

A Cincinnati Cold Case

### by R. W. Nichols

Smashwords Edition

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2014 R. W. Nichols

### Chapter 1

When ex-detective Jimmy Warren returned to his drafty downtown office after the rare indulgence of an expensive steak sandwich, his low mood wasn't improved. Of course the burned lip he'd received with the first bite hadn't helped. It stung to high heaven. Lately he'd used food as a boost, with his waistline unfortunately showing this propensity to be a bit too common. He just couldn't seem to snap out of the funk he was in. The new career he'd been forced into, his dwindling bank account, and the cursed enlarging waistline combined to play roughshod on a normally good nature. He'd only had one client he'd been able to help since he'd opened his office. If you wanted to call it 'help'. An unhappy woman had come in two months earlier asking him to find out if her husband was cheating. Turned out he was. Jimmy hated having to confirm her suspicions. The woman was devastated, but her check cleared, and, if you get right down to it, he couldn't be blamed for her choice in men. And he certainly needed the money. Money was worse than tight. He'd considered running an ad in a larger paper, but hadn't dared risked the cash. Sadly, the local paper so far hadn't given him much by way of clients, but it was all the advertising he could afford.

One hand on the knob to his office and the other still on the key in the lock, he pushed the door open, only to see a man seated, leaning back with his muddy shoes disrespectfully crossed above the poor abused mahogany top of Jimmy's desk. Jimmy's bad mood became substantially worse when he recognized Thug One. Too late he remembered that where Thug One was, Thug Two wasn't far behind.

"What the hell are you--?" the words burst out of Jimmy's mouth just before a hard fist round-housed into the left side of his face and the lights went out.

***

"Hey, wake up Mr. High-and-Mighty, you." The words accompanied some not-too-gentle face slapping. Jimmy could hear one of the thugs laughing in the background, as he tried to turn his head away from the unpleasant bombardment. "Meester Private Eye," the voice sneered. "You not taking care of my seester and she ees not happy."

With an effort, Jimmy focused his eyes on those of Thug Two, which were only a foot from his face. The man had eaten something spicy loaded with garlic for lunch and his breath was curdling Jimmy's stomach, threatening nausea in addition to a blossoming headache. Jimmy groaned and tried to roll onto his side only to find the stars he'd seen earlier return. The man hovering over him might not be the sharpest knife in the caddy, but he sure could pack a wallop. Thug Two grabbed him by the collar and assisted him roughly into a sitting position. From there the man began to jerk him upright, but, fighting escalating nausea, Jimmy gasped out, "Wait a minute! You hit me badass hard. Give me a second." He hoped to appeal to the man's vanity - the hoodlum was proud of his fists and his pugilistic talents - hoping to get gentler treatment. But he wasn't stretching the truth. He'd really been clobbered.

Both thugs laughed raucously. Jimmy was glad he'd proven so entertaining. One thing about the brothers, they were jovial for silverbacks and easily amused. Why their physical appearances were so brutish and their sister so drop-dead gorgeous was a question that plagued him, even battered and confused like he was. It was a question that would stump geneticists.

When the room stopped spinning he took the offered hand and allowed the foul-breathed, dark-complexioned man to pull him to his feet. It was all Jimmy could do to keep his balance and not fall back to the floor. But he managed to keep his dignity. Some things you have to do because you're a man. Allowing the brothers to see him vulnerable was something it was best to avoid. Never let an animal see that you're afraid. And avoid eye contact – wasn't that the rest of the rule? Regretfully, he hadn't done that. Of course, now he might be able to with the way the eye felt. It was swelling rapidly.

"Okay, now what's going on? Why'd you hit me?" Jimmy asked Thug Two, as soon as the floor was steady.

"You need to know thees ees serious," Thug One answered. He was the usual spokesman for the two. "Our seester ees broke. Since the divorce she ees not final, it ees your job to take care of her."

_The divorce?_ Apparently Ada had filed saving him the effort. That was good to know. And by the way her brother had worded it, there was a hope that they wouldn't expect him to take care of her afterwards. Which was another very good thing. She'd probably already found another man for that. Surprisingly, Jimmy didn't feel pain at the thought. In fact, the only things that hurt were his face and the back of his head that had collided with the scuffed hardwood floor, and, don't forget, the blooming headache. That was progressing nicely. Jimmy expected a whopper before the next hour rolled around. What a lucky day. And it was going from bad to worse. The only good thing was his burnt lip didn't demand much attention. In fact, he thought he might be able to forget it entirely.

"What happened to the thirty-five grand we split? She go through seventeen-and-a-half thousand already?" Jimmy asked, his voice rising in disgust. Ada certainly knew how to spend money. That was one of the things they'd argued about throughout the years and why their nest egg hadn't been larger. "She knows she'll get half when the house sells."

Thug One clucked sympathetically. "Our seester has expensive tastes; you know how it ees. She needs to be taken care of and Papa says you weel do it until the divorce."

_What Papa says, Papa gets._ Jimmy remembered some of the violence that rumors attributed to Xavier Velasquez. He was not a man to cross. And if he said "until the divorce" then that was what he meant. He was a man of his word. Jimmy thought there was a glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel. Hopefully, the divorce went through quickly.

"I can give you five-hundred dollars."

"Papa, he wants you to be fair. You don't want heem unhappy, do you Jimmee?" Thug One asked in a soft voice.

Jimmy looked at the two bear-like men glowering at him.

"I have seven hundred in cash. That's all I have. I'll barely be able to survive."

"That weel do. You weel survive, I am sure. You are smart guy."

Jimmy slowly pulled his wallet from his pocket, trying to look down-in-the-mouth. This was going to crimp his style, but only marginally. He was fortunate that the brothers didn't know he'd been frugal with his half of the split. Still, it was another seven hundred dollars down the drain. That divorce better be final soon. He hoped the poor sucker waiting in the wings (he knew there had to be one) had some idea of what he was getting himself into. On second thought, no, he didn't. Let the fool find out later. After the divorce.

"You weel send money. We no come back, right?"

"Of course. Whenever I get a retainer, Ada will get paid. Tell Mr. Velasquez that he can depend on me. I just thought that because she'd left me, I wasn't responsible."

"Not the way eet works, bro'," Thug Two finally jumped into the conversation.

Jimmy looked at him in surprise; the man spoke so rarely. "I see that now," he said, wincing as he touched his jaw.

"No hard feelings," Thug Two added. "We _just_ get your attention."

"Well, you got it. Next time _just_ call."

The brothers again thought him humorous, clapping him on the back as they left. Jimmy said goodbye, shut and leaned against the door. He closed his eyes and gingerly fingered his face. He winced as he found the spot where Thug Two's large, hairy fist had connected. Sighing, he found his way to the bathroom to survey the damage.

"Whoo," Jimmy whistled when he got a good look. There was no longer any doubt about Neanderthal in his family tree. The proof stared back at him through the streaked mirror. In an attempt to control swelling (something he didn't waste much hope on), he wet a washcloth with cold water and held it to his cheek and eye, lamenting the timing of his new look. A client was coming in that afternoon and this would do nothing toward establishing a good opinion. He could say that his brothers-in-law, sons of a mob boss, had laid him out because they didn't feel he was treating their sister right. No, that wasn't good. Should he lie and say it had been an accident? If the client had any sense, he'd know that wasn't true. The bruising showed exactly what had happened. He could even make out the imprint of all four of his brother-in-law's huge, simian knuckles, surprising proof that Thug Two did indeed have opposing thumbs.

### Chapter 2

Shivering in a cold draft with the icy washcloth held to his face, the ex-detective sat at his beat up desk contemplating life. Specifically, he was pondering the question as to why he'd returned to Cincinnati. He hated the snow and ice in the winter, also the thick, heavy humidity of the summers this god-forsaken country attempted to suffocate its populace with. Regardless, two years after making the move down to Miami, here he was, right back where he'd been. He'd returned a little lighter, though, since he was minus one wife. Since Ada had decided she'd rather be single. What was stupid was that she'd stuck by him through his cop days and through fifteen years of earning his stripes as a detective. But just as soon as he'd bowed to the pressure of moving to Florida to please her, she'd flown the coop. Of course, Miami had a lovely climate, and he had enjoyed that aspect. Cincinnati, on the other hand, was a temperamental old babe. Oh, she gave you sunshine, but at such a price! Jimmy thought at times that his sinuses would explode. And yet, he was back.

He grimaced as he looked around the sparse, modest (another word for cheap) office, and cursed himself again for having such an impulsive nature. Just because he and Ada split was no reason to quit his job. He was just lucky that he had twenty years in. Twenty years and six months, to be exact. If he had been smarter and actually used his head for a change, he would have sent out his resume and transferred over to a friendly little town someplace down south where you _asked_ for ice cubes – they didn't come pre-frozen to the bottom of your cup. Hell, he could have stayed where he was. She'd left him. It wasn't as if he would run into her all over town. She'd flown straight home to her family. Her father, with his link to the Cuban mob, her mother, who was every bit as pretty as Ada and could have been a movie star, and her two brothers, Thug One and Thug Two, took her in with open arms and a flurry of threatening phone calls. As if he had ever hurt her! As if he had been the one to kick her out and hadn't been the one wronged!

He stuck out his burnt lip, looking for all the world like a maligned little boy, and scowled. Still, what can you do? Knowing, almost positively, the history of her family and that he might end up missing at any time, maybe it was better that he'd left Florida. But darn, a few more years and a bigger pension would have been nice. At least, he wasn't tapping it yet, and had no intentions of doing so until he was sixty-five. Ada couldn't draw off it now either. That was one good thing. She was entitled to her share, Jimmy agreed with that. Just not yet. She could wait. They'd split everything else right down the middle, which hadn't left him much, less now that the boys had hit him up.

Roots are a hard thing to shake, especially when they're covered with damp Ohio valley clay. He'd run straight home, belatedly discovering the hiring freeze. The economy was picking up, but it had a long way to go to get back to what it had been even ten years earlier. Greed - it was claimed - had gotten the country into quite a pickle. Jimmy didn't claim to understand. He only knew that the Cincinnati Police Department couldn't take him back, not now, possibly next spring they'd said. Maybe never, he figured. But, he didn't want to starve in the meantime, so he'd opened this office. Now he was sitting at this badly used desk in a squeaking chair that had seen better days, his head hurting and his face puffing grotesquely, idly running a finger along two sets of initials he'd found carved into the desk top, as he waited for what he hoped would be a new (paying) client.

The initials were coarse, blocky letters, scratched with a pocketknife, or even a steak knife, not something normally used for detail work. They had his attention, thankfully blocking out some of the pain he was in, but also added to his irritation. It angered him that some people have no respect. He decided the first chance he got he would use his investigative talents to find out who would ruin a fine wood antique desk.

A rap on the door brought him out of his musings. Jimmy stood to answer it, wishing he could hire a secretary. But that was definitely not in the immediate future. With money so tight and with his good name still prominent in investigative circles, hiring an employee wasn't a necessity. And, he rationalized, anyone that couldn't look past this slight business irregularity didn't deserve him or his skills.

"Mr. Warren?" the middle-aged man behind the door quietly asked, shaking the hand that Jimmy was quick to thrust at him. The gentleman appeared reserved and apprehensive, but his grip was strong and firm. Prematurely gray hair classically cut, with clothes neatly tailored, he showed deep pockets without attempting to flaunt them. "My name is Ed Hilton," he said, confident his name would be recognized. Jimmy thought it was also to his credit that he hadn't flinched at Jimmy's appearance. He knew his left eye was swelled shut now and he could only imagine how the rest of his face looked. If it looked like it felt, it had to be bad.

Jimmy squinted one-eyed into the man's sad, hazel-colored eyes. Those eyes didn't hide the misery that must have been Hilton's constant companion. Jimmy was very familiar with the tragedy Mr. and Mrs. Hilton had lived through for the past five years and his heart ached in sympathy. He also remembered the circus that had surrounded the girl's disappearance. The media just wouldn't let it go. Rumor after rumor had filled each broadcast for weeks.

"How do you do, Mr. Hilton?" he asked. "I don't know if you remember, but we met five years ago. I interviewed you and your wife."

"I'm sorry. I don't remember you. There's a lot about that time I don't recall."

"It's understandable. I'm sure that was a horrible period for both of you."

"Yes, it was... Is."

"Of course. Sorry. Please, come in." Jimmy stepped aside and motioning with his hand toward one of the two faded chairs in front of his desk. He waited until the other man had seated himself before he settled into his own. The mechanics of the worn leather swivel chair complained with an unpleasant screech over the extra pounds he'd gained, which added to the discomfiture he felt over his appearance. He made a mental note to replace it and some of the other furniture, except for the desk. Jimmy had inherited his father's love of woodworking, and he felt that an antique desk, especially one that was so solidly built, deserved better treatment. Besides, it had aroused his professional curiosity with the clumsily gouged initials.

"Coffee?" Jimmy asked, wondering if he should have made a new pot. One quick glance told him he should have thought to do that earlier. Black as ebony (and probably as stiff), what was left of the morning's brew was undrinkable by anyone except a former cop, or a poor gumshoe who only allowed himself the luxury of a single pot a day.

"No, thank you."

Smart move that.

"How, then, can I help you today?" Jimmy asked, as kindly as possible after a short pause that tugged at his patience. The man seated before him seemed unwilling to continue. Of course, he understood that clients came to private detectives because of problems that were painful and deeply personal. But time was money, as they said. He knew he was certainly feeling the pinch, and also, at forty-two, wasn't getting any younger. In fact, some days he felt his age more than others. And, as a sharp jab of pain shot through his closed eye making it water, this was turning out to be one of them.

Ed Hilton cleared his throat and finally began. "You remember when my daughter went missing?"

"Of course. Again, my sympathies."

Ed nodded, then looked curiously into Jimmy's face. Jimmy was sure he was going to ask how bad the other guy looked, but Hilton surprised him by changing directions.

"Have you retired from the force, detective?"

Jimmy realized that Ed Hilton, someplace in his tortured mind, had finally made the connection and now remembered Jimmy had been one of the detectives who first worked the case. Ed, like most people when given time and a prompt or two, remembered more than what they originally thought. Memory has a way of seeping back.

"Not retired," Jimmy answered. "I'm currently between posts and thought I would set up my own office. I'm qualified and have pretty good connections in law enforcement. My license is displayed on the wall over there." He motioned at the small, framed certificate that the state had dutifully supplied when they received the rather large application fee which had been more than expected and contributed to the tight budget he lived on. "I'm a private investigator now."

Money, money, money. That's all the whole world seemed to want. Suddenly forty-two felt very old. He wondered if he shouldn't just apply to some little backwater kind of place and put in the next twenty-some years there, until he could draw social security. He could be a hick sheriff, or even a deputy if he had to, if it meant security and anonymity. But Ada's family would probably still find him, and that wasn't a pleasant thought. They would make his life a living hell and, in the end, he wouldn't have gained a thing. Except maybe boredom.

"I didn't mean you weren't qualified," Ed Hilton continued. "I was just curious. I appreciate your skills and contacts and my hope is that you will help Sarah and I. We'd like to hire you to find our daughter, Janet."

Jimmy stared solemnly at Hilton, wondering what he could do that hadn't already been done. Several detectives had worked the case besides himself.

"The police ran a thorough investigation and didn't find a trace of her," Jimmy said slowly, carefully, not wanting to rekindle bad memories, but needing to make himself clear. "What is it you think I can do? If I remember right, all they found were her car and a pair of broken glasses." This wasn't going the way he wanted. He didn't want a case that would give him such a superb chance of stepping on toes at the very place he wanted to be hired back to. Toe trouncing wasn't especially redeeming, and, in his opinion, would probably prove a definite liability.

Of course, being in this type of situation was nothing new for Jimmy. Over his years on the force, he hadn't been known for being subtle, another not particularly helpful facet of his personality. Stubborn, bull-headed, sometimes suspected of being 'thick' because of his one-track mind, he'd plowed his way along, solving a high percentage of cases on the way. He just hadn't made an abundance of friends along the route.

With a sigh, he pushed thick, unruly brown hair back off his forehead, exasperated that he'd wasted part of the morning on an interview to a case that was going nowhere. The case he was looking for was something easy that wouldn't put him on law enforcement's radar. Like a cheating husband, or a wife with a credit card who couldn't stay away from the casinos. He desperately needed a paycheck, but not something that would ruffle feathers, like pushing his way into a cold case that was still open and chafing away at the reputation of a whole precinct. The Cincinnati precinct didn't want him, or anyone else not associated with law enforcement, involved. And remembering his years on the force, he knew PI's were rarely welcomed with open arms.

"That is correct," Ed said sadly. "But I know there's got to be something they missed. I've talked to the police until I'm blue in the face. They just give me the run around. In fact, I think they hide when they see me coming. Especially that young detective, Paul Lewinski. I suppose he's done all he could, but Sarah and I have to know."

An uncomfortable pause filled the room until Ed continued, his voice jagged with emotion. "Understand me well, Sarah and I don't hold out much hope that our daughter is alive. But we still have to know. We have to... bury her."

Jimmy's heart went out to the man. What he'd lived with the last five years was not something that should be wished on your worst enemy. But what could he do? He'd worked on the case back at the beginning, when he was a lead detective. He'd uncovered nothing. Detective Lewinski had found the only real evidence, linking the young woman to accused serial killer, Grant Mason. That had been a terrific piece of investigative skill.

He mutely shook his head, as he fingered the crude, sacrilegious initials carved into the top of his desk, _JK_ on one corner and _DLW_ in the center over the middle drawer. It was good wood, just needed refinishing. Dark, it could be mahogany. He wasn't expecting it when Ed Hilton placed his cold hand on his, as if to capture his wandering thoughts. Not wanting to meet the other man's eyes, he didn't look up, but stared at the long, icy fingers, oddly blue as if the man's circulation was impaired. Possibly it was. It was obvious his heart was broken.

"Please. You're our last chance."

A second hand came into his line of vision, sliding a piece of paper forward. Jimmy stared in amazement. It was a personal check, with the word _Retainer_ printed on the 'memo' line. The amount, in tight, concise handwriting was for ten thousand dollars.

### Chapter 3

"Not so pretty now, is he?" Izzy taunted.

"What are you talking about? Who do you mean?" Abby asked, frustration evident in her voice.

"That detective that somehow, some way, managed to move in here, even though we both knew that wasn't a good idea. I mean, what if he starts snooping around? You know what he'd find. Not good. No, not good at all."

"Paul wouldn't hurt me." But he might, Abby thought, as a memory came unbidden causing her hands to travel protectively to her throat where Grant had once held her in an iron-like death grip. When her husband had tried to strangle her.

But, that time at least, she hadn't been the victim. She had won at Grant's wicked little game. The roses out back proved it, that healthy bed with roots that went deep into the ground. Another memory overwhelmed her.

Grant lay on the floor at her feet, his breathing ragged, his eyes open in shock, the pupils huge and black; his face a pale mask of horror. He stared up at her, as his mouth opened and closed, gasping for air like a fish out of water. His fingers tightened into claws, while his hands twitched and jerked in involuntary spasms and shudders traveled up and down his body.

"Sure.. he.. won't," Izzy drug the words out sarcastically, interrupting her thoughts. "Because you and I know men would never hurt you." She laughed a little, which sounded cruel even to her own ears. "Of course, he could be out doing his thing and too busy to pay any attention to you and your little garden. And that brings to mind the fact that he's a pretty bad boy. You don't deny that the feather and thong weren't there before he brought the warrant and did his search on the house, do you? 'Cause we both know better than that. He planted those things in Grant's jewelry box to frame him... And to get him out of the way so he could move in on his wife," she added slyly.

"I don't want to talk about it." Abby turned away, angry and hurt. There may have been a little hint of fear showing in her defiant green eyes. But she didn't want Izzy to see.

"Well, you better toughen up, sister. Face the facts. If you don't, you could be just like one of those poor girls, making the front page of the paper for a few weeks and then fading away like they'd never existed. I couldn't handle that. I need you."

Abby felt her anger dissolve. She couldn't live without Izzy, either. They'd been best friends forever and gone through some pretty tough times together. The rose garden, with its first curling red-green leaves of spring proved that. Together, they were capable of handling anything. In point of fact, they already had.

"I couldn't take it if he hurt you like Grant did. Promise me you'll never put up with that again."

"I promise. But Paul would never hit me." She denied again, but couldn't help the twinge of fear she felt.

Izzy felt sadness overwhelm her. When would Abby ever learn? She was so trusting, so loving. The world to her was wholly painted with her favorite colored crayons. Izzy had so such disillusion; she knew that all men were the same. Just because Paul had never struck Abby didn't mean he wouldn't. Especially with what they both suspected about him. And it was only a matter of time. If he had murdered those two prostitutes, then she was in serious danger of a lot more than a few bruises. To her sister, this was terrifying.

Love. Was that what it was? Was that what caused Abby to lose her head, and not to use the smarts the good Lord had given her? Was that what made her put herself into danger over and over? Or was it just habit? After all, her track record was pretty bad. When she'd stated that she was marrying Grant, Izzy had tried to talk her out of it. She'd only been eighteen then. She could be forgiven for being so irrational at that age. But now she was twenty-seven. Too old to be this reckless.

Izzy prided herself that she'd never fell in love, that love was for fools. Oh, she loved Abby, but that was different, although all she had to compare it to. She wasn't inexperienced with sex, and occasionally went out on the town, specifically with that in mind. Just to relieve the need. There were men who caught her eye, but she always left them wondering where she'd gone. And that was just sex. But _love_. What was that like? It had to really be something for you to risk your life like Abby was doing. Izzy knew there was no way it could be worth it.

***

Daisy Wilson, heir apparent to Wilson Steel Corporation, idly massaged her throat as she studied the printout. She'd buckled down at her classes during the winter and brought all of her grades back up to straight 4.0's. Her teachers were impressed and her father was proud. He didn't know what had caused this turn around, but hadn't questioned it. He loved her and her brother Lee unconditionally. Although the younger of the two and female, Daisy was the one being groomed for management of the company. Lee wasn't angry or jealous. He had his own interests. He owned a little shop in downtown Dayton selling handbags and shoes that he designed himself. Mitch, their father, had backed him in the enterprise, just as he had when Lee had come out while still in middle school. Daisy hadn't cared either. Lee was still Lee. The fact that he was gay meant nothing to her. She didn't resent that the family's business and major responsibilities would fall to her. She was up to it and looked forward to proving herself. Her only antipathy was Bruce. He was still around. Lee's other half had been a permanent fixture for three years. She still didn't like the cocky s.o.b. And she sure didn't trust him. But they say 'Love goes where it's sent'.

Daisy turned the television on after checking each room to be sure she was alone. She wanted no uninvited visitors. Normally getting home just before the news, she watched it religiously for another prostitute murder. This might appear unusual to anyone not knowing the circumstances, but Daisy didn't care. It was as if she was in limbo, always waiting, always scared. She couldn't _not_ watch. And almost every night the reporters gave an account of one, or more, murders. Southern Ohio, between Dayton and Cincinnati and the many connecting cities and towns in between, seemed to her to be a hotbed of homicides. And several of these had been prostitutes. But none had been attributed to the Bathtub Girls' killer lately. That infamous criminal had his own style, his own methods. And there had been none like it in the two years since her attack.

She still felt the steel vise of his hands clamping around her neck; still saw the terrible, savage eyes that had locked ferociously onto hers. She shuddered as her fingers involuntarily traced the invisible scars the man had left. The dreadful, raw memory made her feel so small and alone. No one knew her secret except her best friend, Melinda. Not her boyfriend, Roland. Not her brother. Nor her father. She had gone to the police post in Cincinnati to report it, even though the attack had happened in Dayton. Actually, she'd gone there simply because it wasn't Dayton. She had no intention of running the risk of someone recognizing her and she sure didn't want the news organizations to find out. Her face and name headlining the news with what she'd been doing for a lark wasn't something she wanted her family, friends, or the board to find out. She'd left the post before meeting with the detective and before the sketch artist arrived. Even though Melinda had pleaded with her to tell her story, she just hadn't been able to go through with it. She just hadn't had the courage.

Daisy had seen the article on Grant Mason and how the authorities thought he was the killer, how they had indisputable evidence against him. But his picture, the one that was on the TV and carried on the front page of the paper for weeks, only generically looked like the man she remembered. Both were tall, dark hair and eyes, good-looking in a rugged way. But there were differences that disturbed her. Not that she could pinpoint what they were. No matter how she tried, she couldn't remember the man's face. Only his eyes.

Yes, she'd walked out of the police post and hadn't been back. Now she wondered if that had been a mistake.

### Chapter 4

Private Investigator Jimmy Warren knocked on the door, noticing the name written in simple script. "W. Paul Lewinski". Funny, he'd never noticed the 'W' before, had always just known him as Paul. Possibly the younger man thought it gave him an air of importance. Most likely it stood for something simple like Wayne or Walter. Not much mystery there. He half considered asking, but decided he really wasn't curious enough to put in the effort, and he didn't want to aggravate the man in case it was something like Winifred or Waldo.

Hopefully, Paul still harbored good feelings for him. After all, Jimmy had been the one who had encouraged him to become detective in the first place. And a good one he was, no doubt about that, from what he'd heard through the grapevine. With the favor he needed, he needed Paul's friendship. With a sinking feeling he remembered the irritation he'd always felt toward private dicks. And times hadn't changed much, the only difference was that now the shoe was on the other foot.

"Come in. Come in. I heard you were back in town," Paul greeted him warmly, clasping his hand. He stared curiously at Jimmy's swollen, bruised cheek and black eye, but was kind enough not to mention it. It was the day after Jimmy's sucker-punch and, if anything, he looked worse. The swelling might have gone down a little, but the color palette the bruise goblins used was darker and richly hued.

"Yeah, been back a few months," Jimmy admitted, reminded again of why he'd moved back to Ohio. That crazy wife of his. She'd always had a screw loose. Beautiful, with that gorgeous black hair, purple eyes, and hot salsa ways. But he'd long suspected she was bi-polar. And, if he wanted to be completely honest, she was too much woman for him. Still, it had been fun while it lasted. Beautiful, hot, electrifying Ada. It had been fun and he wouldn't trade it, but he was more relieved than upset that it was over.

"How's the wife?" Paul asked, as Jimmy had known he would. Why did everyone always ask? Did some morbid curiosity make them want to intrude? To know all the acrimonious details? Or did Paul really not know and was merely making polite conversation? He decided to give him the benefit of the doubt and assume it was the latter.

"Doing fine the last I saw her. She's enjoying the good life down in Miami Beach. We have "irreconcilable differences" according to her."

"Oh. Sorry."

Jimmy shrugged. What else was there to say?

After a short, uncomfortable pause he said, "I came to ask you a favor."

"Sure. Anything," Paul answered, probably trying to make up for his embarrassing inquiry by volunteering too quickly, or maybe he just felt sorry for anyone who could lose so horrendously in a fight. Jimmy wasn't against using either excuse. He would use anything that worked, having learned this years ago. Another reason why he didn't have many friends.

"I've put my shingle out as a P.I. At least until the hiring freeze is over."

Paul stiffened a fraction, but his expression didn't change. Jimmy thought that a good sign. At least he hadn't thrown him out on his ear. Yet.

"I've got a client who wants me to look into an old case of yours. Janet Hilton, the girl who went missing back in 2008."

"That's pretty well solved," Paul said, his face curiously blank. It was as if he'd pulled a generic Halloween mask on. Jimmy noticed that his eyes had lost the warmth and friendliness of earlier, and was confused as to the cause.

"Grant Mason murdered her," the detective continued. "We have irrefutable proof. We haven't found him yet, but it's not from lack of trying."

"I'm sure," Jimmy said, attempting a grin, hoping his lopsided features managed to assume a vaguely agreeable expression. He added, "There's no dispute over him being the murderer. What the Hiltons want is for me to find their daughter's body. I told them that if the detectives working the case couldn't find her, then not to hold out much hope that I could. But they're determined. I just wanted to give you a heads up that I would be poking around."

"Oh, no problem," Paul said, his tone now amicable. "In fact, I'll print out some addresses for you of places to start. Mason's grandparents', a few leads – people to talk to at the bowling alley he was alleged to be at that night, and the bartender at the bar where Hilton was last seen." He stopped talking as he carried the file to the copy machine, which was soon humming and clicking as it printed out paper.

It was odd that Paul hadn't said anything about the suspect's wife. Jimmy had heard scuttlebutt that Paul was tapping that bit of fluff. Dangerous. Especially for someone in his position. First rule: Keep witnesses and potential suspects at arm's length. But the boy was young. He'd learn. Jimmy just hoped it wouldn't be the hard way.

"I'd like to interview Mason's wife, too; if you don't mind. She may know something she isn't even aware of," Jimmy said cautiously. "Sometimes fresh eyes can pick up something someone closer to the case doesn't see," he added, hoping he wasn't further antagonizing his old friend. He could hear a whisper in the back of his mind saying, " _Beware of toe trouncing"_ , but was there really a choice?

Paul remained silent for several minutes as he collected paper from the copier. Jimmy knew he'd hit a nerve, but there remained a job to do. And if that job involved speaking with the wife of a possible suspect, even if she was Paul's current squeeze, it still had to be done.

"Of course. I'll call and let her know you'll be coming over," Paul said finally, his voice and face still unreadable. "When would you like to talk to Abby?"

" _Abby?"_ Jimmy thought _._ The rumors must be true. At least Paul wasn't being a prick and refusing to allow him to talk to her, without him around. Which would make it look like she had something to hide and that he was protecting her. Or at the least, that he was a jealous boyfriend. The pause before Paul replied had sparked his curiosity and he wondered what had occasioned it. But there was no time to think about it now.

"Today would be good, if it's okay for her," Jimmy replied. "The sooner the better, actually. It's a long shot that she knows anything, but I have to rule out any involvement on her part. You know how it is. Just doing my job. The Hiltons have a right to know. And they desperately need closure and to bury their daughter."

When Paul opened a file on his desk, Jimmy took the hint, said goodbye, and left the room, closing the detective's door behind him. He was relieved that the interview had gone so well, actually better than he'd hoped. As he entered the hall, he had to sidestep to avoid bumping into a bear of a man who had planted himself in his way.

"Well, Jimmy Warren! What are you doing here?" The question may have been meant in a friendly way, but somehow came across accusingly. Chief of Police Martin Bronson had dark, heavy brows that formed a jutting ledge over keen, suspicious eyes with the capability of looking straight through you, whether you were in trouble, or only late with your paperwork. Steel gray hair routinely cut in a bristling, military crew cut and a constant four o'clock shadow solidified the threatening aspect to the man's appearance. Jimmy had known him a long time and was one of the few that knew that inside that rough exterior beat a heart of gold. You just didn't want to cross him. He wasn't someone you wanted for an enemy – but he made a loyal, if formidable, friend.

"Chief," Jimmy said, slipping back into the old habit. Bronson had been Jimmy's boss for so long – he could have called him nothing else. He thought of 'Chief' as the man's first name.

"What'd you do? Run into a door?"

"Long story," Jimmy said, embarrassed and refusing to go into it. "I came in to speak with Paul," Jimmy added more quietly, trying not to attract the attention of the men milling around the precinct's large office – waiting room. Admitting that he would be working one of the precinct's cold cases wasn't going to create any warm and fuzzy feelings, but from his dealings with the chief he knew that honesty was the best policy.

"I've been hired to locate Janet Hilton. The family wants her body brought back home. There's no false hope that she took off on a lark and is going to turn up. She would have done it by now."

"That cold case is around five years old, isn't it?" the Chief asked. "So you're going to be working that one? I heard scuttlebutt that you got your P.I. license."

Jimmy nodded his head, agreeing to both questions and the statement.

"We're still working that one you know," the chief then stated firmly, glowering at Jimmy through those wild, untamed brows.

"Yes, I know. I'm just going to poke around and see what I can find."

The chief shot another hostile look Jimmy's way, and said loudly, "Just stay out of my guys' way." Then, surprisingly, he clapped Jimmy on the shoulder, before adding in a softer voice, "Glad for the help. Anything you can do on that case would be good. It's been open way too long. That girl's dead someplace, and she deserves to be found.

"Oh, and Jimmy," he grinned, leaning close to Jimmy, looking for all the world like a troll contemplating having a private investigator for lunch, "stay away from those doors."

### Chapter 5

Abby wasn't in. After hearing a second rap on the door, Izzy peeked out the peephole and saw a middle-aged man standing on the steps. Something about his tousled, frumpy appearance made her curious and she ignored the rule she'd set for herself of never opening Abby's door. Although they occupied the same body, they were separate people. And this was Abby's house.

"Can I help you?" she asked through the crack between the door and frame. She'd left the chain on, not fully trusting her impressions of the man. He looked friendly, but you never knew. He could be another serial killer. Having known two in a short period of time, she couldn't rule it out. And what was up with the black eye?

"Mrs. Mason? My name is Detective Jimmy Warren." He'd forgotten that he was no longer on the police force. His face colored as he stammered, "Sorry. Sorry. Ex-detective. I haven't gotten used to my new occupation yet. I'm a private investigator. I'm investigating Janet Hilton's disappearance."

This young woman, with flashing green eyes and auburn hair, was quite a looker. The fact that she was smiling at him in ill-concealed amusement didn't help regain any of the composure that had abandoned him with his first glimpse. Damn, it was hard to look sophisticated with those eyes laughing at his. He knew now what Paul saw in her. In fact, if he'd been younger, he might have been tempted himself. He fumbled in his pocket to pull out his ID.

Izzy opened the door, barely glancing at the stiff new card. Anyone this clumsy couldn't be a criminal. He had to be what he said he was. Somehow, his manner was appealing, which was a new experience. Men were never appealing.

"Come in, detective. Or what should I call you?"

"Thank you. Please, just Jimmy, ma'am. I won't take up much of your time, but there's a few things I'd like to go over, if this is an opportune time."

"Not doing a thing at the moment." She led him to the sofa and motioned for him to sit. "Would you like coffee or tea?"

"No, thanks. I've had plenty this morning."

"Well, I hope you don't care if I finish mine," she said, leaning back in the recliner and crossing very attractive, long slim legs. She was wearing some sort of housedress that stopped two inches short of her knees, something with bright colored embroidery around the scoop neckline, which looked like it came from south of the border. It complimented her complexion, which was smooth spun-gold except for a light sprinkling of freckles across high cheekbones and the bridge of her nose. With this and that glorious red hair, she didn't look like any senorita he knew. Still, on her, the shapeless smock was fetching.

Distracted, and painfully aware he was making a fool of himself, Jimmy searched for something to draw his attention from the striking woman before him. His eyes focused on the dried floral arrangement between them on the coffee table. Huge hydrangea blooms, still showing the pretty blue colors edged with pink and lime they'd worn when picked, overflowed a pale green ceramic vase. Long reed-like fronds draped and curled around and between in willy-nilly directions, while small white lacy flowers highlighted spots here and there. What really caught his attention, though, were the shiny black seeds held above the arrangement on thin, branching stems. It was odd that they'd been chosen for the accent. But he had to admit the element worked. Glossy, dark hardness was a perfect contrast to the fluffy pastels of the dried flowers.

"Beautiful arrangement. Did you make it?"

Izzy hesitated, before answering with a touch of pride in her voice, "Everything here came from the garden out back." When she had insisted on using nightshade as the accent, Abby had objected. To Abby it had seemed like they were pushing their luck, bragging about what they'd done. Izzy, on the other hand, had wanted to show off and intentionally thumb her nose at anyone wanting to hurt her or her sister. She thought it was hilariously funny that Grant was buried out back in the rose garden, with the instrument of his demise sitting prominently for everyone to see. Yes, hilariously, blatantly funny. Paul hadn't figured it out. And he'd been living here for months. She was sure this dumb gumshoe wouldn't figure it out either.

'Well, it's lovely. I especially like the seed highlights you've added. Unusual."

"Thank you. I enjoy them, too."

"Mrs. Mason," Jimmy said, done with small talk and anxious to get to the point. "I understand that you were the last person on record to see Janet Hilton that night?"

"Except for the murderer, of course. But call me Izzy," she added, shrugging her pretty shoulders.

Jimmy glanced quickly at her face. She'd answered in such an offhanded manner that the remark had surprised him. Of course, "except for the murderer". He wasn't accusing her. Should he? Hey, wait. Wasn't her name Abby? Why had she said to call her Izzy? Maybe he was confused, but he could have sworn that Paul had said "Abby".

"What time did she drop you off?"

"It was around 10:30 p.m. Maybe closer to 11:00. Grant wasn't home yet."

"Do you know what time he got in?"

"Nope. I was sound asleep. He had plenty of time to do it and no alibi that I know of. I just can't figure out why."

Jimmy looked more closely at her. "You believe your husband did it?"

"I'm sure it was Grant. He was a real s.o.b. And always had a rotten temper."

"Had?" He asked because she'd used the past tense. He always picked up on things like that. Sometimes it had even proven helpful.

Abby shrugged again and said, "He's gone and out of my life."

Jimmy pondered her answer for a brief time before asking, "Do you know where your husband is, Mrs. Mason?"

"I don't really care. As long as he isn't making me miserable, he can be wherever he wants."

Jimmy wondered what Mason had done to the woman. Whatever is was, she didn't harbor a loving memory. He remembered hearing something about her being a punching bag, one of a multitude of unfortunate wives and girlfriends. Somehow, after meeting this woman, that rumor didn't ring true. She didn't seem the type to put up with a man that would beat her. Of course, first impressions didn't tell you everything about a person. But, generally, Jimmy's were pretty accurate. All he knew was that his antennae were twitching.

"Where do you think he went?"

"Again. I don't care."

"Okay. Since you think he murdered Miss Hilton, have you given any thought to what he would have done with the body?"

Izzy was quiet for a few seconds as she remembered Janet. She had been a happy, fun-loving girl who didn't deserve what happened to her. She'd had a lot to live for, planning her upcoming wedding to a nice young man, a well-off family that loved and missed her, and with that bubbly personality of hers, many, many friends. No, death had pulled a fast one by taking her so soon. It wasn't right. Her reply was in a softer tone.

"I really haven't any idea."

"Okay. I'd appreciate it if you gave it some thought. Here's my card, if you think of anything. Anything at all, no matter how trivial." Jimmy stood and handed her one of his newly printed cards, hoping she couldn't smell the ink. They could almost still be warm. He'd had them done only the evening before, after depositing Ed Hilton's check. He'd gotten a few other things accomplished that he'd had to put off. It was amazing how much easier life was when there were a few dollars in the bank. Which reminded him that he needed to hurry. Glancing at his watch, he thought he still had time to visit the gadget store before heading back to his office for a two o'clock delivery.

"Thank you for speaking with me today. I may have a few questions later and might have to bother you again."

"No problem," she said, smiling. Her eyes showed humor and intelligence. The young woman's allure was pulling him like a magnet. It was disturbing.

"Anytime," she added, making him wonder (and hope?) that the word had double meaning. He tried to push such wayward thoughts out of his mind. Ada wasn't out of his life yet and he was thinking about another woman? Stupid, really stupid.

"Um." He was a nerdy schoolboy in the presence of the prom queen. "Thank you. Please call me if you have any thoughts on Miss Hilton's whereabouts."

"I will."

Izzy showed Jimmy out and stood at the door watching him get into his car. He'd seemed nice and his frumpy, somewhat overweight appearance was comfortable and oddly appealing. How very strange. She'd never had an interest in any man before. Why now? And why a middle-aged gumshoe with a caveman face? The only thing she could think of was that the attraction must be hormonal or something. Izzy shut the door, determined to put the problem out of her mind. There were too many complications in her world to bring another one in. Right now there was Abby to worry about.

And that dangerous man who lived here with her.

To be more correct – that dangerous man who lived here with them.

### Chapter 6

Jimmy paid for the GPS unit at the register. The pimply-faced nerd running the shop had guaranteed it to be the best and easiest to operate. Technology wasn't Jimmy's forte. His requirements were simple. Ease of operation and effectiveness. This global positioning unit had better be both. The price he'd paid seemed exorbitant. Why is it that what he needed was never the cheapest item? Somehow this didn't seem right. It had to be some sort of conspiracy.

As he exited the shop with the colorful bag under his arm his eyes were drawn across the aisle in the strip mall to a small business office. ' _J. K. Accounting'_ , the lettering on the plate glass window alleged. This seemed oddly familiar. Since Jimmy had conveniently 'forgotten' to file his taxes earlier, basically afraid that he wouldn't be able to pay Uncle Sam, now with money in his pocket, the snap decision to go inside was easily made.

A tall, thin man stood at an office door located at the back of the room. Two women sat at desks nearer, talking to other last minute filers. They were careful to avoid looking long at his face, which made him assume he looked worse than he'd thought. His knew his head sure hurt. Not wanting to hang around and waste the morning, and getting the impression that he wasn't wanted, he'd turned to leave when the thin, lethargic-appearing man, most likely the owner, beckoned him inside.

"Can we help you?" the man said.

"I was going to make an appointment. I know I'm pushing it with this being April 8th, but I really don't have time to wait."

"No problem. Come inside my office and I'll check the calendar."

Jimmy followed behind the scuffling man (he walked like his joints were loose putting him in danger of collapsing), until he stopped in front of a modern chrome and plastic desk. Refusing the chair that was offered, Jimmy wanted to stress that he was truly short on time. He found it hard not to fidget. Bean counters and their propensity for accuracy tended to make him nervous. He was more of a 'close enough' kind of guy.

"How's tomorrow at three?" The man held out a card. 'JK ACCOUNTING' was printed at the top. That _something_ that had bothered Jimmy earlier bothered him again. He squinted, studying it more intently. 'Jeremy Kelly, CPA' was printed underneath in smaller letters. The next few lines had the business phone, fax number, and address in a clean, plain script. Simple and professional, there were no cartoon characters or elaborate rhymes, no word play cluttering up the stark whiteness. Jimmy appreciated the uncomplicated honesty, even as that little something continued to gnaw away at a corner in his mind, like a tiny mouse in a huge paper factory.

"Your name, occupation, and address, please," Mr. Kelly prompted.

"Jimmy Warren, private investigator, and my mailing office is the old Murphy building. 11288 Channel St., Cincinnati. Suite # 7."

"You're kidding!"

Jimmy was startled with the unexpected enthusiasm. From the color that lit up the man's face, his blood pressure must have jumped twenty points.

"No," Jimmy said, confusion contorting his face and causing a jolt of pain to shoot through the battered cheek and eye area. He struggled to return to a bland, less painful position, and then added, "I leased it a few months ago."

"That's my old office. I moved into this one last November," Kelly gushed. The coincidence must have struck Jeremy Kelly, CPA, as highly unusual for the man's normally stodgy expression to become so animated and his speech so unusually lively.

Suddenly Jimmy knew what had been bugging him. The man's initials. ' _JK'_. That was what was carved into the old desk back at his office. A slow smile curved slowly around his poor, lumpy, abused face. JK, the antique desk mutilator. The one with no respect for a piece of fine furniture. At the risk of irritating the man, but not able to resist, and besides with his headache – who cared? Not him – he asked, "Did you leave a mahogany desk behind when you left?"

"I did, but the desk wasn't mine. It was there when I moved in. Why do you ask? Oh, I see. I don't want it back. As I said, it wasn't mine; it stays with the property."

"I couldn't help noticing that the initials JK have been carved into the top. Did you do that?"

Jeremy Kelly's features appeared momentarily confused and then a flush crept its way across his hollow cheeks. The skinny fox was caught in the hen house.

"Oh, I remember now. When I first moved in I kept studying the other set of initials that someone had scratched into the top. I didn't have much to do, there weren't many customers then like there is now, and I was bored. That's not really much of an excuse, but one day I was peeling an apple for lunch and before I knew what I was doing I had chiseled my mark on the desk. I regretted it later, but there was no taking it back. That was three years ago. I'd actually forgotten about it. Why? Is there some sort of fine? I'd be happy to pay for what I did." His thin face had acquired a look of concern, although if it was from the vandalism or because of Jimmy's new tough guy image as an enforcer for the preservation of fine furniture, he wasn't sure which. But it proved to Jimmy that he'd found the right accountant. Anyone this worried about a used desk or afraid of a chunky, middle-aged gumshoe wasn't going to take chances on his tax forms. Jimmy figured they'd get along just fine.

"No, no," Jimmy reassured the now sweating man. "Not that I know of, anyway. I was just curious; it was a puzzle, you know? Don't worry about it; the desk is pretty old. And I doubt the landlord even remembers he owns it."

After confirming the appointment time and spelling of his name, Jimmy left the embarrassed proprietor to return to his own office. The day had turned cooler while he was in the strip mall, which made him glad he'd brought a jacket. Still, it was a pretty day, with the tulips and other spring flowers brightening the entrances to the small offices and shops, helping to camouflage the downtown's rundown facade. He saw several people outside surveying winter damage. Some were measuring windows for possible replacement and checking out peeling paint. This time of year everyone was optimistic and had big plans; later, reality would set in. With the economy depressed, commerce had stagnated. Jimmy was glad that he rented. Besides saving him the work the season brought, he didn't have much overhead.

Walking up the stairs of his building, his good mood continued. With his office only on the second floor, climbing was kept to a minimum. Altogether, Jimmy was pleased with the day and himself. Even though it hadn't been a paying job, he'd solved the mystery of one set of initials. Of course, it hadn't taken much effort on his part. And, truthfully, it had been more luck than anything else. But in Jimmy's scorebook, it counted. He was a P.I. and this proved it.

Jimmy pulled the office keys from his pants pocket and stuck the key in the lock. But this time, not anxious to allow a repeat of two days before, he was careful to hang back a few steps and survey the room before he entered. Just in case. Thankfully, it was empty. No silverbacks anywhere.

He went straight to his desk and was barely settled in when there was a knock at the door. Still nervous over what could have been, he almost didn't answer, suddenly fearful the Velasquez brothers were returning for a little more fun. But because there was a slim possibility of acquiring a new client, he cautiously cracked the door, leaving the chain in place. He felt relieved and a little foolish when he discovered a deliveryman standing outside. It was doubly embarrassing when the deliveryman did a double take, actually taking a step back. Jimmy wondered whether it would be prudent to wear makeup. His face seemed to be disturbing a lot of people.

"Mr. Warren?" the man asked doubtfully, eyes focused on his rainbow colored cheek and eye. "I have your furniture down in the truck. A couch and two side chairs, correct?"

"Yeah. Bring them right up."

The deliveryman grimaced. "Is there an elevator? You're on the second floor."

"I know that." Did everyone assume he was an idiot? It was becoming seriously aggravating and the headache that was still there wasn't helping. "Nope, no elevator. I paid for 'delivered'. And that means right to my office."

"They didn't tell me that at the warehouse."

"Not my problem."

"No, sir. It's not. Fortunately, I've got my brother-in-law with me. We'll bring your stuff right up."

Twenty minutes later the two men left, but not before Jimmy dug out his hidden stash and gave them the last twenty he had. Cheap tip for all their sweating, but they were young and strong, and also paid by the company to lug heavy furniture around. Which was their job, after all. Jimmy shouldn't be blamed for the fact that his wallet was empty, having forgotten to replenish the cash that the Thug Brothers had relieved him of.

He glanced at the clock and saw it was already four. After locking the door to prevent more unwelcome intruders, he sat down on his brand new couch. The quiet brown and beige tweed were soothing and pleased him. One matching chair was positioned in front of his desk and the other sat across from the sofa, suggesting a small grouping for casual conversation. That also pleased him, and should prove to nay Sayers that he had a serious business here. (No fly-by-night crap. He was a bona fide P.I.)

Two bright red pillows had been included with the sale price of the couch. He grabbed one now, plumped it up, and jammed it beneath his head as he slid down to a prone position, while a deep moan emanated from somewhere inside his diaphragm. The last two days had been long, rewarding, and let's not forget painful. Most especially painful.

Being a P.I. was seriously tough work.

### Chapter 7

Eleanor Winthrop closed the connecting gate between the yards. She was ill at ease, anxious as to which neighbor would greet her. As she knocked on the back door after walking the twenty feet of walkway through the pleasant spring sunshine, she prepared herself to meet either. It wasn't that she didn't like both, because she did. But there was still something weird about it.

She'd met Abby Mason a few years back and had never suspected. It had only been in the last eight or nine months, since Grant went missing, that she'd become acquainted with Izzy. Izzy had spunk. Which was one way to look at it. She was more outgoing, actually flippant if you wanted to be honest, but was still likeable. And after what both girls had gone through, you couldn't blame her for being a little brash occasionally. Abby was the quiet one, one that held down hearth and home. Eleanor thought of Abby as that 'dear, sweet girl'. She'd stepped right into the empty space Eleanor had in her life. Richard, her husband of forty-five years, had died eight years earlier. Their girls, Julie and Marilyn, rarely visited, rarely brought over the grandchildren that she loved so dearly. Her girls were a disappointment in so many ways, always too busy to spend time with their mother. But then she'd met Abby. And then later, her sister. The siblings were opposites at some things, but alike at others. Just like sisters everywhere. But that was where the usual comparison ended.

The really strange thing, _freaky_ thing, was that both girls occupied the same body. When she'd questioned Abby (sometimes she was a little afraid of stirring up Izzy, so wouldn't consider prying), she'd been tentatively shown the locket. Inside were two beautiful baby girls with striking green eyes staring straight at the camera lens. She'd asked who they were, although she'd suspected even then. Abby had looked at the floor as if the answer was there and hadn't said a word for several seconds. But then, speaking slowly like the words were being pried out of her, said that she was one and the other was Izzy, her identical twin that had died at three days of age.

What was weird was that she hadn't. Izzy was alive and well in Abby.

Eleanor speculated that Izzy helped round Abby out; gave her the strength that she needed, the _permission_ to be confident. She could be mean, pushy, overly self-assured when she was Izzy. Izzy was the yin to Abby's yang. She'd heard of people with split personalities, but had never thought she'd meet one. This was a strange old world all right. But you don't live to be seventy-three without seeing a lot of peculiar things.

Izzy answered the door. She smiled widely at Eleanor.

"Hi there, neighbor. Haven't seen you in a week."

"I've been spring cleaning," Eleanor lied. She'd seen Abby two days before. She thought it odd that sometimes the girls didn't tell each other about what happened during their day. But who was she to set them straight? They should be able to communicate with each other, shouldn't they? She didn't know how this split personality thing went. She was actually considering going to the library and getting a book on psychology.

"Come in. Have a cup of tea."

"Thanks. I will," Eleanor replied, more comfortable now, relaxing in Izzy's company. If she didn't think too much about the situation she could avoid a lot of stress. These girls had never shown her anything but kindness. But, that didn't mean they weren't capable of being ruthless. She knew what had happened to Grant, but it hadn't change her opinion of the girls. The man had gotten what he deserved.

"I saw a strange car in your drive yesterday," Eleanor prompted. She'd always been a nosy neighbor, and at her age, wasn't about to change. The only way to find out something was to ask and she wasn't afraid to do just that, about most things that is.

"It was some private dick," Izzy answered. "He's checking into the missing person case of Janet Hilton."

"Seems odd that somebody would be poking into that after all this time."

"Yeah, I thought so, too. But Janet's parents hired him."

"That makes sense then. Parents don't give up. I'd do the same thing," Eleanor said, feeling a stab to her heart and knowing she was sharing only a small percentage of the Hiltons' pain. All parents share the same fears and all hope it never happens to them.

"What did you think of him?" she continued, noticing the bemused expression that had settled on Izzy's face and wanting to get to the bottom of it. There was more to it than the terse answer she'd been given. She knew it.

"Jimmy Warren (that's his name) seems nice. He's at least forty, overweight, and rumpled looking. Kind of cute actually. He's appealing in a worn sock kind of way."

Eleanor smiled at her over her teacup. She knew all about those warm, comfortable kind of men. Her Richard had been one of those. Funny that Izzy liked that type too. Abby sure didn't. Thinking of Abby made Eleanor's smile disappear. Paul Lewinski, a detective/possible serial killer lived here with Abby. If Izzy was interested in another man, this could prove to be a real complication. The logistics would be very difficult, not to mention the possibility of whip-lashing emotions, and what could be a very real, and dangerous, threat of jealousy. She didn't want to think about that.

"So, you like him?" Eleanor's sharp eyes stared straight at Izzy, refusing to allow her to wriggle out of the question. She needed to see if this was going anyplace. She didn't want the girls to be in danger.

"Sure. But I don't think he's going to find out anything about Janet. I don't know how capable he is. He seems sort of a bumbler."

"So was Colombo," Eleanor said, forgetting her own question because of her interest in the old detective show she watched every day on cable. Colombo was her favorite. "And you know how successful he is. This might be just an act by this Warren fellow, like Colombo uses."

Izzy grinned. It was so easy to deflect her. She'd known that Eleanor was being nosy and hadn't wanted to explain her feelings about the P. I. She didn't know herself. Actually liking a man was something she had no experience with.

"Maybe. He asked if I had any suspicions as to where Janet's body might be."

"And you said?"

"I said no. That started me thinking, though. Her parents have a need to bury her. I feel bad for them. You know Janet and I never really got along; she was Abby's friend. But her parents have suffered for a long time. They have a right to know."

"Do you know where she is?"

"No, not for sure. But I have an idea she's someplace on Grant's families' farm."

"Are you going to tell him that?"

"I don't know. Maybe later. I might do a little poking around on him first."

***

Det. Paul Lewinski leaned back at his desk and rubbed his forehead. Why had he been so cooperative with Warren? He didn't have any obligation to make it easy for the man. He'd given him a long list of names, phone numbers, and addresses. But then, he did have an ulterior motive, which was his need to have the man out of the investigation as quickly as possible. He was sure Warren would find nothing. If he himself couldn't find Janet and the F.B.I hadn't uncovered anything, then ex-detective Jimmy Warren didn't stand a chance.

What was aggravating was that the very first thing, before tracing Mason's whereabouts or even the route the missing woman had taken that night, he'd gone straight to Abby to question her. That wasn't right. She was his now and he didn't want some old detective-has-been trying to move in on her. In Paul's mind, that was the only reason he'd seen her first. Paul's eyes glittered with anger. Abby had been noncommittal about the visit, even more withdrawn than was her custom lately. Relaxing slightly, Paul remembered Abby's apparent weariness when he'd questioned her. Warren didn't seem to have made a good impression, actually not much of an impression at all, by the sparse comment she'd made.

She was tired of the whole thing. He was sure of that. And he felt badly for her. To have lost her mother, grandmother, and then a best friend, not to mention a husband in only a few years, well, that was more than most people could take. And Abby was sensitive. Sweet and sensitive. He smiled thinking of her, remembering the gentle trust that was there every time she looked at him, the sweet curve to her body, the loving way she asked him about his day. Moving in with her had been the best thing that ever happened to him. Even though --.

Yes, even though. Lately, he'd begun to have those urges again. But he had that covered. He had a two-night excursion booked for the weekend. Already had the excuses and alibis in place. There was a conference to attend in Indiana, one actually funded by the Cincinnati Police. It made a nice cover for what he really would be doing in Indiana.

At the conference there were several classes to take, a few he was actually interested in. It wasn't a necessity that he attend them all. Just so he went to at least three to make it worth the money that the police budget allowed. He would be taking one entitled "Recent Advancements in DNA". Another was "Inside the Mind of the Killer". He liked to stay on top of the latest tools of law enforcement and these two classes were compulsory for him. Because of his hobby.

His mood was now vastly improved by thinking first of Abby and then the treat he would allow himself. They had brought an eager beat to his heart. But he didn't have time for that now. He reluctantly reined in these thoughts, firmly pushing them out of his head. Later. Later he would allow himself the privilege of reliving one of his favorite scenes. The one with Cat, the teenage hooker. Right now there were several case files on his desk and a suspect cooling his heels in interrogation room number three.

***

Jimmy Warren pulled his Crown Victoria into the bar parking lot. He enjoyed his car, from the cool steel gray color to the extra pep the eight cylinders had whenever he needed it. He'd only had it a few months, had bought it two months before Ada left him. That was unfortunate, to have signed for payments and at nearly the same time come up with all the money she demanded, and then more money for his moving and to set up an office. Thinking about it now, he was happy that Ada hadn't wanted the car – she'd sure wanted everything else. It would have broken his heart to turn it over to her. He probably would have balked and gotten his head bashed in by her brothers. Like now. He had spared himself the grief then, only to have pain later. Thing was, it didn't hurt any less knowing that he'd given himself a little time. His head still hurt.

This morning after surveying the damage in the mirror he'd studied the list Paul had given him. The bar and bowling alley had seemed like the best places to start. It was a little darker inside these types of establishments and the employees were familiar with seeing guys (and gals, for that matter) looking like he did. Jimmy had a royal shiner. Not too bad looking considering how badly it still hurt. It was puffier than it was discolored. The problem was the red that had taken over what used to be the white of his eye. It looked horrible, sort of ghoulish. Not to mention repulsive and distracting. Jimmy knew some people he had to interview would be put off by his appearance, so it wouldn't do for them to see him this way. It was hard enough to get respect as a private investigator. With an eye swollen almost shut with some green, purple, and yellow highlights, resembling for all the world like a six-year-old who played in mommy's eye shadow, and enough red to lure a vampire, he was not at his best.

He'd chosen to go first to the bar the girls had gone to after the play. Mainly because of its size. He knew that the establishment most likely had only one bartender who might even be the owner. Small places had to keep as low an overhead as possible. He read the open sign. "Noon to Two A.M." Apparently, sleep was overrated. The proprietor would have to clean up after locking up, sleep a few hours, do laundry and other household chores, and be back to work, all within a ten hour period. No time for a social life. The resemblance to the way he was living now was striking.

Pushing open the door he entered into a room where he was abruptly assailed with the aroma of freshly grilled burgers and the heavier scent of a deep fryer being put to use for greasy fries. It reminded him that he was hungry. He needed to put something in his stomach soon, because he'd just taken a couple of extra-strength pain pills for the blasted headache the Thug brothers had caused. He wondered now if he had a concussion. Well, he'd suffered worse before and since he'd made it through the last few nights that was a good sign. And by the way his head throbbed at the moment, he wasn't sure that he even cared he'd survived.

There were three who he suspected were regulars, seated at the bar. The waitress/cook/bartender was carrying out a plate heaped with fries and a delicious-smelling burger that captured his interest. She slid it in front of an older gentleman, bony framed with an overly large Adam's apple prominent on a scrawny throat prickly with a thin, three-day-old beard. White hairs stood straight out in a bristling manner, not allowing him the fashionable appearance he'd possibly been striving for. The look the young movie stars liked. Jimmy had never cared for that look. He shaved every day. Including this morning. And it had hurt like hell. During the process, he'd found a scrape on his jaw left from Thug Two's beefy fist, and had to blot it with torn pieces of tissue when the razor had removed a scab. They were lying on the car console where, glancing in the rear view mirror, he'd remembered to remove them just before exiting. Although, his face stuck up with scraps of toilet paper could actually be an improvement.

The other two patrons were some kind of construction or factory workers. As Jimmy got closer he realized they were from the foundry at the end of the street. The unmistakable odor and the soot that clung to their clothes and hands left no doubt. Both young men had plates heaped with chicken strips and fries. Lots of grease here. This bar was definitely not heart healthy. Not that Jimmy cared today. In fact, grease, lard even, was just what he wanted at the moment.

"Burger with everything, fries, and coffee," he told the tired-looking waitress when she stopped in front of him. She dragged her feet when she walked making her appear even more exhausted than she probably was. If she was the one who closed the place at night, cleaned up, and then got everything ready to open at noon, she didn't get her eight hours of beauty rest. Uncharitably, Jimmy thought that was a mistake. This woman needed it.

He ate his food without joining in the small talk that the patrons threw out every now and then. After taking one look at his face, not one invited him into a conversation that was mostly about baseball and the weather. At least that was a plus. Hungry and hurting, he wasn't in the mood. He needed fat and carbs, so the pain pills had something to latch onto and would start working quicker.

He was finishing his second cup of coffee as the waitress shuffled back to offer a refill. The two workers had paid and left. There was just him and the old man still seated at the bar, which made it as good a time as any.

"Do you remember the girl that went missing? Janet Hilton?" he asked, trying to look friendly. "I understand she and her friend came in here after the play. Were you working that night?"

The waitress blinked. She seemed surprised, maybe wondering why he was interested. Most likely, it had been years since she'd been asked this.

"Yes. I work every night except for Mondays. We're closed then."

Jimmy pulled out his wallet, extracted one of his shiny new cards to show her.

"I'm investigating the case for the Hilton's. Is there anything you can tell me about that night?"

"Nothing I haven't already told the police."

"I'd appreciate it if you would go over what you remember."

Jimmy noticed the old man was watching him keenly. He guessed there wasn't much excitement in the old guy's life and to be there when a PI did an interrogation made for an eventful day and an enviable story to regale his friends with.

With a deep sigh that symbolized how much work awaited her in the kitchen and there wasn't time for this, the waitress began her story. "The two girls came in around ten, when the play was over. I was surprised to see them in here; they weren't the usual type."

"What type is that?"

"My usual clientele is a bit rougher," she said with a little laugh. "Girlfriends to the foundry boys, gals running with married men, women that know how to put away booze. Hard drinkers are my bread and butter. These little girls wanted a cocktail, not a beer, if you know what I mean. I figured at the time that they were out slumming. Seeing how the other half live."

Jimmy nodded. He knew the type. In fact, he thought he'd married one. Ada had always been out of his class. And too much for his wallet.

"Did you notice anything strange? Anything at all? Like they were being watched by a customer? Anything that made you suspicious?"

"No, nothing. It was a quiet night. They were the only ones to come in from the play. I got a few of my regulars in a little later. Pretty poor night, actually. It's getting harder and harder to make the mortgage. Wouldn't want to buy a bar, would ya?"

She smiled at Jimmy, but he could tell she was more than half serious, and also had the suspicion that she was flirting with him. He noticed for the first time that his earlier assessment, most likely caused by hunger and headache, was incorrect. She was an attractive woman, about his age. Except for looking exhausted, she really wasn't half bad. Of course, she couldn't hold a candle to Abby. Or was it Izzy? Funny that he couldn't seem to get the young woman out of his mind. She was just a baby and already in a relationship. But she had definitely captured his interest.

"No, thanks. I've got troubles enough of my own."

After conferring on the poor state of the economy and that neither thought it would improve anytime soon, Jimmy paid his bill, leaving a generous tip along with his card. It always paid to be good to working people. They would remember him and call with any recollected information. He smiled and winked at the woman, who at one point had given him her phone number, and then headed for the door, positive he'd made an impression. He couldn't help the strut that found its way into his steps. It seemed that some women found his new look impressive and it was good for his ego.

***

The bowling alley that evening was a total waste of time. Jimmy got nothing out of the proprietor and bartender that weren't already in the police report. He didn't learn one thing that would aid or help in his investigation. Those interviewed merely repeated the same answers, sounding as if they were scripted. He supposed after the passing of so much time that they might as well be. It would be impossible to actually remember what happened. All they could recollect would be the answers they'd given at the time. These would now be gospel. It was all that was left in their memory banks. None of it had been useful then, and it wasn't now.

After taking two more extra-strength pain aids, Jimmy went back to his office to go over his notes. He couldn't help feeling discouraged. Even though he had cautioned Hilton about the futility of the search, he'd still had faith in his own ability. Faith in the dogged determination that he'd always exhibited in everything he did. Faith that every little piece of evidence, no matter how trivial, would eventually lead to success. It was early in the investigation, too early to give up. But it wasn't looking good. In his innermost thoughts, he knew that he would have to face Hilton and his wife and tell them that they would never see their daughter again. And that they wouldn't even have her remains to bury. He dreaded that. He didn't want to see the haunted expressions their eyes would hold when he told them he'd failed.

### Chapter 8

Abby glanced at Izzy, trying to determine the mood she was in. A few months before, when Paul moved in, Izzy had gotten very angry, yelling that she was jumping from the frying pan into the fire. Her words. But possibly true. Abby just hoped they weren't prophetic. Her sister had refused to talk about it since.

Abby was almost positive that Paul had planted the hair ornament and the undergarment in her bedroom. Even the week before they had not been in Grant's jewelry box that he kept hidden behind boxes on the closet shelf. It didn't make sense that Grant would have moved them there now when he'd had them stashed them someplace safe. Not now, when he was under suspicion. After she'd destroyed his alibi, telling Paul that Grant hadn't been home when Janet went missing, then that brought up a probable cause to search her home. And just before that was when he supposedly moved his trophies to where they could be found? No, not likely. No. Paul put them there.

The question was - why? When he first paid attention to her, she was flattered. Handsome, with those jersey-cow brown eyes, and tall at six-foot-two, she was drawn to him like a fly to honey. It hadn't mattered that she was married to Grant. She'd fallen out of love with her husband, not that she'd truly ever been. He was seductive when she was young; she'd been barely eighteen when they'd married. Not so much now. And he'd become physically abusive, also emotionally; to such an extent that she was not even allowed the choice of what clothing she could wear.

Later with Paul, after the early thrill had worn off, she'd thought more about the position she'd rashly placed herself in. The foremost question was where would Paul have gotten evidence from the Bathtub Girls' murders? The only way was if he knew the killer and was trying to protect him, or that he himself was the killer. She would have liked to believe the former, but suspected the latter.

It was easily apparent to everyone, no matter how observant, that she wasn't real lucky with men. Her track record was running parallel to her mother's. Abby's dad had run off when he'd first learned of the impending child, had vanished without ever seeing his child, or rather, the twins girls their mother had delivered.

"I understand you had some company the other day?" Abby threw the question out just to see where it went. She wondered why Izzy hadn't mentioned the P.I. and why she'd had to learn about his visit from Paul. Being fully aware of Izzy's opinion of men, she thought for her to keep quiet and not to rant and rave about how stupid the man was meant that this one was different. The question was how?

"Yeah. Jimmy Warren, Private Investigator. He's checking into Janet's disappearance."

"That's what Paul told me."

Izzy didn't reply. Her opinion of Paul was already established. And it was that he was pretty, all right, but that he was hazardous to Abby's health. She stood there, her attention elsewhere, but not bristling at the moment. Abby took this as a good sign and pushed ahead with her questioning.

"Tell me about him. I feel I should know what's going on. I don't know why you didn't tell me. I am your sister, after all. "

Izzy glanced around, the irritation that was always near the surface now readily apparent.

"What's this with everybody giving me the fifth degree? First Eleanor and now you? Jimmy's just a chunky, middle-aged man with a job to do. I don't know why everyone's making such a big deal about it."

Abby raised an eyebrow. She wasn't aware that Eleanor had questioned Izzy about the P.I. And since when did Izzy feel the need to defend a mere man? This was so out of character, it really piqued her interest.

"I'm sorry. I didn't realize that I was hitting a nerve. This Warren fellow (Jimmy you said?) must be quite the guy for you to like him."

"I didn't say I liked him. But I didn't say I didn't either. He's just a guy. He seems nice, but I don't really know him." Suddenly aware of the raised eyebrows and amused expression, Izzy realized she 'doth protest too much'. She turned and grabbed her sweater from the back of the chair. "This is bull! I don't want to talk about it. I'm going out for a few hours." As she exited, she slammed the door, leaving the living room windows rattling in the wake.

Abby's mouth dropped open. Izzy was always volatile, given to raucous humor and just as easily aggravated. But why a middle-aged private detective should arouse any emotion in her at all was beyond understanding. She decided to question Paul more about Jimmy Warren. There had to be something about the situation, or the man, that she wasn't aware of. Something that would make Izzy act so oddly. Abby didn't give a thought to the possibility that another man hanging around would anger Paul and of the probable consequences that would ensue. She didn't consider Izzy's interest as being connected to her, because she never dwelled on the fact that her sister only existed in her. To Abby, Izzy was her own person, with her own likes, dislikes, and a fully complete, functioning personality. When forced to confront the facts, she knew Izzy, the baby, had died. But in her daily life, Izzy was there, and played a big role in it.

Abby wasn't known for thinking things through.

***

Izzy needed to get out of the house. First Eleanor and now Abby, both asking questions that she didn't know the answers to, and that was bewildering and frustrating. Just who was Jimmy Warren? And why would he cause her such confusion? She didn't like feeling this way. She certainly wasn't used to it, unlike Abby who'd had her share of dealings with men, Izzy hadn't had much experience. And never with any that she actually liked. She hadn't thought that possible until now.

Izzy pulled the card out of her jeans pocket and read it over again.

She knew what she had to do.

***

Jimmy sat at his desk, deep in thought, thinking about the next step in his investigation. He was considering whom to interview next. The best idea would be the grandparents. But his face wasn't conducive to that choice. He hadn't thought it possible, but he looked even worse than he had the day before. The pretty purple and green were now joined strongly with yellow; every square inch of his cheek from the temple down to the jawbone was colored with a raging jaundice tint. The eye was open again, but unfortunately, this allowed even more blood red around the iris to show. He wasn't very good-looking at the moment. Not that he had ever been. Jimmy was aware of his limitations. He had been a good detective. He was thorough, even meticulous, in his work. On a personal note, he considered himself kind, protective, and upstanding. But good-looking? No, that wasn't a quality he associated with himself.

He twirled the pen he'd been using to check off interviewed witnesses around his fingers baton style. This was a habit of his; one he was not even aware he was doing until the pen went flying, ricocheted off his knee, and skidded under the desk. Deciding it wasn't worth the effort and that he would save the retrieval for later, Jimmy opened the center drawer for another pen. Darn! That was his last one. He mentally added pens to a list he would pick up later at the dollar store. Even though his shoulders and knees hurt from the cruel treatment he'd suffered at the hands of the Thug Brothers, he knew he needed that pen. It was indispensable to his thought process.

After sliding back the faded old leather office chair (he hadn't replaced that, the sofa and occasional chairs had cost enough), Jimmy carefully lowered himself to the floor, feeling the aches and pains he'd known such action would give him. Damn those Velasquez brothers! Inconsiderate brutes. Of course, they were only doing what their father asked, and all for the benefit of their sister. Still, he felt they could have gotten his attention another way. He would have been cooperative if they'd asked nice.

Maybe. Jimmy was also fully aware of the maligned mood Ada had left him with. Maybe he wouldn't have cooperated. Cooperation wasn't something he was particularly famous for. Especially when he dug his heels in like the jackass his opponents rightly considered him to be, which would have most likely been the case. He thought his brothers-in-law knew him pretty well. Fortunately for them, he wasn't one to hold a grudge. As macho as he still felt, he might hurt them.

The pen was way to the very back of the opening. It appeared even farther back because the drawer was still open, but Jimmy, not trusting that he wouldn't pinch his fingers from his position below the drawer on the floor, deigned not to close it. He would just have to be careful not to bang his head, which was already bruised enough. He still had the remnants of that nasty headache, although, thankfully, the pain aids had helped.

The floor was dusty underneath in the dimly lit cave the drawer and inside walls of the desk created. Jimmy wiped away some of the dust bunnies with his hand, so as not to allow them to take up residence on his slacks. These bunnies had been doing what rabbits do. And that was multiplying very efficiently. He would really have to speak to the maid. Considering that was he, he wasn't sure what to say. You're fired? Seemed about right. Not that he expected a response. The maid certainly made non-payment an issue; deserving every zero dollar he'd given himself.

At that moment, when he was wondering if there was even a broom in the closet, he heard the door to the office open. No knock, just a quick twist of the handle and the door firmly thrust inward. Suddenly fearful that the Thug brothers had returned, he tried to jump to his feet only to bang his head on the top of the opening where the drawer should have been. As he bellied out, falling to the floor, something pulled his hair, spiking a thick, unruly lock into a stand up position. His first reaction was to rub his bruised head; the second was to look up.

Taped to the bottom of the desktop was an envelope. It seemed by the yellow coloring and the fraying on the envelope corners (having been rubbed and blunted with each opening and closing of the drawer) that it had been there several years.

Jimmy was intrigued, but knew his curiosity would have to wait. He instinctively knew the envelope was important and that he couldn't risk it being spotted by whoever had entered the office.

Rising from his embarrassing and vulnerable position, he was further dismayed to see the beautiful girl from the other day standing in front of the desk. She seemed amused with his clumsy attempt to brush the cobwebs from his hair and dust from his knees. He held his pen up in a weakly triumphant manner.

"Got it!" he exclaimed, wondering at the self-conscious tone to his voice. This woman must think him the fool. It was irritating. He never managed to hold onto his dignity around her. No matter how pretty she was, he told himself, she was just a girl and shouldn't be messing with him so badly. She was at least fifteen years younger, and was way out of his class. Like Ada had been. It was a good thing he wasn't looking for a replacement for his wife. Someone like this girl would be at the top of his list. Jimmy knew himself well, and one thing he was sure of was that he would never learn when it came to women. What did they say? There's no fool like an old fool.

"Congratulations are in order," she said, smiling.

Jimmy wasn't sure for what, until it dawned on him that she meant his capture of the elusive pen. "Oh, yeah. Thanks."

Jimmy's hand went to his head and he was suddenly very aware of his now-spiked hairdo, the dirt on his hand and hair, and the colorful shading to his face. He swiped at his hair quickly, trying to right the wrong, and succeeded in plastering it in place with the help of the dirty spider web. The woman didn't seem to notice; he didn't know why. To him, his garish and disheveled appearance spoke volumes. He was surprised she didn't rush screaming (or laughing) from the room.

But she did something worse. She just stood there calmly. Smiling indulgently.

"Have a seat," he said finally, after valiantly struggling to regain control. "How can I help you?"

"I've been thinking back to the time that Janet went missing."

Jimmy instantly focused on the case. All thoughts of the woman's beauty and his feeling of inadequacy around someone like her vanished. The case was what was important. His one-track bull-headed cop's mind could only concentrate on one thing at a time. And cases were his life; they were what he was good at.

"Did you remember something?"

"No, not specifically."

"Anything at all, no matter how trivial. It might be the break to solving the case," he said hopefully.

Izzy looked with wide-open, fully seeing eyes at the man seated across the desk. He looked so earnest and ... 'comfortable' was the word she groped for. The dust in his hair, the terrible bruising that colored one of his cheeks and eye, and the bedraggled way he wore his polo shirt with the buttons undone, which allowed the dark curly hair on his broad chest to show, were endearing. They seemed to tug at her heart. But it was his eyes and the friendly, yet somehow sad, smile that won her over. She wanted to push his hair out of his eyes, to touch, to hug him. Hell, she wanted to climb in his lap and snuggle. She had to fight not to do just that.

"I have a few ideas," she said quickly, surprised with her emotions, and blushing unexpectedly. " But I want to help."

"Any idea you have might help."

"What I meant was – I want to accompany you in your investigation."

Jimmy was stunned. It was tempting thinking about having the woman in his car riding around with him, getting to know her better. But it sure wouldn't be a smart thing to do. In the first place, he didn't think his insurance would cover allowing civilians to ride with him. Then, he wasn't sure potential witnesses would open up with someone else along; they barely talked to him as it was. And finally, there was Paul. He knew if he were Paul he wouldn't take to it much. Nope, he wouldn't like it at all.

"I'm sorry. My insurance doesn't allow that. I'm sure you understand."

Izzy found his answer very disappointing. She didn't argue and explode like she was prone to do. Vaguely, she was aware of this fact and couldn't help being surprised again. There was something strange going on here. It shook her self-confidence and gave her the feeling that she was losing control. She didn't think she liked that feeling.

"Have you interviewed Grant's grandparents yet? No? Well, at least let me go with you when you go out there. I haven't seen them in several years and I'd like to say hello. I know the way to their farm. It's a little tricky if you haven't been there before."

Jimmy thought over the pros and cons quickly and then replied, "That's good of you to volunteer. I'm always getting lost and I understand it's way over in Butler County." He didn't mention the brand new GPS he had in his car and made a mental note to hide it in the car's trunk. It wouldn't do for her to see that he didn't really need her assistance. He wondered why he wanted her to accompany him (oh, but did he really wonder?) and why he was being so foolish. (He didn't wonder about that part; lately being foolish just seemed to come natural to him.)

"I'll call them and set up an appointment, trying for over the weekend. Is Saturday or Sunday better with your schedule?"

"Either's good for me. Thank you. I'll stay out of your way, I promise. Janet was a friend of mine and I just want to help." Izzy held out her hand and shook Jimmy's warm one. His thick fingers encompassed hers gently, yet securely. Again she had to fight down unladylike urges, yearning to be held, protected by his embrace. She couldn't help feeling a second blush creep cross her cheek when he held her hand in what to her seemed longer than was customary. An old-fashioned fragrance that must be his aftershave scented the air and flooded her head with wistful longing.

Good god! What the hell was the matter with her? She tore her hand from his, mumbled something about being late for an appointment, and ran to the door, her bewildering and exasperating thoughts in turmoil.

Jimmy stood rooted in place feeling like an idiot when what he'd been doing finally sunk in. He was acting like a love-starved teenager. Why on earth didn't he let go of her hand? Why would he do such a thing? This woman, any woman, would only complicate his life right now. With the case, his money problems, and Ada and her brothers, there was enough on his plate. He didn't need to look for trouble, too. As pretty and desirable as this woman was, he knew that would be exactly what he would find.

Torn by his raging emotions and schoolboy hormones, Jimmy completely forgot about the envelope taped to the bottom of the desk.

### Chapter 9

Paul hung his suit jacket on the hotel's complimentary hanger and looked around. This room was nice, too nice for what he had planned. Not that he would ever consider bringing a hooker back to the building where a law enforcement conference was underway. He might be restless, eager even, but he certainly wasn't stupid. He made the decision to do some scouting later that night with the hope of finding the perfect out-of-the-way motel to use, the seedier the better.

He fought down the urge to rush out to his car and begin prowling right that minute. He badly wanted, actually it felt like _needed_ , to get under way, to begin the hunt. He had allowed himself the indulgence of only two prostitutes during the winter and he had left them happy and healthy. Paul was proud of himself for having such expert control. It proved he could indulge without surrendering to the ultimate thrill. But this time, if all went well, he would. By giving himself permission he found he could scarcely wait. Almost drooling, he was like a dog with a spiteful master. One that set a much loved treat on his nose but told him not yet; that he had to wait.

He'd promised a couple of the other detectives that he would join them for dinner around eight, have a drink or two and socialize. This wasn't easy for him. Paul was by nature a loner. He preferred his own company. But to pull off the ruse he needed to fit in. He needed to be one of the guys. Back at the post, it wasn't difficult. Detectives didn't usually associate with beat cops, so that worked to his advantage. There were several detectives at the Cincinnati precinct, but he found he could usually manage to beg off their invites, using either exhaustion, paperwork that had to be brought up to date, or more recently, Abby, as an excuse. He wasn't aware of the fact that before she came into the picture his fellow officers had taken bets on which way he leaned. After he moved in with her (there are no secrets in a police squad and they do talk about everything) it was decided he was just a late bloomer. Their suppositions would have mortified him. He didn't understand the minds of men, or women for that matter. All he really understood was the mind of a killer. That was what made him good at his job. And his exceptionally meticulous mind made him an expert at this delightful hobby.

***

Paul went back to his room for an hour after the obligatory dinner and drinks, waiting until he was sure the other detectives were settled in for the night, and then he went out to his car, careful not to be seen, and headed for the rough side of town. It didn't prove difficult to rent two nights in another room at a motel that seemed to have been made to order for his needs. It was back off the street, the parking lot poorly lit, with rooms available in the back. There were no cameras, in either the lot or the lobby. The man at the desk could barely keep his eyes open and the horn-rimmed glasses, baseball cap, and thrift store checkered jacket Paul wore was enough of a disguise that he wasn't concerned with being remembered, let alone recognized. Just in case, he was careful to slouch, making him appear shorter than his six-foot-two frame. He signed in as Bill Houston, which seemed as good a name as any. The required license plate number line was filled in with the number of a plate he'd stolen that afternoon off an older Ford at the back of a packed parking lot, an hour over the line into Indiana.

Everything was going so smoothly he allowed himself the pleasure of driving around a few blocks to check out the local talent. He knew he shouldn't, but it was dark and late. He didn't believe anyone would remember seeing him. His dark-colored mid-size car looked like millions of others on the road. Not flashy, just plain simple transportation. He got a lot of flak at the post about his car, most detectives drove around in Lincolns, Crown Vics, or – the ones that felt they had to prove something – beefed up Mustangs. Paul didn't care. A car was a car. And a car that was ordinary was vastly better.

***

Sydney Ann Jefferson was having a good night. She wasn't sure if it was her get-up (tight jeans and a cut-out tank top that showed her attributes to their best advantage) or the mild spring night that had brought so many horny men out. The three hundred dollars rolled up in her push-up bra was such a large bundle that she was afraid it showed through the scant clinging fabric. The roll was definitely uncomfortable, picking and poking into her right boob. Still, she'd take that kind of discomfort anytime.

Three hundred dollars was enough to have a good time the next time she didn't feel like working. Sydney Ann liked to party and imbibe in the occasional indulgence of crack cocaine. So far she hadn't gotten hooked. She didn't expect to, feeling herself immune to such things. Several of her friends were addicts. But this was something that just couldn't happen to her.

Tonight the moon was playing hide and seek with the clouds and made her feel vaguely anxious. She had stayed at her corner later than usual. Most nights she was already under her king-sized bed's silk sheets by this time. The last guy, one she'd been with on numerous occasions, had came straight to her after closing down a bar. She'd given him an hour, so she knew the time had to be around three a.m. It was warm and such a pretty night she'd impulsively decided to hang around another thirty minutes before closing up shop. Sometimes, more often lately, her apartment felt too alone. If she thought about it, her sister getting married to a nice guy and her having no one to go home to, was probably the reason. But she tried not to think about things like that; thinking changed nothing. She still had to pay the rent.

She watched a dark car coast slowly past her corner and turn around to come trolling back. When it stopped at the intersection for the red light, she got a good look at the man driving. Handsome, with dark hair and eyes, he smiled at her and waved. Funny. He didn't stop and she'd been sure he would. But if she knew men, and there was no question that she did, he would be back. Miss Sydney Ann was aware that she was a hottie. With a creamed-coffee complexion, slim, graceful arms, and legs clear up to there; she was a prize for any man, no matter what her sister said. Oh yeah, he'd be back.

She was tired, so it was a good time to pack it in. And it was certainly lonely out here. Although braver than she probably should be, Sydney Ann wasn't without fear. She knew it wasn't smart to be out here all alone, and even at the tender age of nineteen she'd been in the business long enough to be fully aware of the danger that accompanied the world's oldest profession. Without waiting to see if the gentleman turned around at the next corner, she strode off, her steps long and sure, toward the back of the building where she'd parked her car. She was thinking about the nice warm bed that waited for her. Nice, warm, and blissfully empty, perfect for a well-earned rest.

### Chapter 10

Izzy was waiting outside her bungalow Saturday morning when Jimmy came to pick her up. She hadn't told Abby about volunteering to help the P.I., not that it was any of her business. Abby had Paul. Just because he happened to be out of town on police business, didn't mean anything to Izzy. In her opinion it was her turn. She'd never bothered with a man before and she wasn't going to allow Abby to be selfish over the tiny amount of interest she felt over this one. Because that's what it was. Just a trivial bit, more curiosity than anything else. It was more that she'd decided to help on the Janet Hilton case. Because it was her civic duty.

"Why did you become a private eye?" Izzy asked after exhausting all the small talk she could think of. She was amazed with herself that she even bothered. The fact that she did so was certainly not from habit. She didn't remember ever caring enough before. Why this time? Jimmy Warren, left to his own devices, didn't seem to be capable of keeping a conversation going. Was he really that shy, or just inept? As she asked the question, she turned in the seat to fully face him, and noticed his cheek looked a bit better, although the jaundice color still tinted that side and black encircled his eye. Even the red around the iris had faded, although was still quite noticeable, as it probably would be for weeks. She considered volunteering to help him apply makeup; it was apparent by the way he touched his cheek that he was self-conscious about it. No, she decided, if he'd wanted to cover up his bruising, he would have done something himself, even if he botched it, which she expected he probably would.

"I'm really a detective," Jimmy was saying. "I transferred to Miami, thinking I would enjoy the winters more, which I did. But it didn't work out. Right now the Cincinnati post has a hiring freeze on. When it's over, I hope to get my old job back, working with Paul and the other guys."

Jimmy noticed the young woman stiffen at the mention of Paul's name. That was surprising and made him wonder why.

"So I got my P.I. license in the meantime. I've still got to eat," he added with a self-depreciating shrug. Jimmy found himself flustered with the woman's body so near him in the car. She smelled of spring, lavender, and tulips. The skin and muscles on her arms, bare below the sleeves of the cream and lavender short sleeve sweater she wore, were toned and smooth. But his anxiety shouldn't surprise him, considering the lack of sleep he'd gotten last night in anticipation of this very possibility.

A faint scowl crossed his face. Sometimes he even annoyed himself. The woman had valiantly tried to start a conversation several times, only to have him bumble his way along, clamming up when it was his turn to talk. God knew he was doing his best, but he still couldn't help feeling out of his element, even intimidated. He knew he shouldn't feel this way; she was just a girl. Pretty, but just a girl.

Jimmy struggled to turn his mind to the case, anything to take his mind off her lovely, smooth skin. Finally, a question he'd wanted to ask popped into his head. This was something that could cause her pain so he knew to be careful with his choice of words. He wondered how much loyalty the young woman had left for her husband. Hopefully, not much. After all, the man had murdered her friend, had a baby with another woman, and then flew the coop leaving her alone to face the scrutiny of law enforcement and to be the gossip of the neighborhood. But you never knew with husbands and wives. Misplaced loyalty seemed to be rooted in the institution of marriage. His was a case in point. No matter what Ada did, he knew he would always have a soft spot for her. There had been good times.

"I think everyone involved in the case believes Janet Hilton is dead. I mean, I hope she's not, but realistically, she would have contacted her parents by now," he began, trying to feel his way. "Her boyfriend hasn't heard from her. You said you haven't. Not to be crass, but I don't give her much chance. Do you agree?"

"Yes, I do."

"All right then. Now, have you any thoughts as to where your husband could have buried her?"

Izzy was quiet for a few seconds, considering what to tell him. He wouldn't understand that she wasn't Grant's wife; Abby was. She had no intention of going into that now. It would be difficult to explain, far easier just to accept it like she did.

"I believe she's someplace on Winston and Ruth's farm. It's the only place that I can think of that he was familiar enough with. I think he'd have stuck with a place he knew and where he felt comfortable. I don't know how he did it with them around, but that's where I think he hid her."

Jimmy mulled over her answer. It made sense. He'd already considered the possibility and ruled it the most likely scenario. Most murderers made the common mistake of sticking to known surroundings when disposing of a body. Places they'd frequented at one time or another. These were the ones most likely to be caught. It was the others, the ones that didn't, that proved the most difficult to catch. His mind jumped to the Bathtub Girls' murders. The modus operandi in those two murders didn't seem to fit with what he knew, or assumed he knew, about Grant Mason. The man seemed too small-time to have pulled off two murders without leaving evidence behind. It was like attributing a big jewel heist to a petty thief. It just didn't fit. But the evidence pointed to him.

Grant had been known to frequent prostitutes; that was documented. Although he seemed to limit the companionship of 'working women', only resorting to them when he was between girlfriends. His being the prime suspect remained a possibility. He may have even been with the two women before, although this hadn't been proven. Still, Jimmy wasn't convinced. Something didn't feel right. His gut said no, and he trusted his gut.

Another question. Why hadn't the police scoured the Mason farm? It should have been the first place they'd looked. He would have, but he hadn't been in charge of the investigation. For all he knew the property had been searched and this was just an exercise in futility. He glanced covertly at Izzy, thinking that with such company it was at least a nice way to spend the day.

Why Mason would have felt the need for so many extramarital exploits was beyond his understanding. With a woman like this at home, Jimmy knew he wouldn't have. He had always been true blue. It hadn't been him that had strayed in his marriage and he hadn't been the first to bring up the big 'D'. Divorce. He wondered when Ada's lawyer would get around to serving him. And that brought to mind the question of whether he would be required to pay for her representation. Probably. It seemed to be the way the Velasquez mind worked. He scowled, resigned to not having a dime of his own until the divorce was over and hoping the money he'd deposited in his account from Hilton's retainer wouldn't be found out by her tough, uncompromising brothers.

"Turn left here," Izzy said, breaking into his wandering thoughts.

"Then take a right in three miles and it's the third driveway on the right." She smiled at him, wondering what he'd been thinking that had caused him such aggravation. His poor, bruised face seemed to mirror every emotion. She wondered if he had been a successful detective, which didn't seem likely, because it didn't look like he could keep a secret. Oddly, the trait was endearing, like Eleanor said of her favorite, Detective Colombo. She'd seen that old program once or twice and didn't see the resemblance. Jimmy Warren was younger and better looking.

"Their house sits some distance from the road. Watch out, the drive is a bumpy one. But it's quite a pretty spot and I've always loved it. The place is so peaceful."

Jimmy pulled up the driveway, his mood lifted with the woman's exuberance. If she loved it, he was sure he would.

Her reflection proved correct. An old rambling farmhouse with a wrap-around porch sat at the top of the rise, sheltered by a row of forty-year old spruce trees. Spring's bright green grass was everywhere, speckled with the happy yellow of dandelions, some bravely growing between the twin ruts of the driveway. A few chickens moved out of the way, clucking their dissatisfaction, only to immediately merge behind in their search for a worm or bug disturbed by the car's wake.

An old couple sat on the front porch, rocking in mismatched chairs. His was large, the wood darkened with age. Hers was newer and had originally been white, but was now covered with stains and the dust that covered everything. Even the two cats lying in the sun in their positions at the top of the steps had dust on their hair and clinging to their whiskers. Lazy, longhaired, and fat, they didn't seem to be capable of catching a mouse, let alone of knowing what to do with one if they did.

The old woman sat disconsolately, holding a bundle that looked like a large wig or shaggy fur pillow. Her face was wet and the expression it wore was one of heartbreak. As Jimmy stepped closer he discerned paws sticking stiffly forward and backward from the tangled mat of hair. It was the corpse of a very fat, incredibly ancient, tabby cat. It was plain that rigor mortis had set in.

Jimmy glanced at the elderly man seated beside her. He was making a somewhat flustered attempt to comfort and was patting her arm with a gnarled, knobby hand. He wore an expression of muddled concern that lifted when he spotted Izzy.

"Well, Abigail! It's been a long time, girl. How ya been?"

"I've had my ups and downs," she said, smiling. "How are you two doing?"

"Yes, I bet you have," Winston said thoughtfully, sadly. "We've been better, too. When we got up this morning we found Tiger like this. Ruth is taking it kind of hard." He looked at Izzy beseechingly, begging for help in a situation that was beyond him.

Izzy knelt beside the old woman. "Hi, Ruth," she said in a gentle voice. "Do you remember me?"

Ruth looked up. Even with the kneeling position Izzy was in, she was taller by an inch. Abruptly, a warm smile brightened the old woman's face, sunshine beaming through the rain of tears. Jimmy almost swore he could see a rainbow. Her smile was candid, a simple heart evident in the clear, open expression.

"Abby! I haven't seen you in months." She looked beyond her hopefully. "Is Grant with you? That boy hasn't been to see us in a while."

Izzy looked at Winston, her eyes questioning. Winston shook his head, telling her volumes. Ruth wouldn't understand. She didn't remember that her beloved grandson was missing; that he was a wanted man. Winston didn't want her to go through the pain and embarrassment that the enlightenment would cause. He wanted to protect her.

"No, he's not," Izzy said, and added a lie. "He's busy at work."

"I need a hug," Ruth said, struggling to get to her feet. Winston took the cat from her arms without her being aware; she was so intent upon the young woman before her. Then behind her back, Winston made a motion pantomiming a shovel. Izzy nodded almost imperceptibly, as she bent over and wrapped her arms around Ruth, mindless of the cat hair, dust, and tears that wet the old woman's face.

"Let's go inside," Izzy said. We need to wash up, put the coffee on, and have a good visit."

"Yes, we do," Ruth agreed, her face even brighter, happy with the unexpected company, completely delighted with the prospect of socializing. For now the cat was forgotten, and, with luck, wouldn't be missed when she next went out to the porch.

### Chapter 11

As Izzy led Ruth away, she flashed Jimmy a smile that stopped him cold, causing his heart to skip a beat. It almost made him forget that Winston and Ruth Mason had called her Abby, just as he'd known Paul to. He hadn't remembered wrong. But why had she introduced herself, and insisted yet this morning when he'd called her Mrs. Mason, that she wanted to be called Izzy? It was all very strange. Of course, it could be something simple. Maybe Izzy was her middle name. Or maybe she was tired of being called Abby and felt the name associated her with Grant. He didn't know. He made a note to question her about it on the drive home.

"She's a looker, isn't she?" Winston asked, rousing and embarrassing Jimmy. Winston had noticed the way he stared, that he couldn't seem to take his eyes off her. Jimmy silently cursed himself. This was not the impression he wanted to give the older man. He wanted to at least give the appearance of being professional. No matter the situation, this woman was still married to the old man's grandson and he didn't want to antagonize him.

"Beautiful girl," he said by way of agreeing and trying to show he wasn't trying to put a move on her, and that she was too young for him. "Have you known her long?"

"Since she and Grant married. That was in 2004, I believe. He introduced us just before they eloped. We've only seen her a few times; that was back in the early years. Grant hasn't brought her around in the last four or five. Don't know why. We always enjoyed her company. Especially the Missus. We don't get much company out here. Not enough for most women, anyway. But pardon me," Winston said, lowering his voice and moving quickly toward the steps. "I've got to get this dang cat buried before she comes back and discovers he's dead all over again. I can try to save her a repeat of the pain. Ruth has dementia. She doesn't remember what happened ten minutes ago, let alone in the last four or five years. With the cat out of sight I'm hopin' she'll forget."

"I'll come with you. I'd like to help. We can get my questions over with at the same time, out of Ruth's earshot. She doesn't need to hear them."

"Good, Bub. I'll let you do the digging, my old back isn't what it used to be."

The men walked companionably around the house toward a shed that had to have lived a previous life as an outhouse. The door had black wrought-iron hardware and a half-moon cutout in the gray, rough-sawn lumber. Bushes growing tightly up against the building showed many seasons of being missed by the lawn mower and deep cracks and weathering in the boards showed the little building had been sitting in its current position for many years without even the feeble protection of paint. Black streaks on the aged lumber had a comfortable mellowing effect that made the lumber look smooth and soft, without a splinter in sight.

Winston handed Jimmy the dead cat, opened the shed, and began rummaging through dozens of rusty antique hand tools propped leaning against each other in every corner. If there had been a seat at the back with its necessary hole, there wasn't one now. The building was only used for storage. The lingering odor was merely dirt and rust.

"Huh? Doesn't this pop your bubble?" Winston asked, the question meant for himself and not for an answer from Jimmy. "Where did that old shovel go? I don't understand it. I always keep it right here in the front where it's handy."

After a few seconds of searching and a choice word or two, Winston exclaimed, "Ah ha! Here it is!"

He pulled out a long handled shovel that still had black dirt caked to the bottom.

"Now, what's this?" Winston said in disgust. "The blasted thing is cracked! I don't remember splitting the handle. You'd think I'd remember that, wouldn't you?" He began to scrape away the dirt with his hand. "And I never leave my tools in this condition. I don't know what I was thinking!"

"Stop!" Jimmy ordered.

Winston scowled at him in irritated confusion. "What?" he asked.

"Don't touch the dirt."

"What are you talking about? This dirt has to come off, so we can get the blasted cat buried."

"No, it doesn't. I've got a shovel in the back of my car. I'll get it. Just set your shovel down right there and don't touch it again. I'm sorry, but it's police evidence. I hate to tell you this, but there's a good possibility Grant buried the Hilton girl somewhere on your property. This shovel could prove it."

Winston let his breath out, deflating his body, making him appear several inches smaller. He had been irritated with the younger man at first, but his posture now showed only defeat. He knew his grandson was guilty, had known since he was first accused. But to be hit between the eyes with what could be the proof, and that he had been the one to uncover it was a terrible thing. He didn't want to face the fact that Grant would bury the girl here, near where his grandparents' ate and slept, trying to peacefully live out the rest of their lives. Grant simply couldn't have. No one was that cruel.

"The dirt's black," Jimmy noticed, as he squatted, studying the shovel's metal point. "Is that the usual color of soil here?"

"No, mostly it's stony and brown. A sand and gravel mix. The only dirt like that is in that ridge over there where the pines are planted."

With careful consideration, it all made sense to Jimmy. Thinking back to the time Janet Hilton went missing, he remembered the ground had been hard, still frozen in most spots. The soil under the pines would have been the only place soft enough to dig, if you could manage to find a spot between the pines' roots. Tough, maybe, but certainly not impossible. Especially if you were motivated.

"Did they bring a cadaver dog out here five years ago?" Jimmy asked. "I can't recall." This wasn't honest. He had been on his way to Miami by then, but the old man didn't need to know this.

"Not that I know of."

"Well, they'll be bringing one out now. I'm sorry, I know it's not fair to you and your wife, but we'll have to bother you again. There's just no way around it. It has to be done. You understand?"

Winston nodded, his face pale in the morning sun. The circus was going to begin again. It had just calmed down. Only lately, the neighbors had stopped mentioning it whenever they saw him. Was it ever going to end? Resentment toward his grandson flared, but waned away quickly. The young man was the only family he and Ruth had, since their son and daughter-in-law had died in a car wreck many years ago when Grant was only a child. It was funny, but Winston had known there was something wrong with the boy even then, but hadn't been able to put his finger on it. Winston didn't blame himself; he had done his best to try and raise Grant right. Whatever it was that was off inside the boy was something that wasn't in Winston's power to fix.

There was nothing he could do about the trouble Grant had gotten himself into. Ruth was the only thing that mattered. She was his everything. And he didn't want her hurt. That left a cat that still needed to be buried. Winston was nothing if not practical.

He wiped old, tired eyes and straightened his shoulders. There was work that needed to be done.

"You said you've got a shovel in your trunk?"

### Chapter 12

Jimmy used his cell phone to ring up the Cincinnati post, only to be told that Det. Lewinski was out of town at a conference and wouldn't be back until Monday. Jimmy pondered his options but in the end left word that he wanted to be called immediately when Lewinski came in. That it was urgent. He could have told another detective about the hunch he had, but decided against it. It would be better for all concerned if Paul got the information first. It was his case. And Jimmy had no desire to ruffle feathers. Between wanting his old job back and the complication of his attraction to Izzy, he was already walking on eggshells. The woman had been missing for five years. A few more days wouldn't matter.

After obtaining Winston's promise not to touch the shovel (which Jimmy taped up in plastic) and that he would also not poke around the pines, the men had gone inside. There they had spent a few minutes in small talk before he and Izzy took their leave.

Barely a mile down the road Izzy asked, "Well?" Did you find anything?"

"Might have. The handle to Winston's shovel is cracked, and he doesn't remember doing it. It might mean nothing, but you never know."

Izzy nodded solemnly. She didn't know whether to be elated or depressed. After all these years, the possibility of having Janet's disappearance solved was enough to throw her completely off-kilter. She sat quietly thinking it out, trying to appreciate how finding Janet's remains could change her life.

With her face a study in contradictions, Jimmy felt it wise not to distract her. He had given victims' families and friends life altering news before. In his experience, everyone needed time to work such things out for him or her selves. So he kept quiet and pointed the car's nose toward the freeway.

He waited until they were on Ohio Hwy. 27 headed south toward Cincinnati to broach his question. And that was who the woman seated beside him really was. And why she had asked to be called Izzy.

"Have you got two names?" Jimmy began, knowing it sounded stupid. "I don't understand why you tell me your name is Izzy, but everyone else calls you Abby."

Izzy blinked, struggling to come back from her tangled thoughts. She was surprised at the question. But on second thought, of course Jimmy would ask. It probably did sound weird to him. She struggled; searching for an answer, knowing there was no way he would understand. This would be difficult to explain.

"Yes. There are two names. I don't want to be called Abby, because I'm not her."

Jimmy didn't understand and his expression showed it. She would have to explain better than that, if she hoped to make it clear to him.

"Abby left, or has been in the process of leaving, since Grant disappeared," she continued, grasping for the right words. "The man was a total jerk. He was abusive and controlling. Since he's been gone, life's good and things are changing for the better." She stared straight ahead through the windshield at the highway in front of them.

Jimmy suddenly felt as if he'd bumbled into something he had no right to intrude upon. He had obviously made her uncomfortable and that hadn't been his intention. It was really none of his business, but a detective's mind is always full of questions. And he had been a good detective. The young woman had a strange way of wording things, but he thought he was beginning to understand better. The mystery of her name(s)was connected with what she'd gone through; the abuse she'd suffered at Grant's hands.

"I'm sorry," he apologized. "Men can be such asses at times. And that includes me. I've no right to pry."

"That's all right. I want you to understand."

Jimmy didn't fully, but he had no intention of pursuing the subject further. What he'd managed to get out of what she'd said was that Abby was an abused woman and now, as Izzy, she wasn't. If the name change helped solidify that to her and helped to give her some dignity, then that was fine. Women shouldn't have to put up with the Grant Masons of the world. He was a firm believer in using whatever worked, and if a name change made her feel better about herself, then so be it.

After dropping Izzy off at home, Jimmy drove straight to the office. He planned to record the day's findings in the ledger he kept for the case. After that he planned to tackle some unfinished business waiting for him there.

***

Paul's first class that morning was 'Inside the Mind of the Killer'. It was about the art of profiling and concentrated on the skills law enforcement must employ to catch serial killers. The subject fascinated him. He sat on the edge of his seat, soaking in every word, no matter how trivial. There was almost enough enjoyment involved for him right here in this room to consider the whole weekend memorable. But not really.

"Serial killers primarily stick to their own unique MO," the instructor said, a man who barely looked twenty-five. Paul wondered how such a young man, younger than he was by several years, could be in a position to teach the class. He couldn't have had much experience. Paul was disappointed over that, and debated whether he would get much more out of the class, when the instructor continued, "Their victims will fall into a precise, specific category. They will choose a certain age bracket, race, some even a certain color of hair for their target."

Paul's radar began to boot up. The young man was making sense. Maybe he was one of those geniuses that television liked to portray? Young and with a freakishly high IQ.

"He will leave his bodies in similar locations, whatever has worked for him in the past. Sometimes he positions them the same way, or dresses them to suit his own twisted fantasies. And that, gentlemen and ladies, is how we'll get him. Repetition. His perverted urges will not allow him to change. He _must_ follow a precise pattern and then he _will_ slip up. Because he has no choice but to follow those specific compulsions, he leaves himself open for mistakes. And then we _will_ get him. It's only a matter of time."

Now Paul's antennae were really twitching. He had done that himself! He, who should have known better, had left behind signs that a good profiler could read. Not that there were many of them in Cincinnati, certainly not Bernard Bartholomew, the man the FBI had assigned to the case. And, not one of the detectives he worked with, no matter how adept at profiling they fancied themselves to be, could accurately be called good. But, he had left a documented signature. This young man teaching the class would, most probably, read it correctly. The brief profile that Agent Bartholomew had come up with had been more concerned with the suspect's age and body strength than anything else, something that should have been apparent to anyone with half a brain. _The women had been carried to bathtubs and placed down gently, showing strength on the killer's part. There had been very little bruising._ These facts Bartholomew had noted in his report, not from great insight, but simply because they weren't typical. Most serial killers are engulfed by rage and the victim's bodies show this, by vicious assault or a degrading positioning. Bartholomew's report was certainly short of enlightening. Which was just the way Paul wanted it, although he'd had to hide his contempt for the man, pretending that the profile was helpful.

Truthfully, Paul had never been what someone would call typical. His compulsion, the one that gave him the most pleasure, was to see the light go out in his victims' eyes. For his ultimate enjoyment, he had to face them and watch it happen. The women's death was unavoidable and for Paul could only be described as a calling. He wasn't out to cause more pain than necessary, unlike some of the twisted killers he himself had caught.

His thoughts went to Grant Mason, the man accused of the murders of the Bathtub Girls. Paul had seen the chance to frame him by planting two beloved souvenirs at the man's home. It had worked well. Mason was now a wanted man, with an APB covering the whole country, and Paul had not allowed himself to indulge since that time. But he would this night, if all went according to plan. He now realized he would have to choose a different type of woman for his fun. Thoughts of the pretty African-American girl he'd seen the night before entered his head. As he thought back, he was surprised to note that his previous selections had all been white. He hadn't thought of himself as racist, but maybe he was. No, he pushed that idea away. Race really wasn't important to him. In fact, in high school he'd dated a black girl and after that a sweet little oriental. The black girl, he remembered her name was Alicia, had been on the debate team and was smart in addition to being pretty. Both girls had been smart, for that matter. Brains, for his current purpose, weren't a requirement.

The fact that his victims so far had been white was simply because of opportunity. No others had presented him with the chance, due to location. The area too well lit, or their proximity to other hookers that might remember him and his car, there had always been some reason to reject them. Paul always used extreme care and allowed sufficient time to make his selection, and his topmost prerequisite was that the woman had to be alone. It had nothing to do with color. It gave him a burst of pride to know that he was colorblind.

Last night he'd driven around a few blocks and gone back to where the girl had been standing only to find her gone. He remembered the African-American girl as being beautiful. Long and lean with well-toned arms and legs, she was young and strong. She would be fun. And, if anyone somehow managed to connect it, she wouldn't fit his (or should he say Mason's) profile, which would add another measure of protection.

***

After making his notes in the Janet Hilton ledger, Jimmy made sure that his office door was locked and that the 'closed' sign showed. He reset the answering machine to pick up on the first ring. He wanted to enjoy the suspense and preferred not to be disturbed, even by a new client. It was Saturday. They could leave a message.

With his coffee cup refilled, he went back to his desk, pushed the chair back out of the way, and opened the middle drawer. Getting down on his knees, which thankfully weren't as painful as a few days earlier, he reached up above where the drawer usually sat and tore the thick envelope loose from its aging yellow tape. He was curious and not a little excited to find out what was inside. He hoped the mystery would be entertaining and couldn't help thinking he deserved a little pleasure after the last few days.

The glue that sealed the envelope was dry and worn out. It gave easily, as if eager to amuse him. Inside were several sheets of legal-size paper. When he spread the sheets out, Jimmy was stunned to find a Last Will and Testament for a Darren Lee Wurtsmith. The name sounded vaguely familiar. He searched his mind for any recollection, but could remember nothing. Quickly scanning the six sheets of paper, he noted that the man had considerable holdings and several children by different wives. Mr. Wurtsmith was, or had been, a man of means.

That was it! He remembered now. Darren Lee Wurtsmith was a rich playboy that didn't seem to be able to live ten minutes without a woman, or most times, several, even when he'd been so old that babies, and the usual method of acquiring them, should have been out of the question. His progeny ranged from the age of sixty down to a preteen at the time of his death. Ahead of each divorce, the next Missus would already be lined up in the wings. His fortune had been considerable, but by the time it was settled with as many divisions as such a large family demanded, each offspring inherited only moderate wealth. Only several million apiece. Jimmy recalled the fight the families had put up, each demanding their share and not caring if the other half-siblings got a dime or not. He remembered hearing about a boy, his name was Bryan, or Bobby, or something, who had magically popped out of the woodwork. His mother, one of Wurtsmith's nurses, claimed he was a love child. Considering the boy was only three when the old man died at eighty-eight, the news programs had a field day with it and the families hotly contested her petition. As Jimmy remembered it, the families had won.

He reread the beneficiaries listed before him more carefully. There it was. Bryan Lee Ervine, son and beneficiary. The boy's name was handwritten in a shaky script that might have been Wurtsmith's own. It had been witnessed and signed by a woman whose name Jimmy wasn't familiar with. He guessed she might have been another nurse. A second signature was of a bodyguard; one of the three that Wurtsmith hired for twenty-four hour protection. Jimmy wondered if they were to protect him from his many business enemies or from his family. Sometimes money buys you nothing but trouble.

The lengthy, messy court battle had been in the news at least ten years back. The child, who must now be in his early teens, had been proven by DNA not to be Wurtsmith's. But here was a will to dispute that. If the signature was Wurtsmith's and the date was after the will the court had on record, then this document was going to add kindling to a long-smoldering fire.

Jimmy sat back in his chair, debating what to do. Maybe he should just stay out of it. It wouldn't be smart to bring his name up. That would be just what happened if he took the will to the authorities. His name and face would end up plastered all over the newspapers; the scandal magazines would have a field day. Some people would assume he had an ulterior motive, wanting a reward or maybe a finder's fee. Some would believe he worked for the Ervines and that the document was a fake. There were a lot of rich people that wouldn't like him very much, which couldn't be good for him no matter how you looked at it. Rich people make vicious enemies. They have the power and means to make your life miserable. When his old buddies at the precinct heard about it, he would be considered too Hollywood for them. Show-boaters were never appreciated in a precinct. You had to work too closely, too many hours, in too confined a space with everyone there. He might as well kiss that hoped-for rehire goodbye forever.

But, there was a woman out there, a mother trying to raise her son alone. Even if Bryan wasn't the old man's kid, he'd apparently wanted him to inherit an equal share. Jimmy took another sip of his coffee. Coffee that had managed to get cold while he'd been thinking. He grimaced. Coffee tastes so bitter when it's cold. He didn't know why he bothered. Drinking it was just a habit acquired by too many long hours on the job. But he was darned if he could quit. He didn't enjoy headaches that much. As he set the cup down his eyes were drawn to the initials carved into the desk. 'DLW'. Darren Lee Wurtsmith. Couldn't be a coincidence. The envelope had been taped to the desk's underbelly, so the desk at one time must have belonged to Wurtsmith. Why was it now located in a drafty downtown office? This was something Jimmy had to find out. Even if in retrospect it proved ill-fated, he was pleased to think that he'd solved the mystery of the initials. But at what cost? This packet had developed into quite a can of worms and the weather wasn't conducive to fishing.

He guessed there was no way around it, and felt it was a dirty shame. He would have to contact Ms. Ervine's attorney and turn the document over. Maybe they could be persuaded to leave Jimmy's name out of the whole thing. It was all he could hope for.

***

"Hey, Paul. Want to grab a bite in the motel's restaurant?" Det. Michael Sorenson asked. He was a detective that Paul had teamed with earlier on a case that had bridged their two jurisdictions. Det. Sorenson worked out of the Dayton precinct, forty miles from Cincinnati. Although not a homicide case, Paul had willingly taken it when the commander had asked for volunteers. The victim had been a kidnapped child, the case one of the worst kind. Because of the combined efforts of Paul and Michael, the seven-year-old had been found alive. But not unscathed. She would carry emotional and physical scars for the rest of her life. Michael had been devastated over the horrific manner in which she'd been treated. He'd been angry and blamed himself for not finding her earlier. He'd spoken to Paul about the toll such cases levied upon him and received the unsatisfactory answer that they'd done all they could. Paul thought the girl was lucky to have survived at all. He didn't understand Michael's guilt. It was an illogical emotion. Paul wasn't a child molester. He had done his job, and done it well. The little girl was home with her parents. He was blameless. Michael's emotions were a mystery and Paul's curiosity as to why he felt that way was one reason he tolerated his company. Michael never suspected that he was a slide under the microscope. And it never occurred to him that Paul felt differently than he did.

At the moment, all Paul could think about were the plans he had for that night. He was afraid his face and mood would give away the wild exhilaration that he felt. He attempted to beg out.

"Ah, come on. You've got to eat," Michael continued. It was plain he wasn't going to take no for an answer. "I thought we'd go to the bar afterward for a couple of hours and charm a barmaid or two into following us upstairs. What's the matter? Don't you feel lucky, punk?" he asked in a poor Dirty Harry imitation, his voice a raspy whisper.

Paul grinned, deciding he might as well go along. What was he going to do for the next seven or eight hours? Sit in his room and watch TV with his mind going over possible scenarios, getting more and more worked up? Hours had to be killed before his upcoming, much anticipated rodeo, and it was probably best to get his mind off it for at least a little while.

"All right, but you'll buy the beer. And I'm not staying out all night either. A couple of hours are plenty and two beers enough. As for female companionship, I'll pass. The gals here in Indianapolis are wise to country boys. I don't plan to lose what little extra money I brought with me. I'm just a poor underpaid detective, not like you."

"How do you figure that? I get the same wages you do."

"Oh yeah, right. We both know Dayton pays better. Cinci's a cheap old bitch; she takes and takes and doesn't give back. Our only claim to fame is Spike TV's 'Cops', and that's more infamy than fame. In Cinci, murder's our favorite hobby, and hobbies can be expensive and dangerous to your health if you're not careful," Paul said with more honesty than Michael could ever suspect.

### Chapter 13

True to his word, Michael bought the first beer. And he also found a couple of suspiciously well-dressed ladies to join them at their table. Paul wasn't happy with the development, but Michael seemed oblivious to his displeasure. Michael was young and single and if he wanted to pay for a woman's attentions, Paul didn't intend to interfere. The man was old enough to know what he was doing and to suffer the consequences if it turned out wrong. Paul knew that he wouldn't risk it. Not that night.

He understood Michael's urgent craving. And that it wasn't smart to use the services of a call girl in your own precinct. It could put an end to your career. Back in Cincinnati Paul had developed a system. He only visited hookers on the opposite side of town from where the prostitution squad was working. They would be taking down johns on the north side while he visited the south. Paul was suspicious as to why these girls were in a motel that was full of cops. One that was hosting a law enforcement conference. He didn't think it likely that the Indianapolis precinct had undercover plants, but who knew? Surely they wouldn't risk the field day the papers would have if they got word of cops busting cops? He hoped Michael knew what he was doing.

Amber and Coral wore shoes that had to sport at least six inches of heel. They weren't short women, so Amber towered over Michael, not that he seemed to care. He was smitten. Even with the shoes, Coral was still a couple of inches shorter than Paul's six-foot-two height. They were both pretty girls and either could have done well in bonafide modeling professions. Maybe that work was harder.

Paul leaned back in his chair and studied the women. Michael had led Amber back to the table by the hand, leaving no doubt as to his choice. Paul could understand it. She was striking, with the long legs, strong cheekbones, and Ethiopian eyes that were like deep oval pools. He turned his attention to Coral. Lighter skinned but just as pretty, she had a regal bearing and an intelligent expression. She was a jaw-dropping beauty, actually, who returned his stare, studying him as much as he was her. Their eyes met and held a few seconds before she dropped them and nervously looked away making him wonder what she'd read there.

Paul realized he had opened a window, allowing the woman to peek into his soul. He suddenly knew his yearnings and urges had shown themselves, had been exposed there in plain view. He couldn't help feeling anxious as he realized what he'd been thinking, which was the intense pleasure he would derive from positioning his hands just so on her neck and tightening, gradually tightening, watching her expression turn from a playful tease to one of horror. He didn't understand how, but he was positive that somehow this woman knew.

No, that was impossible. He hadn't said a word. There was no way she could know what he'd been thinking. Maybe she'd felt something, the barest flutter of something wrong. She may have an acute sense of self-preservation; similar to a deer in the woods stalked by a wolf.

But there was no humanly possible way this woman could know.

"Have you lived here long?" Paul asked. He was calm, self-confident now, master of his universe.

"For three years. I'm originally from San Francisco," Coral replied, her voice scratchy. She rubbed at the base of her throat; it was unaccountably sore.

"What are you doing here? This winter had to have sucked compared to what you're used to."

"It did. I was hoping that I'd be used to it by now, but nope, guess not. I'm thinking of going back."

"I would. Indiana just can't compare."

Paul looked at her and smiled, satisfied. They understood each other and, unless he was reading more into it than was suggested, she didn't intend to stick around, a potential problem solved.

"Yeah, I'll be leaving next week. In fact, I'll get my bus ticket Monday morning, if I'm not sick in bed with another cold."

Amber looked at Coral with her mouth open. This was the first she'd heard of her friend's plans.

Michael popped up, "Well, let me buy a round, a going-away drink for the young lady. I'm sure Indianapolis will be sorry to see you go; I know we will. But our loss will be California's gain." He'd been completely oblivious to the strain between Paul and Coral, only pouncing upon her announcement as another means to party.

"I'll drink to your safe journey," Paul said, looking into Coral's eyes. "But then I'm going to turn in. I've had a long day and tomorrow promises to be another."

"Yeah, I'm going home, too. I don't feel so well tonight. Sorry, Amber. I'm afraid we'll have to leave early."  
"I can give you a lift," Michael interrupted again, turning quickly back to Amber. His intentions were readily apparent. It even showed in the intense, alert posture of his body as he sat in his chair staring hopefully at the young woman.

"Michael will get me home," Amber said. "I'm sorry you're sick, babe. I'll see you in the morning. We'll talk tomorrow."

***

Paul forced himself to wait until the motel clock said it was 1:00 a.m. There was no sense going out early. There was too much chance of being seen. Too much chance of being remembered. At this time of the morning, some of the girls and the pretty boys that worked their corners would have retired for the night. It narrowed the selection, but it cut down the number of eyes watching.

He got in his car and headed back to where he'd seen the black girl. She'd left the corner by the time he'd returned the night before. He hoped she would be there now; she was interesting. His excitement was enough to make his heart pound loudly in his ears.

There she was! Leaning back against a building so casually, so nonchalantly, her long legs emphasized by shiny black pumps and a miniskirt that from where it was buttoned at her waist to the hem couldn't have measured eight inches. Unlike the night before, her arms were covered with a soft, fluffy fabric that he wanted to pet. The red mohair sweater was so low cut in front that it did more than suggest what nature had blessed her with. It flaunted it.

He pulled up to her corner and waved her inside.

"Are you a cop?" Sydney Ann asked, a scowl on her pretty face. "You look like one."

"Not likely," he said. "If I was, I'd hassle some of those old skags that shouldn't be out here at all, rather than harass a pretty thing like you. You're gorgeous, girl."

Sydney Ann smiled and climbed into the car. She'd known she was the best on the block, in fact, the best for many blocks no matter the direction. It was nice to have someone else point that out, though. Even if it was a john that was probably hoping for a break on the price.

"Sixty bucks. Your choice," she said suspiciously, holding the door open for a quick escape. Her face wore the unasked question, waiting for his decision before she would settle in and he could put the car in drive.

Paul nodded. It was best not to say too much, just agree. This pretty little girl with the long legs seemed nervous enough.

"Bill," he said, holding out his hand.

"Sydney Ann," she replied, shaking his hand once, having determined that he would pay the fee. Unaware of the savagery awaiting her, she pulled the door shut, and settled back in the seat. It was the worst decision of her life.

### Chapter 14

Sydney Ann looked around the dreary room. Depressingly similar to all the others she frequented, this one was a washed-out brown, with what may have once been blue accents now faded to gray. Dusty, smelling of cigarettes and unappealingly of body odor, it was bargain basement priced. At least this guy had the foresight to secure a room, better than some that expected their services done in the nearest alley, although Sydney Ann wasn't prejudiced against alleys, if the money was right. It was far speedier, getting her back at her corner without wasting precious time. But a real bed was the best. Besides getting her off her feet and out of those new heels that painfully pinched her toes, it was more civilized. She thought sex out in the weather with only a dumpster to hide behind was barbaric. Those men that wanted it that way, or couldn't afford anything else, didn't deserve her best efforts. Oh, she had plenty of skill, enough to get it over with quickly, but there was no finesse involved. Sydney Ann had talent and looks, maybe good enough for the movies (to be in a porn flick was a dream of hers), but too bad for those cheapos; they would never find out.

"Would you like to take a shower first?" Bill asked quietly. "I would if you'd join me." He pulled a wrapped condom from his jeans pocket and held it in his hand as he waited for an answer.

Sydney Ann glanced at him sharply. Was he implying that she wasn't clean? Her opinion of the man did a one-eighty. Where before, in the car, he had seemed interesting and nonjudgmental, now she wondered if she had been mistaken. She studied him more closely. It was obvious that wherever he was from, he had a good job. His clothes, his bearing, and even his haircut told her that he had money. He could have afforded an expensive call girl. To be here meant he was just slumming, looking for a cheap thrill. Well, she could give him that. She hid the anger that had flared in her eyes, knowing she didn't have to like the man she was with. Only his money.

Which brought to mind another idea. If he had the money she thought he might, then maybe he would like a real party. She wouldn't mind that. A little crack would help improve her mood. She hadn't imbibed in over a week and the whole thing (men, shoes, the spring's weather, her aggravating roommate who kept talking about how no one had ever had a cold as bad as hers) was becoming tedious. Sydney Ann needed, no deserved, a break.

"Sure, baby. But this little girl wants some 'candy'. How about you run out and pick some up first? Then we could really have a good time."

Paul stared at her. He'd known that eventually he'd run into someone that used. If he were to be honest about it, most of the girls probably did. But none had asked him to buy or to party before this. He had no intentions of ruining his body and now he found he'd lost interest in hers. His plan had been to have sex first, starting in the shower, and finishing on the bed. Then the real fun could begin. Now the game would be different.

"I don't do that. They test at work, you know? Wish I could, but how about if I get you a little afterwards?"

Sydney Ann was disappointed. It could have been a real wild night. She was enough of a realist to know that if this guy, what did he say his name was? Bill? (Probably not his real name.) If Bill left to make a buy, he wouldn't come back. Why should he? Just so he could stay in this flea-bit room? She was glad she had her own apartment, even if she did share it with a hypochondriac, because she wouldn't have to stay here either. This room was downright gloomy. She suddenly had the urge to turn on all the lights. She reached for the switch on the wall by the bed.

"No, leave it off," he said. "I like the mood."

" _Mood? Since when did any of the men she met want 'mood'? Oh well, whatever the client wants--,"_ she thought.

"Let's shower, baby. It's whatever you want, you know," Sydney Ann said in a matter-of-fact manner, pulling the mohair sweater over her head. She tried to conceal the fact that all she wanted now was to get the rendezvous over with, was already looking ahead to the next dollar she could make. It had been a rainy spring and she hadn't been able to work her corner several nights during the last week. Thankfully, the weather since Thursday had been balmy, and had made it a pleasure to be outside. After the long, cold winter it was nice to enjoy the sweetness spring flowers added to the air (she could smell them even over the cars' exhaust) and to hear birds chirping as they settled down for the night, instead of the wind howling. It had been so bad most of the winter that it had actually caused the streetlights to sway, doing a violent rumba visible through the stinging sleet and snow. She'd been afraid the lights would detach from their moorings and crash into the street. Now though, the breeze that danced among the trees' new leaves was gentler and seemed pleased to be have arrived. And, although still cool at night, the warmth of the last few days promised this summer would be a scorcher. Sydney Ann preferred summer to winter. She'd always loved things hot.

She shimmied out of the miniskirt, pulling it down over her hips to drop in a pile on the floor. Like a lot of young women, she never wore garters or panty hose, meticulously keeping her legs hair free. They were smooth and baby soft from the huge quantities of lotion she applied. Her youthful skin glowed. And the amount she paid for the lotion was more than compensated by what she saved not buying hose. She knew that the men lucky enough to be blessed with more of her time appreciated it.

'Bill' unbuttoned his chambray shirt and slid it off, exposing well-toned abs and strong shoulders. His upper body was powerfully built with long legs set firmly underneath. She hadn't realized he was such a big man. Sydney Ann felt a moment of disquiet, not sure whether to be appreciative or afraid. Here was a man she could enjoy and also one that had the potential to really hurt her. She wasn't sure which he would turn out to be. She glanced once at the door that seemed so far away, before forcing herself to calm down. There was nothing she could do about it now. She was committed.

He held out his hand and led her into the bathroom, before pushing his briefs down over his thighs and casually stepping out, tossing them uncaringly into a corner. She watched as he pulled the condom on. His warm hands helped her out of her thong and then gently turned her around away from him and unhooked her bra. Then he reached out and turned the water on full blast. Surprising her, he nuzzled and nibbled her neck, sending shivering waves down her body. When the water temperature suited him, he eased her into the shower, and with his head partially blocking the spray of water kissed her, gently at first and then stronger and stronger until she thought she was going to drown, if not from the water, then from the physical need.

Stopping abruptly, he pulled away (although not far because the shower was small) and showed her a bar of soap that had magically appeared in his hand.

"Do you mind if I do it? It's something I enjoy."

"Feel free; it's your nickel." She watched him hesitate and was struck by the thought that she shouldn't have worded it so coarsely.

"I'd enjoy it, too," she added and was relieved when he smiled. Water was streaming off his hair and dripping down onto his body. He looked like Neptune. Was that the name of the god of water? Sydney Ann had spoken the truth; she knew she was going to enjoy it. The man was good-looking and she wouldn't be in this business if she didn't enjoy what she did. He was experienced and certainly wasn't bashful like some men she knew. Tonight was going to be fun, after all. She relaxed and gave herself over to the pleasure of a talented man and a shower of hot water.

He took his time, soaping her body and hair, switching back and forth between her and himself. Occasionally he rubbed or kissed an area more than may have been necessary, but he had his own agenda and she didn't protest. This was more fun than she'd had in months. It was as soothing as it was stimulating.

Sydney Ann wasn't aware when her pupils dilated with lust and her body became pliant, but 'Bill' knew. He'd been waiting for this for months. He shivered in anticipation, forcing himself to wait just a little longer. It was blissful agony.

### Chapter 15

Paul concealed a shudder when the girl reached for him. Hurriedly, he grabbed her hand and brought it back up to his chest, then shook his head, smiling. She stared at him in surprise, steam coming from her bare arms and shoulders, her burgundy tinted hair extensions hanging wet and darker with water, while the rest of the carefully coifed cut curled and became frizzy, no matter how much had been paid for it not to do so. The young woman colored, her smooth creamed-coffee complexion turning rosy on her face, bright on her cheeks. It was odd, but she actually appeared chastised. He was sorry. He hadn't meant to belittle her. He bent and kissed her gently. She kissed back timidly and then more urgently. He could feel her need begin to rise again. It would soon be as strong as his own.

But he wouldn't enter her. Intercourse was out of the question just as soon as he'd known she did drugs.

There was very little room in the shower, but it would have to do. This motel was old and dated and should have been torn down. He lamented the fact that there was no tub. This changed things. Still there was no sense leaving the shower to use the bed, since they were already here and both he and the girl were now thoroughly clean. All loose hair and skin cells had gone down the drain with the soap he had so liberally used. He had no scratches that could leave blood evidence and if he could subdue the girl quickly enough, he expected none.

It was time. His long wait was over. His urge was hot, his need overpowering. It would happen now.

He could feel the water begin to cool, which aggravated him; these places never had enough hot water. He turned the handle behind him and shut off the water as he moved in again and kissed her forcefully. Then he abruptly, unexpectedly, and using the weight of his body to immobilize, jammed her body up tightly into the corner, grabbing both wrists and forcing her arms behind her back. He pushed his hips against her belly to secure that position, planting both feet encircling hers as he eagerly, yet so very carefully, positioned his hands on her graceful, beautiful neck.

Her breathing had been coming in gasps with the pleasure of the hot water and his attentions, her supple skin glowing. Her eyes were deep, dark pools that he knew he could get lost in. He didn't resist the compulsion now, but willingly gave in. This was his time; the most extreme bliss now his to take. He felt himself falling into her eyes, lost in their loveliness, searching for that moment, that precise instant that exists ever so briefly where life and death merge, that fleeting split-second that was his to control.

Sydney Ann's body bucked. She fought like a wild animal to get her arms free and her legs into a position to hurt him, but he held her rigidly. They bumped and crashed against the shower wall with neither noticing the noise. The young woman's shock and horror were indescribable, and so very, very exciting. When, after a time, she ceased fighting and her eyes stared blankly into his he felt a shudder pass through his body with his first orgasm. He released his hands slightly to better enjoy it, allowing his forehead to rest on hers, gasping, laboring to remain standing and hold her upright against the corner. He held this position, staring amorously into her eyes for several minutes of nearly unbearable pleasure. At the instant the blood finally stopped its rushing, pounding through his head and when his legs ceased to shake, he was rewarded by a twitch of an eyelid, and then a barely perceptible groan. Sydney Ann was coming back from the dead.

The young woman's feet slid once, slipping feebly on the wet concrete floor as, becoming aware of her situation, she tried to regain her footing. But he held her with no mercy, tight against the wall, secure in the cement block corner of the crumbling shower. Sydney Ann gave a louder moan and her hands fluttered in a weak attempt to break free. But Paul wasn't concerned. He knew she could never get away. Slowly, with his senses heightened so as to enjoy each millisecond, his hands tightened again on her neck. Again her breathing stopped and her lovely doe-like eyes flashed panic like the trapped wild animal she was, before widening in comprehension. She knew. Then there was nothing.

He was allowed the discovery and unimaginable pleasure twice more before she was gone and it was truly over. He was sorry when it ended. No matter how strong or determined to live they were, it could never last long enough.

***

Later, after he'd carefully bagged the condom (there would be no stupid mistakes on his part); he rested a few minutes. This one had been so intense that he felt completely drained. As he rested his body, his mind went over what he would have to do.

After his legs had recovered from the rubbery feeling, he walked back to where he'd dropped his slacks and pulled a pair of blue hospital gloves out of one of the pockets. Everything he did in this room the rest of the night, he would do in gloves.

First thing was to turn the water back on. Using bleach from a small bottle he had placed conveniently near the shower the night before, he wiped down the shower walls and floor, sliding the girl's body out of the way. As a precaution, he also wiped her skin with the bleach. He didn't believe it truly necessary, but you never knew how good they were getting with fingerprint analysis. Better safe than sorry. After that he wiped the stool down. It really needed it. He was appalled with the grime hidden under the seat and expected it was the first good cleaning that had been done in months. These trashy motels never hired good help and the lack of sanitary precautions revolted him. You could get a disease in a place like this.

When the nightstand, chair, light switch, and doorknob (inside and out) were cleaned of prints, he went back into the bathroom to arrange the body. The shower posed a dilemma, since he was used to staging his victims in a tub. His preference was to drape his victim's arm casually over the edge with her head and her lovely, staring face leaned back, jammed in the corner. With some careful study, he determined he could do pretty much the same thing here. He pulled and tugged until he had positioned the body in an upright-seated position against the shower's farthest corner, her shoulders braced securely. With her hips situated slightly out from the wall and her head lolled back it provided her open, staring eyes a full view of the doorway.

One leg flopped open in a suggestive, crude position, offending him. He didn't want that. She had been an attractive girl. None of this was her fault; he would not have her death desecrated. He reached down and repositioned her legs, crossing them chastely, making sure that one foot was hooked behind the lip of the shower and would hold there, so she would remain demure and lovely. Then he tilted her head until her eyes met the eyes of anyone entering the room. She had to see the person that found her, just as she had to let them see through her eyes what that brief, beautiful instant of her death had been like. A shudder of supreme joy passed through him. Sharing this treasure, imagining the thrill her discoverer would feel was a pleasure that was almost as exciting as the original experience... Almost.

When he was finished, he stepped back to inspect his efforts and realized he was shivering, this time with the cold. It was between three and four a.m., that coldest time before dawn. Now he had to hurry to get dressed and back to the motel for the last day of the conference. Although it would only be a half-day, he intended to enjoy the two classes he'd signed up for. If he hurried, he could sleep two or three hours before the continental breakfast that most of the men and women looked forward to. His belly growled, approving the plan. In fact, from the noise it was making, it was voting to eat now. But there wasn't time; breakfast would have to wait.

He gave one last wistful glance at the young woman's body, the long legs, the beautiful eyes, the wiry hair, and saw something that didn't quite fit in. Without knowing much about women's fashion, he knew the reddish-purple locks that were hanging straight among the frizzy black curls were extensions, not her own hair. He reached out a hand almost timidly to touch one that was falling forward accenting the left side of her face. The lock was an inch wide, shiny and soft as silk. It was pretty.

Placing one hand on her head to hold it in the desired position, he pulled the lock with the other and was pleased when it came off in his hand with only the barest disturbance to the rest of her hair, which he tenderly smoothed down. The extension had been attached to a small clip, securing it invisibly underneath the young woman's real locks. He smiled wistfully at the corpse. Such a lovely, lovely girl. So very pretty even in death.

The hairpiece felt light as a satin ribbon as it hung, twirling down from his hand. It was ideal. He wound the hair into a ball and stuck it in his pocket. He was pleased; it made the perfect souvenir.

***

When Paul pulled out of the motel parking lot, he was unaware that he was being watched. A young couple in town visiting family but preferring not to sleep on the wife's parents' lumpy couch had rented the room beside his. The husband, afraid of the city and rightly so of the neighborhood, had slept fitfully, and the commotion in the shower had been enough to make his hair stand up. He'd seen the man and the black girl when they'd come in and rightly guessed what they were there for. But that was their business.

Now there was something wrong. To Sean it had sounded like someone being killed. When he saw the man leave without the woman and then not return, he was afraid of what might have happened. It was too quiet in the other room. He tried to go back to sleep, to stay out of whatever was going on, but without any luck. As he watched the clock tick away with sleep not even hinting a return, he knew he would have to wake up the manager. The man wouldn't appreciate it. But Sean knew he had no choice, if only for his own peace of mind.

### Chapter 16

Flashing lights brightly lit up the dim, drab lot. The reds and golds and even the urgent way it grabbed for your attention was reminiscent of the holidays, but it was certainly no holiday for Sean. The bumper of the ambulance where he'd been told to sit was frigid through his robe and pajamas and one of the few places halfway concealed in shadow. The cop cars' bubble lights washed the rest of the parking lot in garish, angry color, only blocked here because of the silent, hulking shape of the ambulance sitting with motor and headlights turned off. There appeared to be no need for it, with only protocol requiring its attendance.

So far, two uniformed cops and one detective had questioned Sean. He had been told to wait for a second detective. He was chilled and exhausted and, after the last two hours, a little bit exasperated. He didn't know what he could tell this fourth guy that he hadn't already told the other three. Fortunately his wife Samantha had been allowed to go back to the room. Sean doubted that she was sleeping, but he hoped so. One of them needed to. They were scheduled to leave for home early Monday morning. It was a long drive back to Trenton, New Jersey, even longer if you didn't have enough sleep. He hoped to get to bed early the upcoming night, his last night in this cursed city, but wasn't optimistic. Samantha's family had some big dinner thing planned.

A woman carrying a small notebook, wearing a long dress coat over slacks and a turtleneck sweater, approached. Sharp eyes made short work of categorizing him, although her face revealed no expression. He couldn't tell if he'd passed inspection or not and for some reason this left him feeling lacking, as if he were back in school and it was time for a history test. He'd always hated history.

"Mr. Hasty? Sean Hasty?" she asked, reading from the notebook.

"Yes, call me Sean," he said, the old well-rehearsed line coming out automatically. Sean was an office supply rep. Being on a first name basis with his customers helped insure sales. They were more apt to call someone they were friendly with when they needed supplies than a dealer who was standoffish. His outgoing, sociable behavior was better for business and helped earn him a respectable living.

"All right, Sean. My name is Sandy O'Malley. Detective Sergeant Sandra O'Malley. I'd like you to go over everything you saw during the night."

Sean realized he had been wrong when he'd assumed that the second detective was a man. That had been stupid. This woman's no nonsense manner, her purely business, short hair style, and even the way she held her pen, ready to quickly scribble anything he said, told him she knew her job and managed time efficiently. He hoped so and was suddenly confident he was going to be allowed a couple of hours sleep this horrific night. This detective would get her part over with quickly. Realistically, two or three hours sleep after all that had happened was more than he should hope for.

"About 1:20, a dark-colored car pulled up next to mine. That silver one right there." He pointed at a small, compact that couldn't be comfortable, but probably got good gas mileage.

"How did you know the time?" she asked.

"I couldn't sleep, so I was just watching the clock."

She nodded and wrote it down in her ledger. "Did you see who got out of the car?"

"Yeah, a tall man in an ugly checkered jacket and a black girl. She wore a fuzzy sweater and short skirt."

"Did you notice anything unusual about either of them?"

"Other than her skirt being extremely short? Not really. Oh, yeah, come to think of it, there was something. She had purple stripes in her hair. The moon was brighter then and I could just make out the odd color."

Det. O'Malley noted this in her notebook. She had already noticed the coloring of the deceased's hair, although she hadn't taken time to look closely. She would do that as soon as she finished with the witness. Streaks either dyed in or hair extensions were the current fashion trend among young women, and some not so young who thought they were. Purple-red was a favored color for the fashion, blonde and platinum having long since gone out of style. Some used black streaks against lighter hair, or dyed all their hair black. Blonde hair and the wholesome look were no longer the look to have. To her this new style appeared harsh and brash. She guessed today's young women wanted to look that way. Whatever floats their boat. As for her, a short simple do for ease of maintenance was what was ordered. She didn't bother curling it, just blew it dry and went on with her day. She didn't have the time or inclination to make herself more attractive. Sandra O'Malley was much more interested in solving murders than messing around with a curling iron.

"Did you notice anything else?"

Sean shook his head no.

"What happened then? Try to list what you saw and heard in order; I'm trying to establish a time line."

Sean thought for a second and then began, his words sounding rehearsed, as they were beginning to feel like they were. "They went inside. It was quiet for a few minutes and then I heard the shower running next door. That lasted quite a while. I was just starting to doze off when there was a loud commotion, crashing and banging like they were out to destroy the room. I should have called management then, and I'm sorry that I didn't. That woman might be alive if I had," Sean said this last part slowly, regretfully. It had just occurred to him that he was partly responsible for a woman's death. He should have gotten involved sooner. Whether from exhaustion from the long sleepless night or from remorse, tears came to his eyes. Embarrassed to look so weak before this strong, capable woman, he quickly wiped them away.

The detective said nothing; not feeling it was her job to console people. In fact, it was an accomplishment to just hide her impatience. Checking in what she hoped was time; she'd stopped clicking her pen open and closed on the tablet. Hopefully, the witness hadn't noticed. Patience was not one of Sandra's virtues. But tenaciousness was.

"What did you think caused the 'crashing and banging'?"

"It sounded like they were fighting. I heard someone moan like a hurt animal. It sounded pathetic, hopeless. That scared the shit out of me."

"Where did it sound like the noise come from?"

"From the back of the room. The bathroom area. I assume that room is laid out like the one me and my wife are in."

This was scribbled quickly into the notebook.

"And then what?"

"Then it was quiet for quite a while. I was so shook up from the crashing and that horrible moaning that I got out of bed and sat in the dark in the chair by the window. I didn't want to wake up Samantha. My wife slept through the whole thing. I don't know how, but she did."

Det. O'Malley nodded as if this was perfectly normal.

"I heard the door open to the room next door and then close again. After a few more minutes, the door opened again and someone went out. I peeked out the window and saw the man go to his car and drive out of the parking lot. He didn't turn the headlights on until he was out on the street, which I thought was suspicious. I couldn't get a plate number. I tried, but it was too dark."

"Could you recognize him if you saw him again?"

"No. Too dark."

"What kind of car was it?"

"I couldn't tell. Just a dark-colored sedan. I didn't pay attention when they first arrived. When the man left the sky was cloudy and it was pitch black outside." Sean looked up at the sky, wondering if it was going to rain again. Just like the day before. This had been a lousy vacation.

"Is that when you called the manager?"

"No," Sean said guiltily, brought back to the subject at hand, his voice strained. "I went back to bed. But I couldn't sleep. It was about an hour later that I called the office and woke the guy up. He wasn't real happy with me, but twenty minutes later he finally showed up and beat on the door to that room. I'd gone outside and stood there with him. He didn't want to use his key to get in, but I convinced him. When he opened the door we found her like that in the bathroom. Then he called 9-1-1. You know the rest."

He watched the detective shake her pen irritably and then scribble hard on the paper. When she tried again, she'd succeeded in making the ink flow. Then she asked, as if there had been no interruption, "Anything else?"

"No," Sean said, hesitating, unsure about saying more. He didn't want this tough, professional woman to think him incompetent or weak.

The detective knew there was something he wasn't telling her. "What?"

Sean nervously jammed his hands into his pockets before asking, "Is it always like that? Murder? That girl seemed to be staring right at me. Her dead eyes were locked on mine when I looked in. It was horrible. Is that the way it always is?"

Det. O'Malley was aware of the position the girl was in. In fact, she suspected that she had been posed. Those eyes were meant to stare straight into your own. And that wasn't something that happened without being contrived. She felt a bit of compassion for the man before her. It had to be a shock for someone not experienced in murder. It had been more than enough even for her. For him, it had to be traumatic.

"No, it's not always like this. This is a bad one. Are you going to be okay?" she questioned, surprising herself with how gently she'd asked. She must be getting soft.

Sean nodded his head.

"When do you plan to leave town?"

"Monday, early."

"That's fine. We have your name and number?"

Sean again nodded.

"Okay, we're through here," Sandy said. "Why don't you go see if you can get some sleep? We'll call you if we need anything else. Thank you for responding, most people wouldn't have."

Sean's smile was bittersweet. He knew most wouldn't want to get involved, but the fact that he had didn't comfort him. His involvement had accomplished nothing.

His help had been too little, too late, and a woman was dead.

### Chapter 17

As Jimmy Warren pulled out of the supermarket lot he debated whether he wanted to drive the few streets over to interview Mason's girlfriend, even though he'd come to this side of town specifically for that purpose. When he'd spotted a Latino market, he'd spontaneously pulled over and went inside. There, he'd happily shopped for the ingredients to fix the Cuban-style pulled pork he'd craved for the last two weeks. Nobody could cook that specialty better than Ada, but if he ever wanted to eat it again he would have to learn how to prepare it himself. He'd hung around the kitchen often enough in the past to know what seasonings she used; he'd just have to guess on the amount. If it were too spicy, then he'd know better the next time. It was funny that what he missed the most about being married was the food. Which was an understatement, he _really_ missed Ada's cooking. In fact, he was sure he knew the pain of withdrawal. Between the lack of good food and the lack of sex, he was definitely feeling deprived. On a better note, at least his headache was gone and when he'd shaved this morning he'd noted that his face had begun to lose some of the outlandish color it had worn for the last few days, which wasn't surprising. He'd always healed fast.

Donna Bradbury lived five blocks away. Or she had when Mason took off. Izzy (or Abby, or whatever name she was going by) had asked him the day before if he planned on questioning her. And she'd said she'd like to be in on it. Jimmy had said no. He had no intention of getting in the middle of a catfight between two women. Take the cheated-on wife to meet the woman her husband had been running with? Not hardly! No, Jimmy Warren wasn't born yesterday and that sure didn't sound like fun. It was true that Izzy had seemed more interested in the investigation than in clawing out Mason's girlfriend's eyes, but he wasn't going to agree to it. He'd found out lately that women were not trustworthy.

And he wasn't sure what help the interview would be; what Ms. Bradbury could contribute. She had been investigated and cleared of any involvement in Janet Hilton's murder. In the months that followed she hadn't left town or done anything that would be considered suspicious. She'd given birth to a baby boy, continued her job at the supermarket, and, even though her phone had been tapped, she'd not been found to be corresponding with Mason. But you never knew; some people were exceedingly clever, waiting years to contact a fugitive. Although Jimmy had been hired to find Janet Hilton, he knew that if he could locate Grant Mason, there was a chance the man would lead them to the girl's body. Just in case they weren't lucky and didn't find her on the grandparents' farm, he wanted to be sure he'd dotted his I's and crossed his T's.

Waiting another day for Det. Paul Lewinski to return, and then waiting until he got around to calling back was frustrating. It was like he was merely spinning wheels and not getting anyplace. He needed to actually do something, even if nothing came of it. With that thought in mind, Jimmy turned left out of the parking lot, the opposite direction from his apartment. It wouldn't hurt the groceries to wait in the car for the few minutes he would spend on the interview and then he would settle down for the rest of the day and slow cook the pork brisket. Thinking of the delicious aromas and flavors that waited made his mouth water. He almost hoped Ms. Bradbury wasn't home.

***

Georgie Bradbury was an active child. At ten months old he was tall for his age, blonde, and remarkably strong. He was curious about everything and for some reason that curiosity led him to demolish whatever caught his fancy. Donna thought he was the smartest, most perfect child on the face of the earth. She overlooked his destructive ways. That's because his faults weren't faults to her. They were talents that had yet to be discovered. He was going to be an engineer or designer. That was the way it was. She knew she could guide him along that path. He would go to college. He would be successful.

A knock on the door caused her to stop what she was doing, which was picking up the pieces of a cell phone. How one small child could have broken it was beyond her. Not only had he broken it, but he'd broken it into several pieces. And it was the second phone he'd destroyed. All he'd done was thrown it. The boy had quite an arm. Maybe baseball? She'd better add major league pitcher to the list of possible careers. The minor league was not something that even crossed her mind.

"Who is it?" she asked from inside. She had no intentions of opening the door without knowing who was standing on the other side. Since Grant had run out on her, and, let's be honest, since she finally believed the evidence that he had killed that girl, she didn't trust people as much. But it wasn't just for her that she'd become wary; she had a child to protect now.

"Ms. Bradbury? My name is Jimmy Warren. I'm a private detective, investigating the disappearance of Janet Hilton. Could I have a few minutes of your time?"

Donna hesitated. Janet Hilton had disappeared in 2008. Five years ago. Why did this guy think she knew something about that? She didn't. In fact, she'd never met the woman. What Grant, the creep, had done back then had nothing to do with her. She hadn't even started seeing him until 2010. And then had come the pregnancy and the ass had took off.

She opened the door a crack, just enough to see the heavyset man in the wrinkled suit standing outside. He looked tired and kind, although his face showed the remnant of a black eye. He was holding up an I.D. for her to inspect. It featured his picture and had the state seal proving the license was legal in the state of Ohio.

"Okay, but you'll have to talk quietly. I just put Georgie down for a nap."

He followed her inside to the kitchen table where she motioned for him to take a seat on one of the low-slung maple chairs.

"Georgie? That must be your son?" the investigator asked.

"Yes," she said, smiling, her pride easily apparent.

"Yours and Grant Mason's?" he asked, although he was fully aware of the answer. He looked down at the notebook he'd pulled from his jacket pocket, rather than her face, she supposed in an effort not to be judgmental.

"Yes," she said again, this time defiantly. "He's mine and Grant's. My husband is not the father." She stared directly at the man seated on the other side of the table. Her attitude showed that she wasn't embarrassed. She was implying that the pregnancy might have been planned. It hadn't been. But she wouldn't let him know that. Besides she wouldn't change a thing; she had Georgie, the first true love of her life.

"You're married? I thought you'd divorced."

"I intended to file, but Dale came back after Georgie was born and we reconciled."

The PI seemed to find that interesting. He wrote it down in his notebook. Donna didn't know what her comment had to do with anything. She scowled as she watched him write.

"I only have a few questions," he said soothingly.

He must have picked up on her irritation. Donna consciously composed herself and nodded at him to continue. The quicker he asked his questions the faster he would be out of here. Hopefully that would be soon. Georgie's nap was the only time she had to herself.

"Have you heard from Mason since the night he left?"

"Not one word."

"Why do you think that is? Did you have a fight?"

"No, detective. We didn't have a fight. I don't know why he left. At the time I thought something bad had happened to him. I was positive he wouldn't abandon me. He'd seemed so thrilled that he was going to be a father, and for him to just take off like that was unreal."

The P.I. nodded like he believed her. Donna wondered if he did, or if he was merely trying to placate a dumb woman. She would have had to be dumb to get pregnant by a married man. Wasn't that what he was thinking?

She wasn't sure she liked this man. She'd had enough holier-than-thou do-gooders that said they wanted to help, but never stepped up to the plate. None but Dale. It had been tough raising her brothers and sisters when her dad had taken off and her mother going through a nervous breakdown. But she'd done it without anyone's help and she'd fully intended to raise Georgie on her own. But then Dale had come back. And she'd remembered how good he was. Georgie loved him and she did too, in her own way. Dale was Georgie's father in every way, except blood. And few people knew that. She intended to keep it that way.

"How long is this going to take? I don't like my neighbors seeing a strange man here when Dale's not home."

"Not long, just one or two more questions."

The sound of a key in the lock made them both turn toward the door, as an older man with white hair and a slightly stooped posture came in carrying a bag of groceries. He stopped in surprise when he saw the P.I. sitting in his kitchen.

"Dale, this is Jimmy Warren. He's a private investigator, investigating Janet Hilton's disappearance," Donna said, explaining quickly as if she didn't want him to get the wrong idea. Jimmy wondered if the old boy was the jealous type.

Dale and Jimmy shook hands, appraising each other.

Dale said, "She went missing a long time ago. Why the sudden interest now?"

"I'm working for Edward Hilton, Janet's father. The case has gone cold and he's hoping I can stir it up."

"Are you having any luck?" Dale asked.

"I'm doing what I can. I have a few leads."

"Why are you questioning my wife? She had nothing to do with it."

"I'm sure she didn't. I was hoping that Mason had hinted at one time or another where he might run. That maybe your wife knows more than she thinks."

"He never said a word to me about leaving," Donna cut in. "When the detective told me Grant planned on leaving the state, I was shocked. He never said one word about that to me. In fact, he told me he was divorcing his wife and kicking her out of their home and we'd move in so as to have more room for the baby. As I said before, his leaving was a total shock."

There was a whimper from the bedroom.

"Excuse me." Donna stood and began walking toward the sound, letting out a sigh. So much for that precious half hour. She hadn't even had time to put her feet up and enjoy a cup of coffee.

"If that's all, I'd like you to leave now, Mr. Warren. My wife has told you everything she knows." Dale urged Jimmy to his feet and shooed him toward the door, as the whimper turned into a full-fledged bawl. Georgie was now awake and wanted to be out where the action was.

"You can call us if there's anything else. As you can see, my wife is a little busy at the moment. Call and we'll schedule an appointment. If you think it's truly necessary."

***

On his way to the car, Jimmy thought over the abrupt way he'd been dismissed. It was apparent that Dale Bradbury didn't like him, or he didn't like P.I.s, one or the other. He wasn't favorable to his wife being questioned that was for sure. Jimmy thought it wise that he'd taken a chance and dropped in rather than calling for an appointment. If he'd had to go through Bradbury, he would never have been allowed to speak to her.

The man did seem overly defensive. Was he just being protective of his family? Or was there more to it? And that comment from Donna about Mason kicking his wife out and keeping the house for himself, that was new. Didn't sound like a man ready to run. If there were something more to Mason's disappearance, say he'd been murdered and wasn't enjoying a beach in Mexico; then Bradbury would have a motive. If Mason were dead, there would be a long list of suspects. A man like him had a lot of enemies. Considering this made Jimmy remember that at the top of the list was usually the spouse. Startled with the way his thoughts were going, he almost drove past his own apartment. As he carried the bags inside, he allowed the wheels of his mind to continue to turn, his supper momentarily forgotten.

He hadn't suspected Izzy of being guilty of anything before this. Funny that. First thing he'd been taught as a cop was to always suspect the wife, or husband, first. He wondered why he hadn't. Probably because Mason was considered a sure bet to be working on his tan and sipping a margarita. Now Jimmy wondered if this assumption were true. It was almost impossible for him to think of Izzy as a suspect. In fact, he felt stupid even considering it, but he knew better than to let his personal feelings get in the way of an investigation. So, why was he?

His thoughts turned again to Bradbury, who had just as good a motive. His wife had been running with Mason. And she'd gotten pregnant by him. Jimmy had seen how much he cared, how protective he was. He hadn't witnessed the man's interaction with the baby boy, but Mrs. Bradbury hadn't shown a sign of there being a conflict. Had Bradbury murdered Mason and disposed of the body? He was supposed to be in Florida at the time. But it would have been easy to hop in a car and drive back, do what he needed to, and hurry back south before Mason was even missed. Yes, it was possible. To Jimmy, that was a much more comfortable train of thought.

Now that he was seriously thinking along these lines, he wondered just how long a suspect list there would be for Mason's possible murder. Probably pretty lengthy. The man had a reputation as a ladies' man. There would be husbands, boyfriends, and jilted girlfriends listed, along with his abused wife.

And maybe it was something else altogether. Maybe somebody just plain didn't like him. Jimmy remembered that he hadn't. The one time he'd met him, right after the Hilton girl disappeared, he hadn't been impressed. The man was an egotistical, ornery ass. If he were indeed dead, there would not be a long line of mourners. That was for sure. Except for his grandparents, there didn't seem to be anyone that missed him.

Why hadn't this angle been pursued? Actually, it might have. Jimmy remembered that he'd left town the year after Janet Hilton's disappearance, after the second prostitute had been found murdered. In the four years he'd been gone Lewinski could have tracked this potential twist and ruled it out. Jimmy didn't know for sure, but resigned himself to the fact that he would have to follow up on it.

Of course, there was another side to the coin. Det. Paul Lewinski had gotten a lot of recognition for solving the Bathtub Girls' murders. It was a shining moment for the young detective. He might not have wanted to lessen this fame by implying that part of the case remained open. If the murderer had himself been murdered, the case was more complicated. There could even be accomplices. Oh, boy. Another can of worms. Jimmy pondered on this as he refrigerated the milk and eggs, leaving the bread on the table to have ready. There had been no evidence of a second killer. After considering it carefully, going over everything he knew about the case, Jimmy ruled a second killer out. Most hookers knew not to go with two men willingly. He doubted especially that those two dead women would have. They were young, but both were experienced. There had been no evidence that had gone any way but willingly.

This brought him back to Lewinski and the man's understandable inclination to have the Bathtub Girls' murders closed. Even with Mason still missing, the prostitute murders were, for all extents and purposes, a settled case, if not closed. Jimmy thoughts remained focused, weighing the possibilities, as he slid the brisket into the slow cooker. He didn't have any earth-shattering epitomes as he added the spices that smelled so great, making his mouth water, nor any as he checked his phone for messages.

Mason may have been murdered; he may not. The only thing he was certain of was that he would have to tread lightly. He didn't want to further antagonize Det. Paul Lewinski. He needed his help now more than ever.

### Chapter 18

Paul was enjoying the breakfast buffet when he heard the first report of a hooker being murdered in the city's red light district. Several detectives at the next table were hashing it over, joyously spreading a rumor – as if it was gospel – they'd only just heard. A murder in somebody else's town was always more enthralling than one that dirtied up your own.

Back in his room, Paul had attentively watched the early morning news, but there hadn't been anything said about the pretty black hooker. He'd channel surfed to no avail. Although not exactly expecting word to get out so quickly, he wasn't surprised to hear about it in the dining area downstairs. Word traveled fast through the law enforcement grapevine. And a conference made up of cops was a regular jungle.

"The woman was found naked in the shower, strangled," a slim young man with thick glasses said. "The witness was no help. He wasn't able to do a police sketch. He said he couldn't see the perp's face because it was too dark. You know some of those cheap motels. They have hardly any lighting in their lots. Stupid. I think it would only help business if the patrons felt safer."

_Witness?_ _What witness?_ Paul felt his throat tighten making it difficult to breathe.

The other detectives at the table nodded, agreeing with the young man. "They make it so difficult," one of them said, a woman with gray, thinning hair. "I wish we could shut those dives down."

"Human nature, Rhonda," the man to her right said. "You're not going to change it. There'll always be somebody operating on the fringe. Nothing we can do."

"What's the matter, Paul?" Michael asked. He was seated across the otherwise empty table from Paul, his plate full. "You getting sick?" Michael stared at him, concern on his face.

"The sausage is hitting me wrong. I wouldn't eat it if I were you." Paul thumped the center of his chest with his fist. _Straighten up. Not a time to look suspicious._

"I've already eaten four. I don't think it's the sausage. I think you had too much to drink last night. Where'd you go? After Amber left I knocked on your door, but you weren't there. Did you go back to the bar? Didn't want to drink with me? You know drinking alone isn't good for you." Michael grinned. He seemed to think it perfectly acceptable to tie one on that late at night. Paul felt nervous cramps begin in his belly.

"No, I was there. I sleep pretty sound."

Michael looked skeptical, but didn't pursue it. He showed him a sausage on his fork before jamming it whole into his mouth and groaning in exaggerated delight.

"Asshole," Paul said, looking away, back at the other table. Another detective was speaking.

"Yeah, they said the witness and his wife are leaving town tomorrow. There was nothing they could tell the investigating officers, other than the man who did it was tall, dark haired, and wore a checkered jacket. Probably from some thrift store."

Paul repressed a grin. He actually had picked the jacket up at a thrift store, but it wasn't going to return to one. It would be disposed of it where it would never be found, buried in a hole off some back road, on a trail he was comfortable with; one that got very little foot traffic. He knew several that would fit the bill.

Michael also had been paying attention to the talk at the next table. He glanced at Paul with a suspicious expression on his face before saying, "You're dark haired and certainly tall. I can see you wearing a checkered jacket." He thought he was being funny.

Paul heard roaring in his ears. Michael was pushing his buttons, and doing it well. He fought hard to compose himself. It was time to stop the foolishness before it got out of hand.

A few seconds passed as he curbed his temper in and then he said, "Cut it out. I don't feel like putting up with your shit this morning."

Michael looked at him in amazement. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean anything by it."

"Just watch it. We're detectives, not children. It's our job to catch murderers. Not play stupid games."

"Sorry. I didn't realize I was such a problem," Michael said in a hurt tone. He was offended and didn't understand what the big deal was.

Neither spoke for several minutes.

Talk at the other table continued. Mostly it was about the morning's classes and the breakfast they were enjoying. After a time, someone again brought up the murder of the prostitute of the night before.

"They said she was posed."

Paul almost choked on his mouthful of cold eggs.

"Yeah, that's what I heard, too. She was positioned to face the bathroom door. The officers on the scene said it was creepy the way her eyes found theirs. Just weird, you know. I don't think this was an isolated event. I think he's done it before. My money's on a serial killer."

Why had he felt the need to pose her?

Some of the others nodded, some appeared skeptical. Serial killers aren't common, no matter how popular they are in the movies.

"I'll catch you later," Michael said huffily, picking up his tray. He was leaving and Paul knew they wouldn't be sitting together during class. Michael was too mad. For Paul that was no problem. After what he'd just heard, he preferred to be alone. There was a lot to think about.

He'd known better than to position the woman. That was one of the things stressed in yesterday's class, how repeat killers left their own personal marks. He hadn't given it a thought that posing was one of his. He hadn't really thought he had a signature. But of course he did. At the time he had been more concerned with taking the right souvenir and cleaning the room and body than what remained behind. How very, very stupid of him. And to think he'd been proud because she wasn't white.

It was funny, too, that he hadn't even been aware of doing it. He remembered her leg falling to the side and that he'd repositioned it. He'd braced her in the corner against the walls and her feet at the shower lip to hold her there, so that her head.... So that her head faced the door.

He _had_ posed her. He'd wanted her eyes riveted to the door... Like the others.

When he'd been in the Air Force, stationed in Louisiana, he'd read about a prostitute murdered and left lying in a creek bed. He'd bought every newspaper that mentioned the murder. He still had those clippings. It had excited him so much that he had done the same thing a few months later. So, basically, he himself was a copycat killer. A police sergeant – a detective no less – and a copycat killer. This thought teased out a slight smile, and he relaxed the clenched muscles in the hand gripping the fork. Calmer now, he placed his silverware and napkin on his tray, ready to carry to the tray caddy, still smiling. The thought had been amusing. It was just too funny.

What he remembered the most about the articles were those staring eyes caught in a photo that some photographer snapped when no one was looking and then sold to a thrill magazine. They were always there, staring at him for months afterwards. He couldn't eat, work, or sleep without them hovering, just on the fringe of his vision, calling to him. When he'd happened upon a prostitute alone with no one around to remember whom she'd left with, he couldn't resist. That one had been a hurried affair; his second was better. He'd taken his time. This murder was more carefully planned, and he'd enjoyed it immensely. He felt no guilt about the woman's death; didn't care whether she had a family or if blue was her favorite color. She'd known the dangers involved in the career she'd chosen. If she didn't, she should have.

He'd played his little game with one more hooker before he left the service, for a total of three that year. But he'd also paid just for sex sometimes, leaving them alive and wanting more. He knew this also - he was good in bed. Any of those women were lucky to get his attentions. As for the murders, he'd evolved and perfected his control. He knew what pleasures he most wanted. And the climax was watching their eyes for that perfect moment. And, afterward, posing the bodies so others could enjoy the women's lovely stares. Hopefully they enjoyed it as much as he did.

In the years since, he'd been careful not to indulge too often. It made it even better when he finally did allow himself the pleasure. And he had been busy, working hard to make rank and detective. Also, he was a little older, a little wiser. Although he had enjoyed the sport twice in Cincinnati, he had gone to Dayton for a third. But that had been a disappointment. The girl had pulled a gun. He didn't know yet if she was going to cause trouble, but after this long didn't believe it. She had remained quiet, mostly. Daisy was her name, or that was the name she gave Cpl. Jason Adel when she came in to report the attack. But she'd chickened out and fled, without waiting for a sit down with the sketch artist. Apparently she'd changed her mind. And she hadn't come back. It was fortunate that he'd been on a conference call and they hadn't run into each other. That could have been a real mess. He had been lucky that day. That was partly why he had kept his urges at bay for such a long time since. And that was why he had felt it vital to give up two of his souvenirs and to frame Mason. Until now he'd thought that time and his sacrifice had been enough.

But now he'd made another mistake and was feeling the stress. It was putting a real damper on the exhilarated mood he'd enjoyed since waking from the mere three hours of sleep he'd had. This posing of his was a real problem. What if somebody connected this murder to the others? And how was he going to be able to enjoy his little rodeos if he couldn't trust himself not to make amateur mistakes? He had a signature and he had left it. And it was easily something that the right profiler could read. How was he going to change? If indeed he wanted to. Or if he even could?

Everyone was leaving the room, heading for their first class. Paul picked up his tray and carried it to the cart, his mind still in a jumble. He walked down the hall following the stragglers, and barely made it to room 112B before 'Recent Advancements in DNA' started. Lost in thought, he didn't get much out of the class.

***

On the news channel that night, as Jimmy sat in his chair enjoying leftovers (a sensational pulled-pork sandwich), he saw the brief news story of the prostitute murdered in Indianapolis. It captured his attention for two reasons. One was that most murders that happened over there stayed over there. They weren't of interest to the general public in Cincinnati. Cinci had enough trouble of her own. The reason it had hit the six o'clock news was because of a possible link connecting it to two of Cinci's. The reporter seemed to find it very telling that the murdered woman had been posed. She was propped in the shower, facing the door. It reminded someone in the newsroom of the Bathtub Girls. That's why it had hit the local news. Jimmy also found it suspiciously reminiscent, but also different in that a shower had been used instead of a tub.

He wondered if there was a chance that Mason was in Indianapolis, and if he was up to old tricks. That would shoot the warmer climate, beach bum theory all to hell. Why would anyone relocate to Indianapolis? Friends or family? Jimmy didn't remember reading that in his file. Indianapolis was too close to Cincinnati for someone that wanted to continue satisfying a violent nature. Too close, because a reporter might catch the similarities and the wrong person could follow up on it. Then again, maybe Mason was smarter than he thought. Maybe he went there for his fun just because no one would expect it. This was a stretch though, even for someone with more brains than common sense. Another possibility was Mason was just passing through and it had been a crime of opportunity.

Jimmy considered his recent theory that Mason was dead. Odd, but no matter the suspicious prostitute murder, it still felt right. Jimmy trusted his gut; it was right more often than not. If Mason were dead, then why would someone do a copycat killing? Mason had been blamed for several women's deaths. But he wasn't famous outside of the Cincinnati area. As far as serial killers went, he wasn't in the upper echelon. So if a copycat killer existed, he would have to be local talent.

Another thought struck Jimmy. What if Mason hadn't been the killer? What if it had been someone else altogether; that he'd been framed? But that couldn't be. Det. Lewinski had found the man's souvenirs hidden in his bedroom. They were evidence now, locked up in the file with all the information that forensics and a team of detectives had collected. Jimmy forced these suspicions from his mind. Or tried to. Some ideas don't want to leave once they've wormed their way in.

***

Daisy lay sprawled on the couch waiting for Roland to get home. He'd moved in two months earlier, over her father's objections. Mitch didn't like the fact that he'd gone to college with Roland, same class actually, and that the man was a diehard playboy. But Daisy didn't care. She liked Roland. He made her feel safe. They got along without all the childish spats and jealousies that had hindered all her other relationships. If someone had told her she'd just found herself another father, she would have thought him or her crazy. She loved her father; he was one of the good ones. She wasn't looking for a replacement. Just the same security.

She was watching the news when a young woman reporter came on to do a spot about a dead prostitute in Indianapolis. Among her first words were that the police thought the dead woman had been posed. Daisy sat up, blood draining from her face. This was too much like the others to be a simple coincidence, especially when the reporter went on to say the killer had been tall, dark haired, and drove a dark-colored sedan. Daisy was smart. She didn't believe in coincidences. Her heart fluttered wildly knowing that dreadful man was still out there.

She clawed at his hands, arms and head, raking an ear, drawing blood. He pushed against her toppling her onto the bed, his hard hands holding her down, breathing becoming impossible. The expression in his eyes was vicious and horrible and locked onto hers. This wasn't supposed to happen. Not to her. She knew without a doubt that if she didn't get away soon, death would find her in that drab, dingy motel room.

Daisy struggled to pull herself from the flashback. That time had been an agonizingly traumatic period in her life. She closed her eyes, shuddering, her skin suddenly clammy. She didn't want to think about it anymore. But, now, there was no way to do anything but.

He was still out there. The man that had tried to murder her. She knew it.

***

Abby looked at Izzy from her position on the couch where she sat watching the news. Paul was due home in an hour and when he arrived Izzy would be gone. Until then, they were enjoying some time together. Paul didn't know Izzy existed. It hadn't been a hard secret to keep. They'd been doing it all their lives.

"Did you hear that?" Abby asked, referring to the featured news piece.

"What do you think? I'm sitting right here with you."

Abby ignored her sister's wisecrack. She was used to her. "I mean, do you think that was Paul?"

"Sounds like him. He has this weird thing about posing his girls."

Abby shuddered. She didn't know how Izzy could talk about it so nonchalantly. To her, it was horrible. She watched intently as the newsperson finished. Once again, the young woman stressed the posing of the deceased woman. This idiosyncrasy on the part of the killer seemed to have strongly captured her attention.

"What am I going to do?"

"About what, kiddo?"

Izzy was beginning to irritate Abby, something that was never difficult for her to do. She could accomplish that at the drop of a hat.

"What am I going to do if Paul attacks me?"

"I don't think he will. Unless, of course, he can't control himself. Murder is great entertainment. He gets his jollies out of it. It's got to be hard for him to resist; you having such a pretty little neck."

Abby looked at Izzy aghast. "That's horrible." She couldn't help thinking about the nights she'd lain in Paul's arms, enjoying the sweetest, gentlest lovemaking of her life. How could he be so sweet one minute and yet be such a ruthless killer? There had to be some mistake. It couldn't be him. But she knew it was.

"Don't let good sex muddle your head," Izzy said. She always knew what Abby was thinking. That was irritating, too.

Abby absently ran her fingers along her neck. It had hurt for months after Grant tried to strangle her. That was Paul's favored method of murder, too. If she thought about it, there were a lot of similarities between the two men. But she wouldn't allow herself to do that. Paul was good and Grant was bad. That's the way she wanted to think about it. Even with the proof right before her, it was difficult to change her mind, or heart. She cared about Paul. More than she ever had Grant, even when they were first married and she had been a lonely, impressionable girl. She had been infatuated, but she hadn't been in love. The infatuation had faded within the first couple of years and hadn't been replaced with anything other than a lukewarm sort of non-caring. Just an empty blankness that didn't satisfy her, or him. She wasn't sure what she felt for Paul, but what she did feel was at least a more mature emotion. That had been good enough until lately.

"We might have to get rid of him," Izzy said matter-of-factly.

"No, I don't want to do that again," Abby said. One body under the rose bushes was enough. They'd buried Grant late that night, after his unsuccessful attempt to murder her. After the nightshade she'd added to his food had done its job. She remembered the fear she'd carried for months, afraid that someone would find out.

"We will if we have to," Izzy said.

Abby closed her eyes for a few seconds, the pain and overwhelming fear she'd felt when Grant attacked her, and then the guilt she'd carried since playing in her mind, over and over, trying to drive her crazy. It had been almost unbearable, but she had survived. She was alive. She nodded her head and murmured softly, "Yes. We will if we have to."

### Chapter 19

Jimmy looked at the clock. Ten minutes to ten, Monday morning. Apparently Paul wasn't going to return his call any time soon. Jimmy knew from his own experience that most cops went over their messages first thing upon sitting at their desk. He expected Paul had arrived at eight, so he'd had plenty of time to get around to his message, which must have been put on the back burner. He didn't blame Paul. The detective would have several cases he was currently working on, and the first forty-eight hours in any case are always the most productive. Paul would get around to the Hilton's cold case later, when, and if, he had time.

After sitting a few more minutes, resigned to what had to be done but not looking forward to it, Jimmy looked up the ad for the attorney that Bryan Ervine's mother had used in her ill fated bid to grab something for her son from the Wurtsmith estate.

There it was. Just a small, black and white, no-nonsense advertisement that didn't take up more than an inch of space on the page. It had a black border, but that was about all the extras the no-frill ad contained. The woman had gotten what she could afford. And that wasn't much. Jimmy felt a pang of sympathy, even though he knew it might not be warranted. He didn't know this woman or her boy. For all he knew they were gold-diggers, just looking for an easy buck. That was most likely the way it was. But for some odd reason, he didn't feel that was the case.

***

"Mr. Warren? How can I help you?" the attorney said. He was a small man with suspiciously black, obviously thinning hair. Jimmy wondered why he bothered dying it. There weren't enough strands left on top to worry about. The jarring shade only made the wrinkles in his face more pronounced, adding to the man's aged appearance. He looked sixty, but Jimmy thought he was closer to fifty, judging by the quick, bird-like way the man nearly jumped over his desk to shake hands. His agility, unlike his looks, didn't seem to be compromised by the stress of his career choice.

"Mr. Clough?"

"Call me Avis."

"Avis," Jimmy said, smiling. Why would someone stick a baby with a name like Avis Clough? He hoped the middle name was something simple like John or George, but probably not. Some parents made a real mess out of their kids' names.

"I'm sorry. I've only got a few minutes before my next appointment, so this will have to be fast. You said you have some information for me on the Bryan Ervine case? You realize that case went through court and is closed?" He was in a hurry to put this disheveled appearing man with the remnants of a black eye out the door. He didn't have time for anyone who wasn't a paying customer.

Jimmy pushed the envelope across the desk, feeling a weight lift from his shoulders. It was good to get rid of it. What the lawyer did after he left was his problem. Jimmy hoped to be out of, what had the possibility of being, a messy business.

The attorney looked at him questioningly before he pulled the sheets out and began reading. His mouth dropped open and then his gaze jerked up to fasten suspiciously upon Jimmy. With narrowed eyes, he asked, "Where did you get this?"

"I found it in my desk, actually _under_ my desk. It was taped to the bottom of the desktop, over the central drawer."

He noted the quizzical, unbelieving expression on the other man's face and shrugged as he continued explaining, "I don't know how it got there. And I wouldn't even venture a guess as to how long it's been there, hidden."

"Why would I believe it just materialized _under_ your desk?"

Jimmy knew how ridiculous it sounded, finding an important document like this in such a spot. He pushed himself out of his chair, ready to leave. He'd wasted enough time. Thankfully, it wasn't his problem anymore. "Look. I thought you might want it. I think it's genuine, looks like it, anyway. You're the expert. I'm not after a finder's fee, or anything. It's all up to you. Do with it what you want. But I think Ms. Ervine should be made aware of it. She and her son."

"Sit down," Avis said, then added, "Please."

After a brief uncomfortable moment where they sized each other up, Jimmy finally shrugged again and sat back down. He didn't have anyplace he needed to be. Might as well kill a little more time before going home. At least the attorney's chairs were comfortable.

"If this is genuine, it's going to upset a lot of people," Avis said, understating the obvious. "Go over it again, slowly. Where'd you find it?"

"Under my office desk. I have a small office downtown. I'm a private investigator," Jimmy said, wondering why his new title was giving him pride instead of the embarrassment it originally had. He guessed he was adapting. And, he was enjoying the freedom to work cases the way he wanted, instead of having to follow the strict protocol the police force required. He was enjoying sleeping all night, instead of being rousted by those middle of the night calls to come look at the next dead body. Weekday, weekend, it was all the same when you were a detective. If anything, there were more murders on the weekend. Saturday nights were always bad in a big city.

Avis appeared confused. "Have you any ideas as to why it would be there?"

"None. I thought maybe you could find out if someone had gotten rid of Wurtsmith's desk just before, or after, his death. If it's genuine, that's about the only explanation I can come up with. Why they would do that? I haven't a clue. It's really a nice old desk, could use some refinishing, but it's solid mahogany."

Avis nodded. He scanned the document more closely and then said, "I know the two witnesses who signed here. I wonder why they didn't come forward? And this is dated two years after the date of the will that was entered in court. If it's a fake, it's a good one. Somebody went to a lot of trouble to get the names and dates right.

"Thank you for bringing this in. I've got work to do now, but if it pans out like I expect it to, there _will_ be a finder's fee. Alicia Ervine will insist." He paused before adding, "I may need to hire a PI to do a little poking around. Are you interested? The guy I generally use is out of town and I don't think sitting on this is a good idea. I'd like to move on it as quickly as possible, before word gets out and anyone from the other side hears about it."

Jimmy thought about the single case he was working on and came to a rapid decision. The Hilton case wasn't going anywhere at the moment and he could use something to keep him busy and plump out his wallet.

"What would it entail?"

"Some prodding of those witnesses. Finding out why they didn't come forward. Legally, of course."

"Of course," Jimmy agreed with a smile. "Sure. I can always use the business." He pulled one of his cards out of his wallet and pushed it across the desk.

"Good. I'll call you this afternoon, and let you know where I want you to start."

Avis stuck his hand out and Jimmy shook it willingly. A new case had just fallen into his lap; things were looking up. Maybe his dry spell was over. And about the finder's fee, he wasn't going to argue. If there was one, there was one. He could always use the money. He still needed to support Ada in the style to which she wanted to become accustomed. Lord, he hoped the new boyfriend had a lot of money. And he hoped he married her quickly.

### Chapter 20

Roland looked as nervous as a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Whatever his problem was Daisy thought he looked sweet and cute. She'd never seen him this way before. Her 'George Clooney', that's the way she thought of him – since he was a handsome, confirmed bachelor (if you didn't count his three failed marriages) was never at a loss for words and never as awkward as he appeared at this moment.

"What is it, Ro?" she asked, willing to indulge him anything.

"I.. Uh, I want to ask you something," the silver-haired man said, his face turning a pleasant shade of pink.

"Anything, dear. You know that." Now she was really curious and becoming somewhat alarmed.

Roland E. Trimble III lowered himself to one knee. They didn't snap or creak, but the way he was shaking Daisy half expected them to. She stared into his face anxiously. What was the matter with him?

He pulled a small, dark blue box out of his slack's pocket. "Daisy, I love you." He swallowed loudly. "Will you marry me?" Roland opened the box revealing a large, sparkling ring that had to be at least five carats.

Daisy was flabbergasted. She wouldn't have expected this in a thousand years. She'd thought her older, experienced-in-the-ways-of-the-world boyfriend was too submerged, too comfortable in bachelorhood to ever be a problem in this way. She didn't want to be married. She was too young. She had too much life to live.

"Yes."

She heard the word and looked around to see who had said it. There was only the two of them; it had to have been her. How extraordinary! Had she actually agreed to marry him?

Of course. She loved him. He made her feel treasured and safe. He made her complete. She couldn't picture life without him.

But there was one thing holding her back and it wasn't a fear of marriage. She had a horrible secret and she had to tell the man that would be her husband. He was going to be so disappointed in her. It would kill her if he couldn't accept what she'd done. If he left her.

But she had to tell him.

Roland let out a sigh of relief and reached out his arms. He was confused when she fended off his embrace.

"I've got to tell you something first. Then if you still want to marry me, we will, because I love you, too."

Roland got to his feet, and then settled into position on the sofa beside her.

"This is very difficult. Melinda and my therapist are the only ones that know. I want you to promise not to tell my family. It would destroy them."

Roland nodded. This day wasn't going as planned. As serious as Daisy was, he knew to keep his mouth shut. But he also expected to forgive her anything.

"Two years ago I played a stupid, stupid game. It started as an experiment. But I let it get out of hand... I stood on a street corner with the other girls and prostituted myself. I took money for sex."

Roland stared at her aghast. How could she do such a thing? Didn't she know how dangerous that was?

She looked away, but continued quickly, afraid she was losing her nerve. "It was only a few times. It started as sort of kinky fun, but it didn't end that way."

Now concern filled Roland's eyes. "What happened?" It had to be something terrible and he didn't want to think about what she'd gone through.

"One of the johns tried to strangle me. It was around the same time as those Bathtub Girls' murders and I think it was the same man."

Roland drew in a sharp breath, knowing she could have been killed. He asked, "Did you go to the police?"

"I tried. But I couldn't go through with it. I actually went to the Cincinnati post trying to put some distance between, you know? But when the officer mentioned a sketch artist, I ran. I couldn't do that to my family. I couldn't drag them through the mud, even if that was what I deserved."

"Were you hurt bad?" Roland took her hand in his; caring, gentle, the man she was in love with.

"I was terrified. Physically I healed in a few weeks, but mentally I'm afraid I'll always carry the scars."

"That's terrible, honey. I don't know what to say, except that I love you."

Daisy let out a long rattling sigh and burst into tears.

Roland wrapped his arms around her and pulled her up close, doing his best to comfort. No matter how old he got, when a woman cried he still didn't know how to respond. He expected to go to his grave not knowing what he was supposed to do.

After several minutes, Daisy wiped her eyes and turned her wet face up to his.

"Do you remember the police are still looking for a guy named Grant Mason for the murders?"

"Yes, vaguely. I haven't paid close attention. Something about leaving a wife behind when he ran and that the police don't think she's involved?"

"Yeah, that's right. Well, the kicker is, I don't think it was him. The photo they put on the TV didn't look like the guy that attacked me. He was tall and dark like him, with a similar build, but those were the only resemblances. The news showed a new murder in Indianapolis that's pretty similar to those. Scary like what happened here, and too close to be a coincidence. I think he's at it again."

"It could have been a different freak. Are you sure it was the same man?"

Daisy nodded her head. She was sure.

"Then you should go back in. If you can remember what he looks like, you need to sit with a sketch artist. I'm sure you can do it without your identity becoming known. I'll go with you."

"Oh, I remember what he looks like. I'll never forget. But I'll go alone. I don't want you caught up in this. If the papers get hold of it, it will be a real mess."

### Chapter 21

After receiving the call, Jimmy wasted no time checking out the names and addresses the attorney had given him. Glenn Purdue had been one of Wurtsmith's bodyguards. He lived on the north side of the city. If Jimmy remembered the subdivision correctly, it was respectable, not high-end, but safer than most. Bodyguards must be paid well.

Patricia Lorenzo was a nurse. She lived in a rundown area, not too far from downtown. If she'd been paid to keep her mouth shut, she hadn't been paid much. Jimmy thought about that. If, indeed, the document was legitimate, what was her motive? What would she have gained by not coming forward? Or, from a different perspective, had she been threatened? Was that the reason she hadn't told? On a separate note, just how ruthless were the other families? Jimmy realized he would have to do a little digging on each of Wurtsmith's children and ex-wives. This case would involve several hours of work and he hoped the attorney was aware of that fact. If not, he would make it clear with his first report. The case was interesting, but he wasn't about to do it for free. He could see that some jobs contained the possibility of risk. Especially where there was a lot of money involved. And there was enough here to make even the mildest mannered person dangerous.

Sitting in his car, staring at the list was accomplishing nothing. He leaned forward and turned the key in the ignition, having decided on a course of action. He would call on Ms. Lorenzo. Jimmy decided to wait to interview Purdue until later; he'd start with the nurse. She would be the easiest nut to crack. An over-muscled, probably short-tempered bodyguard would be considerably harder without a sledgehammer, or the clout he used to have when he was on the police force. He wished now he had the protection a cop's badge provided. Thinking of the possible danger that investigators risked alone with no backup, gave him pause to wonder why he had never given them much respect. Funny how when the shoe was on the other foot things felt different.

The new GPS found the woman's home without much trouble. Jimmy was glad he'd bought the device. Although quite familiar with Cincinnati from living here for many years, there were still streets and alleys that he couldn't place. Poplar Street had a familiar ring to it, but off the top of his head, he hadn't remembered that it was only four streets off the main drag. It was close enough to hear a steady stream of ambulances and cop cars' sirens blaring with barely a pause between. And close enough, because of the streetlights and neon lights, for night to never be truly dark. It would be hard to live in an area like this.

Patricia Lorenzo lived in an apartment building with limited parking, in a building that had seen better days. Jimmy wondered how fat the rats were. Probably very. There had to be enough cockroaches in the walls to keep their coats shiny, their bellies full, and their dispositions contented, although he expected they still gave the tenants problems. Not that he blamed them. What self-respecting rat wouldn't prefer Twinkies and gnawing on the homeowners' stash of weed to bugs with crunchy shells?

It was 1:45 p.m. Ms. Lorenzo would either be going to work or coming home soon. Jimmy decided to sit in the car and watch the apartment entrance. He didn't have to wait long, maybe twenty-five minutes, before he saw a gray compact pull into a parking space. A small, dark complected woman in a nurse uniform got out of the car and walked toward the entrance to the building. Jimmy jumped out and hurriedly walked up behind her, rushing the last few steps to be the doorman and motion her through. She smiled, grateful that she wouldn't have to juggle her purse and grocery bags, and unaware that he'd used her to get inside. She seemed lost in thought and wasn't paying close attention to her surroundings.

Jimmy discreetly followed her up the stairs to the second floor, careful to stay back several feet so she wouldn't become suspicious. Living in a place like this the woman would be alert to many forms of danger. He hoped his appearance didn't raise a red flag. Although he'd been told he had a comforting way about him, he could only hope that was true. It could make things easier.

As she slid the key into her lock Jimmy stepped forward and spoke.

"Ms. Lorenzo?"

"Yes?" she asked, startled. Her expression changed from preoccupied to one of apprehension. She cringed against the door, suddenly aware that she was alone in the hall with a strange man, one who knew her name. She rolled the door key around the palm of her hand, the action showing how badly she wanted to be inside her room. It also clearly showed her vulnerability.

Jimmy noted her reaction without changing his carefully manufactured, placid expression. He murmured in a soothing voice, "Ms. Lorenzo, I work for an attorney."

That didn't help. He watched her face tighten more. It had been the wrong thing to say. If anything, she was now even more nervous. Apparently she didn't like attorneys. There was a good chance she'd had a bad experience with one; which wasn't surprising. Jimmy sympathized. He expected to know real suffering by the time Ada's attorney was done with him.

It was sad, but everything came back to Ada, the divorce, or money. He sighed over the unfairness of life and started again, "I'd like to talk to you about a Last Will and Testament that belonged to Mr. Darren Lee Wurtsmith. I understand that you worked for him?"

"Yes, I did. But that was over ten years ago. I don't see what that has to do with me now." She was leery and clearly resented his intrusion.

"Could I come inside? I only have a few questions. I promise it won't take long." Jimmy pulled one of his cards from his wallet and held it in front of her face.

The short dark-haired, dark-eyed woman wavered and soon gave in. It was apparent Patricia was one of those people resigned to always being in the wrong, one never allowed to be the one to choose. She was a pushover who went through life agreeing with others because it's easier, because she simply didn't know how not to. Jimmy felt a quick empathy for the plump, tired-looking woman. Obviously, she worked hard, but by the looks of her surroundings, accomplished little. Sadly, short of a miracle, there was no way anything would change. She probably would never be able to stand up for herself and was destined for a life of drudgery.

Jimmy entered behind her and waited near the door as she set the bags on the round, scuffed kitchen table. He glanced around, noticing that the floral sofa and matching overstuffed chair were shredded on each corner. Strings and scraps of fabric hung to the floor. It took him a few seconds to realize what he'd observed were the effects of an energetic, possibly schizophrenic, cat. By the height of the claw marks on the edge of the table, the animal was large. He looked around anxiously, hoping it wasn't prone to attack. He'd heard they did sometimes. He definitely didn't need cat hair, or worse, teeth marks, on his clothes and legs. But he didn't see it and hoped it was locked in one of the bedrooms. He was afraid of cats. Not old lazy, sleepy cats. His fear was of young, strong, athletic cats. The kind that stared into your eyes so intently that the hair on the back of your neck stood up. He hated that kind, even though he knew his fear stemmed from an unreasonable, stupid phobia. One that most people would disregard, but one that he couldn't shed.

Patricia Lorenzo was staring at him, silently urging him to get on with it. She was tired and wanted to rest and be left alone. He understood completely and felt guilty that he was adding to her problems. But he had a job to do. Odd that he had never felt so much commiseration when he was a police detective. Must be he'd felt he had right on his side? He wondered what her reaction would be to the questions he needed to ask and hoped she wouldn't scream and order him out. He'd never worried about that when he was a cop. This job was turning out harder than he expected.

"Ms. Lorenzo, do you remember witnessing a document along with a Mr. Glenn Purdue? It would have been a will that declared Bryan Lee Ervine one of the legal heirs to Darren Wurtsmith's fortune."

Patricia started and caught her breath. She looked about as guilty as anyone had in Jimmy's experience. He was amazed and now satisfied that the will was legit. Who would have thought that he could stumble upon such an important piece of evidence? It would prove that the boy, Bryan Ervine, had a legal right to his share of a very large fortune and would really make Avis Clough's day. It was no telling how long the whole thing would be tied up in court. The attorney would be raking in dollar after dollar, filing a brief, then depositions and appeals. He would be a happy, happy man.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Patricia lied. She wasn't a good liar; she chewed on her bottom lip and stared to her left, down at the floor. Classic signs of someone not being truthful. Jimmy wondered if she'd been subpoenaed ten years earlier, but doubted it. Even the densest attorney would have seen right through her. As for a subpoena, there would have been no reason to. No one that mattered knew about the will.

"Sure you do," he said, keeping his voice low and soothing. "This was before the old man died. He wanted to make sure that Bryan's mother, Alicia, had enough money to raise her son. I don't know if he belonged to the old man or not. In fact, the court proved he didn't. But he had him written into the will, and then signed with his own hand."

Patricia shook her head vehemently. "No, I don't know. What you're saying doesn't make sense. That boy wasn't Darren's. He belongs to some cab driver from Pakistan, I think. Alicia was always talking about him. How good looking he was, how sweet to her. Well, he wasn't sweet when she ended up pregnant. He threw her out; he just didn't care that she'd be all alone. She had to move in with her mother."

"It doesn't matter who the kid belongs to," Jimmy said again, still gently. "Wurtsmith left him some money and he's entitled to it."

Patricia clamped her lips together. She was not accepting that.

"Why didn't you come forward? You had to know that the will the court recognized was older than the one you'd witnessed."

"I told you, I don't know what you're talking about. In fact, I think it's time that you left. I'm busy and haven't got time for this crap."

Jimmy turned to go, but turned back with an afterthought. "Here's my card. If you happen to remember witnessing the document, or anything else that might pertain to the case, I'd appreciate a call. I'm sure Ervine's attorney will be in touch and you should expect to be subpoenaed. This isn't going away. Anyone that cooperates with the court will find himself or herself in a better situation. There could be charges filed for obstruction and willfully falsifying testimonies. If found guilty, those charges involve jail time."

Jimmy watched the woman's face pale; her already dark eyes turn to black in her Latino face. She was frightened and would think about what he'd said. Hopefully, she would change her mind and call him before many days had passed.

"Thank you for your time." Jimmy turned his back to the woman and walked to the door. As he reached his hand out, he was unexpectedly hit behind the knees, causing them to buckle and his body to lurch forward. He saw the door panels rush toward his face, felt, and heard a crunching noise as he crashed into a surprisingly hard door. The door must be steel and not the hollow core wood that he'd thought. Because it was such a shoddy apartment building, he would have expected something more flimsy, something that might give a bit. But no, the door was steel. There followed a sudden flash of pain and then nothing.

***

When Jimmy came to he knew he'd broken his nose again. There was a cold, wet rag streaked with blood being held to his face. Patricia knelt beside him, her face a contradiction in emotions. He read concern, dislike, and a bit of fear. This hadn't made her day either.

Jimmy moaned. Not from pain but from frustration and embarrassment. He was afraid he was never going to look normal. Everyone that saw him for the next few weeks would believe he'd gotten the worst in a fight. Again. This was becoming a regular, and totally unwelcome, habit. It wouldn't do much toward establishing a reputable reputation. Would anyone trust a private detective with the face of a pugilist? Especially one that always lost?

Jimmy tried to roll onto his side and found he couldn't. Something heavy was holding him flat on his back. He looked up into narrow green eyes that stared unblinking into his and he heard a rumble that sounded ominously like a warning growl. Obeying his instincts, he abruptly ceased moving, except for his neck hairs, which he couldn't control. They twitched. Whiskers tickled his face and warm, smothering breath smelling of tuna covered his. It was the furniture-destroying cat and its face was inches from his.

The animal was huge, at least twenty pounds. To his startled eyes it appeared three feet long. Ominously pitch black with a broad head and heavy paws planted firmly on Jimmy's chest, it seemed to dare him to move. He fearfully wondered how a panther could be allowed free rein in an apartment building. Didn't the neighbors complain?

"Umm, nice kitty," Jimmy ventured, trying to keep the question out of his voice. It wouldn't do for the cat to know that Jimmy wasn't sure if he was nice or not. He was trying for positive reinforcement.

"I'm so sorry," Patricia said, flustered, nervousness causing the hand holding the cloth to tremble. "Teeny likes to surprise people and he's really fast. I didn't have time to warn you. He must have been hiding behind the couch. I thought he was asleep in the bedroom."

"Teeny? Uh, nice name," Jimmy said, reaching up and putting his hands around the chest of the purring feline. The vibrations in the animal's chest felt like he had grabbed onto a running chain saw. Disregarding the protesting mew, he firmly lifted the cat off his rib cage and set it on the floor. He sat up and then struggled to his feet, feeling the blood begin to seep from his nose again. He leaned against the door, dizzy, waiting for the lightheadedness to pass.

Patricia exchanged another damp cloth for the red saturated one. She didn't seemed fazed by the amount of blood he'd lost, seemed almost matter-of-fact, like this was something that happened in her apartment every day. If you had to be injured, Jimmy thought it was always best to do so in the vicinity of a nurse.

"Really, I'm sorry. He's never hurt anyone like this before. He must have really caught you unawares."

Jimmy thought it was her way of hinting that he should have been paying closer attention; that he was some kind of dope for allowing a cat to get the best of him. He grinned ruefully. Now even little women were making excuses for him. What next? He could feel what little pride he had left begin to dissipate.

This had been one hell of a week.

"It's all right. I broke my nose a few days ago, so it's prone to re-break," he tried to explain. "Any little bump would do it. It's my fault; I wasn't watching for him. I should have."

Jimmy again turned toward the door.

"You should sit for a few minutes. That was a nasty accident. I think you were knocked out briefly. Just sit until your head clears," she said, but Jimmy could tell she didn't really want him to hang around, that she was just being the good nurse. But that was all right. He had no intention of staying longer; he was embarrassed enough.

"I'm fine," he said. "Actually, I'm in a hurry. And I don't want to get blood on your carpet. Back when I was a cop, I had considerably worse than this. I'll get out of your hair now. Remember to call if you think of anything."

As Jimmy left, pulling the door shut behind him, he did his best to focus, looking beyond the fuzzy edges of his surroundings. He held his head up, pretending nonchalance as he made for the stairs, made difficult because of the rag he had to hold to his nose. He knew the woman's eyes were riveted on his back through the door's peephole. Unfortunately, his honor was at stake. Counting each stair step until he'd gone down seven, he finally allowed himself to stop. Holding onto the rail, too dizzy to continue, he waited as nausea battled the metallic taste of blood that was running down his throat. Finally both unpleasant sensations faded and his head cleared enough to continue.

He should have taken the lady up on her offer and sat for a few minutes. It would have been the smart thing to do. Jimmy wondered why arrogance caused him to do so many stupid things. Was it just him? Or were there other people out there cursed with such ignorant stupidity?

By the time he crawled into his car his nose had quit bleeding. Gingerly removing the rag, he surveyed his reflection in the mirror. Not good. His nose looked twice its normal size and there were streaks of blood on his cheeks and chin. Using a clean spot on the washcloth, he wiped away the worst of it, hoping to get back to his office to handle the rest. With his luck he'd be stopped by a traffic cop and would have to try to explain why he looked this way. He could hear it now – " _Officer, there was this cat_ \--."

### Chapter 22

Those few short blocks seemed to take forever. Jimmy was sure he'd hit every red light. The only good thing was he had ample time to think. One decision he made was that Purdue's interview would have to be put off, at least for a couple of days. In fact, he might have to put _everything_ off for a couple of days. That left the phone. Not that he could do much with that, other than set up appointments. It wasn't much to fall back on.

Which brought to mind a thought he'd had while speaking with Mrs. Lorenzo. There had been no mention of her husband. Most women would bring up his name when they were nervous, when they wanted it to appear that protection was close by. The file said she had one. He needed to do more digging into her background to see what came up. Maybe a casual call to one of the other tenants about free magazines would do the trick. Jimmy knew that most people were happy to talk about their neighbors. In fact, they remained happy as long as the questioning didn't get around to them and as long as they thought they got something free out of the deal.

Another thought he'd had was whether or not the boy belonged to Wurtsmith. Everything pointed to no, but when things seemed certain Jimmy always questioned them. It was a habit he'd gotten into while on the force. Taking the way less traveled was sometimes the way to go. He would call the company that had done the DNA testing using Avis Clough's name to get another copy of the results, ostensibly for the file. He'd say it was to button it up. Yeah, that would work. Although no expert in reading DNA results, he could get the gist of it and if he needed to understand more he would see an old friend, an expert in forensics often used by local law enforcement. She was speedy obtaining results and, when necessary, effective on the stand. He and Michelle Miller had always gotten along. He hoped she wouldn't hold it against him that he was working now in a private capacity and not with the force. He mind was on this when he turned the key in the lock and opened the door to his office.

A rough hand grabbed his shirtfront, pulling hard and choking him, as he was spun around to bang into the wall. A second hand (he got a close up look at spiky hair bristling on pudgy, puffy fingers) was clenched into a fist that swung and stopped inches from his face. It happened so fast he didn't have time to think. If he had, he would have recognized his error, which was to never, ever, enter his office as if he was the one that paid the rent. He _really_ needed to change the lock. This was becoming a habit.

"Whatz happen to you?" Thug Two asked. "Somebody beat you up bad?" He uncocked his arm, pulling back his fist. Jimmy wondered if he hadn't been clobbered because the brute felt sorry for him or if it was because the man was afraid he'd get blood on his knuckles.

"No, it was a cat," Jimmy sputtered, angrily pulling the other man's hand loose from his shirt. He knew after he'd said it that his excuse sounded ridiculous. Nothing like giving the boys more fodder to mock him with. As if they needed more. Today was a worthless, thoroughly exhausting day and he wished he'd never gotten out of bed.

"We're here for our seester's money. You could have wired her some, but no – you like us to come veesit you," said Thug One from his familiar position behind Jimmy's desk.

"She's out of money already?" Jimmy yelled. He was mad. Enough was enough. He was tired of being a nice guy.

"Careful, Meester High-and-Mighty," Thug Two hissed. "She ees your responsibility. You know how she ees when you marry to her."

"Yes," Thug One added, sympathetic for some unknown reason. "We understand zee problem. She ees a demanding woman, but isn't every womans?"

Jimmy's nose throbbed and to say he wasn't happy with the situation was an understatement. Trying his best to look threatening he placed the rag back up in place and glared over the hot pink scrap of cloth at both men.

Thug One smiled and then giggled, "You not so tough today Jimmy. I sorry about you luck, but thees is the way it ees, until zee divorce."

"And when will that be?" Jimmy questioned, sarcasm creeping into his tone. He was beginning to feel he would never be free of Ada and her family of shady characters.

"Soon. Papa wants her marry thees guy soon as possible."

Jimmy puzzled over the man's comment, until it suddenly hit him like a ton of bricks. He felt like he'd been slugged in the gut and couldn't catch his breath. After all those years, Ada must be pregnant. _Now,_ she was expecting. For a few seconds, he was filled with angry jealousy, betrayal, and even a felt as if he'd been robbed. Jimmy had always wanted children, had always expected they'd eventually get around to it. As the years went by, he'd become resigned that Ada didn't want any. It seemed he was wrong about that too. He'd been such a fool.

Could it be his? Was there a chance? Hope flared, but just as quickly faded. No, no way possible. He and Ada hadn't been together for six months. Her daddy wouldn't let them divorce if she had Jimmy's bun in the oven. He was too good a Catholic. In fact, he would want her married to the baby's daddy quickly. It belonged to the other man. And she couldn't be very far along. Good old Papa would speed the divorce along; he wanted her safely married and his grandchild legal. A different hope flared and this time didn't fade. The divorce would be final soon. He would be free of Ada and her unrelenting money grabbing ways.

"When's she due, Alphonzo?" he asked Thug One casually, as he walked toward the desk for his checkbook.

"What you say?" Thug One asked, pretending not to understand, his face carefully expressionless.

"Careful," Thug Two hissed, threat plain in his voice. This was his sister they were discussing. The family honor was at stake.

Jimmy knew to change the subject. "I can give you twelve hundred, Ada's share. I got a new case and a small retainer just yesterday." He lied, hoping they wouldn't be able to find out about the nice cushion that resided in his bank account.

"You weel do better," Thug One said. "We take fifteen hundred this day. Make it worth our while for thees trip."

"Okay, but if I starve, she won't get another dime."

"You no starve. You funny, Jimmy," Thug One said, smiling. Of the two, Jimmy liked him best. Not because he wasn't as violent as his sibling, because he was, more so probably. As the smart one, he was the one to decide the particular brand of cruelty to inflict. But he had a sense of humor.

Sometimes it's the little things.

Jimmy wrote the check for fifteen-hundred dollars payable to Ada Warren and passed it over, his face wearing a carefully contrived expression of pain that said, ' _What was he going to do? How could he pay his rent? Oh, worry, worry.'_

"You smart guy. You do fine," Thug One said, in his way attempting to comfort, as he patted his shoulder. "We are back once, twice more. Then zee divorce, she is final."

Jimmy nodded, showed the brothers out, and firmly locked the deadbolt. He wondered why they'd returned to Cincinnati so soon. Surely not for the few hundred they were shaking him down for. There had to be something else. What were they up to? He knew he wasn't his brothers-in-law's keeper, but if they were into something illegal it would, somehow, fall back on him. He'd be guilty by association and his hope to be rehired by the Cincinnati post was just a pipedream.

Thinking this, he went straight to the bathroom and grabbed the bottle of ibuprofen off the cabinet shelf. As he swallowed two extra-strength pills, he heard a knock on the door. Now what? Jimmy was in no mood to listen to a new client and a quick look in the mirror told him that they wouldn't be impressed with him either. He hesitated, considering staying hidden in the bathroom, hoping whoever was there would leave.

Two more series of raps on the door told him that wasn't going to work.

"Go away!" he yelled out.

"No. Let me in," came back a female voice. "I want to talk to you."

Hopeful that it was Patricia Lorenzo, he gave in and went to the door. He unlocked the deadbolt, pulled the door open, and was dismayed to see Izzy standing there. By the look on her face, she was as surprised as he was with what waited on the other side. For some reason the strains that accompanied the children's movie, Beauty and the Beast', entered his head.

"You poor man," she sympathized. And then in the next breath added, "What the hell happened to you? Another door?"

He opened his mouth to admit that it had indeed been a door, when he felt a trickle of blood begin again. Tipping his head back, he scurried back to the bathroom with Izzy following closely behind.

She grabbed a paper towel and thrust it at him and then picked up the hot pink washcloth he'd left lying in the vanity's sink. Her eyebrows went up as she rinsed it out.

"Pretty color," she teased. "Although it won't be if you let blood dry on it."

Jimmy waved his hand around, irritably dismissing her comment. When she motioned to exchange the paper towel for the freshened rag he did as she urged. Then he allowed her to help him out of his Polo shirt and watched her rinse out the spot of blood that had fallen on the shirt's front. And when she told him to sit on the couch and tilt his head back, he obediently obeyed. She brought along another paper towel, dampened, and without asking permission, began cleaning him up. There was a smear on his chin and one on his neck that he hadn't noticed. Apparently, today, women were determined to minister to his needs. His opinion of himself was dropping fast; he felt as pathetic as they seemed to think he was.

But he was still a man. Jimmy was torn between feeling like a troublesome child and wanting to wrap his arms around the woman and crush her to him. He must have been easy to read, because Izzy soon stopped her efforts, threw the blood-spotted paper in the trash, and sat in the chair across and away from him.

"How's the case going?" she asked, letting him know why she was there.

It took a second for his mind to shift from the pleasant picture it had painted, back to reality.

"I haven't heard from Paul yet. I can't do anything until he and I talk. I'm sure he's busy, but I hope to hear from him by the end of the week."

"You need a cadaver dog, right? We can pressure him into getting one out there. Is there anything else we can do?"

"We won't push too hard," Jimmy said, assuming she had meant him and her, not understanding her slip about her and her sister. "He'll get around to it, I'm sure." He was also sure Paul wouldn't want her involved, and surely wouldn't want her hooked up with him. He wouldn't if the situation were reversed.

"I'd like to be there when it happens. I could help keep Ruth calm."

Jimmy thought about it. It was tempting and always nice to have Izzy around, but decided it wasn't a good idea.

"Sorry. You have to stay away. I shouldn't have taken you out there Saturday. It was stupid of me."

"Why?"

Jimmy stared at her, thinking it had to be obvious. And thinking how cute she was with that indignant expression on her face.

"You were the last one we know of to see Janet Hilton alive. Even though it sounds stupid to anyone that knows you, you're still a suspect. You can't be there in case we find her remains. Forensics wouldn't like the risk of having their crime scene contaminated."

"Oh," Izzy said, stunned. She hadn't given that a thought. She'd had nothing to do with Janet's going missing and probable murder. But because of the murder she had been involved with, it would be for the best if she steered clear. It wouldn't do to raise anyone's suspicions. Especially this detective's. The smart thing to do would be to walk away and not be anywhere near him again. But, and this shocked her, she wasn't going to do the smart thing. She liked the man. And when he was vulnerable, like now, sitting on the couch in his t-shirt, his face a swollen mess, she found him the most appealing.

### Chapter 23

Daisy cleared her throat nervously. What were the odds? Here was the same cop she'd spoken to before. The patch on his uniform read Cpl. Jason Adel. The name even sounded familiar. He was involved in paperwork and hadn't looked up when she'd stepped up to the desk. He hadn't heard her approach. Or was pretending not to.

She cleared her throat again. This time it had the desired effect. Cpl. Adel glanced up, his expression changing from irritation at being bothered to one of recognition. He remembered her. She was positive of it.

"Yes, miss. Can I help you?" he questioned as if he didn't.

"I've come back to see if you still want me to sit with a police artist," Daisy said, jumping right in before she lost her nerve. She didn't want to waste time. She wanted to be in and out as quickly as possible, hoping not to be recognized for who she really was. Already, she regretted coming. She held out her hand, but the policeman merely waved at the chair beside his desk. She flushed at his rudeness, but sat down, crossing long legs clad in sheer black nylons, her feet encased in dramatic four-inch pumps that must have cost three hundred dollars if they cost a penny. She was creating a stir among the uniformed cops milling about with her fashionable good looks and expensive clothing. Without being aware of it, she was hopelessly overdressed for a police precinct in downtown Cincinnati.

"And you are?" Jason glanced behind him, hoping Det. Paul Lewinski was in. He seemed to be; his office door was open. Jason needed to get her into that office as quickly as possible and turn her over to the detective. He didn't relish the possibility of going through what he had the last time. He'd been the laughing stock of the precinct.

"Just call me Daisy. As I told you previously, I'm not filing a report and you're not getting my real name."

"I remember," Jason said soothingly, not wanting her to run again. The flack he'd caught from the rest of the guys when she'd high-tailed it was brutal. Losing a witness, especially a pretty one with nice legs, was the eleventh sin. "Just relax, miss. First I'd like you to speak with the homicide detective in charge of the case. He has a few questions."

Daisy nodded that this would be agreeable and he let out a stress-filled breath he'd hadn't been aware he'd been holding.

Jason stood up and then hesitated. This is when she'd run away the last time. He considered handcuffing her to the chair, but regretfully ruled that out. It would just antagonize her. And then he'd have to sanitize his cuffs again; a task that always proved difficult because of the sheer number of links. He hated germs and dealing with the public, let alone criminals, was a dirty, dirty business.

"Stay here. I'll be right back."

"Okay."

Without taking his eyes off the young woman he made his way to the detective's door and was relieved when he saw him seated at his desk.

"Paul? That woman's back that calls herself Daisy. The one that thinks the Bathtub Girls' killer attacked her. She said she'd be willing to do a sketch now."

Paul's heart pounded in his chest. She was here. The one that had gotten away.

"Paul? What do you want to do?" Jason asked anxiously. He glanced back at the woman who was acting antsy; she was getting ready to run.

"Umm, unfortunately I'm busy right now. Get a phone number, address, anything that she'll give you. Call up Jeff and have him come in right away to do the sketch. I've got to run out on another case; you'll have to handle it. That case is pretty much closed anyway, but just to say we've done everything we can, we'll get a sketch done. Got it?"

"Yes, sir." Jason was surprised. He hadn't known the detective to turn a witness over to anyone else. Of course, the Bathtub Girls' murders were basically solved. They just needed Mason's arrest and conviction to clear them from the books. Still the fact that Paul was assigning him the task meant he thought him capable of handling the situation. His chest puffed up a little, Jason turned, went back to his desk, and sat down with the witness.

***

Paul waited until his heart stopped beating erratically and his thoughts were less chaotic. Then, sticking a pair of sunglasses on his face, he casually walked out his door and turned left. After taking the hallway at the back of the building, he turned back toward the front walking past the offices on that side and stopped at the entrance to the lobby. Jason's back was turned to him as he interviewed the witness. Paul studied the unsuspecting woman seated beside the corporal's desk. Expensive clothes, stylish hairdo, and the way she carried herself told him she was educated and had money behind her. The young woman must be well known to Cincinnati's high society. Someone knew who she was. His fear waned, knowing she wouldn't be difficult to find.

With nothing now to be afraid of, he relaxed and allowed himself the pleasure of reminiscing. Although not consciously trying to pull up the memory, the thrill of the hunt returned as if it had just happened that morning. Raw, animalistic excitement caused his heartbeat to quicken and his breathing to become rapid and loud to his ears. It dawned on him that anyone walking by would notice and think he was having a heart attack. Regretfully, Paul turned and walked back the way he'd come, toward the building's back door, knowing he had to get away before he aroused suspicion.

An exhilarating vision of the woman filled his thoughts to the exclusion of everything else. Lovely, with beautiful legs and a long, slim neck, there was much more to her appeal than just raw physical attraction. And though he understood this in some far corner of his mind, Paul would have been hard pressed to explain it. He only knew he wanted her. And that he would have her.

And now, because she had felt the need to do her civic duty and come in and report a crime that she should have let lie; she had sealed her fate. It was plain to see it was her fault. Paul couldn't let anything happen to change his comfortable world. There was too much to lose. He had a good life, a good job, and a good woman at home. No, he would not run, would not slip away to hide leaving everything he cared about behind. Not now, not when he was finally content. Paul relaxed even further. It was such a simple thing, but would take careful planning. He was confident that he could work out all the details and that this threat would be easily eliminated. And at the same time, he would get to play again and satisfy those urges. Climbing into his car, he smiled. This woman, the only one to have ever gotten away, wouldn't be free long. He would catch her and she would soon remember him.

In fact, he avidly hoped she did remember him, because when she ran into him again it would only cause her terror to be elevated. Of course, she wouldn't wear the surprise factor, which is what he called the disbelief and shock the women's faces showed when they finally understood what was going to happen. That was something he truly enjoyed, but the fear she would emanate over recognizing him would be better. It would be delicious.

Paul shuddered as a thrill passed through him, and then was amused to discover that he was aroused. " _Down boy,"_ he thought. There was plenty of time for that later. He had work to do now.

***

Later that afternoon, Jason studied the sketch that Jeff had handed him. There was nothing unusual about the drawing. The man portrayed was good-looking with symmetrical features and dark hair and eyes, like hundreds and hundreds of men in the area. At least, those lucky enough to have been blessed with good genes. Jason, himself, wasn't one of them. Short, with thinning sand-colored hair and stooped shoulders, he was no prize. He knew that he wouldn't be mistaken for the suspect in the drawing. But the sketch did look familiar. Now, who was it? Who did it remind him of?

He hadn't gotten much out of the woman; just the name Daisy, if that was her name, and a cell phone number in case he needed anything else. If the number was legit, that is, which he didn't have much faith in. But at least he had something to turn over to the detective. Odd that Paul hadn't stuck around to interview her himself. He'd been angry about missing her before and had told him in no uncertain terms that he wasn't to let the woman get away again. Well, he hadn't. But Paul must have lost interest, because he sure didn't seem to care this time. In one way, it was rewarding that Paul thought him capable of doing the interview. But in another way it seemed like such an unexpected turn around on the other man's part that Jason found it confusing.

He'd done his best to reward the detective's trust, but was disappointed that all he'd gotten out of it was a probable fake number and a generic sketch. He'd hoped for better.

Jason stared again at the drawing. That was it! Now he had it. The simple black and white illustration on the table in front of him resembled Paul. Lucky bastard, even women that hadn't seen him before plucked his good looks out of thin air. Of course, she could have seen him on TV. Jason thought there was a good chance the detective had been interviewed by some bright-eyed reporter back when the Bathtub Girls' murders were headlining the news and Paul's features had stuck with her. The resemblance was just a coincidence and meant nothing. Which only further proved that the sketch was useless.

At any rate, the drawing did not resemble Grant Mason much, other than the dark hair and eyes. This man had a different hairline, different shape to the eyes and lips. He even had a different shape to his brows, which Jason found telling. He didn't know why there had never been a study done on eyebrows. He suspected there was a correlation to the shape of a man's brows and his character. He could be wrong, but he didn't think it likely. This man in the sketch had eyebrows that rose in the middle like Paul's, which explained the resemblance. There was probably no similarity other than that. Still... It did look like him.

It was actually funny and he expected that Paul would get a chuckle out of it. But just in case he didn't, Jason wasn't going to spread his opinion around the precinct. He had no intention of getting on the detective's bad side. Not when things were going so well. It was nice being buddies with a detective. You got the plum assignments.

Jason pulled out a box of hand disinfectant out of his desk drawer and tore one package open. His hands were smudged from the pen and ink Jeff had used to shade the drawing. Unfortunately, it was always dirty here; germs were everywhere. Daisy seemed clean, but you couldn't trust your eyes. You can't see germs. He hadn't shook her hand because he didn't shake hands with anyone, having long ago learned. No sir, there would be no cold, flu, or the possibility of who-knew-what for him. He hadn't been sick in years and had no intention of letting his guard down now. Jason didn't know his compulsion was well known with his co-workers and that they thought him strange. If he had, he would have been hurt, but it wouldn't have made a difference. Although he didn't suspect it, he had a lot in common in that way with Paul, his hero. Compulsions, like urges, are nearly impossible to change.

### Chapter 24

Three hours after slipping out the back door, Paul returned to his office. While he'd been out he had walked two crime scenes, letting his mind wander to form a plan. He hadn't allowed it to dwell on what he would do to the woman. That would have been too distracting. Instead he had centered on where his investigation should begin. And that would, of course, start with the identification of the young woman who called herself Daisy. Everything else would fall into place when that small obstacle was gone.

"Jason, could you come in here?" he asked, as soon as he caught up. Messages and e-mails were waiting whenever he returned from the field. He rarely had a free moment. Cincinnati, like most major cities, was a super bowl for crime. And crime never took a timeout.

Jason came in quickly, papers in both hands.

"Here's the sketch Jeff came up with. The only thing I can see is that it looks like you," Jason said laughing.

Paul grimaced, as he looked it over. This was worse than he'd expected; the picture was a dead ringer for him. He felt forced to deny it, but would do it in an off-putting way. "I don't see it. This guy doesn't have my charm and sophistication, although he seems to be a good-looking gent. He looks like Mason; don't you think?"

"Some," Jason reluctantly agreed, if only to please the detective. Paul might see a resemblance, but he sure didn't. He looked again at the drawing and then back at Paul. It was almost as if the artist had used him as the model. It was a very good likeness, and, if he had been the suspicious type, enough to make him wonder. He wasn't.

"I'll make copies and pass them out at tomorrow's meeting," Paul said. "Not that it matters, when we get Mason this case will be over.

"Did you get the woman's address?"

"No, she wouldn't give me anything, except a cell phone number." Jason passed a slip of paper over to Paul. "And that's probably fake. She refused to give me anything we could identify her with. I threatened her with the usual - obstruction of justice and interference, but she wasn't swayed. As soon as she and Jeff finished the sketch she went out the door. She won't be back."

"That's all right. I'm not worried about it. Have you sent the number down for identification?"

"No, I didn't have time. I figured you wanted to do it." Jason was nervous and hoped he hadn't blown it. He'd expected Paul would want to handle that aspect.

"That's fine," Paul said, seemingly unconcerned. "I'll let you know what I find out."

Jason perked up. He was still in the loop. He hadn't expected to be kept informed. With what the detective had said, it was almost as if they were working the case together. He'd once had a dream of working homicide, before the germ obsession had become so overpowering. It had been a dream difficult to give up. For a brief instant, he experienced it again. It had been an aspiration promising better pay and desired prestige, strictly a pipe dream where he wasn't laughed at and the brunt of the other guy's jokes. A dream where he was important to someone other than his mother and sister.

He looked at Paul with respect bordering on adulation as he left the office. The detective had always treated him kindly, better than anyone else at the precinct. It was almost as if they were friends and that was a good feeling.

***

On his way home that night Paul picked up a cheap, pay-as-you-go cell phone. One that was basically untraceable, commonly called a throwaway phone. Sitting in the dollar store parking lot, he rang up the number Jason had so thoughtfully provided and was pleased when it went straight to voice mail. The name left for messages was, oddly enough, Daisy. So, that really was her name, or at least a stage name. How stupid of her. His lip curled thinking about how foolish some women were. As he remembered, this one had been pushy and practically begging for what had happened. He hadn't intended to let his urges get out of hand; he'd simply been out for a little fun that night. In fact, he remembered wanting the whole thing to cool down. Two hookers dead in Cincinnati had been enough to bring in the FBI and their infernal snooping. The whole precinct had been on high alert. That's why he'd gone into Dayton for entertainment. Wasn't it? To let the heat die down? Or was it because he really hadn't wanted to wait? He shrugged and put it out of his mind. It wasn't important now; he would probe into his own psyche in more detail later, when there was time.

Most important was her address, which should prove easy to find. He would simply run the number and her full name and address would pop out at him. There was no reason for anyone to monitor his whereabouts on the computer; he was safe. And he would be free to implement the rest of his plan.

He would tell Jason that the number was fake. He was positive that he'd been given the original paper the phone number had been written on. So, except for this little sticky-note he held in his hand, there was no record of it being in police possession. And in Paul's keeping, there was no way of tracing a connection back after the girl was gone. There would be no paper trail to link them. He smiled; confident everything was going the way he wanted it.

Still, Jason might remember. Paul racked his brain for what to do. There needed to be a distraction. Something to take the other man's mind off the woman and her blasted sketch, although the sketch could be _fixed_. A little tweak here, a heavier line there, and the eyes would droop at the corners, the lips would be fuller. Maybe he'd even add a scowl line between the eyes. This was the easy part. He'd brought the drawing home with him, confident there would be no problem modifying it.

The problem would be Jason himself. His memory was too good. But he seemed to want to follow wherever Paul led. Their friendship was something Paul carefully cultivated and he was reasonably sure the other man could be convinced his recollection was incorrect. But a distraction ...

Jimmy Warren's message popped into his head. It was something about wanting a cadaver dog to search Mason's grandparents' property. Paul shook his head. Getting approval from his boss for this added expense and then having to get a search warrant for what was ostensibly a cold case was a major hassle. But, it could certainly prove a distraction, and would take the focus away from the drawing and the resemblance to him. If they found the girl's remains, the sketch could be filed away with the rest of the evidence until Mason was found. No one, even Jason, would remember it existed. Yes, that was a good plan. First thing in the morning he would approach the Lieutenant and get the ball rolling.

This was exhilarating. Not only was there the chance that he would be able to add new life to a cold case, but he had the thrill of a hunt looming. And, with the extra challenges that stalking a previous victim entailed, it promised to be quite the hunt.

### Chapter 25

"Which lab handled the paternity test?" Jimmy asked.

"That clinic on the west side. Just a minute, I'll get the name and address for you," Avis Clough's raspy voice answered.

Jimmy heard the rustling of paper and then the attorney came back on the line.

"Valley Clinic and Lab. Why do you need this?" he asked suspiciously. Avis had just been told that there would be more hours involved, and that this was going to cost him more than originally expected. Alicia Ervine wouldn't pay it; she was broke. The money would have to come out of his pocket, which he normally wouldn't consider. However, if the will were legit, his agency would be reimbursed. Most likely in triplicate for expenses, with the creative way he did billing.

"I'm going to have a friend of mine look at it. She's in forensics and one of several professional witnesses used for years by the police department. I want to prove to myself that the kid isn't Wurtsmith's."

"So, this isn't on my clock?"

Jimmy groaned inwardly. Why had he worded it that way? He could have simply made the statement without putting the 'myself' part in. Lawyers were such tightwads. You'd think that it physically pained them to part with every dollar.

"No, not on your clock. Of course, if I find something --."

There was a pause on the other end of the line. Jimmy knew that if he found the old man had been the father, then that information would be needed. Although the lawyer could win without it, a far-fetched surprise like this, even after so many years, would prove very useful. It would simplify things and a judge might be sympathetic.

"Never mind," Clough's voice said, the words seemingly pulled from him against his will. "You'll be paid for your time. Wherever you go. You're the detective, so I'll leave it to your discretion. Here's the address."

Jimmy wrote it down. It was on the business district's north side, the same direction he would need to go to call on Glenn Purdue, the bodyguard. It would be good to consolidate trips, but was he up to that?

His face wasn't as bad today as he'd expected. Colorful and puffy, but not scary like the first time. Or, and here was another way of looking at it, there was a possibility that he was just getting used to his new look. Studying his reflection in the mirror, he thought he looked like a tough guy, could even be considered mean looking. With that garish green and purple eye shadow and the bridge of his nose swollen to both eyes, he looked dangerous and threatening. Move over Charles Bronson, Jimmy Warren was in town.

Reaching into the medicine cabinet, he took out two more pain pills. Looking tough wasn't all it was cracked up to be. It hurt.

***

At the lab Jimmy was given the runaround until he threatened with a court order. The receptionist nervously explained that supplying copies of DNA paternity tests to just anyone was illegal. He told her he worked for Avis Clough and that he needed it to close his file. At that time he was introduced to Luther Billings the office manager, a small, bespectacled man who looked like an accountant. He was quickly led into the man's office, in an attempt to stop the scene that was happening in the waiting room. Potential clients were staring, and scenes weren't good for business.

"How may I help you, Mr. Warren?" Billings asked, his tone peevish as he fretfully pushed heavy, black-framed glasses into a position higher on his nose.

"My employer, Attorney-at-Law Avis Clough, sent me to pick up a copy of the paternity test run between Bryan Ervine and Darren Wurtsmith. This would have been about ten years ago."

"Oh, that long? I'm not sure that we still have it. That's a long time to keep something filed."

"Computers have the file space. I know you don't use a file cabinet. Why don't you look? I'll wait."

Billings glared at him. "I don't think legally I could give you that information, if we even still have it."

"Sure you can. Call up Clough and ask him. He'll tell you. If you want, I'll get a search warrant and we'll see how long it takes for the cops to release your computers afterwards. Could be months, which would be a shame for business."

Billings chewed on his bottom lip, studying Jimmy's bruised face, while Jimmy did his best to appear dangerous and blasé. Then Billings reached for the phone. After talking with Avis Clough it only took him two minutes to bring up the results and thirty seconds to print out the file.

"I want it noted that I'm not pleased with you and your lawyer's strong-arm tactics. If I hear of anything illegal coming out of this, I'm going straight to the cops."

"Fine, call me and I'll tell you who to talk to," Jimmy said. "They're good friends of mine.

"I'd like to thank you for your help," Jimmy continued, trying not to sound sarcastic. He reached out his hand and hid a smile when the other man refused to shake with him. This tough guy act was amusing and proving helpful. He'd never thought of himself as intimidating before. It was exhilarating.

Back in his car, Jimmy glanced over the papers. It was plain he didn't understand DNA codes. The way the results were written was confusing. He made a note to call Michelle Miller that afternoon. Hopefully, she would help straighten it out. He stuck the sheets up behind the driver's sun visor and set the GPS for Purdue's residence, feeling the beginnings of the headache he'd battled for a week trying to make a return. Being tough might be fun, but it wasn't easy.

***

Glenn Purdue met him at the door with car keys in hand. Although a large, muscular man, he stared at Jimmy's face with trepidation, as if he, too, thought Jimmy dangerous. Jimmy had all he could do not to laugh.

"Mr. Purdue? I'm working for Avis Clough. Could I speak with you about a matter that has been recently brought to our attention?"

Purdue stiffened. He recognized the attorney's name.

"I'm on my way out. Could it wait until later?"

"It will only take a few minutes of your time. And then I'll be out of your hair." Oops, bad choice of words. Jimmy eyes were pulled to the man's shaved head. As large as he was, it looked like a bowling ball. Fortunately, Purdue wasn't paying attention. He was looking at his watch.

"Okay, but make it quick. I've got an appointment." He motioned Jimmy inside his home, a neat brick ranch on the end of a cul-de-sac. They took seats at a bar that separated the dining area from the U-shaped kitchen. The kitchen was clean and the cabinetry updated with lighter colors and more fashionable hardware, but the style was reminiscent of the eighties.

"I'll come straight to the point. Do you remember witnessing a will for Darren Lee Wurtsmith?"

A startled look flitted across Purdue's face, before his expression quickly altered to one of studied, harried exasperation.

Jimmy grinned. He had him.

"I didn't witness any will. You must be mistaken."

"I don't think so. Anyway, a handwriting expert will know for sure. I'm giving you the opportunity to explain why you didn't come forward during the trial. Mrs. Ervine and her son needed your testimony. It's not too late. If you tell the truth, I think I can keep you from being prosecuted." Looking at the big man beside him, Jimmy didn't expect to easily intimidate him. But you never knew. Some people just needed a little prodding to do the right thing.

"Again, I didn't witness a will. And I am running late, and would like you to leave now. I really have to be going." Purdue stood up and shooed Jimmy toward the door.

Jimmy took the hint, hoping he'd given the man something to think about.

"If you change your mind, give me a call," he said, holding out one of his cards, which Purdue unwillingly took, his expression showing that he felt there was a good chance the card was contaminated with some foreign disease. Jimmy knew the poor little scrap of paper was destined for the trash. It had done not one thing wrong, but such is the way for business cards.

Back in his car, he pointed the Crown Vic's nose toward his office. It was noon and he contemplated just locking up and going home. But with painkillers convenient in the medicine cabinet, there was really no excuse. And you never knew, maybe another client would drop in. He could use a few more actually. He should be thankful for the two he had, but he was temporarily stymied on both fronts and he didn't know what else to do other than wait to see if something broke. He'd rattled cages and now had to be patient, and that wasn't an easy thing to do.

He was still planning his next move when he arrived back at the office and found the message light blinking on the office phone. The message was from Paul Lewinski. In it, he stated that the cadaver dog had been scheduled for Thursday. Today was Tuesday; only two days before Jimmy's hunch could be proven right or wrong. He had to grin. His gut feeling about the body buried there would soon be proven right. Only two days and it would be over, and then the Hilton's would have their little girl back.

### Chapter 26

By coincidence, Michelle Miller had made plans to be at the police post that afternoon to review an unrelated case; one she would be paid for. Since it was the only time she expected to be in town until after she returned from vacation the following week, Jimmy agreed to meet her at the precinct at 12:30, thinking that if he got an opportunity to talk with Paul when he returned from lunch, so much the better. He had a few questions about Thursday's schedule.

Frizzy black curls, ineffectively controlled by a bright lime scarf, radiated around the woman's head, reminding Jimmy of a children's song, something about hiding your light under a bushel. In Michelle's case her 'light' was piercing black eyes shining with intelligence and a good deal of laughter from under a bushel basket full of flyaway, completely uncontrollable hair. It wasn't the bane of her existence however. In fact, she seemed not to care that she had hair. Jimmy had never seen it styled, straightened, or colored in the years he'd known her. Michelle left it natural, flaunting her African heritage.

"Hi there, Jimmy," she said, drawing the 'there' out into 'thay-er'. She had grown up in Tennessee and the drawl was part of her persona.

"Hi, Michelle. How's the family?"

"Same ole, same ole. You know how 'tis. Billy broke his arm on that blasted skateboard and Gina hates the world, 'specially her mama. She's thirteen now, you know."

Jimmy nodded his head that he understood the problems of raising teenagers, but in reality he didn't understand at all. From what he'd heard, this was the age to skip if you had children. Just go straight from ten to eighteen, even if you had to lock them up the whole time to omit those in-between years.

"Now what was it you needed, honey?" Michelle asked. "I've got a little time before Jack gets back from lunch." Jimmy knew whom she referred to. Lieutenant Jack Siles was the one who worked between detectives, the prosecutor, and any professional witness deemed necessary. He oversaw each case. Because of years of experience and a background in law in a younger life, he rarely allowed a case to get on the docket, or even be reviewed by a prosecutor, without obtaining favorable results. He was a man that pushed and frustrated detectives, aggravated attorneys, and installed fear and dread in witnesses. Not a man to provoke. And, in Jimmy's opinion, a first class cop.

"Tell Jack hi for me," Jimmy said, grinning, remembering all the times the man had given him stress and all the times it had been just what he'd needed to work the case a little harder. He'd taught him a lot.

"I've got a copy of a paternity test here," he continued. "I'd appreciate it if you'd look at it."

"Why Jimmy? Is there something you're not telling? I thought you were old enough to know better," Michelle teased. She said this in mock shock, batting her thick, black lashes like a southern belle in the company of a suitor.

Jimmy flushed, his face turning pink. Michelle always did this to him. She was so warm and natural, with such a magnetic personality, that they'd flirted since the day they'd first met. If he hadn't been married to Ada and she to her husband Ray, it might have gone farther. But it hadn't, no matter what some of the guys thought. No, she would never cheat on Ray and he'd thought he loved Ada. He and Michelle were just good friends.

"No, it's not mine. I'm too old for that foolishness," he said shaking his head, even though he grinned. "This is for a client." He put the printout on the table before her. "I don't understand what it says. Must be slipping because I'm so ancient."

Michelle laughed and patted his hand. "You're not old, Jimmy. Wait until you and Ada have kids. Them kids is what makes you old."

Jimmy stiffened. Obviously, Michelle didn't know about the separation and soon-to-be divorce. Should he bother telling her? It was really none of her business and it would do nothing but ruin her day.

"This is strange," she said, interrupting his thoughts. "It says here at the top that the man's age is eighty-eight."

Jimmy nodded. "Yes, the child would have been three at the time." He grinned suggestively at Michelle. "Some men get better with age."

"You betcha," she said, her tone dismissing that possibility. "Back to the case, handsome.

"What's so freakin' odd is that the sperm count is high. Stratosphere high. It's even high for a man in his thirties, although not for a seventeen-year-old. Old men can't compare with teenagers in that regard."

"Ah, but experience, Michelle. Experience is everything."

"Right," she said. This time it was her turn to blush, a rosy tint coloring her milk-chocolate skin. She smiled at him and then brazenly winked and added, "Don't you know it, baby."

Suddenly her earlier remark sunk in and Jimmy quickly bent over the report, his eyes riveted to the numbers printed there. He knew instantly that this was the smoking gun and was the proof he'd been searching for. The paternity test had to have been faked, which brought to mind several questions. Who would have switched samples? Had it been done at the old man's mansion, or at the lab? Was it done by one of the families or a combination of them? Or, had Luther Billings, that strange little man running the lab, been paid to do it? And that brought to mind one last question. Who was the real donor of the sample? He looked back at Michelle, excitement lighting up his face.

"You're kidding me!" Jimmy exclaimed. "You're freakin' kidding me!"

"No, now you know me better than that, sugar."

"I love you, you sweet, lovely woman! This is just what I need for the attorney to reopen the case."

"Fine, honey. Glad I could help," she patted his hand as she stood to leave. "But from what I can see, this is just the beginning. It means there's lots of work that has to be done."

"Looks like it, all right. Just the way I like it, babe. Just the way I like it."

***

Jimmy stood outside looking in and saw Paul glance up when he knocked at the door. A brief flash of anger passed over the man's face, but was gone quickly, replaced by a curiously unreadable expression. Jimmy wished he was someplace else and that he hadn't thought to intrude. He would see Paul soon enough; he didn't need to push the man's buttons.

"What the hell's up with your face?" Paul demanded. "It looks like you got the shit beat out of you. Again."

"You won't believe this, but I ran into a door. Seriously."

"Uh huh." Paul studied his face looking for deception, but seemed to be unwilling to question further. "Come in, Jimmy," he said politely, but stiffly. "Did you get my message?"

"Yes, that's why I'm here. Is it all right with your superiors for me to go out to the farm? I know how picky the agency is with crime scenes." Jimmy said this quietly, knowing he'd alienated the detective somehow, but not sure of what he'd done. Whatever it was, he hoped to soothe it over.

"Don't worry about it," Paul replied. "They're so happy there's a chance of closing the case, they'd agree to anything about now. But not to having Abby there, of course. I'm glad you told her she couldn't go. She doesn't need to take the risk. You and I both know that she wasn't involved, but it wouldn't look good if she lost even one hair at the site, or something stupid like that. In fact, I'm not sure why you took her out there last week. Just why'd you do that?" He said this last in an accusatory manner, his eyes narrowed.

Jimmy now understood why the man's temper was up. He had spent more time with the woman than what anyone could reasonably expect. And, she was Paul's girl. Still, it hadn't been a date, merely business. Although at times, it had felt like a date. To him, anyway.

"I wasn't sure I could find the place and she said she'd like to see Ruth and Winston again; I guess it had been a while. They were happy to see her."

Paul stared sharply at him for a brief time before nodding and continuing, " Ten o'clock. We'll meet there and hope the dog finds the remains quickly. I've got several current cases that need my attention and not enough hours in the blasted day to get things done." He picked up a pile of papers on his desk and straightened them out before setting them back in the same place.

Jimmy knew he was being dismissed and stood to go, only then noticing a sketch lying on the corner of the desk. He reached a hand forward and turned the drawing toward him to get a better look.

"Boy, whoever drew this sure wanted you to look ornery," he said, trying to lighten up the mood and not understanding what he was seeing.

A cloud passed over Paul's face before he smiled and shook his head, appearing embarrassed. "It's a suspect. In fact, it's supposed to be Grant Mason. A woman came in and said that she'd been attacked two years ago. This is her (and Jeff's) rendition of the man who did it. If you look close you can see it's Mason."

"Mason?"

"Yeah, Grant Mason. Abby's ex-husband." Paul looked him straight in the eye as he said this, but Jimmy knew there was something deceitful in what he was saying. There was nothing that he could point to that suggested the other man lied, but Jimmy knew in his gut that he did. Over the years he been on the force he'd developed a sixth sense about things like this. Paul was definitely hiding something. He was not being completely honest.

Jimmy picked up the drawing and looked more closely at it. It looked like Paul. It did not look like the photo of Mason that he remembered seeing. The sketch and the insincerity that Paul was exhibiting raised his suspicion, caused him to blindly grasp around, attempting to make connections where there had been none. He wondered what he really knew about Paul. Could he --? No. He pushed the thought from his mind. It was absolutely ridiculous. Paul was a cop and a darn good detective. Why, Jimmy himself had been the one to recommend that the young man become a detective. Jimmy remembered checking out Paul's background personally and had found it squeaky clean. No, Paul was one of those detectives that had the ability to put himself into a killer's shoes. He understood them, and that was why he caught them. If he believed Mason had been the perp, then Jimmy believed it, too. The answer was simple. The girl just didn't remember what her assailant looked like.

### Chapter 27

"Is that all you've got? You come barging in here, telling me to drop what I'm doing and all you have is a sperm count that's too high? The old man could have been a medical wonder. He sure as hell was my idol, even before this. Any man that could run around with two or three women, with the current wife at home, and all while in his eighties, well – they should put up a monument to him."

Jimmy's face dropped. Avis Clough was right. This wasn't the smoking gun he'd wanted. He must be slipping to have thought it was.

"Oh, I agree," the attorney continued. "It's suspicious, but that's all it is. Just suspicious. You'll have to bring me more than that if we're going to get anyplace."

Jimmy pursed his lips as a thought entered his head.

"Do you think any of Wurtsmith's other children would agree to DNA testing? Something we could compare to Ervine's boy?"

"I doubt it. Why should they? From what I remember from the trial, none of them were even minusculely sympathetic. He was just one more kid to divide the booty with. That avenue of investigation won't get anyplace. Believe me, it's a dead end. Have you got anything else? Or are we done? It's a shame if all we've got is the will, because it could take years to get it straight."

"I've got one more thing to try."

Avis looked at him expectantly.

Jimmy grinned. "You don't want to know," he said. "It's probably better if you don't."

Avis didn't say anything, wisely deciding to keep his mouth shut. If he knew of anything shady, even remotely illegal, it was his duty to report it. The bar frowned upon lawyers who sullied their reputations.

"Just leave it to me," Jimmy added. "This is as good as done."

***

An hour later, Jimmy was again waiting in front of Patricia Lorenzo's apartment as her gray compact pulled into its space. He jumped out quickly and ran over to the car, arriving as she opened the back door to retrieve more grocery bags.

"Mrs. Lorenzo? Could I help?"

The woman jumped, startled. When she saw who it was, she looked around in a panic for anyone that would help. To her dismay, they were alone in the parking lot.

Jimmy hadn't meant to scare her, but decided to use it to his advantage.

"My face isn't that bad, is it? I mean; you're obviously frightened." By mentioning his bruised face, he was letting her know that he considered her responsible. And that it could be an expensive proposition.

Patricia looked at him, a different kind of fear on her face now. She was guilty as charged; it was her cat. She could be sued, not that there would be anything to get from such a course. But this PI man did have a case.

"May I help you?" he asked again, motioning to the bags. "We need to talk. Something has come up and I want to be sure you're aware of it."

Patricia sighed, grabbed two bags, and thrust them at him. Jimmy noted that they were the heaviest, containing milk and canned goods. He thought that a good sign. At least she was taking advantage of one thing that she had power over. And that was to use a man's strength. If she didn't have control over anything else in her life, and it appeared she didn't, at least she took the opportunity to save her back.

Upstairs in the apartment, Jimmy looked around for 'Teeny', the cat. Again the animal was hiding. But Jimmy knew his tricks now and had no intentions of being caught off guard by the ferocious feline again.

"Mrs. Lorenzo, I'm sorry about your husband," Jimmy said softly. "When I was here yesterday I was unaware that he'd passed."

Patricia turned her face away, not willing for him to see her eyes well up with tears. She had pride, and a lot of pain. There was nothing else left to her.

"It must have been very difficult," he said sympathetically, trying to convey that he understood.

"Yes, it was." Patricia didn't elaborate. She plainly did not want to talk about it.

Jimmy felt a twinge of conscience, but if he was going to lead this interview the way it needed to go, he had to push. Even if it brought the woman pain.

"Was he sick a long time?"

Patricia nodded, "Yes. Seven years."

"The hospital and doctor bills were very expensive, weren't they?"

"Si, and the prescriptions; they were very mucho money." In her stress, Patricia had reverted to a mixture of English and Spanish remembered from her youth. As an adult, she had carefully cultivated correct grammar and it embarrassed her that she had slid back so easily in front of this man. His sympathy seemed so real; it brought back the pain she suffered those many years. Those many exhausting, tragic years.

"I bet they were. But, you do what you have to do."

Patricia composed herself, before saying, "Yes, I did."

She looked Jimmy in the eye and held her head up a notch higher. She had done what she had to do. Right or wrong. And she didn't care that the truth was out there for all to see. She would do it again if she had to.

Jimmy looked at the defiant woman. He had suspected what she had done and as soon as he'd read about her husband being ill, it erased all doubt he might have had. It took a lot of money to pay for cancer treatments. Especially if there was no insurance. The money she'd gotten to keep her mouth shut about the will wouldn't have lasted long; that was apparent by the cheap apartment and the lousy side of town she currently lived in. He was sympathetic, she'd had it rough, but that didn't stop him from having a job to do. Patricia's actions might have been right for her, but they were wrong for another woman and her son. And the law was on the other woman's side.

"How much did they give you?"

Patricia slumped in her chair, cowering as if he had threatened her with a club.

"No, no. No money."

"Don't lie to me. I'm not turning you in."

She looked at him hopefully, although somewhat suspiciously, knowing men always wanted something when they treated her kindly. She only knew she didn't want to go to jail. She resigned herself to the fact that she would have to do anything this man wanted.

"Twenty thousand dollars," she said so quietly that Jimmy had trouble hearing her. The bribe was too small for what had been at stake. He wanted her to know that.

"You could have gotten more," he said. "In fact, if you cooperate, I'm sure you will get more."

Patricia opened her mouth, but shut it without saying a word. What did this man expect her to do? More than twenty thousand? It had to be illegal and therefore very dangerous. There was a chance she would be killed. She looked around the drab apartment. Truly, what did she have to lose? And she'd found her conscience difficult to live with. Fundamentally she was a law-abiding woman, but circumstances had been beyond her control. She had been drowning in debt.

"Will you help?" Jimmy asked.

"What do you want me to do?"

She listened quietly while Jimmy explained and then asked the obvious.

"Will I be in danger?"

"I don't think so. These people aren't mobsters. And I'll be there to make sure you're protected."

Patricia agreed, although hesitantly, and Jimmy left, promising to contact her as soon as the arrangements were made. He felt a surge of excitement, just like he had whenever he, as a police detective, was closing in on a suspect. In the famous words of an old television show, he loved it when 'a plan came together'. It was exhilarating that the game was afoot and his plan was underway. And if it was slightly illegal, what did it matter? He wasn't confined to following the absolute limits of the law. Not now. And as long as he didn't get caught, he wasn't worried about repercussions.

### Chapter 28

"Just follow the script exactly as we rehearsed," Jimmy encouraged. "Everything will be okay."

"I'm shaking like a leaf," Patricia said. "I don't know if I can go through with it."

"You'll do fine," Jimmy said, dialing the number after pushing the phone into her small, cold hand.

"Wurtsmith residence," a voice on the other end said.

"Uh, hello," Patricia said. "I'd like to speak to Naomi." Her voice was calm and self-assured, no matter her earlier exclamation. Jimmy felt himself relax, now more confident in his plan and that it would work.

"And who can I say is calling?" the voice asked.

"Patricia Lorenzo. Naomi will remember me."

There was a short pause and then a different voice came on the line.

"This is Mrs. Wurtsmith." The haughty voice stated, and then added grudgingly, "How can I help you?"

"I need more money," Patricia said quickly, her words tumbling out in what sounded, even to him, like fear. If she wasn't panicky, then she was one hell of an actress. "After Keith died they took away my house. There were so many bills from the hospital and the doctors..." Her rambling words faded off.

"I'm sorry, but I don't see what that has to do with me," Naomi said in an uncharitable manner, one that was not in the least sympathetic. The brief, concerned words about _helping_ had been said, but not meant. "I really don't know what you're talking about."

"You've got to help me!" Patricia's voice was nearing hysteria. "There's nobody else I can call. Please, I helped you. Now you must help me!"

"Calm down! I'll see what I can do. How much are we talking about?"

"Twenty thousand," Patricia said in a small voice hindered by a sob.

"Twenty thousand! Look, I'm sorry about your husband, but what you're talking about is blackmail. I'm not going to give you another twenty thousand."

"But that's what you gave me before not to tell anyone about the other will. The one that Mr. Purdue and I witnessed. You got a lot and I need that much just to pay off my debts. I'm not trying to get rich; I just owe so much. You've got to help me!"

"I suppose Purdue wants more, too."

"No, no. I have no idea. I haven't spoken to him in the last ten years, not since the trial."

There was a pause and then, "Let me think about it. Give me your number and I'll get back to you."

"No, I don't have a phone. I'll call you tomorrow. I need that money. Believe me when I say it will be the last time and you'll never hear from me again. I only want to get out of the hole. But I've got to have twenty grand."

Jimmy nodded and Patricia hung up. Jimmy understood that using the phone in his office was a risk, but he couldn't attach a recorder to a cell phone. There were techies out there that could, but he wasn't one of them. If Naomi managed to trace the phone, at least she wouldn't have Patricia's home phone number. Fortunately that was unlisted, the result of all the past due calls she'd gotten over the years. The woman hadn't lied; she was deeply in debt. Her credit was ruined; he'd found out this information when he'd checked out her background. He certainly didn't blame her for keeping her phone number hidden; the poor woman deserved as much privacy as she could get.

"You did great," Jimmy said in admiration. "You're quite the actress. In fact, I think you missed your calling. I couldn't have done better."

Patricia smiled, but Jimmy could see her hands were shaking. She was a timid woman, but there was great strength underneath. She deserved, and had earned, his respect. He wasn't just telling her these things to be nice.

"We've got it all on tape. I'll turn it over to the lawyer and he'll get the authorities involved on that end. He's got somebody checking the authenticity of Wurtsmith's signature right now, and this will help prove the will's real. Thank you for your help, Patricia. I'm sure the Ervines will give you a substantial reward. This will mean a lot to them."

"They won't arrest me, will they?" She had flinched at his mention of the authorities and didn't seem to hear anything else he'd said.

"I can't guarantee that, but since you've been so cooperative, I'm sure they'll just thank you instead. My friend at the station will see to it. You'll be fine." He patted her hand, noticing again how cold it was. As she rose to go, he added, "Really, you'll be fine. I won't let anything happen to you."

After she left, he sat most of the afternoon at his desk going over again the information he had on Naomi Wurtsmith. She had been the first of Wurtsmith's wives. Now seventy-four, nearly twenty years younger than the man when they'd married, she lived with their son in a rundown mansion on the north side of town. A picture of the home showed rambling additions with tall, narrow windows covered over with a dark, heavy fabric that couldn't allow sunlight in or the occupants a view out. The woman had lived the bulk of her life locked away from the outside world. Considering her efforts to keep the Ervine boy from getting his inheritance, it was plain this isolation hadn't favorably impacted the way she treated anyone she considered beneath her.

The son, Irving Wurtsmith, was something of an odd duck. In his mid-fifties, he'd never married and lived at home with his mother. He didn't appear to have a social life. The one photo Jimmy had found of him was taken fifteen years earlier and wasn't clear enough to make out the man's features. The blurry picture showed a tall, dark-haired man slinking around the back of a van, doing his best to evade the camera. The paparazzi that took the photo must have been very disappointed. A picture of the recluse son of Warren Wurtsmith had to be worth quite a bit. This phobia against having his picture taken wasn't hereditary. Warren, himself, had never shied away from a camera. Jimmy remembered seeing several photos taken with the man on his deathbed, smiling as if his death were just another party being thrown in his honor. In that case, it was.

At four o'clock he decided he'd put enough time in at the office. If there were a new client out there desperate for his services, that hypothetical customer would just have to come back tomorrow. He slid the shiny new sign he'd had made into the slot on the door. It read – " _Out on assignment, leave message",_ with his work number listed underneath. He studied it, pleased with the attention grabbing dark-blue-on-silver lettering. The printer had done a good job. He hoped the simple message left the reader with the impression that his services were in demand and that he was effective at his job. Maybe that was a lot to ask out of five words and a phone number, but Jimmy was optimistic. It surprised him that he was enjoying his new occupation as much as he was and decided that it had to do with the challenges; he'd always thought it fun to solve puzzles. It certainly did not involve the physical abuse he'd experienced. He'd been a cop for twenty years and had never been banged up as badly as he'd been in the last two weeks. It was downright embarrassing.

Jimmy was thinking this as he descended the stairs to the first floor and walked outside into the bright sunshine. It had turned into a beautiful day while he'd been hidden away inside getting paper cuts. Mid April was always nice in the Ohio valley, one of the sweetest times of the year. There was even the scent of lilacs in the air, although Jimmy wasn't sure if he smelled or only imagined this over the car exhausts and the toxic fumes from one of the factories a few blocks over. No, it was definitely lilacs. Someplace on the block was a bush in bloom, struggling valiantly to seduce a bee.

Before he reached his car a long, heavy vehicle that, kindly, could be called 'vintage' pulled up near him and a woman got out. It took him a few seconds to recognize Izzy. Another older woman wearing a large, droopy hat remained in the car. She didn't look familiar.

"Hi, Jimmy," Izzy called. "Glad I caught you."

He started walking over, a big smile on his face. It was always a pleasure seeing Izzy. She looked so pretty in a short plum-colored corduroy jacket and tight jeans; she almost took his breath away.

Before he could reach her, an older car with a loud exhaust came barreling around the corner, headed directly at them. Jimmy caught a flash of sunlight on metal and before he had time to think about it, his cop instincts took over. He leaped toward the young woman in an attempt to push her to the ground, but he was only close enough to grab a handful of cloth. There was a tearing sound as the jacket sleeve ripped loose from the shoulder seam, only to be abruptly muted by several loud popping noises.

Jimmy felt a quick whoosh of air rushing past his head and heard the ting of a bullet ricocheting off the fancy wrought-iron support posts of the building's entrance, just before he and Izzy landed in a heap on the sidewalk. He pulled his revolver out of its holster at the same time as he fell, protectively covering Izzy's body and holding her down. Tires squealed at the end of the block as the car pivoted around the corner on two wheels, the roar of the motor already fading. The perpetrator was getting away.

Everything happened so quickly that Jimmy didn't get a shot off and because of his position, prone on the sidewalk, was unable to get the plate number. Disgusted with himself and hugely alert to the possibility of the car returning, he jumped up and quickly assisted the young woman to hers.

"What the hell!" she exclaimed. Izzy appeared more angry than afraid or dazed as she dusted off her clothes and examined the tear in her jacket. "Just what's going on? I know Cinci's bad, but I've never been shot at before!"

"I don't know," Jimmy said, shaking his head. For some reason the murder of the prostitute in Indianapolis popped into his head. Mason. Was he the shooter? Could it be the man had returned? If he had, there would be hell to pay and Jimmy was even more concerned about Izzy than he had been a mere sixty seconds ago.

"Do you think it was Grant? Would he shoot at you?" He left unspoken the fact that Izzy was living with another man. It was well known that Mason was violent and jealous. Those were strong enough motives for murder and with his past history it wasn't much of a stretch to think he would try to kill her if he knew.

The woman who had been sitting in the car exited and ran up to Izzy.

"Are you all right?" Eleanor Winthrop asked. Shaking with concern, the wide, droopy brim of her hat doing a rumba, she anxiously helped Izzy brush off the small clumps of dirt that still clung to her clothes. "Was that a gun? Was someone shooting at you two?"

Izzy looked at Eleanor pointedly, before saying in a voice that for some reason lacked emotion, "Jimmy thinks it may have been Grant. That he's back." Her face was unreadable.

Eleanor stared back at her, not speaking for a few seconds, her face assuming a similar blank expression. What was the matter with these women? Jimmy thought he'd seen every possible reaction to violence that there was, but this was a new one.

"Oh, God. What are you going to do?" Eleanor finally whispered.

Izzy shrugged as if there was nothing she could do. What options do abused women have? Hide? Where? Jimmy knew that few could hide away from their abuser; most were found and suffered the consequences. He felt a rush of pity and sadness for Izzy. Why had she allowed herself to be in such a position?

Putting his gun away, he pulled out his cell phone.

"I'm calling 9-1-1. We need the police here."

A handful of people who had heard the shots were inching their way outside, curiosity winning out over self-preservation. Jimmy knew that the scene would soon be contaminated if the authorities didn't get there quickly. He motioned them back into their offices and stores.

"We better go," Izzy said.

"No," Jimmy said, putting a restraining hand on her arm. "You need to speak with the officers. And you may need protection assigned. We'll see what Paul says."

Jimmy wondered what Paul was going to think about Izzy being with him again. Come to think of it, he didn't know why she'd wanted to talk to him in the first place.

"What was it you wanted? Before we were so rudely interrupted?" He smiled and was relieved when she smiled back. She appeared to bounce back quickly.

"Eleanor and I were in the area shopping and I thought I'd stop in to see if you'd learned anything new about Janet. Remember, I want to be kept informed. You promised you'd call if you found anything. I have a right to know."

The sound of sirens could be heard in the distance, coming closer.

"Of course, Izzy," he said. "You'll be the second one I call. Right after Ed Hilton."

Three state police cars, sirens blaring, lights flashing, pulled in one after the other. A county car followed soon after. And no more than five minutes later, a dark, unmarked sedan nosed up to the yellow crime scene tape one of the policemen was hurriedly stringing around the perimeter. Jimmy watched as Paul Lewinski exited and came jogging to them. His face was drawn and showed haggard concern. When he saw Jimmy, his expression changed, becoming cold and stiff.

"Are you all right?" he asked, pulling Izzy to him in a protective hug.

"I'm fine," she answered, her voice muffled by his jacket and chest.

Gripping both shoulders, he held her away and looked into her face. "God, Abby. I heard there was shooting, and I feared the worst."

"I'm okay. Really. Eleanor and I were shopping and we thought we'd see if Jimmy knew anything new about Janet. He said he'd keep me informed." She drew a long shuddering breath, before continuing in a different tone, "And then there was this car and some loud popping noises and Jimmy threw me down to the ground. My jacket got torn." Her lip came out and began to quiver.

Jimmy looked at Izzy in amazement as Paul again pulled her close. This was not the same woman that had earlier seemed calm, and if you get right down to it, irritated, at being shot at. This woman seemed dazed and was not handling the events of the last half-hour well. Even more surprising to him, she was crying. He would never have suspected Izzy to react like this. Of course, some people handle difficulties well only to fall apart when someone commiserated with them. Apparently, Izzy was one of those.

He felt a pang of jealousy that Paul's arms were the ones she fell into for comfort. But of course they would be. She was his girl. Jimmy knew he had no claim on her. Besides, where did he get the idea that she was interested in him? An old fool was all he was. They could be nothing more than friends. Depressed, he looked away to find that Eleanor was studying him. She seemed to want to say something, but instead merely shook her head and looked away. He wondered what that was all about, but didn't have time to think about it as the first of many officers approached him with notebook in hand.

"Can you tell me what happened?" the officer asked, suspicion of Jimmy's bruised face evident in his voice. And his expression also plainly showed that he thought the shooting was a drug deal gone bad, that Jimmy was just another dealer who was on his way to ending up dead. And that this whole episode was a waste of his time.

Jimmy cleared his throat and looked around for support, understanding for the first time how suspects must feel. He watched as Paul urged the two women toward his car to take their statements. It was plain he wasn't going to help and that Jimmy was on his own. Not one of the officers wandering around on site looked familiar. Several stood together in groups of twos and threes, but all eyes were glued on him. Jimmy started to sweat, finding it disconcerting that the cops were making him more nervous than the shooter had.

Where were the old guys when you needed them? Where was anyone that knew and would vouch for him? He was the innocent victim here, but they sure weren't treating him that way.

Jimmy resigned himself to the fact that it was going to be a long afternoon.

### Chapter 29

Jimmy stayed in bed late the next morning. After hours of questioning, broken only when a few of the older officers back at the post and Paul finally stepped forward to vouch for him, he'd been allowed to return home. After that, frustrated and angry at the way he'd been treated; he'd slept fitfully. Around four he'd slipped into a deep sleep and hadn't awakened until eight, two hours later than his usual time. Surprisingly, he felt refreshed and after a quick shave during which he studied the bruising and decided it didn't particularly hurt his appearance (he _was_ getting used to it), he swallowed a whole-wheat bagel with peanut butter and headed out, whistling, to the office. It never failed to amaze him that no matter how bad something seemed in the middle of the night, it always looked better after a few hours sleep and a nice breakfast.

The birds were singing and the sparkle in the air promised a spectacular day. Jimmy's mind went straight to what needed to be done on the Ervine case. He couldn't help feeling pride that the case was going so well. The question was whether to approach the bodyguard Purdue again, but he quickly ruled that out. It wasn't absolutely necessary to get him on board and besides, Jimmy didn't want to lessen any reward that Ms. Ervine would give Patricia. The nurse had been very cooperative and truly needed any compensation allowed.

The DNA angle remained to be followed up on. He would have to figure out how to procure a sample from a known descendant of Wurtsmith. His plan was to go over the list of the man's kids and see if any of the names popped out at him. Of the seven listed in the court documents, one of them might be willing. Otherwise, the attorney, Avis Clough, would have to do his thing, which was to go to a judge and get a court order to force a sample.

Jimmy frowned. These were society people. They wouldn't take kindly to being forced into anything they didn't feel like doing. It would be a battle royale. Jimmy wondered how long these families' money would keep them from doing the right thing. And if there would be any left by the time it was over.

He considered making a repeat visit to the lab to lean a bit harder on Luther Billings. Certainly tempting, but no, he guessed not. He'd save that fun for another time. Maybe next week, if the case hadn't broken by then. No sense making the little man pee his pants today. If he had substituted somebody else's DNA for the old man's, the nervous little feller was going to be in a lot of trouble. Jimmy figured he'd save that entertainment for next week.

A disturbing thought crept into his mind and he frowned again. Yesterday's shooting. Now what was that about? He worried about Izzy, about whether Paul had put a cop on her door. If he had been the lead detective in that case, he would have. Especially since it was the detective's girlfriend. If Izzy had been his and he had been in the position to do something about it, he was positive he wouldn't have left her side. He only hoped Paul was as cautious.

***

Eleanor looked at the woman seated across from her. Neither had said much. On Eleanor's part it was because she wasn't sure which woman was actually present this morning. She didn't know why the cat had the other woman's tongue, but after yesterday's events she expected the reaction was normal. Still, the silence was becoming awkward. Eleanor took another sip of coffee wondering where to start, but, happily, the younger woman spoke first.

"Do you really think someone was shooting at me? It's more likely that they were after Jimmy, don't you think? With his line of work and all?" Her face was solemn and she stared into Eleanor's eyes intently, waiting for an answer.

"I don't know," Eleanor replied tentatively. "I hate to be the one to bring it up, but do you think it could have been Paul?"

"I've wondered about that, since he was there so quickly. He'd had to be close. What did it take him? Three minutes?"

Eleanor let out the breath she'd been holding. She now knew this was Izzy and the one she'd hoped to speak with. Izzy would look at things objectively; her opinions weren't colored with unrealistic sentiment since she wasn't in love with Paul like Abby thought she was.

"The only thing that goes against this is the fact that a gun was involved," Eleanor said openly, now confident the other woman wouldn't burst into tears. The idea that a lover enjoyed sadistic, violent games and preferred to kill with his bare hands was more than unsettling. And add to that the possibility that he could now be after you, well, that was beyond terrifying. She knew if she'd been speaking with Abby, she could only react with a tortured panic. She would be devastated.

"True. We know his track record," Izzy said. "He gets his thrill in strangling women, but I hope he wouldn't consider doing that to someone he professes to love. Maybe that's why he used a gun?"

Eleanor nodded, understanding and agreeing. The prostitute murders he'd been involved in had been for fun, purely for the rush, the adventure. If he felt the need to murder Abby, differing emotions, more likely jealousy and anger, or possibly the urge to erase her from his life, would have caused it. It was hard to understand men like him. What motivated them? Was it something so simple as adrenalin? Were they addicted to the intense excitement that killing another human being gave? If so, they were no better than the few animals that killed for sport.

"Do you think he does? Love Abby, I mean," Eleanor stared closely at Izzy as she asked this; waiting for a response that would show Abby was near the surface. She'd never spoken with both at the same time before, but Izzy spoke with Abby and anything was possible. As she lately discovered.

"I'm sure he does, in his own way," Izzy replied.

"Okay, then. Do you think he's tired of her? That, possibly, he wants out of the relationship and doesn't know how to do it?"

"Nope. Don't believe it. He cares for her. And Abby? Well, she's never without a man around; she's a freakin' magnet to them. I've never understood it."

Eleanor smiled a knowing smile. "I wouldn't talk. I know we didn't go to Jimmy's office just because of that missing girl. I think there's something going on between the two of you."

Izzy colored. Liking a man was new to her and she didn't know whether to deny it or agree to the allegation. Still, Eleanor was her friend. Except for Abby and now Jimmy, her only friend. With a sigh, she gave in, deciding to confide.

"I don't know. Sometimes he seems to like me and then other times it's like I don't exist."

"Men are like that, honey."

"But what am I supposed to do?"

"Just what you're doing. If it's meant to be; it'll happen."

Izzy was silent, clamming up in frustration. She was very unsophisticated regarding affairs of the heart. And, Eleanor thought, love is one of nature's cruelest tricks. If we were like most animals, we'd only have to deal with instinct. Procreation was obviously much simpler and never had to be rationalized. Lust was easy to understand when not complicated with the twists and turns that human love put into it.

Eleanor, taking pity on the hurt and confused young woman, said in a confident voice, "Don't give up. Men are slow sometimes; they don't always know what they want."

### Chapter 30

Thursday began clear and warm, but by nine that morning saw clouds moving in. Climbing out of his car, Jimmy looked at the sky hoping rain wouldn't interfere with the day's activities. As he looked around, he saw only two extra vehicles in the driveway. One was obviously the police car the dog and his handler had arrived in and the other was the dark blue sedan that Paul Lewinski drove. Homicide was here.

Jimmy glanced at the porch and saw Winston Mason and Paul deep in conversation. Looking back over his shoulder he saw the uniformed policeman working a German Shepard at the edge of a row of pines with low, full branches that blocked the road's view of the house. He started to walk that direction, but stopped as Paul called him back.

"Jimmy. You'll have to stay up here with Winston. We can't have you in the way. Sorry, but that's orders from my superiors." Paul sounded apologetic, but Jimmy thought the other man was barely suppressing a grin, which was surprising and hurt. Paul hadn't seemed the type to rub his nose in the fact that he wasn't currently employed in law enforcement. This was a sore spot he hadn't until then realized he even had.

"I understand," Jimmy said, dutifully turning back toward the porch. "I'm just happy they let me be here at all." It wouldn't be smart to be anything but agreeable. He was exasperated, and hoped it wasn't apparent in his voice. It felt strange that he didn't have full run of a crime scene, especially one this many years old. And, if you got right down to it, it was also embarrassing. Assessing his new career, this was one of those things that put a checkmark on the negative side. Jimmy really hoped the hiring freeze would be over soon; he wanted his old job back. Being a private detective (a glorified snoop) sometimes wasn't what it was cracked up to be.

Paul stepped off the porch and met him halfway.

In a lowered voice so Winston didn't hear the detective said, "Forensics found a shell casing at the scene of the drive-by shooting yesterday. Only one. It must have bounced out the window as the shooter drove by. You said there were at least two rounds fired, right? The other one must be in the car."

"What kind was it?" Jimmy asked, hoping that forensics had had time to look at the casing.

"A Glock 40," Paul answered, as he stepped away. Jimmy watched him walk toward the pines, as his thoughts began to make unwanted connections.

A Glock 40 semiautomatic had ramifications. Although it may not be departmental issued, it was the one nearly all cops used. A suspicion that Paul was the shooter suddenly popped into Jimmy's head. He tried to block it, but the nagging, snaking, niggling little thought didn't want to leave. Exasperated with himself, he could only assume he thought this way because he wanted to blame Paul and that he wanted him out of the way. It could be jealousy on his part, because he liked Izzy so much. Truthfully, the shooting and weapon used had to be simply a coincidence, coming right after the artist's sketch that, to his eyes, resembled Paul. The whole suspicion was ridiculous. Anyway, why would Paul shoot at his girlfriend? It didn't make any sense. No, Grant Mason, the woman's husband, had a much better motive. It had to be Grant.

"Hello there young feller," Winston Mason said, breaking into his thoughts.

Jimmy wondered how long he'd stood there with his back to the older man, rudely allowing his mind to wander. Shaking the redundant thoughts aside, he climbed the three steps up onto the porch to shake the hand extended.

"Hi, Winston," Jimmy said, smiling. "How are you and your wife today?"

"Been better," he said, tilting his head at the men and dog. His face was drawn and tired looking. Jimmy knew this wasn't the way the old man wanted to spend his morning. He couldn't think that anyone would want to. If you got right down to it, the only creature to enjoy the day would be the dog that was eagerly sniffing every inch of dirt his leash allowed access to.

After a slight pause Winston continued, "It was a shame about that girl. But I hope they don't find her here." He hastened to explain, " I hope they find her, her family deserves that. Just not here."

"I understand," Jimmy said. He didn't say he agreed with Winston's comment. He was nearly sure she would be found here. And the girl's remains needed to be found; that couldn't happen soon enough. If she wasn't here, then he had no idea where to look. The investigation would be at a dead end. He hoped for her parents' sake that she was under the pines, although he felt for the old man and his wife.

"You know they found her car here, don't you," the old man said, his eyes moist, his voice shaky. He motioned at one of the rockers and took his seat, slumping in the other, as if his legs didn't want to hold him. He was a tired old man and today he showed his age.

Jimmy nodded and sat down.

Again there was silence for a time. Jimmy didn't want to intrude on Winston's thoughts and the empty silence made him feel out of place, as if he shouldn't be here. Law enforcement didn't want him on the scene and Winston deserved his privacy. Maybe he should just leave?

"Guess there's no denying that Grant did it," Winston said finally, staring toward the dog and the two policemen, but not actually at them. His eyes weren't focused; it was as if he was staring past them toward someplace distant. When he spoke again, Jimmy knew he had been. He'd been staring into the past. "Ruth and I loved that boy. I don't know why, but sometimes love's not enough."

Jimmy heard the pain in the old man's words. Pity filled him as the man slumped lower in his chair and, before his eyes, seemed to age even more. Jimmy knew he couldn't leave the old man alone now. He needed companionship, a friendly face, at least one that was nonjudgmental.

"Is Ruth coming out to sit?" Jimmy said, more to change the subject than anything else. He looked around the porch, noticed that there were only the two rockers, and started to rise. "I'll move if I'm in her chair."

"No, no. She's at a neighbor's. I took her there early, because I didn't want her to have to go through this. She has Alzheimer's and she wouldn't understand; cops running around with dogs would just scare her. She doesn't handle things well."

Jimmy didn't know what else to say. Winston had his hands full with Ruth, and now this. If Janet Hilton's body were found here, on their farm, it would be the talk of the neighborhood. Because nothing like it had happened before, it would never be forgotten, never allowed to rest. Winston and his wife would suffer; their infamous grandson had seen to that. Just thinking about Grant angered Jimmy. What he was putting his grandparents through, and what he'd done to Izzy was enough for Jimmy to hope he'd get the chair, not even allowing what he'd done to Janet.

Jimmy kept his eyes glued to the working animal and his handler, away from Winston's face. Pain emanated from the old man, Jimmy felt it from where he was sitting. He remembered that the couple had lost Grant's father, their only child, in an automobile accident. Grant was their only surviving family, except for a few elderly cousins who lived in another state. They were alone in their declining health and old age with no family member to help, and few remaining to care.

He was staring at the dog, watching the black and tan animal as it worked, back and forth around each pine tree when the dog abruptly crouched and sounded one sharp bark. Jimmy straightened in his seat, leaning forward. This could be it. He watched Paul walk over to the handler and saw, although he could not hear, the discussion that followed. The policeman put a marker on the ground and tugged the resistant animal away. He dragged him to the opposite side of the driveway and, again, told the dog to work. Obediently, the animal gave up his claim to the other site, put his nose to the ground, and began snuffling, his tail and ears up in an alert position.

Paul pulled out his cell phone and Jimmy watched him punch in some numbers. The suspicion that something had been found grew as Paul motioned a hand toward the marked area. Although whomever he spoke with on the phone couldn't see, he was using his hands to convey something that he wanted clear. The hand signals were easy to read; Jimmy felt his heartbeat rev up.

"Whatchya think?" Winston asked. He was staring at Paul with a mixture of dread and anticipation. His expression reflected that of someone who stumbles upon a bloody accident, is horrified, but unable to look away.

"Looks like they've found something," Jimmy said, confirming the old man's fears.

Several calls later and after what seemed like hours to the two men on the porch, Paul walked toward them. His face wore an odd expression of controlled excitement.

"Mark thinks the dog's found a possible site," Paul said to Winston. "So I've called in a forensics team. I'm afraid they'll take up the rest of the day, sir. The area around those pines is going to be off limits until they're done. We'll cordon off the area with tape. It's going to be a zoo, but I'll do my best to make sure that everyone stays out of your way."

Winston sighed, a catch sounding in his throat. His shoulders slumped even more, but he smiled slightly and nodded that he understood. Which he did. He understood more than the younger men knew. His and Ruth's familiar, contented lives were over. Everyone would know them now only as the grandparents of a murderer, not just the suspicion that he was one. But that he actually was one. Whoever they'd been before, whatever they'd done, no longer mattered. They would be remembered for nothing else; this was their legacy. Their land, the hilly, rocky dirt that had grown flowers in the spring and collected its carpet of leaves in the fall, held the rotted remains of a young woman; her bones and whatever else remained lay right there, nearly in view of any honest person passing by on the road. Everything here would forever be tainted. Winston could hear it now.

Right there under those pines. Turn your head and look. See, right there. Do you think they knew? They had to, didn't they? They had to know their grandson, their flesh and blood, was a monster. Why didn't those old people do something? They had to know... They had to.

A tear trickled down Winston's cheek. Without raising his head, he wiped it away. Jimmy turned, knowing the old man didn't want him to see, knowing how deeply personal the moment was. Jimmy was disturbed himself, and he wasn't involved.

A cool breeze suddenly rustled through the young leaves, whistling an advance warning of thunder that could be heard rumbling in the distance. A storm was coming in. Jimmy watched as Paul anxiously looked up at the sky and pulled out his phone again. They would need tarps and tents to cover the site. The evidence, once unearthed, needed to be protected.

### Chapter 31

After an hour Paul must have found it impossible to avoid Jimmy any longer because he walked back to the porch where Jimmy was forced to sit, now alone. Winston had gone inside, after using the excuse that he needed a nap. Maybe the old man did, but Jimmy thought it more likely he'd had all he could handle and that he'd needed to hide inside the security of his home, away from the commotion and prying eyes. Jimmy hoped he rested; Winston didn't look half as well as when they'd met five days earlier.

Paul began speaking as he climbed the steps and took a seat in Winston's empty rocker. "We're not bringing in GPR. Forensics is sending a team to dig. If the dog's wrong, then this is it. Any further expense on this case, unless it's pretty much a sure thing, has had the kibosh put to it."

"I'm thankful they agreed to this much, and I know that it was only because of your influence," Jimmy said. He knew that without Paul's help the dog and handler and anything else that might have been required wouldn't have been possible. In his opinion, although ground-penetrating radar was a useful tool a dog could prove almost as efficient with cadavers, and was cheaper.

"Thanks, Paul. This means a lot to the Hilton family."

Paul inclined his head. He didn't waste time with false modesty in denying his involvement. He knew Jimmy understood the hoops he'd had to jump through to get the dog and a team to sift the soil. It was another of the games that were required of detectives. Find the guilty party by whatever means necessary. But don't use the 'whatever means' without clearing it first or you could pay for it yourself.

The sky was darkening with every second that passed. Rain would be here soon. A capricious breeze swirled around the porch, fitfully stirring a thick, unruly lock on Jimmy's forehead. The air had become heavy and damp, which made his hair curl even more. It had been his bane since he was a teenager. He'd tried creams and jells, nothing worked. Finally he'd given up and just accepted the fact that his hair would lie down only if it were inclined.

"Did you put protection on her?" Jimmy asked after a brief pause.

"Who?" Paul asked, and then answered his own question. "Abby? No, I told her to stay inside, with the shades drawn and the doors locked. Not that it's any concern of yours." His eyes were narrowed and glittered with repressed anger.

Jimmy knew he was skating on thin ice by pursuing the subject, but also knew he wouldn't be able to drop it until he'd made his fears clear.

"If it was Mason --?" Jimmy stopped, leaving the rest unsaid. He'd thrown out his concern. It was up to Paul now; it was his case, his girl.

"True. But are you sure the shooter wasn't after you?" Paul asked coldly.

Jimmy hadn't considered that idea seriously, but he took time to consider it now. It only took a few seconds for him to rule that out.

"No, I haven't been back in town long enough to make any new enemies."

"I can tell that from the way your face looks," Paul replied, derision dripping from every word, making it a point to stare hard at Jimmy's eye and cheek.

Jimmy shrugged and grinned sheepishly, attempting to explain even though he knew he was wasting his time, "The first time it was a couple old enemies that would never shoot me because I'm too much fun to mess with. Trust me. They don't want me dead. And then Monday I collided with a door."

"Uh huh." Paul shook his head, his face mocking. "Right."

At that moment a white van turned into the driveway and Paul stood up.

"Stay here, or go into town," he said, dismissing Jimmy. "It's going to be a long afternoon."

"I'll stay, if you don't mind," Jimmy replied, even though he felt the first rumble of his stomach growling. It was already 11:30. He knew the investigation wouldn't be finished for hours and belatedly, he wished he'd thought to pack a lunch.

"Suit yourself," Paul said over his shoulder, as he hurried to greet his team.

Jimmy felt a stab of envy as the other man walked away. Paul was on top of his game, a man that had a job to do and one he'd proven he was good at. Jimmy was good at his, too. But sitting on a porch rocking just didn't seem to be as involved. When he'd been a detective, he'd found it difficult not to take a shovel away from one of the techs to go at it himself. He had never been a patient sort and here he was, sitting, on what to him, was definitely a back burner. This was eminently harder.

After a quick conversation, no doubt hurried because of the impending rain, two of the masked, coverall-clad forensics team staked a square roughly ten by ten feet, while the rest carried tools from the van and set up a large open tent over the area in an attempt to protect the site. The pine trees and their thick, low-spreading branches complicated the task. Although not able to make out the exact words being used, Jimmy could tell by the loud exclamations that cursing was involved. He grinned to himself, thinking that the branches weren't as hard to deal with as the trees' roots were going to be. The trouble the techs were having and going to have, for some reason, made him feel a little better. Like maybe sitting on a porch wasn't so bad after all.

Two of the team worked the square, starting with long-handled shovels. Each started from a corner and worked toward the center, going down only two or three inches of soil in the first pass. The other two screened and sifted, with occasionally one of these stopping to take pictures. It was slow, tedious work.

The rain began, but was little more than a drizzle and more of an irritation than problem. In addition to the huge tent, tarps had been attached to the north and west sides for further protection; the direction the rain and wind came from. Fortunately for Jimmy, the view from the porch remained unobstructed.

Jimmy didn't leave his spot, although it was becoming chilly. Although he was damp, cold, and hungry, he owed it to the missing woman and her family to remain at his post. And, more than that, he wasn't willing to give Paul the satisfaction.

Two hours in, he heard a shout and watched through the gloom as the team exchanged shovels for trowels. The mind-numbing effects of the hours of immobility and the monotony of watching such tedious work abruptly left as he realized the team must have reached stained soil, a sign of decomposition. From here on, they would carefully scrape, or brush, every speck of dirt, careful not to disturb what lay beneath.

Winston stood at the screen door. Jimmy had been so engrossed in what was playing out before him that he hadn't noticed when the man came out. Winston stood staring for a few long minutes, then slowly turned and wearing an aura of hopeless defeat, dragged himself back inside the house. Jimmy watched as the door closed behind him, again feeling the old man's pain, then his eyes were drawn back to the tent. Anticipation fluttered in his belly. This day's events were a tragedy for Winston and Ruth, but Janet Hilton had to be found. Her family would have their closure.

At three forty-five they found the first bones. The metacarpals were first to come to light; the victim's right hand and arm slung over her head as if to block out the sun. It had been five long years since the young woman had basked in it; now in spite of the rain, the day was too bright.

Trowels were used with extreme care and then brushes came out. The investigators carefully dusted away dirt, dark and rich from years of thick layers of pine needles composting beneath the trees. Within minutes the bones of a hand and those of the lower arm were exposed. Below those, the top and front of a skull, it's ghostly, pearly-white color mute testimony to what had transpired. The bones were clean; insects and decomposition had seen to removing the flesh, although a faint odor lingered. The breeze that carried it to Jimmy on the porch was mixed with the earthy smell of the loam and the sharp, tangy citrus of disturbed pine needles.

Craving a better view, Jimmy stepped off the porch and inched closer. He got to within thirty feet, before stopping at the boundary set by the yellow crime scene tape. Light rain drizzled down, wetting his hair, shoulders, and face, but he paid it no mind. In fact, he wasn't even aware of it.

The clothing that remained on, and around, the cadaver was in strings and tatters. The forensics team extracted the ragged pieces that had rotted loose from around the skeleton and carefully bagged them. No one was paying him any attention, which made it harder to fight the urge to slide under the tape.

Dull, wispy brown hair, sparsely attached to the skull, clung to the investigators' gloves, complicating the extraction. Almost the same shade as the soil surrounding it, the clumps of hair stuck out here and there like a punk rocker's idea of a fashion statement, dolled up for a rave. For some reason this brought an old expression into Jimmy's head; the one about _all dressed up and no place to go._ He flinched, thinking the thought was macabre and even disrespectful. He was glad it wasn't something he'd said out loud.

It took an additional three hours to uncover the rest of the skeleton, between the trowels, brushes, and photo taking. The remains, tentatively identified as those of a woman, lay partially on its back, legs and arms sprawled as if it had been rolled over into the shallow grave. One hip was higher than the other, the leg bones on that side extending out and over the other side. The remaining arm, the one not having the aversion to sunshine, was twisted underneath the body in what would have been a painful position in life.

Questions went through Jimmy's mind. How long had the body been here? Possibly several years by the condition of the remains. How had she died? This he wouldn't venture to guess, leaving it to someone better qualified – the forensics coroner working the case. Was Grant Mason the killer? He considered this most likely, given that the remains were found here on his grandparents' land. And, the most important question for him, was it Janet Hilton? He didn't have to wait long before he got a provisional answer.

"Here's her driver's license," a member of the group said, separating a small, embossed square of plastic from a jeans pocket, which he handed over to the detective. The white jumpsuits, bulky gloves, and masks made the team look more like astronauts exploring an alien land than scientists toiling on a farm in Ohio. Traffic on the road was brought to a halt whenever one of them stepped out from behind the tent. Fortunately, that wasn't often, although there were currently three cars parked on the side of the road. Three vehicles that the occupants thought had a legitimate excuse, because they were neighbors, to intrude in someone's personal tragedy.

"Is there a purse?" Paul asked.

"Don't see one," the woman said. "The killer must have stashed it someplace. The victim must have been carrying her license in her pocket for some reason."

It made sense. Jimmy remembered that the two women had gone to a bar after the play and that Janet had most likely jammed it into her jeans after showing her ID to the bartender, instead of taking the time to put it away in her purse, expecting to do it later. But later, for her, hadn't come.

He waited fretfully as Paul took his sweet time studying the license, flipping it to look at the back, before again turning it over and staring intently at the front. When he thought he couldn't take the suspense any longer, Paul finally spoke.

"It's amazing how long plastic lasts. Some of this stuff is nearly indestructible. Best invention of the modern age, except for computers, of course."

Jimmy waited, knowing this was Paul's big moment and he was entitled to drag it out as long as he wanted. He remembered the rush of adrenalin, the sheer jubilation involved in solving a murder. But on his end the wait was hard.

Then, finally, relief.

"You'd think he'd have been smarter than that, wouldn't you?" Paul asked of no one in particular. "It was really stupid of Mason not to check her pockets. And stupid to bury her on his grandparents' farm. Most killers are foolish. They leave so much evidence behind that it makes it easy. Well, we've got him now." Paul smiled as he said this, his face brimming with confidence, his posture perfect, showing every inch of his six-foot-two inch frame. He reminded Jimmy of one of the strutting candidates that had dominated the last election. Not a very charitable thought, but amusing to Jimmy never the less. He continued to stare at Paul, as his thoughts continued their progression. The detective had a right to be proud, but Paul was showing another side, one Jimmy hadn't known existed. If there were political ambitions under that well-manicured appearance and expensive suit, this would certainly be the man's ticket in. Odd that he hadn't seen signs of this before. He half expected one of the forensic cameramen to take a picture of Paul, documenting his success. So it could be leaked to a tabloid.

He watched as Paul waved the little square of plastic-coated paper around in triumph, and heard the words he'd been waiting to hear.

"Got him! This is Janet Hilton's driver's license."

### Chapter 32

As he drove back to town, Jimmy placed a call to Edward Hilton. He had contacted the man the evening before to give him a heads-up on what was happening and he knew Hilton would be anxiously waiting for any result. After telling him there was a good possibility that Janet's remains had been found, he was met with a lengthy silence.

"We won't know for sure until there's a match with the dental records," he added as gently as he could, feeling clumsy and awkward. He needed to stay objective, which was made doubly difficult. It was the man's daughter he was talking about. To Hilton, she was a laughing child of three hugging his neck, a girl of sixteen dramatic over a little fender-bender, an excited young woman plotting with her mother an upcoming wedding. She wasn't bones, rotted clothes, and dirty, wispy hair under a pine tree in a drizzling rain. Telling the family that a loved one's remains had been found was something Jimmy had always hated. Until then most held onto the hope that the person was somehow alive, an unrealistic hope maybe, but one he understood.

"The police have her driver's license," Jimmy quietly added, knowing the finality of his words and regretting the pain it would cause.

"Umm," Ed Hilton began. He cleared his throat and began again. Jimmy could almost feel the man trying to pull himself together. "When will they release the body?"

Jimmy didn't have the heart to tell him that there wasn't a body, only bones and hair. This was something he felt the coroner, detective, or the funeral director should do. It wasn't his responsibility. Considering it, he thought Hilton probably also knew this sad fact, but with the shock of the moment, wasn't thinking straight.

"That's up to the coroner and how quickly they can get her identified. Because they have everything they need with you supplying her dental records, I expect she will be released within two weeks."

"We need to plan the memorial." The man's voice was small and heart-wrenchingly sad.

Jimmy remembered that they hadn't had a service to say goodbye, understanding that to do so meant they would be relinquishing all hope. Most families were like that. But now the Hiltons would have to. Closure was a necessary part of the grieving process.

"Positive identification should take place within two or three days, if not sooner. Det. Paul Lewinski will contact you with that. I hope the method of death will be determined by then, too."

"Yes," the voice on the other end shakily said. "He has my private number."

"If there's anything else I can do for you," Jimmy said, "Please call me."

"Thank you. I will," Ed Hilton said quickly, his tone now business-like. He cleared his throat again and added, "The rest of your fee will be in the mail by the end of next week." He was professional again, as if he'd somehow in those few seconds regained control.

"Mrs. Hilton and I would like you to attend the memorial. It would mean a lot to us," he continued in the same stiff, detached way.

After accepting the invitation, and at the same time wishing there was some way he could avoid it, Jimmy hit the 'end' button on his cell phone. He had attended the funeral/memorial, of the murder victim of every case he'd solved as a homicide detective. He'd never wondered why before, but now realized it must have been his way of letting go, his own closure. He'd noticed that quite a few detectives did the same, and surprisingly, even some beat cops, especially if they had known the victim for years. Disgruntled and unhappy with the road his thoughts were traveling, he wondered if such conscientiousness was also required of a private dick, and after brief reflection, decided that, at least in his case, it was. He wondered how big, extravagant, and by that respect, even more uncomfortable, the memorial would be. A lot of big shots, and those desiring to be, would be attending. Moneyed people and anyone with political ambitions would put in an appearance, at least for the benefit of the press, which would make the event a zoo. This brought to mind other questions. He wondered if Paul would be there. And Izzy.

He was still pondering whether it would be wise to see the young woman again with Paul so obviously irritated with him, when he pulled into a parking slot across the street from his office. His plan was to update the Hilton file and check for messages left on the office phone. Because it was late, still raining, and was claustrophobically dark, he didn't want to park around back, feeling it better to walk across the street where there were more working street lamps and less chance of a mugging.

A motor sounded behind him and he was instantly on guard. Being shot at has a way of doing that to a person. With his hair twitching at the base of his neck, he scurried, his feet moving faster than they were used to, until he'd crossed the street, then he whirled around, his hand on his gun. The car, an ancient Lincoln Town car, purred up to and then putted past him. The driver, a wizened-up, little old man wearing an even older felt hat, kept his eyes glued to the road, not noticing, or caring, that he had put a spring into Jimmy's step.

Jimmy smiled in self-conscious relief, thinking he'd been around death and murder victims too much lately and that he'd lost his nerve. He watched as the man and his car glided away, hesitate at the light at the end of the block, and then continue down the street. Just as he turned back toward the door to the office building, the shriek of a bullet beside his ear and the _pop_ that followed put his heart in his throat. Splinters flew from the carved wooden numbers that hung above the building entrance. With lightening swiftness born from his years as a cop and the fear of the moment, he pulled his gun and dropped to one knee, his eyes scanning the surrounding area for a possible target.

An older car, looking vaguely familiar, its tires screeching and laying down black rubber visible even in the dim light of the streetlights, burst out of a slot five sites down, careening away from him in the opposite direction the old man had gone. In the faint, dusk-tempered dark, there was no way to get off a shot and again no possible way to get a license plate number.

"What's all thees, Jimmee?" a voice asked behind him. Jimmy swiveled around, his gun leveled at the first of two shapes that hunkered in the shadow of the building entrance. It was Thug One and Thug Two. He hadn't seen them slink around the corner from the parking lot behind the building. Not counting being shot at, it had been a good choice for him not to park back there. With the Velasquez brothers waiting in the dark, he could have expected another mugging.

Relieved that it was only his brothers-in-law, he felt a certain validation in knowing that they hadn't been the ones to shoot at him now, or earlier. He'd known they hadn't been involved. No matter that they might occasionally rough him up, they weren't out to permanently maim or kill him. The hand not holding a gun went instinctively to his face, feeling for the well-known bumps over the cheekbone and edge of the brow. The swelling was still there, but with very little pain. He was healing. Hopefully it would stay that way.

But, as his thoughts continued to follow through, he now understood the first shooting had been aimed at him. Not at Izzy. Which shed a whole new light on things. So, following that supposition, Mason wouldn't have been the shooter. As far as Jimmy knew, the man had no grudge against him, no reason to see him dead. Truthfully, Mason didn't know he existed. Most likely, the man was nowhere near Cincinnati. So, who could it have been?

"Don't shoot me, Jimmee," Thug One said. "I deed not do eet."

Jimmy slowly lowered his gun. "So, you didn't do it _this_ time, Alphonso. Let's just get that straight."

Both siblings hesitated, not sure what he'd meant, and then Alphonso, the quicker of the two said, "Ri – i - ight." He grinned, his pugilist face dimpling with good-natured humor. "I like you, Jimmee. You good boy."

He made as if to pat Jimmy on the back, but Jimmy pulled back and lifted the gun partially back into position. Alphonso raised his hands, his palms facing forward.

"Ees okay. We not here to harm."

"Why are you here?" Jimmy asked suspiciously. They showed up for only two reasons. Money. Or for the pleasure of roughing him up for money. They'd been around on Monday and this was only Thursday. Too soon even for these goons.

Alphonso's face assumed a hurt, petulant expression, one also donned by his brother. Jimmy wondered where they had taken their acting lessons. They were lousy.

"We only want to check on you. We heard someone shoot at your ass, and thought you need our help."

Jimmy raised his eyebrows. This was surprising, if it was true. He'd never been aware of the two being concerned about his welfare before. Of course, if they hoped to wring more money out of him for their sister, it was in their best interest to keep him alive. He shrugged their invented distress off for what it was, protection of an asset, but was still vaguely anxious over why they were still in Cincinnati, and not Miami with the family. Just what were they doing here?

"Why would I need your help? I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself."

"Oh, Jimmee," Alphonso laughed. "You ees so funny!"

Thug Two nodded without speaking. The smirk he wore said it all.

Jimmy scowled at the brothers before allowing his training to take over and he looked around to find where the bullet had hit. He was a private detective, nothing to sneeze at, had previously been a cop, and qualified expert with a weapon. Why did Thug One and Thug Two think it was so funny? He'd heard the bullet whiz past his ear, high, so it was either in a window frame or the gable end of the building entrance.

He found the hole in the center of the carved wooden numbers in the gable, advertising the office building's address. The landlord was going to love that. Jimmy was surprised he hadn't heard from him about the shooting that had occurred the day before. He decided not to tell him about this one; hoping that no one was around to report it and that no one would notice the hole. He didn't want to find a new location for his office. And the cops were already suspicious of him. This would only add fuel to the fire. Abruptly his stomach growled reminding him he hadn't eaten since breakfast. Then the humor of the situation, a bullet hole bulls-eyed smack in the middle of the wooden number '0', some unknown shooting at him, and his swollen cheek and black eye making him look like a hooligan, struck him funny. He began to laugh. The boys were right. It was hilarious.

Thugs One and Two stared at him askance. Whatever Jimmee was smoking, they wanted some. After a slight pause, Thug One patted him on the back and said, "Come Jimmee, we go get ze drink. You buy."

### Chapter 33

Late that evening Jimmy called Avis Clough's business phone. He knew the office was closed; he wanted to leave an uninterrupted voice mail. If, while following his hunch, something happened to him, he wanted someone to know where he'd gone. It would have been nice to have a squad ready to back him up, but he didn't, and he wasn't about to use the services of his future ex-brothers-in-law. This was partly from pride, and partly because he wasn't sure which side of the law these same services were occupying. Using the boys would be a last resort. If he ended up missing, he wanted the cops, not some goons from Cuba, tracking his body down. It was funny (because what did it matter if he was dead?), but he didn't want his memory tarnished by a connection to gangsters. He guessed he still had some pride left, no matter what impression his sketchy appearance made.

He'd made a morning appointment, which was grudgingly given. Apparently the subjects he planned to interview weren't early morning risers. He was curious as to just what he would find, and if he was making a mistake. Although reasonably confident in the outcome, there were questions that begged for answers and the only way he would know for sure was if he went straight to the source.

***

Arriving at the rambling home, one that judged from the peeling paint and crumbling concrete drive had seen better days, Jimmy headed boldly for the massive front door and rung the bell. A stooped woman wearing a two-sizes-too-big uniform ending halfway to her bony ankles immediately opened the door. Stiffly starched and with a big pointed collar sticking out all around that made her round head appear to balance precariously on a platter, the uniform could have been the fashion of the times. If the times were in the forties. The shriveled little woman took in Jimmy's rumpled suit and bruised face with a sniff of disdain. It seemed her opinion of him matched his opinion of her fashion sense. An odd thought entered his head, which was that he and she would never be friends. Here was another human being to never make that increasingly tight circle. He realized, sadly, that he needed to broaden his horizons. He needed friends as much as the next guy.

"Mr. Warren?" she asked in a voice that even seemed to disapprove of his name.

"Yes, ma'am," he replied, as he contrived to keep his tone upbeat, smiling to show that it was a beautiful day to be alive. She just stared back at him with shining black chipmunk eyes partially concealed behind glasses with pointed cats-eye frames. Predictably, a flat silver chain that encompassed her scrawny, wrinkled neck connected the bows. Her appearance didn't match her occupation and he wondered if she had been a typing teacher in a past life. That seemed to fit better.

"Follow me," she said, contempt obvious in the quick way she turned her back to him. "Mrs. Wurtsmith is waiting in the library."

Jimmy followed behind, his steps slowing to match hers. Although quick enough in speech and opinions, she walked as if she had one step in the grave and it was all he could do not to trip over her. After what seemed like forever, they crossed the great room and reached the archway leading into the library.

"Mr. Warren is here, ma'am," she said, as she stepped aside and motioned him through. "Would you like coffee or tea brought in?"

Jimmy opened his mouth to answer before realizing that the question had not been asked of him.

"Coffee, Millie," Naomi Wurtsmith replied. "Which would you like, Mr. Warren?"

"Coffee's fine," Jimmy answered, his attention abandoning the elderly maid and becoming immediately focused on the elegant older woman seated before him. Silver hair carefully coifed in a bouffant style piled on top of her head and a straight-cut burgundy business suit showed this woman's professional side. Pretty legs, a cream-colored lace blouse, and wispy curls around the face softened the formal impression and hinted that she knew and effectively used sensuality as a tool. Although imposing now, thirty years ago this woman would have ruled the boardroom as well as she would have any affair of the heart. This prompted him to wonder why Wurtsmith had felt the need to wander. He could only chalk it up to the fact that some men can do nothing but.

Naomi remained quiet as Jimmy sized her up, knowing she fared well. She could always tell when a man appreciated what he saw and it was easy to see that this one did. If he hadn't been here on business, she may have been tempted. He was good looking, in a primitive sort of way. It had been a while since she'd taken a ride on the wild side.

Millie brought the coffee in as Jimmy was taking the chair across from his hostess. The coffee must have been ready and also awaiting his arrival. She poured each of them a cup and then left. Proficient and well trained, she had no business here; her employer's concerns were not hers.

Naomi savored the taste of the strong, black coffee, before finally speaking. "Now, Mr. Warren, how can I help you?"

"Call me Jimmy," he said.

She nodded, agreeing to his request.

"I have a problem," he admitted.

"And what would that be, Jimmy?" she asked, setting the delicate porcelain cup onto its saucer and clasping her hands in her lap. She stared directly into his eyes, no coyness visible. This woman was used to facing problems head on.

"Someone has been shooting at me."

Surprise registered on her face.

"I'm sorry, it must be terribly frightening. But what has this to do with me?"

"I believe Theodore is the shooter."

Startled shock now replaced the earlier surprise. Quickly followed by disbelief and budding anger.

"You are mistaken," she said, her voice tightly controlled. "My son would never do that. I know. He has a medical condition and rarely leaves the house."

Jimmy knew about Theodore's condition. A lot of eccentric people suffered with it. But a gut hunch told him that Theodore was the shooter, and he intended to continue his questioning, because, well, he needed to know. It could mean his own life or death.

"Could I speak with him, please?"

"I don't think that's necessary," she said, steely gray eyes narrowed and lips clamped tightly together. Anger made her now look as evil and dangerous as a cobra. And as totally unforgiving. She was someone that you didn't want to mess with and Jimmy now understood why she was alone. When the woman was crossed, she was a banshee.

"I would like you to leave now," she said, rising to her feet. "My son has done nothing wrong."

Jimmy stood. For someone only five feet tall, she had a remarkably commanding presence. She was used to winning, but he had a job to do, with more cards to play. Before he had a chance to say more, a voice came from the great room.

"I can fight my own battles, mother."

A middle-aged man, tall and thin, his dark hair streaked with gray, stood silhouetted in the archway. As he walked closer, Jimmy could see that the man's good looks showed a keen resemblance to his mother, but without her strength of character or charisma. His chin was weaker, his eyes a soft watery blue. Jimmy suddenly doubted his accusation, wondering if this man possessed the fortitude to shoot anyone. But now that he had the opportunity, he pushed ahead, starting with the number one question.

"Where were you last night and the night before?"

"Don't answer that, Theodore," Naomi said. "He's just a private detective; he has no legal authority."

"It's all right, Mother. I was here. Where else would I be?" Theodore said this derisively. Everyone knew he was an eccentric hermit who lived at home with his mother. He was crazy and not much of a man, they all thought. Even _she_ thought that, this woman he worshipped and would do anything for.

"Yes, he was home with me," she said, turning to Jimmy. "If there's nothing else, I'd like you to go."

"There is something," Jimmy said, not moving. His feet were firmly planted, his stance that of the cop he'd been. "Are you acquainted with Patricia Lorenzo?"

Naomi hesitated a fraction of a second, long enough for Jimmy to notice.

"No, I don't believe I am."

"You may want to think about that. I understand a recording was made of a conversation you had with her two days ago."

Naomi's face colored. "You son-of-a—."

"There's no reason to get vulgar, Mrs. Wurtsmith," Jimmy cut in. "The police aren't aware of it... Yet." He hesitated to allow that to sink in. "I see no reason for them to be involved, if a little business we have can be settled in a mutually agreeable way."

"How much?" she snarled through gritted teeth, her face now mostly without color, except for the pink blush she'd applied to her cheeks that morning. Brushed on circles of a deep rose hue covered the hollows below sharp cheekbones, tight from years of never eating that second donut. Jimmy marveled at how the woman could now look her age and wasn't the seductive cougar she'd been earlier. It was an amazing transformation and had occurred in a brief matter of minutes. She must have eaten dozens of board members for lunch throughout the years.

"You misunderstand me," Jimmy said amenably. "Mrs. Lorenzo and I don't want your money. She only wants to make up for what she did to poor Alicia Ervine and her son."

"I don't understand," Naomi said, appearing confused.

"Oh, I think you do," Jimmy said with a small smile. "You see; we've found the will. The one that leaves an equal share to Bryan Ervine and his mother."

Naomi opened her mouth, but no words came out. She brought her hand up to her lips and closed her eyes, swaying. Jimmy reached out to steady her, but was halted by an angry voice.

"Leave my m' mother alone."

Jimmy turned to find a gun aimed at his chest. It wavered, the barrel jerking this way then that as Theodore's hand shook nervously.

"Put that down," Jimmy said quietly. "Before you do something you regret."

"Teddy! No!" Naomi exclaimed. "What are you doing, son?"

"We've got to get r' rid of him," Theodore stated, his words sounding dreadfully final to Jimmy's ears. "He's ruined everything."

"No, he hasn't. It's not his fault," Naomi pleaded. "It was going to come out anyway. I made a mistake ten years ago in not searching harder for that other will. I knew it was there; we all did. When we couldn't find it, I thought it simpler to give the two supposed witnesses a little bit for their trouble. To make them go away. You understand, don't you, baby?"

Theodore's hand, if possible, shook even more. Jimmy prayed his finger wouldn't slip on the trigger, and he fervently hoped his name and obituary wouldn't appear in the papers. He tried to pull in on himself, without moving a muscle, to look as non-threatening as possible. The other man was already nervous enough. One misstep on his part could put him over the edge.

"I --. I don't know."

"Give me the gun, baby," Naomi entreated. "It's all right. Everything's going to be just fine. Don't worry; I'll take care of it."

With one last defiant look at Jimmy, Theodore handed the gun to his mother. His face now assumed a hurt expression, one of such woeful misunderstanding that Jimmy knew it to be habitual. Naomi reached up and patted her son's shoulder soothingly.

"You should go lie down now, baby. This has been a tiring morning. It's not good for you to get so excited."

Theodore glanced at Jimmy apprehensively, and then back at his mother with a tormented expression on his face.

"I'll be okay," she said, knowing he needed to be reassured; that he was concerned for her welfare. She gently ushered him out of the room, saying, "We have a few things to discuss and then Mr. Warren will be leaving. I'll come in and check on you later. You should rest now."

After her son had gone, she went back to her seat and motioned for Jimmy to take his. She took another sip of her coffee as she thought the situation over. Jimmy tried to drink his, but the pounding of his heart made it difficult. He wondered at the woman's composure. Was she used to dealing with intense situations like this? Or was his lack of composure because he had been the one with a gun aimed at his chest? Finally, his heart slowed and his hand steadied and he took a cautious sip of his coffee. Remarkably, it was still hot. Only seconds had passed. It felt like it should have been hours.

"Mr. Warren," Naomi said, her decision made. "What is it you want?"

"I would like Theodore to have a DNA test, to help determine if the Ervine boy is his half-brother."

"I understand testing was already done, and that the boy wasn't Darren's."

"There were some inconsistencies. Frankly, I believe the results were tampered with."

"Oh?" She seemed genuinely surprised. Jimmy thought there was a chance she wasn't involved in this aspect of the case, but there were other wives and children in the family. Somebody was. He wondered if he would need to follow that angle, or if what he'd found out would be enough. Was that a stone he should even turn? Maybe it would be best to leave that to the cops, when they became involved.

"Anything else?" she asked.

"Yes. I want you not to try to block the Ervines' claim in court. As soon as the document is authenticated, the lawyer will present it. They'll need somebody on their side."

Naomi considered this and then said, "I'll make a deal with you."

"What would that be, Mrs. Wurtsmith?" Jimmy took another sip from his cup, appreciating the rich flavor. If Millie was the one that had brewed it, she made excellent coffee. Maybe she hadn't missed her calling, after all.

"In exchange for Theodore's and my cooperation, I would like you to forget this happened today."

Jimmy knew she meant having a weapon pointed at him. This meant concealing the facts, which was illegal. He was considering the possible repercussions when she added, "And, if Theodore was the one who shot at you before, then I want any possible charges dropped. His name is not to appear on a police report or written about in the newspaper."

This was something Jimmy had no control over. The shooting was an open case and had detectives working on it. It was his duty to come forward. But, if he didn't tell them whom he suspected, he was certain they would never think to look at Theodore Wurtsmith, the recluse millionaire. For the Ervines, this was the best solution. For himself, well --. It could mean not getting his old job back. It could even mean a short stint in jail, and the probable pulling of his P.I. license. But like a famous heroine in a classic novel, he pushed it out of his head. He'd worry about it tomorrow.

He thought again of the Thug Brothers and that the differences between him and them were becoming less and less, and wondered how it had come down to that. It seemed the line between right and wrong was becoming harder to differentiate.

But, sometimes you just had to go with the flow of traffic.

### Chapter 34

The first thing Jimmy did after returning to his office that morning was to call Avis Clough. He told him that Theodore Wurtsmith would be willing to have DNA testing run. This was met with disbelief. But after informing him that Naomi, the first Mrs. Wurtsmith, had been aware of the new will and that she would be willing to give a deposition to that effect for the court, the disbelief turned gleeful. This was the first of many obstacles that needed to be removed and Jimmy could almost see the attorney rubbing his hands together. That big paycheck wasn't just mist on the horizon.

Avis had news of his own. The handwriting expert was positive that Darren Wurtsmith had signed the will himself. The writing was wobbly as if done with a shaky hand, which was to be expected, but contained enough similarities to Wurtsmith's known signature that the expert was willing to bet his reputation on it. To be thorough, Avis stated that a second expert would be examining the document in the following week and that he might even hire a third just to impress the court and further remove all doubt.

Avis thought it best that Theodore Wurtsmith have the testing done in secret, in case it was proven that the Ervine kid wasn't related. If he actually were, then that would be a sensational finding and would help strengthen the case. If not, well, he didn't want the waters muddied.

Jimmy saw the advantages to secret testing and was sure that Naomi and Theodore would agree. If they could keep Theodore's name out of it, they would, he told the attorney. Jimmy said he would suggest to them a facility out of state. He repeated his suspicions that Luther Billings had switched samples. Avis said that if Bryan Ervine were proved Wurtsmith's son, then he would turn this detail over to the authorities to handle. He expected Billings wouldn't be managing Valley Clinic & Lab long if an irregularity under his watch could be proven, and he may even face criminal charges.

Jimmy was then told there would be nothing else required of him until the case went to court and that a check would be in the mail. Jimmy thought about asking to testify by deposition also, but changed his mind. Maybe a little free advertising showing his capabilities was a good idea. Clients hadn't been breaking down his door, and he still had to eat.

"You've done an excellent job," Avis said. "Would you be interested in assisting in other cases, should I need someone with your experience and skills?"

"Certainly. Just call whenever you need me," Jimmy stated, surprised he was willing and actually looking forward to it. Attorneys weren't his favorite breed of people, but he understood Avis. The man didn't hide his avarice well and Jimmy was comfortable with that fact. It was only the slick ones, the ones that said they were doing something for the greater good, but, somehow, their pockets filled first, that he couldn't abide. He hated hypocrites. In his own way, Avis was an honest man.

After hanging up the phone, Jimmy leaned back in his chair, put his feet up on the desk and closed his eyes. Smiling contentedly to himself, he thought that as pleasantly eventful as the last two days had been, he deserved a little nap.

***

Det. Paul Lewinski remained late in his office Friday night, also pleased with the results of the last two days. The Hilton girl had been found and as soon as Mason was caught, that cold case would be closed. It was just a matter of time. Anyone stupid enough to leave a driver's license on the body would make another mistake. Mason was as good as arrested; he just didn't know it yet.

The coroner had assured him that he would have the cause of death by Monday. To his experienced eyes, everything pointed at strangulation. But it would be good to have it a matter of official record.

Thinking of the likely manner of death brought goose bumps to his arms and a quick catch to his breathing. Strangulation. The victim's eyes huge, the pupils black and dilated, the shock and fear frozen on her face. As he put himself in Mason's shoes, he experienced the thrill again. He saw and loved every second. He could almost touch the fear and panic churning in his memory from where he sat at his desk. It was so beautiful. Such a lovely, lovely death.

Finally, craving more, he stood and walked quietly around the building, searching for stragglers like himself. There was no one still here, except the dispatch officer. The man was conscientious; Paul knew he would never leave his desk. With his body stiff and on high alert, he walked back to his office, closed and locked the door behind him.

His hands were trembling, annoying Paul as he unlocked the bottom right drawer of his desk. Inside, at the back underneath several files, a small box came to light. He separated out a small key hidden in the heavy, jangling collection he carried in his pants pocket and reverently opened the box and then just stared as blood catapulted around in his temples, rushing, drowning out all other sound. He wasn't aware that his pupils dilated and his nostrils flared. Gone far away where touch, smell, and the sound of sweet, sweet violence was his alone, he was in a different world.

A fake diamond ring, a belt made from a cheap silver chain, a compact with the letter H worried into the design on the metal lid, and a red hair extension that had been rolled tightly to better fit in its own corner were all that were inside, four seemingly unconnected items. Sad little treasures that sat lonely in their locked box, waiting for the rare times he couldn't resist the urge to see and touch, and remember.

His fingers gently caressed each piece, reliving, as he experienced each kill over again. Paul didn't allow himself this gratification often because he didn't want to diminish the emotions that clung to each souvenir. And when he finally did break down and give in to the pleasure, it was only when he knew he was totally safe. Keeping his trophies at the post, in a building occupied by dozens of cops, might not be thought of as clever, but so far it had worked. No one ever thought of suspecting a detective. No one ever thought of suspecting him.

Buoyed up by this thought and yesterday's discovery, a sudden irritation disturbed his nirvana. Only rarely did he allow negative emotion to rule. But this time, it was an old wound with a scab that sometimes needed to be picked. And this annoyance was, naturally, that he wanted his other souvenirs back. The ones he'd used to frame Grant with. He wanted the soft, feather barrette and the skimpy black lace thong back where they belonged. They were his. And they belonged in his stash. He knew he could go down to the basement and get them out of the evidence locker right now. No one would be the wiser. Those empty spots in the box were calling to be filled, begging for their return.

But, he didn't go to the basement. He thought it a testament to his self-control that he left them where they were. They would be in his possession soon enough. Mason would be caught. And when he was, after the man's day in court and those delectable trophies were used to convict him, then Paul would retrieve them from the evidence vault where they were stored. They'd go back into their home in the little box, to keep company with the others.

***

"Abby wants to go to the memorial," Izzy told Eleanor. "I hate that sort of thing."

"I know," Eleanor said. "But don't you think it's the right thing to do?"

"Maybe, but I'm still not going."

Eleanor had to grin at that. Abby going without Izzy being dragged along was funny, and downright impossible. Of course, the girls didn't always know what the other one did and sometimes they didn't know the other's thoughts. It was a strange situation, but Eleanor was getting used to it.

"I believe that private detective... What's his name? Jimmy, I think," she said feigning ignorance to better poke fun at the younger woman. "I expect he'll be there." Her grin grew wider. She knew that there was no way she wouldn't get a reaction to this. Jimmy Warren, PI, was a favorite topic of conversation with Izzy recently.

She'd seen more of Izzy lately. Abby had been her first friend, but as the young woman matured she'd begun shedding the downtrodden, sweet-but-sad attitude that she routinely wore. Izzy's brash, up-beat personality had come more to the forefront. At first Eleanor had found this alarming, but now she welcomed it. She understood why Abby was the way she was. Abused women need a shell to hide behind. It's strictly self-preservation on their part and completely to be expected. Izzy hadn't gone through what Abby had with Grant, or with their mother. She didn't have that baggage to carry. She had been allowed to develop as flippantly as she (and Abby) wanted, with Abby the only one that even knew she existed for years. She was sometimes hostile, irreverent, but always _strong_ enough for them both. She was the duo's rock.

Eleanor understood all this, and she accepted it. She would never have thought to seek out professional help for the twins, no more than she would have asked about their sex lives. This was something that in her generation was just never done. Besides, they were adjusting well, and also, she liked them both. One without the other wouldn't be as enjoyable, or as complete. Over her seventy-some years she'd learned to be tolerant of others; their flaws and idiosyncrasies widened and gave color to the world.

The one question she had was which girl had actually eliminated Grant. The fact that the man was dead and decaying under the rose garden behind the shed didn't concern her. She didn't give that a second thought. Grant deserved it. The question she'd like an answer to was who did it. And the question was merely one of curiosity, not due to any sense of morality on her part.

She knew Izzy had voiced her intentions of getting rid of him. 'Permanently' had been her word. There was no doubt that she would have, if the opportunity had arisen. Abby certainly had reason to do it, and the garden was hers. Deadly Nightshade had been the poison used, and Eleanor knew that plant flourished among the herbs. Abby had once told her to never pick the berries or leaves from the plant without wearing gloves. She remembered that day as if it was yesterday. Seemed so long ago now. But did the woman have courage enough to murder her husband?

"I'll probably go, for the family's sake," Izzy spoke, interrupting her thoughts, as if she were reconsidering her earlier decision, as if Jimmy Warren wasn't the real reason. Which was just what Eleanor had known she would do. "But Janet and I never really got along," Izzy added. "She was Abby's friend more than mine."

"I know, but going shows your respect for the family," Eleanor said. "Her poor parents... Janet didn't deserve what happened to her. Grant was such a son-of-a-bitch."

Izzy looked Eleanor in the eye and said, "Yes. He was."

### Chapter 35

Monday morning dawned wet and gloomy. Jimmy was running late again, so he stopped at a fast-food joint and bought a breakfast sandwich and a cup of coffee that was so boiling hot it must be trying to make up for its lack of taste. Being self-employed was making him lazy about schedules. But, rather than buy a new alarm clock, he instead considered changing the time the office opened to ten instead of nine. That would solve the problem, unless of course, he just slept in that additional hour. And then there was the problem of the lettering on the door. It would cost to get it changed, and he didn't want to spend the extra money. He sighed; he'd just have to force himself to get up, instead of rolling over.

At the office, he waited impatiently for his coffee pot to brew. His coffee wasn't the best but it beat what was in the Styrofoam cup all to hell. When it was finally ready, he took his time with his sandwich and sipped at the fresh coffee. There was little to do; he might as well enjoy his breakfast. The two cases he had were nearly finished. The Wurtsmith/Ervine case was in the hands of the attorney with nothing Jimmy needed to bother with, unless he was called to tie up some loose end. And he didn't foresee that. The Hilton case was on hold until there was verification from the police and the medical examiner. If it weren't Janet Hilton's body, then he would try to figure out what direction to go in next. Which way and just what he could do, he didn't have a clue. If it were her, then, after the memorial, his part would be over. Law enforcement would still have to find and convict Mason. But that was their deal. His job would be done.

He read a magazine that he'd bought for rainy days, he guessed today qualified, and listened to the clock tick/tock as it checked off the seconds. He watched as the seconds turned into minutes, the minutes turned into hours, and had just told himself that at quarter to twelve (he wasn't waiting until noon), he was closing for a long lunch, when there was a tap on the door that startled him so much his feet dropped off the desk and his heart jumped to his throat.

After struggling to regain his composure, he yelled out, "Come in," and waited, eagerly (it had been such a boring morning) to see who was on the other side of the door. " _What's behind door number one?"_ he thought, amusing himself. He was easy today.

The door opened and a middle-aged, big-bosomed woman of medium height walked in. Jimmy noticed long fingernails painted a bright red, with several large glittering diamond rings on fingers barely long enough for a child. A style commonly called 'big hair' made a valiant effort towards making her appear six inches taller than she was. And the last thing, although by no means the least, that registered in his quick appraisal was the woman's makeup. If she'd ever heard that day makeup should be less conspicuous than clubbing makeup, she didn't show it. The eyeliner was black and heavy, the shadow a dusky blue-gray that came to a point almost at her temple, and the lipstick, in a shade just darker than her nails, looked several layers thick. If it hadn't been for her clothes, which were right out of a fashion magazine, Jimmy would have thought her an aging call girl. Maybe a 'madam' who ran a cheap stable. But her outfit was plainly expensive with a designer brand. It would easily cost a workingman's monthly salary.

Jimmy was impressed, and a bit amused, liking his job more and more. You never knew what was going to come through the door. You might have to wait a while, but it was worth it. And to think he'd almost missed this by leaving early because he'd been bored. He made a note to buy more magazines.

"How do you do? I'm Jimmy Warren," he said, extending his hand.

"Mrs. Levy Parker. Anita Parker," she said, limply taking the hand he'd offered. "I'm not so well." Her hands were cold and she allowed her fingers to remain in his for only a brief time, before pulling them back into a fist that she hid in her lap.

"Sorry to hear that," Jimmy said not without sympathy, as he wondered what would have brought a woman of her station to his side of the tracks. "Please, have a seat."

The woman sat down in the straight-backed chair in front of the desk, but not before running a hand around the seat, looking for dust. It was apparent she wasn't impressed with his furniture or housekeeping skills. Jimmy grinned to himself. If he didn't get a client today, he wouldn't be able to say he hadn't been entertained.

"Coffee?"

"No, thank you."

"It's better than it looks," Jimmy said, conscious of the coffee stains on the side of his cup and the ring on the desk where it had been sitting. His thoughts returned to the possibility of hiring an office manager, a woman preferably. He really needed a woman's touch in his office.

"I'm sure," she replied, not looking sure at all.

"Mr. Warren," she said, ignoring that he'd asked to be called Jimmy. "May I come straight to the point?"

Jimmy nodded, wondering if it was fraud, larceny, or something as mundane as an unfaithful spouse that she needed help with. Maybe she wanted to know where a certain makeup artist had disappeared? She must have had to apply her own makeup this morning. He thought that uncharitable thought and instantly was disgusted with himself. The way his face looked he was certainly in no position to judge someone else's appearance. He hadn't even bothered with make up.

"I have reason to believe that my husband is cheating on me."

With that question answered, Jimmy now believed that he was getting a new client. This woman wasn't leaving. Being anonymous, an unknown like he was, was to his advantage. She had come to his office specifically because no one in her circle knew he existed. Her intentions were to hire a PI from the wrong side of the tracks, so no one she knew would suspect. Well, he could do the job and do it discreetly. He didn't care what she or her friends thought of him; he knew he was qualified. And, it was readily apparent that she could afford him. His rate per hour just took a hike.

"Why do you think that Mrs. Parker?"

"I don't want to get into it. Just trust me that I know my husband, and that I know something is wrong."

"All right," Jimmy agreed, knowing the dirty details right now weren't important, he would find out soon enough. "Did you bring his picture and a list of the locations he frequents during the day?"

"Yes, here they are," she said, pushing a photo and a neatly typed schedule complete with addresses, toward him. "I require photographs and the name, or names, of any woman he's with. If he is guilty, like I believe, I want indisputable evidence that will stand up in court."

Jimmy looked at the woman, studying her more closely. Her face was flushed and her fingers, although weighed down with several carats, shook slightly. She wasn't as cold and calm as her words portrayed. With a flash of insight, he realized she cared for her husband. Coming here was difficult for her.

Keeping his tone quiet and soothing, he murmured, "Are you sure you want to do this? Once you find out, you can never go back to not knowing."

She bit her lip and straightened more in her chair. "I wouldn't be here, if I didn't."

Jimmy paused briefly, giving her time to change her mind. When she didn't he said, his tone all business, "I charge a hundred dollars an hour, and twenty-five dollars each day from start to finish. The hourly rate is whether I'm on the phone, or on surveillance."

She nodded, agreeing, she must have found it reasonable. He wondered then if he should have charged more.

"How long do you estimate this will take?"

"A minimum of ten hours and maybe a week. I require half down."

She reached into her teal designer brand purse and pulled out a checkbook. As her trembling fingers were writing out the check, she said, "Levy is out of town right now. He's not due back until Thursday or Friday night."

"Thank you, ma'am. Then I will begin when he returns."

They shook hands again before she left, her demeanor now calm and determined. Jimmy felt a twinge of sympathy for the woman; knowing his assumptions about her were correct. Right or wrong, this was something she felt she had to know. He hoped she was wrong; he didn't want to be the one to break her heart. But that wasn't quite correct. It wouldn't be him doing the breaking; it would be her husband.

He looked at the check he held in his hands. Six hundred dollars was a good start to the week. A few more of these and he wouldn't have to worry so much about the rent.

***

Tuesday morning was one of those mornings that songwriters and songbirds love. Sunny, warm, even the air seemed to sparkle, as it blithely raised the spirits of even the most negative person. Jimmy whistled as he tap-danced his way up the walk that led from the building's parking lot to the front door. He grinned, embarrassed with himself as he looked around; he hadn't done that in years. Fortunately, no one was watching.

After bounding up the stairs, he whipped out his key, but was dismayed to find his

office unlocked. Cautiously pushing the door open, he stopped, shocked, as his eyes took in the mess. His desk had been rifled, with papers scattered on top and strewn helter-skelter across the floor. The file cabinet stood in the corner, violated, its drawers open, its files askew. Even the refrigerator door was ajar. Quick examination showed the only things it had held - two cans of beer, were missing.

Jimmy was exasperated and his good mood quickly dissolved. First, his electric use had been increased with the valiantly struggling appliance running constantly for a minimum of several hours. That meant his bill would be higher. Now, to make it worse, the two measly cans of beer he'd been saving were gone, too. It was too much. He brought his hand up and ran his fingers through, ruffling his hair, as he wondered what kind of creep would do something like this. The files searched and scattered all over was bewildering, also irritating. But, honestly! his beer?

He looked around at the mess, debating whether to call the police. There wasn't much to clean up. He moved over to the file cabinet to see if he could tell if anything was missing.

Why would somebody go through his files? What were they looking for? He could think of nothing that anyone would want. The only ones that were current were the Parker, Hilton, and Wurtsmith files. And he couldn't imagine why those would be important enough to risk breaking in. Both the latter cases were nearly finished and, on his end, soon to be closed. The other had only been opened yesterday, actually wouldn't be on the clock until Thursday or Friday. The file was empty, with no reports inside. All he'd done was to give it a label, and had taken it with the address sheet and timetable home with him the evening before.

Of course, also stored in the cabinet were about a dozen old cases, some still open, that he'd worked on when he'd previously lived in the city, back when he'd been on the force. It wasn't uncommon for detectives to take their work home with them. He had, and he knew several others that did. It kept the information close to you, ready if you had an epiphany, making it easier to stay current. Jimmy wondered if one of these made somebody nervous, since word was getting out that he was back in town. Possibly this person thought he was too close and had wanted to remove that one piece of evidence that could complicate their lives. Or, this was more likely, somebody just wanted to play a game and he was tapped as it.

Stumped over the lack of results, he shifted his focus to the floor. As he picked up each piece of paper he sorted and laid it on top of one of several piles he soon had on the desk. Although it had looked like a tornado had gone through the room, there were only a dozen sheets to sort through. The papers on the desk were even easier to organize. Mostly, they were bills, paid or not, stamps, stationery and envelopes, with a few fast-food coupons thrown in. The only file information he kept in the desk was a few phone numbers and some scribblings he'd done during recent conversations concerning the current cases. It looked like everything was there also.

Jimmy was baffled over the break-in. It seemed to fit right in with the events of the past weeks where he'd been shot at, threatened, and even beaten up. If this was what being a private investigator was about, he wondered whether he was cut out for it. He didn't remember ever having so much trouble as a homicide detective. Still, it had its moments. And one thing was for sure; he rarely had to worry about being bored.

It suddenly dawned on him what he'd done and he laughed out loud. He wouldn't be calling the cops. He'd put everything neatly away as he pondered why and who would have done such a thing. There remained nothing for the police to look at or take pictures of. If there had been fingerprints, which he doubted, he'd covered them with his own. This neat fetish had been stupid of him.

But, maybe not. He didn't feel stupid, only relieved. He'd seen enough cops lately and he wasn't on their good side. If the perpetrator were going to be caught, he'd have to do it himself. Wasn't that what PI's did?

Still, it would be a lot easier if there were something to go on.

### Chapter 36

Janet Hilton's remains were released on Thursday and the memorial was held Saturday afternoon. When Jimmy pulled up to the funeral home, he was forced to take a spot way at the back of the second parking lot. It seemed everybody who was anybody was there. He wondered again why he was, and why he was putting himself through this. Although tempted, he fought the urge to get back in his car and drive away. He rationalized that the memorial would go on without him and a new case was waiting for his attention. But he didn't leave. He couldn't. Because he owed it to Janet's memory.

Waiting in the long line at the building's covered entry, surrounded by people he didn't know, made the sneaking away idea even more appealing. Why did he punish himself this way? When he finally made it inside, he was surprised to see Edward Hilton and his wife personally greeting each guest. They were taking the time to speak with and to accept the condolences given by everyone that entered. That explained the long, slow-moving line.

"Jimmy, I'm so happy you could come," Edward Hilton said, as he clasped Jimmy's hand firmly. "This is my wife, Robin."

A pretty woman with sad eyes greeted him. From the photos Jimmy had seen of Janet, he now understood where she had gotten her looks. She had been the image of her mother. Robin Hilton was small and slim, with curly hair cut short in a natural, bouncy style that was meant to exude liveliness and a good-natured vitality. The heavy silver streaks through the brown locks now seemed to subdue any stray trace of happiness, leaving her with a disconsolate, beaten-down appearance. The last five years had been unkind to a woman who hadn't deserved what life had dished out.

Jimmy took her hand gently, "My condolences, Mrs. Hilton. Robin. I'm sorry it turned out this way."

She blinked back tears. "Me, too."

The next person in line shifted uncomfortably from one leg to the other. Jimmy used this as his signal to move on.

"Edward," he said, turning back to Mr. Hilton and patting his arm. "I'll talk to you later."

Away from the line and the grieving parents, Jimmy looked around at the ornately decorated room he found himself in. Formal, with high ceilings and richly carved trim, it was filled to overflowing with flowers. Not just potted plants, but huge displays of several colors and varieties completely lined the perimeter of the room. The interior was jammed with well-heeled business people, common laborers, television personalities, and politicians. Quite an eclectic group. Already uncomfortable, Jimmy found the tightly crowded room made it worse. The air conditioner wasn't able to keep up and he fought the urge to loosen his tie; he was unpleasantly warm. Looking over and around people, no easy task as he wasn't known for his height, he spied several doors leading to rooms that were carbon copies of this one. Taking his time, acknowledging people he knew, he weaved his way through to a room on the left, where, once inside, he found he was in the company of several cops from differing precincts. They were as nervous as he was, which he found reassuring. Most, like him, weren't happy rubbing elbows with the rich and famous. As he stood there, one conversation caught his attention.

"There hasn't been even one hit on Mason," a redhead said quietly, in a tone that showed he was sensitive to his surroundings. Jimmy remembered him from the next precinct over. "You'd think he would've made one little mistake in the last five years, wouldn't you? You know what I think? I think he's in Mexico."

A couple of the uniformed officers nodded their heads. More simply stared, a quizzical expression on their faces. One disagreed however, and he wasn't shy about voicing it.

"Let's not go into that again, Allen," he said, as he rolled his eyes. Apparently, this was a sore spot between the two, and one he was tired of arguing over. "Mason doesn't have enough guts to hide in another country. The man's second-class, all big talk and no action. He just wouldn't have moved there all alone, not without having some friend we don't know about."

"Well, he had guts enough to murder three women," Allen said defensively. "So I think he could have moved to another country."

"Yeah, well, I bet those were accidents. I just don't see him doing it."

Jimmy found himself agreeing. He'd wondered those exact things. Mason was small-time. He didn't have the balls to run to another country to hide out. He didn't even know Spanish. If, by rare chance, he had gone to Mexico, odds were he was dead. Jimmy hoped not. Not that he was a humanitarian, or cared at all for the guy, but if he was deceased and his body never found, there would never be complete closure for the Hilton's. And Paul would never write 'closed' on the file.

Paul. Thinking of the man brought to mind the resemblance he showed to the police sketch. That was certainly odd. Worse, why did it bug him so much? Jimmy wasn't sure at this point. It was too much to think about right now and he forced it from of his mind.

With the amount of people surrounding him, he wasn't aware that Paul was standing at the back of the room. Taller than most, he'd seen Jimmy as he entered, and his face still carried the scowl that had appeared.

"What's the matter?" Abby asked. She hated when Paul was upset; she didn't know what she'd done. She couldn't remember doing anything, so she tried not to jump to conclusions and blame herself, but it was hard. Old habits are hard to break.

***

Daisy Wilson and her fiancé, Roland Trimble, stood in line. She'd been deeply distressed when she'd heard that the remains were positively identified as Janet's. She and Janet had run around together for years, through high school and college. Since then, with careers and different goals, they had lost touch. Janet had run with a smaller circle, had planned to marry, help her husband with his career, and raise kids. Daisy had wanted none of that, until lately, that is. Since she and Roland had gotten closer, she understood Janet better. It still surprised her that she was actually in love; she hadn't thought it possible, had thought herself destined to live by head alone, and not by her heart.

After speaking with Edward and Robin Hilton, their 'hadn't seen each other in years and don't be a stranger' still ringing in her ears, she and Roland moved toward the back of the room. The crowd blocked the way and was nearly impassable. Approaching the first door they came to, one on the left, they took it. This room was almost as full, but the air wasn't quite as stuffy.

She looked around at the suits and uniforms that surrounded her, knowing she was fast becoming the center of attention. She flashed a smile at a politician she knew and continued inching her way toward the back. When she was almost midpoint of the room, she caught sight of a young woman farther back who looked familiar. Abby. That was Abby! They had known each other back in high school. She grabbed Roland's arm, he was talking to the police chief, and motioned where she was going. She headed that direction alone.

***

Paul had been aware of Daisy's entrance from the time she entered the room. Although his heart skipped a beat, he didn't exhibit one trace of the nervousness he felt. Cool as a cucumber, he glanced around and found an exit door located directly behind where he stood with Abby. With a show of aggravation, he pulled out his cell and pretended to listen to a nonexistent conversation. Abby watched him unsuspectingly.

Playing his part well, he leaned down and whispered apologetically in her ear, "I've got to leave. There's a dead body downtown and homicide's been called out."

"Don't worry about me, I'll catch a ride, or call a cab if I have to," she said.

"I'm sorry," he added softly, agreeing with the taxi idea, already moving toward the door. "Duty calls. I'll make it up to you. How about supper out tonight?" He exited the door before she could reply.

***

Daisy saw the tall man whispering in Abby's ear, but couldn't get a good look at his face. She saw him turn and quickly slide out the door. There was something about him, his posture, his size or coloring, something that looked familiar. She frowned as she realized her hands were trembling. Now what was this about? Frustrated, thinking this was no way for a future CEO to act; she fought to bring herself under control. As her hands stilled, she shrugged off her discomfort to the size and closeness of the crowd, and then weaved through the throng toward Abby.

"Abby," she exclaimed when she reached her. "Haven't seen you in years."

"Daisy! It's so good to see you." Abby reached out and gave her a hug.

"You, too. I just wish it was under better circumstances." Daisy pulled back, leaving her hands on the arms of the other woman, as she looked her up and down. "You're looking great. I heard you'd gotten married out of high school."

Abby's face changed. She couldn't face her old friend with the fact that her husband was responsible for Janet's death, for the very memorial they were attending. She glanced around, needing to hide. She had to get away.

"That was the biggest mistake ever made." It was Izzy who said this, as she straightened her posture and her voice became louder. "Grant was a real s.o.b. He's the one the cops have pegged for Janet's murder. I think they're right." She stared straight at Daisy, defiant, daring a response.

Daisy drew in a sharp breath. She remembered that a man named Grant Mason was the suspect, but hadn't realized this was the man Abby married. Crap! Now what should she say? The subject was beyond awkward.

"Lordy, girl. You've gotten yourself into some shit since I last saw you."

Izzy smiled, the comment to her liking. She'd been afraid Daisy would pucker up in sympathy or make some excuse to take off and quickly abandon her, not wanting to be guilty by association. She looked at Daisy with new appreciation. Why hadn't they been closer friends? She had misjudged her, thinking of her as merely a spoiled little rich girl.

"Yeah, you could say that," Izzy replied, rolling her eyes at the understatement.

At that moment Jimmy wandered up. Izzy greeted him and then introduced him to Daisy as a friend. Daisy took in the plain suit with pant legs wrinkled and in need of hemming, unruly hair with what appeared to be a perpetual cowlick, and the man's friendly eyes and instantly decided that she liked him. It was plain to her that the other woman did, too, since her hand now rested on his arm possessively. Daisy knew there was more here than the introduction had implied and it aroused her curiosity.

"Jimmy is a private investigator," Izzy said, with what appeared to be pride. "He's the one that tracked down where Janet was."

"Well, Paul and I did," Jimmy cut in.

"Paul?" Daisy asked.

"Paul Lewinski. He's the detective in charge of the case," Jimmy replied, looking at Izzy. To Daisy that glance implied a connection between the woman and Paul. Oddly, she noticed the other woman stiffen.

Daisy asked, "Was he the man I saw you talking with?"

Izzy hadn't moved her hand and Jimmy seemed to be enjoying her touch. He now placed his hand over hers. Daisy noticed.

"Yes," Izzy answered. "He was called out on a homicide downtown."

Jimmy was surprised at the comment. He hadn't heard rumblings of a new murder as he traversed the room. After his years on the force, his ears were attuned to what should now have been a low hum as law enforcement personnel spread the news. He'd heard nothing. He could only conclude that for some reason there was a tight lid on this new murder.

"Could I impose upon you to take me home?" Izzy asked out of the blue. "Paul told me to catch a ride with someone if I could. I'll call a taxi, if you haven't time."

"No problem," Jimmy said. "If we can stop at the office first. There are some business calls I need to make."

As Daisy listened, she figured out that Paul was the tall man who had been speaking to her friend. She hesitantly questioned, "That gentleman, Paul? looked familiar to me. I wonder if I could have met him before?"

"He's in the public eye often," Jimmy said. "Lewinski's getting quite the name for himself as a homicide detective. You've probably seen him on TV."

"Maybe..." Daisy said slowly. If that was the case, why did she feel so ill at ease? There was just something about him that had made her uncomfortable.

"Anyway," Izzy said. She didn't want to talk about Paul; he was Abby's problem. She was more interested in finding out how Daisy's life had gone the last few years. "What have you done with yourself since college?"

They entered into a conversation that, if it hadn't been for the fact that he was with the two prettiest women in the room, Jimmy wouldn't have listened to as closely. He learned about Daisy's position on the board of Wilson Steel and her recent engagement, and Izzy inheriting her grandmother's home after losing her family. Nothing was said about Grant, and nothing about Paul living with Izzy. He considered this, thinking that those things should have been important enough to at least be mentioned in passing. Since Izzy didn't, it found it curious. And, he was embarrassed to admit, encouraging. It gave him hope to think that he had a chance.

After several minutes, the women hugged their goodbyes and promised to get together soon. Daisy went to round up Roland who was shooting the bull with a politician and Jimmy and Izzy said goodbye to their hosts.

### Chapter 37

Once they got to Jimmy's office, Izzy started right in cleaning up. She cleaned off the counter, even wiping out the refrigerator and scrubbing the stains out of the coffee pot and was sweeping the floor, all in the time he took him to call and talk to the girl at the number Anita Parker had given him for a Chicago hotel, which was where her husband was supposed to have stayed.

Under the excuse that he'd missed an appointment with the man, he asked if a Mr. Levy Parker was still in his room. Receiving a negative answer, he stated in that case, he was positive Mr. Parker would have left an envelope for him at the desk. No, there was no envelope. Feigning a little panic, he asked about a phone number or address where he could reach the man. The girl on the other end of the conversation, hearing his alarm and being a sympathetic sort, volunteered to check the address of the credit card Mr. Parker had paid with. After a few minutes of being on hold, she returned to the line.

"I'm sorry," said a little girl, confused voice. "I can't find a guest with the name of Levy Parker. What day did you say he checked in?"

"It would have been Sunday or Monday."

"I've checked both days, and there was no one at our establishment under that name."

"Well, this is very strange," Jimmy said, making his voice sound embarrassed and confused. "I'm really sorry to have bothered you; I must have misunderstood. But I thank you for your time. You've been very helpful."

He sat for a moment, thinking. The man wasn't where he'd told his wife he'd be. Was there a girlfriend in Chicago, or was there an innocent explanation?

He took a little black book out of his pants pocket and looked up the number to the hacker he occasionally employed.

"Hello, Chase? This is Jimmy Warren."

"Long time, buddy," a squeaky adolescent-sounding voice said.

"Yeah, I've been out of town," Jimmy drawled, hoping he wouldn't have to go into it further. With Izzy in the room, he didn't want to have to explain leaving a wife behind. It wasn't a secret exactly. Izzy knew he'd been married before; he just wasn't sure he'd mentioned that he wasn't divorced yet. Come to think of it, he should be hearing from the Thug Brothers soon. Hopefully, with pleasant news this time.

"But, now you're back."

"Yes, now I'm back," he said, grinning. Chase was young, maybe twenty, twenty-five years old, probably scrawny with a prominent Adam's apple, and (in Jimmy's mind's eye), a penchant for mixing plaids and stripes. He was brilliant and a superlative hacker, albeit with a slightly askew way of looking at things. It would never be important to him where Jimmy had been, or why, just that he was here now. The kid lived in the present with his brain jammed so full of numbers, code, and logic that there was little room for anything else.

"Got a job for you, Chase."

"Shoot."

"I need you to get into one of the airline's computers (I can't tell you which airline), and find out if a Levy Parker flew out of Cincinnati, or possibly Dayton, with a destination of Chicago."

"That involves Homeland Security. What with all the terrorists flying around the country."

"If it's a problem, I'll figure some other way of finding out."

"Didn't say it was a problem," Chase laughed, his voice cracking. "You insult me. Give me five minutes. Can't stay on." He hung up.

A dead phone stuck to his ear, Jimmy had to smile. That boy was a thorn in quite a few sides, business and government, but he liked him. He always got the job done. His need to not stay on a line for more than three minutes could sometimes be a pain, but you got used to it. You learned to talk fast.

Izzy had her hand in the file cabinet when Jimmy hung up the phone and turned to see what she was doing. His surprise must have showed, because she laughingly explained, "You really don't have much of a system here, do you? I figured you needed help. I took secretarial courses in high school."

Jimmy stood up and walked over to the cabinet, determined to put a stop to her intrusion, only to be embarrassed. Izzy was right. His filing skills were lacking. He jammed everything as it came in into the pockets of a simple fold-over file. She showed him one of the cold cases that she'd taken the time to rearrange. It was now organized by date and event, making it easier to locate a specific item, rather than wasting time sorting through every piece of paper the file held.

"Thank you, but you don't have to do this," he said lamely. "I'll do it when I get time."

"Sure, Jimmy," she said, flashing him one of those beautiful smiles that made him forget his name.

The phone rang and he wobbled unsteadily back to his desk.

"Nope, nobody using that name flew out of either city," Chase said abruptly. Small talk wasn't a strong suit for the young man. Jimmy had come to realize that in dealing with Chase, time was an important commodity. At first disconcerting, now his predilection was understood and even welcomed. In the relative short period since Ada had left him, Jimmy had come to believe that time was a valuable commodity no matter what your age.

"I didn't get into the facial recognition hardware, since I didn't have a photo."

"That's not necessary," Jimmy said. "This man has no reason that I know of not to use his real name. If it wasn't listed, then he didn't fly out commercially."

"Do you want me to check privately owned planes?"

"No. This is enough. I'll send the usual your way."

"Thanks, Jimmy. Later, man." The phone clicked. Chase was gone again.

***

The expression on Paul's face would have scared a grave robber, but since he drove nearly empty streets, no one would see. That uncaring disrespectful bitch had showed up at the memorial, ruining his chance to rub elbows with important people, and spoiling the photo session that was planned for afterward, had infuriated him, and probably set his career back immeasurably. His life was carefully plotted and the success he'd had finding the remains of the little rich girl was another steppingstone promising to put him front and foremost in the public eye. Over the last few years, he'd had several triumphs and had always made sure a few select reporters were aware of it. But this little rich girl with her powerful daddy, she was going to be his ticket for advancement. Paul wanted to be made lieutenant, and then the next chief of police. From there, mayor. Maybe, with his talents, governor wasn't too much to think about.

But that dream was no closer than it had been the day before. That bitch, Daisy, had seen to it. First, she'd ruined their 'special night' and, unbelievably, had almost shot him. Then she had showed up at the post, barely avoiding their running face to face into each other. Now she did this. Old anger combined with new resulted in a cold rage that nearly blinded him. He drove on, unaware of his surroundings.

_Beep!_ A horn blew. And then, _beep!_ It blew again. He looked around and found himself stopped at an intersection, staring at a green light. Flipping a finger at the driver behind him, he drove across and to the next through street, where he turned right and parked in an available parking space. He shut the motor off and leaned forward, resting his forehead on the wheel. Closing his eyes, he blocked out the sounds of traffic, knowing he had to think.

After several minutes, he straightened, his mind made up. He had been a nice guy too long, and Daisy had pushed his buttons one too many times. It should be easy to find out who she was and where she lived, since she'd caught the attention of every man in the place and somebody would want to show off that he was acquainted with her. Paul had to admit the woman was certainly pretty. It didn't seem their little dance had affected her looks much. She wouldn't be so lucky the next time. Daydreams of the games they would play swirled through his head. An hour later, after finally coasting back to reality, he restarted the car and turned around, back toward home.

***

Paul breathed in the delicious aromas as soon as he opened the door.

"I thought we were going to eat out tonight?" he called to Abby back in the kitchen.

"You were so late that I decided to have hot food ready when you got home," she replied. Her back was to him as she stirred a simmering pot at the stove. "We can go out another night, when you're not so busy."

Paul glanced at her sharply, wondering if she was being a wise-ass, or if she really thought he'd been hard at work. When she turned toward him, her face was composed and innocent. He relaxed, no longer suspiciou.

"I'm sorry you had to call a cab," he said, wrapping an arm around her waist.

"It goes with the territory," she answered. "Your job is important, and it was really no problem. Although, turns out, I didn't need a cab. Jimmy was there and he gave me a ride." She didn't notice Paul stiffen and casually continued, "He had to stop at his office first, but that only took a few minutes. He really needs a secretary, and I'm considering the job. I've been thinking of getting a part-time position for a while."

"No," Paul said more forcefully than he'd intended. "You don't have to work; I make a good income," he added hastily, after seeing the startled expression that settled on her face. It wasn't his intention to upset her. But he did not want her working for Jimmy. For one thing, he'd begun to dislike the man, while she seemed to like him too much. For another, he wasn't sure that the PI wasn't suspicious. He'd seen him watching him. It had naturally pissed him off. No, Jimmy Warren was a man best to avoid, especially by Abby.

The look on Abby's face now was odd. He didn't remember ever seeing it before. Instead of her usual calm, serene appearance, she looked angry. This was so unlike her.

"I said I'm 'considering' it," she said firmly, much too firmly for the Abby he knew. "It's my decision if I work or not. I'm not saying you don't make enough money. I'm saying I'm bored and I need to get out of the house."

"Okay," he said, putting his hands in the air in a motion of surrender. At the same time, inside, a part of him hardened. He knew she was interested in Warren, and if she really wanted that run-down private dick then he wasn't going to let her know what this did to him. She'd been his first love; others before her had been merely sex. He did not realize that the reason he jumped to conclusions so quickly was because his feelings were shallow, although this had been the deepest connection he'd ever experienced. If he'd applied the classes he'd taken in Indianapolis to himself, it would have told him that most serial killers killed not because of intense emotion, but because of a lack of it. He had begun to sever the ties linking them. Once started on that path, he could never return.

"I just think it may be dangerous," Paul continued, pretending it still mattered. As if _she_ still mattered. "Remember being shot at in front of his building? That might happen again."

She motioned him toward the table. As he sat, he glanced at her again. She looked different somehow, but he didn't know what it was. Whatever it was, he didn't like it.

"I'll think about it," she replied, closing the subject.

He thought it strange that she was so determined. This was also unlike her.

"I met an old friend," she continued. "Daisy Wilson. I haven't seen her since high school."

Paul almost dropped his fork.

"Oh, really?" Somehow, he managed to keep his tone even. All thoughts of Abby showing a different side of herself vanished in an instant. The only thing that mattered now was that obnoxious bitch that flaunted herself to the world; the one that had gotten away, the one that just by being was a threat to his career and his very freedom.

"You know, Wilson Steel? Her daddy owns the business. She's on the board now."

He poked at the pork chop on his plate, moving it around. So, her last name was Wilson; this was what he'd needed to know. She was a rich-bitch. Wilson Steel was huge. She would undoubtedly have protection surrounding her, making it difficult to lure her someplace to play their delightful game. This was certainly a complication. Also, Abby's knowing her was a tie that might prove too close. It was a link that could connect him with Daisy's murder.

"She's coming over sometime next week. We're going to catch up on everything that's happened since school."

"I'm glad," he said, cutting into his chop, as he considered the possible ramifications. She would be here? In this house?

"Were you good friends?" he asked.

"Not close, but I hope to know her better. She seems like a lot of fun."

Paul smiled as he put a piece of the chop into his mouth, while mulling over what had been said. He certainly agreed with Abby on that point. Daisy had the potential of being fun. Serious fun.

### Chapter 38

"Now Jimmee," Thug One pleaded, grinning like a bemused native confronted with the effort needed to shrink an enemy's head. "I trade for thees deevorce papers. You give last monies to our Ada."

"I told you I haven't got it," Jimmy answered. His back was pressed to the door, his feet dangling as Thug Two suspended him. Although the brothers weren't tall, they were built like weightlifters. Holding him off the floor a few inches didn't seem to put a strain on the man. He wasn't even breathing hard. The stupid grin, which was a copy of his brothers, and the garlic he'd eaten for lunch, however, weren't so awe-inspiring.

"Jimmee... We know you paid. We read papers that say you big shot private eye now. You get good monies for that, right?"

Jimmy thought quickly. Okay, so they knew, no sense bemoaning his hard luck. In fact, it might be a good idea to give in and pacify them. In exchange, there was a chance he'd get the divorce papers.

"All right. Let me down. I'll write a check, but you're killing me."

"Right here, Jimmee," Thug One said, smiling, holding his checkbook up.

When his feet hit the floor, Jimmy patted his pants pocket, wondering how the man had gotten possession of it. Were the thugs pickpockets, too? There seemed to be no end to their talents.

"Two thousand. That's half of what I got."

Thug One shook his head, half amused, half sad. "No, twenty-five hundred. Like the first time. That ees half."

Jimmy sputtered and complained as he wrote the check. "The landlord's going to put me out on the street. Then there'll be no detective agency and no way she'll get another dime." He slammed the utilitarian blue slip of paper down on the desk.

"Thees ees it. She no gets more." Alphonso straightened and pushed a paper-clipped collection of papers across the desk where he'd been sitting with his feet crossed on top, watching his brother manhandle Jimmy. He now stood and smoothed out the black sport coat that was layered over a lightweight, black crewneck pullover. Black jeans completed the ensemble. Both brothers wore identical outfits; the only one Jimmy had ever seen them wear in public. He expected that at home, in private, they lounged around in boxers and wife-beater t-shirts. As soon as he thought it, he tried to get the vision out of his head. Too late. This was going to haunt him.

He picked up the papers and now even angrier, moved around to the other side of the desk.

"Get out of my chair!"

"Sure, Jimmee," Alphonso said, his irritating smile still plastered to his face, as he slowly got to his feet, where he stretched like a lazy, overweight tomcat. "I just keep it warm for you."

"Asshole," Jimmy said sourly, knowing that if he hadn't always been the one on the wrong end of the stick, he might have liked the man. But, as it was --.

He quickly read the paperwork. Technical and complicated, by its sheer tedium it had to be completely legal. He wondered why lawyers could never draw up a form that was simple and easy to understand. He was pleased to read a paragraph that stated there would be no alimony and that no further payments had been written in. Grabbing a pen out of the desk's middle drawer, Jimmy signed in all the marked places.

Alphonso stretched a hand out for the document and Jimmy quickly held it out of his reach.

"Don't get so grabby," Jimmy said. "I want a copy first."

After making a copy of each side of every paper in the lengthy form, Jimmy handed the original to Alphonso, his soon-to-be ex-brother-in-law. "There, am I done with you two goons?

"You hurt me. Why you so mean? What I do to you?" His lip was out as he pouted, appearing to be genuinely offended.

"Don't get me started," Jimmy replied, amazed the man could be so ignorant of the pain and aggravation he'd caused. He really didn't seem to know. Jimmy wondered if it had anything to do with the way he'd been raised. Alphonso and his brother had been old man Xavier's enforcers from the time they were in their teens. That probably hadn't done much to help mold them into sensitive, caring individuals. But why was he making excuses for the gangsters? He'd heard enough about being 'creatures of their environment' from public defenders defending gang members back when he'd been on the force. The Thug Brothers were adults and they needed to take responsibility for their actions. Problem was, he didn't think they knew what they did was wrong. Shaking his head, he showed them the door and watched them exit as if they were kids on the way to the park, apparently happy as larks.

After he was sure they'd gone and weren't skulking about, he took stock of his checkbook. Actually, it wasn't as bad as it looked. He'd received the final ten thousand from Edward Hilton Saturday morning and had gone through the bank's drive-through, depositing it on his way to the memorial. He just hadn't entered it, in case the brothers snooped. Which they had. He congratulated himself on being prepared for that possibility. Because of this, they had no way of knowing how much was actually there. With the money he expected from Avis Clough and the Parker deposit, it should last several months. Longer if he stretched it.

Things were looking up. When he held the final divorce decree in his hands, it would be darn near perfect.

He listened to the clock ticking, thinking that it was another slow Monday. A nap called, but he decided against it, knowing it could easily become a habit and if a client did show up he didn't want to look dopey. So, instead, he pulled out the small file he'd started on Levy Parker. He mulled it over.

The man hadn't gone to Chicago. So where had he gone? It would be hard to trace his movements back, easier to follow his actions this morning. He checked the schedule Anita had written out. Parker was supposed to sit a booth at a convention here in town. Today was the final day of the three-day event. Jimmy hadn't had him on surveillance over the weekend and he now wished he had. He'd been busy Saturday, but should have made time on Sunday to check out the conference and his target. There would have been more people around the center, enough that he wouldn't have stood out. He hoped there was still a crowd. One of the reasons he hadn't bothered with surveillance was that Anita planned to sit the booth with her husband over the weekend, something she said she did every time a new invention convention was scheduled in town. Another was he was just lazy and wanted to watch the game sprawled on his couch. He never had liked working weekends.

After changing into a dark blue sweatshirt with a prominent orange sports logo, he stuck a pair of reflective sunglasses over his eyes and pulled a baseball cap down low. He changed into a pair of scuffed tennis shoes to complete the look. A quick glance in the mirror proved satisfactory. He looked like any other sports-loving couch potato looking to kill time before the next game.

It would do.

***

Levy Parker was trapped at his booth. That was apparent by the look on his face and the way he tapped his fingers loudly on the table. The man was either bored silly, or held there against his will; it was obvious he really didn't want to be there. He looked around at the other exhibitors, his irritation showing, and then at the small throng of people with nothing better to do than show up, and nothing better to do with the three dollars it had cost for their admittance. That was another thing that was stupid. Why did they pay to put themselves in the company of people doing their best to sucker more money out of them? It was counterintuitive. Normally it wouldn't have bothered him as badly. But today he was already aggravated. He had a reason to be someplace else.

Suddenly he spied a familiar looking man approaching his table. Levy was a trained salesman. He understood people and he never forgot a face. He couldn't afford to. He knew this man from somewhere. He was... who?

Jimmy wandered around the convention center, trying to look nonchalant. This was doubly difficult because someone had turned the air conditioning up high and it was cold in the auditorium. He rubbed his hands together, trying to warm them, finally gave up and stuck them in his pockets. Glancing across a row at the man sitting behind a table covered with colorful cleaning cloths, space age potato peelers, juicers, and other gadgets, he was dismayed to see the man staring back at him. Nuts! He'd been spotted. Feeling there was nothing he could do now, he turned to leave, planning to wait in his car and follow the man after he packed up. He only hoped his tailing would have better results and that his car wouldn't prove recognizable, although how the man had recognized him was something he couldn't explain.

"Danny! Hey, Danny!" Levy Parker called across the tables. The gray-haired man in khaki shorts and a sleeveless t-shirt standing next to Jimmy turned and waved. Muscles bulged through the shirt and down his arms. This man took weight lifting seriously. Jimmy stepped aside to let him pass, careful as he did so that neither the possible steroid user, nor the man at the table, could get a good look at his face. Feeling relief that he hadn't raised suspicions, he decided to leave the building anyway. If he hurried, there was time to get a bagged lunch and eat in the car, with maybe a magazine to fill out the time. Almost getting caught was not a good thing. Being a private detective on stakeout was proving harder than he'd thought.

***

Jimmy covertly followed Parker that evening after the man loaded up his samples and drove his van straight home, not even going to the warehouse to unload. After watching for two hours from the end of the block, Jimmy was convinced that Parker had settled in for the night. If he did leave, Anita had agreed to call Jimmy's cell phone. Hoping she wouldn't (he was still tired and really wanted to call it a night), Jimmy went back to his office.

An hour and a half later, sitting in the dark with his feet up on the desk, he thought about what had happened. Why would he have suspected Parker of recognizing him? From what he knew, they'd never met. But he'd really thought he'd been made. He could have sworn Parker had been staring directly at him and not at that muscle-bound gentleman. It was strange.

A scrabbling noise at his door made him quickly move his feet and drop down to crouch behind the heavy mahogany desk. Were the brothers returning? Who else could it be? He heard a click and then felt movement in the air telling him the door had been opened. Cautiously peering around the side of the desk, he saw the silhouette of a man entering the room and the door being shut stealthily behind him. He was slim; it was obvious he wasn't one of the Thug Brothers. The man turned on a palm-sized flashlight, and in the nick of time Jimmy jerked his head back behind the desk. He watched a small circle of light scoot around the perimeter of the room and then heard near-silent footsteps as the intruder approached the file cabinet. Carefully raising his head again, he watched a folder being lifted out and a clumsy effort made to investigate its contents. The burglar was having problems holding onto the folder and flashlight, as he attempted to go through the file while wearing gloves.

Jimmy's heart thumped as he watched the interloper tiptoe toward the desk. Presumably he needed to use it to spread out the file's contents. Being careful not to make a noise, Jimmy pulled his gun from the harness under his jacket. He drew in a breath and held it as he waited for the man to step close.

"Hold it right there!" Jimmy yelled, jumping to his feet, his weapon pointed at the man's chest.

"Yeek!" a small scream escaped the man as in his panic the folder went flying into the air, its contents aerially strewn to the four corners of the room. Without hesitation, he thrust his hands up in the air.

"Put your hands on your head!" Jimmy ordered, and watched as the man quickly obeyed. His face wasn't recognizable; a shadow from the hood the man wore concealing it, giving him a threatening, sinister appearance. Even the muted light coming through the room's single window couldn't penetrate the gloom. Only two dark orbs that were the man's eyes glittered there with anger, or possibly fear, as if he was a refugee from a sci-fi movie.

"Don't move," Jimmy growled, his eyes glued to the man. Although the intruder wasn't a large man, Jimmy was taking no chances as he moved toward the light switch. The man remained still as a statue, not one muscle moving, afraid to even turn with him. His back was toward Jimmy when the room abruptly flooded with light. Jimmy walked back, blinking, his eyes trying to adjust to the difference, a strange anxiety growing in his chest. Reaching out hesitantly, almost timidly, with his left hand, he pulled the hood down, keeping his right firmly on the gun that was pointed directly at the center of the man's jacket.

When he recognized the face, he was flabbergasted.

"What do you think you're doing?" he asked angrily, his eyes narrowing in consternation as he stared at Levy Parker. This was the man he was supposed to have under surveillance; this was not someone that crept into his private space in an attempt to investigate him. There was something fundamentally wrong with this picture.

It was embarrassing and Jimmy couldn't help feeling defensive. He also felt slighted, because, darn it, the man hadn't followed the rules. And there were definite rules. The investigated didn't investigate. A husband didn't check out the PI his wife had hired. He wasn't even supposed to know he was being checked out. Just what had gone wrong?

He realized suddenly that the man was glaring at him, which made him even madder. Why would Parker think he had the right to be angry? Jimmy was the one that had been mistreated.

"How long?" Levy asked. Receiving only an angry, but perplexed look from Jimmy, he asked again. "How long have you been running around with my wife?"

Jimmy looked at the man as if he was crazy. What was the fool talking about?

"I said... How long? I have a right to know."

Suddenly it all made sense and Jimmy began to laugh. This aggravated Levy even more and he abruptly swung his fist at Jimmy's head in a roundhouse swing that, if it had connected, would have flattened him. Fortunately for his pride and his much-abused face, Jimmy ducked.

"Stop that!" he yelled. "I'm the one with the gun, you stupid ass!"

Fear slowly joined the fury in Levy's eyes as he realized he'd pushed his luck and that he could have been shot.

"Sit down," Jimmy ordered, motioning to the couch. "I'll explain everything."

His face a mask of righteous indignation, mingled with a bit of alarm that he wasn't successful in hiding, Levy sniffed and did as he was told.

"First, I've got a question for you," Jimmy said. "And I want an honest answer. If you lie to me, I'll find out."

The mask showed signs of cracking. Suspicion and curiosity struggled to find their way among and through conflicting emotions, as Levy continued to glare at Jimmy. This was not in the least bit funny to Levy, and Jimmy struggled not to laugh again, knowing his amusement would further infuriate the man.

"How many women do you have on the side?" Jimmy carefully worded it this way to try to appeal to the macho side of the man. Most men are proud of their sexual prowess and though they weren't on a friendly basis, he hoped Parker would be unable not to show off.

"You jerk! What has that got to do with the fact that you're boppin' my wife?" Levy sputtered, sitting up straighter on the couch and puffing his chest out, looking like he would happily take a round out of Jimmy, given the chance.

"I'm not 'boppin'' your wife. And truly, your grammar and vocabulary are impressive. But you need to answer my question," he said, waving the gun around, drawing attention back to the weapon. "I remind you; I _am_ the one with the gun."

Levy stared at the weapon for a few seconds, as he seemed to shrink in upon himself. He didn't seem near as angry or as menacing as he had only seconds before. As he regained control of his temper, his sensibility surfaced. He didn't want to be shot. A barrel of a gun pointed at your chest will remind you of that.

"I don't see where that's any of your business," Levy answered, in a much quieter voice.

Jimmy merely waved the gun again.

After a brief hesitation, Levy continued, "There are no women 'on the side'. I'm married, and I take my vows seriously."

"So, you don't have a girlfriend here or in Chicago?" Jimmy asked, wanting to be sure. He believed him, but needed to hear him say it to help verify the truth.

"I've never had an affair. Anita means everything to me." Levy's face reddened and his eyes teared. "I don't understand why she wants you. I've given her everything she's ever wanted. She knows I love her."

Jimmy couldn't take it. He had to laugh. When he saw Levy shut his eyes and his lip begin to quiver, he sympathetically added, "I'm sorry, really I am. I don't know where you got that idea, though. I'm not having an affair with your wife."

Levy opened his eyes and looked at Jimmy. Hope was mingling with the despair that had clouded his eyes.

"Seriously. We're _not_ running around."

"Then what was she doing here?"

"She thinks you're the unfaithful one." Jimmy grinned at the bewildered man seated before him. At only five-foot-five or so, he wasn't the big strapping hunk that most women profess to want. But it didn't seem to matter. Jimmy knew that Anita Parker definitely cared for her husband, no matter his height or appearance.

"I don't understand," Levy said.

"She hired me to follow you and report back with the names of your women."

"I don't have any women!"

"I'm sure what you say is true," Jimmy said soothingly. "What it boils down to is your wife loves you and she's afraid she's losing you."

Levy was briefly silent as he thought this over. After a moment, he said, "What now?" He pointed at the papers strewn across the floor and then put his hands in front of him with the palms facing up. His gesture asked Jimmy what he intended to do about the breaking and entering.

Jimmy did a rapid calculation in his head. He had already decided not to call in the cops. Why press charges against a man whose worst problem was that he was confused and tortured by love? Weren't most men?

Four days from Friday to Monday. That was one hundred dollars.

Eight hours of surveillance at the convention and, let's say, two hours of phone investigation. That came to an even thousand. Eleven hundred total. He could live with that. Not bad for having the case solved for you.

"I'm not calling the cops. They have better things to do," Jimmy said to a relieved Parker. "You go home now and make up with your wife. If I were you I wouldn't spend as much time working; spend more of it with her. Apparently, you both need it."

Jimmy's cell phone rang and after looking at the I.D. of the person calling, he turned it off. There was no sense giving Parker another reason to be suspicious, and if he found out it was Anita, he would be. The woman had called like she said she would, albeit a bit late. He shook his head, thinking in this case it wasn't better late than never.

Fortunately, Levy didn't ask or even appear curious. He simply went about cleaning up the mess he'd made. If he hadn't been convinced of his wife's and Jimmy's innocence, he was after seeing what the file contained, strictly his own schedule and his picture. There was nothing in there about Anita, except a copy of her check. And if he wondered about the amount she'd paid, he didn't mention it. Wisely, he was leaving well enough alone.

***

After Levy left, Jimmy sat a moment before heading out to the Crown Vic. He thought back to the aging, plump, middle-aged woman with the long nails and big hair. She wasn't the same woman that Parker had married. Of course, he wasn't the same man either. With thinning hair, stress wrinkles, and lifts in his shoes, he wasn't someone to swoon over. But it didn't seem to matter to either of them.

Jimmy remembered back to something his grandmother had said to him when he was just a kid. And that was that "Love goes where it's sent; even if it's up a pig's ass." Rather crude for a sweet old woman, but that didn't stop it from being true.

Love truly is blind.

Jimmy shook his head as he locked the office door behind him. Stopping in mid act, he stared at the door, his face broke into a rueful grin, and he shook his head again. With all the people that were getting inside, he wondered if locking it wasn't a waste of time.

### Chapter 39

"Thanks for coming so quickly," Izzy said, as she opened the door. "I've got her out in the garden, trying to calm her down. I really didn't know who else to call."

Izzy's face showed considerable distress as she led him through the home and out the back door, guiding him to a pretty oasis of flowers and greenery. Jimmy glanced around, thinking it would be a lovely place to idle away some time, but then brought his attention back to the two distraught women. Their anxiety level was over the top. He didn't need two hysterical women on his hands.

"Now, go over it again," he prompted, having listened skeptically to Izzy's assertion over the phone, he wanted to hear it face to face. "What makes you think Paul is connected to the Bathtub Girls' murders?" He couldn't understand why they would think such a thing. Paul was the lead detective in the case. In fact, he was the one who had found the evidence, the souvenirs Grant had hidden in his bedroom. The man was a good detective. Jimmy, himself, remembered recommending him for the position. No, they were simply wrong in jumping to such a conclusion. So why was his antennae twitching?

But Paul did resemble the police sketch. This thought hadn't left Jimmy's head since hearing her first words on the phone, no matter how foolish it was. It had actually plagued him all week, ever since first seeing the drawing, and the women's' panic certainly wasn't helping in that regard. He glanced across the wrought-iron garden table toward both women, watching as Izzy poured his cup of coffee.

"Tell me why you suspect Paul," he said, directing his words at Daisy.

"Because it was him," she said, a catch in her voice. She was obviously terrorized and struggling to remain calm. Jimmy suspected that if she'd known earlier that Paul lived here with Izzy, she wouldn't have came anywhere near here. It was still odd that Izzy hadn't told her.

"He's the man that attacked me. I thought there was something familiar about him, but I didn't get a good look at Janet's memorial. Mostly I saw his back. It was just an impression; that's all. And I didn't know for sure until I saw his photo in Abby's living room. Then I knew." She shuddered and closed her eyes. When she reopened them she added in a hoarse voice, "He tried to strangle me!"

"Why didn't you contact the police?" Jimmy asked, although he felt he knew the answer.

"And what? Tell them that one of their star detectives is a murderer?" Daisy's lip quivered. "You think they'd believe me over him? Yeah, right."

"What do you want me to do?" Jimmy asked, wondering what he should, or could, do. If he believed her, and the verdict was still out, this was one sticky wicket. She was a rich debutante, which wouldn't give her any pull. Most cops considered her wealth and power a pain in the butt, something difficult to work around. Izzy was the original suspect's wife, and it would be assumed she would do her best to steer the investigation elsewhere, anywhere away from her husband. And then there was him. A private dick going through a divorce, broke, not thought well enough of to get his old job back, and whose last case, predictably – specifically to add to his embarrassment – had been a husband suspected of having an affair. So crude and stereotypical. And let's not forget trite. Thinking of the headlines and the fun the papers would have with it, he could almost feel a poof of air as his ego deflated. And things had been going so well.

They wouldn't stand a chance.

"You're the only one we could think to call," Izzy said again, reminding him that she and Daisy were between a rock and a hard place. Seeing the fear on her face and this time clearly understanding the words she'd repeated made him realize that the women were desperate. Both were in extreme danger. If Paul were the killer, they would be at the top of his list. And if he found out Jimmy knew, then Jimmy would be right there with them. Stickier. And stickier. What a mess!

"Okay," Jimmy said after a sip of coffee that was remarkably good considering the circumstances. (He'd have to ask Izzy which brand she used.) "Start at the beginning and tell me what happened."

Daisy finished her cup and Izzy refilled it before she began her story, and then she spoke hesitantly, with lengthy pauses between words. Her face was an open book showing a history of terror and the shame she'd experienced during that time. And the hell her life had become afterwards. Jimmy didn't interrupt, knowing how difficult it was for her.

"It was just a game... a stupid, stupid game...

"I prostituted myself, at first to prove a point to a boyfriend, and then, later, just because I could... If my father ever finds out, it will kill him.

"That night, the guy seemed nice. He was good-looking and clean. Believe me, being clean is refreshing. And good-looking too? It was like he came down from heaven. But he hadn't. I found that out real quick.

"He was helping me undress and I remember actually enjoying it, and then I turned to face him and the look in his eyes... I wanted to scream! But his hands were on my neck and I couldn't... I couldn't breathe..." She shuddered and then continued. "We fell onto the bed; I was on my back with him still choking me. Then I bucked, a movement I'd learned in judo class, and kneed him in the groin. He lay there moaning and I grabbed my gun out of my purse and pointed it at his head. I'm surprised I didn't kill him. Afterwards, I wasn't sure I hadn't. I was out of it for a couple hours; not sure what I'd done...

"Of course if I had, I wouldn't be here now, would I?" She laughed a little, the first attempt at humor he'd heard since arriving, breaking the tension everyone clustered around the little parlor table felt. With her confession over, they each took a deep breath; glad it was out of the way.

"All right... You're absolutely sure it was him?" Jimmy asked, hoping she admitted she wasn't positive. He didn't have a clue what to do next, only knew there would be months of delicate, careful investigation. And how would he do that without Paul becoming suspicious? Did they even have months before the detective went after Daisy? And what about Izzy, or him? Paul was smart. He would soon realize they knew. He would be after them then. That is, if he wasn't already.

"It's him," Daisy said so quietly he almost didn't hear her. And then she added more loudly, "He's the asshole that tried to kill me."

"What are we going to do, Jimmy?" Izzy asked, turning her lovely green eyes toward him. She'd remained quiet throughout Daisy's discourse; he had almost forgotten she was there. He saw trust and confidence that he would know what to do displayed on her face and wondered how she could be so sure he would handle it, when he wasn't.

"Let's go over what we know and maybe we'll have an idea how to proceed."

"You mean, how we can convince someone else?" Izzy asked, stating the fear that was uppermost in his mind. She had a way of knowing what he was thinking that could be unsettling.

"Yeah, that too." He smiled at her before turning to Daisy and saying. "Okay, let's talk about the police sketch. Daisy, had you ever met Paul before?"

"You mean as a cop? Like he gave me a ticket for speeding or some crap like that?"

"Yeah, something like that. Did you ever see him in uniform? Or during the Hilton girl's investigation? In an official capacity, some way or other?"

"No, never. I'd never met the man until that night," she stressed each word.

"They'll ask you," he said, trying to make her understand. "They'll say that you'd met him earlier and he'd made an impression; strong enough that you remembered him and that it colored your 'recollection' of your attacker."

"I never met the man before in my life. Once was enough." Daisy was agitated, her anxiety rising perceptively.

"Relax," Jimmy soothed. "I believe you. But I don't know if anyone else will. I need to find out every little bit of info you have, even if you don't think it's important. Every tiny piece of a puzzle is needed for a finished picture." He turned to Izzy, allowing Daisy time to think.

"Now, Izzy," he said to the other woman. Daisy's expression turned quizzical at the name he'd called her friend, but Jimmy didn't notice.

"The souvenirs that were found in your home?" he asked. "Where were they located? And had you ever seen them before?"

"Paul said he found them in the bedroom in Grant's jewelry box. But I don't think he did. I had never seen them before that day. He showed them to Eleanor and me before telling us the hair clip and thong were evidence that Grant had done two prostitute murders. Eleanor and I both think he planted them; I'm positive they weren't there the week before."

The smell of roses suddenly filled the air. Sweetly pungent, the aroma was overpowering and Jimmy had trouble catching his breath. At that moment, the screen door at the back of the house squeaked and he and both women turned to see who was joining them.

### Chapter 40

A Glock 40 fitted with a professional silencer seized Jimmy's undivided attention as it led the way for a man exiting the house. What was terrifyingly riveting was that it was pointed directly at him. When Jimmy finally tore his eyes from the large black hole that was so prominent at the end of the muzzle, his eyes traveled the route up from the hand holding it, along the arm, and then to the shoulder, only to discover the face at the top sneering at him was Paul's. His heart sank; the man had heard everything.

"Couldn't leave well enough alone, could you?" Paul snarled. "I would have just gotten rid of that stupid bitch," he waved the gun briefly at Daisy, then back at Jimmy. He grinned an odd smile. "And we'd have had such fun in the process."

In her seat across the table from Jimmy, Daisy shuddered. Her eyes were huge, set in a white face, the pupils deep and black. She was frozen as she relived a past fear, a terror that kept her awake nights, one that lost her to another world. That terror that had come to claim her.

"But now, since you stuck your damn nose in, I've got to kill all three of you." Grant's eyes strayed to Izzy, who sat calmly, almost defiantly, beside Daisy. He saw her extend a hand, placing it on top of her friend's, although her eyes never left his. Her calm expression was disconcerting. She didn't seem afraid, even though he'd just stated she would be killed. She was either brave or foolish; he wasn't sure which. But she was certainly lovely, with those green eyes focused on him and that auburn hair. And that was a shame. He'd loved her; it was a tragedy he had to kill her.

He turned back to Jimmy as the smell of what seemed like hundreds of roses filled the air. Paul glanced quickly at the rose bed growing by the garden shed, not thinking about the fact that it would be months before there would be blooms. Soft green leaves had only recently joined the new growth of red and purple that curled there. Thorns sprouted from the sturdy stems, where dewdrops hung refracting light in rainbow hues, suspended from the sharp pointed tips. The rose garden would do well this year.

Paul pointed the Glock again at Jimmy, his face cold and void of emotion. Jimmy was horrified, not knowing how Paul could be so detached, as if killing him would mean nothing. He'd thought they'd once been friends. It was obvious what the man intended and there was nothing Jimmy could do about it. Although the garden was a pretty, peaceful place, this was not where he wanted to die.

The gate in the six-foot redwood fence behind him unexpectedly crashed open. Force and momentum caused it to continue along its path and slam into the side, wobbling the entire eight-foot section. A small, elderly woman burst through, the feather in her hat jerking in agitation as it led the way.

"Abby, Izzy!" she yelled. "There are men --!"

Her words abruptly ceased and her hands flew up in a futile attempt to ward off the shot. Paul, startled with her abrupt intrusion, fired. Because of the silencer, the sound that ensued was more of a _whoof_ instead of the loud bang expected.

"No!" Jimmy yelled as the old woman went down, jumping to his feet.

Just as Paul's reflexes caused him to pull the trigger, the screen door slammed hard into his left shoulder, knocking him unceremoniously to the ground. A brawny ape of a man burst through the door and sprawled on top of his body, followed immediately by what appeared to be his carbon copy. This second man forced the gun from Paul's hand, while the first one slugged him several times about the head with a fist that Jimmy knew was as solid and unrelenting as steel. If Jimmy hadn't been so scared and pissed, he might have felt sorry for Paul. But he was, so, at that moment, concern for the other man was the furthest thing from his mind.

Izzy pushed him out of the way as he went to help the old woman. She was already at her side, helping her to a sitting position. The elderly woman seemed okay and appeared to be in good hands, so he gave his full attention to the rescuers.

"Alphonso! Am I ever glad to see you!" Jimmy said to Thug One, clapping him on the shoulder. "You too, Ricardo." He called Thug Two by his given name, much to both his and the thug's surprise. He didn't remember ever referring to him before in that way. Ricardo looked up from where he sat grinning, straddling Paul. He'd put the detective's own cuffs on him and occasionally, with a wicked, juvenile enthusiasm, bounced up and down, kneeing the prone man. Ricardo's face showed pure delight whenever Paul moaned.

"Damn!" an irritated voice exclaimed. "He put a hole in my jacket."

Jimmy turned and looked back at the injured woman sitting on the ground. She was child-sized compared to the shrubs sitting pretty behind her in their raised beds. The hedge was just beginning to bloom with dusty lavender flowers that were quietly reserved compared to a connecting border of bright yellow tulips that practically screamed for attention. The old woman sat staring at an elongated tear in the sleeve of her fitted jacket. As Jimmy watched, a dark trickle began seeping from the opening, traveling in a thin stream down the expensive suede material.

"Damn!" she said again, even more frustrated. "It's ruined now."

"Eleanor," exclaimed Izzy. "Don't move. You're hit."

Jimmy hurried to the little woman, cursing himself for not checking her out for injuries sooner. Eleanor wore a puzzled expression, as she looked up into his face.

"Damn," she said to him, this time more quietly, and then closed her eyes and her body went limp. Jimmy grabbed her just as she began to topple backward into the tulips. Eleanor had fainted.

Alphonso knelt on the mulched trail beside Jimmy, deeply concerned. Seeing the old woman hurt apparently brought out a different side to the man. He didn't seem to know what to do, as he wrung blocky, scarred hands that Jimmy wouldn't have trusted to even wipe dust off the old woman. Izzy seemed to be the only one who had the slightest idea of how to handle the situation. She gently slapped Eleanor's face to rouse her, as the men watched helplessly. Having the old woman shot had shattered their composure.

"What we do now, Jimmee?" Alphonso asked, his voice shaky, his eyes misty.

Jimmy mentally went over the options; there were none. There was no choice.

"We'll call 9-1-1. This woman needs medical attention," he said, pulling out his cell phone. There was nothing else they could do, and it had to be done immediately, before she lost more blood.

Alphonso looked at him in horrified disbelief.

Jimmy knew that the brothers didn't want anything to do with cops, and he understood why. But in this situation, there was really no choice.

"I'll call Marty Bronson, the chief of police. He's a friend of mine. It's okay."

"No, we leave now," Alphonso said, struggling to stand, not a simple task with the man's huge, muscular upper body and short bowed legs. He reached out for a lawn chair.

Jimmy grabbed his arm and pulled him back down. "No you don't. I need you here. You're a witness that the detective shot at us."

"Detective?" Alphonso looked over to where his brother contentedly sat, tickling Paul's ear, pestering and torturing him. Alphonso's expression changed to panic. "We leave right now."

"If you leave, I'll have an APB out on you so fast it will make your head spin." Jimmy said, betting on the fact that Alphonso wouldn't recall that he was in no position to follow up on the threat.

"Why you do that to us, Jimmee?" Alphonso's facial expression was now anxious and wounded.

"Relax. I guarantee you won't get in any trouble. Marty is an old friend of mine. I really need you boys' help."

Alphonso stared at Jimmy, and then he looked back at his brother who was giggling because Paul had unsuccessfully tried again to throw him off. With his own cuffs hooked behind his back and the solid weight of the sturdy Cuban on top of him, the man was having no luck. He began to curse. It helped Alphonso come to a quick decision.

"Okay, Jimmee, but you remember; and then you do sometheeng for us."

Wondering what he was getting himself into, Jimmy cautiously agreed. Whatever it was, he had no choice. He needed as many witnesses as he could get.

After calling Chief Martin Bronson, Jimmy participated in several minutes of serious debate before receiving a promise that the chief himself would arrive within the hour. The chief called for a handpicked force, leaving the ambulance call for Jimmy's end.

Several police cars arrived, top hats blazing, just as the piercing sound of a siren cut through the balmy spring air. Izzy led the ambulance attendants around the side of her home and through the gate to the little patient, who was now sitting up basking in the attentions of Thug One and Thug Two, who she'd made promise to come back and have tea with her. Homemade cookies were a deciding factor, although the brothers appeared to be completely under her spell and Jimmy was sure their personalities didn't need the sugar. He could only shake his head, amazed. The brothers were exhibiting a completely different side to themselves than what he remembered from the years he'd known them. Who would have thought that they were both mama's boys?

Blood was seeping through the towel Izzy held to her arm, but Eleanor didn't pay much attention other than voicing the occasional complaint about her jacket. Jimmy thought it funny that clothes meant so much to her, until he heard her say that her daughters should feel bad that she was wounded, and that they'd better come around more often now. Then he understood. But seeing the way Thug One and Two hung on her every word, he thought whether those wayward daughters took the time out of their busy schedules to see their mother wouldn't matter. She'd made a conquest of the boys.

Several long hours later, the whole thing was finally locked up. Paul was arrested and charged with attempted murder, with more charges pending. A judge was called and a search warrant obtained for Izzy's home, although nothing was found. There was an argument about whether a warrant was needed for Paul's office at the post, considering it was actually police property. In the end one was procured anyway, just in case anything found there could be considered personal property. Better safe than sorry in a case of this magnitude. When evidence was found in a locked box at the bottom of a drawer linking him to several murders, the whole precinct went into shock. There was no possible explanation as to how he could have come by those things, no explanation possible except he'd been present at the time the women were killed, or had, somehow, tampered with evidence. And there was no reason, or excuse, for him to have done that. Paperwork, with a more complete list of charges, was pending.

Over the next few days, Jimmy felt a change in attitude at the precinct, detectives and uniformed cops alike. At first they'd been sympathetic and even awed. But it seemed with each day that passed, the mood changed. He was avoided, ignored, and even shunned by the end of the week. Sadly, Jimmy had known it would happen. As Paul was considered more and more guilty, Jimmy was considered more and more a turncoat. He was the one to bring shame and suspicion down on the department. He knew it wasn't fair. But he also understood the unwritten rules of a tightly knit police community. He was a rat. Someone who had turned on his brother cop. They didn't actually blame him, but they had no intention of associating with him, either.

Now he was just a 'private dick'. And, until enough time had passed, that's all he would be. He could kiss goodbye any chance of getting his old job back, probably for years. It saddened him, but not to distraction. He accepted it for what it was. Such was life in the fast lane. And, since he found he enjoyed being a private investigator, he was surprisingly unconcerned.

It was a big old world out there, with possibilities everywhere.

### Chapter 41

Three days later, there was a quiet little knock on the door and Jimmy jumped to answer it. He was delighted to find Izzy standing outside. What surprised him was her attitude. She stood looking down at the scuffed wooden floor of the building's hallway and wouldn't meet his eyes.

"Come in," he urged. "I have coffee on. It's not good, but it's hot."

"Thank you, but no thanks," she murmured. "I was hoping you would drive me home. If you can leave your office... Or I can call a cab. That would be better. I'll call a cab."

"How did you get here? Is there something wrong with your car? I'm not much of a mechanic, but I can look at it for you."

"No, that's all right. I just don't want to drive."

Jimmy looked at her in concern. Was the woman ill? Why wouldn't she drive her car?

"Are you feeling okay?"

"I'm fine. I just don't want to drive. If I can use your phone to call a taxi, I'll be out of your hair. I don't want to be a bother." Her gaze had switched to her hands where she wrung slim fingers together, twisting them back and forth. It was as if she was embarrassed, or too afraid to raise her eyes to his. He was positive now that she was sick, and he hoped it was nothing serious. Her face appeared flushed. Was she running a fever? Jimmy was bewildered with her appearance and mood and that she seemed close to tears. This was so unlike the Izzy he knew, and not at all like the woman he'd been so impressed with in the garden, with a gun pointed at her.

"Of course," he responded. Anything for her. Anything to make her smile again. Please. Please, no tears. Jimmy had never been able to handle a woman's tears. "I'll take you home. And I'll get your car home to you."

"That won't be necessary. I'll handle it." Her voice sounded peevish, almost snapping at him.

Jimmy stared at the agitated woman wondering how he had offended her. If so, what had he said? Or was there something else? If so, he had no clue. Uh-oh, what if it was a female thing? If this turned out to be the situation, there was no way he could even hope to help. Jimmy, like most of his gender, was way out of his element regarding anything pertaining to the 'curse'. The subject was scary and not something he cared to investigate further.

"Could you call please? I need a taxi."

"I'll drive you," he offered firmly, allowing no objections. "Just let me put turn my answering machine on."

While he jumped around securing the office, Jimmy stole an occasional glance at the young woman. She was pretty as ever, but seemed distant and different, almost like she was someone else. He'd given up all hope of understanding women, but couldn't help thinking that it was more than his failure on that score. A possible explanation flashed into his mind that she simply wasn't interested in him, not like he was in her. She didn't like him, and had only been being polite. And that he'd completely misunderstood her kindness, imagining it into more than it was. Truthfully, she wanted nothing to do with him, but was too nice to say so. How could he have been so stupid?

This conjecture was like a hard wallop between the eyes. Disgusted with himself, it only proved what he'd suspected for a while. He had turned into that fourteen-year-old boy. Middle-aged maturity? What a laugh. What had once been a sunny day was now miserably overcast. At least to him.

"Let's go. I'll take you home."

There was very little said between them on the ride to Izzy's house. Small talk, nothing important. And nothing that should have been said.

Hurt, wearing his heart on his sleeve, Jimmy was tongue-tied, not finding the words he needed to say. He couldn't get around his fragile, strained emotions to break the wall of ice that grew between them. Those few miles to Izzy's home were a very long ride.

All he knew was that she was the strangest woman and he didn't know why she could affect him so. He understood the attraction; she was definitely lovely with a kind of sweet, sometimes wicked, charm. What he didn't understand was how she could make him feel like an inarticulate teenager, beyond that, the most awkward and unfortunate kind, one with greasy hair, cracking voice, and acne.

He pulled the Crown Vic into the driveway, these thoughts still uppermost in his mind, yearning for her to linger so they could talk it out. But Izzy didn't hesitate. She opened the door and jumped out as if there was nothing between them. Smarting but always gallant, he felt obliged to walk her to the door. It was old school, maybe, but hell, she already knew he was old.

"Thank you, again," she said in a small voice, then unlocked the door and stepped inside, leaving him standing on the craftsman-style porch alone. The door shut in his face. For some reason, it felt final.

How could it be over when it had never begun?

A few seconds ticked away as he stared at, and then more carefully studied, the dark-stained, hand-carved wooden door. It was old, well made, solid, not the cheap stuff they sold in the big box stores. Workmanship like this wasn't common today. Jimmy looked up and down the street of ranch-style homes and wasn't surprised to see the bungalow didn't fit in. It was solidly built, almost hugging the ground with a tenacity that few newer homes had. With tornados a common threat in the Ohio valley, being low to the ground with sturdy six- and twelve-inch framing material, it was better able to weather whatever came its way.

The house was a good one and he wondered what secrets it held. All houses have secrets and this one looked like it held several. The little Craftsman seemed to radiate a peculiar sort of smugness. For some reason he was reminded of the little hut that Hansel and Gretyl had found in the woods. It was rare to find such an unconventional home in an industrial city like Cincinnati.

If Izzy ever talked to him again, he would question her about it.

As he started back toward his car, Jimmy noticed the old woman sitting on a porch swing next door. All done up in tan and green suede from the pointed hat on her head to the toes of her boots, she looked like a little elf or leprechaun. (Albeit one who appreciated color and style.) He smiled and waved when he realized it was Eleanor Winthrop, changed directions, and strode toward her.

What he didn't see at first was that Eleanor had turned her back to him, as least as much as was possible for her, considering her position on the swing. He had already put one foot up on the step when he dawned on him that he was being snubbed. His friendly greeting was met with a back view of a suede mini-vest and steel-gray curls that rolled up onto a cap Robin Hood would have coveted.

Now what? This just wasn't his day. From Izzy and her abruptly changing mood to the mystery of her car parked in his lot to being snubbed by an old woman, he decided that when this date came up on the calendar again he would just skip it.

"Eleanor? How are you today?"

"Hmmph," was her only response as she hiked a shoulder and hitched away even further. The top half of her body was turned, nearly facing the bricks behind the swing. Pretty flexible for an old lady. She must be in better shape than he'd thought. Of course, at her age being shot and checking out of the hospital the next day should have shown him that.

Standing there as a full minute ticked by, while he stared at the back of the little fashion plate of a woman, he wondered what he'd done to deserve such treatment.

"Eleanor?" Jimmy asked in a gentle voice, curious why he felt the need to be kind to the elderly. They were so rarely kind to him. Lately, no one had been kind to him. He might as well be wearing a sign that said _kick me._

"I'm not leaving," he continued. "Not until you tell me what's got you so upset."

Eleanor didn't move for three more seconds, before finally turning around with another "Hmmph." At the same time, she pushed her hips forward, stretching as if her back hurt. Which, in all likelihood, it probably did, having maintaining that strained position for such an extended period.

"I'm mad at you, buster," the old woman said, sniffing with disdain.

Surprised again (it was one of those days), and not knowing what affront he could possibly be guilty of, Jimmy stared at her, so confused that wrinkles formed around his eyes. The last time he'd seen her she'd been lying prone on a stretcher being loaded into an ambulance, and she hadn't been angry with him. Although shot, the wound hadn't been serious. Without the appearance of the Velasquez brothers (why were they there, anyway?), he didn't know how bad things would have turned out. Paul's gun was pointed at Jimmy, when Thug Two rammed the screen door into Lewinski's shoulder, fortunately causing the man's aim to be off. Eleanor had picked that moment to burst through the backyard gate. Subsequently, his arm jerked up and Eleanor had been the one hit. He'd heard she'd remained only one night in the hospital, and that strictly for observation. Apparently, the doctor couldn't believe that an old woman could come through the experience as well as she had. But Jimmy believed it. Eleanor was tough. Now she was looking at him as if he was pond scum.

It didn't seem to matter what age a woman was; he doubted that he would ever understand them. And he was beginning to wonder if they weren't right. If all women felt the same about him, then maybe it was true. He was pond scum.

"What did I do?"

"I got shot!" she exclaimed, her face reflecting the fact that she thought he was an imbecile.

"Yes, I know that. And I'm sorry that happened," he murmured, attempting to placate her. It was plain that the little elf had an avian side. Her feathers were ruffled.

"It's all your fault!" She was shaking and her face had turned an interesting shade of red. She was really hot now; so hot she was approaching broiled.

Involuntarily, Jimmy took a step back. He'd thought for a second that the 'roast chicken' was going to leap up and attack him. Of course, he shouldn't expect anything different. Being attacked by a hen in an elf costume would be the fitting ending to such a memorable day. And being attacked by one with a propensity for suede was even better. He wondered if he should take up writing comedies. Truthfully, nothing could be funnier than his life lately.

"Why would you say that, Eleanor? You know that Lewinski was going to get caught sooner or later. It just happened to work out that I was around to help do it. I'm just glad that you and Izzy didn't get more seriously hurt. He could have killed you both."

"Yeah, well, we can take care of ourselves. If you aren't around to _help_ , that is."

"As I remember it, Izzy and Daisy called me over," he said, trying to explain himself. "I wouldn't have been around otherwise."

"You didn't do much, other than get me shot," Eleanor hissed. "The Velasquez boys are the ones who saved us."

"If I hadn't been here, they wouldn't have either," Jimmy said. His words sounded lame, even to his ears. But it was funny how an old woman could put you on the defensive. _No, I wasn't out late drinking beer with the boys... Yes, I ate my vegetables and brushed my teeth... Of course... I want to live to be a hundred like you, so I can make my children just as miserable._

"I'm not mad because he shot me," Eleanor said. She seemed positive now that he had only half a mind, and that it should be obvious to anyone except the most seriously deficit what the problem was. Her voice had assumed the tone of a pissed off kindergarten teacher.

"Then why are you mad?" He really didn't know and he was losing his patience. If she thought him dimwitted, then so be it. Since she wasn't going to tell him, he would ask.

"I'm.. mad.. because.. you.. ducked!" She paused between each word for emphasis, glaring at him as only an angry little elf-hen can.

Jimmy's mouth hung open again. He had 'ducked'? Was this what it was about? Had she actually wanted him to take the bullet? He shook his head. No, he would never understand women. Never. Not even in the coffin. Which it seemed is where she wanted him.

Finally, he roused himself from the stunned stupor her declaration had caused. Time to bite the proverbial bullet, (since it hadn't hit him). And he knew what he had to do. This was not his first rodeo. After all, he had been married for eighteen years.

"I'm sorry. It was entirely my fault. I hope you weren't hurt too badly. I was miserable when it happened." His apology was sincere. He was sorry she'd been hurt and, truthfully, he didn't want her mad at him. He liked the old biddy.

"Hmmph," she snorted again. Jimmy was heartened that although she didn't voice forgiveness, she hadn't said she wouldn't.

"Hmmph." This was repeated in a quieter tone. Jimmy wondered if just maybe the word 'hmmph' was old lady-speak for 'I forgive you'. It was beginning to look that way. He watched as her face eased back to its normal color and her eyes, as the anger drained away, return to their customary expression of bright alertness. Those sharp eyes now focused on his intently.

"All right, young man. Now what can I do for you?" Eleanor asked. Although not warm, her tone was civil. She was aware he'd walked over for a reason, not just to shoot the breeze and certainly not to get attacked by her. She was a sharp old bird.

"I need some advice," he admitted, wondering why women read him so easily. It was certainly regretful that it was not a two-way street.

"What's that?"

"I'm having trouble with Izzy," he said. It was embarrassing, but true. And it was surprising that he felt the need to open up to a little hen/elf. Just what did he expect someone less than five-foot tall and older than dirt to do about his personal problems?

"She's one person one minute and another the next," he continued in exasperation, not knowing any other way to explain the situation.

"That's because she is," Eleanor said.

"What?" he asked, even more confused.

"You're right. She is." Eleanor nodded as if that explained everything.

Jimmy stared at her amused, wrinkled face. She was talking in riddles, or had gone over to the dark side. He didn't remember Izzy saying anything about Eleanor's mental health. But the old woman was not a spring chicken. At her age, she could easily have started onto that long downward slope to senility.

Eleanor shook her head, exasperation written on her face. It was painfully apparent that she hadn't changed her mind about his IQ. She now spoke slowly, as if that would help her words be more easily understood by someone of his intelligence.

"Izzy _is_ two people. She and Abby inhabit the same body."

Her expression changed to one of contemplation. "In layman's terms, they call it a 'split personality'. I was stunned when I found out. In fact, I went to the library and read up on it."

Skeptical, Jimmy didn't know whether she really believed her strange diagnosis, or if this was just another twisted branch on the old senility tree. But the woman looked completely serious. Her eyes were clear; she wasn't drooling, or chasing imaginary butterflies. Was there a possibility that what she was saying was true? If so, it would explain a lot.

"Yeah, when I first met them, it was Abby I talked to," Eleanor was saying. "Later, after Grant's dea... I mean disappearance, Izzy came out more."

Jimmy scowled as he tried to make sense of what she was saying.

"What's really funny is when you get both of them at the same time," Eleanor said with a laugh. "That's really a hoot!"

"Are you serious?" Jimmy sputtered.

"Yeah, it's hilarious!"

"No, I mean, are you serious about Izzy having a split personality?"

"That's what I just told you. She's Izzy _and_ Abby. Or Abby _and_ Izzy, whichever way you want to look at it." Her eyes twinkled mischievously. "I think it's now Izzy _and_ Abby. Izzy's the one around most of the time."

Jimmy threw his hands up in the air and shook them from side to side in exasperated surrender. His face a canvas of conflicted emotions, he motioned for Eleanor to slide over and took a seat beside her on the porch swing. If he hoped to understand the situation, and he found he did, he would be here for a while, so he might as well make himself comfortable. Maybe it would make it easier to make sense of the crazy things the woman was saying if his feet didn't hurt.

He didn't hold out much hope, though. All he could see was another bizarre complication to an already unpredictable life. As the wicked witch said in a popular old children's movie, as she melted into a puddle, _"What a world. What a world."_

### Chapter 42

A month later, a lot had changed. Sitting in his office with his feet up on the well loved, albeit abused desk, Jimmy heard a loud knock. He looked over at Izzy, where she sat at her desk reading. She smiled, hid the magazine in a drawer, and fingered her hair as she stood to open the door. Since she'd started as secretary (she preferred to be called office manager), business had been slow and they were both looking forward to a new client to liven things up.

Jimmy was disappointed when Alphonso and Ricardo Velasquez entered. He hadn't seen them in weeks and had hoped their visits were over. The brothers were again dressed identically. But they somehow looked more professional. It was the same black pullovers and jeans, but the blazers were a more expensive cut. They actually looked good. At least they would to any woman that was attracted to that type. He looked quickly at Izzy and breathed a sigh of relief. She didn't seem overly impressed. He watched her return to her desk, admiring the way she moved. He could stare at her for hours.

When she'd regained her seat he turned regretfully to the matter at hand. He asked the brothers, "What can I do for you boys?"

"First, I geeve you thees," Alphonso said, handing over an official-looking packet.

Jimmy looked inside and saw it was his copy of the divorce papers. He jammed it inside his desk to go over later. Strangely, he thought he'd be happier. But he didn't feel anything, except maybe a little let down. He remembered the same feeling from when he was a kid waiting for Christmas. When it came, it was never what he wanted. Life was like that; he should be used to it by now.

However, the brothers standing in front of him reminded him of something he wanted to ask. "What were you boys doing at Izzy's house? I'm glad you were there, but I've wondered why. Were you tailing me again?"

"Sure, Jimmee. We knows all about you," Alphonso said. "But ees for something else, not yous." He looked at his brother, smiling. Ricardo smiled back.

"We have proposition for you."

"What would that be?" Jimmy asked, knowing he'd promised them something in the heat of the moment, but not knowing what. His mood plummeted. It appeared, ready or not, he was going to find out just what that would be.

"We need yous to spread word to yous friends. Ricardo and me, we open restaurant. Good, home cooking. Best Cuban restaurant in all of Cinci."

Jimmy sat there, his mouth hanging open. " _You've got to be kidding!"_ he thought.

"Congratulations," Izzy said with a wide smile, as she stood to hug both men. "If there's one thing this town needs, it's a good Cuban restaurant. I'll call Daisy and she'll tell everyone she knows; that will bring in some classy people, with lots of Benjamins." She rubbed her thumb and first two fingers together to signify money. "When will you be opening?"

"We be so busy. We open next month," Alphonso answered, pride evident in his dark, flashing eyes and the way he stood erect, his broad shoulders back. It appeared he and Ricardo had found their calling. Jimmy just had never expected this to be their life's dream.

He finally found his voice and blurted out, "I didn't know you could cook." He stared at Alphonso in unabashed shock, wondering why he was so surprised; Ada certainly could. It was only reasonable that it ran in the family.

"That's me, Jimmee," Ricardo said. "I am cook. Alphonso, he handles thee beesiness."

" _Does that include head bashing?"_ Jimmy thought. He wasn't able to stop the negative thought. He'd had the bruises to prove it.

"Right," Alphonso agreed. "He's great cook. Whole family coming at grand opening. You be there, too, Jimmee?"

Jimmy thought about his ex-wife and father-in-law. Probably all the cousins would be there, too. Should be one hell of a party. It would be a wonder if he didn't get shot, or knifed.

He glanced over at Izzy, who smiled eagerly. It was plain that she was game; although he was sure she didn't know what she was getting herself into. A Cuban family get-together could be pretty intense, but was always exciting; especially one that featured a pregnant ex-wife and a soon-to-be baby's daddy, an ex-father-in-law who hated you, more of the 'family' than was safe to know, and, last but not least, the proprietors, known in different circles as the Thug Brothers.

But, what the hell. If Izzy was up to it, so was he.

"Why not?" he said, hoping he would actually live to regret the decision. "We'll be there. Should be one hell of a party."

