As they followed Wilson's car on the SUV, Brock noticed Russell tried to find a way to say something. So it was another comment about Gillian. It was as if Russell had just pressed a red button, the way Brock felt all of his defenses building up in wait for an attack, while his mind automatically started searching for any reason—Gillian-related if possible—to sulk. So he pulled the reins hard on himself and wondered why. Why did he want to be mad at her twenty-four/seven? What had she done that was so terrible and offensive to earn it? Her ways were no longer a valid answer, because he knew them all too well. And he'd also learned they were some sort of mask she needed to wear, in order to keep everybody at a safe distant—does it ring a bell, Brockner?
So why the hell did he fall for it every time? It didn't make any sense. Yeah, it was awkward, having her around. He realized it was all about what had happened at his apartment. And what he'd dreamed just the night before. He'd never been in that kind of situation at work. But it wasn't enough to justify his attitude. Not only did it make the job so hard to pull, being so busy sulking all the time. It also lacked even the most twisted logic.
Just a while earlier he was enjoying himself like a child in Christmas, following her way to go around things, exploring what she already knew to understand what she didn't know, in that apparently hazardous bouncing which, for him, was not only clear, but plain brilliant. And it was something he'd felt every single time they'd worked together.
Russell there by his side would never understand it. Not even now that he was a profiler. Not even being so close to her. The link that sparkled alive between them when it came to approach a subject's psyche. The avid way she demanded him to feed her mind. The gratification of seeing her come to the right conclusion every time. The pull of their shared passion. The disturbing awareness of reading and understanding each other like they did.
So when Russell finally spoke, Brock didn't even flinch.
"Brock, you and Reg, back at the station...," he said, still hesitating.
"Yes?"
"What was that about? I mean, how..." Russell trailed off and shrugged, sensing he was treading on thin ice.
Brock replied as if commenting on the weather. "I was just getting back at her 'cause she had me theorizing about impersonal killers for a mile."
Russell scoffed. "Getting back? Jeez, you guys..." He seemed full of ellipsis, so Brock raised his eyebrows for him to go on. He shook his head. "Don't tell me you didn't enjoy your getting back at her. And Reg... Man, the harder you went on her... she looked like a kid on a merry-go-round. Really, you guys share a weird sense of humor."
"Don't worry about your friend, Coleman. You know she's a hound who loves the thrill of the chase. And I don't have a sense of humor."
Russell was hardly able to chuckle instead of laughing out loud.
At the station, Aldana made a list on the board with all the references she'd found about the subject's location. Then she looked for the oldest officer from the staff, to see if he could help her put all those hints together and identify which part of town was the subject talking about. She'd also asked Ron and Hank to go over the chat logs again, in case she'd missed anything. Fred and Gillian worked on their tablets, checking the security feeds from the restaurants where the subject had taken Christie Reynolds and Sylvia Jones.
"I've got'im," said Fred. He paused the video to hand the tablet to Gillian. "He's sitting with his back to the camera, but at least I was right about him being blond."
Gillian put her own tablet aside to watch what Fred had found. She played it for a couple of minutes and nodded with a grimace. "He's aware of the location of all the cameras. There's no clear shot of his face."
"Did you find him?"
"No, not yet."
Aldana came back with an officer and stayed with him by the board.
"Guys," said Hank then. "He's got at least two more phone numbers. We need to warn these women."
"Call them," said Gillian.
A few minutes later, she spotted Sylvia Jones on the feed she was checking. She compared her with the picture they had, to be sure, and kept watching. Soon she handed her tablet to Fred with a wink, already producing her phone. Ron and Hank came closer to see what she'd found.
Tanya picked up right away and Gillian put the girl on speaker. "T, go to the feed from last night."
"Ready," the girl replied.
"Now take camera number... three, and go to eight-seventeen p.m."
"There."
"See the couple heading to the door? That's Sylvia Jones with the subject. Now be my son's master and get us the face reflected on the glass door."
"On my hacker's honor. Call you back."
Ron asked Fred to zoom in the frozen image. "He's at least 6'5.And the face on the reflection looks a lot like the profile pictures he uses."
"Even though he didn't expose his face online, he wanted women to have an idea of what he looked like," said Gillian.
"Gosh, you make it sound like he's really looking for a good fit."
"He is, Hank. Too bad he's such a nutjob and nobody wants to see him again."
At the supermarket, Wilson went straight to look for the security guards, to ask for their feeds. Russell asked the techs to give them a moment, and he and Brock inspected the abandoned car.
Brock found a paper napkin fallen under the passenger seat. "Another restaurant," he said.
Russell's phone buzzed and he took the call on speaker. "Ron?"
"Russ, no overlaps on credit card charges from the restaurants. The prints found in Reynolds' car are not in the system. But Reg just found an image that may work to run facial recognition, as soon as T's done enhancing it. And we think he lives in the North Deering area. We're trying to narrow it down."
"Great. Keep us up."
Russell disconnected and frowned, sniffing the air. "D'you smell it, Brock? His cologne still lingers, even after a week."
Brock sniffed and frowned too. "Reminds me of my father's aftershave. It's not what a young man would choose." He noticed Russell's questioning look—say it, Brockner: Gillian would've gotten it right away. "His mother must've liked it."
"Oh, I see. He uses what Mommy liked."
There was nothing more in the car, so they let the techs resume their work. Wilson joined them a few steps away, saying they would have the feeds in a couple of hours. The Detective's phone rang then.
He took the call turning his back on them, but they anyway heard him say, "Gillian?"
They traded a questioning frown. And Brock made a mental note to give Gillian a cold shower, too. On second thought, he'd better had Miles do it. Then Wilson said, "Sure, you instruct them."
At the same time, Russell got Aldana's call. "Russ, T just identified the subject. Stephen Trent, twenty-five, and he lives in North Deering. I'm texting you the address. Meet us there."