Death Benefits

Death Benefits by Monette Michaels

LTDBooks - Romance

LTDBooks www.ltdbooks.com Copyright (C)2002 Monette Michaels NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines and/or imprisonment. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any person or persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Artwork copyright © 2002 Ariana Overton and Linnea Sinclair Published in Canada by LTDBooks, 200 North Service Road West, Unit 1, Suite 301, Oakville, ON L6M 2Y1 All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written consent of the publisher is an infringement of the copyright law. National Library of Canada Cataloguing in Publication Data Michaels, Monette, 1952Death benefits [computer file] ISBN 1-55316-052-5 (electronic) ISBN 1-55316-950-6 (REB 1100&1200) I. Title. PS3613.I25D42 2001 813'.6 C2001-902076-7 Table of Contents: PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN CHAPTER ELEVEN CHAPTER TWELVE CHAPTER THIRTEEN CHAPTER FOURTEEN CHAPTER FIFTEEN CHAPTER SIXTEEN CHAPTER SEVENTEEN CHAPTER EIGHTEEN CHAPTER NINETEEN CHAPTER TWENTY CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE Excerpt from Fatal Vision Excerpt from Ghost of a Chance ACKNOWLEDGMENTS The actions and specific settings in this book are figments of my imagination. As far as I know the viatical insurance companies which operate in Indiana are all legitimate companies providing a much needed service to terminally ill and very elderly persons. I've used landmarks in Indianapolis as backdrops for my book; however, there is no private club in Woodruff Place-I just thought it would be an interesting setting for one.

I would like to thank my Kiss of Death buddies who talked me into writing this book in a hotel bar at a writing conference in Atlanta: Lynda, Cheryl, Skully, Virginia, Judy and Jan. Thanks should also go to Dick Vaughan who encouraged me to continue to write with muscle. I hope the result is what he envisioned. Finally, with lots of love to my studly pathologist, my husband, Tom. I couldn't have done the autopsy scenes without you. PROLOGUE “Elinor Grace is dead!” “Yes?” The man in the doorway hearing the unspoken “so what” came into the large office suite closing the door behind him. Walking over to stand in front of his employer, he said, “There was no medical reason why she should die. I know. I examined her records myself.” “Old people die, Dr. Martin. Now, if you haven't any business reason for taking up my time, why don't you go home? Enjoy your weekend.” “I'm going to ask the family to have an autopsy done.” Victor Hardman sat up in his chair and said, “No, you won't.” Eric Martin shuddered at the three words. “Why not?” “Because I own you, Doctor, and you will do as you're told, or else. Now, go home, have that drink you so obviously need and think about what you owe me and the Company. Need I say I don't want to hear about this again?” “No. I understand perfectly.” Dr. Martin turned and left the room. Victor Hardman frowned after the retreating man. Doctor Martin might become a problem. He reached over and hit a stored number on his phone. CHAPTER ONE Two weeks later. Rob Craig took his house key from under the fake rock in his garden and let himself into his 1930s cottage-style home in Broad Ripple. His morning run had left him feeling invigorated and ready to face the body lying in the embalming room of the mortuary where he occasionally did his private autopsies, especially the Jewish ones. Jewish mortuaries didn't have the stainless steel tables and drains he needed since they didn't embalm the bodies. Hell, they put their dead in the ground so fast, they were barely out of rigor. If the truth were told, he'd rather the bodies were brought to his autopsy room. He didn't like making macabre small talk with strange mortuary attendants. Rob had always had trouble making small talk-even with people he knew-let alone total strangers. He knew people called him, at the very best, standoffish and, at the worst, a troublemaker. Oh well, as his mother always told him, “Robbie, you can't control what other people think about you.” Rob, taking his mother at her word, never tried. Rob walked into his kitchen, opened the refrigerator and took out a bottle of sports drink which he drank on the way to the bathroom.

“Laurel, get out of the shower.” Rob's Great Dane puppy looked up from his nap on the cool tile floor. “Yeah, I know it's hot-Indian Summer, old boy. But you've got to get out of there so I can get cleaned up. I've got to go to work.” Laurel didn't move. Rob reached in, turned the water on full blast and stepped away just in time to avoid getting hit by ninety pounds of very wet dog. Laughing, Rob stripped off his running clothes and stepped into the stall. From what Karen Grace, granddaughter of the deceased, had said upon hiring him, Elinor Grace had never had an incidence or indications of any heart problems. That didn't mean anything, of course. Elderly people can die of heart failure without ever presenting symptoms. But, he did acknowledge that such a clean medical history should have been an indicator for an autopsy. Rob shook his head in disgust. Shoddy work. That's why he had left the Med Center. They did okay with the obvious coroner cases, but, to cut costs, they overlooked the less obvious. The emergency room doctor saw an elderly woman, dead with no signs of trauma, assumed a heart attack or some other cardiovascular event and signed off on it. The family, now past their initial shock and grieving, had to go to the time and trouble of hiring a lawyer, exhuming the body and having an autopsy done to pinpoint the cause of death. What a waste. Rob stepped out of the shower and stopped short of stumbling over his very disgruntled dog. Rob grinned at the sight. “Okay, I'm sorry I turned the water on you, but you should have moved. Look, you putz, you've got Hardy feeling sorry for you. You don't need me, too.” Hardy, a twenty-pound cat of unknown origins, was grooming the Great Dane after his untimely shower. Hardy stopped licking her housemate, meowed, walked over and started licking Rob's bare wet leg. Rob stooped and scratched Hardy's head. “Thanks, old girl, but I think a towel will work faster. Appreciate the thought though.” Rob dressed in scrubs, then on his way out the door grabbed the copies of Elinor Grace's medical records sent over by the lawyer's office. Locking up the house, he reflected on his conversation with the lawyer, Mici Smith. He had gotten the impression that she was humoring her clients and didn't expect much out of this procedure or him. Mentally he shrugged, he was used to that; most people didn't understand what a forensic pathologist could do. After locking up, he placed the key, per his established routine of switching hiding places, under a stone bunny rabbit in the garden and climbed into his Dodge Ram truck. The trip to the mortuary took less than five minutes. His new pathology assistant's beat up old Sunbird was already in the lot. Good, Rob thought, maybe this med student would work out. We'll see if he can keep up on this one. An elderly woman who hadn't been embalmed and had been entombed for over a month would not be a pretty picture. Nor a sweet-smelling one. Rob walked into the back entrance of the building. He could already hear the sounds of Metallica coming from the embalming room. His diener shared his musical interests. If this one lasted longer than the

previous four, maybe they could hit some concerts and clubs together. Rob had always gone alone in the past, but some company would be nice once in a while. Hell, Rob thought, Tod probably wouldn't last either. If the smells and sights didn't get him, Rob's obsession with his work would. That's what scared off the others. That's what skewed his ability to work with his peers at the center-he was a perfectionist and they didn't give a flying fuck. Tod looked up as Rob entered the room. “Good morning, Dr. Craig. I think I've got it all set up.” Rob saw the expectant look in Tod's eyes-like an over-eager puppy starving for affection. Since he couldn't scratch his diener's ears, Rob fumbled around for an appropriate ice-breaker. “Looks great. Thanks for turning on the music-nothing like a little Metallica to get things going.” Rob guessed he'd said the right thing, because Tod's face lit up. Approaching the body on the embalming table, Rob slipped on gloves and began to unzip the body bag containing Mrs. Grace's body. “Okay, let's get started. We have here Mrs. Elinor Grace, a sixty-eight-year-old Caucasian woman of Jewish faith who died approximately one month ago of a suspected infarction and was buried unembalmed within twenty-four hours of her death. What condition would you expect the body to be in?” Rob turned to look at Tod, who had been watching the bag as Rob unzipped it, but had yet to open all the way. “Well, Dr. Craig...” “Tod, call me Rob. This isn't the med center.” “Okay, uh, Rob. The deceased would have no rigor since the enzymes that cause the muscles to stiffen up would have dissipated.” Tod stopped as if to see if he was right so far. “Good, go on. I'll stop you if I disagree.” “Uh, well, there would be dependent livor mortis-the lower part of her body would be a purplish color with mottling above it. Superior skin would be pale, as would pressure points such as the elbows and other bony areas that had made contact with a hard surface like the coffin. Because she would have been unembalmed, her abdomen would be protuberant from the gas-producing bacteria in her gastrointestinal tract. There would be autolysis, the cellular detail in her body would disappear because of the lack of oxygen to the cells. I guess that's all. Other than that she would be in pretty good shape unless the coffin had leaks or cracks so that insects and worms could get inside and do other damage.” “Very good. I'm impressed.” This second-year medical student was more with it than some first year residents. “Where did you learn all that?” Tod turned slightly red at the praise. “Well, I studied some of the forensic texts after I got this job, and then I went to the coroner's library and read some of your old dictated cases. I'm not kissing up to you when I say that I learned more from your case dictations than the books. Really!” Rob was speechless. He had never had someone look up to him before-other than his pets. “Well, thanks, I appreciate the compliment. Let's get to work and see what killed this woman.” “Yeah, it sure wasn't a heart attack if her medical records were accurate,” Tod said as he turned to confirm that the instruments were ready and laid out for the autopsy.

“What makes you say that?” “Well, I don't know, but it's a gut feeling I've got. The medical records have no indications of any ill health other than the usual colds, flu, and such. Her family history shows no heart problems. If there's a fire, there has usually been some smoke. No smoke.” Tod shrugged. “No smoke. I couldn't have put it better myself. My gut tells me the same thing. Tell me, what do you plan to specialize in after you graduate?” “Pathology and then a fellowship in Forensics. That's why I would have killed to get this job-no matter what everyone else said.” Tod grinned. “And just what did everyone else say? Or, better yet, let me guess. ‘Watch out for that Dr. Craig, Tod. He's a crazy, obsessed, anti-social bastard.’ Something like that?” Tod nodded, embarrassed. “Yeah, something like that. But they're wrong.” “How do you know? You've only worked with me for a week.” “I just know. They're wrong. Hey, just ask around sometime-my classmates think I'm weird because I want to be a pathologist.” Rob didn't know what to say about Tod's willingness to accept him at face value, so he warned, “You might want to wear a mask. The smell when we get to the gut will be awful.” In what was for him a companionable silence, broken only by the throbbing base of the Metallica CD, Rob unzipped the body bag and exposed Elinor Grace to the harsh light of the living world. Without even asking, his assistant had turned down the CD player and switched on the cassette recorder for Rob's gross dictation. Rob dictated the preliminary information he had previously covered with Tod, including pertinent medical history and official cause of death and then had Tod help him turn over the body. “Upon complete visual examination, there are no abrasions or indications of external trauma of any kind on the deceased.” Rob stopped dictating and clicked the foot pedal to pause the recorder. Rob took several pictures. “Help me turn her back over.” Tod had anticipated Rob's request and was already positioned to turn Mrs. Grace over. Rob shook his head. He had never had a diener who had worked in tandem with him before. Rob took more pictures of the front. His gut and the note from the lawyer advising him of the family's theory that Elinor had been murdered said to document the absence of abrasions and any signs of trauma. As a highly trained scrub nurse would have done for a surgeon, Tod had the scalpel ready and waiting for Rob to use in the process of getting into the chest. Rob made a large V-shaped incision around the breasts by cutting diagonally down from each side so that at the bottom of the V, the skin and attached tissue could be pulled up over the deceased's face. Like a blanket shielding her eyes from the process. Rob then made a midline cut down her abdomen and pulled the skin with its tissues to each side. With the ribs exposed, Rob accepted the rib cutters from Tod, cut the ribs protecting the heart and placed them on a tray.

“Let's see how your heart looks, Elinor.” Rob was in the zone now-communing with the body itself, asking it to give up its secrets to him. Rob cut the right carotid, then the left and finally the left subclavian. Making a cut just past the arch of the aorta, he removed the heart intact so that he could look at all the major vessels in situ. “Looks normal on gross. I'll want some slides.” Tod held the tray for the heart and took it over to the side bench where he would later take the tissue for the slides. Rob continued his examination of the chest cavity. “You were in excellent shape, Elinor. You could have lived a lot longer on this heart and lungs. You sure as hell didn't die from any infarction I can see.” Getting ready to look at the brain, Rob turned to ask for the Stryker saw and realized that Tod had again anticipated him. A warm glow of what could almost be called contentmentflowed through him. “Thanks, Tod. As you guessed, we're going to keep hunting for cause of death. I'm ninety-nine percent sure she didn't die from heart failure and the lungs look good, too. Our guts were right.” Rob made an extra effort to include Tod in the process. No diener had ever been able to share the zone with him. Tod smiled and nodded. Rob started up the Stryker and gently placed the flap of skin back down over the open chest cavity. The saw would vibrate through the bone and stop at the tissue, just like it did when taking off a cast and stopping at the skin. One saw, two uses. Rob swiftly and cleanly removed the top of the skull. The brain looked normal-a gelatinous gray mass with peaks and valleys. “It looks normal.” Tod voiced Rob's exact thoughts. “Yes, it does. We'll weigh it and take tissue for a tox screen.” Tod looked at him with a satisfied expression. “Poison?” “Maybe. I'm not ruling out anything, yet. We'll take all the usual tissues for a tox-brain, liver, kidneys, and ocular vitreous. Since she wasn't embalmed, we'll try to see if the bacteria left us anything in her stomach contents.” Rob saw Tod grimace. The autopsy had been routine so far, but the next half hour promised to be gruesome. Unembalmed abdominal cavities were gross-even for old-timers like himself. “Let's put on the space suits. Who knows what kind of stuff is growing in Mrs. Grace. Sorry, Elinor, we know you can't help it.” Tod got the suits, and they both quickly suited up. The opening of the abdominal cavity was as bad as Rob thought it would be. With Tod's efficient assistance, he got in and out quickly with enough samples to satisfy the most Type-A toxicologist. Since he had seen nothing out of the normal in Elinor's body, he went ahead and took samples from under her nails. Rob didn't want to overlook any possible avenue for evidence.

“Good job. Let's put Mrs. Grace back together so the mortician can fix her up all nice and pretty, then she can go back into the ground for her well-deserved rest.” “Okay, Rob.” Tod turned and retrieved all the removed body parts and handed them respectfully to Rob who carefully reconstructed the remains of Elinor Grace. “Don't worry Elinor, we'll get the evidence so that the police can find your murderer.” Then he rezipped the body bag, once again shielding Elinor from the prying eyes of the world. “Rob, you're sure it's murder. How?” “Considering the lack of evidence of heart failure or any other system failure, then it's Occam's razor: Don't complicate things more than you need to; usually the simplest hypothesis is the best. “Why not suicide? How do you know she didn't take poison?” “You saw her. You read her charts. You read the family reasons for the autopsy. Do you really think she committed suicide?” Rob looked at Tod. “No. I don't. Are the police going to be able to get the guy who did this?” “I don't know, Tod, but it won't be because we didn't give them everything we could. I can promise you that much.” CHAPTER TWO Three weeks later. “What else could go wrong today?” muttered Michelle Smith as she looked around the dimly lit and crowded elevator. The non-moving elevator. As the walls closed in on her, Mici whispered repeatedly under her breath, “Breathe, damn it"-a mantra that might just get her through this living death. Mici knew that her fellow prisoners were looking at her, wondering what her problem was. Tough. Let them. If someone didn't get her out of this elevator-and soon-she would really give them cause to stare. God, she hated small spaces! As if some god in the machine heard her prayer, the elevator started jerking downward. With each slowly moving second, Mici voiced her mantra. Finally, the doors opened. Freedom. Mici breathed a sigh of relief and vowed to never take an elevator again-even if the probate courts were on the top floor rather than the seventeenth! She knew it was an unreasonable fear, but she couldn't help it. Her father had a lot to answer for. **** “Great!” Mici gasped after climbing the six flights of stairs to the offices of Benjamin, Tyler and Harrison, P.C. “Everyone went home.” At six o'clock on a Friday evening, there was usually some die hard associate still working. Oh well, she thought, I guess they have lives. My pillow and that mystery book will wait, their significant others won't. Mici dropped her briefcase and fumbled for her office key. Hell, she needed a bottle of aspirin, a cold Pepsi and a chair, in that order. Finally making it inside her office, she noticed a large package on her desk with a note attached. Mici picked up the note and read,

“Boss, Well here it is-the Grace autopsy. Karen Grace brought it over around 3 P.M. Said to call her tonight-no matter when you got in. Urgent. I didn't peek-tempted to-but didn't. Sherry." Mici grinned. She knew what it must have cost Sherry not to peek. Oh well, she'd let her read it Monday. Good secretaries were hard to find, so you kept them happy. Before she even attempted to read, she needed that aspirin and Pepsi. Mici walked over to the small bar refrigerator cleverly hidden in the built-in wall units. It had taken years, but she had finally earned the right to a corner office with lots of windows and high ceilings. Already she had made the room her own-pale peach walls set off by the mahogany of the built-in wood shelves, Chinese wool area rugs on the parquet wood floors, and pastel water colors-the feminine touches needed to lessen the severity of the formerly masculine domain of a recently deceased partner. Her office gave her peace of mind; she had made it in a man's world. Headache assuaged for the time being, Mici looked at the extremely thick report and said to no one in particular, “What did Dr. Craig think he was writing? The sequel to War and Peace?” The two times she had spoken with him by phone he'd been so short with her that she knew how he had come by his antisocial reputation. The only information she could get out of him was that the report would be done after the toxicology screens came back. Now it was here. Opening the report, the words “Elinor Grace was murdered” leapt off the page. Even though she was somewhat prepared for this, it was still a shock. Before reading any farther, Mici picked up the phone and dialed Karen Grace. “Karen, this is Mici. I just saw the report. Your family's suspicions were correct. I'm so sorry.” Mici listened to Karen's anguish over her Gran's death at the hands of an unknown person and the relief that the waiting to know was over. “Wait a minute, Karen. Slow down. Did you say something about a phone call and Elinor's death?” Mici sat stunned as Karen Grace told her that the real reason the family had insisted on the exhumation and autopsy was a phone call that Karen had received from an unknown caller. They had suspected it was murder all along; they just needed the physical proof. “Karen, if you knew this over a month ago, why didn't you tell me at the time. We could have gone to the police with this.” Mici rubbed her temples, willing her headache not to return. As Mici listened to Karen's explanation, she flipped through the report and read that Elinor had been poisoned with nicotine. She cringed at the photos of Elinor's poor body and vowed that someone would pay for her death and the indignities that came with being a murder victim. Mici interrupted Karen's flow of grief and anger. “Karen, I'm taking this to the police tonight....Yes, you heard me, tonight. I don't care what Dr. Craig said about the police not listening. The police will listen to me.” **** Mici stared at Homicide Detective Mitch Adams in disbelief. This just wasn't her day-stuck elevators,

beloved client proven murdered, and now this-a stubborn, close-minded police detective. Mici massaged her pounding temples. She didn't think Excedrin had a number for her current headache. “Ms. Smith, one more time. You have nothing that convinces me that Mrs. Grace was murdered. Nothing.” “Detective Adams, I will admit everything we have alone wouldn't indicate a murder, but together they make pretty convincing circumstantial evidence. Look at this logically, we have an autopsy report...” Detective Adams interrupted Mici. “Look at what I have here on my desk, Ms. Smith. See these stacks of folders? Those are the case files for the murders committed in Indianapolis to date this year. There are well over a hundred cases there. On these cases, we either know who did it or have a pretty good idea. Now, you want me to add to the very large pile of cases, being handled by my overworked homicide detectives, a case where the woman could have accidentally ingested her rose poison? I don't think so.” Mici recognized a stone wall when she met one. Standing up, she looked Detective Adams in the eye and said, “You want more evidence. I'll get you more evidence. Then you'll have to open one more file for your stack whether you like it or not.” CHAPTER THREE Mici hated Broad Ripple. Whoever had laid out these streets had a weird sense of humor. After making three wrong turns and hitting two dead ends, she finally pulled up in front of Dr. Craig's house. The young man at the mortuary assured her that Rob, as he called him, would be home. Mici wasn't sure how most pathologists worked, but she was sure that they didn't operate out of the back of a mortuary and their house. If it hadn't been for the assurances of a prosecutor in the criminal division, she would have been seriously questioning Dr. Craig's bona fides at this point. Mici shut off the engine of her little red James Bond Beemer. Marshaling her arguments, she stared at Dr. Craig's house. It was typical of the 1930s cottage-style-one level clapboard with a front porch. A white picket fence completed the picture of what could have been a charming little abode if not for the overgrown yard and garden given over to weeds. Dr. Craig was a slob. Now, he had two strikes against him if you counted his lack of social skills on the phone. Mici didn't care how brilliant the man was-there was no excuse for being impolite and messy. Oh well, she thought, beggars can't be choosy. There weren't many self-employed forensic pathologists. “No guts, no glory, Mici. Stop stalling, get out of the car, go up there and ask him for help in solving Elinor's murder. The worst he can do is say ‘no.'” Self-consciously, Mici looked around to see if anybody saw her talking to herself. Seeing no one, Mici got out of her car and approached a lopsided gate. Fumbling with the latch, she finally entered the yard. As she picked her way up the overgrown brick walk, Mici's peripheral vision registered a dark streak approaching her from the side yard. Before she could assume a defensive posture-or run-she found herself flat on her back straddled by the largest dog she had ever had the misfortune to meet. Being a cat lover, her dog acquaintances were few and far between. “Nice doggie?” Mici faltered. “Please get off of me.”

Mici didn't even know if dogs understood “please,” but in this situation she felt it wouldn't hurt to try. The teeth showing around the slobbery, lolling tongue looked particularly fearsome. “Laurel, heel!” The stern order came from behind the beast. She recognized the deep baritone from her phone conversations with Rob Craig. The impolite slob now had a third strike against him-he owned a small pony masquerading as a dog. Wonderful. After Laurel removed himself from her body, Mici struggled to sit up. Not looking at Rob, she tried to figure out how she could pull her skirt down and stand up at the same time. Before she could take action, Rob moved to her side and literally picked her up. Always polite, Mici looked up to thank him for his assistance and... “Oh my God!” “Are you hurt? Laurel still has puppy control problems.” Diverted, Mici said, “Puppy-that small horse is only a puppy?” Talking about dogs seemed a safe topic. It was better than blurting out that no one, absolutely no one, had thought to mention that he was a stud-a grade A prime hunk of pure masculinity. A half-dressed one at that. Hell, she might never be the same again. “Yeah, Laurel's almost a year old and ninety pounds. He's a Great Dane and will be two hundred pounds when fully grown. Are you okay-whoever you are? You look flushed.” Rob knew that he had never seen this woman before. He'd have remembered legs like hers along with the rest of the package that went with them. She wasn't beautiful, but she was-striking and healthy looking-not one of those waif types. Funny, he thought, he should know her. “I'm Mici Smith. The Grace's lawyer. We've talked. On the phone ... you know ... about Elinor's case?” Mici groaned. Great, you can't even put a simple sentence together. How are you going to convince him to help you find a murderer? How are you going to stop staring at him long enough to figure out where to start looking for a murderer? Remember, he's rude, a slob and an owner of a small horse who knocks people over. “Why are you here? Something in my report you don't understand?” “In a way.” “Are you going to ask your questions? Or, do I have to play “Twenty Questions” and guess?” “You might ask me to sit down.” Mici could care less about sitting down, but she was struggling to get some control of the situation. She also wanted to put some distance between herself and the dog now drooling at her feet. Pointing out his rudeness might give her a better bargaining posture. “Fine. Let's sit on the porch.” Rob led the way to the porch and slouched into a large wicker chair. Avoiding the obvious splinters, Mici gingerly sat in the wicker chair's mate. A little mold, mildew and insect droppings weren't going to hurt at this point-she had already wiped up the brick walk with her derriere.

“Do you live alone, Dr. Craig?” Mici watched with dismay as Laurel ambled over and plopped himself at her feet-blocking any chance of escape. “Call me Rob and yeah, I do. Why?” “That explains the mess, then.” Mici moved her feet away from the gusty breaths of the contented puppy. “Lady, you didn't come here to critique my living habits. What do you want?” As he spoke, Rob leaned forward in his chair narrowing the distance between the two of them. “The police wouldn't open an investigation into Elinor's death. They said as far as they were concerned it was accidental-no matter what your report said.” A loud doggy snore came from the vicinity of her feet as Laurel snuggled closer to Mici. “I told the Graces that would be IPD's response.” “I hate people who say they told you so.” “Tough. You don't have to love me, lady. I gave the Graces the benefit of my knowledge of the local cops, and I can't help it if they-and you-didn't heed my advice not to spin your wheels. You'd do better hiring a private investigator to turn up some more evidence. Then, you can go to the police.” “That's why I'm here.” “For what? I don't know any PIs.” “Neither do I. The Graces and I want to hire you to find the evidence to convince the police.” “You've been watching way too many “Quincy” reruns. I'm a pathologist-not a detective.” “You're a forensic pathologist, Rob. You have just as much crime scene knowledge, if not more, than any private investigator. Plus, this is a medical crime.” “You're crazy, lady. I don't have the time nor the inclination to go haring off after Elinor's murderer. I'm not your man.” “Then your reputation is all smoke and mirrors?” “What reputation?” “That you're a brilliant medical investigator-the Sherlock Holmes of forensic pathology. The...” Mici stopped. She could see he was interested. Time to pull the bait away. “Oh, well, I can see they were wrong.” “Who's they?” Rob straightened up in his chair. “I'm not aware that anybody in this county has ever said any complimentary things about me.” “You have a fan club in the prosecutor's office. Even some defense lawyers like your work, now that you've gone private. You have developed a reputation for getting the job done. Making the evidence stick. That's why I need you, doctor.” Mici looked Rob straight in the eyes. No, she didn't see vulnerability in that gray gaze, did she? “Damn.” Rob turned away from Mici's searching look.

“What does that mean?” Mici leaned forward and woke up the sleeping dog. Mistake. Now, she had a Great Dane's head in her lap. “It means I think I've just been sucker-punched, lady.” As if to erase the sting of the imaginary punch, Rob rubbed his flat stomach. “I did no such thing. I was just explaining to you why we thought you'd be interested in proving the police wrong.” Mici knew she had him now. Not thinking, she started scratching the dog's ears and was rewarded with a doggy sigh. Why this monster was just an overgrown pussy cat. “Don't push your luck, counselor. You can take off your gloves, now. I'll do it.” At his concession, Rob got up and walked over to the edge of his porch. “No, we'll do it.” Rob turned from his contemplation of the unkempt yard and stared at the woman turning his dog into a pile of mush. “Hell no. I work alone.” “I'd heard that...” Rob jerked. “What did you hear?” “You don't play nicely with others. You aren't a team player. You are a lone...” Mici ticked the offenses off on her fingers until Laurel whined and nudged her to pet him again. “You make me sound like some little boy.” “All men are little boys, Doctor, in one way or another....Forget it.” Mici pushed Laurel away and got up as if to leave. “I guess the Graces and I were expecting too much from you. After all, you're just a doctor.” “Whoa, wait a minute, are you saying I wouldn't be able to find more evidence to lead to Elinor's murderer?” Hearing the indignant tone in Rob's response, Mici smiled. “Why no, Doctor, I didn't say that ... you did. I seem to remember that you denied being “Quincy” as you criticized my television watching habits. Or didn't I hear you correctly?” Rob groaned and ran his fingers through his hair. “I hate people who throw my own words back at me.” “Guess we're even then since I already told you I hate people who told me so. Anyway, it's obvious you don't want to work with me on this. The point is moot. I'll find another man to help me.” Rob would later examine the quick tide of anger that flooded him at her last words. Right now, he needed to turn this conversation around. “Okay, we'll play it your way. Just so I can prove you and ‘them’ wrong. I will work with you. You can forget about finding another man.” Rob pointed to his bare chest and continued, “I'm your man. And for your information, and don't hesitate to pass it along to your sources, I can play well with others if I choose to. I just haven't found the need to do so before.” Mici smiled. She'd got him hook, line and sinker. That negotiator's trick of turning the tables on an opponent gets them every time. Now, would she be able to handle him? Well, it should be interesting to

say the least. “There's a first time for everything, Rob. Where shall we start?” “Elementary, my dear Mici. The scene of the crime. Elinor Grace's house.” CHAPTER FOUR Rob pulled his red Dodge Ram 4 x 4 to the gate at the Grace's property. Turning to Mici he said, “I thought the Graces knew we were coming. What's with the closed gate?" “They never leave it open. Press the button on the intercom and they'll buzz us in.” Rob knew the Graces had money. He remembered thinking that Dan Grace always seemed to have too much money and not enough dedication to his studies when they had been in medical school and internship together. Grace had been a regular party animal. The house-no, correction, the mansion-he was approaching underlined that observation. Well, Rob, old boy, get over it. Dan has money, but he also just lost his grandmother. So, try to be nice to the guy-even though he is a Grade-A asshole. “Are we going to get out or are we going to sit here all day and stare at the house?” Shaking away his thoughts, Rob said, “Sorry, just a little bit overwhelmed by the house. Elinor Grace must have had a lot of money.” “Well, yes and no.” Intrigued by the non-answer, Rob turned and looked at Mici who had been unusually quiet during the ride over to the Graces. If Rob didn't know better, he would think she was nervous. “What does yes-and-no mean? Either she had money or she didn't. A house like this takes money.” “Elinor's husband tied everything up in a family trust during Elinor's life. The house and all its contents were part of the trust. She got an allowance from the trust-a generous one at that.” “What happens to the trust now?” “It dissolves and everything is divided fifty-fifty between Dan and Karen.” “Ummm,” Rob muttered. “What does ‘ummm’ mean?” “Nothing-just ummm. What happened to Dan and Karen's parents?” “They died in a car accident when the children were very young. Elinor and her husband raised them.” “That explains it,” Rob mumbled as he swung out of the truck. Dan had been raised and petted by overindulgent grandparents. Rob compared his life with his mother and decided he would rather have had his Mom and their relative poverty than the silver spoon existence Dan Grace had. “Explains what?” Mici asked as she waited on Rob to join her. “Nothing important.” Rob made a mental note that Mici had the ears of a wolf. Rob and Mici walked up the slate sidewalk. As they approached the house, the huge double doors

swung open and the Graces’ butler, Gerard, appeared. “Miss Karen and Dr. Grace are awaiting you in the library. Follow me, please.” The butler's demeanor and words reminded Rob of all the “B” movies he'd ever seen. Rob turned and gave Mici a look as he followed his first live butler. Mici whispered to him, “Close your mouth and stop gawking. Some people have butlers.” Rob leaned over and whispered back, “No one I know does.” “Shush, he'll hear you.” Approaching the library, the raised voices of Dan and Karen Grace could be heard. “Why in the hell are they coming over here?” Dan Grace asked. “Keep your voice down. They'll hear. Rob has some questions about Grandma's death.” “She's dead, Karen. Rob can't do anything about that. Admit it. You still have the hots for him. You...” Dan's voice lowered to an imperceptible murmur. Mici stopped, pulled Rob behind a pillar and hissed, “I didn't know you knew the Graces.” Rob putting his body between her and the eavesdropping butler whispered in her ear, “You never asked. I went to med school and through internship with Dan and may have met Karen at a party once or twice. Hell, I don't even remember. I didn't think it was important.” “Well, it sounds like it could be. Maybe I had better handle the questioning instead of you. Obviously, Dan has a problem with you looking into the death further, and Karen has, I believe Dan called it, the ‘ hots’ for you.” “What does that have to do with the questioning? Anyway, as I told you, I have never even formally met Karen Grace-and why am I explaining that to you? That isn't the important issue here. Finding the murderer of Elinor Grace is, and I intend to do the job you asked me to do. So, let's just go in there and do it.” “Fine.” Mici led the way into the room. The Grace siblings were sitting on a leather sofa in front of a gas fireplace speaking in lower tones than before. Hearing the announcement by the butler, Dan and Karen turned toward the visitors. Mici beating Rob to the punch made introductions. “Rob, this is Karen Grace, and Dan, I gather, you already know.” Karen Grace turned very red and silently acknowledged Rob's presence with a slight nod. Rob trying to cover Karen's obvious embarrassment said, “Hello Dan, long time since physiology labs. How do you do, Karen? Weren't we introduced at a med school mixer?” Karen and Dan nodded in acknowledgment to Rob's attempt to make small talk. An uncomfortable silence settled over the room. Breaking the silence, Mici said, “Well, let's sit down and get started. The sooner we can get the information we need, the sooner we can put together enough evidence to find your grandmother's killer.”

“What makes you think you two can find something the police refuse to believe even exists?” Dan Grace asked. “Oh, Dan, please. They're just trying to help,” Karen pleaded with tears in her eyes. “Please let them try-for grandma's sake.” “She's dead, Karen. I keep telling you nothing they do is going to change that. Why can't you get that through your head?” Dan's emotions were almost palpable. “Dan, please. You know the caller said it was murder. You agreed we should pursue it.” “No, you wanted to pursue it. I only agreed to the autopsy. You know what your problem is, sister dear? You feel as guilty as hell that you weren't here that day. Your damn Arts League was more important than our grandmother. Isn't that so?” Dan attacked. Rob and Mici watched as Karen broke down and sobbed. Mici went over to Karen and attempted to comfort the distraught girl. Turning to look at Rob, she nodded her head toward Dan and mouthed the words, “He's all yours.” Rob turned toward Grace. “God, Dan, do you pull the wings off flies, too? Why don't we start with where you were that day?” Dan threw Rob an angry look, but answered, “I was covering the ER. I got home at one o'clock in the afternoon after a twelve-hour shift.” “So, you found her?” “Yes, that should have been in the report.” “Bear with me, Dan, I just want to double check the facts. Where did you find your grandmother?” “She was on the floor in her bedroom.” “Was anything disturbed? Gate opened? Doors unlocked that shouldn't be? Where were the servants?” “No. No. No. They had the day off.” Choosing to ignore Dan's abruptness, Rob continued, “Was Elinor dead when you found her?” “Yes.” “How long do you think she had been lying there?” “How the hell should I know? I'm not a forensics doc-you are.” Dan stood up and moved over to the French doors which overlooked a large formal garden. “Come on, Dan, describe her to me. You went to med school. Tell me what you found.” Rob prodded. His classmate stared out the window. What did he see out there? The gardens prepared for a winter's rest or his grandmother's body in an eternal sleep? After a few moments, Dan turned toward Rob and started talking. “She was not breathing and rigor had not set in. She was pale and cool to the touch.” Dan raised his hand as if to ward Rob off. “And, before you ask, no, I didn't attempt to revive her. It would have been useless. When I called 911, I believe I told them that a paramedic unit would be futile, but they sent one anyway with the sheriff.”

Rob leaned forward in his chair. “Dan, think carefully, did you smell anything-note any vomit-foaming at the mouth?” “No, she looked like DOAs in the ER who had infarcted.” Dan looked Rob in the eyes. “I thought she had a cardiac arrest and I believe I said so to the paramedics who responded.” Rob nodded; that is what the report said. “Okay, tell me about the phone call that you received.” Karen Grace spoke up, “I got the call. Dan wasn't here.” Mici took over, “What did the caller sound like?” “It was distorted, but I think it had to be a male ... oh, I guess it could have been anybody ... it sounded stilted, like a machine.” “Could it have been a recording? Did the caller answer you?” “Now, that you mention it, he didn't respond to my questions. The caller repeated the message twice and then I heard a click.” Mici patted Karen's hand. “Go on, what was the message?” “I'll never forget it. He said, ‘Your grandmother was murdered.’ He said it twice.” Dan jumped in. “Karen called me at the hospital. She was incoherent. I came home and she told me what had happened. I thought it was just a crank call-you know-someone read the obit and thought to play a sick joke.” “What made you decide to call me and ask for the exhumation?” Mici asked the siblings. “I didn't want to exhume grandmother; Karen did. In fact, I advised against it.” “I had to know,” Karen cried pleadingly turning toward first Rob, then Mici. “I just had to know if Grandma was murdered. Wouldn't you want to know?” “Yes, Karen, I would,” Mici said. “Why didn't you tell me about the mysterious call when you first contacted me?” “I thought you might try to talk me out of it-like Dan tried to-treat me like a hysterical grieving person.” “It doesn't make any difference now,” Rob interjected. “We know Elinor was murdered and we know how, but we still need to know why. Once we find the motive maybe we can figure out who did it. So, I guess my next question is: Why would someone want to kill your grandmother?” Dan interjected, “That's just it. Someone wouldn't. It's crazy to even think that someone would.” “But the fact is someone did, so tell me about Elinor's activities,” Rob asked looking at both the Grace siblings. Shredding a tissue, Karen stated, “Grandma had given up all her volunteer activities after Grandpa died. In fact, I took over some of her volunteer jobs just to keep the family name involved and to monitor the monies donated through Grandpa's foundation.” “Did your Grandmother mention anything strange happening recently?” Rob asked Karen.

“Like what?” “Such as phone calls, people approaching her when she was out, visits to doctors...” Rob trailed off not sure exactly what he was looking for or how to find it. “Karen, what about that insurance thing?” Dan threw out as he moved away from the window back toward the others. “Oh, yeah, that's right, I forgot about that.” Karen turned from her brother and looked at Rob and Mici. “Grandma was trying to get some money from her life insurance policy.” Mici stiffened. “Why? I never heard about this? Was Elinor having money problems?” “I'm not quite sure. She just mentioned one evening at dinner that she wished Grandpa hadn't tied up the money in the trust,” Karen replied. Dan added, “She told me she wanted to make gifts to Karen and me and the Trust didn't give her that kind of power.” “But that wasn't true.” Mici covered both of the siblings with a comprehensive glance. “Elinor had the ability to invade the principal of the trust for the benefit of herself or you two. I thought she knew that. Why didn't she call me?” “I don't know, Mici, but she said that she had made an application to some company. Do you remember the name of it, Dan?” Dan thought about it for a while and finally said, “I think it was something like Benefit Life? No ... maybe it was Life Benefits?” He shrugged. “Life Benefits is a viatical company,” Mici said. Seeing confusion on the faces of the other people in the room, she continued, “It buys life insurance policies for a percentage of face. You then make the company the owner of the policy and name them as the beneficiary. You die; they get the face amount. However, in my experience, I don't think that Elinor would have qualified. She was too young and very healthy.” Rob looked at Mici. “What kind of insureds do they usually look for?” “Terminally ill insureds or very old people with a life expectancy of less than five years.” “Wait a minute, you said Life Benefits? I think that's where Eric Martin went after his license to practice medicine was restricted,” Dan offered, looking at Rob for his agreement. “Yeah, I remember, he was a classmate of ours. I recall reading in the paper about his chemical addiction problems. Say, didn't you used to run around with him, Dan?” “That was in medical school and during internship. I just remember this because he was a classmate-not because he is currently a close friend.” Rob noted that Dan's answer really didn't address his question, but let it slide. It probably wasn't important anyway. Mici chimed in, “Maybe this Dr. Martin would be a good person to call. If Elinor did sell her policy, then we would know that she needed money. My question is if she received such money, where is it?” Dan and his sister looked at each other and then turned toward Mici and shrugged.

Rob feeling that they had gotten as much as they were going to get out of the Grace siblings brought the interview to a conclusion. “Thanks for your help. Mici and I will check into Life Benefits and get back to you. If you think of anything else, call either one of us-at anytime.” **** Driving back to Rob's house, the two rode in silence for a few minutes after leaving the Grace siblings. As with the Grace interview, Mici broke the silence first. “What do we do next? Go to Life Benefits and talk to this Dr. Martin?” Rob didn't answer Mici right away. Something about this was strange, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. Well, it would come to him later. “Yeah, I guess since that is our only lead, we might as well pursue it.” Rob also wanted to touch base with the Sheriff's officer and paramedics who responded to the 911 call. He had read the report, but he wanted their impressions of the scene beyond what was in their call sheets. “Shall I call and make arrangements first thing on Monday, then?” “Go ahead, but don't mention my name or that I am coming along. I want to surprise Eric Martin.” “Why on earth would you want to do that? Exactly, what went on between you, Martin and Dan in medical school?” “Caught that did you?” Rob glanced over at Mici. Damn, he thought he had kept the dislike he felt for both of them out of his voice. Mici had heard it. Well, Dan hadn't helped any by being so prickly. No use dragging up ancient history. Nothing that went on back then could be important now. “How could I miss it?” retorted Mici. “Dan and you were cordial but not buddy-buddy. The mention of Dr. Martin's name had almost a chilling effect. Exactly what went on in medical school?” “Male hormones-that's all. Chalk it up to being young and competitive.” Rob shut up as he concentrated on making a tricky left turn onto the street leading to his house. “Well, thanks, that sure tells me a lot,” grumbled Mici. Rob pulled into a space in front of his house, shut off the motor, then turned to look at the disgruntled woman beside him. “Don't worry about it, Mici. Whatever happened among the three of us in the past, I hope I've gotten beyond it. Suffice it to say, we came from different backgrounds and valued different things in life.” “So, they broke a rule or something, you didn't agree with their ethics and you reported them.” Mici concluded as she got out of the truck and strode to her little car. Rob sat stunned as Mici got in her car. She waved as she pulled away. As he got out of his truck, he muttered, “Jesus Christ, Rob, you're in trouble now-she's too intuitive for her-and your-own good.” CHAPTER FIVE Dr. Eric Martin had a dilemma. Truth be told, he had more than one dilemma, but he could only deal with one at a time. Drinking and drugs would do that to you. Make you incapable of dealing with life.

“Dr. Martin, your ten o'clock is here. Shall I show them in?” “Them? I thought my appointment was with a lawyer-a Ms. Smith?” Martin's dilemma was early. “Well, that's right, sir, but she has a gentleman with her. I didn't catch his name. Sorry.” “That's all right, Vera, show them in. I'm ready.” Martin wasn't really. Maybe he could bluff his way through this. He was between a rock and a hard place on this one. Damn. **** Rob and Mici left the Life Benefit's building. By a mutual unspoken consent, they avoided discussing the interview until they were settled in Mici's office. “Well, what do you think?” Rob asked after Mici's secretary had brought him a coffee and Mici a Pepsi. “About what in particular?” Mici asked looking across her desk at Rob. “What do you think about this viatical thing? Was it on the up-and-up?” “My head tells me it could be legitimate...” “But?” “But ... my gut tells me ... no, it stinks. No reputable company would underwrite a sixty-eight-year-old healthy woman with a life expectancy of seventy-five plus years. No matter what Dr. Martin says. They want a quick return on their money-that means usually less than five years, more like two,” Mici explained. “That's what they got with Elinor, all right,” Rob paused for effect, “a quick return.” Mici sat up and gasped, “What do you mean?” Rob persisted. “What do you think I mean?” He wanted Mici to add it up for herself. “You think they murdered Elinor to get a quick return on their money, don't you? Isn't that reaching? It's absolutely diabolical.” Rob looked at Mici and wondered how she could have survived in the legal world so long without realizing that true evil existed in the world. He knew. He had seen it up close and personal in almost every homicide coroner's case he ever did. Couching his response carefully, Rob said, “I think that it is a very great possibility that Eric Martin or his bosses at Life Benefits might have done that very thing.” “Okay, let's say you're right. What do we do to either prove or disprove this theory of yours?” Mici searched through her drawer, finally pulling out a large bottle of aspirin. “Not that I am agreeing with you ... just keeping my options open. I agree that we need to look into this policy buying, if for no other reason to find out how much money Elinor got and when she got it.” Mici tried to open the bottle without success, then reached for a letter opener to pry the cap off. “We can't go to the police-they don't even acknowledge Elinor was murdered. Without a criminal case or some other sort of proof, we can't get a court order to force Life Benefits to open its records.” “We could ask Eric Martin,” Rob said watching with interest as Mici fumbled with the child-proof cap on the aspirin. “Here, let me open that before you stab yourself. How often do you have headaches?”

Mici shoved the bottle across the desk. She made a face as Rob opened the bottle with ease. “I live on aspirin,” Mici replied as she accepted the open bottle, then swallowed two tablets with a Pepsi chaser. “Why would you ask Dr. Martin? He wasn't very forthcoming this morning. He clammed up after giving us the company-line on medical protocol.” “Don't you know you shouldn't take medicine with soft drinks?” “Yes, doctor, I do know. Answer my question. You keep avoiding my interest into your great insight into Eric Martin's character. So fess up, why are you so down on him?” Rob sighed, she wasn't going to leave the issue alone, he could tell. “Martin is weak. He was a follower in medical school-you know, easily led.” Mici pressed the issue. “Easily led to what? To bed? To drink? To what?” “Drugs, booze, gambling, women-you name it, Eric did it to be one of the guys. He was well on his way to chemical dependency before he even left internship. Hell, truth is he was on a downhill slide even in medical school. I salvaged a case in the ER during our senior year. Eric was stoned out of his mind from some drugs that he was supposed to dispose of after a patient didn't use all of them. Dan who was the intern on call that night wasn't supervising him properly. I was on my way home from an all-night shift and saw Eric passed out, lying on the floor of an exam room while a patient was coding. I took over the patient until help got there. Both Dan and Eric got into big time trouble. I heard Eric's Dad got both of them out of hot water. After that, they avoided me and I tried to avoid them. A few years ago his license was suspended while he underwent detox, and then reinstated and restricted after he came back from Atlanta. That's about the time his wife left him and took their kids.” “How sad. So, that's why he is the medical director at a viatical company rather than practicing medicine,” Mici concluded. Rob nodded. “That's why he's the medical director at a questionable viatical company if your take on normal medical protocol is correct.” “It is.” Rob stood up. “Let me work on Eric. Maybe I can appeal to some underlying decency to get him to give us some of the recent viatical purchases. At one time, we were friends-before the drugs and alcohol got to him he was an okay guy. Once I have some names, it should be easy to see if they died and how.” “Okay. I'll ask around and see if I can dig up something on Life Benefits and its owners. If we're lucky, the Indiana Department of Insurance might have some outstanding complaints against them.” “Call me tomorrow evening,” Rob said as he left the office. **** Martin couldn't face the tuna salad sandwich his secretary brought him for lunch, so he looked out his window instead. The panoramic view of the city usually pleased him and made him feel in control. Today, it failed to work its magic. What he really needed was a drink. The interview with Smith and his medical school classmate, Rob Craig, had been like tap dancing in a mine field. He had survived-barely. “Dr. Martin, I heard you had some visitors concerning Elinor Grace.” Startled, Martin swiveled in his chair to face his boss. Damn, this is just what I didn't need. The day had gone to hell in a handbasket just that quick.

“Mr. Hardman, I didn't hear you come in.” Martin, a cold sweat forming on his hands and face, watched as his boss came into the room and closed the door. He noticed that Hardman wasn't in any hurry to get to the point. Well, why should he be? He was in charge. “Obviously. Tell me about your visitors. What did they want?” Hardman walked over to the wall and studied Martin's framed medical school diploma and license. “Well...” Martin hesitated his gut threatening to give up what little it contained. He knew anything he said in the next few minutes might cost him his job, or, if what he suspected was true, his life. Damn, he only hoped he could continue to fool Hardman until he figured out what to do. What a mess. “It was only two hours ago, Doctor, can't you remember?” Hardman picked up a picture of Martin's kids and examined it. “Uh, sure. They came to ask about our purchase of Elinor Grace's insurance policy.” “Why did they come to you and not to me?” Hardman straightened one of the pictures a fraction of an inch. “The lawyer, a Michelle Smith, wanted to know about our medical protocol and how much Mrs. Grace received for her policy. I guess she felt I was the logical person to answer her questions ... you know ... as the medical director?” That was really stupid, Martin winced, wiping his sweaty palms on his trousers. Then, he watched, reminding himself to breathe, as Hardman prowled around his office finally stopping to look out the window. “And what did you tell her, Mister Medical Director?” “I told her that Mrs. Grace qualified under our criteria, which are more liberal than most companies and that I am not allowed to give out monetary information.” Martin remembered the shared looks of skepticism Rob and Mici Smith shared over that information. Hell, he wouldn't have believed it either. “Did she seem satisfied with your explanation?” Hardman turned and walked back toward the office door. “I guess so.” Martin shrugged. No use telling the man you thought had killed over twenty people that Rob and Mici had thought you were lying through your teeth. “You guess so. Are you willing to bank your future with this company on a guess, Doctor?” Pausing with his hand on the door, Hardman studied Martin. Feeling cornered, Martin asked trying hard to keep the whine out of his voice, “What do you want me to do, Mr. Hardman?” “You will call Ms. Smith and her companion, Dr. Craig, and invite them back to speak with me. Inform them that you mentioned to me their interest in the amount of the purchase and I am willing to tell them.” His office was bugged. Martin realized that he'd just been tested. He wasn't sure whether he had passed or failed. He only knew that the only way Hardman could have known about Rob Craig was if he had been listening in earlier today-when Rob had walked into his office. Even his secretary had not known Rob was coming or his name. Realizing Hardman was waiting for a response, he said, “Right away, sir. I'll call Ms. Smith right now.” “You do that, Doctor,” drawled Hardman as he turned and left the office.

Martin slumped in his chair. Yeah, he would call and deliver Hardman's message. He would also spend the rest of the afternoon covering his ass. Smith didn't look dumb-and he knew from experience that Rob wasn't stupid either. Eventually they would figure out what was going on at Life Benefits. Hell, he couldn't believe that he hadn't figured it out before Elinor Grace's death. So, maybe he could buy himself some life insurance. Martin didn't intend to go down alone, and he definitely wanted to avoid being dead. By getting some inside information to Mici Smith and Rob Craig, he could point them in the right direction, then turn State's evidence. He would clean up his act-move to another state. Maybe just maybe, he could get out of this alive. If he didn't die of fright first. **** “Brodie, this is Hardman.” “Yeah, what's up?” Hardman could see his henchman of choice coming to alert status like the well-trained weapon he was. Vietnam had been the breeding ground for many of Brodie's ilk-mercenaries who had gotten used to the killing ways of war. Brodie was better than most. He used his head and not just the internal rage at a country which had sent him over to a hellhole and forgot to welcome him back. Hardman knew that any other killer would have left a bloody trail by now. Not Brodie. His insidious ways of using poisons-nearly untraceable poisons-had been perfect until Grace. Well, one slip up wasn't bad out of dozens of deaths. Brodie now had the opportunity to prove he could do damage control as well. “That problem I spoke with you about concerning the Grace situation ... well, it has just become a priority. Keep tabs on our man. Handle it however you see fit.” “How much?” Brodie asked. “The usual. Oh, I am keeping my eye on some possible complications to the situation. I may need you to neutralize at least two more people.” Hardman had a niggling feeling that Craig and Smith might become problems. He would have to wait and see. “That would be extra.” “I didn't figure it any other way. If the problems mature, I'll let you know.” Hardman hung up the phone. Risk-benefit, Hardman thought as he prepared for a board of directors meeting. Everyone needed to assess the risks and weigh them against the benefits of committing themselves to a plan of action. He knew that he had done so, and so far the benefits had been well worth the risks he had taken. Life Benefits, and he, had a very healthy bottom line. He wondered if Craig and Smith had any idea that the risks they were taking in sticking their noses into his business were going to far outweigh the benefits. Probably not. **** The man standing in the doorway of the Life Benefit's building moved out as Martin left for the day and headed on a route that would take him to his favorite bar. No need to follow too closely; Martin always spent at least an hour after work drinking. When Martin walked right past the bar, the shadow hurried to close up the gap. Where in the hell was Martin going? Did he know he was being followed? As Martin turned into the post office, the watcher moved in so that he could see the package in Martin's hands. Whatever was in that package was suspect. He noted the name and address-Dr. Rob Craig. The package would have to be taken care of later. Too many people around to try and take the package away from Martin now.

Assured that he knew what his mark was doing, the man backed off and pretended an interest in the wanted posters on the Post Office wall until Martin had finished his business and left the building. Martin turned back toward the Life Benefits’ parking lot. This was good. He would make his move there as he had planned. No need to follow too closely. Martin could not escape him now. **** Well, Martin thought, that was that. Now, he could sleep nights with a somewhat less guilty conscience. The information was on its way to people that he knew would put it to good use. Now, all he had to do was get his life in order. After Rob and Mici read what was in the Life Benefit's files, he was sure they would follow through. He expected that his career as a doctor was over. A messy investigation and trial loomed on the horizon. Looking ahead, he had made a reservation to go to a clinic to deal with his addictions and his emotional problems. Hopefully, the court would allow him probation. After all, he found out about Hardman's money-making gambit after the fact. They didn't put you in jail for being stupid. At least, he didn't think so. He was smart-he could make a new life for himself. Maybe, he could reconcile with his parents and family. Things could only get better once he was away from the drugs and the booze-and from Victor Hardman and his evil. Feeling better than he had in weeks, Martin walked quickly down the rapidly darkening streets. Downtown Indianapolis wasn't very hospitable in this part of town. Too many dark stretches with little or no lighting. He would feel better when he got to the safety of his car. What was that? Did he hear footsteps behind him? Martin looked over his shoulder as he increased his pace. He couldn't see a thing, but an inner instinct leftover from some prehistoric ancestors caused the hair to rise on the back of his neck. Adrenaline pumping, Martin increased his pace to a slight jog. He couldn't hear the footsteps any longer; the rapid pumping of his blood and the sound of his accelerated breathing drowned out all other sounds Only a block to go to his car. He reached into his pocket and had his keys ready fumbling to get his finger on the door opener. Thank God, for remote access locks. Knowing that danger was near, but not sure how close, Martin ran the last few yards toward his car-sitting all alone in the dimly lit parking lot. The security light by which he parked was out. He didn't remember that from before. Just his luck that the light he parked under would go out. Clicking on the door key and seeing the interior lights of his car come on, Martin let out a sigh of relief. He had made it. Reaching for the handle, he opened the door. **** The man moved in on Martin just as he reached the car and struck him on the back of the head with a cudgel. “Hey, buddy, are you okay? Let me help you.” The attacker said, attempting to throw off any would-be good Samaritans. Looking around, he checked to see if he had an audience. Seeing no one he got back to the task at hand. Loading the unconscious Martin into the backseat of the car, the attacker then injected the helpless man with a large dose of heroin-enough to send him on a one-way trip to nirvana. The killer drove Martin's car to a secluded area of Eagle Creek reservoir where he had already parked

his own car. Reconnoitering, he smiled. Just as he figured, quiet as the graveyard it soon would be for Martin. Struggling, he placed Martin in the driver's seat and fastened the seat belt. The car was still running. Reaching over Martin, he shifted the gear into “drive.” All it took was one good push, and the car moved forward down the incline into the water. He stayed and watched until the car had sunk below the cold muddy waters. Yet, his job was only partially done. The threat of Dr. Martin would only be history after the package was intercepted. He needed to know what Martin had mailed to Rob Craig. The threat that Michelle Smith and Rob Craig posed for him could only be determined after the package was retrieved. Who would have thought that a loser like Martin could cause so much trouble? CHAPTER SIX Tod arrived early at the mortuary. Rob had two private autopsies that afternoon, so he needed to hustle to get things set up. Noticing the mailman driving up, Tod went out to collect the mail. “Hi, Al. Anything for us today?” “Sure thing, some letters and this package.” “Thanks.” Tod shuffled through the mail as he walked back into the building. Concentrating on his task, he didn't hear the man who came up behind him until too late. The assailant struck just as Tod turned. The glancing blow to the head stunned Tod who fell to the ground moaning. The mail falling around him like postal confetti. The assailant bent over the semi-conscious youth, grabbed the package, then left. **** Turning into the mortuary drive in third gear, Rob wheeled his way into the back lot. Seeing Tod's car already parked in his usual spot, he smiled; at least something was going smoothly today. All morning, he had tried to contact Eric Martin. He even bothered to drive down to the Life Benefits’ building-figuring Martin's secretary was only stonewalling him when she refused to put Rob through to her boss. Eric had not shown up for work that day, and no one could, or would say, whether he was expected later. Rob also had attempted to reach Eric at home, but he had gotten no response there either. He would try again later. But now, he had two autopsies to get through before he could work on the problem of the unreachable Eric Martin. Locking the door on his truck, he walked to the back entrance of the mortuary. Something on the ground was blocking the door. The sun's glare kept him from making out what it was. It looked like a pile of rubbish. Curious, he sped up his approach. As he got closer, out of the blinding light and into the shade of some trees, he realized that the pile was in reality a body. Rob ran the last few yards to find a moaning, semi-conscious Tod on the ground lying in an ever-growing pool of blood. “Tod!” Rob knelt down beside his pathology assistant. Noticing that the blood seemed to be coming from the back of Tod's head, Rob gently maneuvered the injured man to check for other injuries. Satisfied that the cut and growing knot on Tod's head were the worst visible injuries, Rob carefully propped Tod's head with his jacket. Fracture was a definite possibility; concussion, a given. Pulling out his cellphone, he dialed 911 and requested an ambulance. Then, he turned to the task of keeping his patient as warm and still as possible until help arrived.

**** Mici had received the urgent call from Rob at her office. She immediately drove over to University Hospital where Rob said to meet him. He wouldn't tell her what was going on, but she got the impression it had to do with the Grace murder. Her day had been a revelation. It seemed that Life Benefits was a solely owned corporation-owned and operated by Victor Hardman. Her sources at the local newspaper knew nothing about Hardman prior to his coming to Indianapolis and starting up Life Benefits three years ago. What had knocked her for a loop and made her again realize just how strong the insurance lobby was in the State of Indiana was that viatical companies were not regulated by the Department of Insurance. All one had to do to start up such a company was incorporate it. After that, as long as the company filed its annual statement along with its ten dollar fee and kept its tax returns and tax payments up-to-date, it was legal. The speculative nature of the business could go unchecked. It was a potential for consumer disaster. Mici had the feeling Rob might be right and that Elinor Grace just might be the tip of an iceberg of nightmarish proportions. She hoped he was wrong. She still needed lots more evidence before she could make such a horrible conclusion. Walking into the emergency room, she asked for Dr. Craig and was immediately escorted back to a small examining room, which actually had walls instead of drapes secluding it from the other ER patients. Entering the room, she saw Rob sitting beside the bed of a young man with a bandaged head, hooked up to an IV and some monitors. Rob stood up when she walked in. “Thanks for coming over, Mici. Something has come up in the Grace case you need to hear about.” “Does it have to do with this young man?” Mici asked as she approached the bed and sat in the extra chair next to Rob's. The look of concern on Rob's face made her realize just what primary care might have been missing when Rob decided to go into pathology. For all his anti-social reputation and bluster, Rob cared for this young man-she could tell. “Yes. This is my pathology assistant, Tod. He was working for me at the mortuary today and was attacked.” “Attacked? By who? Why? Burglars at a mortuary?” Mici was confused and a little incredulous. “No. Tod regained consciousness a little while ago and informed me and the police that he was attacked because of the mail. He said I had a package from Dr. Eric Martin. It's gone now.” “Martin? But he called yesterday about arranging a meeting with Hardman. Why would he send us a package? Didn't you get a chance to call him back?” “Yeah, but he wasn't at work, nor was he at home. I just tried again, and he still isn't at either place. He seems to have flown the coop. Until I get in touch with him, we won't know what he was trying to send us. I only hope he hasn't gone to ground on this.” “But why? What could have been in the package?” “Tod said the package was the type used to send a diskette.” Mici looked at Tod, then at Rob. “Do you think our visit scared Dr. Martin into giving us some help on Elinor's case?” “Could be. We'll never know for sure until we find Eric or the package. I'd lay odds that the package is a

long shot. It's probably been destroyed by now.” “Do you want me to try to contact Dr. Martin so you can stay with your assistant?” Mici could tell that Rob was upset that his employee had been injured. Hell, she didn't blame him. She was upset that an innocent person had been hurt, too. At least, this was just another piece of evidence that pointed to something fishy about Elinor's death and Life Benefit's purchase of her insurance. “Were you able to find out anything about Life Benefits? I'd say that our visit yesterday shook somebody up at Life Benefits besides Eric.” “Maybe Martin sent the diskette and then thought better of it and hit Tod to get it back?” Mici suggested, not really believing it herself. “Normally, I would say, no, but, hell, Martin has a drug and alcohol problem. I guess he could be capable of doing it under the influence.” Rob rubbed his hand over his face. “I can't rule that out, but my gut tells me that someone else was involved. Eric was more of a danger to himself than others. I would swear that he never ever set out to intentionally hurt people-any harm was always just a side effect of an action committed against himself.” “Well, I didn't get the impression when we met with him that he was dangerous ... nervous, yes, but not dangerous. Getting back to your question, I found out that Life Benefits is a closely held corporation with one shareholder. A Victor Hardman.” “Do we arrange to visit Victor Hardman?” Rob asked. “Well, at least I will. You don't need to, you have work to do and now you have more since your assistant is hurt.” Mici nodded, not quite meeting his eyes head on. She'd already arranged to meet with Hardman alone, but now she wasn't so sure that was a good idea. Somehow she knew Rob would be pissed that she had gone behind his back and set up the meeting without him. They were supposed to be partners, after all. Hesitating, she continued, “Rob, there is definitely something rotten here. From what I can find out, Victor Hardman came here three years ago and formed this corporation. Prior to that, no one knows where he had been. I hired a private investigator who uses the Internet to trace people to find out more about him. What really scares me is that this is a totally unregulated industry in this state. It's nothing more than legalized gambling with people's lives. The rates of return on the purchase of insurance policies goes up as the actuarial life span numbers go down. So, your theory about Life Benefits killing their clients for a better return on their investment, isn't as farfetched as I thought it was.” Mici saw in Rob's unflinching eyes that he wasn't happy to be proven correct. Although it was obvious he had been thinking that way all along and was just waiting for her to reach the same conclusion. Thinking out loud, Mici went on, “Elinor had to have sold her million dollar policy. Where is the money and how much did she get for it?” “One of the answers-how much-I am willing to bet was in that package sent to me by Eric Martin. Where is the money now? Who knows. Have you checked her accounts?” Rob asked. “I had the trustee check them since her private account was in the same bank. No large deposits, although almost three months ago a huge amount-almost ten thousand-was withdrawn.” “Whoa, she had that much money easily accessible and she still needed to liquidate her life insurance policy?”

“Yeah, she had monies coming into her private account quarterly from the trust. She must have really needed a large amount-more than her trust income. Karen and I, by process of elimination, figured out she must have sold her million-dollar policy. We can't find it in her papers. We'll find out more after we open the estate this week. After that we'll have access to more of her private brokerage accounts and her lock box. I've already got Karen pulling together the rest of her grandmother's papers. Everything was a mess. Elinor wasn't very organized. No matter. If the money's there, I'll find it,” Mici vowed. “I'm sure you will. So, when do you want to visit Hardman?” Rob asked. “Uh, well ... I've already set up an appointment for tomorrow morning.” Mici faltered. “Did you want to come along?” She really didn't want to face Hardman alone. Especially now, that she suspected that he and his company might not be on the up and up. “Damn right.” Rob's mouth thinned. “We're partners, remember? No way am I letting you go by yourself. At the best, he is an unscrupulous businessman and at the worst, he is a murderer. Neither of which I would trust you to be safe around.” Mici inwardly sighed. She'd guessed correctly. Rob didn't appreciate her going behind his back. Although she was relieved that she didn't have to face Hardman alone, she still felt obligated to protest. Her ability to take care of herself was an important point to make. It was crucial that Rob view her as an equal. Being a burden was something she left behind when she moved out of her father's house. “Rob, you don't know that Hardman himself was responsible for any killing. The money is missing. It very well could be that the person who has the proceeds from the sale of the policy is behind Elinor's murder. As far as visiting Victor Hardman, I am a big girl, and also, I am going during business hours. There will be other people around. How much safer could I get? Nothing can happen. Why don't you try and find Dr. Martin? Let me handle this guy. Believe me, I am a pretty good judge of character.” Sure, Mici, lie to him and yourself. You know nothing about criminals and Hardman was most likely a criminal of some sort. Mici watched Rob as he thought about her request. He looked tired. Maybe asking him to help her hadn't been a good idea-this really wasn't his battle-but she sure was glad that he was. In the short time she had worked with Rob, she had come to the conclusion that he was one of those people who improved with acquaintance-sort of like a coconut, once you get through the hard surface, you are rewarded with the true essence of the fruit. Rob would probably hate the analogy, but like the coconut, he was rather sweet. “No. You aren't going alone. Don't bother to argue with me on this. Anyway, Martin could be back at work tomorrow. We could check on him at the same time.” Mici could tell by the set of his jaw that Rob considered the matter settled. Mici conceded, “Okay, that's a good point. I'll meet you there at nine o'clock in the morning. I have other appointments afterward.” “Rob?” Tod whispered. Rob moved closer to the bed. “Yes, Tod? Do you need something?” “You don't need to stay. There're two autopsies waiting for you.” “I'll stay until your roommate gets here. Just rest. They're moving you to a private room in a little while. Got to watch that concussion until morning.” Rob smoothed the sheet up over Tod's chest where his movements had dislodged it.

“Sorry about the mail, Rob,” Tod slurred as he drifted back into a healing sleep. “No, I'm sorry Tod. Sorry that you got hurt. I'll get whoever did this. I promise.” “No, we'll get him,” Mici added. **** “Don't worry, Dr. Craig. I'll stay with Tod all night. They're making up the sofa bed in his room for me.” Tod's roommate, a lovely young female medical student, reassured Rob. Rob and Mici left the ER and walked toward Mici's car. “I just thought of something. What about the police? What did they think about Tod's attack?” Mici asked. Rob stopped at Mici's car and leaned on the bumper. “They pretty much discounted my theory-even though I pointed out how it was just too coincidental.” Seeing the look of disgust on Mici's face, Rob continued. “So, they are treating it as an attempted robbery.” “How original,” drawled Mici. Rob grinned at the tone of Mici's response. “Yeah. I guess we will just have to connect all the dots and then underline the answer in red before the police will accept the fact that Elinor was murdered and that it has something to do with the insurance policy bought by Life Benefits.” “I still wonder where the money is?” Mici thought out loud. “Maybe you should ask Victor Hardman about that,” Rob suggested. “Maybe I should.” CHAPTER SEVEN Victor Hardman sat in his thirty-third floor aerie and looked out over a fog-shrouded Indianapolis. His number one problem, Eric Martin, seemed to have been taken care of. He hadn't been to work since Monday and could not be found anywhere. Hardman had not been able to contact Brodie, his henchman of all trades, to see where the body was buried. Truth be told, he didn't really need to know. It was a simple matter of don't ask, don't tell. He transferred the usual payment to Brodie's Cayman Island account. Brodie would know what it was for. His next problem was dealing with Elinor Grace's hired bloodhounds, the family attorney, Mici Smith, and the maverick pathologist, Rob Craig. He needed to know what they knew. With Martin gone, he was pretty sure there wasn't a chance in hell that they would be able to find anything on the record. Everything was double-recorded-one set of records for the outside world, one for himself. But, you could never be too careful in this business. Elinor Grace's death made him almost $600,000-a 150 per cent return on his investment. Damn, but he loved this scam! It had taken him a long time to set this sweet deal up-he couldn't afford to allow any loose ends running around. More deaths were already in the works; he didn't want any official or unofficial scrutiny of his money-making scheme. “Mr. Hardman, Ms. Smith and Dr. Craig are here to see you.” His secretary's voice startled him for a second. Time to put on his game face-a game where he intended

to be the only winner. **** Walking into the executive suite of the Life Benefit's building, Mici wasn't sure what she expected Victor Hardman to look like. Her first impression was of a man with impeccable tailoring in the European mode. She could smell expensive citrus-scented cologne when he stood and shook hands with her. He was everything a well-to-do businessman aspired to be, but somehow the image didn't ring true. She wasn't sure what bothered her, but something did. Was it the smile which was all teeth and no answering warmth in his pale eyes? Or, was it the wholly appraising once over he gave her-a look that seemed to say, “don't get in my way and we'll do just fine.” It would be interesting to compare first impressions with Rob later. She was glad he had come with her. Now that she had met him, confronting Victor Hardman alone was something she hoped she would never have to do. Maybe, she was just imagining things-Rob's theories of dire and dastardly acts coloring her impressions. And, then again, maybe not. “Ms. Smith. Dr. Craig. Thank you for responding to Dr. Martin's request for this meeting. He said you had some unanswered questions that he didn't feel he had the right to answer. Maybe I can help you.” Hardman's deep baritone startled Mici out of what was becoming an awkward silence. Mici turned to Rob who gave her an encouraging glance. Taking strength from Rob's support, she turned toward the man whose company made profits off of people's deaths. “We appreciate your offer of assistance. We have several questions about how Elinor's policy was handled ... uh ... Is Dr. Martin going to join us?” Mici figured she might as well solve several problems at once. Both she and Rob were still concerned over the disappearance of Eric Martin. From what Martin's secretary said, no one had seen him since Monday evening after he left work. His car was not in the parking lot nor at his apartment. One of his co-worker's had checked. They assumed he went out of town, but felt it odd that he had not called in. “Well ... uh ... no. Dr. Martin seems to have taken an unannounced leave of absence.” Hardman paused. “I hate to tell tales out of school, but I am sorry to say that Dr. Martin has a drinking problem. This is not the first time he has gone off on a bender. Because of disability laws, we have had to give him more leeway than most other employees, but I am afraid that this time he has gone over the edge. Dr. Martin won't be coming back; he has been terminated as of today. Can't have him setting a bad example-him being a doctor and all. I am sure you will agree with me on that.” Hardman looked at both Mici and Rob as if their approval was important to him. “So, he's gone off like this before?” Mici pursued this line of investigation. It had become important to find Eric Martin more than ever. She didn't know how Rob had taken the use of the word “terminated,” but the way Hardman had lingered over the word gave her chills. Or, maybe it was the way he smiled when he said it. “Why, yes, Ms. Smith. Several times. A very undependable employee, Dr. Martin. That's why I wanted to speak with you.... In order to clear up any misconceptions he may have given you on Monday.” Everything Hardman had said so far was, on the surface, so reasonable, so sane. In truth, she and Rob should be agreeing, even sympathizing with Victor Hardman. But she wasn't, and from the glaring looks Rob was giving Hardman, she knew he wasn't either. “What misconceptions might those be, Mr. Hardman?” Rob asked picking up the investigative ball from Mici.

Hardman reached for a folder that lay on the corner of his massive mahogany desk. Removing several packets, he shoved one toward Rob and another toward Mici. “Here is the medical protocol for our purchasing of life insurance policies. As you will see, we have a set of criteria that each potential viator must meet. Elinor Grace checked on each and every one of these criteria.” Hardman settling back into his chair looked at both Rob and Mici before continuing. “I don't know where you got the idea that Elinor Grace was not a qualified viator, but it is clear under our policies ... she was.” Mici looked up from the packet of information. “How much did Elinor receive for her million dollar policy? When did she sell the policy exactly? And, did she cash the check? We are having problems finding the money.” Hardman rocked back in his chair, tenting his fingers. “I am not sure that I should provide that information. Dr. Martin was quite correct in not giving you such information. Privacy of our clients is very important at Life Benefits.” Rob said under his breath, “I'll just bet it is-more likely it is imperative for you.” “What did you say, Doctor Craig?” Hardman pinned Rob with a glance that could have cut glass. “He agreed with you,” Mici interposed as she shot Rob a “behave yourself” look. “We understand your reluctance to divulge such information under normal circumstances, but these are not normal. Mrs. Grace has been murdered and that money, and whoever has it, might be the motive for her death.” Mici ignored the thumbs up sign that Rob gave her. Mici was sure that the life insurance money was at the root of Elinor's death. Listening to Hardman she realized that there might be two people or groups of persons who had reason to kill Elinor for the money. At this point, she was keeping her options open. Life Benefits and its business might stink to high heaven, but that didn't make it a front for murder. “Since you represent the estate and are here in your official capacity, I will make an exception in this case. I wouldn't want it said that Victor Hardman stood in the way of bringing a murderer to justice. Let me see....Ah, here it is. We paid Elinor Grace four hundred thousand for her policy over two months ago. The check was cashed immediately.” Hardman put down the file and looked at his two visitors. “What she did with the money, well, I can't tell you that. Hope this helps.” Mici felt more frustrated than ever. Knowing how much only made things worse. That much money should be easy to follow, but nowhere in any of the accounts that she and Karen had checked had that kind of money going in or out. Turning to Hardman, Mici replied, “Yes, thank you. You have been very cooperative. We won't take up anymore of your time.” Standing she turned toward Rob to indicate she was ready to leave when the door to Hardman's office burst open and his secretary ran into the room crying, “Oh, Mr. Hardman, the police are here to see you. It's so terrible!” Rob assisted the distraught woman to a chair as a man in a suit pushed his way into the room. Mici recognized him as the very stubborn homicide detective she had met when she had tried to get the police to look into Elinor's death. “What the hell are you doing here?” Adams growled. His question seemed to cover both Mici and Rob. “Hi, Adams. Taken to scaring executive secretaries for a living, have you?” Rob asked.

“Stuff it, Doctor. I am here on official business. Now answer my question.” Mici seeing male hormones at work stepped between the two bristling males. “Lieutenant Adams, we are here on estate business. Why are you here ... and why is Mr. Hardman's secretary so upset?” “Since it is my office and my secretary, maybe you'll stop posturing with my guests long enough to tell me why you are here, Lieutenant, is it?” Hardman said taking back center stage as he walked to the players in a scene not of his making. “You run this place?” At Hardman's abrupt nod, Adams continued, “Did a Dr. Eric Martin work here?” “Yes, he is my medical director. Why do you ask? He has been absent without leave for two days.” “Well, you might want to find yourself another medical director. We just found his body in the Eagle Creek reservoir-and he wasn't swimming.” CHAPTER EIGHT "Dr. Martin is dead?” Hardman hoped he had put the right amount of shock into his voice. He didn't want to clue in any of the three people in his office to his sense of relief that Brodie had gotten the job done. “How? Was it an accident?" “We think so. The body is at the morgue right now. We can't be sure until after the autopsy-until then it is classified as a suspicious death. We need to know if you have the whereabouts of his next of kin?” “Yes, yes, of course. I believe there is an ex-wife and some children. My secretary will get that for you from human resources right away.” Hardman looked at the sobbing woman, thought better of it, and went over to the phone console to make the call himself. The sooner he got the detective and his other two unwanted guests out of the way, the better. “Someone in human resources located on the third floor will get that information for you, Lieutenant. Is there anything else you need from me? I do have some other appointments. Life goes on even when a tragedy like this occurs.” “No, nothing right now. His employer was listed in his personal effects as the person to be contacted in an emergency or I wouldn't have bothered you at this point. After the autopsy, we may want to tie up loose ends about Dr. Martin's actions before his death.” Mici spoke up, “Do you think it wasn't an accident, Lieutenant?” “As I said, Ms. Smith, we aren't ruling anything out yet. Accident, suicide or murder-we just don't know at this point. You'll find out along with the rest of the world-after the coroner's inquest.” “Of course. Lieutenant. Thank you.” Mici looked over at Rob who had been conspicuously silent. He signaled with his head that they leave. Taking the cue, Mici turned to Victor Hardman. “Thank you for your time today, Mr. Hardman. If Dr. Craig or I have any other questions, we'll be in touch.” “Sorry, I couldn't be of further assistance. Hope you find Mrs. Grace's missing money.” Hope you keep your nose out of my business or else, Hardman thought, as he smiled and shook hands with the three departing visitors. “If I or any of my people can assist you, Lieutenant, please don't hesitate to call.” Adams acknowledged Hardman's pro forma offer with an abrupt nod of his head as he followed Rob and Mici from the room. **** Out in the hall while waiting for the elevator, Adams asked, “What were you two doing in there? You still

harping on the idea that the Grace woman was murdered?” Rob seeing that Mici was building up a head of steam jumped in before she let loose at the Lieutenant. He didn't want to tip off Adams as to their theories and investigations at this point. Rob knew everything they had, except for the autopsy, was circumstantial. When they next approached the police, he wanted to so overload them with coincidences that they could do nothing less than treat Elinor's death as a murder. Right now, he wanted to get rid of Adams, get Mici on her way to her other appointments, so he could go over to the morgue and sit in on the autopsy. He wouldn't be satisfied as to how Eric died until he saw it for himself. After that, he would call in a few favors with the crime scene techs. He wanted to see where they had found the body and anything else they found at the crime scene. After that, maybe they would have one more in a series of coincidences-maybe enough to go to Adams. “Adams, we were just doing some legal work for the estate. Since I am familiar with medical protocols, Mici asked me to come along to interpret. We were hoping to meet with Dr. Martin and Victor Hardman. You can imagine our shock at his disappearance and, now, death.” “Yeah, right. Keep your nose out of this, Craig. This is police business and the last time I looked you don't work for the coroner's office anymore.” “Sure, Adams, no problem.” The three got on the elevator and in total silence rode down to the third floor where human resources was located. After Adams got off, shooting both of them one last suspicious look, Mici let out the breath she had been holding. “Hey, it's okay. Adams is more bark than bite. I fully intend to go poke my nose into Eric's autopsy and the crime scene findings.” Rob noticed the look of distress on Mici's face and her shallow breathing and drew the conclusion that Adams had put the fear of God and police department retribution into her. “No, I expected you to follow through-your reputation of flouting authority preceded you, remember? I just can't handle closed spaces. Elevators really give me the creeps. I'll be okay once we get off.” “Hey, no problem. I hate crowds-and meeting new people. Everyone has something they have problems with. You should have let me know. We could have walked up and down.” Rob grinned at her and gave her a little hug of reassurance. Mici laughed. “Even I'm not that bad-walking up thirty-three floors is no fun. I usually can handle my fear, and have, but somehow between the interview with Hardman and the death of Dr. Martin ... well, it was too much.” Mici shrugged. “I understand, Mici. What bugged you about Hardman?” “Didn't you feel it? Was it just me?” Mici looked up at Rob who had yet to let go of her arms after giving her the hug. “No, you first. I want your impression before I give you mine. Remember, I was listening and observing. I could sense your tenseness, part of which I now know came from the elevator ride, but not all of it. You stiffened up on entering the room. Tell me, Mici. What did you feel?” Rob rubbed his hands up and down Mici's arms in a soothing motion, trying to absorb the tension he felt

in her body. If it wouldn't have been too forward, he would have pulled her into his arms and hugged her, rubbing her back, kneading out the tension he could see in her neck and shoulder muscles. That would be presuming too much this early in their friendship. Neither one of them was ready for that yet. “It's hard to explain,” Mici faltered accepting the comfort given by Rob's soothing motions. “It was his smile-or non-smile-if you will. You don't smile a lot, but when you do, it's real. You smile with your whole face. Not Victor Hardman. His smile was all teeth, like Little Red Riding Hood I felt like I had just met the wolf in grandma's clothing. He looks the part of the successful, prominent businessman, but it felt like a facade to me.” Mici shivered. “He gave me chills. At that point, I was really glad you went with me.” Rob nodded. “Well, you're not alone. I also got the impression Hardman was putting on an act. The meeting was really unnecessary, you know. He could have sent us a letter or told you what we found out over the phone.” “You mean-the meeting was solely so he could see us? Why? What's the point?” “He needed to see how determined we were. Maybe he needed to see if we were a threat to his little scam.” Rob shrugged. “Do you think Dr. Martin's death was an accident?” “No, and I don't think he committed suicide either. He was unstable, but not that unstable.” Mici touched Rob's arms returning the comfort he had given her. “Rob, how can you be sure? You hadn't seen him in years. He lost his wife, his career as a doctor, his self-esteem, and it looks like he was losing his job at Life Benefits. How do you know that he didn't send us a suicide note? Maybe that's what was on the diskette?” “Do you really believe that? Considering all the other things that happened?” Rob looked at Mici's bent head. “I don't know. It would be easier to believe that Eric Martin committed suicide, that Tod was attacked by a random burglar and that Elinor was murdered for the four hundred thousand cash she had on hand than to believe that Hardman is evil incarnate and all these deaths and occurrences happened because of his greed.” “Yeah. It would be easier, but probability says too many coincidences aren't that likely to occur.” “I know. That's what scares me.” Mici looked up at Rob. “What are we going to do now?” “We aren't going to do anything right now. I am going to the morgue. You are going to go about your day as usual. I'll call you when I know anything about Martin's death.” Mici nodded. “I'll be back at the office after two o'clock. Call me at home later if you don't reach me at the office. Right now, Karen and I are scheduled to open Elinor's lockbox. Maybe I'll find four hundred thousand in cash.” “Don't hold your breath.” “I'm not.” CHAPTER NINE

Rob pulled his truck into a visitor's slot at the county morgue, a rather unprepossessing building made of gray cinder block painted white with a two-slot loading dock Some enterprising employee had tried to gussy it up by placing two large pots for flowers by the front entrance. But, in late October, like most of the visitors to this building, the flowers lay dead-killed by a hard frost. No matter what the place looked like; he felt like he had come home. Rob had spent five years after completing his residency in forensic pathology in this building. Leaving, although the right thing to do, had been hard. Rob entered through the loading dock. He knew the clerk well and would have no trouble getting into the building. Rob had no problems with the hourly employees. Never had and never would. It had been the management-the bureaucracy. Authority figures, other than his mother whom he adored, had always been a problem for him. Not that his mother had time to be authoritarian while working two jobs so her only child could have all the advantages she had never had and his absentee father would never provide. Rob became an independent child only relying on his mother's unconditional love and his ability to adapt to any situation because of his high intelligence. Other than that, Rob had tested any and all boundaries and limits placed on him. It had made for quite turbulent relationships-still did. Except for Mici Smith. There was a connection there, one he wanted to explore. He knew he wanted more than a business relationship with her, but wasn't quite sure how to get it. Face it, Rob, you're more comfortable with dead bodies than live ones. “Hey there, Doc Craig! Long time, no see. Where you been keepin’ yoself?” Big Jake, the intake clerk at the morgue, smiled at Rob. Rob caught himself wishing Mici could see this smile-a genuine full-face, glad to see you, smile. Jake was the backbone of the morgue; he literally knew where all the bodies were buried. It was his job. “Hey, Big Jake. Sorry, I haven't been back. Wasn't sure I'd be welcome.” Rob shook Big Jake's hand and slapped him on the back-the standard greeting he had always given his friend when he had worked in the morgue. For all his size, Big Jake was a big teddy bear-a regular gentle giant “You always be welcome here, Doc. You just say Big Jake say it be okay, you hear me?” Big Jake shook his head in disgust over Rob's lack of faith in his welcome. “I hear you, old friend.” “What ya need?” “Have they started cutting on a Dr. Martin yet? He should have come in sometime in the last ... oh, twelve hours or so.” Big Jake nodded. “Yep, he done come in this morning around ten o'clock. Doc Putman is up for that one. You want to sit in?” Rob knew Rae Putman fairly well. He knew she would have no problem. She also could keep her mouth shut. “If you think I can get away with it.” “No problem, there. Doc Putman misses you. Those other Docs don't understand working mommas and no husbands to cover for them.” Rob knew that Jake referred to the times he had covered for Rae when her children were sick. “Now, you just go on in and suit up. She'll be right glad to see you.” Big Jake smiled and nodded.

“Thanks, Big Jake.” “Oh, Doc, don't be gone so long from here the next time. You still one of us, you know.” Big Jake shook a big finger at Rob to drive home the point. “I won't. I promise.” Rob turned away. If he stayed any longer, Big Jake would notice the moisture in his eyes. Sometimes you have to leave, in order to realize how much you are liked. It would be nice if in the future he could figure it out without having to leave the places and ones he loved. **** Karen Grace and Mici sat in the private room that the bank set aside for customers opening their lock boxes. The county tax assessor had just left with her list of the box's contents: some jewelry, some savings bonds, insurance policies, titles to the car and house, a mint coin set, but no $400,000. “Where could it be? Who has it?” Karen voiced the identical questions running through Mici's mind. “I don't know, Karen. We'll just have to keep looking.” Mici needed to get out of the windowless cubby that some idiot called a room. Rooms had windows and space-lots more space. “Let's go. I am feeling closed in here.” Karen placed all the items in the cloth bag she brought for this very purpose and followed Mici out of the tiny room. After thanking the bank officer, the two women walked to an espresso bar for cappuccinos and biscotti. Once seated, Mici looked at her friend and noticed the strain that her grandmother's death had etched on Karen's young face. Reaching over, she patted Karen's hand. “Don't worry. We'll find the money, and hopefully, it will help us find out who murdered your grandmother.” Mici didn't see the need to tell Karen about Rob's and her theory about Life Benefits just yet. If Karen wanted to think someone killed her grandma over the four hundred thousand dollars, let her. Mici still hadn't come to terms with the Life Benefits’ theory-or better yet, she had avoided coming to terms with it. Karen looked at Mici's hands and then up at her lawyer and friend. “What do we do next?” “Have you gone through all her papers in the house?” Mici knew it was a big house and Karen seemed to be doing this all alone. Dan, using the excuse of work and believing it to be a wild goose chase, left it all to his sister. Mici had concluded this was Dan's usual method of operation. She got the impression from her few observations and from what Elinor and Karen let slip that Dan sort of slid through life letting others do the dirty work. Rob's story of their medical school days also fit with this assessment. “All the papers I could find. I haven't gone into her room since the ... her body was found. I just couldn't.” Karen started to cry silently. Mici pulled out a tissue and handed it to her. “Do you want me to come and help you?” Karen looked up and smiled. “Would you?” Mici nodded. Maybe they would find something in Elinor's bedroom that she hadn't wanted anyone to find in her office. People often hid things in sock drawers and the like. Mici knew she did. Probably the first place a burglar would look, but people were creatures of habit sometimes and not of common sense. ****

“What do you think, Rob?” Rae Putman asked as she finished the external examination of Eric Martin. “With all the scar tissue on his back, it looks like someone liked to beat Eric-and frequently. Some of the scars are old, some fairly recent. Could be the same person took a blunt instrument to Eric's head before he died? See all the bleeding into the wound?” Rob looked at Rae who nodded. Good, she was with him on this. “So, you think someone hit him on the head?” “Yeah, unless you think he turned around facing backward in his seat while he drove the car into the lake and then hit his head on the steering wheel or glass?” “Nope. I don't think that at all, Rob. Looks like we may have ourselves a suspicious death here. Anyway, the air bag deployed as the car hit the water. He wouldn't have had this kind of wound-front or back of the head. Suffocation, maybe yes; blunt instrument wound, no.” Rae dictated the blunt instrument findings and her conclusion that the injury happened before death and before immersion into the lake. “Let's see what else we can find.” Rae made the Y-cut incision to get to the heart and lungs. Rob assisted her with cutting the sternum. “Jesus H. Christ. What have we here?” Rae turned to look at Rob for confirmation of what she was seeing. Rob knew what she saw. The lungs had evidence of talc used to cut heroin. Rob wasn't that surprised. He had known that Eric had a drug problem, but he thought that it was in his past. Obviously not. “Look for fresh needle marks on your side,” Rae said as she began the search on the arm on her side of the table. “Found them.” Rob held up the arm for Rae's inspection and dictation. “Subject had needle marks in his right arm. Confirms the finding of talc in the lungs and bronchial tubes.” “Rae, something's wrong here. If I recall correctly, Eric was right-handed.” Rob looked at Eric's right hand and found the writer's bump on his middle finger. He showed it to Rae. “You're right. He couldn't have injected himself.” Rae dictated the findings about Eric's dominant hand and the hypothesis that Eric did not inject himself. “So, was he high, disoriented then drove into the water?” “Maybe. Maybe not. We'll know more after looking at the brain. Run some tox screens. I'm willing to bet he died of an overdose before he went into the water. No water in the lungs. He was definitely dead before the car filled with water. If he had been conscious, he might have been able to get out.” “How horrible. I almost hope that your scenario is the right one. If he died of an overdose, well, at least he wouldn't have known about the water.” Rae grimaced at the thought of death by drowning. “Damn it, Eric was one of us. Yeah, I know he was one messed up guy. But, hell, he was still one of us. I want to nail this sucker.” Finishing up on the thoracic examination, Rae took the heart out for weighing as Rob assisted her in taking samples of the lungs. “So do I, Rae, so do I.” Rob handed the Stryker to Rae who cleanly took off the top of the skull.

Removing the brain, both Rob and Rae examined the area where the blunt trauma occurred. Rob looked at Rae and grinned. “I would have won the bet. Enough trauma to cause disorientation even temporary unconsciousness-not enough to kill him. So, the perp gives him a large injection of what I am willing to bet was heroin, and Eric died before he was even in the water. Perp pushes the car into the water hoping we would be stupid and conclude that Eric drove into the water. This perp was either an amateur or scared or both.” “I agree. It was murder.” The perpetrator's only mistake was in not burying the body so that it could not tell its secrets to Rae and him. Rob helped Rae finish up the autopsy and put Eric back together for the mortician. Rae walked Rob out to the docks, where they stopped. She gave him a little hug. “Thanks for your help. Don't be such a stranger. Some of us miss you around here. Want a copy of my report and the pictures?” “Sure. But don't get into trouble on my account.” “No trouble. I'll drop them by your house when they are done. Still using the rock system?” Rae asked referring to Rob's habit of rotating his house key from hollow rock to garden statues. “Yep. Thanks, Rae.” Rob reached over and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “Now, I'm off to the crime scene guys. Got to prove my pushing the car into the water theory. The police won't believe it otherwise. Do you know who has the case?” Rae checked the chart. “It's Gibbs. Call him from here and have him meet you at that coffee place in the city market. He'll share. Stay away from the city-county building. I heard Adams has made you persona non grata, old friend. How did you put the bee up his butt?” Rob grinned. “Oh, you know, my usual charming personality-I made him look like a real idiot on a homicide he thought he had all figured out. Unfortunately, he had been a little premature in going to the press and looked like a real fool when my autopsy results pointed in a whole other direction. He's never forgiven me. He was one person who was glad when I was forced to leave the coroner's office.” “Men and their pissing contests!” Rae shook her head. “Thank God I'm not equipped.” CHAPTER TEN Rob strolled through the hungry crowds at the city market. The hundred ten year old structure had adapted well from the farmer's market it once was to a gathering place for hungry downtown workers. He missed coming here for lunch; now that he was sleuthing with Mici maybe he could meet her here. She might like it. Plus, it would give them a chance to get better acquainted. Spotting Gibbs near the pizza place, Rob changed direction and sat across from the crime scene technician. “Hey, Rob!” Gibbs looked up from the lunchtime calzone special he was cutting into. “Long time no see. Miss your gruesome mug at the crime scenes.” “Hey, Gibbs. Well, I can't say that I miss the crime scenes much-since I still do a lot of them, but I can say that the techs in the smaller counties could use a guy like yourself.” “Really?” Gibbs spoke around the bite of broccoli dripping with sauce and cheese in his mouth. “Do you think I could get some freelancing work like you are doing?”

“Maybe. I'll ask around.” “Gee, thanks. I'd like the extra work-especially if I could be my own boss. I'm really getting sick of some of these big city cops who think they know it all. Know what I mean?” Gibbs smiled a “you know who I'm talking about” kind of smile. “Yeah. I know-like Mitch Adams for example?” Rob pressed. “Yeah, exactly like Mitch Adams. He's the dick on that case you're interested in. Rae called me after you did. She clued me in on the deceased's condition, and I smuggled copies of the report that I thought would interest you.” Gibbs put his hand inside his flannel shirt and pulled out a bunch of folded papers. “These are yours. I even used the new color copier on the crime scene photos-next best thing to being there. Although, you might want to visit the site yourself. You can't miss it. It's the place with the yellow crime scene tape all around it.” Gibbs grinned as he handed over the papers. “Thanks, Gibbs. I owe you one pal.” Rob took the papers and stuffed them into his shirt. “Get me some freelance leads in the outer counties, and I'll call it even. Bureaucracy in the city-county Unigov is beginning to get me down. You got out just in time.” Gibbs accentuated his point with a breadstick. Rob snatched the breadstick from Gibbs and took a bite out of it. “Well, I was pushed out just in time, Gibbs, but you're right, I'm better off being my own man. You going to eat all those breadsticks?” Gibbs grinned shook his head “no” and gestured. “Help yourself.” **** Rob drove to Eagle Creek following the directions Gibbs had provided. Yep, there was the yellow tape. Rob pulled into a visitor's parking slot in one of the many boat launching areas around the reservoir. It had never ceased to amaze Rob that such a large body of water and its surrounding dedicated park lands existed in a city the size of Indianapolis. Someone once told him it was the largest non-landscaped park located within a city's boundaries in the country. It was also one unmanageable crime scene. Rob had been to a few homicide and suicide scenes in this park. Death seemed to be attracted to natural settings-it was easier to dispose of bodies here. No matter how many park rangers patrolled the park, murderers and suicides managed to sneak past the manned entrance gates into its almost five thousand acres. Rob viewed the crime scene with an experienced eye. Looking at the places Gibbs had marked on the photocopies of the crime scene photos, Rob began to visualize the crime as it happened. The perpetrator had to have been an amateur to think that someone would mistake this crime for a suicide. Marks were left in back of where the car had been parked. Marks made by a person's feet as they dug into the sandy ground for the initial push downhill of the idling car. The idling car left patterns of drips in the sand from the undercarriage condensation on the cooling system. Rob knew from reading the report that casts were taken of tire tracks in the parking area-just in case they got a lead-they would have tire treads that could be matched. Also, there were fingerprints now being run through the FBI's national database. Fingerprints from the trunk area of the car, the driver's side passenger door, the driver's door and anywhere else the print guys could lift them. A soaking in the reservoir didn't rid oily human prints easily. Yeah, the killer was an amateur at covering up, but that didn't mean he wasn't dangerous. Rob figured

that two deaths maybe more could be laid at this guy's feet. Hopefully, practice didn't make this guy more perfect with each death. It would be stupid mistakes like these and the overkill with the heroin that would catch him. **** Mici trudged up the last flight of stairs. The closet-like room in the bank vault had overdosed her on closed spaces for the day. She couldn't face the elevator in her building-maybe tomorrow. Mici walked into her office and smiled at the clients sitting in the waiting area. They weren't hers. Thank God, she might be able to catch up on some paperwork. Plus, she hadn't checked her email for a couple of days. Hopefully, her access server hadn't started bouncing messages yet. She had to get a new server. Since she had been promising herself to do just that for almost a year, she wasn't going to hold her breath that she would get it done soon. Status quo was just so easy with some things. “Hey, boss lady, where have you been all day? You've got a stack of messages and mail that could stretch across the street.” Mici smiled at her secretary who was a vision in canary yellow. Trust Sherry to brighten up her day, even if it was just with what she was wearing. “I was with Karen Grace all morning and it stretched into lunch. Put her down for a four P.M. at her house tomorrow, will you? I need to go through some more of Elinor's things.” “Man, you sure are going the extra mile on this estate. Why?” Sherry followed her boss into her office and watched her kick off her shoes and grab a Pepsi out of the bar refrigerator. Mici sat and thought about Sherry's question. Why was she doing more on this case than others? Normally, she would have had one of the clerks assisting a personal representative with inventorying assets and going through papers. Hell, she wasn't even keeping an accurate account of her time, so she would never be paid for it. “Mici? Are you okay?” “Yeah, I was just thinking about your question. I guess I am going above and beyond the call of duty, because of Elinor's death. I feel sorry for the Grace children and want to help.” “It's more than that though...” Sherry prodded. “We-l-l-l, okay ... I guess I'm hoping to find the clue that will lead Rob and me to the money and, in turn, the murderer.” “I thought you told me that Rob had a theory about Life Benefits. Do you still think the missing money will lead to the murderer? Are you saying that maybe Elinor never got that money?” “Maybe. Oh hell, I don't know. I just know that money is behind it. The person who did it wanted everyone to think she died naturally. If Karen hadn't been so insistent about the autopsy, he would have gotten away with it, and we might never have known about the money. I just have to keep looking.” “Well, if it's in her papers or personal things, I know you'll find it. Research is your forte. Well, I guess I'd better get back to my desk since my ogre of a boss is back.” Sherry flashed Mici a cheeky grin and left. Mici logging on to her access server noted that she had fifty-seven files several with attachments. Most of them were court electronic filings, a fairly new method of setting hearings and orders that the probate court was experimenting with. One address was unknown to her. She clicked on it and opened the

attachment. “Oh my God! Oh my God!” Mici hit print and started to scroll and read as the document printed out on her laser printer. Mici hit the intercom speaker on her phone. “Sherry, track down Rob Craig, now. I gave you his pager number, didn't I?” “Yeah, sure. What's up?” “Just do it, Sherry, and then get in here. You've got to see this!” **** Leaning back in the visitor's chair in Mici's office, Rob read the copies of the email that Mici had received from what looked to be Eric Martin's email address at Life Benefits. Not normally a superstitious man, Rob looked at literally what was a message from the grave and shivered. “See, he sent it about four hours after we left him-right before five o'clock. That was the last time his secretary saw him-five o'clock.” Mici pointed out leaning over Rob's right shoulder as he read. “So, we did put the fear of God into him with our visit and questions about Elinor's death.” Rob gave voice to his thoughts. “He spent the rest of the day getting this together-mailed a diskette to me and emailed you-doubly covering his ass.” “You realize that we can't sit on this any longer, Rob? This is police business now. We have proof that Life Benefits is killing people off.” Mici's excited breaths rushed past Rob's right ear. Shifting in the chair, Rob turned to look up at his animated sleuthing partner. “No, I don't realize that. What we have is a list of clients who have sold their life insurance policies to a company that buys such, and then they died. That's what is supposed to happen.” “Okay, then why did he send them to us, and why mark certain ones with asterisks? Note, that Elinor's is one of those,” Mici said in her best cross-examination tones. “I didn't say you weren't correct in your deductions, counselor. I just meant that the police won't look at it that way until we check out those little asterisked cases and find out how they died and their health immediately before they died. We need more than what we've got, or we'll just be asked to leave and not let the door hit us on the butts.” Rob knew Mitch Adams, the homicide dick, would laugh in their faces, help them out the door and make sure they got hit on the butts. Mitch would need a sledge hammer's worth of evidence hitting him over the head before he would allow that Rob knew what he was doing on this case. Mitch was one of those guys who never forgot a slight and would rather overlook obvious facts than to give credit to another in solving a case. “Oh ... okay ... I see your point. So, when we get the evidence, we go over Adams’ head. Gotcha. So, what do we do now?” “We don't do anything. This is my bailiwick. You keep trying to find that money. I agree it is important to either know why she wanted it or who ended up with it, if anybody did actually get it. Who knows? Maybe Life Benefits never paid out and then killed the clients to keep them quiet.” “Damn. That's what Sherry said. You're right-what a scam!” Rob smiled at the look of almost gruesome awe on Mici's face. “Yeah, the kind of scam that was worth

killing, at my count, twenty people in the last year and a half. Something bothers me though.” “What?” “Well, this scam takes a fairly creative and diabolical mind-a criminal genius, if you will.” “And?” Mici urged him with a look that said “spit it out.” “The guy who killed Martin was an amateur-diabolical, but not a genius or creative. Doesn't feel right.” Rob shook his head. “Just doesn't feel right.” “Maybe, Hardman couldn't get his usual guy and had to use a temp. Or maybe his usual guy was used to using poison like with Elinor and actually having to kill someone face-to-face was unnerving.” “You could be right. They were different kinds of homicide.” “Yeah, one is like pushing the button that launches a missile and the other is like trench warfare. It takes a different mentality.” “That's a pretty sharp analogy.” “Well, they don't pay me the big bucks and give me a corner office for my looks.” Mici grinned. No, they don't, Rob thought, but they could. CHAPTER ELEVEN Rob cut through the emergency room on his way out of the county hospital. A couple more pieces of evidence had fallen into place. The tox reports proved that Eric Martin had so much heroin in his body that he had to have suffered a complete respiratory arrest. Rob's guess that he was dead before he hit the water was proven. That along with the autopsy and crime scene evidence added up to murder. Several of the Life Benefits’ clients on Eric's list had died in the county hospital. Rob sweet-talked the medical records’ clerk into pulling the files. All of them had no symptoms prior to death; only one of them had an autopsy. Rob was on his way to the pathology department now. “Hey, Rob. Wait up.” Rob stopped and looked over his shoulder. Dan Grace dressed in scrubs was jogging down the hall toward him. “Hi, Dan. You on today?” Rob knew that Dan had alternating twelve-hour shifts in the ER. “Yeah, I took two shifts straight, covering for a guy whose wife had a baby. Uh ... Rob.... how's the investigation going? Karen didn't know much except that you and Mici had gone to Life Benefits and found out how much money Grandma was supposed to have gotten.” “Yeah, we did. Spoke to Eric Martin about it, and then his boss. Did you hear that Eric was murdered?” “No. My God. I hadn't heard. What happened?” Rob observed that Dan had turned pale. Whether it was the news that Eric was dead or twenty-four hours straight on ER call, he wasn't sure. “Who did it? How?” Dan continued with his litany of questions, his skin growing whiter and whiter.

“Hey, let's get some sugar in you. When did you eat last?” Rob took Dan's arm and led the visibly ill man toward the cafeteria. Glancing down at the arm he was holding, Rob observed that Dan was so pale that a tatoo that had previously blended into his skin tones was now almost neon bright. He had better get Dan carbo-loaded or he might end up putting an IV in him. “Oh, you know how it is on call. You choose-food or sleep. I chose sleep.” After sitting Dan down, Rob bought them sandwiches, cookies and sodas. Not the most nutritious of meals, but they would get the job done. Enjoying the relative quiet of the doctor's dining room, which was a glamorous name for a room with a couple of round tables, some sofas and a television, the two men concentrated on eating. After eating half of the sandwich and drinking some of the sugared cola, Dan had regained some of his color. Stronger, he brought up the previous topic of conversation. “You never answered my questions about Eric's murder.” “There aren't any answers, yet. All we know is someone pumped him full of heroin, placed his body in his car and pushed it into the reservoir at Eagle Creek. Pretty sloppy, really. We'll get him eventually.” “What do you mean pretty sloppy?” Dan clutched his throat as he coughed up part of his last bite of food. “Hey, take it easy. Slow down. I know you're hungry, but it isn't worth choking.” Rob waited until Dan got over the worst of his coughing before continuing. “We found footprints, tire treads and lots of fingerprints. Got the state and FBI crime labs running matches now.” “Lucky break, huh?...Say, wasn't Eric an addict? Maybe he committed suicide.” Dan didn't look up as he concentrated on taking smaller bites. “Yeah, Eric was an addict, but he was also right-handed. The injection site was in his right arm, just above the elbow joint. No way he could have injected himself there.” Rob demonstrated on his own arm using a fork as a substitute for a syringe. “Either the guy was a rank amateur or stupid. Even a dense cop like Adams saw the clues that pointed to a homicide.” “Who would want to murder Eric? He was always so, oh, innocuous. Do you think he could have crossed his drug dealer?” Dan looked up at Rob. “That's how the cops are looking at it-a drug deal gone bad, but I don't think it played out that way. He only had the one fresh needle mark. I don't think heroin was Eric's drug of choice anymore. Plus, we are pretty sure that Eric knew something about your grandmother's death and think he was killed to keep him from talking to us. Mici got an email from Eric. It has a list of dead Life Benefits’ clients like your grandmother. That's what I'm doing at the hospital, checking out some of their hospital charts. I was on my way to pathology when we met up. I want to read the only autopsy report out of three deaths that occurred in this hospital.” “If it's definitely murder, why are you doing that? Why aren't the police investigating my grandmother's death if you've got enough evidence to connect Life Benefits?” “They don't know about the list. Mici and I haven't shown it to them yet. We need to show the causation factor.” Seeing what Rob interpreted to be a look of confusion on Dan's face, he explained further, “Some of the deaths could have been from natural causes. After all, some of these people were selling their policies because they thought they were dying. So, I am going through all the names, getting their

case histories from the doctors or the hospital records and autopsies, if any were done. So far, the three I have looked at prove our point-these people were not sick enough to die suddenly.” “Three plus my grandmother. Will that be enough to go to the police with?” “It's a start. Once we get the police interested, we might be able to obtain court orders to get into the medical records at the other hospitals and maybe exhume some of the bodies to do tox screens.” “Well, I'm impressed. I guess Karen was right to ask you and Mici to help.” Dan crumpled the plastic wrap that had been around his sandwich into a ball and tossed it into the waste basket. “Don't let me keep you. You've got some more sleuthing to do and I need to go home and get some real sleep.” Dan got up from the table and moved toward the door. Satisfied that Dan wasn't in danger of losing consciousness now, Rob called out, “Bye, Dan. I'll update you and your sister later.” Dan left the room without acknowledging Rob's offer. **** Dan Grace drove through the gates of the home he and his sister now shared alone. The news that Eric Martin's death was being classified as murder played through his head like a broken record. The shock had yet to wear off. God, he needed some sleep. The beep of a horn alerted him to the fact that another car was sharing the drive with him. Dan saw Mici as she passed him on her way out of the Grace estate. She beeped again and waved at him as she passed him. Dan waved back automatically. What was she doing here? Dan parked his car in the garage, then entered the house. “Hey, Karen. I'm home,” Dan yelled as he walked into the large eat-in kitchen. Karen entered the room from the front of the house. She smiled at her brother. “Hi, Dan. How'd call go?” “It was call. Was that Mici I saw leaving as I drove in?” “Yes. She and I just finished going through grandmother's things in her room.” Karen pulled some sandwich makings out of the refrigerator. “Did you eat? Can I make you a sandwich?” “No. I ate at the hospital with Rob. He told me Eric Martin was murdered. He and Mici think it has to do with Grandma's death. Can you believe that?” Ignoring her gasp of shock and sympathetic murmur, he went on, “Uh, what things in grandmother's room? Like clothes and stuff?” Dan asked as he picked up and peeled a banana. “Oh, Dan, that's so sad about Eric ... Mici and I went through more papers and diaries. Believe it or not, Gram kept diaries.” Karen gave a nervous laugh. “I stopped keeping a diary when I was a teenager. Guess Gram was of the old school and kept a journal of her life.” “So, did you read any of the diaries?”

“Well, I kept the older ones-from when she was a child and a young girl. Mici and I agreed that whoever killed her must be a recent addition to her life and not someone of her own generation.” Karen finished making her sandwich and walked over to sit at the counter. “I guess that make's sense. So, Mici has the more recent diaries and all the papers?” “Yep. She's going to take them home to read tonight. She said she would bring them back as soon as she could get through them all. I really didn't want to let them go-maybe I could put together the story of Gram's life. You know, one of those personal stories that Oprah likes to have on her book club. What do you think?” Karen looked over to where her brother was standing and realized he was gone. “Now, where did he go all of a sudden. Strange.” **** Victor Hardman booted up Dr. Martin's computer, then logged onto the internet. The police had called and wanted a list of all Dr. Martin's calls, visitors and email for the last couple of weeks. Having set Martin's secretary to work on the phone messages and visitors, Hardman opted to do the email himself. Who knows what might be found in Martin's computer? Hardman wanted the chance to shred any damaging files himself. Pulling up the email program, Hardman went to the sent file and found the most recent messages. One in particular jumped off the screen. Martin had emailed the lawyer, Mici Smith, the evening he had last been seen alive. Hardman clicked on the message and found that it consisted only of an attachment. Opening the attachment, Hardman controlled the urge to yell his outrage. Some damage control was needed if his scam was going to be salvaged. Martin had somehow gotten into his duplicate records and found the files detailing the arranged deaths, including the Grace woman. Hardman proceeded to erase the incriminating file and put it through the computer shredder. Once that was completed, the file should be mere electronic confetti. Nodding at Martin's secretary, he handed her a printout of Martin's other email with instructions to give it to the police. He then headed back to his office to use the secure phone line. It was time to put Brodie on the case again. CHAPTER TWELVE Mici awoke to the phone ringing. Looking at her bedside clock, she saw that it was nine o’ clock-she had slept through supper. After leaving the Grace's, she had come home to her apartment which occupied the whole top floor of a recently converted office building. Having moved in a month ago, she was still getting used to the place and tended to be somewhat disoriented when she woke up. Reaching for the cell phone, she answered. “Hello?” “Mici, it's Rob.” Mici relaxed at the sound of Rob's voice. Funny, how comfortable she was with him-more so than with her own family. When the phone had rung, she was afraid her parents might be calling her. Her last conversation with them after she moved out of the cottage on her family's rural estate still rankled. After

all, she was an adult and had a right to her own life. “Oh, hi. What's up?” “Are you okay? You sounded tense when you answered?” “You woke me up.” “I'm sorry. I didn't think you were an early-to-bed person.” “I'm not usually, but I fell asleep reading through some of Elinor's private papers. Some interesting stuff, but it's all so cryptic.” Mici wasn't sure what she had found. But the diaries showed that Elinor was concerned about someone and had been journaling her interior debate on how to help that person. Mici hoped that the diaries would be more forthcoming with names as she got further into them. Unfortunately, Elinor was a prolific writer, and Mici was reading the diaries from beginning to end so as not to miss anything important. “Well, I've got some good news.” Rob's excitement was evident, even over the phone. “Really. We could use a break.” Mici stiffened. Was that a noise? Being the first and only tenant in the building, she got somewhat nervous at night. Okay, Mici lectured herself, the building has an excellent security system. Old buildings have various creaks and noises. God, would she ever stop being afraid? She hated to be weak. “Mici, what do you think?” Rob's question tore Mici away from her fearful musings. “About what?” “You didn't hear a word I said, did you? Are you sure you're okay? I still hear that tension in your voice.” “I don't know. I'm still getting used to my new apartment. Remember, I told you I don't like closed in spaces?” “Yeah.” “Well, being in the dark goes along with that fear-not that my apartment is small, it isn't. It's just that it's dark out. I've only lived here a month and am not used to the night noises in the building yet.” Mici's explanation trailed off. Great Mici. Now he really thinks you're a wuss. Night noises. “Want me to come over and check the building out for you?” Rob's offer was tempting, but she knew she couldn't have someone come over every time she was a little fearful. She'd have neighbors soon. She hoped. “No. That's okay. I'm a big girl.” Maybe if you say it out loud enough times, you'll believe it, wuss. “Would you please repeat your exciting news? I promise to listen this time.” “I went through the list and found that three of the people died in County Hospital where I have privileges, so...” Mici screamed.

“Mici, what is it? Talk to me!” “Rob, help me, the lights went out,” Mici cried into the phone as she sat immobilized with fear on her bed. “Okay, okay, calm down. Let's look at this logically. You said you just moved in.” Rob's attitude focused Mici on his words. Logic is good, she reminded herself, then answered his question, “Yes.” “Are there lights on outside of your building?” Mici walked to her bedroom window and looked outside. “Yes, all the outside lights are on.” “Is there a breaker box in your apartment?” “I think so ... Yes, it's in the pantry.” “Okay, put the phone down and go to the pantry. Check to see if the breakers have been thrown.” “Right. I'm on my cell phone so I can talk to you in there.” “Good. Now go on, I'm here. Why don't I switch to my cell phone and call you back, that way I can drive over? Sounds to me like you need to have some company for a while, and we can talk about the case.” Mici grabbed at the offer. “Please, I would appreciate that. You will call me right back, won't you?” “Right back. As soon as you hang up, I have the number entered on my cell phone right now, just waiting to send. I'll be talking to you before you even get to your pantry.” “Okay.” Mici disconnected the call and grabbed a flashlight out of her bedside drawer. Moving toward the other part of her apartment she kept her ears open for any night noises that weren't supposed to be there. As she entered her kitchen, the ringing of the phone startled her. “Rob?” Mici whispered into the phone. “Yeah, Mici. It's Rob. Are you okay? Speak up, honey, I can hardly hear you.” “I think I'm okay. I've got a flashlight-it helps.” “That's my girl. Are you at the breaker box? I'm already in my truck and heading your way. By the way, you are in the building near the old arena?” “Yes, that's the one. Park in the rear and press the buzzer. I'll let you in-at least, I think I will. What if the power is off in the whole building?” Mici prayed that this was not the case. She really hadn't exaggerated. She didn't do dark well. “The security system probably has a battery back up, and I would think your monitoring company would have noted a break in electrical service by sending someone out.” “Yes, you're right. The building owner explained that to me. Twenty-four hours a day. So, if the power is off, someone could already be on their way. That's good.” Mici let out a large sigh. The logic of what Rob said made her feel better. Dealing with known quantities was something Mici was used to doing.

Mici opened the breaker box. The bottom fell out of her world once again. All her breakers were fine. “Uh, Rob ... I think it's the whole building. My switches are all still green.” “Okay. When I get to the building, I'll honk and you can come down and let me in. Can you do that, Mici?” “I'll have to, won't I? The fire stairs are the only way in and out with the power off. They are near the back entrance and let out into the back hallway. It's a straight shot down the stairs. I can do it.” Saying the words out loud, she had committed herself. She didn't want Rob to think she was a coward along with being a fraidy cat. “Mici, I'm about half way there. Hold on. Talk to me. Tell me about your day.” Mici knew what Rob was trying to do. She hoped it worked. As a child, when she had been punished by her father and stuck in the dark closet under the servant's stairs, she would talk to herself. Later, as she grew older, she talked to imaginary friends. When talking out loud, she could imagine that she wasn't alone in the prison known as the broom closet. It worked then; it would work even better with a real person. “Mici, are you still there? I know you are. I can hear your breathing. Calm down before you hyperventilate, sweetie. I'm coming. Talk to me.” “Well, I went to Karen's and ... Rob ... I heard something.” Mici's skin crawled. The noise was not what she associated with a normal night noise. The sound of traffic, the furnace fan, her water pump-the normal noises-they were all there, but something else was there also. “What? What did you hear? Come on talk to me, honey. I can't help, if you don't talk to me.” “Okay. It's like scratching noises. No ... more like cutting noises, like metal cutting noises. They sound like they're coming from the door to the fire stairs. The elevator is locked off. With no power, it wouldn't work anyway....Rob, I think someone is in the building and is trying to get in through the fire stairs’ door. How could that happen? The security system is on-I can see the lights.” “I don't know, honey.” “Hurry please. I have a bad feeling about this.” “Mici, I'm not even close yet. I need to call 911, so I'm going to put you on hold for a sec...” “No! I need to talk to you ... please don't hang up. Please.” “Okay, sweetie, I'm not hanging up. I can put you on hold and make the emergency call and get right back with you. Trust me, Mici, I will be right back with you. I'm about ten minutes away. Hide some place, honey. Keep safe. Help is on the way.” “Okay ... hurry.” Mici took a deep breath and started to move away from the front of the apartment near where the fire stairs were located. She could hear the cutting noises as they increased in volume. Someone was trying to remove the lock. She knew once the lock was cut out whoever was on the other side of that door was in, and she was trapped. Where to hide?

Looking around, Mici vetoed the outside patio-no place to hide and why give the person breaking in the opportunity to throw her over the edge? Great, Mici, give the burglar homicidal intent. Most burglars want stuff, not dead people on their hands. But some sixth sense told her that the person cutting his way into her apartment at night when she was likely to be home was not looking for her jewelry or silver. She knew with every instinct she possessed-the person was looking for her. Okay, not the patio, it had to be the bedroom. But where? No, the guest room, you idiot, remember there is an access to the attic storage area. Mici moaned in fear. The cutting noise was louder now. Whoever it was on the other side of that door was almost through. Run. Mici, thanking God she had no shoes on, ran on her tiptoes toward the guest room. She kept listening for Rob's voice to come back on line. What if she had been cut off? No, don't think that way. Rob promised. Mici held onto that promise-it was her only hope to keeping her sanity. “Mici ... honey ... it's Rob. Mici?” “He's almost through the door. I'm going to hide now,” Mici whispered into the phone as she let herself into the storage area and shut the door behind her. Not wanting to take a chance that the light would show under the door. She turned off the flashlight. She was living her worst nightmare-a small dark place with an unknown person stalking her. God, please help me. “Mici, where are you, baby? Can you talk without the person hearing you?” “I'm in the guest room in a storage area in the attic-there's a door in the clothes closet. Rob ... it's dark and cramped ... help me!...God, he's in. I hear him. I can't talk anymore ... talk to me please. Don't stop.” "Mici? I'm coming, sweetie. Count on it. The police are already on their way. They were pissed as hell that I wouldn't stay on the line. That's what took so long. You stay brave. Take calming breaths and picture my route. I'm on Alabama now. Listen for the sirens. Maybe, he'll get scared off by them as they approach. I told them you are on the top floor-the police will come right up. If I get there first, I'll come and get you. Hope I meet the son of a bitch who's in your place. He's dead meat, honey. Count on it." Leaning on his horn, Rob floored his truck through a red light. He put his flashers on and wished he still had his blue flashing light from the coroner's office. He had the truck up to eighty. Screw the cops; they could ticket him after he got to Mici. “Honey. Hey, I had a close one-ran a red light for you at Alabama and Eleventh Street. Ten more blocks, baby, and I'm there.” **** Mici heard Rob. That's all she could hear above the blood pounding in her ears. Hearts didn't explode, did they? She'd ask Rob, he would know, but she was afraid the maniac who was making all the noise in her apartment would hear her. Did he have magic powers? Could he sense her? He was moving closer. The sounds of his approach were like explosions. She could hear Rob. Hurry, she implored, sending him a mental signal. Hurry! He's close now. Feeling her way in the dark, Mici moved further back into the storage area. She bumped into a steamer trunk. Oh God, she remembered ... it was empty. Salvation and living death. Could she hide in it? No. She would go crazy if she had to climb into that small box. She'd have to hide behind it. Hopefully, the man wouldn't come into the attic. Mici squeezed behind the trunk, hoping she made no perceptible noise. How could she know? She only heard Rob's voice now. She had phased everything else out. She was running on the instinct to flee and

hide like a small animal gone to ground. Rob's voice was the only thing that kept her somewhat focused. Her lifeline. Then she heard a voice that wasn't Rob. It was him. “Bitch! Where are you bitch? Come out and play with me. I killed Elinor Grace, just like I am going to kill you. So, you might as well come out. Maybe I'll kill you quick. Then again, maybe not.” His laughter made her nauseous. She wanted to cry out, instead she held her breath. He was so close. **** Rob gunned his truck through another red light. Someone was looking out for him. He made it without killing either himself or someone else. Pulling into the lot behind Mici's building, he noticed no cops. Where were they? He could barely hear Mici's breathing now where as before she was almost gasping in her fright. Was she even conscious? He would have heard if someone had gotten her, wouldn't he? A police car pulled in beside him as he got out of his truck. Rob turned to look at the police officers getting out of their vehicle with weapons drawn. “Put your hands up, please. Don't move.” Jesus Christ, they had come silently. Where were the fucking sirens? Damn, the guy in Mici's apartment hadn't heard them. He was still there. With Mici. He had to get to her. But first, he had to deal with the officers. It wouldn't help Mici if he were dead. “Hey, I'm one of the good guys. I phoned in the call.” “What's your name? What call is that?” “Dr. Rob Craig. Check it out. But I'm going in there-you can shoot me-but I'm going in there. My girl is up there with a maniac in her apartment.” Damn! Where had that come from? His girl? It had slipped out, but it felt right. No time to examine this now. Got to get to Mici. Cautiously, Rob began his move toward the apartment with the phone once again at his ear. One of the officers followed him. He heard the other one say that the name and story checked out. Good, he had back up now. He couldn't hear Mici at all now. What was she thinking? Had she heard him talking to the officers? “Damn it all to hell! How did the bastard get in?” Rob voiced his thoughts as he looked at the solid and very closed back door.. “Over here!” One of the officers called. “He got in through the basement.” Rob ran toward the officer and saw that the window to the basement entrance had been cut out and the door was wide open. He followed the officers into the building as he heard the blessed sound of sirens. “Thank God, someone uses their sirens. Maybe it will spook the guy and scare him off before he can find Mici. Baby, I hope you can hear me. Two policemen and I are in the building we are on our way up.” “Shouldn't we turn on the lights? That will scare him away.”

Rob shouted, “No. He could use the elevator then. This way he has to come down these stairs. They're the only way out.” “Gotcha. I'll stay here to block this exit if he gets past you two. Do you know where your girlfriend is hiding, Dr. Craig?” “Yeah.” “Then you go with Officer Jones so she won't be afraid to come out. Just let Officer Jones lead, Dr. Craig. We don't want you to get hurt. We'll get him, sir.” “Fine. Let's just go.” **** Where is the bitch? She had to be here somewhere. Damn, sirens. Who called the police? He didn't think he'd made that much noise. He'd cut the phone wires-the silent alarm signal couldn't be relayed without phone access. Oh shit. Modern technology. He bet she had a cell phone. Well, damn. She'd wait. He knew where to find her. He'd better get the hell out of here. “I know you can hear me, bitch. I'll be back to get you. Then I'll go after your partner, Dr. Craig. You'll both pay for messing in my business.” The intruder retraced his steps into the main part of the apartment. He had pretty well trashed the place. He wanted the cops to think he was a doped up burglar who preyed on women living alone. Hell, it had felt good to destroy her property. Killing Elinor Grace and Eric Martin had given him temporary satiation, but he needed more. It was addictive this power of holding people's lives in his hands. He knew what he would do. He would start going to the Dungeon again. Master X hadn't been in a while. He bet there were more than a few bottoms who missed serving him. Yeah, that's what he'd do. First, he had to get out of this place. He was smarter than them. He could do it. The intruder who would easily be recognized to the denizens of the Dungeon as Master X looked around the apartment and saw his chance. The patio was on the roof. There had to be a fire escape. Opening the patio door quietly, he went out and closed it behind him. No prints. He wore gloves. Looking around, he glanced over the edge and saw the metal fire escape attached to the building. All he had to do was climb over and use his height to drop gently down onto the fire escape. He could do it. Hell, if he had to, he could fly down. Maybe another time. His powers were too new to be tested. Later after he killed more, his powers would be at their peak. Looking over the edge, he saw no cops. They were all probably waiting for him to come down the stairs. Dumb. He disappeared over the edge. Bye-bye suckers. Then he was gone. **** Officer Jones and Rob slipped quietly into Mici's apartment. Every other door was locked on the lower floors. The guy had to still be here. Jones motioned for Rob to stay back as he entered the main room with his gun drawn.. Rob subdued the urge to burst into the apartment and go straight to Mici's hiding place. He knew that was stupid. He didn't want the guy to use her as a hostage. Frustrated at his inability to act, he spoke into the phone, “Baby, we're here. I'll be coming to get you out

soon. Just stay quiet.” Jones came back to where Rob stood. “He's not here.” “Impossible. There's no other way out.” Jones spoke into the radio set on his shoulder and told the other officers to throw the buildings’ main breaker. Within seconds, the lights were on. As Rob and Jones moved through the apartment, they viewed the wanton destruction. Both men looked at each other. “Go get your girl. I'm going to check on the roof patio.” “Right.” Rob had been heading for the bedrooms before Jones had finished his sentence. Looking into the first room, he saw it was the master bedroom. He could see the covers where Mici must have fallen asleep earlier; Elinor's diaries were still strewn all over, but now some were on the floor. The guy had really made a mess. “Mici, where are you?” Rob yelled, knowing she would hear him over the phone and now in the apartment. “Honey, I'm here. You can come out now.” No answer. Either on the phone or from within the confines of the apartment. The bastard hadn't gotten her, had he? No, he would have heard. She would have made some noise. Not if she was frozen with fear or unconscious, you twit, Rob berated himself. Rob moved past what was obviously a home office/library and into the only other bedroom. Walking into the large closet, he moved clothes aside until he found the door. He opened it. It was pitch black. “Oh honey. I bet you're scared. Come out, baby. It's okay.” Rob used his key ring flashlight and found a light switch. He flipped it on. No Mici. “Mici, where are you?” **** Mici dreamed she was buried alive. What was that Poe story? The Cask of Amontillado? Instead of being walled up alive, she was buried alive, but the undertaker had made the casket too short. Damn, didn't they care that she would be uncomfortable for eternity? Wait, isn't that Rob's voice? Did the bad person get him, too? She knew he threatened to, but she thought Rob was safe. At least, she wouldn't be alone in death. God, please I am so scared. Let me wake up and be alive. Mici again heard Rob calling her. He was telling her everything was going to be okay. How could it be okay? She was dead, wasn't she? It was dark and she was so sleepy. Daddy, please let me out. I'll be good. I promise. **** Rob heard a whimper and a small voice promising to be good. “Mici!” Rob roared. “Keep talking honey.” “It's so dark in here, Daddy. I did everything you asked me to, but you keep changing the rules. How can I be good if you keep changing the rules? I didn't tell Momma about our game. I didn't. I never

would.” Glancing around the small attic, Rob looked for something large enough to hide Mici. Then he saw the trunk. “Oh God, Mici!” He ran over to the trunk and found Mici curled into a fetal position between it and the wall. Carefully, tears streaming down his face, he lifted Mici into his arms. Carrying the whimpering woman out of the small attic, he vowed, “I'll get the bastard for this, baby. That's a promise.” CHAPTER THIRTEEN Mici struggled against what was holding her. It was light now and cooler than the dark space into which she had sunk to escape the evil chasing her. If she could just get free from whatever was holding her, she would be okay. She would be Mici Smith and not the fearful little Michelle. “Hey, it's okay now, Mici. I've got you. You're safe.” Mici kept testing her bonds. Wait. The voice. It wasn't the bad man. It wasn't her Daddy, thank God. Whose voice was it? She knew that voice-it had kept her sane when she thought she would die with the fear. “Hey, honey, it's okay. It's Rob. You can come back to me now.” Yes, it was Rob. He was her friend. It was his voice that had kept her trusting in a deliverance from the evil. Everything was okay now. “Rob?” Mici's voice was raspy from tightness, an aftermath of the screams she had kept inside. “Yes. Rob. Come on let's tuck you in bed. You're shivering.” Mici felt a solid, but soft, surface underneath her. It was her bed. How long ago had it been since Rob's call woke her and the nightmare began? “What time is it?” “It's about nine forty-five. Honey, let go now. You're safe.” Forty-five minutes. It had seemed like hours, days, an eternity that she had been terrified. She still couldn't believe it had happened to her. Moving away from home was supposed to keep her more safe, not less. Would she never be safe? Oh, my God, Rob. “Rob ... he said he would get us both. He wants to kill us both-just like Elinor.” Mici opened her eyes and looked at the man who was becoming more than just a friend to her. When had that happened? Tonight when he kept her from going crazy while she lived her worst nightmare? Or, was it from the very beginning when he picked her up off the ground? She didn't know. It just was. “Hey there. Are you okay? Are you hurt anywhere?” Rob began to check and massage Mici's arms and legs which he knew had to be cramped from being curled in the fetal position in that tight corner. Thank God, she was flexible or she would be dead or at the very least a hostage now. “I'm fine. You don't have to do that. I'll be okay. I'm not a little girl, you know.” “No. You're a brave woman who did what she needed to do in order to survive.” Rob smiled down at

Mici who was giving him an indignant look, like a cat who allowed itself to be petted but had had enough. “Brave? I don't think so. Brave would have kicked the son of a bitch's butt. I hid.” “Yeah right. You're such a coward that you hid in a place that you were terrified of and kept quiet so he wouldn't find you....God, I thought you were dead. I kept talking, hoping you would hear me and know help was near, but I couldn't even hear you breathing anymore.” Rob shuddered at the memory. “He was right outside the attic. I was so afraid he could hear me. My heart was pounding so loudly-I knew he had to hear it. Your talking kept me hopeful. It was my lifeline ... you'll never know how much. Thanks to you, I'm not a babbling idiot ready for a straitjacket.” Rob looked at the smiling woman. She thought he was a hero. It was a good feeling. One he was sort of getting used to. Reaching out was not such a bad thing. “Dr. Craig? Just wanted to let you know that the crime scene techs are almost through. We'll need both yours and Ms. Smith's fingerprints for elimination purposes. Also, is it possible for us to take a statement from Ms. Smith right now? We'll be in the kitchen.” Rob turned. Officer Jones and his partner stood in the doorway of Mici's bedroom. How long had they been standing there? Damn. What went on between Mici and him was too new to be critiqued by outsiders. The men excused themselves and left. Feeling a tug on his sleeve, he turned. Mici whispered, “It's okay. I'd like to answer their questions and get it over with.” “You don't have to.” “I know, but I want to. You won't leave me, will you?” Rob heard the fear and tension creep back into her voice. “Not a chance in hell, lady. You're stuck with me.” More than you know. Slow down, Rob, she's had a shock. She doesn't need you trying out your new found feelings on her just yet. She needs to get to know you. Slow and steady wins the race. Mici got up from the bed. Rob could tell that for the first time she noticed the chaos that used to be her bedroom. “Oh my God. Why did he trash the place? He said he was coming after me. Do you think he was looking for something?” Mici turned and reached out for Rob. “I don't know. Are you sure it wasn't a burglary gone sour?” Rob grasped the hands Mici held out. They were cold and shaking. “Yes, damn it. I'm sure. He threatened me and you ... and mentioned Elinor's name. This was personal, not some random thief who ran into someone at home.” Nope, she wasn't afraid, she was furious. The Mici Smith he knew and, he realized, was beginning to care for had returned. He could almost see the sparks flashing from her eyes. Rob rubbed her fingers against his in a soothing motion. “Okay, okay. Sorry, I forgot. It was personal. I just hope to hell he does come after me for a change. I'm tired of him hurting people I care about.” “People? Care about?”

“You and Tod. I'd bet the farm this guy attacked Tod, also.” Mici bit her lip. He visualized the wheels moving as she reached the same conclusion he did. “Yes, it makes sense. It all ties up with Life Benefits and Elinor's death.” “More than Elinor's death. That's why I called you and invited myself over...” “No, you invited yourself over because you knew I was scared. And I appreciate it. Thanks for not treating me like a blithering idiot. I don't know too many people who have accepted my irrational fears as calmly as you.” “Everybody is afraid of something, Mici. You have no reason to be ashamed. Someday I hope you trust me enough to tell me why you have these fears.” “Maybe someday I will.” Mici let go of Rob's hands and moved away. “But right now I want to get these two officers on their way and my apartment back into some sense of order. I can just imagine what the crime scene guys have done to it. Also, I want to hear what you have to tell me about Life Benefits.” Once again in control, Mici led the way from her bedroom to the kitchen where the officers had retreated. Rob stood guard as the two men steered Mici through her ordeal. He was ready to intervene if he thought it was too much for her. Damn, she was a trooper. His instincts told him that she was upset as she relived the horrifying moments, but damned if she was going to let anybody know about it. What past events could have made her such a stoic? Well, Rob had just made it his business to find out. He recalled she had mentioned her “Daddy” and something about “rules” and “not telling Momma.” Rob knew in his heart he wouldn't like what he'd eventually hear. He made a promise to make sure that whatever had scared Mici in the past would never touch her while he was around. Hearing the tension escalate in Mici's voice again, Rob called a halt to the questioning. “Okay, guys, you've asked these questions already. There is no need to go over it again. Type this up, and we'll both come in tomorrow morning. Mici can sign her statement then, and I'll give you one. She needs to rest now. Doctor's orders.” Rob smiled to take the sting out of his edict. No use making enemies of the beat cops. He would put a flea in the area commander's ear that frequent drive-bys would be a good idea for a while. The policemen took the hint and left taking the crime scene techs with them. Turning to look at Mici, “Well, where do you want me to start? I'm great with a broom or a dust cloth. Just point me in the right direction.” Rob stood amazed as the formerly calm and collected attorney broke into tears. Mici was crying so hard that she was shaking and gasping for breath. “Oh, honey. Come here.” Rob opened his arms and Mici without hesitation allowed him to fold her into his comforting embrace. Sweeping her up into his arms, he carried her into the living room and settled onto the couch. “I thought ... I thought ... I was going to die.” Looking up at Rob through tear-filled eyes, Mici poured out her worst fears. “I know what it must feel like to be buried alive. I kept thinking about Edgar Allen Poe's stories. I always hated Poe. My father read them to me. Scared me to death. He always laughed at my fears. Oh. Forget I said that.”

“No. I want to hear. Tell me. You'll feel better after you let it all out.” Yeah, right, Rob. One whole month of psychiatry rotation and you're such an expert. Who was he kidding? He wanted to know. No, he needed to know about her past. He felt like a heel taking advantage of her weakness this way. He'd make it up to her somehow. Rob looked down at the shivering woman in his arms. Gathering her closer to his warmth, he nestled her head on his chest and put his chin on top of her head. He knew it would be easier for her to talk without him staring at her. Plus, he didn't want her to see how her story affected him. Something told him-he wasn't going to like her father or mother much. “I can't ever remember when I haven't felt afraid.” Mici took a large shuddering breath and went on, “The earliest I can remember was when I was four years old and my father took my night light away. He said I was a big girl and didn't need it. I had to be brave. Then he told me bedtime stories with trolls and giants-not the stories my mother used to tell me about fairies and princesses. He said he wanted me to be tough, not a coward like my mother. He said she was afraid of her own shadow.” “I tried really hard to be brave but always seemed to fail in one way or another. I can remember the first time he put me in the broom closet under the servant's stairs. I had crawled into mother's and father's bed because I was afraid of the dark and the monsters under my bed.” Rob stroked Mici's tense back. “All kids think there are monsters in their room. I always told my mom they were in the closet and she needed to shut the door tight so they couldn't get out.” “Yeah, well, my father didn't see it that way.” Mici hesitated. “To him, I was a coward and I needed to be punished. So, the next day after I was trotted back to finish the night in my own bed, my father told me I had to be punished since I hadn't stayed in my room and had told stories about monsters. He put me in the closet for my own good-to teach me that the dark was just that the dark and that it couldn't hurt me. I think I must have screamed the whole time I was in there.” Rob grimaced at the image Mici had created. What a sadistic bastard. “Didn't the servants or your mother intervene?” Rob felt Mici shake her head. “No, as I grew older I knew that they didn't dare. He would have fired the servants, and I know now he beat my mother.” Stiffening, Rob let some of his anger into his voice. “Your father was an abuser? Is the bastard still alive?” “Uh-huh, but mother would never tell and she begged me not to. Plus no one would believe it anyway. The Honorable Joseph Jay Smith is a revered federal judge with tenure.” Rob sensed the sarcasm dripping from Mici's words. “You hate your father, don't you?” “I hate him and fear him, but am such a coward because I've never told anybody before. You're the first, and you have to promise me you won't tell.” Mici raised her head and grabbed two fistfuls of Rob's shirt and shook him. “You've got to promise me, please.” Seeing the fear in Mici's eyes, Rob couched his response so as to calm her. He didn't want to make a promise he couldn't keep, but he needed to hear the rest of it and knew she would shut up if she thought he was going to act upon the knowledge. “Shh, calm down, he can't hurt you anymore. I'm here now. He has to get through me. Is that why you moved into this apartment? To get away from your father's

influence?” Rob watched to see if Mici would allow herself to be swayed from exacting his promise. “Ye-s-s-s. I couldn't watch him browbeat mother anymore. Couldn't watch her let him. Plus, I realized that he hated me because I wasn't a son and I would never be able to win his approval. Sick, huh? Wanting the approval of a child abuser and wife beater.” Not waiting for an answer, Mici continued, “I had to leave. Daddy dearest decided since I wasn't a son but I was a woman, I needed to take the place of my much-abused mother who had lost her looks. I was supposed to be his hostess and constant companion.” “Mother fucking son-of-a-bitch.” Leaping ahead to the obvious conclusion, Rob was so furious he saw red. He couldn't ever remember being this mad. He tilted Mici's face up to his and rasped out his worst fear, “Did he rape you?” “No. Please, Rob, you're hurting me,” Mici gasped out as Rob's fingers dug into her face. Stroking the red marks left by his fingers, Rob's voice shook with residual anger. “Sorry, baby. Forgive me. I'm just so mad if your father walked through that door right now I would kill him where he stood.” “No, Rob. You can't think that way. Please. Just forget you ever heard this. Please. I'm away from him and his influence. I told him if he ever approached me again or tried to touch me that I would ruin him. He knows I will. He can't hurt me anymore.” “But he is. I heard you pleading with him while you were in the attic, Mici. He still haunts your nightmares.” Rob pushed Mici's head back down on his chest and kissed her hair. “You might as well tell me the rest of it. When did he realize you were a woman for the first time?” Rob stroked Mici's hair waiting for her response. When after a few seconds, she hadn't said anything, he sighed. She wasn't ready yet. Guilt, embarrassment, shame-whatever the emotion, he knew she wasn't ready to share with him all that her father had done to her. He was fortunate she had opened up as much as she had. The aftermath of her fear had made her vulnerable, but, not vulnerable enough to open up with the last bit of it. He could wait. She would tell him eventually. Hearing Mici yawn, he tilted her face up. “You're tired. I know how hard this evening has been for you,” Rob said as he swung Mici from his lap onto the couch next to him, “but don't worry. No one is going to hurt you ever again. I promise. Now, let's get your bed ready, and I'll tuck you in. If you have some blankets and a pillow, I'll bed down here on the couch. I don't think you should be alone tonight. In the morning, we'll go to the police station. We need to finish up the statements and make a visit to Lieutenant Adams.” “Why Adams? This wasn't a homicide.” “No, thank God, but it's a part of the whole Life Benefits’ picture, and I have at least three more premature deaths which can be related to Life Benefits. The autopsy on one of those cases was inconclusive as to why the woman's perfectly normal heart stopped. I need a court order to exhume the body to get tissue samples for toxicology. Adams is going to get me that exhumation order and start an investigation into Life Benefits ... or I will go over his head and have his badge.” “Okay, but you don't have to sleep on the couch, you know.” Rob wasn't sure he'd heard that right. “I don't?”

“No,” Mici grinned. “You can use the guest room.” CHAPTER FOURTEEN Master X stood over the unmoving body of the woman he had picked up at the Dungeon. A flicker of remorse went through him-remorse that the dead woman was not his originally intended victim, Mici Smith. The Smith woman had lucked out. The next time he wouldn't miss his chance to stop her snooping permanently. He'd have to figure out how to stop Rob Craig, also. Right now, he needed to get out of here, go home, and get some sleep. It had been a long night-the pain slut had taken a lot out of him. He was out of practice, and his flogging arm was tired. It was a shame really. If he hadn't been so frustrated over missing Mici, he might have been able to string his enjoyment of the dead woman's torture out over a few days. For a while there, she had been enjoying herself. Oh well, there were plenty more like her at the Dungeon. There was always tonight. **** Mici sat up abruptly. Looking around she relaxed. She was safe in her own room. Listening carefully, she realized that the sound of the guestroom shower was what had awakened her. Rob must be up and getting ready. Considering what she'd gone through, she felt pretty good. It had helped that Rob had stayed the night, but she couldn't expect that to happen again. Rob had his own place and his own life. She couldn't help thinking that she might never feel safe in this apartment again. That was her problem; it could be dealt with later. One thing for sure, she wouldn't be going home to her parents. She'd sleep in her office first. As she remembered what she had told Rob about her childhood and the abuse that her father had dealt out to her and her mother, she cringed. Thank God, she had come to her senses before she had blurted out the rest of it-the fondling by her father when she was a little girl, his masturbating in front of her, and, more recently, his spying on her in her cottage. It was when she had confronted him with her knowledge of the cameras that he had told her his plans for her: She would be his sex slave. She had moved out that same day. There was no going back-ever. “Mici. Are you decent?” Rob's voice filtered through her bathroom door. “Yes. Just.” She smiled. Amazing what a shower and a hair wash would do for a girl's spirits. “What do you want for breakfast? I'm cooking.” Mici laughed. “Well, if you think you're cooking with ingredients from my refrigerator, we might just starve.” “I know. I already checked. I called Tod while you were in the shower, and he made an emergency run to the grocery for me. How do you like your eggs, and do you want white or whole wheat English muffins?” Whoa. Mici was impressed. He could cook and admitted it. That was lucky. She and food substances didn't mix too well. Martha Stewart, she was not. “Scrambled and whole wheat,” Mici yelled back. For some reason, her day brightened even more. “Coming up. You've got five minutes, or you'll have to eat it cold.” Rob's footsteps moved away from her door. As she entered her bedroom she observed her door was open, and she waited to see if her ears had misled her.

“Woof.” “Hey there, Laurel, isn't it?” Recalling the last time the dog greeted her, Mici wasn't taking any chances. She sat on the bed, then reached out her hand which the large puppy completely ignored as he leapt up onto the covers and began licking her whole arm, then her face. “Glad to see me? Well, don't tell your master, but I'm kind of glad to see you, too! Maybe I should get a dog just like you to guard me at night.” Laughing, Mici rubbed the dog's ears and chin and listened to the gusty sighs of a very happy puppy. “That's what I thought, which is why I had Tod detour to pick up Laurel and bring him over here,” Rob said from the open doorway. “Laurel likes you. He wouldn't mind paying a visit for a while. What do you say? Think you could handle it?” Mici smiled through the tears. She knew Rob was trying to give her the means to stay in her own place without fear. He was also trying to do so without embarrassing her. In the future, anybody who dared to bad-mouth this man in front of her would get the lethal edge of her tongue. Rob was nothing like his reputation-at least not to her. Incapable of speech, Mici nodded her head as she buried it in the dog's warm neck. “Hey, don't cry. You'll give Laurel and me the impression that you're unhappy about the whole deal.” Rob approached the two on the bed and stroked Mici's hair as it lay across his dog's neck. Looking up, Mici sniffled. “No, I'm happy. I didn't want to think about staying here alone with that maniac loose. After he's caught, I'll be fine. Thanks for being such a good friend.” “Hey, no problem. Food in five minutes ... or I'll feed it to Laurel.” **** Mitch Adams hadn't been having a good morning. When he saw Rob Craig and Mici Smith walk into his office, unannounced, he knew it had just gone into the dumpster. “What do you two want?” Adams snarled. He'd heard about the attack on the Smith woman and had a sneaking suspicion that the Elinor Grace death was going to up and bite him in the butt. “Gee, Mitch, we're glad to see you, too,” Rob dead-panned. Mici jabbed him in the side with her elbow and whispered, “Behave, please. You're acting like a hormonal teenager.” Rob grinned at Mici and whispered back, “Well, you got the hormonal part right.” The man and woman shared a look which Adams would classify as intimate. Once they were just sleuthing partners, now more than that, it seemed. If they weren't such pains-in-the-butt causing him lots of trouble, he would be amused at this chain of events. Uh-oh, Mici had turned her attention back to him. Leveling him with a look that he was sure had put more than one opposing counsel on alert, she said, “Listen, Lieutenant Adams, since we have been out there doing the job you're paid by the taxpayers to do, you had better start treating us a lot better, or I will use my contacts on the bench and in government to see that you get a permanent position on traffic duty. Do I make myself clear?” Adams groaned. Shit. He just knew today was going to be a pisser. God, he hated politics. What was

worse he hated being proven wrong. The Elinor Grace case was beginning to stink. Time to backpedal, or he could kiss his promotion good-bye. “I'm sorry. It's been a hell of a day. Had a woman turned into hamburger by some whip-wielding crazy on the near eastside.” Adams drew in a deep breath. “I heard about your experience last night. Got a feeling that the Elinor Grace problem hadn't gone away.” “Just what are you trying to say, Adams?” Rob asked. Adams sat back in his chair and glared at Rob. The bastard wasn't going to make this easy on him. “I guess I'm apologizing to the both of you. It does look like Elinor Grace was murdered as you said. Obviously, you've overturned a few rocks, and now Ms. Smith is a target. Believe me, we have detectives looking into this. We'll get the guy who threatened you, Ms. Smith.” “That's a start, Adams. But there's more.” “More? What more?” Adams sat up glaring at the man who had time and time again proven him wrong. “More in like the death of Dr. Eric Martin is connected to Elinor Grace's.” “How could that be? Martin was a drug addict. Looks like he had a run-in with a supplier and the supplier offed him.” Adams gave a negligent shrug. “No, the man who killed Elinor Grace killed Martin. Martin had evidence about a murder scheme being perpetrated by Life Benefits on its clients, and he was trying to get that evidence to Mici and me when he was killed.” Adams jaw dropped open. Closing it, he said, “Get out of here. Life Benefits is a legitimate company. The mayor plays golf with the president, a guy named Hardman. Why would a businessman kill his clients? I mean-they were going to die eventually.” “Money, Lieutenant. Lots of money.” Mici handed over copies of the lists that Eric Martin had sent her. “These lists show at least twenty people died in the last year or so immediately after they sold their very large policies to Life Benefits.” Adams glanced at the lists and looked up at the two waiting for his reaction. “Excuse me for being stupid, I repeat, isn't that what they were supposed to do-die? Why would a company buy healthy people's policies?” “But, that's just it, Lieutenant. The people who died were healthy old people who could have lived many years.” “You're saying that Hardman or someone in his company killed off these people to get his money back sooner rather than later?” Rob nodded. Adams was starting to add it all up. “You got it. We can prove it, too. Medical records don't lie, Adams. I've been able to get a hold of medical records on three of the names on the lists besides Elinor's. These were healthy people. One of them was autopsied, and there were no indications as to why the woman's heart just stopped.” Adams rubbed his hands down the sides of his face. “Okay, let's say your theory is correct. Hardman or whoever is giving the okay to buy these policies and then puts out a hit or kills them himself. That accounts for Elinor Grace's death? Why kill Martin? Wouldn't he have been in on it? I mean he's the one who would say whether or not these people were sick or not, right?”

“You said it yourself, Adams. Martin was a drug addict. Probably didn't realize it until the death of a lady that he knew indirectly died. Then, he added two and two. He talked to us, and after that he was marked for death. Who knows? Maybe he threatened to go to the police. All we know is he sent me a package which was stolen after an attack on my assistant, Martin died, then Mici found this list on her email. Martin must have been trying to set it right.” “And now someone has threatened Ms. Smith...” “And Rob, too,” Mici put in. “Why would they threaten you?” Adams hoped he didn't sound as confused as he felt. This was just so far-fetched. Mici, realizing that the Lieutenant was finally beginning to believe them, explained. “For one very large reason. We have the list-somehow he knows it. He also knows that the police haven't connected the dots yet and seen the big picture. Until you make it known to Hardman and Life Benefits that the police are looking into this, we are in danger. Right now, other than yourself, we are the only people who believe they know what is going on.” “Damn. The mayor isn't going to like us rousting his rich golf-playing pal.” Adams saw his captaincy going up in smoke and groaned. CHAPTER FIFTEEN Victor Hardman was getting ready to leave for the day when his secretary buzzed him. “Sir, a Lieutenant Adams is here to see you.” Hardman stiffened. “I didn't realize I had an appointment with the lieutenant, Sarah.” “You didn't, sir. He says it's important.” Hardman rocked back in his chair and swiveled to look out of the window. Damn, he knew if he didn't speak with the police they would just be back. He had hoped that Brodie would have taken care of the doctor and the lawyer by now and recovered the Life Benefits’ client list. Well, he would just have to bluff his way through and then track down Brodie. Push comes to shove, he'd call in a few favors at the mayor's office. “Tell him to come on in, Sarah. You may go on home.” “Thank you, sir.” Hardman pasted a smile on his face-the one he reserved for people he had to charm and intimidate. Politicians related to it really well; he hoped it would work on homicide detectives. He stood and reached over the desk to shake the lieutenant's hand. “What can I do for you, Lieutenant Adams?” “I have a search warrant for your business records, Mr. Hardman.” “Why? I gave the police all of Dr. Martin's correspondence and phone messages.” “This is for different records. I believe the warrant is self-explanatory, sir.” Hardman took the papers that Adams held out. Reading quickly down the page, he mentally groaned. They wanted twenty client files ranging over the last year and a half, including Elinor Grace's. That fucking

lawyer must have taken the list straight to the cops. Damage control time. “Uh, Lieutenant, these records are private you understand. I don't feel comfortable releasing them without the clients’ families’ approval.” “I understand your concern, sir, but the prosecutor's office was clear on this. There is no privilege between you and the client.” “I understand that, Lieutenant, but you have to understand this would be bad for business if it got out that I let people look at our private records.” Hardman knew his argument wouldn't hold water, but he wanted to make it clear to the police lieutenant that he wasn't a pushover for a court order. “It would also be bad for your business if people found out your clients died prematurely and you benefitted from their deaths,” drawled Adams. Hardman laughed. “Lieutenant, that's our business. I thought you understood that we buy policies on a speculative basis, gambling the person will die within a reasonable amount of time so that we make a profit. It's what a viatical company does.” Hardman assumed what he hoped was a humoring look for the detective. “Cut the crap, Hardman. The names on that list were provided to Mici Smith by your late medical director, Eric Martin, who was killed not long after he sent the list. Since Martin's death is being investigated as a homicide, we are very concerned with why Martin felt Ms. Smith needed to have that list. And to top it all off, Ms. Smith was attacked last night and threatened because she has been looking into the death of one of those people on the list. It smells, Mr. Hardman, and where it smells, something or someone has to be rotten.” Hardman feigned shock while he tried to figure a way to get the policeman out of his office. “Do you think that Dr. Martin had something to do with the deaths of the people on that list? An attack on Ms. Smith, how could that be? I swear Lieutenant I knew nothing of what he was doing and nothing about the attack on Ms. Smith. Dr. Martin made his medical recommendations and, well, the selection committee followed them. Ms. Smith I have only met once.” Hardman, sighing out loud and shaking his head over the horrifying news delivered by the detective, looked up at the lieutenant and said earnestly, “Of course, we'll cooperate. If Dr. Martin had been using my company for criminal purposes, I want to know. How can I facilitate the transfer of records for you?” Hardman knew the police would find nothing in the records in this building. He had destroyed the duplicate records on his personal computer and moved the diskettes with the information to his safe at home. The police would be pissing in the wind on this search. “I have some police clerical personnel with me right now.” “Of course, of course. Let me phone down to the records department and see if the evening shift has come in yet. I'll have the supervisor help you herself. Will that work for you?” “Yeah, sure.” “It's the fourth floor, Lieutenant. Take your people, and I'll have someone meet you at the elevator.” “Well, thanks for your cooperation, Mr. Hardman.” “No problem, Lieutenant. No problem. My pleasure to be of assistance. Believe me, I just didn't know

that Dr. Martin was involved in anything illegal. Please keep me informed.” Hardman stood up, effectively dismissing the somewhat confused looking detective. After Adams left the room, Hardman first called the fourth floor and instructed the supervisor of records to assist the police. Then, he called Brodie. “Brodie? Where in the hell have you been?” Hardman barked into the phone. “Around. What's up?” “You need to lay low for a while. The police are looking into the deaths over the last year and a half.” “So, they're following up on that email you found. You covered that okay, didn't ya?” “Yeah. It will look like Martin and a person or persons unknown did the killing. I've already placed the addendum to Martin's employment contract into his file. The police will think Martin did it to increase his bonus each year. You got any ideas on who can share the blame with Martin?” “I think so. Trust me. The heat will soon be off, Mr. Hardman. I've got a real live one, just need to set him up and lead that doctor and his lady lawyer friend right to him.” **** Brodie reassured Hardman once more that he had everything under control then hung up. The night before last, Brodie had followed the man known as Master X from the lawyer's apartment. He had been casing the place to see how to put a scare into the lady so she would back off of the Grace case. He had only been mildly surprised to see Master X show up. Waiting, Brodie watched the whole scenario play out and proceeded to follow the man from the scene of his interrupted crime. It had been a long night, but he thought he now knew how to place the blame on the dead Dr. Martin and Master X for all of the Life Benefit killings. He just needed to plant a few clues and inform Rob Craig and Mici Smith which way to go to find them. He had confidence given time and a little bit of help from him, they would come to the conclusion that Master X with Dr. Martin's help had masterminded the Life Benefit's scheme to cover up a carefully planned murder of one person in particular. Martin became expendable when he got a conscience. Nice neat package with a bow. Hardman and he would be off the hook. They could lie low for a while and start over elsewhere. They had done it once; they could do it again. Brodie dialed Rob Craig's number and left the first clue. **** Tod walked into the embalming room of the mortuary. “Hey, Rob, I just took a really weird message for you about that dead Dr. Martin.” Rob looked up from the body he was autopsying. He looked over his diener with a critical eye. Tod's color was good, and he seemed to be fully recovered from the attack. Ah, the recuperative powers of youth. Rob smiled. “What kind of message?” Tod stood at the end of the table while Rob removed a diseased liver. “Cirrhosis?” “Yep. Looks like this guy never met a bottle he didn't like. The message, Tod, what about Dr. Martin?” Rob placed the liver on the scale and dictated the weight into the recorder.

“He said that if you wanted to find out why Dr. Martin was really murdered to go to a place called ‘The Dungeon’ tonight, the password is ‘Trick-or-Treat,’ and ask about ‘Eric the Small.’ Said to be sure to take a picture to confirm that Martin and Eric the Small were one in the same. Oh, he also said not to miss the scene tonight. A friend of Martin's by the name of Master X will be featured.” Rob looked up. “Is that all he said?” “No, he said to have a good time. The bartender has orders to pay for your drinks.” Tod grinned. “Nice of him, huh?” “Yeah. Really nice. Tod, did he happen to mention where this place called ‘The Dungeon’ is located?” “No, but I know where it is.” Rob looked slightly askance at his assistant. “You do?” “Well, yeah, they have great headbanger balls there. It's in Woodruff Place in one of those big old mansions.” “Tod, look at me.” Once Rob had Tod's eye, he asked the question uppermost in his mind. “Just what kind of club is this place?” “Well hell, Rob, haven't you ever heard of it before? It's a S/M Club.” Tod grinned and left the embalming room leaving Rob speechless. **** “Sherry, come in here, please.” Mici didn't know quite what to do. She had never heard of this place called “The Dungeon.” A mysterious caller told her she would find clues as to why Elinor Grace and other Life Benefits’ clients were killed. Knowing that her secretary Sherry had her ear to the club scene in Indy, maybe she could make some sense out of the phone call. “What's up, boss?” Sherry came into the room and plopped down in the visitor's chair in front of Mici's desk. “Have you ever heard of a nightclub called ‘The Dungeon?'” “Whoa. Heavy stuff there, boss. Who asked you out to ‘The Dungeon?’ I didn't know you were into the leather scene.” “Leather scene?” Mici screwed up her nose. “Like in bikers, Hell's Angels, that kind of leather scene?” Sherry shook her head. “No, more like whips and chains, bootlicking, sado-masochism, bondage and discipline type of leather scene.” “Oh.” Mici was shocked to silence. After her scare last night, bikers would have been bad enough, but Marquis De Sade wannabes were positively off-putting. “Uh, boss. Did Dr. Craig ask you out to some Bondage Ball? I mean if you don't mind my saying, he and you don't seem the type.” “We're not-or at least, I'm not. I don't know him well enough to say ... no, he's definitely not. Do you think?”

Mici didn't know what to think. The man who took care of her last night and cooked her breakfast this morning was definitely a caring individual. But how could you really know a person after only a month? Well, if she were a betting person, she would bet that this “leather” scene was not something that Rob was into. Hell, she didn't even know herself. When Sherry had mentioned leather, Mici felt sick to her stomach, but got wet at the same time. Yeah, it was a sick excitement-maybe she was no better than her father. “Hey, Mici, don't worry. Dr. Craig is a straight up guy. He's worried about you. Told me to screen all your visitors today. He said you had a scare last night. If I had known that call was going to bug you, I wouldn't have put it through, but I thought it was a client.” “It's okay, Sherry. I'm okay-let's just have business as usual.” Mici smiled to reassure her secretary that she was fine. “Do you happen to know where this ‘Dungeon’ place is?” “Nope, but I know where I can find out. Why?” Mici, aware of her secretary's intent scrutiny, temporized, “Well, I need to tell Rob about the call, and I want to be able to give him all the information. It might be important to Elinor's murder investigation.” “Okay. I'll get right on it. When do you need the info?” “As soon as you can get it, please.” “Okie-dokie.” Sherry got up and left the room. Mici felt bad about misleading her secretary, but she knew that Sherry would have felt an obligation to try and talk her out of going to this “Dungeon” place. It wouldn't have taken much persuading to convince her either. Mici was bound and determined not to allow irrational fears to control her life. The man on the phone said that Dr. Martin had frequented this club. His very close friend, Master X, could possibly help with the reasons behind all the murders at Life Benefits, and he was going to be there tonight for sure. She needed to go and find out what this Master X knew. Who was she kidding? She was going for several reasons. Yes, one was that she felt committed to finding out who had killed Elinor Grace and Eric Martin. But the main reasons were to prove to herself she was not a sick person like her father and that she could control her fears and not the other way around. Tonight would definitely be a litmus test of her soul. **** Rob parked on the street about half a block from the house he had determined was “The Dungeon.” To him, it looked like any other late nineteenth century mansion in the historic neighborhood on Indianapolis's near Eastside. Woodruff Place was one of those areas of relative calm surrounded by stormy seas. Just outside the gated entryway with its famous statuary and fountains stood some of the roughest streets of the city-gangs, drugs, rape, murder, carjackings ... you name it, and you could find it in the areas surrounding the grand old dame of a neighborhood. Rob walked up the dimly lit sidewalk to the massive front door, paneled with what looked like Tiffany glass, and probably was. Ringing the doorbell, he breathed in the quiet of the unseasonably cool Halloween evening preparing himself mentally for what he would find inside. In spite of himself, he was excited in an odd sort of way. Hell, who was he kidding? He had been hard all day ever since Tod confirmed what this place was. Prurient interest alone guaranteed he would come tonight, never mind the fact he would gain some insight into what made Martin tick and how that might relate to the deaths at Life Benefits.

The door was opened by a relatively young woman dressed in a slutty parody of a French maid's uniform. Averting his eyes from two very prominently displayed breasts, Rob smiled at the woman, said “Trick-or-Treat,” and asked the cover charge. “For you, nothing, honey. I'm off at midnight. Want to party?” Rob blushed. For a fleeting second, he wondered what sex would be like with the very comely girl, but realized he was actually thinking with that part of his anatomy now firmly encased in the leather pants which Tod had insisted would be the uniform de rigeur for the evening. “Uh, no thanks. I'm meeting someone. Appreciate the offer though.” Looking him up and down like a prize, the young maid said, “Too bad. You look like you could probably have handled me. If your date stands you up, you know where to find me, stud.” Rob wasn't sure, but he thought he felt her brush his ass as he walked past her. Damn. He needed a cool drink. Now. Meandering toward the back of the house, he found what, at one time, must have been the dining room. Looking in, he saw a bar with several people's rapt attention turned toward a place off to the side of the room. Upon reaching the bar, he mentioned his name, received his free beer, and turned to see what the others were watching. Rob choked on his first swallow. On the other side of the room was a small stage, and the featured show was a woman on her hands and knees giving a blow job alternately to two men as another man screwed her from behind. Jesus Christ. Rob didn't consider himself a prude, but sex was personal, not a public spectacle. He was embarrassed for the woman, although she didn't seem to be complaining any. Rob turned his back on the show and caught the eye of the bartender. The sooner he started asking his questions about Eric and Master X, the sooner he could get the hell out of there. “Excuse me. A friend of mine used to come here all the time. He went by the name of Eric the Small. Ever heard of him?” The bartender laughed. “Yeah. Eric the Small he came a lot-get it?” Rob winced. “Yeah, I get it.” Sobering, the bartender said, “Heard Eric was dead. Drowned. Too bad. You here for the memorial that his Master is sponsoring?” “Yeah. That's right. Master X had someone call me and tell me about that. I wanted to pay my respects.” The bartender nodded. “Damn decent of you, man. Hey, the memorial scene should be starting up in about ten minutes. It's downstairs in the playroom. You'd better hurry, wouldn't want to miss the warmup, would you?” The bartender grinned. “Warm up, get it?” Rob nodded and smiled. No, he didn't get it, but unfortunately, he had a feeling he wouldn't want to either. ****

Mici felt very conspicuous in the outfit she had bought to wear to the Dungeon. Thank God, it was Halloween. If she saw anybody who knew her, she could pass it off as a costume. Still, Mici wished she had back the full length cloak she had given to the French maid at the door. Keeping to the shadows had been easy once she had left the main hallway. Afraid to approach anybody for directions to the “playroom,” which was where the maid said Master X would be performing a memorial service for his friend, Eric, Mici had been wandering from room-to-room getting more embarrassed and shocked by the minute. Her father may have been an abuser and a pervert, but she had seen things tonight that made him look like an innocent boy. Mici hadn't realized that a world like this existed in what she felt was a typical conservative Midwestern city. Her eyes were opened now. What she couldn't understand was how they got away with it? Guess privacy in the bedroom between consulting adults covered more ground than she thought. Despite her discomfort with most of what she saw, she still felt a niggling of sexual arousal. What did that mean? Damn, she needed a drink. There had to be refreshments someplace. **** Rob moved toward the bar/dining room door. Just as he was about to leave, in walked the best pair of legs he had seen since Mici had sprawled at his feet on his front walk. Before he could see the face that went with the gorgeous gams, she turned to talk to someone behind her. Damn, what a butt! Rob never understood why women wanted to be flat back there-most men he knew, himself included, were ass-men. This was one fine ass, set off to perfection by the short tight leather skirt. Instinctively, he knew the bustier she was wearing would set off her breasts to perfection. Good, she was turning around. “Mici!” Rob roared. “Rob?” Simultaneously, they both said, “What are you doing here?” Rob walked over, grabbed Mici's arm and moved her away from the bar and the copulating foursome that he hoped she hadn't seen. When she stumbled on the stiletto heels she wore, he swung her up into his arms and carried her out of the room to the sound of cheers from the bar's inhabitants. “Rob, put me down. You're causing a scene.” “Not yet I'm not-a scene would be where I would use one of those spanking benches to paddle your sweet little butt. Just what in the hell do you think you're doing here? And it had better be good.” “I got a call about Eric and a Master X. What are you doing here?” Mici struggled to get down. “Stop wiggling or I'll drop you.” Finding an unoccupied room off the back hall, Rob walked in and kicked the door shut with his booted foot. “I got a call also-same topic.” “Okay. So, we both got a call telling us that Eric and a Master X might lead us to what?” “Is this a test?” Seeing a mutinous look on Mici's face, he answered her question, “To lead us to the reasons behind the Life Benefits’ deaths.” “Why do you think our mysterious caller wants us to go in this direction? The police are looking into the files at Life Benefits. We've got two more families willing to allow us to figure out why their loved ones died so quickly. Hardman and Life Benefits will be gotten dead to rights.”

“Maybe the caller wants us to find out how Eric and Master X perpetrated the crimes either for Life Benefits’ purposes or their own?” Mici shook her head. “Or maybe the caller is trying to misdirect us.” Neither agreeing nor disagreeing with her conclusion, Rob said, “Either way-the lead is there and it needs to be looked into-by me. Go home, Mici. I'll walk you to your car.” Taking her by the arm, he looked her up and down. His penis hardened as he took in her incredibly long legs and the skirt lovingly cupping her so-fine ass. As his eyes reached her breasts for yet a second visit, he ground out, “And, I hope to hell you wore a coat over that outfit you're almost not wearing.” “Well, I'm a hell of a lot more covered than that little tart at the front door with the silicone implants hanging out all over. Were you attracted to her, um, obvious assets?” “She did offer to go out with me after her shift was over,” Rob answered with a straight face. “No wonder. Your pants are so tight-she didn't have to imagine what you were packing.” Mici gasped and covered her face with her hands. “I can't believe I just said that.” Smiling down at what he hoped was a jealous Mici, Rob took her hands in his and placed them around his waist. Bending over, he pulled her against him and ground his pelvis against her stomach. “What I'm ‘ packing’ as you so delicately put it is for you-not the girl at the door, Mici. Now is not the time or place to start anything, but we will continue this conversation at another time. Right now, you are going home. I'll talk to Master X.” “Rob, you're right, this is not the time or place,” Mici shivered, “for this conversation, but you are wrong about me going home. We're partners and we'll do this together.” Rob gritted his teeth. He wasn't going to yell. He'd count to ten. One, two... “Rob, come on. We're probably missing the memorial service right now.” Turning away from Rob's arms, Mici tugged at his sleeve. Rob wasn't going to yell, but he hadn't promised not to kiss her into doing what he wanted-which was to get her out of this degrading ... decadent ... libidinous ... stimulating place. Digging his heels into the floor, Rob pulled Mici back into his arms, tilted her chin up, then took her lips just as she was opening them to protest his actions. Yes, this was much better than yelling at her, he thought, as he leaned into the kiss and tried to dissipate some of his tension. He didn't want to think about what might have happened if she had ended up here all alone without him to protect her. Foolish woman. She was asking for trouble dressed like that. **** Mici struggled to get away from the kiss that she knew was meant to punish her for not agreeing to leave quietly like a nice girl. Well, hell, she didn't feel like a nice girl tonight. Yes, she was shocked by the place, but she had come to no harm. Even the guy who approached her at the barroom door had taken no for an answer. Rob was being overprotective, almost like a mate. He was going all territorial on her. Like she couldn't figure out what the kiss was all about, either. One little kiss was not going to cow her into leaving. No sirree. She'd show him. Mici took her previously limp arms and locked them around Rob's neck and gave him back kiss for kiss. Stroking his tongue with hers, she squeaked when she felt Rob's hands cup her bottom and lift her up against his rapidly growing arousal-not that she believed it could get any larger. Oh my God, what am I

doing thinking about his arousal? This was too fast, too soon and in the wrong place for sure. Pushing at Rob's chest, Mici let go of his lips and gasped out, “Rob, we've got to stop. Remember, this isn't the time or place. We've got work to do.” Rob leaned his forehead against hers and breathed raggedly for a few seconds. Mici made an attempt to move away, but Rob groaned and pulled her against him. “Don't move, honey. Stay here where I can keep an eye on you. I won't attack you again. Just let me calm down. I didn't scare you, did I?” Mici shook her head. She couldn't believe her ears and rushed to correct the misconception Rob seemed to have gotten. “No, you didn't scare me. I just don't want our first time to be in a tacky maid's room in a S/M club called ‘The Dungeon.’ I also thought we might want to go out on a real date first before we hop into bed together. Call me silly, but I like doing things in a certain order.” “Thank God. I can live with that. Let's go get this interview with Master X concluded, so we can go on that first date.” Mici's last thoughts as she was pulled out of the room were My God, I've created a monster. Then she grinned. CHAPTER SIXTEEN The Dungeon had spared no expense in furnishing the Victorian style mansion. The upper floors were awash in rich brocade draperies, silk covered walls and glistening wood and marble floors covered in silk Aubusson rugs. The colors were burgundies and emeralds accented with burnished gold. The furnishings other than the bondage equipment complimented the decor of a wealthy home at the end of the nineteenth century. Every opportunity to create a lush and decadent environment had been taken. The basement room of the Dungeon was no exception. Mici wasn't quite sure what she expected to find when she and Rob descended to the lower level, but it wasn't a fully furnished torture chamber right out of the Spanish Inquisition with a few nods to modern ingenuity and Barnum & Bailey. Although the stairs had been well lit, an acknowledgment of building codes and liability laws, Mici suspected, the central area of the Dungeon playroom was pitch black except for the three-rings spotlighted in the center of what looked like stadium seating albeit with more comfortable chairs. Disoriented and afraid, Mici reached out for Rob. “Are you okay, Mici? Is it too dark for you?” Rob spoke directly into her ear. The noise from the heavy metal music made it difficult to hear. “I'll be okay, just don't let go. My eyes haven't adjusted yet.” Fooling yourself again, Mici? Admit it-you're just plain scared. “No problem. Stick close. The crowd seems friendly enough, but I'm sure there are freaks in this kind of place.” Mici looked around. Rob was right. Everyone seemed congenial, just like the people who would gather at a local bar or dance club. If it hadn't been for the varying stages of dress and undress and the excessive amount of piercings and tatoos, this crowd would look like any other group out for a good time. As she and Rob made their way toward two empty seats on the far side of the room, the crowd went

silent and the music formerly at eardrum splitting levels ceased. Mici bumped into Rob as he stopped. The house lights went up slightly. Mici could now see the equipment that was tucked into the corners of the large room. Mici recognized some of the furnishings as medieval instruments of torture-a rack, an iron maiden, and a wheel, that she recalled, was named a Katherine wheel. There were other pieces of equipment which were unfamiliar, but she could make a fairly accurate guess as to what they were used for. Damn her imagination and classical education. She shook her head as if she could shake off the mental images of people being tortured on the equipment. Hopefully, they would be gone before people started to demonstrate their uses. She had a sick feeling that she would look, and she was ashamed. Following Rob's gaze, she saw why he had stopped. In what she would call the center ring, a very tall, well-muscled woman dressed all in black leather, if you could call it dressed, stood waiting for the attention of the crowd. At her booted feet, on either side, were two naked men, collared and leashed, down on their hands and knees. The woman held both leashes in one hand while she cracked the bullwhip she held in the other. The whip signaled a call to attention. The statuesque woman spoke. Her clear contralto carried easily to the far corners of the room. “Welcome to the Dungeon's Playroom. I am Mistress Nikita. You regulars out there know that this is usually free play night. However, due to the sad death of one of our favorite pain sluts, Eric the Small, we have had a slight change of plans. I assure you that you will not be disappointed in this evening's entertainment. After a short homage to our dear departed, there will be extended hours this evening so you all can get your playtime in. Wouldn't want you to have all dressed up for nothing.” She laughed and jerked up the leashes on her two submissives, who laughed on cue. The crowd laughed and cat-called like a Friday night at a pro wrestling match. “As you all know, Eric the Small was a particular friend to the magnificent Master X who has not been able to be with us for a while. Well, Master X is back tonight and wishes to perform with a volunteer from the audience. If no one volunteers, well, I guess I will have to choose, won't I?” Mici shivered at the look the dominatrix gave the room. Shrinking against Rob, she felt him tuck her closer to his side and move her body slightly behind him. Rob whispered, “Don't worry. I won't let them take you. You belong to me. Even here they'll respect my prior rights.” Mici hissed back, “What about my rights?” Rob smiled down at her. “Humor me, please? They seem to play by different rules here, Mici. Just keep a low profile. We'll be okay. I want to see this Master X.” Mici noticed that an attractive woman wearing only leather strips which didn't cover any of her private areas had volunteered, or had been volunteered by the man with her, to be Master X's partner in the evening's entertainment. Looking up at Rob, Mici noted that he seemed to be taking in all the woman's feminine attributes which were even more fully displayed to the crowd as her date led her to the stage by the leash attached to the golden rings in her nipples. He then turned her to display her naked sex organs to all who wished to look. Mici didn't wish. Embarrassed, she turned to hide her face against Rob's leather jacket, but at the last minute, stopped and watched, fascinated in spite of herself. It was like watching a horror movie: she knew it was going to gross her out or scare her to death, but she felt compelled to look.

The master of the lovely woman attached her face down and spread-eagled to an angled wooden cross featured prominently in the center of a large wooden turn-table. Before the man returned to his seat in the front row, he used his hand to spank the bound woman's bottom, bringing the color to a bright pink within minutes. The woman whimpered and thanked her master in a loud voice for each hit. Mistress Nikita stood to the side watching the scene while her submissives licked her boots. After the master had warmed up his slave and returned to his seat, she spoke, “Master X, we await your pleasure.” From the darkness at the side of the room, a man dressed only in black leather pants and a hood strode out onto the stage. His torso glistened in the spotlight, accenting his lean musculature and various tattoos. In his right hand, he held a bullwhip very similar to the one that Mistress Nikita had used to call the crowd to attention; however, his was different in that it was longer and the tips seemed to be flat. In his other hand, he held a cane. Once he reached center stage, he turned in a circle and raised both his arms with their instruments of torture. The crowd gasped as one. Mici looked around seeing a mixture of horror and awe in the faces of the crowd-emotions she could relate to. A commotion ensued in front of the stage. It was the master of the bound woman. He seemed to be arguing with Mistress Nikita gesticulating toward Master X. Whatever the outcome of the argument, he nodded his head and sat down crossing his arms over his large chest. Mici could sense his anger clear across the room Taking control of the situation, Mistress Nikita approached Master X and whispered into his ear. Whatever she said, he nodded his head and threw down the cane. The crowd sighed, whether in relief or disappointment, Mici didn't know. From above her, Mici heard Rob's harsh “Thank God someone has some common sense” and realized that Master X had intended to beat the woman with both instruments. “Rob, he's going to hurt her. I thought this was all playacting. Can't you do something?” “Mici, that's what they do here. Obviously, this Master X used to beat Eric in the same manner and was going to eulogize him by performing the same ritual on this woman. The woman's date-for lack of a better word-wasn't having any of it. The whip seems to be okay with him, but the cane would be life threatening.” “But Rob, the whip is just as bad...” “Shh, Mici, I know that, but this is their choice. I don't think that guy in the front row is going to sit by and let Master X kill or mark his girlfriend for life. He looks lots stronger than Master X and could probably deck the guy if he had to. Do you want to leave? I can always come back another time without you.” Mici was tempted, but she wasn't going to leave. If Rob could take it, so could she. Obviously, her deranged father notwithstanding, she was rather naive about the world. She had to grow up someday. **** Master X looked out upon the crowd. He could smell the heady fragrance of their combined sexual excitement and fear. He fed upon it. Looking at the blonde woman lashed to the St. Andrew's Cross, he grinned. Well, she wasn't Eric, but he wasn't choosy. She would mark well. Too bad her master wanted her skin intact. As an expert with the bullwhip, he could raise welts on the white skin without drawing blood, but with the cane, he would have raised blood.

He knew there were people in the audience who had witnessed the public beatings of Eric when Eric had been on both drugs and booze. After Eric had somehow gotten himself off the prescription drugs, he had set a limit-no more public beatings. Master X had been okay with that, private beatings could go so much farther and the sexual release was more satisfactory. Mistress Nikita ran a tight ship-he knew she just skirted the laws and wanted to keep her lucrative club going without police interference. Hell, he knew for a fact several cops were in the audience tonight. Yes, Master X was going to miss Eric, but he couldn't take the chance that Eric might have straightened up and flown right. The drugs and booze hadn't totally eradicated Eric's conscience, it seemed. Too bad. He was going to enjoy whipping this woman. He didn't expect her master to loan her to him for the night, so he would have to troll the crowds later during play hour and find a “date” to take to his playhouse. The adrenaline high from the deadly beating he had administered the evening after leaving Mici's place unsatisfied was dissipating. He needed more. Mici. He wished she were attached to the cross in the Dungeon's center circle tonight-not even Mistress Nikita could have stopped him from a full and painful performance. He might just have to arrange that sometime. He laughed. **** Rob was concerned about Mici. She shouldn't even be here, but he knew that she was just stubborn enough not to leave-even if only to prove to herself that she could take it. Hearing a laugh from the hooded Master X, Rob turned his attention toward the center ring. Rob tried to figure out why the man calling himself Master X struck a chord of recognition. Since he obviously was close to Eric, he might be someone Rob also knew. Doubtful, but a possibility. It was hard to imagine that anyone he knew lived this lifestyle, but Rob had already recognized one police officer and a judge in attendance. They hadn't even bothered to disguise themselves. Respect for secrecy and privacy seemed to be a valued commodity in this crowd. God knows who some of the people under the masks and hoods were. The master of the woman on stage even looked familiar to Rob. A politician, maybe? Turning his perusal back to Master X, Rob watched as the man warmed up his arm for the whipping. He noticed several tattoos on the leanly muscled arms and torso of X. Some looked familiar. But that wasn't so strange, tattoos were not an unusual trait for men and even some of the women in this crowd. Fascinated by the control of the man wielding the whip, Rob recalled reading somewhere that not much muscle was needed to wield a bullwhip. Rob remembered attending the circus as a youth and being mesmerized with the female animal trainer who wielded such a whip with ease. Master X was demonstrating a high level of skill as he flicked the whip at objects and people around the room. Not a single person was marked-he hit only what he wished to hit. X was very good. Rob felt Mici flinch with each crack of the whip. Pulling her closer into his body, he kissed the top of her head and murmured a reassurance into her ear. She was holding up, but he didn't know for how long. The house lights went down. Time for the show. Master X approached the bound woman and whispered something into her ear. She nodded. He produced a ball gag and placed it in her mouth. Then he stepped back and raised his whip arm. With a circling motion, he flicked the whip over his head and struck the woman across the left buttock. A welt was immediately raised where the whip struck. Again, he flicked the whip and a companion welt appeared on the other buttock. By Rob's count, ten more applications of the whip were applied to the bound woman's torso. Rob could see that the woman was tensing then sagging with each application of the whip. After stroke eleven, she no longer tensed, and he knew she was unconscious. Turning to Mici,

he spoke, “Go upstairs, go to the bar and wait for me. I'm going to approach her master and get that woman down.” “Is she going to be okay?” Rob heard the fear in Mici's voice. What should he do? He didn't really want to leave her alone, especially not after her scare the other night, but the woman up on the stage might need medical assistance. “I hope so, honey, but I need to get her down now.” Another crack of the whip sounded from center stage. He couldn't wait any longer. Praying that he was making the right decision, he pushed Mici toward the stairs. “Go straight up to the bar and stay near the bartender. Don't move. I'll be there as soon as I can.” After seeing her nod her agreement, he made sure she got to the stairs. With Mici safely away, he pushed toward the front of the room and the woman's master who was even now getting up to go to the aid of his submissive. **** Master X was into it now. He knew she was unconscious and had been for at least two strokes, but he didn't care. With the bullwhip reaching speeds of Mach 1, he knew the power of his strokes were lethal. Until someone had the balls to stop him, he was going to go on. Besides, there were a few areas he hadn't marked yet. God knows, Eric wouldn't have fainted after ten strokes of the whip. Hell, he took twenty plus the cane on top of them. Wonder what Dr. Craig had made of those scars? He grinned. Raising his arm to strike again, he sensed the approach of more than one person from behind him. Turning, he let out the whip and struck the lead person full across the trunk. What the hell was Rob Craig doing here? Master X uncurled the whip from around Craig's torso. Too bad, Craig was wearing leather-that stroke would have cut normal fabric. Got to get out of here. He might recognize me. Coiling his whip, Master X turned his back on the approaching men and walked away. Never even glancing at them or the woman sagging within her bonds. The master of the woman called out, “Hey wait, you mother-fucking asshole.” But X continued on toward the dressing area. Normally, he would have enjoyed a confrontation with a lesser master, but not tonight. Maybe he should go upstairs until the furor died down and Craig left. He could always return later to choose a victim for the remainder of the night. Denied a full performance with the woman, he had a lot of pent up energy and no sexual release since the other night. Yeah, a drink would be good right about now. Whipping was thirsty work. He took the back stairs to the servant's quarters and headed toward the bar. Walking into the bar, he noticed the woman right off. Long legs, short skirt and an ass that just begged for his whip and cock. Approaching her, he was surprised to see the woman of his sadistic dreams was Mici Smith. Well, well. Either she and Craig were into nasty little sex games, were slumming or somehow found out about Eric's lifestyle. That wasn't surprising. There were the marks on his body, and there weren't all that many S/M clubs in Indy. Plus, Eric's ex-wife knew about it-that was one of the reasons she had left him. Master X didn't think Eric's wife knew about him though. Maybe someone else was monkeying up the works. Were they here to find out about him? Well, well. The intrepid little private dicks. Master X grinned. Time to introduce myself to the snoopy little slut. She looks a tad pale. Guess she caught my performance and didn't like it.

Approaching Mici from behind, Master X maneuvered so that she would have to walk around him to leave the bar. He signaled the bartender. In the low growl he used for his scenes, Master X ordered, “My usual, slave, and whatever my lady's drinking.” Master X drawled the “my lady” in a nasty tone. Mici gasped and turned. She recognized him from downstairs. Even more color drained from her face. “Didn't you like my performance, my lady?” “No, I didn't. You hurt that woman. She didn't volunteer for that.” Mici straightened up and turned to meet him head on, as if she could shame him into admitting his wrong. Go ahead, bitch, fool yourself into thinking you're brave. You're not. I'll prove it to you. I am the stuff of your worst nightmares. X smiled. “She's a notorious pain slut-not as good as my poor Eric-but okay. She won't even see the marks a week from now. Plus, unlike you, she is a regular and has seen my work. So, don't lecture me. I know my business.” “You beat Dr. Martin like that, also?” “More than that. Eric took the cane as well and thanked me for it. Of course, he was so blitzed out on booze and drugs that he didn't feel it.” Master X laughed as he moved in and backed Mici right up against the bar. As he leaned toward Mici's face, he gave the eavesdropping bartender a look and snarled, “Go away, slave, unless you want Mistress Nikita to hear about your insolence.” The bartender nodded and moved away to the other end of the bar. Master X knew no one would go up against him-his temper and reputation as a hard taskmaster were legend in the club. Even Mistress Nikita steered clear when he used that tone of voice. “Okay, my pretty little bitch, you came to see what the scene is like. I'll be happy to oblige. Maybe I'll even let you get off after I demonstrate just how close pain and pleasure are. Eric knew. He would orgasm twice within a scene-once during whipping and again after I caned him.” “I'm not here alone. My date will be here any moment,” Mici stated between quivering lips. “Ah, the ubiquitous Dr. Craig. Well, he's downstairs ministering to my previous victim, so I don't think he'll be of much help now, will he?” Master X laughed into Mici's frightened face as he clamped a cuff onto the wrist he had grabbed while moving to take her lips with his, swallowing the scream she was about to let out. Swiftly he clamped her other wrist and pulled her out of the room covering her mouth with his hand. The bartender protested, “But Master X, she's not willing, sir. The house rules.” Master X turned. “Fuck the rules. Mind your own business, slave, or you're next.” **** Rob took the vitals of the beaten woman. Amazingly enough the Dungeon had a fully equipped medical examination room. Rob cared for the woman while her master, who turned out to be her husband, looked on. “Will she be all right, Doctor?”

Rob nodded. “I am pretty sure she fainted from a combination of fear and pain and the resulting irregular breathing.” “Damn, I knew she shouldn't have done it. But she wanted to. I tried to talk her out of it. When that sadistic bastard X brought out both the whip and the cane, I thought I was gonna puke.” Rob looked at the man askance. “Excuse me, but you're here. What did you expect to happen?” “We aren't into the heavy stuff usually, but tonight she wanted to try it. Especially with that X creep. All the women want him. I can't see it.” The man shook his head as he stroked the hair back off his wife's pale face. “That poor bastard Eric-I wouldn't be surprised if X hadn't beaten him to death and then drowned him to make it look like an accident.” Rob jerked. He hadn't thought of that. Maybe the caller knew that X had killed Eric and that's why he pushed us in this direction. Did X work with Eric at Life Benefits? Well, it was a new way of looking at things. “Interesting. Do you know who this X is?” “Nope. Nobody knows. Not even Mistress Nikita. Privacy is a big thing here. You control who knows your vanilla identity.” The woman moaned. Her husband gathered her into his arms. “Thanks, Doc, I'm taking her home now.” Rob nodded and knew that the guy wouldn't appreciate a lecture on lifestyle. To each his own. A loud crash from behind Rob drew his attention. The bartender from upstairs had knocked over a chair in his rush to get to Mistress Nikita's side. Rob had a feeling that this had something to do with Mici. He knew he shouldn't have left her alone. Running over to the wildy gesticulating man, Rob drew up in time to overhear him say “Master X took her upstairs. She wasn't willing, Nikki!” Rob grabbed the man and shook him. “Who did Master X take?” The bartender stumbled over the words, “The woman ... the one who was with you earlier.” “Damn, where upstairs?” “I don't know ... upstairs...” Rob called over his shoulder, “Find one of those cops that was here earlier in the audience-I may need him to arrest what is left of Master X.” If there was anything left after Rob got his hands on him. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN Mici attempted to slow her abductor down by struggling, but he was stronger than she. Master X had picked her up under one arm and still managed to keep his hand over her mouth. Would anyone help her? Several visitors to the club saw them and smiled-struggling women in the thrall of leather-clothed dominants were not unusual sights. Mentally, she screamed for Rob. Although she was terrified of what X might do, now was not the time to get hysterical. She had to watch and wait for an opportunity to get away. Maybe the bartender would go for help. He seemed sympathetic. She didn't blame him for not confronting Master X. After X's performance downstairs, not many would be willing to go one-on-one with a guy who could flay the skin off your body.

After climbing to the third floor, X stopped in front of a door and unlocked it with a key card. Oh my God. Mici realized now was the time to get hysterical as she was carried into a room dominated by a four-poster bed with the bedclothes turned down as if for the night. Irrational, Mici looked for any mints the maid might have left on the pillow. Instead she noticed that within the bed drapes of ruby velvet were dozens of places where a helpless victim could be attached to the chains already hanging from them. She realized this was X's intent as he carried her over to the large piece of bondage furniture. “No.” Her mouth freed, Mici struggled past her shock and shouted, “Let me go.” “Sorry, but I don't think so. I missed my chance to teach you a lesson the other night. I'm cashing in my rain check.” “It was you. In my apartment. Why?” Mici had been scared before, but now she was terrified. She was at the mercy of pure evil incarnate. She turned to run. X laughed as he picked a fleeing Mici up in his arms and threw her face down on the bed. Before she could even attempt to flip over and kick out at her captor, she was cuffed to the center ring attachment on the headboard. Helpless, she felt him stretch first one, then the other ankle to the end and sides of the mattress. Stretched so far, she felt the bones in her ankle pop. Worse than the ankle pain was the fact that Mici couldn't breath stretched as she was. She started to gasp for each breath. After effectively immobilizing her, X moved to her head and disconnected her wrists from the center ring. In a cruel grip, he took one wrist, stretched it to the edge of the headboard, then locked it into place. The pull on her fragile wrist bones was comparable to the one in her ankles. She moaned with the pain. Placing a rolled pillow under her head and a flatter one under her chest, X copped a feel. “Nice tits, Mici. There, does this help you breathe better?” Terror combined with shame overwhelmed her as he stripped her of her bustier. Even though she hated the fact that he would see her naked torso, she realized he was right-she could breath again. Taking a cleansing breath, she focused as X moved around the bed to her other wrist which he locked to the other side of the headboard. She was now spread-eagled. There was no way for her to escape. Mici was frantic. “Can't have you unable to breath, now can we? It takes air to scream.” He chuckled as he unzipped her skirt and tore it off her body. Shredding her thin panties, he totally exposed her to his view. The new degradation took Mici to an even higher level of fear. What was he going to do to her? Her over-stimulated imagination conjured up all sorts of horrible acts X could commit with her bound in this position. Some sort of prehistoric survival mechanism kicked in-she wanted, no, needed to hide. Attempting to blend into the sheets on the bed, Mici went still as if by not moving the predator wouldn't see her. Yeah right, really dumb, Mici. Quite a few rodents have tried this tactic and failed. The raptors always win. Mici knew that X would win unless God or that bartender found Rob and led him to her. Mici prayed. Hard. Feeling X's hand on her head, she moaned and tried to jerk away. “No, no, Mici. Look at me.” Grabbing a hank of hair, X lifted her head. “Has Craig managed to get a piece of that ass yet? No answer, huh? My poor Eric suited me much better, but you'll do in a pinch....Oh, don't be shocked, my lady-I swing both ways.”

X smiled at her, and Mici shivered. She could tell he was going to enjoy hurting her. Even more, he was going to enjoy her fear. She prayed to be strong. “So, what's say I give that ass some color and then take it. After that, well, you might just like me-or then again you might be dead.” Laughing, X dropped her head back on the pillow. “Why?...Why are you doing this to me? Who are you? What have I ever done to you?” Mici gasped out trying not to scream or cry. She wouldn't let this freak see her cry. Screaming, well ... she might not be able to control that. Turning from her, X answered as he selected what looked like a riding crop from the instruments on the wall beside the bed, “You and Craig were sticking your noses into my business. Can't have that. So, I had to cut off your sources like my poor Eric and try to dissuade you from looking further. I was only going to scare you the other night, Mici. But since you have traced me to my playground, well, now I'm gonna have to kill you.” X had moved again. To her side? To the end of the bed? Why in the hell did it matter? She couldn't do anything about it anyway. “I'd offer you a gag, but I want to hear you scream. Now, what did I forget?” X asked as he ran his hands over her bare body. “Oh, yes, the blindfold. Can't have you preparing yourself for the strokes.” X slipped a leather blindfold over her eyes. Darkness. Panic clawed at Mici's insides as she again labored to catch her breath. Oh my God. How did he know my fear? How did he know that I would rather have the light? Attempting to hear over the thundering of her heart, she strained to follow his movements. She was unprepared for the whoosh and strike of the crop. Gritting her teeth, she managed not to cry out in surprise. Panting, she realized it stung, but was bearable. X smoothed his hand over the area he'd just struck. If she could have, she would have crawled into herself-she'd rather have the crop. Again, a whoosh, then she felt the sting of the crop on her other buttock. The whoosh had prepared her, and, again, she gritted her teeth. Something akin to relief rushed through her. If this was the worst he was going to do, she could bear it. Her father had done worse damage with his fraternity paddle. “Such a stoic, Mici. What a disappointment you are. Maybe I'm not trying hard enough. Oh, it can't be that-I'm hard all right.” He laughed and thrust his penis into her outstretched hand. Mici whimpered. Please God, not that. Rape. Her worst fear. Even her father had never gotten that far. She had moved out before that had happened. “Oh, don't like that, do we? Hold that thought.” X laughed. “I think I'll switch to the cat, or multi-thonged whip to you. By the way, you're in for a treat-this is a knotted cat. Let's see how you tolerate this.” The image he created horrified her; however, Mici was determined not to give this asshole the satisfaction of hearing her scream. She gritted her teeth and waited. Hearing a slapping-like sound near her side, she was startled when she felt the rush of air as the whip hit the bedclothes near her waist. “Just practicing for distance. Got it now. Get ready. When you are ready to beg for my cock in your mouth, I'll stop.” Mici knew she would rather be whipped into unconsciousness than put that animal's organ in her mouth. Rob, where are you?

**** Rob took the stairs to the main floor two at a time. Mistress Nikita was following him as fast as she could on stiletto heels. She called out. “I'll get the master key and be right up.” Not bothering to acknowledge her, he flew up the main stairway to the second floor. There were two upper level floors. They could be anywhere. Had to start somewhere. Not bothering to knock, Rob opened the first door he came to. Seeing that the occupants were both very male, he slammed the door shut disregarding the curses coming from the men. Going to the next room, he found it locked and banged on the door. “X or whatever your real name is-open up.” Rob continued banging until he realized that Mistress Nikita was there with the key card.. “Here,” she said thrusting the card at him, “stop making so much noise. You'll ruin my business.” “I don't give a fuck. If you didn't have this place, X wouldn't have a place to hurt my Mici.” Mistress Nikita gave him a look and said, “Get real, Doctor. Would you rather have him taking people off the streets and having his wicked way with them?” They both looked in when the door was open. Rob saw no Mici, slammed the door shut and proceeded to the next. Mistress Nikita followed him close on his heels. “How many rooms in this place?” Rob cursed as he pulled the card out of the lock. He missed the green light and had to do it over again. “Twenty bedrooms and a couple of communal playrooms over the garage.” Mistress Nikita smiled at the occupants and mouthed the word “Sorry” as Rob slammed the door shut on the pony training session. “Which room would you take a victim to if you were X?” Rob asked as he moved to the next room. “If I were X, I would have kicked everybody out of the downstairs playroom and played on all the equipment. But, in case you hadn't noticed, I'm not X.” Mistress Nikita took Rob's hand and held it against her bulbous bare breast. Rob pulled up short, turned and snarled at the woman who clutched his hand, “Listen, lady, I'm not interested. I want to find Mici and get the hell out of here-after I beat the shit out of X and have him arrested for false confinement. So, either help me or get the hell out of my way.” Mistress Nikita released his hand and huffed, “Fine. She looked kind of puny to me, but there's no accounting for taste....Why do you think X took your lady? He's usually more into men, like poor old Eric.” Ignoring her question, Rob slammed the door on another room and moved onto the next. He was glad that the woman following him decided to cooperate. Rob had never hit a woman before, but he thought he just might be able to deck this one if it meant getting to Mici faster. “Do you know who Master X is?” Rob asked as he disregarded the “what the fuck” from the man dressed up in a diaper in what looked to be a nursery. “No. I only know him by Master X. He pays by money orders or cash and is a regular. Very generous.

Always buys drinks for the house, picks up the tabs for the private parties. Always puts on a good show. I've never seen him do anything to a third party like he did tonight.” “What do you mean?” “Well, he had his favorite submissives, like Eric. The ones who knew what to expect from a serious scene. That blonde who volunteered tonight was more into vanilla or light bondage. He knew it. She didn't expect that-nor did she deserve it. Believe it or not, we've got rules-one of them is respect people's limits.” “I don't believe you people.” “Hey, buddy, whatever is going on with you, your lady and X has nothing to do with my business. Most of these people come here, act out fantasies, go home and kiss their children goodnight. Then they hit the sack and fuck just like normal folk. Whatever is going on here tonight-I don't want. As far as I'm concerned X is persona non grata after tonight.” Rob turned. “Okay. X is a wild card. Got it. How do we get to the next level without going all the way back to the front stairs?” He'd searched all the rooms on the second level. They had to be on the third. Mistress Nikita pulled him toward a door on the right. “We'll use the servants stairs. Come on. There are only eight rooms on the third level.” Rob checked the lighted dial on his watch. It seemed like hours since he last saw Mici. He knew that it had only been about twenty minutes ... and ten minutes since the bartender came huffing into the basement. Ten minutes. A lot could happen in ten minutes. God help him. He might just have to kill a man tonight if X had murdered the woman he loved. **** Brodie couldn't believe this place. He'd been here a couple of times while Eric Martin had been alive. Checking him out for the boss. Loose lips sunk ships and all that. After those times, Brodie had returned for the sheer voyeuristic entertainment. It was during those times he had realized that Eric Martin had a slight problem-he was a masochist. Martin hadn't been very discriminating and took his pain any way he could get it. Usually while he was high as a kite. A couple of times, Brodie who prided himself on his strong stomach had to look away as Eric took his punishment. That X fellow had been the harshest of Eric's many taskmasters. No skin off Brodie's nose. Eric could have gotten his kicks any way he wanted as long as he kept his mouth shut. But after the Grace woman's death, it looked like Martin was about to talk. Brodie had his orders to silence the good doctor permanently. He had been about to do just that when that X fellow had shown up and did it for him. Hey, Brodie could care less. Hardman paid him for it. A cautious sort, Brodie made sure he knew who X was and how to get to him. Brodie now realized that X had been pushing that doctor and lawyer toward Life Benefits and the boss. That in turn would lead to him. Brodie couldn't have that. He liked his cushy life, and he knew that if the boss fell-he would go with him. Brodie didn't trust Hardman much. Now, here he was. X had that little lawyer upstairs and was doing God knows what to her. Brodie saw the bartender race downstairs-to get help, he thought. What should Brodie do? Should he sit here and wait? Or, should he do what his momma would want him to do?-go help that lawyer, capture X, unmask him and help point the lawyer back into the direction of the real killer.

Brodie pushed his two hundred pounds of bulk away from the small bar table. He had a lot of crimes on his eternal bill, but he sure as hell wasn't going to burn for two deaths he hadn't committed nor would he let that bastard torture that little lady. It wasn't right. He was a professional and not a sadistic bastard. Not a single one of his kills had ever suffered a single second of pain if he could help it. Brodie didn't like sickos. Decision made Brodie moved quickly belying his bulk. Asking along the way if anyone had seen the couple, he followed directions and ended up on the third floor. Finding the room, he looked at the lock and cursed. What he needed was an ax. He'd chop through that door in no time. Then the bastard had better watch out. **** Master X reveled in the twitches of Mici's slender body lying in front of him. Such pale skin-so easily marked. The crop had laid a set of beautiful red slashes on her ass cheeks. But she had withstood it too easily. He needed to hear her screams. He knew that she feared his cock. The whimper when he thrust himself into her hand had verified that. It was pure genius to flog her with the cat until she begged for his cock. However, her backside from her shoulders to her thighs was flaming red with the lash marks, and she hadn't let out with more than a whimper. Damn, she was a close-mouthed bitch. He knew he didn't have much time, but he sure would like to hear her scream. Someone was bound to come. He just wanted to play with her, build up her fear of him, maybe mark her pearly white skin, then, later, he would take her to his playhouse and really show her what he could do. Yeah, she looked down that little patrician nose of hers. Hell, her family was no better than his. He knew her father, the judge, was a sadistic bastard ... almost as sadistic as himself. She'd wet herself if she knew that her precious blue-blooded father had frequented this very establishment until he had risen to the court of appeals. X always wondered what the judge did now to fulfill his needs. Probably beat his wife. Hey, maybe that's why Mici didn't scream with the beating he was giving her. Bet the old man beat her, too. Laughing, X stopped his marking of her body and asked, “Hey Mici, did you know that I know your daddy? He used to beat Eric when I would share him. Did he beat you, Mici?” X heard Mici whimper. Yeah, he beat her. The judge favored the paddle if he recalled. Throwing the cat down for the time being, he picked up his favorite wooden paddle with holes cut in it. Lessened the wind resistance and made some fierce marks on the victim. “Since you favor the paddle, my little pain slut, I'll oblige you.” Taking aim at the lower left buttock, X let loose with all his strength. Mici's body jolted with the force of the stroke. No sound. X pulled her head up by the hair and heard her whimper. Still conscious. Good... Dropping her head, he aimed at the other buttock and struck again. He could see wetness appearing at the corners of her eyes. Damn. She had so far taken the crop, the cat, and the paddle. The cane. That would get a scream.

“Mici, Mici. You aren't cooperating.” He growled. “Let's see how you like this.” As X raised the cane, something thudded against the door to the room. “Damn it. Go away. We're busy in here,” X roared turning red with frustration and thwarted lust. Moving to her head, X turned her face toward him and whispered in her ear while in the background the thuds on the door got more frequent. “You are escaping me once again, Mici. I'm not going to be able to finish it, my lady,” he sneered. “But we'll meet again. The next time you will beg me for release ... and you will scream.” Tugging on her hair to make her gasp, he sealed his promise with several obscene thrusts of his tongue into her mouth. “Got to go now. I'm taking the back way out. It seems Mistress Nikita likes to watch.” After slapping her reddened rear one more time, he slipped out through a hidden staircase that one of his former pain sluts had shown him. Master X laughed-another person's perversion was his saving grace. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN "What the hell do you think you're doing to my door?” Mistress Nikita yelled as Rob watched her stride into a scene right out of The Shining. All it needed was Jack Nicholson. Instead, the man wielding the ax to one of the third floor room's doors looked like a genie in Hell's Angels regalia. Knowing Mici was on the other side of the damaged door, Rob moved toward the man. Staying out of the ax's way, Rob asked the man the question upper-most in his mind, “Have you heard anything? Is she still alive?” The ax man not bothering to stop his chopping replied, “Nope. Can't say that I have. I followed upstairs pretty quickly. Wasn't sure that bartender would be able to get anybody to help the little lady.” “Would you stop hacking the door? I have a key,” Mistress Nikita gritted out as she caught the ax man's arm on the upswing. “Well, hell, why didn't you say so sooner? These solid oak doors are harder than hell to get through.” The ax man put the blade down and wiped the sweat beaded on his brow. Nikita swiped the card and was pushed aside as Rob and the ax man moved ahead of her into the room, ladies first not being the rule of the moment. Rob's first, and only, concern was Mici. For mere seconds, Rob stood frozen by the sight in front of him. God damn it all to hell. Rob saw red. Grabbing the ax from the man next to him, he pivoted to find the bastard who had violated his woman. The murderous rage which had propelled him up until this moment had been supplanted with a stronger urge-the urge to maim, then kill the man who had abused Mici. Rob heard the ax man through the blood boiling in his ears. “Hey, buddy, he's not here. Your woman needs you.” Reining in his anger, he took a few cleansing breaths, then nodded and released the ax. He had to calm down before he touched Mici-had to make sure that no more evil emotions touched her ever again, including his. She had suffered enough. Ready now, he called out in a voice he hoped was soothing, “Mici, sweetheart speak to me.” Moving to Mici's side, he covered her with one of the velvet drapes he ripped from the bed. Then, murmuring calming nonsense words, he frantically unbuckled the restraints which held her. When she was released from the extreme position, he got scared all over again when she didn't move or make a

sound-not even a whimper. “Baby ... Where are you hurt?” Dumb, Rob, really dumb. Her back was bruised and inflamed from where the bastard had beat her. No cuts, thank God. There shouldn't be any scarring-not like Eric had-but the bruises would take a long time to reabsorb. Nerve damage? Only time would tell on that. Gently, Rob ran his hands up and down her limbs-checking for swelling that could possibly indicate breaks or sprains. As he conducted his examination, Mici started to move. She moaned and whimpered trying to get away from his touch. What else had the bastard done to her? Rob didn't want to think about it. Climbing onto the bed, he gently turned her over into his arms. Rocking her, he whispered, “It's okay, Mici. It's me. He's not going to hurt you. I'm here now. I'll never leave you alone again, I promise.” In a small voice, she sighed out her response to his attempts to soothe her, “Don't make promises you can't keep, Rob. You can't be with me all the time.” “I'll try, and I can promise that I won't ever let this bastard near you again.” Satisfied now that she was safe in his arms, he glanced around the room. Zeroing in on other two occupants of the room, he asked, “Where the hell is X? He couldn't have gotten past us.” The ax wielder looked as perplexed as Rob felt. However, Nikita , he noticed, winced and mouthed the word “shit.” “Okay, Nikita, how did he get out of the room?” Before Nikita could respond, Mici spoke up, “He left through a secret passage. She,” Mici tilted her head toward Nikita, “likes to look-he heard about it from one of his ... pain sluts. That's what he wanted from me-to hear me scream.” Tears streaming down her face, Mici still managed to say in a strong voice, “But I didn't.” “Oh, baby.” Groaning, Rob pulled her closer to him. Close to crying himself, he felt humbled by the courage he heard in Mici's words. The ax man went into the armoire, then came back out. Rob asked, “Did you find any trace of him?” The man shook his bald head. “Damn. He got away.” In a monotone, Mici stated, “He'll be back. Those were his last words.” “But why? How was he connected to Eric? Why did the guy on the phone send us here?” “I think he sent us here because Master X, or whoever he really is, is someone we should recognize. He knows about us, Rob. Knows that we're investigating Elinor Graces's death. He's the man who broke into my apartment the other night. He said that we had stuck our noses into his business and he had to take care of us.” “Not if we get him first.” **** Damn, Brodie thought, as the doctor wrapped his lady in a blanket, that had been close. So, it hadn't been a good idea to call both of them. Who knew the lady would have had the guts to come to such a

place? In the future all his tips pointing the finger at X's identity would go to the doctor's ears alone. Women had no business being mixed up in murder investigations. He'd give it until tomorrow, or maybe the day after. He had a few more tips to pass on to the good doctor. Tips that would quickly make it crystal clear who the real killer was. All the other Life Benefit's deaths had been strictly business; after they got X, they would leave him and the boss alone. **** Mici had finally convinced Rob that she didn't need to go to the hospital. Strangely enough she had a staunch ally in Mistress Nikita who reassured Rob that X could have done a lot worse and gave them an herbal cream which she swore would help clear up the bruises and soothe the pain. Lucky break that he had been interrupted before he took the cane to her. Mici shivered. Yeah, really lucky. “Are you cold, baby?” Rob tucked the blankets around her more securely as he placed her in the passenger seat of his truck. “No, I think a goose just walked over my grave....Why do you keep calling me ‘baby’ and ‘sweetheart'? You did it the other night, too.” Mici asked as she relaxed for the first time in hours. They were out of that place. It had been really stupid of her to go to the Dungeon in the first place. Well, two of her questions were answered-she learned that she wasn't into masochism and she could control her fear. Thank God. Rob didn't answer until he had gotten in and started the truck turning the heat on high. When he did reply, Mici wasn't prepared for his words. “Because I care about you ... no, I don't just care about you, Mici. I love you. I know it seems too soon, but ... well ... after what just happened in there ... I had to tell you.” Awestruck, Mici sat silently as Rob put the truck in gear. What a night. A madman almost succeeds in his plan to kill her, and the man who was beginning to mean more to her than anyone else in her life told her he loved her. “Oh my,” Mici said, then she started to cry ... big gusting sobs. Rob swore fiercely as he pulled the truck into a parking lot. Reaching over to pull Mici into his arms, he murmured, “Go on cry, sweetheart. If anybody has a right to cry, you do. My poor brave darling. That bastard hurt you so much.” Rob growled, “I'll kill him.” Mici, despite the crying, laughed. “You don't understand. Sure he hurt me, but I survived. I'm crying because no one has ever told me that they loved me before ... ever. I was beginning to think I would never hear those words from anybody.” Mici sighed, smiled at the man she knew she could love, and nestled into Rob's sheltering arms. Home. I've come home. Then she fell asleep. Without telling him she loved him back. **** Dan Grace drove into his garage. Karen would have gone to bed a long time ago. He laughed. She would never believe what her little brother had been doing. After leaving the Dungeon and shedding his Master X disguise, Dan had gone to a local watering hole. In his normal persona of a yuppie doctor, he had easily picked up a sweet young thing and lured her to his cottage located in an isolated area near Eagle Creek. Isolated enough that he could play his games and not gag the victims. He did so love the screams. Mici had disappointed him. Next time. This bitch had definitely been a screamer. The problem was-she hadn't lasted long enough.

Disgusted that his playtime had been cut short, he bagged her up, weighted it down with rocks, then threw her into the reservoir. He knew that another body marked like this one would get the attention of the police. Unfortunately, the night after he left Mici's apartment, he hadn't been able to get rid of the other woman he'd killed. They found that one quickly. Normally, he would enjoy playing games with the police, but it would take too much time right now. Maybe later. For now, he had to take Rob and Mici out of the picture. On their own, the police would continue to go after Life Benefits. With Rob and Mici around, he was in danger of being caught. They had followed Eric's trail to the Dungeon. He couldn't let that trail lead them to him. **** Rob pulled up outside of Mici's building. She was still asleep, leaning against his shoulder. Reaching for her purse, he found her keys. No way was he going to let her stay alone tonight. In fact, in the morning, he was going to suggest-no demand-that she move in with him. At least he had neighbors who could help keep an eye out for strangers in the neighborhood. Tonight, they would stay here. She needed to be surrounded by familiar things. Tomorrow, he hoped she would be able to cope with all the changes he planned to make in her life. He didn't think his independent Mici was going to like a twenty-four hour a day bodyguard. Hell, she didn't have to like it. It was going to be a given. Period. Getting out of the truck, he reached in and pulled Mici into his arms. She was so deeply asleep that even when he jostled her bruised body in order to lock his truck she made no protest. After struggling with the door, he carried her into the elevator and pushed the button for the top floor with his elbow. Laurel whoofed a greeting. “Shh, Laurel. Don't wake Mici.” Laurel followed Rob as he carried Mici into her bedroom. Laying her on the chaise, he turned down the covers on the queen size bed. It would be a tight fit, but it would have to do. He fully intended to sleep with her tonight. Just in case she needed him in the night. Plus, he had promised not to let her out of his sight. Yeah, go ahead and fool yourself, Craig. You're the one who needs to be close to her. You almost lost her, you idiot. Tucking her in bed, he turned her over and massaged in the herbal cream that the Dungeon's Mistress had given them. He knew that several of the ingredients like aloe vera and jojoba were widely used in burn units which is exactly what many of the marks on her back mimicked. Some of the ingredients, arnica, in particular, would help with the bruising. Satisfied that he had done the best he could for now. Rob stripped down to his boxers and crawled in behind Mici who had moved into a fetal position after his application of the soothing ointment. Calling out to Laurel to guard, he fitted his body spoon fashion to Mici's nudity. He would have to be a eunuch not to react to the female shape curved to his. Damn his lack of control. Sex was the last thing Mici needed right now. Recalling how he had found her beaten and terrorized, his sexual desire cooled. There would be time for that in the future. Right now, he would make do with having her in his arms-safe. Inhaling Mici's scent, he nuzzled her hair thinking that this was as close as he would get to heaven tonight. Then, he was asleep.

Later, Rob would remember thinking that some sixth sense had awakened him. Or, maybe it was the low growl emanating from Laurel whom Rob could see was standing at attention staring toward the bedroom door. Master X-the bastard! Thinking to make another attempt on his Mici. Well, he would have to deal with Rob this time. Mici wasn't alone anymore. Rob gently disengaged himself from the exhausted woman sleeping soundly in his arms. Silently, he moved to Laurel and whispered, “That's a good boy. Quiet now. Guard Mici.” Assured that Laurel would stay with Mici, Rob crept toward the door and into the hallway that led to the living area of the apartment. Seeing the lights on in the front room, Rob thought X was getting pretty bold. Then, a large figure moved toward him in the hallway. “Michelle, wake up. It's your Daddy come to take you home. Get out here now. I haven't got all night.” Now, it was Rob who growled. After all Mici had gone through tonight she didn't need this joker. Mici hadn't told him everything about her abuser of a father. But he could read between the lines. Rob very much feared that Mici had gotten away from this guy just in time. Well, her father would learn that Mici had someone to protect her now. Rob moved out of the hall into the light from the front room. “Who in the hell are you? Where's my daughter?” Rob didn't know what he had expected Mici's father to look like. A monster, maybe? Instead, he saw an aristocratic man in what looked to be a Brooks Brothers suit. White hair. Distinguished. Not the picture of a child abuser and a wife beater. Well, Rob, it takes all types. Jeffery Dahmer didn't look like he would eat people either. Rob hadn't answered the man. He wanted to see what the bastard would do. Rob hoped it would be something stupid like attacking him. He really felt like hitting somebody tonight-missing the opportunity to deck Master X, Mici's father would have to suffice. “Hey, you, boy. I'm talking to you. What are you doing in my daughter's apartment? And where in the hell is she?” Mici's father moved toward Rob who stood silent staring at the monster in civilized clothing. “Leave him alone, Father. I'm here.” Mici's terse statement broke the silence between the two men. Mici moved out into the light and to Rob's side. Rob pulled her close and kissed the top of her head as she laid it on his chest. He could feel the tension in her body. Rubbing her arm, he breathed out a sigh of relief as she put her arms around his bare waist and snuggled closer. She trusted him to keep her safe. Thank you, Lord. “Michelle, come away from that man. Who is he? Does he have something to do with that person who broke into your apartment the other night? Why didn't you come home? I told your mother you shouldn't have moved away from your home....” Rob watched the man who had sired Mici run out of steam and questions at the same time. Silence. “Go away, Father. You're not needed here.”

Mici's words had not sat well with her father. An explosion was inevitable. Rob wasn't disappointed. “Why you little slut. I didn't raise and train you to be the perfect helpmate so that you could leave me for some no-good pretty boy.” Mici stiffened at her father's words. He drew her closer and whispered in her ear, “Go back to the bedroom, baby. Let me handle this for you.” “No. I'll handle it. The last time I ran-thinking that if I left, he would get the message. It's time to end this once and for all.” Mici turned in Rob's arms and faced her father. “Father, you have no power over me anymore. I'm not the little girl you put in the closet because she wasn't the boy you wanted and didn't meet your high standards of comportment.” Taking a deep breath, she went on, “God knows I'm not the young woman you delighted in beating when you got tired of beating mother. Get this through your head, I will never be your ‘helpmate.’ The idea is sick and disgusting ... and unnatural.” Mici shuddered and only continued because she felt Rob behind her. Taking strength from his support, she threatened her life-long abuser. “If you ever approach me again, I'll tell my story to the tabloids, to the prosecutor and whomever else will listen to me. Then, we'll see how long you can retain your judgeship. The only reason I haven't done anything is because of mother. She's suffered enough. The scandal would kill her. So, don't force me to destroy you, father. Because you know I can.” “And I'll help her.” Mici moved back into Rob's arms, looked up at him and smiled. She wasn't alone anymore. Mici's father turned red. “This isn't the end, Michelle. You were mine before you were his. You'll pay for this ... both of you.” Mici watched as the man who had inhabited most of her nightmares stormed to the elevator, punched the button and entered. Turning he smiled at Mici. Mici feared that smile. It was the smile he smiled after he had beaten her for some minor transgression-the smile he used to explain to her why she had deserved to be beaten, then sexually fondled. As the doors closed, he spoke, “Oh, by the way, Michelle. I'm not your real father. Whatever misconceptions you had about our inevitable joining were wrong. So, enjoy your pretty young man, my dear, while you can. I'll consider it a loan.” “Oh my God. Did you hear what he said?” Mici turned toward Rob and grabbed his arms. “Did you hear? He's not my father. He's not ... my ... father.” Rob moved to pull a highly agitated Mici into his arms. He needed to comfort her. “Oh, darlin', I'm so sorry. What a night you've had.” Mici held her arms out in front of her effectively causing Rob to stop. She shook her head and laughed. “No, silly, I'm not sad. I'm thrilled. He's not my father. That monster is not my father.” In amazement, Rob watched as Mici danced around the room chanting over and over again, “He's not my father.” Considering Judge Smith's abusive nature and the horrible childhood he had inflicted on his step-daughter, Rob could understand Mici's elation at the news. He waited for the downside of the news to set in.

It didn't take long. As Mici collapsed onto the sofa, Rob moved to gather her up in his arms. Careful not to jostle her bruised back, he cuddled her as her joy and laughter changed to wails of grief and anguish. Rob knew she was now wondering why and who. Rocking her for the second time tonight, he attempted to sooth Mici's over-tried nerves. Just when he was beginning to think he might have to call out to a pharmacy to get a prescription for a sedative, she shuddered and let out one last little gulp of a sob. Quiet now, he checked to see if she had fallen into another exhausted sleep. She hadn't. Mici wiped her face on the back of her robe's sleeve, sniffed a couple of times, and then turned her face up to Rob and smiled. Not quite a smile of contentment, but close enough. “I feel better now. Sorry, I've put you through a lot of emotional displays tonight. I'll be okay. Really.” Then she snuggled her head into a spot she found under his chin. “What do we do next?” Rob shook his head. Women. His mother was like that, too. One minute crying all over-like the world as she knew it was ending. Then, bam, the next minute they went about their business. In an exasperated tone, Rob said, “I don't get it.” “What don't you get? What we're going to do next? “No. I don't get you. After all that's happened tonight, you can sit there calmly and expect me to talk about our plan of action. As if nothing's happened.” Smiling what Rob called “the superior woman smile"-he should know that one since he had seen it often enough as a child on his mother's face-Mici answered, “What do you want me to do? Go into a decline? Repair to my bed and not get up for a week? Take Prozac?” “Well ... uh ... yeah. I guess.” Shut up, Rob, before you put both size elevens in your mouth. Seeing the look of utter male confusion on her man's face-and he was her man she realized that now-he had claimed her in front of strangers, and she had claimed him in front of her worst nightmare, she smiled. Poor baby. Men just have a hard time acknowledging women are the stronger sex. Although now Mici realized she had been strong all along, she had only acknowledged it for the first time tonight. Hadn't she survived living with the monster who had just left? She would try to explain it to Rob. She hated seeing that lost little boy look on his face-especially when he wanted to be the big strong man and protect her-even from her own fears. “Rob, if women fell apart every time something went wrong in their lives, nothing would get done. In particular, if I had done that, I would never have survived childhood. Don't get me wrong, tonight in that room with Master X has to rank up there as one of the most horrible things that has ever happened to me. But it's done ... over with. I survived. Life goes on. But ... something also happened tonight that ranks as one of the best things that has ever happened to me. Something that gives me the strength to look toward the future.” “Because you found out that bastard isn't your real father?” “No, although it's wonderful news that I don't have that psycho's blood in me.” “What could be more important than that?”

“Finding out that you love me. That I have someone to love in return who is a worthy and wonderful human being. That I don't have to face bad things alone anymore. All of those things far out weigh anything bad that happened tonight.” Mici looked at Rob and saw that he understood. She sensed with every fiber of her feminine intuition that he understood because he too had been alone. Now, they had each other. Reaching up she framed his face with her hands and placed a kiss on his lips. A little disappointed that he took it no further than a kiss, she made a mental note to read up on how to entice your man. Obviously, her kissing skills alone weren't going to do it. Maybe, he was tired. Poor baby, rescuing damsels in distress could take it out of a man. She'd try again later-after they had some rest. Satisfied with that plan of action. She turned her thoughts back to the rest of tonight. “Now,” she said, “what do we do next? Somehow I don't feel safe in this place anymore. I don't know how Father ... I forgot, he's not my father.” She laughed. “Well, what do I call him now? Judge Smith?” Rob kissed the tip of her nose and said, “Don't call him anything. However, if you have to call him something I can give you a few choice names. What are you going to do about him, Mici? He abused you, in more ways than you had admitted to me, and your mother.” “I don't want to think about that now. We have other things to worry about-Master X for one and how he is connected to Life Benefits and Eric's death. There has to be a connection there.” “I agree. We can talk about that tomorrow after you get some rest. I also agree that you aren't safe here. So, I am taking you home with me. Pack a few things, then we'll load up Laurel and go home. I'm not taking no for an answer.” “And, I'm not arguing with you, Rob. I want to be with you. So, take me home.” **** Mici emphasized a point she was making with the cracker in her hand. Rob had never seen her so animated. Observing her movements carefully, he noticed a slight favoring of her sore limbs now and then along with a wince when she moved too rapidly. But all in all, she acted and continued on as if nothing bothered her. She was right-women are the stronger sex. But, as a doctor, he knew that she had some severe damage, enough so that it was the only reason he hadn't taken the kiss she offered him in her apartment further. God knows he wanted to-ached with the need to make her his in fact. Words were okay, but he had this primal need to mark her with his scent, his seed. Logically, he also knew that the scene in the Dungeon had to have affected her emotionally. Add that to what her stepfather had put her through when she was growing up and recently-well, he was just thankful that she didn't run screaming from him when he touched her. She said she loved him, but women almost always in his experience equated love with emotions, not sex. Rob would like to think that he could rein in his sexual urges long enough to show her that he loved her emotionally as well as physically. Considering her back, he knew he would have at least a week to ten days before she could handle anything rougher than some cuddling and kissing. Well, he guessed that's what they made cold showers for. He grinned. Of course, there was always foreplay. “What are you grinning at? You haven't heard a word I've said, have you?” “Sorry, love. I was just watching you wave that cracker around and was wondering if you were ever

going to eat it?” “That's not what you were thinking. Tell me.” Reaching out to take the cracker from her, he put it in his mouth, ate it, and then licked her empty fingers. “I was thinking about how much you must really hurt. That I wished I could take your pain. That I love you.” “Oh, sex.” “Now, I didn't say that. I love you and, of course, I want to make love to you, but you're hurting, baby. I would never do anything to hurt you....Plus considering all the sexual trauma you've endured lately, I wouldn't think you would want any man to touch you right now-and I understand that. I do. I can wait to make you mine.” “Rob ... would it make you feel better to know that I want you as much as you seem to want me?” “No ... because ten days is going to seem like ten years.” “What ten days?” “Honey, your back is going to be really sore for at least ten days while reabsorption occurs. Stiff, too. Also, I would like a neurologist to test you to make sure there is no major nerve damage” “Oh.” The happiness in her face died out. Damn. She did want him. She didn't want to wait either. No guts, no glory. “But ... since you aren't afraid of me...” “Oh Rob, no. I could never be afraid of you. You'd never hurt me.” Rob breathed a sigh of relief. Everything would be okay. Knowing that she wanted him, he could wait for the main course. But while they waited, he would take care of his lady. She had seen only the baser side of sex. He wasn't quite sure what her stepfather had done, but he could go a long way to erasing bad memories by making good ones. “Mici, I would very much like to take you to bed and show you what you'll feel like in my arms. Show you how you should feel-cherished, loved, worshiped. Will you let me give you that?” “I'll take anything you wish to give, Rob. But I'll keep track so I can return it to you in kind in ten days-isn't that what you said?” “Give or take a day.” Rob laughed as he swung Mici up into his arms and carried her off to his bed. CHAPTER NINETEEN Brodie watched in satisfaction as the police divers helped pull the body from Eagle Creek reservoir. His hunch last night that Master X would go hunting for a victim had been correct. He shook his head. Being a professional killer, he didn't understand sickos like X. Killing for your country like he did in ‘Nam or for an employer like Hardman, well, that was one thing. To torture and kill because it gave you some sort of thrill-that was just sick. One more anonymous phone call to the police about X's little cabin in the woods with a follow-up call to

Dr. Craig about X's bad habits ... well, that should lead them to the sicko and nail the lid on the bastard's coffin for good. It also should take some of the heat off of him and Hardman. Brodie turned and walked back to his car. No one had noticed him-he'd blended into the crowd of gawkers taking a break from their mundane lives. **** Lieutenant Adams wasn't having a good day. Four of the families on the Life Benefits’ list provided by Craig and Smith were outside his office right now demanding that their loved ones be exhumed. They just knew that mom or pop had been murdered and what were the police going to do about it? The lists and files retrieved from Life Benefits, of course, didn't jibe with the other list. And, the mayor's office wanted to know why the police were harassing Hardman, an honest businessman and philanthropist. Finally, to top it all off, the papers had gotten hold of the story. Tomorrow's issue of the morning paper was going to put the whole mess in front of the ghoulish eyes of the citizenry. Now, all he needed was 60 Minutes and Mike Wallace. Grudgingly, Adams was beginning to think that Craig and Smith really were on to something. The foray into Life Benefits’ records had been a fishing expedition which Adams suspected wouldn't prove a thing. He had hoped once and for all the records would show that it all had been a series of coincidences. However, it hadn't turned out that way. Damn, Adams hated being wrong. Adams had a consultant go over the twenty applications and as many of the medical files they could put their hands on. Most of the families had been cooperative. Several of them, like the four outside his office right now, wanted to know for sure what really killed their relatives. Two additional autopsies were already scheduled. To Adams’ mind, all of this could have been avoided had autopsies been done at the time of death. In most of the cases, there had been enough questions as to why the person had died; however, because hospitals had cut back on autopsy services, those questions hadn't been answered. So, here he was-smack dab in the middle of multiple murders and what looked to be a political hot potato if he, Smith and Craig were wrong. “Uh, Lieutenant. There's a call for you. I think you'd better take it. It's about that body that was removed from Eagle Creek earlier today. We think it's the same tipster.” Adams groaned. “Just what I need-another serial murder on my hands. Are you tracing the call?” “Yes sir.” “Fine, I'll pick up. Which line?” “Two, sir.” Adams picked up his phone and hit the flashing button. “Lieutenant Adams, Homicide, how may I help you?” The caller spoke quickly and bluntly. “Don't waste your time tracing this call-you don't know anybody in the Ukraine. That body I led you to this morning, well, it's the tip of the iceberg, Lieutenant. The two bodies you already got aren't the only ones. In fact, I can definitely say that you are aware of the others. It can't be coincidence that there are two serial murderers operating in Indianapolis right now, can it? Listen closely, go to this cabin on Eagle Creek reservoir.”

Adams listened to the directions from the caller, writing them down even though he knew the sergeant should be taping the call. “You'll find some of what you need there. Listen up, Lieutenant. Forensic evidence doesn't lie-talk to Dr. Craig. He'll tell you. Have him look at the mutilated bodies you have in the morgue.” The caller disconnected. “Damn,” Adams swore under his breath. “Sergeant, get in here.” When the sergeant came to the door, Adams said, “Tell me you traced that call.” “Well, Lieutenant, it seems it came from somewhere I can't pronounce in the Ukraine-that's near Russia.” “I know where it is, Sergeant. That'll be all ... No, wait. Track down Dr. Rob Craig for me. Have him meet me at the morgue. Also, get someone to get me a warrant for that cabin-probably should get a black and white out there to watch the place until a crime scene crew can get into it. Oh, tell the black and white if anybody approaches the cabin, they're to pick them up for questioning.” “Yes sir.” Adams picked up his phone. He needed to arrange to have the bodies of the two mutilated women prepared for viewing. His gut told him that he wouldn't like the conclusions Craig would draw from them. **** Mici picked up the next of Elinor Grace's journals which Rob had retrieved from her apartment. She was confined to bed for the day. Doctor's orders. Rob had not allowed her to go into work; he'd said she needed to rest. Other than feeling stiff and bruised, she felt fine. Being in love was a great analgesic. She had said as much to Rob very early this morning. He'd laughed and started to explain endorphins to her as he took her over the top for the third time. After that, she'd fallen into a deep sleep-a result of exhaustion and satiation. Grinning, she scratched Hardy's chin and gave Laurel's ears equal treatment; Rob's pets hadn't left her side since she'd awakened this morning. Thinking again about last night, she plotted. She owed her man big time now. Never in her life had she felt so good about herself sexually. Once she wasn't quite so stiff and thought she could maneuver, well, Dr. Craig could sit back and be pleasured. Two could play at that game. Looking at the clock, Mici saw that Rob had only been gone for thirty minutes. She missed him already. God, she must be in love. She couldn't concentrate on the diaries; all she could do was recall last night and his lovemaking. Damn, she was hot for him again just thinking about it. No doubt about it-doctors knew their way around a human body. Bruises or no bruises, if he walked in that door right now, well, she would probably jump his bones. Who knew that any man would ever be able to make her feel this way? If anyone had told her that yesterday, she would have blown them off. Yesterday, her feelings toward sex had been ambivalent if not hostile; today, well, she could be on her way to becoming addicted to Rob's brand of lovemaking. “Okay, Mici. Enough already. Isn't that right, my pets? Tell me to get to work. Elinor's diaries aren't getting read with me mooning over your master.” Mici petted both of the animals, laughing as Hardy butted Laurel out of the way. “Watch it Hardy. You may be the biggest and fattest cat I ever saw, but

Laurel outweighs you by seventy pounds and is growing.” Hardy looked at Mici, yawned and curled into a ball on her lap. “Well, I guess that puts me in my place, doesn't it, Laurel, old boy?” Laurel panted what looked to Mici to be an agreement, climbed on the bed and lay down at her feet-instantly falling asleep. Feeling comforted in the company of Rob's pets, Mici smiled contentedly and opened the diary which was dated within six months of Elinor's death and began to read. March 31, 1998 My concerns for Billy have grown stronger. I don't know what to do. I phoned Dr. Young and he said to bring him in for an appointment. I'm very much afraid to ask Billy to do this; he has been very unapproachable, almost hostile, when I've brought up his addiction problems prior to this time. I'm afraid he might turn violent. Going to Sissy would not be an option. She knows nothing of what has been going on and I don't want her to. She worships Billy and I'd hate to disillusion her. I will pray for guidance. Until then, I need to find that money for him. April 4, 1998 I spoke with Dr. Martin at Life Benefits today. He turned down my application for the viatical purchase. Said I was too healthy and hoped I would stay that way. The way he said it was odd, but I took it in a positive way and thanked him for his honesty. Where will I get the money Billy needs? I may have to go to Mici and see if she can have the trustee liquidate some stocks. This is an emergency. Billy said the men to whom he owes the money would hurt him if he doesn't pay. I can't fail him. Mici put the diary down. Who are Billy and Sissy? If Martin turned down Elinor, how did she get the Life Benefits’ money? Or did she ever get it? Intrigued now, Mici read on. Maybe Elinor would let some more information slip. April 8, 1998 Had a call from Life Benefits Customer Service Department. They wanted to know where to send the check. How had that happened? Dr. Martin must have changed his mind. Whatever reason, this will save Billy. I won't have to embarrass myself and go to Mici. I'll give him the money tomorrow. I'm going to make it a condition that he seek help for his addictions-all of them. There will be no more bailing him out of his gambling debts. He will have to stop going to that Dungeon place and doing drugs. His family name is too important to be sullied by such goings on. Mici felt a chill go over her body at the words “the Dungeon.” Who was Billy? Was he Master X? How would Elinor know Master X? Mici read on. April 9, 1998 Billy took the money. He laughed at me. Promising to be good, but I knew he lied. Since he was a little boy, I have always known when he lied. Where did I go wrong? I confronted him with his lie. He cried and promised he would straighten up. God help me, I've chosen to believe him one more

time. Mici glanced over the next few months. She saw no more references to Billy. Skimming ahead to the end of this volume of the diary, she saw nothing to confirm or deny her growing suspicion as to Billy's identity. Looking at the pile of diaries she couldn't find the next, and what would be the last, volume of Elinor's diaries. Rob must have overlooked it. She could have sworn it had been on her bed. Well, bruises or no bruises, she was going to her place to get that book. It might very well hold the key to Elinor, Eric and lots of other Life Benefits clients’ deaths-and to her attacker at the Dungeon. Moving two unhappy pets out of the way, she got her aching body out of bed and went to find some clothes. **** Victor Hardman swallowed the nausea threatening to overtake him. He had just gotten off the phone with an investigative reporter from a local television station wanting to interview him about the alleged murders committed by Life Benefits. Damn, the shit was hitting the fan. He had to run. Now. He had run before and successfully evaded capture for his last money-making scam. Then, he had counted on Brodie, his loyal and resourceful henchman, to help him. This time would be no different. Picking up the phone, he called. “Brodie, we've got to move, today. I'll meet you in about an hour out at the Ft. Benjamin Harrison Hiking Trail, Station Five. We've got to make plans to move the assets and cover our trail.” “What's the rush? What happened?” Brodie asked. “The cops are on to us. Some television investigative reporter called and asked for an interview. When I told him no. He asked me if I wanted to comment on the exhumations of Life Benefit clients. I knew the jig was up. I hung up.” Brodie ground out, “You stupid fool. They have nothing. If they find anything in the autopsies, it will look natural.” “Then, why did they find out about Elinor Grace?” “Because I didn't kill her. She died of nicotine poisoning. I don't use nicotine.” “I paid you for her death. You took the money. You cheating bastard.” Hardman roared, the veins bulging on his red face. “Can it, Hardman. I never said I did it, and until recently I thought she had died at our hands. Now, I know who really did it. He also killed Dr. Martin for reasons of his own. Don't worry, I'll take care of him. I'm fixing it to look like he did it all-Grace, Martin and all the others. If you run, you'll ruin a sweet deal. Just keep a stiff upper lip. Tell the press and anybody else who asks there has been a misunderstanding. Let me do my job.” “Brodie, if I go down. I'll take you with me. So, don't screw this up.” “No, don't you screw this up. I'm a professional; I always do my job.” Hardman hung up and wiped the sweat from his face with his hands. He wasn't sure that Brodie could salvage this. Maybe a vacation to the Caymans and his secret stash would be a good idea right about now. If Brodie cleared things up, he could come back and say he'd needed a break. Yeah, that's the ticket. Hardman picked up the receiver and phoned his travel agent. He could have his secretary run over

and pick up the tickets before lunchtime. **** Hanging up after his conversation with Hardman, Brodie swore. “I hate dealing with amateurs and cowards. The bastard's going to run.” Brodie knew that Hardman would run. He'd seen and heard it all in ‘Nam. Hardman had a yellow streak a mile wide down his back. If he ran, he would get caught. Brodie knew it. Hardman might as well paint a great big arrow over his head and declare his guilt. He had to be eliminated in a way to point the finger at X. Brodie smiled. He thought he knew just how to do it. Time to make some phone calls and set things up. **** Rob met Adams at the morgue. He wasn't quite sure why Adams wanted to drag him in on a couple of cases that had no relationship to the Life Benefits’ deaths, but the Lieutenant had been insistent. Face it, Rob, you didn't want to leave Mici alone again. Especially after the last time. Mici had convinced him that she would be okay in his house with Laurel guarding her and the phone right by the bed. She also pinky swore that she wouldn't leave his house without him or Tod by her side. He had to be satisfied with that. He'd called Tod who promised to be available if Mici needed to leave. All that could be done had been done. He just hoped he wouldn't live to regret it. Waving at the morgue attendants, he strode into the autopsy room and suited up. Seeing Adams come in right behind him, he turned and growled out, “This had better be damn good, Adams. I had to leave Mici alone.” Adams, sensing that the pathologist wasn't in a good mood, tempered his usually sarcastic response to Rob. “It is. We had a tip. The two mutilated women found....” Impatient, Rob snapped, “Yeah, what about them?” “They may have been killed by the same person who offed the Life Benefits’ crowd.” Rob's first impression was “no way.” Different methods, different MOs. But not all of them were different MOs. “What did your tipster say? Exactly.” “He said to have you look at them and not to ignore the forensic evidence. He also pointed us to a cabin near Eagle Creek where the bodies were found-one in and one out of the reservoir.” “Three bodies. Martin was found in the reservoir. Damn. Let's have a look.” Rob heard Adams gulp as they walked over to the two bodies lying side-by-side covered with sheets. Any other time, Rob would have loved to use Adams’ discomfort against the arrogant homicide detective, but not today. Today, he was on the trail of a serial murderer-maybe two, if his conclusions were proven to be correct. These two women just might be the connections-and mistakes-needed to nail the assholes.

The smell of formalin wafted from the bodies as the sheets covering the mutilated remains of what used to be attractive women were removed. Rob noticed immediately that both of them were blonde and the memory of the blonde volunteer at the Dungeon pricked at him. The marks were everywhere. Marks where the women's wrists had been cuffed and ankles bound. For an added effect, the killer had used a rope harness to bind both women's breasts and torture their genitals. Rae's autopsy report had indicated that she had to cut off the ropes which had been tightly knotted-so much so that Rob could see the markings in the skin of both of them. The other marks were made by various instruments-paddles, crops, whips, and the most damaging of all, the cane. “God damn, Master X killed these women, just as he killed Eric Martin and tried to kill Mici. But who is he and why?” Adams gulped, then asked through the mask he was holding over his green-tinged face, “Who in the fuck is this Master X? How is he related to all the killings? The caller said, and I paraphrase, that it would be too coincidental if there were two serial murderers turned loose in Indianapolis at the same time. I have to agree with the guy, Craig. It would be too coincidental.” Rob turned to look at Adams. “Go on outside, Lieutenant. We can talk in the break room. I'm done here.” He turned to the diener and told him to cover the women up. He'd seen enough to know that two killers were on the loose. Now, all he had to do was figure out how Elinor's murder connected the two. CHAPTER TWENTY Mici called Tod to drive her to her apartment. She had been a little hesitant to ask him. It had only been a week since he'd been attacked. However, he assured her that he was fine and reminded her Rob would have both their hides if he let her go out without him. Mici couldn't argue with that logic and gave in gracefully. Walking into her apartment, she was glad to have Tod's large male presence backing her up. She shivered. Both the intruder's and the judge's malevolence still permeated the place. She knew then that she would never live here again. Maybe she and Rob could get a bigger place somewhere near his cottage. Her stuff and his stuff wouldn't all fit into his current house. It was possible that she was being premature in making plans. Although after last night and this morning, she didn't think so. “Make yourself comfortable, Tod. There are some soft drinks in the fridge. I need to find something, and while I'm here I might as well pack some more of my clothes and things.” Tod moved into the kitchen and rummaged in the refrigerator. “Can I get you something to drink, Mici?” “No, thanks Tod,” Mici said over her shoulder as she moved toward her bedroom. Walking over to her bed, she saw that Rob had gotten all the books that had been on the top. Moving stiffly, she got down on her hands and knees and looked under the bed. Yep, there it was. The reason it was so far under the bed was apparent when she had retrieved it. Laurel's teeth marks were all over it. The dog had been playing with it. No harm done. She'd read it later, back at Rob's. Her place gave her the creeps, now; she'd feel safer at Rob's.

Getting up, she groaned and gingerly placed a hand on her stiff lower back. Not so mobile. She kept forgetting. Well, her body was reminding her, not to make any fast moves. Packing what she thought she might need for a few days, including a black silk negligee Sherry had given her for her twenty-eighth birthday, she walked out and found Tod sitting on the couch with a bag of food at his feet. Looking at her and then his feet, Tod grinned. “Well, if you're going to stay with Rob, this stuff would spoil, so I thought I would clean out your fridge for you. Can you do a stir fry? You've got all the makings.” Mici laughed, glad to see that Tod's appetite hadn't suffered after this attack. “Yes, Tod, I can definitely do a stir fry. Why don't we go back to Rob's, and I'll make lunch?” **** Brodie paged Rob Craig. Some person at the mortuary had said the doctor wasn't coming in today. Brodie didn't blame him, but there had been no answer at Craig's house either. Probably not answering the phone. Didn't blame him for that either. Brodie would be figuring out ways to protect the woman he loved, also, if some sicko bastard had gotten at her. No rush. He had punched in his cell phone number. Craig would get back sooner or later. Right now, Brodie had other things to do before he set up Master X's fall. He had to kill Hardman. Once that was done and he'd arranged for Craig and the police to nab Master X, Brodie could skip town. He had his own stash in the Caymans. Right next to Hardman's. Hardman thought he was so smart and professional. He was a rank amateur next to him. Brodie patted the Cayman's airline ticket in his jacket pocket. His flight left at 11 p.m. tonight. This time tomorrow he would be on Seven Mile Beach with a pina colada in one hand and an island cutie on the other. **** Hardman looked around his office one last time. He would miss the life of a respected businessman. Definitely, he wouldn't miss Indianapolis weather as he saw the heavy wet flakes of an early snowstorm flying past his window. It was eighty degrees in the Caymans. Maybe he would build a house down there, dabble in money-laundering for a drug cartel for a change. He had the connections. Brodie might want to follow him down. He was a useful man to have at your side in the oft dangerous southern climes. Nodding at his secretary, he moved toward the elevator. “I have a luncheon meeting out of the office. I probably won't be back in today. See you tomorrow.” “Good afternoon, sir.” Riding down to the basement garage, Hardman felt better than he had for days. In about six hours, he would be safe in the Caymans-wealthy with a new identity. It was all arranged. The doors opened to the executive garage level. Standing in front of him was Brodie. Hardman jerked. “What are you doing here? I thought you had arrangements to make.” Brodie smiled. “I do. You're one of them, Vic, old boy. I'm sorry to say you have to go.” “We had an agreement. You can't do this.” Hardman scrambled to think. Got to think. If you don't think, you'll be dead. “Didn't think I knew about the Cayman's, did you, Vic?...Well, I do. Guess what? The guy you made

arrangements with down there, well, he and I are old buddies. I've known every move you made over the last year or so. You were going to cut out on me and leave me holding the bag, old buddy. Weren't you?” Brodie looked lethal. Hardman shivered. He knew he was looking death in the face. Brodie ground out once more, “Weren't you?” Hardman put his hands up in front of him, as if he could hold off Brodie's anger. “No, I was going to call you after I got down there. Honest.” “Maybe-maybe not. But I don't need you anymore, Vic. I'm thinking about settling down. With your money and mine, I can start a boat charter service-maybe set up tours to Sting Ray City. Get married. Have me some kids ... I don't need you for that, now do I?” Brodie raised a syringe and moved toward Hardman. “I knew you'd run. Face it, you're a coward, Vic. Never did like cowards much.” Hardman knowing Brodie was right about him started to cry, “Please, I'll do anything ... no, please ... ahhhhh.” **** Brodie smiled. Grace had the right idea. Nicotine, especially when injected into the heart, worked damn fast. He'd have to remember that for the future. Even charter service owners might need to eliminate people from time-to-time. Smiling, he pulled the hypodermic needle from Hardman's chest. If the pathologist saw the hole no matter, Brodie would be long gone by then. Right now, it would look like Hardman had died of heart failure. Looking in Hardman's coat pocket, he found tickets to the Cayman's. The papers would say that the stress of imminent discovery got to him-he was running from the scandal and the authorities. No one would care that one Victor Hardman had been murdered. Not one damn person. **** Rob eyed Adams across the table. The Morgue staff was having a pitch-in lunch that day for Rae Putman's birthday. Adams’ green face had just deepened another shade. Grinning, Rob dug into the German potato salad which Rae had brought. Adams gulped. “How can you people eat in this place? Doesn't it bother you that there are dead bodies right next door?” “Nope. You get used to the smell, Adams. Just like you get used to seeing the dead bodies. What you don't get used to is the idea that there are people living in this world that can do that to people.” Rob had finished the potato salad and started on the cole slaw. “Now, let's get down to the reason you called me here. You said you got a call telling you that these two women were killed by a serial murderer?” Adams nodded. “Yeah. The guy said that it would be too much of a coincidence that there was more than one serial murderer in Indianapolis.” “Well, I agree with the statement about coincidence, but not with his conclusion. There are two killers, Adams. I'm sorry. The evidence points toward two different types of killers.” “How so?” “The Life Benefits’ murders for the most part were of healthy older people who die all of a sudden-no trauma. Probably ingested some sort of poison, like the nicotine Elinor Grace had in her body. After Elinor Grace dies and the family has Mici hire me to look into it, we get the other deaths and attacks on

two people, these are ones with violence involved. The first death is Eric Martin with the blunt trauma to the head and evidence of beatings shown by the scars on his body. The next two deaths are the two women next door also with evidence of beatings all over their bodies and the ligature marks around their necks. Finally, we have the attacks on my assistant, Tod, along with the theft of a package sent by the dead Martin, and on Mici, one at her home and one at the Dungeon, by a person calling himself Master X. X, it turns out, is an expert with whips and other instruments used to beat people-a real sadist who also taunted Mici about sticking her nose into his business.” “So, I have two murderous bastards running around my town killing people. Is that what you are telling me?” “Yes. However, Lieutenant, we are already on the track of one of those killers. Life Benefits is murdering its clients. We are a few autopsies away from proving that conclusively. I am willing to bet that Elinor Grace is not one of those, though.” “Why is that? There was no violence-you said so yourself.” “None that I could see. I really believe now the second killer, Master X, used the Life Benefits’ scheme to cover up his murder of Elinor. I am also willing to bet there was violence. He could have forced her to ingest the nicotine or injected it into her. Either way. We would have had a hard time finding evidence of that.” “Why do it that way?” “Because this guy likes to be all powerful. He feeds off of controlling the fate of the person. He wants them to know that he has the power to keep them alive or kill them. Just like he terrorized Mici and tortured those two women in there before he killed them. I saw him in action at the Dungeon. He would have killed another woman in front of a whole room full of people if her husband and I hadn't stopped him. He is out of control.” “Jesus. So how do we get this guy? Who is he?” “Maybe, we'll find out when your guys get through with that cabin you mentioned. The one the caller connected to these two women's murders.” “So, who's the caller? What's his place in all this?” “Who knows? Maybe he's a victim of X who managed to get away. Does it matter?” Adams shrugged. “I guess not. I don't know about you, but I don't like loose ends.” Before Rob could comment that for once he agreed with Adams, his beeper went off. Checking the number and not recognizing it, he excused himself and went to use the phone on the wall of the break room. “Did someone call for Dr. Craig?” “Yeah. Hey, Doc, you know that case you're working on? The Grace dame's murder?” “Who is this?” Rob looked over toward Adams and motioned him over to the phone. When Adams reached him, Rob held the phone out so Adams could listen in. “Let's just say it's a friend.”

Rob noticed the look of surprise on Adams’ face. He concluded that Adams recognized the voice and he mouthed the words, “Is this your caller?” to which Adams gave an abrupt nod. “Okay, friend. What about the Grace murder?” “Check into Dan Grace's background. I think you'll find some very interesting activities.” Rob was stunned. Dan Grace? He hadn't thought of him, but now that the mysterious caller had mentioned him. It seemed right. “What sort of activities?” “Hey, old Danny boy runs the gamut-gambling, drugs and sex. Check into the sex, in particular, Doc. He almost had your girl the other night at the Dungeon. Watch your back! He's a really sick bastard.” The caller hung up. Rob turned. The Lieutenant's stunned image had to mirror his own. Recovering first, Adams asked, “Did our anonymous friend imply what I think he implied?” “If you mean that Dan Grace killed his grandmother and attacked Mici in the guise of Master X? He didn't imply it. He out-and-out said it.” “Then, that means ... if your theory is true ... he killed those women in the other room. He killed Eric Martin. Plus, he somehow found out about the Life Benefits’ scheme and used it to cover up his murder of his grandmother. He's our violent killer.” “Yes. If my theory is true. You know, he and Eric were always close, all the way back to Med School. And, from what Mici and I found out at the Dungeon, they obviously had a master-slave relation. Dan could have gotten enough information from Eric Martin to find out about the Life Benefits’ scheme. It fits. Goddamn, it fits.” “So, do you think this is all true, Craig?” “I'm very much afraid that it is. Let's go get the bastard.” “We still have the same problem, Craig. We need physical evidence. So far, all we have is our anonymous tipster-that is all hearsay.” Rob gesturing with his fork said, “However, he's given us some directions in which to look for physical evidence. The cabin is a good place to start. Also, you need to send some techs to the Dungeon in Woodruff place. Mistress Nikita will know what Dan touched or didn't touch. We can compare prints with those we found at Mici's, although she said he had on gloves, but you never know he may not have had them on all the time.” “Shouldn't we put a tail on the guy? Won't he try to get away?” “Why would he? He doesn't know we suspect him. I'm not a psychiatrist, but I bet he thinks he's pretty invincible right now.” “Yeah. You're right. A tail would be a dead giveaway. Let's get cracking. Do you want to be in on the cabin search?” “Yes. I do. Thanks.”

“No problem, Doc. Without you and our anonymous phone caller, we'd still be going after just Life Benefits and chasing our tails on the two womens’ murders.” Rob nodded his acknowledgment of Adams’ thanks. He just hoped that they could get enough evidence to nail Dan before he hurt anyone else. At least Mici was safe at his place, but he would call just to make sure. **** Mici sat up and stretched. She had fallen asleep after driving back from her apartment and fixing Tod lunch. Who would have thought loading up her car and Tod's with a few boxes of clothes, books and groceries would take so much out of a person? After preparing a veggie stir fry for lunch, she had settled herself on Rob's bed with a Pepsi and Elinor's last diary, fully intending to continue her search for X's identity-or at least, a confirmation of who she suspected him to be. Except she had fallen asleep, surrounded by Rob's scent and his two loyal pets. Taking a sip of the watered down Pepsi, she opened the diary. She flipped through to the last few days before Elinor's death. September 15, 1998 Billy lied to me. The money is gone and he still is living his life in depravity. Where did I go wrong? I don't know where to turn. Dr. Young has said that I should go to my attorney and initiate guardianship proceedings since I can not get him committed for a period greater than thirty days without being his guardian. I have received the information Dr. Young sent me about the private sanatorium. I hate the sound of this, but Billy is on a path to self-destruction. It is all my fault-may God forgive me. I'm going to see him tomorrow and give him one more chance to check himself into Shady Acres voluntarily. If he doesn't, then I will commit him for the thirty days and obtain guardianship so that I can keep him there until he is cured. Dr. Young calls it “tough love.” I am so despondent. How will I tell Sissy? September 16, 1998 I will see Billy later today. I didn't tell him about what. Just said I needed to see him. He was very angry that I would interrupt his day. His irrational attitude has convinced me that I am doing the right thing. Mici turned the page. There was no more. Elinor had died that day. The day she was to meet with Billy and provide him with an ultimatum. Mici had a sick feeling in her stomach. She needed to talk to Karen Grace. Karen had kept Elinor's appointment book. Mici needed to see if Elinor had marked her appointments down for that day. If not, maybe Karen would know who Elinor had been going to see. Mici thought she knew, but she wanted to confirm it before she voiced her suspicions to Rob and especially to Karen. Mici swung her legs out of bed. Seeing that the snow had picked up, she decided to put on warmer clothes before she ventured out to the Grace's house. First, she would check to see if Tod was still around. It was awfully quiet in the house. Walking out into the small living room, Mici saw no evidence of the medical student. Going into the kitchen, she saw a note placed on the refrigerator with a Valium magnet. She read:

MiciRob called to check on you while you were asleep. I didn't bother to wake you, because he told me you needed your rest. I agree. I had to go over to the mortuary to finish up a post for Rob since he was called out to a scene of some crime. He said to tell you to stay put and rest up. He'll take you out to some place nice, but casual, for dinner around 7:30. Dress warm. Oh, he said to tell you he loved you. -Tod. Mici smiled. Checking the clock above the stove, she saw it was only five o'clock. She would have lots of time to make it to the Graces and back before Rob got home. She'd just leave him a note telling him where she was going. To be safe, she'd take Laurel with her. Maybe Rob wouldn't yell at her for venturing out alone, if she had the giant puppy with her. If he did take her to task, well, she knew a way to turn him up sweet. CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE Damn. They found the body. Hadn't he weighted it down properly? He knew he had. How in the hell did they find it? Dan Grace viewed the yellow crime scene tape around the public boat launch as he drove toward his cabin farther up the road. Thank God, he ditched the bitch away from his dock. There is no way they could connect the body to his property. Rounding the last curve, Dan slowed down, then braked and pulled into a ranger access road. About five hundred yards up the road, he could see that the approach to his cabin's drive had been blocked off with police barricades. Through the leafless trees, he could see the crime scene vans and police cars parked in his driveway. How in the hell did they find out about his little playhouse? Had he underestimated Rob's and Mici's detecting abilities? No. Someone else knew and was leading them to him. When he found that person-he or she was dead meat. Searching back through his memory to the night before, he couldn't remember anything left out in the cabin that might be connected to him personally. His persona as Master X was another matter. X's bondage and discipline equipment were there, but he had always used gloves-so no fingerprints. His clothes he took home and hid in a safe built into the floor of his closet. Even Karen didn't know it was there. He had it installed while she and grandmother had been away. Even if they found any forensic evidence, they would have to connect it specifically to him in order to prove that he was X. Indianapolis was a large metropolitan area; it would take more manpower and money than they had to single him out as the killer of the two women they found. They couldn't do it. He was safe. The cabin's title was in the name of Eric Martin. So, no clue there. No one knew of his relationship with Eric other than as Master X. Yes, he was in the clear. Now, to turn around and leave without being noticed. Damn the snow. Well, he hoped they would think the tracks were those of someone who had gotten lost and hadn't realized that the road was a dead end. It was a damn shame that he would have to abandon his playhouse. Well, with Eric's death, he would have had to find a new place eventually. Maybe someplace in southern Indiana-not too far to drive, but far enough away that he couldn't be connected to it. Guess he would go home. He was on-call tonight; he needed his rest. Killing people was exhausting

work, almost as much as saving them. The irony of it struck him funny. He laughed, then turned and drove away without even a backward glance. **** “What are you finding, Gibbs?” Rob bent over the crime scene tech who was vacuuming up fibers from around what looked to be a modern version of a rack. Rob choked down the bile that threatened to come up. He couldn't help but imagine the terror of the people who had been restrained on the instrument of torture. He knew that eventually they had realized that Dan as Master X was going to kill them and not just have a scene with them. Following closely, the image of Mici spread-eagled to the bed in the Dungeon at the mercy of the very same fiend flashed through his mind. She could have been the next victim tied to this very rack, if he and the ax man hadn't gotten to her in time. Dan could have taken her down the hidden staircase, and Rob would never have seen her alive again. He shook that image from his mind. It hadn't happened. She was safe at home. His home. Asleep in his bed. He smiled at that image. A much better image than the other. Gibbs turned off the vacuum and looked up at him. “Looks like clothing fibers-probably from the victims. But, hey, how would we know? They were nude when found-the one dragged from the water and the other found beside a hiking trail. No clothes. Both had on those rope harnesses and the weights tied around their ankles. We figure the one on the trail was headed for the water when the perp was spooked somehow. He probably buried the clothes. Or took them as trophies. Who knows how these guys think?” Rob nodded. “Any human DNA material? Something we could get a cross-match on?” Gibbs nodded. “Sure, but it looks like blood and tissue from the victims. The leather restraints on this rack have all sorts of crud. It could take months to separate out all the different DNA. You know that, Doc. Being a betting man, I'd lay you ten-to-one that all of it belonged to the poor sorry bastards who were bound to it.” Rob agreed. Adams had groaned when he realized that Martin as Dan's slave and the other two women might not be the only previous visitors to this rustic version of a torture chamber. That's where Adams was now-arranging for the reservoir to be dragged-at least along the shore where it was shallow. The dark waters of Eagle Creek Reservoir were too deep and far too frigid to be searched in early November. They might have to wait until spring, although Rob knew if the bodies were decomposing they might find some traces on an infrared scan with a flyover by a helicopter. The heat from the decomposition would show up. But, it wouldn't do any good to find the bodies-other than to clear up some missing persons’ cases-it didn't look like Dan left them much physical evidence to go by. “Keep at it, Gibbs. Anything we can use to tie this scene to the bastard would be helpful. Hair, sweat on the instruments-anything organic you can find.” “Okay, Doc. We'll go over this place-molecule by molecule-if we have to. Scares the shit out of me that this guy is on the loose.” “Yeah. I know what you mean, Gibbs.” Looking at his watch, he thought about heading home. He had promised, through Tod, to take Mici out for dinner. Then, after that, they'd head home for some serious cuddling and foreplay-and another cold shower for him. She still wasn't ready for the complete physical act ... yet.

Looking around Dan's little hellhole for one last time, Rob acknowledged that Mici wouldn't be safe until Dan was behind bars. Rob wouldn't stop until he had put the bastard away for life. Nothing was going to happen to Mici, not if he could help it. Hell! How was he going to break it to her that her client's son was the murderous Master X? **** Dan parked his car alongside his sister's. Damn, she was home. He thought she'd be at one of her interminable charity board meetings. Well, he would go up the back stairs and avoid the kitchen. He wanted to double-check his hidden stash of clothes. He would need to burn them all. The hospital incinerator would be a good place. It was on all the time and nothing would be left-just a few ashes. He'd start a new collection, maybe Mici, then Rob would be contributing to it. Damn them both. They'd pay for upsetting his life. Hearing his sister puttering around in the kitchen, he crept up the servant's stairs. He knew she would be in there for most of the evening-she had her desk in a small room off the kitchen. She'd talked about moving into grandmother's suite of rooms and taking over that office, but he had talked her out of it for now. He needed to go over the area to make sure that dearest grandmother hadn't left anything hidden away that might point to any of his little habits. He had glanced at the materials the other night in Mici's bedroom and had intended to take them, but the arrival of the police had disrupted all of his plans. He would get the journals back eventually, but if they read like the ones Karen had kept, they weren't a threat. Most of them detailed grandmother's social life-nothing in them about family. Dan entered his closet and shut the door. Pulling up the oriental rug, he pushed on the board which opened the floor panel covering his safe. Punching in the combination, he opened the safe's door and pulled out his victim's clothes-his Master X clothes and gear, too. Who knew what kind of organic evidence they could find on them? He could always buy new ones. He crammed them into a couple of laundry bags that Karen used to take his shirts to the cleaners. Moving quietly down the main stairs, he went into the library where he had his office. A nap on the couch would do him for this evening. If Karen was surprised to see him home, he would bluff it out and say he'd gotten home, saw she was working in her office, and didn't want to disturb her. He'd think of something. He was feeling pretty damn strong, invincible. She would believe anything he told her. He fell asleep smiling. **** Mici pulled up near the side entrance of the Grace house. She observed some light in the room she knew to be Karen's office. Good, she was home. Mici let Laurel out of the car for a run. She wasn't planning on being here long. Rob would be getting home, and she wanted to be back before he got there. Tapping on the window, she waved at Karen who looked startled at first, but then smiled and waved her toward the door. Karen met her. “Hey, Mici. What are you doing here? Rough night to be out. Did I forget an appointment or something?” Karen smiled and motioned her into the warm kitchen. “No, nothing like that. I was reading your grandmother's journals. Just needed to ask you some things and to see if you have your grandmother's appointment book for the month of September.”

Karen led the way into her office and waved Mici to a chair. “Yes, I think it's still up in Grandmother's office. Do you want me to run up and get it?” “In a bit. First, I want you to think back, Karen. Of Elinor's acquaintances, for whom, besides you and Dan, would she feel responsible?” “Responsible how?” Karen asked looking puzzled at Mici's question. “Financially and personally.” Sitting back in her chair, Mici watched as Karen stared out the window at the snow which was now coming down steadily. There would be some accumulation by morning. The silence in the room was only broken by the ticking of the cuckoo clock and the wind outside. It was an uncomfortable silence. Mici wondered if Karen knew and was trying to find ways to deny the obvious. Finally, Karen answered. “No one,” she let out a breath she was holding, “absolutely no one. Why do I have the feeling that you're going to tell me something I don't want to hear?” Mici looked away from Karen. Karen knew. Mici knew it in her soul, but still tried to figure a way to put her suspicions in front of her client and friend in such a way as to soften the blow. Once it was put into words-said aloud-there was no fooling themselves anymore. “Karen, in your grandmother's journal, she wrote about a man for whom she was very concerned. A man for whom she felt responsible both on a personal and financial level. She had bailed him out of a debt-a large one since she sold her policy to get the money. This man was supposed to get psychiatric help in return for the money, and he reneged on his part of the bargain. She was meeting him the day she died, to ask him once more to voluntarily go to a private hospital named Shady Acres. If he didn't, she was going to use ‘tough love,’ and have him committed. I need to know who that man is.” “Who do you think the man is?” Karen stammered, turning to look away from Mici.. “I think ... this is just a deduction on my part ... I think we'll find that she had no appointments in her book, because the man she was going to see was family and lived here ... Karen, I'm so sorry. I think it was Dan.” “No-o-o!” Karen got up from her chair and paced around the room. “He wouldn't kill Gram. She loved us-both of us. He loved her. I know he did. I'll get that book. I'll prove it to you. There has to be someone else. Wait ... maybe she never got the money and she was going to confront that Life Benefits’ person ... that Hardman person. Didn't you and Rob think he was the one killing his clients?...” Mici rose as Karen did. She reached out to her distraught friend. “Karen, I am so sorry. I don't think that this death can be blamed on him.” Karen turned toward her. “Just wait. I'll get the appointment book. Please just wait, it can't be true.” Then she ran out of the room, leaving Mici feeling ill. God, I wish Rob were here. The small room was all of a sudden oppressive. Mici escaped into the large kitchen and sat at the butcher block table. She wondered who she could call to come and stay with Karen after the police arrested Dan. Maybe Sherry would move in for a while. Karen shouldn't be alone, losing both her Grandmother and her brother. Well, she just shouldn't be alone. Mici jumped as the phone rang, shattering the silence. Mici laughed at her nervousness. It rang several more times. Maybe she should answer it.

Mici picked up the kitchen extension just as the last ring was cut off. Karen must have gotten it....No, wait-that was Dan's voice. Was he calling? Mici, feeling guilty, listened in. She needed to know where Dan was so she could tell Rob and Adams. There were two male voices. Oh my God, Dan was here-in the house. In dawning horror, Mici held her breath and listened. **** Dan woke up. Disoriented, he realized that he'd been asleep for a while and the phone had awakened him. Where in the hell was Karen? Wasn't she going to answer the damn thing? Fumbling for the phone, Dan answered it. “Grace residence. Dr. Grace speaking.” “Dr. Grace, or should I say Master X? You don't know me. My name is ... well my name isn't important. What I have to say is.” Dan felt his stomach move up into his throat, swallowing, he spoke in what he hoped was a calm voice, “You must have the wrong number. My name is Dr. Daniel Grace. There is no Master X here.” Dan heard the man on the other end laugh, a snarly laugh. “Who do you think you're fooling, X? I've been following you ever since you killed Eric Martin. I know everything about you. Your grandmother's murder, the attacks on that lawyer, the Dungeon and your depraved sexual appetites, the two women you killed, the cabin in the woods. Everything.” Dan froze. This was trouble-big trouble. He swallowed again and took a calming breath. He had to think. He had to stall so he could think. “What do you want?” “What does anybody want, X? Money, power, well, you get the picture.” “Can we discuss this, please? Face to face?” Dan heard the man chuckle. “Why, X that is exactly what I had in mind. Tonight would be good for me. Is it good for you?” “Yeah, sure. Where?” “Since you invited me, you pick the place.” Dan thought quickly. Not near the cabin. The police were there. He smiled. Yes ... that would be perfect. “Crown Hill Cemetery. Seven-thirty. At Dillinger's grave. It's at the top of the hill when you enter from Thirty-Eighth Street. You can't miss it.” “Got it.” Dan heard the man disconnect. Then, he heard a second disconnect. Someone had been listening in. Karen? Dan ran from the library toward the kitchen. A door slammed. Picking up speed, he raced through the

kitchen and to the outside. Not Karen. It was Mici! He smiled. Fate had brought her here. He could take care of the man on the phone and her at the same time. He ran to Mici's car and grabbed her before she could get in. No match for his strength, he picked her up and carried her, kicking and screaming, back into the house. Carrying her through the kitchen, he shoved open the doors to the library with his foot and threw her on the couch. “Eavesdropping, Mici? So plebeian, my lady.” “It was you! You did kill your grandmother and attack me! I didn't want to believe it.” Dan examined the woman sprawled where he had thrown her. Even now, he wanted her in all the ways he could take her-wanted her begging for him to take her as he beat her. There wasn't time for that now. He had to meet and take care of the blackmailer, so Mici would have to come along. Keeping an eye on her, he strode over to the laundry bag containing the victim trophies and his bondage gear. Ah, yes, he thought he had some extra restraints in his stash upstairs. Well, he would get a few more dollars worth out of these things before he had to burn them. Turning toward Mici, he held out the restraints in his hands. “Remember these, my dear? We have some unfinished business, you and I.” “You can go to hell. Rob will be wondering where I am. I left him a note. He'll know.” “Now, Mici, do I look worried about that pussy, Rob Craig? He'll just be next. Maybe, I'll keep you alive long enough so that he can see me take you. Think he'd like that?...No, I didn't think so. Well, I'll let you in on a little secret. I'd like it ... I'd like it a lot.” Laughing, he grabbed Mici's wrists and locked them into the thick leather restraints. He then placed a bondage belt around her waist and attached her wrists to it in front of her. Holding her nose, he shoved a ball gag into her mouth when she was forced to gasp for breath and fastened it tightly around her head. Standing back to look at his handiwork, he smiled. “That ought to do for now. I'll take the rest of the stuff along for later-some to use on you and some to be burnt to a crisp in the hospital incinerator. Can't leave any forensic evidence around for the police, now can we?” Then, he laughed. “Dan, you can't do this. Let her go. We'll get you help. You're sick.” Pivoting, he faced his sister and smiled, a smile that his poor Eric would have recognized and cowered in front of. “I don't need any help, sister dear. And just how are you going to stop me? I'm omnipotent. I can squash you like a bug.” Like a large black cat, Dan stalked his sister, cutting off her attempts to escape the library. When he was within arm's length, he grabbed her with one hand and slapped her face viciously with the other. “Just how in the hell are you going to stop me, little girl?” He slapped her again. “Grandmother's fair-haired child.” He slapped her again.

“Doer of good deeds.” Bored with his game of torment and aware he would be late for his date, he made a fist and punched his sister. She fell to the floor. “I got sick and tired of hearing about you, sister dear. Did you know that the last words before I injected the nicotine into dear Grandmother's body were about you? Did you?” Dan kicked his sister's still body. Dan shook himself and stepped away. Can't lose control. Got to stay calm and in control. Sensing movement from behind him, he turned and avoided the kick that Mici had aimed at his balls. Grabbing her hair, he punched her in the stomach and then the face, knocking her unconscious. Throwing her on the couch, he went back to his sister and stared down at her as she lay on the floor. He decided to tie her up and figure out what to do with her later. Maybe he would take her to the other S/M club in Indianapolis-the one on the Southside where the bikers hung out. He'd make her a gift to the boys. He smiled. That would be worth watching. After tying Karen up and leaving her on the floor, he threw Mici over his shoulder fireman style and walked back through the house. He had thirty minutes to make his seven-thirty appointment. In this weather, it would take that long to get to the cemetery. He was brought up short by the large dog in his kitchen. Damn, he must have left the door open. He slapped Mici's ass. “Your dog, my dear? Too bad you didn't leave him at home.” Dan pulled a gun from his coat pocket. The snick of the safety being released sounded loud in the quiet house. As he took aim, the woman over his shoulder moaned and wriggled, the shot went slightly wide. Dan heard the yip of the dog as it fled out the partially open kitchen door. Seeing the blood on the floor, he smiled. Hitting Mici on the rear again, he laughed. “Got him, my dear. Not a clean shot, though. Your attempt to throw my shot off only will make it worse for him. He'll bleed to death out in the cold. Let's go see if I can do as well with my would-be blackmailer.” CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO Brodie sat in his car with the motor running and the heat on high. He was sick of this cold, damp weather; the Caymans were looking better all the time. His bags were all packed and in the trunk, tickets in his pocket. After eliminating Dan Grace, he would be ready to shake the snow of Indiana off his feet and never look back. Although he'd killed lots of people in his line of work, he hadn't actually shot anyone face-to-face since Vietnam. He had no doubts that he could do it. The man was a pervert and didn't deserve to live. Brodie always had been very selective about freebie kills in the past. There had been that serial killer in California who preyed on small children, snatching them from the playground. God knows the police felt that he'd done them a favor there-not that they actually knew he did it. Several pros did though, recognizing his trademark of using undetectable poisons. He'd actually gotten some congratulatory emails from some of them. One even offered to pay him. He recalled the serial killer in Canada who ate his victim's limbs. Someone had figured out the poison in that case and actually advertised in the paper offering money to the man who could prove he had committed the murder. Brodie had been gratified that someone had appreciated his work, but chose not to respond.

Yeah, most people didn't understand-pros were pros. It was the sickos, druggies and gangbangers who gave homicide a bad name. No doubt about it, he was doing a service for Indianapolis, not that they would thank him for it. But at least, he would be able to sleep nights. Brodie checked the lighted dial of his watch one more time. Bang on seven-thirty. Probably got slowed down by the snow. He'd give the bastard ten more minutes, then he would go hunting for him. Brodie heard the car before he saw it. The vehicle approaching his position had no lights on. As the car ascended the first hill toward Brodie's position at the highest point in the cemetery, it passed under one of the street lights along the main drive. Yep, it was Grace; he drove one of those large sports utility vehicles. Did Brodie imagine it? Was there a second person in the SUV? What was Grace trying to pull here? Brodie put his car into gear and moved it away from the meeting point, parking it around the hill and heading down out of the cemetery, just in case he needed to make a quick getaway. Leaving the car unlocked, he got out. As he walked toward the back of Dillinger's large grave marker, he pulled his Walther P38 from the holster hidden beneath his winter coat. When he did resort to a gun, he wanted one that was accurate. The Walther was highly accurate. Seeing that Grace and his passenger had gotten out of the car and were approaching the gravesite, he stepped out from behind the marker with his gun aimed at Grace. “I didn't say anything about an audience, Grace.” “Mici isn't any concern of yours. Let's get down to business. Who in the hell are you and what do you want from me?” Brodie knew that the equation had just changed. He wanted to take out Grace, but not at the expense of the lawyer. As the two had approached his position, he could see that she wasn't in good shape-she moved stiffly and had her hands restrained in front of her. She also had on no coat and seemed to be missing a shoe. Her movements were slow, awkward, because of the cold and damp. She probably was in shock. Damn the bastard. Stalling for time to figure out what to do, Brodie answered Grace's question, “Not that it would mean anything to you, but my name's Brodie. I used to work for Life Benefits in the collections department.” Brodie laughed at his joke. “That is until you decided to queer Hardman's and my little money-making scheme and throw in one of your own. How did you know about it, Grace? Did your pervert lover, Martin, tell you?” Grace laughed. Shoving Mici along in front of him, he moved closer to Brodie's position. “In a way. My poor Eric had a slight drug problem. He told me lots of things; things I'm sure he never remembered telling me. I don't think he really knew what was going on at Life Benefits until after grandmother died. I saw what was happening immediately. It went against statistics and probability. I knew I could use this to my advantage. Grandmother was threatening to cut off the money and put me away. Ha! The old woman was senile. Always trying to tell me what to do.” Grace gesticulated with his hand holding a gun which had been hidden behind Mici's back. “But then, he turned down her application.” Grace jerked his hostage upright when it seemed she had tripped over an uneven spot in the ground. “He told me about it. Said something about how Life Benefits’ clients seemed to be dying so quickly after

they sold their policies, even the older ones who had at least five years to go. He was superstitious and thought selling the policies had jinxed them.” Brodie inched back into the shadow of Dillinger's gravestone, away from the security light, hoping to cut down any shot Grace might have and give Brodie a better angle on his own shot. It would have to be a head shot. Grace had the lawyer in front of him. The coward. “So, how did you get Life Benefits to buy your grandmother's policy?” Brodie wanted the asshole to tell his story-gloat about it-make a mistake and let his guard down, then Brodie would have him. “I went to Eric's office one evening. Eric had given me the security code and I had a duplicate key. I pulled my grandmother's application, changed it to approved and put it on his secretary's desk. He didn't know a thing about it until after she was dead.” Grace moved ever closer to Brodie's position-never once letting go of his hostage. Damn. Give me a shot, you asshole. “So, that's when he wised up about his boss, huh?” “Yeah. I thought he was mailing something to Rob Craig that night about me-thought he might have realized that I was the one who killed grandmother. Instead, he was giving them the dirt on Life Benefits.” Grace stroked his gun over Mici's breasts. “Pity. I'll miss Eric. He was the best pain slut I've ever had-could take anything I dished out and always came back for more.” Brodie knew it had to be now. Any closer and Grace would take his own shot. Brodie raised his gun while Grace was looking at his own gun as it traveled over Mici's breasts. Bye-bye, pervert. Brodie heard a shot, how could that be? He hadn't pulled the trigger yet. Then, he felt the pain in the upper left portion of his chest. How had that happened? I've been shot. Oh shit. Brodie fell to the ground, his own weapon dropping from his slackened fingers. **** Grace howled. “Thought you had me, didn't you, sucker?” Shoving Mici to the snowy ground, he strutted over to the man who called himself Brodie, now lying on the grave of John Dillinger. He kicked the man in the ribs and got no response. Guess all those years of watching violence on television had paid off. He knew the man had been trying to distract him. Grace let him think he'd succeeded. When he saw Brodie's arm move, Grace pulled his trigger. He always had been the fastest gunfighter on the playground. He hadn't lost his touch. Turning back to his victim-to-be ... she was gone! “Mici, come back here. I'm not going to be happy if I have to come after you.” Grace stood still, listening. The wind whistled through the trees in the graveyard. His own breathing sounded erratic and loud in the dark. Adrenaline, he thought. Calm down. Control your breathing. There, now, he could hear rustling noises. An animal walking through the leaves that the groundskeepers hadn't gotten to yet? Or one escaped hostage?

Moving away from the man's body, he walked toward the place from where he thought the noises had come. He moved from gravestone to gravestone. Stopping occasionally to listen. Yes, there was something moving out there. No, stumbling. He smiled. The cold was getting to her. Matching his movements to his prey, he stalked. He followed the sounds knowing that she would sooner or later make a mistake and he would pounce. **** Exaggerating her weakness from the time she'd been dragged from the car, Mici had only stayed on the ground for a second after her captor had turned away. When Grace had moved toward the man she recognized as the ax man from the Dungeon, she took off in the opposite direction, as quietly as possible. She could do nothing for her savior of the other night, but she could save herself. Recalling how the graveyard was arranged, Mici knew that she had to get to one of the two entrances: the one in which they had entered from 38th Street or the other one on Martin Luther King Drive. The 38th Street entrance was closer, but more well lit and out in the open. Mici opted for the other. If she remembered correctly, there was an all-night gas station very near the MLK Drive entrance. Using the larger gravestones as protection, she moved away from the two men and circled around back of the James Whitcomb Riley memorial. She stopped occasionally to catch her breath; it was hard to breathe around the gag as she exerted herself. Also, she needed to listen for Grace. Hearing him call out to her, she froze. He wanted her to come back. Fat chance. He'd hurt her either way. There was no going back voluntarily. She had to try for the gas station and help. Even with fear pumping adrenalin through her and the exertion, she was getting colder and colder. She couldn't feel her feet or her fingers. She knew if she didn't get to help and warmth soon, she would succumb to hypothermia. Her coordination was already going downhill fast. Stopping to rest behind a large monument, she listened. Was that a noise to her right-or left? Great. Now, her senses were playing tricks on her. Or, maybe it was the wind distorting the night noises. The night noises still scared her, but the pitch black night was in this case her friend. In this part of the cemetery, Grace couldn't see any better than she could. Mici pushed away from the gravestone with her rear and headed toward her goal. Moving around a large piece of what looked to be funereal statuary, she didn't see the low grave marker in front of her. She stumbled over it and fell heavily to the ground, knocking the wind out of her. Clumsily, she tried to use her bound hands to push herself over onto her side so she could get up. “Here, my lady, let me help you.” Grace's low sarcastic tones came from above and behind her. She was caught. **** Brodie groaned. Damn, it was cold. He knew it was from a combination of the weather and the loss of blood. He had to move now while he was able. The pervert had gone after the lawyer. God help her if the bastard caught her. He knew that he was a goner unless he got help ...and soon. Same for the lawyer. Struggling to a sitting position, he pushed off the ground with his good right arm. Brodie then stumbled away from the grave using the markers as crutches to keep him from falling to the ground. He knew if he

fell, he might never get up again. It seemed to take forever to get to the warmth of his car, but he knew it had only been a minute or so. After he managed to pull himself into the car, he rested his head momentarily on the steering wheel before forcing his weakened fingers to press 911 on the car phone. “911. What's your emergency and location, please?” Gasping for each breath he took now, he spoke to the operator. “Need police ... ambulance ... at, ah ... Crown ... Hill ... Cemetery. Grace ... danger ... Smith ... call Dr. Craig....” Brodie slumped over the wheel of his car covering the phone still on an open line. CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE Rob strolled into his house shortly before seven o'clock. If he was lucky, he might catch her getting ready to go out for supper. He'd take his thrills where he could get them. Hardy came up to him and meowed plaintively. Bending over he scratched the unhappy cat's ears. “Where's Laurel?” Rob stood up and called out, “Mici? Laurel? I'm home.” Rob listened as his voice echoed eerily. Walking into the bedroom, he noticed more of Mici's belongings strewn around his room. He looked into the bathroom to make sure she hadn't fainted on the floor or something. Growing apprehensive, he went back to the main room and checked the kitchen. He saw sacks of food, boxes of supplies, but no Mici. Becoming more fearful, he glanced around the room, looking for signs of a struggle or violence. Had her father got her? Had Dan dared to follow her here? Then, he saw the note on the refrigerator. Ripping the note from beneath the magnet, he quickly read: Rob, my loveWent to Karen's to check something out in Elinor's appointment books. Don't expect to be long. Back before our date at 7:30. Looking forward to a wonderful evening-and night-with you. Love, Mici “Damn!” Rob threw the note down and kicked the refrigerator. “I told her to stay put.” Jerking the portable phone out of the charger, he punched in Adams’ number. He knew the cop would be in his office. Gathering the evidence against Dan was his top priority. “Adams, Rob Craig here. Mici has gone out to the Grace house. Get a car out there quick.” Rob hung up before Adams could even reply. Before leaving for the Grace mansion, he went into his den and grabbed the gun he used to carry when he had done night duty as a resident. He just hoped that shooting a gun was like riding a bicycle.

The trip to the Grace's house took him the usual twenty minutes, which considering the snow and road conditions was good. He saw the flashing red lights of the police cars before he saw the house. It was all lit up. In the reflection of the light, he saw Mici's little red car. Please God, let her be here and okay. In his rear view mirror, he saw an ambulance skidding up the long drive. The bottom dropped out of his world. Not bothering to turn off his truck, he leapt out and ran toward the house. “Excuse me, sir. May I ask what your business is here?” Rob turned and yelled at the officer, “I'm a doctor, who's hurt?” The officer scrutinized him. “Are you the Dr. Craig who called this in to the Lieutenant?” “Yeah. Please just tell me, who's hurt?” “Come with me, Doctor. The Lieutenant is on his way-should be here any minute. The lady who's hurt is in the library.” Rob pushed past the officer. He knew the way to the library. Shoving his way past the EMTs who had beaten him into the house, he stopped and viewed the scene in front of him. One of the EMTs was working on Karen Grace, who lay unmoving on the floor. He didn't see Mici ... or Dan Grace. Turning to the officer who'd followed him into the room, he shouted, “Has anybody found another woman in the house?” “No, Doctor.” Karen moaned. Rob turned and moved to her side. He asked the technician working on her, “How is she?” “She's been beat up pretty bad. Looks like she might have a concussion-maybe a broken rib or two. The officers said she was trussed up like a turkey when they found her. She's just now coming around.” Karen moaned once more. “Mici?” “Karen, it's Rob Craig. What happened? Where's Mici?” Karen, crying now, said, “He took her to some meeting ... at seven-thirty....You have to save her ... Oh my god ... he killed Grams.” “Craig.” Spinning at the sound of Adams’ voice, Rob saw the detective rush into the room. The dark look on Adams’ face indicated to Rob that he wasn't going to like what he was about to hear. “You'd better come with me. We heard a 911 on our way over here. We're pretty sure that Grace has Mici at Crown Hill Cemetery.” Rob, after squeezing Karen's hand, bolted toward Adams. “How do you know that? Who called? Mici?”

“No, some man. I heard the tape. He sounded in pretty bad shape. Asked for an ambulance and the police. Mentioned Grace's name, Mici's and yours. You can ride with me.” “Right. Just let me get something from my truck-I left it running.” Racing back to his truck, he realized he must have really been oblivious because he'd left his door open also. Reaching in to turn off the truck, he felt a large wet lick on his hand. Then, he heard the whimper. “Laurel. Good boy.” Rob's hand came away wet. Blood. Laurel was hurt. “Come on, Doc. We've got to go.” Rob picked up the gun and shells, then handed them to a startled Adams. “Here take these. I need to get some blankets and my medical bag. I'm also bringing Laurel. He's injured, but his sense of smell is working just fine. He found his way to my truck. Didn't you, boy?” Rob handed the blankets and kit to Adams who tossed them into the back seat where Rob soon had Laurel settled. He climbed in next to his dog. “Okay, let's go.” **** Grace carried a wildly struggling Mici back toward his SUV. “Stop it, bitch, or I'll drag you by your hair.” Thinking about all the delicious tortures he was going to put her through, he almost missed the fact that Brodie was gone. Dropping Mici onto the top of a flat grave marker, he stopped and stared at the empty spot. The spot where he had less than ten minutes ago left a dead man. “Shit. This just isn't my night. Now where in the hell did he wander off to?” Turning to look at Mici, he spat out, “It's all your fault, you stupid bitch. If you'd stayed put, I wouldn't have lost this guy. Well, it's obvious. I have to go find him and make sure he's dead this time. What in the fuck am I going to do with you?” Grace looked around. He didn't want to put her in the SUV, because, who knew, she just might be flexible enough to drive with her damn feet. If he knocked her out again, well, he didn't trust himself to hit her right now. He was so pissed he might start and never stop. That would spoil all his fun later. Where could he stash her? God, Dan, you're slipping. Oh boy, she was going to hate this. He laughed. “Hey Mici. Didn't Karen tell me once that you hated small dark spaces? Something about a phobia?” Grace smiled. The woman on the ground started to cry, puffing little gasps of breath around the gag which stretched her mouth. He knew she had to be having a hard time breathing. Tough. She'd quiet down soon enough once he had her all nice and tucked away. The wounded guy couldn't have gone far. Hell, that bullet had gone into the upper left quadrant of his lung. He should be dead or near death by now. Gave him lots of time to box up Mici and then hunt for the guy. Grace had planned all along to put the man called Brodie into the Grace Mausoleum. He knew there were empty crypts in there. He'd just stash Mici there for a while, find Brodie, and switch the two later.

Perfect. Swinging Mici up into his arms, he licked the tears from her face as he walked toward the woods where the Grace family buried their dead. Bracing Mici up against the door of the mausoleum, he fumbled with the lock. After it was open, he picked her back up and walked into the crypt using a pocket flashlight to view the room. Away from the wind and snow, it seemed almost warm and cozy in the burial vault. “Hey, we treat our dead pretty well, wouldn't you say, my lady? Let's see who will we put you next to? Why not Elinor? Since she's the one who got us into all this mess. I would put you next to Grandfather but he always did have an eye for the ladies-and you're all mine, aren't you? Maybe after this little lesson, you'll do what I say in the future.” Seeing the fear in Mici's eyes, he laughed and kissed her nose. “Buck up, my lady. It's only until I find Mr. Brodie and bring him back here to trade places with you. Fifteen minutes tops. I promise.” Grace shifted the lid and lifted Mici into the stone crypt. Placing her on her side, he removed the gag. “See. Now, you can breath. If you scream, I can't guarantee you'll have enough air. So, don't scream.” As he closed the crypt's stone lid, Mici cried out, “Please don't do this! Please.” “Too late, my lady. It's done.” The lid shifted into place with a solid thunk. **** When the lid settled into place, Mici died a little inside. Oh my god, oh my god. What if he doesn't come back? What if he comes back? Either way, she was dead. Mici struggled to turn on her back. Then using her feet and maneuvering in the tight quarters as best as she could, she tried to push the lid off the crypt. No movement. Panting, she tried again. Gasping, she realized it was no use. Hiccuping little sobs erupted from her. She had to stop crying. She had to conserve her air. She knew that Rob had to have found her message at least by seven-thirty. He would go to Karen's house and find her friend. If she was alive-she had to be alive-she would tell Rob that Dan had her. The hunt would be on. Rob wouldn't stop until he found her. She hugged that thought to her like a blanket. Rob would look for her until he found her. Now, just how in the hell is he going to find you in a crypt in Crown Hill Cemetery, Mici? How will he know that Dan hasn't taken you out of the city? No, she wouldn't think that way. He would find her. She had to think positively-or go crazy. Well, you'd better pray he finds you soon. If there is a God in heaven, he had better find you soon. Because if Dan comes back, you might just wish you were dead. Mumbling her mantra, “Breathe dammit,” Mici meditated on two things: Rob and staying sane until he found her. It was either that ... or scream. **** Rob held his wounded dog as Adams’ driver took the turn into Crown Hill on two wheels. Laurel's wound had been superficial and bled a lot, but he would be fine. Rob had fashioned a bandage for the dog from his medical supplies and a part of one of the blankets. The remainder of that blanket was now

wrapped around the dog trying to impart some strength-building warmth. If Mici were anywhere in this damn graveyard, Laurel could find her. No doubt about it. The driver cut the lights and stopped near the street. “Why are we stopping here?” Adams turned and looked over the seat. “We don't want Grace to know we're here. The first unit on the scene found his SUV ... empty. A short distance from there they found a dead man in his car with the phone line still open. Our 911 caller. Must have stumbled on the scene and gotten shot ... made it to his car to call for help. Damn lucky break.” “Yeah, damn lucky. Or, he might have been the ‘appointment’ Grace dragged Mici to. Makes no difference. Grace is still here somewhere-with Mici as his hostage. So, what do we do now?” “We wait. The officers have staked out the SUV. Found some laundry bags full of clothes and bondage gear. We think we now have our evidence for the torture killings. We'll nail the bastard. Hot pursuit, abandoned vehicle-either way we can use the evidence. We got him.” “Well, don't gloat yet, Adams. We have to find him first.” The driver's shoulder radio crackled. “Someone's coming from the woods. It might be him.” Rob opened his door and took his gun with him. Motioning with his hand for Laurel to stay, he slipped out the back of the car while Adams and his driver listened to the officers on the scene. Rob heard Adams call out in a harsh whisper, “Where in the hell are you going?” “To get my girl.” “Goddamn it, Craig, get back here. Leave this to the police.” Rob ignored Adams and moved silently from shadow to shadow up the hill. He stopped when he saw the SUV. Grace had almost made it to the vehicle when he stopped, then turned and ran back from where he had just come. Shots. Either Grace was shooting at the police, or they were shooting at him. Rob didn't care. He hadn't seen Mici, so that means the crazy bastard had left her somewhere. Adams had caught up to him about the time the shooting started. “Damn. Did you see where he went?” Rob nodded. “He went back into the woods. Tell your men to stop shooting. Let Laurel out, he'll find the bastard. One sniff of his truck and Laurel can track him.” Adams called the request down to his driver and moments later Rob and Adams heard the low woof of the dog as he greeted his master. Rob led the dog to the truck, let Laurel smell it, then ordered, “Find.” Laurel whoofed once and headed toward the area where Grace had last been seen. By that time, the canine unit, which had been called in when the first officers on the scene had assessed the situation, arrived. Those dogs also were given the scent and the deathly quiet of the graveyard was broken with the sounds of baying hounds.

**** Grace cursed his luck. Obviously, Brodie had a phone and managed to get to it. Karen had probably talked, also. Well, shit. Life as he knew it had just gone south. Hearing the barking from behind him, he realized that now they had dogs after him. What to do? He could go back to the crypt, get Mici and use her as a hostage, but that would take too much time. He needed to save his own hide and get the hell out of town. Circling back around and away from the Grace Mausoleum, he cut at an angle toward a small housing addition that bordered the southeast corner of the cemetery. Not exactly his sort of people, but hey, beggars can't be choosy. There would be some sort of transportation available. First, he had to get there and get over the large wrought iron fence. Keeping to the shadows of the crypts and grave stones, Grace moved swiftly. The sound of his feet shifting the leaves which covered the ground combined with his labored breathing masked the approach of the men and dog who had found his trail. Thus, he was startled to hear his name come out of the darkness behind him. “Dan Grace. Stop and give yourself up.” It was a cop. Turning slightly he took a shot toward the voice. **** Rob dropped behind a grave stone after the shot hit a tree next to him. Damn that was close. He pulled Laurel who growled softly with him. “Craig, you okay?” Adams’ harsh whisper came from behind a grave stone to the left of Rob. “Yeah.” “Do you know how to use that gun?” “Yeah.” “Good. I'm going to try to circle around to his left. I've already called for more backup, and they'll go toward the residential area he's heading for. The others are coming to back us up. We just need to keep him occupied for a while. You game?” “Yeah. Don't kill him. He's got to tell us where Mici is. She could be anywhere. This place is damn big.” “You got that right-over five hundred acres. I'll pass the word....Hey, Doc ... be careful.” “You, too.” Adams moved at a low crouch to the left of where the shot had come from. Moving the shells from the box to a front pocket of his ski jacket, Rob loaded the pistol, an Anaconda .44 Mag by Colt; it held six shots. He hoped he wouldn't have to use any, but was prepared to if the need arose. Whispering in Laurel's ear to stay, he moved to the right in what the military would call a pincer movement. Dan was about to get surrounded with all avenues of escape cut off. Rob only hoped that Dan would give up. He wasn't going to hold his breath on that wish. A shot rang out to his left. Was that Adams? Or was it Dan? Another shot buzzed close to his ear. Rob dropped to his knees and pulled off a shot in retaliation.

Worried that he might hit Adams in a crossfire, he called out, “Adams, you okay?” A shot sent marble chips flying from the gravestone near his head. Moving back to where he had left Laurel, he noticed a movement in the darkness to his right. Bracing his hand as he had been taught, he took aim and shot in front of the movement. A cry of pain came from the large dark shadow. Rob yelled, “Throw your gun out in front of you where I can see it, Dan. Now. You're surrounded.” Rob only hoped it was true. Damn, they had enough time to get here, hadn't they? Adams could be bleeding to death or, worse, already dead because of this bastard. “Is that you, Rob?” “Yeah, it's me. Throw out your gun, or I swear I'll take you down now.” “Pretty good shooting for a pathologist-and in the dark, too. Didn't know you had it in you. Always figured you for a momma's boy.” Rob pushed to the limits of his patience pulled off another shot in front of where he had placed the last one. “That one missed.” “I intended it to. The next one won't.” Rob keeping to the shadows and using the gravestones as barriers moved in a crouch closer to his quarry. He could see him now. Dan was leaning on a gravestone, holding his arm. Rob's need for information about Mici urged him to move forward and strangle the information out of the bastard, but something about Dan's posture bothered him. It was too calculated. Was he playing possum? Trying to sucker him into coming out in the open? He'd go with his gut. He wouldn't do Mici any good dead. Looking around he found a piece of marble broken off a grave marker. Picking it up he tossed it to the right of Dan. Dan took the bait. As Dan moved from his feigned pose and shot at the movement to his right, Rob came in from the left and tackled him, knocking the gun out of his hand. Dan fought back, kicking at Rob's genitals and missing by inches, instead getting him in the thigh. Knocked off of his prey, Rob got back up and went after Dan as he scrambled toward where his gun had fallen. Rob tackled him from behind just as Dan got his hand on the gun. Reaching for Dan's gun arm, Rob attempted to knock the gun loose. Sensing the knee aimed at his groin milliseconds before it reached its target, Rob rolled over saving his genitals but losing the upper position in the fight. Using the upper body strength that all pathologists developed after hundreds of autopsies, he held Dan off as he tried to shoot him. Using his lower body, Rob bucked and flipped Dan back under him, pinning Dan's arm with the gun between their chests. Rob felt the concussion as the shot went off. He pushed himself off Dan and checked his chest where he'd felt the pressure. His hand came back covered with blood-Dan's blood, not his. Glancing at Dan, even with only the faint glow from a security light over fifty feet away, Rob saw the

blood gushing out of the wound in the man's chest. Stripping off his ski jacket, he bundled it up and applied it to the gaping wound. Dan was as good as dead. The gun was a large caliber and at that range-well, the blood loss alone would kill him before they could even get him to a hospital to see what the internal damage looked like. Rob only hoped Dan could hear him, could still talk to tell where he had left Mici. And, if she were alive or not. “Dan, can you hear me? Where's Mici?” The dying man, grimaced, then laughed. “She's in ... a ... safe place.” “Come on Dan, don't go to meet your maker with her death on your plate. Tell me where she is.” Dan licked his lips then gasped. Eyes opening wide, he looked up. “Fuck you, Craig. She's a ... dead ... lawyer ... by now.” Then his eyes closed as he gasped his last breath. Rob laid Dan down and bowed his head. Tears streaming down his face-not for the man on the ground, but for the woman he had failed. “I heard what he said. She could still be alive. You gonna give up, or are you going to get that dog of yours and go find her, Doc?” Adams leaned against one of the other police officers. “You hurt?” “Nah, just a flesh wound.” Rob nodded. It was more than that, but the paramedics had arrived. Adams would be in good hands. Whistling for Laurel, he walked over to the other dog handlers. “I'm going to let Laurel try to find his mistress. Do you think your dogs can help, or not?” “We found a woman's shoe in the SUV? Is this your lady's?” One of the handlers asked. Rob, recognizing the shoe, nodded. Letting Laurel refresh his olfactory memory with Mici's scent, he ordered, “Go find, Mici, boy. Go!” Laurel whoofed and headed back toward the SUV. The other dogs picked up the scent also and bayed at the tops of their voices in hot pursuit of the much larger dog. Rob knew that Laurel was not technically a hunting dog, but he loved Mici. Rob was counting on that fact. Before the dogs got to the SUV they cut off to the left into the woods where Adams and Rob had first seen Dan. Rob felt confident that they were on the right path. Rob and the other dogs’ handlers followed. Other officers with portable generators and lights started to light up the area of woods that the dogs seemed to be targeting. “Hang on, baby,” whispered Rob. “I'm coming.” **** Mici's breaths came in gasps. She was light-headed. She couldn't think. Focusing, she mentally repeated her mantra. Saying it took too much effort now, too much of the precious oxygen left in the air-tight stone

crypt. Why did the Graces have to buy quality? Mici giggled. That wasn't funny. Must be the lack of oxygen. Multiplication tables. She would focus on that. As long as her brain worked, she was alive. Two times two equals four; two times three equals six; three times three equals ... what does it equal? Rob would know. Choking back a sob, she prayed that someone would come and let her out. Not her father. He never let her out. She wanted Rob. He was going to protect her from her father, he promised. He would hunt in every closet in Indianapolis to find her. No, Mici, you're in a coffin, buried alive, just like in those Poe stories the judge used to tell. Okay, so Rob has to look in every crypt in Indianapolis. He will. He promised. Plus you didn't get to jump his bones yet. Mici smiled at the image of jumping Rob's bones. The fantasy was wonderful. Wait a minute. Why were there dogs in her fantasy? “Mici, honey, hold on. Good boy, Laurel, move boy. Help me with this one. Laurel knows she's in there.” Mici whimpered and managed to croak out a weak, “Rob?” “Did you hear that? How in the hell did he move this thing by himself. Got it.” Blessed air. Light. Mici gasped in great breaths as Rob reached in and pulled her into his arms. Mici raised a trembling hand toward the face of the man she loved and touched the tears streaming down his cheeks. As an oxygen mask closed in over her nose and mouth, she managed to whisper, “I knew you'd find me.” Rob kissing the top of her head as she surrendered to sleep answered, “And I always will.” THE END Fatal Vision by Karen McCullough Copyright © 2001 Monette Michaels Previously published by Starlight Writers Publications/RFI. Cover Art by Ariana Overton Cover Art copyright © 2001 Published in Canada by LTDBooks, 200 North Service Road West, Unit 1, Suite 301, Oakville, ON L6M 2Y1 [www.ltdbooks.com] All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written consent of the publisher is an infringement of the copyright law. National Library of Canada Cataloguing in Publication Data Michaels, Monette, 1952-

Fatal vision [computer file] ISBN 1-55316-050-9 (electronic) ISBN 1-55316-952-2 (REB 1100&1200) I. Title. PS3613.I25F38 2001 813'.6 C2001-902074-0 ACKNOWLEDGMENTS Several of the settings in this book are combinations of places in Indiana. As far as I know, there is no replica of Notre Dame at the Paris Casino and Hotel in Las Vegas; I took the liberty of adding one for atmosphere. Thanks to my critique buddies, Cheryl and Skully, who were with me every step of the way on this one. Thanks to Alicia Rasley who taught the plotting class in which this book went from a germ of an idea to a full-fledged plot outline. Thanks to my editor, Marilyn Kapp, and all the other wonderful people at Starlight Writer Publications for liking my work enough to publish it. Most of all, thanks to my husband and son who put up with lots of fast food while I wrote this book. CHAPTER ONE "The Moon" Hidden enemies; unforeseen trials. Darien had hit the mother lode. Looking over at the body of the woman lying dead on the Chinese silk rug, he smiled. He had known she was rich, that's why he'd targeted her, but he hadn't realized she was stupid enough to leave this much wealth just lying around her townhouse. He turned back toward the safe, not so cleverly hidden under the hearthrug. Pulling his backpack closed, he loaded it with the bundles of cash and jewels he found. “Damn her.” His voice echoed loudly in the room. If only Wilhelmina Fairchild, “Willie” to her close acquaintances, had left well enough alone. She may have been stupid about the security for her valuables, but had been smart enough to have him checked out prior to marrying him. Tonight, she'd taunted him with everything she knew and then committed the cardinal sin she'd laughed at him. “You stupid little man. Did you think I would marry just anyone?” She looked him up and down like he was trash. “I have more respect for myself than that, and for the wealth, which my dear departed Edgar left me. The private detective I hired tells me you're a wanted criminal; well, I'll tell you something Darien Storm ... or should I say Bud Hoffman? Whatever your real name is you showed me a good time in bed and for that I have some affection for you so my parting gift to you is a head start. Go on, run, young man, and don't let the door hit you on that sweet little ass on the way out.” Then, she'd laughed. That's when he killed her. His gloved hands broke her neck before she'd stopped laughing and realized her danger. The shock in her pale blue eyes fixed for eternity. Darien moved over to the silly French Provincial desk. He needed to find the name of the private investigator she'd used. He had to cover his tracks; no use getting away with the old biddy's murder if her hired snoop was out there waiting with enough information to hang him. Did they still hang deserters and murderers in the Army? No matter. He didn't intend to get caught in order to find out. Ruffling through the drawers, he found a folder with his name on it. Yes, this was it. Walter Nichols,

Private Investigator. Darien turned toward Willie and threw her a kiss for being organized. Taking the file, he stuffed it in his backpack. Before he left the townhouse, he would just check out the bedroom again. His gut—no, some extra sense that had saved his butt too many times to be ignored told him to check her bedroom for something else. He'd recognize it when he saw it, just like he had known her secret hidey-hole under the hearth rug when he approached it. Walking through the bedroom, he responded to the urge to look in her bedside table. Yes, there it was. A journal. The pathetic old woman had kept a diary. He knew without looking he figured prominently in it, so he stashed it in the backpack. His sixth sense told him it was okay to leave now. All evidence pointing a finger at him was gone. He was going to get away with this crime just like all the others. He left the townhouse by the backdoor. He'd never used the front during the four-month long affair with Willie. She'd called him her “secret lover,” and that had been fine with him. He hadn't counted on her marrying him, so he had kept a low profile. Good thing. Now, the only person who could connect him was the private dick. Well, he knew how to take care of that. **** Morgan Smith ran to catch the subway. She reached the door and squeezed through just in time. The next train wouldn't come for twenty minutes and she was already later than usual. Someday, she would be her own boss instead of a clerk, then closing time would be closing time. As she moved toward a seat at the back of the car, Morgan stopped abruptly, hitting a wall of psychic energy of such power and darkness that she shivered in the overly warm subway car. Swaying, she let out a moan of distress and reached for a strap to keep from falling. “Here, miss,” a female voice called from behind her, “you look as if you need to sit down.” Morgan turned to a motherly woman who patted the seat beside her in invitation. Attempting a smile, Morgan sank into the proffered seat and whispered a “thank you” to the woman. Feeling the need to explain her weakness with something mundane, she offered, “I must be more tired than I thought.” The sympathetic woman nodded an acknowledgment and turned her attention back to the knitting in her lap. The niceties taken care of, Morgan closed her eyes and turned her mind inward, knowing from past experiences the nausea and dizziness would settle more quickly that way. Fighting the visions did no good, so she'd learned how to control them. Seeking the source of the psychic energy she had encountered, she centered herself and concentrated. Was it near or far? More importantly, was it a threat to her and everyone in this car? Morgan had learned at an early age that she was not like everyone else—that she had a connection to a different level of communication with the world around her. After much trial and error, she'd also learned not to ignore this extra sense. The times she had, had been disastrous. Breathing shallowly, she pulled images out of the maelstrom in her mind. The colors of this energy were dark. She knew the danger was near. Far would be shadowy, more grays and sepias, like old-fashioned tintypes. These colors were black, brown, purple ... and blood red. Murder. Pale blue eyes wide open in shock as hands closed around her neck. Death. Morgan let out a gasp.

The woman next to Morgan looked at her askance and inched away. Get a grip, Morgan. Before you scare the whole darn car. Morgan knew her inner voice was telling her the danger was not directed toward her or anyone near. If the voice switched from “you” to “us,” then Morgan could start to worry. Right now, she just needed to chill out. Morgan glanced over at the woman and gave her what she hoped was a reassuring smile. Cautiously, she began looking around the car seeking with all her God-given senses. The hands that choked the woman in her mind were here in this car. Now, all she had to do was find the man to whom they belonged. Yeah right, Morgan. Then what are you going to do call Ghostbusters? Seeing several young men in black leather, she opened her mind fully letting in all sorts of images— images that were common to most hormonal young men. Violence. Sex. But no death. As she moved her eyes and mind toward the other end of the car, she felt the wall of blackness and ice once again. He looked so normal—no, not normal—civilized, with his Italian silk sports coat and neatly combed blond hair. He could have been any businessman going home after a long day at work carrying his brown leather satchel. But, he wasn't. He was a murderer and Morgan was the only person in the world who knew. Well, what do you do now, Morgan? You've found him. How do you explain it to the police? You psyched him out? Read it in your tea leaves? Saw him in your crystal ball? Morgan shook her head. No matter how much ridicule she had withstood in the past, she knew she'd have to go to the police. If for no other reason than the dead woman was all alone and deserved better than rotting in her home like unwanted garbage. It could be days, Morgan sensed, before the victim would be found. Plus, she could never live with herself if she allowed a murderer to go free. So are you going to make a citizen's arrest? Tackle him and hold him for the police? No, much better to memorize his looks and watch where he gets off, then to go to the police. Staring at the killer, she imprinted his face on her mind. She would never forget him just as she would never forget the images flying through her mind. The house. The dead woman, Willie. Yes, her name was Willie Fairchild. The stolen money and jewelry in his backpack. The file. Nickles. More death not yet occurred. Yes, it was imperative to let the police know. Another life was in danger. Morgan shut her mind like a door slamming closed. He was looking at her. No, she breathed a sigh of relief, he was just scanning the car. She turned her head from his searching glances. She'd felt a weak probing from the man. He, too, had psi abilities, but not on the level of hers. Thank God. He couldn't read her. She was safe. **** Darien felt itchy. Damn subway cars—always hot and humid with the stench of a mass of humanity. Riding subways would be a thing of the past now. Once he eliminated the private detective, he'd head out west. Wide open spaces, clean air, few people. He had an idea for a new con. He was through making love to old ladies for their money. The Bible Belt had better get ready for him. A buzzing in his head distracted Darien from his plans. Looking around, he saw no insect -nothing that could be making the noise. Maybe a fluorescent light was going out. No. It was coming from someone in

the car. All he knew was that he was in danger and he needed to leave. Hearing the call for the next stop, Darien moved to the end of the car away from the source of the buzzing. Whatever it was, he wanted no part of it. He'd relied on his instincts all his life and they had never been wrong. He wasn't going to start ignoring them now. First things first, kill the private dick, then to the Bible Belt and salvation—his, definitely not theirs. Smiling, he exited the car. CHAPTER TWO "The High Priestess" Secret about to be revealed. Morgan's journey entailed changing trains and backtracking—the murderer had already been on the train when she'd gotten on—but even during the long ride back to the city she hadn't wavered. The images of the dead woman—Of Willie, she had a name dammit—were indelibly etched in her mind's eye. Morgan felt sad, grief-stricken, angry. The images would not go away; the sightless eyes, the lonely body compelled her to act. Once she'd reported the matter to the police, she would be excused. Scared, but determined, Morgan entered the precinct in Manhattan. She knew her life would change now. It always did once people realized she was different. No matter. What was a little disruption in her life compared to the fact that Willie didn't even have a life any longer? Willie didn't deserve to be murdered and left to rot. No one did. Glancing around the precinct lobby, Morgan almost turned and left. The mass of humanity with their problems and attendant strong emotions made her nauseous. Abruptly, she cut off her extra sense. Even then it took all her willpower to keep the whirlwind of feelings from overwhelming her. Morgan knew a debilitating headache was in her future if she didn't get away from the thieves, murderers, and victims milling around in the close quarters of the lobby. But, she knew she wouldn't, couldn't leave, the images of Willie wouldn't allow it. Approaching the officer on duty at the desk, she waited until the man finished talking on the phone. Breathe, Morgan, keep breathing. Center yourself and control the sensations. You can do it. “May I help you, miss?” The officer smiled as he raised his voice to speak over the din. “I have to report a murder.” “Murder, miss?” The officer was no longer smiling, his emotions adding to the beating her control was taking. Morgan nodded and waited. Was it her imagination? Or, did the crowd in the room suddenly quiet as if they knew that here was a drama greater than their own? “You'll need to see someone in Homicide. I'll get a detective out here.” “Fine. I'm not going anywhere.” Morgan sat down on a vacant bench by the water fountain. Massaging her temples, she wondered if it would be appropriate to ask for aspirin. It was going to be a long—and exhausting night. Watching the officer talk into the phone, she took a chance and opened her mind. Mistake, still too much emotion in the room. Plus, she didn't need her psi powers to know that he was wondering whether she was for real. Guess he didn't get too many women walking into his precinct calmly reporting a murder.

Well, after she told her story, he would be able to relate that he knew she was crazy when she first came in. All cops thought she was crazy—at first—then they believed. Cynical, suspicious, skeptics—the whole lot of them. Morgan guessed that's what made them good at their jobs. A few minutes later, Morgan observed the approach of an older black man wearing a suit. She saw him nod at the desk officer. This must be the homicide detective. “Miss, I'm Lieutenant Riggs. Come with me, please.” Riggs led Morgan to a small room off the lobby and shut the door. “I don't believe the Sergeant caught your name?” Blessed quiet. Morgan breathed a sigh of relief, then taking a deep breath spewed out what she had come to say. “That's okay, Lieutenant, I didn't give the Sergeant my name. I'm Morgan Smith and, yes, I've a murder to report. She's lying there all alone and something needs to be done. The murderer is getting away and he's not through killing yet.” Morgan not only saw, but sensed the Lieutenant's confusion.. Okay, Morgan, try to remain coherent. He's more likely to believe you that way. “Where did the murder take place?” A linear thinker, the Lieutenant. Or, more like a dog with a bone. “That's the problem. I know who was murdered, how she was murdered, and saw the man who did it, but I am not sure where the house is.” Struggling to maintain a calm she really didn't feel, Morgan looked Riggs in the eye and added. “You see, he left by the back door and I couldn't see the street or house number.” The Lieutenant stooped down in front of Morgan and gave her a look she'd seen before—suspicion. “Just when did this murder take place? Who was the victim? Where were you when the murder took place? And, where is the murderer now?” “Lieutenant, you aren't going to believe this...” That's it, Morgan, put ideas in his head. You want him to believe you. “...but I was at work in upper Manhattan when the murder occurred, the victim is a woman named Willie Fairchild. I saw the murder images when I came across the killer as he rode the subway away from the crime.” Shaking his head, the Lieutenant continued asking linear questions. Morgan knew he couldn't help it, but just once, she wished someone would believe her the first time she told them. “Miss Smith ... just how did you see the crime if you were at work and this Fairchild woman was in her home?” “I just told you I saw the images in my head. You see, I'm psychic, Lieutenant.” **** Listening to the stillness of the slumbering neighborhood, Darien came out of the protective shadows of the alley across the street from Nichols’ brownstone where he'd been waiting close to an hour. The streets were abandoned, dogs had stopped barking, and lights in the lower level of the residences were out—the neighborhood had settled in for the night. It was time to do his work. Darien crept to the back of the brownstone in which the detective had both his office and living quarters. Nichols must be fairly good at his job—he had a nice building in a nice upscale neighborhood to show for it. Plus, he'd traced Darien's identity. That made this guy damn good—and a danger to Darien's continued freedom and good health.

Too bad—Darien didn't mind killing, but destruction of good property always bothered him. Such a waste. Well, it was either the building and the snoop in it, or him. No contest there. Darien had noted the security alarm in his earlier walk-through of the area. No chance of getting inside without a lot of trouble, so he'd have to destroy the place from the outside. No time like the present. The private dick was home and all was quiet. Some quick stops at a hardware store, a gas station and a few dumpsters had provided him with the materials for enough Molotov cocktails to set two houses on fire. The gas line into the house was icing on the cake. Once this baby started to burn—well, nothing or no one would survive the flames. Nothing. Keeping an ear tuned for a change in the neighborhood's nocturnal rhythm, Darien hummed under his breath as he assembled the homemade bombs. He was still disturbed that someone on that subway had read him. In his life, there had only been one woman who had pegged him—a woman in a traveling circus —but she hadn't lived to tell. Yet, even she hadn't made him feel like ants were crawling down his spine. This one tonight had been different—more powerful. Whoever this person was—he or she was a great danger to him and he knew that he needed to get out of New York ... and fast. Sticking around and eliminating a psychic who could read him wasn't in his playbook. Plus, whoever it was, couldn't point out someone who wasn't there. Darien grinned. His weapon of destruction complete, Darien moved silently to the gas meter and loosened the pipes. The hiss and smell of gas coming from the ruptured joint signaled his success. Now, for the pyrotechnics. Jogging away from the escaping gas, Darien lobbed the first flaming cocktail at the gas meter and ran. The explosion at the back of the house shook the earth as he lit and lobbed another bomb at the side, another at the front, and finally one on the other side. Lights came on in the adjacent brownstones, dogs barked and voices shouted. Aware that his sole ownership of the night was about to end, he walked briskly away from the burning building and didn't stop until he was half a block away. Melding into the shadows of a doorway on the opposite side of the street, he watched the private dick's house explode several more times as the gas and other flammables within obeyed the laws of physics and sought maximum randomness. Damn, he loved entropy. In the distance, he heard the sirens. Too late. The fire was fully involved. Exit one private investigator and any evidence that might have pointed the finger at his connection with Willie Fairchild. **** “Listen, I am telling you. I ... am ... a ... psychic. I see images—especially ones that are connected to strong emotions, like anger. This man was very angry at Willie Fairchild and he strangled her. He was still mad on the subway and was planning on killing someone else. I can describe the killer and the inside of the house where the murdered woman is, but nothing else made any sense to me. Plus...” Morgan hesitated to complete her thoughts. The look on the Lieutenant's face was one with which she was highly familiar—patent disbelief. “Go on, Miss Smith, plus what?” Morgan really hated it when cops humored her, all the while thinking she was the nut of the month at Fanny May's. Go ahead, tell him what you felt. He can't think you're any crazier than he already does. Yeah right.

“Miss Smith, you were going to say?” The Lieutenant smiled at her, skepticism tinging every aspect of his demeanor. “He was psychic also.” The Lieutenant muttered an obscenity under his breath, which Morgan ignored as she continued, “I blocked my mind to his after that. I was afraid he would find and kill me, too.” He still doesn't believe. Next comes suspicion again. Morgan sat back, folded her arms across her chest and waited. She knew that the police had found Willie. Macabre excitement exuded from the young officer about to enter the room. He'd seen Willie— and she was seeing everything he'd just seen. The body. The carpet. The open floor in front of the hearth. The rifled desk. “Lieutenant, we found her.” Not waiting for instructions from his superior, the young officer blurted his news. “She's dead all right. Strangled and her neck was broken. Coroner can't say exactly when, but not more than a couple of hours. He'll know more later.” The enthused officer ran out of words and breath at the same time and turned to stare in fascination at the woman who had psyched out the murder. “What in the hell are you staring at, Sergeant?” The Lieutenant growled. The rookie cop stammered, “I've never been near a real psychic before, sir. She looks so normal.” “Oh, I doubt very much you're near one now ... more like a murderer.” The Lieutenant accused as he turned his frigid glance toward Morgan. Morgan returned his look calmly and remained silent. What could she say? They'd figure it out for themselves soon enough. There was no way she could have murdered that woman. No connection they could make. Plus, somewhere in New York the murderer was killing again and somehow that death would connect to this one, and, well, she was here. Alibied. “Nothing to say for yourself, Miss Smith?” Waves of barely controlled anger emanated from the homicide detective. Images and names of other female killers he'd known were flitting through his mind. Go ahead, Morgan, show off. At least, it will shut him up and he'll only hold you—can't arrest you if he doubts his own conclusion, now can he? Plus, he has no evidence. Taking a deep breath, Morgan stared Riggs right in the eye and stated dryly, “I am not like the other women whom you have arrested, Lieutenant Riggs. I am not Sally Blades, Peggy Liptack, or Ida Mae Brown. Those women killed during domestic disputes. I am Morgan Smith, psychic ... not murderer. And, Willie Fairchild's murder didn't involve a domestic dispute.” Smiling at the shock and dismay on the Lieutenant's face, she went on, “May I have a soft drink, please, while you wait on a preliminary report?” Morgan's peripheral vision registered the young officer rushing out of the room, whether to get her a drink or to tell his fellow officers about her newest trick, she didn't know. She was too busy watching for the Lieutenant's reaction. It was memorable: Morgan had never seen a black man go white before, but she did now. “How did you know what I was thinking?” Riggs gasped. Morgan watched as the Lieutenant attempted to regain control of his thoughts and the situation. “No, wait, what the fuck am I saying? You couldn't read my mind ... could you?” The Lieutenant looked to Morgan almost pleading for an answer he could live with.

Morgan shook her head, “Sorry, Riggs, I read your mind. You were angry and I read it—just like I did with the murderer.” Taking pity on the confused man, Morgan waited until he had his color and breathing under control, then quietly suggested, “You might want to get a sketch artist in here so I can get the image of this guy out of my head and onto paper. I got the impression that he wasn't going to stick around after the murders.” Riggs looked at Morgan, then at the fascinated young officer who had returned with a Pepsi in his hand. Riggs shook his head, said a particularly foul word, and stormed out of the room. Morgan uncrossed her arms, took a cleansing breath, and accepted the Pepsi from the young cop. Riggs would be back ... with an artist. He believed her now. Didn't want to, but he did. She knew it was already too late for the murderer's other victim—the images of death had been uppermost in the killer's mind—the past kill and the future kill. She also knew that she'd have to be the one to find the connection between the two. Maybe once she got the murderer's image out of her mind and Willie laid to rest—she could remember more about the file and the stolen items. She'd recall better when she wasn't so stressed. Well, no use forcing the images—they'd come back. They always did whether she wanted them to or not. CHAPTER THREE "Death" Major change in life; a clearing out to make way for something better. It had been a long night. Stepping out into the dawn light filtering its way among the buildings, Morgan took a deep breath of New York city air. The scent was a combination of coffee, breakfast specials, sewer gas, and exhaust fumes underscoring the fact that it was just another day for most of the city's inhabitants. Most of them that is except for Willie Fairchild and the other victim of her murderer. With her help, the police sketch artist created a drawing that accurately depicted the killer right down to his cold, fathomless eyes. A cursory check of the mug shot books turned up nothing. Calls to Morgan's boss and the transit authority had confirmed that Morgan was at work until 6 o'clock in the evening and had boarded the subway too far down the line to be in two places at the same time. Her fingerprints were nowhere in the apartment, and no connection could be made between her and the deceased Willie. She was off the hook. For now. Riggs, still shaken by her psychic foray into his mind, recovered enough to morph back into his logical-thinker role and reminded her to stay available. Hedging his bets, she thought. With a straight face, which she was sure had been painful for him to maintain, he'd asked her to call in case she had any more “visions” that might shed light on the identity of the killer or the other alleged victim. Feeling at loose ends and mentally wide awake, Morgan decided to bypass her apartment and go to work. Might as well. She was sure her employer would wonder what was going on and Morgan wanted to clear things up before rumor and innuendo could do any more damage. She grabbed a cappuccino mocha and a sweet-roll, using the caffeine and sugar to give her the physical energy to keep up with her active mind, and hopped the subway to go back to work. Her idea to head off trouble was too late. Morgan groaned when she saw the crowd with cameras and microphones standing outside her employer's exclusive little design studio. The shit had already hit the fan. God, she hated reporters. They were worse than cops. Not only were they skeptical, they were also intransigent—sinking their First Amendment claws into the object of their current obsession and hanging on until they had leeched the life right out of the victim. Morgan didn't intend to be easy prey.

Seeing that the alley and the side entrance were free of reporters, Morgan moved nonchalantly in that direction. She'd almost made it when one reporter saw her and gave the cry, “There she is!” With mere seconds to spare, Morgan made it through the security door. Leaning against its surface, vibrating with the blows and howls of the deprived pack, she took a deep calming breath, something she'd been doing a lot of lately, and looked up into the angry eyes of her employer, Justin St. Clair, decorator to the well-heeled of Manhattan. You're in deep shit now, Morgan. “Meez Smith.” Justin's French Canadian accent showed his extreme agitation. “Why are you here?” “Sorry, Mr. St. Clair. I didn't think the reporters would be ballsy enough to come to my place of employment. By the way, thanks for helping out last night with the police. I'm in the clear.” Morgan gave Justin a smile, held her breath and opened up her senses to his mood. Well, unemployment isn't too bad. You can always use a break. Plus, it's not like it hasn't happened before. Hell, admit it Morgan, you're tired, just plain tired—tired of losing jobs because of a sixth sense you didn't ask for. What did you expect? Justin St. Clair pursed his lips and sniffed. “Meez Smith, I regret that I must release you from your position here. We can not have a psychic working here—it will scare away the clientele.” Morgan noticed that St. Clair couldn't look her in the face when he fired her. Good, hope he stays awake nights feeling guilty. You're a victim here, Morgan, just like Willie. Still avoiding Morgan's eyes, Justin continued, “I, of course, will pay you a small severance and give you a reference, but you must leave today.” At the end of his little speech, he gave an abrupt nod of his head. Period, end of story, fine, that's all she wrote. Fully expecting his words of dismissal didn't lessen the blow. She was only fooling herself that this unemployment would be a short break. Even with a reference, Morgan doubted she'd get another decent job in New York that paid what she'd been making. She knew that she'd be tabloid fodder for as long as the rags’ editors thought she would sell papers. In her experience, psychics seeing murders ranked right up there with alien kidnappings and septuplets joined at the hips. It would be at least a month anyway. The only career options open to her now would be telling fortunes at Coney Island or in the Village. Turning away from her thoughts of impending career stasis, Morgan realized that Justin was looking at her now with what could only be classified as fascination. Yep, that was it; now, that he'd canned her ass, he had questions. People always had questions. “Justin?” He wasn't her boss any longer, so she didn't feel the need to pander to his male sense of superiority any longer. “You have a question?” “Ah, yes. I have never met a psychic before ... and ... um ... I was wondering can you tell the future? My future?” Justin's eyebrows lifted hopefully. Struggling for control, Morgan ground out, “Yeah, and a reading will cost you a hundred bucks. Or, maybe you'd just like me to tell you that I knew you were mad and were going to fire me before you said it. Just like I know that you also had a fight with Jean-Claude this morning about his overspending on your bedroom linens. Pratesi is a tad pricey, but nice.” “Damn.” Justin swearing was unheard of—at least in English. Morgan smiled. “Don't worry, Justin, I won't tell.” She only knew because his anger with Jean-Claude

had poured over into his anger at her. She tried really hard to keep her mind out of other people's lives. “I'd like my check and letter of reference today. And I'd also like to hide out here for awhile—just until the ravenous mob gets bored and leaves.” Red-faced, St. Clair nodded. “Oui, Meez Smith. That I can do, and I will even call Jean-Claude to come take you away in the delivery van so you can make an escape.” Justin turned to leave, then stopped and faced Morgan again. “I am very sorry, Morgan. But you understand, the Society ladies, they would not like the idea that the design assistant could read their minds. It is too ... well ... weird.” Taking pity on the man, Morgan smiled. “It's okay, Justin. It's not your fault, not mine either. It's just a big cosmic joke on me.” Shrugging she continued, “Hey, I'm used to it; this isn't the first time I've lost a job because of my powers.” Morgan noticed that Justin couldn't look her in the eyes again. **** Justin's significant other, Jean-Claude, displaying a flair for quick get-aways and subterfuge, not only delivered her to her apartment without a single reporter's intrusion but also managed to stop at the local grocery and pick up essentials so she could hold out for at least a week. Morgan declined Jean-Claude's gracious offer of coming back in a week to take her out again; she knew Justy would have a hissy fit if his precious Jean-Claude continued to run interference for her. Justy may have felt an immediate guilt over leaving her unemployed, but she was sure that time and distance would see him become his old self-centered king of the world again. Morgan put away the groceries, undressed, took a shower, then fell naked into bed. She knew that sleep would come instantly in spite of the loud noises outside her third floor window. The reporters had camped in the alley under her window. If they were still there later, she'd call Riggs. She imagined he'd have fun dispersing the crowd. On that thought, she slept. Her gray cat, Smoke, curled up at her head, his purring a natural white noise drowning out the shouts from the fourth estate. **** Morgan wasn't sure what woke her—dreams of the killer or the loud thud on her balcony—no matter, she was awake. Peering at her clock, she saw that she'd slept for six hours. Stretching, she got up to investigate the thud before she fixed herself and Smoke an early dinner. Parting the drapes, she found the cause of the thud. One of the enterprising reporters had thrown a copy of the evening edition of his paper, wrapped around a rock, onto her patio. Opening the doors, she reached out for the paper and again heard the hue and cry, “There she is. Morgan, Morgan. Five thousand dollars for your exclusive.” “The Star will give you ten thousand and a regular column.” “The Voice will top any offer.” She slammed the door shut, hoping the idiots would get the message. She wasn't interested. Not at any price. Not ever. Turning her back on the door and the hecklers gathered under it, she nuked a frozen tuna casserole and split it with Smoke. Only after they had eaten and the dishes were cleaned, did she open the paper. It was as she expected. And, then again, not. The headlines read: Psychic Assists Police in Socialite's Murder. She hadn't known Willie was a rich socialite. Not that it mattered. Dead was dead whether you were rich or poor. A side bar said Psychic

Morgan Smith Says ‘He will kill again.' Morgan knew the young cop was in big trouble; Riggs would never have given that info to the press. Somewhere in New York, the killer had left a second victim. Morgan knew it just as she knew her own name. Her dreams revolved around the second victim, but as often happened with her dreams, there was no obvious connection between the images. There would be, though, something would trigger a connecting synapse and voila, she would know. It would happen when it happened. The victim could have already been found; she would know the right one when she saw it. She'd emphasized that to Riggs—outside of the hearing of the eager rookie—Riggs had nodded his understanding. She had sensed his reluctant acceptance of her offer to continue to help, but knew he would update her on all new homicides as soon as he could. Any connection between the two homicides might lead to the killer's speedier apprehension. Riggs might be leery of her abilities, but he was willing to use them if they got the job done. Reading the rest of the paper, Morgan shook her head at the inflammatory language of the stories. How could these people live with themselves? Intruding into people's lives this way. Some intrepid reporter had written about Willie Fairchild's life and loves. Poor Willie, rich and alone. Poor Morgan could relate. She, too, was alone and rich, although she'd sworn never to touch the money left to her by her grandmother. She acknowledged that at this point in her life she just might have to use some of it to start fresh somewhere else. Poetic justice since her psi abilities probably came from said grandmother. Yep, the same intrepid reporter, probably an intern, had dug up the old stories on her, too. Fairchild Psychic—A Witch? Psychic Morgan Smith originally from Salem, Massachusetts is the heiress to the Cordelia Gray Smith fortune which includes holdings in lumber, minerals, and fishing. Both Cordelia and Morgan's psychic abilities were well known in the community famous for its witch trials. In fact, many locals labeled the Smith women witches. Morgan Smith was often consulted unofficially by local law enforcement agencies in cases of missing persons. The Police Chief of Salem and the County Sheriff both refused to be interviewed for this article. “I'll just bet they did,” muttered Morgan, the sound of her voice startling Smoke who lay on her lap helping her read the paper. Morgan knew both officers had loved seeing the back of her when she'd moved to New York. She'd embarrassed both of them numerous times. Just like Riggs, both men outwardly scoffed at her assistance, her powers. Yet, both took advantage of her help and insights and accepted credit for the successful resolution of the cases. Riggs would, too. It was the nature of the beast. Early on, Morgan had learned police “acceptance” of her powers was a guarded secret, okay within the confines of the station, but never acknowledged outside. Shaking her head, Morgan returned to the paper, skimming over the recitation of her former life. She'd lived it and revisiting did not appeal to her. Turning the pages to read more of Willie's life another headline buried on page seven caught her attention—Private Detective Nichols Killed in a Building Fire. Voila! Nichols. Nickles. Files. She had the identity of the second victim. Now all she had to do was

convince Riggs to find the connection. Ghost of a Chance Dee Lloyd Copyright © 2002 Dee Lloyd Cover Art copyright © 2001 Patricia Storms Published in Canada by LTDBooks, 200 North Service Road West, Unit 1, Suite 301, Oakville, ON L6M 2Y1 All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written consent of the publisher is an infringement of the copyright law. National Library of Canada Cataloguing in Publication Data Lloyd, Dee, 1932Ghost of a chance [computer file] I. Title. PS8573.L688G46 2001 C813'.54 C2001-903572-1 PR9199.3.L569G46 2001 Chapter One As his headlights sliced through the thick, dark night, Bret rammed the volume control higher. The driving beat of Shania Twain's defiant taunt rattled the windows of his pickup. The stimulus of loud music pounding on him was what he needed. Tonight's hospital visit with his father had left him totally drained. Will was not taking the prospect of a lengthy recuperation well. Forget about that! Give in to the beat! His broad palm smacking the steering wheel in time to the music felt good. Yeah, right Shania! Bret agreed. Not many things impressed him much either! He turned off the air conditioning and opened his window. Maybe the warm, moist Florida air flowing in and whipping around him would soothe some of the tension out of his muscles. The quiet blackness of the night and the aggressive musical therapy seemed to be doing the trick but Bret felt the back of his neck tighten again as he approached the abandoned construction site. Resolutely, he kept on thwacking the steering wheel in time to the music. Mind over matter. That's what he had to concentrate on. But it didn't work. And it hadn't for almost a week. The moment he hit the property line of the projected retirement community, the temperature in the cab plunged and, no matter what kind of music he was playing on the stereo, the wailing of a saxophone sliced through the air. Piercing and sad, it replaced every other sound. It silenced the rumble of the pickup's engine and Bret could swear that his own breathing was soundless. The saxophone sang alone ... and stopped when he reached the far property line. Once or twice, he thought he'd caught a glimpse of someone walking along the side of the road. A woman he thought. But that was only imagination. He'd allowed himself to be spooked by some kind of freaky radio waves that seemed indigenous to this spot.

Bret sped up. He shivered. The chill was deep and intense. It didn't dance on the skin like a cooling breeze but rather began at the marrow of his bones and radiated outwards. This short stretch of road always seemed endless, the piercing wail of the saxophone interminable. He had almost reached the end of the long curve in the road that edged the site when he saw her. This time she was right in the middle of the road—not twenty feet in front of his truck—a gleaming white figure in the headlight beams. In the split-second that he was able to focus on her, he thought he recognized that slender build and dark hair. Then he was too busy swerving onto the shoulder to avoid hitting her to get a really good look. But what on earth would Yvette be doing out here? The moment his wheels skidded and sank into the soft loamy shoulder of the road, Bret flung his door open and leapt out. Vaguely aware that the air was even colder outside the truck, he verified his first impression. It was Yvette, all right. Apparently, she had been in some kind of accident. That was definitely blood on her white jacket and she was missing one shoe. Even from a distance he could see scrapes on her bruised face. What the hell had happened to her? Her features were so battered that he could barely recognize the pretty Maid of Honor who had smiled at him last week at his cousin's wedding. In spite of her limp, Yvette was moving away very quickly down the highway. “Hey,” he yelled as he began to run after her. “Wait up.” She turned and looked at him over her shoulder without slowing down a bit. Her pale, serious face was streaked with blood and her dark hair seemed to be matted with it. The last time he had seen her, she had been witty and animated. Her face hadn't worn that gray, desperate look. She didn't seem to recognize him. Bret stopped, not wanting to frighten her further. Her movement ceased when his did. Her cold, blank stare conveyed nothing. “It's Bret,” he called. “I'm not going to hurt you, Yvette.” She shook her head slowly, then put her hand to her throat. “Danger,” she said in a hoarse whisper. “Please.” “Danger.” She put her hand on her throat and gave him an agonized look. “Please.” She worked her mouth as if she were trying to say more but could not make the sounds come out. Finally, she croaked, “Warn her.” The hoarse whisper reached him just before her spotlit figure in its stained and bloody suit vanished. “Wait.” The word was too late. The road, brightly lit by the headlights of Bret's pickup, was completely empty. When he climbed unsteadily back into the cab of the truck, he found it strangely quiet. Both the sexy country singer and the jazz saxophone were silent. Except for the insistent whispering of the breeze through the long needles of the lanky Australian pines by the side of the road, all he could hear was the pounding of his heart and the sharp intake of his own breath. He growled a disgusted epithet. His body might be almost healed but his nerves were sure shot to hell.

He dragged his fingers through the thatch of blond hair that was longer than it had ever been in his adult life. Well, he wasn't about to sit here on the weedy shoulder of a deserted road and allow his imagination to get the better of him. Lord, it was desolate! Where were the noisy, smelly semis he usually cursed? The road was always clogged with them, day and night. This emptiness wasn't natural. The bar and grill that Buzz had inherited from his uncle was somewhere around here. Buzz had gone on and on about his plans to make it into “the best damned bar in Florida” as soon as he could leave the service. Well, there would never be a better time for a stiff bourbon with an old buddy. Maybe that would get the icy chill out of his bones. Who'd believe that Bret, the dependable, unflappable anchor of Greco's special task force could be spooked like this? And by what? An attractive woman he'd conjured up who had suddenly vanished into the mist? He took a deep breath and turned the key in the ignition. Buzz's place in Pioneer Grove was about a quarter of an hour away. The pickup moved down the road like a dream. Thirteen minutes later, he was parked in the next to last parking space in the lot. He hadn't been out this way since his return but he'd heard that Pioneer Grove was no longer the little collection of down-at-the-heel buildings that he remembered. It had been razed and resurrected as an upscale retirement community. The results were impressive. He had expected Buzz to be running a casual blue-collar bar, not a sprawling glass and brick showplace like this. The property he'd inherited from his uncle was a lot more extensive than Buzz had let on. Adjacent to the restaurant, a prosperous-looking strip mall boasted some professional offices, a bank, a Salvatore's Salon, and a trendy coffee house. The restaurant seemed to be doing great business. Good for Buzz! Bret pushed open the heavy glass doors and stopped dead in his tracks. He really was losing his mind! Dominating the lobby was a six-foot-tall, glass-framed photograph of Yvette. But this was Yvette as he had never seen her. He figured she must have worn a wig and some strategic padding for this photo because, in it, her dark hair reached her waist and the plunging neckline of her blouse revealed a cleavage that had not been apparent in the bikini she'd worn at Kit's pool party. The flash across the picture announced, “Saturday nights in the piano bar, our own Emilienne Pelletier.” Bret swallowed hard. Pelletier was Yvette's surname. He hoped to hell she was alive and singing in that bar. But he doubted it.???? ??? Milly was not in a singing mood tonight. She was exhausted from lack of sleep and depressed by the black and bloody dreams that plagued her every night for almost a week. Spending her nights struggling with a faceless attacker and fighting for breath as his fingers squeezed the life out of her, was a lousy preparation for singing at the piano bar. Above all, she was desperately worried about her sister. She knew the dreams were somehow connected with Yvette. And Yvette had disappeared. However, in spite of the dreams, she was going to sing tonight. She owed it to Buzz's memory to keep up the Saturday night tradition that brought back their regular customers week after week. She checked her reflection in the mirror behind the bar and tucked the formfitting, sleeveless blouse with its plunging neckline into the waistband of her long black skirt and smoothed nonexistent wrinkles out of the silky fabric that skimmed her hips. This was the moment that Buzz always used to give her a gentle swat on her bottom. “Go get ’em, Honey.” She could hear Buzz's rough voice encouraging her as she made her way to the

piano bar. He had always understood the tug-of-war between her love of singing and her aversion to the spotlight. It wasn't stage fright. She would have been fine performing on the radio. But until she actually began singing to the audience, she was uncomfortable being stared at. Unfortunately, Buzz was gone. She sat down on the familiar piano bench. She had taken to wearing her long hair parted in the middle so that when she leaned forward to play the introductory notes to her song, the dark veil covered part of her face. In those brief moments before she became totally involved in telling the story of her song, she felt more secure with that silky moving curtain between her and her audience. Tonight, the bar was packed. Conversation and laughter filled the room. Quite a number of New York accents carried over the softer southern voices. That reassuring murmur of voices sparked the first stirring of excitement. The customers were involved in their conversations and she would have to work hard to entice their attention away. She enjoyed the challenge and the need to intensify her own emotions to reach them. These days, she felt truly alive only when she was making an audience yearn, or cry, or laugh. On impulse, her fingers began the driving rhythm of That Old Black Magic. The sexy old standard felt right tonight. She let the lyrics sweep her into a dark world of passion and surrender. Her husky voice began to work its own magic to seduce her audience. For these five minutes, she could feel sexy and powerful and involved in a fantasy world far different from her everyday life. She looked at faces around the room. Many of them familiar, most of them turned towards her. Few of her audience were young, but most were fiercely determined to deny that fact. The women's animated faces were artfully made up. Diamonds flashed on male and female fingers and earlobes. Heavy gold gleamed dully. Almost without exception, they were watching her now. Yes, she had them. Men and women alike were succumbing to her spell. The noise level had dropped to almost nothing. Any words that were spoken were soft, intimate. Milly felt a flash of envy for the lucky couples who were sharing that moment. Of course, there were always a few men who gazed at her with lust in their eyes, but that was not the kind of romantic spell she yearned for. For six years, she had been loved and truly cherished. That should be enough for anyone, but the little girl in her—the one who had loved fairy tales—wished for the Old Black Magic that she was singing about. Was it actually possible to be so possessed by a man that you were swept away into a swirling vortex of love? As if the black magic had conjured him up, a tall, fair-haired man appeared under one of the little recessed lights in the archway that separated the piano bar from the main restaurant. The spotlight turned his blond hair into a brilliant halo. He was well built and good-looking in a rather conventional way. His hair was thick, his features darkly tanned and regular. But it was the peculiar tension in the way he held his head that caught her attention. And he was staring at her. There was nothing romantic or even sexual in the way he was staring. He looked startled. He might even, for a split second, have looked afraid. He regained his composure quickly but his eyes did not swerve from her face. The intensity of his gaze was unsettling. Milly inclined her head and bent a little further over the piano so that her hair screened part of her face again. She decided it was time for a change of mood and launched into an upbeat medley of show tunes. At the end of the set, Milly left the stage quickly, needing to get away from those penetrating eyes. She smiled and waved at her regulars as she brushed past their tables but didn't stop to chat as she usually did.

“I'll be in my office for a few minutes,” she told Stu, who was polishing glasses behind the bar. “Call me if you get too busy out here.” She closed the office door behind her and, feeling a little silly, breathed a sigh of relief. What was the matter with her? Granted, those horrible nightly dreams were making her edgy, but why would she be concerned about one stranger staring at her? She should be used to that. There were always strangers out there on Saturday nights. It must be that he looked so out of place. Why was this blond Adonis in a bar out here, in the western part of Palm Beach County, instead of trolling for women in one of the martini bars in City Place or maybe the beachfront on Atlantic in Delray? She missed Buzz. She especially missed his solid, loving presence behind the bar when she sang. He used to tease her about having to beat the men off when she wore her “Temptation outfit.” She sighed again. Buzz used to love to remove those silky blouses ... But she mustn't go there. Buzz was gone. And Yvette was missing. “Milly,” Stu's rough voice came over the intercom. “I have a customer here who wants to talk to you.” It was unlike Stu to interrupt her break. “He asked for Buzz first,” he added. “Something about being in the service together.” It said a lot about the kind of man her husband had been that even two years after his death people wanted to pay their respects to his widow. Milly took a deep breath, raised her chin and brushed her hair over her shoulders so that it hung down her back. This was always hard. It came as no surprise that the man waiting at the bar was the tall, blond stranger. His startling blue eyes seemed to be searching her face. “You're really not Yvette! Your eyes are gray! No, they're green,” he announced with a relieved smile that lit up his face and made his blond good looks anything but conventional. “I saw ‘Emilienne Pelletier’ on the poster in the lobby but I thought maybe Yvette was using another name.” Hope flared. “You know Yvette?” she demanded. “Have you seen her? Do you know where she is?” An odd look crossed his face. He paused for a moment, then said, “I don't know where she is. I haven't talked with her since my cousin's wedding a couple of weeks ago.” She must have made some kind of signal that his mention of the wedding clicked with her. Bret raised a questioning eyebrow. “Oh, yes,” she said, “Yvette was maid of honor at Kit's wedding. You are one of the cousins...?” “Where are my manners? I'm Bret Thornton. When I saw you at the piano tonight, I thought for a moment you were Yvette.” He extended his hand and added, “You're Buzz's wife?” His warm hand engulfed hers in a firm handshake. In spite of his tanned beach boy good looks, his hard palm told her that he was no stranger to hard work. He did not relinquish her hand immediately and she was oddly reluctant to withdraw hers. “Yes, I'm Milly. I was married to Buzz,” she said quietly, “but he died almost two years ago.” “He died?” Bret placed his left hand over their joined hands and gave hers a sympathetic squeeze. She realized how long the contact had gone on and broke it.

“I can't believe it,” Bret was obviously shaken by the news. “I ran into Buzz when I was in town for the holidays two years ago. He seemed to be in good health and happier than I'd ever seen him.” “How did you know Buzz?” she asked. She couldn't remember Buzz ever mentioning Bret Thornton but the man did seem genuinely upset. At closer quarters she could see that Bret was older than she had first thought. Faint lines around his eyes and mouth showed that he was probably in his mid thirties. And she wondered how he got those odd scars on his neck and jaw. “We were in the service together.” Bret seemed about to say more but instead withdrew into silence. The closed look that came over his face reminded her of Buzz's reaction whenever the subject of his connection with that virtually unknown government agency came up. “Let me buy you a drink,” Milly offered. “Bourbon on the rocks,” was his terse reply as he nodded his acceptance. “If you don't mind talking about it, I'd like to know what happened to Buzz.” Milly made a quick decision. She rarely invited anyone into her office even on business but she wanted to talk to this man. His reaction to her resemblance to her twin sister had been strange to say the least. She needed to find out what he knew about Yvette. “Stu,” she said to the massive ex-fighter who was hovering a couple of feet away on the other side of the bar, “this is Bret. He was in the service with Buzz a few years back.” Stu offered a large scarred hand which Bret accepted. “Yeah?” Stu said, obviously waiting to hear more. “Stu was tending bar here when Buzz inherited the place ten years ago,” Milly said. “He's been the backbone of the place ever since. And a dear friend.” Stu's battered face melted into a smile at her words but his eyes on Bret remained cold and skeptical. “We'd like drinks in my office,” she told Stu. “Bourbon on the rocks and my usual.” She suspected that she would need the clear head that the club soda and lemon would allow. Buzz's scarred old walnut desk dominated the little office. It was a utilitarian room. The leather couch along one wall, an extra wooden captain's chair, and two filing cabinets filled almost every inch of floor space. She hadn't redecorated the room since it ceased to be Buzz's domain. He had loved those garish red tartan curtains and she hadn't had the heart to replace them. She was having second thoughts about inviting Bret in here. He exuded a disturbing amount of vitality. Perhaps it was just his size and height that were intimidating in these tight quarters. Even standing five foot seven inches herself, she felt dwarfed by him. She sat in the captain's chair and gestured towards the couch. She hoped that having him seated below her would give her the psychological advantage. “Do sit down,” she said. It took all Bret's self-control not to run from the room and from this all-too-appealing widow and apparition-look-alike. She was too graphic a reminder of the hallucinations he had come here to try to put out of his mind. He must focus on the differences between the twins. Milly and Yvette weren't identical twins. The eye color wasn't the only difference. Milly was a couple of inches shorter and a bit more generously endowed. Their personalities were certainly different. Yvette was talkative and

vivacious, while Milly appeared to be quietly serene. And, sexy. He couldn't leave out sexy after hearing her rendition of that steamy old torch song. “Emilienne Pelletier.” Bret rolled the words on his tongue. “The name confused me.” “I use my maiden name when I sing. That's what I'm known by. Besides,” her smile lit her whole face, “even Buzz felt that Emilienne Brzezynski would be a bit mind boggling on a poster.” A man could have a worse goal than earning Milly Brzezynski's smiles. His mind flashed back to grim, blood-smeared features that were the mirror image of Milly's. He forced himself to concentrate on the topic they were here to discuss. Buzz. His death. Death was not a pleasant subject but it was part of the real world. He assumed a relaxed pose on the leather couch. “So,” he began, “you were going to tell me about Buzz.” “Buzz was shot in an attempted robbery two years ago New Year's Eve. He didn't do what he'd always insisted I should do if someone tried to rob me at gunpoint.” There was still some anger there. “He did press the alarm button without the thieves noticing but he didn't go along with their demands. When they told him to open the till, he refused and pulled out the handgun that he kept under the bar instead. He wasn't fast enough.” Milly's words might be cut and dried but he could see that she did not utter them easily. Her shadowed gray-green eyes showed how much her loss still affected her. “I'm sorry. Buzz was a great guy. This doesn't seem right after all the tight spots he fought his way out of. He took me under his wing when I joined the agency,” Bret offered. “He saved my bacon more than once.” At that moment, a busty blond wearing a form-fitting tuxedo arrived with their drinks. Stu had added a bottle of bourbon to the tray. “Just leave the tray on the desk, Eva,” Milly told the woman. “Sure thing,” the waitress said, flashing a bright smile at Bret as she left the office. Milly handed him the glass, being careful that their fingers not touch. She didn't know why but she felt vaguely threatened by Bret Thornton. “To Buzz,” she said. Bret raised his glass, then drank deeply. “One of the good guys,” he said. “Did they ever catch the man who shot him?” “There were two of them. They were tried in Georgia where they were wanted for a couple of other robberies. They'll be old men before they ever get out of jail.” She made no attempt to keep the satisfaction out of her voice. “Tell me about Yvette. Were you expecting to see her here?” The words were casual but he sensed an urgency underlying them. “No,” Bret answered quickly. “The last time I saw her was last Sunday morning on my cousin Kit's boat. But I was below, working on the engine most of the time and didn't say more than a few words to her. I

haven't really spoken with her since the wedding.” “You're a mechanic? I thought Yvette said that you and your brother worked for some Trade Commission or other. She was bragging about being Maid of Honor with two good-looking and terribly distinguished Best Men.” Bret fingered the scar on his jaw. “I did. Bart still does. Right now, I'm doing some Security consulting. But I've always liked to tinker with engines. Kit asked me to do a tune-up that day. I was sorry not to have a chance to talk to Yvette on Sunday. We were thrown together a lot over the wedding and got along well.” He cleared his throat. “You must know Kit then.” “I met Kit and her husband years ago.” By her tone of voice, Bret gathered that the experience hadn't been totally pleasant. “She and Yvette roomed together in college.” “I didn't know Kit and Ronald had known each other that long,” Bret said, vainly for a topic of small talk. “I don't believe they did,” she said. Milly looked at him for a moment, apparently considering what she was going to say next. Bret had never had so much difficulty maintaining a conversation. “I won't keep you,” he said. However, he was reluctant to make the move to leave. It had been years since a woman had intrigued him as much as this one did. “I know you have another appearance at the piano in a few minutes. Thanks for the drink.” “It was my pleasure,” she said, beginning to rise from her chair. Her thickly lashed pale eyes were definitely anxious. He did not leave as he should have. He had no business here. Instead, he reached for her hand. Milly gave him a questioning look. “Warn her!” the hollow whisper echoed in his mind. “Of what?” he countered silently. His face must have shown his confusion and concern because Milly blinked back tears and blurted, “I haven't been able to reach Yvette since she left here Sunday morning.” Bret's years of masking his emotions in tense situations came to his aid here. He wanted to be open with her. But what could he say? He couldn't explain why he thought he'd seen Yvette on the road earlier. “I know she's been out of touch only six days,” she continued. “But it's not like her. Ever since Buzz was killed, she calls me two or three times a week. I'm really worried that something's happened to her.” Bret tried to think of something reassuring. “Maybe she decided to take off for a few days and forgot to tell you.” That was pretty lame. “Not likely. Yvette was headed back to her office after a two-week absence. Right after the wedding, she took our aunt for a five-day cruise out of Lauderdale. Believe me, that's as much holiday as Yvette can stand.” “I did get the impression that she loves her work.” Bret remembered the enthusiasm in Yvette's voice when she said that she and her partner were planning to hire on a junior when she got back to New

York. “She lives for it,” Milly agreed solemnly. “But she does fly down from New York for a day or two a couple of times a year to check on Aunt Florence ... and me.” Milly's voice caught. “She's a real mother hen.” “Firstborn twin, I guess,” Bret said. “I know the feeling.” Lord! Could he possibly sound more fatuous? He wondered how she would react to what he was really thinking. Well, Milly, I saw your sister walking down the highway a couple of hours ago. But I think she's dead. Why? Because her face was ashy gray, her clothes were covered in blood, and she vanished before my eyes after telling me to warn you. He would have to add that he was afraid that he had lost his grip on reality. She would give him no argument on that. “Yvette's partner expected her to be in the office on Monday morning for an important appointment.” Milly carried on. “I've called all her friends in New York. My aunt has called everyone she knows. No one seems to have any idea where Yvette could be.” “Did you talk to Kit? Yvette might have mentioned something to her.” “All Kit could tell me was that Yvette was staying overnight at the new airport hotel because she had a seat on the first flight out Monday morning. I checked with the airline. She wasn't on the morning flight.” “You've made a Missing Persons report to the police.” It wasn't a question. Milly's gray-green eyes were glistening with unshed tears. “Right after my aunt and I called everyone we could think of.” Bret was silent for a long moment. He didn't believe in ghosts. As a matter of fact, he didn't believe in much. But he knew with a leaden certainty that Milly would never see her sister alive again. And, although it defied all logic and all the rules of common sense, he had a sick feeling that Yvette's determined spirit wasn't going to let him opt out of Milly's doomed search for her. He nodded slowly. Like it or not, he was going to have to deal with this. “All right, Milly,” he said, draining the last drops of bourbon from his glass and getting to his feet, “This calls for concerted action and you can't do it alone. Here's the plan. I will make arrangements to meet with Kit and Ronald in the morning as early as we can. As far as we know, they were the last people that we know who talked to Yvette on Sunday. If we want to catch them before either of them takes off for the day, you'd better be ready to be picked up at eight.” “Why on earth should I?” He was glad to see defiant, angry sparks in her eyes. Indignation was much easier to deal with than incipient tears. “I simply asked you if you had any information about my sister. You didn't.” Her voice shook with anger. “Where I go from here is none of your business.” “You need my help,” he informed her firmly, somehow knowing that was the wrong thing to say. Emilienne Brzezynski would resent help. Where did he ever get the idea that she was the more serene of the twins? “Questioning people was part of my business for a long time, Milly. Kit might have information she doesn't know she has. She'll talk to me and tolerate more from me than she would from you or a policeman. Then, after we talk to her and Ronald, we'll see what we can learn at Yvette's hotel.”

Milly shot to her feet. “Thank you for your concern,” she bit out through her teeth. “But Yvette is my sister and this is my problem. I'll make my own inquiries. Please do not bother coming back in the morning.” “It's no trouble,” he assured her. Those fascinating eyes were flashing fire. “See you at eight!” To prevent himself from doing something really stupid like taking her into his arms and assuring her that everything would turn out all right if she would only trust him, Bret turned and made a fast but relatively dignified escape, swiftly closing the door behind him. He couldn't make out the words, but whatever she said to his disappearing back was loud enough to echo several times off the heavy oak door. For the first time that evening, he felt like smiling. Chapter Two Milly was still catching her breath when Eva burst in the door. “Are you all right?” she asked. “What did that guy do? I could hear you yelling at him all the way from the bar.” Milly rolled her eyes heavenwards and raised her arms in supplication to whatever gods protected unappreciated, intelligent females from domineering males. “God! I hate know-it-all men who don't ask how a woman intends to deal with a problem. Just assume they're the only ones who can figure it out. Then tell her what to do.” “So the hunk pushed the major button, did he?” Eva's broad smile didn't lessen Milly's annoyance. “Hey, send him my way. A guy that gorgeous can order me around all he likes.” Eva had worked for Buzz since the day he opened the piano bar. When Milly had arrived for the three-week singing contract that had turned into a permanent position, they had hit it off. Eva's easy-going personality was a nice balance for her own admittedly up-tight nature. Eva perched on the edge of the desk and leaned over to peer into Milly's face. Refusing to give in to her distance vision problems, Eva never wore her glasses when she was on duty in the bar. She insisted that she got much better tips without them. “You really are upset. Oh, Milly, there's no need to get frantic because some guy tries to boss you around. You're in charge. Just tell him to butt out.” Milly ignored Eva's suggestion. She had major complaints to air. “I don't know the man from Adam. He walks in here, says he knew Buzz in the service, has one short drink and then ... Tells me what WE are going to do. Tomorrow morning, he's coming to get me and we are going to find out what has happened to Yvette. Oh, yeah, he'll let me tag along while he traces her movements after she left here last Sunday. As if I hadn't done that already!” Milly took a deep breath and uneasily stated the truth of why she was upset. “I don't trust him, Eva. There's something strange about him. About the way he looks at me.” She thought she'd seen sympathy in Bret's blue eyes. Had she imagined the flash of guilt? He knew something. She was convinced of it. What was the real reason Bret Thornton was determined to accompany her on her search for her sister?

“Milly,” Eva said with a knowing smirk, “lots of guys look at you strangely. You have that effect on the male beast. How did he know Yvette was missing?” “I told him.” “You told him?” Eva grinned again and shook her head in disbelief. “And now you're insulted because he decided to give you a hand!” Milly was beginning to realize that she might have overreacted to Bret's authoritative manner. She was spared having to admit that to Eva, however, when Stu announced over the intercom that she had three minutes to get to the piano for the second set. As always, work was her salvation. She always enjoyed the second set. This late in the evening, the audience was loose and ready to enjoy the music. Their good humor was contagious. Milly sang mostly requests, old favorites that she could almost sing in her sleep. And there was no sign of Bret Thornton. By the time she stopped singing, it was well after midnight and she had worked out her bad temper. After the last customers finally left, she and Stu quickly ran through their daily closing routine. She cleared out the till, put the proceeds in the office safe and was ready to head out to her cottage by the time Stu had tidied behind his bar. The cleaners would arrive in the early morning to do the rest. As usual, Stu waited to get into his car until she was safely inside the bungalow behind The Grove that she and Buzz had shared. Hers was closest to the restaurant. The other two, Aunt Flo's and the little guest bungalow, were further back. When she flipped on the ceiling light in her kitchen, Stu tapped his horn and left. She went straight to bed, resigned to the fact that she would be spending a good part of Sunday with one of the most overbearing, maddening and challenging men she had ever met. She almost looked forward to it. His tall, muscular presence made her feel more alive than she'd felt in a long time. But she definitely wasn't looking for a man. She had decided that she had a better chance of finding out what had happened to Yvette with him along than on her own. Whether she liked it or not, Bret had an air of competence about him. But she couldn't figure out why he was so determined to help her find Yvette. Those intense blue eyes hid secrets. Thinking, wondering, even fantasizing a little about Bret Thornton, Milly didn't fall asleep for quite a while. Her heart pounding, Milly struggled towards consciousness. Hoarse screams and fast, loud saxophone music echoed in her ears. She knew the screams were coming from her own throat. It was hard to scream with those strong fingers pressing on her windpipe. The hard driving music pounded at her eardrums. With every ounce of her energy, she tried to push away the hands. Thumbs pressed harder on her throat. She fought for breath. Her vision was clouded with a red mist. She couldn't make out where she was or who was attacking her. A man's heavy body was holding her down. She could hear his rasping breath and his curses. The sharp, heavy scent of nervous perspiration and citrus cologne were the last things she was aware of as she broke out of the nightmare. Milly's flesh felt icy and she was shaking as she gasped in large gulps of warm night air. The dream had been so real that she ran her trembling fingertips over her throat, feeling for bruises. She and Yvette had always sensed when the other was sick or in trouble. And she was positive her twin was having more trouble right now than either of them had ever experienced. It was even possible that Yvette was dead. No. Milly wouldn't accept that. Surely, she would feel Yvette's total absence. She had the strong feeling that Yvette urgently needed her to do something to save her. But how could she do that

if she didn't know what her sister wanted her to do or where she was? “Oh, Yvette,” she whispered. “Please let me know. Are you still alive?” Without a definite sign, she wouldn't accept the answer that pounded in her every heartbeat. Last Sunday, when she had the dream for the first time, she awoke weeping and calling for Yvette. Every night since, she became more convinced that something dreadful had happened to her twin. More details in the nightmare were becoming clear but she still had no idea of the identity of the man who was choking her. Something about him, though, was vaguely familiar. Tonight was the first time she had smelled his cologne. That was something. She would recognize that scent. She must get up. A door slammed across the courtyard. Flo had probably heard her screams all the way from her cottage. Milly didn't want her aunt to find her curled up in bed, sobbing. The woman who had been a mother to her and Yvette for most of their lives was worried enough without that. Milly was on her way to the kitchen when Flo rushed into her cottage. “You okay?” “I'm fine, Flo. I'm sorry I woke you.” She was proud that there was no quaver in her voice. “I was just about to put on a pot of coffee.” “I had to get up to start the baking in a few minutes anyway. Why don't we go right over to the restaurant and make some coffee there?” Flo was obviously doing her best to sound bright and normal. “You had that dream again,” she said. Her normally lively gray eyes were bleak. Milly nodded and tried to keep her lip from trembling. “Still the same?” “I still couldn't tell where I was. Or who was attacking me.” Flo opened her arms wide and Milly went to them. Flo gave her a quick, fierce hug and then a hard swat on the bottom. “Well,” she said, gruffly, “there's no point in dwelling on it. Let's hit the kitchen. Might as well get a few minutes’ head start on the day.” Flo was an energetic, trim woman in her mid-fifties who usually looked and acted at least a decade younger. Soon after Milly and Buzz were married, Buzz convinced Flo to sell her restaurant in Niagara Falls and come to Florida to run the kitchen of The Grove for him. The arrangement had been ideal for all three of them. Buzz had his chef, Milly had her dear aunt Flo nearby and Flo had a brand new state of the art kitchen. This morning, however, she looked every one of her fifty-six years. This week had taken its toll on her, too. The two women had a fast cup of coffee then went about their regular morning routines. Soon, bread and rolls were rising in the warming ovens and Flo had the day's pastries ready for baking. About seven-thirty, Milly and Flo sat down with their toasted multigrain bagels and coffee and stared at each other across the table. “Well, what is it that you are trying to decide whether or not to tell me?” Flo opened the conversation as she spread cream cheese on her bagel.

Why did she ever think she could keep anything from Flo? “You remember Yvette telling us about the gorgeous twin best men?” “Kit's cousins,” Flo acknowledged, taking a bite of her bagel. “Well, one of them, Bret, turned up here last night. Apparently he had served with Buzz and dropped in to see him. He hadn't heard what happened.” “Oh, ma petite!” Flo's pale eyes filled with understanding. “That is always so hard for you.” The two women were silent for a moment. “For a minute,” Milly said, “he thought I was Yvette. When he discovered I wasn't, he seemed almost relieved. His reaction was really odd.” Flo shrugged. “The state you are in about Yvette, I imagine he thought your reaction to being mistaken for her was a little odd, too.” “Could be.” “I dropped by the piano bar last night for a nightcap and to hear you sing. Eva was amused about your having a roaring head to head with a gorgeous man last night. What did he do? Ask you for a date?” Milly caught the sarcasm. Flo never missed a chance to insist that she get on with her life. “No.” Today's mission was not a date. “The minute he found out Yvette was missing, he announced that he was going to find her. He's being nice enough to take me with him to trace her movements. He didn't ask if I wanted his company. Or if I needed it.” “Are you going to accept his help?” “Bret Thornton is a steam roller. He said he'd be here at eight o'clock this morning and didn't give me time to argue. I planned to tell him where to go when he got here. But I may not, now that I've had time to think about it.” “You can't do everything alone.” “I haven't been alone,” Milly snapped. “You and I both called everyone we knew.” “We didn't get one lead about where she might be,” Flo stated. Milly sighed. “I know we didn't. Much as I hate to admit it, Bret can probably get more information out of his cousin and Ronald than I can. He saw Yvette with them on Sunday.” She stared into her coffee cup. “I guess I have to face it. I'm going to spend the day being ordered around.” “Wanting to run the show isn't evil, Milly. You loved Buzz and he sure liked to issue orders.” “There's no comparison. Buzz always asked my opinion about what we were going to do.” “And you always chose what he wanted.” Flo shrugged. “Let's see what this Bret is like to work with.” Well, Flo was right about one thing. Buzz had always been first in the chain of command. Of course, Buzz had been twelve years older than she was. He'd lived all over the world, known all kinds of people

and was the most trustworthy human being she had ever met. He had every right to expect her to rely on his judgment. Nevertheless, two years of widowhood had taught Milly to relish being in charge of her own life. She and Flo had always given each other total support and plenty of personal space. All the same, she hoped that Flo would find something really offensive about Bret Thornton. His tendency to take charge was annoying. She wanted to think it stemmed from conceit. A niggling little voice whispered that it could just as easily be concern or a genuine desire to help her. No. There was something else. She couldn't escape the feeling that Bret somehow felt guilty about something that had to do with Yvette. Could it be as simple as a brief fling over the weekend? In spite of Yvette's blithe comment that she hadn't met anyone who set off sparks at the wedding, Milly wasn't sure that her twin hadn't simply wanted to keep her feelings private for a while. What had Yvette really thought about Bret? She and her sister weren't usually attracted to the same men. What was she thinking? She wasn't at all attracted to Bret. He was too ... self-assured. At this moment, he was also standing in the doorway to the kitchen. Wearing cut-off jeans that were softened and faded by many washings, a blue T-shirt the color of his eyes, with his feet bare in once-white deck shoes, she had to admit he looked even better than he had last night. “So, there you are,” he said, looking around him with interest. “Good morning. Smells wonderful in here.” “It's supposed to,” Milly bit out, getting up to greet him. “It's a restaurant kitchen.” Bret moved past her to the table where Flo was sitting. “And this must be the amazing Flo. Yvette told me a lot about you.” Flo took his hand. “Well, all she said about you was that you and your twin were the best looking best men she'd ever seen. Identical, too.” Bret fingered the jagged scar on his neck. “Easy to tell us apart these days,” he said. “Must have been a terrible accident,” Flo prodded. “Work-related.” As Bret was obviously not going to go into any more detail, Milly stepped in. “Would you like some breakfast?” “Thanks, but I had something before I left home.” “A cup of coffee, at least,” Flo insisted. “Thanks, but I really would like to get on our way.” He turned to Milly almost apologetically. “I know I'm a bit early, Milly, but I told Kit we'd try to meet her at the boat between nine and nine-thirty. She and Ronald are planning to do a little deep-sea fishing today.” “Yvette mentioned they cut their honeymoon short because your father had a coronary. How is he?” Flo asked. “His condition apparently is stable enough that his doctors decided to move him out of the Intensive Care Unit yesterday. Kit thought it was safe to spend the day with her new husband and wait until this evening to visit him.”

“I appreciate her putting herself out to talk to me,” Milly said. She wasn't as eager to see Kit's new husband. “Kit's concerned about Yvette, too. Before we go,” he added, “do you mind if I use your phone to check on my dad?” Milly gestured to the little telephone desk in the corner of the kitchen. He was put through to his father's private nurse who informed him that Will was improving rapidly and getting more testy by the moment. Bret asked her to report that he wouldn't be in to see him until late that afternoon. About twenty minutes later, they were in the midst of morning traffic moving steadily towards that stretch of road that Bret was learning to dread. “Could we put on some music?” Milly asked. He suspected that she was feeling a little awkward about the way she had shouted at him last night. He wished he didn't have to risk turning the stereo on. He had no idea whether having it on was essential to making the ghostly saxophone's riff blast through the car. Unfortunately, he couldn't think of a logical reason to refuse. “Why not? Play whatever you like,” he said indicating the storage bin built into the leather dash of his dad's Jaguar. Milly started to sort through the CDs, then turned to look at him quizzically. “This is a wild collection. There's everything here from classical to hard rock. Did you choose it all?” He had to smile at her amazement. He wondered what kind of tastes she expected him to have. For that matter, aside from torch songs like the ones he heard her sing last night, what kind of music did she listen to? “All mine,” he admitted. When she popped a CD into the player and the swelling strains of a Beethoven symphony filled the car, it was his turn to be surprised. “It's a Pastorale morning,” she said with a contented sigh. She was right. In the brilliant morning sunshine, even the scrub palms and Australian pines dotted amongst the sparse vegetation along the roadside were attractive. The countryside was anything but lush but the browns and greens were a soothing contrast to the reflected light that bounced off the metal and glass of the vehicles around them. Bret found it hard to believe that his weird evening experiences had ever happened. The resemblance of the vital dark-haired woman who was sitting beside him to the ghostly figure he'd seen on the road was, however, still unsettling. Milly's long dark hair was bound in a long, thick French braid. She wore neat, relatively modest navy shorts that still displayed a tempting length of gorgeous leg and a crisp, sleeveless, white cotton top. Even playing down her sensuality like this, she was every bit as sexy as she had been in the piano lounge last night. But, her every movement reminded him of her sister. When he looked at Milly, Yvette's image was there in the background; either laughing and dancing as she'd been at the reception or in whatever dismal form she'd been in early last night. Why had Yvette chosen him to warn her sister? Even though Kit had

thrown them together every chance she got, he had never known Yvette that well. True, she had mentioned a twin sister in their brief conversations, but neither of them had any reason to expect he would ever meet Milly. They were half way around the curve of the road that skirted the construction site before the saxophone slashed through the symphonic music. It lasted five or six seconds; then, at the southern boundary, it was gone. “What was that?” Milly's face had gone pale. “Where did that come from?” “Some kind of freaky radio waves I think,” Bret replied in a matter-of-fact voice. He wasn't about to admit that it was part of his recent hallucinations. “That's happened here before.” He glanced over at her. “Hey, are you all right?” Milly was wide-eyed and looked absolutely terrified. “You're trembling.” Bret pulled off the road and reached for her. She lunged into his arms. He was surprised at how natural it felt to be holding and trying to comfort her. She pulled away too soon. “I'm sorry,” she said. Her voice was shaky and she couldn't seem to look him in the eye. “I feel so foolish. But that tenor sax riff. I've heard it before.” “Here?” Bret asked. He immediately felt guilty at the surge of relief that someone else shared this weird experience. She shook her head. “In my dreams,” she told him. She shrank back against the passenger door. “Every night.” “Can you talk about it?” To Milly's own surprise, the hazy, dreadful details of her nightly dreams began to pour out of her. “The saxophone is playing. Someone ... a man, is holding me down and choking me. He's on top of me. So heavy. I can't see his face.” Bret slid across the seat until he was right beside her. “I don't know who it is,” she couldn't keep the sob out of her voice. Bret opened his arms and she snuggled against his chest again. “You don't have to talk about it, if you don't want to,” he said. One strong arm held her close and the other gently stroked her back. “I think I need to,” she said. With her cheek against his warm chest, she could handle this. “It's always dark. Pitch dark. I don't know where I am. I fight him but he's too powerful. He hits me across the face. Then he starts to choke me. No matter how hard I struggle, I can't get his hands off my throat. The pressure gets stronger and stronger. I can't breathe at all and everything goes black. And that saxophone keeps on screaming.”

She was on the verge of doing some screaming herself but, somehow, telling Bret slackened the nightmare's grip on her. She pulled back far enough to look at him. His blue gaze was fixed on her. She could see her own horror reflected in his eyes. “And you endure that every time you fall asleep?” he whispered. Once again, she found herself held tightly for a brief moment in Bret's muscular arms. It felt much too good. She made herself pull a little away from him. “How did that music get on your stereo? It cut right through the Beethoven.” “I wish I knew.” Bret still had one arm loosely around her shoulders but his fingers stopped stroking her upper arm. “It does that almost every time I drive by here. And it doesn't matter if I'm driving the pickup or one of the cars.” For a moment, she thought he was going to say something more but, instead, that closed, almost guilty look came over his face. What was he hiding? He couldn't possibly be the man who attacked her in her nightmare. Nothing about him was right for that role. He was strong enough but much too tall. Finally, he spoke again. “You probably don't feel up to talking to strangers now. Ronald and Kit might be more than you want to cope with this morning.” Milly noted that he didn't seem to consider himself a stranger. Oddly enough, she felt the same way. “I can talk to them and follow up any leads I get. That would probably be best.” He apparently had come to another decision about what she was to do. “I'll take you home and call you tonight to let you know anything I find out.” That snapped her out of her self-pity. “Not on your life,” she said, sitting up and straightening her clothes. “Nothing has changed. I'm going with you.” Without a word of argument, Bret turned the key in the ignition and eased the Jag back onto the road. “Kit said she'd have The Sprite at my dad's dock by the time we get there. It's in West Palm. That's closer for us than her place over in South Palm Beach and they were stopping by to pick up a picnic lunch before they headed out to sea anyway.” His voice was brisk. It was as if the last few minutes had never happened. That was fine with her. She didn't want to think about the wild music and Bret's connection with it either. “Kit couldn't tell me anything about where Yvette might have gone when I talked to her last Monday,” Milly began, “I knew she had called Yvette at my place on Friday to ask her to put off her flight back to New York for a day or so.” “Did Yvette tell you why?” “All she said was that Kit wanted her to draw up some papers for her and that she wanted it done in a hurry. Of course, she wouldn't talk about a client's business but I could tell she was angry. Yvette hates to change her plans.” “The rush doesn't mean the papers were important. Kit's always in a hurry,” Bret told her. His fond smile told her how he felt about his cousin. “Let's go over any details you know about Yvette's movements on

Sunday.” “She left my place on The Grove property first thing Sunday morning. She canceled her Saturday flight and was extremely annoyed when she discovered that every seat was booked on the Sunday evening flights. She had an important meeting Monday morning. Having to buy a First Class seat to get on the first flight out Monday morning didn't help her mood. Then she had to spend more money for an expensive room at one of the airport hotels Sunday night to take a pre-dawn shuttle to the airport. Yvette isn't cheap exactly but she hates ‘paying for unnecessary frills.'” Milly's expressive hands flew even more than usual as she unconsciously imitated her sister's speaking style. Then she swallowed hard. “I called the hotel. She made it that far. But she never checked out. And she didn't make the flight. That's all I know.” “Then her luggage is still at the hotel?” “I didn't think to ask.” “We'll pay them a visit after we see Kit.” Milly had lived in the area for almost six years now but she had never been in the elegant area of West Palm Beach that Bret drove through this morning. Some of the homes in this little tucked away section, close to the Lake Worth border, wouldn't have been out of place in South Palm Beach. All she could see through the formidable gates and walls around the mansions they guarded was the occasional glimpse of carved stone, molded concrete or vast sheets of glass. Bits of bright tiled roof peeked through the foliage of tall shade trees. She found everything expensively lush and green and a little intimidating. Yvette had mentioned that Kit had inherited a major trust fund from her mother and that when her father died, she'd been left extremely wealthy. But it was Bret's family home they were headed towards. Had he, too, been brought up in this kind of neighborhood? It was sure a far cry from Niagara Falls. Bret wheeled off onto a long curving driveway through elegantly landscaped grounds to a large, white, colonial style building that could have graced the grounds of Tara. He brought the car to a stop at a side entrance. “Excuse me a minute,” Bret said, as he slid out of the car. “I just want to pick up a hamper lunch from Anna.” Anna? She should have known there would be a woman in his life. “Will's housekeeper,” Bret explained over his shoulder. Milly’ looked away from him at the expanse of greenery. A couple of hundred feet down the way, she could see a medium-sized bungalow with white siding and a red tiled roof. Beyond it, she caught the glisten of the blue-green waters of the Intracoastal Waterway. “On second thought,” his voice came over her shoulder as he opened the passenger door. “Why don't you come in and meet her? She's going to pester me until I explain who you are anyway.” He extended his hand to assist her out of the low-slung car. She felt like Cinderella for a moment before she remembered that she had a real and serious mission here. This was not about her. She needed to find out every tiny bit of information that anyone in this elegant place had about Yvette's recent activities. A tall, comfortably built woman with short, faded blond hair appeared in the doorway. Her face was wreathed in smiles and she was bearing a large wicker basket on one arm.

“So you finally made it, boy!” she said. “And who is this? Your lady at last?” Bret shook his head and laughed. “Anna. Behave yourself. This is Milly Brzezynski. She is a friend and is not here to be harassed.” “I am not going to harass anyone. It's about time you brought your lovely lady to meet me. The insulated coolers for Kit are in the hallway. I will talk to Milly while you get them.” Bret shrugged and actually disappeared into the house. Milly felt like calling him back. She didn't belong here. “Bret says that you don't have time to visit but...” Anna made a kind of dismissive but affectionate noise. “You will have some iced tea with me.” Milly smiled. Anna's authoritative manner reminded her so much of Bret. Had this woman had something to do with his upbringing? “Oh, no, you don't, my sweet!” Bret put down the two coolers he was carrying and gave Anna a hug and a solid kiss on the cheek. “Turn my back for a minute and you countermand my orders. Who's the boss here?” Anna gave Milly a wink. “That doesn't dignify an answer,” she retorted with a straight face. “I'm afraid Milly and I have important business, Anna. Kit should be waiting for us at the dock. I'll bring Milly back another time to visit with you. Kit says thanks for making the brunch that Kit wanted,” he said, picking up the two coolers. “Will you get the basket, Milly?” he said over his shoulder. Milly shot an annoyed glare at him but he was facing the other way. “Aye, aye!” she said as she followed him out to the car. He was single-minded and bossy but she had to be honest. He was very easy to talk to and had taken just the right tone about her nightmare. She dismissed his strange tie-in with the frightening music. Bret certainly seemed to understand her horror when she had awakened calling Yvette's name. She guessed it was being a twin. Then too, it was impossible to ignore that he was tall, broad-shouldered, and did more for a pair of denim cut-offs than any other man she could think of. If she was going to pad along behind him like an obedient little serving maid, she thought with an appreciative grin, she might as well enjoy the view. As they continued down the paved drive to the dock, Bret pointed out the one-story white house with the red roof that she had noticed earlier. “That's my place,” he said. “The caretaker used to live there but when he died, Will hired a property maintenance company. So the house was free for me when I moved back last summer.” The house looked more suited to a small family than a bachelor, the U-shaped building surrounding a large patio and swimming pool that should have children splashing in it. Two good-sized yachts were tied up at a long concrete dock. “The smaller boat is Bart's and mine. Actually, Bart's the one who has always been crazy about boats but he's trying to turn me into a yachtsman,” Bret told her, indicating a sleek, forty foot, gleaming white fiberglass boat with a royal blue tarp shading the top deck.

He hoped that Bart would surface soon from that mysterious mission he was involved in. He had a bad feeling about that. He dragged his thoughts back to the boat. “We named it The Two. Sounded less cutesy than Twins. I'll give you the tour if we have time.” He returned the wave of the blond woman on the deck of the larger, more traditionally shaped yacht. “And that is The Sprite, Kit's boat.” Chapter Three As Milly and Bret left the car and started up to the dock, Kit hurried to the railing and called out to them. The moment they came on board, she hugged Bret and kissed him lightly on the lips. “Is Uncle Will any better this morning?” she asked. “The nurse tells me he's so cantankerous that he must be improving,” Bret told her. Milly had forgotten how tiny Kit was. She looked like a child in Bret's embrace. This morning she was wearing her shoulder-length platinum blond hair in a ponytail and was the picture of designer casual in white shorts and a golden sunburst tank top. And she hadn't added one ounce of fat to her five-foot-nothing frame. Milly resisted the urge to tug her shorts down farther over her not exactly model-thin thighs. Milly looked around her at The Sprite. Over the years, Yvette had regaled her with stories about the long sun-filled weeks that she and Kit had spent together on this boat, cruising the Bahamas and the Caribbean Islands. It was truly lovely. Sixty feet of gleaming white hull with glowing wooden railings and decks. These people did live in a different world. Milly shifted her attention to the man who had once been so important to her. Ronald made no move to greet her. In fact, he didn't even look at her. But she looked straight at him. And felt nothing! Not one nostalgic twinge. Even though the pounds he had put on looked good on him and he didn't seem to have lost any of his dark hair, somehow, Ronald just wasn't the imposing figure that she remembered. What had seemed sophisticated to her ten years ago now seemed pretentious. That heavy gold pinkie ring whose huge diamond was gripped in the fangs of an elaborately carved cobra looked ridiculous with his casual denim rip-offs. The snakehead setting that held the diamond in its fangs was bizarre. Ronald was shorter, less vital in her present view. Perhaps Bret's presence diminished him. Bret's firm hand at the back of her waist urged her forward. “Ronald and Kit, you both know Milly,” he said. Ronald cast a practiced smile just past her right ear. “I suspect we must have met when your sister and I were in law school together,” he drawled. “So, hello again, Milly.” He might not be as dynamic as he had been when he swept her off her feet but he seemed to be every bit as devious. Strange that he was so determined that Kit remain ignorant of their past relationship. She couldn't see any reason why Kit should care about a brief affair he'd had ten years ago. “Sorry, Ronald,” she said, “I probably should remember you.” She shook her head, then beamed the most disarming smile she could manage at him before she turned to Kit. “Of course, I remember Kit, though.” “Tell me, Milly,” Kit asked, “how long has it been since we've actually seen each other?”

Kit's pale blue eyes were shrewd above her smiling lips. Milly suspected she hadn't been taken in by the phony by-play. “Yvette's law school graduation. I guess that's about six years.” “Have you heard from her?” The anxiety in Kit's voice dispelled what little hope Milly held. “Not a word. Not since she left my place last Sunday morning.” Kit, impulsively, wrapped her arms around her and gave her a quick hug. “Come on. We don't have to stand here in the sun.” She led them to some deckchairs in the shade of a large striped awning that had been opened over the aft deck. “Where do you want this stuff?” Bret indicated the containers that Anna had sent. “Ronald, would you help Bret put the supplies in the galley?” She turned back to Milly. “Anna sent some bits and pieces that could serve for a brunch for all of us and supper for Ronald and me. I don't know what any of us would do without that woman.” “I only met her briefly,” Milly said. “But Bret seems very fond of her.” “She's been with the family forever. She was their housekeeper in Colorado before their mother left them. I spent a few skiing holidays with them when I was a kid.” Bret and Ronald emerged at that moment bearing four tall sweating glasses. “I made an executive decision and brought iced tea,” Ronald said, bending over and brushing a kiss on Kit's lips as he handed her a glass. Kit's adoring smile gave Milly a twinge of apprehension. Perhaps Ronald had matured and was more capable of caring for someone than he'd been when she knew him. He'd put on a good show then, too. Of course, she'd been young and inexperienced and had probably read too much into his declarations of love. “I've called Yvette's office several times and no one there has heard from her. Marie ... she's Yvette's law partner,” Kit explained for Bret's benefit. “Anyway, Marie is beside herself. She even asked me if Yvette had fallen for some man at the wedding and taken off with him. She knew it was a long shot but she'd explored every other possibility she could think of.” “I don't suppose Yvette did meet someone?” Milly's hopes perked for a moment. Kit gave them a wry grin. “I was trying to set her up with Bret—for all the good that did.” “Bart and I kept her pretty busy. Even when Bart turned on the charm full power, he got nowhere. I don't think she had time to connect with anyone else.” Bret took a small notebook out of his pocket. “All right. Let's get down to it. What do we know? Milly saw Yvette last at about...” “Nine o'clock Sunday morning,” Milly filled in. “She got here not long after ten-thirty and spent most of the day with me,” Kit said. “The legal work that I wanted to discuss with her took quite a long time. Yvette was determined to put in some provisions that I wasn't happy with. But by about four o'clock we had a rough draft done. She said she'd get the

paperwork back to me right away.” “Did she say anything about where she was going from here?” “She booked a room near the airport at The Inn. I tried to get her to stay here with us and have Ronald's driver take her to the airport in the morning but she said she wasn't about to interrupt a couple of honeymooners any longer. You know how independent she is. She insisted she was going to make an early night of it anyway. I didn't get the feeling she was planning to meet anyone. “She did let Gord—he's Ronald's driver—take her to the hotel. He says he dropped her off in the lobby at about five-thirty. She wouldn't let him take her bags to the room. Insisted on having the bellman look after them. And that's the last contact we had with her.” “She tried to call me at seven o'clock but I wasn't home,” Milly offered. “She didn't leave a message but I found her hotel number on my call display when I got home at about ten o'clock. I returned her call but there was no answer in her room and she must have turned off her cell phone. She didn't call you that night?” “There was no one at the house to take her call. We'd given the staff a couple of weeks’ holiday because we'd planned to be in the Bahamas.” “Kit joined me at the hospital about seven. Things were still pretty dicey with Will that night,” Bret explained. “What time was it they shooed us out of the ICU? About nine?” Kit prompted. “That's about right.” “I didn't hurry back. Ronald was at his office doing some paperwork he didn't manage to finish before the wedding.” “I did the bare minimum at the office,” Ronald cut in. “Then I thought I'd earn some brownie points with my mother and drove up to her condo to see how she was. I knew her blood sugar had been acting up. Waste of time though. She was out playing bridge. I imagine you've reported Yvette missing to the police, Milly.” “I waited until Tuesday,” Milly told him, “but they still didn't seem to be too concerned about a single woman in her thirties who might have simply decided to be out of touch for a couple of days. Flo badgered a family friend who works for the sheriff's department to send someone out to The Inn. However, when the man they sent didn't find any sign of violence there, I think they shelved the case for a while.” “More than likely chalked it up as another tourist who chose to take some extra holiday time,” Ronald commented. “They're hoping that someone will report her missing in her home state and they won't have to use their personnel to handle the case.” “Marie got the New York police involved as soon as we discovered that Yvette wasn't on the Monday morning flight.” “Police are understaffed everywhere,” Ronald said. “But let's try to be optimistic. Maybe you're both wrong and she is just taking an unscheduled break.” “I hope you're right, darling,” Kit said.

“While we're waiting, I guess you and I will have to take up the slack, Milly,” Bret said. “We can make the time to concentrate on finding her.” Kit sighed. “I wish I could give you some kind of lead but I was so determined to get my own way about the changes I wanted Yvette to make when she was here that I didn't even ask what was going on in her life. All the time she was here, I fought her and accused her of being unreasonable.” “Can you tell me what you were arguing about, Kittle?” Bret asked. “I'd rather not,” Kit said. “I can't see how that business could have anything to do with Yvette's disappearance.” “Okay. Let's try this angle. Do you remember what you talked about over lunch or after the business was finished?” Bret was determined to get every crumb of information he could. “Let me see. We talked about her cruise a little but Yvette didn't want to talk about that. Believe it or not, she kept turning the conversation back to our honeymoon. She wanted to know every little detail.” “That doesn't sound like Yvette!” Milly's disbelief was obvious. Kit laughed. “No. No. Not that kind of detail.” She flushed and exchanged a glance with Ronald. “But she kept coming back to where exactly we anchored The Sprite and what the weather was like and if there were any yachtsmen she and I knew around.” “She seemed to be particularly interested in where we went in Nassau,” Ronald added. “And who we saw there.” Kit opened her mouth to say something but apparently thought better of it. “Probably,” Milly suggested, “she wanted to switch to a topic you were happier with than the legal matter you were arguing about.” “True,” Kit said. “Then while I was below making sandwiches, you were exchanging anecdotes about your law cases, weren't you, Ronald? It seems to me when I came back on deck, you were laughing about a crotchety old man trying to save the natural habitat of some exotic reptile—a bloated toad or something. Yvette made quite a story of it. The landscape was already torn up, but he was turning it into a case of revenge for his beloved toad. He'd shut down a construction site on one of Yvette's clients, hadn't he?” “More likely he was tired of the noise and dust. Yvette was able to laugh about it because she had got the injunction set aside,” Ronald said. “She found out that the old guy had invented the Wildlife preservation society whose letter he'd used to get the injunction in the first place.” “Right,” Kit agreed. “She'd had a lot of run-ins with the pompous little guy and was gloating about not having to deal with him any more. She was cheering about the construction company finally being able to pour the foundations the next morning. But that was finished business. She wouldn't have any reason to meet with any of those people.” “That was the only case she mentioned. She mentioned the arson case I have coming up. Oh, Yvette did say that she and Marie were thinking of moving to a newer office building.” Kit looked at her watch. “Is anybody hungry?” “Not really,” Milly murmured.

“I think Milly and I should get on our way. We'll get something to eat later.” “I thought you'd stay for Anna's brunch,” Kit said. “I'd really like to check at the hotel as soon as possible. If some of the same staff are working this Sunday, someone might remember when Yvette left and who she left with. At the very least, you can claim her luggage, Milly. There might be some clue there.” “What about Yvette's journal?” Kit exclaimed. “She's always jotting something down in that thing. She always drove me nuts with it when we went on holiday.” “Of course! Her Book of Words, she calls it.” When Milly smiled, thought Bret, she was breathtaking. “I have the feeling if we can find that book we'll have a lot of answers. Yvette works out a lot of problems in those little red books. She can't function without one. The minute she finishes one she starts another. Oh, Bret, maybe it's in her luggage!” “We'll check it out. Thanks for everything, Kittle, but if you're going to get out on the water before high noon, you two will have to get moving.” “Kittle?” Milly asked. “Anna called her that when she was just a toddler.” Bret grinned. “It's a Scottish word that means ticklish and unpredictable.” “And it's still delightfully true,” Ronald teased. “Isn't it, sweetness?” “I've found a couple of your weaknesses, too.” Kit's reminiscent smile made Milly's doubts about their relationship look silly. “But, Bret, all that food!” Kit wailed. “Tell you what, Kittle,” Bret replied. “We'll share. Come below with me and help me scrounge enough for a picnic lunch. Milly and I can enjoy that after we've talked to the staff at The Inn.” That quickly, Milly found herself alone with Ronald in the shade of the awning. The flow of easy conversation stopped. The awkward silence wore on until Ronald broke it. “The years have been good to you, Mill,” Ronald said with a practiced smile. “You are even lovelier than you were at twenty-one.” “Thank you,” she replied with a surface smile of her own. It was hard to believe that she had ever thought she was in love with him. Long pause. “Yvette mentioned that you had lost your husband. I'm sorry.” She couldn't bear to talk to him about Buzz. “I was surprised to hear that you were marrying Kit,” she said. It was better to attack. “Last I heard, you had eloped with the daughter of one of the partners in the firm you were articling with.” Ten years ago, that news had shattered her. “Jenny passed away five years ago.” That surprised her. “I didn't know,” she said. She had assumed that he was divorced.

They were spared any further stilted conversation by the return of the cousins. “We have a feast in here, Milly.” Bret grinned and indicated the cooler he was carrying. “I'll let you know what I find out, Kit,” he said, turning to leave. “And don't hurry back off the water to visit Will today. I'll be dropping in on him later this afternoon. I promise to give him your love and report in full tonight.” “Come to think of it,” Ronald said. “I should give Mom a call, Kit. She told me she was fine last night but I'd feel better if I talked to her this morning. I won't be a minute. All right with you if I use the boathouse phone, Bret?” Even though the only emotion Ronald aroused today was well-founded distrust, Milly was glad to see the last of him when he left them at the end of the dock. She didn't like to be reminded of what a naïve fool she'd been. She had believed that they would get married when he finished articling. Of course, if she hadn't felt the need to put some distance between them, she wouldn't have convinced her agent to book her into small clubs all along the Atlantic seaboard. And she would never have met Buzz. The Inn's lobby was impressively modern. In spite of the airport hotel's semi-quaint name, its entrance was created of vast expanses of glass, chrome and tubular steel. The ambiance was softened by huge vases of cut flowers and potted trees everywhere you looked but, in spite of their best efforts, the result was anything but restful. At the front desk of The Inn, she and Bret were referred to an efficient, round-faced woman who was wearing a nametag that read, “Esther Silver, Assistant Hotel Manager.” “I wish I could be more help,” she told Milly, looking intently at the monitor on the gleaming black marble counter, “but the only information we have in the computer is a record of one room night secured by credit card with no official check-out.” “You do still have her luggage?” Milly asked quickly. That luggage was rapidly becoming the only link she had with her sister. Keyboard keys clicked rapidly. “Yes, we have two bags in storage for Yvette Pelletier. Would you like them sent to her home address?” “Could you arrange to let us take them with us?” Bret asked. When she hesitated, he took an official-looking card from his wallet. Then, he turned the full force of his smile on her. Milly had to admit that was one potent smile. “It would be such a hassle to have to go to New York to find out what is in those bags. Please, Esther, there might be something in them that could tell us where Milly's sister is. She's been gone almost a week now.” Milly watched the by-the-book assistant manager become a flexible woman under the power of Bret's blue gaze. She didn't blame her. He was hard to resist. “Well, I suppose it would do no harm,” the woman paused, then capitulated. She smiled up at Bret. “Yes. After all, Mrs.,” she looked own at the business card that Milly had given her, “Mrs. Brzezynski, you are Ms. Pelletier's sister. I'll print off a form that will indicate that you have taken possession of the luggage.” Bret moved a step closer to her and gently tilted her chin up to look into her eyes. His deep blue eyes, filled with concern, were hypnotic. Standing that close, she was intensely aware of his heat and the scent

of soap and healthy male that was uniquely his. If he bent ever so slightly, their lips could touch. She almost raised her chin to meet him halfway. She caught herself just in time. “You holding up all right?” he asked. She nodded wordlessly. What was the matter with her? Bret was simply being friendly. She was overtired. Life would return to normal after they found Yvette. If she had wanted to fool herself that Bret had felt something, too, she could have made something of the fact that he was slow to break off eye contact before he turned to speak to the assistant manager on her return. Almost immediately, the bellman arrived with the bags from storage. “Yes,” Milly said, checking the tags on the medium sized suitcase and a fairly large computer case, “these are Yvette's. That big laptop bag doubles as a briefcase and a carry-on when she travels.” While Milly signed for the luggage, Bret chatted with the assistant manager. “Milly,” he said, handing her his car keys and the bellman a healthy tip, “would you take this man to the car and lock the luggage in the trunk for me?” She was about to ask him where he was going to be in the meantime but Bret had turned back to his new friend, Esther, and was involved in earnest conversation. When Milly returned from the parking lot, it was obvious that he had used the time well. Esther was delving into the telephone records to see what calls had been charged to Yvette's room. There had been two outgoing calls. One had been to Milly's number and the other to the airport—more than likely to confirm her flight. “How about incoming, Esther?” he asked. “None at all. I'm sorry.” “Is there any way we could find out the name of the maid who actually packed up the items in Yvette Pelletier's room?” Bret asked. “I can get that information for you.” And Esther was good as her word. Within minutes, she had the name of the maid who had packed Yvette's things. Unfortunately, Consuela was not working that day. She would, however, be doing her rooms on the tenth floor tomorrow morning. “Thank you for all your help, Esther,” Bret said. “We'll be back in the morning.” “Did it ever occur to you to consult me before you told people what we were going to do?” Milly grumbled as they stepped out into the brilliant sunshine. He looked at her in surprise. “I couldn't think of any reason you'd object to returning to talk to the chambermaid. But I can come back alone if you like.” “I was thinking that you wouldn't need to come back at all,” Milly snapped. “I appreciate your help with

Kit and with getting the luggage, but you don't need to put yourself out any more. If you like, I can keep in touch about what I discover.” “I want to help.” Bret looked at his watch. “It's past time I fed you. Do you have any favorite picnic spots?” “Buzz is the one who was brought up around here and he wasn't a fan of picnics. He said he had enough of sitting on the ground to eat when he was on active service.” Bret punched the remote on his key chain to unlock the car and again to start the engine. “I like to start it up and get the air conditioning working as soon as I get within range,” he said. “That car is going to be an oven.” “Would you pop the trunk lock, too? I want to get the computer case. I'd like to check if Yvette's journal is in it. I can do that while you're driving.” “Good idea. Now here's a plan.” Bret grinned and cocked an apologetic blond eyebrow at her. “Sorry. I meant to say, what do you think of this plan?” She couldn't help but laugh. “I'm sorry, too,” she said. “I'm being ridiculously touchy.” Bret took her hand and held it as they walked along. It felt good. “O.K. If you wouldn't mind waiting while I drop in at the Healing Springs Hospital to check on my father, we could have our lunch on the grounds. Healing Springs has acres of grounds and they've set up lots of attractive picnic sites for their visitors and staff. Kit and I took our sandwiches out there one day to get out of the hospital for a while.” “Why don't you drop me off at home, Bret? It's not far out of your way.” “I was hoping that you would let me help you go through your sister's luggage when we finish at the hospital. And we can do some planning.” Milly decided that she had been difficult enough for one day. That heavy cloud of doom was closing in around her again. With every passing minute, it became more difficult to convince herself that Yvette was ever going to be found alive. Having Bret around kept the gloom at bay. “I'd like the help,” she admitted. But a tiny warning skittered through her brain. The man was too good to be true. Why was he so determined to stay right with her? The temperature in the Jag was almost livable when they got into it. “That air conditioner is a marvel,” Milly said, glad to have something positive to say as Bret placed the computer carrying case beside her on the seat. She stared at the black bag. She desperately needed to know what it contained but just could not bring herself to undo the first zipper. What Yvette's journal might contain was too important. She had a dark premonition that she wasn't going to find it in the case. Hating her uncharacteristic refusal to face facts, she gritted her teeth and made herself lift the bag onto her lap. This was the most likely place for Yvette to have put her Book of Words. But it was hard to be optimistic in the face of the overwhelming dread that swept over her as they drew near the place where they had heard the notes of the anguished saxophone.

Bret drove with his eyes firmly fixed on the road ahead, his face expressionless. She was surprised to see, though, a definite tension in the set of his jaw and in his grip on the wheel. He seemed to share her dread of a repetition of this morning's experience. “Well, here goes,” she said, opening up the first compartment of the computer-case. Lying flat on top was a file folder labeled in Yvette's distinctive printing, “Kit—Changes.” She was tempted to see what kind of changes Yvette had been making but Kit had not volunteered the information and she knew that Yvette would never forgive her for breaching the confidentiality that was so important to her. She hoped against hope that Yvette was not beyond caring about any of this. Neatly stowed in individual sections were Yvette's laptop, its power cord and telephone connector. Nothing else. She took out every item, then carefully checked its slot for openings to secret hiding places before replacing it. Yvette had always been secretive about her little red volumes. The other large compartment contained the small make-up case that she had given Yvette for their last birthday, a yellow blouse, a nightie, a change of underwear and a small electronic organizer. “No journal,” she announced. “It is not here, Bret. I have checked every pocket and sleeve in this damned carrying case twice and Yvette's journal is not here.” Milly's voice was so flat and lifeless that that he hardly recognized it. “We'll find it.” Bret reached over and squeezed her hand. “What's that?” he asked, more to distract them both from the fact that they were coming to the construction site than from any real interest in the object she held in her other hand. “A pocket computer,” she told him. “Yvette enters her appointments on it and keeps it loaded with novels. She travels so much...” Milly's voice trailed off and she stared off into space. He didn't try to continue the conversation. He was mightily relieved when their drive past the construction site went without incident. In the noonday sun, the site was simply a large piece of torn-up real estate with a couple of silent hulks of construction equipment parked on it. No saxophone blasted; no sudden chills filled the car; no pale woman appeared, then disappeared. He wondered what had kept the strange sights and sounds at bay. The only difference he could think of was that another vehicle had joined them on the long curve. He felt absurdly grateful for the existence of the beat-up white van that had been behind them most of the way from West Palm. However, his surge of relief was short-lived. He looked over at Milly to share the moment's elation with her and saw that her cheeks were wet with tears. “Milly, we'll find the journal,” he said, wishing he could think of something more encouraging to say. “It's not only the journal,” she told him so quietly that he could hardly hear her. “All of a sudden, I know we're not going to find her alive. Until a moment ago, I thought I could sense her somewhere needing me. But, I can't feel that any more. Yvette's gone.” For the second time that day, he pulled off the road and cradled Milly in his arms. This time she was not shaking with terror. Her body was wracked with heart-rending sobs.

“Sweetheart,” he found himself saying, “I'm sorry.” He didn't beg her to stop crying; she needed to cry. He didn't tell her she was being foolish; he had enough experience of the strong communication between some twins. He didn't want to imagine the void he would feel if Bart were to die. All he could do was hold her and murmur nonsense into her dark hair. Besides, he already knew that Yvette was dead. The rational side of him still occasionally insisted that he was having some kind of mental breakdown but Bret knew that he had not imagined Yvette on this road. Her ghost walked here. And it wanted him to warn Milly. He wished he knew what the hell he was supposed to warn her about! He should tell Milly what he had seen. But he didn't want to tell her about the bloody and battered, pale figure just yet. Or the warning. Her dreadful dreams gave her enough to cope with.

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