

Three

Card

Monte

A Jack Chamberlain Novel

By James F. Timmins

Harbor Beam Publications

Titles in the Jack Chamberlain Series

By James F. Timmins

Three Card Monte

Marketable

HomeGrown

Executive Princess - Fall 2017

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This is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Three Card Monte © Copyright 2016 Rev4, © Copyright 2016 Rev3, © Copyright 2015 Rev2, © Copyright 2011 by James F. Timmins. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without permission from the publisher is unlawful piracy and theft of the author's intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the author at www.harborbeam.com

Published in the United States of America

Cover design by James F. Timmins

Graphic design by Lindsay Remington

Editing Rory James

ISBN:9781448675142

This novel is dedicated to my children Leah, Devin, Rebecca, and Jack who are the most important people in my life. They keep me strong and bring light to my life always.

Prologue

He sat with his back to the wall taking long, slow breaths of the cold night air. He could see her across the street through the thin curtains, sitting, reading some meaningless work of fiction, no doubt. He had found her one day as she sat reading in a coffee shop. She wasn't wearing any make-up, dressed in dull earth tones, with hair up in one of those nasty buns women wear. She did wear a pair of square framed glasses, and he noticed that she often looked over the top of them, reminding him of his eighth-grade teacher whom he had a crush on when he was in school. He used to practically drool watching Mrs. Greer as she sat on the edge of her desk. She would teach lessons on Chaucer and Shakespeare, perched with her bare legs crossed, looking over the top of her glasses at the class. His intended victim had a similar body type and mannerisms, but was not nearly as alluring to the man as the teacher had been to the boy. He had decided then that this young woman who reminded him of his first crush, would be his first victim.

Her name was Vanessa and she was married to a man who worked late most nights, much like this night. She would often wait up for him to get home, mostly reading and occasionally watching television. He was a stock trader in the Asian market and by the looks of the place he had done OK. She got up, went to the kitchen, then returned with a glass of wine, closed her eyes after a short sip, and leaned back in the chair.

It was time. He opened the case on the floor by the window and began to assemble the HR Precision Pro Series 2000 HRT Sniper Rifle. It had 3 rounds of magnum caliber bullets and he had no fear of the 30-yard distance or the damage they would do. He looked at his watch and it was 12:01 a.m., April 4th. He lined her up in his crosshairs. Sorry, Honey, it's a necessity.
1

Monday. Why would anyone like Mondays? Sure, the occasional holiday for some long-ago President or Flag Day or whatever, other than that, they were a drag. I rolled over and hit the snooze button on the alarm, which would give me an extra nine minutes of precious sleep. I set the alarm eighteen minutes before I actually needed to get up because I'm a sucker for the snooze alarm. I kicked off the covers, got out of bed, shuffled to the kitchen, and pressed brew on my drip coffee maker, then headed to fulfill my morning ritual of the three S's. Shit, shower, and shave; in that order. Once I was dressed, I opened the refrigerator and poured a glass of OJ as the rich aroma drifted up from the carafe. After downing the juice, I poured a nice hot cup of black coffee, which burned the back of my throat, but that's the way I liked it.

I enjoyed my bachelor status and the apartment reflected the lack of a feminine touch. It wasn't that it was dirty, as I am reasonably neat, each room devoid of clutter, everything placed where I wanted it. I did collect artwork and my tastes varied but my prize possession was a gilded **Tie-Guan-Yin statue** of the Asian Iron Goddess of Mercy. She stood alone in a corner with an ornate wood carving depicting the feeding of a dragon as a backdrop behind her. The living room furnishings were stylish but masculine, consisting of a soft black leather chair and sofa, a glass coffee table, and an oak bookcase filled with works of fiction and textbooks. An oriental area rug given to me by my late grandmother, partially covered a light yellow-pine hardwood floor. Every room was neat, organized, and just the way I liked it.

I enjoyed the company of women and dated occasionally. My last relationship was filled with crazy intense sex and just as intense arguing. It wasn't long before we agreed the relationship was like oil and water. Since then, I had not met anyone that appealed to me once the night's passion was through.

I was out the door and down the stairs at 7:30 a.m. As I waited for my partner to pick me up, I did a few morning stretches. A Ford F150, painted in black primer with oversized mud tires, pulled to the curb in front of me. My partners' truck sat higher than most street vehicles providing a good field of vision, but was a little conspicuous. This truck was not one that you could hide in a crowd. The inside was clean but lived in, with worn black rubber mats and dark grey leather seats that were rubbed smooth in spots.

"Hey, Claire," I said as I looked down at the McDonald's Egg McMuffin wrapper on the floor by the stick shift, "littering in the city gets you a five hundred dollar fine."

"Fuck you, Jack," she said with a smile as she popped the last morsel into her mouth.

I climbed in and she punched the gas as we sped out into traffic. She preferred to drive and her truck had a three fifty under the hood and plenty of muscle for the city streets. Not many cops rode around the city in a beat-up truck, so it gave us some obscurity.

Clarita Sanchez's parents were Mexican immigrants and had insisted on Americanizing their children's names. Hence, Clarita became Claire. She was a tough young cop; small, wiry and a hell of a shot. She'd never drawn her gun as far as I knew, but at the range she was dead on, besting the SWAT team's top marksmen. When she and I were first assigned together, I had serious reservations. I wasn't sure I could work with this little spitfire, but she had proven to be a great partner. She normally dressed in baggy sweat pants or jeans and sneakers. She wore tees, sweat shirts, and occasionally a sweater that always hid her figure. Her long curly hair was usually tucked into a Boston Red Sox baseball cap. Once I had bumped into her in Old Orchard Beach as she made her way onto the pier, and she had looked pretty good in a tank top and shorts with her hair let down.

We talked briefly about the weekend, but most of the drive downtown was made in silence. That was fine with me as my conversation skills didn't really kick in until I had more coffee. As soon as we reached the station, I grabbed my travel mug for a much needed refill. Today someone had drained the coffee without making another pot. Mondays.

Captain Jonathan Spacey called me into his office. I hadn't decided yet if I cared much for old Jonathan, even after several years of working for him. He was fair enough, but he could be an arrogant jerk. Maybe that was part of what they taught you at Captain School, Prick 101. Didn't matter much really, except it was still Monday, the coffee needed to brew, and it was too early to figure out what kind of day it was for Captain Jonathan.

"Good Morning, Captain," I said with all the pleasantness I could muster.

"Hey, Jack," he said without offering me a seat, which usually meant I was headed somewhere. He was wearing a pinstripe suit, which for a cop meant you weren't on the streets, a red power tie, and a kerchief in his pocket. Shit, I didn't even own a kerchief. I did notice that his shoes were not as glistening as they usually were.

"Shoeshine stand not open today, Captain?" I asked as I leaned on the door jam.

"Always the wise ass."

"It's Monday and I haven't met my morning quota of coffee," I replied.

"I need you and Claire over at 10 Neal Street. There's been a shooting. A thirty-four-year-old female was taken out through a window from across the street. Patrolmen have sealed the crime scene. Let me know what you get." With this he basically pushed me out as he shut his door.

I motioned for Claire to follow me and we headed for the crime scene.

The apartment building was an old brownstone in what normally was a quiet residential section of the city, but today it was a zoo. The print reporters were lined up and the local television crews were there along with a handful of rubberneckers. Yellow crime scene tape was strung around the building's threshold. An officer named Guillian met us at the curb and pointed up to the 5th floor window and I noticed tiny pieces of glass sprinkled on the sidewalk beneath it. This area had also been taped off. Officer Guillian nodded toward the door and we proceeded inside and up the stairs. He waited until we were out of earshot of the reporters before he gave us a rundown of the situation at hand.

"Victim's name is Vanessa Willis," he began. "Age 34, worked mornings over at Cookies 'n Crème." We entered the elevator and he pushed number 5. "She lived on the fifth floor with her husband, Fred Willis, age 36. He works odd hours for a German company that trades in Asian stock, Klausse and Wallace, at 100 Congress Street. He's here now, though he's pretty messed up."

We exited the elevator and entered the apartment immediately to the right. Nice place, lots of old wood moulding and hardwood floors with an oriental style area rug. The furniture in the main room looked comfortable and matched the red, blue, and gold print of the rug. My impression was they were middle class on the rise, based largely on the size of the home theatre system, which I knew I couldn't afford.

The victim still sat in an antique rocker, which looked like it was a family heirloom. There was not much left of the back of her head as the exiting bullet had taken a large section of her skull with it. Her face was covered in blood. I noticed a blood splattered photo of her on a reading table beside the rocker. She was sitting on the grass with a man I assumed was Mr. Willis, and I noted that although plain, she was attractive. There was a brass floor lamp beside the rocker that was still turned on and a copy of "Diana, An Autobiography" next to her. There were tiny glass fragments on the floor reflecting off the morning sun like small diamonds. The hole in the window was dime sized, small cracks extending like fingers outward from the center. The bullet that had taken out Mrs. Willis had passed through her and ended up in the stud behind the painted sheet rocked wall. I squatted in front of the bullet and looked back toward the hole in the window. According to the trajectory, it appeared that the shot came from the sixth floor apartment across the street, but a bullet can change trajectory after hitting something, just ask JFK.

Officer Guillian was trailing me like a puppy. "Anybody check out the 6th floor across the street?" I asked.

"Yeah, Officer Wright is over there now. He is guarding the apartment that the 3rd, 4th, and 5th windows belong to," he said as he turned back a page in his notes. "The apartment belongs to Jason and Martha Headleton. Both have been out of town since Saturday, according to the neighbor across the hall, a Mrs. Warner, widow, 72, and resident busy body. There were signs of a break-in around the lock. Wright is keeping watch over the place for you."

"Ok, where is Mr. Willis?"

"In the bedroom, first door on the right. Like I said, he's not doing well."

"Don't imagine he is." I looked over at Sanchez and nodded toward the hall that led to the bedroom. She made her way through the forensic team and knocked on the door. Boom, a gunshot echoed through the corridor as everyone dove for the ground. I looked over at Sanchez as she sat with her gun drawn and her back against the wall beside the door. I drew my gun and barreled into the door and rolled right. I could hear Sanchez moving behind me going left. Laying before us in a complete bloody mess was Mr. Willis. He had taken a shotgun and nearly decapitated himself.

"Son of a bitch, Guillian. Why was this guy in here alone? Whose bright fucking idea was that?" I yelled as I stood.

Guillian quickly came in the room with his gun drawn and looked at the scene wide eyed, "Shit."

"Shit. I guess so. Son of a bitch."

"Man, I just left him when I heard you arrive. He was upset but..."

"But what? His wife is out there dead, her brains scattered around the room, and you leave him alone." I felt Sanchez put her hand on my arm. I was working myself up into a rage and she knew it. I took a deep breath, then another. It wasn't much better but I no longer felt like shooting Guillian.

"There were 5 cops in here and the door was open when I left."

"Enough," I said as I made my way toward the door. "Check out what time this guy left his office on the odd chance he was the shooter." I motioned to Sanchez to follow.

Officer Wright was still standing guard at the door when we arrived at the sixth floor apartment. "Hello, Detective. What's all the excitement across the street?"

"Husband just checked himself out with a shotgun," I said as I let myself into the apartment.

"Ain't that a bitch! Think he killed her?"

"Not if the shot came from here. What would be the point?"

"I see what you mean. Where do you want me?"

"Stay right where you are. Has anyone entered the apartment?" I asked as I looked around the tidy living room off the entranceway.

"No, you're the first."

Sanchez followed me in, shut the door behind her, and we began to check out the apartment. She knew how I liked to work and had developed a similar style. Maybe I was her mentor, though it had never been put that way. I stood in the center of the room and took it all in. Decorated with a rustic theme, it could easily have been a house on Sebago Lake if not for the view. Pine bookcases were filled with a mixture of classic and modern novels, the furniture was mostly made of wood, and there was a small round card table by the window with several chairs that had woven seats like my grandmother used to have. One of the chairs had been moved off to the side away from the window, presumably to give the shooter room.

I got down on my hands and knees to look across the hardwood floor. It had rained yesterday and as I had hoped, there were slight footprints leading to the window. Obviously the shooter had not bothered to wipe his feet at the door. I pointed them out to Sanchez indicating with a motion not to step near them.

"We're going to need a CSI unit to lift some shoe prints off the floor," she said on her cell. "Yeah, fingerprints too, hopefully."

I slowly scanned the entire floor and saw only the prints leading to the window. "Prints don't lead back to the door," I said to Sanchez.

"Where did he go? Did he jump out?"

"No, it's locked on the inside. How long do you think it would take for his shoes to dry as he sat here?" I asked as I kneeled 4 feet from where the footsteps ended in front of the window.

"Hard to say. It would depend on how wet they were."

"Half hour tops, I think. The prints near the window are lighter than the first steps in."

"What do you have, Jack?" I heard over my shoulder recognizing the voice of CSI agent Fritz von Gretchen. He was in his mid-forties and we had worked more than a few crime scenes together. He was good and didn't miss a thing and responsible, in a large part, for how I looked over a crime scene. I had learned a lot of techniques from him and his predecessor Agent Walsh. Their first case together had involved what appeared to be a murder-suicide. Fritz had found a strand of synthetic fabric on the rug that lead to an arrest for double murder.

"Shoe prints size 10 ½ or 11, maybe Cabala's by the pattern." I indicated with a wave in the direction of the prints. "Sanchez, can you look over the rest of the place? I don't think he went anywhere else, but check it out. Especially the bathroom, maybe we can get lucky and our perp had a weak bladder."

Fritz was laying out what he needed to lift the prints when I asked, "Time of death on Mrs. Willis?"

"Around eleven p.m., give or take an hour, judging by the body temperature and the temperature in the room. I understand the husband got home around 6:00 a.m. Some kind of Asian Stock crisis."

"I wouldn't know, I still keep my money in the freezer," I said as I examined the sill. "After you lift the shoe print can you dust the window before I open it?"

"Someday maybe you'll realize I know what I'm doing and don't need a director. So while you and Claire are snooping around don't contaminate anything before I get to it. Don't touch anything!"

Sanchez returned to the room. "Everything is spotless in the rest of the house, especially the bathroom."

I looked up at her, "Especially?" I got up and went into the bathroom to see what "especially" meant. I'm a single male and I have never seen an especially clean bathroom, although for this one immaculate would have been my word. I looked across the floor moving my head slowly to see if I could find any telltale droplets, but couldn't see any.

"What are you looking for?" asked Sanchez squatting beside me.

"Have you ever known a man that didn't miss on the shake part?"

"Is that when you get pee all over the place?"

"Yeah, it happens either at the end or at the beginning, but never during. But the perp definitely used the toilet."

"How can you tell?"

"The toilet seat is up. We always leave the seat up. Genetics, I think. This is a married couple's home so most likely the seat should be down. Ever nag a man about leaving the seat up, or do you urinate standing up?"

"Fuck you, Jack," she said with that cute little smirk of hers. "Maybe a cleaning lady cleaned up the place after they left for vacation?"

"No. Then the seat definitely would have been down."

I gave the sink a once-over and it looked wiped clean. I doubted that Fritz would find any prints, but would ask anyway. We walked out to the main room just as he finished dusting the window and casing.

"Clean, Jack. Although I did find this smudge. My guess made by a leather glove," said Fritz.

I asked him to go through the bathroom as I donned a pair of rubber gloves. When I opened the window, a piece of paper fell from where it had been stuck to the bottom of the sash.

Sanchez picked it up and said as she handed it to me, "You can put the time of death at just after midnight." The note was made up of numbers cut from a magazine and glued to the paper, which read in small font today's date, 4/4.

2

It had been a couple of weeks since the Willis murder-suicide and so far, everything led to dead ends. The shoes were men's, size 11 Cabala's, which were the second most popular size in the city. They estimated 10,000 pairs were walking around the Portland, Maine, area. Well that certainly narrowed it down! No prints or urine samples were found and Fritz, as thorough as ever, had dusted the whole place. Jason and Martha Headleton were contacted and had been vacationing on a Carnival Cruise in the Caribbean for a 10-day trip. They had arrived home a couple of days after the shootings and were questioned, but it didn't help the investigation.

I spent the next couple of days reviewing Sanchez's and my notes. There was also the forensic evidence and interviews conducted by the boys in blue. The slug came up negative in FBI and Interpol database searches and nothing else jumped out at me. I was sure that the shooter had used the bathroom, but it had come up clean. Maybe he was one of those assholes you see that doesn't wash his hands after they pee. I conducted secondary interviews on the Headletons, the nosy neighbor, and a few other residents from the two buildings, but came up empty.

The only real lead we had was the note. It wasn't much, more disturbing than anything; kind of like a calling card. Why would you leave a calling card at a murder? It was a game for whoever had done this. I had a gut feeling it would happen again. I searched the databases of the city, state, and FBI for any similar cases where someone had left a note behind. Most were confessions of some rambling lunatic, but none matched our simple, cutout date. What game was he playing, and what did it have to do with Mrs. Willis? Was it revenge or maybe a crime of passion? Our first focus had to be on her, and figuring out why she had been targeted. I knew that if this ended up being some random act, we were in a boatload of crap.

Sanchez and I did some checking on Mrs. Willis's background, trying to come up with a motive for the killer. We started off the morning with a visit to Cookies 'n Crème Bakery. It was located in the heart of downtown Portland in an eight-story building called One City Center. It was basically an upscale donut shop which catered to the professional clientele from the office buildings in the area.

Since it was morning, we decided to order coffee and pastries while we looked over the employees before we asked questions. It was a busy morning at Cookies 'n Crème, but most customers made their purchases and left so we could find seating easily. The counter staff wore hairnets, the bakers wore chef's hats, and everyone seemed to know their place with very little bumping into each other. Most of the staff were on the plump side, perhaps a side effect of working at a bakery, although I remembered Mrs. Willis had been very petite. I spotted who I assumed was the manager stepping out of a back office. She also wore the chef hat and shirt, but hers was a shade of pink. She appeared to be in her mid-forties and had a wide smile on her face that was friendly and attractive.

Sanchez raised her hand slightly, the universal signal for "I need service", which normally is ignored at a restaurant by the wait-staff, but the cheery round woman in pink made her way to our table.

"May I help you?" she asked in a very pleasant voice.

I smiled back at her and said, "Hello, I'm Detective Chamberlain and this is Detective Sanchez. Could we speak with the manager?"

"Yes, that would be me. I'm the owner, Cindy Crawley," she said as she put her hand out, which I promptly shook.

"We're investigating the Willis murder-suicide and would like to ask you a few questions."

"A terrible thing," she started as the smile disappeared from her face. "Vanessa was a real pleasure. I didn't know her husband, never met him actually. How could he do such a thing to that lovely girl?"

"We are trying to piece that together now. How long had she been working for you?"

"Oh, six months or so. I can get an exact date if you would like."

Well that explained her still being petite; she hadn't worked here long enough for the pastries to take effect. "Yes, that would be helpful. Was she close to any of your employees here? Did she have friends that may have stopped by to say hello?"

"No friends that I noticed, but she did go to lunch with Sarah often after her shift."

"Sarah?"

"Yes, Sarah Colby, one of our bakers. She asked for a couple of days off after Vanessa died, and has been working a light schedule since she came back"

"Could we have her phone number, please?"

"Yes, I know it by heart. It's 874-5472."

"Has she requested any additional time off for any reason?"

"No, never."

"If you could please give us Miss Colby's address as well, that would be helpful. It is Miss Colby and not Mrs.?"

"Yes, Sarah is not married."

"Did Mrs. Willis receive an unusual amount of phone calls or anything you would consider odd before she died?"

"I don't recall her ever even receiving a call here to be honest except from her husband. Vanessa mentioned he worked graveyard shift at some stock company. Maybe the pressure got to him."

"Maybe. Did Mrs. Willis fill out an employment application that might help with prior work history?"

"Well, yes, I have it in the back office. Please, excuse me?" The bakery owner disappeared into the back to retrieve the information. She returned quickly carrying a photocopy of the application with an address for Sarah Colby written on the back. "If you need anything else, please let me know."

Sanchez took the paper and thanked her. We made our way out of the bakery and into the warming spring air. The sea breeze was normally mild this time of day, usually getting stronger around mid-afternoon. We sat down on a bench in a small park that separated two busy streets and was open to pedestrians only. The unseasonably warm, fifty-five-degree day brought out people from all over the city after a long winter and many of them happily milled about with nowhere in particular to go. There were a few brave souls in shorts and skirts. The park was filled with mostly young people performing a graceful ballet as they greeted each other with fresh smiles.

On opposite sides of the streets, boutiques lined the brick sidewalk offering everything you could want to purchase from vintage clothing to candy. There were also three coffee houses that brewed various flavors of strong local roasted beans. Most of the shops had wooden facades decorated and painted in bright colors, though many needed to be touched up after the harsh Maine winter. The buildings were all made of brick, five or six stories tall, with the Willis's apartment building only a couple of city blocks away.

I called Sarah's number and it was answered on the third ring. "Is this Sarah Colby?" I asked.

"Yes, it is," she answered in a young high-pitched voice.

"This is Detective Chamberlain of the Portland Police Department and I'm calling to see if my partner and I can come over and ask you a couple of questions regarding Vanessa Willis." What she didn't know was that the bench we were sitting on was directly across the street from her building and "no" would not have been a good answer. So far the circumstances did not place Ms. Colby as a suspect in my mind and I had decided to call her first as a courtesy. If I had thought she had anything to do with the Willis's deaths, I would have walked right up and knocked on the door.

"Uh yes, I suppose so. If you think I can help," she answered.

"I hope so, Ms. Colby. We are on our way down now and should be there shortly."

We gave Sarah about 5 minutes before Sanchez and I knocked on her door. "Ms. Colby, I'm Detective Chamberlain and this is Detective Sanchez. Thank you for seeing us on such short notice."

"Sure, come right in. Please don't look at the place, it's a mess and I just don't seem to care much right now," she said. I didn't agree with her assessment of the place as it had only a few dishes in the sink and a couple of glasses and used tissues on the coffee table. A blanket was haphazardly folded over the arm of the sofa and I guessed she was camping out on the couch. A scene from "The Notebook" was frozen on the TV – not that I had watched it, but I could tell from the DVD case. She was tall, mostly legs, and her hair was cut in a bob. She reminded me a lot of Mrs. Willis actually, they could have been sisters. Her eyes were slightly red as was her nose from blowing it too often. She didn't have any make-up on and her lightly freckled complexion was apparent on her fair-skinned face. She was obviously upset about her friend's death.

"Just a couple of questions if you don't mind", I said, as she sat back on her couch. She directed us to sit on a love seat facing the couch. "How well did you know Mrs. Willis?" I began.

She took a tissue from the box and blew her nose before she answered. She looked at me directly at first. As she spoke, she made eye contact with Sanchez as well. "I knew V, that's Vanessa, very well and we had become quite close. Actually we were best friends, really. We worked together at Cookies 'n Crème and we kind of meshed right from the start. She was so sweet," she ended as tears began to well up in her eyes.

"Did you know her husband well?"

"No, I didn't know Fred much because of his strange work hours, but we got together a couple of weekends ago for a cookout at Deering Oaks Park. He adored her from what I saw."

"Did Mrs. Willis ever mention anything odd about their relationship?"

"Other than the fact that she hated his hours, no. They made it a point to eat dinner together every night and spend time together. See, she would sleep at night while he was at work and he slept in the day while she was gone so they made it work."

"Did she ever mention anyone having a problem with her or Mr. Willis?"

"No, she was a very nice person and I can't imagine anyone wanting to hurt her."

"Money troubles?"

"Fred gets paid well and she didn't seem tight with a buck – not loose mind you but certainly not tight. She certainly never complained of being broke."

"If he made such good money then why did Mrs. Willis work at a bakery?"

"Boredom. She said when she first moved here from Chicago she found herself hibernating in her apartment. It was a way for her to get out and meet people. Besides, she loved baking and it gave her a little of her own funny money. She had gone to school for culinary arts back in Chicago."

"So, you didn't get the impression she needed the money?"

"No, she tried to pay for our lunches when we would go out a couple times a week. Although most of the time I'd pay for my own. I didn't want her to think she had to buy our friendship. We used to go over to Barnes & Noble by the Maine Mall and browse after our shift. Fred usually slept until four or so anyway. I swear she could read a book a day. As a matter of fact, we had spent a couple of hours that very day at the bookstore. She bought a biography on Diana."

"Do you know much about her, prior to her moving here from Chicago?"

"Not much. Both their families live in the suburbs out there. His work transferred him to this area about a year ago, supposedly a promotion. I don't recall V ever mentioning a job between college and Cookies 'n Crème."

"What was the name of the culinary school?"

" **The** International Culinary School at The **Illinois Institute of Art. She owned several t-shirts and sweatshirts from the school."**

"Any strange characters showing up around her or did she mention bumping into the same person over and over?" asked Claire.

"Not that I noticed."

"Enemies or someone she had a disagreement with?"

"No, she was pleasant to everyone. I really can't believe this has happened." With tears beginning to stream from her eyes she reached for the box of tissues on the table. She tried unsuccessfully to wipe them from her face, but the tears kept slowly coming.

"Well, I guess that's all for now. If you think of anything we should know about, please give us a call." I handed her my business card which she placed on the coffee table.

As we walked outside in the mild spring air I looked over at Sanchez, "Well, are we getting anywhere?"

"No, I hope this isn't some random whack job."

We went back to the precinct to make some calls. Sanchez took the college and Mrs. Willis's parents and I took the husband's office, his old Chicago office, and his parents. We went out for coffee around three to compare notes.

Claire began, "Mrs. Willis graduated with high honors in her class four years ago from The International Culinary School at The **Illinois Institute of Art – Chicago** when she was 25. Her parents are absolutely devastated as you can imagine. Her father is an ex-cop, by the way, and made me promise to keep him up-to-date. He said his daughter met Fred in 2006 when she worked for a catering business. She had been working his company's Christmas party. They were married in 2008 and were very happy."

She had also confirmed her employment application, and that Vanessa had not worked after she got married until she began her employment at the bakery. Also, there were no known enemies or problem people in her life. Must have been nice.

I told Sanchez that the background check on Fred Willis was much the same. Good job, well liked, and hard working. He had moved up the ladder in Chicago and the Portland job was indeed a promotion in late 2009. He was vice president of Asian Trades and basically second in command of the Portland branch. A quick look at his bank account showed a six figure salary and a million-dollar portfolio, with a couple of hundred thousand in liquid funds. No unusual withdrawals or anything that would red flag us on gambling or extortion. We had basically nothing.

"Well, where do we go from here?" asked Claire.

"Let's take another look at forensics in the morning," I said without much hope.

"Ok. What are you doing tonight?"

Immediately, warning lights went off. My partner had set me up on several blind dates, none of which warranted a second date. "I'm watching a ball game."

"The Red Sox aren't playing tonight."

"Little League is."

"Who do you know in Little League?"

"Nobody, I moonlight as a scout for the Red Sox and I need to check out the pitching staff. Have you seen the sox bullpen this year? They need all the help they can get. Besides, I'm not going on another one of your blind dates. The last one you hooked me up with laughed like a horse. After one joke I wanted to gag her with a bridle."

"No blind date. I'm going out with a couple of friends tonight and I thought you'd like to tag along. No pressure."

I thought about that for a minute and it beat watching reruns of Rescue Me. "OK. What time and where are we going?"

"About 8:00 p.m. Meet us at Gritty's down in the Old Port."

3

I tried to exercise after work whenever possible. It helped clear my mind as I used all my energy, pushing myself just enough to build muscle but avoid injury. Occasionally, I would have an epiphany on a case I was working, but unfortunately, not today. I wiped the sweat from my brow, brushing my short straight brown hair from the front of my eyes. I stood up straight and stretched for the finishing touch of my routine for the day.

My eyes drifted to a painting featuring my personal hero and great-great-grandfather which hung on the wall. Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain, resplendent in a Brevet General's uniform, with a line of Union soldiers behind him. His signature mustache hung down from the corner of his mouth to a point just below his chin. His eyes were sharp, but seemingly sad in this scene, as he stood straight in salute. Around Chamberlain and his men, rifles were stacked in rows like teepees. Larger than life, Confederate General John B. Gordon, with his sword drawn and its point touched to the toe of his boot, bowed his horse gracefully in a returned salute. General U.S. (Sam) Grant had chosen Chamberlain, of all his generals, to accept the Confederate Flag three days after Lee surrendered at Appomattox Court House in Virginia.

I grew up hearing stories about Chamberlain from my great-grandfather, my grandfather and my father. Each had participated in the yearly reenactments at Gettysburg where Chamberlain's actions, under dire conditions, had saved the Union Army from possibly losing the entire war. My father had hinted that it would soon be my turn to take his place at the annual ritual. I looked forward to everything except growing the mustache over my clean-shaven face. I was proud of my heritage, as were the Chamberlains before me. I felt a duty to be sure that my great-great-grandfather would be proud in return of his grandson and the legacy he left behind.

I smiled as I remembered those days long ago, when the stories of the Civil War were passed to me around the campfires of my youth. I could still hear the exciting tales told from men, both old and young, whom I loved and respected. I was fascinated by that period in our history, when the Civil War took away the innocence of a young nation. I looked at the clock, coming out of my pleasant remembrances, and realized it was time to get in the shower. My dad and I used to make an annual visit to Bowdoin College in Brunswick, Maine, to visit Chamberlain's house that had long been turned into a museum of his life. As the hot water cascaded over my head, I decided it was time for him and I to return.

Gritty's is a local brewpub located in an area of Portland known as the Old Port. The Old Port resides in a 6-block area where some of the streets still had cobblestone from the 1700's. There were a good number of small restaurants, bakeries, coffee houses, retail shops, small pubs, and dance clubs. Most of the three-story buildings were crowded brick structures adorned with decorative overhangs, with many containing small apartments and offices on the two upper floors, while all the shops and clubs were on the first floor. In my younger days, the whole area was part of my frequent haunts, but I have matured and the crowd is too young for me now anyway.

As I walked down the sidewalk, I passed groups of people that congregated here and there in front of the shops. They were either window-shopping or smoking since all the pubs were now non-smoking. A crowd of six bikers talking loudly, stood in front of a dance club called Cadillac Jack's, all wearing leather jackets displaying the Iron Horsemen logo. The Iron Horsemen Motorcycle Club had a nasty reputation for violence and petty crime. I decided to call the station and let them know that these boys were hanging around town.

Gritty's sat up ahead on the 1st floor of a brick building with large beveled windows. They brewed their own beer and there was a large fermenting vessel displayed prominently in one of the picture windows. The sign over the door was a simple beer vat with the word Gritty's written in script in the center. As I walked in, I could hear laughter and caught the scent of hops as it drifted into the cool night air. The interior was nautical in style with wooden sailboats, a copper topped bar, and pictures of the perfect storm on its walls. A ship's wheel hung over the bar with light bulbs stuck in it to give the room its rather dim, smoky quality, even though the bar was smoke free.

I noticed an empty table toward the back of the room and made my way to it. No sooner had I sat down than the waitress appeared asking what I wanted. "I'll have a Gritty's Ale on Tap."

I looked around at the various patrons on what seemed to be a rather slow Tuesday night. This place catered to all types. There was a group of guys and gals dressed in office attire playing darts against the far back wall. It looked like they were playing mixed doubles. In a separate room to the left were four pool tables where some biker dudes were playing pool. They were wearing Harley Owners Group, or H.O.G. jackets, and were for the most part, law-abiding Harley riders that just liked to hang out. There were a couple of different groups of women gathered, most were dressed casually in blue jeans or slacks. I picked up a menu and looked over the various selections that included Buffalo wings, onion rings, Gritty burgers, and other choice offerings from the grill.

I looked over toward the bar and saw a black skirt that hung around mid-thigh. Beneath the short skirt was a pair of shapely legs, tanned brown, wearing a pair of 3" high-heeled boots that stopped just above the ankle. The heels were wide which I imagined were easier to walk in. Her back was toward me, which was just fine for what I was looking at. She had long black hair that was more wavy than curly. Her red shirt was cut low in the back exposing her smooth brown skin almost to the top of her skirt.

She picked up her drink from the bar and waved at the front door. Two women were walking in, one wearing khaki pants and the other jeans cut-off at mid-thigh. They made their way over to little Miss Knockout and appeared to be ordering drinks. My waitress brought over my beer and asked if I was interested in an appetizer. I declined as I was waiting for some friends and didn't want to order without them.

"Hi, Jack, glad you could make it. This is Sandy and Lori." I looked up to see little Miss Knockout standing in front of me and it was Claire. I'm not usually, or let's say ever, at a loss for words, but now all I could do was stare up at her with a dumb look on my face. "What the hell is wrong with you, Jack?"

I tried to recover the best way I knew how, "I just fell in love with a pair of legs, high-heeled boots, and a short skirt; I'm just shocked they were on you." I smiled and looked up at her. She held my gaze for a moment and I could see a slight redness flush her cheeks.

"Like I always say, what's not to love," and with that she did a spin and I swear my heart skipped a beat. I must be nuts.

The waitress came over and promptly ruined the moment by asking if we needed anything. We all decided another round was in order as the girls settled in at our table. I got to know Sandy and Lori a little and they seemed nice enough. They both worked at offices in the city. Sandy was a paralegal that lived just around the corner with her husband and five-year-old son. Once a month she had a girl's night out to blow off some steam. Lori was an accountant with one of the larger local firms. She had recently graduated from University of Southern Maine, Portland, and made it clear she was single and wanted to stay that way. Her blonde hair and alluring hazel eyes seemed to attract a good deal of attention from the men in the pub.

Claire had sat down next to me and I found myself looking at her probably too damn often. Her wavy hair was parted so that her right eye seemed to look at me from beneath fine black locks. Her eyes sparkled in the dim light as if they provided their own inner fire that revealed itself in flashes. A wide smile crossed full glossy red lips giving her cheekbones added definition. She told a story in hushed tones of one of our earlier cases, and laid her hand gently on my arm. I felt goose flesh emanate from beneath her soft touch and surge through me. I looked down at her short nails painted a deep red and was disappointed when her hand left my skin. My breath stopped short as she reached up and parted my hair in a slow steady stroke. Our eyes caught as her hand left my hair and I felt a sensual energy pass between us. I would always recall this moment as the one where my heart began to understand something that my mind had long taken for granted, which was how beautiful Claire really was. I noticed Sandy nudge Lori with an elbow and I realized my face must be flushed as I felt the blood rush to my cheeks. Claire was more than the rough around the edges partner I had grown to trust, but obviously didn't really know. Shit, who was this woman I had been working with over the last year?

As our food began to arrive, Lori asked me how it happened that I had partnered up with Claire. "I drew the short straw."

Claire hit me in the arm. "The best fucking thing that ever happened to you too, Buster."

"I remember my first impression of Claire was a tough, sailor mouthed girl with a chip on her shoulder. I knew she grew up in Turner, Maine, because I did some checking up on her."

"Now there is some tough detective work. My father, mother, uncle, aunt and most of my relatives all worked at the biggest chicken egg farm in New England. It's not like we're hard to find. We had a monopoly on those trailers that sit up on the property, especially on Sanchez Road. If you could get past the smell of chicken shit, it still really sucked. Even in that environment I still finished top ten in my class," she said with a defiant shake of her head that sent her hair brushing across my face.

"The thing that impressed me most was her military record," I continued. "When Special Ops is praising your shooting ability, you have to be good. According to Claire's CO she was the best sniper in the field."

"I'm so glad I turned down their offer to join the rangers. It just wasn't for me. My CO introduced me to Major Kidd of the DCIS, Defense Criminal Investigative Service. After my first case where I could hunt down the bad guys, I was hooked. After six years in, it was time to come home to Maine. I knew I wanted to stay a cop and I wanted to work with the best."

"Flattery will get you, well, almost anything I suppose," I answered, which elicited some giggles from our audience. "So, I end up with my first female partner."

"You have it made. I do most of the work anyway," finished Claire as she stood and excused herself to go to the bathroom. As with most women I went out with, her friends promptly stood to join her.

I watched them leave and again could scarcely believe the difference in Claire tonight versus the girl I was used to spending my days with. Normally her hair would be in a ponytail and thrust through the adjustment strap in a well-worn Sea Dogs cap, a Double A affiliate of the Boston Red Sox. Her daily attire consisted of sneakers, jeans, and baggy sweatshirts that covered her ass. A tomboy, but damn, she cleaned up good. As I watched her continue across the room, her curves attracted the attention of every red blooded horny bastard in the joint. I guess I wasn't the only one here that found her attractive.

When Claire and her friends returned, we finished another round and then were off to a small blues club about two doors down. The place was standing room only. All asses to elbows with people spilling drinks on one another – this crowd definitely exceeded capacity, but I didn't feel like being a cop right now. The waitresses were unbelievable, trays full of drinks held high weaving through the crowd. I saw a drifting hand sneak a grab on one girl walking by and minutes later the jerk was escorted roughly out the door – good for her. Our waitress brought over a round as we stood in a corner trying to talk over the din. Not a drop spilled, slightly short of amazing in this place. After about an hour, the girls moved to the dance floor and again my eyes were drawn to Claire dancing to Werewolves of London. A young guy, with his black silk shirt wide open thinking he was some kind of Adonis, moved in and began to dance with all three. They did their best to ignore him, but I saw him reach down and grab Claire's butt. She swiped his hand away then danced herself over to the edge of the dance floor.

I think it was at this point when I became a little agitated. Who the hell did this grease ball think he was anyway? He made his way toward her and grabbed her again. This time Claire turned around and looked like she told him to F-off – that's my girl. I set my beer down and began walking toward the crowded dance floor. I really didn't have a good reason to feel this way but regardless, this guy really pissed me off. As I approached Claire, the son of a bitch did it again and like they say, third time's a charm. I grabbed him by the wrist and jerked him toward me. "The lady doesn't want you pawing her. I thought she made that clear," I said.

"Yeah, you her fuckin' Daddy or something?" he asked snapping his hand away. Well, being a cop I knew exactly what I should do, unfortunately I didn't do it. Instead I hit him in the gut. He quickly recovered and tried to roundhouse me with a left, but I ducked and hit him in the gut again. While he was bent over, I drove my shoulder into him and shoved him into the wall at the far side of the dance floor, which successfully knocked the remaining wind out of him. I was about to finish him off when both my arms were yanked behind my back by this burly bouncer who began hauling me toward the door. I had the opportunity to end it and leave peacefully but again, I didn't take it. I had the height on this guy so I managed to hook one of his feet in mid stride and trip him up. As he stumbled I spun on him and got behind him, shoving his hand up his back and creating a great deal of pain in his shoulder. Using the momentum I had, I drove him up against the wall.

"Jack, knock that shit off and let's get out of here!" I heard Claire yell from beside me. I decided that maybe now was a good time to call it quits and we both bolted to the door and jogged down the street. "Jesus, Jack! What the hell was that all about?"

"That guy pissed me off," I said as I tried to catch my breath.

"Yeah, well he pissed me off too, but you didn't have to drive him into a wall. I'm a big girl, Jack, and I can take care of assholes like him. Do you think this is the first time I've had to brush off some jerk on the dance floor? What the hell were you thinking? You're a cop for Christ's sake."

"Well first of all, I'm off duty and second of all, he really pissed me off."

She looked at me with this what am I going to do with you look, which made me feel like a school boy being admonished by a teacher I had a crush on. It was one of those moments when, even though I am almost a head taller than her, I would have sworn I was looking up at her. It was then that she gave me the most amazing smile. "You really are a dork, you know." Which, at the time, I took as a compliment.

"Yeah, I just wanted you to know that chivalry is not dead, and defending a lady's honor and all that shit."

"Doesn't the saying go 'defending my lady's honor'?"

"Does it? I wouldn't know. I've never read anything written before the 90's. Are you sure?"

"Come on, let's get a coffee." With that she hooked her arm in mine and we walked over to Breaking New Ground Coffee Shop. I couldn't help noticing, even amidst the aroma of a rich coffee house, the sweet smell of Claire's perfume mixed with sweat from the evening's events. I realized that I could be in some real trouble.

I woke up to my morning ritual and headed downstairs at 7:30 a.m. Claire was waiting, truck idling at the curb. "Good Morning," I said actually feeling a little awkward. "How did you sleep?"

"Like I had too much to drink," she said, but ended with "although the coffee was nice." She gave me a quick look and the same sly smile from last night. At that point, I noticed her jeans looked tighter, her sweatshirt hugged her well, and didn't cover her ass. She also looked pretty damn cute in that hat. Her smile broadened and brought a little redness to her cheeks, and I realized I was staring again. "You're really starting to freak me out. Do you have this type of reaction to women often?"

Man I hated to be toyed with – well kind of. "Oh yeah, Miss Innocent," I said. "You dressed for success last night and you succeeded."

"Damn, that's smooth, Lancelot." She laughed as she stepped on the gas and headed for work.

I couldn't tell if that was an insult or a compliment, so I settled for a compliment because it made me feel better.
4

He looked her over carefully, trying not to be obvious. He had spotted her last week browsing the fiction section of Barnes & Noble. She would do nicely. He had followed her home and watched her place. She was single without any boyfriends that he could tell. She lived on the third floor of a brick building on State Street where her windows faced the street. The only problem he could see was going to be the perch. The apartment buildings in the area were teeming with people. Most had decided that Uncle Sam paid better than working nine to five. Nights were even worse, with people hanging out on the sidewalk and calling down from windows above.

He walked two blocks down, crossed Franklin St, and entered Deering Oaks Park. This might work, he decided, and removed the riflescope from his pocket. He could see her bedroom window from where he sat, but the elevation wasn't right. Since it was broad daylight, climbing a tree now would not be the smartest way to go. He was able to find a very tall Oak that should offer the best view.

The trouble with shooting through the trees was line of site. Any branches or twigs would have to be avoided or he risked the bullet trajectory being thrown off. At close to three hundred yards, it wouldn't take much to miss the shot. Well he would risk it; he had run out of time.

The other issues were security and escape. He knew that the police regularly patrolled the park at night. He wasn't worried about them seeing him once he was up in the tree, but spotting him on the way in or out. He looked around for anything that would cover his approach to the area. Most of the park was flat, with sparse foliage. The ground gradually dipped down in the center to a duck pond with a fountain in the middle. The tree he had chosen was situated at a low point near the bank of the duck pond. From that spot, he couldn't see beyond the rim of the park as it was shaped like a giant bowl. It would give him some concealment, at least at the base of the tree before he began his climb. A small stream emptied into the pond next to a narrow footpath seemingly guarded by the heaviest growth of bushes and small trees that followed the stream to a wading pool. The pool was located in a gully with high banks on either side and was very near the western entrance of the park. This was his route out. The banks on either side would provide adequate cover. He walked the route he would take, and found an ideal place to park his car next to an old two-story schoolhouse.

For the next two nights he casually walked around the perimeter of the park observing. Officially the park closed at ten and because of an hourly drive through by the police, the curfew was obeyed. The patrol occurred at roughly half past the hour on both nights. The park abutted the interstate on two sides, so after hours foot traffic was minimal. The only real activity came from the very building his intended victim lived in. He took comfort in the fact that the lights from inside the apartments and outside the park would make the interior trees nearly pitch black.

At 11:00 p.m. he arrived and parked his car in the shadows. He took a guitar case containing his dismantled rifle from the trunk and swung the strap over his shoulder. He stood for a moment and took in his surroundings. The air was clear and carried the crispness of early spring, making his breath mist when he exhaled. The stars were barely discernable in the wash from the street lights that surrounded the park. A lone car passed by heading away from the city toward one of the many suburbs, taillights slowly disappearing in the distance.

He crossed the virtually empty street and made his way quickly to the wading pool through the slick wet grass. He would have to be careful on his way out and not slip, since a quick exit out of the park was vital. He could see the patrol car cruising in the opposite direction, shining its spotlight like a search beam. It swept the ground, but never once pointed into the trees. He checked his watch and it was only 11:15 p.m., they were early. He would have to keep an eye open for the next sweep.

He had dressed in black tonight from head to toe, donning a ski mask to complete the outfit. A new pair of black jeans had been purchased just for the occasion. The only white left was his eyes.

He approached the tree and laid his case on the ground. The rifle was easy to assemble taking him only three minutes. The tree had low limbs which made it easy for him to hoist himself up and begin to climb, the rifle strapped over his back. He was getting excited now as he climbed higher and saw the window to the woman's bedroom begin to level out. The branch that made an ideal perch, he had picked out three days earlier. It had a U-shaped seat with a second branch that could be used to steady his rifle. He took out the sniper scope and searched for the window to her bedroom. There it was, third floor, second window, facing the street. He switched on the night vision feature on his scope and the inside of the apartment came alive in an eerie green glow. But there was something he had not anticipated. She was not alone. She had a lover in for the night.

He sat back against the branch and thought for a moment. He could shoot them both, but that wouldn't be consistent with his plan. One victim per night. There was no time to pick another target, unless he could find one in an adjacent window. He scanned the neighboring apartment with his scope, but there was too much activity. He looked again in the window of his intended victim and noticed they were both sleeping.

He knew he needed to provide the cops something to bite into. His plan all resided on establishing a pattern, cops always looked for that shit. Psychopaths operated in patterns and routines because they were familiar. They allowed the animal instinct to take over so the perpetrator didn't have to rely on thought or preparation. It was like operating in their personal comfort zone. The psychopath's own special place where he is super human, unstoppable, and smarter than every other man, woman, or child on the planet. He was going to establish that pattern, that comfort zone. But it was not for him, it was for them. For them to find, chase, and then chase some more.

Most psychopaths were caught because of the patterns they established. The truth was that most ultimately wanted to be caught and saved from their personal hell. Suffering from delusions, depression, loneliness, and other anti-social behaviors, they longed to be caught and delivered from their nightmares. Well he had no such desire. This was a calculated killing, cold blooded, merciless, and certainly without remorse. The pattern was a necessity, unlike the psychopaths that created their comfort zone; he created a pattern to ensure his freedom. A pattern intended to send those who would seek him in the direction he chose. They would not be able to catch what wasn't there.

He brought the scope back to his eye and again peered into the woman's window. Something didn't look quite right so he zoomed in as much as the scope would allow undistorted, which basically put her face inches from his. Now he understood. The woman he was seeing was not his intended victim but her female lover. His victim was lying on her back and he had a clear shot at her forehead. Because her girlfriend was lying on the victim's chest, maybe she wouldn't even notice the shot. Now that would be rich.

He placed three bullets in the magazine. The first bullet was for his intended victim; the second for her lover, if she woke up. The third bullet was just in case he needed it. He checked his watch, 11:55 p.m., and in came the patrol car, early again. He trained his rifle at the car so he would be ready if he needed to take them out, but just as before, it was a lazy drive through without much excitement. He waited for the patrol car to leave the park grounds before training the rifle once again at his target. No movement. He took a deep breath, exhaled, then fired. The gun jumped slightly and he reacquired his target through the scope. The woman now had a clean hole through her forehead. He moved the scope to her lover and noted she had changed her position, but not awakened.

He reached in his pocket, withdrew a note, hooked it on a sharp leafless stem then made his way to the ground. He slipped away into the night along his planned escape route feeling exhilarated, almost god like, for after all, he had both taken and spared lives tonight. He would have to watch this one closely. It would be interesting.
5

After my morning ritual, I left my apartment to find Sanchez sitting on her tailgate waiting for me. The truck was running and I could see some of the exhaust fumes, visible in the crisp spring air, wafting up between her legs as she swung them back and forth. "Hey Claire, breathing in that exhaust has to be bad for your lungs."

"Hey, don't you worry about my lungs, they're fine," she said as she jumped to the ground and turned towards me. Her hands were firmly on her hips and she stood facing me with eyes slightly narrowed and chest thrust out.

"Well they look good from here."

"You just can't help yourself, can you?"

"Helping myself actually never occurred to me. Do you think I need help?"

"Big time."

"Do you think you're woman enough for the task?"

She laughed, and I must admit that it sounded really good, "Let me just say that you'd never be the same."

I was just wondering if that would be a good thing or a bad thing when my cell began to play Taps. I set the ringtone to Taps because I don't get a lot of calls unless it's bad news.

"Jack here," I answered after I fished the damn thing out of my pocket. I really should buy one of those belt clips for the phone, but honestly, I'd rather drown the friggin' thing.

"Jack, Captain Spacey," he answered. "We have a murder over at 3 State Street, apartment number 302. I need you and Sanchez over there to work the crime scene."

"Alright, we're there," I replied then closed the phone and stuffed it in my pocket.

"What's up?" asked Claire.

"Someone's dead on 3 State Street."

"Who?"

"He didn't say, just that he wanted the dynamic duo there."

"He said that?"

"No, but he would have been right if he had."

We arrived at the apartment building and made our way through the usual throng of people and press to the front door. Officer Guillian was waiting on the steps for us, flipping through his notebook.

"What do we have, Officer?" I asked.

"We have a dead female, age 24, Beatrice Leavitt. She was found this morning by the landlady who collects the rent every Monday. Apparently, Beatrice leaves the money in an envelope on her kitchen table. When the envelope wasn't there, she looked around and found Ms. Leavitt in bed. Dead."

"Cause of death?" asked Claire as we made our way up to the third floor apartment.

"Bullet to the head, she died instantly. Fritz is hoping to find the slug and get it to the lab."

"Time of death?" I asked

"Around midnight," I heard from above, as Fritz von Gretchen made his way toward us. "Claire, how are you? Have you put in for a transfer away from this guy yet?"

"I tried, but he found the orders and burned them," said Claire, as she shook Fritz's hand.

"That so, Jack? You finally know a good thing when you see it?"

"Yeah. She does kind of grow on you," I said, as I took my turn shaking his hand. "So, what's going on here?"

"Well, right now I can't tell you more than an approximate time of death. Provided I find the slug; we could have some ballistics by morning. Nothing has been touched, except for the body. We do want to get her moved down to the coroner's office soon."

"This won't take long. Give us 15 minutes or so with the body and then you can take her. Claire, let's go."

We both put on rubber gloves and made our way to the victim's bedroom.

In this profession, you rarely see elderly dead people. But seeing a young, 24-year-old girl with a bullet hole in her head who had her whole life in front of her, never gets easy. I took a deep breath, then looked over the bullet wound. "No visible powder burns, angle of entry almost horizontal."

Claire moved over by the window and squatted, holding her fingers like a gun. "Does this look about right?"

"Yeah. An odd way to shoot someone in the middle of the night, if you're this close. Why not just walk up and bang?" Outside the window behind Claire, there seemed to be no place a shooter could have shot from at that angle. Not until the trees in Deering Oaks Park, almost 300 yards away.

I turned my attention back to the body. "Was it warm last night?" I asked.

"A little, why?"

"Because her window is open and she's nude. So either it was warm or she wasn't alone last night."

"Well, some people sleep in the buff year 'round."

I acknowledged that and filed it away for later comment, since now was not the time. Fritz was standing at the door, so I asked, "Any signs of sexual activity or assault?"

"There was no sign of semen, but when I took her temperature, I did find traces of K-Y Jelly around her vaginal area." he answered.

I looked at the blood that had flowed from the exit wound onto the pillow. "Claire, you see how the blood seems to run to this point here? Someone was lying next to her with their head on the pillow right there."

We began to go over the room thoroughly looking for any signs of a second person. We found what we were looking for in the bathroom. Someone had taken a shower and left a bloody print on the back of the bathroom door. I also found a broken acrylic nail on the floor, painted French style. The victim's fingernails had been natural and manicured. "This place needs a good dusting."

"My team is just arriving now," said Fritz.

"Let me know what you get and have the station run the prints. Claire, can you go find the landlady?"

I went over to Ms. Leavitt's dresser and opened the top drawer. There was underwear in the drawer as well as cotton pajamas and a silk pajama short set. It appeared she was not a buff sleeper.

"Jack, I have Mrs. Wallace in the next room," Claire said from the doorway.

Mrs. Wallace was sitting on the couch in the living room fidgeting nervously. She had blue white hair and seemed to be in her mid-seventies. She was rail thin and when she spoke her raspy voice belied years of chain smoking. "Mrs. Wallace, I'm Detective Chamberlain. Did Ms. Leavitt have anyone special in her life?" I began, taking a seat opposite to her.

"She did have a female companion for quite some time, but they had a falling out." She said as she made an effort to sit still.

"Female companion. As in lover, I assume?"

"Well, yes, but what she does in her own apartment is not my concern. As long as it's not illegal mind you," she finished with a shake of her finger.

"Do you know how to get in touch with this woman?"

"I know her name is Jennifer Rawley. I don't know how to reach her though."

"How long since they split up?"

"Maybe a month or so."

"Anyone else in her life that you know of?"

"No, but we weren't close. Maybe you should ask down at Maine Medical Center. She works over there in Pediatrics."

Claire asked, "How long has she been a tenant?"

"Three years, I believe. Moved straight here from her parent's house in Greene after she graduated nursing school. This is a real shame. She was very nice."

"Thank you and if you think of anything else, give us a call," Claire handed her one of her cards.

I browsed through the living room as Claire walked Mrs. Wallace to the door. The room was neat, with soft plush furniture. The coffee table was a lobster trap with a glass top. I think it's a required item in Maine for every first apartment. The TV was a 27" Sharp and sat on an entertainment center that probably came from Wal-Mart. There was a row of books lining the top shelf and I pulled one of the hardcover editions down. "Wind in the Oaks" was the title, a thriller that had been marked 50% off at Barnes and Noble. A bargain buyer, at least she appreciated hardcovers.

I watched as the EMT's carried the body of Ms. Leavitt from the apartment and then walked back into the bedroom. Something was sitting wrong with me as I looked out the window. Claire walked up behind me and stood so close I could feel her body heat against my back.

"What are you thinking?" she asked in a soft tone as she followed my gaze out the window.

"She didn't normally sleep in the nude. She had a full jammy drawer, summer and winter. Which one are you, jammies or nude?" I asked, though it wasn't what I was thinking.

Her voice got even softer, almost to a whisper, "I'm not telling. If that's what you're really thinking about you've got problems."

"Yeah and I think it's gonna get worse before it gets better. The gun wasn't shot from inside this room and the trajectory doesn't line up with any of the buildings. Do you want to have a picnic?" I asked as I turned my head toward her. I didn't realize how close she really was until our noses almost touched.

She smiled and I was beginning to think she was enjoying this, or maybe I was just hoping, "Where?"

I turned back and nodded toward the park. "Over there, under that tree."

We walked down to the corner market and bought sandwiches, some sodas, and a bag of Humpty Dumpty Potato Chips. The total came to eleven dollars and change. "I'll take care of this," I said as I put the money on the counter.

"Is this a picnic date or a working lunch?" she asked, again with that killer smirk – it used to be a cute smirk, now it was killer.

"Can't it be both? Or do we eat and come back an hour later?" I asked as I winked at the man behind the counter.

"Both work for me. I'm easy."

"Now that's the best news I've heard all day," I answered taking the bag from the clerk who was now smiling.

She put her lips to my ear and whispered, "Not that easy, Mister."

As we walked out the door I said to her, "Next time you whisper in my ear like that, there could be trouble."

She just smiled a bright and lovely smile and I think she literally bounced out of the door, then she spun and said, "Catch me if you can." She turned again and ran across the street toward the park.

Claire is a very fit, 26-year-old woman, who was only a year out of the Army. I am 34 and in reasonably good shape. I exercise on a daily basis on a little home gym set I have, so I figure I've got a pretty good shot at catching her. I took off after her, carrying the food, which I realized was a serious disadvantage. She ran by the tree I wanted to look at, so I dropped the food near it and cranked it up a notch. I almost had her by a stream that ran toward the duck pond, but she darted away and headed for a dry wading pool. The banks on either side were rather steep, but she had sneakers on and was able to scramble up the side. I was wearing my loafers, and I couldn't gain any footing. I slipped and hit the ground hard.

"Shit, oh God that hurts!" I yelled, lying face down on the ground. I turned over and grabbed my knee and winced. Claire bought it and came quickly back and slid to my side. I grabbed both her wrists and rolled over and pinned her to the ground. "You are a Sucker."

"Bastard," she said as she tried to wiggle her way out.

From over my shoulder I heard someone yell. "Hey you, what are you doing? Let her go."

Claire turned her head to the guy above us on the bank and yelled, "Hey Buddy, get lost." She lifted up her head and planted one right on my lips. I let go of her wrist and slid my arms beneath her. She rolled me over and sat on top of me, grabbed my wrists, and slammed my hands on the ground.

"Ow," I said.

"Sucker yourself," she smiled and laid down on me still holding my hands fast to the ground. I felt the warmth of her body and she gently pressed her lips to mine and we lost ourselves for a few moments in passion on the warm spring morning.

A short time later, we sat beneath the tree that I had dropped the picnic lunch by. It was now just after noon and we had finished our sandwiches, without much conversation. For my part, I was just enjoying the moment, though I was a little concerned. I had never had a female partner. Close friendships have grown between former partners and me, but this was becoming much more than a friendship. Would it affect my job and how I worked a murder case? Granted, she was a smart cookie and had good instincts, but would a different relationship interfere with that? I took a long look at her light-skinned face with the frosted green eyes, small sharp nose, smirky smile, and wondered if we could still work together and play together without driving each other crazy.

"Jack, you really need to stop doing that," she said, as the smirk widened into a broad smile.

"What?" I asked coming out of my thoughts.

"If you keep staring at me, people will talk. You know you're so damn obvious." She leaned toward me, placing her hands on the ground and putting her face inches from mine.

"Obvious? You have purposely tried to seduce me from the moment we went out the other night, and you call me obvious?"

"I did seduce you, didn't I? Well, you know I couldn't wait for you to notice anymore. A woman has her needs you know."

"Shit, I'm in trouble," I said leaning against the tree.

"Yes, you are," she said as she turned her back toward me and lay against my chest. I wrapped my arms around her and she hugged them close.

We sat like this for almost half an hour saying nothing, but listening to the birds and feeling the sun on our faces. I finally began to drift slowly back to reality and think about the latest murder. I asked Claire, "Do you know why we really came to the park?"

"Yes I do, but everyone deserves a lunch break. Is our hour up, Boss?"

"Yes, I suppose it is. But let's experiment."

"I like the sound of that!"

"Let's see if I can sit here with a beautiful woman in my arms and change which part of my anatomy is doing the thinking."

She laughed, "Guys can really do that without spraining something?"

"I don't know. I've never tried. We have a murder of a lesbian woman with a single shot to the head."

"Check."

"We believe she was not alone when she was murdered. Furthermore, her partner was asleep beside her when the murder occurred."

"Possible check, what if she was some kind of necrophiliac who killed her lover and then lay down beside her, maybe even had sex with her? Keep in mind that the second woman showered before she left. An odd fact."

"An interesting theory, we'll get back to that in a second. If the second woman was not the murderer, why did she stay asleep when her friend was shot?"

"She never heard the gun."

"This would indicate that the murderer was not in the room with the gun or it certainly would have woken her up. After Ms. Leavitt was dead, the blood soaked into the pillow and worked its way down to her companion's spot on the pillow, leaving the blood trail and impression we saw."

"Ok, what about the shower part? And why didn't she just call the police?"

"No one can know she's a lesbian, either because of her status in the community or perhaps she's married. So, she freaks out a little, gets up and runs to the bathroom and maybe throws up or something, remind me to have Fritz take a good look at the toilet bowl. She notices a lot of blood on her and since she is already naked, she jumps in the shower and rinses off. A quick cleanup of the bathroom, and then she bolts. My guess is that we will find her prints everywhere, because as the bloody print on the shower shows, she was in a hurry."

"Ok, where does that leave my necrophiliac theory?"

"I think if that was the case, the perp would be more thorough in cleaning up the evidence. This was sketchy at best. We definitely need to find this woman and figure out her motives, maybe charge her with fleeing the crime scene, but murder? I'd bet she didn't do it."

"So, who did?"

"The person who was in this tree, or one of the others around it. But this one seems to be the best choice to me."

"Why this tree?" She turned over and sat facing me on my lap. This almost changed the thinking part of my anatomy, but I was on a roll and was able to stay focused.

"This tree has the best line of fire. Also, as I was trying to catch you, I noticed that the route you took would be excellent cover for someone who wanted to get out of the park unseen, especially at night and in the right garb. Remember the wading pool and the high banks? You could run through there hidden from the patrol roads until maybe fifty feet from the main road. Beyond that a parked car is waiting and you're gone. Let's have some blues check the neighborhood over on the other side of the park. Maybe someone will remember a car parked over there around midnight."

"Ok, I'll do that. Why not kill both women?"

"I don't know. Maybe she was his target and he only needed her. I hope we get the chance to ask the bastard in person."

"How do we prove this?"

"First we start climbing trees beginning with this one. I wonder if Fritz can dust a tree?"

"Since it's obvious that I am more agile than you, I'll go up," she said as she donned a pair of rubber gloves.

"Do you always carry them with you?"

"Ask me later," she said as she began climbing the tree. I must admit she moved like a cat, quickly from branch to branch. "I found something, Jack. You're right; this is the perfect perch for a shot at that window."

She made her way back down and handed me a note with a hole in it where it had been skewered by a branch. The note was simple, 5/5.

6

I went home that evening debating with myself how to move forward. It was important to locate Ms. Leavitt's lover, although I was reasonably sure she had nothing to do with the murder. But leaving someone dead for the landlady to find couldn't be left unpunished. Also, being the last person to see the Leavitt girl alive needed to be explored in order to begin making the connection between the two murdered women.

They were different in so many ways, yet how were they the same? Why were they chosen? I had to find the common denominator in order to begin to hunt for this nut job and take him down. I knew he would strike again and now we knew when. That thought haunted me as I drifted off to sleep.

I woke up earlier than normal, troubled by dreams of chasing after a ghost through the streets of an old city. At every corner I turned, lay a dead woman, a bullet hole in her forehead. As I turned around the last corner, I found another dead girl, face down on the street wearing a baseball cap with hair pulled through the back. I reached down, turned her over, and gazed into Claire's lifeless green eyes.

I poured my first cup of coffee and called Claire. She answered on the third ring and I could tell from her quiet voice she had been sleeping. "Claire? It's Jack."

"What's wrong, Jack," her voice, suddenly more alert. I could almost see her sitting up and running her hands through her dark hair.

"Nothing, well that's not true. I kind of had a bad night. I just wanted to make sure you were OK." I said slightly embarrassed.

"I'm fine, Jack. Would you like me to come over early for coffee?"

"Actually, that would be nice. Oh, and when we head in this morning, our first stop will be Maine Medical Center – the Barbara Bush Children's Hospital."

"Alright, I'll take a shower and be right over."

"Ok, thanks."

I did my morning ritual and put on my cop clothes. They existed in my closet as 3 identical dark blue suits with 2 more at the cleaners. A white Hagar's shirt, a blue and gold striped tie, and a pair of brown Cabela loafers completed my official look. The tie was the only item that changed daily, one for every day of the week. I am a creature of habit and preferred not to make decisions about clothing on a daily basis.

I dumped the coffee out and made a fresh pot of Dunkin Donuts that I keep in the freezer for guests. It had been there awhile. Claire knocked on the door just as the coffee finished brewing, and I called for her to come on in. I was pouring her a cup, she likes it black, as she came into the kitchen.

"Feeling any better?" she asked.

I turned to hand her the coffee and stopped short. "Where's Claire?" I asked looking her over. She wore a white silk blouse with a dark blue waistcoat accented with a peach rose in the lapel. The skirt, just above the knee, was also white with a wide blue belt around her slim waist. It matched the jacket, with a flower shaped gold buckle. To finish off the ensemble, she wore dark blue sandals that laced up the ankle.

"You said we were going to the hospital and I thought I should look professional," she said with a smile.

"You really look great. Some doctor is going to want to scoop you up."

"No thanks, I already have my eye on someone special."

"Anyone I know?"

"Maybe," she said as she walked over and gave me a deep kiss.

"That was much better than the way my day started."

She took the coffee from my hands and sat down on one of my old kitchen chairs. "Yeah? Let's talk about that."

"I had a bad dream about chasing this nut job through an old city. There were dead girls around every corner and the last one was you."

"Sounds like a nightmare."

"I had to call you. I was worried."

She smiled broadly and her eyes sort of shined, "It's been awhile since I knew anyone who cared enough to worry."

"You've been a really good partner, for a girl." She feigned a frown, "and you have been a good friend. Now, I'm falling pretty hard for you."

"It's about damn time." She placed her hands on her hips and the frown became a grin.

"What's that supposed to mean? You've been setting me up with other women since I met you."

"Yeah, remember the girl who laughed like a horse, how long did that date last?"

"You've been setting me up?"

"Well, not the first two dates when I thought you were a sexist, chauvinistic pig."

"Oh, and now you know better."

"Actually, you just confirmed it, but you've grown on me."

"Christ," I said shaking my head.

"Oh come now, since when can you not take a ribbing. Your humor is off color and I've learned it's more of a defense mechanism then anything. You are one of the smartest, most compassionate men I have ever met."

"Don't tell anyone. I have a reputation as a sexist, chauvinistic pig to maintain."

"Your secret's safe with me. It makes it easier to keep other women away."

"You're a bit different than your file reads, too."

"My file? How am I different than my file?"

"I didn't realize how much spunk you actually have when I created it."

"You did what?" Her voice took on a familiar tone she usually reserved for some scumbag she just nabbed.

"What do you think; I'm going to take on a new partner fresh out of the military police without conducting a complete review? Look, one month earlier my partner had sacrificed his life to save mine. He died in my arms as we waited for an ambulance. I wanted to know who they were setting me up with and that it wasn't some move to put me in a permanent training mode for new recruits. So, I went through all the information I could find on you and compiled your Portland Police Department personnel file."

Her face softened considerably, but she still had a little fire in her green eyes. "So, what did you find out?"

"Poor kid from Turner makes good, works hard, and becomes something special. Hey, I had the option of shuffling you off to someone else."

"Why didn't you?"

"I saw enormous potential and I'm a good judge of character. I thought you needed to learn from the best."

"Oh, did I mention egotistical earlier? I read your file as well, anyway."

"Yeah, and?"

"You graduated from Old Orchard Beach with honors. You went to the University of Maine in Orono, majored in Criminology with a minor in Psychology. After graduation, you spent six years in the State Police Department. During a nasty murder investigation, you assisted and I suspect caught the eye of, the former Chief of Portland Police, Mike Chitwood. A year later you were brought in to the Portland Police Department as a detective. You went back to college for the next six years taking classes and earning a doctorate in criminal psychology, which you just received six months before I became your partner. You're given the toughest cases and the only one you haven't cleared from the books is the death of Mrs. Dr. Jason Ridge, who was found buried in Deering Oaks Park under the shavings at the playground. Your personal life is not very exciting because you work almost constantly. You had one serious relationship that lasted four years but you didn't get engaged, which I suspect is why she left you. Lastly, your father and mother are still alive and living in your childhood home and you have supper with them every Friday night, almost without fail. Which, by the way, is three days from now. So, how did I do?"

"You got all that information from my file?"

"No, some of it I learned from asking around," Claire answered.

"You really are starting to scare me," I said. I was amazed, not only because she knew all that, but she remembered it all. "I actually did solve that case, but the prosecutor blew it. So that's why officially the case is still open. Sarah was way too much of a bitch to marry, she just had other redeeming qualities, but in the end it was far from enough. Probably the best day of my life was when she left and I have no regrets. Yeah, and that's about it. Sounds pretty dull, you could have embellished it a little."

"What time do we have to be at the Hospital?"

I looked at my watch and it was 7:30 a.m., our appointment was at 10:00 a.m. "We have a couple of hours, why?"

"I thought I would embellish your life story a little." She stood up and took my hand and pulled me close. She was really something special.
7

We reluctantly left the apartment at 9:45 a.m. and walked the few blocks to the hospital. It was a beautiful morning. The sun was warm for a spring day in Maine, but the light breeze kept it pleasant. We spoke about nothing in particular, laughing and smiling. I loved the way the breeze made her hair dance and brought her fragrance to me, keeping what we shared fresh in my mind. We avoided talking about the cases, knowing that all too soon reality would take away the moment.

We entered Maine Medical Center through the main lobby doors, which seemed inconveniently placed at the furthest point possible from the elevators. Although I knew that the Barbara Bush Children's Hospital was on the sixth floor, I had never been there. To get there, you had to walk up a glassed-in ramp from the main part of the sixth floor, giving it a separate feel from the rest of the hospital. Once we had entered the children's section, it struck me as brighter than other areas of the hospital, making it cheerier than some of the dark corridors and rooms I was familiar with. We checked in at the front desk with a pleasant young woman with a quick smile.

"Who are you here to see?" she asked still smiling.

"Dr. Johnson. She's expecting us." I said returning her smile.

"I believe she's in section two down the hall. Just ask at the nurse's station and I'm sure someone will help you."

Assuming this was section one, it was certainly active. A good number of doctors and nurses were milling around, talking, looking at files, clipboards, and pointing at computer monitors. There were civilians walking around the corridor, parents and relatives, some chatting amongst themselves, opening closed doors and shutting them quietly behind them. A few had troubled looks on their faces or teary, red eyes.

Claire nudged my arm as we walked down toward section two. A girl of around eleven or twelve came speeding toward us. She had tubes coming from her chest and was wearing a mask as protection from germs. Her head was shiny smooth, a result of losing her hair to Chemotherapy, but her eyes were a bright clear blue. She was riding a four wheeled I.V. pole like it was a skateboard. The pole supported two bags of fluid that dangled from it. She veered around doctors and nurses who simply avoided her as she sped by. Along the corridor were patient's rooms with some of the doors open and you could see children playing on a PlayStation or watching videos of SpongeBob. In most rooms an adult was sitting by the bedside of a young patient watching the TV with them. In a few rooms, just the child was alone and sleeping.

We approached the section two nurses station and the activity level was considerably less than in section one. A lone nurse was sitting behind the counter at a computer. He was tall with thinning hair and rimless glasses. "Excuse me. We have an appointment with Dr. Johnson at 10:00 a.m. I'm Detective Sanchez and this is Detective Chamberlain," Claire said as she flashed her badge.

"She's on this floor somewhere. Why don't you wait in the teen room," he said pointing to a corner room across the hall. He stood and went off to hunt down the doctor. I heard laughter coming from one of the rooms, and a nurse with short auburn hair stepped out of the door laughing and talking fast. She almost bumped into us and said "Excuse me" as she scurried off to another room. We could hear her greet her next patient with bubbly enthusiasm.

The teen room was located in a small corner overlooking Portland with a great view of Hadlock Field where the Double A Red Sox team the Sea Dogs play. There was a computer, a PlayStation 2, and a 42" LCD flat screen TV hanging on the wall donated by a fundraiser sponsored by the State Police. I remembered watching the news report of a cancer patient named Becca cutting the ribbon as it was being presented.

A short, extremely slim woman, dressed casually came into the room and shut the door behind her. "Hello, I'm Doctor Johnson," she said as she extended her hand.

I shook her hand and offered, "I'm Detective Chamberlain and this is Detective Sanchez. We want to ask you about one of your nurses who was murdered night before last in her apartment. Her name was Ms. Leavitt," I said as we settled into soft cushioned vinyl chairs.

The doctor sighed heavily as she sat down with us and replied, "What a tragedy. The whole floor is devastated by her death.

"I noticed that your nurses are not like ones that I remember when I was last in the hospital."

"We have a good crew here, some of the best in the country. These kids are very sick. Cancer, blood disorders, Crohn's disease, after surgery care, and other rarer illnesses. The nurses for these kids need to have a certain attitude to make, often extended hospital stays, easier on the children."

"What can you tell us about Nurse Leavitt?" asked Claire.

"She was a good nurse, knew her job and was great with the kids. She had been here about two years or so."

"What can you tell us about her personal life?"

"Not much actually, you might ask one of the other nurses. Meagan, for instance. She was close to her and I believe she's here today. Would you like me to find her?"

"Yes, please, and do you have a file on Nurse Leavitt that we can review?"

"Not here, but I can have one sent to you."

"Yes, please do," I said as I handed her my card.

Dr. Johnson exited the room and shut the door behind her. A young boy sitting in a wheel chair looked in at us and then turned away with a rather disappointed look on his face. He must have wanted something. Claire noticed it as well, got up, and went to the door. She stopped the young child and asked if she could help him. When she spoke, she squatted in front of him so she could make eye contact. He smiled and had a smitten look on his face. He said something in a weak voice, which I couldn't make out. Claire got behind him and rolled him into the room where there were 2 boxes of comic books.

"Which ones do you like?" she asked the boy.

His voice was soft, almost like he was struggling to speak, "Batman is my favorite."

"Here are two Batman and Robin comics. Have you read either of them yet?"

He shook his head no and smiled an innocent smile. At the door I heard a woman call. "Come along now, Brian," as she walked toward the boy.

He looked over at the woman I took to be his mother, with a not now look on his face, but didn't seem to have the strength to argue. His mother was wearing a light pink cotton pajama set. She took hold of his chair and began to wheel him out.

"Sorry if he bothered you," she said.

Claire answered with a smile, "No bother, and glad to help."

"Do you have that effect on every man you meet?" I asked, having thoroughly enjoyed watching her behavior toward the child.

"As a matter of fact, yes. Why do you think I wear old clothes to work? I don't want every cop in the precinct hitting on me," she said as she straightened the hem of her skirt.

"He was smitten," I said knowing I was too.

"I'm good with kids. I had lots of brothers and sisters and we were required to get along. My babysitting duties started at an early age."

I was just about to ask some questions regarding her childhood when a woman wearing scrubs with Mickey Mouse all over them, walked into the room. Her nametag said Meagan, without a last name. She was about 5' 6" and appeared to be in her late 20's, with shoulder length light brown curly hair. She had an engaging smile and I found myself returning it. Claire however, got right to business.

"Hello, Meagan?" she began, wanting her to finish with her last name.

"Meagan Brouseau," she answered, extending her hand.

"I'm Detective Sanchez and this is Detective Chamberlain of the Portland Police Department." Claire shook her hand and I stood and did likewise.

"Is this about Bea's death?" she asked. As she spoke she placed her hands on her hips and pushed her chest out. I wasn't sure if she was doing that for my benefit or not.

"Please have a seat. Ms. or Mrs.?" I asked offering her a seat on a soft red vinyl couch placed against the wall.

"It's Miss and please call me Meagan," she said sitting down.

Claire sat beside her and I pulled up a metal chair with a blue seat and back cushion and sat opposite the two women. "Were you with Ms. Leavitt on Wednesday night?"

"No, I was working the night shift here from 7:00 p.m. to 8:00 a.m." Her eyes got watery as she spoke and a slight quivering of her lips seemed to indicate that she was upset.

"How well did you know Ms. Leavitt?" asked Claire.

"We were friends and hung out sometimes after work and on mutual time off. She was fun to be around and always made me laugh." A tear dropped down her cheek and she stood and walked across the room to a box of tissues. She dabbed her eyes, then blew. She grabbed a couple of extra tissues and returned to sit beside Claire.

"So, you knew that she was a gay?" I asked.

"Yes, but that didn't bother me. I have both gay and straight friends, and to me people are just people. She knew I was straight and she never once tried to be anything more than friends."

"Do you know Jennifer Rawley and where we might find her?" asked Claire.

"Yes and no. I knew her and she was always nice enough. Jen and Bea had a little falling out; well more of a drifting apart and they broke up. Where she is, I can't say for sure, though I heard she moved to Boston from Bea."

"Was there anyone new in her life?"

"Well, kind of," she began looking toward the door. "Some married woman," she finished in almost a whisper and then continued in the same soft tone, "I didn't approve and told her it could only lead to trouble. She said it was just a fling and not to worry."

"What can you tell us about this married woman?" asked Claire mimicking Nurse Meagan's secretive tone.

"Not much. Jackie was her first name but I never knew her last name. I do know they met at the Underground over on Middle St."

The Underground was a bar down the street from the Cumberland County Civic Center frequented by homosexuals. I had been there during my tenure with the State Police Force while following up on some nasty hate crime incidents about 10 years earlier. The place was pretty harmless, as far as bars go, and the Portland Police rarely needed to go over on calls compared to other more volatile bars in the Old Port section a block down the street.

"Anything else you can think of?" I asked in more normal tones.

"Only that Jackie was probably a girly girl. Bea was the masculine one in a relationship and was attracted to feminine types. Charlie is the head bartender over at The Underground. He would be the person to talk to."

"All right, Nurse Meagan," I said handing her my business card. "If you think of anything else, please let us know. Thank you for your time." I stood and shook her hand, as did Claire.

Nurse Meagan left the room and began talking to several female nurses in front of the nurse's station. Again, her hands went to her hips and her breasts were pushed forward. So, it wasn't meant for me, but was her natural stance. I was slightly disappointed.

We left the teen room and were making our way toward the exit when we heard singing. In the center of the children's wing was a place called the Atrium. It was a sun filled round room with a glass skylight ceiling. There were assorted toys in one corner neatly placed, though recently played with from the look of the arrangement on the Thomas the Choo Choo table. Off to the side were two pretty teenage girls singing in perfect harmony. One dark haired girl of perhaps sixteen was playing an acoustic guitar and the blonde beside her had a tambourine. I am a country music fan and recognized a song by Taylor Swift called "Tim McGraw". Although the original was a single voice, the two girls made a wonderful harmonious rendition of the song.

Sitting and watching the show were four children along with parents both male and female, all with smiles on their faces. All but one of the children sat in wheel chairs, with two of them having bags of hydration fluids running into IV's. One was a boy of about 12 and the other a girl of perhaps 15. Both had lost their hair from Chemotherapy. One of the other children, a girl of perhaps 16 but it was hard to tell, had terrible facial swelling, both eyes and one cheek were especially swollen. She managed to smile, though she was obviously in pain.

The last child was a boy of about 6 sitting in a cart much like a garden cart. He was surrounded by pillows and stuffed animals. A blue alligator, brown teddy bear, and a purple dragon were nestled in with him. I could not see anything obviously wrong with him and found myself hoping he was a sibling of the other children. I noted that his mother however, had the telltale signs of lack of sleep and a red nose from blowing during tears. She hovered protectively around the child in the cart so I doubted my hopes would prove true if I asked.

The two teenagers went into an old Fleetwood Mac song, called "Landslide" and did a marvelous job. A round of enthusiastic applause rewarded them, but even more so were the thankful smiles of the children. Claire and I turned away and began heading to the exit. I saw a slight glittering from her eyes, moist, yet not quite tearing and found myself somewhat choked up as well. As we left, I noticed that many of the doors to the children's rooms were now open. The kids, having turned off their televisions and PlayStations, were listening to the music from the Atrium as many of them were too sick to have gone there themselves. As tears came from my eyes I thought, 'God, please help them'.

8

We arrived at Police Headquarters around 11:00 a.m. and made our way to our desks, which faced each other. Along the way, a number of the other detectives whistled at Sanchez. She grinned and said to me, "See what I mean?" I did and agreed with them. As we approached our desks, I got behind her chair and pulled it out for her. "You've got to be kidding," she said to me with that deadly smirk again.

"Just trying to let them know that they're out of contention," I said as she sat down. "I'm going to call Fritz to find out about ballistics and prints at the Leavitt girl's place. Can you check if anything was found in the neighborhood or over by the end of the wading pool?"

"Sure thing." She got up and headed over to the door to make her way downstairs. I found myself watching her walk out, noticing that so was every other male in the place. As she exited, she turned her head toward me and smiled. How the hell do women always know if you're watching? It must be some kind of sixth sense or something. Maybe their butt burns when someone is looking at it, like when your ears burn when someone is talking about you. I didn't mind getting caught or the fact that her look and smile were for me.

I picked up the phone to call Fritz when Jeffrey Drew came over and sat his big fat ass on the corner of my desk. Not that I cared, as that was where I usually sat when visiting a fellow officer, but I was concerned for my desk.

"Geez, I never saw Claire look so good, what's up with that?" he asked.

"We went to the hospital and she wanted to look professional," I replied putting the phone temporarily back on its cradle.

"Yeah, sure. I saw that look she gave you. Something going on between you two?"

"She's seducing me and it's working."

Jeffrey may look like an overweight hardheaded kick your ass and ask questions later kind of cop, which he is, but for his compatriots he had a soft spot. "Well, that's the best news I've heard in a long while. You need a little spark in your life, my friend."

"Yeah, well I just didn't want a friggin' four alarm fire."

"Oh, serious then?" he asked now lowering his voice.

"Today no, tomorrow maybe, I figure by the end of the week I'm screwed."

"That's the spirit, think positive," he said as he patted my shoulder, then got up and made his way to his own desk.

This time I successfully called Fritz. "Hey Fritz, Jack here. What can you tell me about the Leavitt murder?" I asked.

"Hi, Jack. Well, the ballistics' report should be up to you soon. I just handed it to Sanchez who I met downstairs. Damn, she looked good. You know, Son, you might want to take a shot at that one. She's the type of girl who would treat you right and kick your ass at the same time, but still leave you smiling."

"I'll keep that in mind. What about ballistics?"

"The bullet was fired from the same gun for sure. The slug was a .308 magnum fired from an HTR (Heavy Tactical Rifle). Can't say for sure the make and model."

"There's a tree about 300 yards away in Deering Oaks Park that the shooter left a note on. My guess is he also fired the shot from that tree, but we didn't find any casings."

"Nice sniper rifle then. Wasn't Sanchez a sniper in the army?"

"Almost, but she went into the MP's instead. I'll get her opinion on what might be a good choice of weapon for this shot."

"The prints we took from the apartment bathroom did not match anything on file. Whoever was there doesn't have any priors."

"Anything else?"

"Only that Ms. Leavitt did have some type of sexual activity that night."

"She was a lesbian."

"Ok, that explains the absence of semen. That's about it for now."

"Hey, Jack, can you come in here for a second?" I heard from across the room. There was no mistaking Jonathan Spacey's voice and as I hung up the phone I could see him standing by his door holding it open for me. This also meant he was going to shut it behind me, which meant he wanted to talk. Wonderful.

"Have a seat, Jack," he said as he shut the door behind me.

"Leave the door open or people will talk," I said which he ignored and got right down to it as usual.

"What have you got so far on either the Willis or Leavitt murders?" he asked as he sat behind his desk and cleared a pile of papers to the side.

"Yeah, two murders one shooter. We found a second note with the date 5/5 on it. The Leavitt girl was shot from a perch in Deering Oaks Park. I think he's setting this up to be a series which would mean the next one is midnight on 6/6, a Wednesday."

"Shit, we have to keep a lid on this or half the city is going to freak on 6/6. Does the media know about the note?"

"No, at least not yet."

"What does that mean?"

"You know how shit like this gets out. I'm surprised it's not all over the friggin' 6:00 p.m. news by now."

"Well, keep it quiet if you can for Christ's sake."

I continued to brief him for about half an hour. He asked all the right questions concerning the prints and the theory of the shooter leaving by way of the wading pool. I guess maybe Prick 101 wasn't the only class he took in college.

"If you need anything, additional manpower or surveillance, you let me know, Jack."

"Yeah, I will. I would start scheduling additional officers for the night of the 5th. I think we'll want them around."

"Agreed, keep me up to speed," he said as he shut the door behind me.

Sanchez was seated at her desk and I noted that Hank Russell had his ass on her desk. Hank was a good-looking guy and he knew it. He was a bit of a prick, so he was probably headed for a promotion. She laughed at something he said and I felt my temperature rise a little. I didn't recall ever having any pangs of jealousy over Sarah, but then again she was a bitch. As I approached my desk, Ole' Hank got up and moved on.

"Had a meeting with the Captain?" Claire asked.

"He wanted an update on the murders."

"I have the ballistics' report."

"I know. Fritz gave me a briefing on it. Prints are not on file and later on I want a lesson in sniper rifles. But first, what did the Blues come up with?"

"Not much. No one heard the shot; no one saw anything odd or out of place vehicles, and the patrol that goes through the park had nothing."

"Kind of the way things are going right now."

"Yeah, this sucks. We need a break."

"Breaks are mostly made. Let's get some lunch, but I need to see Herr Capitan first."

I stuck my face in the Captain's office without knocking just to piss him off a little and asked him for a few favors, which he reluctantly agreed to. I met Claire by the door and she had a questioning look on her face.

"He asked me earlier if I needed anything, well I do. We're taking over interrogation room one and we're getting a whiteboard and a pegboard. He said they would be there after lunch, so let's go to Subway down the street."

We returned to the office to find the whiteboard and pegboard set up in interrogation room one. The room was slightly larger than a 10 x 10 cell with a table in the middle and three chairs. The table had a welded horseshoe bar used to attach cuffs to, if necessary. The only window was actually a one-way mirror, and the room was equipped with one camera and wired for sound. We pushed the table under the window and hung the whiteboard to the right and pegboard to the left on the opposite side of the room.

"Ok, what's next?" asked Claire as she opened a package of pushpins.

"We make our own break," I said as I took the erasable marker and began writingon the board.

I made a single line across the top and wrote the victims' names and the dates underneath 4/4, 5/5, then 6/6, with a question mark above 6/6. I then drew a line down the left side, leaving room to write in the margin, labeling the top as Victim Info. Under the Victim Info line, I wrote in a column: Age, Marital Status, Doing at the Time, Outside Activities, Occupation, Other, then left a blank space that would hold a few more categories. I then wrote Killer Info with the following sub headings under it: Time, Gun, Shooter Location, Dress, Note, Other. On the very bottom I wrote the word Common.

"Ok," I said turning to Claire handing her the dry erase marker. "This is our grid. We have space to add information in between the Victim Info and the Killer Info if we find any interesting items as the investigation continues. Now, let's fill in what we know about Willis first."

Claire walked up to the whiteboard and began filling it out as she talked. "Willis age 34, marital status – is just 'M' OK for married?" she asked looking over her shoulder.

"Yeah, use S & M as the symbols."

"You should see someone about that."

"That's why I studied Psychiatry. I found out I'm normal, it's a guy thing."

She rolled her eyes and continued, "Doing at the Time, sleeping in a chair. Outside Activities."

"Wait, she may have been reading when she was shot. Put that before sleeping and keep them both."

"Ok, reading or sleeping in a chair. Outside activities, what do we know?"

"Not much, leave it blank and we'll have to find out. We need to know if they shared something recreational, softball or a bowling league, women's gym, even Alcoholics Anonymous."

"Occupation - bakery cook. Other – what's other about?"

"Tidbits of information we might pick up along the way. Sometimes the most meaningless thing turns out to be crucial. Before we do the shooter lets fill in the Leavitt girl."

"Leavitt was 24, single with an ex-lover, Jennifer Rawley, now residing in Boston somewhere. She was also assumedly having an affair with a married woman. She was sleeping after having sex and her partner was allegedly there, also asleep, when the murder occurred. Other Activities, well we know she frequented the Underground but not much else. She was a nurse at Maine Medical Center at the Barbara Bush Children's Hospital. Anything in "Other" here?" She asked as she stepped away from the whiteboard.

"No, let's take a look at what these girls had in common," I said walking closer to the board. "What's the most obvious?"

"Well besides being dead, they're both female," she said.

I wrote "dead female" in the first box at the very bottom. "They were a steady target, even if Mrs. Willis was still awake and reading, she most likely wasn't moving around all that much." I wrote "steady target" in the next box. "As far as their work goes, they both worked with the public, although Mrs. Willis came in contact with far more people based on what she did and where." I wrote "public exposure" at work.

"How about the bathroom being used in both cases? One to urinate and one to shower?"

"All right, but write that under "Other" for Killer Info. We seem to have a few loose ends so they will go on our "to do" list," I said. "Let's talk about the shooter." I handed the marker back to her, then sat down.

"Mrs. Willis, shot through the forehead, Time - at approximately 12:00 midnight. The Gun had a .308 slug from a sniper style rifle. Shot was taken from across the street, maybe 50 yards. He wore size 11 Cabala's and some type of gloves, rubber or leather. The note was written on a 2x4 white pad similar to what you might find on many office desktops."

"We need to find out if he is right or left handed. Put that on our "to do" list. We already have the bathroom thing under "Other". Let's do Ms. Leavitt now."

"The time was again around midnight, .308 caliber shot at a distance of 300 yards, clothing unknown, and the note."

"Wait, are you sure the clothing is unknown? He was wearing Cabala's at the first murder. This would suggest he was casually dressed. If he were leaving an apartment building, carrying some kind of case with the gun in it, he would want to be unnoticeable. Someone you wouldn't take more than a quick glance at. Now in a tree at night you would want to be dressed as darkly as possible to be hidden. Also, I didn't see any unusual marks on the tree from say climbing boots with the pole spikes in them. You climbed rather quickly up in sneakers and again they left no discernible marks."

"Dark clothes and sneakers then?"

"Yes, and black leather gloves unless rubber gloves come in black."

"Only those heavy waterproof ones that fishermen wear, that I know. He used the same 2 x 4 white paper. Finally, the escape route through the wading pool."

"It's the most likely avenue for the son-of-a-bitch to make his getaway." I stood up and walked to the board, "Commonalities are the gun, the note, the time, and also the location. He has no desire or need to be up close and personal."

"How much do you know about sniper rifles?" Claire asked as she sat down.

"Not a whole lot. I trained on the use of an M16 while in the State Police, but prefer my Heckler & Koch P2000 SK 9mm. Using a .357 bullet it will hold 9 in the magazine. What I'd like to do is go to the firing range tomorrow morning. Let's get a sniper rifle and shoot. You can give me a crash course in sniping."

"Sure, I know they have some army DMR's, Designated Marksman Rifles, and maybe a couple M82's used by the Marine Special Forces. I'll set something up."

"Let's see how many loose ends we can tie up today. I'll try to locate Jennifer Rawley and take the note to Gloria, our resident handwriting expert. Why don't you take the list of relatives for both victims and make some calls concerning hobbies or anything they might have done on a regular basis. Later we'll head over to the Underground and have a chat with Charles."

"Are we going as cops or just people so we can look around first?"

"Cops, let's let everyone know we need to talk to this woman. It is 2:00 p.m. now, let's get back together at 5:00 p.m. and go from there."

Claire got up to begin her task as I picked up the phone and called Jason Walbridge, the Editor over at the Portland Press Herald. "Jason, Jack Chamberlain," I said when Jason answered.

"Hello, Jack, what can I do for you?" Jason was an old friend from my early days of college. Although we had taken different professional paths, we had kept in touch over the years. He had also introduced me to Sarah, but I didn't hold it against him. We shared a few moments exchanging news about his family and I hinted I had a woman in my life but wouldn't let him pry more information out of me.

"I need a back issue sent over from 4/4 if you could, and have it sent to my attention."

"Something to do with the shootings?" he asked. Jason had been a good reporter in his early years and hadn't skipped a beat, even though he was a deskman now.

"This is off the record," I said.

"Sure, Jack, what's up?"

"Frankly, I'm not sure at this point. I want the lead article on the Willis murder for my pegboard. I'm lead on this and I've got to find the straight road through the swamp."

"I hear you. I'll courier the edition right over. Can I count on you to let us be the first to hear anything that breaks?"

"Absolutely, and thanks, Jason," I said as I hung up the phone.

The next call was to Gloria down in forensics. I told her the notes were in evidence and gave her the case numbers. She said she would get right on it. Finally, time to find Jennifer Rawley.
9

Camilla Washington was a very attractive black woman. Tall, slim, and with facial features that hinted of an Asian descent. He had followed her home two days earlier from the Barnes and Noble in South Portland, outside the Maine Mall, and soon after had everything he needed to know about her. He was not yet sure if she would fit his purpose.

First of all, she was the mother of a six-year-old child named Jefferson, who they called Jeff. He was a cute kid and he wasn't crazy about leaving him motherless. He considered himself ruthless, but not heartless. As a matter of fact, he thought as he sipped coffee at the corner table of the Red Barn coffee shop inside Barnes & Noble, it was his heart that was making him do this. She had taken it, that bitch. She had ripped it from his soul and tossed it aside as if it was some sort of red meat. Not Camilla of course, but his ultimate target was the guilty party. Camilla, if she was unfortunate enough to be the victim of his game of three card monte, was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.

He took another sip of the extra-sweetened coffee, savoring its sweet bitterness, wondering if his ultimate victory would taste so bitter sweet. He could still remember her calm face as she explained to him her reason for leaving, which was bitter enough for anybody. He could see her smug look as she walked out. She had blamed everything on him. She turned her back on everything he had built and the hard work he had done to give them a better life. Bitch, bitch, bitch was more like it. How had he put up with the – we don't have this and we can't go here- as she hung out with the muckity mucks down in Kennebunkport? Oh, her friends went everywhere, with houses in Florida, apartments in New York, and trips to the Caymans. Well sorry, Bitch, we weren't born to money, we had to earn our stinking greenbacks. But now the stupid bitch had to work for a living. She must have spread her stick legs for someone to get the damn job. She just wasn't bright enough to get it any other way.

He still remembered her last words as she left "I used to love you, but you chipped away at it little by little until there was only rubble left." He would have loved to strangle the idiot that taught her that because, again, she just wasn't bright enough to come up with it all on her own. He really hated thinking about her, even as he planned her death. It always boiled his blood and screwed up his friggin' day. But her day was coming, and coming fast.

He took the last sip of his coffee, now lukewarm, and saw a petite woman of about thirty shopping in the cooking section of the bookstore. She was alone and of Asian descent with long black hair, braided in a ponytail down to the small of her back. She was attractive, with darker skin typical of Southeast Asians, but had rather large breasts, quite possibly a D-cup, which was not quite as typical, except maybe in Hollywood. She wore a long dark brown skirt, almost to the floor and a light yellow top. He noted she did not have a ring on her left hand, but was wearing small hoop earrings.

She made her selection and stopped briefly by the music section, which was slightly beyond his view. He was patient and didn't move, because he knew that from this vantage point the surveillance cameras had a very poor angle to record him. He also knew that eventually she would make her way to the counter. A few minutes later she stood and waited in line, casually browsing the many trinkets set out for impulse buyers, but at least today, she was not one of them. When it was her turn, she smiled politely at the clerk and handed over a credit card for payment.

He went out a side door of the coffee shop before she was done with her transaction, and sat in his car as she left through the main doors of the bookstore, bag in hand. She got behind the wheel of an older model Volvo station wagon, white with chrome wheels, and exited the parking lot.

He followed at a safe distance and eventually arrived at a three-story apartment building in Portland on Congress Street, on what was known as Munjoy Hill. There was a Thai restaurant on the first floor, however, she went into the building through a door to the right of the restaurant's main entrance. He saw a light go on in a window on the second floor followed by two additional lights in nearby windows. He stepped into the foyer and determined the apartment was 2B. He checked her mailbox and found a bill from Capital One to Mayling Woo.

He looked around at nearby buildings and was sure he could find the proper perch for the shot, provided the bedroom window did not face the alley-way between her building and the one next door. The exact location of the shot would be determined later. Yes, she should do nicely. Now he needed to learn her habits. Nothing could screw up this shot he was planning.

10

I am not sure of the exact number; however, I would guess that 75% of the population carries a cell phone, with a higher percentage in the 20 to 30-year-old age bracket. In Portland, the two biggest carriers are Verizon Wireless and Cellular One with about three smaller carriers available. If I was lucky, even though Jennifer had moved, her cell number and carrier stayed the same.

I arrived at Cellular One first for two reasons, the most important one was that their Portland office was a block from the Precinct. As I expected, they were reluctant at first to give out client information, but eventually I hooked up with someone who had the authority to do so. Unfortunately, Jennifer Rawley was not a customer, nor had she been.

The Verizon office was across from the Portland Public Library on Monument Square in One City Center, coincidentally the same building as Cookies 'n Crème. The real reason I had gone to Cellular One first was that Sarah Parker was Verizon's VP of Sales for Maine, and I was hoping to avoid this one. It wasn't in the cards.

I rode the elevator up to the 6th floor and walked toward a very attractive Jewish girl with black hair sitting behind the reception desk. "May I help you?" she asked in a distinct New York City accent.

"Yes, Sarah Parker, please," I said returning her smile.

"Do you have an appointment?"

"No, tell her Jack Chamberlain needs a moment of her time."

"Yes, Mr. Chamberlain, I'll see if she is available." She dialed an extension and spoke to Sarah briefly. "Please go down the hall to the right. You will find her in the corner office, number 602."

The directions were not necessary because as I walked down the hall, Sarah emerged from her office. She was a tall 5 foot 10 inches that was emphasized by her very long legs. She looked a little heavier than I remembered, by maybe 10 pounds or so, but she wore it well. Physical attraction between us had never been an issue. I was reminded of this when she gave me a hug as she greeted me. She asked me to follow her into her office and my eyes drifted down to the second best rear view I had ever seen up close. She was covering her best feature with a tight pair of form fitting black slacks, which she matched with a red silk blouse. Her hair, naturally brown, was dyed a strawberry blonde, cut shoulder length and hanging into her eyes. It always gave me a rise when she peered beneath her fine locks.

We entered her office and she shut the door behind me. She motioned for me to sit on a dark brown leather couch that faced a small mahogany wood coffee table. "Can I offer you coffee? It's Starbucks," she said as she made her way to a carafe on a bookshelf off to the right of the door.

"Yes please, black," I said as I sat on the couch.

She walked over carrying 2 cups and handed me one. She kicked off her shoes and sat down, leaving an uncomfortably narrow space between us. I took a sip of the coffee, which was Starbuck's strong and reasonably hot.

"It's been awhile, how are you?" she asked putting her coffee down and placing her hands in her lap.

"Ok, I've been mostly working."

"As usual, and I see you have your Thursday tie on. So, is this a business call. Am I in hot water?" At this, she gave me a wicked smile, and my brain flooded with the memory of some very erotic nights spent in Old Orchard Beach in a hot tub overlooking the ocean. We had rented a place for the week and during the day we sunbathed in the nude and enjoyed the beach while at night it was excursions of skinny-dipping in the cold Northern Atlantic surf. She saw the look on my face. "So, you do remember."

"How could I forget; I can't even walk the beach at night without getting a woody."

"We did have a nice time," she said as she leaned close, "a very nice time."

My external alarm system was getting hard and she was the kind of trouble I was happy to no longer have, so I attempted to turn the conversation to business. "As much as I would like to reminisce, "I began.

"I can see that," she interrupted, looking down at my crotch.

I really should buy a long overcoat I thought. "I'm hoping I can get information on one of your clients. A Jennifer Rawley has a cell phone account with you and has moved to somewhere in, or around Boston. She isn't a suspect in anything, however we need to talk to her. The recent sniper-shooting victim was a long-term friend of hers and we're hoping to get some insight into her habits. We would like to get a forwarding address if you have one, and of course, it would be on the QT."

"It's not normal practice for us to give out this kind of information, Jack. You know that." She straightened up which thankfully gave me some breathing room.

"I understand and appreciate that. I could get a warrant easy enough, but that seemed like it would create a bigger headache for both of us." She gave me a dirty look, nobody likes hearing about warrants, and the look also brought some other memories to mind. I remembered why I was happy we split in the first place. "So, what do you say?"

She stood and walked to her desk taking the time to put on her short-heeled shoes. "Is it R-A-W-L-E-Y?" she asked as she typed away at the keyboard.

"Yes, it is."

"Got her," she said and I heard the printer begin feeding paper behind her. She took the completed page and folded it as she came back to sit on the couch. This time she put her leg up against mine. "Here it is. Now, what's in it for me?" She placed her hand on my leg and gave me that "take me now" look that so often sent me over the edge in the past.

"Sarah, not now, I really need to contact this girl and get some answers."

She placed her lips up to mine and softly asked, "When then?"

I placed my hands on her hips and we stood up together. "I don't know right now; things are just a little crazy."

She smiled, "Who's the girl?" and she placed both her hands on my chest. "You always were a one-woman man no matter how much you flirted."

"The whole thing is rather new, nothing serious yet," I said, backing her off a little. "As much as revisiting your talents would make for a splendid afternoon, it isn't a good choice for me right now."

"Hhmm, that really sucks. I've learned something new since we were last together, sends men into orbit." She took the folded paper and slid it into my front pocket and found more than change. "Does that mean you're changing your mind?" Her hands playfully searched inside my pocket which fired up my pulse another notch.

I was on the verge of saying screw it, my dick had already given up all attempts at resistance. But Sarah was right, I am not a playboy. I've had my share of one-night stands and weekend flings, but never when I was in any kind of relationship. I was a habitual flirt but it was more about enjoying the sexual banter with women who would reciprocate than anything else. In short, flirting is just fun. "No, I haven't. But if you keep doing that, I won't be able to walk down the corridor without causing a ruckus."

"Once they see that, half the girls and a couple of the guys, will follow you right into the elevator," she laughed but thankfully removed her hand from my pocket. "If things go sour with your new flame, give me a call. No strings attached, maybe some rope, though." She opened the door for me and I wondered how I was going to get down the hall unnoticed because the rope comment brought back another wave of memories.

I made my way to the elevator pretending to search for something in my jacket pocket, but I was really using it as a way of shielding anyone from seeing the bulge in my pants. It worked until I got to the lovely receptionist and she said, "Good day, Detective," which threw me off because I didn't recall telling her that bit of information. I turned to look at her and dropped my guard and my jacket down and must have looked like an underexposed flasher. Her smile got wider and she said as she nodded toward my groin, "Need any help with that?"

"Only if the elevator door shuts on it," I said, hearing the doors slide open behind me.

"Lean against the back wall then, you might be all right," she laughed.

I playfully backed into the elevator and leaned against the wall, no longer trying to conceal myself. She continued to laugh and shake her head. Fortunately, the elevator did not stop on the way down and I had recovered enough to escape onto Monument Square without any more embarrassing moments.

I unfolded the paper and began to read: Jennifer Rawley, 26, female, phone 207-577-4549, billing address 12 Chestnut St, Boston MA, 02108. I thanked Sarah in my head. Even though I was happy to get out of there without getting into a compromising position, I had to admit I enjoyed the whole scene.

11

I called an old colleague with the Massachusetts State Police, Captain Warren O'Reilly, and asked if he could have someone check out the address Sarah had given me. He said he would send someone over to her place and let me know what he found.

When I arrived back at the Precinct, I went directly to Interrogation Room 1. Claire was already there placing cutouts of the Portland Press Herald's articles detailing the two murders on the pegboard. She was pinning the article involving the second murder to the right of the first, and was fully extended, pushing the pin into the board. She looked lovely. I was rather happy with myself for dodging the bullet earlier, knowing I would have felt guilty now, even though Claire and I did not have any official arrangement. I was also still extremely horny. Seeing her stretched out and looking at her very nice bubble butt began to have its effects on me. I really should get an overcoat.

She turned around and there was that killer smirk I loved, "You're doing it again."

"Am I?" I asked looking up into her pretty green eyes. "Well, when I stop doing it, then worry."

"I'll remember that," she said as she picked up the marker and moved to the Willis column of the whiteboard. "I spoke with Mrs. Willis's parents and it seemed that she had taken a volunteer job at Barnes and Noble bookstore by the Maine Mall. Once a week on Tuesdays at 3:00 p.m. they have a children's hour. Mrs. Willis would read stories to children, usually age four through seven, but any child in the store was welcome to sit in. I went down and spoke with the manager, a Mr. Fred Fortin. He said that the reading hour had steadily gained in popularity and that Mrs. Willis had done a marvelous job. Sales in general were on the rise during what historically was a slower time of day. He was considering expanding the program for the entire afternoon by age groups and offering Mrs. Willis the position. That part is on hold since her death, but they have a young girl filling in during the hour until they decide what to do." As she finished she wrote under Mrs. Willis's name 'Children's hour Barnes & Noble'. "He also mentioned that she was given an employee discount on books, though not officially employed. Other than that she was a homebody and kept mostly to herself." She moved aside so I could see what she had written. "Oh, and while you were out, Gloria came up and said that the note was written by a right handed person, most likely male," she added that bit of information to the note section under both murders. This time she wrote it so it stretched under both victims' names.

My phone began to play Taps, so I fished it from my pocket and answered, "Detective Chamberlain here."

"Jack, its O'Reilly. I had a mounted officer check up on Jennifer Rawley's place over on 12 Chestnut St. He said she's at home. Anything you need on this?"

"Yeah. Is the officer still near her apartment?" I asked.

"He's still there watching from down the street. I have him on the other line. Do you want to speak with him?"

"Sure, conference him in."

"Officer Franco, you are speaking with Detective Jack Chamberlain of the Portland Police Department," said O'Reilly to the mounted officer.

"Yes, sir. Detective, how can I be of assistance?" asked Office Franco.

"There have been two sniper shootings in Portland recently," I began. "Ms. Rawley was an ex-lover of the deceased. I have her cell number and am going to call her and ask a few questions. She is not a suspect in the murders, but I would appreciate it if you watch the place while I call just in case my hunches are incorrect."

"Will do, Detective. I have a clear view of the apartment and can see Ms. Rawley through the window. She's watching TV."

"Thank you, Officer. I'll let you know when we've finished." I gave Claire my cell phone and picked up the extension mounted on the wall. I dialed the number I got from Sarah, and Ms. Rawley picked up on the third ring.

"Hello," she said in a clear high-pitched voice.

"Hello, this is Detective Chamberlain of the Portland Police Department. I would like to ask you a couple of questions concerning Ms. Beatrice Leavitt."

She hesitated slightly before she answered and I noticed a quiver in her voice, "Yes, I heard what happened. Her funeral is Saturday. Have you caught him yet?"

"No, I'm afraid not. Were you in Boston on the 3rd?"

"Yes. I work around the corner at Cheers. They think I look like Diane from the old television show. I closed that night so I was there 'til around 2:00 a.m."

"We were told you and Ms. Leavitt drifted apart. Is that true?"

"Well, as you probably know, Bea was a lesbian and I'm not. For me it was more experiencing something different, but we both knew it couldn't last."

"So you say you're no longer a lesbian?" I was wondering if she had been having an Ann Heche period.

"No, and I'm not sure I ever really was. Being with Bea was almost like being with a guy, except for the anatomy."

Now that was a new one on me but I continued, "So why move to Boston?"

"I'm originally from Boston and came back to live with my Aunt Sophie."

"Sophie?"

"Sophie Stanwick. Her apartment is rent protected. She's getting on in years and wants it to stay in the family. If I establish residence here, I can keep the cheap rent. She wants to move to Arizona with my mother."

"Did she have any enemies or people you know that had issues with her homosexuality?"

"No, not that I know of."

"What did Ms. Leavitt do in her spare time?"

"Like I said, she was like living with a man. She went to the gym 4 days a week and did push-ups, crunches and leg lifts at home almost every morning. She loved watching football, baseball, and NASCAR. She was on the Maine Medical softball team, 1st base and could really hit."

"Anything else you can think of that she enjoyed doing?"

"Yeah, she could read a book in a day if she was really into it. She got most of her books at the Library but she would buy one on occasion."

"The Portland Public Library in Monument Square?"

"Yes."

"And when she bought books where would she go?"

"There is a hospice book store on Middle St. She'd go there mostly because paperbacks were fifty cents and hardcovers maybe two bucks. When something new was out that she had to have, she would go to the Barnes and Noble by the Mall."

"Do you have a pen and paper handy?"

"Yeah, hold on a moment."

I mouthed to Claire to have Officer Franco tell her what Ms. Rawley was doing. "Are you ready Ms. Rawley? I want you to take down my number in case you think of anything that might be important."

"Yeah, go ahead."

I gave her my cell number and thanked her for her time. "Claire, what did she do after I gave her my number?"

"She stuck it on the refrigerator with a magnet," replied Claire.

"Ok, thank Officer Franco and tell him he can resume his patrol. Let me talk with O'Reilly again." I began writing on the whiteboard as Claire handed me the phone. "O'Reilly?"

"Here, Jack," he said. "Was it any help?"

"I think so. Can you check if the apartment belongs to a Sophie Stanwick?"

"Sure thing, Jack. Anything else?"

"No. Thanks O'Reilly."

"Anytime," he ended as I hung up the phone.

I looked at what I had written. Reading and Barnes and Noble were now on both victim's chart. "I think maybe we're getting somewhere." I looked over at Claire who still looked great even after a long day. There was still something we needed to clean up tonight, if possible. "How would you like to go out to dinner and then grab a couple of drinks?"

"A real date?"

"Kind of," I said looking back toward the board.

"Oh, a working date and drinks at the Underground?"

"Yes, but a real dinner. Maybe go to David's or the Fore Street Grille in the Old Port?"

"Fore Street, bigger portions. It's a good thing I work with you or I might never get a date."

"A historical problem shared by most of the women in my life." I headed for the door, but stopped at my desk first and looked up the number for the Barnes and Noble located at the Maine Mall. It was located in a separate building in the parking lot. I picked up my desk phone and dialed the number which was answered immediately. I ask for Mr. Fortin and was told he would not be back until 9:00 a.m. the following day.

"Are you ready?" I asked Claire as I hung up the phone.

"Can I go home and shower first?"

"Why? You look great."

"Because this is a half date and I want to freshen up. Besides, if you don't call the restaurant and make a reservation, we'll never get in."

I looked at my watch and it was 5:30 p.m. "I'll try for a 7:00 p.m. reservation then."

I called the Fore Street Grille from Claire's truck on the way home. We had to settle for 7:30 p.m. As she dropped me off she leaned over and kissed me quickly on the lips. Kissing my partner at the end of the shift was a new one on me.

12

After I took a shower and shaved, I went to my dresser and looked for a pair of slacks and a shirt that was different from my cop clothes. I found an old pair of beige slacks and a short-sleeved light green button down shirt with faint cream-colored stripes. Although the clothes were old, they looked like new since I had rarely worn them. They were also wrinkled and needed ironing. I struggled through, making them look neat and found myself anticipating the evening to come. I was actually enjoying the process of getting ready and even found some cologne, buried behind items in my bathroom cupboard. I used just a little as nothing annoys me more than smelling someone before you see them.

After I had dressed, I took a moment to look myself over in the full-length mirror on the back of the bathroom door. My hair, a light brown that used to bleach out to an almost blonde in the summer when I was a kid, was cut short above the collar and parted slightly left of center. I had a diamond shaped face with a slightly elongated nose typical of my English heritage. I had been told before that I had strong angular facial features by my mother's friends over the years and had avoided successfully, the many "meet my daughter" attempts to set me up. During my State Trooper days, I had been nicknamed 'Sherlock' after Sherlock Holmes, but the name had not carried over to the Portland Police, not that I cared. I did have great respect for the fictional character and had read each story several times.

Physically I was in good shape and took after my father's side. So far, he hadn't developed the telltale spare tire that a majority of middle aged men had. I figured with regular exercise, I had a good shot of doing the same. All in all, I decided, I was not a bad catch.

Claire arrived just before seven and looked delicious. She had on black open toed pumps with three inch heels and a strap that went up the ankle. I'm not sure if she knew that I loved that look or maybe we just had similar taste. She wore a black skirt cut just above the knee, but with a slit up the side that ran to the middle of her left thigh, revealing her long shapely bare legs as she moved. Her top was a red spaghetti strap silk top, cut low but with extra material draping loosely over her breasts. Her wavy hair hung over her shoulders, free flowing with a hint of shimmer. She had made up her eyes with a touch of gray eye shadow and dark mascara. Her full lips were a glistening wet red.

I didn't even realize I hadn't spoken as she entered until she walked up and we stood nose to nose. "You're doing it again," she said softly looking into my eyes.

"I can't help it. The more I see you, the more amazed I am at how beautiful you are."

She smiled, "Thank you."

"Can I touch you or will I mess something up?" I asked as I placed my hands on her hips.

"I can always fix it after," she said then kissed me deeply. I lost myself in her sweet flavor and the scent of her perfume as we held each other. My hands explored her firm strong curves and I found myself debating skipping dinner and calling up the local pizza delivery joint. Our lips parted and she laid her head on my shoulder. I could feel her warm breath on the nape of my neck "We have a 7:30 p.m. dinner reservation to keep," she said softly.

"What? We do? Where?"

She giggled playfully and I think my knees almost gave away. "Fore Street Grille and it's close to 7:00 p.m. now."

"Well, I'm ready if you are."

"I can feel that but we still have a 7:30 p.m. dinner to make," she said as she gently pulled away. "I'm going to go to the bathroom and fix what you messed up," she said with that killer smirk of hers. "You may want to wipe the lipstick off, especially since we're going to the Underground after. People may get the wrong idea."

"But I love the taste of your lipstick and want to savor it for a while."

"Don't worry, I'll give you some more later," she ended as she went into the bathroom.

I wiped the lipstick off and sat down where I had a direct view of her standing in my bathroom reapplying her lipstick and straightening out her dress. The silk top was designed to expose her back. I found myself smiling at this lovely woman's form and began to realize that I was screwed a lot sooner than I told Jeffrey at the station. I had been with some beautiful women over the years, but did not recall any of them having this much of an effect on me. I also knew that it wasn't all physical appeal; I had long enjoyed her company before I realized how truly beautiful she was.

She saw me staring at her through the mirror as she finished. As she turned she said, "Smiling and staring now. I like that even better." She walked over and kneeled down in front me and laid her head on my chest. I buried my face in her hair and just took in her scent for a moment feeling luckier by the minute.

We walked the 5 blocks to the Old Port section of Portland. It was already 7:30 p.m., but we were sure we could reach the restaurant at the far end before the fifteen-minute grace period was up and they gave our seat away. We entered the Old Port on Fore St. by the Portland Harbor Hotel, a five story 4-star hotel with a mix of modern and old world nautical themes. Along the street to the right was Diggers Bar, then a club called Liquid Blue. The building that housed these side-by-side clubs was an old red brick three-story structure with wooden facades. Offices and apartments occupied the top two floors as was the case in most of the nearby buildings. There were several hotels that were the exception to the rule, utilizing all the available floors. Most of the buildings bore the year they were constructed somewhere on the upper portions of the wooden facade, with the majority displaying a date in the mid to late 1700's.

As we walked, I held my arm around Claire's waist to help her navigate the uneven brick sidewalks in her heeled pumps. We glanced in the many shops along the way, mostly composed of clothing stores both expensive and bargain, candy stores, a cigar store called The Calabash, toy stores, and one called Condom Sense. I had been in there a number of times as it was the best place to buy funny and explicit birthday cards. From the many restaurants came the aroma of freshly cooked foods; fish, lobster, clams, steak, and of course French fries. Not every restaurant offered seafood however, for among them were those specializing in Chinese, Indian, and Mexican cuisine. From almost every restaurant and pub came music, which competed with the many sidewalk musicians playing for your change.

A small crowd of people milled around the various shops and pubs. There were a lot of couples holding hands or friends out for a few laughs. There were a good number of children too, eating ice cream or begging their parents to take them into the toy stores.

One block away from our destination, the road changed to a gray cobblestone, a last reminder of a time long past. The cobblestone protruded from the street and when cars drove by, their tires rumbled loudly over the stone. Just past the short cobblestone street stood The Fore Street Grill with its brick front and barred windows.

We entered the door and immediately found ourselves in a noisy open space teeming with activity. Waitresses moved rapidly around carrying trays of garlic and spice laced seafood and steaks. The chefs prepared your food in an open kitchen area where the patrons could watch the flames dancing from the grills. Fresh Maine mussels and fish were roasted to perfection in a wood fired oven. The walls rose with great glass windows that looked out towards the close brick walls of neighboring buildings. Along the vaulted dark oak ceiling were water pipes painted black which crisscrossed the ancient exposed wooden beams. In places, they would pass through the beams, yet in others they would elbow around in a hodgepodge road map of pipes and beam.

The hostess was a pleasant, attractive woman in her 40's who checked our reservation and escorted us to our table. I had been here many times and knew the noise level in the main dining area often caused you to speak louder and louder to be heard over the din. So, I had asked for us to be seated in a smaller, more intimate back section. This room was quieter by at least a few decibels. It had a lower ceiling which reduced the echo effect found in the main dining hall. We were seated in a corner at a wrought iron scrollwork table with a greenish, tinted glass top. The glass top was mostly covered with a white cloth that was just large enough to drape over the center of the table.

We agreed on a bottle of red wine and looked over the meal selection. Claire ordered baked stuffed jumbo shrimp and I ordered a monkfish. We also agreed to share an order of mussels cooked in white wine, butter, and garlic sauce. We talked about our family histories for the most part during the meal, each of us enjoying learning about the many nuances that make a person who they are. I told her comical stories of life growing up in Old Orchard Beach, just to hear the sound of her laughter. The town is a summer Mecca for the people of Quebec province. The population increases from ten thousand residents to a hundred thousand tourists during the summer months.

As the meal ended and we were finishing off the bottle of wine, the growing desire to touch her seemed to move my hand of its own volition. As I reached across the table she took my hand and smiled. The room seemed to brighten as if a comet had streamed by the window. She was gazing into my eyes and I was simply losing myself within them when the waiter came over and asked if we needed anything else. "Yes," I said, "a room with a view."

She laughed and said, "Just the check. The room will have to wait." As the waiter moved off smiling, Claire asked, "Remember the old ketchup commercial?"

"Not the anticipation song?" remembering it clearly.

"That's the one. And good things come to those who wait."

"I'm really not that patient."

Unfortunately, we had already established that the first half of the date was pleasure and then we needed to go to work. We arrived outside the Underground at 9:30 p.m. and made our way into the basement club. It was located in the extreme north of the Old Port Section, but everywhere was in walking distance in the Old Port. From the decorum, it looked like the inside of any Portland bar having a distinct nautical theme, complete with a mirror ball over the dance floor reflecting sparkling light throughout the room. The patrons were decently dressed sitting in what appeared to be mixed couples. The only real give-away about the club's sexual orientation was on the dance floor, where men were dancing with men and women with women for the most part. Although the music was loud, I would have bet that the noise level in the Fore Street Grill would surpass it.

There were two bartenders, one male and one female and I was hoping the male was Charles. We sat down at the bar and the male bartender walked over and placed a bowl of mixed nuts before us.

"Welcome to the Underground, Officers," he said.

A good portion of the bartenders I've met would have made excellent cops because of their ability to read people. I was pretty sure I didn't look like a cop, not wearing my usual outfit. I knew Claire, who was dressed to kill, didn't look like a cop. I had to ask, "How did you know we were cops?"

"Well, I wasn't sure until now that this fine-looking lady was, but you're Detective Chamberlain, unless I'm mistaken. You were here when the hate crime was being investigated by the State Police. I had heard you came to Portland as a Detective."

I guess you can add good memories to the list of bartender's attributes. "We're investigating the murder of Beatrice Leavitt and understand she came here on occasion."

"I'd call her a regular. She'd come in once or twice during the week for a beer or two and at least one weekend night. Interested in a drink or are you officially on duty?"

"No, thank you. Did she hook up with someone new recently?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact. She is sitting over at the corner table. She's been here every night since Bea's death. Almost like she's waiting for someone, but no one has shown up yet."

"I believe she is waiting for us. Do you have a private room somewhere where we could have a moment alone with her?"

"My office in the back. It's small, but you're welcome to it. It's right through that door at the end of the bar."

"Do you know her name, Charles?" asked Claire.

"Jackie. I don't know her last name."

We walked over to the corner table and Jackie something looked up at us and I saw a look of relief on her face. "Hello, Jackie. We're Detectives with the Portland Police Department. I believe you have been expecting us."

Tears started rolling down her face and she didn't speak, but just nodded. Claire sat beside her and placed an arm over her shoulder. "We've made arrangements to use Charles's office in the back. Please come with us," said Claire in a soothing tone. Again, Jackie nodded and allowed Claire to help her stand.

We made our way to Charles's office, which was small, as advertised. It did however, have a couch against one wall, which appeared to double as a bed. A roll-top desk and computer chair were against the opposite wall. Claire helped Jackie to the couch and sat beside her. I sat on the computer chair which had a rip in the seat and a miss matched wheel which made it kind of balance on two wheels, depending on which way you leaned.

"Is Jackie your real name?" Claire asked in almost a conspiratorial tone like they were old friends.

"No, it's Susan Shapley. I know I should have called you right away, right from the apartment. I was so freaked out by all the blood and Bea being dead right beside me."

"Ok, can you tell us what happened?" asked Claire.

"I was just lying there with Bea and I felt this wetness on my face. I turned on a light by the nightstand and saw blood all over the pillow and the back of her head. It was horrible. I felt for a pulse and tried to listen for a heartbeat, but she was dead. I felt sick and stumbled into the bathroom and threw up in the toilet. I had blood all over my face and hands and when I looked into the mirror, I stumbled back and fell into the shower. Everything gets a little hazy after that. I remember crying on my hands and knees in the tub. I think I started to panic thinking about how everyone would know I was a closet lesbian. How could I face my husband, my kids, and my co-workers? I was already naked so I turned on the shower and washed the blood off myself. I got dressed and bolted. I wanted to call, but I couldn't."

"Why did you come here?" I asked.

"I figured I couldn't refuse if you found me."

I sat back and took a long look at her. She was telling the truth, I had no doubt, because she was definitely not in a tree in Deering Oaks Park that night. But leaving the scene of a homicide and not reporting it is a crime. Also, her after hours' recreation of infidelity, whether she was sleeping with a man or a woman, did not endear her to me at all. "Mrs. Shapley," I said taking a hard line on the situation, "you left the crime scene of a homicide of someone you knew while having an adulterous affair. You have caused us a number of man-hours trying to find you that would have been better spent trying to catch the killer of Ms. Leavitt. Your behavior of not calling authorities, taking the time to shower and perhaps clear evidence of you being there, is highly suggestive that you are involved in her murder. There is nothing you have done up to this point, other than not bolt out the door tonight when we walked in, which even remotely suggests that I should not drag your ass to jail."

Claire looked up at me, but I could tell from her eyes she agreed with me.

"Basically, because of fear for your own skin, you have chosen to ignore what is right. You, Mrs. Shapley, have a day of reckoning with a whole host of people not leastwise the City of Portland."

"I know. Don't you think I know?" she said, the tears coming heavy now.

I motioned for Claire to follow me as I pulled open the door and stepped out. "This is the shit I hate. Technically if that piece of shit DA gets a hold of this, he either drops the case or she gets some type of community service. No time. In the mean-time her whole life is screwed because she can't keep her pants on and this whack job we're after just happened to take out her girlfriend."

"What would you do if she was a man?" asked Claire.

"I would drag him home to his wife, throw him in the door, and tell him he better be available if I need him and let the son-of-a-bitch work it out for himself. Jail just isn't in the cards no matter what we do. At least this way the whole world doesn't come down on her, just her little piece of it."

"You're the boss."

In the end that's exactly what we did. I called a squad car and we all rode quietly to the house of Mrs. Shapley. Her husband was indeed home and very surprised to see his wife pull up in a squad car. He was polite, although concerned and I just told him to have his wife explain it to him.

"Mrs. Shapely, I don't think we will need you further, but it is possible."

"Yes, Detective, and I appreciate this."

I found myself hoping they could work it out, but I doubted it.

We asked to be dropped off at the Eastland Hotel on Congress St. and made our way to a piano bar and restaurant called the Top of the East located on the 12th floor. The bar took up the entire floor and was all windows overlooking the city, except for one small section off the elevators for the preparation of food and the bar itself. The Top of the East claimed to be the highest, most easterly restaurant on the east coast. The lingering smell of fish and steaks still hung in the air, although none of the patrons were eating this late. Most were well-dressed couples or groups of friends enjoying cocktails.

We found a quiet table near a window overlooking the harbor where we could see a three quarter moon shining brightly off the now calm ocean water.

"So, what's next?" asked Claire as I helped her into her seat.

"We go to my place, take off all of our clothes, and dust each other for finger prints," I said while I signaled for a waiter.

Claire smiled and reached across the table, "Actually, I meant after that."

"Oh, sorry. Well, we get in the shower and wash the fingerprint dust off each other, I'll do you and you do me..."

"I really meant tomorrow," she said her smile turning to that killer smirk and her eyes narrowing playfully.

"Sorry, in the presence of such beauty I kind of lost track."

"You mean one track."

"Yes, that too. As for tomorrow, well I thought I could get some ice cream, whipped cream, and maybe some caramel sauce and have Claire à lamode for breakfast. After that, maybe go to work." Her head dropped to the table and onto our clasped hands and she shook her head "no" back and forth.

The waiter came over and asked what we wanted and I started to speak when Claire interrupted and said, "Just the check please."

The waiter somewhat confused said, "But you haven't had anything."

"Oh good! That makes it easier. My date has a few issues we need to discuss so we have to go." She stood up and pretty much hauled me out of my seat and we left the waiter wondering what just happened.

"That was a quick drink. Where are we going?" I asked knowing I would follow her anywhere.

"My place," she said as she looped her arm in mine. "I have all the fixings for the perfect Sundae."
13

I woke up the next morning in Claire's Studio apartment on Congress St. near Longfellow Square, named after the author Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. A statue of him has adorned the meridian at a three-point intersection since 1988. Claire had a cozy place, all open with cathedral ceilings. The walls were painted in green earth tones, the baseboards and moldings were a dark natural wood. I looked over at the alarm clock next to her antique white four-poster queen sized bed, and saw it was 5:30 a.m. My internal alarm clock still worked even after hours of the best love I had ever shared.

Claire was beside me, snuggled up to my chest and I had my arm around her. I turned sideways and ran my right hand down her naked body in a soft caress. She began to stir and snuggled even more deeply until my face was firmly buried in her hair.

"What time is it?" she asked.

"5:30 a.m.," I replied.

"Well, at least it's Friday," she said as she turned her mouth toward me for a morning kiss. "Who gets in the shower first?"

"I heard there's a terrible drought so we need to conserve water and share the shower," I said as I moved her hair softly from her eyes.

"Drought? It rained a few days ago."

"No, in the Sudan. I just want to do my part."

She laughed, "Okay, Mr. Environmentalist, who's making coffee?"

"You are, I'm out of my element."

Claire got up to make coffee and I was thankful she's not bashful, as I enjoyed watching her walk across the room. Unfortunately, the morning ended far too quickly, as enjoyable as it was, and we were soon leaving my place after a quick stop to retrieve my cop clothes for the day.

Claire made a call first thing after our arrival at the precinct to the State Police Barracks in Gray. They had the best shooting range and arsenal for my lesson in sharp shooting, including various sniper weapons and scopes. We were due to be there at 10:00 a.m. which gave us an hour and a half before we needed to leave.

Claire also called Mr. Fortin, the manager of Barnes and Noble in South Portland, to check on what type of surveillance tapes were available. Barnes and Noble was the only common denominator so far, but it was a start. Just as she made the connection with Mr. Fortin, Jonathan Spacey walked in scowling.

"Jack, I need to see you. My office," he said as he literally stomped back out.

Claire whispered, "What the hell is that about?"

"Susan Shapley," I said as I followed him in his office.

"Shut the door behind you, Jack," he said as he sat behind his desk. I shut the door and sat down as he fiddled with some papers, like he had more important things to do. "What's this I hear that you found the Leavitt girl's lover? The same girl that may have skipped out on Ms. Leavitt after she was murdered?"

"Yeah, we found her down at the Underground. She was waiting for us to find her."

"And you let her go?"

"In a manner of speaking, yes, she had nothing to do with it."

"Says you. She was a material witness to a murder, then sanitized and fled the crime scene. She was the last person to see Leavitt alive and you drop her off at her house like she's the fucking Queen." I had never seen him so pissed off. He stood, walked around the desk and got right in my face. "I want her brought in. I want her arrested, questioned, and the whole thing given to the DA's Office to press charges."

The last time someone got in my face, I drilled him into a wall and got thrown out of a bar. Simply, I don't like anyone down my throat. "Captain, if you want to arrest her, get off your ass and do it," I said and it was my turn to stand. We were about the same height, although I had 20 pounds on him and was pretty sure I could kick his ass if it came to it. "I said she had nothing to do with it and I meant it. After getting laid, she fell asleep and woke up next to her dead girlfriend. She's married and didn't want her sexual escapades found out, so she freaked. Lastly, that place was no more sanitized then the crack of your ass."

"Who the hell do you think you are? I run the show around here. You have the authority to do whatever I tell you to do and that's it."

"Let me tell you, the DA couldn't convict his mother for giving birth. I'm not turning Shapley over to him because it's useless. Arresting her is not going to accomplish anything but newspaper headlines about a complete dead end. Her life is already screwed for getting a piece of tail, which is basically all she did. She certainly wasn't up a tree in Deering Oaks and any fresh out of law school Public Defender could get her off. If I feel I need her, I can get her. I have more important things to do right now then question some confused bisexual. Look if you want to take over it's yours, Asshole. But I'm all the way out."

We stood there nose to nose staring each other down. Personally, I did not want to be taken off this case, but if the prick did, I was out of here. O'Reilly in Massachusetts had offered me positions before and he was just a phone call away.

"Alright, Smart Ass," he began and moved back to behind his desk. "It's your call. I want this bastard caught and I really don't give a rat's ass how you get it done. Now, get the hell out of my office."

I had a couple of zingers on the tip of my tongue but I knew enough when not to be a sore winner. Besides, I really had no desire to work in Massachusetts.

Claire was sitting at her desk with a concerned look on her face. The minute I saw her, the fire in my head went from raging to smoldering. She was sitting there in army fatigue pants, army issued spit polished black boots, and a light gray t-shirt that said the army slogan "Be All You Can Be". Her worried look, beneath her fatigue colored MP labeled cap, made me take a deep breath as I approached her to insure my anger didn't come out sideways.

"Who won?" she asked, standing then following me toward the exit.

"We did," I said, "Now let's get the hell out of here."

We arrived at the State Police Barracks in Gray about a half hour early. We had stopped at the local Dunkin' Donuts, grabbed some coffees, and now sat in the truck waiting for Claire's contact to arrive.

"Do you want a sniper 101 lesson?" Claire asked as she turned, leaned her back on the door, stretched her legs and put her feet on my lap.

"Sure," I said as I began rubbing the top of her legs through her camouflaged pants.

"Ok, first of all, as you know, a sniper is an expert marksman. All branches of the service have them in some capacity. Most municipalities and State Police forces also have expert marksmen. A true sniper's job is not necessarily to shoot and kill people. In the army and Special Forces, they are used primarily for reconnaissance. They get dropped or travel behind enemy lines, report troop movements, and conduct surveillance. While doing this, they look for targets of opportunity, basically officers or important targets including enemy snipers. General protocol is two man teams consisting of a shooter and a spotter who are usually interchangeable. This way the shooter can avoid what's known as eye fatigue. The spotter's job, using a telescope or binoculars, is to help the sniper identify targets and report to commanding officers any enemy movements. The sniper, as you can guess, is to take out targets."

"If I'm sniping, I must be moving constantly to avoid detection?"

"Depends where you're shooting from. If you're closer than 600-meters, the target will hear the bullet if you miss, and could also hear the rifle. You could use a silencer, but you sacrifice accuracy and distance. The bullet inside a 600-meter distance is supersonic, but outside of 600 meters, you could shoot at a target all day long without detection. But you are right about movement, because you never really know if you're being stalked by someone inside your perimeter."

"So, distance and movement are key components."

"Yes, this is why stealth and camouflage are important aspects of training during sniper school. The best training in the world comes from the United States Marine Corp out of Hawaii's Ford Island. The Marines now train all branches including Navy Seals."

"Our whack job is from the military then. Some sort of sniper?"

"Maybe, but probably not."

"Why?"

"The first shooting was not how a sniper would shoot. Too close, maybe a marksman or sharpshooter, but it doesn't really point to a trained sniper."

"It makes it worse then, doesn't it?"

"Yes, because it's not just military. Law enforcement officers, hunters, or anyone that has some decent hours on a firing range."

"How about the 300-yard shot on Mrs. Leavitt, is that a tricky shot or not?"

"I could make it easily and as you know I never went to Ford Island. The record for distance, by a Canadian sniper, is over 7,900 feet or 1.5 miles. The previous record is from Vietnam, a US Marine named Hathcock."

"Shit, 1.5 miles?"

"An incredible shot I agree, especially when you take into account all the variables – range, wind, and elevation. The trajectory of a bullet is also affected by gravity, so the greater the range, the more you need to compensate. It's not as easy as lining up someone in your crosshairs. You need to adjust your scope to compensate for all the variables. Neither the Willis nor Leavitt murders needed much adjustment to make the shot."

"Do you ever regret not going into the sniper training?"

"No, I enjoy what I'm doing and who I'm doing it with."

"You mean doing it to?" I finished moving my hand up to the inside of her thigh.

"Yeah, that too," she finished with her killer smirk as she moved her feet to the ground. A State Police car had just pulled into the parking lot.

A large burly officer got out of the squad car as we got out of ours. I recognized him immediately as Swat Team Captain Henry Hide. I asked, "Henry, how the hell are you?"

"Sherlock, good to see you. I'm doing just fine. You're looking good for a city dick."

Claire looked at me and asked, "Sherlock?"

Henry cut me off by saying "Sherlock, that's Ole' Jack here. Smartest son of a bitch I ever met for snooping out clues. Once Chitwood got a hold of him, we knew he was gone for good. How's the big city treating you?"

"Just fine, although I'm training a new detective right now who needs some work." Claire gave me a shot in the arm, which hurt.

"Well, Claire here doesn't need much work in the beauty department," he said as he gave Claire a bear hug. "Careful, Sherlock, this girl will kick your ass and still leave you smiling."

"I've heard that before. How do you two know each other?"

"He arrested my brother when I was 10. My brother was 15 and had been raising hell out by Bear Pond. Pooh Bear here, saved him from a serious whipping from my dad. He became friends with my dad which probably kept my brother out of more trouble."

"Pooh Bear?" I asked.

"I was 10 and he was huge, even back then."

"I still see your dad now and then. I don't get up to Turner much anymore, but I still drop in when I can," said Henry. "What brings you two up to the range? Target practice?"

"Yes and I'm going to show Sherlock here how to really shoot," said Claire.

"You can't learn from anyone better. We used to shoot together and she could best me more than not."

We spent the next couple of hours shooting at a 1000-yard range using various weapons. Claire's favorite was the M82 Marine Corps Special Ops sniper rifle, using .308win bullets and a 10x scope. She showed me how to make adjustments on the scope, reiterating in practice what we had discussed on the way up. Claire was very accurate, shooting a .3MOA at 600 yards, a group of 3 shots within a 2-inch circle. I wasn't as good, but Claire seemed impressed with a 12-inch circle, 2MOA at 600 yards.

After shooting with the M82 we switched to the M24 which is also a military rifle known as a DMR (designated marksman rifle) which was not as accurate as the M82. Claire shot a 1MOA or 6-inch circle.

I found myself enjoying the lesson and Claire was a good teacher. She handled the gun extremely well, as if she was born to it. It was clear why the army wanted her trained at Ford Island.

We said our farewells to Henry around 2:00 p.m. and headed back to Portland. "Was it helpful?" asked Claire.

"It proves with the right weapon and some training, a good marksman could make the shots that killed the two women," I answered.

"Unfortunately I have to agree. A decent hunter could make the shot. So why is he doing this? What's this guy's reasoning? "

"Most serial killers, even the most psychotic, have some basic reason for committing the murders. Serial killers fall into categories. Power killers usually kill the helpless, homeless people, impaired, or the very young. This group feels they need to rid society of the unwanted. Visionary killers are usually schizophrenics that hear voices telling them to kill. In both cases, it's rare that they know their victims at all."

"We can rule out the power killers then. These women were not helpless."

"Agreed, but the schizophrenic is still on the table for now. The last category has subcategories and that is the Hedonist, or killing for pleasure. The first subcategory is the lust killer who kills for sexual pleasure. Usually the victim is sexually assaulted before or after they are murdered."

"We can rule that one out as well, don't you think?"

"Yes, only one of them had any signs of sexual activity and we already know the story behind that. The second subcategory of the Hedonist is the thrill killer. These people kill because it gives them a rush. Usually the killings increase in frequency, almost like an addiction that needs more and more to satisfy them. If this guy is a thrill killer, we can expect things to escalate. The note would reinforce this rush as he toys with the cops or in this case, us. The only problem with this scenario is the date aspect. If he is going to stick to it, he can't escalate the fix he gets from killing, an oddity at this point. The last subcategory is gain killers. This group has something to gain from the killing and unlike the other group, can have some knowledge of the victim, depending on the gain they are seeking. Money is the most common, but job promotion, the attention from the victims' wives or husbands for that matter, or even vengeance against people they feel have wronged them."

"What has this guy gained so far?"

"Unfortunately, only he knows at this point. Without a clearer connection between the victims, it's impossible to say. There certainly doesn't seem to be any monetary gain. The only thing that might fit is vengeance, but for what?"

"We now have schizophrenia, thrill killing, and vengeance then."

"They are the three most likely at this point, but I'm leaning toward vengeance."

"Why?"

"Mostly because of the dated notes. There has got to be some significance to the date aspect other than just the thrill of toying with the cops. Telegraphing the date for the murders is dangerous, unless he wants to be caught, because we know when he will strike again."

"Do you think he wants to be caught?"

"Not yet he doesn't, maybe someday, but he's not done yet."

We pulled into the precinct's underground parking garage and made our way to our investigation room. I went to the whiteboard and added the heading 'Why', under the killer section, followed by the following reasons: schizophrenia, thrill killer, and vengeance killer.

I stepped back from the board and heard a knock at the open door. It was Jeffrey Drew eating a jelly doughnut, and wearing a good deal of the powder on his wrinkled brown suit. "Hey guys. I'm not interrupting anything, am I?" he asked as he winked at me.

"Not yet, but stay out if the shades are drawn," I replied.

"If the shades are drawn, just stand guard," said Claire.

"You got it. I just wanted to let you know that boxes of DVD's were delivered from Barnes and Noble, some type of surveillance tapes. Says here," he continued reading a computer printout on Barnes and Noble stationary, "each DVD represents a 12-hour period and there are 60 of them. The last one is dated yesterday. I left the boxes on your desk."

"Thanks, Jeffrey."

"Looks like we have a lot of video to watch," said Claire.

"I'm going to take them home, fewer distractions. I'll record any suspicious characters or repetitive people onto a separate DVD and we can review them."

"Do you want some company?"

"Absolutely, it's going to be pretty dull television."

"Maybe we can spice up the intermission?"

"It's a tough job, but someone has to do it. It's Friday and I'm due at my folks for dinner in an hour or so. I'd like you to come along if you'd like."

"Home to meet your parents? This is getting a little scary."

"I'm petrified, but I'm happy. The more I'm with you, the more serene I feel."

Claire smiled at me and said, "I want to kiss you, but not here. Do you change before you go to your parents?"

"No, why?"

"I can't meet them in army fatigues. Let's go to my place so I can change. I can kiss you there."

We left and had a wonderful evening. My parents were quite taken with Claire, as I knew they would be. We went for a walk after dinner on a section of Old Orchard Beach's seven miles of sand. I had chosen a quiet spot near a part of the shoreline known to the locals as the Horseshoe, because of the horseshoe shaped road that bordered it. The whole night the words 'I Love You' were on the tip of my tongue.
14

Claire and I sat in her truck in Monument Square at 11:50 p.m. on 6/5 waiting for the next strike. The last couple of weeks had not produced anything solid. We had poured over the surveillance DVD's, recorded and followed up on every suspicious person. Unfortunately, we found nothing of consequence, a big disappointment. Now it was too late and all we could do was wait.

Captain-Prick-With-Ears, was at least true to his word and had stacked the deck with extra cops all over the city. I heard we even had retirees deputized for the evening. We all knew that it wouldn't be enough to stop him, but would it be enough to catch or kill him?

Claire was again dressed in army fatigues, this time gray and black rather than green. I had on blue jeans, a black sweatshirt, and a pair of sneakers in case I needed to run. I looked at my watch; it was 11:58 p.m., which meant the waiting game was almost over.

He sat on the rooftop across from the apartment of Mayling Woo waiting for the change of the calendar. He had assembled the rifle, adjusted the scope, and at 75 yards without any wind, the shot would be child's play. He had been fortunate to find that her bedroom was the second of two front windows and her bed presented an ideal line of sight for tonight. Mayling was already home and in bed sound asleep. He had watched her arrive around 9:00 p.m. and perform her nightly rituals before turning in, which included undressing for bed. He had watched her several times over the course of the last two weeks and found himself attracted to her. Another time perhaps something else might have taken place, but now her destiny was about to be fulfilled.

He sat in a darkened old chicken coop at the corner of the rooftop. The floor was covered with old dried up bird shit, but it successfully shaded him from the occasional passing of the State Police helicopter patrol on loan for tonight to the City of Portland. His thoughts drifted to his ultimate target and the day she had sealed her fate. At the time, he hadn't known that the anger, frustration, and pure hatred that started building that day, would culminate to its ultimate end only a short time from now. He knew he had to wait, to misdirect those that would be after him without any sympathy for the humiliation she had put him through. But the waiting was becoming more difficult as the final day grew near.

He remembered taking the ring from her finger when he found out she was leaving for good, thinking it gave him some sort of control. It did not. The last real argument as a married couple, took place shortly after. She had lamely blamed him for the marriage ending and he had rolled his eyes at her. "There," she said, "that's abuse." Where in the world had she gotten that one? If she thought that was abuse, let's see about the bullet between her eyes and what she would call that.

He remembered meeting with her bitch lawyer and listening to the bitch arbitrator as they discussed taking everything he had worked so hard for. Those jackasses. The judge had been a real smug bitch as well, telling him how things were going to be. Shit, even the bailiff was some stupid dyke waiting to sniff the fat judge's seat. All of them out to screw him and they had done a damn good job of it. Through it all, his soon to be ex-wife had been sitting there, spewing lies, which they believed because they wanted to. She had been Little Miss-Fucking-Innocent sitting there so full of it. She would soon be dead Miss Innocent.

He made his way into position and brought the scope up to his eye, his finger adding the slightest pressure to the trigger in readiness. Mayling's face disappeared from the scope and in its place was his ex. He lost himself in a blissful moment as he pulled the trigger. He reacquired his target and found the perfect hole right between that bitch's eyes.

The police radio bands came alive at 12:10 a.m. on 6/6. Shot fired, came the call. Munjoy Hill from the vicinity of Cleft and Pine Streets. I went to pick up the mic and was thrown back in my seat by the force of Claire putting the gas pedal to the floor and the big Ford squealing its tires up the road.

"This is Chamberlain," I began. "We are 5 blocks from there, ETA at this rate, about 30 seconds. I want a perimeter set up as quickly as possible out four city blocks."

"Roger that," came the response from the dispatcher. "All units, all units Perimeter procedure four blocks, Pine and Cleft as center. Squad A-Tactical and units D1, D2, and D3 move in to the corner of Pine and Cleft. Sky-one spotlight the area at Pine and Center."

The last order was unnecessary as the Sky-one State Police Helicopter was already searching the area with a high-powered searchlight. Claire and I were D1, Detective unit 1, Jeffrey Drew and Hank Hill were D2, Craig Hansen and Paul Roadway were D3, and the Swat team of 6 were commanded by Fred Hawkins, all of us in route to the corner of Pine and Center.

We arrived seconds after the Swat Team, who were beginning to move as Commander Hawkins barked orders. Two men, the teams designated marksmen, were heading to take positions on rooftops. The remaining three were preparing to cross the street with Hawkins and enter 150 Pine Street. "What's going on at that apartment building?"

Hawkins answered loudly trying to be heard over the helicopter above and the two cars that came screeching to a halt behind him, their sirens blaring. "Two uniforms were a block away and said they heard a gunshot come from up there," he pointed to the rooftop across the street. "One went up into the building that the shot went into. The other is over by the alley trying to cover escape routes. We're going in. I don't want you guys coming, but need you to surround the building covering possible exits."

"You got it," I said, as I signaled to Claire and the four detectives that came running from their cars, to all follow me. As we converged on the building I yelled to them, "We need two here," indicating to Hansen and Roadway to cover the front entrance, "Jeff, you and Hank cover the fire escape over on the right side. Claire, you and I are headed toward the back entrance."

Claire and I went toward the left corner of the building. I saw through my peripheral vision, Hansen take up a position behind a dumpster on the right corner, which would give him an ideal line of sight on both the front door and the fire escape around the right corner. Roadway dropped behind a parked car in front of the building covering the door even as the swat team entered. We rounded the left corner of the turn of the century brick building, which appeared to be badly in need of repair. It was four stories high with wood sills peeling white paint that surrounded the old storm windows. As we turned the back corner, Claire took up a position behind a dead oak tree in a very small backyard. She had a good view of both the side of the building we just passed and a metal bulkhead that lead to the basement below the building. A uniformed officer was standing, gun drawn by the bulkhead.

I ran up to the officer, "You heard the shot?" I asked.

"Yes, sir," he replied pointing up to the roof, "definitely from this building's rooftop. We saw the gun over the roof ledge after the shot."

"Ok, good work. Look sharp."

At the foot of the building, across the backyard, was a set of steps leading down to a basement entrance and I positioned myself there. It gave me a good view of the back of the building and the side where the fire escape was. I figured this guy wasn't getting out if he was still in there.

I heard the clear sign repeated from the swat team over the radio as they went through the building room-by-room, floor by floor. I thought to myself 'We're going to get this Bastard.'

He brought the rifle down as he heard a yell from down the street. Two uniformed officers were heading up the street toward him fast and he was sure they were alerting the helicopter. He briefly thought about taking them out, but knew if he did the helicopter would be on him. He already knew things were going to be tight, so there was no sense making matters worse. He quickly headed for the rooftop door and ran down the short flight of steps to the top floor apartment.

He knew this place well from his childhood. It had belonged to a miserly old man who for the last ten years of his life, had not stepped foot out of his top floor shell. He had owned the whole building, but had made some type of sanctuary on the fourth floor. He had one employee, a Chinese elderly maid, who was only allowed to enter his sanctuary once a week for an hour to clean. The rest of the time all his food and anything else he needed, was sent up through a dumbwaiter. It was the dumbwaiter he headed for.

He opened up the door and climbed in the unusually large box that hung from a pulley system. Two weeks earlier he had performed some maintenance on the pulley and rope, making sure it was not only safe, but also quiet. He shut the outside door and began to lower himself down through the floors. As he was passing the 1st floor into the basement, he heard heavy booted footsteps and someone call clear.

He opened the door when he reached the basement, sliding it up over his head. Now it was time to get out through the ultimate historical secret, a tunnel that led from here to Battery Park. Munjoy Hill was a large ten-block hill that ended at the Eastern Promenade that overlooked Casco Bay and the only entrance to Portland Harbor. Battery Park was a line of cannons first deployed during the War of 1812 to keep back any invasion of the North by an opportunistic British Navy. The tunnels were built as ammunition supply lines and also to facilitate troop movements. The cannons were never used and only one still remained as a historical monument. The tunnels were boarded up and mostly long forgotten, except for a few kids who stumbled upon them years ago. He was one of them and knew this house had been built over a barracks that had been torn down. The foundation had been used in the new construction, so the tunnel remained accessible.

He began making his way to the farthest wall that faced the street. He heard a strange noise and froze. He took out a miniature Mag-light and shined it toward the tunnel entrance and saw a rat scurry out of the light. He quickly shut off the light, waited briefly for his eyes to readjust to the darkness, and then made his way to the tunnel entrance.

I saw a light shine briefly in the basement through old dirt encrusted windows. I made my way to the uniformed officer, "Go get Detectives Drew and Hill watching the fire escape and tell them to get over here fast. Cover their position for them." I then signaled to Claire to come over. "He's down there now."

Claire nodded as Jeff and Hank came running around the corner. Jeff was carrying his trusty shotgun. I pointed to the wooden door and the rusty lock. He understood immediately, aimed and fired, shattering the lock and nearly half the door.

Hank grabbed what was left of the door and hauled it open. I dove through the opening and rolled on the floor to the right followed by Claire who rolled left. I knelt down behind some type of metal object and waited for my eyes to adjust to the near darkness as Hank and Jeff came through the door. I heard a loud rifle shot from across the room. Hank's face disappeared in a bloody spray of tissue and Jeff spun and fell backwards onto the steps. Jeff's shotgun landed at my feet. I picked it up and shot in the direction of the rifle shot.

He pulled the trigger on the man coming down the stairs for a perfect headshot. He dove for the tunnel entrance door, which he had left ajar earlier in the evening. He turned, latched the door, and began running down the tunnel as he again turned on the Mag-light. The ceiling was made of brick that formed a half pipe to the floor. The floor was also brick and uneven from years of settling. The walls and floor were dry until he entered a large chamber, which once held munitions for the cannon. Here the ground was wet and the walls had a green slime on them reflecting eerily the beam of the Mag-light.

There were four exit holes from the ammunitions room. The one on the far wall led to Battery Park and freedom. He heard a shotgun ring out behind him, along with the splintering of wood from the tunnel door. It was time to go.

I moved quickly to Jeff, keeping low for cover. "Jeff, can you hear me?"

"Yeah, he got me in the arm. Oh God, this fucking hurts. Where's Hank?" he asked and I could hear him catch his breath in pain as he spoke.

"Dead, one bullet got you both. I need some shells for this shotgun."

I heard him wince and then felt a bag hit me on the leg. "Put one in the son of a bitch for me."

I had a radio attached to my shoulder, like the ones you see uniformed officers wear and I clicked on the mic. "Officers down, perpetrator in basement, all units, we need backup and a medic."

A uniformed officer appeared at the top of the stairs behind Jeff, "Officer, throw down your flashlight and then get the hell out of the line of fire." I caught the flashlight but didn't turn it on.

"Claire!" I yelled into the darkness when two bare bulbs suddenly lit up the room. I looked toward a set of stairs from the first floor and there was Claire hunched down behind an old boiler system. Above her head was a light switch, that's my girl. "Cover me," I yelled and moved as fast as I could, almost walking on my knees to keep low, toward where I had peppered a box freezer with the earlier shot gun blast.

I leaned against the freezer and took a deep breath. I jumped up and rolled across the freezer leading with the shotgun, with enough pressure on the trigger that even if the bastard shot me, he wouldn't see tomorrow. I landed in a crouch with the shotgun pointed at a small wooden door standing about half the height of a normal doorway. "Claire, there's a door here, let's go."

Claire must have already been moving because she appeared even as I uttered the last syllable. "Who the hell is this guy, Houdini?"

"He certainly knows his way around, doesn't he," I said as I kicked the door with my foot. "Shit, that hurt!" I said as the door didn't budge and the shockwave went up my leg. I lowered the shotgun and fired. The door shattered and then Claire kicked it open. "Show off."

"Nothing screws with these army boots, Jack," she said as she entered the doorway moving quickly and pressing against the wall.

I switched on the flashlight to see a tunnel going straight back into blackness. I narrowed the beam on the light and it just disappeared somewhere in the distance, but at least we knew Houdini wasn't waiting for us. "This is Chamberlain," I said into my shoulder mic. "There's some kind of tunnel here heading east. The bastard went in. Claire and I are following. Where's our back up?"

"Over here, we're right behind you," yelled Craig Hansen as he came down the bulkhead stairs followed by Paul Roadway. Claire and I started running down the brick tunnel, with me just a step or two in front of her.

My radio squawked, "Jack, this is Captain Spacey. Did you say tunnels?"

"Yeah a brick one shaped like a tube, say four abreast wide leading God only knows where," I said as my eyes strained to follow the beam of light to avoid any surprises.

"I know where it goes, Jack. Those are ammunitions tunnels for Battery Park. If you're heading east, the tunnel should bring you to just this side of the cannon mounts over the Promenade. That's where the son of a bitch is going, Battery Park. All units converge on Battery Park. Sky one get over there and give them some light."

"Spacey's going to think he's God now," I said to Claire before I turned on my mic. "Captain, are there any side routes I should know about."

"You will come to a large room where they kept the munitions. There are 5 or 6 exits from there, with only one heading toward the Park."

The beam from the flashlight showed the room ahead of us that the Captain spoke of. Unlike the tunnel, the floor was wet and just a little slippery. "Five doorways Captain, all but one coming from our general direction. The last one is directly across from us and is standing alone."

"That should be the one, Jack. Go after him and for Christ's sake be careful."

"He does care," said Claire as we ran across the 100-foot distance to the doorway.

"Like hell he does," I said as I made it to the doorway and peered down the length of flashlight beam into this new tunnel. We headed through the tunnel, which was much shorter, only about 100 yards or so and ended at an open doorway. We both took opposite sides of the entry and looked around into the darkness. We were behind the last remaining cannon, which now was filled with cement and only stood as a monument to the past. The door was shaded well from view by pine hedges. A pile of wood, which was probably used to board up the doorway, was spread under the hedges.

I heard a siren up above and looked to see Captain Spacey jogging down toward us, gun drawn. The State Police helicopter came over the buildings toward Munjoy Hill and began swinging the spotlight back and forth across the perimeter grounds. More cars were coming down the road, their blue lights and sirens turning the night into a circus.

"Did you see him?" asked Captain Spacey.

"No."

"Set up another perimeter and let's smoke this guy out." By then there were 30 cops spreading out around the park.

"Captain, Claire and I are heading back to the crime scene."

"Sure thing, Jack," he said as we moved away barking orders.

"We're leaving?" asked Claire in disbelief.

"Yeah, he's gone. He knew what he was doing, where he was going, and how to get the hell out. I could be wrong and they could get lucky, but I just don't think so. Let's go where we can do some good."

15

We decided to backtrack through the tunnels after borrowing another high-powered flashlight from a uniformed police officer. There was always the possibility that something was dropped on the way, and down there it wouldn't get any brighter by the light of day. With both flashlights on, we searched every inch of the tunnel as we made our way back to the ammunitions depot. We didn't find anything until we reached the depot and the wet slimy floor. In the stagnant greenish muck was a set of prints that didn't belong to any of the officers who had followed us down the tunnel. They were Nike running shoes with a nice big logo in the center.

"Size 11," said Claire as she put her foot next to it as a comparison.

"Nike's. No surprise there. He was prepared to make some tracks tonight," I said as I looked around for any additional clues. The place was clean as far as clues went.

"Door number 2," said Claire as she pointed to the second door from the left as the way we came. "Unless you think he actually took off up one of the other tunnels?"

"No, I don't, but that doesn't mean I'm correct." I turned on my mic. "Detective Chamberlain to Captain Spacey, come in."

"Here, Jack," came his reply.

"Claire and I are making our way back and will go through the second tunnel from the left. There are three more tunnels that he could have gone into to escape other than Battery Park. Can I get three teams of two officers to explore the three remaining routes?"

"Ok, I'll send them right down. We're coming up empty here, Jack. Son of a bitch got away. There's going to be hell to pay this time. The place is full of friggin' press. Don't talk to anyone on this, refer them to my office."

"Fine with me," I ended shutting down the mic.

Claire grabbed my arm and said, "This really sucks, Jack. We were so close and not only did we not get a good shot at him, we never really saw the bastard."

"I know, which means someone else is going to have to die for us to even get another crack at him unless we get real lucky and he slipped up somewhere."

"He had it all figured out, didn't he? Not much left to chance on his escape."

"Come on let's see if he screwed up somewhere." I entered the tunnel doorway back to the exit on Pine St. When we emerged from the tunnel we saw that Janet Jackson, one of Fritz's crew, had taped off the crime scene and was attempting to dig out a slug from the wooden stairway. She was a talented member of the CSI team and had a good sense of humor, which she needed from all the ribbing she received because of her name. She was lying on the stairs, twisted like a pretzel, trying to avoid coming in contact with all the blood that was still wet and pooling around her. "Where's Jeff?" I asked her.

She did not turn away from her work as she said, "He's been taken to Maine Medical. Lost a lot of blood, but he should be all right according to the Paramedic. Hank, unfortunately, went straight to the morgue. I heard over the squawk box that our man might have gotten away?"

"Doesn't look good," I said as I looked around the room. "Claire, how did he get down here with the upper floors crawling with Swat?"

"He'd have to be frigging greased lightning to get down here before they entered the 1st floor," answered Claire.

"I saw the light long after the clear sign was given on the first floor. So how did he get by them?"

"Like I said, fucking Houdini."

"But even Houdini had a method, a secret way of performing everything he did. There's another way down here besides the stairs." I began to walk the perimeter checking for some hidden door.

"Over here," said Claire standing by the stairs. She had found that the wall beside the stairway had a sliding door on it with a dumbwaiter behind it. "Aren't most dumbwaiters smaller than this?"

"Maybe half this size. A full grown man could easily fit in this." I got in the dumbwaiter looking for anything, but it was clean. "I'm going up, meet me at the exit to this thing. Once I start, take a look at the rope. If it's new, have Michael's sister get some fibers, but tell her not to screw around with it 'til she knows I'm out. I don't want a quick ride back down." I began to pull on the rope and started to slowly rise. The pulley seemed remarkably quiet for what was supposed to be a very old dumbwaiter.

The view from inside the dumbwaiter was a brick wall that was showing its age. There was loose mortar and moisture stained bricks along the entire journey. I came to the door for the first floor and continued upward, sliding silently past it. The rope pulled easily and it was not long before I had arrived at the fourth floor door. The door also slid easily upward, void of any noise. Before I exited, I looked around at a small anteroom, about 10 feet by 10 feet with shelves along one wall. All the shelves were empty except for years of accumulated dust. The floor however appeared to have been swept clean. When I finally emerged from the dumbwaiter, I could hear Claire coming up the nearby stairs. "Claire, over in here," I called to her.

She came around the corner slightly winded having made the trip up the stairs from the basement rather quickly. "Next time, I take the dumbwaiter."

"No chance, your legs are younger."

"Better looking, too."

"No argument here. Look, the room has been swept clean."

"Houdini's a house keeper too."

"Smart, sneaky bastard. Let's find the way to the roof."

"I passed it on the way over," she said as she left the room and I followed.

The stairway to the roof was across from the top of the stairs from the third floor. The wooden door stood ajar as we proceeded up a flight of stairs to the rooftop which also had an open door. The roof was flat with heavy tar paper roofing. Along the perimeter of the building was a raised wall about waist high. We walked carefully to the wall surveying the ground on the way for anything that would provide us with clues. We could see clearly into the 2nd floor apartment across the street with the lights on. Fritz's team was just beginning their work.

"Perfect line of fire," said Claire.

"We have got to get this bastard," I said as I looked around for any evidence. "I wonder how long he was up here."

I keyed my mic and asked for Captain Spacey who called back quickly. I told him to have the blues check with everyone who lived in the area to see if they had seen anyone come in or out of the building lately. Then I called Sky One.

"Sky One, this is Detective Chamberlain, come in."

"Detective Chamberlain this is Sky One, over," was the return call.

"Do you know how many times you flew over the 150 Pine Street building?"

"Perhaps three times, Detective, over."

"Thanks, Sky One." I looked around for a good hiding place. There was a small structure, partially dismantled, close to the center of the building that looked like it might have been some type of bird coop. Still it had a good view of the victim's building and would conceal anyone from the passing Sky One patrol. I made my way over there and stopped about five feet from the missing door to the coop. Chicken coop, I guessed, as it was once totally enclosed and lacked windows, which would keep the heat in during the winter.

"Do you see it?"

Claire stood beside me and looked toward the roosting shelf, "There's an envelope in there."

"That's something new. Do you have an evidence bag?" I asked as I put on a pair of rubber gloves. I went in the coop and looked down at the envelope. It was a business size white envelope that could be purchased in boxes of 50 or 100 in any OfficeMax. On the front of the envelope was my name with 2 lines under it.

"I didn't know you were on a first name basis with this guy," said Claire over my shoulder.

"Neither did I."

She handed me a zip evidence bag and said, "You're not going to open it?"

"No. We'll take it over to the lab and open it there." I gently picked up the envelope by a corner and slid it in the zip bag. I noticed that the glue strip was one of the self-adhesive types, which meant there would be no saliva for a DNA test. I sealed the bag and handed it to Claire. The rest of the coop lacked anything interesting except old dried up bird shit.

"Let's get across the street. Janet Jackson, this is Detective Chamberlain, over," I said into my mic, and a moment later Janet acknowledged me. "We're done up on the roof but we need the chicken coop and the area where he shot from dusted."

"Chicken coop, there's a chicken coop up there?" She asked with a slight laugh.

"Yeah, although the chickens are long gone, they just left their shit behind. The shooter used it to hide from Sky One's over flights. See what you can find."

"OK, Jack. I'll be up shortly."

We headed to the stairway and Claire asked, "Are you taking the stairs or the dumbwaiter?"

"The stairs, even though the dumbwaiter would be faster."

We arrived about 5 minutes later at the 2nd floor apartment across the street and met Officer Guillian at the door to the third floor apartment. "Officer, what have you got?" I asked him as he opened up his notebook.

"Asian female named Mayling Woo, age 32, single, and owns the Thai restaurant downstairs. A neighbor, a Mister Chan, said he saw her come home around 9:30 p.m. as he trimmed his bonsai tree in the window. Apparently, she closed the restaurant at 9:00 p.m. each night. According to Mister Chan, she had a good business going with 3 additional employees. Not many tables; the bulk of the business is take out."

"Do we know who the employees are?" asked Claire.

"We have the name of one of the employees, a Janice Chi, and we're trying to get in touch with her. We'll have to ask her unless we can find someone else around who knows. She had a high turnover rate because most of her employees were new immigrants. They would get their feet under them and then move on."

"According to Mister Chan?"

"Yes, he appeared to know Mayling well. He's also agreed to identify the body as she doesn't have any immediate relatives in the states. He's a little shaky, but seems to be doing alright."

"Do you have anything else on Miss Woo?" I asked.

"We do have a little background information at this point, again from Mister Chan. She was born in Bangkok, Thailand, but lived in Hong Kong for twenty years before immigrating to the states. She has a valid green card and has applied for citizenship."

"Thank you, Officer, and please keep asking the people in the neighborhood for anything of interest."

"Yes, sir," finished Guillian as he folded his notebook and headed back down the stairs.

We entered into a combination living room/kitchen that held a modern sleek stainless steel stove, refrigerator, and dishwasher which gleamed like a mirror even in the low light. The kitchen table was made of bamboo and had a glass top. The short coffee table was made of teak wood and was surrounded by soft, deep forest green pillows rather than couches or chairs. A print of an elderly Thai woman hung in a teak wood frame against the wall, over the pillows.

"A nice print," said Claire as she looked it over.

"It's called, 'My Grandmother', from the late 1930's."

"How did you know that?"

"I saw it at a museum exhibition on Asian art. The artist was Fua Haripitak, a national artist from Thailand. The value of the painting went up exponentially when he died in 1993."

"Museums, Asian art. I am impressed."

"I don't work all the time."

In one corner was a 2-foot-high Buddha statue with candles in metal copper bowls in front of it. A picture of the Dali Lama rested to the right of the Buddha. One of Fritz's team was dusting the area for prints and lifting what he found. I was reasonably sure the place was clean of at least our perp's prints, but you don't know until you know.

We entered the bedroom of Mayling Woo to find Fritz standing by the doorway. "Another bad night," I said as I shook his hand.

"Yeah, this is not a pretty sight. Clean bullet wound through the forehead. At least the bastard's consistent. We haven't touched anything yet so the slug is most likely in the bamboo headboard. We'll dig it out when you're done."

"Thanks, Fritz." I said as I moved toward the bed. It was a low bamboo framed bed with white canopy netting flowing from four bamboo posts. She was lying on her back with, as Fritz had said, a clean single bullet hole in her forehead. The white pillows and sheet under her head were dark red with blood stains. She had been an attractive woman, around five feet tall, and slim. Her brown eyes were open and her black hair covered her left side, partially concealing her Asian features.

Claire stood beside me and eyed the angle of entry from the rooftop across the street. She shook her head and muttered some profanity under her breath. I agreed with her. This son of a bitch had to get his.

"Let me know what you find, Fritz," I said as we passed him on our way out of the bedroom. I asked one of Fritz's team members if he had finished in the kitchen and living room and he replied that he had. He was putting the tools of his trade into a tackle box to take into the bedroom. Claire and I went into the main living area to take in more detail. I found what I was looking for in the kitchen. A book titled "Thailand Ancient Traditions in Cooking" with a Barnes & Noble 20% off sticker on it. There was a receipt protruding from the pages and I opened the book to a recipe on a dish featuring wild duck. The receipt was dated 5/15.

16

Claire drove us down to the precinct where I logged the envelope into evidence. I made sure it was locked up tight in the evidence room in a metal lockbox. It was about 4:30 a.m. when Claire dropped me off at my place. I told her to sleep in. It had been a long night.

I woke up around 7:00 a.m. with the feeling I had overslept. That's what my internal alarm was telling me anyway, and I wasn't feeling very rested. I sat on my bed in my BVD's and made a quick call to the hospital to check on Jeff. He was sleeping, so I spoke with the nurse concerning his condition. The bullet had passed through his arm missing the bone and although he had lost a lot of blood, his prognosis was good. They had him in ICU for the night but expected to move him to the 4th floor later on that day, provided his blood pressure stabilized. Knowing Jeff, he would be bitching to get out as soon as he woke up.

I decided to walk to work. The day was warming up and I needed to wake up. The sun was shining brightly just over the top of the tallest building on Congress St. Appropriately nicknamed "The Time and Temperature Building", it has a large display screen on the roof that flashes the local time and temperature. It currently read a comfortable 64 degrees. There wasn't any breeze to speak of, just a soft whisper that rustled some of the leaves on the tallest trees. Claire had been picking me up for a while now, and I realized I missed walking the quiet morning streets.

I arrived at the Precinct at 8:00 a.m. and saw Claire already at her desk in the same clothes she had worn the night before. She looked up as I walked in and her eyes were red but alert. "I thought I told you to sleep in," I said as I poured a cup of coffee from the Bunn coffee maker.

"I'm sleep walking," she said with a smile.

"Ok, but you're knocking off early today if I have to drag you home myself. I need you sharp."

"Only if you tuck me into bed and fix me a warm glass of milk."

"Sounds like a plan. So, you pulled an all-nighter? What have you got for me?"

"Let's take it up in front of the whiteboard," she said as she stood and walked toward the interrogation room. When we arrived in the room, she walked up to the whiteboard and picked up the marker. She wrote Woo on the top above the date of 6/6 we had already written. "Should I put down the next date?"

"Yes, write 7/7 over the next section."

She wrote 7/7 then went back to the latest murder section titled Mayling Woo. "Miss Woo was 32 and single, sleeping in her 2nd floor apartment at the time of her murder. She was active in the Asian community, hiring recent Asian immigrants, mostly from Thailand, as employees of her restaurant downstairs. That's about all we know so far, but we're still looking."

"Do we know anything more about the cookbook receipt?"

Claire began to write in the other category, "No, only that it was 5/15, a Wednesday, and time stamped 9:30 a.m. She usually shows up at the restaurant at 10:00 a.m. and opens officially at 11:00 a.m. Presumably, she bought the book before going to work."

"Are we in contact with Barnes & Noble for the security DVD from May 5th?"

"Actually, we already have it. That's the last date listed on the DVD inventory we've been going over."

"It's time to take a real hard look at that one to find Miss Woo, and hopefully we will see someone stalking her."

"I have a request to pull that date from the evidence room to look at, I expect it anytime."

"Good work, now what about the shooter."

"We have an exact time of the shooting because of the officers covering Munjoy Hill that night, 12:01 a.m. The shot was fired from across the street on the roof of a 4 story building using a .308 caliber bullet. The distance was 50 yards which is not a difficult shot, especially with a sleeping victim in a very good line of fire. He was wearing Nike sneakers and dark clothing, but the color was not determined by the officers from the ground. He had a route of escape through the tunnels under Munjoy Hill that led to Battery Park, where he simply disappeared. Lastly, he left an envelope addressed to you, which has not yet been opened."

"He's cranking this up a notch, isn't he?"

"What do you mean?" She asked as she came and sat in the chair beside me.

"He knew we'd be watching. He's setting these dates and the change of the calendar to a month day number match for a reason. He has a good one, too."

"Why do you say that?"

"Damn risky that shot last night with cops on every frigging corner. He had the edge, because he planned his escape route well in advance. If the time stamp on the receipt is any indication, about two weeks in advance. Still it was a risky shot, because one slip-up and he's ours. Well actually maybe two, because he did slip up when he turned on the flashlight in the cellar."

"It was close. We almost had him."

"Yeah, almost. You used the words 'simply disappeared' on the board, why?"

"Well, he did disappear, didn't he? No one saw him or any sign he was even there, except for the tunnel entrance being open."

"Maybe so. But what if he just blended in?" I asked as I stood up and walked to the board. I erased the word disappeared, wrote blended in, and then the word cop with two lines under it.

"There was nobody around, Jack, but...cops. You think he's a cop?"

I nodded toward the door and Claire got up and shut it. "Keep that door locked from here on out. Cops were the only people there moments after we exited the tunnel. It could be that he had a quick way out of Battery Park once he got there, but it had to be damn quick."

"Reports back this morning don't mention any sign of him after he emerged from the tunnels."

"Worst part, if he is a cop, he didn't hesitate killing one of his brothers and wounding another. The envelope addressed to me also indicates he's a cop. Captain Spacey was the one making the headlines on this case, which up until last night had been categorized as unrelated murders. So, someone in law enforcement would be among the few that knew I was working the case." I walked over to the door away from the board. I did not want to write anything further on my hunch that an officer was committing these murders. Even though the door would be locked from now on, I doubted we had the only key. I was also sure that if the shooter was a cop, he had already seen what we had written so far. "Let's go take a look at that envelope down in the lab."

We checked the envelope out of the evidence room and brought it to Fritz's crime lab in the basement, which was conveniently next to the morgue. Fritz was just getting in. "Good morning, Fritz," I said and placed the zip bag with the envelope in it on his lab table.

"Good morning, Jack. Claire," he said as he picked up the bag and gingerly opened it. He already had on a pair of white latex gloves, but he used a pair of heavy tweezers to remove the envelope from the bag anyway. "He's left a different calling card this time I see. Addressed to you."

"Yeah, apparently we're buds now," I said and sat down in a chair next to the table. "We need to know everything we can before we open it."

"Give me about an hour or so to check for prints and x-ray it for any dangerous substances inside."

"Ok, but don't open it until we're back."

"You got it," he ended and immediately got to work.

Claire and I spent the next hour at the Maine Medical Center visiting with Jeff. He was on the 4th floor in room 422 and in good spirits, but apparently not going home anytime soon. The doctors had found a blockage in one of his arteries and were setting him up for open heart surgery. The first order of business was to stabilize his blood pressure and make sure the bullet wound didn't get infected before they performed the surgery. Jeff, of all the people I knew, was the one I trusted the most. He had been my first partner in Portland and had 'shown me the ropes' as he put it. I told him everything we knew about the murder cases so far, and also the new theory we were exploring.

"A cop shot me? That's worse news than the doctors this morning telling me they were going to open up my chest," said Jeff.

"I don't know for sure, but it's a strong hunch," I responded.

"I trust your hunches more than my facts, Jack." He looked over at Claire, "You should too."

"Singing to the choir, Jeff," answered Claire.

"I need you to do something, and fortunately for me, you're not going anywhere," I said as I sat on the edge of his bed.

"So glad I could accommodate you, Asshole," Jeff said almost in a growl.

"This place is wired for computer access. I want you to log in and research who was on duty last night."

"Geez, everyone was on last night. Half the officers on the beat were retirees brought in for the night. Talk about a needle in a haystack, Jack."

"I know, but the whole force wasn't at Battery Park last night, at least not initially. I need to know who was there and when they arrived. A couple of things to look for, officers alone or absent from radio contact for say 15 minutes or so. The amount of time it took to shoot Ms. Woo, move down the dumb waiter, and get at least into the tunnels. If you happen to hit on anyone suspicious, then perform a background check on family history, especially girlfriends and wives."

"Why wives and girlfriends?"

"This guy is targeting women, and somehow the date thing is significant, but I don't know why. Anniversary maybe, or divorce, there has to be something that makes the date important."

Jeff agreed to work on it and seemed happy to be able to lend a hand in the investigation, even if he was stuck in the hospital. On the way out, we asked the nurse on duty if laptops were available for patient use and were told they were. She said she would have one to him in an hour.

We arrived back at the crime lab to find Fritz filling out a report. "Welcome back," he said as he looked up and removed a pair of reading glasses and massaged the bridge of his nose. His eyes were red from lack of sleep and his thinning hair was disheveled. "I don't have much for you. The envelope is common made by Meade at their Massachusetts plant most likely. You can buy them just about anywhere around here. No fingerprints on the envelope and the x-rays showed no foreign substances in the envelope but one. A hair is on the outside of the folded paper. Once we get it open, we can check it and if we're lucky, there's a hair follicle."

"Let's open it then," I said feeling apprehensive about what the letter might have on it besides the hair.

Fritz took a small wand from beside the table which was hooked up to a steamer. A small stream of steam came from the end of the wand. He guided it along the sealed envelope and the glue began to give. The envelope eventually fully opened and Fritz removed the folded letter from inside. "The hair is still in the envelope," he said. He opened the envelope with his hands, still in latex gloves, and then laid it out flat on a piece of glass so that we could read it.

Hello Jack

Are you any closer? Perhaps, I almost wish I could have written this after tonight's events rather than before. I'm sure it was an interesting night. What did you think about the tunnels? Did you even know they existed? History is a marvelous teacher, you really should bone up on Portland's long and colorful history. If you had, you may even have been able to read this to me in jail.

You think you're so smart, but I have all the advantage. I will tell you that these people mean nothing to me, unlucky strangers. Yet, these people mean everything to me. Like a crack addict, they feed my hunger, give me freedom. Their innocent blood was taken by my hand of death without warning, seemingly without meaning. I have put fear in this miserable city. The events of last night will bring the media down and explode the story across the papers and the screen. The city's fear will intensify and I will thrive.

I am your Moriarty, Sherlock. You may think that this note is a deviation from what I have shown you so far, but it is not. It is my method of telling you that you are my ultimate target. The morsels I have left you so far are the leash. The wet floor, the toilet seat and the dates were all to make your mind turn like an endless carousel. In the end, you will be a tortured soul and I will be there to watch you fall. I hope you like our little game of catch me if you can. If you get too close, maybe I'll just kill your Mexican trash bitch. 6/6

Moriarty

"Can you make a copy of this?" I asked.

"I'd rather not. It would distort any prints on it. Would a picture do?"

"Yeah, that works. How soon before I can get it?"

"It will be in your e-mail inbox by the time you get back to your desk."

"Fine, but delete it from your sent items, will you?"

"Sure if you say so, why?"

"I just don't want it to get out to the media and you know this place."

"Yes, I do at that. No problem and I'll let you know if I find anything else. Oh, by the way, here's the ballistics' report. The slug was a .308 which almost goes without saying."

He handed me a copy of the report and Claire and I made our way up to our desks. As Fritz had promised, the picture of the letter was in my inbox when I logged in. I printed it out, hit delete, and then emptied the deleted folder. Claire went and retrieved the document from the shared office printer and we made our way to the interrogation room. As Claire was unlocking the door, I heard Captain Spacey call from across the room. In his 'don't take no for an answer tone', he asked me to step into his office. "I'll be right back," I said to Claire, "don't let anyone else in."

"Can we have a secret knock?" She answered.

"Ok, three knocks then two knocks, anything else, just say 'fuck off'."

As I made my way to the Captain's office, I debated how much to tell him. After the note, I was certain it was a cop. Very few others would know to call me Sherlock, unless he was just a lucky smartass, which I doubted. The other thing was that no one outside of the State Police had used the nickname and few on the Portland force would know about it. Whatever the truth was, at this point it was still a hunch and I had very little except gut instinct to go on.

I entered his office and he motioned for me to shut the door. "Jack," he began, with a 'you're my best friend tone' that always irritated the hell out of me, "I have a press conference at 12:30 p.m. after the local news. I'm formulating the statement now and need to get up to date on last night. I spoke with Fritz and know about the lack of prints on the note and basically everywhere they looked last night at the apartment. What can you tell me, did the note have the same date on it?"

I'm not a very good liar, but I can lie by omission fairly well. "The date of 6/6 was on the paper. I found it in the chicken coop. The man certainly knew what he was doing and had set this up for about two weeks. The pulley and rope on the dumbwaiter were newly refurbished and quiet as hell. That's how he got by the swat team."

"I know Fritz is running the rope for a possible point of purchase and the grease type used on the pulleys. I'm more interested in what you're thinking as to the why. Why is he killing women in our city?"

"I wish I knew. What I can say is that there are keys I can't make fit in the lock. One is Barnes & Noble. It's not that he hates readers but he stalks them there. Another is the dates, same month and day. Is he working them because of their significance to him? I really don't think so, at least not every date, but one of them is. Does he hate women in general or do they just fit into what he is trying to accomplish?"

"What's he trying to accomplish?"

"I think the bottom line is like a game of Three Card Monte."

"What the hell is Three Card Monte?"

"It's a game the con artists on the streets of New York play on unsuspecting people. You take three cards, and one is usually an ace, you show your mark which one is the ace then you stir them up on the table. The first game you let them see what you're doing, wanting them to pick the right card. The next games you beat the marks through misdirection and sleight of hand, all for twenty bucks a hand. The smart marks walk away early before they lose all their money."

"You think this is some kind of game of misdirection? You know what I think? You don't know shit, Sherlock. Get the hell out and find me some evidence to nail this bastard."

"We will. We just need the skeleton key; one key and everything will fit."
17

I had forgotten the secret knock rule. When I first knocked on the interrogation room door, I was greeted by Claire's voice from behind the door telling me to fuck off. I chuckled to myself, using the proper knock this time to which she opened the door. "What? Did you forget the knock?" she asked as she let me in.

"I was distracted from my meeting with the Captain," I said as I looked over at the whiteboard. Claire had added a new section on the bottom of our chart named Moriarty's note. "You have a new category?" I sat down in the chair and she locked the door.

"I thought you might want to pick the letter apart." She turned on a projector, which placed the letter from her laptop onto the opposite wall next to the whiteboard. She knew me pretty well, and after a quick call to Jeff, that was exactly what I intended to do.

"Hi Jeff, how are you feeling?" I asked him after he picked up the phone on the second ring.

"Alright, I guess. My nurse is a real looker so I've requested a sponge bath. I've been working on your list and have about 40 officers that arrived pretty fast to Battery Park. You remember, half the force had already arrived on Munjoy Hill by the time you two came out of the tunnel."

"You can narrow it down a little, too."

"Yeah, how so?"

"Look for any officers that have a history with the State Police. They could have been transferred here or have relatives in with the Staties, anything."

"Can I ask why?"

"The most recent note called me Sherlock, not many people know about that."

"Well, what do you know, finally a clue. Kind of reinforces your whole cop theory, doesn't it?"

"Sure does. And one last thing, can you tell me when Captain Spacey's last communication was before the murder and when his first was after the murder." I looked at Claire as I said this and she literally dropped into the chair beside me. I had a hunch that when Claire and I were in the tunnel was the first time Spacey was heard back on the radio.

"The dispatcher would know. You can't think he's involved?"

"It's just something he just said to me that struck me as odd. Let's just say we're going to rule it out. The dispatcher that night was Shirley, wasn't it?"

"Sure was and she has a shine for me so I can ask her to keep it quiet."

"They all have a shine for you, Jeff."

"It's a curse man, an absolute curse. Let me know if you need anything else, alright Buddy?"

"Sure thing," I said as I hung up the phone.

"What did the Captain say that started that?" asked Claire as her eyes brightened.

"It's kind of an expression, but I'm not sure if he meant it that way," I began. "He said 'you don't know shit, Sherlock' and it just sent up a red flag to hear that minutes after reading the letter."

"He did know about the tunnels we were chasing the bastard through when you called him."

"And he was also the first person we saw when we got out. He was followed shortly thereafter by 40 other officers according to Jeff, and there's a good chance it's one of them. Still," I turned my attention to the letter displayed on the wall, "let's take a deep breath and go through this letter."

"The first paragraph is almost taunting you, Jack. As if you should know about the tunnels. I certainly haven't heard of them and my guess is that most people don't know they exist."

"He knew and really planned this out well. That's another reason to think this is a cop. He knew about the buildup. He knew he needed an escape route. A better one than he had in the past because we knew when he would strike."

"The next paragraph begins with another shot at you, but then goes into a diatribe of how he's placing the city in fear."

"He wrote that the victims mean nothing, then everything to him, feeding his hunger and giving him freedom. 'They feed my hunger' points to the psychopath that feeds on the death of others, but I think the important part is 'it gives me freedom'. What is he gaining freedom from? My guess is incarceration."

"What do you mean?"

"It somehow goes back to the dates. If killing were really feeding his hunger, the dates wouldn't mean shit. He would kill and escalate the murders to feed his hunger. The dates suggest a meaningful date to him. Based on the victims, none of the dates were important, unless Miss Woo was his true target, which I doubt. Killing these people on specific dates is a means of taking the focus away from what he really wants. He wants someone dead on a specific date."

"So, these killings really do mean nothing to him."

"He said it himself and I believe him. The whole city gripped in fear bit, would fit the profile of a thrill killer, but again, why the dates to hold back the thrill of killing. The media aspect also would fit the thrill killer, who loves to see his name in the papers, like Son of Sam. It would also keep the reason for the specific person on a specific date theory hidden, because the media would be focused on some type of mad serial killer."

"You sure he isn't?"

"No, but I wouldn't bet on it. He's trying to hide behind it though."

"Then he gives us the Sherlock reference."

"Which, as you heard me say to Jeff, so few really know. It could be just a reference to a detective and his nemesis, but that was my nickname and I would bet he knows it. This is how he is goading me and even says that I am his ultimate target, that all the clues left were placed on purpose to make me spin around and round."

"I'm at least glad he didn't forget about me entirely, Mexican trash bitch. I guess that means I better be listening for what goes bump in the night."

"It's worse than that actually. You're my Mexican trash bitch. He knows we are lovers, which again points to a cop, even more so, the Captain."

"Even if he was a uniform cop our relationship isn't exactly front page news."

"Precisely where I was going, which means you are in serious danger."

"Sounds like we both are," said Claire as she placed her hand in mine.

The words that I had been thinking since the day at the beach finally came out. "I've fallen in love with you, Claire. I won't let anything happen to you. Matter of fact, I would like you to take some time off and get away."

She didn't say anything for a moment but her cheeks blushed and she shuddered ever so slightly. A smile stretched across her face and her eyes began to shine. She threw her arms around me and I found my face buried in her sweet smelling black curly hair. "Jack, I can't believe you actually said it. I love you, too." She held me for a moment then sat back a little. As she looked into my eyes, she said, "But you're not sending me anywhere. This Mexican trash bitch is going to catch this prick."

"He's made a direct threat against you, Claire. I'd feel better if you were safe."

"I'm not letting you have all the fun and get all the glory when we catch this bastard. So let's just get this straight, right now and be done with it. I love you, but I'm a cop and a damn good one. I'm not going to run and hide at the first sign of danger. If the bastard wants to come after me, he's in for a boatload of shit. I've seen how he shoots and he's got nothing on me. So don't bother asking me again, it will just piss me off." As she finished her eyes narrowed, I was looking at her don't mess with me side staring me in the face.

"Alright, but no unnecessary risks, I want you by my side at all times."

"I like the sound of that," and she again held me tight.

I also liked the sound of that. The time we had spent together, both on and off duty, had brought us closer and closer. I had never felt this way about another woman before. Happy seemed to be the best word to describe how I felt, although it sounded corny. I also needed to be in her company. When she was gone, my mind strayed to what she was doing, thinking, and if she was thinking about me. If this is what love was, I wanted more of it.

My phone began to play Taps, and Claire sat back as I fished it out of my pants pocket. Before I answered it, I said to her, "You really should stop staring. Everyone's going to know." Her face lit up with the brightest smile as she blushed.

"Just answer the damn phone," she quipped.

"Jack here," I said.

"Jack, this is Jeff. I have things narrowed down to four uniforms," he said.

"Ok, let's have it."

"Two of the four are retired State Police Troopers, brought in to help cover the city just for the night. Both are in their 50's and both were on the force when you were active for the State. One is named Jerry Wilson and the other is Frank Jefferson."

"I know both of them, good cops. Jerry is married to a sweet Irish girl from Bangor with four grown sons. Two of them are cops for the County. Frank is a widower. His wife died in a fire back in 2002. Nice guy, I heard he was seeing his therapist. I'd pretty much rule them out."

"The other two are new to the Portland force. Jessica Gormound is 28 and recently married. She transferred to Portland because she wanted to be closer to her father, who has early stage Alzheimer's. Her husband works for UPS."

"We can leave her out. We are definitely looking for a man."

"The last one on the list is Officer Fred Jacobs. He's 30 and recently divorced. He started out working for the Saco Police and went to State in 2000. In January of 2006 he was separated from his wife and went through a yearlong divorce battle. Since his ex-wife is also a State patrol officer, they transferred him to another barracks in April of 2006, but it didn't work out. He started in Portland in March as a means of rebuilding his career."

"Where does his ex-wife live?"

"Deering, which is officially part of Portland. Just don't ask anyone from Deering that question, they'd say they weren't."

"Sounds like someone to watch. Did you speak with Shirley regarding the Captain's radio transmissions?"

"Sure did. Captain Spacey ordered Sky-one to the scene of a suspicious character on Outer Congress St. at 11:52 p.m. He was heard again at 12:20 a.m. responding to your call about the tunnels. He was on frequently before and after that time frame, directing patrols."

"Shit, Jeff. That doesn't look good."

"If I find out he killed Hank and shot me, you better lock him up before I get to him."

"All this is circumstantial, we can't prove anything yet about anybody, so don't get yourself worked up. He may have just been using the john during that time."

"How the hell could he be in the john when we all knew what time the murders were going to happen?"

"Like I said, it doesn't look good. Do you have anything else?"

"Not right now."

"Alright, and thanks. Just keep this under wraps," I finished and closed the flip top on my phone.

I sat in silence for a minute wondering what to do next. I had to be careful. If Spacey did have something to do with it and he knew I was nosing around, I'd be in deep shit. He had a lot of friends in high places and I had a lot in low places, so he had the stacked deck. I looked over at Claire and said, "I have to step out for a while, maybe an hour."

"Where are you going?" She asked with a flare of her nose, obviously a little hurt that she wasn't coming along.

"I'd rather not say where, but I'll fill you in, don't worry. We need to get the Captain's file to look into his background. Can you do that discreetly?"

"I can, but I may have to flirt with Chris down in records."

"Ok, but if he touches you, I'll break his arm."

"Don't start keeping me in the dark on this thing, Jack."

"I'll need all the help I can get, so you don't have to worry. I just have to visit a 'friend in low places'," I finished and made my way out the door.

Jason Wambaugh was six feet two and two hundred and fifty pounds of pure muscle. If he had lived his early life on the straight and narrow, he would have been a hell of a linebacker for the Portland Bulldogs in high school. I had played with him over the last 10 years in pickup games and I hated when he was on the opposing side. But Jason had spent more time in Juvenile Hall then in school. My first run in with him had been as he tried to escape from Juvie when I was a rookie. I caught him as he emerged from the river that bordered the property, which was a favorite escape route. He was seventeen at the time, although rough in action and talk, he was also extremely intelligent. I was told by his case worker that his IQ was at genius level.

My father's best friend, Conner Weston, owned a private detective agency in Portland called Weston Private Eye. Conner was looking for someone to work for him that had street smarts, so I introduced him to Jason. Conner took him under his wing and transformed this troubled kid into one shrewd private eye. Conner eventually retired and Jason took over. I needed Jason now if I was to watch Captain Spacey.

I entered his Congress Street office at 1:00 p.m. I was told by an elderly secretary that Jason was out, but that he should be back any minute if I cared to wait. Jason came in about five minutes later, immediately saw me and came over to give me a bear hug that just about broke my back. "How the hell are you, Jack? Damn you're a sight for sore eyes. Let's step into my office. Put my calls into voice mail, Mary." Mary the secretary just nodded and went back to whatever it was she was doing.

"Have a seat, Jack," he said as he pointed to a chair. "Now, what brings you here? I don't ever recall you coming to my office."

"I haven't been here since Conner retired anyway," I said and sat in a leather chair opposite his desk. "I need someone to check something out for me."

"Could you be a little more specific or is this like twenty questions?"

"Alright, I need you to break into Captain Spacey's house and snoop."

"Are you talking about walking, talking, asshole Spacey?"

"The one and only."

"Fuckin' A, Jack! He's the Chief of Police and you want me to break in and 'snoop' around his house. What am I supposed to be looking for?"

"A gun. A sniper rifle, to be precise."

"You think he had something to do with these recent murders?"

It was time to lay it all out on the table, the tunnels, the Sherlock reference, and the first officer on the scene issue. None of the evidence was solid, circumstantial really, but it felt right. Jason nodded and asked a few questions, but mostly waited till I was finished.

"Why don't you just get a warrant and search the place yourself?"

"A judge would never allow it on what I have and if I'm wrong, I'm as screwed as you can get."

"If I find anything, it won't hold up in court."

"It won't have to. I just can't wait for someone else to die before I have something to go on. If you find the rifle, leave it, I'll find a way to get a warrant."

"Ok, Jack. I'll do it but it's going to cost you, big time."

"Name your price, it's worth it."

"This Saturday, you come and join us for an all-day cook-out at my place up at Sebago Lake. Can you bring a date?"

"This is a big deal, Jason. I didn't come here for a handout."

"Look buddy, I can never pay you back for saving my sorry ass, so don't give me any shit for at least trying. Besides, Shannon was asking if you dropped off the face of the planet, she'll be thrilled to have you over for the day. Matter of fact, stay the night and head back on Sunday."

I sighed knowing that I wasn't going to win even if I tried. "Alright, it will give me a chance to introduce you to Claire."

"Claire, now that's news."

We talked for a little while about Claire, Shannon, and past weekend cookouts. By the time I left, I was really looking forward to getting away and spending some time with Jason and his wife. Having Claire there would just complete the whole picture.

My cell began playing Taps as I walked out onto Congress Street. It was Claire and I thought that maybe I should change my ring-tone. She had the Captain's file along with the file of Officer Fred Jacobs. That's my girl. Claire offered to cook me dinner at my place. She said we could go through the file and watch the surveillance tape of 5/15. I told her where to find me and waited, anticipating an evening of business and pleasure.
18

He left his office and locked the door as usual. He walked around the maze of desks until he came to another locked door. He took out his master key and opened it. On the back wall was a whiteboard half covered with a grid. He had studied it before so was only interested in the latest entries under Mayling Woo. It looked like Jack and his little bitch had covered most of the information fairly well.

He scrolled down with his eyes until he found a double underlined word that caught him by surprise, Cop. How the hell had he made that leap so soon? Sherlock was a damn good name for the bastard. There weren't any other references concerning the word cop. How or why Jack had arrived at that conclusion would have been nice to know.

Captain Jonathan Spacey made a quick exit and locked the door behind him. He immediately went to the records department to do a little investigation of his own. Officer Christopher Langley was on duty and would be for another four hours or so covering for a fellow officer.

"Officer Langley, I need to see some personnel files, but I want to make sure they are here before I waste my time digging around. Detective Jack Chamberlain or Claire Sanchez check anything out today? They may be looking at the same records."

Officer Langley was a nervous sort and looked up at him, his eyes shifting back and forth as if the walls might hear. "Yes, Claire I mean Detective Sanchez, did just a short time ago. She took the records for Officer Fred Jacobs."

"Fine, I need to look over a couple of other things, and want a little privacy." He scowled to emphasize the point to the shifty eyed Langley. He apparently got the point as he muttered, "Yes Sir" and quickly unlocked the door to the records room.

The room was 50 feet by 200 feet, full of rows of file cabinets that reached to the ceiling. Most of these were available digitally with the right passwords, except for what he was looking for, which was police officer personnel records. The decision to leave these records inaccessible, through any means but hardcopy, was a way of protecting undercover officers. Hackers had gotten into the system before. He didn't have to search for what he was looking for, his own personnel file. He knew where it should be, but it was missing.

His heart began to race and he could feel sweat building on his forehead. He forced himself to calm down, taking in several deep breaths. So, they had taken his file but had only checked out Jacobs's file. Jack had his suspicions then, but didn't want anyone to know, so he had stolen the file. Actually had that little bitch Sanchez do it, according to the shifty eyed worm at the front desk. Fucking Sherlock was getting too damn close and it was time for a little sleight of hand.

The fact that Jack had Fred Jacobs' file was good news. Fred Jacobs was nearly certifiable as far as he was concerned. He had heard about Jacobs' situation with his State Trooper wife just as he was forming the plans for the first killing. He had made sure he was brought on board the force, claiming that Jacobs deserved a second chance. In truth, he probably did. His record with the Saco Police and then the Maine State Police had been exemplary, even his attendance was squeaky clean. But he had hired him to be the fall guy if he needed it. He just hadn't thought it would be this early in the game.

He left the records room thanking Officer Langley and headed to his reserved parking spot in the garage beneath the precinct. He needed to get to his real victim and fast. He needed to kill that bitch before Jack got any closer, and he needed to make sure Jacobs took the fall. Of course that would mean changing the sequence of events, which would spare his next intended victim, Camilla Washington, for at least a little while. But that was fine with him because this month long waiting game was maddening.

When he had first made plans to use the dates as a sequence, it was because his anniversary fell on 7/7 and he wanted his ex-wife dead on that date. Oh, how sweet to kill her at the exact time they had said 'I do', the stroke of midnight on 7/7. But as he had killed his victims, he found it increasingly difficult to wait a month before the next one. He found himself enjoying lining them up in the sights of his rifle. He enjoyed searching, then following his next victim. The thrill of learning about their habits, comings and goings, lovers and secrets, had been almost as enjoyable as pulling the trigger. He had so wanted to take out Mayling Woo earlier. He had stalked her for days and found himself anticipating the moment of the kill to the point of finding it incredibly hard to wait. Now the thought of waiting until the 7th to take out his ex-wife was almost more than he could bear.

He pressed the button on his key chain unlocking the door to his car and it made that annoying squeaking beep that it had. Whose stupid idea had that been anyway and why did all cars sound the same? It must have been a woman's design since they were about as imaginative as a comatose patient.

As he started the Audi engine and backed up out of his reserved spot, his thoughts drifted to women he had known. From the beginning, he had been cursed with nothing but bitches in his life who were as mean as snakes. His mother had been a cursed old hag who smoked and drank herself into oblivion each night. She had told him on a daily basis that he had been a mistake, Johnnie the mistake, little Johnnie the bastard child, over and over again. His father, or at least the man that had brought him up, had not held it against him that his beast of a wife had screwed the meat manager at the local market and out came Johnnie. Why his father had never killed the old bitch he'd never know, but little Johnnie had taken care of it for him. When Johnnie was fourteen and his mother was on a particularly nasty binge and had drunk herself to sleep, he had crept up and suffocated her. It had been easy, as she had been so out of it she had not even struggled. He had rolled her dead body over and buried her face into the cushions. He had hoped the coroner would determine it was an accident, and he had.

His father had actually cried at the funeral but not many others had, especially the Meat Manager, who figured his secret was now in the grave. His useless two older sisters had cried though. They had been the apple of the old hags' eye. They could do no wrong, even when they tormented their helpless little brother through the years. They were useless then and they were useless now, each taking on their mother's nastier habits.

He had to admit that his father had bounced back quickly enough and married a bank teller from the local Saving's Bank. Now she had been nice to look at, so much so he had fucked her when he was sixteen. She had come on to him when his father was away driving his long haul truck and the relationship had lasted until he was nearly twenty. He remembered the first night that she came to his room and knelt beside his bed. She had reached under the covers while looking into his eyes. She had said she would teach him how to feel like a real man and had made him hard with her hands. She had taken him into her mouth, had brought him to an orgasm, and then taken his virginity. She had taught him so much, such a perverted twisted mind she had. But even during the most passionate games they shared, he had loathed her. She was just the old hag herself come back to life, just in a pretty façade. Like his mother before her, she used his father's hard work and took advantage of him. She feigned love and twisted it to her perverted satisfaction. In the end he had wanted to kill her as well, but a chance accident on the highway had beaten him to it. He had not cried at her funeral.

He pulled into his apartment complex on the Western Promenade overlooking the Portland International Jetport. He put aside the thoughts of the women who had ruined him from the day he was born, to the victim that lay ahead. Fred Jacobs didn't know it, but his ex-wife was about to die, and Jacobs would be found with all the evidence, eventually.

Claire arrived at my place around 7:00 p.m. with 2 bags. The first was from Cho Li's, a local Chinese food joint that had the best take-out in the city, the second she said was a surprise. A wicked grin spread across her face that not only aroused my interest, but the volume of blood flow to certain extremities. "I'll start the surveillance DVD's if you lay out the food?" I asked.

"Deal," she said as she began taking out plates and silverware.

We ate quietly, intensely watching the lives of countless people, on fast forward, drift through the bookstore. We were watching surveillance from the checkout counter for any sign of Mayling. I had hit play several times as women of Asian descent came up to the counter. On the fourth time, we saw Ms. Woo standing in line looking over some hanging bookmarkers while she waited her turn. I paused the picture and made a note of the date and time, 5/15 at 0935, military time. I hit play and we watched as she made her way to the counter and paid with a credit card. She smiled politely as she received the receipt and it occurred to me that she was very attractive. Her yellow blouse was in sharp contrast to her dark skin and long black braided ponytail. She left the store and I again noted the time as 0942.

Claire picked up a sheet that was a printout of the camera angles and times. "The store opens at 9:00 a.m. so that narrows it down to what time frames on the DVD's we should pick her up in. Here is a 5/15 cooking, natural history, and health section." She stood and went to the DVD player to swap out the disk and I followed her every move with my eyes. The more I watched her move, the more impressed I was with her demure manner. The hard-ass girl I had known for so long had a smooth fluid grace that had been hidden beneath the baseball cap, baggy clothes, and tough talk. As she squatted, and her tight Levi jeans molded to her rear, I wondered how I ever missed how beautiful she really was.

She turned around, smiled, and moved over to me. Her eyes found mine and I felt like I could lose myself in those shining dark pupils. "I love you, Jack Chamberlain," she said and then she laid her head on my shoulder and her hair cascaded over my chest.

I turned my head into her hair just to take in her scent. "I love you, Claire. I want to introduce you to some people this weekend. As a matter of fact, if you like, we are invited to stay the whole weekend at a very close friend's house."

"Are you going to introduce me officially as your girl?"

"Already have. I told Jason about you when I was invited."

"Were you talking behind my back?"

"I certainly was. You're going to love Shannon, Jason's wife. She's a real doll and Jason is a big teddy bear of a man, especially once he lays eyes on you."

"I can't wait."

I sat back, hit the play button, and then fast forward. In very short order the bright yellow blouse of Ms. Woo came into view. I hit play for normal speed and we paid close attention to all the surrounding people, but none seemed to take any special interest in Ms. Woo. "Can you find the coffee shop DVD?"

"Here," she stood and switched the disks.

We watched it at normal speed from the beginning and noted at 0905 a man walks in with a Red Sox baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. His head was turned toward the parking lot window as if he was purposely shielding his face from the camera. He ordered a coffee and Danish and sat down at a table. His movements seemed conscious of the fact that the camera was on him. His table suggested a good look at the bookstore, yet minimal view of him.

"The bastard is hiding in plain sight." I hit rewind to a point that had offered the best view of his face. I hit pause then zoom and brought his face up to a full screen view. "Could be Spacey, build seems right, his posture is a little stooped, but it looks a little forced."

"Can the forensics enhance this?"

"They should be able to, but I didn't see any real clear view of his face." I hit play and we watched the man sit and drink his coffee for another 30 minutes or so. All of a sudden he got up and made his way quickly out the door. I noted the time as 0940, 2 minutes before Ms. Woo left the store. We could see him walk into the parking lot, but he disappeared from view before he reached his car. "That has to be him. Does the parking lot have surveillance cameras?"

"I don't know, but I'll find out."

"Alright that's enough for tonight."

"Then it's surprise time! You stay right where you are Mister." She got up and grabbed her bag and went into the bathroom. After a grueling 5 minutes she came out wearing a crimson teddy that hung to her mid-thigh. Her hair was wildly fluffed and she ran her hands though it as she approached me. She knelt in front of me and began to unbutton and pull out my tucked in shirt. She placed her head on my bare chest and I nuzzled the top of her head with my nose taking in her lovely exotic scent. She began kissing down my chest as I closed my eyes and forgot who and where I was.
19

He made his way to the trailer park, which sat on the old city dump in Old Orchard Beach, like trash on trash. He drove an old grey Pontiac Bonneville that he had picked up over a year ago and stored in an old barn in Cumberland, a small town just north of Portland. He had purchased the car through a private sale in Vermont while on a ski vacation. His plans had just begun to emerge and he thought that a discreet car, with a large trunk space, might come in handy. Until tonight, it had not been a necessity; however, he was glad he had it now.

The trailer was the last one on the street and belonged to Officer Fred Jacobs. It used to be white, but now its metal skin was more of a rust red. He pulled his car straight to the end of the road, turning it around so that he was faced out for a quick getaway. It was 10:30 p.m. and he knew that Jacobs was on duty until 11:00 p.m. Hopefully, Jacobs continued with his normal routine and came home straight from work.

Jacobs had little social life after the breakup of his marriage. A true loner, he was considered by many of his fellow officers to be odd at the very least. When his marriage began to fall apart and they separated, he had moved to this trailer in Old Orchard Beach with a monthly lease, hoping that he would return to his wife. Over a year later he was still there.

The trailers surrounding Jacobs were also in various stages of disrepair, especially the one directly beside his which appeared to be vacant. He couldn't have planned it any better if he had tried. As he walked up on the stained wooden grey porch, it creaked eerily as he stepped on it. He looked across the street at another dimly lit trailer to see if anyone was taking an interest in his movements, but all seemed quiet. It took him only moments to spring the cheap lock on the old metal door and step inside. His nostrils were immediately assaulted with a strong musty smell, undoubtedly coming from old mold hidden under the carpets and along the window sills. No amount of bleach would permanently kill the black and fuzzy specs from reappearing in the leaky old trailer.

He shined his penlight throughout the living room / kitchen area, being careful not to shine it directly at a window. The furniture would have been thrown out by Goodwill. The couch and easy chair were especially stained and ripped on all the cushions. They were once beige perhaps or light brown, however now they were blotchy with black and dark brown stains. He was thankful he didn't need to sit on anything. He followed the long narrow hallway to the one bedroom in the back. He hadn't looked in the bathroom along the way, as he was certain it would be even more repulsive then the living room had been.

The bedroom was surprisingly neater, as if this was the only room Jacobs really cared about. The bed had a metal framed iron scrollwork head and footboard, with a mattress that did not appear to be over worn. The bed was even made with a pink afghan with some design that he couldn't quite make out. It occurred to him then that this was the piece of furniture that Jacob's ex-wife had clearly been able to part with, the bed they had shared.

Fucking women were all the same as far as he was concerned. His lovely bitch had done the same thing to him. Raped him of every prized possession he could think of, but had insisted on giving the bedroom set to him. That's OK, he had plans for her as well. He wondered if Freddy was interested in what he had planned for his ex-wife. By the look of the place, he might just want to help. Unfortunately, that was not something he could risk. Freddy might just be one of those stupid bastards that would spend a lifetime hoping that someday they would get back together. He liked his idea better. Just kill her.

This would do quite well, he thought, making his way back outside to the trunk of his car. He had taken out the trunk's light bulb, which surprisingly still worked in the old Pontiac, to make sure he wasn't alerting half the world to his presence. He removed his rifle, scope, and ammunition from the trunk and brought them into the trailer and simply slid them under the bed. He didn't feel the need to hide them, as Jacobs wanted to be caught, the poor demented soul.

He knew that Chamberlain was closer to suspecting him then he ever thought possible. He didn't know where he had screwed up, but it was somewhere, and ole' Sherlock had sniffed out his mistake. He knew that sooner or later he would have to do something more permanent about Chamberlain. But first things first; send the hounds barking up the wrong tree for the wrong cop.

It was approaching 11:00 p.m. and he made his way back outside where he would wait for Jacobs to get home. At first he had intended to take him in his house, but with the neighborhood as desolate as it was, he should be able to make quick work of him outside. This would insure that the house would not show any sign of a struggle, and he would prefer waiting in the car rather than spending any more time in that germ factory. After waiting in his car for nearly an hour, he quietly made his way to the backside of Jacobs' driveway and stood behind the vacant neighboring trailer hidden from sight. At just past midnight, an old green Ford Taurus pulled into the rutted dirt driveway. Jacobs emerged from the car, which created a disturbingly loud squealing noise from the rusty door hinge and was followed by the slamming car door. As Jacobs turned toward the trailer, Spacey hit him square in the back of the head with a black police issue nightstick. Jacobs dropped without a sound, all too easy.

He hadn't had time to research the house in Deering that belonged to Officer Jennifer Ouellette. He wasn't even sure she was home. As he drove down Aspen Ave., he took in the quiet neighborhood filled with quaint well-kept houses. Most were two story dwellings with only four feet or so of front yard that bordered the sidewalk. The structures were made of brick, as were the majority of the residential buildings in this section of Deering, having been constructed in the early 1900's when that was the building material of choice in the northeast. The turn of the century had been a good economic period for this area with a booming shoe industry and a growing middle class in Portland. The manpower needed for these prosperous industries meant expanding and developing the surrounding communities to house the many factory workers. This was an era of good wages and the houses reflected once well-to-do neighborhoods. The shoe industry, having long disappeared to overseas manufacturers, had left vacant factories all over Maine and the old neighborhood houses became affordable houses, apartments, or condos for those who remained. Many families had left the state looking for jobs in other areas of the country. Officer Ouellette owned number 10 Aspen Ave., which was smaller than the surrounding houses. It was, like many of its neighbors, a well-kept brick structure with new double paned windows and white trim. As he drove by, he noted her yellow Jeep Wrangler parked in her driveway.

He parked the car down the block at a corner apartment complex beside a dumpster, reasonably out of sight of the road. He checked on Jacobs in the trunk. He had moved slightly but was still out cold. He was trussed and gagged and wouldn't be able to cause any problems, even if he did regain consciousness. He shut the trunk, holstered Jacobs' service revolver, and placed a buck knife in his pocket that he had found at Jacobs' trailer. The hunting knife must have been a gift because it was engraved with Jacobs' initials, which was perfect for his needs.

Although the houses surrounding Officer Ouellette's were dark and quiet, a single light was on in an upstairs room of her house. He made his way around the back to a small yard, which was fenced in on all sides by an eight-foot stockade fence for privacy. Attached to the house was a small porch constructed of pressure treated wood, complete with a grill and lounge chairs for summer relaxation. The rear entrance opened up to the center of the porch through white French style double doors, which were locked. He took out a small glasscutter with a suction cup in the center and made a circle cut in one of the small windows close to the door handle. In thirty seconds he had his hand through the cut hole, unlocked the door, and quietly entered the house.

The kitchen was small but uncluttered. She seemed to prefer white Black and Decker space saving appliances as the toaster, microwave, can opener, and coffee maker were mounted under cupboards, keeping the white with gold speckled countertops orderly. He walked quietly over to the side-by-side refrigerator/freezer and took a sealed envelope from his pocket. On the envelope was the name, Sherlock. He hung the envelope on the refrigerator door by using one of the many magnets currently holding photos and reminder notes. He had written a little something for Chamberlain to chew on for a while.

A swinging door separated the kitchen from the dining area. An oak dining table was the main piece of furniture which had an old world charm to it. The table could be expanded for guests, but for now appeared to be using only one leaf. The table was bare except for a white vase containing dried flowers as the centerpiece. He kept his flashlight low as he swept the room and found a doublewide doorway opening into a short hallway that contained the stairs to the second floor. The stairs went straight up for 5 steps then turned a ninety-degree corner to the second floor beyond.

As he ascended the stairs, he unclipped the holster strap holding Jacobs' service revolver. He opened the buck knife, hearing the slight snap as the blade locked into place. The first landing boards creaked when he placed his foot down, causing him to stop short to listen for any other sounds. Fortunately, all remained quiet.

When he reached the top, the bedroom door was slightly ajar with a soft light shining from within. A reading lamp perhaps, a small one as the light wasn't very strong. His heart was beating loudly in his chest and his senses were heightened as adrenaline surged through his body. The feeling was exhilarating and he wondered why he had never killed this way before. So impersonal was a sniper rifle. Even though the kill had been satisfying, it had not reached the levels he felt now as he approached the door.

After leaving her husband, Jennifer Ouellette had moved into this two-story house and had been here for just over a year. When she had first met Fred, she had loved his oddities and his shyness, but over their 5-year marriage, those traits had become an increasing annoyance. Frankly, she considered him just plain weird. Her closest friends had offered that opinion from the beginning, which she had chosen to ignore. When she had finally given up on him and left, she had felt more alive than at any time during their marriage. She did feel bad for Fred, knowing that he had not taken their marriage ending well at all, but what could she do. He had to find his own way and that was that.

She had finished her shift late, because of a traffic accident on the Maine Turnpike, so it wasn't until after 1:00 a.m. when she finally arrived home. She had undressed in her bedroom, leaving her 9 millimeter on the nightstand loaded and ready. She believed that any single woman living alone in the city should be armed. She began to read her latest crime novel as a way to unwind, sipping occasionally from a bottle of Poland Spring water.

She needed to use the bathroom and walked down the hall, leaving the lights off as she went. The bathroom was one of the two rooms just beyond the stairway and as she entered, she heard a soft creak from the landing below. She knew the stairway well and it creaked annoyingly every time she came up. Her eyes opened wide as she stood motionless, straining to hear any other noises, when she heard ever so softly, another foot step coming up the stairway.

She reached beside the sink vanity to find the Louisville Slugger baseball bat she kept in the bathroom. When she had first moved in, she had purchased three of them from a local sporting goods store. The clerk had questioned her on the 28" bats she had chosen in relation to the 32" or larger, that would be a better fit for her if she was actually using them to play ball. She had explained that they were meant to be used as clubs in close quarters so the size was perfect. Two of the bats she had hidden downstairs with the third stashed in the bathroom upstairs, just in case. She was a cop and had seen single women victimized by thieves, rapists, and any number of scum that sought to take advantage of women living alone in the city. The bats were an insurance policy that she would not be one of them.

She stood waiting expectantly, tense and holding her breath in the shadows of the dark bathroom. Slowly and cautiously, a man dressed in black emerged from the stairway and turned toward the light coming from her bedroom. He had almost reached her bedroom door when she swung the bat at his head. He must have heard or sensed her, as he dropped just below her swing and the bat slammed harmlessly into the wall. She tried to bring up the bat for a second swing, but he hit her with his shoulder square in the stomach. It threw her backward into the bathroom and knocked the wind out of her. She tried to scream, but her lungs couldn't draw any air and he was on her. She felt a cold piece of sharp steel against her throat and she froze, eyes wide, looking into the face just inches from hers.

He heard something behind him and instinctively ducked down low. The baseball bat swung over his head so close that he felt the breeze through his hair. He did not let her get another swing at him before he knocked her down on the bathroom floor. He brought the knife quickly to her throat as she tried to catch her breath, her eyes wild with fear. His body pinned her to the floor as he leaned his face close to discourage her from doing anything stupid.

He stood up and backed into the hallway and looked down at her. Well no wonder Fred was such a basket case, his ex-wife was quite a looker. Maybe he might have a change of plans. He hadn't expected to be turned on by the look of fear in her face, but his heart rate quickened, saliva was filling his mouth, and he could feel sweat forming on his forehead. A tear drifted down her cheek and it only heightened his sense of power and his desire for more. Yes, he felt himself getting hard, as a smile crossed his face and he decided there definitely would be a change of plans.

She tried to control her mind, knowing that she needed her wits if she was going to get out of this, but his smile elevated her fear. She steadied her breathing as she looked into the dark face above her. Somehow the face was familiar, someone she knew or had seen before. It made sense, as the majority of assaults against women were done by men they knew, but she could not place this man.

He held up a gun and pointed it at her forehead from where he stood. The gun looked a lot like her old service revolver, a cop then she thought, as she searched her mind to bring up the face from her past. He told her to stand up slowly, making a motion with the gun before returning the barrel to point directly at her face. As she stood, she could feel herself shaking and a tear drifted down her face. She admonished herself silently. She was a cop for God's sake. It didn't seem to stop the trembling of her hands as she used the bathroom sink to help hoist herself off the floor. Nor did it change the weakness she felt in her knees as she made herself stand.

He motioned for her to move down the hall toward her bedroom. A rapist then, she thought. If he was going to simply kill her then this was as good a place as any. Her legs felt like lead as she walked by him and began making her way down the hall. She actually felt stronger when he was behind her and she didn't have to look at his face. She tried to control her breathing and ready her muscles for any opportunity to turn this around. She had to act quickly, as there was no telling what this bastard had in mind or how long she would be free to act.

She pushed open the door to her bedroom wide, hearing it come in contact with her nightstand. She knew where her gun was and that the door would hide it from his view. She stopped just beyond the door, not because he told her to, but because she could reach the gun from here. He told her to turn around and she did so, again looking into the face of her attacker.

He stood in front of her just on the other side of the door with the gun still pointed at her, but now at her chest. The other hand held the buck knife, which she recognized. She could see on the blade, engraved in flowing script Fred's initials, FEJ. It had been a gift from her on his 25th birthday. Her eyes widened as she looked again at the face of her attacker and recognized him. It was Fred's boss, the Chief of the Portland Police Department. "Oh my God," she gasped, not even realizing she had said it.

His smiled widened. He said in a soft almost caressing voice, "Quiet. Take off your nightgown, slowly."

Her hands began to shake violently as she struggled to unbutton her nightgown. She knew she was going to die. She knew he had done something to Fred to get his knife, and for some reason he had come for her. She had recognized him and knew that he wouldn't let her go. She needed to act and she knew she was running out of time. She took a deep breath, steadying herself, as she let her nightgown fall. She held the edges as it dropped, so it would drift slowly down, revealing her nude body. As the fabric passed over her breasts she watched as his eyes followed the path of the garment. She even passed her hand delicately over her skin as if she was caressing herself and inviting him to watch. As the nightgown fell below her pubic hair, she let her hands softly caress her hips. His eyes were drawn to her naked body, giving her the chance she was looking for.

When she spoke, he knew she recognized him. Well, that sealed her fate, but he could not pass on the opportunity to express his power over her to the ultimate level. He would have her and she would beg for her life. He watched as she slowly, sexily removed her gown. Her body was voluptuous and her skin looked smooth as silk, glistening in the dim lamplight. His mind filled with perverse fantasies as he watched her hands glide down her body. She caressed herself as if putting on a show for him. Yes, that was it he thought, as her hands glided across her hips, she did want him. She was a perfect beauty, on a perfect night to fulfill his fantasy and his mission, his goal. She turned to the side and revealed a lovely womanly curve from the small of her back along her firm and shapely buttocks. As his eyes followed her shape down her firm thighs and well defined calves, the door came slamming toward his face, and she began to disappear behind it.

She quickly grabbed the edge of the door and tried to slam it shut to create a distraction, as she dove for her gun on the nightstand. She grabbed the gun as she turned and spun herself to get a clear view of the figure she knew would be coming into the room. Splinters erupted from the door as he shot through it and the bullet hit her in the shoulder. She aimed at the door, firing at the spot of splintered wood, thinking she would return the favor.

He fired a shot at where she had been. Using his shoulder, he hit the door hard, dove into the room, and landed on the floor, as two shots rang out from her gun. Wood splinters began to shower the room. He brought up his gun and fired, putting a neat round hole in her forehead.

He watched as her body slumped onto the bed and the blood began to saturate the pillow. Shit, that was close he thought, as he quickly got up and took the buck knife and plunged it into her chest, driving the razor sharp blade through her heart. It was time to go, but his eyes lingered on the body of the dead girl. He felt slightly let down that he had not been able to have her, as she was very beautiful.

He had one last job to accomplish tonight before he could call it quits. Fred Jacobs needed to be tucked away, his alibi to shove up Chamberlain's ass before this was over. It would only be for a couple of days at most, but it was a couple of days he still needed. That should be just enough time for his squad to be ravenous to capture Jacobs for the murder of his wife and suspicion of the sniper shootings. Yes, Jacobs had a few days left to live. They would be spent in a drugged stupor inside the garage in Cumberland. He had the IV ready that would administer a slow dose of morphine, which would keep him happily sedated until his eventual accident. He smiled, as he quietly exited through the back door and disappeared into the night.
20

Jason Wambaugh knew what he was doing, even though it had been awhile since his last break-in. As a kid, he had made home invasion a science, even his closet friends had no idea that over two hundred burglaries in Portland in the late 80's and early 90's had been his jobs. Eventually, his luck had run out and he was caught at the age of seventeen, but he still had the skills.

It was Wednesday evening, a day after he had met with Jack, when he decided to start his stakeout. He sat in front of Captain Spacey's Western Promenade condominium home and watched him pull out of his driveway at about 7:30 p.m. He had already been in the Captain's house briefly, placing listening bugs in lamps in the living room and bedroom. It was still light out when he had entered the apartment and he ran the risk of being seen, but the neighborhood was full of single professional types and most of the condominiums were empty during the day. His original plan had been to watch the Captain for a couple of days to see if he had a routine that would allow him plenty of time to go through the place while he was gone. The bug had opened up a much sooner opportunity.

The Captain had called to check on reservations he had at the Fore Street Grille for 7:45 p.m. The Fore Street was a nice, mildly expensive restaurant on the eastern edge of the Old Port section of the downtown area. Even if Captain Spacey was a quick eater, Jason would have at least an hour and a half to go through his place. Condos on the Western Prom were generally not large, so he should be able to have a good look around and be out long before Spacey got home.

Jason waited about ten minutes before he exited his car just in case Spacey had forgotten his cellphone or something and came back home. Bad luck is a thief's worst enemy. Entering the condo was a simple matter, especially since when he entered the first time he had purposely unlocked a side window which was shielded from the street. Most people don't check their windows every night, so there was a good chance that it would remain unlocked for whenever he needed it. He had risked picking the front door lock initially, but didn't like the idea of being in the open more than once if he could help it. He was not sure when he would be able to enter the apartment again and it may be at a time when more people would be home. The window he had chosen would offer a relatively hidden entry no matter the circumstances or time of day. Before he opened the window, he went to the security-wiring coming from the street. He had rerouted the main alarm's trigger wire prior to entering the first time with a unique tool a techno nut friend of his had given him. He wasn't quite sure how it worked; only that it canceled the alarm signal without alerting the alarm company that anything was amiss.

He hefted his 6'2" frame through the window and eased himself to the floor. A black cat sat on the sofa and eyed him, but made no other movement besides a swishing of its tail. He got to his knees and turned on a miniature yet high powered mag-light. He adjusted the light to a narrow beam and looked around the small living area. The room was neatly furnished in a contemporary theme with a few innocuous prints on the wall. He looked under the furniture, although he doubted he'd find a sniper rifle hidden under Spacey's couch.

He made his way to the bedroom, believing this was his best bet if there was anything to find. The first place he went was the closet and moved aside the suits, slacks, and starched shirts that hung there. The closet seemed empty of anything suspicious, so he replaced the clothes in their former position then turned toward the bed. As he began to kneel down to look under it, he noticed that the wall for the closet seemed wider than the closet was deep. He looked back in the closet and was sure that there was at least another foot or more not accounted for by the depth of the closet. He thought to himself 'Bingo'.

As Captain Jonathan Spacey drove to the Fore Street Grille, he felt a wave of nausea pass over him. He had not eaten since dinner the night before and had slept on his office couch following the night's excitement. He had returned to his office after parking the Bonneville in the storage barn, leaving Jacobs in the trunk. He had injected him with morphine prior to leaving and expected it to keep him sedated until late afternoon. Before he headed home after work this evening, he had returned to the country barn and looked Jacobs over. He was alive, in the same position as the night before. There was a good chance he would need the Bonneville before Jacobs would meet his maker, so he decided to move him from the trunk to a small storage room that contained an old couch. Although Jacobs would never know it, the couch was a considerable upgrade from the one sitting in his trailer. He gave Jacobs another shot that would last the night, but he was confident that even if Jacobs woke up, he was tightly tied and gagged with no chance of escaping. He didn't expect Jacobs to remain alive much longer, another day or two if he was fortunate.

He was amazed that killing Jacobs ex-wife had not yet been discovered. He was sure that the gunfire would have woken half the neighborhood, but nothing had been called in yet. He had made his escape quickly from the apartment after the shooting, expecting the uniforms to be arriving in moments, but no one had come. The main reason he had slept in his office was so he could handle the call personally.

Another wave of nausea came over him. He pulled over and waited for the feeling to subside. It didn't pass, but increased steadily until he opened his door and vomited on the curb. He continued to heave, even though his stomach was thoroughly empty. He felt as if his entire insides, intestines, and perhaps even his balls were going to come spilling out. Finally, the nausea began to wane and he sat back in his leather bucket seat and reached for a tissue to wipe his mouth. He had a bottle of Poland Spring water in his cup holder and quickly rinsed his mouth and spit on the curb. His eyes were watering to the point that he could barely see and his breath came in quick gasps, just short of hyperventilating.

He began to slowly get his composure and picked up his cell. He called the Fore Street and canceled the reservation. He sat for about ten minutes, took deep breaths, and drank the rest of the water before putting the car in drive. He couldn't remember the last time he had thrown up. His entire body felt weak and he was glad he was sitting down. He pulled into his parking spot at the condo, just beginning to feel human again. He got out slowly and took a moment to look at the outside of the car. The evening had been taken over by darkness, but at least judging by the light of the florescent streetlight, his vehicle appeared to be clean of vomit.

His knees were still a little weak and he dropped his keys as he tried to find the front door lock. When the door opened his cat, Tony Montana, named after Al Pacino's infamous character in the movie Scarface, bolted through the door and off into the night. He would like to come back as a cat in his next life. They killed without remorse, nightly hunting their prey, and leaving it proudly at their master's door. He admired the way they toyed with their prey much like he toyed with his. He felt like he mimicked the cat's ability to stalk its victims, waiting patiently until the time was right to strike.

He tossed his suit coat on the couch in the living room. He was about to sit in the chair when he felt it, a breeze from an open window that should have been shut and locked. His nausea left him and his knees no longer felt weak. A cop should never be without his gun, on or off duty, and his was in his shoulder holster. He drew it and dropped to one knee.

Jason heard the key enter the lock as he was about to move aside the clothes for another look at the closet. Shit, he thought, this was not good. Not only was he stuck without a quick exit, this guy was a cop and would be packing a gun. He moved quickly behind the bedroom door, knowing as he did so, it would be the first place Spacey would look. He really had little choice. He was unarmed and looked on the dresser beside him for anything that might be useful as a club or weapon, but there was nothing. He heard a jacket land on a piece of furniture, then stillness.

Jason prepared himself for the only thing he could think of. He had to be quick or he was not going to make a clean getaway and be in a world of shit. He braced himself against the door, ready to heave it at Spacey and knock him off balance. He had to get to Spacey fast and hopefully gain control of whatever weapon he might be wielding.

Spacey eyed the living room for anything that might be missing or disturbed. Everything looked in place and there was no place to hide in here. The kitchen was off through a door to the right and the bedroom through a door to the left from his position in the living room. Most people hid money and jewelry in their bedroom, so if the burglar was still here, that was a good place to start.

He moved to a small wall next to the door hinges and listened for any noise, but it was quiet. The small seam between the door jam and the door revealed nothing in the darkness. He had several choices; one was to hit the light switch for the ceiling fan that would illuminate the room. Another was to go in fast and roll by the bed which would be foolish if the crook was under the damn thing. Or lastly, was to identify himself and give the bastard a chance to surrender.

He decided on a combination of two as he reached for the light and began to identify himself. "This is Captain Spacey of..." was all he got out as the door suddenly slammed shut on his outstretched wrist just before he hit the light switch.

Jason saw the shadow of Spacey's hand and heard his voice just on the other side of the door and pushed it with everything he had. The door slammed into Spacey's wrist and he was sure he had broken it. Score one for the A-team. He threw the door open and rushed him and heard what he thought was something hard, hopefully the Captain's gun, hitting the floor. Just as he reached Spacey, who was down on one knee, he felt a fist hit him right in the balls, dropping him down to both knees. As he dropped, he lunged forward and head butted Spacey in the forehead. Spacey fell backwards, but rolled as he did so. Jason lost sight of him momentarily, as the head butt, along with the nutcracker, had put a few stars in his own eyes. If there was ever a time to split, it was now. He headed for the front exit as a shot rang out and wood from the door in front of him splintered into his face. A second shot grazed his ear as it whistled by.

Spacey dove for the area where he had heard his gun hit the floor, his eyes watering from the slam in the forehead from the bastard's thick skull. He was fortunate to actually land on top of his pistol, which hurt like hell but at least he had it. Rolling on his back, he quickly grabbed the gun with his good left hand and brought it up. He saw a figure dressed in black and he fired two quick shots, but neither shot seemed to connect. The figure began to disappear through the front door. He scrambled to his feet, switching the gun to his broken right hand so he would have the use of his good hand to help him stand. The pain in Spacey's wrist was excruciating, but he did not let it control him. He switched the gun back to his left hand and pointed it at the direction of the front door. The dark figure was just moving out of sight around it when he fired.

Jason heard the shot, but again luck was with him. The bullet landed behind him in the sheet-rock wall. Spacey was moving pretty fast for someone with a broken wrist. Fast enough where he doubted if he could make it to his car without getting shot. It was time for plan B, which he was formulating as he threw open the exterior door and began running in the opposite direction of his car. He made for the rows of trees in the park on the other side of the street. Another shot rang out, but this one was in front of him.

"Halt!" A voice yelled from directly in front of him, "Police, down on the ground, now!"

Jason saw the cop emerge onto the lit street from the park where he was headed. The police revolver leveled at his head gave him little choice, but to do as he was told.

21

I watched as Claire laid out on my counter the ingredients for the Mexican dish she was going to prepare. There was a jar of salsa, a bag of rice, a can of tomato paste, fresh hot chili peppers, tomatoes, refried beans, a chicken breast, tortilla wraps, and an avocado. She moved about the kitchen with the fluid motion of someone who was comfortable in her surroundings. I was staring at her, captivated by her raw beauty, when she looked up at me and smiled. "I love it when you stare," she said.

I walked over behind her and wrapped my arms around her as she laid her head back on my shoulder. Her hair was soft against my face and I smelled a subtle perfume from behind her ear as I whispered into it, "I could watch you forever." She turned in my arms and brought her lips to mine. I lost myself in her flavor as my hands roamed down her back and all thoughts of the food she was preparing evaporated.

It was at that moment when my cell phone began playing Taps from the counter. I could see the number and under it were the words "Jason's House". I unwrapped myself from Claire and picked up the phone to hear a very frantic Shannon Wambaugh on the line. "Whoa, slow down Shannon. What's going on?"

"It's Jason. He just called from getting locked up by the Portland Police. He told me to call you and his lawyer."

"Did he say what happened?"

"No, only that he was in a big mess and wanted me to start arranging for a high bail. I called you first. Do you have any idea what this is all about?"

"Maybe, but I'll get right over there and find out for sure."

"Ok, I'll meet you there."

"No, call his lawyer and have him go right over to the station. I'm going to have Claire pick you up. I'd rather you not drive. Claire will call you when she's ten minutes out. Don't worry! He's been in bigger fixes than this," I finished as I hung up the phone. "Shit, this can't be good."

"What is it?"

"It's Jason. I asked him to check up on Spacey's place yesterday, a little look over. Now he's been locked up."

"The Captain's place? Geez, Jack. Why didn't you tell me about this?"

"I didn't want you involved in case shit happened, and it looks like it just did. Unfortunately, I'm not sure what happened yet, but I've got to get over there." I went to my roll top desk and wrote down Shannon and Jason's address and handed it to Claire. "Please go and get Shannon and bring her down to the precinct. Hopefully by the time you get there, I'll know what's going on." And maybe need bail money myself, I thought, but I left that part out. "Just remember, you knew nothing about this."

"Well, I didn't and still don't for that matter."

"Just go get Shannon for me and I'll call if I can." I strapped on my gun, put my wallet in my pocket, grabbed my coat, and headed out the door.

He left the hospital by cab at around 9:00 p.m., and instructed the cabbie to take him directly to the precinct. His wrist hurt like hell, but all the x-rays had been negative as far as broken bones were concerned. His wrist was still swollen twice its normal size and moving it made him wince in pain. The ER doctors at Maine Medical had wrapped it in an ace bandage and told him it should remain on for at least a week.

He thought back to the events of the early evening when he had that bastard dead in his sights. He was ten steps behind the guy as he chased him out of the apartment. It was far enough that he didn't have a clean shot as the guy went out the door. When he had finally emerged from the apartment foyer, he had a clear shot at taking him out. The man suddenly dropped to his knees and a uniformed officer emerged into the light of a street lamp. The officer's gun was drawn and aimed at the bastard on his knees. He had almost pulled the trigger anyway he had been so pissed off. In the last seconds before he did, the blue lights from a squad car came around the corner and he lowered his gun. He dropped to the ground and sat there leaning against the door jamb holding his wrist. The first officer named Greg White had come over to him, not realizing who he was, with his gun drawn. The look on White's face as he recognized who he was pointing his gun at almost made him laugh, but his wrist made laughter all but impossible. The officer who emerged from the squad car quickly cuffed the guy, frisked him, then made him lie prone on the ground as he called in to the precinct on his shoulder radio.

Officer White had asked if he was hurt and then called for an ambulance. While he waited for the ambulance to arrive, White had informed him that the cuffed man was clean, no weapons or stolen goods. The ambulance had arrived quickly and had taken him directly to the ER for x-rays. It had all happened so fast and the pain in his wrist was so excruciating, that it seemed a blur.

As the cabbie turned onto Middle St., he could see the precinct building four blocks ahead. Although he could feel every pothole under the tires, he realized that the Tylenol 3's were beginning to take effect. The pain was down to a dull throb and his head was clearing. He began to think about the man in his house. He had been apprehended without a weapon and without having stolen anything. Maybe he had surprised him before he had a chance to steal anything. Not that he had anything to steal, his ex-wife had seen to that. Maybe he was just the dumbest friggin' crook on the planet. But something didn't feel right about the way he had been in his bedroom. He couldn't put his finger on it, but he felt uneasy as the cabbie pulled in front of the precinct.

As he emerged from the car, two newspaper reporters and three television crews began to shout questions at him. He held up his hand and said he would answer their questions one at a time.

I arrived at the precinct and headed straight to the interrogation room where I found Jason handcuffed to the table. Detectives Paul Roadway and Craig Hansen were both seated in front of Jason questioning him, but I got the impression Jason wasn't talking. "Hello, Jason," I said as I motioned Craig and Paul over to the door. "I know this guy. Give me a few minutes with him." Neither of them objected as they walked out the door and closed it behind them.

"I'm sorry, man," began Jason, "I really mucked this one up." He then told me the story of what had happened. As I listened, it felt as if the walls were closing in on me because I knew I couldn't let him go down for this. "Listen, I'll just keep my mouth shut and let my lawyer do the talking. Alright?"

"No, it's not alright. I asked you to do this and I'm not going to let you take the rap. We're going to tell them exactly what went down and why."

"You want me to get you in touch with a good lawyer then? You're going to need one."

Spacey made his way toward the interrogation room when Detective Hansen called him over to the viewing area. "Jack's in there with the guy. We're watching the interview, seems Jack put this private investigator Wambaugh up to this."

He quickly went in and listened to the story being relayed by Wambaugh. They were looking for evidence in the sniper shootings in his apartment, his fucking apartment. He looked over at Hansen and Roadway and saw them almost gasp at the suggestion that he was the sniper. As he walked out he could hear Wambaugh say something about getting Jack a lawyer.

I heard the door slam open against the wall and knew without turning who was behind me. "Jack, get the hell in my office. Now," yelled Spacey from behind me. "Hansen get this piece of shit PI down to the darkest fucking cell you can find. Roadway, I want Sanchez here in 5 minutes, so find her."

As I got up from my chair I said to Jason, "You were operating under my authority." As I walked across toward Spacey's office all eyes were on me, most carried looks of disbelief in them.

Spacey was standing at his door and threw it shut as I crossed the threshold. "You've got some mighty big balls to pull a stunt like this, Asshole," he shouted, his face as red as a ripe tomato. "I want your God Damn badge and your piece right fucking now."

I took out my badge and tossed it on his desk and laid my gun there as well. "It doesn't much matter to me," I said as I leaned on his desk and brought my face close to his, "because I know it was you. I'm going to bring you down for this."

"You don't know shit, Sherlock; I'm not the fucking sniper. You know you've got your head so far up Claire's ass all you can see is pussy and it's screwed up your reasoning. This whole episode is going to embarrass this department because you decided to go Wild Bill on me instead of bringing everything you've got to the table."

"Listen you little Prick, I know it was you. I don't know why yet, but I know. I won't just stand by and watch as you take out another woman. If I have to break a few rules to get you, I will."

"Those weren't rules you broke, Asshole, they were laws! Breaking and entering, assault of a police officer, and that's just for starters. I'm not only going to take your badge; I'm going to lock you up!"

"You're not locking anyone up because I have enough to convince the DA you would be impeding an ongoing investigation." I picked up my badge and my gun, "I suggest you don't leave the city."

"Don't fucking move an inch Chamberlain or I swear I'll shoot you myself!" Spacey picked up his office phone and pressed a button. "Please connect me with District Attorney Heller's office." When the DA came on the line after a moment he continued, "Shawn, this is Jonathan. I've got a serious problem here and we need you to come over to the precinct. It concerns the sniper case." He hung up the phone and looked at me with this shit-eating grin. "You better get your shit together. The DA is coming over and you lay out your case and we'll see who still has a badge by day's end. Get the hell out of my office."

I walked out and headed toward the interrogation room I where I planned to lay my case out before the DA. I saw Claire walk in and she turned toward me.

"Sanchez," yelled Spacey from his office, "get in here." As he shut the door I heard him yell, "So what the hell did you know about all this?"

I spotted Detective Harry Poulin pouring himself a cup of coffee. I had a good deal of respect for Harry and we had worked together before. "Harry, if that prick leaves, do me a favor and follow him."

"You really think he's your sniper?"

"Yeah, but I don't have the hard evidence yet, which is why I sent Jason over to the Captain's place to see if he could find the weapon. I rolled the die and got caught."

"All right, I'm with you. Guy's a real prick anyway."

Claire joined me in the interrogation room after about 10 minutes in Spacey's office. She was red faced and her eyes were ablaze. She sat down next to me on the couch and said, "We've got to get that bastard. We don't have enough yet do we?"

"No, not enough for an arrest. Hopefully we have enough to keep Jason and me out of jail."

"What do you think the chances are?"

"Not good, Heller's not exactly a fan of mine."

We sat there in silence for about 15 minutes before Heller and Spacey entered the room and shut the door behind them. Heller was the first one to speak, "We have a real problem here, Detective Chamberlain. If the media gets wind of this fiasco with more information than a breaking and entering, there's going to be some serious explaining to do."

"Damn right," chimed in Spacey.

"Captain, I came here to listen to the Detective lay out a case supposedly against you. You are here more as a courtesy, so I suggest you remain quiet or you will be asked to leave." Spacey's face got red but he remained silent and leaned up against the door with his arms folded across his chest. "All right, Detective, let's have it."

I stood up and moved toward our whiteboard and turned to Heller. "As you know, we have three seemingly random victims with, at first glance, nothing in common. However, there is a common thread and it is the Barnes and Noble bookstore by the Maine Mall. It seems Mrs. Willis volunteered there, Ms. Leavitt shopped there recently, and so had Ms. Woo. We have surveillance tapes that show each victim leaving the store either the day of their murder or up to a week before. In the cases of the Willis and Leavitt tapes, we see a man leave the coffee shop as the victim checks out. We are assuming it is to follow them home."

"You are sure it's the same man."

"Yes, although we can't see his face, the body type is identical and, coincidentally, is consistent with the Captain's."

"And so are about 10,000 others in the city and who knows about the surrounding towns."

"I agree, and this bit only reinforces my conclusion but does not directly lead me to it. We reviewed the tape of Ms. Woo at Barnes and Noble and are confident we spotted the guy watching her and leaving two minutes before she did. The computer geeks have the DVD now for enhancement, but we haven't heard anything yet. We are also getting a tape of the parking lot surveillance for the same time frame, but it hasn't arrived. The truth is, we have been following dead ends on the first two murders. It wasn't until Ms. Woo's murder that something clicked. When Claire and I emerged from the tunnels under Battery Park, police officers, including the Captain, were there almost immediately."

"That's because I told them to get there immediately," said Spacey.

"I told you to keep quiet, Jonathan," said Heller.

"We are sure that the shooter, this self-proclaimed Moriarty, is a cop. He didn't disappear from Battery Park, but blended in. We had the dispatcher on duty run the communications to find out who the first ones on the scene were and how long they had been out of communication prior to their arrival at the Park. We came up with two names that stuck out. The first was Officer Fred Jacobs, who had not only been off the radio for fifteen minutes, but was working alone. The second was the Captain who had also been silent from just before the shooting, and came on while Claire and I were making our way through the tunnels."

"Have you checked out Officer Jacobs thoroughly?"

"No, we haven't at this point."

"Why is that, Detective?"

"Spacey seemed the most likely suspect for a couple of reasons. He called everyone to Battery Park to hide more than anything. He was the first one on the scene when we emerged from the tunnels. He showed his hand a little by stating his knowledge of the tunnels as we made our way through them."

"Every history buff in the city knows about the tunnels. It's not like it's some grand secret," said Spacey.

"One more time Captain and you're out," was Heller's reply.

"Then there is the last note, I have a copy here, it reads;

Hello Jack,

Are you any closer? Perhaps, I almost wish I could have written this after tonight's events rather than before. I'm sure it was an interesting night. What did you think about the tunnels? Did you even know they existed? History is a marvelous teacher, you really should bone up on Portland's long and colorful history. If you had, you may even have been able to read this to me in jail.

"The most interesting aspect of this is the history of Portland and the tunnels. Officer Jacobs was transferred here in March and is not a Portland native. His knowledge of Portland can't be as extensive as the Captain, who is a Portland native and a self-proclaimed history buff."

"Do you know that for certain about Jacobs?"

"We know his history, but no, it's a guess at this point. The facts begin to point away from Officer Jacobs and lean toward the Captain." I continued to read:

You think you're so smart, but I have all the advantage. I will tell you that these people mean nothing to me, unlucky strangers. Yet, these people mean everything to me. Like a crack addict, they feed my hunger, give me freedom. Their innocent blood was taken by my hand of death without warning, seemingly without meaning. I have put fear in this miserable city. The events of last night will bring the media down; explode the story across the papers and the screen. The city's fear will intensify and I will thrive.

"The first sentence was something the Captain recently said to me in his office. That only confirmed to me what I suspected and told Spacey yesterday morning. We are dealing with someone who wants somebody dead on a specific date. This is not some kind of serial whack job, but a calculated effort to hide the truth or as Moriarty put it, give him freedom. In other words, maintain his freedom after his true target is dead.

I am your Moriarty, Sherlock. You may think that this note is a deviation from what I have shown you so far, but it is not. It is my method of telling you that you are my ultimate target. The morsels I have left you so far are the leash. The wet floor, the toilet seat and the dates were all to make your mind churn like an endless carousel. In the end you will be a tortured soul and I will be there to watch you fall. I hope you like our little game of catch me if you can. If you get too close, maybe I'll just kill your Mexican trash bitch. 6/6.

Moriarty

I was called Sherlock by the State Police and few know this in Portland, certainly not Jacobs. Spacey has used this reference twice recently, indicating he is aware of my past nickname. I doubt that I am the ultimate target, but assume that Moriarty would be happy to see me fall, as would Captain Spacey. Lastly, there are only a handful of people who know about Claire and my relationship. The only one that fits the puzzle completely is Captain Spacey."

"So, what is Wambaugh's place in all this?"

"I don't have any hard evidence to bring to you or I would have already done it. Wambaugh was to look the place over and hopefully find the murder weapon."

"Did he?"

"No, but he did find a compartment in the closet. He was about to open it when the Captain returned home. If he hadn't, maybe I would already have the evidence."

"Which would have been obtained illegally without a search warrant."

"I know, but with the rest of the evidence, would you have arrested Captain Spacey?"

The DA looked over at the Captain, "I think I would have. You certainly have enough circumstantial evidence to call him a suspect. Anything else?"

"As of this minute, no, but I sure would like to get a look at that compartment."

"I agree, what's in the compartment, Captain?"

"I don't even know about a compartment," said Spacey.

"OK, let's go have a look. But first we make it official with a search warrant. I'll need about half an hour or so. I suggest, Captain, that you spend that time in your office and at the very least, don't leave the building. As far as Wambaugh is concerned, he was operating under police guidance and instructions, so we'll let him go for now, pending a review of the case and what charges might be brought against him. As for you, Detective, if you're wrong, I will have your badge."
22

I went down to release Jason and told him he was free for the moment, but was not out of the woods yet. Shannon gave me a kiss on the cheek before they left and headed to the Police impound lot to pick up Jason's car. Claire met me downstairs and told me the warrant was here and that the DA and Captain Spacey were meeting us in the police garage. I pulled out my cell and called Fritz who answered on the first ring. "Fritz, I need a favor."

"Jack, man you really have them talking around here. Is the Captain guilty?"

"I would arrest him right now if I could, but I don't have anything solid."

"What do you need from me?"

"Have you gone over Spacey's apartment to gather prints?"

"No, we don't have any reason to."

"Come up with one. I want you to see if Spacey's prints are on a hidden compartment in his bedroom closet. He claims he doesn't even know it exists, at least that's what he told the DA."

"If his prints are there he's lying."

"Yeah, so don't bring a team and for Christ's sake don't tell anyone what you are doing. Just call me on my cell with the results."

"Anything else?"

"Yeah, remember the hair in the envelope? What was it?"

"A cat hair, black one. Not sure what breed it was, but definitely a black cat."

"How about the rope from the dumbwaiter?"

"It's a common rope most likely made at Yale Cordage down in Biddeford, Maine. You can get this at any hardware store in New England."

"Ok, I guess that's it for now, thanks Fritz."

"Anytime and good luck."

"Anything we can use?" asked Claire.

"Maybe, keep an eye out for a black cat."

We arrived at Spacey's apartment which was cordoned off with yellow crime scene tape. As we entered, I noticed the chunk of wood that a bullet had taken off the door. The place was neat even after the recent battle between Jason and Spacey. On the living room couch sat a black cat eyeing us suspiciously, his tail flicking back and forth in agitation. I looked over at Claire and she nodded.

We went directly to the bedroom closet and found the compartment Jason had spotted. I put on a pair of rubber gloves and knelt down in the closet. There was a single button latch in the center that was fashioned to blend almost perfectly with the wall. I pushed on the latch and the door opened slowly. It was controlled by two piston arms, one on each side of the door. I shined a pen light into the compartment and it was empty.

"Are you satisfied, Detective? No sniper rifle or ammunition, not even a friggin' mouse turd. You have a warrant, why not search the whole stinking place? Maybe you can find the last dollar my ex-wife left me with," Spacey ended with all the sarcasm he could muster.

"I would, but maybe you're just smarter than I gave you credit for," I snapped back.

"Fuck you, Jack, you arrogant son of a bitch. Unless there is anything else you want, get the hell out of my apartment and leave your badge and gun on the table."

"This is still a crime scene, so I'll drop those off at the office."

"You do that and Claire, you're assigned to the desk pending an investigation into how much you had to do with this whole thing."

"Wait a moment," started District Attorney Heller, "I have another search warrant for the residence of Officer Fred Jacobs and I want Claire there for this. Jack, when you go back to the office, have one of the detectives on duty find out where Jacobs is and have him brought in for questioning. Then go home, I'll be in touch."

Claire offered to drop me off at the precinct before she headed over to Jacobs' place. I told her not to worry as I pretended to call a cab on my cell. They all left together with me standing by the roadside. As Claire went by, her face looked sad and dejected, and it hurt to think I had in some way put that look on her face.

Two minutes after they had rounded the corner, a black Ford Mustang pulled up to the curb and the passenger window went down. "Everyone gone?" asked Fritz from the driver's side. "I'm getting dizzy from driving around the block."

"Yes, let's get this done," I answered.

Fritz got out of the Mustang and removed a black case from the trunk. We both walked to the front door which had not been locked on our way out. "There's the black cat," I said pointing to the cat still perched on the couch.

"Show me this closet so I can go to work, then get a hair sample from that animal and I'll run the DNA."

"It's right in there to the right against the wall. I left it open so you can have a look at the inside. It's real clean in there for a closet that he didn't know existed. I would have thought there would be dust or cobwebs, but nada."

"I'll see what I can find, just get me the hair sample."

I went over to the cat and started scratching his chin which he liked and he began to purr. As I patted his back I took one hair and pulled it out to get the follicle and I placed it in a plastic bag. Blackie was not very happy about it and leapt from the couch with a growl. Fritz came out of the bedroom after ten minutes. "Get the hair?" he asked.

"Yeah, get my prints?" I returned.

'Sure did, unless they're yours."

"No, I wore gloves when I opened the compartment door."

"Good man. You were right about how clean it is in there. Definitely not normal if it hasn't been used for the length of time the Captain's been living here. It must be over a year since his divorce, let alone since they separated."

"Do you know his ex-wife?"

"Not really, I met her before. Good-looking woman, built like a brick shithouse. Her name is Susan I think, yeah that was it, Susan Spacey. She is some kind of wheel for some bookstore."

"Barnes and Noble?"

"I think so, but I'm not certain."

"Let me know when the prints come back. Call my cell, I don't expect to be around the office a whole lot anytime soon."

I headed back to the precinct to have someone track down Jacobs as instructed by Heller. I remembered from his personnel file he worked the night shift. Jacobs had missed his shift and his partner was covering for him, an Officer Williams. I called him in and told him to wait for the DA to arrive.

As I walked from my desk to the Captain's Office, I could feel all the eyes in the precinct on me. I removed my shield and left it on the Captain's desk along with my gun. It was time to go home, though I had no intention of staying there long.

Spacey arrived with the DA, Claire, and two uniformed officers at Jacobs' trailer in Old Orchard Beach. The local police had two uniforms there as well, but they had been asked just to remain outside if no one answered the door when they first arrived. Spacey walked behind Claire as she went up the short steps to the landing by the door. His eyes were drawn to her rear, which if he tripped, his nose would have ended in the crack of her ass. She was not wearing her usual baggy clothes tonight, having on a tight pair of shorts and t-shirt without a bra. She looked damn good. Recalling the note to Chamberlain, perhaps a late-night rendezvous with this Mexican trash bitch was really in the cards.

The trailer door was unlocked, just as he had left it, and the place was even more disgusting when the lights came on. How the hell anyone could live in this shithole, he didn't know. After pulling on a pair of rubber gloves, he began making a show of searching the place with Claire's assistance. He looked in the cupboards in the kitchen and in a small broom closet, looking for any compartments as he went along. DA Heller stood and watched like some sort of dictator, too good to get his hands dirty.

He moved to the living room and looked under the couch. He had chosen not to sit on it before, and found that it was even worse under the damn thing then on it. There was an old bag of chips, beer bottles, and what looked like a moldy left over sandwich that could probably walk off on its own. The worst part was the smell. He was on all fours with his face as close to the stained carpet as he could get without touching it. A mixture of scents, from sour to downright rank, drifted up into his nostrils, making his stomach churn.

Fortunately, Claire moved off into the bedroom and he followed wiping his gloved hands off on his pants. He probably should burn the pants later. He entered the bedroom with its fake wood paneling, old hotel leftover dresser, and the four-poster bed. The only holdover from Jacob's failed marriage. Claire was on her knees about to look under the bed. His view of her ass and crotch made his mind up for him about taking her. It would be satisfying on so many levels.

"Captain," she began, "there's a rifle under here and maybe a box of ammo."

He handed her a small Kodak digital camera and told her to photograph them under the bed, then turned to DA Heller who stood in the doorway. "Looks like we've got our man"

"Maybe, but let's get a ballistics' test. Have Jacobs brought in, and get a team over here to go over every inch of this place. I just spoke with the desk sergeant over at the precinct. Apparently, Jacobs missed his shift. I'm heading back to the office, so call me when you find Jacobs."

My cell began to play Taps around midnight and it was Claire. She filled me in on what they had found over at Jacobs' place. Fritz was there now going through the trailer, and the rifle they had found was being test fired in a ballistics' test. Jacobs was nowhere to be found and they had the whole force looking for him. "How are you doing, Jack?"

"I've been better," I admitted, "but I'm not licked yet."

"What do you mean by that?"

"This is all bullshit, Claire. Does Jacobs have a cat?"

"Not that I saw. No cat food or water dish either, so I would say definitely not."

"There was one over at Spacey's, black, just like the hair found in the envelope from the sniper. Fritz is doing a DNA test. My guess is it's the same animal, which would give us the direct connection we need to nail Spacey."

"You really have a hard on for him don't you? What if the gun proves to be the weapon?"

"If it does, I'll wager Jacobs never shows up alive. Do you have the address of Jacobs' ex-wife?"

"Yes, I was just going to call her but called you first. She lives over in Deering."

"Claire, I'm heading over there. Why don't you meet me?" I finished as she gave me the address.

"Jack, you're not supposed to be pursuing this according to the DA remember?"

"Just meet me there, Claire." I hung up the phone and took my personal 9mm from my dresser along with a spare clip. I absently felt my pocket for my badge before remembering it was on Spacey's desk. He was a sneaky bastard; I'd give him that. But so was I. Now I didn't have a badge, so I wasn't telling anyone what I was up to.

I arrived at 10 Aspen Ave. in Deering, the apartment of Officer Jennifer Ouellette, at around 1:00 a.m. The brick duplex was quiet and the residents of the quaint neighborhood were sound asleep. The front door was locked so I rang the bell and waited, but no one answered. Claire pulled in as I was coming down the front steps to make my way around the back. She got out of her truck still wearing her short tight jean shorts and t-shirt, even though the night had gotten cold. Her nipples stood out from underneath her shirt and I couldn't resist. "Is it cold out here or are you just happy to see me?"

"Both," she answered planting a quick kiss on my lips. "What have we got?"

"No answer, I was just heading around back. Does anyone know you're here?"

"No, let's go."

We walked around the back to a pair of French doors which opened onto a small patio. There was a neat hole in one of the small window panes in the left side door close to the inside lock. We both immediately drew our guns. The door was unlocked, so we made our way inside. The faint smell of decay hit me. I turned on a light to reveal a neat kitchen area, everything in its place. I noticed the refrigerator had pictures on it held by magnets and an envelope marked Sherlock. "Shit, he's already come and gone," I said pointing out the envelope to Claire.

"Don't touch it, Jack. Let me do it. You're not supposed to be here, remember?"

"Yeah, but let's leave it for now and find Officer Ouellette." We went through a swinging door to a dining area and cleared the first floor. We then began to ascend the stairs to the second floor. When we reached the top landing, Claire turned on the hall light. On the bathroom floor to the right was a baseball bat. We exchanged looks, knowing that we were too late. I also noticed that the sick sweet scent I had smelled downstairs was much stronger. I turned to the left and a door was standing slightly ajar. The door was splintered with at least two bullet holes along with pieces of wood on the floor. A light nightgown was caught between the floor and the bottom of the door holding it shut as I tried to open it. I gently forced the door open to avoid disturbing the room beyond. When the door finally opened all the way, it revealed Officer Jennifer Ouellette lying naked on the bed. She had a bullet hole in her forehead and a knife thrust to its hilt through her chest.

"Shit," said Claire, as she lowered her gun into its holster.

"Let's work the crime scene before I have to bug out." I turned and walked to the bathroom, followed closely by Claire. I put on a pair of rubber gloves as I went. "This is where things began." I bent down and picked up the bat, inspecting it for any signs that it had hit a target. It was clean and looked like new. It was not a bat purchased for baseball or softball, but for protection. "She didn't get a chance to use this," I said, as I placed the bat back on the floor. The sheet rock had a small hole in it about five and half feet high, "Looks like she took a swing and missed."

"He must have caught her here and forced her back to the bedroom. He told her to remove her nightgown. He was going to rape her, Jack"

"Doesn't look like she gave him the chance, she must have seen an opportunity and took it. She just didn't have much of a chance, unfortunately. She took a bullet in the shoulder, then one between the eyes. She did get a couple of shots off before he shot her." There were two slugs in the wall just outside the door that I was sure Fritz would match up with the officer's gun. I pointed to a slug in the wall behind the bed. "She was still in a sitting position when the fatal shot struck her."

"He was about here," said Claire, standing at the foot of the bed.

"Lower, he fired from just above the footboard. He must have rolled under her shots then popped up and got her. The knife was used after she was dead. There is just not enough blood to indicate she was stabbed beforehand."

Claire looked closely at the knife, "FEJ is inscribed into the handle. Sure points to Jacobs."

"Maybe, however there is a different MO from our Moriarty. If it wasn't for the note downstairs, I'd say it wasn't the sniper. This was up close and personal. I think she did the only thing she could and went on the offense. He had to kill her before he had the chance to rape her."

"Good for her, at least she went down fighting."

"Would she have had to with Jacobs?"

"I don't follow you."

"Everyone we talk to says that Jacobs still had it bad for his ex-wife. You'd think she'd try to talk her way out of it long before she went for the gun." Claire gave me a doubtful look as if she thought I was stretching it out a little. Maybe I was. Maybe I did have a hard on for Spacey. But, I still knew he did it, this was just part of the game. "Let's go get the note."

We went down to the kitchen and I took the note off the refrigerator door. It was sealed, but I didn't hesitate and carefully opened it, even though I knew it would compromise evidence. I wouldn't have the luxury of access to it later, so I needed to read it now.

Dear Sherlock,

I realize now that you are smarter than I gave you credit for. I could feel you closing in even after I tried to lead you astray. No matter, as much fun as the sniping was, this does promise to be so much more enjoyable, so much more satisfying. Originally it was meant to be the end game. The ultimate goal was to take out the ex, the bitch that brought such evil and delicious thoughts to my head. However, that is no longer the case. I have enjoyed toying with you far too much, and have decided that you are the end game.

I need only return to my home for a trinket and then I will hide in plain sight amongst the fair people of this city. Every woman will wonder who is next but I already know. It promises to be the ultimate mind fuck for the confused Sherlock.

Moriarty

"Sounds like Jacobs is admitting to the crime," said Claire as she returned the note into the envelope.

"I suppose it does," I answered. "Give me a couple of minutes before you call for backup. I don't want anyone seeing me leave the crime scene." I left and headed for home. I needed to sleep on this.

23

I arrived home and sat at my roll top desk with a pad of paper and a cross pen that was a gift from my father when I made detective. I wrote out Moriarty's note to try to find any nuances that I might have missed in the first reading.

"I realize now that you are smarter than I gave you credit for. I could feel you closing in even after I tried to lead you astray."

I did not believe he was actually giving me credit but rather that he was trying to continue to bait me.

"No matter, as much fun as the sniping was, this does promise to be so much more enjoyable, so much more satisfying. Originally, it was meant to be the end game. The ultimate goal to take out the ex, the bitch that brought such evil and delicious thoughts to my head."

If Fred Jacobs was the sniper, then the death of his ex-wife would certainly seem like the end game. But, I remembered something that Captain Spacey had said as we went through his apartment. Something about the last dollar his ex-wife left him. He sounded bitter, and maybe the ex-wife was the end game, just not Jacobs' ex-wife.

"However, that is no longer the case. I have enjoyed toying with you far too much and have decided that you are the end game."

He was now using me as his excuse to continue his killing spree. I was convinced that Spacey's ex-wife was the real target and this was all a misdirection. Three Card Monte – Portland style. If his ex-wife was indeed an executive with Barnes and Noble, that would explain why he stalked his victims there.

"I need only return to my home for a trinket and then I will hide in plain sight amongst the fair people of this city. Every woman will wonder who is next but I already know. It promises to be the ultimate mind fuck for the confused Sherlock."

What trinket would he return home for and which home? The home he once had? A trinket still kept by his ex-wife, a woman whose time had come as far as he was concerned? The ultimate mind fuck would certainly come if I further accused Captain Spacey without any additional evidence. I would be ostracized from every police agency in Maine.

I sat back and rubbed the bridge of my nose. I was beat, both in body and mind. I needed rest to clear my head, but I needed to know where Spacey was. I thought of calling Claire, but decided on Fritz instead as a safer call. Fritz answered his cell on the second ring. "Fritz, this is Jack."

"Hi, I'm busy at a crime scene. I'll be home in a little while," said Fritz, although I was sure it wasn't my home he was talking about.

"I just want to know if the Captain is there."

"Yes, I've been here for a while and I will be here for a while yet. Do you want me to call when I'm leaving?"

"If you could, I'd appreciate it."

"Will do, I'm convinced you're right by the way."

"Thanks, Fritz." I hung up the phone and went into the bedroom. I stripped off down to my BVD's and climbed into bed. As I drifted off to sleep I was struck by how empty the bed seemed. I had shared a bed with Claire for nearly a month now with only a few nights spent alone. I hoped that the recent developments would not have a negative effect on us.

The phone rang at 4:00 a.m. and it was Fritz. "Hi, Jack, did I wake you?"

"No, I'm a night owl."

"Sure you are. You sleep while I work my ass off 'til all hours of the morning. Nasty scene, of course you already know that. I talked to Claire and she confided in me."

"If I can't trust you, Fritz, I'm really screwed."

"Oh, you can trust me, but that doesn't mean you aren't screwed. I just want you to know that Spacey left about ten minutes before I did and he looked pretty beat."

"Good. How's Claire holding up?"

"OK, she's a great woman, Jack. We took one slug out of the wall behind Ms. Ouellette's head, the bullet traveled clear through her skull. It looks like it's from a Police Issue 38 and we'll have the ballistics tomorrow morning. Also, the two slugs in the hallway wall would be from Ouellette's gun presumably, but we'll verify that as well."

"Any signs of rape or bruising on the victim?"

"No, and there wasn't anything under the fingernails that would indicate a struggle but we'll go over her real close tomorrow. I'd say Spacey will nail Jacobs to the wall on this one."

"I know, and thanks." As I hung up the phone I heard a key in my door and the creak of the hinges as it opened. I heard the water in the shower turn on and within ten minutes Claire came to bed, hair towel dried but still damp. She took off my robe and climbed into bed naked.

"You're still awake?"

"Fritz called and woke me just before you came in. I'm glad you're here."

"I couldn't help it. I tried, but I couldn't think of anywhere I'd rather be."

"I'm glad. Before I fell asleep I noticed how empty this place is when you're not here. I love you." I'm not sure if she heard me as her breathing was soft and slow. The exhausting day had finally caught up with her. I lay awake for another half hour caressing her silky hair and was thankful that she had decided to come home.

I woke up around 9:00 a.m., which was really sleeping in for me. Claire stirred slightly and I got out of bed as quietly as I could. I took a long hot shower to clear my head. I had never been on the outside of the force looking in since I joined the Academy, but I needed to find a way to prove I was right about Spacey. However, now I had to do it without all the support I was used to getting from my fellow officers. I still had a couple of tricks up my sleeve and I planned on getting help from Jason.

I cooked breakfast for Claire and woke her up at 10 with a tray of eggs, bacon, home fries, and English muffins with butter. She wiped the sleepers from her eyes as she sat up and began to eat.

"I could get used to this," she said. "Maybe it's a good thing you don't have to go to work today. Oh, shit. I'm sorry, that came out wrong."

"No sweat, I know what you mean and I'll take it as a compliment. Did you get enough rest?"

"More than I wanted, but less than I needed. Thanks for letting me sleep. I've got a screwed up day ahead of me. I have to find Jacobs and am going to keep one eye on the Captain."

"You do that. I'm going to curl up in bed with a good book."

"You are?"

"No, but that's all you heard."

"OK, so what are you really doing?"

"Curling up in bed with a good book."

"Bastard."

"It's better this way, but I'll be in touch if I need you."

After Claire left for work, I called the South Portland Barnes and Noble and attempted to reach Susan Spacey. The manager was not familiar with her name and I mentioned Susan was a district manager. He gave me the phone number of Susan Jessup at the district office in Portland. Apparently, Susan had reverted to her maiden name after her divorce from Spacey. The Portland office connected me to Ms. Jessup who had a pleasant but high-pitched voice. "Ms. Jessup, I'm Detective Chamberlain with the Portland Police. Would it be possible for me to meet with you sometime today?"

"Detective Jack Chamberlain?"

"Yes, have we met?"

"No, but your name is in the newspaper today surrounding the sniper shootings. From what I gather, you have been pulled off the case pending disciplinary actions, though there aren't any details." I guess bad news travels fast. "What's this about, Detective?"

"I'd rather not say over the phone. I need a few questions answered and I believe you can help."

There was silence for a few moments then, "Is this about Jonathan?"

I don't lie well so decided to give her a glossy version of the truth. "In a manner of speaking yes, although to tell you the truth, I am trying to understand a couple of things that I can't seem to grasp."

"Well, Detective, I'm booked all day and have a conference call at 10 tonight from my home. Could we do this tomorrow?"

"I'd rather not. Can I stop by your house prior to your conference call? It shouldn't take long."

Again, a brief silence, then, "Ok, Detective, say around 8?"

"8 is fine with me. One question I'd like answered if you don't mind. Is there anything that was a real sticking point in your divorce other than the usual 'who gets the house'?"

"I'm not sure what you mean."

"A prized possession that both of you wanted. A Ming vase, a painting by Rembrandt, or something?"

"Rembrandt, now that's funny, and no, we never had the kind of money to be extravagant with our possessions. The only thing I can remember was the engagement ring being a testy subject during arbitration."

"How so?"

"Well, he said it was his grandmothers and an heirloom in his family. At the time, I was in a real shitty mood and told him it was a gift and was not part of the settlement. The judge agreed, because of some ancient law about the legal definition of gifts, but even she tried to talk me into giving it to Jonathan. If he asked for it today, I probably would."

"Thank you, Ms. Jessup, and I look forward to speaking with you this evening."

"Do you know where I live?"

"240 Waypoint Drive in Deering is what I have. Is that correct?"

"Yes, Detective, and I'll see you at 8."

I hung up the phone hoping that she wouldn't call Spacey and ask about me. I could have asked her not to, but it might have raised more red flags than it lowered. If she did call him, it would lead me to believe that their relationship was not as contentious as I thought it was. Besides, from the comments that I had heard Spacey utter, I was reasonably certain she wouldn't call him.

I called Fritz next to check on any new information he might have. I used his cell number rather than his office, not wanting any record of the call. He answered on the second ring. "Fritz, this is Jack. Anything new for me?"

"Yes, let me call you in about ten."

While I waited, I put away the 9mm I had used last night and dug out my favorite personal weapon, a Heckler & Koch P2000 SK .357 pistol. It was in the top draw of my bedroom dresser along with a cleaning kit, 2 extra magazines and 2 boxes of ammunition. It had been about 6 months since I'd fired it and I decided to give it a thorough cleaning. I laid a towel on my kitchen table and began dismantling the weapon. The phone rang after about twenty minutes and it was Fritz.

"Sorry about that, I'm at the Dunkin' Donuts. I didn't want to talk from the office."

"Sounds serious. What have you got?"

"I'll bring you up to speed on the Officer Ouellette murder last night first. Four shots fired, two by Ouellette, and two by the killer. Unfortunately, both of Ouellette's shots missed and both of his didn't. She caught one bullet in her shoulder and one in the forehead, which killed her. There weren't any sign of rape and we didn't find any DNA, prints, or any way to identify the killer, except perhaps one. The bullets matched those on file from Jacobs' service revolver, as I suspected."

"That must have sealed it for Spacey then."

"Yeah, pretty much, along with the DA and every other officer on the force. Well, most of them anyway. They have a massive manhunt out for Jacobs. If he's out there, we'll find him."

"Sounds like I'm the odd man out on Spacey being guilty."

"Jack, there's a few of us who are on your side. Claire for instance. I have some news that helps your cause anyway."

"I'm listening," I said taking out a notepad and pencil.

"First, I found two partial prints in the closet compartment at Spacey's which proves he at least knew about it. The prints are a 10-point match which is not conclusive but damn convincing. Also the cat hair from Spacey's cat is a DNA match with the hair from inside the envelope containing Moriarty's letter to you."

"Sounds good enough to go back to the DA if it was anyone else, but at this point, I don't think it's enough to do anything but get you suspended as well."

"I don't know; they can't screw with me for doing my job which is to identify evidence. But anyway, that's all I have."

"There's got to be something concrete somewhere. Something I've missed."

"I did notice something on his dresser while I was putting away my gear. There was a receipt for a storage rental in Cumberland. I didn't give it much thought, but I did note that it was called Greeley's Storage Barns and it was unit five."

"Thanks, Fritz. Keep that quiet for now."

"Sure thing, Jack, take care."

It was about 4:00 p.m. when I finished cleaning my gun and headed for another shower to help me think. I needed to find out why Spacey had a big storage unit. He never mentioned any big toys like a boat or collectable cars. Based on his apartment's sparse furnishings, I couldn't see him having a barn full of furniture.

As I finished off the last of my three S's, I decided to call Jason again. I didn't have time to go to the storage barn before I went to Susan Jessup's at 8 and I had a feeling time was running out. Jason was at his office and was eager to help. He knew of the place and said he would head over after dinner. We talked for a while about women and both came to the agreement that understanding them was beyond our ability, but love them we did. He also invited Claire and I up for the weekend again and the sooner the better.

It was 6:00 p.m. when I left the house and headed toward Deering. There's a Rod and Gun Club about three miles from where Ms. Jessup lived, and I thought the .357 needed to be fired. I fired off one clip and found the gun sights accurate and the firing smooth. I sat down and removed the clip, reloaded, and checked the spare magazine to make sure it was fully loaded. I had an hour left to kill and the warm late spring sun was shining directly on me as it began its leisurely descent. I closed my eyes and decided to just sit and wait 'til it was time for the 5-minute drive to Jessup's place.
24

Jason picked up the phone and called Greeley's Storage Barns in Cumberland, Maine, just before 5:00 p.m. Sometimes the easiest way to get information was to just ask. The best time for information was also closing time. You would usually get people anxious to get home and willing to cough up information just to get rid of you quickly.

He spoke to a woman whose throaty voice belied years of two packs of cigarettes a day. "Hello, I'm interested in one of your storage sheds and have a couple of questions." He could hear the exasperated exhale from the raspy throat of the Greeley employee.

"Yes, yes what can I do for you?" she answered clearly impatient. Jason didn't want to push his luck, so got right to the point.

"I went by your place the other day and was interested in unit five. Is that available?"

"I'm not sure, let me check." Jason heard some keyboard strokes then, "No, I'm sorry, that is one of our two largest units and is not available."

"I need a rather large unit to store snowmobiles for the summer, six to be exact. Do you know how long the place is reserved for?"

"No, only that the computer says it has been leased for the next six months. But all our customers have first option to keep it longer."

"Do you have any double wide units say twenty by ten?"

"We have two but unfortunately, both are occupied at the moment. Maybe you could just take two ten by ten's and we could discount them for the same price?"

"Maybe, what kind of security do you have?"

"There is an entrance gate that needs a keycard to enter, and each building has an alarm system. The alarms are shut off from 9:00 a.m. to 4:00 p.m. Otherwise, you can call a number and we can shut your buildings alarm off when you need to enter them. Would you like to stop by the office? I can set you up."

"How much for the ten by ten?"

"One hundred per month per unit but we can give you two for one seventy-five."

"All right, I'll come by early next week and check out a couple of units. Thanks for all your help." He hung up and shut down his computer and locked up the office. He called Shannon and told her he wouldn't be home until late. She warned him about eating at Wendy's even as he was pulling into the parking lot. Sometimes he wondered if she had him under surveillance. He made the loop around the parking lot and headed out toward Subway down the street. By the time he was done eating and heading up the interstate to Cumberland, it was just after 6:30 p.m.

He arrived at the storage gate at 6:45 p.m. It was located on a dead end street, and he did a slow drive by. It was not much of an entrance gate, just a drop down pole gate that would stop anyone driving in, but not foot traffic. That takes care of security system one. He parked in a turnaround at the end of the road and walked the 100 yards back toward the gate. He was dressed in mostly black, with dark gray running shoes. Around his waist was a black utility belt in which he carried a variety of tools he might need to disable the alarms. The sun was below the tree line enough so that he felt comfortable standing in a track of woods overlooking the storage area. There were five rows of sheds. Each row perhaps a hundred yards long. The last rays of sunlight glinted off the silver metal rooftops, but the green painted sides were already in shadow. Each row had red painted steel garage doors of various sizes, depending on the size of the unit. Each row had four surveillance cameras that he could see, two in the front, one center, and one in the back. He assumed that there were 2 more on the opposite side center and back for a total of six. None of them seemed to be moving, which was good.

Immediately in front of him was a small separate building, painted identical to the storage sheds, with wires leading to a telephone pole. There weren't any cameras on this little building and the wires would be easily accessible. The first step was to cut the phone wires thereby shutting down the outgoing alarm. The phone lines came out in the back and traveled up the wall before heading to the pole. He would have to talk to them about their security when this was over, business was business after all.

Now that the phone connection was down, it was time to cut out the horns he saw mounted on the buildings themselves. The nearest house was close enough so that it would, most likely, alert someone and send the cops over to have a look. He didn't need any interruptions. He cut a hole in a side window, which was partially hidden from any of the roof top camera's view. There was a latch alarm which he cut before opening the sash and climbing in.

The inside smelled like a bar at closing time. The dingy office consisted of smoke tainted walls standing behind a small desk with an old Mac atop the veneer surface. In a closet off to the right of the desk was an alarm bank with small lights indicating it was operational. It was as simple as pushing the power button to shut them all down. Above the alarm box was a circuit switch marked "horns". As he threw the switch he thought that there was definitely some business here. He checked his watch as he went out the front door. It was 7:45 p.m.

Spacey parked the old Bonneville in a small day park next to his old property. He had picked up the car an hour ago, leaving his unmarked sedan in the storage shed. After a quick check on Jacobs and a booster shot of morphine, he'd driven to Deering. The trees had thickened a little since he'd last been here and he could barely make out his old stockade fence, just beyond a line of spruce trees. He knew the area well. He'd cleaned up the park, once a month when he'd lived next door. People that visited the nature walk area during the summer, always left some trash behind. He had even put in a gate on the fence so that he could have easy access. He hoped the bitch hadn't boarded it up.

He could see lights on in both the kitchen and the master bath upstairs. As he got out of his car the lights in the bathroom went out. Shortly after, the lights came on in the living room downstairs. She was a stickler on electricity usage. One of her many tree hugging, frog licking, save the planet obsessions. He could tell what room she was in just by the lights flickering on and off, though the kitchen was always on for "safety" reasons. Dumb bitch, like a kitchen light will stop a burglar.

He made his way through the spruce to the gate. The path was now overgrown and a prickly rose bush snared his pants, but didn't rip them. He took a buck knife from its sheath and cut back the bush. It would be considerably darker when he came back through and he didn't need the aggravation later.

The gate opened out and a metal garden shed had been placed on the other side. It was far enough away from the fence for him to easily make his way around it. In the fading light, he could see that very little else had changed in the backyard. The patio had a new outside table and chair set with a flowered umbrella, but the rest was still the same. Her flower garden was freshly tilled and perhaps planted, but he couldn't tell. The brick fireplace where he had once cooked his famous spareribs was still there with a neat pile of freshly cut birch beside it. He had a pang of loss as his mind drifted to days gone by. The many cookouts with family and friends of summers past, pretending to be the master drink maker at the patio bar. Days of pleasantly fixing up the yard while his then wife tanned in the nude. He usually took advantage of the situation with a romp on the freshly cut grass. Endless nights as his friends came over and some would still be there in the morning, taking up whatever space was available in the spacious house. Back in the day, there were many a congratulation on a wonderful party. Many a breast had been flashed by women who mostly only remembered it through hearsay.

The bitch had ruined it all. What had happened, when had it begun to fall apart? He wasn't entirely sure. He did know that one summer night, after what he considered a rare but very loud argument, it had been over. He couldn't even remember what had sparked the fight, only that it had brought them nose to nose. He had felt like killing her that night, but he had not laid a hand on her. Good thing too, because the neighbors had heard the argument and he would never have been able to explain a dead wife. But now he wouldn't have to explain it, would he? He would just have to put on a mask and feign a great loss. Yes, even though they had their differences, he would be able to show grief. But the true grief was that he hadn't had the opportunity to kill her earlier.

He walked cautiously up to the sliding glass doors that led to the kitchen/dining area. The oak table with its matching captain's chairs were the same. The vase centerpiece was new, as was the faux print of Venice on the wall. But the walls were still painted that light sea green and the molding was still a light pine. The kitchen looked like it had always looked, with its light over the dining table on but slightly dimmed. The sliding door was unlocked which meant that the creature of habit had watered the plants outside before changing into her nightclothes.

As he entered the kitchen, he heard the stereo turn on in the living room. Celtic music, soft, slow, and relaxing drifted into the air. Good, she would be sipping a glass of wine, lounging on the couch, and decompressing. He made his way silently around the corner of the wall. He entered the room from a vantage point that would not show his reflection in the picture windows across from the couch. Her head rested on a pillow just four feet from him. He was surprised that she was dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, not looking like she was ready to retire for the night. Well whatever her plans were, they were about to change.

My phone began to play Taps and I fished it out of my pants pocket. It was Jason. "Jason, what's up?"

"I'm standing in front of storage shed five at Greeley's Storage Barns and about to commit breaking and entering," he said. "Pretty safe though, the alarm system was piss poor. This unit has a doublewide garage door and a side entrance door as well. Only two like that in the whole complex. I can see a car parked in one of the bays."

"Can you tell the make?"

"Yeah, silver Chevy. Looks like a police issue Chevy interceptor."

"Spacey's car. What else?"

"There's a small room with a steel door on the right side. I can see a paddle lock on the door. Master Lock, I think."

"Can you pick it?"

"Does Claire make you horny?"

"Alright, check it out and get back to me."

"Sure thing, Boss."

I hung up the phone as I turned onto Waypoint drive and headed toward the Jessup place. I drove slowly to read the numbers of the mailboxes in the fading light. There was a grove of trees just beyond number 238 with what looked like a small parking lot. An old Bonneville was parked almost hidden from the road. I pulled over in the soft shoulder to have a quick look. It was not quite 8:00 p.m., so I had a few minutes to spare. The parking lot was attached to a kind of park. A sign read Bluebird Marsh Park, with an arrow indicating a viewing area one hundred yards down a path. The path was in reasonably good shape, even after the long winter.

I walked up to the car and it was a Bonneville, silver, with a few spots of rust along the bottom of the passenger door. It looked to be an early nineties model. I bent down and looked at the ground around the passenger door and couldn't see any prints. My pocket mag-lite revealed smooth undisturbed earth. As I walked around the front of the vehicle, I checked the hood and it was still warm. The mag-lite showed footprints leaving the driver's side door toward a faint footpath leading in the direction of Ms. Jessup's.

I flipped open my phone and called Claire. "Claire, I may need some back-up. Can you get away?"

"My shift just ended so I was heading over to your place. Where are you?"

"I'm in the woods on Waypoint Drive in Deering. Spacey's ex-wife lives at number 240 and I think we might have trouble." I followed the path, being careful to aim my mag-lite straight down to avoid it being easily seen from the Jessup property. I came to a tall stockade wooden fence with a gate slightly ajar. "Claire, get over here as quick as you can. Come in quiet and don't pull in the driveway."

"Ok, I'm about ten minutes out," as I hung up I shut off the phone not wanting any untimely calls.

I crept behind a metal garden shed and peered around the corner toward the house. Off the patio was a set of sliding glass doors and one was open. I made a quick check of the magazine to verify my gun was loaded before I made my way cautiously toward the sliding doors.

Jason made quick work of the outside door and used a high-powered flashlight to shine it into the garage. It was mostly empty except for the police issued sedan. The concrete floor did have a second set of tracks. He inspected the sedan's tires and found the tire signature different from the second set. A getaway car, something incognito. Jack would certainly find this interesting.

He went back to the steel door with the padlock and it was a master lock, one of the newer models. He had never successfully picked one of these. He hadn't brought his big cutters with him and had only a small saw that would cut the lock, but would take some time. The quicker he started the quicker he would finish.

"Hello, Susan," he said as he stood behind her. She was startled, turning quickly on the couch and looking up at him.

"Jonathan, what are you..?" she stopped, saw the gun, and her eyes grew wide. Instant fear that he could smell and taste seemed to emanate from her pores. She backed away slowly until she cornered herself against the far side of the couch. "What do you want?"

"First, I want my ring back and then I want you to convince me that your life is worth living. Stand up," he barked at her and again she nearly jumped out of her shoes. Tears began to well up in her eyes and her breathing came in short gasps. As she stood up, something off to his right caught his eye. A reflection, someone just around the corner of the kitchen's other entrance. He grabbed Susan, spun her around, and placed the muzzle up against the back of her neck. "Hey, Sherlock, no sense in hiding. I know you're there. Not a sound, Bitch, don't even fucking breathe." He held the gun muzzle just to the left of the bone in her neck. He had seen this once in a movie and didn't know if it would work, but it was worth a try.

I saw my reflection in the front window too late. I heard Spacey and didn't see any good choice, so I leveled my weapon with both hands and moved around the corner. "Captain, I've called for backup. You can't win this now. Let her go."

A big smile crossed his face, "Sherlock, what a surprise." He had positioned himself so even his face was partially hidden behind Ms. Jessup's head. Putting a bullet between his eyes was just not an option no matter how good a shot I thought I was. Shit like that only happened in the movies. "Although I really shouldn't be surprised, you really are a smart mother fucker. So, if I let her go, then what? I'm arrested and you redeem yourself in the eyes of the force. I'm locked up for the rest of my natural life and you're a fucking hero. Not much of an option, Jack."

I walked further into the room hoping to move into a position where I had a better shot if I had to take it. Unfortunately, Spacey was having none of it as he turned himself and his ex-wife enough to even more limit any opportunity of a shot. "Well, Captain, I don't see options for you right now. Even in the unlikely event that you kill me, there's no way you get away. There is nowhere to hide and no one left to blame." I needed to stall a little. I had to give Claire a chance to get here. I kept moving into the room, hoping to turn him around to where he couldn't see Claire's reflection if she came in the same way I did. "Was I right about the ring?"

"You know about my Grandmother's ring? Nice move, Susan. You could never keep your mouth shut." His grip on her tightened and the fear in her eyes intensified.

"I know about the trinket you came here for. I know that your black cat shares the same DNA as the hair in an envelope from Moriarty, which you left on the roof after the Mayling Woo murder. I know you knew about the compartment in your closet because we found prints."

"We? Who's we? That slut Claire has been two timing the investigation, hasn't she?"

"Fritz found the prints while I was getting the cat hair."

"You broke into my place for prints?"

"Didn't have to. It was a crime scene and Fritz hadn't gone through the place yet to dust. You gave us permission, remember?"

"You know, Jack, I'm going to enjoy killing you."

I wasn't going to get the time I needed. "Captain, don't do this." He fired and I saw the side of Jessup's neck explode. The bullet continued after it went through the soft fleshy part of her ear and clipped my ear before imbedding in the wall behind me. A second shot rang out. This one went over my head as I dove to the floor. I fired a shot that was aimed more to let him know he wasn't the only one shooting in this frigging gun fight and it went harmlessly into the wall.

Spacey was moving fast, heading toward the door and was already out of view around the corner. I scrambled to my feet and went immediately to Ms. Jessup. She was alive, but unconscious and losing a lot of blood through the gaping wound in her neck. I pulled a silk white tablecloth from a small round end table and wrapped it around her neck, being as careful as I could not to cut off the little breath she was able to take.

I ran to the glass door, ducked behind the brick fireplace, and trained my gun at the shed that was now hidden in shadow. I heard something behind me and turned quickly, leveling my gun in the direction of the sound by the corner of the house.

"Jack, it's me, Claire," she called out. She came over to me even as we heard the squeal of tires from the park.

"Shit, Claire. Call for an ambulance, Ms. Jessup isn't going to make it." I grabbed her arm and literally hauled her into the house to where Jessup lay. The white silk was already saturated in blood. I leaned down and tried to apply some pressure to slow the bleeding, but wasn't sure if I was really helping or not.

"The ambulance is on its way. They have a station three blocks from here, so it shouldn't take long."

"It better not, she doesn't have long. Claire, you need to take over, I'm going after him."

"You can't go by yourself. Let me call for back up and we can put out an all-points bulletin on the car."

"Fine, call it in. But I'm going anyway. The car is a silver Bonneville older model, say 95 or so. Tell them to alert the Cumberland police. There's a storage shed there and if I'm right, that's where he's headed."

"Storage shed?"

"Yeah, that's where he has Jacobs, and according to Jason, his police vehicle. Jason's there now. The only way he can weasel out of this is if he can finger Jacobs for this."

"Your word against his?"

"Yeah, a disgraced cop against the Captain of the police force." I headed out the door even as the siren from the ambulance drifted up from down the street.
25

Jason finally cut through the lock after nearly fifteen minutes. He was impressed with the improved strength of the steel used to make these newer models. Inside the small ten by ten room was a make shift IV setup that led to the arm of an emaciated man lying on an old army cot. He was alive, barely, his breath coming with a shallow rise and fall of his chest, his pulse was weak beneath his thin wrist. Beside the cot, on a small table, were alcohol wipes, gauze pads and Band-Aids. Jason knew he needed to get him out of here as quickly as possible. He was certain that this was Jacobs, the cop that everyone was looking for. He tried to call Jack and it immediately went to voicemail. Things must be getting dicey as Jack hardly ever shut off his phone.

He began to go to work on Jacobs. He had only the experience of watching the nurses remove his own IV's in the past, so he moved slowly and cautiously. The man stirred slightly as he worked, and began to mumble, but he couldn't understand him. He would have to get him to a hospital quickly and began to disconnect the IV tubes.

Spacey had left the parking lot in a cloud of dust as he raced the old Bonneville the ten-minute drive to Greeley's in Cumberland. As he took the first corner onto the main road, he came close to getting sideswiped by a large U-Haul truck that swerved to avoid him, horn blaring. He hardly noticed as he raced down route one and crossed the Cumberland town line.

How had he fucked this up so badly? The pedal hit the floor as he ran a light that had just turned red. He had one last chance. Jack was the only one who had seen him and Jacobs could still take the fall if he played it just right. But he had to get to him and get him out of Greeley's before Chamberlain called every cop in Cumberland County. If it was the last fucking thing he did, he would make sure Chamberlain paid for this.

Claire pressed her hands into the cloth around the dying woman's neck, hoping that she was keeping her alive. She had tried to use one hand to dial her cell, but it had slipped through her blood soaked fingers and had fallen out of reach. She could hear the siren's approach and soon tires squealed to a stop in the driveway. "In here," she yelled, "and hurry."

I figured I was five minutes behind Spacey, tops. I needed Jessup alive and was hoping that the paramedics would get to her in time. I still had more going for me than just my word against Spacey's, as Jessup's eyewitness testimony would lock him up for the rest of his natural life. After what he had recently done, I was betting it wouldn't last that long. I pulled the phone from my pocket, almost losing control of the car in the soft shoulder of a slow curve on route one. I needed to call Jason to warn him that Spacey was on his way.

Jason had managed to get Jacobs unhooked and draped across his shoulder. There was no need for any clandestine getaway now, just a straight shot to his car. As he jogged along the road, Jacobs groaned and mumbled some more unintelligible words. He felt his phone vibrating in his pocket, but ignored it. Leave a frigging message, he thought. He heard a car behind him and turned his head to see a set of headlights bearing down on him.

Spacey spotted a man carrying Jacobs as soon as he had taken the corner. Son of a bitch was stealing his alibi, and as he got closer, he realized it was the same bastard who he had caught robbing his house. The man Chamberlain had sent. He should have shot the bastard when he had the chance. He put the gas pedal to the floor and aimed the car straight for him. Just as he was about to run him down, the man threw Jacobs to the side and tried to jump out of the way. He didn't quite make it, and the car struck his legs and sent him sprawling over the side of the soft shoulder into a ditch. He slammed on his brakes and went to Jacobs. He grabbed the limp man and threw him into the back seat. He opened the passenger side door to grab his gun to finish off Chamberlain's accomplice.

Claire dialed into the precinct and got the dispatcher on the third frustrating ring. "Sue, this is Claire Sanchez, this is an emergency. I need back up sent to Greeley's Storage Barns in Cumberland immediately. There's a man in a late model Bonneville wanted in a homicide on his way there now." She gave her watch a quick glance and realized about ten minutes had elapsed since Jack had left. "He's probably already there. There's crucial evidence in one of the storage garages that he's going to destroy. He may even be holding someone captive."

"Ok, I'll call the Captain and also the Cumberland police, we can't send anyone there directly."

"Listen, Sue, the Captain is the suspect. He just shot his wife in their old house in Deering. Jack is right behind him going to Greeley's."

"Holy crap, you saw him do this?"

"No, it happened just before I got here, Jack saw the whole thing," she said, as she fired up the engine in her truck and floored the accelerator. "Spacey's ex-wife is in bad shape, I'm not sure if she's going to make it. The paramedics are working on her now. Sue, just get Jack some back up, and fast."

"OK, I'll get on it," but Claire had already hung up.

I turned onto Greeley Street in Cumberland and raced up the short road to the Storage Barns. Just beyond the turn in, I saw a figure moving quickly toward the shoulder of the road. I turned on the high beams and the figure stopped and raised a gun and fired. The bullets ricocheted off my front grill, as I stepped on the gas trying to keep my head low. It was Spacey, he had turned and was running back to his car as he continued to fire. Just as he was shutting the driver's side door, my car collided with the rear end of the Bonneville. I slammed into the steering wheel, saved only by my seat belt from smashing my skull into the windshield. It still hurt like hell as the belt caught my chest and I bounced back against my seat. It was a good thing I had disengaged the airbags or I would have been a sitting duck if Spacey came after me.

The Bonneville took off, smashed up rear end and all, down the road. I followed in pursuit with steam pouring out from my front grille. I only hoped that I hadn't damaged my car to the point it might die on me before I caught up with Spacey. I punched the gas and the car took off. I heard metal scrape on the ground then clang off. Pieces of my grille littered the ground where the impact had taken place. Just beyond where Spacey's car had been, I saw Jason's car. That wasn't good news.

"Claire," I yelled into the phone, "where are you?"

"I'm on my way to Greeley's. Oh shit!" she screamed, and I heard tires squeal through the phone.

"What was that?"

"I almost ran over a little girl on a bicycle. Shit, that was close. She's OK, probably a little freaked out though."

"Look I've got Spacey making a run for it heading on route five west at about seventy. I'm right behind him but my radiator might give out at any time."

"I'm coming, Jack, as fast as this truck can get me there."

"No, you have to go over to Greeley's. Jason's car is just up the road and I didn't see him. Spacey was heading toward the woods when I surprised him. You need to find out why. It may be that Jason or Jacobs or both are in the ditch off the roadside."

"What about you?"

"I'm Ok, just a little dinged up. Did you call the precinct?"

"Yeah, Sue was there and knows you're chasing down Spacey. She was supposed to call for support."

"I haven't seen squat yet. I'll call in the pursuit and you check out Greeley's."

"Jack, be careful."

"Yeah, I do wish you were here doing the driving. I'm going to switch to the radio and good luck," which was easier said than done going seventy-five down the curvy route five. I grabbed the mic and Sue came on the line immediately. "Sue, I'm traveling west on route five, just crossing the Buxton town line. I need help here or Spacey's going to get away."

"I still can't believe this is happening. You're in Buxton already from Cumberland?"

"Yes, and we'll be out of Buxton before you know it if I don't get some back up." The roads were bad after a long winter. Potholes that seemed more like craters and left over rises from frost heaves that had never quite settled back down dotted the road. It made one hand steering at seventy-five miles an hour as hairy as it can be.

"The State Police are setting up a barricade just beyond the Saco River Bridge about ten miles west of the Buxton line. There's also a chopper right over you now that has visual on the both of you. We're boxing him in. Are you sure it's the Captain?"

"Sure as shit, Sue."

Claire pulled next to Jason's car listening to the radio conversation between Jack and the dispatcher. Damn it, she wished she was driving instead of Jack. She could see broken grille pieces, taillight lenses, and even Jack's license plate littering the ground 20 feet from the car. Jack had said that Spacey was heading toward the soft shoulder and she quickly jogged over. Jason was lying on the ground at the bottom of the gully. She scrambled down, making sure that none of the rocks and dirt from beneath her feet hit him. She quickly checked his pulse. He was alive, but unconscious. She moved the hair from the side of his head and his eyes fluttered open. "Jason, what hurts?"

"What don't? I think my leg is broken and maybe a rib or two. It's painful to take deep breaths."

"I'll get you out of here! I hear the backup coming now."

"I almost got him out of there, poor bastard."

"Who?"

"Jacobs. Spacey had him all drugged up and he was pretty much wasted away. Going to make him the patsy, I think. Where's Jack?"

"He's chasing after Spacey along with half the State Police. It sounds like they'll get him."

"How about Jacobs?"

"He's not here anywhere."

"Spacey must have him in the car then."

"Ok, just try to relax."

Spacey saw the chopper overhead and his heart sank, even as he buried the throttle to the floor. He knew how he would run a chase like this if he was calling the shots. He had a slim to none chance of getting away. Outrunning that asshole Chamberlain was one thing, but ducking a chopper was another. He couldn't let them catch him. He would not live disgraced, rotting in some cell. No, there had to be a way to escape. He saw the Saco River Bridge ahead and just beyond it a line of blue lights. Nowhere to go.

I listened as Claire's voice came over the radio with an update. Jacobs was most likely a hostage in the gray Bonneville. She then said my name and that Jason was hurt, but alive, thank God. I'd been able to keep up with the Bonneville, and as I crested a small rise, could see a line of State Troopers just beyond the fast approaching bridge. It looked like Spacey had nowhere to go. Then the Bonneville veered to the left and just missed slamming into the bridge abutment. He sped over a small embankment covered with new green grass, and went airborne over the 20-foot cliff along the river. The Bonneville picked up some air when it hit a small rise just before the cliff, but then headed in a nosedive straight for the cool waters of the Saco River.

I locked up the brakes and came to a screeching halt about half way across the bridge. I jumped out of the car and climbed over the concrete railing along the bridge. I dove where bubbles were rising to the surface of the water, as the car sank to the bottom of the river. I missed diving straight into the back of the car by about five feet; one of the taillights was still glowing beneath me in the murky water. The water was frigid from the spring snowmelt and it nearly took my breath away as I desperately tried to make my way to the sinking car. The river is usually around fifteen feet deep in the summer, but during the spring, because of the melting snows in the mountains and hills to the north, it threatens its bank in more than one place along its hundred-mile trek to the sea.

The deeper I went, the colder the water felt, and I struggled to maintain my senses. The water's chill seemed to attack my muscles making every move more taxing. I finally reached the rear passenger door and was able to grab Jacobs's arm, which seemed to just hang there floating in the back seat. As I hauled him out, I looked into the driver's side to see Spacey. His head had gone through the windshield and a piece of it was lodged in his neck holding his head outside the window. Blood drifted up in thin spiraling ribbons, until it dissipated and joined the river's southward journey.

I pulled Jacobs up toward the surface and broke water just as my lungs were giving out. Two state troopers were almost immediately at my side, and one grabbed Jacobs. He swam like a beach lifeguard, with a one handed backstroke, as he brought Jacobs to the riverbank. I was able to make the swim under my own power, but was thankful for the other officer's close proximity.

I knelt on the riverbank coughing and hacking up what felt like bits of lung, keeping one eye on the CPR being administered to Jacobs by a paramedic. It only took a couple of seconds before he coughed up a good amount of the Saco River water that had been in his lungs. He turned his head toward me and his eyes were glazed. I don't think he could have told you what planet he was on.

A man wearing a wet suit and scuba gear, jumped from the helicopter and into the water. In five minutes he was pulling the lifeless body of Captain Jonathan Spacey onto the riverbank. I know it isn't nice to speak ill of the dead, but I was glad this prick with ears was on his way to hell. No trial necessary, justice had already been done.
Epilogue

The sun was shining as I drank a cold beer on the dock of Jason's lakefront house on Sebago Lake. I sat in a short folding beach chair with my legs stretched out on the rough dock boards. Claire was lying beside me, on a beach towel, in a two-piece aquamarine bathing suit. I'd just finished oiling her back with Hawaiian Tropics Deep Tanning Oil and had taken great pleasure in doing so. She claimed that I had oiled her ass beneath her bathing suit but I'd insisted that my hand had just slipped. I was looking forward to oiling her again when she turned over.

Jason was coming down toward us from the house using his crutches to support his mending broken leg. I could see him wince every now and then because of a broken rib. There wasn't much you could do for that except heal.

The last couple of weeks had been a media circus as all the facts of the case came together and entered the public forum. The papers got wind of my Sherlock nickname and now I was known as the Sherlock of Maine. With my reputation vindicated, I was placed back on the force immediately by the DA, who actually apologized.

Jacobs had made a full recovery in body, but not in mind. Although he didn't remember much about his captivity, the murder of his ex-wife had broken him psychologically. After leaving the hospital, he had attempted suicide. He had turned the gas on his kitchen stove, lit a candle in the bedroom, and fallen asleep in the bed his ex-wife and he had shared. A couple of twelve-year-old boys riding bicycles noticed the smell of propane coming from the old drafty trailer. One of them had a cell phone and called the Old Orchard Beach Police. Fred Jacobs was now a resident of the Augusta Mental Health Institute.

Ms. Jessup had not survived her neck wound. The EMT's had done their best, but the bullet had cut her carotid artery and the blood loss had been too great. She had died in route to the hospital, solemnly announced by the silencing of the ambulance sirens.

After becoming a local media celebrity, and doing my best to duck my fifteen minutes of fame, I decided it was time for a vacation. I convinced Claire to join me, after I promised her daily oil massages. I had every intention of fulfilling that promise and planned to enjoy every minute. I had even gone so far as to shop at the local Bath and Body Works for sensual aromatherapy massage oil. The cute young woman who waited on me, had only smirked as I insisted on tasting the oil before I purchased it. This was our first full day and there didn't seem to be anywhere on the planet that I would rather be.

My phone began to play "Red Rain" by Peter Gabriel. I had deleted Taps, and after a short debate with myself, I picked it up.

"Jack, this is Chuck Casey, I need your help," said the voice of an old High School buddy from Old Orchard Beach.

"Sure, Chuck, what is it?"

"It's my wife; she's been missing for three days."

"The Police know?

"Yes. They say they're doing everything they can, but Jack, it's been three days and not a word."

"Have her mother and close friends have been called?"

"Yes, I called everyone. Jack she's pregnant and due any day now. I really need to find her."

"Ok, I'll get on it. Chuck, we'll find her."

I looked down at Claire, who was now propped up on her elbows. I wasn't sure how she would take this, but I needed to help my friend. She looked into my eyes, smiled, and said, "Vacation's over?"

I leaned down and kissed her soft lips, my heart and my head telling me again how much I loved her. "Yeah, vacation's over," I whispered in her ear.

About the Author

James F. Timmins was born in Old Orchard Beach, and still resides in Maine. His first novel, Three Card Monte, initially written for personal enjoyment, quickly became a favorite of family and friends who urged him to publish it. The second novel, Marketable, was written to satisfy the request from fans who wanted more of Detective Jack Chamberlain. HomeGrown is a continuation of the series that has a growing fan following.

A graduate from Old Orchard Beach High School, James attended business classes at University of Southern Maine. He has four children.

Please leave your comments and reviews or to purchase the next novel in this thrilling series at: www.harborbeam.com

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Preview

Marketable

A Jack Chamberlain Novel

By James F. Timmins
Prologue

Her hands rested lightly on the steering wheel of the Carbon Black GMC Yukon Denali. The SUV handled nicely on 95 North as it crossed the state line from Massachusetts to New Hampshire. The speed limit dropped to 55 and she eased up just a bit on the gas, bringing her speed down to an honest 60. No sense in traveling too slow and drawing attention. Staties always seemed the most difficult to seduce, so why take the chance of getting a hard-ass if she was pulled over.

The SUV still had that new car smell which was accentuated by the pleasant scent of new leather. The dials on the dash were lit with a soft green, barely illuminating her brown cotton summer dress, embellished with a pattern of dark blue orchids. The cool air-conditioned air kept the heat of a hot July night abate while gently blowing and fluttering her shoulder length dark chestnut hair.

She glanced in the rearview mirror at the gunnysack lying in the back. The sack was motionless which was good considering the cargo. The woman inside the sack had been the riskiest abduction yet. Specially ordered and unlike anything she had done before, but the payoff was huge. That's all that really mattered, wasn't it?

The Piscataqua River _Bridge rose up ahead signaling her approach to the Maine state border, its green steel I-beam structure standing high above the surrounding city of Portsmouth and Kittery. The landmark meant another hour to go before she reached the safe house._

_She pulled into the garage and turned off the engine as the garage door began to shut automatically. Abby entered through a side door wheeling a hospital stretcher. She stopped, her head bowed in patient submission, at the back of the SUV. Rea pushed a button on the console and the rear hatch slowly rose as she exited the vehicle, straightening out the hem of her dress that had begun to stick to her thighs from sweat even in the air-conditioned coolness._

_"It went well I assume?" asked Abby in a thick New York accent._

_"Yes, very well. Almost too easy, some people just trust too much," she said as she helped transition the gunnysack to the stretcher. "Be careful with her though, she is worth a lot of money, a unique order from a very high-end client. We can't sell damaged goods."_

_"I know Rea; we will take good care of her. What is our transport date?"_

_"They must be delivered in 30 days."_

_"They, are there more than one person in this sack?"_

_"Only temporarily, soon there will be two. She is due to give birth in a matter of days. Make sure there are no complications or incidents, as both are required as part of the sale. Once the baby is born, do what you need to do to insure the mother is cooperative."_

_"Does Leon know about this?"_

_"Yes, he has been informed and we were told is making the necessary arrangements. Be careful with sedation, there can be no harm to the child before birth. They are not to be handled in the normal manner. Both mother and child are required to be in excellent condition upon delivery."_

_"Understood Rea, we will see to it."_

_"And what is the status of 143?"_

_"She is available now, if need be. However, we would prefer to keep her until the end of the week," said Abby as she began to wheel the stretcher toward a ramp that led down to a doorway at the back of the garage._

_Rea followed the forty-year-old woman dressed in black jeans and a white medical smock. She quickly made her way down to open a heavy steel security door and held it open so the stretcher could pass through. Beyond the door was a long corridor with a gentle downward slope. The white washed cement walls and floor kept the corridor cool, the only warmth coming from the florescent lights overhead. The 150-foot corridor ended at an elevator door of stainless steel. Rea pushed the down arrow and the door opened immediately. The elevator had only up and down buttons and she pushed the down button after the stretcher was over the threshold._

_"I would like to see 143," said Rea as the elevator silently descended the thirty feet to what was called simply the hotel. "I will make an assessment and decide for myself her availability."_

_"Very well," said Abby as she pushed the stretcher into a well-lit common room with plush black leather couches and easy chairs. A large HDTV hung on the wall with a shelf of DVD's under it holding the latest releases from Hollywood. "Make yourself comfortable while I take 146 to the Triage for examination."_

_Rea walked over to a bar made of raised burnt wood with a heavy varnish. Behind the bar were bottles of expensive scotch, aged whiskey and bourbon, spiced rum, tequila and several brands of vodka. She took a bottle of Stoli Elite vodka from the shelf, poured a whiskey tumbler full and drank half of it in one pull. The clear liquid went down smoothly. She felt her body warm to the hint of citrus and caramel that made this her drink of choice. She refilled the glass, turned on the gas fireplace, then sat on the cool leather couch. She finished the tumbler, removed her knee high black leather boots, and then lay stretched out as the warmth from the fireplace and the vodka washed over her._

_Abby woke her sometime later to inform her that 146 was resting comfortably, awaiting examination from Leon, who would be there later that afternoon. Also that 143 was awake and Rea could see her whenever she was ready. Rea stretched her tired muscles then put on her boots. Abby went off to the kitchen to prepare meals as Rea opened a heavy mahogany door beside the bar and walked down a hallway of stark white washed walls and a dark blue Berber carpet. The hall had rows of metal security doors positioned across the hall from each other. The door she stopped at was marked by a clip holding an index card with the number 146. She turned as Abby entered through the Mahogany door with a tray of steaming soup and a salad. Abby stopped at the first door with a similar index card with the number 143 and inserted a key into the door._

_"Abby," began Rea. "146 is to have a name if we are to be successful. Please refer to her going forward as Mommy."_

