 
Daddy's Little Killer ****

### LS Sygnet

Copyright 2012 LS Sygnet, Smashwords Edition. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without permission except in the case of brief quotations.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are fictional or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or paper print, without written permission from LS Sygnet.

### Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

### Chapter 1

My feet pounded on the packed earth, its contrast stark to the dense foliage crowding around it. The sprays of wildflowers strangling their way through the underbrush would've been pretty under other circumstances. Today, they were blurs of yellow, pink and lavender while I rushed by.

Rivers of sweat soaked my shirt in a wide V that yoked front and back. Half-moons bled into full under my arms. My eyes stung with the beads of salty condensation dripping from my brow. My heart punctuated the thuds between footfalls with a mantra: _look upset; look upset._

Breath sucked into my lungs like the baleen of a whale. Through my glazed vision I could see it ahead, the area along the path cordoned off by too familiar yellow tape. The crime scene had been plotted. The body found. Law enforcement collected clues that would be analyzed, dissected, assembled to bring into focus the portrait of a killer.

Running was necessary. A certain response would be expected in a matter of seconds. Lessons learned swirled in my brain. Could I pull it off?

I knew what it was supposed to look like, the horror, the shock, the grief. How could I contain the urge to smirk? Would I successfully quell the drive for a fist pump and a loud screech of victory?

David Levine saw me rushing headlong for the crime scene border. I wasn't close enough to hear his voice, but I'm a very good lip-reader. Sometimes you have to be in my line of work.

Who the hell told her to come out here? Jesus!

Obviously, David is Jewish. Yet he has no qualms about using certain religiously oriented epithets. Anything in the Common Era is fair game. He didn't want me here for obvious reasons. I had to show up for only one.

Rick Hamilton used to be my husband. Now, he was dead.

Oh, he was also under the microscope of a certain organized crime investigation being conducted by the FBI. Hence our divorce. Appearances are important, and I had to maintain mine. So here I am.

David's arm restrained me. "Helen, no. You shouldn't be here. You shouldn't see him like this."

Sweat served two purposes. It's virtually impossible to tell the difference between it and tears, particularly when the mineralized moisture stings the eyes and burns them red and raw. I shoved his hand away from me. "I have to see."

Under the yellow tape, I saw something familiar. Rick's face lay side-down in the dirt. The earth around his head was brown-black, soaked with the blood that sprayed from the insult and oozed out with the aid of gravity.

I stopped, hesitated for a beat too long (maybe it looked like shock, at least I hope it did), and tried to crumble to his side where I planned to commit the first unforgivable sin of crime scene processing. Touching the body.

David grabbed me. "No, Helen. You can't touch him."

Dozens of chary eyes pinned me. I clung to David in a measure of self-protection. Surely they didn't suspect...

"It's obvious what happened here, Helen," David's low voice shrouded me in an impenetrable armor, shielded me from the skepticism of my peers. "They were afraid he would tell us what he knew, so they had him assassinated."

Yes. That's exactly what it looked like. It was precisely what it was designed to look like.

Assassins are supposed to be sociopathic monsters. They stay off the radar easier that way. Forget the grid. They're ghosts. That's what we're taught to believe. Police. Television. Books. Assassins are boogeymen, not quite urban legends, but certainly not your next-door neighbors, your friends, your coworkers. They don't have regular lives. They don't have wives, and they certainly don't have children.

They have whores who know better than to get pregnant, or at the very least, take care of the problem quickly and efficiently. Such cold-blooded killers feel no empathy. Emotion is as foreign as the speech of your run of the mill alien from another galaxy. Large men lurk in the darkness. They only shave off the five o'clock shadow every three days. Burly men in black clothes, they drive nondescript sedans with stolen license plates.

If they have homes, there are no white picket fences, no perfectly manicured lawns and definitely not a sturdy porch swing, its perfectly stained oak slats swinging from shiny chains fastened above by hooks skewered into the ceiling. They don't water the begonias potted on the same porch. They don't stumble out in a bathrobe to rescue the morning paper seconds before the sprinkler system kicks on to quench that thirsty idyllic lawn.

No, the world believes that an assassin drifts from seedy motel to cusp of condemned tenement. He lives between cryptic phone calls on throwaway cell phones, or busted up phone booths on deserted corners (before the advent of cellular technology). His contracts are not sought. They sort of roll in unbidden, because his reputation is whispered in all the right circles. And while it is a technicality that he works for someone, the assassin has no boss. The hit must be a one-time deal. Otherwise, the risk to his anonymity is too great. It makes him grow roots, become corporeal, less than legend or ghost. He is real.

Right?

Of course that's right. Pop culture says so. The mafia hires assassins to take care of their problems. Who better would another group of sociopaths find than the mother of all psychos?

Wendell Eriksson was the exception to the rule as prescribed by Hollywood and company. He slaughtered men, and sometimes women at the behest of anyone if the price was right.

And he would rock me on that porch swing every balmy summer night, telling me about life and death and everything that happens to a person in between. Wendell taught me things without even underscoring a single word of his lessons. I learned that the very best way to become a ghost is to hide in plain sight. If you want to stay ten steps ahead of the law, join their ranks.

Most important, if you want to be the last person to ever land on a suspect list, you must be very careful. It's not about having a life that is little more than a façade. To be successful, you have to live life like that American dream is real. Embrace it. Wallow in it. Find sane and normal and hold on for dear life.

Oh, and always make sure that twenty people will give you an alibi, no matter what the job calls for or where it takes you.

These were the lessons that allowed my father to be the most prolific hired killer in the history of the world. As far as the authorities could tell at the time of his arrest, Wendell racked up a total of two victims. My adult memory tallied the number a bit higher. And those were merely the people he killed. What shocked the hell out of me was Wendell's little side venture.

He was an adoption specialist.

Apparently, death was too kind for some of Dad's victims.

He read an article in the newspaper to me one night on the swing. "Hell of a thing, Sprout. If I were these poor bastards, I'd wish I were dead rather than live the rest of my life wondering what happened to you."

He tousled my honey blonde hair.

I was nine or ten years old at the time, but the family whose baby was stolen from their home in the dead of night never left my memory completely. I supposed in hindsight that it was part of the reason I wasn't so terribly surprised when additional charges were tacked onto my father's grand jury indictment. Of course they had suspicion and no proof. Dad escaped the noose on that one.

Did I say he surprised me? No, the real mind fuck for me came in another form.

I stood over the gaping hole in the ground and watched my mother's coffin as it was lowered into the earth. Her minister uttered some illogical nonsense about ashes and dust and a resurrection that would one day restore her broken body before she was joined with the righteous for some blissful eternity.

He glossed over the fact that Marie was Wendell's partner in crime. Reverend Denial neglected to mention that Dad had a third side business, one in which Mom was probably the mastermind. It was that part time gig that landed my father in Attica for the rest of his life.

The lessons he taught me...

Those were not easily shed. _Give people what they expect. You must always blend in, Sprout. Never draw attention to yourself. If you do, let it be for being brilliant and upstanding, always above reproach. Make it impossible for the world to ever believe you could do something that would shock them_.

Yes, Dad was a master at that. To say that Wendell Eriksson, being unveiled as Jersey Third Eye, the most notorious low-risk armored truck thief in the five boroughs and beyond, shocked the neighbors was an understatement.

Even in the bad times, Dad was a raging success. The evidence against Mom was ignored. Not just discarded, it was deemed hateful lies told by the wickedest man alive. How dare he slander Marie Eriksson's good name?

Well-meaning advice poured in, a flood of salt into the already deep wound where my heart had been evacuated. Don't lift a finger to help him, Helen. He's trash. Wendell Eriksson not only deceived his friends and neighbors, but he pulled the wool over his brothers in blue's eyes for twenty plus years.

My dad, the formerly decorated Detective Wendell Eriksson, would stand trial and the city would weep when his death sentence would be commuted to life without the possibility of parole. They were further outraged when his incarceration included isolation from the general population. Can't have the murderer getting a filed down toothbrush stabbed into a kidney. No, that wouldn't be justice.

Ah Wendell's lessons.

On the outside, I was the perfect daughter. Outrage made my voice tremble at the merest hint that I even had a father. My mother became the saint in my speech that the rest of the world created. Yes, of course Wendell dragged her unwillingly into his life of crime.

They had the luxury of ignorance. I did not.

Dad said Morse code was a lost art. He employed it at his arraignment hearing. He tapped out the name to what I later learned was an offshore bank. Conveying the account number to me was a little trickier, but he managed that too.

A brilliant guy, my father, despite his flaws. The look in his eyes when they met mine before he was led out of the courtroom after being denied bail told me everything I needed to know. _Don't get involved, Sprout. Live your life. Stay in the shadows. Make me proud._

Lessons learned. Dad got his wish. I was nineteen at the time of the incident when life as I knew it ended. I turned 38 last week, and I haven't seen my father since that arraignment hearing. I didn't go to his trial. I didn't beg for leniency at his sentencing hearing. There were no baked goods wrapped with loving care and addressed to a certain inmate at Attica after New York State put a halt on executions. I had so successfully distanced myself from Wendell Eriksson by then that nobody seemed to remember that he had a daughter. Not even the media vultures.

My father did everything right. In the end, it didn't matter. My sainted mother tried to kill him, to presumably make off with their lifetime of ill-gotten gains. He stepped up and carried the consequences, so I wouldn't suffer. He let the world canonize a woman who wanted him dead, but ended up taking her life instead of his.

That's my dad. A stand up cop. A doting father. A ruthless killer. A man who made mistakes so I would learn from them. Thanks to his sacrifice, I won't make the worst mistake he made. I will never take money in exchange for services rendered. Thanks to Dad, I don't need a paycheck.

Had I done everything right, or was Rick's death conjuring questions about my past, about the long dead relationship I had with a father who no doubt still loves me very much?

Even though a week had passed, the memory hadn't faded. If it were possible, the damned nightmare had become more vividly etched with each passing hour.

Those were not the thoughts that should've been running through my mind right now, as I stood over another gaping wound in the ground, listened to a godless invocation this time (Rick and I never were keen on religion). Questions that were muted two years ago when Rick was arrested for money laundering were etched into every face around me now. My abrupt divorce was compelling evidence of my ignorance of Rick's business practices.

And I was ignorant. It violated Dad's cardinal rule. Compartmentalization was absolutely necessary. Never could one sully the life of perfection with something so easily traceable. While a husband didn't necessarily have to be boring, it was a plus in my case. Banking. It doesn't get much duller than that.

My mind won't stop thinking. Why are they looking at me this way? This case is a no-brainer. Rick laundered money for Sullivan "Sully" Marcos. He got caught. Two years into interrogations and negotiations, Sully got worried that Rick was going to cut a deal and had him killed. Open and shut.

Right?

I don't pray, but the eyes skewering me gave me great temptation to utter one simple plea to the great unseen being in the cosmos. _Please let them believe the obvious._

Thunder rumbled overhead. Ominous. A symphony of umbrellas whumped against the air in preparation for the coming rain. Its earthy smell hung heavily around me.

David perched his umbrella over my head. I hadn't brought one, an outward sign of my grief, but not really. It, like everything else was a calculated reaction to Rick's brutal murder. I was too overwhelmed to remember the little things.

The officiant concluded the ceremony without ashes and dust or even a single _may God have mercy on his soul_. I watched the casket slowly sink. This is the part I don't want to see. It brings back too many memories of Marie and what she selfishly did to my father.

I stepped away from David's shield. Another stepped forward. And another. And more until I was surrounded by stern faces with the words— _confess your crime_ —etched into the withers of their foreheads.

"Agent Eriksson, we need to talk." Mark Seleeby. Head witch hunter in the crusade to use any means at his disposal to prosecute Sully Marcos.

"Not today, Mark."

"Yes. Today. Right now."

Our eyes met. Mark isn't a particularly large man, and I'm too tall. "Not without an attorney."

"Agent Eriksson, you aren't under arrest, so you aren't entitled to one. I can have you brought before the office of professional—"

I turned abruptly, tuned Seleeby out. "No attorney? Not in this lifetime."

David stood behind me, chin tucked to chest. Guilt radiated from under his umbrella. He knew what was coming. Had he seen this too? I pulled the badge and the side arm out of my purse and thrust them under his nose.

"Consider this my resignation."

### Chapter 2

If good news travels fast, scandals dwarf the speed of light. By the time I got home from Rick's funeral, Seleeby had arrived with a warrant to search my brownstone. To say that it made me amenable to a ridiculous offer that rolled into my voicemail before the silk cushions on my sofa were mutilated was an understatement.

Of course Wendell taught me well. There was nothing to find in the brownstone.

I started wading through messages while agents debated whether they should crack through the plaster and lath walls looking for evidence.

The first call was Rick's attorney. Yahoo. I'm an heiress and the recipient of his life insurance policy—double indemnity since he was murdered. When we were married, he carried a two million dollar policy. Nice nest egg. Great for proving my motive. I didn't need it.

Sixteen calls from area newspapers asked for interviews, statements, reactions to the FBI turning on one of their own. I changed the outgoing message to include that my response to media inquiries could be summed up in two words. No comment.

David.

Four more reporters.

David again. "Please consider what your resignation looks like, Helen."

Police Commissioner George Hardy from Darkwater Bay.

My brain did a double take. _Darkwater Bay? This cannot be a coincidence. Why would they want to talk to me?_

The crystal swan figurine Dad gave me for my twelfth birthday crashed to the floor, and shattered. He tried to remind me that I was his swan, no matter how much I was teased for being too tall, too thin, too plain.

The snap decision was made for me. Darkwater Bay was blissfully far away from Washington D.C. I hadn't been there in nearly a decade and a half, the summer after Dad's conviction to be exact. What was that young man's name? The undergraduate who befriended me while I was working as a teaching assistant during my postgraduate studies... Roger? Rodney something... at the time, I thought he had a bit of a crush and was flattered by it more than anything else. After two weeks in Darkwater Bay, I was ready to return to the balmy spray of the North Atlantic and leave the icy shards of the North Pacific forever.

And I hadn't seen much of the young man during my stay in Darkwater Bay. He was busy currying favor with the locals on his quest to join the police academy after his graduation that spring. Rodney Martin.

I grabbed my cell phone poised to dial directory information. The shadow of one of the agents ransacking my home gave me pause. Did I want them knowing who I spoke to after I became a person of interest in whatever case they were pursuing now? Dad's words echoed in my head. _Admit nothing. Deny everything. Demand proof._

Defiance burned through my veins. I grabbed my purse, stalked over to Seleeby and thrust it under his patrician nose. "Search it. I don't want to be accused of hiding anything."

His eyebrows stitched together and slid down in a narrow V. "Did anyone say we thought you were hiding something, _Mrs. Hamilton_?"

I didn't bother correcting him. He wanted to provoke an angry reaction from me. "I want it entered into the record that I offered my bag and you refused to search it."

Seleeby and I had never been what I would term friendly toward one another, even before Rick's arrest. With an irritated huff, he grabbed the leather straps and dug through the contents of my purse quickly. "There. I searched your purse. Happy now, Helen?"

"Delighted. Good bye, Mark. Please be sure that your team locks up before they leave."

"Where are you going?"

I spun on my heel at the front door. "Am I under arrest?"

"No."

"Then it's none of your business where I'm going." I flung the door open and pointed at the dark SUV with tinted windows. "It's not like you won't have your gang watching every step I take anyway, Mark. Don't play dumb. Or perhaps this is your true intellect surfacing."

He feigned shock, and as if on cue at his appearance at the door, the SUV quickly pulled away from the curb and disappeared.

"Did you get the license plate number?"

I snorted. "Like you need it. Really, Mark, do you think I'm this gullible?"

His eyes fixed out the front door, darting from one end of the street to the other. "I don't think you should leave. Have you forgotten who your husband's business partners were? Whoever was in that SUV wasn't from the bureau."

"They just happen to perform surveillance outfitted exactly like you do? I don't buy it. You're trying to frighten me into cooperation. It won't work."

"If I were you, I'd be more terrified of Sully Marcos and his crew than I would be the FBI, Helen."

"You've forgotten who my father was," bitter words bubbled from my mouth, words I would no doubt come to regret. If they hadn't been so reckless in their search and broken a piece of my heart that still mattered to me, I probably would've kept my emotions in check. Instead, Seleeby had provoked a reaction I was determined not to give.

I pushed my way past him. The reminder of why I needed to leave was imprinted in my mind like a cattle brand. Getting away from the FBI, from all things related to Rick Hamilton, his master, Sully Marcos, it had to be my first priority.

Necessity made that call from George Hardy in Darkwater Bay intriguing. Before I would accept an offer blindly, I needed to do a little research, namely to uncover how anyone that far away could know I was available for work in the first place. Since the bureau was intent on keeping me under its thumb, I'd have to find a way to contact Hardy without them finding out.

Our brownstone, with its beautiful turret and every brick painstakingly restored, mortar perfectly sculpted, looked lonely and desolate. I wondered if I would ever step foot through the old girl's front door again, ever sit on the steps on a balmy summer evening with a glass of sweet tea and watch the world lazily pass. Would I smell the sweet fragrance of our lilac bushes in the garden behind the wrought iron fence next spring? Would my sensible shoes ever clop against the uneven brickwork that served as a dated reminder of what this district of our nation's capital once was?

I swayed and clutched the handrail for a moment. Dad always warned of the dangers of getting too attached to anything. "Be ready to leave it all in a moment, Sprout." Yet it was advice he hadn't followed. If he had... if my father had the common sense God gave a rubber duck, he would've walked away before that accident could've happened.

"Why didn't you walk away, Daddy?" I whispered. "I would've found you. I would've always come for you."

Now it was impossible.

Our rainstorm at the apex of Rick's funeral had blown over, but the droplets of moisture clung to the trees overhead and splashed to the sidewalk with each gust of wind. I loved the sound of leaves whispering against each other. I loved everything about my life here. I loved my father too, but hated him at the same time. I despised his wisdom and his caution and the words that still twisted my view of the world into something unimaginably dark.

Would life have been different if I had simply rejected all of it, lived like a normal person? Would I have found true love instead of the farce I invented?

Everyone has secrets, Helen. The mistake normal people make is trusting another with those secrets. Never make that mistake, my dear daughter. You'll be stronger and better for it.

In the clinical sense of my training, I would've diagnosed my father with paranoid delusions. The part of my mind that was still his little girl clung to his words like they were a heritage far more valuable than the piles of cash he had deposited in offshore bank accounts. I could've funneled that money into his defense fund and seen him walk out of court a free man.

The look flashed beneath my eyelids again, the last one I saw on his handsome face. It was worth a thousand words, a million fortunes squired away into secret caches. My father was shoving me out of the nest, his little chickadee ready to spread her wings and fly. My heart ached to hop on the first flight available that could deliver me to the stone walls and iron bars that confined him.

I stepped off the curb. Dad would be disappointed if I came running at the first brush with catastrophe. Not that this was technically the first; it was merely the first time I felt everything crumbling to dust around me. Time for plan B. Or C. Or whichever one looked like it made the most sense.

The first step involved covering my tracks. The last thing I needed was the shadow of my former compatriots lurking behind me. They knew exactly who they were looking for—Helen Eriksson, too tall, too thin, dressed perpetually head-to-toe in black, hair nondescript in its tight bun at the nape of her neck, no makeup, dark horn-rimmed glasses hiding her eyes. They probably started pinging the GPS in my car the moment that Rick's body was discovered. As for my telephones, I had no doubt that they knew every call I made or received for the past two years.

I flung my Blackberry out the window of the car when I started across the Key Bridge. Probably my imagination, but I was certain I heard it splash into the Potomac. The Fashion Centre in Pentagon City would be a one-stop shopping spree. Between Nordstrom's and Macy's, I could replace clothing and purchase luggage. A local salon in the shopping complex could give me a new cut and style. Harris-Teeter would supply a box of hair color. BestBuy would offer a wide variety of pre-paid cell phones that could not so easily be traced to me, particularly if I paid cash.

I patted my purse. Agent Seleeby had a few buttons he wasn't aware were so easily accessed. I pushed every single one of them to first annoy and then refocus his curiosity on my awareness that we were being watched. I shouldn't have doubted Seleeby's ignorance. David would've sent another team along without telling anyone if it meant keeping track of me.

The GPS in the car was a problem. I arrived in Pentagon City and parked at the metro station in a tow-away zone. Problem solved.

Seleeby missed the wallet entirely when he rifled through my purse in a quick once over. Had he looked inside, he would've found an ungodly number of $100 bills and identification that did not belong to the Helen Eriksson they were investigating. Dad's plan B and beyond thing was truly ingrained in my DNA. I wasn't foolish enough to keep any of it in a bank, where a simple warrant would've opened a safety deposit box. No, I kept my cards close to the vest, and the means to move on in a simple lock box inside Rick's safe in the den.

I've been carrying around plan B since I thundered through the underbrush to play the role of grieving ex-wife. Hope is a crock of shit. My head and my heart knew it would come to this.

The complex in Pentagon City is designed for tourists and residents alike. The metro station is located across the street from The Fashion Centre—a mall that refuses to be named such—and within walking distance is a Ritz-Carlton Hotel. The alternate identification would come in handy, as would my change in appearance prior to check-in. As far as David and his spies were concerned, I simply drove to the metro, hopped on and disappeared for parts unknown.

Meanwhile, I could spend a night or two in a comfortable hotel, buy some necessities, take a taxi to Reagan Airport and vanish on my terms.

I dashed into the mall first and purchased a pair of jeans, sandals and a blouse from Banana Republic. The mourning garb got tossed into the trash on my way out of the store. It was a short jog around the block to Harris-Teeter. My hair is naturally chestnut with golden blonde highlights. Black was the obvious choice for a drastic change in my appearance, but I couldn't quite let go of my little bit of Dad that easily. His hair, while probably quite gray now, used to be nearly the same color. Stripping that similarity away seemed a step too far from who I really am. I grabbed a box of medium golden blonde and a cheap beach towel off the rack and asked where the restroom was.

The girl who took my money was an average teenager working her summer job, vaguely disinterested in anything that wasn't Facebook or Twitter or a text message on her cell phone. She glanced up at me briefly, more holes punched in her face than natural orifices, and jerked her head at the sign to her left. I waited patiently for her to count out the change the register told her was due me and shoved it into the pocket of my jeans.

I emerged from the bathroom 40 minutes later with damp hair pulled into a ponytail and exited the store. She kept her nose buried in the smart phone's touch screen.

Next stop, back around the block and across the street to Best Buy. If I spent as much time on the phone as I expected I'd need to, there would be more than 100 minutes necessary for the pre-paid contract. I opted for an Android model telephone since I could use it for Internet access as well, paid my fee and sought out stop number three.

The kiosk inside The Fashion Centre showed a few options for the new hairdo. I went for the cheapest, less concerned about the quality of the cut and style than I was the likelihood of someone remembering me. Cheap place equated higher volume of customers, which translated into greater odds of remaining unnoticed.

My stylist unfortunately, was an older woman who moved at the speed of molasses during the dead of D.C. winter. She played with my hair for five full minutes after I told her I wasn't picky, just needed a shorter cut.

"Your hair is lovely. I can't imagine why you'd want to cut it. Or why you colored it."

"I've been coloring for twenty years," I lied.

"Hmm."

Apparently she knew healthy hair versus color damaged better than I would've liked.

"You've got a bit of natural curl. Did you ever see that movie back in the '90s, the one where Meg Ryan falls in love with an angel?"

"Uh..."

"You'd look great with that cut. It's a bit short though, and I'd hate to see you leave here in tears from lopping off too much in one sitting, hon."

"Just cut it. I don't care what style you choose. If you say it'll look good, I'll take it."

She rambled on about things that might well have been a foreign language as far as I was concerned, things like long circle cuts and texturizing with something she called notching. Greek. No, scratch that. Greek would've made more sense to me.

In the end, I was satisfied that I looked nothing like Helen Eriksson. Instead, I resembled one of my childhood nicknames—scarecrow. My too long, too thin neck made me a little too giraffe like, but the last thing I planned to do was bawl about it. Instead, I thanked her, left a modest tip and dashed off to get a room at the Ritz-Carlton. I splurged.

The executive suite was opulent with an expansive view of the capital from the windows. I kicked off the sandals and dug my toes into the sea foam green carpeting. The mini bar beckoned. I could smell the woody currant in the merlot without removing the cork. Unfortunately, I didn't have time for wine. Not while the stores were still open. Not while the FBI expected me to return to the brownstone.

I purchased Louis Vuitton luggage and had it delivered to my room before hitting Nordstrom and Macy's. I indulged at Nine West to replace the shoes I threw away. Everything was going from the sales clerk directly to the hotel. One last stop, and I would be ready to start making phone calls.

At the Apple store, I replaced the computer that the FBI had no doubt confiscated hours ago. It wouldn't tell them anything they didn't already know. Computers can be great tools, but they are anathema to great criminals. Where legitimate work was concerned, a computer provided documentation, verification, and validation. I would need that if the FBI's witch hunt continued. I walked out of the store with a MacBook Pro and an incredibly lighter wallet.

Perhaps it was my preoccupation with the money spent today that dropped my guard enough to be captured. I was certain by the expensive cut of the suits, the Italian branding and the complete lack of identification that the men holding my upper arms in an iron grip weren't part of the government agency with which I formerly associated.

"Come along without a fuss, _Helen_ ," one of them growled with a smile masking the rage in his voice. "You wouldn't want to see a bunch of innocent bystanders harmed. Or would you?"

My disguise hadn't fooled them. Maybe I was more preoccupied today than I realized.

"Sweetheart?"

The man with no neck turned his head abruptly to the left.

"Where are you... who are these men?"

I stared blankly into the face of a complete stranger. Somewhere above, my lucky stars were working overtime. I'm not of small stature by any stretch of the imagination, about five eleven barefoot. My captors were taller than me. This guy dwarfed all of us, and his frame left no doubt that layers of hard muscle cushioned the large bones. He reached out and plucked me from the clutches of men who I suspected were associated with Rick's former employer Sully Marcos.

"Jennifer?"

I swallowed hard and took the gift he offered. I stepped close, pressed against his side and let him be my armor. "I don't know who they are. They called me Helen."

"Do you have some sort of business with my wife?"

One of Sully's henchmen stared pointedly at my left hand.

My white knight followed his eyes. "Fine. She's not my wife until Saturday. Darling, did they hurt you? Should I call the police?"

"Our mistake," thick neck said. "Sorry for the misunderstanding."

"See to it that you don't make it again," the angry stranger growled. He steered me across the hotel lobby and into an open elevator. Not a millimeter of space separated us until the doors slid closed. He stepped forward and punched the button for my floor.

Hell. Out of the frying pan and into the fire?

"What floor do you need?"

If I was quaking on the inside, at least it wasn't showing outwardly. Yet. I licked my lips. "You already guessed correctly."

"I assume I read that situation correctly. Who were those men? Are you in some kind of trouble, Helen?"

"My name is Diana," I said. As far as the Ritz-Carlton was concerned, my name was Ms. Diana Farber. "I don't know who those men were or what they wanted. It scared the hell out of me."

His eyes were blue as a Tahitian lagoon. I felt layers of lies stripping away beneath that stare. I fidgeted and stared at the floor. "Thank you for rescuing me." He thought I was helpless, not stunned that Marcos had men watching me. Better let him believe the lie or attribute all of this to what he helped Marcos' men believe—that it was merely a case of mistaken identity.

"I'm concerned that they didn't believe our ruse," he said. "What if they come back? Are you traveling alone?"

"I'm not leaving my room again," I shuddered for good measure. "Not until my taxi picks me up to take me to the airport. I'm flying home day after tomorrow."

"Where might that be?"

"I'm sorry. I didn't catch your name."

His eyes twinkled. "I never gave it." Huge paw thrust forward. "Bad form, considering our wedding is on Saturday, wasn't it? I'm Todd."

He didn't look like a Todd. I shook his hand and thanked him again as the elevator chimed.

Todd made a sweeping gesture with one arm. "After you, Diana. Although if you run into the misinformed suits again, I'd suggest you answer to Jennifer."

"I'll try not to run into them again." My mind was screaming that they knew I was here. The place could be crawling with Sully's men any minute. Perhaps the charade offered by a total stranger was the true gift. "Are you here vacationing?"

"Business," he said. "Four day convention."

"Ah." The conversation was taking a turn for the painfully dull. Since when were businessmen so chivalrous after all? "Well, thanks again."

"Do you have plans for dinner?" Dimples deepened in his tan cheeks.

I shook my head. "In light of what happened, I think room service is on the agenda for tonight." And a hundred phone calls I needed to make to finalize my plans. Going home to the house on Long Island was out if Sully was watching me. Plus, it would probably be on David's radar after I gave his team the slip this afternoon.

"Maybe they'll buy the story that you're my fiancée if we don't let this encounter dampen our trip," Todd suggested. "Cozy dinner for two in the hotel's restaurant, maybe a romantic stroll through the neighborhood later..."

"They could be back with guns next time." The urge to kick myself overwhelmed me. I wanted to quell the cringe, but it was too late. Todd's hand reached for me, cupped my cheek and tilted my face upward.

"Guns?"

"I'm probably letting my imagination run wild. For all I know, they could've been private investigators bringing Helen home to an outraged husband."

Suspicion etched the tiny lines around his eyes. "Are you married?"

"Me? No. Then again, I'm not Helen—whoever she is." Unease chilled my blood. This guy could be part of Sully's work force. "Thanks for the offer of dinner, Mr.—"

"Hunter."

How apropos. "Mr. Hunter. I appreciate the help. I think rather than sticking around for more cases of mistaken identity, I'll see what I can do to get my flight home bumped up to an earlier departure."

He shrugged. "If you change your mind, I'm in the last room at the end of the hall." He pointed to the suite polar opposite mine. "I'll be in town until Wednesday, so..."

"Thanks." Translation: no way in hell.

### Chapter 3

I hate hard liquor. My father always said that hard liquor was for hard women. A hard woman could never appreciate the subtle nuances of weaving an effective tale that could save her life. Personally, I see his point, but think the stuff tastes like kerosene anyway. I never believed anyone drank it for the delightful flavor. Its numbing effects however, are another story.

My hands shook hard enough to cripple easy opening of the tiny bottle of scotch from the mini-bar. On the third attempt, the metal band broke and the cap yielded. I poured the amber liquid into the crystal glass at the bar and downed the pungent liquid. Gagged. Twisted off another cap. Repeat.

After three, the shaking had subsided enough to dial the tiny buttons on the cell phone I purchased earlier today. I remembered the number George Hardy left on my voicemail at home. Three hours earlier on the west coast, Hardy might still be in his office at four in the afternoon.

"Commissioner Hardy's office, may I help you?"

"Yes, I'm returning a call to the commissioner," I said. "He telephoned me early this morning with a job offer."

"May I have your name please?"

"I'm with behavioral analysis at the FBI." Maybe David hadn't processed my graveside resignation yet.

"One moment please."

There was a scarce pause, then, "Dr. Eriksson?"

"Is this Commissioner George Hardy?"

"Yes, yes."

"This is Dr. Eriksson, Mr. Hardy."

"I wasn't sure you'd call me back today. I understand you had a funeral this morning. My condolences, doctor."

"Thank you. I was surprised by your call. You said you had business to discuss with me, yet you called my personal number at home. Most requests for bureau assistance come through official channels."

"Well, that's true enough. We're not interested in asking the FBI to come help us, Dr. Eriksson. We want you."

"I see. May I ask what gave you the impression that I'm authorized to take on private contracts for work in addition to my duties assigned by my employer?"

"You come highly recommended, and one of our police captains says he knows you. Rodney Martin?"

"I remember Rodney." Remembered being abandoned by him while he pursued his obviously successful ladder climb in law enforcement. "Still, that doesn't explain why you would contact me directly, Mr. Hardy."

"Rodney heard about your husband's death last week, ma'am. He thought... well, we all wondered if you might be up for a change of scenery after such a tragic event."

"I see."

"I realize the timing of my phone call was inopportune. Pardon the intrusion if you will."

"It's quite all right, Mr. Hardy. I'm afraid at this time, I'm not interested in taking on additional work."

"And the FBI isn't going to insist that you take some time off?"

"Rick was my ex-husband."

"Oh. Well, I suppose that does put a different face on the matter. Don't suppose I could interest you in a short term arrangement in any case, could I?"

"Like a consultant arrangement?"

I heard creaking over the phone connection.

"At this point, Dr. Eriksson, we'd be willing to offer you whatever it takes to get your help. I'm not sure how much you know about Darkwater Bay."

"I visited once, which I'm sure Rodney already told you. Other than those two weeks, I know very little about Darkwater Bay." _Except that target number two lives there_.

"Do you find that odd, considering of course, that you work for the FBI?"

"No, Mr. Hardy. There are hundreds of local jurisdictions that rely on the bureau's field offices for assistance rather than making requests to Quantico."

"The situation in Darkwater proper is dire, doctor. May I be frank?"

"Please." I wobbled with my glass of scotch toward the sofa and hunkered down.

"For a number of years, our crime rate in the city proper has grown exponentially. For a while, we believed it was shoddy work out of the county medical examiner's office."

"I see."

"No, you really don't. We got ourselves a new chief medical examiner, a gal from your neck of the woods."

I dropped the crystal on the table at the end of the sofa and sat up straight. "You got someone from Quantico?"

"No, but East Coast. She's a go-getter all right. I know it's a big place out there, but maybe you heard of her over the years. Maya Winslow?"

"Baltimore, worked for the state medical examiner's office," I said. "We met several years ago on a case I helped close. I've seen her a few times over the years at conferences held at Quantico. I wasn't aware she had relocated."

"Well, she's been out here for six months, and nobody can fault the quality of the work she does."

"I don't imagine they could." Maya was a meticulous forensic expert in the field of pathology. "Yet you're calling me, which leads me to believe that the turn around in your success rate is unsatisfactory."

"Well that's the truth. It seems that Central Division has a bit of tunnel vision when it comes to solving crimes."

"And you want me to come profile crimes to help broaden their perspective."

"In short, yes, but that's only part of it, doctor. See, I don't entirely disagree with the detectives. The guy they look at for every single crime is a slippery bastard, and from what I've heard, he's got connections to some folks who are nothing but bad news out on your side of the world."

He had my full attention. I could feel my liver pumping liquor out of my blood and clearing my foggy mind. "Oh?" _Don't sound too interested, Helen._ "Who is that, Mr. Hardy?"

"The guy's name is Danny Datello."

I almost dropped the telephone. "I see."

"And he's Sullivan Marcos' nephew. Now to hear him tell it, Danny's distanced himself as far as humanly possible in the lower 48 from his east coast kin, and runs only legitimate businesses."

"But nobody believes him."

"I wouldn't say nobody, but those of us in law enforcement think his legitimate businesses are a front for something illegal."

"Mr. Hardy," I began.

"Call me George."

"George, there's something you should know. As of this morning, I have resigned my post with the FBI. It's my intention to retire."

"Oh." Deflated. "Then I've wasted your time with all of this."

"Which isn't to say that I'm not intrigued by the notion of a contract only position elsewhere."

"Really? I mean... I doubt we could afford to pay you a whole lot of money, doctor."

"Money isn't an issue." I felt his breath catch in my ear. "My parents were wealthy and left me a generous trust fund when they passed. My ex-husband's attorney has also informed me that I am apparently the beneficiary of his life insurance. I can afford to retire young. Any work for Darkwater Bay would not be necessary to my income."

"Well then... will you consider my offer?"

I sucked in a deep breath. If the goons that accosted me were Marcos' men, I could be walking into certain death if I suddenly showed up in Darkwater Bay. On the other hand, my last conversation with Rick burned like the breath of a Fury in my mind. Dad didn't believe in coincidences. Wasn't this a little too coincidental? I ached to turn to the one person I trusted for advice.

That wasn't possible.

"I could come to Darkwater Bay and discuss it with you further," I suggested. Vengeance wanted to leap into a commitment. Dad lived in my brain and urged caution.

"How soon could you arrive?"

"A day or two. I'll call you when I get the details ironed out, George."

The soonest flight I could get to Darkwater Bay departed Wednesday morning. I booked a first class seat and started packing the mounds of clothing, shoes, undergarments and makeup I had delivered to my room throughout the afternoon. I left two outfits hanging in the closet for tomorrow and Wednesday. Even though I had no intention of being seen out and about in D.C., I didn't plan to lie around doing nothing.

The knock on my door startled my heart into fibrillation. "Who is it?"

"Todd Hunter."

"Great," I muttered under my breath. Regret over the surrendered sidearm filled me. I wondered if the neighborhood Costco sold mace. "This isn't a good time, Mr. Hunter."

"Could you just open the door so we're not shouting through it?"

I cracked the door but left the security bar in place. "What is it?"

He grinned sheepishly. "I called hotel security. I got to thinking about what happened after you went to your room, and the whole thing made me really uncomfortable, Diana."

I cursed softly and started to close the door.

"Let me explain," he said quickly. "The conference I'm attending, it's for guys who run private security companies. That's what I do. Anyway, that's why I got the vibe that those guys were hauling you off against your will. One of the guys at the conference over the weekend runs security for the Ritz-Carlton properties, so I gave him a call. I didn't want you feeling like you're being held hostage in your room."

"I see." My mind screamed, _remain calm. He may not say Sully Marcos._

Hunter continued. "I couldn't let what happened go without telling someone. I hope you don't mind, but I contacted hotel security. They reviewed their security footage, and are keeping an eye out if these guys return. Even if they don't, if you want to file a report with the police, I'm sure they could ID the guys from the tape."

I rested my head against the doorframe. It wouldn't stop Marcos, but for all I knew, I could be walking into his carefully laid trap. In any case, I doubted Marcos would be so foolish as to send someone else to the hotel for me after security's alert that a guest had been nearly taken from the premises against her will.

"Does that help at all?"

I glanced up into one concerned eye peering at me through the crack in the door. "Yes. Thank you again, Mr. Hunter."

"Todd," his grin widened. "Now maybe you'll have dinner with me?"

"I'm not feeling up to—"

"We can order room service. You can call security and ask them if I really called if it makes you feel safer."

"Just a minute." I closed the door and debated whether or not to consider his offer. The only thing that had buoyed my spirits today was the illicit thrill of being someone else, if only for a little while. What would Diana Farber, single vacationer and power shopper do in this situation? Would she let a strange man who saved her life into her room? Would she call security to verify his story? She should, if she had any common sense at all.

Diana Farber wasn't a black belt in jujitsu. Helen Eriksson was. Diana Farber should be scared out of her wits. History told me that women tended to trust the knight in shining armor unconditionally. Was that the kind of woman Diana was?

I flung the door open. "I'm sorry, Todd. You've got to understand that what happened made me more than a little wary of strangers."

"And I'm a stranger." His fingers raked through his short, golden hair. "I debated whether I should come over here at all. Believe me, I get it."

"I'm not being a very gracious damsel in distress, am I?"

"Understandable."

"Please come in."

Todd stepped into the suite and immediately stared at the pile of luggage in the living area. "You got an earlier flight out of town?"

I moved to the bar and wrestled open two single serving size bottles of merlot. "Not a chance. I still can't leave until Wednesday, but I was hopeful that I could get out of here in the morning. No offense to you of course."

"None taken." Todd took the wine glass I offered and sipped. "So. Dinner in?"

"I think there's a room service menu on the desk." When was the last time I'd eaten anyway? I couldn't remember. Then again, given the events of the past week, it was no wonder my diet had veered in a decidedly liquid direction.

"Can I ask what you do for a living?"

"I'm a psychologist," I said. Dad's advice— _don't stray too far from what you know_ —seemed appropriate. I was too preoccupied to successfully adopt a new profession on the fly.

"That explains your instincts." The smile turned his dimples into craters. Todd had stripped away the suit in lieu of jeans and a form fitting t-shirt. The muscles that bulged left no doubt in my mind that my would-be kidnappers were no match for him. Unless my gun theory was correct, and if they were on Sully's payroll, it would've been right on the money.

"I suppose it would if that were the kind of psychology I deal with."

"What kind?"

"Kids." Lie. Mostly a lie.

"Ah, hell. That must be rough."

"Vacations are sacrosanct. At least they used to be." I took the menu he offered and scanned the page. "Hmm. Nothing grabs me."

"Maybe you can advise me. Is the seafood in this area as good as the rest of the eastern seaboard?"

Something niggled in the back of my brain. "I never said I was from the east coast, Todd."

"Your accent says you are. Not most of the time, but this afternoon when you were upset, you sounded very... New York?"

For a security guard, he was pretty damned observant. I nodded. "That's correct. Not home for a very long time now, which is why I suppose I don't always sound like a native New Yorker. What about you?"

"West Coast. Small place south of Seattle, north of San Francisco."

"Remarkably vague. If you're in the mood for seafood, I'd suggest the scallops."

"I was thinking something lighter. Appetizers maybe. We had a late lunch this afternoon."

"Calamari then?"

"Sounds great."

I grabbed the phone and dialed the number for room service. Calamari, marinated olives and garlic bread, a Caesar salad, crème brûlée—and a human sized bottle of merlot instead of the mini-bar variety. "Thirty minutes," I said.

"Are you really all right after what happened earlier?"

I sank into one of the chairs and drew my knees to my chest. "To be honest, it was very unsettling. I suppose I'm more concerned about the woman they were looking for, hoping they didn't find her."

"Makes you wonder what she did, doesn't it?"

"Maybe she didn't do anything. If they were private investigators, my theory earlier was probably correct. She's running away from a bad husband. That he would hire men to basically abduct her like that is a chilling thought."

I felt his eyes fix on me, deep and probing. "I can't imagine that made you feel very safe either. They take the safety of guests seriously at the Ritz. I don't think you'll have to worry about anyone bothering you during the rest of your visit. I'd hate to think that you're curbing whatever you had planned for the rest of your time here because of what happened."

His concern was touching, and genuine as far as I could tell. I smiled. "Power shopping was finished. All's well that ends well."

"Is this your first trip to D.C.?"

"No, I've been here a couple of times in the past. In fact, I had a summer internship at the Smithsonian between my junior and senior years in high school. This is my first trip back recently. I spent a day roaming through the museum, walking the mall, visiting the monuments. It's very relaxing, being surrounded by all of that history and architecture. Have you had time for any sightseeing?"

"Not this trip," he smiled. "They've kept us pretty busy at the conference."

"May I ask where it's being held?"

"It's uh... it's at Quantico actually."

Was that hesitation?

"Isn't that pretty far from here?"

Todd nodded. "I wanted some place close to the airport."

"You flew through Reagan?" I had to remind myself that I don't live here, at least as far as Todd is concerned. Most people visiting the capital fly in through Dulles International Airport, not Reagan. Locals know this. Visitors do not.

"Yeah, my assistant is the flight booking Scrooge. She found a cheaper flight to Reagan, not that I need to worry about a few bucks, but that's my girl Friday for you. She'd have a fit if she knew I upgraded the closet she booked for me downstairs to a suite. What can I say? I need the space."

It drew a nervous laugh. "I noticed. You're very tall. NBA tall."

"I have no skills with a basketball," Todd grinned. "You're not exactly petite, Diana. You must be six feet tall."

"Close. Not quite."

"It must've been why those guys thought you were Helen. I don't imagine there are a lot of women your height running around the greater Washington area."

Curse the man, but he was right. I could do just about anything to disguise my physical appearance, but my wretched height couldn't be changed.

"I can't imagine it," he continued despite the fact that I was only half listening to what he said. "Two women in one city as beautiful as you are."

"Hmm." My head went to the odds of getting that standby flight to Darkwater Bay that would leave tomorrow night. I wondered if extra money might buy my way onto it. If I showed up at the airport and offered to pay someone to take a later flight... paid his or her expenses for an extra night in D.C.

He snapped his fingers. "Hello? Where did you go?"

I glanced at him. "Hmm?"

"You've said that three times now. You're not still worried about those guys are you? I promise, they're not gonna get near you again."

"They realized they made a mistake." Bullshit. They recognized me and I was terrified that Marcos would send somebody else. Maybe even Hunter could be talked into a job before he left town. I started wishing I had called security to verify his story after all.

"I asked if you've ever been married."

"Oh. Sorry I'm a little distracted. No, I've always been single." I wiggled my left hand. "No tan line."

He grinned again. "Me too."

"Do you have an aversion to marriage?"

"All but the sex part of it, but what I hear from my married friends, the sex isn't so great after a while."

Dawning washed over me. "Are you hitting on me, Mr. Hunter?"

"Will you toss me out if I say yes?"

I would yes. In a heartbeat. Would Diana? She smiled on my behalf. Apparently neither one of us was blind. Todd was unlike most men in my world, a polar opposite of Rick truth be told. Not that I had married an ogre of a physical specimen. Rick was bookish, more like what people would expect to see as the spouse of a psychologist. Upstanding banker man. Unconcerned with physical fitness beyond not getting too fat or too thin. He wasn't going bald before he died, or even getting a little gray around the edges.

"I'm not going to sleep with you out of gratitude, Todd."

"Perhaps you'll decide you like me in spite of how we met."

Blessedly, the knock at the door prevented the conversation from deteriorating further.

### Chapter 4

We nibbled. Flirted. Drank two bottles of wine. Somehow I drifted from the safety of my chair to the end of the sofa. Eventually, both of us gravitated toward the center. Todd liked to talk, and the more wine he drank, the more he did it. I learned that his best friend was a man named Crevan, that his mentor was Tony from, and I quote, "another life" which no amount of wine could pry out of him, and Todd spoke of his parents with great reverence.

At last, a topic I understood and shared his pain of separation. My reasons were different of course. Todd's parents died almost two decades ago.

"Cancer," he said softly. "My mom died from pancreatic cancer. They tell me it's one of the worst kinds a person could get. I don't know much about it other than that it took my mom faster than any of us were prepared for." He sipped his wine. "Dad took it harder than I would've imagined. I know I joked about marriage before, but if my parents were the standard, I guess that's why I've never taken the plunge."

"I don't understand."

"It's hard to find someone I could feel that connected to, you know? I mean, when Mom died, I have no doubt that the biggest part of Dad died the same day. He was never the same afterward. I don't think he knew how to live without her."

My experience with Marie and Wendell was quite different. To my knowledge, Dad was alive and well in upstate New York. Losing the woman who tried to murder him hadn't killed him. Two years on Riker's Island and seventeen years in state prison hadn't done it either. Not even the state of New York had been able to kill Wendell Eriksson.

"So what happened to your dad?" I let my fingers dance along the back of his hand. Warm skin, sinew beneath leapt a little at the light touch.

"He went up into the mountains and died."

"Suicide?" Such a dire question deserved soft and reverent utterance.

"Not actively. He wasn't found for a long time."

"I'm so sorry, Todd."

"Yeah," he said. "I was really close to my father. More than Mom, I think. Don't get me wrong. I loved her dearly and worshipped the ground she walked on. But there's something about fathers and sons."

"Fathers and daughters too," I spoke softly. Missing Wendell had been on my mind almost every second of every day for the past two years. I felt him inside me, a living, breathing entity that spoke his words of wisdom to guide me through life's deepest pain. By the average person's standard, my father was the embodiment of pure evil. To me, he was the father who loved me, who brushed away my tears and kissed scraped knees. He imparted the wisdom of a lifetime, even if his moral code was twisted when compared to the norm of society.

His fingers threaded through mine. "You were close to him?"

I nodded. "Sometimes I miss him so much I feel like I would do anything to be with him again."

"You mean..."

"No, I'm not suicidal." And it would literally be suicide to show up at Attica for a face-to-face with my father. "I only wish that things had been different."

"What about your mother?"

I shrugged. "We weren't close. Not like I was with Dad. My mother was very religious." A contradiction that bordered on obscene if I thought about it too much. Off robbing armored cars by night, typing up the church newsletter by day.

"And your dad?"

"He loved science." Insert forensic natural. My dad could cover his tracks from the best of the best. "And he put his foot down with my mom when it came to exposing me to all of her superstitious stuff."

"You don't believe in God?"

"I find religion and spirituality a practical irrelevancy in my day to day life."

Todd lifted my fingers to his lips and kissed them. "How long have they been gone?"

"They died about... nineteen years ago, I guess." I reached for my wine glass, but Todd pried it out of my fingers before I could sip. "Are you cutting me off?"

"I think we should get some air."

"Todd..."

"You'll be perfectly safe with me, I promise."

"Where do you want to go?"

"Some place quiet. Historic."

I laughed softly. "All the monuments and museums are closed."

"You can't walk the mall at night?"

"I wouldn't advise it."

Todd bent over and retrieved my sandals from the floor. He dangled the straps from his fingertips. "Then we'll sit on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial and count the stars over the Reflecting Pool and you can tell me what I'd see if we were inside the Smithsonian."

"I could tell you that from the relative safety of this sofa."

One of his eyebrows arched high. "Relative?"

His eyebrows had a natural arch upward on the outer borders. Lifted, the expression would've been comical had his eyes not been so serious.

"Diana, you don't think I'd do something to hurt you, do you?"

My face felt warm, probably from too much wine, not to mention the scotch I drank before the wine. "I never said I thought it would be painful."

His blue eyes brightened. "Oh." My sandals hit the floor with a soft thud. Todd's arms wound around me and pulled me closer. His mouth descended. And a cell phone chirped loudly.

"Son of a..." the embrace aborted. He tore the phone from the back pocket of his jeans. "What?" Snarled. Irritated, he looked a little more Norse deity than human. The blond hair, the golden skin, the dark smattering of stubble on his jaw, bulging muscles that seemed independently sentient. Yeah, he could be Thor reincarnated.

"Right now?" His voice dipped lower than I'd heard all evening. Goose bumps rose on my arms. Immediately, I imagined that tone in my ear, naked bodies, sweat slicked and sliding together on a—

"Fine. But this is a damned inconvenient time to—"

Uh-oh. The best-laid plans wouldn't be getting any tonight.

I felt his eyes on me, looked up and met the frustration brimming. I chewed the corner of my lower lip. Lucky stars indeed. Dad's advice thrummed into my frontal lobe. _Beware of strangers. Keep your distance. Never tell a story that can come back to bite you, Sprout_. My out came in the form of business Todd couldn't ignore.

"I'll call when it's finished. And thanks for fucking up a perfectly great night."

I felt and shared his urge to throw the phone across the room. "Duty calls?"

"Dammit."

"Hey, it's work. It can't be helped."

Todd nodded, looked utterly chagrined. "This thing is probably gonna take all night. I'll be lucky to get a nap before the conference starts in the morning."

"Well I won't keep you." Brave smile. "This evening was lovely, Todd. I feel ten times better now than I did after what happened earlier."

"I really don't want to leave."

"I understand," I said. "Been there myself in the past. It's your job. You can't help it. And unless everything you told me earlier was a lie, you're not here on vacation like I am. Right?"

"Yeah."

"Maybe we could have dinner tomorrow night," I suggested. Fingers trailed down his chest in a light touch. "I'd like to see you again, Todd."

"Really?"

I nodded. For some unknown reason, I meant it too. Or rather, Diana meant it. The line between the role and reality blurred by too much wine and decimated emotional walls. If Diana felt vulnerable, Helen was wrecked completely. "Call my room when you get back from your conference tomorrow. We'll do something special."

"Promise?"

I made an X over my heart and walked him to the door. "I won't even stray out until you get back, just to be safe."

He smiled and relaxed a little bit. "So long as you know that I'd rather be here than working on some nowhere task."

"Somehow, when you put it that way, it's hard to doubt you."

"Seriously," he muttered. "I'm off chasing down some obscure... ah, never mind. It's not important. I'll call the second I get back tomorrow night." Todd leaned in and kissed my neck, just below my ear. "And that's a promise, beautiful Diana."

Daylight brought sobriety and common sense. If I took a flight that left Dulles at three, I would be in Darkwater Bay by midnight. I booked a rental car online, and a hotel room in the city proper, as Hardy called it. There was no debate about leaving a message for Todd. Diana Farber would cease to exist the second I boarded the flight for Darkwater Bay.

They were expecting Helen Eriksson. Sully Marcos wouldn't be fooled by any disguise that didn't involve amputating my legs from the knees down, one of the few lengths I wasn't willing to endure to escape his clutches. The FBI was a non-issue by comparison.

I wondered why good old Sully wanted to see me. Surely he couldn't be devastated over Rick's death. It was a freebie, a hit he didn't have to contract or pay. The old guy probably sweated bullets for two years wondering if Rick would turn against him.

Still, Todd's words haunted me all day. My lies knotted in the pit of my stomach. He was a nice man who did a good deed for a complete stranger. It was better to walk away letting him believe the pretty picture I conjured in the form of Diana than to let him learn the truth by becoming enmeshed with someone like me.

I picked up the phone and called George Hardy. "I'll be in Darkwater Bay around midnight, George. I've already made arrangements for my arrival."

"I can send a car out to the airport to pick you up. That won't be a problem."

"It's already arranged," I explained my plans. "So if you'd like, we can meet first thing Wednesday morning to discuss the specifics of what you're proposing."

"I can make it happen. The head of the governor's special unit will be here too, Helen. Collangelo is determined to see this city get cleaned up one way or another."

I wasn't sure I liked the implication behind that statement, but considering my recent history, Darkwater Bay might be the perfect place for me to live.

My wardrobe was too pastel for my liking, a situation I planned to remedy as soon as possible. Instead of chucking the suit for something more comfortable, I accepted light pink and called the front desk for a taxi and my luggage. With one last wistful glance down the hallway where handsome Todd would spend Tuesday evening without me, I left Washington D.C. behind.

### Chapter 5

Hertz guaranteed an SUV when I booked the reservation. When I landed in Darkwater Bay, they had a Prius waiting for me. I stared at the tiny car with dubious regard. "Seriously? I doubt my legs will fit in there, let alone all of my luggage." Howard the shuttle driver was still lugging my suitcases from the van that delivered me to the car lot.

Rental girl snapped her gum. "You alone?"

"How is that relevant?"

"Cuz if there's no passengers, you can put the extra bags in the back seat of the car. Two should fit in the trunk without a problem."

This is the story of how I ended up driving a battery-operated coffin instead of a real vehicle. I've got nothing against the green movement. I'm merely waiting for the model of vehicle that accommodates anyone taller than five six.

Howard kindly adjusted the driver's seat as far back as it would slide before I folded myself into the tiny and quiet vehicle. Before I could drive away, an enviable dark Crown Victoria pulled up to the curb behind me. "Please let them be returning a car I would rent," I muttered under my breath.

No such luck. Two men in suits stepped out of the vehicle. Anxiety sparked between nerve endings in the center of my chest. Marcos knew I was here? David discovered I left the coast and called agents from the local field office?

Two men approached my car—one older and rotund in the middle, one younger with a deep cleft just left of center chin. His hair dipped down over the edge of one eyelid. He tapped my closed window with a shiny gold badge.

"Great," I hissed a choice word or two under my breath and depressed the button to open the window. Its motor hummed softly.

"Dr. Eriksson?"

I watched his chest expand and freeze the moment our eyes met. Something about the way he looked at me seemed... off. He stumbled half a step backward. Not my imagination.

I frowned. "Yes?"

"Detectives Conall and Briscoe, Darkwater Bay PD, Downey Division. Commissioner Hardy informed us you'd be arriving tonight and requested that we escort you to a fresh crime scene."

I shook my head, more of a rattle really. "Detective, I haven't even agreed to consult on cases for Darkwater Bay yet."

"I understand, Dr. Eriksson, but this case is..."

The man on the other side of the car, presumably Briscoe, muttered something to his partner. I couldn't make out the words, but the tone was clear as day. Serious.

"Fine. I'll go with you to this crime scene."

"If you'd like, we can take you, ma'am."

"Eriksson will do," did I really look old enough to warrant ma'am? Any woman approaching 40 who tells you she doesn't mind being called ma'am is either insane or a liar, possibly both. Ma'am. Why not call me grandma while you're at it?

"I'll follow you in my rental," I said. "I'd rather not take a trip into the city only to have to return for the car after I see your crime scene."

The passenger door popped open and the round detective grunted. He wasn't fitting inside a whole lot better than I was. "Tony Briscoe, Dr. Eriksson," he said. "I'll ride along with you so I can fill you in on the particulars of the case, what we know, why this thing is such a goddamned hornet's nest already. Also, I can help you get through our ground cover so you don't get turned around on the way to the scene."

I clicked on the GPS system. "What's the address?"

"Forty-two fifty Templeton Lane."

Coordinates entered. "Nightingale?"

"That's the one," Briscoe said. "Puppy'll be right behind us." His eyes darted through my open window in silent command to his partner. "This is a mess, Dr. Eriksson. I won't beat around the bush about it at all. We got a dead vic in Central Division's territory, and everybody from the governor down is afraid it's gonna be the Bennett case all over again."

"What's the Bennett case?"

"Fifteen years ago, a young teenage girl was found dismembered in the Elegiac River. Her name was Brighton Bennett."

"Dismembered in what way?"

"Head and hands gone. We never recovered them."

"We?"

"They technically. That case belonged to central too."

"And you're with?"

"Downey Division, ma'am."

"Please don't call me ma'am." The GPS offered its first cue at direction when I pulled away from the curb. "So why is my welcoming committee from Downey Division?"

"We were available. Three of central's five homicide detectives are holding down the scene until you arrive."

"What? Why would they do that?"

"Hardy's orders, Doc."

"Don't call me Doc. What does this crime have to do with your old case? Or are you telling me it was never closed?"

"It was, and it wasn't. I'll be blunt. You're walking into a war zone without any Kevlar, Dr. Eriksson. Hardy wants Downey to take the lead on this investigation. The boys from central aren't too happy to see another unit take over their turf."

"That doesn't tell me how this case relates to the one that was closed but not really." Briscoe was remarkably vague for a man who claimed to be blunt. "Is there a link between the two?"

"I'll let you make that call. What I can tell you is that there's another vic in Nightingale missing her head and hands."

"Teenager?"

"No ma'am. She certainly is not."

"Do you know anything about the victim yet? I'm not sure you understand how I do what I do, Detective Briscoe. Victimology helps me determine the type of person most likely to have committed a crime. The more I know about her, the better the chances are of figuring out why she was targeted by a perpetrator. How teenage was this victim from the old case?"

"Fifteen. Is that important?"

"It depends. Was sexual assault part of the crime?"

"That was never determined. Her body was discovered in the water, so there wasn't a whole lot of evidence left to collect if you know what I mean."

I frowned. Semen can remain present inside the vagina for up to five days even if a woman bathes and showers regularly. It cannot be ruled out automatically simply because of hygiene. "Had she been in this river for a long time?"

"The medical examiner put the time of death at 48 to 72 hours prior to the discovery of her body."

"How long had she been missing before she was found?" I asked. The Prius guidance system told me to turn left. I signaled and glanced in the rearview mirror. Conall's turn signal matched mine. So far so good, little Prius.

"Three days."

I snorted softly. "So the medical examiner believed she might've been held for up to twenty-four hours after the abduction, but he didn't bother to check for evidence of sexual assault?" Hadn't Hardy said something about an incompetent ME? That was why Maya Winslow was out here. My thoughts took a left turn with the car, long enough to wonder if news of Rick's indictment had filtered through the state coroner's office in Maryland before Maya moved to the left coast.

"Like I said, she was found in the water."

"But what about abrasions, tearing, other evidence of trauma to sexual organs?"

"You'd have to talk to the ME about that, ma'am... er... Dr. Eriksson."

"Will Dr. Winslow be at this new crime scene?"

Briscoe's eyes pierced the darkness. "You know her?"

"We've met a few times. Does that matter?"

"No, I guess she'll be happy to see you join the team."

"This turf war... "

Briscoe cleared his throat and picked at his thumbnail. "It ain't gonna be pretty. I'd imagine that Rogers and Daltry are burnin' up the phone lines tryin' to get a hold of Chief Lowe to have him override Hardy's order to hand this case off to Downey."

"Wait a minute. The chief of police is trying to outrank the commissioner?"

"Chief of detectives," he clarified with a dark scowl. "Jerry Lowe is technically over all the detectives in Darkwater Bay."

"So he's your boss too."

"I answer to Lieutenant Finkelstein."

"And he reports to Lowe?"

"She. I guess."

"Detective Briscoe, why are you so reluctant to share your opinions with me? I thought you planned to be blunt."

"About the case at hand, yes."

"How was that case closed but not closed?" My temples started throbbing from playing twenty questions with the reluctant detective. If this was blunt, evasive was going to be sheer hell.

"The detectives on that case—"

"Out of Central Division?"

"Yeah, back before it had gone to complete shit. The detectives on that case had a suspect, gathered evidence against him and arrested his sorry ass. Then during an evidentiary hearing, the judge threw out the bloody clothing because there was evidence that the blood might've been planted."

"What evidence?"

"I don't know. Some chemical or some such found in the vials used to collect blood evidence."

Ethylene-diamene-tetra-acetic acid, or EDTA, was a chemical added to laboratory vials to prevent blood from clotting. It had been infamously found in another case wherein acquittal was the end result, in the prosecution of O.J. Simpson.

"The detectives at central, were they the kind who would plant evidence to make sure their perp didn't walk?" I thought of Danny Datello and Hardy's opinion that the detectives at central were a little too myopic where he was concerned.

"Flynn Myre, in my opinion, is too stupid to plant his ass in a chair, let alone evidence. Johnny Orion on the other hand..."

"Dirty cop?"

Briscoe snarled, "He'd no more plant evidence than he would piss on his mother's grave. I trained that young man, and he was a fine detective."

"Was?"

"He left the department."

"Volitionally?"

"I ain't sure that means what I think it means, but if you're implying that Johnny got fired, he didn't. He walked away with his dignity intact."

"It was a simple question, detective. I have no opinion of the man either way. I don't know him, or you, or anyone out here for that matter."

"Except for Winslow."

Why he could spit out her last name but continued to ma'am and doctor me to death seemed a bigger mystery to me at the moment. Maya was at least five years my senior. Maybe blonde wasn't such a good color for me after all, although Todd seemed to like it well enough. Maybe Briscoe was just annoyed that another outsider was being brought into his territory.

"I had very few brief and professional encounters with her in the past few years," I struggled to push the bristling tone back into my brain where it belonged. If Hardy wanted me working with these people, it wouldn't do well to alienate any of them until I had a better lay of the land. "I would hardly consider that contact enough to say that we know each other well or in the context of friendship, Briscoe. I meant no disrespect to your friend."

"I shouldn't have barked at you," Briscoe muttered low. "It's just that Johnny took the blame for a whole lot of shit that he didn't do. Folks at central practically crucified him in the middle of the street, and to my way of seeing things, they would've never got close to Masconi without Johnny's hard work."

"I take it Masconi was the suspect who walked after the evidence was excluded."

"That's right."

"And where is Mr. Masconi now?"

"Nobody knows. He left town after his brush with justice and nobody's seen or heard from him since. You ask me, his former employer might've had a thing or two to do with that."

"And?"

"And what?"

"Who did he work for?" Precognition tickled my brain. This was what George meant. That rush to judgment. Still, if Briscoe's affirmation was on cue, it was a disturbing link.

"Danny Datello."

Bingo.

"Do we know if this latest victim can be linked to Mr. Datello?"

Briscoe chuckled. "Hell, you didn't have to ask who he was. That tells me a lot, Dr. Eriksson. But to answer your question, I'm not even sure we know for a fact who the victim is tonight. On account of the fact that she ain't got a face left to identify or fingers to print."

"Good point. So how bad is this turf war going to be when you show up with another outsider, former FBI to boot?"

"No shit?"

"Not even a skid mark," I said drily. "Or didn't George tell you that I recently left the bureau?"

"The old goat said you had cred, but he never mentioned you was FBI."

"I'd suggest we keep that as quiet as possible for now, detective. In the meantime, maybe you can tell me something. I was here for a couple of weeks several years ago. I don't remember it being this foggy."

Briscoe's belly jiggled. "Ah hell, honey. Fog is what we're second most famous for. Half the time it feels like you're living in a cloud on top of the Himalayas. I surely do hope you brought a coat."

"Isn't this springtime?"

"Yeah, but we end up wearin' gear year round out here. It's soggy and wet every day. You're gonna freeze your tush off in that get up." He gestured toward my spring suit, a light wool and cotton blend. "I'd suggest something leather to cover anything you wear. Keeps the dew out."

"I'll keep that in mind, detective."

I signaled again and wound away from the freeway into an affluent neighborhood. Heavy ground fog notwithstanding, the crime scene came into view easily enough. Red and blue lights penetrated the haze in an eerie glow. All was not well on Templeton Lane tonight. I parked behind one of the patrol cars illuminating the neighborhood.

"Ready?" Briscoe asked after a brief struggle out of the car.

My eyes were already devouring the scene. Three men were on the front lawn arguing. One wore a dark jacket with the letters _CSD_ emblazoned on the back. His index finger punctuated the air in front of another man's nose—older, maybe Briscoe's age, in a long trench coat, with a nice spare tire circling his waist. Beside him, jet-black hair, sparks from the eyes, another trench coat with a badge clipped sideways on his lapel was a younger, leaner man. Silver-haired fox from CSD seemed to be losing the battle.

Yellow strips of crime scene tape cordoned off the front yard. Uniformed officers were perched against vehicles on the street.

Under the pale glow of a single bulb at the front door stood another. This one was a rumpled sentry, his coat hem torn and hanging haphazardly on one side, wrinkles from head to toe. His tie was askew, and even from a distance, I could see spots that were not part of its design randomly scattered across the surface. A thin sliver of wood rolled between his lips from one side to the other and back again. His arms crossed over his chest, but one fist thumped irregularly against his side. His hair was jet-black, and the narrow slit of his eyes would likely disguise the color even when I was close enough to see them. His face was thin, gaunt, a man who didn't overindulge at the table. From a distance, he wouldn't have been half bad to look at if he bulked up a bit and took better care of himself.

My eyes narrowed. Central Division's finest.

Briscoe's speech played rapidly through my mind. Lieutenant somebody was his commanding officer. So where did that leave my old undergrad pupil Captain Martin?

"Briscoe?"

"Yeah."

"What division is Rodney Martin working out of?"

His fingers bisected my upper arm. "You know Martin?"

"Not in the way you associate with the word. I was getting my PhD and Rodney was an undergraduate in one of the psychology classes I taught on occasion. George mentioned that he's a captain now."

"He is," Briscoe said. "At Central Division. He tells these buffoons what to do."

"I take it those three are detectives out of central."

"That older dude is Matt Rogers. The slick bastard is his partner Jim Daltry."

"And who is the one from CSD?"

"Lieutenant Ken Forsythe. He's the commander of our Crime Scene Division."

"I see."

"Not to taint your perspectives of all this, Eriksson, but Forsythe is one of the good guys. Not that my opinion counts."

"And the one guarding the door?"

"None other than Flynn Myre."

My eyes wandered across the lawn a second time, taking in more than the immediate area. Light hair was illuminated blue and red in turns. Broad, hulking shoulders on an enormous physique stood with his back toward me.

"Briscoe, who are the uniformed officers detaining?" As I spoke, he turned toward me. My jaw dropped.

"That's Johnny Orion. I didn't mention he's the one who found the victim tonight."

And here I thought Todd might be wondering why I vanished without a trace. Todd. _Todd Hunter_ aka Johnny Orion stood not more than twenty yards away from me, staring with as much shock as I felt. Clever name, Orion the Hunter. I wasn't the only one telling lies. Anger and humiliation mingled bitterly on the tip of my tongue. I swallowed it, put it away with the rage that would be unleashed in due time. I was after all, a chip off the old block, daddy's little killer.

### Chapter 6

I turned away quickly. _Shit!_ If Briscoe noticed my reaction to Orion, he didn't say anything.

"We might have a hard time getting inside if they won't let CSD in there," Briscoe said. "Shall we, Eriksson?"

"Not without Forsythe." I ignored the urge to hop in the bubble car and race back to the airport at its top speed of fifty-five. What was Orion really doing in D.C.? Had I been suckered into coming here after all? The bits of truth I shared about my father churned in my gut, a stinging hornet's nest of swelling nausea.

"I'll introduce you." Briscoe cupped my elbow and led the way toward the ongoing argument dead center on the lawn. I could still feel Orion's eyes burning through my back, but was determined to ignore it. I had a right to be here. From the look of things, Orion was nothing if not a person of interest in the case, perhaps even the prime suspect.

_Dirty cop. Nobody will believe anything he says about you, Helen. Stop worrying about Todd and his lame attempt to lure you into bed. For all you know, that's all it was. A chance meeting between two lonely people._ The part of my psyche that tries to soothe me into complacency more often than not simply pisses me off.

_Bullshit_. My brain was screaming at its kinder cells. Dad's opinion on coincidence was that there was no such thing. I didn't want to believe. I don't want to believe. Am I really so off my game that I missed all of this? Warning signs were screaming at me from the get-go, from the moment those thugs grabbed me in the hotel lobby.

I groaned softly. Should've called hotel security to verify that story. Orion could've set up the whole scenario to get close to me. Stupid! Stupid, Helen!

"Forsythe," Briscoe nodded curtly, "Daltry, Rogers."

"What the fuck are you doing here, Briscoe?" Rogers dismissed me with barely a glance. "And who's the broad?"

He was certainly old enough for that particular sexist slur to be part of his vernacular. "Eriksson," I said, thrust a confident hand forward, "Dr. Helen Eriksson. I'm a criminal profiler. Commissioner Hardy asked me to take a look at the crime scene. If you gentlemen will excuse us, I believe Lieutenant Forsythe and I need to look inside the house. Shall we, lieutenant?"

His eyes tightened in an expression of admiration, perhaps of my grit or my shrewd side step of the ongoing battle for control. He stepped around Rogers and fell into cadence at my side.

"George did a good thing getting some outside help."

"Thank you. I haven't signed the contract yet. I suppose you could say this is my job interview."

He laughed softly. "Leave it to Hardy." Humor evaporated as quickly as it appeared. "Did Briscoe tell you why this is such a mess?"

"The old case? Hmm," I nodded. "If I have to get physical to get past Myre at the door, do you think it would help or hurt my chances of getting a contract in Darkwater Bay?"

"It might get you a medal, maybe a parade."

"He's as incompetent as he looks?"

"Oh yeah," Forsythe exhaled his opinion on a sharp breath. "I doubt he'll put up a fuss. He might think he's on par with Rogers, but the guy is a complete moron."

I followed Forsythe up the sidewalk to the front door.

"Myre," Forsythe greeted with a curt nod. "This is Dr. Helen Eriksson. She's a criminal profiler George hired to help us close this case once and for all. He wants her to take a look at the scene."

"Then let her go look," Myre chewed the stick of wood between his teeth lazily. A few words came to mind. Caricature. Cliché. Inspector Clouseau. Keystone cop.

"Detective Myre, under no circumstances will I enter a crime scene alone. Whoever ordered you to prevent the crime scene from being properly processed should be fired," I said. "Lieutenant, after you."

Myre's jaw dropped. The toothpick bounced off the concrete.

"You'll want to retrieve that, Flynn. We wouldn't want your DNA processed as part of a crime scene."

I grinned at the remark and followed Forsythe into the house. The humor faded, replaced with a heavy metallic odor. Iron and honey. Thick, sweet, cloying. Forsythe paused and pulled out shoe covers and nitrile gloves.

"Have you got experience at fresh scenes?"

Translation: are you going to toss your airplane peanuts all over the crime scene when you see how disgusting this is going to be?

"Enough to have a cast iron stomach. This isn't the first time I've seen the end result of a decapitation, lieutenant. Don't worry about me."

"There's heavy saturation of blood. She's been here a while."

It was an odd moment for Todd to pop into my thoughts. Tony was his mentor. Tony Briscoe perhaps? Was there a kernel of truth in what Orion told me, or was it all honeyed lies?

I slipped on the shoe covers and gloves. "Do you think anyone has taken Orion's statement?" I asked.

"That's the one thing you can count on," Forsythe said. "They'll have him cuffed and under arrest before we're out the door."

"Probably." I followed him through the spacious foyer through and arched doorway into the living room. The lights were on. "I wonder if Orion lit the place up or if the lights were already on when he got here. Do we know if he knew who he was coming to see tonight, if this is our victim's home?"

"I haven't talked to him. It was pulling teeth to get Rogers to budge about letting me in here before Lowe called."

"Where is the intrepid chief?"

"Nobody knows... Jesus." Forsythe stopped short on the shag carpeting. The victim lay on her back in front of a large coffee table, as promised, sans head and hands.

My eyes darted to the surroundings. Yes, there was plenty of blood, but it was pooled around the stumps where head and hands once were. "She wasn't dismembered until after she died."

"No, she wasn't. I was expecting a blood bath in here to be honest. I'd say it's a refreshing surprise, but this is... wow. Déjà vu."

"You were at the Bennett crime scene?"

He nodded. "I wasn't a lieutenant yet. Plain old detective at the time. What do you make of this Dr. Eriksson?"

Three stacks of magazines, each three high, were piled neatly on the coffee table. The sofa cushions were arranged from end to end in pristine form. There wasn't so much as an overturned lamp or knickknack out of place. The body wasn't posed per se, just laid out on the floor in the center of the room where the dismemberment had taken place. The victim's blouse was torn open. Tiny pearl buttons peppered the floor, but none of her clothing appeared to be removed. Damaged yes. I stepped closer.

Everything was as it should be. Nothing inside out.

"Have you got a pen light?"

Forsythe handed it over.

I lifted the skirt gingerly. "No panties. It looks like there's semen dried on her thighs." My nostrils revolted. "Postmortem loss of body fluids. The medical examiner will have to determine if there was a sexual assault. I can't see anything else without moving her." I dropped the skirt.

"She should be here any minute. When we heard what we were looking at on this one, the big guns all got called out." He paused and stared at me. "What do you think?"

"There are no signs of struggle. I didn't notice any sign of forced entry at the front door. We should probably look at the other points of entry. It looks like she was killed, then dismembered. Why take the head and hands?"

"He did that the last time too. Brighton Bennett's head and hands were never recovered."

It screamed trophy. Then again, fifteen years ago, removing the head and hands was an easy way to delay identification. It hadn't prevented it from happening quickly for the Bennett girl though.

"What led the investigation to look at Masconi in the other case?"

Forsythe scratched his head. "Well, if I recall, a number of women came forward after the fact and claimed sexual offenses committed by Masconi in the workplace. Five or six girls, if memory serves. They claimed they were too afraid to come forward prior because he was the boss."

"Briscoe said he worked for Danny Datello."

"He did, managed Datello's casino out on Hennessey Island."

"Hmm."

"What are you thinking?"

"I'm curious if Datello did anything to help defend his employee."

"That I can't tell you. Myre or Orion would know the particulars about how all of that unfolded. Although I'm not sure which of them would be more cooperative."

"I heard Orion left the department a bitter man."

"He did. Flynn Myre's still pretty defensive about the whole thing, despite the fact that Orion's resignation all but vindicated him. I guess a man never gets over being wrongly accused."

"Do you think Orion planted evidence against Masconi?"

"Johnny? I doubt it. In my opinion, that fiasco could've been cooked up by Masconi in order to save his own ass. Johnny cared too much about justice to take matters into his hands that way. He believed that the system wouldn't fail."

"But it did."

"Big time," Forsythe nodded. "Do you mind if I get my team in here to start processing?"

"Be my guest," I'd seen enough anyway. Until I could talk to the people who knew the victim, if we were able to quickly verify her identity, there wasn't much I could provide other than initial impressions of the crime scene. It looked too neat to be less than staged. In other words, someone straightened up after the deed was done. I couldn't imagine someone being passive during a murder. This woman probably fought for her life. Whoever took it wanted the setting to appear otherwise. "I think I'll head over to my hotel and check in," mumbled around a yawn.

"You might want to have a word with Orion before you go."

Or I might never want to lay eyes on him again. I was pretty sure my way was rooted in logic and reality. Forsythe had no way of knowing that. "Because?"

"If you can develop a rapport with him, which I suspect you can, he'll be far more forthcoming about the Bennett case than anyone at central. Plus, there's the other obvious factor."

I waited.

"He probably knows the identity of the victim. If he was meeting her in her home tonight, he might be able to fill in the blanks for you about who she is and what possible reason anyone might've had to kill her."

"She could be his girlfriend."

Forsythe chuckled. "Johnny Orion doesn't have girlfriends. He has one night stands."

There was my old friend humiliation, rearing its ugly head again. "That doesn't preclude this being a one night stand," I said.

"You won't know until you ask."

Just the same, I'd rather have white-hot needles driven into my brain. I smiled wanly. "Perhaps tomorrow. I'm jet lagged, Forsythe. My flight landed at midnight, so my body is screaming about being up in the middle of the night. Orion's not going anywhere, especially if he's the prime suspect."

"That won't establish rapport with the guy," he disagreed with a quick shake of the head. "Don't kid yourself, Eriksson. Johnny Orion is no fool. He was a shrewd cop and a tough one too. He'll know if you're going along with the flow at central or if you really want to get to the truth. He'll know based on what you do next."

"Why would I care what a potential suspect thinks of me?" I imagined a rift dividing Darkwater Bay into separate camps—those who supported Orion, those who blamed Datello for everything. Did anyone really expect me to bridge the gap?

"Because what Orion thinks in this city matters to a lot of people."

"Including Danny Datello?"

Forsythe's face hardened. "He'd probably shoot you on sight if you accused such a thing."

"Interesting."

"Not really. Nobody in law enforcement likes Datello. Unfortunately, nobody's ever been able to build a successful case against him."

"Not even Johnny Orion?"

"I suspect he hasn't given up the cause."

Even more interesting. "And what official capacity does he hold out here? I thought Briscoe said he left the police department under a cloud of suspicion."

"Johnny's a private contractor now, in security. It doesn't mean he wouldn't take evidence of a crime to the DA if he found it."

Score again for Orion. So far, his big lie was the identity. Why do that? Not that I had a right to question his motives. I hadn't been particularly forthcoming myself. "Maybe I'll have a chat with him tomorrow after he's processed by whoever gets this case."

"Do you think that's wise?"

"Why wouldn't it be?"

"Rogers, Daltry and Myre would love nothing better than to close this case tonight and charge him with murder. They hate him almost as much as cops hate Datello. As for Downey," Forsythe snorted, "I got nothing against Tony Briscoe and Crevan Conall, but in this case, they happen to be your prime suspect's best friends."

Shit. Truth number three. "I never said he was or should be the prime suspect. Person of interest would be more accurate at this point." Given Orion's history of lying—to me in particular—I doubted he would be inclined to talk to me at all. My conscience reminded me that I had done more creative editing of the life story than Orion had. All he lied about was his name. I on the other hand, had been far more deceptive.

### Chapter 7

I breathed a sigh of relief when I stepped out of the house. Orion was nowhere in sight. Perhaps he had shifted his ability to charm to his former brethren and convinced them to let him go. Briscoe was still engaged in a neck-vein-popping argument on the front lawn. I hadn't seen Conall since the rental agency.

Through the pockets of fog and flashing lights, I caught a glimpse of him beside one of the patrol cars. One hand propped on his hip, the other raked through his hair and took a wild swipe in the direction of the car.

The plan was to slip as quietly as possible back to my rental. I forgot about Detective Pigpen guarding the door. His withered fingers snaked around my wrist. "Where you goin', Eriksson?"

It didn't take much to break the feeble grasp. "To my hotel, not that it's any of your concern. I'll meet with Commissioner Hardy later this morning and give him my assessment."

Myre snapped his fingers. "Just like that, you think you got this whole thing figured out? Well, you're too late, _doctor_. Central already solved this one."

As a general rule, I try not to make snap judgments of others. You never know when someone will be an unexpected ally. Alienation slams that door shut. Regarding Myre and his lackadaisical posture at a horrific crime scene stripped away any desire to keep doors open. Curiosity prompted my response. "And just who committed the crime inside, Myre?"

"The perp in the back of Haverston's car." He jerked his head in the direction of uniformed officers and Detective Conall. "Johnny Orion. We finally got the bastard after all these years."

So much for my relief. I walked to the vehicle where the so-called perp was being held.

"Detective Conall, what's the status of the prisoner?"

One of the uniformed officers shot Conall a smug grin at my question, as if I had validated his actions somehow.

"Beyond wrongly accused?"

Again, Conall's eyes screamed something just out of the reach of tangibility. Under other circumstances, such creepy stares would make me wonder if the irate detective was hitting on me. But this didn't even come close to that vibe. It made my skin crawl. Did I know him from somewhere? Not even a glimmer of recognition flashed.

"Yes, I'm listening, detective," the lie rolled easily past my lips. I turned my attention to the officer. Name badge read Haverston. "Officer Haverston, did you read Mr. Orion his rights?"

"Yep. He said he doesn't have anything to say until he gets his attorney."

"He'll talk to me." I yanked the back door of the car open and slid inside.

Orion's head was in his hands, cuffed together at the wrists. He looked sideways and groaned.

"We meet again, _Todd_."

"Why were those men trying to abduct you, Helen?"

"I prefer doctor if you don't mind." I didn't, but we'd already established a pattern of lying. I saw no reason to break it. "And in case you're curious why I'm here, I need to ask you a few questions about the body inside that house."

"And I asked for a lawyer."

"Cut the crap, Orion. When did you get back to Darkwater Bay? For that matter, when did you really leave Washington D.C.?"

"What difference does it make?"

"Depending on the victim's time of death, it could be the difference between your alibi passing muster and this charge sticking. Geez, all I've heard from your pals is what a great cop you were. I'm not seeing that so far."

"Screw you."

"Missed your chance last night."

"Diana Farber, who is she?"

"A figment of my imagination. It shouldn't be so difficult for you to grasp the concept that psychologists rather enjoy games, Orion. That's all you were."

"Those would-be kidnappers weren't playing games, were they?"

"Probably not. Then again, I'd imagine I've pissed off more than my fair share of criminals over the past decade. That dead body in there isn't about me. Fifty percent of the people at this crime scene think she got in her current condition with a little help from you."

"I have nothing to say."

"Personally, I think it's an astounding coincidence that you found a body in the same condition more or less, as your most infamously botched investigation. Then again, Daddy always taught me that there's no such thing as a coincidence."

"I would never harm Gwen or any other woman!"

A tiny smile quivered at the corners of my lips. "First name Gwen. Now we're getting somewhere. Doesn't Gwen deserve justice for what happened to her, Mr. Orion?"

"She'll never get it from Darkwater Bay PD."

"Not even from your pals Briscoe and Conall? Briscoe, he was the mentor you mentioned last night, wasn't he? Is his partner Conall your best friend?"

"I have nothing to say."

"Bullshit. Level with me, Orion. What were you really doing in D.C. this week? Don't expect me to believe that incident at the Ritz wasn't arranged by you to give you an easy in with me. Did Hardy send you to follow me? Are you working for Datello?"

"What?" Orion snarled. His wrists strained against the cuffs, and for a second, I felt a pang of anxiety that they'd snap. "I hate that piece of shit!"

"Which one, Hardy or Datello?"

"I wouldn't walk across the road to piss on Datello if he were on fire."

"How did you get here before I did?"

Orion masked his anger with a smirk, but his eyes still glittered in the semidarkness. "Nothing to say to you. Cop." He spat the word like an epithet.

At least he didn't call me a fed. "What's Gwen's last name? You know how this works, I presume. If we're going to figure out who was the most likely suspect to commit the crime, I need to know about the victim. Her name would be a step in the right direction."

"Foster," through tight lips.

"And was she the kind of friend you wanted Diana to be last night?"

Veins in his neck bulged. "No," came out clipped and terse.

"Client then?"

"I couldn't tell you even if I wanted to."

"There's no such thing as security guard-client confidentiality, Orion. Why were you standing me up in Washington to be here with Gwen tonight?"

"Emergency meeting."

"And the nature of your business with this client was what, exactly?"

"Gwen was not my client. She was an old friend."

"How old?"

"Thirty-four."

I laughed softly. "If that's old, I'm downright geriatric, Mr. Orion. Tell me, did you plan to let me know that you weren't going to be around to play hero for me tonight?"

His eyebrows stitched together. "Did you plan to tell me you weren't gonna be in town, Doc?"

"Don't call me Doc."

"Did you?"

"Perhaps I tried to leave you a message when I left town."

"You didn't."

"No," I said. "Nor did you. Why did you skip the last day of your conference to rush home?"

"Legitimate work trumps rubbing elbows with my competitors. Hell, you were there when I got the call."

"Yet it didn't seem quite this urgent when you got it, did it, Orion? You obviously learned that something was wrong. Why won't you tell me what time you arrived in Darkwater Bay tonight? It could mean the difference between spending the night in a warm bed versus one downtown in lockup."

His lips curled into a sneering grin. "Is that an invitation to join you, Doc?"

"Sorry. I never make the same mistake twice. Tell me when you got back to Darkwater Bay."

"Late this afternoon," he sighed heavily. "Yes, it was business. Yes, it was related to the call I got when Todd was wooing Diana last night. No, I won't divulge the details of the case or the phone call, nor will I explain why I was meeting Gwen tonight. If you want my alibi for the time between when I arrived home until I found Gwen's body, ask Crevan. We had dinner together tonight before I came over here."

"What was your flight number and which airline?"

"Northwest, flight 21. It arrived at four-fifty. I met Crevan for dinner at the Island Hotel Resort and Casino on Hennessey Island at seven."

"Two hours between flight and dinner? That's a lot of time, Orion."

"What time did your flight land, Doc, and how fast did you get through the airport, claim your luggage and get to your car?"

He made a point.

"Add to that rush hour traffic, which even on a Tuesday night is pretty heavy, and two hours gets devoured pretty quick."

"I'll need Crevan's last name." I'm not sure why, but I felt the need to dare him to lie to me again.

"No you don't," Orion chuckled. "You already figured it out, Doc. Crevan Conall, one of the detectives who brought you here tonight, had dinner with me at seven."

"When did you leave the restaurant?"

"Eight forty-five."

"And from there?"

"Straight here," Orion said. "Gwen and I were meeting at nine-thirty."

"And what happened when you arrived?"

"The lights were out. I figured she was running late." His voice hardened and tension radiated from his pores. "So I used my key and let myself in the house. That was when I found her."

"You have keys to all your friend's houses?"

Orion clamped his mouth shut.

"I'm afraid we'll have to confiscate that key, Mr. Orion. The crime scene must be secured."

"Do I get to leave now?"

"We'll have to verify your alibi first." I slid out of the car before he could comment further. The cell I brought from D.C., gave me access to Northwest's website and I was easily able to confirm that flight 21 did land at four fifty-two Tuesday afternoon. That didn't mean Orion was on the flight. Someone from the police department would have to verify that. I had no legal authority to do anything at the moment.

"Detective Conall?"

He stepped around the car. "How is he?"

"Pissed."

"I can't blame him. I told Haverston that he's been out of town at a convention for the past few days, that we met for dinner tonight out on the island after his flight got in. He won't believe me, says he can't let Johnny leave until Chief Lowe authorizes it."

"That's bullshit," I agreed. True enough, the information needed to be confirmed by more than Orion's best friend, but that could easily be done without arresting Orion. Gaining his cooperation seemed to be exactly what Forsythe predicted it would be. I beckoned to Haverston with a crook of my finger.

He rushed toward me.

"Could you do something for me, officer?"

"Name it," he grinned.

"I need you to contact Northwest Airlines and get the passenger list for a flight that landed Tuesday afternoon, flight 21. See if Orion was a passenger. Who are the other officers milling around here?"

"Taylor, Adams, Thieg. You got something for them too?"

I stepped closer to Haverston and laid one hand on his arm, effectively cutting Conall out of the conversation. "Both Orion and Conall are claiming that they had dinner together at some casino out on Hennessey Island. Ideally, we should verify that alibi before cutting Orion loose."

"But we can't—"

"Officer, we don't have cause to hold Orion simply because he found the victim. Does it make him a person of interest? Absolutely. But my experience at the FBI tells me that if we confirm his alibi, we'll build enough rapport with him that when a stronger case based on hard evidence is built, he won't be so reluctant to cooperate. That's how you catch someone with experience in law enforcement. If Orion is the perp in this case, you've gotta realize that he's at least ten steps ahead of where we are right now. If we try to charge him before we have a solid case, we run the risk of shooting ourselves in the foot. You get where I'm going with this?"

"I'll have the guys go out to Hennessey Island right away," Haverston said. "And we'll get that passenger list before you leave the scene."

I hoped that would be in about thirty seconds. Apparently not. "You should also have someone start taking statements from our audience." I cast a sidelong glance at several neighbors out on their lawns in robes and slippers. "You never know if one of them saw something that could provide leads in this case."

"What about Orion?"

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the van from the medical examiner's office arrive. "Let me talk to Dr. Winslow. The sooner she can give us an estimate on time of death, the sooner we'll know if Orion's alibi even applies to the window we're looking at for the commission of this crime."

"Right. We're on it, Dr. Eriksson."

"You're having them verify the alibi I provided?" Conall hissed incredulous words into my ear.

I turned into the angry blast. Sea green sparks arced in his eyes for a moment before he took a quick step backward.

"It's par for the course in a murder investigation, detective. If you don't like it, perhaps you should consider narrowing your circle of friends. Your word alone isn't enough to give Orion an alibi for the evening. Now if you'll excuse me, I see an old colleague I'd like to talk to before she gets too busy to answer a few questions."

### Chapter 8

Maya Winslow stopped dead in her tracks and stared for a moment. She shook her head lightly and rubbed her eyes. "I don't believe it."

"Nice to see you too, Dr. Winslow."

"Jesus Christ and General Jackson. Who called the feds in on this one? Not that I'm complaining or anything. I'm... stunned. How are you, Eriksson?"

People don't really want the truth when they ask that question. It's a social nicety. Look at me. I care enough to ask how you are. Do me a favor and lie. Say "fine" or some other placating nonsense. I really don't want to get sucked into your world.

As a different breed, I grinned at her. "Same shit, different day. How did you end up in Darkwater Bay?"

"Power," she slammed the back door of the van and gave a stern look to her techs. "Don't touch anything until I get inside. Got it?" I noticed that she added a wink after the harsh order.

"You're in charge out here?"

"You're looking at the chief medical examiner." She struck a Marilyn Monroe-esque pose. "How do I wear it?"

"I figured you'd be in Maryland forever."

"No chance of promotion," she said. "I got to leap from the lower middle rung all the way to the top by relocating out here. Never mind that I've delved into the ninth circle of hell."

"I wasn't aware there were nine of them."

"Probably more. I just have uncovered nine of them since I moved here six months ago. So this case warrants a federal intervention, eh?"

I noticed the ears around us perking with interest. "Walk with me," I said. My voice lowered to a scratch above a whisper. "It's not common knowledge yet."

"What isn't?"

"I'm not with the bureau anymore, Maya."

"Since when?"

"Monday morning."

"No shit?"

"How well versed were you on water cooler gossip before you left Maryland?"

"Please," Maya stepped through the front door of Foster's home. "I had more work to do out there than most. I didn't have time to play telephone with the drones. Why? Did I miss something good?"

"This probably isn't the best place to discuss it. In any case, here I am. George Hardy asked if I'd be willing to consult on a few cases from time to time. I didn't realize I'd be dragged to a crime scene straight off my flight."

"Billy gave me the run down on this one on the way over here." Maya crouched beside the corpse. "Everything photographed, Forsythe?"

"We're done with this room."

"Good." Maya started moving the truncated right limb. "She's barely in rigor. This is a fresh kill. Six maybe seven hours tops. Of course I'll have to do a lot of other things to pin it down to something more definite than that, but for now, I'd say we're looking at five, maybe six last night for time of death."

"And theories on cause?"

Maya looked up at me. "You're joking, right?"

"Not really."

"I can tell you she didn't die from exsanguination. I estimate blood loss at three liters tops. Unless she's got some super absorbent carpet padding under this shag, what you see is what you get. This blood seeped out postmortem due to gravity. So dismemberment wasn't the cause." Maya lifted the hem of the skirt as I had done nearly an hour ago.

"Billy?"

"Yeah boss."

"Help me with this." She repositioned one leg enough to provide a better view of the external genitalia. "Ouch."

"Trauma?"

"Looks like it," she said. "Though rape itself won't turn out to be the causation, it might've been a factor in the motivation for murder. She fights hard enough, he kills her."

She refocused her attention on the neck. "Clean cut. I'll have to examine the tissue under a scope to be certain but..."

"But what?"

Maya glanced up at me. "One blow severed the head. I see no evidence of a serrated blade so far. Spinal column and cord were cleanly dissected. I see no bone chipping. Huh." She grunted softly.

"What?"

"A butcher, a hunter, someone with skill took her head and hands. Check out the arms. We've got neatly sliced tendons between the carpals and radial-ulnar joints. Same type of cutting. Clean, decisive, very practiced."

"So on some creature, be it animal or human, our perp has dissected in this manner before?"

"Without a doubt," Maya said. "You'll have to figure out why he took parts of her. Do we know who the victim is?"

My answer drowned out Forsythe's "No."

"Gwen Foster, age 34. I guess whoever George decides is investigating this case will have to run down the vitals on her."

"When was she found?" Maya rose and pulled off her gloves. "Billy, make sure you and Hector remove the section of carpeting and padding she's on. Cut a wide berth around the body. There could be fluid seepage underneath that extends beyond what we can see here." Refocused on me, she lifted her eyebrows. "Well?"

"Nine-thirty," I said.

Forsythe piped up again. "We didn't get the call until quarter to ten. CSD was on scene at ten-fifteen, gained access to the premises an hour ago."

Maya rolled her eyes. "The three amigos ride again, no doubt."

"I think there has been some debate over which division is investigating the case," I said.

Maya clasped her hands and lifted her face toward the ceiling. "Please let Briscoe and Conall investigate this one. I'll never sin again, God."

"You're not a fan of Central Division?"

"No," she said. "I've got about a trillion lab hours ahead of me on this one, Helen. Why don't you give me a call tomorrow and we'll make a date for a good old-fashioned chat, catch up on everything we've missed over the past few years. Deal?"

I scribbled my new cell phone number on a scrap of paper. "Call me if you learn anything that might point to motive in the autopsy."

"Other than the fact that someone hated her enough to make off with the head and hands?" Her irreverence at crime scenes had become the stuff of legend in the greater Baltimore area. "Maybe we should send Rogers and Daltry out to frisk anyone carrying a bowling bag. That's about the right size for the contraband."

"Jesus," Forsythe muttered.

"They're not used to my coping mechanisms yet, Helen," she whispered loudly. "If we can figure out the cause of death, I'll call. Where are you staying?"

"Some hotel downtown. The Montcliff Hotel, I think."

Maya whistled low through her teeth. "Swanky. If it gets too pricey, let me know. I've got a guest room. It's not high society but the sheets are clean. At least I think they're clean."

Haverston beckoned from the front door. "We've got the passenger list from Northwest, Dr. Eriksson."

"Is he on it?"

He nodded. "Should I cut him loose?"

"Yeah, but ask him not to leave town," I said. Magic words, ones that Agent Mark Seleeby failed to invoke before I fled D.C. "Get an address and phone number where he can be reached, Haverston. When do you go off shift?" I followed him out the front door and into the yard.

"Seven thirty, doctor."

"Do you go back on at eleven tonight?"

He nodded. "But if you need extra hands on this, Sarge already said you can use us for whatever you want."

"Sarge?"

"Our sergeant, Tim Carter." Haverston lowered his head. "He answers directly to Chief Weber."

"Another chief?"

"Weber is chief of police, ma'am."

"Call me Helen."

Haverston grinned. "All right. We'd be happy to help out in any way while this other thing gets settled between Lowe and Hardy."

"That's not a bad idea, Haverston. After you guys finish the canvass with the neighbors and confirm the dinner Conall and Orion claim they shared, do you think you guys could dig up a little information about Gwen Foster?"

"Is that the victim's name?"

"According to Orion. If we can verify home ownership, maybe track down her tax returns and find out who her employer is, see if she's got a spouse we should be talking to or kids... you know the drill." I watched Haverston's chest puff with pride. Not so much that he knew his job, but that someone else realized it and asked for help.

Was this part of the cancer in Darkwater Bay? Clues died on the vine while detectives squabbled over turf. Criminals didn't worry about being apprehended because of in fighting in the department.

"Would you like me to call if we turn up anything hot in the meantime?"

I scribbled my cell number on another scrap of paper and handed it to him. "And until this territorial battle is settled one way or another, it might be best if we kept this between us."

"Taylor, Adams and Thieg too, right?"

"Absolutely. Let me know right away if you learn something that can't wait until morning. Otherwise, I'll track you down after I meet with Commissioner Hardy in the morning. I'd like to talk to Sergeant Carter too."

"I'll let him know." Haverston shot a hand signal to one of the officers. "We're cutting him loose. Rogers and Daltry are already frothing at the mouth over it, but you're right. We need a stronger case against whoever was responsible for this before we close the book."

I watched Orion climb out of the back of the patrol car and hold up his wrists. He shook them, shoved his hands into his pockets and stomped toward a car parked on the street.

"Shouldn't we know where we can contact him before he leaves?"

Haverston chuckled. "Orion's home and business aren't a secret, doctor. He's right across the street from Central Division in La Pierre Tower. He's not going anywhere."

"How can you be so sure?"

Haverston shrugged. "He's as interested in what you're gonna do next as the rest of us are."

I couldn't argue that point, given the extremes I suspected Orion had gone to just to orchestrate a happenstance meeting in Washington on Monday.

An hour later, I collapsed into bed in my hotel room, never dreaming that my very presence had opened Pandora's box in Darkwater Bay.

### Chapter 9

They say that a guilty man sleeps after he's caught. It implies that prior to arrest, he is too anxious to relax. Some people are just heavy sleepers. Some of us are not. I haven't had a night of uninterrupted sleep since my father's arrest. At least, that was the case until I landed in Darkwater Bay.

I expected to toss and turn for a couple of hours, get up, shower off the travel grime and mental fog from the general level of stress in my life and meet with the law enforcement fat cats. A latte IV would probably be part of my morning. Maybe an Adderall or two. Not that I have any. I've been subsisting on caffeine and stress stimulants for over a week now.

Which is why in retrospect, I think I crashed so hard when I fell asleep Wednesday morning in Darkwater Bay. Something jostled me, hard as bone maybe. I struggled to open my eyes, to discover the source of the jarring motion. My brain whispered reassurances. I fell out of bed. It was merely a dream. Nothing I thought happened since midnight was real, and the flight gear touching earth had penetrated my deep sleep.

"Helen, wake up."

I swatted at the whispered words. Go away. Let me sleep. Don't you know how hard it is for me to get into this condition?

"Shit."

All right. I was sliding. Mmm... satin sheets.

But firm pressure under the joint sockets in my arms jolted me awake in an instant. Blackness surrounded me. "What the...?"

"Quiet."

"Where the hell—?"

A hand clapped over my mouth. "Be. Quiet."

The darkness, the deep sleep, the uncertainty of where I was or who dragged me there pulled me deeper into disorientation. I started to struggle. A single arm banded around me like a vice.

"Helen, be still."

I was pressed against a hard body, and identifying the whispered voice was impossible. It occurred to me that we weren't standing. My feet weren't touching the floor. I stretched my toes downward. Nothing. Heavy breathing cascaded over my right shoulder, down my flimsy nightgown. All right. Wherever I am, he's behind me and he's holding me off the floor. He's very strong, and he's got to be tall.

The hand over my mouth gentled its grip. It wasn't much, but it offered enough slack to let me open my lips. I was poised to take a vicious bite when I heard another sound. Low voices murmured.

"... Not here... "

"... Get the laptop... "

I groaned. The grip on my mouth tightened.

"... Hear that?"

Tension radiated from the body holding mine. A second later, blinding light flickered to life above my head.

"Nobody in the john. You think she's still out investigating her little crime scene?" the voice sneered.

"Shut the light off and let's get the fuck outta here before she comes back."

"You know what he said," our bathroom guest spoke. "He wants her, not her goddamned laptop computer."

The voices rang a bell in my head. Not so much the sounds, but the sneer was very familiar. My eyes widened. I'd heard that sneer before. One mystery solved. Sort of. The men from D.C., they were still looking for me. I hadn't really doubted it, but indulged in a little delusional wishful thinking. Helen isn't an uncommon name after all. Outdated, yes, but not unusual.

We waited, the grip on my mouth and the one at my belly didn't relax an inch this time. The air blowing over my shoulder turned toward my ear. "I think they're gone. Do not scream when I let go of your mouth."

His hand fell from my face and the arm banded around my middle.

"Orion."

"You didn't know?"

"What the hell are you doing in my hotel room?"

"Saving your life, I suspect. Were you aware that your shadows followed you all the way from Washington last night?"

"A couple of thugs followed me from D.C.? Now why do I find that so difficult to believe? Let go of me. They're gone."

His fingers rubbed my flesh through the silky nightgown. "Why are they following you? What did you do before you left Washington?"

"I'm going to say this one more time. Let. Me. Go."

Hands fell away. "Suit yourself."

I scrambled out of the deep whirlpool bathtub. Pretty quick thinking on Orion's part. Looking in the deep cavernous tub wasn't high on the list of hiding places to uncover for my new friends. I had little doubt who sent them.

Stumbling through the darkness, I nearly tripped before I found the light on the bathroom wall. Orion was sitting, staring at me with owl eyes when the light flickered on again. "You haven't answered my question."

"I believe I did," he said, but made no move to get out of the whirlpool. "They followed you out here, Doc."

"Don't call me—"

"Yeah, I heard you. I'm ignoring the request. Your turn. Why are you being followed by private investigators?"

"I have no idea."

"Let me make it a little more specific. Why are you being followed by two of the sleaziest private detectives in Darkwater Bay? Why would they be in Washington D.C., looking for you?"

My mouth fell open. "I thought you said they weren't identified!"

"I lied," he said drily. Orion hefted himself out of the whirlpool with the ease and agility of a lion. "They're from Darkwater Bay. Who else do you know out here, Doc?"

"I don't—I owe you nothing, Orion." My fuse burned away quickly. Who the hell was this guy? What made him think he had the right to break into my room and demand answers from me?

"Wrong," his eyes narrowed, hawk-like in a flash. I felt them devouring every inch of me, the room, hell, the whole universe. Air sucked out of my lungs. Two predatory strides later, and his hands strangled my biceps. "What the hell were you doing before you came to Darkwater Bay? Don't tell me it's a coincidence that two guys from this city show up out of the blue in Washington looking for you a matter of hours before you showed up in town. You know what this is about, Doc, and dammit, you're not leaving this room until you level with me."

"What's wrong, Orion? Is this professional jealousy? You've been bested by your sleazy competition?"

He shook me hard enough to rattle my teeth. "This is serious, goddammit! Or have you forgotten about my friend who got slaughtered last night?"

Words tumbled from my lips. "You think _I_ had something to do with Gwen Foster's murder?"

Orion dropped his hands and spun around. He muttered a curse under his breath.

"I'm sorry, what was that?"

"I said of course I don't think you had anything to do with Gwen's death. I don't happen to believe in coincidences either."

"I fail to see the—"

"No, you wouldn't see it," he cut me off with another glare. "And even if you did know anything, which I suspect you do, you're not gonna tell me jack shit, are you?"

"I'm still asleep. That's got to be what's happening. This is one of those weird dreams where my subconscious dumps a ton of unrelated bullshit into one contiguous—"

"You're not dreaming, Doc."

"I have no idea what you're talking about. I never met Gwen Foster. I know one person in Darkwater Bay, and _know_ is pushing it."

"Tell me the name of that person."

Dread started strangling me again. I didn't have to remind myself that what little I knew of Orion started with lies. Our coincidental meeting was nothing of the sort. Every time my new friends showed up, ironically, Orion had been the man of the hour. How stupid did he think I really was?

"Doc."

"No way, Orion. I'm not telling you anything. Your alibi for last night might've checked out, and you could've been states away when Foster died, but that doesn't clear your name by a long shot. You don't believe in coincidences and neither do I. Beyond that, we've got nothing in common."

Soft laughter made my skin prickle. "We've got a hell of a lot more in common than you want to admit."

"Why were you spying on me in Washington? Why did you follow me tonight?"

He grinned and strode past me through the door. "I don't owe you any answers, Dr. Eriksson. And you're welcome, for saving your lovely ass a second time."

I dashed to the phone on the nightstand and dialed the number Haverston gave me a few hours earlier.

"Haverston."

"It's Helen Eriksson."

"Good morning, doctor. We haven't uncovered—"

"I'm not calling about the case," I said. "Someone broke into my hotel room and stole my computer. Someone followed me to Darkwater Bay. I need your help."

"You're at the Montcliff, right?"

"Room eight-seventeen," I said.

"I'll be right there."

"You won't find anything here, officer. You may already know the answers to the questions I have."

"We should still process the crime scene."

"I want you to tell me everything you know about Johnny Orion."

"Orion? Is he the one who broke into your room?"

"No." Yes. "Haverston, Orion owns a private security company, correct?"

"Yeah, but—"

"Does he employ private investigators?"

"You want to hire Orion?"

"Please answer my question."

"Technically, no. Orion's business provides private security to businesses and wealthy folks in Nightingale, Bay View and Beach Cliffs. The only person on his staff with a PI license is Orion himself. Why are you asking me about him? Did you learn something we should know about his alibi?"

"I'm sure it checks out," I said. "What about other private detectives in the city?"

"There are a few. Probably more than our fair share for a city this size. Does this relate to Gwen Foster?"

"I'm not sure." I bit into the fleshy mound of my lower lip. Somebody trustworthy needed to know what was going on. Ordinarily, at least in the business realm, that person would've been David Levine. My mind saw an impenetrable steel door slam shut and lock for eternity. David was out. I didn't know whether or not I could trust Haverston with sensitive information.

_Roll the dice, Helen. You've got to turn to somebody here. At least until you can talk to George Hardy._ I cleared my throat but the words still came out like gravel and shards of glass. "It has come to my attention that a couple of private investigators might've been following me before I left Washington D.C. The suggestion was that these men are in business in Darkwater Bay."

"Suggested by whom?" I heard the concern ratchet up in Haverston's tone.

"I can't tell you that. Now my room has been broken into, and while I didn't see the men responsible, the voices sounded familiar."

"Jesus Christ. I'm sending a unit over right away. I'll be there in fifteen minutes. Don't touch anything. Don't leave the room."

"Haverston—" he already hung up.

Don't touch anything. Ha. I strode to the closet and flung open the accordion door. My eyes fluttered shut. I hated the clothes that comprised my wardrobe now. Nothing black. Nothing with a classic, clean cut. Nothing that remotely resembled me. The ruse to disguise my appearance had been an overwhelming failure if Orion was to be believed.

I tore out a pair of jeans and a lightweight dark blue sweater. Pacing commenced until a light knock on my door nearly startled me out of my skin. No weapon. I glanced at my Rolex. Six ten. I wondered how soon Hardy would be in his office, how soon we could ink a temporary arrangement that might give me some authority—and a sidearm.

"Stupid gun control laws," I muttered under my breath. A quick peek through the door and Haverston's face came into view with two other officers. I flung it open. "Whoever was here is long gone, and I'm certain they didn't leave prints behind."

No, something about their methodology screamed that they had done enough breaking, entering and abduction at the behest of a mastermind to know better than to leave clues behind. I stepped aside before Haverston could push me out of the way.

"How long did you wait to call me after they left?"

"Not even five minutes."

He depressed the call button on the walkie-talkie on his shoulder and muttered police code into it. "Talk to the desk clerks, the doorman, anybody in the hotel coffee shop and get back to me."

"May I ask what good it will do if you don't know what these men look like?"

His eyes narrowed. "Let me take a stab at it. Neither one is a prime example of physical fitness, but one is so big, it looks like his fat head is sitting on top of his shoulders instead of a neck."

My jaw dropped.

"The other, while he has a neck, has a distinct odor of a man who neither bathes frequently or has much concern for the amount of tobacco he smokes."

I hadn't noticed that part in D.C., but now that Haverston mentioned it, there was an unusual bouquet in my hotel room. "How can you possibly know who these men are?"

"When you mentioned private detectives breaking in and stealing, they were the first two that popped into my mind. Your report wouldn't be the first one made against them."

I shuddered. "Who would hire them?"

"You'd be surprised how much use for unethical people there is in this city. And before you ask, Orion wouldn't have either one of them on staff at his business."

"You're an Orion fan," I said dully.

"Personally, I think the guy's a prick, but he's not a thief."

That didn't explain why Orion was following me. What was his interest in meeting me before I came to Darkwater Bay? Only George Hardy could answer that question. Or Rodney Martin. "Go ahead and have them process my room," I said after a moment of reflection and a snap decision.

"Where are you going?"

I tugged one boot on and reached for the other. "It might be too early for me to pay a visit to George Hardy, but it's not too early for me to wake Rodney Martin."

Haverston shuffled his feet and stared at the floor.

"What?"

"You're going to Captain Martin's home?"

"I need answers that won't wait until police admin drags its sorry ass into the office for the day."

"But..." He censored himself.

"But what, Haverston? What aren't you telling me?"

He jerked his head toward the doorway and left the room. When we were in the relative privacy of the hallway, Haverston continued.

"Dr. Eriksson, the last people on earth who can give you answers are George Hardy, Donald Weber and Rodney Martin. The only guy who knows what's really going on at Central Division is Jerry Lowe."

"The chief of detectives."

Haverston nodded.

"How many people knew George Hardy asked me to come to Darkwater Bay, Charlie?" I read his name off the tag on his chest. Officer Charlie Haverston.

"As far as I know, nobody."

"Meaning what exactly?"

He shrugged.

"This is no time to be reticent." I amended at his confused gaze. "Don't hold back. Do you have a better explanation for how private detectives from Darkwater Bay tried to forcefully remove me from my home in Washington? Somebody knew George called me. They didn't want me coming here."

"That seems to make sense." Still, reluctance radiated from every pore.

"What you say to me is absolutely confidential. It goes no further, Charlie. I need to know what I walked into here, all right?"

"I really shouldn't say anything, doctor. I mean, I don't have anything more than rumors and innuendo."

"Which are what exactly? Please. Perhaps I didn't express clearly enough what happened to me at the hands of these private investigators in D.C. I believe it was their intention to abduct me. They tried to remove me to an unknown location. This is serious, Charlie."

He nodded. "I'm sure it's more serious than either one of us knows."

"Tell me about these rumors."

Haverston cleared his throat and stared at the floor. "My personal opinion is that Chief Lowe is a paranoid control freak."

"All right."

He stared up at me with hard eyes. "He wouldn't take news that Hardy and Weber were bringing in somebody from the outside lying down, Dr. Eriksson."

"Meaning?"

Another head shake, this one conveying utter disgust. "Never mind."

"Are you implying that a high ranking official in the Darkwater Bay police department would be inclined to break the law to keep me out of Darkwater Bay?"

"Maybe not break it. Bend it for sure. Chief Lowe has a rather fluid interpretation of the law."

I saw that clearly. "So perhaps the intention wasn't to hurt me, but to scare me off."

The time line didn't jibe. Hardy called sometime while I was at Rick's funeral, between ten and eleven Eastern Time. That would've been between seven and eight Pacific Time. It was shortly after six when the two goons from Darkwater Bay accosted me in the lobby of the Ritz. Not enough time to fly to D.C. and find me. Unless...

"Charlie," I reached out and gripped his hand. "This is important. You said you didn't think George would've told anyone that he wanted to bring me to Darkwater Bay to consult on a few cases."

"That's right."

"When I spoke to the commissioner, I got the impression that he had a specific case in mind that he wanted my insight on. Of all you know about this city, do you have any idea what case would bother him enough to ask for help from the outside, one that perhaps is a sore spot with Chief Lowe?"

"It could be any number of them," he said slowly. "We haven't got a very good reputation around here."

"Think carefully."

"It seems too ironic to me that you showed up the same night as another dismemberment."

I agreed but kept my thoughts buried under a concerned façade. "Anything else?"

Haverston's eyes darted past me, took a detour over his left shoulder only to return and settle on my face. "Only one that seems a little too obvious."

"Tell me."

His lips moved. Sound did not happen. I read the message just the same. _Danny Datello_.

That made sense. My head and heart were in complete agreement that Uncle Sully might reach out to a vast network of resources in his attempt to find out what I knew, what I had done about it and how the feds were responding. It had to be part of the solution to the puzzling shadow that had lurked its way into my world.

Something still didn't add up. How in the world could Datello possibly know that I might end up in Darkwater Bay? There was no way he could've learned about Rick's last confession, that he would suspect that he was next on my list.

"Do you understand?" Haverston cut into my thoughts softly.

I nodded. "I think so."

"It might bear consideration, exactly what the chief knew and who he might have shared that information with before you got here, Dr. Eriksson."

My eyes snapped into focus. "Yes. That's an interesting observation, Charlie. Thank you for sharing it with me."

Problem was, it was a twist I understood all too well from my father's history. Not all men in law enforcement are incorruptible. Question was, did Jerry Lowe fall into that category or not? If he was morally flexible, he might be exactly the man I needed.

### Chapter 10

The key to assessing any situation most effectively is to keep everyone involved off guard. When people's expectations aren't met, they don't read subtle signals as well. In fact, they're so off kilter, it gives me a better chance to see motives. It's basic psychology.

With that in mind, I refocused on what Rodney Martin probably remembered about me from university. I tend to favor the stereotypical look of the environment. It's part of what Wendell taught me about blending in. _The chameleon survives because he can fade into oblivion. He can see danger before it arrives, Sprout. It makes him much more difficult to catch._

Today, I needed to abandon that rule. My goal was to stick out like the proverbial sore thumb, to defy every expectation Rodney might've shared with his superiors when I walked into Central Division.

A cream suit with gold jewelry set the stage for a socialite attending a brunch with her philanthropic planning committee. I looked less like a psychologist and more like an heiress. And there was certainly no trace of federal law enforcement clinging to my aura when I climbed into the tiny hybrid and engaged the GPS that would guide me to central Darkwater Bay.

The last time Rodney saw me, I was gangly, in a tweed jacket with hair in a tight bun and a pair of bookish glasses perched on the end of my nose.

Today, I could've been a Hollywood starlet on the way to a photo shoot or an awards luncheon. I clutched the tiny handbag under my arm and walked up the stone stairs to the home of central's law enforcement nexus.

Heads turned. In part, it might've been due to the oversized sunglasses I wore and left in place after entering the building. Darkwater Bay was just as foggy in the morning as it had been when my flight landed at midnight.

"Could you direct me to the administrative offices?" A desk officer stared up at me when I asked for assistance. I glanced at my Rolex. "I have an appointment with Commissioner Hardy this morning at eight."

"Uh. Elevator," he stammered. "Eighth floor. When you get off the elevator, George's receptionist will meet you."

I turned to leave.

"Excuse me," the voice called after me. "Are you Dr. Eriksson?"

A smile lit up the room, designed to disarm and dazzle. "Yes. I wasn't aware that anyone knew I was coming."

"It's all anyone has talked about since that murder last night."

Ah yes. Poor dead Gwen Foster. If Lowe had been ignorant of my arrival and not behind the PIs following me, he certainly had heard I was here by now.

Rickety elevator doors jerked shut. So far, Central Division looked like it might be on the cusp of becoming a condemned building. Layers of grime had been buffed away from the spacious lobby floor but had left deep scratches in the tiles. Once white stone was stained yellow. The wood railings and information desk were chipped, the finish faded and worn.

A hand shot between the doors. "Hold the elevator!"

I pressed the "open" button on the wall panel. And almost gasped.

Perfectly pressed in dark blue Armani, a statuesque man stepped into the small deathtrap box that would deliver me to the eighth floor. Dark hair highlighted his olive skin. His cheeks dented when he flashed a white, perfectly straight smile.

"Thank you."

Blue gray eyes twinkled down at me. Another towering specimen in Darkwater Bay. This one was much less muscular than Johnny Orion, and possibly older too. Threads of gray streaked his temples.

"We're going to the same floor," another flashy smile. Disarming.

I reinforced my goal, to be the one who stunned others into showing their tells. I returned it at 100 megawatts. "I'm meeting some people this morning."

"Me too." His hand thrust forward. "Jerry Lowe. And you are?"

"Helen Eriksson. Dr. Helen Eriksson."

His eyes widened. Mission accomplished.

"Special Agent Helen Eriksson?"

"I'm not what you expected, am I?"

"Frankly, no. This is a pleasant surprise, doctor." But the twinkle vanished in an instant, and the brilliant smile came off more than a little bit forced.

"The way I burst onto that crime scene last night had to have left a very poor impression with your detectives, Chief Lowe. I apologize for that. This consultation could've been handled better."

Color suffused his neck above the crisp collar. "I hope that my detectives weren't entirely rude."

Got to him again. They had only been partially rude. "They were very gracious under the circumstances. I'm sure you realize that in my line of work, I'm the last person that local authorities like to see at their fresh crime scenes."

"I suppose so."

Lowe looked sufficiently discomfited by the time the elevator doors opened. I pushed the envelope a little harder.

"I would so appreciate a formal introduction to the commissioner, Chief Lowe." Super dazzler between the lips, demure glance down, but not before I caught a glimpse of the lines creasing Lowe's forehead. "I've only spoken to Commissioner Hardy on the telephone, so you see, you're really the first person in authority that I've met in Darkwater Bay."

Let him choke on reality when Rodney saw me. He could interpret it as a bald-faced lie, or disrespect of Rodney's authority. Either way, it kept him unbalanced with me, and that's exactly what I wanted.

"Of course, doctor. After you." His hand swept the open space in front of us, and I stepped into a different universe. At least as it related to the main lobby of the police headquarters.

Plush carpeting swallowed my low heels. Cream and deep burgundy office furniture populated the spacious reception area. Hardy's girl sat behind a mahogany desk reminiscent of a judge's bench. Her telephone chimed rather than rang. She held up one perfectly sculpted nail at Lowe and me and answered.

"Commissioner Hardy's office, how may I direct your call?" Her pause whispered confidentiality across the space separating us. "Yes, Commander. I'll let him know you're running ten minutes late. Chief Lowe and Dr. Eriksson just arrived now."

A grinding squeak was muffled behind Lowe's clenching jaw.

"May I ask who is joining us?"

He glanced down at me and pasted on another smile. I felt the phantom pat on my head that his eyes conveyed. _Don't you worry your pretty little head, ma'am._ "Allow me to make the introductions," he said.

"Tracy, we'll head into George's conference room."

"He actually requested that you wait for him in there, Chief Lowe, until Commander Darnell arrives. He and Chief Weber would like to meet with Dr. Eriksson privately in his office for a few minutes first."

His charm took a decided turn toward a slither. "Then I won't have the pleasure of making the introductions, Dr. Eriksson. I believe I'll check in with my detectives downstairs before we chat. Pleasure meeting you."

"This way, doctor."

I followed her down a wide hallway, past several closed doors, all matching the mahogany of her desk, until we reached one slightly ajar. Tracy knocked lightly and pushed the door open. "Commissioner George Hardy, Chief Donald Weber, this is Dr. Helen Eriksson."

Hardy looked very much like I had imagined when he fell into bumpkin vernacular on the phone with me. Portly polar bear. A shock of white hair was coiffed neatly. His suit was a little too tight in the belly. His jowls hung from a round, shiny face.

Weber's external appearance, I soon learned, was a perfect match to his affectation. He glided from one of the wingback chairs in front of Hardy's desk and clasped my hand for a sandwich shake. "Dr. Eriksson, we are absolutely delighted to meet you. May I have Tracy bring you anything? Coffee? Tea?"

"Coffee, black, thank you."

He wore a police uniform, bedecked with his rank in bars on the collar and a finely polished badge that designated his title as police chief around the city seal.

"Won't you sit down, Dr. Eriksson?"

"Please, call me Helen," I sat in the other wingback and stared at Hardy. "Let's not mince words, gentlemen. Was Jerry Lowe aware that you requested I consult on a few cases for Darkwater Bay prior to my arrival at a crime scene last night?"

Hardy's jowls sagged. "We're not entirely sure, Helen. May I ask why that's important?"

"I met him in the elevator on the way up to your office. The warmth he exuded after I introduced myself was about two degrees shy of arctic."

Weber crossed his legs, folded his hands in his lap. "It is entirely possible that Jerry heard rumors that we wanted to bring _someone_ in from the outside. There were only three people aware of the identity of the one we wanted, Helen. George, me and someone you haven't met yet, Commander Chris Darnell from the state police. Well, four if you consider that Rodney Martin brought you to our attention in the first place."

"Darnell heads a special task force for the governor," Hardy said. "OSI, or the Office of the Special Investigator. Governor Collangelo created it specifically for Darkwater Bay."

"I see."

"Do you?" Weber asked. "Because for an outsider stepping into this city, it's generally a difficult concept to grasp, that our city would require a special investigative team through the state police to essentially police the police."

"I was at a crime scene last night, Mr. Weber. I think I have an inkling that there are problems here."

"The fight for jurisdiction," Hardy spoke to Weber with disgust. "We'd have had a hell of a worse fight on our hands if Jerry'd been around."

"I believe the detectives from Central Division mentioned that had Mr. Lowe been present, there would've been no question regarding jurisdiction."

Tracy slipped back into the room and placed a delicate china cup and saucer on Hardy's desk. "If you need anything else, let me know."

Hardy waited until she closed the door. "This seems a little cloak and dagger I'm sure. We've got our reasons."

Obviously. I sipped the coffee. "One of the officers who assisted me at the crime scene last night, Charlie Haverston, intimated that the timing of the Foster murder seemed beyond coincidental. He suggested that this old case that was never closed to anyone's satisfaction might be the reason you wanted my help."

"Charles is a good police officer," Weber said. "Our uniformed officers have better instincts than—"

"Now Don, let's not scare her off," Hardy beamed at me, but his weary eyes told another story. Yes, he was old and tired, but there was underlying fear.

"If I may be direct."

"Please," George said. "It's one of the reasons your name came up in our conversations. You made quite an impression on a young Rodney Martin once upon a time, for being a brilliant psychologist, but also for making your point without much fuss."

"If there are so many problems in law enforcement, specifically in Central Division, why don't you clean house so to speak?"

"I'd love to share that information with you, Helen, but until we've reached an agreement with you to work in Darkwater Bay, I'm afraid I can't divulge many details," Hardy said.

"Perhaps it would've been wise to secure a contract prior to sending me to a crime scene."

"I hoped it would emphasize the seriousness of our situation, doctor," Weber said. "If you could see the carnage and understand the dynamic within Central Division, perhaps it would impress upon you the urgency we feel. I promise you, this case will not be closed if Central Division investigates."

"And I'm still unaware of any compelling reason that you would retain detectives of the caliber of Flynn Myre. Rogers and Daltry weren't very impressive either."

"This is what I had in mind," Hardy's chest puffed out a little bit. "We'd do this on a temporary basis, say a month on this new case that has the disturbing parallels to the Bennett girl's murder. At the end of that time, we can reevaluate what you'd like to do, Helen."

"But?"

"We need assurances that whatever information you may learn during the course of your investigation aren't shared with your former colleagues at the FBI."

Nobody but me could see the orange glow on the horizon from that burning bridge. "Is that all?"

Hardy continued. "We have a strong tradition of cleaning up our own messes in Darkwater Bay."

"How does that gel with the governor's special police force?"

"There are aspects of this situation that Chris is aware of."

I looked at Weber. He stared at his hands. "But not all of them."

His head rose, turned toward me. "That is correct, Dr. Eriksson. We would prefer that if you learn certain things about our police department that you will give us the opportunity to manage them in house."

I snorted. "You won't fire inept detectives. You don't—"

"Helen," Hardy interrupted softly. "You don't understand the scope of this mess. It'll make more sense when I can give you more details."

"Such as?"

Weber rose and started pacing. "If we knew who it was safe to fire without turning the city on its ear, we'd do it."

"Exactly how damaging is it?" My gaze roved from one man to the other. "That's the crux of your hesitation, your complicity in letting the status quo have free rein around here, isn't it? Someone is blackmailing you. They aren't asking for money. They simply like things the way they are."

Weber crumpled to the point that I wondered if his starched suit had assumed the role of his skeleton. He sat down hard. "It's embarrassing more than anything else. But because there are moral turpitude clauses in both my and George's contracts, it would mean that the first two people out the door would be us."

"Affairs?"

"Horrifically compromising photographs," Weber's agony bled from his eyes. "My family would be devastated."

"Hell, honey, I just like my job," George said. "The last person who would be shocked by what this sleazy li'l bastard's been holdin' over my head for ages is Mrs. Hardy. We sorta got one of them whatchacallems. Arrangements."

"This might be a leap, but I'm assuming that Chief Lowe is unaware of this situation, since you've excluded him from this part of my contract negotiation."

"Jerry Lowe," Weber sighed.

"Do you think he has a similar threat hanging over his head?"

"I expect he could perpetrate such an atrocity," Hardy muttered.

"Interesting."

Both men stared at me.

"Only from the perspective of the power structure in your police department. Several people have mentioned him to me prior to our first meeting this morning."

"And?" Hardy's jaw quivered.

"It would seem that his absence from last night's power struggle was unusual," I said. "In fact, it rather felt like Rogers and Daltry had a _wait 'til daddy gets home_ attitude when they were arguing with Detective Briscoe. What distressed me the most was that the crime scene division wasn't allowed access while the debate raged."

"You observed a great deal, Helen," Hardy said. "What do you say? We'll play this by ear. If it takes a month to close this case or a year, you're welcome to stay on board for the duration—"

"Commissioner Hardy, I'm not sure you grasp what it is that I do. I'm not a police detective. I don't investigate crimes. I look at evidence and try to determine the type of person most likely to have committed the crime. Yes, I can review the Bennett case and give you an impression as to whether or not I believe these murders are linked, but I cannot do the jobs of your detectives."

"Perhaps you could keep them focused in the right direction."

"Mr. Weber, I already directed four of your uniformed officers at the crime scene last night. As we speak, they're talking to neighbors, verifying the alibi of the man who found Ms. Foster's body and attempting to locate her next of kin."

"That's exactly what we're talkin' about, Helen. If it were up to me—" I did a double take at his choice of words, because as the commissioner, it was certainly up to him, "—I'd just as soon leave these uniformed guys on the case with you than turn it over to the detective squad."

In many police jurisdictions I encountered in large cities, the police detectives didn't have the time to do all of the legwork in a homicide investigation. The manpower required for that would've bankrupted the police departments. They relied on uniformed officers to canvass neighborhoods and search for leads that detectives could in turn follow or delegate back to the assigned officers.

"Of course we'd make things nice and official on your part," Hardy continued. He yanked open a drawer and rifled through it. "Detective badge just to make things kosher, and a weapon too, if you think you'd need it."

That much was a deal breaker from my perspective, the weapon. "Of course I'd need a weapon. I'm simply not sure that I would qualify as a detective, should the case close and the prosecutor would require my testimony."

"I doubt with your history at the FBI that it would be questioned at all, Helen," Weber said. "From that perspective, you're overqualified to be a police detective."

Until some slick attorney started digging into what I did for a living. Hardy and Weber weren't thinking far enough ahead. There was the other matter too. Hardy knew Rick was dead. He couldn't know the black cloud on the horizon, one that threatened to follow me no matter where I went.

It was full disclosure for me. "You should know before we get too serious about this discussion that my ex-husband, Rick Hamilton was murdered recently." My reputation for leaving jaws gaping in my wake was intact. "You should also be aware of why I divorced him. He was arrested for money laundering for a notorious organized crime family on the East Coast."

"My God!" Hardy gasped. "I had no idea when I called you."

"You can understand my decision to leave the FBI a bit better now, I trust," I said. Bitterness crept into my voice, much as suspicion had invaded the minds of my former peers. "There are those in Washington who believe, despite the fact that I immediately divorced my husband, that I wasn't ignorant of his crimes."

"Were you?" Weber grew bold, possibly because all three of us carried some sort of explosive secret we'd just as soon stay buried. They had barely scratched the surface of mine.

"Of course." It was the antithesis of the low profile life that Wendell wisely hammered into my brain. I knew first hand the dangers of a two-criminal household. "I was a federal agent. Had I known what he was doing, I'd have arrested him myself."

Hardy nodded once, and I half expected a string of drool to leak into the crack of his very canine jaw line. "It's good enough for me. Hell, the sins of the father are the same as the sins of the spouse. They don't got a thing to do with how you do your job. So what do you say, Helen?"

The irony of his remark made a tiny smile creep over my face. _Ah, simple George. You have no idea what you're getting yourself into here._ "I think, provided that the same level of confidentiality I'm offering you is returned in kind, that we have an agreement." Hell, I'd agree for the sidearm alone at this point. The thieving PIs still weighed heavily on the scales of concern.

George slid the badge and gun across his desk. "Then welcome to Darkwater Bay, detective."

"I do have one other stipulation," I said. "And this is a deal breaker."

Wary, Weber asked, "And what would that be?"

"I report directly to you, sir. I don't want whatever is wrong in this city creeping into what needs to happen next."

"But..." Hardy scratched his head. "I thought you said you aren't like a normal detective."

"I'm not, but whether you realize this or not, you've got four uniformed officers very capable of closing this Foster case. I'd like to keep Haverston and the three other men he had helping him at the crime scene directly involved in this investigation."

"Then you don't want us to push for Downey Division to take the lead on this case?" Weber looked a little confused too. I had a secondary gain—keeping them off kilter for a little while longer.

"I think that Chief Lowe will be far more amenable to this staying in central's jurisdiction," I reminded them, "and if you ever have the opportunity to remove some of the detective dead weight, I can't think of a better job interview than closing a murder case for the potential replacements."

"What about OSI?" Hardy asked. "It's a resource you could have at your disposal, Helen."

And prying eyes looking over my shoulder while I did other things. "If the citizens of this city are going to have their faith restored in the police, it has to happen through this department. If it becomes necessary to use OSI, we'll tap the resource. Until then, I'd rather keep this investigation on our terms, gentlemen."

The magic words were invoked. Hardy and Weber almost wanted their dirty laundry hidden in the back of the closet more than they wanted justice for whoever killed Gwen Foster. What I wanted dwarfed their petty concerns. I couldn't wait to start digging into Darkwater Bay's seedy past.

### Chapter 11

I perched on the counter in Maya's autopsy room, heels clunking against the stainless steel cabinets like a clock in need of repair. She was running her fingers over my shiny new badge. She whistled soft and low between her teeth.

"How serious are they, Helen?"

"About me being a bonafide police detective?" I shrugged. "I suppose it's directly proportionate to my ability to figure out who killed Ms. Foster."

"Good luck with that one."

"No good news, huh?" I grinned. "And here all these years I thought you were the sharpest scalpel on the autopsy tray."

"Cute," she grinned at me. "I have some pictures if you'd like to see what I found when we did the complete exam."

"Give me the Cliffs Notes version."

"Gwen Foster was an out of shape but normal-weight, thirty-four year old white female who did not smoke. She did drink, a little on the heavy side if her gastric contents were any indicator of normal consumption."

"What did you find?"

"Lots of merlot. Her liver function tests were skewed toward signs of chronic and habitual consumption."

"Guess that isn't a great segue to ask if you'd like to have dinner with me, huh?"

"Don't interrupt," Maya grinned. "Where was I? Liver. Yeah, she had close to a liter in her stomach which is what, roughly a bottle?"

"Seven-hundred-fifty milliliters is the content of the average bottle." I wondered about my liver and put the thought aside.

"There was no food in her stomach, only wine. Her BAL, had she been driving, would've put her over the legal limit.

"As for sexual assault, there is no question that it happened close to the time of death. We've got plenty of DNA without her fingernails providing additional samples. I found black pubic hairs on the combing, and the swabs were full of—"

"I get the picture."

"As to the cause of death," she dropped a file on the counter beside me, "I'd really like your impression of some of the photos Billy took before the autopsy."

While I perused, she continued.

"We got her medical records which basically confirmed that she was a thirty-something woman in exceptional health. There was only one point of discord between that record and her body."

"Are these bruises?" I pointed at the strange discoloration along Foster's cervical spine.

"They would've been spectacular if she hadn't died shortly after the injury was inflicted."

"What would cause bruising like that? She's not that bony and petite," I said. "She was lying supine on plush carpeting. Is this normal livor mortis?"

"Nope. If it were normal, you'd see the pressure points all over her bony prominences, and as you so astutely observed, she's not that bony and petite."

"You have a theory."

Maya grinned again. "Did you completely gloss over the major incongruity between her medical record and what I learned during the autopsy?"

"Little bit. What was it?"

"Gwen Foster was a mother."

I looked up. "Are we looking at a child abduction, Maya?"

"I highly doubt it." She flipped through the file for another picture, one that outlined the trauma inflicted during the sexual assault. Maya pointed to a fine, barely visible hairline discoloration. "See that?"

"What is it? Hair on the camera lens?"

"It's a scar."

"She had an episiotomy."

"Right," Maya nodded. "Which in itself isn't so terribly unusual. However, since the late 80s, the standard of care recommends a mediolateral incision. Ms. Foster's was clearly midline."

"And this matters because?"

"She would've been extremely young to have a child when midlines were routinely performed. In fact, during the time of her sexual maturation, it would've been more likely for no episiotomy to be performed at all."

I cringed. "You mean..."

"Yep. They let them tear if they don't stretch."

"Yet another good reason to resist that particular siren's call. Again, why is this significant?"

"For one, her medical record indicates that Gwen Foster never had a child."

"All right. That's significant. But it wouldn't be the first time a woman lied to her doctor. Say she was very young and put the baby up for adoption."

"True enough, but I kept coming back to the type of episiotomy she had, and the reality that in order for her to have one in this country, she would've had to give birth at age four, roughly."

I chuckled. "I think we can rule that one out."

"So I did a little research."

"This is what I love about you. You're like Quincy with ovaries."

"You're not old enough to remember Quincy," Maya winked. "But I take that as a great compliment. I think he was the first character in entertainment to show what forensic pathologists can learn from the dead."

"Keep going, oh great researcher. What did you learn?"

"Say she had a baby as a teenager. It would still fall outside the standard of care for what she received."

"Unless she went to a simple country doctor who doesn't follow the standards for OBGYN practice."

"True," Maya said, "but I'm confident that even if that were the case, she'd have received the mediolateral incision instead of the midline."

"Which leads you to conclude?"

"Midline incisions are routinely performed in Central America."

"How does that help me figure out who killed her?"

"Because," Maya said, "as you beat into my skull every time one of your cases landed on my autopsy table, even the most minuscule and seemingly unimportant detail about your victims could mean the difference between writing an accurate profile and not. Gwen Foster had a secret baby that is categorically denied by her official medical record. Who knows what kind of other secrets she had?"

"Good point. Let's get back to these marks. Any idea what made them?"

"I have a theory," Maya nodded. "I can't prove it without her hyoid bone."

"Strangulation?"

"With a poorly fashioned and utilized garrote. Wanna know why I think that?"

"I'm waiting with baited breath."

"I think her killer was female."

I dropped the file.

"Got your attention now, don't I?"

"Yes, you do."

"Think about the nature of a garrote."

"Rope, twisting action effects strangulation by depriving the brain of oxygenated blood."

"Have you ever seen a garrote fashioned like this?" She procured another photograph. It showed a length of rope attached to a wooden handle on one end with a loop at the other end of the rope. "Slip it around the neck, use the bar to twist the rope."

"And you think this was the cause of the bruises?"

"Stop scowling at me."

"Why not use it to twist the way it was designed, instead of what, prying the bar against her back for leverage?" I felt the theory wash over me in a very logical wave. "Someone smaller and weaker would've needed the leverage. That's actually a very good theory, Maya."

"What doesn't fit is the sexual assault."

"It could. Not all men are giants."

Maya laughed. "You've been here what, half a day? The men in Darkwater Bay _are_ giants. I've heard all kinds of wild theories about why, but since I got here, I haven't seen one of them less than six two, except for Tony Briscoe who claims he's taller than he looks on account of his round belly." She sobered in a blink. "I think, unless the rest of her remains are recovered, that this is the closest we'll get to determining cause of death. As for time of death, I'm confident. After five, before eight."

"That gives our guest last night an iron clad alibi. At least we know he wasn't the one who physically killed her."

"Orion's a brute," Maya said. "He'd have had to strangle her on his knees while she was standing. Plus, Billy collected his cigarette butts from the street where he smoked. We'll have his DNA to definitively rule him out in a few days."

"You're sure they were his?"

"Positive," Maya said. "He was smoking when Forsythe arrived at the scene. We figured that with the hullaballoo from Daltry and Rogers after you let him go, we'd be wise to collect the sample so there isn't a wrongful arrest in this thing."

"That only rules him out as the rapist. What about her dismemberment?"

"It happened shortly after she died. Within half an hour at most."

"So your estimated time of death alibis him on that too."

"What're you thinking?" Maya struggled to hoist herself up on the counter beside me, her shoes thumping offbeat to mine.

"Someone who knew an awful lot of details in the Bennett case dismembered Gwen Foster. I was over at central, evidenced by the badge, and after I met with the mucky-mucks, Rodney took me to his office and let me review the case file from the Bennett murder."

"Which made you think of Orion."

"There were a lot of cops who knew the details of that case."

"Helen, from what Billy told me, there wasn't a whole lot of information that didn't become common knowledge. Welcome to Darkwater Bay. And speaking of which, I think it's time you tell me what brought you out here."

"Divorce, murder, the usual stuff."

"You mentioned that you and Rick divorced."

"Two years ago," I said. I let my gaze wander to a distant point of nothing. "I buried him this week."

"Helen!"

"He was murdered, under investigation by the FBI prior to that, for laundering money."

"I'm so sorry."

"The emotional umbilical was cut a long time ago." Honestly, it had never really existed. Rick was a bit player in the drama that was my life. He didn't know it, but my reason for accepting his proposal was about as genuine as his for proffering it. "Still, it wasn't easy to see his life end violently." No, it had been beautiful, necessary, just.

"I guess I shouldn't ask if you're ready to go cruising the bars with me for men."

"Probably a bit premature." Yet visions of Orion and how far things might've gone while we were pretending to be Todd and Diana flitted through my mind. Wings flapped in my belly. It had been too long since I succumbed to any such urges. Orion ignited them. The fact that he lied to me should've doused any desire. Oddly, I could still feel him imprinted on me from the close contact in my bathtub this morning.

"You'll call me on the DNA right away?"

"Of course," Maya said. "But I really don't expect a match. What do you make of the theory that this could've been done by a woman?"

"It wouldn't be the first time a rape and murder were committed by a male-female team working together. However, I would imagine that even detectives as daft as those in Darkwater Bay would have a hard time missing the kind of behavior we'd see from a duo."

"Meaning what?"

"A secret is never safe when more than one person shares it," I said. "When two people are involved in a violent crime like this one, it's only a matter of time before they're caught."

"Even if one of them is a cop?"

"I didn't mean to imply that a police officer was the killer, Maya. For all I know, it could be a cop that shared too much information with someone who decided to give it a try."

"But the dismemberment is as good as a fingerprint, Helen. I pulled the old autopsy file. My predecessor, while not thorough, and omitting a great deal of pertinent information, did at least note some important details about the severed limbs."

"And it's consistent with this crime?"

"Very consistent. I'd say it was remarkable."

"Huh," I grunted softly. "That doesn't fit somehow."

"Explain."

"If the first victim was sexually assaulted, I would anticipate that subsequent victims would be similar in age. Sex offenders are typically very preferential. Why would he go for a mid teen the first time, and a thirty-something the second? It doesn't jibe."

"You'll figure it out. I've seen you work through far more baffling cases than this one." Maya nudged me with one shoulder. "Remember the spate of elderly women in Baltimore? Everybody else thought it was that, _old people die in threes_ thing until you saw the pattern."

"Ah, yes. The temp nurse who fancied himself an angel of mercy to women who reminded him of his overly strict grandmother."

"Not even your boss was convinced that something criminal happened."

"You believed it," I said. "You were the one who noticed the barely discernible signs of asphyxiation."

"We make a good team, Helen. What time do you want to meet for dinner?"

"Seven. My hotel restaurant. I'm glad you're here, Maya. I do have a strange request though."

"The stranger it is, the better I like it."

"For now, I think it would be best to let people think our relationship wasn't as friendly as it became over the years. I'd rather that people think I'm isolated out here without an ally in the world."

"You're right. That is an odd request, but I shall defer to your psychological wisdom on that one. Maybe you should come to dinner at my place rather than be seen with me in public." Maya wiggled her eyebrows conspiratorially.

"No, I want people to see me working this case. So no flirting with men at dinner. We have to at least maintain the façade of an utterly professional conversation."

### Chapter 12

It occurred to me when I walked into the Arboretum Restaurant and immediately spotted Orion sitting at the bar nursing a crystal glass of amber liquid, that perhaps my other shadows were lurking about too. Sure enough, I scanned the room and saw them trying to appear unobtrusive tucked into a corner along the restaurant wall.

Apparently, they all knew I returned to the hotel after my visit to the medical examiner this afternoon. A wild thought tickled through my brain. Who was Orion following? Them or me? Didn't it make more sense that he happened to find me being harassed by men he followed from Darkwater Bay rather than another more convoluted scenario?

That's the problem with paranoia. It can put you at the center of the universe when that's not the case at all.

I strode through the busy restaurant to the bar and tapped Orion's shoulder.

"I was wondering when you'd make an appearance."

"Funny," I said, "but I was about to say the same thing to you. It struck me that I've been vain, Mr. Orion."

His eyebrows took an exaggerated arch. "Indeed. Do tell."

"I thought you've been following me, showing up in D.C., a convenient excuse to swoop in and play hero, ingratiate yourself and make me feel indebted to you because you're interested in what I'm doing."

His chuckle was a warm, soft hug that wrapped me in desire that my delusion was true. "What makes you think I wouldn't go to such exaggerated ends to get your attention, Doc?"

"Because I observe behavior for a living, and I think that if those men trying to hide so poorly in the corner weren't here, that you wouldn't be either. This isn't about me, it's about them."

He lifted his glass in silent toast.

"Any idea why they're following me yet?"

"Not the foggiest clue."

"And I don't suppose you'd share if you did know."

The twinkle in his cerulean blue eyes intensified. "I might be coerced into sharing."

"You're a pig," I muttered.

"Hey, nobody held a gun to my head and forced me to go to your suite in D.C. I figured it was a case of mistaken identity, just like you said it was."

"So you showed up because?"

He leaned close and whispered against my neck, "Because you're gorgeous, and I have no self control when I meet a woman and want her the way I want you."

My stomach twisted and dived down to the vicinity of my left ankle. "Nice try, Orion. Why were you tailing Dumb and Dumber?"

"Why did you lie and say your name was Diana? It would've saved me a hell of a lot of trouble if I'd known they really were after you."

It was my turn to lean in and be provocative. "Is it so difficult to understand why a woman might use an alias before inviting a complete stranger into her bed?"

It was a ridiculous claim, and if Orion had the capacity for rationality, he'd have known it instantly. I gave him the name I used when I checked into the Ritz. My ruse was in play long before he showed up. Fortunately, the notion that I planned to spend the night with him stripped away his sense of reason.

Before I could retreat, Orion's hands morphed into a cage that trapped my waist. His thumbs stroked along the bottom of my ribs. "Doc."

"Let go of me. Have you lost your mind? You're not Todd and I'm not Diana." The weak delivery rendered the message ineffective. I might as well have said, _take me to bed and make wild passionate love to me all night._

The look in his eyes, predatory, hungry, made me question if I said the words my brain formed or the ones that fluttered in my belly.

"Let's get out of here," he murmured.

"I'm working, Orion." Still weak, but a little more firm.

"Fuck the job. I want you."

It took more willpower than I imagined I possessed to step out of his light, seductive embrace. "Mr. Orion, the case I'm helping to solve involves the murder of your friend Ms. Foster. I find it odd that you care more about your libido than justice for a friend."

"I'm a master of multitasking. For instance, are you aware that Dumb and Dumber have left the restaurant?"

I glanced at the empty table. "They could be on their way upstairs to ransack my room again."

A wicked grin and a jerk of his head in the direction of the door, "Are you inviting me upstairs, Doc?"

"Not a chance. It's official now, Orion. I've got a badge and a sidearm. I think I can handle it."

"I wasn't aware you lacked either one."

"We weren't exactly truthful with each other Monday night," I reminded him. "Perhaps it's merely a trend we're destined to continue. Meanwhile, the men you refuse to tell me why you're following are probably breaking into my room while we debate who has the tougher mojo."

Orion chuckled softly. "I doubt even those two are foolish enough to break into a room now guarded by private security."

"What?"

"You heard me, Doc. There's a private guard posted at your door. You can thank me later."

"I'll thank you to butt out and mind your own business."

Orion sipped another finger off his scotch and placed the glass on the napkin in front of him. "You assume that's not exactly what I'm doing. I let myself be persuaded to ignore a threat once before. It's a mistake I don't intend to repeat."

"Your mistake is letting your quarry escape."

"My quarry. You make it sound downright Shakespearean, sweetheart. I like it." Orion motioned the bartender to bring another glass. "How's the investigation into Gwen's death going? I heard you had a big day at central this morning. Old George was practically stepping on his tongue over the coup of hiring a bonafide criminal profiler."

"He didn't hire me."

"No? So you're a pickpocket on top of being the cool little liar, eh?"

I swayed close enough to brush his shoulder. "I'd love to know who your source is, Mr. Orion."

"Have you confirmed my alibi yet?"

"We have."

"But you're not convinced of my innocence."

"It's the lies you've told that make me doubt you, Mr. Orion."

"And I believe your dinner date has arrived. Give my regards to Dr. Winslow."

"Not until you tell me the truth," my feet planted firmly, arms crossed over my chest. "What investigation led you to Washington D.C., Mr. Orion? What do you know about why the bumbling PIs are following me?"

Orion lifted his drink, swirled it in the glass and watched the colors flicker in the dim bar light. "I haven't figured that out yet, but I find it damned interesting, considering who I suspect hired them."

My fingers dug into his bicep. "Who hired them, Orion?"

"Tsk. Suspicion isn't evidence, as you well know. But I'll let you know as soon as I can prove my theory."

"I'd settle for the theory."

"Meet me after you talk to the good doctor," Orion said. "I'll show you mine if you show me yours. Theory, that is." He tipped his glass and drained it.

"I don't have one yet."

"Bullshit," Orion smirked. "I've heard enough of your reputation to know that's not true. You've always got a theory, Doc. You know where to find me when you're ready to share stories."

"I can't possibly—"

"Your friend is headed this way."

Orion slid off the bar stool and saluted. "Congratulations on the new working arrangement. I sincerely hope you close this case. Gwen deserved a hell of a lot better than she got in the end."

"Give me your number. I'll call you when Maya and I finish discussing the case."

His eyes twinkled. "And here I thought you already did that when you were at the morgue earlier today."

"A lot can happen in a few hours, Orion. You should know that."

I joined Maya at our table, out of Orion's prying vision and slid into the chair.

"We had an agreement," she grinned. "That looked like flirting."

"Don't look too relaxed. I told him we're discussing the case. And I wasn't flirting. Orion knows something, and he's baiting me with the information he's withholding."

"He's involved in this murder after all?" Her eyes darted across the room. "I was so sure he wasn't one of the villains in this city."

"It's nothing."

"But you just said—"

"I know what I said, Maya," I snapped. "It's not related to the case. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be sharp. Someone has been following me since before I arrived in Darkwater Bay. It turned out that these... investigators are actually from here. I seriously doubt that it has anything to do with the murder investigation."

Her eyes widened. "Are you safe?"

The gun at my hip provided an additional layer of security, one I was accustomed to holding. I nodded. "Now that things are official with Hardy and Weber, I'd say that I'm safer now than I was when I arrived in town last night. Let's order some wine and forget about unpleasantness for an hour or two."

"Helen, are you sure you're all right?"

I rubbed my temples and dug around my memory for some tidbit of wisdom instilled by my father. Nothing came immediately. Dad hadn't prepared me for the eventuality of being stalked by corrupt PIs for an unknown reason. No, I was definitely not sure I was all right. "Yes, of course I'm fine. It's been a grueling week. Two weeks."

"I can't imagine how you're capable of working at a time like this. I realize that the divorce was long over, Helen, but it can't have been easy to hear that Rick was dead."

"Work is a balm to my soul right now."

"Of course it is," she reached out and gripped my hand. "I hope you know that if you need to talk about any of this, I'm here for you, Helen. We haven't really treaded far into the territory of friendship outside our professional relationship, but I suspect that we're both in a place where a familiar face is more than welcome."

"It's been difficult for you out here, hasn't it? Blending in, making new friends."

"I wasn't welcomed with open arms." Maya gave a slight wave to our waiter and ordered a bottle of wine and an antipasto platter. "If you've encountered any resistance from the police today, I wouldn't be surprised."

I talked about Charlie Haverston. "He seems eager to work this case with me. If the pressure from Jerry Lowe's detectives at central gets too great, I suspect his enthusiasm will wane."

"I don't like the detectives from central, not the ones I've had to deal with," Maya said.

"The true test will be tomorrow. Rodney Martin is setting me up in an office adjacent to his. Considering our history, I'm not sure how I feel about that."

"You have a history with him?"

"I was a teaching assistant in his criminal psychology course his senior year in college. What I thought was a crush turned out to be Rodney's true skill—using anyone within his reach to advance his unwavering ambition. He had no idea that George and Donald took his suggestion and asked me to come out here to consult on their cases. He was stunned to see me."

"I'm sure," Maya said. "Was it awkward seeing him again?"

"He didn't recognize me until Hardy told him who I was. It was a different story after that. Rodney hasn't changed much over the years. In fact, I wasn't surprised at all that he made police captain by the time he was thirty-five." I sipped wine and let my eyes drift around the dining room. "Then again, if incompetence is a job requirement in Darkwater Bay, I'm not sure either one of us should be too pleased that the city targeted us to join the ranks."

Our antipasto plate arrived, but before we could start nibbling, a breathless Charlie Haverston ran through the dining room to our table.

"Charlie, sit down. Join us," Maya offered.

"Can't do it. Dr. Eriksson, we need to talk. Now."

"What's wrong?" I stared up at him.

"We need to talk in private. It's important."

I looked at Maya and shrugged. "Do you mind?"

She started to rise.

"No, Dr. Eriksson. What I have to say cannot be said in a room full of strangers."

### Chapter 13

"What did you learn?"

Charlie's fingers pinched into my upper arm. He half dragged me through the lobby toward the elevators. Inside, he pressed the button for the eighth floor, but stopped the elevator before it could reach the destination.

"You're starting to worry me, Charlie. What's happening?"

"Two things." He reached into his jacket pocket and retrieved a small listening device. "It's been disabled, but one of the guys who processed your room this morning said they found three of these planted in your room. Someone is very interested in what you have to say, Dr. Eriksson."

"No surprise there. Is this why you refused to speak in front of Dr. Winslow?"

"It wasn't her specifically, ma'am. I didn't want anybody to hear what I'm about to tell you."

"And I appreciate the diligence. What did you discover today?"

"First off, Johnny Orion is lying about something. We talked to a shit load of neighbors who told us Orion has been hanging around the Foster house for the past three months. They spoke to the head of the neighborhood watch who in turn had a conversation with Orion."

"Back up," I said. "When you say hanging around do you mean visiting or providing surveillance?"

"Surveillance. The neighbor across the street seemed to be the one leading the charge. She's a real nosy type, if you know what I mean." He reached inside his jacket again and procured a small notebook. "This is from the past month. It details dates, times and what Orion was doing while he was at Gwen Foster's home."

I took the notebook and thumbed through the first few pages. "Arrived at seven twelve. Gwen five minutes ahead of him. Sitting in car in front of house. Car still there in morning until Gwen left for work. Man did not leave car." The other entries didn't vary greatly.

"What did Orion tell the head of the neighborhood watch?"

"He was keeping an eye on Gwen, like a bodyguard."

"Interesting," I murmured. I thought of the guard Orion had posted outside my room and wondered which of my early morning visitors had planted the listening devices. "Do you mind if I keep this, Charlie?" I opened my palm to reveal the bug.

"Forsythe has the other two at the crime lab. They already tested that one for prints. He's using the others to try to figure out where the signal is being transmitted."

"A device this size is most certainly short range. I imagine that the listener would have to be yards away, possibly a few stories below, to hear me. I'd like to have my room swept again," I said, "and it's probably a pretty good idea if I start looking for a more secure place to stay in the meantime."

"Chief Weber says you might be here for a while," Haverston said. "We appreciate that you advocated to keep us on the investigation, Dr. Eriksson, but—"

"No buts, Charlie. I know this puts you in an awkward position with Chief Lowe. If he has questions about the investigation, you should direct him to me or Chief Weber."

"That's not what I meant. Chief Lowe just about popped his buttons when he told us we'd be continuing on this case. He's not upset about it at all. It's Rogers and Daltry that got us concerned."

In that second, I wondered what Dad would think about a city like Darkwater Bay. Would he, like I was quickly learning, see that the good guys are necessary to balance an equation? "What did Rogers and Daltry do?"

"They reminded me that when we fail to close this case, emphasis on our inevitable failure, that a whole ton of shit is gonna come down on all of us. I couldn't help thinking about what happened to Johnny Orion, ma'am. I'm not rich like Orion. I don't have other options available."

I clasped his hand. "Charlie, you are going to solve this murder. I will do everything in my power to make sure we're looking in the right direction, but you will find the killer. My conversation with Dr. Winslow today revealed some information about Ms. Foster that is probably important. She has little doubt that the person who killed Brighton Bennett also killed Gwen Foster."

He blew out a long sigh. "I could've told you all doubt was erased from our perspective too, Dr. Eriksson."

"What did you learn?"

"Gwen Foster was born Gwen Bennett. Brighton was her cousin."

Even though the elevator was stationary, I felt the bottom drop. "I reviewed the file Myre and Orion submitted in the Bennett case this morning. It looked like they had a solid case against Salvatore Masconi."

"If you want to know the truth about that case, you're going to need a different file," Haverston's voice dropped to barely above a whisper. "You'll want the internal investigation regarding evidence tampering, Dr. Eriksson. Bradley Hanson has that file, but I doubt he'll let you even take a peek without a direct order from Chief Weber."

"What about Foster's next of kin?"

"Her father died ten years ago. She has one living relative, another cousin, Vincent Bennett who was living with her."

"Was?"

"Before she died. He's eighteen years old."

"So where is he? Although he could hardly be a person of interest since Maya is comfortable that the evidence demonstrates likelihood that the same person dismembered both Bennett women. Vincent Bennett would've been what, three years old when his other cousin died?"

"He's out of town on business, according to the neighbor."

"Where out of town?"

"Southern California."

"That's an impressive location for a teenager on business. What does he do, Charlie?"

"He took a job after graduation working for one of the local fishing companies. It looks like Ms. Foster got the job for him. He's working for her former employer, who I understand was at Central Division a couple of hours ago filing a missing person's report on Gwen."

"Damn."

"Ma'am, they both worked for Danny Datello."

Double damn. The plot just thickened, and I had a deep suspicion that the detectives tailing me were as I first expected, hired by some arm of Sully Marcos' organization.

"Are you familiar with Mr. Datello?"

"Yes." Best left at that. My confrontation with Datello was no longer going to happen on my terms unfortunately. Not if I really cared about solving the murder of Gwen Foster. I was a little surprised to realize how much it had begun to matter to me.

Must've been something in the fog.

"What do you want us to do?"

Focus snapped back on a rather stricken Charlie Haverston. "Find Vincent Bennett. Get him back to Darkwater Bay. I need to talk to him, not only about Gwen's relationships and any enemies she might've had, but also that notebook the nosy neighbor kept. Surely he has an idea why his cousin would retain the services of a bodyguard."

"What about Datello?"

"I'll talk to him first thing in the morning," I said. In the meantime, Johnny Orion owed me a serious conversation. Was he on Datello's payroll too? Had Gwen hired him? Clearly, she had been in mortal danger. Did she know who had threatened her? Why not let Danny Datello take care of the problem for her? It didn't quite link to Darkwater Bay gumshoes tailing me in D.C. There had to be a link.

What I needed was a history lesson.

"Do me a favor, Haverston. Keep all of this quiet for now. I'll give a status report to Chief Weber, but for the time being, the less people who know about our progress, the better. I'm concerned with how quickly information filters to sources who have no right to know it in this city."

"I agree."

"Were you out here when the Bennett case unfolded, Charlie?"

His cheeks flushed. "I was in middle school, ma'am."

"Call me the instant you pinpoint where Mr. Bennett is." I pulled out a blank white card with my new local cell number handwritten onto it and pressed it into his palm. "I don't care if it's in the middle of the night. And you should try to get some rest. Take shifts for rest with Taylor, Andrews and Thieg."

"What are you gonna do? Where will you spend the night tonight?"

"It's safe here for the time being. There's a private guard outside my door. However, I'd still like another sweep for electronic monitoring devices before I settle in for the night."

"I'll have Forsythe send someone over right away."

"Pick up Datello at eight in the morning and bring him to central. I'll talk to him there," I said.

Haverston pushed the button for the lobby and restarted the elevator. "I hope this goes well. I'd be lying if I said I'm not a little bit nervous, what with Datello's connection to the Bennett case years ago."

"Yeah. I doubt it's a coincidence that his employees keep finding their way to the center of this mess. The universe's sense of humor isn't quite that ironic."

Then again, nobody would ever believe my real relationship to Danny Datello. At least, I hoped they wouldn't believe it.

The elevator doors slid open, and again, a sense of impending doom slammed through me when my eyes met those of Mark Seleeby and David Levine not more than fifty feet away. "Keep me posted, Charlie. Tell Forsythe to send his tech straight to my room. I'll make sure the hotel informs the guard at the door to expect him."

### Chapter 14

Haverston swept right past David and Seleeby. Unlike me, his radar didn't register in the red zone at the sight of certain attitude. Federal agents exude it. I turned left and headed back to the restaurant, but I could feel them following and hear the steady click of polished patent leather shoes on the marble floor.

"Helen," David's fingers gripped my shoulder. "We need to talk."

I shrugged out of the light restraint. "No, I have nothing to say to either one of you."

"Then you'll listen," Seleeby chimed in. "Because we're not leaving until we've spoken our piece."

"Whatever it is, I simply don't care. My life in Washington is behind me, permanently. Is that clear enough for you, Agent Seleeby? Whatever you do, whatever information you think you've gathered, it simply doesn't matter to me."

"Helen, we think that Sully Marcos had Rick assassinated."

Well hallelujah and praise Jesus. There was that word again. Assassination. Technically, it implied the murder of an important person. I supposed that it signified the government's sense of loss of an important witness, one who I knew would never turn on his master.

"It's hardly rocket science. Marcos probably feared what you hoped would happen."

David's head jerked at Seleeby who, like the obedient dog, slouched off to the corner. David took a step closer to me. "Helen, you scared the life out of me. We had no idea what happened to you after you left the brownstone."

"Like I would stick around to witness them knock holes in the walls."

"They did no such thing. Mark told me that you accused us of sending another team to watch you. I wish we had. It would've saved me a lot of anxiety."

"Your comfort is the least of my concerns."

"You don't mean that. I know you don't." David's hand snaked out, fingers brushing lightly against my newly coiffed hair. "You look so different. It suits you."

I slapped his hand away. "Stop it, David. You can't woo me back into complacency."

"Can I woo you back home where you belong? This thing has blown over as fast as I thought it would. They had to look at you, Helen. Until we had concrete evidence of Sully Marcos' motive, there was no choice but to look at anyone who had a relationship with him. When you resigned, the way you did, it looked bad."

"I gave ten years of my life to the bureau. Monday was my reward. Thanks but no thanks. My life is moving in a different direction now."

"To Darkwater Bay? Helen."

"This is none of your business."

"Aren't you curious about why Marcos had Rick murdered?"

"I really don't care." My arms wrapped around my waist. Whatever path they were hurling headlong down really wasn't my concern. As long as they didn't consider me a suspect, it meant less than nothing to me.

"Someone embezzled a very large sum of money from an account managed at Rick's firm," David said. "An extremely large sum of money."

"Shame on Seleeby and company for not making sure all of the assets linked to the Marcos crime family at Rick's firm weren't frozen. He has no one to blame but himself, yet here I am, tainted once again. Well I won't endure a second round of what I went through when Rick was arrested, David."

"I understand what you're feeling, Helen, I really do. But running away isn't the answer. Darkwater Bay absolutely isn't the answer. Nobody survives the corruption in this city. It's a career ender."

"Then you heard the news."

"That the biggest buffoon in police administration is trying to lure you into signing a contract? Yes. You forgot to erase the messages on your voice mail before you left Georgetown."

I pulled out my badge and waved it in front of him. "You're about ten hours too late, David. It's a done deal. And it's pretty sanctimonious of you to deem this city a career ender after what the FBI has done to my professional reputation in the past three days."

"Don't do this—"

"You need to leave, David. Don't come back. Don't call me. If you want to talk to me again, you can do so through my attorney."

"Helen."

I stepped away.

"Stop running from me. Don't expect me to believe it's an accident that of all cities in the country for you to make a fresh start, you'd pick the one where Sully's nephew happens to live." David grabbed my arm and prevented retreat. His voice was low, intimate, and too quiet for anyone within earshot to hear.

I supposed later that it looked like a lover's quarrel. The twosome quickly transformed into a triangle—at least as far as any witnesses were concerned.

Orion plucked me out of David's grasp and bared his teeth. "Are you alright, Doc?" One arm shielded me from David.

"Yes, I'm fine. Mr. Orion, this is Supervisory Special Agent David Levine." The introduction didn't quell Orion's protective instincts. The man was like an apparition. I hadn't even noticed him lurking around.

"I don't care if he's the freakin' director of the FBI. Nobody grabs you like that."

"Who the hell is this guy, Helen?"

"A concerned bystander." I looked up at Orion. "Please let me handle this. I don't need you protecting me."

"It didn't look that way to me."

"Johnny, please. Let me handle this. David was about to leave anyway, weren't you, David?"

"No, I wasn't leaving. I'm not going until you come to your senses and come home."

"This _is_ her home," Orion growled. "Helen, who is this guy really?"

Jealousy arced like lightning between his eyes.

"He was my former supervisor. I'm not leaving here, all right? We'll meet later like we planned and I'll explain everything. Right now, I need to get back to my dinner guest. If you'll both excuse me." I stared hard at David. "Good bye, David. I wish you only the best."

I hooked my arm through Orion's and gave a not-so-subtle tug. Smoldering eye contact held between David and Orion, but he acquiesced and fell into step beside me.

"What the hell were you thinking?" My lips barely moved around the smile pasted on for the benefit of the spectators in the lobby. "Are you trying to make things worse for me?"

"Doc, I see two guys accost you, one of them grabs you, and in light of what happened Monday, not to mention in your hotel room this morning, what am I supposed to think?"

"That I know what I'm doing and can take care of myself."

"Like you did with the detectives Monday evening?"

"That's hardly fair. I was unarmed at the time, and the last thing I needed was to draw more attention to myself by throwing down with them in a public lobby."

Orion's laugh lacked amusement, fell hard on the side of incredulity. " _Throw down_? With those two goons? Doc, they collectively outweigh you by five hundred pounds."

"Oh would I love to give you a demonstration on why bulk doesn't matter right about now, but I've kept Maya waiting long enough. Could you please be patient for another hour before you completely destroy any chance I've got to figure out what's really happening in this city?"

"I'll wait. Your friends from Washington are still watching you."

I resisted the urge to turn around. I didn't need to anyway. Orion was right. I could feel their eyes boring into our backs. "Do me a favor, if it's not too presumptuous to ask."

"Name it." He shot a boyish grin down at me.

"I need to talk to Tony Briscoe tonight. I can't trust this place to be secure enough." I pulled the electronic device from my pocket and gauged Orion's reaction to it. "Also, you need to let your guard know that Forsythe is sending someone over to the room to sweep for more of these tonight."

"Where the hell did you find that?" Anger. Determination. Swift assessment of our surroundings. Either Orion was as practiced a liar as I am, or he truly was surprised that someone was interested enough in what I was doing to bug my hotel room.

"The room. After you left, I had Haverston process the scene."

"Good thinking. We'll find a quiet place where we can speak without any ears listening."

"Alone, Orion."

"What?"

"I want to speak to Briscoe alone."

"Why?"

"I need background information from someone who isn't too close to the investigation. You, my newest shadow, are in this up to your eyeballs whether you can see it or not."

"You learned something new? About Gwen?"

"We'll talk after I finish up with Maya."

"Screw that. Ditch her now and talk to me."

"You have serious issues with patience, Orion. No wonder you nabbed the wrong guy in the Bennett case." I let him ponder that, extricated myself from his arm and returned to dinner with Maya.

"I take it your conversation with Officer Haverston was serious." The plate of antipasto was seriously picked over. Maya left me a few olives and some cheese. She grinned. "Sorry. I was hungrier than I realized."

"It's all right. I'm going to have to cut dinner short anyway. Things are heating up in the investigation." Still, which investigation was left to her assumption. I had a niggling suspicion that everything might be linked. God only knew who else's conversations were being monitored. It might've explained how I ended up on someone's radar in Darkwater Bay before George Hardy even called me.

"Are you all right? You seem rather grim, Helen."

"Our federal tax dollars at work," I muttered.

"What?"

"Oh, two of my former colleagues from the FBI showed up while I was talking to Haverston. Apparently, they felt it was appropriate to come see me for an update on their investigation into Rick's murder rather than pick up a telephone."

The more I thought about David's message, the more conspiracies popped into my brain. If he lied, if it was their intent to lure me back to the FBI where a conversation without legal representation could be finagled, it would explain a lot. Nobody would be so careless not to freeze the Marcos assets Rick had managed. Not even the morons in Darkwater Bay's Central Division would make a mistake like that.

I frowned and considered the surveillance device in my pocket again. Had the FBI truly tracked me down today, or had they been following me all along? Wendell never conceived of the advanced tactics on the horizon for law enforcement when he subtly trained me all those years ago.

"I'm still hungry. Do you have time to have a proper meal before you have to leave?"

I picked at the remnants of the appetizer. Hunger was muted by raging distrust of everyone's motives. Everyone but Maya. "I think I've lost my appetite, Maya. I'm so sorry."

"Hey, you gotta take care of yourself in all of this too. You already look like a gust of our evening fog could lay you out flat."

I noticed the ground cover when my flight was landing in Darkwater Bay. Before the plane's descent, the heavy mist obscured specific light, but magnified what lay beneath at the same time, giving an eerie glow to the coastal city.

"Does the sun ever break through the clouds out here?" I forced a smile and picked up my menu. "If not, I could probably make a fortune if I hung a shingle and started working as a psychotherapist. The depression rate in this city must be off the charts."

"It rains about three hundred sixty days a year, or so I've been told. I can remember one brief bout of sunshine in January, shortly after I arrived. The natives attributed it to global warming. You should've seen all the squinting motorists. I don't think you can buy a decent pair of sunglasses in this city."

No wonder I stuck out like a sore thumb at Central Division when I walked into the building. It must've been akin to an alien invasion with my bug-eyed shades.

I picked at the food on my plate, rearranging more than consumed. Maya noticed.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"Hmm?"

"This thing with the FBI showing up. I know you said that his death didn't really have an emotional impact, Helen, but he was your husband for a long time."

"He lied to me for a very long time too."

"Are you ready to move on?"

"I don't know. What does that mean, really? Move on. Wipe the slate clean. Start over. Why do human beings feel the need to seek out something similar when the first shot was a massive failure?"

"Because people are as varied as snowflakes. What was wrong with Rick might be very right with someone else. Not all men are deceitful creatures."

Thoughts drifted back to Orion for some odd reason, probably the lies he told me in D.C. Then there was David's feigned concern. The only man who never disappointed me, who was always there with wisdom and love had been torn away from me without so much as a glance at the circumstances and justification for his actions.

Wendell Eriksson was judged an evil man. To me, he was the yardstick by which all others would be measured for the rest of my life. Suddenly, my heart ached so deeply for my father that I wasn't sure I could bear the separation for another moment. Someday. It was a promise, a mantra I chanted to myself often since the beginning of our separation. Someday, I would find a way to bring my father back into my life.

"Johnny Orion is back," Maya said softly. "I doubt a blind man could miss his interest."

"Hmm?"

"Orion," she repeated with a slight twist of her neck. "He can't take his eyes off you, Helen."

"I'm meeting him after dinner. More questions about Gwen Foster. Don't get any ideas."

"You're being paranoid, cupcake. Johnny's one of the good guys."

"Don't call me cupcake, and I thought you said he was a jerk."

"He's a brute. That's what I called him, and it wasn't in reference to his personality. Johnny Orion is a very respected person in this city. I think if he had a friendship with Gwen Foster, it was based on mutual respect."

"Not his womanizer tendencies? Forsythe says Orion is famous for the one night stand."

"I wouldn't know anything about that. I know who he is, but we've never met, Helen. If his reputation is so well known that Ken would comment, I can't argue with it."

"His reputation..."

"Yes. You know, that thing you remarked on, what he's known for?"

"Maya, that's it. You're brilliant! Sorry to run out on dinner like this, but I've got to make a stop at central before I meet with someone later this evening. I'll call you soon."

### Chapter 15

Orion's long legs didn't help him match my stride when I rushed out of the Montcliff Wednesday night.

"Where are we going?"

" _We_ are not going anywhere, Orion. I'm going. Alone."

"I thought you wanted to talk to me."

I spun on my heel, nearly causing a collision. "Why didn't you tell me that Gwen Foster has a child out there somewhere?"

" _What_? Gwen didn't have any kids. Sure, she's been raising Vinnie since Frank died ten years ago, but he's her cousin, Doc. Why would you think—?"

"I thought she was an old friend, Orion. Was that another lie?"

"Of course it wasn't, but if Gwen had a baby, don't you think I would've known about it? A lot of people would've known."

"What about her employer, a man that could very well be keeping Vinnie Bennett from the police right now? Wasn't that a detail worth mentioning to me last night? It's not like I didn't bring Datello's name into the conversation."

"Datello is a dangerous man. I wouldn't advise that you treat him like a suspect in this case unless you've got hard evidence, Doc. Or is it your goal to amass as many enemies as you possibly can before one of them finally gets to you?"

"Were you really at a convention in Washington when we met?"

"Yes and no."

"Remarkably clear. And you wonder why I can't seem to bring myself to trust you even a little bit," I fumed. A moment later, my car was in sight in the parking garage.

"Goddammit, Doc!"

"Let go of me."

"Or what, you'll show me how mass is irrelevant when you're in the mood to _throw down_?"

I lunged close to his body, which effectively weakened his grip on my arm. One heel dug into the back of his calf with a swift jab, while I grabbed his wrist and jerked him out of balance. Orion hit the concrete with a thud and audible loss of breath. My gun aimed between his eyes before he had time to react.

"Now you know what I'm talking about, Orion. I can defend myself. When I tell you not to touch me, I mean it."

"Jesus," he groaned. Orion rubbed the back of his head.

I reached down and offered a hand, which he ignored while slowly dragging himself to his feet.

"Are you all right?"

"You have me at an unfair disadvantage, Doc."

"What's that?"

"I would never hit a woman, no matter what she does to warrant a physical response."

"Did you contact Detective Briscoe?"

Orion nodded. "He's meeting us at my office."

"I'll need the address. I could be delayed a few minutes."

"May I ask where you're going?" Orion rubbed the back of his head and checked his fingers for blood.

"Don't be such a baby, Orion. You didn't hit the ground that hard."

"Martial arts, huh?"

"Jujitsu. I'm a black belt."

"I should've let Dumb and Dumber have at you. _They_ deserve it."

"Thank you for preventing things from going that far."

"Jesus," Orion muttered a second time. "Are you bipolar or something?"

"I merely illustrated a point. Let's not get to my lesson on patience, Orion. I doubt you'd enjoy it more than the one on respecting boundaries and personal space. Are we meeting at a specific location, or should I contact Briscoe and ask him to meet me at Central Division?"

"My office is right across the street from central in LaPierre Tower. May I ask why you're going to central?" He regarded me warily.

"Questions are fine, Orion. I'd think twice before you yield to the urge to manhandle me again."

"So why central? Why right now?"

"Research," I said. "Make sure Briscoe shows up for the meeting, and don't forget that you need to make yourself scarce while I talk to him. It's important, Orion."

I drove downtown to central with three sets of headlights following behind me. Orion was a no-brainer. We were practically going to the same destination, for one. It appeared that in spite of my demonstration, he was determined to keep watch over me and assure my safety.

Car number two in the procession was probably the no-neck PIs following me at the behest of someone Orion had yet to divulge. I pondered the unusual timing of their emergence in all of this and wondered if my earlier suspicion was missing the mark. I doubted that Sully Marcos would use men so obvious and inept. He favored the stealth and competence of men like my father, killers for whom radar was nonexistent they kept such low profiles.

Which brought me to car number three and reinforced another tidbit of paranoia. Surely David Levine and that snake Seleeby didn't intend to walk away after their plan was so quickly foiled. We hadn't gotten to the part of the conversation where I explained to David why returning to the FBI was impossible. Probably unnecessary anyway. If they had been watching all along, no doubt they were aware of my shiny new badge and gunmetal accessory.

I refocused on Maya's innocent comment on Orion's reputation. Part of the disparity between the Bennett case and the Foster murder that had been nagging me was the component of sexual assault. Rapists who kill are not necessarily killers.

Sounds crazy, doesn't it? Obviously they're killers if they kill. Anyone is. But the motivation in the crime is the key factor. For a rapist, the thrill is the act of sexual domination, power over another to take sexual pleasure without consent. The kill is a necessity to avoid identification. And why would a rapist become so avoidant of identification that he would resort to murder?

He might've been caught, prosecuted, convicted and incarcerated before. The specific manner of dismemberment also pointed to someone who wanted to delay identification for as long as possible. No fingerprints. No face to recognize.

The snag for my profile was the disparity in ages. Gwen Foster was 34 years old. Brighton Bennett was less than half that age, fifteen at the time of her death. The preferential nature of sexual predators was compelling, and a wrench in my profile. Even monsters like Ted Bundy had an age range that was typically consistent. Bundy's oldest known victim was 26 years old. The youngest was twelve. The average age however was late teens.

Any woman who has crept up on 40 will agree that at 26, it's a lot easier to pass for six or eight years younger than it is at 40 to pass for two decades younger. Bundy had a type. Whoever killed Gwen Foster and Brighton Bennett had a type too. What I needed was photographs of both women, something recent for Foster in particular. I also needed to run a few details regarding sexual assault of younger women through ViCAP, the Violent Criminal Apprehension Program. There could be a history of assaults on middle-teenage girls, maybe even early victims who survived the encounter.

My fingers drummed against the Prius steering wheel. "Fifteen years ago is a long time. What's this guy been doing in the meantime? Why the gap in crimes between Bennett and Foster? If he was already incarcerated before Brighton Bennett's murder, being the prompt that pushed him to kill subsequent victims, why weren't there a string of murders in between?"

Maybe there were, but outside Darkwater Bay's jurisdiction. I hoped that ViCAP would provide answers. Of course, it required a huge assumption—that anyone from Darkwater Bay had bothered to enter the data from Brighton Bennett's murder into the system. If not, it was a situation I planned to rectify tonight.

The detective squad room was quiet as a tomb, save for the soft snoring of Flynn Myre, who rested his feet on the top of his desk and reclined precariously in his chair. I tiptoed through the room to the office Rodney had designated temporary workspace should I need to access any resources in the department.

I did. The key slid into the deadbolt. I twisted it and pushed the door open. The resounding creak jolted Myre out of his slumber. Feet clunked to the floor. I glanced over my shoulder.

"Oh hey, Eriksson."

"Sorry. I didn't mean to disturb you."

"What're you doing here so late?"

"Just a little research. I won't be long." I stepped inside the door, cursing under my breath and turned on the light. The computer on the desk wasn't the most modern beast I'd seen, a Dell from circa 2005 that had seen better days.

Without delay, I booted the software and started searching. Myre knocked on the doorframe.

"Anything I can help you with tonight, Eriksson?"

"No thank you."

"Surfin' the 'net, huh?"

"ViCAP," I said.

He scratched his head. "What's ViCAP?"

So much for my unfounded suspicion that the Bennett case was nowhere to be found. I explained the program to Myre, how it had been designed in the mid-eighties, more than a quarter century ago, to aid law enforcement in linking crimes and closing cases.

"But... we had the son of a gun in custody. He'd be in prison right now if Orion hadn't tampered with the evidence."

I gestured to one of the empty chairs in front of the desk. "You worked that case too, right? Didn't anyone find it odd that evidence that you and Orion didn't collect was used to taint evidence that you did collect?"

"I don't follow," Myre frowned at me. A moment later, he popped a toothpick into his mouth and started gnawing.

"The blood on the clothing had the chemical EDTA present, which presumably came from a blood vial that would've been collected by the medical examiner's office. It's not something that the police detectives would've had access to, yet when questions were asked about the clothing, it was presumed that you or Orion had tampered with it."

"It was plain as day who was behind that. Orion was frothin' at the mouth for something that would link that little girl's murder to Datello."

"A man who worked for Datello hardly incriminates him in the crime."

"That's what I said at the time. Orion don't listen, and he sure as heck don't play well with others. He ran that investigation straight into the ground."

My fingers clacked over the keyboard when ViCAP finally loaded.

"Whatcha lookin' for?"

"The Bennett case."

Myre snorted and almost lost the sliver of wood between his lips. It rolled back and forth as he spoke with a hypnotic quality. Roll, jerk, gnaw, roll. "You ain't gonna find it in no database if the criteria is unsolved crimes, Eriksson."

I peered over the desk at him. "I was led to believe that this case is still open."

Myre's open palm rolled in front of him. "Technical thing. Yeah, the case is still open, but nobody around here looks at it that way. We know who done the deed. We had him too, before Orion screwed the whole thing up."

"Who considers it open—technically?"

"The brass upstairs. The kid's mother. The stepfather."

"Wait a minute. Brighton Bennett had a stepfather?"

"Sure. Sam Colton. His wife was Jennifer, formerly Bennett, Colton. They're still around here, and I reckon that when news of what happened to another member of the Bennett clan finally leaks out in the papers that they'll be downstairs demanding justice again."

"You _knew_ that Gwen Foster used to be Gwen Bennett?"

"It weren't no secret."

I gritted my teeth. "No secret to whom? None of us investigating the case were aware of that detail without doing some serious digging, Myre. Did it occur to anyone who did know that this might be an important detail to share?"

"Us old timers knew it the second we heard her name at the crime scene. Didn't seem like anybody was interested in what we had to say about it, so we kept our mouths shut."

"I see."

"It ain't personal."

"Tell that to the family when they show up demanding justice," I said. "If I need any help, I'll let you know, Myre. In the meantime, I need to get back to work."

"Suit yourself. Chief Lowe said that if you needed anything, we was to cooperate to the fullest. It ain't right how Hardy and Weber are pulling this mess out of the chief's hands. I ain't his favorite person by any stretch, but he's done right by me over the years. You'd do well to keep that in mind, Eriksson. Havin' Lowe in your corner sure as heck ain't gonna hurt, not when the negative stuff hits the airwaves."

"I'll take it under advisement."

In the meantime, the details of the Bennett case needed to be entered into ViCAP. My thoughts drifted as I input information. A ringing endorsement of Jerry Lowe from Flynn Myre wasn't what I'd call a plus in the Lowe column. I wondered again if he was quietly suffering the same fate as Hardy and Weber. Judging the faith Lowe put in his detectives told me more about his character than anything else. Unless he was being blackmailed. If the grand scheme of Central Division was considered, Hardy and Weber looked as bad, if not worse than Lowe.

"I wonder what the other divisions are like in this city. Forsythe seemed to indicate that the problem is right here in central, but that the rest of Darkwater Bay isn't as incompetent." Maybe a deeper conversation with Briscoe would shed some light.

With the particulars of Brighton Bennett's murder entered into the national database, I entered my search criteria. I had one hit—the murder I just entered.

The search function worked much slower when I changed my parameters for sexual assaults of girls aged thirteen to sixteen. I let it do its thing and grabbed my purse. I'd check the results after my conversation with Briscoe.

Myre was snoring again, this time undisturbed by the squeaky door and the snick of the lock as I left Central Division for the second time Wednesday. I didn't see his eyes following me out of the squad room.

### Chapter 16

Orion flung open the door to his "office," the penthouse at the very upscale LaPierre Tower, with damp hair, bare feet, and a pair of jeans hugging slim hips and a dark blue silk shirt open to the navel. Spots of damp skin made the flimsy fabric cling in places.

I cleared my throat. "Am I interrupting something?"

"Tony's in the den. You can have your secret conversation while I finish."

"The water's gonna ruin that silk shirt."

Orion smirked. "What, this old thing?"

My eyes darted around the airy space, minimalist decor, tastefully un-decorated in a fashionably expensive way. A chair here. A black or white sculpture there. Gleaming hardwood floors. Pristine white walls. Chrome light fixtures. It felt warm and sterile at the same time. "Where's the den?"

Orion pointed to a pane-glass partition with wood blinds muting the warm glow of light beyond. "Den. Door. Tony."

The aforementioned detective appeared in the doorway recently opened and gave a little wave. "Welcome to Orion's babe lair," he grinned at me.

"We need to talk, Briscoe."

"And we'd be glad to answer any questions you have." Younger Detective Conall appeared over his partner's shoulder. He eyed me with frank curiosity. "Should I be offended that your invitation didn't explicitly include me, Dr. Eriksson?"

I groaned for two reasons—first that Conall's creepy interest once again lurked at the periphery of my world, and secondly, that Orion was complicit in an unwanted third person at my party. I shot Orion a dagger or two with my eyes before marching headlong into the lair as it was. "I doubt you're old enough to have the information I need, Detective Conall. Or do my eyes deceive me? Were you a detective fifteen years ago?"

Briscoe chuckled. "Puppy was but a rookie back in the day. Oh, pardon me; we had a new class of rookies by then, Puppy. Don't get riled on me now, or I'll have to smack your nose with Johnny's newspaper.

"Come on in here, Eriksson. May as well get this over with," the old warhorse-detective beckoned with one hand.

"You know why I'm here?"

"You ought to be asking Johnny these questions. It was his case after all," Briscoe said.

"Yes, a case he was so invested in that I suspect he's never given up trying to close it," I observed. "Sit. Both of you. Unless of course you can't comprehend why I would prefer questioning someone with more objectivity in this matter than Orion has."

"I think we just got insulted, Puppy. Did we?"

"Hmm. A little bit." Conall's mouth turned downward in a ridiculous pout of disapproval. "What can we tell you about the Bennett case?"

"Right now? Nothing. I'm more interested in the history of Darkwater Bay at the moment."

Briscoe scratched his goatee and grunted. "Well if that don't beat all. You got a knack for throwin' curve balls, Eriksson. Where do you want to start?"

"The beginning would be nice." I sat in one of the chairs and stared at the sofa, waiting for Briscoe and Conall to sit.

"The beginning of Darkwater Bay?" Conall looked as perplexed as Briscoe. "How can ancient history possibly help you solve a murder, Dr. Eriksson?"

"I doubt the current city meets the archeological standard of ancient, detective. And I'll be the judge of what helps me understand the dynamic that led to Gwen Foster's murder and what didn't."

Briscoe's chocolate eyes gleamed. "I see where you're goin' with this, Eriksson. All right. You wanna know how Darkwater Bay from the beginning resulted in the era we currently enjoy."

"Very astute of you, Detective Briscoe. Something in this town turned into a magnet for the wrong kinds of people, and I need to understand what that was."

"Darkwater Bay was founded in the late 1850s by settlers who failed to strike it rich in the 1849 gold rush in California," Conall said. "They migrated north along the coast and happened upon Darkwater Bay."

"The weather, so say the history books, was the major drawback for folks wanting to stay," Briscoe said. "On account of our eerie fog from sundown to mid-morning, and the fact that the cloud rises but seldom disappears. But the fishing in the bay was unbelievable back then, and still is to this day. Have you noticed the bay, Eriksson?"

I had noticed it, an unusual phenomenon that I initially thought was caused by light refraction off the water's surface until I saw the same shimmering light, like black diamonds gleaming on the water's surface, at sunset when I was returning to my hotel to meet Maya for dinner. "It's very unique," I said.

"Like a shimmery oil slick," Conall said.

"I thought black diamonds," I replied. "It was breathtaking. When I noticed it while we drove from the airport to Nightingale last night, I thought it was merely the lights on the bay refracting against the water. It wasn't completely dark when I saw it this evening."

"She's good," Briscoe said.

"Part of what makes this so visible is the soil that the Elegiac River dumps into the bay," Conall explained. "It's probably the blackest, richest soil you've ever seen. Not only that, it is rich enough to grow just about anything we plant in it without much fuss."

"The settlers here didn't know that after a few nights camped along the bay," Briscoe said. "They were more enamored with the fact that they could practically wade out and catch a feast with their bare hands. We have a tremendous population of shellfish, and other varieties of fish like salmon and trout in the bay."

"Trout. In a bay?"

"They go where the food is," Briscoe grinned.

"Bioluminescent plankton?"

"See?" Briscoe turned to Conall again. "Did I not say she's good?"

"It's a very unusual variety, Dr. Eriksson," Crevan said. "Our bay has a unique composition, you see."

"Hmm, I do," I nodded. Of course. It was so simple. "The osmolality of the water is a mix of fresh and salt water. Combined with whatever minerals are in the soil, it created an environment where the bioluminescent plankton not only evolved differently than we see in other areas, but also thrived. It resulted in an ecosystem that became self-sustaining and bountiful."

"Exactly," Briscoe's index finger stabbed the air in my direction. "So they might not've struck gold down south, but they hit a jackpot of another kind. They settled, and initially, fishing was the primary trade."

"Until springtime rolled around and the farmers started working the soil," Conall said. "And they discovered that they could plant just about anything and it would grow. It wasn't long before somebody figured out that the bay was rich with life because of the Elegiac."

"Interesting name for a river that brought life to the bay, wasn't it?"

"I reckon that's one way of lookin' at it," Briscoe's tone was agreeable, but his eyes took offense to even a minor criticism of his city and its resources. "On the other hand, when you consider our overall climate out here, the rains that feed the river, it's like she's dumping her mournful tears into the bay, and that was what sustained the settlers."

"Very poetic, Briscoe."

"I'm sure I don't have to tell you that people get prone to depression when the sun don't shine much," he continued, "so that too gives our river her name. This place was considered a place of sadness, solemn ground by the native population who regularly conducted their funeral rites in the area prior to the white man's settlement. It was sacred to them."

"Perhaps Dr. Eriksson isn't aware that the rain and fog in this area are unique, Tony. You can drive fifty miles away from the city and enjoy sunny, clear skies."

"Good to know. I believe you were telling me about someone realizing that the bay's unique properties resulted from the river."

Briscoe unruffled. "Right. So they ventured along the river up to the Scabbard."

"A specific mountain, I presume."

"Uh-huh," Briscoe nodded. "They found the third source of bounty the Elegiac fed. Timber. Over a century and a half later, we're still living in an economy largely supported by those three forms of commerce—fishing, farming and lumber."

"Fascinating. And there hasn't been an issue with depletion of the natural resources?"

Conall grinned. "We've got our own ecosystem out here, Helen. Can you imagine for a minute that there aren't as many scientists as we have trees and fish monitoring to make sure that it remains healthy?"

"They got departments at both universities here in Darkwater Bay," Briscoe concurred. "They're out testing soil and counting trees in the reforestation project and makin' sure the water isn't getting polluted by commercial ships, or the stock in the river and bay aren't depleted. We can't throw a speck of gravel out here without hittin' some form of environmentalist or another."

"But something brought them here." Bits of the puzzle were starting to mesh in my mind. Briscoe and Conall's shared look confirmed what I suspected.

"About twenty years ago, the majority stock holder in the biggest logging company in the state shifted hands," Conall said. "And the logging industry started taking more than the land could regrow."

"Which attracted environmentalists."

"Right," Briscoe nodded. "And leading the way was a guy out here who employed organic farming practices just like his daddy and granddaddy had before organic farming was the cool thing to do."

"Who was he?" I asked.

"The man who organized the environmentalists to protect the forests up on Scabbard Mountain," Briscoe said. "Fellow by the name of Frank Bennett."

"Bennett. As in Brighton Bennett?"

"He was her uncle," Conall said. He stared at the hands folded loosely in his lap. "Frank butted heads pretty hard with the guy who had the majority share in the logging company. For a while, it looked like industry would win the fight."

"You haven't told me who that major stockholder was, Tony."

"I think you already suspect who he was. Mr. Fancy Pants Ivy League corporate lawyer, who breezed into town lookin' to cut a fat hog in the ass and make a fortune on his own terms."

"Daniel Datello."

"She is good," Conall murmured.

"It's hardly rocket science. What happened in the environmentalist's battle?"

"Frank used his influence with the governor and some state senators who didn't want the economy to fizzle and die in a decade or two and got reforestation laws mandated by the legislature. Of course ol' Danny-boy weren't none too pleased—"

"Until he discovered that what they planted grew faster than anyone expected it would," Conall said. "So he realized that what Frank did to save the forest guaranteed the success of his logging interest beyond the foreseeable future."

"Fabulous. I take it he became a corporate poster child for environmentalism."

"He and Frank became good friends," Briscoe said, "so when Datello expanded his interests into the fishing business, right off the bat he hired a team of scientists who would monitor their impact on the river and the bay—"

"And Datello is a hero once more."

"Right," Tony said. "So a year later when Danny decided that he'd like to turn our fair city into something a bit more attractive to tourism, nobody put up much of a fight, not even the state legislature who legalized gambling and ultimately put our quaint little island on par with Vegas and Atlantic City."

"Enter the Island Hotel Resort and Casino, and Salvatore Masconi. How many years were the casinos open before Brighton's murder?" I asked.

"Two. Barely," Conall said. "The city thought that by restricting the zoning for casinos to Hennessey Island, it would curb crime in the rest of the city. We'd have this isolated pocket where crime was more likely to occur. They built a station run by Bay View Division on the island. And their estimation of criminal activity missed the mark by about a thousand percent."

"Hennessey Island has the lowest crime rate in all the divisions of Darkwater Bay, doesn't it?"

"Yep," Briscoe nodded. "Bay View Division, which includes Hennessey Island, Beach Cliffs, Bay View and a couple of other small suburbs is by far the safest place to live in Darkwater Bay. After that, Fielding Division and Downey are about neck and neck for crime. Darkwater proper has the city, Nightingale, Elegiac Bend and a couple others. It's the festering wound known as Central Division's jurisdiction."

"Which is interesting," Conall interjected, "because some of the oldest names in Darkwater Bay and wealthiest families live in Nightingale."

"Like Gwen Bennett Foster."

Their eyes widened.

"Apparently Flynn Myre lied to me when he said her parentage was common knowledge."

"If anybody knew, they never mentioned it that I'm aware of." Conall's eyes seemed to burn through the wooden slats covering the windows in Orion's den.

Good. He put it together as quickly as I did. Orion withheld information.

"Did you know Ms. Foster through your mutual friend, Detective Conall?"

"Crevan," he corrected me. "And I met her a couple of times. Johnny never mentioned that she was a Bennett."

"After what happened to Brighton, the whole family opted for low profile, 'cept for her mama," Briscoe explained. "And I can't blame 'em. There comes a time when folks gotta leave the past and move on."

"Move on," I barely disguised my contempt. How I hated that phrase.

Briscoe perched his elbows on his knees and leaned heavily. "I ain't sayin' they gave up, Helen."

I noticed the seamless transition to addressing me informally and frowned. It was too comfortable, too familiar. Too natural.

"For a fact, I know Johnny never gave up on bringin' Masconi to justice. You said it yourself not more'n half hour ago. You don't think Orion gave up on the case either. He and Gwen were thick as thieves since she was just a little kid, picked on by others at the Sisters of Mercy Academy, and Johnny, who was quite a bit older, took her under his wing and put a stop to it. _That's_ the kind of guy Johnny's been his whole life."

"So she wasn't merely another of his infamous conquests?"

Briscoe chuckled while Conall squirmed and blushed.

"I ain't sayin' Johnny's no angel with the fairer sex. But he takes care of his friends, got even more that way after his parents died. It's like he grew his own family after his folks were gone."

"Great," I muttered. "And what signifies the difference between conquest and friend?"

Briscoe leaned back in his chair, smug expression etched into his fifty-something face. "I reckon I could tell you till the stars fall and the fog leaves Darkwater Bay forever, Helen. But there's some things a person's gotta figure out alone."

"If the person in question has any interest in that particular mystery, which I doubt exists." I paused and stared hard at both men. "So tell me. If Danny Datello owns Darkwater Bay lock, stock and barrel, is that ownership inclusive of the police department, specifically its detectives?"

Their eyes widened.

### Chapter 17

Anyone trained in the discipline of psychology has an unfair advantage. Our arsenal is filled with lethal weapons, the most effective of which, I employ at every opportunity. Getting information from people who might otherwise guard their reactions can best be obtained by appearing to be soft and warm, a dash of friendliness, a little ego stroking followed by a swift transition into the cobra ready to strike.

Judging the looks on Briscoe and Conall's faces, I had lulled them into a complete sense of intimate camaraderie before my hood spread and venom spewed paralytic poison in their faces. Conall was wounded. Briscoe was downright pissed, red-faced and puffing.

"I'll have you know that the department would love nothing better than to catch that smarmy creep committing a crime!" he bellowed.

I suppressed the grin that threatened, hid the delight over the bulging neck veins and the big one in the center of his forehead that started writhing in a serpentine dance of its own.

"In fact, it wasn't long after that gambling fiasco took root out on Hennessey Island that we lost a good man who knew Datello was up to no good!"

"Indeed. Tell me about that, Detective Briscoe." I folded my hands calmly in my lap and sent the most unflappable, therapeutic stare in the history of clinical psychology along with the pleasant request for more information.

He sputtered for a moment. "I... the hell with you! Apologize for that slanderous accusation, Eriksson, or by God, we are done talking!" His blunt index finger punctuated the tantrum.

"I feel no compulsion to apologize for asking a legitimate question, Detective Briscoe. I haven't even been here for 24 hours yet, and the bizarre nature of criminal investigations by the police department points to the very kind of interference I implied by my question. You're telling me that the interests of Danny Datello do not influence you. Fine. In the absence of hard evidence to support my suggestion, I'll accept your assertion at face value."

"Dammit," he growled and glanced at Conall. "She just insulted us again, didn't she?"

"Just a little bit, but Tony, she has a point. Think about her first impression of us. We're at a crime scene, outside our jurisdiction, fighting for control. Not to mention, I'm the alibi witness for a person of interest in the case. That fact aside, we're both friends of Johnny to boot. What would that look like to any outsider, not just _any_ , but a fed?"

"Paranoid bastards."

I couldn't hold back the grin another second. "Paranoia doesn't preclude the possibility that people are out to get you, Detective Briscoe. Sometimes paranoia is simply good common sense." It was the first tidbit of Dad's wisdom I shared with anyone.

Incredulous eyes widened in focus on me.

"Come on, Briscoe. Surely Orion told you that a couple of private detectives have been watching my every move since I got here. Forsythe's crime techs even found electronic surveillance in my hotel room after someone broke in this morning. They stole my laptop computer for God's sake."

They shared another glance, this one uneasy. Conall spoke.

"He told us nothing of the kind, Helen."

"Tell me who you lost because he dared investigate Danny Datello."

Briscoe snorted. "It was an assistant district attorney."

"David Ireland," Conall added. "Nobody ever knew what he uncovered, but considering that he was assassinated and his office was ransacked, everyone concluded that it was damning enough to put Datello in prison for a very long time."

"Now that's what I needed to know. How long ago did this assassination take place?" I leaned forward.

"You think this has something to do with the Bennett murder?" Tony shook his head. "That's impossible, Helen. David Ireland was murdered before Brighton Bennett."

"How long before?"

They shared another look.

"The Ireland investigation happened around Christmas, right Tony?"

"He died a week before. We caught the guy right after New Year's," Briscoe said. "And Brighton Bennett's body was found when, late March, early April?"

"Somewhere in that time frame. Johnny would know the exact date. They were both his cases."

"Ireland was mine too," Tony muttered.

"Wait a minute," I interrupted their rough timeline. "You were with Central Division when Orion was there, Briscoe?"

"No, he started out at Downey. After the perp was caught on the Ireland case, they promoted Johnny and moved him to central."

"Tell me more about the ADA's murder."

Briscoe tugged at the goatee again. "Week before Christmas, and Ireland was leaving his office at the district courthouse. It was late evening, eight-ish. Our assassin shot him in the back of the head in the parking garage that the district court shares with central."

"Whoa. Wait. The murder happened in the parking garage _at_ Central Division?"

"Yeah," Briscoe nodded.

"Then how did Downey end up taking the case?"

"Chief McNamara assigned it to Downey."

"Right," Conall said. "I forgot about Harry McNamara. Wow, that seems like about a million years ago."

"Almost sixteen," Briscoe said. "Anyway, Johnny and I landed the case. We extradited our primary suspect from Jersey City, got him out here and—"

"Jersey City, as in New Jersey?" I interrupted. This was the link I'd been looking for all along. "Who was this guy? What was the result of the prosecution? Is he in prison right now?"

"His name was Mitch Southerby, and no, he's not in prison because there was no prosecution."

"Son of a bitch! How did Datello weasel Southerby out of prosecution? If this is another case of evidence tampering, I'm going to start questioning both of your sanity."

"Southerby keeled over dead in the interrogation room right after he confessed to killing Ireland," Briscoe's ruddy complexion faded to ashen as he spoke. "Damnedest thing I ever saw in my life."

"Was he old?"

"Thirty-seven," Briscoe said. "Our medical examiner said that he died of natural causes, a massive heart attack. Johnny wanted more tests."

"And what did they show?" I had unconsciously perched on the edge of my chair. "Was it poison? Something else?"

"We never found out," Briscoe shook his head and sighed. "It's no wonder Johnny burned out so fast. He couldn't accept not getting answers."

"How did you _not_ find out? Did the medical examiner—?"

"He wouldn't do the tests Johnny requested, said there was no need. He rubber-stamped the cause of death as cardiac failure and was ready to move on. Johnny went to court to force him to do the additional testing and won the motion. But then the body was gone."

My eyes narrowed. "That shouldn't have mattered. The ME collects fluid and tissue samples—"

"All gone," Briscoe said. "So the chief in all his wisdom threw Johnny a bone, praised him for closing the case, solving the murder, bumped his grade from three to one and welcomed him to the fold at Central Division."

"This was which chief? Weber? McNamara?"

Crevan snorted. "By the time all the court battles were concluded, it was newly appointed Chief Lowe."

"What happened to McNamara?"

"That one was legit," Tony said. "McNamara was close to sixty in a high stress job."

"Let me guess. He died of a massive heart attack too?"

"Well, it wasn't all that strange," Tony frowned. "I guess old Riley Storm might've missed his calling. He was awfully good at finding heart attacks."

"How long has Dr. Storm been out of the picture?"

Conall blinked rapidly. "I thought you knew."

"I'm here asking questions because of the things I _don't_ know, Detective Conall. How long has Riley Storm been out of the medical examiner's office? Please don't tell me that he's someone still working for Dr. Winslow."

"No ma'am, he surely is not," Briscoe said. "In fact, Dr. Winslow was hired to replace Riley."

"Six months? _Six months_? This was the guy who did the autopsy on Brighton Bennett, the one who hobbled the forensic aspect of the best evidence there was in the murder investigation, wasn't he?"

Briscoe nodded. "I think you got the picture now, Helen."

"I have only a few more questions, gentlemen. First, where are Danny Datello's offices located? Which division?"

"Central," Tony said.

"And the officers in charge of the detective units outside Central Division, what are they like?"

"All you gotta do to answer that question is look at our solve rates," Tony said. "I don't know the other lieutenants all that well, so I can't speak to that. What I can tell you is that Shelly Finkelstein, our lieutenant, is above reproach."

The disconnect was at central. Datello's headquarters were in central's jurisdiction. It didn't tell me who exerted control over Hardy and Weber, possibly even Jerry Lowe, but it pointed in one specific direction.

"Then again, since you ain't got hard evidence provin' that we don't work for Datello, I expect my word don't mean squat," Briscoe continued.

"Calm down, Tony," I said. "I asked the question because I had to be sure I could trust you."

"And are you sure, Dr. Eriksson?"

I met his angry gaze. "As sure as I've ever been of anything."

"And what about Johnny?" Crevan asked.

"I'm still working that one out."

"Actually, I wouldn't have it any other way," Orion's voice chimed in from the doorway.

"How long have you been listening?"

"Since Tony lost his cool," Orion grinned at his old friend. The mentorship was a little clearer now. "If you guys don't mind, I'd like to have a word with Doc in private now."

I thanked the detectives before they shuffled out of Orion's office and waited patiently for him to return. I didn't have to wait long. Orion poured a sloppy glass of scotch and slumped onto the sofa.

"So."

"Indeed," I said. "You've got quite the history with the police department, Orion. I wasn't aware you were so susceptible to bribery."

"Don't even start that bullshit with me, Doc. I'm not the same guy Tony remembers."

"Really?"

"I don't bait as easily as I did when I was a new detective."

"Yet you haven't learned patience. At all."

He stretched his legs out and crossed the still bare feet at the ankles. Sprawled as he was, the shirt gaped open to reveal rock hard abs, an impressive six-pack for a man over forty.

"I can be as patient as the circumstances require, Doc, but your suspicion of me is really unwarranted in this situation. Surely you've figured out that I became the scapegoat for evidence tampering because I wouldn't play ball like the other detectives at central."

"Question is, who asked you to join the game?"

"There was never a direct invitation beyond being brought into the fold of Darkwater Bay's most elite squad. Central Division was once what every detective in the city aspired to join. Then again, that was during the McNamara years."

"Hmm. I wondered about that. You owe me some answers, Orion."

"Call me Johnny and I'll give you the world."

"That reminds me of Satan tempting Christ. _All this can be yours, if you bow down and serve me._ "

"Thought you weren't religious."

"I'm not. I am, however, literate."

Orion chuckled and drained his glass. "You want a drink?"

"I'm good, thanks."

He poured another and stared at the prism created by the light hitting the crystal and amber liquid. "I loved Gwen," he said. "Sisterly sort of way, before you start throwing out accusations. You really handled Briscoe," he shook his head and laughed. "Tony's not used to strong women who understand men."

"And you think I'm a strong woman who understands men?"

"Oh yeah. You don't like us much, but you know exactly which buttons to push, don't you Doc?"

"I'll let you in on a little secret. I understand people. Psychology. That's my thing, remember?"

"And you already admitted that you love a good head game."

"Tell me who you think hired the PIs to follow me."

"Why do you think Masconi was the wrong guy in my murder investigation?"

"I can't tell you that. It's an open case. You know the rules, Orion."

"And you know that I'm not obligated to share anything with you."

"So much for your character references tonight. Your friends think you're a real stand up guy, that you'd do anything in your power to protect people."

"I did protect you. More than once. My guy at the hotel called while you were at central. The second sweep turned up three more devices. Before you accuse me of having Paul plant them, you should know that the only person who entered your room since he started guarding the door was housekeeping."

"So now the maid did it."

"She had access."

"Did Haverston send someone to talk to her?"

Orion shrugged. "I don't have the right to ask that question, do I Doc? I presume he did, however, based on the fact that Paul said the place was crawling with police who quickly looked very frustrated."

"Either she's in the wind or she doesn't really work for the hotel."

"Good guess," he said.

"It would be very helpful if you would tell me who you think is so interested in my investigation."

"You don't really have to ask that question." Orion sipped instead of guzzling.

"Datello."

"Bingo. Question is, why would he be interested in you before you even showed up in Darkwater Bay?"

"I'm sure he has his reasons." Reasons about which I would not elaborate under any circumstances. It was enough to know that the Darkwater Bay connection had nothing to do with Hardy's offer of work and everything to do with Rick's murder.

"His uncle is a big time organized crime figure back in your territory, isn't he?"

"Sullivan Marcos. You could say that his name conjures certain stereotypes. I had nothing to do with organized crime investigations at the FBI, Orion."

"I wouldn't go that far. There was a link, Doc, a very significant link I learned today."

"My ex-husband?"

Orion nodded.

I sighed. Conversation over. My little secret wasn't going to stay buried for long.

"Is that why you left the FBI?"

"I wasn't fired, Orion."

"No, I'm sure you weren't, given the urgency that your friend David showed when he tried to lure you back home where you belong earlier."

"I don't belong there. I haven't _belonged_ for a very long time."

"Did you know who I was Monday night?" Orion avoided my gaze by staring at the floor. "Were you playing a game with me?"

"No more than you were me," I said. "And I could ask you the same question, Orion. What were you really doing in Washington? Did someone send you to find me and encourage me to come to Darkwater Bay?"

"I know you don't believe in a thing called coincidence, so I won't insult you by trying to play it off as chance. I was in D.C. for a specific reason. It led me to you, a woman I believed was Diana Farber. I couldn't figure out what Kelly and Varden were doing, I just knew that I needed to stop them from harassing an innocent bystander."

"Ah. You _were_ following the PIs. That makes more sense than any scenario I could imagine. Why were you on their trail?"

"It's a case I'm not at liberty to discuss."

"Right," the word drawled from my lips. "Because somehow, what you were investigating at the time links back to me for some reason, and we can't possibly explain what that link is, could we? God forbid I have a little insight into why someone wanted to abduct me from my hotel. Twice."

"Doc, I honestly have no idea how you fit into any of this. Like I said, I'm not even sure I know who hired those two boneheads. You'd think that someone with Datello's resources could find men more capable, wouldn't you?"

"The thought occurred to me."

"But who else could it be?"

"I suppose the answer to that might lie in whatever case you were investigating that led them to... Kelly and Varden, was it?"

He nodded. "I can't say."

"Can't is different than won't, Orion." I watched his lips form a thin, tight line, his posture stiffen. "Maybe you could say if the phone call you got Monday night that put the skids on our mutual mistake was related to Kelly and Varden."

"Peripherally, but not really."

"Was it related to Gwen Foster?"

"Gwen never hired me."

"Yes, you already told me that. Did someone else hire you on her behalf?"

"Look," Orion rose abruptly and slammed his glass onto the end table by the sofa. "You're gonna need a secure place to stay tonight until you can make other arrangements. I had Paul get your bags packed. He's on his way over here with them now. You can argue all you like, Doc, but for tonight, this is the safest place you could possibly be. Nobody's gonna spy on you here."

"Nobody but you."

He held his hands up in supplication. "I've got a thing tonight. I won't be back for hours, if not until morning. If anybody has the opportunity to spy here, it's you. Knock yourself out. I let Michel at the desk know you'd be here, in case you need to go out. He'll let you back in."

"So many irons in so many fires. Don't forget to take protection," I sneered. Orion would find my luggage exactly where his employee left it. I had no intention of spending the night in his lair. Nor did I believe that Orion wouldn't be watching exactly what I was doing all night.

### Chapter 18

My frustration level built to the breaking point and boiled over when I marched into an empty squad room at central and found the lock on my door had been jimmied open. The computer's hard drive was gone, torn out rather clumsily. Naturally, my search had been aborted in the process.

In the ill advised attempt to slow the progress of my investigation, Kelly and Varden had made a rookie mistake, one that told me more than Orion's suspicions had.

Whoever hired them had unfettered access to the police department. In lieu of the rickety elevator, I jogged down three flights of stairs to the information desk. A civilian employee I'd never met was on duty. Simms. I gazed at his weary face.

"Mr. Simms, my name is Helen Eriksson."

"Yeah, I heard."

"I'm curious where Detective Myre is. I was here earlier and he was in the squad room, and now he's gone."

"Myre went home at eleven."

"And who covers homicide after that?"

"They're on call, Dr. Eriksson. Didn't the chief give you any orientation today?"

Which chief? I smiled sheepishly. "We've got this big case, and in all the excitement..."

"Lowe pulled a Lowe," Simms shook his head and rifled around beneath the dilapidated countertop. "Let's see what I got in here. Ah, heck, it'd be easier if I just told you how it works around here. The detectives ordinarily are in the squad room, on active duty, from seven to four-thirty Monday through Friday. If something happens during off hours, they're on call, and dispatch pages them."

"Like Tuesday night at the Foster home."

"Exactly."

"Were you on duty last night, Simms?"

"Every night from eleven to seven, Wednesday through Sunday."

I glanced at my Rolex. Eleven twenty-seven.

Simms whistled. "That's a nice piece, Dr. Eriksson."

"Call me Helen," I mustered a friendly smile. "So if the detectives are typically here until four-thirty every day, why was Myre upstairs at nine when I went to my office?"

"Couldn't say," he shrugged. "It's not normal, that's for sure, and I'd bet my puny paycheck that the missus was having a fit that he wasn't home yet."

"Detective Myre is married?" Given his rumpled, generally unkempt appearance, I struggled to imagine the kind of woman who would marry him. The thought of his teeth was enough to make me shudder. He had the dentition of early stage meth-mouth and smelled like he existed on a diet of tuna and red onion with a dash of garlic thrown in for social purposes.

"Oh yeah. If you spend much time around the guy, you'll notice that the woman has him on a very short, tight leash."

"I'm not sure I know what that means."

"She calls him. Constantly. I picked up a day shift for Molly a couple of months ago, and I swear to God every time I saw him that day, he had the phone to his ear, promising Susan this that and the other. I don't know how the guy gets anything done."

"And you mentioned this to Molly?"

"She said that's Myre's typical day. He doesn't do a darn thing but talk on that phone and run errands for Rogers and Daltry."

Interesting. Rogers and Daltry seemed to exert a fair amount of control in the homicide unit. "Tell me, Mr. Simms. How many detectives work out of the homicide unit?"

"Just the five of them."

"I've only met three."

"Ah," he nodded again. "You probably haven't seen Sandoval and Marquez. Captain Martin hired them when the last two dinosaurs retired about a year ago. We don't see a whole lot of them, on account of taking the scut."

My eyebrows lifted in silent question.

"That would be the cases that Rogers and Daltry think are simple enough for them to close. Mostly suicides, bar brawls gone awry, that kind of thing."

It explained the cases that central _was_ closing.

"I appreciate your help. I'm heading out for the night—oh, but before I go, did a couple of gentlemen come through here tonight? Big guys, look like they might've been line backers in their youth?"

"I haven't seen a soul but you, Helen. I can ask Benny tomorrow night when I see him if you like."

"I'd appreciate that, Mr. Simms."

"Aw, heck," his chin dipped to his chest. "Call me Rudy."

On the way to my car, I pulled out the cell phone and called Maya. "Do you have access to federal crime databases at the morgue?"

"Good morning to you too, Helen."

"It's not morning. Yet."

"Yeah, we have access. I routinely run our unmatched DNA through CODIS."

CODIS is the Combined DNA Index System, another database operated by my former brethren at the FBI. It allows DNA to be stored in a database for comparison with unidentified DNA in open cases. The theory being that DNA can be matched to known offenders whose samples have already been collected and identified.

I explained the break in, vandalism and theft in my office. "I need a secure computer to run a ViCAP search. Obviously, that place isn't central. Do you mind if I use a computer at your office?"

"I'll call security and let them know you're coming."

"Maya, while I've got you on the phone, can I ask something?"

"Shoot."

"Have you had cause to review many autopsies performed by your predecessor?"

"Riley Storm? Wow, you're really rooting through the garbage at warp speed, Helen. It took me a full month to realize the depth of his incompetence."

"But are you sure it was that?"

"Let me just put it this way. If Dr. Storm were competent, we'd have people out here studying the residents of this city with a fervor you couldn't imagine, trying to determine why the incidence of sudden cardiac death dwarfs the rest of the _world_."

"I wondered."

"He liked listing massive coronary failure as a cause of death. And he didn't dig any deeper to determine causality of that particular phenomenon that happens in every death."

"You're saying that we all die because the heart fails?"

"As in, it fails to continue beating. He didn't miss the obvious stuff, like a stabbing or a gun shot wound, but if it was unclear in any way, good old Riley called it a heart attack."

"He didn't list that as the cause in Brighton Bennett's death."

"Uh, no. That he called simple exsanguination due to dismemberment."

I shuddered. "He was certain that she was alive when that happened?"

"As a heart attack."

"You're a funny girl, Maya."

"Of course, all I have is a half-ass report, so it's tough to say what he really did in terms of a postmortem examination. Based on the body of work I've reviewed, I'd lean toward an assumption that they rolled her remains into the room, he collected what blood he could find and stamped the cause of death onto a form. I already told you that his evaluation of the neck and wrists for the type of weapon used were woefully vague."

"Yeah, you mentioned that. It makes another question pop to mind. Do you know what the chain of custody was at that time for body fluid samples collected?"

"I can't imagine that it's changed at all over the years, Helen. We collect and it's stored securely until a judge divvies out the portion provided to the defense for its testing procedures. Why?"

"I'll get into it later," I said. "Right now, I'd like to get started on my record search in ViCAP. I appreciate your help, Maya. And if you don't mind, if you could ask someone whose been at the lab longer than you if the procedure for storing samples obtained on autopsy has changed over the years, I'd appreciate it."

"I can tell you're onto something. I'll ask Billy first thing in the morning and let you know. Have a good night, my friend, and be safe."

I glanced into the rearview mirror on the car. Two sets of headlights were evenly spaced behind me. Orion was at his _thing_. Like I didn't know what that really meant. In practical terms, my shadow had shrunk by a third—to Kelly and Varden, and my so-called friends from the FBI.

Orion made a strong argument for the security of his penthouse. There were no locks to smash for easy access by elevator. Frick and Frack didn't look like they had the physical stamina to climb thirty flights of stairs. David wouldn't break in to obtain evidence. The FBI didn't have to resort to illegal means to obtain it anyway.

I made a note to replace the stolen MacBook in the morning and get the software I needed loaded. It sure would save a lot of time searching for a secure place to perform a basic task.

Security asked for identification, and I was required to sign into the morgue. One of the guards escorted me to Maya's office and unlocked the door. "Dial 8000 on the phone when you're ready to leave, Dr. Eriksson. You cannot be in the morgue unaccompanied after hours."

Odd. I didn't realize a morgue had regular hours per se, but understood the gist. It didn't matter. My only interest was in the search. And coffee perhaps.

"Is there somewhere that I can buy a cup of coffee in here?"

He scowled. "Why?"

"This search might take a while. I could use an infusion of caffeine in the meantime."

"This way."

I followed him to a room marked "staff only" and found a coffee maker and assorted goodies in the vending machines. Two steaming large coffees and a handful of chocolate treats later, and we were on our way back to Maya's office.

Surly guard's demeanor had softened considerably by the time we reached the door.

"I can tell what bonded you and Dr. Winslow."

"Oh?"

He pointed to the booty from vending. "She's addicted to the same junk. I don't know how you girls eat that stuff and stay thin. My wife so much as looks at a bag of M&Ms and she gains fifteen pounds."

"Your wife probably has the good sense to keep normal hours and not work forty-eight or longer at a stretch."

He shuddered and grinned. "I'd hate to see her if she didn't get a full eight every night. Give me a call if you need to head back for more java. We usually send one of the guys on a run at around two for something better than that horrible machine."

I pulled a twenty out of my purse and handed it to him. "Triple shot, non-fat, sugar free cinnamon latte. No whipped cream."

"Triple shot skinny cinny. Got it."

I dug into the search, never dreaming that the results would keep me ensconced in Maya's office until she returned to work the next morning.

### Chapter 19

My experience with forensic pathologists is not limited to Maya Winslow alone. And what I do for a living predisposes me to profiling more than criminal behavior. It's a hazard of the job I suppose. What I've observed over the years is that medical examiners, those who've gone the extra mile into forensics specifically, tend to be overly organized. Everything has its place. The trash reaches a precise level before it must be emptied. Files are properly catalogued and stored. Not so much as a stray ink pen is found lying on a desk.

It's that organizational skill and attention to detail that make good medical examiners become great pathologists. It was my opinion that the only thing that held Maya back in Maryland was her refusal to be a politician in addition to a top-notch forensic clinician. She had become my platinum standard for all medical examiners.

What I did to her office by the time she rolled in at six-thirty might be considered a crime in some circles of the country. I had effectively papered every square inch of her desk with printouts from my ViCAP search. Coffee rings stained some, and cups served as paperweights on others. I really meant to clean up before she arrived, but had lost complete track of time until Randy informed me at six that there would be no more coffee runs.

The security staff were all grateful for my hourly generosity that kept them running back for more tall, triple shot skinny cinnies all night. If they went for me, it was only fair that I bought for them after all.

He glanced at his watch. "We go off duty at eight, Eriksson. If I have any more coffee, I'll be up until noon a week from Sunday. Besides. Dr. Winslow will be here in about an hour, and if she finds this mess in here, she's gonna blow a gasket."

"Right. Maya hates messes." I was buzzing from all the extra espresso, not to mention leads that could very well answer every question I had about the Bennett assault, particularly the gap in time.

After several successful hits on rape cases with matching DNA (which Maya would've eventually uncovered through CODIS), I expanded my search of young girls who were status-missing persons. That was the mother lode. Twice the number of missing girls who matched my criteria in this state alone, within a 75-mile radius of Darkwater Bay no less, popped up in ViCAP.

No wonder somebody wanted to halt my search.

"And Eriksson?" Randy wrinkled his nose. "I hate to be blunt but..."

"What?" I tucked an oily wisp of hair behind my ear. Curse this weather. Humidity has never been a friend to my hair.

"You might wanna hit the shower before you go to central this morning."

I grinned. "A little ripe, huh?"

"In a delicate and beautiful sort of way, of course."

"Your wife has trained you well, Randy. Do you suppose Maya would object if I absconded with a pair of scrubs? There's got to be a locker and a shower in this place. Knowing all her little neat-freak-isms, I am positive that she doesn't wear her perfect clothing to and from home without a good sterilization in between."

He chuckled. "C'mon. I'll show you where you can abscond to your hearts content."

I was on my way down the hall to her office, freshly scrubbed and decked from head to toe in blue green scrubs when I heard the shriek. I glanced at my watch. Hadn't Randy said she would be in the office at seven?

Inside her office, Maya stood with her hands clasped over her mouth.

"I was just coming in to straighten up."

"Helen! I said you could use my computer, not destroy my office!"

"Oh, it's not that bad. Some paper. A few coffee cups."

Then she noticed me.

"You're wearing scrubs. _Randy!_ "

"Don't blame him. You've got some great people guarding the goods, Maya." I reached for a half eaten Snickers. "Chocolate?"

"Oh. My. God."

I started tossing empty coffee cups into the trash, aware of her jerking posture every time one of the cups wasn't quite empty and sloshed on impact.

"You better have solved this case, Helen. Jesus Christ and General Jackson!"

The top of her desk appeared, along with several M&Ms that had eloped to safe cover. I swiped with one hand and sent them skittering to the pile of coffee cups. I clutched my stack of papers to my chest. "All better. See?"

"It is not all better. My God."

Randy poked his head through the door. "You rang?" He winked conspiratorially at me.

"I need environmental services in here _STAT_."

My lips quivered. STAT housekeeping. Oh my.

"Let me empty that for you, Dr. Winslow," he offered. "That way you won't have to wait. Eriksson, are you ready to head out now?"

"Not just yet, Randy. I think I've got some serious groveling to do before I leave."

She relaxed marginally when the overflowing bin was emptied, smoothed her suit and sat in her chair after careful inspection.

"Maya, I'm glad I didn't accept the offer to bunk at your house. You'd probably kill me before I could solve this murder."

"Are you close?" Her ire evaporated. "Did this... atrocity help you make progress?"

"Like you wouldn't believe," I grinned. "Can you put a rush on the DNA you pulled from Gwen Foster's body?"

"Sure, but without a known sample for comparison—"

I waved my stack of papers. "Believe me when I tell you that I have more than reasonable suspicion to think you'll get hits, Maya."

"You found other cases that match this M.O.?"

"Not exactly."

Maya rolled her eyes. "Well which is it?"

"I had to enter the information for Brighton Bennett's murder into ViCAP. Nobody bothered to do it fifteen years ago."

"Nice."

"So the only match when I searched was the case that I entered. But fifteen years is a long time for someone who escalated to that level of violence to go between murders, right?"

"You're bouncing on the balls of your feet. What size shoes do you wear?"

"Huh?"

"Heels and scrubs. Not a good fashion statement. We've got a bunch of spare sneakers around here. I'm sure we can find a pair in your size."

"I'm not wearing sneakers from a stiff."

"They're from the morgue's softball team," Maya rolled her eyes hard enough for them to get stuck. "Honestly, Helen. We don't keep personal effects that come in with the bodies. Take those heels off before you fall over."

"Anyway," I toed out of my heels and started pacing. "I got to thinking about the first murder, how unusual it would be for a one shot kill with that kind of skill, and I figured we might find other cases in ViCAP, which there weren't any. So I started comparing the similarities between Bennett and Gwen Foster, and I made an assumption that can't be verified thanks to the laziness of your predecessor."

"You searched for rape victims."

"Right. Reports, unsolved cases, a specific age range. Broke my heart, Maya. There are thousands of them."

"Color me surprised. Please tell me we're not going to be combing through thousands of DNA results."

"I narrowed my search, first to the West Coast, and eventually to a three county area surrounding Darkwater Bay."

"You got hits?"

"Almost two dozen. So then I started thinking about this guy's skills dismembering the victims we have, or had in Brighton Bennett's case."

"And?"

"She couldn't have been his first kill. Didn't you tell me that what little Storm recorded supported the theory that Foster was dismembered the same way?"

"Well he didn't make any notations regarding the type of weapon, serration or anything like that, but he indicated that the blows were single, without hesitation."

"That is somebody who knows what they're doing. How do we get skill? Practice."

"He could be a hunter or a butcher."

"True enough, but unless he's hunting human beings, our anatomy differs significantly from the average deer."

"Another good point."

"So I started thinking about where Brighton Bennett's body was discovered. By the way, I had a fascinating discussion with Tony Briscoe and Crevan Conall last night about the history of Darkwater Bay."

"Oh boy. No more caffeine for you, princess."

"Don't call me princess."

"All right, _doctor_. But you're acting like you've snorted a kilo of coke."

"Brighton Bennett was found in the Elegiac River, which empties into Darkwater Bay, which in turn, is a hop skip and a jump from the Pacific Ocean."

Maya sat up.

"You follow?"

"They didn't find more bodies because the final resting place was the sea."

"Exact-a-mundo."

"Don't make me call you the Fonz."

I grinned. "So I started searching, well, re-searching if you want to be picky. I narrowed the search on one hand, but added missing persons cases, status open."

"God, please tell me you didn't find more of them."

"A lot more. Close to _three-dozen_. Well, initially there were more than that, so I went back to this rudimentary profile I've been cooking up since I walked into that crime scene, and really, it's the one thing that didn't fit. It's been nagging me from go."

"Breathe Helen. Organize your thoughts."

See what I mean? Sticklers for neatness right down to thoughts.

I sucked in a deep breath.

"All of my searching was within very specific age parameters, because sexual predators, the serial types, are extremely preferential. They watch for their type. They stalk. They plan, and execute in an effort to find that one that meets the fantasy."

"I think I've read that somewhere."

"Don't be flip." I jerked my head at her computer. "You need a color printer by the way. Black and white doesn't do justice to photographs."

"I'll see if I can fit that into the budget next year."

"Wake the monitor, Maya."

She jiggled the mouse and started clicking her way through the chaos I left on her screen. "Incredible."

"His type: petite, blonde hair, blue eyes, almond in shape, and not a short haircut in the bunch of them."

"And Gwen Foster looks like... whoa."

"She and her cousin weren't that far apart in age. Just four years. They look remarkably similar, don't you think?"

"Yeah," Maya said. "So that makes you think this guy abandoned his age preference?"

"Not abandoned. Revisited. Think about it, Maya."

"I'm trying to follow you, but really, you're not particularly cogent this morning. Is this caffeine, stress, sleep deprivation, a sugar high or all of the above?"

"The episiotomy scar. The absence of any mention of her having a baby in her medical record. The fact that her friend—who mind you, isn't particularly trustworthy—insists that Gwen never had children."

"She was a victim when she was a teenager too."

"A survivor. A woman who was left with a memento of the event."

"Jesus Christ and General Jackson," Maya murmured. "How in the hell did you put all of this together in less than eight hours?"

"I have no proof." My inner lip was growing tender from all the gnawing and debate through the night. "It's only a theory."

"It's a pretty compelling theory. So you're thinking that for some reason, this guy came back and revisited the first crime on Gwen and killed her this time. Why after all these years?"

"I don't know."

"Sit down. You're making me dizzy."

I flopped into a chair, one leg still bouncing wildly. "If I can figure out what made him abandon his preference, I'll be a step closer to understanding all of this."

"No shit, Sherlock." Maya held up one hand. "I know. Don't call you Sherlock."

"This is some deep seeded psychopathy. I haven't seen anything this pervasive, covering so many years and so brilliantly concealed... ever."

Her mouth pulled downward. "You almost sound like you admire this guy, Helen."

"I'd love to dig around in his psyche, Maya. It goes no further than that, believe me. This guy is a predator, make no mistake. He's careful. He's dangerous. He's intelligent. He's got to at minimum have knowledge of forensics and police procedure."

"When you said he's concealed all of this for so many years, what did you mean exactly? We're talking fifteen, right?"

"More like thirty," I said.

"Helen, how old is this guy?"

"Old."

"Then how is he able to overpower young girls?"

"It's like you said. Foster was killed by someone smaller and weaker. Without any bodies for the missing girls, we have no evidence of partnership in the past, or for Brighton Bennett, thanks to the lackadaisical approach to autopsy by Riley Storm. Gwen is the first one where we have DNA that can definitively link this guy to the unsolved sexual assaults. Do you see why I need a rush on that DNA?"

"We can only push it to the front of the line. The science takes as long as the science takes."

"In the meantime, I can start looking for these victims, see if their stories square with each other. I could learn a hell of a lot about his ritual."

"Now there's a ritual?"

"There's got to be. Something about the survivors was different from the girls who died. I need to know what that was."

"Why would anyone _help_ this guy commit these crimes?"

"It wouldn't be the first time a couple got their jollies from raping and killing together. Recent history is peppered with this kind of psychopathy. Paul Bernardo and Karla Homolka. Phillip and Nancy Garrido."

Maya shuddered. "How could a woman knowingly cooperate with her husband keeping a child in the backyard, impregnating her more than once, and simply go along with it?" in reference to the Garridos.

"Or take part in the rape and murder of your own little sister," I referenced Bernardo and Homolka. "It boggles the mind, but make no mistake, Maya. The best way to stop these monsters isn't to put them to death. They need to be put under a psychological microscope until we understand what created them."

"In a hospital?"

"Prison," I said. "Hospitalization would be too kind."

Even Dad would agree that there was no conceivable justification for murdering, raping or otherwise abusing innocent children. In fact, he would _especially_ agree.

### Chapter 20

Charlie Haverston looked rested and fresh as a daisy when I met him in the lobby at Central Division at eight fifteen. His eyes bugged.

"What in the world happened to you?"

"You don't like my transformation?"

"Dr. Eriksson—"

"Charlie, after this case, we at worst are on a first name basis."

His voice dipped low, and he pulled me aside. "What in God's name is going on? The crime lab called and said they found more surveillance devices. Orion's bodyguard took off with your luggage. You didn't answer your phone—"

I pulled the cell out of my pocket and stared at the dead screen. "I haven't charged it. I'm sorry, Charlie. I've been working on the profile all night."

"And to make matters worse, Danny Datello is upstairs in an interview room cooling his heels for the last fifteen minutes waiting for someone who looked like a no-show."

"I'm here now. Waiting a few minutes isn't going to kill Datello. I'm sure he doesn't like it, but this isn't his ballgame, Charlie. This is our turf, remember?"

"Weber is looking for you."

"Yippie."

"Helen, this is serious. Something is going on around here and for the first time I can remember, nobody's talking about it."

"Good. A little discretion at Central Division is long overdue. I'm gonna run up and talk to Datello. Let Hardy and Weber know that I can meet with them after I finish this interview."

"I don't think they're willing to wait."

"Too bad. They brought me here to solve crimes. That doesn't happen by executive committee." I paused before heading toward the stairs. "Do I look utterly unexpected?"

Charlie shook his head and laughed. "I barely recognized you. What's with the get-up?"

"I spent the night in the morgue and as you well know, someone else has custody of my luggage. Come down to the interview after you talk to Chief Weber. I want you part of this conversation, Charlie."

A pin dropping would've echoed when I marched through the squad room and headed for interview. Caffeine thrummed through my veins and excited every nerve in my body until they congealed into a solid mass in my gut. Walking into a room with Danny Datello was either the most brilliant thing I would ever do or the most ill advised.

There was no avoiding it. He knew I was here. I knew he was here. Doubt swirled through my brain about the bumbling PIs Orion was convinced Datello hired. Like many other things bouncing around me, it didn't add up.

Squelching the temptation to observe Datello from behind the glass was difficult. My hand hesitated, trembled even when I reached for the doorknob. What did Datello suspect, and what did he know? My lower lip endured a little more damage. _Keep them off balance, Helen. It's your best weapon_. Wendell's advice blanketed me with a sense of calm confidence. I pushed the door open and stepped inside.

Datello sat at the table, navy blue Armani from shoulders to floor. It must've been en vogue this season. Garish diamond cufflinks pierced his starched white sleeves. Face a little too olive, hair a little too black, hands a little too pudgy. Uncle Sully would see him as a soft man.

Cold brown eyes impaled me. I was impervious to his attempt at intimidation. Until he stood.

Datello dwarfed his East Coast family. Funny, the details one misses when she doesn't realize she should be paying attention.

"Mr. Datello?"

"Dr. Eriksson, I presume."

"Good. We've heard of each other." I relaxed a little at his willingness to play the _first introduction_ game.

"Please be seated," the fat left hand with an effeminate pinky ring, an enormous sapphire set in gold and circled by diamonds, glittered under the fluorescence.

My house, Datello. "After you. Please, I insist."

"I was somewhat surprised to receive a summons to Central Division, Dr. Eriksson. Even more surprised that they've delegated my missing person's report to the infamous criminal profiler fresh from Quantico."

I sat down and stared hard. "This isn't about a missing person's report, Mr. Datello. As a matter of fact, Gwen Foster isn't missing at all."

One raven brow twitched. "Do tell, doctor."

"It's detective now, if you don't mind."

Datello jerked at his cuffs, twisted his neck slightly. "I hadn't heard. I suppose congratulations are in order. George must be beside himself at scoring such an impressive coup for the department."

"Aren't you interested in where Gwen Foster is right now?"

"Judging from your sanctimonious tone, I'd say that Gwen is in police custody, being offered some illegal enticement to manufacture evidence against me. Isn't that why you're really here, _detective_?"

I shook my head. "Wrong, wrong, and no comment."

His laughter chilled me and knotted the mass in my belly a little tighter. "Then where is she?"

"At the present moment, most of Ms. Foster is in the Bay County Morgue."

One swift intake of breath served as his reaction.

"However, we haven't recovered all of her, just yet, but I have high hopes. The reason I asked you here is two-fold. Number one, you were Gwen's employer. I'd imagine you knew her quite well. Any information, no matter how insignificant you might find it would be helpful to me in—"

"Shut up!"

"Excuse me?"

"When was she killed?"

"Tuesday."

"It's Thursday and you people are telling me _now_?"

"Which brings me to fold number two. I need Vinnie Bennett back in Darkwater Bay. Today, preferably."

"You can't possibly think that child had anything to do with this! He adores... adored her. We all did."

"Then you'll cooperate fully with my investigation?"

Tiny lines appeared around Datello's eyes. "Is this why you're out here, Helen?"

"I'll ask the questions if you don't mind."

"Anything that might pertain to Gwen is at your disposal. I'll see to it that Vinnie is back home today on one condition."

"What would that be, Mr. Datello?"

"You treat him with respect. He is not a suspect in this. I have half a dozen employees that can verify that he's been in San Diego since Sunday night."

"He's not a suspect," I agreed.

"I'd ask for your word, but you know I don't trust it."

"Fair enough. We don't trust each other. But I'll give my word just the same. Vinnie Bennett is not a suspect in his cousin's murder. Nor is he a suspect in a murder that is linked to Gwen's."

"Linked to... what murder?" Datello's olive skin paled to the range of day old corpse. "My God. _Most_ of her remains are at the morgue! No. No-no-no-no-no. That's not _possible_."

"I hear that you and Frank Bennett forged quite a friendship after your initial squabble over environmental protection. It must've been a serious blow to the friendship when you brought the man accused of killing Brighton Bennett into the community." I perched my elbows on the table, folded my hands and rested my chin atop the stack. "Interesting what happened to Mr. Masconi after the charges against him were dropped, don't you think?"

Datello stiffened. "I'm unaware of where he went or what he did after Johnny Orion's infamous mistake. If you want those details, I'm afraid you'll have to talk to him, Detective Eriksson."

"Oh, I have talked to him. He, like everyone else, has no clue where Salvatore Masconi moved. I find that particularly interesting."

"Why?"

I shrugged. "Just a peculiarity. Are you aware that Gwen Foster has a child somewhere in the world?"

Datello's jaw clenched. He knew. At least, he knew more than he was willing to share.

"How does that kind of information help you find Salvatore Masconi, detective?"

"I don't think Sal killed her. In fact, I think you were right when you said it wasn't possible. Could I offer you a drink, Mr. Datello? You look a little... dry."

"I'm fine," he half-snarled the words at me. "You look ridiculous by the way. What are you doing, moonlighting at Dunhaven on your time off?"

"I don't know what Dunhaven is, but no, I'm not moonlighting. I'm serious about solving this murder, Mr. Datello. I can't help but have my interest piqued by your initial assumption of where Gwen was this morning. Did she have knowledge of some of your business practices that might've been, I don't know, of specific interest to the police?"

"My businesses are clean."

I stared, let the silence soak the room until Datello shifted in his chair.

"I am not involved in illegal activities, Helen. Despite certain relatives—"

"So Gwen didn't know anything to tell the police. That's why you assumed we would entice her to confabulate, correct?"

Datello folded his hands on the table, twisted the pinky ring, and moved to the diamond-encrusted band on his left ring finger. "We had no secrets. There was nothing for Gwen to tell the police or the FBI or anyone else. I've done nothing wrong, and my business operations are all completely legitimate."

"You're married?"

"Yes."

"Congratulations. Married long?"

"Three years."

"That's a fair amount of time, I suppose. Hard to hold a marriage together sometimes, isn't it?"

"I'm afraid you'd know more about that than I would."

"Have you been back east lately, Danny?"

"I was tempted to attend a funeral recently, but in the end felt that my presence would be unwise. How was it?"

"Rainy. Cold. Cheerful event."

"You bitch," he spoke softly. Eyes darted to the window behind me.

That's right, Datello. Feel the eyes watching, just like I do.

"If there were no secrets, why didn't you know about Gwen's child?"

"We had a business relationship, detective."

"So Gwen wasn't invited to the wedding?"

"It was a private event, in Hawaii."

"Were you aware that Gwen hired Johnny Orion?"

Fists clenched. "She did no such thing."

"Oh, but she did. Orion won't tell me why, but Gwen definitely had him watching her day and night."

"If Gwen had a problem, she would've come to me."

"I have documentation, Mr. Datello. For the past three months, Orion was camped outside Gwen's house standing guard. Are you certain that Gwen would've turned to you if she had a problem?"

Doubt flickered in his eyes. "She would've, without a single doubt. Gwen and I shared a very close relationship. I've known her since she was a young girl."

"She was pretty, yes?"

He nodded.

"Like Brighton."

"You're not implying that I had anything to do with that." Datello slammed his fists on the table. "This is exactly what I meant when I said that you would be respectful."

"I was simply curious. Did you know Brighton too?"

"No. Her mother remarried and was essentially estranged from the Bennett family."

"Do you know what I find frustrating?"

"I'm not sure I want to know, or need that information, detective."

"You and Orion don't beat around the bush about how much you despise one another, yet I get the feeling that you both have information that you're not willing to share. I think it's important. I'll remind you of something I mentioned to Johnny when we last spoke. Withholding information in a criminal investigation is a crime. I hope, when the truth finally comes out—and it will—that I'm wrong, that you two have been as helpful and forthcoming as possible. If not, you'll be spending a lot of time together while the DA sorts out the charges."

"I'm not afraid of you, Helen. And the truth coming out? That's a double-edged sword. You might do well to remember that."

"Call me when you've got Vinnie back in Darkwater Bay. I'd appreciate it if you don't tell him why I need to speak to him."

"You will _not_ treat him like a criminal."

I pasted a cold smile on my face. "You have my word."

"Are we finished, detective?"

"Sure, oh, one other thing. Give my regards to Uncle Sully the next time you speak."

"And give mine to Rick. I have a feeling you'll be seeing him soon."

### Chapter 21

My heart wasn't pounding as much as it was quivering. Cold seeped through my chest cavity. Datello just threatened my life. The problem was, I couldn't explain the nature of the threat without exposing something I didn't want anyone to know.

If I had latched onto Marie's propensity for prayer, I would've been doing it like crazy—that I could get to Datello before he got to me, that the only eyes behind the glass watching that thinly veiled game of one-upmanship was Charlie Haverston. He was green enough to placate.

Hope dashed hard and sparked a little life into my heart. It took off in a staccato that would've won a round of dueling banjos. The door to the observation room swung open. Somber George Hardy and stricken Donald Weber stared at me with horrified expressions.

Behind them, I got a glimpse of smug plastered on Jerry Lowe's face. Beside him, Chris Darnell looked ready to spit bullets in a succession that would rival my heartbeat.

"Helen, we need to talk. Now."

They filed out of the room, followed by Charlie, who simply mouthed, _I'm sorry_.

"Wait for me in the lobby, Charlie. We need to plan what happens next."

"Helen?" Weber turned and waited for me to follow.

"Sir," we stepped onto the ancient elevator.

"Not now, Helen," George said. Not particularly friendly.

I didn't think the interview was that bad. The car was saturated with too many emotions to sift through. Anger. Fear. Panic. Regret. Those were just mine.

Alarm spiked because of the unexpected crowd watching my little chat with Datello. How much had he said? Anything that might betray details that were better left quiet? And where was Rodney? I couldn't fathom why Jerry Lowe was part of this motley crew.

"In the conference room," George said.

I was there already. Noose tightening. Run now. I don't need money. I don't need _this_.

Jerry Lowe's hand slipped over the small of my back. "That was brilliant, Helen. I'd love to talk about how you managed to irritate him out of that calm veneer he wears all the time."

"Give it a rest, Lowe," Darnell piped up from the rear. " _It's not rocket science_ , right, Dr. Eriksson?"

My blood froze. Paranoia has that effect. Who was the last person I dropped that phrase to? Maya? Haverston? At Orion's place, when I talked to Briscoe and Conall...

I gritted my teeth and marched into the conference room. "Commissioner Hardy, did we not reach an agreement that outlined my authority to investigate this case?"

"We did, Helen, but—"

"And in that agreement, did I not stipulate that I would not tolerate interference with the legal practices necessary to advance this investigation to a successful conclusion?"

"You did, but—"

"And—"

"Jesus," Darnell muttered, "would you let the man speak, Dr. Eriksson? Or were you this insubordinate to your superiors in the FBI too?"

"They teach a class at Quantico."

Air blasted from his nostrils. "Unbelievable."

"Why am I being accosted by three superiors and someone who has no authority over my position at all?"

"We're not accosting you, Helen," Weber spoke softly. "That interview raised grave concerns. From our vantage point, it sounded like Datello threatened you."

"That," I waved it aside. "Posturing. His ilk is good at it. Believe me, I'm not concerned at his little demonstration of tit for tat. It irritated him that I reminded him how fully aware I am of his connection to organized crime. You honestly didn't expect me to let him spoon feed his PR diatribe about squeaky clean businesses, did you?"

"You were a little on the antagonistic side," George said.

"Perhaps Mr. Datello needed a reminder that he holds no stake in the Darkwater Bay police department."

"That's it," Darnell fumed. "We're taking this case."

"Who?" I demanded.

"OSI. I will not have another high profile murder case botched because of—"

"Like hell are you taking my case! You have no right to interfere in the jurisdiction of this city, Commander Darnell. I don't care who empowered you. Fight me on this, and I'll have every major network in the country crawling all over Darkwater Bay, camped out on your doorstep, examining every single thing your boss has done since he was elected to office!"

For the record, I hold no such power. At the same time, I know this game too. A politician puts image before all else. The governor would probably scale Everest naked to avoid even the appearance of impropriety.

Darnell buckled. "You wouldn't."

"In a New York minute. Why are you even here, Darnell? We've been working this case for less than two days and making huge strides toward its resolution." Lie. "There's absolutely no justification for interference from an outside agency. And believe me, as a member of the most powerful outside agency in the country, I can promise you that not even the bureau would get away with what you're trying to do."

"Yet you're not here as a member of the FBI," Darnell's thick arms tested his suit to the limits when he crossed them over his chest. "You're on par with us _local_ guys."

"I feel I should divulge something that none of you are probably aware of. As of last night, there are two of my colleagues from the FBI here. In Darkwater Bay."

Hardy sank into a chair. "Oh lord, Helen. Was that really necessary?"

"They're here should it become necessary."

"Have I missed something?" Lowe morphed into a sponge on the other side of the table, eagerly absorbing every detail of what was said.

"The only reason you're here is because I haven't been able to reach Rodney all night, and we've got another problem," Donald said. "It would appear that both Rodney and Helen's offices were burglarized last night."

"What was taken?" Lowe's smirk vanished.

"The hard drive from my computer," I said. "I wasn't aware that Captain Martin's office was burgled as well. This isn't the first theft I've suffered. Wednesday morning, my hotel room was robbed and my laptop computer was taken. Forsythe processed the scene and found a number of electronic surveillance devices."

"My God." George crumpled to the precipice of despair. "Maybe we should just let Chris take this case, Donald. We..."

" _We_ must soldier on," I said with conviction. "I have already implemented additional security measures that I'm confident will be successful."

"Even with Danny Datello gunning for you?" Lowe asked. He almost pulled off concern. Almost.

"Datello told me exactly what I needed to know, gentlemen. He isn't even aware of how thoroughly manipulated he was in that interview."

"And just what information were you angling for?" Darnell asked. Still, deep interest sparked in his eyes.

"Granted, I took it farther than it needed to go, because I wanted his focus on the notion that I'm here because of a vendetta the feds have against the Marcos family, which as you probably know or at least figured out, includes dear Danny.

"His reaction to Gwen's murder told me what I've suspected for a full day now."

"Which was what precisely, doctor?" Darnell, like Orion, could use a lesson or two in patience.

"Salvatore Masconi did not kill Gwen Foster. And up until a few minutes ago, Datello believed with all his heart that Masconi was responsible for Brighton Bennett's murder. He now knows that he made a terrible mistake."

Lowe rubbed his hands together. "You're saying that Datello had Masconi killed after Orion botched the case!"

"It's very likely, Chief Lowe. When he stammered about how it wasn't possible, it could be inferred that dead men cannot commit more crimes. Don't get too excited. There's no evidence that Masconi is dead, or that Datello did the deed."

"Yet," Lowe grinned at me. "I have the utmost confidence in your ability to expose him for the murderer that we know he is."

I tried to rein in the infectious enthusiasm Lowe sparked. "Yeah, we hope, chief. In the meantime, whoever did kill Gwen and Brighton is still out there doing God knows what because he's managed to stay a step ahead of everyone for a very long time."

"Do you have a profile?"

"It's coming together quickly, Commander Darnell," I said. "Right now, all I can tell you is that Haverston and I will be aggressively pursuing new information that I uncovered during the night."

"Is that why you're dressed like you just performed an autopsy?" George broke the code of polite behavior and addressed my unusual attire.

"I was a little wilted by sunrise. Forgive my appearance. It was the best I could do and make it here soon enough to chat with Datello before he got fed up and left. I promise, Haverston and his team will have my profile the second I'm sure it's as accurate as possible."

"Anything you can tell us now would be helpful. This story is gonna break in the news sooner rather than later, and we've got to be able to convey some confidence to the press," Weber's somber mood deepened a few degrees.

"He's a white male, mature, with extensive knowledge of human anatomy. Anything beyond that would be irresponsible speculation until I learn more about his victims."

Lowe started tracing patterns on the table with one finger. "What do you mean by mature, Helen?"

"He's not the typical 25 to 40 year old offender. At the youngest, he's probably pushing fifty."

"With extensive knowledge of anatomy, are you implying that this could be a doctor?" Lowe pressed.

"A doctor, a professor of anatomy, or someone who has experimented enough that he learned a great deal. A hunter or butcher for instance."

"Fascinating."

"Yes, well be that as it may, I'd rather be out getting the information that I need right now. Are we adjourned, commissioner?"

"Go," he nodded. "Make sure Haverston or his men pick up this Bennett boy when Datello calls."

"Yes sir."

Lowe followed me out of the conference room and resumed the light touch to my low back. "Helen, you've got to know how much I admire what you do. I find this absolutely fascinating. I've been begging for years, trying to get George and Donald to move this department into the 21st century. I'd love to sit down and talk to you about how you've managed to gain such insight into human behavior."

"Really?"

"Yes!"

"Perhaps after the case is resolved."

"Nonsense. You have to eat, don't you?"

"Well..." Three olives, a boatload of chocolate and a gallon of cinnamon latte hardly qualified as nutrition.

"You look exhausted. When you get to the point that you can't go forward without a break, call me on my cell." He pressed a card into my hand. "Day or night, middle of the night, I don't care. I'll whip up whatever you'd like to eat, and we can have a nice, private chat without the dinosaurs interrupting."

Fatigue made it sound reasonable. Curiosity about Lowe made it tempting. My desire for a kindred spirit regarding bending rules made it an irresistible proposition. I grinned up at him. "You've got yourself a deal, Chief Lowe."

"Jerry," he murmured. "And I look forward to seeing you soon."

### Chapter 22

I dashed across the street to LaPierre Tower to liberate my luggage. Fortunately, Michel had left word with his daytime counterpart that Mr. Orion had a guest who was to be allowed access to the penthouse. As it turned out, it wasn't entirely necessary. I met Orion at the elevator. He was going.

"Don't stick around on account of me."

"Funny, Doc. I was just about ready to call out the National Guard." He stepped back into the elevator. "Well?"

"Well what?"

"Are you coming?"

"Only to get my things."

"C'mon, Doc. Would it really be so terrible for you to accept a genuine offer of help?"

"Not from someone I trust implicitly."

"Oh, and who might that be?"

"None of your business. I appreciate the help you offered last night, getting my things out of the Montcliff before they too could be infected with bugs, but I no longer require your assistance."

"I saw Danny Datello leaving central when I got home this morning."

He hadn't bothered to change his clothes, not that I noticed before he subtly pointed out that he didn't go back to the penthouse last night.

"You are correct."

"He looked like a man on a mission."

"I'm sure he did."

"Any signs of Kelly and Varden this morning?"

"I wouldn't know, Orion. I've been too busy _working_ to notice."

"You should pay closer attention, Doc. If you did, you might've noticed that yes, they're still watching your every move, as are the gentlemen from the FBI."

"No surprise there."

"And why is that not a shocking twist in this drama?"

"You assume I didn't ask them to stick around."

"After you told them to leave, wished David the best?"

"Orion, if I didn't know your type the way I do, I'd say you almost sound jealous."

The elevator chimed, and Orion slipped his keycard into the slot that granted access to the penthouse foyer.

"Who says jealousy is an impossible emotion for me to feel?"

"I do. Men like you don't stick around long enough to get jealous. You go out and have _a thing_ for one night, and come home the next morning ready to move on to the next conquest. God help the good men and women at the Department of Health if you ever settle down. The rate of sexually transmitted diseases will probably drop by 75 percent."

"Ouch." Not really, judging by the unabashed grin. He swung the door to his apartment open.

I wasted no time. One bag tucked under my arm, I started lugging the heaviest out into the foyer.

"Helen."

"What?"

"Don't do this. I don't mind if you stay here, and I swear on my father's soul, I'll be a perfect gentleman. I'd feel a lot better if I knew you had a safe place to decompress."

"I see my demonstration in self-defense fell on deaf ears. Or nerves as the case may be."

"All right. All right. I concede defeat. You're a big girl who can take care of herself. I'm not sure how adept you are at sleeping with one eye open, but if you say so—"

"Funny, Orion."

"It's not like they didn't come after you in your sleep once already."

"I seem to recall that it was _you_ who dragged me out of bed, not the bad guys. Or maybe you're the bad guy after all."

"And my memory has another recollection. You didn't snap out of the fog with jujitsu, Doc. You were helpless."

I dropped the bulging suitcase in the doorway. "What do you really hope to gain by all of this? I'm not going to fall into your arms or kiss your feet or any other part of your anatomy, Orion. I know what you are. If I hadn't suspected it the night we met, it has become crystal clear to me since then. Give it up. You're fighting an unwinnable battle. I'm not interested."

"Neither am I. Happy now?"

"Seriously?"

"Yes."

"All right. I'll stay, but only until I can find something truly safe."

He threw his hands in the air. "Finally! I was starting to wonder if you had an ounce of common sense in your head."

"Have you got a guest room in this mausoleum?"

"Several." He grinned and effortlessly lifted my large bag and carried it into the penthouse. "This way, m'lady."

I followed, feeling the urge to throw breadcrumbs as we weaved around what had to be the entire top floor of LaPierre Tower. "This security gig must be pretty lucrative, huh Orion?"

"Pretty. I do all right. Why? Are you impressed yet?"

He strode into a room with floor to ceiling glass on the west wall, blinds open. "Even in the fog, she's got a stunning view of the bay, yes?"

"Too bad we're not up higher and on the ocean side."

Johnny's shoulders slumped. "Sorry, Doc. This is, you should know, generally considered the best view from the city proper."

"I believe you." I drifted to the windows and peered out. "It's spectacular."

He harrumphed behind me. "I should get the rest of your bags. Feel free to settle in as much or as little as you like, Doc. You've got your own bath off the—"

"I'll find it. Thanks Orion."

When he left the room, I dug through my carry-on bag for the phone charger and had it plugged in for a quick charge before dashing into the bathroom. The less opportunity to chit chat, the better. I toed out of the sneakers Maya provided and checked for blisters. There were plenty of red marks for wearing shoes without proper stockings, and my hose were shredded. I tossed them aside and listened for noises in the bedroom.

Silence.

I opened the door and crept to one of the suitcases, unzipped and started sorting through the mess Orion's man made when hastily packing my belongings. Suits were wrinkled beyond repair. Every pair of hose seemed magnetically attracted to the point of any heel in the bag. Blouses were wadded into balls and shoved into corners.

Face in the palms, insert loud groan.

"I've got a service here in the building if Paul made a huge mess."

"He did, and I really don't have time to sort through all of this trying to find something that might be in halfway decent condition to wear."

Orion tossed a garment bag on the bed. "Try in there. I'll call Ansel at the desk and have him send someone up for the rest of this stuff."

"So it can come back with bugs sewn into the hems? No thank you. I'll buy an iron while I'm out."

I unzipped the garment bag and found two changes of clothes undamaged: a light yellow pastel pantsuit, spring wool, and another in deep vibrant green.

"Mmm," Orion moaned. "Wear the green."

"The green."

"Uh huh."

"I'm not particularly partial to either one. The colors rather bleed the authority right out of the badge, don't you think?"

He chuckled. "They are your clothes, Doc."

"Yeah. My freakin' clothes. Your _man_ ruined half of my—stuff."

"Unmentionable stuff?" I could hear the bastard's amused grin halfway across the room.

"Stockings are delicate. It can't be tossed into luggage with heels."

"That, I think I can help you with."

"Closet cross dresser, are we? I doubt we wear the same size."

"There's a shop in the lobby. What am I buying?"

"Size AB if they're Hanes."

"I think we can manage that. Are those tall?"

"No."

"Doc, you're pretty tall."

"I'm also not very wide. They're nylon. They stretch, if not one way, the other. Get me three pair if they've got them."

"Don't these things come in different colors?"

"Nude will suffice."

"Mmm, yeah, I should've known that. Be back in a jiff."

I was afraid he meant it, and hurried into the suit before he could return. Sure I'd have to half undress to put on the hose, but it was better than having him loiter around waiting for me to change. This way, I could call out from the bathroom, have him leave the stockings and end the inquisition early.

Defiantly, I pulled the yellow suit off a hanger and went to the bathroom. I was half dressed when a knock sounded at the door. "Doc?"

"Just leave them on the bed."

"All right."

Door opened a crack. Coast clear. Minutes later, I struggled into the strappy three inch heels and clomped down the long hallway of his penthouse.

Orion was sitting at a table I hadn't taken the time to notice the night before, or the fact that the living area of the penthouse was akin to a giant loft, with different areas bleeding into the next. The table was closest to his kitchen, separated from the rest of the room by a large island.

"Coffee?" His eyebrows spiked downward. "You can't even take a simple suggestion, Doc." Shrug. "Worked out this time. You look authoritative enough in the yellow. I think it's still that federal attitude clinging to you."

The aroma of dark roast wafted into my nostrils. I sank into a chair, not yet ready to succumb to the pleas of my body for sleep. "Thanks. Black." He poured, while I pondered. "Is there an Apple Store around here?"

"Down the block. You need something?"

"To replace my laptop. It occurred to me, after what I went through last night, that I should rectify that loss as soon as possible."

Johnny picked at a croissant. My stomach growled. He pushed a plate with one for me in my direction. "If you're hungry," he said. "May I ask exactly what you _went through_ last night?"

I explained the search for a computer and privacy.

"You could've had both here."

"Not with the software I required."

"Ah, a cop thing."

"Yes, a cop thing. If I replace the laptop, I can download and install the software without any fuss and save myself a ton of hassle in the future."

"Central is right across the street, Doc. I'm sure they had what you needed."

"Perhaps. I'm not comfortable with my investigation happening right under their noses. It seems more prudent to eliminate that location whenever possible. I hope you won't mind if Charlie and I powwow up here from time to time. You know, at least until I find a permanent solution to my housing situation."

"It's gonna be tough finding a place that could match the security here."

"Tough, but not impossible. I've got some downtime this morning. In addition to the laptop, iron and ironing board, I thought I might look for a realtor."

He struggled to control interest and lost the battle. "Are you thinking of staying that long? A house makes sense?"

"You almost sound like you want me to leave."

Johnny tossed his newspaper aside, one that looked like little more than a prop to support casual conversation. "Are you nuts? I'd love it if you stayed here permanently, Doc. I'm sure George Hardy and Donald Weber will be thrilled too."

"I wouldn't go that far. They had a definite change in commitment this morning. Frankly, the only real advocate I had in that impromptu meeting was Jerry."

"Jerry? As in Jerry Lowe?"

I nodded.

"Doc, you can't trust a guy like Jerry Lowe!"

"Why not?"

"He's as bad as Rodney Martin. Part of the problem across the street is that they keep promoting these ass-kissers to positions of power when the quotient of their street smarts and experience is zilch. Do you even know how Jerry got his job?"

"Do tell." Men could be so easy to play.

"He was a uniformed officer for six years, took every exam he could the second he was eligible. During his tenure in a uniform, Jerry had a desk job. He made lieutenant at thirty, passed the captain's exam at thirty-two. He was slick, and knew all the right things to say to Chief McNamara and ended up captain of major crimes, that elite crew over there that does very little even when it does happen between seven and four-thirty."

"That was your unit, I believe."

"Yeah, and I wasn't a clock watcher. When I had a case, we worked two days solid without more than spit baths and cat naps."

"Just because he was ambitious doesn't make him a bad guy."

"He'd been captain maybe four months when Harry McNamara keeled over dead at his desk. It was the first time Jerry lifted a finger to do anything on the job."

"Dialed 9-1-1, did he?"

"He performed CPR until the paramedics arrived."

"And that earned him the position of chief of detectives?"

"Oh, he lobbied like crazy for McNamara's job. Weber wasn't sure we needed a chief of detectives at all. It seemed to work best in the other divisions to have the detective squads led by lowly lieutenants. But Jerry is a good politician. By the end of January, he was sitting in his new office on the eighth floor."

I shrugged. "I fail to see the problem, Johnny. That's often the way it goes with the upper echelon of police administration. You don't think that the director of the FBI comes from the rank of field agents, do you?"

"Maybe he should!"

"Or she."

"The FBI has never had a female director."

"Yet."

He grinned. "Fine. Point taken. What the hell did Lowe do that impressed you so much?"

"He believes that we'll solve this case, Johnny. Hardy and Weber were ready to tuck tail and run, and Lowe stood up for us."

"I see."

"Not even Commander Broom up the Ass showed a speck of trust that Haverston and I will get to the bottom of this."

"I take it you're talking about Commander Darnell from OSI."

"Can you believe the nerve of this guy? He was actually gonna rip the case out of my hands and give it to the state police in his elite task force." I picked off the corner of my croissant and gauged Orion's reactions out of the corner of my eye.

"Darnell used to be some sort of commanding officer in the Marines," Orion said. "He's not the enemy, Doc."

"If he's in the way of me doing my job, he most certainly is. Plus, he made some comment this morning that made me wonder if _he_ isn't behind those surveillance devices in my hotel room."

One finger traced the rim of his coffee cup. Orion's voice was low, serious. "He's a good man. Don't hold it against him simply because he understands the stakes in this. Darkwater Bay cannot afford to have another case like Brighton's go cold."

"It's far from that. It hasn't even been two days yet. Either people wanted me here because they believed that fresh eyes could make a difference or they didn't. I am not a politician, Orion. I won't play those games when I'm working a case. And I was pretty clear about the terms of our arrangement this morning. We either do this my way, or we're done. I won't be a quiet lamb led to the slaughter like—"

His eyebrows danced high on his forehead. "Like I was?"

"That sounds rather insensitive, but yes. You let yourself be the scapegoat in something you couldn't possibly have done."

"And how is it that you've become so certain of that fact, Helen? Like you said, you haven't even been here for two days."

I dragged my lower lip through my teeth a couple of times in the course of a great debate. Exactly how much trust did I need to engender with Orion? A little more wouldn't hurt, and it might be invaluable down the road.

"The procedure for handling evidence collected in the process of autopsy," I said. "I have it on high authority that it hasn't changed over the years."

"So?"

"It would've been impossible for you to get a vial of Bennett's blood containing EDTA to plant evidence on Masconi's clothing. Ergo, whoever did the deed had help, had access to evidence that would've left a trail, had anybody bothered to look for it."

His gaze grew uncomfortably tender before it skittered away. "I don't think that's a point that anyone bothered to consider. Thank you."

The knot in my belly that hadn't yet dissipated from the confrontation in Hardy's conference room unfurled on the wings of a billion butterflies. I struggled to tamp down the tingling nerve endings and confused synapses that resulted in an urge to crawl into Orion's lap and promise that I believed he was a good man.

Logic whispered through my brain. _So he didn't tamper with evidence. So what if his alibi is iron clad. Anybody could've saved you from Kelly and Varden. This man is the enemy, Helen. He's a liar, a slick manipulator who would've said or done anything to seduce you Monday night._

Part of me didn't want to give a damn about that. There comes a time in a woman's life when the need for physical intimacy outweighs all other concerns, no matter how practical they are. I had stretched several months beyond the breaking point. It may be a primary difference between men and women, but only in the duration of how long those needs can be denied. After all, men are the weaker sex. Y is nothing more than a broken X.

I'm a sucker for sincerity. I know this. Shaking off the trappings of his lure, I cleared my throat. "Well, it would appear that the detectives at central aren't the only ones who struggle with investigations."

"They had their man. Why dig for the truth?"

"Hmm," I sipped the dark roast Orion had slid in front of me. "We'll see about that. This isn't over, Orion. Weber and Hardy wanted answers. If I have to cram the truth down their throats, I'll do it. It's like my father always said. Be careful what you wish for."

Johnny avoided eye contact and started playing with his food again. "Helen..."

"Uh-oh. This sounds serious."

"Monday night, was anything you told me the truth?"

"Sometimes nothing is completely true or completely a lie."

"That's a non-answer. Don't use your bag of psychological tricks. It's important to me."

"Mostly half-truths," I said.

"Maybe someday, you'll trust me enough to tell me everything."

And maybe I'd get a lobotomy while I was at it.

His shoulders slumped. "I'll get you a city directory so you're not wandering around blind running errands today."

"I don't rate a long shadow from my protector today?"

"We've both got work to do." Orion slid away from the table. "Besides, I'm pretty sure that the FBI is keeping a close enough eye on you and Kelly and Varden to avert any further attempts."

Damn that man, but he made a good point.

### Chapter 23

Theresa Oswald was a perky, blonde forty-something who could've easily been on the radar of my prolific rapist-slash-suspected murderer in years past. She pulled out a file of properties that she swore would meet my criteria for privacy and security with the enthusiasm of a shark entering a beach side swimming area for the first time.

"There are a couple of lovely penthouses out on Hennessey Island."

I wrinkled my nose. Secure, perhaps. Private? No.

"You may not know this, but Hennessey Island has the lowest crime rate in the state."

"So I've been told. I really prefer private residences, Ms. Oswald."

"Well, we've got Beach Cliffs. There is one property that isn't technically on the market yet, but it does have a few furnishings that the owner is trying to decide if he'll sell with the house or if he has time to come back to the city to properly close up the property."

"It's not for sale yet?"

"He's testing the waters with a new job in Chicago through the winter. If he can tough it out through the wind and snow, he'll sell the place. If not, he'll want to return here. So you see, the house isn't really for sale, more of a lease with an option to purchase in six months."

"Honestly, that sounds perfect. Is there any chance I could look at this house today?"

"Certainly, Dr. Eriksson, but I should tell you that he wants all six months up front, which of course would apply to the sale price of the property, as the down payment. It's quite a lot of money, which is why it's been sitting empty for three months."

Not an issue. I pasted on an expression of haggling hesitation. "So he's not even going to make it through winter in Chicago? It's June right now, Ms. Oswald."

"Right, so he endured March in Chicago and thinks he's ready for November and December. I expect that life in the big city has him enamored enough that the weather isn't going to be a factor."

"Exactly how much are we talking about?"

"Twenty percent of the sale price as a down payment, and the leasing fee."

"Which is how much exactly?"

"Just above half a million. I know that sounds incredibly steep, Dr. Eriksson."

"What it sounds like is a scam. This guy lives in another city for six months while some poor sap depletes their life savings in the hopes that it'll truly be a down payment on an expensive piece of real estate, only to end up paying half a million dollars for a six month lease. I don't know what universe this guy lives in, but that sounds like theft to me. Who in their right mind would pay almost 100 thousand dollars a month for rent?"

"I'm sorry," she dripped saccharine from perfectly straight teeth. "I was unclear. The majority of the funds will be held in an escrow account. Should the owner decide to return to Darkwater Bay in six months, the amount deducted is equal to approximately six-thousand per month, not 100 thousand."

"It's steep, but not too much of a stretch. I'd like to see the house, know a bit more about the security."

Oswald delved into her sales pitch inclusive of gated properties and high-tech security systems, locations on Darkwater Bay's prestigious cliff overlooking the Pacific Ocean, and all the modern amenities a woman of my discerning taste could want. The dolt had me at gated property and security system and didn't even realize it.

"Four bedrooms, five full baths, a gourmet kitchen, formal dining, a spacious living room, a den with built-in bookshelves. As a doctor, that might be a feature you'd enjoy. The back yard is landscaped and has a permanent in-ground pool. But the most stunning feature of the property in my opinion is the beautiful lanai at the back of the house. It overlooks the landscaped yard, the pool _and_ the Pacific."

"I thought this was a gated property. Am I incorrect that it implies _fenced_ as well?"

She chuckled. "Unless you're getting robbed by Spiderman, there's no way anyone would bother scaling Beach Cliff. It's a treacherous climb, almost a three hundred foot drop directly down to craggy rock and crashing waves. Some of the neighbors have constructed fences that don't completely obscure the view, but there has never been a report of a burglary in Beach Cliffs."

"So I take it there's no literal beach at the base of these cliffs. Odd choice in names."

"It's as if the beach is your back yard." One hand fluttered over her chest.

"Sounds dreamy." Internal eye roll. "When can I see it?"

"We can go right now, if you're free."

"As a bird." I grabbed my purse, and within an hour arranged the wire transfer for my down payment. Even though Theresa's sales skills were dubious at best, she was in luck. The property sold itself, particularly the security system, which was indeed state of the art.

"As soon as this transfer clears, I can drop off the keys. Where are you staying, Dr. Eriksson?"

"LaPierre Tower. You can leave them at the front desk for Michel. He'll see to it that I get them."

By noon, I was back in Johnny's lair busy installing software. He wasn't around, just like he said earlier over croissant and coffee. I thought about a power nap and my agreement with Jerry Lowe. Curiosity and impulse trumped caution. I grabbed my cell phone and called the number on his card.

"Jerry Lowe."

"Jerry, it's Helen Eriksson."

"I was hoping to hear from you sooner rather than later. Are you hungry?"

"Famished," I said. It was true. The croissant from breakfast had helped quell hunger pangs, but no longer.

He rattled off the address to his home. "It's in Nightingale. I trust you remember the route."

"Unfortunately, I do. I'm going to be about another hour before I can meet you. Does that work?"

"Perfectly. It'll give me time to whip up something fitting for the occasion. If you have any trouble finding the house, call my cell. I'll keep it on when I get home."

My caffeine buzz was history. I rummaged through Orion's kitchen until I found his dark roast and brewed half a pot. The software was on autopilot. The ironing board and steam iron were stored in the room Orion had deposited me in that morning. All I needed to do was run a search on the names of my perp's surviving victims. I crossed my fingers and hoped that at least a couple of them were still local enough for a road trip later this afternoon.

My cell phone chimed.

"Eriksson."

"Hey, Helen."

"Charlie. How goes the evidence processing at the crime lab?"

"When was the last time you talked to Lieutenant Forsythe?"

"At the Foster residence. Why?"

"They found a key at the scene."

"Is that unusual? I'd imagine that she, like the rest of us, have a number of them lying around."

"This one was on the floor under the coffee table. They might've missed it if the flash from Jones's camera hadn't illuminated it. Here's the thing, Helen. The key was on a broken chain. Forsythe said there was tissue on the chain."

I sat up straight. "Like it might've been pulled off the attacker during a struggle?"

"Yeah, that's what I was thinking. The key itself is pretty unusual, Helen."

"Describe it."

"It's the size and shape of a skeleton key, but it's some kind of flattened aluminum. There appear to be numbers or letters engraved on one side, but they're eaten away. Forsythe says he can use some kind of acid something or other to lift whatever's there."

"Sure," I said. "It's a process often used to restore serial numbers that have been obscured. What does it open? Any clue?"

"I've got Thieg out with a photograph checking banks for safety deposit boxes, the bus depot, the airport, basically any place with public lockers for rent."

"What about the post office?"

"Nada, chief. Our post office is antiquated. They've still got boxes with the little combination locks on them."

"It narrows the field. That's not a bad thing, Charlie. What about the DNA? Did you get an ETA from Winslow on the DNA testing?"

"She made me promise to tell you exactly what she said."

I laughed softly. "Let's hear it."

"Keep your pants on, princess. I'll call you the second I've got the results."

"That sounds about right. Do me a favor. Call her back and tell her to stop calling me princess. Anything else happen?"

"Not yet. The key seems to be the biggest lead so far."

"Perhaps it is. Listen, I'm gonna try to get caught up with a power nap this afternoon. Is it feasible that you could meet me at seven or eight tonight? We may have some more people to take statements from, and I could really use the backup."

"You found living victims in the area?"

"We're not sure these crimes were committed by the same guy yet, Charlie. Let's not start jumping to conclusions. When Maya has the DNA results for comparison, we'll know if we're moving in the right direction with hard evidence. In the meantime, it's not going to hurt to talk to women who were clearly the victims of a serial rapist."

"Gotcha, chief."

"And Charlie?"

"Yes ma'am?"

"Don't call me chief. It's _Helen_."

"Right. Sorry."

"I'll call you after my power nap. In the meantime, if something breaks in the investigation, call me regardless."

"Will do. Helen."

I grinned and disconnected the call. The necessary software to search for my rape survivors was installed, so I started working my way back in reverse chronological order. Some of the names belonged to girls still in their teens. It would be messy, not to mention unkind, to dredge this up for any of them, but the minors would present specific problems I wanted to avoid until we were certain that the DNA was a match to that left by Gwen Foster's rapist.

Two names from reports seven years ago popped out on the list. "Interesting. Sisters. Candace and Caroline Blevins, aged fifteen at the time of the assault, now a few weeks shy of age 22." I typed in Caroline's name first.

"You've gotta be kidding me." Her address popped up on the screen. "She's living on Hennessey Island. What luck!"

A few keystrokes later and the rap sheet of her sister scrolled down the screen. "What have we here. Candace, aka Candy Blevins, multiple arrests for prostitution, drugs, underage drinking... whoa." The record stretched back farther than the date of the assault. Shoplifting, truancy, curfew violations. "Candy is the girl I need to talk to."

Last known address, Portico. "Please let this be one of the suburbs Briscoe mentioned last night. Please let it be."

Google maps dashed my hopes. Portico was fifty miles south of Darkwater Bay along a historic state highway. I Googled the address of the local police department and spoke to a desk sergeant. After explaining who I was and the case at hand, I requested copies of the files that detailed the sexual assault complaints.

"I remember those two," the sergeant snorted softly. "Carrie was a sweet kid, utterly devastated by what happened to her. That other one, she was bad news from day one. You ask me, she could've been behind the whole thing."

"Excuse me?" Images of the partners in crime that Maya and I discussed this morning flitted on the backs of my eyelids.

"There's something wrong with that girl, Dr. Eriksson. I know it doesn't sound very kosher for a cop to say that about someone claiming to be a victim of a violent crime like those assaults were, but Candy Blevins was a fast girl before her thirteenth birthday."

I physically recoiled from the insinuation. "So because she was sexually active at a very young age, somehow that justifies sexual assault?"

"Not what I meant. You read the files and draw your own conclusions. Better yet, track Candy down up there."

"I have her last known address in Portico, sergeant."

"Uh-huh, because she ran away when she was sixteen and hasn't had a legal residence since then. That address you've got? It's her folks place down here. Believe me, if Candy was back in town, we'd know about it."

I gave him Orion's fax number, retouched my makeup for lunch with Lowe and left the penthouse.

### Chapter 24

Jerry Lowe's neighborhood was a dead end street nestled into the Nightingale suburb of Darkwater Bay. The quiet nook within an already stately community was so picturesque, I found it breathtaking. Huge oak trees with branches spreading so far and wide they resembled a canopy lined the street. It was impossible to tell where one tree stopped and the next began unless I looked for the massive tree trunks.

The sidewalks weren't the typical slabs of concrete either. Natural stone had been laid carefully to form the cobblestone walkways. Every lawn was perfectly shorn to equal lengths, mowed in a diagonal pattern, and the greens were vibrant and unvaried. I thought if a moment of history could be frozen in time, it would surely be Lowe's neighborhood, and undoubtedly would be a Rockwell painting hanging in a gallery somewhere.

Finding the specific house wasn't difficult, even though trees obscured clear views of the homes. Black and white paint decorated the curb in front of each residence, identifying the assigned house numbers.

Gwen Foster's neighborhood was impressive with its sprawling homes and affluent trappings. Jerry's street was charming without being pretentious. It struck me as an odd incongruity to the man everyone said was _the real Jerry Lowe_. "I'll make my own assessment," my stubbornness forced the opinion out into the universe. Sure, I could listen to everyone around me, but Weber and Hardy's black cloud gave me pause to wonder if there weren't others suffering in silence at the hand of someone who knew too much and wasn't afraid to play his ace.

Danny Datello popped to mind immediately. This was exactly the sort of behavior I had witnessed first hand from dear old Uncle Sully. Apples don't fall far from the tree.

I picked my way along the lovely cobblestone path to Lowe's porch. The house didn't appear to be more than a decade old, but was built in the Victorian style, two stories, wrap around front porch, a charming turret spire at the left corner of the house.

A swing on the front porch hung from chains secured to the ceiling with heavy hooks. White lath style ceiling didn't have a speck of dirt visible to the naked eye. The house was soft heather gray, a little heavy on blue tones. The swing was painted charcoal in a high gloss. It swung gently in the late spring breeze.

Facing outward at the front door was a doormat. WELCOME was emblazoned in white and surrounded by lilac sprays. I hadn't noticed a ring on Lowe's left hand, but the house screamed of a woman's influence.

Or perhaps that was Jerry's big secret that someone might wield over him to solicit complete obedience. "Do you have a flair for home decorating, Jerry?"

The front door swung open, and the man I didn't expect to see at Jerry Lowe's home appeared. I bristled before he had the chance to speak.

"I was about to ring."

"I saw you drive up," Flynn Myre said blandly. "I was here discussing another case with the chief. Won't be long, or interrupt your... lunch." His eyes roved from head to toe in an unsettling squint.

Lowe appeared a moment later, kitchen towel in one hand, corkscrew in the other. He shoved both toward Myre and jerked his head toward the kitchen. "Helen," the smile was warm and genuine this time, not the plastic one he forced after he learned who I was, why I arrived in Darkwater Bay. "I'm so glad you're here. I trust you didn't have any difficulty finding the place."

I wondered at the reversal in his original reaction to meeting me. Perhaps I would find the right moment to slip an innocent inquiry into our conversation. "Sorry it took me so long to get to the door. I couldn't help but admire this cozy little neighborhood, Jerry. Nightingale is beautiful from what I've seen of it, but this... this is simply breathtaking."

Myre disappeared behind a wall in the rear of the house. I struggled to focus on Lowe and ignore his unexpected guest.

"I know what you mean. While I'd love to take credit for its curb appeal, I'm afraid I haven't the time, patience or green thumb for it. We have a homeowner's association. The dues seemed ridiculous at first, but when I realized that the money was indeed being put to good use, I was more than happy to let them do their thing."

My eyes took in the living room in Jerry's house. Intricately carved wood spindles marked the airy separation between foyer and living room. Jerry Lowe apparently had an appreciation for books. An entire wall was lined with built-in shelves, adorned with volumes, some appearing very old.

"I've been collecting them for years." He followed my eyes. "Are you an aficionado of the classics, Helen? I've got an impressive Shakespeare collection, but my pride and joy is a pristine first edition of _Origin of Species_."

"That must've cost a fortune. Do you mind if I peruse the titles?"

"Be my guest. I've got a bottle of chardonnay chilling. I think I'll pour us a glass while you stroll."

"Is that wise? I mean, we're both working today."

"You are," he smiled warmly. "I took the afternoon off. I hadn't planned to return from my vacation until next week, but after the frantic messages I received Tuesday night, I thought it best to postpone the rest of my trip until this matter involving my neighbor is resolved."

"Her home is only a few blocks from here, isn't it?" I hadn't noticed when I drove over this afternoon.

"One if you cut through back yards. I must say, my neighbors are quite shaken up over what happened. In general, the people in close proximity to my house have been lulled into a sense of false security, I suppose, having the chief of detectives living nearby. It's a difficult lesson that the violence in this city isn't limited to the less affluent areas in Darkwater proper." He gestured toward the books. "Help yourself. I'll be right back."

The collection was eclectic, Shakespeare and Darwin not withstanding, Jerry also had rare editions of Tolstoy, commentaries on Voltaire, John Donne and other revered philosophers from the period of enlightenment.

A glass of wine appeared between the books and my nose. "Do you like wine?"

"Love it, although I usually drink red."

"I took a trip to Napa last fall and brought home several cases of reds. There was a delicious merlot that you might appreciate. Would you prefer that instead of the chardonnay?"

"I'm not sure I should have this. Can't have me showing up to question people with alcohol on my breath, can we?"

"I wasn't aware that you had suspects to interview yet. Then again, George and Donald aren't sharing much with me about this case."

"I'm sorry for that, Jerry. I won't pretend to understand the dynamics in the police department, but I have noticed that Darkwater Bay seems to be a universe unto itself at times. From what little I've seen so far at least."

"Do you, or did you, feel that their decision reflected directly on the job I've done as chief of detectives?"

"No," I hastily assured him. "In fact, you weren't mentioned at all when the unusual agreement we made was reached. It was my firm belief at the time that Commissioner Hardy and Chief Weber merely wanted to try something different, to shake up the status quo as it were. In a sense, it was a stroke of unbelievable circumstance that the very first case I encountered seems to be linked to such a deep wound in the city."

"Some of us don't believe in coincidences."

"I'm a steadfast member of that club," I admitted, "but without any evidence to the contrary, I have no reason to believe that this is more than an unfortunate coincidence."

I sipped the glass of wine he served. "Mmm. Delicious. Is this domestic?"

"Hard to believe, isn't it? I find that most domestic chardonnays run a little too dry, and a little too woody. Unless of course, you have the fortune of sampling at the vineyard rather than relying on the stock at the local wine and liquor store."

"You have excellent taste. Not just the wine. The books are exquisite, Jerry. I can't tell you how refreshing it is to see a personal library in the home of a fellow law enforcement professional and not be inundated with titles that belong at the office."

"We seem to have a lot in common," his smile reached the steel gray eyes and made them twinkle.

"I was afraid that you were so offended that George and Donald hired me, that we might never have the opportunity to develop a rapport," I tested the waters with the tip of a toe into the conversation I itched to begin. "You know, it was never my intention to step on any toes or alienate anyone at Central Division." Lie. It was no secret what I thought of Flynn Myre, and no amount of schooled features could hide my disgust.

" _Anyone_?"

I smiled. "You know what I mean." I wondered if Myre was still lurking about somewhere. Was Lowe chastising me gently for my poor reaction to the rumpled detective?

"I'd like to be very direct with you, Helen. At first, I was deeply offended that George and Don went behind my back and brought in an outsider. It stung, like they were setting me up to be the scapegoat for the failures at Central Division specifically. I know our detective squad needs a great deal more oversight than my other divisions require. It isn't for lack of effort on my part that the standard hasn't improved over the years."

"I'm not implying that it is, Jerry. Although, if you have any insight into why this unusual situation exists, I'd love to hear it. Confidentially of course."

"Why are you interested?"

"I've seen and worked in just about every major police force in this country, coast to coast, top to bottom. It's been my observation over the years that the precincts, or divisions if you prefer, that are farther from the leader are the ones that have a propensity for problems. It's sort of like that old saying about cats and mice."

"Are those departments entrenched in non-standard police unions?"

"I'm not sure what that means. Non-standard."

"The benevolent brotherhoods and so forth. Yes, they advocate for safety and working conditions of police officers, but they don't tie administrative hands from discipline when it's warranted."

"And George and Donald are aware of this with the police union in Darkwater Bay?"

He shook his head, lips curled in disgust. "Of course they're aware. Unfortunately, the men and women of the police department have a guaranteed right to choose the union that will represent them. This is their choice. And why wouldn't they choose it? Unless some gross and obvious act of malfeasance is committed, there's very little I'm allowed to do."

"Interesting."

"Frustrating is more apt. And I'm truly sorry, Helen. I didn't want this to be an unpleasant get-to-know-you lunch."

"No need to apologize. I'd be lying if I said I'm not curious about this union, but I respect that you'd rather discuss more pleasant topics, so I'll leave it alone." For now. Briscoe on the other hand would be fair game. He loved history so much; I'd let him illuminate the situation for me.

"I can only imagine how devastated the FBI must be that you've left them to come here," Jerry said. "After that meeting this morning, and seeing the way you handled Danny Datello, any reservations I had are now gone. Who knows what would've happened had I been around when Don and George started to discuss serious pursuit, Helen? They may have asked for my opinion."

"You were on vacation when the decision was made."

"Technically. I was in the office on Friday and left for the mountains Saturday morning. George said they decided to act quickly on Monday, something about news that you might be interested in relocation."

"Right," I nodded and sipped some more wine. The lack of real food, excessive consumption of caffeine and sleep deprivation made the wine hit harder than I anticipated. Even though I'd only had half a glass, the room felt a little fuzzy. "Would it be all right if we had lunch soon?"

"Yes, of course. It's ready. I hope you don't mind. I thought we could dine in the kitchen."

I wouldn't admit that fine dining in my experience was a box of egg-fried rice at the desk while reviewing crime scene photos and victim statements. A real meal at a kitchen table would be a rare treat.

He served zucchini frittata, homemade French bread slathered with garlic butter and a fruit plate. And copious apologies for not making anything more spectacular. I focused on the fare, rather than the dismay that Flynn Myre was in fact waiting for us to join him in the kitchen.

"This _is_ spectacular, Jerry. If you had any idea what I usually eat, you'd stop apologizing. I can't remember the last meal I had that was nutritious, not eaten over case files or interrupted before I could enjoy an appetizer."

"You've got to take better care of yourself."

The words echoed in my head, fuzzy and distant. The fruit plate blurred.

"Helen?" a shout through a long tunnel. "Helen, are you all right?"

"I feel... faint."

Four Jerry Lowes jumped out of the chair and jerked in an odd slow motion toward me. Or maybe it was two Flynn Myres and two Jerry Lowes. The sudden movement had a jarring effect on my brain. I felt an arm curl around my shoulders, another slither beneath my knees. Waves of nausea enveloped me. I felt like I was flying, diving from ten thousand feet without a parachute.

"No," I said, overwhelmed by sick sensation. "Not so fast."

"I can't understand you."

I could see the words form on his lips, so close to my face now. The sound waves were almost visible. My vision swam and another bout of dizziness crashed around me. Everything turned sideways, back, the other direction. My eyes fluttered shut. The sensation intensified.

" _Help me_."

It was the last thing I remembered before the world faded to black.

### Chapter 25

Bile burned in the back of my throat. That was the nicest sensation pumping through my body. It was the axe buried in the front of my skull that was the real killer. I struggled to move, to sit up if I was lying down or lie down if sitting.

The world must've been revolting, because my muscles don't disobey when a command is ordered. Maybe it was the thousand pound crushing weight on top of me.

Where the hell am I? What was I doing? Have I been in a car accident? Maybe that's what's going on. I'm on my way home from Rick's funeral and flip the car. I'm being slowly crushed to death. How's that for irony?

A finger twitched. Pain shot up my arm. No problem. No pain, no gain. Right? A minuscule movement was progress at least. I kept moving the left index finger. This is good. I'm left hand dominant. The searing pain in my head isn't a stroke that's going to leave me paralyzed on my good side.

Finally, my hand found its mobility. I stepped my fingers gently over the surface of whatever supported my body.

Not the car. That would be leather, smooth and cool, tiny lines like palm prints to tickle the ridges of my fingertips. This was rougher. _Er_ , being the operative identifier. Not wool, but in the wool family, perhaps. Llama? Alpaca? Some exotic Peruvian blend.

Wait a minute. Why would I be in Peru, crushed in a car with wool blend upholstery? I was at Rick's funeral. That was only a few minutes ago, wasn't it?

Yes. Yes, I'm positive. David staring me down, sternly. Hurt. Disappointed. Well screw him. Who cares what he thinks of me? The emotions flooded my consciousness, just as they had when I felt them only a short time ago.

I'm pulling out my badge, his eyes begging me not to do anything hasty. I slam it into his open palm, without a care that it might hurt him. I hurt. Why shouldn't he share the pain? What makes him so goddamned...?

Wait. Am I wearing my wool coat? It's raining. I forgot my umbrella. How's that for irony? The angels are crying, and I'm unprepared. I can hear Mother clicking her tongue against her teeth.

You mustn't forget the little things, Helen. You'll catch your death.

Mmm. Death. I hurt so much. Surely death is lurking at the horizon of my miserable existence. Death. Old friend. Come for me. Take this burden off my chest and release me to the great nothingness.

My wrist bones grind together. No, that's not right. I'm not old and arthritic yet, am I? Is this old age? Dementia? Am I trapped in an eternal torturous loop of the worst week of my life? Justice is not without a vicious sense of humor perhaps.

"Helen?"

"Dad?"

My tongue is a hybrid of sandpaper and drying Jell-O. I can hear the pathetic attempt to form words. If only I could open my eyes, he could see me talking to him. Oh Daddy, I miss you so very much. Why did you have to go away? You'd know what to do right now. You'd save me from my mistakes. You are the only one who can fix everything, wipe the slate of my mistaken existence clean and tell me the words I ache to hear.

Everything will work out, Sprout. Daddy will fix it. Don't cry.

The pain is so severe, I must be crying. Yes. Either it's warm blood trickling over my temple or... no, it's not thick like blood. Is blood thick? Have I ever bled before?

My wrist moves again, the pain dull all the way to my elbow, like a good whack to the funny bone. Ha-ha. Funny bone, aptly nicknamed after the humerus. Most people misspell that bone. Humerus. Humorous. Very different. Misery. Happiness.

Focus, Helen. Dad isn't here.

Where is _here_?

My fingers journey inward, brush against something softer than wool. Clothes! Well thank God. I'm not being slowly crushed by a car with wool mix upholstery on some backwater dirt road in Peru naked.

Speaking of humor, check. Stop it. This isn't funny. Someone will find me. Someone will miss me.

Not Rick. He's dead.

Not David. He believes I hate him. Do I hate David? We've been closer than Rick and I ever were for years now. Then again, that's not saying much, is it, Helen? You don't let people get too close. It's all a game, always a mind game. How close can I make someone _believe_ we are without revealing anything important? Great fun. Good times.

Why isn't anyone coming to rescue me?

A sliver of light above pushes the axe blade a smidgen deeper into my gray matter. Oh boy. This is it. This has got to be it. Look, Dad. We were wrong. You really _do_ see a white light when you die.

On second thought, I'm way to rational to fall for that _folie a deux_. More than _deux_. Ninety some percent of the world. My eye, the left one, it's open just a slit, just enough for light to filter into my pupil and hit the retina just so. Pain. Yippie. More of it.

Okay, Helen. Focus. Not just on where you are, or what sort of upholstery is in this foreign car. Focus your eye. Move the lid. Up, up and away. That's right.

Blurry reality filtered into my field of vision. I see shapes. Movement. This must be what _legally blind_ looks like. This isn't good. I don't even need reading glasses, though at times, they make a decent disguise.

Darkness, different shades from jet black to sort of fleshy tan hover above me suddenly. "Helen?"

The lips are stuck to my teeth. Sandpaper tongue makes a valiant effort to dislodge them. "Who are you?"

Sounded more like, _blue blar blue?_

"Lie still. You'll be fine. I'm not sure what happened to you. Are you thirsty?"

And how. But I'm not about to complain. This is real progress. Consciousness. Comprehension.

I nod, way on the feeble head-lolling side, I'm sure. His face is a little clearer now, enough for me to distinguish worry lines around his eyes. Why can't I make out his face? Wonder who the heck he is, and how he knows who I am, but I can't seem to remember meeting him. Ever.

"You've been pushing yourself too hard. I called George and told him about this episode. He's very concerned. I believe he's calling Haverston to come pick you up."

Great. Who is George, not to mention this Haverston? Why can't someone give David a jingle instead? Good plan. He might be royally pissed at me for my behavior this morning, but he'd come if I called for help. David isn't like the men in my world. He's truly good.

I decide to give it a go. "David. Call David."

The fuzzy caterpillars on his forehead inched into one long beast of a worm. "Who?"

"David. Levine." Tongue thick or numb, I wasn't sure of either. The end result was the same. Not half bad looked like I had spoken to him in Aramaic. "My..." I knew that _supervisory special agent_ would come out of my mouth bordering something obscenely suggestive. I opted for simple. "My boss."

The smile sent a chill straight to my bones.

"Yes, Helen. David, your boss. Excellent. You rest while I see how long it will take for him to arrive."

My eye drifted shut. So tired. David is coming. He'll make sure I'm safe. No matter what I do, he'll help me. Won't he?

Consciousness drifted away on a pillow of oblivion.

The next wave of awareness came, and the axe was gone, replaced by the only slightly less painful distant jackhammer to the back of my head. I heard the groan, felt the vibration rumble from my throat, but felt distant and disconnected from it somehow. My only tether was the throbbing agony jostling its way forward through the sulci in my brain. Weaving, twisting, winding, dipping deep, resurfacing. Shuddering inexplicable torture.

I hesitated before drumming one finger on the flat surface beneath me. It was slick and ice cold. Speaking of which, I wasn't feeling so warm myself. As if on cue, the tiny hairs on my body stood at simultaneous attention.

This was new.

It took a moment to register the fact that it didn't hurt to move my finger this time. There was no heavy pressure on my chest. David must've found me.

I've got to be safe now, but whatever is beneath me sure doesn't feel like hospital linen. No matter at the moment. I can move!

My arm tentatively lifted, the hand crawling over more satiny fabric. Not a hospital gown. This feels like... it feels like my nightgown. What the hell? Have I been dreaming? Oh please let this be a dream! Not just the funeral, all of it. Maybe I'll open my eyes and find Dad staring down at me, ready to explain that I've been ill. Mononucleosis perhaps. Yes! I've been so tired, burning the wick from both ends of the candle.

Then again, delusions have never suited me much.

My fingers find temples and start massaging gently. Ah, yes. That feels better. If only I can rub this dratted stupor away.

The bed dips beside me. "Dad?" I want to cheer at the clear word my lips make, that my tongue doesn't slaughter into a mushy garbled mess.

"Doc, it's me. You're gonna be fine."

My eyes are still closed, yet I'm keenly aware of this new presence. Maybe it's his voice, the gentle concern, the steadfast reassurance. Whatever it is soothes the bubbling bejesus back into the pit of my stomach where it can be contained and controlled with all my other irrational emotions.

I don't know who _me_ is, but I'll sure as hell take his comfort in a heartbeat. Almost as soon as my brain processes safety, another realization creeps over me. I'm cold, and barely dressed. Some strange guy is reassuring me, making me believe in something other than death in Peru, and I'm not sure how the two facts can peacefully co-exist.

Don't misunderstand. Helen Eriksson is not a prude. She does have a body image issue or two. She also, incidentally hates people who refer to themselves in the third person.

I shake off the creepy self-condemnation and bent toward bizarre self-conversation and try to figure out if I should protest, demand answers or lie here and let myself be soothed back into oblivion.

"Charlie is here. He's worried sick. We've called a doctor to come see you. I wasn't sure if you'd rather have us take you to the hospital or not."

"Doctor?"

"She swears her bedside manor is best suited for the dead," is that grinning I hear in his voice? "But when word spread that you were ill, she offered to come over right away."

I have no clue who Charlie is, but something in Suave Guy's tone tells me that they've called the undertaker to certify that I'm not dying. Talk about irony.

"Who?"

"Maya," he said.

"Maya," I echoed.

"Doc..."

"Don't call me doc." God how I despise that nickname! Speaking of body image problems, an old memory—at least I think its old—flits through my mind. My mouth is too big. Fat lips, big teeth, tad bit of overbite that unfortunately wasn't corrected until the invention of invisible braces (God help the world if I'd worn the metal kind and drawn even more attention to my mouth). One of my so-called peers in my doctoral program used to mime Bugs Bunny at me and ask _what's up, doc?_ He almost landed on a hit list for his taunting.

I hear a warm, low chuckle. The hairs on my arms stiffen more, but this time, I like how it feels. Excitement. Thrilling. I can feel his eyes on me. If I peek, will they look as adoring as they feel?

"That's my girl. You're gonna be fine, I promise."

Oh how I want to believe him. That word, that feeling— _belief_ —is almost non-existent in my psyche. I'm one of those annoying folks who demand proof. Dad drilled that into me harder than he realized. _Demand proof._ My context had evolved to more than accusations of criminal behavior as he intended the message.

Something slender and calloused strokes lightly at the inside of my wrist. It draws another moan, this one building from a much deeper place than the back of my throat. Nice. Feels so very nice.

"Am I hurting you?"

"Mmm. No."

I hear his breath draw in quickly. Funny how the senses adjust when one is deprived. I can hear everything he does, every emotion he conveys, and my eyes haven't fluttered a millimeter. I ponder for a moment how much nicer this is than my usual way. Dissecting everything I see. Maybe I should start closing my eyes and feeling the world around me once in a while.

The pressure on my wrist increases, not in a bad way. It strokes downward. Long fingers pluck at mine before closing gently over my hand for a light squeeze.

"How do you feel?"

Great right now. This lovely sensory distraction has all but muted the jackhammer. "Okay."

Now why did I do that? He asked a valid question. Why not tell the truth? "I feel great. You make me feel so much better."

"I think you just told me the truth for the first time." The words are soft, reverent, and full of wonder.

This too is cause for serious consideration. I'm not in the habit of lying to complete strangers, am I? Not without a good motive. Good motive loosely translates into a perceived threat.

"Maya who?"

He laughs again. This one tickles my insides, starting at the navel and working its way outward, like a stone creating a ripple in a pond. I shiver.

"Maya Winslow. Are you sure you didn't hit your head?"

Maya. Maya? I haven't seen her in... gosh, it's been at least two or three years. What in the world am I doing in Baltimore of all places? How did I get from Rick's funeral in Arlington all the way up to Baltimore?

"What time is it?"

"After five."

Ho boy.

"What happened?"

"We're not sure yet. This isn't the time for that conversation, Doc. You can tell me what you were doing at Jerry Lowe's house later."

"Who?"

Suddenly his playful relief evolved into something quite different. "Doc, do you know where you are?"

"Please don't call me that. I hate it so much."

"Fine. Helen, do you know where you are?"

I drag my lower lip through my teeth. At least that's what I think I'm doing. Maybe my sensation isn't quite right yet. "Baltimore?"

"Why would you be in Baltimore?"

"I..." I really don't want to have this discussion, because then you'll know that I don't know, don't have the first foggiest clue in hell what's happened to me, and then you will _insist_ on taking me to the hospital.

Remain calm. Think, Helen. This guy must know me. He had the common sense to realize that the last place I want to be is in a hospital.

"Helen?"

"I'm fine, really. Groggy. I'm not sure I've been sleeping."

Another voice joins his.

"Mr. Orion?"

God bless whoever you are. Now I've got a name!

"Johnny," he says. "Please. I've seen you, but I think this is the first time we've actually met."

And I have a first name. Thanks again, Invisible Sky Monster, Pink Unicorn or whichever unseeable entity is throwing bones my way. In my delight, I almost miss the subtle sound of flesh pressing. They're shaking hands.

Wait a minute. I remember that voice. Maya Winslow, forensic pathologist extraordinaire! "Maya..."

A chuckle aborts my greeting. Johnny has a wicked sense of humor. He really was telling me that the undertaker was coming to tell me I'd be fine.

"Hey princess."

The bed dips again. I can smell lavender and vanilla, and the mattress isn't displaced as much as when Johnny Orion sat beside me.

"How you doing?"

"I feel... disconnected. Disoriented maybe. I thought we had to be in Baltimore if you were coming to see me."

"I'll say you're disoriented." A cool hand pressed to my forehead. "You don't feel feverish. Then again, that's no proper way to check a temperature. Johnny, do you have a thermometer?"

"No, but I'll send Charlie out for one. Do you need anything else?"

"I think that'll do for now. I suspect I know what happened to our friend."

"You do?" My brain starts tingling in anticipation. Please tell me. I need to know what's happening to me.

"When I saw you this morning, you were practically toxic on caffeine. I know for a fact that you've slept very little since you got to Darkwater Bay."

Bless you, Maya. Keep talking.

"And given the other issues I know you've endured over the past couple of weeks, I suspect this is stress and sleep deprivation."

"I'm going to be all right?"

"My prescription is a solid eight or more, of uninterrupted sleep."

"She's got an interview scheduled tonight. Charlie doesn't want to go without her."

"It'll have to wait until tomorrow, Johnny. She won't be able to function if she keeps pushing herself like this."

"So all I have to do is sleep?"

"That's right, pumpkin. Easy as pie."

Permission given, order accepted. I sighed into the bed, rolled to my side and hugged the pillow to my chest. Good doctor. Great news.

### Chapter 26

I woke to sunlight streaming into the west-facing window of Orion's guest room. An ache rippled in waves from the top of my skull to the tip of my spine. Good lord, what happened?

The duvet on the bed was tangled around my legs. I swam my way free, groaned deep discomfort and pulled myself up into sitting position. My shoulders rolled forward, creating an arch of my vertebrae, a cat hissing at crickets perhaps.

"Jesus. What the hell happened to me?"

"You're awake."

My eyes took a regrettable rapid motion toward the voice. "Orion. It's you." I pulled the duvet to my chest and glanced at him warily. Amend that. _Any_ movement of my eyeballs felt like hot knives stabbing into my brain.

"How are you this morning?"

"Hung over as hell. What happened last night?"

He crossed his arms over his chest, frowned and said, "You tell me, Doc."

Palms ground into my face. "I have no clue. God, I feel like death warmed over."

"Do you remember Maya coming to see you late yesterday afternoon?"

I peeked through fingers. "No."

"And I don't suppose you can tell me why you were found in this condition at Jerry fucking Lowe's house."

"Don't take that tone with me."

"Answer the question, Doc."

"Don't call me—"

"Yeah, you said that last night too. Frankly, I don't give a shit if you like it or not. Why were you at Jerry Lowe's house?"

"Technically, I am a detective, and he is the chief of detectives."

"You don't answer to that moron."

I also didn't remember going to his house for any reason under the sun. The whole damn day was a bit foggy. Everything after my conversation with Maya about the missing teenagers and those I suspected were survivors of sexual assault.

"Oh dammit! I was supposed to talk to someone last night!"

"Yeah, I know. Charlie brought you home."

"This isn't my home, Orion. My home is..."

"Is where?"

Something vital was on the tip of my tongue. What was it? Why couldn't I remember yesterday? Maya. Her tantrum over the messy condition in the wake of my night of research. Scrubs. Central. Oh yeah, Danny Datello implied that I'd be burning in hell soon with my dead ex-husband.

"Datello."

"Excuse me?"

"I talked to Datello yesterday morning."

"You personally spoke to him?"

A bit of my usual wariness returned. "I can't talk to you about this, Orion."

He huffed a bit, muttered something about liking me a hell of a lot more last night. "So where is home, Helen?"

Blonde hair and a perky, utterly annoying image flashed before my eyes. "Theresa something."

"You're still sick."

"I'm fine, dammit. She's a realtor. I met with her yesterday. I found a house. She was supposed to drop the keys off for Michel last night. I live in Beach Cliffs." Ha! Take that Mr. You're-Still-Sick.

"Great. What happened next?"

I wasn't quite sure why he looked so morose that I remembered something. "It's blank."

"Completely?"

"Not even there. You said I was at Jerry Lowe's house when Charlie found me?"

"Yeah, somebody made an anonymous 9-1-1 call about a woman passed out in front of his house in her car."

"He wasn't _there_?"

"Were you snooping?"

"No!" Was I?

"How can you be sure if you don't remember?"

"Because I know me. And there is absolutely no reason for me to spy on my boss."

"He's not your boss."

"You know what I mean."

Orion filled the doorway with his massive frame. "Well, new house or no, you're not leaving here until I'm sure you're not still under the effects of whatever caused this little fugue state."

"I did not suffer a fugue." Then again, I wasn't sure of much, just that I'd lost a day, and unless Charlie found Caroline Blevins and talked to her, the momentum of our case took a serious hit. "Did Charlie talk to my... appointment last night?"

"No, he wasn't comfortable going alone. He rescheduled."

I jumped from the bed, staggered a step and sat down hard. "We've got to have that conversation right away."

"You're in no condition to do jack shit, Doc. Go back to bed. I'll see if Michel got your keys and order up something for you to eat. God only knows the last time you've done more than nibble and feast on caffeine. By the way, whatever you did yesterday, you forgot to shut off the warmer under the coffee pot. Burned the hell out of the damned thing."

"I'll buy you a new one." Orion was already gone when my sarcastic retort fell. Fine with me. If he was going to be high handed and controlling about where I'd go, what I'd do and whom I'd see, I'd work from home.

Another memory filtered through. I replaced my stolen laptop yesterday morning and installed the software that would let me work on the fly whenever I damn well pleased. I stumbled out of bed with renewed determination.

Somebody put me to bed in my underwear. I was not amused. The robe was flung over the end of the bed. I grabbed it with a vengeance. I shoved my arms into the silky sleeves and stomped out of the bedroom. Fine, it was less of a stomp and more of a hobble.

Orion's brows arched, comical with disapproval. "I thought I told you to go back to bed."

The urge grew ridiculous to throw out a petulant _you're not the boss of me_. Ignoring him was so much more mature. I steered in the general direction of his office. My laptop was exactly where I left it. Inside were the fax copies of the reports Sergeant Sexist had sent from Portico.

I glanced at my wrist. Naked. "Where's my Rolex?"

"On the stand beside your bed."

"Oh. Well what time is it?"

"Two-ish."

"Don't you have a _thing_ to do today? Or a girl?"

His stomp was far more effective than mine. I felt an uncontrollable urge to cower away from it. Orion squatted in front of me.

"The only _girl_ I have a thing with today is you. I'm not letting you out of my sight from now on, Doc. Got it? I'm not letting the FBI fail to protect you. I'm not letting Kelly and Varden near you for another shot at doing whatever it is they did to you yesterday."

I opened my mouth to protest and shrank away from the determination in his eyes.

"Mean it, Doc. If I have to cuff you to my wrist, I'll do it."

"This is false imprisonment. I could arrest you."

"You think you're in any condition to throw down with me today? Go ahead. Try it. And after you fall on your ass, try convincing me that someone didn't do this to you."

"If you're so damned concerned, why didn't you take me to the hospital?"

"I came this close to it," his thumb and index finger were scant millimeters apart. "Winslow seems to think you brought this on yourself with stress, sleep deprivation and over use of stimulants to keep you going."

"Exhibit A, the coffee pot?"

His head rolled forward. "Why do you have to be so impossible, Helen? Is it really that awful that in a few short days, you managed to burrow under my skin and become someone I care about a whole hell of a lot?"

"I don't want my case to fall apart because I did something stupid."

"It's not gonna fall apart."

"We're beyond 48 hours out, Johnny." My throat tightened with a wad of gravel that miraculously appeared out of nowhere. "It matters. You know it as well as I do."

Another memory enveloped me. Orion's eyes sparked it. His tender gaze gripped my heart and squeezed so hard, I couldn't breathe.

"Why won't you trust me? I want to help you, Doc. Let me help you. You know I didn't do anything to Gwen. I couldn't."

"Protocol—"

"Be damned! Let me help you." Soft, succinct and utterly effective.

I felt the walls crumbling more than a little bit. He gripped my hands.

"Please?"

"I can't share details with you, Johnny. It wouldn't be right. You know that. I know you understand what I'm saying."

"Then let me help with other stuff."

"Like what? There isn't any other stuff right now."

His thumbs rubbed slow circles over the backs of my hands. "I can make sure nobody hurts you. I can make sure you're properly fed and watered."

I snorted. "You make me sound like a potted plant."

"You kinda acted like one last night. Doc, it scared the hell outta me."

"You could move my luggage to the house."

"That's the one thing I'm actually _not_ willing to do," he grumbled.

"I can't stay here indefinitely. You know that too. You've got business. I've got work. You don't want me hanging around cramping your style, interfering with your _thing._ "

"That wasn't what I said, or meant."

I pulled my hands free, surprised to miss the warm pressure so quickly and the caring their sheath communicated. "I'll make a deal with you."

He frowned. "I wasn't aware that this had become a negotiation."

"All of life is a negotiation, Johnny. This is our pact, if you prefer. I'll stick around here and take it easy for the rest of the afternoon. I'll eat, and drink and rest if you tell me to rest."

"I like it so far. Go on."

"If, by early evening, we can both agree that I show measurable improvement in my physical functioning, you'll agree to let Charlie and me talk to my... person of interest, who is in no way a suspect, but could be the piece that moves this case forward to a swift resolution. After that conversation, which I can 99 percent guarantee will last no longer than an hour, I promise to come back here and let you play the doting caretaker for the rest of the night."

"It's the middle part I don't like."

"Meet me half way."

"No more than an hour, including transportation."

"Johnny—"

"Those are my terms. Take it or leave it. You could preserve your time with this person of interest by having Charlie bring him here, you know. I'd even make myself scarce for an hour and ten minutes, so his identity won't be revealed."

"I'd rather not."

"Then meet across the street at central."

"I would _really_ rather not."

"LaPierre Bistro is next door to the Tower. It's quiet, intimate, a great place for having a discussion without eavesdropping." He paused for dramatic effect, I presumed. "Meet _me_ half way, Doc."

"Fine," I sighed. "But if I can't have the benefit of talking to my person of interest in his or her natural habitat, there are no physical functioning conditions attached to this meeting. You'll let me call Charlie right now and have him set it up."

He grinned. "You are one hell of a negotiator, Doc. Damn."

"Deal?" I thrust my hand out to make it official.

"You wanna swap spit in that handshake or what?"

For some inexplicable reason, his suggestion conjured the image of the kiss that almost was Monday night. I realized that part of me would love nothing more than turn back the clock and let it unfold without interruption. Then again, it was his world that intruded on a moment long gone.

### Chapter 27

Charlie Haverston showed up at Johnny's penthouse around four-thirty. He has the eyes of a cow. Large. Milk chocolate brown. Lashes out to _here_. If it were possible for eyes to have a lazy southern drawl, Charlie's would do it. Moo.

He's a sweet kid, in reality. Kid. He's probably ten years younger than me, fretting over thirty creeping up while his dreams of a detective squad waste away.

His concern was more than touching. The impact of my ordeal was far more profound coming from a man who hadn't professed how much he wanted to get into my pants. Or lied to me. Or got bossy and territorial with my personal freedom. I could go on.

Those drawling orbs followed me across the living room toward Orion's den. There was no faltering gait, no dizziness, and no pauses to catch my breath. The hearty lunch Orion ordered was delivered by the very bistro that Charlie and I would later grace with our interview of Caroline Blevins.

"You're sure you're up to this, Helen?"

"I'm fine. Do I look like I had the sense knocked out of me last night?"

"No, but—"

"I am fine, well rested, at least two pounds heavier from lunch. Stop worrying already. Maya called to check on me about an hour ago, and even our resident expert on death is convinced that whatever happened to me has passed."

"If you're sure."

"I'm positive. Talk to me Charlie. What's happened since our last coherent update?"

"Do you remember me telling you about the key Forsythe found at the crime scene?"

"Yes. You were sending Thieg to scour possible locks it might open."

"Right."

"Did he turn up anything positive?"

"No. It's not a bank key or one that opens a locker at the airport or bus station."

"Well, I can't say that I'm surprised. Until we know the identity of the person it belonged to, it's probably a moot point. Unless of course, it had opened a locker at the bus station and there was information that would've identified him for us."

"Well, that's the thing, Helen. We were sitting around at the crime lab last night brainstorming with Forsythe, and you're never gonna believe who showed up outta the blue."

"Who?"

"Flynn Myre."

"Is that a fact? Two nights this week he's strayed from home away from the wife. My, my. I'm probably making enemies I'm not even aware of in this city."

"Don't joke about that."

"Sorry. So what was Myre doing sniffing around? Wait, I think I just answered my own question. It's probably eating the three amigos that this case was taken out of their hands, so Myre draws the short toothpick and gets to spy on our investigation."

"Thing is, we had the photo of the key laying out in plain sight."

"Fantastic. I'll bet it's splashed on the front page of the morning edition."

"Myre thought it looked like a key to a home safe."

My interest piqued.

"And so Thieg started making some calls this morning. Turns out that the key looks like it opens a secure, but fairly cheap safe. It opens with two keys. So we went back to the house over lunch hour and tore through the place again."

"You found a second key?"

He nodded. "Forsythe's got it now, but this one had numbers that were clearly readable."

"Like I said, when we get a suspect, now we know to ask for the contents of the personal safe in the warrant."

"Datello called late last night, after I left here."

"Oh dear. I had almost forgotten about poor Vinnie. Did you talk to him?"

"No, I wanted to wait for you. I mean, didn't you say that his information about Gwen could tell you a lot that might help catch her killer?"

"Yes," I said, "but Charlie, this investigation can't hinge on my availability."

"He's coming in to talk to us first thing in the morning. I was able to meet with him for an initial chat when his flight landed. He knows why we want to talk to him. I hope that's okay."

"It's fine. You did the right thing."

"Datello wanted to drive him home, but I insisted and took him out to the Bennett farm myself. Did you know that he's got an uncle living?"

"No one close to the family bothered to mention that. Is this another Bennett brother?"

"No, his name is Harlan Hartley. Apparently he's a maternal uncle who became close to the family after Vinnie's parents died when he was an infant. He'd like to be present when we talk to Vinnie. I said that would be left to your discretion."

"I'd like to talk to both of them, Charlie. Good job."

"Adams has been trying to find Candy Blevins."

I blew out a slow breath. "Any luck?" As the afternoon progressed, parts of Thursday became clearer to me.

A cell phone rang before Charlie had the chance to respond. He checked his. "Sorry, Helen, it must be yours."

"That's not what my phone sounds—"

Orion appeared out of nowhere and thrust a new phone under my nose. "The other one is history. I'm not having these guys tracking a phone I doubt is secure, Doc. I trust the Apple brand meets your standards."

And he accused _me_ of being impossible. Still, the iPhone was a nifty looking gadget, and I had boycotted PCs more than a decade ago in favor of the Mac. I slid my finger across the glossy screen and held the phone to my ear. "Eriksson."

"Took you damn long enough to answer. I was about to dash out the door and make sure you're all right, and, if finding you were not, brain Orion for not calling me immediately."

"Maya."

"I've got some DNA in front of me. Interested in hearing the results?"

"Like you wouldn't believe. What did you find out?"

"Seventeen sexual assaults reported in a 50 or so mile radius around Bay County where DNA was collected were compared to the sample I obtained from Gwen Foster's body. Fourteen identical matches."

"Jesus. A dozen plus two."

"Yep. So I got to thinking that your brilliance might actually overshadow some of mine."

"You found _more_?" I could hear my watch ticking, which is impossible, because Rolexes don't tick, they sweep. "Would you stop being a drama queen and tell me already?"

"Well, as you know in the grand scope of science, particularly forensics, we haven't been gathering DNA all that long."

"You didn't get any hits."

"No, but I did comb through the ViCAP cases on the fourteen matches and uncovered some disturbing similarities."

"Such as?"

"Not important for now. What I did was alter your search just a tad bit, expanded the upper age limit by four years."

"Oh God," I groaned. "He assaulted outside the range I established?"

"I'm getting there."

"Please. Before my perp dies of old age while I wait for you to sum up what you learned."

Maya chuckled. "It's good to have you back, Helen. Now where was I?"

"Expanded search by four years."

"Oh yes. I also added the peculiarities that jumped out and differentiated the fourteen DNA match cases. I found three in Southern California—get this, almost thirty years ago. All three girls were nineteen, co-eds at UC San Diego. The kicker is that the evidence was collected but because it was so long ago, DNA testing was never performed."

"Back up," I said. I still hadn't thoroughly reviewed the Blevins reports that had been faxed to me, thanks to Johnny Orion's persistent hovering and near constant feeding. "What were those specific case report peculiarities?"

"A very tall man, wearing a black hood, threatened to—get this—chop off their hands if they fought him."

"Oh my God!" I scrambled for my laptop and tore the hinge open. My eyes devoured the first report, Caroline Blevins's. _Victim identifies her attacker as a white male, extremely tall, average strength and musculature who threatened to cut off her hands if she fought him, while at the same time, taunting her to resist him._ "Jesus, that's it. That's his trigger. He wants the fight."

"Uh-huh. Creepy, huh? So I made a quick phone call to SoCal to see if by some miraculous chance they hung onto their evidence."

"Oh Maya. I love you, I love you, I love you!"

"Hold on. They're going to see if anything can be collected from the evidence they held onto and if there is enough, they'll process it for DNA sampling."

"I want you to do it."

"Well, that isn't gonna happen. It's their case. In fact, if you ever catch this psycho, they may want to extradite him. California still has an active death row."

"Not for rapists."

"One of the victims of the sexual assault died, Helen."

"Shit. Because of the rape?"

"The sheriff told me that it was a direct result, a foreseeable consequence of it, so yes, they'd at least like the opportunity to turn it into a capital offense."

"She committed suicide."

"He wasn't that specific, but yeah, that was the impression that I got," Maya said. "I asked him if it would be possible, if they can get a useable sample, to put a rush job on it. He's an old guy, Helen. I think he might've been a deputy at the time these rapes happened. He said to consider it done, and that he didn't care if California couldn't afford such an indulgence, he wanted nails in this guys coffin, the more the better."

"Could you do me a favor? Shoot the case numbers from ViCAP to me in an email."

"Love to. Give me the address."

When we disconnected, Charlie was staring. Orion was scowling. I couldn't imagine why he looked so unhappy. My enthusiasm should've communicated that our case was actually heating up, not going cold.

"Fourteen?" Charlie's stricken expression deepened while I appreciated his discreet communication of its cause.

Orion on the other hand, pounded a fist into the wall. "There are more girls out there that he slaughtered? I'm gonna find Masconi and—"

"You're going to do nothing of the kind. Johnny, you're breaking our agreement. You promised that you wouldn't butt into this investigation if I stayed here until I'm feeling better. Don't make me decide that the time has arrived." It hadn't.

I still felt oddly fatigued in a way I hadn't experienced before. When I woke earlier this afternoon, my symptoms reminded me of the multiple times I relied on wine to get me through what Rick had done to my life. In other words, a simple hangover. And while I still had only hazy recollections of yesterday, I couldn't put my finger on what, if anything would've made me stray from the focus of this case. Like I said, it was a surprise to me too, but this thing really started to matter to me. I felt like it might be the anchor that kept me from snapping, climbing the highest building in the city with a rifle and scope and randomly contributing to population control.

My limbs still ached, particularly my left arm around the elbow. I rubbed it absently.

"You're bruised."

"What?"

Orion was frowning at me. "Did you hear a thing I just said to you?"

"You said I'm bruised."

"Before that, Doc."

I glanced at the small purple mark on my left antecubital fossa. Maya must've drawn blood. That was a pretty standard occurrence when someone had an alteration in mental status. Other than a blood alcohol level off the charts, she would've mentioned it had the results shown anything else.

"It's nothing." I continued to massage the tiny mark absently.

"Since you seem to still be afflicted with bouts of regression into la-la land, I'll repeat myself. You're leaving over my dead body."

Be careful what you wish for, Orion. You might get it.

### Chapter 28

I sent Orion on a fool's errand—tracking down my car—to provide a private moment with Charlie. We had some serious plotting to do tonight.

"You probably don't remember me telling you this, Helen, but your car is across the street in Central Division's parking building."

"I remember," I said. "I needed to get rid of Johnny for a while. Listen. I want you to get someone to drive my car over to my house. The realtor dropped off the keys and the remote for the gate yesterday. I'm getting out of here tonight. I appreciate what Johnny's been doing, but I can stay with Maya for a couple of days if I really need to be around someone." The idea appealed to me. "In fact, I think we should put my overnight bag in your car, and you should deliver me there after our other interview tonight."

"We're meeting someone else?"

I nodded. "We can't afford to waste more time." I confirmed in greater detail what Maya explained over the phone. "I appreciate the fact that you didn't blurt anything out in front of Johnny. He's too close to this case, not only because he was a friend of Gwen Foster, but the entire Bennett family. I can't believe that wasn't an issue during the case fifteen years ago."

"Do you think he's right, that Masconi has been hanging around Darkwater Bay all these years?"

I opened a recently installed program on my laptop. "You must swear an oath of confidentiality."

Charlie's expression grew quizzical, but without hesitation, he made an X over his heart.

"I met a hacker about a year ago who gave me a site where I could download a backdoor hack he wrote that allowed him to peek into IRS records. Don't freak out. I'm not planning to use this for any other purposes than verifying something I've suspected almost from the beginning of this murder investigation. It's not like we'd try to use it in court."

The simple program loaded, asking for information I recalled from reading the Bennett case file, namely, Salvatore Masconi's date of birth and social security number. I needed the state of the last known IRS filing. Easy enough.

In a matter of seconds, the information grid popped up, detailing the dates the IRS received and processed his returns. Last one filed the year before Brighton Bennett was murdered.

"He would've been incarcerated and awaiting trial when tax day rolled around," I said. "See? His accountant filed an extension, and then nothing."

"You think Masconi is dead."

I nodded. "Datello as much as admitted that he knows it for a fact. Given _his_ close relationship with the Bennett family, I'm sure he was doing a favor to Frank, making sure Masconi never hurt another child again."

"Only he was wrong."

"Extremely wrong. Orion doesn't get it. He's so certain that he had the right guy that he can't fathom there's another perp out there committing crimes. He's probably frothing at the mouth to start looking for these additional girls he believes were slaughtered, but they're not dead. That's our advantage in this, and how we're gonna catch the right guy this time."

"One of the witnesses knows more than she realizes."

"I'm hoping."

"So... this second interview tonight. Are you hoping that Caroline Blevins can lead us to Candy? Taylor has been to the seediest parts of the city, Helen. Nobody is cooperating if they know her."

"I do hope Caroline can help us with that, but no, that's not the second interview. I need you to call Harlan Hartley and tell him that we'll be at his farm later tonight. Don't accept rejection. I need to find out why our guy broke his pattern and went after a thirty-four year old woman. I have suspicions, but no answers yet."

"All right."

"We'll leave the bistro after talking to Caroline and go straight out there."

"I don't think Orion's gonna like that. Aren't you concerned about pissing him off? What if he tries to jump into the middle of this out of his obvious concern for you?"

"Where are Thieg and Adams?"

"Taking a little down time. They'll be back on at seven tonight. Picking up where Taylor leaves off on the search for Candy Blevins."

"Have them watch for Orion. If he leaves here looking for me, I need to know it immediately. And as generous as the iPhone was, there's no way I'm carrying around a device he could so easily track through the GPS. I'll leave it here before we meet the Blevins girl. Do you think you could get something from central for me?"

"Sure. I can call Sarge and have him fish something out of the division's supply. But won't that allow anybody at central to track you too?"

"Not if he signs it out for your use."

"Good thinking. I doubt anybody interested in this mess thinks I've got a clue what I'm doing. Hell, they can't send anybody smarter than Flynn Myre to check up on me? Like I didn't see through that one."

"Out of curiosity, who has custody of the keys you found?"

"Forsythe has them at the crime lab."

"That's good. And you're comfortable with the security of our evidence?"

"Completely."

"Then I'll see you at seven downstairs."

When Orion returned an hour later, he looked displeased. "The car is across the street."

"Oh good. I'm glad someone thought to remove it from in front of Lowe's house."

"Yeah, swift thinking."

"It's almost seven, so I should probably get downstairs to meet Charlie."

I grabbed my bag, the oversized one that had room for my laptop. If he asked—

"What the hell have you got in that thing? It looks like the straps are gonna snap."

"Oh, the laptop. I thought that if anything came up in the interview that needed verification, I'd use the Wi-Fi to save a little time. This could be a one shot deal."

"Hmm."

I almost made it to the door.

"Doc?"

"Yes?" I drawled.

"Aren't you forgetting something?"

When I turned around, he waved that blasted cell phone at me.

The rejection was on the tip of my tongue, but given his suspicious mood since coming back from the search for my rental car, I touched the tips of my fingers to my forehead instead. "I'd forget my head if it wasn't attached. Thanks, Johnny. See you in an hour."

"I'll be waiting. Don't be late, or the deal's off."

"Scout's honor," I saluted.

"Uh, Doc, they don't actually let girls be boy scouts."

I grinned. "You know what I meant."

And I knew what I'd do with the phone. He'd show up at the bistro, all right. I was counting on his concern over my reaction to an intrusion buying a little more time before he realized that I left his little tracking device behind.

Inside the elevator, a satisfied smirk warred with a sigh of relief. So far, so good. Now if only I could tamp down my irrational hope that the Blevins girls would provide the breakthrough we needed. I shook my head at the good fortune of meeting Charlie Haverston at the crime scene. If this didn't get him a detective shield, there was no justice to be found in Darkwater Bay.

He was waiting for me in the lobby of LaPierre Tower.

"Let me carry that for you. Geez, Helen. I'm not so sure about leaving you on your own when all of this is done."

"I'll call Maya on my way out to the Bennett farm. I agree. I still feel a little too woozy to fly solo. At least for another night."

Inside LaPierre Bistro, Caroline Blevins waited for us. I was stunned at the physical likeness to Brighton Bennett and Gwen Foster. Her petite stature left her just shy of five feet tall. Golden blonde hair cascaded past her shoulders. Her bones were small and fine, and the almond blue eyes were so large, they served as the focal point to her face.

I thrust out a hand. "Ms. Blevins, thank you so much for agreeing to meet with Officer Haverston and me. I'm Dr. Helen Eriksson."

"What kind of doctor?" Clouds flitted over her youthful face.

"Dr. Eriksson is a psychologist, Ms. Blevins," Charlie said. He slid into the secluded booth beside me. "She's here in Darkwater Bay helping the police investigate some old cases. That's her specialty."

"Like one of those profiler people?"

"Exactly, Ms. Blevins," I said. "I understand if you're not comfortable answering the questions I suspect you know I have for you. But everything you tell me will be held in the strictest of confidence. Do you understand why it is important that I talk to you?"

She nodded, opened her mouth and let out a gravelly yes. She cleared her throat and folded her hands on top of the table. "Call me Carrie."

"A little over six years ago, you were assaulted by a man."

"Raped," she whispered, "and tortured, and left terrified for my life."

"I'm so sorry that happened to you, Carrie. Are you all right? Would you like something to drink?" I asked.

"No thank you. I'd rather just get this over with."

Me too, for different reasons. "I'd like to go back to the day of the crime."

"It lasted two," she said. Her voice trembled, and she clutched at her hands, as if willing the tremor to stay in her voice alone.

"Tell me what happened the first day."

Carrie looked like she was on the cusp of hyperventilation, even after all these years. "I'll never forget it. I was walking home from school. A police officer stopped me."

"From Portico?"

She shook her head. "It was a state police car. We've only got the sheriff's department in Portico. Our county is small. Portico is the biggest town, about thirty-three hundred people."

"All right. Was it unusual to see the state police in Portico?"

"Well, yes and no. See, I missed the bus that day, on account of Candy, so I had to walk home. My folks don't live in Portico. We're just outside of town, maybe three quarters of a mile."

"Tell me about Candy."

"She was supposed to meet me after school. See, she skipped classes that day, but she was gonna hook up with me after I got out of volleyball and ride the bus home so Mom and Dad wouldn't know."

"Where was she?"

Carrie shrugged. "I didn't know at the time, but she was already... already..." A solitary tear streaked down her cheek.

"She had already been abducted?"

One bird-boned hand dashed at Carrie's cheek. "Yes. I didn't know about it until later. In fact, I was so angry with her after the bus left while I was trying to find her, that I made up my mind to tell Dad what she was doing as soon as I got home."

"She skipped a lot of school I take it."

"Candy was counting the days until our sixteenth birthday. We're twins, you see. Our birthday falls in the summer, and Candy had already made up her mind that she wasn't going back to school in the fall. She wasn't sticking around home or Portico either."

"So you were walking home from school, out of town, and the state police stopped."

She nodded, knocked loose a few more tears. "I have wished every day since then that I had let him drive me home like he wanted. But I could see the lane, I was that close. I never dreamed anything could happen."

"The lane?"

"Our driveway. My folks have a farm, and there's a big arch at the end of our lane that says Blevins Dairy."

"You couldn't see the house?"

"It sits a ways back, sort of in a grove."

Isolation. My eyes fluttered shut. Was this guy stalking his victims? Could he have known that his best chance at nabbing Carrie was when she walked up the lane to the house after she got off the bus? My mind boggled a little bit at the premeditation of my suspect, whoever he was. This wasn't a case of a simple grab off the street.

"He was waiting for you somewhere along the lane, wasn't he, Carrie?"

"Yes. I—I tried to scream, you know, at first I wasn't even sure what came charging out of the trees at me, but he knocked me down so fast, and something hurt. It hurt so bad, I couldn't move, could barely breathe."

"What happened next?"

"He carried me, I think, over his shoulder through the trees to the country road about a quarter of a mile away. He put me in the back of his car and gave me a shot of something."

"Let's go back a second," I said. My fingers crept across the table and gently stilled the clench and release of her hands. "Do you remember any details about the car?"

Doll eyes blinked at me slowly. I could see her searching her memory.

"It was dark. Older. I remember that it was sort of square."

"The car was dark?"

Carrie nodded. "It was late, but it wasn't dark yet. The car was navy, maybe black."

"And he put you in the back seat?"

"Yes."

"Through a door, or did he have to move the front seat to get you inside?"

"There were four doors. I still couldn't move. He put some kind of funny plastic thing in my mouth before I felt the needle go into my arm."

Her words triggered an awareness of the dull ache in my arm. My heart rate accelerated. I touched my deltoid muscle. "In your arm here?"

"No," she pointed to the bend of her elbow.

I glanced at Charlie. He peered, owl-like.

"The doctor who treated me said that whatever he gave me went into the vein, not the muscle because it would act faster that way."

"Did you fall asleep?"

"No, but it got harder to breathe, and I remember that it felt like my muscles might never move again."

My mind was racing. He put an artificial airway in her mouth and administered a paralytic. Why? Had the initial assault been a stun gun? Paralytics are highly controlled substances. They had an extremely short half-life. He couldn't have removed her far from home for what he had in mind.

"What happened next, Carrie?" I let her memory lead the sequence of events, even though questions fired like bullets from an Uzi in my brain.

"He drove me deeper into the country."

"To?"

"It was one of those camper things."

"The kind you pull behind a vehicle?"

"Yeah, I think so. It was back in the trees, you know, like inside a field set behind trees. I remember that when he pulled me out of the car, I couldn't see the road anymore."

"What about his clothes?"

"They were black. And he had on a ski mask so I couldn't see his face. I remember his eyes."

_Thud_. My heart slammed hard into my breastbone. "What about his eyes?"

"They were cold, like he was dead, sort of milky, but happy. Not a good kind of happy. Evil, and I don't know if I can explain it, Dr. Eriksson. I've never seen anything like it. Does that make sense?"

"Yes. What about your breathing, Carrie? When he got you to his camper, did you still feel like it was hard to breathe?"

She frowned. "I hadn't thought about that, afterward, you know. But it wasn't hard to breathe anymore."

I was certain. He'd used a paralytic. Somehow, this guy had access to a drug like succinylcholine. Were we looking for a perverse medical practitioner? It certainly fit with Maya's assessment of the dismemberment.

"What happened next?"

"He took me into the camper and locked the door."

"What do you remember about the lock?"

Carrie's head tilted to the side. Nobody had asked her these specific questions, I was certain. No wonder our perp had gone about his business for so many years.

"There were two of them, the kind that lock with a key."

"Like deadbolt locks?"

"Yeah. Yeah. Is that important?"

"It was, Carrie."

"Can I ask why?"

Charlie, who had remained utterly silent since the introduction phase of the conversation, piped up. "It means that there was no way you could've escaped, Carrie. It tells us that this guy modified that trailer so that you wouldn't be able to leave. They don't come with key-only deadbolt locks."

"Then..."

"Yes?" I coaxed her to continue, feeling that she was remembering more and more as the interview progressed.

"That was why he thought it was so funny when I tried to get out. He didn't tie me up, because he wanted me to try to run away from him. That's... even more horrible than I thought!"

"Take a deep breath and try to relax," I said. "You're safe, now, Carrie, and even though this was one of the worst things that can ever happen to someone, it's in the past."

"But it's not the worst thing. That would've been what he promised to do if I fought him." Tears splashed onto the table, tiny ringlets on the checkered cloth. "Oh my God. He _meant_ what he said! He would cut off my hands if I fought him. And that's exactly what he hoped I would do."

### Chapter 29

Now I was the one on the verge of hyperventilation. Carrie was right. So was I. This girl's bravery, agreeing to meet with us, to relive the most horrific assault a woman could imagine, had my utmost respect. It was a new experience for me. Empathy has never been in my arsenal of psychological tricks. It's not a weapon, after all.

"Helen?"

I glanced at him.

Whispered, "You're crying."

Stunned, I dabbed one finger under my eyes. "Excuse me."

Carrie stared at me with appreciation. "Thank you, Dr. Eriksson. It means a lot to me, knowing that you care about finding the man who did this to me. You do believe me, don't you?"

"Of course I do." Who wouldn't? Beside the fact that there was a heap of physical evidence, it was impossible to gaze into this innocent face, disregard the limpid blue eyes and find a flicker of dishonesty.

"Because you know, no one ever believed Candy."

Now we were getting into another necessary realm. I was relieved that Carrie brought it up spontaneously.

"Oh?"

She shook her head. "Not even my parents, really. It's hard. I'm stuck in the middle, you know? She's my sister. I love her. Sometimes, it's like we're one person."

"Carrie, are you identical twins?"

"Close. We're what is called mirror-image twins."

I considered the possibility that this might extend to their personalities as well, not just physical characteristics. The phenomenon is exactly as it sounds, one twin left handed, the other right handed, hair that curls in the opposite direction, opposite symmetrically identical features, even in some documented cases of mirror-image twins the internal organs were reversed. To stand them side-by-side, it was as though one twin were the literal mirror reflection of the other.

"I've never heard of such a thing," Charlie said. "Does that mean you don't look alike?"

"I'll explain it to you later, Charlie. Carrie, I'd like to go back to what you were saying about nobody believing Candy."

"That's it. I mean, she's had some stuff, before the rape. What's that old children's story?"

I knew which one she meant—the little boy who cried wolf. "So because she had done things in the past, people weren't inclined to believe her when a real tragedy took place."

"Exactly. I know Candy isn't always the easiest person to get along with or to believe, and I even understand why my parents didn't believe her."

"Why was that?"

"Well, she skipped school all the time. She forged notes from my parents so the school wouldn't call home to see where she was. She started doing that... well, let me think. I think she was nine when the police picked her up for skipping school."

Truancy. It was listed among other petty crimes on Candy's record. I hadn't paid much attention to the dates.

"The shoplifting, the time she got suspended from school for bringing one of Dad's hunting knives with her—"

"How old was she when that happened?" Charlie was writing notes. I didn't need them. I could already see the threads of Candy's past being woven into a very clear tapestry of a girl who was beyond troubled.

"Second grade, I think."

Way outside the boundary of troubled. Pathological zip code, smack dab in the middle of it.

"What happened when Candy went to the hospital? Surely they discovered the same evidence that was collected when you were treated," I asked gently.

"Candy didn't go to the hospital. Nobody thought much about it when she showed up home late that night. She didn't even tell anybody what happened until I was found."

"You said you were gone for two days?"

"Yes," she said. "He let me go on Sunday night. I was found wandering down the road." She blushed deep crimson. "Naked."

"Did she refuse to go to the doctor?"

"My parents didn't offer to take her. Like I said, nobody believed her. Not even the police. I was surprised that Candy went to them on her own. She uh... she doesn't like cops so much. For me, it was proof that she had suffered the same thing I did."

"Carrie, when you said Candy came home late, what did you mean?"

"She came home Friday night, the same day he took me."

"But you saw her that morning? I mean, you were expecting her to meet you and take the bus home from school that afternoon."

"Yeah."

"Did you see or hear anything that led you to believe this man was holding other girls, beside you and Candy, hostage?"

"No. It was just him and me in that camper. To be honest, Dr. Eriksson? I was so freaked out the whole time, it was hard to keep my eyes open before he threatened to... to..."

"Go on," I clasped her hands in mine.

"He said he'd cut off my eyelids if I didn't look at him."

In a very sociopathic way, it made sense. The act of rape could never be enough for this guy. He needed their fear, to see it. He needed them engaged and able to be baited into fighting. That gave him the opportunity for another layer of pleasure. But why? Why force the issue with the girls; why not simply dismember and kill all of them?

I was missing something, his trigger maybe. Or perhaps..."Dear God," I murmured.

Carrie's eyes widened. "What?"

I let the calm, therapeutic mask slide into place. "I keep feeling how terrible this was for you in waves, Carrie. I'm so sorry."

She was mollified, while my heart tried to claw its way out of my chest. Could that be the missing piece? Was my perp trying to relive a past event? If so, which one? With the woefully low body count and absence of any evidence that there had been other murders, I hit a wall.

Unless.

The list of missing girls popped back into my head. More missing than assaulted and set free. They were like shooting fish in a barrel. Natural instinct favored the fight response. It wasn't uncommon for women who followed orders and became passive to suffer from incredible feelings of guilt that crippled them due to a misguided belief that they had consented by not fighting. I wondered if Carrie was one such victim.

"You know, Carrie, handling the situation the way you did, following his orders and not putting up a fight saved your life. I believe this man wanted to kill you, but only if you resisted in a very specific way."

"Like that other girl, the one they found in the Elegiac River, right? My parents thought it had to be the same guy who attacked me. The police said they'd look into it, but they never found him. They showed me pictures, thinking that I might be able to identify him. Since I never saw his face, that wasn't possible, but even the photographs didn't seem right."

"In what way?"

"He was very tall," Carrie grew distant again, reliving something I suspected she never hoped to do. "Not muscular, but big. Does that make sense?"

"I believe you. What about those pictures seemed wrong?"

"I remember seeing the measuring thing on the wall. None of them seemed quite the right height. Is that important?"

Salvatore Masconi's vital statistics flashed through my head again. Date of birth. Hair color. Race. Weight. Height. He was five nine, a hundred forty-five pounds. It was evidence of his innocence as far as I was concerned.

But Carrie wasn't done talking.

"Mom and Dad got frustrated after about a year with no progress. That was when they hired somebody to look for that guy that was accused of killing the girl from Darkwater Bay."

My stomach revolted. Maya's theory of the crime swirled. What if they had been a duo committing the murder aspect of the crimes? Kelly. Varden. The attempted abduction in D.C. Hairs on the back of my neck bristled.

"Did the private detective help?"

"Yeah, even though he never found the guy either. He's been sort of looking after me since I followed Candy to Darkwater Bay. He's done his best to help her too, but I think Candy has only tried to... well... you know."

"Seduce him?" Ugh. Kelly and Varden were beyond troll-like, not to mention, they didn't fit Carrie's description of the very tall, somewhat lean assailant.

"Yeah, but I don't think Johnny would ever do anything like that."

The dreamy gaze collided with my sagging jaw.

"Johnny?" Charlie's tone sharpened to a point. "As in Johnny Orion?"

"Yes! Do you know him?"

I didn't know what I wanted to do first, kill him or vomit. One thing was certain. Orion was toast. I'd see to it personally, whether David Levine and the entire FBI were watching or not.

### Chapter 30

"Change of plans."

Our exit strategy from LaPierre Bistro was less than graceful. If Charlie hadn't blocked me into the booth, I would've shot out the door at the speed of light. As it was, I had a hard time resisting the compulsion to climb over him.

"Helen, what do you think this means?"

_Orion's a lying sack of feces for starters_. "He has withheld information, vital information, for the very last time," I snarled. Whatever patience I had left snapped, evaporated into the infamous city fog. "Not only that, but he acted like he has no idea how far this thing has gone. Fourteen slaughtered girls my ass. He knows damn well they were survivors of this guy's sexual assaults. I bet he knows exactly how many women _weren't_ found that are potentially victims of similar crimes."

"You mean, murder victims?"

I gave a curt nod. "Where are Adams and Thieg?"

"I told them we'd call when—"

"Get them on the phone. I want Orion arrested. Tonight. Right _fucking_ now."

Charlie hopped to and made the call while I paced the sidewalk. Adrenalin seemed to be the cure for my lingering hangover. My energy boiled to the fore.

"Are we still heading out to the Bennett farm?"

"Preferably before they get Orion in cuffs. I don't want to see him until I've got all the evidence I need."

"You don't think... Helen, is he the guy?"

"We'll know soon enough, I suspect. After he's locked up, tell Adams and Thieg that I want Candy Blevins picked up, I don't care if they have to beat the truth out of her known associates, she's coming in for a chat post haste."

"Will do."

He muttered into the phone while I jerked the door open on his car, parked curbside in front of the bistro. My cell phone had immediately been deposited between the wall and cushion of the booth when I sat down almost an hour ago.

Hell. Neither one of us thought to ask Carrie if she knew where Candy was after the coup de grâce, the bombshell that put an entirely different face on the investigation. It didn't matter. Adams and Thieg could follow up with her later if need be. I suspected that given Candy's psychopathy...

I groaned. "Her psychopathy. Maya's theory of Gwen's murder. Candy Blevins could be the accomplice, the smaller, weaker person who used a garrote like tool!"

"And we've just bumped up the status of the location on the Blevins girl to priority one, as soon as Orion's locked up," Charlie spoke his final directive into the phone. "Things are happening fast. Gotta go. We'll check in soon."

The journey to the Bennett farm was mostly silent. If Charlie asked questions, I didn't hear them. My mind was occupied working out the theory of the crime. I knew that Brighton Bennett's cause of death was exsanguination, if Riley Storm could be trusted at all. Orion couldn't have always had a partner. Meeting Candy at the time of her alleged assault could've been the moment of critical change, where two people who should've never met found each other and shared sinister goals.

So what really happened the night Gwen died? Had Candy become jealous? Figured out that Johnny was spending all his time with one of the survivors and killed her? Orion could've shown up, found her dead, dismembered Gwen... but the rape happened first. It fit, but then it couldn't.

"Jesus."

I was sure Charlie didn't respond.

He navigated slowly up a long driveway that wound beside the Elegiac River. The distinctive fishy odor told me what my eyes couldn't see. Yes, it was dark and foggy in patches, but not so bad that the dark sentries looming around us could be mistaken. I pondered the trees, their placement, if the circumstances of Brighton's abduction reflected similarities to Carrie Blevins' account.

The modest farmhouse at the end of the driveway was lit by a single beam shining through a window on the west side of the house. I couldn't make out much, but it certainly didn't appear to be more than a modest dwelling, certainly not the home of a successful organic farmer.

A curtain fluttered at the sound of Charlie's sedan pulling up beside the house. A dog barked, not in warning, a friendly sort of "come pet me" greeting. The light on the back porch cast a halo onto wood that had seen better days.

Giant Harlan Hartley soon filled the doorframe.

"Vinnie's passed out. Come back tomorrow."

I was halfway to the door. "Mr. Hartley, I'm afraid that's not going to be possible. We need to speak to Vinnie now. We've wasted enough time waiting for him to get back to Darkwater Bay. If you want us to find the man responsible for Gwen's murder, I need your cooperation."

"I've been here all along. If you were so hot to catch this guy, you could've talked to me the day she was found."

I silently cursed Orion again. If someone had been forthcoming, I could've learned more about Gwen by hour eight. "I apologize for that, Mr. Hartley. The man who found Gwen Tuesday night neglected to mention that she had other family, extended or otherwise."

"I heard it was Orion."

Inside, I smiled. That was not a friendly accusation. "You're correct, sir. He claimed that he was a close friend of the Bennett family."

"Yeah, well I reckon he used to be. That died with Gwennie."

"May we come in, sir?"

He stepped aside with a grudging huff and gestured to the kitchen table and chairs. While the room was neat and spotless, the furniture had seen better days. Old chrome chairs, several with cracked vinyl that had been taped with duct tape were positioned neatly around a fifties-style matching table. The edges of the Formica were cracked and chipped. The cupboards and cabinets were plywood, painted white. The plumbing in the sink was in need of repair; a soft plink from the leaking faucet punctuated the silence. I wouldn't have guessed Gwen grew up in such a dated home, based on the staggering contrast of her house in Nightingale.

"Have a seat. I can brew some tea if you like."

"We're fine Mr. Hartley. I'd prefer that we commence with the reason that Officer Haverston and I have come here. We need information about Gwen."

"She didn't have an enemy in the world."

Wrong. "Mr. Hartley, if that were true, she would still be alive. Her murder wasn't an act of love. It wasn't random either. I'd like to know about her normal routine first."

"She got up, went to work every day and came home at night."

"You're Vinnie's uncle on the maternal side of the family, yes?"

"If that means his mama was my sister, yes. You could say that."

"Forgive me, but I find it unusual that Vinnie would be raised by a cousin after Frank Bennett died, instead of his remaining uncle. She couldn't have been very old at the time she took on such a serious responsibility."

"She was twenty-four, older than some parents who give birth to their own kids. Vinnie wanted to live in the city. Frank named her guardian in the event of his death. Weren't nothin' fishy about it."

Charlie tiptoed his way into the conversation with some trepidation. "How long did you know Gwen?"

"Well, let's see. My sister and her husband—"

"Which Bennett was he? Pardon the interruption," I said.

"Eugene. He was a couple of years older than Dennis."

"And where is Dennis now?"

"Dead. Like Frank, like Eugene. Can I finish sayin' my piece?"

I nodded.

"Gene and my sister got married later in life. They had Vinnie when they were in their early forties, and had the misfortune of a fatal car crash when he was still in the hospital."

"For?"

"Born about a month premature. So Frank was Gene's next of kin, and the way the farm was set up, the brothers all agreed years ago to take on the responsibilities of the others, should something happen to one of them. That's how Vinnie came to live here."

"With Frank and his wife, Gwen's mother."

Harlan shook his head. "She died when Gwen was about four years old. She had the sugar diabetes, and her doctor didn't want her havin' kids at all. They never regretted Gwennie. Frank did a fine job raising that girl."

"I'm sure he did," Charlie said. "How long did Gwen work for Danny Datello."

The ruddy face darkened. "I won't have you smearing Danny's good name. He's been practically part of this family and done more than anybody else to look after Frank's family after he passed on."

"It was merely a question, Mr. Hartley. We're trying to establish Gwen's routine in a little more detail than _she got up, went to work and came home_. I suspect that the person responsible for her murder might've stalked her and learned her routine before she was approached."

"Danny hired Gwen about six months before Frank died. Cancer. Everybody knew it was coming, and I think Frank and Danny made a pact to make sure Gwen and Vinnie wouldn't want for anything after Frank was gone. Danny oversaw the trust Frank set up, and manages the finances for the farm to this day."

I needed to veer the conversation away from Datello, as much as it annoyed me to do so. I was certain he had nothing to do with Gwen or Brighton's murders, outside getting a little street justice for Brighton. Misdirected as it was, the intentions were appreciated by me in particular. The system fails. Believe me, I get that.

"What about Gwen's friends, her relationships?" I asked.

"I wouldn't know about that. She was a private girl, and never talked much about her personal life."

"Vinnie would know more since he lived with her, correct?"

"You'd have to ask him."

"Thank you," I interpreted as an offer that wasn't intended. "We'll wait here while you wake him."

Hartley muttered under his breath, but shuffled out of the room.

"Where are you going with all these questions about Danny Datello?" I whispered to Charlie. "I'm certain he didn't have anything to do with Gwen's murder. I'm equally positive that if we don't handle this case just right and the perp slips through the cracks again, guilty or not, he'll meet the same fate as Masconi."

"Sorry," Charlie muttered. "I thought maybe Hartley might let something slip that would point to Datello knowing what happened to him."

"There's no statute of limitations on murder." Good fact to remember with the FBI lurking in my shadow. "We can dig into that after this case is resolved. Any leads we uncover won't go any colder in a day or two."

Vinnie Bennett floated into the kitchen on a cloud of benzodiazepine. He stood at least six five and couldn't have weighed an ounce more than 160. He bent like a willow twig into the chair Hartley guided him to and nudged with a gentle tap to the bony shoulder. One long swath of jet-black hair flopped down to cover half his face. The other side was puffy and red, particularly around the crescent slit of his eye.

"Vin, this is Dr. Eriksson and I'm sure you remember Officer Haverston."

"Yes, sir," he gave a zombie nod and stared at the Formica.

"Vinnie?"

Blank.

"I'd like to ask you a few questions about Gwen. Would that be all right?"

Vinnie shrugged. "Guess."

"Do you know of any problems she might've been having recently?"

"Gwen didn't talk to me about that kind of stuff."

"Ever?"

"No."

"Did she seem like she was acting different over the past several months?"

Valium receded. His chin lifted from where it had been tucked to his chest. The visible eye cracked open wider. "Maybe a little."

"In what way?"

"Johnny."

"Was Gwen involved in a personal relationship with him?"

"Like being friends?"

"Or more than friends," I suggested as gently as possible.

"No way. Johnny's a good guy and all, but Gwen was smarter than that."

I cringed inwardly at the insult no one but me realized he doled out. As angry as I was at Orion for the lies and manipulation, I knew better than to see him right away. I needed that rage boiling and etched in stone before he could turn on the charm and tap into my hormones with his soulful gazes.

"Because of Johnny's reputation with women?" Charlie picked up the gauntlet again.

I shriveled into my navel. How was I supposed to know that reputation? Orion invaded _my_ turf when he set a foolish attraction into motion.

"Well yeah," so obvious even a teenager could see it. "But it wasn't ever like that with Johnny, not that I can ever remember. I don't think Gwen was his type, really."

"What type was that?" I bit my tongue. Stupid question!

"Young," Vinnie said. "Way younger than Gwen."

Like Candy Blevins young. I struggled to resist the urge to rush to judgment. "Was Johnny around more over the past few months?" We already knew the answer to that question thanks to the Gladys Kravitz-like stereotypical nosy neighbor.

"That's what the strange thing was. He'd just sit out at the curb sometimes all night."

Stalker. It fit my theory. _Orion has an airtight alibi, Helen. It was corroborated, remember?_

"Did Gwen say she hired Johnny to work for her for any reason?"

Vinnie shook his head and slumped into a less animated human form. "She didn't hire him. Johnny wouldn't have taken her money even if she tried to hire him."

"Did she act strange in any other way?"

"Sometimes. I don't know what was going on, Dr. Eriksson. She wasn't as happy, maybe. And she seemed a little bit nervous, I guess. Sometimes I'd see her trying to hide that she was crying. I could tell. You can tell when somebody is crying."

And how. The creases of Vinnie's nose were cracked and bright red. His eyes were puffy, moist with tears shed and those waiting for release.

"You never heard her talking to Johnny, to anyone about what was making her sad?" Charlie asked an excellent question.

"A couple of times when Johnny actually came in, I walked in on them. They stopped talking right away."

"Was Gwen dating anybody?"

He shook his head. "She was kinda private about that stuff. I suspected there might be somebody, but she never had him around when I was home."

The neighbors hadn't reported seeing a suitor either. It meant nothing. Gwen could've seen him on neutral ground or at his home. It prompted another question. "Vinnie, did Gwen ever spend the night away from home or go away for the weekend?"

"I wouldn't know about during the week. I boarded at Sisters of Mercy and was only home on weekends. At least I did until January. Gwen told me she wanted me to come live at home for my last semester of school."

"Did she tell you why?"

He frowned. "No, but come to think of it, she was acting a little jumpy then already. It seemed like it got better for a while, but then in late March, Johnny started hanging around all the time."

"Thank you for answering my questions," I said. "We're so sorry for your loss, and I want you to know that we're doing everything possible to find the person who did this to your cousin."

He nodded.

"I'd like to talk to you some more, Mr. Hartley. We'll wait until you help Vinnie back to his room."

Charlie lifted his eyebrows when we were alone. "What else?"

"Gwen Foster was obviously married at some point. She also had a baby. Now come the tough questions. Feel free to let me take this part of the interview, Charlie. Hartley is going to have to be coerced into telling the truth. If I can't do it, this interview is going down like the Hindenburg."

### Chapter 31

Harlan Hartley was the embodiment of askance when he stalked back into the kitchen. "I don't know what the hell this is all about, but I think I've said all I have to say."

Charlie started to rise. I gripped his arm and tugged him back down.

"Mr. Hartley, I am not leaving this house until someone gives me some straight answers."

"I already did that. I can't help it that they weren't the ones you wanted."

"But I haven't asked the important questions yet. For instance, what happened to Gwen's baby?"

The swarthy seemed to wither in front of us into a state of cachexia. For a moment, it looked as if he might miss the chair he left scooted out from the table. "Why in the name of all that's holy would you say such a thing?"

"The body doesn't lie, Mr. Hartley. Did you think for one second that Gwen died at the age of 34 and no one considered performing an autopsy?"

Given Charlie's hesitation to interview Vinnie alone, I was confident that none of the details of Gwen's violent death had been shared. It was probably cruel to inform Hartley in such a frank manner, but answers were no longer optional. If I had to reduce the man to a sack of weeping bones, so be it.

"You... cut her open?"

"I know she had a baby. I know that the child was born at or close to full term. We have irrefutable proof of this. She either had this child in a foreign country or was tended by a doctor who didn't follow the standards of practice in this country. Is that what happened, Mr. Hartley? Did an incompetent doctor like Riley Storm deliver Gwen's child?"

"Stop saying that!"

"I won't. What was she, fifteen years old? Maybe sixteen when she got pregnant? Did Frank send her away to give birth so no one would know and the Bennett family would be spared the shame of a bastard child? I know Frank was religious enough to send Gwen to Catholic school, Vinnie too. Gwen upheld the family—"

"Don't you call him that! He is not a bastard. It's no more his fault how he came into this world than it is any other child's!" Hartley's voice boomed through the kitchen, probably a lot farther truth be told. Apparently he wasn't concerned who heard him. Vinnie was too gorked out to understand he had a secret cousin out there in the world somewhere.

I didn't care about the Bennett family secrets.

"Was she raped?"

Harlan Hartley's hands shook. He gripped his face tightly, shoulders shaking. "How in the world can you know this? We never... there isn't a soul alive other than me now who knows these things."

"The body doesn't lie, Harlan. Tell me what happened to Gwen. What did Frank do to protect her?"

Silence was punctuated with the irregular keening of a man desperate to get his emotions back under control. Finally he spoke.

"After the deed was done, there wasn't a whole hell of a lot that could be done to protect our Gwennie."

"How old was she? Fifteen? Did the attack happen in early spring?"

His hands slowly dropped from wet cheeks. "How can you know this?"

"Because he's done it before, and has continued to do this time and again. What I find incredible is that this man attacked the Bennett family not once but twice."

This time, Harlan didn't hide his tears or try to suppress the brokenhearted sobs that wracked his body. "Brighton. Oh my God. Brighton too."

"Mr. Hartley, what did Gwen tell her father about the rape? Why didn't Frank report it to the police? Why was Gwen forced to bear the shame of what happened to her in silence without any hope of justice?"

"He knew where we lived! My God, he snatched her out from under our noses. And what good would it have done to call the police? She never even saw his face. What that child endured, we couldn't make her tell anyone about it again. It was hard enough when Frank and I found her and brought her home."

"Gone two days? Found wandering along the roadside without any clothing? He threatened her with the vilest of crimes and taunted her to attack him?"

Harlan's eyes widened in horror. "She never gave us the details. It was pretty obvious what he did to her, Detective Eriksson. Frank asked her who it was. She said he wore a mask, and then she didn't speak for a solid week. Didn't sleep. Didn't eat. She sat at the window in her bedroom staring out at the lane like the devil himself might appear if she looked away."

"You didn't take her to a doctor for medical care?"

"We wanted to," he shook his head hard, like he could ward off the unwelcome memory. "Every time Frank tried to get her to move, she started shrieking. She couldn't even stand to have her own papa touch her."

"How long before you realized that Gwen was carrying the child of her rapist?"

"It wasn't that baby's fault, doctor. He was innocent."

"How. Long."

"Five months. Gwen was so quiet after it happened. She started moving around after the first week, like a little ghost. That son of a bitch killed her spirit. She was such a frail little thing, only five two and not more'n a hundred pounds soakin' wet. It wasn't long before we noticed some changes. Gwennie would get this real empty look when Frank tried to talk to her about it. So he went to a friend and confided in him, asked for advice. That's when the doctor started comin' out to see her here.

"Gwennie was all shook up when she realized what was happening to her body. We got some help for her, sent her to a real nice place our friend knew about, and they took care of her until the little guy was born."

Homes for unwed mothers had gone out of fashion to my knowledge long before Gwen would've given birth. Then again, who knows what the Catholics do in such situations. Abortion probably hadn't been offered. "Go on," I coaxed.

"When she came home the next year—"

"She was gone a year?"

"Long enough to go to school a full term at the home she went to. We just told the folks at Sisters of Mercy that Gwennie was in one of those student exchange programs." He shrugged. "She did learn to speak Spanish while she was gone, so nobody thought a thing about it."

"What country was she in?"

His jaw set stubbornly. "I don't see how any of this helps figure out who murdered our girl."

"It matters because Gwen died the same way Brighton did."

A good fifteen minutes passed before Hartley was able to compose himself enough to continue. I soldiered on. "So you see, this is related. For whatever reason, Gwen remained his target, unless you can think of someone else who she would've confided the truth to, who hated her enough to make it appear that the same man who killed Brighton killed Gwen."

"That ain't possible!"

"Because she wouldn't have told anyone? Not even the man she married?"

"She never had a husband. We only had her change her name when she got so bad away from home that she couldn't leave her apartment anymore. She was terrified to come back here as Gwen Bennett. That was when Frank bought the house for her in Nightingale and set her up. Danny hired her. I wasn't lying when I said Gwen got up every morning, went to work and came home at night. She could barely stand to do more."

"Why would you allow Vinnie to live with someone so emotionally crippled? Is this why he boarded at the Sisters of Mercy?"

"She loves that boy!" Hartley's protest strangled in his throat. "Loved him."

I sucked in a deep breath. "Does Vinnie know that Gwen was his mother?"

"You can't...please don't tell that boy some wild story that you can't possibly prove."

"A simple DNA test, Mr. Hartley, that's all it will take to prove it."

"But it can't make a difference anymore." Desperation etched the deep lines in his face. "It would kill him to know the truth. He'd never understand why we hid it from him all these years."

"I'll keep your secret—provisionally, Mr. Hartley."

"What do you want from me?"

"If I have more questions, you're going to be completely honest with me. Otherwise, I'll march into Vinnie's room, wake him up and tell him everything. Do we have an agreement?"

My sincere hope was that the mere threat would push Hartley to reveal anything he thought to hold back, like why Gwen's murderer could've have been the same man who raped her and left her pregnant and a few years later, slaughtered Brighton.

"If I have to, to protect Vinnie."

I would later discover how vain my hope truly was.

### Chapter 32

The tension in Charlie's car was a palpable living thing. I could hear it breathing, feel its pulse throbbing against my flesh. My protégé was one unhappy camper. He'd probably never seen anyone pound a potential witness so hard before. From what I'd heard, Central Division didn't have a whole lot of solved cases let alone interrogations.

"Charlie—"

"Don't."

"I know that was difficult to watch, but Hartley had no intention of telling me the truth tonight. He needed to know how serious this is. He needed a little push to invest in helping us find this guy."

"I get that part, Helen. I do. And as hard as it was to watch you go after that poor guy, I know it had to be done."

"Then what's the problem? Why do I feel this silent rage battering me?"

"You looked like you were enjoying it."

The theory rolled around in my brain hard enough to nearly miss his next accusation.

"And you'll be lucky if he doesn't call the chief to file a complaint that you threatened him."

"I did no such thing."

"Really? You didn't threaten to destroy the life of the only family that poor guy has left?"

It was a thing of beauty. Charlie's righteous indignation pointed out a subtle clue that I hadn't seen. If Gwen was Vinnie Bennett's mother, and our perp was the father, Harlan Hartley wasn't related to the young man at all. Scores of new questions popped into my head.

What would make a friend so deeply invested in a family that wasn't his own lie to the police? For that matter, hadn't Hartley claimed to meet the family only after his fictitious sister died? He sure knew an awful lot about Gwen's reaction to an assault. Did Hartley stand to gain something by keeping the family secret? Was Hartley as close to Datello as Frank had been?

I had no doubt that there was deep familiarity between the two men. He called him Danny. And that attempt to keep Datello's name out of Gwen's exile was the lamest thing I'd ever heard. Datello paid to have Gwen sent off to some sanctuary for unwed mothers to protect her.

It opened the door to even more questions. What had forged such friendship and loyalty between amoral scum like Datello and Frank Bennett, who by all accounts had a very rocky start to his relationship with Datello?

"We need to go back, Charlie."

His cell phone rang.

"Haverston." A long pause ensued. "That sounds reasonable. Did he put up much of a fight?"

I felt the sharp stab of a glare in the darkness.

"Fine. Good. I don't think she'd disapprove. Any word on the Blevins girl yet?"

Breath burned in my lungs. _Breathe, Helen. He'll tell me what I won't disapprove of. Be patient._

"All right. I'll let her know." He thrust the phone back into his pocket.

"What happened?"

"Thieg said that there's a convention in the homicide squad room tonight. Lowe, Myre, Rogers, Daltry, they were all up there when he and Adams came on shift. Rather than risk any sort of confrontation between Orion and his former peers, Adams decided to stay at central and keep an eye on him personally."

The interest of Jerry Lowe was understandable. He'd been cut out of the communication loop for the most part. I didn't doubt why Myre, Rogers and Daltry were sniffing around. Lowe wanted to know what we were learning. What I didn't understand was why he didn't simply ask for an update.

"And Candy Blevins?"

"Taylor found Carrie at work and asked the question we neglected in our haste to bully a grieving family."

"Where is she?"

"Carrie didn't know, but told her boss she needed to leave work due to a family emergency. She's out with Thieg scouring the usual dives, talking to the regulars in Candy's haunts with the hope that someone will be more likely to talk to the twin sister than they have been the cops."

"Charlie, when you talked to Thieg, did he mention if Rodney Martin was at central too?"

"As far as I know, he's still MIA."

"Maybe that's why so many people are at central tonight. Nobody has talked to him for two days. It could officially be a missing person's case. Do you know Captain Martin well?"

"Not really. He doesn't rub elbows with the lowest rank in the department if you know what I mean. Why? Is that important?"

"Rodney was in one of the undergraduate classes that I helped teach when I was finishing my doctorate," I said. "He was the one who brought me to the attention of George Hardy and Don Weber."

"Are you implying that his disappearance is related to your arrival in town?"

"I'm not sure." My gaze pointed behind us. No headlights. "Charlie, have you noticed anyone following us tonight?"

"No. Has someone been following you?"

More than one. Where were Seleeby and David? I gnawed the inside of my cheek. If I called David, it would reopen a door I wanted shut forever. "It's probably nothing." The sudden disappearance of Kelly and Varden disturbed me. Was I no longer considered an interest to whoever hired them to detain me, or was it a matter of _mission_ _accomplished_ after what happened to me yesterday?

"It _probably_ isn't?" The previous level of ire evaporated. Charlie glanced over at me. "Who was following you?"

"Considering that Orion identified the men, I'm not sure if he told the truth or not. I believe that whoever it was accosted me in Washington before I arrived in Darkwater Bay, are the same men who stole my laptop computer from my hotel room."

"Who did Johnny say they were?"

"Local private detectives, a Kelly and Varden. You suspected the same thing."

"Yeah," jaw clenched, muscles bunched and tense. "I didn't realize this was an ongoing issue. They're not exactly nice people, Helen. Mostly they shake people down for the highest bidder in any given dispute."

"What kind of disputes?"

"Typically? Union bullshit."

"Unions." Hadn't someone mentioned union activity? Maybe Briscoe and Conall the night they gave me the history lesson. Recent events felt jumbled, on an uncertain timeline in my mind. The big stuff had come back. Rick's funeral. My arrival in Darkwater Bay. The murder scene. And while I recalled generalities of other things, the specifics tickled my consciousness. They teased awareness and frustrated me with their elusive nature.

"Yeah," Charlie continued. "We've got more than our fair share of them in Darkwater Bay. There's the fishing union, the logging union, the service worker's union, a trucking union, school teachers... and then ours."

"Ours?"

"Law enforcement. But you know, it's pretty benign. Mostly they provide legal counsel if one of us gets into trouble. There's the retirement fund and whatnot, but they're not like the others safeguarding stuff like no mandatory overtime, or making sure we get triple or quadruple pay if we're required to work over eight in a day or forty in a week."

"And Kelly and Varden are involved in these kinds of union disputes? To the highest bidder, you said."

"Uh, yeah, which is usually the union in question."

"That makes no sense. Why would these guys be interested in me?"

Charlie shifted in his seat enough to tap the accelerator. The car surged ahead and didn't slow when he settled. "Because the guy most directly involved with union business in this city is—"

"Danny Datello," I muttered.

"How the heck would Datello know that Hardy and Weber wanted to snatch you away from the FBI? That doesn't make any sense. Orion must've been wrong. Or lied."

"Yeah, that's probably it. Like I said. It's probably nothing."

The heart knows what the mind wants to deny. I knew that Datello had an axe to grind with me before George Hardy ever conceived of picking up the telephone to ask for my help. The code of family meant something different to Danny than it did to most, even to his corrupt Uncle Sully. I violated the code. I turned on the man I promised to love and honor 'til death parted us.

Explaining that to anyone, let alone Charlie Haverston, opened a well hidden can of worms that I wouldn't even acknowledge existed.

"It can't be nothing, Helen. They were in Washington you say?"

"Charlie, not right now. We've got another more serious matter that demands our full attention. We've got to get Candy Blevins into custody before someone else gets hurt. I'm still a little bit fuzzy on some of our conversations this week, so I don't remember if I shared a theory Maya postulated when she discussed the autopsy findings on Gwen Foster."

"I wasn't aware there was a final report."

"There isn't yet. Toxicology testing takes time, so she can't close the file from her end until that's finished." I filled him in on the bruising Maya discovered and the possible source.

"So you're thinking that this guy gained a partner at some point, and that this smaller, weaker person would have to be female since Foster wasn't a giant like..."

"Like I am," I chuckled. "I think that sums up the obvious."

"And Candy Blevins fits the bill."

"She wasn't held for two days. She didn't come home naked or her parents would've known that she wasn't lying about the sexual assault. She has a criminal history that stretches back into early childhood. In a twisted way, it fits the Foster crime scene and helps explain why this one felt so much different than what I read about Brighton Bennett's murder."

"Because Candy would've been seven years old when Brighton was murdered. She couldn't have been part of it."

"This is my theory right now. If our perp happened on Candy first and abducted her, the response he received from his typical scare tactics wouldn't have been one he ever anticipated. We're talking about someone who thrives on psychological terror."

"And Candy is that messed up?"

"From what Carrie told us tonight and what I gleaned from the statements that Candy made to the police, and her criminal record in Portico as well as the continued arrests here in Darkwater Bay, I would conclude based on that alone that before Candy reached her teens she suffered from something we call _conduct disorder_ in psychology. It can be a precursor to antisocial personality disorder, a maladaption during personality formation that predisposes its subjects to a total lack of empathy for others."

"It's that mirror image twin thing, isn't it? You're saying that Candy is more than the physical reverse of Carrie."

"There is no research or documentation that would support that theory, Charlie. As far as I know, its never even been studied. But the thought occurred to me while Carrie was talking to us tonight. We don't fully understand why personality disorders develop in general, but for antisocial personality, it has been suggested that childhood trauma may be a factor. Early trauma, not what Candy and Carrie endured at the hands of our perpetrator."

"So what was it for Candy?"

"Like I said, it's just a theory, Charlie. Nobody really knows for sure. You can find examples of extremely violent people with antisocial personality disorder in patients who had storybook childhoods. We simply don't know why it happens."

"Head full of bad wiring," he grunted softly. "In my opinion."

"You could be right. Several years ago, a scientific study was done to ascertain brain activity when subjects were exposed to ethical dilemmas. An MRI was performed while the subjects were presented with scenarios. When they believed that they had achieved the most ethical decision they could, the researchers noticed an interesting correlation on the brain scans."

"What was it?"

"The same primitive area of the brain that compels us to feel pleasure when we eat or have sexual intercourse lit up like a Christmas tree. The implication was that perhaps the human species evolved successfully because in social settings, it feels good to do the right thing. Our social skills, our ability to work together for the common good of a group is what is absent in other animals. At least we've always thought it was absent. Researchers are learning new things all the time about the cooperation capacities in the ape kingdom."

"So what makes people do bad things if it's supposed to feel good to be part of the pack?"

"Evolution. Genetic variance. Reinforcement of bad behaviors that conditions a pleasure response when negative behavior is exhibited. Nobody can say for sure, but there are plenty of theories."

"What's your theory, Helen? Don't tell me you don't have one. You've rubbed elbows with some very bad dudes over the years."

"Some might say the worst of the worst," I agreed. Then again, there was my personal gene pool in evidence in my mind. Still, with all the so-called evil done at the hands of my father, I understood his ethics in a way that no one else possibly could. Wendell had a code he not only practiced, but also passed onto me. There wasn't a pair of innocent hands on the roll call of Dad's hit list. There wasn't a child he placed elsewhere that had grown up hungry or neglected. There wasn't a business that folded because of his theft. On the contrary, it was their thieving insurance companies who ultimately paid the well-deserved price.

"And?" Charlie intruded into my thoughts with a verbal nudge.

"I think that people ultimately make choices. We all have the capacity to find good in the evil deeds we might commit or the polar opposite. It's all a matter of perception."

"Is that a fancy way of saying you don't have a theory?"

"I liked yours just fine, Charlie. Some people are born with a head full of bad wiring." What gnawed in the back of my brain was another tidbit of my perception. Even though Orion struck me as annoying and reluctant to share what he knew, I didn't get the same sense from him that I get when I am confronted with truly evil men.

"Charlie, there's something else you should know about what happened to me before I came to Darkwater Bay," words that were difficult to form clawed their way off the tip of my tongue.

"What? Is this about Kelly and Varden?"

"Not exactly. Indirectly maybe."

"What was it?"

"I believe it was their intent to abduct me. Someone stopped that from happening. Someone from Darkwater Bay."

I heard the frown in his question. "Who was it?"

"Johnny Orion."

### Chapter 33

Charlie hit the outskirts of Downey and didn't slow down. Instead, the lights on the unmarked car flashed in warning to motorists to get out of his way.

"Why aren't you saying anything?"

"I'm not sure what I should say, Helen. Don't you think that was a rather important detail to omit?"

"I promise you, whatever Kelly and Varden did was unrelated to this case. How could it have been? Gwen Foster was still alive when it happened."

"You're saying you've got some other link to this city, one that you don't want to explain?"

I was convinced that Haverston had what it took to make a good detective. He missed very little. "It's complicated, Charlie. And no, the link wasn't mine personally. It involved someone I once knew very well. At least I thought I knew him well."

"I need to know the truth."

"What you need to know pertains to this investigation. Everything else is background noise. Let's get back on topic. Candy Blevins wasn't scared of the guy we're trying to find. How he reacted to that is the significant point in the evolution of his pathology. Perhaps he was getting bored, feeling that his routine had become stagnant. He might've given Candy a chance to spice things up for him."

"How?"

The truly horrific thought that occurred to me earlier returned. "By offering someone who not only fit this guy's exacting and specific type, but would be terrified of him."

"Sweet mother. You think Candy offered up her own sister? Not just a sister, her twin?"

"I suspect that the only emotion Candace Blevins feels is negative. She would hate her sister, because Carrie is sweet and kind and loving. Even through all of this, Carrie is the only person who refuses to give up on her sister."

"She hoped that Carrie would fight this guy, didn't she?"

"In a way, it makes a lot of sense. It's all theory until we can find Candy and talk to her. I should warn you in advance. You've never been manipulated until you've tried to pry the truth out of a true antisocial. They're the best natural profilers in the history of mankind."

"Are you telling me something about yourself, Helen?"

"I don't follow."

"You're pretty damned good at this profiling thing yourself. Without your insight, no way would we be this far on the case. In fact, I'm pretty sure that Rogers and Daltry would be at the bar by now, tossing back a few cold ones and watching the NBA finals."

Maybe Charlie was right. Except I didn't suffer from a conduct disorder when I was a child, which is a prerequisite for the diagnosis of antisocial personality disorder. Or so we in the field believe. Even viruses mutate and evolve. Was I the next stage in conscienceless killers?

"Hey," he reached across the console in the car and bumped a fist into my shoulder. "I was kidding."

"Candy Blevins won't be easy to coerce into honesty. I'm not sure she knows how to tell the truth. Anyway, her interview is moot if we can't find her."

"Adams and Taylor will get the job done. We've got Carrie helping now, remember."

"Right now, I can't put off talking to Orion."

"I figured as much. We're only a few minutes away from central."

"Has anyone had time to move my car to the house?"

Charlie shot me a sheepish grin. "We got your luggage wedged into the car, but didn't have time to move it out of the garage at central. I'm sorry, Helen."

"It's just as well. It'll be convenient if you and I need to split up after I talk to Orion."

"Don't I get to be part of this interview?"

"You can observe from the room, but I want him to believe this is a one on one chat with me. If you're there, I doubt he'll be the Johnny Orion I've come to expect."

By the time we reached central, the detective squad room was quiet as a tomb. "Did Thieg or Adams mention how they knew there was a powwow up here tonight when Orion was brought in?"

"The place was buzzing when they showed up for their briefing with the sergeant tonight. Before you ask, Thieg never mentioned why. You're probably right that it's this thing with Captain Martin. Police captains generally don't disappear around here."

"No, but a former chief of detectives did die in this building."

"Right. McNamara, wasn't it? That was way before my time."

Ironies, coincidences, horrible murders unsolved... they started to worm around in my gut. My sense of unease grew. I glanced over one shoulder expecting to find David and Seleeby watching me from the shadows.

"Get Orion up into the interview room. I'm gonna hit the bathroom for a minute."

"Are you all right, Helen? You look tired."

"Fully recovered since the end of our meeting with Carrie Blevins. I'll meet you by the interview room in five."

I splashed water in my face, washed my hands and stared at the mirror. Charlie was right. So many events in so few days were taking a toll. There was something to be said for taking time away from work after a tragedy.

Gwen's tragedy weighed heavily on my mind. My little problems with the FBI paled in comparison to her fight for life. She too learned to go through the motions, much like the man who attacked her when she was a child. She spent more than eighteen years waiting for the day he'd be back to finish what he started.

Had it really been as simple as all that? Were all this man's victims equally at risk for a reunion? Something still didn't fit. What prompted this man to come back to Gwen? She hadn't simply disappeared. No, he left her body where it would be found. And who would've he expected to find it? I knew he must've stalked his victims in some of the cases. Until I interrogated Candy Blevins, I wouldn't know if she had anything to do with helping this guy find a substitute. Probably a wild theory.

All sorts of things raced around in my head. David and the FBI investigation were still on my mind more than I wanted to admit. I fingered the cell phone in my pocket. I could call. A simple apology might make David drop his guard. At the very least, I could ask if he and Seleeby were still nosing around in Darkwater Bay. What if, while following Kelly and Varden follow me, they learned the identity of the person who hired my shadows?

I dialed a number nothing could ever erase from my memory.

"Levine."

"David, it's Helen."

"Hi."

All right, he didn't sound thrilled to hear my voice. My perception of our relationship over the years might've been misjudged too.

"Is this a bad time?"

"You were the one who closed the door on communication. Was I supposed to divine another message from that?"

"I'm sorry, David. This has been a difficult time for me. Add to that the fact that I'm working a case that at best is a nightmare, and find out that I'm being followed by a couple of sleazy PIs from Darkwater Bay who broke into my hotel room and stole from me, and perhaps you'll understand why I was short with you the other night."

"Ah, Mr. Kelly and Mr. Varden."

"Were you following me?"

"Hmm."

"David, please talk to me. Were you lying when you said that the FBI doesn't think I'm part of Rick's criminal enterprise?"

"I know you're innocent. I have no doubt that Sully Marcos had Rick murdered."

"You, but not the FBI."

"It will blow over. They'll find evidence that points toward the guilty party, Helen."

"Were you following me?"

"I was concerned that you were getting in over your head out there."

"You've gone back to Washington?"

He chuckled softly. "After we put the fear of God into those investigators following you."

"When was that? What day?"

"Thursday. Is that important? Are they harassing you again?"

I heard his favorite leather office chair squeak. It wrapped around me like a hug. "No, David. I noticed that they weren't following me anymore today."

"We detained them after you entered a store, Apple, I believe."

"When I replaced my laptop. Did you find out who hired them?"

"Some nobody, Helen. We suspected to find out it was somebody from Marcos' clan, like Mr. Datello, who I can only warn you to stay away from because we already know he had nothing to do with Rick's death."

"Did you see the man who hired them?"

"Tall guy. Dark hair. Thin without being skinny. Why?"

Two-thirds of David's description matched what Carrie Blevins said about her rapist. How on earth could he know the police in Darkwater Bay might hire me? It was a secret shared by three men, possibly a fourth in the form of... now missing Rodney Martin.

"Oh my God."

"What? Helen, what's wrong?"

"I'll call you soon. Gotta go."

Charlie had Johnny Orion tethered to the table with cuffs in the interview room. "Are you sure about this, Helen? He's pissed enough to tear that table apart with one hand."

We watched him for a few minutes through the glass in silence. "I'm sure. You didn't say anything to him about who wanted to question him, did you?"

"No. He has no idea why he's here, only that he was arrested for suspicion of murder."

"Watch and learn, Charlie. Things are about to get interesting."

I mussed my hair and paused at the door. _Wanna play games, Orion? Let's play._

The door to the interrogation room opened a crack. Orion's eyes snapped into focus on that gap. I felt it. Quickly, I stepped inside, spun around and peeked through the crack I left when I swung the door shut.

"Doc?"

"Shh. They're out there. I had to sneak in. I came the second Charlie found out our investigation has been compromised. I figured you went out looking for me when I got back to the penthouse and you were gone. The interview ran long. I fell asleep waiting for you to come back."

"They arrested me on suspicion of murder. My alibi is solid, you know that."

I nodded and crept toward the table.

"Let me out of these cuffs."

"Johnny, I can't help you escape, but I can tell you why you're here."

"Why?"

"Because they suspect that you're an accessory after the fact. Gwen was already dead when she was dismembered."

"And they think _I_ did it?"

I sat across from him and reached over to grip his hands. "I'm being cut out of the case because I let you go that night. Lowe is livid. Rogers, Daltry and Myre couldn't rub it in hard enough that they were right and I was wrong. Surely you heard the buzz around the division when you were arrested."

"I heard they were all here, but had no clue why. Doc, are you all right? You look terrible."

Part of my body wanted to recoil every time he used that little nickname, but the stakes were too high. The game had to be played. "A little tired, but I'll survive. We don't have long before whoever really wanted to talk to you comes in here."

"Listen, Charlie was the one who brought me here. Are you sure he's not—"

"He's also the one who helped _me_ get in here without being seen. He'll keep them away as long as possible, but I'd rather not press my luck. We're going to keep searching for whoever killed Gwen, but we've got to do it off the radar."

"Do you need my help? I have files. You were right that this is bigger than anybody ever imagined. I didn't say anything earlier because I was afraid you'd have a fit over me keeping this information from you. I have my reasons, but I can't tell you what they are right now. Please trust me."

I hesitated, or pretended to, and nodded. "I trust you, Johnny." A squeeze to the hand sealed the deal.

"I've found almost two dozen suspicious cases, rapes with survivors, girls who all had disturbing physical characteristics shared by Gwen and Brighton. I started contacting them. I'm sure at least half of them were attacked by the same guy, but none of them ever got a decent look at him."

"Masconi?"

"That's the thing that didn't fit. This guy was bigger than Masconi. I couldn't believe that somebody pulled the wool over our eyes enough that we really believed Masconi was the guy, Doc, but they did."

"I see. So why the charade? Why did you insist to me that Masconi had to be back in Darkwater Bay?"

"I was..."

"Yes?"

"I worried that if I mentioned my theory that someone around here would find out that I changed my tune after all these years. As time passed, and these cases kept cropping up, I was convinced that this killer would never stop. I think it's a game to him. He set Masconi up, but not so convincingly that he wouldn't be released before he could be convicted."

Orion paused. "Think about it, Doc. He ruined a man's life to play games with the police department."

"It's plausible that it could've been his motive for setting up Masconi." My thumb stroked over his knuckles. "Johnny, what were you really doing with Gwen Foster? I need to know if this thing between us... can I really trust you?"

"Gwen was my friend. I loved her like a sister. She had such a hard life."

"She was a victim of this guy twice, wasn't she?"

"I knew you'd figure it out eventually. Once you started talking to the Blevins girls, it had to be obvious."

"You knew who I was meeting?"

"Carrie called me. She was terrified. She and Gwen were so much alike. I suppose Candy is the flip side of the same coin, how someone traumatized can go in a different direction. I'm sorry I didn't tell you, but I promise, when this is all over, I'll tell you everything."

"I think you should tell me now, Johnny. If this really matters to you, I might be the best shot you've got at proving your innocence and getting justice for Gwen and all the others. It would go a long way in proving to me that this really matters to you... that I matter more than one of your infamous one night stands."

His eyes blazed with desire. "I do want this," he said. "I wasn't lying, Helen. I can tell you most everything, but there's something I cannot say while we're in this building."

"Tell me what you can."

"I followed Kelly and Varden to Washington. Someone was threatening Gwen, and when she finally told me the truth about what happened to her, I insisted on investigating."

"So two private investigators are involved?"

Johnny shook his head. "Not the way you think. I got a partial print off one of the letters Gwen received."

"She got threatening letters?"

"It's complicated."

"Is it about her child?"

"Doc—"

"Johnny no. I have conclusive, scientific evidence that she went through labor and delivered a baby."

He finally admitted it. "This guy wanted the child. He thought it was his right, that his progeny be spared further influence by a whore."

"That sounds psychotic. This killer isn't psychotic, Johnny. He's far too organized."

"Don't you think I know that? I think it was his goal to force Gwen into running out of fear to make sure that wherever that child was placed when he was adopted, that it would lead him straight to the boy. I think he wants to kill him."

"I see." Either Orion was still lying to me, or Gwen had lied to him. I frowned. Since when had this stopped being role-play on my part and evolved into a legitimate conversation?

"You saw Gwen's house. There was no sign of struggle. When I talked to Carrie Blevins, she told me the same thing about this trailer he uses to kill the girls. For the blood bath that goes on in the place, it's neat as a pin."

I hadn't asked Carrie that question. Points to Orion for details. "Go on."

"You tell me. Are disorganized killers prone to picking up after the deed is done?"

"No, they're not." I glanced over one shoulder. "Hurry. Tell me the rest."

"The partial print belonged to Fred Varden. I couldn't figure out what a couple of head bashers for hire to the unions were doing harassing Gwen, but I figured if I followed them long enough, they'd lead me straight to this guy."

Oh my God. Orion was telling me the truth.

"Instead, they led me to you. I had no clue who you were that night. But I didn't want you to realize that you were getting sucked into something so dangerous if it really was a case of mistaken identity either."

"So you gave me the bogus name."

"Yeah. I got to thinking about it after you went to your room. I mean, what if Kelly and Varden weren't convinced by our act? What if they came back for Diana Farber? What if another innocent woman got hurt because of this killer who has been my first and last thought every day for over fifteen years?"

"Then you found out I'm Helen Eriksson," my words fell flat. "And you know as well as I do what that means."

"He wants you here, Helen. I don't know how he found out that Hardy and Weber were thinking of bringing in a criminal profiler, but he knew."

"The hope was that Kelly and Varden would spur me into action. If somebody out there was after me, perhaps I'd be inclined to run far away."

"It wasn't a great plan, but at least to this guy's way of seeing things, it worked."

"But I would've accepted the invitation anyway, Johnny."

His voice dipped low. "Because of what Marcos had done to Rick?"

_Thud._ I dropped his hand on the table. "How in the hell do you know about that?"

### Chapter 34

Since my question was rhetorical and followed quickly by an uncontrollable bout of hyperventilation, instead of sticking around for an answer, I ran out of the interview room. Straight into Charlie Haverston.

"Who is Rick?"

"My murdered ex-husband." Damage control. _Shit_. "It was the one thing that made me amenable to leaving the FBI and coming here."

The instant and very plausible cover story popped into my head. "Oh my God. If Orion's right, Rick's murder might've been..."

"You don't know that. You don't know that he said a single thing that was true, Helen. Orion could've lied through his teeth."

"He wasn't lying this time."

"You know this for a fact?"

"Let me rephrase. Orion didn't tell me everything, but he told me what he knows about this case, about why he was hanging around Gwen's house all the time. It fits with everything else we've learned."

"Then I should release him?"

No, Orion knew more about Rick than he should've, and until I could figure out how that was possible, other than the far fetched theory I proposed knowing full well it wasn't true, Orion was best kept out of my hair. "Hold him. He's interfered and withheld information that was vital to this case. Throw him back in a cell downstairs."

"Where are you going?"

"I need to take a break."

"You should be resting." Charlie pulled out his phone and dialed a number. "Dr. Winslow? It's time."

"You already talked to her?"

He snapped the phone shut and nodded. "Don't argue. It's not like you could stand hitting the streets in the search for Candy Blevins, Helen. Go home with Dr. Winslow and get some rest. I'll call you if anything breaks."

It seemed like Maya arrived before Charlie finished his mini lecture on the need for a second night of uninterrupted sleep. Before I could protest, she locked her arm in mine.

"You look like death warmed over. I thought you were told to take it easy, Helen."

Charlie was a traitor. Apparently he neglected to give me the message in favor of not tipping his hand. "Missed that part of the conversation where you were brought into this conspiracy on my health."

"We're going home, and you're going straight to bed."

"I can walk, Maya. If you want to be helpful, carry my bag." The laptop made my shoulder feel like the joint was starting to separate.

"You'll feel better in the morning," she slipped the bag over her shoulder and waved to Charlie.

After a cup of Sleepy Time tea, my memory became as vague as it had been last night. I don't think I moved for eight solid hours. Maya was still sleeping when I woke. The red light on the department cell phone that Charlie supplied was flashing. I retrieved the voicemail, something happened, he'd fill me in this morning.

Great. Part of my lie to Orion suddenly felt like prophecy. I was being cut out of my own case due to a perceived weakness I hadn't caused. Coffee withdrawal was probably the culprit last night, and the inevitable letdown of adrenalin. They had conspired to keep me away from coffee after it had been wrongly blamed for my sleep-deprived condition.

The aroma of bean should've been enough to rouse Maya. Then I'd grill her like Pacific swordfish until she caved and told me what happened while I was sleeping. It was a fine plan, really, and probably would've worked if she had been home. Her bed was made. The morning paper lay in the dewy grass. She hadn't been home for hours.

I dialed Charlie's number.

"Haverston."

"Where the hell are you?"

"You're up early. What time is it?"

"Charlie—"

"We found Candy Blevins at two."

"Come pick me up. I need to talk to her." I heard Maya's voice in the background. "Oh don't tell me. Please don't tell me, Charlie."

"You already figured it out. Maya said there was no point in waking you since the only things we'll learn from Candy are postmortem."

"Shit. Come pick me up. I need to be there."

"I figured you'd say that."

"Are we keeping this quiet for the time being?"

"Yeah," Charlie said. "We all agreed that the last thing we need is news of this leaking out at central or to the press. We'll let the do'er believe we haven't found her remains. It probably won't buy us much time, since she wasn't dumped either."

"That answers my next question, I guess. She died like Gwen Foster, didn't she?"

"Not exactly. Maya said to tell you that there is no evidence of a partner on this one."

"Because he killed his partner for fucking up with Gwen. How long has she been dead? Does Maya have a window yet?"

"It was pretty fresh, Helen. She says not before ten last night."

"Orion's not the guy."

"It's without a doubt conclusive this time."

"Dammit." I pounded my fist against the kitchen counter. "He was the only one with links to everyone."

"That we know about."

"Right. Obviously. Are you on your way over to Maya's house yet? I can't believe this. I'm stuck here without a car."

"I'll be there in five minutes. Her house isn't far from the ME's office."

I noticed that the night before. Even though I hadn't been in town a week yet, the city's layout was not without rhyme or reason. "Please tell me that Carrie Blevins wasn't present when her sister's body was found."

"No, she wasn't," Charlie said. "Thieg took her home around eleven. She wasn't feeling well. She told him and I quote, _'something has happened to her. I can feel it. Candy isn't here anymore.'_ Pretty creepy, huh?"

"Did that statement have any part in Maya's determination of time of death?"

"No, that was based on this thing she stuck in her belly to take a temperature."

"The liver," I said. "Good. I'm sure Carrie did feel the lack of Candy's presence on earth. The phenomenon is well documented among identical twins, if not fully understood. How far are you now?"

"Pulling into the driveway. Are you dressed and ready to go?"

"Yeah," I said. "I had hoped to have cause to hold Orion longer than this, but we're gonna have to cut him loose now for sure. I'd rather do that before anyone realizes he's been warming a cot at central."

Charlie knocked on the door. "Let's get to it then."

We rode in silence from Downey to Darkwater proper.

"Uh, Helen, are you gonna tell Orion that you lied to him last night? He's gonna figure it out pretty quick anyway."

"I'm not seeing him," I said. "Go in, process the release and call me when it's done."

"What will you be doing?"

"Talking to Rudy Simms before his shift ends."

"Who?"

"The civilian at the information desk on night shift," I said. "I was supposed to follow up with him the other night, but haven't been back. I figured he's probably heard more about the goings on at central in the past twenty-four hours as anyone. Maybe he can give me information on the search for Rodney Martin."

I hadn't mentioned the fact that Martin fit the physical description of a tall, not too muscular man because he was simply too young to be the perp. However, he was the only other person aware that Darnell, Hardy and Weber wanted me in Darkwater Bay. Somebody else found out that information, and I suspected the leak came from Rodney. His persistent absence was cause for alarm. Maybe the perp knew I'd figure out the link between Kelly and Varden and him. If so, I'd realize that someone wanted me in Darkwater Bay playing the game like Orion suggested.

Orion was right about one thing. This had become a vast game of cat and mouse. My suspicion was that I came onto the perp's radar via Rodney Martin too. It put him in the unique position of being the only person who knew the identity of this man. Varden and Kelly couldn't be persuaded to cooperate. They were used to playing dirty and keeping their mouths shut.

I made my way to the tomb-like lobby at central. Simms heard my shoes clacking on the stairs and looked up. His face broke into a grin. "Hey, Eriksson. Are you back on active duty again?"

"Yeah, Rudy, I'm back. Although I wasn't aware the world at large knew I'd been under the weather."

"Are you kidding? You've been the number two topic of conversation around here this week."

"I'm not sure if I should be worried or flattered by that. What's been number one, just out of curiosity?"

Rudy lowered his voice. "This thing with Captain Martin. Have they asked you to help with the search?"

I shook my head. "I'm sure you know more about what's happening than I do. But that's not why I came to see you this morning."

"Right, that question you had for me the other night. I asked Benny about your visitors. He said he saw a couple of guys that matched the description you gave me come in here that evening. They took the elevator upstairs somewhere."

"Were you aware that both my office and Captain Martin's were broken into that night?"

"I heard about his. Part of the buzz over his disappearance."

"I wonder if that event is related. Have you heard anything?"

"Yeah, that Captain Martin's house was a mess. They found blood but don't know if it belongs to Rodney yet. When they determined that it was foul play, Chief Lowe said he was putting his best men on the job."

"So that's why Rogers, Daltry and Myre were here late last night?"

"Uh-huh. Chief Lowe too. Benny said he couldn't remember the last time he saw Lowe here that late. And Benny's been here for twenty some years."

"Interesting."

"Do you think something bad really happened to Captain Martin?"

"I wouldn't rule it out, Rudy. Did you happen to mention to anyone other than Benny that I asked about the men who were hear the night our offices were broken into?"

"I guess we probably should tell somebody... not that you aren't somebody. I only meant—"

"Rogers, Daltry or Myre," I offered an understanding smile. "My case is actually wrapping up quickly. I'll let them know about it Rudy. Thanks so much for your help. I do appreciate it."

"I should tell you that Benny thought he recognized those guys," Rudy said. "He wasn't positive or anything, but remembered a case a long time ago where two men were accused of roughing up a couple of workers at the docks for opposing the unionization efforts at the time."

"Oh?" My heart skipped a beat.

"Kelly and Varden, I think he said. Benny said they worked for the union to silence opposition. He figured that he had to be wrong. I mean, what would a couple of union roughnecks be doing nosing around here, right? Captain Martin wasn't exactly the type to discourage the cops from having union representation."

"Right. Probably a mistake." I knew better. Someone had hired the pair because they had no scruples. I changed my mind about the likelihood of their cooperation. Benny's identification would be enough to bring them in for questions about breaking and entering. And the attempted abduction of me in Washington could be addressed at the same time. I asked Rudy to turn in the department's phone and immediately replaced it with a new prepaid from a little shop next door to Central Division.

I considered calling David back and letting him deal with that issue. Federal pressure might be exactly what Varden and Kelly needed. It sure had induced them to lose interest in what I was doing.

Instead of meeting Charlie upstairs, I made my way to the parking garage. I had a spare set of keys to the rental in my purse and needed to follow a lead or two of my own. First, I needed to visit the crime lab and talk to Forsythe about the keys. The fact that Varden and Kelly normally worked for the union's interests and the number one name in unions back east was always a crime family (like Sully Marcos), it wasn't a stretch to believe that Datello might know something about Kelly and Varden.

I couldn't get past the safe keys that were found at Gwen Foster's home. Forsythe probably wouldn't like it, but I needed to check those keys out of evidence for a couple of hours. Hopefully he was back from the Blevins crime scene.

Crime Scene Division shared space with the Bay County Coroner's office. Maya had the upper two levels of the building and Forsythe's domain was a ground level basement and an additional sub-level.

I met Forsythe almost immediately after I stepped off the elevator. Unlike entry to the morgue, all I needed to do for CSD was show my badge.

"Hey, I thought Maya said you were home resting."

"I woke up. I need a favor, Forsythe."

"We're kinda swamped right now, Eriksson. I'll do my best, but unless this is another crime scene, it probably isn't a great time to shift gears again."

"The Blevins thing?"

"That and Rodney Martin's place. We were over there processing when the call came in on the other."

"I see. Well, what I need won't require much. I'd like to check out a piece of evidence from the Foster case."

"Oh?"

I nodded. "I need those keys for a couple of hours, Forsythe."

His eyes widened. "Wow. Are you getting that close to a suspect that you think you'll find the safe?"

"Maybe. Do you mind?"

"No. I'll take you down to evidence storage right now." Forsythe kept talking while we took the stairs to the sub-level. "So you already heard about Martin?"

"Bits and pieces. I'm not sure what's true," I said. "You know how central is."

"I expect that if we ever recover his body, it'll be another homicide. There was more than blood in his house."

"Oh?"

"Gray matter. Interestingly enough, we found two separate blood types, so the assumption is that we've got a wounded assailant and a dead police captain. The opposite doesn't seem likely since Martin surely would've called for help if he was attacked."

"That's too bad. I knew Rodney a long time ago. We hadn't had a chance to reconnect before he disappeared. I spoke to him briefly the morning after the Foster crime scene. What was that, Wednesday? It feels like weeks ago instead of days."

"Tell me about it. This has been one for the record books. I don't remember the last time that CSD was this busy with major cases. Two dismemberments and a missing and presumed dead police captain all in one week. It sort of reminds me of that Christmas back when we lost an ADA, the chief of detectives and the guy who killed the ADA in a matter of a couple of weeks. Craziness."

I gripped Forsythe's arm. "You think Chief McNamara's death was related to that somehow?"

"No, as I recall he died of natural causes, but you know what they say about people dying in threes. Hopefully we've had our three for a while again."

The murder rate in Darkwater Bay didn't support Forsythe's theory. I recognized he referred to high profile crimes, not the typical stuff CSD saw.

"Hey, Mary. Dr. Eriksson needs to sign out some evidence from the Foster case. You mind if I take her back?"

"Be my guest." She offered a toothy smile.

Forsythe entered a large cage with a key on his ring and weaved through long rows of shelves housing evidence that had not yet made its way into a courtroom. It seemed like a bit much.

"Ken, why is there so much evidence down here?"

"Huh?"

"Do you store this indefinitely?"

He shook his head. "Only until cases are called up for prosecution." His eyes roved over the massive space. "Guess this does look bad, doesn't it? Not for lack of effort from CSD. Have you met our ADA yet?"

"No. Is he part of the problem around here too?"

"Zack Carpenter does the best he can with the cases handed to him. The evidence down here mostly represents open cases or those Zack can't even present to a grand jury because the investigations weren't up to modern standards."

"And this is all from Central Division?"

"Mostly. There are a few from other areas, but I'd say less than two percent."

"Nice."

"Here we go," Forsythe said. He slid the portable staircase to the shelving and locked the wheels. "Foster is on the top shelf. That's how the system out here has evolved over the years. Oldest stuff is at the bottom, and we've sort of worked our way up. I've been meaning to reorganize the system for a couple of years but haven't found time to get around to it."

He came back down with a box marked _Foster, G._ , and the date of the crime. "It should be in here. Shall we?"

I pulled the lid off and started shuffling through the contents of the box. "Is there another box up there, Ken? I can't find the keys in here."

Forsythe was frowning. "I can see that. Mary?" he yelled. "Has anybody been in here today besides CSD?"

"Uh... last night, yeah. The chief came over with a couple of detectives to check in some papers they collected from Captain Martin's house."

Forsythe stared at me. "You don't suppose."

"Flynn Myre knew about the keys."

"Yeah, but he didn't know what we can accomplish with a photograph."

"What do you mean?"

"I can reproduce those keys if you really need them, Helen. We've got digital photographs of both of them. A simple key like those won't be hard to cut. Hell, regular house keys have been reproduced from a good digital photograph before."

"How long will it take you to make them?"

"We'll do it right now."

### Chapter 35

Before Forsythe put the box of evidence back on the shelf, I slipped Gwen Foster's access card to Datello's office building into my palm. He didn't notice. Since dawn was too light for an unnoticed visit to Datello's office, I told Ken that I'd be back later to pick up the keys and went shopping at a 24-hour Walmart.

My wardrobe was still a problem. Even though I now had all of my clothes back in my possession, a rainbow of pastels is hardly appropriate for a stealth visit to essentially break into a building without a warrant. Besides, I missed black and gray. A discount store was good enough for the basics.

Darkwater proper offered a variety of cheap motels along the main drag through the city. Rather than go to my house where no doubt Charlie and others would look for me, I checked into a place that offered me hourly or weekly rates. Lovely.

The shag carpeting was frayed and worn, and probably once a vibrant shade of late 1960s orange. Now it was muted by decades of filth and stain. The table and chair were the necessary items in the room, and Wi-Fi.

I started going over the records I uncovered, remembering my theory that my perp's psychopathy and its steadfast adherence to one ritual indicated that he might be reliving his first kill. Carrie's assault was only seven years ago. The tale she told didn't include any distinguishing features that pointed to my suspect being completely elderly. He couldn't have been very old at the time of his first kill.

Considering the initial age range I gave Hardy and Weber on Wednesday, I did a mental calculation. It was conceivable that the perp had been within the typical age range for serial crimes when the first was committed. I needed to figure out who that first victim could've been.

My list of missing girls was extensive, and stretched back thirty years. "Fifty now would make him twenty at the time of the first missing girl."

I started sifting through the list of names carefully this time. I divided it into cases where photos of the missing girls had been included in the files and those without. The older cases were problematic. Many were missing the pictures. I made marks on the pages with twenty-five to thirty year dates to color code those with photos and those without.

On the bottom of page two, I found several marked "resolved". Further digging revealed that either the girls returned home or the families had waited the allotted time required by law to have their children declared legally dead. A new color for my sorting system entered the scheme.

By the time I reached the last page of the oldest missing person's cases on record, my vision was starting to blur. I glanced at the digital clock on the nightstand by the bed. Five twenty. I'd been at this for far too long. My stomach rumbled.

"Patience. I'll grab a bite before I stake out Datello's office."

I had made a couple of trips to the outdoor vending machines throughout the day for caffeine—namely Coke Zero. Even though my room had a small coffee maker, the disposable cups weren't wrapped in plastic. God only knew how many times they'd been reused.

The last can of soda had half a swallow of tepid, flat syrup in it. I downed it and rubbed my eyes. A name half way down the last page of my list jumped out when I refocused on the screen.

Gwen Bennett.

"What the hell?" I checked the date. Thirty-two years ago. Had Gwen Foster been abducted as a toddler too? It didn't fit the... date of birth leapt off the screen. "Oh my God. Case resolved."

I started searching the Social Security Death Index. There she was. Gwen Bennett, declared dead seven years after disappearing. I pulled up the case.

Gwen Bennett had ridden the school bus home to her family's farm one Friday afternoon like she always did. Between the bus stop and her home, she disappeared without a trace. There was no ransom call. She simply vanished.

My eyes scanned the report. Parents, Frank Senior and Daisy Bennett. Siblings, Frank Junior and Dennis. Where was the mysterious Eugene, the brother who allegedly fathered Vinnie Bennett? Had they been so bold to fabricate a brother to keep the secret of what happened to the second Gwen Bennett? And was it a coincidence that three Bennett girls were victims of nefarious deeds at the same age?

"My ass," I muttered. "This guy hit the Bennett family four times. That's personal. But why?" I needed to talk to the reluctant Harlan Hartley again, but it was getting late. I didn't want to miss my window of opportunity at Datello's office. Even if the keys I still needed to retrieve from Forsythe opened nothing in Danny's office, I knew that he too shared many secrets with the Bennett clan. I could find something important. Or, I could find incriminating evidence that would expose Rick's relationship to the Datello family tree. Sometimes it's hard to put personal agendas aside when they converge into a convenient opportunity to kill two birds with one stone.

I tucked the computer into a case and slid it behind junk left in the closet of the room. First stop CSD. I needed those keys. Then I'd find a good vantage point to observe the activity at Datello's corporate office and wait for my moment to get inside. It was a great plan.

Forsythe cautioned me about the keys. "The photographs can be used as evidence if you find the safe, Eriksson, but we'll need the original keys back in evidence."

"I'm aware. Thanks for doing this for me, Forsythe. When we catch the perp, I have no doubt we'll find the keys."

The scenario my mind formulated chilled me to the bone. Whoever took those keys had unfettered access to CSD's evidence room. Mary, the keeper of the cage, identified police officers being the only other people to enter evidence storage before Forsythe and I found the keys were missing. I considered Myre's interest in the case, particularly those keys, and his access to the Brighton Bennett evidence. Could he be the perp? He certainly didn't strike me as a criminal mastermind. Then again, it could've been the performance of a lifetime. Bumbling cop by day, serial predator by night. Was Myre somehow responsible for my lost time Thursday afternoon? I wished I could remember.

The thoughts plagued me as I made my way from Downey to Darkwater proper where Datello's office building was located.

The physical presence of Datello Enterprises didn't disappoint. Nestled into a rundown neighborhood of empty warehouses and long since abandoned businesses was a glistening spire of the dark glass and metal high-rise. Saturday night looked quiet enough on the surface. I found my perfect vantage point for surveillance from a low branch in a tree that bordered the alley behind the building. Several yards away, my rental was hidden behind an overgrown hedge.

It was creeping up on nine. Fog had rolled through the neighborhood, a sentient specter to warn the good people that it was time to get cozy inside shelter. Despite the fact that summer was only a couple of weeks away officially, the temperature at night dipped low enough, combined with the humidity, to make me uncomfortable. I missed the sweltering heat of the East Coast, the balmy summer days and pleasant nights where anything more than shorts and tank tops was overdressed.

Datello's guards lazily assessed the perimeter from the back of the building. It amounted to opening a door, shining a beam of light around the landscaped back lot and heading off for parts unknown inside the building. Regular as clockwork, that door swung at the top of the hour. It would happen again at nine. Ten minutes later, I'd make my break for the entrance. Hopefully, no one had thought to deactivate Gwen's security card.

At the appointed moment, I shimmied down the tree trunk, but before I could step foot near the building, someone yanked me backward. A fleshy prison clapped over my mouth, and a second later, a rock flew over my head and onto Datello's property.

Lights immediately flooded the area.

Two arms trapped me after the rock sailed.

"Do you honestly think Danny Datello is stupid enough to neglect installing a state of the art security system at his office building?" Words hissed into my ear.

Orion. _Dammit_!

He released my mouth and half dragged, half carried me quickly behind the same hedge that hid my car.

"I need to get in there!"

"Then get a warrant, Doc. What the hell are you thinking? As much as I hate Danny Datello, I know he doesn't have a damn thing to do with what happened to Gwen."

I shoved both hands into his chest. Orion didn't budge this time. "Don't make me hurt you," I warned.

"Good luck with the jujitsu this time, Doc. I'm ready." He let go after letting me know it was his choice and not my threat that convinced him to do so.

"How did you find me?"

"It wasn't difficult. Charlie Haverston is probably off having a stroke somewhere instead of realizing that while the cell phones you have conveniently dumped in the past two days can't track you, you made the mistake of taking your rental car. Tsk, Doc. Do you really think that Enterprise doesn't keep tabs on their vehicles in the event that someone decides to break their rental contract?"

"You son of a bitch."

"Don't insult my mother."

I snorted. "Screw you. I'm getting out of here. If you know what's good for you, don't follow me again, Orion."

"All this because I know your ex-husband laundered money for Marcos?"

I froze. How much did he know about that?

"I didn't realize it was a closely guarded secret, Doc. If that's the case, someone should've issued a gag order for the Washington Post."

My spine wilted. "I don't want to discuss this."

"Tough. Why did you freak out when I mentioned it last night at Central Division? Or was it because I mentioned his boss at the same time?"

I needed a good convincing lie. My mind drew blank.

"Helen," his fingers curled over my shoulder gently. "It's okay to grieve for the man, even if you were divorced when he died. I understand that this is complicated. Your ex wasn't a very nice guy. That doesn't mean you had to hate him. It doesn't erase the good memory you have of your marriage."

"Shut up," I spoke in low but lethal protest.

"I didn't bring it up to freak you out. I wanted you to understand how far this perp was willing to go to get you engaged in his game."

"I get it just fine, thank you very much. I'm not an idiot."

Orion's fingers wandered, cupped my chin, and tilted my face upward. "I don't think you're an idiot. Grief does weird shit to people."

"It didn't do anything to me. I'm not..." I reined in the impulsive comment on the tip of my tongue. Orion handed me a gift-wrapped excuse. "I'll be fine. Not dwelling on it is the best remedy."

"Would you have invited me to stay with you Monday night?"

"What?" Where the hell had that come from? Orion's timing baffled me.

"You told me I missed my chance, Doc. I was thinking about what you meant. It was grief Monday night, wasn't it? You couldn't possibly be ready to move on yet."

Move on—there was the hated phrase again. Still, Orion wasn't done handing me convenient excuses. "Probably not. About Monday, I mean. And about being ready to move on."

"I wasn't lying you know." His thumb brushed my lower lip. "I still want you."

Unbelievable. I jerked away from the light touch. "You're not a patient man, Orion. You'll lose interest long before I'm ready for that nonsense." Thank God the fluttering in my belly was invisible or he'd have seen the lie.

"I'm a very patient man. I hate it that you haven't figured that out yet. Maybe you will in time."

"Good luck." I turned on my heel and stalked off in the direction of my rental car. The door was open and I was about to climb in when Orion grabbed me from behind again.

"Charlie will eventually figure out how to track you. Wouldn't you rather be in a vehicle that isn't linked to a satellite somewhere?"

"I can find one on my own, Orion."

"I've got one half a block away."

"What part of my communication with you has been unclear?"

"None of it. But if you're planning on ditching Charlie Haverston so you can continue this investigation under the radar before Rogers and Daltry fuck it up completely, you need to ditch that car now. Once Lowe's guys figure out that you're AWOL, how long do you think it'll take them to figure out what you're doing?"

I rolled my eyes. "The case is still mine, Orion. Nobody took it from me. I played you last night, like a freakin' Stradivarius. Don't think I won't hold you to that agreement for full disclosure when all of this is done."

"That's good information to know, Doc."

"Why is that?" I wiggled free of his grasp and made for the front seat a second time.

"Because now I won't feel guilty for doing this."

He had me over his shoulder in one fell swoop. My gut hit muscle and bone with enough force to knock the wind out of me, and when Orion started jogging down the alley, catching my breath became next to impossible. Around the corner of the alley, his car came into view. Upside down from my vantage point.

Orion opened the passenger door and shoved me inside. He cuffed my wrist to the door handle in the twenty-year-old sedan and slammed it shut.

"Where are your keys?"

"To the rental?"

Orion nodded and thrust his hand through the open window.

"I'm not giving them to you."

"Like hell."

"They're in my purse in the front seat of the car."

"I'll be right back."

He disappeared into the bowels of the alley, and I started jerking my arm against the restraint. If I started screaming for help, would anybody hear me? Possibly Datello's guards. And wouldn't this be fun to explain if somebody did hear and called the police?

I popped open the glove compartment instead and started digging for the key to the handcuffs. Orion probably wasn't stupid enough to leave it lying around. My fingers brushed a leather case.

Or maybe he left something I could use as a weapon. What was it? I pulled the flap out of the lighted container. It looked like... I flipped it open and stared at the small shiny badge. Through clear plastic on the other side of the wallet was his identification.

John F. Orion, Commander. Office of the Special Investigator.

I groaned. Shit. Orion was undercover, working for Chris Darnell, a man I had quickly come to despise after one brief meeting. I was about to shove the ID back into the glove compartment when an explosion shook the ground.

A plume of orange and yellow leapt over the tree line. _Orion_! My jaw dropped. I grabbed the chain between the cuffs and struggled to free myself. No way could I be found detained in Orion's car when the neighborhood started crawling with police and rescue vehicles.

Orion was dead. He had to be. But why? What had happened?

Another chill crept over me. Had someone planted a bomb in my car that Johnny accidentally set off? Jesus! It was meant for me.

### Chapter 36

A second later, Orion staggered out of the alley.

"You're hurt. Unlock my wrist and let me drive. You need medical attention."

"It knocked me down. I'm not hurt."

"What happened?"

"I don't know." Johnny thrust my purse at me and noticed that I was still holding his identification. "Just couldn't leave it alone, could you Doc?"

I shoved the badge back into the glove compartment and closed the door. "It explains a few things. I don't know why you felt that you couldn't tell me the truth from the beginning, Orion."

"It's not the nature of cops working under cover to blow it, Helen. Besides, I'm not inclined to share information with people who lie to me. Repeatedly."

I shook off the condemnation. We both told more than our fair share of untruths anyway. That some of them had been to each other came as no shock. "What happened to my car?"

"I didn't want it to look completely out of place, so I went back to shut the door. I grabbed your purse, got the keys and started down the alley." Orion shook off his haze and tore away from the curb with the headlights off. "I was about half way to the end of the alley and realized that all your luggage was crammed into the back seat, so I engaged the lock on the remote. _Ka-boom_."

I hadn't locked the car since I picked it up from central. Someone had wired a bomb to explode the moment the remote activated the locks. "That makes no sense."

"Doesn't it? Somebody wants you dead."

"Were you lying when you said you believe this perp wanted me out here, that he wanted me to play his game?"

Orion frowned. "No, that was the God's truth. You're right. It doesn't add up. Why would he try to kill you after getting what he wanted?"

"Oh my God. I really am getting too close. He knew we were looking for Candy Blevins."

"Candy? What for? She's a complete psycho, Doc. Even if you can find her, which will be extremely hard to do, believe me, she's not about to be cooperative."

"Oh, we found her all right," I murmured. "Uncuff me, Johnny. For better or worse, it seems like we're on the same side." _This time_.

He dug the key out of the pocket of his jeans and passed it over to me. "Have you talked to her yet?"

"Not possible. Sometime between ten and eleven last night, Candy Blevins was murdered."

Orion slammed the heel of his hand against the steering wheel. The sound of flesh against metal reverberated in the darkness. "Murdered in what manner?" he finally broke through the soft hum with a question.

"Like Gwen. Like Brighton. Like the first Gwen Bennett I suspect. Why doesn't Harlan Hartley like you, Johnny?"

"Who?"

"Vinnie's only living relative. Although, I'm not sure Hartley is a blood relative now that I know the truth about Vinnie."

"I've never met the man, Doc." His fingers flew off the steering wheel at my doubtful stare. "I'm not holding anything back at this point. You already know the big secret."

"Somehow I doubt that." Rather than launch into the laundry list of my complaints about being kept in the dark, I revealed the content of my interview with Harlan Hartley. "So you see, if he's really Vinnie's uncle, either he's related on the Bennett side of the family or he knows who the perp in this case is and related to him."

"You lost me. Why would Hartley be related to the man we're trying to catch?"

Oh. That. "Vinnie's parents weren't Eugene Bennett and his wife, Johnny. In fact, I don't even think there was a Eugene Bennett."

"Then who's his...?" Orion's voice died.

"Gwen Foster, who you know was a victim of rape and got another gift in the bargain."

"Vinnie. That's why you asked me about her baby."

"Yes. She never confided that information to you?"

"No."

The faint green light from the dashboard of the car illuminated the set of his jaw, the bunching muscle that ticked.

"I'm sorry. I had to basically threaten Hartley to get him to level with me, Johnny. This was a secret that they were all willing to take to their graves."

"Can you blame them? Jesus, Doc. Vinnie is special."

"What does that even mean?"

"He's a sensitive kid. I'm sure that news of Gwen's murder has crippled him as it is, but learning that his biological father is a rapist? That Gwen was really his mother? He'd die if he learned the truth."

"We may not be able to prevent it from happening, Johnny. Things like this have a way of coming out in court."

"You're assuming we'll catch him." Orion pulled a cigarette from his breast pocket and lit it. He exhaled a cloud of spicy smoke out the window. "Why would he go after Gwen a second time? Or Candy for that matter. Is Carrie even safe?"

"I'm sure Carrie isn't in any danger. As to why he raped Gwen again, I don't know. Candy's murder was a necessity. I think she might've become this guy's partner, Johnny. In fact, I think Candy may have offered Carrie up to the guy as an alternative."

"Raped _and_ murdered Gwen," Orion corrected. "He slaughtered her just like all the others, Doc."

I sucked in a deep breath. Orion didn't know the rest. "No, he didn't kill Gwen, Johnny."

"I was there. I saw her. It was like Brighton all over again. Don't tell me—"

"We have conclusive evidence. Gwen Foster was murdered by someone smaller and weaker than she was."

"Candy."

"That's what I suspected, though I doubt we'll ever know for certain unless this guy makes a full confession when he's caught. With his love of playing psychological games, I wouldn't count on it." I noticed the landscape of Downey whizzing by the speeding car. "Where are we going?"

"A safe place where we can piece together the bits of this we haven't shared yet, Doc. If the game is over from this guy's perspective, the last place you should be is somewhere he'd think you might go for refuge."

"My house."

"My penthouse. Central Division. Dr. Winslow's home. If he's the one behind that attempt on your life outside Datello's office, he made a stupid mistake."

"Why? If he'd been successful, I'd be gone and it would probably look like Datello was behind my murder."

"Yeah, but if he failed, he just lost the easiest way to track your movement that he had."

In a way, our perp had done me a favor. Unfortunately, he was far from finished making sure I was out of the way.

Orion drove into a residential alley and pulled up behind a modest bungalow. "Let's get started. I have a feeling that we should probably check the news before we do anything else. If the vehicle is identified as the one you rented, it'll be all over the media. I want to know who is rushing to announce your death."

He seemed up to speed with where my thoughts were heading. Either someone at Central Division was dirty, or he was the very perpetrator we were hunting. The memory loss I experienced on Thursday bothered me again. Had the killer tried to set Jerry Lowe up in some way? Did that explain why I was found in my car outside his house? Hardy and Weber were being blackmailed. Maybe our guy wanted to make sure Lowe understood the stakes better than he had in the past.

Flynn Myre popped into my brain again. Could blackmail be the reason such an inept fool was allowed to claw his way into the ranks of Darkwater Bay detectives? Something intangible tickled at the periphery of my knowledge. Something that didn't fit, that just wasn't quite right.

I sighed, nearing defeat, followed Orion into the house and slumped into a chair in the living room while he dug in another for the remote control for the television.

"What is this place?"

"My parent's home."

"You weren't lying about them Monday night."

"No. What about you?"

I shrugged. For all intents and purposes Wendell had to remain dead to me. "What's the point of lying about ancient history?"

"A suspicious answer from one of the most guarded women I've ever met."

The news broadcast blared into the modest space and postponed further discussion of my psychological tendencies to share as little as possible. Orion already knew too much as it was in my opinion.

The explosion was lead coverage, a live report from the scene. I recognized a few faces in the background. Jerry Lowe. Don Weber. Chris Darnell. I glanced at Johnny. "Did you call Darnell before you came to the car?"

"No need. Whenever something like this happens—"

"Darkwater Bay has a history of car bombings?"

"A major crime with media on scene right away," he amended, "Chris shows up to do damage control and make sure that the police department doesn't do or say anything stupid that will compromise the investigation down the road. So far, I only see the usual suspects."

"I should let Charlie know that I wasn't in the car."

"Hold off on that, Doc. I know he's a good guy and has worked this case like a pro. In fact, he's pretty much put the entire homicide squad to shame. But he's still part of that system at central. Anything he knows is at risk for discovery by others."

"Right."

"I'll let Chris know you're alive. It might buy us a little more time if we let them think you didn't survive."

"It's probably obvious that the car was empty, Johnny."

The news desk broke into my argument. "We interrupt this story to bring you live coverage of yet another apparent bombing in the greater metro area tonight. We're receiving reports from Beach Cliffs that—"

"My house!"

Orion pulled out his phone and dialed. "Chris, it's Johnny. What the hell is going on out there?"

I listened with rapt interest to Johnny's half of the conversation while experiencing my first hint of true mourning this week: the loss of my earnest money on the Beach Cliffs house.

"She's not in the car or in the house. She's safe, Chris. I promise. Helen is sitting less than ten feet away from me right now. Someone seems determined that she dies." Another pause. "Yeah, she knows everything. Mostly everything. I haven't explained the hierarchy at OSI yet, but that's hardly the pressing issue. I need you to do something for me."

Orion outlined his plan to Darnell. "Only Winslow and her most trusted assistant can know what we're doing, Chris. Promise me that no one else is aware that we're playing a ruse to buy time and anonymity for Helen. She's close. I can feel it."

Was I? Somehow the threads I once thought pulled together seemed to disintegrate in my fingertips now. This rapist and killer managed to stay ahead of me by at least one step at every turn. In the psychological game, he was clearly winning.

Orion disconnected the call. "Chris is on it. He'll make sure that the announcement of your death is made from the house in Beach Cliffs."

"Why is this good news?"

"He'll think he won. He won't be expecting your work to continue. Chris suggested that we set up a task force to solve your murder out at OSI headquarters and include people from Central Division. The state police can keep tabs on our current suspect pool a lot easier that way."

"I doubt that any of them will balk at the idea. They couldn't spy hard enough to stay up to speed on what I've been doing this week."

"There you have it. Meanwhile, you and I need to decide what comes next in this case. You may not feel like you're close to solving it, but the perp is convinced enough to try to kill you, Helen. We're missing something important in what we already know."

I agreed. "The escalation seems to have developed after I talked to Carrie Blevins. He knew that I made the connection between the murders and possible survivors. Question is, how did he know I talked to her?"

"Right. What does that mean?"

I ignored the paranoia in his question. He wasn't a suspect anymore, whether he believed me or not. "Probably that talking to Carrie would lead us to Candy which would expose his identity if she could be coerced into confessing her role in Gwen Foster's murder."

I paused. "Then there's Rodney Martin."

"What about him?"

"I'm aware of four people who knew that I was the top candidate Hardy would try to recruit to Darkwater Bay. Hardy, Weber, Darnell and the man who brought me onto their radar, Martin. I seriously doubt that Hardy and Weber talked about their plans to anyone but each other."

"They didn't tell Chris they acted on the idea," Johnny said. "He learned you were here after I called him on my way home from Gwen's house Wednesday morning."

"So if this guy knew about it before I decided to come to Darkwater Bay, in advance far enough to send Kelly and Varden to Washington, that leaves Rodney as the leak in information."

"And now he's missing."

"Forsythe told me that the evidence they found in his house indicates strongly that Rodney Martin is dead." I detailed the conversation and included the bit of information about the missing keys.

"Is that why you went to Datello's office?"

I nodded. It was mostly the truth. That would have to suffice.

"May I see the keys?"

I dug them out of my pocket and passed them to him.

"These are pretty low tech for a guy who has motion detectors around his office building, Doc. These look like those you'd find for a home safe, one designed for keeping documents from being charred in a fire." He glanced at me. "What led you to Datello for these?"

"A hunch." A convenient excuse. It didn't really matter. Johnny was right and I knew it. "I see your point."

"So what next?"

"I think this guy has targeted the Bennett family, Johnny." He hadn't spent as much time focusing on the missing person's cases as I had. Orion's goal was finding a witness that could point to the suspect, not curiosity about how all of this had begun. He was shocked that there had been a missing Bennett girl long before Brighton and hadn't linked Brighton's murder to Gwen's rape, apparently.

"I need to talk to Harlan Hartley again. It's the only hope I have of learning why their girls became this guy's obsession."

"Helen, this is the truth. I have no idea who Harlan Hartley is or why he gave you the impression that he doesn't think much of me when you met him last night. I knew Frank. Gwen and I were close for a long time. I met Dennis during the investigation into Brighton's murder. Obviously Vinnie and I know each other, but to my knowledge, that's the entire Bennett family."

"I believe you. Let's go see if a face to face with Harlan offers any information."

### Chapter 37

Hartley opened the door with a snarl. "You again."

Johnny wisely stood beside the door out of sight. He waited until Hartley appeared before stepping to my side.

"Mr. Hartley, it's vitally important that we—"

The gasp cut me off. Hartley's not Orion's.

"Mr. Hartley?"

"That isn't Harlan Hartley, Doc. Meet Dennis Bennett," Johnny's dry pronouncement floated over my shoulder. "Curious that he's living out here in seclusion under an assumed name, wouldn't you say?"

"Is this true?" I asked.

"You'd better come inside," Dennis muttered. He stepped aside and let us pass.

"Where is Vinnie tonight?"

"Someplace safe," Bennett squinted hard at me. "I sent him away this morning, and I will not tell you where he is, not while somebody is threatening his life."

"I wasn't aware that happened, Mr. Bennett. I would like to know why you gave me a false identity. Or does Vinnie believe you're his dead mother's brother too?"

He sat at the kitchen table and sealed his lips defiantly.

"I can at least explain why he doesn't like me, Doc. Dennis blamed me for not keeping Masconi in jail for murdering Brighton. I wonder if he's aware that we had the wrong suspect after all."

"I think that's obvious," Bennett snarled. "Maybe if you'd done your job better all those years ago, Gwen wouldn't be dead, _Mr. Johnny-come-lately_."

There was no point in correcting his misuse of the slur. Johnny wasn't new to this case or what was going on in Darkwater Bay.

"What I want to know, Dennis, is why this man has targeted your family so many times over the years."

He picked at the cuticle of his left thumb. "Maybe because he's nuttier than a fruitcake. Isn't that your job to figure out?"

"First Gwen, then Frank's Gwen, then Brighton, and now Frank's Gwen again. That's four assaults on three Bennett girls in over thirty years. Would you like to hear my theory?" I had his undivided attention after that.

"You know about my sister?"

I nodded. "I think that if Brighton and Gwen hadn't reminded him of her so very much, he would've left them alone. Dennis, tell me something. Is that black hair your natural color?"

He stiffened.

"It's unusual for a man your age. No gray, and it's so black. Some might say blue-black."

"He's a natural blond just like Gwen and Brighton were," Johnny said. "That's a good question though, Doc. Why did you dye your hair, Dennis? Were you trying to hide from someone?"

"It's none of your business."

"I think it's obvious, Johnny. Dennis here has been living a lie for a very long time. I doubt Vinnie knows he's really Dennis Bennett. Vinnie would've been what, three years old when Brighton died? That murder was so close on the heels of what Gwen suffered, I'm sure that Dennis and Frank both knew that their family was this guy's target. Gwen changed her name to hide her true identity."

"She wasn't married to Tom Foster?"

Dennis stared at the tabletop.

"Wow. She lied to me," Johnny murmured. "She told me that Tom was a youthful mistake that lasted less than two months."

"There's nothing wrong with using a different name. It ain't a crime," Dennis said.

"No, it certainly isn't. What is a crime is dragging your heels and refusing to help me catch the man who has tortured this family for more than three decades. Tell me what really happened, Dennis? Why all of a sudden did you decide to live life as Harlan Hartley, to color your hair, to lay low buried on this dilapidated farm?"

"We have our share of enemies. It was Jenny's public fight, not mine."

"Your ex-wife?"

Bennett nodded. "I wanted no part of it. It was over as far as I was concerned."

"Because you know what really happened to Salvatore Masconi."

He looked up sharply. "I don't know any specifics, but there are some who were there for this family when _his_ case fell apart. We were assured that Masconi would never hurt another girl again."

"I doubt he harmed any in the first place," I said. "Salvatore Masconi was framed for killing your daughter, Mr. Bennett. We have conclusive evidence that he was innocent."

Dennis hung his head. "Well then, I'm sorry for that."

"This friend who assured you, I'm pretty sure I know who it was," I said. "He probably helped you get Vinnie away from here this morning, didn't he?"

Nod.

"Danny Datello."

"He has tried to help us!"

"We will have an official conversation about Mr. Datello another day, Dennis. You may count on it. What I need to know is why you changed your appearance about the same time that Gwen changed her name. Who were you hiding from?"

"Like I said. We had enemies."

"You have one enemy in particular. Why does he hate you so much?"

Bennett's voice dropped to a low timbre. "We tried to keep him away from her."

"From your sister." Suddenly, the light began to illuminate what had remained so obscure in my mind.

"He wasn't good enough for her, what with his family history and all. They were low people, Dr. Eriksson, crazy people."

"Crazy in what way?"

"His mama," Dennis said. "She was out at Dunhaven for years. In fact, his daddy raised him alone for the most part."

"What was wrong with his mother?"

"Schizophrenia I think. This was a long time ago. People had different ideas about places like Dunhaven back then. It didn't even have the same name. Fielding Psychopathic Asylum was what they called it in those days. He had such a terrible crush on Gwen. It scared us, you know? We weren't sure what somebody like that might do to her."

"How did Gwen feel about him?"

Dennis shrugged. "At first she liked him well enough. Frank and I were a lot older you see. Overprotective I guess you'd call it. He was twelve years her senior and I was ten."

"But something happened, didn't it? Gwen became frightened of him."

"I suppose she did."

"Did Gwen ask you to make him leave her alone?"

Tears slid down Bennett's cheeks. "Yeah. So Frank and I roughed him up a little. His daddy came out here and got up in our daddy's face about it, said he'd go to the cops if we didn't make it right. Our daddy didn't back down. He told the story about how this guy's son followed Gwen around all the time and scared her. He said the boy threatened Gwen if she wouldn't go steady with him."

"I see. And how did he respond?"

"The kid didn't come back to school for a couple of weeks. When he did, Gwen said you could still see the bruises."

"He beat his son."

"Within an inch of his life, or so we heard. He blamed me 'n Frank, I expect. We never gave it much thought to tell you the truth, not even the next year when Gwen disappeared. We figured it was just one of those random things."

"But after Brighton?"

Dennis Bennett's face grew taut. "When I saw what they promoted that bastard to do in Darkwater Bay, I knew we'd never get justice for my daughter. Just like we'll never get justice for Gwennie's murder now."

Reality of all the events I'd witnessed and experienced since my arrival in Darkwater Bay snapped into place in my head. "This is important, Dennis. Does Danny Datello know anything that you just told me?"

"He's out of town with Vinnie. Are you telling me that for all these years, this has been the guy, the one who killed my baby, my sister, my niece?"

"I'm not certain yet," I said, "but I have the means to find out, Mr. Bennett. Please don't mention what you told me to anyone. I promise. I will not rest until we have this man captured."

I barely waited for Bennett's reluctant nod before necessity propelled me out of the Bennett kitchen.

Orion followed me out to his car.

"Do you plan on filling me in on your little epiphany any time soon?"

"Can you call Darnell and get a John Doe warrant? I don't want to take any chances on news of our lead falling into the wrong hands."

Orion gripped my arm and yanked me out of the jaws of the car. "Tell me who you think did this, Doc?"

"You heard everything he said as clearly as I did, Johnny. Christ, this is your city. I shouldn't have to explain what the big clue was."

"Assume that I'm too close to the case then. Fresh eyes have opened a lot of doors in the past few days."

"We need to search his home first. If we find the safe, it'll probably lead to more conclusive evidence."

"Like the trailer where he keeps the girls and commits his crimes."

"It's possible."

"Do I get to know the address?"

I bit down on my lower lip. The second I said it, Orion would know who the suspect was. Could I control him if he went ballistic?

"Twenty-one three seventeen Carter Place."

Orion's blue eyes shot sparks in the moonlight. " _Jerry Lowe_? You think Jerry Lowe is smart enough to play this kind of game or ambitious enough to commit damn near perfect crimes?"

"I take it you disagree."

"I thought you told Chris this guy was older. You think Lowe started killing when he was what, fifteen? What did Bennett say that led you to this conclusion?"

"He couldn't believe it when he saw what position _that man_ had been promoted to. I know for a fact that after Harry McNamara died that Lowe lobbied hard for the job. He didn't officially get it until shortly before Brighton Bennett's murder. Briscoe told me when he gave me the Darkwater Bay history lesson. I should think you'd remember the event clearly, Johnny. It was Jerry Lowe that wanted you moved from Downey Division to central. Why do you suppose he did that?"

"Because I was a good cop!"

"Too good. He had to keep close tabs on you. Get the John Doe warrant. If I'm wrong, I'll eat my words."

### Chapter 38

The moment we entered Lowe's kitchen through the back door of his house, a flood of memories assailed me. I gripped Johnny's arm.

"What's wrong? Chris assured me that Lowe is out at OSI with everyone else. He's not gonna walk in on us, Doc."

"I remember."

"You remember what you were doing outside Lowe's house?"

"Not that specifically. I remember what I was doing here. Johnny, he invited me to come here for lunch Thursday. We sat at that table and had zucchini frittata. I started feeling funny after drinking the glass of chardonnay he gave me," I pointed, "through there. In the living room."

Johnny charged through the kitchen. "In here? Then what happened?"

"I felt worse after we started eating lunch. Dizzy. Kind of woozy."

"The son of a bitch drugged you."

"Why not kill me then when he had the chance?"

"Doc, I do not wanna think about how close you came to having that happen."

Carrie's recollection of the needle in her arm ricocheted through me. "He drugs his victims, Johnny. He did it to Carrie Blevins. The fact that he did it to me without a needle isn't important."

"Or it explains that bruise on your arm."

"You mean Maya didn't draw my blood for testing Thursday night?"

"Of course not. I would've hounded her for the results if she had."

"If I was already incapacitated, why inject me again?"

"Let's look for his safe. Maybe we'll have a better idea if we find it."

We were half way through the search of the living room when Orion's cell phone rang. He spoke too low for me to pick up more information than it was Darnell who called. When the call ended, he didn't resume his search.

"What's wrong?"

"They didn't have to reach too far to pretend that someone died at your house, Helen."

"What do you mean?"

"They found two bodies. Winslow just called Chris. Identification on one was easy to confirm. He died of a single gunshot wound to the head."

"Rodney?"

Orion nodded. "She's not certain on the other yet, waiting for dental records to confirm the ID found on the body."

"Who was it?"

"Matt Rogers."

"Rogers? What on earth was he doing there?'

"Probably his master's bidding. His body was found in close proximity to the center of the explosion that destroyed the house. Chris says it looks like he planted the bomb and something went wrong."

"We need to find the safe, Johnny. If Lowe could exert that kind of influence over his subordinates, I can only imagine the lengths he went to, to control Hardy and Weber."

"You think they're being blackmailed?"

"They admitted as much to me Wednesday. Of course no one has ever tipped his hand and given them reason to suspect the identity of the blackmailer, but any time they stepped out of line, they both received stern reminders. Given their behavior on Thursday when I met with them after interviewing Datello, I surmised that they had received a dire warning for bringing me into the department."

"I see."

"The only person in that meeting who was remotely supportive was Jerry Lowe."

"To gain your confidence so you'd accept his invitation for a cozy dinner for two in his house, no doubt."

"Are you pissed?" Orion's tone and terse words said he was. I couldn't fathom why. "And for the record, it was lunch. You make it sound like I had a date with the guy."

"Was it?"

"Was it what?"

"A date."

"Of course not." Still, I didn't mention that Myre was present at lunch too. Doubt leeched into the periphery of my certainty. "He's a colleague, Johnny. I was curious about him, about why Weber and Hardy had pretty much cut him off from anything pertaining to this investigation."

"Do you really think they had no reason to suspect him?" Orion continued his interrogation, unaware of the reconsideration silently churning in my brain.

"I don't know. Maybe."

"What kind of answer is that? Maybe."

I pointed to a room behind French doors. "We don't have time for this discussion right now, Orion. We should split up. I'm going in there."

"No way. I've spent the last fifteen years trying to solve this case," he said. "We search the room together."

Nestled underneath Lowe's desk we found the safe. I pulled the keys out and slipped them into the locks. "Dammit."

"Switch them around," Orion said. "If they still don't open it, we'll take the safe with us and do a body cavity search if we have to. Lowe took those keys out of evidence Doc. You know it as well as I do. Flynn Myre blabbed what he knew about CSD finding the keys."

I suspected as much too, but Myre's unusual movements clicked in my head; it was tardive dyskinesia, often caused by antipsychotic medication. It reminded me of something Dennis Bennett said. Schizophrenia had a genetic component. What if he had been talking about Myre all along? Why hadn't I flat out asked him for the name of the person he and his brother caused so much torment?

Because I already thought I knew. I believed that Jerry Lowe was a liar.

Lowe blamed the problems at central on the police union being atypical and standing in the way of his ability to weed out the bad officers. Had that been a lie?

"Doc?"

"What do you know about the department's union, Johnny?"

"It's your average run of the mill service to police officers. Why?"

"It hasn't changed since your days as a Darkwater Bay cop?"

"I seriously doubt it. Again, why?"

"Something Jerry Lowe said to me at lunch the other day. He blamed the union for the lack of effective police work, said they make it impossible to discipline or terminate substandard employees."

"I can tell you that's bullshit, Doc. If that were the truth, don't you think Crevan and Tony would've said something to me about it?"

"They know what you're doing?"

"Of course they do. There are a select few who are aware. Now are you gonna open this safe, or do I really have to lug it out of here?"

I flipped the keys around. This time, the handle on the safe moved when I twisted it. "Moment of truth."

"Uh huh."

The paper evidence in the safe was scant. A deed to a property in the mountains and a rental agreement for a storage garage in Fielding.

"Any bets on what we'll find in there?" Orion muttered.

My focus was fixed on the remaining contents of the safe. Hundreds of blood vials with rubber stoppers in the ends, all lavender, were arranged in trays. _Of course!_ "I'm so stupid," I said softly. "He didn't have to steal evidence from the autopsy to frame Salvatore Masconi. He used one of his trophy vials to do the job."

"What?" Orion squatted down beside me. "Jesus! Is that what it looks like?"

I pulled out vials from the top front rack of blood samples. Names and dates were written on the labels. The last two were Blevins, C. and Eriksson, H. "He really planned to kill me."

"Helen—"

"I'm all right."

"I'm sorry," Orion said. "Let's pack this into evidence bags. We can start sorting through it later."

"There are hundreds of vials, Johnny."

"Yeah, and more than one from you. Let's not jump to astronomical numbers based on this alone. We need to get to that storage garage and see if we can find his mobile crime scene."

"He's going to try to claim insanity for his defense when we arrest him."

"I don't doubt it. Good thing we've got you to testify as an expert in this case. He won't get away with what he's done. We won't let him."

The problem with Orion's suggestion was that I knew the truth. Not only would I not let Jerry Lowe get away with what he'd done, I _couldn't_ let him get away with it. Recent history proved my response to the guilty slipping through the cracks in the criminal justice system.

"We need to search the rest of his home office," I said. "This is all well and good, but it doesn't help Hardy and Weber with their little problem. I'd like to know if Lowe is behind the blackmail too."

"You look. I'll keep bagging evidence."

I tore the room apart and found nothing on Weber and Hardy. There were files on the detectives at central, the men Lowe handpicked to serve his purposes.

Matt Rogers was divorced due to gambling and alcohol addictions. Lowe documented every penny he used to help keep Rogers from drowning in debt.

Flynn Myre's history of mental illness should've prevented him from being hired by the police department in any law enforcement capacity. Delusional disorder, not otherwise specified. As I suspected, Myre had been on antipsychotic medications since his early twenties. And the fixed delusion? Well, apparently there was no Mrs. Flynn Myre.

Jim Daltry's file indicated nothing that could've been used as blackmail. Instead, it had a notation on the resume that highlighted Daltry's occupation in college. He worked construction and had been responsible for explosive demolition.

I tossed the file on the desk. "I guess this explains who was responsible for my house and the rental car."

Orion scanned the page. "Those sons of bitches. Did you find anything about Hardy and Weber?"

"No."

"Just because you haven't found anything doesn't mean we won't find it eventually. We'll be going through this place for days, I imagine. We've got enough to arrest Lowe with the contents of the safe. I'll call Darnell and have him sequester Myre, Daltry and Lowe. We'll tell them something innocuous."

"They could have information about what I was working on before my untimely demise," I suggested. "That way there won't be any red flags before we show up."

"I suspect they're getting antsy because Rogers hasn't shown up yet."

I shrugged. "So tell them he's assisting with the investigation in Beach Cliffs."

Orion grinned at me. "This lying thing comes naturally to you, doesn't it, Doc?"

He meant it as a compliment. Instead, it pushed me into self-reflection mode. We are, after all, the products of both nature and nurture. Had mine left me predestined to be the flip side of a Jerry Lowe type coin? I remembered feeling hopeful that he might be a kindred spirit, someone who thought and behaved and acted like me. Someone who bent the rules of law and society to serve the greater good.

The reality of his existence defied my notion of a greater good. What purpose had his crimes served? Who benefited from the slaughter of innocent young girls? Was rejection or personal pain justification for anything?

My thoughts drifted back to Rick, consuming everything. I didn't know how I got to Orion's car or where he was driving. All I could think about was Rick's crime. And Dad's words.

_It cannot be personal, Sprout. When someone wrongs you, you cannot react to it. They'll eventually get what they've got coming to them without a nudge from you._

The advice had come after I punched Timmy Horton in the nose as hard as I could because he wouldn't stop calling me a scarecrow. I was nine years old. And while my act of aggression had done little more than humiliate Timmy, my father was determined to nip that urge in the bud before it grew too violent.

As with all of his advice, the older I got, the more sense it made. In light of his crimes, the tidbits of wisdom became a treasure trove of how-to tips to avoid Dad's pitfalls.

I broke the rule. I snapped. I let anger override my common sense. I couldn't deal with the pain that Rick's double life caused. It wasn't because I loved him. I'm not even sure I know what love feels like. But Rick's stupidity turned my comfortable life inside out. It dredged up questions about my character, and frankly, I didn't want people remembering the gene pool from whence I came.

He had to die.

It should've never happened the way it had. In retrospect, I couldn't ignore the sense I got that night that Rick goaded me into pulling the trigger.

" _Do you think your hands are clean in this, Helen? They're not. I might've let you walk away from the marriage without a fuss, but it won't save you when this case goes to court and the world learns everything."_

"What do you mean, when they learn everything? I had no idea what you were doing, and there isn't a shred of legitimate evidence to the contrary."

"Except our wedding."

I hated him. It boiled in my veins every time I thought of how it all turned out in the end. All those years of playing dutiful wife, believing that my husband loved me and wanted to be with me, his objection to my career as a criminal profiler for the FBI on the grounds of my personal safety. It had all been a ruse.

Unbelievable. I had been taken in my own trap, beaten at my own game. Rick used me. He never loved me. I was an assignment, an insurance policy in case the inevitable ever happened. What sort of jury could overlook the fact that _this_ criminal was married to an FBI agent? Either I was dirty too, or the FBI looked horrible for not vetting its agents better. And if that can of worms opened, Rick made sure I understood that the rest would be exposed too.

Not just Wendell, my beloved father rotting away in prison after my mother tried to kill him. No, there was another branch on the family tree now, one by marriage, but more damaging than I had ever conceived.

_"You met him at our wedding, Helen. Remember? I said—this is my cousin Dan. You said—pleased to meet you Dan. Where are you from?_ "

Darkwater Bay. Uncle Sully was Datello's tie to organized crime. Cousin Danny was Rick's. And I looked like the world's biggest idiot.

While he taunted me for ignorant complicity, the grip on the gun I held behind his ear increased until suddenly, my arm jerked. Rick slumped face forward in the dirt. Yes, I had taken him down that dirt trail with every intention of killing him. I just figured I'd be present for the moment when it happened.

I stood over the lifeless corpse, his blood soaking the ground like oil staining a thirsty sponge. My eyes memorized the trees, the way the leaves fluttered in the gentle night breeze. Up higher, they recorded the constellations in the sky, the shape of the clouds that drifted over the moon and obscured it. Ears echoed with the protests of birds when a crack in the night disturbed their sanctuary. And those same dancing leaves whispered a cacophony of support.

He had it coming, Helen. Go home and be grateful that this is over, once and for all.

The irony was that even though there would be no Perry Mason moment in a court of law that would dredge up my past, expose my ignorance or cast doubt on my character, the damage would never be undone. As a matter of course, I became a suspect anyway. My life was still over, a life that comforted me for many reasons, the most of which was the proximity to my father and the knowledge that one day, I could conceivably speak to him again if only in an official capacity.

Rick Hamilton ruined my life, so I had taken his.

Was I an incarnation of Jerry Lowe, with my agenda to silence Danny Datello the same way I had closed the door on my ex-husband? I didn't know the answer anymore. For the first time in my life, I felt unsure of what I was doing.

The only thing I knew without doubt was that I did not want to end up like Dad. And even more, I didn't want to evolve into a monster like Jerry Lowe. Part of me feared it was already too late.

### Chapter 39

A gentle shake pulled me away from my distant reflection. A little bit. I was aware that I was moving. Standing now. Someone was saying my name.

"Helen? Helen, talk to me. What's wrong?"

Yes, I really was in Darkwater Bay. I had already put a plan into motion. Sincerity slammed into me in the form of Orion's concerned expression. Johnny. For some reason, I seem to be naturally drawn to the wrong people. Rick Hamilton. Jerry Lowe. And all around me are genuinely good guys who are all but invisible. David Levine. Charlie Haverston. Even Chris Darnell turned out to be one of the trustworthy, and I despised him.

One good guy made his way through my perception filter and stirred something deep inside me. He stood in front of me wearing every emotion he felt like a badge of honor. My fingers moved of their own volition, stroked the side of his face tenderly. "Johnny." So much he didn't know, _couldn't_ possibly know. If he did, the emotion in his guileless eyes would most certainly die. I didn't want that. Inexplicably, it mattered to me what these people, Johnny specifically, thought of me.

Could I reinvent myself at this late stage in life? Could I be a better person, find the honor that Wendell hadn't really instilled in me? Was that what I wanted?

"Helen." His chest heaved with a gulping breath. "Let's get through this case first."

"I don't know if I can." How could I separate who I had become from the evil deeds of Jerry Lowe? How could I sit in judgment on him and try to trick him into confessing his crimes when I was as guilty as he was?

Johnny pulled me into his chest and hugged me tightly. I felt his lips whispering over my hair. "Oh honey. I was afraid this would hit you hard at some point. You're safe. He can't hurt you. I'm so sorry that he got as close as he did, but I promise you, it'll never happen again."

I wanted to laugh. Of course he would attribute emotions to me that I didn't feel. Johnny wanted to believe I was shaken over the recent attempts on my life. It's always easier to let people believe the lie. I didn't see that I had any choice at this point. To correct him would involve a confession.

The other option felt much better. Stand here in his embrace and soak up the comfort offered. Sweet lethargy seeped into my bones. For an insane moment, I wanted to stay wrapped up in the safety he offered for the rest of my life.

"I'm calling in people I can trust to do this. You need to go home and rest," Orion said.

"No!"

"Helen, it's all right."

"It isn't all right. I have to see this through. I have to confront him for what he's done to these women. Johnny, I'm fine." I stepped away from him. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done that."

"Are you sure?"

No, but I have to pretend to be certain. "I'm positive. Let's end this. The sooner we find Lowe's death-mobile, the sooner we can go arrest him. He's not going to be content filling in the blanks for Darnell indefinitely."

Johnny procured bolt cutters from the trunk of his car. The miracle was that I didn't find it odd to carry them around in case of emergency. He snapped the industrial sized padlock on the garage door and hefted it high above our heads.

I shined a flashlight inside.

The term used to describe this type of camper was a _silver bullet_. First constructed in 1936, the model had become an enduring symbol of luxury camping and life on the road. I took a tentative step into the neatly organized space in the garage and shined the light on the riveted aluminum body. The company emblem _Airstream_ looked as pristine as the day it had been applied on an assembly line. No dings. No tarnish. No discernible wear. Still, I estimated its age at minimum of forty years.

"What do you bet that when we open this bad boy we won't find bunks or booth style seating?" Orion asked.

He was right. Lowe probably gutted and customized the interior to suit his purposes long ago. "Ready to use your bolt cutter on the door?" A beam of light from my left hand flashed over the locked door. "Funny. He's got three key-only deadbolts on it, but he chooses to secure with a padlock while the thing is in storage. That's arrogance for you."

The padlock on the twenty-four foot camper was no match for Orion. The door opened noiselessly, well oiled and without a single creak to betray its age.

"Shine on, Doc."

I stepped closer. The light bounced off the opposite wall. "No dining booth." I gingerly stepped up the tiny stairs that descended when the door opened. Lowe had indeed gutted the interior. A straight-back wooden chair was bolted to the floor. Iron rings had been fastened to the walls near the ceiling and floor. Next to them hung chains in a variety of strengths. I shined the flashlight over them. Some of the links appeared to be intentionally weakened.

"He wanted them to fight and gave them every scrap of hope he could," Orion said. "What a sick fuck."

At the other end of the camper was a bed, also bolted to the floor. It was covered with a rubber sheet. "And that makes cleanup a snap," I murmured.

Orion was rummaging through the single cabinet in the camper's interior. "Bowie knives, handcuffs, empty blood vials, needles and syringes and hello... what have we here?"

I shined the light at his black-gloved hand. Johnny held a small vial of clear liquid between thumb and index fingers for my inspection. I stepped close and read the label. _Succinylcholine_. "How much is in the cabinet?"

"Just this one vial," Johnny said. "Unless you can give me some light to get a better look."

I directed the beam into the confined space, but he was right. Only a single vial remained. "How did Lowe get his hands on this? Succinylcholine is highly controlled."

"You can get anything off the 'net, Doc. Sometimes you need to show a prescription or have a DEA number, but those are a hell of a lot easier to come by than you'd imagine. When was the last time you were in a doctor's office?"

I couldn't recall.

"These doctors leave their prescription pads laying around. A shrewd thief doesn't take the whole pad. He peels off a quarter or a third of it, and the doctors are so busy, they don't even notice anything is missing."

"And the thief does what, forges the doctor's signature?"

"All he has to do is be generally illegible. Those online pharmacies aren't all shining examples of ethics. They fulfill the technical requirement under the law, end of responsibility."

"What else is in that cabinet?" I asked.

Orion fished around and pulled out a small video camera, one of the old ones so popular in the '90s. "You don't suppose..."

"Are there tapes?"

He nodded and procured a handful of the small videocassettes with his other hand. "We should get this stuff back to OSI before we view it, Helen. You don't have to see this here."

But I already yanked the camera from his grasp. My eyes darted around the torture chamber Lowe used for God only knew how many crimes. My thumb flicked over the power button on the camera at the same time that I noticed a long screw protruding through the bottom of a shelf at the far end of the camper. "There," I said. "He mounted the camera there."

Johnny grunted his disgust. "That's incredibly stupid, to record the crimes he committed."

"Not when he needs to relive his crime over and over again, Johnny." I flipped the view screen out from the camera and pressed play. The scene was somewhat familiar, the carpeting, the coffee table, but with subtle differences in the environment from the first time I saw it. Magazines were fanned out over the surface of the table instead of stacked neatly in three piles of three. One lay open; the front pages tucked beneath the back as if the reader had simply been interrupted perhaps to answer the doorbell and left her magazine open.

"Helen, I don't think we should watch this here."

I waved him to silence, watched Gwen Foster back into the frame of the video. She was shaking her head. Tears streamed from her eyes. Her softly whispered, " _no_ " seemed unnaturally loud. The man, Lowe, was head to toe in black, his mask in place over his face.

"Where is the child, Gwen? Did you think you could really keep her from me after all these years? I want to know where she is. Does she look like you? Like Brighton? Like your dearly departed Auntie Gwen?"

A trembling hand clamped over Foster's lips.

"Helen, please," Johnny murmured as he crowded my back. "We shouldn't see this here, not like this." His hand reached for the camera.

I slapped it away with one snarled warning. "If you don't have the stomach for it, wait outside. I need to know what happened to her."

Lowe reached for her, the buttons that peppered the living room floor went flying in vivid motion on the video. My eyes fluttered shut. I didn't want to see this part, didn't want to see a woman abused in the worst possible way a second time. But Lowe's voice still reached my ears and imprinted Gwen Foster's horror in my brain forever.

"Fight me, Gwen. You know I need it. Fight me, and end this once and for all. I'll find our daughter... one way or another, I'll find her, and she'll never see it coming. Will she fight me?"

"Christ," Johnny swallowed hard. "He had no idea that Vinnie was his son."

"He couldn't accept the truth, Johnny," I said so quietly it was barely audible over Gwen's sobbing. "His fantasy is everything to him."

I felt the rage radiate from his tense body. "I can't watch this."

"I need to see who actually killed her." Another thought occurred to me as the vantage point of the camera changed. "And someone is taping this for Lowe, Johnny."

Gwen lay stiffly on the floor even after Lowe finished with her. He sneered a warning not to move, though I wondered for whom it was intended. He disappeared from the frame. The camera jarred again, came to rest on a steady surface, and my other suspect came into view.

"I could've been his daughter you know," Candy Blevins chuckled. "I'm like him. Fearless. You could never be my mother, though, all weak and sobbing. Bitches like you make me sick. He might need the fight to kill you, but I don't. Get up."

"God, Helen, please shut it off," Johnny pleaded.

I stared at the two by three inch screen, watching Foster rise so docilely, Blevins produce the garrote and slip it around Foster's neck. On some level, it didn't surprise me that Gwen didn't fight. As the life drained out of her already glassy eyes, I realized something. Lowe had already killed the person that walked around in Gwen Bennett Foster's body. He slaughtered her years ago. Last Tuesday was only a formality.

I shuddered.

"Are you okay?" Johnny asked when I shut the tape off before Lowe returned from wherever he'd gone.

He couldn't know the conflict that roiled in my gut, the suddenly alert conscience that whispered the truth I couldn't deny anymore. _You're no different than they are, Helen. Cold, calculating, homicidal._ I threw out a red herring rather than own my guilt. "I'm glad he didn't shoot me up with succinylcholine the other day. I could've died very quickly without medical attention."

"He'll never hurt you or anyone else again, Helen." Orion ripped his cell phone out of his pocket and dialed. "It's me. We've got the crime scene on wheels. Send the state forensics guys over here, Chris. Helen and I will wait for them to arrive, and then I'll deliver her to OSI so she can suck the truth out of Lowe whether he wants it or not."

"Darnell?" I asked.

"Yeah. Lowe and the others are getting antsy."

"No doubt." I paused a moment to debate whether I should ask something that I noticed throughout the evening.

"What?" Orion's mouth slanted downward and pulled his eyebrows into a V along with it.

"I've noticed that when you talk to Darnell, you're not really asking for direction. He's not the head of OSI, is he?"

"Technically, that would be Governor Collangelo."

"Practically speaking, Darnell takes orders from you."

"And you miss nothing when you're paying attention," he muttered.

"That upsets you?"

"My situation, the success of OSI depends on my ability to maintain this façade that we created. Chris is in charge. I'm nothing but a pain in the ass ex-cop turned security specialist."

"So the business isn't legitimate."

"Oh, it is," Johnny said. "And very lucrative, and 100 percent mine. I just have very little to do with the day-to-day operations. Nobody at Security Specialists has a clue what I'm really doing, and I really need to keep it that way."

"What do they think?"

He shot a lascivious grin.

"You're kidding. They think you're out being a wealthy playboy?"

"And taking on select private investigations for special clients. Typically young, wealthy, single women."

In light of what we'd just seen, his levity seemed perverse. "You really are a pig."

"Hey, none of my clients would ever claim I was inappropriate, because I haven't been. Is it my fault that the world simply assumes that these women understand discretion better than most and that I'm too much of a gentleman to kiss and tell?"

"You're not really a womanizer?"

His grin widened. "I wouldn't go that far either."

Really perverse. I stepped out of the camper and moved to the garage door to wait for the state crime lab to arrive. "Won't it look odd if this scene is processed by OSI?"

"Did I piss you off back there with all that stuff about—"

"Don't be ridiculous. I gather that your precarious situation with staying off the radar is why you won't be part of Lowe's interrogation either."

"This case is an old wound on Darkwater Bay. It's been festering for longer than anybody realizes. However, it's the tip of the iceberg where crime is concerned. Don't get me wrong. It's a step in the right direction, and I'm thrilled that you figured everything out in short order. In fact, if I ever wrap my head around how fast you uncovered what it took me years to find, I'll probably have a serious bout of insecurity over it."

"That's insane."

"I never thought that there were more murder victims. It never occurred to me to scour missing person's records for girls who resembled Lowe's type. I'd be very interested in hearing what prompted you to do that."

"Two things," I murmured absently. "The amount of skill demonstrated in Brighton's murder and the enormous gap in time between when she was killed and Gwen Foster died. She was so far outside his preferential norm, I almost dismissed the connection between the cases."

"So in other words, you thought he was too proficient with Brighton for it to be his first time."

"Yes."

"And you couldn't believe that someone that violent could go fifteen years without feeding his addiction."

"Not unless he was dead or incarcerated—which Foster proved wasn't the case. I had to believe incarceration would've been a stressor great enough that he would've let something slip about other crimes he committed. Either way, it ruled out both possibilities."

"And these guys are really that bound to a type that it was unusual for him to go after Gwen?"

"It didn't fit at first," I said. "If we didn't have all of this physical evidence, we'd have nothing but a lot of suspicion and no way to prove what he's done, Orion. His home movie collection makes a confession moot, but I'm sure his lawyer will argue that you can't really _see_ Lowe through his mask."

His arms snaked around my waist and pulled my back against his chest. Lips brushed my neck. "Are we back to this Orion business again?"

"We're on the job. Don't get personally involved with people you work with. Sage advice from my mentor."

Orion let me go, and I was surprised to realize how much I missed the warmth. No matter. The lights of the crime scene vehicles shone like beacons through the perpetual fog. I needed to organize thoughts and determine the best possible approach when I sat down with Lowe. The clock was ticking, and I had no idea what I could say to pull him into the light of truth, because own it or not, my conscience really needed to hear Jerry Lowe tell me _why_.

### Chapter 40

OSI's building was situated outside the city limits of Downey. It was shared with the state police, a reasonable arrangement since OSI was actually part of the state police force. The sprawling facility was a single story with a central hub and tentacles that stretched away from the body of the building to smaller hexagonal pods.

Chris Darnell, or more aptly Orion, had a single pod dedicated to OSI's needs. I expected Orion to pass me off to some state officer, in a crisp black uniform with a swath of slate gray bisecting the sides of the pants. Their badges were different from Orion's too; five point stars that reminded me of old west sheriff badges. One of the officers responsible for evidence approached, straightened to military posture and saluted.

"Not necessary," Orion chuckled. "Dr. Eriksson and I are heading out to OSI now. Process this scene and take everything out to headquarters. Chris will handle the media and CSD from Darkwater."

He led me to the car and opened the door.

"I thought you couldn't be part of this, Orion. And your cover can't be too deep if all these officers know who you are."

"Everyone associated with OSI passed a rigorous vetting process. Most of them are so loyal to Chris; you'd think this was still his Marine unit. They understand the stakes, Doc. My secret is safe with them."

I hadn't given him a similar assurance, and wasn't about to do it yet.

"So how is this going to happen? You're gonna drop me off and disappear?"

"OSI's section at the state police building is unique. I can enter and exit without being seen by anyone. There's a basement access with a private staircase that leads directly to my office."

"Your office."

"Technically, it's the one Chris uses to maintain the façade that he's running the operation. Chris primarily manages administrative things that I have neither the time nor patience to deal with. He'll get us to interrogation without anyone from Central Division knowing you're alive. You can talk to the suspects, arrest whom you will, and I can observe."

"I need to tell Charlie I'm alive."

"After everything else is done. Zack Carpenter is going to meet us at OSI. I doubt you've met him yet. Chris also called George Hardy and Donald Weber. Maya already faxed her preliminary findings that identified Rodney Martin and Matt Rogers. Everything is ready for you to do your thing."

"This isn't normally what I do," I confessed. "I don't conduct interrogations or arrest suspects, Orion. I haven't been trained to—"

"Bullshit. I'm well aware of the training you received at Quantico. Just because your brilliant _mentor_ David Levine never required you to interrogate anyone doesn't mean you're not a natural. You handled me like a pro, and I watched you extract the truth out of Dennis Bennett. You'll do fine."

"What if I screw it up?"

Orion's eyes pierced the darkness. "Seriously? Self doubt from you?"

"I don't want to end up with a reputation like yours."

"Ouch. Point taken. Yet I have faith in your abilities. You completely convinced me of your dedication to see this through. Lowe might think he's a match for you, but he's not."

"And still I fell into his trap."

He didn't argue. It was apparently a sore spot despite my explanation of how that happened.

At OSI, I met Zack Carpenter and received assurances from Darnell that no one present in the building would see me until I was ready to reveal the truth. Through a maze of hallways, I was led from Orion's office to the room where through a door left ajar, Lowe sat. I heard his smooth voice talking to someone.

"I've already told you everything I know," he sneered. "You should be talking to Hardy and Weber, _Detective Conall_. They specifically cut me out of the loop of communications in this case, brought in their profiler from the FBI, and now she's dead. Do you suppose any of them might consider that had I known what any of them were doing, she might've survived this case?"

Bile bubbled up the back of my throat. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Orion take a threatening step in the direction of that door. I gripped his arm and shook my head.

Carpenter opened another door next to the one where Conall questioned Lowe and made a silent sweeping gesture. I followed Johnny inside where Chris Darnell stood with beefy arms folded across his chest staring through the two-way mirror.

Hardy and Weber's jaws dropped when they saw me follow Orion inside. He made a swift gesture—one finger pressed to his lips, and turned to me. "You ready, Doc?"

I sucked a chunk of tender flesh from my inner cheek between my teeth. Through the glass, Lowe looked cool, calm and in complete control. Would the sight of me, alive and well, rattle him enough to make him confess his crimes?

Orion's head tilted close to mine. "You were right earlier; we don't need a confession, Helen. We've got enough evidence to put him away for the rest of his life. A confession would be nice, but..."

He was right to remind me, of course. Part of my hesitation had little to do with the job. This man, this monster, was someone I thought might be a kindred spirit. Revulsion chilled my blood. My heart thudded heavily in my chest as it struggled to pump the cold sludge through my body. _We are kindred spirits. How is what I did...?_

"Helen?"

I blinked the doubts out of my eyes and glanced up at Orion.

"You can do this."

My spine stiffened. Of course, Orion was right. No amount of Dad's advice swirling in my head could strip me of the feeling that this was very personal to me—and not simply because I might well have been one of Lowe's victims.

But then the reason he had my blood clicked in my head. The son of a bitch didn't want to kill me, but setting me up for some crime certainly fit his psychopathy. Forsythe's details of Rodney Martin's house reverberated through memory. Two blood types. Gray matter. One wounded, one dead. Only I wasn't wounded, and I was certain they'd find EDTA in one of the blood samples.

I gritted my teeth. "I'm ready."

"Are you sure?" Carpenter asked. "Once he realizes you're still alive, he's going to invoke his right to counsel."

"Let him," my smile was thin, as frigid as what flowed through my heart. "I won't ask him a single question, Mr. Carpenter. Like Orion said. I don't have to get a confession. But he wanted me here to match wits, so let him try."

I didn't knock, didn't hesitate. My hand pushed the door open, and Lowe stopped mid sentence while he berated Crevan Conall for the audacity to question his superior on anything. His jaw dropped.

"Surprise," I said softly.

Lowe covered smoothly and rose. "Helen! Thank God! I was told that the medical examiner found your body at the fire that destroyed a home in Beach Cliffs."

"Yes, I'm aware that was the story."

His eyes twitched for just a beat before he drew attention away from his expression by smoothing one hand down the necktie that bisected his crisp shirt. "As I said, I'm grateful that our medical examiner seems to be incompetent—in this instance, that is. There will be consequences for making such a grave mistake, let me assure you."

I smiled again, this one genuine. Lowe was entertaining as he scrambled for footing. "She didn't make a mistake, Jerry. In fact, she was simply following a directive given to flush out a guilty party. As it happens, the man who tried to kill me, tried to frame me for Rodney Martin's murder—"

"Frame you? Good God! Helen, surely you must be mistaken."

Crevan Conall stared up at me as though I'd lost my mind.

"I couldn't figure out why the blood samples were kept. Obviously they might've been trophies. But no, that's not what they were at all," I said softly. "It makes perfect sense to me. In a sort of weird, pathological killer sort of way, that blood was little more than an insurance policy. Only the presence of EDTA in the vials—"

Lowe's face flushed dark red before all color drained away and left him a pasty gray. He slumped back into his chair.

"Well, it served a purpose too, I suppose. It would be a colossal waste to let someone else get credit for such a brilliant, life-long serial killer's cunning, wouldn't it?" I circled the table and tapped one finger against my lips.

"Then you've solved your case?" Lowe waited for my second lap around the room to break the silence.

"Indeed I have."

"I see." He crossed his arms across his chest and smiled engagingly. "So _who done it_ , Dr. Eriksson?"

I perched on the edge of the table and grinned. "You tell me."

"I was kept appallingly out of the loop, as you well know."

"I don't recall thanking you for the lovely lunch the other day. Zucchini frittata, if memory serves. And that nice white wine from Napa," I murmured. "Then again, I wasn't in any condition to be a gracious guest after the wine."

"Helen I'm not sure I know what you're—"

"Cut the crap, Lowe. I remember everything, the wine you served, the fact that Flynn Myre so conveniently was present while we were having lunch, just in case that little knock-out drug you slipped into my wine didn't do the job and I started to remember things, you could claim that Myre was the one who drugged me."

Lowe steepled his fingers and pressed them against his lips.

I turned to Conall. "I think Mr. Lowe—"

"Chief—" Lowe corrected with a low snarl.

" _Mister_ Lowe ought to have his rights read to him now, Detective Conall."

Crevan's Adam's apple bobbed around his tight collar. "For what charge?"

I sighed. "Never mind. Jerry Lowe, you're under arrest for the murders of Gwen Bennett Foster and Candace Blevins and a score of other girls who have yet to be identified from the blood samples we got out of your office safe tonight. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you—"

"I know my rights," he growled, "and this is the most ridiculous travesty I've ever seen in my life! Only in Darkwater Bay."

"If this city has problems, Jerry, I'm sure we have you to thank for a great many of them." I stared at him hard. "The prosecutor might be inclined to deal if you confess what you've done."

"I've done nothing. You claim to have evidence obtained from my house. We'll see how well it stands up in court in a city where scum like Johnny Orion still roams the streets framing the innocent as the whim strikes him."

I leaned over and whispered softly, "Then you should've killed them all, Jerry. You should've never let them see your crime scene on wheels. Oh yes, we've got the crime scene, the succinylcholine, and your _video_ collection... And we're only beginning to search for every last nail that I will personally hammer into your coffin, you son of a bitch.

"It's been a good game, Jerry, but it's time to face the truth now. You lose."

He smiled unabashedly. "You foolish woman. You have no idea what's going on in Darkwater Bay. You think you've solved everything tonight? Stick around, sweetheart. Things are about to get very interesting from here forward. I wasn't sure you'd be able to put it together. But I'm right. You _are_ the one." He paused and laughed softly. "What I wouldn't give to see all of this unfold."

The cryptic remark gave me pause. Clearly the only _beginning_ was his crazy routine. I didn't doubt Lowe would angle for an insanity defense. Instead of feeding the gain he sought, I snorted derisively.

"Don't believe me, Helen? Well, it's understandable, when the truth is so obfuscated you don't know the good guys from the bad guys. As I said," he pressed his hands on the table and leaned forward. His eyes impaled Crevan for a moment before drifting up to do the same to me. Instead of finishing, he merely laughed maniacally.

"As you said _what_?" Crevan snarled succinctly.

He actually winked at Crevan. "Don't doubt that she'll figure it out, detective. Some secrets aren't meant to remain buried."

### Chapter 41

When I rejoined the men in the observation room, Hardy and Weber looked utterly shaken. Don pulled me aside.

"Helen, do you think he's the one?"

"He's a cold blooded murderer, a serial killer and rapist."

"I meant about the other thing, with George and me."

"So far, we haven't uncovered any evidence, Chief Weber, but if it happens to come out in the trial, I'm afraid there's nothing I can do to control the fallout. Perhaps you and Commissioner Hardy should consider coming forward with whatever these circumstances are."

"We would be ruined, personally and professionally, Helen."

"Sometimes we have to take our punishments no matter how much we'd rather avoid them." Prophetic words, I feared. Agent Seleeby wasn't likely to let go of his suspicion of me. In more than one way, it was my fault. After all, I was the one who reminded him of my criminal birthright.

When it was all said and done, the charges filed, the arraignment held and bail denied, one less monster was on the street, even though he wouldn't confess. Lowe started playing the crazy card the second he was booked. And why not? The apple, as they say, never falls far from the tree. I should know.

Thus concluded my tenure as a detective with Darkwater Bay Police Department.

Theresa the bubbly realtor tersely informed me that since the house I leased with the option to buy was destroyed, that the seller would be opting to enforce the sale. Stuck with property without a dwelling, I debated whether to let it sit vacant or to rebuild. Considering that the property was overpriced to begin with, and the land being the major asset would be mine free and clear, the insurance money would cover the cost of a much grander home.

That didn't answer the queasy questions that roiled like time-lapse clouds in my belly.

Did I want to retire in Darkwater Bay? Would I once again succumb to temptation to mete out my version of justice, this time to Danny Datello? How would anything less than nomadic life keep Seleeby off kilter in his quest to bring me to justice?

My head throbbed with indecision.

The knock at the seedy motel room door snapped me out of ten days of indecision. Darkwater Bay's gun ownership laws were far less strict than those in D.C. I pulled my weapon and approached the door warily.

"Who is it?"

"Johnny Orion, Tony Briscoe and Crevan Conall."

My headache multiplied by a factor of ten. I stuck the gun in the back of my jeans and opened the door. "What do you want?"

Orion sported mirrored sunglasses. The clouds had actually parted for once. He grinned at me. "Can we come in?"

"No."

"That's not very sociable of you, Doc. We're here with good news."

Crevan Conall's eyes drifted past me into the run-down digs I now called home, at least until my indecisive paralysis lifted. His nose wrinkled. "Maybe she doesn't have room for us inside, Johnny."

His snobbery irritated me. I stepped aside and waved them through the doorway. "What's this good news, Orion?"

The trash bin in the room was overflowing with wine bottles. All I'd done to spruce up the place and make it fit for temporary occupation was buy linens from the local Bed Bath and Beyond.

"Lowe's lawyer is pushing for a speedy trial," he said. "Zack asked us if you'd be available to testify in a few months."

"I'll call him with my email address so he can contact me with a specific date when he has it. That's probably the easiest way to reach me. Is that all?"

Briscoe cleared his throat. "We arrested Varden and Kelly. They wouldn't admit that Chief Lowe was the guy who hired them. They did have that computer you said got ripped off from your room at the Montcliff, so we got 'em on theft, breaking and entering, so forth."

No surprise there. Yet I still couldn't fathom anyone from the Marcos family—Datello included—who would use such inept, heavy-handed thugs. The mob had achieved a new degree of sophistication with more subtle tactics brought by a younger generation of criminals. Varden and Kelly would never finger Lowe. Breaking and entering? Theft? Hardly crimes that would make men like those two sweat.

"Congratulations. Anything else?"

"The cabin up on Scabbard Mountain put the final nail in Lowe's coffin," Conall said. "That's where he kept his other trophies."

Heads and hands no doubt. "I see."

Conall and Briscoe shuffled their feet.

"We uh... well, we figured you'd want to know that the whole thing is wrapped up, Eriksson," Briscoe said. "If you're plannin' on hangin' around here for a while, me 'n Puppy here wondered if you might be interested in some more work."

"I don't—"

"Think about it," Conall interrupted—his smile echoing that odd familiarity I sensed when I first met him, like he knew me somehow. "We don't expect an answer today, Dr. Eriksson. Our lieutenant said we could float the idea to you, and that if you're interested, you can call her. Not right away of course, but whenever you decide what you want to do."

They slipped out the door.

"Your friends are going."

"We came separately," Orion said. "How are you, Helen? I was sort of surprised when you didn't show up at Lowe's evidentiary hearing."

"I'm assuming everything held up, or Carpenter wouldn't be thinking his trial date is only a few months away."

Johnny folded himself into one of two chairs at the table. He crossed his ankles and stacked his hands behind his neck. "Lowe will no doubt angle for an insanity defense, as I'm sure you realized. That's a problem for the prosecution."

"Why?" I snorted. "Because juries want to believe that someone must be insane to do the things he did? Reminding jurors that Lowe had the mental capacity to not only hold down a job, but also manipulate his way into administration of their police department can easily disprove that. An insane man wouldn't be that functional in the real world."

"I think Zack would like our resident expert on this case to tell the jury exactly that."

"Who is it? Someone I might've heard of?"

"You, Doc. We're counting on you to convince the jury that Lowe isn't crazy."

"You'll need an expert, a forensic psychiatrist for that, I'm afraid."

"Not with your résumé."

I shrugged. "I'll do whatever I can, but I hope this ADA listens if I tell him he needs a medical expert instead of a clinical psychologist."

"I didn't come here to discuss business."

My arms tightened around my waist. "Oh?"

"How are you? And don't give me that _I'm fine_ bullshit. You're not fine. It's finally starting to catch up to you, isn't it?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"Sure you do, but if this is how you want to play it, fine with me."

"Why are you really here?" I perched on the edge of the bed. "I don't believe it's because you're worried about me, Orion. You want something. Just like Briscoe and his partner did."

Orion spun my laptop around and woke the screen. He whistled softly. "Pretty impressive house plans. You're going to rebuild?"

"I'll never get my money out of the property if I don't."

"Let me see if I've got this straight. You won't agree to work here. You will consider rebuilding a gorgeous home to replace the shoddy one you got suckered into buying, but you won't commit to actually living in it. Instead, you've spent a week and a half holed up in probably the filthiest motel in Darkwater proper guzzling wine by the bottle."

"You need to leave."

"I'm not leaving you, Helen." He rose and began stalking through the small space. "You might have commitment issues, but I do not. You'll stay here. You'll do what you really came to do."

He couldn't know. I almost swallowed my tongue. Did he learn something else while I was hiding out licking my wounds?

"In the meantime, it might be wise not to dismiss the opportunity Tony and Crevan offered you. What better way to catch Datello than through a legitimate police investigation? I don't want to spend sleepless nights worrying that you're trying to break into his office again."

"I can take care of myself."

Johnny stilled and stared at me. "Like the last time? That didn't turn out so well."

The door was ten feet away. Before Orion could protest, I opened it and waved him through it. "You're going. Now."

"Not before I get what I came here for."

My eyebrow arched. "More dire warnings? More attempts to manipulate me into doing what you want instead of what's best for me? Datello's no fool, Johnny. If I stay here, he'll be watching every move I make. It would be suicide—"

He cut off whatever excuses I planned to fob by jerking me against his chest. Lips mere millimeters from mine, he murmured, "I came here because the way I see it, the least you owe me is a kiss."

"Oh really? I already told you, you missed your—"

Johnny's nose brushed mine a moment before his lips closed the brief distance. Sparks crackled along my nerves at the light touch of his mouth to mine. My stomach dropped through the floor before I knew what was happening.

And then he stepped away.

"Stay, Helen. I think there's more here for you than you could possibly imagine."

Dazed, I leaned against the open door and stared up at him. "Where are you going?"

Orion popped the sunglasses back on and smirked. "Some of us have, jobs, sweetheart. If you want to talk, you know where to find me." He kissed my forehead. "Make the right choice this time."

I wasn't sure what he meant, but I knew what his words meant to me. The right choice didn't involve another murder. It meant making a concerted effort to do this the right way, to exact my sense of justice along a parallel path with the legal system. Most of all, it meant forsaking the wisdom of my father, a part of myself so ingrained into the fabric that makes me Helen, I'm not sure I can do it.

There was something about this city too, something niggling at the nape of my neck that I couldn't quite identify. Conall's odd stares... Briscoe's encyclopedic knowledge of way more than a simple police detective... and of course, Datello wasn't going anywhere, not unless someone did the right thing and sent him to prison. My gut warned me that this battle of wits with Lowe was far from over. And someone was still blackmailing Hardy and Weber. Did I care enough to invest in more than...?

The floor plan on my computer screen drew my attention. Yeah, that was the real question. Did I care to invest in more than property? My inner lip endured a bit more abuse. The newest incarnation of cell phone lay close by. Fingers tiptoed across the table and glanced over the numbers on the touch screen. One ring. Two rings.

"Hello?"

"Maya, it's Helen. How would you like to help me pick out the floor plan for the house I have to build?"

Her soft laugh gave me hope, instilled belief that I could do this. I could become more than the sum of my parts, more than Wendell's progeny, more than the ex-wife of a money launderer, more than a former profiler for the FBI. I could be Helen, maybe for the first time in my life. In a few short minutes, I realized that I don't know who I am, but I'd really like to find out.

"Come on over, princess," she said.

Time, I have. Where is this path going to take me? I don't know for sure, but that crawling sensation down my spine tells me that something else is still lurking out here, something dark and lethal. If I'd been paying attention, perhaps I would've noticed the eyes watching me since my arrival in Darkwater Bay. I might've believed Jerry Lowe when he warned me, this is only the beginning. Only my ignorance shrouded the depths of what was truly hidden in Darkwater Bay.

