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Authors: Max Allan Collins
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screw up?’’
Rossi said, ‘‘No, sir. No . . .’’
‘‘Should I have taken what Addie said more seriously, about someone watching her? I screwed up, didn’t I?’’
Gently, Rossi touched the father’s sleeve. ‘‘No. You didn’t. Let go of that thought. It’s no good.’’
Andrews swallowed again, and nodded. ‘‘But I can’t help but blame myself, Mr. Rossi.’’
‘‘We’re going to find the one to blame, Mr. Andrews,’’ Rossi said firmly. ‘‘And it’s not you.’’
As the four men stood in a loose semicircle, a short, heavyset woman in a blue T-shirt, jeans and tennis shoes emerged from around the house. The blue T-shirt was emblazoned with a white cross next to which the words St. Vincent’s Parents Association were printed. The woman’s blonde hair was trimmed short.
Reid could easily see the resemblance between mother and deceased daughter.
‘‘This is Doris,’’ Andrews said. ‘‘My wife.’’
She gave them a wan smile. She still seemed shell-shocked from the loss of her daughter, even though months had passed.
Reid also knew that the haunted look would probably never go away, not entirely. He had seen it far too many times in his relatively short tenure with the BAU. Parents never got over the loss of a child. Not really.
They asked her the same questions they had posed to her husband. She, too, shook her head when asked if she had seen anyone watching the neighborhood; she, too, commented that her daughter had accused her parents of watching her and Benny.
Frustrated, Reid turned to Rossi who shrugged. They would get the police to canvass the neighborhood again, but so much time had passed that they would be incredibly lucky if anyone remembered anything.
‘‘I’m sorry,’’ Andrews said. ‘‘It looks like we’ve let you down. And if we’ve let you down, we’ve let Addie down.’’
Rossi jumped in. ‘‘I know it’s natural to blame yourselves. You have to understand, you didn’t have anything to do with what happened to your daughter.’’
Andrews nodded, but it was clear he didn’t believe Rossi. His wife merely appeared dazed.
Reid looked at Rossi and wondered what had gotten into the longtime profiler. Those supportive words were what Reid would have expected from the compassionate Jason Gideon, not the more professionally impersonal David Rossi.
The three of them were about to climb into the SUV and leave what was left of this family to their grief when Mrs. Andrews said, as if to herself, ‘‘What about the gray car?’’
They all turned to her.
‘‘Pardon?’’ Rossi asked.
‘‘The gray car,’’ she said. ‘‘I remember seeing it last spring, before the . . . before what happened. I thought we were getting a new neighbor, I saw that gray car so much. I saw it around the neighborhood and in the park, oh, three or four times.’’
‘‘What kind of car?’’ Tovar asked.
She shrugged. ‘‘I don’t know cars. Four doors, boxy, gray. That’s all I remember.’’
Rossi asked, ‘‘When did you see it last?’’
‘‘After what happened . . . the car stopped coming around. I just never saw it again. Or at least I didn’t notice it.’’
Rossi turned to Tovar. ‘‘Let’s see if we can get tape from any security camera within a five-mile radius. Go back to a month before the crime.’’
‘‘That’s going to be a lot of security video,’’ Tovar said.
‘‘I hope so,’’ Rossi said. ‘‘The more video we have, the better chance that someone caught this car on screen.’’
Mrs. Andrews, vaguely apologetic, said, ‘‘It might not be anything.’’
Rossi nodded. ‘‘That’s true. Or, you might have seen the assailant stalking the neighborhood.’’
Mrs. Andrews looked stricken. ‘‘You mean . . . I could have saved her. . . .’’
‘‘No! You had no way to know. What’s suspicious about a gray car? And that’s the way he wanted it. This is a predator we’re dealing with. He’s made
Rossi said, ‘‘No, sir. No . . .’’
‘‘Should I have taken what Addie said more seriously, about someone watching her? I screwed up, didn’t I?’’
Gently, Rossi touched the father’s sleeve. ‘‘No. You didn’t. Let go of that thought. It’s no good.’’
Andrews swallowed again, and nodded. ‘‘But I can’t help but blame myself, Mr. Rossi.’’
‘‘We’re going to find the one to blame, Mr. Andrews,’’ Rossi said firmly. ‘‘And it’s not you.’’
As the four men stood in a loose semicircle, a short, heavyset woman in a blue T-shirt, jeans and tennis shoes emerged from around the house. The blue T-shirt was emblazoned with a white cross next to which the words St. Vincent’s Parents Association were printed. The woman’s blonde hair was trimmed short.
Reid could easily see the resemblance between mother and deceased daughter.
‘‘This is Doris,’’ Andrews said. ‘‘My wife.’’
She gave them a wan smile. She still seemed shell-shocked from the loss of her daughter, even though months had passed.
Reid also knew that the haunted look would probably never go away, not entirely. He had seen it far too many times in his relatively short tenure with the BAU. Parents never got over the loss of a child. Not really.
They asked her the same questions they had posed to her husband. She, too, shook her head when asked if she had seen anyone watching the neighborhood; she, too, commented that her daughter had accused her parents of watching her and Benny.
Frustrated, Reid turned to Rossi who shrugged. They would get the police to canvass the neighborhood again, but so much time had passed that they would be incredibly lucky if anyone remembered anything.
‘‘I’m sorry,’’ Andrews said. ‘‘It looks like we’ve let you down. And if we’ve let you down, we’ve let Addie down.’’
Rossi jumped in. ‘‘I know it’s natural to blame yourselves. You have to understand, you didn’t have anything to do with what happened to your daughter.’’
Andrews nodded, but it was clear he didn’t believe Rossi. His wife merely appeared dazed.
Reid looked at Rossi and wondered what had gotten into the longtime profiler. Those supportive words were what Reid would have expected from the compassionate Jason Gideon, not the more professionally impersonal David Rossi.
The three of them were about to climb into the SUV and leave what was left of this family to their grief when Mrs. Andrews said, as if to herself, ‘‘What about the gray car?’’
They all turned to her.
‘‘Pardon?’’ Rossi asked.
‘‘The gray car,’’ she said. ‘‘I remember seeing it last spring, before the . . . before what happened. I thought we were getting a new neighbor, I saw that gray car so much. I saw it around the neighborhood and in the park, oh, three or four times.’’
‘‘What kind of car?’’ Tovar asked.
She shrugged. ‘‘I don’t know cars. Four doors, boxy, gray. That’s all I remember.’’
Rossi asked, ‘‘When did you see it last?’’
‘‘After what happened . . . the car stopped coming around. I just never saw it again. Or at least I didn’t notice it.’’
Rossi turned to Tovar. ‘‘Let’s see if we can get tape from any security camera within a five-mile radius. Go back to a month before the crime.’’
‘‘That’s going to be a lot of security video,’’ Tovar said.
‘‘I hope so,’’ Rossi said. ‘‘The more video we have, the better chance that someone caught this car on screen.’’
Mrs. Andrews, vaguely apologetic, said, ‘‘It might not be anything.’’
Rossi nodded. ‘‘That’s true. Or, you might have seen the assailant stalking the neighborhood.’’
Mrs. Andrews looked stricken. ‘‘You mean . . . I could have saved her. . . .’’
‘‘No! You had no way to know. What’s suspicious about a gray car? And that’s the way he wanted it. This is a predator we’re dealing with. He’s made
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