Her bare feet slapped on the slick pavement as fast as she could make them move. She could feel the force of the man's will reaching out to her. It was almost a physical touch. She was terrified that she would feel his hand grab her shoulder or hair at any second.

Then she heard the sawing breath of the man behind her. And she knew if he caught her, she would die. . . .

- Jayne Ann Krentz

HEATHER LOWELL

When The
Storm Breaks

Copyright © 2003 by Two of a Kind, Inc. ISBN: 0-06-054212-8

Chapter 1

"Southern Belle, thirty, seeks prince to carry
her off to his castle and take care of her forever."

"What do you think, dear?" Peggy Gallagher looked over the table at her new client.

Claire Lambert shifted in her chair, struggling for a response that wouldn't offend Peggy. She turned
to her friend Afton for assistance, since she had been the one to talk her into joining a dating service
in the first place.

"Doesn't that caption sound like something to grab a man's attention, Marie Claire?" Peggy pressed.

Deciding Afton wasn't going to help, Claire thought about her options. She might have been tired after
a long day—a long week, really—but not tired enough to let that gem get by her untouched. Joining the Gallaghers' dating service was humiliating enough, but having a blurb like the one Peggy had suggested appear next to her picture would be pathetic.

Besides, she hated being called Marie Claire.

Peggy drew herself up straight in her chair, inhaling through her flared nostrils, while across the table,
her daughter and business partner covered laughter with a cough. Afton Gallagher truly enjoyed seeing someone make her mother pucker up—it happened so rarely.

"Mom, why don't you make sure the computer is set up for Claire to view the eligible candidates. She
and I can work on her bio later," Afton said, careful to not meet Claire's gaze.

Peggy surveyed them both for a long moment. "All right. But really, Marie Claire, you should put more thought into developing the caption to go with your picture in the catalogue. It's the first impression the male candidates will have of you, and you certainly don't want to come across as too flip. Or assertive. Men don't care for that in a young lady."

Peggy pushed back from the table, straightened her skirt with a practiced move, and went out the door
of the conference room. Claire looked closely at her departing figure, trying to see if Peggy was, indeed, wearing nylons and a slip in the sweltering heat of a Washington, D.C. summer. Claire looked up and caught Afton rolling her eyes.

They shared a moment of silent humor over Peggy's stodgy approach to both fashion and romance in
the twenty-first century.

Then Claire straightened in her chair, turning dancing black eyes to Afton. "Hey, I left out the part
about 'providing foot massages in exchange for the occasional blow job."

Afton laughed out loud. It was just like Claire to say something outrageous and make her forget that it was after nine on a Friday evening, and she had been working without a break for the last seven days. She'd had to stay late tonight to accommodate Claire's busy schedule, but she didn't mind doing her
friend this favor. Besides, it had been Afton's nagging that had convinced Claire to give the dating
service a try in the first place. The least she could do was offer moral support.

"I'm suddenly not sure about signing up for a dating service," Claire said once she'd stopped laughing.
"It seems so, I don't know, sad. Needy." That was one word she would never use to describe herself.
She hated being in a situation where that particular shoe might fit.

"Don't be ridiculous," Afton said quickly, not wanting Claire to back out now that she had finally
dragged her in. "We went over this before. You're paying for a service— special friend's price, I might add—just like getting your carpets cleaned or your car washed. We're providing you with something
you don't have time to do yourself. It's as simple as that."

Chapter 2

Several hours later Claire watched the elevator doors swish closed on the offices of Camelot Dating Services, Inc. Finally, an end to what had to be one of the more humiliating evenings she had endured
in her thirty years on the planet.

How had she let Afton talk her into diving back into the dating pool? And with a dating service—talk about the deep end. Claire cringed every time she thought about it. After looking at hundreds of pictures of male candidates, and reading hundreds of intros ranging from mildly clever to downright cheesy, she was convinced she'd never find anyone worth dating in a single's catalogue.

Monday she'd call Afton and tell her it had all been a big mistake.

The elevator doors opened into the lobby. Claire passed a heavyset security guard on her way out to
the street.

"Want me to call you a cab, miss?" The guard apparently hoped she would answer no, because he
barely looked up from the magazine he was flipping through.

"No, thank you. I'm just going to walk to Dupont Circle and catch the bus into Georgetown. There's
one coming by just after midnight."

"Gonna get wet. Storm's about to break." This was offered with another indolent flip of the pages, punctuated by a rumble of thunder outside.

"I'm prepared—my umbrella is right here." She was always prepared. Checking the Weather Channel every morning before getting dressed was part of her comfortable daily routine.

On her way out the heavy revolving door, she hesitated a moment too long before stepping through the opening. The door jammed on the full-length umbrella trailing behind her. She set her jaw, pulled the umbrella free, and left before seeing whether the noise had been enough to stir the security guard from
his comfortable perch.

As she hurried down the street, Claire tried to open the mangled umbrella decorated with a whimsical depiction of blue skies and sunshine. It stopped opening after no more than a few inches. Leaves rustled as a gust of wind brought a light spatter of raindrops down across her silk blouse.

"Beautiful. Livvie's going to kill me," Claire muttered out loud. The umbrella had been a present from
her best friend Olivia, brought back after a visit to the Metropolitan Museum in New York.

Claire checked her watch as another gust of wind ruffled her collar. She'd better hurry if she wanted to catch that bus. Despite the late hour, she chose a shortcut across the grounds of one of the area's numerous schools. She took a canister of pepper spray from her purse and trotted across the poorly lit area. As she hurried across the blacktop playground, she rehearsed what she would tell Afton when she canceled her dating service membership on Monday.

She laughed humorlessly at her own pitiful dating aspirations.

Lightning flashed, briefly illuminating the lonely playground with its creaking swings and jungle gym. When thunder crashed directly overhead, Claire paused. Lightning came again. She counted the
seconds until the thunder as she struggled to open her umbrella.

No luck.

Raindrops came faster now, driven by the sticky, restless wind. A few dark curls were pulled from the neat twist she wore while at work.

As she pushed hair back out of her face, she began to jog in earnest, thinking of the tiny shelter provided at the bus stop. If the storm got really bad, she could always go into one of the bars off the Circle and
call for a cab. Right now the rain was a welcome break from the night's oppressive humidity.

Claire rounded a corner and saw a dark shape about ten feet away. When lightning flashed, she saw the shape was a man. He had his back to her and was leaning over something. Abruptly he bent down and moved his right arm in several precise, controlled motions. As he rose and turned toward her, she saw that he was standing over a woman sprawled on her back, dead eyes open to the rain-filled sky.

Claire's heart stopped. An icy-hot feeling slithered through her belly. Her pulse pounded in her ears, blocking out the sound of wind and thunder.

She had seen his smile before.

The man lunged toward her.

A knife. He has a knife.

Claire's survival instinct kicked in, along with a dozen years of urban-woman-living-alone advice. She blasted the man with her pepper spray and flung the useless umbrella at him in an awkward left-handed throw.

He made a hoarse sound as the spray hit his forehead and splashed his eyes.

Run, Claire. Run!

Heeding the voice screaming inside her head, she dropped her purse and the now useless canister and
ran. When she looked back for a second, she saw that the killer was holding his hands to his eyes as
he turned his face up to the steady rain.

She knew the spray would only buy her five seconds, ten at most, since she'd missed hitting his eyes directly. She kicked off her low business pumps and hit her full running speed within a few strides.
Soon her breath was rasping in and out of her lungs. When she risked one more glance back, she saw
the killer running after her.

Oh, God. Oh, God.

She snapped her head forward and refused to look again.

Where should I go? Back to Camelot and the pudgy security guard?

She paused for a heartbeat, then decided to take her chances with the Friday night crowds at Dupont Circle's restaurants and clubs.

Feet pounded closer behind her.

She pushed her burning legs into running faster. She was in decent shape from regular workouts, but sprinting wasn't part of her routine. Her bare feet slapped on the slick pavement as fast as she could
make them move. Raindrops hit her mouth as she tried to breathe. They tasted sweet, and eased the dryness of her lips.

She could feel the force of the man's will reaching out to her. It was almost a physical touch. She was terrified that she would feel his hand grab her shoulder or hair at any second.

With a tight sound of fear and exertion, she turned left and raced down a dark backstreet filled with Dumpsters and cardboard boxes. She thought there was a bar or something on the comer at the end
of the alley.

It never occurred to Claire to call for help. With her body in pure survival mode and her throat
paralyzed by fear, she focused on escape. She had to get to a safe place before he caught up with her.

God, how long is this street?

She felt as if she were running flat out yet standing still. The end of the alley seemed no closer than
when she'd started. For the first time she wondered if she would get away. Then she heard the sawing breath of the man behind her and knew if he caught her she would die.

Fresh adrenaline shot through her, giving her a rush of strength. She opened the gap between herself
and the man chasing her.

When she finally reached the street, Claire's instincts took her to the right. Her heart sank when she saw that the area was empty — no cars, no pedestrians, everyone had been driven inside by the summer rain that continued to pour down in wind-driven waves.

But the faint pulsing beat of music drew her forward. Two doors up the street she saw neon lights
coming from windows set at basement level—a nightclub. A set of dark metal stairs was all that
separated Claire from safety. She threw herself down the steps as fast as she could force her trembling legs to move.

Risking one more glance behind her, Claire didn't see any sign of the man chasing her, but she knew he could come around the corner at any moment. She paused to look again, and the momentary break in
her rhythm caused her bare feet to slip on the metal stairs.

Between one heartbeat and the next, her feet went out from under her. With a defeated cry, she felt herself falling. When she struck the back of her head with brutal force on the metal edge of a stair, the world went briefly white, then black.

The man couldn't believe she had outrun him.

What was she, a fucking gazelle?

He'd planned the evening perfectly—things were supposed to go smoothly, just like the other times.
And everything had, until she'd shown up.

Frustrated rage gave him strength. He threw himself around the corner of the alley and into the street.
A moment of rational thought slowed him down. He looked around; the woman was gone.

Did she get away?

He paused to calm his breathing. His other senses began to process the surrounding environment—the wet pavement smell and the steam rising lazily off the street. The thunderstorm was moving to the east, leaving behind cooler temperatures.

As his breathing slowed, he heard music nearby, a throbbing undertone of bass that penetrated the
sound of the rain. The volume increased. Doors opened, and a rush of voices added to the din. The
man slowly approached a stairway that led down to the source of the music. He glanced up at the sign over the entrance.

Suds 'n Studs—Ladies Only.

A strip bar. How very tacky. Cautiously looking around the corner and down the stairway, he saw a
mass of women huddled around something on the steps. The gazelle, apparently.

"Is she breathing?"

"God, what happened?"

"Her eyes are twitching, is she having a seizure?"

The questions came rapid fire, directed at no one in particular. Bellowing for someone inside to call 911,
a muscled bouncer tried to clear the excited patrons away from the stairs. From just inside the doors, a woman pushed through the crowd, shouting that she was a doctor. The music stopped abruptly.

The killer took in the scene, assessing his options. Too many witnesses. He'd better cut his losses. The injured woman wouldn't be able to clearly identify him—it had been rainy and dark.

Besides, he'd take care of her soon enough.

He turned away from the strip bar and headed down the street towards Dupont Circle. Once he was a few blocks away, he paused under a streetlight to pull the gazelle's small purse from his jacket. He'd stopped to pick up the handbag, which was one of the reasons she'd outrun him. At least that's what he told himself. He flipped open the wallet, quickly reading through the information on her driver's license. Marie Claire Lambert, 30, Georgetown address. And keys to let him in.

The man's mouth twisted upward in a cruel smile. "You're dead, Marie Claire."

Officer Reggie Garfield had responded to calls at the Suds 'n Studs before. When it came over the
radio that a woman was down in front of the entrance, he figured this would be a fairly routine incident involving Friday night, alcohol, and a boisterous strip club. Backup was on the way, and the ambulance was a couple of minutes behind him. It should be an open-and-shut report. He figured to be back on the streets before 2 A.M.

Garfield stepped out of his patrol car. He automatically moved to put the nightstick in its belt loop,
shifting his love handles briefly when they interfered with this process. He grabbed the shoulder microphone to radio back that he had arrived on the scene. His first job would be to find someone
who knew what had happened. He went down the stairs to get a look at the victim and start gathering information.

"Stand back, everybody, coming through." The words came automatically from Garfield's mouth.

He saw a huge, heavily muscled guy in a sea of females. "You the bouncer? Get everyone back in the club and clear the way for the paramedics." He pitched his voice louder. "Ladies, the show is over,
please go back inside and let us do our job."

The crowd reluctantly began breaking up. Most of the women stopped just inside the open double doors to the club, milling and chatting about how awful it was, stretching their necks to get one last glimpse of the scene.

"You a nurse?" he asked a woman who had remained crouched next to the unconscious victim, monitoring her pulse.

The woman looked up in brief irritation but kept a hand on the victim's shoulder as if to hold her down. "No, I'm a doctor. Third-year resident." When the officer looked surprised, she rolled her eyes. "They
do have female doctors, you know."

He sighed. Great—attitude to go along with his late-night call. He got out his notebook. "She slip down the steps, then?"

"I don't know. Some women came out of the club and said they found her at the bottom of the stairs. Nobody knows her. She took a hell of a blow to the back of her head, but I'm not sure if it was on the stairs."

Garfield raised his eyebrows. "You don't think she just fell in the rain? Maybe had too much to drink?"

"I'll tell you what I do know—the victim has a serious head wound. She was disoriented and incoherent, and kept trying to get up when I first arrived. She's got no ID, no purse. And look here—she's barefoot and there are cuts all over the soles of her feet." The doctor lifted a white bar towel that had been wrapped around the victim's feet. She paused, then spoke softly. "She was also saying some pretty
scary stuff."

The cop came to attention. Leaning over to look at the woman's dirty, bloodied feet, he made notes
in his book.

"They were broken phrases. Like I said, she was disoriented. I did catch a couple of them, though. 'He killed her. I saw them, at the school. Run!' She repeated that last one while struggling to sit up. We had
to get the bouncer to hold her down."

"She seems quiet now—think she'll be all right?" Garfield paused in his note-taking.

"I don't know." The young doctor reached again to take the victim's pulse. "I'm not a neurologist. She
lost consciousness just before you arrived, but her vital signs are stable. She needs to get to a hospital
and have a CT scan done. If the injury is severe enough, she might need surgery."

The doctor gently pushed back wet black curls from the woman's white face, then checked her pupils with the bouncer's flashlight.

Garfield left the steps and went to talk to one of the officers that had arrived as backup. "Start talking to witnesses inside. I'll get the doc's contact info and get the vie on her way to the hospital."

An ambulance siren grew slowly louder, its sound distorted by the humid night air.

Garfield cleared the crowd that had begun to form again by the time the ambulance arrived. The doctor was giving two paramedics instructions as they strapped the victim onto a backboard, and several firemen waited to help carry the unconscious woman up the stairs. As the group reached the ambulance doors, the doctor approached him. "I'm going to ride to the hospital with her." She stopped, took a deep breath, and then spoke before she lost her nerve. "Look, there's a school a couple of blocks from here. A middle school or something. I don't want to tell you how to do your job, but if you'd seen how scared she was...." The woman's voice trailed off.

"Don't worry, Doc. I'm on my way over there right now. We'll check it out."

Garfield helped the doctor into the ambulance and closed the doors, banging his fist twice on the side
in a signal for the driver to take off.

Washington, B.C.
Saturday morning

Detective Sean Richter swore luridly when his pager went off in the darkness, sounding like a crazed hornet as it buzzed on the nightstand. His curses became more creative when he saw the time. 2 A.M. He'd worked until an hour ago on one of the cases he was investigating.

He worked in the cold cases section of the Homicide Division for the DCPD. Along with his partner,
Sean handled cases that had no clues, few leads, and no real suspects after six to twelve months of
active investigation. He was assigned to these difficult cases full time, but there weren't enough hours
in the day to do the job, so he often worked nights as well.

He grabbed bis phone and dialed the number in the pager's glowing display.

"Richter. What's up?" he said in a rusty voice.

"Sean, my man, you owe me big for this."

"How about I be the judge of that, Banjo? What've you got?"

"A call came through a little while ago. Murder at a school near Dupont Circle. Young female, multiple stab wounds. She was practically still warm." Banjo drew his story out with relish.

"I'm listening," Sean said, rubbing the back of his neck tiredly.

"Seems the victim, a dark-haired female in her mid-twenties, was stabbed in the lower abdomen three
or four times with a real big knife. No other signs of trauma. No sexual assault, no robbery."

Sean's pulse picked up. The preliminary description was similar to two other murders he was working with the Cold Cases Unit—cases he believed were related. But there wasn't enough evidence to bear
out this theory yet. His other cases involved prostitutes who were also drug addicts, women on the
seamy edge of society.

"Was the victim a working girl?"

"Not clear yet. But here's what you're really going to like. They've got a witness, someone they think
saw the crime."

"You're shitting me." Sean jumped to his feet and reached for the jeans he had left hanging over the
back of a chair. "Who? Where is he right now?" He pulled the jeans on over his boxers, then put on
and buttoned his shirt one-handed while feeling around blindly with his feet in search of shoes.

"Where's the witness now?" Sean asked.

He turned on the light, slipped on his shoulder harness, checked that the weapon on the nightstand was ready to go, and put it in the holster.

"She knocked herself silly, probably from falling down the stairs. She was taken to GWU Hospital, but
I don't think you can see her yet. She was apparently unconscious when they left the club, so she'll probably be tied up in the ER for a while."

"Damn. Is she going to be all right?"

"Officer on the scene couldn't say. Why don't you head out to the school first, talk to him if he's still there? Name's Reggie Garfield. You can swing by the hospital in the morning."

"I'm on my way. What's the address?" Sean scribbled the information on a tablet while attaching his
pager and cell phone to his belt. "I owe you big time, buddy."

"I know." Banjo's tone said he would enjoy collecting. "You want me to call Burke for you?"

"Not yet. His lady friend got back in town last night and is leaving again tomorrow, so he's probably, ah, engaged right now. Anyway, I've been working the other two cases most recently. I'll give him a call when I get a feel for whether this murder is related to the others. I'll have my cell phone on if you hear anything more."

Even though he was a head taller and much stronger than the teens, they gave him a lot of attitude.
He ignored it, flipped open his ID for the uniform on duty, and asked, "Where's Garfield?"

"Over there," the cop said, pointing toward a heavyset patrolman by the victim's body.

"Officer Garfield?" Sean called out to him.

"Yeah."

Sean approached him, ID in hand. "Detective Sean Richter. I'm with the Homicide Cold Cases Unit.
I want to see if there might be some overlap with this murder and a couple of ongoing investigations."

"What makes you think there's any connection? Forensics hasn't even assessed the scene yet."

Obviously Garfield was feeling a little protective of his crime scene. But if the cases were linked,
Sean's claim would take precedence.

"Similarities in the victim's physical profile, cause of death, and a hunch," Sean said. "If you'll tell me what you know about this victim, I'll get out of your hair and wait for the report to come out. I just wanted to see the crime scene myself."

Garfield raised his eyebrows. "Victim is in her mid-twenties, dark hair, slender build. No sign of sexual assault, but we'll wait for the medical examiner to confirm. Cause of death looks to be multiple stab wounds to the abdomen. Her purse was found nearby, wallet inside. Credit cards, driver's license, and eighteen dollars in cash. She has gold jewelry as well, so I'm thinking robbery wasn't the motive."

"Do you recognize her from the streets? Does she have any kind of record?"

"Nah, she's not a working girl. The name on the ID comes back as a teacher at this school, Renata Mendes."

Sean processed the information. The victim's physical profile fit with the other cases, all young Hispanic females. But not the teacher bit. The two other murdered women had been drug addicts who had sold their bodies to support crack or meth habits. "What kind of stab wounds?"

"Big ones. Lots of blood."

"Any defensive wounds?"

"Not so you can tell. Looks like the perp was a strong guy, and he probably surprised her." That fit.

"Who reported the murder?"

"Now that's the funny part. Seems there might be a witness. In fact, that's what sent us up here in the first place." He briefed Sean on the incident with the woman injured at the Suds 'n Studs club.

"Were you able to speak to her?" Sean asked over the sudden squawking of Garfield's radio.

"Nah. She was out cold when I got there, but people on the scene confirmed what she said right after
she was found." Garfield reached up to silence the radio on his shoulder. "My gut says she saw
something that scared her half to death. She's in the ER right now."

"Thanks. I'll take a look around, then get out of your way."

Sean turned away and went to the victim's body, where evidence technicians were just starting their work. They bustled around, testing equipment and setting up freestanding lights to illuminate the area
for the video cameras. While the techs worked on the lighting, Sean borrowed a flashlight from one
of the patrolmen and briefly reconnoitered the area around the victim. He crouched over a bent umbrella and a leather-wrapped canister of pepper spray, or maybe mace. Both objects had paint around them, waiting to be photographed and tagged as evidence. Sean made a mental note to check if the fingerprint analysis came up with anything that could connect the items to the victim. A little farther away, he found two more objects. Medium-heeled women's shoes, sprawled a couple of feet apart, size 7. Glancing over at the victim, he saw sensible black flats on her feet.

"OK, team, we're ready to start," one of the technicians shouted. The forensics team had the scene lit
up like center stage at a Vegas show.

Stepping closer to the victim, Sean examined the body objectively. He had seen death before, yet still he had to work to distance himself from the victim's humanity and vulnerability.

This one had brown eyes that were wide open. Her mouth was open as well, as if she had died crying out. Sean's lips thinned as he took in the victim's clothing, hairstyle, jewelry. She looked like a kid.

Crouching down, he examined the stab wounds more closely. A decent-sized blade had been used. One stab alone would have been mortal from the look of things, yet there were at least four other wounds. Something to keep in mind about the murderer—he enjoyed his work and believed in overkill. A technician shifted a piece of equipment, throwing a stark light across the victim from a different angle. Sean focused immediately on a cloth loop at the woman's slender waist. Shifting around, he saw an identical bit of fabric on the other side. It looked like she had been wearing a belt, but he didn't see it anywhere.

Sean motioned to one of the technicians. "Did one of you guys find a belt or sash? It looks like there
was one here—see the loops? She wouldn't wear the dress with these things just hanging off her sides, would she?"

The forensics tech studied the victim and nodded his agreement. He made a note on his tiny laptop and called out questions to his team members.

No one had seen any belt.

All of the victim's other articles were there next to her body. Sean looked over her effects—a straw
purse and umbrella, a Mickey Mouse key ring with four keys attached. No belt.

"We'll look for it," the tech assured Sean.

"Good, but I don't think you'll find anything."

"Why not? Looks like maybe this was a robbery attempt or something. Sure, her money and stuff is
right here," the tech said, "but word is the killer was interrupted by a witness, which would explain why the valuables got left behind."

Sean's eyes were pale blue and cold in the artificial light. "I think our killer got exactly what he wanted from this victim, and then kept a little something to remember her by."

"You think the guy wanted a trophy? The belt?" The tech sounded excited. "Hey, I bet you're right!"

Sean didn't say anything. Sometimes he hated being right.

Chapter 6

Sean's instincts were screaming all the way to George Washington University Medical Center. Even at
this very preliminary stage, he was betting the murder of Renata Mendes was connected to at least one
of the cases he and his partner were investigating. If the crimes were related, and if they could get anything from the eyewitness, it might give them the first real lead in close to a year. And if he could
pull enough strings with the captain to get assigned to the Mendes case, which wasn't cold at the moment. Big ifs.

It was time for reinforcements. He hit the speed dial on his cell phone and imagined Aidan Burke's irritation with relish. Waking up his cousin, who was also his partner on the Cold Cases Unit, was
always a pleasure.

Moments later his partner's sleepy voice came across the line. "This had better be good, Sean."

"Don't you love caller ID? Hey, did I wake you?" Sean's tone was upbeat and friendly.

"Of course not. It's what, four A.M.? Why would I be asleep?" Aidan's tone wasn't happy.

"Sorry, partner, but I think we might have a break on the Herrera case," Sean said.

"What have you got?" His partner's voice wasn't sleepy anymore.

"I'd rather meet you at GWU Hospital's ER, have you talk to a witness, and let you make your own assessment." Sean trusted his cousin without qualification. If he was jumping at shadows, Aidan would
be the first to tell him so. Aidan would also be the first to back Sean if he was right.

His cousin sighed loudly. "I'll be right over."

A murmured feminine protest came clearly across the line.

Sean snickered. Aidan's girlfriend was a consultant whose job kept her constantly on the road.
"Apologize to her for me. You'll make it up to her on her next trip through town. In a couple of
months or so."

"Blow me. No, not you, darlin'." Aidan yawned. "See you at the hospital in half an hour."

Sean hung up and turned into the hospital driveway. A few minutes later he strode into the ER and flashed his badge at the desk clerk. "I'm looking for a Jane Doe brought in with head injuries a little
while ago."

"The doctors are with her in curtain three. I'll page them."

"Never mind. I can find it."

Sean went through the doors into the heart of the ER. He walked toward a curtained area and saw a doctor standing hi front of the green drape, giving instructions to a nurse.

"Doctor? I'm Detective Richter. Is this our Jane Doe back here?"

"So she's going to be okay?" Sean asked. "It looks like she will. Her test results were good—a serious concussion, a nice bump, a couple of stitches, but no skull fracture. She has a very hard head."
Dr. Springer smiled briefly at Sean, then continued. "She's still pretty dazed, so we haven't pressed her for much beyond her basic information."

Sean got out his notebook. "What's her name?"

"Claire Lambert. Thirty years of age, lives in Georgetown."

"When can I speak with her?" Sean pocketed the notebook impatiently, already starting toward the curtain.

The doctor held up a hand to stop him. "My patient is resting right now. She's in pain, but we can't give her much to ease it. She'll be admitted to the hospital as soon as they can find a bed for her upstairs. She'll likely be here for a couple of days."

"I don't want to disturb anyone, but it's critical that I speak to her as soon as possible. This woman is a potential eyewitness in a homicide investigation." Sean's intense look overrode the doctor's objections. "What's more, nobody gets into this area without authorization. Post a guard and let your staff know."

Dr. Springer nodded, stifling a yawn. "I'll be back to check her in a while."

Sean immediately thought of the painting of a young courtesan he had seen at a cultural exhibit one of Aidan's girlfriends had dragged them to—Art of the Italian Renaissance, or something like that. He pulled his gaze from the woman's face and moved on to the rest of her, automatically estimating her height at under five and a half feet. He took hi her curvy build next. The slow rise and fall of nicely shaped breasts, the indentation at the waist, and the lush flare of hips beneath the light sheet. He stepped back to better absorb the image of the woman lying in the hospital bed.

Well, well. Even laid up in a hospital bed, Claire Lambert was a knockout.

Her hand lifted from the bed and moved toward her face. When she reached to touch the back of her head, he jumped forward to stop her.

"Easy, now. You don't want to be messing with those stitches just yet."

She made a soft sound, trying to pull her hand free. She wanted to rub the painful spot on the back of
her head.

"Ms. Lambert, can you hear me?" Sean kept one hand wrapped gently around hers to keep her from disturbing the bandages. "Ms. Lambert? Are you awake?"

As he watched intently, long lashes fluttered, then opened. His insides squeezed at the pain in her dazed black eyes.

"It's all right," he said. "You're in the hospital, but you're okay." He kept his voice gentle and soothing
as he stroked her hand. He wanted to erase the shattered look he'd seen in her eyes, to help ease her slowly into full awareness.

"Don't you remember?" Sean's stomach lurched. Maybe the doctor had been wrong and she was
severely injured. "Do you know your name?"

"Claire. Marie Claire Lambert." She blinked once, then again. Long, slow blinks. "Who are you?"

"Detective Richter. Can you tell me what happened to you tonight?"

Claire rested with her eyes closed for a moment, her forehead creased in distress. Sean could practically feel the waves of pain rolling off her. He pressed the call button next to her bed to summon a nurse.

"I don't know. My head hurts." Her voice broke on the last word.

"I'm sure it does. I called for a nurse." Another stroke of his hand over hers. "Do you remember being near Dupont Circle tonight? Did you see anything there?"

Sean knew he was probably pushing too hard, but he was afraid she would drift into sleep again. He needed any information she had and he needed it now.

She met his intense blue gaze "I'm sorry. I can't think right now. It hurts." She winced and looked
away, turning her head gingerly on the pillow. She was asleep before taking another breath.

Sean forced back his frustration. Yes, he needed information, but she was clearly exhausted and in
pain. He would have to wait for a few hours.

He sat on the edge of the bed to wait, keeping his hold on Claire's warm fingers.

"How's she doing?" Aidan Burke asked. He was standing in the entrance to ER curtain three, filling the empty space with his broad shoulders. Sean had been so absorbed that he hadn't noticed his cousin's arrival.

"She's hurting. She has a concussion, and they're going to keep her for a few days. She'll go upstairs in
a couple of minutes," Sean said without looking away from Claire.

Aidan said nothing, observing the way his partner held the woman's hand. Sean was always gentle with the victims and families they dealt with in their investigations, but he wasn't normally this touchy-feely.

Sean looked up, caught Aidan's speculative hazel gaze, and lifted his eyebrow.

"Pretty lady." Aidan's voice was neutral. "Claire, is it?"

Sean nodded. "She's a lucky lady, too. You should have seen the girl that didn't get away."

"I heard—I talked to Banjo on the way down. How did this one escape?" Aidan gestured toward the
bed with his chin.

"I don't have any information from her yet. I found a can of pepper spray near the body, plus a bent umbrella and a pair of shoes that didn't belong to the dead girl. When Claire was admitted, her feet
were bare, cut and scratched."

"Go on."

"My guess is she surprised our killer in the act. He must have come after her. She hit him with the
spray, kicked off her pumps, and ran like hell." Sean's voice was admiring.

Aidan assessed the sleeping woman, taking in her average height and pale, fragile appearance. Looks could be deceptive. From what Sean was saying, this was a woman who didn't play the victim willingly. "That took balls."

Aidan was quiet for a moment, digesting the information and letting his own analysis fill in the blanks. "You think we have a serial killer here. The Dominguez and Herrera cases, now this."

"Exactly. Three dark-haired, slender women of Hispanic descent, all stabbed in the abdomen with a large blade in the last two years. Other pieces don't seem to fit, but I think it's all there for us to dig up. I can't leave Claire until I take her statement, but I want you to go to the crime scene and have a look around, talk to some of the forensics team, then let me know if you agree."

Aidan heard what wasn't said—Sean wanted him to validate the serial killer theory before they took it to their boss. The unspoken communication between the two men, a result of being raised together, made them a powerful investigative team.

"On my way. You take care of our witness," Aidan said. "Call me when she wakes up."

Chapter 7

An insistent hand briskly shook Claire's shoulder. "Ms. Lambert? Claire? Wake up."

The ritual had been repeated many times that morning. Claire was getting used to being shaken awake
just as she was falling deeply asleep. She generally dozed right off after they left her alone, but she was getting irritated with the constant interruptions. Sleep was important, and she wasn't getting any.

She opened her eyes. Looking around, she remembered that she was in the hospital, in a white-on-white private room. There was an older man standing next to her who looked vaguely familiar. She jolted when the man pried her lids wide open and flashed a penlight across her face. White coat, fifty-something, receding hairline, tired brown eyes. His name was ... yes, Dr. Springer.

"How are you feeling?" The doctor checked her pupils a second time.

"Good, good. Follow my finger." He moved his finger up and down, then side to side. "Very good.
You're one lucky young lady. Your responses are excellent, and there is no sign of serious swelling
on your brain. We'll need to observe you for about forty-eight hours, but I think you can go home
by Monday morning."

"Thank God. I can't wait to get out of here. No offense, but this place isn't exactly a five-star hotel."
She wrinkled her nose. "And it smells funny."

"If you can complain about that, you're definitely on the road to recovery."

The doctor surprised Claire by pulling up a chair next to her bed.

"While I am satisfied with your physical condition," he said, "we need to talk a little bit more about
your neurological health. With head wounds like yours, it's not uncommon to have some type of
memory loss or impact on other cognitive functions."

"I've been thinking about that," Claire admitted. "I tried a couple of times to remember what happened, but there's nothing there."

"What's the last thing you recall before waking up in the hospital?"

She shifted against the pillows and thought for a moment. "I left work late yesterday evening. I had an appointment."

The doctor made an encouraging sound. "What kind of appointment?"

"I was going to meet my friend Afton at her office."

"What were you going to do?"

Claire touched the corner of her mouth with her tongue.

Dr. Springer raised his eyebrows. "What happened when you got there?"

"I don't know. I don't remember being there, I just know that's where I was going."

"What's the next thing you remember?"

"Waking up in this room a couple of hours ago. There was a man here—he had dark hair and light blue eyes. The nurse made him leave so she could help me to the bathroom. I went to sleep afterward."

"Nothing else?" The doctor looked at her intently. "You don't remember the time between these two incidents?"

"Not really. It's hard to explain." Claire sighed and rubbed her forehead absently. "I have some images
in my head. Like snapshots. You know when you smell something familiar, like pumpkin pie, and for a second your mind flashes back to Thanksgiving fifteen years ago at Grandma's house? That's what it's like. First an image, then a feeling, then it's gone."

Dr. Springer nodded and stood to make notes on Claire's chart. "I'm not too concerned. It's quite common in a case like yours to remember nothing about the time leading up to the injury. Your memory may come back fully as your brain heals itself. You may only remember bits and pieces, or you may never remember another thing. Especially as the events leading up to injury were ... traumatic."

Claire looked at the doctor with dark, bleak eyes. "I feel like something terrible happened, but I don't know what it was. Can you tell me?"

"I should probably leave that to Detective Richter."

"Who?"

"Why? What happened to me? Was I attacked— raped?" She bunched her hands into fists, then immediately straightened her fingers as the IV catheter dug into the back of her left hand.

"There's no evidence you were sexually assaulted. Why would you think you were?"

"I remember thinking that I had to run," Claire said hoarsely. "If I didn't, someone would catch me.
I was really scared."

Her head began to throb as she concentrated on the night before. She winced at the pain and wondered
if her head would actually explode. She tried to focus on the doctor's words, necktie, nose hairs—anything not to think about her suddenly pounding head.

"The police believe you witnessed a murder, then fled the scene with the killer in pursuit. You were injured when you fell down some stairs outside a club, presumably trying to reach help."

I don't have any idea what he's saying. He's talking about what happened to me, and I don't remember any of it. There was a surreal, disjointed quality to the moment, a delay between watching Dr. Springer's mouth move, hearing the words, and then understanding them. She fought a spinning, nauseous feeling.

"I don't remember anything about it. God, who would want to? Maybe it's better that way."

"The Homicide Unit and Detective Richter would be quite disappointed if you have traumatic amnesia," Dr. Springer said, "but maybe that would be best for your safety."

Normally Claire was very quick, but right now she wasn't able to track a simple conversation. "I don't understand."

"You witnessed a murder. It's only logical that your life might be in danger, especially if the killer knows where you are. Why do you think the detective has been with you all morning?"

Claire's murky thoughts abruptly cleared. Surely she would have remembered if there had been an armed man standing over her, but all she recalled was a pair of hypnotic, ice blue eyes. Like glacier water.

"You mean the detective is guarding me?"

"You'll have to ask him that. Look, I don't want to upset you. I want you to rest and recover, and don't be too hard on yourself if the events of last night never come back to you. I'll tell the detective to come back later."

Feeling numb and cold, Claire watched the doctor leave.

Someone tried to kill me.

With stunning clarity that fact burned into her brain. Then came another—that same man had savagely murdered at least one other woman. Worse, the killer could walk through the door to her hospital room right now and she wouldn't know him from the guy who changed bedpans.

She scrubbed her hands over her face, reining in her imagination. The murderer wasn't going to walk in with a policeman on guard. And she would be careful as well. The blow to her head had stolen part of
her memory, but she still had the rest of her faculties.

She would be in danger as long as the killer was running around free. If she remembered last night, she could help the police catch him. But how could she remember? The doctor certainly hadn't been any
help with his talk of traumatic amnesia.

Maybe all she needed was rest and a little chance to recover. Maybe then she would remember enough
to give the police a description. Maybe she would at least recognize the murderer if he stood in line
behind her at an ATM.

The thought of a faceless killer approaching her increased her resolve to remember. Until she knew the horrible details of Friday night, and the man responsible for them, she wouldn't have control over her
own life.

And that was one thing that Claire Lambert simply would not accept. In the last eight years she'd worked hard to build a safe and comfortable life. She wouldn't let the killer take that away from her, too.

She closed her eyes and almost instantly began to dream of pale eyes, photographs, and cruel smiles.

Chapter 8

Washington, B.C.
Saturday afternoon

Claire emerged from a sleep so deep she hadn't moved in hours. As her mind slowly came awake, she took stock of herself. Her head still hurt, no doubt about it, but she no longer felt as if there were a sharp-toothed demon gnawing her brain from the inside out. She stretched gently, testing the rest of her body. Her thigh and calf muscles were stiff, and her feet were sore, but everything else was in good shape—except her memory.

She opened her eyelids and looked directly into a compelling hazel gaze. Tilting her head she studied the green-blue eyes. They were set in a wide face with strong cheekbones, a square jaw, and nicely shaped lips. As she continued to stare, the lips moved in a smile. A very charming smile. He looked to be in his early thirties, though he sprawled in an armchair with the ease of a teenager. He seemed vaguely familiar, but he wasn't one of the doctors, which meant he had to be the detective.

"I thought your eyes were blue," she said.

"Nope. They're hazel." The room door opened and the man next to her gestured with his chin.
"My cousin's eyes are blue."

She turned to look at the newcomer. Here were the stark blue eyes that had punctuated her dreams.
She couldn't believe she hadn't remembered the rest of the package, as well. Dark hair, tall, athletic
build with broad shoulders and long legs. And a truly striking face.

He wasn't drop-dead gorgeous, though he was certainly handsome. His power lay in his icy eyes,
which weighed the world with tangible intelligence.

"I see you two have met." Blue Eyes approached the bed, holding out a cup of coffee to the other man.

"We were just getting there. Why don't you make the introductions?" Hazel Eyes and Charming Smile took the coffee and sipped from the steaming container.

"This is Aidan Burke, my cousin and partner. I'm Sean Richter, in case you don't remember me. We're both detectives with DCPD's Homicide Division. Aidan, meet Marie Claire Lambert." Though he spoke to the other man, Sean's blue eyes continued to look intently at Claire.

"Please, just Claire," she said. "My Catholic mother mistakenly thought I'd learn grace and humility if
she named me after the Blessed Virgin, but it's been years since anyone actually called me Marie Claire."

"And what did you do to the last person who called you that?" Aidan teased.

She smiled and said in her best Louisiana drawl, "Now, cher, is that something I'd tell a detective?"

As the words echoed in the room, her smile dimmed. Detectives. These men were here to take her statement about a series of deadly events she couldn't even recall.

"Claire it is," Aidan said. "Is there anyone we can call for you? Family, boyfriend, roommate?"

No, no family at all.

She pushed aside the old sadness at having outlived all of her close relatives. "I don't have any family, but— Livvie! I have to call her. What time is it? We were supposed to have lunch today. She'll be
frantic."

Claire sat up and flung back the sheet to reach for the phone. Instead her hands grabbed her head.
"God damn it."

"Easy does it." Sean caught Claire's bandaged feet before they touched the floor. "No sense in breaking open these cuts or fainting and hitting your head again. Aidan will call your friend while we talk."

Sean gently swiveled her legs back on the bed and drew the sheet over their pale, distracting length. He had to work very hard to keep his eyes on hers and off the sleekly muscled line of calf and thigh.

Even with the distraction of her pounding head, Claire shivered at the touch of his hands. Considering
the fact that she had been handled like a piece of meat by complete strangers ever since entering the hospital, she told herself that her reaction was ridiculous.

But this man didn't feel like a stranger.

She looked away from Sean's face to his hands. They were very nice—large, with long, tapered fingers and neatly trimmed nails. A sprinkling of dark hair dusted the back of each knuckle. She tried to recall what Olivia had said about a man with big hands. Then she remembered, and blushed.

"Do you remember your friend's number?" Aidan asked.

Claire gave him the number and he walked to the far end of the room, dialing his cell phone as he went.

Sean waited until she faced him again. When she simply studied him for a long moment, he raised a questioning eyebrow.

"Sorry, I just feel like—you seem very familiar," she said, embarrassed.

He was surprised she felt the same thing he did, a kind of visceral recognition of the other person. It had been bothering him. So he told her what he had been telling himself. "I've been sitting by your bed for almost twelve hours, and sometimes you'd wake up and look right at me. Naturally I seem familiar."

The idea of him watching her as she slept should have made Claire uncomfortable, but his matter-of-fact words reassured her. "I guess that would do it."

Aidan came back to Claire's bed and sat in the nearby chair. "Your friend is on her way. I didn't tell her much, just that you were injured but would be fine."

"Thank you. She's quite the mother hen, so I know she'll be worried." That was an understatement. Olivia would probably get multiple speeding tickets on the way down Wisconsin Avenue.

Sean put his hand on Claire's arm. "I know you've been through a very difficult time. I spoke to
Dr. Springer, and he said you couldn't remember anything after leaving work Friday evening, but that might change as your brain heals itself. Have you been able to remember anything else?"

"I just have some images in my head. Some feelings."

"Like what?"

"I was walking, then I stopped short. A man smiling— a nasty, mean smile. I was afraid, and I
remember running. Being chased." Her eyes stared ahead, unfocused. She shivered and blinked, then looked at Sean. "Nothing really makes sense, because there's no context. I don't know when it was, where I was, what I was doing there. It's like looking at pictures in a photo album but not knowing the story behind them." She frowned and tried to hold a thought that was teasing just at the edges of her memory. "Photos."

"What?" Sean asked, leaning toward her.

"I looked at that cruel smile and thought... thought I'd seen a photo of the man smiling at me. The idea just popped in my head. It was ... surreal."

"Good." He took her hands and spoke soothingly. "What did the man look like?"

She tried to remember. After a full minute of silence, all she had was a vicious headache. "I don't know.
I had to get away, so I ran. I just ran. That's all."

Sean's hands tightened around hers in an instinctive protest. To come so close, to have an eyewitness to the crime, and yet come away with nothing. Shit.

Aidan murmured reassuringly to her as she freed her hands from Sean's.

"I'm so sorry." Claire wiped her clammy forehead with the back of her arm. "I just can't remember anything clearly."

Sean paced toward the door, running his hand through his hair and then letting his fingers rest on the
back of his neck. Silently he considered the possibilities, revising his approach to getting information.

"Do you remember anything after thinking you needed to run?" Aidan asked.

"Nothing." Claire's mouth was as flat as her voice. "I woke up here."

Silence filled the room.

She looked at Aidan, then Sean. "Sorry to disappoint you."

"Like what?" Her voice was skeptical. She wondered if he was patronizing her the way the doctor had.

"We've got a new crime scene with new forensic evidence. We know we're dealing with a man, a man with what you describe as a cruel smile. We know there is a photograph of the man or someone who looks like him—"

"No. A photograph of him," she interrupted. "It's the only thing I'm certain of, that flash of recognition."

"Okay," Sean said. "Where did you see this photograph?"

"I—I don't remember."

"Could it have been in a newspaper?"

"I don't subscribe to any papers. I get my news online, text version usually."

"Then what photos, particularly photos with men, have you seen recently?" Aidan asked.

"I may have looked at photos—a lot of photos—during an appointment after work last night. But
I can't say for sure. I don't even remember going to the meeting."

Sean tried to imagine why she would review pictures during a business meeting. He came up blank. "What was this appointment about?"

Her cheeks turned a dusky red. God, talk about adding insult to injury. "It was a dating service."

Aidan's jaw dropped. "You're shitting me."

"You went where?" Sean's voice rose on the last word. He shook his head in disbelief.

Claire counted to ten and hoped her blush would be mistaken for anger. "All right, gentlemen, I'm
only going to say this once, so listen up. I had an appointment with a dating service last night. I'd just joined, so we were going to spend part of the evening reviewing the catalogue and looking at pictures
of male clients to see if there were any matches for me."

Sean was too shocked to say anything. Aidan coughed and jumped up from his seat to look out the window, studying the street below with apparent interest. Both men worked hard to look normal.

"It's not funny." Her voice was defensive.

"I'm not laughing," Aidan said, but he didn't turn around.

Sean shook his head. "I can't believe someone like you would have trouble finding a date."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "I didn't say I had trouble finding a date. I just have trouble finding someone I want to date. Big difference."

"Amen to that," Sean muttered under his breath.

He hadn't been out with a woman in months, since just after the end of his last relationship. He'd
quickly grown tired of the casual partner-swapping of D.C.'s singles scene and had buried himself in
his caseload with few regrets.

"Look, I don't think we should be focusing on the dating service," she said in a voice that was intended
to close the subject. "I could have been picking up my dry cleaning."

Sean almost smiled. Temper made her eyes sparkle and added color to her face. His witness was obviously beginning to feel better.

Aidan, having gained control of his laughter, turned back from the window. "Hang on a sec. Where
is this dating service located?"

"It's not far from Dupont Circle—you can walk there easily from the metro." Claire gave them the address and cross streets.

The men exchanged a quick glance. Sean mentally ran through the various routes a pedestrian could take between the Circle and the address Claire had given. One of the shorter ways went directly through the schoolyard where the murder had occurred.

"Did you plan on walking?" Sean asked.

"Yes. I was going to take the metro to Dupont Circle, walk to the dating service, then take the bus home to Georgetown. We expected the meeting to take several hours, but the bus runs pretty regularly along that route."

"Do you normally walk around the city at night? Alone?" Though Sean's tone was calm, his eyes narrowed at the thought of a solitary woman walking the dark streets of Washington, D.C. As a cop,
he knew exactly what happened to some of those women. Claire had been lucky. His case files were
full of women whose luck had run out.

Claire's chin shot up at Sean's deliberately neutral tone. "Yes, I do. I'm not stupid, nor am I a child.
I just refuse to live in fear. I stick to populated areas and well-lit streets. If I have to leave them for
some reason, I carry pepper spray in my purse."

The detectives traded looks again. Sean's theory for why the pepper spray had been at the crime
scene had just been confirmed.

Then Sean thought of something. "Were you carrying a purse?"

"Of course."

"Where is it? It wasn't with you at the club where you were found, and we didn't find it at the murder scene. Are you sure you were carrying it Friday night?"

"I must have been. I never go anywhere without it. Maybe I dropped it and someone stole it?"

Sean thought about it but dismissed the notion. If someone had come across her purse on the street, he
or she might have stripped the wallet of cash and credit cards, then stuffed everything in a Dumpster somewhere. But Sean didn't think so. He remembered being on the murder scene and the gut feeling
he'd had that the killer liked to keep trophies.

"What's usually in your purse?" Aidan asked before Sean could.

"The normal stuff—wallet, compact, checkbook, house keys."

"Did you have a driver's license or other ID in your wallet?" Sean asked.

"Of course."

Sean's eyes narrowed. "Did it have your current address on it?"

Claire nodded. "I've lived there for over five years. Why?"

"We need to get your locks changed," Aidan interrupted. "It's a good idea after you lose your keys."

"You're right," she said, nodding absently as she thought about it. Great, some punk off the street could have her keys and address—another thing to worry about. Then she picked up on the undercurrents of what Sean and Aidan weren't saying. "You guys think the killer has my stuff?"

"We don't know that," Sean tried to reassure her.

Mentally he cursed her quickness. They would have to work fast to stay ahead of her, but he admired
the fact that she was picking up his unspoken worries despite her concussion. He'd always found smart women sexy.

Sean reminded himself that Claire was a witness in a homicide investigation. His job was to work with
her to close the case, nothing more. That was the way it had to be, regardless of how attractive she
was to him, with her wild raven hair and intelligent black eyes.

And he'd always thought he preferred blondes.

"We don't want to assume anything here," Sean began. He was interrupted by the sound of a commanding voice in the hall.

"I'm here to see Claire Lambert. Which room is hers?"

"Olivia," Claire said to the men.

Aidan walked to the door. "I'll explain to her what's going on." He left it to Sean to reassure Claire.

Sean leaned toward her and waited until she looked at him. "I don't want you to jump to conclusions.
I'll have foot patrols at the murder scene search for your purse. We'll need a description of it, plus a
list of your credit cards so we can track whether they're being used."

"Okay." She met his reassuring eyes but didn't feel any better. In fact, as she thought about this new threat, her headache came back with increased intensity.

He looked at her closely and thought she seemed less vibrant than she had a few minutes ago.
"Is your head hurting?"

Claire nodded once, carefully.

"Then let us worry about the purse. We'll talk later about the description and your credit cards."

Silence grew in the room.

Sean was tempted to break it, but Claire's body language didn't invite conversation. He settled back in
the chair and planned the next steps in the investigation.

Washington, D. C.
Saturday afternoon

The chunky heels on Olivia Goodhue's loafers clicked loudly in the quiet hospital corridor. She turned
the corner and walked as fast as her short legs would allow. Her adrenaline was still racing from the phone call she'd received.

"I'm here to see Claire Lambert. Which room is hers?" Nerves made her tone sharper than usual,
though her Southern accent still came through clearly.

A nurse briefly verified Olivia's visitor badge, then pointed to a room on the right. Olivia approached,
then paused before opening the door. Claire needed a calm and supportive presence, not fear and
nerves. Olivia didn't know what had happened, but if Claire had a head injury severe enough to require hospitalization, then she certainly didn't need an emotional friend.

Olivia had been worried when Claire had missed then-lunch date. It wasn't like her at all. The phone
call Olivia had received half an hour ago had been a nightmare come true, and it had jolted her to the core.

"You're going to get a crick in your neck," an amused male voice said.

Olivia narrowed her eyes in annoyance. Did the man read minds, or did he just naturally go for the jugular? She was forced to step back as he gently crowded her into the hall and pulled the door shut behind him.

Aidan looked down at the tiny, redheaded woman in front of him. He could tell that he'd annoyed her with his comment about her height. Or lack thereof.

He smiled as he looked over the rest of her—irritated navy blue eyes set in a triangular face. Her slim, petite frame had just enough curves to be interesting, but her real glory was the thick red hair brushing against her shoulders. The sleeveless tank she wore revealed milky-white skin with a generous sprinkling of freckles on her arms and chest. No freckles on her face, though, which meant she either wore a hat outside or had covered them with makeup.

He imagined she must be Irish, then lost that train of thought when she crossed her arms over her
dainty bosom.

"Um, Ms. Goodhue? I'm Aidan Burke. We spoke on the phone earlier."

"Oh, yes. Are you Claire's doctor?" Olivia latched onto the man, hoping for more information about her friend's condition.

"Doctor? Ah, no." Aidan was amused at the idea. "Look, Claire is fine, Ms. Goodhue—"

"Olivia, please. Ms. Goodhue makes me think of my mother." She smiled, and a dimple appeared on
her right cheek.

"Olivia." He rolled the name off his tongue, though he was unable to say it as she did, with a slight Southern flavor. "I'm a detective with the DCPD Homicide Division."

"Homicide?" Olivia's face turned gray. She grabbed Aidan's wrist. "You said Claire was going to be fine."

"She is fine—in fact, I was just speaking with her. I'm sorry to have alarmed you, but another woman was murdered last night. We believe Claire was a witness."

"Jesus, you scared me half to death. You'd better give me the whole story, and don't drop any more bombs. My heart can't take it." Olivia let go of Aidan and put a hand to her chest as if to slow the
wild pounding there.

He could see the pulse beating in her throat. Olivia obviously cared about her friend a great deal, so he gave her a brief, careful summary of last night's events to put her mind at ease.

"Dear God, you mean she actually saw this man kill a woman?" Olivia's eyes were huge.

"We don't know for sure. Claire can't remember any details of what happened. The doctor says she's probably suffering from traumatic amnesia. He's hopeful that as her brain repairs itself her memory
might return."

Olivia said nothing, just looked at Aidan's big body as if trying to see through it to her friend. Her lips trembled as she thought of what could have happened. Her first impulse was to rush into the room and gather Claire up in a tight hug, but she needed to get control before she saw her friend.

"Hey." Aidan gently touched Olivia's arm. "She's going to be fine, really. She was cracking jokes with
me not half an hour ago."

Olivia smiled, though it was a bit wobbly. "That's Claire for you. She's as solid as they come."

But Olivia knew that Claire's tough exterior shielded a tender heart.

The two had been friends since their first day of kindergarten, and there was no one alive who knew Claire better. Certainly no one who would understand just how devastating something like this would
be to Claire's quiet, predictable life.

Olivia bit her lip as she thought about what would need to be done to help her friend get through the
next few days.

"Olivia? I don't think it's a good idea for you to go in there if you're going to fall apart. Claire needs
some calm right now." Aidan's tone was bracing. He really hoped the redhead wasn't going to start
crying.

"What?"

Olivia pinned Aidan with a glare worthy of Miss Throckmorton, the never-married schoolteacher who
had been the bane of his high school years in small-town Wyoming. He opened his mouth to defend himself but never got the chance.

"I am not going to fall apart, Detective Aidan Burke. Nor do I appreciate you telling me what my best friend does or does not need. I know her better than you, and I realize she needs me to be strong and supportive. Especially after having to deal with the police all day."

She snorted and looked him up and down. Her tone left no doubt she was referring to Aidan, and that
she felt it would be a real hardship to spend the day in his presence. Part of her understood she was snapping at him because he was right, but right now she wasn't feeling charitable enough to admit that
out loud.

Aidan raised his eyebrows, silently stepped aside, and motioned Olivia into the room.

"Livvie! How many red lights did you run getting down here?"

Claire's attempt at humor would have been convincing to someone who didn't know her. Olivia saw
right through the casual tone and forced smile. Emotion briefly tightened her throat as she quickly assessed her friend.

"I came as soon as I heard, chere." Ignoring the room's other occupants Olivia crossed to the bed and enfolded her friend in a gentle hug.

Claire closed her eyes as she put her own arms around Olivia's delicate frame. Her friend's perfumed embrace had always meant unconditional love, acceptance, and support. Claire hadn't realized just how much she'd needed that until she'd heard Olivia's voice.

Sean stood up to meet Olivia, pleased to see the tension relaxing from Claire's face as she hugged her friend, then released her.

Olivia stepped back and pushed Claire's wild hair from her face, studying what she saw there. She seemed to be satisfied, because she set her huge purse down on the bed and began rummaging inside.

"Livvie, this is Sean, er, Detective Richter. He's working on my case, I guess you could say." Claire gestured toward Sean with a shrug, wondering how else to introduce him.

Olivia looked up briefly from her purse to perform a thorough once-over of Sean. She took in the uncompromising masculine strength and rolled her eyes.

"How long has the testosterone brigade been in here grilling you, chere! Did they at least let you take
a break to get something to eat?"

A giggle escaped Claire's lips before she could contain it. Olivia had picked right up on the leashed male energy in the room and wasn't afraid to put her opinion of it into words.

"They're cousins, if you can believe it," Claire said.

Olivia's sniff said she had no trouble whatsoever believing the two men were related. She waved a hand to dismiss them and removed a large plastic container from her cavernous bag.

"I've brought gumbo for your supper. For dessert you can have these beignets I picked up this morning. They're a little stale, but I'm sure they'll be better than anything the hospital cafeteria makes."

Claire licked her lips as the spicy scent of gumbo filled the room.

A hopeless scavenger, Aidan perked up as he sniffed the air appreciatively. "Didn't you say earlier that you weren't hungry, Claire? It would be a shame to let that delicious-smelling gumbo go to waste."

He ignored the elbow Sean dug into his ribs and summoned his most charming smile for the women.

Claire shot Aidan a smug look and took a bite of the rich soup. "Livvie, even my sainted grandmere
didn't make better gumbo." She settled back on the pillows to get comfortable with her dinner.

"After you finish that, we'll get you into a real gown, not one of these tacky numbers with the rear ventilation." Olivia fingered Claire's thin, hospital-issue nightgown, then studied her friend's face.
"What did they do to your hair?"

The thought of what her corkscrew curls looked like when they hadn't been tamed into some kind of
style made Claire grimace. "I guess it got wet and I slept on it." She slanted a brief glance at Sean, embarrassed that she looked like a train wreck. Oh, well. I bet I look better than most of the people
he comes across in his line of work.

Olivia watched while Claire tried to arrange her hair with one hand. Then Olivia dug a brush and a clip
out of her bottomless purse, turned around to face Sean and Aidan, and said, "Gentlemen, if y'all are through here?..."

Sean dragged his attention from Claire's hair and looked at the red headed whirlwind who had effortlessly taken control of the situation.

The message came across loud and clear. Olivia reminded him of a mama badger—small, surprisingly sturdy, and willing to fight to the death to protect her cub.

"Yes, ma'am," he said wryly, then turned to Claire. "We're going down to the station now, but here's
my card. I've written my cell number and Aidan's on the back. Call us if you remember anything, no matter how unimportant, or if you just want to talk. I mean that."

Sean's piercing eyes stayed on Claire's down-turned head until she looked up. After hesitating a moment, she nodded and set the card within reach on the nightstand.

"We'll talk to you tomorrow," Sean said. "No big deal, just routine follow-up. Evening, ladies." He nodded to Claire and Olivia, then followed Aidan out the door.

Claire finished the gumbo under her friend's watchful eye. Then she pushed the empty bowl away and opened the bag of sweet beignets. The familiar taste of the soft, sugared bread filled her mouth as she chewed. There was nothing like a little comfort food to make the world better.

"Sweetie, you're the strongest person I know. But it's been a shocking day, so please, let me fuss a little." Olivia began to tidy items on the bedside tray.

Claire chewed thoughtfully, then took another bite. "Yes, it has been a hell of a day. I'm sure it would
be even worse if I could actually remember what happened."

Olivia picked up the brush and began to tame Claire's wild curls. "You can't remember anything?"

Claire frowned. "Nothing very helpful. Just some flashes and images. I remember being scared. Apparently I ran from the scene. My God, there was a woman murdered in front of me and I ran away!"

"And what would have happened if you'd stayed? You'd have been next, that's what," Olivia said sharply. "You did the right thing. You escaped and were able to alert the police about the murder and—"

"And haven't been able to give them a single thing since," Claire finished.

"Chere, you're being too hard on yourself. I know we all treat you like the Bionic Woman sometimes, but. . ." Olivia set the brush down. "Things happen for a reason. And you were somehow meant to get out of that horrible situation. Maybe your memory will come back and you'll be able to give the police some information that will help them catch the killer. But first you have to concentrate on getting better."

"I know. I just want to help so much. There's a young woman who's dead. And the man who killed her could know where I live."

"What?"

Blowing out her breath audibly, Olivia began to arrange Claire's hair in a loose French braid. "Then
you'll come stay with me until this is over. No arguments." Her tone was firm, as if she were dealing
with one of her four younger brothers.

"All right." Claire's soft agreement sounded exhausted.

Olivia completed the braid and stepped back to examine the results. Claire's dark eyes had deep purple shadows under them, and her skin was paler than usual. Tomorrow or the next day her friend would bounce back, but right now she was too tired to fight.

Hoping to distract Claire, Olivia pulled up a chair and tapped Sean's card on the nightstand.

"So tell me all about your gorgeous policeman." She waggled her brows suggestively. "I suppose he
spent the whole time at your bedside?"

"Please." Claire almost laughed. "He's just doing his job."

That's what she kept telling herself every time her thoughts came back to Sean and the look in his concerned blue eyes.

That look is called frustration. He wants something from me and right now I can't give it to him.

Claire glanced at his business card on her nightstand. She promised herself she'd get a good night's
sleep so that she could do more to help the detectives tomorrow.

And she really hoped she didn't have any more nightmares about strange men with cruel smiles.

"No. I left it at the station and caught a ride down here. I figured we could start going over the case
on the way back."

"Roach Coach sound good for dinner?" Sean's question was absentminded as he walked out of the elevator and across the hospital lobby.

"Bring it on, baby."

Sean smiled. They'd both eaten worse—and been thankful for it—than the questionable offerings of
the mobile catering van that usually parked near the police station.

Sean unlocked the police-issue sedan and folded his long legs under the wheel. His intellect was warring with his frustration as he tried to decide what to do next. He wasn't surprised that there had been another murder. What he couldn't believe was that they had an eyewitness who didn't remember enough to describe the scene of the crime, let alone the murder suspect.

He rubbed his neck tiredly. He hadn't managed more than a couple of hours of sleep last night, and
those had been sitting in a chair next to Claire's bed. Even worse, the last day had involved one disappointment after another. He was having a hard time coming up with a way to turn things around.

"It's a tough break," Aidan said.

"Stop reading my mind." Sean's voice held no heat. He and Aidan often depended on their uncanny
ability to know what the other was thinking.

"Doesn't take a psychic, buddy. You've given these two cold cases a lot more than your others. You thought we had a big break and now it's gone—it shows, that's all."

"Yeah, I want to solve the cases. No one deserves to be gutted and left to die on the street, no matter what she does for a living. But am I losing my perspective here, imagining the connection?"

Aidan's response was immediate. "No. My instincts say the links are there. We just need to find a way
to prove it and catch this guy."

"It would be hard to get a warrant citing 'instinct' for probable cause. We need something to break this open." Sean tapped an irritated beat on the steering wheel. "A week ago if we thought we'd have an eyewitness to a connected murder, we'd have been doing fucking back flips. Now we're just doing laps."

"Let's see what comes back from the forensics team before we decide whether we're wasting time or not." Aidan spoke carefully, sensing that Sean's legendary serf-control was wearing thin.

"We should have a sketch out to the public—maybe one of the kids hanging around the crime scene during the investigation might have seen something," Sean said forcefully. "Or some old lady with insomnia who looked out her window at the right tune. One corroborating witness, and we're onto this bastard!"

Aidan knew that Claire was at the heart of his partner's frustration. "She's trying her best," Aidan said.

"I know that. You think I blame her?"

"No. And I don't blame her either."

Sean sighed slowly. "Sorry. Guess I need some sleep." He sighed again and tried to remember the last time he'd seen his bed. "Hell, I know you're frustrated, too."

"Yeah, though probably not about the same thing you are."

"Huh?"

"I think we both know the real reason you're so tense has big dark eyes and is lying in a hospital bed down the street," Aidan said.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"Exactly what you think it means. Even half-dazed in a hospital gown, that's a good-looking woman.
And it's damn sure she's smarter than that houseplant you brought to last year's Christmas party."

"Claire is a witness on a case," Sean said. "Nothing more, and certainly nothing less."

"Oh, come off it. If you'd touched her hands or arms one more time I was going to start getting hot
and bothered."

Sean was irritated. True, Aidan had an unnerving ability to understand what made most people tick,
and he'd been practicing on his family for years. But Sean had worked very hard to suppress the attraction he felt for Claire. To have his nose rubbed in it pissed him off.

"She was scared and in pain, that's all," he said neutrally. "You know as well as I do that physical
contact can be a powerful tool in the interview process, especially when the victim is feeling fragile."

"Look, I needed information and she needed some warmth and human contact. That's all there was to it."

That was all he would let it be. Claire was a witness on his case, and she was feeling vulnerable after having her life turned upside down. The last thing he needed was for her to pick up on the attraction he was feeling. He winced at the picture that formed in his mind—the lead investigator, sucked in by the false intimacy of an overnight vigil, hitting on a witness as she lay in her hospital bed. Christ, if he was reduced to trolling the ER for fresh prospects, it really had been too long since he'd been with a woman.

Sean ignored the voice in his head that said Claire would appeal to him even if he'd just come from a week-long stay in another woman's bed.

Aidan looked at his quiet partner. "Okay, so what's your plan?" he asked, settling back in the seat. Knowing Sean, he'd already figured a way to attack the case from a new angle.

"Assuming the captain lets us take a hot case," Sean began.

"He will. He's desperate for detectives after that double homicide in Adams Morgan."

"Anyway," Sean said, "if we get the case we'll go full-court on Mendes's life. If nothing comes of that, we'll interview Claire again. Maybe by then she'll remember something useful."

Sean didn't add that backing off Claire would also give him a welcome break from her presence,
allowing him to be more objective about her.

"Hmmm," was all Aidan said.

"What?"

"She won't even get out of the hospital for a couple of days. She'll have plenty to keep her occupied,
and so will we after the forensics team is done. Meantime we'll divide up and interview Mendes's fellow workers and boyfriends, ex-husbands, handymen, butchers, bakers, the whole lot, and see if anything pops."

Aidan asked without real hope, "You want Mendes's private or professional life?"

"Professional. It's your turn to soothe angry, grieving parents."

Aidan sighed but didn't argue. "In between all that we should get a list of men Claire might have seen coming or going from the Camelot office building last night."

Sean shrugged. "If there's time, or if everything else comes up empty, I'll contact the dating service
Claire visited and see if we can get more details about her appointment. Maybe she saw someone who reminded her of the killer. Hell, it's remotely possible that she saw the real one."

"Makes me wonder," Aidan said.

"What?"

"If 'serial murder' is listed as a profession or a hobby in a dating catalogue."

"I'm betting on profession," Sean said. "And we're dealing with a guy who loves his job."

Washington, B.C.
Saturday evening

 "A brutal murder has sent shock waves through a quiet D.C. neighborhood today. Good evening,
I'm Mitzi Michele. On this hot July night, the grounds of Rock Creek Middle School should be empty, but instead they are teeming with D.C. police officers. Homicide investigators have set up a
command post and cordoned off part of the schoolyard where a young Hispanic teacher was killed
late Friday night."

The man watched the Barbie doll reading from the teleprompter on the weekend edition of the 11o'clock news. He'd been going over the online news all day, looking for details on the lead story in the nation's capital. But the Web stories, while titillating, lacked the punch of melodramatic presentation and video footage. He turned the volume up as the anchor switched to the reporter in the field.

He snorted. The police were fucking idiots. He was too smart and planned too carefully—he never left any clues behind.

"Mendes, pictured here in her graduation ceremony from Glenview Teacher's College, had apparently stayed late to plan a weekend retreat for a student government group she led. That retreat, sadly, has been canceled today."

The man tuned out the reporter's babble and studied the photo of the pretty young teacher with dark
hair and eyes. She was perfect, really. The whole experience wouid have been perfect too, but for the stupid bitch who'd literally stumbled over them.

He bunched his hands into fists. Yes, he'd deliberately selected an area where there was a risk of discovery—that just added to the rush. But he was supposed to have controlled the situation and taken care of anyone who'd come along. How could he have known he'd be discovered by a woman who ran like an Olympic sprinter?

Anger boiled to the surface again as he remembered how the woman had slipped through his fingers.
He'd never lost control of a moment like that before. He hadn't been able to think about anything else
in the last twenty-four hours.

"We spoke to some of the victim's students, as well as her family, and as you can imagine they are absolutely devastated."

Good—his favorite part. The lamentations and tearful remembrances of the victim's family and friends. He waited for the familiar curl of arousal through his body,

"We spoke with the victim's mother this afternoon in a Channel 6 exclusive. Here's what she had to
say about her daughter's violent murder."

The camera view switched to a matronly woman in an old housedress. Her double chin trembled, and black tears ran down her heavily made-up face.

"My poor Renata. She was a good girl, she straighten her life around. She grew up in Southeast D.C. Maybe she had some trouble with boys and drugs in high school, but she get herself out of the neighborhood and go to college on a scholarship. The first person in the whole family to graduate
from high school, but she never forget about where she come from. We were so proud of her."
The woman stopped speaking and began to sob.

No, the teacher certainly hadn't forgotten about where she'd come from. That's how he'd found her in
the first place. She'd been leaving the house of the woman now blubbering on the TV. He'd followed Mendes as she'd walked alone through an area where crack deals and five-minute "dates" were arranged on the corner of every street. Then he'd watched her home-to-school routine for days while he'd planned his next move.

In the end, she'd died just like any other whore from the streets where she grew up.

He waited again for the arousal that usually came when he remembered one of his knife games, but he felt nothing. All he could think about was the woman who had ruined everything. He opened his robe
and began to masturbate, but his body refused to respond.

With an angry sound he threw the remote control onto the coffee table and paced around his apartment. The television droned on, more tear-jerking stories about how wonderful Renata Mendes was in life,
how tragic her death.

Even the shocked faces of her sweet young students failed to arouse him. He turned to do another circuit of his large living room. It wasn't fair. This was the only pleasure he had in his controlled life, and it had been ruined. What good was slicing these women if he couldn't get off later thinking about it? If he couldn't get off remembering and fantasizing about every aching, hoarded detail of the acts?

He stopped next to an elegant cherry wood chest along the wall of the dining room. His hands trembled faintly as he opened the lid to examine the items inside. He took a pair of disposable gloves from the hospital supply box nestled in the chest, then pulled the top item out.

Turning it over in his hands, he studied the smooth grain of the black leather clutch purse. It was top quality, really fine stuff—unlike the teacher's cheap straw bag. This was the kind of purse a lady would carry. Of course, a lady wouldn't have blasted him in the face with pepper spray like he was a common thief.

She'd pay for that, just like she'd pay for ruining his game.

He caressed the smooth leather with a gloved hand. He reached inside, plucked out a matching black wallet, and set the purse aside. Opening the wallet, he studied the driver's license. His lips moved as he read what had already been committed to memory.

"Marie Claire Lambert. Five feet five inches and one hundred and twenty-five pounds. Black hair,
brown eyes. No corrective lenses, organ donor."

"You're right, Mitzi, the police really have very little to go on."

The man looked toward the television set again. Obviously the reporter was wrapping up his remote shot and was mouthing the rehearsed banter with the anchor back at the station.

"I did ask Captain Michaels about witnesses or investigative leads, but he told me he was not free to comment. Inside sources hint at an eyewitness or forensic evidence, but officially the police have no comment about this murder, the latest in a series of murders within the Hispanic community. Back
to you in the studio."

So, there seemed to be an eyewitness? Then why weren't there any sketches or descriptions being released to the media? Maybe the bitch had been hurt in her fall down the stairs. Or maybe she just wasn't talking to the police.

Either way, he'd have to take care of her. Not too soon, because everything had to be perfect this time. He needed to plan carefully, a process that was often arousing in itself.

He felt the first hint of sexual tension in his body and eagerly looked down again at the driver's license.
As he studied the Georgetown address, he knew he would make things right.

But this time he would do it with style.

Chapter 12

Washington, B.C.
Sunday morning

Olivia searched up and down Claire's street, looking for a place to park her car while she packed a
few things from her friend's house.

"Jackass."

Olivia had to circle the block twice to find a parking spot because some jerk had illegally blocked the
tiny driveway reserved for Claire's Georgetown home. She finally double-parked—blocking in the
jerk's Lexus— because she would only be a few minutes.

She turned on the emergency flashers and locked the doors of her small sedan. As she straightened, she felt like she was being watched. She looked around casually, certain she would find one of the Police Department's parking enforcement units preparing to swoop in for the kill. Though it was only the beginning of the month, the police had revenue targets to be reached. She knew this from painful experience. Parking tickets in Georgetown were always a sure way to hit the monthly income targets.

She didn't see any squad cars, or even one of the golf cart vehicles sometimes deployed in the narrow streets. Deciding it would be safe if she hurried, she ran up the steps and unlocked the front door. After making a quick circuit of the first floor of the house, an instinctive act for a female who lived alone in
the city, she watered the lush houseplants scattered in the different rooms.

There were no fish, birds, cats, or dog to take care of. Claire often insisted she didn't have the time for the antics of either pets or roommates. She made enough in her job that she wasn't forced to share her living space to make ends meet.

While Olivia moved from room to room, she paid close attention to the locks on the windows and doors. Claire's elegant furniture and impressive electronics collection seemed intact.

Satisfied that at least one of her friend's fears could be put to rest, Olivia went upstairs to pack clothes and toiletries. Blessing Claire's innate neatness, as well as the detailed instructions she had given, Olivia packed everything in under ten minutes. Making a mental note to stop mail service and have Claire ask a neighbor to pick up the flyers that accumulated on the doorknob, Olivia locked the front door and turned to go down the steps to her car.

Pausing to shift the suitcase to her other hand, Olivia again had the feeling that she was being watched. The sensation was unpleasant, and she went down the stairs in a rush.

Given her new awareness of the dangers in the city, Olivia had worked herself into a major case of the willies by the time she got to her car. Glancing uneasily around the tree-shaded street, she opened the trunk and deposited the suitcase in record time. She didn't breathe easily until she was behind the wheel with the doors locked and the engine running.

Olivia stopped long enough to twist her hair into a careless knot, allowing air from the vents to move across her damp neck and shoulders. She chided herself for her jumpiness—she was just overreacting to Claire's recent attack. There was no one on the street, no other sounds but the occasional car driving by.

"Get a grip." She spoke aloud in the air-conditioned safety of the car. It didn't make her feel better.

Determined to push the uneasiness away, Olivia made plans to stop by the seafood market tomorrow morning before picking Claire up from the hospital. Some shrimp etouffee would do them both a world
of good.

Washington, D.C.
Sunday morning

The man sat behind the wheel of his two-door BMW, ignoring the trickles of sweat that slid down his face and neck. He'd been sitting in the car for over an hour with the tinted windows only partially
opened. He would come back later, at night, and walk around the area again. He needed to get a feel
for the place—neighbors, kids, dogs, lighting, and the flimsy fence around Marie Claire's house. But
for now it was enough to sit and watch and think of his sweet prey almost within his reach.

Marie Claire.

The intimacy of knowing his victim's name during the planning stages of the game was a sexual thrill.
He kept saying her name in his mind and whispering it in the car.

He'd been parked in several spots along Marie Claire's street all morning, waiting to catch a glimpse of
her in one of the windows, or maybe even outside. There had been no movement at all. Judging by the junk papers and ad mailers that had piled up on the front stoop, she probably hadn't been home in
several days.

A small sedan passed his car for the third time in as many minutes, then slowed in front of Marie Claire's house. Under his intense gaze, the driver double-parked the car and got out, leaving the hazard lights flashing. He forced himself not to move as the petite woman looked up and down the street. He was
sure she couldn't see him, over forty feet away and parked in the shadow of a huge tree. As she trotted up the steps and paused to unlock the front door, he noted her small size and vibrant red hair.

This wasn't Marie Claire. Maybe it was a roommate.

Over the next ten minutes, all the curtains were closed as the woman moved around both floors of the town home. He wondered what the hell she was doing. Maybe she didn't live there after all.

Less than fifteen minutes later the woman came out of the house again, this time carrying a small suitcase.

Excitement surged through him as he considered the possibilities. He was betting the little redhead had packed a suitcase for Marie Claire, which meant she was staying somewhere else. But where?

When the woman froze at the top of the steps, he deliberately looked away, sensing that she was somehow aware of his intense interest. He used his peripheral vision to watch her descend the stairs and put the suitcase in the trunk of the double-parked sedan. Then she got behind the wheel and started the engine. The sound carried through his open window on the muggy breeze.

He waited while she put the car in gear and headed down the street away from him. It was easy to keep her in sight on the straight, meticulously planned blocks of the Georgetown neighborhood. He let another car go by before starting his own engine and pulling out to follow the redhead's sedan.

Within minutes she turned into the drive at an apartment building on Wisconsin Avenue. She ran in with the suitcase, apparently left it with the concierge, then came back out immediately to move her car out
of the drive.

He parked illegally and waited to see what she would do next. Under his watchful eye, the redhead drove around the corner of the block and parked her car on a side street feeding into Wisconsin Avenue. When she locked the sedan and went back to the apartment building, he strained to see through the glass doors of the entry.

He could just make her out as she spoke to someone. Ignoring the No Parking signs, he turned off his engine and sat in his car across the street from the apartment building, hoping she would have one of the units that faced him. A few minutes later, she showed up on a fifth-floor balcony and began watering some plants.

The corners of the man's mouth twisted up in a smile.

Chapter 14

Washington, B.C.
Sunday afternoon

Captain Michaels hadn't been impressed with Sean's theory that the Mendes murder was tied into
several cold cases, but he'd been happy to hand over what was becoming a political hot button—
"Murder in the Hispanic community and police don't care!"—to two of his best investigators, at
least on an interim basis.

After a few hours of sleep and a shower, Sean and Aidan had worked straight through the weekend. Aidan had already interviewed the Mendes family and found absolutely nothing that made him suspicious. Sean had been through interviews with Mendes's fellow teachers, nearly all of whom were female. There weren't any recently fired janitors, boyfriends, ex-lovers, other teachers, bus drivers or anything else out of the ordinary.

Renata Mendes was just what she seemed to be—a woman who walked down the wrong street one
night and got herself killed by a stranger.

With a growing certainty that there wasn't going to be anything in Mendes's life that would point to her killer, Sean and Aidan reviewed the Mendes file and forensic information, and traded off pestering the crime lab when the information didn't come quickly enough. Then Aidan went to work on Claire's file.

"This thing's heading for the 'unsolved' files," Sean said, throwing a file on his desk. "Not even a hint of anyone with a personal motive. If Mendes were any cleaner, I'd nominate her for sainthood."

"Anyone come up with something on the door-to-door of the murder neighborhood?"

"Does zilch count?" Sean asked.

"What about the hot line?"

"The usual number of whackos and earnest citizens who think that because their neighbor lets his dog
shit on their lawn, the dude's also a murderer," Sean said.

Aidan snickered.

Sean pointed to a thin file labeled Marie Claire Lambert. "You get anywhere on that angle?"

"I talked to her boss and closest coworkers. She didn't interview any new male clients, and no new man was hired in her office recently. Did you get through to Camelot Dating Services?" Aidan asked.

"Owner is listed as Afton Gallagher of Washington, D.C. No personal number and no response at the business number. I'll try her Monday morning." Sean stretched and tried not to yawn. "How's the victim profile coming? I'd like to have more than a hunch the next time we go to the captain."

"Well, the three victims had similar physical descriptions. All of them were regulars in some of the ugliest parts of our fine city—though for different reasons in the case of Renata Mendes. She visited family in Southeast, but lived on the other side of town, near where she was killed. The crime scene is a high-traffic area with all kinds of fingerprints, hair, trash, and shit like that. It will take several days to
get forensic analysis detailed enough to allow us to compare the three scenes."

"CSU isn't going to be able to pull anything useable from that scene and you know it," Sean said.

"Yeah, we need another angle. How about Claire's personal life?"

Sean flipped through Claire's file, telling himself he was only doing his job by checking on the veracity
of their only witness. "No family, immediate or otherwise," he read, shaking his head. Family was a grounding force in his life; he couldn't imagine what it would be like to be completely alone in the world. "Her parents were both only children. They were killed in a car crash about eight years ago. No siblings. The only other relative was a grandmother who died a couple of years after the parents."

Aidan winced. "I know. That had to be tough."

"Yeah." Sean didn't like thinking about how tough. "Anyway, Claire is a well-liked and respected account manager for a D.C. software firm. Her colleagues describe her as smart, funny, and a workaholic. They also say she's a person who's honest to a fault." Sean read from his partner's notes.

"So this honest, smart, and dedicated woman is sure she knows the killer but just can't remember why
or how," Aidan said. "Any obsessive boyfriends stalking her?"

"Can't tell. The security guard at Camelot's office building remembers seeing Claire leave alone just before midnight. He offered to call her a cab, but she said she was going to walk to the bus stop. Idiot." Sean wasn't sure if he was referring to Claire or the guard who had let a woman go alone into a rainy night.

"I bet they've both learned a lesson," Aidan said.

Sean nodded and yawned so hard his jaw popped. He stood up and stretched the kinks out of his neck and back, then turned off his desk light. "I'm beat. I think we'll have more to go on once we speak to Afton Gallagher and look through her catalogue."

"Catalogue won't do much good if we can't place any of the guys at the scene of the crime."

"You have a better idea?"

Aidan shook his head. "Any activity on Claire's ATM or credit cards?"

"Nothing has turned up on the cards or the purse."

"I don't have a good feeling about that."

"Neither do I," Sean said. He couldn't describe the unease he felt whenever he thought about Claire's missing purse. If the killer had taken the bag from the scene, he had her address and keys. "I'm afraid he'll fixate on the one that got away."

"Jesus, I hate the whackos," Aidan said. "Speaking of which, I'm starting on a rough psych profile of
our killer. Assuming the three cases are connected, there's enough in the forensics reports and victim descriptions to put something together. It's not going to be a solid profile, but at least we can take a
stab at it. So to speak," Aidan said with a tired smile.

"Flatterer. Heading home?" Aidan asked, burying his nose in the files on his desk.

"I'll probably grab something for dinner, or maybe go for a run to clear my head. You want anything?"

"No, go ahead. I'm starting on the profile while the information is fresh. I'll get something to eat later."

"I'll see you at Camelot tomorrow, then. Eight o'clock?" Sean asked.

"Not everyone likes to start their day at the crack of dawn. Ms. Gallagher might be a nine-to-five type." Aidan wasn't a morning person. He sympathized with those forced to drag their half-awake bodies into the office and be productive on someone else's timetable.

"Then we'll wait for her, maybe take a look around the place. Nice try. though." Sean departed without
a backwards glance.

He stopped by his favorite Greek restaurant for takeout gyros, returned to his apartment, and wolfed down the dripping bits of meat and pita in record time. Afterward he still felt restless, unable to get the case out of his mind. He fought it for a few hours, then threw down the TV remote control and went to his car, resigned to the idea that he was going to work that night.

First he would go back to the hospital and talk to Claire's doctors. Maybe there had been some improvement in her condition. If not, maybe they could suggest some things to jog her memory—
therapy, some type of mental exercises, drugs, anything.

It was beginning to look like a woman with amnesia was their best lead on a murderer. That was a
good reason to keep in contact with her, see how she was doing, if she remembered anything at all.
If she was awake, they could talk.

Shoving his hands in his pockets and whistling cheerfully, Sean chose not to examine too closely the reasons for his sudden good mood.

Washington, D.C.
Sunday evening

The doctors Sean had hoped to talk to weren't available at nine on a Sunday night, but Claire
Lambert was. He flashed his badge at the guard posted in the hallway and paused in the partially open door to Claire's hospital room. Knowing he was there after visiting hours, he did a brief check for roving nurses and began to close the door behind him. The security guard smiled and gave a thumbs-up sign.

Sean turned to the bed, half expecting to find Olivia in the chair, but Claire was alone. She was asleep. Her hair was pulled back, and she wore a deep purple robe that was bright against the white sheets. Someone had brought in a reading light and set it on the nightstand, where it threw soft light across her relaxed face. A paperback novel lay nearby.

The restlessness he'd felt earlier in the evening increased until tension once again filled his body. He hadn't seen Claire since yesterday afternoon, and he'd hoped his memory had exaggerated her appeal
to him. It hadn't.

Down, boy. Didn't we already have a discussion about this?

He blew a breath up toward his dark bangs, trying to lift them from his suddenly damp forehead.

It's just because she looks like an angel, he told himself, lying under the light with her dark hair
and pale, smooth skin. All I have to do is turn the light off.

He reached across her for the lamp switch. As the shadow of his arm fell over her face, she jolted
awake. Eyes wide, she jerked away from Sean with a frightened sound.

"Hey, it's just me. You're all right." Sean's own heart was unsteady as he used his hand to soothe her.

When the light fell across Claire's face again, he looked down and saw that her eyes weren't completely black. In full light they were a deep, dark brown that drew him in like a spiral puzzle. He stood there, unable to say anything else, even when she recognized him and relaxed.

"Sorry, I've been a little jumpy," she said. She wondered how long he'd been watching her sleep.
Silence stretched painfully as he just stood there, staring at her.

"Is anything wrong? Any news on the case? Hel-loooo?" She waved her hand in front of his face,
causing him to pull his head back.

He blinked and moved the novel on Claire's bed. Then he sat on the edge, aiming for a casual note to cover his fascination.

"Ah, no. We've been working all weekend, but unfortunately don't have anything new. How about you? Have you been able to remember anything more?"

"What do you mean the feelings are stronger?"

"I told you, I've been really jumpy. Like just now." Her gesture took in the bed and Sean's presence.

"I think anyone would understand you being a little nervous—" he began.

"No, it's more than that. This morning I was standing at the window when a nurse came up behind me and touched my shoulder. I just about jumped out of my slippers." She gave a humorless laugh and started to speak again, then caught herself.

"What else?"

"It's so stupid, but... I've been having bad dreams. At first I thought this was a good sign, that maybe
I'd remember something in my dreams. But the only thing I remember is what I feel when I wake up.
I don't like it."

It was very difficult for her to talk about her vulnerability, but something in Sean's eyes said she could trust him.

"Ignoring these feelings won't make them go away," Sean said, choosing his words carefully. "When you're in an intense situation, when your life is at risk, the images burn themselves into your brain.
You can either deal with them and hope to put the fear behind you, or you can suppress them."

"Guess which method my brain has chosen?"

"Suppression might work for a while, but eventually— on their own terms—the images will come to
the surface. And then they own you," he said.

She shook her head. Even with Sean's comforting presence, she didn't want to remember the sickening flashes of her dreams.

Claire was silent for a moment. When she finally spoke, it was in a half whisper. "I think the worst thing is feeling powerless. Feeling like prey. I was terrified—it was a mortal fear, knowing if I didn't get away
I would die!' She looked up at him. "I bet you've never been scared like that."

"You'd lose," he said, then stood up. "Before working with the DCPD, I was in the army. Special Forces. I saw action in some drug-infested sewers around the world, as well as the Gulf War. Believe me, even though CNN makes it all look like a freaking training video—a complete rout spliced nicely to fit into
their sound bytes—the bullets were goddamn real to those of us on the ground."

"Oh." Somehow the knowledge that he'd once been afraid, that he really knew what she was going through, reassured her. "Were you ever injured?"

"Not seriously. Aidan was," Sean said, repressed emotion throbbing in his voice. "He was a Navy SEAL, but his career ended in a training accident after the Gulf War. Two men died, and they nearly lost Aidan as well. It took him almost a year to recover."

"It doesn't show."

"It's there. Before the accident, Aidan was a typical cocky SEAL. You know, the T'm invincible, and good looking, too' mentality. And he was all of those things." Sean gave a half smile. "But everyone's
luck runs out eventually. Aidan changed after the accident. He dealt with all the survivor's guilt and
grew up. He figured out what was important in his life."

"It must have been horrible."

"I'm not telling you this so that you feel sorry for him, but to make you realize that others have walked the path you're on right now. And they came out stronger on the other side."

Claire read through Sean's words to his unspoken love for Aidan. "You're very close to him, aren't you?"

"We were raised together—he's like my brother. He's also the reason I'm here, doing a job I love."

"It must be very nice to have someone who knows you so well." Though she felt a tug of envy,
Claire's voice was even.

Sean hesitated. He knew that her childhood friend Olivia was the closest thing Claire had to family. It worried him. "When a person has an experience like yours, they should have someone to talk to. A
family member, or someone who understands what they're feeling. You might want to consider seeing
a therapist."

"A shrink? You've got to be kidding. How would he or she know what I was feeling?"

Something in Claire rebelled at the idea of seeking help, especially when she couldn't even say with certainty what was wrong with her. Basically, she'd witnessed a crime and bumped her head Friday
night. Worse things happened to people every day without sending them to the psychiatrist's couch.

"But you need someone to talk to, and your friends certainly aren't qualified—has any of them ever
been through an experience like yours? Why not see a doctor?" Sean persisted.

"What?"

"You and Aidan, of course. You two, better than anyone, would know how I'm feeling. And you have
a vested interest in me," she said, smiling.

Sean wondered if she was flirting with him. "I do?"

She gave him a strange look. "The case?"

"Oh, yeah. The case." He paused. "Of course you can call either one of us night or day to talk about
the case, or to just—talk. You know how to reach us, right?"

"I have your card."

She continued to study him, curious. As she watched him, she sensed that he was deeply aware of her
as a woman. God knew she was intensely aware of him. It was something she hadn't experienced in a long time.

Was he here late on a Sunday night for some reason other than just doing his job?

The phone on the nightstand rang, startling them both. While she talked, he looked at her face in profile, noting the clean line of her small nose, the delicate arch of her cheekbone, and the stubborn thrust of her chin. He wondered what it was about the combination of her features that made her so beautiful to him.

Sean didn't realize he was staring until Claire hung up the phone and tilted her head inquiringly at him.

"Who called?" he asked, hoping he didn't look as stupid as he felt.

"Olivia. She's going shopping tonight and wondered what I wanted. I'll be staying with her for a couple
of days, until I can get a locksmith out to my place."

"She lives in a secured building. You don't think—"

"I don't think anything, except that it would be a good idea for you to stay quiet for a few days and
avoid your previous routines. Don't make your life predictable. Stay with Olivia for as long as you can—it's just common sense. You can't always have a guard at your door."

"A guard!" Claire's voice rose.

He nodded toward the hall and then realized she hadn't noticed the hospital security guard outside
her door. Shit.

"Since when?" she demanded. "And why?"

"There's a guard on this floor checking all IDs. It's probably just hospital policy."

"That's lame. Try again."

He rubbed his neck. "We're just being cautious, maybe overly so. We don't know for sure that you're
in any danger." Just a burning feeling in my gut whenever I think about it.

Claire looked unconvinced.

Sean was angry with himself for scaring her. If he'd been thinking straight, rather than drooling over her, he might have handled the situation with a bit more finesse.

"Why don't you get some more sleep?" he said, backing toward the door before he stuck his foot in his mouth again. "Sorry I woke you. I didn't mean to."

"Sure. Run away. I'll sleep great tonight, thanks to you."

"Do you want me to stay for awhile?" He felt guilty enough to make the offer, though he hoped sincerely she wouldn't take him up on it.

"No. One guard is enough."

"Okay. I'll be in touch."

He slid out the door and shut it behind him.

Distance, that's what he needed. A lot of distance.

Washington, B.C.
Monday morning

Sean dragged a grumpy Aidan through the revolving doors of the office building that housed Camelot Dating Services, Inc. They flashed their badges at the security guard and headed to the elevator.

"I told you there wouldn't be a problem," Sean said. "She's been here since seven. Some people appreciate the benefits of getting an early start on the day."

"Screw you. Some of us were at work until after eleven last night."

"Yeah, well, I didn't get to sleep much before one," Sean said, "so I don't want to hear any bitching."

"Why were you up that late? And don't tell me you had a date because I won't believe it."

"No date. I just couldn't turn my brain off and sleep. I went for a drive instead," Sean mumbled.

"How was Claire?"

Sean blew out an exasperated breath. God only knew how Aidan figured these things out, but he
always did.

Aidan smiled. "Like I said, cousin, I know you. I figure you were at the hospital within half an hour
of leaving the station last night."

"Smart-ass. For your information, I didn't get there until after nine," Sean said.

"Sneaking in after visiting hours? How shocking. This gets better and better." Aidan heard Sean grinding his teeth and took pity on him. "Did she remember anything useful?"

"No. I think the memories are there, but she's having a tough time dealing with them. She talked about having nightmares, but can't remember anything when she wakes up. Maybe she doesn't want to."
Sean shrugged and pressed the button for the eighth floor.

"The first few days after something like this are rough." Aidan narrowed his eyes as old memories of
his own came to the surface. "She might need counseling or something."

"Jesus, don't say that to her. I suggested it and she almost took my head off. Says she'll be just fine without any shrink prying into her dreams." Sean stepped off the elevator and turned toward Camelot's offices.

"I told you, she's a tough one," Aidan said. "She'll work it out."

"How can you possibly know that?"

"Come on, you know I can read people. Besides, anyone can see Claire's got a backbone of steel
inside that incredible body of hers."

"Even steel will bend or snap under the right kind of pressure," Sean said. Then he stopped dead as
the rest of Aidan's words sank in. He grabbed his partner's arm. "You're not interested in her."

"Nah, I have a feeling she's already taken. Doesn't mean I can't admire a smart and pretty lady, though." Aidan's voice was cheerful.

"She's not taken. I told you, the preliminary investigation didn't turn up any boyfriend."

"How anyone as smart as you can be so thick about women is a complete mystery to me."

Aidan pushed past Sean and opened the door to Camelot's offices. He smiled in a friendly way at the young man behind the receptionist counter. "Detectives Burke and Richter here to see Afton Gallagher."

The kid's eyes widened as he carefully studied Aidan's badge.

"Afton is in her private office with her babies right now. I don't usually disturb her when she's there.
You know— breast-feeding." The kid made a face.

"Right." Aidan leaned over the desk in a friendly way. "Maybe you could call her extension or something, see if the coast is clear."

"Sure thing."

Everyone seemed to open right up to his partner, Sean thought. Somehow, during interviews and in the field, Aidan always got to play good cop to Sean's bad cop. When he occasionally protested this arrangement, Aidan always pointed out that Sean did a lousy good cop when dealing with suspects. Something about his intensity put people off.

Within a few minutes the two detectives were being shown down a hall. A tall woman with short blonde hair was standing in an open doorway, looking toward them curiously.

"Hello, I'm Afton. I have no idea why you're here, but please come in." She stepped aside and showed them into the room.

Introducing themselves, Sean and Aidan walked past her. Though the sign on the door indicated that
this was a "private office," the room looked more like a set from Sesame Street than a place of business. Fanciful pastel drawings of animals and fairy-tale characters decorated the yellow walls, and there were toys scattered on the floor. An oversize crib was pushed into the corner underneath a mobile of the solar system. A rocking chair sat nearby, next to a bookcase filled with oversized picture books.

Two infants lay in the middle of the floor, comfortably stretched out on a thick green blanket. As Sean and Aidan entered, the babies tracked the sounds and turned their heads to the newcomers.

"Twins!" Aidan said, taking the lead in putting Afton at ease. "You're a brave woman."

Sean made no comment, merely squatted down next to the babies and picked up a stuffed animal to get their attention. He knew exactly what to do. Over the years he'd been an honorary uncle to half a dozen of Aidan's sisters' kids. "It's not like I had a choice, Detective." Afton smiled, charmed at how comfortable the men seemed to be with her babies. She supposed they must be married with kids of
their own, but neither wore a wedding band. When she looked up, she discovered that Detective Burke was discreetly looking at her left hand, too.

Well, he won't find anything there, Afton thought. "I'd offer you a seat, but there aren't any in here, unless one of you wants the rocking chair. I'm sorry, but my nanny doesn't get here until noon, so
we'll have to stay with the boys."

"No problem." Aidan casually sprawled on the floor, drawing the attention of the nearest baby.

Sean settled himself comfortably as well, keeping a grip on the stuffed animal that was being earnestly gummed by the child at his side. He waited for Afton to decide what to do next.

She hesitated, then sat on the blanket as well. "These are my sons, Justin and Cameron. They'll be
three months old next week."

Sean took in her slender figure and ringless hand. "Business owner and mother of two babies—that's
a lot to handle. I hope their father helps out around the house."

"Their father is dead. What can I do for you gentlemen?" Afton's tone was flat.

Sean let Aidan jump into the hitch in the conversation while mentally filing away the information for Afton's file.

"I'm afraid we're here to investigate an incident involving at least one of your clients," Aidan said.

"Which client? What happened?"

"Claire Lambert was assaulted after she left here Friday night." Aidan studied her as he said the words, noting the way she sucked in her breath as her cheeks turned pale.

"Claire! Is she all right?"

"She's just fine, though she has a nasty bump on her head. I think she'll be leaving the hospital this morning," Sean said.

"Jesus. What's going on in this city? First there's a murder not ten minutes away, and now I find out that one of my friends was attacked after leaving here." Afton shook her head and reached out to stroke her hand over first one baby, then the other. "Is it this neighborhood? We just moved the business here four months ago, but maybe I need to find another office building."

"Crimes occur everywhere in the city," Sean said. "This building is as secure as most."

"What happened to Claire? Was she robbed, or..." <>Afton forced herself to voice her greatest fear.
"Was it a sexual assault?"

"We don't believe it was, and the doctor found no sign—"

"What did Claire say about it?" Afton interrupted. "I know cops are reluctant to believe the woman,
but surely she told you what happened."

"Claire doesn't have any clear memories of the night she was attacked," Aidan said. "The doctor is hesitant to use the word amnesia just yet, but says it's not uncommon for a victim of head trauma to forget some or all of the events leading to the time of injury."

"That's where we need your help," Sean said. "There's a possibility that the man who attacked her may have some kind of connection to your dating service."

Guilt flooded Afton. "My God. I'm the one who talked her into this."

"How long have you known her?" Aidan asked.

"About six months. Claire's company hired Maura— my sister—-to host several corporate events
called Meet and Greet Mixers."

"Meet and what?" Aidan asked.

"You know, a sort of cocktail party after work where a firm's employees socialize with members of
our dating service. Mostly the women members."

"Come again?" Sean asked.

"I'm sorry. I'm not being very clear, am I?" She ran a hand through her short blonde hair. "I just—I
just feel so bad that I nagged Claire into this whole dating mess."

"Start from the beginning and take your time," Aidan said.

Aidan snorted, thinking of the geeks on the Police Department's IT staff. Sean glared at him.

Afton pressed on. "So Maura developed this plan to combine the two groups—she convinced some
of the area firms that Camelot could host cocktail parties and invite only our female clients. The
high-tech firms would invite their male programmers and technicians, and everyone could get
acquainted in a casual environment. It was a brilliant plan, and the parties were lots of fun."

"But how did you meet Claire?" Sean asked.

"She's an account manager at her firm, and she leads a whole team of male programmers and technical experts. She sort of came along for moral support—you know, to act as an icebreaker. She was also the person who convinced her firm to sign up for the meet and greet parties in the first place. She told her management that the company had to offer unique and interesting benefits if they were going to hang
on to their technical employees. After a while, we became friends."

"Do you still host these parties?" Aidan asked. The baby nearest him began to fuss, so he moved a toy within reach.

"No. With the bursting of the tech stocks bubble, many of our participating companies either went under, laid off their employees, or cut back dramatically on benefits and expenses. A lot has changed since my sister's time." Afton smiled sadly. "It's a whole new world out there."

"Did she sell you the business?" Sean asked.

"I'm sorry. To lose a husband and sister... this must be a very difficult time for you." Sean's sympathy was genuine.

"I've never been married, but it was still hard. As for my sister, she was sick and in pain for over a year. She was ready when the time came, even though we weren't." Afton's eyes filmed with tears, which she blinked back. "Anyway, Camelot is Maura's legacy, and I work very hard to keep things as she would have wanted them."

"We don't want to add to your burden," Sean said. "But we do need you to help us find out if Camelot
is somehow involved with the attack on Claire."

The baby next to him began to fuss as well—Cameron, he thought. He picked up a rattle to distract him. "It's almost feeding time," Afton murmured. "We won't be much longer, just a couple more questions," Sean assured her. "If you could tell us what happened during Claire's appointment last Friday, that would be a big help."

"Claire's appointment started late, about seven. It was her first visit as a client, so we had a lot of paperwork to go through. She had to fill out several lengthy questionnaires on our computer system and provide detailed background information on herself."

"Can we see what she filled out?" Aidan asked. "Member records are confidential, unless Claire is
willing to release them. I can show you some blank questionnaires if you think that would help."

"Okay, so what did you do after the question-and-answer session?" Sean asked.

"My mother works with me. We both spent some time helping Claire write a brief biography about herself. This will appear with her photo in our online catalogue. And yes," she added, before they could ask, "access to the catalogue is confidential and limited to members as well."

"And then?" Sean prompted.

"Then we spent several hours looking through our catalogue of male clients. We explained the system to Claire, then showed her how to search and sort candidates and their photos based on her preferences."

Sean came to attention. "Do you have the results of any of her searches? We can get a court order if necessary."

Afton looked unhappy at the thought of the police going through Camelot's files. "Claire, being Claire, decided not to use any sort criteria. She just started with the beginning of the alphabet and worked through to the last male candidate. She's very thorough. It took her until after eleven to finish the whole catalogue."

Sean thought quickly. If they could get a copy of everything they could cross match against the national criminal database and flag any Camelot members who had criminal records. "What format do you use
for your files?"

"We use a database that was developed exclusively for Camelot. I can give you the name of our
software consultant."

Afton picked up Cameron as the baby's fussing began to increase in volume. Justin also began to get restless, so Aidan jostled him gently, trying to distract him with strokes and pats.

Sean spoke over the sounds of unhappy babies. "What is the exact procedure you use to screen a new member?"

"Just as I explained to you. Claire's first visit was pretty typical. Once the new client leaves, we take
their detailed background information and give it to a private investigator we have on retainer. They
run a basic check for criminal records, credit history, that kind of thing."

Sean nodded. No help there.

"What does all this have to do with Claire being attacked?"

Sean hesitated, looked at his partner, then answered. "Claire remembers very little from last Friday night, but she did get a brief look at her attacker. She had a very strong impression that she'd seen the man before in a photograph—she's very certain about that. Camelot is the only place she can imagine having looked at photos recently, so we're checking it out."

Afton met his eyes for a long moment. "You think one of our male clients attacked Claire?"

"It's possible. The attack occurred only a couple of minutes from here," Sean pointed out.

"You're wrong. I'm sorry Claire was attacked—you have no idea how sorry—but our screening measures and security policy are excellent. Anyone with this type of behavior in their past would be discovered by our investigator. We'd cancel their membership and refund their money. My sister set the system up, and it's solid," Afton said.

The baby in her arms stopped fussing and began to wail.

"I'm sure it is," Sean said. "I hope you understand that we need to investigate every possibility."

"Of course. I just don't want you to spend your time scrutinizing Camelot when you could be exploring more productive leads."

With the crying baby in her arms, Afton made her way over to the phone. She spoke to someone and asked for two bottles of formula to be brought from the kitchen. As if on cue, the other baby began to
cry as well, either from hunger or in sympathy.

Both men shot to their feet. Aidan bent down, handed the second crying baby to Afton, and turned to leave.

"We need to talk with you again," Sean said quickly. "We'll leave our cards with the receptionist."

Almost before Afton could blink, the two men were out the door and moving down the hall at a good
rate of speed. She smiled grimly to herself. Nothing like mentioning breast-feeding to send a grown man running for the hills. As she rocked the babies to cahn them, she wondered if Claire blamed her for the attack, if that was why she hadn't called to tell her what had happened.

With her arms full of screaming babies and her heart full of guilt, Afton waited for her mother to bring
in the reinforcements.

Chapter 17

Sean grunted with the effort of blocking the basketball. He took an elbow shot to the gut from Aidan
but refused to give way. Lunging forward, Sean swiped the ball from Aidan and jumped up to make
a basket.

Using the back of his arm to wipe the sweat from his forehead, Sean passed the ball back to Aidan. "Fourteen to ten," Sean said, grinning.

"I'm just getting warmed up."

Aidan's bare torso, like Sean's, glistened with sweat. A sly wolf whistle from the left distracted Sean
long enough for Aidan to get by him and score.

"Looking good, there, boys. Looking real good." A plump woman in her early forties gave them both
a thumbs-up sign and lascivious smile on her way into the precinct's back entrance.

"Careful, Teresa, or I'll tell your husband you're window-shopping," Sean yelled as he tried to get by Aidan on the right, then lunged to the left.

"Boys, when the merchandise is really fine, there ain't no crime in admiring it on the shelf." Teresa
waved and headed inside to her job as a computer operator.

The two men continued to play, enjoying the rough game of one-on-one. The last few days had been an infuriating mix of bureaucratic roadblocks and dead ends. Both men were head-banging mad about their lack of progress on the case. Finally they had come outside to blow off steam at the basketball hoop someone had set up behind the station.

"Time out," Aidan panted.

He and Sean went over to their water bottles and towels. Even in the late evening the heat and humidity were intense.

After pouring cold water over his head, Sean took a long drink. "Any word on the court order to transfer Camelot's databases to our files?"

Aidan shook his head. "Attorney's office says we still don't have enough evidence to get a judge to issue the order. We'll have to talk Afton into just letting us have the records, or keep digging until we get something for the court. Maybe if we got a sworn statement from Claire saying she was positive the
killer she saw was a client. . . ." He trailed off and shrugged.

"We've spent the last three days working on the dating service angle," Sean said, "and we've got squat
to show for it. The forensics team has nothing from the scene — no fingerprints, hair, semen or skin samples that can be tied to the killer. Or to any of the other cases. The scene was just too contaminated." He set down his water and picked up the ball again, waiting for Aidan to finish gulping his drink.

Aidan wiped his mouth and headed for the blacktop beneath the hoop. "No one is this good, this careful. We have to be missing something."

Aidan grunted and made a jump shot over Sean's head. "I haven't had time to go over the preliminary forensics report. I've been too busy chasing court orders and trying to tie things up from the Camelot perspective."

"Me too. Maybe that's the problem. We've been running around trying to flesh out the dating service connection, going on the assumption that Claire really did see the killer in the catalogue. We've been trusting her instincts."

"That's nothing new. You and I go on instinct all the time," Aidan said, spinning around as Sean got
by him.

"Yeah, but we always look to old-fashioned investigative work to back up our hunches. So far we
haven't come up with anything. We've been working around the clock for close to five days," Sean
said, slamming the ball through the hoop.

"What are you saying? You think Claire is imagining things?"

"It's possible. She took a helluva knock to the head." Sean's concentration faltered for a second, and his partner stole the ball. "Shit, I don't know. It seems like everything we follow turns to nothing. Mendes
has nothing in her life to point to her killer. Nobody saw anything the night she was murdered but Claire."

"Slow progress is nothing new for murder investigations. Is Captain Michaels chewing on you?" Aidan asked, dunking the ball.

"She's all we have," Aidan said neutrally.

"Bullshit," Sean shot back. "We could go back and dig up everything that's been written in the files on
the dead women over the years. And we need to go through unsolved stabbing murders for every
precinct in the D.C. Metro area, maybe as far out as Baltimore. I have a feeling that this guy has been active for a while."

"No argument." Aidan caught the ball Sean fired at him after scoring and began a new charge toward
the hoop. "The captain told me to dig into the Camelot angle."

"And Claire?"

"Yeah."

"He's really hot on the bait idea, isn't he?"

"Yeah." Aidan made a basket while Sean stood there.

"Shit."

Sean grabbed the rebound and slammed it through hard enough to make the backboard vibrate.

Claire was relieved when Olivia finally went back to work on Friday morning. She felt guilty that her friend had already missed so much work, guiltier still for the fact that she had worried and fussed over Claire since she'd left the hospital. But now Livvie was back to her job at DC Child and Family Services, leaving Claire to entertain herself in her friend's cozy two-bedroom apartment. After locking the two
dead bolts and chain behind Livvie, Claire sat at Olivia's antique desk and opened the laptop computer
a coworker had dropped off. She barely paid attention to the status update her team had sent. Things were going well without her, and she was confident her accounts would be fine for a few more days. When she heard her own thoughts, she paused. Who would have believed it?

She was normally the type of person who took her computer and cell phone with her on vacation, half-convinced that things would fall apart while she was away from the office.

Giving herself a mental shake, Claire dealt with some e-mails needing replies and shut down her laptop. She wanted to keep Olivia's phone line free in case someone called. Specifically, in case Sean called
with an update on the investigation. Since it had been days since they'd last spoken, Claire had to
believe he would attempt to contact her soon.

The phone didn't ring, so she cooked a quick breakfast. While she ate it, she told herself Sean was busy following an investigative lead. That would explain why he hadn't called.

Later, as she surveyed the refrigerator for lunch prospects, she told herself she would give Sean one
more hour. When the phone finally rang, Claire dropped the sandwich she'd been picking at and rushed
to grab the receiver.

"Hi, Claire. It's Afton. When I couldn't find you at home, I called Olivia's number. I didn't want to
disturb you before." Afton paused. "Anyway, I understand if you don't want to talk to me, since I'm
the one who got you into this mess."

"Don't be ridiculous," Claire said. "No one got me into this. It just happened."

"And it wouldn't have if I hadn't nagged you into joining Camelot. The detectives seem sure the dating service is connected. I'm so sorry," she said miserably. "Is there anything I can do for you?"

"You spoke to Sean and Aidan? When?"

"The first time was Monday morning, but I've pretty much had daily contact since then. They're trying
to get a court order to access Camelot's files. I'd like to just give them the information, but Mother contacted our lawyer and he says I could be liable if I turn over confidential details on clients. He's reviewing our membership contracts right now, to see what the liability is if we turn the database over
to the police." Afton hesitated. "Are you all right?"

"Sure—I just knocked myself out when I fell down a set of steps. It really wasn't as dramatic as it sounds. Everything's fine."

"Is it really? The detectives are going to an awful lot of trouble just to catch an assault suspect."

Claire hesitated. Afton seemed to be under the impression that Sean and Aidan were treating the attack
as an isolated incident, instead of one that was connected to the murder of Renata Mendes.

"What exactly did Sean tell you about last Friday night?" Claire asked cautiously.

"Just that you were assaulted while walking home from Camelot. He said you couldn't remember much, except for the impression you had seen the guy who attacked you in a photo. Possibly a photo from Camelot's catalogue. Although they don't seem to be pursuing that angle anymore."

"What do you mean?" Claire asked.

"It's just an impression. At first both detectives were involved in questioning me, and they really pushed for me to turn Camelot's catalogue over to their technical department. Recently, I've only been talking to Detective Burke. Frankly, he seems more interested in you, me, and Camelot as a business than he is in the catalogue. That's my take, anyway."

"Did they mention anything about the woman who was murdered at the middle school near Camelot?" Claire asked, already knowing the answer.

"No. What's going on?"

Claire was reluctant to fill her in. Sean and Aidan had clearly withheld the information from Afton.
On the other hand, no one had told her not to talk about that night.

Besides, if the police were going to play games, they could at least call her and tell her the rules. Since they hadn't, it didn't matter, did it?

With that, Claire told the entire story to Afton.

"My God. You witnessed the murder?" Afton was in shock. "And you think you might have seen the killer in Camelot's catalogues? I can't believe it!"

"Obviously, neither can the cops, since they've abandoned their efforts to get into your files and check
out my story."

"If there is even a chance that murder is involved, I'll turn over the entire database with no questions asked— forget my mother and the lawyer. Jesus, all the police had to do was explain."

"That would be too easy," Claire said bitterly.

She told herself it was stupid to be hurt. She shouldn't take it personally that Sean had been holding
back information—and his opinion—about Claire's version of the night of the murder. But she was
hurt, and angry that she'd learned more about the status of the investigation from a chance phone
call than from the detectives who were supposed to be her advocates.

She felt her temper rising and deliberately clamped down. Flying off the handle wouldn't help. Okay,
so the police didn't believe her story. So they had been keeping her in the dark right along with Afton. And because the detectives didn't believe her, they'd blown off the dating service catalogues, which
was the one thing Claire felt certain about in all the events of the last week.

"You're sure about seeing the man in a photo?" Afton asked.

"Do you have time to meet with me this afternoon?" Claire interrupted.

"I'll clear my schedule and be over in half an hour."

"No. I'll meet you at your office. I think we've let me fall behind on my membership obligations."

"What are you talking about?"

"I suddenly feel a great need to look through your catalogue again. I'm sure I must have overlooked suitable matches the last time around. When would you have time to go through the photos with me again?"

"How soon can you get here?"

"Give me twenty minutes." Claire hung up and got ready to leave for Camelot.

And to hell with a blue-eyed detective named Sean Richter.

Washington, B.C.
Friday morning

Claire stalked into the building that held Camelot's offices. She was still simmering over the fact that
the police didn't believe her about having seen the killer's photo. Sean probably thought she'd just
been hysterical. Maybe he thought she was wrapped up in some kind of dating neurosis and had subconsciously tied witnessing the murder with her visit to Camelot. After all, hadn't he almost lost
it when she'd told him she'd gone to a dating service in the first place?

She stepped into the elevator and punched the button like it was a certain detective's face. Normally
she wasn't one to simmer. When she got mad, she exploded, worked through things with the object
of her frustration, and moved on with few hard feelings. But given Sean's annoying absence, that
wasn't possible.

Coward. He knows I'm furious.

The fact that he could hardly know whether she was cheerful or killing mad didn't matter. It was much too satisfying to think of him hiding from her temper.

"I'm so glad you're all right," Afton said, leading her to the private office. She shut the door behind
them. "I've been sitting here worrying about you, thinking what I would do if it turns out this guy is
a Camelot client. It will destroy everything Maura worked so hard to build."

"Don't worry yet. I can't be certain I saw the guy in the catalogue."

"But how can we be sure?"

Claire took a deep breath. In some ways, she really didn't want to do this, but there wasn't any choice. "Since I have such a strong image in my head of a photograph of the killer, and since this is the only logical place I could have seen photos recently, I want to go through the catalogue pictures until
something jogs my memory."

"You think you'd recognize the photo—or maybe have some kind of emotional reaction—even if you can't remember anything else about that night?"

"Exactly. If only you could see the photo in my mind. I don't really have an idea about his features,
but his smile—"Claire stopped and shivered.

"Tell me about it. Maybe I'll recognize him and save us some time."

"It was a very unique smile, kind of tight and twisted up at the ends. Hell, it was twisted period. As if
he were getting off, only there was real cruelty in the smile as well." Claire looked at Afton, needing
to be believed. "I'm not doing a very good job of describing it, but I'm sure I'd recognize him if I ever
saw that smile again."

"Okay, so we look through the catalogue for guys who have a twisted smile." Afton mentally reviewed
the best way to approach this task. "Some of the clients aren't smiling in the pictures. Do you want to eliminate them?"

"No, I think we should go over every male client, in whatever way I did the night of the murder. I think that's very important. Maybe something will trigger a memory."

"Sounds good."

Claire looked at Afton, seeking any sign that she was being humored or patronized. There was nothing
but determination in Afton's brown eyes.

"That night," Afton said thoughtfully, "you opted to view the catalogues alphabetically. You went through every photo and bio in the system. It took hours, but it should be easy to duplicate. Let me transfer my calls to voice mail and set the computer up, then you can pull a chair over here and start."

Claire dragged a chair over to the desk. "Have the police already been through the pictures?"

Afton shook her head. "I told you, my lawyer advised me against releasing the information until he
could determine our liability. However, since you're a paying customer, I have no issues." She winked
at Claire and gave the command to sort the database entries in alphabetical order.

Very quickly a photo popped up on the screen. Nice enough man, a little older than his bio stated, and smiling like a choirboy.

"Next," Claire said.

Another photo appeared. No smile.

Claire settled in and concentrated on bringing up memories of having been here before, of seeing the parade of hopeful male faces. Something. Anything. Whenever she spent longer than a few moments
on a photo, Afton wrote down the name for further research. She gave up asking Claire why she
lingered over any photo. Her friend simply didn't know.

They had gotten to F when voices from the hall distracted the women.

"I think she's in her office, even though she's not answering." A pause, then a soft knock on the door. "Afton?" "Come in."

The door opened a crack and Camelot's young receptionist popped his head in the opening. "Detectives Burke and Richter here to see you again."

Claire grimaced and muttered, "Busted."

Afton sighed. "Let them in."

The men came through the door, one after the other. Sean stopped abruptly on seeing Claire, and his partner smacked into him from behind. "What the hell are you doing here?" Sean asked. Claire's temper red-lined in a heartbeat, though she kept her expression calm. "Detective Richter, how nice to see you. I'm so pleased you remember me, because I was beginning to think you'd forgotten who I was. Certainly I haven't heard from you or Detective Burke in days, but I guess even common courtesy must be pushed aside during important police investigations." Claire's Louisiana accent was pronounced, the drawling tones doing nothing to hide the fire burning in her eyes.

Well, shit, Sean thought. Who pissed in her chili?

Afton stepped into the yawning silence to offer the men seats and some coffee. Claire continued to work one-handed on the computer. After giving a new command to the database program, she swiveled her chair, looked directly at Sean, and waited for him to make the next move.

Aidan tried to smooth over the tense silence. "You're looking great, Claire. How's the head doing?"

"It's just fine. You'd be amazed at what a few quiet days can do to clear up your thinking and put things in perspective. Especially when your office leaves you alone and all you have to do is think about your personal life."

"Have you remembered anything?" Sean asked.

"Nothing you would find useful, I'm sure." She turned back to the computer and began searching the
next range of entries.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Sean asked. It was better than asking what he really wanted
to know, which was why she was mad at him. The composed, angry woman sitting before him had little resemblance to the one he'd last seen in the hospital, with wild curls and shadows in her vulnerable eyes.

"I think she's pissed about something," Aidan said.

"Now why would I be mad?" Claire asked, looking over her shoulder at Aidan. "Haven't you and your partner kept me up to date on what's happening with my investigation and when I can move back into
my home? Haven't I had twice-daily calls letting me know what y'all are working on, and how things
are going and if I could be any help?" Claire picked up Afton's letter opener and began to tap it on the blotter pad.

Sean's eyes narrowed.

Aidan started talking fast. If Sean lost his temper things would go to hell real fast. "That would be my fault," Aidan said. "I've been working on the part of the investigation involving you and Afton, while
Sean has been buried in archived files for every precinct in the B.C. Metro area. We've both been so
busy that some days we didn't remember to eat." He smiled his most winning smile.

Despite her annoyance Claire had to admit that what Aidan said made sense, if you didn't examine it
too closely.

"Plus," Aidan added quickly, "your doctor told us to give you a couple of days to rest. Couldn't go
against his orders, now, could we?" Aidan stretched the truth without hesitation. He had spoken to Claire's doctor as part of his background check, and the man had said the best chance for Claire to recover her memory would be through rest and recuperation.

Claire fiddled a bit more with the letter opener. From the corner of her eye she could see that Sean
looked very tired, with deep circles under his blue eyes. His short, dark hair was carelessly combed,
as if he had run a hand through it repeatedly.

Never one to hold a grudge, she decided to give the detectives a chance to redeem themselves by
bringing her fully up to date on the status of the investigation.

"How have things been going on the Mendes case, then?" she asked.

Sean's expression became guarded. He resisted the urge to glance at Afton and see her response to the question. They had planned to stop by Camelot today and explain to her in detail why they believed Claire's attack was related to a series of murders in the area.

"Don't worry," Claire said. "Afton knows the whole story about the night of the murder." She smiled defiantly at Sean. "You didn't tell me to keep things quiet, did you? Besides, Olivia already knew.
I needed Afton's help, so I told her."

Sean sat back in his chair and told himself that losing his temper would be stupid. Obviously Claire had been doing quite a bit of thinking in the last few days. While he was pleased she was feeling well enough to be out of the hospital visiting friends, he was uncomfortable with the idea of her revealing information about an active case without consulting him in advance.

"You should have talked to me," Sean said.

"How? You didn't return my call. Twice."

"It's fine if Ms. Gallagher knows," Aidan said before his partner could put words to the anger narrowing his eyes. "We'd prefer if neither of you discussed it with anyone else, though."

Sean rubbed his neck and told himself to cool off. They should have known that Claire would talk with her friends. If they hadn't wanted her to, they should have told her so. He couldn't get mad at her for something that was their own fault.

"Sure, it's no problem," Sean said. "Saves us some explaining." He looked over the desk at Afton.
"Now you understand why we want to go through your files."

"I certainly do. But since I hadn't heard anything more about the court order, I'd assumed you had,
um, abandoned the idea that our files would be useful." She looked at Claire uncomfortably, seeking support as she became the focus of Sean's intense stare.

"Why would you think that? We've just been working other angles of the case," Sean said.

"What she means," Claire said, "is it seemed like the police didn't believe me about the potential connection between the killer and Camelot's catalogue. I can understand how she came to that conclusion."

"It's not that we don't believe you," Sean said. "And we haven't dismissed any possibilities. We're detectives, Claire. A lot of what we do would seem pointless to you, but it's all part of building an investigation."

"Puh-lease," Clare said, rolling her eyes. "Look, I understand that an eyewitness suffering from amnesia isn't exactly a slam dunk for a court order, much less a conviction. That's why I'm working on finding something more concrete than a feeling I've seen this guy's picture before."

"What are you up to?" Sean said.

"I'm not 'up to' anything. I'm merely pursuing something I believe is critical to regaining my memory."

Sean shot out of the chair and came around the desk. One glance at the computer screen was all he needed. "You're looking through the catalogue." "Give the detective a cigar," she said. Aidan started to say something, then shut up at a look from Sean.

"Do you really believe you're going to find the guy's picture here?" Sean said, ignoring her attitude.

"What I really believe is that if I don't do something to get my life back under control, I'll go nuts."
With that, Claire lifted her chin and scrolled through the next entry.

She was smart enough not to answer a question asked in the deadly quiet tone Sean was using. She also understood body language enough to know that Sean was deliberately trying to intimidate her, so she resisted the urge to squirm in her chair.

Silence continued, punctuated by the occasional click of the mouse Claire used as she worked her way through the photos.

"Were you, Claire?" He leaned closer, frankly looming over her. He was angry and didn't mind letting it show. "Were you going to let us in on your little side investigation, tell us if you found a suspect? Or maybe you were just going to slip on your Wonder Woman costume and take the guy out yourself, huh?"

Claire leaped to her feet and tried to stare Sean down. It was a difficult task, given the fact that he was more than a head taller. "I'm not an idiot. How come if you look through the catalogues for a suspect you're just doing your job, but if I do it I'm some kind of nutcase with a Nancy Drew complex?"

"Because it's my job," he said.

She drew in a breath that was half sob. Until that instant she hadn't realized how stressed she was.
"Your job. But it's my life. You go to the office, work on the case, then close your files and go home.
I don't have any place to leave this locked up. Someone else is calling the shots, but I have to live with
the results twenty-four hours a day."

Sean's anger faded as he tried to imagine what it would be like to have his life turned upside down,
then have strangers controlling his attempts to get things back to normal again. He'd be mad as hell.

"I have no idea what progress, if any," she said, "has been made on a case that has me afraid to stay in my own home. Worse, I feel like I'm being treated as a suspect, when in reality I've done nothing
except be in the wrong place at the wrong time."

Sean clasped her rigid arms gently. "I'm sorry you felt that way." He waited until she looked up and met his eyes. "But until we're certain that the murderer was a stranger to Renata Mendes, we have to give
that avenue all our resources and attention. Stranger murders—murders where the killer isn't known to the victim—are damned uncommon. The dead woman is, and has to be, our first concern. But I'm
sorry if we've made you feel like we didn't trust you."

Claire looked intently into Sean's eyes and sighed. She couldn't stay angry in the face of his sincerity.

"Don't be nice to me," she said. "I'm still mad at both of you."

Sean let out the breath he'd been unconsciously holding. "No one can stay mad at Aidan for long,"
he said with a small smile.

"How about you?" Claire asked, still looking at Sean.

Aidan answered. "He lacks my charm and doesn't grovel worth a damn. There are probably some outstanding contracts on his life as we speak."

She smiled faintly at the image of either man groveling.

"So what's the plan then?" she asked to break the tension. "Afton and I have been through the catalogue entries up to F, and we've made a list of some names we think should be investigated. I know you're
not convinced that looking through the database will help any, but how much can it hurt?"

"Can you give us one day before we pursue that?" Sean asked. "We'll get to the catalogues, I promise. Can you trust me, just for one more day?"

Trust me.

In her experience, those were famous last words coming from a man, but she told herself it was just temporary. Twenty-four hours wouldn't seem like much to most people. But he was asking her not to
get involved in an investigation that was now her life. She wondered if he had any idea what he was asking and how deeply it went against her nature. Then she looked at him and realized he did understand, yet asked for her trust anyway.

She reminded herself it was only for a day. "Will you keep me updated on your progress?"

Sean recognized it as the compromise it was. "We'll tell you whatever we can, especially if it has to do with you."

Claire gave him a long look. She'd never been around anyone who could be so composed and yet angry
at the same time. It was his strength of will more than anything else that angered and intrigued her. She'd never met anyone who could stand up to her when she was really mad. He'd not only done that but he'd also gotten her to agree to a compromise—a word not normally found in her vocabulary.

"All right. But I want regular reports," she added.

There was the steel that lay underneath the curls and sexy body, Sean thought with a smile. He was getting used to both. "Agreed. Now, why don't you take the doctor's advice and go home and rest for
a few more days."

Claire shot him a "get real" look. "Like you, I have a job. Dr. Springer said to let pain be my guide, and
I feel just fine. I'm working from Olivia's home, not sleeping around the clock. I'll talk to you soon."
She left the room, followed by Afton.

As soon as the door closed behind the women, Aidan turned and raised an eyebrow at Sean.
"Wonder Woman uniform?"

"Fuck you," Sean said with a half smile.

Aidan laughed and tried to remember the last time he'd seen someone get to Sean as fast as Wonder Woman had. "Is that what you're going to tell Captain Michaels?"

Sean stopped smiling. With every hour he and Aidan didn't make any progress on the case, the captain got more impatient about not using Claire. And putting Claire in the line of fire was something Sean
was not ready to do.

Washington, D.C.
Saturday morning

"We're so relieved that you weren't seriously hurt, Claire. What happened, exactly?" Tiffani Kensit's voice dropped, inviting Claire to share the juicy details of the night she was injured. "The only thing
Mr. Webster said was that you had been attacked near Dupont Circle."

Claire wished that Tiffani had chosen another day to pile up overtime. Tiffani with an i was a crucial
link in the network of office gossip. While the young woman was pleasant and even friendly, she
couldn't wait to tell whoever cared to listen over the wall of the bathroom stalls all about the intimate details of Claire's life.

That's what had happened the one and only time Claire had dated someone she worked with. The office rumor mill had gotten hold of the details from Claire's scorned ex. She hadn't forgotten the humiliation of having her failed relationship discussed in rest rooms and over the water cooler in the employee lounge.

"Sorry, the police asked me not to talk about it. But I appreciate your concern." Claire somehow
managed to say the words without choking.

After closing her office door so she wouldn't be disturbed by other people playing weekend catch-up,
she made her way steadily through the voice mails, messages, and faxes she hadn't been able to clear out yesterday. She tried very hard to focus on her clients and accounts, but in the back of her mind a timer slowly counted down, ticking off the minutes in the twenty-four hours she had promised Sean.

At exactly one minute after eleven, Claire still hadn't heard from the police. No missed calls were listed
on her cell phone. She dialed Olivia's number.

"Hi, Livvie. Any messages for me?"

"No. Don't forget—late brunch with Afton today. Be ready to do decadent girly stuff. We all need a
little break."

"I won't forget."

Annoyance gave a snap to Claire's stride as she walked to the metro station. She was just in time to
catch the train that would drop her close to Sean's office. The cars were full of tourists and kids, who ranged from excited to whiny without warning.

Coming to the top of the long escalator exit from the metro, she saw that the skies were threatening rain. She still hadn't replaced the umbrella she'd lost the night of the murder, so she hurried to beat the storm. She just made it through the door as the rain let loose. Inside the police station, an older man sat behind
a desk, chatting with a woman leaning on the counter.

"I'd like to speak with Detective Richter," Claire said.

The woman turned and gave her an assessing look. "I'll take her, Frank. Follow me." The woman
turned down a long corridor. "I'm Teresa—are you a salesperson or something?"

"No, I'm Claire Lambert. Detective Richter and his partner are working on my case."

"Right. Well, this is where Sean and Aidan should be."

Claire looked at the empty chairs.

"Wait here and I'll go drag them out of the kitchen," Teresa said with a wink. She headed for the doors
at the other end of the room. "They're probably mainlining caffeine."

Claire looked around the men's work area, trying to guess which desk belonged to whom. She was
pretty sure the desk closest to her was Aidan's, given its cheerfully cluttered appearance. Leaning closer
to confirm her suspicion, she saw a file. The tab on the orange folder was labeled Marie Claire Lambert and had a number, presumably a case identification code.

She looked around quickly and reached for the file. As she read, a chill went through her body. Her jaw tensed as she flipped to the next page, and then the next. Settling into the chair with the file in front of her, she decided someone had a lot of explaining to do. She couldn't wait to hear it.

Trust me.

From where she sat, that looked like another way to say Screw you.

Washington, D.C.
Saturday morning

The man sat outside the gourmet coffee shop on Wisconsin Avenue, sipping his iced latte. Despite the heat, humidity, and scattered rain, he wasn't alone at the chic metal tables with their canvas umbrellas. He'd been playing with the latte for half an hour. In that time he'd seen Marie Claire's redheaded friend enter the building with bags from a local grocery store. Little Olivia.

He'd traced her name through the license plate on her car last week, which had also given him her full address. The fifth-floor apartment facing the street was hers. Right now she was going through the room opening blinds. No sign of his target yet, but he was confident Marie Claire would appear soon.

He thought about his little surprise and wished he could be there to see how she reacted. Impossible, really, so he'd just have to imagine what she would do. That was almost as good.

He was prepared to sit outside for the rest of the day if necessary, camouflaged with his massive book
on the history of Western civilization and his Georgetown University baseball cap. Just another grad student nursing a latte and eating biscotti while he crammed for summer finals. He smiled at the thought.

Washington, D.C.
Saturday morning

Sean and Aidan sat at a scarred table in the precinct coffee room, their chairs tipped back as each
topped off on scalding coffee despite the sultry heat of the day and the room.

"The more we dig into Mendes, the less we find," Sean said.

"Everything we've found out about Claire indicates that she's a law-abiding citizen from New Orleans, working as a white-collar professional in D.C. for the last eight years. She's trustworthy, mentally stable, financially solvent, and an all-around good citizen who would be happy to work with the police to lure—"

"No," Sean said stubbornly. "I found four more murders within a two-hundred-and-fifty-mile radius that remain unsolved, all involving Hispanic prostitutes or semi-pros stabbed with a large blade. The cases span the last ten years, with the most recent murder committed two years ago."

"If they really are connected to our guy, he's been at this for some time. I'm surprised the FBI hasn't picked up on the case yet."

Sean shook his head. "Different jurisdictions, large geographical area, and a long break between murders. Plus the victims were all turning tricks—not the type of victim who's going to inspire shock and outrage
in the community. It's not surprising that no one has put the pieces together."

"But now the killer is escalating," Aidan said.

"Yeah. At first there were years between the killings. Now we're talking six months between Renata Mendes and Cristina Herrera," Sean said grimly.

Aidan shook his head. "Not good." And it would just make Captain Michaels more determined to solve the case before another agency could step in, which Aidan didn't need to point out.

"What did you come up with on Afton and Camelot?" Sean asked.

"Camelot is a legitimate operation, running at a decent profit. No outstanding debts, no lawsuits. Seems solid. Afton was registered as the owner just under three months ago, shortly before her sister's death."

"What about Afton herself?"

"Up until about ten months ago she lived outside of Boulder, Colorado. She taught theater and literature
at a fancy boarding school for gifted teenagers. I guess she moved here when her sister was diagnosed with leukemia."

"What about the father of her kids?" Sean asked.

"They were never married. Apparently the guy was murdered on a business trip to South America. Neither her coworkers nor her neighbors had ever met the man, though the neighbor across the street
had seen him a couple of times."

"I don't have any details. Afton's former colleagues reported that she missed a month of school just
over a year ago. All the principal could tell me was that Afton's boyfriend had been murdered on a trip
to Ecuador or something, and she took some personal time afterward. She moved to D.C. to be near
her sister within a couple months of that, selling everything she had in Boulder."

"Poor kid." Sean shook his head, wishing he could shield Afton from a homicide case that would doubtless bring up bad memories. He liked her straightforward approach and admired anyone who
took on family responsibilities without complaint.

"Yeah. She's been through a lot already. The last thing she needs is to be involved in a murder investigation."

The door swung open and Teresa leaned in. "I knew I'd find you hiding in here," she said to Sean.
"Claire Lambert is here to see you."

The front legs of his chair came down with a bang. "She out front?"

"No, I showed her where you and Burke sit. She's waiting for you."

"Thanks. We'll be right there," Sean said.

"Think she's still mad at you for kicking her out of Camelot yesterday?" Aidan asked slyly as they
walked to their desks.

"She wasn't really mad, she's just one of those people who needs to understand the why of any situation. I think now she realizes what we're trying to do and will leave the job to us."

Laughing, Aidan shook his head. "Put down the crack pipe, buddy."

Aidan was still smiling when he walked through the doorway and saw Claire with an open file folder in front of her.

'Tell me that file isn't what I think it is," Sean said softly.

"Shit," was all Aidan said.

"This is why you asked me for one more day?" Claire asked calmly, without looking up from the file.
"So you could have me investigated?"

"You want me to explain?" Aidan asked softly.

"I'll take care of it," Sean said. "Give us a minute."

Aidan grabbed his keys and left without a word.

"Investigating you wasn't my choice," Sean said to Claire. "Captain Michaels insisted that we have a
full profile of you as a way of judging your reliability as a witness."

When Claire raised her eyes from the folder and looked directly at him, he was jolted by the emotions
he saw in her black gaze.

"You asked for my trust, and then you investigated me. God, you talked to my neighbors and
coworkers about my sex life."

Or lack thereof.

The thought of Sean reading the contents of the file made her want to curl up and die of humiliation. Instead, she drew on years of hard-won poise and got to her feet.

Sean had expected temper, even a shouting match, but she had just shut down. It made him nervous.

"Where are you going?" Sean asked.

'To Livvie's place." Claire gathered her purse and raincoat.

"Why did you stop by to see me? Did you have something new?"

"I wanted a report on what you've been doing for my case. I got it." She closed the folder with her name on it and handed it to Sean. "Trust me."

"Goddamn it." He looked around the room, which was scattered with cops who made their living shoving their nose in other people's business. "We can't talk here. I'll drive you to Olivia's."

"That's too kind of you, Detective. I couldn't put you to so much trouble." She headed for the door.

He wrapped his hand around her upper arm and said in a low, angry tone, "Lose the attitude. I'll be damned if you're going to make me feel guilty for doing my job."

Without waiting for an answer he steered her down the hall toward the back parking lot. When he
stopped at the passenger side of a police-issue unmarked sedan, she pulled away.

"I don't think it would be a good idea for me to get in a car with you right now, Detective. Too many weapons within reach."

"The weapons are locked up."

"The radio cord isn't."

"Keep it up and I'll put you in back behind the cage," he said.

"This is called kidnapping."

"This is called getting you to listen long enough to calm down." He crowded her into the passenger side, locked the door, and closed it hard.

When he got behind the wheel, she didn't look at him. He leaned over and fastened her seat belt, telling himself that it wasn't another excuse to touch her.

Claire hung onto her temper because it made her feel less like a victim. The rational part of her mind knew that she wasn't being reasonable, but nothing about the last few days had been reasonable.

"Are you going to talk to me?" Sean asked after several minutes of silence.

She turned toward him. "Maybe I can understand why you did this, but it's the way you did it that pisses me off. You said 'Trust me' and then you violated my privacy. Next time you want to investigate my money situation, or old boyfriends and lovers, you come to me. Don't go talking about my private life to anyone who ever looked out their living room window and thought they saw a car parked in front of my place for the night!"

"There's no need to make this personal."

"It's pretty damned personal to me."

"All right, but don't ask us to conduct an investigation with our hands tied. Look at it this way—if you were being stalked, we'd be talking to everyone who ever knew you, because you wouldn't be able to
give us objective answers. You might not see an ex-boyfriend or date as a threat, but with our experience we can catch things you'd miss."

"As I'm sure your little file shows, there's no one in my past who cares enough to stalk me. I don't affect men like that."

"And that's a fine example of why we don't ask you about your life," Sean said.

"What does that mean?"

"Jesus," he muttered. "Don't you have any mirrors? Of course you affect men like that. You're fucking gorgeous."

Claire stared out the windshield and didn't say a word. She was too busy trying to see herself as
gorgeous, much less fucking gorgeous. Unconsciously she shook her head. She couldn't see it.

Sean tried a different tack. "When you prepare a bid for a client, don't you thoroughly research a
number of different alternatives, then present all the options, along with your recommendation for
the best approach?" He didn't wait for an answer. "It's the same thing in police work, only it's more important for us to be thorough because if we screw up someone could die."

"Then why are you ignoring the dating service connection? It could be a big lead and you're just
blowing it off! For all we know Renata Mendes could have been a member."

"Are you saying that the dating service fields sex workers?" Sean asked. "That's what the other victims were— Hispanic prostitutes. Mendes wasn't a hooker, but she was Hispanic and in the wrong place at
the wrong time. As for being a client of Camelot, that was one of the first things we checked after we talked with you. She wasn't."

"You could have told me sooner."

"The fewer people who know, the better chance there is to keep it out of the headlines." Sean turned
into the driveway of Olivia's apartment building, released Claire's door lock, and faced her.
"This asshole cuts up women for fun. I want to catch him so bad I can taste it."

So much for fucking gorgeous, Claire thought as she undid her seat belt. When Sean looked at her,
what he really saw was a case to be solved.

"I believe you, Detective. Thank you for the ride." She opened the door and bolted.

Sean opened his own door and shot out to follow her.

"Hey, buddy," yelled the doorman as Claire trotted by him. "Move the car before I call the cops!"

Claire quickly crossed the lobby and pushed into a loaded elevator just as the doors were closing.
The elevator stopped at every floor to exchange passengers. When the doors finally slid open on
the fifth floor, she stepped out into the hall and kept walking while she looked through her purse
for the key Olivia had loaned her.

Head down, she ran smack into a large male body. She knew without looking up that it would be Sean.

"Most people would be out of breath after running up five flights of stairs," she said, stepping around
him.

"Guess I'm not most people," Sean replied, falling in step with her.

Claire rolled her eyes. "What do you want?"

Progress, he thought cautiously. She was no longer calling him "Detective" in that cuttingly polite voice. "I wanted to make sure you're okay. You haven't been out of the hospital all that long."

Claire stopped by Livvie's door. He was right, which only made the headache that was always lingering
in the back of her brain worse. "I'm thirty years old—but then, you know that, don't you?—and I've
been taking care of myself for a long time, which you also know from reading my file. I'm just fine,
thank you."

"You've never been the potential target of a serial killer before." Sean felt an angry tic begin in his left cheek.

Claire saw the telltale tic and the fact that his icy blue eyes had turned silver with temper.
"Cher, I've survived Mardi Gras hi New Orleans every year of my life. This is a piece of cake."

"Mardi Gras? Jesus Christ."

She clucked her tongue and tapped his left cheek. "You're going to rupture something if you don't calm down." She smiled slightly, feeling much better for his loss of control. She turned and slid the key in the door. "If I'm that frustrating, why don't you stop fighting and work with me instead?"

It was her smile that did it. His hand shot out, captured hers, and pulled it toward his mouth.

"This is why," he said, pressing a hot kiss into her palm. He didn't take his eyes off hers as he parted his lips and gently stroked her flesh with his tongue.

Her eyes widened and her mouth opened in a soft sound of comprehension. With her heart pounding,
she felt his warm tongue make a second leisurely slide across the suddenly hypersensitive skin of her palm. She moved closer, instinctively pressing her body against his as she came up on her tiptoes. Without conscious thought, she slid her free hand around his neck.

She only had to tug once before he bent his head down to her, stopping with his mouth a breath away from her parted lips.

"Hell," he said softly, and kissed her.

Claire shut her eyes and savored Sean. As he captured her closed lips in a teasing nip, she decided he tasted like spearmint and coffee. When he stroked the line between her lips with his tongue, her toes curled inside her shoes and she opened her mouth to let him in. A flash of heat shot through her body, bringing with it a restlessness she tried to soothe by pressing against him. She struggled to get closer, but he was too tall to reach the way she wanted to.

Sean felt her arching against him and stopped thinking at all. He wrapped his arms around her back and straightened, lifting Claire off her feet. Unable to believe she was actually kissing him back, he stroked repeatedly into her mouth with his tongue. Her responding moan made him tighten. He shifted his hold, trying to lift one of her legs around him so he could get as close as they both wanted, but he was frustrated by her knee-length skirt. He wrapped his hand around her hip instead, squeezing and releasing the supple flesh.

When he heard a small thump echo in the hallway, he thought it might be one of her shoes falling
off, but was too far gone to care. He pressed her into the wall and continued the drugging kisses, concentrating on her taste, on the feel of her breasts pressed against his chest and her hips arching
against his erection.

The sound of a door opening and closing down the hall finally got through to him. He couldn't believe
he had lost his head so quickly. Breathing unsteadily, he stepped back and lowered her feet to the floor. He held her shoulders when she stumbled, thrown off balance by the missing shoe.

The change from being kissed senseless to being set aside was like a shock of cold water. Claire took several deep breaths and grabbed for composure. Rather than look at Sean, she glanced around for her missing shoe, giving herself some time to steady. He took an arm to offer support while she slipped her foot into the pump.

"Thanks," she murmured, and wondered if she looked as shell-shocked as she felt. What do you say
after your world has been tilted on its axis with a single kiss?

"That was really stupid," Sean said, straightening his shirt and studying the top of her bent head. "I'm sorry."

Okay, those weren't the words she was looking for. Annoyed, she gave him a sideways look and spoke without thinking. "Never apologize for kissing a woman like that, cher. It makes her look foolish and
you look like a pig." She heard the cutting words and winced. "Damn. I didn't mean the pig part. I
guess I'm sorry, too. I, ah, got a little carried away." She fiddled with the gold hoop in her right ear.

Claire narrowed her eyes at his tone. "Did I just stand there like an inflatable doll while your tongue
was in my mouth? You didn't force me to do anything I didn't want to."

"Claire, the last week has been very stressful for you. Your emotions are all over the place. I shouldn't have taken advantage of you."

The look she gave Sean made him shift uncomfortably. "Protecting me again, Detective? Or are you protecting yourself?" She shrugged as if she didn't care. "Thanks anyway, but I'm a big believer in
free will. You didn't take advantage of anything."

"I don't normally lose control like that."

She looked him over from head to toe. "Now that's truly a pity."

The key was still in the lock. Claire had the apartment door opened and closed in Sean's face before
he could think of anything to say. Automatically he tugged the light jacket he wore into place. It covered his holster just fine, but did nothing to conceal his hard-on.

He walked uncomfortably down the hall, hoping he didn't meet any little old ladies taking their trash out.

As soon as Claire closed the door in Sean's face, she walked straight to the kitchen for some cold
water, spotted the open wine, and poured herself a huge glass instead. Gulping half of the rich Merlot
in one desperate swallow, she followed Olivia and Afton's idle chatter as they prepared brunch. Claire hoped they would be too busy to notice her own appearance. She was sure her cheeks were on fire,
and her lips felt both chapped and swollen.

When she licked them, she swore she tasted spearmint. Groaning, she took another gulp of the red wine.

"Fettuccine Alfredo with garlic bread and Caesar salad coming right up. Not the usual brunch, but that's what I get for going shopping when I'm starved," Olivia said.

"How was work?" Afton asked.

"Fine," Claire said. "I caught up on some things."

At least she thought she had. Right now she was having a hard time remembering her own name, let
alone what she'd done at the office before her world had tilted on its axis.

"Good," Olivia said. "Oh, the concierge downstairs received a package for you today. I put it on the buffet in the dining room."

She sighed and set her wine down on the buffet next to the white box wrapped with red ribbon. A foil balloon bearing the message "Thinking of YOU" was attached to the bow. Claire undid the ribbon and looked inside while the helium balloon drifted slowly toward the ceiling. A folded card sat on top of
white tissue paper, which hid the gift.

Wondering if a client had sent the box, Claire picked up her wine and drank as she flipped open the card.

Marie Claire,

I so enjoyed our last meeting. I look forward to seeing you again soon.

She frowned as she tried to think which of her clients would send her a package without identifying himself. She set aside the card, then pulled out the wadded tissue paper to see what was inside the box.
A black leather clutch purse lay at the bottom of the cardboard container, wrapped in what looked to be
a rust-colored piece of cloth.

Claire leaned closer. Her breath came in hard when she recognized her own purse, lost since the night
of the murder. Breath froze in her chest as she saw that the cloth wrapped around her purse wasn't
really rust-colored, but had once been a white floral sash that was now stained with dried blood.

The wineglass slipped from Claire's nerveless fingers, shattering on the hardwood floor and splashing crimson streaks on her pale legs. Her eyes darted to the card, open on the smooth wood surface of the buffet. The once-innocent words became a malevolent threat.

Olivia came out of the kitchen. "Was that breaking glass? Are you all right?"

Dark eyes huge in her ashen face, Claire looked at Olivia but couldn't force any words past her
paralyzed vocal cords.

Olivia rushed toward her, ignoring the shards of glass and wine on the floor. "What is it, honey?"

"Claire, do you feel faint?" Afton asked.

"The gift," was all Claire could manage.

Olivia reached toward the box.

"Don't touch it!" Claire said quickly. "It's from him."

"Who?" Olivia and Afton asked.

"The killer."

"What do you mean?" Olivia asked.

Afton grasped Claire's hand in silent support.

"It's my purse," Claire said. "The one I lost the night of the murder. And there's some kind of fabric wrapped around it with ... God, I think they're bloodstains. And the note. Read the note."

Silence grew as both women read the note without touching it.

"I'm not imagining things, right?" Claire said. "That's a threat."

"Come away from here," Afton urged, tugging Claire toward the living room.

Claire looked down at the floor as broken glass gritted under her feet. "I should clean that up,"
she said automatically.

"Later." Afton tugged again at her hand. "Come sit down. You've had a bad shock."

"In the pocket of my raincoat," Claire responded numbly. "Use the cell number."

Within moments Olivia was dialing. She waited impatiently while it rang three times. He answered
on the fourth, sounding like his mouth was full.

"Yeah?" he said.

"This is Olivia Goodhue. Something's happened. How fast can you get here?"

"I'm at a deli just down the street. What's wrong?"

"Someone sent Claire a package. Inside is the purse she lost the night of the murder, along with a pale piece of cloth that looks like it's been splashed with blood. And there's a note saying how he can't wait
to see her again."

"Christ. Listen, don't touch anything! That's very important. Lock all the doors. I'll be right there."

"Hurry," Olivia said.

Sean didn't answer. She was talking to dead air.

Washington, B.C.
Saturday afternoon

"It's Detective Richter. Let me in."

The sound of locks opening pleased Sean—good locks and lots of them—even as it irritated him.
Come on, come on, open the damn door.

When a crack of light showed, he didn't wait for an invitation.

"Where is she?" he demanded as he pushed past Olivia.

"In the living room."

"Dump this somewhere," he said, shoving the sandwich in her hands. "And lock the door."

"Please, thank you, you're welcome," Olivia muttered. Again, she was talking to herself. Sean was
already gone.

Claire was sitting stiffly next to Afton on an overstuffed couch. Squatting on his heels, Sean took
Claire's icy hands in his. Her pale skin and rigidly composed expression made him realize how vibrant
she had been earlier in the hallway, when she'd kissed him like she'd just discovered sex.

"Claire? You okay?" he asked roughly.

"Fine." She noted his rapid breathing. "You took the starrs again. There was no need to come storming
up here."

"Just doing my job, ma'am." He said it in his best cop voice in an attempt at humor.

She smiled briefly, then looked in the direction of the dining room. "It's in there."

Sean studied her for a moment longer, seeing the effort she was making to remain calm. Good girl,
he thought admiringly.

With a gentle squeeze he released her hands and went over to the white box on the waist-high wood buffet. He saw the spilled wine and broken glass Olivia had started to clean up, and stepped around as much of the mess as he could.

Looking down into the box, his jaw clenched when he recognized the bloodstained fabric wrapped
around the purse. It matched the dress Renata Mendes had been wearing the night she was murdered. He'd been right— the killer had taken a trophy to remember his latest victim.

Sean carefully examined the black purse. Pulling a pen from his pocket, he used it to shift the fabric aside and open the purse's leather flap. A cursory glance showed a wallet and compact, but no keys. Next to the box was an open white note card. After Sean read the short message, he began cursing viciously.

When he took a breath, he smelled Claire's delicate floral perfume. She was standing very close.

"Now would be a really good time to tell me I'm getting paranoid and letting my imagination run wild," she said without much hope.

He turned and met her dark gaze, wishing he could give her that reassurance. He couldn't. All he could
do was offer a comforting squeeze of her shoulder before he pulled out his cell phone and called Aidan. When his partner answered, Sean could hear loud conversation and music in the background. Claire wasn't the only one who liked midday parties.

"Sorry to crash the fun," Sean said, "but I need you and a crime scene unit at Olivia Goodhue's
apartment ASAP."

"What—are they all right?"

"Yeah. Looks like the killer sent Claire a little present."

"Shit. Not good."

'Tell me about it." Sean hung up and steered Claire back over to the couch. "When and how did the package come?" he asked her.

Olivia answered. "The building concierge said it was delivered for her during the morning." She glanced
at the clock. "Their office closes at noon on Saturday. It won't open until eight on Monday morning."

"They'll open for me," Sean said.

"How did the killer know Claire was here?" Afton asked from her seat on the couch.

"I suppose he could have followed me from work or something," Claire said unhappily. "My business cards have my work address, and I always carry some in my wallet."

The thought that she had put her friend at risk chilled Claire. She shot to her feet. "That's it. I'm going home. I won't have Livvie in danger."

"I'm leaving and that's all there—"

"No way in hell you're going home." Sean's deep voice cut through the argument.

Claire turned on him. "Somehow I've led a killer right to Olivia. I've got to get out of here."

"Think," Sean shot back. "He's still got your keys, and he knows where you live. But you're right
about leaving here. You'll have to stay at a hotel. Staking out a public place like that will take a lot of manpower, but..." He shrugged. "Has to be done."

"She can stay at my place," Afton said. "I have a house in Georgetown, which would be much more comfortable than a hotel. There's an alarm and new locks."

"No. I won't put anyone else at risk," Claire said.

Sean ignored Claire and spoke to Afton. "That would be better than a hotel. Much easier to secure."

He turned to Claire. "Can you arrange for time off?"

"They owe me three weeks of comp time and three weeks of vacation, but—"

"Good. Take care of it with your boss."

"You really think that's how he found me? He followed me from work?"

"Did you have business cards in your purse?" Sean cut in.

Claire shuddered. "All right. I'll arrange to work from home for a while, wherever 'home' is." She
looked at Olivia. "I'm so sorry to drag you into this." She glanced back at Sean's grim features.
This icy, analytical man wasn't anything like the one who had pressed her up against the front door
and kissed her until her toes curled.

Dangerous territory. Hormones kill brain cells. She took a deep breath and tried to be as analytical as
he was. "What about Afton and her babies? It's too big a risk."

"We'll stay with my mother," Afton said quickly. "She'll be thrilled. She never wanted me to buy my
own house in the first place."

"I can't let you—" Claire began.

"Hush," Afton said. "You wouldn't even be here if it weren't for me."

Sean turned to Olivia. "I don't know how long you'll be out of this apartment, but it will be at least a week."

Olivia was already making lists in her head. "I'll start packing."

Claire's objection was lost as the doorbell chimed and Aidan's voice called out. "Detective Burke.
Let me in."

Sean went through the locks faster than Olivia had.

"Forensics team is right behind me," Aidan said, breathing more deeply than usual. "They took the elevator with all their stuff."

"The box is in the dining room if you want to take a fast look." Sean shut the door behind Aidan.
"And watch out for the broken glass."

Aidan raised an eyebrow but said nothing. He went into the apartment, talked briefly with everyone,
and walked to the dining room to study the package.

With a sense of unreality, Claire watched as Sean opened the door again for several evidence technicians, each carrying cases of equipment. Very quickly the apartment was a hive of activity. She started when she realized that Sean was calling her name in a patient voice.

"What?" she asked.

"We'll take a formal statement from you later. For now, pack your things. An officer will be here in
half an hour to take all of you to Alton's house." He didn't add that an unmarked car would make sure
no one followed, and that he really hoped the killer was stupid enough to try it.

"An escort," Claire repeated. "Great. Just great. What's happening to my life?"

Sean opened his mouth, only to be cut off.

"Oh, never mind," she said. "That's what I get for letting my toes curl."

She stalked off to pack her suitcase.

Aidan locked the door as the last of the evidence technicians left Olivia's apartment. "Okay," he said
to Sean. 'Talk."

"About what?"

"Whatever is making you look so sour. The women are safe, nobody followed them, so what's chewing on you?"

"The fact that I was right about our killer fixating on Claire."

Aidan didn't buy it. "What else?"

Sean sat on Olivia's couch and scrubbed at his face with both hands. "I've screwed things up."

"How?"

"Claire. I drove her over here and we talked. Argued. Then I got kind of distracted."

"Distracted?"

"I stuck my tongue in her mouth."

Aidan managed not to laugh out loud. "So? Did she bite it off?"

"You're laughing, and I've fucked up the case."

"Sean," Aidan began.

"I never should have done it, never should have let my dick take over in a professional situation.
She's a witness.

"Anyone with half a brain," Aidan said patiently, ignoring everything but the main point, "could look
at the two of you and see a hell of a lot more than a kiss in your future."

Sean glared at Aidan. "No way I'm that obvious."

Aidan just shook his head. "Hopeless."

"Shit. Maybe I should just take out a full page ad in the Washington Post about how I come on to witnesses."

"You don't."

"I did."

"Did she mind?"

Sean stopped pacing and almost smiled.

This time Aidan laughed. "Lighten up, cousin, and thank the gods for a break in the case."

"What break—the techs were muttering about not finding anything worth their trip out here."

"We know who the guy's intended victim is. We have her under twenty-four/seven guard. She knows what he looks like—or probably will if she sees him again. So let her go looking."

"No." Sean's voice was hard. 'Too dangerous."

"Have you asked her?"

"No."

"Then how can—"

"No! Weren't you listening? I can't think like a cop when I'm near her and if I'm not thinking like a cop
I could get her killed! This whack job is playing with her, with all of us. That's a change in his pattern. We need to get a real psychologist in on this ASAP, instead of tinkering with a profile ourselves."

Aidan rubbed a hand over his stubbly jaw. "You're right about that part. I'll secure the apartment and follow up with the management company. You jack up the shrink and check- out the security arrangements at Afton's house."

"Security is your specialty," Sean shot back as he headed toward the door. It slammed behind him as
he left.

Aidan sighed. It had been worth a try.

Washington, D.C.
Sunday

"I still don't think this is a good idea." Olivia's voice echoed in the deserted lobby of the office building.

Claire ignored her friend, showed her passport as ID to the security guard, and continued to the elevator.

"Shouldn't we wait for the police?" Olivia asked.

"I left a message on Sean's voice mail. If he wants to join us here, he's welcome to." She didn't mention the fact that she'd deliberately called his office number and left the message there, instead of on his cell phone.

Olivia's silence was almost accusatory as they rode up to Camelot's floor in the elevator.

"Besides, all I am doing is reactivating my dating service membership after a brief lapse. This has
nothing to do with the investigation," Claire said.

"Bullshit. If you're going to come up with excuses to stick your nose into police business, at least make them good ones."

Olivia marched out of the elevator and went to the door of Camelot Dating Services, Inc.

"Hang on."

The door opened, and Afton appeared. She looked stylish and carefree, dressed in a pretty summer
outfit on a hot Sunday afternoon. But as soon as she locked the door behind her friends, she started
in on Claire.

"Are you sure you should be doing this?" Afton demanded. "What about the police?"

"I'm not really doing this for the investigation," Claire said, speaking fast. "I'm just going through the catalogue looking for men who have common interests. A date possibility. That's what I paid for, right?
If I happen to come across a picture that reminds me of the killer in any way, I will of course involve
the police right away. But at this moment, I'm here looking for love."