Sacred Sins by Nora Roberts Page B

might find his aim off and slice his own. “We'll get one at the theater. There's enough time before the curtain.”
    “I'll get my coat.”

    H E seemed as familiar with the staff at the Roof Terrace as he'd been with those in the smoky little bar the night before. Tess watched the way he spoke to this one, greeted that one, the ease, the casual intimacy. So he wasn't a loner, she concluded, except when he chose to be.
    She admired someone who could be at ease with people, without worrying about impressions, opinions. To be that way you first had to be at ease with yourself. Somehow, as content as she was with her life-style, she'd never quite gotten there.
    Ben picked up his glass, stretched out his legs, and stared back at her. “Got me figured out yet?”
    “Not completely.” She picked up an almond from the bowl on the table and chewed it thoughtfully. “But I think you do. If more people understood themselves the way you do, I'd have to look for a different line of work.”

    “And you're very good at what you do.” He watched her choose another almond with long, slim fingers. An antique pearl gleamed dully on her right hand. “Class valedictorian,” he began, and watched her hand stop. “A private practice that's growing too fast for you to keep up with it. You just turned down an offer to join the psychiatric staff at Bethesda Naval, but you work once a week in the Donnerly Clinic in South East for no fee.”
    His mild rundown annoyed her. Tess was accustomed to knowing more about the people she associated with than they knew of her. “Do you always do background checks on a date, Detective?”
    “Habit,” he said easily. “You spoke about curiosity yourself last night. Senator Jonathan Writemore's your maternal grandfather, a little left of center, outspoken, charismatic, and tough as nails.”
    “He'll be pleased you said so.”
    “You lost your parents when you were fourteen. I'm sorry.” He lifted his drink again. “It's always hard to lose family.”
    She caught the tone, the empathy that told her he'd lost someone too. “My grandfather made a difference. I may not have recovered without him. How did you find out so much?”
    “Cops don't reveal a source. I read your profile.”
    She stiffened a bit, expecting criticism. “And?”
    “You feel our man's intelligent.”
    “Yes. Cunning. He leaves what he chooses behind, but no trail.”
    After a moment Ben nodded. “What you said made sense. I'm interested in how you came to the conclusions.”

    Tess took a sip of her drink before answering. She wouldn't ask herself why it was important she make him understand. It simply was. “I take facts, the pattern he leaves behind. You can see it's almost identical each time, he doesn't vary. I suppose in your business you call it an M.O.”
    He smiled a little as he nodded. “Yeah.”
    “The pattern forms a picture, a psychological picture. You're trained to look for clues, evidence, motives, and apprehend. I'm trained to look for reasons, causes, then to treat. To treat, Ben,” she repeated, meeting his eyes. “Not to judge.”
    He lifted a brow. “And you think that's what I'm doing?”
    “You want him,” she said simply.
    “Yeah, I want him. Off the streets and in a cage.”
    He crushed out a cigarette, slowly, methodically. It was a measure of control. But his hands were strong.
    “You want him punished. I understand that, even if I don't agree.”
    “You'd rather open his head and make him all better. Christ.” He tossed back his drink. “You don't want to let your heart bleed over a man like this.”
    “Compassion's part of my business,” she said tightly. “He's ill, desperately ill. If you read my profile, and understood it, you'd know what he does, he does in pain.”
    “He strangles women. If it hurts him to tie a knot around their necks, it doesn't make them any less dead. I've got compassion, Tess, for the families of those women I've had to talk to. I have to look at