aren Whitlaw, Karen Whitlaw." A man named Carl Clancy stood at the pay phone—it had taken forever to find one with a directory—and ran his finger down the tissue-thin page. It was just after noon, and the sun was baking him. He shifted position so his body blocked the glare from the paper. No Karen Whitlaw was listed, but he found a K. S. Whitlaw. He would bet that was her. Single women always used their initials; the practice was so common they might as well go ahead and have their full names printed, except for the simple precaution of protecting their full names.

He dropped some change into the slot and dialed the number. After four rings, he heard the click of an answering machine, and a pleasant female voice said, "You've reached 555-0677. Please leave a message."

Smart girl, he thought with approval. She hadn't given out her name to any jackass who happened to dial her number. People did that all the time, gave out their names on their answering machine messages, even put signs on their mailboxes or in their yards announcing "The Hendersons," or whatever. Fools. All some burglar had to do then was look up Henderson in the phone book until he came to that address, then call to see if anyone was home. If no one answered, he could waltz right in, secure in the knowledge he was alone.

In this case, however, Carl already knew her name. The call had just verified her address. She was probably at work; the information he'd received on her said she was a nurse. He could take his time, give the house a thorough toss, find the book Hayes wanted. If he couldn't find it, Hayes said, torch the house, just to be on the safe side. Maybe the book was in a safe deposit box, but people were seldom that cautious with valuable items; they just found what they thought was a clever hiding place somewhere in their home.

Returning to his car, he took out the city map he had bought and located Karen Whitlaw's street. He could be there in fifteen minutes, max; plenty of time to do the job and catch his late-afternoon flight.

He drove through the neighborhood, looking for Neighborhood Watch signs and neighbors who were out gardening or mowing their lawns. The houses were smallish and past their prime. He saw only a few children playing, and most of the cars in the driveways were older sedans, which told him that the majority of the houses were owned by old people whose kids had long since grown up and left or young couples who had bought their first houses and hadn't yet started their families. The houses with no cars in the driveway would belong to the young couples, who were at work.

That was both good and bad. There weren't many people at home in the neighborhood, but those who were would likely be old people. Old folks were nosy. They knew what cars belonged in the neighborhood and what cars didn't, and they didn't have anything better to do with their time than peer out windows.

Well, a few old folks couldn't keep him out of a house he wanted into. The trick, if he was seen, was to look as average as possible and to act as if he had every right to be there. Even better was if no one saw him. He was good at not being seen; that was why Hayes had picked him for the job.

He drove around until he found a convenience store and parked the rental car as far to the side as he could. In case the clerk was watching out the window, he went inside and bought a soft drink, taking care not to make eye contact or do anything that would make him memorable. Leaving the car there, he briskly walked the three blocks to Karen Whitlaw's house.

When he reached her street, he began cutting through backyards, using shrubbery and fences for cover. People put all sorts of junk in their backyards, which was great for concealment. Generally, his biggest problem was dogs. Dogs were a pain in the ass. He could hear one of the little bastards now, yapping its head off inside the house he was now behind. Carl settled into place behind a bush, remaining motionless until the yapping ceased.

Finally, he reached the Whitlaw house. Getting in was a piece of cake. The lock on the back door wouldn't keep out a determined ten-year-old; he opened it within seconds. God, if people only knew.

He did a walk-through of the house first, checking the most obvious hiding places: the freezer compartment of the refrigerator, on top of cabinets, under chairs. He didn't know exactly what the book looked like; no one did. Just look for a little notebook, Hayes had said. It'll be old and dirty.

There weren't any old, dirty notebooks in any of the obvious hiding places. Methodically, Carl began tossing the house. He looked in every drawer, took every drawer out and checked for anything taped behind or underneath. He felt the curtains to see if anything had been sewn into the hems, examined all the cushions and pillows for a resewn seam or any suspicious lumps. He didn't wreck the place; that was for malicious amateurs. The real art was to get in and out without leaving a trace of his presence. He didn't slash the furniture, and he put everything back in place after he had examined it.

There were framed photos sitting around, some of them of a smiling young couple. He assumed the pretty little blonde in the pictures was Miss Whitlaw. He wouldn't mind having her as his nurse, especially if she sat on his lap the way she was doing with some grinning idiot in one of the photos. The grinning idiot was the guy in the other pictures; evidently, he was the man of the moment.

In the bedroom, he found men's clothing in the closet and shaving gear in the bathroom. He clucked his tongue. Miss Karen had a live-in boyfriend, or at least one who stayed over regularly enough to leave some of his clothes here. Maybe she had even married him, recently enough that the number in the phone book was still listed in her name.

The house was small; he was efficient. Within two hours, he had covered it, and the book wasn't there unless she had gotten real clever and hidden it under the house or, somehow, in the ceiling. He found the trap door into the attic area and peered around, but everything was dark and dusty, and it was more than a hundred degrees up there. Nor was he inclined to crawl around under the house; that wasn't a good hiding place, because it was so dank. The moisture ruined everything.

He was certain the book wasn't on the premises, but Hayes's orders had been to burn the place if he didn't find the book. He shrugged. Orders were orders, and Hayes was a careful man. Carl set about following those orders.

In his opinion, the best way to burn down a house was a grease fire in the kitchen; there weren't any accelerants to raise suspicion, and it always looked like an accident. Fires started in kitchens all the time.

He whistled softly as he set to work. Bless her, Miss Karen had fried up some bacon that morning and left the pan of grease sitting out to cool. Using a towel, he turned on the gas burner and set the pan on top of it, then arranged the towel so that it was close enough to catch fire when the grease blazed up. He made a silent bet with himself, then opened the cabinet door closest to the stove. Yep, that was where she kept the cooking oil, in both bottles and spray cans, right where they were closest to the heat and were most likely to catch fire. She couldn't have made it any easier for him if she had tried.

Professional that he was, he didn't leave without knowing he had done his job. While he waited for the grease to flame up, he took a battery out of the smoke detector and reversed it, then put the detector back in place. He hated listening to that damn shrill noise.

Smoke was filling up the kitchen pretty good now. He opened all the doors in the house so the fire could get good air flow and spread more quickly. He didn't enjoy burning the house; he even regretted upsetting the pretty little blonde. It would hurt her to lose all her pictures and things. But a job was a job, and this wasn't personal.

Crouching on the floor to stay out of the deadly smoke, he waited until the pan on the stove flamed with a sudden whoosh. The towel caught fire immediately, and tongues of flame leaped up the cabinet. Carl quickly left the house then and took his usual precautions returning to the car. He glanced back occasionally and at last was rewarded by the gust of black smoke that meant either the roof or a wall had been breached by the flames. It was tempting to drive by the house to make certain it was engulfed, but that was a bad idea, and he knew it. Never go back. As old as the house was, and the way he had opened up all the rooms, the fire would spread too quickly for anything to be saved.

He checked his watch when he heard the first siren in the distance: ten minutes. Too long. Houses burned much faster than people realized; they thought they would have several minutes in which to rescue their treasured possessions. Wrong. By the time most fires were noticed, the people inside had about thirty seconds in which to get out. The only way he had been able to remain as long as he had was because he had been aware of the fire from the beginning, he had stayed low, and he had been near the door. By the time the fire department actually got to the house, every room would be involved. They would concentrate on keeping the flames from catching the trees on fire and spreading to the other houses.

He gave a mental shrug as he drove away. He had both failed and succeeded. He didn't have the book, but if it had been anywhere in that house, it was now totally destroyed. He had carried out Hayes's instructions, though they seemed excessive to him. He'd tell Hayes he didn't think the book was there, and what Hayes did then was his own business. Carl had done his job.

The dented, rusted pickup rolled to a stop at the end of the narrow dirt road, and two lanky teenage boys bailed out. The dead end widened into a large open area, the left side of which was a rocky pit. Two rough-hewn sawhorses were positioned in front of the pit, a plank placed across them. On the plank sat an assortment of tin cans, and the ground beyond was littered with more.

From the gun rack behind the seat, the two boys took a pair of.22 rifles. "Man, Shavon was all over Justin last night," one said, shaking his sandy head. "She was so shit-faced I bet she ain't woke up yet."

"And if she has, I bet she wishes she hadn't," the other boy replied, and they both laughed as they expertly slotted.22 longs into their rifles. "Does her daddy know she drinks?"

"I don't see how he can help it, considering she goes home from her dates drunk all the time." Disapproval colored the boy's voice. "I ain't got nothing against drinking, but Shavon stays drunk as much as she does sober. She's gonna wreck that car of hers one day and kill somebody, and then there's gonna be trouble."

"Her daddy's just as bad. I guess she comes by it honest."

The two positioned themselves, their sneakers toeing a shallow rut in the dusty red ground that revealed how often they indulged in tin can plinking. They began firing methodically, and one by one the tin cans went spinning. When all of the cans were down, the two trudged to the sawhorses and began resetting the cans for another round. As they walked back, the sunlight glared on something shiny just beyond the clearing, making one boy squint his eyes. "Damn, that's bright! There's something behind that big bush."

"Looks like a car," the other replied, craning his neck. He was the taller of the two. "Let's go see."

"Reckon somebody's back there making out?"

"If there is, bet his pecker lost its starch when we started shooting." They snickered at the idea. A quick look darted between them, and the taller boy held a finger to his lips. They tiptoed toward the bush, barely containing their snorts of laughter at the thought of catching some of their friends doing something they shouldn't be doing. Or maybe it was some of their friends' parents, which would be even better.

The two boys moved with the silence of longtime hunters. When they got closer to the huge bush, they could make out the roof outline of a car, and the tall boy made a motion with his hand indicating they should slip around to the rear. They did, and when the rear of the car came into view, they stared in disappointment at the Louisiana plates. Even more disappointing, no one was visible in the car.

"Shit, all this sneaking for nothing."

"Shh! Maybe they're layin' down in the seat."

"No way." The boy straightened. "Look, the windows are rolled up. Ain't nobody making out in a car in this heat with the windows up."

"Maybe the car's stolen, and somebody stashed it out here."

They looked around, strong young hands tightening on their rifles. Making no effort at stealth now, they walked up to the car. It was a white Pontiac four-door, coated with a layer of red dust. The tall boy leaned down and peered in the driver's-side window, then jerked back so violently he stumbled and almost fell. "Shit! There's a dead man in there!"

Karen felt the heat as soon as she stepped from the jet into the extended accordion of the jetway. The air was heavy with humidity, and sweat popped out on her forehead as she lugged her carry-on bag up the slight slope. She had dressed in a short-sleeved summer suit that felt too cool while she was on the plane, but now she was sweltering. Her legs were baking inside her panty hose, and sweat trickled down her back.

Detective Chastain had been right about the airlines; she had made one call, spoken to a sympathetic, calmly efficient reservations agent, and found herself scurrying in order to get packed and to the airport in time to catch the flight. She hadn't had time to eat before getting on the plane, and her stomach had clenched in revolt at the thought of eating the turkey sandwich served during the flight. She disliked turkey anyway; there was no way she could eat it with her stomach tied in knots and her head throbbing with tension.

The headache was still with her. It throbbed in time with every step she took as she followed the signs to the baggage claim area. She had never felt the way she felt now, not even when her mother died. Her grief then had been sharp, overwhelming. She didn't know what she felt now. If it was grief, then it was a different variety. She felt numbed, distant, oddly fragile, as if she had crystallized inside and the least bump would shatter her.

The weight of the bag pulled at her arm, making her shoulder ache. The air felt clammy even inside the terminal, as if the humidity seeped through the walls. She realized she hadn't called ahead to reserve a room. She stood in front of the baggage carousel, watching it whirl around with everyone's bags except hers, and wondered if she had the energy to move from the spot.

Finally, the conveyor spit out her bag. Keeping a tight grip on her carry-on, she leaned over to grab the other bag as it trundled past. A portly, balding man standing beside her said, "I'll get it for you," and deftly swung the bag off the belt.

"Thank you," Karen said, her heartfelt gratitude evident in her voice as he set the bag at her feet.

"My pleasure, Ma'am." Nodding his head, he turned back to watch for his own bags.

She tried to remember the last time a stranger had been so courteous, but nothing came to mind. The small act of kindness almost broke through the numbness that encased her.

Her taxi driver was a lean young black man wearing dreadlocks and an infectious smile. "Where you goin' this fine day?" he asked in a musical voice as he got behind the wheel after stowing her bags in the trunk.

Fine day? Ninety-eight degrees with a matching percentage of humidity was a fine day? Still, the sky was bright blue, unclouded, and even over the reek of exhaust in this island of concrete, she could catch the scent of vegetation, fresh and sweet.

"I don't have a room yet," she explained. "I need to go to the Eighth District police department on Royal Street."

"You don't wanna be carryin' your bags around in no police station," he said, shaking his head. "There's a bunch of hotels on Canal, just a few blocks from where you want to go. Why not check into one first, then walk on down to Royal? Or I can take you to a hotel right in the Quarter, but it might be hard to get a room there if you don't have a reservation."

"I don't," she said. Maybe all taxi drivers gave advice to weary travelers; she didn't know, not having traveled much. But he was right; she didn't want to lug her bags around.

"The bigger hotels, like the Sheraton or the Marriott, are more likely to have vacancies, but they're gonna be more expensive."

Karen was so exhausted that she cared more about convenience than cost. "The Marriott," she said. She could afford a few nights in a good hotel.

"That's just two blocks from Royal. When you come out of the hotel, turn right. When you get to Royal, turn right again. The police department's a few blocks down, you can't miss it. Big yellowish place with white columns and all the patrol cars parked out by the fence. It's in all the TV shows about New Orleans, looks like one of them old Southern mansions. I reckon cops still work there, since the cars are still there."

She leaned back and closed her eyes, letting the flow of words wash over her. If she could make it through the next few hours, she would go to bed early and get a good night's sleep, and tomorrow she would feel normal again instead of so unnervingly fragile. She didn't like the feeling. She was a healthy, energetic, calm, and competent young woman, known on the surgical floor for her level head. She was not an emotional basket case.

Within the hour, she was installed in a room with a huge king-size bed and a view of the Mississippi River and the French Quarter, which to her disappointment looked ramshackle, at least from the vantage point of fifteen floors up. She didn't take the time to unpack but did splash cold water on her face and brush her hair. It must be fatigue making her so pale, she thought, staring at her reflection over the sink. Her dark brown eyes looked black in comparison with the pallor of her cheeks.

The taxi driver's directions made it sound easy enough to get to the police station, no more than five or six blocks, too short a distance to bother with another taxi. The walk would help clear her head.

She almost changed her mind about walking when she stepped out into the heat. The afternoon sun burned her skin, and the thick air was difficult to breathe. She would have taken a taxi after all if the sidewalks hadn't been buzzing with people who didn't seem to notice the heat. Usually, heat didn't bother her this much, either, and the nineties weren't uncommon in Ohio during late summer.

Her stomach roiled, and she fought back a rise of nausea. Maybe she was coming down with something, she thought. That would explain how awful she felt.

But even with all her present stress, practically from the very moment she turned right off Canal onto Royal Street, she felt the charm for which the French Quarter was famous. The streets were narrow, and Royal was clogged with cars parked on both sides. The sidewalks were cracked and uneven, the buildings old and, for the most part, dilapidated. But the doors were painted with bright, festive colors, flowers bloomed in boxes, ferns and palms turned second-and third-story balconies into gardens. Intricate wrought-iron railings and gates drew the eye, and alleys were lined with lush vegetation, hinting at the gardens beyond. She caught a variety of accents and languages as she passed other people. If the circumstances had been different, she would have loved to go into some of the exotic-looking shops.

But today she didn't have the energy to do more than place one foot in front of the other and hope the police station wasn't much farther down the street.

Even on the shady side of the street, the sidewalks held the day's heat, and it was burning through the soles of her shoes.

Finally, she saw several police cars parked in front of a stately mansion; when she got close enough, she saw the sign on one of the white columns: "New Orleans Police 8th District." The building was a creamy shade that was too golden to be salmon and too pinkish to be tan. Black wrought-iron fencing surrounded the building and its immaculate landscaping. A genteel garden party wouldn't have looked out of place there.

Karen went inside the open gates and up a couple of wide, shallow steps. A massive door opened into an enormous room with blue walls and a ceiling that looked at least fifty feet high. Globed lighting fixtures, pamphlets for tourist attractions, and the general air of a museum made her wonder if she was in the right place after all.

A female police officer was sitting behind a raised desk. She seemed to be the only other person there. Karen looked up at her. "Does a Detective Chastain work here?"

"Yes, Ma'am, he does. I'll call and see if he's in. What's your name?"

"Karen Whitlaw."

The officer spoke quietly into the phone, then said to Karen, "He's in, and he said to come to his office." She pointed in the appropriate direction and recited instructions. "Take a right, and it's the third door on the left."

Ceiling fans whirled overhead as Karen followed directions; the stirring air raised chills on her arms after the furnace of the streets. She had never been in a police department before. She expected something approaching mayhem; what she found was ringing phones, people sprawled in chairs, clouds of cigarette smoke, and the odor of strong coffee. It could have been any busy, disorganized office, except for the fact that most of the people there were armed.

She found the appropriate door and knocked on it. That smooth, dark voice she remembered so well said, "Come in."

She opened the door, and her stomach twisted again, this time with pure nervousness, as she looked at the man rising to his feet. Detective Chastain wasn't what she had expected. He wasn't middle-aged, pot-bellied, or balding. Mid-thirties, she guessed. He looked like a man who had seen too much ever to be surprised by anything again. Thick black hair was worn cropped close to his head, and he had thick eyebrows arching over narrow, glittering eyes. His skin was olive-toned, and his five o'clock shadow was heavy. A couple of inches over six feet, broad-shouldered, muscled forearms; he looked tough, maybe even mean. Something about him scared her, and she wanted to run. Only the years of discipline learned on the job kept her from doing so.

Marc stood as Karen Whitlaw stepped into his cramped office. He had the usual cop's talent for sizing up people, and he used it now, studying her with eyes that gave nothing away while he noted every detail about her. If she was distressed in any way by her father's death, she didn't show it. Her expression said that she thought this was all bullshit, but she'd get through it and then get on with her life.

Pity, he thought, assessing her again, and this time with a man's eye instead of a cop's. He didn't have much use for coldhearted people, but she was a pretty woman. Mid- to late twenties, with a face that managed to be both exotic and all-American, clearly shaped but with a slant to her cheekbones, an intriguing sultriness to her dark, slightly deep-set eyes. Better than pretty, he thought, revising his opinion. She was understated, so her looks didn't jump out at a man, but she was definitely worth a second look.

Nice shape, too; medium height, slim, with high round breasts that hadn't jiggled at all when she walked. That meant they were either very firm or she wore a killer bra. On a purely physical level, he would like to find out which it was. Steadily increasing pressure in his groin told him he would like that very much. He gave a mental shrug. It happened sometimes; he'd have a strong sexual reaction to a woman he didn't even like. Mostly he ignored the urge, because the payoff wasn't worth the cost.

He held out his hand to her. "I'm Detective Chastain."

"Karen Whitlaw." Her voice was a little throaty but as composed as her face. Her fingers were cool, her hand delicate in his, her handshake brief and firm. She had beautiful hands, he noticed, with long tapered fingers and short, unpolished, oval-shaped nails. No rings. No jewelry at all except for a serviceable wristwatch and a pair of small gold balls stuck in her earlobes. Miss Whitlaw obviously didn't believe in gilding the lily, but then she really didn't have to.

Her hair was as dark as her eyes, brushed back simply from her face. It hit her shoulders with a slight undercurl. She was neat. Businesslike. Unemotional.

It was the unemotional part he didn't like. He hadn't expected her to be sobbing, but people usually exhibited some sign of grief or shock, however controlled, at the death of a family member, estranged or not. Regret usually caused a few tears even if there was no genuine grief. He couldn't see either in this self-possessed woman.

"Sit down, please." He indicated a chair, the only chair in the tiny office other than his. It was straight-backed and didn't invite people to relax and linger.

She sat, her skirt positioned to fall at the middle of her knee. She kept both feet on the floor. She was so still she reminded him of a porcelain doll. "You said on the phone that my father's death appeared to be the result of random street violence."

"Not random," he corrected, sitting down and closing a file that had been open in front of him. "Whoever killed him meant to do it. But the reason—" He shrugged. The reason could be anything, from drugs to a dispute over a cardboard box. With no witnesses, no murder weapon, no leads of any kind, the case was dead, and no one was going to put out any more effort on it.

She sat in silence for a moment. Though he would have respected at least some show of emotion or remorse, at least she wasn't yelling at him, demanding that he find her father's killer, as if she really cared what had happened to him. Marc toyed with the idea of finding out if by chance she had taken out a large insurance policy on her father. The possibility wasn't remote; money was at the bottom of a lot of murders, though it could just as easily be over something as mundane as how a steak was cooked.

"How long has it been since you saw your father or heard from him?"

"Years." She looked as if she were about to say something else, but instead, she pressed her lips firmly together and let the single word stand.

"Are there any life insurance policies on him?"

"Not that I know of." Shocked, she realized what he was thinking.

"You didn't know where, or how, he was living?"

Karen sensed his hostility, though he kept his face impassive, his eyes hooded. Detective Marc Chastain definitely disapproved of her for some reason, but if he pursued the insurance angle, he would hit a dead end. Maybe he expected her to start screaming at him because he obviously wasn't working very hard to find out who had murdered her father. But she hadn't expected an all-out effort. She was a nurse; she saw all too often what happened when a homeless person was the victim of a crime. Police departments nationwide worked with limited resources, and they couldn't waste their precious time or money on useless causes. Hospitals did it all the time. Triage was necessary, or everyone lost.

She could have told him that, but she was too hot, too tired, and too stressed to care what he thought. Her head was pounding. She felt as if she were about to fly apart in all directions, her emotions roiling, and the only way to handle it was to stay in control. That was the way she did it at work, when a patient died no matter how conscientious she was in her care, no matter how good the doctor was, no matter that it was a sweet-faced child or a lively old lady with a sparkle in her eye. People died all the time. She had learned how to handle it.

"He didn't keep in touch," she finally said.

"He was a Vietnam vet." Statement, not a question.

"Yes." She knew where this was leading. The disturbed vet, in need of psych care, cast out and ignored by his family because he was too much trouble, too much of an embarrassment with his moods and rages and unpredictability.

But Detective Chastain didn't say it; he didn't have to. Karen read it in his cool, narrow-eyed gaze.

"He walked out on us when I was a child," she said sharply, more sharply than she had intended. She could feel her control frazzling, feel the jagged edge of some pain she refused to let herself identify, and sternly fought her emotions back in line. There would be time enough for that later, when she was alone and this hard-faced, dark-browed man wasn't looking at her with veiled contempt.

She didn't owe him any explanations. She didn't have to reveal the pain and anger and fear of her childhood, just so he would think better of her. All she had to do was get through the next couple of days, then return to Ohio and go back to work, to the silent, empty apartment that wasn't home yet despite having lived there for four months.

"What do I have to do to claim the body?" she asked after a moment, her voice once more cool and composed.

"You have to identify him, sign some papers. I'll walk you through it. Have you made arrangements to take him back to Ohio?"

Karen sat there, stunned. She hadn't thought of that. She had been focused on getting through the funeral, but not where the funeral would be. She didn't have a plot in Ohio where she could bury Dexter. There wasn't room next to her mother's grave—not that she wanted that, anyway, but Jeanette would have.

Karen's hands twisted together as she tried to control the sharp jab of pain. She had let her mother down. Jeanette had asked very little from her and had given everything, but Karen had let her own resentment of her father prevent her from doing what her mother would have wanted.

"I—I didn't even think—" she said, then wished she hadn't. His expression was as lively as a rock's, but again she sensed that wave of disapproval.

Regret speared through her, not because of what Detective Chastain thought of her but because she had wasted so much time feeling bitter, letting it cloud her thinking. No more.

Chastain gave a brief shrug, broad shoulders moving in a gesture that was oddly Gallic. Karen thought that maybe because she was in New Orleans, she expected everything to have a French flavor. And maybe she was even more stressed than she had realized, if she was letting unimportant details distract her. She had been trained to keep her mind on the job in front of her, not on trivia such as how a New Orleans cop shrugged.

"If you can't handle the expense of taking him back, I can help you find a burial plot here," he offered, though she could tell he hoped she would refuse. "Not in the city, that would be impossible, but a few miles out of town. Or you might consider cremation. It would be cheaper."

Cheaper. He thought she would have her father cremated because it was cheaper. She didn't have anything against cremation, if that was what someone wanted, but she couldn't help thinking of Jeanette again. Dexter should be buried beside her. She had to deal with this now, but when she got back to Ohio, she would start making arrangements to have her parents buried together. She would have to locate two plots side by side, deal with the legalities and technicalities of moving the bodies—oh, God, she couldn't think of her mother as a body.

She couldn't think at all; her mind was growing number by the minute. And whatever Detective Chastain's private opinion of her, he had at least offered his assistance. She was uncomfortable accepting his help, knowing he didn't like her, but right now she desperately needed it. "Thank you," she forced herself to say, her voice unusually husky. "I'm not usually so disorganized. My mother died just a few months ago, and I'm still not—" She stopped, looking away, appalled that she was making excuses for herself.

He stood and retrieved his jacket from the back of his chair. "I'll drive you to the morgue now, if you feel up to it."

She didn't, but she stood anyway. She stared at him, wondering how he could stand wearing a jacket in this heat. She felt dizzy, both too hot and too cold at the same time, sweat trickling down her spine and raising a chill. The lazily turning ceiling fan merely stirred the warm air. She didn't understand it; she had dressed in the coolest suit she owned, but she might as well have been muffled in wool instead of cotton.

Then Detective Chastain's hand was on her arm, a warm, hard hand. She felt the calluses on his fingers, smelled the light lemony tang of his aftershave, and she had the blurred impression of a big body standing very close to her, too close, almost as if she were leaning on him. An arm was around her back, and the hand holding her arm forced her back down onto the chair, the strength in his grip somehow reassuring. "Sit here," he ordered quietly. "Put your head down, and take deep breaths. I'll get you something cold to drink."

She did take the deep breaths, but she thought that if she bent over to put her head down, she would just keep going until she was on the floor. So she sat motionless, her eyes closed, as he left the small office. From beyond the open door, she could hear people talking, telephones ringing, papers rustling. There was a lot of cursing, some of it sharp and angry, some uttered in lazy, liquid accents that almost made her forget the content of the words.

Cops. Nurses who worked the emergency and trauma units were around a lot of cops, but except for some periods of training, she had always been a floor nurse, so the world of a cop was alien to her. Her mind drifting, she listened to them talk: hard, profane, callous, and yet curiously concerned. Cops and nurses had a lot in common, she thought sleepily. They had to harden themselves against heartbreaking details but still care about the overall situation.

"Here you go."

She hadn't heard him return, but suddenly an icy soft drink can was pressed into her hand. She opened her eyes and blinked at it. Usually, she drank decaffeinated diet soda, but this was the real stuff, chock full of sugar and caffeine.

"Drink it," he said. Evidently, it was an order, not a suggestion, because he lifted her hand and tipped the can to her mouth.

She was forced to swallow, childlike, and flashed him a look of resentment. He met it with a sort of bland insistence that once again made her think of a rock. Detective Chastain was about as yielding. With a flash of insight, she thought that he would be relentless when going after something he wanted. She would hate to be a criminal with Chastain on her trail.

The soda fizzed on her tongue, tart and sweet at the same time, and it was so cold she could feel it slide down her esophagus. He made her take another swallow before deciding she could manage on her own, but even then, he moved less than a foot away to prop against the edge of his desk. He stretched out long, muscular legs clad in lightweight olive slacks, his loafer-shod feet just inches from her own much smaller shoes. She pulled her feet back a little, oddly disturbed, her stomach clenching in a reaction that was almost like fear, which was ridiculous. She didn't fear Chastain; despite his attitude, she was even grateful to him.

"Drink all of it. The humidity's kind of like altitude," he said easily. "Both of them can sneak up on you and knock you flat. For a minute there, your eyes weren't focused. Feeling better now?"

She was. Karen realized she had almost fainted at his feet. She was a nurse; she should have recognized the signs. By not eating that day, she had all but set herself up for a faint, and the heat and humidity certainly hadn't helped. Every thread on her felt clammy. How embarrassing it would have been if she had sprawled on her face.

Given his veiled dislike, she wondered why Detective Chastain hadn't let her do just that. But he'd been both alert and unexpectedly kind, and she remembered that swift sense of security she had felt at his supporting touch.

"Thank you," she said, looking up at him again. This close to him, she realized with surprise that his eyes were a pale, crystalline gray, with dark charcoal rings around the outer rims of his irises. Given the darkness of his hair and brows, his olive complexion, she had thought his eyes would be dark, too. Or maybe she had been on the verge of fainting before she walked into his office, because how else could she not have noticed such a glittering color? Her stomach clenched again, and she took a deep breath to calm herself. "I'm ready to go to the morgue now."

Whatever his thoughts, she couldn't read them on his face. "You don't have to actually view the body," he explained. "The medical examiner's office uses videotape for identification purposes. It's easier on families."

Evidently, he thought the prospect of the morgue, of viewing her father's body, had gotten to her as much as the heat and humidity. "I'm a nurse," she heard herself saying. "The sight of a body isn't likely to make me go to pieces, but still—" Still, she was glad it would be on videotape.

He put his hand on her arm again, cupping her elbow in an old-fashioned gesture. "Then we might as well get it over with, hadn't we?"