

Sweet & Vicious

Chayse Manning

Copyright © 2011. All Rights Reserved.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy.

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Chapter 1

July 11, 2020

No one had a single chance in hell of surviving a three-story swan dive.

Not face first.

Randi Westbrooke stared at the sliding glass exit leading to her balcony. Outside the front door of her efficiency apartment, the pounding grew louder, ear-splitting noise blurring into one droning resonance. She squeezed her eyes shut, listening solely to the sound of her heart's pounding beat.

Below the balcony, the grounds were hard as granite despite the latest rains. This low-rent complex lacked trees, bushes, and shrubs—nothing to block her impending plummet to the ground.

Do it. Jump.

Ambulance attendants would waste their time and expertise to bring her back to life. The Phoenix coroner would cart her broken remains to the morgue and shove them into the first available cold compartment. No need for an autopsy when plenty of folks would witness her death leap. Hopefully, no one's child would watch in horrified silence, scarring them for life.

The state of Arizona spent little money following the death of the unknown, the un-IDed persons or the murderers. County workers lowered cheap caskets into the ground, or maybe they charred the bodies to ashes and flushed the residue down the toilet.

The buzz of her existence would finally cease.

Except, moving her legs required more strength than she expected. She took one wobbly step.

Jump before...

"You have the right to remain silent," Detective Dutch Patterson read from the cue card. "Anything you say—"

"I didn't do it! Why won't you believe me?" Randi wrenched free of the street cop's biting grip and whirled around. The flexible nerve restraints were loose enough, but their authority wounded her already battered pride.

She'd renamed the "new millennium" to the "rotten years" for good reason. Translation: future of doom—far from auspicious—as worthless as decaying teeth.

Patterson didn't listen, didn't stop the sermon. "Courts will appoint an attorney in your defense," he finished, stuffing the card into his hip pocket. He signaled Sergeant Glickman to control her and to follow him.

The cop spun her around and shoved her forward. Hard. In front of bewildered summer-vacationing children, this devil had to show his official repugnance.

Breathing ragged, heart thumping madly, Randi recognized the stress signs of the long-standing ailment compressing her lungs, sucking oxygen from her brain. Dizziness overrode her sense of balance. Her legs buckling, she stared at cars slowing to watch this fiasco, hoping to rectify her balance. One driver in sedan had the audacity to stop in the middle of the street. Some people had no damn class.

She knew few people in Phoenix nowadays. Had dizziness caused the hallucination or was this another terrifying nightmare? Was she sleepwalking again? Tripping out? That tasteless accusation by a loved one still hung heavily on her mind after all these years.

Hung as profoundly as the rain threatening the Valley of the Sun again, a rare phenomenon any time of year. Tentacles of lightning streaked across blue-gray clouds in dazzling displays. Distant thunder rumbling noisily warned of another downpour. The air all but dripped with moisture, spreading its sweetened scent on a hot as hell afternoon. Now was good time to wake up from another nightmare.

Glickman's next gentle push sent her skidding on the damp sidewalk. Randi dropped to one knee on concrete carpeted with tiny pebbles and sand. Grimacing, the sliding sting set her skin on fire, confirmed she was fully cognizant.

Good ole Glickman, the scumbag, curled his fingers into her hair and yanked her head back. "Get up!"

Wouldn't he love to see her cringe, begging for his mercy and worthless compassion? Randi kept a straight face when every strand attached to her scalp strained to pop free. Staring defiantly back into the dark eyes of this dishonorable bastard who swore to serve and protect, she lost the battle to contain the wheeze followed by a noisy hiccup.

"Hey! Step back, Glickman. Damn it, lose that caveman bullshit."

None to gently, the cop shoved Randi away.

Dutch crouched beside her and steadied her. Fierce hostility gleamed in his hazel eyes, but they softened, mellowed. "Can you stand?"

She nodded, willing her heart rate to slow, praying for her lungs to expand. "I didn't do it. You have to believe me. I—"

"Keep quiet until you have counsel present." He spoke the words a notch above whispering as he helped her to her feet.

Something indefinable shined in his eyes, something unlike the hatred flashing in Glickman's evil glare. If Dutch remembered her at all...If only he'd felt the same sensations...If only...

On the bitter edge of defeat, tears could easily fall if she had any left, if she hadn't been one of Perryville's notorious inmates. Prison life had taught her three things. Never beg. Never cry. And never, ever show fear.

"I didn't hurt Gil! Why would I risk prison again?"

Frowning ferociously, Patterson said, "Warrant. The law says we have to take you in."

"Problems, Dutch?" his partner asked.

Clean cut and expensively dressed, the detective was slightly shorter, thick but solid looking, and black, his coloring a deep cinnamon. Murray, Randi remembered hearing, nicknamed Jinx for some reason.

"I can handle it," Dutch replied, leading her to his unmarked car. "Dipshit Glickman damn near snatched her bald."

"He hates me. But—" She clamped her teeth together, seeing his boilerplate scowl. Everybody despised her. Even him.

"Find anything worthwhile in there?" he asked his partner.

"Nada." Jinx's voice rumbled two degrees below growling. "Short-term rental. Few clothes, closets pretty much empty. The place is sparsely furnished. No bed, mattress, or dresser. She put together a pallet on old crates, covered them with newspaper then sheets. Can't blame her. You smelled the disinfectant. Kitchen and bathroom scrubbed clean, but your favorite creatures insist on squatter's rights."

Randi's shoulders slumped. They were taking her private possessions again. Not that she owned anything worthwhile, except the necklace. Thank God, it was clasped safely around her neck. But even the jewelry was destined for storage again.

When Dutch opened the car door, willpower took over. What did she have to lose with another murder rap hanging over her head? Resisting was all she had left to keep her freedom.

"No!"

Digging in her heels, she lurched backward, squirming. Unfortunately, the detectives held her contained while she kicked, tried biting, and fought both men with every ounce of energy. She caught Jinx with a good swift one to the shin.

"Hey, cut the crap. Jinx, grab her legs." Dutch wrapped his arms around her body. They hoisted her up and shoved her onto the vehicle's backseat.

"Jesus." Jinx limped backwards. "She fights as hard as Shiloh."

The door slammed shut and Randi freaked, wheezed. "Let me out. Let me out, damn you." She kicked at anything close: the door, the window, the front seat, and thin air. She needed oxygen, an inhaler, something to help her breathe.

"Woman," Dutch yelled, "if you bust a window out—"

"Hell, call for a paddy wagon," Jinx said. "Let her kick metal. Or stun her."

"I can't breathe. Let me out. I can't breathe."

Dutch opened the door. "Calm down, damn it, calm down. You're hyperventilating."

"I-I can't. Need—"

Her surroundings blurred hazy and gray as the weather, spinning, as darkness closed in around her and the last image of Detective Patterson's frowning face vanished.

Now what the hell was he supposed to do?

Dutch leaned inside the car, slipped his arms around the suspect, and set her upright. The simple movement and her nearness raised his awareness of her perfume. He inhaled the scent of her, deeply. She wore the same fragrance, fresh as a sea breeze. After all these years, he should've forgotten her scent. And her.

"Hell's bells."

Sighing, he shifted his ponytail over his shoulder. Was she always in heat or did she just have powerful pheromones? Every single time he caught a whiff of this woman a damn hard-on took possession of his body. How the devil was he going to keep it hidden from his partner and everyone else?

He looked over his shoulder. "Jinx, go find some cool water or something."

"Fool, if you plan on throwing it in her face, don't look at me for protection."

"Just get the damn water."

He squatted beside the car door, wondering why the hell she had to go and faint. She'd always shown strength in the past: head held high, proud, so sure of herself. Now this crap.

But Randi's denials continued nagging at him. She had an honest face for felon material. After fifteen years rounding up deadbeats, he knew the male criminal mind, recognized shifty eyes, but identifying a feminine offender's devious gaze was harder, much harder. Guys attempted to slick-talk their way out of jail. Chicks flaunted their femininity, their sweetness. Not this one. She fought with every gram of strength she had, adamant about her innocence.

He'd prevented her from taking the three-story dive. Several memorable moments after the battering ram burst through the door, he'd seen panic on her face, reluctance in eyes vivid green with wild terror. Randi Westbrooke would not allow the police to take her alive if she could avoid it. Dutch had tackled her.

He twirled one end of his mustache, thinking what a waste. She was pretty. He tucked a wayward lock of wavy black hair behind one delicate ear, noticed how small and fragile she appeared. Three hoop earrings hung from each lobe and the finest gold was draped around her throat. He lifted the serpentine necklace. The simple heart-shaped medallion slid from between ample breasts, skin glowing bright as shiny copper.

The inscription read: I love you, Mama. And Randi's engraved signature was below it.

In a tussle with the police years ago, an officer had accidentally ripped away the charm and necklace. She'd pleaded with Dutch to get it back and he'd slipped the jewelry inside her pocket. In those long ago few seconds, he still remembered absorbing the intense heat of her body through the heavy denim.

Hearing footsteps behind him, he released the charm.

"Here you go," Jinx said. "Is she okay?"

"Still out," he replied and took the paper cup. "She'll snap out of it in a minute." He gulped down the water since Randi had no use for it.

"Keep her cuffed. She's liable to bust you right upside the head. Black women can do some crazy stuff if you're not careful, catch a brother off guard."

"Doubt she'd try it." Temptation had urged him to remove the restraints. "Have they found any weapons?"

Jinx shook his head. "Not easy to hide a big blade if you keep it at home. Not a bloodied one. They're spraying and testing in the kitchen and bath, pulling off plumbing fixtures, drain hardware, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera."

Somebody had repeatedly stabbed Gilbert Chapman at his art studio. The butcher had left him for dead four days ago. A fellow sculptor found his body the next day. At noon today, an anonymous tipster claimed ex-convict Randi Westbrooke and the victim were the hottest item. The desk sergeant said the caller was a jealous woman. The idiot tipped off media hounds.

Declared a hostile witness by the prosecution had forced Chapman to testify against her during the second trial almost a dozen years back. Now, speculative chatter had catapulted Randi's life to headline news again.

"They've bagged her clothes and other worthless crap," Jinx continued. "Team's doing the usual thorough, top to bottom. With her prior—"

She was in big trouble, big time.

"Innocent until proven guilty," Dutch put in. He settled his knees on the damp pavement, sat on his boot heels.

For a second offense in this city, finding an unbiased jury panel might take some time unless the judge granted her defense attorney the venue change he would undoubtedly ask for. Westbrooke faced lots more years behind bars, maybe life. Maybe the death penalty if convicted in the first degree.

"With her prior," Jinx emphasized, "conviction for murdering her husband and the fact that Chapman testified against her, the jury will likely find her guilty as homemade sin. Lynch mob. They'll saddle her with that 'Millennium Lizzie Borden' mess again." He braced one arm on the car's open door and waved his free hand up and down her body. "Built like a brick shithouse, fine as hell. Booty-licious. Shame to know all this might rot in prison."

Dutch scratched at a non-existent itch near his eyebrow. Fine didn't properly describe the woman. Neither did drop-dead gorgeous precisely qualify. Foxy fit well. "Hard to believe a woman her size overtook a six-footer like Chapman." Five foot nothin', hundred-twenty pounds max. She was more petite than his punk-rocking, heavy-into-loud-music, sixteen-year-old daughter. "Hard to believe any woman could."

"She'd overtake you if she slit your throat from ear to ear first," Jinx said.

The truth deflated his erection.

"You sure she's okay? Faints rarely last this long."

Dutch gently shook her. With no response, he pressed his fingertips to her throat, checking her beater. Skin cool, clammy, and no damn pulse. "Call a frickin' ambulance. Jesus."

He scooped Randi into his arms and carried her to the sun-scorched grass. Using his pocketknife, he slit the restraints, rolled her onto her back, and began CPR.

They sat outside the emergency room while the doctor worked on their suspect.

Asthma, the nurse had told them. Randi was medicated and put on oxygen. Banner Samaritan was busy and noisy. Dutch blocked out the sounds of moaning patients, squeaky wheelchairs and gurneys, constant chattering and complaining. Security guards looked bored.

"Sounds like the ambulance made it here just in time," Jinx said, folding his arms. He crossed one leg over the other.

"Yeah." Leaning forward, Dutch braced his elbows on his knees and linked his fingers into a single, loose fist.

Too damned close for comfort.

Paramedics had taken over his lifesaving efforts, ordering him to stand by the curb. They were unappreciative of his frantic how-to instructions, same with his offer to drive the ambulance. He and Jinx had arrived at Banner seven minutes before the emergency vehicle when they'd left two minutes after the screaming van departed. Dutch had bitched out the paramedics for driving so damn slow. Commander Mason ought to love hearing it, if they run to him whining.

"Mason'll hemorrhage anyway," Dutch said. "Female suspect down while in our custody, two weeks after Barry Townsend filed his bogus brutality suit. Mason's liable to bust us down to uniforms or confine us to ass duty."

"Remember your high-speed chase through town on Independence Day? Wrecking the car, an innocent driver involved. The mayor's wife had her hips sitting squarely on her shoulders about that ride, pissed. Brand-spanking new Caddy too. The fender damage costs more than you net in a month."

"I know, I know." Dutch grinned. "Got Dennison, though, didn't we? Scratch one child-killing junkie off the streets."

Jinx showed teeth. He had a small gap between the front two. "Damn near sent him to hell where he belongs."

"You can go in now," the nurse broke in.

Dutch looked up at the woman. Bobby pins, like his granny once used, secured her cap to a mass of hair silver as an old Indian-head nickel.

"She's resting, sedated. Doctor Hansen wants her overnight for observation."

Groaning, he pushed off the chair to his feet. Jinx followed him into the room. The patient slept peacefully, ebony hair spreading like rough seas over the white pillow.

"For a thirty-nine-year-old murderer, she'd pass for an ASU senior," Jinx said.

More like an angel. Dutch frowned at his thoughts.

"Look at her nails. Devil talons, blood red. No telling what she might do given the chance. Maybe we should cuff her to the bed."

Dutch lifted her hand, turned it over several times, tested each nail's resilience, and then checked her other slender fingers. Not one nail was broken. How could a woman stab somebody two dozen times and not break a fingernail? His ex-wife snapped hers at the slightest provocation and Cheryl wore heavy-duty fakes.

Rechecking each arm, he said, "Something else is talking here, Jinx. Bad feeling about this case."

"Don't go getting stupid on me. We got a case. Video footage of her in the gun shop."

"Inconclusive photos."

"Owner willing to testify she bought a blade."

"Hostile. He remembered her from the second trial," Dutch shot back.

"Witnesses who saw the couple together."

"Big deal, you've got a girlfriend."

"Priors."

"One. No conviction for murdering her folks."

A year before Maricopa County jurors sent her to prison Randi had been accused, but found innocent of murdering her parents.

"And her DNA at the scene," Jinx finished.

All circumstantial evidence. "Damn it, check her out! She has no cuts or abrasions on her hands or arms. No recent injuries, except the knee damage today. Blood at the murder scene might not be hers."

"Dutch, listen to me, listen to you. Look at the blood staining the sheet. And that's from the damn needle puncture. She's a bleeder, remember? Let the DA handle it. She'll, um, skate if she's innocent."

Yeah, maybe, but his partner sounded as unconvinced as he was skeptical. "What if she doesn't?" he asked, frowning. "What if they convict her because of the past? The jury was split on the last verdict. They settled under pressure."

The second trial, a little over a decade ago, was a circus fit for kindergartners. Dutch figured her not guilty at the time and he believed she was innocent now. He called it gut instinct, but the voice whispering inside his head hinted at an attraction old as time.

"How do you know if the information is true? Tell me you believe everything the media says. Anyway, it's not for us to decide." Jinx fisted both hands on his waist. "We'll do our job and put a cop outside the door. The moment the doc releases Westbrooke, we take her downtown and book her, Dan-O."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know the damn routine," he mumbled. Didn't mean he had to like it.

In fact, he didn't like this shit at all.

But if he bucked the system, the bull ride was on Mason's angry back, which might put his future—and his daughter's—in serious jeopardy.

On the other hand, Westbrooke had the knack for being in the wrong place at the wrong time if she was innocent. People she knew and supposedly loved were permanently horizontal. She'd walked the first time and had done ten years the second. Folks say that charms work in threes. And the future looked damn grim for Randi.

Chapter 2

She woke with a start, bolting upright, fists swinging.

"Hey, take it easy."

Vaguely recognizing the voice, angry fear scraped her scattered nerves. Prison guard? Not again.

"Get your hands off me, you filthy prick." When the shadowed figure stepped back, Randi scrambled down the roughened sheet to the foot of the bed. "You touch me again and I'll kill you, Brundage. I swear I will kill you."

"Brundage? Who the hell's Brundage?"

Panting, blinking rapidly, she shook herself. Perspiration trickled down her forehead in one long steam. She wiped it away. Not Brundage's bass. Baritone. She'd heard it before, but this guy was silhouetted in darkness.

"Answer the question, Ms. Westbrooke."

"Who are you? Where am I? Infirmary?" The antiseptic scents filled her nostrils now, combined with the familiar stench of blood and illness. "Put me in solitary before he comes back. I'm okay with an inhaler."

He switched the bedside lamp on, the sharp brightness delivering its painful glare. She squinted, focusing on the tall man. Patterson. Detective Patterson. Dutch. She wasn't in prison fighting off the same fat, sloppy guard.

She worked on catching the breath she'd left somewhere behind. God, another nightmare. When would they end?

"Who the hell is Brundage?"

"Nobody. Dream. Nightmare." A frightening one. No longer needing oxygen, she tossed the cannula on the bed. Going a step further, she ripped off the tape securing the IV, yanked the needle free, and let it dangle from the metal stand.

"Hey, they stuck that thing in for good reason."

Limping toward the closet, she said, "Forget it. Through being a pincushion. Get me out of here. I hate hospitals." She snatched the closet door open. "Where are my damn clothes?"

"Two choices, here or jail," Dutch said. "I stashed your clothes and shoes, figuring you'd try to run. Cop outside the door in case you think you can make a break for it."

Yup, no doubt about it. She would've run at top speed, fast and furiously. Still would if the opportunity came again. Escape, however, was unlikely with this big thug in the room. She slammed the closet door with category-five hurricane force.

"Um. Nice ass."

Well, hell. So he'd seen her buns. Big deal.

Randi clamped the fabric closed with both hands.

"What're those marks on your back?"

Damn. "Birthmarks. I need a bandage or whatever these people use nowadays. Glue."

"Right. Tigers have fewer stripes."

She did not want to talk about it, dredging up old memories.

Her knee sore and stinging, Randi hobbled to the sink and switched the faucet on full blast. Washing blood from her hand didn't help matters. The needle's tiny wound drizzled steadily. Perfect. Exactly what she needed. Another episode on top of an asthma attack. "Can you check the drawers and see if they have gauze in this place? Must have something. What time is it?"

Moonlight filtered through the single, barred window high on the wall. The sky was clear. Stars winked like precious jewel stones against black velvet. She'd owned gems once and had hocked them to pay attorney fees. There was little chance the pawnshops still had her mother's jewelry.

"Subject changers invite more problems," Dutch said. "It's after midnight. I'll ring for the nurse. Sit down because we're going to have a conversation."

She looked over her shoulder at the same moment he reached for the buzzer.

Um, um, um. Really long, Texas-cowboy legs and bulky thighs deserved respectable appraisal. He'd snuggled his cute little butt into tight, low-riding black jeans. When he bent over, scooting the chair closer to the bed, the buns were worth an eyeballing. He did have a broad back, but his midsection looked slightly thick. Beer drinker?

Too bad he'd let his dark hair grow. She'd never liked seeing a man's mane longer than her own. His brown ponytail hung well below his shoulders.

He swung around and caught her bold stare.

Randi held his gaze. "You told me not to say anything without counsel present, Patterson."

"Dutch," he said, jamming his fingers into his front pockets.

"You still told me not to say anything, Dutch." Ignoring him, she climbed onto the bed and covered the bleeding wound with paper towels.

"Off the record."

"Yeah, right. What do you want me to say? Confess I stabbed Gil to make your job easy? Maybe I should frisk you first, make sure you're clean so we're off the record." Straight up, running her hands over his body might be the best idea so far. She could handle it. Beats touching nasty prison guards.

The door opened, and the blond sailed into the room. She skidded to a stop, didn't break a smile, and glared through penetrating electric-blue eyes that matched the tint of her uniform.

Randi had the distinct impression the nurse recognized her. Just about everyone, those old enough to remember, identified her easily. Others had seen her mug shot on screen as she climbed into the waiting bus at Perryville State Prison.

"Hello, my name is Randi Westbrooke," she said and showed her best toothy smile. "Millennium Lizzie. Remember me?"

His cough was forced. "Bandage," Dutch said. "Or gauze and tape. Glue."

"Today," Randi qualified as the broad-shouldered woman walked away stiff-legged. "Nurse Ratched."

"That," Dutch snapped as the door closed, "wasn't necessary."

She shrugged. What did she have to lose? Freedom? She'd had less liberty than an Eighteenth-century slave for ten long years. "I really don't give a damn."

Why should she care?

Finding a piddley-ass job washing dishes and cleaning at the Chinese restaurant had taken weeks. But her money had run dangerously low beforehand. She'd moved from the cheap motel filled with prostitutes and their johns and lived on the streets, sleeping on park benches or old crates, anything to stay off the dirt ground away from bugs and rats and filth. For someone with a master's degree in journalism, her survival looked mighty bleak living from paycheck to paycheck on minimum wages.

Never should've come back here. Should've skipped out of town the second the bus door closed. Should've gone to New York City or L. A., melted into the crowd and changed identities.

"Is 'Dutch' your real name?"

"Joel."

"Where'd the nickname come from?"

"Don't ask."

"I already have."

Glaring, the detective tried hard to avoid the question. He rapped his knuckles on the chair's arm.

Randi tipped her head to one side and said, "Well?"

She loved sweating people, part of her investigative nature. From the looks of Joel—ooh, she liked the sound of his name—he wavered on the kiss-my-grits syndrome. He had something to hide, obviously wanting to keep his personal life private. She respected privacy to an extent, but back in her reporting days, she had the gift to gain people's confidence without badgering.

"Think wild," he finally said.

"As in the Wild Dutchman? Are you Dutch for real, Joel?"

"Great-grandfather." He sat his cute little butt on the chair. "And I go by Dutch. Look, Randi. I'm here to help you, but I need info."

Who's the subject changer now? "Why? Why do you want to help me when no one else could, or even wanted to help?"

The conversation had taken a sharp left-hand turn. This very detective had helped put her in a hellhole the first time. Now, he'd decided to change directions in the middle of the stream.

Friends had deserted her. Coworkers had avoided a possible murderer long ago. She'd lost her high-salary job the day of her first arrest.

Adopted at two months, her mother's family, well, Randi wondered if she'd contracted leprosy. They'd abandoned her without comment, wanted no part of a suspected, murdering half-breed. And Daddy had no living relatives.

Little did she know how much heartache fate would force her to suffer. Once branded a killer, always labeled a murderer. No one ever searched for the truth. No one cared.

"After all, I'm Millennium Lizzie Borden," she went on, hostile now. "Murdered four people in cold blood, slit their throats, and all but chopped their bodies into stew meat."

"Listen to me, Randi."

Containing the snort came as easy as controlling her volume. "Listen to what? Whatever I say will incriminate me further. How many more victims out there do you and the people in this sorry state plan to pin on me? As long as I'm not decaying in jail or strapped to the gurney with a big needle stuck in my vein while you and every other bastard watch from behind—" and her voice faltered.

She broke eye contact and concentrated on the wall's impressions, swallowing the painful lump rising in her throat.

This building had been around for years. Areas of the dull, green plaster had cracked and crumbled. She would not allow her composure to follow the same pattern or show defeat to anyone. Prison life had forced a shaky balancing act on the thin barrier between defensive and offensive survival. She was a survivor.

"If I believed everything I read or heard," Dutch said. "I doubt I'd trust one soul on this planet."

After a few quiet moments, she figured he deserved a reply. "I guess there's a first to everything."

Big and warm, his hand curled around hers. She studied their joined fingers then stared into his eyes. They seemed to glow with an acute awareness that statically charged the air flowing between them.

A thick bed of lashes failed to conceal the concerned reflection she saw in his gaze, radiating intense heat, setting her flesh on fire. His square jaw line was rigid and, at this late hour, he had new growth. His lips were smooth and supple, fuller than most white folks' lips. Sexy under the lengthy mustache. Did they still taste as good as they looked? Shame if the man kissed like a toad now.

She'd had a silly crush on him once, might again, except he needed to cut that stupid-looking chestnut ponytail. And lose the beer belly. The buttons to his denim shirt strained over his abdomen, over his chest too. Maybe the carbo bulge meant nothing to his wife or girlfriend. Like so many married men, the detective didn't wear a wedding band.

Was he trustworthy or was he relying on his professional skills to wring a confession from another naïve suspect? Fat chance. He might be good, but his intelligence hardly guaranteed her ignorance.

"We're short on time," Dutch said.

In a sensuous rhythm, he circled the pad of his thumb over her palm. Randi found she enjoyed his gentle caress, the calm spreading through her mind, his heat penetrating her body. Years had passed since a good man had caressed her.

Releasing her, he slumped back into the visitor's chair, folding his arms, hiding his hands. He swung one long leg up and balanced it on the opposite knee, displaying a dusty black cowboy boot while tapping the other heel on the green linoleum floor.

The loss of human contact brought her back to reality and her senses. He was nervous. Over what? They barely knew each other. Barring all, she ought to be the high-strung one. Her future teetered precariously on his fingertips. The only acceptable help Dutch had to offer was freedom. Close his eyes and let her hightail as far away as possible. One lousy day. Long enough to get to her job, pick up her measly wages, and hit the road to Anywhere, Planet Earth. Barefoot if necessary.

Maybe now was the time to test the begging waters. She opened her mouth when he opened his.

"I need to know everything, everything, from the beginning. I want to know about your life from the day you were born until," he asked and checked his watch, "two o'clock yesterday afternoon. Leave nothing out. Give me something to go on, something to work with, so I can find the lunatic who framed you."

Chapter 3

Feisty, Dutch thought, was the only possible term fitting this woman. Add in uncooperative, combative, Randi Westbrooke argued for sheer sport.

No wonder society had judged her guilty.

He remembered thinking somewhere around two thirty—an ungodly hour when the sandman had called his name—that he'd made a huge mistake. Specifically, Randi had committed the murders. But Dutch was beat and he would've believed in flying reindeer and fire-breathing dragons.

She had little recollection of her life from birth to kindergarten. Her parents were good to her. At Randi's request, they agreed not to discuss her birth mother. She'd cared for her biological parent as much as she wanted to watch grass grow during its hibernation. The woman had given up her sickly newborn for adoption since her daughter lived under the microscope, a guinea pig for researchers to study her rare blood disorder. But then, one day, she met her natural mother. Randi's life and attitude changed forever.

She'd landed her first real job at a small radio station right after graduating from Arizona State.

"I had lots of callers. My segment dealt with opinions and editorials. But this guy—"

"Threatened you?"

She snorted. "You could call it threats, I guess. He sounded like a Neo-Nazi or Klansman, believed this country should evict, he called it, all non-WASPs. He had the audacity to say racially mixed individuals were the Devil's spawns. My station manager hung up on him after the third episode. To tell you the truth, I enjoyed the banter."

Surprise, surprise. "And?"

"I received unsigned, malicious letters each and every week for the longest, even after I went to prison until a few months ago. Bastard Brundage read them, laughed, and tossed them on the floor of my cell."

"Let's not jump so far ahead. Never any hang-up calls at home, any disturbing inquiries, death threats?"

"Everybody gets hang-ups. No threatening notes with cutout magazine letters, the car never blew up, and no one burned crosses on our lawn." She shrugged. "Twenty, thirty years ago, I might've expected retaliation as dramatic as Molotov cocktails."

"Some people hold grudges forever. Live by it. Live for it." Dutch scratched at his mustache with the pencil's eraser. "Hard to imagine he'd given his name or you'd even remember."

"In fact, pride be with him, he announced himself as Harold Cain over the air. It fit him."

Dutch wrote it down. Neo-Nazis. Skinheads. The Klan. Phoenix had its share of organized "hate" groups. Maybe Harold Cain was a leading supporter. Maybe his grudge had marinated, simmered, and finally began a slow fry.

"Any others stick with you?"

"Other than Father Silvers? Remember that fiasco?"

How could anybody forget? She'd reported a breaking news story hot enough to make plasma screens boil.

An outraged parent had publicly accused Father Lawrence Silvers of child molestation. Catholic churches throughout the city had reached hysteric levels when five additional young boys came forward, claimed sexual abuse, and filed suit. The chain reaction had continued its domino effect, rocking the country with scandal. And it had never stopped.

Those vague memories triggered an old recollection, an insulting moment in his life that Dutch preferred to keep buried. Randi's sultry voice pushed the thoughts back to the distant past where they belonged.

"He did threaten me. I've never heard anyone speak so vile without cussing. And for a priest?" she spat. "That so-called father had visited my parents' home, had dinner, and prayed with them. They went to his church!"

She had huge eyes, the type a man might drown himself into oblivion if he, that is, she allowed him the erotic pleasure.

Dutch shook his head to clear the improper thoughts. "Takes all kinds," he said. The presiding bishop at the time removed Silvers from his high-and-mighty pedestal and sent him elsewhere. Dutch planned to find the location. "Anything else?"

She mulled over the question, frowning, chewing on her bottom lip. "I switched jobs and worked at a local television station. Street reporting. Had a heckler while interviewing mayoral candidates. Some punk popped me with a rotten egg. We, including Candidate Rachel Cunningham's people and the camera crew, weren't entirely sure it was meant for Rachel, but our snickering titian-haired incumbent was satisfied with the incident cutting off the interview. Remember, I'd raised question about her political contributors and misallocated funds. She lost the race. Shortly after, she sent me a cutesy letter that was easy to read between the lines.

"Anyway, the idiot got away unseen, left me reeking with funk," she said, wrinkling her nose. "Naturally, the interview was instantly over. I couldn't stand to smell myself."

Dutch barked with laughter. He sobered quickly seeing her scowl. Cunningham was neither threat nor suspect. Cancer ended her life five or so years ago. "Can you think of any time when you felt uncomfortable, unsafe, scared?"

"There was," she started to say. "Prior to my parents...my loving husband, Jimmy, thought I was hallucinating. Tripping."

"Were you?" Mention illegal drugs just once, and this interview was instantly over.

"Are you suggesting I'm a junkie? This stupid blood factor disorder rules out baby aspirin."

Her voice reverberated off the walls with tremendous power, but her laser-green eyes had brilliance enough to burn through unprotected steel. Clear and unsullied. Seductive.

Dutch heard the sound of his own heart pounding. He willed it to cease the thunderous noise. "Just checking. Go on."

She held his gaze five full seconds, then reached for the sheet and drew it over her perfect feet, shapely bare calves, and muscled thighs.

He imagined her skin felt smoother than satin when the goose bumps receded. Hospitals carried an all-year-around chill. He wore long sleeve shirts over the brand-new Kevlar vest every workday, no matter how uncomfortable or hot. Too many nut cases were on the streets. Too many cops put down without them, including his former partner.

"I could've sworn someone was following me, watching," Randi said, her fingers curling into the sheet. "The grocery store, the bank, shopping. I'd get out of my car and every hair on my body stood upright. Jimmy said it was hormones, a bunch of bull."

Dutch straightened his back, leaned forward. "Did you recognize anyone in more than one place, same person at the bank, supermarket? Recognize a particular car? Did a stranger approach and make an off-the-wall comment?"

She shook her head to each progressive question. "Just an awful feeling, but it was so bad I'd walk the house at night, checking windows and doors. I tested our alarm system weekly. When the same sensations marched up my nerves while I was at my parents' house, I told Mom and Dad. Daddy promised to stay alert. He'd checked the house before they went to bed. I know he locked the place up tight and set the alarm. Both had sense enough not to open the door to strangers after nine o'clock. Anytime, really."

The Westbrooke home had not been broken into or ransacked. Whoever murdered her parents had seemingly gained entrance without quarrel.

Before cops checked for outlaws, they shook down in-laws.

Randi had means and opportunity, but no motive. Without additional suspects or leads, the prosecutor was pressured into charging somebody. They claimed insurance money upheld her motivation. But Randi signed away every penny of a half million dollars over to her mother's favorite charities before the trial. The "not guilty" verdict came back in one hour. The case iced over and was later filed under Cold.

"I know the prosecution and your attorney covered all this, but I believe they missed something. What about social groups, church, any activities outside the home and work? Give me any names of people you can remember who knew you, Jimmy, and your parents."

At four a.m. Dutch confiscated another spiral notebook from the nurse's station. Randi was still bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, but not hostile. Subdued, she spoke of her mother and father's murder, the acquittal and subsequent complications ruining her marriage and ultimately leading to legal separation. The divorce petition failed to reach the court system.

She'd moved out of her Scottsdale home and rented an apartment, but she still had access to their house when her husband was found dead, stabbed. Dutch had arrested her the next morning while she grieved.

Indicted, her trial began not long after. As crazy and cruel as it sounded, the DA sneaked in the tainted evidence from her acquittal, poisoning the jury's minds. On defense's objection, the presiding judge instructed the seven-woman-five-man group to disregard.

Shit. As if those twelve supposed peers erased, or even tried to erase, any prejudicial statements from their brains. With Randi's blood DNA found at the scene and a nasty cut on her hand she said she'd gotten chopping vegetables, she lost all chances for acquittal. The only good that came out of the trial was the jury didn't believe Branson's death was in the first-degree. The second-degree murder sealed her fate for ten long years.

"Jimmy wasn't at all careful," Randi said. "He'd open the door without checking the peephole, never checked IDs, and left workers alone in the house while he stayed in his office."

"Did you argue much?"

She rolled her eyes. "No more than any other married couple. We both needed to be heard. If his testosterone levels maxed, my vocal chords worked overtime. If my hormones came into play, we went ballistic."

Neighborhood witnesses validated the information. Dutch wondered why short people used volume to make their point. Her husband's murder had wrapped Randi's life into a tidy little package. The trial and her attorney had drained every red cent she'd banked and the life insurance company had automatically denied paying death benefits.

Left piss-poor broke.

She'd lost a lifetime of valuables—parents, husband, house, employment, and all contact with the outside world, except for her biological mother, Annette Armstrong, who occasionally visited Perryville. Armstrong had consented to DNA tests following the death of Randi's parents. Combined with her alibi, she was cleared. At her age and frailty, Armstrong's name had all but disappeared from the suspect list.

Dutch asked about their relationship anyway.

"Annette was uncomfortable around prisoners, and I was one at the time," Randi said. "We were more like in-laws or long-distance acquaintances. After hearing the news of the murders, she let me use her shoulder.

"When Jimmy was found dead, I had no one else to call. No friends, no other relatives. Annette promised to do everything in her power to help me. Problem was I didn't have any money and neither did she. So, off to prison I went."

The time Randi spent behind bars, life was not easy. Dutch figured the stripes on her back proved it and he'd helped put them there. Her final statements on the subject were abruptly hostile.

Wonder how much the warden knows about prison guard practices, especially about a jerk named Brundage. Perryville Warden, he wrote in caps on the binder's outside. I'll tune him in to the bullshit under his reign and authority. We'll see what he has to say.

Growing tired again, he said, "Need coffee. Want some?"

"Can I get hot chocolate instead?"

He went down the hall and around the corner. Hot chocolate was an odd request on a predicted sweltering summer day. On the other hand, Randi had gone without fundamental needs. Mainly freedom and the love, support, and comfort of family.

While the next machine filled a Styrofoam cup with brown liquid, one by one, workers of all types filed in through the three-story building's automated doors. Any one of these people might commit a violent crime, he thought while staring through the glass. The morning sun's brightness seemed dull today.

Need to find way to prove Randi's innocence. Somebody filled with hatred and rage murdered the people this woman had cared about all of her life.

The idea of Randi or any innocent person facing the death penalty was an ugly thought. "I sure don't want her execution burned in my memory banks."

Dutch grabbed the coffee cup and trudged back to the patient's room. He nodded to the uniformed officer standing guard. Peering through the glass, he watched Randi playing Solitaire. She sat Indian-style, head bent forward, hair a thick curtain surrounding her face.

When Dutch shoved the door open, she looked up.

"They had chocolate?"

Her sexy smile beat the hell out of the sad scowl she displayed most times. "It's the same color." He handed the cup to her.

They still had to address the current problem.

"Tell me about you and Chapman. Were you lovers?"

"No. Just friends," Randi said, setting the cup aside. She scooped the cards into a messy pile. "My only real male friend. He trusted me. Gil was gay."

"What?" Why would a jealous woman call the station?

"Closet."

Aah. The caller was possibly the delicate entity of the pair. "Do you know his significant other?"

She shook her head. "Gil's privacy meant more to him than the state of the statues he carved. He did admit the guy was independently wealthy. They were planning to tour South America this coming winter."

Two other detectives were checking calls and running down Chapman's acquaintances.

"Back in May, I ran into Gil at an art fair," Randi went on. "Hadn't seen him since—"

"Need specific dates."

"May third. Exactly three months after my release. He tried to sell me a statuette. I told him I was broke. Then, Silvers strolled into the stall wearing his usual crusty scowl."

There was that name again.

"This was a charitable bazaar by the church. He and Gil had private words. Obviously, Silvers didn't want my tainted money if I'd had any. Gil handed over his business card right in front of the man, bless his heart, and told me to call him. He gave me the statuette free of charge. And Glickman broke it. The only treasure I had to remember Gil by a-and he smashed it."

Sergeant Benjamin Glickman held an uncompromising grudge against Randi for the story she'd reported targeting his mishandling of suspects. Most often, the suspects were female.

Glickman. After yesterday's Neanderthal incident, why not add the cop's name to the list? Dutch scribbled it at the top of the sheet, underlining it twice.

Randi said she hadn't seen Chapman in days. Glickman claimed he'd found a witness who had seen her near the building. He wrote another notation. Interview witness at death scene.

"Is there anybody who can vouch for your whereabouts, an alibi for the night?"

"Friends are few and far between and those are on the job. No one ever visited me except Gil. Except Ting Lan Chen. And her mother. Ting Lan waitresses at China Palace where I work. Worked, past tense now. Neither has ever been inside my apartment. I've gotten rides home from her, nothing more."

She drank the last dregs of chocolate, crumpled the cup, and arced it into the trashcan like a pro. She stacked the cards, shuffled better than the slickest Vegas dealer, and laid out the next hand.

"I stayed home most evenings, kept to myself. The neighborhood where I live now, the projects, is nothing like my old Scottsdale stomping grounds, Joel."

He liked the way she said his name. Few people used his given name and her provocative voice, a timbre deeper than most women's, smoothed over his senses like warm cream, sank in, heated and roused one part of his body indecently.

"Can I take these cards with me? I need something to keep my hands busy while I wait for the next trial."

Hearing the shameless apathy in her voice and seeing the care-less dulling of her eyes shook Dutch down to his toenails. What a miserable way to live. "How would you like to spend another night here?"

A sexy smile curved her unpainted lips. "It's better than staring at windowless cement all day."

"You'll have to fake an asthma attack. Can you?" The bogus wheeze sounded authentic to him.

Dutch spoke with the police guard then conquered sleep deprivation with another bad coffee before leaving the hospital's grounds. On-duty and armed with an agenda, he drove straight to work and found Jinx leaning over his spotless desk, straightening folders.

"Que pasa, amigo?" He'd kept his old partner's favorite phrase alive.

Spinning his chair around, Jinx frowned. He rarely missed a beat and gave Dutch the once-over. He nicknamed nearly everyone he met, but Dutch's eclipsed all others. "White Boy, you look like shit."

"Thank you very much. Pulled an all-nighter."

Skimming over how bad traffic had backed up this morning, Dutch digressed and described the lousy half-cups of coffee he had at the hospital. He sneaked in a few words about a good-looking woman he'd seen to hold Jinx's attention before finagling in Randi's condition.

"You authorized what?" Every partner screeched on occasion. "Have you lost your mind?"

"One more night. What the hell? She had an asthma setback. The doctor authorized another night."

"The problem is our leader. Kemo Sabe rolled out of the wrong side of his teepee this morning. He's now trotting down the damn warpath ready to scalp the first idiot to open their mouth," Jinx said, standing, fisting his hands at his waist, clenching the manila folder. "Since seven fifteen, long before I picked up my first cup of stale wake-up brew. And you come in here talking this crap?"

Mason normally lost his cool with Dutch. "What happened?"

"Rookie grumbling about Glickman. For a twenty-year veteran, Vampire's cruisin' to have his fangs extracted and none too soon," he replied, tossing the folder onto his desk.

"The very reason he's still on street patrol." Since Mason had his mind on other problems, now was perfect timing for the current situation. "Look, um, I need your help."

Narrow-eyed Jinx asked, "Whatcha talkin' about, Dutch?" An old-time movie and television buff, he imitated dialogue and defining traits of actors with his own personal touches.

"Some outside business."

"Ah, hell. Why do I have the feeling this has to with Millennium Lizzie, which she's liable to get our butts put in a damn sling?" he whispered, his voice gruff, deep as a kettledrum.

Grinning, Dutch pumped his eyebrows and held up the pint-sized spiral notebooks. "We got suspects." They had three worth an in-depth look-see.

Without a doubt, he knew he could count on Jinx. Eight months as partners, they'd learned silent communication.

Jinx's face broke into a smile. "You'd better have something written in those besides names. We lack time to find and interview every adult in the city." His face turned serious, eyes narrowed, lips poked out. "White Boy, make my day."

Theodore "Jinx" Murray had never come right out and said it, but Dutch figured he'd had problems with Randi's prior conviction. He also figured out that yesterday's mouthiness by the detective was a test to see if Dutch had felt the same way.

"Heads up," Dutch said. "Got a whole night's worth of info from the day Randi turned five years old. Jinx, I'm thinking somebody framed her. We're gonna find out if they did."

By noon, with few badgering interruptions, they were ready to roll. This laboratory personnel, witnesses, etcetera, would take time. And theirs was short.

"Am I right," Dutch asked, "or am I raising the wrong leg on the wrong hydrant at a bad height?"

"You're stable," Jinx replied. "Okay, I'm game. Split the list. I'll check out another car. We need to get the hell out of here before Mason finds out she's still at the hospital. His tomahawk could shave hair I've yet to grow."

His desk comm said, "Incoming call."

Jinx picked up the receiver. Listening to the voice on the other end, he looked over at Dutch, scowling, and covered the mouthpiece with his hand. "Houston, we have a problem."

Chapter 4

Randi busted out of confinement at the first window of opportunity.

Traffic accident, major pileup and fire involving a natural gas truck on Highway 60 and the Interstate 10 exchange, had summoned every available nurse and doctor in her wing.

She'd coaxed the police officer into finding her another cup of hot chocolate.

Okay, so she'd told Dutch she'd stay in the room until he returned. Her guardian cop also. She didn't solemnly promise anyway. Swearing on a stack of bibles was rarer yet. And, who in their right mind believed crossing fingers and toes salvaged righteousness? No way would she risk another trial or a lifetime behind bars. Or worse, the death penalty.

No one other than Dutch Patterson had believed her innocence. Well, Annette had sort of. The rest of the world had failed to believe her before. Why would they believe a track-record jailbird now? God, nightmares were all too common, even in daylight.

She cracked the door open. Edging it wider, she peeked out, checked the hallway in both directions for spies. She slipped out of the room and limped away, clinging to the fabric at her back. Somebody would stop her for sure if she put her nekkid tail on display. A nearby door was slightly ajar, but the whining hinges sounded worse than coyotes during their midnight howl calling for order. She eased inside the darkened room and switched on the light. Perfect. The storage closet offered more than she imagined.

Two minutes later, Randi clip-clopped out of the room in green scrubs, keeping her eyes trained on the blank supply list, and moseyed down the hallway.

She stepped into blistering sunshine, breathed freedom.

Liberty, however, came with new problems. With so little money earned, what was the point in swinging by her apartment? Her stash consisted of six lousy dollars and change, hardly enough to get to Wickenburg by Greyhound bus. She'd spent the last of her prison funds on toiletries. Household cleaning products and bug spray. Her favorite perfume was an extravagance she couldn't resist.

The fast trot—exercise—had her knee feeling so much better.

Five blocks later, panting, she realized only two options were available to stay emancipated. Panhandling sounded less than appealing. She stuck out her thumb, continued down the boulevard crowded with traffic, bicyclers, and pedestrians.

The big orange truck crossed into the nearest lane and stopped at the curb. The burly fellow with a spaghetti mop of dreadlocks flexed thick fingers around the steering wheel. He grinded the gears, then popped the clutch on the decrepit antique. Randi latched onto the safety bar and gave him the cross streets.

At her destination, she thanked the driver, hopped from the furniture truck's bench seat to the ground and cut across the street before racing drivers hemmed her in on the median or knocked her to kingdom come.

Clumsily, and wearing gunboats, she ran up the steps of China Palace and shoved the door open. She had little time before Patterson caught wind of her escape. Sure as hell, they'd show up here and drag her to jail.

Randi skirted around tables.

"Ting Lan," she called out. "Miguel, donde es Ting Lan?"

"Baño. Bathroom," the fellow dishwasher replied.

She heard singing before she barged into the small decorative lavatory, specifically for "Women" as noted on the door in gigantic red English letters. Beneath those were Chinese characters. The boss kept the room in perfect order. Even the disinfectant smelled as sweet as fresh roses. Ting Lan rehearsed her opera roles here when business was slow.

"I need your help," Randi said.

Ting Lan, a graceful twenty-eight-year-old Oriental beauty, made a ponytail of her waist-length ebony hair and clamped a tight-fitting barrette around the tresses. "Where have you been?"

"Listen to me." Her lungs constricting, breathing rapid, Randi grabbed her friend's arm and swung her around. "I'm in trouble."

The door swung open, smacked the stopper and boomeranged back against the hand of the owner of China Palace. Min Li stepped inside, wearing her favorite forest-green apron coat. She was shorter than her daughter, at most five feet high, hair inky as the black mushrooms she cooked, and her skin fair as a porcelain doll's painted face. "You not show yesterday, you late today. You good worker, but you not best. You want fired?"

"I have to quit," Randi said.

"Only take two week notice."

"Not possible." She struggled to suck in the next breath, her lungs on the verge of bursting. "The police will be here soon."

"Bad," the boss said, frowning. "You running, why you run? Why you dressed funny?"

"They're blaming me for hurting someone."

If the boss called the police, where would she go for help? Annette? For all she knew, the woman had gone to Laughlin again with her gambling partners. How much support could she offer anyway? She was as much a stranger as the next person walking the streets of Phoenix. Ask Dutch for help? He'd never lend a hand after this crazy stunt. Instead, he'd drag her butt straight to jail, solder the lock, and melt the key.

"You not hurt nobody," Min Li protested. "Cop wrong?"

When she nodded, Ting Lan asked, "Where will you go?"

"Somewhere. Anywhere. I'm out of money and they took my ID," Randi hinted and faced her boss. "The police took everything, and I know they're watching my apartment. They'll come here looking for me. They'll put me back in pri— They'll take me to jail."

Prison meant survival of the fittest and at this stage of her life, she'd run out of steam and stamina to face the collective hardships of Perryville again.

"Jail? You in jail before?" Min Li asked, pointing her thumb.

"Yes." Please, don't ask why. Revealing her history was the last thing she wanted to do. She'd told a fat fib to get the dishwasher job. Min Li had hired her on the spot.

The boss paced the length of the room. "Cop come here?"

"Yes." How could she ask for money and assistance? She'd met the Chens years ago when she'd frequented the restaurant. They'd only known her as an employee for five weeks. And, God help her, time was running out.

"I tell cop you leave, never come back."

Randi shook her head. "You don't know what they've accused me of. It's vicious and ugly. Just knowing my background and helping me could bring you mountains of trouble."

"No trouble." Min Li waved her hands. "In China, jail very bad place. We take care of dumb cop."

Ting Lan opened her mouth.

"Quiet, daughter of mine." She spoke quickly in her native tongue and her daughter nodded.

"Damn her," Dutch muttered. He steered the car through busy lunchtime traffic.

Two seconds after Jinx disconnected from the link, they'd sprinted down one flight of stairs before Mason heard the news of Randi's escape.

"This is not good, White Boy." Jinx pointed in the direction that Dutch needed to follow.

"You're telling me. She'll go to the restaurant where she worked, though. She'll need money. Get an address and comm-number for China Palace." He cut off the silver-gray sports car and turned left. The driver honked and Dutch flipped him off. "Damn her. I ought to let her go to jail. Damn woman," he grumbled.

"Go ahead. Drop the case. I'll take over."

"Kiss my ass. This is my case."

"And you know damn well she's innocent. Railroaded. Well, not this time, buddy. I will not sit back and let it happen again. I had no choice before, but I do now. With this new information, there won't be trial number three."

"Chill out, Jinx, neither will I." Speeding up, he merged into another lane. "We have to find her first."

"And afterward?"

He wasn't quite sure and kept his eyes on the road. "I'm only thinking now, today."

"There it is. China Palace. Half block on the right."

Dutch wheeled into the oversized parking lot of a small outdoor mall. Farther back from the restaurant, single story buildings defined the neighborhood. Buyers and window shoppers foraged through sidewalk-sale items.

He found an open parking space and shut off the ignition. "We'll ask about her. Don't want to alert or get anybody into a panic and definitely don't want them to know we're cops. She's probably been here already, might still be here."

Jinx yanked the door open to the restaurant. The air was liquid with Asian aromas. Lunch was in full swing. People circled the big counter filled with steaming foods, holding plates, silverware, napkins, and chopsticks.

"Two?" the hostess asked.

"No, thanks. We're looking for a friend of ours," Dutch said. "Randi Westbrooke. Is she working today?"

"Ah, lazy woman. She not work here no more. Pick up check, left. Not come back. Daughter! Put tea on table, Ting Lan! Customer like tea."

He looked over his shoulder at the young woman and memorized her face, her build, everything about her in a split second. Turning back to the hostess, he asked, "How long ago?"

"Maybe hour."

"Hour, huh?" Bullshit.

"Half hour. Ten minute. Who know? I got lunch crowd. We busy."

Six men wearing suits came through the swinging doors. The hostess picked up a stack of menus, smiling brilliantly at the entourage.

"Do you know where she went?" Jinx asked.

"Know nothing about lazy woman. She your girlfriend? She not good dishwasher." His partner chuckled like a hyena suffering laryngitis. "You not eat, I got customer. We busy."

Dutch wrote his name and personal comm-number on a paper menu. He slid it across the wooden podium toward her. She left it there. "Call me if she comes in again."

They moved away, allowing the businessmen to step forward while Dutch scanned the few workers wearing white aprons, milling around the restaurant, busy. None was Randi.

Outside, he stopped beside the car's bumper and checked China Palace's half-full lot. Where the devil were they going to find her? Where else would she have to hide?

"Let's check out Ting Lan's place. Get a cruiser to stand by here until we get back." He opened the car door. "Something tells me Randi's in the vicinity. Hostess tried to square us off and lied. Now we know her daughter's description. We'll catch her without her mother's intervention."

"Hostess is the owner. Saw her name on the plaque hanging on the wall. Matched the name tag."

Jinx had seen as much as he had. "Min Li Chen. We'll run their name. Might give us some leverage."

They climbed inside the car. Dutch looked over his shoulder as he backed away from the space. He saw the owner peeking through the plate glass window's plastic shades.

Yeah. She knew something, knew more than she pretended not to know.

Chapter 5

"Dumb cop," Min Li said.

The lunch crowd had come and gone. She'd locked front and back doors, hung the "closed" sign, and shut all the blinds to slithered openings.

"He not smart. He come back. Left another stupid cop to watch."

"Maybe I'd better leave," Randi said. She'd hidden in the kitchen pantry while Dutch and Jinx questioned the restaurant's owner.

"They watch now. We watch too." Min Li busied herself, seasoning an aromatic dinner soup, stirring and tasting. "Ting Lan, add vinegar. You stay here. No one know. Got bed, table, chair."

"Oh, but—"

"Stay here. Wash dish, sleep, wash more dish. You not hurt nobody. You not go to jail." Min Li hustled away.

So much for argument.

The boss had made several calls after the lunch hour ended. Two more of her friends had arrived at China Palace. Three were freebie workers at the restaurant. The group had gathered around the circular table away from windows and prying eyes, talking Chinese.

Ting Lan rested her hand on Randi's arm. "Trust her. She knows what she's talking about. My mother had a difficult life in our homeland. Let her take care of you."

Gripping her friend's hand, Randi said, "Think of the state laws. The statutes say accomplices are as culpable as the felons are guilty. You don't know what I'm up against or the trouble this will bring your family."

"Makes no difference. There's only mother and me. She believes you, believes in you." Her voice was soft, the lilt of a songbird, and she squeezed Randi's hand. "You're like another daughter to her. She wanted more daughters, children. The Chinese government stripped her of everything. Let Mother do this. She knows how to handle these types of problems."

Randi shook her head. This was only the beginning. Dutch Patterson was a determined man and he did believe in her innocence at one point. But what if he pressured the Chens? Illegal immigrants worked here. Min Li might lose the restaurant and follow in her footsteps, straight to jail. Randi cared too much to ruin their lives.

"If you'd just loan me enough to get me out of the city. I could find someplace to hide until things simmer—"

"No, I cannot defy my mother. She knows what she's doing."

Min Li sailed into the kitchen again. "Cop outside, search like snake. You go in basement. Come."

Basement? Surprised, Randi watched mother and daughter roll the heavy cart away from the wall. Concealed below it and the thick rubber mat was a trap door.

She followed her guardian angel down steep wooden steps into darkness. Min Li switched on the single, old-fashioned swinging lamplight at the base of the stairs. Their shadows danced on dirt walls from the fixture's dull lighting. Wooden beams supported the ceiling. The air was cool, the small area creepy, and the musty damp odor filled and tickled Randi's nose. One wall accommodated a small Buddhist shrine. Who knew what held up the mattress. Between the two, an old chair and metal card table displayed a dainty tea set. Both sat lopsided on the uneven floor. Silk flowers were nestled in a lovely, red and blue urn.

Lean accommodations at best. Still the perfect hiding place for an innocent, convicted felon in need of friends and assistance.

"We got no rat," Min Li said. "All clean."

Clean, with dirt walls and dirtier earthen floor?

"Bug live upstair. No food here."

Randi had the urge to laugh and pray at the same time. Was this any better than prison? Definitely, yes. Brundage had no authority here, no chance to lay his filthy paws on her body. She shivered at the thought of those horrible, submissive years spent behind steel bars and locked doors, ordered around by the fattest, dictatorial man.

"Thank you."

"I'll bring fresh clothes, sheets, and warm blankets," Ting Lan said. She looked down at Randi's gunboats and chuckled. "Shoes too."

"You stay here only when trouble come," Min Li ordered. "Eat, wash dish, sleep." For such a small woman she seemed larger than life. "I handle bad cop."

"He's not bad, just doing his job." Thinking back, she should've trusted him. Wanted to trust him more than anyone. Why did Dutch have to be cop? Why couldn't he work as a private investigator or lawyer, somebody who had real power to help her?

"All cop bad," Min Li retorted. "We stomp three time, clear."

Up above, four hard knocks sounded. Min Li grabbed her daughter's arm and hurried up the stairs.

When the trap door closed, Randi wanted to scream. A tidal wave of ugly events crashed through her mind. What if the cops hauled the Chens off to jail? What if they refused to tell them about her? What if a fire broke out?

Above, voices and heavy footsteps.

She held her breath, heart pounding, straining to hear the muffled words. Controlling her breathing became more onerous as the seconds ticked away. She reached into her pocket, fingered the inhaler. Not enough hours had passed for another life-saving jolt. She stood in the center of cool dampness, wringing her hands, listening.

Dutch's baritone and Jinx's deep bass seeped into the silence. She caught bits and pieces—her name spoken several times. Min Li's reply was difficult to understand with the moderate language barrier.

Randi followed their steps with her gaze as they moved across the upper floor. When the steel back door slammed shut, she flinched. More unrecognizable words penetrated the basement's quiet. She understood the phrases "illegal" and "immigrants" in the same sentences. Fortunately, the "illegals" had been sent home for the afternoon. The detectives would come back, though, again and again.

More footsteps. More words. What were they asking? What was her boss's reply?

She lowered herself slowly to the mattress, waiting, hands clasped together, and prayed.

A rumbling sound nearly scared the life out her body. When the trap door lifted, she stood, then moved away from the bed and backed up against the dirt wall. Had Dutch convinced Min Li to surrender the prisoner? Randi had nowhere to run inside these rough walls, nowhere to hide, and she started to cower, wishing to fade underground with the earthworms.

"All clear," Min Li said in a singsong voice.

She let out the breath she'd been holding in a lengthy, tortured rush. How long had she been praying? Several minutes? An hour?

She wiped the back of her hand across her forehead as perspiration dripped down her temples, followed by a cold, clammy drop drizzling down the valley between her breasts. Sweat, even in the cool, musty dampness of this sacred dungeon palace.

"We celebrate now," Min Li said. "Got plan. Ting Lan, make special green tea in big pot."

The boss held out her hand to Randi and she laid hers in her savior's grasp, so relieved, so thankful.

"Come, my murdering daughter. Come let old Chinese women chase demon from soul."

Dutch knew he had a conniving, lying, smart as hell ancient dame on his hands. Chen had guessed they were cops on their first visit. They'd played right into her bony fingers.

They'd thoroughly checked the restaurant, turned the place inside out.

"She got game. Nothin' but net," Jinx said, chuckling. "She talks much hell."

Dutch nodded. Chen had beaten them at their own game today. "What do you want to bet she cursed us in Chinese?"

"I know she did. Did you hear her after we told her to open the refrigerated locker? She was ticked." Jinx rolled the window halfway way down and offered Dutch a Marlboro. The pact they'd made to quit smoking on New Year's Eve had yet to come to fruition. "So what now?"

Dutch clamped the cigarette between his teeth and cracked open his window before the unit's computer started a series of warnings. The newer vehicles lacked ashtrays and lighters. City officials had ordered replacements. An automated, demanding voice warned of any kind of an violation.

"Guess we can start checking the suspect list. Chen believes Randi's innocent. She won't roll her."

He'd given the restaurant owner the dirt on their suspect. Min Li Chen had never wavered, didn't appear flustered or fearful. Neither her daughter, nor the other women gathered around the circular table appeared fazed. Her hired help, Chen had said, were all legitimate Chinese-Americans. Dutch and Jinx had checked IDs, just in case.

Yeah, so what happened to the Mexican crew?

Maybe tomorrow he'd try a different approach, what, he had no idea. For the moment, Randi had the perfect guards. Wherever Min Li had hidden her matched jail.

"Let's hit the streets. We'll take her into custody soon enough," he said. "Check addresses, figure out which suspect lives closest to this area. Some people might be off work or ready to go in."

"They're spread out across the city," Jinx advised. He was a walking atlas.

"Great. Just dandy. Okay, what's Harold Cain's?"

"On the edge of Tempe if he still lives there." Jinx thumbed over his shoulder. "Delinquent on his driver's license renewal. Might be tough finding him if he moved."

Dutch guided the car into the next lane and waited for the green arrow. Two measly seconds later, he forced the light to switch and U-turned sharply.

Jinx latched onto his goddamn-it-slow-this-effing-jalopy-down handle.

Easing off the accelerator, Dutch said, "Also, the one with an asterisk by the name is the witness who claimed he saw Randi at the Chapman crime scene. We need to talk to him as soon as possible. Hell, I forgot to bring my copy of the report."

"Right here." Jinx fished through folders and extracted the printed sheet.

What a partner. Always prepared. Always organized. "You're gonna make somebody a good wife someday."

"Up yours, White Boy. If women don't find you handsome, they should at least find you handy, my ugly girlfriend." His laughter was hearty, genuine. "Witness's address is in the opposite direction of Cain, on the other side of town."

Shit. Figures.

"We can swing by Tynedale Laboratories on our way," Jinx said, "and put some fire under their butts. This lab stuff is going to take time. Might have to do doctors, hospitals, and admin folks first. Diagnostic labs have gone by numbers, not names, for years."

Hell's bells. The suspect list could potentially increase by thousands.

Tynedale didn't have shit from Shineola, wasting their time.

Moving on to Harold Cain's last known address, Dutch and Jinx learned that his former neighbors all claimed the same fine-print testimonials. Cain was hell on wheels.

"He hates life in general. Dogs, cats, people," one old-timer had said. "Anything breathing."

Another neighbor had boldly declared Cain a redneck bigot. The gray-haired resident instructed the detectives to follow her wheelchair to see where he'd spray painted the N-word in bright orange letters on her trailer. The old-timer had repainted the siding for her, but she was riled again.

Jinx calmed the woman and handed over his business card in case she needed help around her home. She showed her appreciation with a smile and fluttering lashes.

What a guy. Women always dissolved at his feet.

"Tomorrow, I'll check the power and comm-companies. They might have a recent listing. It's almost cocktail hour," Jinx noted, sliding inside the car.

"Yeah, traffic's liable to be a hell of a mess."

"Good. By the time we get back to headquarters, Mason should be long gone. What do you want to bet he attempted to contact us?"

They'd turned off their units and the vehicle's, just in case. "Bet so." Dutch laughed. "Drinks on me. I need a tall, cold draft."

"Fine, but let's check out one more lab before we get started."

Randi swore she'd go back to school, given the opportunity, and study the Chinese language.

These women talked faster than a speeding locomotive and blew just as much steam, over each other and against each other in what sounded like mass hysteria. She recognized anger, defeat, and sheer delight on their faces.

A regular hen party.

"Settled," Min Li said. "Ting Lan, pour more tea."

Randi was on the threshold of floating. The other women nodded.

"You go home with each one on different night." Min Li waved to her flock of five. "Cop too stupid to find you."

"He's not stupid. Actually, he offered to help me from the beginning."

Why did she run? She should've let Dutch do his job. Maybe he'd find the person framing her and she wouldn't have to sneak around the city like a thief in the night or broad daylight, looking guilty.

"He still stupid."

Randi sighed. No reason to argue with her. "But, listen. Traipsing around the city, to and from work, establishing a pattern is too risky."

The buzz of chatter began again. She heard variations of the word "traipse" and figured three ladies misunderstood the term. Min Li's explanation gained acceptance.

"The cellar's fine for now," Randi added.

They broke into another cackling session. Min Li, the pecking order's dignified queen hen, closed ranks and held up her hand. Silence fell around the circular table, through the entire restaurant. So quiet, Ting Lan's rustling silk dress reminded Randi of a summer breeze whispering through small groves of mature Mesquites. She carried the biggest, steaming teapot embellished with exotic purple and gold peacocks, feathers on full display.

"Okay, basement work. If cop keep coming back, you move every day."

Some people might call Min Li assertive. Randi labeled her authority "bossy." No one argued with China Palace's powerhouse. No one was willing to suffer from her sharp-tongued, stinging comebacks. In Chinese or English.

Min Li said something in her native language. The group nodded their agreement, stole a glance at Randi, and sipped on special tea.

Lord have mercy.

What was this band of hens planning?

Dutch chugged the last of his brew. He put down enough money to cover bill and tip, rapped his knuckles on the mahogany counter, and saluted the bartender they both knew well.

"Let's check on Edelson and see what he has to say for himself," he said as Jinx slung his jacket over his shoulder.

Thirty-eight minutes later, after clearing rush hour traffic with the glaring sun in their eyes, they knocked at Ruford Edelson's front door.

He lived in an average-looking stucco house with an average-looking Ford truck sporting a big dent in the door, sitting in the single-lane driveway of an average-looking neighborhood.

When the door opened, an average-looking woman greeted them, mid- to late-thirties, medium height with brown hair and eyes. She was barefoot and dressed in tired-looking clothes. Worn-out, cover-the-entire-body pink muumuu. She bounced a squirming, baldheaded baby against her shoulder, fist in mouth, slobber running down the kid's chin and arm, soaking the mother's pink tent.

"Evening, ma'am. We're looking for Ruford Edelson. I'm Detective Patterson and this is my partner, Detective Murray. Official business." They flashed their shields and identification.

"Ruford!" She had an above-average voice, loud. "Cops." She left them standing there.

"Nothing," Jinx muttered. "I know nothing."

Dutch chuckled. He peered inside the house, realized these people had little more than essentials. Tattered couch, a single raggedy chair, homemade coffee table—all positioned on green shag carpeting. Somewhere in the back of the house, or outside, shrill barking broke the silence.

Edelson wandered around the corner wearing acid-washed jeans, faded purple golf shirt, and an annoyed expression.

"Carrothead," Jinx mumbled.

It looked like a real cow had licked his hair. Reed-thin. Long and hollowed, his face was populated with acne. Intense cobalt-blue eyes were narrowed.

The little tyke wailed.

"Woman, give your brat something and shut him up!"

Few comments grated on Dutch's nerves. That one did. They gave their names and presented IDs.

"Step outside, Mr. Edelson. We'd like to talk to you about the report where you claimed to have seen—"

"Millennium Lizzie," he supplied and spit about six feet, which sent Jinx striding backward. "I already gave the information to the cops. Why can't y'all talk to each other? The broad should be in jail where she belongs."

"We're doing a follow-up, sir," Jinx cut in, before Dutch cut loose on Edelson's attitude. He must've seen it on his face, or maybe Jinx heard the snarl he thought he'd held back. "Need to ask you more questions."

"About what?" he snapped. "I saw her. What more do you need?"

Dutch heard the crackle of paper in Jinx's hands. Apparently, this idiot had already stomped on his reserved partner's only assailable nerve. "Where were you standing when you saw her? How far away were you?"

"Far enough not to get my damn throat cut."

Wasn't that too damn bad? "What color eyes did she have?"

"Uh—"

"What color were the clothes she wore?"

"Um—"

"Did she have on jeans, shorts, T-shirt, blouse?" Dutch stepped closer, got in his face. "A goddamn wedding dress?"

"Uh—"

"Do you know what the penalty for perjury is in this state?" He waited five full seconds. "Do you have any idea what perjury means in a court of law? At all?"

Edelson had no reply. He scraped teeth over badly chapped lips.

"Look across the street at that old Chevy," Dutch ordered, thumbing toward the rusty, white Camaro ready for a pancake machine. "Is that how far away she was from you?"

"Yeah. About."

"So you didn't see her eyes. Am I right?" He studied this so-called witness's face. Liars had a look about their eyes, shiftiness, unable to return his head-on gaze.

Edelson nodded jerkily.

"It's dark at eleven o'clock at night." The information was in Glickman's report. "Correct, Mr. Edelson?"

"Yeah." He scrubbed the back of his hand across his forehead then jammed all ten fingers into his pockets. Granted, it was hot as hell outside, boiling still.

"Do you wear glasses?" An hour before midnight, he needed infrared headgear.

Edelson stepped backward. His face flame broiled redder than the morning sun, the peppering of pimples glowing brightly.

"Tell me, Mr. Edelson, did you wear your glasses on the night in question?"

"No, he didn't. He broke them several months ago," his old lady said. She'd left the infant somewhere. The child complained, screamed. The louder the baby, the noisier the barking dog.

Edelson jerked his head around. His body followed a bit slower. "Shut your damn mouth, Ruby Jean. Go take care of your brat and keep your nose outta my goddamn business."

She lifted her chin. "He's blind in one eye and can't see out the other."

"Shut the hell up, bitch, before I knock you on your fat ass," Edelson shouted, smacking his fist against the palm of his hand.

This idiot was cruisin' for a bruisin'. Dutch looked over at Jinx who furtively shook his head and said, "The engines canna take much more, Captain."

Yep, and from the old bruises he just now noticed at the base of Ruby Jean's neck, hidden by her baby earlier, Dutch teetered cheerfully on the fine edge of shoving his size thirteens where the sun don't shine on this habitual liar. Spouse abuse, any abuse against women and children, launched a rocket of revulsion.

"Touch her just once," he hissed.

Every thin muscle in Edelson's shoulders and neck flexed, but not nearly as much or as tightly as Dutch curled his hands into fists.

He heard Jinx say his name, ignored it and narrowed his eyes, willing his prey to face him, willing him to take his best shot.

Edelson was smart in some ways, wise enough to shove his fingers inside his pockets again as he turned back around. His face went slack, lost the smug look, knowing an ass whipping was on the horizon. He stared downward, probably at the waiting thick, white-knuckled fists joyfully twitching to connect with his face.

"Now," Dutch said quietly. "Exactly what did you see an hour before midnight, under the cover of a dark moonless sky, at say, thirty yards without said glasses?"

Edelson hemmed and hawed, finally swallowed audibly. "There was a light outside the building."

"Floodlight, streetlight," Jinx asked, "or dimmer one, like your porch lamp?"

"Um, yeah. Porch."

Hearing his partner crinkle the report again, Dutch asked, "Was she standing by the door or away from it? Near the evergreens or behind the big Elm tree?"

"Yeah, yeah. Near the Elm tree, crouching. There was t-two big trees."

Edelson shifted his weight from foot to bare foot. Standing on heat-absorbed concrete, the bottoms might be on fire. His body looked torched. A steaming red tinge crept under his open shirt, beelining to his neck and clown ears. Another minute, he might burst into flames.

"Really," Dutch said, never taking his eyes off the great pretender. "Jinx, did they have Elms there?"

"Not to my knowledge."

"Tree names are hard to remember. Maybe it was another kind. Species. It was dark and—"

"Ah, cry me a river," Jinx said nastily.

Edelson was an idiot who chose to shovel his personal crater deeper than the authorized level. How much farther did he intend to dig?

"What about flowers, statues," Dutch inquired. "This was an artist's studio. Was she hiding behind the replica of Michelangelo? You know, the one with the guy stretched out on a park bench, holding flowers in his hand, smiling while butterflies fluttered around him. The clay one. The one encircled by petunias."

He heard Jinx's deep chuckle and, from the corner of his eye, saw him direct his gaze the opposite direction.

"Yeah, yeah. Michelangelo," Edelson replied. He had the damn nerve to sound happy. "She ran from there to the tree, crouched for a second, and ran toward the door. She tromped all over those petunias. Actually, I'm not sure what kind of flowers they were. Darkness. The grounds were covered with 'em."

Jesus. This bastard had the audacity to justify his blindness and not his goddamn stupidity. "Jinx, did you see a bunch of ground cover? Did I miss something? Was I even there?"

"Confucius say: Real knowledge is to know the extent of one's—someone's—ignorance."

Jinx was a trip.

"Look, um—" the liar began.

"You're full of shit, Edelson," Dutch snapped. His temper had gone beyond angry. Explosive. "You didn't see the suspect, did you? You didn't see a statue, the trees, or goddamn flowers."

The crime team had combed the scene, turned every loose boulder, and lifted every limb to every bush drooping to the ground. Dense beds of pink oleanders lined the yellow building's walkway. Red bougainvilleas grew wild, flaunting dangerous needlepoint stickers. Floodlights were mounted on each corner of the artist studio and well-manicured palm trees partially shielded the sun's penetrating rays. Small stones covered the grounds and not one statue stood guard over the premises.

Dutch stepped closer to Edelson before the chronic liar moved backward. Curling his fingers around the collar of the golf shirt, pulling the lapels together, he asked, "Were you even at the address on said night, under the cover of darkness, say, thirty yards out?"

Edelson started to nod his orange head and Dutch twisted the collar tighter, up and under the chin. "If you so much as think of lying to me again, as God as my witness, I will—"

"Dutch."

Ignoring his partner's reprimanding tone, he felt Edelson trembling and smelled his sweat and fear. "Handcuff you and haul your bony ass to jail. I'll charge you with filing a false report, obstruction, perjury, and any other—"

"Glickman," Edelson said on a strangled breath. He wrapped his shaking fingers around Dutch's wrists. "It was Sergeant Benny Glickman. He filed the report. He asked me to sign it and I did. He said it was the right thing to do."

Dutch raised him to tiptoe, nose to nose.

"He said she was guilty, man," Edelson rushed out. "He said it'd speed up the process, said they already had evidence against her. He said the report would seal her ass to the crime. He said she'd finally get the death penalty."

"Let him go, Dutch. We're done here."

Hesitantly, he lowered Edelson and straightened his collar, patted it down while looking over the top of orange hair at Ruby Jean. "Any problems out of him," Dutch said, fishing out a business card from his hip pocket. "Any time he ever touches you, call me. I'm never very far away."

"She ain't gonna—"

Dutch dropped his gaze, hostile as he felt, and the liar clamped his big mouth shut with an audible click. Biting back one last stinging repartee, he handed the woman his card and spun on his boot heels.

Glickman spoke the truth. District Attorney Sharon Hamilton supported the death penalty. She'd jump a freight-train vendetta whether the suspect was male or female. Jinx never branded women with a nickname. Except for Hamilton. Hers was Miss Gulch for good reason. She sought the maximum for every guilty sentence and usually won. The Wicked Witch of the West.

"Mason's going to be pissed beyond all reason," Jinx said.

"Bet your ass he is." The commander had the potential to detonate, spreading his radiation worse than a nuclear warhead. Most of the fallout would land on Dutch.

"Might take the stink off us for a while, however, the combination might work against us."

"We'll tackle stink later."

"Guess we ought to do Silvers."

Jinx rolled down the passenger window and offered Dutch a smoke he gladly accepted. They'd split the high cost of cigarettes, trading off payment.

"Not right now," Dutch replied. "Not in my current mood."

Bad enough Glickman and a so-called witness had lied. Damn shitty of Edelson to whip on his woman. But a child molester? Dutch had trouble believing the priest had killed, except he'd been wrong about suspects before.

"Tomorrow early. I need a shot of good Sauza and beer back. I also want to run by China Palace again."

Chapter 6

Why were all these children in the restaurant?

Randi tied a fresh white apron around her waist, covering the black tunic and coordinating pants Ting Lan had loaned her. She'd rolled the pants at her waist to keep them off the floor. The tunic's fine silk was an exquisite piece embroidered with tiny boats, flowers and trees, cloisters of temples and palaces of rainbow heaven. It was tight, though. Ting Lan's figure was slender.

She smoothed her fingers over the soft fabric. She'd worn quality attire once upon a time, delicate fabrics against her skin. Scratchy prison garb had caressed her body as well as drab, unflattering gunnysacks. The cute little black shoes looked like ballerina slippers, tight too, but they fit much better than the filthy gunboats.

"These are too expensive to wash dishes in. Don't you have anything old and tattered, worn out?"

Ting Lan smiled prettily. "They are old, from a cultural opera performance several years ago. My first. I've learned much ever since."

"Your voice sounds professional to me."

"So says my instructor. She tells me I have good ears." Ting Lan busied herself, lifting pot tops, stirring soups, filling bowls.

"Why are the kids here?"

"Mother," she replied. "Call it a reunion." She left the kitchen, shouldering the tray laden with steaming bowls of hot and sour soup with an array of appetizers.

Randi peeked outside the door. The waitress set four bowls down at the small booth near the front door. She spoke amicably with the patrons. She knew them. She knew the people at the next table and the next. All were of Chinese descent.

Before the door glided closed, Randi returned a wave to a worker's granddaughter then went back to her duties. Neither of the Mexicans was working tonight. The usual hens helped with cleaning, bussing tables, cooking. They had teenage stamina.

Over the next hour, more customers arrived, filling China Palace to capacity. It seemed a real party was brewing. At seven twenty, the noise level tripled. The floor shook from the music's downbeat. Children sang and talked over each other. Adult voices reached fever pitch.

Min Li flew into the kitchen.

"Basement. Now."

The cart already against another wall for fast action, two hens dragged the thick mat away and Min Li lifted the trap door. It closed with a quiet thump the second Randi switched the light on. The following scraping sounds insured the trap door was unexposed.

The fixture swung back and forth. The musty odors were in sharp contrast to Asian cuisine cooking upstairs. Above her, pandemonium picked up strength, louder, strummed as deliberately as her heart drummed against her chest.

It had to be Dutch and Jinx. Or maybe the ponytail-wearing detective had returned alone.

Closing her eyes, she imagined the broad-shouldered giant swaggering inside, cowboy boots stomping across the floor, fierce hazel eyes taking in everything from the decorative ceiling to solid surfaces, corner to corner, booth to booth. She'd easily find time to develop another crush on him, no doubt about it, if things were different. He looked good. Long-legged, slightly bowed. A smart woman would hop all over him. She would, given the chance, if she could remember how. She chuckled, but the laughter died in her throat.

An eerie quiet had settled all around.

Illogically checking her wrist for the watch she no longer owned, she wondered how long she would stay trapped in this dungeon.

Fresh linens covered the mattress, thanks to Ting Lan. An old-fashioned, dual hot plate was connected to the light fixture by a long electrical cord. The owner's daughter had added a colorful plastic tablecloth. The teapot steamed gently. Beside it, another container. Randi lifted its lid. Noodle soup. Hot food and drink to ward off the chill.

Bless you, Ting Lan.

Randi ladled soup into the large decorated bowl, poured tea, and sat on the mattress.

Footsteps trailed steadily upstairs. Heavy-booted steps. Dutch. Another set followed. She was sure they belonged to Jinx. Their muffled words were unrecognizable.

The back door squeaked open, closed again. The refrigerated locker slammed shut. Min Li's punctuated, scathing tone followed. When her voice rose, generally anger rooted her high-spirited squawk.

Sipping on green tea, Randi shivered from the sound of irate voices. No matter how cool the environment here, perspiration trickled down her temples. When she set the cup on its matching small plate, the china rattled from her shaking hands.

Min Li handled pressure easily, but two menacing detectives three times her size just might crack her porcelain demeanor.

She cringed. Min Li's shout directed the detectives to get out and stay out. A terse Spanish cuss word followed.

"Oh, Lord," Randi whispered. "Maybe it's time to move elsewhere."

By the time three staccato raps sounded on the trap door, she'd finished off her meal.

"All clear." Min Li smiled, hands on her narrow hips, feet braced apart. For a small woman who recently screeched at two men, she looked cool, calm, and collected. "We celebrate now."

Randi laughed to keep her sanity.

"Conniving heifer," Jinx said.

"Yeah. I'm getting sick and tired of her crap," Dutch replied. "She's lying through her teeth. Randi was there. Somewhere." He'd smelled the vague hint of a sea breeze.

They'd turned the place inside out then split up in case she tried to sneak by them. With all the people milling around, Randi could've easily crawled between their legs and gone under tables, unnoticed.

Birthday party. Right. They'd almost pulled it off until the round-faced little girl asked for the pretty lady. Four women stepped forward simultaneously. Neither looked like beauty queen material. Neither understood his questions. Neither spoke English.

So they said. Dutch knew better. He'd heard one speaking the universal language fluently when they'd arrived. And why would they step forward?

"Now what?" Jinx asked.

"Try the Trailer Temples again."

Jinx checked his watch. "I need some grub, White Boy. Need to contact my old lady before she starts nagging at my link."

At least he had somebody to call, a lover to embrace when he needed her to take his mind off the job and the perils of life. Dutch missed having his family around to greet each day. He really missed teasing and tormenting his daughter on a daily basis. As for his ex-wife, they were still allies.

"Guess we'd better knock off for the night." He veered off the highway at the next exit. "Wish I could spend some time with Blair. Haven't seen her in a week. Cheryl keeps her grinding away on homework."

"How's she doing in school these days?"

"Lousy, according to Cheryl. Summer school and Blair mix like oil and water. She wants to take the GED and forget about it. Move on and do some teenaged dance thing."

"Broadway Teens."

"Yeah. Some crazy shit, like with the Rockettes or in musicals."

"She has talent. Better to put it to use than running the streets with hardheads."

During her sophomore year, Blair had hooked up with a bad crowd. Enrolling her in a three-night Scared Straight seminar turned her punk-rocking life around.

"I need to win Powerball to pay for it," Dutch said.

"Winning any lottery is unlikely. Moonlight. I hear there's an opening at an all-male strip club not far from here," Jinx said, chuckling. "Problem is, White Boy, you've got no rhythm, so you ain't good to go."

Dutch burst out laughing. "Bite me."

Cheryl had refused to twirl with him ever again, claiming he'd broken her big toe the first dance at their wedding reception.

"It's late," Jinx said as Dutch parked the car. "Mason'll be gone. I need to pick up some personals, then I'm out of here and over to Lexi's for some body heat."

Lucky dog. "Guess I'd better check the inbox, messages, yada, yada."

Trees, shrubbery, an array of flowers and cactus indigenous to the desert surrounded headquarters. The sun had set, the sky a colorful rainbow of scattered clouds in reds and oranges and violet evening hues. Arizona had the most amazing twilights.

Inside, they flashed ID and proceeded to the elevator where they waved their hands over the palm reader.

The doors parted.

"Where in the hell have you two been?" Commander Howard Mason now onboard, no need for a cheerleading megaphone. He burst out of the elevator and half set, half dropped his black leather briefcase as the doors melted together. "Tell me again why I budgeted for fancy communication units and other crap costing this department and the public money?"

"Been checking out suspects, Commander," Dutch said.

"For which case?"

"Um." He licked his lips. "Westbrooke."

"Westbrooke? She is the suspect, the only suspect. But do we have her in custody? Oh, no. I find out during lunch she's on the loose because you," he said, stabbing his index finger at Dutch's chest, glaring, "talked the doctor into letting her spend another night at the damn hospital when her butt should've been in one of our cells."

"I did no—"

"Don't give me any crap, Patterson. I know you, hotshot. Now we have public enemy number one back on the street, nowhere to be found, or did you and your partner happen to locate her in the last eight hours you've been gallivanting around this damn city?"

Ears red as the devil's, wrinkled frown, piercing blue-flame eyes, Mason was obviously pissed. His jet-black hair emphasized the anger on his pale skin. His fierce temper sent other cops running for cover.

"We've been searching for her, sir," Jinx said, ever so congenial. "Checked out—"

"You didn't find her, did you?"

"We believe—"

"Is she in holding?"

"No, sir."

"Then you didn't find her! Tomorrow morning, oh-eight hundred. In my office." Grumbling, Mason picked up the briefcase and marched away.

They kept their mouths shut until the lobby doors closed. Jinx jammed his hands into his trouser pockets and rocked on his heels. "Beam me up, Scotty. We're up an effing creek without a paddle. He'll hang us up by the toenails."

"We're hosed. He'll cut our balls off, dangle the matching pairs from the ceiling in his office like shriveled Christmas ornaments." He said and thought about their problems. "Sick. Flu. New strain. Hell, chickenpox."

Both waved their hand over the reader again. The elevator opened its doors.

Hell's bells, Dutch thought as he followed Jinx inside the small compartment. Cause and effect. Matter of time before Mason imploded. The whole damn day had disintegrated, forcing a nosedive destined for hell's unsavory location. He scratched at the vague itch on his neck as the doors parted again, sighing.

"Scanning," the automated male voice said. "Welcome, Detectives Patterson and Murray. Second floor?" The doors closed.

"As always," Jinx replied.

They rode in silence.

When the door parted, Dutch said, "Sorry, Jinx. My fault for Mason's wirin' for firin'."

"Screw it. Besides, I look good in blue," he replied, grinning. "I'll check you tomorrow at eight bells. Spill our guts on Glickman and Edelson." He unlocked his desk, grabbed two files, and was gone.

Dutch thumbed through the few messages left in his inbox and let all but one flutter from his hands.

It was from Cheryl. Can you stop by tonight?

He stuffed the note into his pocket. Probably his daughter and school again. The other messages were unimportant. He left them where they lay, scattered among the mess covering his desktop.

Stepping into suffocating heat again, Dutch realized he'd better get used to it. Street beat was hard work. Not one officer maintained their polished grooming in this desert city. Polished. Forced to cut his ponytail and lose the boots, jeans, and all comfort, he thought, disgusted. Years of hard work shot to hell in a single afternoon.

"If that damn woman had stayed put, we wouldn't be pickling in brine."

He climbed the steel rungs to his secondhand Chevy truck and slammed the door.

"How the hell am I going to pay for Blair's education on a cop's salary?"

He started the engine, returned the honk and wave as his partner's vintage Thunderbird rolled by. Dutch switched on the headlights and put the truck in gear, kept his foot on the brake pedal.

"Moonlight? Stripping?"

Forget it at forty-three. Ask his daughter for feedback on the subject of dancing half-naked and Blair's mortification would sting like an angry hornet. Cheryl, well, she'd laugh him into misery. Besides, not another woman he knew out there had considered running her hands over his body anyway.

Yeah, he'd gotten sloppy-looking since the divorce four years ago. He'd shared a bed with Cheryl when in need, until she'd let new boyfriend Gavin heat her panties, melting her insides over the last seven months, which ended her needy trysts with an ex-husband.

Dating? He rarely had time for it, or the cash to wine and dine. Women expected something decent before they jumped into the sack, giving in to quick tumbles. Lewd behavior and frolicking had never been his forte, even without the threat of deadly diseases these days.

He coasted toward the exit, looked both directions, and merged with traffic.

By the time Dutch reached Cheryl's house, he'd slipped into the usual blue funk. He'd let his mind drift to territories he'd lost touch with in the last seven months. He needed a woman. Bad. More precisely a good lay and he parked at the curb in front of the house where he'd once lived.

Won't get any fluff here.

Her boyfriend's spanking-new Roadster 1000 sat in her driveway. Gavin spent all of his spare time here, quality hours with Cheryl and Blair.

Dutch rang the doorbell and, when the door opened, he plastered the broadest smile on his face.

"Daddy!"

"Hey, sugar." She leapt into his arms, hugged him hard. At least she still loved him and he knew she would always love him. He set his imp down. "How's my baby girl?"

"Your baby girl will be seventeen next month," Cheryl said. She sat on the sofa they'd bought three months before they'd separated.

She still looked good, blond hair braided in the sexy way he'd always liked, rosy cheeks, heart-shaped lips, and spectacular blue, bedroom eyes. All reserved for Gavin.

"Come on in," Cheryl said. "Close the door. Have a seat."

He clasped hands with Gavin and said the obligatory greeting to the Robert Redford look-alike flaunting his Chippendale-calendar physique, which had Dutch's teeth grinding away enamel.

Gavin was Cheryl's age, three years younger than Dutch and in optimum condition. Long distance running and four-times-per-week workouts at the gym kept him in good shape, the man had said.

Dutch's blue funk blurred to navy, finally darkening to a shade blacker than obsidian.

"Want a beer?" Cheryl asked.

She sipped on her favorite lemon-flavored iced tea. He remembered Gavin drank little alcohol and only on rare occasions. "No, thanks. Just wanted to come by to see the brat and hear what you wanted to talk about."

He wrapped his arm around Blair's neck and hauled her across the room. Roughhousing with his daughter turned her femininity into tomboy material. Football, basketball, baseball, she played any sport and performed well.

Raised an only child, Dutch had wanted more children, playmates for Blair, a litter to love, cherish, and to keep by his side through his lifetime. Cheryl had worked outside the home to supplement their income at the beginning of their marriage. Pregnancy had dipped to last place on her priority list.

At least he and Blair were all but joined at the hip.

"Doing any better in school?"

"Sort of," Blair replied, giggling. "You're messing up my hair."

He smoothed it for her, tucked a portion behind her ear. "Since when did you start worrying about your hair or your appearance?"

"Since she met a new young man," Cheryl piped in. "Tommy's from New York. I've met and talked with him several times, Dutch. Nice young man."

"Uh-oh," Dutch said under his breath. This sounded bad. "As in City? The New York City?"

"Yep," Blair replied, grinning.

Her eyes were the same color as his, bright, golden, and fringed with thick dark lashes. She combed her fingers through her short bob, smoothed it away from her perky face, still smiling, showing perfect thirty-twos. They should be flawless. He'd he spent a small fortune on invisible braces, anything for his daughter, and he was still paying for the dental work.

But his little girl had grown up fast. Too damned fast. When did she start wearing lipstick? Dutch frowned, eyes roaming up and down her body. When did she grow hooters?

"Who is this Tommy kid?" he asked in a cold, calculating tone sure to make the Possessive Father's Alliance proud, if the PFA existed.

"Thomas Whittaker. Classmate. Math. He wants to dance too. His folks are sending him to live with his grandparents so he can."

Uh-oh. "You're only sixteen, pumpkin, too young to go to New York alone." He'd never let her leave Phoenix. Or him. They'd drawn up a pact when she turned five, a solemn father-daughter promise.

"That's what I wanted to talk to you about, Dutch," Cheryl said. "What we wanted to talk to you about."

Why did he have a sneaky suspicion, raising the hair on his nape? This talk was beginning to sound like a bad-news ball game: ninth inning, two outs, two strikes, and a fast, inside curve heading for the plate caught him blinking.

Cheryl climbed off the eight-foot sofa and moved to her boyfriend's side. She grabbed hold of his hand, smiling, and said, "Gavin's job is relocating him to Manhattan. We're getting married, Dutch. Blair and I are moving with him."

Chapter 7

Randi settled in the booth near the front door because it was quiet now. She'd changed from fine silks after the restaurant emptied and had donned the green scrubs again. She'd shut most of the blinds to the gallery of windows. An open few allowed the streetlights to filter in soft-glowing calm. Shadows danced on every wall.

How long could she hide, literally, living underground? How long would, or could, Min Li protect her from the police and two determined detectives? Push come to shove, she had Annette to lean on in a pinch. Her dear mother had offered comfort on occasion. Why not call her and see how far she'd go beyond her comfort zone?

Randi found the comm, dialed, and Annette's friend, Darla, answered. She'd met one of her mother's partners, but she'd never met this woman. Annette spoke highly of the forty-year alliance she'd had with Darla.

"Is Annette in?"

"Hang on."

Her mother came on the line several seconds later. She sounded irritated. And slightly intoxicated.

"It's Randi. I need your help."

"Randi who?"

Oh, this is just great. "Westbrooke. Your daughter."

"I know who you are," Annette snapped. "Where you at, girl? Jail?" She was so ugly when she guzzled liquor.

"Not yet," she replied tightly.

On good days, Annette cleaned up nicely. Penetrating green eyes sparkled clear and bright. Her rosy blush naturally stained creamy skin, and her chestnut tresses, dyed to hide wisps of gray and highlight the dullness, curled lightly above her shoulders.

Bad days and nights, like now, the conversation lacked continuity. Annette was too loaded to understand or absorb Randi's merry-go-round of statements and questions. In the middle of the call, she set the phone down, said she'd come right back.

While agitation gnawed at her belly, Randi wore a trail to and from the kitchen until Annette returned. By tomorrow, her mother would never remember the conversation, much less the call. Closet drunks rarely do. Annette had begun drinking heavily after her daughter was temporarily jailed for the murder of her parents. She said her nerves were shot from the drama.

Disgusted by the wait when Annette finally retrieved the phone, Randi promised to keep in contact and closed the link. An SOS was worth a try, ending in a total waste of time.

She slid into the booth again. She needed a plan. Without some kind of strategy, Dutch Patterson would repeat his performance and find her one day. Only this time, she would never walk away from prison by parole or time served. Most likely, the coroner would roll her body out of Perryville or any one of Arizona's penitentiaries on a stretcher. Death by natural causes or the lethal needle. She preferred the latter to life behind steel bars and fat tyrannical men, lonely and despised by all humans.

Bracing an elbow on the booth's vinyl back, she propped her chin on her hand, watched cars, trucks, and motorcycles roar by the mall on rain-washed streets. The storm, accompanied by dazzling but violent lightning and noisy thunder, had dumped on Phoenix for an hour. Light drizzle fell steadily now.

Across the main parking lot, headlights broke through the darkness.

"Who the hell is this?" She got to her knees, separated two blinds between her fingers and squinted.

The car left the premises. No lights were illuminated inside other establishments from what she remembered and no one had crossed the lot toward the vehicle.

Silly. Anybody had time while she'd traipsed back and forth to the kitchen.

Then, a cruiser swung into China Palace's parking lot. Randi ducked out of sight, slid down the vinyl seat and beneath the wide wooden table. She sucked in air and curled her fingers around the table support's cool metal.

Panting, she watched the bright spotlight shine against the front door's drawn blinds. The beam—a menacing glare—swung to another window, steadied, shifted fractionally, and finally moved on, vanishing moments later.

She peeked out, but drew back quickly when the brilliant glare cut through darkness again, swinging toward the kitchen where there were no windows. The steel back door was always securely locked. Two deadbolts with heavy chains protected the restaurant's emergency exit from intruders.

She waited ten, fifteen minutes then emerged from her hiding place. Randi tiptoed around the huge room, ducking under windows, and peeking out. The cruiser had moved on. Spotlight shining, it had continued slowly past the trendy boutique, thrift store, and the day spa she'd love to visit someday. She relaxed her tense muscles, sighing in shuddered relief. For now.

So, Dutch had forgotten to send his snoops. Since the sedan had left, maybe Min Li had cleverly convinced him that his suspect was long gone.

If she were as clever, Randi would have a working agenda. Smart felons always schemed. Cunning felons skipped town. Cunning felons knew how to get money to skip town. Still, cunning felons found ways to prove their innocence.

But she wasn't felon material. Clever, yes, a murderer, no. And the charges weren't groundless per se. Authorities had somehow found her DNA at the crime scenes and they'd found witnesses willing to testify. In a community demanding justice, her future had ventured beyond bleak. What she needed was a surefire plan to stay alive and free.

She found today's newspaper. An article was inspiring. After spending seventeen years in prison for a rape and murder that he'd claimed he didn't commit, evidence omitted by the prosecution and presented by the inmate's new attorney had exonerated the man.

Forget her lawyers, they'd done nothing good. But what if her voice was heard? What if she fed the media information? Did she have the nerve to expect the people of Maricopa County to accept her innocence pleas and believe her?

This was definitely Plan A.

Randi grabbed a tablet, pen, and a comm-listing from the podium. While searching, she also found Dutch's scribbled number, messy writing, on a paper menu. Folding it neatly, she tucked it inside the tablet. She might need it one day.

She'd find exonerating information to feed frenzied media packs. They loved breaking-news stories as much as she'd once loved to break them.

Hurrying down the steep stairs, the cellar's cool dampness blanketed her skin, sent chills through already whetted senses. Tea still steamed gently and she filled her cup. "Thinking tea" is what Min Li had called the special green formula.

Yup, she needed to think how her plan might unfold and sipped on the brew.

But what if times had changed? What if reporters shied away from cloak and dagger interviews? She'd watched the restaurant's screens, but Min Li only allowed sports and music video channels to play. The boss also locked up the remote when she left for home. Without it, SESPN, the national super sports station, was a constant entity during nonworking hours.

Okay, Plan B if A fails.

She flipped over a sheet of paper to write her thoughts in shorthand. The chicken scratch had always come in handy. Lowering herself to the mattress, she wrote the title Plan B across the page's top.

She shoved a portion of her hair behind her ear.

What is Plan B?

By midnight, she'd all but torn out clumps of hair by the handfuls.

Tablet paper, balled up and tossed haphazardly, were scattered across the earthen ground. The teapot was empty and her stomach growled noisily. She was starving, and she set the writing tools aside. She climbed the stairs, dejected, shoulders slumped, brain worn out. The "thinking tea" had failed to work magic, neglected to rouse any decent ideas.

Rolling up her sleeves, Randi stalked across the kitchen linoleum and switched on the small lantern above the sink.

Need something in my belly to help me think.

The latest technology provided instant hotness. Radiant heat worked quickly on garlic chicken over rice. She removed the unbreakable bowl. Barely warm to her hands, its contents were piping hot. She sprinkled her favorite peanuts on top then spun around to grab chopsticks from an upright stainless-steel container.

And dropped everything. The bowl emptied. Garlic chicken, rice, and peanuts went everywhere while the dish rolled noisily in circles until it slapped the linoleum.

Pressing back against the nearest wall, she held her breath, listening to the front door rattling.

Min Li? Ting Lan? Both had complained the doorjamb was sticky, hard to open. They would've called first. Ting Lan had left her comm in case of emergencies.

Why did the kitchen door have to be propped open?

She peeked around the corner. Oh, shit. Someone's flashlight, a brilliant glow, swung toward the window with a better view. An intruder? Cop?

The lantern. She had to get the lantern turned off before they saw light inside.

Randi scrambled across the room and slipped on the food spill. She fell flat on her ass and cursed fluently in Chinese. On her hands and knees now, she crawled through the mess, turned off the dim lamp, then returned to the wall's protection.

She sneaked another peek, caught sight of the beam shifting slowly around the interior, settling on an area, moving again, settling. Dutch, for sure. The routine cop had taken little time surveying the premises.

Light split darkness again so very close to the kitchen door. It searched under every table, chair, any reachable hiding place. The opposite wall illuminated, reflective shine held steady, gleaming over the glass-covered picture. The Oriental scene displayed peacocks, teahouses, and dragons in vibrant purples, reds, and gold.

She slithered farther away from the flashlight's penetrating focus, uncaring if hot food and liquid soaked through her clothes. The aroma of Asian cuisine permeated the room's air. It would never escape through the steel door and tease Dutch's nostrils.

Give it up, detective. You'll never find me.

The beam disappeared and she waited, stayed relatively still, her breathing uneven but slow.

When the back door shimmied, chains clanking in tune, she sucked in air to fill both lungs. They threatened to burst. He'd seriously jeopardize her safety if he shook the steel barrier any harder and set off the alarm system.

She scrambled upright, tiptoed to the door, pressed her hands against the cool surface, and held it firmly in place. Steel vibrated beneath hands. Perspiration—no, nothing so feminine—sweat, pure and simple, oozed from every pore in her body. She closed her eyes, praying for strength, begging for help.

She imagined Dutch on the other side, his long legs braced apart, one big hand gripping the doors handle. He knew exactly what he was doing. He knew someone was inside, knew she was inside. Had he sensed her presence and distress? Could he hear her heart pounding to the tune of despair?

When the door rattled again, Randi swallowed the painful lump rising in her throat. She looked over her shoulder, saw the big slicing knife gallantly positioned in the cutlery stand, hoping she could grab it in time and use it before he broke inside.

She would not be taken alive to rot in prison, lonely and despised.

"Randi!"

Oh, no.

"I know you're in there!"

She nearly peed. The urge threatened again when the door shook, shifting under her palms, sending variable quaking through her body. Squeezing her eyes shut, she tightened every muscle. Tea mixed with sweat seeped through her pores in streams. Why did she drink the whole pot of non-thinking tea?

"Randi." His voice cracked as sharply as a whip. "Open this goddamn door."

Should she? Maybe, if he hadn't sounded so incensed. What did he have planned if he found her, a beating? Was he any different from the general male population? Had she provoked his anger by running? He'd found her. Only he assumed she'd hidden inside this building. No way did Dutch know for sure, unless he'd seen the lantern's soft light or he'd heard the bowl hit the floor. Oh, God, were the walls thinner than paper?

Breathing hard now, she curled her hands into tight little fists. She really wanted to trust him, except he'd put her in jail without hesitation, or beat her before she got there. Like prison guards, cops were known for abuse.

I can't open it, Dutch. Go away. Please. Just go away.

As if he'd heard her thoughts, something smacked the door as hard as a brick. Probably his fist. Or his black cowboy boot.

Randi stayed rooted where she stood. She kept her hands solidly against the protective shield, arms stiff as steel rods, mind helplessly reeling.

She woke with a start from another chilling nightmare, panting, perspiring, and shivering. Freaked out, these torture dreams managed to erase all imprints of the good life from Randi's memory cells, put her on maximum alert, leaving her unglued, frightened, and at her wit's end.

She'd left the overhead light on while she slept. Waking in a cold, dark dungeon had rattled her nerves. Prison life, specifically solitary confinement, had the power to turn her inside out. Brundage had reserved full control over her.

He was an asshole and a pervert. Sneaking into her cell, holding his knife to her throat, threatening her life if she refused to conform to his demands, forcing her to do outrageous acts.

She shook her head to clear the obscene thoughts of Ralph Brundage.

She'd interviewed him years ago following the death of an inmate and then she became the prickly thorn in his side. The guard had denied each implication, angered, furious by her allegations. Perryville's warden had suspended Brundage, but the case against him had fizzled. He'd gone back to work after thirty days administrative leave with pay. Vacation.

Randi was never allowed on prison premises again until her conviction.

Pulling the blankets tighter around her shoulders, she shivered violently, aware those years of incarceration had racked up a devastating toll on her mentally. Facing a duplicate sequence with Ralph Brundage's abrasiveness chilled her to the bone. She should've told Dutch about the maggot's tendencies. Yup, she would one day soon.

This nightmare, however, had nothing to do with the prison guard. She always remembered those terrorizing dreams for some silly reason. Few nightmares wore heavily on her mind and she could count them on one hand. No, this was worse than the norm, nearly matching the tightly coiled fear and agitation she'd suffered before her parents died. Was it premonition?

She sat upright. Min Li? Ting Lan? Like Gil, the friendliest man on earth, who could possibly want to hurt a gentle, caring artist who would never harm a soul? The night of his death she'd had an awful nightmare and woke screaming. The neighbor, banging on Randi's floor from below, had brought her fully awake.

She reached for the comm and punched in Ting Lan's number. So out of touch with current technology, she still hadn't learned how to use voice-powered units.

Thank God, Ting Lan answered. "Why are you calling in the middle of the night? It's two in the morning."

Lord. She had no idea. No clock. No watch. Pitch black without the overhead light, day or night. She'd thought her restless sleep had lasted more than three hours. But Randi smiled, hearing her friend's noisy yawn over the link.

"Sorry. For all I know, it's noon. Have you heard from your mother?"

"At this hour? Surely not. Mother has slept eight hours every night for many, many years. Not one minute more, not one less. She sleeps from midnight until eight. She has a built-in alarm clock. It's a habit from time spent in the dark. Why?"

Time spent in the dark? Min Li had never spoken of her past. She'd said the past was unimportant and to think now and of the future. Make life good. Enjoy sunshine. Her favorite quote: Confucius say body need sunshine to keep demon away.

Why was she calling? Because she needed to know if Ting Lan and Min Li were safe and sound. "Just something. A feeling," Randi qualified. "Would you call her, make sure everything's kosher?"

"Should I be worried?"

"No, no," Randi said hurriedly, shivering, pulling the sheets tighter. "Please, Ting Lan. Just this once. Call me back." She heard another noisy yawn.

"Is this really an emergency? She'll skin me alive, air-dry my leftover parts, and bury them. The ultimate insult if it isn't."

"Duì. Yes. Please."

Sighing, Ting Lan said, "All right."

"Xièxie. Thank you." Randi waited anxiously, and she prayed.

Chapter 8

Dutch slept three minutes if he slept three seconds. Fatigue crawled under his skin tenaciously as frustrated fire ants tormenting an intruder. Adrenalin had kept him awake when exhaustion beat him to hell and back.

New York.

Fat chance if he'd let his little girl move to another state. So what if the damn alimony payments stopped the day Cheryl remarried? Was he complaining about payments? Hell, no, he'd coughed up the money on time, on the first day of every damn month. Child support too. He'd do anything for his daughter. Why did Cheryl want to take his daughter away from him? Blair was the bright star in his life. She kept him going, kept him sane through society's hellish bullshit.

Kicking the covers aside, he rolled to a sitting position, planting both feet on cool hardwood.

No way, New York was out. He had no plans to approve of Cheryl's kidnapping game. Blair's life was here, in Phoenix, with him.

"Ex-wife. On speaker."

When the unit responded, asking for confirmation, Dutch said, "Comm off."

He stared at the digital clock. Nineteen after seven. They'd still be in bed, sleeping. Rise and shine, damn it.

He ordered another call. "Comm off."

He'd kept his wits for a solid half hour last night, let Cheryl explain, while he smoldered hot with volcanic temper.

Fine, she wanted to marry again, live a happy life with Gavin, she'd do it without his daughter. Blair belonged here. Not with her, not in New York, and certainly not with Gavin. The no-good bastard.

Who the hell did Gavin think he was anyway? Nobody moved in on Dutch Patterson's little girl, not any damn man who thought to takeover "Daddy" duties. Fatherly parenting was his responsibility, always his main function.

Yanking the solid-yellow top sheet from the bed, Dutch wrapped the king-size around his waist. He stalked out of his bedroom, marched around the living room's sofa toward the kitchen, passing the obligatory palm tree that always managed to bite into his bare shoulder with needlepoint, shellacked leaves.

At the doorway, he snapped, "Coffee. Mine."

The voice-recognition machine zapped out the steaming brew, rotated the cup, and raised the shield before Dutch lifted his hand to retrieve it.

His naked body needed sleep, but his brain perked as fast as the new-age brewer. He sipped the perfect coffee, no imitation cream, no sugar. No hassles.

Hell's bells.

Mason. 0800 hours. He dropped the sheet where he stood and looked down his body.

"I ought to go into HQ just like this, naked as a damn jaybird, and tell Mason to kiss my bare frickin' ass. I quit."

How many cases had he solved? How many dope dealers had he taken off the streets? How many damn rapists, murderers, and other felons had he put in jail? How many deserved jail time? One, he figured, did not. And where the hell was she?

He knew where she was. He'd seen the shadow at China Palace and saw the dim light go out. Randi was hiding inside. Or somebody was sneaking around. Illegals? No way. He'd bet on Randi's sweet ass that she'd prowled the damn restaurant.

"Caller," his voice unit said. Another automated piece of shit.

He snatched up the sheet, struggling to wrap it around his waist while holding the coffee mug and straightened. Yesterday was bad. Life couldn't possibly digress.

"On speaker."

"Hey, White Boy, you up?"

"Barely. Are you in already?"

"As always," Jinx replied. "Bad news."

"Keep it secret until I dig my blues out of the closet."

"Too small by now, but it's not Kemo Sabe swinging his tomahawk. Worse."

Nothing could be so wicked as to deal with Howard Mason at eight o'clock in the a.m. on a bad day of a shitty week.

"Hang on." Dutch tossed the sheet's trailing mass over his shoulder and moved to the counter. Something recognizable in Jinx's voice amplified his awareness as he grabbed the pen magnet. "All right. Lay it on me."

"Got bodies," Jinx replied.

Plural. Very bad news when they were hot on another killer's invisible trail. He scribbled the address on yesterday's Arizona Republic and repeated it back to Jinx. "Traffic. I'll get there as soon as I can."

Snoozing during the hot shower did nothing to improve his mood. Fighting traffic's widespread parking lot for an hour helped even less. But seeing this carnage put Dutch's senses on alert. The metallic odor of human blood filled his nostrils. Death taunted its stale, inflexible grip on the small one-bedroom apartment.

The crime team busily located and marked evidence, snapped photographs, and collected anything and everything.

Jinx stepped over to Dutch's side near the front door, stripping off latex gloves. "No identification whatsoever. Found an unsigned letter written in Spanish on the dresser, from an address in Mexico, dated months ago. Probably illegal immigrants. No drugs or paraphernalia. Some cash, not much. No break-in either. Door was unlocked according to the manager."

"Weapon?"

Jinx scratched at a spot slightly above his ear. "None so far. Might be gunshots. The boys are canvassing," he said, shifting his weight.

"Who found them?" The vics were laid out identically, facedown, arms covering their face.

"Manager. Best I could get out of him was their last name. They paid cash, he accepted payment, they moved in. No paperwork, no questions asked. They might be brothers. Manager thought they looked an awful lot alike. Tenant downstairs complained to him about paint staining her kitchen ceiling."

"Mother of God." Dutch grimaced.

"These are old buildings. Linoleum's cracked, dry rot, plaster three days older than water. The complex is loaded with roaches, spiders, scorpions—"

"Enough already." Dutch moved away from the wall. Stung by a scorpion when he was seven and haunted by his allergic reaction, he paid good money for pest control.

"Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home," Jinx said, chuckling. He knew all about his partner's sensitivity to insects.

"Do we have an approximate time of death?" They circled around the first corpse, moving toward the kitchen.

Jinx wrinkled his face. "Tenant's husband arrived home around three a.m., noticed the ceiling discoloration in their kitchen. This morning, the wife found her one-year-old doing some finger painting."

Dutch was staring at the dark pools surrounding the victim when it finally hit him. Mouth agape, he stared at the smears near the body. "What? In the blood?" Horrified, bile burned a white-hot trail from stomach to throat, threatened to make a gushing appearance. Thankfully, he'd missed breakfast.

"Apparently. Makes the killings fairly fresh. Last night?"

A child finger painting with human blood? He had trouble getting over that one. "Jesus God. Where the hell was the mother?"

"Calm down. I asked the very same question. She set the baby down, gone only moments, and the child crawled to the kitchen. We have a hell of a murder here, White Boy. Stay focused."

Focused, yeah, okay. Two men popped, probably drug related or coyote takedown. He had to believe some reasonable scenario to keep the sweat from pouring down his forehead and burning his eyes. He wiped it away with the back of his hand. Didn't this place have air conditioning?

Hot or not, something about these bodies clicked wrong. Face down, their profile hidden. What should they expect to see on their faces? Pain? Surprise? Fear? No exit wound from gunshot from what they could tell. No sign of any fight, either.

Too damned familiar.

Marilyn Shaw, the finest medical examiner he'd ever met, came through the doorway, followed by her scarecrow assistant, Baker, carrying the square, magic black bag. Makeup hardly softened her cold, empty brown eyes if she wore any. She'd dressed in funeral black as usual, from neck to feet. Hair the same color was coiled tightly at the top and back of her head. The woman was all business, all about dead bodies.

For some reason, Dutch naturally drew his shoulders back, stood manly tall and proud, when Shaw entered on the scene. She strutted long and steady as any career military officer.

"Patterson. Murray," she acknowledged. "What do we have?"

"Two," Dutch replied. "Cause of death unknown, maybe gunshot. Wounds must be front side."

Curt and undirected, she nodded then signaled her assistant. Dutch and Jinx pulled up the rear.

After fifteen minutes, Shaw and Baker rolled the individual stretched out on the cracked linoleum.

Good God, Dutch thought, sickened.

Throat cut, sliced in the shape of a three-prong pitchfork, jawbone to jawbone, chin to sternum. He witnessed something much worse than pain or surprise. He saw horror and disbelief in the victim's dark eyes, written all over his lifeless, distorted face. Blood had pooled abnormally since the victim was face down.

"Stabbed repeatedly," Shaw said, running her latexed fingers over the victim's green plaid shirt. She spoke into the miniature, recording device attached to her blazer's lapel. She went on to describe the injuries. "Appears the slicer was left-handed from this angle."

"You thinking what I'm thinking?" Jinx whispered.

Dutch nodded slowly. From what he knew, Randi had plenty of time, had all night to prowl around the city. And she was left-handed; southpaw card dealer.

Had he pissed her off, insulted her and caused her to seek new prey? Was she proving she could get away with murder and present herself as an innocent victim of Arizona's laws?

Son of a bitch.

"Call China Palace," Dutch said, holding his partner's gaze. "See if Min Li's in. If not, we'll swing by her home. Bad feeling, buddy. Bad."

Jinx linked, but the call went unanswered. "You think it's her, huh? Already laying blame, just like everybody else. I'm not liking this crap," he murmured, staring at officials milling around the apartment. He looked back at Dutch, sour expression about his face, dead serious eyes. Little sneaked passed the detective. "Something you forgot to tell me, White Boy?"

It was wrong to hold back information from partners. Jinx was the best around. "I stopped by the restaurant last night about eleven. I know Randi was in there. Somebody turned out the kitchen light. Both exit doors were locked tight."

"Sure it was her? Could've been another worker."

Shaw marched over before Dutch spit out his comeback.

"Prelim sweep of the bodies indicates someone else's blood DNA on the victims. Once I recalibrate my tester, we'll see if the specimen comes up in our database. Something looks vaguely familiar."

"She could be wrong," Jinx said as Shaw walked off.

Chapter 9

Randi showered in the small tube. She dressed quickly, combed and left her hair hanging loose, then emerged from the lavatory feeling more alert than a chloroformed guinea pig stuck in a rainforest cage. She went to the kitchen.

Her pulse jumped. On the counter, every sharp knife and cleaver was laid out, displayed in a long gleaming row. Who'd gotten inside? How could they without her hearing them?

She glanced at the back door. It was still locked, still chained.

Moving slowly toward the doorway separating the kitchen from dining room, she listened for the intruder then peeked around the corner.

No, no, no. Impossible. The shakes took over her body.

Every blind was wide-open, sunlight streaming inside, promising another scorching day. They were shut last night, weren't they? Sure, they were. She'd closed them completely before she went to her suite downstairs. Short of breath, trembling badly, she tiptoed from window to window and snapped each one closed, and then checked the front door. Luckily, it was still locked.

Min Li or Ting Lan must've stopped by early while she still slept. Must have. They were quiet, didn't want to wake her, and left. That had to be it. Wasn't it? Of course it was, but relaxing didn't come easy.

Randi went back to the kitchen, stared for an unsteady moment, and then carefully put the cutlery back where they belonged. The owner of China Palace or her daughter had taken the knives out, sharpened each blade. Min Li always complained about fighting beef and pork with a dull slicer.

At ten o'clock, she heard banging at the door followed by several muttered cuss words. Rain and humidity caused the wooden doorframe to swell, but spendthrift Min Li refused to waste money on steel or aluminum enclosures.

"Murdering daughter!"

She wished the boss wouldn't use that derogatory tag. "Coming."

She hurried, having no desire to have her skin thinly peeled from muscle with the sharp carving knife, added to vegetables or noodles for the daily menu as succulent Westbrooke chow mein, or worse, MD—Murdering Daughter—special of the day.

"Alarm not set." Min Li looked her up and down and grunted. "Look Chinese. Smell good."

Compliment, not slander. What a surprise. The alarm? Oh, hell. Had she been sleepwalking again? Was that why the knives were on display? Jeez. The last item she remembered before dropping off to sleep the first time was the butcher knife.

"You bad. Had number one daughter wake mother. Chinese mother angry. Demon in mother angry. You not wake mother," she ordered, stabbing her bony finger at Randi's chest.

"Even for emergencies?"

Ting Lan had called one of the hens, someone who lived near her mother's home, when Min Li didn't answer. Begrudgingly, the woman had run by queen hen's home.

"Bah!" Min Li shoved her aside and stomped toward the kitchen. "You not have emergency."

"Detective Patterson was here last night, trying to get inside. He called out my name."

The boss stopped in her tracks and spun around.

"You should've answered the phone," Randi said. "You should've called me."

Studying the tiles at her feet, disturbing worry lines creasing her forehead, Min Li said, "He not find you. Wise mother very smart."

They went by Min Li Chen's home. Since no one answered the door, Dutch had the cops mount an illegal telewatcher on the small house's porch. Illegal because they hadn't gotten permission from a judge. Yet. He hopped the backyard's chain-link fence. "Put one back here. She's got a detached garage."

A single window caught his eye. Few Phoenix homes had cellars or basements. Though he couldn't make out what was stored inside, it raised one glaring question about China Palace.

They checked the county's building plans. Sure as hell, the restaurant contained a cellar. And Jinx called in, what he said, was a marker that landed the search warrant they needed.

Once officers were in place, Dutch banged on the Palace's door.

"Cool it," Jinx ordered. "If she files a complaint, we're screwed."

Ting Lan separated the blinds and peered out. Dutch presented the warrant. She was reluctant at first, but she let them inside.

They displaced every movable object, raised every rubber mat in the big kitchen, and finally found what they were looking for after several minutes.

"Gotcha," Dutch said, triumphant. He readied his restraints. "Where's your mother?"

Fear shadowed the waitress's face, dark eyes glittering, her awareness skimming the fine edge of fright. "I'll call her."

"Wrong answer. When we get Westbrooke out, she's next."

Ting Lan swallowed convulsively and wrung her hands.

He opened the trap door. Darkness. "Where's the light switch?"

"It burned out."

"Bullshit!" Dutch snapped, invading her personal space. She'd learned the family trade. No problem. Jinx was on his way to the car. Police vehicles carried flashlights.

While he waited, Dutch kept his gaze pinned on Ting Lan. She trembled worse than a scared mouse. "Do you know how long your mother, and maybe you, will spend in jail for aiding and abetting a fugitive?"

She shook her head.

"Three long years. Do you know how long the courts send you up for murder? Forever."

"We haven't murdered anyone." Her voice shook almost as badly as her hands.

"Accomplice after the crime gets the maximum, Ting Lan. Randi might have killed again. If she has, she's been hiding here. You're here, which makes you an accomplice."

"Surely not." Tears welled up in her eyes.

He lacked backbone to push her further. The waitress didn't fit the criminal profile. Luckily, Jinx returned. "Cover me."

The entry was built for short folks. Weapon in hand, Dutch crouched forward and descended slowly down the wooden steps, sweeping the light back and forth. Damned if he wanted his throat sliced.

"Clear!" he said and cursed. He switched the overhead on as his partner followed.

"Can't prove she was here," Jinx said.

"I can." Randi's unique scent filled his flared nostrils.

"How?"
"Not in a court of law. Attic." Dutch started up the steps.

"No go, Dutch," Jinx said. "Warrant doesn't cover."

"Fuck the warrant." He climbed onto the counter. Straddling the sinks, he said, "Hand me the broom." He shoved the false ceiling panel aside. No way could Randi get up here on a whim, but he had to check, and struggled to hoist himself up.

The space was empty, nothing stored. Mostly dead bugs occupied the area. Sweltering heat would kill a person too.

As he replaced the panel, Ting Lan said, "I've known Randi for years. She would never hurt anyone. Why can't you leave her alone? She's not a murderer!"

Gone was the quiet façade. Livid, she showed the same irate qualities of her mother. And Dutch had agreed with her. Until this morning. Something lingering and repulsive had snapped inside. Pulling his wits together now, he realized he'd played the town clown's starring role, laying blame for error without squat for evidence. He hopped off the counter to the floor.

"Ting Lan," Jinx said in an easy-going tone, cupping her elbow, guiding her toward the pantry. "Ms. Chen, let me give you some history. Remember the last time we were here?"

She nodded.

Dutch turned his back, excluding himself from the general conversation. Frowning, he wondered if he'd just heard Jinx speak some choppy lingo. His partner said he'd spent three years in Beijing as an exchange student, back when he was into foreign languages and wanting to explore international trade.

When Dutch looked over his shoulder, the young woman was smiling. Jinx had a way with women.

His comm beeped, and he dreaded answering the ME's summons. Squaring his shoulders, he decided nothing would set off pessimistic behavior again as long as he kept an optimistic mindset. Stay focused.

Randi's crater was already hip-deep. He and Jinx would prove her innocence. Mason might get happy for once, and they'd continue their detective jobs as always. End of story.

"Patterson."

"I was right," Shaw said. "Match."

"You not welcome in my presence no more!"

Tremors skittered through Randi's body, gooseflesh covering her skin sank into her bones. She'd heard bits and pieces of the conversation, just not enough to understand Min Li's hostile behavior. What in the hell had they argued about?

She sat on the edge of a hen's guestroom bed, her fingers curled tightly into the thin mattress, waiting to hear something. Anything, but not Dutch's accusing voice.

Minutes passed without an audible sound. She tried hard to believe Min Li anticipated his turnaround visit, staying idle until the coast was absolutely clear, but Randi's confidence began to fade.

The walls seemed to close in, holding her imprisoned. She wasn't a killer, was she? Maybe she had murdered in the dead of night while in a trance or hallucinating or sleepwalking, unaware of an inherent murderous trait in her gene pool. What about an alter ego or split personality? She'd never known her birth father and had refused to discuss him with anyone. Years had passed before she'd warmed up to Annette. At least her natural mother had attempted to get to know her daughter better, but the swine who had impregnated Annette could be a wandering executioner in disguise. What had he done for her, besides evict his child—a product of his lust and flesh and blood—from his life and heart? She owed him nothing and she'd clung to animosity.

She heard footsteps.

Randi found she missed hearing Min Li's melodious voice when she'd beaten the challenger on her own turf. Was it a sign? Had her boss lost the battle, then the war? Was Dutch waiting, nerve restraints ready, face solemn but victorious? Swallowing the pain swelling in her throat, she rose from the bed, legs unsteady, hands trembling, body vibrating inside and out like an overstretched wire. The fine sheen of perspiration cooled her forehead. She'd lost the strength to lift her hand to wipe it away. Worse, the power to move her muscles had completely deserted her. And not one handy weapon lay nearby, not a single tool remained in sight if she had the gumption to follow through with taking her own life.

God help me. Take me now.

She would gladly walk through the valley of death and fear no evil. Nothing could surpass the malevolence she faced here on Earth.

Take me now, please. I beg you.

Closing her eyes, she waited for her calling, prayed for it to happen with everything she had.

"Come," she heard Min Li say. "Cop come back no more."

She opened her eyes. As the light behind her boss blurred, Randi's legs gave way. She melted slowly to her knees and bowed her head.

Thank you.

"Rise," Min Li said.

Weak, worn down, and bone tired all at once, Randi lifted her chin.

"Show power, my daughter. Show Chen strength. Demons not win."

It suddenly returned, magnified. She lifted her chin higher, rocked back on her heels, and stood with renewed vigor. Her closest friend was absolutely right, and she needed rejuvenation.

"Make tea, Min Li," Randi exclaimed. "Celebrate."

While parked at a nearby deli, Dutch took the smoke that Jinx had lit and said, "What do you think?"

Jinx sighed. "I want to believe her."

"But?" He feared he'd lost his partner's confidence. His own teetered precariously on the thinnest thread.

Clearing his throat quietly, Jinx flicked ashes out the window. He inhaled another long drag off his cigarette then blew smoke through his nostrils, hard and steady. "It's looking—"

"Smoking not allowed in this vehicle," the onboard voice system announced.

"Shut up," Jinx snapped. The unit instantly quieted.

Dutch focused on his partner's inscrutable features. For a man of his phenomenal talents and instinct, Jinx rarely gave up or allowed evidence to cloud his thinking when set to take on the world.

"ME's got evidence on her. Puts Randi in their apartment."

"Not necessarily," Dutch replied. "They work together. Remember, the Montoyas had few clothes too. All three worked in China Palace's kitchen. Chopping foods, chopping fingers. How difficult would it be to cut your hand and shake the blood onto someone else?"

"You're grasping for something far too obscure."

"Am I?"

All right, so maybe he had reached farther than he should have. If he had Randi's track record, he'd take a stand, fight back, which is exactly what she'd desperately done from the beginning. Until the system bested her, finally duping her for real, victimizing her in more ways than one, he was sure, without a soul to watch over her or protect her.

"You want out of this case?" Dutch asked. "I can find another partner for the duration. Don't need anybody to second-guess themselves. Or me. Matter of fact, I'd as soon work alone than with some frickin' pussy."

Jinx cut his eyes better than a scorned woman, slicing a man to the quick with his glittering death glare. "Kiss my ass, Patterson. You're stuck with me for the duration. We get some chow and we're back on the streets. We've got a priest to check out and an asshole, Asshole, before the commander decides to kick both our butts off the damn force."

The partner he knew had returned, riding on the cutting edge, certain of his own way of thinking, a dangerous king cobra when cornered or poked.

They bought takeout, loaded Italian subs to devour while en route to the church where Father Lawrence Silvers once presided. Dutch didn't think the priest had motive to kill any more than Randi had reason. He was a suspect, nonetheless, and once they cleared him, narrowing the field, they had two truly viable suspects remaining.

One Harold Cain easily fit the profile of a killer. Benjamin Glickman carried a license with the authority to use force or kill when necessary. Both ran one and one on the priority registry. The latter created more problems than anyone could produce. Of course, they still had Randi to worry about. The ME had found her DNA at the last crime scene—not Silvers', not Cain's, not Glickman's.

"Hang a left at the next street," Jinx said.

Dutch looked both directions and turned the corner. He shoved the last of his sub into his mouth, chewed ferociously, and swallowed.

"Lettuce hanging off your ugly mustache. Mustard on your chin. Bread crumbs stuck to your lips."

He glanced into the rearview mirror. Just like a two-year-old. "I need another napkin."

"What you need is damn bath tub."

"Next time you drive and eat, damn it."

"I'd be happy to, Patterson. In fact, pull over."

Not a chance. Obviously, his partner was still pissed. Dutch had lost his signature "White Boy" tag for the time being, but Jinx continued watching out for him as always.

He was the 21st century yuppie in every sense of the word. Impeccably groomed at all times. Dutch never understood how he kept from sweating in Arizona's blistering heat wearing jackets, ties, and creased trousers, but he figured his partner had future sights set on a chief's position. Somewhere. He also knew Jinx had the same qualities of great tactical leaders, unlike his own renegade antics.

"Right at the stoplight." Jinx's comm buzzed. He dug it out from his jacket and checked the number. "Got the happy face."

"Might as well see what he wants," Dutch said. It hit him when Jinx opened communications. "Oh, shit. The meeting."

"Yes, sir," Jinx said and signaled Dutch to turn into St. Mary's huge lot. "Yes, sir...Yes, sir..."

Hell's bells.

"Yes sir."

Too many acknowledgments. No rebuttals. Their ass was grass and Mason was the lawnmower. Jinx clicked off the unit at the same moment Dutch shut off the ignition.

"Well? Do we need to find a soup line tonight?"

Grinning his famous Cheshire cat smile, Jinx stuck his habitual after-chow toothpick into his mouth. "He apologized for not meeting his lead detectives. The mayor summoned Mason. He spent all morning there, still there. Saved by the bell, White Boy. Gimme five." Dutch slapped a stinger on his hand. "Short reprieve, though. Orders are we have a binding appointment in his office day after tomorrow at eight bells. He's still fired up, but he's also tied up and deep in city hall's quagmire of bullshit. His words."

Which meant Mason had jumped in Jinx's ass with all fours.

They climbed out of the car and started for the cathedral's big oak doors.

Randi couldn't believe it. The Montoya brothers were dead. Dead! She wanted to scream outrage. Why would anyone kill another person? Why kill acquaintances of hers?

She set the teacup down hard. Hot liquid spilled over her hand, barely burning. Her own blood boiling, she could've heated the tea simply by sticking her finger into the beverage. "Dutch thinks I did it, thinks I murdered them? How can he be so stupid?"

Min Li tsked. "All cop stupid."

Ting Lan had come by, picked them up, and driven to the restaurant. Min Li had put the "closed" sign up at China Palace and called the hens. They'd come straight here.

"Actually, Randi, I specifically remember him saying if she's implicated," Ting Lan added. "To me, it sounded like a big if and his tone sounded worried. Worried for you."

"He worry about nobody. He cop. Never trust cop."

Dutch had seemed honestly trustworthy, even caring during their all-night discussion. Ting Lan had mastered voice and tones. Whether she'd recognized deceit or truth in Dutch's voice was beyond Randi, but she was willing to bet she could.

So, where had this left her? Without Min Li's help, she would be sitting in jail right now. Without Dutch's careless help, hell, she would be sitting in jail right now, rotting. Should she run? Leave the city? What if the killer decides to come after Ting Lan, Min Li, and the hens? Or Annette? Would they stay safe if she left Phoenix for good? What about Plan A? What about Dutch's determination to help prove her innocence and find the person framing her? Could she still trust him?

"Where you go, daughter?"

"Out. Can I borrow a few bucks?"

"Daylight," Min Li said. "Not good."

"I'll be careful, but I need to make a call and far away from the restaurant, you, and Ting Lan. I need fare for the Lightrail, too."

Ting Lan found her keys and drew out several bills. "Take my car." She handed over the petty cash and dangled keys like wind chimes.

"Too risky. Thank you anyway."

When had she driven a car last? If the cops stopped her for any violation, forget Plan A or B. She'd run. They'd impound the car and find an escapee's fingerprints. Oh, and don't get into an accident. The district attorney would have her best field day, layering more felony charges on her already lengthy rap sheet. Public transportation was safer, crowded and less conspicuous.

"Dutch isn't stupid whether you believe it or not, Min Li. I bet he's put a tail on you both. I bet there's a surveillance team watching the restaurant." How the dickens was she going to sneak around town unnoticed?

Randi gazed down at the green silk, two-piece pantsuit. She looked over at Ting Lan's daywear. Dressed Chinese, look Chinese. She reached up, threaded all ten fingers through her hair, smoothed it, and started to braid. The thick, wavy tresses represented a dead giveaway.

Ought to cut the mess off and go for bald.

"Let mother do hair." Min Li did so quickly.

"Makeup might help," Ting Lan offered.

"What I need is brown contacts. Can you cover the scar under my eyebrow?" She'd earned it the first week of prison life in an all-girl power war. She'd bled like an open faucet.

When the application was finished, Randi checked her reflection in a compact mirror. Not only was the young woman talented as an opera singer, Ting Lan worked magic with makeup. Pale foundation lightened Randi's complexion and hid the inch-long scar. Moss green eye shadow matched her clothes and heavy black eyeliner simulated a new slant to her eyes. Unfortunately, lipstick failed to conceal the hereditary fullness of her lips.

"I not like it, daughter. Stupid cop out to get you. Put you in new dungeon."

Randi wrinkled her nose, doubting those words without good reason. On the flipside, pride and pleasure spread easily from Min Li's concern, who behaved more like a mother than Annette ever had. "I'll keep it in mind, Wise Mother."

Chapter 10

Finding Father Silvers' location took less time than expected. The presiding bishop guaranteed Silvers was no longer a public enemy.

"Knocked the shit out of one suspect," Dutch said. The car doors popped open on his command.

"Yeah, narrows down the list," Jinx replied. He looked over the car's roof, blanching when his fingers touched sizzling metal. "I may not be very religious, White Boy, but using foul language on these premises sounds ugly."

Dutch knew better than to make the tacky comment.

Back in the days when his churchgoing mother forced him to attend services, their minister had made an inappropriate advance toward him. Dutch quit attending all church services against his mother's wishes. He'd kept the horrible secret to himself, avoided all religious interactions, although, he still believed in the Almighty. Today he had no choice. He had expected lightning to fry his behind once he stepped inside the cathedral.

Father Silvers had passed away. According to the bishop, he'd never fully recovered from the humiliation following the drama when Randi broke the story on his predatory activities. Spurned often, he died of heart failure when papers ordered his relocation to some desolate place in western Texas.

Dutch cranked the car's ignition and rolled forward. His comm vibrated.

Recognizing the exchange, he said, "Hi, sugar."

Static buzzed across the network.

"Blair?" He frowned, checking his unit. Yeah, they were still connected.

"Blair?" He couldn't cut communication, fearing she might be out of cash.

"Weak link?" Jinx asked.

"Maybe. Pay unit somewhere in Ahwatukee." His daughter was supposed be in class this afternoon, damn it, and if she skipped out again, she was in big trouble. "Yel-low." He sped up to beat the entourage of cars racing down the street.

"Dutch?"

"Where—"

"Jesus Christ, watch out!" Jinx bellowed, jamming his foot to the floorboard.

So absorbed in the caller's voice, Dutch had miscalculated oncoming-traffic speed.

He dropped the comm, yanked the steering wheel, and slammed on the brakes all at the same time. Tires screamed on hot pavement. The tail end of his car swung out toward the street. He'd damn near broadsided the passing cement truck. The driver leaned on his bullhorn.

"Shit." Releasing a long sigh of relief, fierce anger took over, possessed him. He snatched up the comm. "Where in the hell are you, goddamn it?"

Jinx shut off the ignition.

"It looks like I'm in some sort of communication booth from outer space."

"You know exactly what the fuck I'm asking, Randi. Where are you?"

"You'd come after me if I told you. And if you keep cussing filth, I'll hang up this instant."

On the brink of explosiveness, he dragged in an aggravated breath through his nostrils, released it between gritted teeth. She worried about cursing and he'd come close to jacking up another damn city vehicle.

"What's she saying?"

He shook his head, listening for any identifiable sounds in the background, heard none. She was inside a soundproof communication enclosure. She could be anywhere within Ahwatukee's city limits.

"Tip the unit this way," Jinx ordered. "I'll trace the number."

"I'm innocent, Dutch. You know I would never hurt anyone."

So, she'd talked to somebody. He still tended to believed her. From what little he knew of Randi, she'd have trouble physically hurting anyone. "My beliefs don't change the problem."

"Got it," Jinx whispered. He jotted down the cross streets, drew a half-assed map on a sheet of paper, held it up, and pointed in the right direction.

Dutch peeled out of the parking lot like a bat out of hell's raging flames. "Got to understand, Randi, this is a major problem here."

"Nothing compares to what the justice system will put me through."

Zigzagging through traffic, he cut off cars, narrowly missed others. Jinx forced stoplights to switch in their favor as they approached.

"Listen. Your DNA showed up again. Puts you in the Montoya apartment."

"I've never been there! Wait. I rode with Ting Lan to drop them off one night, but I have no idea which apartment Miguel and Jorge live in. I'm not lying to you."

Present tense. Good. "Okay, excellent. That'll help." He honked at the B'mer muscling his way into their lane. Dutch whipped around the passenger side. His partner had a nasty curse for that move. "Where the devil are you?"

"Hiding. From everyone," Randi replied. "From you."

The twinge of regret circulated through his chest, pained him in an unexpected, not-so-unfamiliar place. He licked his dry lips with an even drier tongue. "I need you to come in, Randi. Let me pick you up. We'll work through this. We'll get the truth." The link quieted for several seconds. "Come on, Randi, trust me."

"I do trust in you, Dutch, but no. You'll put me back in jail and leave me there while you investigate. Can't go back. I wish you understood."

"Damn it, you keep running and you will go to prison again."

Silence echoed through their connection, followed by static.

"Speaking of prison. There's one more person you might check on. Prison guard Ralph Brundage. I did a piece on him when an inmate was found murdered. He'd love to have my company again."

Brundage the Prick. Had my finger on him and forgot to do anything about it.

"We'll check him out, but you have to surrender. It's the only way to prove your innocence. What do you say? I can help you. I will help you."

"You're on your way," she said, sounding damned nervous. "I'm out of here, but I promise to be in contact."

He heard traffic noise coming through the link. She'd opened the door to the booth. "Wait, Randi, wait!" Dutch glared at the unit. "I'll find you, damn it. You can't hide from me forever. She'll be long gone."

Short minutes later, and as expected, the receiver dangled from the older model communication booth like an oversized silver earring. Randi was nowhere in sight.

They circled several blocks. The mall was close by, but Dutch knew Randi was too smart to risk sneaking inside when cops could easily seal it off from any escape. Sure as shit, Mason would order K-9 units to sniff her out if not one of Phoenix's sharp-shooting SWAT teams. As for Lightrails, she could be on any one, heading in any direction, or in her hiding place by now, far away from China Palace and her apartment that she had yet to set foot in again. Telewatchers continuously monitored, compared subject images, and transmitted data instantaneously, alerting officials. Cops would mob the scene within seconds.

"Should've called in back-up," Jinx said.

"Why didn't you?"

Shrugging, Jinx stared straight ahead. "Had I been driving, would you have?"

His peripheral vision worked well and Dutch caught his partner's sly gaze while Jinx chewed madly on the same toothpick.

"It's your turf, White Boy. You should've put a team together to watch the restaurant and all its employees 24/7."

He knew that. When the light switched to green, Dutch guided the vehicle through the intersection and signaled to change lanes.

He was trying to maintain optimism. Randi deserved a life without drama and trauma, to live as any normal person, to find love, companionship and, most of all, the happiness she'd once embraced. She was smart and witty with enough fiery spunk to fuel the blazing sun's rays. He liked her spunk. He liked her.

They'd shared a rare chemistry left unexplored. And maybe one day...

Shit, her ass was mighty damn hot. And, boy, the way she kissed drove a man stark raving mad for more.

Dutch blinked rapidly as her exotic image faded, the street returning to focus. He realized the conversation had quieted while he drifted through an intense fantasy. "You had every opportunity as well."

"Touché, but I'm not mooning over her." Before Dutch snapped out a rebuttal, Jinx said, "We have to find Cain before our meeting with Kemo Sabe. Still have six medical laboratories, three hospitals—"

"Got to chat with Glickman."

"Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera." Jinx looked down at his gold pocket watch. "Less than forty-eight hours. Time is running out and our unidentified subject upped the stakes awful damn quick."

Worse, Randi seemed to have "guilty as hell" blinking blood-red letters on her forehead, ever since the murders started.

"I know. We have to shake this down. She's added to our suspect short list, too. Some prick named Brundage. Perryville prison guard."

She really wanted to believe Dutch, shouldered a compelling urge to let him help her. Why? Because. Because she knew he would protect her. There was something about him, something that eased her mind, soothed her soul, no matter what the Wise Mother believed. Yes, he was a cop first and foremost. He was also kind and gentle beneath the surface of his duties.

She'd witnessed the power of his touch years ago and at the hospital a few days ago. The magnetic pull in his words today said way more. We'll get through this.

We. Not you. We. He unknowingly acknowledged the special bond connecting them. Maybe they'd have the chance to pursue the apparent magnetism if things were different today. She still remembered a gentleman's caressing touch, his sensual kiss, and the smoldering heat two people enjoyed.

Sighing, Randi descended three platforms steps off the transporter, daydreaming of an impossible union with a man bent on locking her up for the second time despite her denials of murdering anyone, especially hurting the few people whom she'd give her own life to save. Only a miracle could help her now. Had Dutch been appointed her miracle worker or was she doomed to work one on her own?

She whirled around and stared across the street.

The network station's rust-colored, two-story building, her former workplace, appeared ominously uninviting. She was taking a big chance going inside after her mug shot had been splashed all over visual screens and local newspapers like an award-winning celebrity. Too bad she lacked real superstar status. The rich and famous always hired the best attorneys, regularly skipped jail time with a wrist slap, semi-tarnished career, or a highly productive one. Downgrading their flamboyant appearance to quietly sedate seemed to help.

Did she really look Chinese? What if someone recognized her in disguise?

Surely not, she decided, building internal confidence, absorbing Arizona's sunshine, and chasing the last of her demons away. She drew her shoulders back, lifted her chin, and dragged in and released two cleansing breaths. Now, if she could just manage Min Li's bossy dialect.

Who big-time reporter? Who work here? Randi grinned. Showtime.

Twenty minutes later, giddy as a new foal, she hurried out of the building and down the sidewalk. She'd gotten a well-known reporter's name, Shaala Tambo, and the office secretary's comm-number.

She'd caught a glimpse of Tambo, a tall, leggy, attractive black woman in her early thirties. An investigative reporter on Channel Twelve's six o'clock news, Tambo had worked at the station five years, had relocated from Chicago. An ambitious journalist was what the receptionist had said.

As the sentimental blues seeped into her mind, Randi tossed them aside. She had a good primary plan. Shaala Tambo stood on the debuting verge as major performer—her champion—if she could convince the woman to listen to her story. More than simple listening. Believing. Shaking her head, knowing her plan leaned toward a gamble, it was a dice roll she had to toss.

Convincing a male reporter...Suddenly, there he was. Chandler Mayfield. Tambo's husband, an ex-football player, crossed the parking lot heading in her direction.

She'd seen the dynamic pair's oil painting in the building's lobby. She'd heard through big screen grapevines that Mayfield caused his male counterparts to take a second look at him. Boasting Herculean shoulders, smooth buckskin complexion with an unusual pair of blue-gray eyes fringed with thick curly lashes, the man was hot. Rarely seen apart outside their workplace, according to the network's clerk, one national magazine had voted Tambo and Mayfield Most Beautiful Couple. The gold plaque was mounted beneath their painting.

Randi stepped off the curb between two parked cars, moved forward, focusing on his features, wanting a better look. Mercy, he was more attractive in person.

He made eye contact and smiled, but it wavered. Mayfield shifted his gaze in both directions, frowning.

Subconsciously, Randi heard the whine of an engine and, as the seconds ticked by, the hum escalated to a deafening roar. Standing in the middle of the street, she looked slowly to her left and froze solid. The dark sedan was on a direct collision course, barreling toward them at high speed. Unable to move, she sucked in air but the scream lodged in her throat.

She missed the chance to see her life pass by.

Randi forced her eyes open, knowing she'd died and gone to hell. Was this how the Devil worked in death when someone lusted after married people? Stretched out horizontally, Mayfield's big self was slanted over her, carefully cradling her body. He fit snugly between her legs, his lips a hairsbreadth from hers.

"God damn," he said, panting. His minty breath warmed her overheated face, blew loose strands of hair from her cheeks.

Was sex with him that good? She couldn't remember.

Squinting from the sun's blinding glare, she blinked once, twice, looked over and saw cars, pavement, and concrete. No flames. Here she thought they'd died and done something naughty.

"Are you okay?" Mayfield helped her rise. He kept one hand on her elbow while dusting off his trousers. "Do you know that idiot was trying to run you down? I'm calling the cops."

Randi neither heard the scream of tires braking, nor did she smell burning rubber. The sedan was nowhere in sight.

Mayfield had prevented the surefire hit and run, kept her from hurtling through the air, smacking the ground, and splattering. He must've dragged her across the asphalt. She remembered heat penetrating her shoe heels, thinking Hell had flared up to greet her.

"No. I-I'm fine." Shaken and thinking hard for the next fib, she straightened her clothes while scraping teeth over her bottom lip. "Thank you for saving my life. I don't think the driver saw me."

"The hell they didn't. They punched it. Wish I'd gotten the tag number and model of the car." Fierce, the color of his eyes matched stormy thunderheads. "Do I know you?"

She looked down at the ground and kicked two small pebbles with the toe of her shoe. "We've never met."

"Could've sworn we had. Let me give you a ride home. You look sort of unsteady."

Freaked fit better. "Thanks, but no. I have errands." She left him standing there.

Hurrying, Randi checked over her shoulder every few steps. Mayfield remained where he stood, frowning, hands on his hips, until she crossed the street.

Before the city transporter arrived, one solid dose of inhalant relieved the tightness in her lungs. Somebody had recognized her. Mayfield might have too. She should tell Dutch about the incident. But if she told him, like any nosy detective he'd dig deeper, ask the location, talk to the person who'd saved her life, find out she'd stopped at Shaala Tambo's job, ruining everything. Nope, he didn't need to know. No one needed to hear the truth.

"It worked," Randi said as she opened the kitchen's door. "It worked!"

"Good," Min Li replied. "We busy."

All the hens were at China Palace.

Randi deflated faster than a punctured bicycle tire. "Aren't you interested in what I did? Why I went out? What really worked?"

"I not worry about what work. Only worry about you."

She experienced sobering and sincere gratitude toward Min Li. No one had shown as much care or concern for her safety since her parents were alive and healthy.

Her husband had certainly lost interest in her as his wife, lover, and devoted companion. She'd loved him with every fiber of her being since her sophomore year in college, had believed in the sanctity of marriage, faith in one another, but she'd lost Jimmy's trust and devotion so easily.

She laid her hand on her friend's shoulder, squeezed gently. "Thank you," was all she could say.

The woman couldn't hide the smile on her face. "Eat, daughter. Talk sentimental shit later."

God, laughing felt so cleansing and good. "Well," Randi said, unable to contain the snickers. "Let me tell you my plans while I eat. I'll put the sentimental 'sheet' on the back burner."

Chapter 11

Baywood Medical Center, and two laboratories they used for tests, had reconciled all of Randi's blood samples. They'd destroyed old specimens years ago. Maricopa Medical Center wasted more time, but less than five minutes was spent at Roiker's facility.

They coasted out of the parking lot, relieved. Almost. So far, not one institution or specialist in Phoenix had requested Randi's blood sample. Flagstaff Medical and a Tucson facility had each requisitioned small amounts. All other shipments were sent out of state.

"Push come to shove, I guess we'd have to check outside Phoenix." Dutch shook his head.

Spreading the investigation to another city presented more problems, wasting precious time. With luck, the killer had satisfied the urge to murder again. They were still in for a jostling roller coaster ride as long as Randi stayed on the run. Somehow, he had to convince her to trust him.

"Who do we have next?"

"Closing time. Berkins, on Twelfth and Guadalupe. Hurry and we'll catch them before—" Jinx bellowed a curse.

Min Li thought Randi had lost her mind. Arranging to meet with a news reporter topped her stupid list.

"You crazy." She slapped the soiled towel onto the counter, swung around, and stomped toward the stove. "Trust no one, daughter."

"I have to trust somebody to help me," Randi replied calmly.

"You trust me. You trust Ting Lan. You trust smart Chinese women," Min Li ordered, gesturing toward her gal pals. Their gray-haired heads bobbed in tandem.

"Listen." Randi moved in behind her, keeping her tone quiet, her voice mild. Engaging in verbal brawls pushed Min Li's bossy buttons. "I'll run out of energy trying to hide the rest of my life. I'm innocent and I need to prove it. With Tambo's help, maybe the people of Phoenix will stand behind me."

"You wrong. They never believe you."

"But—"

"They not believe before."

She was right, darn it. What had her thinking she could change anybody's mind? People never, ever forgot a heinous crime when it hit close to home, let alone four of them with two more on the coroner's cold platter.

"They hate more now," Min Li continued. "I got eyes. I got ears. You not read newspaper. You not listen to screen news. People talk. People angry. At you," she snapped, hostility lacing her voice, hands planted firmly on her narrow hips. Slanted eyes or not, she had the thinnest slits on the planet.

"I'll find another way," Randi shot back, bristling.

The hens gasped an air tank worth of oxygen, followed by a smattering of clucks, ruffled feathers for sure.

She'd let the lid pop on her anger. Someone out there would believe her. With luck, one competent attorney needing exposure or maybe one high-profile shark might decide to try her case. If Plan A failed, she'd put another one into action. Something had to work. Had to. She wanted to live, build a new life, die of old age a free woman, and have the chance to fall in love again if she felt inclined.

Locked in a combat stare with her employer, Randi refused to back down. Min Li sure as hell wouldn't. This was her niche. Bossiness. Stubborn bitchiness.

"You dreamer."

Oh, for God's sake.

Okay, falling in love again was pure fantasy, but she deserved the right to All-American hopes and dreams. On the other hand, living meant the world, the galaxy, the damn universe. "Maybe, but I'll never give up. Never!"

What in the hell did Min Li think she would do for the rest of her life, wash dishes until her hands shrunk like dried prunes? Take orders and kiss butt from now until doomsday? Uh-uh. No way. Life was way too short. She had skills, smarts, and a hell of a lot of pride. No one, but no one could steal those qualities from her.

Somehow, she'd finesse her life back to some semblance of order and a new Randi Westbrooke would emerge. Stronger, prouder, and victorious.

She laid her head down on the pillow, exhausted. Shuwan's attic worked perfectly for hiding out once the portable air conditioner cooled the compartment. Everything was hot—the air, the floor, and the cot.

Dragging herself up again, Randi stripped down to underwear. She gathered her mane into a thick ponytail and twisted the rubber band around the mass to keep it off her neck. The shower was a godsend. By the time she climbed the ladder, the attic had cooled. Still, sleep was elusive.

Over the course of the evening, she'd kept her mind in first gear with details for the upcoming chat with Shaala Tambo.

Upcoming. She tried to think of any reason for Tambo to resist. Reporters always sprung at juicy stories. What journalist would turn down an exclusive interview with a convicted on-the-run killer? Fear came to mind. Reluctance to face Millennium Lizzie Borden and engage in dialogue, the suspect in the killing of her parents, convicted of slashing the throats of her husband, her so-called gay lover, and two sweet acquaintances threaded into her psyche. Why would Tambo risk her own life?

Randi pursed her lips, disgusted. She had to convince the woman she was innocent of all crimes. Like Dutch said, framed.

Why would somebody frame her? Shuddering, she rolled off the hard cot and sat on the embroidered pillow near the small wooden table. She grabbed the pen and tablet confiscated from the desk downstairs and began to chronicle events leading up to her arrest.

Because tomorrow morning, she'd have Shaala Tambo eating out of hand, preparing to report the city's most sensational headline.

Dutch stared at the ceiling in his bedroom, counting, vaguely hearing the air conditioner humming. His fifty-five-gallon saltwater aquarium bubbled gently in the background. The smaller, octagonal one in the guest room was for Blair. She liked tropical fish too. Like father, like daughter. Normally, he watched the orange and black Clowns and blue Damsels gliding effortlessly through the water, hypnotized. They put him to sleep most nights. Tonight, nothing seemed to slow his active brain waves.

"Sixty-seven bottles of beer on the wall, sixty-seven bottles of beer." Cross as a three-eyed cat with no mouse in the house, he bounced off the bed.

The light inside the refrigerator cast an ethereal glow to the room. "Two bottles of beer in the fridge. Two bottles of beer."

He grabbed one, screwed off the cap, and chugged half the dark ale, then surveyed the fridge's contents. He should've thrown out the week-old shrimp pizza. Fried chicken from the nearby fast-food joint sounded appetizing. Dutch tipped the bucket and frowned, seeing fuzzy-white yard bird. Damn, and he pushed the container toward the back.

Three-day-old Mexican takeout still looked appetizing. Bacteria burned up on habanero chiles, hot as they were. He shoved the box under radiant heat. Ten seconds later Dutch carried the snacks, the last full bottle of ale, and the open one to his bedroom. Beer would douse the tongue flames and volcanic eruption sure to take place in his belly about twelve seconds after the first sizzling bite. He braced himself for the fireball of hell's late-night dessert.

Of course, having a woman to burn up the sheets with him meant total satisfaction and solid Zs afterward. Without a woman's soft body around to fondle and tease, he needed something to keep his mind off banging. Jesus. He was hornier than a caged jackrabbit.

This time he blamed the intensity on Randi Westbrooke, damn her, when he should've had every brain cell glued to the current investigation and two dead bodies. Three, including Chapman.

Dutch set the empty box aside, chugged the last swig and froth of beer, and ordered lamplights out. He instructed the aquarium's light to dim.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he started counting backward from a million, anything to get his mind off screwing and Randi Westbrooke's fine body.

Chapter 12

"Is Shaala Tambo available?"

She'd called at eight o'clock. The receptionist said Tambo rarely arrived before ten. For the next two hours, Randi stalked around the attic practicing her speech.

She'd had a raggedy nap last night, antsy and unsettled, mind racing between the meeting and thoughts of Dutch Patterson. He won in the end. At dawn, she'd succumbed to a super-erotic dream, smiling, relaxed, safe and secure in the cowboy's arms.

"Shaala Tambo here."

The reporter had the sultry tone of a seductress, the kind many women envied, the type men busted a nut while listening to comm-sex. Tambo's voice matched every facet of the sleek African beauty. Flawless, chocolate complexion, long legs, an hourglass figure. The woman was meant to be a runway model or she belonged on movie screens. Chosen the first uncontested Miss World, if she wasn't married to a hunk of meat Randi would love to chew on, given the chance. Provided he was single, available, and blind. Most of all, blind to women and gay men striving to hit on him.

"Hello? Is anybody there?" came a louder voice.

Randi's vocal chords failed her. In the background frantic chatter bled into the link, opening the floodgate to long-buried memories when her business life revolved around the newsroom, and brought them surging to the front of her mind.

"Hello-o?" Tambo sang. "There's nobody's there. Did I pick up the wrong extension? Did they say what..."

The connection silenced.

"Great. Just great, Miss Out-Of-Your-League-And-In-Over-Your-Head." Randi switched the unit off and set it on the desk. "What's the matter? Chic-ken? Feeling inadequate?"

Jealousy crept its way to her thoughts. It certainly wasn't the first time in her life she'd suffered through hateful resentment. Her adoptive mother had frowned on jealousy. She'd scolded Randi for allowing her emotions to rule her mouth.

"Grow up. Leave the competition to the younger set." She reconnected.

"We must've lost the link," the receptionist said. "Hold on."

She closed her eyes and, when Tambo's provocative voice echoed through the unit, her speech flew out the covered window. "Ms. Tambo, I'm Millennium Lizzie." Oh, shit.

"Is this some kind of joke?"

"No, no, really. I'm Randi Westbrooke."

"Yeah, right, and I'm the Queen of Sheba." She cut the connection.

Staring at the comm, struck silly, Randi said, "That went very well. Like clockwork. Had her eating right out of the palm of my hand."

Now what?

She cleared her throat, practiced her lines using an octave-higher, more feminine tone and reconnected.

She dove right in before Tambo spoke. "I'm on the run, hiding out. The police claim I murdered my parents, my husband, my best friend, and now they're saying I killed two more people, two acquaintances. I'm innocent on all counts, Ms. Tambo."

"Straight out of the newspapers." Dead silence followed. "Call a tabloid." And the link signaled the call had been dropped.

"Up yours," Randi replied nastily. Her opinion of Tambo dropped off to an unprecedented zippo. "Bitch."

She squeezed her eyes shut, disgusted. What right did she have to badmouth the woman or use profane language? She'd learned street talk in prison and, foul or not, cussing and fighting showed strength. Kept her alive.

Macy, her cellmate and tutor when Randi wasn't confined to solitary, had suffered through fourteen years of her life sentence. She knew street life, language, stealing, and how to keep breathing in Perryville's hellhole. She introduced Randi to real Hell, whipped her behind silly, cussed her badly, and toughened her demeanor. Once Randi shut off the tear faucets, Macy took her under her wing and taught her how to survive. She returned the favor by teaching her roommate to read and write.

When Randi left prison, she vowed to clean up—mouth, mind, and life. Except changing her ten-year Hell hiatus was harder than expected.

Embarrassed, she massaged her temples. She had to give Tambo one good reason to talk to her. If every network thought they knew her business, what did she have to offer? Live commercials? Cartoons? Maybe a reality show: winner plunges the lethal dose. Jeez.

She eased down the attic ladder and found the screen's remote. Surfing the channels, she came across CNN.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Randi complained. "Yada, yada, yada. Give me some real information." She switched to an all-news station.

"Bodies. Authorities believe the unidentified victims were migrant workers. According to Commander Harold Mason, the police are on the lookout for escaped convict Randi Westbrooke, also known as Millennium Lizzie Borden."

"Ex-convict," Randi said as the newscaster highlighted her supposed deadly list of treachery, which they'd saddled the mysterious disappearance of her husband's playmate on her back, kicking her low in the belly, bringing it all home.

She desperately tried to block it from her mind when the hideous murder scene at her parents' home flashed on screen, followed by the humiliating mug shot of the famous serial killer Ms. Randi Westbrooke. The media kept misplaced evil alive, contaminating the public's mind.

But nothing stunned Randi more than seeing her natural mother's face in an interview by the newsroom's mousy brunette. Since when had Annette decided to seek fame?

She raised the volume.

"Thank you for coming in, Ms. Armstrong."

Annette nodded, smiling crookedly. She wasn't at her best today, not if she'd gotten shit-faced again last night. She must've. Her hair was straggly, greasy-looking. Shades most likely covered bloodshot eyes. Where did she get that pathetic, lime-green dress? Didn't she own an iron?

"Must be very difficult for you," the reporter went on. "When did you see your daughter, Randi Westbrooke, last?"

Uh-oh. She held her breath.

"It's been a while."

Air whooshed from Randi's lungs. She hadn't seen Annette in almost two weeks, but her mother knew not to blab her business.

"We talked by phone the other night."

"Ah, for God's sake," Randi snapped.

"A week or two ago," Annette reconfirmed. At least she didn't put all her business in the streets. "Before this last—"

"Last what?" Randi argued.

"Incident. I really don't know if she knew those two, poor Mexican men, but—"

"Oh, please."

Randi clicked screen off. Forget the buts. Annette knew nothing of importance. She should've kept her mouth shut and stayed out of the public's eye. The police would jump her behind like white on rice. Sure as hell, they were waiting outside the studio by now.

She'd have to call Mother Annette soon, find out what she said to them. And God help her if she lied. The truth, however, didn't always come out in the dirty wash.

She had a hunch Annette had accepted an interview for gambling or liquor cash until the measly trust fund or social security check arrived. Annette had lived day to day, like her daughter. Damn shame when Randi's lifestyle had been entirely different once upon a time.

But Annette had given her an idea to entice Tambo.

The reporter's secretary denied her request to forward the call. Randi would've bribed her with long-stemmed red roses if she'd had the money. "I have to talk to her. Convince her," she pleaded. "I've got information on the latest murders. She'll want to hear me out."

"She told me to forget it and said she'd scalp me if I put you on the line with her. I'm a single parent, got three children, and I need this job."

Please, somebody help me just this once.

"I know the victims' ages." Give away too much and lose everything, the voice in the back of her mind repeated.

Silence filled the link.

"I know their address, where they worked, how long they've worked there."

The woman's breathing pattern doubled.

"I know exactly what city in Mexico they're from. I know their names," she said, the final temptation on her behalf.

"Hold on."

She waited two long minutes.

How low can her luck go? Next stop, bargain basement? Search for a go-fer to leak information? Or check in with the tabloids? Surely, somebody wanted some headline action.

"We were given the information and advised to keep it under wraps until the next of kin were notified," Tambo said. "Whoever you are, I'll know if you're lying."

Snottiness was not the trademark to bolster on one's shoulders. Randi had this undisciplined urge to bless the woman with a nasty tagline. "Listen carefully. The victims were Miguel and Jorge Montoya from Veracruz."

"Son of—"

"Interested?"

The silkiness of her tone slid through the connection at the speed of chilled molasses, sticky and sweet. Fingers itching, Randi ached to push Tambo's buttons. Why not? This snippy heifer deserved reciprocating bad treatment. Beauty swan battling the ugly, murdering duckling for control.

"Or should I call Channel Five's lead reporter? Maybe Channel Ten? CNN?" she asked in a nine sass-factor. "Going once. Twice."

"Sold!"

Right from the palm of her hand.

They set a provisional appointment time. Randi caught the transport.

"Why are you in such a good mood?" Ting Lan asked. The restaurant was closed on Tuesday's. "It's nice to see you really smile."

She'd lacked reason before now. Life was bleak, almost worthless, skimming hopeless. With Tambo acting on Randi's behalf, there was a good shot at turning it around, brightening her future.

"I have lots of news. Good news. Important news. I was in touch with a reporter. We're going to meet. Great news or what?"

"You crazy," Min Li snapped. "Reporter turn you in to rodeo cop. Jail. You like dungeon? Have meeting."

She tsked. For once she had the upper hand.

"Randi," Ting Lan said, stepping closer, "are you sure about this? I mean, Mother's right. The reporter might want to hear your story, but would they believe you and let you go free when jurors found you guilty? What's to stop this person from calling the police and having them wait for you?"

An ambush? Tambo wouldn't dare, would she? Surely not. She wasn't snitch material. Journalists obeyed an ancient canon of ethics.

They did when she reported breaking news.

Chapter 13

"You're kidding," Dutch said.

He turned the corner at Jinx's command, driving toward the city's outskirts. After this next stop, one hospital left.

"Figured I might as well deal with it," Jinx replied, adjusting the shirtsleeves under his sports coat. "Figured I could handle Mason better on my own."

He had a good argument. The commander despised Dutch for his ponytail, his cowboy-like dress code, and his renegade techniques. The man expressed his animosity whenever possible. Daily if he laid his sights on Dutch.

Transferred from a pedestal higher than Zeus, after Dutch had been detective nine years, Mason lacked reasonable grounds to dismiss him. Even when Dutch deserved praise and commendation, received it from the city mayor, Mason would cut him to the quick with one derogatory statement.

Remember this, hotshot. Gold star or not, I'm going to bust you down one floor below the Devil's lair.

Mason's tone reeked with hard and cold antagonism gleaming as icily as his steely eyes.

Dutch tightened his grip around the steering wheel. Mason was a pure, unadulterated asshole out to screw him for no good reason. "How'd he take it?"

"Pissed. You know Glickman fits Mason's cop profile. He shucked it at first. So I ran it all down, the entire conversation with Edelson. Mason was on the warpath yesterday. Today, he's on a bloody rampage. Glick's supposed to report pronto. Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee. Serves the dumb bastard right."

"We still need to holler at him. He was off duty during the murders. You got his address?"

"What do you think?"

He should've known better than to ask Jinx a stupid question. Jinx kept detailed records of everything he did in life. People say opposites attract. Dutch chucked his slipshod records into chute thirteen, not giving a shit whether he'd accomplished something ten minutes ago, let alone ten years.

"You're always right," he replied, chuckling. "What would I do without you, my little dove?"

"Kiss off."

Packard Labs offered little for the length of time they spent there. The company went through merging and they'd shifted their accounting department and equipment to Scottsdale Healthcare's sprawling facilities. Most of their employees had already moved to the new location.

While they traveled west on the highway, Jinx ordered their onboard computer to lock with the city's two electric companies. Fourteen Cain's were catalogued. None displayed an "H" initial, but even the listed ones were scattered across the Phoenix metro area.

Jinx dragged out his personal processor. The smallest, the flattest, the most expensive compact unit ever. He'd named it Tuni for his favorite cocktail. He unfolded the thin as paper unit and it came to life instantly.

From what Dutch knew of his partner, he kept running tallies of people, dates, times, and events.

Jinx passed the loose-leaf paper over the device. "Done. Love this Wi-Sat. Connects and transfers just like that," he said, snapping his fingers. "I'll check the comm-companies after we clear the hospital."

Dutch wondered how much information his partner stored on the precinct's computer. Or was he storing data elsewhere?

He'd been inside his partner's home office once. Jinx forbade anyone access to his computer room without him as escort. He kept it sealed otherwise. If a snoop attempted to approach the doorway, a mouthful of big teeth greeted the intruder. Shiloh the Rottweiler was Jinx's bulky, one hundred pounds of monstrous, mahogany animal. His blood-red sleeping mat rested just outside the room. Dutch wouldn't be surprised if part of the red of the pillow was actually human blood. The office addition to Jinx's home had unique moisture, fire, sound, and bulletproof material installed from top to bottom. He'd ordered the best alarm system money could buy. Not to mention the sophisticated, high-end technology sweet enough to make an electronics store proud. Jinx was the techno-whiz.

Come to think of it, how much did he really know about his partner?

"Right at the light. Right! You should learn to use the UGPS system in this thing," Jinx said.

UGPS?

"It's outdated, way behind my equipment and software, but it works. You need help. Make another right at the next light. Then a fast, hard left."

UGPS?

"Have you ever turned the damn thing on?" Jinx waited all of two seconds. "Do you know where it is? Do you even know what UGPS means?"

Frowning, Dutch said, "Sure, I do. Use Good Phucking Sense."

Jinx burst out laughing.

Scottsdale Healthcare sat among a maze of foliage, circular driveways, parking areas, and four oddly brown-colored buildings. Dutch parked near the tallest structure, the five-story brick building. This upscale division of suburbia Phoenix smelled of old money and freshly minted bills.

Inside, patients watched a daytime screen show, read magazines, or did nothing at all except fiddle with their hands or stare at them, the odd couple.

They approached the main desk where two women worked on their desktop computers. The older one looked up, looked way, and spun her chair around. She yanked a file drawer open and stuffed several folders inside. Bold as hell, she disappeared from her station.

Dutch sniffed. "Do we smell bad or do we look too much like cops?"

Jinx gave him the once-over. "Doubtful on the cop look. However, dressing the way you do might lead one to think you smelled bad."

"Go to hell."

Jinx rapped on the counter, commanding the second receptionist's attention. He inquired into the head honcho's whereabouts.

Seeing their shields, the twenty-something blonde smiled and said, "Level five. West Wing."

Security was tight. As they exited the elevator, the uniformed, gun-toting guard glared them into stopping at his desk. Shields or not, they had to sign a magnetic ledger, state their business, and state exactly whom they were visiting.

"Contact the manager of operations," Jinx said in his official voice. "Why we want info is none of your business. Or should I order a warrant? I'll have it in less than thirty seconds." He pulled out his processor, started to unfold. "Right along with your nine-to-five."

They got everything they wanted, even some things they didn't ask for. Decontamination for one. They weren't allowed into the company's secure area without the painless-unaware-it-happened procedure, but the healthcare center had no good news anyway.

When they left the site, Dutch heard the processor's familiar beep. "You had that thing recording while inside?"

"Linked only when necessary."

"For what?" Damn. Jinx enjoyed treading fuel oil while firing up the best high-powered torch. "If Mason catches wind or either of these—"

"Not. Secure link, untraceable. I don't know about you, but I don't like it when somebody runs a scan on my person." Mumbling, he punched in a bunch of stuff. "They did more than decontaminate, but they got nothing now. We were never there."

More what? Dutch wondered, blinking rapidly. "Okay. Cool." Having Jinx spell out "more" might take months to decipher and understand. He left technology to the techno-maniacs. "What's in the report?"

Skimming the pages quickly, Jinx said, "Not surprising it's thoroughly reconciled, lists all employees who sent out specimens, quantities, dates, times, cities, company names, yada, yada."

"Randi lived there until the police carted her off to jail. Punctured, probed, and prodded like a pincushion. She ought to own stock in the company. Hell, own the damn company," Dutch muttered, climbing inside the car. "Any outside request from any nearby institutions?"

"One, two. Tucson labs." He fed the report's information to his processor. "What do you think?"

"I'm thinking Tucson ain't nearby. I say we find Cain and jerk Glickman's chain. If we come up empty, hell, you have resources. Tap into some message board and get Cain's background."

"Thought you'd never ask."

Dutch gave him a sidelong glance. "Since when did you start waiting for my permission?"

"It's your case." Jinx put in a verbal order.

His processor began its report, audio on, sexy female voice. "Cain. Harold. DOB—"

"Skip to residence and priors."

Cain's address was located at another trailer temple up north.

"License revoked 2012-5-5. Subject priors. Type II section three, misdemeanor, dismissed 1985-6-15, record sealed. Type IV section two, felony, dismissed 1985-11-23, record sealed..."

After listening to details on a rap sheet longer than the Colorado River, the profile beginning long before Cain left his youth behind, Dutch said, "Shut it down. We need to yank this lousy bastard off the streets. Got a whip in your briefcase?"

He shot away from the curb, leaving three feet of smoking rubber.

Cain had a hell of a rap sheet covering harassment, abuse of the elderly, animal cruelty, disorderly conduct, and burglary. Before he turned eighteen. More serious charges, vehicular manslaughter, suspected arson, robbery using deadly weapons, inciting riots, suspicion of murder, and, as Jinx says, "etcetera, etcetera, etcetera," should've sent the psycho up for life. A career criminal since age twelve, Cain had virtually gotten away scot-free on every count. The judicial system had put the idiot back on the streets repeatedly.

"The highway! The highway! Make a right," Jinx ordered, agitated. "Damn, you can't find your way out of your own damn house."

Dutch swerved at the on-ramp, tires squealing, the car jostling sideways, rear end fishtailing. He focused on the road ahead, his hands clamped tightly around the steering wheel.

Accelerating, they blasted onto the highway like a missile, moved from the slow-lane traffic to high-speed commute to the emergency-vehicles lane only alongside Lightrail. Heavy-duty six-foot high barriers separated the train from them.

"Sensors engaged. System on alert," the automated informant said.

Front and rear flashing lights automatically switched on at one hundred-twenty kilometers per hour. Short siren bursts blared every five seconds, more often and louder if the sensors detected another vehicle crossing the solid yellow line into their lane.

"If I'd let you drive. We'd get there tomorrow night," Dutch shot back, "Cain packed up, long gone."

"We might not arrive at all at this speed." Jinx latched thick fingers around his security bar and, as if it helped, mashed his brake foot to the floorboard.

Ignoring him, Dutch added pressure to the pedal. He held steady at three kilometer's below the system's cautioning. Regulation C505-B went into effect the moment any city vehicle exceeded safe speeds. These newer unmarked vehicles immediately notified the precinct and Mason. Dutch had already earned two warnings this year. Caution number three meant suspension or deskwork for two weeks. Mason would option for suspension. He had the power to extend it.

Jinx gave him an early warning. "Take the Buckeye ramp, four kilometers ahead."

On deceleration, sensors were disengaged, system normalized.

Wriggling his striped brown tie loose, a rare phenomenon during work hours, Jinx said, "You're bound to give me heart failure long before my time. Left at the light."

"Punch it."

At Sand Dunes Trailer Park, the billboard's advertisement displayed a lovely welcoming. Some idiot had painted over letters and added a few words of their own.

Park Your Ass Here. We'll Make Life Enjoyable Or Your Money Back. Stop By Dragon's Shithouse For Information.

The county sanitation dump looked better than this ransacked development.

No one sat inside Dragon's Shithouse, the small security shelter. Windows were busted, door boarded with weathered wood, and sections of the blue siding were ripped away from the frame. Birds and every type of insect known to Arizona's desert had squatter's rights. Under the roof's lip, the current owner had weaved an intricate web.

"Do you believe this mess? They have metal grates and speed bumps," Jinx said. "For what?"

Dutch shuddered. "Got a feeling they have some nasty critters here."

Jinx signaled to follow the curve around the perimeter.

This trailer park had been around for years and years, uncared for and shabby. The poor man's castles. Cain's name was still listed on the community mailbox.

They drove onward, unimpeded by traffic. In fact, not one other car was moving in any direction. Evidently, these people were long-time, retired residents. Snowbirds descended on Phoenix like a swarm of locust between October and April. They were always out and about messing up traffic, pissing off commuters.

"There," Jinx said. "The rusty beige mobile unit."

"You're kidding me. Not a single- or double-wide. It's a damn camper shell on stilts."

They left their air-conditioned car, were greeted by oppressive heat, which snatched their breaths away and added to the breeze. Free of shade trees, the grounds had dried to parched earth: weeds, plenty of dust, and carpeted with gravel. The prefabs sitting on either side of Cain's dwelling weren't in much better condition, but they sat on solid foundations.

Three rickety, handcrafted stairs led up to the entry and not ones built by any professional carpenter if one expected to stay licensed. The screen door hung by a single hinge, refusing to stay latched, banging noisily against the frame every gust of wind.

Dutch rapped several times. When no one answered, he went around the camper and peered through an open window. The camper was free of odors associated with a dead body.

"He still has junk in there."

"Let's canvass the neighborhood."

"Yoo-hoo!"

Across the street, a woman waved frantically. Dutch squinted. What the hell?

"Yoo-hoo!"

They moseyed over to her barren yard.

The lady of the house had piled flaming red hair messily on top of her head—thin, wild, and tangled. A gang of counterfeit-pearl necklaces hung around her neck. Sparkling, gaudy earrings, and tri-colored bracelets. Up close, but far from personal, even Dutch noticed she'd lathered on heavy eye makeup. Orange lipstick glowed brighter than the setting sun and in direct contrast with the sheer blue...sheet she had assembled like a belly dancers outfit.

Apparently, she wanted to be head fuck in some sheik's harem.

"Are you looking for Mr. Cain, dahling?" The Southern-belle drawl was a dead giveaway to her getup. "I lost contact with him. Knocked on his door every day for two weeks. I just quit trying. Lousy bastard owes me fifty bucks. Thought to take him to small claims court if I ever found him. Is suing possible? Sure could use the money right now."

She needed more than money. She needed bathtub, scrub brush, and disinfectant. And, damn, her gold front tooth flashed right there in front. Dutch turned toward his partner, staring over Jinx's head at the doublewide castle across the street, hoping to control his rising hysteria.

"Exactly when did you see him last, ma'am?" Jinx asked.

"Last May, April maybe. Come to think of it, it might've been March. Ten bucks and I can find the date in my appointment book." She struck a pose; one hand slid up the doorframe, the other settled on her beefy hip. Her gaze traveled up and down Jinx's impeccably, well-dressed self. "Or make you an appointment instead, big boy. Dark meat, white meat, makes me no difference if you have cash."

Mistake. Bad mistake by a brainless twit who just finished digging her bottomless crater. Dutch squinted at Jinx, knowing she'd struck the one and only assailable nerve his partner had. By the time his partner looked down the length of the singlewide, his face had twisted into a telltale sneer.

"For fifty, you can charge it," she continued. "I'm not as pure as the driven slush and I've tried several varieties of sex. The conventional position makes me claustrophobic and the others give me a stiff neck or a headache, dahling. For you, I'll even throw in—"

She reached up, tried to touch Jinx's mouth, but he snagged her wrist. "An appointment downtown, madam." And he whipped out his shield. "Solicitation of an officer. No permit visibly displayed in your window. Operating without valid license."

Whoa, that stung. What little color this withering broad had beneath the surface of her translucent skin drained, which left a paint-by-number effect fit for freak shows.

Jinx let her go and put his shield away. "Now, exactly when did you see him? I want the exact date and time."

"My l-last appointment," she said, straightening, pulling the sheet tighter around herself.

She folded her arms beneath her full breasts. Braless, budding nipples poked through the thin material. She had implants. No woman her age, at the very youngest late-sixties, had perfect, natural hooters.

"He was my last appointment," she repeated. Tears trickled from her brown eyes, black mascara leaving a murky trail. Her double chin quivered. From the looks of her, the future was damned bleak. "April twelfth. Midnight."

"Thank you, ma'am." Jinx's congenial courtesies never quit. "But for your information, Tallulah Bankhead said, 'I am as pure as the driven slush'. Also, not a headache at all. It was lockjaw, dahling."

As they left her yard, the nameless prostitute yelled, "He still owes me for a blow job!"

Dutch stuck his finger in his ear, wiggled it vigorously. "Too much information."

"He's got a pencil for a pecker too," she screamed.

The door slammed behind them and Dutch flinched. "Jesus."

"Hell hath no fury," Jinx said. They climbed inside the car. "Get the hell out of here. Drive around for a minute and park upwind. Let's go over some info. We can work our way back this direction."

He dusted off his pants and jacket then found the liquid sanitizer he kept handy. He damn near emptied the plastic bottle in one squeeze. When he finished wiping his fingers and hands up to his wrists on his monogrammed handkerchief, he balled it up and flicked it into the trash basket.

"On the other hand, let's grab some grub and come back later. Maybe the Cleopatra wannabe will take an afternoon nap. Besides," Jinx said and swallowed. "Besides, we need to work out some sort of strategy to find Cain and decide how we deal with Glickman. I-I do better on a full stomach. Time is wasting, White Boy. Kemo Sabe tomorrow morning a-and...I'll take care of Mason tomorrow on my own. He's...damn."

For the first time ever, his partner sounded ruffled, sputtering like an air-filled water pipe. No one ever ruffled Jinx. He was always cool, calm, steady as they come.

"Shit, I need decontamination again."

Dutch barked with laughter.

Chapter 14

Standing in the kitchen, Randi wiped her hands on a clean towel. She inspected her nails. Cheap polish peeled at the corners, cuticles thick and ratty on prune-wrinkled fingers. She scraped the small blister from her palm.

One of these days, she'd slap money down and take advantage of a decent manicure, pedicure, and skin therapy. She missed the spoiling periods she once enjoyed. Massages, body wraps, sea-salt scrubs, soaking in heated spas, a fortune well worth the luxury and extravagance.

By now, Shaala was waiting somewhere for her summons, chomping at the bit in anticipation. Maybe she was biting her fingernails to the quick. Wishful thinking. The woman probably had an office manicurist, hairdresser, and makeup artist traipsing dead in her tracks. Lucky heifer.

"Need my wages, Min Li."

"Payday tomorrow."

"For God's sake, what's one day early?"

"You want early, everybody want early."

Here we go again. Another argument she expected to win. Not today.

The second-in-command hen said they'd helped each other through thick and thin, free of charge. The buddy system. All were retired, except Tightwad Min Li Chen, the youngest of the sexagenarian flock by two years. Randi wished she could remember the Chinese version for "cheapskate" that Shuwan had called her. It fit.

"You're not paying anybody besides me and Ting Lan." Bristling when the boss spat a Chinese cuss word, she returned the favor with one she'd learned.

"Daughter stomp demon nerve." Min Li turned her back.

"Boss trample mine."

She got her money. Randi stuffed her measly wages inside the deep pocket where she kept keys to the restaurant and the folded paper with Dutch's comm-number.

"We won't be long. First meeting. I have to see how Shaala reacts."

"She have cop wait for you."

"Uh-uh. She'll have five minutes to the first location and three minutes to the second stop. She's clueless about her destinations."

"Cop have good connection. People got two call unit. Carry one, have one in car. She signal cop."

Pessimist. "Anybody suspicious, any cars or people lurking around, I'm out of there." Randi had to believe she was doing the right thing by meeting Tambo alone. Pirouetting, she asked, "How do I look?"

"Chinese."

She'd worked out this plan down to the nitty-gritty problems she might encounter.

The first meeting would be brief. Five minutes max, long enough to see if Tambo was a go-getter like Randi was once upon a time. During her prime-time editorial, the commonality should boost Tambo's ratings exactly like it had for Randi. Ideally, her name would disappear from the suspect list.

"Ting Lan, can I borrow your watch for the night?" she called out. The waitress brought the dainty solar-powered and clamped it around Randi's wrist.

"Take comm. New one. No trace. Mother very smart." Min Li signaled her daughter to retrieve it. "Smart daughter send devil code if your rodeo cop come back."

My rodeo cop? "You mean Dutch?" She burst out laughing. "Then what? Celebrate?"

Min Li grinned. "Celebrate good. Keep demon happy."

Randi took her time crossing the asphalt. She ducked behind an ancient sago palm and scoured her surroundings. Clear. Four more blocks, she'd meet the Lightrail before the sky opened up.

Smelling the fresh scent of rain, she felt electricity charging the air. And a thunder bumper shook the ground beneath her feet. The storm was brewing some distance away, but the wind had picked up as the day progressed.

She dashed across the boulevard before traffic hemmed her in on the median. The first raindrop splashed in her eye.

"Just my luck."

Drizzle began to fall while she sat in the enclosed shelter. Drizzling changed to full-fledged showers as the transport halted. She heard a car start and looked over her shoulder. Headlights shining. Was it her imagination or had the car been sitting in the next block all along? She strained her eyes to see inside the darkened vehicle to no avail. Why did she get the feeling somebody was watching, grating on her nerves? No one knew her plans, except Shaala and the Chens.

Hugging herself from an instant chill, she glanced one more time at the idling vehicle before climbing aboard City Transport #61. The Bullet Ride flashed in bright cherry-red runner lights on the exterior, nonstop to Scottsdale mall.

Few cars were on the streets at eleven o'clock and only one had passed directly by Randi while another cruised slowly through the main intersection. At the fast-food restaurant kitty-corner from where she stood, a cop retrieved his drive-through order and coasted out into the street. He didn't look in her direction.

The light rain had let up, slowed to drizzle again, followed by spits of water. She wished she could shut the stupid overhead beacon off without opening the door to the comm-booth, but at least she could lock herself inside in case of an intruder or weather change. Supposedly, the enclosures shielded most ammunition. She had no desire to find out and deposited money into the call unit.

"Shaala Tambo!"

Certainly not the seductive voice Randi had expected to hear. "Anxious, are you?"

"God, seems like I've been waiting forever."

Randi smiled to herself. Shaala was a go-getter and maybe slightly high-strung, unlike the coolheaded reporter she'd portrayed. "Where's your base?"

"I'm not giving you my home address."

Cautious. Good. "Untrusting. Goes both ways, so listen carefully."

She sent Shaala to a rental shop for her first stop. The reporter had to leave her private comm with the clerk. Randi had spoken with the hip-hop teen.

She remembered the old streets of Scottsdale, but she relearned them after a quick scouting run before calling the reporter. During Tambo's wild chase for an exclusive story instead of a five-minute straight shot, she kept the link open to the rented single-line comm. She forced the reporter to reveal the make, model, and color of the vehicle she drove, as if Randi could distinguish car models these days. She required the car's tag number or the meeting was cancelled.

It worked. Four times Tambo's sleek black Mercedes went down the street and, twice, another familiar-looking dark sedan followed. Randi frowned.

"Did you call the cops, Shaala?"

"No," she replied quickly. "Is that why you're sending me on this wild goose chase?"

"Turn right at the next block," Randi ordered, unsure if it was the same car. "Now slow up and look in your rearview mirror. Is there a dark sedan following?"

"Nobody's there."

"Don't mess with me."

"I'm not. There's nobody behind me. Wait. There was, but they went straight. It was you."

Shaala was wrong, naturally, and she'd almost lied.

"Turn right again. Make another right and drive through the light." Nervous now, when she saw her headlights, Randi said, "Pull in behind the convenience store on your right side, back the car up to the garbage bin, and turn off your lights. Wait for my order to get out of the car."

An overgrown, red bougainvillea blocked Shaala's view of the booth, but she'd already decided Randi traveled by car.

Unexpectedly, two pale-colored cars and one darker model stopped at the light. All three proceeded slowly through the intersection. Was it the same car as she'd seen before, tailing Tambo? Randi knew she should've been well aware of her surroundings, kept a closer watch.

"Are you still there, Randi?"

She shook herself, realizing Shaala had summoned her twice. "Yes," she said. Swallowing, she recovered her composure and opened the door to darken the enclosure. "Okay, out of the car, walk to the sidewalk directly in front of you, and turn right. Hands free except for the comm."

"How far?"

She could see Shaala now. "Just keep walking and cross the street."

As the reporter came into better focus under the streetlamp, Randi noticed the woman had dressed casually as ordered—loose-fitting shorts with dark, body-hugger top emphasized her curves. God, she would have gorgeous long legs.

"What's in the hip pack, Shaala?"

"My recorder. You said no purse." She unzipped the bag. "Keys, paper, pen, pencil, lipstick, Tampons."

"Keep the keys, pencil, and paper. Leave the pack under the bush near the streetlight."

Shaala mumbled something, but she followed instructions. Randi hardly believed she was wearing a tracking device, but if she had, it was on her body somewhere, consequently, the reason she was required to wear shorts and flaunt her braless self.

"Shaala? Leave your shoes there, socks, too. It's not much farther."

"Why not have me strip?" she snapped in the same snotty tone Randi remembered.

"Tempt me, hear?" She should've demanded she wear a string bikini, but even in darkness, with her good looks and body, the reporter would draw attention to herself.

A sedan turned at the corner. In Tambo's direction.

Instinct bred fear so intense, Randi's skin prickled. "You brought a tail. This meeting is over."

"What? Wait!"

Randi dropped the receiver and bolted. Min Li was right. Trust no one.

She was so pissed, she could spit, figuring Tambo had contacted the police, probably talked to Dutch or Jinx and they'd set up a sting. Well, fine.

Jogging quickly and quietly, zigzagging from street to street, ducking behind trees and shrubs when any suspicious-looking cars approached, she hightailed back toward the Lightrail station before she realized the police were likely waiting to ambush her.

Think they can catch me. We'll see who's slicker.

Panting, Randi doubled back. She trotted down another lane. Damn. In a residential neighborhood, there were no comm-booths. She squinted at the illuminated watch. By now, the cops had circled, checked, and rechecked the area.

She found a different booth as modern as the Ahwatukee unit. This time, she smashed the overhead light with a brittle tree limb and turned away from the showering of glass. She yanked the folded menu from her pocket. Highlighting it with the watch's light, she fed another bill to the equipment, spat a link command, and the number written down.

The voice on the other end sounded groggy. Driving around looking for her and faking yawns at the same time, the bastard deserved an award-winning statue. Scheming devil.

"Nice try, cowboy."

"What? Who is this?"

"Oh, now you want to give me some innocence crap."

"Randi? What's going on? Where are you?"

In her nastiest, mocking tone, she said, "What's going on? Where are you? Like I'd waste my damn time telling you. I saw you or your henchman driving through the intersection. She called you, am I right, told you all about it? Where'd she hide the tracking device, Patterson?"

"What in the hell are you talking about?"

"In her cunt? Did you put it there? Did you shove your dick in right behind it, you prick?"

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

"Fuck you, Patterson." Categorically belligerent and unable—unwilling—to tame her temper, Randi slammed the receiver against the unit and slapped it. She'd love to slap the hell out of him. She snatched the bi-fold door open instead. "Bastard."

The comm burped an obnoxious sound.

She refused to answer the summons. It was surely that man and they had nothing left to say to each other. The camaraderie they'd sustained the last few days had gone for meltdown. What little faith she'd had in him disintegrated to microscopic particles. Nope, she was not answering.

It burped a fourth time then a fifth.

"What?"

"Listen. Please," he said. "Whatever's happening with you at the moment, it had absolutely nothing to do with me."

"Sure, Patterson," Randi replied resentfully. "Lie, Patterson. I saw you coming down the street, tailing her. I thought I could trust in you. Hah! What a joke. And you couldn't catch me." She laughed a cold sardonic sound, chilling the air inside the booth. Cops were so damn full of shit.

"Tailing? No, you're wrong, Randi. The last time we had near contact was the day after the arrest, at the hospital. I'm sitting in darkness, on the edge of my bed, in my own house. I came home shortly after nine and I've been here ever since."

Convincing her was impossible. As fast as he talked, he was attempting to keep her linked and talking until he and his people found her location, surrounding her for the final count. "Keep talking, Patterson. I'm out of here."

"Wait. Listen," he said.

She heard gurgling. So what? "Sounds like you're gargling, what, your favorite coffee?"

"Chill for one damn second. That was my aquarium's filtering system."

The next authentic sounds were no-brainers. She recognized the seductive voice of Chandler Mayfield followed by a very-male commercial describing the advantages of spray-on condoms. The new protection worked in combination with Con Man, the skin-penetrating penis enhancer. She'd seen the commercial advertised on the sports channels, only aired on visual screens and only after ten o'clock at night. The ad was blocked from hand-held units.

Randi thawed as quickly as the anger had iced her heart. She burst out laughing. Only Dutch had the smarts and willpower to convince her.

"See? I am home."

Judge, jury, and executioner. She'd sworn he was guilty of lying and deceit, read him the riot act, and cussed him thoroughly out. He'd proven his innocence with a weenie-enhancing commercial.

She chuckled again at the image developing in her mind. Obviously, paranoia had pre-saturated her common sense seeing the vehicle near the Lightrail, the one she thought had followed the reporter, the same car appearing more than once. What did she know about today's sedans? Nothing. As for make, model, and color, the choices were all but countless.

Her imagination had detoured, overran her composure, and she'd blown the meeting with Shaala all to hell besides. She'd digressed to a flaming megalomaniac.

"I apologize, Joel, for jumping to conclusions."

"Accepted." His honest voice penetrated her innermost fears and soothed them away. "Tell me your location? Let me pick you up."

But not calming enough to behave stupidly. "I'm out of here."

"Randi, who did you think I'd put a tail on?"

Oh, he just really thought she'd built the damn cabbage wagon. "By now you know exactly where I am. I'll call you. Soon." She disconnected.

Sighing, Randi simply stared at the clouds overhead. What had she done? No telling where Tambo was. No telling what the reporter had thought, either. She could still hear her voice, an honest demand. Shaala was honest. She'd come out in the middle of the night. She'd come prepared to interview a suspected murderer. She'd come braless.

Randi sighed again. She'd broken her vow for the umpteenth time with ugly cussing, careless nastiness, and synthetic bitterness. If Dutch had believed in her before, his viewpoints surely wavered now.

Tomorrow he'd call a news conference, issue public warnings about the deranged criminal lurking the streets. She could hear his voice, loud and clear.

"Stay inside your homes and lock your doors. If you must venture outside, do so in groups. No one is safe from this woman. Randi Westbrooke brutally murders women and men. If you happen upon her, find yourself in a situation, run."

Oh, hell.

Randi fed the comm more money. What did Annette say during the interview? Did she condemn her daughter in the Armstrong oh-so-slick style and let her mouth overload her butt? Annette had the damn knack to piss off the deaf, dumb, and blind.

"Annette."

"Ye-ez."

Uh-oh. Tore up again. "Listen to me, Annette."

"Who this?"

Damn her. "It's Randi. What did you say to the reporter?"

"What reporter?"

"The one you had an interview with yesterday!" Jeez.

"Oh, Casey? Stacey? She nice. Like her. Got money. Don't be telling me you callin' for money, girl. You in jail again? Darla tol' me not to give you no money, honey."

Darla should go straight to hell. Who was she to tell Annette not to help her daughter? The witch. "I don't need your money. Try and remember what you said to the woman. The reporter." She heard the familiar sound of ice clinking in a glass. "Think Annette."

"Ain't tol' her nothin'," she snapped. "Where you at?"

"Not important. Are you sure you didn't tell her something stupid? A lie?"

"You callin' me a liar, ya little bitch? Darla!"

Ah, for God's sake. "Never mind, Annette."

She disconnected. What was the point? The woman was lit brighter than a spotlight and she'd let another simpleton named Darla run her life.

Chapter 15

Lost in thought, Randi wandered the quiet back streets of Scottsdale, circling the development where she'd once lived. Fate should've minded its own damn business. She'd still have a life in this upscale neighborhood. Married with a house full of babies if things had been different.

She'd chosen the bedroom nearest the master for the nursery and planned to paint it pale green or yellow. She'd selected playful wallpaper and, for a time, had searched for an artist to hand paint murals depicting fluffy little teddy bears and kittens and puppies. Especially cuddly, floppy-eared puppies. The antique rocking chair was perfect to cradle each beautiful newborn, soothe them to sleep as time passed. She'd wanted six children to fill their home with happiness and love.

Her first and only pregnancy was difficult from the moment of conception, but her gynecologist had already warned her of the dangers to her life. Randi wanted a baby so badly she'd secured an indefinite leave of absence from her job. She'd promised the doctor that she would stay in bed and not lift anything heavier than one piece of flatware.

Sleeping arrangements changed the day her pregnancy was confirmed. Jimmy had moved her personal items to the downstairs guest suite so she wouldn't need to climb stairs. His belongings stayed put. He'd hired the live-in aide to cook, clean, and to watch over Randi's safety and keep her company while she settled in for the wait.

Home alone, she'd miscarried the first trimester. Her aide had gone grocery shopping, Jimmy had left for an out-of-town business trip, and Randi had nearly bled to death before her mother found her. The prognosis for any future pregnancy was spoiled beyond redemption. The best specialists claimed she'd bleed out before she carried any baby to term. She'd cried for months for her unborn child.

Not long after, married life changed.

Today was hardly the first time she realized her perfect world was long lost. Now, at thirty-nine, an ex-con destined for an old maid's—a widowed broad's—lifestyle hardly showed promise.

Ironic. One day you have it all, the next, nothing worth living for.

The urge to visit the home she'd helped design drew her toward it. Since her release from prison, she had yet to set foot inside the neighborhood until tonight.

She crossed over the threshold of her past existence and the first big dollop of rain splashed against her cheek. She looked up toward the heavens. Not a single star twinkled in the night sky and the crescent moon had hidden away. The somber night, gloomy as her faltering well-being, seemed to take on demonic eeriness, the air suddenly cool for summer. So very still and quiet without the constant chatter of crickets. Was it a warning?

Randi cast the ridiculous musings aside as she stepped forward. When the first crack of lightning brightened the cloud's thick blanket, followed by a thunderous explosion, she turned tail and sprinted for cover.

Three blocks later, panting, she leaned back against the cinder block wall under the deserted fueling station's eave. A diagonal downpour replaced drops of rain.

Burrowed into a corner, shivering convulsively, she stuck her hands into the sleeves fullness, gained little warmth. The silk tunic and pants were soaked, fused to her skin. Thin, her shoes were soggier than milk toast. Typically, Arizona showers were just showers. This fierce bombardment dumped buckets of chilled water.

Cold and shivery, something vibrated against her hip. She'd forgotten about Ting Lan's comm. Idiot.

The devil code signal. Was Dutch spying again? Thank God this unit only allowed voice and no visual, knowing she looked worse than a bedraggled waif.

"Raining hard," Min Li said.

"Sheets of it. I'm stuck in Scottsdale."

"Where?" Given the location, Min Li said, "Thirty minute, maybe more. Stay put."

Randi wondered what choice she had during Mother Nature's angry outburst.

Waiting lasted forty-five minutes. She braved the fuel station's twelve-foot waterfall and climbed into the car's warm interior, drenched, hair clinging to her scalp and neck, chilled to the marrow. Ting Lan complained that her mother, who needed a booster seat even while riding shotgun, was at fault for the delay.

"So," Min Li said, "what happen at meeting?"

"Nothing. It got jacked up. Postponed. I broke it off."

"Good."

"I plan to call her again."

"Bad," Min Li replied with equal shortness. "You learn nothing from demon wrath. Look at angry sky. Demon warning."

Randi leaned sideways. She gazed at the ionized tentacles charging through the clouds, lighting up the valley. It was true, she realized, it did seem like forewarning, except the dangerous magnetic storm broke when she'd stepped into her old neighborhood, not when Shaala had approached.

At midnight, barefoot and wearing battered jeans, Dutch paced back and forth across the kitchen's beige tile. He marched over to the sliding door and switched the backyard porch light on.

Heavy rain pounded tiled rooftops and grasses with such great force, the sea of mud, pebbles, and a river of water oozed over the edge of his patio. One of these days, he planned to re-landscape, build a retaining wall to protect the patio's red brick pavers, whenever he found time to lay the pavers. After he constructed a new privacy fence, dug a trench, and angled gutters. Rainwater flowed steadily from the neighbor's sloping property.

Exhausted at the thought of hard manual labor, he knew his antsy behavior—agitation and stalking from room to room—had little to do with pavers or mud or rain. Classified a prick with some asshole prison guard named Brundage had grated on his nerves. Worse, knowing Randi had called from Scottsdale minutes before the weather conditions turned brutal and severe had worried him. He glanced outside the sliding door again. Without shelter, she'd be in a hell of a mess.

He'd linked with the booth twice. A vaguely familiar voice had answered the first time, but the voice hadn't belonged to Randi. He'd recognize her seductive tone any day and doubted she'd cut the connection without discussion. The woman hung up when he'd identified himself as a detective. The second link went unanswered. He'd called for a cruiser to swing by the location.

"Homeless man huddling across the street, probably waiting for me to leave so he can use the booth for protection. Everything else is quiet."

Dutch thanked the patrolman and had since traipsed back and forth.

Where could Randi be? Even if he linked to China Palace, she'd never answer if, in fact, she were there, safe.

An odd stirring squeezed something semi-fragile in his chest and raced through his brain waves. When the hint light flashed on, he tried hard to ignore the innuendo.

"Not a chance." He tapped his fist against his forehead. "I'm not trying to hear you," he said to the little voice whispering way too loudly. "I'm not thinking about it. More problems than I need. Too complicated."

He poured and chugged a shot of powerful tequila. Grimacing from the burning throat-to-belly sting, Dutch grabbed a beer and downed half, dousing the spreading bonfire in his gut.

"Forget it. Not possible. I hardly know her."

He slammed another shot, finished off the beer just as the ceiling light flickered, signaling another clap of thunder soon to hit.

"Ah, hell."

And the next loud explosion rattled the window above the sink.

He recognized the disturbance: the same type of rare phenomenon when he and Cheryl had met and had fallen in love after their first date.

Dutch knew he was in trouble, big time.

At the time of their first connection, he was happily married and Randi was widowed. She was going to jail. He was reluctantly helping to send her to prison. Although now, when his duties required him to apprehend and take her into custody, the subject harvested mixed feelings. Not issues dealing with guilt or innocence, he was her staunchest supporter, but jailing someone whom he possessed feelings for peeled away layers of job-related dedication. Add Mason's pretentious nagging and Dutch's solemn devotion as detective teetered precariously close to the all-time FTJ syndrome—Forget The Job. Life did not revolve around employment. He worked to live, not the other way around.

Okay, so what now?

Not only did involvement with Randi, if it ever happened, complicate matters, it fractured one glaring rule. In short, no fraternizing with suspects.

Oh, yeah, he knew the regulations inside out, forward and backward, upside down and even taught said rules at the Police Academy for one year. So, since when did he ever follow departmental standards to the letter?

The title Mason had laid on him six years ago came to mind.

Renegade.

It fit as well as Jinx's "White Boy" tag. Unlike Jinx, Mason went ballistic seeing the smug look on Dutch's face. Why? Because Dutch had gone outside the rules and saved the day during a hostage situation. Sure, he could've been shot, the hostage too. What had been agonizing was seeing his ten-year-old daughter, hearing her frantic sobs, and suffering through his wife's threats to divorce him on the spot. He gave his sincere promise never to put his life in jeopardy again and kept his vow, although his marriage to Cheryl dissolved anyway. He swore he'd never fall in love again. And the ball and chain action—domesticated incarceration—was out of the damn question.

Now look what had happened. He'd broken his own pledge.

Maybe not. Maybe this weird commotion was simply horniness. Testosterone had started ruling his body and his brains. Hell, guys always thought below the belt. He was no different. Yep. Horniness, no doubt about it. He'd get over it. Always had. Almost always. So where the hell was the woman who had put his manliness in jerk mode, had his heart somersaulting, and his brain cells scrambling?

In the bedroom, while he pulled on an ASU sweatshirt over his head, Dutch ordered a link to the restaurant. If nobody answered, he'd search every square acre of Scottsdale.

Jamming his feet into his loafers, he grabbed the truck keys from the dresser when the connection beeped.

"China Palace. We closed." And the little, ancient woman disconnected.

When she relayed the same short statement the second time, his mood blackened.

On the third link, Dutch yelled, "If you cut this damn connection—"

"We closed," Min Li said. "No delivery."

Stifling a string of filth, he asked, "Is Randi there?"

"No."

Why did this woman have to be short in height and words? "Look, Min Li—"

"Not here. Maine."

"She's not in frickin' Maine."

"Check Rhode Island." She disconnected.

Highly pissed now, Dutch gathered his wits and tried shrugging it off. When shrugging didn't work, he counted from one to twenty and when that didn't work, he counted in reverse by threes. Still irritated, he knew snapping at the boss earned painful bites when her cubs came into play.

He inhaled deeply, forced the breath from his lungs in one long, noisy whoosh. Tact. He could do it. No problem.

"Reconnect." He waited through seven signals before the link opened. "Is she safe? Nothing more. Is she safe? She linked from Scottsdale minutes before the storm broke here. All I want to know is if she's all right."

Silence filled the line, followed by the connection buzzing with crackling static.

Come on, Min Li, don't shut me out.

He lifted a length of drapery. The sky lit up, casting an eerie glow around the neighborhood then thunder rumbled like an oncoming earthquake. "Storm or not, if you don't know where she is, I'm out of here in three seconds."

"Safe," and two beats later, "in Ohio." She cut the link.

Dutch burst out laughing, loud enough to drown out the next clap of earsplitting thunder. At least Randi was moving back across the country. Maine, Rhode Island, Ohio.

Where to next? My old stomping grounds? Pull a Dorothy and blow into Kansas?

"What did he say?" Randi asked.

She'd wanted to talk to Dutch just to hear his soothing voice when her body was still chilled. The hot shower did little to warm the emptiness filling her insides. The boss had kept her from listening, let alone allowing her to speak to him. She'd lost the tug 'o war with the calling unit.

"Same shit." Min Li stuck the device into her pocket. All after-hour calls to the restaurant were forwarded to her temporary unit, if she decided to forward them.

Randi groaned. "What did Maine and Rhode Island have to do with the conversation?"

"Told him you there, not here."

"Like he'd believe that silly lie."

"He know nothing. He think you in Ohio now." She spun around, strutted toward Shuwan's kitchen with Randi dead on her heels.

"What did he say?"

The annoying little woman grabbed a can of Tsing Tao from the fridge, ignoring Randi, and yelled, "Shuwan, last beer."

"Min Li!" Lord, getting her to answer simple questions was harder than pulling teeth with plastic tweezers.

"All right," she squawked, setting the beer can on the counter harder than necessary. Foam splashed over her hand. "Worry if you safe from storm."

Randi allowed the small smile to spread, uncertain if her boss really meant "worry" or if he'd conveyed a form of irritation. "He was truly worried?"

Min Li's lips flat-lined and her eyes narrowed thinner than tissue paper. "Ting Lan, we go now. Crazy woman blush over dumb rodeo cop."

What could she say? Deny it when heat filtered through her body like molten lava? Cheeks burning, searing need radiated at the core and her rodeo cop's worry had lit the fire.

"She dream now, Ting Lan. Dream and smile. Crazy daughter give me nightmare already. I need good night sleep. Eight hour. We go now, before she bay at moon."

Mother and first daughter snagged their rain slickers from the coat tree and headed for the door.

"Drive carefully," Randi said.

Ting Lan smiled, but Min Li scowled her usual disgust.

Staring at the night sky, Randi realized Mother Nature had finally moved northeast to lash out at another Arizona town. Clouds floated by quickly, merging, gathering strength for the next spectacular light show. The crescent moon played peek-a-boo and incandescent stars winked their existence. She breathed in the clean fresh scent of rain left behind.

She closed and locked the door and pressed her forehead against its cool surface. He was worried, and Dutch's concern brought another smile to her lips.

Arms swinging in tandem, she moved down the hall and climbed the attic's drop-down ladder. She had nothing to do, but think, daydream impossible thoughts of a cowboy when the botched interview with Shaala should be on her mind.

They had to meet and tomorrow she'd contact Shaala to schedule another get-together, somewhere different from the Scottsdale vicinity, someplace where she could keep an eye on their surroundings and watch for spies, an isolated location where few vehicles traveled. Finding an out-of-the-way site wasn't an easy curriculum for an indigent ex-con on the run from prosecution, reduced to riding the cheapest public transportation, and living in a well-populated city bent on putting her to sleep like a snared, rabid animal. They'd have to snag her before someone else laid the winning trap.

She could easily run for her life and skip out on Tambo and the remaining executioners, including the real knife-wielding killer. The family name was already blemished worse than pockmarks, far beyond cosmetic repair. But the idea of running from Dutch put the squeeze on her heart. He was sweet and kind and gentle and he believed in her innocence. Just not enough to keep his wrist restraints to himself.

I had to fall for a ponytail-wearing, cowboy lawman. Yippy-kai-yea.

Randi crawled into bed, yawning noisily. She was so tired and lonely.

Chapter 16

Today was the worst damn day of Dutch's life.

First off, Jinx heard through the grapevine that Mason had ordered the cops to pick up Randi's mother and to bring her in for questioning, by two other detectives. Jinx had jumped right on his processor, searching for files and reports. He had two gigantic balls to spy right here in the office.

Second and third bummers, not only were they unsuccessful at finding Harold Cain, Glickman had been put on leave. He'd skipped town to gamble with the big boys in Vegas.

The all-time fourth pisser, Cheryl called. She and Gavin had set the date for their wedding. Fine. Dutch had no intention of escorting her down the aisle or standing in as Gavin's best man. The crux of the problem was that they'd planned to leave for New York by mid-October, which meant taking his baby girl far, far away.

He had rights in his daughter's future. He figured Cheryl needed his permission to take his child out of state. But, no, according to his attorney. In a no-win situation, his ex-wife had yoked him firmly by the nuts and twisted.

Dutch's temper ignited right there in middle of the bullpen. "That yellow-headed Big Foot!"

At the time, his partner worked diligently on his personal processor. He looked up. In fact, every living soul's eyes in the office were glued to Dutch.

"What the hell are y'all looking at?" Dutch asked in a scorching tone.

The detective unit's newest administrative assistant, the same broad who tried to rub her tits against him, stepped back and, luckily, the chair saved her from landing flat on her wide ass in a sprawl. Attractive face or not, with hair the same color and braided exactly like his hateful ex-wife's, he did not want her.

"Dutch," Jinx said in his famous reprimanding manner. "Not here. Cool it."

He was right, of course, but it didn't stop Dutch's menacing growl. This matter was private. Only two parties would be present to discuss the issue. Cheryl and himself.

"I'm taking the rest of the day."

Two o'clock made for an early afternoon with several hours to marinate in agitated anger.

At six, after wearing down another deep trail at home, knowing Cheryl had left her job, Dutch beelined to her house. When he arrived, Blair was climbing out of the driver's seat of Gavin's Roadster, followed by her mother, and the daughter-thief himself. Scowling, Dutch prepared to flip out and declare war. They'd go to blows if this asshole seriously thought to muscle his way into his daughter's heart and steal his little girl away.

"Daddy." Blair obliterated every hostile notion with one word. She ran to Dutch and flung herself into his arms.

He closed his eyes and held her in a fierce embrace, swinging her in dizzying circles. Yeah, Blair was his little girl. "Hey, sugar. How was your day?"

"Good," she replied, smoothing the furrows from his brow. "Better now since you stopped by. Can you stay for dinner?"

She knew exactly how to improve his mood. Dutch set her down. "Ate already." It was a bald-face lie and he knew Blair knew. Her lips compressed wafer-thin.

"How about we go for burgers? Just you and me."

Cheryl and Gavin the Butthead eased their way across the grass. "Dutch," she greeted with a smile. "Why are you here? Something wrong?"

Everything. A whole hell of a lot of everything. "Nah. Playing hooky for a change. Thought I'd swing by to see Blair." He started to ruffle her hair, but let his hand fall to his side, remembering she'd grown up.

"Daddy's taking me out to dinner. Burgers."

Usually, convincing Cheryl to agree worked as well as telling a cat to sit and stay. "School night. Keep it early, Dutch. Remember you've got homework, sweetie." She stroked their daughter's hair.

They spent the next hour at Blair's favorite hamburger joint, sweetening his soured mood. She dumped two days of history on him, excited about moving, more excited to enroll in the New York school where she planned to pursue a dancing career. Although she was breaking her promise never to leave him and breaking his heart, Blair vowed she'd come back to visit him every holiday.

"You can come see me, Daddy. Anytime."

He smiled. Living in Phoenix without her had changed his outlook on life. Even though she hadn't left yet, loneliness had already settled on his shoulders.

Dutch traced somebody's homemade ink flower etched on the plastic tablecloth. He did want to see Blair happy even if it meant giving up his own contentment. "You're sure you want to leave me?"

"I'm not leaving you. Think of it as my first solo vacation or the prelim to college life some day. Think how much fun we'll have at Thanksgiving. Maybe you'll have a girlfriend and the four of us can play catch up."

"Not a chance," he replied. Nobody really wanted him for companionship. It hit him. "Four?"

"I might have a boyfriend." She grinned. "And you'll need a woman to keep you company while I'm gone. Someone who'll make you happy."

She was smart and caring for sixteen. "Not so fast, pumpkin. Back up. What boyfriend?" A New Yorker? Hell, no. Local Phoenix punk? Not on his life. Okay, maybe. Provided he met the sniffing hardhead first.

"Tommy's coming back for Thanksgiving break too."

Tommy the dancer. Male dancers were gay, weren't they? What the hell was he doing turning the tables? "Tommy who?"

"Dad-dy!"

Okay, so they weren't all gay. But why did his little girl have to grow up? Why couldn't they continue being sugar and spice and all things nice? It seemed like yesterday he, the proudest father, had cradled his firstborn child, his only child. He'd sneaked her to the precinct for the week when she cried her first day in kindergarten. The reigning commander at the time had frowned, but he'd let it pass since Dutch had been assigned to ass duty. Cheryl was pissed when she found out.

As Blair grew older, he taught her to slide into home plate, kick and spiral footballs, and dribble basketballs behind her back. By age twelve, she'd beat him playing one-on-one.

Now she was planning her life with someone else. Sort of.

Feeling left out of Blair's and her mother's decision-making process and soon to be abandoned, Dutch rocked his chair back, balancing on two wooden legs. "When do I get to meet your hardhead? Sorry. This Tommy kid? Hope it's before you go on your honeymoon."

"How many grandchildren do you want?"

The chair legs smacked tile with a bang. Either his ears rang from the impact or thinking Tommy was due an ass whipping.

"Just kidding." Blair burst out laughing. "You should've seen your face! Priceless."

Okay, so he'd jumped to an outrageous conclusion. What father would think differently? He was a teenager once, hormones on fire and in constant anticipation waiting for the next pair of legs to open for business.

Had Cheryl sat down and talked with Blair about the birds and bees, about where babies came from? How the hell could he tell her? Cheryl should've opened communications long ago. And what about the other female crap his ex-wife called the horror cycle? Forget it. Her mother had better clue her in.

"Pumpkin, um, about, um." Shit.

"Sex? I know all about the subject."

"You know what?" He bit his tongue for snapping the words.

"We live in modern times, Daddy. They teach sex education in our last year of elementary school. I'm almost seventeen now."

No one told him she'd studied sex and reproduction. Temper simmering, approaching sizzle, he said, "Yeah, but—"

"Are you wondering if I tested—"

"I'm not trying to hear this."

In the past, she'd come to him for answers and he'd always been open and honest. She'd never mentioned sex or boys or even kissing. Oh, yeah, little Tommy Tucker, the sniffing fucker, was cruisin' for a major goddamn bruisin'.

"I'm still a virgin."

"Where does he live? I'll teach the little bastard lessons about putting his hands my daughter." Dutch smacked the table with his open palm.

"You're not listening."

"Don't try to protect him. He's in jail tonight if he survives me."

"God, listen to you. Remember how you always told me to listen? You're not," she said in a tone as belligerent and vocal as his. "Hell-o. Repeat, virgin. V-i-r-g-i-n."

He reined in his anger. "Keep your voice down. I heard you the first time."

"Did not. You're yelling like a crazed lunatic. Everybody's looking at us. God. Now the whole world thinks I'm the high school slut." She balled up her napkin and flicked it across the table. "Can we go now? I've got homework."

She'd stung him with that one, deep and painfully, when they'd only been inside the restaurant an hour. She was young and cute and now embarrassed because dear old had Dad shot off his big mouth. Bad enough she was deserting him, but Blair moving away angry, hurt worse than the hardest sucker punch. "Sorry, pumpkin."

She shoved her chair back from the table. "I'll wait in the truck."

Damn. He had yet to finish his meal, but his appetite had vanished. In its place, one big nasty knot filled the vacancy.

Watching the heart of his existence march toward the front door, Dutch slipped under a bluer funk than usual. Didn't she understand how much he loved her, how much he needed her in his life?

Way to go. Give your good buddy Gavin everything you've ever had and loved.

When the door glided closed, he pushed away from the table and wearily got to his feet. He dug out a few bills, folded, and dropped them on the table. Dutch nodded to the waitress hustling toward him then followed his daughter.

They rode in strained silence back to her mother's home.

Parked, he twisted in the seat and said, "There's no excuse for embarrassing you, pumpkin. It's just—"

"No big deal. I should be used to it by now."

Now, what in the hell was that supposed to mean?

The black tunic and pants of her disguise had shrunk. The material cupped her breasts tighter than a bra two sizes too small. With twenty minutes left to meet Shaala, Randi searched frantically through clothes for something dark to wear. Something loose, in case she had to make a fast break. Radiant heating had dried and warmed the shoes, but they'd shrunk too, damn it, and her feet felt cramped, toes achy. She'd always purchased comfortable shoes back in the days when she foolishly wasted money. No matter what the price, her feet had never hurt.

At this rate, she'd cut the meeting short.

Randi rushed into Chyou's living room. "I'll get back on my own. You can go home." This morning, she'd crammed all of her borrowed belongings into green grocery bags, anticipating another move. Her assumptions were correct.

"I wait if I want."

Here we go again. Min Li had been in a mediocre mood. Her demeanor promptly went downhill as the day progressed. Ting Lan said her mother's foul state of mind had birthed from lack of sleep. She'd rested a mere half hour too little for her full beauty break.

"Staying here asks for problems. Joel might come snooping around."

"Oh! Joel now. Ting Lan, sister crazy."

Randi rolled her eyes. "See you tomorrow." She went out the door and embraced the sultry night.

The transport tooted its flippy melody. She climbed aboard and, keeping her head bowed, found seating near the back of the second car. This ride was slower than the Bullet, but Shaala would wait.

The reporter was chomping at the bit this afternoon, denying she'd called the cops and pressuring Randi for another meeting. She'd said she followed the canon of ethics for an exclusive. For any good story.

Randi believed her, although, she still lacked complete trust in the reporter. So far, three people had earned her confidence, Min Li, Ting Lan and, of course, Joel, um, Dutch. Him most of all for some silly reason she couldn't explain, very silly since he was bound and determined to put her in a cage again.

The Lightrail glided to a stop and three passengers from her car disembarked. Randi waited for the next stop where she planned to link with Shaala. She had the feeling the reporter and her husband lived in Scottsdale or another upscale division. Lucky heifer. The journalist had it all, and Randi fought off the memories of her once-productive lifestyle. Instead, she concentrated on the topic for tonight's brief encounter. The Montoya brothers, not herself. Yet. Shaala needed priming. The current murders were the first ingredients to get the engine oiled and ready for cranking. She also had to earn the reporter's trust.

Shaala's sporty, black Mercedes sat parked next to the convenience store as ordered. Randi hustled across the street and ducked inside the city transport's shelter. She'd chosen the botanical garden. Encircled by a winding, one-way street and flooded with groves of trees and shrubbery, the location had the perfect cover.

She linked with Shaala's temp number from the new unit Min Li had purchased. "Been waiting long?"

"Long enough to make me think you broke your promise. Two more minutes—"

"And you'd still be sitting there." Randi knew she had the upper hand when Shaala skipped a comeback. She gave her directions.

"Walk? We're talking lousy neighborhood."

"Feel safer in Scottsdale?"

"How did you find out where I lived?"

Randi had this burning desire to push Tambo's buttons again. Spite, the disgusting trait her adoptive mother frowned on, but the same characteristic her natural mother revealed proudly while under the influence. In some ways, she and Annette were too much alike.

"How do you like the house, big enough for you?" Silence filled the link. Randi heard the familiar sounds of panicked breathing. "Chill out, Shaala. Lucky guess. I have no idea what your address is and, frankly, I don't care. Get out of the car and start walking toward the gardens."

"I'm bringing Nod."

"What's that?"

"You've been out of circulation. It's like Mace in a way. Painless, yet potent," she said. "An illegal spray. I got it for a story I wrote, but the Feds kept it off the market. Temporary knockout drug. Think two-minute sleeping formula."

In those minutes, cops could swarm the area and catch her napping.

"Just for the walk, Randi. I think I can trust you, reporter to reporter."

Trust no one. "Fine. I'll see you, but you will not see me."

"Not fair."

"You're bigger."

"I'm not into boxing."

"I'm not into snoozing under the stars. My way or no way."

"Deal."

Her answer came too quickly and prickly heat raised the hair at the nape of Randi's neck. What was this woman up to?

Intuitively alert now, Randi searched the area, gaze darting from corner to street corner, to every location where cops might hide. When a single car parked next to Shaala's, she crouched.

"Sit tight, Shaala." She glanced up toward the sky, listening for any unnatural sounds.

Today's high-tech helicopters hovered silently in the nocturnal heavens. She'd seen the nighthawks during prison uprisings. The metal pterodactyls bristled with wide-range nerve stunners, manned by the prison's distinctive team of sharpshooters. Prisoners wore wrist and ankle bracelets similar to the ones police officers carried.

Randi rubbed her left wrist and wriggled her fingers. The stun had numbed her limbs, buckling her legs where she stood in her barred quarters of solitary. For sixty long minutes, while guards reclaimed the prison, inmates were fully cognizant. And paralyzed.

The sky was clear, no sign of the stealthy bird.

"Fifteen-minute meeting tonight. Cross the street to the gardens."

The reporter wasted little time, sprinting like a graceful gazelle in second-skin, black Lycra. "Okay, I'm here."

"Straight ahead to the statue." Up-lighting added soft glow bright enough for Shaala to see her way. Randi darted down the sidewalk and stepped behind a thick mesquite. "Sit on the bench beside it. Turn off the comm, toss it over your shoulder."

She switched the heavy-duty flashlight on and dulled its glow. She couldn't possibly follow the same cement path and risk being seen. She sneaked between bushes and shrubs.

Randi silently stepped behind the reporter. She raised the big flashlight higher. "Hello, Shaala. Never trust anyone who moves in behind you."

Chapter 17

He was a prick. Randi had called it right.

If the Protective Father's Alliance did exist and the membership knew of all the things he'd done, embarrassing his daughter, they'd kick him the hell out of the club permanently, or pin a medal on his chest, congratulating him for a job well done.

After an hour-long, father-daughter debate led by none other than Blair, Dutch had slept like his fish. Eyes open.

Sighing, he waved his hand over the reader. The elevator doors parted and Jinx barged his way out, forcing Dutch to step back.

"You're early for a change. Got serious business. I'm driving."

Setting his own disasters aside, Dutch followed. Jinx had a look about face, fierceness in his eyes. "What's up? Mason change his mind?" His partner had somehow gotten them off the hook temporarily.

"Wish it were that easy. Wolf called and talked some sketchy stink. Don't know much, but he mentioned hostage, Westbrooke, and witness."

"Ah, hell no."

They climbed inside the white unmarked. Yesterday had heated close to boiling. Today had the potential to be a hot mother in hell.

"When's the last time you talked to Randi," Jinx asked. "And where was she?"

Damn it all. "Night before last. Min Li led me to believe she was with her. I traced the link, found it originated at China Palace and transferred to a Gilbert network. Temp comm, couldn't hone in. She's got Randi moving around, and Min Li rarely stays at her own home."

"We need to know where she's been."

He tried Ting Lan. The recorded message offered little. I'm unavailable. Please leave your name. I will respond as soon as possible.

Min Li's had one shorter than her height. Try later.

The on-call detective met them at the scene.

"What's up?" Dutch asked.

"Thought we had a hostage situation." Wolf was a grizzly sucker with broad shoulders, barreled chest, and powerful arms. When angered, his muzzle wrinkled like any four-legged, menacing creature. Lots of teeth and gums showing. Hence, Jinx's nickname for the man.

"Two youngsters locked inside an old storage unit back in the alley. Witness said he saw who did it."

"Who called Tambo?" Jinx asked. He had good eyes and nose for good-looking women.

The reporter had her back to them, talking to an old codger who slithered closer to her side. Bearded, the guy easily passed for Old Man Winter of the inter-planetary type, wearing tattered clothes, beat-up tennis shoes, and aluminum foil headgear spiked with tentacles. The grocery cart he hung onto was full of crap: newspapers, cans, bottles, and whatever else was stored beneath them.

"I heard a passerby linking with Ted Thornby of Channel Twelve," Detective Barber said. She was Wolf's partner. Medium height, slender, and a pretty brunette, she was hell on wheels when it came to idiots. Tangle with her and suspects drew back a bloody stub. "I ran him off. Obviously too late."

"An officer chased who he thought had locked the kids in," Wolf included. "He said female, dark hair, age unknown but probably buddy or tormentor of the kids. She was too fast for him."

"We haven't found who called the cops. Pay unit," Barber continued. "And we can't trust anything this idiot says. He's talking aliens half the time, but he also flashed yesterday's newspaper showing Westbrooke's mug shot. He said the officer was hotfooting it after her. Tambo's loving it, egging him on. She was 'live' five minutes ago."

"Why didn't you cut that shit off?" Dutch started toward Tambo and her collaborators. "Shut it down, Tambo. Now." From behind, he heard Jinx call his name.

Tambo ignored him, kept yakking to the galaxy buzzard.

Stepping between the pair, Dutch got in her face, up close and personal. "I said shut it down."

"Back off, Patterson."

Chandler Mayfield slithered into view, stood behind his wife, and settled his big hands on her shoulders, glaring. What the devil was he doing here? His wife had cameramen to protect her.

But Tambo was having none of it. She shrugged his hands away. "I'm in the middle of a story here, Detective. You can't stop me from talking to this man."

"You're right," Jinx cut in. "We can't, but we'll do an exclusive with another network. You'll be the laughingstock of the nation talking extraterrestrials when two children's lives were at risk."

Tambo's jaw went slack. She turned her back and said, "Let's wrap it up, guys. Come on, honey, it's still early and I'm starved."

Chandler had one last cut. "Watch it next time, Patterson."

Dutch snorted. Watch what? They were of equal height, but unfortunately, not of equal physique. Forget the strength factor. This guy's biceps put Dutch's among tag-football players.

Jinx turned his pair of narrowed eyes on him. "What's your problem?"

Hell. This performance fit Blair's description to utter perfection. Demanding. Unrelenting. Picky. Narrow-minded. Worse, damn ugly when he lost control of the situation.

Her exact words and, to his knowledge, the first time his little girl had ever cursed. She'd jumped way down his throat, told him everything pissing her off from the time she'd turned six. The ultimate of insults, squealing to his first partner that she'd gotten a training bra with nothing to train.

"Hey. E.T. phone home," Jinx said, waving his hand in front of Dutch's face.

"She didn't have anything to train. Got too damn much now."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

Dutch shook his head. He'd give Blair time to cool off before calling. Beg for her forgiveness. How was he supposed to know she'd had a crush on Martin? Twelve was young for crushes anyway. So was sixteen. "Nothing." He watched Chandler help his wife into the baddest Lamborghini on the road.

"Where were you just now?" Jinx asked.

"Recapping."

"No time for reminiscing if it's not about the case. Refocus, White Boy. Christ, here comes the rest of the damn press. Wolf! Get the kids secured and notify the parents. Who called these yokels?"

Old Man Winter, wide toothless grin on his face, rolled his grocery cart toward the press agents.

"Somebody put Captain Kirk in a cruiser. And take that damn sphere off his head." Jinx was definitely Chief material.

The wagon train of vans, loaded with sophisticated satellite equipment, circled across the street. Camera people and newscasters from every network spilled out of each one like marauding bulls, stopping already-congested traffic. They charged, thrusting microphones and video links toward the detective's faces, firing off a barrage of questions.

"No comment," the detectives said in unison. "Unknown" is what they meant.

"Is it possible Randi Westbrooke is behind the abduction?" one correspondent broke in, silencing the entire group.

Abduction? Jesus. This idiot was laying the groundwork for blame and bullshit without spit for information. "We keep speculation at a minimum this early in our cases," Dutch said. "We're treating it like any other crime scene. Gathering information, clues, and interviewing pertinent parties."

"But will she be a suspect?"

"Like I said, you—"

"There are no suspects at this time," Jinx intervened. "If you'll excuse us, we have a job to do." They turned their backs and walked away.

"Is Westbrooke in custody yet, detectives?" another male voice yelled.

"Give them ammunition and they'll stay on our butts," Jinx warned. "Keep moving. We'll talk to the kids."

Ignoring the strong desire to connect his fist squarely with the reporter's nose clawed a new trench in Dutch's deteriorating mood.

"Where you go this morning?"

The kitchen was noisy. Pan lids rattled, aluminum trays twanged their own melody, and dishes clattered. Min Li sat on her favorite stool at the counter, slicing beef paper-thin.

"News lady talk ugly shit."

Randi finished filling the side sink with hot soapy water and added sanitizer. She scrubbed the counter top beside it in a room already steamed and soggy. The sudsy water increased the room's humidity, intensifying the smell of the same old aromas she was beginning to dislike.

"Came straight here from Chyou's. She had shopping to do." Stilling her busy hands, she asked, "What kind of nasty-little sound was that? You think I'm lying?"

She dropped the rag, dried her hands on the white apron, and swaggered over to her boss's side. Beating around a Chinese bush had never been one of Min Li's strong suits.

"All right, get to the point. What's this about?"

"You not stop nowhere, see children?"

Strange question, including the hint of disdain in her voice.

Ting Lan said her mother had slept well last night and that she had come into the restaurant sparkling with energy. But as the morning progressed, her sparks had fizzled to a lackluster afterglow.

"I have no idea what you mean."

When Min Li twisted on the stool, facing her, eyes narrowed, teeth bared, Randi warily stepped back. "I rode the twenty-six. Caught it two blocks from Chyou's and transferred to the thirty-two. Straight shot here. What's going on? Put that knife down!"

Min Li maintained her death-grip on the sharp blade's handle. Her white-knuckled hand trembled. When deafening silence claimed the kitchen, Randi felt all eyes glued to her back for a thousand penetrating moments.

The boss went back to slicing beef. "Good."

And the usual kitchen sounds resumed. Ting Lan came through the swinging door, gathered an array of condiments and set them on her tray. She left again. Kitchen workers continued with their normal hustle and bustle.

Good? Good? Randi blinked rapidly. Was she daydreaming? Sleepwalking again?

Chyou had awakened her last night. Fully dressed, Randi was on the front porch. Chyou said she was pressing the doorbell in one continuous blaring sound. Both screen and front doors were unlocked. The front door was wide open.

Randi let out the breath she'd been holding and dragged in another followed by a shuddered one. For those few torturous seconds, she truly believed temptation had led Min Li to attack and skin her alive.

No, no, we are fully awake.

There had to be more to this horror story. Min Li had acted out the role of a high-strung, aged Sigourney Weaver facing her worst alien enemy.

"What is this about?"

She rarely answered right away. "News lady say children taken hostage."

"And you thought I'd kidnapped them?" Randi asked loudly. Lord have mercy. She was prepared to attack.

"Just checking. Counter clean? Wash mine now. Shuwan, turn up heat for wok." Min Li scraped the raw meat from the counter into the big silver bowl she used most often.

"Wash yours now?" Of all the damn nerve of this woman. She'd smoothed over the near-fatal incident with talented finesse, without batting an eyelash. "You drew a knife on me."

"Bah. I cut meat and you think slow. Next time answer mother quick." She slid off the stool, went directly to the built-in wok, barking orders as she dumped the meat into the giant stir-fryer. "Get seasons, Shuwan. You want me burn meat first?"

Randi went back to her duties, worried, wondering if Min Li had lost several degrees of trust and confidence in her. She needed the boss as an ally. Most of all, she needed the force behind her sword and shield, as long as the weapon pointed in a direction opposite Randi and not directed at Dutch in any harmful fashion. She still might need his help one day, wished she had him to lean on now.

She pulled the plug in the sink. Water swirled in a tornadic funnel.

Lord knows Min Li had more gumption and spirit than Randi had ever imagined. Without the boss's help, eradicating her tarnished record was as good as sucked down the drain with the dirty water.

The door opened again. Randi looked up. Her heart leapt to her throat, pulse skyrocketing. From the look in Ting Lan's eyes, something was terribly wrong.

"What is it?" Randi asked.

Ting Lan pushed the door closed and blocked its small window. She squealed. "They're here!"

"Who? Dutch?"

"He's on his way to the kitchen."

"Oh, shit."

Min Li snapped out a string of Chinese and the hen party hopped into action, except it fell short of a tried and true execution. Caught up in the scramble, the gauntlet was a painful reminder of prison initiation. These hens flailed wildly around the room faster than startled chickens instead of the calm militia drills of their restaurant duties.

Min Li yanked on Randi's arm and dragged her to the rolling cart. She lifted the pink plastic tablecloth and pushed her down toward the lower rack. Her voice cracked like a whip on the next order and her chicks must've found their heads and came to attention. The room quieted, followed by the normal noises of the usual kitchen routine.

Randi heard the whoosh of the door opening. She tensed when boot heels crossed over the threshold, clicking on the tiled floor.

She drew back seeing the scuffed tips of them. Controlling her breathing was harder than she expected, fearing she'd bring on another whistling-wheeze episode or severe asthma attack followed by fainting. Oh, God, she could see him lifting the cloth, peering underneath, golden eyes of a sly fox glaring into hers, the trapped prey.

Scared spitless, the shakes took control of her body. What brought him here? Well, hell, what else? Her.

"I need some takeout and nobody was at the desk."

Her giggle earned a well-deserved kick in the butt from the boss.

"Squeaky cart. Need oil. Ting Lan, get oil," Min Li said. "What you want, rodeo cop? You got boot, no hat. All cowboy have hat. Shuwan, fix special. He like special." She talked a mile a second. She was very good at diversions, but sometimes she overplayed the acting role. "All on house. You want soup?"

Unable to resist, Randi risked a sneak peek, just to see his soothing face once. She lifted the fringed edge of the tablecloth. The peek extended to a lengthy journey up Dutch's long legs and higher. She sucked in air and let loose of the material.

"Somebody turn off steamer!"

Oh, Lord, Min Li had good ears. Had Dutch heard the same noise? Randi squeezed her eyes shut and the only image cramming into her mind was the super-sized appendage she'd seen. She suppressed the groan, but it turned into a tiny squeak.

"You're awful-damn sociable this time, Min Li. She's here, isn't she?"

When the boss shoved at the cart, Randi almost toppled out. She clung to the corner supports.

"Busy. We got customer. No time for talk. Rodeo cop take up much space. Take food. Go."

"Sounds like a good day for touring the premises."

Oh, no. Fear turned to panic. The lump lodged in Randi's throat inflated, cutting off her windpipe. Min Li would know how to get Dutch to leave. She always had something up her apron sleeve.

"Fine. Tour. We work, you stay out of way."

What?

"Shuwan, buffet almost empty. Customer come for food. Ting Lan, get boxes. We stock now."

Wheeled into the dining room on a bumpy ride won temporary reprieve while the detective searched the kitchen. Customers chattered, glasses clinked, and china rattled, but Randi recognized the sound of soft metal to metal. Worn-out curtain rings scraped across the rusty rod hanging from the buffet-serving center.

"Go," Ming ordered.

She lifted the tablecloth, crawled behind the dark burgundy curtains and stretched out against the line of boxes. Her friends quickly stacked more of the same in front of her. The woman was genius material. Bless her. Incredible when short minutes ago, she was poised to take a stab at Randi.

Above, heat percolated from the steaming pots. Perspiration broke out on her forehead, trickling. Worse, she wanted to scream, but squeaked instead. Bug. The creature, the same size as a damn truck, skittered across her fingers followed by another one taking possession of her hand.

"Quiet. Cop come."

With Mack truck slowly making its way up her arm, silence was the last thing on Randi's mind. She squeezed her eyes shut, tried to hold still, tried not to think about the monster holding her body and psyche imprisoned.

Streams of sweat seeped into her eyes, stung, and one salty drop trailed down to the corner of her mouth. Panting quietly now, the urge to pee overwhelmed her. She licked her lips and the salty taste of sweat.

"You've got her hiding in here somewhere," she heard Dutch say.

"Cop dreamer. She in Nebraska by now, visiting president rock."

For crying out loud. Get him out of here. Big Mack was poised on her shoulder. Why did she wear a sleeveless top today? And what was tickling her ankle?

"I'll check the cellar, the attic, and every square inch of this place, every time I step in here," Dutch said. "She can run, but she can't hide forever. I'll find her. That's a promise, and I don't break vows."

"Bah. Ting Lan, refill steamer."

He must've checked everywhere, and Dutch was not a happy camper from the sound of his boot heels stomping across the room. The front door open and closed.

"Gone," Min Li said.

Shrieking, Randi shot out of the enclosure, scattering supply boxes filled with napkins and chopsticks.

"God!" She brushed frantically at her clothes, her hair and face, wanting to strip naked. The boss had mentioned bugs, not tanks. Spinning, Randi asked, "Are there any on my back?"

"Any what?"

"Roaches!"

"Shh. You not say ugly word here," Min Li ordered. "Time to celebrate. Ting Lan, get tea on tables." She frowned. "Uh-oh. Hold still."

"What? Do you see one? Get it off." Randi shook her hands like rattles without sound.

"Bah. Baby."

The boss held up a squirming scorpion by the tail, and Randi barreled toward the kitchen, screaming.

Cackling. Min Li said, "Fake." She dangled the rubber critter, easing the open-mouthed patrons' minds.

She laughed again, until the front door opened.

Chapter 18

"Problems?" Dutch asked. He stood in the doorway, wiggling his index finger in his ear.

All heads turned in his direction. All swiveled back to Min Li. She clamped her mouth shut, her face contorted, scowling. "We forget soy. Got plenty. Chopstick, too."

Damn, she was good. Not perfect, though. "Who screamed?" He scanned the interior, his gaze darting from table to table, booth-to-booth, and even beneath each one.

"Me," Min Li replied.

"Yeah, right. Do you really expect me to believe that crap?"

"Dumb rodeo cop never believe nobody."

Snickers coming from the locals set his teeth on edge. Dutch wrinkled his nose. "Suppose I interview one or two or all of your customers? Suppose I take up residence here and question everyone who steps through your business gates? How many do you think would continue frequenting this place? Suppose I put cruisers outside yours and your hired help's homes? Better yet, I'll get a warrant."

The kitchen door flew open and Ting Lan screeched.

Startled at first, Dutch swaggered toward Min Li. "Sounds familiar." As planned, he had the owner backing toward the kitchen. Randi was here. Somewhere. He sensed her presence.

"Okay, okay. Ting Lan scream."

She scrambled hard for lies, the type of woman willing to chance anything to divert his attention and slowly running out of options. No problem. Jinx had planted himself at the back door. Randi was cornered now.

"Why would your daughter scream in a restaurant full of lunchtime customers?"

She stood statue-still, face serene, unruffled. "Because I show her this."

Ting Lan screeched and barreled through the swinging door.

"Jesus Christ!" Dutch stumbled backwards. Bumping chairs and tables, he tripped over scattered boxes and lost his balance altogether. Luckily, the buffet service center was right there. He caught hold of the edge well before he landed flat on his ass. "What the hell is that?"

"Scorpion." Triumphant, she smiled brightly. "Delicacy."

Laughter broke out, followed by customers applauding.

"Get rid of it."

What the hell was she doing dangling a live damn scorpion? The creature squirmed, and Dutch could've sworn the claws reached up to pinch her fingers.

"Oh, big bad rodeo cop." Min Li narrowed her eyes. "Here. You get rid of it."

She tossed the stinging critter in his direction. Dancing sideways, Dutch's heart danced its own wild jig. He hopped from boot to boot, over and all around the insect, before realizing the scorpion was motionless.
"Rubber," somebody said.

Cursing, Dutch straight-armed the kitchen door. "Randi!"

Five minutes later, Jinx chuckled.

Dutch had ditched his takeout order. He'd tossed everything into the dumpster, even when Jinx offered to take the meal off his hands. No way was that stuff riding in this car.

Not funny. He steered west on Interstate 10, speeding toward the Arizona State Prison Complex at Perryville.

Still freaked, fidgety, he lowered the window farther, sucked a long hit from his cigarette and flicked it into the wind. Blowing a steady stream of gray haze, he listened to the bass-drum beat of his heart and wiped sweat from his forehead, and then continued the stroke down his damp neck. "AC maximum."

He wondered if his instincts were shot to hell from all other distractions. Blair, Cheryl, Gavin, plus a frickin' fake scorpion that looked awful real to him, rubber and dead real. He'd checked pantry, attic, basement, and walk-in refrigerator, and then left the scene in a damn big hurry.

"Take this exit," Jinx said, cutting into his reverie. "I ran Brundage. Regular idiot for a fifteen-year veteran in the prison system. Divorced three times, soiled record, disciplinary actions to name a few. Why is this idiot still at the women's facility? Somebody should've fired his behind long time ago."

Dutch decelerated. "Nobody's applying. Long shifts, hardships, and budget. They don't offer incentives. The only person making decent money is the new warden. Hardworking subordinates take home less than half his salary. Par for the course."

Speeding up onto Cotton Lane, heat waves from the black tar created an optical illusion. Wide and steaming, a lake appeared in the distance. Drivers never caught up to the water mirage when the sands of parched earth sucked it dry.

Oddly named, Citrus Road led straight to the complex, but not one fruit tree grew way out here in West Hell. The prison's main building had been painted dull gray for years, encircled by a driveway surrounding the state and U.S. flags.

Jinx signaled to follow the signs toward the Santa Maria entrance where most visitors parked. Inmate visitations were limited to weekends and holidays for the general population, during specific time slots. Non-contact or lockdown visits were by appointment only, for one hour, and scheduled twenty-four hours in advanced if they were lucky enough to get one. Many of the rules had been in place since the institution's opening.

At the main desk, an information clerk linked. They were soon met by a petite, AK-toting female who promptly said, "Follow me."

The warden's office was located in the building outside the prisoner's hotel, surrounded by lush courtyard landscaping. Naturally, razor wire was capable of shredding skin. The stunner chain-link fences provided additional security. The structure, newer than any other on the property, was built less than a year ago.

They were scanned, documented, and forced to turn in their weapons. Then the heavyset blonde frisked Dutch when Jinx forgot to hand over interesting paraphernalia. The man was a walking munitions depot. Dutch figured he'd purposely omitted surrendering all gadgets, thinking the petite hottie would do frisking honors.

It didn't happen.

Disappointment etched Jinx's face, followed by a sneer of pure disgust when the second guard made a production of her slow handiwork.

"Wait till I tell Lexi," Dutch whispered. Jinx's stunning babe still held his partner's attraction after seven months.

"What exactly did God give us eyes for?"

"To see," he replied. "Touch and suffer the consequences."

"I had no plans to touch her."

"Which one?" He didn't get a reply.

They moved toward the last door down the hallway. The petite hottie linked. Seconds later the buzzer's faint sound rang out. When metal clanked disengagement, the AK-toter motioned them forward.

Sunlight flooded the huge room even with barred windows. Comfortable furniture and strategy tables had been well placed on top of thick gray carpeting. Behind the mahogany, antique desk sat...

"Good afternoon, gentlemen."

Hair black as a used cast-iron skillet, emphasized by a thatch of silver running the full length on one side, the woman came around the desk. She had plain but wide-set, brown eyes, prominent high cheekbones, slender nose. Classic, mature beauty. She'd painted her lips a complimenting dark red, same as her nails. Fingers long, delicate and deep bronze, she extended her hand.

"Warden Myke Collins. M-y-k-e," she said then spelled her full name as Mykal.

Jesus. Myke? Naturally, Dutch thought Myke was "Mike," bruiser of the male gender. Perryville, however, housed female inmates only. Employing the same sex as warden made sense. "Detective Patterson, Homicide." Her grip was firm yet gentle and Dutch gave Jinx a look that asked, "Did you know she was a she?"

His swift return eye contact replied silently with, "Let me handle this."

"Theodore Murray. Detective, Phoenix Homicide Division."

Oh, not Jinx, not Murray, not even Ted. Theodore. Seems Jinx held her grasp longer than necessary. She took her time extricating her hand.

"Please, have a seat," Collins said, gesturing toward two overstuffed chairs in abstract black, gray, and tan. She perched her hip on the desk edge. "I understand you're here about one of my guards. Ralph Brundage? Is there some sort of problem?"

Dutch thought one second about the question. Yeah, Brundage was the problem, but he kept his mouth shut.

"Just here to ask him a few questions," Jinx replied, "about former inmate Randi Westbrooke."

"Released what, five or six months ago." She scooted back on the desk, folded her arms, and crossed gorgeous legs. "Contact the official who oversaw her release if she's in trouble again. I can give you name and number."

"We'll gladly accept any information you have," Jinx said. His smile was oily as rancid grease. "We still need to talk to Mr. Brundage. He might have some information we can use. Is he on duty?"

Jinx knew damn well Brundage was working today, had it sounding as if they'd planned to enjoy a casual, get-to-know-each-other chat. We brought our own coffee and donuts.

"Yes, as a matter of fact, he is," Collins replied.

"You're welcome to join us, Warden. In fact, we'd prefer that you be there," Jinx said.

Slick-talking devil. Where was Lexi? This woman had at least five years on Jinx, way more on Lexi. Since when did he start sniffing after older women, an older black woman?

Lexi was the exact opposite: a blue-eyed blond. She airbrushed clothes on her perfect-twelve body.

"Certainly," Collins said. Her breathy tone was as sultry as the monsoon afternoon.

Yep, she was interested. Collins slithered off the desk, side split of her dark skirt rising sky-high, and sauntered around the furniture. She did own a pair of masterpiece limbs and a womanly figure beneath the tailored jacket she'd unbuttoned while en route. Beneath, tight-fitting, see-through top. Superb cleavage.

Giving his partner a sidelong glance, Dutch wondered how the detective won all women's attention. When Jinx's eyebrow lifted fractionally, Dutch stifled his laughter. The games people play.

Collins spoke quietly into the link and disconnected. "We'll meet in our staffing room."

Brundage certified the big fella group. He was slightly taller than Jinx's height, shorter than Dutch by an inch or two, but his build was thicker. Dark complexion. Shiny, bald head. Three fat wrinkles at the back of his neck. Prominent folds and lines between his bushy eyebrows were a sign he frowned most of the time, which he was doing now.

Collins introduced everyone. The glaring guard with dark, sinister eyes had one hell of a bone-crushing handshake. Dutch nearly dropped to his knees and cried mama or beg the man to take his life. Shit.

Jinx winked, showed teeth when the guard's eyes narrowed after their lengthy pump job.

Brundage licked the corner of his mouth. "What's this about?" The sound of gravel under skidding tires had nothing on the man's voice.

"Have a seat," Dutch said. "We understand you were a guard in Randi Westbrooke's wing. Specifically, lockdown."

"Yeah, so? I hear the bitch might be back."

Dutch could almost taste the hatefulness of this greasy weasel.

"Ralph," Collins said in her reprimanding tone. She slid onto the chair Jinx had pulled out for her and laced her long fingers together.

She wore no wedding ring or engagement diamond. Not unusual. Women had gained more of an attitude over the years. The tables between the genders agitated like an old washing machine. But this woman looked too good, too fine, not to have welded a wrist chain to some guy's steel ball.

If he ever married again, Dutch thought, damned if his wife would keep her maiden name. She'd add 'Patterson,' hyphenated if she wanted, but she'd share his name and wear the ring finger gold band, signifying off the market.

"Did you have many problems with Westbrooke?" Dutch asked.

"Troublemaker with a capital T," Jinx broke in. He sat in the chair opposite Brundage, Collins to his right. "Instigating fights, rebellious, insubordination. We realize some inmates never change even after their release into the public."

What the hell? Exactly where was the damn question in that sentence?

"She was one hot ticker," Brundage replied. "Time bomb set to go off every two seconds."

"Of course, you had to control her."

"Damn right. Control." Brundage evaluated his dirty fingernails, found a hanging piece of calloused skin, bit it off, and spit it at the carpeting. He pulled out a pocketknife big enough to carve Thanksgiving turkey and scraped his short nails shorter. What happened to the weapons rule?

From his vantage point, Dutch saw his partner's expression sour.

"No loudmouth inmate gets the best of me," Brundage said. "Us."

He was three times Randi's size. How much control did he use to subdue her? How much control was required?

"Solitary most of the time," Brundage went on.

"I'm sure she deserved it," Jinx said. He skid his chair back, got to his feet, shoving his hands into his trouser pockets, and moved around the big table to Brundage's back, stared out the window toward the main facility. "Needed to set her straight on who was boss, I'm sure. Big problems if an inmate belittles the staff, disrupts the routine, breaks rules."

Now just a goddamn minute. This had gone way too far.

Dutch opened his mouth when Brundage said, "Oh, I knew how to take care of her myself. Taught her a few lessons to keep her in line. It worked."

"Bet it did," Jinx replied. He jingled something loose in his pockets. "Westbrooke needed strong discipline, heavy hand, I'm sure."

"Nobody gives me lip here. Especially some smart-mouth, news-screen belle."

"Ralph is one our best guards," Collins piped in.

Who was she kidding?

Jinx swung around, gaze directed on the guard's back, much like deadly daggers. "I remember she wrote some trumped-up story about you."

Brundage hissed out a steady breath. "Same filthy broad."

"I know I would've wanted a piece."

Aha! Play him, Jinx. His partner would never ever abuse women.

"Got me some," Brundage added. "Made up for it."

"Ralph."

Collins and the asshole exchanged a look. His was wicked as the day is hot.

"Earned respect. Um," Brundage said and stood, "I've got rounds. Are we done here?"

"Sure, Ralph," Jinx replied, slapping the guard's back like the city's good ole buddy. When Brundage turned around, he clasped hands with him in their familiar power shake. "Mind if we swing by again if we need any more of your help?"

"Sure. Anytime." Brundage missed the worried frown on the warden's face.

Getting Jinx out of her office took some extra minutes. He asked Collins all about the facility's layout and their security measures, sounding genuinely interested. Dutch knew better than to believe his partner was interested in anything other than the woman who managed the facility and everyone on the premises.

They walked in silence until they exited the main building.

"Brundage is an asshole," Dutch said. "And you're a sneaky devil."

"How so?"

"Next time, tell me first what you plan to do. I was ready to box. With you."

Jinx's eyebrows lifted, damn near met his hairline, then lowered, squeezing into a frown.

Dutch easily pinpointed his partner's speculative expression, mind working, brain cells churning out information as always. So what if he sounded...ah, hell. He'd only shown an inherent protective nature with Cheryl and Blair.

"Read my lips, White Boy, your buddy Ralph would've clammed up the second you threatened him. You have to deal with dummies on their own level. I saw the pained look on your face when he shook your hand. I exuded equal power as that ignoramus. Not more, not less. He respects equals and he disrespects those who show superiority or outclass him.

"You need to learn people better to get whatever you need. Use intimidation, the buddy-buddy system, or act like their granny. Whatever it takes to acquire their cooperation, to get information. He disrespects you for your ponytail and your damn cowboy-looking getup. He's black, remember?"

He'd missed Dutch's slip. "You think he respects you when you're wearing an eight-hundred dollar suit?"

"He's not smart enough to recognize good quality threads," Jinx replied, moving his shoulders, hooking the single button to his navy jacket. "Twelve."

Dutch stopped dead. "The suit? You're kidding." The last sports coat he'd bought probably cost less than Jinx's silk tie. "I've been meaning to ask this. Where does all your money come from? Trust fund? Did you hit Powerball?"

Jinx shook his head, sighing audibly. "Stay focused. We're talking about Ralph Mouth. He has little respect for Myke so you can imagine how he feels about female inmates, particularly one who puts his reputation on the line. We need to check the report on the woman murdered here. Bet she had an education and it worked against her inside these walls. Somehow, Ralph Mouth beat the system."

Myke, huh? "You're right. He's divorced too. We should chat with the ex-wives while we're at it. Unlock front." Both doors popped open.

"Let me find my damn sanitizer before you warp five back to Phoenix."

"For what, to clean off Brundage or your lovely Myke before you see Lexi?"

"Bite me." Jinx disinfected then wrapped his fingers around the safety belt. "I want to get home before the six o'clock news for a change."

Chapter 19

Taking a short break from scrubbing tables, Randi smiled. The sun had begun its final descent, clouds' blinding colors fading to softer iridescent hues as the cooler evening again conquered today's blistering heat.

She'd won her first battle. Shaala's brief editorial had aired on the evening news. The reporter had raised a degree of suspicion about the murders and added a doubt factor on whether women had strength and finesse to physically overpower and slaughter three men. Randi had warned the journalist not to mention her name and Shaala had followed instructions.

In two hours, they were meeting again. Heavily treed areas seemed safest. She'd found a suitable setting far away from China Palace. But the weather forecast was shaky; dew point hovered at fifty-five for the third straight day, suggesting more showers. Tolerating another fully clothed soaking landed at the bottom of her daily achievement list. But accomplishments came fastened to problems. Dutch would be furious hearing the news broadcast. So what? The journalist would never break protocol. Shaala never mentioned the victims' names. Birthplace, yes. Ages, well, yeah. The Montoya brothers were twenty-seven and twenty-nine. In their prime. Thanks to Shaala, the seeds to shadow of doubt had been sprinkled and sowed under loosened soil.

Time to fertilize the crop.

Shaala would keep her source of information to herself if Dutch asked questions. Good reporters never squealed.

Randi had been good more than once, sheltering her source's identity, protecting an informant from scandal, reprisals, and the police. She'd do it again given the chance, even if Dutch...funny how her stomach fluttered, thinking of him. Butterflies somersaulted in her belly as she remembered the ill-concealed bulge running down his leg.

Gracious. Gimme, gimme, gimme, she thought hysterically. That's what I call a little too much to handle. Honey, anything larger than an immature carrot is way too big after all these years.

Like an old Maxine cartoon declared: My sex life isn't dead, but the buzzards are circling.

Randi laughed out loud. Who in the restaurant had given Dutch a hard-on? She looked over her shoulder. Ting Lan? The waitress busily refilled salt and pepper shakers and replaced bottled condiments.

Yup, any male with eyes and nose would sniff after her, the male brain well below the beltline rising to attention and leading the way. The scent of a woman. Pheromones, powerful little atoms. Bet the air sizzled between them.

Snapped, crackled, and popped like Rice Krispies, damn it.

Naturally, Dutch carried an attraction for Ting Lan. She had everything, possessing an array of feminine qualities Randi knew she lacked personally.

Ting Lan was pretty, slender, and young enough to still have children. She was refined and sensitive. She was pretty and her soothing voice had sweetness to lull babies to sleep and...and she was pretty. She was as domesticated as a contented, gentle kitten, sedately quiet and serene. She had so much going for her with sleek, long black hair. Men loved pretty women with long, straight hair—dark-haired, red-haired, or blonde. All men. Including her husband, Mr. James Branson.

And now, the first time Randi had found feelings for another man after a slew of emotionless years, he wanted any longhaired heifer instead of her.

Working her way into a fine fit of jealousy shoved the slither of contentment aside. She wrung out the cleaning rag nearly dry and slapped it on the laminated tabletop, then grabbed the soaking brush instead. She scrubbed viciously at an old stain when Min Li called her name.

"What?" Randi snapped.

"You make hole in table, new one come from salary."

Tightwad old woman. She dropped the brush into the pan of water and wiped the table dry with the old rag.

Lord, she sounded like a rebellious teenager, knowing better than to take her frustrations out on people who had no control over Dutch's attractions.

She dragged in a fortifying breath, lifted her cleaning wares from the table and moved to another, wishing the next hour hurried by, anxious to leave the restaurant. The longer she hung around Ting Lan, the quicker her jealousies sprang to life, absurd as they were.

Curious, why not ask Ting Lan if she had a thing for Dutch? She cringed. Hearing the Oriental beauty admit she cared for or loved the man would hurt more than her volatile heart could stand.

Just leave well enough alone. Your chances with him went straight to hell years ago. Hah! Never was a chance.

Why would he waste his time on an ugly, curly-headed duckling when he had a beautiful, straight-haired swan to keep him happy and content? Why would he consider hooking up with an ex-con anyway? She huffed out another resentful sigh. He and Ting Lan would fall deeply in love, marry, have babies, and live happily ever after. The classic storybook relationship. The romance of the century.

Everything she'd looked forward to with Jimmy.

Except Mr. Branson had other ideas. And women. The fickle bastard had pretended to love her. For a woman who had earned a master's in journalism, how had she become so naïve, so unwilling to face the truth when reality sat squarely under her nose?

Love once and for always had been her motto, through thick and thin, in sickness and in health, until death do we part.

When she'd come close to dying while carrying his baby, Jimmy had already flown to Florida. But not for business. The liar. He'd taken his longhaired, blonde-tramp Jessica to the Florida Keys. Randi knew the trashy heifer. Oh, yes, they'd had words once or twice.

Never mind that she'd risked her life to bear his child. Jimmy had an open opportunity when the doctor had warned her not to travel far away from home, to travel at all. Jimmy had lied as usual when the sneaking couple returned to Scottsdale. Randi, the ever-loving devoted wife (it must've been the prescription drugs) forgave him on the spot. When his late-night trysts ended abruptly, she'd wanted to stir the pot, spiteful as usual, but never questioned him on the issue. He was back to being her husband of sorts, roommate really, tiptoeing around her.

The required strength to leave him had deserted her. And she'd lost their baby. Eventually, she'd found the gumption to separate and forfeited everything worth anything: the home they'd built and shared, the love she'd sheltered in her heart, and a gigantic piece of her sanity. The final discourtesy, society had stripped her of dignity.

"Randi?" Ting Lan laid delicate fingers on her shoulder. "It's seven thirty. I'll finish up here. Do you need money or is there something I can help with? I can drop you off and pick you up afterward, wait for you if necessary? Anything for a friend. I have a date soon, but I can put the time back if I call now."

God, she was the perfect woman for any man. For Dutch.

"Did you see the news? Did you hear what Tambo reported?" Dutch said as he paced around his bedroom.

"Calm down. Shiloh's growling like you're standing here in the cave." The big animal would love to make Dutch his midnight snack. "It's an opinionated editorial anyway. How the devil did she get all that information on the Montoyas?"

Kicking clothes in need of laundering across the room into Mount Everest, Dutch said, "Exactly what I want to know. Got to be Min Li."

"Tight Lips spilling milk, not a chance," Jinx replied. "The apartment manager? Doubtful. He's got his head squarely up his butt. Can't be Annette Armstrong either."

Jinx had hijacked reports from fellow detectives. The interview had consisted of bullshit.

"Nah. She's clueless, lies like an area rug when squared off. Can't believe diddly squat coming out of that woman's mouth. Hard to believe Randi's related to her, thankfully by genes only and not working brain cells." After a moment of silence, he said, "What about Randi? As an ex-reporter, she has smarts."

"Possible," Jinx replied. "She'd take a big risk hooking up with a reporter, and vice-versa, unless they talked by comm. Give me some reasons why Tambo would believe just any caller? They'd have to show proof of who they were to get the reporter's attention"

"The killer or killers, if they stole info from the Montoyas. Maybe they found personal information inside the apartment, saw the letter's address. Maybe the killer knew them, grew up with them. Long-time acquaintances. The coyote thing is still on the table."

"Keep on grasping. You'd put sheep do-do on the table to protect her."

"Up yours." Damn him.

"Okay, White Boy, here's what we're going to do. For starters, tomorrow morning we put a tail on Tambo."

"Tracker," Dutch replied. The laundry mountain was growing. "She'll be in danger if she's meeting with a killer. Damn reporters never think about the consequences of their stupid actions."

"Might be tough to do, but not impossible. Tambo's station building has coded private parking with 24/7 guards. Slight problem there. At home, they keep their cars in the garage under Hyperion's sophisticated alarm system. Monitored premises. She drives a new Benz Sportster. Wait a minute," Jinx said.

Dutch heard muffled orders. Input to the processor.

"The Benz family have built-in trackers. I can tap without notification. The husband's cruising in a Lamborghini Caro 16 prototype, top-of-the-line security." Sighing, he finished with, "Take me some time to break the codes on that machine."

"Jesus Christ, Jinx. How the hell did you get so much information so fast?" Without an answer, he figured his partner had illegally obtained the data through his wafer-thin processor, gathering sensitive documentation on a whim. If he was a rebel, Jinx was Commander of the Slicksters. Promised hell if Mason had any kind of inkling of their goings-on. "Are we in violation here?"

"Not unless caught."

Groaning, Dutch dropped into the corner chair. Rubbing sideways on the scratchy fabric relieved the itch of worry on his bare skin. Relief came to his back, but not his fear of losing the only means of survival.

"I'm too slick to get busted. Let me handle it. You can keep your nose clean for once. Second, we still have to check out Ralph Mouth's ex-wives. I'll get to it."

"What the hell am I supposed to do while you surf the world from your secret cave, sit on my twiddling thumbs and spin?"

"Cain. You have to locate him. Clear him or cuff him. I've looked for info on the bugger without success and no death certificate. Pisses me off. I'll keep at it between this other mess. But steer clear of Kemo Sabe, hear? Got no time to pet 'n soothe."

Pet 'n soothe? Dutch chuckled.

"One of these days he's libel to bite back. Harder than Shiloh," Jinx advised, his voice bass-deep, almost a worried tone to it. "Keep it in mind. He'll try to snap you in half."

Dutch considered the warning. Mason's dislike hinged mainly on personal feelings unbecoming of commandership. "No problem."

"Vampire is," Jinx replied. Suspicion of a killer cop added another dimension to their troubles. "Your groan registered ten on the Richter. See if he's back in town. Talk to him. Friendly like, if you know what I mean. Me and Vampire ain't exactly best buds."

Far from it.

They'd come close to boxing during Jinx's first month on the job. Glickman had flunked the detective's test and the powers-that-be brought in an outsider—a black man—after the cop's wife dumped him for a kinder, gentler man of color. Jinx's cool, suave mannerisms only provoked Glickman.

"I'll try to make contact tonight. If he's in, I'll coax him to the Lair. Cake."

"Now you're— Hold on."

Damn, Jinx piped in some stupid elevator music. In fact, the same boring tune Dutch had busted his ex-wife's big foot on. He got off the chair and tried two stepping, stubbed his toe, and tripped. "Hell's bells."

Instead of wasting valuable time, he struggled out of the jeans he wore and gathered the first bundle of dirty clothes with them, destined for the washer, wondering when he'd used Hazel last. All eight pair of his denims was in the stack.

He trotted to the laundry area, dumped the clothes inside the oversize, smart washer-dryer-and-dry cleaning unit. "Hazel, my usual," Dutch commanded, meaning all colors, all fabrics, everything.

Jinx had given most of his appliances personal names because they performed human functions. Automation rankled everybody's ass, but if the prime user mastered programming, not a problem. Shit, he'd mastered Hazel's temperamental processor. With Jinx's help, of course. Hence, the washer's name came from an old television series.

The comm called his name and Dutch strode back to his bedroom.

"Drop everything," Jinx said. "We got another corpse."

"Ah, for God's sake. I just loaded my damn clothes for laundry."

"They say it's timeworn. Skeletal remains. Resident digging a garden called earlier. Shaw contacted headquarters. Not a good sign."

Dutch scribbled down the address then bolted to the laundry room. "Open up, Hazel."

"Illegal command."

"Open any-frickin' way."

Water stopped flowing and the door popped free. Yeah, he'd tamed this giant, automated shit. Too bad he'd failed at conquering a killer.

Randi strolled down the darkened lane at ten fifteen, relaxed, contented.

The moon was hardly a sliver of cheese and clouds still graced the sky. The temperature had steadied in the low-hundreds with high humidity. She reached up to feel the air, certain she'd draw her fingers back wet and slick. Perspiration trickled thinly down her spine, and the green silk outfit was damp already, clingy.

The meeting with Shaala had gone better than expected. She'd given her thirty minutes, more than she'd planned, and Randi had begun to trust the journalist more. Shaala seemed to reciprocate the same confidence. Faith or not, Randi still refused to meet face-to-face with the reporter and nullify her disguise. But Shaala had shown the tenacity of the hungriest reporter. She'd asked personal questions, demanded specific answers, and never let up.

"You're only giving me a few minutes. I have a three-minute editorial to fill."

Randi had caved. The reporter would put it to good use. She had to.

Then Shaala broke off the meeting, saying she had to get to some place important. They'd quickly arranged another appointment. Odd she'd forgotten to mention time limits, and she'd sputtered. Was Tambo wearing a tracker? Where could she hide it? Her cooty-bug?

Damn her.

Hearing the whine of an engine, Randi looked over her shoulder. The car was moving in her direction, fast. She picked up the pace, turned the corner, and broke into a dead run.

Five blocks later, she slowed, ducked behind the nearest thorny bush, and held her breath. Waiting, she finally peeked out, anticipating the cops to come rushing toward her, weapons drawn, wrist restraints ready. Trembling, she squeezed her eyes shut and blocked out the reminders. The car never appeared and neither did a battalion of officers with Dutch leading the pack.

Blowing out the air with gusto, she inhaled again to slow her heart rate, deciding Shaala was as trustworthy as she'd hoped. She crossed the Lightrail tracks, noticed a comm-booth nearby, thought to call Dutch, and ask how his investigation had progressed. She was lying to herself. She really wanted to hear his voice.

Why bother? He'd set his sights on Ting Lan. By now, they were probably in a full-body embrace. She shook her head. Men were all the same. Take what you can get while it's hot and available. She thought she'd shared something poignant with the detective, stirrings worth pursuing. At the very least, her personal erotic dream.

Well, damn him, he can get his rocks off later! Why should she show consideration? It was time for a bed check.

Arms swinging crazily, Randi marched toward the booth. She fed money to the greedy machine and ordered the call to Mr. Take-What-You-Can-Get Patterson.

"Yeah."

He sounded like she'd intruded on his lust, irritated. Tough. "Hope I caught you at a good moment."

Like hell. She heard noise and voices in the background. Party? No wonder Ting Lan had dressed prettily for their date, thick tresses flowing freely, skin clear and untouched with makeup except for shimmering lipstick. By now, he'd kissed the gloss off her mouth.

"Listen to me, Randi. You have to turn yourself in. Immediately. I'm done playing games. Give me your location."

"I'm— What do you mean playing games?" she shouted.

Of all the damn nerve of this man. What happened, Ting Lan dump him? Smart woman. Maybe he couldn't get teeny-weenie up to satisfy her. Tough. Try Con Man next time.

"Let me put it this way," he said in a deadly voice.

His tone sent tidal waves of cold shivers down her spine. Listening to his words, the shiver settled, chilling her belly.

Chapter 20

"Damn her."

She'd cut the link on him. Dutch reconnected and waited. When the unit responded with "no answer," he traced the call. Some public comm-booth in Tolleson, west of Phoenix.

He stuffed the unit inside his shirt pocket and scratched at his wet ass, wishing he'd told Hazel to dry-clean instead. All of his jeans were dripping wet before the machine shut down.

Floodlights brightened the grounds where the team worked. Human bones were carefully placed on the stretcher. The scene had already been photographed, and the technical team currently used sophisticated equipment in search of clues and evidence.

Jinx strode over to his side. "Shaw's making noise. She noticed nicks and cuts about the neck bones and ribs."

"Shit."

"My thoughts exactly."

Dutch pulled the rubber band free holding his ponytail. "I just had a call," he whispered. "Tried to get her to come in. She broke link when I told her another corpse had surfaced."

"Did she deny having anything to do with it?"

"Deaf mutes had more to say."

"Great," Jinx replied. He shifted his weight from foot to foot. "Damn. Here comes Shaw."

"Gentlemen."

They nodded and shook her hand.

"Tonight opens an old case. We have the best portable equipment this side of the Rockies if I say so myself, since I designed it," Shaw said. "She, the victim, went missing shortly before James Branson's murder."

Dutch's hackles rose. This woman's photographic memory was bigger than her cantaloupe-size hooters. With an ego to match. "What's her name?"

"Lancaster."

"Anything else," Jinx asked. He nudged Dutch toward his convertible. "Any other evidence?"

"Gold charm at the end of her cheap necklace, engraved with 'Love, Jimmy.' Sure might raise somebody's plucked eyebrows."

Meaning, the DA's. Shaw and Hamilton were far from gal pals for good reason. Shaw the meticulous, Gulch the impatient. Both with prides greater than Joan of Arc and too professional for an outright catfight.

Nobody would know if Dutch peed.

With another corpse, Lancaster's family already racked with pain and heartache, years of praying and hope destroyed, who planned to give the parents bad news after all this time? Who would have the gall to spin the tale about the perpetrator?

Dazed, Dutch stumbled across the street toward Jinx's car and flopped face down on the hood, his hair shrouding his pained face. "She did it?"

"Speculation. Get a grip. And get the hell off my damn automobile. Can you drive?"

He wondered if he could stand again, let alone start or steer his truck. Water had more stability than his legs and arms. "She did it, Jinx. She is Millennium Lizzie. You heard the ME."

"Dutch, can you drive or do I have to call an ambulance to take your sorry butt home? You're just like everybody else, insisting she's guilty. Gets on my damn nerve." Jinx paced back and forth, thick fists at his waist. He stopped, pointing one stout thumb at Dutch. "All right, Two-Faced, you're off the case. I want everything you have linked to me. Never mind. I'll get it myself. And if I hear one leak, your ass is mine."

The partner circled the red, restored '65 ragtop Thunderbird, side vaulted over the door, and got behind the wheel. He cranked the powerful engine, gunned it.

Dutch positioned himself, squinting when the headlights blinded his vision momentarily. When he flipped his partner the middle finger, he received Jinx's deadly glare.

"I'll run your butt over, Cracker. Get the hell out of my way." Gunning the engine again, he put the mean-machine in gear and rolled slowly forward.

Dutch held his ground. "Cracker? Did you hear me calling you a—"

"Say it. Just once. They'll find pieces of your narrow behind scattered all the way back to your effing birthplace."

Hell, he was pissed. Dutch had no intention of making a derogatory statement. Never had before. Never would. Respect. Jinx had earned his long ago. "Hey, you're my partner. We work together on all of our cases. No exclusions."

"Not this time, ex-partner."

Ex? Where the hell did he get off? "Hold up. Did I ditch you when you had doubts? Did I go scouting for a new partner? What the hell is this about?"

"You, Asshole. You and the rest of your hillbilly friends in this sorry pack of headhunters."

Dutch raised his fist, ready to smack the hood, until he saw Jinx's you-will-die glower. He knew he'd tap danced on his partner's only assailable nerve. But if Jinx would listen, they'd get this mess straightened out. "Get out of the car or I put a dent the size of Kansas in this piece of shit."

"Do it."

Christ. He'd screwed up everything in his life that meant anything. His marriage, his daughter's love, and now his partnership with the greatest guy on the planet, the latter in seconds.

Lowering his fist, he stretched the kinks out of his fingers. "Come on, Jinx. We've come too far for this kind of crap. We have to find the real killer. We're losing ground and time, arguing like kiddies over toys."

Ten seconds later the engine continued humming. No one from the investigative team seemed to notice the standoff. None of Jinx's so-called headhunters cared.

"All right," Dutch said, rolling up the sleeves of his light-blue shirt. "You get to shove first. Let's get this shit over with since you're determined to box. I'll get somebody to ref to keep you honest." Slander ought to cool him, knowing his partner hated fights. He'd turned down prime tickets to a heavyweight championship in Las Vegas.

Jinx cut the engine. Another ten seconds passed before he climbed out of the vintage vehicle. "Up yours, Patterson, for calling me a cheater, punk." He stripped his jacket off, draped it over the driver's seat, and rolled up the sleeves of his starched, white shirt, displaying forearms thick as Popeye's.

Ah, hell. He really did want to rumble. "Let me take off my Vest, make it even. You can keep yours on."

If fisticuffs clears the foul air between us, pain or not, great.

Jinx drew up big fists.

Jesus. This was going to hurt bad. Okay, so the vests were good protection. "Ready?"

"To rope a dope."

They circled a tight perimeter, glaring, waiting for their opponent to throw the first punch when someone's giggle interrupted.

"I thought adult roughhousing went out with high-top tennis shoes, detectives, and damned if I don't have a ringside seat."

"How long have you been nosing around?" Dutch asked, lowering his clenched fists.

Who called her to the scene? Worse, how much of their discussion had she heard? Reporters slithered through tall grass undetected, especially fashionably dressed joggers.

Tambo affixed her hands on her trim hips. The effects of bright backlighting emphasized her allure—face of a beauty queen, body of a first-class seductress. "Long enough."

The detectives exchanged a look and Jinx shook his head almost imperceptibly, which meant, she'd caught maybe a snatch, or for Dutch to keep the lid on their ammunition.

Jinx went around the T-bird. Slick devil grabbed the processor from his jacket.

"I was hoping to get an exclusive." Tambo gestured toward the crime scene, but Dutch and Jinx kept their mouths clamped shut. "Can you at least tell me the victim's gender?"

Her gaze traveled from one detective to the other. The woman had nerve after the broadcast this evening when Dutch had specifically told her to keep the lid on the Montoya's personal information.

"Testosterone," she muttered. "Go ahead and continue your silly pissing match."

When her remark went without reaction, she threw her hands in the air and stomped away. Fat chance if she'd get anything out of Shaw.

Dutch's comm beeped. He ignored it and shoved his sleeves higher.

"Answer it," Jinx said, "before I fatten your lip, dislocate your jaw, and you're forced to talk out of the side of your mouth. As if you don't already, chump."

"Like hell. Two seconds."

He connected. Looking over at Jinx, he signaled him to his side. Eyes squinted, his partner shook his head. He folded the equipment to mini-notebook size. Dutch mouthed, "Get your ass over here. Randi."

"Truly. I'm not a murderer, Joel."

Jinx leaned in.

"You forgot to mention you and Jimmy had marital problems and your husband was seeing someone else," Dutch hinted and got no reply. Crap. At the very least, he'd wanted her to deny she knew. "Talk to me."

"He had more than one affair. Three I knew of. His infidelities were annoying. Hurt when I-I loved him so much. I thought our pregnancy would change him. Even losing our baby had little effect on Jimmy." Her voice caught on what sounded like a well-contained sob and Dutch grimaced, aching for her. "The last cow—Miss Blondie Lancaster—meant more to Jimmy than his own flesh and blood."

Oh, shit. Dutch looked at Jinx and he said the words aloud. Their troubles had just tripled. Quadrupled.

"Get her to come in," Jinx whispered. "Lie if you have to, promise her anything."

He was right. This had gone on far too long. Except, lie about what? That she'd go free? They had no choice but to take her into custody and put her in jail. "Listen to me, Randi. You're up the crick without the damn canoe. Jinx and I are determined to help you, but you have to do what we say. The longer you keep running, the tougher it gets to prove your innocence."

"You're wrong if you think you can talk me into surrendering," she confirmed. Her tone sounded stronger. "I'm not going back to jail to wait for you to finish your investigation." She closed the link.

"Marvelous, Patterson. Way to go."

"What the hell was I supposed to say? Promise her a good boinkin'? Jesus."

"Yes, if you think you're that damn good," Jinx snapped, poking Dutch's chest. "Listen to me. She's fair game for the needle. It would've cast doubt on her guilt if another murder happened while she was in custody. Not that we want another one."

"Ten years ago the murders stopped when she was in custody!"

"Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn. We could've kept it secret somehow, put her under guard somewhere. Why would she admit to knowing Jessica Lancaster if she'd killed her?" He snatched Dutch's comm from his hand, checked the call number, and handed it back. "I'm going to Tolleson."

Yeah, why would she admit to knowing Lancaster? Why would she stay in town, risk capture? "I'll drive. She'd make it to California on foot by the time you got to Tolleson," Dutch said, heading for the truck.

Jinx stopped by his car. He grabbed his jacket, mumbling something about Shiloh the Rottweiler. Put that monster inside the T-bird and only a fool would think to step within ten feet of it. "Arm," he ordered.

Car lights flashed, horn honked, and went silent. For all Dutch knew, the tank might bristle with machine guns and bazookas to match its vintage.

Jinx climbed the steel rungs into Dutch's truck, settled in, and unfolded his processor. "Well, look-ee here. Update on Tambo. She's wearing an AllCom alerter."

"What?" Dutch started the truck's engine.

"Notification buzz. Simple pager."

"Where'd she hide it?" And how, when she wore skin-tight leotards? Creeping forward, his bumper tagged the cruiser's trunk.

"Planted inside her earring probably. We can use its frequency in tandem with the tracker. It'll cut through excess crap for me."

Whatever. Let Jinx talk electronic lingo, Dutch was out of his league and clicked off.

Backing up failed to help. Official vehicles blocked his truck on three sides. "When did I ask for this?"

"When you opened your big mouth."

"Kiss off." He cranked the wheel, backed up, went forward, and repeated the sequence several times, then drove over the curb, jostling everything inside, cursing when his favorite bomber shades flipped off the visor.

"Slow down. I know somebody who's trustworthy."

Sounded like a barb, one Dutch disliked. Hell, he was as dependable as Depends any day. "And?"

"Chewy. Need a favor, bud," Jinx said into the unit.

Dutch maneuvered the truck snugly between two trees, branches and leaves scraping the sides snapped at the windshield. He veered onto the sidewalk, looking for an exit path. None of these houses had driveways.

He heard bits and pieces of Jinx's conversation: an address—presumably of the comm-booth—Randi's name, and a vague description of the suspect. Booty-licious. Dutch began to hate the term but, in theory, his partner knew what he was doing.

"Fine little mama," Jinx finished.

Gritting his teeth, Dutch hoped like hell his partner knew what he was doing, because he sure as shit ran his mouth. Yeah, his comments called for a boxing rematch. Fine little mama.

He accelerated, pissed, remembering Warden Collins. Jinx had a way with women and Dutch had a way with goddamn fish. Must be the clothes, or his tactfulness. Something attracted women to Jinx like bees to pollen. Maybe it was the smell of money. Was Randi attracted to him as well? Shit. Probably so.

All four wheels smacked pavement. The truck lurched forward, blasted down the residential street. He glanced at the rearview mirror, sure he'd taken some greenery with them, expecting two or three tree limbs landing in the truck's bed.

Jinx switched off his comm and grabbed for his safety strap. Nonexistent.

"What the hell did you mean by 'when I opened my mouth'?"

"Let me catch my breath." Jinx inhaled deeply, twice. "Calling me a cheater, piss-ant. I should've knocked you out when I had the chance."

"Rematch." Two, if Randi wanted a piece of his partner. "Besides, we'll have plenty of time after Mason directs us to the local soup line."

"With your hair hanging like some woman's, we'll look like husband and wife if you shave that ratty mess off your— Damn. Where are you going? Stop this tugboat."

Dutch slammed on the breaks.

"Whip a U-turn. You missed the turnoff, White Boy."

Partners. Grinning, Dutch said, "Hang on." He shoved the gears into reverse and punched it.

Having the need for speed, he cut their travel time nearly in half. Luckily, no cops had caught them. Mason would shit cow piles over a speeding ticket in your private vehicle. Cops were supposed to know better, set an example. Instead, he'd use Dutch as the example.

Jinx contacted this Chewy dude again. Twice, the lookout thought he'd seen Randi and twice he'd decided the woman was Oriental.

"She's high-yellow," Jinx told Chewy and turned on audio. "Are you sure?"

"Positive," Chewy said. "What's she wearing?"

"How the hell do we know?" Dutch shouted.

"Who's the chump shootin' his mouth off?"

"My partner, unfortunately. Keep looking," Jinx said. "Our ETA is about two minutes."

"One," Dutch said.

"One, if you knew where you were going," Jinx replied. "Take the next left. Chewy, circle around to where you saw the woman. We'll come in from the other side. Something tells me she's in disguise. Min Li," he said to Dutch.

"Damn good possibility." He licked his dry lips, thinking how she was the smartest old dame he knew.

"Find her yet? We should be seeing you in a second here."

"Bitch disappeared. Let me circle around again."

Dutch wrinkled his nose at Chewy's name calling. Up ahead, he saw taillights. "Is that him?"

"Yep," Jinx replied. "We're right behind you. We'll swing around and check surrounding blocks. You go left."

"She disappeared. There's no place to hide really. She might've ducked into her house."

"Not possible."

"Well, she's damn slick." A noisy explosion came through the link.

"What the devil was that? Gunfire?" Dutch whispered.

"Bubblegum. The reason behind his name. Gnaws like a damn buffalo. Gets on my single nerve."

"She probably caught wind of you and hightailed out of there," Dutch said loud enough for Chewy to hear.

"Or took the Lightrail." Another explosion came through the link. "She was headed in that general direction."

"Why in the hell didn't you tell us that mess before?" Jinx shouted.

"Ask next time. You said she was black. I know what black women look like, love my soul sisters. This one was definitely Chinese or Japanese, an Asian chick. Black women don't be wearin' no single long braid. She had on some funny-looking clothes too. You know how shy Oriental women are. This one stuck her nose in the air when I drove by and honked."

"You honked?" Jinx's tone had swapped bass for tenor.

"Hell, yeah," Chewy replied. "Honked both times I saw her. How else was I supposed to see if it was her? I ain't got the Six Million Dollar Man's vision, Jinx. Did you want me to hop out of the car, run up on her, and get in her face? It's dark. She would've called the po-lice on me."

"Chewy, we are the police." Jinx sighed. "Son of a biscuit eater. Go home. I'll yak at you later. Thanks for your help." He cut the link then pinched the bridge of his nose. "I should've known better. The boy lost his damn sense. Popping gum blew out his effing brains."

"We'll never know for sure if it was Randi," Dutch said. "Too late to chase down the Lightrails. She could be anywhere by now."

"Think tomorrow. You have to catch up with Vampire and Cain. I'll get the mud on Ralph Mouth and break Tambo's tracking code. I also want to know who's feeding Tambo info."

He was sure to find out, Dutch decided. "Fifty bucks says it's inside our ranks."

"Even if I had the energy, I'd pass. Get me back to my ride, White Boy, so I can take my tired behind home and call Lexi before she starts nagging me crazy. Got a sneaky suspicion we're in for a big surprise soon."

Jinx's phenomenal intuition never ceased to amaze him. "I need at least one hint."

"Just a feeling, but I think Tambo and whoever her cohort is might make a big splash since the sneaks have been talking. She must be working up to the city's blockbuster story."

"Good. Should help blow this case wide open once we box her in on a warrant. The Wicked Witch'll toss her in jail until she talks."

"Knowing Tambo, she'll settle in for the long haul."

"It'll keep her alive," Dutch said.

At Jinx's signal, he turned the corner. Straight ahead, the road sign directed drivers back to Interstate 10, to Phoenix or Los Angeles.

"Yeah, and we'll still need her help. Right, toward Phoenix."

He switched lanes.

They could use the assistance. Dutch could use some aid in more ways than one, wanting Jinx to keep his mind on the hot number he already had. "We got time. Call Lexi now."

"Left my personal link in the T-bird. If I touch base with her from the business comm, she'll nag me silly, day in and day out. I'd never get any work done. The other night she started talking about her clock ticking off minutes."

"Meaning?" Traffic was moderately light on the interstate. Dutch swerved to the HOV lane.

Jinx cocked his head to one side and said, "You've been out of circulation too long. Kids. She wants marriage. The storybook life. Wedded bliss." He snorted.

"There's nothing wrong with marriage, kids, or a happy lifestyle. Where I come from, spouse, children, and extended family magnifies one's happiness."

He really missed family life. Work kept his mind busy on affairs other than loneliness. Bachelorhood wasn't all that at forty-three when the future looked full of grim solitude. Who wanted to just exist, live alone, and die alone?

"I'm happy, ecstatic," Jinx replied. "With Shiloh. No grief or whining or harping. And, God knows, Lexi can—"

"I got damn fish, but they forget to greet me at the door and I doubt they're waiting for my loving caress." And Shiloh damn sure wasn't the poodle-type you'd want sitting on your lap.

"Are you telling me you'd marry again?"

"Well," Dutch began. Would he? Nah, not likely. "Maybe if the right woman came along—"

"You would," Jinx finished for him. "Some men would say you're a disgrace to the divorced, male population. They'd wonder, what exactly did you learn the first go-round? Did you learn anything?"

Well, yeah, he had. He'd learned that having a loving family meant more than having the moon and stars. Dutch looked up toward the dark sky. Those heavenly bodies would always be there, come rain or shine, through thick and thin, forever, even if humans decimated their own planet. Genuine happiness carried no guarantees. He'd found it once, embraced it, lost it in the end.

No, to suffer another fatal blow to his mind and heart meant lots more pain, agony, and too damn much drama. Marrying again was out of the question.

"I learned my lesson." Dutch rapped his knuckles against the steering wheel.

Chapter 21

It was a toss-up to determine which suspect to chase down first. Vampire or Cain. Cain or Vampire. Dutch flipped the old dollar piece he'd won in Vegas. Heads the blood-sucking Vampire, tails...Hell raising Cain won. Fourteen different Cains lived across the Phoenix metro area and Jinx's words echoed in his brain.

You can't find your way out of your own damn house.

The hell you say. Dutch dragged the list from his shirt pocket.

"Lead me to—"

"Illegal command."

"Ah, shit. Tell me—"

"Illegal command."

Jesus. Who invented this crap? "All right, let's get this shit straight. I'm the boss," Dutch said and waited. "Directions." With no crappy comeback, he gave the stationary robotic an address.

Midway through the list, he hit jackpot.

"You've found him? Where is he?" Yvonne Cain asked. Sheer surprise crossed her hopeful face. She claimed to be Harold Cain's common-law wife of seventeen years.

"No, we haven't found him, ma'am," Dutch replied. "We're looking for him."

"Please, come inside. I can't stand for long. Bad leg."

Yeah, he could see that. He followed limping Yvonne to the sofa where she sort of fell onto the tweed couch. She used both hands to hoist her disfigured limb onto the coffee table and closed her eyes, massaging.

"This happened because of Harold. One of his stupid friend's idea. They wouldn't take me to the hospital. Now, I'm scarred for life and in constant pain. Too late to do anything about it now, even if I had the money."

Not only was her leg badly disfigured, her entire right side had severe damage. Dutch had only seen injuries of this nature on an old color television during the Iraq war.

"Homemade bomb," she said and sort of chirped.

Horrified, bile rose in his throat, but every other body cell iced over. "Bomb?"

"Their first attempt," she admitted, "and their last. I stumbled onto it, literally, in our cabin in the Smokey Mountains. Tennessee. Nearly died because Harold and his friend thought the sheriff would show up at our door. Harold nursed me night and day."

Thawing, cold air rushed out of his lungs and Dutch swallowed convulsively while she ran down the list of trauma and devastation. Her husband had joined a group—Children of Resurrection, hate organization—long before he'd met Yvonne.

"Moved back here a year later," she finished.

"We've got him on record, but he didn't renew his license."

Yvonne's smile was that of stroke victims, one-sided. "Harold was good at dropping us out of sight. Name changes, moving often, disguises, keeping low. We've lived all over this city, mostly in dumps."

Like the camper on stilts. "How did you survive? Where did he work?" With injuries like hers, no way she could hold onto employment.

"Handyman. Janitorial services. We were both employed with Perfect Housecleaning. Maid service for the snobs in Scottsdale, Paradise Valley, and other locations before we moved to Tennessee."

Dutch put the name to memory. Randi had mentioned her parents used professional housecleaners. Maids normally had keys to the resident's home. As for Gilbert Chapman, maybe Cain had worked for the service group maintaining the art studio. Randi had also said she'd done a little for-fun chiseling with Chapman.

"He'd earned just enough to feed us and keep a roof over our heads. Harold had an older brother who belonged to the same organization. He taught him what he knew. But Ian died three years ago. Massive heart attack. I think he died because the man was so mean. One day, Harold will die of the same condition."

"What about their parents? Where are they?" Wouldn't they know where their son had hidden?

"Harold didn't talk much about them. They abandoned the boys when they were teenagers. Left one day and never came back is what he said, like running away from home and responsibility. I didn't question him on whether it was true or not." She blushed. Obviously, Yvonne Cain feared her husband.

"Can you think of any place he might hideout in Phoenix, or do you think he's left the city?"

She shook her head. "He liked Phoenix, liked the heat. He's still here. Somewhere."

Dutch chewed on it. "What about names of any place he worked, any of the people he worked for? How do you survive?"

Yvonne licked her lips. From the look on her face, she wavered on whether to answer. "Every month I got a money order. Until three months ago."

Dutch counted back three months. April, about the last time the nameless prostitute said pencil. He shook his head.

"No card, no note, just the money order signed by him. I recognized his handwriting. Harold wrote poorly in cursive and he used several different false names."

Why would this guy leave his old lady and still send her money?

As if she'd read his mind, Yvonne said, "Harold was a drunk. He cried after, but he promised never to hurt me again. The way I see it, staying away was the only way he couldn't."

The disgusting bastard needed anger management classes, but Harold Cain was beyond hope. "What about now? How do you manage?"

"I take in sewing, ironing on occasion. I knit, crochet. Crafts. Gets me by."

Barely, Dutch thought. Meager furnishings, and she looked thinner and older than she should. Folded, an ironing board leaned against a dirtied wall. Someone had hammered two-by-fours together that held hangers. Yarns and needles were on her living room table. Many other craftsy things were shoved in baskets.

"I still love him, detective. No matter what he's done, I still love him."

Damn shame. "Do you know where he might be?"

Frowning, distrust crossed her face.

"This is an investigation, Mrs. Cain. The DA will subpoena you." Only if they had a case against her husband.

She licked her lips again, shaking her head. "Try the nursing home where his brother died. They might be able to help you. He worked there with him sometimes."

"Name?"

Yvonne massaged her temples. "Sunny something. Sunnyvale Rest Home. If you find him, don't hurt him. Deep down, he's a good man."

Yeah, right. A bomb-making, wife-beating bigot. "Thank you, Mrs. Cain."

It didn't take long to find the rest home. Dutch decided whatever agency oversaw this place wasn't on their job. Sunnyvale didn't appear to meet the standards for an elderly care facility. One-story, the building was in need of structural repair and the dandelion-infested landscape required serious attention.

Once inside, a peculiar odor assaulted his nostrils. In a hurry to get in and out, he marched toward the desk. The clerk leaned back in his chair, rocking on two legs, watching two shows on different screens. Dutch tapped the old-fashioned ringer.

"Yeah, just a second." The idiot forgot to turn around and greet the visitor. Dutch mashed the ringer harder. "I said, just a second."

This was too damn much. "Hey. Police." The chair smacked the floor. "Turn 'em off." The screens went blank. "Harold Cain. What do you know about him?"

"Badge, buddy, or warrant."

Dutch flashed his shield. "Warrant in ten minutes if I don't hear what I want to hear, genius. I'll get this place shut down before the steel doors clank shut behind you," he said, staring at the idiot's nametag. "Henderson."

"I'm just the desk clerk. New. Three weeks. I don't run this show." His freckles glowed brighter than his blush.

"You don't do anything from the looks of it. Harold Cain."

"I'll get Bubba in here. He's been around for years."

Two minutes later the beefy devil, wearing a yellow-stained white uniform, strolled through the side door. Dutch presented his shield again.

"He wants to know about Harold Cain," Henderson informed.

"Why?" Deep-set, piercing blue eyes glared. His honker had been broken more than once. "You family?"

"Not. We do this here or downtown. Your choice," Dutch said, lifting his chin, staring head-on into this gorilla's ice-blue eyes. They were an even match in height. Weight, hell, the bigger they are, the harder they fall.

Bubba looked away first. "Down the hall."

Dutch reached for his weapon. "Does he still work in this place?" Handymen carried weapons, as in hammers, wrenches, even knives.

Bubba snorted. "Not since the stroke. Completely incapacitated since April. Don't talk, move, looks right through you. Found him laying face down in the garden. Damn near drowned while watering plants." He tapped his temple. "Gone. I change his diapers."

He'd believe it when he saw Cain with his own eyes. "Show me."

No doubt, Harold Cain had traveled to the hellish village of zombies.

Dutch moved on to the bloodsucker.

"Hey, Benny? What's up? Where've you been hiding, man?" Showing enthusiasm, he hoped he could pull this off. Glickman was most always touchy.

"Hanging out. Why?" He sounded uptight and in one badass mood.

"Just checking on you since you've been hiding out."

"We all know why."

Yeah, we do. "What happened, vacation go sour? Vegas take all your cash? The thieving dogs manage to bankrupt the rich. Or did you let some damn broad rob you of every dime you've earned?"

He sort of laughed, minus a humorous note. "Hardly."

Damn, so much for conversation. "Well, shit, calls for celebration. How about hooking up, knocking down some beers. It's past the noon hour. We can grab some grub at Coyote Lair."

"Not in the mood." A man of few words, Glickman would cause an overactive child to seek alternative company.

"Get in the mood. I need a beer and drinking alone is the bad habit everybody frowns on."

"You got a partner," Glickman replied. "Drink with him. I've got things to do."

One more chance to get Vampire into daylight. "I'll buy." The link silenced. "Got problems, Benny. Need to talk to somebody and you know all about women and the shit they put us tired men through." They had one common denominator. Divorce.

"As in Cheryl?"

Pay dirt. "Ball and chain action only once. Never again. Need to chat."

"Ten minutes."

Dutch stared at his comm. The relay had been dropped. Expecting an affirmative, he'd waited outside Coyote Lair when contacting the cop.

Since he had some time, he called to see what little his partner had accomplished, proud he'd jumped two major hurdles.

His ego nosedived.

Damn Jinx. He rarely slept and added two hours to every frickin' day. Not only had he learned Brundage the Prick's ex-wives' names, addresses, and comm-numbers, he'd cracked the codes to Tambo's miniature alerter and her Mercedes. Her car sat at the news station's secure, covered parking lot. Slot C2. Jinx hadn't left home. The king of snoops. Why was he working for the city police force and not as a CIA operative, FBI suit, Special Forces, or some covert government agency? He had enough professional equipment and genuine smarts to open his own spy operations.

Push come to shove, I'd work for him.

Dutch thought about it. Like hell. They'd have to suffer through an annual pissing match and mark territory.

Seeing the number of regulars staggering inside Coyote Lair, he retrieved the pack of cigarettes from the glove compartment. Nearly everybody smoked in the Lair. Nobody complained, even when city ordinances prohibited the nasty habit.

He had to lay claim to his booth, away from rowdy beer drinkers, aimless pool shooters, and sightless dart throwers. Bad enough the jukebox blasted country music on maximum, although, he liked the rhythms. Sure enough, some of the Lair's broads might show up for a two-step contest. He needed to hear Glickman's every word, tone, and watch his body language. Three or four beers and the cop's tongue got loose, flapped faster than windblown flags.

Dutch yanked on the thick wooden handle. He stood in the doorway, adjusting his vision to the dark interior while Reba McIntyre belted her best tune.

The usual crew swiveled around on their stools or peered through the mirror behind the bar. Three rows of bottled liquor were lined up beneath the reflective glass. Steins and mugs were stacked beside them in pyramids if they weren't hanging from the ceiling rack. Like him, most of these folks drank beer. Other sinners peeked out from their booths.

All eyes focused on Dutch. He knew the locals were gauging his mood. The scent of smoldering tobacco filled his nostrils, setting off another craving. Needing a smoke, he pulled the pack from his shirt pocket and lit a cigarette.

"If it ain't the Wild Dutchman," somebody yelled.

Hoots, yelps, and whistles echoed off the walls.

"Somebody git this gunslinger a tall, cold one before he decides to shoot up our playroom."

These drunks knew him too damn well. He'd spent too much time in this dump. He saluted the crew.

"Usual, Dutch?" the bartender hollered over the ruckus.

"Yeah. Benny's on his way. Do him a double. Have Dolly bring them to my booth."

Two guys hopped out of his special sitting place and went to the bar.

The jukebox silenced, then came to life again. Dolly had selected her favorite artist. Naturally, Dolly Parton sang the song she wrote, I'll Always Love You. Great sound, but Dutch was partial to Whitney Houston's version. He was head over heels in love when The Bodyguard hit the screens, when he thought he'd always love Cheryl.

Time changes, so did people, which brought up another sore point. Dutch marched toward his regular seat. Sitting, he inhaled deeply off the cigarette and blew out a long, blue-gray stream from agitation.

Blair. He had to let her grow up, make choices, right or wrong, without his interference. Cheryl had been a great mother. She'd kept their daughter on the straight and narrow path to success. When Blair veered onto rough roads, Dutch put in his buck's worth to guide her back from certain failure. Okay, a ten spot. It was all for his little girl. Young lady. Damn it, almost grown. Seventeen going on thirty. How much influence could Gavin have on her now? Was she looking for a new Daddy? Did she think Gavin would be a better father?

"Yo, Dutch."

Glickman arrived sooner than expected. He wore his black Stetson pulled down over his eyebrows. Clean-cut, Benny wasn't a bad looking dude. He kept his hair in a buzz-cut. Clear brown eyes. His size pretty much matched Dutch's, give or a take an inch of muscle.

"Que pasa, amigo?" He switched mind gears as fast as he drove the truck.

"You, since the table's free of beer and peanuts."

"Sit your lead hindquarters down," Dolly said to the cop's back and he did, pronto. "And you'll have your damn beer." She shoved the bowl of mixed nuts across the table.

Dolly had never liked Glickman. None of the broads frequenting Coyote Lair tolerated his tight-ass personality. And Dolly, a shade less than six feet and who Pop would've called a 'big strappin woman like yer Ma' was known to crack beer bottles over heads, ending the brawl before it started good. Nobody, no male with a lick of sense, messed with the waitress unless they planned on singing soprano.

One-handed, she set three, iced mugs down fairly hard. Foam spilled down their frosty sides and spread on the table. She carried the usual white towel over her shoulder. Did she use it? Nah. Not Dolly. Not as long as Glickman sat there.

"These are on the house," she said, tapping one big clunky shoe. They put her close to seven feet since she'd piled her dishwater-blond hair high on top of her head. The shape resembled a wiry funnel. "I still get tips."

If Jinx ever met her, he'd tag her with a hell of nickname, probably quote from the old tune Bad Leroy Brown and something about a junkyard dog. He'd never set foot in here. He was too suave and sophisticated for Coyote Lair's country clientele.

Dutch thumbed through his wallet, found one Lincoln bill. "For you, my Viking princess."

She liked the endearment and grinned. "You want something for lunch, sweetie? Daily's your favorite, double cheeseburger with the works. No mayo, side of slaw. Right?"

"You got it, sweetheart. Benny?"

Bold as shit, she walked off.

"Hey, Dolly. Come on now, sweet pea. Take Benny's order too."

"Screw her. The bitch."

Dutch's gaze snapped to Glickman and warily went back to Dolly. Jesus Christ, if she heard...She kept walking. "There's no call for shit like that, Ben."

Damned if he'd try to pull an Amazon off Glickman's sorry butt. He'd gladly watch Dolly tear him apart limb by stupid limb, but he needed to talk to the dipshit first.

Shrugging, Glickman said, "I'll tell the cook myself." He slid out of the booth and circled around the waitress. Dumbass was scared of her, as was every male in the building, except the bartender and Dutch. Worried steers parted slower than these broken-down cowboys.

Long minutes passed before Glickman returned. He and Dolly probably had cross words before either left the kitchen, or she booted him out with some nasty threat, rather, vicious promise.

"So, what's up?" Glickman asked. His baritone had stayed baritone.

Dutch took a long draw off the draft to hide his grin. Glickman gulped all except the residual foam sliding down the mug. Open throat. Bottomless pit.

"Not a hell of a lot. You?"

"Same shit, different day." Shoving the empty mug aside, the street cop wrapped his fingers around the full one and dragged it in front of him. "So, what's up?"

So much for light conversation. Damn the weather, politics, and the economy. Dutch wondered if Glickman read the newspaper or listened to news. "Cheryl's leaving town."

"Permanently?"

He nodded, staring at the table, pinning the classic woe-is-me gloom on his face.

"You should be jumpin' for joy."

Dutch looked up, swallowed. "She's remarrying."

"Take a giddy leap over the moon, dude. No more alimony. Here's to you."

They bumped mugs. Glickman drained his and slammed the glass back on the laminated tabletop. The noisy signal caught the bartender's attention. Dutch expected another round to arrive shortly. He dragged out his wallet and laid a twenty on the table.

"So, what's the problem?"

"She wants to take my little girl with her to the Big Apple."

"Bummer." Glickman knew how much Dutch loved his daughter. "Hell, take her back to court. File suit."

"Already had that conversation with my lawyer. She has the right. There's nothing I can do about it."

"Threaten the dumb bitch."

Now, what in the hell was that supposed to mean?

Okay, sometimes he'd considered the opposite sex cranky and, yeah, some justified bitchology. He knew better than to drop the b-bomb aloud to any woman, out of respect and good upbringing. Hell, he'd made his share of mistakes.

But nobody, nobody, called his ex-old lady, a new flame of his, or a future woman he had eyes on, a dumb bitch.

"Use force. Works every time," Glickman added.

Chapter 22

Jinx drove patiently up Interstate 10 toward Perryville Penitentiary in a piece of official shit-brown junk. After the conversations he'd had with Brundage's three ex-wives, a detective-prison guard chat was definitely in order.

He'd contacted Warden Collins. Myke, she had insisted.

At the scanning area, the same little AK-toter smiled. Knowing her skills precluded frisking he unloaded his cache of weapons. Worthless effort since the hefty body-checker decided to search his body. She was gentle, slow about her task.

Myke Collins waited outside her doorway, lush as any woman could present herself. Jinx took his time walking down the long hallway, taking in every bit of the exquisite creature.

Her hair hung loose, grazing her shoulders, shiny against the stark black of her jacket. Vibrant sky-blue would suit her better, enhancing the bronze color of her skin. One day, he might show her the difference.

"Warden," he said simply.

"Myke."

Recognizing the scent of an expensive perfume he'd purchased for an alluring woman once or twice, Jinx lifted an eyebrow and said, "Your wish is my command."

She closed the door to her office. The lock engaged at her command.

Gesturing toward the sofa, Myke offered him spring water or a cocktail if he preferred. Jinx begged off the liquor, on-duty, and accepted the refrigerated water instead. Alcohol diluted the senses. He intended to keep his wits stable and alert. Just in case. He set the bottle aside.

In open appreciation, he watched her lower her fine body at the far end of the six-foot sofa and glide one extremely long limb over the other. She'd lifted it just enough for him to enjoy a lengthy peek at silk hose held by black, sexy garters. Classy. Younger women, like Lexi, would dismiss the idea of wearing hosiery.

The lady was hot and ready for Teddy. Like any red-blooded male, he was tempted to tap into her heat on the spot.

"Forgive me for staring." God had given humans eyes to see and Jinx wasn't blind to rare beauty. "As much as I enjoy keeping my eyes on you, as much as I would love to—" he said in a low whisper and licked the curve of his bottom lip.

He let the sentence hang, watching her eyes glaze over, hearing the small catch in her breathing. She would give her temple completely, without inhibition. To him.

But Jinx had gone beyond wild, untamed sex on desktops, sofas, or shower tubes. A good, firm, dual-king mattress worked best, the bed sporting sturdy spindles for his thrashing woman to hold onto during the many turbulent rides he had planned for her. And he had plans for Myke. She'd been on his mind since he'd met her.

Through the thin silk of her blouse, breasts quivered, nipples peaked. Jinx groaned inwardly. Damn shame.

"I do need to speak with Ralph Brundage," he said, breaking the spell.

Making time for Myke would take finesse as long as Lexi stayed in the picture. He did want Lexi in his real-time movie. Nag or not, she played the starring role as his leading lady. They were good together, provided she dropped the marriage rap.

When Myke rose from the sofa, she straightened her jacket and skirt then marched to her desk. She fairly punched the comm-button completely through the unit. "Send Brundage to my office," she said, sounding peevish, running delicate fingers through her hair.

Jinx moved in behind her, ran his hands down her hips, soothing her temper, and turned her around. He bent her backward over the desk. The liplock was possessive, and he proceeded to memorize her body with his hands.

All good loving must come to a temporary stop. Somebody, Ralph Brundage probably, rang the office buzzer.

Jinx drew away, seeing Myke's glassy eyes and her skin glistening. "I hope this will hold you until—" The buzzer sounded again. Gently, he combed his fingers through her hair since he'd mussed it during the heat of volatile passion. Cupping her chin, he ran his thumb over her swollen lips and whispered, "You should get the door."

She seemed to have trouble finding her voice and nodded a bewildered affirmative.

While she unsteadily crossed the room, Jinx dragged his handkerchief from his jacket, watching her, and wiped her lip color from his mouth. Before Brundage had the chance to note improper behavior on the premises.

Few women had stirred Jinx so acutely, so thoroughly, and this one had the power to put his relationship with Lexi on a thin, brittle limb. No doubt about it. He wanted to get inside Myke. Badly. And soon.

Jinx strained to hear what Brundage was saying to the Warden. Something about her clothes?

She held her ground well, lifted her chin. Whatever the guard had said, her comeback had Ralph Mouth shoving his hands into his pockets. He lost the smug look on his face, but his beady eyes were shadowed with contempt.

Masking the glowering disdain he felt for the clown, Jinx stuck out his hand. "Hey, buddy. How's everything?"

"Could be better."

"Problems?"

"Nothing I can't handle," Brundage replied under his breath and looked over at his boss. "You know how it is, too much daily bullshit."

Jinx watched Myke out of the corner of his eye. She busied herself, reapplying lip color, feathering her hair, straightening her clothes. She should pay attention to the conversation. Brundage was cunning, dangerous.

"Got more questions more for you," Jinx said. "Can we talk in private? The staff room?"

Anywhere other than here. Brundage needed to cool his jets and take his mind off Myke, if he knew what was good for him.

And she was too distracting for Jinx.

The headache pained him so much his ponytail hurt.

Dutch yanked on the rubber band holding it in place until it snapped, stinging his fingers. He scrubbed at his scalp then smoothed his hair back with both hands, agitated.

Glickman had river danced up and down his nerves while Dutch held his temper in check through every single derogatory remark. The cop had balls when he'd all but technically incriminated himself.

No question about it, Glickman was their killer. The no-good piece of crap.

He'd culminated hate for Randi—all women—with an unbelievable passion, despised them, and, ultimately, it was his own stupidity jeopardizing his career. What a way to live. What a way to die. Murdering cop. Mason will shit cow piles and the Wicked Witch will lasso Glickman and take him down.

Where was Jinx? Wait until he heard this hell. They had to find solid evidence on Glickman before he killed again. Damn, from his MO, everyone who knew Randi needed protection: Ting Lan, Min Li and her cronies, even Annette. None of them was safe as long as Glickman roamed free. But, how did he get a hold of Randi's blood?

Dutch linked to his partner and Jinx opened communications on the first tone.

"It's Glickman." Simultaneously, Jinx said, "It's Brundage."

"Ah, hell no. Uh-uh. Not possible." Well, maybe it was. Brundage had access to Randi's blood at the prison.

"Meet me at the crib." Jinx cut the link.

"Hell's bells." Dutch cringed. "Damned monster lives there."

They'd had a good day at China Palace. Hungry patrons had streamed in and out of the restaurant during lunch. The dinner hour had been on a fast pace, surpassing the noisy noon-crowd numbers.

Min Li had kept her hens hopping. The kitchen crew had been in a busy cook-cleaning frenzy all evening. When the kitchen door opened, the chatter from the dining room and rattles of pots and pans clanging off-tune musical notes had blended into one continuous blast.

Exhausted, Randi sank down to the mattress, needing a minute of rest before meeting Shaala. Her feet ached something terrible, her hands wrinkled to variable prunes, and her ears rang.

She'd worked harder than any day in her life.

Sighing, she kicked off the slippers, stretched out on the mattress and wiggled her toes. Foot massage would be tantalizing. Full-body massage would be better, the complete workout by a specimen of the male species, preferably by Dutch Patterson. He had nice, gentle hands. She bet his skilled fingers had worked all over Ting Lan, tangling in her long, straight—

"Daughter!" Min Li called out from the top stair.

Randi rolled to a sitting position, groaning. "Yes?" Thinking back, did she forget to empty the dishwashers?

"I leave now," Min Li said. "You work hard all day. Good. Too tired for meeting. Sleep well at Chyou's."

"Not dead tired." However, a full night's rest did sound inviting, even on the old, sagging cot designed for backaches.

"Confucius say, demon wake angry. Sky like dirty ink. No moon. Stay home."

Ah, for crying out loud. Dark, moonless nights were the best of cover for covert activities. "Confucius say, or bossy mother? I'll take the flashlight."

"Flashlight not keep demon away."

Evidently, she and her chicks had contrived another fantastic story. "I'll be careful, Wise Mother."

Min Li snorted loudly and added a cuss word. "Mother not like disobedience. Demon make life ugly, make daughter suffer. Stay home."

"Not tonight. It's too important."

No one understood how important these meetings were or the effect they'd have on her future. Might have on her future. And suffer? She'd already endured ten years worth of prison ugliness. No, this meeting had to happen.

"Ting Lan stay here, like good daughter should. She wait for crazy child. You learn from smart sister."

"No, it's—" She heard Min Li's footsteps move away.

So much for rebuttals. Really, she could see no reason for Ting Lan to waste her time waiting. Why argue? The smart sister certainly backed down from all motherly disputes.

No date with Dutch tonight for Ting Lan, at least not an early one. Randi sighed. Jealousy was so inappropriate when she had no real claims on any man.

Bone-weary, she slipped her shoes on and got to her feet. She had few options left if the information from tonight's meeting and the previous one failed to win the public over.

No. You have many options and none you'll need, Randi.

Hearing the back door slam shut, she climbed the stairs.

"Are you certain of going out, after what mother said?" Ting Lan stood on the landing. Working as hard as Randi today, she still looked fabulous, beautiful as ever in her cream-colored pantsuit, hair loose, draping over slender shoulders. An angel with an aura of light surrounding her. "She's seldom wrong."

"No one knows Shaala and I are meeting. No one knows where we're meeting, even Shaala. I've covered all the bases."

"Demons—"

"Forget the demons. They're not mind readers. I've yet to decide on our meeting place." Randi marched around her and toward the front desk. She found the flashlight.

Trailing, Ting Lan said, "They follow without knowing your destination. Demons move well in darkness. This is their critical time of the month."

"You mean like the monthly blues?"

Ting Lan frowned. "What?"

Snickering, Randi knew better than to mock the naïve young woman. "Menstrual cycle."

So feminine and shy, Ting Lan's smile was coquettish, genuinely princess-like. "I suppose you could call it the blues, yes."

"Look," Randi said, "believing in demons is as farfetched as it gets for me. Fate is believable. Fairy tales, no. What I'm doing tonight will have direct impact on my future. I'm hoping good impact. Ideally, to clear my name and keep me out of prison. Two people talking. We're not developing strategies to commit crimes."

"The demons have their own plans. They will commit the crimes and you will pay for it." She said something in Chinese. "The basic English translation: Those who don't learn from the past are doomed to repeat it."

Another Confucius blurb? Randi's tongue burned to duplicate Min Li's single disagreeing term. "I'm running late and really, go home. Get some sleep. I'll be fine."

"Mother's orders. So I wait." She plucked the comm off the shelf. "In case you have problems. Call if you need me."

Min Li had way too much influence over her daughter. Randi accepted the unit, tucked it inside the deep pocket of her silk top with the building's keys, and swung around, heading for the back door this time. "Two hours max, but if I'm not back, leave. Don't wait for me."

"Wearing a uniform, either one could get an unsuspecting person to open the front door," Dutch said. He paced back and forth near Jinx's fortress door. On the other side, Shiloh the Rottweiler waited.

"True," Jinx replied, "However, Vampire didn't have—" Tuni's sharp beep interrupted. "Tambo's on the move. Heigh-ho paint, let's git where we ain't."

Dutch opened the door and stepped back when the grinning monster met him. Godzilla had fewer teeth, but the dog's tongue flicked in and out faster than a snake's forked tongue. "Jesus."

"Shiloh, at ease."

The menace dropped his hindquarters and ironed out the snarling wrinkles from his muzzle. Dutch stayed close to Jinx.

"Arm. Protect." The door behind them slid shut and engaged the safety feature. Shiloh stationed himself beside it.

Dutch hustled outside. He hopped into the truck, glad for its safety, happier he still had his life and limbs intact, undamaged.

"She's on the freeway. 101 South. Let's see if she takes the 60," Jinx said and waited. "Nope. Good. She's coming in our direction."

Dutch started the powerful engine, backed out of the driveway and punched it.

Jinx sighed long and loudly. "Stop. It's in the opposite direction, not in Flagstaff. How in the hell did you manage to find Cain?"

"Using good phucking sense." Cranking the wheel, he laughed. "And PePe Le Pew."

"Enter command, oh mighty one," the unit said.

"Shut up," Jinx ordered and glared at Dutch. "You learned how to program in one day?"

Dutch tapped his temple. "Sense."

"Save it for Mason when he catches up and skins our behind. Save it for our killer." His tone was worried, unusually weird for Jinx. "She's circling. No, going west. Hell, she's driving like she's lost. Heading east again. South. Stop the truck until she decides on a direction."

Braking, Dutch pulled over to the curb.

Chapter 23

She closed the link after coordinating Shaala's excursion. The reporter was trustworthy and they'd skipped her temporary comm rental. Hell, she'd better be dependable. Randi hadn't traveled far from the restaurant. Five minutes by Lightrail, two on foot to this public booth.

Exhausted from the long day and with tonight's high temperature sapping her body of strength, the cops could sneak up behind her, cuff and haul her away without so much as a squeak or whine. And, darn it, she didn't check the parking lot very well before leaving the restaurant. Even with the light breeze, she would've heard a car engine. She didn't. She only heard tree leaves rustling and gravel crunching beneath her shoes.

Just give me a bed at least as comfortable as the cot with a pillow containing something other than emaciated feathers.

She'd fade, dead to the world.

Yawning noisily, Randi cut through the thin grove of trees and bushes, shining the dim flashlight as she trampled undergrowth, and came to a stop on the busy boulevard's curb. Cars, trucks, and trailers paraded over four lanes from both directions. The nighttime heat combined with gasoline, hydrogen and diesel stench, smog and dust, filled the air. Disastrous for any person prone to severe asthma attacks. Waiting for an opening, she patted the trusty inhaler stowed in her pocket.

Behind her, a creepy noise raised the braid from her back. Her heart beat furiously. Did she just imagine someone calling her name? She swung the flashlight around. Of course not! Impossible. Tires whined on the pavement. Streamlined trucks whizzed by swiftly.

Preparing to cross the street, she thought she heard her name called again, but sirens wailed in the distance. Surely, her imagination.

Panting, she turned very slowly, looked over her shoulder, eyes darting from tree to tree, bush to bush, shadow to eerie shadow. The wan glow of her flashlight did little to brighten the dark backdrop.

Chill out. Calm down.

Turning back, she glanced left. Five or six vehicles raced in her direction. She readied to dash toward the median—after the tanker truck—muscles tense, fisted hands, mind alert. Ten seconds max.

An orange taxicab zoomed past, the driver tooting his horn, flashing his headlights. The van behind it veered to the center lane. Five seconds. The tanker traveled steadily behind cars. Three. Two.

"Lizzie!"

Startled, Randi stumbled off the curb. The tanker's bullhorn blared right along with her scream.

She staggered backward away from the bright beams blinding her vision, tripped over the curb, and crab-scrambled across the sidewalk, pebbles and stones tearing at her fingers and hands. As the semi roared by, air braking, the sound of demonic laughter faded with the breeze.

Scared senseless, fear put the squeeze on her lungs, cutting off air. Randi rolled to her side, shaking madly. She fumbled for the inhaler. Where was it? Gasping, she saw the pumper laying three feet away.

"Hey, lady, are you okay?"

She nodded, reaching for the inhaler.

"What the hell were you doing?" Thirtyish, the guy shoved his baseball cap up his forehead.

One good jolt of medication eased her breathing. Randi glanced down the street, saw the tanker parked, taillights blinking red. This highly pissed man with the booming voice was its driver. "I thought I heard—" He'd think she was crazy and call the cops and they'd call the straightjacket team. "I stumbled."

He held out his hand and helped her up. "Jesus Christ. Next time, use an intersection. Trucks can't stop on a goddamn dime."

Dusting off her clothes as he stalked away, she looked over her shoulder again. The light breeze had picked up, shadows danced among the trees and plants. Somebody had been lurking in the darkness. She knew it. She was far from crazy.

Or was she?

She shook her head. Someone wanted her out of the way. Why? Could they be one of the victims' relatives seeking revenge?

Shuddering, Randi made another conscious decision. The meeting with Shaala outweighed any threatening near miss. Survival was important, though. She had to survive to clear the family name. Or die trying.

The chosen location to meet with Shaala was public domain until midnight. Three streets intersected with the encircling roadway. Several cars had been left in the small parking lot.

She resisted using the flashlight since dim street cams lit the walkways. In the near distance, Shaala warmed a bench. Randi kept to the trees for cover, sneaking behind bushes. Tired or not, she had smarts.

Traffic was slow to moderate. A large rambling camper truck came around one corner, slowed but continued to the next intersection. Two sedans sped by, tires squealing as they turned left, followed by a conspicuous white van. Neither looked like cop material.

Zigzagging through the shrubbery, she finally arrived near Shaala when another small SUV rounded the corner, headlights out, break lights glowing, creeping along. Cop material or drug related. Whichever, Randi ducked between two cars.

Shaala noticed the vehicle and stood. She backed away from the bench, appeared nervous, her head shifting in every direction. Did she recognize the truck or its occupants?

Pulse racing, crouching two cars away from Shaala's Mercedes, Randi readied to make a break for safety if necessary. But then, the SUV's fog lamps came on, hick-honky-tonk music blared to life and the vehicle sped away.

Another long minute went by before she stood. She had only one way to contact Shaala, but cautious, she refused to link just yet. Shaala had reporter smarts. She'd wait.

Randi licked her dry lips. She took one step when the light breeze freed strands of hair that tickled the back of her neck.

"You're better off following my lead." The masculine voice was familiar, chilling her.

Strong arms spun her around, clamped her body like steel bands and lifted her off the ground. He flattened her against the car door with his big body, wedging himself between her legs. His mouth was on hers before she could scream. Demanding lips. Teasing, and he inhaled her.

Startled, she forgot to fight, forgot to think, and forgot her purpose in life. She almost forgot to breathe.

My God. This brazen devil forced his tongue way down her throat, tickling her tonsils. She hadn't been kissed so thoroughly since...she'd never been kissed like this! Or maybe she'd simply forgotten the technique of kissing and what the sensuality did to a man's body. The growing hardness against her pelvis was a definite clue. Whoever he was, he exercised his proficiency well. Too damned well.

Unable to wriggle her arms free, she pinched what little skin she was able to grab between her fingers. He continued the assault, never broke contact. Randi dug her nails into his skin. Until she heard whispered voices.

Baritone. "What the hell is she doing sitting out here in the dark this late at night?"

And bass. "We'll soon see."

She froze in the stranger's arms.

So close, she heard Dutch's boot heels clicking on dry pavement. She allowed the unknown man to carry on; he was her shield for now, until she found an opening to bolt. She'd slap the pervert's teeth out if she had time. If he let her loose.

What if he didn't free her? Randi wondered. Let him rape her at his leisure? Scream, with Dutch and his partner standing right here? Oh, great choices—rape or prison.

"Get a load of this crap," Dutch said. "Hey, take it home or to a motel."

Lifting his head, the stranger looked over his shoulder while Randi buried her face against his thick, corded neck. She curled her fingers into his starched shirt, inhaling his musky scent, praying he'd keep her face hidden. Protect her.

"Check him out, Jinx. Do you know who this is?"

"How can anybody miss Hercules in the flesh? Move along Mayfield. Your butt's closer to the fire than you realize."

Mayfield? As in Chandler? As in Shaala's husband? Somebody help me.

No wonder she'd vaguely recognized his voice. Would the detectives tell the reporter they'd caught her husband kissing another woman?

They should.

They won't.

Men practiced an unspoken vow. Never scream on the gender when women were involved, no matter how bad the circumstances. Lousy devils.

Why was Chandler here?

Shaala. She brought him. For protection? Was he at every meeting she'd had with the reporter? Probably.

"Out on business tonight, fellas?" Chandler asked. Louder than necessary, his voice carried, but surely not far enough to reach his wife. "Guy has the right to some outside fun."

Randi heard laughter rumbling through his chest, felt the vibrations against her face. He played this too well.

"We better not see you here when we come back," Dutch ordered.

Why did his voice relax and soothe her when she should be trembling, shaking in her shoes, or fainting from fear and lack of oxygen?

Chandler saluted. Using one big finger, he tipped her face up toward his.

"Give me single life and—"

She blinked once and he stole her breath again.

Disgust penetrated Dutch's psyche.

He was tempted to blurt all he knew to the reporter if the top priority was something other than surveillance. From the moment he realized Mayfield embraced some woman not his wife, something strange had caused a stimulation. He'd been out of service for so long he jumped bone-hard because...no way. Just because he saw the couple kissing?

He and Jinx found perfect cover behind prickly bougainvilleas. Dutch looked over his shoulder. Chandler and his hottie had left. Good. He had more important issues on his mind. Too bad the entity hanging between his legs had a mind of his own.

Tambo still sat on the bench. Did she have any idea her husband was playing on her? With hot stuff like his wife, why would Mayfield chase after another woman and put his marriage on the line? Idiot.

"She looks restless," Jinx whispered. "Checking her watch. Tapping her heels a mile a minute."

"About time," Dutch said. He pressed the button to light his timepiece. Fifteen minutes had passed and still no visitors. "Maybe she knows her old man meets his playmate here. She damn near busted him."

"She ought to whoop his ass. Big enough," Jinx replied. "She's ready to leave. Let's move in."

Randi could hardly wait to lay her head down, even on the pancake pillow.

After extricating herself out of Chandler Mayfield's unmarried-like embrace and thanking him for...whatever...she sprinted to the nearest Lightrail stop and hopped the first car.

Something about Mayfield's last words bugged her.

Give him single life and what?

The man knew how to kiss, no doubt about it. Oh, yes, he'd fleeced her of breath, but bells failed to chime and no sparks flew. He might have a tempting Herculean physique, he might be the best-looking male on the planet, he might even know how to please and tease women, drive them stark raving mad to be in his bed, but not this woman. Years of celibacy hadn't called for desperate measures to waste her time or dignity on a married companion. Not after the devastation to her heart provoked by Jimmy's dishonesty.

Furthermore, Mayfield had no right to bring up the subject of single life, damn his soul. No woman deserved to suffer the painful trauma of spouse infidelity. Maybe she should clue Shaala in on her potentially straying husband before he tests his faithfulness, that is, if he hadn't already.

Randi cut across the last street approaching China Palace's deserted parking lot. Two more minutes, she and Ting Lan would head for home. Sleep had the power to erase the nightmarish thoughts of Chandler Mayfield clouding her brain. She planned to concentrate on sensual dreams of Dutch to lull her to dreamland. Those thoughts put an uplifting smile on her face.

Building keys ready, she climbed the steps to the front door and looked over her shoulder. Ting Lan's car was still parked, but no others were on the premises. Ting Lan had forgotten to lock the door.

Randi closed and snapped both deadbolts. Too tired for chitchat, she yelled, "I'm back. We can go now."

An unsettling, eerie quiet pervaded the building.

Randi sighed, certain the dedicated opera singer had positioned herself in front of the ladies' room mirrors, practicing her lines for her upcoming opera. She wished she'd had as much enthusiasm and stamina.

Shoulders drooping, she forced her legs to move and started toward the singer's makeshift stage.

Tambo huffed. "I distinctly recall neither of you were willing to talk to me. Now, you expect me to answer your questions? Forget you."

Under the dim lighting, Dutch saw fierce hostility. "Do you realize how dangerous it is for you to be out here in the middle of the night, unprotected?"

"How can I be in danger when I have two cops tailing after me? How did you find me anyway? How long have you been following?"

"Long enough," Jinx replied, mocking her words.

He'd never let on about the tracer, illegal as it was without a judge's signature. She'd cool her jets if he or Jinx decided to drop a buck on her husband. Takes balls to destroy somebody's marriage, balls bigger than Dutch had. Even Jinx had principles. He'd never squeal.

"It's close to midnight, Tambo," his partner said. "Do you know where your husband is?"

Dutch's knees went weak.

"What? Home, naturally."

"Could've fooled—"

Dutch cut him off. "You should be there with him."

"What is this? I'm a reporter, guys. I look for stories and sometimes they come—" Whatever stopped her words had Tambo backing away. "I'm out of here. Go tail somebody else." She jogged to her car.

"She shut us out quick," Dutch said.

Jinx unfolded Tuni. "Got a feeling. Yep. Alerter signal."

"Can you tell who tagged her?" Dutch leaned in closer. "Might be Mayfield."

"Tracing. Got it. Give me a name, Tuni."

"Well?" Dutch demanded, his patience wearing thin. They'd argued for hours and still had two suspects. Now Tambo had darted to her car, sending them on a fast pace back to square one.

"I'll be damned," Jinx said. "Shaw's sidekick. Baker. Let's hit the road after Tambo. She caught the scent of something. You know how much she loves the smell of death."

Five minutes later, a growing sense of unease and an icy chill filtered through the truck when both their links redlined and Tambo's Mercedes stopped dead.

"China Palace." Jinx nearly strangled on the words.

Dutch floored the accelerator. "Are you gettin' stupid on me, Jinx? It could be anything. Could be Min Li. Heart attack. She's not a spring chickie, been around awhile. Same as her cronies." He had thousands of reasons to justify the summons. "Cops are always called to the scene, so are firefighters, paramedics—"

"There's no reason for Tambo to search for headliners. They find her. She's the queen bee at sniffing out murder and mayhem. And we're Homicide."

"I don't want to hear it. Think positive."

His comm signaled.

"Yeah, what?" The anguished tone of her crying raised a flood of indefinable emotions. Jesus, she sounded awful. She was the last woman he thought would openly weep. "Randi."

"Joel."

Her sobs muffled every word. "I need a location so I can pick you up." From two blocks away, he saw red and blue lights flashing brightly. Christ Jesus. The cavalry was on site, including Tambo and probably her video-taking entourage.

"Where is she?" Jinx asked.

Dutch shook his head. "Listen to me, Randi. Jinx and I are—"

"Joel, please, please believe me."

"Where are you?"

"They left her there, bleeding," she said, sobbing hysterical. "I would never, ever hurt Ting Lan o-or anybody. You've g-got to believe me."

He wanted to, needed to, and something deep inside urged him to grant this one request.

"Min Li is sure to b-be next. Will you protect her? She h-hates me now."

He wheeled into the parking lot as Jinx switched the link's audio waves to Tuni's speakers. An ambulance, one fire truck, and its sidekick paramedic vehicle sat in the lot.

"I should've s-stayed away from the park. This never would've happened. Maybe I c-could've stopped them."

"What park?" Dutch snapped. "Talk to me." Fresh sobs racked her voice. "Which park, Randi? Give me reason to believe you."

"I can't remember the name," she wailed. "I heard you though, you a-and your partner. You told Chandler Mayfield and m-me to take it to a motel."

Dutch didn't know whether to be pissed and jealous or the happiest fool.

At this moment, who cared? There was a good damn chance the assault happened while she—he swallowed—was wrapped in Chandler Mayfield's arms, fully lust-occupied. Although, the timeframe was tight to say the least.

He should be pissed, except Tambo was waiting to meet her! Randi had fed the reporter information on the Montoya brothers. The husband-wife team was fully in cahoots with her, and Mayfield had intercepted her before Dutch and Jinx started their shakedown.

He shot his partner a quick look. Yeah, he was thinking the same things.

"She w-was breathing when I left, Joel. There was so much blood. I-I did my best to k-keep her alive until Min Li arrived, until the ambulance came."

He looked over at Jinx again, received a knowing nod. "Hang on, Randi," and put the unit on hold. The results of Ting Lan's condition would only add more pain to her anxieties if death had occurred.

They climbed out of the truck and rushed toward the waiting ambulance.

The engine rumbled while paramedics loaded the gurney inside. It was a gory scene from Hell with blood thoroughly soaking protective sheets. An attendant passed two IV bags to another onboard worker. She hung the plastic and dropped to her knees beside the victim. Sure enough, Min Li sat there looking smaller than he'd ever seen her, fragile.

Hearing distraught wails usually meant one thing.

Death.

"Give us a rundown," Dutch ordered the paramedic. He flashed his shield.

"Female, twenty-five, thirty, critical," he said slamming the emergency vehicle's back door. He pounded against it, signaling the driver to take off. "Throat cut ear to ear," the young paramedic shouted over the siren's blare. The noise was loud enough to split an eardrum wide open. "Multiple stab wounds to the torso. She's lost way too much blood. Luckily, somebody kept her from draining dry. Chances are mighty slim she'll survive. The older woman and a friend of hers arrived before we did. Saw her fighting to get the door open. By the time we got inside with our equipment, she'd already found her. The carnage. Thought we'd better take her in, too. She fainted, came around minutes later. Blood pressure skyrocketed. I've never heard anyone screech like her."

She had good reason. Dutch knew he'd suffer horrific pain if the victim had been his daughter.

"Bastard," he cursed under his breath. "Filthy, stinking son of a bitch." Times like this, he wished he'd chosen farming.

"I plan to tear him apart with my bare hands," Jinx said.

Randi's tormented cries echoed in Dutch's ears. "Get in line," he replied, "but by the time I finish with him, you'll have to search for pieces."

They had to determine which one of two suspects committed this foul crime.

"We'll make sure Min Li and her partners have police guards," Jinx said. "Let the on-duty detectives and cops handle this scene. If Randi's telling the truth and she walked in on a situation...Take me to the T-Bird. You do Vampire. I've got something for Ralph Mouth." Jinx's hands were balled into fists thick as his own.

"My pleasure," Dutch replied. He remembered he'd left Randi on hold.

Through the throng of firemen, paramedics, cops and, unfortunately, gathering press people, they dodged everyone to get his truck.

Dutch reopened the link. "I want to know where you are. No choice this time, Randi."

He expected an argument. He was in no mood to negotiate the issue. She had to surrender. He had to take her into custody. Sure as shit, Mason would put the city's SWAT team on the hunt. They'd capture her one way or another. Dead or alive.

"Randi? Damn it!"

Jinx shook his head. "Bad shit. Very bad shit. You know, Kemo Sabe'll catch wind of this by the time the sun rises if not before. When he hears, so does the Wicked Witch." He yanked the truck door open and climbed the rungs. "Must be problems inside Death's Paradise. Have you smelled any new stink at the ME's office?"

"None," Dutch replied, starting the engine. "The weird hell is, why is the ME's sidekick feeding Tambo. It's illogical. How can Tambo put rocket boosters under his career?"

"The Wicked Witch can use his courtroom testimony instead of Shaw's. She and Tambo are tight. Sorority sisters. I've never seen the reporter smothering the ME with questions." Jinx knew too damn much about too many people.

"Explains the last of the leaks," Dutch said. As for the DA, she'd use Baker to cover her butt, subtly slapping the Shaw's face in the process. "Catfights are the worst kind of hell." He'd broken up a few in his time and did not come away unscathed.

Jinx grabbed Dutch's comm from the dashboard receptacle and readied the processor. "We've got the number for Randi. Public booth as usual. Let's see if she's still there. Tuni, link to DP1. Reconnect last entry. On speaker."

DP1? Reconnect? "You can monitor my shit?"

"Retrieve your data, too, White Boy."

"Of all the god—"

"Joel? I've been waiting so long, wondering if you'd call back."

A strained note still possessed her voice. Dutch flipped the off-switch to his emotions, which charged the pounding in his heart and muddled his ability to reason. "I'm coming to get you. Give me the cross streets," he ordered. "And no argument, Randi."

Surprisingly, she gave in without hesitation.

He looked over at Jinx, gauging his partner's next reaction. "I want you to get out of sight, Randi. Go behind the grocery store and stay there. We've got some business to take care of first. I'll pick you up soon. Newer, midnight blue Bombardier truck. Sit tight."

Jinx closed his link. "Atta boy. We'd better have all our ducks in a row, standing tall before we take her in, or she might not make it out alive."

Like hell, Dutch thought. Not if he had anything to do with it. He put the pedal to the metal.

Chapter 24

He tried to beat the man's door down.

Dutch smacked his fist against the barrier separating him from the Vampire's rented coffin.

"Hey, buddy, do you know what the hell time it is?" Across the hall, a scruffy-looking neighbor, eyes red as cherries and spiked sandy hair, squinted.

"Police business. Get back inside and lock your door."

"Glick's a cop."

"I said lock your door!"

Wired tighter than a rubber band propeller since the moment he'd left China Palace, in his current foul mood and firmly believing Glickman was the reigning bloodsucker, Dutch intended to whip the truth from the cop. Nobody needed to watch the one-sided fracas.

"He ain't home, man."

Great. Just great.

"I left him at Coyote Lair about ten."

Dutch turned on his heel, marched to the stairwell, and took the steps two at a time. Glickman always ordered a double on last call.

Outside the Lair's doorway, three drunks sat on the sidewalk singing their own version of the national anthem, new lyrics and off tune. Dutch stepped over the stooges and yanked the door open.

Inside, his gaze shifted slowly from person to person, table to table, to each barstool.

"The usual, Patterson?" the bartender asked.

All eyes focused on Dutch, and the lounge room went instantly silent.

"Where's Glickman?"

Chairs scraped hardwood floors, glasses scored tables, and bodies melted into the Lair's perimeter. Local natives knew when the shit was ready to hit the high-speed blower. Most everybody thumbed toward the kitchen.

Perfect hiding place, Dutch thought hostilely. Kitchens were stocked with knives.

Which one had Glickman used on Ting Lan? Which steel-coated slicer had he wielded on Randi's parents, Gilbert Chapman, and the reliable Montoyas?

Crossing the room in noisy ground-covering strides, Dutch headed toward the kitchen. He straight-armed the swinging door, burst in as forceful as an enraged bull.

"Glickman!"

He halted in mid-stride, his mouth dropping open, stunned into silence. Blinking once, he closed his mouth with an audible pop.

Glickman and Dolly. Dolly and Glickman?

Vice-clamped in liplock, the pair finally allowed air to circulate between them. Glickman, the overgrown thug, stepped back, used his shirtsleeve to wipe his mouth. Dolly, as dainty as a six-foot Amazon could muster, dabbed her lips with the white apron she wore.

What in the hell was going on? Dutch blinked rapidly. Just because this tired bastard had found a willing dame didn't mean squat.

"Could've knocked first," Glickman said.

"Knocked? For what? This is a public kitchen. Made for—"

"Where," Glickman cut in, stepping forward, "a private conversation was going on, excluding you."

This was stupid. He'd come here to kick some ass, not to get his own chewed for barging in on kissy face. "Where were you between eleven and midnight?"

"None of your damn business."

Dutch got in his face, nose-to-nose, ready for a good mix-up, fist itching to connect with this killer's mug. "I will whoop your ass and then some, until you answer the damn question."

Last year, a three-way brawl cleared out Coyote Lair. Somebody called the cops when Dutch took on two hotheaded, motorcycle thugs who decided to turn the place out when the bartender refused to serve them more liquor. Dutch ordered them to leave. They were spoiling for a fight. He was kicking ass and taking names when Glickman arrived on the scene. Blinded with rage, Dutch's stinging right hook caught the cop by mistake. His eye closed with a blue-black shiner big as Mount Everest.

Glickman narrowed his eyes. "You and whose army?"

"Stop it," Dolly said. She shouldered her way between them, shoving the men apart. "Any fighting in here and I'll get my pot."

Ah, hell. The big, cast-iron popper she swung like a sledgehammer. Dolly had a mean right arm.

"Now, hold on, darlin'."

For God's sake. Glickman cooing?

"Benji was with me at the time, Dutch."

Benji?

"We were—" She licked her lips and cleared her throat. "Busy."

"Doing what?"

Dolly had dressed to waitress tonight—clunky shoes, white apron, unused towel left on the counter. The bar was packed with customers. Glickman had plenty of time to run an errand, time to kill.

"Get a life, Patterson," the cop said. He wrapped his arm around Dolly's shoulders. "Busy banging." Dolly's elbow jab drew a grimace from the cop.

It took several seconds to sink in.

Too much information. Way too much info, more than Dutch wanted to hear. So what now? Ask for proof? Words come as cheap as the air we breathe and he was talking murder. But, proof? Hell's bells.

"What's this about?" Glickman asked.

Tipping him off defeated the purpose. Cops knew the routine. "Dolly, I thought you hated this punk. All of a sudden you're, um, boinkin' him?"

"Nobody knew for the longest." She leaned over and kissed her lover's cheek. "We did good, sweetie. Right?"

She looked back at Dutch and he saw stars twinkling in her eyes. In Glickman's, he witnessed the look of stone love.

"We've been together for months. I moved into his apartment on Valentine's Day." She grinned at Glickman. "Benji wanted to tell everyone, but I thought it was best to wait. You know how his temper is, Dutch. Mind you, I intend to tame it. Because of it, he was put on leave. He was mad at me." Her voice sounded sappy, thick and syrupy.

Yeah. She would tame the cop. Still didn't take him off the suspect list.

"I wanted to start celebrating tonight," she continued. "Tomorrow we go to the Elvis Presley Chapel in Vegas."

Glickman's eyes lit up. Evidently, this was the first time he'd heard of the news. He seemed downright happy for a change.

All right. The cop had dropped to number two on the list. Jinx was sure to gloat.

"I bought the plane tickets today, sweetie." She lifted the gold chain hidden inside her blouse. At the end dangled a thin band mounted with one small sparkling gemstone. "Will you put it on for me?"

Noticeably shaken, Glickman fumbled with the clasp. He finally managed to slip his future solemn promises on her finger.

Dutch turned his back, walked out the door, out of Coyote Lair when the couple kissed.

Rare, he'd been wrong about suspects before.

Jinx had checked the apartment complex where Ralph Brundage lived. He knew better than to flash his shield to the few neighbors who had answered their door. They clammed up anyway, most likely because of his expensive threads. One elderly woman had openly showed her disdain, accusing Jinx of selling drugs, even when he did present identification. After giving him a tongue-lashing he'd never forget, she threatened to call the real cops and slammed her door.

Growing more concerned by the second, mainly for Myke's safety, he linked with Dutch.

"He's missing," Jinx said. "Worked overtime today, got off at eight. Neighbors refused to talk at one in the morning and his car's gone."

"He's the killer like you said. Glickman's cleared. I'm on my way to pick up Randi. I'll drop her off and meet you."

"Stay with her for now. I've got one more place to check."

"All right. Keep in contact, Jinx. Any problems—"

"I've got your back," he finished for him. Partners, and Jinx smiled. "Besides, let me handle this one. Give me the chance to run a close second on Mason's shit list."

He cut the link.

Until now, Jinx had curbed the need to invade Myke's privacy. Anyone else, he'd have already gotten every detail possible.

"Tuni, Collins. Mykal." He spelled the name.

"Collins. Mykal. DOB—"

"Skip to address and comm only." Just to check on her.

Jinx knew it was more than checking, more than simply wanting to play the mattress game. They'd clicked. He wanted her, body, soul, mind, and heart.

What about Lexi? A shame. He thought they would remain close friends. He'd called her to discuss the problems in their relationship. She'd kicked him to the curb the minute he mentioned "needing space."

On the other hand, he could easily fall in love with Myke much to his surprise, fully and unconditionally—permanently, if she felt the same magnetic draw pulling at his thumping heart.

Dutch was right. Living the solitary life with a dog as constant companion irritated the hell out of Jinx. He'd yet to meet the second woman of his wildest dreams until he met Myke Collins. She felt so damn good in his arms, fit perfectly there. More, she had a charming sophistication about her. Mysterious allure he found attractive as hell and worth exploration. In the little time they'd spent together, the slow-burning chemistry between them had reached the point of combustion.

He rounded the corner of an upper-middle class neighborhood onto Myke's curved street. Street cams and bright landscape fixtures illuminated mature trees and shrubs. Porch lights were on, a sign that citizens followed safety suggestions.

Once he nailed Ralph Mouth, they'd wrap this case up with a tidy bow. Then, he and Myke Collins might have the chance to start fresh.

Up ahead, emergency vehicles littered the street. Clusters of people—paramedics, cops, firefighters, neighbors—scurried around like busy ants. Jinx's heart plunged deep. He pressed firmly on the accelerator. The T-bird responded on cue. He brought the vehicle to a screeching halt near the ambulance and watched in horror as paramedics loaded the metal gurney. He glanced at the house. Myke's address.

Jinx scrambled out of his car. She was down, but not out of the picture; the ME's van was nowhere on site.

"Homicide, Detective Murray," he said and flashed the shield. "How is she?"

"Who?" the paramedic asked.

"The woman you just loaded. The owner of this house. How is she?" He'd break every bone in Brundage's body if he'd committed this crime.

"It's some guy. The woman you're probably talking about beat the snot out of him."

"What?"

"Broke his nose, jaw, dislocated his shoulder, and knocked him out. Concussion. Neighbor said she's second-degree black belt. He'll live. Detective said he'd spend years behind bars for B&E and assault with a deadly weapon. Victim was wielding a hammer. She should've used it on him. Idiot would be dead right now, at least seeing bright stars. Gotta get him to the hospital." He slapped the ambulance's back door. The unit eased down the street in moderated silence, lights off.

A loud chuckle rumbled through Jinx's chest. He thought he'd have to commit a felony and face the judge. And the woman was supremely skilled. The laughter died in his throat, though. Brundage was still out there. Somewhere.

"Who called you?" Wolf was on-duty tonight.

"Just happened to be in the neighborhood, thought I'd stop to see if you needed assistance."

Jinx peered around the detective. Where was Knockout Myke? He smiled. She was a knockout and he wanted to be with her, make love to her while her wits were heightened, alert, and explosive like smoking gunpowder.

"You know Perryville's Warden?"

"Yeah, I do," Jinx replied, grinning. Would like to know her much better. Will. Soon, once he got away from Wolf.

"Some disgruntled prison guard named Brundage tried to nail her. He ran face first into her fist."

"What?" Jinx started panting. "You said Brundage?"

"Yeah, big, heavyset jerk." Wolf showed all gleaming thirty-twos. "She put him in his place and scrambled his brains for emphasis."

Oh, hell. So much for a damn murder suspect. Jinx reached for his comm.

Then Jinx saw her. His swelling heart cracked like ice. Shattered.

Myke was wrapped in another man's arms.

Chapter 25

Dutch heard muffled sobs before he closed the truck's door.

"Randi?" The sobbing quieted.

Standing in an alley behind the supermarket, he strained to hear. He squinted, saw nothing but darkness. Moving forward, scratching caught his attention. These premises were inhabited by small critters and stinking of rotting garbage. Paradise for the creatures of the night. He went back to the truck for his flashlight.

"Randi?"

Shining the beam over the grounds and debris, he kicked several large cardboard boxes aside, lifted crates away as he proceeded across the pavement. He found her huddled in a corner, sitting on a wire cage, arms wrapped around her legs, face buried against her knees. God, seeing her like this was as bad if not worse than seeing his little girl crying her first day of kindergarten.

"Randi." He stooped beside her and smoothed his hand down the braid. "Come on, babe, let's get out of here."

When she didn't move or acknowledge him, Dutch scooped her into his arms.

At home, he put Randi in bed. Not in his, but in the guestroom's queen-size. She attempted to hide her distress, curling into a fetal position, hugging the pillow. He slipped off her shoes and dragged the sheet over her trembling body.

Standing beside the bed, watching her, was pure torture. She'd built a wall of pride, which had crumbled tonight.

What else could he say to help her through this? Ting Lan was in surgery. Telling her Brundage was their killer and Jinx was on the verge of jailing him, gave her little comfort. She continued fighting off tears, sniffling.

And he had no right to touch her.

"It's gonna be okay," he whispered. "Everything will be okay." Dutch ran his knuckles over her cheek, then smoothed the wild wisps of hair fallen free of her braid and tucked them behind one delicate ear.

She relaxed, seemed to find comfort in his words. Or maybe in him. He shook his head, clearing the ridiculous thoughts. She hadn't shown one indication of interest.

Seconds later, he heard the sound of deep breathing. Sleep was the best possible relief. Dutch turned off the lamplight. He went out of the room and closed the door behind him.

He grabbed the portable home comm from the coffee table, went to the kitchen, and called the hospital. Ting Lan was still in surgery. Still alive.

Unable to sit for long, tapping the unit on his knee, he wondered why the devil Jinx hadn't made contact. He linked with his partner.

"I picked up Randi. She's really broken up about Ting Lan. You got Brundage in custody yet?" Dutch asked.

"Oh, yeah. He's in custody all right," Jinx replied. "The son of a bitch attacked Collins and got the shit kicked out of him."

Dutch barked with laughter, but caught himself, remembering Randi slept in his spare bedroom. "Good." Jinx's words sank in as he walked toward the patio doors. Collins? What happened to "Myke"?

"Hardly," Jinx said. "We got major problems. Ting Lan's attack and Brundage's stupidity took place about the same time. No way the idiot could've been in both places."

"Shit. Great. Frickin' dandy."

"I hate to say it, Dutch, but be careful."

"What do you mean?"

"We're out of suspects."

"Ah, hell no. Uh-uh," Dutch said. Bullshit. Not a chance in hell he'd give up and clamp nerve restraints on Randi's wrists. "We still have labs in Tucson to check out."

The last thing they needed was to take this crap to another jurisdiction, but at this point, he was willing to cross state lines to clear her.

"All right." Jinx sounded tired, distant. "I'll be there in ten or fifteen minutes. Have some wakeup brew ready. We have to get this mess together, figure out some kind of strategy. Back up. Bust out the tequila. I need a drink."

After his partner disconnected, Dutch looked down at the unit, frowning. Jinx hated tequila.

Twenty minutes later, he carried the liter of booze and two small tumblers into the living room. Jinx followed with the six-pack of Mexican bottled beer he'd picked up on the way and the bag of pretzels under his arm.

"So," Dutch said, settling in his favorite armchair. Jinx sat on the sofa. "Was it Myke or somebody else who decked Brundage?"

"Collins. Black belt. Karate."

Dutch nodded and poured his usual hefty shot of tequila. He passed the bottle, never playing bartender. Everybody he drank with knew their limit.

"Bottoms up," Jinx said.

"Whoa. Wait a minute, partner." His three-finger shot was a damn big shooter. "When did you start downing this poison? What the hell's going on?"

His partner guzzled the liquor anyway. Grimacing, Jinx chugged half the bottle of beer. "Tired. Long day."

"Jesus, man. Are you planning to get shit-faced? Is there a reason for this? I mean, tired is one thing and you've had long days." Dutch tore open the pretzel bag, grabbed a handful, and stuffed one fat bowtie into his mouth.

Rising, Jinx shed his jacket. He retrieved Tuni from an inside pocket. Carefully, he folded his sports coat inside out and draped it over the sofa's arm. "Only needed one."

"Three shots in one, bud. Here, have some pretzels, something to absorb the sting of it."

Watching Jinx curbed his taste for straight Te-Kill-Ya. Dutch drew a long swill of beer instead, still wondering about his partner. Jinx had been acting weird since his arrival, not nearly as talkative, not a single smart-ass remark, and no tag line.

"All right. We've got three labs in Tucson," Jinx said. Tuni provided the addresses and phone numbers for each. "At seven on the nose, you start making contact, because at seven high, we're sure to hear from Mason. I'll handle him as best I can."

"What do you plan to tell him?" Dutch asked. "He'll erupt. White-hot."

"The question is what are we going to do about her?"

Their gazes collided, held. "Randi? She'll stay here." They had no other option. He sure as hell had no plans to lock her up now. Not yet anyway.

"Aiding and abetting a fugitive," Jinx said. "Should go over nicely."

"Nobody knows but you and me."

She had the most delicious dream. Randi wanted to drift back into the fantasy where it left off, secure in her cowboy lover's arms, safe. The perfect world.

But she heard voices and cracked open one eye. The sun was up, peeking through the window coverings in one long beam, its heat warming the length of her legs beneath the pale-blue sheet.

She'd wrapped her arms tighter around a soft, bulky pillow. Her head lay on another. She was dreaming still. Had to be. The sacred dungeon lacked windows, comfortable bed, and soft pillows. Flannel sheets weren't as nice as sweet-smelling cotton ones. Soothing background noise. The sound of water bubbling, like a small creek trickling on the first day of spring, filtered through the room. No, she was still in fantasyland. She closed her eyes again, enjoying the soothing sounds.

Except voices intruded in her quest to drift. Baritone and bass. She snapped open both eyes and bolted upright. Not a dream. This was Dutch's house, his aquarium bubbling gently, his bed.

Throwing the sheet back, Randi realized she was still dressed and forced the air out her lungs in long rush. She had fantasized about him, loving the way he caressed her cheek, remembering his words.

Everything will be okay.

Embarrassment firmly gripped her brain and body. Her cheeks heated. Dutch had seen her in a weakened state, heard her bawling like a baby. After all these years, she'd evidently stored them for safekeeping. The tears had poured from her eyes faster than any busted faucet. Or bleeding.

Last night's bloody episode came rushing back.

Ting Lan. How did this happen? Who would hurt her? Who else were they planning to harm? Min Li? Annette? Oh, no. The killer was murdering everyone she knew or cared for. They all had to stay alert, be aware of the people around them, and take no chances.

She climbed off the bed, tiptoed to the door and listened. The voices were low, the words muffled and unclear. She peeked out. Dutch and Jinx were on their comms.

Making the first decision of the day, she raced back to the bedside table where an old-fashioned telephone sat. No one answered at Min Li's place. She must be at the hospital with her daughter, safe. Of course she was with Ting Lan. What about her flock of hens, would they remain safe as well? What about Annette? Randi dialed her number.

"Annette, is everything all right at your place?"

"Why wouldn't it be?"

Sober, for once. "Something happened last night, something awful. Listen to me. Be careful when—"

"Careful of what?"

"Annette, somebody is trying to kill everybody I know," Randi said frantically. "They might try coming after you. You have to be careful. Stay home, keep your doors locked, and if anybody knocks and you're not expecting company, don't answer. Call the police if they don't go away."

"What about you?"

Somebody had tried to kill her, twice. "They're working on me, too."

"What?" Annette shouted. "They tried to take you out? When? Where? Did you see who it was? Did you tell the cops?"

"It's history. I'm okay, though." Luckily, she thought, thanks to Chandler Mayfield and an alert truck driver. She sensed relief from her mother. "I'm staying at Detective Patterson's house for the time being. He'll protect me. I have to cut this call, but I'll keep in touch. Keep your eyes and ears open, Annette." Stay safe.

Although their relation had been strained since day one, Annette was all she had in the world.

Randi sneaked across the hall into the bathroom, needing mouthwash and washcloth for now. She found both, then located toothpaste and a brand-new toothbrush inside the linen closet. Lots of things sat on the shelves. In fact, lots of feminine toiletries.

She had no right to snoop and spent the next few minutes cleaning up, wanting a good hot shower. Well, why not? The linen closet offered everything she needed.

"Go to hell!" Jinx's booming bass penetrated the walls and she jumped.

Randi cracked open the bathroom door.

"Calm down, Jinx. I'm not letting you take the heat for this," Dutch said.

"Put the unit down. He can threaten all he wants. Up his, his rampage, and forget this damn job."

"What'd he say?"

"Two things. No, three. One, Hamilton."

He added a few words Randi strained to hear and missed.

"Ah, hell," Dutch said.

"Two, press conference scheduled at ten."

"And, three?"

From the sound of Jinx's biting cuss words, something very bad had happened. "Suspension," he said at last.

Randi knew it was only a matter of time. She knew as the police found each victim, her life would change sooner as opposed to later. But never in her wildest dreams had she thought their jobs were on the line.

She smoothed the wild strands of her hair back, tried to keep control of her composure, and started down the hall.

Unnoticed by either detective, she surveyed the living room for the first time. Last night everything was blurred through tears and exhaustion, but she remembered Dutch carrying her inside and putting her to bed.

Plain beige drapes were drawn closed, the back-glow of sunlight brightening the area to a twilight setting. Two tall metal lamps were still illuminated. Bland, boxy furniture colored masculine, medium brown sat on hardwood floors. Naturally, the sofa and chairs backed against boring white walls. Matching pictures of snowy range scenes with cattle, windmills, and fencing hung on walls, above each chair. The room lacked warmth in her opinion. He had fake plants too. She preferred real vegetation to cleanse the air.

A half full bottle of liquor, two empty glasses, and six empty beer bottles were on the oak coffee table next to a flattened package. Several bowtie pretzels lay beside the bag. An ashtray overflowed with cigarette butts. The stink hung in the air. Yes, the house definitely needed plants. And good air freshener.

Presumably, Jinx's jacket and tie lay folded across the sofa's arm. The detective had unfastened the top three buttons to his wrinkled shirt. She'd never seen him unkempt before now.

"I will not allow either of you to get suspended because of me."

They looked up. From the tired-looking redness of their eyes, neither had slept much if at all. Dutch got to his feet.

He looked slimmer. What happened to the thick middle? He was barefoot, still tall without the boots. He'd rolled his shirtsleeves up to his elbows and his hairy chest was bared. Thinner and handsome with tousled hair hanging loose. His mustache teased the curve of his sexy lips.

"Did you sleep well?"

"Subject changers invite more problems," Randi said, smiling, mocking him with the very words he'd used the first night they'd spent together.

Too bad their first night in his home had been spent crying rather than seeking intimacy. She tsked silently. No chance of that ever happening anyway. Why was he here and not at the hospital, pacing the linoleum with Min Li?

"I called Banner," Dutch said. "Ting Lan's still in critical condition, but surgery went okey-dokey. I know how much she means to you."

And to you. "You should be there."

"The doctors are doing everything they can. All we can do is wait and hope."

She dragged in an unsteady breath, clutching both hands tightly to her aching heart. She begged Him for Ting Lan's recovery. No one deserved this heartache. "Min Li?"

"The nurse said she's sedated. They put her in the same room with her daughter."

"Oh."

Randi bit into her bottom lip, but nothing stopped the sting of unshed tears welling up behind her eyes. The dam broke and they rushed forward in a drenching waterfall. Through the blur, she saw Jinx's fuzzy image rise from the chair.
"I'll get me some wakeup brew," he said. "Don't just stand there looking stupid, Dutch. Hold her, damn you, or I—"

The strength of his embrace and heat of his body gave her much needed comfort. Emotions flowing freely, Randi melted against her fantasy cowboy, encircled his waist, and wept openly without shame.

"Shh. Everything will be okay," he whispered. He stroked her hair, ran his hands down her back, up, massaged her shoulders and enveloped her again, tighter.

She cried harder, for Min Li, for Ting Lan, and for him.

Her emotions in utter turmoil, several minutes passed before she gained a measure of control to curb the shower of tears. She dried her face on his denim shirt. He smelled so male, so good.

Sniffling, she said, "You should be at the hospital."

"What good would I do there?"

"She needs you."

"Who?" he asked, lips grazing her temple. "Min Li? She hates me. We've posted police guards. Nobody but doctors and nurses can get into their room."

Leaning back, Randi stared into his fierce hazel eyes that were filled with concern and variable heat, but she felt something more personal pressing hard against her belly. Shame on him.

"No, for Ting Lan," she said.

He frowned. "What are you saying? You think...uh-uh. Yeah, I'm worried about her and her mother. But only one person has consistently been on my mind." He shoved her arms around his neck, lifted her to tiptoe. "You."

As his hair veiled around her face, Randi's feet left the ground. He kissed her, hot and thoroughly, and stole her breath away.

Bells chimed. Sparks flew. Her world shook wildly, came apart in itty-bitty pieces, and scattered way beyond the galaxy.

"All right, enough is enough," Jinx said. "I'd say take it to the bedroom, but we've got business."

Hesitant, Dutch slid Randi down his body and stepped back.

Damn shame they had this murder investigation to worry about when he wanted to get into her panties. Obviously, Randi was embarrassed. The faint blush tinged her cheeks and raced down her throat. She looked away.

"Um, can I use your shower?"

Hell, he needed an ice-cold one. Cupping her chin, he tipped her face up. She had the greenest eyes he'd ever seen. Sparkling. And bewildered? He grinned. Yep, no doubt about it. She'd felt the same electrifying connection. She was trembling.

"Linen closet in the bathroom has plenty of supplies."

"Whose stuff—"

"Use whatever you need," he cut in, smoothing his thumb over her swollen lips, wanting to taste them again. Why not? He stepped forward.

Hearing Jinx's "business" sigh, Dutch chucked her chin. When she turned away, he watched her walk down the hall, hips swaying. Yeah, he wanted some of that. Bad.

The bathroom door closed. A few moments later, the shower came on.

"Can we get back to business now," Jinx asked, "or do you plan on mooning longer?"

Dutch cleared sex from his brainwaves before his upper and lower brain went nuts. He wanted to nail her in the tub, the shower, the bed—anywhere, everywhere—except they had one bad situation needing his undivided attention.

"Go to hell," he muttered.

"What'd you hear from the labs?" Jinx set his coffee cup on the table and dropped into the sofa.

"One trashed the samples several years back. The others promised to call back Monday. They had fresher ones, within the last four months, and they believe it's still stored."

"Too much time. Call again. Put more pressure on them. We need answers ASAP. Hamilton's doing the press conference in—" Leaning sideways, Jinx withdrew his gold pocket watch. "Damn, less than three hours."

Dutch linked with both companies again. Diplomacy or not, the results were the same. Monday.

Cursing under his breath, Jinx stood. He grabbed his jacket and tie. "We need to be at the conference. I'm going back to the crib to clean up. We'll meet in the precinct's parking lot at quarter to ten. Stay clear of Mason. Let me handle him." Shrugging into his jacket, he paused. "In fact, stay away from the building. Hang out here until you hear from me."

Dutch had never seen his partner so unbelievably tense, much more than the prostitute episode. Something or someone had tangoed on his one nerve. "Let's not be rash, partner."

Huffing, Jinx shifted his shoulders while fastening the single button to his jacket. He draped the tie loosely around his neck. "The idiot thinks he belongs on a goddamn throne because he's from California. Did Mason ever tell you exactly where he'd worked?" He didn't wait for an answer. "Beverly-Damn-Hills. I'm out of here. Keep the curtains closed, doors locked, and link untouched unless I give the code."

When Jinx left, Dutch snapped the deadbolt in place.

Chapter 26

He wanted to shower, but Randi seemed to be draining all the hot water taking hers. Fine. It'd take an icicle storm to tamp down the powerful, high-end lust saturating his veins, fueling his body with fortified energy.

Dutch checked window locks, pulled curtains and blinds completely closed, guaranteed the back door's deadbolt was secure, and set the alarm, motion sensor off. Peeking out the sliding glass door, he saw the neighbor twins relaxing on their porch swing.

"Um, do you happen to have an old T-shirt and sweatpants I could borrow, until I can washout my clothes?"

Dutch spun around. Oh, shit.

"Something clean or—"

"You shouldn't come out here dressed in a towel." Not in his current condition.

She might as well be buck-naked. The terrycloth hid little of her body, forced her to clamp the ends together on one side. Her hair dripped, clung to her neck and shoulders while water droplets ran down her arms. A new stream trickled, slow and tantalizingly, disappearing into superb cleavage.

She kept the covering snug all the way down to trim thighs. Upper thighs. Good thing he'd bought small towels instead of the big devils Blair had suggested. He would've missed seeing Randi's perfection.

Pretty knees followed by shapely calves. Sexy feet.

His taming rod throbbed, poised to rip his jeans open.

"I tried calling you."

Engrossed in the body she flaunted...no, not flaunted...she needed clean clothes. Dutch finally remembered to look at her face.

"Screaming like a shrew," Randi had continued. "So I sneaked out to check, but no one was around. Never mind. I'll wear what I have." She turned to go.

"Got T-shirts." Thin ones, really threadbare ones from way back when. But no panties were in this house. Or bras.

The magnetic draw so great he went on the move.

She swung back around, smiling for a change, but Randi stepped back when he swaggered over. She lost the grin. No way could she hide her attraction when electricity arced between them, charging the air.

"You felt it, too. What we felt before?" He touched her throat where her pulse beat rapidly and trailed his fingertips down to the edge of the towel covering her breasts.

Tightening her grip on the material, she stepped farther backward. "I-I'm not sure what you mean."

Bracing his elbows against the doorframe, Dutch said, "I want to get naked and feel you. Inside and out." He took hold of her badly trembling hand and ran it down the length of his erection. He hardly recognized his own mating growl. They were alone and no one else would know what went on behind locked doors. "I plan to overwhelm you with my hands, my body, and my mouth."

Jesus. From the terrified look in her eyes, he thought she'd bolt.

Randi wrenched her hand free. "No," she said, shaking her head emphatically. "No."

Great. She'd walked in his kitchen half-naked, given him a damn hard-on solid as baseball bat, and now she said forget it. "Why?"

"Because I-I will not do one-night stands," Randi snapped and backed away, scowling. "Day ones, either."

"I'm not a hit and run kind of guy."

"Two, three, or four days. Makes no difference. I'm going to jail soon anyway. They're planning to put me to death."

"The subject has never come up." But a little voice in the back of his mind whispered Jinx's words. "It won't happen. I won't let it happen."

"How can you stop it? Nobody can. I'm the dead woman walking."

Her harsh laughter had no humor to it and, from what he saw in her pained eyes, she fought a tough battle with her emotions.

"Why would you make love to—sleep with—a dead woman?"

"You're not dead, and you'll be around for years to come." Dutch reached up, stroked his knuckles against her cheek, and opened his hand.

Whether Randi needed comfort or simply his touch, she turned her cheek into his palm and closed her eyes.

Fate had tossed her another curve and flung him another fast inside pitch. He wanted her more than he wanted anyone. Longer than for one or two nights.

He leaned down, touched her lips with his, and coaxed them apart with his tongue. Her resistance dissolving, Dutch shoved his fingers into her damp hair, drew her head back, and plundered her mouth.

Freeing the towel from her body, he let it slide to the floor and Randi moved into his arms, vibrating like an overstretched wire.

Fine. Breakfast wasn't perfect. Neither was sex with that...that big, reckless cowboy.

Randi found the scrubbing pad in the sink's cabinet. She worked on the burnt skillet she'd like to smack upside his head. Nobody had taught her how to use this automated shit...er...stuff.

Jeez, forgive my mouth.

Prison officials had kept her out of the kitchen, away from knives and potential weapons. At her apartment, she'd only had two little pans, one spoon, spatula, and plate, plus the chopsticks she'd taken from the restaurant.

So the eggs were stiff, actually, rubbery. Did that man have to say they'd ricochet off the walls better than handballs? She'd bitten her tongue, let the remark pass.

Peeled apples were good. She hated their bitter skins. Sausage patties were decent. Cooked longer than necessary, they were crispy around the edges. Hell, scorched. She liked hers crunchy. The grits, well, he could've disagreed with her, even if they looked like white mud pies rolled in dirt, instead of asking for a damn hammer and chisel. Insulting devil.

She'd held her temper in check, cut off a scream, choked on a yell, and almost cussed at him. She'd simply said, "Next time, fix your own damn breakfast."

Nobody had taught him anything, not tenderness or finesse.

Overwhelm. Overdrive fit better.

Banging her against the shower tube's wall hardly showed tenderness. Breaking the tile with his fist lacked finesse. He should've broken his hand. Would've served him right for cursing so much. Ooh, he had a foul mouth! Worse than hers.

One more piece of hell, banging. Not making love, but banged, nailed, and humped. They sounded uncouth and barbaric. Sex with him was wild, untamed and, mercy, she'd never enjoyed making love—boinking—so much until now. He'd screwed her cross-eyed. Randi chuckled.

They'd engaged in mindless sex most of the night and twice this morning. Well, he'd banged her good and turned her every which way but loose. He'd driven her crazy for more, for him, and every time he said how much he wanted her or his eyes turned liquid-gold, melting her inside out, she had three words for her temporary lover.

Gimme, gimme, gimme.

He gave and she took greedily.

She gave and...that man had an insatiable sexual appetite and each time they'd made love he'd sliced away tiny pieces of her heart.

Boinked.

He'd nailed her with almost brutal skill, exciting and intense. Sex with him rocked her world harder than a magnitude nine earthquake. Wicked and rough unions. Their climaxes had ripped past tempestuous violence. He'd ravaged her from head to toe and each orgasm shimmered through her senses warmer than a hot summer breeze. Shimmered? Racked her with tornadic force, but she'd kept her wits and contained herself.

Sighing, Randi rinsed the skillet and set it aside.

She felt his hands on her hips, felt something more personal pressed against her bottom. She must've done very well. Or maybe not well enough.

"I think my hearing finally returned," Dutch said. "Thought sure you'd busted my eardrums, but I like hearing you scream my name."

She'd screamed? So much for keeping her wits. Randi slapped the kitchen towel on the counter, expecting another insult. But when she spun around, he boxed her in, a smile on his handsome face, eyes the liquid-gold again. She narrowed hers, recognizing the same one capable of melting her inside out.

She shook her head. "No. Absolutely not."

"Why?"

"Because," she replied, shoving at his chest.

Because she had no future. Because she was going to jail soon. Because she was going to die and boinking never stopped anything but her heart. He'd steal another piece of it and eventually she'd die without one.

"I was frantic before, to get inside you. I want to make love to you now. Slowly." He bent forward and nipped at the sensitive tendon down her neck, the fine hairs of his mustache tickling a delicious path. He'd already discovered what curled her toes.

Darn him. The slow burn combusted and her insides began a slow, waxy meltdown. Randi squeezed her eyes shut, worked hard to convince herself that this was wrong, wasting both their time.

"Do you want me to beg again?"

He had begged. She'd denied him, but the moment she'd shown the slightest yield, he'd conquered her—body and mind—with possessive fury. The reminder seemed to split each cell of her body in half.

"Why are you doing this?" she asked, panting now. "Why are you wasting your time with me, knowing—" His hand came up, cupped her breast. She dragged in an unsteady breath. "Don't." Her brain turned to mush when he caressed her.

"Yes." He kept his gaze on hers, dropped to his knees, knew she'd given in and lifted the thin T-shirt.

When his mouth took possession from his hand, Randi gulped in air.

In bed, she'd set him on fire when he'd planned to make slow, passionate love to her.

Playful teasing stimulated more than humor, holding him at bay intensified the aching when he needed her. Dutch knew why she held him off. The T-shirt, ripped down the front, lay on the floor.

Coming apart at the seams now, he really blew it.

"Bitch."

She tagged his cheek faster than a testy feline swiping a meddlesome pup's muzzle.

Well, that stung all to hell. He should've known better than to commit the ultimate sin. He thought about it a second and shifted on the bed. "All right. I deserved—"

She slapped him again.

Now wait just a goddamn minute. Yeah, he knew better, had been taught right from wrong, but his mother had never slapped him. Broom upside the head, ears rotated, never a degrading stinger. But not even pain deflated his staggering erection.

"I should've apologized first. I'm sorry. I meant something altogether different. You've pushed me to the limit, Randi, way past—"

He caught her wrist. Narrowing his eyes, Dutch matched her thin, green slits. She had nerve in his current condition, in his mood. The vein in his temple throbbed, blood pumping hard and fast went straight to the source of his problem. Heavy as a wooden bat, his rod was ready to take possession.

Not by force. Never by force. He wanted her, though. Bad.

Dutch went for the jugular instead, pinned her arms and body to the bed and assaulted her throat, battering her sanity with genuine finesse.

But she took full control of the inning. "Randi," he said gruffly.

She resisted, teasing him relentlessly. "The bitch is back," she whispered.

Infuriated by her mocking words, Dutch lost his head. He took possession of the game.

But who possessed whom?

They stayed in bed, bodies fused with sweat and hotness.

She fell asleep, deeply, snoring almost noisily. Dutch smiled.

The air conditioning hummed, so did the aquarium's filtering system. With the best of lovemaking, they'd lulled Randi to dreamland. She needed rest, him also, for the upcoming sequel. They were far from finished for the day.

He watched her for while, moving when she shifted to her side.

"I do love you," he whispered, skimming his hand down the silkiness of her body. Sleep kept her from hearing his words now. She sure as hell missed hearing them through her screams. "I think I fell in love with you the first moment we met, when I had no right."

How did this happen? How did he fall in love again? Jinx would badmouth him through next year. Dutch chuckled. Who cared? Without love and laughter, life was dull and boring.

He linked his fingers with Randi's, squeezed gently. Her hand fit so small in his, slender, delicate, unlike his big mitts. Pressing a kiss to each tip, he watched a small smile curve her lips and his heart sputtered through the next few beats.

But then, she fell back into deep slumber.

Dutch climbed off the bed. He went to the front door and peered through the peephole. No one within view was on the porch. The neighbor two doors away drove slowly down the street. All was quiet.

He rechecked the deadbolt and doorknob and went back to his room, but Randi was no longer in his bed. Bathroom, he figured and Dutch stretched out, hands clasped behind his head, legs gapped, anticipating her return. They had all day.

Well, Dutch thought as he scooted back against the headboard. Maybe.

Randi stood in the doorway, clutching a paring knife in one hand. What was in the other hand? It hung at her side, his blind side.

"Randi, what are you doing?"

She stared, deadpan. Zombie, like Cain.

She advanced toward the bed, seemingly in slow motion, and Dutch whispered, "Randi, don't do it. God, don't. Randi!"

She shook herself, blinking rapidly as the knife clattered to the floor. "Huh?"

When she raised her right hand, an apple rolled off her fingertips, bounced across the hardwood. The fruit was half-peeled. She loved apples. She hated the skins.

"Ah, no," she said wearily. "Was I sleepwalking again?"

She found the apple beneath his aquarium stand, picked up the knife, and left—while Dutch's heart thumped hard as a bass drum.

She returned carrying a plate of sliced fruit. No knife. "Threw out the other one. I don't believe in that five-second rule." She climbed into bed and stuck a slice toward his mouth, which he accepted.

Was he wrong to think what he had been thinking? "How did you get those stripes on your back?"

While she slept face down, he'd kissed a path down each one, soothing the pain he knew she'd suffered, remembering the marks left on an older mistreated mare Pop had bought for his son's ninth birthday.

"I told you."

"And you lied."

"What difference does it make?" Her tone was snotty as hell.

"Was it Brundage the Prick who did this to you? I'll break his neck."

Two minutes with the bastard is all he needed to beat him bloody, tear him limb from limb. Better yet, he'd tell Jinx to call Collins, let her unleash on the guard, remind him of the pain before Dutch caught him by the shorthairs.

"He had his own ways," Randi said, frowning. "Ding dong, subject change. I'm trying to forget the negative part of my life to concentrate on what little enjoyment I have left."

"Don't talk like. Don't ever talk like that." His intentions were never to show anger, but damn it, he was. She'd given up all hope for the future when he had vague plans, which included her.

"Why? An execution is inevitable. The needle. Frying chair."

"Shut up. Shut up."

He snagged her arm before she scooted to the edge of the bed and dragged her back. What happened the next second threw him for a loop.

She jerked her arms up, shielding her face.

Stunned, Dutch lost his breath. Jesus. No way. How could she even think he'd hit her? He would never abuse a woman and cursed the cowards who had.

"Randi," he said and drew her arms down. "Damn, babe. Who hurt you?"

Staring at his chest, she said, "Nobody."

She erected a new wall of pride in an instant, but Dutch felt her hands trembling in his. Fear? She had no reason to fear him. He'd never harm her, mentally or physically.

Cupping her chin, he forced her to meet his gaze. "Who? Tell me."

She laughed the weakest humor he'd ever heard and pushed his hand aside. "Why? Do you intend to beat up the people who've done me harm?"

"I damn sure will." Nobody beat on, badmouthed, or jerked around a woman he cared deeply for and got away with it unscathed.

"So gallant of you, but you're too late and eleven bucks too short."

He got his answer whether she knew it or not.

Branson. The motherfucker. Presumably, the stripes on her back came from him as well. And the scar below her eyebrow. Oh, yeah, he'd seen it and kissed it too.

Dutch cursed silently, aching to banish the old pain she'd carried around for years. Wrapping one arm around her body, he pulled her close, held Randi tightly and planted a lingering kiss to her forehead. "Do you believe me when I say I'd never put my hands on you to hurt you?" he whispered and waited for an answer. The wait took too damned long. "Come on, babe, you should know by now—"

"Yes."

"Good. So believe me when I say you'll be around for years to come."

"In jail? I'd rather—"

"No, goddamn it, not in jail. Here. In this house."

"Like I can hide in your house for the rest of my life," she replied and broke his grip, rolled away, and sat up. "It would never work. Confucius say: Body need sunshine to keep demon away."

He had expected her to give thought or some kind of indication she wanted to be with him on a regular basis. He wanted to be with her. Didn't his needs count? Couldn't she tell from their lovemaking that he'd given her all he had to offer? Does everything always have to be spelled out, aloud?

"Look," Randi said, pointing to the view screen. "There's Jinx. Who's the woman?"

Dutch peered around Randi and wrinkled his nose. "The Wicked Witch. District Attorney Sharon Hamilton."

He ordered volume up. The bottom of the screen said "live broadcast." Evidently, the conference had been delayed.

Dutch rose to his knees. He dragged Randi back against his chest, nestled between his legs, and wrapped his arms around her body, resting his chin on top of her head.

They listened to Mason's and Hamilton's speech.

Chapter 27

His arms flexed around her body in a tight embrace.

Maybe Joel was surprised, but somehow, Randi knew what information would come out of the press conference.

"Your commander looks mean, but where is that one's broom?"

"Hamilton rides a Hoover vacuum cleaner, battery-powered," Joel said blandly. "It's all crap. No way—"

"Do you have any chocolate?" The best method to clear the mind of unsavory thoughts was a chocolate binge. Eventually, she'd need five pounds of the stuff. "I wonder if they'll allow me to have a seven-course chocolate dinner for my last meal."

Easing out of his embrace, she climbed off the bed and slipped her arms into his denim shirt. Randi went to the kitchen since Joel had no reply. Joel. It was back to Dutch or Detective Patterson now.

Rummaging through the cabinets, she found a box of instant chocolate mix. She partially filled the tall glass with milk. Two packages should work. No, three with cream should clear the fog. She found whipped cream in the fridge. What's a few added carbs to an already fattie?

She shook the can hard then squirted the first stream directly into her mouth, the best of sugar jolts. Saving the last of an almost-empty container to top the milkshake, she mixed the contents of the glass. Not good enough.

She checked the freezer for ice cream. French vanilla. Joel...she shook her head. Dutch had stored the sweets for too long. Crystals had formed, sparkling over the ice cream's surface. She scooped a huge helping into the glass, causing overspill, and licked her fingers.

"What're you doing?"

She continued folding the mixture together and turned slowly around. "Chocolate milkshake. Want one? Good stuff." She added a swirly mountain of whipped cream. "Guess I'd better get another spoon. Want to share the nightmare?"

"Stop it," he whispered. "Stop it right now."

She stared at the tiles where he stood. He'd put on jeans, still barefoot. "It's sweet, Dutch—"

"Joel. Look at me and call me Joel."

"And not as good as the old Dairy Queen malts, Detective, without the—"

"Damn it, Randi, stop it."

She saw him move. "Don't," she squeaked out. "Don't touch me."

But he already had. He held her firmly against him, no matter how hard she wriggled to free herself.

"We'll get through this, babe. Together." He took the glass and spoon from her hands and set them on the counter.

"There is no we. Never will be."

"Wrong."

She'd already drained herself of tears and there were no reasons to cry now. How could tears prevent the DA's and the public's outrage? Why waste time on another futile trial? Her guilty plea would make everyone happy. Death within the year. Why fight it? Why prolong the inevitable?

"I'm turning myself in."

The muscles in his body contracted. "Like hell. You're staying right here. Jinx is on his way over."

Randi shook her head. "I want to talk to Min Li if she'll allow it, before...a-and Ting Lan too, even though I know she—" Her voice faltered. "Won't hear me. And my mother. Annette. I don't want her to hear the broadcast. Better if I tell her, by comm, not in person. I don't w-want to see her cry, don't want her there in the end. It'll only take a few minutes. Can we call now? Before you take me to the police sta—"

"Stop it. Stop—"

He swallowed audibly several times. The awful, strained sound sent a sharp pain to Randi's heart.

"We still have some things."

Wearily, Randi shook her head. "I'm tired. Tired of running, tired of hiding, and you should be tired of searching for my demons and shadows. It's time. There's nothing left. Nothing more to go on."

"What about us? What about what we have?"

Exactly what did they have? A few good hours in bed, banging, when he'd stolen her heart. She leaned back in his arms, slowly lifting her gaze.

He held her tightly with one arm and smoothed his knuckles over her cheek in a soothing caress. She wrapped her hands around his big hand and pressed a single kiss to his knuckles. The fantasy was over before the first act started good. He owned her heart now. What more did he want? Her soul? He could have it soon enough. She would love him through the end of time.

Randi tried to smile, but it wavered. She did love him. After all these years, she'd fallen for a gentle cowboy and, now, she was unable to enjoy the fantasy come to life. "I wish I had the chance to envy the woman who you give your heart to, Dutch. You'll make her very happy."

"It's Joel to you and I plan to make you happy. In fact, I'm keeping you."

"In your dreams? I'm flattered, but you'd better think again. I know I'd be jealous as hell. Heck," she amended.

Eyes twinkling, he smiled. "I like a jealous woman. Means she knows what she wants."

Her insides began melting. She fought off the erotic stirrings. He penetrated the root of her so well, so easily. "Can we call the hospital now?"

The smile left his face and his eyes dulled to old gold. "No. No calls."

"Why not? You're not getting one last piece of ass in first," she snapped and shoved his arms away.

The doorbell chimed.

"Answer the door," Randi ordered.

It really pissed her off when man's testosterone levels surged to maximum. She went to the bedroom instead of following him, dressed like a tramp, hair surely a mess and "fucked royally" stamped on her forehead for Jinx to see. She found her clothes and gathered them together. A hot shower might burn the demons from her soul.

Steaming water sure burned the hell out of her skin.

The detectives quieted when she entered the living room. Evidently, her presence had closed the conversation. Both men stared blankly at her.

"I'll just sit on the back porch and enjoy the sunshine," Randi said. "Let me know when we're ready to go."

Maybe somebody at the police station would allow her one phone call. Maybe. Or she could write a letter to Min Li and her daughter and ask for their forgiveness, even though she was innocent of all crimes. They were the only people in the world, besides Annette, who cared about her. Had, as in past tense. Turning back, she asked, "Do you happen to have pen and paper?"

"No," the detectives said in unison.

Randi stomped her bare foot. Screw him and his partner.

She knew police headquarters had stationary. Who would deny trading comm-call for paper? Well, shit...shoot...How could she write with her wrists cuffed behind her back? Why would they risk giving her a pointed instrument in the first place?

Sighing, she went out the sliding glass door and stepped onto hot concrete. She strolled through the small grassy area, wiggled her toes, enjoying the feel and the freedom she stood on the bitter edge of losing.

"You'll stay here while we investigate further," Dutch said.

"We've got some places in Tucson to check," Jinx included.

"Why there? What difference does it make? It's just a matter of time now and you're wasting yours."

Dutch gave her the rundown on research labs. "Is there any other place where somebody could've gotten your blood?"

She shrugged. "Just the hospitals and labs."

Slumping, Dutch looked over at Jinx who looked distracted.

Jinx had met with the DA and Commander Mason before the press conference. They'd refused to buy into an alternate scenario, another killer. The Wicked Witch and Kemo Sabe had decided, unconditionally, that Randi Westbrooke had time and opportunity to attack Ting Lan Chen and all other victims. Jinx had left it alone. Any further discussion might've raised too many questions. Neither detective could afford suspicion.

"Are you with me here, Jinx?"

"Hmm? Yeah." He sounded as unconvinced as Randi. "I'm taking off, see if I can find anything else."

From Tuni the remarkable and other special forces within the cave, Dutch presumed. "Keep in touch," he said and locked the door behind his partner. He kept the flat of his hand against the wood.

Something was bugging Jinx. Lexi? Highly unlikely, yet possible. Three things had the power to fragment a man's mental state—his woman, his car, and his money. Jinx had always kept his personal life private.

Money couldn't be the issue. The last time Dutch saw his partner's car the T-bird looked in excellent condition. Still was from the sound of the engine roaring to life.

Dutch dropped his hand to his side.

"So," Randi said, "who's the sweet patootie who's got his nose?"

"What makes you think it's a woman?"

"It's written all over his face in bold italics."

How did women see everything so well? Guys walked around blind and deaf. Women kept their eyes and ears wide open.

What was written on his own face? The look of stone love? First Glickman, then Dutch, now Jinx.

Glickman had hated women for so long he shocked himself when love slapped the back of his head. Dutch feared rejection from the woman of his fantasy dreams since their current situation appeared unstable. And Jinx, the last of the Mohicans, wouldn't admit to love if his life depended on it.

What a trio. Moe, Larry, and Curly. Dumb, dumber, and dumbest when life was short and unpredictable.

"Come here," Dutch said.

"Why?"

"For once, don't argue with me, Randi." He swaggered toward her. She stepped back and bumped into the kitchen's doorframe. "As much as I would love to nail you where you stand, I have something I need to say, something important. Something I think will affect both our lives."

"Tell me from right there." She held up her hand like a shield.

He took another step and another, until he boxed her in, pressing his body against hers. Cupping her face with both hands, Dutch said, "Can you see what's engraved on my face?" She tried to shake her head. "Yes, you can."

"No."

He could tell that she fought with her emotions; she was trembling again. "You know I'm in love with you, ever since I met you the first time." He smoothed away the first big dollop racing down her cheek, waited for the second shimmering diamond to fall.

"Dead woman. You can't," and her voice caught on a sob.

"I already am," he whispered and dropped a kiss on her forehead, her temple, and kept moving to a new place. "Do you love me, Randi?"

She swallowed.

"I know you do. I can see it in your eyes, taste it in your kisses. I feel it just like now when you're trembling in my arms." Bending at the knees, keeping bodily contact, Dutch nibbled a path down the tendon on her neck. "Say it."

Intrusions were a pain in the ass and always occurred at critical moments.

"Say it, damn it."

The doorbell rang a second time.

Snarling, Dutch left his reminding mark, a nip on her neck. He backed away and said, "We're not finished."

She had the same bewildered look in her eyes he'd witnessed before. No doubt now. She was in love with him. "You have one minute," Dutch said. "I want to hear it aloud."

He went to the door, wondering who had the frickin' nerve to intrude at a time like this.

"Hi, Daddy."

Oh, hell. He'd forgotten to mention his perky young daughter to Randi. She knew nothing of his background.

"Dutch."

And shit fire, his ex-wife.

Chapter 28

Jinx called in several well-earned markers.

He made the trip to Tucson, but the quick run produced rotten results. Due to contamination, two laboratories had destroyed Randi's blood samples on the receiving day. The other lab never got their samples. Crap. They had nothing left to go on, not one damn thing.

He tugged at his ear. Maybe she was their killer and he and Dutch were diligently protecting her from society's laws without just cause.

He pulled the pack of cigarettes from the glove compartment and lit one. Sucking in smoke, he steered the T-bird around the corner, slowed then followed the curve.

Randi's last chance had dried up, gone straight to hell, never to return.

As sure as the sun rose every day, the system would find her guilty in the first degree. As primary investigators, he and Dutch would have to attend the execution. Jinx shook his head. What about Dutch, could he handle it? How could he sit through an execution and watch Randi take her last breath when he was in love with her?

Turning off robot emotions fit Jinx's ego, not his partner's turmoil. Dutch lacked nerves of steel when it came right down to women and love—the ability to switch everything off, close his eyes to feelings and shut the door to his heart. Slam it shut, good and tight, and toss the key away.

Jinx pulled to the curb, shut off the ignition, and stared across the street at Myke Collins' perfect one-story home.

The house fit her style, not too big, not too small, clean tan blending with the neighborhood. Landscaping displayed a tropical flair with Mediterranean palms, red and yellow hibiscus, lantanas, mature mesquite trees for shade and a small waterfall he'd overlooked on his last visit.

He inhaled one last drag and flicked the cigarette onto the street, blew the smoke out the window.

What the hell was he doing here? he wondered, rubbing his forehead. Nerves of steel. Ironclad feelings. No feelings.

He started the engine, his comm beeped, and Myke's front door opened, all at the same time.

There she stood on the porch, dressed in glorious blue, and his chest threatened to split wide open. "Be still my heart," Jinx whispered when she looked directly at him.

He held his breath.

"Jinx, where are ya, man?" Dutch barked into his comm. "Huge problems. Get back to me ASAP. The shit's hit the high-speed blower."

He clicked off the unit and peeked out through the drapes.

Media buzzards had arrived in droves. Every station, local and national, had camped out on his street, milling around like marauding army ants.

Two hours ago, after Blair and Cheryl left, he sat with Randi for a quiet conversation. He explained his oversight. She handled his past better than he expected, said because it didn't matter.

The hell it didn't.

Luckily, Blair had given him the thumbs-up when she left. Cheryl, she looked mystified, probably wondering why he'd commanded Blair to turn off the big screen. He'd cursed, snapping nasty words, and shut the system down. The re-broadcast of the DA's press conference had blared to life. Dutch freaked. Randi's mug shot had been flashed at noon.

Another hour went by and he'd answered the door to the next intrusion, pissed. Shaala Tambo had stood on his porch backed by an entourage of cameramen, thrusting microphone in his face and shooting off rapid-fire questions.

"Are you harboring a fugitive here, perhaps Randi Westbrooke? Is your partner involved in this fiasco? How does it feel to be the accused, Mr. Patterson, and under suspension? Do you intend—"

He'd slammed the door in her face.

Two seconds later, Mason linked him. Dutch refused to answer the summons. He ordered Randi to stay in the master bedroom, safely away from front yard windows.

Where the hell was Jinx? Dutch tried contacting him again.

"C'mon. Pick up."

"I'm here. What's up?"

"'Bout time. Have you talked to Mason? Somebody screamed. It's out. The damn media is storming my house. Tambo showed up first, asking questions about shit she shouldn't know about, wondering if Randi was here. She asked if you were involved. Then, she said Mason's already put us on suspension."

"Who tattled? How did they find out Randi was there?"

Dutch could only think of one person. Cheryl. She and Mason's wife ran in the same circles. "Blair and Cheryl stopped by when we were...she stopped at an inconvenient time. They met her." Or maybe the neighbors had seen the news, saw Randi in the backyard, and squealed.

"Are you out of your damn mind?"

He held the unit away from his ear, but drew it back in time to hear, "Sit tight. I'll be there shortly."

"Where are you?" He listened, but Jinx had cut the link.

Chapter 29

As soon as four bullet tones erupted through his unit, Dutch unlocked the front door.

Jinx stepped inside. "Damn gauntlet coming down the street," he said. "Where is she?"

"Bedroom watching ancient cartoons. Jinx," Dutch said gravely, "she wants to end it."

"We might not have a choice. I went to Tucson." He shook his head.

Dutch turned away, not believing it was over. There had to be some way to stop this bullshit. Unfortunately, Big-Foot Cheryl couldn't keep her mouth shut, but maybe Ting Lan would talk.

"Call the hospital," he said, spinning around. "See what's happening with Ting Lan. Maybe she can change the course of—"

"You're reaching again."

"I don't give a goddamn! I love her. Do you think I'm going to sit around and let those bastards take her away from me?"

Jinx held his hands up. "All right. All right. I'll call."

Dutch paced around the room while Jinx connected with Banner Samaritan. Ting Lan was the answer to their problems. She'd tell the world who had attacked her, provided she survived.

Please let her survive, Dutch begged silently.

Jinx clicked the unit off and looked over at Dutch. His smile was genuine. "She's regained consciousness, stabilized, off the critical list."

Air flowed from his lungs in one long whoosh. How long had he been holding his breath? Dutch went to the master bedroom.

Kneeling beside the bed where Randi sat cross-legged, he said, "Jinx and I have to make a run. I want you to stay right here. Keep the doors locked, drapes closed, no calls. I've turned off the comm to incoming." Sure as hell, Mason had sabotaged the line on his home unit if not his business one.

"How long will you be gone?"

The look about her eyes showed true shiftiness. "Not long. Promise me you'll stay here, Randi. Solemn promise."

She stared at the floor.

"If you love me—"

"Promise, but when you come back—"

He kissed her, long and hard. He liked seeing her slumberous eyes afterward. "We'll have good news."

It took ten minutes just to turn the corner at the end of his block. Dutch gunned the truck's engine twice to scare the hell out of the reporters. They circled again as hungry vultures after road kill. One had the audacity to climb the steel rungs and shout through the window. Another hopped inside the bed of the truck and took pictures, until Jinx threatened to jail him for destruction of property. Dutch didn't know what lay under the tarp.

The wagon train followed for better than a mile, but only one vehicle matched his highway speed and made it to Banner Samaritan at the same time.

They lost the chaser inside the hospital. Jinx told the main level police guard not to allow reporters entrance to Ting Lan's wing. Another cop was stationed outside her room.

They found Min Li sitting beside her daughter's bed, holding her hand.

"What you want?" she snapped.

"We need to talk to her, Wise One," Jinx said. "Need a statement."

"She not talk to you. Tired. Sleep. Not supposed to talk."

"I will tell them, Mother." Ting Lan's voice was weak, raspy, so different from the sweet-sounding tone she'd had.

Bandages were wrapped around her throat. An IV bag filled with clear fluid, and one containing another substance, surely blood, hung beside the bed. The system monitor registered her body's vital functions. Beneath the sheets, Dutch knew doctors had stitched, clamped, or lasered her wounds. Surgery had taken four hours. And she had survived.

"How are you feeling?" Dutch asked, genuinely concerned for her health.

"Lousy." She tried to smile.

"How you think she feel?" Min Li got to her feet. "She might never sing opera again."

He grimaced, shocked to see emotion spreading across Min Li's face, tears welling in her saddened eyes. He had no idea her daughter was a singer. "I'm truly sorry, Min Li."

"You're here b-because of Randi," Ting Lan whispered.

"Yes," both detectives said.

"You not talk about demon to my only daughter."

"Quiet, Mother."

She plopped down in the chair, scowling.

"Ting Lan," Jinx said. "Do you remember who attacked you?"

"Yes."

Dutch moved closer to the bed and Jinx followed. "Can you describe him?"

"Not he," she said.

Dutch groaned, closed his eyes.

"A woman?" Jinx asked. "Can you describe her?"

"It w-was Randi."

"Shit," Dutch exploded.

"Shut up, Dutch," Jinx commanded. "You're absolutely sure, Ting Lan, it was Randi Westbrooke who attacked you?"

"Yes. Randi. Forgot keys. Went to kitchen. Look for keys. But—" She lifted her hand, touched the bandages at her throat.

Dutch cursed again. It was over. Once Jinx relayed the information to Mason, they'd take her away, lock the cell and melt the damn key.

Not yet.

He started for the door. He planned to clamp his hands around her neck first. She'd caused him to fall in love with her, the goddamn murdering bitch.

"Something. Something was different," Ting Lan continued.

Dutch came to a dead stop and spun around. "What was different?"

"Randi, but it wasn't Randi."

"What do you mean?" Jinx asked.

"She—" She worked at clearing her throat.

"Tired," Min Li said. "Need rest."

Ting Lan shook her head as best she could. "Her—"

Each word sounded fainter. Jinx moved closer to the bed. Dutch eased a bit closer too.

"Gentleman, I believe you've overstayed your visit."

Both detectives looked over their shoulders. The guy standing at the doorway was dressed like the everyday businessman. Balding gray hair, medium height, black reading glasses balanced on the tip of his nose, wearing an ugly paisley tie and brown jacket with nameplate attached to the pocket.

"I'm Dr. Fredericks and I won't allow you to pressure my patient any longer. I want the two of you to leave this room."

"Just one more minute. It—"

"Can wait. Ms. Chen is not to exercise her voice yet. Please, excuse yourselves or I'll call in the officer outside this door."

Dutch and Jinx flashed their shields. "Detectives," Dutch said. "Homicide."

"You could be CIA for all I care," Fredericks replied, pulling the door open. "Out. Now. I'm responsible for this patient's recovery."

Dutch and Jinx exchanged a look. They trudged out the door.

They took the back stairs and strode through automated sliders into bright sunshine. Heat and air were fresher than the antiseptic scents inside the hospital. With the sun's blazing rays, they moved under the shady cover of Ficus trees.

"We have to get back in there, Jinx, and hear the rest of the story."

God, he felt like shit right now. Two minutes ago, he would've taken great pleasure in strangling Randi. Now, he wasn't sure of his own damn name or if he could manage to set eyes on her again.

"Gonna take some time," Jinx said.

"We're out of time!"

"Look, back off, damn it, and get a grip. We're talking about a victim's life here. She's as important as the next person."

Jinx sure as hell had the power to put a man to shame. Dutch pinched the bridge of his nose. "Yeah, she is."

"I need a smoke, need to think." Jinx dragged the pack from his pocket. He lit two cigarettes, handed one to Dutch, then clamped the filter between his teeth and unfolded Tuni.

"What're you doing?"

"Banner Samaritan. Patient: Chen, Ting Lan. Call."

The processor acknowledged. Min Li answered the phone.

"Wise Mother, this is Detective Murray. Is Dr. Fredericks still in the room?"

"No, and you not come back today."

"You're right, Wise One. We've upset the patient with our presence."

Dutch frowned. When did he learn to speak Chinese? Fluently.

The conversation went on for a good two minutes. Several times Dutch thought he'd heard Ting Lan's raspy voice.

"I've given you so much trouble," Jinx said. "Thank you, Wise Mother." He disconnected.

"Want to tell me what the hell is happening? We need to talk, Jinx, about what it is you do in life. I don't know you, man."

"Later."

"Well, what the hell did you talk about?"

Voice flat as a pancake, Jinx said, "Ting Lan was under the impression that Randi sounded different, said she was quiet, seemed distant."

"Meaning what, an alter ego took over? Are you trying to say she's crazy, suffers from multiple personalities? What a crock of shit." He'd recognize a nut.

"I'm just telling you what she said, Dutch. Remember, Ting Lan's a singer. Good ears. She may have lost her voice, though." Jinx dropped the cigarette, stubbed it out with the toe of his shoe. Looking up, frowning, he asked, "Has Randi ever mentioned memory lapses or feeling disoriented? Drugs?"

"Hell, no."

"She ever say anything about hypnotism?"

Dutch stepped back. "Only sleepwalking."

"We need to talk to her."

That, he wasn't ready for. Not yet, even if she'd been put under by hypnotism. Love always conquered the power of suggestion. She'd murdered family and friends. How long before she'd take a knife to his throat or to his daughter's?

Dutch wrinkled his nose, staring past his partner into the distance. "Might be better if you—"

"You no good bastard, and you had the nerve to mention love," Jinx snapped. "Lame, two-faced son of a bitch. Give me your damn keys, Mr. Judge-Jury-and-Shithead."

Dutch forked them over.

But Jinx tossed them right back. "You took a headhunter's opening without so much as offering a rebuttal." He snorted. "I'll catch a taxi. We're done."

Chapter 30

Five minutes sitting in the sun while heat activated his brain cells, Dutch hatched a brand new scenario. He drove the truck faster than the best Indy 500 speedster.

Up ahead, over the top of media packrats congregating in front of his home, he saw Jinx climb out of the orange cab. Newscasters converged on his partner, leaving Dutch an unhindered opening to his driveway.

He jumped down from the truck and beat Jinx to the porch before the media recognized him, rushed him.

"Back off," Jinx barked at the group. "No comment."

"One foot over the boundary and you go to jail," Dutch threatened.

The charge was trespassing if they stepped across property lines again. Fines were staggering. Even Shaala Tambo knew better than to chance approaching the detective at a time like this. His partner flaunted one nasty-looking death mask.

"Jinx—"

"Detective Murray to you," he muttered. "Get out of my way."

"You got a key?" Dutch whispered gruffly. He shoved his into the deadbolt. "I told her not to answer the door and we have to talk."

"We?" Jinx followed him inside. "You're out of the mix. She goes to my place. She'll be safe there. Unlike here."

Dutch slammed the door. "Like hell. She stays right here in our house. With me."

Yeah, he'd played the starring role of Headhunter Asshole, but he'd come to his senses. Love and anger had people doing crazy things. Until he found out the complete truth, he had smarts enough to keep neutral during crisis times, and this was one hell of a situation.

"The hypnotism crap is a pile," Dutch said. "Too farfetched. Tough to prove."

"Who gives a shit what you believe. She's out of here."

"Hell, you're gonna listen to me for a change." Poking Jinx's chest asked for trouble. His eyes crinkled around the edges. He was way passed pissed. "Before you decide to knock my teeth down my damn throat, think about this. What if..."

She stood in front of him, watched him sink to his knees, gasping for air, clutching his stomach.

Shifting her gaze, the panoramic view mimicked a reflective mirror. She saw her mussed hair, intense emerald eyes, and serene smile on her face. She held the biggest knife she'd ever seen, a monster blade as long as her forearm. The metal gleamed under hot lights, dripping blood-red liquid.

"You thought you knew me." Her words echoed throughout the room. "Do you still love me? Tell me you still love me."

She stepped forward. The red river seeped between his fingers, stain spreading on his white T-shirt.

"Tell me!"

He looked into her eyes, lifted his chin, and spit in her face.

Wiping it away, her laugh was evil, fiendish. "Cute, but let me show you how I did the others. Hold your head up."

When he failed to comply, she grabbed a handful of his hair and yanked his head back.

"She's still sleeping," Dutch said.

He'd checked on Randi twice in the last half hour, stroking her hair and cheek, quietly apologizing for losing confidence in her innocence—in her. She'd had plenty of opportunity to slit his throat, but there he stood, begging again. She had every right to dump him.

Would she? Had he jacked up his dreams again after all they'd shared?

"Got anything yet?"

Jinx had been talking constantly with Tuni, searching the planet for any Annette Armstrong born between 1940 and 1960. "Lot of hospital records out there. Some might have been erased. Let's hope hers are intact. This processor's fast but— Hold up," he said, leaning forward when the processor beeped again. "Tell me something good, Tuni baby."

"Armstrong, Annette Bethune. DOB 1957-6-26."

"Perfect. Good damn chance," Dutch said. He sat beside his partner, stared intently at the animated screen.

They'd gotten a slew of Annette Armstrong's across the continent, some newborns, some dead and buried.

"Working. Records sealed."

"Not today, my love." Fingers blazing over the keyboard, Jinx typed in a series of letters and numbers, waited for queries and typed more.

"Records sealed."

"Bite me." He typed something different, faster.

"What the hell?" Dutch asked. "Why is she sealed?"

"No idea." Jinx puckered his lips, staring intently at the processor

"Password?" Tuni prompted. Jinx entered one. "Armstrong, Annette Bethune. DOB 1957-6-26. Father..." The automated voice continued spewing out the woman's family history while Dutch and Jinx howled, bumped knuckles, and fisted victory with both hands.

"This is the one. I know it," Jinx said.

Tuni's sexy tone quieted their high spirits. Armstrong had a peaceful childhood. The family had moved to several states. "1971-10-15, subject committed to Wayne County Poorhouse, Michigan, also known as Eloise Insane Asylum..."

"Oh," Dutch breathed.

"1971-10-27, subject escaped. 1971-10-29, subject relocated, re-confined, same institution..."

"She was what, fourteen?" Dutch asked. "Had to be the parents who put her there."

Annette Armstrong was released five months later. The family moved several more times. They took Annette with them. Evidently, the hospital stay worked. Her life for the following three years sounded as normal as any teenager unwilling to attend school.

"Parents: DOD 1971-12-31, accident..."

"What kind of accident?"

"We'll check later," Jinx replied.

"Matrimony: 1972-2-14, Valdosta, Georgia. Spouse: Steedman, Bartholomew. First cousin."

"Sounds like she had nowhere else to go," Jinx said. "Young. Parents probably broke, left her nothing to survive on. Marriage gave her stability."

"Pregnancy: one, fetus terminated first trimester at..."

"That's incest!" Dutch screeched.

"Happened more often than people realized," Jinx replied, shaking his head. "Still does."

Tuni sketched an ugly picture. Two marriages—one ending in divorce and the other, an accident of some kind. Three pregnancies—one abortion termination, two reported as unassisted stillborns. All happened within four years time.

"She wasn't into children," Jinx said.

"How did Randi survive?"

"Pregnancy: four, Armstrong, Randi. DOB 1981-4-1. Midwife assistance, reported..."

"That's how," Dutch said angrily. "Wonder how much Randi knows? Wonder if Annette ever told her everything? Think she knows the father's name? Tuni never said squat about the father. Where the hell is he? What the fuck was his problem?"

Deadbeat dad? The butthead. Children needed both parents in their lives for balance, even when the marriage was shot to hell.

"Listen," Jinx snapped.

But, Randi's high-pitched scream had Dutch charging into the bedroom.

Chapter 31

"Don't you dare come near me," Randi yelled. She scrambled backward and up against the headboard, clinging to the slats. "I want to leave now. Take me to the police station."

He moved toward the bed, arms extended. "I thought you were sleeping," Dutch said, " but you heard every word. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"Take me to jail. Jinx," she screamed. "Get him out of here!"

It was only a matter of time. She knew she'd kill him. The nightmares, they were premonition and always came true. Always. Her parents, her husband, and her acquaintances had died by her hand. In this dream, she'd seen Joel's anguished face, pleading eyes, blood oozing between his fingers, dripping on the hardwood floor. No, she would not murder the only man she loved now, who had believed in her from the beginning. Jimmy had been right all along. She was crazy, a sleepwalking murderess.

"Jinx!"

"Come on, babe, please, just give me one minute to—" Dutch said, reaching for her. "Just one."

She rolled, but he dove and caught her, pinned her to the bed. "Get away from me. Get away."

"Hey. Hey," Jinx shouted, storming in the room. "What the hell's going on in here? She told you not to touch her. Get your butt in the other room. We got double trouble."

Randi fought like a wild thing. "Jinx, put the cuffs on. Take me to jail," she said on a sob. "Stop me from killing again."

Their mouths dropped open. Dutch scrambled to an upright position then hopped off the bed. Seeing the hostility in his eyes was worse than facing the death penalty.

His partner dragged him from the room.

Damn good thing, Dutch thought. He was two seconds shy of clamping his hands around her neck. Through the blinding haze of anger, he'd heard Jinx tell the murderess to sit tight.

While his partner went back into the bedroom, Dutch stomped a new, circular trail around the coffee table, allowing his anger to heat to a volcanic boil.

"Sit down, fool," Jinx said. He stood at the entrance to the hallway, thick fists propped on his waist. "Pull yourself together. You're as fickle as a damn cat."

"What the hell are we waiting on?" It was way passed time to take that murderer to the slammer. Dutch rubbed at the ache inside his chest, sure the pain was caused by stress or the beginnings of heart failure. "I don't want and I don't need a killer in my damn house!"

Jinx sighed noisily. "She hasn't killed—"

"She admitted killing," Dutch snapped. "She planned to take me out too." The tightness increased. He'd never felt this type of god-awful pain. Heart attack? Stroke?

"She dreamed she'd stabbed you and thought she'd do it at some point. She was willing to go to jail to protect your sorry butt. Damned admirable compared to you."

Slowly, the tightness released its hold. Okay, so she was trying not to take him out. She had opportunity before today. "Yeah, for a suspected killer," Dutch shot back.

"Quit trying to save face. When you left the room, you missed the rest of Tuni's dialogue."

"That piece of plastic wouldn't know squat about—"

"And Randi doesn't know about her sister."

"This confession. She's toast. Needle."

Shaking his head, Jinx said, "You're not listening. Focus. You were right."

"I know it. Case closed. Mason and the Gulch will—" Dutch blinked. "Sister?"

"Bingo. Identical twin to boot. Same blood type, same disorder. Same everything, except her name. DNA is a perfect match. It's old data though."

"Identical? You're kidding. I was right."

Right and wrong. He was right about a close blood relative. Jesus. Two green-eyed hotties. Sweet and sour. Sugar and vinegar. And he was wrong to assume Randi was the guilty party. She'd never forgive him now. Dutch rubbed at his chest again. "I'm knee-deep, Jinx."

"Neck, and you deserve it," he replied, squinting, stroking his jaw. "We've got worse problems. I haven't located twin sister Lisa yet. I suspect she lives somewhere in the state, maybe Tucson. Can't imagine she lives here. Somebody would've recognized her during her sister's prison stretch."

"Just like Cain, moving, hiding out," Dutch said. He thought more. "Disguises."

"Very likely. Lisa has to know as much about her sister as everyone else, as much as we do. The way I see it, she kept track of her, killed because of her. Why, who knows?"

"Plus, we lack proof."

Jinx gave him a hard stare. "Are you doubting again? Tell me now."

Dutch rapped his knuckles once on the armchair and Jinx spun around. "Not a chance." His partner faced him again, grinning. "No way I could've fallen in love—stayed in love—with a murderer," Dutch continued. "This is some hell. Clear as day shot into each victim's place of safety. Unconditional trust."

"Exactly, and the only one who noticed anything was Ting Lan. She heard something different in the woman's voice. Lisa's slicker than snot if she's in the city and if she finds out her prey survived, you can bet she'll make another try. I'll call the hospital, up security. Let's not mention this to Randi yet, need to keep the lid on until we come up with something concrete."

"A frickin' twin. It'll blow Randi away when she finds out."

"I have a what?"

Chapter 32

She had a damn twin? Somebody who looked exactly like she did? Oh, Min Li would just love this. Why in the hell didn't Annette say something? Did she know her other daughter?

Well, of course, she does. She found me, didn't she? Wait until I link with the woman.

"Are you serious?"

Did it mean what's-her-name had...her parents, her husband...

Oh, my God. Oh. My. God. Who would know who's who if they were identical? Would Annette know? Sure she would, mothers always knew.

"Worse than serious, but nothing definite yet," Jinx replied. He gave Dutch a look. "I think I should take her—"

"No," Dutch rebutted and got to his feet.

A type of male-dog standoff followed, legs braced apart, shoulders hunched forward, eyes fastened in a try-me-one-time glare. How long had this bit of testosterone clashing been going on? Oh, and don't let one of them growl.

Why did he want her to stay anyway?

Randi licked her dry lips. He'd had good reason to be angry. Maybe he still believed she'd had a hand in killing off the people she loved. He was planning to show his disgust in private. Oh, no. She couldn't take it. Not from him.

She cleared her throat. "I think I'd rather—" and the look Dutch laid on her froze her insides.

"All right," Jinx said and the power scents declined to a tolerable level. "While you two talk, I'm home to dig deeper. Stay low. I'll yak at you later. Here," Jinx said, handing his comm to Dutch. "My personal, untraceable by Mason's team." He went out the door.

Hearing the locks snap into place, Randi lowered her gaze. She stared at the floor, anywhere other than into Dutch's eyes, not wanting to see the hatred again.

Boot heels clicked on the floor. The pointed toes came into focus.

She controlled her next shuddering breath. At least she thought she had, except her body quaked inside worse than a cement agitator full of icy rocks. Slowly, she lifted her gaze, locked with his.

Gone was the awful hostility she'd seen earlier. Something different had replaced it. Something potent and magnetic urged her to step forward. To beg for his forgiveness?

He met her and wrapped her in his fierce embrace and Randi clung to her fantasy cowboy. Dutch. Joel.

"We need to talk," he said, his lips grazing her temple. "About a lot of things."

"You don't hate me anymore?"

"I showed my dumb ass more than once, but I never hated you, couldn't possibly hate you."

"You did for good reason." The tighter he squeezed, the easier her words tumbled out. "Hated myself. Wanted to die to keep from hurting you." She snuggled closer, listening to his rampant heartbeat.

"Stop talking like that," Dutch said gruffly. His hands moved down and up her back, over her shoulders, fisted in her hair and gently drew her head back. He stared into her eyes for long seconds.

She recognized the intensity glowing in their golden depths, knew he was waiting to hear her response to one unanswered question, the one she had avoided. Admitting her deep-down feelings after burying them for so long took more strength than she'd ever figured. "Yes." Spilling the exact words was too hard. She'd been burned by love, burned badly.

"Say it."

She swallowed. "You're giving me a headache." His fingers tightened in her hair as each second ticked away. "Do you like bald women?"

"Are you planning to say those three simple words anytime soon?"

Demanding devil. "Maybe. Maybe not." Ooh, the pupils of his eyes shrunk really quickly, then spread like water over smooth glass.

"Guess I do like one baldheaded, argumentative woman."

"I'm not—"

"Say the words, Randi, and stop bantering with me."

"I don't—"

He kissed her, his mustache tickling her nose, her insides melting from the quivering core. Sparks flew. Bells chimed. Planets and stars zoomed by within their private universe before he turned her loose.

Lifting his head, he grinned. She loved his winning smile, his twinkling eyes, everything about him.

"Now will you say it?"

Bam! Bam! Bam! And the comm sounded four sharp tones.

"Shit. Every goddamn time I get close to—"

"You cuss too much," Randi scolded. They both did. She would not say another bad word ever again.

Sighing, Dutch released her and chucked her chin. He picked up the comm on his way to the door. "I'll work on it. This is Jinx." He checked the peephole. "Cops!" he mouthed.

"Oh, shit." Randi zigzagged back and forth faster than China Palace's hens.

Dutch grabbed her shoulders, held her in place. "Hazel," he whispered. "Get inside Hazel."

"Who's Hazel?" she asked, equally quiet, but frantic.

"Police!" came a yell as Joel spun her around in the right direction. "Open up!"

"The washing machine. Kitchen. Mud room. Go! Go!"

Thankfully, she'd dressed in her clothes instead of leaving them scattered in his bedroom. Randi climbed inside the big tumbler.

From the living room, somebody said, "We have a warrant, Patterson, to arrest..."

She clicked the washer door closed. Mercy. This confinement was worse than the sacred dungeon. Tight quarters. Randi gulped in enough air to fill her lungs before they constricted and cut off her breathing.

Calm down. Calm down.

She needed an asthma attack as much as a heart attack and reached into her pocket. Oh, damn. The inhaler sat on Joel's dresser, dead center, and she squeaked out a groan.

Count and breathe. Inhale slowly on one, exhale for two beats. Trembling badly now, she squeezed her eyes shut as sweat began dribbling a thin line down her forehead.

Count, Westbrooke. Count silently and relax.

Chapter 33

"He thought he could hold you overnight," Jinx said, steering the T-bird down the street. At the next intersection, he rolled slowly through the red light and turned the corner. "Until he got a warrant to search your house. You should've picked up the comm before you answered the door. This crap is all over the news. Press is speculating again. We need the publicity as much as we need Mason's trash."

Jinx said he'd called in another marker. The judge had ordered Dutch's release, citing personal recognizance, with no bail. His partner had more markers and contacts than Carter had liver pills.

Dutch had stepped out of the cell almost unscathed. He'd earned one small bruise on his left cheek. Two detainees, hearing they'd had a cop roommate, jumped him. It felt good to beat the living shit of somebody, freeing a smidgen's worth of pent-up anger.

He stretched his fingers. Tomorrow he'd have swollen knuckles.

"Screw Mason and his trumped-up charges. Step on it, Jinx. Randi's been inside Hazel four hours. She was freaked, and she's asthmatic."

After the scuffle, officers had put him in a no-contact cell. Jinx had lost his privileges. He had no idea Randi was trapped inside the giant washing machine. He'd gone by the house. When Randi didn't answer the door, he figured she'd gone on the run and found another hiding place.

Streetlights illuminated the dark avenue, but not one reporter was in sight. They'd followed the patrol cars to the precinct when they saw Dutch in restraints and converged into a shouting group of video-taking maniacs. Dutch and Jinx had sneaked out a side door when the police set him free.

Good damn thing the press stayed behind. He was in no mood for confrontations or interviews.

Dutch hopped over the T-bird's door before the car stopped rolling. He raced to the front door of his house. Hands shaking badly, he fumbled with the deadbolt's key.

"Randi!"

He sprinted toward the mudroom, flicked on the overhead light, and yanked open Hazel's door. Damp heat poured out of the tumbler.

Curled up between two metal dividers, Randi lay motionless.

"Shit."

He lost control of his shaking hands. His legs had less stability than melting rubber. Balancing on a fragile thread between hope and despair, Dutch held his breath, swallowing convulsively, and pressed his fingertips to the soft tissue on her throat.

She opened her eyes, smiled, and reached for him. "Are they gone?"

"Goddamn it," Dutch croaked, lifting her into his arms, burying his face in her damp hair. Cradling Randi, he swung her around in circles.

"She okay?" Jinx asked.

Yeah, she was fine, Dutch thought while emotion overwhelmed him, got the best of him. He squeezed her tighter just to feel her heart beating rapidly. The painful lump blocking his throat, pressing hard against his vocal chords, eased off the pressure, but just not enough to speak.

"I'm fine," Randi said. "He likes dizzy women too."

Dutch laughed. Only one, this particular dizzy, baldheaded, argumentative, green-eyed hottie. "I love you."

"I'm out of here," the partner said. "I'll be in touch. Lock the door behind me first. Stay inside, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera."

Jinx started the T-bird's powerful engine and backed out of the driveway, sighing. At least some problems had worked out fine with help from Ginny, the DA's top aide. A single red rose delivered to her office was unobtrusive. She'd know who sent it.

His ex-wife Liu Yin, currently FBI Deputy Director, deserved two-dozen, long-stemmed pink roses or her favorite perfume, or something worthy for her continued expertise and support. She had been an excellent partner on the job, the perfect lover once upon a time, until he screwed up.

It took only once for some men to learn their lesson.

If Mason had his way, Jinx's butt would be sitting in jail among the shackled knotheads if he'd gone home. The cops were camped on his property.

Thanks, Ginny, for the early warning. Liu Yin, you'll always occupy a corner of my heart.

They still had a killer running lose and this one was the worst kind: smart, methodical, thrill killer of the female species, deadliest combination on the planet according to profilers.

Jinx shifted gears. He crept down the street. Parked up ahead he noticed a dark sedan, yellow fog lights gleaming.

Damn reporters. They never gave up. Or was this an undercover cop since Mason thought he was slick?

He drove by, caught the make of the car, late model Ford, and the license plate's first three letters. The occupant inside was veiled in darkness.

Turning the corner, he drove past the next one and decided to swing back by the idler.

Time to put a reporter or sneaking agent in his place or put some fire under his or her butt.

Dutch and Randi needed peace and quiet together. She had a good hold on his nose and that dummy had thought Jinx wanted his woman. No way. He had his mind hogtied by someone altogether different, pinned and still unable to break free of her gentle hold.

By the time he arrived on Dutch's street, the car was gone. Good thing.

At home, Shiloh greeted Jinx with his usual low, rumbling growl. "Hungry?...Me, too. Need a stiff vodka martini first."

Shiloh trotted to the refrigerator, which meant the house was secure.

His pet had warned of an intrusion once.

Jinx found the trespasser locked in the half bath, pants torn across the butt, bite marks on his hands. The man was scared to death, begging to go to jail, sitting on a dining room chair that showed signs of mauling on its legs. The guy was lucky to be alive. Shiloh was hungry at the time. He loved raw meat. And, of course, asparagus—steamed three minutes.

He rolled the brass cart into the cave. His dinner consisted of filet mignon broiled rare, small baked potato, and mixed green salad. Beside the plate sat the bottle of 2006 Silver Oak, a beautiful cabernet he'd uncorked and let breath while he cooked dinner. From the cart's lower tray, he dragged out the bowl containing Shiloh's raw beef and eggs laced with cayenne pepper and gunpowder. The second plate had the dog's favorite vegetable. He set both on the floor.

Shiloh growled ominously, licked his chops, waited in anticipation. An old wives tale hinted the hot condiment made dogs mean, savage, volatile with the gunpowder. Neither spice was essential. Shiloh was bred to kill.

"Dine," Jinx said. He need not say another word to his devoted pet and filled his glass with expensive wine. "System up. Screen on."

The wooden panels parted. The seventy-two inch screen flickered, glowing sky-blue.

Time to get to work.

"Angel, retrieve and transfer Tuni's current data."

The small processor's special beep sounded, cued by Angel, a safety feature in case any snooping hacker thought to access his database. Jinx sipped wine, rolled it over his tongue, and swallowed.

"On screen," he said. The transfer had only taken two or three seconds.

More information would show on a platform this size, easily manipulated into quadrants and sections. Using keywords, he condensed Annette Armstrong's history. Jinx always worked from the very beginning, meticulous, the curious sort.

"Bring up employment, quadrant two. Taxes, section A." He sliced into his steak, took a bite. Shiloh grinned, showed sharp fangs, his style of begging. "You inhaled dinner. Chew it next time. Protect." The dog stationed his massive body at the cave's entrance.

Jinx reviewed the on-screen information.

Armstrong had worked at several menial jobs: janitorial servant, café waitress, fuel-station attendant, and housecleaner while living in the South. Not surprising. Tenth-grade education, no GED, no college, no skills. He skimmed over salaries. Minimum wages earned throughout.

Second husband Wilbur Chesterfield, sixty-eight at the time of his departure, had left his young wife with a small inheritance paid in monthly stipends by Georgia's oldest financial institution. Several memos denied her appeal for lump-sum payment or distribution increases. She'd stopped trying after a dozen requests.

She'd planned that one. She was what, twenty-one, twenty-two?

"Driver's pix quadrant three."

Pretty. Green eyes, chestnut hair, but too young and not smart enough to snag a rich husband. Living in Bum-Fuck, Georgia, few local men were loaded and available.

She'd searched as far as her money could take her, far and wide in her home state.

While he stared at Annette Armstrong's picture, Jinx polished off his meal accompanied by excellent wine.

He swiveled the executive leather chair around, rocked, thinking. What brought Annette Armstrong to Phoenix? Who turned her daughter into a murderess?

"Display autopsy report on Chesterfield, Wilbur." He needed minimal information, expected to see very little in the report, far from thorough.

"Unavailable," Angel reported.

Not surprising.

Jinx called up Armstrong's first husband's status. He found that Bart Steedman had died three decades ago following a tractor accident on his paltry farmlands. The local Georgia newspaper provided every gory detail. The second-page story had mentioned his one and only lovely ex-wife attended the funeral services. After all, she was his first cousin.

But the story's author had omitted mentioning Annette's ten-year-old daughter accompanying her mother. Oversight? Deliberate? Or was Lisa in Georgia? Had Annette given up both daughters at the same time? Had Lisa survived?

The last paragraph listed Steedman's deceased relatives dating as far back as 1867. Slave owners. Lisa's name wasn't among the dead. Jinx considered eliminating the farmer's family history from all federal and state databases.

"Close file." He might need them one day. "Locate Armstrong, initial Phoenix financial."

Angel said, "Federal and state tax. Social security allocated."

Hmm. Jinx counted backward from Randi's birth date. Armstrong was already pregnant by the time she'd moved to Phoenix. Knocked up in Georgia or somewhere en route?

"Display financials, January through October."

Georgia. Fuck a duck. The woman had lived in small communities. The lily-whites would've run her out of town and strung up the black man from the nearest sturdy tree if they'd heard the slightest hint of scandal.

He re-examined the records, saw Armstrong had spent three two-week periods in Atlanta, working an annual antique auto show.

"Who was sneaking in the back door, Annette, the father of your children? Did he work with you or did you work for him? Where is he now?" Jinx snapped the chair forward and Shiloh growled. "Bié chao! Silence!"

The database was far from complete. DNA and genetic information weren't stored for everyone back in those days. Without name or bloodline match, this whole investigation might explode in their faces.

Only one person in Phoenix knew the Armstrong children's father. Jinx reread the documents recorded from Annette's interview. How was he going to get the woman to tell the truth?

Would Myke ever tell him the truth? Would she admit to having a lover?

"All right, chill out, Theodore. Stay focused. Move forward." He settled back in the chair, sipped wine, and commanded Angel to full-screen Armstrong's photograph. "Let's try another angle. Display adoption records."

Randi climbed out of bed.

She found Dutch's—Joel's—T-shirt, slipped it on, gathered her own clothes, and tiptoed to the doorway. Looking over her shoulder, she watched him sleep.

The aquarium light glowed on his handsome face. He might have an insatiable appetite for sex, but she'd worn him out this time. He lay sprawled on his back, completely nude, hair haloed over the pillow while he sawed at petrified logs.

She closed the door softly behind her and went to the kitchen.

The refrigerator had some ugly stuff inside. She dumped the moldy chicken and stale pizza into the trash. The milk was on the verge of turning this afternoon. She poured the last bit of it down the drain.

Hungry, she opened the package of tuna, thinking Joel ate at restaurants or zipped through fast-food lines too much. He owned a house and all the essentials. She owned nothing, but if she did, she'd cook every day. Well, learn to cook again.

Her stomach turned sour as the milk. She might never get to cook or even clean her own place unless somebody proved her innocence.

Annette should have information on her twin sister.

Lisa. How odd. Supposedly, identical twins had some sort of psychic connection. Did they, or was it all sh...malarky. What about mother and children? Annette had found Randi. Had she found Lisa too?

She marched into the living room, snatched Jinx's remote off the table, punched in Annette's number and went back to the kitchen. Darla answered.

"Is she in?"

"Not at the moment."

"Where is she?" The woman was supposed stay home, inside under lock and key.

"At the casino still."

Damn her.

"You got a problem with us hangin' out?"

Cringing, Randi realized she'd said the words aloud. She tsked to herself. The woman had a lot of nerve to talk trash. "Just tell her I'm still at Detective Patterson's house. I don't have my own comm. No, just say I'll call back in an hour. Tell her to stay home until I do."

She disconnected. Damn Annette. Gambling and drinking meant more to her than staying alive. Fortunately, she traveled with partners. They added a swathe of safety.

How much of her measly funds had she doled out to video-poker machines tonight? How much had she given to don't-give-your-daughter-any-money Darla and buddies? Annette said they'd shared everything: winnings, losses, and heartache.

Randi shared some things with Annette too. How much? She hoped to find out and, just maybe, their lives would change for the better. At the very least, forever. Then, maybe they could have the mother/daughter relationship for real.

Of course, this sister thing had the power to screw up their lives. What if Annette doesn't know Lisa? What if there was no Lisa? Jinx didn't sound totally convinced of her existence. Whatever he did know, he'd kept it a secret, wanting to dig deeper.

Finishing the tuna sandwich, she looked over at the wall clock. Nine o'clock. Forty minutes and she'd link with Annette again. The woman had some explaining to do. If Jinx could dig, she could shovel too.

Try to lie this time, Annette. I'll know.

For once, she hoped her mother had been tipping the bottle. Annette ran her mouth when wasted. The problem was Randi rarely listened to her when she was in that sorry condition. Actually, she never had.

Meanwhile, a shower, changing clothes, and a brisk walk ought to settle her nerves. They were frayed now. A sister? Annette and her murdering daughters? What a nightmare. She went into the second bathroom.

Minutes later, Randi peeked into the master suite. Yup, Joel was still dead to the world, still working on the same log. She slipped out of the house.

The street was empty of activity, eerily quiet. Spooky even. She looked up at the sky. Cloudless. Inky darkness. Moonless. Were the demons waiting for another shot at her? She snorted at the absurd thought and stepped off the porch onto the curved, flagstone walkway.

Demons sleeping tonight.

Besides, what could happen in a few lousy minutes?

Chapter 34

Shiloh liked going bye-bye. When the convertible top was down, the dog braced his big paws on the front seat and looked over the windshield, wind blowing in his face, tongue hanging out, slobbering on the cars following behind.

Jinx couldn't believe it. The Westbrookes hadn't legally adopted Randi. Somebody was lying and only one name had flashed in his mind. He planned to get in Annette Armstrong's face and to the bottom of her fantasy world.

The midwife had delivered two babies, reported both were in fine health at the time. Two months later, Armstrong must've given Randi to the Westbrookes. What happened to Lisa? Why hadn't they taken both children? Westbrooke financials hadn't shown anything out of the ordinary, however, Jonathan Westbrooke had joined a prestigious law firm in the 70s, became partner in mid-eighties. His working monies had provided substantial activity.

Jinx left Angel to sift through documents.

But he'd found one curious medical report, two actually. Randi had given blood at a Phoenix laboratory the same day—within an hour—of another matching sample given in Tucson. He and Dutch should've been more thorough in the investigation. They'd only verified the laboratory samples by patient name, not by genetic match or time.

Jinx thought to link with Dutch, decided to leave the couple undisturbed. They were safe inside his house.

Right now, his best shot was the twins' mother. If Annette knew Randi's parents, she probably knew Lisa's too. The Southern-belle had spun a tightly woven web of secrets.

At the apartment complex where Annette lived, he leashed his pet and set the car alarm. Shiloh was good at intimidation. Armed with a shield, ID and Cujo's distant relative, Jinx intended to back Armstrong against a solid-truth wall without the use of potent serums.

He banged on her door and yelled, "Police!"

Seconds later, a woman's voice said, "You don't look like no cop."

He held up shield and ID to the peephole. Dual deadbolts unlocked.

"What's this about" Annette snapped. She looked older than the photo Angel provided, worn out, eyes bloodshot, crow's feet, and sunken cheeks. Behind her, the lamplight glowed dimly in the sparsely furnished apartment. She tightened the belt to her tattered nylon bathrobe. "Is it Darla? She left about fifteen, twenty minutes ago. Did she get into an accident?"

Slurred words, liquor on her breath. Jinx wrinkled his nose and barged his way inside. "Annette Armstrong, we're going to have talk about you, Georgia, Westbrooke, and your daughter Lisa."

She sucked in a tank full of air. "You take that goddamn beast outta here and go straight to hell."

Shiloh growled ominously, showing a gang of fangs.

Seeing fear overshadow Annette's nastiness, Jinx grinned. "Have a seat," he said. "Or the leash comes off. And he hasn't had his dessert."

Randi pushed the door open. How did it get unlocked? Joel. He was up looking for her. She should've left a note.

She felt better. Alert, she reached up to set the deadbolt and stopped, her hand hovering over the steel device.

Who was he talking to?

Frowning, she tiptoed toward the hall, stepped back beside the bedroom's adjoining wall. The cops must've gotten inside, but the street was empty of cruisers.

Reporter? It was some woman's teasing voice. Shaala?

What the shit was she doing in his bedroom? Randi strained to hear the conversation. Their tones were low, sweet sounding.

"Come on, babe. Quickie? Please?"

What? Oh, hell, no.

He was in serious trouble now, just as soon as she found the frying pan. Inviting a damn ho into his bed. Who did he think was? Superman? And what the hell was up with Shaala anyway, trying to move in on her man? She had a man of her own!

Not this time. Not ever again.

I'll whip this...

The next sounds sent crackling ice up her spine, lifting the hair off her shoulders. Dutch grunted and groaned. Penetration.

Bastard. He knew she'd left the house, had faked sleeping to boot.

The comm sitting on the coffee table beeped four tones. Jinx. Should she answer it or wait and let Superman get off his butt to get it his damn self, if he decided he could make time before he got his rocks off?

The hell. Randi flung the bedroom door open. It hit the stopper with category-nine hurricane force. "You bastard, and this—" She froze in place as her heart leapt to her throat.

The lamp was on. The aquarium gurgled quietly. Joel lay naked on the bed. Blood spreading over the sheets soaked into the mattress.

Standing over him was...Randi thought she faced the mirror, but Joel didn't have a mirror hanging on the wall. She blinked. Was she dreaming? The reflection looked exactly like her—hair, face, build. Everything matched, except the clothes. No, she was not dreaming.

She dragged her gaze to Joel then to woman beside him. "What have you done?"

"Well, if it isn't the renowned Millennium Lizzie. Hello, sister. My, your voice is louder than mine." She held the bloody serrated knife poised above Randi's lover, over her man. "One step. Right through the heart."

Rattled, she began to shake badly. Joel's life was draining from his body and she was unable to help him while this nutcase threatened to kill him. Or was he already dead? Had she murdered again?

"Why?" Randi whispered, staring at her lover. He was so very still. From this distance, registering his breathing pattern was impossible. His chest, was it rising, falling? "Why are you doing this, Lisa?" She took a small step, but stopped when her twin raised the knife higher.

"Lisa? I haven't been called that name since I turned seven. I didn't like it way back when and I damn sure don't like it now," she said with a mountain of animosity. "It's Darla. Darla Meadows. Took Annette some time to get used to it, but I wouldn't answer when she called me by a sissy's name. Do I look like a sissy?" She chuckled. "Don't look so shocked."

They'd spoken to each other by comm! This was what Annette had called her forty-year alliance? She'd kept one daughter and gave the other away? How did she decide whom to keep? Rolling dice? Poker?

"Now, I suppose you want to know everything," Darla said, sounding disgusted.

"There's more?" She nearly strangled on the words.

"Lots. Okay, listen up. Quick rundown. You do know we have the same father, right?"

She was a snippy heifer. Of course, she did. Identical twins always shared the same parents. "Do you know his name? Have you met him?"

"Yup. You knew him too. Knew him well, in fact."

"No, I didn't." She moved closer, two steps and stopped. "Annette never told me."

Darla clucked her tongue. "Doesn't matter. He's dead anyway. Wife too. Think back, say, a dozen or so years ago."

Horror filled her heart. "You? You k-killed my mother and m-my—"

"Our father. Westbrooke. Good old Jonny boy." Cocking her head to one side, Darla lowered the knife, balanced it against her shoulder. "Oh, but I don't want to take all the glory for myself. Mama helped."

Her own mother? Annette? The killer's face blurred. On the threshold of fainting, Randi dug her nails into her palms. "Why?"

"Why? Hmm. This might be difficult for you to understand, but they decided it didn't matter anymore if his background came out. Daddy Westbrooke was black, although, light enough to pass. Nobody would've known if Annette hadn't gotten pregnant." Darla laughed loudly, sobered quickly. "She saw the chance to get extra cash without going through the adoption process."

"Extortion?"

"Blackmail has a nicer ring to it. But Jonny's wife wasn't happy about his affair with Annette, not when she couldn't have kids. But she was only willing to take one of us. Since you had the sicker ticker, Annette gave you to her. They had money to care for you when she didn't. She was smart. And she still had me.

"You see, back in those days, the law firm he worked for would never give African-American men partnerships. We did pretty damn well until Jonny got stupid and talked too much trash, jail and shit. Had to put a stop to it. For some reason you got stupider and gave away the half-million dollars of insurance money. What possessed you to do something so dumb? Annette and I had such great plans and you blew it."

Bewildered, Randi took another step. "Plans for what?"

"To get rid of you," Darla replied matter-of-factly. "Not kill you, Annette wouldn't hear of it, but put you somewhere. And I'd take your place. Fabulous scheme, huh?"

She was crazy and she spoke so candidly about murder when Joel lay bleeding. Randi knew she had to keep Darla talking and eased closer.

"And my husband?"

"Jimmy? What an idiot," Darla replied, her voice rising. "We didn't think you'd get nailed for him since you beat the first rap. Messed up on the insurance, too. Oh, and his stray cat. What was the slut's name? Jessica? That was a favor to you. Call it sister love." She laughed an awful demonic sound, her devious green eyes glistening worse than an evil fiend's. She was a monster. "By the time they find her, you might as well say 'guilty as charged.' The thrill was in the kill. Whew," Darla said, dancing sideways.

Oh, God. Lunatic. Whose genes had this trait come from? Annette? Daddy had never shown any sign of psychosis.

"How'd you like the car trick? I damn near laid you out if it hadn't been for Mr. Showboat Mayfield, but the tractor-trailer game was so much better. Lizzie? Lizzie?" Darla sang. "How I kept from laughing I'll never know."

Blue-fire rage sizzled through Randi's consciousness. She realized a battle was in store and clenched her hands into fists.

Darla went on, even lowered the knife to her side. "I hated you." Gone was the oily smile and Satan's laughter, replaced with an ugly, vindictive sneer and deeper voice. "I knew of you, saw you, and I hated you. After all the years we lived like puke, you treat Annette like dirt. Who the hell do you think you are treating my mother like shit?"

Randi had a terrible impulse to show this piece of trash exactly what puke was and swallowed the sour bile rising in her throat. The heifer had murdered the only people who'd loved her without reservation. Now, this murderess had severely injured or killed the man Randi loved with every fiber of her being.

How could two people so much alike be so different? How could they have possibly come from the same egg? United we stand, divided we fall? Oh, yes, one would fall and Randi dipped her chin, narrowed her eyes.

"As for this lame cowboy—"

Fury exploding, Randi charged her twin. "I'll kill you!"

She caught Darla off guard, slammed into her with full force. They smacked the wall. Impact earned a howling grunt from her sister. The knife clattered to the floor.

They were even now, one on one, sister against sister, face to mirrored face.

Darla stabbed all ten fingers into Randi's hair. "Worthless piece of shit. I should've killed you long ago, would have, but Annette would've known I did it." With insanity shining in her eyes, wild beasts were less fearful.

Darla yanked hard and Randi's head snapped backward. She fought back, rammed her fist into Darla's stomach twice. Her twin let go of her locks. But Darla had equal strength. She shoved, and Randi dragged them both down to the floor.

Landing flat on her back, her head hit the wood hard, the jolt jarring her teeth together. Vision blurred, the full weight of her sister pinned her to the floor. Darla's hands went around her neck. She squeezed, squeezed harder, nails piercing the delicate tissue of Randi's throat.

"Bitch," Darla hissed. "You're dead, and Annette will never hear the truth."

Gagging, Randi clawed at the tentacles closing off her windpipe. Panic scraped every bit as viciously at her lungs. No, she would not die at the hands of a maniac. Never.

She wheezed. So did Darla.

Asthma. Both were afflicted. Almost identical.

Determination surfaced again. She pounded her fist against Darla's chest, forced the air from her twin's lungs and her grip loosened. Sucking in oxygen, Randi furiously gathered her strength and flipped her, reversing positions.

Wheezing hard, she said, "You should've done away with me."

The first roundhouse backhand snapped Darla's head to one side. "For killing the mother who cared for me."

The second strike cut through her sister's lip and Darla struggled, flailing, gasping, drops of blood spewing in every direction. "For my father. He was still my father no matter what. I loved them both."

Randi boxed her ears, which harvested a powerful surge of blinding rage.

Oh, but she wasn't finished. Rabid now, she growled a noise unbefitting of human. Two quick, stinging jabs went to each of Darla's eyes, insured temporary blindness.

"For my man," she snapped. "I'll kill you for them all."

She pummeled Darla, taking all of her bitter frustrations out on the woman for murdering her family, for ruining her life, and killing her lover. The pain in her heart splintered with raw anger. Greed had driven Darla to kill.

"Randi."

She heard the voice, couldn't stop the beating, consumed by fury and the demon riding her back. Riding hard. Prison had taught her to fight to the finish. Survive or die trying to stay alive. She clamped her fingers around the fiend's neck. Squeezed.

Beside her, the big knife. Something dominant and ugly urged her to pick it up, to use it.

She stared at the bloody blade, tempted. Do unto others replayed over and over in her mind. They would return her to jail anyway, to face the needle. Why not? What did she have to lose now with Joel dead? Her life was over the instant Darla came inside his house to kill. She reached for the sharp blade.

"Randi." Her name was barely whispered this time.

Hand poised over the knife's handle, she looked over her shoulder. "Joel?"

Clutching his stomach, hanging half on and half off the bed, blood dripping to the floor, he held his hand out to her, beckoning. Joel was alive. Alive!

Somebody plucked her off her twin and held her in a tight bear hug. "You'll kill her. Don't dip to her level, Randi. Let the law handle a murderess."

Panting rapidly, she said, "Let this filthy piece of trash get free and I'll—"

She heard an awful growl then saw a huge monster of an animal poised over Darla.

"Shiloh, heel. Contain."

The dog dropped his hindquarters. He curled his snarling muzzle tighter when Darla groaned, licked his tongue over his chops, and stared menacingly at his supine prey.

Three police officers stormed into the bedroom. They halted in stride when Shiloh grinned, sharp fangs gleaming, surely a devil's dare. One officer reached for his weapon.

"Don't even think about," Jinx said. "My partner's down because of that woman."

Shaking off the wild craze feeding madness to her mental faculties, Randi said, "Joel. Jinx, put me down."

He did, then followed as she rushed over to the bed and knelt beside it. Sirens blared loudly in the distance.

"Call an ambulance. She stabbed him too. Jinx, she murdered them all."

A chorus of voices filled the house, but the noisiness faded from Randi's mind. Only one person required her undivided attention and he lay quietly on the bed, looking into her eyes, his face an ungodly gray hue.

Fingers trembling, she touched his cheek while tears streamed down her own and Joel brushed her tears away. His fingers were cool, clammy, and Randi felt sticky dampness on her skin. Blood.

"Say it," he whispered.

"I love you," Randi replied brokenly.

He smiled, but as his hands slid down the front of her tunic, his eyes closed.

And Randi screamed.

Chapter 35

She sat in the crowded emergency room's waiting area, worried, agitated, nerve restraints wrapped around her wrists, gauze and tape around her neck. Jinx and a uniformed officer guarded her while they waited for discharge papers.

"Are you sure he's okay?" Randi asked.

"Surgery went fine," Jinx replied. "They'll release him tomorrow."

"He lost so much blood and they rejected mine." Their blood types were the same, but her disorder raised the usual red flag.

"Dutch had his own stored. They've got plenty."

She stared down at the floor. Jail again. Prison. And soon, the needle. After ten miserable years, she'd found genuine love, but the short-term happiness had slammed into a brick wall.

"How did you know to come to his house?"

"Did some checking on Annette's past. Went by her apartment to chat."

"Did she tell you everything? About my father?"

"Yeah, Randi, I know all the history."

She recognized the woman approaching. Dressed in a striking navy suit, red blouse, and matching red heels, thick brown hair hung loosely about her shoulders. She had a big honker and pointy chin.

"Detective Murray," she said.

"Counselor."

The woman ignored her, but Randi saw contempt hiding behind her eyes. The Wicked Witch. She'd forgotten to ride in on her Hoover or maybe she'd parked it in her reserved slot.

"I heard your partner is out of surgery," Hamilton said.

"And?" Jinx's eyebrows barely fell short of his hairline. The ferocious look in his eyes resembled a maddened demon's glare.

"I'm issuing an arrest warrants for harboring a fugitive and one for this woman—"

Jinx stood so fast the metal chair clattered noisily to the floor. The lobby went silent, and Hamilton stepped back.

"She," Jinx snapped, pointing to Randi, "saved his life, damn you."

"Did she now?"

"You bitch," he shot back in a low, menacing tone.

"Officer," Hamilton urged.

The guardian officer kept his attention on the pretty blond passing by.

Hamilton's face paled, but she gathered cocky strength from somewhere. Straightening her shoulders and lifting her chin, she continued. "Detective, we're not certain who stabbed your partner when his blood is on both suspects clothes."

Randi looked down at the tunic top. Joel's bloody fingerprints smeared the front.

"It wasn't Randi," Jinx roared. At least thirty pairs of eyes focused on him.

"Can you prove it?"

Jinx's gaze traveled up and down the hallway, but came back to rest narrowly on the DA. She was right of course. Only Randi and Darla knew the truth.

Darla had claimed innocence, cried, whimpered, and begged for police protection. In fact, she'd claimed she was the real Randi Westbrooke and her evil twin was an impostor. The police had stationed two guards outside Darla's hospital room while she lay shackled to the bed undergoing treatment for her injuries.

Jinx had said she'd screamed something about lawsuit and owning this town. Greed was a bitch, and Darla wore the title well.

Seconds later, a candy striper sauntered toward them.

This was it, Randi knew. She'd sign her name and the police would cart her away.

"We have a patient who would like to talk to you," the girl said. "Both of you." She looked up at Jinx.

Randi's heart swelled, thumped hard against her ribs. She would see Joel one last time. She couldn't bear to face him with iron bars between them.

Hamilton stepped closer. "I need to speak to the patient. Officer, have the other one brought in."

The other one? Randi groaned.

"He's still groggy," the candy striper said. "Kept talking about a dizzy snottie, I believe, with green eyes. You don't look bald."

Was that a cut? Randi wondered. She hadn't swayed on her feet or in the chair, and she wasn't sneezing. Of course, Darla had tried to snatch her bald.

"He said if she was here, she'd be with a black man called White Boy. Are you part white, I mean, Caucasian?"

Jinx chuckled like a hyena. "As white as I'll ever get. Coppertone suntan lotion. Try it sometime."

"For God's sake," Hamilton snapped. "Would you just take us to his room?"

Randi refused to look over her shoulder, knowing Darla shadowed her steps. She heard the killer's spitting hiss.

Too many people crammed into the small hospital room. Seeing her man like this scared a quaking up her spine. She'd nearly lost him forever, will anyway. She might've won the battle, but Darla deceived enough to defeat her in the war.

Stepping closer to the bed, Randi dragged in a shaky breath and held it. Joel's eyes were closed. He lay so still, looking paler than death.

"Detective Patterson."

His eyes opened slowly and he squinted.

"It's District Attorney Hamilton. I need a statement." She went to the opposite side of the bed, waving the officers to position Darla beside her.

Her shoulders drooping, her pride taking a nosedive, Randi squeezed her eyes shut. Hamilton had already decided Darla was a victim.

"Hey, babe. Still love me?"

Opening her eyes, Randi looked straight into Joel's eyes. She smiled, embarrassed. He winked.

"Que pasa, amigo?"

Jinx nodded. They bumped knuckles.

"Just a minute, Patterson. How do you know for certain who this woman is? They're identical."

"Wrong. Sugar and spice. I love this woman standing beside me."

Randi wished she could hug him.

"There's no way to tell who's who. And this one is bruised," Hamilton shot back.

She spoke as if they were animals. Okay, so maybe they'd had a catfight. No, they'd engaged in an all-out brawl fit for the World Boxing Championship. She would've won the big, shiny belt in the ring. Randi knew she'd defend her title, and win, if anybody threatened her man's life again.

Joel glanced at Darla. She had the damned nerve to smile, crookedly since her fat lip was split and stitched. Heifer was lucky she still had teeth and eyeballs. Randi glared at her so-called sister. She received the same penetrating green gaze.

"Even with the swelling—" Joel reached up and touched the scar above her eye. "See this? I've kissed it and the painful-looking ones on her back. I know every inch of this woman, from the top of her head down to her sexy feet. This is Randi Westbrooke, my dizzy, baldheaded, argumentative hottie. She saved my life."

Heat seared her cheeks. It shamed her, however, to realize how close she'd come to committing the same crime her twin had. Could she have murdered her own flesh and blood, any person? At this stage of her life, Randi hoped she'd never find out.

"How so?" Hamilton asked.

Joel wrapped his fingers around the back of Randi's thigh, stroked her leg, moved higher to her buns and she stepped away. Wrists restrained, she was unable to slap his hand. Would've slapped his face, seeing the sheet rise indecently. Surgery did nothing to tame the horny devil's stamina.

"She," he said, nodding toward Darla. "Knocked at the door, said she'd left her keys. Maybe I'd just awaken, but I wasn't delirious. Maybe a little unsteady after the day's workout."

Randi intentionally bumped the mattress with her knee.

"My woman doesn't have keys to our house yet."

"Not good enough, Detective."

Joel sighed long and hard. "I upped the wattage on the bedside lamp. I don't wear Arizona University T-shirts, Hamilton, and don't plan on buying one. ASU grad. Randi wears my alma mater."

All eyes focused on Darla's shirt. All swiveled to Randi's clothing. She still wore Ting Lan's silk outfit, bloodied as it was.

"I knew right away," Joel continued, "this broad was an impostor. But I wondered where Randi was and if Lisa—"

"Darla," Jinx cut in.

"Whatever. If she'd harmed Randi somehow." He narrowed his eyes. "I'd be in a cell block tomorrow. Anyway, naked as a jaybird with my weapon on the dresser all but screwed the situation. I suspected Darla had arrived armed, but I tried to coax her to the bed so I could overpower her. When the front door opened, I figured Randi had come home. Evidently, so did this bat. When Randi didn't come into the room right away, I had to distract Darla. She seemed willing when I offered the bag a quickie."

"You lying sack of—" Darla exploded.

"Shut up," Randi snapped. The nerve of her after all she'd said and done. "He never lies."

From day one, he'd told her nothing but the truth. She should've trusted him.

Joel gave Darla the once-over, loaded with pure disgust. "Randi would've argued first, never would've given in on the first plea. She always makes me beg." He chuckled when she pinned him with a glare. "The only thing these two have in common is swiftness. This bag is as fast on the draw as Randi's roundhouse stingers. She skewered me before I blinked good."

Hamilton's lips flatlined again. Staring at Darla, she said, "Get this sorry thing discharged."

Chaos erupted. Darla flipped out, screaming, kicking, and fighting the cops.

"Put a mouth guard on and shackle her ankles," Hamilton ordered.

Three cops struggled to contain Darla while she bit, spit, and cursed. Greed and violence had turned her into a hideous monster. Hard to believe they were blood relatives.

"Stun her, then take her downtown and book her. Seven counts murder one, two counts attempted murder, assault with deadly weapons, criminal mischief and any damn thing else you can think of until I get there. I got a long list to burn her with. I want her ass fried. Officer, take the restraints off Miss Westbrooke. She's a free woman. I'll take care of the paperwork."

Randi knew that was as much of an apology as she'd ever get for ten years of her life sucked down the proverbial drain like dirty dishwater.

Apologies made little difference since Joel latched onto the tunic she wore, dragged her down to face him, and kissed her, scattering her wits as always.

Somebody released the restraints from her wrists. She caressed her lover's cheek then embraced him in a fierce hug. She was free to show her feelings, free at last.

Liberated, in love, and not once in her life had she tripped out or lost her mental faculties or her mind. She had heard Darla's voice, had probably seen her sitting in the driver's seat during her arrest, and had felt her presence. They say twins have a connection. Mothers and children too.

When she heard the swoosh of the door opening, Randi broke away from the intimacy, but went back in for one more nip. Looking over her shoulder, she said, "Wait."

Hamilton turned back around. "For what?"

"Where is Annette?"

Epilogue

"Are you sure?" Joel asked.

"Of course," Randi replied. "I've got one last shot."

They were quiet for a long time. She left the breakfast table, ordered another mug of hot chocolate and Joel's favorite coffee, and then sat again.

"If anything happens to you, the fatal blow to my heart and brain...The risk is too great, babe, I couldn't take it."

"Things have changed, improved. Hazards are much lower now."

Scooting her chair forward, she wrapped her manicured fingers around the mug, warming her hands. The cold snap hit the metro area hard. Nighttime temperatures had dropped to forty degrees.

Joel reached across the small table and covered her hands. He drew them up to his lips while staring into her eyes. One by one, he kissed each knuckle. Worry lines etched his forehead, but his hazel eyes twinkled as usual.

"And Min Li agrees?"

"She says it'll clear the demons from my life. I told her you'd beat the 'sheet' out of all of them. She said if you didn't, every year your Christmas present will be a scorpion. Live."

They laughed. He was her protective warrior, best friend, the perfect partner. They were happily in love.

"Ting Lan said she'd sing hymns to protect us." She'd recovered from her injuries. Her had voice returned to normal, perfect as a songbird's lilt once again.

"Sure beats going to Hollywood and dragging up a bunch of old pain," Joel said.

"Agreed. I don't want Annette or Darla to gain anything from movies or books, even if they'll never get to use it." The DA had accepted their guilty pleas and took the death penalty off the table. Both were sentenced to life without the possibility of parole. Both were under psychiatric treatment. "I'd hate seeing our lives turned upside down." Not when she'd finally gotten hers on an upswing.

Randi linked her fingers with his, squeezed. "Blair thinks a movie would help get her foot in the door." She'd sided with his daughter on discovering her future. "She has a boyfriend she's crazy about, who's also a dancer."

When Joel scowled, she smoothed her fingertips over the furrows. They disappeared.

"She's very talented, honey," Randi said. "But she's mad because I'll miss opening night of her first starring role."

Blair had started school in New York this past fall. Her grades had improved, so had her dancing. Father and daughter talked often. She'd traveled to Phoenix every other month. Joel and Randi went to New York in between.

"We'll both miss opening night. Jinx is hiring three more people to keep my travels to a minimum. I'm not leaving you here alone, day in and day out."

She loved him more as time passed. Real love, for once and for always.

"It's only temporary. The station said they'd hold my job until I'm ready to go back."

Shaala Tambo had given the station managers an ultimatum. She'd threatened to take CNN's offer if Randi was let go. They'd become closer, like real sisters. So close, Randi learned Shaala and Chandler had bought the house she'd once lived in. It couldn't have sold to a nicer couple. Neither Randi nor Chandler ever mentioned the incidental kiss...kisses.

Joel, Jinx, and Chandler had spent the football season in front of the big screen or at the Arizona State games. Chandler's Christmas gift to the guys was Super Bowl tickets on the fifty-yard line. Jinx had called in another marker and the Learjet flew them to New Orleans. Joel had paid for three nights for a five-star hotel's presidential suite. Shaala and Randi had spent those days at their favorite spa in Napa Valley.

"I prefer that you to stay home," he said.

"You don't run my damn—"

He quirked an eyebrow. "That'll cost you twenty bucks, babe."

Randi ground her teeth together, finally stuck out her tongue, frustrated.

"And stop the yelling," Joel said. "It'll upset the baby."

She tried to hide her smile. "We're not completely sure if we're pregnant yet."

He had a magnificent grin on his face, still able to melt her insides. Pumping his eyebrows, he said, "I guess we'd better make sure you are and get started."

Joel pushed out of the chair and scooped her into his arms. Horny devil. But, the comm beeped.

"Fuck. Never fails."

"That," Randi said, "will cost you one-hundred dollars."

They'd come to an agreement of sorts.

All cuss cash went into the savings account for future expenses. At the rate of their deposits, and if she was pregnant, the baby already had a nice nest egg for education. The agreement went two steps further. Joel promised not to drink straight out of milk and juice cartons and never cut his hair above his shoulders again. Randi loved the feel of his long mane, loved threading her fingers through the silky strands while in the heat of passion. She vowed to work at keeping her volume to a low roar. To even the oaths, she agreed to forego her roundhouse stingers.

"On speaker," Joel said.

"Jinx here."

He and Jinx had stopped smoking. The new house smelled cleaner even without all the greenery Randi had wanted to nurture and grow. Joel refused to live in a forest. She allowed him to keep the obligatory, shellacked palm tree in his office provided she could replace the dull furniture.

"Que pasa, amigo? You catch up to Myke Collins?"

Many seconds passed without a reply.

"Um, not yet," Jinx finally said. "No rush. We've got other pressing cases."

Randi listened closely.

"What? We're supposed to transport Glover to her facility." Still cradling Randi, he moved toward the counter. "Jinx, everybody else is set up for the move."

They'd resigned from the police force. Jinx and Joel opened the doors to MP Industries, a security and surveillance enterprise. That was all Randi knew.

Joel said they'd engaged in their first pissing match and marked territory three days before they filed business papers.

"I know, I know," Jinx said.

"What's the holdup?"

"Nothing!"

Randi looked up at Joel and mouthed an "ooh."

Jinx had been uptight for months and he'd lost his humor. Joel said three things set man's teeth on edge, four for Jinx. He had plenty of cash from somewhere. The T-bird ran better than her new car. Surely, Shiloh had allowed the new neighbors to continue living, which left a woman to get under his skin.

"Whatever," Joel said, sounding impatient. "I'm busy with my hottie. I'll talk to you later."

"Your busy days are over. I just read the report. We're pregnant. Doctor Waters will call you in the morning."

Randi burst out laughing. The man had ties to everything and everybody.

Her lover swung her around in circles. When Joel stopped the merry-go-round, he asked, "Now will you make an honest man out of me?"

She bit her bottom lip, unable to hide her smile. She would love him through the end of time.

Happy, satisfied, and fiercely in love, Randi kissed the only lover who had believed in her from the start. Life was good and she had it all. The rotten years had fertilized the grounds to new beginnings with the promise of a family to love and cherish.

"She didn't say 'no' this time, Jinx. Got any plans for June?"

"Son of bitch. I'm going to be a godfather and best man all in the damn same year."

That will cost him, Randi thought, chuckling.

As for the wedding, maybe in a couple years when the future Patterson and Westbrookes were all able to walk down the aisle holding hands. That is, after she had time to bring two special people together—Jinx and a woman named Myke.

Definitely Plan A and B.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Web Of Secrets

[Excerpt]

Copyright @2011. Chayse Manning. All Rights Reserved.

Missing teenagers...a fanatic...a web of secrets. Can Phoenix detectives pinpoint a common thread targeting easy prey?

Lieutenant Karrene Stevens knows the pain of losing a loved one, and she can't help feeling compassion for Detective Dane Kingman, the bad-boy who punches all of her hot buttons. His goddaughter is one of five missing teens. As the investigation zeroes in on potential suspects, the detectives must navigate through a web of secrets. And the constant contact blended with devastating setbacks drive Karrene and Dane into a rocky affair. But can they rise above their differences, pinpoint a common thread to solve the case targeting easy prey, and find the teens—dead or alive?

Chapter 1

One young beauty fit the portrait of perfection. And possession.

For the last fifteen minutes, he'd listened to the filth that should never leave the mouths of respectable adults, let alone young ladies. Fifteen, sixteen, possibly seventeen years of age—the perfect age.

He set the teacup gently on the saucer, then unfolded the Arizona Republic and slipped on his magnifying eyeglasses. He'd seen the trio here many times during their usual morning chick meet, and he focused on pure innocence. Her back was to him, but he'd recognize Jasmine Russell anywhere. She'd haunted his dreams.

A pity her once-loyal parents suddenly became narrow-minded. Such are the devil's disciples.

She'd dyed her hair platinum blonde, had it trimmed short and sassy. The scattering of wild tufts in contrasting chestnut suited her. Unlike her gauche friends, she dressed conservatively: denim jeans, feminine top zipping up her back...such an easy tool to open, to expose a young woman's soft skin.

He inhaled deeply, imagining the sweet fragrance of a jasmine's blossom.

"When he kisses, he slobbers like a St. Bernard," Jasmine said. The musical lilt to her voice was as soothing as a symphony cellist's strummed harp. "Has eyes like one too."

He suppressed a smile at the sound of her companions' boisterous laughter and sipped the black tea again. Such uncouth girls. He glanced down at the expensive watch wrapped around his wrist. Classes should begin soon.

Pretty Jasmine crumpled paper napkins together. "Like I said, I'm skipping fourth period. Toomey's sawing a pig in half. I hate biology, would've dropped his class if he weren't so cool. We'd better get going," she said, scraping her chair noisily backward across the brick pavers that surrounded the small building.

Chattering, the teens gathered backpacks, purses, schoolbooks. They pitched trash into a nearby bin while maneuvering around black wrought-iron furniture, heading for the sidewalk. Philburn High School was located seven blocks away. So many young beauties studied there.

"Meet back here to do lunch? Uncle Joe's special today is barbeque beef," he heard as they walked off.

He lifted both eyebrows, watching the sway of Jasmine's slender hips. She would never do lunch again, not with those unworthy friends.

Seeing the café's heavyset waitress coming his way, he folded the newspaper neatly into thirds, smoothed the folds, set it beside his silverware.

"More tea, Professor?" she asked.

Colleagues, students, even acquaintances addressed him by the same appropriate title. Foreigners identified him as "Doctor." Amid his followers, he answered to "Father."

"Yes, Wanda, please."

"I'll bring your breakfast out with it." She shuffled back inside the café.

Stroking his full beard, he looked toward the heavens. The sky was cloudless. Temperatures rose higher than usual for springtime in Mesa, Arizona. Fragrant lilacs, vibrant hibiscus, and groundcover lantanas blossomed in a graceful array of dazzling color under the sun's brilliance.

The waitress set a plate next to the cereal bowl.

While she poured hot water over a fresh teabag, he asked, "Could I get a bit of strawberry preserves?"

Something as sweet as Jasmine. Virgins were all sweet, enchanting. Pure. She would be his, the last virgin needed to complete his tender harem.

"Sure thing," Wanda replied.

He stirred the oatmeal, lifted a portion to his mouth, and savored its sweetened flavor. As the cereal settled, the recurring twinge produced pain unlike ever before. He grimaced.

Blasted disease.

Complications from the illness had ravaged the shell housing his soul, often interfering with concentration, his reasoning, according to his doctor. He withdrew the prescription bottle from his jacket pocket, fumbled it. He swallowed four tiny white pills and gripped the table's edge with one hand. The powerful ache came more often now, unrelenting as the Devil's hold.

"Here ya go, Professor."

Steadying himself, controlling the tremors from his weakened state, he removed the eyeglasses and used the only paper napkin, dried perspiration from his face. "Thank you."

"Gonna be a hot one today," Wanda said. "Early for this time of year, isn't it?"

He was in no mood for conversation, in no condition for idle chitchat.

"Got empty tables inside. I—"

"No." He kept his gaze trained on the food as the waitress moved away. She let him suffer in private through the final remnants of bone-aching pain.

Bowing his head he recited a religious passage, which always provided comfort. The pain quieted for now.

He scooped preserves over dry toast, smoothed the fruit crust-to-crust in a thick layer of homemade sweetness.

As peaceful submission drew nearer, his goals had fallen short of completion. He'd left greed to others. His magic number would soon be met. Six, not the seventy-two virgins foolish men longed for in the afterlife. Six would easily fulfill his dreams. Six would satisfy his sixty-three-year-old body—a virgin each day with one day for worship.

He'd practiced the core of Islam's five pillars to a degree. But he ate the swine Islamic brethren refused. As for Ramadan, the male body needed a female's gentle touch more often than not. His religious fascinations covered many different beliefs, different practices. No one faith was fully worthy of his devotion. Judaism, Hinduism...Tibetan Buddhists in a small township had honored him with a single name: Chamba. Yet, he'd cheerfully joined several Christian churches throughout the United States. Over time, he'd reined in an endearing flock of loyal followers.

His life had been predefined. Only a chosen intellectual understood the rules, guided the lost, and tutored the weak. Only the chosen shall walk in His divine footsteps to reap the rewarding benefits. And, Chamba knew, only he reigned as the chosen one.

[End Excerpt]

~~~~~~~~~~~

Also by Delta Dupree & Chayse Manning

Coming Soon: A Chayse Manning suspense

Tortured Heat

Blind Heat

Sister Love

Holiday Heat (novella)

Web of Secrets

Sweet & Vicious

Cuffed Heat (novella, Men In Blue)

Purely Sexual

Strip

About the Author

Delta Dupree aka Chayse Manning writes as hot as the desert heat where she lives. She and her husband, another romantic at heart, are avid travelers. Touring exotic locations throughout four continents, reading has always been the author's pleasure during downtime, but when at home, writing steamy love stories and romantic suspense is her passion. Inspired by the people and places she has visited, Chayse/Delta enjoys inventing characters and stories where lust, love, destiny and a bit of fear combined with a taste of attitude leave a reader's heart asking for more. Swing by the author's website at www.deltadupree.com for the latest news.

Copyright

Sweet & Vicious is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2011 Delta Dupree & Chayse Manning

All rights reserved in accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, or electronic sharing of any part of this book without the author's written permission constitutes unlawful piracy and theft of the author's intellectual property.
