here wasn’t a helluva lot that could be done on a Sunday. A call to the Hairport, where Jackie Sheets had regularly gotten her hair cut, didn’t even get an answering machine but instead rang endlessly. No banks were open. The telephone company, however, was on duty and protecting the public’s right to reach out and touch whomever they wanted twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Someone was always there, so Dane started the process of getting a listing of all the calls made from the Sheets residence.

Bonness organized a task force, choosing Dane, Trammell, Freddie, and Worley, since the four of them were already working on the two known cases. All of their other ongoing cases were parceled out to the other detectives, who were warned to tie up as many loose ends as they could, as fast as they could, because they would all probably be brought in on the task force soon.

What with one thing and another, it was after four when Dane and Trammell were finally able to leave the building.

Dane squinted up at the bright sky before slipping on his sunglasses. After the morning rain, the day had turned into a scorcher, with the rainfall only adding to the humidity as the heat turned the moisture to steam.

“How’s Grace?” he asked.

Trammell was annoyed. “You sound as if you expect us to elope at any moment, and, old buddy, it ain’t going to happen.” He paused. “Grace is fine.”

“Still at your place?”

Trammell checked his watch. “No.”

Dane chuckled. “Not quite yet, huh? Maybe en route? You made a call right before we left; now, who could it have been to?”

“Fuck you,” Trammell said mildly. “Where are you going?”

“Home. To my place.”

Black eyebrows lifted inquiringly.

“To pick up more clothes,” he enlarged, with some satisfaction.

“Why don’t you just pack a suitcase and move in?”

“I would, but I still have to go by the house every day to get my mail, so that wouldn’t be saving me any trouble. Most of my clothes will end up at her house eventually.”

“All of your other girlfriends have moved in with you,” Trammell pointed out.

“Marlie’s different. She feels safe in her house; she won’t willingly leave it.” Besides, he didn’t like the idea of Marlie moving into his own house. As Trammell had pointed out, several women over the years had taken up temporary residence there. He had liked and enjoyed them at the time, but in the end they hadn’t been very important to him, certainly not as important or interesting as his job. Marlie was different; she didn’t belong in that company of ultimately forgettable women.

Thinking of his house made him restless. It had always suited him before, but then, he had never been picky.

Suddenly he wanted to change things around. “My place needs some work done on it,” he decided abruptly. “This would be a good time to have it done.”

“What kind of work?”

“Maintenance stuff. New paint, the floors refinished. The bathroom needs complete renovation.”

“I see.” Trammell’s dark eyes began to gleam. This was something he’d been itching to do for years. “How about new furniture while you’re at it? That stuff you’re using is about twenty years old.”

“The place belonged to my grandparents. When they left it to me, the furniture came with it.”

“It shows. How about it? New furniture, too?”

Dane considered it. Unlike most cops, and not counting Trammell, his bank account was healthy. He was single and had cheap tastes in food, clothes, and cars. He had inherited the house from his grandparents, so he didn’t have a mortgage payment every month. He actually lived on half of his income, so the other half had been accumulating in the bank for years. Several times he’d thought about buying a boat, but when would he have time to use it? No other money-using schemes had come to mind. The house did need redecorating. He would like to take Marlie there occasionally, though he really couldn’t imagine her living there with him, and he wanted the place to look nice for her. Unfortunately, now it looked exactly like what it was: a bachelor’s home. And a bachelor who didn’t pay much attention to his surroundings, at that. He wasn’t the kind of slob who left food and empty beer cans everywhere, but he wasn’t great on dusting or replacing things, either.

“Okay,” he said. “New furniture, too.”

Trammell rubbed his hands together. “I’ll get started tomorrow.”

Warily Dane eyed his friend. “Whaddaya mean, you’ll get started? You’re going to be busy. I’ll arrange for the painters and floor refinishers, and pick out some new furniture next weekend.”

“That’s not quite how it’s going to be, old buddy. We’ve already agreed that your taste in everything except women is atrocious. You have great taste in women. Just leave the rest to me.”

“Hell, no! I know you. You’ll put one of those little rugs that costs a fortune on the living room floor, and I’ll be afraid to even walk on it. My bank account isn’t yours, old buddy.”

“I’ll take that into consideration. And no dhurrie rugs. Unlike you, I have excellent taste. It’ll be a place you can be comfortable in, but it’ll look a hell of a lot better. Marlie will like it,” he added slyly.

Dane scowled at him, and Trammell clapped him on the shoulder. “Just relax and enjoy it.”

“That sounds like I’m going to get fucked.”

“I can do it for about ten thousand. How does that sound?”

“Like a damn expensive fuck. How about five?”

Trammell snorted. “Only if you want to sleep on a futon and sit on a bean bag.”

Ten thousand. It was a lot of money. But Trammell was right, the self-satisfied bastard: He did have good taste. The house needed renovating, and he wanted it fresh and clean for Marlie, even if she never actually lived there. None of those other women had left much of an imprint, but he wanted even the hint of them gone. “How are you going to find time to do it?” he asked grudgingly.

“Ever hear of the telephone? It’s no problem. I’ll have stuff delivered, drop by to take a look at it, and if I don’t like it, the store will pick it up again.”

“You’ve been rich for too long. You need to come out of the stratosphere and live like regular folks for a change.”

“Conspicuous consumers like me create jobs and keep the economy growing. It’s time you did your part.”

“I agreed, damn it.”

“Then stop complaining about it.” Trammell checked his watch again. “Gotta go. If you have an extra house key, bring it to me in the morning.”

“Sure,” Dane said, wondering if his house would be recognizable as the same residence when Trammell got through with it. Still, it accomplished two things at once: The place did need some work, and it gave him a perfect excuse to completely move in with Marlie during the renovation. He was whistling as he got in his car.

An hour and a half later, Marlie went still with shock as she stood in the doorway and watched him unload suitcases and boxes from his car.

“What’s all that?” she asked faintly. Silly question; she could see very clearly what it was. The question she really wanted to ask was “Why?” but she figured she knew the answer to that, too. Dane might enjoy very much the physical side of their relationship, but she couldn’t let herself forget that, no matter what, he was always a cop. What better way to keep an eye on her than to move right in? That way he would know immediately if she had another vision.

“My stuff. My house is being renovated, and I have to clear out for a couple of weeks.” He stopped on the porch, watching her intently. “I apologize for not asking, but it was a sudden decision to have the work done.”

“I see.” She managed an ironic smile. “Moving in is a good way to stay on top of the situation, I guess. Figuratively as well as literally.”

Very carefully he set the box down on the porch. His expression was both cool and blank. “What does that mean, exactly?”

She shrugged. “Can you honestly say that moving in with me has nothing to do with the murders, with this entire situation?”

“No,” he said bluntly. It was the truth. He couldn’t. Marlie was his best chance of catching the bastard, but it wasn’t just that. He had seen how the visions affected her, the physical and mental price she paid. For both of those reasons, in addition to the fact that he was violently attracted to her, he wanted to stay close to her.

She stood silently for a moment, considering the situation. They had become lovers, but her instinct was to take things slowly. Circumstances had decreed otherwise, throwing them together in a pressure cooker. Even though she would like to put the brakes on now, feel her way through this strange new relationship, those same circumstances were still aligned against her. He was, first and foremost, a cop, and she was his direct link to a killer. Until the murderer was caught, she couldn’t expect Dane to stray far from her side. She would simply have to remember that the main reason he was there was his job; it was a sure bet that he didn’t practically force his way in to live with every woman with whom he had gone to bed.

She stepped aside. “Just so we understand each other. Come on in.”

Trammell gave a long, low whistle when Dane walked in the next morning, and everyone in the squad room turned to look. Never mind that there was a serial killer on the loose; cops were never too busy to harass one of their own. Freddie clutched her heart and pretended to swoon. Bonness, who had been standing beside Keegan’s desk, was totally deadpan as he asked, “May we help you, sir?”

“You sure can,” Dane replied good-naturedly as he dropped into his chair. “All you smart-asses can apologize for the crap you’ve given me for years about how I dressed.”

“He said it in the past tense,” Trammell noted, turning his eyes upward. “Please, God, let it stay that way.”

Dane smiled at him. “Want to go for a couple of beers after work?” he asked silkily. Trammell picked up the hint and subsided, but still with an unholy gleam of amusement in his dark eyes.

“Take me, take me!” Freddie cried, waving her hand exuberantly.

“Yeah, sure, and get my legs broken?”

She shrugged. “I don’t mind.”

“Gee, thanks. I’m overwhelmed by your concern.”

Bonness left Keegan’s desk to perch on Dane’s. “What caused the transformation?” he asked. “Were you mugged by a fashion designer on the way to work?”

Dane grinned, knowing that his answer would make Bonness choke. It wasn’t something he could keep to himself, so he decided to have a little fun. “Marlie doesn’t like wrinkles,” he explained calmly.

Bonness looked blank. “Marlie?” Obviously he could think of only one Marlie and just as obviously he couldn’t get the connection.

“Marlie Keen. You know, the psychic.”

“I know who she is,” Bonness said, still confused. “What does she have to do with it?”

“She doesn’t like wrinkles,” Dane explained again, as deadpan as Bonness had been. He could hear Trammell snickering, but didn’t dare glance that way.

Poor Bonness was slow that day. “So she goes around the city zapping them out?” he demanded with heavy sarcasm.

“No.” Dane smiled, a slow, very satisfied smile. “She ironed them out. At least, she ironed the shirt. She made me iron the slacks myself, because she said I had to learn.”

Bonness gaped at him. Trammell was making choking sounds as he tried to keep from laughing aloud. “You—you mean... Marlie... that is, you and Marlie—”

“Marlie and I are what?”

“Urn... dating?”

“Dating?” Dane pretended to think. “No, I wouldn’t say that.”

“Then what would you say?”

He gave a negligent shrug. “It’s simple. When I got dressed this morning, she said that no way was I leaving the house looking like that, so she hauled out her iron and ironing board and made me take off my clothes. When I put them back on, they looked like this.” He wondered why a crisply ironed shirt, neatly knotted tie, and slacks with a razor-edge crease were such a big deal, not just to Marlie but to everyone else. Not that he minded; he just hadn’t cared before. He didn’t care about his clothes now, but Marlie did, so therefore he would make more of an effort. Simple.

Bonness was literally sputtering, his eyes bugging out. “But you only met a week ago. You ridiculed her, accused her of being an accomplice to murder. She hated your guts on sight.”

“We changed our minds,” Dane said. “If you need me, you can reach me at her house.”

“Shit. You’re kidding me. I thought she had better taste than that.”

Dane smiled peacefully. “She does. She’s already improving me.” And he would let her do it. If she wanted him to wear Italian loafers like Trammell’s, he’d do it. If she wanted him to shave twice a day, he’d do that too. If she wanted him to stand on his head for an hour every morning, he would happily put his butt in the air. When he had returned the afternoon before, with his clothing, it had been plain that the thought of living with him made her uneasy. He knew he should have lied to her about his motives, but damn it, his interest in her was two-pronged. He couldn’t just forget about the murders and assure her that her involvement never entered his mind. Hell, her involvement never left his mind.

After this was over, he would devote all of his attention to her, but right now he couldn’t, and she knew it. Right away he had sensed a slight distance that hadn’t been there when he’d left. She kept rebuilding that damn wall of reserve, as if she couldn’t quite trust herself to let go, or trust him to catch her if she did. He would let her reform him from the ground up if it would make her feel more secure with him.

Marlie was a solitary creature who didn’t easily share either her space or her time. He had carefully spent the evening not crowding her too much, but all the same establishing a tone of normalcy to his presence. They had done very ordinary things—cooked dinner, cleaned the kitchen, watched television—just as if they had been together for months instead of one stressful weekend. It had worked; she had relaxed more and more as the evening wore on. And when they had gone to bed and he had begun making love to her, the reserve had completely vanished. He didn’t know if it was permanently gone; probably not. But he would deal with each reappearance as it happened, and in the meantime insinuate himself ever more deeply into the everyday fabric of her life. Besides, he had enjoyed it when she had made several acerbic remarks about his clothes. She had been too subdued and vulnerable for the past two days, and he had been delighted to see her return to her normal, sharp-tongued spirits.

Still shaking his head at Marlie’s evident loss of common sense, Bonness gestured for Freddie and Worley to come over. When everyone was grouped together, they decided their course of action for the day. Freddie and Worley were going to talk to the people Jackie Sheets had worked with, including Liz Cline again, for she would be calmer now and might remember something else. They arranged to get copies of the canceled checks of both victims. Dane and Trammell went to the Hairport to talk to Jackie Sheets’s hair stylist.

The Hairport was situated in a small, renovated house. There was none of the pink neon and purple-and-black decor so beloved by the trendier salons where all the clients came out looking as if they’d stuck their finger into a light socket. But there were real ferns (Dane knew because Trammell stuck his finger into the dirt to check), and comfortable waiting chairs, as well as a truly impressive selection of magazines, stacked in rickety towers on every available flat surface. There were several women in the salon, in various stages of tonsorial improvement. A sharp chemical smell hung in the air, with an undertone of hairspray and nail polish.

The Kathy who cut Ms. Sheets’s hair was Kathleen McCrory, who looked as Irish as her name. She had sandy red hair that feathered around her face, a very fair complexion, and round blue eyes that widened even more when Dane and Trammell introduced themselves. She led them back to the tiny break room the stylists used, poured them each a cup of coffee, and offered them their choice of any of the varied snacks piled on the small table. They accepted the coffee, but turned down the Bugles and Twinkies.

Kathleen was a cheerful, self-confident young woman. Trammell began to ask her about Jackie Sheets, and Dane settled back to enjoy his coffee, which was pretty good. He watched Kathleen lightly flirt with Trammell, and his partner lightly flirt in return, all the while asking questions. Kathleen did stop flirting when he told her that Jackie Sheets had been killed, and her big blue eyes slowly filled with tears. She looked back and forth between Dane and Trammell, as if wanting one of them to say it was a joke. Her lips began trembling. “I—I haven’t watched the news this weekend,” she said, and swallowed hard. “My boyfriend and I went to Daytona.”

Dane reached across the small table and covered her hand with his. She clutched his fingers, and clung tightly to him until she had fought off the tears. She gave him a small, watery, apologetic smile as she began groping for a tissue to wipe her eyes.

Yes, she had cut Jackie’s hair about every three weeks. Jackie had gorgeous hair, thick and silky, with a lot of body. She could do anything she wanted with it. Trammell gently interrupted the hair analysis to get her back on track. No, Jackie hadn’t mentioned seeing anyone for quite a while now. No, Kathleen couldn’t remember anyone named Vinick.

Did she have any male customers? Sure. There were quite a few. Had Jackie spoken to any of them, gotten acquainted? Not that Kathleen could remember.

Another dead end, Dane thought. He was getting damn tired of them.

Tuesday was more of the same dead ends. A comparison of canceled checks and credit card receipts revealed that the Vinicks and Jackie Sheets had shopped at some of the same department stores, which told them exactly nothing. Dane imagined that almost everyone in Orlando had been in at least one of those stores at one time or another. Still, it was the only link they had come up with, so he doggedly pursued it, comparing dates to see if maybe they had been in any store at the same time.

Jackie Sheets had had several department store credit cards, but Nadine Vinick hadn’t had any, usually paying for her purchases by check or charging the expense to their one credit card, a MasterCard, when she didn’t have the ready funds. But Mrs. Vinick had been very frugal, and had used the card only twice in the past year. Mostly the Vinicks had operated in a pay-as-you-go household, while Jackie Sheets had regularly made charges on her cards and paid in monthly installments, always living slightly above her means. Most of her purchases had been clothes, from the best stores in the city.

Their life-styles had been different. The Vinicks had been blue-collar, and Nadine’s greatest interest had been cooking. Jackie Sheets had been white-collar, a woman who had loved clothes and made an effort to always look her best. But somewhere, somehow, the two women, as different as they were, had had the bad luck to attract the attention of the same man. But where, and how?

Chief Champlin had clearly hoped they would come up with something; his disappointment that afternoon wasn’t pleasant. But he was also a cop, and he had looked at the files. The same man had done both women. The very lack of forensic evidence was as much an indicator as if they had found the same fingerprints at both scenes. This was a smart bastard, and they needed help.

“All right,” he said. “Call the Bureau. I’ll tell the mayor.”

Bonness made the call, and briefly explained the situation. The local Bureau guys knew big stuff when they heard it, and said they would like to go over the files immediately.

“Hollister and Trammell, get the files and go,” Bonness said.

Dane saw Trammell check his watch, a sure sign that he had something else to do. “Why not send someone from each case?” he suggested. “They may have questions about Jackie Sheets that Trammell and I can’t answer.”

“Okay,” Bonness agreed. “Freddie? Worley? Which one of you wants to go?”

Worley grimaced. He clearly wanted to go, but he, too, checked his watch. “It’s my mother-in-law’s birthday. If I’m late for the party, my wife won’t speak to me for a year.”

“I’m free,” Freddie said. “Which one of you guys is going?”

“I am,” Dane said, and Trammell flashed him a grateful smile.

FBI Agent Dennis Lowery was waiting for them. Lowery had that Ichabod Crane look to him: thin, long-legged, stoop-shouldered, his clothes always flapping about him as if they were too large. His eyes were deep-set, his nose was beaky. But he was a calm, intelligent man who was more diplomatic than some when it came to dealing with local law enforcement agencies. Dane had dealt with him before, and liked him well enough.

A second agent, Sam DiLeonardo, was a young fart barely out of training, all spit and polish. Dane wasn’t as inclined to like him, because he looked like the type who would insist on going by the book even when everything was falling apart around him, but the kid redeemed himself by taking one look at Freddie and immediately falling in lust. He went absolutely still, his eyes widening a little as he stared at her. A slight blush darkened his cheeks. Freddie was always kind and could be very ladylike when she chose, so she pretended not to notice the kid’s fascination. Dane and Lowery exchanged wry glances as they sat down at a long conference table.

“So what do you have?” Lowery asked, pulling a legal pad toward him and uncapping a pen.

Freddie gave copies of the files to both agents, who silently leafed through them. DiLeonardo forgot his preoccupation with the plain but remarkably fetching Detective Freddie Brown, his expression turning grim as he stared at the stark photos of the bodies, in both color and black and white.

“He probably stalks them before acting,” Dane said. “He knows if they’re alone or not. In both cases, we think it’s possible that he was in the house for some time before they knew it, hiding out in the spare bedroom. In the Vinick case, he was probably waiting for her husband to go to work. With Jackie Sheets, we don’t know why he waited.”

“Maybe for the neighbors to go to bed,” DiLeonardo said absently, still studying the notes.

“They would be less likely to hear anything if they were still up, with the television on. At any rate, none of the neighbors heard any screams.”

Lowery’s face was impassive as he looked at the photos. “You’d think, the way these women were butchered, that they would have been screaming bloody murder, but a lot of times it doesn’t work that way. He chased them, didn’t he? They were terrified, breathless, already traumatized by being raped. It’s difficult to scream, really scream, under those conditions. The throat tightens up, restricts sound. Probably they didn’t make all that much noise.”

He tossed the files onto the table and rubbed his jaw. “Just two cases? That doesn’t give us much to work on, but I agree, it looks like the same guy. What’s the link?”

“We haven’t been able to find one,” Dane said. “Not looks, life-style, friends, neighborhood, anything. We compared canceled checks and credit card receipts, and except for shopping at some of the same department stores, which applies to everyone else in town, their paths never crossed. They never met each other.”

“They did something to attract this guy’s attention, though. Did they both buy something from the same store within, say, the last month?”

“Not that we can find. It’s hard to say, because the Vinicks evidently paid cash for a lot of things.” Dane wasn’t irritated by Lowery’s questions, though some people would have been, taking it as a suggestion that the local cops hadn’t done a good job. The same questions were bound to come up over and over again, as different people grappled with the problem. There had been a lot of times when he had doggedly gone over the same file time and again, until something clicked and he saw a detail that had been there all along, but just hadn’t registered.

“I’ll get this up to Quantico,” Lowery said. “Two murders in a week isn’t a good sign. If he’s escalating that fast, he’s out of control.”

“I’m hoping it was unusual for him to kill two so close together. Maybe Jackie Sheets was an easy opportunity that he couldn’t resist.”

“Maybe. But if he liked it, he won’t wait long before doing it again.”

“Oh, he likes it,” Dane said bitterly. “He takes his time, plays with them. The son of a bitch loves his work.”