’s let it go at that.”