CHAPTER 11
NATE HATED TRAVELING around the Point of Tacoma on I-5. Traffic through there was always the pits and passing the Tacoma Dome, a dull, ugly hump on the horizon, depressed him. He tried dialing Anita again and when he heard the standard voicemail pick up, he disconnected. Anita Graham had been a presenter at a conference he’d attended last year in Florida. She was a profiler, and the seminar she’d conducted had been interesting and convincing. Nate had cultivated her contact and consulted her three or four times, finding her guidance helpful and insightful. Except for the last time he’d called, a month ago.
His phone buzzed and he picked up the call. Anita, with her usual efficiency, offered no preamble. “Nate, how can I help?”
“Hello, Anita. I’ll be sending you more details,
