Burn

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He looked a lot like the serial killer Ted Bundy, only older. Mid-forties, probably. Carver’s age. He had Bundy’s all-American, amiable features, complete with neatly arched eyebrows and small, chiseled nose turned up slightly at the tip; the same innocent blue eyes and a mouth always ready to smile, even when things were going bad. As they must be, or Joel Brant wouldn’t be in Carver’s office.

Brant sat down and raked his fingers through his dark, wavy hair, which was going gray at the temples. He was wearing pleated blue slacks and a gray sport coat over a white shirt without a tie. A thick silver neck chain winked in the light among dark chest hair where his collar parted.

“Morgan recommended you,” he said. He looked worried; the sincere blue eyes held secret pain.

“I know,” Carver said. “Vic called me about you.” Vic Morgan’s recommendation was the only reason Carver wanted to touch Brant’s problem. Morgan was a retired vice cop, and a more savvy judge of human nature than a roomful of psychologists. He believed Brant, which went a long way with Carver.

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