cPherson punched in a number on his secure cell phone. "This thing is getting curiouser and curiouser," he said when the call was answered. "Dexter Whitlaw was killed the same day in New Orleans, which isn't all that far from where Rick's body was found, same caliber weapon. The detective working the case is a sharp son of a bitch; he made me the minute I walked in his office. He put in the request for info on Rick on a hunch. I'd say he's got a hell of an instinct."

"Who's Dexter Whitlaw?" said the voice on the other end. "I don't know him."

"He was a Marine sniper in Vietnam, damn good one. Sneaky son of a bitch. Patient. He could outwait the second coming of Christ. Anyway, we got acquainted with Dex in Saigon, and he and Rick were… well, I don't know that I'd go so far as to say friends, but they respected each other, you know?"

"So he and Dad met up in New Orleans."

"Seems like it. Don't know why, though. But it made someone nervous, someone who didn't want the two of them together."

"That means it was someone who knew both of them." The voice was cool, unemotional.

"I'd even say it was someone who knew them from Nam. As far as I know, Dex dropped out of sight after he got back from Nam. Couldn't handle it; went native. The detective said he'd been living on the streets but evidently had a source of income because he was healthy and well fed."

"His family probably sent money to him. I'll check out his next of kin. Has Vinay found his leak yet?"

"No, and he's damn pissed."

"I'll stay outside channels when I talk to him. About this detective. He made you. Does this need taking care of?"

"Only if you're thinking of recruiting him—which wouldn't be a bad idea, by the way. He looked at my shoes and pegged me for NSA or the Company. He's that sharp, that quick. He doesn't need two twos to come up with four."

A sigh came over the line. "Those damn Guccis."

"I couldn't see buying wingtips for the occasion."

"So you think we should use him as an asset?"

"Unless you recruit him outright."

"He might be more valuable where he is."

"Agreed."

The Gulf Coast cities were prime gun-running ports. Knowing when and where the weapons were going could give their analysts valuable insight on where the next brush-fire war was going to pop up. Sometimes the fire needed to be lit, sometimes it didn't. Sometimes the shipments would be intercepted, sometimes they wouldn't.

"The funeral is at two tomorrow. Will you be here?"

"Unless you need me to do something else." With John, you never knew. He was like a spider, pulling on six invisible threads at the same time.

"It will be interesting to see who's around."

Meaning who would be surveilling the funeral to ID John. Just getting a photograph of him would be worth a lot of money to a lot of people and quite a few governments. There was always the possibility that Rick had been killed for no other reason than to draw John into a public situation. Not that any photograph of him tomorrow would be worth a shit. McPherson had known John most of his life, and he probably wouldn't recognize him tomorrow even if he was standing right next to him.

"Will Vinay have a net on the area?"

"I'd like an extra set of eyes. Someone closer in."

And that meant John hadn't ruled out an inside job. At this point, he hadn't ruled out anything, though the information about Dex Whitlaw meant the possibility that Rick had simply been the victim of a robbery/murder was just about down the tubes. As Detective Chastain had said, that was straining coincidence a little too far.

But John was a cool, subtle thinker, which was what made him so dangerous and so valuable. He weighed probabilities, percentages, possibilities, saw shadows and details others missed. Jess McPherson didn't completely trust many people, but John Medina was one of them. Frank Vinay was another. And Rick Medina had been on that list as well. Losing him hurt.

"I'll be there," he said gruffly, and disconnected.

Marc checked his watch: nine forty-five. The small, pitiful body on the autopsy table was telling a tale of horror, of a short life spent in pain and terror. He had checked the area hospitals and come up with a list of visits to the emergency departments that made him cringe. Little James Blake Gable had already had ten "accidents" this year, accidents serious enough to warrant medical attention. The Gables had avoided attention by using a different hospital each time. One of the doctors should have picked up on the signs of systematic abuse, but no one had.

What about the families? Hadn't either Mr. or Mrs. Gable's family noticed something was wrong? Hadn't they noticed their grandson was slowly being murdered or that Mrs. Gable had become reclusive? Sure they had. What Marc couldn't understand was how they had just let it go, ignored it, probably hoping things would get better. Well, things never got better unless someone did step in. Now it was too late for the little boy, and Marc had a sinking feeling that time was running out for Mrs. Gable, too.

He checked his watch again. Even with everything he had going on right now, he needed to call Karen. The urge to do so tightened his stomach, knotted his nerves. It wasn't just that he wanted to get things settled between them; he felt uneasy, restless.

He hadn't talked to her in twenty-four hours, and suddenly, he thought it was twenty-four hours too long. He wanted to know she was all right, tell her how he felt, get her back to New Orleans, somehow. Maybe it was because the CIA, in the form of Mr. McPherson, had come sniffing around after he had Shannon put out the feeler on Medina. All the details about Dexter Whitlaw's murder that had struck him as unusual—the neatness of the hit, the lack of noise that indicated silencers, the expensive pistol in Whitlaw's possession—took on a lot more importance when teamed with the information that he had known the other murder victim, who just happened to have worked for the CIA. A simple street murder had become complicated.

No, it wasn't that. He struggled to pay attention to the autopsy, but the tension in his gut wouldn't go away. As soon as this was over, he would call her. He should already have done it. Never mind needing to calm down; what he needed was to talk to her. This was two mistakes he'd made, he thought grimly. The first was leaving her alone yesterday morning, the second was not calling until he finally got her instead of the answering machine.

His radio crackled to life. Dr. Pargannas looked up and scowled at the interruption. Marc listened to the code for a suspected murder in the Garden District. The address was very familiar to him. "Ah, shit! The son of a bitch has killed his wife!" He spat the words out as he ran from the autopsy room.

Defeat was a bitter taste in his mouth. He'd been afraid of this. He had been caught between the need to have everything right so the bastard couldn't get off on a technicality and the need to hurry, to do something now. In another two hours, he would have had an arrest warrant, and Mr. Gable would be safely locked away. For Mrs. Gable, two hours was now a lifetime too long.

When he got to the house, the wide, tree-lined street was choked with patrol cars. The heat and humidity wrapped around him like a blanket as he walked up the sidewalk and into the cool, high-ceilinged elegance of the house. He was sick with fury and helplessness, but he shoved his feelings aside so he could do his job—for all the good that would do Mrs. Gable now.

"Where?" he asked one of the patrol officers.

"Upstairs." The woman looked rattled.

He climbed the wide, curving stairs and followed the commotion to a bedroom. The room was huge, probably thirty by thirty, and decorated like Hollywood's idea of European royalty. The big bed was draped with white net that hung from the ceiling. Ornate mirrors and original oil paintings decorated the walls, and furniture was arranged into two formal conversation areas. Tall alabaster vases held arrangements of irises coordinated with the color scheme of the room, which was white and gold with accents of peach and blue. A new color had recently been added to the room: red.

A lot of red. Red that sprayed, red that pooled, red that was turning rust-colored as it dried.

Mrs. Gable sat on one of the sofas. The back of her head was gone. She hadn't fallen over, simply slumped back against the cushions as if now she could relax. Her eyes were open, empty with death. Death wasn't peaceful; it was just nothing. Everything gone. No more sunrises, no more hopes, no more fears. Nothing.

She wore a white silk gown and negligee, low-cut, sheer. Sexy. Marc crouched in front of her, his gaze cataloging the mottled bruise on her neck he had glimpsed yesterday, as well as all the other marks. There was a small purplish mark on the upper curve of her breast, the sort of mark lovers left on each other. He suspected that the autopsy would find Mrs. Gable had had sex not long before her death. The bastard had probably thought making love to her, treating her tenderly for a change, would keep her quiet about how their little boy had died.

Maybe that was what had pushed her over, the fact that he had killed her son and then come to her for sex. Maybe she had planned it anyway.

Marc turned his head and looked at Mr. Gable's body, or what was left of it, sprawled in the bathroom doorway. She must have waited until he was about to step into the shower, then walked into the ornate bathroom and emptied a pistol into him. From the looks of it, she had then reloaded and kept shooting until the gun was empty again. The remnants of body parts were splattered around him. She had been very particular in what parts she shot off. Then she had reloaded once more, walked to the sofa, sat down, put the gun barrel in her mouth, and pulled the trigger.

The letter of the law was not always the same thing as justice. Mrs. Gable had sought justice for her son and achieved it by her own ends. Perhaps she had then killed herself because she couldn't face prosecution, or because she couldn't face life without her child—or in atonement for acting too late to save him.

Marc stood, his expression grim and set. All that was left for him to do was the paperwork.

Karen sat curled on a bed in one of the emergency department cubicles. She didn't know why she was here, but she was too numb to protest, even to care. She couldn't go to the apartment; the police had it roped off until they finished their investigation. She didn't want to go to the apartment. She wouldn't ever be able to sleep there again, even after that man's blood and gray matter were cleaned from the door… the carpet…

The medics had been insistent that she have medical attention, though she told them she was a nurse and was capable of assessing her own injuries, none of which required hospitalization or even emergency care. Her face was bruised, she had carpet burns on her knees and a small cut, too minor to require stitches, on her foot, and her ribs were sore, probably from the struggle. None of the shots had hit her, though the last one had been close enough that bits of Sheetrock had gotten in her eye, but eyewash had taken care of that problem.

All in all, she was in good shape, considering that man had been trying his damnedest to kill her.

She had no doubt about his intention. Once he had known she was in the apartment, he hadn't fled, which was what the run-of-the-mill burglar would have done. Instead, he had come after her, pistol in hand.

But why? That was what the policemen had asked, and she had asked it herself. Violent home intrusions happened. She was a woman living alone, a prime target. She hadn't lived in the apartment long; perhaps the man had thought someone else lived there. But he hadn't ransacked her apartment looking for valuables. He had carefully searched it and neatly returned everything to its place. And then he had tried to kill her.

Bad things happened in groups of three, the old saying went. Dexter had been shot. Her old house had burned. And now this. If the old saw was accurate, her life should be peachy keen now.

But she hugged a blanket around her shoulders to fight off the chill she couldn't shake and tried to control a sense of impending doom. What else was going to happen?

"Ms. Whitlaw?"

It was one of the detectives, standing outside the drawn curtain of her cubicle. Her apartment had been swarming with detectives, uniformed policemen, medics, and people from IA, since any shooting by a police officer was automatically investigated. Outside the building, reporters and spectators had gathered. Every local television station had been represented.

"Yes, come in," she said.

He parted the curtain and stepped inside. He was middle-aged, his face shiny with sweat. How could he be sweating? It was so cold in here, the air conditioning must be turned on maximum. He sat down in the single chair in the cubicle, and Karen pulled the blanket tighter around her, shivering.

He watched her with that cool, assessing cop look, as if he didn't believe anything anyone told him. Marc had that look, too, she thought, and she wanted him here so much she ached inside. She had never felt safer than when she had been with Marc, and just now she needed that security.

"Detective Suter," he said by way of introduction. "Do you feel like answering some questions?"

They had taken a brief statement from her at the apartment, but since there was no question about the manner of the man's death, her importance to them was as a witness, not a suspect. The medics had wanted to transport her to be checked out, so they had let her go and taken care of more pressing matters.

"Yes, I'm fine," she said automatically.

He gave her an assessing look but didn't argue. He flipped open a small notebook. "Okay, in your previous statement, you said you were in the bedroom when you heard the suspect enter the apartment—"

"No, he was already inside. I didn't hear him enter. I heard him stop outside my bedroom door and look in." She knew what she had said, and it wasn't that she had heard him enter.

He looked back at the notebook and didn't comment. Maybe he had been testing her, to see if the details still matched.

"But he didn't see you?"

"No. He didn't come into the bedroom. I was standing off to the right, next to the window. The bedroom door opens to the right, so I was hidden from view unless he came all the way into the room."

"What did he do then?"

"After that, he wasn't as quiet. Since he didn't see me, he must have thought no one was at home. He went into the kitchen and began… searching."

"Searching?" He seized on the word.

"That's what it seemed like. He looked in the cabinets, because I could hear the drawers and doors opening and closing. He even looked in the refrigerator."

"What for?"

She raised her hands in a helpless gesture. "I don't know."

"Okay, what did he do then?"

"He turned the kitchen chairs upside down and looked under them." Her voice mirrored her bewilderment.

He wrote in his little notebook. "What did you do?"

"I—I didn't think I could get out of the apartment; from where he was, he had a clear view of the door. I tiptoed to the phone by the bed and put the receiver under a pillow to muffle the noise, then dialed nine-one-one."

"Good thing you did," he said. "The responding officers were less than a block away. They didn't know what apartment, but the street address was enough to get them there."

"They figured out what apartment," she said, staring blindly at the floor. "It was the one where shots were being fired."

He cleared his throat. "Uh—yeah. What happened then?"

"I tried to sneak into the bathroom, because that's where I keep my hairspray."

He gave a brief smile, and for a moment he was a man instead of a cop. "Smart. That stuff gets in your eyes, it burns like hell."

"I know. It was all I had." She swallowed, trying not to remember the terror of facing an armed burglar with nothing more than a can of hairspray. "The bathroom door squeaked a little. He heard it. I—" She took a deep breath. "I thought he must have, because the noise from the kitchen stopped. I just stood there in the bathroom with the can in my hand, watching the door to see if it moved. He shoved it open, and I sprayed him in the face. He had the gun in his hand," she finished, and fell silent.

"Did you know him?"

She shook her head.

"Maybe seen him around?"

"No."

"So what happened then?"

"I shoved him, but he caught my gown, and we both fell on the bed. I sprayed him again, and he hit me." Unconsciously, she touched her cheekbone. "I hit him on the nose, with the can of hairspray. I remember kicking him with both feet… then I rolled off the bed and crawled to the door, and he started shooting." She fell silent, remembering the blur of details, the terror, the rage.

Detective Suter didn't ask any more questions, didn't prompt her, but she could feel him waiting for the rest of the story, for what happened after the police officers arrived. She rubbed her forehead, trying to get the details straight. "I made it out the door of the apartment… the officers were just coming up the stairs. I almost ran into them. The man came out of the apartment and aimed his gun at me, and they shot him. He didn't fall. He… he laughed and shot at me again, and they shot him again."

"Did anyone say anything?"

"Both officers yelled at him to drop the gun. That's when he laughed and said… ah—" She looked at the detective and cleared her throat. Funny, she normally wasn't such a prude, but she simply couldn't say the word in front of this man who was old enough to be her father. "To paraphrase, he said, 'Screw you.' Then he shot at me the last time."

He looked down at his notes and nodded, as if she had corroborated something he already knew. He closed the notebook and slipped it inside his jacket. "That's all for now. Where can I get in touch with you, if I need to talk to you again?"

She stared at him. "I don't know," she said blankly. "You won't let me back into my apartment."

"Do you have family here?"

"No." Her throat closed. "No family."

"Friends?"

"Yes, but I don't—" Piper had offered her house, her company. "Maybe Piper Lloyd. She's a nurse here at the hospital, too." She gave him Piper's number. "Even if I'm not staying there, Piper will know where I am. Or you can reach me here at the hospital. I work nights."

He gave her a shrewd look. "I bet you won't work tonight."

"Of course I will," she said, automatically rejecting the notion that she wasn't fit. Why did everyone keep acting as if she had suffered more than some minor bruising and a small cut?

He sighed and rubbed the back of his head. "Ms. Whitlaw, it's none of my business, but I think you should cut yourself some slack. You handled the situation just about as well as possible, under the circumstances. You kept your head, didn't panic, alerted nine-one-one, and defended yourself with the means you had at hand. But you haven't had any sleep, you've been in a fight—and believe me, you're going to start feeling all sorts of bruises and aches. Look at you. You're shivering and huddling under that blanket, but it isn't cold in here. You're a nurse. What does that tell you?"

Shock. Her mind immediately supplied the diagnosis. Her blood pressure had dropped after the surge of adrenaline that allowed her to fight off the burglar. Karen was annoyed. She should have recognized the symptoms and been lying down. This was twice she had been oblivious to what her own body was telling her, she who was one of the best on the surgical floor at looking at patients and quickly summing up their overall condition.

"All right, so maybe I won't work tonight," she admitted. "I need a uniform, anyway. How do I get my things from the apartment?"

"Make a list of what you need, and I'll have a policewoman pack a bag for you."

"How long will it be before I can get back in?"

"A couple of days. I'll try to hurry things along."

"I can't live there again."

He sighed and reached out as if he would pat her knee, then paused without making the gesture of comfort. She diagnosed his hesitation as fear of lawsuits. "No," he said, "I don't guess you can."

The sound of running feet caught her attention, and a moment later Piper burst into the cubicle. She was red-faced and panting. "Karen! My God, are you all right? One of the emergency nurses called upstairs and told us you were here. You were mugged?"

"Not exactly."

Detective Suter got to his feet. It looked like an effort. "I'll be in touch, Ms. Whitlaw. And I'll get your things to you."

"Thank you," she barely had time to say, before Piper shifted from concerned friend mode to nurse mode and pushed her down on the bed.

He hadn't heard from Clancy, who was always prompt about reporting. Hayes waited, growing more annoyed and worried by the minute. Finally, he called his source in Columbus.

"Anything interesting happened today?"

"Ah, yeah. The good guys killed a burglar in a lady's apartment. She was at home, surprised him, put up a good fight and got away. The word is he was a pro; the piece he was carrying had the serial number filed off."

"No shit. Did he have anything else on him?"

"Nothing on him, but a rental vehicle was located in the parking lot, and a wallet with his license and credit cards was found in the glovebox."

Hayes hung up and sat drumming his fingers on the desk. Clancy was dead. How in hell had that happened? He'd been one of the best.

Moreover, nothing had been found on him, so that meant he hadn't found the book. Hayes spared a moment for regret that the book hadn't been on him; it would now be in police possession, but he would know where it was, and getting it out of police possession was child's play.

Karen Whitlaw was beginning to worry him. This was twice things had gone wrong. The first time was a logical mistake, but now he wondered why she had moved. To make herself harder to find? How much had her father told her?

Hayes's preference was to find the book, not kill the woman. But, logically, she was the only one who would know where the damn thing was hidden. If he couldn't find the book, then obviously he had to get rid of her.