WILDING NIGHTS

By

Lee Killough

ISBN:  978-0-986-74333-7

PUBLISHED BY:

Books We Love Ltd.

(Electronic Book Publishers)

192 Lakeside Greens Drive

Chestermere, Alberta, T1X 1C2

Canada

http://bookswelove.net

Copyright 2010 by Lee Killough

Cover art by Michelle Lee Copyright 2011

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

Tuesday, April 3

1.

The victim had been a young man with thick dark hair and brown eyes, possibly good looking, once well dressed. His death changed all of that. The mauling of his face left just one eye intact, and dislocated his jaw so that it gaped open as though in a last desperate scream. Below it, from neck to groin, his polo shirt, leather blazer, and trousers had been shredded on the way to ripping open his belly. Beneath the blind stare of empty windows he lay in the rubbish, weeds, and charred fragments of beams littering the gutted warehouse...draped with the bloody tatters of cloth, flesh, and half-eaten loops of entrails.

Standing well back from the body to let the Criminal Identification techs examine the area around it, Allison Goodnight eyed the carnage. Sergeant Bob Carillo’s comment when the call came in to Crimes Against Persons–“Hannibal the Cannibal must be in town; we have a chewed-up corpse on Lavaca with only human footprints around it.”--warned her what to expect, but seeing it still felt like a kick in the gut and left her both chilled to the bone by the possible repercussions and filled with cold fury for the victim’s suffering.

“A hell of a way to start the day,” Janice Tran said as she photographed coins scattered off to the side of the body. “It’s hard to believe a human could do this.”

Unfortunately, Allison reflected grimly, none probably had...despite the wholly human appearance of the barefoot prints intermittently visible amid the trash and weeds, overlying the victim’s shod tracks. Clearer prints, long and narrow, with long toes, overlaid each other in the sandy soil around the body, but those leading to a rear doorway had been mostly obliterated by the vagrant who came in that way to investigate what he said looked like a pile of clothes. Allison frowned at the hunter’s tracks. Why go barefooted?

“Tall dude, judging by the size and the length of the stride,” Janice said.

Guaranteed to be six feet or over. Allison closed her eyes and drew in a long breath, sorting through the stew of odors around her: Arenosa Bay’s fishy and diesel scents, brine on the sea breeze coming over the barrier island from the Gulf, smoke that still lingered in the blackened bricks around her, the peppery smell of plants that had taken root in the building, the pungent odors of the body’s blood and intestinal contents. Even the Ident techs contributed the odors of their skin, soap, deodorant...the powdered latex of their gloves. So many scents. She opened her eyes, grimacing. Too many scents.

Outside, footsteps scuffed away up the street. The vagrant who found the body leaving, his verbal statement taken down. Allison noted the sound, as she did the cries of the gulls wheeling above the bay, without letting it break her concentration.

Nor did the male voice that snorted, “Not a hell of a lot a help there.” Officer Lindsay, the uniformed officer securing the crime scene perimeter.

But the flat Midwestern vowels that answered him--“At least he reported the crime instead of walking all over the scene and picking the victim clean.”--did break in. Zane Kerr’s voice jarred after so many years of John Garroway’s mellow drawl.

Allison forced her attention back to odors. A deeper and slower second breath proved no more helpful than the first. She needed to be closer to the footprints for any hope of identifying the hunter’s scent.

Lindsay’s voice rattled on. “And speaking of clean, Zane my man...you’re lookin’ fine this mornin’. You wear a suit pretty good for a white boy. I guess I can quit worryin’ that you desertin’ Patrol for Investigations is gonna disgrace Arenosa’s Finest sartorially. But I got to ask whose desk you assed on to get stuck with the Iron Maiden first off.”

She headed for the footprints at the building entrance. Ident had finished with that area.

“There’s nothing like jumping in with both feet and learning homicide investigation from the best.”

In over his head, if he only knew.

Hitching up her slacks, Allison crouched beside a barefoot print not overlying the victim’s. She touched one edge lightly. The soil felt gritty under her fingers, too loose and sandy to pick up. Her nose would have to go down to the print.

Red and the light blue of a uniform shirt moving into her peripheral vision made her look up. Lindsay and Kerr stared at her from the sidewalk outside, Kerr all shoulders and flaming hair. With his expression that mixture of curiosity and fascination she caught on his face every time they worked out at the same time in the gym at the Police Training Center, or he served as uniformed assistance at her crime scenes.

Allison swore at herself. The long partnership that blinded John Garroway to her quirks had made her careless. She needed to watch herself...and focus Kerr’s attention elsewhere. She lifted her brows at him. “Haven’t you started canvassing for witnesses yet?”

Only when he turned away and headed for the yellow barrier tape did she return her attention to the footprints.

2.

Lindsay followed Zane under the tape, grinning. “You got your marching orders straight now?”

Much as he liked Lindsay, Zane felt a flash of irritation. “Well, she is the lead investigator and me the detective trainee.”

And of course he should have starting looking for witnesses as soon as Preacher John left. He wished he could watch Allison work, though, to see how she and Garroway racked up their astonishing record of solved cases.

He still hardly believed his luck in working with her. Aside from her investigative reputation, she had intrigued him from the first time he saw her in the police gym after joining the department. Even discovering that half the officers in the department came from the same family and shared her build and coloring had not lessened his fascination. A pale blonde sylph over six feet tall would have caught his eye in any case, but a curious sense of recognition and a kind of electricity crackling around her had transfixed him. Even twenty feet away from her, waiting his turn at the climbing wall, the hair on his body prickled. Sweat soaked her cropped hair, but the way she ran effortlessly while male officers on adjoining treadmills strained to keep pace with her, Zane found himself with the crazy notion she sweated from the effort of restraining herself.

After working with other officers in her family, he always wondered about that. In contrast to her, they all seemed such adrenaline junkies...opting for Watch Three or One on steady shifts rather than periodically work days, charging headlong into dark alleys and buildings without drawing their weapons, avid for hard foot chases and other physically demanding effort. T-shirts some wore at the gym epitomized their attitude: If you’re not living on the edge...you’re taking up too much room.

The first encounter with Allison, however, all that lay in the future and he spent the rest of his workout and drive home searching his memory for a clue why she seemed familiar.

Recognition came in the middle of the night, jerking him upright in bed. Of course. Tall, willow slim, fair, almost-silver eyes...she looked the way he always pictured Tolkien’s Elves in Lord of the Rings.

Now he worked with her.  Working, she looked twice as elegant in those grey or ice blue silk slack suits she always wore. But he wished he knew what she expected to see in that footprint. Or was sight the sense she used? As a uniformed officer at a crime scene, he once heard Garroway joke that the way she knew a guilty suspect as soon as she walked up to him, she must be psychic. Maybe very intuitive, Zane reflected. She was left-handed and he remembered his psychology class in college discussing the high correlation between left handedness and pattern recognition. She took notes the way he read Leonardo DaVinci--another left-hander--had, writing backwards and right to left. Or maybe, considering the way she touched that footprint, her talent was--what was the term for sensing details about people through touching things they had...psychometry. It sounded fantastic, of course, but that line from Hamlet echoed in his head: There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio, than you have dreamed in your philosophy. And Mr. Spock said that the universe would always be bigger and stranger than they could imagine.

Lindsay’s grunt recaptured his attention. “She’s a senior investigator, too...been in Crimes Against Persons the ten years I’ve been on the job. But she don’t look any older than you. It’s like she went straight to Investigations from the academy.” His brows arched. “I wonder how.”

The implication sharpened Zane’s irritation. “I’m more concerned with learning what someone dressed like our victim was doing in this neighborhood.”

As Lindsay returned to his post at the barrier tape, Zane crossed the street, eyeing the building facing him. Like many others along this side of the bay, it had probably been a cotton or grain warehouse in the days Arenosa aspired to become a major port.  Then whoever took it over when the cotton, grain, and sulphur shipping went north to Galveston subsequently went bust, too, and like so many in the area, now the building sat abandoned.

Abandoned but not empty. All kinds of human driftwood washed up in the West Bay: the jobless and destitute, illegals in search of the promised land, runaways who equated Gulf Coast with an easy life in the sun...and individuals who had just checked out of society, or sunk under the weight of drug and alcohol addiction. Some squatted in this building, he knew. He just needed to find one willing to admit to seeing or hearing anything last night.

A face peered between the boards nailed across a ground floor window. It ducked down almost immediately...not fast enough to avoid being recognized, however.

“Blue! Blue, come here!”

Footsteps pounded away inside. Grinning, Zane sprinted up the street and around the corner to the alley. Sometimes the flight impulse could be useful...certainly preferable to Blue holding up inside, where even a squad of searchers might never find him. Zane ducked into the cover of a chained door under a fire escape. When a scrawny figure in grimy, outsized desert camos dropped off the fire escape, Zane sprang for the shirt collar. “Stick around, bro.”

Blue squealed as Zane’s grip jerked him to a halt, then went instantly into a whine, cringing inside the shirt. “I ain’t done nothin’.”

Zane ticked his tongue. “Easy, partner. Today I don’t care about that crack pipe in your pocket. I just want to know what went down in the street and that building opposite last night.”

“I didn’t see or hear nothin’.” But Blue’s eyes twitched sideways behind the greasy hair falling over them, and he shivered.

Zane prodded him toward the end of the alley. “Tell it to Detective Goodnight.”

3.

Crouched over the tracks again and leaning down within inches of them, Allison drew in a breath. There. Now she had it. After another breath, she pushed to her feet, swearing silently. Despite the body’s injuries, she had clung to the hope that she might smell a human. But the feet that left these tracks and this scent had branched off the hominid root before Cro-Magnon ever emerged. A volke was responsible for this atrocity. One of her people.

Or as historical humans and modern mythology called them...werewolves.

To her relief, the scent belonged to no one in the Arenosa clan, and the lack of trace elements from the local environment also ruled out anyone in the surrounding area. Still, little as she wanted someone she knew responsible for this carnage, it would have closed the case blessedly fast. But all she could identify was a lingering trace of sex pheromones that established the hunter as female, in estrus.

But who isn’t? Allison reflected wryly. Full moon coming on Sunday...the clan’s Spring Gathering this week end...four days at the hill country ranch without a human for miles.

She shook off the surge of anticipatory heat. The hunter must be young for the pheromones to linger this long, maybe twenty or twenty-one, in one of her early cycles. That or she had repressed her sex drive for a long period and built up its intensity.

“It is creepy, isn’t it?”

She glanced over at Phil Castenado spooning plaster into one of the hunter’s footprints. “Excuse me?”

He pointed to the tracks. “Weren’t you looking at those? Only toe prints of the victim’s shoes--he’s running for his life--but the killer’s almost flat footed.”

Just loping along behind him, taking her time...enjoying herself while she terrorized her victim. Who the hell are you, cousin...butchering innocents in my territory and jeopardizing the safety of my clan!

Immediate awareness of the volke might have faded from humans, but they had not been forgotten.

“Humans have racial memory, too,” her grandmother Honora warned her years ago. “Only, where ours prepare our children for what Shifting will be, humans carry fear and hatred of us. Look at their antipathy toward left-handedness. Somewhere deep they remember that we couldn’t be driven to extinction, and although they own the planet because they breed like rabbits, we’re still around.”

The image of Great-grandmother Thérèse flashed in Allison’s head, sole survivor of a clan slaughtered after a killing like this betrayed their presence to the human villagers. Her jaw tightened. Damn if she would let that happen here! “How soon before we have access to the body?”

“Any minute now. Call the wagon.”

Returning her cell phone to her jacket pocket after contacting the morgue, she heard Lindsay laugh outside. “Good hunting. I hope you don’t have to put him on the stand, though.”

“I didn’t see nothin’,” another voice whined.

He sounded like a prize. She stepped out onto the sidewalk to see for herself, and sighed. A prize indeed. He stank of unwashed skin, soiled clothing, and rotting teeth. “And this is...?”

Kerr said, “He’s called Blue.”

“Sometimes Tweaker Blue,” Lindsay added.

A crackhead. Probably no use. “Blue, what can you tell us about last night?”

He shrank inside his shirt. “Nothin’!”

A lie. Feral eyes avoided hers and she smelled his anxiety.

Kerr pulled his billfold from a hip pocket and fished out a twenty dollar bill.

Blue came on point.

“There’s a dead man in this building.” Kerr pulled the bill between his fingers, making it crackle. “You didn’t hear him screaming, or see the guy chasing him?”

Blue stared hungrily at the twenty, watching every movement. “Okay...yeah...I heard him. And I seen him. But it wasn’t no dude chasing him.”

Allison forced herself to remain relaxed despite a shot of icy fire through her. “Who was chasing him?” It would be nice to question Blue alone, except doing that might arouse unwelcome curiosity in Kerr and Lindsay.

“Wasn’t a who.” Blue hunched his shoulders. “I thought at first it was one of those fucking monster dogs you run through here at night...but there wasn’t no cop with it and...” He licked his lips. “I seen this movie once about this giant dog running around in England killing people. This was like that...coal black, huge fangs, eyes like fire.” The acid reek of his fear assaulted Allison. His voice dropped to a whisper. “Straight outa fucking Hell.”

Beyond him, Lindsay’s eyes rolled.

Good. She wanted the others in a state of disbelief. “What time was this?”

Blue scowled. “Hell, how do I know. I don’t have no watch. It was dark.”

Lindsay shook his head. Wasting your time, the gesture said.

Kerr, though, eyed Blue thoughtfully. He toyed with the bill. “Did you notice if the police watch had changed?”

Good question to ask, Allison reflected.

Blue’s gaze followed the twenty. “Yeah, it had. Officer Gary-fucking-Golden drove by a while before.”

After eleven, then, since her fellow volke came on duty then, working Watch One. “Was the trolley still running?”

A sneer flickered in the feral eyes. “It don’t never run this side of the bay.”

Not for decades, though the tracks remained from the days it carried passengers to the train depot and deep water piers. Now it just looped down North Bayside Boulevard and up Avenue A. “You can still hear the bells from here.”

The bill crackled between Kerr’s fingers.

Blue almost salivated. “Yeah, okay...I guess I remember hearing them.”

After eleven and before two-thirty, then. The one car operating this time of year made its last run half an hour after the bars closed. If Gary remembered what time he drove down Lavaca, that would narrow the time even more.

Blue’s voice returned to a whine. “That’s all I know. Can I go?”

Kerr glanced at Allison. She tried to think of another time indicator, and remembered the fire sirens she heard around one while running in the park with her family. “Do you remember fire sirens last night?”

Kerr waggled the bill. Blue’s eyes squinted with the effort to think. After a minute he nodded.

“Did you hear them before or after you saw the Hellhound?”

“After.”

Which probably used up what he knew. She let him leave.

Watching Blue scurry away though the rag-tag group of on-lookers they had begun attracting, Kerr shook his head. “The Hound of the Baskervilles. Not much help.”

Lindsay’s lip curled. “His brain’s fried. And he buys into that monster K9 unit shit, too. I can’t figure where these people come up with it.”

Allison bit back a smile. Where indeed, when so many of Arenosa’s officers had the capacity to do what she had enjoyed...shout, “I’m turning loose the dog!” then Shift and charge in herself.

The morgue wagon nosed through the on-lookers. Lindsay lowered the yellow tape to let them past. As the wagon halted, Dr. Zena Pedicaris, who along with Dr. Neil Hertzel divided her day between their pathology practice and playing medical examiner, climbed out the passenger side. “Morning, Allison. What do you have?”

Allison pointed her the building.

Pedicaris eyed Kerr on the way. “That the new kid on the block?” She gave Allison a wink. “Nice. Don’t I remember that hair from somewhere?”

“You’ve only been seeing it in uniform for the past six years,” Kerr said.

Pedicaris grinned at Allison. “First thing you need to do is break him of the sarcasm.” She headed into the building, with Allison, Kerr, and two stretcher attendants following her. “It’ll be odd having Garroway sitting in the Investigations Lieutenant’s office instead of running around with you. I’m surprised you’re not taking his place as squad sergeant.”

Take on a buttload more paperwork? “Bob Carillo is welcome to the job.” I’d rather eat ground glass, she told Garroway privately after the more polite refusal she gave Captain Estevez when offered the promotion.

Pedicaris stopped short at the body’s feet. “Oh my.” Circling him, she pulled on two pairs of surgical gloves. “He isn’t one you want to stumble over with a full stomach. Not much question about the cause of death anyway. He fought it. Defense wounds.” She started to pick up a savaged hand, but the arm did not move. After feeling her way up the arm, she tried the joints of a leg. “Pretty advanced rigor.”

“He died running for his life,” Allison said.

“Oh, in that case...” Pedicaris shrugged. “Violent exertion depletes ATP in the muscles, brings rigor on faster,” she told one of the stretcher attendants. “Plus he looks in good physical shape...present condition aside. That speeds it up, too.” Muttering under her breath, she continued her examination, poking fingers into the mutilated flesh, peering at loops of gut, inserting a thermometer into the liver to check body temperature. She rolled him over and pulled the remains of his trousers and undershorts down to his knees then shirt and jacket up to his shoulders for a look at his back and buttocks. Finally she straightened. “Okay...looks like he’s lying where he died. Time of death roughly between eleven and three. His stomach’s still intact so I’ll be able to tell you the what and when of his last meal. Anything else you want to know right now other than my opinion that you should be very careful arresting this psycho?”

“Why any more than usual?” Kerr asked.

“Because you might lose body parts. This guy has jaws I don’t believe.” Pedicaris stripped off her gloves. “He bit clear through that right wrist--almost took off the hand--and through some ribs on the right.”

The eyes of the Ident techs and stretcher attendants widened. Kerr smiled wryly at Allison. “Except for the footprints, that could almost make you believe in Blue’s Hellhound.”

She stared back at him. “Except for the footprints.”

As though the footprints had any relevance to what Blue saw. Shifting involved energy and perception, no actual shape changing, despite how it felt and appeared. Her people had always known that from seeing their footprints, long before the invention of photography proved it. Instead, they changed power output...going supercharged, kicking into a hyper-adrenaline rush accessible on demand and sustained for as long as one wanted. It affected perception because the Shift’s enveloping energy field registered on the brain as: Big Powerful Dangerous Life-form. Which the mind then interpreted as a shape fitting that criteria for the observer. Although that could be any dangerous predator, from the cultures of the Russian steppes and Europe, Big Powerful Dangerous Life-form had come to North America usually meaning...wolf.

Allison pulled on latex gloves. “We don’t need a Hellhound to explain this. We’ve all witnessed or been on the receiving end of the phenomenal strength of subjects pumped on adrenaline or feeling no pain...psychotics...junkies high on PCP.” Steering their thoughts that way might make the trauma less astonishing. Sitting down on her heels, Allison started through the dead man’s pockets. All right, sir, help me find her. Tell us all you can about yourself.

“Hellhound?” Pedicaris said.

“It’s just what a local crackhead claims to have seen chasing the victim,” Allison said. The attack left the hip pockets intact. Out of one she fished a billfold.

“A giant dog of some kind,” Kerr said. “Coal black with huge fangs and blazing eyes.”

Pedicaris cocked a brow. “But if it turned human in here, surely we’re not talking Hellhound but werewolf.”

It had been inevitable that someone say the word. Allison kept bent over the body. “In either case, we’re talking nonsense.”

“Besides, it wasn’t a full moon last night,” Kerr said.

Allison smiled to herself. Oh, the glorious fallacies of myth. The moon neither compelled nor controlled Shifting. It did intensify the hunting urge, of course--a brighter moon meant better light to hunt by--which helped trigger early Shifts. Her first time had been under a glorious Harvest moon. “Kerr, glove up and help.”

They returned the victim to his back and searched the intact pockets of the leather blazer. Finding keys, a comb, a squirt tube of breath freshener, and a cell phone.

Kerr picked up the billfold and opened it. “At least we have an ID. According to his driver’s license, he’s Alexander Vincent Demry, age thirty-one, of 1432 Dolphin. The physical descriptors match the victim. The photograph...” He peered from it to the body. “...is more problematic.”

While the stretcher attendants zipped Demry’s remains into a body bag and loaded him in the wagon, Kerr carried the billfold outside and spread the contents on the hood of Lindsay’s patrol unit. The keys included one for a BMW, so Allison used the unit’s computer to check for vehicles registered to Demry. The query came back listing a silver BMW Z8. She had Dispatch issue an Attempt To Locate on it.

Kerr shook his head. “A Laguna district address, a hundred grand sports car. Until last night Demry was doing all right in the world. But then...” He flipped out a business card in the billfold. “...sharks usually do.”

It declared Alexander Demry, J.D., a member of the law firm of Caffey, Schroer, Wentz, and Glass.

Lindsay ticked his tongue. “I thought you’d got past the bitterness by now. But...” He cocked a brow at Allison. “...I guess divorce is really hell when your father-in-law is a lawyer and your soon-to-be ex is studying to--”

“I’m sure she’s not interested,” Kerr said.

Lindsay shrugged and went silent. Kerr finished emptying the billfold.

In addition to the driver’s license and business cards, it held seventy dollars in cash; a couple of credit cards and gas cards; a medical plan card; Red Cross blood donor card; a membership card for the Anson-Bauer Health Club; a packaged condom. And a card listing his blood type and the names and phone numbers of his doctor, dentist, and people to call in case of emergency. Those included a John Glass with two local numbers--one matching the law firm number--and Richard and Julia Demry with a Dallas area code.

Kerr frowned at the backs of the driver’s license and Red Cross card. “He has the organ donor box checked and was one unit shy of being an eight-gallon blood donor. A shark with a social conscience.”

“A good Boy Scout, too.” Lindsay pointed at the breath freshener and condom. “He’s prepared.”

The condom and naming a firm partner to be called for emergencies suggested that Demry lacked a significant other. Leaving him vulnerable to sexual enticement, perhaps. Is that how you lured him here, cousin?

She punched the law office number into her phone. Before making the effort to trace Demry’s movements, she wanted him officially identified.

But the answering voice informed her Mr. Glass had not come in yet. She left her name and phone number, requesting Glass call her as soon as possible.

Lindsay shook his head. “You want his boss to identify him? I don’t think even his mama would know him.”

Kerr tapped the dentist’s name on the phone numbers card. “At least there are dental records to compare to his teeth.”

They needed to contact the dentist for those records. Maybe give that task to Kerr. Allison ran through a mental checklist of other investigative tasks where he might contribute to the case but not interfere with her investigation. For the clan’s sake, she had to find the hunter first. For Kerr’s sake, too. If he found her, he risked becoming another victim.

Eyeing the effects, she saw a better job for him...useful, necessary, and guaranteed to keep him safely occupied for hours. “We need names of acquaintances to contact about where he went last night. He seems to have lost his cell phone in the course of fleeing his attacker, but maybe he has a land line at home and a phone book on it.” She tossed Kerr Demry’s keys. “See if his name is the only one on the water and power bills. Talk to neighbors. If you can verify he lives alone, go in and hunt check for a phone. He’s a lawyer. Maybe he has a Rolodex. If you can’t verify he lives along, write up a warrant and find a judge to sign it. I’ll finish here and catch a ride back to the LEC with Ident, then visit the dentist and bring the lawyer down to the morgue for the identification.”

Kerr nodded and headed for their car.

4.

Pulling away from the crime scene, Zane gave in to the grimace he had been careful not to show Allison. With all that running around to verify Demry lived alone, it might be afternoon before he started searching the victim’s place. He was tempted to just go on in. If Demry had a roommate or significant other, surely they would have been listed on the emergency number card. On the other hand, being on this side of town already, with the Law Enforcement Center and courthouse between him and Demry’s neighborhood, he had another, safer shortcut. After all, he did want to make good in Investigations.

Driving toward West Bayside Boulevard, enjoying the fact that while Impalas and Crown Victorias made up Patrol’s fleet, investigators drove Camaros, Zane fished out his cell phone punched in Crimes Against Person’s number.

While the phone rang, he ran down all the windows to increase the air flow into the car. The temperature might be reasonable today, but humidity, as always, boosted the heat index. Not that he had a right to complain when he had chosen to live here...as his mother never failed to remind him when he called home.

“I don’t know why you thought you had to leave Kansas City just because we were angry about you divorcing Susan.”

Angry? They were angry when he quit law school barely a month into his first year and applied for the police academy...“wasting the intelligence and ambition” that let him finish prep school a year early and earn his bachelor’s degree in three years. Walking out on Susan a year later brought something more akin to a nuclear meltdown. Never mind pointing out their incompatibility. She hated his chosen career, his friends, and his taste in books, and was no more interested in having children than his mother had been, let alone the gang of kids he dreamed about.

The move to Arenosa not only put a comfortable distance between him and their outrage but he liked the department better than Kansas City’s...small enough to know everyone but somehow supplied with the cop toys of a large department, even an infrared-equipped helicopter.

At some point his mother always said, “I really don’t understand moving to the Texas coast with your coloring. You’re remembering to wear sun screen and a hat, aren’t you?”

“Yes, Doctor,” he always assured her. His Stetson sat ready on the passenger seat. With physicians for parents, and his father as red-haired as himself, he had been indoctrinated early about the horrors of sunburn and melanoma.

Sergeant Carillo came on the line. “Kerr? What’s up?”

Asking a favor of a new boss might be a bit presumptuous but...they wanted to find this maniac as fast as possible...right? “Allison will be briefing you soon. It’s...ugly. But we have a tentative ID of the victim and keys to his apartment. Allison wants me to check it out for an address book, either paper or electronic, and asked me to inquire if you can put a warrant in the works. I’ll be coming downtown shortly.” After he checked one place for Demry’s car.

“You’ll have your warrant.”

Whatever reason brought Demry over here, if he drove himself, perhaps he parked at Hilst Basin. They lighted their quay and parking lot and monitored it with video cameras...a result of vandalism to shrimp boats owned by Southeast Asians who came here after the war in Vietnam. The Basin might even have been Demry’s destination. Although it provided mooring and repair services primarily for the shrimp boats and charter fishing boats based here, and even an occasional freighter, the Basin also had slips for a few pleasure craft. Not that Zane could see someone of Demry’s affluence bypassing the amenities of the Coronado Yacht Club or one of the marinas along the north side of the bay for Hilst’s utilitarian facilities, but he might have a friend with a tight budget.

5.

Standing inside the barrier tape, Allison made eye contact with the on-lookers in one sweep. Since the removal of the body, the number had dwindled. “Were any of you in this area last night and see or hear anything?”

No one answered. A few heads shook. Two pairs of eyes skidded away from hers and their owners, both clearly street people, remembered other pressing business.

Allison brought their sneakaway to a halt with a piercing whistle. “Come back here.”

Slowly, as though dragged by the force of her crooking finger, the pair trudged back. She took them aside one at a time, ignoring their reek of soiled clothing and unwashed skin. Both denied witnessing anything last night...even when pressed.

After letting them go, she called Carillo to give him an edited-for-humans report on the situation.

“Kerr wasn’t kidding about this being ugly,” he said.

Allison frowned. “When did you talk to him?”

“A few minutes ago when he called in your request for a warrant to search the victim’s apartment.”

He just went straight for a warrant? Moves like that could put him ahead of her on the hunter’s trail. She better watch him. Something else needed watching, too. “We’ll need a plan for dealing with the media. They’re going to go crazy over this.”

“Shit yes,” Carillo said.

“I suggest the Public Information Office withhold mention of cannibalism and the extent of mutilation. Fortunately, whoever is monitoring the police scanner for the Sentinel didn’t consider a body in the West Bay worth sending a reporter to cover.”

“Thank God for small favors. I’ll get together with Garroway and see what he thinks.”

After disconnecting, Allison stepped into the building and moved to a far corner out of any earshot for more private calls. Then she punched in the number for her grandmother’s studio at home. As not only household alpha but the Arenosa clan chief, Honora had to be told about the hunter.

“We have a problem, Baba,” she said when Honora picked up.

Honora swore as she explained. “Big problem. That poor man!”

“How many outsider females are in the area?” Newcomers usually hunted up Honora as soon as possible in order to establish contact with the local clan. No one wanted isolation in a sea of humans.

“I’ll have to check. If we’re dealing with a rogue, she may be avoiding us, and if this is a juvenile, the lack of adult supervision and restraint tells me she must somehow be on her own and not know how to make contact locally. But I’ll check my records and spread the word to all the alphas to contact you or me with the names of outsiders they’re aware of.”

Everyone in the clan would understand the danger. With the moon waxing, the hunting drive intensified, and if this hunter let it control her, she could be counted on to go after new victims. More humans would die. And maybe volke, too, as humans remembered their old rivals. Allison’s head echoed with the imagined shrieks of her great-grandmother’s clan burning to death in their beds.

6.

Pulling into the Hilst parking lot, Zane spotted a stocky figure in shirt sleeves and loose trousers sauntering across the concrete his direction. Captain Zviad Kakashvili. Zane honked and waved. “Good morning...dobrahye ootrah. Off to play chess...chahmatih?”

Kakashvili bent down to peer into the car and as always, grinned at Zane’s Russian. “Da. Beating Fernando Silvas. Da svedanyah.”

Watching the captain walk away, Zane saw the down side to his transfer...losing the daily contact with people like Kakashvili, who along with their stories--comic, tragic, poignant--endlessly fascinated him and enlivened the shift. He stared down the parking lot past the Basin offices, toward the Russian freighter moored at the deep water piers...hull rust streaked, the big cranes on her deck idle and reduced to being perches for the seagulls wheeling and crying overhead. Three years ago the Fyodora Kuzetcheva had limped up the channel past Lacabra Island for repairs that Hilst would make more cheaply than Houston. Only to become stranded when they could not pay the docking fees that accrued during repairs. While she sat waiting for the owners to send the necessary money, fees continued to accumulate. They transferred the cargo to other Russian ships, followed by most of the crew two years later. Only Kakashvili remained aboard...waiting, he had told Zane with a fatalistic shrug as the two of them struggled along in broken English and Zane’s spotty Russian--one benefit of the childhood succession of au pair girls was acquiring a smattering of several languages--for the day the owners gave up, sold the vessel, and pocketed what remained after paying their debts. In the meantime, Kakashvili used the mile the INS permitted him to wander from the ship to spend his days at the Anchorage, playing chess with beach bums and retired sailors who lived in the waterfront hotel and bar.

Zane cruised through the parking lot twice to make sure he did not overlook the Beamer, but he spotted no BMW sports car among the trucks and cars belonging to the Basin personnel and shrimp boat crews.

Over the Basin offices, the blue Hilst company flag with its white H and trawler silhouette flew at half mast in honor of the Old Man, Charlie Hilst. A good guy, Charlie, Zane reflected... down to earth, for all his money. At the funeral yesterday, had they managed anything like the Viking send-off he always said he wanted? Heading on downtown, Zane hoped that Charlie’s wife at least spread his ashes at sea.

At the head of the bay he passed the ferry landing, where a surprising number of people for this time of year stood waiting. One led a saddled horse and a handful carried birders’ cameras and binoculars, or towels and beach totes. The rest must be members of the film crew shooting on the barrier island and had chosen to ride the ferry out rather than drive around the far north end of the bay to the bridge there. Beyond the ferry landing waterfront West Bay became tourist-oriented North Bay. The serpentine of Cotton River Park stretched off northwest. The boulevard curved away along the water, lined on one side by a string of motels and the tracks for the outer half of the trolley loop and on the other by narrow parking lots, the quay, and rows of docks where sailboats and sport fishing boats bobbed invitingly in their slips.

Zane turned up North Parkview Drive to the Law Enforcement Center...a trefoil grouping with the squat, broad proportions of petroleum storage tanks. Tanks with plenty of windows, however, except for the Correctional Unit. The third floor of the Law Enforcement Unit, which Investigations shared with PD’s Administration and the Sheriff, enjoyed great views of the park and bay. Like something out of science fiction, a wave of his badge case past the lock on the rear entrance opened the door for him, the reader detecting the code in his ID card even through the leather folder.

As promised, up in the office Carillo had the warrant ready for him, and minutes later Zane was back in the car headed through the Market district into the Laguna neighborhoods. Commerce gave way to affluence. Not the level reflected in the mansions along Laguna Drive, where the outer bay and intracoastal waterway separated the mainland from Lacabra Island, but apartments and condos up-scale enough to proclaim their owner’s prosperity. Demry lived in an hacienda-style garden complex probably built in the thirties...white stucco walls, deep porches shaded by palms, quarry tile floors and barrel tile roofs. Zane rang the bell, and when no one answered, used the key.

Inside, Demry’s taste ran to ultra-modern, the furniture angular and metal edged, relieved only by the sybaritic touch of a multi-colored goatskin rug in front of the fireplace. Not somewhere to kick off your shoes and kick back.

Staring around as he tucked his sunglasses in his breast pocket, he realized what really bothered him about the room. No books. Some newspapers and law journals sat in a neat stack on a shelf under one end table and a couple of jazz magazines and a monthly guide to Austin night life lay on the sofa table, but the shelves flanking the fireplace held only CD’s, a few photographs, and art glass. Expensive art glass. Zane recognized Tiffany, some Steuben, and a Lalique.

He grimaced. Susan had collected glass, too, and like Demry, considered that bookshelves existed solely to display it. Out of curiosity he flipped through the CD’s. Mostly jazz except for a little easy listening and new age.

In sharp contrast to the furniture, an old-fashioned leather briefcase with the scars and patina of long use sat on the floor by the end table with law journals. Going through it, Zane pictured it being handed down from his father or grandfather, and Zane liked Demry for carrying it. Neither living room nor kitchen had a phone.

Up a hall off the living room, a bedroom overlooked the central pool and garden area...furnished with an acre of neatly made bed and an entertainment center. Again, CD’s ran mostly to jazz. Drawers of the bedside tables contained only sex toys and other supplies for entertaining female guests.

Next he tried a door across the hall.

Bingo. A desk flanked by a file cabinet and small photocopier sat under a window in the far wall, and even from the door he saw a Rolodex sharing the desktop with a computer and a telephone. On the way toward it, he automatically glanced at titles on the shelves of law journals and law books lining the wall between door and desk. To his surprise, one whole section of journals and many of the books dealt with copyright and trademark. Interesting. He would never have imagined Arenosa’s legal business supporting such a specialty.

Zane checked the telephone but the built-in answering machine had no messages and only two speed dial buttons programmed, one for Demry’s office and one for the Dallas number. It did have a hefty phonebook list, nearly forty numbers...some helpfully labeled with the names of doctors, a car dealership, a stock broker, the rest with just names, often only first names. No indication of whether the full names were business contacts or friends. Maybe the Rolodex would be more helpful, before he just started calling numbers. He pulled it to the front of the desk. “Demry, thank you for cardstock and ink backup.”

Sorting out useful names might take a while, though, he reflected, spinning the cylinder. Demry had nearly filled it.

So he might as well make himself comfortable. He shed his coat and tie, and rolled up his shirt sleeves to his elbows, then started through the Rolodex.

It was more helpful. Some of the cards carried notations: Wife-Claire, son-Jason--at Yale; Courthouse reporter, Arenosa Sentinel; met ABA, 1999, golf and sailing...or more interestingly: divorced, babysitter problems, knows wines and antiques. After consideration, Zane flipped past the cards with notations. Anyone Demry needed to remind himself about could not be a close friend, though as a last resort they could always come back to those with date data. He also skipped over the service numbers. Other cards with Arenosa addresses, he pulled.

The telephone rang. The caller ID said: Patricia

Zane picked up, and before he could speak, an exasperated female voice said, “Alex, I can’t believe you’re still home! I just tried there as a last resort. Have you forgotten you’re taking the Aguilar deposition in five minutes? Mr. Torrance--”

Zane broke in. “I’m sorry, Mr. Demry isn’t here.” He pulled his notebook and pen from his shirt pocket. “This is Detective Kerr with the police--”

“Police! What are you doing at his apartment?”

He dodged the question with one of his own. “May I ask who I’m speaking to?”

“Patricia Ormand, his secretary. Has--”

“Ms. Ormand...” Secretary. That could be helpful. “...do you happen to know what Mr. Demry’s plans were last evening? Was he going out somewhere?”

She took several seconds to answer. “He left the office with notes relating to the deposition we’re taking this morning and I assumed he intended to spend the evening going over them. He didn’t have me make dinner reservations for him, which he often does when he’s planning to go out. Has something happened to Alex?”

Zane’s cell phone warbled. “Just a minute.” He hit the Mute button on the phone and answered the cell phone.

“How are you doing?” Allison asked.

He eyed the growing pile of Rolodex cards on the desk. “Coming along. At the moment I have Demry’s secretary on his phone and of course she wants to know what I’m doing here.”

“Tell her...without details. The lawyer hasn’t called me back. If he isn’t available, I may use her to identify the body.”

He put Allison on hold and went back to the secretary. “Ms. Ormand? I’m sorry to have to inform you that Alex Demry is dead.” He overrode her gasp to add, “There will be another detective coming to your office presently to talk to you.”

Once she left the line he went back to Allison and gave her a rundown of what he had found. “I should have the last cards with local addresses pulled shortly.” With his free hand he resumed flipping through the Rolodex. “What’s happening at your end?”

She paused before answering. “I called Gary Golden. He says he drove down Lavaca twice, the first time about a quarter after twelve, then again around one-thirty.”

That narrowed the time to between twelve-fifteen and one o’clock. Assuming Blue’s statements could be trusted. “Do you have the dental records yet?”

“Yes.”

“And we’ve queried Austin and NCIC about other killings like this?”

Allison paused. “Of course...while I waited for Ident to finish up.”

Too late Zane realized he sounded as if he were questioning whether she knew what to do. A fine impression he must be making. “Any results back yet?”

“Yes...both negative.”

“Any sign of the car?”

“A unit spotted it in a parking lot at Sailfish and B.”

Just up from Avenue A, where bars, fine dining, and fast food restaurants mixed with tattoo parlors, video stores, boutiques and shops selling souvenirs, shells, beachwear, and marine supplies. Most of the city’s entertainment and visitor-oriented retailers in one eight block stretch, anchored on the west end by the pseudo-pueblo of Mercado Square. Demry had gone out for the evening, then. Where...and with whom? “Shall I go check out the car and the A?”

“There isn’t much point at this time of day. We’ll canvass when places there have staff and customers who might have seen him. I’ve already arranged to bring the car in for the lab to process. Not that I expect to find anything. I doubt he drove it to West Bay.”

Zane agreed. He did not see the killer returning the car to a populated area and walking away from it in bloody clothes.

“When you have all the local names, start calling them. You might as well do it from there.”

He thumbed the stack of cards with a sigh. That should use up his day. Welcome to Investigations.

While the first number he punched in rang, he eyed Demry’s computer, and as an answering machine picked up, switched the computer on. Hoping it was not password protected. E-mail had an address book, too.

He left a message on the answering machine. The next number gave him a busy signal.

By that time the computer had finished booting. Not asking for a password. Hallelujah. When he clicked on e-mail, the program loaded with the In box open...listing 70 messages, eight unread. The warrant’s “electronic address book” arguably covered the e-mail address book, but not reading e-mail messages. Still...who could know what information might be useful.

The list looked very much like that on Zane’s own computer: some messages from people, several listserve digests–in Demry’s case, two on law and copyright and one on jazz–boldface indicating unopened mail. He opened some of the read messages, and found, without surprise, that a number were jokes, often with legal humor taking pokes at lawyers...which the arrow icon indicated he forwarded on. Unlike Susan and her family, Demry appeared not to take his profession too seriously. It made Zane like the man even more and feel angrier about the brutality of his murder.

Yesterday Demry opened only one message, from Coolflute@texnet.net, subject: invitation. Zane clicked on it. Coolflute wrote: thought you might be interested that I’ve got a gig there this month...opening tonight at five to midnight...hope you can come. tonya.

The arrow icon indicated a reply. Which, when Zane went to Sent Items, proved to read: I’ll be there.

Zane regarded it with satisfaction. So Demry came home, downloaded his messages, and after reading this one decided to take Tonya up on her invitation. But...Tonya was opening where at five to midnight? And why such an odd, and oddly specific, time?

Seconds later he sighed in disgust at himself. He had let the lack of capitals throw him. Zane reached for the phone book lying on the bookcase and opened the yellow pages to Clubs. Arenosa posed no challenge to Austin’s music scene, but he did find a listing and ad for a club named Five To Midnight, showing silhouettes of double bass and saxophone players along with the announcement: Live jazz nightly; Cool sounds until the wee hours. Located at Marlin and A. Two blocks from where Demry parked his car.

Next question: had Demry met his killer on the way to the club, or leaving it? Perhaps he, Demry, and Tonya made up a triangle...although the message sounded more like one from a friend than a lover. But maybe he had dumped her and she set the other man up to exact revenge for her. And the other man was psycho.

He opened the computer’s address book. But Coolflute’s entry contained nothing except the e-mail address, clearly an automatic entry made by replying to mail received. Not what he would expect if she were a lover, or even just a friend. Yet they obviously had some kind of relationship.

He flipped through the Rolodex cards. They had no one named Tonya, with or without the Coolflute e-mail address or a notation about flutes. Well, he did have one way to reach her...Five To Midnight.

He looked up the club again and called the number. No one answered.

He could log on and e-mail Tonya, but that left an electronic trail back to this computer... where only he could have sent the message at this time. Then if she turned out to be involved in the murder, it would lose them any evidence on this computer or evidence generated by the information on it. Did he feel lucky?

Generally he did. Luck had kept him in one piece running all over Kansas City on his own as a kid. He certainly had protected him that summer he was ten and tried to hitchhike to his grandparents in Seattle. But maybe he better not push it on his first case in Investigations. He would track down Tonya via the bar.

Now he just needed to a way to explain knowing about Tonya other than reading Demry’s e-mail.

Easy enough. A click of the mouse printed out her message. Then he set it on the desk where Demry might have...in plain sight of anyone at the computer.

Now, back to the phone canvass.

7.

In the waiting room of Caffey, Schroer, Wentz, and Glass, Allison handed her card to the law firm’s receptionist. “I’d like to speak with--”

“Go right on back, Detective. Third door on the left.”

The name on the door read: John A. Glass. So he had not bothered to call because he assumed she would show up asking for him?

The distinguished, sixtyish man behind the desk inside looked familiar. His scent, mixed with an astringent aftershave, seemed even more so. He waved her toward a chair. “Allison Goodnight. If you’re on the case, that answers half my question. Now I just need to know how Alex Demry was murdered and when we can expect an arrest. Mrs. Ormand came to me in tears earlier. The other detective wouldn’t tell her anything. But don’t tapdance with me. I’ve known Alex since he was born. He’s like a son to me.” He leaned forward, his elbows on the desk, stare boring into her. “I want to know what’s going on.”

Now she recognized the man. A voice for the defense, trying to skewer her on cross examination...full of outrage and accusation, of insinuations about personal police agendas and doubts of her competence and character. Even being on the receiving end she always admired his artistry, but in the time it took her to sit down, Allison decided to apply that human adage about sauce for the goose and gander.

“Exactly what I came to tell you, councilor. Which you would know if you had bothered to return my call.” At his blink of surprise, she added, “I left a message with your receptionist.”

His gaze flicked toward a pile of message forms on his blotter. Quickly, he thumbed through them, and near the bottom of the stack, paused. “This doesn’t say anything about Alex.”

“You would prefer I left a message saying I need you at the morgue for the formal identification of an associate?”

Anger flashed in his eyes at her sarcasm, but after a moment, he shook his head. “No.” He paused. Regrouping? The defense attorney eyes bored into her again. “You still haven’t told me what happened.”

She told him.

After one intake of breath, his courtroom face slammed on, leaving her to guess at what he might be feeling. At the end of her recitation, he sat silent for a minute. “It had to be a madman or drug-crazed junkie. No one could hate Alex enough to kill him like that.”

“Demry’s library suggests he specializes in trademark and copyright law. Is that so, or did he handle other kinds of clients, too?”

“You’re thinking someone who went to jail blamed Alex?” Glass shook his head. “He never took criminal cases. He did contract work here but otherwise just copyright and trademark. And while he lives here...because he likes Arenosa...his clients were almost always in Austin or Houston.”

“We have to consider all the possibilities.” She stood. “Shall we go?”

8.

At the morgue, the attendants had arranged the stretcher with the best side of the victim’s face toward the viewing window and managed to wedge the jaw almost into normal position, but Glass stared through the window for a long time, granite-faced, before speaking. “That’s Alex. If you need further proof, his secretary will know his dentist’s name. You’ll also find a long surgical scar on the right lower leg from where he broke his tibia skiing when he was fifteen.”

On Allison’s other side, Pedicaris nodded, confirming they had already found the scar.

Glass turned from the viewing window. “After I’ve talked to his parents I’ll let you know about arrangements for the body. Meanwhile...” The courtroom iron slid back into his voice. “...I expect to see the police department sparing no effort to find the monster who did this!”

Oh how human, assuming himself superior, with the power to coerce her into greater effort. “Councilor, save your alpha posturing for someone it will impress. I’m already giving this case top priority. If you want to be useful, spread the word through your firm that we need to trace Mr. Demry’s movements last night.” She handed him a half dozen cards, then turned her back on him. “Zena, will you be starting the autopsy soon?”

“Any minute.” The pathologist gazed past Allison, watching Glass leave the room. “You sure slapped him down.”

Allison dug a handful of cashews from a package in her pocket. “I’m just establishing the proper pecking order. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” Heading across to Communications and Records in the adjoining Law Enforcement Unit, she reflected that she should really be out interviewing non-clan volke. But it was also important to know what the body revealed about the hunter.

From the crime scene Allison had phoned not only queries to Austin and NCIC that Kerr asked about but a second set for suspects with volke descriptors, both male and female to hide her interest in females. And she requested a computer search of their own records for complaints over the past two months involving animal killings and wild animals stalking or chasing citizens. If the hunter were juvenile, this kill did not come on her first Shift. They all had to explore and experiment with the new energy level first. It had felt so wonderful...finally, finally breaking free of the everyday limitations of her body...experiencing for herself, exulting in, the power she tasted for so long in her dreams. But it had been all power, no control. She kept overshooting turns, misjudging distances, falling all over herself...and could only watch in chagrin while every deer or wild pig she picked for a target at that Gathering scrambled away unharmed. Learning to control the power took practice...as the other clan members kept telling her, giving her reassuring hugs while they reminisced about their own initial clumsiness. If the hunter practiced locally, she had to leave signs of it.

Communications had already informed her she had hits on the descriptor queries and Allison read the teletypes standing at the desk. The one from Austin and six of the seven from NCIC were on males, no help...but NCIC had one female FNU LNU–first name unknown, last name unknown–sought as a material witness in the February disappearance of a man in Coral Gables, Florida. Allison frowned at the teletype. That witness might have nothing to do with her hunter, but she could not afford to ignore any possibilities. She requested details from Coral Gables.

Then she hurried back across to the morgue, reaching the autopsy room as Pedicaris finished tying on her paper gown. The body, its odors mixed with that of the disinfectant used to clean it, smelled even more pungent here than it had at the crime scene. The overhead fans pulling contaminants from the room did little to reduce the odors.

Pedicaris pulled on surgical gloves. “Our Y-incision is almost superfluous on this one.” The left side of the rib cage moved like a trap door as she lifted it outward. “Talk about cracking open a chest. I never want to meet this guy, not even with bars between us. Ready, Jeff?”

She began going over the skin, noting each bruise and wound and dictating the details into the overhead mike while her assistant took photographs and marked the location of the lesions on a body diagram.

Allison leaned against the counter running along one wall and flipped through the complaints printout as she listened to the monologue.

Despite the number of incidents Records found for her, they lacked the pattern of escalating severity she would expect to see with a juvenile volke. And more incidents occurred in February than in the past few weeks. Allison doubted anyone knew how long it took for the local environment to affect personal scent, but if an outsider had been ingesting local food and water since early February, her scent would reflect that by now. Most of the incidents had also occurred on the western edges of the city, which made Allison consider coyotes the likely culprits. Patrolling on foot in her uniform days she had met a number of the animals who wandered into town, some so bold they refused to move out of her path until they read her scent.

Rubber soles squeaked on the tiled floor. A male scent overlaid by that of wintergreen identified the newcomer even before she glanced around...Dr. Neil Hertzel. She tucked the printout under her arm. If the hunter were a juvenile, she had honed her hunting skill somewhere else.

The pathologist started to greet her, but broke off, staring at Demry’s body. “Son of a bitch. That takes me back.”

His tone raised goosebumps on Allison. “To where?”

“My days as a medic in Vietnam.” He pulled a couple of pink lozenges from the pocket of the lab coat covering his scrubs...popped one in his mouth and held the other out to Allison. “Having my butt saved by a tiger.”

The lozenge fragmented between Allison’s teeth, but she barely noticed its pungent sweetness filling her head.

Pedicaris glanced around. “By a tiger?”

Hertzel smiled wryly. “Normally our unit’s patrols were pretty safe. We had this buck sergeant named Dove with a genius for sniffing out Charlie before he found us. Build and coloring like yours, Goodnight. A raving lunatic. He loved being in country. He’d started his sixth tour when I went. He’d always take the point...ghost off into the jungle ahead of us, and when we caught up with him later he’d be sitting there by a neat row of bodies with their throats cut or necks broken, saying some Vietnamese prayer for the dead over them. ‘Worthy opponents must be treated with respect,’ he’d say. It was surreal.

“But this one time the NVA got behind us. Several men went down before we could find cover and return suppressing fire. It was deafening for a couple of minutes and then suddenly the jungle behind us kind of explodes. I thought we must be surrounded and were done for, but...out into the middle of us springs this monster of a tiger. The fuckingest tiger I have ever seen! I thought, oh, shit! But the tiger ignores us. Just heads for Charlie. I remember feeling this big blast of heat as it went by. There’s crashing and shooting and screaming. Then everything went dead quiet. When we got up to check it out, the bodies looked like this one...eviscerated, throats torn out, arms and hands bitten off.” He shook his head.

“Jesus,” Pedicaris’s assistant said. “One tiger did that?”

One Dove perceived as a tiger...because that was the Big Powerful Dangerous Life-form everyone expected in the Asian jungles.

“He was one big mother of a tiger,” Hertzel said. “But the weirdest part was, in the middle of the slaughter stands Dove, who I thought was off the other direction. He’s covered with blood– not his because he has only minor wounds in an arm and thigh–picking his teeth with the point of his Ka-bar and looking like someone who’s just had an orgasm.”

Allison envied him. She could imagine the rush...legitimately hunting other men...pitted against quarry prepared for the game...armed, clever, tough...and stalking you.

Hertzel shook his head. “Dove says, ‘Some fun, huh? Sorry I smelled them too late to keep them off you, but at least I got here in time to give the coup de grass to a few the critter didn’t finish off. How about breaking for grub? I’m starved.” Hertzel rolled his eyes. “Beaucoup dinky dau, as the locals would say...absolute fucking madman. I don’t think the hair on my body laid back down for an hour.”

It amazed Allison that Hertzel saw no connection between Dove and the tiger. All hail the age of reason and science. He might never link them unless some event forced him to change his view of reality. She needed to make sure no such event occurred.

Allison arranged her face into appreciation of the story. “That’s incredible. But I doubt our victim met a tiger on Lavaca Street.”

“Or a werewolf, either, I’m afraid,” Pedicaris said. She and the assistant laid the body flat again. “The bite marks have the dental arch of a human bite, not a canine’s.” She picked up her scalpel, then stopped and leaned close over the chest, peering at one site, then another. “Damn. Didn’t notice that before.”

Allison forced herself to remain relaxed against the counter. Pedicaris need not have seen anything dangerous. “Notice what?”

“This anomaly in the bite marks. Neil, take a look.”

Shit. Allison straightened, laying the printout on the counter. Physical similarity let her people blend with the human population. But differences existed...and those included teeth. “I’d like to see, too.”

Tying on masks, Hertzel the one he pulled from his lab coat pocket, Allison one from a drawer under the counter, they moved to stand on either side of Pedicaris.

The pathologist pointed her scalpel at an arc of dark marks on the skin above one raw edge of flesh. “It’s a good imprint of some maxillary teeth, right? Both middle incisors, right lateral incisor, right canine. But we come to the first premolar and only the lateral side leaves an impression.”

Hertzel eyed her. “Yes. His tone said: and your point is? They all knew a multitude of factors affected bite marks, starting with the angle and the amount of pressure applied.

Allison breathed slowly, waiting to see how close this bullet came to the target.

Pedicaris frowned at the bite mark. “Deep as the bite is, the medial side of the premolar should make an impression, too, so I thought maybe he fractured the tooth in the course of biting through the forearm and ribs.”

Hertzel nodded. “A possibility.”

“For one tooth, yes, but check out this other bite mark.” Pedicaris pointed with her scalpel. “Now we have the left maxilla, and the imprint includes both its premolars. And on both of them only the lateral edge shows. I don’t see him fracturing three teeth identically.”

Not a bull’s-eye maybe...but she hit the edge of the target...uncomfortably close.

Hertzel bent down until his nose almost touched the bite marks. “The shape is a bit odd, too, especially this second premolar. Jeff--excuse me, Goodnight, but I need you out of the way--let’s have more pictures, concentrating on the premolar imprint. We’ll blow them up and see what that can tell us. I think I also see tooth marks on a rib there. Photograph that as well.”

Allison moved back from the table. New anger at the hunter hissed through her. The bullets kept coming closer. A blow up of the imprint could identify that “odd shape” as conical cusps. It might not cause harm as long as Hertzel and Pedicaris did not recognize the second premolar as a meat-shearing carnassial tooth, but if they did, it could start them thinking about the tiger and the werewolf wisecrack. Allison’s mind raced. And the body was not the only site she had to worry about for bite marks.

“Let me run over to the lab and check Demry’s leather jacket.”

“Right!” Pedicaris grinned. “I remember seeing bite marks on it. Maybe one of them shows the premolars.”

Allison hoped not. She picked up her printout. “Meanwhile, it would help me if I knew about the victim’s last meal. If you can check that for me please?”

Minutes later, on the Ident side of the floor, she tapped on the shoulder of an Ident tech peering through the lens of a magnifier lamp at a sweater. “I need to see the clothes from the Lavaca Street murder.”

Corinne Yeo looked up. “Wet or dry?”

“Wet. The conference room?”

Yeo yelled, “Janice! Where’d you put the clothes from your murder!”

From another room came: “Hesston’s conference room.”

Allison raised her brows. “The stuff from the Lost Creek stabbing isn’t dry yet? We arrested the nephew on Sunday.” Garroway’s last hurrah as a detective.

Yeo shrugged. “Those, yes, except for the rug, which still has us locked out of the ladies’ room and lounge.” She pulled a key ring from the pocket of her lab coat as they headed up the hall. “But now there’s a whole washer load of clothes spread over two conference rooms. We look like a tenement.”

Washer load. “Another Mr. Clean burglary?”

Yeo nodded. “And this time he threw in the whole contents of the victims’ hamper along with his own clothes. Left wearing black palazzo pants and a gold mesh tank top from the daughter’s closet.” Yeo unlocked the director’s conference room. “You know the drill...keep the door closed while you’re in there; don’t touch anything you don’t have to; close the door behind you when you leave.”

Pulling on a pair of latex gloves from a box outside the door, Allison nodded. Inside, the conference table sat against the back wall with the chairs on top of it. An assortment of clothing lay draped over their backs and on folding wooden laundry racks set up on the floor...all drying before the pieces Mr. Clean abandoned were separated from his victim’s laundry and packed in evidence bags. The intestinal/fecal/blood smells from the Demry crime scene hung in the air. After a couple of sniffs to localized the scent, she found the leather jacket stretched across the end of a rack to the left of the table.

Inch by careful inch, she went over it. Tears at the end of the right sleeve marked where the hunter bit through Demry’s wrist, probably as he raised it in defense. The lapels were ripped, too. Around each site long scrapes on the leather marked other bites, but none with any definite impression of the teeth. Only the right shoulder showed a clear bite mark...upper incisors penetrating just in front of the shoulder seam, the rest of the bite to the rear. Allison visualized the action...the hunter springing on her prey’s back and trying to sink her teeth into his shoulder. But Demry had no bite on his shoulder, so the jacket must have stopped her teeth. Not that it saved him for long. Allison smoothed the leather, and let her breath out in relief. The teeth had bitten almost through the leather, leaving clear impressions of upper and lower incisors and canines...but only a hint of upper premolars...nothing identifiable.

She returned to the autopsy breathing easier.

“Oh, well,” Pedicaris said when Allison reported on the jacket. “Update on this end...your psycho likes organ meat. He ripped out the victim’s heart and I guess took it with him. Victim’s stomach is empty except for liquid...which isn’t coffee.”

“Alcohol?”

“That’s my guess. We’ll see for sure. We’re also running a blood alcohol level on him.”

“Good.” Allison checked her watch. “I have to go. If you come across something earth-shaking, let Carillo know. Otherwise I’ll wait for the written report.”

Before heading to the car, she ran up to the office to shove the printout and the Austin and NCIC responses on the descriptor queries into a drawer and check for messages. One lay beside the phone...brief, just the name and phone number.

Carillo appeared in the doorway of his office. “How’s it going?”

She shrugged. “Unremarkable autopsy, victim’s car located but in the North Bay so it isn’t likely to help us, and Kerr’s canvassing the names in the victim’s address book.”

“How’s he doing?”

Being more efficient than she wished. Not something she could say aloud. “He’s bubbling with enthusiasm.” Stuffing the message into her coat pocket, she headed for the door.

In the car, she called the number. It reached a clan alpha who knew of an outsider visiting another household.

“We met him at a cookout this past weekend,” she said. “They’ve invited him to attend Gathering with them, so he’s still in town.” The alpha paused. “I have to say, though, that he doesn’t strike me as a rogue.”

Being male, he could not be the hunter. Allison reassured the alpha of that.

Starting down through the five names Honora had given her, she reached the first two immediately and arranged meetings with them.

The first outsiders belonged to a household, which made them a poor candidate for including the hunter. The pair of sisters had come to Arenosa through a job transfer last month, bringing along the mate of one and the other’s seventeen-year-old daughter. Five minutes of conversation with one sister while checking the scents in the house cleared them as suspects.

Her next appointment fit more of the hunter’s criteria...a female who came into town on Friday and lived by herself on a cabin cruiser at the Bourbon Street Marina, making no contact with the local clan beyond one introductory call to Honora.

Approaching the boat along the dock, Allison found it backed into its slip, a female in a micro bikini and wraparound sunglasses stretched on chair on the rear deck. “Fiona Church?”

The woman turned her head languidly. “Yes. You’re Goodnight? What can I do for you?”

Allison vaulted the stern rail, alert for the other’s reactions. “I’m hunting a non-local female who butchered a human last night.”

Church stiffened, but no heat waves from an impending Shift blossomed around her. She went bonelessly submissive in the deck chair. “I didn’t do it.”

Allison took a deep breath, analyzing Church’s scent while gulls screamed overhead and water slapped the hull. It smelled nothing like the hunter’s. She relaxed, though wanting to snarl in frustration. “Okay.”

Normal body tone flowed back into Church. “I know you wish I had, so you’d have your rogue. When did it happen?”

“Sometime between twelve-fifteen and one.” Allison sat against the gunwale. “I think she may have picked up her victim in a bar. What do you do evenings?”

Church smiled. “Burglarize businesses to test their security systems. Glendower-Morse Security and Trust in Houston is my current client. I’ve been checking all their branches down the coast. I hit the one in Freeport last night. Tonight I try yours, then I’m finished. We’ll have the assessment meeting in Houston tomorrow afternoon, then I’m out of here. And under the circumstances, I’m glad. Though while I’m here, if I see or hear anything useful, I’ll let you know.”

“Thanks.” Allison handed her a card.

Heading back up the dock for her car, she punched the next number on Honora’s list into the phone.

9.

Zane pushed away from Demry’s desk, stretching. What ever made him want to become a detective? He had anticipated wearing out shoe leather canvassing the area around crime scenes for witnesses, not sitting in Solitary with a telephone. Thanks to the ubiquity of cell phones, he had managed to reach many of the Rolodex entries...the active ones anyway. But no one he reached, or who called his cell phone in response to messages he left, had seen Demry last night. So despite entertaining himself during the calls by reading the e-mail jokes and going through the file cabinet...where he discovered a folder of black-and-white photos of the victim in 8 x 10 and 5 x 7 sizes, the latter perfect for use in canvassing...he felt weary, stiff, and discouraged. His stomach snarled.

A glance at his watch explained that. After two o’clock. He punched Allison’s number into his phone.

“I’ve been all the way through the Rolodex numbers once,” he told her. “So far no one I’ve talked to knows Demry’s movements last night. It’s all written down.” He had used the word processing program on the computer to list the name, numbers, and call results as he went. But now he needed to tell her about Tonya without quite lying. “I have one possible lead. There’s a printout of an e-mail on his desk inviting Demry to a local club last night. Since I’m ready to close up here, I can check that out before coming back to the office and retrying the numbers that didn’t answer.”

“What club and who invited him?”

The whip crack in her voice startled him. What bit her? Maybe she really was psychic and catching some vibe. He read her the message, and Tonya’s e-mail address.

After a moment, Allison said, “She’s a musician?”

Her skeptical tone surprised him. Did Tonya’s profession not match the vibe? After they had this psycho in custody maybe he could talk her into explaining. “I’m wondering if the invitation was a setup.” He explained his triangle theory.

“It’s worth checking out.”

He printed out his call detail list. “How’s it going with you?”

“Dead ends.” She paused. “Why didn’t you mention the e-mail message when I called earlier?”

He searched for an answer that avoided admitting the truth. “I...don’t have a good excuse.” The last page of his list dropped into the printer tray. “When’s the autopsy?”

This time she paused even longer than before. “They did it this morning. There wasn’t much we didn’t already know.”

Zane disconnected with a grimace of frustration. He knew she spent her day running into dead ends but had no idea what leads she followed there. How did he avoid covering the same ground she had? What approach would be best with her...remind her that he could not read her mind the way Garroway probably did...or ask the lieutenant to clue him in about her moves?

Debating the question, he shut off the computer, rolled down his sleeves, and clipped the tie back on. Coat? No. It went over his arm and he left the house, locking the door behind him. Sunlight and humidity enfolded him. This time when he started the car he switched on the air conditioner before heading downtown to the jazz club.

Since Avenue A remained the same width as when its bricks were laid in the 1800's and trolley tracks ran down the center, parking was banned. But Zane stopped in front of Five To Midnight long enough to climb out and read the poster in the Live! Nightly! window beside the door. It said nothing about a flutist named Tonya, however, only held a photograph of four men in turtlenecks clustered around a double bass and identified as the Malcolm Neery Quartet. Testing the front door, he found it locked but heard piano music inside. In the alley, the fire door stood open, a liquor distributor truck parked outside. Zane parked behind it.

Inside the fire door, a cool, dim hallway stretched toward the sound of the piano. In a room off to his right a man in a white bar apron and another with the distributor’s name on his shirt counted stacks of liquor cases. Zane rapped on the door casing, and when the men turned toward him, held up his ID. “I’m looking for information on Tonya, one of the musicians.”

The man in the apron grunted. “Talk to the boss, Jack Reed. In at the piano.” He resumed counting cases.

Zane followed the music into a space more brightly lighted than it ever was at night. The bandstand stood against the side wall opposite a circular fireplace in the middle. He threaded his way between tables toward it. The pianist, middle-aged and balding, played with total concentration, leaning low over the keyboard of the baby grand, but Zane could not tell if the man played well or not. It sounded like most jazz did to him...I-don’t-know-where-I’m-going noodling. Then a thread of melody amid all the riffs caught his ear and he listened in amazement.

When the music paused, Zane said, “I never knew jazz included variations on themes by Salieri.”

Reed swiveled around. He eyed Zane while reaching for a coffee mug sitting on top of the piano. “You recognize it?”

Zane spread his hands. “Between five years of piano lessons and my parents’ idea of family time together being to haul me along to concerts and operas they wanted to see, yeah.”

After a swallow of coffee, Reed smiled. “Salieri’s fitting, don’t you think? Like him, I dream of possessing great talent, but all I can do is recognize it in others...and give them a forum.” He gestured at the club.

Zane lifted his brows. “The world also needs people who can recognize talent and will give it a chance.”

The smiled flickered again. “Are you looking for a chance?”

“No, for justice.” Zane tucked his sunglasses in his shirt pocket and brought out his shield again. “I need to contact Tonya. A friend of hers was attacked last night. He might have come here during the evening.” He handed the club owner one of Demry’s photos.

After a glance, Reed returned it. “Sure...the lawyer. Ivy League type with a full head of hair and a five hundred dollar leather blazer. Was he badly hurt?”

“Killed, I’m sorry to say.” Zane reached in his coat for his notebook. “Do you know what time he left, and whether he left alone or with someone? And may I have copies of any credit card receipts?”

“Killed?” Reed grimaced. “That’s too bad. Sure...I’ll look up his credit card receipts. I don’t know when he left. He came in about nine. That’s when Tonya knocked on the office door and asked please could I give her lawyer a table by the bandstand.” He smiled. “Nothing’s too good for him as far as she’s concerned. But I suppose he’s entitled to her hero worship after saving her music...and he’s earned special treatment for taking the case pro bono.”

Ah...she had been a client. And Demry worked for free, or a very reduced fee, and won. Not much motive there for her killing him. Unless the fee included sex for services and she had a jealous boyfriend who found out, or whom she told. On the other hand, winning her case meant someone lost. How hard might that someone have taken it?

Reed said, “Tonya will know when he left. I’ll get her phone number for you.” He started to stand, then stopped, his gaze jumping past Zane. “You’re in luck. Here she is.”

Zane heard the rap of boot heels behind him and turned to see a woman coming out of the hallway. And rethought the sex-for-services scenario. An oversized sweater and long skirt accentuated her stocky build and the helmet style of her dark hair drained the color from an otherwise pretty face.

“Hi, Jack. I thought I’d practice here for a couple of hours.” She set a carryall-sized canvas purse on a table by the bandstand, then an instrument case labeled T. Mixon in large white letters. “Maybe you’d like to accompany me?”

“There’s a detective to see you,” Reed said, and went back to noodling on the piano.

She blinked. “A detective? To see me?”

Zane listened and watched closely. She sounded, and looked, genuinely surprised. “I’d like to ask you about Alex Demry.”

“Alex?” Her eyes widened. “I don’t understand.” She opened the instrument case. Fingers surprisingly long and thin for Tonya’s build made Zane think of spider legs as she assembled the flute. “What kind of trouble can Alex be in?”

“Someone attacked him last night after he left here.”

“Attacked!” She flung her head up. “Oh, my god. Is he hurt?” Her distress sounded authentic. The tense lines of her body and face agreed with her voice.

All of it made him confident she knew nothing about Demry’s murder. Just to be sure, he said, “I’m afraid he’s dead,” and waited to see how she reacted.

She sucked in a sharp breath. “Oh, no!” The arachnid fingers clamped convulsively around her flute. “How? What happened?”

If she were faking, she deserved an Oscar. “We’re trying to piece it together. Do you know what time Mr. Demry left here last night?”

Tears welled in her eyes. “Sometime between eleven-fifteen and quarter to twelve. After I finished my set at eleven I sat with him and visited until the band started their set.” Her fingers slid into position on the flute keys and began rhythmically pressing them in time to the piano music. Zane doubted she noticed either the instrument or her actions. “Then I went out in the alley for a cigarette, and ended up having two because I hadn’t smoked all night. After that I hit the ladies’ room. When I came back into the club there was someone else at the table.”

“He didn’t tell you he would be leaving?”

She shook her head. “I thought he wanted to hear the cuts from the band’s new CD. He was interested enough in it to text it to himself.”

On the missing phone. Had he lost the running from the killer or did the killer take it? Maybe because Demry wrote down something in it about him? “Tell me about this copyright case he won for you.”

For a second she stared at him. “Do you think that has something to do with this?”

A note of caution had entered her voice. He gave her a bland smile. “We have to check all the possibilities.”

The piano hit the opening notes of the Dragnet theme...dum, de, dum, dum. Playing clearly did not require all Reed’s attention and he had sharper hearing than Zane anticipated. Taking Tonya by the elbow, he steered her to the far side of the fireplace.

She shook her head. “I can’t imagine killing anyone over...” She frowned at the flute, turning it in her hands. “I do a lot of improvisation. Surfing the Internet one night I landed on the homepage of a guy who’d come up to me at Jazz–that’s a club in Austin–going on about how much he admired my work and he wanted to produce a CD with me. He had worldwide contacts that would give me global distribution, he said. But I’d never heard of him before and even musicians like me who are almost nobodies get wierdos coming up to us. So I told him thank you but no thanks. And he kept bugging me...sitting right in front of me while I played, and when I took a break, he’d give me the pitch all over again. He was giving me the creeps, so I said, look, what part of no don’t you understand? Leave me alone. But his homepage looked terrific so I let it load...and the music playing on it was mine!” Color darkened her cheeks. “It was one of the pieces I’d improvised at Jazz!”

If he stole it in retaliation for his CD plan being turned down, Zane reflected, he could be the kind who struck back when angry. The question was how violent he might become. “What’s this guy’s name?”

“Lionel Manning.”

Zane wrote it down. “What does he look like?”

She pursed her lips a moment. “Oh, he’s about six feet, skinny, and in his twenties or early thirties. Maybe...brown? hair. He wears glasses.”

Zane kept writing. “And he lives in Austin?”

“Just a minute.” She handed him the flute and dug her phone out of her bag. The arachnid fingers played across the buttons, then she handed it to him in return for the flute. “There’s his address and phone number. I e-mailed him, and after I found his address and phone number of the internet, I sent him snail mail demanding he take the music off his site or pay me for the use and post some acknowledgment that it was mine, not his. He asked if I could back up my claim with anything written. Of course not. It was an improvisation; I had it in my head. So suck eggs, he said. But I went to Alex. I won’t bore you with the fine points of copyright law I now have memorized, but fortunately for me, this creep couldn’t carry the music in his head.”

“He’d taped your performance,” Zane guessed.

Tonya nodded. “Alex learned that Manning had been kicked out of the Elephant Room once for taping a performance, which you’re not supposed to do without permission, of course. If one musician, why not another, and maybe he isn’t always caught, so Alex got a PI to temp at Manning’s maid service and check the music collection while she was cleaning.”

Zane grinned. Smart move! Demry made a good detective

“She found he not only made tapes, all carefully labeled by artist, date, and location, but burned CD’s from them. Including a set with my improvisations at Jazz.” Tonya bared her teeth. “We had him by...the...nuts.”

Writing down Manning’s address and phone number, Zane regretted he would never have the chance to know Demry. They should talk to the PI and see what else she knew about Manning. There had been a card for a private investigations firm in Demry’s Rolodex, he remembered. “How long ago was the trial?”

“No trial. As soon as we showed his attorney and him the pictures the PI took of the tape and CD labels, he settled out of court. That was two months ago. Finished?” She dropped the phone back in her bag. “I think he expected that would keep everyone from learning what a schmuck he is. But I’ve made sure they do know. I posted about him on the internet, with the warning that I wasn’t the only artist he’d taped, and since I have a photographic memory and I happened to see the PI’s report, I sent private e-mails to musicians named in it.”

Zane frowned. “The settlement didn’t include a non-disclosure clause?” A major mistake by his attorney if so.

She nodded. “Sure, but I just forfeit the money by violating it.”

“And...does Manning know you posted?” That would upset him.

Tonya smiled. “Oh, yes. A week later I got this really flaming e-mail, which started off by calling me a lying, cheating, no-talent bitch who must have gotten my gigs by screwing the club managers. It seems some of the musicians I wrote checked his web site and found their music, too, and were filing copyright suits of their own, and he accused Alex of putting me up to posting. We were both going to be sorry, he said. If Alex wanted to stay healthy, he better never show up in Austin again. He threatened lawsuits and disbarment proceedings.”

Definitely upset. Angry enough to do more than threaten? “Did Demry suggest you post?”

Tonya’s stare went wide-eyed and innocent. “Of course not.”

Meaning maybe he had...less a shark than someone chumming the water. Giving Manning one hell of a motive for going after him. “Did you see Manning around here last night?”

Tonya blinked. “Here? You think he’d come all the way down here after Alex?” She frowned thoughtfully. “I didn’t see him...and I couldn’t miss him. My skin would crawl if he walked in.”

Maybe not, depending on her preoccupation with performing and Demry. There was another possibility, too...a variation on the triangle theory. “You think pretty highly of Demry.”

She hugged her flute. “As far as I’m concerned, he’s--he was a god.”

“How does your significant other feel about that?”

“I’m not currently--” Her eyes widened. “You’re covering all the bases, aren’t you? Do you want to know where I was at whatever time, too?”

What an opening. “Well, since you’ve offered...what were you doing between twelve and one?”

“I sat in with Neery’s band the last fifteen minutes of their set, which ended at twelve-fifteen, then I went on for my final set from twelve-thirty to one-thirty. After that I turned the bandstand over to the wannabes--Jack has an open mike the last half hour–and went home.”

Which pretty much gave her an airtight alibi. “That’s where?”

“I’m staying with a girlfriend at 1932 Airport Drive.”

Out north-west near the rodeo grounds. “Did you see Demry talking to anyone here that he might have left with?”

She thought, then shook her head.

Maybe one of the quartet noticed something.

Zane returned to the bandstand. “Will you look up the phone numbers of Neery’s group for me?”

“All I have is his, I’m afraid.” Reed ran his fingers up the keyboard in a long arpeggio. “But if you want to wait, they’re coming in to work on a piece Neery wasn’t satisfied with last night. You can even have a turn here.” He waved at the piano.

Zane grimaced. “No thanks.”

Reed’s brows hopped. “Piano lessons didn’t hook you, huh?”

Not after he decided that his parents had enrolled him in them and all the other extra-curricular activities to relieve them of spending time with him. “Do you serve any kind of meal?”

“No, just pretzels, nuts, and the like.” Reed jumped into “Yes, We Have No Bananas”, grinning. “There’s ice cream we use in the ice cream drinks, though.”

Zane shuddered. “I’ll be back.”

After the club, the alley felt like a greenhouse. He hurried out of it. Thank goodness for the Avenue A architecture...covered sidewalks and second floor balconies echoing the early settlers’ New Orleans origin. Despite the shaded sidewalks and the breeze coming up the street from the Gulf, however, as soon as the approaching trolley passed, he dodged across the street to the air-conditioned comfort of Arbys.

While they made up his sandwich, he called Allison and updated her.

She broke into the middle of his recital. “Describe Tonya.”

There came that tension in her voice again. “Do you have a witness who saw a woman near the scene? It couldn’t have been Tonya.”

“Unless your tweaker’s timetable is screwed up and he saw Demry after Gary’s second pass down Lavaca.” But when Zane gave her Tonya’s descriptors, her voice relaxed. “You’re right...it’s unlikely she’s involved.”

It had to be the description that made the difference. “So someone did see a woman, I take it.”

“No. No one saw a woman...or anything else. This Manning is worth checking out, but we need to be careful nosing around. If he’s involved and we alert and alarm him...” Her voice trailed off.

The memory of Demry’s body flashed through Zane’s head. “Right.”

When he carried his sandwich back to the club, Tonya sat on the edge of the bandstand playing something sharp and soaring...like a hawk’s cry, or a wail...while Reed followed on the piano. Two men matching those in the photograph outside had appeared. One sat at a table by the bandstand, reading over sheet music. The other stripped the canvas cover from a double bass on the bandstand.

Without missing a beat on the piano, Reed said, “Here he is, boys. Detective, that’s Malcolm Neery at the table and Dick Schoen on bass.”

Zane led the two men to the far side of the fireplace.

Neery gave him a puzzled frown. “Tonya’s lawyer got killed last night...and you want to talk to us about it, Jack says?”

Zane took off his sunglasses. “I’m trying to establish when Demry left the club.”

Neery shrugged. “Sorry...I don’t know. He was there when we started the set, but the next time I noticed, he’d gone.”

“He followed one of those chicks at the next table back to the bar,” Schoen said.

Neery grinned. “That figures. He’d been trying all evening to cut one of those three out of the herd. When Tonya wasn’t up here, that is. He didn’t hit on them while she was playing.”

Give him credit for class. “Did he score?”

“Not with the trio,” Neery said. “All three were still there at the end of our set.”

But Demry had not come back to the table. “Did you notice him talking to anyone at the bar?” Zane asked the bass player.

After a moment of thought, Schoen shook his head. “Nope.”

Presently another of the group strolled in...the drummer. He had not seen Demry leave, either. “When I’m in my zone, this world don’t exist.” He looked suspiciously off-world at the moment, too.

The sax player finally appeared to complete the group. In response to Zane’s questions he nodded. “Yeah, I saw him. He was hitting on a chick I would’ve, too, if I’d spotted her while Tonya was on.”

If she took Demry up on his offer, that could explain him leaving. But what happened to her after that? Allison said no woman had been seen in the area when Demry was killed. But...she had wanted Tonya’s description. “What did the woman look like?”

The sax player sighed. “A wet dream. Showgirl tall, legs that wouldn’t quit, a mane of hair like moonlight, neckline so low the melons were ready to fall out into my hands.” He held them up, ready to catch her.

“Did they leave together?”

The sax player shrugged. “She didn’t go back to her table.”

The aproned man from the storeroom had appeared behind the bar. Zane headed for him. The bartender would have had a closer look at this woman than the sax player did.

Sliding onto a stool, Zane gave the bartender a smile. “Hi. Do you have more coffee back there? I can really use a cup.”

The bartender stopped slicing limes long enough to slap a mug of dark liquid in front of him.

Zane sipped...and fought not to choke. It hit his taste buds with the same jolt as his first shot of scotch. Seeing the bartender watching him sardonically, he lifted the mug in salute. “It has character.” In Irish coffee it must pack more kick than the whiskey.

The bartender chuckled.

Zane laid Demry’s photograph on the bar and fought down another swallow. “Do you remember seeing this man last night?”

The bartender glanced at it. “Sure...the guy the flute player was fluttering around. What kind of trouble is he in?”

“Someone killed him. Did you see him talking to a tall blonde woman?”

The bartender grunted. “The drag queen? Yeah.”

Zane set aside the mug. No one saw a woman, Allison said. But maybe they saw someone they recognized as a man in women’s clothing. “You know her?”

“Never seen her before...but she had half a head on the lawyer. How many women are that tall?” He scraped lime sections into a tall beer mug. “But that’s about all that gave her away. Terrific legs. Believable cleavage. She sure fooled the lawyer.” The bartender brought lemons out of a refrigerator under the bar. “After she stuck her tongue in his ear and played with his crotch, he couldn’t wait to hustle her out.”

So much for class. A wild notion hit him. Could Blondie be Manning? “Who made the first move...her or him?”

The bartender began slicing lemons. “She definitely came on to him.”

If Manning could pull it off, it was the perfect setup. In Manning’s place Zane thought he would take his revenge by publically humiliating Demry. Get him into bed with a hidden camera recording the whole episode right to the revelation of Blondie as male, and post the tape on the internet. For that, of course, the venue had to be Manning’s...which could account for leaving Demry’s car–Blondie would want control of the wheel–and not going to Demry’s place.

Then...had something gone wrong that turned the situation into murder? Or was murder always the intent...Manning perhaps being a borderline psychotic that rage sent over the edge.

If Blondie were not Manning she might still be involved, luring Demry to Manning, or at least she should know where Demry went after leaving the jazz club. If she were not also dead somewhere.

The piano stopped, then resumed with its sound changed. Zane looked around to see that the quartet had replaced Reed and Tonya on the bandstand. After taking down the bartender’s name for his report, he circled the fireplace to the table where Tonya sat.

“How are you doing?”

She looked up with a faint smile. “All right. It’s not like Alex was a boyfriend. Did the band help you?”

“Maybe. And maybe you can help some more.” He sat down in another chair. “On your way out to smoke, did you see a tall blonde woman near the restrooms?”

“She came out as I passed the door.” Tonya sighed. “I’d kill for a figure and legs like that. And that little black number she was wearing had to cost megabucks.”

“Have you ever seen her before?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t get much of a look at her, mostly her back out of the corner of my eye.”

“Could you tell whether she was female or a male cross-dressing?”

Tonya’s brows shot up. “Female, definitely. No guy has hips like that, and in a dress that short, any padding would show...not to mention his equipment.”

Not necessarily. He had met female impersonators in Kansas City who pulled off the look in clothes where it would seem impossible. Allison needed to know about this.

After obtaining promises from everyone to drop by Crimes Against Persons tomorrow to give formal statements, he reached for his phone. She asked him to meet her at Mercado Square.

Pulling into the mall’s parking lot twenty minutes later, he spotted her near the Pontchartrain entrance, leaning against her car, arms folded, gazing down toward a barge making its way along the intracoastal waterway channel through the outer bay. “Sorry I took so long,” he said as he backed into the slot beside her. “I had to run back to Demry’s place.”

He spread what he had on the hood of her car. A photocopy of Demry’s credit card receipt from the club bore the time 11:43...which settled the question of when he left. Next to it he laid one of the copies he made on Demry’s photocopier of the business card for Aaronson Investigative Services in the Rolodex...and then he told her about Blondie and his theory about Manning.

Above her sunglasses one brow rose in a gesture that looked as much Vulcan as Elvish. “That’s an interesting idea.”

Was she complimenting him or dismissing his idea? He could not tell, especially with her eyes hidden. “Does Blondie fit what your witness described?”

She sighed. “I told you, I don’t have any witness. We need to determine if Blondie is Manning.” She frowned thoughtfully. “So first let’s rule out the local he/shes. I’ll talk to Vice. Why don’t you see if anyone at The Station knows him.”

The former railroad depot down near the deep water piers was not exactly a gay bar. But the artists moving into warehouses around it hung out there, and they included gays...which in turn attracted other gays in town.

Allison turned to glance down North Bayside and over toward Avenue A. “If Blondie isn’t Manning, he may have visited other bars earlier, where someone may know him. If he didn’t have anything to do with Demry’s death, say Demry groped him on the way to the car, discovered the truth, and dumped him, then Demry went somewhere else and met his killer. We need to see if we can learn where.”

“If Blondie is Manning, though, he might target Tonya Mixon next,” Zane said. “We ought to arrange protection for her.”

“I’ll take care of it.” She glanced at her wristwatch. “I need to go. I have a few more interviews lined up.”

Finally he had a chance to see her work. “Great. Where are we headed?”

She stared at him and Zane realized with embarrassment that she had not intended to take him along. Perhaps it just never occurred to her.

“I think it would be very helpful for a detective trainee to see how a master like you handles an interview.”

“Another time.” She reached into her car and brought out a wide three ring black plastic binder. The casebook. She handed it to him. “After you check out The Station, take this back to the office and add your reports. Then meet me at the Sailfish and B parking lot at seventeen hundred and we’ll canvass the A.”

Swallowing his disappointment, he nodded. “And in case it might come in handy before then, have one of these.” He dug into his suit coat pocket for one of Demry’s photos.

She stared at it. “Where did you get this?”

He grinned. “Don’t ask.”

And felt the grin freeze as she looked up from the photo. Her eyes were invisible but electricity around her lifted the hair on his body as it did in the police gym. Except this time the current felt deadly.

“All right, I won’t.” Her conversational tone did nothing to relieve the sick realization that he just planted both feet in shit. “I won’t ask how or when you really read that e-mail message, either. Nor why you told Carillo I wanted him to obtain the warrant for you. However, I won’t tolerate anything more like it in this investigation, is that understood?” She tucked the photo in her pocket. “I want no “irregularities” in procedure handing weapons to the media or defense attorneys. No poisoned fruit. And I will rip the nads off anyone causes embarrassment for Lieutenant Garroway. From now on, I’m the only one who decides if and when we bend rules. You stick to doing what you’re told.”

Watching her pull out of the parking lot and around the corner onto Pontchartrain, Zane felt as if he had been hosed with ice water...or learned the truth about the tooth fairy, Easter bunny and Santa Claus all at the same time.

And whose fault was that, he reflected, slamming into his own car and cranking the key. He had no reason, other than expectations born of this--admit it--stupid adolescent obsession with her, for thinking that becoming partners would turn her attitude toward him from coolly polite to warm and fuzzy.

Grow up, Zane. Forget this Elvish nonsense and just do your damn job.

Slapping the car into gear, he headed for the West Bay.

10.

Allison trusted Kerr to be on his way to The Station. In case he came back to the LEC, however, she parked out in the visitors’ lot and used the front entrance to avoid him, and quickly took the stairs up to the Training Center above the Morgue and Criminal Identification Unit. No sense letting him know she lied about having more interviews.

Learning about the Mixon woman, Manning, and where the hunter picked up Demry had been nice detective work. Information she badly needed, since the names Honora and other clan members gave her led nowhere. Too bad she had to slap Kerr down instead of giving him a pat on the back. Encourage his corner cutting, though, and he could run into the hunter lurking around one of them.

In the gym a female officer worked her triceps on a weight machine but the conference rooms were empty. Allison stepped into one and used its wall phone to call Juvenile and ask for Del Kindly. With Del agreeable to looking after the flutist, she called Garroway’s office for authorization. That taken care of, it was time for Drew Makepeace, Patrol’s Watch Three shift sergeant.

A window in the conference room looked out on the rear parking lot, on a row of police and sheriff’s cruisers...black numbers on top of the white trunks...and beyond them across the green swathe of Cotton River Park and down the North Bayside toward the outer bay and Gulf. From here the warehouse district appeared a jumble of roofs. Memories of patrolling there brought a pang like homesickness. Honora had felt the clan needed officers in Investigations, so Allison dutifully transferred, but she still missed being in uniform. Every tour had been something to anticipate with relish...opportunities for dangerous situations, for foot chases and building searches. Best, of course, had been the times a radio mike button clicked dit dit dit dah...V for volke...the code summoning clan officers to hunt in a pack. At night, racing down a dark alley or spreading out through a burglarized building, often all of them could Shift. No perp ran fast enough to escape them or dug in deep enough to avoid being sniffed out.

Drew came on the Patrol squadroom’s line. She turned away from the window. “I need you to meet me up here.”

“Give me ten minutes.”

While Kerr was wrong about Manning being the killer, the grudge against Demry might be material if Manning and Blondie were lovers. Such liaisons happened often enough. Honora enjoyed her share of them. Maybe the two conspired to kill Demry, or if Blondie were young, his hatred provoked her to act on her own. Juveniles had more hormones than sense.

They needed proof of Manning’s involvement, of course, but she liked that solution to the murder. It gave her a limited number of specific victims to worry about rather than a rogue and random slaughter.

What was the name of the Austin Homicide dick she and Garroway worked with a couple of years ago? Hal DiChristafero. After obtaining Austin Homicide’s phone number from Communications, she called him.

DiChristafero remembered her. “I’m still impressed as hell how you knew where our perp went in that warehouse. This suspect you need information on is named Lionel Manning, you say? Let’s see what’s in the computer.” The click of keys came over the wire. “Well, well. We’ve dealt with the gentleman a number of times. Nothing major. A string of citations for disorderly conduct. Seems he approaches singers, musicians, and dancers about working with them on albums or productions, and can become verbally abusive when rejected. You think now he’s gone beyond verbal?”

“I’m trying to find out. What do you have for known associates? Is there a girlfriend?” The information she really wanted.

“Ummm...no one named. He lives alone.”

Allison sighed. She had to go dig personally, then. Perhaps the PI knew of someone.

“I’ll fax you his photo and particulars?” DiChristafero said.

“Yes, thanks.” She gave him the Investigations fax number. “I’m coming up tomorrow to interview him. Can you be available to back me up?”

“Sure thing. Just give me a shout when you’re near town?”

Next she updated Honora. “Will you please see if the Austin clan chief knows whether one of their females has a human lover named Lionel Manning.”

“Of course. Is there anything else I can do to help right now?”

“I need as many other members of the household as are willing to help stake out the warehouse area this evening.”

Until proven otherwise, Blondie must still be considered a rogue. They had no guarantee, of course, that she would set her hunt in the West Bay again, or necessarily troll the A bars for prey. The larger hotels at the lower end of hotel row and on Laguna Drive had their own lounges. The West Bay had a few bars, too. But modus operandi worked as a law enforcement tool because people–human or volke–were creatures of habit, so they had to hope and do their best to be where Blondie turned up. And if they missed her choosing her prey, the warehouses must be covered thoroughly enough to prevent his death.

As she finished the call, Allison caught a familiar scent and turned to find Drew Makepeace in the doorway. He sighed heavily. “This rendezvous is just about the rogue? And here I thought you asked for it because you’re wearing my favorite pheromones.” His brows wiggled. “I suppose I can’t take advantage of them until the Gathering?”

She bit back a grin and grunted in mock disgust. “You’re always so full of it! I’m not broadcasting invitations right now. And no one’s going to enjoy the Gathering if we don’t catch this hunter.”

“True.” He put an arm around her shoulders. “So...what can I do to help?”

The arm felt good. Distracting. Allison ducked loose and sat on the edge of the table. “I want you to oversee the warehouse stakeout. Honora plans to stay home where she can monitor the phone and computer and I can’t do it because Kerr and I will be canvassing the A until closing time.”

“No problem.” Drew sat down beside her. “I’ll get directions out so the others can take positions any time and I’ll join when I’m off duty. We’re assuming she’ll wait for the streets to clear? At home they woke me when Honora’s warning came through. I visited the scene after you and Ident left and dug out part of a footprint. It’s in a box in my desk. I’ve memorized the scent and had clan officers on this watch come in to do so, and will also run it under the noses of Watch One.”

The last sentence jogged her memory about something else she needed to ask. “Does Blondie’s scent suggest to you where she might come from? Does it remind you of anywhere the Army sent you?”

His brows rose. “Blondie? What’s with this name?”

She shrugged. “It’s what Kerr’s calling her. Is her scent at all familiar?”

He shook his head. “It doesn’t trigger any memories. I’ll ask the others if it does for them. Gina Lovejoy ran all over the country with that thrill show.”

In Austin tomorrow she would pay special attention to the regional component of people’s scents to see if they matched Blondie’s.

11.

So far Manning looked good to Zane for being Blondie. The consensus at The Station, where regulars husbanded their coffee and beers beneath the ceiling fans while arguing about art versus commercialism and the deterioration of American culture, matched the opinion expressed by Kevin Brucker, the bartender: “I know chicks who look like that, most of them your fellow cops, but no drag queens.” Zane waited, however, to check with the regular calling himself Arturo Dent...because: “We need to acknowledge that we’re all just hitchhikers in the Galaxy.” Arturo had an alter ego named Amanda and ran with a group who regarded the line between male and female as broad territory open for exploration. If Blondie were a he/she and came from around the area, Arturo would know her.

Brucker thought Arturo should be in soon from collecting material for his collages, i.e., dumpster diving. So while Zane waited, he leafed through Allison’s reports in the case book... envying her handwriting. Every page, apparently filled out as she finished each interview, looked as clean and precise as if computer generated. The reports he wrote up in his patrol unit always looked like shit, encrusted with layers of correcting tape as he fussed over wording. That month in law school had been enough to impress him with the importance of precise language and he had been wearing out batteries in his electronic dictionary/thesaurus ever since.

Was it luck or skill that parlayed a few contacts at the murder scene into all these interviews? The on-lookers included one Francis Church, a guest at the misnamed Grand Plaza Hotel while Hilst’s repaired the sloop he had been sailing around the Gulf. None of the people Church spotted or talked with while entertaining himself by exploring the area on foot last night fit Demry’s description, and none wore bloody clothes, but Allison had used what he told her to locate other individuals and interview them, too. Like a chain, one contact led her to another...more people out on West Bayside than he would have expected at that time of night. Then again, he had never patrolled the area at night, only when he worked Watch Two. No one saw Demry.

He stared at the case book. No one saw Demry, but she talked to them before he visited the jazz club so she never asked about anyone fitting Blondie’s description.

Zane flipped back to the interview with the guy at the Grand Plaza. He had a non-local number...a cell phone, probably. Zane called it.

A languid female voice answered after three rings. “A & C Security.”

Zane stared at the phone. Had he dialed wrong? “May I speak to Mr. Francis Church, please.”

After a pause, the woman at the other end said, “May I ask what this concerns?”

An interesting response...fishing for information and admitting nothing. A strange response to find at a number for someone apparently bumming around the Gulf. Zane identified himself. “I need to speak with Mr. Church regarding the statement he gave Detective Goodnight earlier today. May I ask who I’m speaking to?”

The woman said smoothly, “I’m afraid Mr. Church isn’t available.”

Ducking his question. “But this is the correct phone number for Mr. Church?”

“May I take a message for him?”

Ducking that question, too. He could almost imagine he had reached some covert government organization. Zane left his number. “If you reach him, have him call me.”

He borrowed a phone book from the bartender to look up the Grand Plaza’s number, to try Church there. But the Grand Plaza had no Francis or Frank Church registered. According to the desk clerk, the only guest who came close to Church’s descriptors--twenty-five years old, five-eleven, 170 pounds, brown hair, blue eyes--was a good fifteen to twenty years older and not named Church. The desk clerk was unaware of any guest having a boat being repaired at the Basin.

Zane disconnected. Well, well. Church appeared to have lied to Allison. And, incredibly, fooled her. Now Zane had to wonder just who Church really was and how much he lied about. The descriptors sounded close to Lionel Manning. Could they be the same man?

He called the Hilst offices to check the existence of the boat, but they had closed for the day and the security guard knew nothing about the boats in the wet and dry docks. So Zane punched in Allison’s number.

12.

Listening to Kerr talk, Allison felt her gut knot. She had barely finished talking to Fiona Church, answering her questions on what this Francis Church business was all about. Being forewarned about Kerr’s activities did nothing, however, to diminish the dismay on hearing his version of the conversation with Fiona. She cleared her throat. “This is embarrassing. It’s been a long time since anyone successfully lied to me. Despite evidence of deception, I think we need more evidence before saying Church and Manning are the same person.” At the edge of her vision, Drew’s eyebrows climbed. “His description probably fits hundreds of men in town.” Exactly what she had intended when she made it up. “Have you requested an Attempt To Locate on Church?”

“Not yet.”

Good. No sense wasting officer time watching for someone nonexistent and stopping innocent citizens because they fit “Church’s” descriptors. “I’ll do it, and if I don’t see you at the office before then, I’ll see you in the North Bay at seventeen hundred hours.” Disconnecting, she grimaced. “There are officers who spend their whole careers without an original thought, who never put out an ounce more effort than necessary...but I end up with Detective Gung-ho! I don’t suppose you’d do me the favor of taking him back.”

Drew bumped sideways into her shoulder. “Come on! He’s a bright boy and a good cop. And it isn’t like you’re stuck with him just because you always worked with Garroway before. Next time take along Bass or Ng. Problem solved.”

She slammed him back. “It’s this case I have to worry about. If Church hadn’t been so cautious, Kerr would have discovered I falsified that report! And every report with a volke subject is the same...fabricated interview, then partially genuine names and real phone numbers because half lies seemed safer than total fiction. Maybe I was wrong...but cooking the books isn’t exactly something I’m used to doing. If Kerr calls the subjects of the other interviews–“

“The wicked flee where no man pursueth, to quote their Christian Bible.” Drew’s phone buzzed like an angry insect. He checked the number on the screen. “So what if he calls? They’re real numbers. He’ll reach real people. All you need to do is warn them so they can give him a good story.” He punched on his own phone. “Yeah, what do you need?”

Warning everyone she had talked to would not stop her from worrying. There was too much at stake. Allison dug into her jacket pocket but found she had finished up the cashews. Instead of the usual murder with the case comfortably under control--just match the scent at the crime scene against those of family and friends, then secure a confession or dig up physical evidence of the killer’s guilt to corroborate what her nose already told her--she juggled greased grenades. Let one drop and there would be more innocents slaughtered. Drop another and the blood shed could be the clan’s. The one with Kerr’s name on it might do anything...even collide with the others in midair and explode them all. Unlike with Garroway, she had no idea what went on in his head, no way to anticipate his moves.

Drew hung up his phone. “I’ll call Honora and coordinate things with her, and we’ll blanket the warehouse area...assuming you don’t notify me during the evening that you have the bitch. At rollcall, for the benefit of the human officers I said that our suspect is a male probably six feet or taller and dangerously psychotic. Now I can broadcast a supplement adding that he might be cross-dressed and to watch for unusually tall females but approach them with extreme caution.” He opened the door. “Anything else you’d like me to add?”

“Tell them not to approach...to wait for backup first...and if it’s a human officer, you make sure it’s several of us doing the backup.”

His grim smile said: Count on it.

13.

Zane punched the elevator button for the third floor, then sorted through his notes from The Station on the ride up. When he finally showed up, Arturo had a candidate for Blondie. “It might be Babs.” Arturo had met Babs only in that persona, however, and knew neither her real name nor what she looked like out of drag. He had also never known her to try picking up a man, just seen her play sexy chanteuse, sitting on or at the piano at the Twilight Lounge or Ice And Ivory. That made Babs an outside candidate, but Zane still had both bars on his list for special attention.

Upstairs, he waved his ID for admission to the A & I floor and started to circle the bank of interview rooms in the center toward the Crimes Against Persons office. Someone called his name. Looking around, he spotted the division secretary Willa Bertelli at her desk outside Captain Estevez and Lieutenant Garroway’s offices on the far end of the Admin side of the floor.

She waved papers. “Detective Goodnight has been asking about a fax from Austin. It’s come in now.”

Austin? He threaded his way through the Admin waiting area behind the interview rooms to look over the fax sheets. They included mug shots and the rap sheet on Manning. Allison had everything covered.

In the office he nodded a greeting at Hugh Bass, the only other member of the squad there–even Carillo’s office was empty–and sat down at his desk. After reading through Manning’s record, however, Zane found himself frowning. In all the times he had been cited for harassing performance artists, even when he turned verbally abusive, Manning never physically attacked anyone. It was hard to imagine just the lawsuit pushing him over the edge into the berserker frenzy of Demry’s murder...especially two months after the settlement.

In any case, they needed to look elsewhere for Blondie. Manning could never pass as a gorgeous female, even without the scowl in the mug shot. He had the wrong bone structure.

Zane used the hole punch chained to the table by the printer to punch holes in the fax sheets, then added them to the case book. His earlier thought about Blondie luring Demry to Manning came back. She need not even have understood the purpose of what she did, just acted innocently, coming on to Demry because she thought it was part of a joke. They definitely needed to check out Babs.

14.

Allison made sure she reached the parking lot well ahead of Kerr. That gave her time to buy a copy of the Sentinel and try to see the area through Blondie’s eyes. Though Blondie’s viewpoint baffled her...killing not for food, not for protection or other necessity, but for recreation...just to kill, to terrorize.

Human scents swirled around her along with the cooking odors wafting from the restaurants and varying music from them and the bars: elevator bland, piano bar standards, country, mariachi, rock. Although hardly comparable to the club district of a big city–maybe two and a half blocks max if the bars were set side by side instead of spread out over eight--Arenosa offered a variety of drinking establishments. Why had Blondie ended up at the jazz club rather than, say, a rock club? While she personally avoided the killer decibels in Neverneverland and The Electric Warehouse, a number of the clan’s younger members frequented the clubs and the females reported a smorgasbord of over-sexed human males there. Good hunting for Blondie.

Perhaps it depended on what Blondie wanted in her prey. Demry had been young, attractive, and physically fit. Perhaps fitness mattered most...to make the chase last longer. Though if she wanted challenging prey, why not pick a fight with the bikers at Sancho’s over in the West Bay.

She and Gene Meadows from the Houston clan pulled something similar. Puffed up and cocky for mastering control of Shifting, they thought it would be fun one midnight to taunt an outlaw group there into chasing them. A prime example of juvenile stupidity. Because the bikers quickly decided that while these kids might outrun the choppers, bullets should catch them.

So maybe for all her blood-thirsty viciousness, Blondie had better sense than they had.

Staring in through the window of Mamacita’s Tacaria, Allison saw a pig and young goat roasting over a mesquite fire. A glance at her watch told her she still had a few minutes before meeting up with Kerr. If they ran across not just Blondie’s tracks but Blondie herself, she needed to be ready for action.

After hurrying back to the parking lot, she left a note on her windshield for Kerr, then returned to the tacaria. The scents of cooking meat and burning mesquite enveloped her inside the door along with the music of a mariachi band playing over the sound system. Sliding into a booth she waved away the menu the little Asian waitress started to bring her. “I’ll have a dozen of your jumbo cabrito tacos and a pitcher of beer.”

Then she sat back to read the paper and listen to the music. The discipline for learning a musical instrument was too tedious for most of her people to stick with, but even the most anti-human of them enjoyed human music...the stuff with life in it, anyway. This, Cossack music, the skirling wail of bagpipes, Irish jigs played on penny whistles. She always heard in it the laughter and camaraderie of the clan, and in moonlit runs with game-scented wind in her face...freed of human form limitations, the Shift’s boundless power and energy pouring through her. Maybe the flute music brought the hunter into Five To Midnight.

Arenosa had few enough murders that Demry’s made the front page, but as a side column, not the main headline. Dan Browning in the Public Information Office had released a minimum of information, just that Demry was the subject of an attack whose ferocity suggested a mentally disturbed perpetrator.

The waitress brought the heaped platter. “Your friends have not come? I forget to ask how many glasses you need.”

“No friends, just me.” As the waitress turned away wide-eyed, Allison discarded the paper and attacked the tacos.

One remained on the platter and she had emptied the last of the pitcher into her glass when she spotted Kerr coming in...coatless, a Polaroid camera slung from one shoulder, a laptop from the other. Before she opened her mouth to ask him why he had them, she realized why. Shit. “I assume you’ve brought the Faces program to make up a composite picture of Blondie?”

Unfortunately, the failings of witness memory rarely resulted in a true likeness, just a general one. And in this case “general” probably meant generic volke. But she could hardly tell him why a composite was useless in identifying Blondie.

Kerr slid into the other side of the booth. “The bartender and sax player at Five To Midnight both had a good look at her. There should be waitresses on duty now who saw her, too. Since I don’t have a printer handy, I’ll take Polaroids with the enhancer connected and we’ll have pictures to show while we canvass.” He blinked at the pitcher. “Was that beer?”

His undertone of disapproval amused her, coming from an officer who blithely ignored the limits of a search warrant. She could not resist needling him. “I’ve never developed the taste for tequila.”

He realized she was teasing him. His ears went pink. “A fax came for you from Austin with info on Manning.” He dug photocopies from a side pocket of the computer case and laid them on the table. “This is his mug shot. We can forget about him being Blondie...but does that look like Church?”

“No.” She studied the photo. If Manning had charms that inspired someone to murder for him, he hid them well. Then she abruptly refocused her attention on Kerr. “What did you say?”

“That he and Blondie might have worked together. She lured Demry somewhere so Manning could kill him.”

That came entirely too close for comfort. “It’s a possibility. I’ll see what I can turn up about cross-dressing friends when I interview Manning in Austin tomorrow.”

He eyed her. “I don’t suppose I’m going, too.”

She spread her hands. “Someone has to keep working on things here.”

Disappointment flashed in his eyes but never reached his face or voice. “I queried Austin and NCIC for assaults or murders involving male suspects with Blondie’s descriptors.”

Of course he would. Allison downed the last of her beer. “Any hits?”

“One from Austin. A few more from NCIC.” He passed over the teletype.

Since he asked for males, the Coral Gables case had not made the list. She passed it back. “The subject in Austin looks too husky to be Blondie, doesn’t he. Nothing else very close to here, but hang on to everything. Let’s saddle up. I’ll start showing Manning’s picture around.”

She tried the bars closest to the jazz club first, checking whether Blondie had worked her way toward Five To Midnight. Manning’s photo rang no bells with bar personnel or customers, however, and when she described Blondie in the first bar, the bartender looked her up and down. “Have you tried checking a mirror?”

Just the reaction she feared. Allison had no way to judge whether the bartenders and waitresses who found Blondie’s description familiar had seen Blondie or one of the clan.

After covering two blocks–four bars–she leaned against a post supporting the balcony above to wait for Kerr, eyeing the passing pedestrians. They appeared typical for this time of day, locals catching a drink after work before going home, visitors with children hunting someplace for an early dinner.

When Kerr left the jazz club, his frown registered even a block away.

Allison had little doubt about the cause, but when he crossed the street and caught up to her, she played innocent. “Was there a problem putting together the composite?”

“No.” He fussed with the snap of the Polaroid case. “They remember her very clearly. One of the waitresses, by the way, disagrees with the bartender. She thinks Blondie was female.”

“So?”

He handed her Polaroid. “This is what the bartender, waitresses, and sax player all agree Blondie looks like.”

The image was indeed generic volke. If the media published the composite as the face of a suspect, the humans in Arenosa would see the likeness in too many fellow citizens. Her great-grandmother’s clan screamed in her head. “I still don’t understand the problem.”

His expression asked how she could fail to. “Doesn’t it look familiar? Like one of your cousins? Can you think of any of your family who might--”

“No, unfortunately.” She better head his thought off fast. “It would make this a whole lot simpler if I did. We’re a big family, though. We’ve been here since the War Between the States. That’s six or seven generations of spreading out, and it’s certainly possible some distant relative is involved with Manning.”

Kerr glanced back toward the jazz club. “Did you set up protection for Tonya Mixon?”

She nodded. “She’s covered. You take the north side of the street and I’ll take the south.”

15.

“Yeah...I’ve seen someone who looks like her in here,” the bartender in the Gila Crossing said, and handed back the Polaroid. Zane had to lean across the bar to hear above the stamping feet in the line dance behind him. “Could she be a guy in drag? Sure. I never paid that close attention.”

An echo of other bartenders. They all found the composite familiar-looking. So did the waitresses. So had regulars at several bars.

In Hooters, a waitress looked at the Polaroid and promptly pointed at a table toward the back where two women and a man sat...all Elvishly elegant. Only in appearance, however. When he approached them, they looked him over as if he were something the dog dragged out of the garbage.

They tossed back the Polaroid and Manning’s fax photo. “She doesn’t look like anyone in particular and he isn’t anyone our household would associate with.”

When he gave Allison their names, and others of individuals that regulars at other bars thought looked like Blondie, Allison winced at the trio and shook her head over the other names. “I’m sorry about those three. Some members of the family have...an attitude about...outsiders. These others are female cousins. I can’t imagine how they would even know Manning, let alone deliver sacrificial goats to him. But we’ll interview them if necessary.”

Talking to bar regulars did produce a few names unfamiliar to Allison, but no actual persons that went with the names. Manning’s photo drew blanks everywhere.

Zane left cards at each bar. “If you think of anything, call me.” And moved on.

He asked around about Babs, too. The bartender and waitresses at Ice And Ivory were undecided if the composite looked like her. In any case, they had not seen her for weeks.

The bartender in the Twilight Lounge had not seen her recently, either, but when Zane handed him the Polaroid, he shook his head. “This ain’t Babs. Take a look at those pictures on the wall behind the piano.”

Zane checked out the photos. Their celebrity wall. The photographs showed minor show business faces smiling from the bar stools and tables, and sometimes from the piano. The piano shots also often included a leggy blonde in various slinky, shimmering dresses. In the photographs Babs looked convincingly female, but too husky to be Blondie.

By eight-thirty they had covered the whole eight blocks of Avenue A, finishing up at Hog Heaven. There businessmen-by-day hung out in biker leathers and head bandanas, playing outlaw as they downed micro-brews in the comfort of the fans and misters on the side deck overlooking Laguna Drive and the bay. A moon nearly three-quarters full floated overhead. Turning around, Zane found that in the deepening twilight, the yellow lighting, trolley, and French Quarter ironwork on the balconies gave the street a movie set quality. Throw in a little fog, he mused, and you could believe vampires might slink out of the side streets. Even without fog, one monster already had.

16.

From the beginning it had been obvious to Allison that people saw just clan faces in the composite. The jazz club appeared to be Blondie’s first and only stop. So Demry must have been her target. But if Manning came along, he waited somewhere completely away from the A. Allison pictured Blondie returning triumphant to present him with Demry’s bloody heart.

“What now?” Kerr asked.

She stared back up the A. “Switch sides and walk back...keeping our eyes open. ” And her nose tuned for Blondie’s scent.

As she walked, she called Honora.

Her great-aunt Beatrice answered, talking over shrill screaming in the background. “She went for a run. The poor dear’s been working on that new painting all day.”

“Leaving you to be stalked by the children?”

Beatrice laughed. “They’re playing Hunt, yes, but I’m refereeing from the patio with a splendid Napoleon brandy.”

A scream turned angry.

“Excuse me.” Beatrice raised her voice. “Tara! Sara! Y'all will have to give Dylan a bigger head start than that.”

“But he’s older and faster than we are,” one of the twins whined.

“Then you’ll have to use teamwork and strategy, won’t you, darlin’.” She came back on the line. “Shall I have Honora call you when she’s back?”

Allison debated a moment. “Just tell her nothing’s happened so far.”

Next she called Drew. “No sign of Blondie here.”

“We’re set for her in the West Bay,” he said. “Everyone has radios set to Tac Six, if you want to listen in.”

Seeing the area in her mind, part of her wanted to be there now. The vehicle and foot traffic along the waterfront quickly diminished away from the bay, until within a couple of blocks the streets became those of a ghost town. The street lights seemed dimmer than elsewhere. Warehouses and other buildings occupied during the day showed lights on the lower floors, but like the street lights, the illumination seemed feeble...as though they teetered on the edge of going derelict themselves. Only the scent and the sound of movement indicated human presences under loading docks or in alleys and derelict buildings. The night air also sometimes brought cloyingly pungent whiffs of marijuana. Parking lots sat almost empty. A few of the remaining vehicles belonged to employees working late. Others, moved daily to avoid being ticketed, were homes to the not-totally-destitute.

Allison always felt sorry for them as individuals, but part of her could not help wondering if the growing group of homeless in Arenosa heralded the long anticipated social collapse and crash of the human population that would leave her people, so much better equipped for survival, the dominant intelligent life on the planet.

Letting nature take its course was a whole different thing than slaughter.

Patrolling on foot there, Allison had always preferred the alleys to the street. The long dark stretches invited Shifting. Around her, small feet scrabbled in deep shadow. Scent identified them...rats, feral dogs and cats.

Allison slung her coat over her shoulder and strode down her side of the A, pitying the humans she passed. How terrible to live as they did, with the senses half numb, never experiencing the full sensory richness of the world around them. Which made it all the more unforgivable for Blondie to rob Demry of the little that life gave him.

17.

After ten o’clock Allison kept them close to the jazz club, watching for either Manning or Blondie.

Kerr pulled out his cell phone and notebook. “I should have thought of this earlier for checking on Manning.” He punched in Manning’s number.

Allison waited. “Well?”

He grimaced. “The answering machine is picking up.”

So he could be here in Arenosa. “Let’s see if we can make certain I’ll catch him in tomorrow. Leave a message. According to the APD records, he’s a web site designer. Make an appointment to discuss designing a web site.”

Kerr said promptly, “Mr. Manning, this is Dr. Charles Kerr. Bonnie Mae Shelton suggested I call you. I’m interested in putting up a website with consumer-oriented information about orthopedic medicine. I’m free of both surgery and appointments to drop by your office at...” He raised his brows at Allison.

She calculated quickly. Michelle and Heather were home on leave for the Gathering. One of them could fly her up to Austin, though Honora’s Aircoupe was a big comedown from a Tomcat. “Eleven.” That should keep him home without making him refuse to talk to her because he wanted to be free when his client arrived.

“...eleven o’clock. If that isn’t convenient, please call me back.” He left his cell phone number.

“Dr. Charles Kerr?” Allison said.

He shrugged. “My father. I thought a doctor might make Manning smell money and really want the business.”

Probably right. “And who’s Bonnie Shelton?”

Kerr grinned. “Made up...but saying someone referred you makes it sound more legitimate, don’t you think?”

A bright boy, as Drew said, thinking on his feet. Now if only he didn’t outsmart himself.

At one o’clock she called Drew. “No sign at all of her,” she told him.

“None here, either,” he said.

Her cousin Regan found a vagrant dead with no signs of violence and Mike Fairchild stumbled across a break-in. She heard the traffic about that on the radio, listening enviously. He and Tom Sweet both enjoyed a piece of the action along with the Watch One officers.

“How late do you want us to stay?”

“I’ll leave here at two. Why don’t you give it another fifteen minutes, then fold up. I’m ordering pizza and beer for everyone on the operation. How many am I feeding?”

“Thirty counting you and me.”

“I’ll order twenty-five large deluxes from Jorge’s and another twenty-five from Maximo’s.” Which ought to piss off their clerks, having that much work at this time of night. “If you’ll have someone do the pickup, I’ll take care of the keg. Meet in the park?”

“10-4.”

At one-thirty Kerr pointed out the flutist and Del Kindly pulling out of the alley behind the jazz club in his car.

Allison said, “If she’s a target, we won’t find our killer hanging around here any longer. Why don’t you pack it in? I’m going to visit a couple of informants then go home. I’ll write up reports in the morning.”

18.

A sign at the park entrance stated that it closed at midnight. Allison ignored it, following the drive in and along the river to a shelter house in a grove of palms. Most of the others had arrived ahead her. Open pizza boxes covered all the tables and benches, with yet unopened boxes stacked on the floor.

Seeing her pull up, Drew lounged against a pillar supporting the roof and shook his head. “I can never decide if you’re so crazy about looking like a detective or just too lazy to buy a different kind of car.”

She circled the front of her Camaro to the passenger door. “Don’t badger the broad with the booze. Unless you’re not interested in my passenger?”

“If he isn’t, we’re dying of thirst,” Drew’s nephew Peter said, and rushed out with Jeremy Sweet, still in his deputy sheriff’s uniform, to carry the keg and package of cups into the shelter house.

Allison followed, through a gauntlet of high-fives, hugs, slaps, and punches, to draw a beer and start on one of the pizzas.

The post-mortem on the operation was already under way. Was the lack of action encouraging or a bad sign? Had they not been covert enough? Had they spooked the hunter into going elsewhere?

Her great-niece Selena said, “If she didn’t show up to go after the flutist, then maybe the lawyer was her only target and it’s over. We don’t have to worry about her anymore.”

“We still have to find her.” Allison refilled her cup. “She could develop a taste for killing like this, if she hasn’t already. She has to learn we don’t slaughter innocents!”

“If you want to call any human innocent,” Tom Sweet said. “I trust you’re running Kerr in circles making a monkey out of him.”

Sometimes the hardliners irritated her. She frowned at him. “I’m not doing anything obstructive except encouraging him to think Blondie is male.”

Gary Golden said, “Why take a chance by letting him that close? I’ve seen books in his locker about aliens and stuff. If he finds out she’s female, he could guess the truth about her... and then us. It’d be easy enough to make him forget Blondie as a suspect by pushing this Manning as the killer. He probably put her up to it anyway.”

Allison sighed. “I can’t do that, if for no other reason than there’s no evidence of Manning in town last night. Let me run the investigation my way. I’ll handle Kerr.” Maybe. She hoped. But she wanted to avoid complicating things with any more falsified evidence. “Peter...any interesting repos recently?”

A guaranteed way to change the topic. Beyond Gary, Drew winked at her. Peter always had interesting repo jobs...or at least stories to tell about them that everyone loved hearing. With the enthusiasm of youth, he called himself the most inventive repo man in the state, and continually tried to demonstrate that, always ready with a strategy or disguise to help him retrieve the items designated for repossession.

While he launched into a series of stories, Allison finished off her pizza and part of another, then found herself staring longingly out at the park and moonlight. It called to her. Handing Selena her car keys, she whispered, “I’m going to run home,” and with a wave at Drew, slipped away.

She used a footbridge to cross the river, and broke into a jog to stretch. Then she took several breaths, each deeper than the last...feeling as though she shifted gears in a car. Power surged around and through her...searing ice, fiery cold...and with one last intake of breath, triggered an inner explosion. The constrictive human shell shattered. Freed, power surging, she came truly alive. Senses sharpened, sounds and smells turning into an even richer swirl of sensation...the scents of plant life, the sound of wind in the trees and bamboo stands, the groaning roar of a lion off west in the zoo, the whisper of owl wings and the death squeak of its prey, the scents of the owl and rodents, of its blood, of her clan mates and pizza behind her. She leaped forward through the moonlight, the ground steaming away beneath her...reveling in the ripple of sinew and muscle, in the sensation of boundless strength and infinite energy.

Not really boundless and infinite, of course. Along with the replaceable caloric energy, each Shift burned a little irreplaceable life force.

Allison had been just five when Jerusha Makepeace felt depletion and announced her Liberation, but the night glowed vividly in memory. The alphas from every household in the clan gathered along with Jerusha somewhere up-river after midnight. Everyone else who wanted to be there with her waited at the lowest section of the park where clan estates still bordered both sides. Under the light of a half moon, Allison huddled against Aunt Isabell along with her cousin Christian, not sure what to expect, but simultaneously frightened and excited by the energy and air of expectation that pulsed around her.

“Here they come,” someone called, and down along the river swept the whole pack, heat and energy rippling the night over them, giant wolves, black and silver and grey, tails like flags, fangs gleaming, tongues lolling. Except for Jerusha. In the middle of them all, she ran in human form...her energy field no longer strong enough to register as Big Powerful Dangerous Life-form. But what remained left her incandescent with inner light. As they reached the gathered clan, they halted. Jerusha held out her arms to everyone, her face suffused with fierce joy. Then as everyone wished her goodbye, she collapsed.

What landed in the grass bore no resemblance to Jerusha and terrified Allison...a pile of clothes and withered, grey sticks. Isabell patted her head. “It’s just an empty shell...ashes. We’ll finish burning it later. Jerusha is there.” She pointed north, where everyone else had turned to look. “She’s making the Northern Lights one color richer.”

Allison had heard speculation that life could be extended by not Shifting...but how could anyone live without Shifting? That would be death by suffocation.

The walls of the clan estates appeared ahead, rising on both sides of the park, then their own adobe wall with the tall wooden gate in the center. Allison gathered herself, leaped, soared over it. On the other side she landed in the pasture of coastal prairie grass that served as their lawn. Ahead lay the pueblo sprawl of the house with its verandas and terraces facing the pasture, and the long breezeway extending from Honora’s suite on this wing of the house to her studio here at the wall.

The ten-foot tall doors on this side of the studio had been slid open, spilling light across the grass. Allison dropped out of Shift...pulled in upon herself, forced the shell closed around her again. After a few moments to readjust to feeling stifled, she walked into the studio. Big canvases stood stacked against the far wall of the barn-like space, with canvas rolled like carpet leaning against one adjoining wall and bins of stretcher parts and racks of paint tubes along another. In the center of the studio stood a blank canvas Allison judged to be ten feet high and fifteen wide. Her grandmother leaned against a tall step ladder, studying it.

As always, Allison admired how youthful Honora appeared and how she glowed with power and authority even in paint-stained jeans and a threadbare Brooklyn Dodgers uniform shirt. But she radiated warmth, too. So often as a child Allison had cuddled up with her to be enveloped by it. She slipped her arms around the slim waist from the rear and rubbed her cheek across the buzz cut hair, still enjoying that warmth. “No luck anywhere tonight.”

“Damn!” Honora squeezed one encircling arm. “Help yourself to the wine.”

The bottle and two glasses sat on a small café table. Allison filled the empty glass. Screwing the top back on the bottle, she smiled. Whatever caught her fancy, Honora drank, no matter how Beatrice shuddered at “soda pop” wines among her meticulous choices for the wine cellar. Which Allison had always found amusing after hearing Honora talk about both of them drinking anything available in their youth and bathtub gin by the gallon during Prohibition.

Allison sat in one chair at the table and propped her feet up on another. “I thought Beatrice said you’d been working on that painting all day.”

Honora smiled. “I have. Nothing’s on canvas, is all. Austin called back. Candace Flowers doesn’t know of any liaison between a clan girl and this Manning, but since theirs is a bigger clan than ours, she’ll keep asking around. Have you decided the hunter comes from there?”

Allison shrugged. “Maybe.” Between sips of the light, apple-flavored wine she reported the whole day and night’s activity.

Honora continued studying the canvas but Allison knew that her grandmother heard every word. Sure enough, as soon as Allison finished talking, she said, “You sound concerned about Kerr.”

“The idea that Blondie lured Demry to Manning is just a step away from the truth. And look at the composite of Blondie he put together.” She tossed the Polaroid on the table.

Honora came over to the table to study it. “This is that computer program you’ve told me about? It makes the face look almost photographic, doesn’t it? But not very...specific.”

Allison wrapped both hands around her wine glass. “Definitely not specific enough. It looks like any one of us. Which he hasn’t missed. Tom Sweet thinks I ought to send Kerr on wild goose chases.”

Honora lifted her brows. “And you’re listening to him? Have you joined Earth Now?”

Allison rolled her eyes. “Of course not!” She had no quarrel with their political activism, per se. After all, the clan practiced plenty of that in manipulating the City Council and County Commission to keep Arenosa the way they liked it. Earth Now, however, went much farther...promoting wars, weapons sales, and enterprises that depleted the resources humans depended on...lobbying against anything that improved medical care and controlled human reproduction. Pushing dangerously close to the line the hunter had crossed, they even encouraged anti-abortion snipers and clinic bombers. Why? Hating humans was a waste of energy when they were likeable as individuals and runaway breeding and depleting resources would crash their population soon enough anyway.

Honora leaned down to kiss her forehead. “I know you have better sense. So ignore Tom. If you’re worried about Kerr, why not just distract him? Sex is very effective that way.”

Allison raised her brows. “Baba, are you telling me to take him as a lover?”

Honora ticked her tongue. “Certainly not. I never command matings except for genetic gain.”

One responsibility alphas had. The households originally creating this clan by alliance, not blood relationship, had since mingled their bloodlines so much by interbreeding that only the alphas could keep the relationships straight...to ensure matings avoided close ones.

“I remind you,” Honora said, “that some of us have honorably served the household on our backs and we must all do whatever necessary for the clan.” She refilled her wine glass. “You might find it even enjoyable. I’ve probably mentioned before that humans were always my favorite lovers. They may have limited stamina, but they’re so...” Her voice warmed. “...generously equipped.”

Allison had to laugh. “I’ll keep that in mind. But sex would only complicate things. I need a clear head and he might become more attentive than ever.”

Honora shrugged. “You may be right.” She raised her glass in a toast. “Then here’s to being fast on your feet, child, and staying ahead of him.”

19.

He should have follow Allison’s example and gone home, Zane reflected. The screen of his electronic dictionary had gone blank. When would he learn to change the battery the minute the lettering began to fade?

At the far end of the office, Gordon Viapiana, the squad’s Night Watch detective, stood up and turned toward the printer, the overhead lights gleaming on the polished ebony of his head.

“Do you have a thesaurus?” Zane asked.

Viapiana glanced around. “Thesaurus! You’re writing reports, son, not the Great American Novel. Fancy words just confuse the brass and make defense attorneys harass you for trying to sound air-roo-dite.”

“I take it that’s a no on the thesaurus?”

Viapiana grinned. “Check Goodnight’s desk. She uses sesquipedalian bullshit to skewer assholes unawares.”

Furnishing the LEC, someone with clout had made the city pop for good desks...a generous L with the computer peninsula projecting into the room and a hutch section against the wall with shelves above the desk surface and a double bank of drawers below. Allison’s shelves held a small library along with phone books from most of the area cities, stacked letter trays filled with forms, case books both empty and crammed full, a digital clock taped to a bundle of red tubes and wiring so that it looked like a dynamite bomb, and a large color photograph of the Northern Lights. But the books were all law enforcement and criminal investigation texts and included neither a thesaurus or dictionary. He picked up a stack of department memos that appeared to be sitting on a book, careful not to dislodge any of the sticky notes shingling the side of the file cabinet between her and Carl Ng’s hutches, but found only another phone book.

Maybe she kept them in a drawer to avoid standing up each time she wanted them. He opened the top drawer closest to the peninsula. And stared in disbelief at neat stacks of snack cracker packs, granola and energy bars, packages of nuts, candy bars. The last thing he expected in Allison’s desk was a junk food hoard.

“Better not touch anything in there,” Viapiana said. “Don’t ask me how, but she always knows when anyone has...and who it was.”

“Allison really eats all this?”

“It beats the hell out of me why the woman isn’t big as a truck.”

Zane closed the drawer and tried the one next to it.

Bingo. A dictionary lay inside, with a thesaurus under it.

After taking out the thesaurus, he started to return the dictionary and close the drawer, but a line on a computer printout under them caught his eye...animal attacks on humans. Zane picked up the printout and scanned it. He frowned, puzzled. Asking for incidents of animal mutilation he could understand. She wanted to know if their psycho started with animals and worked his way up the food chain. But why ask about animal attacks on humans? Did she think an animal might be involved after all, despite the lack of animal tracks around the body?

Why had she never mentioned running this computer search? Not that she had any obligation to tell him everything she did.  Still...the idea that Blue might really have seen a giant dog was something they could have kicked around. Partners did that kind of thing.  Not her, though, he reflected, fingering the printout irritably.  She had also left him behind when she went off to interviews and while he reported his progress to her, she never returned the favor. Canvassing this evening was the closest he had come to feeling like a partner.

As he started to drop the printout back in the drawer, he realized that the bottom sheet of the printout had a different feel than the rest. It came away from the printout, a separate sheet...a teletype with the results of an NCIC query. It looked like the same one he made this afternoon. Was he happy or not that when he told her about his query she said nothing about having already sent one?

A tick mark caught his eye. Reading the line beside it, he raised his brows. Her query had wider parameters than his. Had she sent for details of this Coral Gables case? If so it was something else she never bothered to mention.

What was the problem? Was it a matter of being slow to accept him after working so long with Garroway? Or something else? He glanced at the Polaroid of the composite. The Station bartender’s comment came back to him: I know chicks who look like that, most of them your fellow cops. And Allison’s hasty? assertion that none of her family could know Manning.  Yet she asked about females with Blondie’s descriptors in her NCIC query, and had been eager to know Tonya’s description earlier.  Despite referring to Blondie as “he” and insisting no witness had seen a female in the vicinity of the crime scene, she appeared concerned about females. An uneasy sensation rippled through Zane’s gut. What did she know that she was holding back?

Wednesday, April 4

1.

She had not slept well. Images of Demry’s body invaded uneasy dreams, morphing into other victims. Allison woke and could not go back to sleep when one victim with his face shredded beyond recognition had a shock of flaming hair.

Giving up, she dressed and drove to the office, where she switched on her computer and brought up yesterday and last night’s incident reports. Mother and Lights she hoped Blondie was Manning’s lover and the hunter had not gone somewhere else for a victim last night, such as The Bullpen out by the rodeo grounds, and picked up one of those students from the bull riding and bull fighting school...then run her hunt through the pens of the rodeo grounds, or down one of the airport runways, or out on Lacabra Island.

Munching granola bars from her food drawer, she searched for fatalities. The unattended death Regan discovered came up, and a two vehicle accident by the airport with one driver killed. No others. She felt little relief, however. That vagrant yesterday had not stumbled over Demry’s body until seven in the morning. A victim from last night might not have been found yet.

Speaking of missing bodies... She called Communications. “I put in a request to Coral Gables yesterday for details on one of their cases. Has an answer come back yet?”

“Sorry, no,” the dispatcher said.

“Let’s repeat the request, please.” Things did get lost and go astray. She dug the NCIC teletype out of her desk drawer and read off the information that would let Coral Gables know what case she referred to.

As she did so, she caught a whiff of Kerr’s scent...and realized it came from the teletype sheet.  The computer printout had his scent, too, she discovered, sniffing it. That son of a bitch had gone through her desk! When he came in–

A chill stifled her anger. Why had he gone through the desk? Did something make him suspicious of her?

A check found his scent on only the two top drawers and inside only this drawer. Because he found what he wanted? Or maybe she read too much into this. His scent covered the thesaurus. Drew’s Bible quote yesterday ran through her head.  No...even if he came across the teletype and printout accidentally, he had still read them. A quick check of the teletype found to her relief that the dispatcher had torn off the transmission time. So at least Kerr did not know she sent the query before he ever heard of Blondie. After debating whether to move the items or destroy them, she decided to leave them. If he happened to look again and found them gone, he might wonder why.

After fetching more coffee from the vending machine out by the elevator and setting out more granola bars, she started her reports.

A familiar scent and the sound of footsteps in the doorway interrupted her concentration some time later. “Morning, John,” she said without turning.

Garroway lumbered over and dropped into side chair at the end of her peninsula. “I hoped I’d find you here early. Guess who interrupted my evening.”

Not someone he welcomed, obviously. She took a guess. “John Glass?”

He grunted. “Close enough. Seems he wasn’t satisfied with the Sentinel’s coverage of Demry’s death. He called the paper and KGLF...told them we’re ‘endangering public safety by withholding the information that Demry’s murder was a savage mutilation by a homicidal maniac.’” Garroway delivered the quote in an even thicker drawl than usual. “The paper and radio station called the Public Information Office for more details. Dan Browning called Maldenado, who called Estevez, who ordered me to deal with it.” He sighed. “I surely may regret this promotion. Just how much did you tell Glass?”

She mentally reviewed her interview with him. “Nothing about homicidal maniacs. But he’s sharp enough to deduce it from the victim’s face and a few details I felt compelled to give him because his kind becomes a major hemorrhoid if you stonewall.”

Garroway grimaced. “He’s a pain in the butt anyway.”

No surprise. She raised her brows. “So I assume the result of all this telephone activity is a press conference?”

“At nine o’clock.” He loosened his tie and flipped open the top button of his shirt. “One nice thing about being on a desk...most of the time I can forget the suit coat and be comfortable. Look, I’ll field the questions but I want you there, too, to demonstrate the A-team is on the case.”

Dismay jolted her. “I can’t be there. A cousin is flying me up to Austin to interview Lionel Manning, with Hal DiChristafero–you remember him?– backing me up, and I need to land by nine at the latest.” She hoped Manning picked up Kerr’s message.

Garroway eyed her. “Do you anticipate arresting Manning today?”

She disliked the tone of that but warily gave him an honest answer. “Probably not.”

“Then send Kerr. I’ll get--”

“Kerr!” No! Her mind raced, hunting an excuse not to send Kerr. He could not tell if Blondie had been in Manning’s place. “He’s been on the job five minutes!”

Garroway shrugged. “Coming into Investigations with high recommendations from his commanding officers. He should be able to handle an interview. DiChristafero can help him if necessary. I’ll get authorization to fly him up in the chopper.”

Son of a bitch! “John...I need to be there.”

“I need you here more.” Garroway pushed to his feet. “Oh, Kerr will have to handle the update for morning briefing, too. Quarter to eight, we meet with Browning, the Chief, and Estevez in the Chief’s conference room so you can brief them on the case, then we’ll discuss the press conference strategy with Browning.”

Allison stared after the departing back in disbelief. Whatever happened to Sure...handle it any way you want, Allison. When they presented him with that lieutenant’s badge, there must be some button they pushed, too. Brass, of course!

2.

Zane stumbled into the office with a jumbo mug of coffee, hoping the caffeine kicked in soon. He would have been better off staying up all night than settling for the nap he fitted in between reaching home and time the alarm went off.

“You look like you’d better have one of these with that.”

He found Allison thrusting an energy bar at him.

“You’ll be reporting on the case in Briefing this morning, then flying to Austin to interview Manning.”

Zane blinked. Before he could ask why, she pushed on, firing information at him. He scrambled to take it in. She had phoned Manning, playing the role of Dr. Kerr’s nurse, and confirmed the eleven o’clock appointment. An Austin Homicide detective would meet him at the PD helicopter pad. She had set up an interview with Demry’s PI as well. He should be ready in case Manning or someone else, say Blondie, threatened violence, but avoid confrontation that could lead to that. Remember what happened to Demry. At the first sign of trouble...back off and call for backup.

The intensity in her voice brought a vivid memory of Pedicaris’s comment at the crime scene on losing body parts. “I’ve got it. What will you be doing?”

“Going to the circus.” Allison headed out the door, then glanced back. “Oh, until you buy your own, you’ll now find my thesaurus and dictionary on my desk shelves.”

He almost dropped the coffee.

Minutes later Carillo came out of his office carrying a printout and ran through a list of wants and warrants, department memos, and overnight activity. Then pointed at Natalie Herrera.

While she updated on her rape investigations, Zane sipped his coffee and considered the subtext of Allison’s parting comment. It had come through loud and clear: buy his own reference books and stay out of her desk. Viapiana was bang on about her. She must be psychic. Or psychometric. Which made him wonder if she also knew he read the computer search and NCIC teletype.

His telephone rang. A male voice said, “I know this blonde you’re looking for, but she’ll only talk to you...just you, not Goodnight. Don’t even tell her about this call. Your blonde will meet you across the street at Quickie’s in fifteen minutes.” Before Zane could ask any questions, the line went dead.

“You’re up, Kerr,” Carillo said.

He hurriedly organized his thoughts and reported what they had on the case, shoving aside speculation about his anonymous caller’s information. Then he gritted his teeth through Hugh Bass’s summary of the convenience store robberies he and Carl Ng were working, impatiently waiting to escape.

Briefing had held him up five minutes past the time set by his caller. Racing down the stairs to ground level and jogging across the parking lot and Brazos Street toward Quickie’s suggestive sign--“Want it fast and hot? Have a Quickie!”–took another five. Zane crossed his fingers that his blonde had waited.

The handful of customers at the umbrella-shaded tables outside included no blondes of either sex who looked tall and slim enough to be the one he wanted. He tried inside, straining to see after the glare of sunlight.

“Over here, cowboy,” a contralto voice purred.

She sat at one of the little window tables with a tall Styrofoam cup of coffee. If she were Blondie, no wonder she set Demry’s testosterone pumping. Zane’s wanted to react, too. A tousled platinum mane framed high cheek bones and dramatic eyes and brushed cleavage exposed by a t-shirt slashed into a plunging neckline. The wrapped denim skirt exposed long legs enticingly displayed by her perch on the tall chair. The picture of an Elvish princess in touch with her inner tramp.

She gestured toward the other chair. “Have a seat, Detective Kerr.”

He took it, setting his Stetson and sunglasses on the table. “What’s your name?”

Zane almost expected her to give him a female alias, but she said, “Peter Makepeace.”

Makepeace? Zane felt his brows shoot up.

Makepeace said, “Sergeant Drew Makepeace is my uncle. That’s why the cloak and dagger stuff...because this is so embarrassing.”

“Embarrassing?” An odd way to react to being a material witness in a murder.

“Yeah.” Makepeace grimaced. “First off, I swear I didn’t have anything to do with killing that guy. Not directly, anyway, but...” He grimaced again. “Well...I pulled a dumb stunt that maybe is the reason he got killed. So I can’t face Drew or Allison. At least, not yet.”

Interesting. Zane dug his notebook from his inside coat pocket. “Tell me about it.”

Makepeace took a deep breath. “Yeah. Well, I work for A&A Repossession Services? I’m a repo man...and a damn good one. This is one of my working outfits. Not bad, huh? It’ll get me into a guy’s pants for his car keys almost every time.”

Zane could just imagine. The male clerk behind Quickie’s counter kept drifting to this end, drooling. “How do you do the cleavage?”

Makepeace stared down the front of his t-shirt. “Serious duct tape...so tight I’ll probably end up with stretch marks on my back. Though that’s not as uncomfortable as taping my dick and nads down tight enough to keep them from showing under the skirt. Then I add a push-up bra with top-of-the-line gel falsies.” He squeezed the breasts. “You’d swear they’re real.” He leaned toward Zane. “Check them out yourself.”

“I’d rather hear about Monday night.”

Makepeace sobered. “Monday night I was looking for this Lincoln SUV. The guy supposedly spends a lot of evenings at The Fifth Quarter but I didn’t find him there or at several other bars, and I didn’t spot the SUV in any of the Avenue B parking lots, so finally I gave up and went to catch Neery’s group at Five To Midnight. Getting a refill at the bar, this guy is there...Ivy League type, expensive leather blazer...and he’s looking me over, about five seconds away from putting the move on me and expecting me to fall into his bed. I thought to myself, I’ll bet he drives a Ferrari, and...I thought I’d see. So I hit on him...and of course it worked. I’ve got the act down pat. In no time Alex is inviting me back to his place and off we head toward his car.” He paused and sighed. “If I hadn’t gotten him out of the club, maybe he’d be alive.”

“Why? What happened after you left?”

Makepeace toyed with his cup. “He couldn’t wait for his place. He ran his hands up my skirt for an appetizer. And he was, shall we say, not pleased. What the hell was I up to, he wanted to know. He stormed away, back onto the A.”

“You’re lucky. Some guys would have taken out their displeasure on your face.”

Makepeace shrugged. “Nothing my repo subjects haven’t tried. Anyway, Alex took off and I followed him to apologize. He tried to duck me by going into Benton’s.” He called to the male clerk, “Darlin’, can I have another little ol’ coffee, please?”

Benton’s. That had been one of the bars Allison checked while he was putting together the composite. “And that’s the last you saw of him?”

“No. I went in, too, still trying to explain I never intended to make a fool of him. He gave me a little shove and told me to get the hell away from him. Suddenly this other guy jumps up from his table and grabs Alex’s jacket, calling him an asshole and saying you can’t treat women that way. A regular Sir Galahad. Alex tells him to fuck off, pulls loose, and stalks out. Sir Galahad chases after him. And that,” Makepeace said with a grimace, “is the last I saw of him. I should have gone after them. But...” His forehead furrowed. “...I never thought there’d be anything more than a scuffle on the sidewalk, and Alex wouldn’t have trouble decking a skinny dude like Sir Galahad.”

A cautious excitement trickled through Zane. This might be a break.

The clerk brought another coffee. Makepeace gave him a sultry smile along with payment. “You’re a doll.” After he left, Makepeace said, “Do you think Sir Galahad killed him?”

“We don’t know until we talk to the man. He was thin. What else?”

Makepeace frowned in concentration. “Shorter than either of us, kind of flyaway dark hair, and, oh yeah, these wild eyes. In a comic book there’d be lightning shooting out of them. He had on jeans and a sport coat with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows...like they used to do on Miami Vice?”

Not exactly Manning, but...not unlike, either. Manning’s photo itched in Zane’s pocket, but Makepeace could be a vital witness. They needed him to pick Manning out of a lineup. “Have you ever seen the man before?”

Makepeace shook his head.

“What did you do then?”

“Sat down at Sir Galahad’s table.” He smiled. “The waitress who took my order commiserated with me for a few minutes about what jerks men are. Cute chick. Monica, Margo, Mira. Something like that. If I’d been dressed as myself, I’d have tried to hit on her. But...I drank my drink and went home.”

“Did you have any feeling Demry and Sir Galahad had met before?”

“Met before?” Makepeace shrugged. “They didn’t call each other by name.”

Zane closed the notebook. “I’ll need to have you come in and make a formal statement.”

Makepeace’s face screwed tight, then he sighed. “I suppose. But does it have to be now? Maybe sometime when Allison is out of the office? I’m talking just to you.”

Definitely not now. Zane checked his watch. He had that chopper to catch. “Give me a phone number and I’ll call you about it this afternoon.” Giving him time to put together a photo lineup, and interview this waitress.

Makepeace gave him a relieved grin. “Sounds good. Until then...I’d really be grateful if you don’t mention this to Allison or Drew.  Now, if you don’t need me any longer, I have cars to break into?”

Hurrying back to the Law Enforcement Center, Zane wondered why Makepeace was so leery of Allison. In his place, a relative would have been the first person he went to.

3.

Every minute of the briefing with Chief Maldonado, the strategy session with Browning, and certainly the press conference, lasted an agonizing eternity. Allison struggled to remain focused, but this waste of time enraged her. Maldonado worried about the Chamber of Commerce’s concern how the publicity might affect tourism and the arrival of the summer people next month. The media, smelling blood faster than any of Kerr’s lawyer sharks and swarming in from area cities including Galveston and Houston to press for every gory detail, thought about readership and ratings. She saw Demry’s body...imagined his terror as a nightmare bore down on him in the moonlight...imagined the panic if the hunter remained at large. Heard the screams of her great-grandmother’s clan.

She needed just five minutes sniffing around wherever Manning lived to know if he had a relationship with Blondie. Instead, here she sat, a prisoner of bullshit.

The sound of her name caught her attention. “I’d like to ask Detective Goodnight if she thinks Lieutenant Garroway’s promotion is going to affect the investigation. Here we are over twenty-four hours after the crime and no arrest yet. Does losing him mean you’ve lost the old G & G magic?”

No mistaking that snide voice...Roland Sparling from the Sentinel. How like him to insinuate that the lack of arrest must be due to her inability to handle an investigation without Garroway. Sometimes she saw Earth Now’s viewpoint and the pleasure of terrorizing at least one particular human.

“Mr. Sparling, I was beginning to fear we wouldn’t hear from you.” Beside her, Garroway stiffened and kicked her ankle. She ignored him, smiling. “One problem with identifying psychotic individuals is that real ones aren’t considerate enough to wear goalie masks. Most of the time they can be totally unremarkable, nondescript individuals unlikely to rate a second glance from anyone. Individuals such as y--”

“Such as anyone around us,” Garroway broke in. “But to answer your question: there’s never been any magic to Detective Goodnight and me solving cases, just hard, solid police work. That hasn’t and won’t change. It’s just complicated in this time by the random nature of the killing.”

Allison checked her watch. Kerr was well on his way now, possibly flying into the wolf’s lair, a lamb to the slaughter. She had called volke officers in the Austin PD and warned them of the situation. They stood ready to roll on any backup request from DiChristafero.  She hoped that was enough.

4.

“Shouldn’t take too much longer to reach Manning’s place,” Hal DiChristafero said. “The house is west of the UT campus. Too bad Goodnight couldn’t make it. I was looking forward to working with her again. A hell of a cop.” His mustache twitched. “Maybe a little spooky sometimes.”

Zane grinned.

They had run through exploratory talk...how long they had each worked for their departments, where Zane came from, why he should come back to Austin when he had time to sample its delights. Watching the streets pass outside DiChristafero’s car while the detective enumerated what Austin had to offer, Zane thought this sounded like a city he would have enjoyed being turned loose to explore as a boy.

Not that his exploration of Kansas City ever came of being turned loose. He slipped away from supervision, evading the safety precautions, steadily increased, to protect him from his “directional disability”.  Almost the best part of investigating the city’s nooks and crannies, though, was “rescue” by the police, and sitting in police stations playing with handcuffs and batons, listening to war stories until the au pair girl arrived to reclaim the lost child. Eventually, of course, the officers realized he knew what he was doing. Having also noticed how much he enjoyed their company, however, they let him hang out. Because his hair made him conspicuous, the brass eventually questioned his presence, but he developed a fine sense of when to leave.

DiChristafero drove along the edge of what had to be the university campus, and suddenly the tall tower rising on his right jogged a memory of a Police Academy lecture on emergency situations and urban terror. “That’s the sniper’s tower, isn’t it.”

DiChristafero’s turned down a street away from the campus. “It figures. You know one thing about Austin and it’s something like that, that happened before you were ever born.”

Deadpan, Zane said, “How much do you know about Kansas City?”

DiChristafero cocked a brow his direction, then grinned.  “Point taken.”

A few minutes later they pulled up in front of a craftsman style bungalow. Music came from inside, a piano wandering around the same kind of quasi-tune Zane heard the club owner play at Five To Midnight. When DiChristafero had moved around the side of the house to where he could see the rear door, Zane pressed the doorbell.

After three rings, footsteps approached the door and the shape of a head appeared beyond the curtained panes at the top of the door.

“Lionel Manning?” Zane started to hold up his badge case.

Before it reached the level of the windows, the door opened the width of its security chain. A hand thrust out through the opening. “Just give it to me.”

He dug out a business card and laid it on the upturned palm.

The hand pulled back. A few moments later the door closed, the chain rattled, then the door jerked open. The man standing there held up the card. “They’ve started using out of town fuzz as process servers?”

The sneer in his voice raised Zane’s hackles, but the hand and demand made sense now. He gave Manning a polite smile. “I’m here on a different matter. May I come in?”

Take off the glasses, put a sport coat over the t-shirt and jeans, pull his hair loose from that stubby ponytail...Manning might become Sir Galahad. The height and weight fit. The rimless glasses magnified his eyes. In the club’s light, Makepeace might not have noticed the glasses and interpreted magnification as wild eyes.

Which at the moment regarded him squinted in suspicion. “Your name is Kerr?”

Oops. The fake appointment. Zane gave him raised brows and innocent puzzlement. “Yes. Have we met before?”

Suspicion turned to a scowl. Manning fingered the card. “What’s a cop from some town I never heard of want with me? Isn’t it illegal, operating out of your jurisdiction?”

“Just a minute.” Zane backed to the edge of the porch, put a fingers in his mouth, and blew a piercing whistle. Moments later DiChristafero jogged around the corner. “He doesn’t think I’m legal.” So DiChristafero showed his ID and Zane repeated, “May we come in?”

Manning held his ground in the doorway. “Not until I know what this is about.”

“We have a couple of questions about Alexander Demry.” Zane watched closely for Manning’s reaction.

His face froze. So did his voice. But both reflected anger rather than fear. “I settled that and I don’t talk to or about the bastard except through my lawyer!” He started to close the door.

Zane’s foot stopped it. “He’s dead.”

After a moment of blankness, Manning smirked. “There is a god after all.”

Zane made another try at shaking him. “He was murdered.”

The door banged against Zane’s foot again. “I don’t say one fucking word without my lawyer!”

Zane raised his brows. “Why? Only suspects have rights and we haven’t arrested you, or even accused you of anything. Do you anticipate we’ll have a reason to do so?”

Manning scowled. “You insinuated--”

“I just said someone killed Alex Demry and we have questions for you.” Zane gave him a bland smile. “A murder makes us ask a lot of people questions. Now, we can come in, ask, then leave...or you can call your lawyer and we’ll wait around for him or all troop down to his office. And maybe it’s hours before you go back to what you were doing. Your choice. I’m paid the same either way.” He stepped away from the door.

Manning stared hard at them, the magnified eyes hostile. After a minute he flung the door fully open and backed into the room. “Ask your fucking questions.”

Such a sweetheart.

The furnishings inside left no doubt about Manning’s interests. A massive recliner with drink and remote holders in the arms faced a room divider consisting of a TV screen the neighbors across the street could probably watch and a state-of-the-art sound system--CD and tape players, even a record turntable. The built-in shelves normally flanking the fireplace in a house this style had been replaced by racks of video tapes, CD’s, and LP albums. But no tape cassettes, Zane noticed. Small speakers snuggled against the ceiling around the perimeter of the room. Beyond the divider, where a dining room should be, long tables filled two walls, crammed with computer components and peripherals. He glanced up the stairs just inside the door, alert for the sound of anyone overhead.

Manning swiveled the recliner to face a couch at the front of the room and dropped into it, leaving them to close the door. “I suppose you want to know where I was whenever?”

Zane kept his voice friendly. “That works for me.” He walked over to turn down the volume on the CD player. DiChristafero sat on the arm of the sofa, eyes fixed on Manning. “Where were you Monday evening?”

Manning grunted...a short, bitter sound. “That’s easy. Here.”

“Last night, too?”

“Last night, too.”

Liar, liar, pants on fire. Zane circled the recliner to the CD racks .

Manning’s voice sharpened. “Get away from those!”

DiChristafero’s brows rose a minute amount that only a fellow cop would notice.

Zane agreed with the surprise. Even given his current legal situation, Manning reacted a bit strongly. “I’m not touching anything...just admiring the range of your collection.” It included everything from classical, opera, and new age to country western and rock of all flavors. He also had Christmas albums by what appeared to be every singer and band in the music business. “You were here all evening?”

Manning watched him sharply. “Yes, I was here all night...updating web sites, working on building another. I need the money now, don’t I...thanks to Dickhead Demry...and I can’t go into the jazz clubs without the performers demanding a strip-search for recording devices.”

Poor baby. “Did anyone call you during the evening...or drop by?” Zane never heard of many of these artists, but he recognized the type of CD...super cheap at supermarkets and discount stores. From the battered look of some jewel cases, Manning bought from the bottom of the bargain bins at thrift stores, too. Did he really like Christmas music that much? And how could he play these albums on his equipment, which would magnify every defect excruciatingly.

Manning muttered, “No one called. No one came by. Why don’t you sit down?”

Interesting that he had the jazz all arranged in alphabetical order by artist or group while the Christmas albums sat in random order...which, Zane realized, almost disguised the fact that Manning had multiple copies of many albums. While not in alphabetical order, however, each case had a number written on the edge in almost invisible silver ink. There seemed to be no pattern to those, either--a mixture of straight numbers, dashes, and numbers in parentheses, like a mathematical formula--except that the first group started with 1's, a second group with 2's, down to a final group with 26's.

Manning’s voice changed to an I-just-remembered tone. “The web sites all have when they were last updated.” The lounger creaked. “Come on back to the computer and I’ll bring up the sites for you to see.”

Suddenly he brimmed with cooperation? “That won’t don’t prove anything. It’s just the date, not the time.” The alphabet had twenty-six letters. Maybe they were in alphabetical order after all. Casually, back to Manning and one hand remaining in plain sight, Zane slid a jewel box from the Christmas group. Bracing the hinge end against his belt, he popped open the case for a peek inside. From the corner of his eye, he saw DiChristafero watching him with a deadpan intensity that telegraphed inner profanity.

Zane returned the case to the shelf. A months’ pay said that CD had nothing to do with Christmas.  Even though the disc inside carried a label matching the artist’s name on the case, it was a computer generated label, with three numeric lines below the artist’s name. It had to be some kind of code Manning used to identify the true contents. The top line looked as though it matched the sequence on the case. A second had a similar pattern. But the third was a straight number that seemed oddly familiar...2102.14. A Dewey Decimal classification? No. Too many numbers ahead of the decimal point, and Zane heard a voice in his head saying the numbers. Twenty-one oh three point one four. A recitation somehow...incomplete. Something more went with it.

“You don’t have to stand that close to read the titles,” Manning snapped.

Where did he know that number pattern? Twenty-one oh three point one four. Whose voice was it?

Then abruptly he knew. The whole phrase rang in his head in the voices of Captains James T. Kirk and Jean-Luc Picard. Stardate twenty-one oh three point one four. Zane grinned to himself. Manning wrote his date as a stardate, thinking no one would decipher it. Along with identifying the date, however, came the realization of a reason for Manning’s anxiety about the CD’s. Which might exonerate him in Demry’s death. If it were possible to see just one more CD...maybe one of those lying in a stack at the end of the section...perhaps albums not yet filed?

Manning’s voice rose. “Didn’t you hear me? Get away! You can’t do that without a warrant!”

“Huh?” Zane glanced over as if he just heard. “I don’t need a warrant for looking at anything in plain sight and I told you, I’m just–Jesus! Even them?” He plucked off the top case...took a quick look at the title and turned toward DiChristafero with a laugh. “I never dreamed Selina and the Yard Dogs cut a Christmas album.”

“You son of a bitch!” Manning sprang toward him, hands like claws. “You give me that! You can’t touch--”

But Zane had loosened the case lid and as Manning grabbed, the case jumped out of both their hands and fell apart on the floor. Zane made sure he swooped down for it first. The CD lay exposed for anyone to see...labeled with a computer-generated label that had Selina’s name and three rows of numbers, including a stardate: 2103.23.

Manning grabbed for it. “You did that deliberately! I’ll sue you, you fucking bastard! I’ll have you up on charges! I’ll have your fucking badge!”

Zane held the case above Manning’s reach, increasingly confident he could not have been Sir Galahad. Infuriated as he was, Manning had become no more physical than trying to recover the CD. A weenie. Threats were his style, or maybe something spiteful like spitting in your soup behind your back. Or stealing your music.

“Call your lawyer. Does he know you’re still recording performances?”

Manning froze. DiChristafero relaxed, his eyes brightening with interest.

“You don’t know shit what you’re talking about.” Manning’s tone sneered, but it sounded forced. “I’ve already told you they check me for recording equipment before they let me into the clubs.”

“Maybe you disguise yourself. But I know you’re there taping.” Police work offered a few very sweet moments. Zane spoke slowly to draw out this one. “I grew up with Star Trek, too.” He waved the case. “This CD is dated March twenty-third of this year. I assume that’s when you recorded the performance.”

Manning snatched at the CD, voice shrill. “Get out! I’m not talking to you any more!”

Zane let him have it. An A-One asshole wearing industrial grade blinkers. Some people he really regretted having to help. “You’re fucking stupid, you know that, Manning?”

Fury twisted Manning’s face. “I don’t have to take--”

“Do you prefer dying to admitting you were making another unauthorized recording Monday night?”

Manning went dead still.

Well, good. That got his attention. “Try to focus on what’s at stake here, okay? I don’t enforce copyright law. My job is finding Alex Demry’s killer...for which you are right now making yourself our number one suspect, based on...” Zane ticked off the points on his fingers. “...your beef with Demry, the fact you threatened him via e-mail, the fact that my cop nose tells me you’re lying about being home Monday night, and a witness saw someone of your description with the victim not long before he died. If you were to be arrested and tried, a crime this vicious would be prosecuted as capital murder. And in Texas we execute...have you noticed?”

Manning went white. “The witness didn’t see me! I wasn’t there! I didn’t kill him! I don’t know anything about it! I was at Jazz until it closed.”

Zane pulled out his notebook. “Can anyone verify that?”

Manning forced words out between bloodless lips. “I have the tape. There was a surprise musician, a guy named Rusty Joe Simms who sat in on piano with the band for the evening. Cool Blue Gila plays just Monday nights and Rusty Joe hasn’t been there before. You can ask people at the club. They’ll tell you!”

Zane believed him, but said, “Play the tape for me.”

Manning brought several tape cassettes from a closet under the stairs. “These are the ones.”

They sampled all the tapes, playing a bit then fast-forwarding and listening to another section long enough to confirm the same band played. Zane judged there was roughly four hours of tape.

“Would one of your friends kill for you?”

Manning paled again. “That’s ridiculous. And I didn’t put out a contract! I told you, I don’t know anything about him being killed!”

“Maybe you did a Henry the Second?”

Both DiChristafero and Manning blinked. “What?”

“You remember from history class? He made his best friend, Thomas á Becket, Archbishop of Canterbury, thinking then he’d have control of the clergy, but when Becket realized that the Church gave him more power than the King had, he started screwing Henry over. So one night Henry when happened to grumble that someone ought to do something about Becket...four knights thought he meant it as a command and killed Becket.”

Manning licked his lips. “I–I’m sure I didn’t say anything like that.”

“Are any of your friends cross-dressers?”

This time Manning’s jaw dropped. “I...don’t know.”

“How about giving us a list of addresses?”

Manning came back from the computer room with a list of e-mail addresses...but looked confused when Zane asked for telephone numbers and street addresses. “I don’t know those. We get together online.”

“You mean you’ve never met any of these people?” DiChristafero said. “You don’t have any real friends?”

Manning scowled. “These are real friends. We get together in our chat room and talk. I know what they look like. We have cameras on our computers.”

But they could live down the street or across the world, and one could be a raving psychotic without Manning having a clue. Zane put the e-mail list in his pocket to check out.

Meanwhile, he went out to the car for the mini evidence kit and roll of paper he had brought along.

Manning eyed it. “What’s that?”

Zane pulled the paper out of its mailing tube case and unrolled the evidence kit to reach the ink pad. “In order to completely eliminate you as a suspect, I want to take your footprints and hair and saliva samples. Unless you object?”

Manning did not.

5.

Hugh Bass stood at the table inside the office doorway, rooting around in the mail tub on it. As Allison came in, he picked up a clasp envelope. “This has your name on it.”

Written by the secretary down in morgue, who had, as usual, addressed it: Goodnite, Cms Agst Prs. Probably the autopsy report on Demry. She bent up the clasp prongs and started pulling out the report.

“There’s also message on your desk,” Bass said. “A woman named Fiona. She’d tried your cell phone but you didn’t seem to have it on.”

Church! Allison hurried to snatch up the note lying under one corner of her phone. Call Fiona C. ASAP, it said, and gave Church’s cell phone number.

Allison punched in the number. “It’s Goodnight,” she said as Church answered.

“It’s my office,” Church said...not into the phone. “If you’ll excuse me for just a minute.” The sound of movement came through, then Church’s voice, low, “I’m in Houston at that assessment meeting I mentioned yesterday, so this has to be short. I may have seen your hunter last night.”

The words felt like a shot of electric current. “Where?”

“Outside that big liquor store in Mercado Square.”

Rick’s Wines and Sprits.

“At one forty-five I left for your local Glendower-Morse branch. There was a volke female putting a handcuffed human male into a car. She wasn’t in uniform and it wasn’t a police car so I assumed she was a plainclothes officer and didn’t think anything more about it.”

Of course not. “But now?”

“Riding up in the elevator here, several guys boarded discussing cars...German engineering versus Italian styling. About the fifteenth floor I suddenly thought about last night and realized the car I’d seen the so-called officer using was a Mercedes sedan.”

Current hit Allison again.

“Since I assume your department fleet doesn’t included Mercedes, that struck me as suspicious.”

The officer might have transported the prisoner in his own car for some reason, though that seemed unlikely.  She would ask around about arrests made last night anyway.

There might be other explanations for what Church saw. A game with a human lover, maybe...playing out a power and bondage fantasy. But the icy knots in her gut did not believe that. They said she had another slaughtered human out there somewhere.

“Goodnight.” Bass touched her shoulder. “Are you all right?”

She pulled her face under control. “It’s just cramps...that time of the month.”

As she anticipated, he backed away.

Allison sat down and lowered her voice. “Did you see the tag number?”

“Sorry. The vehicle was light-colored... silver, grey, maybe pale blue. He had a body-builder look to his shoulders and arms. She was wearing jeans and a sleeveless blouse and her hair loose. It reached below her shoulders. I’m sorry I can’t be more help. I’ve got to go.” Church paused. “Good luck.”

Allison disconnected swearing silently. Missed her! She wanted to slam a fist on her desk. Instead she tore Church’s message into a pile of confetti on the peninsula. She had been so close...just up the A...and at Rick’s herself less than half an hour later, for the keg. If only Blondie had gone inside, so her scent would have been there at the door...though by the time Allison realized Blondie had been there, she would have been already too late to save the body builder.

She called Kerr’s cell phone. “How is it going?”

He described his interview with Manning. “So I think he’s out of it, and much as I hate to, I believe him when he says he doesn’t know anything about the murder. There’s still a chance he has some nutso friend who did it without his knowledge. Manning swears he doesn’t know anyone like that and never voiced a wish that Demry were dead, but I’m betting he complained plenty in his chat room and to anyone else who would listen. We’re on our way to talk to the PI and see what she knows about who that anyone else might be, then check Manning’s alibi at the jazz club.”

What about girlfriends, Allison wanted to ask...but without suggesting to Kerr that a girlfriend herself committed the murder. “Does Manning have a girlfriend who might have arranged for Blondie to kill Demry?” When silence met her question, she prompted: “Kerr?”

“Ah...not that we know of.”

She hung up frowning. Manning out of it...and no apparent girlfriend. She could quit worrying about Kerr meeting Blondie in Austin. But–she swept the confetti off her desk and watched the fragments drift into her wastebasket, taking her stomach with them–they had a rogue...definitely a rogue. With the moon nearing full. The image of Demry’s body floated in front of her, accompanied by screams of burning volke.

She kicked the wastebasket under the peninsula and headed for the door. If the Mercedes belonged to Mr. Atlas and Blondie caught him coming out of Rick’s, maybe she could learn his identity and tag number. Locate the vehicle and they had a chance at finding prints and trace evidence. Mother and Lights, please.

Everybody came to Rick’s. They said so in their advertising.  Everyone did come. They had the largest liquor and wine selection in the city, at a highly visible location, and they stayed open until the bars closed.

Blondie’s victim had come, too. Upstairs in the office, on the same floor with their glassed-in, temperature-controlled wine room, the manager found a credit card receipt for liquor bought just prior to when Church saw the volke outside Rick’s...a Mr. John Surrette who bought for a party, it looked like...two hundred and fifty dollars worth of liquor, including a hundred sixty dollar bottle of Grand Marnier.

She ran the name through DMV.  It came back with a registration for a silver Mercedes S-Class sedan to John and Morgan Surrette of 1813 Heron Street. Yes! That had to be their man.

Asking for an Attempt To Locate on the vehicle confirmed it. An ATL had already been issued at six this morning for both the Mercedes and Surrette, who had extensive tattooing given as part of his descriptors. If located, the driver was asked to contact his wife.

Allison sat in her car outside Rick’s, staring into the bay at the ferry easing up to its landing. Officers had begun watching for the Mercedes over five hours ago. She doubted it sat anywhere on the street, then, or in a parking lot where it would be readily visible.  It could be tucked in among the vehicles in a hotel parking lot...perhaps abandoned near wherever Blondie was staying. Starting with the hotels on Laguna Drive, she would canvass both parking lots and hotels--and the marinas, in case Blondie had rented or docked a boat--all the way around the bay to the fleabag hotels on the west side that rented by the hour.

After calling Honora and updating her, Allison started the car and went to work.

6.

Zane made Ident his first stop back at the LEC. He handed them the rolled sheet of paper with Manning’s footprints and held his breath while a technician compared them to the casts made of prints around Demry’s body. But even a casual examination showed that the high arch and long, spread toes of the killer’s foot were a far cry from Manning’s broader foot with its bunched toes and nearly flat arch. Not that he expected a match. The jazz club had corroborated Manning’s alibi and the PI reported that her investigation of Manning for the copyright case found passing acquaintances but no close buddies.

“What about girlfriends?” DiChristafero had asked her. “Goodnight asked me about any we might have listed in Manning’s record.”

That interested Zane. On the helicopter flight home he sat wondering where this female Allison kept nosing around for figured in. Her question about a girlfriend hiring Blondie indicated she knew nothing of Makepeace’s charade, but what did she know...and why say nothing?

So...if Manning were out, was this Church guy Sir Galahad?

Natalie Herrera looked up as he came into the Crimes Against Persons office and pushed a stack of paper across from her peninsula to his. “You and Goodnight owe Bass and me. A bunch of musicians and people from some bar trailed through here in the past couple of hours to give formal statements. One of the musicians was just short of being strung out...and the majority were pissed at having, to quote one of them, get up at the fucking crack of dawn, unquote.”

“Thank you.” Zane sent her a salute. “I appreciate the help, and forbearance.”

“For-what?” She rolled her eyes. “Jesus...college boys.”

He grinned. “I take it Allison hasn’t been around?”

“Bass said she took off looking grim after talking on the phone to you.”

Losing your best suspect would be upsetting, especially since it meant they seemed left looking for a homicidal maniac. And she must have been upset. Her telephone sat on the end of the peninsula and an envelope lay beside it with the contents pulled halfway out.

Zane picked up the envelope with the intent of putting it in her In basket, then noticed the letterhead. Hertzel Pathology Associates. The autopsy report on Demry? He sat down in her chair to read it.

Midway through he stopped and went back to the start to read more slowly. This psycho’s attack had been even more ferocious than it looked at the crime scene. How much force would it take to rip out a heart? Not that it affected the case except to confirm how strong and bent their perpetrator was, but it was bizarre enough that he wondered why Allison never mentioned it...nor these bite marks.

Unless they had an urgent autopsy, the pathologists would be tending to their private practice at this time of day. He called Dr. Pedicaris at her office. “Atypical bite marks you say in the autopsy report. How is a conical cusp atypical?”

“The normal human bicuspid shows two biting edges. A conical cusp has a single rounded point.”

He tried to visualize it. “You mean our killer has a second canine tooth instead of a bicuspid?” Something like that would certainly help identify their perpetrator...once they caught him.

“No.” Zane could picture her shaking her head. “The human canine isn’t that pointed. And a dog canine isn’t either. This looks like...well...like the mark of a carnassial tooth. Those are the shearing teeth in carnivores.”

Carnivores. It was a bite mark like a dog might leave. He glanced at the top drawer, thinking of Allison’s computer search for animal attacks. “This wasn’t a separate bite mark?”

“Nope. It’s a dental anomaly in an otherwise typical human bite mark. Ask your partner. After we pointed it out to her she went to check the victim’s clothes for tooth marks on the jacket, but there weren’t any that showed the anomaly.”

After hanging up Zane sat staring at the phone. One more thing Allison never mentioned, though now he understood her interest in animal attacks. Maybe she thought some of this nut’s work had been mistaken for that.

He walked down to Carillo’s office door and rapped on the jam of the open door. “Excuse me, Sarge.”

Carillo looked around from his computer. “I didn’t know you were back. I take it we don’t have an arrest?”

“No. Manning isn’t involved in the murder.”

Carillo sighed. “Too bad. It would have been nice to have more than the composite for the evening news.”

Zane came on in to the desk. “I wanted to ask if there have there been any results from the ATL on Francis Church.”

“Nothing’s come to me.” Carillo ran his mouse around the pad, clicking, and presently sat back, frowning. “That’s odd. I don’t even see an ATL for a Francis Church. Are you sure Goodnight said she was requesting one?”

Zane nodded.

Carillo leaned back in his chair, stretching. “Maybe something happened that made it unnecessary.”

“Like what?”

“Such as locating him herself and deciding he’s unconnected to the murder.”

That was possible. One more thing she never mentioned.  Of course she knew nothing about Sir Galahad and that his description might just as easily fit Church as Manning. Which reminded him...he needed to locate the Benton’s waitress.

“Check the case book for a supplemental on Church and see what it says about him.”

Back out at his desk, Zane checked. The Church report had no supplemental attached.

He sat staring at the case book, filled with questions. After several minutes he pushed to his feet and headed out of the office, down around toward Lieutenant Garroway’s office. He might be about to shoot himself in the foot, questioning the actions of the queen of homicide to her former partner, but when had he ever hesitated to dash into a mine field or fall out of a frying pan?

Garroway stood at the division secretary’s desk, going over some papers with Willa Bertelli.

“Lieutenant...do you have a minute?”

Garroway turned and peered over half-glasses. “Sure. Go on in and make yourself comfortable.”

Zane had to climb over unpacked cartons to reach a side chair.

Garroway came in and shoved a box aside so he could close the door. “I never realized how much stuff I had in my other office. God knows how long it’s going to take to put it all away. The last time Jill and I moved, we still had boxes in corners a year later.” He sat down in the other side chair and tucked the half glasses in the pocket of his shirt. “What can I do for you?”

“I...um...” How could he put this? “I’d like some advice on how to work with Allison.”

Garroway leaned forward, elbows on the arms of the chair. “What’s the problem?”

Zane took a breath. “I don’t know what’s going on in the case. There’s so much for me to learn from someone with her rep, but I’m not having the chance. She doesn’t take me on her interviews. I don’t even know who she’s interviewing. She doesn’t tell me what she’s doing. I keep coming across stuff she’s never mentioned.”

Garroway smiled wryly. “How well I know.”

Zane stared at him, a weight in him lifting. “You mean she always works this way?”

Garroway nodded. “She’ll take off on some line of investigation pulled out of what seems the clear blue sky and never explain until she turns up with a suspect and probable cause for arrest. Sometimes that’s good, because independently you come up with solutions you wouldn’t if you’re both thinking on the same lines. But...” The wry smile returned. “...it did mean that a lot of the time reports were the only way I knew what she was doing. We ended up partners on all the homicide cases because I could go with the flow. Everyone else she drove crazy.”

No kidding, Zane reflected. “Then how do I keep from covering the same ground she is?”

“You ask her.” Garroway leaned back and propped an ankle on his other knee. “She may not volunteer information but she’ll always answer questions...without getting mad or treating you like the village idiot. Okay?”

“Okay.” He would try that. “Thank you, sir.”

And now, that Benton’s waitress. No sense going down there because she had probably not come on duty yet. So he returned to his desk and called Benton’s, asking for the manager. After introducing himself, he said, “I understand you have a waitress named Monica, Margo, Mira...something like that? She works late.”

They had a Misty Gant, the manager said, who normally came on at six but who had called in sick today. The manager gave him Misty’s number.

A hoarse voice answered just after the answering machine started its message. “Hello?”

“I’m sorry to bother you. This is Detective Kerr from the police department. Have I reached Misty Gant?”

For a moment labored breathing came over the line. “The once and future Misty, maybe. I’m not so sure about right now. How can I help you?”

“Monday night do you remember an altercation between a woman and two men? The woman was a very tall blonde.”

“The super-model?” More strained breath. “What do you want to know?”

“Tell me about what you remember about the fight.”

“Just a minute.” Her cough made Zane’s lungs hurt to hear. “It wasn’t much of a fight. You could tell the yuppie type the blonde came in with was pissed at her about something, but I was up by the bar so I don’t know what they said. He pushed her away and this other guy who’d been sitting there jumped up and grabbed the yuppie’s jacket. I wondered if I was going to have to call Ben, that’s the bartender who’s a bouncer when we need one, but the two of them took it outside. That’s all there was to it.”

“What time was this?”

She coughed again. “Around quarter to twelve.”

“Describe the second man.”

Her breath wheezed. “I didn’t see him well. He was about the same height as the yuppie, but skinny, and had kind of flyaway hair. Not blonde.”

Rats. Not much help. “Would you know him again if you saw him?”

“Probably not.”

“What did the blonde do after the men left?”

This time the cough made him want to ask if she needed oxygen and made him feel guilty for bothering her. “She had a drink.”

“Do you know how long she stayed?”

“Long enough to finish the drink, and she didn’t hurry it.”

That seemed to confirm Makepeace’s story. “I’ll need to have you come in and make a formal statement.”

After a long pause, her voice came in a pathetic wheeze. “Now?”

“Tomorrow is soon enough. Tell the front desk to send you up to Crimes Against Persons.”

“Okay, tomorrow.” Another cough racked her. “If I’m still alive.”

Zane grinned. She was keeping a sense of humor.

And speaking of formal statements...he needed to set up a time for taking Makepeace’s. When he called Makepeace’s number, however, an answering machine picked up: To leave a verbal message, press One; to send a numeric page, press Two; to reach the main household phone and probably a live person, press Zero. Zane listened in astonishment. Main household phone? He chose option Two and left a page.

Then stared at the phone after hanging up. Despite Makepeace’s desire he say nothing to Allison, Zane saw no choice. This was too important. And Garroway had said, if he had questions, ask. Zane picked up the receiver and punched in her number.

“Where can we meet?” he asked. “Where are you?”

“The Seashell Hotel.”

A mental image of sagging lobby armchairs and threadbare carpet flashed in his head. “What are you doing there?”

“Canvassing for Blondie’s accommodations. If he isn’t local, he must be a tourist.”

“She isn’t a tourist. That’s what I need to tell you. I know who she is.”

He heard an intake of breath, then her voice came back soft and urgent. “Where are you? Close to her?”

“Nowhere close,” he reassured her. “It doesn’t matter, though. She doesn’t seem to be involved in Demry’s death.”

7.

Allison stared at the phone. Then he could not really know Blondie’s identity. Could he? It was difficult to think when she still felt numbed by that heart-stopping moment he dropped his bomb, flooding her with equal parts profound relief, bewilderment how he found Blondie first, and terror he might be in arm’s reach of her. They definitely needed to talk. “Meet me at Jorge’s Pizza.”

Since Jorge’s sold carry-out, everyone sat on their cars or leaned against the building as they waited for their orders. A few people ate their pizza there, too, and the gulls watched like vultures for scraps...perching on the light poles and the parapet of the pueblo style roof, or landing on the parking strip and edging up to the vehicles. Indignant squawks and flashing wings announced Kerr’s entrance into the parking strip. Allison had taken the farthest slot to give them privacy. Everyone else wanted to be in front of the counter. When he pulled in alongside her, they still had four parking slots to the next car.

As soon as he halted, she jumped into the passenger side. “Tell me about Blondie.”

Listing to him, Allison clamped tight on her expression, sweating ice, swearing bitterly. Son of a bitch! That idiot! Or those idiots. Someone with police knowledge helped Peter set this up. Peter himself, of course, considered the charade a lark...like one of his repo tactics.  Likely this Misty was one of his female conquests, charmed into backing him up. Both of them totally ignorant of the trouble he had landed them and Detective Goodnight in. Now she had a Peter grenade to juggle, too.

“Number five-three!” the counter man yelled.

“That’s us. Would you pick it up?” She reached into her shoulder bag for her phone.

Zane peered over his sunglasses a her. “Are you sure? There are three pizzas.”

She turned on the phone and brought up the address book. “If it isn’t enough, order another. I’ll cover it.”

“Viapiana was right.” He reached into the back seat for his Stetson.

Allison punched in Gary Golden’s number. “Did you put Peter up to this Blondie stunt?”

Gary laughed. “No one has to put Peter up to anything.  You know that. He had the idea when he realized he had a girlfriend in a bar with right location. I just...advised.”

She gritted her teeth. “Did you advise him of the shit he was jumping into! Has he warned his girlfriend what she’s doing lying to a cop?”

“She didn’t lie to anyone. Peter answered her phone with his voice disguised.”

Kerr was coming back with the pizzas. Allison climbed out of the car and moved away. “Go ahead and start without me,” she called to him.

Gary’s tone went prickly. “What are you complaining about? You said you couldn’t blame this guy in Austin because you didn’t have any evidence of him being in town the night of the murder. Now you do. Kerr can go chasing him instead of Blondie.”

“Where the hell did you get the idea I’d approve faking evidence! As it happens, the guy in Austin has an alibi.”

“So?” Gary’s tone shrugged off the detail. “Kerr will chase some non-existent guy. It’ll keep him out of your way and protect the clan.”

Protect the clan? She wanted to strangle him. “The way to protect the clan is to catch Blondie, not create quicksand! Unless I fake every report I write, the bosses, and certainly Kerr, are going to notice that he’s after a male suspect who appears suitably psychotic but I’m still concentrating on the ostensibly innocent Blondie.”

“You’re supposed to be so smart,” he snapped. “You figure something.”

“I have! Peter has to recant.”

“Well, that’s going to be hard, because I believe he and Misty will be unavailable for a while.” Gary paused. “If he doesn’t come in, are you going to rat him out to the humans?”

Of course not. That possibility never occurred to her. “If you know where to reach him, tell him to call me! And from now on in this case, when I need help, I will ask for it and tell you what I need!”

She turned around to find Kerr standing frozen with the pizza boxes. She swore silently. In her anger she must have accidentally shown some Shift halo. As a uniformed officer she learned to use that instinctive human fear. Practicing on drunks and junkies, who were never sure later what they experienced, she perfected how to power up just enough to intimidate the hell out of someone. But she wanted to choose her subject and moment, not sling the effect around indiscriminately and send them into screaming panic.

She reached for the top box as if noticing nothing. “I’m starved.”

He swallowed and set the other boxes on the hood of his car. “That call seemed... intense.”

“You heard?” She made her voice casual.

“No. Just saw...the body language.” He opened a box and picked up a slice of pizza. “Do you think Church could be Sir Galahad?”

Fiona? she thought, then her relief that he heard nothing turned to a curse as she realized who he meant. She said hurriedly, “I hadn’t considered that, no.” Stupid...forgetting the lie. The lapse lasted only seconds, but she could tell that Kerr noticed. She better dispose of Church so she could quit keeping track of the fiction.

“Why didn’t you issue an ATL on him?”

He had discovered that? Her mind raced, hunting an out. “Did I forget to tell you he contacted me? It wasn’t long after you’d called the number he gave me. It turns out he’s an undercover DEA agent.”

His eyes were invisible behind his sunglasses and the shadow of his hat brim, but she felt him staring. “You did forget to tell me, and there’s no supplemental in the case book.” He paused. “There are several things in this case you’ve forgotten to tell me about.”

What else had he learned about? She glanced around. “This is no place for a heart to heart. I think someone mentioned you live in the area.” Not only would it be private, but seeing his home environment might tell her things about him that would help her juggle the Kerr grenade.

“You want to go to my place?” he said in surprise. “Uh...follow me.”

She had not really expected “in the area” to mean smack in the middle of the warehouse district, and a building that except for good windows, looked little different from the derelict across the street. A freight door rolled up and he drove in, gesturing out his window for her to follow. Inside, about half the ground level had been cleared for parking. Above them, a cut-out central area of each floor let her see up to wheels, pulleys, and ropes hanging from the rafters.

“I’m using the third floor. You have a choice between stairs and a freight elevator.”

“Stairs are fine.” Carrying the pizza boxes, she followed him up. “I presume you’re legitimately here and not squatting.”

He grinned. “Yes. It was actually cheaper to buy than a lot of houses. I just had to replace the roof, doors, windows, electrical wiring, and plumbing in order to live here. There’s still a lot of work to be done. I’ll be lucky if I finish by the time I retire. But it has plenty of wall space.”

The second floor looked untouched, a cavernous, cob-webbed space littered with abandoned equipment. Then they reached the top floor, and Allison stopped cold.

Directly opposite the stairs on the front wall of the building hung a massive oil painting. It maintained a presence even in the vastness of the loft. The dark, impressionistic landscape could be either rocky terrain or the crumbling ruins of a city. On high points, forms of uncertain species crouched brooding, while predatory eyes glinted in the darkness of the foreground. And above it all a night sky blazed with stars and shimmering curtains of Northern Lights. She could almost see them move and hear a crystal ringing, the songs of volke souls. Allison had no need to look for the signature. The style shouted: Honora.

Without being conscious of moving, she found herself standing at it, reaching up to follow the paint ridges as she traced the Northern Lights. “How did you come by this?”

Honora kept photographs of most pieces, but Allison did not remember seeing this one. A glance at the lower corner found an inscription rather than a signature: For Benedict. It had been a gift to a lover, then.

When Kerr did not answer she glanced around to find him gaping at her. Then he started and shook himself. “Ah...I bought it at an estate sale in Missouri about eight years ago.”

Missouri!  Then he moved here, where it had come from. The coincidence raised goosebumps on her.

“I’m not sure why I bid on it.” Kerr picked up the pizza boxes from where she had set them on the floor and brought them over to a leather couch with the battered patina of an old bomber jacket. “We were there for the antique glass. It isn’t signed and Susan detested it on sight.” He cleared books and law enforcement magazines from a matching ottoman and opened one box on it. “But...it called to me.”

Her grandmother’s work had that effect on humans...it either drew or repelled them.

He sat on the couch, gazing at the painting. “Every time I look I see something different...an alien planet, a post-apocalyptic Earth, new things there in the shadows.” He paused. “A lot of women don’t like it.”

Human women, obviously. “What did you pay for it?”

Kerr smiled wryly. “A hundred dollars and my marriage.”

Honora would be flattered that he preferred her painting to a woman.

A slice of pizza in hand, Allison turned to study the rest of the loft. Which seemed mostly space, the furniture making little islands in the vastness. The leather couch, ottoman, arm chair suite for one. An entertainment center for another...looking small even though it held a TV, CD player, police scanner, plus shelves of action adventure videos and an eclectic collection of CD’s that gave him choices from Mozart to Meatloaf to play through his headphones at the police gym. On the far side, beyond the open center, she could see a long refectory table off a kitchen area.

Bookcases lined the wall from here to the kitchen...some of them real bookcases, others constructs of stacked boards and concrete blocks.  Books filled all the shelves. No wonder he wanted wall space.

Allison wandered along the shelves. The books had been pushed to the back, leaving space in front to display other objects...antique handcuffs, a noisemaker carried by the Nightwatch in pre-police days, an English Bobbie’s hat, a French policeman’s kepi, Old West marshal and sheriff badges...and a collection of model police cars, including a hummer, to which he had added vehicles unlikely to be in a department fleet, big-boy toys like a Mazda 240Z and Mercedes gull wing among others, and classics that included a Cord 810 and Duesenberg Model J. All meticulously painted with law enforcement insignia. The one on a Bugatti Royale purported to be that of the Monaco Police. A young cop obsessed with his job.

She found three photographs...two that appeared to be enlargements of snapshots, of a man with Kerr’s hair and grin lounging on a gurney in surgical scrubs and a woman with Grace Kelly beauty looking up from a hospital chart with an impatient frown...and Kerr at sixteen or seventeen, behind the wheel of a Porsche convertible with its top down.

“Was this Porsche yours?” she called back to him.

“Yes.” He sounded wistful. “You’d have thought that after all the traffic casualties he’s put back together it would have occurred to my father that an adolescent male and a 356 Porsche could be a lethal combination, but... he blithely passed it on like one of his old tuxedos so he could buy himself a Ferrari.”

Nice hand-me-down! “So how long before you totaled it?”

Zane’s expression went righteous. “I never put a scratch on it!” He smiled wryly. “The first few weeks I had it, every cop I knew stopped me to drool over it and warn me the car was a radar magnet and they wouldn’t cut me any slack on traffic violations.”

Every cop he knew? That must have a story behind it. “What happened to it, then? I haven’t seen it in the LEC parking lot.”

He grimaced. “Divorce. Susan learned killer instincts at her father’s knee.”

It baffled Allison why humans made ending a relationship so difficult. Though the idea of being legally bound to a mate was equally absurd.

Then Allison began reading book titles, and once past sections with law-enforcement texts and classics, she abruptly forgot human absurdities and Kerr’s toys. Gary Golden mentioned seeing books about aliens in Kerr’s locker. The shelves here overflowed with them...row upon row of sci-fi and fantasy. Also mysteries.

She came back and sat down in the arm chair. “Do you believe in UFOs and vampires?”

He shrugged. “I believe we can’t dismiss their existence. It’s a bigger, stranger universe than we know.”

He sounded quite ready to consider possibilities that would never occur to Garroway or most other humans. Until now, she felt uneasy about the curiosity and interest with which he watched her, but her real concern was for the danger Blondie posed to him. Now she wondered if he himself posed a danger. His grenade needed to be juggled very gingerly.

She reached for more pizza. “You have some concerns about the case, I believe?”

Kerr took a breath. “Ah...yes. I know you’re the experienced pro and I’m the detective rookie, and Lieutenant Garroway told me how you two worked independently, but...” He leaned toward her, forearms propped on his thighs, expression earnest. “...I don’t know your moves. How do I keep from wasting time covering the same ground you have? If I don’t know what you’ve turned up, what if I miss seeing a link to that when I’m in a position to easily follow up the information?”

He must have given long thought to how he could complain without whining. They were valid points, she admitted, but in this case it left her with the problem of how to satisfy him without really giving him what he wanted. Keeping that grenade in the air.

Should she try Honora’s suggestion? She had all the privacy they needed here. Except... she also had no idea how to go about seducing a human. Being clumsy and ridiculous would hardly serve her purpose.

So she stayed in the arm chair and pumped apology into her voice. “I’m sorry. I guess I didn’t think...just did what I’ve always done with Garroway. I’ll try to communicate better.”

To her satisfaction, the tension in his face eased.

She finished off one pizza and started another. “So...we discussed Church and the ATL. What else can I tell you to bring you up to speed?”

He hesitated a moment. “I can’t ask about what I don’t know about. But...I am curious why you never mentioned the bite anomaly or that computer search on animal attacks.” His ears went pink as her eyebrows rose. “Didn’t you know I saw it? I thought that maybe since you knew I’d been looking at your thesaurus...”

She might have been wrong to reveal even that much to him. Then glancing down the loft at his bookshelves, she changed her mind. If he believed in a big, strange universe, she could use that to concoct lies explaining information sources and quirks in her behavior. “I knew. I guess I can tell you, if you really believe the stuff in those books is possible, but you have to promise you won’t repeat what I’m going to tell you or I’ll be a laughingstock in the department.” She had no trouble sounding sincere. She would be a laughingstock.

Kerr raised his brows. “Are you going to tell me you’re psychic?”

Bless his imagination and inquiring mind! “You’ve already guessed? And believe it? Garroway teases me about being psychic, but he isn’t serious.”

“I thought it had to be something like that, the way you were acting with those footprints at the Demry crime scene. Is that what made you anxious to know Tonya’s description and if Manning had a girlfriend? You’re receiving some kind of impression about a woman?”

For a moment she felt chilled. He had been watching her as closely as she feared.  Yet playing to his assumption might lighten those grenades. “Yes. The images aren’t always clear, so I don’t know if there’s really a woman involved or it’s Blondie.” Now if only she could explain away Peter’s idiocy. But for now, they had other business to tend to. “I’ve had one very clear image, though...that there’s another victim.”

Kerr stared at her. “Are you--” He grimaced. “We spent the whole night on the A. If your cousin had come forward sooner, we could have been looking for the right man, not Blondie.”

“It wouldn’t have helped. The victim was taken in front of Rick’s. The vision was so strong I went in and asked about customers who bought liquor late last night. They had this.” From reached into her shoulder bag for the copy of Surrette’s purchase receipt.

Kerr read it with a sharp intake of breath. “There’s an ATL on this man. We ought to--”

“Tell someone? Do something?” She grimaced. “Tell who, do what? Unfortunately I didn’t see who did it. And I don’t have any idea where to look for his body.” She wished she did. “I just know he’s dead...somewhere. It’s cold, but I’m waiting for him to be found in the hope he’ll find a way to point us to his killer.”

“Two victims in two nights.” Kerr handed back the receipt copy, face grim. “What about tonight?”

Just what she had been asking herself. Blanketing the warehouse district had not helped. “It’s a problem since we don’t know where he’ll pick up his next victim, or where he’ll take him. Without something material to back my reasons, I can’t ask for patrols to be increased.” Not openly, but she could have Drew put extra patrols close to both sides of the bay, hoping a loose net flung wide detected something. She would have liked to draft the whole clan and put one member on every street corner, but that was certain to catch some human’s eye and raise curiosity. Worse, Blondie might notice and play her deadly game elsewhere again.

“Without a good description of the man in Benton’s, we don’t even know who to look for.”

The damned Peter grenade! “Let me call him.” As Gary warned, she reached only the answering machine. “Peter! This is Allison. Call me ASAP about the Benton’s incident! It’s vital to catching this killer.” She hung up. “For lack of any better choices, are you willing to walk the A again tonight? Not the whole evening, since our killer seems to like late hours. Say, meet at nine?”

He nodded. “I’m game.”

She stood up, closed her empty pizza boxes, and eyed the two remaining slices in the third. “Are you going to eat those?”

He stared at her. “Where do you put it all?”

“High metabolism.” She stacked the slices and headed for the stairs. “I’m off to the office to check whether Surrette’s body or car has turned up. I’ll see you later.”

8.

Zane tossed the empty boxes in his trash barrel in the elevator and started to pull down the gate for the ride to the ground, but stepped back out to survey the loft. It felt oddly empty and quiet...like the silence following a storm. Having Allison here had been...interesting. As Garroway predicted, she heard his complaints without anger and explained everything with no sign of impatience or sarcasm. Admitting being psychic explained behavior that puzzled him. He should feel reassured and relieved. He wanted to.

So what bothered him?

He came over behind the couch and eyed the painting. Right now the brooding landscape could be Mordor in Lord of the Rings. Remembering how Allison reacted to it, reaching up to embrace it, touching the Northern Lights in that intimate way, reminded him that while not angry with him, she had been so with someone. There outside Jorge’s, returning the pizzas, the current around Allison set his skin crawling the same way it had when she tore that strip off him at Mercado Square over Demry’s photo. Without hearing her words or tone, without seeing her face, he felt the force of her fury and gave thanks for not being the target. For a moment, when the air around her took on a ripple like heat waves, he had even felt...unaccountably, irrationally... sheer terror. Then it was gone. She turned and he faced only Allison, cool and elegant, not...whatever the terror expected. The fear might never have existed.

He even forgot it in the confusion of Allison suggesting they talk here, with the thought crossing his mind– or maybe a hope?– that she was coming on to him. Driving into the building, he had tried to remember if he made the bed that morning, then forgot that in seeing her reaction to the painting.

A memory of his fear outside Jorge’s touched him again. Allison answered his questions about the case, but she also left him with disturbing others.

9.

There was still no sign of Surrette or his Mercedes, but information on the disappearance in Coral Gables had arrived. Allison read through it while driving home. On February ninth, a cabin cruiser belonging to Coral Gable resident Randall Wallace, age thirty-seven, had been found adrift three miles off the coast... unoccupied, with blood on her deck and gunwales. The blood matched Wallace’s type. Witnesses at the marina where Wallace kept the boat had seen him take it out around midnight. Investigation discovered he had met a tall blonde female at a local bar, and a parking attendant saw the two drive away together in Wallace’s Porsche Boxster. The vehicle was discovered two weeks later at the bottom of a canal, the shape spotted in the water by a news helicopter crew covering an area fire. No useful prints could be developed.

The fax included photos of the cabin cruiser’s deck. A smear on one edge of the blood ended in the partial print of a long-toed bare foot.

Seeing it, Allison almost smelled the hunter.

At home, squeals and laughter drew her through the entry hall and French doors at the far end onto the verandah. Out beyond the patio, Jason and Heather rolled in the grass, letting the three children pummel them. When Jason somersaulted to his feet and tossed Sara high into the air, she screamed happily. Tara and Dylan abandoned their attack on Heather to dive at Jason’s legs, biting his trouser legs. Allison watched a glance pass between Heather and Jason. Seconds later the children scrambled away, squealing in excitement. They had felt the adults’ normal body current intensify. Current became heat ripples, rapidly widening, that abruptly disappeared into the forms expanding to engulf them. Two great wolves, one grey, one nearly black, charged forward, running in circles around the children. When the children lunged for them, they whirled on their haunches and raced toward the rear wall of the estate...not too fast. Side-slamming each other, leaping sideways over each others’ backs, they paced themselves to let the children charge in howling pursuit. Soon, the whole group had disappeared around a stand of bamboo.

Allison made her way down to Honora’s studio.

Her grandmother left the ladder in front of her still-blank canvas, and sat at her café table while Allison reported the day. Several times she closed her eyes and shook her head, and when Allison told her about John Surrette she bared her teeth, but motioned Allison to keep talking.

At the end Allison said, “I wanted to update you now hoping you can contact the Miami clan chief and see what she knows about that case or any rogues in the area.”

Honora nodded. “I’ll also talk to Marlena Golden and Camilla Makepeace and we’ll see if we can’t unearth Peter. It will be easier to make him recant if he can avoid criminal charges, you know.”

Meaning Detective Goodnight was supposed to figure out how? Allison winced in dismay. Peter had dug a deep hole for himself.

“I presume you’ve considered that if the hunter here and in Coral Gables are the same, your new victim’s car may have been driven into the bay,” Honora said.

Allison nodded. “When I go back downtown, I’ll see what I can do about having the chopper take a look.”

“Bring Kerr home with you tonight. I want to meet him.”

Allison stared at her dismay. “Here? Baba, wouldn’t it be better to arrange it for somewhere else?”

“No. Since he’s curious about you, let’s satisfy a little of it while I see what he’s made of. Being secretive will only make him more curious, and he’s already demonstrated his willingness to pry.” Smiling, she stood and returned to the ladder. “Let’s not stimulate that behavior.”

10.

Allison might appear her usual cool self, but Zane suspected differently. Current around her kept the hair on his neck and arms at attention as they worked their way down and back up the A.

Not that he blamed her for being tense. So was he. It had been a frustrating hour. How did you watch for someone with almost no description to go on? Their killer was unlikely to do something as obvious as exit a bar with his victim in a take-along hold.  He also had a good chance of spotting them before they saw him. Not only did their reflections in windows show them looking like cops, the Sentinel tonight had a photograph of Allison smack in the middle of the front page with the headline story about Demry’s murder.

“Don’t you think we’d be less obvious with one of us on each side of the street?” he asked. Though not much less, with them wearing coats, despite the warmth of the evening, to hide their weapons and radios. But his goosebumps would appreciate the chance to subside.

“He might be,” she answered.

Did he sense a little distraction there?

She stopped and spun, peering across the street.

Zane stared the same direction, feeling an icy rush of adrenaline. “What is it?” He saw no male matching Sir Galahad’s descriptors, though there was a blonde woman in high heels that made her look as tall as the male with her. “You’re not thinking Peter Makepeace is going to show up here in drag again, are you?”

She glanced sideways as she resumed walking. “No.”

Over the next half hour, he wondered whether she believed that. Noticing the people she alerted on, he found them all similar to Blondie. Allison might be tense. She might be distracted. He did not believe she had forgotten who they were looking for. For some reason she chose not to mention, she still had Blondie on her mind.

He was about to remind her about her promise to communicate better when the desultory change-of-shift radio traffic coming through his earphone suddenly became an agonized groan. Electricity ran down his spine. Zane saw Allison stiffen, too.

“Assistance.” The voice struggled. Zane struggled to identify it. “Officer...I...son of a bitch!”

“Identify yourself,” Dispatch said. “What’s your Twenty?”

“Third. Fortuna and...” The officer moaned again. “Mother and Lights.”

Zane jumped, stung by the current crackling around Allison. Like him, she no doubt wanted to race to the officer’s assistance. However, there would be plenty of officers much closer to Third and Fortuna already on their way there. And he and Allison had business here.

Zane started to move on, but Allison remained rooted in place, a hand pressing the earphone of her radio tight against her head. Dispatch sent an ambulance, as multiple voices reported arriving at the scene, and as one, hoarse with horror, requested Ident and number forty-three. Forty-three was Gordon Viapiana. Had the officer died? Allison went ashen.

Dispatch ordered all traffic on the incident to Channel Two. Zane and Allison switched, too. A minute later an officer said, “We need number thirty-three.”

Allison! Zane’s stomach lurched.

Her expression looking as though hers had, too, she grabbed for her mike button. “Thirty-three direct. Does this appear to involve the same subject who was on Lavaca the other night?”

“10-4.”

Zane barely kept up as they raced for the cars. Allison stayed on the radio as she ran. “Scramble the chopper! Get it up now, FLIR activated. Tell the pilot to...” She glanced back at Zane. “...to scan the area for a subject with an unusually bright heat signature. We’re on our way.”

11.

Her siren, grill lights, and the strobe light on the dashboard cleared a path before her through the light traffic. Kerr ran right behind her. A dead body, even one of a clan member, could always wait, but for a chance to catch Blondie in the area of her kill she would push the sound barrier if she had to. Never mind the question marks she saw leap into Kerr’s eyes at her orders for the chopper pilot. Any problems rising from that she would deal with as the need arose.

Turning off West Bayside up Fortuna she found vehicles, only two of them patrol units, clustered ahead of her on the right-hand side of the intersection at Third. Somewhere a building alarm shrilled. Parking just short of the intersection, she noticed that the civilian vehicles included a van with the call letters of a Houston TV station. They must have stuck around in the hope there really was a homicidal maniac. With Kerr right behind her, she shouldered past the camera and microphone thrust in her face to circle the patrol unit.

Another five units clustered at mid-block along with Ident’s van, their light bars still on, flashing blue and red, while two more blocked the Warehouse Street intersection, where she recognized a Sentinel reporter and photographer. Yellow barrier tape stretched everywhere. The alarm appeared to be coming from inside the building on the corner of Third and Warehouse.

They ducked under the crime scene tape and headed toward the central cluster of patrol units. One stood by itself with Viapiana watching Dasra Phadatare photograph its open driver’s door.

“What do we have?” she asked Viapiana.

Something bad. The area reeked of blood, and the ebony of Viapiana’s complexion had a grey cast. Viapiana, whom she had seen wolf down catsup-drenched french fries as he tagged body parts in a multi-car pileup, and crack jokes while searching the pockets of a maggot-infested corpse.

“I’ve barely arrived myself. I should probably just let you take over. But...it starts there.” He pointed at the solitary unit.

Starts? Her stomach knotted.

Phadatare half-crouched, photographing something on the lower edge of the driver’s open window. A few steps closer and Allison identified the object as a human hand, amputated at the wrist, clutching the window frame. The knots in Allison’s gut jerked even tighter, until she realized the hand was not long and narrow enough for a volke’s. Below it, blood covered the door. From there a trail of blood and bloody barefoot prints crossed the hood of the unit...and both blood and footprints continued on into the alley on the western side of the street.

Allison gripped the strap of her shoulder bag to keep from dropping to the paving to confirm the presence of the hunter’s scent. Not that she needed more than that dismembered hand.

Kerr muttered an awed, “Son of a bitch.”

“You ain’t seen nothin’ yet,” Viapiana said.

“Who’s the officer?” Allison asked. “How is he?”

“Travis Cherry, and he’s alive, but his leg’s smashed and he looked concussed. He was pretty out of it but managed to tell the first officers reaching him that a man came running out of the east alley screaming for help, and something about a woman being killed. When Cherry started to exit the unit, the door was slammed on him. Now come this way.”

Keeping off to the side, they followed the trail of blood. Viapiana raised his voice above the alarm. “Have a look at that.”

The alarm sounded even louder in the alley, bouncing off the surrounding walls.  Lights Ident had set up illuminated blood smeared up a wall to a broken second floor window. Allison swore bitterly. Somewhere inside they almost certainly had another mutilated human. Just as bad, how much longer would the human public keep buying this story of a mere homicidal maniac before someone started looking around for other villains?

Viapiana shook his head. “That blows me away. The killer had to leap up to the window, clear the glass from the frame--this is the Double D Candy Company, not a derelict building--and crawl in...while carrying the victim with him. He must’ve just gotten in when the responding officers arrived because they heard a man scream.”

He had been still alive when dragged up the wall and into the dark? Son of a bitch.

“They told me that rather than wait for the building to be unlocked, one officer had himself boosted to the window and pulled another up after him while the rest watched the exits.”

Allison kept swearing. “What officers?” Not humans, please! She hardly needed them running around a dark building after a killing machine.

“Justin Lamb, for one. Who’s the other?” he asked an officer adjusting a light so Dallas Sweet could photograph the blood smear.

“Winston Kim,” the officer said.

Well at least one was volke. Allison sighed in relief and saw it in Dallas, too. Justin would make sure the human stayed out of trouble.

“We’re waiting for a Mrs. Foster, the general manager, to come unlock the building and turn off the alarm,” Viapiana said. “Lamb shouted down from the roof that the perp escaped, so we have officers searching the area for him, and the area toward the bay for witnesses and that possible female victim.”

Cold shot through Allison. “Radio them to work in pairs! This is too dangerous an individual to take chances with.” Even, considering Travis, volke officers. She clicked her radio mike. “Thirty-three Arenosa. Have you heard anything from the chopper yet?”

“Air unit direct,” came a response. “I have a hot infrared source. Human. It’s moving south on Second, just crossing the railroad tracks .”

Another voice said, “One-oh-seven direct. That’s me. Check down along the bay.” Justin Lamb.

Viapiana and the officer assisting Dallas with the light both looked up toward the building roof. “How the hell did he get there?” the officer said. “He was on the roof five minutes ago. No one’s come down the fire escape and there’s two stories of blank brick wall to the roof of the next building.”

“I’d say however the killer got off, so did Lamb,” Zane said.

The fire door just inside the mouth of the alley banged open and a slim officer staggered out.

“Kim.” Kerr started toward him. “Are you all right?”

For reply, Kim doubled over and vomited violently.

Allison dug her fingers into the top of her shoulder bag. What the hell had that bitch left behind this time?

She propped her bag in the doorway to keep it from shutting and catching Kim’s arm, led him toward the closest patrol unit. “Come and sit down.”

He looked barely more than a boy and could not have been on the job long. Still inexperienced enough to be shocked by what he encountered. When she and Kerr sat him down sideways on the driver’s seat, he stared straight ahead, face bloodless, dark eyes haunted.

“What happened?” Allison asked.

He drew a ragged breath. “I don’t know how the guy did it, lugging the victim and running, and without a flashlight. He knows the building or he has eyes like a cat. It was fucking dark in there. Except for exit signs and all these red and green lights on the candy machines. They were like little eyes staring at us everywhere.” He shivered.

“Did you see what he looked like at all?” Kerr asked. “Maybe you caught him in the beam of your flashlight?”

Allison expected that Justin, given humans determined to go along, chose a rookie so he could control the chase and not give away their quarry’s appearance.

Still, she was relieved to see Kim shake his head. “Lamb was the only one using a light, and that in quick flashes on the floor just ahead of us. I guess he sees pretty well in the dark, too. He said he didn’t want to make us targets. I caught a glimpse once when the subject passed a window going into the stairwell, but I couldn’t tell much...just a big shape. I don’t know how much was him and how much the victim.”

“You followed him to the roof,” Allison said. “We have good moonlight tonight. What did you see up there?”

“Not him.” Kim licked his lips. “The last flight before the roof Lamb told me to stay back in case the subject got past him. He went up alone. At the door...” Kim sucked in another breath. “Something hit Lamb in the chest. It must have had force behind it because it knocked him backward and he started to fall down the steps. The door slammed shut. I grabbed my flashlight. First thing I saw was Lamb had caught himself and was all right, then I heard something coming down toward me, thumping on each step. It hit my legs. I pointed my flashlight...” He swallowed audibly. “It was a guy’s head.”

Above Kim, Kerr’s lips moved in a soundless curse.

Allison hoped the man had been dead before that happened to him. Fury hissed through her. Oh, the media was going to eat this up. But what about the city? How long before panic broke out? How long before the subconscious human memory remembered what had the power to mutilate like this?

“Lamb ran back up. The door wouldn’t open at first, and after we managed to move it enough to squeeze through we found the body pushed against it.”

Down at the Warehouse intersection a patrol unit backed up onto the sidewalk to let a car through. Other officers held off the Sentinel reporter and photographer attempting to reach the driver’s window. The new vehicle parked beside the patrol units and a woman climbed out. Despite her jeans and denim jacket, every self-assured line of her shouted: executive. The general manager had arrived.

In minutes the alarm had gone blessedly silent and the second floor blazed with light, revealing a trail of blood and footprints to the stairwell.

Mrs. Foster exploded in outrage. “You find and kill that son of a bitch! The building across the alley is empty. Next door is a hardware warehouse. A little blood wouldn’t hurt either one of them. But nooo, he breaks in here! You know we’re going to have to sterilize this floor and be health inspected before we can resume production on this line?”

Allison left Viapiana making sympathetic sounds at Mrs. Foster while she climbed on toward the roof with Kerr at her heels. The trail of blood diminished with each step as the victim bled out. His head lay at the foot of the last flight. It looked oddly unreal, like a movie prop. Perhaps for lack of blood on the ragged stump of neck, perhaps because it stared at the concrete of the riser, giving her little more to see than sandy hair with scalp beginning to show through on top.

Kerr’s jaw tightened. “We’ve got to get this bastard off the street!” He crouched, peering at the head without touching it. “How did he do this, though? The neck looks too uneven to have been cut.”

Allison gave him a shrug. “Maybe the autopsy will tell us.”

They pulled on paper booties, and stepping over the head, picked their way up the edge of the stairs.

As Kim reported, the body lay against the bottom of the partially-opened door. What he had not told them was that it lay on its back with the top of the shoulders jammed against the door, forcing Lamb and Kim to push against the whole length of the victim in order to open the door. In that position the victim looked as if the door somehow hid his head, so he seemed to be missing only a hand. At least the quick response to Travis’s call had given the hunter no time to mutilate her victim further. Blood soaked his suit and shirt front, but the rest of the body remained intact.  A cell phone lay beside the body.

Kerr glanced around the moonlit roof. “I wonder how Lamb and the killer left.” But after walking over to the wall of the adjoining warehouse and running his hands up it, he said, “This way. These bricks need repointing so bad I could climb this almost as fast as going up stairs.”

Her nose confirmed the route. Near the middle of the wall she smelled both Justin and the hunter. On her radio, the chopper pilot reported no luck spotting another hot infrared source. Justin announced he was returning to the scene.

She headed for the stair door. “I’m going to the hospital to talk to Travis. You handle things here.”

On the second floor, Dallas had moved inside to photograph the broken window and blood on the floor there. She gave him the situation upstairs, nodded when he swore, and by the time she reached the street, found Justin Lamb watching Phadatare as he pried the hand off Travis’s unit and bag it.

He muttered, “I’m sorry I couldn’t catch up with her...just glimpsed her ahead of me. I was ready in case she tried to ambush me but she just ran. Her scent went through Marais Park and into the water.”

Cutting off her trail and washing away the blood. The park screened the deep water piers of the Basin from the marshy shoreline of Arenosa Bay’s south wing, beloved of fishermen and birders. Between the fishing docks and vegetation, a fugitive could find plenty of cover. Allison grimaced. “Since the chopper didn’t spot her heat signature in the water, she must have ducked under one of the fishing docks or piers.”

When the chopper left, she could crawl out almost anywhere. In Shift she could even swim the intracoastal waterway channel and come ashore at one of the hotel beaches on Laguna Drive.

12.

At the Anson-Bauer Health Center Allison caught Travis between the MR scan of his skull and surgery to repair his fractured leg. He lay on a gurney in the corridor outside surgery, his mother Donna holding one hand and her sister Dorcas, the household alpha, holding the other.

The aide pointing him out to Allison shook her head. “I don’t know how much sense he’s going to make. He’s had his pre-op and is pretty groggy.  We’re almost ready to take him in.”

“I’ll try anyway.” Allison made her way down to the gurney. “Trav? It’s Allison. How are you doing?”

Travis opened his eyes. It seemed to be a struggle. His voice dragged. “I’m alive.”

Nothing counted more than that.

His hands tightened on the women’s. “I can’t believe I missed her! She was right there! One fucking foot away!” His face twisted. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry.”

Donna stroked his forehead below the swelling and bruise reaching up into his hairline. “It’s all right. Allison doesn’t blame you.”

Allison rubbed his shoulder. “Of course not.”

“It all happened so fucking fast.”

Allison nodded. “Tell me about it.”

He grimaced. “I’m cruising down Third, hoping I’ll see some action...that the hunter is going to show up and I’ll have a piece of taking her down, right?” He grunted bitterly. “I hear screaming. This guy comes barreling out of the alley into the street. Almost runs in front of the unit. Then he sees me and runs up to the door shouting, ‘Help me, it’s after me! I think it killed her!’ That kind of terror I don’t have any trouble guessing what he’s talking about, but as I’m trying to open the door and get out, he’s hysterical...clutching the door and fucking pushing it... and with adrenaline pumping in him, he’s almost stronger than I am. Just as I’m fighting it open and have one leg out, I see her behind him. Wham!, the door slams on me and the lights go out.”

Donna and Dorcas’s faces hardened, the anger and fear in them the same as Allison had seen in mothers and wives of injured human officers. Volke were hard to kill, but not invincible. Her family worried about her, too.

Travis’s eyelids drooped. “That’s all I remember until the lights and sirens. They said I radioed for help but I don’t remember doing it.”

Allison smiled down at him. “Well you did, and you did good.”

An aide came up behind her. “Excuse me. We’re ready in surgery.”

They stepped back.

“She was ri’ there.” Travis’s voice slurred. “Ri’ there. Black bish.”

Watching the gurney disappear through the surgery doors, Dorcas put an arm around her sister. “Whatever you have to do to catch this creature, Allison, do it. Whatever you need, just call on our house.”

13.

At least this killer left identifiable victims, Zane reflected as he searched the dead man’s pockets. They yielded everything he could have asked for: billfold, keys, and the cell phone they found beside the body. Zane gave each only a cursory examination before adding it to the bag in which he was collecting the victim’s effects.

The victim wore no tie. Zane found it in one pocket of the suit coat. Possibly he met the killer while kicking back after some evening business meeting.

A wedding ring on the still-intact left hand proclaimed him married. Could his wife be the woman who might have been killed...though no second body had turned up so far? Zane thought not. The cell phone had rung repeatedly while Sweet and Hertzel worked around the body.  Sweet dusted it for prints and finding only the smears of hasty wiping, let Zane have it.  The call record showed all the calls came from the same number...suggesting a worried or irritated wife wondering where hubby was.

He pushed to his feet. “You can take him now.”

Hertzel’s stretcher attendants zipped the body into the body bag, which already held the bagged and tagged head, and worked down the stairs with it slung between them. Zane followed with the bag of effects.

He spread those out on a table in Double D’s second floor break room to examine, and propped a Polaroid of the head against the cell phone. “Now let’s see what we can learn about you.” The still-open eyes and framing that showed only the face, not the neck, gave the victim an appearance as much catatonic as dead. The glazed eyes stared indifferently through Zane as he opened the billfold. Along with cash and credit cards, it yielded a driver’s license for a Mr. Franklin Matthew Cromer, age 40, with an address in the Lost Creek addition, business cards for Entrepreneurial Enterprises, Inc., and three credit card receipts for the evening.

Zane swore. The victim spent three hundred dollars on dinner at Hampton Court, ran up a tab of twenty-five dollars at Ice And Ivory, and parked from seven-thirty until eleven-oh-five in a parking lot at Orca and Avenue B. Cromer had been dining and drinking on the A at the same time he and Allison were there. And the killer had been there, too, and perhaps even walked past them. Laughing to himself at them.

They had someone who liked terrorizing and killing. The chances of finding the woman alive were slimmer by the moment. Unless she figured into the crime somehow.

The woman of Allison’s psychic vision?

Below a wall phone, a phone book lay chained to a shelf. Zane looked up the addresses for Hampton Court and Ice And Ivory. He remembered the piano bar from last night. Where did the restaurant sit in relation to it? Just across the street, according to the address. So...it appeared Cromer left the restaurant, then crossing the street on his way back to his car, stopped in the bar for a drink. It seemed unlikely he drank twenty-five dollars worth of liquor himself. The question was whether he bought a round for some of the group he had dinner with or several drinks for just one person...say the woman.

The cell phone trilled again.

Zane noted the time in his notebook with those of the other calls. The caller ID window gave the same number as the previous calls...the same number as that listed for Cromer’s home phone on the business card. They needed to talk to his wife as well as notify her of her husband’s death. She should know who he had dinner with.

The driver’s license caught his eye. They also needed to locate the victim’s car. Since Cromer drove it away from the North Bay, maybe he did so with the killer in it.

“Anything I can do?”

He looked up to find Justin Lamb in the doorway. “Find out what vehicles our victim owns.” Zane read off Cromer’s DL information to him. Then, remembering the chopper search, he asked, “Do you know why Allison was looking for a suspect with a high infrared output?”

“Not a clue,” Lamb replied.

“Do you have a high metabolism?”

He said dryly, “I’d guess I show up plenty warm when I’ve been running full out.”

So would anyone, Zane reflected, but Lamb showed hotter than average and Allison expected the killer to, also. Interesting. Calling her to give her a quick update on the status of the crime scene, he considered asking her about that, but stuck to more relevant questions. “Can you go see the wife? I’ll put in a call for the duty chaplain to meet you there.”

Did he hear a sigh at the other end? Her voice moments later betrayed no resignation or irritation. “Of course. I’m through at the hospital. Travis will be fine.”

“What could he tell you about the killer?”

“Nothing helpful. I’ll see what the wife can tell us.”

The DMV came back with three vehicles registered to Frank and Sandra Cromer: a 2000 PT Cruiser, a ‘99 Caravan, and a ‘93 Corvette. The victim’s key ring held car keys for a Chrysler.

Zane held them up. “Let’s check the Basin for this Cruiser.” His thought after Demry’s death remained valid: the Basin lot’s lights and security cameras made it the most logical place to park. And it was only two blocks from this crime scene.

Five minutes later the a triumphant voice on the radio said, “We’ve located the victim’s vehicle at HB.”

“I’m on my way.” Zane swept the items from Cromer’s pockets back into the bag and shoved the Polaroid in his hip pocket. Outside, Dasra Phadatare seemed about to go idle. “Grab your kit,” he told the tech. “We have another site.”

At the Basin, Carl Russell and Brian Swann waited near their find. “Hard to miss it, once we got here,” Swann said.

The Cruiser sat directly beneath a light pole and down away from other cars in the lot belonging to night personnel at the Basin and the crews of shrimp boats. Cromer had probably chosen the spot so the light would discourage would-be thieves. If anything, the light shining down on that candy apple red only advertised the vehicle. The security cameras on light poles along the chain link fence separating parking area from the quay would not have discouraged a good thief, either. He could pop the column and boogie before the security guard finished dialing 911. For Phadatare, however, the location was ideal, letting him examine the vehicle without having to call for lights. Zane studied the car while the officers helped Phadatare set a wide circle of cones around the vehicle and string crime scene tape through the slot in the tops. But after being prudent enough to park here, Cromer had left his window open. Did that mean this was where the chase began, giving him no chance to close it?

Zane glanced toward the cameras. “I’m going to talk to the security guard. Let’s just check the ground around the vehicle. We’ll process the vehicle itself downtown.”

As he drove around the Basin to the offices on the south side, Zane saw one camera, then another, track him. At the offices, the door buzzed open as soon as he approached it.

The burly guard came out of the security room to meet him. “So you really are a detective now, Kerr? Does your interest in the Cruiser out there have anything to do with all the cruisers up Warehouse and Fortuna?”

“Yes and yes. How were the Keys?” The last time Zane talked to Duane McKay, the security guard was leaving for a fishing vacation. His burnished cheeks and peeling nose attested to long hours in the sun.

McKay grinned. “Great. It’s hard coming back to work.” He sobered. “It was really hard coming on duty tonight and learning about Charlie. The Basin won’t be the same without him. He was a great guy. What’s with the Cruiser?”

“It’s a murder victim’s vehicle.” Zane followed McKay into the security room and found the monitor showing the Cruiser. Phadatare circled it just inside his barrier tape, sweeping a flashlight beam back and forth across the pavement. “Did you see it arrive?”

McKay blinked. “The guy is dead? Shit. That’s not how I expected his evening to end. Did she kill him?”

So there definitely was a woman involved. “She might be a victim, too. What do you mean murder isn’t how you expected their evening to end?”

McKay grinned. “Well...they were getting it on! I thought they were going to do it right there up against the car and was sorry we only tape inside the fence.”

Zane frowned. That sounded as if the killer had not come with Cromer. “How many people were in the car?”

“Just the two of them.”

So...the killer followed them. Or he was already here. In which case, maybe the woman set Cromer up. “Tell me what happened.”

McKay dropped into his swivel chair and leaned it back. “The car pulled in. Being the only one in that section of the lot, it caught my eye. This Susan Anton kind of babe jumped out of the passenger side and ran around to the driver’s door.”

A jolt like electricity shot through Zane. “You mean she was tall and blonde?”

“Exactamente.” McKay warmed to his story. “She drags out the driver. They must’ve been playing around on the way here because I could see he’d already stepped his mast. She plastered herself against him from lips to knees and grabbed for his butt. But performing in a spotlight was a little more of a walk on the wild side than he could handle, it looked like. He pointed the direction of the cameras. When she peeled out of her shoes and pantyhose, though, he went from mizzenmast to mainmast and pointed at the rear door. Except she wasn’t interested in any back seat. She wrapped a leg around his waist and groped under his coat like she planned to rip it and his shirt off him. At which point I’m thinking go, go and even though there’ve been so many cops around this evening please don’t let one come along now and spoil the show. Then all of a sudden she grabbed inside his coat and jumped back waving what looked like his cell phone.”

Explaining why the phone lay beside the body and had been wiped.

“Taking it pissed him off. He started chasing her around the car. But she just kept screwing around, laughing and making him play tag. Then she took off at a run across the road and into the alley between Fortuna and Warehouse!” McKay rolled his eyes. “Jesus. She had to be high on something or a total ditz.  He wasn’t any better. He runs after her! Me, I’d have said screw her...she can keep the phone and find her own way home.”

Except the threat of losing the address book, calendar, maybe pictures and notes from the dinner could be enough to make someone forget everything but recovering it.  This woman played on that. Which meant she had set Cromer up for--

Zane’s thought slammed to a halt. Wait. “McKay, did she put her shoes back on?”

The guard shook his head. “No. She took off fucking barefooted!” McKay peered up. “Hey, you okay?”

Zane felt slugged in the gut. Demry and Cromer’s killers had been barefooted. But the blonde Demry met had been Peter Makepeace. He pulled out the composite of Blondie. “Did she look like this?”

McKay nodded. “Pretty close anyway. I don’t get closeups with these cameras.”

Damn. He had liked Makepeace. They needed to talk to the waitress again. She stated Blondie left Benton’s well after Demry, but could she be mistaken about the time interval? Where had Makepeace been tonight?

Zane’s radio crackled. Carl Russell said, “There’s nothing around the vehicle.”

Nothing? “Did the woman come back for her shoes?” he asked McKay.

McKay shook his head. “Not that I saw...and what with the excitement off west, I kept an eye on those monitors.”

Zane clicked his mike switch. “Do you see shoes anywhere there?”

“Just a minute.” Russell came back on the air a moment later. “Phad says there’s a pair of high heels and some pantyhose on the front seat.”

Giving, maybe, DNA!  They could also play Prince Charming to a suspect’s Cinderella. “I’ll call for the vehicle to be transported downtown.” Once he had done that, he needed to meet with Allison. Breaking the news about her cousin’s involvement was not something he wanted to do on the phone.

14.

“Peter?” Allison’s gut knotted. “He’s no killer.”

But what other conclusion did she expect Kerr to draw once the security guard described the female with the victim? Boom went the Peter grenade. Where are you, you miserable bastard! You see the mess your stunt has created? And what it’s gotten you into?

Across the bay from the Basin parking lot where they sat on the fenders of their respective vehicles, the masts of moored boats bobbed in the moonlight, silhouetted against streetlights and hotels across the boulevard, each bob a little higher. Tide still coming in. Quicksand growing deeper.

“I can understand you not wanting to believe he’s guilty,” Kerr said. “But what are the chances that Demry met another tall, blonde he/she immediately after leaving Benton’s?”

She countered, “Why would Peter confess to being Blondie if he killed Demry, and planned to kill again? I’m confident we’ll find his fingerprints don’t match to any on Cromer’s car nor his DNA in the shoes and pantyhose.”

“That’s a little hard to prove when he isn’t here to fingerprint him or take a DNA sample.” Kerr paused. “I think we ought to get a warrant for his arrest on suspicion of murder.”

Her mind scrambled for an excuse to avoid that. “No, not yet. Let me ask around the family first. Maybe he had to go out of town on a repo job. I’ll contact the company office in the morning.”

Kerr eyed her. “Would you drag your feet if he weren’t family?”

A legitimate question, and she could afford to answer honestly. “If I thought for one second that he did this, he could be my mother and I’d go after him with everything I have! What’s happened to these men is unspeakable and I want their butcher off the street! But I know Peter didn’t do it. There’s another blonde around.”

He eyed her skeptically. “The woman in your psychic impression?”

That worked for her. “Maybe.”

“Do high body temperatures run in your family?”

Her breath caught. “Excuse me?”

He rubbed at some spot on his trousers. “You wanted the chopper pilot looking for someone who showed super-bright on infrared. Lamb did. I’m just wondering if it runs in the family.”

He thought too much. “The killer isn’t a member of my family, and I couldn’t have thought it was Peter when we scrambled the chopper because we didn’t know anything then about the blonde the security guard saw. Let’s give Peter...” She glanced at her watch. “...twelve hours. If he hasn’t come in on his own by then, we’ll ask for the warrant.”

Kerr frowned. “This monster’s on a roll. Three men in three nights, assuming your vision about Surrette was real. You know we’re gambling with the life of some other man tomorrow night.”

“I know.” Ice clunked in her gut. Despair washed after it. If the hunter could take Cromer with them in shouting distance, how were they ever going to save tonight’s victim? “There’s still time before closing to talk to the people at the bar Cromer visited. If he met this blonde there, they had a better look at her than the security guard did. Maybe they can give us something helpful.”

When she talked to Cromer’s wife, Mrs. Cromer--crushing the chaplain’s hand in hers and struggling to hold herself together while she answered Allison’s questions--had been certain that the venture capital people her husband took to dinner, sampling the cuisine of a chef there who wanted to open his own restaurant, included no blonde women. The names he mentioned to her all sounded male. She knew of no plans to go anywhere after dinner. Cromer told her he expected to be home sometime between ten-thirty and eleven.  His office would know the names of the venture capital people. It all only confirmed what Allison already knew, that the hunter chose her entertainment where everyone else in town went for theirs.

Kerr slid off his car. “I’m on my way.”

He had barely pulled away when Allison thumbed the mike switch of her radio. “I need to forty-three with Gary Golden.”

They met in the Amelia Bliss Zoo parking lot. Pulling up with her window opposite his, Allison said, “Would you like to hear where Peter’s little stunt has landed us?”

Listening to her tell him, his normal cocky glow withered. “What are you going to do?”

She leveled a finger at him. “You are going to tell Peter he has to come in before I’m forced to swear out a warrant for him.”

Gary stiffened. “You can’t arrest him!”

“I’m not left with much choice.”

He ran a hand back through his hair. “But I don’t know where he is. I told Marlena that and I swear to you, too, by the Mother of Life and the souls of our ancestors, I don’t know. Peter said he had somewhere that he and Misty could lie low...that no one in the clan knows about...in case you were really steamed.”

She stared at him in disbelief. “If he thought I’d be angry, why did he do it?”

Gary licked his lips. “He–well, okay, we thought Kerr wouldn’t tell you for a while, that he’d be off chasing evidence against Manning, and by the time he told you, you’d have Blondie out of action. Even though the humans wouldn’t know what happened to Demry’s killer, the case would move to the back burner and go cold, and since Peter hadn’t made a formal statement–”

“That what...everyone would just forget about it?” She fought an urge to haul him out through the window of his unit and shake sense into him. “Damn it, Gary, you know better than that! I don’t care how seduced you are by Earth Now rhetoric, you’re a cop. You know police procedure. You know cop mentality. And you know that no matter how weak and contemptible humans might seem to your EN buddies, they’re not stupid. And Kerr most certainly is not! So you start digging for Peter. You have until thirteen hundred hours. If he has a snug little den somewhere he may have taken other girlfriends there. As soon as you finish the shift, you look up every one of them you know and talk to them. If you don’t know already, find out the names of his human buddies at work and you ask them, too.”

Gary frowned. “Why don’t I give you the names?”

She curled her lip. “Right. So I can spend time tracking Peter that I need to use finding the hunter? Whose capture will protect this clan, I remind you. No, you helped make this mess. You track him down. You get his sorry butt in to me. And,” she finished through bared teeth, “you find him!”

His patrol unit crept out of the parking lot, tailpipe tucked between its rear tires.

Allison leaned her forehead against hands folded on top of her steering wheel. Yes, she needed to find the real Blondie...but where did she look next? How did she keep Kerr on the right track without letting him in sight of the whole truth? How long could she keep juggling.

15.

The lights burned brightly in Ident’s garage. Beneath them, Ident techs worked on both Cromer and Cherry’s vehicles. Standing on a ladder to position himself directly over the police cruiser’s hood, Dallas Sweet photographed the blood and footprint. Dasra Phadatare brushed fingerprint power on the driver’s door.

Peering over the ET’s shoulder, Zane could see a palm print appearing on the rear edge of the window frame. Hopefully it was the killer’s, left as he slammed the door on Cherry. “When will you have something we can enter into AFIS?”

Phadatare answered without looking up. “Detective, I will tell you what I told Detective Goodnight shortly ago...we will have prints when we finish. Check back in a few hours.”

Zane retreated.

Up in the office he found Allison at her computer, fingers flying across the keyboard. “What did you learn at the bar?”

“It’s where Cromer met...the blonde.” A nice compromise description that avoided naming Peter, identifying sex, or stating an opinion about guilt. Zane dropped into his desk chair and switched on his computer. “They remembered me from the other night better than they did Cromer until I showed them Blondie’s composite. Her--their call on her sex, by the way--they remembered.” He thumbed through his notebook to the page with notes from Ice And Ivory. “She’d been in the bar about half an hour before Cromer came in, spending her time chatting up the pianist and male customers.  She didn’t drink with any of them until Cromer, though. The waitresses don’t know why she picked him. They don’t think she was waiting for him. He looked surprised when she sat down. But after they started talking--a waitress overheard him saying something about celebrating a deal–in no time she moved her chair to his side of the table and was sitting with the hand next to him under it while he breathed heavily. They left with his suit coat buttoned tight and his hand on her butt.” Zane paused. “The MO sounds familiar, doesn’t it. There is one thing we haven’t heard about before...Blondie’s voice. The pianist says she had a British accent.”

Allison turned sharply. “Foreign. Yes.” She sounded pleased.

Zane shifted in his chair. “Does Peter Makepeace do accents?”

She sighed. “Yes.”

“Any of the family know where he is?”

“Not yet.” She clicked on Print, brought up a new blank form on her screen, and began another report.

“Are you so sure he’ll--”

“You better work on your reports so you can grab a couple of hours of sleep.” Her fingers raced across on the keyboard. “We’re going to be very busy tomorrow. I talked to Lieutenant Garroway a while ago and as you can imagine, he isn’t a happy camper. He wants this case resolved...or at the very least, measurable progress made on it to placate the brass and the media. As far as I know, the media isn’t aware of the decapitation, but that severed hand is sensational enough. The press conference will be a zoo. You don’t have to be there, so you’ll hit the realty offices to check recent rentals.”

Zane brought up a report form. “Did Viapiana turn up any witnesses around the crime scene?”

“No. Those whom the sirens didn’t send packing exhibited profound blindness and deafness.”

Was it his imagination or did he hear relief in her tone? Maybe she had doubts about Makepeace after all.

Close to four, Allison shut off her computer. Zane followed suit after a trip to the printer for his reports and rough drafts of witness statements for McKay and the waitresses and pianist from Ice And Ivory to go over when they came in tomorrow. They walked down to the parking lot together.

“How about a cup of coffee?” she asked.

How many times in the past would he have loved that invitation. But at this hour? “Thanks, but I think I’ll take your advice about catching z’s.”

As he headed for his Wrangler, he saw her walk around the far side of her car and kick at it.

“Trouble?”

She trotted his direction, grimacing. “A flat tire. I don’t feel like screwing with it tonight. Will you give me a lift home?”

“Climb in. Where to?” Where did Elves live on the Gulf Coast of Middle Earth.

“Twelve hundred North Parkview Drive.”

He almost stripped the gears.

He had assumed she lived in an apartment, or maybe a small house. Most of that neighborhood consisted of huge old Victorians or luxury custom homes, except the even-numbered addresses along North Parkview, overlooking the park, were walled estates.

Answering his unspoken question, Allison said, “It’s my grandmother’s house. She likes having family close to her.”

Just not the public. When Zane turned off the street into short driveway, he found that, like the property on both sides of it, 1200 sat behind a wall and closed gate, which for all its decorative ironwork would have done credit to a prison. The view through the gate looked less grim but a far cry from the elegant Victorians...a one-story pueblo style structure facing the gate across a stone courtyard. Outside his window a post held gate access controls...a speaker, swipe slot, and the tiny lens of a CCD camera. But no call button, he noticed.

“As long as you’re here, you might as well come in,” Allison said.

A second invitation. Was she coming on to him after all? “If you don’t think we’ll wake people up.”

She laughed. “Don’t worry about that.”

“Well hel-lo,” a sultry voice said from the speaker. “What can I do for you, handsome?”

“It’s me,” Allison called across him. “If a card isn’t swiped within thirty seconds of pulling up to the gate, a signal activates in the house.”

So someone at least was awake.

The gate slid open. Zane drove in. He found two rows of garages facing each other, stretching from house to wall. Either someone collected cars or a crowd lived here. Someone collected, too, though. In adjoining bays next to the house he could make out the front ends of a vintage Alfa Romeo, and real life versions of his Cord 810 and Duesenberg models. Another bay held a Harley.

The front door opened and a young female trotted into the courtyard. “Who’s the hunk who brought you home? A lover you haven’t told us about?” It was the voice from the speaker.

Zane stared at her. Tolkien’s Elves never looked like this...sheathed in tight bike leathers, sporting multiple rings in her ear lobes and up the rims of her ears, hair pulled into a ponytail on top of her head and woven with metallic cord so it fell around her ears and face in a fountain of smoky silver, gold, and red. He bet she rode the Harley.

Allison frowned. “He’s just my partner.”

“Cool.” The Punk Elf strolled to his door and draped herself against it, eyeing him with frank sexual interest. “I’m Rikki. Let me be the first to give you a warm welcome.”

The perfume she wore must be a family favorite. He had caught hints of it on Allison this week. Rikki, however, seemed to have bathed in it. The scent flooded from her to surround him. Impossible to characterize, neither sweet nor musky, yet both, it set his hormones reeling.

“To come in, he has to be able to exit his vehicle,” Allison said.

Grinning, Rikki stepped back and let Allison lead the way inside. “Just don’t keep him all to yourself.”

The pueblo look continued inside the house, with vigas supporting the roof overhead and a stone-flagged entry hall under his feet. What looked like an original Stephen Austin map of Texas hung framed on one wall.

The wide hallway ran back to French doors, but before Zane could tell what lay beyond them, Allison tapped his arm. “May I present my grandmother, Honora Goodnight.”

Even before he turned Zane felt goosebumps. Honora Goodnight had to be the most dazzling middle-aged woman he ever met. Tall and slim as her granddaughters, radiant with electric vigor, exuding authority from every regal pore, she could give any super model a hard run for the money. Even in her paint-stained t-shirt and jeans. Folk tales about mortals shielding their eyes to keep from being consumed by the glory of a god must originate with such a woman. One cross look from her would, like that from Medusa, surely turn him to stone.

Almost-silver eyes smiled into his. “I’ve looked forward to meeting you, Zane. Please come and have a glass of wine. I’m sure you need it after such a long day.”

She led the way out the French doors onto a verandah, then down a step onto a patio drenched in light by the moon hanging beyond the far estate wall. More than a dozen people sat around small tables, their pale hair almost luminous in the moonlight, and as they broke off conversation and laughter to swivel toward him, eyes here and there looked brighter silver yet, reflecting light coming from the house through French doors. An Elvish court, one ethereally elegant Goodnight after another. Zane felt like a Great Dane among greyhounds.

Among the introductions, one stuck out...Lennox. Councilwoman Lennox Goodnight? Pieces dropped together in his head and he realized with a shock that Allison’s family was part of the infamous Parkview Gang, the voting block that controlled the City and County of Arenosa as firmly, if with a lighter touch, as Tammany Hall had ruled New York and Tom Pendergast, Kansas City in the Thirties.

Honora handed him a glass of wine. “I have a hopefully pleasant surprise for you...if you’ll let me show you around?”

She moved inside. Her magnetism pulled him after her. He might have been a victim of the Borg. Resistance is futile.

The house had not seemed large coming in, nor did any one part of it. The series of halls and rooms they moved through continued to feel part of a pueblo, with vigas supporting the roof. But the building rambling on and on in a sprawling maze.

And paintings dominated walls everywhere...paintings that electrified him, portraying raw power...storms on land and at sea, wild landscapes, primitive men hunting wild animals, animals hunting or battling for survival, military battles, Wild West scenes...all in impressionistic slashes of color. Along the way he suddenly realized not just size but the style matched his painting. He started checking the signature. All had the same one: Honora.

“This is your work?” He felt stunned. “Do you have unsigned work?”

She smiled. “Yes, your painting is one of mine. Allison described it. Gifts to lovers aren’t signed, only personalized. I’m glad Benedict’s painting has found someone else who appreciates it as much as he did. It’s one reason I wanted to meet you.”

They ended up in her studio...very different from the rest of the house. Though vigas also supported its roof, they soared like a barn’s, twenty-five feet above the quarry tile floor, dwarfing the massive blank canvas set up in the center of the room. Wide doors in one wall had been slid open, letting in the night air and spilling light into the grass outside. Replace the vigas with hand hewn beams and this would make a good Great Hall at Tolkien’s Elf home Rivendell.

“Rivendell?” Honora said.

To his chagrin, Zane realized he had spoken his thought aloud. Ears burning, he explained, and waited for her to laugh at him.

Instead, she looked pleased. “Interesting. I never thought of the family as Elvish before.” She picked up a sketchbook lying on the step of a ladder. “Would you mind if I sketch you?”

Mind? He felt flattered...and relieved to change the subject.

She sat him on one chair at a café table while she sat on the other with the sketch pad. Like Allison, she was left-handed, he noticed. “You don’t have to pose. Just relax. Tell me about yourself.”

Would the sketch be impressionistic or realistic, he wondered. On the wall behind her a large photographic-quality portrait of a woman in antebellum clothing hung side by side with a much smaller, old-time photograph from which it had obviously been copied. “Was she an ancestor?” She resembled both Honora and Allison, but had hard eyes.

Honora glanced over her shoulder. After a hesitation she said, “Thérèse founded this household.” Giving the name a French pronunciation, and an undertone of sadness.

“Did something tragic happen to her?”

Honora eyed him a moment. “A great deal, starting with being orphaned at age seven, but she was also an astute businesswoman, running one of the most successful bordellos in New Orleans.” She said it with fierce pride, and smiled at his start. “I honor the past. It makes us what we are. After her death, her daughter Ophelia used the money from selling the bordello to establish the family on this land. This is the house that whoring built.” She smiled again. “Now, tell me something yourself. What do you do for fun other than create fantasy police cars?”

Allison told her family about his models? He felt his ears heat up. A scream jerked Zane on alert, but he relaxed when laughter followed it. Then more screaming and laughter carried into the studio from the patio.

Honora’s eyes glinted silver. “Don’t be alarmed. We play a little rough sometimes but it’s all in good fun.”

They sounded as if they were having fun.

“From your expression, I gather your family is different.”

Zane had never understood people who confided their life stories to strangers, despite the times he had listened to, and often enjoyed, the sagas. But he found himself baring his soul to Honora...his childhood, his parents, the resented and fascinating au pairs, the law school disaster, the bigger marriage disaster. “I expected Susan and me to be like Susan and David Martinez, a Colorado deputy sheriff and his wife I spent time with the summer I was ten. They had a mob of kids...eight fosters--many with special needs--and the rest of us temporarily placed with them by Social Services. The kids gave no quarter and took no prisoners but after a week of being stunned, I decided it was great and wanted a horde just like them when I grew up. But even though my Susan came from a big family, too, they were like swimming with sharks.”

Honora lifted a brow at him. “How did you happen to be in the hands of Social Services?”

Zane swore at himself for mentioning the Martinez incident. Now he had to admit to stupid behavior. “Because I was hitchhiking and Martinez picked me up.”

Both brows went up. “And you were hitchhiking at age ten because...?”

He felt his ears heat up. “I wanted to spend the summer with Grandpa and Grandma Kerr. The summer before when my parents said we were too busy to visit them, I bought myself a bus ticket and went on my own. It was great. They kept me the whole summer. So when my parents packed me off to this gulag in New Mexico, a boys’ ranch, without any money, the only way to Seattle was to hitchhike.”

Honora rolled her eyes. “You just took off without considering how worried everyone would be?”

“I didn’t think they cared.” Stupidly, the old resentment rose in him. “For all purposes I was missing three weeks and my mother never bothered telling my father, who was in Switzerland at an internal fixation course, and when they identified me, she sent the au pair after me, and wasn’t even at the airport to meet the plane.”

Honora bent over her sketch pad. “Maybe it was her way of avoiding strangling you. Why did it take three weeks to identify you?”

He grimaced. “I kept making up stories about who I was, at first thinking I’d be able to slip away and go on to Seattle--but they watched me too closely--and then because I decided I wanted to live with the Martinez’s forever. I also gave up the idea of hitchhiking because Martinez took me to Denver and showed me street kids, and morgue photos of how most of them ended up.”

“Did he introduce you to adventuring by book, too?”

“That was Maureen, the au pair the next year.” Zane grinned, thinking of her. “Maureen from Lincolnshire...built like a Wagnerian soprano, a tongue sharp enough to cut diamonds. She gave no quarter either. When she’d had enough of me she’d sling me in a chair by the scruff of my neck, drop one of her books in my lap, and say, ‘Go away here for a while.’ So I ended up hooked on mysteries and SF...but also eventually read my way through my father’s library. He loves books, too. It’s one thing we can talk about. He still has everything from when he was a kid and--shit!” The glance at his watch jolted him. Five-thirty! He jumped off his chair. “I’m sorry. You should have thrown me out so you can go to bed.”

Honora checked her own watch and waved away his apology. “I’d still be up anyway. Would you like to see your portrait?” She turned the sketch pad toward him.

How did so few lines convey so much? They turned him into a gladiator, clutching a short sword and shield and resolutely facing some unseen threat.

She stood. “I’ll walk you to your car.”

He expected her to offer him the drawing, but she laid the sketch pad on the table and said nothing more about it as they walked back through the house. In the entry hall, sounds on the terrace told him others in the family had not gone to bed either. The insomnia must be genetic.

Honora opened the door and led the way outside. “It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Zane. Thank you for appreciating my art.”

“Zane. Zane. Come back, Zane.”

He looked around back through the open door to see Rikki at the far end of the hallway, lounging against the French doors. She grinned. “I can’t stand the kid in that movie but the line was too good to pass up. But I mean it. I’d like to see more of you...and I’d love to see you...” She wiggled her eyebrows. “...longer.”

16.

Allison watched the gate slide closed behind the Wrangler before stepping in from the verandah. “Why don’t you put a hold on your sex drive until the Gathering!”

Rikki reached high in a languid stretch. “I don’t see the harm in warming up.”

Juveniles! Did they think with anything but their hormones? “Warming up with him can toast us! Be smart and keep your distance.”

Rikki’s brows arched. “Like Baba?” She sauntered out to the patio.

Honora came back inside and bolted the front door behind her. “Come into the library.”

Following, Allison raised her wine glass in a toast. “I’d say you have a new devotee. He all but threw himself on his back at your feet in submission.”

Honora smiled over her shoulder. “Yes. I suspected he would be one of those humans sensitive to the power flows around us. Perhaps other aspects, too. It was an interesting session.” Reaching the library, she settled back in a wing chair. “Tell me about tonight and Travis.”

Sitting on an ottoman facing her, Allison did so. “I hate to admit this, but I’m beginning to worry about finding this rogue. We might have to go to a volke on every corner. What would you think of putting off the Gathering until next month so we can use everyone in the hunt?”

“No.” Honora sat up in the chair. “In fact, I’ll shortly e-mail an update to every household and encourage the alphas to send as many family members as possible to the ranch tomorrow. Certainly the children. Everyone in this house but thee and me will be on their way by noon.”

Cold ran out through Allison from her spine. “You’re thinking we might have to relocate?”

Honora gave her a thin smile. “Let’s call it a precaution. I don’t want all of us trapped here if the city catches fire. When calling me today, don’t forget I’ll be at the Broekert Gallery helping with final details before my show opens tonight, and since they’re making this a black-tie, invitation-only opening, I am obligated to spend the evening.”

If the city caught fire. Allison hunched her shoulders against the cold in her. “Could Kerr light the match? If he’s sensitive to us...”

Honora shook her head. “That isn’t necessarily dangerous. You’ve worked with a sensitive before.”

Allison grimaced. “But he didn’t have any idea what it was about me he felt, and I don’t think he ever would have understood. He just knew he was uncomfortable around me.”

“Kerr could figure it out, you think.” Honora pursed her lips. “He could. From recognizing Otherness, which he has, it isn’t much of a step to realizing we are a breed apart, and then wondering what we are, if not human.”

Shit. “He could be wondering already since he’s asking about heat signatures.”

Honora smiled. “Fortunately, for the moment he’s fixed on the wrong mythology.”

“What?” Allison listened in astonishment as Honora described the conversation with Kerr. “But...do you think he really believes in Elves?”

“You think he’s capable of believing in werewolves, don’t you?”

Allison frowned at her. “Am I wrong?”

“Not at all.” Honora reached out and squeezed her knee. “Except he isn’t just a young cop obsessed with his job. After a childhood spent running away to police stations, he’s made the department his family. Which means that solving the case is a matter of family honor and, since Travis’s injury, family safety. He won’t let go. He’s very much someone to be concerned about. However, finding the rogue comes first, even at the price of giving something away to him, as your very correct orders to the helicopter pilot did.” She stood and started for the door. “If he learns too much, or interferes with catching the rogue...well, as the spy joke goes, we’ll tell you, but then we’ll have to kill you.”

Allison did not realize she choked until Honora stopped and turned.

She came back and put her arms around Allison. “I’m sorry. It’s no joking matter. We’re very efficient predators, but killing another person isn’t an easy thing without the heat of battle or a chase. Especially someone you know.  Of course it’s a last resort. ”

An old pain echoed in Honora’s voice, reminding Allison that her grandmother knew personally the effort and price of killing.  Which also reminded her that ultimately the good of the clan came first, no matter what that required one to do.

17.

The painting had changed. Zane stared at it while he unclipped his holster from his belt, pulled off the handcuffs looped over the back, and toed off his jodhpur boots. Before it had been just artwork he liked. Now... He set the gun and handcuffs on the end table and shed his coat, then flopped onto the couch. Leaning back, hands behind his head, he propped his feet on the ottoman. Now the painting had history. He would never look at it again without picturing Honora creating this landscape there in her studio. Did she use her family as a model for those eyes in the foreground darkness? Sitting there together on the patio, the group looked as much like that as an Elvish court.

For the first time he wondered if the painting had monetary value. All those other paintings around the house might mean her art was just a hobby. Now recognizing her style, he realized she had done the murals in the rotunda of Civic Hall that depicted Arenosa in its seaport heyday.  That commission could have been arranged by the Parkview Gang because she was one of them, not awarded on the basis of artistic merit. On the other hand, she must be making money somehow to afford to be one of the Parkview Gang.

A couple of years ago Dan Zuck fixed him up with a girl who worked at an art gallery. Kirsten...Kirsten Carakostas, from the Wyner Gallery. If he had time today he would give her a call.

Yawning, Zane heaved himself to his feet and headed around the loft for the bathroom, stretching from the rear of the elevator to the rear wall. What would it have been like to be Honora’s lover? Considering the raw energy and passion in her paintings, and her commanding personal presence, in her youth she must have been stunning...and making love to her, like playing with fire. But he imagined the pain had been exquisite, and irresistible. A dangerous woman.

Just one of many in that family. He scrubbed at his teeth. Look at Allison...a coiled titanium spring without a soft edge anywhere, for all her ethereal appearance. Ditto Councilwoman Lennox Goodnight, from what he had read in the Sentinel...the prow of the Parkview juggernaut. Rikki reminded him of the big cats and canine predators at the zoo, prowling the edge of their habitats checking out the passing meat.

Thinking of her as predatory, he considered how the Blondie composite resembled almost any of them. Allison insisted Peter Makepeace had nothing to do with the murders. She could be speaking from family loyalty...but maybe she was right. The trouble with Makepeace being innocent was, then there had to be two Blondie’s, and Demry had to run into number two after leaving number one.

Unless Peter Makepeace was lying.

Zane stopped brushing and stared into the mirror. Why would Makepeace confess to being Blondie, Allison had asked. Maybe to protect a family member. What better way than by convincing them that Demry split from Blondie and met his killer afterward. Sir Galahad’s description generally fit Manning, and Makepeace told his story before they knew Manning had an alibi.

What about the waitress in Benton’s then? She could have been paid to corroborate the story. It would have to be a lot for lying to the police, but the Parkview Gang were heavy hitters.

Then he thought about the telephone interview with her...and the answering machine that started its message before she answered.

He rinsed his mouth and hurried back out to his suit coat on the couch for his notebook. And called Misty Gant’s number.

Her machine answered in a high, breezy Minnie Mouse of a voice. “Hi. This is Misty’s voice. Her body isn’t answering right now, so leave a message. The cooler you sound, the sooner she’ll want to return your call.”

Even with a terrible cold, Minnie Mouse could never be the voice he talked to. Well, well.

Which left one more question: how Makepeace knew Manning’s description. Had he pumped it out of Allison? Maybe that explained why he wanted the news of his “confession” withheld from her...and why she went ballistic hearing how he used the information.

Zane preferred that to the alternative explanation. It certainly made no sense that Allison would help Makepeace with his story and then insist on his innocence. Yet she knew more about the killer than she had told him or why else her instructions to the chopper pilot. Then she ducked the question about body heat in her family. Despite her assertion that the killer was not a member of her family and as unbelievable as it seemed for a detective with Allison’s reputation, could she be lying? What lengths would this family go to for each other?

Zane returned to the bathroom and started the water in the shower. Forget sleeping. He had too many questions. They needed answers. He wanted another look at that computer search, all the statements she had taken, and much more information on the clan Goodnight/ Makepeace et al.

Thursday, April 5

1.

Coming into the deserted Crimes Against Persons office, his suspicions in front of the bathroom mirror seemed absurd, and suspecting a distinguished officer like Allison, investigating her for no more than a certain evasiveness, reprehensible. And if he invaded her desk again...she would know.

On the other hand, he had every reason to investigate Peter Makepeace, and determine whether Allison’s cousin was Blondie or covering for Blondie. Leave the desk and concentrate on Makepeace and family in connection to him, then.

Zane switched on his computer. While it booted, he paged through the now bulging case book, sipping coffee from Quickie’s while he read. The report of the interview with Francis Church now had the supplemental attached, he noticed.  Neither that statement nor any of the others from people in the area of the crime scene mentioned anything that could send Allison looking for a woman connected to the case, or anyone who sounded like a member of her family.

With the computer booted, he typed Peter Makepeace’s name into the police data files. Makepeace had been Field Interviewed once when a patrol unit spotted him by a vehicle with a carrying case of Slim Jims and car opening tools on the ground at his feet. Three other times complaints of car theft had been made against him...though none resulted in an arrest because Makepeace had authorization to repossess the vehicles.

Zane grimaced. It would have been nice if just once they fingerprinted him.

Makepeace also had a couple of speeding citations...both in a 1971 Formula Firebird, with the most recent last year. A phone call down to Dispatch and five minutes later the DMV said Makepeace still had the car.

The agreement to give Makepeace until one o’clock to show up did not prevent them, surely, from keeping an eye out for his car. Zane requested an Attempt To Locate on it.

Then he began running last names through the files: Goodnight, Makepeace, and those of all the other officers he knew who looked related to Allison...Lamb, Fairchild, Bliss, Lovejoy, Sweet, Swann, Golden, Cherry, Silver. When he first came on the department, he had been fascinated that Elvish looking officers had almost Elvish sounding names, too...but ironic ones for adrenaline junkies. He never realized before, however, that they all had such names. Had none of the women married a Schwartz or Borowsky or Gambrielli?

According to the files, despite the need for speed and action of all other kinds that he had observed, they stayed out of trouble remarkably well. Since 1993, as far back as the computer records went, the only serious offense was Assault and Battery. A Bliss and two Sweets had been arrested on that charge...the Sweets in November. A scattering of others had been involved in verbal altercations and some minor shoving matches with drunks in bars, all of which had been resolved without an arrest, the drunks apparently the aggressors. Rikki Goodnight had been charged and fined for criminal trespass eight years ago when a zoo security camera caught her in the cheetahs’ habitat one night playing tag with them. Otherwise none of the families had more than speeding tickets and citations for chasing deer in the park. The latter appeared to be the most common violation for juveniles between the ages of sixteen and twenty. Interesting. Writing down the names of the deer chasers, Zane wondered what this family’s obsession with it was all about. Though no animals had apparently ever been harmed, only chased, he could see someone moving on to more violent pursuits in search of a bigger rush.

It might be interesting to search the pre-‘93 records to see if Peter Makepeace chased deer.

Meanwhile, Nathan Sweet looked like someone to examine more closely. He had dislocated his Battery victim’s shoulder. But while that illustrated a willingness toward violence, the assault did not look like thrill seeking. According to the report, Sweet had attacked a man his niece was dating. Coming to her date’s rescue, Penny Sweet put a choke hold on her uncle that rendered him unconsciousness...resulting in her arrest, too. Another dangerous woman.

Peter Makepeace was most likely to cover for someone close to him. The Makepeaces had six deer chasing violations. When Zane plugged in the six names, however, only one had another mention, and that was as a victim, his car windows and those of five other vehicles smashed in the parking lot outside Cinema 10 at Mercado Square.  Since the Makepeaces and Goodnights seemed close, judging by Allison’s attitude, he ran them, too. Five Goodnights had been cited for deer chasing, one of them Rikki a couple of months before her caper with the cheetahs.

Zane frowned at the monitor. Despite being female, maybe Rikki ought to join Nathan Sweet on his list. Barring a death wish, playing tag with cheetahs sounded like someone feeding a major adrenaline habit. She had been seventeen then and the records showed no offenses for her since, not even a speeding ticket, but...that could mean only that she had avoided being caught. In secret, thrill-seeking could escalate until nothing but blood satisfied it.  If Allison were shielding someone, it made sense that it was someone close. What was Rikki to her? A close cousin? A sister? The introductions to the family had not included specifying relationships. Makepeace could be close to Rikki, too.

But--big “but”--he had trouble picturing a mere thrill-seeker of either sex tearing apart another human being as Demry and Cromer had been, even if a female were capable.

His coffee had gone cold. Zane slugged it down and went out to the vending machines for more.

As he picked out the cup, Lieutenant Garroway stepped off the elevator. “Morning, Kerr. You and Allison are at it early.”

Zane fed coins into the adjacent machine for a Danish roll. “It’s just me so far.”

Garroway grinned. “You beat Allison in? That’s an event.”

Zane shrugged. “It’s easy when you don’t go to bed.” He collected the Danish.

“And you’re still bright-eyed?” Garroway shook his head. “Youth is a wonderful thing. Anything new on the murder?” He waved his ID card past the reader on the door.

As the door slid open, Zane followed Garroway through. “Well, it’s pretty clear both Demry and the victim last night were killed by the same person. The security guard at the Basin saw the victim arrive in the West Bay with a tall blonde.”

Garroway swore. “So we have not just a homicidal maniac but a homicidal maniac serial killer. Any idea of his identity yet?”

Zane bit hard to hold back Makepeace’s name. “Nothing definite.”

Garroway swore again and lumbered away through the Admin waiting area toward his office.

Back at his desk Zane frowned at the computer monitor while he ate the Danish. His efforts so far just brought him more questions and speculation. Unsubstantiated speculation. Nothing here linked Nathan Sweet--he used his free, unsticky hand to type his way back through the records--Rikki, or any other member of the family to Demry and Cromer’s murders.

Sweet’s address caught his eye. North Parkview Drive. Being a rodeo bull fighter and bull fighter instructor at the rodeo school could not pay well enough to live in that neighborhood. At least by himself. Zane washed down the rest of the Danish, licked his fingers clean, and tabbed through the records again. Penny and Nathan Sweet lived at the same address. When he phoned Makepeace yesterday morning, the answering machine’s options included switching him to the main phone. A few minutes of searching found that all the Makepeaces in the file shared a common address, too, and the Blisses another. Did they all live in extended households?

The phone book listings made it appear so. A large percentage of the individuals sharing a name also had the same address.  All with addresses along North and West Parkview Drive.

Zane whistled soundlessly. Part of the Parkview Gang? Allison’s tribe was the Parkview Gang. The other night she said the family had been here since the Civil War. Settling close together then was probably a good idea. He remembered reading that some of the beach-combing Native American tribes at the time had a reputation for cannibalism.

His mind jumped to the portrait of the New Orleans madam, then Honora’s paintings and asking Kirsten Carakostas about them. He looked up the phone number of the Wyner Gallery.

“Kirsten, this is Zane Kerr. I was wondering if you know anything about a painter named Honora Goodnight, and if so, what the value of an unsigned painting would be. When it’s convenient will you give me a call?” He gave her both his office and cell numbers.

Next he called Ident to see if fingerprinting on the patrol unit and Cromer’s Cruiser had been finished.

Janice Tran said, “One look would tell you we have.”

He grinned. Until they experienced it, civilians never realized what a mess fingerprinting made. Either white or black powder residue, which ever provided the best contrast, ended up all over the vehicle...outside and inside of the doors, door handles, the dashboard, steering wheel, seat belt buckles. “Have the prints been entered into AFIS yet?”

“Probably those from the patrol unit have, but they used white powder on the PT Cruiser.”

And the format had to be changed to black prints on a white background before being scanned in.

The Day Watch began straggling in. Natalie Herrera had a cell phone clutched to her ear, arguing with someone about child care. Hugh Bass balanced a cinnamon roll carton from Quickie’s on top of a Styrofoam cup of coffee.

Bass set his breakfast on the peninsula of his desk. “Kerr, you know what the news is calling your killer? The Wilding Killer.”

Zane winced in disgust. That would ensure calm in the city. Did they deliberately pick the most inflammatory name possible?

“I heard he got Travis Cherry last night.”

Herrera whipped to face Zane, and Carl Ng, just coming in, froze in the doorway.

“He’s all right,” Zane said quickly. “Just a broken leg and concussion.”

Their faces relaxed.

Bass settled in his chair, uncapping the cup and tearing the top off the cinnamon roll carton. “K-Gulf this morning made it sound like a bloodbath. Did the killer really cut off the victim’s hand and leave it clutching the patrol unit door?”

Ng and Herrera’s eyes widened.

The radio did not seem to have mentioned the victim being hauled up that wall. A temporary oversight by the media, Zane had no doubt. The evening news would almost certainly show copious helicopter views of the rooftop and lurid footage of the broken window and bloodstained brick wall. He just hoped it gave no one at a TV station the same idea he had seeing that wall last night...the movie Predator II...a reptilian alien stalking in a hot city, humans hauled roof-ward and through skylights to their deaths, leaving blood streaked walls. The similarity felt spooky.

The image of the predator hung in his head...a tall reptilian shape silhouetted atop buildings like a gargoyle...as Carillo and Allison appeared. The sergeant passed out a page of department memos, beginning Briefing.

The name Surrette leaped from the page, shattering the image. The ATL had been cancelled with finding Surrette’s body on Lacabra Island yesterday afternoon. He swiveled toward Allison. “I never heard anything on the radio about this.”

Carillo broke off reading the wants and warrants. “I wouldn’t think so unless you had your portable set to the SO channel. Sheriff’s deputies took the call, of course.” He raised a brow at Allison. “You think there’s a connection to your case?”

Her expression showed no recognition of the name. “I’d have to know more about how they found the body. It doesn’t appear to have excited the SO very much. I’ll check.” She picked up her phone.

Zane strained to hear but she kept her voice too low to be heard above Carillo’s, then Herrera’s. Her expression told him nothing, either.

But when it came her turn to report on their case, she said, “I talked to Undersheriff Swann. He says Surrette appears to be a shark attack victim.” Then she moved on to discuss Cromer’s murder.

After Briefing, as Allison headed out the office door, Zane caught up with her. “Have you changed your mind about Surrette being one of our victims?”

She dropped her voice. “I want physical evidence of it before I say anything. So while I’m enduring this morning’s dog and pony show for the media, you see what his and Cromer’s autopsies show.”

2.

Neil Hertzel looked over as Zane approached the table, still tying on his mask. Above his own mask, Hertzel’s brows rose. “You’re Goodnight’s new partner I take it. Interesting color combination going with the two of you...fire and ice. But what is it with the case of yours?” He pulled Cromer’s head out of its plastic bag. “Sending me customers with dissection already started.”

“We know you’re busy. We’re just trying to save you time.”

Hertzel’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “So...since you know when and how this poor schmuck died, what more can I tell you?”

“Do you have any ideas about the weapon used to cut off his hand and head?”

“Weapon?” Hertzel grunted. “Along came a tiger.”

Zane blinked. “Excuse me?”

Hertzel shook his head. “Never mind. I mean your killer used his teeth...just like he did in the first murder.”

He must be kidding. Except Hertzel’s voice carried no hint of humor in it, and Zane remembered the damage teeth inflicted on Demry’s body. “Does the human jaw have the power to bite through a spine?”

Hertzel picked up the head again and ran a finger across bone protruding from the torn flesh. “Maybe if you have enough adrenaline. Hyenas’ jaws are that strong...and in Nam I saw a sentry dog decapitate another dog in one bite.”

“But the human mouth won’t fit over a human neck.”

Hertzel shrugged. “This cervical vertebra has been sheared through.” He rotated the head several times, squinting at the neck. “My guess is he severed the spine, then ripped apart the soft tissue in another couple of bites.”

All while on the run. Cold ran through Zane.

His phone chimed in his pocket.

“Zane...it’s Kirsten.” As always, she managed to take an accent that oozed like honey and still sound coolly sophisticated. “I should be insulted that you’re calling me just about a painting.”

He doubted she felt any insult. While the two of them had similar tastes in art and music and enjoyed each other’s company on a date, both recognized that ended at the door to home. He could not relax in the polished decor of her condo, while in her one visit to his loft she kept politely using the word “potential”, and suggesting wall treatments that could be applied once the “clutter”–the bookshelves--was removed.

“Ah...your question about the value of a painting by Honora Goodnight?” Her voice went smoothly casual. “If you’re asking about that big landscape of yours, we would have to examine it to see if it’s truly a Goodnight. Even then being unsigned...” Zane pictured her shrugging.

A studied nonchalance that kindled excitement in him. If she were trying to hide her interest, the painting must be worth something.

“Honora told me it’s one of hers, and while it isn’t signed, it’s inscribed to a lover.”

“She told--just a minute.” Sound went dead. She must have hit the Mute button. A minute later Kirsten came back on the line. “That changes the situation. Provenance is everything. While she’s still producing work your painting isn’t worth as much as it may be when she’s dead, of course, but if you’re lucky, to be crass about it, you won’t have to wait long for it to appreciate.”

Zane frowned. “You expect her to die soon?”

“Well...she’s in her nineties after all.”

What? He stared at the phone. “Come on. She’s nowhere near that age.”

Kirsten’s voice took on the tone of someone speaking to a difficult child. “Mr. Wyner--that is, the elder Mr. Wyner who first opened the gallery--sold some of her first paintings in the late twenties. She was quite notorious, he says...a big reason the twenties roared on the Gulf Coast. She partied all night, drank like a fish, smoked cigars, wore men’s clothes, and slept with anything that had a dick.”

Zane felt stunned. How was that possible? “But I’ve seen–” Belatedly, he realized Kirsten had gone on talking.

She sighed. “Try staying on this planet, darlin’. Even though Ms. Goodnight is still living, Mr. Wyner, my boss, would like to see the landscape. He might feel it worth making an offer for.”

“Tell Mr. Wyner thank you but I’m not interested in selling.” The fact he wanted the painting told Zane volumes about its value, however. “Look, I’ve got to go, but, Kirsten, thank you very much for the information.” He made a mental note to send her flowers, something in a minimalist Japanese arrangement.

Although he returned to watching the autopsy, Zane saw only the image of Honora last night. Some women did not look their age, but...that much younger? Maybe, he mused, she had a self-portrait somewhere growing ever more decrepit...like the fictional Dorian Gray. Or the elder Mr. Wyner had gone ga-ga and remembered incorrectly.

Well, he had one way to check. He looked up the number for the county treasurer’s office and called it, asking for Stacie Eimers. She clerked in the office. They dated a few times last year and had fun as long as they never came back to his place. She saw Satan in the painting, à la Disney’s “A Night On Bald Mountain,” and it gave her the creeps.

“Stacie, this is Zane Kerr. A case I’m on has raised questions about some local real estate. Can you help me?”

At the end of the room Pedicaris opened the cooler door. She and her assistant pulled out a gurney and rolled it toward the second autopsy table. Surrette’s body? Zane tried to keep watching both her and Hertzel.

Stacie said, “What do you need?”

“To know who has the title to the property at 1200 North Parkview, and how long they’ve had it.”

“Oh, that should be easy enough. I’ll get back to you.”

Pedicaris and her assistant slid their draped body onto the autopsy table.

“I’ll never again be able to think of biting someone’s head off as just a figure of speech,” Hertzel said wryly. “But this is what’s really scary.” He picked up the severed hand, frozen in a clutching position. “See these ligaments hanging out? They’ve been stretched until they tore, not bitten through. The skin is torn, too. The only way I see that happening is your victim was gripping the car door and killer jerked him away so hard and fast the arm just ripped free of the hand. I can’t imagine the strength that takes.” He shook his head. “Knowing this freak is running around makes me want to send my family far out of town.”

The cold turned into ice. If that feeling spread through town...

Then he forgot everything else as Pedicaris stripped the drape her body. Bright tattoos covered it from neck to thighs and down his arms over muscular biceps to where a t-shirt sleeve would end.

Hertzel whistled.

“He is beautiful, isn’t he,” Pedicaris said. “Almost makes me want to turn ghoul and save his skin.” She ran a gloved hand down across his chest and down his biceps, sighing. “What a bod, too. We should all be in such good shape at forty-five. Killing him really is criminal.”

Edging near that table so he could look the body over, Zane saw why the Sheriff’s Department labeled Surrette a shark victim. The right leg ended raggedly at mid-thigh. The left leg had suffered a similar traumatic amputation just above the knee. Most of his hands and face were gone, too, leaving visible the blood-flecked foam in his mouth and remains of his nose, a clear sign of drowning.

Maybe a shark did attack him. Zane had witnessed phenomenal strength in people but... biting through an adult male femur? Surely the attacker’s anatomy would fail first...his teeth break, his jaw dislocate, something.

Pedicaris picked up one arm and rotated it, studying the wrist. “Jeff, get a picture of these marks.” She tapped the linear, parallel abrasions on his wrist. Marks Zane recognized instantly. “The ones on his other wrist, too.” She looked around at Zane. “This man--”

“Has been handcuffed.” “Taken” Allison had said. The victim had been taken in front of Rick’s. Did she see the handcuffs in her vision and just not mention them? Or not want to mention them, perhaps. Peter Makepeace had ready access to handcuffs.

Pedicaris continued her preliminary examination of the body, then suddenly straightened and glanced around. “Do you know something I don’t?”

He tried to sound innocent. “What do you mean?”

“It seemed strange you’d be breathing down my neck for a drowning and shark attack, but now when I see these aren’t shark bites, I can’t help wondering if you suspected that already.”

He shrugged. “We thought there might be a chance he was connected to our case...but I don’t see how it’s possible. If a shark isn’t responsible maybe he got caught by a boat propeller?” Zane realized he wanted it to be a propeller...something logical.

Hertzel strolled over and peered at the stumps. “No...that isn’t propeller trauma, and you’re right, Zena, it isn’t a shark bite either. Whatever did this took a bunch of smaller bites, chewing its way through--son of a bitch!” He looked up at her. “It’s that same bite mark.”

She nodded.

Goosebumps rippled down Zane’s arms. “Are you sure?”

Pedicaris grimaced. “Pretty sure. Jeff, pictures of this bite mark and....” She leaned down close to the other stump and examined the remains of each hand in turn. “This left hand, too. Nice clear bite there. It looks like a second conical cusp before we see a molar.” She straightened. “Kerr, don’t try arresting this guy, okay? Just stand well back and blow him away. Then let me do the autopsy. I want to see his choppers.”

Zane’s phone chimed.

Stacie Eimers said, “The property belongs to Honora Goodnight. It transferred to her from Olivia Goodnight in 1935.”

So unless Honora was a toddler when the title transferred, that substantiated the claim of her age.

“And...I don’t know if you need this, but it’s interesting. This family’s a plank owner.”

He blinked at the phone. “A what?”

“Plank owner. They helped build Arenosa. Honora Goodnight is just the third name on the title and they’ve all been Goodnights. Olivia took over title in 1899 from Ophelia Goodnight, who was granted the land in 1867. That’s about as early as you’ll find titles around here.”

It was interesting. Did it mean anything?

After calling a florist and ordering flowers for Kirsten and Stacie before he forgot, he went back to the autopsies and stood staring at Surrette’s legs, the image of the alien hunter rising up against the sky in his mind. No man could bit off those legs. Impossible. What were they dealing with?

And what did Allison know about it?

3.

Garroway waved his ID card in front of the A & I door reader. “Being outraged and grim about these murders is all very well but we’ll need some meat to throw the wolves tomorrow.”

“How about activating a major case squad?” Dan Browning, the Information Officer, said. “That will show mobilization of our forces and our recognition of the gravity of the situation.”

Allison winced. “Additional bodies can’t do more than Kerr and I are now.” Not human bodies, or else more bodies might be exactly what she ended up with.

Garroway grunted. “Then the two of you, Carillo, and I need to huddle and come up with a new game plan. We’ve got to nail this bastard before the media and this town spiral into panic.” He stalked on toward his office. “Whether you sleep or eat from now on I leave to your own conscience.”

Speaking of not sleeping. She stepped into an interview room, where she could call Gary Golden in private.

“I’m looking, I’m looking!” Gary said sullenly. “It isn’t easy. His girlfriends are night people and pissed I’m waking them up.” He paused. “But I have a lead. One says Peter talked last week about a fancy place he had temporary access to...somewhere on the bay.” He paused again. “You know there’s an ATL on Peter’s car?”

Kerr’s doing of course. “No problem. You keep digging so we don’t see that turn into a murder warrant.”

She tried Peter’s number again, left another message, more emphatic than the last one, then called Kerr.

He said, “John Surrette drowned, but he has bite marks like Demry’s.” He paused. “How do you suppose it’s possible for the killer to have bitten off Surrette’s legs?”

The question, asked as though he expected her to have an answer, caught her enough by surprise that she did not have to pretend to be startled. “He did what? Holy shit.” Son of a bitch! Was the rogue trying to destroy them all?

Allison wanted to shred something in frustration at her impotence. This had to stop...before more butchery, before the human population panicked. Before they remembered their old rivals.

“I’ll have a look at the Sheriff’s file. You stay--”

“Why don’t I meet you downstairs so we can both look it over,” he said.

How close was Kerr to connecting with primal memory? Maybe close enough that for both their sakes she ought to keep him with her. “Sure. Before you leave there, though, ask Hertzel to please not change the tag on Surrette for the time being...and ask him, as a favor to me, to drag their feet on writing up the autopsy report. Let’s delay knowledge of a third victim for a while.”

Before heading downstairs, she stopped in the office to pick up the fax from Coral Gables and the copy of the receipt from Rick’s.

Carillo leaned out of his office. “Undersheriff Swann called. He said your suggestion to check the bay for that shark victim’s car paid off. The chopper spotted something on the bottom off the end of the ferry landing and divers from the Marine Unit confirmed it’s a Mercedes. Did you have one of your hunches?”

“Not exactly.” She spoke over her shoulder as she headed for the door. They had probably started recovery of the vehicle. “I’ll explain later.”

She skipped the elevator and took the stairs, shortcutting by vaulting the central handrails and dropping a flight at a time. On the Patrol level, she put her head into Andy Swann’s office on the Sheriff’s side long enough to tell him they would take over Surrette’s case because she had confirmed that the rogue killed him. Andy’s curse of dismay followed her next door into the deputies’ squadroom.

Kerr was just sitting down at a desk with a sheaf of paper-clipped pages.

“If you didn’t sign for that, do it,” she said. “We’ll take it along.”

He hurried after her toward the rear entrance. “Where are we going?”

“For a look at Surrette’s car.”

The ferry landing had a spectator event in full swing‑‑a crowd of curious onlookers pressed up against a barrier of orange and white sawhorses and spread along the quay, television cameras, and someone from the ferry office periodically announcing over a bullhorn that the ferry runs would resume when police recovery operations finished. The TV crews in town for the wilding murder circus recorded a floating crane from Hilst Basin easing toward the ferry landing, a silver Mercedes dangling motor-down on its cable. Rather than call the crews’ attention to her by using the siren to force her way through the onlookers, Allison parked across the street. They worked their way on foot through the onlookers to the barrier, hanging their badge cases on the breast pocket of their coats. By the time someone on the TV crews spotted her and called her name, they were inside the barrier and on their way along the landing.

Allison shouldered between clustered officers to Karl Muncie, the Watch Two shift sergeant. “We need to preserve the vehicle for Ident. At the very least it was stolen from Mr. Surrette and likely that the thief played a role in his death.” Enough truth for now.

Muncie glanced sideways. “In his own, too, if that’s the case. At far out as that baby landed, it was going like a bat out of hell when it launched off the dock. Someone had to be behind the wheel driving it...which means they rode it into the water. And you know that thing went nose down and lit on its roof. It was upside down on the bottom.”

The crane reached the dock. The operator of the waiting tow truck ran up to hook his cable under the front end of the car so he could pull it forward as crane lowered it.

Muncie called a warning for no one to touch the car unless necessary, then turned back to Allison. “You’re sure the owner wasn’t driving? We checked a tide table. It was going out during the time the car must have gone in, from midnight to after seven in the morning, and the next high tide came at close to four in the afternoon...running perfect to put his body on the beach.”

“You think our tides could suck someone out of the car, carry him down the bay around the Basin and deep water piers, then out the channel past Lacabra into the Gulf...without hanging up anywhere?” Kerr asked.

Allison cocked a brow at Muncie. They all knew a selling point for visitors here was the choice between surf on the Gulf side of Lacabra and the quiet water in the bay.

Once the car had come to rest on the dock they walked around it, hands behind them, peering through the open driver and passenger windows into the empty front and rear seats.

“Un-fucking-believable,” Muncie said. “The guy not only survived the impact...he got out!”

Between Shifting and the airbag and safety belt, which both dangled limp, not at all unbelievable. Allison looked for anything Blondie might have left behind, but saw nothing obvious. Water remained in the foot wells. Something might turn up there once they had drained.

She turned away. “I’ve seen enough for now. Let’s go, Kerr.”

A glance at her watch brought a rush of anxiety and anger. No word from Gary. No word from Peter. Call, Peter, damn you! Call!

The press caught them at the barrier. “Is this car connected to the Wilding Killer? Has there been another victim?”

She gritted her teeth behind her cop mask and kept her voice neutral. “There is no one in the vehicle. Excuse me.”

A couple of microphones persisted tempting her to give them a shot of Shift halo to make them fall back. A temptation she resisted with Kerr behind her. Better not risk exposing him to a repeat of the experience outside Jorge’s. So she just shouldered past the reporters.

Reaching the car, she tossed the keys over her shoulder to him and slid into the passenger seat so she could read the Surrette file while he drove. “Head for 1813 Huron. We’re going to talk to Surrette’s wife.”

“Another Laguna address.” Kerr’s brows rose. “Blondie likes his victims well heeled.” He put the car in gear and made a U turn across West Bayside. “What does the file say about Tuesday night?”

She read it all off to him. Surrette’s wife had come to the front counter of the LEC at six o’clock yesterday morning to report her husband missing. The Patrol officer meeting with her explained that an adult could not be declared missing just because he had gone out of touch for a few hours, but after taking down her story, he had the Attempt To Locate issued.

The deputy who went to inform Morgan Surrette of her husband’s death and bring her to the morgue for a positive identification, also took a statement from her. According to Mrs. Surrette, the couple had spent the evening at the Coronado Yacht Club attending a party on the boat of visiting friends. As the evening progressed, the party grew by accretion and liquor ran low. Surrette, who had drunk very little, volunteered to go for more. He left between one and one-thirty. When he had not returned in an hour, his wife began calling his cell phone but never received an answer. When party folded about four o’clock, she caught a ride home to pick up another car, then proceeded to hunt for her husband. She drove by Rick’s, her husband’s announced destination, then visited Anson-Bauer’s emergency room, and stopped at the Law Enforcement Center to ask if there had been a fatal traffic accident involving a silver Mercedes S-class sedan.  She also continued calling her husband’s cell phone, with no success. At dawn she returned to the LEC to report him missing.

“You showed me a sales slip from Rick’s, but I didn’t see any liquor in the car,” Kerr said.

Nor had she, come to think of it. Surrette might have put it in the trunk, of course, but it would be more natural to set it in the passenger seat or the foot well. With the windows open, it might have fallen out as the car sank. Or the hunter stole Surrette’s liquor as well as his life.

A pair of extras on the film crew found the body around five o’clock when, finished for the day, they walked down the beach well away from the shooting site for a swim. Surrette lay at the tide mark, naked except for a wedding ring and Rolex watch.

Kerr frowned. “Handcuffing Surrette, taking him out for a swim... that’s quite a change of MO.”

“Maybe not.” She pulled out the fax from Coral Gables and read him the case details.

When she finished, he drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “How long have you had that information?”

She heard the sub-text clearly. “I would have mentioned it if it seemed relevant, but except for the description of the blonde, it didn’t until now.”

He continued drumming on the steering wheel. “So now we won’t know how he’s going to approach his victims and where he’s going to take them. We don’t have any idea where he took Surrette.”

“I’ll ask Mrs. Surrette if they have a boat.”

4.

The Surrette’s Spanish style house lay in the transition area between the condos and apartments of Demry’s neighborhood and the multimillion dollar homes along Laguna Drive. A boy of about ten, hovering behind a locksmith at work on the front door, turned to watch Zane park in the circular drive and the two of them climb out of the car. He scowled when Allison introduced herself. “Why do you have to bother my mother?”

“They’re just doing their job, Jason,” a woman inside said. “Do please come in.”

In the high entry hall, she read their ID’s with tear-swollen eyes, then waved at a broad archway. “Let’s go into the library.”

Despite her eyes, haggard face, and a blouse and slacks that looked as though she slept in them, Morgan Surrette exuded a grace and elegance Zane recognized from his parents’ Country Club friends...bred in by generations of money.

“You’re changing the locks?” he asked.

“It seemed a sensible precaution since I don’t know what happened to John’s keys.”

The narrow section of bookcase on either side of the fireplace no doubt gave the room its designation but the main feature consisted of a desk larger than most dining room tables, with stacks of file folders arranged on it. Another woman, big-boned and horsey looking but with the same unconscious elegance, sat in the executive chair behind the desk, paging through papers in a folder.

“My friend Ashleigh Brendauer,” Morgan said.

The woman closed the folder and pushed to her feet. “I expect they want to talk to you alone. My brain needs a rest anyway. I’ll scare us up some coffee.” She left the room trailing the scent of Chanel.

Morgan sat down in the chair, gazing at the stacked folders. “The worst part of a death is sorting out the household files.” She combed both hands through her hair, settled back in the chair. “How is the police department involved? Has something new happened?”

Allison said, “We found your husband’s car. It was in the bay, off the ferry landing.”

Zane wandered over to the bookshelves. He could never resist seeing what other people read. Someone here liked sea stories. They had a shelf of Horatio Hornblower novels, and Patrick O’Brian’s Jack Aubrey books.

From the corner of his eye he saw Morgan blink. “The ferry landing? Then...how did he end up on Lacabra?”

“We don’t know yet,” Allison said. “What made you go looking for your husband?”

Morgan’s expression hinted that while being too polite to say so, she considered that a stupid question. “He didn’t come back to the yacht club. John is–was always absolutely reliable. Not coming back and not calling me meant something serious had happened. So I went to find out what.”

“Do you own a boat?” Allison asked.

Morgan eyed her, wheels visibly turning. “Yes. A twenty-eight foot sloop.”

“Could your husband have taken it out?”

“Not without being noticed. We moor at the Yacht Club. Dock E, slip eighteen. Ash and Randy...” She waved the direction her friend had gone. “...are in slip twenty-eight. Even if we missed the Seasong passing us as it left, we were watching the dock for John to come back with the liquor and someone would have seen him boarding. The boat was definitely there when I left the party.”

Allison wrote in her notebook. “May we go aboard and look it over anyway? And do you have a photograph of your husband we may borrow?”

“Of course.” She opened a lower desk drawer and pulled out a tin box. After digging through the tagged keys in it, she laid a set on the desk. “One of those is the ignition key and the other unlocks the cabin.” She sighed. “I’d better change that lock, too. Detective, there’s a big accordion file in the cabinet under the bookshelves by you. If you’ll bring it here.”

Zane found the file...expanded to near full width.

She pawed through the loose photographs filling it. “John keeps nagging me to sort--” Her voice choked and she abruptly swiveled the chair away from them.

Her anguish wrenched at Zane. He took over looking through the photos...shuffling through freeze frames from their lives...two boys growing older or younger from photo to photo, family gatherings, holiday parties, shots of people on boats or the dunes and beach of Lacabra, and many of Morgan and a man whose tattoos identified him as Surrette laughing at each other. They looked very happy. Anger at the cruelty of destroying that blazed up in him.

By the time Morgan faced them again, wiping her eyes and apologizing, he had picked out a photograph. After a glance at it, she nodded. Zane passed it to Allison. Framed from the waist up, Surrette stood shirtless, showing off his tattoos, an arm draped over a boom with a neatly furled sail. In contrast to Demry and Cromer’s good looks, Surrette’s face had to be characterized as rugged. Lincolnesque. But it went well with the muscular body.

Still, a different kind of face than her other victims’. Did that indicate he was a target of opportunity rather than design, Zane wondered, or did her targets vary as much as her MO?

“You told the deputy yesterday afternoon that the party accumulated guests. Do you remember if they included a blonde woman about six feet tall, speaking with a British accent?” Allison handed her the Blondie composite.

After a thoughtful moment, Morgan returned it, shaking her head. “I can’t remember anyone like that. Maybe Ash does.”

However, when they brought back in the friend and asked her, Ashleigh shook her head, too. “I’m quite sure there wasn’t such a person. My husband has a thing for tall women. Haven’t you noticed how many short men do, Detective?” she asked Allison. “If she were there, Randy’s drooling would have called everyone’s attention to her.”

Not all of the rich had class, Zane reflected as they left.

At the Yacht Club they peered over the gunwale of the Surrette’s sailboat and checked the deck before climbing aboard. It looked clean, with no sign of blood. Zane unlocked the hatch and went down to check the cabin. Everything looked tidy...bunks made up, gear stowed, lockers closed...no discarded clothing lying around.

Allison rapped on the hatch. “Let’s go. Blondie has never been on this boat.”

“You’re receiving a psychic zero?”

A smile flickered. “Something like that.”

He climbed the companionway and locked the hatch. “Where next, then?”

She sighed heavily. “I guess we’d better break the news to the boss.”

5.

“Son of a bitch.” Garroway frowned over his half glasses at Allison. “Are you sure about this Surrette?”

He sat behind his desk. Allison sat across from him with Kerr on one side and Carillo on the other. “I’m afraid the bite marks pretty well tie him to Demry’s murder.”

“Son of a bitch.” Garroway pulled off his glasses and jammed them into his shirt pocket. “And you still don’t have any leads on who this killer might be?”

Kerr stirred in his chair.

Allison spoke before he could. “Not yet.”

Garroway eyed Kerr. “Do you have something different to add?”

Amazing. Garroway looked and sounded as though that lieutenant’s badge had been his for years and not merely days.

Allison glanced sideways at Kerr. “I don’t know what that would be.”

He touched his wristwatch. “It’s past noon.”

She needed no reminder! Peter...get your sorry butt in here! Don’t make me bury you in the hole you’ve dug!

Garroway’s eyes shifted between the two of them, narrowing. “What does the time have to do with anything?”

Now Kerr hesitated. Allison jumped in. “We have a tentative appointment with an informant who may know something helpful.  Since we haven’t heard from him to confirm the meet, I believe Detective Kerr is beginning to worry if it will happen. I still have faith, however.” Rather, she clung desperately to a strand of hope.

“Well, whether your informant turns up or not,” Garroway said, “with three murders, we can’t treat this as just another homicide case. As of now I’m activating a major case squad. I’ll find you four more officers. Meet with them at 1300 and put them to work.”

And that was an order. No sense wasting time and energy fighting it.  She wanted a least a couple of clan officers, though. “See if Singer and Nightingale in Vice are available.”

Garroway nodded.

Carillo said, “We need a more proactive strategy. We can’t just wait for the next murder.”

The only way Allison saw to cover the area thoroughly enough to intercept the rogue was her idea of a volke on every corner. Not a plan to share with Carillo and Garroway.

Her phone warbled.

At the other end, Gary said, “I found him.”

She sighed in relief. “Where?”

“A mortgage foreclosure house on the beach at the north end of the bay.”

The keys to which Peter had no doubt acquired in repossessing some of the former owner’s other possessions. “We’ll see you shortly then.”

“About ten minutes.”

She disconnected and smiled at Kerr. “Our appointment is confirmed. Ten minutes.”

“Go make your meet, then,” Garroway said. “And good luck.”

Amen.

Allison detoured out to the Ladies room on the way to the office, but instead of using the facility, she called Dorcas Cherry. “I know Honora wants to clear the city as much as possible, but can you still help me?”

“Of course,” Dorcas replied. “We were organizing to leave. We even pulled Travis out of the hospital over his doctor’s objections. But I’ll send just him and the children now. Everyone else in the household is yours. What do you want us to do?”

6.

Would Makepeace really show up, Zane wondered. Or had Allison arranged something else? He glanced around from his desk toward the office door, then back to the report form on his computer monitor. She had been gone a long time for a pit stop, and he had only her word and her end of the conversation to go by on that call.

The thought surprised him but brought no guilt. No matter what she claimed, she knew more about this killer than she admitted. He could feel it. The fax from Coral Gables was a prime example...held back until she considered it relevant. What other information waited for “relevance”?

And he kept remembering that moment outside Jorge’s when he felt afraid of her. While she had done nothing to him, just been angry at whoever she was talking to, after wearing a badge for nine years, when his gut told him to be afraid of something, he knew better than to ignore the warning.

“Excuse me...I’m looking for Allison. I’m her cousin Peter Makepeace.”

Zane swiveled his chair toward the door. And blinked. The figure slouching in the opening, directing his statements at Carl Ng on the other side of the room, wore faded jeans, battered cowboy boots, a sleeveless t-shirt that said: Repossession is the other tenth of the Law, and a greasy cap emblazoned Peterbilt sitting on the back of his head. Shaggy hair hung to his eyebrows and around jughandle ears. A far cry from the vivacious, stunning blonde of yesterday morning.

“There’s her partner,” Ng said, and pointed to Zane.

Makepeace shambled to the guest chair at the end of Zane’s peninsula and dropped into it, where he sat with elbows on his thighs, hands dangling between his knees, and shoulders hunched. The posture seemed familiar. He looked up sideways. “I hope we can straighten this out. I don’t mind telling you it floored me when Gary said I’m suspected of these wilding murders. I don’t understand it.”

Ng glanced over, eyes bright with interest.

Zane stood. “Let’s talk across the hall.” He led Makepeace over to an interview room.

Up by the floor entrance Allison stood talking to Gary Golden. Makepeace noticed them, too, because he halted, but when neither appeared aware of him, he continued across to the door Zane opened.

Inside, Makepeace slumped into a chair at the table. Again he looked familiar. “It doesn’t make sense.” He half lifted his head. “I wasn’t even in town Monday night when the first guy died. Zack Hansen and I were in Port Lavaca on a repo job. You can ask him or the office. Here.” He shifted enough to dig into a hip pocket for his billfold. Out of the bill compartment he fished a slip of paper and handed up to Zane.

It was the yellow copy of a credit card receipt for a two-night stay in the Port Lavaca Days Inn, Sunday night and Monday night. The credit card had been run at 9:25 Tuesday morning. It looked genuine.

Zane handed Makepeace his pen and a page from his notebook. “Sign your name if you would please.”

Makepeace did so. The signature matched that on the credit card receipt.

Zane returned the receipt. “What about Tuesday night?”

If Makepeace did not kill Demry, that eliminated him as Surrette and Cromer’s killer, too. Raising the question of why he claimed to be Blondie. Before asking about that, though, Zane wanted to be certain Makepeace was innocent of murder.

Makepeace smiled faintly as he tucked the receipt in the billfold and returned the billfold to his hip pocket. “Tuesday’s is pretty good. I joined some family kicking back and having a few beers in the park after their shift...including my uncle Drew.”

Yes, that probably counted as good. “And last night?”

Makepeace folded arms across his chest. “I was deeply involved with a very hot lady...with whom I’d hoped to spend the next couple of days. But unless I’m arrested and charged and need her that bad for an alibi, I’m not going to tell you her name because she’s married. If I didn’t kill the guy Monday night, how could I kill anyone else? You’ve got fingerprints and stuff from the crime scenes, right?” He held up his hands and wiggled his fingers. “Fingerprint me, swab my mouth for DNA...whatever.”

Oh, he intended to. Zane pointed at the door. “Let’s go.”

They met Allison coming toward the office. Golden had left.

“We’re off to Ident,” Zane said.

Down in Ident’s lab, they started with Corinne Yeo having him try on the shoes Blondie left behind in Cromer’s vehicle. His feet were too long for them by an inch. Then while Yeo took fingerprints, footprints, palm prints, and swabbed Makepeace’s mouth, Zane filled Allison in on the interview.

Her obvious relief prompted him to ask, “Did you have some doubts about him?”

“No.” She shook her head. “But until the print comparison clears him, it’s good to know he has an alibi.”

When Yeo brought Makepeace back into the waiting area he stood grimacing at the ink residue remaining on his hands. “I thought fingerprinting was all computers and scanners now.”

Now Zane identified the slumped shoulders and bent head, the way of looking sideways at him. James Dean. The son of a bitch! Makepeace was playing another role...trying to separate himself as far a possible from the Blondie act and play Detective Kerr for a sucker again.

Makepeace rubbed his hands on his jeans. “How long before we know the prints don’t match and I can go?”

“Comparing the palm prints has to be done by a person so it will take a while,” Allison said, and as Makepeace started to frown, she went on, “You’re not going to complain about the time we’re spending establishing your innocence, are you?”

Even out of its path, Zane felt that barb. Makepeace stiffened and subsided with a shrug.

“I have a way to pass the time.” Zane gave Makepeace a thin smile. “We can discuss why you lied to a police officer, gave false evidence, and tried to obstruct a homicide investigation.”

Makepeace stiffened. His jaw dropped. “I what? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

So that was how he intended to play this. Zane made his voice flinty and measured. “I’m talking, Makepeace, about our cup of coffee at Quickie’s yesterday morning, where you handed me a bunch of cock and bull about you picking up Demry in the jazz club, then Demry leaving Benton’s later with a wild-eyed man after him.”

Makepeace lifted his chin, all slouch gone. “Detective, I don’t know who you talked to Wednesday, but it wasn’t me. I’ve never met you in my life before today.”

From the corner of his eye, Zane saw Allison start. Anger flashed through him. That had to be the oldest, sorriest claim in the book: It was not me; I was not there. He clamped down hard to control the anger, “Don’t give me that crap! I met you. You can change your clothes and go from vamp to this James Dean act but I still recognize you!”

“It wasn’t me!” Makepeace’s voice rose. “Why would I claim to be this Blondie when she’s a killer?”

“Protecting someone is a possibility that leaps to mind.”

Makepeace rolled his eyes. “Protect a killer like this? That’s crazy! He needs to be put away somewhere!” He took a breath and met Zane’s eyes squarely. “Look, I don’t know who’s done this...whether they hate me and are trying to get me in trouble, or are just playing some really sick joke, but I swear...I swear by all the saints, that wasn’t me yesterday.”

Zane’s anger faltered. Could he sit in a witness chair and say with absolute certainty that this Makepeace and the one across the table from him in Quickie’s were the same person? He sighed. Maybe it had been someone else. A number of the family looked so similar anyway, and in that getup, maybe–

Then he caught a twitch at the corner of Makepeace’s mouth...a glint of laughter in his eyes. Anger flashed up in him again...at Makepeace, at his own gullibility, letting Makepeace play him for a fool.

“That’s it!” He reached for Makepeace. “The fun’s over! Maybe sitting in a cell for a while--”

The rest of the sentence froze in Zane’s throat as the air rippled around Makepeace. Heat and terror enveloped him. His heart slammed into his ribs while a voice in his head screamed: Run! But his muscles had paralyzed. He stood rooted, too terrified to move, unable to even breathe, waiting for--

Through the thunder of blood in his ears came a whipcrack whisper. “Peter!”

Abruptly the heat disappeared. The terror vanished, leaving only an afterimage of itself.

Zane found Allison standing between Makepeace and him, shaking her head. “Both of you need time out.”

He stared at her. It had happened again...but ten times worse than outside Jorge’s. What caused it? What...nightmare had he expected to appear? His brain felt as if it were gasping for air, too.

“It wasn’t me that talked to him,” Makepeace protested. “Give me a lie detector test or whatever you’re using for a third degree these days. You’ll see I’m telling the truth!”

She turned on her cousin and pointed at the bench against one wall. “Sit! Shut up! Kerr, I guess people really do go white with anger. Why don’t you head back up to the office. Take the stairs to give yourself some breathing time.”

If he moved he would fall flat on his face. His knees barely supported him now. “What just happened here?” He struggled to put his brain back in gear.

“I’d say your red hair started to get the better of you,” Allison said dryly.

“No!” Zane shook his head. “I mean the heat waves around Makepeace, and that panic coming from nowh...”

Steam ran out of the sentence at the mixture of pity and clinical concern on her face. “Is this the first anxiety attack you’ve ever had?”

He stiffened. “I don’t have–I mean, this didn’t come from–” Forget it. She looked as though she were calculating his sedation dosage.

Wheeling, he stalked out.

7.

Allison watched Kerr go, then turned back to Peter and leaned down into his face so she could keep her voice barely more than a whisper. “Just what the hell did you think you were going to do?”

Peter edged back on the bench. “I’m sorry. He was going to manhandle me. I didn’t think.”

“Not your first instance of that. You’ve never met him before? You didn’t talk to him?”

“What else could I say?” Peter slouched against the wall. “If I just recanted he’d arrest me for those charges he mentioned, right?”

“Of course.” She straightened. “Sometimes you have to fall on your sword. We’d handle it and see you end up with probation.”

“And him badgering me about who I’m trying to protect by making up that story. Which means he’d be looking to see who in our family that could be.”

Peter had a point there.

He grimaced. “So this is the only way out. If I didn’t try feeding him false information, then I’m not protecting anyone in our family. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.”

Allison sighed. “I hope so, because to convince Kerr, you’re going to have to pass high-tech truth testing.”

“No sweat.” Peter peeled loose something behind his ears. As it came off, his ears went from jug handles to normal position. “I can beat a lie detector.”

“It won’t be a polygraph.” They needed a test they could run quickly and a polygraph exam took time to set up. Kerr might not buy those results anyway. She pulled out her notebook and began jotting down questions for Gary Hesston, Ident’s director and specialist in their lie detection technologies, to ask. “You’ll have to beat a computer voice stress analysis.”

Silence made her glance up from the notebook to Peter. He had frozen, staring at her with obvious alarm.

Good. He finally worried about something. She went back to composing questions. “Courage, Peter. Remember, it’s the truth that you didn’t kill any of those men. The truth that you don’t know who the killer is, aren’t protecting the killer, and wouldn’t protect the killer.  Everyone lies about things, so let yourself be caught in one. Claim you wouldn’t lie to protect a family member. The toughies will be did you meet Detective Kerr in Quickie’s yesterday and did you give him a false statement. But you can handle that, right?” She strode toward the door. “Remember the confidence you felt yesterday morning playing your role.” She gave him a knife blade smile and tweak of his ear in passing. “When it was all just another of your repo games.”

With arrangements made for the CVSA test and Peter left in Ident’s hands, Allison ran back up to the office. She arrived to find more people than she had ever seen in it at one time before...a unfamiliar male and three females seated beside four of the six desks, talking to Kyle Singer, Haley Nightingale, and Holly Gallegos and Andy Trembecka from Property Crimes.

Oh...the major case squad...busy taking statements by the look of it. While she stood in the doorway, the male and one female finished reading theirs and signed them. Allison stood aside to let them leave.

Kerr leaned against the frame of Carillo’s office door, talking to Carillo inside. From where she stood, he looked normal...his color back, no shakes.

She made her way over to him. “Peter will be taking a voice stress analysis. Who are these people?”

“A bartender and waitresses from Ice And Ivory.”

He showed no nervousness at her proximity. So apparently he had recovered from Peter’s near Shift. But it was too much to hope he had forgotten.

After the remaining two waitresses left, Allison had Kerr run off a stack of composite copies. She gathered the squad to organize them. In the middle of handing out assignments, Garroway came through. At Carillo’s door he caught her eye and tipped his head the direction of the office, then went on in. When she had Holly Gallegos installed at the phone on Viapiana’s desk, much to that detective’s obvious disappointment, and the others off on their assignments, with strict instructions not to approach Blondie if they found him but call in, then wait for her and the backup she brought, she joined Garroway and Carillo.

Garroway stood at the window, staring out into the office. “All squared away?”

Allison nodded. “Gallegos has the phone. Kerr is calling the trailer parks asking about recent arrivals and rentals. The others are canvassing realtors checking out recent rentals they’ve handled, in case our killer took one of the cottages out along Marais Road or a condo on Laguna.

Carillo said, “You’re positive this guy’s a visitor?”

“He’s a Brit and none of the local trannies know him,” Allison said.

Garroway turned to sit against the lower edge of the window. “How did the meet with your informant go? Anything useful there?”

She would have liked to say no, but printing Peter and running the voice stress test had to be accounted for. “Not really. Our meeting was with Peter Makepeace, Sergeant Makepeace’s nephew. Kerr received an anonymous tip that Peter was the blonde who picked up Alex Demry. But,” she hurried on, as Garroway and Carillo started, “Peter has an alibi and documentation backing it up, and his feet are too big for the killer’s shoes. We’re still waiting for results of the palm print comparison and we’re also running a CVSA.”

“You never mentioned this anonymous tip before,” Carillo said.

She allowed herself a smile. “Don’t expect me to be unbiased. I’m confident Peter isn’t involved and I don’t want his name leaking out for the media to pounce on like they did that security guard at the Olympic bombing in Atlanta.”

Garroway smiled back, then folded his arms. “Do you have a plan for tonight? The chief agrees with holding off mention of this third victim until we have positive confirmation that the bite marks match Demry’s, but very shortly we’re announcing activation of the major case squad. Which means people will now expect major progress.”

Since she could hardly tell them about the clan deployment, she needed an official plan to propose. “How many officers can we afford to stake out the North Bay area?” Not just for window dressing, either. Every pair of eyes counted at this point, even human ones.

Carillo frowned. “Didn’t you and Kerr spend Tuesday and last night down there?”

“Two of us couldn’t be everywhere. I can use the whole major case squad tonight...but that gives us just six officers, which isn’t enough either. The ideal would be twelve teams, one in each block.”

Garroway rubbed the bridge of his nose where his glasses had left impressions. Allison could see the calculator clicking in his head, adding up the cost of paying time and a half to twenty-four officers. “That’s a hell of a lot of overtime when we don’t have any assurance our man even will be there. He didn’t pick up Surrette in a bar.”

A tough point to argue...especially when she agreed with him. She sighed. “And he might choose a bar in a different area...like The Bull Pen at the rodeo grounds. I know. All I have to go by is gut feeling and determination not to let someone else be shredded without doing something to try preventing it.”

The two men exchanged glances. Garroway grimaced. “Gut feeling is pretty thin to gamble all that personnel on. But...we sure can’t just sit here with our thumbs up our butts. I’ll talk to Maldonado and see what we can do.”

8.

Zane had the office of the Campo del Sol trailer park on the line when Allison’s phone rang. He motioned to Holly Gallegos to answer it.

She leaned across from Viapiana’s desk for the receiver. “It’s Ident,” she said. “They have the results of your fingerprint comparison and CVSA.”

Yes! “Tell them we’ll be right down.” He finished his call and peered into Carillo’s office. They still looked involved in their discussion, intent on something on Carillo’s desk. He headed for the office door, calling back to Gallegos, “When Allison comes out, tell her where I’ve gone.”

Downstairs he stepped into the waiting room, curious to see Makepeace’s state of mind. Smug? Relieved? Nervous? He found Allison’s cousin apparently asleep...slouched on the bench with his back against the wall and his cap down over his eyes, arms folded, legs stretched out with ankles crossed.  Interesting. Zane had never figured out why, but where innocent suspects paced and fretted, guilty ones took a nap.

As he started to back out, however, Makepeace sat up, pushing his cap back. “This is a drag, man. There aren’t even any old magazines to read.”

“The individuals waiting here aren’t usually big on reading. Even when they have free hands.” Zane pointed at the heavy bar low on the front of the bench, for attaching a handcuff or looping the chain on leg irons.

Makepeace leaned over to eye the bar. “I see your point.” He straightened. “Okay...is it a good sign when the dude at the computer does a lot of ummm’s and grunts?”

“You worried?” Zane asked.

“Nope.” Makepeace put his hand over his heart. “My heart is pure.”

The line was too good to ignore. Zane grinned. “But if you’ve watched the old Lon Chaney movies you know that even a man who is pure in heart and says his prayers each night--”

“Becomes a wolf et cetera.” Makepeace grinned back. “Maybe you ought to add hairy palms to your blonde’s description.” He turned his palms up, ink stained but hairless.

Zane left him rubbing at the ink stains and moved down the hall to the polygraph room.

At the other end of the room from the polygraph machine sat a table with a laptop computer and a small printer. Gary Hesston stood laying out several sheets of printout, each with 1½ inch squares containing a line rising from the bottom of the square into a series of needle-sharp peaks before returning to the bottom of the square.

“How did he do?” Zane asked.

Hesston glanced around. “You’re working with Goodnight on this case? Well, except for test lies and one other answer, Mr. Makepeace appears to be truthful.” He pointed at one square. “Here is where I asked him if he was in the North Bay Monday night.” The graph peaks rose high and steeply. In voice stress analysis, truth was tall. “We have a truthful yes, as you see. Here we have a truthful no when asked if he told you he was there. Then I asked if he would lie to protect a family member and he answered no.” In that square the peaks widened. “Clearly, he lied. Later I asked him again if he would lie for a family member and this time he said yes and it registers as truth. When I asked if he would lie to protect the killer, however, we have a truthful no, also a truthful no where I asked if he knows the identity of the killer, and a truthful no when I asked if he met you Monday morning.”

Zane frowned at the squares. This seemed impossible. He knew that had been Makepeace yesterday. Every instinct in him said so. Did he believe the test results? The results might not be valid if Makepeace felt no anxiety about the subject matter in the questions asked. Then no stress would register in his voice. Yet...the test lies registered as such, and he had been caught lying about whether he would lie for a family member.

So once Zane stopped in the fingerprint lab and learned that Makepeace’s palm prints did not match those of Blondie on the PT Cruiser or patrol unit, he had no choice but to give Makepeace the good news and let him go.

He returned upstairs to learn that Allison had been authorized to draw six officers from the uniformed division to help stake out the A that night.

9.

The task force assembled at seventeen hundred hours for Allison to hand out Blondie composites and brief them on the operation on the dry board. With a total of twelve officers, each would be assigned one block and watch both sides of the street in that block. If they spotted Blondie, they were to radio Allison but maintain visual contact only, not approach him until Allison gave the signal when to move in.

“Remember, this is a severely psychotic individual capable of inflicting great bodily harm,” she said. “Don’t risk your life or those of any citizens.”

“I hope to God this has better results better than the canvass,” Gallegos muttered to Trembecka.

Zane hoped so, too. No realtor had rented property to anyone with a British accent, male or female, nor anyone with the killer’s descriptors. Showing the composite at the trailer parks, he had three people identify Blondie as a neighbor, but two proved too short, and one the wrong coloring and far heavier in weight, making him wonder if anyone ever really looked at anyone else.

After Blondie slipped past them two nights in a row, did they have a chance at him tonight? Could one officer watch a block effectively? Midweek, off season...maybe. He crossed his fingers.

By eighteen hundred hours they had reached the A, slipping away from the LEC a car at a time in their own cars and initially heading different directions, to avoid alerting the media camp in the front parking lot to the presence of a police operation. Zane took up his station in the 700 block, the next block down from the jazz club. On his first sweep, he dropped into every open business in the block to leave a copy of the composite and his card with his phone number on it, asking bartenders, waitresses, cashiers to call him if they spotted Blondie.

The humid warmth of the evening made him want to shed his coat, but he needed it to hide the fact he was wearing a radio and a gun...especially the gun. He wanted the weapon handy, not tucked into the pocket of a coat slung over his arm. He tucked his tie in the coat pocket instead, and opened the top button of his shirt.

Traffic ran light yet. The drink-after-work group had headed on home, leaving mostly couples and families, the early diners. He strolled up one side of the block and down the other, pausing at the corners to look each way on the side streets...scanning faces on the sidewalk and in passing cars, and the trolley, when it went by.

Seven o’clock passed without a face that could be Blondie’s. Pairs and trios of young adult males and young adult females appeared among the couples on the sidewalks and in the cars, and mixed male and female groups. The club crowd had begun arriving. A typical evening.

Except for the vampire that installed himself at one of the sidewalk tables outside The Taproom down in the 800 block.

Every trip to the Sailfish intersection, Zane could look down and see him lounging with one elegant tuxedo leg crossed over the other, dark hair gleaming in the lights on the building facade as though lacquered, the lights occasionally gleaming on a fang, too. Which probably accounted for using a straw in his beer.

Zane hailed Russ Dolan, one of the officers drafted from Patrol. “What’s Dracula’s story?”

Dolan grinned. “It’s a game. Players called Van Helsings are hunting him and some other vampires.  He’s thinking that sitting there he’ll see any Van Helsings coming in time to slip away out the back. You ought to hear this guy. He’s got the accent...everything. He’s really into it.”

Eight o’clock...no sign of Blondie. No Van Helsings, either. Zane noticed that Dracula remained in place, beer mugs accumulating in front of him. At that rate he might soon be unable to move.

Then up the sidewalk of his own block Zane saw Gary Golden. The other officer wore civilian clothes and leaned against a roof support...like someone hanging out waiting for a friend. However, his eyes scanned the pedestrians and passing vehicles intently and he wore an earphone. The wire ran down his neck under the collar of his polo shirt.

Keeping a trio of young men between the two of them, Zane slipped up on Golden. “What are you doing here?”

Golden started. “Ah...just enjoying the evening.”

“Wearing a radio?”

After hesitating, Golden shrugged. “Okay. This scumbag attacking Travis and trying to frame Peter makes me mad. I want to help get him. You know, if you let me shadow you, two pairs of eyes see twice as much.”

He could certainly sound chummy when he wanted something. “I’ll ask Allison.” Zane hit his mike switch. “Thirty-three, go to Tac Four.” On Tac Four he told her about Golden.

She sighed in his ear. “Gung-ho young cops, always wanting to be where the action is. Go ahead...let him shadow you. At least then we know where he is and can make sure he isn’t compromising the operation.”

Golden had not touched his radio, so he should have no way to hear her, but he grinned as though he knew what she said. Remembering the conversation he saw between Golden and Allison when Makepeace came in, suspicion clanged in Zane.

“Did you know he was going to be here? Is this a setup?”

The shift of Golden’s eyes answered him even before Allison said, “Twelve wasn’t going to be enough on the operation, so...I accepted volunteers.”

“But never bothered to tell your partner.”

She sighed again. “Sorry...but if shit hit the fan, that way IA couldn’t come after you.”

A good story, which he believed none of. To hell with her then, he decided angrily. Let her treat him like a gopher. The next case she could make a gopher out of some other sucker.

“You’re cool with this, right?” Golden said.

Zane turned to scan pedestrians across the street. “Do you care?” In the next block Dracula had left his table. Now he strolled beside Russ Dolan up toward the corner. “Is Dracula another volunteer?”

“Probably.”

Zane frowned. That tone sounded a little too off-hand.  Sudden suspicion buzzed in him. “Is that Peter Makepeace?” Zane reached for his mike switch.

“Don’t tell Allison,” Golden said hurriedly. “Peter just wants--”

“A piece of the action? When we’re hunting the most dangerous killer in this city’s history?” Of all the A-one stupid ass stunts. And Golden had gone along with it? “He’s a civilian! If anything happens to him...”

To Zane’s astonishment, Golden started laughing. Quickly, he choked it back. “Sorry. It’s just...Peter isn’t defenseless. He...served a hitch in the Marines. He’s probably better at hand to hand combat than you are. Come on...” He punched Zane’s shoulder. “Don’t call Allison. He’ll be all right...and I guarantee he won’t get Dolan hurt, either.”

Having Golden chummy was astonishing enough. Hearing him wheedle flabbergasted Zane. To his own surprise and against his better judgment, he found himself saying, “Okay.”

Golden slapped Zane on the back. “All right! Now let’s hope Blondie comes trolling on our block so we can have some fun!”

Fun? While Blondie figured prominently in the wheels turning in Zane’s head, fun did not. That Dracula costume convinced him more than ever that Makepeace had come to Quickie’s as Blondie...and if that were so, he somehow beat the voice stress test. He lied about knowing Blondie’s identity and got away with it. If Blondie were someone important enough for him to protect, Allison must have at least some idea who it was, too. She had her conversation with Golden before she talked to Garroway, so she had been encouraging volunteers before she knew how many officers the stakeout would have.

A twinge ran through his gut. What was going on? Was she trying to find Blondie or...did she have another agenda entirely?

10.

Allison checked her watch. Nine-thirty. Anxiety ate at her. True, the hunter did not seem to come out until late in the evening, but already Allison worried that she might not show up at all. She might pick a victim on a boat and use the Coral Gables MO. Dorcas Cherry had household members watching the marinas...and someone up Laguna Drive at the Yacht Club, but the advantage was all with Blondie. A moment of inattention and she could slip by them once again.

Her cell phone warbled.

“Allison.”

The tension in Honora’s voice set her skin prickling. “What is it, Baba?”

“There’s someone here at the gallery you need to meet.”

With that tone, Honora could mean only one thing. Electricity shot through Allison. She gripped the phone. “Who is she?”

“Deirdre Hilst.”

“Hilst?” The Hilsts were human, and had been in Arenosa since the turn of the century.

“The wife of Leonard Hilst, old Charlie’s son.”

Allison stared at the phone. “Wife? A volke married a human?”

“Apparently. She sounds British, and they both smell non-local. Teresa Broekert tells me she read in the paper that they live in Florida.”

She clenched her fist. Florida! And if they were staying at his father’s house, that explained why the hotel and realty offices canvass came up empty. “What’s your impression of her?”

Honora hesitated before answering. “She’s like none of our people I’ve ever met before, even the rogues. She’s...” Allison heard an intake of breath. “She’s like a black hole. You have to meet her to understand.”

“I’m on my way.” Before letting Kerr know she would be out of the area, she clicked dit dit dit dah on her mike button, switched to Tac Six to update the covert stakeout.

Ten minutes later at the Broekert Gallery west beyond Mercado Square, their door dragon...sheathed in black, gleaming blonde, flawlessly groomed to the point of looking plastic...stared down her nose at Allison. “This event is by invitation only.”

Allison raised her brows. “I have been invited...by my grandmother...whose show this is.” She pointed out her name...on her police ID.

“Formal dress is required.” Barbie’s implausibly azure eyes focused with disdain on Allison’s grey silk slack suit, crumpled from a day of wear.

Allison resisted an urge to shove her aside. “Ask Mr. or Mrs. Broekert over and let them decide.”

Judging by Barbie’s expression, she considered it an imposition to disturb her bosses and intended to refuse.

Before she could speak, however, the rattle and thump of walker feet sounded behind her and Honora said, “Don’t be such an officious bitch, Joyce. Come in, Allison dear.”

Barbie/Joyce stepped aside, scowling.

Honora turned the walker around to face into the gallery. “One advantage of getting old is you can say what you think.”

Despite her impatience to see this Deirdre, Allison had to smile. Physically, Honora had changed very little from photographs of her in the twenties, when she first started wearing her tuxedo with tails at art shows, but humans never seemed to see that. Using a handful of props... the walker, wire-rimmed glasses, a makeup base that sallowed her skin, and a testy edge on her voice...she created an amazing illusion of age.

Allison peered around the gallery. “Is she still here?” Pillars and short sections of wall set at varying angles broke up the center of the space, making it impossible to see the entire room, and heels rapped overhead on the hardwood floors of the mezzanine level, too.

“Oh, yes.” Away from the door Honora continued using the walker, but its feet came down more gently, and she spoke in her normal voice, though keeping it low. “Mr. Leonard Hilst has been very flattered that the artist herself will spend so much time with him, helping him choose a painting to grace his Palm Beach home. He owns a marina similar to the Basin, except just for pleasure craft, with an emphasis on high end pleasure craft.”

So Deirdre would be familiar with boats. Also, Palm Beach, north of Miami, was far enough from Coral Gables, south of it, to hunt without fouling her own nest. Did Deirdre have access to boats here that she could have used Tuesday night?

“He’s upstairs writing a check and arranging for shipment of the painting, so Deirdre is alone.” Honora nodded toward the rear of the gallery.

Allison followed the direction of the gesture but also took a deep breath. Through the assorted human odors came a flood of sex pheromones, so strong it was hard to believe the human males in the room could be oblivious to it. Only one she saw showed any reaction, and he appeared chiefly puzzled, edging closer to the woman with him. She sniffed again, and coming around one of the divider sections, she hit the scent she hoped to find. A scent that took her back to Lavaca Street.

Relief sang in her. The hunter! She hurried forward toward another divider.

A moment later she frowned. The scent was not quite the hunter’s. Very close, yes, but as she closed in on the source, she detected differences. Could she be remembering incorrectly? Or could some element of the local environment be altering it?

Trying to analyze the difference, Allison stepped around the divider...and saw her quarry in front of a landscape depicting a storm over the coastal prairie. However, Deirdre stood sideways, staring into space rather than at the painting.

Allison studied her. Unlike Blondie, she wore her hair in a French roll as sleek as metal. Where Blondie’s little basic black dress revealed, Deirdre’s concealed...everything from neck to wrists and mid-calf...unadorned by anything more than a triple strand gold necklace. Simple, elegant, and...restrained. The word characterized Deirdre in general, Allison decided...with emphasis on strained. Deirdre was rigid with restraint. Her grip on her clutch bag almost crushed it.

Now Allison understood Honora’s comment about a black hole. Despite all the pheromone output, she felt no energy aura around Deirdre. None at all. Even humans produced some.

Time to go up close and personal. “Hello, cousin.”

Deirdre started. Her eyes dilated. For a moment energy surged around her, then vanished as if sucked back inside by her sidestep away. “I beg your pardon?”

Definitely a British accent, but...since when did one volke use that chilly I-don’t-believe-we’ve-met tone on another? Even rogues, or at least the one in Allison’s experience, pretended to be sociable when necessary. “I’m Allison Goodnight, Honora Goodnight’s granddaughter.”

“The old woman who convinced my husband to buy that appalling seascape?”

Appalling? And Honora’s props fooled her? Allison hurriedly regrouped her thoughts to stay on track. “I came over because I saw you alone here.”

“I’m waiting for my husband.” Deirdre turned to face the landscape.

The body language screamed loud and clear: Go away and leave me alone. Allison’s skin crawled. She agreed with Honora; Deirdre was indeed unlike any their people. Terribly, unnaturally unlike.

“Do you know how long you’ll be in Arenosa?”

For several moments Allison wondered if Deirdre were going to answer, but finally: “No.”

“This is our Spring Gathering weekend. If you’ll be here, you’re certainly welcome to come as a guest.” Normal volke would gladly accept, while a loner might find a reason to decline. “Or those stuck in town because of jobs will be having mini-Gatherings in the evenings at their--”

“No!” With the vehement whisper, Deirdre spun toward Allison, groping in her bag. Her hand came out again...clutching a crucifix. She thrust it at Allison. “Get away!”

Allison felt her jaw drop.

Deirdre backed away a step. “Go back to Hell where you--Len!” Relief flooded her face. The crucifix vanished as suddenly as it appeared and she ran to a tanned, handsome, self-assured man in his fifties. In type, he resembled Demry and Cromer, Allison noticed. Wrapping both hands around his arm, Deirdre snuggled up against him. “Len...if you’ve paid for the painting, may we go now? Please?”

Leonard Hilst frowned. “The evening’s young and the people here are good for business to mix with.”

She rubbed her cheek against his shoulder. “I’m so tired. Please may we go?” Leaning close to his ear, she ran her tongue up the back edge. “Please, Len?” Her voice went husky. “Please?”

He grinned. “Sure, babe. I guess it is about bedtime back home. Excuse us?” he said to Allison, and hustled Deirdre up through the gallery.

Allison shook herself out of her stupefaction and ran in search of Honora. “They’re leaving. Quick! I need the keys to your car.”

Honora dug the keys out of her trouser pocket. “If you think she’s the one, I’m coming with you. The Cord’s in the gallery receiving area. You follow the Hilsts on foot while I plead age and exhaustion to the Broekerts and get the car. Phone me where to pick you up.”

The Hilsts headed for a Lincoln Continental with Texas plates, parked across the street at Mercado Square. They pulled out Mercado Square heading east down North Bayside. Allison jogged after them. Shortly Honora’s red Cord slowed beside her. As they took off after the Lincoln, Allison described her encounter with Deirdre.

Honora looked as dumfounded as Allison had felt. “Shook a crucifix at you?”

“It’s the way she was with Hilst that makes me understand what the youngsters mean when they talk about being creeped out.” Allison shuddered.

“Her behavior sounds similar to Blondie’s, though.”

The light ahead turned amber. Lincoln cruised through the intersection. Honora stamped the accelerator and gunned after it on the first seconds of the red.

Allison fished out her police ID in case a light bar came on behind them. “It was a parody of Blondie, not seductive. It was...” She grimaced in disgust. “...obsequious.” A check out the rear window found no flashing red and blue lights. “I wonder why she’s with him.”

Honora nodded. “Me, too!”

Allison could not resist the opening. “Why, Baba, you’ve always considered human males your favorite lovers.”

Honora sent her a withering sideglance. “Mine were never like Hilst. You should have seen him...sucking up to the great artist, but oh so patronizing--the paintings are marvelous; he has to have one; it’s wonderful to see a woman able to make her own way in the world. And the ultimate compliment, of course: I paint as powerfully as a man.” Her lip curled.

Ahead, the Lincoln swung around the curve where North Bayside became Laguna Drive.

“If we were spiders, I’d bite his head off before mating...and skip the mating.”

Allison chuckled. Then she sighed. “It bothers me that in spite of everything else making her look good for being the hunter, her scent isn’t identical.”

Honora shrugged. “Perhaps we’ll find a reason for it. Meanwhile, you have to follow up...and in any case, even if she isn’t the hunter, she clearly needs help.”

The Lincoln stayed on Laguna...past the beach hotels, past the Yacht Club, and into the stretch where Arenosa’s wealthiest humans built their castles on sand. At number 1610, the Lincoln turned in through the wrought iron gates of a stone Mediterranean villa on the bay side. The gates swung closed, and after the vehicle crossed a court area inside the fence and disappeared through one of three broad archways, a garage door slid down behind it. The house already had lights on downstairs but a short time later a light went on in a second floor room. The drapes whisked shut.

“Their room, do you suppose?” Honora said. “What now?”

Allison frowned at her watch. “Now we wait. It’s not ten-thirty yet. I’m assuming her plan is sex enough to wear him out, then when he’s sleep, she’ll go hunting. I’ll call for more help but until it arrives, do you want to sit out here or watch the beach side?”

“Because rank hath privilege, I’ll sit in the car and skip the sand in my shoes. I’m the one to deal with her, after all.” Honora frowned. “I can’t imagine what’s affected her this way.”

Easements required by the city, to give homes across the drive access to the beach, left narrow passages between adjacent properties. Allison ran down the one between the Hilst’s ten-foot iron fence and the brick wall of its neighbor to the south. Beyond, almost a hundred yards of beach stretched down to the bay. The rear of the Hilst house had a ground level courtyard with a pool. Deep galleries stretched between the wings of the house on all three levels. Steps against the wings led up to the second-level gallery...off the street side’s ground floor.  While all the galleries had light fixtures on the house, the gallery pillars and heavy balustrades offered plenty of cover for anyone slipping out...and unless the pole lights flanking a flag pole at the rear of the courtyard, presently turned off, had motion detectors, only the moon lighted that area. Deirdre could make herself a fleeting shadow across that space and over the fence...gone in seconds.

Allison dug her radio out of her shoulder bag and clicked the Morse “V” on the mike. On Tac Six she said, “I think we have her. I’m waiting for her to move. I need two more here with me...officers please, in case we have to go official, and willing to stay all night if necessary.”

“Bob S.”

“Del K.”

Bob Sweet and Del Kindly would do fine. “Okay. The twenty is 1610 Laguna. Everyone else please hold your position just in case I’m wrong here.”

11.

Something was happening and Zane wished he knew what. First Allison took off to meet an informant who claimed to have vital information...no mention where they were meeting, no estimate of when she would return. No, second. First had been the appearance of current around Golden, then came Allison’s radio traffic. Now Golden’s energy field had stepped up and he looked distracted...watching the street around him but just going through the motion, his mind clearly elsewhere. Both Golden’s reactions had followed a Morse “V” on the radio. The juxtaposition could not be just coincidence.

After years of hearing that click sequence during night patrols, at first thinking it was cop radio laughter, except it rarely related to anything humorous happening, Zane realized it had to be a signal of some kind. He could never figure out who sent it, though, or what it meant. Now he suspected the who. Only the meaning eluded him.

His cell phone chimed.

“This is Mike Wypyski, one of the bartenders at the Armadillo Brewing Company. That blonde you’re looking for? She’s in here.”

The icy fire of adrenaline blasted Zane. The micro-brewery sat just up the block. He started to reach for his mike button, then decided to keep the communication more private, and used his phone instead to call Allison. “Blondie might be in the Armadillo Brewing Company.”

Golden blinked.

Allison’s voice came back razor edged with tension. “What’s your information source?”

“The bartender called me. To make sure it’s Blondie, I was thinking of bringing one of the Five To Midnight waitresses down to for a quiet look.”

“No! Don’t risk that. Send Gary in. If he identifies her--”

“How can--” He broke off. Obviously she expected Golden to know their suspect by sight. So Blondie must be a family member, and Makepeace was not the only one lying for her/him!

“If he identifies her,” Allison repeated, “call me. Call for members of the stakeout to watch the back and everyone stay outside until I arrive.”

Visions of armed officers trying to surround Blondie amid a bar full of customers rose in Zane’s head. He shuddered. “We need to think of a way to get her outside away from everyone else before we take her down.”

“We will...but let’s identify her first.”

Could Golden be relied on to do that?

He dropped the phone in his coat pocket. “She wants the two of us to go in and confirm it’s Blondie. Interesting that she expects you to know him.”

Golden went taut, current hissing around him.

Caught by surprise and unable to come with an explanation? Zane eyed him in exasperation. “Why don’t you give it up, Golden! Admit you know who Blondie is. It’s obvious he’s a member of the family. I just don’t understand why you’re all trying to protect--”

“You don’t understand jack shit!” Golden leaned down and patted his left ankle. Checking the gun in his ankle holster.

“Suppose you explain, then.”

Golden straightened. “Your life isn’t long enough. Let’s go see the bitch.” He strode toward the Armadillo sign.

“Bitch?” Zane said.

Golden glanced back. “Bitch, bastard, alien from Mars. What’s the fucking difference.” At the door of the micro brewery he stopped, closed his eyes, and took deep breaths. “If you’re going in with me, better calm yourself down. Sweating adrenaline will blow us.” His lips went on moving, but without sound.

Zane suddenly realized Golden’s tension came not from anger but fear.  He became aware of his own hammering pulse. Following Golden’s lead he breathed deep and slow, willing himself to relax. They were just going to walk in, take a look, and leave...nothing to be excited about.

He pushed open the door and strolled in.

When he approached the bar, one of the bartenders hurried down to him. “I’m Wypyski. I dragged my feet filling her order to keep her at the bar. There she is at the far end.”

The individual faced the other way but the height, build, and hair color looked right. Not the clothes, however...a ponytail, t-shirt cropped off above the waist, cowboy boots, and leather pants. But with all the publicity, Blondie could have decided to change working clothes.

Golden murmured, “I’ll walk past her. You draw her attention away from me. If I make her, I’ll keep going on out the back. You go out front and call Allison.” He ambled down the bar past the blonde.

Zane followed, halting just behind her, as though reading the beer list. “Choices, choices. With all these beers, it’s really hard--” The rest of the words caught in his throat as a cloud of perfume he remembered from last night enveloped him.

Rikki Goodnight looked around, grinning. “It is? Detective, you certainly know how to make a girl feel welcome.”

Thought without definition caromed around in his brain. Rikki? Could she possibly be--

“And Gary’s with you?” She turned and leaned her elbows back on the bar. The arch of her back emphasized that she wore nothing under her crop top. “This has to be the odd couple of the year.”

Golden frowned. “What are you doing here, Rikki?”

An eyebrow quirked. “Well it’s nice to see you, too.”

“She isn’t the one. Let’s go.” He turned toward the door.

“How do you know?” Zane said.

Golden spun on him. “Because we’re looking for a Brit, remember? Rikki isn’t Blondie.”

All the other officer’s tension and current had disappeared, Zane realized. But his own pulse slowed very little. It had to be that perfume though even repeated sniffs could not decide what it smelled like or what made it so incredibly alluring.

Rikki glanced from one of them to the other. “You mean I was some kind of suspect? If I confess...” Her eyebrows wiggled. “...will you strip search me?”

The room temperature shot up.

Golden’s scowl deepened. “Rikki, cut that out. I thought all your family left for the ranch today.”

She shrugged. “I had to work late. Now we’re having a drink and unwinding.” She waved toward a large table at the back of the room. “I’ll go up tomorrow.”

Golden grimaced. “I can guess why you’re staying overnight. Someone needs to talk to Honora about your taste in men. Though I’ve heard she likes slumming, too.”

Rikki bared her teeth. “I’d enjoy watching you discuss that with her.”

Despite what the perfume was doing to his head--what was in it?--Zane recognized one of the faces at the table. “That’s Derek Prescott back there!” The star of the movie shooting on Lacabra. “Are you an actress?”

“Actress!” Rikki hooted. “Why would I want to do anything so boring? I’m a stunt woman. Or I am when film crews shooting in this area need--are you catching cold?”

Zane felt his ears heat. He thought he was being subtle about sniffing. “Ah...no. It’s just--well...your perfume.”

They both blinked, then Rikki smiled. “You notice it? That’s interesting.”

“We have work to do, Kerr,” Golden said. “Let’s go.”

Annoyance broke through the effects of her perfume. “I have a few more questions for Miss Goodnight.”

Golden hissed. “It’s a waste of time. I told you she isn’t Blondie. For starters, she’s female...or does she look like a drag queen to you?”

Definitely not. Still...

“Gary, he’s only doing his job,” Rikki said. “Let’s help him. Where do you want to start, Detective Kerr? With where I was Monday night? That was the first killing, right?” She looked straight into his eyes, all seductiveness gone.

“Right.”

“Then...follow me.” She led the way between the tables to the one she had pointed out earlier. “Guys,” she said to the group, “this is Detective Kerr and my cousin Officer Golden. Derek there will be devastated if he needs an introduction but the rest of us are some of those crucial little cogs you’ve never heard of because you probably leave the theater without reading the credits. That’s Jeremiah, Gayle, Sid, and Andy. Jeremiah is the film’s stunt coordinator. All those explosions and car chases in Derek’s movies? Jeremiah’s usually responsible and has the scars to prove it.”

Jeremiah peered over the top of aviator glasses. “These days I let younger fools like Rikki do the driving. Glad to meet you.”

“Zane, Gary, and I,” Rikki went on, “have a little bet about who works the longest hours, cops or film crews. Tell Zane how late we’ve been working these days. Like Monday, for instance.”

Clever, Zane reflected.

Gayle rolled her eyes. “I think it was after midnight when we finished checking the ramp for that car jump in the morning.”

Jeremiah nodded. “Easily.”

“And Rikki was there the whole time?” Zane asked. With the words out, he heard the cop tone.

Eyebrows went up around the table.

Rikki grinned. “Don’t mind him. Cops can never ask a question without sounding like an interrogation. Did I have to work as late as everyone else?”

“You did,” Jeremiah said.

“How about Tuesday?”

“I was being a body double for Derek’s love interest in a bathtub scene.”

She looked serious and Prescott nonchalant, but sly grins ran across the faces around the table.

“That wasn’t officially on the set, I take it?” Zane said.

A corner of her mouth quirked. “I was still working...helping Derek with his lines. One in particular was very hard...took most of the night to conquer.”

Prescott grinned and everyone else snickered.

Rikki sobered. “Last night I spent the evening at home with my family.” She sighed. “I guess cops do work longer hours.” She dug into the pocket of a motorcycle jacket on a chair and brought out a billfold. Handing over a twenty from it, she said, “You win. But sometime I’d like a demonstration of a cop working harder than an actor.”

12.

“I don’t know how you take duty like this.” Honora yawned.

Allison shrugged. “You’re the one who wanted clan members in Investigations.” She checked her watch. One-thirty. The drapes in the upstairs room had not moved since they closed. “We’ll have plenty of action when and if Deirdre decides to move.” Though she had better do so soon or the clubs would be closing and she would have to find someone like Surrette for her games. She clicked her radio mike. “Anything to see from the beach?”

“Negative,” came back Del Kindly’s voice.

She hauled out her cell phone. After Kerr reported that “Blondie” in the Armadillo turned out to be Rikki, she told him she was checking out leads her informant gave her. Time to contact him again.

“Still checking out leads?” The blandness of his voice suggested irony.

She gave him a gusty sigh. “I’m sorry, yes. They’re looking good but I need to clear up another couple of things. I assume it’s continued quiet there?”

“Yes. I have a hunch he isn’t going to show. Golden certainly thinks so. He’s obviously bored out of his skull, even though he won’t go home when I suggest it.” Kerr paused. “You didn’t by any chance give him babysitting instructions, did you?”

Allison kept her own voice expressionless. “I’m sure he’s just afraid Blondie will show up and he’ll miss the fun. If you feel nothing’s going to happen, you can pull the plug.” She would keep the clan on until after two, though.

“Garroway isn’t going to be happy we’ve come up empty.”

A patrol unit passed. The officer waved. A Watch Three officer had stopped for a chat when a homeowner reported suspicious activity, and been reassured by her identification, while obviously wishing she would explain which house they were watching, and why. Alerted to their presence, Watch One just cruised by periodically.

Waving back, she told Kerr. “If these leads check out, he’s going to be very happy, I assure you.”

“With this operation folded, I can come help you,” he said.

She put regret in her voice. “I wish...but these people won’t talk to you.”

“I didn’t think so.” No missing the irony that time.

13.

With his report on the stakeout finished, Zane leaned into Property Crimes to wave at Trembecka and Gallegos, still working on theirs. He bypassed the elevator for the stairs, taking them down three at a time. In the morning, he had to talk to Garroway. Visions of making a fat fool of himself with his suspicions swam in his head, but he shook them away. He had to take the risk. There was just too much going on that needed explaining...that Allison needed to explain.

In the parking lot he paused to breathe deeply, wishing the gym were open. Tension had him tied in knots.  A run might help. Maybe in the park. The moon hanging in the western sky shone brilliant silver, nearly full.

He almost missed seeing the motorcycle and rider on the far side of his Wrangler.

When he stopped short, the lithe form in black slid across the hood to lounge against the fender. “You’re off duty now, right?”

Rikki’s perfume enveloped him, sending his tension a whole new direction. “What happened to your plans with your actor friend?”

A wave dismissed them. “Derek is a nice guy but...he’s never noticed my perfume.” Reaching up, she laced her fingers together behind his neck. His skin burned at the touch. “Let me buy you a drink.”

The spreading heat muffled a caution bell that rang in his head. “Where can we drink at this time of night?”

“Where do you live?”

The skin of his belly tightened. “A warehouse on Travis.”

She pulled his head to hers and kissed him...a long kiss with her tongue exploring. “My place is closer and Beatrice maintains a great wine cellar.”

Despite the flare of desire in him, Zane pulled back from her mouth. “And there’s a house full of family.”

She laughed. “Didn’t you hear Gary?” Her arms slid around him under his suit coat, pulling his hips against hers. “They’ve all left for the weekend. We’ll have the house to ourselves.”

His head swam from her perfume. “Lead the way.”

Despite her assurances, he peered at the garages as they pulled into the courtyard. With the doors closed, he had no way of knowing if vehicles were inside or not, but the house was silent when they entered.

Rikki locked the door, reset the security code, and tossed her motorcycle jacket onto a bench in the entry hall. Then she led the way out to the verandah and around to another set of French doors opening into a kitchen.

Zane stared. The kitchen looked like a restaurant’s, with big pots on wall racks, a big microwave and stove, and walk-in cooler and freezers. Peering through the window of the freezer he could see sides of meat hanging from hooks.

“This is a hell of a kitchen, and one hell of a meat supply.”

From inside a wine closet the size of the cooler, Rikki said, “We’re a big family with big appetites.”

“That doesn’t look like just beef in the freezer, though.”

She came out with a bottle of white wine and shoved the door closed with a foot. “No, wild game, too.” Handing him the bottle, she rubbed a hip across his belly as she passed him on the way to dig a corkscrew from a drawer and glasses from a cupboard. “We’re avid hunters.”

Memories of the house flashed in his head. “I don’t remember seeing trophies anywhere.”

“Because we eat what we hunt, not hang it on the walls.” She handed him the corkscrew, then caught his belt at the buckle. “My room is this way.”

He let her lead him back out to the verandah, down to the patio and across the lawn--less a lawn, Zane discovered, than a coastal prairie pasture, the grass mixed with bluebonnets and Indian Paintbrush--and around the far end of the opposite wing. How did anyone find the way around this house, he wondered. It sprawled on forever, like a real pueblo.

On a small terrace with a view past a stand of bamboo down to the rear wall, Rikki set the glasses on a small table. “You’re over-dressed, Detective.” She reached under his coat and tapped the grip of his gun. “Get casual. There’s only one weapon you need with me.”

Inside her bed-sitting room he shed everything down to his trousers, and watched her open the wine outside. She made it a strip tease, simultaneously wiggling out of her clothes while she worked loose the cork, until she stood naked, her body lean and sleek, legs inhumanly long. Pouring the wine she said, “I’m showing you mine. Come show me yours.”

Her perfume drifting into the room set his head spinning and his body on fire. He stepped out onto the terrace.

Rikki ticked her tongue. “You’re still not showing me yours. Here.” She handed him both glasses, and reached for his belt buckle and zipper. Slowly, she slid trousers and briefs down to his ankles, sinking toward the terrace stones with them. Then as he stepped free, she sat back on her heels, smiling. “That’s better.”

The upward drift of her gaze felt like fingernails tickling him...turning his temperature to sizzle.

Standing, she reclaimed a glass. “What shall we toast...working hard?”

The moonlight turned her ethereal and unearthly, making her glow, as from some inner light. The heat inside him blazed even hotter than before and he knew he had never wanted any woman as fiercely as he desired Rikki Goodnight.

He set down his glass. “I’m not thirsty.”

Her eyes widened for a moment, reflecting silver, then with a grin, she set aside her glass, too, and came into his arms. Their mouths locked together hungrily, urgently. Her fingers raked down his back. Their touch made him feel like plasma globe, with lightning arcing through him from every point of contact. When she reached his buttocks and dug in her nails, the jolt of current snapped all his nerves to attention.

But as he swept her up and her legs wrapped around him, a caution bell jangled in his head. “Wait. Let me get my billfold.”

She laughed against his mouth, tightening her legs. “We don’t need protection. I’m baby proof against you and there’s no zoonosis here. I’m not waiting one...second...more, Detective, for you to demonstrate that long arm of the law in action.”

14.

A shift of light woke Zane. For a moment, groggy with sleep, he could not identify his surroundings...unfamiliar bed, French doors standing open, a moonlit pasture beyond them. Spotting the tall, slim figure loping through the grass in a sport bra and running shorts, memory returned. He grinned with remembered pleasure, even as he noted that every muscle in him ached. The term “enough” did not appear to be in Rikki’s sexual vocabulary, though plenty of commands did. The last time he received that much instruction had been during physical training at the police academy. But the electricity shooting through him from her had brought an intensity of physical sensation beyond any he experienced before and it helped him keep pace with her, until she finally let him collapse, wrung out.

If Rikki felt stiff, none showed. Unlike him, too, she obviously still had plenty of energy. It must have been her shadow cutting off the moonlight as she left the room that woke him. That moonlight and the juxtaposition of the bed and doors let him watch her all the way to the rear wall. He lay taking pleasure in the view. Like Allison at the gym, she moved with fluid grace. Moonlight turning her hair and skin molten silver made her look more Elvish than ever.

Moments later, however, he levered himself up on an elbow. What was she doing? He had assumed she intended to run to the wall and back, but she appeared aimed for a gate in the wall...her stride increasing. In another couple of yards she would hit the gate head-on. It was too tall to jump, twelve feet at least.

Then...glowing ripples framed her. Zane jerked bolt upright, flooded by that same nameless terror he felt outside Jorge’s and in Ident’s waiting area with Makepeace. But instead of disappearing, the ripples spread out, brightening, and suddenly Rikki disappeared. A giant smoky-grey wolf filled the space, rising to clear the gate in an effortless arc.

Zane stumbled out of bed and onto the terrace, heart thundering. What the hell? He could not really have seen what he thought he did. It must have been a trick of shadow and moonlight. Except no shadow could explain how Rikki vaulted a twelve-foot gate...and no shadow fell on the rear wall, only moonlight.

While part of his mind continued denying what he saw and searched for a logical explanation, panic boiled from every cell screaming: Run! He snatched up his trousers from the terrace and jumped into them, not bothering with briefs, just shoved them into a pocket, and scrambled back in to scoop up the rest of his clothes, his handcuffs and gun. Escape came first. Once away from here he could take the time to think about this...sort it out.

But as he reached for his shirt, he had already begun thinking...overriding the panic. Blue said a giant “police dog” chased Demry. A Hell Hound. What he saw just now came close to that description. Zane eyed the gate. Someone able to clear twelve feet from a lope should have no trouble reaching a second floor window with a little more effort. But she was not the only one showing those heat ripples. Makepeace had, too, and, for an instant, Allison. Standing in front of his painting, Allison looked as though she belonged in the landscape. Her difference from everyone else had struck him from the beginning. How different was she?

He was, he remembered, alone in the house.

Carrying his shoes and the rest of his clothes, he left Rikki’s room through the hall door and moved quickly down the hallways opening doors. These all seemed to be bed-sitting rooms like Rikki’s. Hurriedly, he worked his way in the general direction of the front of the house until he reached the entry hall. From there he tried to remember the route Honora took him last night. If only he knew what he was looking for. Keeping his ears tuned for the sound of footsteps or an opening front door, he moved through the rooms. Moonlight filled them. They all seem situated so they had plenty of windows. By that light he studied Honora’s paintings again, feeling the primordial emotions they recorded. The violence.

Bookshelves caught his eye and drew him like a magnet. Their library, he quickly discovered, was an antiquarian’s dream. Some of the books looked very old. A whole section had French titles. Others he carried to the window where the moonlight let him read copyright dates back to the early 1800's...novels; poetry; old medical texts; memoirs of several Civil War officers, one inscribed to “Alexander Goodnight, who has shown as much bravery at his photography as any soldier on the battlefield.”

Then he noticed photos sitting on the front of the shelves.

Zane carried them over to the window, too. The first looked similar to the enlargement and painting of the New Orleans madam in Honora’s studio, but in this one, clearly a very old photograph taken in the medium’s infancy, she shared a velvet couch with a young woman who bore a striking likeness to Honora. The other photograph, in one panel of a triple frame, showed a man in a WWII era flight suit with Marine insignia, standing in front of a Corsair on a tropical island. The middle section of the frame held a letter dated 1943, informing Honora how Lt. Jonah Goodnight’s plane had gone down in the South Pacific and expressing condolences for the loss of her son. The last section of the frame had the glass removed and medals pinned to velvet glued in the frame. But the medals included some from the Civil War and World War I as well as World War II.

Zane stared at the photograph. Honora had a son who fought in World War II. That supported Kirsten’s claims about her age. Except, even if she had a child while in her teens, he could not have been more than twenty or so at the time of the war. The man in the photo looked fully mature. And why did the medals displayed with his photograph include those from wars he could not possibly have fought in?

Remembering Morgan Surrette’s box accordion file of photographs, Zane began opening doors in the cabinets below the bookshelves. He found magazines, children’s games, a rack of poker chips and playing cards. Then a locked door.

Judging by the key hole it was a simple rim lock, probably with one tumbler, operated by a small version of a skeleton key. He pulled out his billfold and picked a credit card. It slid between the door and casing, and moments later he had the door open. Inside sat not just a box of photographs but a shelf of albums. Motherlode!

As he carried each album to the window, alert for sounds of Allison arriving home or Rikki coming back, he eyed the room for hiding places or an escape route. If they caught him now, he had no alibi to explain himself.

The first several albums proved to be folios. One held photographs of Civil War camps, with Confederate soldiers sometimes posed and sometimes candid, some smiling, some beaten into exhaustion...and battlefields with bloated carcasses of dead horses and windrows of dead soldiers. All had “Goodnight” stamped on the edge. No doubt the Alexander Goodnight mentioned in the book dedication. Another folio covered World War I. The style of the photographs looked like those of the Civil War. Other folios...of the Depression, World War II, and Korea, had a different style. A different photographer, obviously. The World War II folio included one photograph of a woman dressed in fatigues and a combat helmet, carrying a big press camera. Her grin reminded him of Rikki.

The next album held family photographs. They started with Elvish girls in a bordello parlor, labeled with familiar last names...Golden, Sweet, Swann, Bliss...then Civil War tintypes. Goosebumps rose on Zane’s back. One of the soldiers pictured looked like the man by the corsair, only younger. The label identified him as “Joseph Goodnight”. Almost all the photographs of him included another young soldier who looked boyish but was identified as “Bianca”. There had been women who dressed as men and joined up, Zane knew. Bianca must have been one of them. But she seemed familiar. After a minute he placed her. She looked strikingly like the woman introduced to him on the patio last night as Beatrice.

Goosebumps spread out across the rest of his body. Honora’s face stared at him from a family photograph that the high collars and corseted waists placed at the turn of the century. Posing with her were Bianca with an infant in her lap, a woman who looked like a younger version of a woman introduced to him as Isabell, a pre-pubescent girl, and two adult males. One of those looked like Joseph/Jonah.

He hurried on through the album. The pre-pubescent girl aged through a number of photographs, until she, too, sat with an infant in her lap. “Georgiana and Lennox, 1915.” Lennox could be a family name. Georgiana was now clearly the grinning World War II photographer. But how could she look the same age in 1915 and 1943?

He tried not to think, just study the photographs. Those of the World War I era included views of the trenches and Paris, with three recurring faces: the Joseph/Jonah one, Bianca/Beatrice –masquerading as male again--and the second adult male in the group photo....identified as “Joshua, Biddy, and Aaron.” They seemed joined at the hip. Every photo of one included the others. Through the twenties and thirties the albums recorded what appeared to be combined hunting/social events, labeled Harvest Gathering, Spring Gathering, summer hunting, winter hunting...with triumphant Elvish men and women skinning and butchering deer and elk, and even American Buffalo. Zane remembered Rikki’s comment about avid hunters in the family. But no rifles appeared in any of the hunting photographs.

The infant Lennox matured into the spitting image of Councilwoman Lennox Goodnight.

He felt only numb, no surprise, when photographs from World War II showed the same faces from the Civil War and World War I.

Allison began appearing in the fourth album as an infant on the lap of Georgiana, but now called “Gina”. The date was 1953.

Zane’s heart raced. If he believed the labels, Lennox and Allison were sisters...with a mother who had one child in 1915 and another in the fifties. And looked almost the same age in both photographs! Could Allison really be in her forties? She looked barely older than he was.

He paged on through the album feeling caught in a bizarre dream. Aaron appeared for the last time leaning against an airplane with a jaunty scrawl across the bottom of the snapshot: “Andy of Air America.” A teenage Allison in photos labeled “Summer camp” wore jungle camouflage fatigues and a full military pack, and in one, face paint. From the fifties on, all the family teenagers seemed to attend the same para-military camp. Throughout the albums most family members appeared in military uniform, though except for Bianca/Biddy, only males until WW II. From then on, however, both males and females appeared to serve hitches...with a preference for becoming fighter pilots or going into special services. Allison seemed to be one of the few without military service, just ROTC in college...along with lettering in track and field.

His blood thundered in his ears. Logic said he had to be looking at photos of successive generations with a strong family resemblance. Look at how much this generation resembled each other. And if the girl beside the New Orleans madam were Honora, she would have to be almost two hundred years old now! But...he found no photographs of each as children. Instead, the children appeared few and far between and those matured, with changes in name, into the faces he saw on the patio last night.

Then Zane’s breath stuck in his chest as he came to one of the family’s typical mother/infant photos. Allison sat on the verandah edge with a baby on her lap, and the label read: “Allison and Rikki.”

Rikki was Allison’s daughter?

His brain hit overload. Through the chaos in his head came one coherent thought: get the hell out!

Hurriedly he shoved the photo albums back in the cabinet and pulled on his shirt and shoes. Everything else he could carry.

Reaching the front door, though, Zane saw the security keypad and realized with a plunge of his stomach that opening the door would set off the alarm. He could let it go, of course, and wait for whatever agency responded, but what would he say to them? That he was trying to escape a family whose matron might be two hundred years old...with a great-granddaughter he might have seen change into a wolf? He eyed Rikki’s jacket on the hall bench. Alternatively he could find her swipe card, which would let him open the gate, and run for the Wrangler when the alarm went off. But bolting would alert Rikki and Allison that he had learned something they never intended him to know...that they might kill to keep secret. No, he had to act as if nothing had happened until Rikki let him out.

And through the French doors at the far end of the entry hall he could see her loping up the pasture.

After taking steadying breaths, Zane strolled out onto the verandah. He set down his coat and stood waiting, pulse hammering.

Rikki changed course for the patio. Reaching the verandah, she peered up, eyes searching him. “I thought you were asleep.”

He made himself meet her gaze steadily. “I was. Then I woke up a couple of minutes ago and found you gone. I thought maybe that was your way of telling me to go home, so I tried to.” To his amazement, his voice sounded normal. “Except...I can’t leave unless you let me out.”

She stared at him a moment longer, then gave him a languid smile. “That’s right. And I don’t want you leaving just yet.” Reaching up, she caught his belt and tugged him forward down to the patio and across it to the grass, where she slid her arms around him. “You know, running there in the moonlight I just kept thinking about you, and wanting another body cavity probe.”

As her perfume enveloped him, incredibly, despite his fear, despite guilt at touching Allison’s daughter, desire exploded in him again, drowning all other emotion, crushing resistance.

Rikki’s smile widened. “Since I don’t think you’re wearing your gun down the front of your pants, I’d say the idea interests you, too.”

She kissed him hard and deep. Something about her mouth rang alarms, but she had also loosened his trousers, and as they dropped to his ankles, began stroking him. The surge of heat from that drowned all other awareness.

Her lips left his mouth to work down his jaw, neck, and chest to his belly, making his nerves shout for joy, and when she reached his groin, the jolt of current and raw sensation short-circuited the last vestige of rational thought.

15.

Allison’s watch read after four. And nothing had stirred around the Hilst villa since they took up their positions. She thumbed her radio’s mike switch. “It looks like she’s not going anywhere tonight. I still want the house covered but two should be enough to do it now. I’ll stay, of course. Anyone else willing to volunteer?”

Gary’s voice came back, “Me.”

Eager beaver Gary. He had joined them and replaced Bob Sweet as soon as the stakeout folded.

“And me,” Del Kindly said. “Why don’t you go on home? Honora has to leave for the Gathering in a few hours and you ought to look bright-eyed for the media feeding.”

She considered that. “I’m fine...but I will go pick up my car and stop by home long enough to change clothes. Then I’ll be back.”

When Gary appeared from between property fences and climbed into his Corvette, Honora headed the Cord toward home.

16.

A clock somewhere in the house chimed the half hour as Rikki unlocked the front door. Wrapped in a bathrobe, she followed him outside, and after swiping her card through the gate control slot, leaned into the Wrangler to give him a last lingering kiss and pull a blade of grass from his hair. “Zane, you have to come back, Zane...so we can do this again very, very soon.”

With the gate sliding closed behind him, he found his hands trembling on the steering wheel. Rather than the post-storm silence he had felt after Allison left the loft, he carried the storm with him. Relief at being away mixed with disbelief, and a cold knot of dread swirled through the heady memory of the taste and scent and feel of Rikki. He needed somewhere quiet and safe to think things through, even though he recoiled from doing so. What he saw at the rear gate and in the albums suggested something impossible, something he dreamed there in Rikki’s bed.

Yet...when he looked for someone Allison would want to protect in defiance of her sworn duty, who fit better than her daughter? A daughter with experience in car stunts. And away from Rikki, that stupefying perfume clearing from his head, he could remember why her kiss on the patio alarmed him. She had tasted of blood.

Part of him shied from asking whose blood. The cop in him, though, demanded an answer. Zane headed for the LEC...to see if another body had been found.

17.

Allison followed Honor’s Cord up North Parkview. This Deirdre baffled her. She had gone hunting for three nights running but tonight, with the moon even closer to full, she chose not to hunt? It made no sense.  Nothing about Deirdre made sense...the tension and severe restraint in her, the almost hysterical retreat at the mention of the Gathering...and the crucifix thing! What was that about?

Alarm bells cut off the thought. The Sport Wrangler passing her going the other way was Kerr’s! Allison considered turning around and chasing after him. No, better to check around their property first for signs of what he had been up to.

Climbing out of her car in the courtyard, she called to Honora, “Baba, did you see that--”

She broke off, sniffing. Kerr’s scent lay in the courtyard.  So did Rikki’s...and mixed with both, the musky odor of sex.

She saw Honora sniffing, too, and stared at her in horror. “Rikki’s young and thoughtless but I can’t believe that she would...”

But when Allison flung the front door open, the same scents eddied in the entry hall. She bellowed, “Rikki!”

“I’m in the kitchen,” came a distant reply.

They charged around the verandah and in through the French doors. Rikki stood in front of the stove, a slab of meat sizzling on the grill. The loose belting of her robe showed she wore nothing under it. She smiled at them, aglow with sexual satiation and reeking of Kerr’s scent. “You want me to throw on something for you, too?”

Honora crossed over and turned off the grill. “I think you’ve heated up enough meat this evening.”

Rikki’s expression went wary. “Is something wrong?”

Wrong? Allison exploded. “Have you totally lost your mind! Have your hormones fried your brain! What the hell were you thinking of, bringing him, of all people, here!”

“What’s the big deal?” Rikki tightened the belt of her robe. “I’ve heard both Beatrice and you used to bring human lovers here, Baba, and Zane didn’t have time to think about anything but me.” She grinned. “Talk about hormones frying brains...you’d have thought he was volke the way my pheromones reeled him in and fired him up! He’s not bad in the endurance department, either.” She stared hard at Allison. “I plan on seeing more of him.”

Allison clenched her fists to keep from shaking Rikki. “What you want--”

“What I want,” Honora said coldly, “is to know when, since we just passed your lover down the street, you acquired the scent of rabbit I smell on you.”

Allison sniffed. In her anger she had missed detecting that before. She stared at Rikki in disbelief. “I don’t believe this. You went hunting and left him alone here?”

Protest rose in Rikki’s face. “He was asleep! The moonlight looked so wonderful and--I was only gone for a few minutes!”

Honora wheeled away from her. “Let’s check the house.”

Scent made it easy to track him. Honora found the trail leading off from the entry hall into the common rooms. It took them to the library, and the cabinet where they kept photo albums.

“I left this locked,” Honora said.

His scent covered the folios and albums inside.

Rikki went ashen. “He was asleep, I swear! I didn’t think--”

“You certainly didn’t!” Allison could not remember ever being this angry before.

“I’m sorry.” Rikki burst into tears. “I’m sorry! What do we do now? What can I do?”

“I think you’ve done enough!”

Honora laid a hand on Allison’s arm. “All right. Anger won’t help us here.” She flipped open one of the folios. Allison saw it had opened to the page showing Georgiana with her camera. Honora traced a finger down one side of Georgiana’s face, as though caressing the cheek. After a long minute she gently closed the folio and returned it to the shelf. “Rikki...what you can do is spend time reflecting on the virtues of discretion and self discipline...and considering the consequences of actions before you act.  For that I can’t think of a more suitable place, quiet and with no distractions, than here this weekend.”

Rikki’s jaw dropped. “You mean...miss the Gathering?”

“Exactly.” Honora bit off the syllables. “Then while you reflect, Allison will assess the danger you’ve put us in so I can decide how to deal with this human.” Her voice sharpened still more as protest rose in Rikki’s face. “Do you have a complaint, missy?”

Rikki licked her lips. “Don’t kill him. Please, Baba. He’s a nice guy. I like him.”

As though that had any relevance.

Honora sniffed. “You like him in bed. You don’t know anything else about him.”

“Maybe he hasn’t guessed what we are,” Rikki said.

Honora glanced toward the shelf of albums. “Of course he has. If the legends were true and biting him would make him one of us, we’d have no problem. But of course it doesn’t happen that way, so...” She sighed. “...we have to do whatever necessary to protect ourselves. You know that.”

Allison’s stomach knotted.

Tears spilled down Rikki’s face. “But I don’t want to be responsible for--”

“You already are. You’re responsible for bringing him here and leaving him alone. That makes whatever steps we take to deal with him absolutely and totally your fault.”

However much Rikki needed this lesson, did Honora have to lay it on with such a heavy hand?

“Actions have consequences,” Honora said. “You need to remember that.”

“Baba, please...” Rikki wailed.

Honora frowned. “There’s no more time for this. Go to your room.”

Rikki slunk away.

Allison stared after her. “You’re really going to leave her here alone this weekend?”

“Not quite.” Honora smiled. “You’ll be around. You can have quality time with your daughter.”

“Right now I don’t feel at all maternal.” Allison grimaced. “I know every child is precious but...do you ever regret they take so long to grow up?”

Honora laughed. “Often...especially with your mother. Georgiana was as wild as I pretended to be, and more perverse. Rikki reminds me a lot of her.”

Photographs and the folios were all Allison knew of her mother, since Georgiana disappeared when Allison was three. “Was she really working for the CIA in Hungary?”

Honora shrugged. “Who knows? She said she was going because the revolution looked fun. But as I did, she always loved taking a camera into battle, and anyone with a camera was probably considered a spy by the Russians.”

Allison’s cell phone warbled.

“This is Rick Bliss. I think my cousin Matthew met the hunter tonight.”

Ice washed through Allison. Shit! How had Deirdre slipped by them! She passed on everything to Honora.

Honora’s eyes darkened. “Do they have her?”

“Sorry,” Rick said. “Matt didn’t know about her. He just got in about twenty-two hundred hours. I was on duty and everyone else but his sister Samantha has left for the Gathering. There wasn’t anyone at the house to tell him, and he said he didn’t see any of the clan on the A when he went to kill time at the bars until Sam gets off work so they can drive up together.”

Saw none of the clan? How the hell had that happened? Allison swore silently.

“When he got home a few minutes ago and told me about this weird chick he met there I knew it had to be the hunter. They ended up in the park before she ran off, so Sam and I are going back down with Matt to track her.”

“Wait for me. I’ll come, too.”

“No,” Honora said, “Rikki and I will go. You find Kerr.  Take all appropriate action necessary.” She paused, staring into Allison’s eyes. “You can do it, can’t you? For the clan.”

Allison stomach lurched. But her great-grandmother’s clan also screamed in her head. She nodded. As soon as she called Gary and Kyle to alert them to watch for Deirdre coming home, she would track him down.

Friday, April 6

1.

For the first time in Zane’s life, a police station gave him no sense of security. He sat at not his own desk but Carl Ng’s, where he faced the door. Some of the body heat burning him up earlier would be welcome about now. The vending machine coffee scalded his tongue but never touched the chill in his bones nor the taste of blood from Rikki’s mouth. He thought about putting on his suit coat, now draped over the back of his own desk chair, but doubted that would help either, just as the negative response to his inquiries downstairs about another possible wilding death failed to give him any sense of relief. The body might only be undiscovered.

Here alone in the office, he had his quiet place to think, but what he had seen continued to defy logic. People did not live two hundred years and look fiftyish. Werewolves were only myth. Never mind the mocking echo in his head of his own words to Allison about the size and strangeness of the universe; physical laws imposed some limits. Shape changing was impossible. He still believed in the presence of other intelligent life in the universe...but they lived on other planets. Not side by side with humans on Earth. Serving in the Arenosa Police Department. As his partner.

Yet...the physical evidence of Others stared at him from the case book...anomalous bite marks on two victims, like those--what had Pedicaris called them?--carnassial teeth would leave. An “anomaly” he bet examination would find common to all Allison’s family. Rikki’s excuse for needing no protection during sex capped it. There’s no zoonosis here, she said. His electronic dictionary sat open on the desk, the screen displaying the definition of “zoonosis.” A disease of animals communicable to man. Casually, with the matter-of-fact flatness of an established given, Rikki had pronounced the two of them different species.

He punched off the dictionary and snapped the case closed. Forget explanations for the time being. It was enough knowing that he had stumbled on something dangerous. Now what did he do about it? Would anyone believe him when he could not explain what he saw even to himself? Still, he needed to try. Somehow Rikki must answer for the murders.

And then? What about the rest of the family? Where did they come from? How many were there? Did any others pose a danger to humanity...and Arenosa?

As the questions spun in his head, he heard footsteps...and looked up to see Allison standing in the opening, staring at him with gunmetal eyes. “When I didn’t find you at home, I wondered if you might be here.”

The solitude he had wanted for thinking suddenly felt like a trap. The two of them were alone and she blocked the only escape route.  She pushed the door closed behind her, the first time Zane remembered seeing it shut. The snap of the latch sounded loud as a gunshot.

He found himself on his feet. The weight the gun on his belt gave him little comfort. Bullets might have no effect on her kind. Standing at least made sure the chair would not interfere with drawing the weapon.

Her eyes hardened and Zane realized that his actions, and probably his expression, betrayed he had found them out. He struggled to pull air into a chest that felt paralyzed. The gunmetal eyes stared holes in him while his skin crawled with the current crackling around her and across the space between them.

She glided toward him, sighing. “Damn it, why did you have to pry and break into the photo cabinet?”

How did she know about that!

“Why couldn’t you be content with letting us be Elves?”

The back of his thighs hit an edge. He saw a computer one direction and a filing cabinet shingled with sticky notes the other. Belatedly, Zane realized that as she advanced, he had been backing away. Now he stood trapped against the hutch of her desk. The air felt like glue in his lungs and throat as he tried to talk. “Because you were letting one of your family slaughter innocent people! I had to find out what you are.” He fought to breath. “I can’t let her get away with this butchery. I can’t let you get away with protecting her.”

“I can’t let you tell anyone.” Heat waves bloomed around her. Once again terror flooded Zane again. Only now he understood the source. It had a name.  Now he knew how Demry, Surrette, and Cromer must have felt before they died.

The thought broke his immobility. Zane clawed his gun out.

Allison halted but eyed the weapon without concern. “That’s a waste of time. You might kill me, but not fast enough to save yourself.”

He supported his gun hand with the other and despite the fear threatening to drain strength and will from him, steadied his aim at Allison’s chest. “If you tear me apart here, how are you going to explain it?”

Part of his attention included her hands, but he realized too late he automatically focused on the right one, forgetting she was left handed. She moved so fast he had no time to pull the trigger. The pistol ripped out of his hands and sailed across the room. Heat blasted him and a great silver wolf lunged from it to grab the front of his shirt and begin hauling him across the room.

“I don’t need to pull you apart.” Eerily, her voice sounded no different, and despite the bared fangs, dispassionate. “Throwing you out a window will be sufficient.”

How she managed to grip him with her paws mattered nothing when he saw the direction she was dragging him. Desperately Zane grabbed for her peninsula, then Viapiana’s, but his fingers skidded off. “Someone’s seen you come in. They’ll suspect you.”

“It doesn’t matter what happens to me, as long as they don’t learn about the clan.”

The window loomed just feet away. Zane managed to bring his feet under him and plant them long enough to fold at the waist and pull. The wolf’s momentum forward peeled his shirt off over his head.

The sudden release sent Zane over backward.  As soon as he felt himself falling, he twisted. Hitting the floor on knees and forearms, he scrambled away, searching the floor. The gun. Where had the gun landed? Even if bullets failed to stop Allison, wounding her might slow her down...buy him time.  The shots would at least bring help.  To his despair, the gun lay nowhere in sight.

A shadow arched over him and the wolf landed in his path.

Forget the gun, then. The doorway of Carillo’s office lay off to his side.  While she could smash her way in, any delay might let him use the phone.

Zane sprang to his feet and for the door.

The wolf leaped sideways, grabbing at him.

He dropped, twisting, diving under the reaching paw. Adrenaline pumped fire through him. As he dived, he tucked in his head...curled, somersaulted, and used his momentum to carry him back onto his feet, sprinting for the door.

For a second, he thought he had the race won, that he had caught her by surprise. The door lay just feet away. Then a shadow blotted out the overhead light again. The wolf came down on his back with a force that slammed him to the floor and knocked the breath out of him. He tried to roll over, thinking to dislodge her, or at least put himself in a position to go for her eyes.

No.  She kept him pinned and wrenched his arms backward. Metal rattled, then pain lanced through his wrists. With a shock he realized she had handcuffed him.

A grip on his hair dragged him to his feet, whirled him. A shove on his back propelled him toward the windows again. When he planted his feet, she grabbed his belt, took a tighter hold on his hair, and rising on her hind legs, hoisted him over her head. Heat and current seared him. Thrashing and kicking down at her in an effort to throw her off balance had no effect. She carried him as if he weighed nothing.

The window loomed just feet ahead. Desperately, he said, “Killing me may protect Rikki a little longer, but--”

“Rikki!” She stopped short. “Why would you think Rikki is the hunter?”

Her flabbergasted tone pulled his attention from the window. “Because...the way she jumped that rear gate, she could make it to the window in the candy factory. As a stunt driver she has the training to ride Surrette’s car into the water and escape. And when she came back from running she had blood on her mouth.”

Just short of the window she halted. “Rikki isn’t Blondie. If she were, she would have been off the street the day we found Demry! I wouldn’t let even my daughter terrorize and butcher humans.”

“But she’s someone you know well if Golden can identify her and Makepeace is willing to lie for--”

“He didn’t lie for her.  He also didn’t think what he was doing.  That happens in the young.” Her voice went wry. “After all, you’re telling me you believed Rikki was a killer but you still had sex with her.”

Zane’s ears burned. “Resistance was--” He broke off. What the hell was he doing? He hung hoisted above her, inches from death, wrapped in her heat and current...carrying on a conversation?

Below him, a cell phone warbled. For the second time he hit the floor with bone-jarring force. Caught under him as he landed, the cuffs bit into his wrists. But the heat vanished and above him a human-shaped Allison fairly snatched out her cell phone. “Allison... Damn!” She grimaced. “You couldn’t find where she came out of the water?”

For the first time in what seemed an eternity, he sucked in a decent breath of air.  Welcoming the chill of the floor and pain in his wrists from the handcuffs...proof he was still alive.

“I’m at the office...Yes, I did...here.” Her glance flicked over him. “No, not yet.”

The floor felt suddenly colder, the air turgid in his lungs again. Zane could just imagine the other end of the conversation.

“Please do,” she said. “Something she did or said to him may be helpful. What’s the plan now?...Me, Baba?...But...I understand...Yes. Have a good flight.” The cell phone went back in her pocket and she picked up the nearest desk phone. “This is Detective Goodnight. When Matthew Bliss arrives there, please send him right up.”

Hanging up, Allison stared down at Zane. Her glance went from the window back to him.

He braced to kick at her, bite...whatever necessary to fight her.

Then he realized that the electrical charge around her had faded and her expression, gone thoughtful. “It’s interesting you’re not screaming for help.”

No. Why was that? He stared straight at her. “Touch me and I will.” Somehow, no matter how overwhelming his terror if she changed again.

She leaned over him. “How much do you want Blondie? Enough to keep quiet about what I am and cooperate to catch her?”

He gaped at her, heart hammering, not believing what he heard. “You’re willing to let me live?”

Allison shrugged. “I’d rather be chasing Blondie than disposing of you...as long as you’re being helpful.”

He certainly wanted Blondie‑‑and to live. “I’ll cooperate.” Could he trust her word? If not, he had time to prepare to defend himself.

She pulled keys from her pocket and after helping him to his feet, unlocked the cuffs. “Do you see where I threw your shirt?”

“Will you tell me who Blondie is?”

She peered at desks and under them. “Deirdre Hilst. Ah...there we are.” She picked his shirt off the floor under Herrera’s desk.

Hilst? Zane stared at her “You mean Charlie was--”

“No, and neither are his family, but she is.” After turning the shirt right side out, she tossed it to him. “Better keep your coat on today. You have grass stains on the back.”

His ears heated again. “I don’t suppose you’d trust me to go home and change clothes.”

A knife-blade smile answered him. Then to his surprise, she said, “You can clean up here.”

That would be nice. He rubbed the stubble on his chin. “I don’t have a razor handy.”

“No major case survival kit?” She pulled out the drawer where she had had the thesaurus and fished a toilet kit from the rear of it. “I think I have a toothbrush that’s still in its wrapper.” She dug a cordless electric razor from a drawer in Hugh Bass’s desk. “We’ll clean up together. I want you where I can see you.”

Did she mean what he thought?

She did. Allison followed him into the men’s room and set toothpaste and deodorant on the shelf over the basins. Well, if she had no problem being here... He switched on Bass’s razor.

While Allison washed up and brushed her teeth, he learned about meeting Deirdre at the gallery. Why she found Deirdre Hilst’s behavior bizarre he baffled him, but Deirdre being British told him werewolves must be all over the world. Countless questions raced around his brain.

A phone call interrupted her recitation. Someone feeding her information. She set her notebook on the shelf above the basins and scribbled while she listened. “What did she say about shark attacks?”

The door opened. “What the hell?”

They glanced around. Phil Tushman from Property Crimes stared at Allison from the door. “Can’t you read the sign?”

Allison finished her call. “My partner and I are discussing our case.” She dropped the phone in her jacket pocket. “What’s the problem? You have something you’re ashamed for me to see?”

Zane tried not to choke on his toothbrush.

Tushman stalked by them to the urinals.

From the corner of his eye Zane watched the other detective’s back and debated if it were possible to use him for escaping from Allison. Surely she would not attack him in front of a witness. Or would she just kill them both? Even if he succeeded in leaving, however, who did he run to? His story sounded insane. The Queen of Homicide was a werewolf. The department was loaded with werewolves. And for over a hundred years the people of Arenosa had entrusted public safety to their nightmares.

Belatedly he realized Allison had lowered her voice and gone on talking about Deirdre. He decided to keep his word to her...at least for the time being. Stopping the murders was more important...and being with Allison, maybe he could see to it Deirdre was arrested. After Tushman left, he said, “You’re certain she’s the one? How?”

In Allison’s hesitation he saw reluctance to give him more information on her people, but presently she answered, “Scent.”

That made perfect sense. Now he understood what was she was doing over the footprints at the Demry crime scene.  It also explained her astonishing detection of perpetrators. She matched scents at crime scenes to those of suspects. “You’ve been close enough to Mrs. Hilst to determine her scent is the same as the killer’s?”

They headed back for the office. Allison did not answer until they reached it. “It’s almost the same.”

“Almost?” He shrugged into his coat and dug his tie out of the pocket. “Then doesn’t that mean she isn’t the killer? Isn’t every person’s scent unique? That’s how dogs track people.”

She frowned thoughtfully. “Yes...but maybe something has altered her scent. In any case, with Deirdre the only suspect in sight and so close to a match...we have to check her out.”

Of course. “‘Close’, then, is good enough to establish probable--” Hearing himself, he broke off in astonishment, and saw it reflected in her eyes, too...that almost without a hiccup in his thinking, he had accepted scent as evidence of identity and grounds for probable cause.

2.

Kerr’s remark illustrated everything she had feared about his ability to think outside the box.  It also reassured her he was unlikely to become hysterical. Which was a relief. As her initial anger and fear on seeing he figured out what they were dissipated, she had realized Honora was right about the difficulty of killing someone in cold blood. If he tried blowing the whistle, of course, she would do what she had to, but in the meantime his cooperation left her free to focus most of her attention on Deirdre. With Honora on her way to settle a clan disagreement before the Gathering started, she now bore all the responsibility of handling Deirdre.

“Unfortunately, we need facts more comprehensible to...ordinary officials and citizens.”

His wry smile told her he understood she meant human officials. “So where do you want to start?”

“With someone who also met Deirdre last night.” Matt should be here any time.

Her cell phone warbled. Surely not Honora again. Her grandmother had already passed on the little learned from the Palm Beach clan chief...that Deirdre had always rebuffed attempts to draw her into the clan, so they knew nothing about her or her background...but they had no incidents in the area indicating rogue activity. There had been more shark attacks than previous years, the clan chief told Honora, but that matched a general increase in shark attacks all along the coast of Florida. Where most were not fatal, though, they had five fatalities in the past three months.

From the other end of the connection, Del Kindly said hoarsely, “Gary’s disappeared.”

Alarms screamed in Allison. In her peripheral vision Kerr started and rubbed the back of his neck. “Talk!”

“We were checking with each other every fifteen minutes or so, but when I radioed him at quarter after five, he didn’t answer. I wasn’t worried at first because at five he hadn’t answered right away, either. He’d had both hands busy, he said. It bugged him that Deirdre got by us and he was prowling around climbing some fences and walls trying--”

“Never mind that.” It sounded like Gary. She gripped the phone harder. “When did you start to worry?”

“When he still hadn’t responded after ten minutes. I tried him again, but still nothing. So I ran around front. There’s no sign of him and his car is gone.”

Damn. Damn! It had to be Deirdre, but how could she take him? Was there a chance he was still alive? “I’m on my way!” She threw the phone into her pocket.

“What is it?” Kerr asked.

“Find your gun.” Should she wait for Matt Bliss, though? She needed to talk to him.

His brows rose. “You’re going to let me carry it?”

“Just find it!” Her desk phone rang. She snatched up the receiver.

To her relief, the clerk at the front counter said, “Matthew Bliss is on his way up.”

Scratch that delay.

Kerr located his gun on the top shelf of the Bass’s hutch in time for them to leave the floor and catch Matt at the elevator.

Matt looked the same as the last time she saw him...as he had looked all her life, for that matter... military bearing, burr haircut, and a sweatshirt or t-shirt from his current branch of military service...today, a t-shirt emblazoned Rangers lead the way. “I’m sorry I let her get away. I didn’t know--” He broke off at the sight of Kerr.

“I know. Let’s go.” Allison stepped into the elevator.

“Go?”

“The hunter may have gotten Gary Golden,” she said over her shoulder...and heard two intakes of breath behind her.

“What’s happened to him?” Kerr asked.

Matt eyed Kerr. “He’s coming with us?”

She punched the down button. “Yes. Detective Kerr has discovered what we are, so I can’t leave him behind.”

“I can do him for you.”

Despite Matt’s breezy tone and her awareness that he liked many humans as individuals, she knew he meant the offer...and a tightening of Kerr’s jaw told her he took the statement seriously, too. “I don’t need him done. He’s useful to me.”

Kerr’s jaw relaxed a little. “What about Golden?”

On the ride down, she passed on what Del said.  Once they were in the car, she said, “Matt, tell me about this woman you met.” How the hell had Deirdre sneaked past them?

Matt leaned forward into the space between the front seats. “Well, about oh-one hundred I drove downtown and parked on Avenue B, planning to hit a few bars waiting for Sam to get off work. I’m headed for the cross-street to go down to the A when I see movement in the alley. I take a close look and damn if it isn’t someone in Shift, leaping up to a fire escape. From the noise I can tell it’s the Electric Warehouse, and as soon as she dropped back out of Shift I could see that was one foxy lady climbing the fire escape to the roof garden, and there was enough breeze carrying her scent to tell me she was pouring out the sex pheromones.”

Allison glanced over to see Kerr’s eyes widen and the wheels turn in his head. He was making the connection to Rikki’s “perfume”.

“So I thought that was interesting and I followed her up.”

Which explained how he missed meeting any clan members on the street. And how they missed seeing Deirdre. Not, however, how she left the Hilst house undetected. Del and Bob had been on the beach, she and Honora out front.

“I didn’t have any trouble striking up a conversation in the club. You can’t talk there unless you shout so I couldn’t ask about her clan or anything. She said her name was Diana. We had a few drinks...danced...she wiggled her ass and knockers at me. Back at the table she starts playing with me under it, invites me to do the same to her. After it starts getting heavy I suggest going somewhere more private. She has a boat, she says, and we went out the back to my car.”

“A boat,” Kerr said. “That’s how Surrette ended up where he did.”

Yes. Allison gunned down Avenue F. Deirdre being a Hilst, the boat would be not at the Yacht Club nor any of the North Bay marinas but at the Basin...where they never canvassed because visiting pleasure boats did not dock there and the pleasure boats already there were not rental craft.

“She has her hand in my fly making it hard for me to concentrate on driving. She won’t say where she’s moored.  When we turn down West Bayside she suddenly says she has a better idea...sex al fresco in the park.”

“Do you have any idea why she changed her mind?” Allison asked.

Matt shook his head. “Not a clue. At that point I didn’t give a damn where she wanted to do it, as long as it was close and soon. I do remember her nails digging into me when we passed a couple of police cars.”

So...maybe Deirdre switched venues because of the way police interrupted her game the night before.

“When we parked, she peeled off her shoes and pantyhose, said, ‘Catch me.’...and took off running.”

Playing the same game she had with Cromer...and probably with Demry.

Matt flopped back in his seat. “I followed her scent to a grove of palms where all of a sudden she jumped out--” He leaned forward again. “Are you sure it’s all right for him to hear this?”

“Forget Kerr for the time being. The hunter jumped out.”

“Right...in Shift, of all things. I told her, ‘Hey, normally I like chase games as foreplay but lady, I don’t need any more foreplay!  Or do you want to do it with us both in Shift?’ Which might have been interesting.

“This is where it started getting strange, though. She drops out of Shift and stands there with her mouth open. She says, ‘You’re...like me?’

“Well, duh, I say, ‘What did you think, I was human and you’d have a little fun scaring the shit out of me?’ Then I realized that had to be the case, though how in hell she mistook me for human, I don’t know.”

Allison wondered, too. Especially when Deirdre reacted so strongly to her at the gallery. That suggested they were dealing with two separate individuals. But...two Brit female volke in town at the same time?

“She’s starting to frown and I see my chances of getting laid tonight are going away but I want to try salvaging something here because she is so hot, so I said obviously she’s new in town and may not realize we’re having a Gathering this weekend. I invited her to be my guest, promising her plenty of fun with sex and hunting.

“‘Even if I’m...half human?’ she says.

“I didn’t know what the hell she was up to. I said, ‘What? Ain’t no such critters possible and we both know that.’

“She stares at me and after a minute she gives me this tight smile. ‘Of course not. It’s just I’m a long way from home and feel like an outsider.’

“I tell her, ‘At Gatherings, outsiders have the best of it.’ I tell her about attending the Spring Equinox in Cornwall while my outfit was in Devonshire gearing up for D-Day.

“Her eyes go like saucers. ‘You mean World War II?’ she says. ‘You’re not old enough to have been there.’”

Allison swung onto Laguna Drive. Another volke whose age Deirdre could not read.

Matt grinned. “It shows how doing something you love keeps you vigorous. I swore I was twenty-one at the time and even if I hadn’t been full of myself for finally learning to Shift, it still would have been the greatest experience since trading my hunt dreams for the real thing!” He punched Kerr’s shoulder. “There’s nothing like being an outsider male! The alphas sicced all their young females on me for a contribution to their gene pool and I got fucked blind! Had to be almost carried back to my unit.”

Kerr’s eyebrows climbed toward his hairline.

Matt went on, “Diana starts breathing hard and I thought whoa, maybe I’d get laid yet. But when I reach for her she backs away and says, ‘Hunt dreams. What were yours like?’

“I really don’t understand this chick. I tell her mine were like everyone’s, as far as I know.

“‘Like...everyone’s,’ she says, then grabs my arm and digs in her fingernails. ‘In yours, was the grass whipping at your legs and dust coming up in your face from the herd running in front of you, but you didn’t care because the power surging through you made you feel you could run forever...and then you leaped onto the prey’s back and tore into it and there was blood all over you and tasting hot and salty.’”

Allison heard Kerr catch his breath.

“I asked why did she think hers might have been different from normal?”

More vividly than the dreams, Allison remembered how they intensified as the moon waxed, bringing hunger she could not satisfy, an ache for freedom her body could not achieve. As she reached her teens, she had felt suffocated. She began running, pushing herself more each night, convinced that no matter what the adults said about when she would finally start Shifting, if she ran fast enough, hard enough, she could break through the constriction now! Going out for track in college had given her a good excuse to run on the stadium track at night.

“‘The dreams are normal,’ Diana says. She’s staring at me but I can tell she doesn’t see me. ‘They’re...normal.’”

In the rearview mirror Matt grimaced. “It gave me the willies. The last person I saw with that expression in his eyes was a human member of my platoon emptying his .45 into a twelve-year-old VC girl we caught after his best buddy fell into a man trap. So when she takes off again, I wasn’t about to go after her. I didn’t know there was a rogue until I got home and told Rick about this chick.” He grimaced again. “The rest you know. We tried tracking her but she’d jumped into the river and we couldn’t find where she climbed out.” He shook his head. “I’m not surprised she’s a rogue. She was just too weird.”

As Deirdre was.

“I wonder,” Kerr said. “The way you describe her reactions matches how I’ve felt here. I just don’t know how this could be the first time she heard that information, or not know her hunt dreams were normal. Her family would have told her, wouldn’t they?”

It made no sense to Allison, either. The Hilst house lay ahead. She pulled over to the left curb facing Del Kindly’s car. “We’ll ask her.”

3.

In the library back at the Goodnight house, Zane’s brain felt overloaded. He had passed way beyond that now. If this Diana/Deirdre really did not know all that about herself, he understood exactly how she felt and why she bolted. His dash to the solitude and sanctuary of the office had not been much different. Except for his anxiety about Gary Golden, Zane felt disconnected from reality, an observer to some parallel world darkly variant from his own.

Del Kindly’s dubious stare at him had turned to a shrug after Allison explained his presence. “As long as you’re responsible for him. I sniffed around the area while I waited. Gary parked here, and a female with an outsider volke scent approached the car.”

Volke...like the German for “people”? Zane wondered. Russian had a word “volk,” too. It meant “wolf.”

Allison crouched over the spot and took a deep breath. “The hunter.”

“Deirdre?” Zane asked.

“No.” She shook her head, frowning. “Definitely the hunter.”

“That’s Diana’s scent,” Bliss said.

Allison stood and stared down the street north. “She couldn’t have caught him in the car. Her scent leads in from two directions, from down the street and straight across the street. Either direction he would have seen her coming and signaled Del.”

“I think she got him down there.” Kindly pointed toward the wall around the art deco sprawl two properties down from the Hilsts’. “Their scents overlap at the foot of the wall...though not up the wall. That’s just his scent. Then they overlap coming up the street to outside the Hilst fence.”

In this parallel world, Zane accepted detectives playing bloodhound and working out crime scene movements by scent. When they said sniffed around, they meant it.

Allison’s mouth thinned. “She must have ambushed him as he came down. Drew made sure all our Patrol officers knew her scent. The first whiff, Gary would have hit his mike button. She struck too fast for him to react.”

“There’s another scent, too, but I don’t know what to make of it. It’s almost the same as this one. Over there.” Kindly led the way to a spot outside the fence around the Hilst property. “It overlaps both Gary’s and the hunter’s, then all three scents disappear. My guess is the hunter brought Gary’s car over here and they left in it. It’s a two-seater but she could stack two in the passenger seat.”

When Allison sniffed at the fence, she stepped back with a frustrated frown. “Here’s Deirdre’s scent.”

“Then they’re different people,” Zane said.

Bliss and Kindly looked skeptical. Kindly said, “Having another female Brit in town at the same time might not be that big a coincidence, but...a Brit volke with a scent so similar...then her coming here and Deirdre climbing over the fence with her? That’s really stretching it.”

Allison grimaced. “I know.”

A thought occurred to Zane. “What if they’re two different personalities in one body...a dissociated personality.”

The three stared at him. Allison said, “I’ve never heard of multiple personalities in our people.”

Bliss snickered. “Yeah...we’re just the opposite. What would make her into a multiple personality?”

Zane raked through his memory for what he remembered of psychology classes in college. “Well, the original personality is very repressed and has suffered severe emotional trauma of some kind. Another personality develops to act out what the repressed personality can’t.”

Allison grunted. “Deirdre was nothing if not repressed.”

“The question is whether that could also give her two similar but individual scents.”

She looked thoughtful. “I don’t know the answer.  Right now it doesn’t matter. We know Gary’s probably dead and Diana killed him. Deirdre is either with her as another personality or a separate person...unless Deirdre is separate and went back into the house. I’m going to check that out presently.” Allison pulled her phone from her pocket and punched in a number.

Zane listened to her talk to Dispatch. “You’re just asking for an Attempt To Locate on the car? You’re not going to mention Golden?”

“Send human officers gunning for Diana...and have the media watching them?” She snorted. “We’ll handle looking for Diana.” She punched in another number. “Drew? The situation isn’t improving.” She moved out of Zane’s earshot to talk to Makepeace. When she disconnected, she turned to Kindly and Bliss. “Drew is going to round up some clan members. Since Diana said she has a boat, maybe she headed back there, so we need to check the pleasure craft at the Basin. I think when it’s daylight...” She glanced at the eastern sky, just beginning to lighten. “...we ought to check the bay off the ferry landing for Gary’s car.”

Kindly nodded grimly. “I’ll take care of it.”

“Get me scuba gear and a headlamp and I’ll dive right now,” Bliss said. “I’ve been a SEAL, remember?”

She gave his arm a squeeze. “Go for it. Del, communicate by phone. The hunter has Gary’s radio.”

After they left in Kindly’s car, Allison turned and eyed the Hilst house. “Now let’s start asking questions here.”

The elaborate wrought iron gates were closed and locked but the gate post had access controls attached to it. Allison pressed the call button. After five minutes of leaning repeatedly on it, they still had no response.

She called Dispatch for the Charles Hilst telephone number. The telephone finally woke someone. “Mrs. Hilst, this is Detective Goodnight of the police department. We’re at your front gate and need to speak with Leonard and Deirdre Hilst...Yes, I do know the time but this can’t wait for morning.”

Presently a sleepy-eyed woman in bare feet and a bathrobe, Julie Hilst, hauled open the massive carved front door and padded across the courtyard pavers to the gate. She held out a hand. “Let me see your identification.”

They handed the badge cases through to her.

She raked a mane of black hair back from her eyes and squinted at the ID’s, then looked up in surprise at Zane. “I don’t have my contacts, but I know you, don’t I? We’ve met at the Basin.” She handed back the ID’s. “What’s this about?”

Twenty years ago when she became the then sixty-five-year-old Charlie’s second wife, Juliana Figueras had been stunningly beautiful. The daughter of a fisherman, someone told Zane. Charlie kept a honeymoon photograph of them in his office at the Basin. In her forties she remained handsome and her skin only slightly leathery from all the hours she and Charlie spent on the water in the sun.

He gave her an apologetic smile. “We’re sorry to wake you but we need to see Leonard Hilst and his wife.”

She squinted at him for a moment, then shrugged. “Okay...but I refuse to take responsibility for anything Len says when we wake him.”

Julie returned to the house. Presently the gates swung inward. Inside the house they followed her up a sweeping curve of stairs to a corridor running parallel to the front of the house. As Julie stopped at the door of a room facing the street, Zane saw Allison’s nose twitch. He wondered what she smelled.

Julie knocked. “Len? The police are here. They want to talk to you.” After a minute she knocked again, louder. “Len!” When that still brought no response she rolled her eyes. “They must really have gone at it last night.” She hammered the door. “Len, damn it, wake up! The police are here!”

A rush of current raised the hair on Zane’s neck. He glanced at Allison to find her staring intently at the door, nostrils flared. Whatever she smelled clearly disturbed her.

“Try the knob,” she said.

Julie blinked. “What? I can’t just walk in.”

“Doesn’t it bother you that they don’t wake up?”

Julie squinted at her. “Do you know something? Is that why you’re here?”

A thin smile answered her. “Let’s say I’m concerned. Please try the door.”

After a moment of hesitation, Julie wiggled the doorknob. “It’s locked.”

Allison bent down to the key hole. “I don’t see a key.”

Julie showed no surprise. “We never use keys for these doors. The inside part of the lock is a flat box on the door with a thumb thingy on top to push sideways to lock it.”

“But you do have a key somewhere?” Allison said.

“Oh, sure.” Julie nodded. “But I’ll have to hunt for where Charlie put them. Are you sure this is necessary?”

“Yes. Is there any other way in besides the balcony out front?”

Julie shook her head.

Allison took the stairs down three at a time, leaving Julie and him to scramble after her. Outside they stood on the driveway staring up at the balcony.

“There’s a ladder in the garage.” Julie pointed at the three broad arches on the far side of the courtyard.

“That won’t be necessary,” Allison said. “Kerr, make a stirrup for me.”

He linked his hands. She set a foot in it and braced her hands on his shoulders. At her nod, he lifted and she sprang. It felt as though she flew up out of his hand. She was still rising when she caught the balcony railing and swung over it.

Julie whistled. “She’s sure athletic.”

Allison pushed at the tall window opening onto the balcony. It swung inward in two narrow halves. After fumbling with the drapes for several seconds, she found the center and pulled them apart.

Watching, Zane asked Julie, “Do you know of any psychologically traumatic event Deirdre suffered as a child?”

“Event?” Julie snorted. “How about her whole childhood?”

Above them Allison turned away from the window. The tight mask of her face knotted Zane’s gut. She swung back over the balcony railing and dropped to the ground. “We need Ident.”

Julie caught her breath. “What’s happened?”

Allison pulled out her phone. “I’m sorry, but your step-son has been killed. I didn’t see Deirdre.”

“Killed!” Julie crossed herself. “Are you sure? You just looked in for a couple of seconds.”

“I’m sure.”

That flat tone sounded ominous. As Allison turned away with the phone, Zane caught Julie’s elbow. “Why don’t we go inside.”

She resisted, staring up at the balcony with concern. “Deirdre could be wounded up there and dying for lack of help...or hiding, terrified. Charlie dropped dead at work and it was terrible enough just being told. If I’d seen him die, let alone being killed...”

Zane made his voice reassuring. “I don’t think Deirdre’s up there. Come on.”

She kept looking back at the balcony as he steered her into the house. “You don’t understand. She wouldn’t leave the house at night. Kick in the door or something. It’s all right with me. I just want to know she’s all right.”

He pushed the front door closed. “I know. We’ll take care of it. May I fix you some coffee or something?”

“Coffee?” She shoved back her hair again and glanced vaguely around her. “I expect there’ll be a lot of people in and out. Should I make coffee and sandwiches? We have a troop-sized coffee maker.”

“Thanks but that won’t be necessary.” Too bad, in a way. Mundane tasks would give her something to do besides imagine the scene upstairs.

“Well, I’ve got to have some.” She led the way through the house into a roomy kitchen...where she plugged in a regular twelve-cup coffee maker and went about adding coffee and water.

Zane made himself comfortable on a stool at a kitchen island. Pots hung above it hung from a wooden grate that looked like the hatch cover from an old sailing ship.

Julie glanced over her shoulder at him. “Do you suppose a burglar killed Len? The house is all wired for security, of course, but there’s a by-pass switch on each of the upstairs windows so someone who wants to can have theirs open without setting off the alarm. A burglar might have noticed the window ajar.”

Deirdre almost certainly knew about the by-pass.

“Could the burglar have kidnapped Deirdre?”

Deirdre rated much more concern that Len did, Zane noticed. “It’s entirely possible Deirdre didn’t leave of her own volition.” Not if the Diana personality was in control at the time. If they dealt with a dissociated personality. “You said Deirdre’s whole childhood was traumatic. You mean she was abused?”

“I suppose that depends what you mean by abused.” She dug cream cheese and bagels out of the refrigerator. “I have to eat something. Low blood sugar turns me into a raving bitch. How about one for you, too? No sense wasting space in the toaster and I’m sure a man your size needs breakfast.”

“Thank you.” The last thing he had eaten had been some kind of snack food grabbed in one of the bars and who could say when he would have time to eat next. “You were telling me about Deirdre.”

She sliced two bagels and dropped the halves in a four-slot toaster. “To start with, she’s an orphan.”

He blinked. “Orphan?” With families the size Allison’s people had, how was that possible?

Julie nodded. “She was found as a toddler, all alone on an English Channel beach, lashed to a rubber life raft.”

That would do it. No wonder she knew nothing about herself. “I take it no one identified what boat she came from or located any of the family?”

“No.” Julie pulled the half-filled pot out of the coffee maker and divided the contents between two big mugs before replacing the pot to finish filling. “And worse, according to Charlie, who heard it from Len, she became considered unadoptable. People are idiots!” She slapped one mug in front of Zane. “At first plenty of couples wanted her because she was so pretty, but when they took her home for test visits they were shocked, shocked, even when they’d been told her about her, to find she had nightmares and sleepwalked, sometimes destroying things when she did. They all ended up bringing her back to the orphanage. But not before one couple, according to what Len learned, tried having her exorcized to stop the nightmares.”

Zane blinked. “Exorcized!” Jesus.

“Can you imagine?” Julie shuddered as she picked the bagels out of the toaster and slathered them with cream cheese. “I’m amazed she’s just pathologically religious and not totally screwed up.” She handed one bagel to Zane.

Biting into it, he reflected, maybe Deirdre was totally screwed up.

“So this is where you went.” From the kitchen doorway Allison eyed his coffee and bagel with arched brows.

“Would you like a bagel, too?” Julie set down her own bagel to reach into the cupboard for another coffee mug.

Allison shook her head. “One wouldn’t be enough. What I can use, however, is the key to that bedroom, so Ident won’t have to pick the lock when it arrives.”

Julie’s eyes widened. “Oh...yes...of course.” Grimacing in apology, she hurried out.

“This has been your night for satisfying appetites, hasn’t it,” Allison said. “You didn’t think to have her look for the key?”

Okay, he should have done that, but Zane found himself irritated instead of feeling guilty. Screw her. After being terrified shitless, what did he care about a little sarcasm? “Are you interested in what I’ve learned about Deirdre’s background?”

She dropped onto the next stool. “Talk.”

Between bites of the bagel, he told her...and watched her eyes go dark with anger when he came to the exorcism.

Then her expression and voice went thoughtful. “I wonder why Deirdre turned on Hilst, though. Diana, rather. She killed him as Diana. I smelled both of them up there.”

“I take it she did to him what she did to the others?”

Allison grimaced. “Worse. Garroway certainly wasn’t pleased being wakened by the news and learning he’ll also have to weather the press briefing without me.”

“How did you explain us happening to find the body?”

A brow arched. “How do you think? A tip from an informant that Deirdre Hilst fit the descriptors of our killer. So we staked out the house--I had to admit to that since Patrol saw us--to see if she’d try for yet another victim and when we didn’t catch her leaving, we called on her for an early interview.” Allison’s mouth set grimly. “It’s do or die, Kerr. We have to end this today. If we don’t, once the public learns the killer is murdering people in their beds, we’ll have panic on our hands.”

“Got ‘em.” Julie trotted into the kitchen waving a ring of skeleton keys. She had taken time to dress as well as hunt up the keys, exchanging her robe for jeans, a t-shirt, and sandals, and pulling her hair back in a ponytail. “They were in Charlie’s desk up in his study. I’m not sure which key it is, but I’m betting several might work.” She handed them to Allison. “Do you know there are police cars parked in the street and yellow tape strung out there?”

Allison nodded. “I requested them. Kerr, let’s go unlock that door before Ident arrives.”

Upstairs she had to try several of the keys before one turned. Deadpan, she pushed open the door.

Zane considered himself hardened to crime scenes but this rocked him. The other killings had been only a warmup. In tonight’s berserker frenzy, Deirdre completely dismembered her victim. Only a headless, limbless torso with intestines ballooning out of it remained on the blood-soaked bed. The head was impaled at the foot of the bed on one of the four-poster’s thin, six-foot corner posts. Blood streaked and splashed the walls, ceiling, and carpet.

“Where are the arms and legs?” He barely recognized the strangled voice as his.

“Take a look at the near corner of the room.”

He peered around the door jam...and saw an arm lying on the carpet. Blood smeared on the walls above it indicated it had been thrown at the corner and slid down to its present position. Similar but larger blood smears marked the corners against the outer wall, and by peering through the opening on the hinge side of the door he spotted blood on the wall of that corner, too. A chest of drawers blocked his view of the floor there, as a small arm chair and the bed hid the floor of the outside corners, but Zane guessed if he had a clear view, he would see the other extremities.

Staring at the carnage, it hit him that in Deirdre’s attack he saw what any of Allison’s people were capable of...Allison, Honora, Rikki, the officers he worked with on Patrol...officers he had followed into dark alleys and buildings. Cold ran down his spine.

“As you see, there’s no sign of Deirdre,” Allison said.

A ship’s bell clanged loudly somewhere. A minute later Julie’s voice called up, “Someone from something called CIU is here.”

He and Allison went down to meet them.

While Janice Tran and Phil Castenado unloaded cases from their van in the courtyard, Allison pointed out the iron fence. “The killer went over somewhere along there. See if she left any trace evidence.”

Leaving Castenado checking the fence, she led Tran upstairs. Julie watched from the lower hall with an expression of fascination.

“Holy shit,” Tran said when Allison opened the bedroom door. “This one’s going to take a while.”

“If you need us,” Allison said, “we’ll be downstairs talking to the victim’s step-mother.”

4.

At the bottom of the stairs Julie leaned on the wrought iron railing, staring up at them. “I heard that woman. Did you find Deirdre up there? Is she dead, too?”

“No,” Allison said. “So we have questions we have to ask.”

“Do you mind asking them in the kitchen?” Julie shivered. “It’s warmer in there.”

“Fine.”

In the kitchen Julie climbed up on one of the island stools and sat cupping her coffee mug in both hands, hugging it against her chest. “I can’t believe this is happening. It’s so unreal.”

“I know.” Zane circled the island to the coffee maker for a refill. Allison probably intended to start the questions so he might as well take advantage of the opportunity to substitute caffeine for lost sleep.

Allison turned a stool to face Julie. “Mrs. Hilst–”

“Just Julie, please.” She hugged the cup tighter. “Look, I want to know what happened. If Deirdre isn’t up there, where is she?”

Allison eyed her. “Fled, we think, after murdering your step-son.”

Julie snorted. “That’s ridiculous! Killing someone takes backbone, even if she had a reason to do it. Which she doesn’t. Deirdre is a clinging vine and Len what she clings to. I don’t know how often I’ve wanted to shake her and say hey, we’re not property anymore, so learn to be a person. But...” She shrugged. “...maybe in her place I’d be the same. She didn’t have anyone in the world before Len met her in that restaurant in Bath and she probably lives in terror of losing him.”

“How would you describe Deirdre’s mood when she came back from the art gallery?”

“Not homicidal.” Julie rolled her eyes. “Sex is the one time Len likes her asserting herself. He’s bragged to Charlie about what a tiger she is in bed. She gave Len maybe five seconds to say goodnight and tell me not to expect them up until late this morning before dragging him upstairs. By the time they reached the top she had off his tie and tux jacket and was working on his shirt and belt buckle.”

Been there, done that. The flashback to Rikki shot heat through Zane.

As if reading his mind, Allison sent him dry smile. “Suppose Deirdre wanted to go out later. How--”

“Go out?” Julie shook her head emphatically. “Not Deirdre. I told Detective Kerr. She wouldn’t leave at night...not even if she had keys or knew the security code. Deirdre is terrified of the night. At sunset she wants the drapes pulled tight and won’t go near the windows. She really panics when there’s moonlight. I don’t understand why, but I guess I can’t blame her for having a phobia or two.”

“If she doesn’t go out at night, how did she happen to be at the Broekert Gallery?” Allison asked.

“Doesn’t go out on her own, I should have said.” Julie grimaced. “Her lord and master commanded it last night. When I wasn’t interested in using the invitation to that gallery, Len decided to go.” Julie grimaced. “He never loses a chance to socialize with Money, and of course he had to have his beautiful, regal wife on his arm, no matter how she felt about being there.”

Julie’s earlier words echoed in Zane’s head: I suppose that depends what you mean by abuse. Traumatized as a child, repressed and dominated as an adult. All that trapped stress had to be a recipe for disaster.

“Were they out somewhere Tuesday night?” Allison asked.

Julie grimaced. “I wish. We had a family dinner here that turned into a corporate meeting about the Basin that lasted until past midnight Len wanted changes at the Basin that would increase profits...cut personnel, up fees, clear out the ‘deadwood’--meaning the shrimp boats, Hilst bread and butter for a century!--in favor of the pleasure boat business. Charlie didn’t make many bad business decisions but leaving a fifty-one percent share to Len in the hope of luring him back here...” She shook her head. “And after his sisters and their husbands and I fought him tooth and nail, he dropped the bombshell. If they wouldn’t agree, he was selling his share...to the Gerhardt brothers in Houston--I couldn’t believe it, those pirates--or Robin and Liz could buy him out for a better offer...which would put them in debt for the rest of their lives. He gave them until Saturday to--” Julie flushed and cleared her throat. “I know that sounds like a motive for wanting him dead but Robin and Liz wouldn’t--”

“Let’s hope not. Still...” Allison tore a page out of her notebook and pushed it and her pen along the island to Julie. “...if you’d write down their names and addresses.”

The dinner, then, had left the Diana personality no time to pick and choose among victims, just grab the first likely candidate she spotted.

Julie scribbled on the page. “But you believe Deirdre would kill him when she doesn’t have a motive?”

“We don’t know there’s no motive...and she was certainly in the room at the time.”

Handing back the page and pen, Julie’s eyes narrowed. “But you must have other reasons for accusing her...or why come here in the first place?”

Allison handed her the Blondie composite. “This woman was the last person seen with three men this week who were all later found violently murdered.”

“And you think this is Deirdre? She never wears her hair like--” Julie’s eyes widened. “Wait...you’re talking about the wilding murders? But some homicidal maniac is doing that, and how could a woman, let alone Deirdre–no.” Julie shook her head. “It’s impossible. Anyway...” She tossed back the composite. “...this looks as much like you, Detective, as it does like Deirdre.”

The dismissal rang hollow to Zane. It could be that Julie wanted to deny the possibility to herself.  It could be more.

He felt sure Allison had noticed, too, but she showed no sign of it, just returned the composite to her pocket. “This woman has a British accent. Does Deirdre have the use of a boat here?”

Now Zane felt sure there was something. Julie’s face went taut. “She doesn’t have anything to do with boats unless Len orders her aboard. Water is her one phobia I can understand. Given a choice, she won’t go near any body of it larger than a swimming pool. What does a boat have to do with someone killing Len...or any of those other men?”

Zane could not figure her out. He believed what she said about Deirdre, yet the tension in her question betrayed concern about boats.

Allison gave her a bland smile. “It’s just a detail we have to check. Has Deirdre ever called herself Diana?”

Now Julie’s puzzlement looked genuine. “No. Why would she?”

“Just another detail.” Allison paused. “If Deirdre isn’t guilty, we need to talk to her to find out what happened. Assuming she wasn’t abducted but ran away...out of fear, say, do you know any place she might go around here?”

For a moment Zane thought Julie might have an answer. Something flickered in her eyes. Then she shook her head.

Allison asked, “Do you have a photograph of Deirdre I might borrow?”

Julie smiled and hopped off her stool. “When we visited them in Florida last summer, Charlie went wild with his new digital camera. Just let me print something out. I won’t be a minute.” She ran up a back set of stairs.

“You know she’s holding back.” Zane kept his voice low. “You’re just going to let it go?”

“No, you’re going use your male charms on her.”

The significance of the statement took a several seconds to sink in. “You’re leaving me here alone? You trust me enough for that?”

She stared at him. “Do you understand that humans have no chance to catch Deirdre, and if she stays at liberty, people will go on dying horribly?”

“Yes.” Which meant he needed Allison and the others on the trail.

She smiled faintly. “So I trust you.”

Ten minutes later Julie returned with not one but a dozen copies of a photograph. “I’m sure Deirdre is innocent. She’s anything but a violent person. You’ll see when you find her.”

Allison gave her a bland smile. “I hope so. If you can think of anywhere she might go, tell Detective Kerr.” She sent him a last glance as she headed for the kitchen door. “Keep in touch.”

5.

The press had arrived. Allison recognized a Sentinel reporter loitering on the far side of the patrol unit up the street. The light had increased enough for him to recognize her as well. After an initial start of surprise, he sprinted for her.

She ducked under the barrier tape and reached her car first.

“Detective Goodnight,” the reporter called as she started the car. “Goodnight! If you’re here does that mean the wilding killer has struck again? Who’s the victim this time? Are you any closer to identifying and catching him?”

She drove off without answering. In the rearview mirror she saw him pulling out his cell phone.

She quickly used hers, too, calling Kerr. “Better have Julie break the news about Hilst to his sisters before the press does.”

She also called Drew, updating him on the crime scene and Deirdre’s background. Doing so, she felt again the anger and horror she had when Kerr told her what Deirdre suffered as a child. Growing up with no one to understand the hunting dreams and explain them would be bad enough...having no clan, no knowledge of your heritage, no education about the maturation process and support during the frustrations of it. No summer camp to keep you out of trouble while it conditioned your body, occupied your mind, and provided an outlet for your hunting drive. But to have someone then treat you as demonically possessed...

Allison shuddered. Not knowing what she was or that others of her kind existed certainly explained why Deirdre had not responded to the overtures of the clan in Palm Beach, and why her conversation with Bliss shocked her. It explained why she hunted without restraint once she somehow, belatedly, stumbled into Shifting. Allison could still not understand, though, the revulsion Deirdre showed at the gallery, nor why she waved the crucifix.

At least they now knew that instead of a rogue, they had a trauma victim. Bring her into the clan, care for her, educate her, and they might be able to reclaim her.

She warned Drew about the lost radio. “Better switch to Tac Six and keep traffic to a minimum, in case she’s surfing the channels.”

Then she gave Garroway a suitable-for-humans update and--no choice now--requested an Alert Bulletin on Deirdre. With the press smelling another wilding murder, it could not be long before some bright reporter realized that Deirdre Hilst fit the Blondie composite. Clan members just had to find her before human officers did.

“But how in God’s name could a woman, bare-handed, mutilate these men?” Garroway asked.

Allison tried to sound baffled. “Aside from superhuman strength due to being wacko, I don’t have any idea. I just know what the facts tell me.”

“What do you want the rest of your squad to do?”

Eliminating other suspects would keep them doing something that looked productive. “We need to interview Hilst’s sisters.” While she gave him Julie’s description of Tuesday’s dinner, she drove around the bay toward the Basin. “The sisters might also have ideas about where Deirdre could go.” She would turn the city inside out today if need be.  Once Deirdre was found, she could be taken straight to the Gathering. Honora would know how to most effectively treat her.

6.

Although Julie called Charlie’s daughters, in both cases she insisted on passing the phone to him. The daughters wanted details about their brother’s murder, of course. Talking to them--sidestepping details, not mention of Deirdre as a suspect, sticking with just the fact of her disappearance--he noted that beneath the sisters’ shock he heard less grief than relief. They were safe from debt and the Basin passing out of family control. A sad commentary on Hilst’s death. He also noticed that both sisters equated “missing” with “abducted”. Like Julie, neither saw Deirdre as a killer.

Almost as soon as he hung up from talking to the second sister, the phone rang. He checked the Caller ID window. “It’s the Sentinel.”

Julie turned over the phone and switched off the ringer. “Let the answering machine handle it.”

Zane followed her around as she turned off the ringers on all the main floor phones. “I can understand why it’s difficult for you to imagine Deirdre killing Leonard. It’s possible that Deirdre may not have been aware of doing it.”

Julie frowned at him. “You mean she’s insane?”

He said carefully, “Well, that would be for experts to decide, but...Deirdre has experienced enough stress in her life to unbalance anyone. From the impression I’ve gathered of her, she clearly needs help. Are you sure you can’t think of anywhere she might go if frightened?”

After a hesitation, Julie shook her head. “No.” She headed back to the kitchen and started another pot of coffee. “This is for ice coffee. Charlie loved it and--” She choked. Leaving the coffee maker, she groped for a paper towel. “Shit.” She wiped at her eyes. “This isn’t fair, you know? The old goat promised me he’d live to a hundred. Do you think I ought to call Mrs. Alvarez, our housekeeper, and tell her not to come in today?”

He did not let her change the subject. “When we asked about the boat, I had the impression that you thought of something.”

Julie stared at the filling pot. “Why are you interested in boats?”

The question, Zane reflected with satisfaction, completely failed to sound casual. Tension edged every word. How would she react to an answer? “A man who escaped becoming a victim last night said the woman he met talked about taking him to a boat.”

“That certainly lets out Deirdre. I told you how she feels about boats.” In which case Julie should sound relieved....but did not. She took a breath. “Anyway...”

Zane held his. The tone of that word promised a statement that would try to convince him, or herself, of something that concerned her.

“...just because a woman resembling Deirdre was seen with those men before they died doesn’t mean she had anything to do with killing them. It could be just coincidence.”

He let his breath out. Yes. She knew, or suspected, something. “I have a hard time believing in coincidence like that, Julie.”

She turned around to stare straight at him. “It’s your job to be suspicious, of course. But I won’t believe--”

The ship’s bell rang through the house.

Julie headed out of the kitchen for the front door.

Zane passed her. “Let me answer it.” The uniformed officers would not be allowing in anyone unconnected to the investigation without asking him first.

He opened the front door to find a uniformed officer outside. “Detective Kerr? The housekeeper at the residence to the north reported seeing someone go over the rear fence here.”

Some gung-ho reporter? Zane wondered. “Could she describe the person?”

“No. She just saw a dark shape, and she says at first she thought it was a big dog, until it landed inside the fence.”

Electricity shot though Zane. Could Deirdre have come back? From what he understood of alternate personalities, they sometimes withdrew and left the original personality to find itself inexplicably someplace strange. Once Diana’s rage ebbed, she might have done just that and left a confused, frightened Deirdre to creep home, hoping her absence had gone unnoticed. But this might also be Diana, still in control, doubling back to hide the last place anyone would think to look for her. It would be easy enough to stay out of sight in a house this size.

“About how long ago did she spot the intruder?”

The officer checked his watch. “About five minutes. She called 911 right away.”

Which gave Diana not a lot of time, but probably enough to have entered and hidden. He turned to Julie. “Where are the entrances from the back and the stairways inside the house?”

All over, he discovered, though everything should be locked. French doors from the courtyard in the rear and from the gallery on this level, and main and servant stairways between every floor inside.

“How do you want to search?” the uniformed officer asked.

A vivid image of the bedroom upstairs flashed through Zane’s head. “It’s too dangerous for you and me alone. I’ll call Detective Goodnight and we’ll wait for her and additional officers to arrive.” Fellow family members, he hoped.

The officer frowned. “You think the intruder’s armed?”

“Oh, yes.”

Behind them a sheepish voice said, “You don’t have to call Allison. It isn’t your killer in the house.”

Zane spun around. In the broad archway leading to a formal dining room stood Rikki... looking far different than she had when he left her. Smeared mascara suggested she had been crying. Wisps of hair hung loose round her face, escapees from a raggedly wrapped topknot.

His fear turned into surprise, relief, and irritation...especially irritation. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Both the uniformed officer and Julie stared from her to him. “You know her?” the officer said.

“Yes. So I’ll deal with her.” When the uniformed officer had left, Zane stared hard at Rikki. “How did you get in the house?”

She tucked one stray wisp into the rest of her hair. “The door to the butler’s pantry was unlocked.”

Julie nodded. “I went out to put up our flags while you and the other detective were upstairs. And now I think I’ll go work on my funeral thank-you’s.” Over her shoulder she added, “The library is pretty soundproof.”

Zane crooked his finger at Rikki and pointed at the library. Before he joined her there he called the station and asked Sergeant Sweet for an officer to post on the beach so no one else could sneak over the back fence. Then he stalked into the library and firmly shut the big carved door. “Suppose you explain yourself.”

Rikki turned from looking at photographs on the fireplace mantel. “I wasn’t sure if I’d get in if I came to the front. After he reamed me worse than Allison did about taking you to the house, Drew told me where you were. I had to know for myself that you’re all right...that my stupidity didn’t get you...hurt.”

Nice understatement. And how good of her to be concerned. Zane spread his arms sideways. “Well, as you see, Allison hasn’t iced me yet.”

She bit her lip. “No thanks to me. I’d feel really terrible if anything had happened to you.”

What a comfort. “You don’t have to feel responsible. Snooping was my idea.” He grimaced. “Maureen used to say that when God handed out Prudence I was standing in the queue for a second helping of Brash. I knew the risks. If I’m whacked it isn’t your fault. Okay? Feel better now?”

The sarcasm hit home. This had to be the first time he had seen one of her family look chagrined. “Zane...you know, I--I’d like us to be friends...not just a one night stand. My family’s a really cool bunch when you get to know them.”

The family. Yes...that would be her real concern. “Right now your family is the farthest thing from my mind. As a human, I’m not likely to be welcomed among them anyway. Go home.” He turned toward the door. “I’m very--son of a bitch!” At the pain in the side of his neck, whirled to find Rikki backing away from him, licking her lips. He clapped a hand to his neck...and pulled away bloody fingers. “What the hell did you do that for?”

She grinned. “You know...he who is bitten by a werewolf and survives becomes--”

“What?” His anger boiled over. “I don’t fucking have time for games! Rikki, if you don’t get out of here now, I’m arresting you for criminal trespass, wasting police time, and obstructing an investigation.”

Her eyes lighted. “You’re pissed at me.”

“No shit!” That pleased her? He yanked the handcuffs off the back of his belt. “Ten...nine...”

Grinning, she backed toward the door. “Okay, I’m going, I’m going.” Then she stopped, face sobering. “Just one thing.”

“What!”

“Be careful dealing with this hunter.”

As if he needed reminding. “Don’t worry. I’ve seen her handiwork.”

“It isn’t just that.”

He eyed her. She looked and sounded grave. “What else?”

Rikki hesitated, then: “You need to stay out of the way when she’s found.” Rushing at him, she grabbed his lapels to pull him to her for a hard kiss, then dashed out the door.

Zane stood taking deep breaths, letting the heat of her kiss subside, then jammed the handcuffs back over his belt and walked to the mirror over the fireplace to examine his neck. At least she did not appear to have bitten deep. The punctures bled lightly. He dabbed at them with his handkerchief.

Belatedly it occurred to him that he could have ended up like Hilst, and he sighed. If that family did not kill him outright, the emotional wringer they put him though would drive him crazy.

Working on Julie ought to be closer to something normal.  Then, as he started to leave, one of the photographs on the mantle caught his eye...Julie leaning on the stern railing of a red tugboat named Little Narcissus. He knew that boat! Its presence among the masts of the sloops dominating the pleasure boat docks at the Basin had caught his eye while patrolling in the West Bay. Hilst employees outside the offices smoking had explained that the 32-foot tug, actually built as a pleasure boat, belonged to Julie Hilst. She and Charlie considered it just what a Hilst should play in...and enjoyed watching reactions when they told people she skippered a tugboat. After the novelty of the tug wore off, of course, Zane had stopped noticing it. Until reminded now.

Zane reached for his cell phone and punched in Allison’s number.

7.

Allison pulled into the Basin parking lot as she hung up from Kerr’s call. The fact that Julie had a personal boat there and said nothing about it did not mean Julie was deliberately shielding Deirdre. Deirdre, as Diana, could be using it without Julie’s knowledge. But either way, Allison intended to check it out.

She parked at the end of a row of shrimper’s vehicles and those she recognized as belonging to clan members, and called Drew. “I’m here at the Basin. Where are you?”

“Dock D of the pleasure craft docks.”

Now she saw them...tall, pale-haired figures about two-thirds of the way down the pleasure crafts’ arm of the Basin’s quay.

Heading to join them, a gust of wind caught her attention...coming from the north rather than the Gulf. It smelled faintly of rain, and while the eastern sky lightened, that to the north remained dark. Weather coming in...maybe heavy.

Down the quay, Drew had five of the clan contingent from Watch Three who remained in town. They gathered around her, faces tense, eyes grim. Especially Gina Lovejoy’s... understandable since Gary had been her mate for five years and fathered her son.

“Any whiff of her yet?” Allison asked.

Drew shook his head. “Maybe this is a dead end. Hilst’s security guard spotted us on his monitors and came around on his golf cart to check us out. He told us he didn’t see anyone over here during the night.”

And there was no one on the boats to ask, Allison knew. None of these owners lived aboard, just sailed weekends. “Kerr says Julie Hilst has a tugboat here.”

A collective intake of breath turned into a surge of energy. Drew grimaced. “I should have remembered that.”

Rick Bliss pointed down the quay. “The Narcissus is moored on dock A, the first slip...red hull, white pilot house, red stripe around the stack.”

She saw it, the only stack amid a host of masts.

Power surged around Gina.

“Don’t!” Allison said. “We aren’t certain she’s aboard.  In case she is, you’d better stay back here. Keep checking the other boats...just in case.”

The current intensified. Gina said bitterly, “You’re going to bring her in, aren’t you...even after what she must have done to Gary!”

Allison put an arm around her. “She doesn’t know better. She’s suffered abuse and never known clan life. We have to see if she can be salvaged. Tom...Mike, you work back here, too.”

Tom Sweet and Mike Fairchild scowled unhappily but she turned away. Motioning Rick Bliss and Evan Silver to follow Drew and her, Allison ran hunched down the quay toward dock A. Before reaching it she signaled a halt and dropped flat. Too bad the tug was not moored toward the end of the dock, so they could approach using the intervening boats for cover.

Around her swirled the basin’s signature mixture of brine, fish, and diesel, edged with that of the coming rain. They had better find Blondie before it arrived or it might wash away her scent and let her escape. Then scents from the concrete jerked her attention downward...the hunter’s, and more faintly, Surrette’s.

Turning around to the others, she pointed to her nose, then down. They sniffed...lifted their heads, smiling grimly. She pointed from herself to the tug. When Drew nodded, Allison came up into a crouch and moved silently forward on hands and feet. Anyone aboard would hear only the cry of gulls and slap of water against the hull and the steel drums under the dock.

When she reached the bow, she reached out to catch the railing, then stepping across to the tires hanging along the side for a fender, slid under it. Flat on her stomach on the deck, she wiggled back to the portholes of the forward cabin and cautiously peered in.

While she could not see the head, the cabin itself, a double bunk stateroom, was empty.

She crooked her finger at the others and coming up on all fours, edged around the cabin to the pilot house door. One peek through the lower pane of glass in it told her the pilot house, too, was empty. Cautiously, she tried the door. Locked. The salon aft of the pilot house had large windows coming all the way down to the deck. She worked her way to the closest and peered in.

The salon also appeared unoccupied.

Quickly, she slid on past the windows and down onto the rear deck. It, too, smelled of the hunter and Surrette. But not blood.

Like the pilot house, the salon door was locked.

When the others joined her, swinging silently over the gunwale from the quay, she whispered, “Anyone bring a lockpick set?”

Both Rick Bliss and Evan Silver produced them. Shortly, Evan had the door open.

Inside, the confined space made the scents stronger than those on deck, but one source strengthened Surrette’s even more...clothing kicked under the settee running along one side of the salon. His scent saturated them, and if they needed any more proof of the owner, the billfold in one hip pocket of the slacks contained a driver’s license and credit cards for John Surrette. Had he undressed anticipating sex?

If so, it never happened. She caught no odor of sex in the salon and Surrette had not been forward in the stateroom. Allison smelled only the hunter there, and old traces of Julie. Several pairs of slacks and some blouses hung in the locker, but not Blondie’s little black number. If she had come back here tonight, she did not do so to change clothes. A soft sided suitcase lay on the bottom of the locker. Allison rolled it out for examination. The airline tag on the handle identified the bag as being checked from PBI--Palm Beach International?--to Houston, and a tag glued inside the bag had a Palm Beach address on it. The hunter’s scent dominated, but Allison also detected those of Deirdre and Leonard Hilst, and a mixture of other scents...probably airline personnel who had handled the bag.

Allison stood, brushing off the knees of her slacks, and pushed the bag into the closet again.

As she came back into salon, Drew said, “Look what we found in the galley.”

Inside a lower cabinet sat a carton with bottles of wine, scotch, and gin. That closely matched Surrette’s purchases at Rick’s...except for the most expensive, the Grand Marnier.  No Grand Marnier turned up in any other cupboard, either...nor as an empty bottle in the trash. The trash, though, did yield copies of the Sentinel for Tuesday through yesterday...with only the first section appearing to be read. The remaining sections and advertising inserts had been dumped still folded together.

“Following her publicity, you think?” Evan said.

“More likely our progress on the case.” Though crinkled from being handled, the first section had been thrown away, too... intact. Allison glanced around. “Put everything back the way we found it and lock up, in case it’s necessary to come back with a warrant and search legally. Then check the rest of these docks. I’m going to see if Hilst’s security tapes can give us any help.”

If the question ever came up, the tapes would also show them entering and leaving the tug before they ever obtained a warrant, but she did not expect anyone except a defense attorney to be interested in this section of the tapes, and there would be no defense attorney involved.

As she walked back to the car, her phone warbled.

Voice bleak, Del said, “The visibility down there is poor today but we found the car. Gary was in it, handcuffed to the steering wheel. His neck’s broken.”

Though Allison had felt sure Gary was dead, proof of it still struck like a physical blow. Anger blazed up around a cold knot of loss. Maybe Deirdre did not deserve reclamation after all. “You’ve removed his body, haven’t you?” Preventing the required autopsy on unattended deaths and homicides. As far as the human population was concerned, Gary’s body would never be found.

“Matt is swimming him around to Marais Park.”

Good choice. With the sun rising, almost anywhere else they would be seen bringing the body ashore. Farther along the marsh shore early birders and fishermen were probably already out and about...though the weather might drive them inside soon.

“I’ll meet Matt with my car and we’ll put Gary in the cooler at my house until his family comes home.”

Later when she was certain Honora’s Aircoupe had reached the ranch, she would call her grandmother and let her break the news to the Golds and everyone.  Right now she called Drew. It would give Gina time to take control of herself before, hopefully, they located Blondie.

In the security office, Allison caught McKay, the graveyard officer, just before he went off duty. He still remembered no activity around the pleasure boats during the night. “Just like I told Sergeant Makepeace.”

At fast forward they quickly ran through the security tape for the hours between 2:00 and 6:00, and it backed up McKay’s claim. Nothing moved on the quay or dock near the tugboat.

Allison frowned at the monitor. “What about during your shift Tuesday? Did you see Julie Hilst’s boat go out?”

“Art Rosario was on that night,” McKay said. “My first night back on was Wednesday, when that guy died in the candy factory. But Julie hasn’t ever taken her boat out at night before.”

“Let’s run the security tape from Tuesday.”

McKay stayed past the end of his shift to run it for her. The thirty seconds of the camera’s 180 degree pan turned into a dizzying snap on fast forward, but at just past 2:00 am she caught a blur on the quay. They backed up and resumed viewing at normal speed. The blur turned into an approaching muscular male and blonde female.

“Hey,” McKay said, “that looks like the babe I saw in the parking lot Wednesday night!”

“It could be.” Allison peered at the hunter’s face, trying to confirm she was Deirdre, but the foreshortening from the high angle of the shot made a good look impossible.

He stared at the monitor with an expression mixing horror and fascination. “Did this guy end up dead, too? Did she have anything to do with it?”

The day man, Fayly according to his name badge, lifted eyebrows that reminded Allison of a Schnauzer’s.

She gave them both a shrug. “The gentleman’s wife reported him missing. We’re hoping to determine what happened to him.” True, as far as it went.

Now both guards watched the monitor with her.

At first the couple appeared to have their arms around each other. However, as they passed the camera and neared dock A, presenting their backs to the camera, the illusion disappeared. The male held both hands behind him, palms turned backward, and something flashed at one wrist. She had him handcuffed just as Fiona Church said. He started to halt. But the female spread a hand on his back and he stumbled forward again.

“Son of a bitch,” McKay said. “Did she just shove him?”

“Yes,” Allison said.

Quite a different tactic than seduction, but faster. She ran some risk of attracting attention or a real officer stopping to offer backup, but minimal risk at that time of night. And Surrette, knowing himself not guilty of whatever charge the hunter claimed, would have protested but cooperated, confident this mistake would be quickly rectified. By the time they arrived here, however, he had clearly begun questioning what was going on.

A step farther on Surrette halted and turned halfway back toward the hunter. Keeping a hold on his arm, she dug into the pocket of her jeans and pulled out what looked like a badge case, except without a badge, and held it up in front of his eyes.

Fayly said, “She’s a cop?”

“Just impersonating one.” To carry it off, she must not have given Surrette more than a flash of the ID in front of Rick’s.

The anger flashing across Surrette’s face said now he had a good enough look to realize he had been conned. He jerked at her grip on his arm, mouth moving. Then suddenly Surrette’s face froze in an expression of terror.  When the hunter shoved him on down the quay, he stumbled on with all resistance gone while the camera panned away.

“Jesus. What did she say to him?” McKay asked.

Not said...did. The camera could not record it, of course, but Blondie must have showed him a flash of Shift halo.  To which he reacted just as Kerr had.

When the camera panned back, the pair had disappeared.

“Where’d they go?” McKay asked.

“The tugboat.”

“Julie’s boat? What’s she doing on it?”

Fayly said. “She has permission to use it.”

Allison hit Pause. “You know that? Who is she?”

Fayly shrugged. “Some relative who came for the funeral. According to Sam Babiak-- that’s the evening guard--Julie called Monday afternoon and said this girl would be staying on the Narcissus for a few days.”

“He’s sure it was Julie calling?”

Fayly shrugged again. “I guess so. Anyway, he passed on the message to Rosario, saying he’d seen the girl and she was a real looker. Rosario told me.”

“He didn’t give Rosario a name?”

“I don’t know. Rosario didn’t give me one, just said she was a relative.”

If this Babiak had seen the hunter, maybe it had been on the boat...in which case she wanted to see Monday’s tape, too. Allison hit Play again.

No lights came on in the salon, nor did any show on the next pan back to the tug. The camera panned over the tug two more times with nothing visible happening, but just as the boat slid out of view the next time, the hunter reappeared on the quay...alone.

What did she do with Surrette? She looked dry, so he must still be alive and aboard. Probably handcuffed to something in the salon. But...where was she going?

Allison let the tape run. Presently the hunter reappeared, carrying a cardboard carton, and climbed onto the rear deck. Ah, yes...that would be the liquor. Three pans later something moved in the pilot house.

Frustration hissed through Allison. If only she could stop the damn camera and keep it focused on the tug. When the boat appeared again the hunter was on the quay casting off the bow line. She tossed the line aboard, ran back casting off the other lines, then scrambled aboard into the pilot house. On the camera’s next sweep, the tug’s running lights were on and it had begun idling back out of the slip. Once clear of the slip, it turned and chugged off down the bay, the white of its pilot house and cabin showing up enough in the moonlight to keep the tug visible even after it moved beyond the Basin lights.

McKay fast forwarded again and they watched the tide go out like a draining bathtub. An hour later the tug reappeared. Approaching the slip, it slowed, water churning at the stern. The tire fender bumped along the quay. When the camera panned back, the tug was nosing against the dock. The hunter raced from the pilot house forward to pick up the bow line and vault over the railing to the quay, now almost even with the deck thanks to low tide, and secured the line. After bounding back and forth between tug and quay until all the lines had been secured, she disappeared into the salon.

“Damn,” McKay said. “That’s who I want crewing for me my next fishing trip. Bow line, spring lines, and stern line all secured in nothing flat and she’s hot!”

“Except losing your head over her can lose you your head,” Allison said dryly. The Diana personality went beyond not fearing water. She clearly knew and handled boats very well. If Deirdre were as much under her husband’s thumb as Julie believed, how could Diana manage to acquire this kind of expertise...especially without anyone being aware if it?

A few minutes later, after locking the pilot house doors, and presumably the salon door, the hunter left.

“Where’s the guy?” Fayly asked.

McKay said, “Did she kill him?”

Allison gave the men a noncommittal grunt. “Let’s run the tape of the camera on this side of the basin closest to the parking lot and see where she went.”

That camera caught a good portion of the parking lot, albeit distantly, on the end of its pan...and it showed the hunter climbing into a silver Mercedes. Heading off to run it into the bay.

“Let’s look at Monday from, say, sixteen hundred on.”

They did not have to run it far. A little before six in the evening, a female in a red suit with a very short skirt stalked down the quay to the tugboat. Clearly volke. Every furious line of her threatening bodily harm to anyone coming near. A little after eight she left again...this time strolling and wearing Blondie’s little black number. Her hair, brushed into a voluminous silver mane, hid much of her face...though not the Mona Lisa smile.

Allison frowned. It worked for Deirdre to slip away from the house after Len was asleep...either worn out by sex or helped along by sleeping pills, but...could she have been gone all evening? Was that what Julie held back? Since Kerr’s male charms had apparently failed to make Julie talk, alpha bitch needed to take over.

“Thank you for your help, gentlemen,” she told McKay and Fayly. “I think I have everything necessary for the time being. Will you set these tapes aside in case we need them for evidence?”

She made for her car, and once in it, gunned for the parking lot entrance.

8.

Hilst had not been dead long enough to smell of decay, but the odor of blood and the pungent reek of abdominal gas and bowel contents filled the room. It would have been worse if Allison had not left the windows onto the balcony partially open. In the bathroom behind Zane a camera shutter snapped as Janice Tran recorded the state of the room. Zane stared at Hilst’s head. When Allison opened the door the scene shocked him enough that the significance of the head’s location had escaped him. Impaled on a post...the medieval treatment of criminals and traitors. They used to draw and quarter traitors, too.

He glanced from the blood smears down the corners to the arms, lying by the door, each in its own bag, waiting to be joined by the remainder of the body when processing of the scene reached those pieces. The bedpost had more blood on it than the corners. She jammed the head up there immediately after decapitation. The body had finished bleeding before she ripped off Hilst’s pajamas--lying, still unreached, on the floor on the window side of the bed--and dismembered him. Why did the Diana personality consider Hilst a traitor, though?

Zane frowned. The longer he looked at the crime scene, the more questions it raised. Between the bed and door, blood splattered the beige carpet in a rough half circle. A blood-free strip down the center turned it into two quarters. The blood had smeared in the section closest to the foot of the bed, and between it and the door lay two patches of stain roughly the dimension of footprints. As though someone had leaped over the bed and started for the door. Then changed her mind? But why leap the bed in the first place? A large patch of blood stained the carpet beyond the foot of the bed, and more bloody tracks led around that and the window side of the bed.  Turning into definite footprints on the marble tile of the bathroom, leading into the shower.

Tran and Castenado had begun at the bedroom door and moved around the edge of the room, working from the outside in. So far processing included the front corners of the room, and along the wall opposite the bed...and from there into the bathroom and the closet, where a man’s black suit and several men’s slacks and polo shirts hung, but only one woman’s black dress. Judging by the four hangers lying on the floor, though, there had been other clothes. They also found a billfold on the floor with credit cards and a driver’s license for Hilst...but no cash. Deirdre had apparently grabbed that along with the clothes before leaving.

After she showered. Zane turned around, the carpet pile catching at the paper booties on his feet. Even though he remained in the doorway, out of the techs’ way, he had no trouble seeing everything. In one corner of the glass-walled shower a puddle of black material spread out just enough to identify it as a dress. Blondie’s little black number? Pink stains ran from it toward the drain. More pink splashed the lower edges of the glass and tile walls, darkening to red in the corners of the shower floor. The sprayer head dangled down on a heap of towels. The temperature control had been set as cold as it would go. Did Shifting make the werewolf feel hot as well as blast everyone else with heat? On her way into the shower, it appeared Blondie/Diana had dragged one bloody hand across the outside of the glass. More blood smeared the edge of the door.

Castenado bagged the leg in the corner beyond the arm chair. “Man...I’ve worked crime scenes for over twenty years and seen my share of dismemberments, but never one like this before.” He shook his head. “How do you just tear off an arm or leg? This wilding dude’s gotta be superhuman.”

A perfect opening for saying something about the killer not being human at all, but Zane let it pass. Catching Deirdre came before anything else.

In the bathroom Janice Tran picked up the top towel. Rather, half a towel. It had been ripped apart lengthwise. She glanced around at Zane, brows rising. “What do you suppose this is about? Bandaging a wound the victim managed to inflict?”

Not a wound. Something electric ran up Zane’s spine. The torn towel suddenly made sense of the state of the shower, the smeared hand print, and the blood splatter on the carpet. And of Deirdre and Diana’s different scents. But...shit, damn, and son of a bitch. If true, it shot Diana’s identification all to hell.

He turned to catch Castenado’s eye. “What’s your best guess on how many people were in this room at the time of the murder?”

“Based on the physical evidence I can see right now?” Castenado peered around the room while he stacked the bagged leg with the arms. “I’d say...three.”

What Zane was afraid he would say. “The physical evidence being what, aside from the bed obviously having two people in it at some time?”

“Well...” Castenado pursed his lips. “...the blood splatter says your victim was either sitting on the edge of the bed or standing up when he got decapitated, but something directly behind and in front of him blocked part of the blood. The killer had to be one. I’m assuming the bedmate was the other.”

Deirdre. Who made a break for the door, but was caught. Zane said goodbye to his multiple personality theory.

“Both of them must’ve been soaked with his blood.” Castenado stared toward the crimson pillows and headboard. “Did you ever stop to think what a mess those executions in the French Revolutions had to be? The condemned’s heart is pounding. Down comes the blade. Off comes the head but the heart doesn’t stop pumping right away so the blood pours out everywhere.” He grimaced.

So of course Diana had to wash both of them down before she hauled Deirdre away. The torn towel said Deirdre must have been tied up, and maybe gagged as well.  Only...why abduct Deirdre rather than kill her?

Unless Diana had other plans for Deirdre? Unpleasant ones, if hosing her down with cold water was any example of Diana’s attitude. Now they had two urgent reasons to catch Diana.

He headed for the hall and peeled off his booties. Time for another chat with Julie.

9.

He spotted her through the dining room French doors, standing out at the balustrade of the gallery.

Zane started through the dining room, but stopped short by a sideboard. In front of other bottles of liquor and wine on a tray on top stood a bottle of Grand Marnier. His pulse jumped, a mental image of the receipt from Rick’s flashing in his head. He might not have Allison’s sense of smell to tell him whether Surrette and Diana handled the bottle, but he saw the Rick’s sticker on it...with a price matching the bottle Surrette bought.

Anger flashed in him. Julie knew Diana! And said nothing. Another woman lying by omission! The game was over now, though. He knew who Diana had to be. Two women looking and smelling so much alike, and both known here, had to be related.  An orphan could have only one kind of known blood relative. Bliss must be wrong about not interbreeding with humans.

Walking across the gallery he tried to imitate Allison and move silently. They had a stiffening north wind, he noticed. The American and Hilst flags on the pole in the courtyard snapped in the breeze. Watching them, Julie seemed unaware of him, even when he came up close behind her.

“Why didn’t you tell us about Deirdre’s daughter?”

Julie’s start whipped her around, gasping. “Oh my god! I didn’t hear you come out. I was just taking a break from my thank-you’s. I think we have a storm--”

“Deirdre’s daughter, Julie. Talk. Now.” He chopped every syllable. “You’re neck deep in shit for withholding evidence.”

She caught her breath. Then her chin jutted. “What evidence? Sunny isn’t involved.”

Sunny? Ironic name. “I’m afraid she probably is.”

The dark eyes flashed. “I knew it. I knew you’d jump to conclusions because of the fight and her psychological history. You always blame spouses and relatives. But she wasn’t anywhere near the house last night.”

The electric charge Zane felt in the bedroom shot through him again. “What fight? What psychological history?”

Julie scowled. “Shit. You mean you didn’t know about that?”

“You’re going to tell me now.” Zane pointed at a chair beside a wrought iron table. “We’ve had four men brutally murdered in this city, plus a police officer on stakeout here last night...”

“Stakeout here?” Julie gaped at him. “Why--”

“... is missing,” Zane continued. “And you are in possession of a bottle of Grand Marnier that one of the victims bought Tuesday night.”

Julie went white. “That isn’t possible. Sunny’s never been violent. And...how could she--how could she do what the news says this killer did?”

“Julie!” He wanted to grab her by the shoulders and shake her. “She butchered her father, then abducted her mother with who knows what intentions. Don’t worry about Sunny...worry about Deirdre. We have to find her. Now stop shitting around and answer my questions!”

“And mine, Mrs. Hilst.”

10.

The sound of her voice startled them both, but as Allison stepped through the French doors from the dining room, she saw--could it be welcome?--in Kerr’s face. He began, “I’ve learned--”

“I heard.” A daughter explained everything and fit with the security tapes. Little Deirdre had not been as solidly under Hilst’s thumb as she seemed. But hooking up with a male volke meant Deirdre knew, or learned then, what she was. So why had she continued to put up with Hilst? Surely the male invited her to join his clan. And why had she said nothing to her daughter about what they were? They had more important questions to answer first, however. “Mrs. Hilst...talk.”

Julie slunk to the chair and sank into it. “The fight wasn’t anything. Nothing to kill Len over. He didn’t like the outfit she wore to the funeral and she argued that Charlie would have approved because he thought she had great legs and solemn mourning was stupid. She and Len fought all the time about things like that...her clothes, the hours she kept, the way she’d upset Deirdre by threatening to change her name to Lilith or Satana. Picky stuff...and it was all yelling...him snarling at her, her cursing back. Loud...but never physical.”

“And this particular fight took place when?” Allison asked.

“Here.” Julie picked up a pen lying between the funeral book and pile of notecards and envelopes on the table and began toying with it...clicking the point out and in. “After the guests that came over after the funeral had left.”

“Then she moved to the boat?”

Julie nodded. “She asked to...and of course I said yes. God knows in her place I’d want to get away from Len, too.”

Could Sunny have engineered the fight with just that result in mind? Allison imagined that would be easy enough to do. Living on the boat ensured Sunny freedom to come and go as she wanted.

“We still saw plenty of her,” Julie said. “She always had dinner here.”

So she would have been stuck here for the big family fight Tuesday night.

“How is she getting back and forth?” Kerr asked. “Rental car?”

Good boy, Allison reflected. Good question.

“No need for that. I let Len use our Lincoln.” Julie grimaced. “So I loaned her my MG.”

“What’s the tag number?”

Julie shrugged. “I can never remember. I should get one of those vanity plates. It’s butterscotch colored.”

Allison called Dispatch for a registration check, and when it came back, asked for an Attempt To Locate on the vehicle, then passed the information on to Drew. They could only hope the vehicle’s location gave some indication where Sunny went to ground.

“Now tell us about the psychological history,” Kerr said.

Allison came alert. Psychological history? That sounded disturbingly clinical.

Julie clicked the pen...point out, point in, point out. “It started with nightmares when she was three...like the ones Deirdre used to have, I guess. I know Deirdre was frantic to cure her. I think that’s when she, Deirdre, went overboard on religion. She’d always been a little fanatic. The story I heard was she wanted to name the baby Sabbath, to protect her from evil, but Len said people might think they were Jewish...so she settled on Sabrina Maristella. Anyway, after the nightmares started, she went to mass every day, and prayed over Sunny all the time. Stuff like that. Len told Charlie she asked to have Sunny exorcized. He refused, thank God. Instead he called in a child psychologist.”

Allison choked in disbelief. Another exorcism? What the hell did Deirdre think she was doing? Not that a psychologist was any better.

“They tried therapist after therapist,” Julie said, “but nothing helped.”

Not trusting the control of her expression, Allison spun away toward the parapet. From the alarm in Kerr’s quick glance, she was right to do so. The earlier anger at Rikki did not begin to compare with what she felt now. She jammed her hands into her jacket pockets to hide their white-knuckled clench. That cretinous, unspeakably stupid female!

She could have temporarily soothed the child by playing out the dreams in games and roughhousing...finished off with some raw meat warmed to blood temperature. But no. Not only had Deirdre chosen Len over her lover’s clan, and then failed to properly parent her daughter or tell her what they were, she deliberately consigned the girl to torture. She let the normal frustrations of childhood be turned into living hell.

Allison shuddered to imagine it...all those therapists determined to “cure” Sunny...a new set of tests with each therapist, drugs to “calm” her fierce desire for physical activity by day and make her sleep at night, psychoanalysis of her dreams to root out the cause of her “psychosis”, and probably constant reprimands for playing so rough. Everyone pounding into her over and over that everything she felt and did was bad...abnormal. No wonder Sunny had come to the house in a fury after talking to Matt. Only it should have been Deirdre torn apart, not Hilst! He only acted in arrogance and ignorance. Deirdre’s trauma was nothing compared to Sunny’s!

From the corner of her eye she saw Kerr rub his neck and send her an alarmed glance. That jolted her. Was she showing a Shift halo?

Julie appeared to notice nothing, playing with her pen while she continued her story.

Still, Allison grabbed for control of her fury...forcing herself to think of something else. The cry of gulls wheeling overhead. The clouds growing darker and thicker while the wind stiffened. Thunder booming to the north. A barge making its way down the intracoastal waterway channel through the bay.

“Deirdre wanted to send Sunny to convent schools but Len sent her to ones with a reputation for handling difficult children,” Julie said. “The best one was in England. She went there from age ten until ready for college.”

Which explained the British accent...and why the Palm Beach clan chief was unaware of the girl’s existence. If only they had known...they could have arranged contact with her...and helped her.

“Swansdown Hall was heavily into sports, and she liked that. Deirdre and Len thought maybe she was cured. Visiting here one summer, though, she told me, and swore me to secrecy, that she tried hard to act the way they wanted her to so she could stay in that school, because she’d found a way to sneak out of the dorm at night and run around the countryside. ” Julie sighed. “So when she came back to this country, trouble started all over again. She won an athletic scholarship but lost it because she didn’t want to go to class, just run.  She broke curfew at the freshman dorm over and over so she got kicked out. Her running ability got her corporate sponsorship for an Olympic bid, but that went south, too, when her coaches quit because she insisted on running when and how she wanted. And she lost jobs on Windjammer ships and river raft cruises for being caught fraternizing with male passengers.

“They were at their wit’s end with her,” Julie said. “Len was about ready to just chuck her out of the house and disown her, when suddenly, right after our visit down there last summer, she changed. She was working for Len, piloting his charter fishing boats, and overnight, Len told Charlie, she suddenly seemed contented. She still stayed out all night, but she didn’t fly off the handle any more and quit vamping male customers.”

So she learned to Shift on her own...and being unsupervised, played out the hunting dreams with humans instead of appropriate quarry. Though obviously she had not killed her victims there as openly as she did here. Allison guessed her MO followed the Coral Gables disappearance...dumping bodies at sea, possibly from boats at Leonard Hilst’s marina, so if they washed ashore, they would be mistaken for shark victims.

Julie tossed down the pen. “I just can’t believe Sunny would kill Len. She’s always been very sweet with me.”

“Brought you that expensive bottle of Grand Marnier,” Kerr said.

Julie’s forehead wrinkled. “She wouldn’t give me something that’s stolen. It’s a thank you gift for the use of the Narcissus and car.”

“I’m sorry, Julie.”

Allison’s phone rang. Dispatch. “Your ATL MGB has been located in the parking area of Marais Park.”

If the car were there, she must be hiding in the vicinity of the Basin. If not on the recreational boats, though, then...where?

Allison called Drew. “Any sign of the hunter on the other recreational boats?”

“No,” he came back, “and we’ve checked them all. We’re trying a couple of idle boats on the commercial side now, before the rain hits.”

“Damn it, she has to be some--just a minute.” Kerr’s eyes had suddenly lit up. “Did you think of something?” she asked him.

“The Fyodora Kuzetcheva. Julie, does Sunny know there’s only one man aboard the Russian freighter?”

Julie’s eyes widened. “I’d think so. Charlie tells--told the story often enough.”

“Drew,” Allison said into the phone, “check the Russian freighter. I’m on my way back there.”

Julie frowned up at her. “Am I going to be arrested?”

“I haven’t decided.” Let her stew for a while. “We’ll see how severely your obstruction compromises apprehending Sunny and rescuing Deirdre.” She headed into the house.

Kerr followed. “I’m coming along. I know the ship’s layout.”

She kept walking. “We’ll get along. You know how important it is to catch this rogue, and how dangerous she is. You’ll just be in the way.”

“Deal with it.”

Allison started. Kerr’s voice carried cold steel...and when she spun around, she discovered his jaw suddenly had edges she never noticed before.

Outside, Julie yelped, and Allison looked back to see that beyond the gallery balustrade, the bay and Lacabra had faded into a curtain of rain.

Julie picked up her funeral book, note cards, and envelopes and carried them inside to the dining room table. “I hope you two brought umbrellas to work today.”

Kerr moved into the hall and around to the library. Rain drummed against its windows. His voice cut through the noise. “Yes, I do know how dangerous Sunny is. Also what all of you are capable of. But I’m your partner! I’ve worked as long and hard on this case as you have, and I’m damned if I’m going to let you push me aside at the end like some kid packed off to bed while the grownups stay out to play!”

Kerr had guts. Give him that. This morning, though obviously terrified, he had not given in to panic. He fought back...and would have gone down still fighting, she suspected.  Now he blazed away at her in spite of all he knew about them...and the possibility they might kill him for his knowledge.

He also had a point.

“All right. You’re coming along.” Calling the office located the closest member of the major case squad, Andy Trembecka, five blocks away interviewing one of Hilst’s sisters. “Finish the interview later,” she told him. “I need you at the crime scene ASAP so Kerr and I can follow up a lead that will take both of us to handle.”

11.

Allison took the passenger seat so she could use the phone. With their dash and grill lights flashing, Zane pulled a U turn and shot up Laguna Drive...cars ahead of him a red blur of tail lights, headlights visible in the rearview mirror and oncoming lanes a glare reflecting off the pavement.

He crossed his fingers that he was right about the Russian freighter...and that they would find Deirdre still alive. And Kakashvili at the Anchorage, unaware he had stowaways. Could Sunny board without being seen? The Basin’s fence included the deep water piers, controlling access by land, with a security camera watching the pier. Nothing stopped an approach by water, though, and someone with strength and agility could climb the pilings.  In dark clothing, even with the Basin lighting, she might not be noticed on the accommodation ladder. Or not be seen at all if she climbed up the far side of the hull. He had never looked the freighter over with the idea of trying to scale it, but maybe Sunny could find holds to do so.

Under him, he felt the tires lose traction and start hydroplaning.

Allison tightened her seat belt with her free hand. “Drew promises they’ll wait for us before entering the ship. You’re sure you know it?”

Zane eased off the gas until he felt the tires grab, then accelerated once more, leaning on his horn when a motorist refused to yield the lane to the dash strobe. The siren could clear their path...but would also attract the attention of other officers. Thank goodness they were a small city and the traffic running light. “Kakashvili gave me a tour. What did you see up there earlier?”

Hearing about the security tape raised grim images in Zane’s head. He imagined Sunny forcing Surrette to strip, telling him: “Swim for your life.” Swimming in the sea at night was insane, but with the memory of Allison’s Shift vivid in his head, Zane knew that in Surrette’s place, he would have gone right over the side. Then after jumping into the black water and swimming desperately against the tide toward the shore lights, which must have seemed a million miles away, to have teeth sink into his leg and pull him under... His gut knotted.

Allison hung on to her seat as they hydroplaned a little again taking the curve onto West Bayside and punched in another phone number. Garroway, it quickly became apparent from her end of the conversation.

In the rearview mirror he spotted a motorcycle riding the lane line. Where was a traffic cop when you needed one?

“I wondered how long that would take.” Allison put her hand over the phone. “Someone at the Sentinel came across a photo of Deirdre at the funeral where she wasn’t veiled–as I guess she was in the one they had in the paper, which explains why no one recognized her as one of us– and observed the similarity between her and our Blondie composite. I guess they didn’t catch Sunny in any shots.”

Zane could imagine Hilst shoving himself and Deirdre into the foreground and keeping the troublesome daughter out of sight.

They passed the ferry landing. It looked like deja vu, a group of officers--wearing slickers today–a crane floating off the landing, and a tow truck on the dock.

“Golden’s car?” Zane asked.

Allison nodded. “I forgot to tell you.” She listened to the phone. “Deirdre Hilst isn’t a suspect any longer. There’s a new one.” Zane noticed that although she gave Garroway details about Sunny, she never mentioned the freighter, just repeated the same story she told Trembecka about the two of them checking out a lead. “With any luck I’ll have some good news for you in time for the press briefing.”

“Sticking your neck out a little aren’t you?” he asked after she disconnected.

She sent him a thin smile. “Our necks...partner. But I have to give him hope.  Speaking of necks...what did you do to yours?”

He grimaced. “Not me...Rikki.”

Allison eyed him. “Those marks weren’t there earlier. How--” Her voice sharpened. “Where have you see her since?”

“She sneaked in over the back fence at the Hilst house.” He shook his head. “Making a welfare check on me.  Before I could throw her out she also attempted to protect your family’s welfare by recruiting me to join the pack.”

“Recruiting you...” She broke off, sighing. It had a long suffering sound.

Thinking of hunting dreams, deer chasing, and Rikki and the cheetahs, it occurred to Zane that a werewolf child must be a handful. No wonder they packed teenagers off to boot camp.

The traffic light at West Bayside and Crockett went amber. The first entrance into the Basin. Zane slid into the turn lane, and as the oncoming traffic halted, gunned across its lanes for the parking lot entrance. Allison swore under her breath.

What was her problem? He had been well ahead of the single vehicle coming out of Crockett.

Then he noticed she had her head turned, peering south, and he followed her line of sight in time to see the tail light of a motorcycle vanish into the rain. It must have run the light. Reckless driving but no reason for profanity that he could see.

Zane drove on south through the parking lot and past the offices. A row of cars parked at the fence by the deep water piers. The gate there had been rolled open enough to let a person slip through. Beyond, the freighter loomed through the rain...the Cyrillic lettering on her bow streaked with rust, the masts of her deck cranes rising almost as high as the five-deck superstructure aft. Zane’s pulse picked up. Now they would see how good his hunches were.

When he parked beside the other vehicles, tall figures climbed out of them and converged on Allison. Even rain-soaked, pale hair plastered around their faces, they remained regally Elvish, but also, eerily, washed clean of pseudo humanity. The phrases “terrible beauty” and “fearful symmetry” echoed in Zane’s head...Elf and wolf both visible in them, perfectly fused. Elegant predators surrounded him, eyes gleaming...a pack eager for the hunt.

Among them, Tom Sweet’s eyes bored into him, no longer just dismissive as in the past, but dark with contempt. “You’re serious about bringing him along? He’s one more problem  we don’t need.”

Zane’s pulse ratcheted up another notch. He dug his fingers into the flashlight from the car’s glovebox. As if either its heft or the gun on his belt would provide any defense.

Makepeace said mildly, “I don’t believe that’s your decision to make, Tom.”

He breathed easier when Allison copied Makepeace’s tone. “I know we can sniff Sunny out if she’s in there...but after Gary’s ambush...” Her glance flicked over Sweet like a whip. “...I for one am not prepared to go charging through some door without knowing the geography on the other side.”

For the second time that day Zane saw one of the family look chagrined. Then Sweet’s expression turned angry. Because a human had witnessed his rebuke? Tough.

“I’m pretty sure she’s in there,” Makepeace said. “After you called I had the day guard run the tape of this area from last night. At oh-five-forty something moved by the pilings near the stern. I didn’t spot any movement after that, but there was a dark shape on the steps up the side of the ship a couple of sweeps later.”

She had watched the camera and moved only when it pointed away from her. That made sense to Zane.

“The Russian might be aboard, too.”

“Kakashvili’s Georgian, not Russian,” Zane said.

“Whatever,” Makepeace said. “Fayly didn’t see him leave the ship this morning and he hasn’t come into the Anchorage yet.”

Zane’s gut knotted.

Allison grunted. “Terrific. All we need is the State Department and Russian government breathing down our necks, too, because a foreign national’s been killed. Everyone have flashlights? We can’t risk turning on lights, so the interior passages and compartments are bound to be dark, and something like the engine room will be a black hole. Let’s go.”

She led the way in a dash from the gate out to the pier and the freighter’s accommodation ladder. Assuming Sunny had not see them already, the rain pounding the hull drowned out any sound they made mounting the steps. Everyone still took care to hug the hull side of the treads, making themselves less noticeable to anyone looking down from the ship. On the deck around the superstructure, however, the roof formed by the outside portion of the deck above hid them from view. It also gave shelter from the rain. They all pushed sodden hair back from their faces and made a tight huddle by the nearest entrance into the superstructure.

“What’s the layout inside?” Allison whispered.

Zane wiped his hands on a still-dry portion of his shirt under his coat and pulled out his notebook. Whispering as he wrote, he listed what he remembered being on each level, from the bridge down to the engine room, and sketched a rough plan showing the location of inside stairways.

Allison studied the sketch for a minute, then moved to the door. When she sniffed at the bar latching it, her face set in grim satisfaction.

Smelling Sunny. The others clearly thought so, too. Zane felt a surge of current around him...matching his own icy hot rush of adrenaline.

Allison lifted the bar, swung the door open, and stepped inside, where she crouched, breathing deeply. Zane expected her to point the direction Sunny had gone. Instead, Allison moved a short way down a passage, returned, and disappeared from sight off to the side of the doorway.

Presently she rejoined the huddle, frowning. “There are several trails. She may have explored the ship before picking where to hide out. We’ll have to check them all. Rick, Evan, Tom...take the one leading down the stairs inside the door. Mike, Gina, Drew... follow the one in the passage. Kerr, and I will take the one going up.”

Makepeace frowned. “You need more backup than Kerr. Better let me team with you.”

“Not necessary. We’re about to become a threesome. As long as she insists on hanging around, she might as well be useful.” Allison moved to the rail, and leaning over it, beckoned to someone below.

Zane’s suspicions who “she” might be solidified as a motorcycle helmet came into sight up the accommodation ladder. That explained Allison’s profanity at the intersection. She recognized the motorcycle.

Sure enough, Rikki’s head emerged from beneath the helmet. If she felt sheepish about at being caught following, it never showed. She wiggled her eyebrows at Zane.

He fingered the bite on his neck.

Allison came back to the huddle. “Each group stick together and cover each other. I refuse to lose another of you. Remember, Sunny not only has Gary’s radio but his gun.”

“Gary? What’s going on?” Rikki asked.

Allison cut her off with a hiss. “No radios. Communicate by phone. So when you locate her, two of the group keep her under surveillance while the third finds a location where you won’t be overheard and calls me.”

12.

What a difference from his guided tour of the freighter. Then they had lights, and Kakashvili’s wry laughter punctuated their effort to converse by passing back and forth the pocket edition Russian-English dictionary Zane brought along. Today the only illumination came from his flashlight and through the windows...which the rain turned to twilight, leaving interior passages black holes. And he moved through the darkness without conversation, or a human escort. Thankfully neither Allison nor Rikki considered it absurd that he drew his gun. They had fangs and claws ready. A silver wolf preceded him up the stairway, silent as a ghost, while Rikki made a smoky shadow behind. Thankfully, too, that gut-deep fear had diminished, though his skin crawled and he sweated in the heat coming from them. What happened to their clothes when they Shifted? He had so many questions...if ever given the opportunity to ask them.

Another question concerned him more just now. “I’m worried about Kakashvili. I’d like to check his quarters.”

“Sunny first.” Allison sniffed the deck and padded away into the blackness of the passage.

Zane followed, trying to move as silently as she did. He pointed the flashlight at the deck just ahead of his feet, holding his fingers over the lens to block all but a narrow slit of beam. In the silence, the hammer of his heart sounded deafening in his ears, and every creak and groan of the ship brought a new jolt of adrenaline.

Shortly, his beam picked up the pale wolf form crouched with one ear pressed against a door. She glanced up at him and sketched a question mark in the air with a paw, rolling her eyes at the door.

He bent down to her other ear. “Recreation room.”

She reached for the knob.

Zane braced, and Rikki couched behind Allison, ears flattened.

Then Allison froze. Both her head and Rikki’s snapped around. Hearing what?

Allison padded away...but not far. She halted at a door on the other side of the passage. Zane followed, running on his toes. Nearing her, he slowed and held his breath, straining to hear whatever has caught her attention. There. From beyond the door came a muffled whimper.

A second voice full of fury and contempt cut across the sound. “You just don’t learn, do you, you stupid cow.” It had to be Sunny, especially with that accent.

Allison backed away from the door toward Zane...rising on her hind legs. She reached him human-shaped once more and leaned close to his ear. “What’s in there?”

A sensation of numbness distracted him...until he realized that he had not lost feeling in his skin; it had just returned to normal. Over his shoulder he saw that Rikki, too, had resumed human form. Galley, he mouthed.

Allison backed him down the passage away from the door, but still whispered. “How many exits?”

He closed his eyes and visualized the area. “Three. That one, a door connecting to the messroom...and I’m pretty sure I remember a door onto an outside deck. The messroom entrance is down there.” He flashed his light at the next door along the passage.

“Layout inside?”

Now he had to think harder. “Storerooms, cooler, and freezer to the left...stainless steel island down the center for food preparation...the stove and oven et cetera on the right, then messroom door, more counter. Sinks and door onto the outside deck at the far end.”

She nodded. “Okay. I’ll go call the others. You watch these two exits.” She slipped down the corridor and into the recreation room.

The whimpering rose into a shriek. A shriek with a hoarse edge, Zane noticed...as if Deirdre--it must be Deirdre--had screamed so much she was losing her voice. What had Sunny been doing to her?

Rikki whispered, “Who’s screaming? Who is this Sunny?”

Briefly, Zane explained.

Rikki stiffened. “Her own mother? I have to see this bitch.” She headed down the passage.

With his hands full of gun and flashlight, he had no way to grab for her. She moved fast enough that Zane saw he would have missed anyway. But now what? Calling after her risked being heard by Sunny. Following would leave the galley door unguarded. Swearing silently, he pointed his flashlight beam at the deck near Rikki’s feet and watched her disappear through the messroom door.

Well, he could be ready in case Sunny detected Rikki and all hell broke loose. He slid down to the galley door and pressed his ear against it.

The despair in the oddly muffled sobs--his and Kakashvili’s voices had echoed in the galley, he remembered--wrenched at him. Get back here, Allison, so we can end this. Gradually he realized Deirdre forced out words between the sobs. He thought he heard something about rape.

Cut short by the lash of Sunny’s voice. “What self-respecting werewolf male could want a jellyfish like you that much? Admit it...you threw yourself at him in one of your bitch-in-heat moods, begging to have a real man instead of that insufferable prick you married.”

Deirdre’s voice steadied. “You--you can’t talk about your father--” But broke in a shriek.

Simultaneously Sunny snarled, “He’s not my dad! That’s why we’re talking about the man who is. I want to know about him, Mum dear...without the rape crap. Tell me...now!”

Deirdre screamed again, but with a choking component to the sound. “No, please stop. Please.” She resumed sobbing. “It was rape. He made me want him. He was Evil. He knew about the dreams.” The sobs turned into breathless babble. “That’s how I knew Satan sent him...but not until after he’d... He wanted me to come away with him. I had to escape. I couldn’t let him take me.” She broke off in another scream, only this one rose into the shriek of someone in agonizing pain.

Zane set down his flashlight, eyeing the doorknob. This had gone on long enough!

Arms pulled him back from the door. “Don’t,” Allison breathed in his ear. “We’re ready.”

He felt the others there. Current filled the passage.

Sunny’s voice came through the galley door. “You not only choose to stay totally ignorant and spend your life fawning on that asshole...”

“Where’s Rikki?”

Zane pointed at the messroom door.

As he did so, it eased open. A shadow slipped out. Voice almost inaudible, Rikki said, “There’s a window. Otherwise the only light is the freezer’s. She has her mother stripped naked and handcuffed to a shelf in there.”

“You don’t give a shit that the bastard and his shrinks made my life living hell! That’s that why all the schools were abroad...so you didn’t have to see me and think about me!”

In spite of himself Zane felt a surge of sympathy for Sunny. He certainly knew the sting of feeling like an inconvenience for your parents.

“No!” Deirdre cried. “We wanted to cure you...to save--” She screamed. “We did want to!”

“Evan and Rick are in position on the deck outside the galley,” Allison whispered. “Kerr, Rikki...you go into the messroom with Gina and Tom...but stay behind them out of the way.”

“I didn’t need curing! I was normal! You bloody well knew that! You knew and you never said a fucking word...to anyone! You robbed me of growing up in the family I should have had and let humans torture me!”

Deirdre shrieked.

Allison pointed at the messroom door. “Positions. Wait for me to move first.”

The shriek collapsed into a whimper. “Please please stop!”

Rikki led the way into the messroom, guiding Lovejoy and Sweet between the tables. At the door connecting to the galley, they pushed ahead. The blast of heat coming back at him warned Zane. Seconds later wolves crouched at the door.

On the other side of it Sunny said, “Why don’t you make me stop, Mum? Make me.” She raised her voice over Deirdre’s scream. “You can do it if you really want to.” Another scream from Deirdre punctuated the sentence. “Reach into yourself and for once in your miserable, gutless life, see what you are and--”

The crack of a splintering door interrupted her.

13.

Allison would have preferred just flinging the door open, but crashing through a locked one did make a dramatic entrance. It caught Sunny enough by surprise that she was still whirling around, silhouetted against light from the freezer, her ponytail swinging, as Allison shook off the wood fragments. Small wonder she had been able to sneak aboard the freighter. She wore a dark blouse and slacks. A dark blanket with more dark clothing on top of it lay on the floor behind her.

The open freezer door, Allison noted with satisfaction, filled most of the space up to the island down the center of the galley, blocking a quick retreat that direction. Drawers and bins under the island made it a solid barrier and Tom and Gina, coming through from the messroom, prevented any escape over the island. Rikki and Kerr filled the doorway behind them...Kerr wearing an expression of outrage.

But Sunny showed no sign of fleeing for the moment. She dropped a ladle she held into a stock pot at her feet and stared at Allison, then past her at Drew and Mike and under the pots hanging over the island to Tom and Gina. A grin spread across her face. “Soldier boy wasn’t kidding. There are more of you around. Only, I thought he said the lot of you are off somewhere for a hunting and sex orgy.”

Orgy? Well, Matt did make it sound that way. “Someone has to clean up the mess you’ve made.”

The grin vanished. A Shift halo rippled around Sunny.

Inside the freezer Deirdre called, “Whoever’s out there, please help me.”

The desperation pricked Allison. She hated having to ignore the plea. But dealing with Sunny came first.

She dropped out of Shift. “You can’t go anywhere, so relax and let’s talk.”

Sunny remained at bay. “I know you. You’re a copper...that one on the news...”

“Who’s hunting the wilding killer. And we found you.” Allison gave her a smile. “Let me introduce everyone.”

The others, too, dropped out of Shift, one by one, as she gave their names...leaving out only Rikki and Kerr. Tom let Evan and Rick in from the outside deck, though they remained in front of the door. A hint of halo lingered around Gina, along with the cold fury in her expression.

With each name, Allison eased along the island. Finally she could see into the freezer... and understood Kerr’s reaction. As Rikki said, Deirdre stood naked and handcuffed in the freezer... whimpering, shivering, blue...with arms stretched back over her head, the handcuff chain running around a pole supporting the freezer shelves. Blood trailed down her arms from where the handcuffs had abraded her wrists. Blood and ice matted her hair. Blood covered her face like a mask, some of it clinging in clots. More blood splashed her breasts and dripped down her belly and thighs. Thrown at her ladle by ladle from the stock pot, obviously. The source of the blood hung from shelves on the other side of the freezer...another victim...a stocky man in a pair of baggy boxers, strung up by his feet, his throat slashed.

When Deirdre’s eyes met hers, terror replaced entreaty in the other woman’s face. Squeezing her eyes shut, Deirdre began whispering frantically. Praying for Divine deliverance.

Sunny seemed oblivious to her. “You’re all cops?” The Shift halo rippled around her.

Just like a juvenile...all reaction, no thought. Allison kept smiling and stretched her arms sideways. “Relax! I told you, I only want to talk.”

The heat waves disappeared. Sunny eyed her warily. “About what?”

“Gary, for starters,” Gina snarled. “That’s the officer you killed at the Hilst house and sunk in the bay with his car,” she added harshly when Sunny looked blank.

“Was he one of you, too?” Sunny glanced from Gina to Allison and shrugged. “I didn’t know. I just knew he was a cop. I’d seen him and you and others around those North Bay bars...obviously watching for me, then he was at the house, in my way.” She smiled. “I play a cop sometimes. Americans are suckers for a foreign accent and saying I’m this Brit cop on holiday really hooks the fish. I’ve even had a couple ask me to handcuff and search them. Nicking the warrant card and handcuffs from that film crew using Swansdown Hall was just an impulse...but they’ve proven quite useful.”

“Speaking of which,” Allison said. “I’m taking the cuffs off your mother.”

The smirk vanished. “I’d leave her ‘til she freezes or rots!” Sunny glared over her shoulder at the desperately whispering woman. “You know what she did to me? She screwed some Italian werewolf when she and dickhead delivered a yacht there, but when he--”

“We know how terrible your childhood was,” Allison said. “We can help make up for it.”

That startled Sunny. “What?”

“What!” Kerr echoed.

Allison ignored him. “You grew up without a clan or people who understood you. Now both you and your mother can have them with our clan.”

Outrage and indignation filled Kerr’s intake of breath. “No! You can’t just forget these murders!”

She bent to peer under the pots at him. “We’re not. But think what’s she’s gone through. Think of her in a cell...or in court.”

She could see in his eyes that he did. For once Allison appreciated that imagination.  He still frowned. “That doesn’t excuse murder!”

No...but how did she explain to someone from a species that bred like rabbits how precious every member was to her people?

“They were only humans,” Tom Sweet said.

Just what she needed, him opening his mouth!

Kerr turned on him. “What about Golden?”

“Yes, what about Gary,” Gina growled. The halo rippled around her.

This needed to be headed off before it turned ugly. “What about Deirdre?” Allison started into the freezer, fishing for her handcuff key.

As she reached for Deirdre’s hands, however, the closed eyes flew open, dark with panic. Deirdre screamed piercingly and kicked out with first one foot, then the other. “No! Get away from me! Get away, get away, get away!”

“I just want to help you,” Allison said.

Deirdre continued flailing her feet, screaming, each scream rising closer to hysteria.

Sunny snorted. “I told you she’s a stupid cow.”

“Let me try.” Kerr slid over the island. He raised his voice above Deirdre’s screaming and eased into the freezer as Allison backed out. “Deirdre. Deirdre! Hush. Take it easy.”

Gradually she quit screaming...quit kicking. Relief flooded into her face. “Help me.” Her voice dropped into a hoarse whisper. “Don’t let them near me.”

“I won’t.” His voice almost crooned. “I promise. Now let’s get these off, okay?” He unlocked the handcuffs.

She grabbed his coat lapels. “Take me away. They’re Evil. Creatures of Satan. We have to escape.”

“Shhh, shhh.” He wrapped an arm around her. “Everything will be all right.”

He picked up the clothes and blanket and half led, half carried her past Sunny and Allison toward the end of the island. Drew and Mike stepped aside to give the two of them room. After helping Deirdre into the blouse and slacks, Zane wrapped the blanket around her. She clung to him, shivering so violently she shook him, too.

Sunny scowled at him. “I can’t believe you let a human run around with you.”

Allison kept her sigh mental. They had so much work to do with this girl. The mother, too. So much damage to repair! The people who deserved dismemberment were that couple in England.

“Don’t mind him,” Tom said. “He’s a dead man walking.”

Kerr stiffened.

Sunny grinned. “Cool. Are you going to hunt him in a pack?”

Allison glared at Tom. “Whatever happens to Kerr is my responsibility and no one’s going to hunt him!” She switched her gaze back to Sunny. “You’ve got a lot to learn. Except under specific and limited circumstances, which will be explained, we don’t hunt humans.”

Sunny snorted. “What kind of crap is that? Humans wouldn’t have horror stories about werewolves if we didn’t hunt them.”

“Yes, we’ve killed them in the past.” Allison kept her voice patient. “They’ve killed plenty of us, too, and most has been from competition for territory and food. Because you haven’t had a clan upbringing, and maybe because of all the anger in you, you’re confusing rivals with prey.”

“Don’t play shrink with me!” Sunny’s eyes darkened. “I know all the patter! And no fucking way I will ever listen to any of it again! The truth is, you’re just pissed off because I came in and made a mess in your territory. Okay, I can relate to that.” She shrugged. “How was I to know you were here?  I don’t know why you didn’t just cover up the evidence so the humans wouldn’t know about it. That’s what you do with your own kills, isn’t it? Isn’t that why you pretend to serve and protect?”

This girl was going to take so much work.  Instead of answering, Allison said, “We’re going to send you and your mother to a ranch we have. Clans from several cities are there this week end. They’ll start teaching you the things you need to know. You’ll have the chance to hunt appropriate game. Deer, wild boar or--”

“‘Appropriate’ game?” Sunny sneered. “That sounds like a weasel to me. Like you’re afraid of humans. Is that it? You don’t have the guts to take them on even though you know we’re superior predators?”

Around the galley...by the door, across the island, back by the door to the outside deck, Allison saw faces tighten. Current crackled around her. Deirdre whimpered and Kerr tightened his arm around her.

Allison fought her own tension. Of course the girl was not going to see reason at this point. “Let’s just say our long-term strategy doesn’t involve the stupidity of a frontal assault on a force that vastly outnumbers us.”

Sunny’s lip curled. “Long term strategy? If this is what clan life is like, cowering in fear of bloody humans, you’re welcome to that useless piece of shit with the human. You deserve her. But I’m not fucking interested.”

The surging current left the air suffocating. Deirdre peeled loose from Kerr and sank down behind the island, whimpering.

All right...enough. Time to make the stakes clear. Allison put steel in her voice. “You’d better be interested. We want to give you the chance at the life you should have had, but if you won’t come in...we’ll treat you as rogue and eliminate you.”

At the edge of her vision she saw Kerr, turning to reach for Deirdre, freeze.

Sunny flung up her head, expression defiant in the light coming from the freezer. “We?” She glanced around the galley. “Or is it just her who doesn’t want me doing what I bet you’d all like to if she didn’t have you bitch whipped?”

Tom Sweet’s eyes flared.

“Egg us on, shit for brains,” Gina growled. “You owe me for Gary.”

“All right, we’ll make it a group decision.” Allison bit off the words. “A jury of seven, if you will.”

“Eight,” came Rikki’s voice.

“Nine.”

Allison looked around in surprise at Kerr, and, oddly, a sense of satisfaction. Her partner was as gutsy as a volke.

14.

Why the hell did he do that, Zane wondered. The words seemed to come out of nowhere.

The others wheeled toward him...astonishment on some faces, others furious.  While Allison almost smiled.

Sweet snarled, “You keep out of this. You don’t have any business even being here!”

He had enough of that attitude, Zane decided. He unhooked a pot so he had a clear line of sight to Sweet’s face. “The hell it isn’t my business. This is my case and you might not care about the victims she terrorized and butchered, but I do. I speak for them.”

Sweet thrust his face between the pots. “Over my dead body is any human--”

“Don’t make me go that far,” Allison broke in. “Zane’s right...he’s earned his place here. He stays. Unless you care to challenge my authority?”

Silence came down on the galley like a hammer. Even Deirdre stopped whimpering. The creaks and groans of bulkheads and drumming of rain on the deck outside reassured Zane that he had not suddenly gone deaf, while static crawled his skin and every pair of eyes watched Sweet intently.

After a long moment, Sweet stepped back, shaking his head.

And Zane realized that Allison had used his first name.

She turned back to Sunny. “You see? Politically and emotionally, Tom sides with you, but even Earth Now puts the good of the clan first.”

Zane had seen that not all of them felt the same toward humans, but hearing they had what sounded like a volke version of white supremacists sent a chill down his spine.

Sunny glared around in contempt. “Bleeding wimps, the lot of you. I can’t believe you’d kill one of your own over a few fucking humans.”

Allison gave Sunny a cold smile. “My great-grandmother was the only survivor of a clan slaughter. After brooding about it for a hundred and fifty years, she decided to go back to the village for vengeance, no matter what the consequences to the new clan there. The only way to stop her was kill her. So her daughter, my grandmother, did.”

Zane’s breath stuck in his chest. Honora killed Thérèse?

“If we’ll kill our own family members for the good of another clan, do you imagine we’ll hesitate at a stranger who threatens ours?”

Sunny clenched her fists. “It’s always the same, isn’t it,” she said bitterly. “First I was supposed to be what my so-called parents, therapists, and teachers wanted me to be. Now you expect me to make myself into what you want.”

“No,” Allison said, “into what you claim you want...to join the family you attack your mother for denying you.”

Sunny stared hard at her, then smiled wryly. “You’re right. So...what do I do? We start with this Gathering, you said.”

No real surrender came that easily, Zane reflected. Not when anger like hers had festered for so long. Silver and Bliss were drifting from the deck door toward the food preparation island, but otherwise he noticed little easing of the tension in the galley. Static still slid around his skin.

“It may be a little overwhelming,” Allison said, “but it’ll certainly plunge you into clan life.”

Zane tuned out. Like his stay with David and Susan Martinez, after the initial shock, she ought to love it. Her genetic predisposition for pack life should kick in. Very nice for her...but what about justice for Demry and the others? Anger filled him. Kakashvili hung right there in front of them in the freezer.  Even if they overlooked the human tragedies to add to more members to the pack, what about retribution for Golden?  Yet...the alternative felt equally unacceptable. After his own brush with cold-blooded execution...maybe only postponed...he did not wish that even on Sunny.

Deirdre’s situation disturbed him, too. How did they expect her to fit in when the very sight of her own kind terrified her?

Where had she gone, anyway? Looking around, he spotted her crouched back by the ovens, totally covered with the blanket and almost invisible. Zane walked over and dropped to one knee in front of her. “Deirdre, what are you doing?”

She peered up out of the blanket. With the crust of blood darkening her face, only her eyes showed, pale holes in the shadows. “So much Evil here,” she whimpered. “Feel it, feel it.” She hugged the blanket tighter around her. “We have to escape. Help me. I lost my crucifix. We have to save ourselves before they damn our souls.”

Deirdre sounded close to the edge, if not falling over it. “We’ll go very soon. I promise. Okay?” He patted her shoulder. “You hide there and wait for me.”

“Hurry.” She disappeared under the blanket again. “Evil. We have to escape.”

Tension had heightened, he realized, straightening and turning.

Much of the increased current came from Sunny. Her fists had clenched again. “Mentoring? You mean supervision, don’t you?” Her voice rose. “This household the clan chief sends me to will be watching me every minute, won’t they? I’ll be a prisoner. Just like at my schools!”

“Certainly not.” Allison’s voice was mild...soothing. She lounged against the island. “Yes, there’s bound to be someone with you most of the time for a while...but we normally do things in groups. And how best to learn how to interact with the clan than by observing and practicing--”

“You mean behavior modification!” Heat boiled around Sunny. “No!” she shrieked. “No, NO, NO! No more therapy!”

Heat blasted from her and a black wolf streaked past Allison toward the door.

Zane dived to tackle her. The forms of Sergeant Makepeace and Mike Fairchild launched out of the shadows on the opposite side. Then a vise clamped on his throat, crushing his larynx and trachea. His breath shut off.

15.

Holding Zane by the throat, Sunny spun to make him a shield between her and the rest of the room...turning so fast Zane’s feet flung out, smashing into Drew’s chest and knocking him backward.

Zane chopped at the wolf neck. Trying for pain compliance points, Allison guessed. But confused by the perceived wolf form, he missed his targets.

Going for her gun was one reflex Allison had never developed, but she found the weapon in her hand, aimed at Zane’s back. “Sunny, don’t be foolish! Try to run and we’ll have to stop you. But there’s nothing to run from. We only want to help you.”

“That’s what everyone says! I only end up hurting worse. Well...to hell with you!” She bared her fangs. “Come near me and your pet human dies!”

Allison heard a snarl that had to be Rikki.

Tom called, “No problem. If you can’t bring yourself to shoot through him, Allison, I will.”

Which he would enjoy doing. “I have the clearest shot.” Damned if she would let killing Zane be a pleasure for anyone. “Last chance, Sunny. Join us or die.”

Sunny backed another step toward the door with Zane now trying to push his thumbs in her eyes.  Missing those, too.

No choice now but to shoot. Allison drew a bead on his back that coincided with the position of Sunny’s heart.

Rikki snarled again, and Allison felt a heat surge that told her Rikki had Shifted.

“Rikki, don’t you dare move!”

Her finger tightened on the trigger.

16.

Through the roar in his ears and the losing struggle for breath, Zane heard the shouting and braced for the bullet. An efficient elimination of two problems with one shot, came a bitter thought. At the same time, the voices of instructors and field training officers made a chorus in his head: don’t panic; don’t give in; fight the bitch. With his throat crushed and terrible pain in his chest, and vision disappearing in a red haze, he clawed for his gun. Don’t give up. Don’t stop fighting. Survive! He shoved the muzzle against her body and pulled the trigger.

Sunny jerked, and the shot echoed, which he never expected. Then he realized the “echo” came from behind him. Allison! Blessedly, the pain in his neck left no room to feel her shot. But for a moment his lungs found air again as Sunny’s grip loosened. Until, with a vicious jerk, the vice closed on his neck once more.

He fired again. Felt her stagger and release his throat. As he fell to the deck, he fired one last time.

Triumphantly, he felt her body slump over him. Got her! He was her last victim.  While his throat and lungs felt on fire and the struggle to pull air into them sent him into bone-jarring coughing, at least his last moments of life would be breathing ones.

17.

Allison saw Zane grope for his gun, still fighting Sunny as stubbornly and determinedly as he had her in the office, and she heard the muffled report of his shot. Sunny jerked, and when that moved Zane enough to expose her head, Allison took a chance and switched targets. It appeared she grazed Sunny’s head...but both shots only staggered her. Bullets of any metal worked equally well...if the shots were placed right. Not easy with a Shift form.

Sunny straightened again, and Allison reluctantly switched her aim back to Zane. Sorry, partner. Before she pulled the trigger, she heard Zane fire a second time...and a dark form moved behind Sunny. Allison held her fire, heart wrenching in horror. Rikki!

To her relief, Sunny began collapsing...but not Rikki.

No, not Rikki, she saw as Sunny folded down over the gasping Zane. Deirdre! Surrounded by a Shift halo and swinging a cast iron skillet.

She brought the side of it down on her daughter’s head like a hatchet...again and again and again. Allison stood frozen, staring...feeling the others staring...while the repeated blows crushed Sunny’s skull. And when the girl lay with her head bloody pulp, Deirdre sank to the deck hugging the skillet. Splattered with blood and brains, she stared whimpering at the body.

“Son of a bitch,” someone breathed.

Movement flashed on the other side of the island. Definitely Rikki this time, racing around to drag Zane out from under Sunny’s body and sit him upright against a storeroom door. She pulled off his tie and unbuttoned his shirt, then whipped off her motorcycle jacket and t-shirt. Using the shirt, she wiped the blood and brains from his face.

Drew found a light switch. Squinting in the sudden glare, everyone slowly gathered around the body.

Seemingly oblivious to them, Deirdre talked to the body. “We tried to save you but you’re his, the fruit of Evil. The Evil has to be destroyed. I had to escape. He made me want him.” She set aside the skillet and reached out to pick up Sunny’s hand. “You have to understand. I had to destroy the Evil. It was the only way to escape, the only way not to go with him.” Deirdre gathered up her daughter’s body, snuggling her cheek against the bloody hair. “Why did you have to be his? Why did the Evil have to live on?”

Beside Allison, Gina said, “Do you think she means she killed Sunny’s father?”

“That’s what it sounds like to me.” Somehow no one knew but her, and she had lived alone with her crime all these years.

The whispering at their feet turned into prayer...hurried, desperate, more and more unintelligible. Allison looked up from the body to find everyone eyeing her. Waiting to learn what she wanted to do now.

While she gave it thought, Allison checked Zane. He leaned against Rikki, coughing. The rasp of his breathing made Allison’s throat hurt to hear. Nothing compared to the pain he must feel, however. Bruises already darkened his neck from jaw to collar bones. He stared dazed at Sunny’s body, but quickly abandoned any attempt to talk, and just drew a question mark in the air.

“You tell him what happened, Rikki.”

She turned back to the body and Deirdre. This did give her a physical killer to present to Garroway and the press, along with a name with a fitting history of psychological problems. The case would be closed...the killer dead, the city relieved, the clan safe. Breaking the news in the middle of the press briefing would also make Garroway look good in Investigation’s first big case on his watch.  Only she could not give them Sunny’s body as it was. Let Pedicaris have a look at the teeth and confirm the girl as the killer, but other anatomical “anomalies” might raise too many eyebrows.

“We need a partial cremation.”

Tom Sweet said, “There’s fuel oil on board.”

“How about a car crash?” Rikki said. “The suspect takes off in a car. There’s a high speed chase through the West Bay...patrol cars after her, sirens screaming. Suspect’s car goes out of control, hits a wall, bursts into flame.”

Something like that would occur to Rikki. Allison shook her head. “That’s dangerous.”

“Excuse me?” Rikki’s chin jutted. “I do this for a living, remember?”

“Don’t they take a careful setup?” Drew asked.

The chin lifted more. “I can stage one on the fly.” She leaped to her feet. “You pick the site--somewhere human witnesses can’t see me vault out of the car and toss a match into the gas tank--and I’ll guarantee you a crash that won’t make anyone question an incinerated body.” As she spoke she pulled back on her t-shirt.

“Problem,” Rick Bliss said. “What car? It has to be one Sunny would have keys for. And how do we get both Rikki and the body in it without the security camera recording the event?”

Allison eyed the deck door. “The MG Sunny has been driving is in Marais Park. Our story is Sunny escaped by jumping overboard. It’s Rikki who jumps. We’ll lower the body to her wrapped in something waterproof. There must be canvas or tarps on this ship. Rikki swims to the park with the body, signals us when she’s in the car--leaving the tarp, of course, for one of us to pick up--and takes off from there.”

Rikki grinned. “Right. Then you do a little Keystone Kops...go tearing down to your car...take off across the parking lot and across the grass of the park.”

Keystone Kops? Allison winced. But she nodded. “All right. It’s a performance. We might as well make it look dramatic for the security camera. Drew calls in my pursuit and requests Ident and an ambulance here. So...we need to lay out a route that will be long enough for people to notice and not long enough for human officers to arrive in time to see us torch the car. Rikki, you’d better remove the gas cap before taking off so all we have to do is toss in a match.”

Rikki nodded. “This is gonna be a blast. It’ll be great!”

Allison would settle for credible. “Let’s plan our chase route.”

Zane’s lips formed a word.

“What?”

Rikki leaned down to his mouth. “I think he said Lavaca Street?”

Of course. Allison nodded. “Good idea. We’ll finish this where it started, in the building where she killed Demry.”

Drew looked thoughtful. “Yes...there’ll be minimal traffic and chance of eye witnesses there.”

During laying out a route, Gina had found a purse on the deck behind the open freezer door with MG keys and the fake police ID in it. Rick brought a tarp he remembered seeing in one of the areas they searched below, and Tom found rope.

Drew handed Rikki the MG’s keys. “The rest is up to your driving skill.”

Rikki grinned. “Piece of cake.”

Deirdre still clung to the body, whispering and crooning, but offered no resistance when they pulled it away to wrap in the tarp. She sat staring straight ahead, whispering on.

Zane shook his head.

Allison took a breath. “Let’s do it.”

Rikki kissed Zane. “I’ll see you later at the hospital. After they release you, I’m bringing you home with me to take care of.”

Then she was gone through the deck door and vaulting the rail, not even bothering to Shift for the drop to the water.

Coming back inside once the body had been lowered, Drew grinned. “She’s a pistol, isn’t she?”

Allison nodded. “Honora says there’s a lot of Georgiana in her. I see a lot of you, too.”

His winked. “Want to make another?”

“Not right this minute. All right, everyone, let’s arrange the scene.”

While they spread the clotting blood in the stock pot over Sunny’s on the deck and arranged Kakashvili’s body in it, Allison called Ident to give Connie Swann a heads up.

This could never pass a legitimate crime scene examination, of course, but with Tran and Castenado still at the Hilst house, Connie could arrange be the only Ident tech here and document the scene to support their story. Besides, who would to look too closely with the killer dead?

“What do we do with her?” Gina pointed at Deirdre.

Zane had slid over and wrapped her in the blanket again, but she no more reacted to that than to taking away her daughter’s body. It appeared her only need in the foreseeable future was custodial care.

“We let her family take care of her. I’ll call Julie Hilst from the hospital. They are her family,” she said when Tom Sweet scowled. “Forget DNA. In thought and behavior, she’s human. We’re the stuff of her nightmares.”

“What happens when she outlives them all?”

Eyeing the huddled figure, Allison shook her head. “I doubt she will, not when she’s locked up her head with her nightmares.” Trapped in a body wracked with unfulfilled longings...never once experiencing the exhilaration and joy of Shifting. Death by suffocation. What would happen to her soul? Would it snuff out in darkness, unable to burn free...denied the singing fire of the Northern Lights? Allison shuddered. That was a true nightmare.

The same thought must have occurred to all of them. Every pair of clan eyes around her reflected pity and horror.

They headed down through the superstructure to wait in the passage on the main deck level for Rikki’s call. Zane led Deirdre.

Allison shook her head. “What a disaster.” She felt exhausted. “Gary dead. Deirdre lost. Five innocent humans butchered.”

“At least we’ve given them the killer, and she’ll never kill again,” Drew said. He lowered his voice. “What are you going to do about Kerr?”

“Take him home with us.” When had she decided he posed no threat? When he became “Zane” to her...or joined the jury...or maybe as early as leaving him alone at the Hilst house? “Nursing chores will keep Rikki out of trouble while I spend the weekend on paperwork. She might even learn responsibility. It’ll be all right.” She smiled at Drew’s skeptical frown. “We’re not the stuff of his nightmares. We do have our amici familia, friends of the family.”

A dentist, a doctor. Zane might end up more. Perhaps Honora’s intention since meeting him. Looking back on conversations with her grandmother, and Honora’s comments to Rikki last night, Allison saw a clan chief’s manipulative touch. After all, if Deirdre had become human in spirit, what better protection for the clan than reversing that...giving Zane the family he wanted by making him part of theirs.

She strolled over to whisper in Zane’s ear and welcome him to the clan.

About The Author

Lee Killough has been storytelling since the age of four or five, when she started making up her own bedtime stories, then later, her own episodes of her favorite radio and TV shows. Because she loves both SF and mysteries, her work combines the two genres. Although published as SF, most of her novels are actually mysteries with SF or fantasy elements...with a preference--thanks to a childhood hooked on TV cop shows--for cop protagonists.

Also published by Books We Love

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Killer Karma

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From the Garreth Mikaelian Mystery Series

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