Free Criminal Minds by Max Allan Collins Page A

Denson, is there somewhere more private we could talk?’’
    He said, ‘‘No.’’
    She removed the smile. ‘‘All right. Then why don’t we meet with you and your chief, and then you can make your decision. I left a message about this on the chief’s phone, before we flew out—he may be expecting us.’’
    Denson stared at her with something approaching open contempt. She was not used to having a man look at her that way—an attractive woman with considerable diplomatic skills, Jareau had to work not to be taken aback.
    Denson was saying, ‘‘You want to get to my chief because you think he’ll be easier to deal with? Well, good luck.’’
    ‘‘That’s not it at all, Detective.’’
    ‘‘Isn’t it?’’ the detective snapped. ‘‘Let’s see. Come along.’’
    He returned to the short gate and went through, stopped and looked back.
    The trio hadn’t moved.
    ‘‘You coming?’’ Denson asked.
    Jareau turned to Hotchner, asked the question with her eyes, and her supervisor nodded.
    She led the way, Hotchner and Lorenzon close behind as they followed Denson across the bullpen and through a door leading to a short corridor.
    The bald detective led them to the last door on the right, a corner office. The sign on the door said CHIEF LEONARD OLIVER.
    Denson knocked, opened it and, as he entered, said, ‘‘Chief, FBI’s here.’’
    ‘‘What do they want?’’
    ‘‘They want to talk to you. I don’t seem to be able to satisfy them. Supposedly they called ahead, left a message.’’
    Jareau didn’t wait for the exchange to go any further, and came on through the door.
    The office was good-size, the desk on their left in front of a wide window overlooking the parking lot on the building’s east side. Two chairs sat in front of the desk. Various diplomas and other framed citations filled most of the walls, and some framed family photos sat on the desktop, but no decorative touches asserted themselves in this no-nonsense office. Jareau was not a profiler herself, but she didn’t have to be one to know that this stark space reflected the personality of its tenant.
    Behind the desk sat the chief, his hands flat on the desk, his face a blank mask. The brown hair on his blocky head was parted, laser straight. His eyes were dark blue and clear and moved little as he took in his guests, a doll’s eyes. His mouth formed a thin line and he had the pallor common to gamblers and bureaucrats.
    Jareau watched with interest as the chief’s eyes met Hotchner’s, the two men immediately starting to size each other up.
    Though her sense of time had slowed, Jareau knew only seconds had passed before the chief rose and stretched his hand across his desk to Hotchner.
    ‘‘Leonard Oliver,’’ their apparently reluctant host said. ‘‘Chief here in Wauconda.’’
    Shaking Oliver’s hand, Hotchner introduced himself, Jareau and Lorenzon, the latter having stayed mute through all of this so far. When the ceremonies were over, Oliver offered them each a chair, getting Denson to have two brought in for Lorenzon and himself. Denson’s chair ended up next to Oliver’s desk, separating him from the others. Soon they were all seated.
    ‘‘What can I do for you?’’ Oliver asked, his smile perfunctory.
    Sitting forward, Hotchner said, ‘‘We were hoping we could do something for you.’’
    ‘‘Really,’’ Oliver said, still smiling, though his tone wasn’t.
    Before Hotchner could say anything, Denson jumped in. ‘‘They want to take credit for solving the murders of the two girls we found in the preserve.’’
    ‘‘Is that so?’’ Oliver asked.
    Hotchner said, ‘‘Have you already solved this case, Chief Oliver?’’
    ‘‘No. Of course not.’’
    ‘‘Then perhaps Detective Denson could explain how it is we’re taking credit for something that hasn’t happened yet.’’
    Not liking where this was heading, Jareau smiled and spoke up. ‘‘Chief Oliver, if I might? I’m the police