n Monday morning, Sam sat in the Warren R D. with his head propped on his hands, wading through the Hammerstead files again and again. The NCIC computers hadn’t given them a hit on any of the names, so he and Bernsen were simply reading and rereading, looking for something that would click in their heads and give them the clue they needed.

It was there; Sam knew it was. They just hadn’t found it yet. He suspected he already knew what it was, because of that nagging gut feeling he had missed something. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but it was there, and sooner or later the bell would chime. He just hoped it was sooner, like in the next minute.

This guy hated women. He wouldn’t get along with them, wouldn’t like working with them. There might be a note in his file about a complaint lodged by someone, maybe even a harassment charge. Something like that should have jumped out at them on the first once-over, but maybe the complaint had been worded in such a way that the charge wasn’t actually spelled out.

Neither Jaine nor T.J. was working today. They were still together, though they had moved from T.J.’s house to Shelley’s, along with that yappy little cocker spaniel that sounded the alarm at any kind of intrusion, whether it was a bird on the patio or someone coming up the walk. He had been afraid Jaine would want to spend the day at home, since her new alarm system had been installed – under the eagle eye of Mrs. Kulavich, who was taking her guardian duties seriously – on Saturday while they were attending Marci’s funeral. An alarm system was fine, but it wouldn’t stop a determined killer.

But Jaine hadn’t wanted to be alone. She and T.J. were clinging together, shocked and dazed at what had happened to their tight little circle of friends. There was no doubt in anyone’s mind now that the List was what had triggered the violence, and the area police departments were putting together a task force to coordinate and work the cases, since no two of the friends lived in the same jurisdiction.

The national news organizations had been all over the story. “Who is killing the Ladies of the List?” one newscaster had intoned. “The Detroit area has been shocked by the violent murders of two of the women who authored the humorous and controversial Mr. Perfect List that took the nation by storm a couple of weeks ago.”

Reporters were camped outside Hammerstead again, wanting to interview anyone who was acquainted with the two victims. The task force had arranged to get copies of any interview tapes the reporters might make, in case their guy gave in to his ego and wanted to see himself on national television, mourning his two “friends”.

Reporters had also been at Jaine’s house, but left when they discovered no one was at home. He imagined they had checked out T.J.’s, too, which was why he had called Shelley and told her to ask Jaine and T.J. to spend the day with her. Shelley had been more than glad to comply. He figured that the snoops would talk to people who knew people and eventually find Shelley, but for today at least Jaine and T.J. weren’t being bothered.

Sam rubbed his eyes. He had gotten maybe two hours sleep. The page last night had been to the scene of another homicide, a teenage boy. That had quickly wrapped up with the arrest of the kid’s new girlfriend’s ex, who had taken it personally that the kid had told him to eat shit and die. The paperwork, however, was always a bitch.

Where was the report on the shoe tread they had found in Jaine’s house? Getting an answer usually didn’t take this long. He searched his desk, but no one had laid it there in his absence. Maybe it had gone to Bernsen, since they had cross-referenced each other on all the paperwork. Before Luna’s death, not everyone had been convinced the break-in at Jaine’s house had anything to do with Marci’s murder, but he and Bernsen had been. Now, of course, there was no doubt in anyone’s mind.

He called Roger. “Did the report on that shoe tread come to you?”

“Haven’t seen it. You mean you don’t have it yet?”

“Not yet. The lab must have lost it. I’ll shoot them another request.” Damn it, he thought as he hung up. The one thing they didn’t need was a delay. Maybe the shoe print wasn’t important, but maybe the shoe was a rare one, so unusual that someone at Hammerstead would say, “Oh, yeah, so-and-so has a pair. Paid a fortune for them.”

He went back to the files, frustrated almost to the point of breaking something. It was right here under his nose; he knew it. All he had to do was figure it out.

Galan left work early. Yesterday’s events had left him so shaken he couldn’t concentrate. All he wanted was to pick up T.J. at Jaine’s sister’s house and take her home where he could watch over her.

He didn’t know how they had lost touch with each other. No – he knew, all right. The innocent flirting at work with Xandrea Conaway had started to seem important, and maybe it had never been so innocent. When had he started comparing everything T.J. and everything she said and did, to Xandrea, who was always dressed up and never nagged?

Of course T.J. wasn’t dressed up at home, he realized. Neither was he. That was what homes were for, relaxing and being comfortable. So what if she complained when he didn’t take out the garbage? He complained if she left her makeup scattered all over the vanity. People who lived together inevitably got on each other’s nerves sometimes. That was part of being married.

He had loved T.J. since he was fourteen years old. How had he lost sight of that, and of what they had together? Why had it taken the terror of realizing a killer actually was stalking T.J. and her friends for him to realize it would kill him to lose her?

He didn’t know how he could make it up to her. He didn’t know if she would even let him. For the past week or so, since she had guessed he was infatuated with Xandrea, she had pulled away from him. Maybe she believed he’d actually been unfaithful to her, though he had never let the situation between him and Xandrea get so far out of hand. They had kissed, yes, but nothing more.

He tried to imagine how he would feel if another man kissed T.J. and felt sick to his stomach. Maybe kisses weren’t so forgivable.

He would crawl on his belly to her if she would smile at him again like he mattered to her.

Jaine’s sister lived in a big, two-story Colonial in St. Clair Shores. The doors were down on the triple-bay garage, but Sam Donovan’s red muscle-truck was parked in the driveway. He parked beside it and went up the curving walk to the double front doors, where he rang the bell and waited.

Donovan answered the door. Galan noticed Sam was still wearing his pistol. If he had one, he thought, he would probably wear it too, legal or not.

“How are they?” he asked softly, stepping inside.

“Tired. Still in shock. Shelley said they slept off and on all day, so I guess they didn’t get much sleep last night.”

Galan shook his head. “They sat up talking most of the night. Funny; they didn’t talk much about the bastard who did this, or how close Jaine came the other night when he broke into her house. They just talked about Luna and Marci.”

“It’s like losing two family members so close together. It’ll take them a while to recover from this.” Sam dealt with grief on a regular basis; he knew Jaine would recover, because that kick-ass spirit of hers just wouldn’t stay down, but he also knew it could take weeks, maybe even months, before the shadow of pain left her eyes.

In part of the house, things were normal. Shelley’s husband, Al, watched television. Their teenage daughter, Stefanie, was upstairs on the phone, while eleven-year-old Nicholas played video games on the computer. The women had gathered in the kitchen – why was it always the kitchen? – to talk and drink diet sodas and eat whatever comfort food Shelley had on hand.

The ravages of grief had left both Jaine and T.J. pale, but they were dry-eyed. T.J. looked startled to see her husband.

“What are you doing here?” She didn’t sound particularly glad to see him.

“I wanted to be with you,” he replied. “I know you’re tired, so I didn’t want you to have to wait until midnight to go home. Not to mention Shelley and her family probably go to bed a lot earlier than that.”

Shelley waved her hand dismissively. “Don’t worry about that. We usually stay up late while the kids are out of school.”

“What about the reporters?” T.J. asked. “We won’t have any peace if they’re still swarming the place.”

“I doubt they would hang around forever,” Sam said. “They’d like an interview, yeah, but they can get statements from other people. More than likely, since you weren’t at home today, they’ll call instead of camping out in your yard.”

“Then I would like to go home,” T.J. said, standing. She hugged Shelley. “Thanks a million. You were a lifesaver today.”

Shelley returned the hug. “Any time. Come back tomorrow, if you don’t go to work. Whatever you do, don’t stay home alone!”

“Thanks. I may take you up on it, but… I think I’ll go to work tomorrow. Getting back into the routine will help take my mind off things.”

Jaine said, “I think Sam and I will go home, too. He looks as exhausted as I feel.”

“Are you going to work tomorrow?” T.J. asked.

“I don’t know. Maybe. I’ll call and let you know.”

“Trilby,” T.J. called, and the dog jumped up, bright eyes sparkling and her entire body wagging in enthusiasm. “C’mon, girl, let’s go home.”

Trilby barked and scampered around T.J.’s legs. Galan leaned down to pet her, and she licked his hand. “Where’s your leash?” he asked, and she dashed off to find it. Usually the dog’s antics could make T.J. laugh, but tonight she couldn’t manage even a smile.

On the drive home, T.J. sat staring out the window. “You didn’t have to leave work early,” she said. “I’m fine.”

“I wanted to be with you,” he repeated, and drew a deep breath. He would prefer to have this talk once they were home, where he could put his arms around her, but maybe now was the best time. At least she couldn’t walk away. “I’m sorry,” he said softly.

She didn’t glance at him. “For what?”

“For being an asshole; for being a stupid asshole. I love you more than anything or anyone else on earth, and I can’t stand the thought of losing you.”

“What about your girlfriend?” She made the word sound so immature, as if he were a horny teenager who couldn’t see past the moment.

He winced. “I know you don’t believe me, but I swear I haven’t been that stupid.”

“Exactly how stupid have you been?”

She had never let him get away with anything, he remembered. Even in high school, T.J. would pin him to the wall if he tried to evade telling her whatever she wanted to know.

Keeping his eyes on the road, because he was afraid to look at her, he said, “Flirting stupid. And kissing stupid. But no more than that. Not ever.”

“Not even groping?” Her tone said she didn’t believe him.

“Not ever,” he repeated firmly. “I… Damn it, T.J. it didn’t feel right, and I don’t mean anything physical. She wasn’t you. I don’t know; maybe I let my ego get the best of me, because I kind of liked the thrill, but it was wrong and I knew it.”

“Who exactly is ‘she’?” T.J. asked.

Saying her name took every ounce of courage he had, because putting an actual name to the woman personalized it, made it real. “Xandrea Conaway.”

“Have I met her?”

Galan shook his head, then realized she still wasn’t looking at him. “No, I don’t think so.”

“Xandrea,” she repeated. “She sounds like a mixed drink.”

He knew better than to say anything the least bit nice about Xandrea. Instead he said, “I do love you. Yesterday when you found out about Luna and I realized – ” His voice cracked. He had to swallow before he could continue. “When I realized you’re in danger, it was like a slap in the face.”

“Being hunted by a psycho killer is kind of an attention getter,” she said dryly.

“Yeah.” He decided to go for broke and asked, “Will you give me another chance?”

“I don’t know,” she said, and his heart sank. “I told you I wouldn’t be hasty or do anything drastic, and I won’t. My attention is a little splintered right now, so I think we should just shelve this discussion for a while.”

Okay, he thought. That was a swing and a miss, but he hadn’t struck out yet.

“May I sleep with you?”

“You mean have sex?”

“No. I mean sleep with you. In our bed. I’d like to make love with you, too, but if you won’t do that, will you at least let me sleep with you?”

She thought about it for so long that he began to think he’d swung at and missed another ball. Finally she said, “Okay.”

He heaved a sigh of relief. She wasn’t brimming over with enthusiasm, but she wasn’t kicking him out, either. It was a chance. They had a lot of years together, and that was holding them together when couples without much of a history might already have called it quits. He couldn’t expect to undo in one night the accumulated damage he had wrought over the past two years.

But she had hung in there with him, so he wasn’t going to quit now, no matter how surly she got, or how long it took him to make her believe he loved her. The most important thing was keeping her alive, even if she walked out on him afterward. He didn’t know if he could stand losing her, but he knew he sure as hell couldn’t stand burying her.

“I’m so tired,” Jaine said. “You must be exhausted.”

“I’ve been running on coffee all day long,” Sam replied. “The jolt is wearing off, though. Want to make it an early night?”

She yawned. “I don’t think I have a choice. I doubt I could stay awake if I tried.” She rubbed her forehead. “I’ve had a splitting headache all day, and nothing I’ve taken has been able to touch it.”

“Damn,” he said mildly. “We aren’t even married yet, and already you’re having headaches.”

That earned a faint smile.

“Did Shelley whip out a giant cucumber today?”

The smile grew a little, though it was tinged with sadness. “Yeah. Every time we closed our eyes, she plastered us with cucumber slices. I don’t know if they work, but they feel good.” She paused. “Did you make any progress today?”

He grunted in disgust. “All I’ve done is tread water. The computer didn’t turn up anything, so Bernsen and I have been going over the files to see if we missed something. Do you remember any harassment complaints, or any trouble between two employees?”

“I remember when Sada Whited caught her husband fooling around with Emily Hearst and they had a brawl in the parking lot, but I doubt that’s what you’re looking for.” She yawned again. “Harassment complaints, huh? I can’t remember any. Bennett Trotter probably should have a sexual harassment complaint filed against him every day, but I don’t think anyone has. And he has dark hair.”

“We haven’t ruled out brunettes. We haven’t ruled out anyone. Marci could have picked up that blond hair from someone she brushed against in the grocery store. Tell me more about Bennett Trotter.”

“He’s a jerk, always making comments that he thinks are sexy, but he’s the only one who thinks they are. You know the type.”

He did. He wondered if Bennett Trotter could provide proof of his whereabouts on the two days in question.

“There are several people whom no one likes,” Jaine continued. “My boss, Ashford de Wynter, is one. He was in a real snit over the List, until the company decided to go with the free publicity, then he mellowed out.”

Sam added Ashford de Wynter to his mental list. “Anyone else?”

“I don’t know everyone. Let’s see. No one likes Leah Street, but I don’t guess she counts.”

The name was familiar. It took him only a second to place it. “She’s the drama queen.”

“And a pain in the rear. I’m glad she’s not in my department. T.J. has to put up with her every day.”

“Anyone else besides Trotter and de Wynter?”

“No one that sticks out. I remember a guy named Gary or something like that who was really bent out of shape when the List first came out, because some of the women were ragging him about it, but he wasn’t violent about it, just sulky.”

“Can you find out his name for certain?”

“Sure. Dominica Flores was one of the women needling him. I’ll call her in the morning.”

It was strange how altered everything was, T.J. thought the next morning as she entered Hammerstead. Marci and Luna weren’t here. They would never be here again. As difficult to accept as Marci’s death was, Luna’s was impossible. T.J. still couldn’t get her mind around it. Luna had been so damn bright and sweet, how could anyone want to kill her over a stupid list?

The killer was here in this building, she thought. She might walk past him in the hallway. Maybe coming to work wasn’t the smartest thing to do, but in a weird way she had wanted to be here because he was here. Maybe he would say something, though she knew that possibility was remote. Maybe she would catch an expression on his face – something, anything, that would help them figure out who he was. She wasn’t any kind of Sherlock Holmes, but she wasn’t stupid, either.

Jaine had always been the most intrepid of their group, but T.J. figured she could be a little daring, too. Coming to work today felt daring. Jaine wasn’t coming in; the headache she’d had yesterday hadn’t let up, and she was spending another day with Shelley, being pampered.

T.J. had to admit she also liked the idea of Galan worrying about her. It was silly, maybe even stupid, to come to work when she knew he was alarmed about it, but he had taken her for granted for so long that his present intense concern was like balm to her hurt feelings. He had surprised her last night with what he said. Maybe they could make it together. She wasn’t going to rush into accepting his apology any more than she had rushed into a divorce when their marriage first started crumbling, but she did love him, and for the first time in a long while, she thought he might love her, too.

Luna and Shamal had finally worked out their differences, too, right before she had been killed. She had had two days of happiness with him. Two days, when she should have had a lifetime.

T.J. felt a sudden chill. Did she herself have only two days with Galan, to work on their fragile truce?

No. The killer was not going to get to her, the way he had to Marci and Luna. She couldn’t imagine how Luna could have let him into her apartment the way the police thought. Maybe he had already been inside, waiting for her. Sam said they hadn’t found any sign of forced entry, but maybe he could pick locks or something. Maybe he had somehow gotten his hands on a key. She didn’t know how he could have, but he had to have gotten in somehow.

If Galan was at work when she got home this afternoon, she thought, she wasn’t going inside the house alone. She would get a neighbor to walk through the house with her. And she had Trilby for added security; nothing got past the little dog. Cockers were very protective of their families. Sometimes her barking was a nuisance, but now T.J. was thankful she was so alert.

Leah Street looked up in surprise when T.J. entered the office. “I didn’t expect you today,” she said.

T.J. hid her own surprise. Leah’s clothing was never flattering, but she was at least neat. Today she looked as if she had grabbed something off the floor. She wore a skirt and blouse, but the skirt sagged on one side and the hem of her slip showed. T.J. hadn’t realized anyone still wore slips when they didn’t have to, especially in the late-summer heat. Leah’s blouse was wrinkled, and there was a stain on the front. Even her hair, which was usually so immaculate, looked as if she hadn’t combed it before coming to work.

Realizing Leah was watching her expectantly, T.J. pulled her mind back to what had been said.

“I thought working would help. You know, the routine of it.”

“Routine.” Leah nodded, as if the word was somehow profound.

Weird. But then, Leah had always been a couple of french fries short of a Happy Meal. Nothing drastic, just a little… off.

From what T.J. could tell, Leah was really off today, occupying her own little world. She hummed, she filed her nails, she answered a few calls. She sounded rational, at least, if not very effective. “I don’t know, I’ll get back to you,” seemed to be her phrase of the day.

A little after nine she disappeared, and came back ten minutes later with dirt stains on her blouse. Coming over to T.J. she leaned down and whispered, “I’m having a problem getting to some files. Will you help me move some boxes?”

What files? What boxes? Almost all their files were on computer. T.J. started to ask what she was talking about, but Leah gave a quick, embarrassed look around the office as if she was in some difficulty that had nothing to do with files, and didn’t want the others to know.

Why me? T.J. thought, but sighed and said, “Sure.”

She followed Leah to the elevator. “Where are these files?” she asked.

“Downstairs. In the Storage room.”

“I didn’t know anything was actually stored in ‘Storage’,” T.J. joked, but Leah didn’t seem to get it.

“Of course there is,” she said, sounding bewildered.

The elevator was empty, and they didn’t meet anyone in the first floor hallway, which wasn’t surprising considering the time of morning. Everyone was in his or her office, the computer nerds were probably having a spitball war, and it wasn’t time yet for the morning coffee break, when people started moving around more.

They went down the narrow, puke green hallway, and Leah opened the door marked “Storage,” stepping aside for T.J. to enter ahead of her. T.J. wrinkled her nose at the smell, dank and sour, as if no one had been in there for quite a while. It was also dark.

“Where’s the light switch?” she asked, not stepping inside.

Something hard hit her in the back, shoving her forward into the dark, smelly room. T.J. sprawled on the rough concrete floor, scraping skin off her hands and knees. Sudden horrified realization exploded in her mind, and she managed to roll to the side and scramble to her feet as a long metal pipe came whistling down.

She screamed, or she thought she did. She wasn’t certain, because her heartbeat was thunderous in her ears and she couldn’t hear anything else. She tried to grab the pipe, and wrestled briefly for possession of it. But Leah was strong, very strong, and with a hard shove knocked T.J. off her feet again.

T.J. heard that whistling noise again; then lights exploded in her head and she didn’t hear anything else.