leary-eyed at dawn on Saturday morning, Sam yawned and sat up on Luna’s couch. Around midnight the women had decided he could watch the apartment just as well from inside as he could outside, and insisted he come in. He was tired, so he did. He hadn’t had much sleep for two days and nights – he would have gotten more if there hadn’t been a certain smart-ass lying under him, insisting on wiggling her pretty butt – and was disgusted after a day chasing leads that turned out to be nothing on another case he was working, plus not getting anywhere on the files from Hammerstead. The computers hadn’t turned up anything so far on the names they had run, except for the odd unpaid ticket and a few domestic disturbances. By midnight, fueled by beer and chocolate, the four women were still going strong. Cheryl turned out to be a toned-down version of Marci, similar in looks and voice and with the same boisterous sense of humor. They had talked until they were hoarse, laughed and cried, drunk beer and eaten everything they could get their hands on. It had been an amazing sight.

They moved the wake into the kitchen, and he stretched out on the couch. He had slept, but with one ear attuned to the noise from the kitchen. Nothing alarming had happened, except he discovered that Jaine sang a lot when she was tipsy.

When he woke, he noticed immediately that the noise had died down. In fact, it was downright quiet. Quietly he opened the kitchen door and peeked in. They were all asleep, breathing with the heaviness of fatigue and alcohol. T.J. was snoring slightly, a delicate sound that didn’t qualify as a full-fledged snore. Having grown up in a house with four brothers and his dad, he knew exactly how a full-fledged snore sounded.

Jaine was under the table. Literally. She was curled up with her head pillowed on her folded hands, looking like an angel. He snorted; that was a real con. She had probably practiced sleeping like that since she was a little kid.

Luna rested her head on her folded arms, like a child in grammar school. She was a sweet kid, he thought, though she had to have some grit to her to hold her own with the others. Cheryl’s head was on the table, too, but she was using a pot holder as a pillow – a flat one. With enough beer inside you, a lot of things made sense that normally wouldn’t.

He searched for and found the coffee and filters and put on a pot of coffee, not making any attempt to be quiet. They continued to sleep. When the coffee was ready, he hunted through the cabinets for the coffee cups, and got down five of them. He poured four of them only half full, in case there were some shaky hands, but his he filled to the rim. Then he said, “Okay, ladies, time to wake up.”

He might as well have been talking to the wall for all the effect his announcement had.

“Ladies!” he sounded, more loudly.

Nothing.

“Jaine! Luna! T.J.! Cheryl!”

Luna lifted her head an inch and looked blearily at him, then let her head drop back down on her arms. The other three didn’t stir.

A grin spread over his face. He could shake them awake, he supposed, but that wouldn’t be much fun. What was fun was finding a pot and a metal spoon and banging them together, then watching the four women bolt upright, wild-eyed. Jaine hit her head on the table and yelled, “Son of a bitch!”

His mission accomplished, Sam distributed the coffee cups, bending over to give Jaine hers; she was sitting under the table, rubbing her head and glaring. God, he loved that woman.

“C’mon, get it in gear,” he said to the group at large. “The funeral is in roughly five hours.”

“Five hours?” Luna groaned. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure. That means you have to be at the funeral home in four hours.”

“No way,” T.J. pronounced, but she managed a sip of coffee.

“You have to sober up – ”

“We aren’t drunk,” came a growl from beneath the table.

“ – eat something, if you can, shower, wash your hair, whatever it is you have to do. You don’t have time to sit under the table growling.”

“I’m not growling.”

No, that was more like a snarl. Maybe some medicinal sex would sweeten her mood – if he lived through it. At the moment, he kinda knew how the male praying mantis felt when he was approaching Ms. Mantis, knowing the sex was going to be great but he was going to get his head bitten off.

Ah, well. Some things were worth losing your head.

Cheryl stood up, very creakily. She had the imprint of the pot-holder loop on her cheek. She drank some coffee, cleared her throat, and said, “He’s right. We have to get moving, or we’ll be late.”

A slender arm thrust out from under the table, holding an empty coffee cup. Sam got the carafe and refilled the cup. The arm was retracted.

God willing, he could look forward to forty or fifty years with her. It was scary. What was even scarier was that he liked the idea.

T.J. finished her coffee and got up for a refill, so she was functional. She said, “Okay. I can do this. Let me pee and wash my face, and I’m good to drive home.” She stumbled down the short hall, and a sudden wail floated back: “God, I can’t believe I told Sam I have to pee!”

Fifteen minutes later he had them all lined up, even Jaine, and they were all scowling at him. “I can’t believe you’re making us do this!” she snapped, but obediently blew into the Breathalyzer.

“I’m a cop. No way am I letting any of you drive until I’ve checked that you’re okay.” He looked at the reading and grinned, shaking his head. “It’s a good thing I’m here, babe, because you aren’t driving anywhere. You’re slightly over the limit.”

“I am not!”

“Yes, you are. Now drink some more coffee and be quiet while I check the others.”

Cheryl was okay. T.J. was okay. Luna was okay, barely.

“You cheated!” Jaine accused, her expression thunderous.

“How in hell can I cheat? You’re the one who blew into it!”

“Then it’s wrong! It’s defective. We all drank the same amount, so how can I be over the limit when no one else is?”

“They outweigh you,” he said patiently. “Luna’s pushing the edge, but she’s legal. You aren’t. I’ll drive you home.”

Now she looked like a sulky kid. “Which vehicle are we going to leave here, yours or mine?”

“Yours. Let it look as if Luna has company, if anyone checks the parking lot.”

That argument got to her. She was still pouting, but after a minute she said, “Okay.” With only a little more trouble he got her bundled into his truck, where she promptly went back to sleep.

She woke up enough to get into his house under her own power, but she stood glowering as he turned on the shower and began stripping himself, then her.

“Did you intend to wash your hair?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Good. Then it won’t matter when I do this.” He picked her up and swung her into the shower, directly under the stream of water. She sputtered and coughed, but didn’t fight him. Instead she heaved a big sigh, as if the water felt good.

After her hair was shampooed and rinsed, she said, “I’m not in a good mood.”

“I noticed.”

“I’m always cranky when I haven’t had enough sleep.”

“Oh, is that the problem?” he asked dryly.

“The biggest part. I’m usually very happy when I’ve had a few beers.”

“You were happy last night. This morning is a different story.”

“You think I have a hangover. I don’t. Well, a little headache, but not much. Just let this be a warning to you if you keep me from sleeping again tonight.”

“I kept you from sleeping? I kept you from sleeping?” he repeated incredulously. “You are the same woman who shook me out of a sound sleep at two A.M. yesterday morning, aren’t you?”

“I didn’t shake you. I kind of bounced on you, but I didn’t shake you.”

“Bounced,” he repeated.

“You had a hard-on. I couldn’t let it go to waste, could I?”

“You could have woke me up before you started not letting it go to waste.”

“Look,” she said, exasperated, “if you don’t want it used, don’t lie on your back with it sticking up like that. If that isn’t an invitation, I don’t know what is.”

“I was asleep. It does that on its own.” It was doing it on its own right now, as a matter of fact. It poked her in the stomach.

She looked down… and smiled. It was a smile that made his testicles draw up in fear.

With a sniff, she turned her back on him and ignored him as she finished showering.

“Hey!” he said, to get her attention. Alarm was in his tone. “You aren’t going to let this one go to waste, are you?”

They made it to the funeral home on time, but it was close. He drove her back to Luna’s to pick up her car, so if the killer was at the funeral, he wouldn’t see her getting out of Sam’s truck and figure out where she was staying. With the Cobra in his garage, he had to park the truck either in the driveway or in Jaine’s garage, which was a pain in the ass, since she didn’t have an automatic garage door opener.

He was relaxed, and Jaine was in an infinitely more mellow mood, too. Medicinal sex was great stuff. She had managed to resist him for a full five minutes, but just when he was beginning to really sweat, she cuddled up to him with a sparkle in those blue eyes and whispered, “I’m feeling tense. I think I need relaxing.”

She looked great, he thought, watching her from across the room. She wore a neat little navy suit that hit right at her knees, and sexy pumps. She had let him watch while she put on what she called her “funeral face”. Evidently women had a makeup strategy for every occasion. The eyeliner and mascara were waterproof, to head off smudges. No blush or foundation, just powder, because she would be hugging people and didn’t want to leave smears on their clothing. And kiss-proof lipstick in what she called a “discreet mauve,” though he had no idea what in hell mauve was. Her lipstick looked pinkish, but women couldn’t just say “pink.”

Women were a different species. Aliens. That was the only explanation.

Cheryl wore black and looked very dignified. Her husband had joined her, and stood beside her, holding her hand. T.J. wore a dark green suit, and her husband also attended with her. Mr. Yother was a trim, all-American type, with neat brown hair and regular features. He didn’t hold T.J.’s hand, and Sam noticed that T.J. didn’t look at him very often. There was trouble there, he thought.

Luna wore a form-fitting column of red that hit her at mid-calf. She was, simply, beautiful. She walked over to join Jaine, and Sam moved closer, to hear what they were saying.

“Marci loved red,” Jaine said, smiling at Luna and reaching for her hand. “I wish I had thought of it.”

Luna’s lips trembled. “I wanted to send her off in style. This isn’t in bad taste, is it?”

“Are you kidding? It’s great. Everyone who knew Marci will understand, and if they didn’t know Marci, then they don’t matter.”

Roger Bernsen was there, trying to blend in. He didn’t do it very well, but he was trying. He didn’t come over to speak, but then, they weren’t here to socialize. They moved around, studying the crowd, listening to conversations.

There were several blond men in attendance, but Sam carefully studied each one of them and none seemed to be paying any special attention to Jaine or the others. Most of them were with their wives. The killer could be married, he knew, and live a very normal life on the surface, but unless he was a stone-cold serial killer he would show some kind of emotion when faced with his handiwork, and his other targets.

Sam didn’t think they were dealing with that land of killer; the attacks were too personal, and too emotional, like someone out of control.

He continued to watch all during the graveside service, which was mercifully brief. The heat was already stifling, though Cheryl had scheduled the service as early as possible to avoid the worst part of the day.

He caught Bernsen’s eye, and Roger slowly shook his head. He hadn’t spotted anything either. Everything was being taped, and they would watch the film later, to see if there was anything they had missed, but Sam didn’t think there was. Damn it, he’d been certain the killer would attend.

Cheryl was weeping a little, but mostly keeping it under control. Sam saw Jaine blot her eyes with the edge of a folded tissue: more female strategy to preserve the makeup. He didn’t think his sisters knew all these tricks.

A pretty, slender woman in a black dress approached Cheryl and was extending her condolences when she suddenly broke down and collapsed in Cheryl’s startled arms, sobbing. “I just can’t believe it,” she wept. “The office isn’t the same without her.”

T.J. and Luna moved closer to Jaine, both of them eyeing the woman with “what’s going on?” expressions. Sam walked over, too. People were grouping in clusters, politely ignoring the emotional storm, so he wouldn’t be conspicuous doing the same thing.

“I might have known Leah would play this for all she’s worth,” T.J. muttered in disgust. “She’s a drama queen,” she added, for Sam’s benefit. “She’s in my department, and she does this on a regular basis. Give her something the least bit upsetting and she turns it into a tragedy.”

Jaine was watching the display in disbelief, her eyes wide.

She shook her head and said mournfully, “The wheel’s still going around, but her hamster’s dead.”

T.J. choked on a bark of laughter and tried to turn it into a cough. She quickly turned her back, her face red as she tried to control herself. Luna was biting her lower lip, but a snicker broke through and she, too, had to turn her back to the scene. Sam covered his mouth with his hand, but his shoulders were shaking. Maybe people would think he was crying.

A red dress! The bitch wore a red dress. Corin couldn’t believe his eyes. That was so shameful, so cheap. He wouldn’t have believed it of her, and he was so shocked it was all he could do to keep his hands off her. Mother would be horrified.

Women like that didn’t deserve to live. None of them did. They were dirty, filthy whores, and he would be doing the world a favor by getting rid of them.

Luna sighed with relief when she finally stepped into her apartment and could lock off her high heels. Her feet were killing her, but looking good for Marci was worth the pain. She would do it all again if she had to, but she was glad she didn’t.

Now that the funeral was over, she felt numb, exhausted. The wake had helped immensely; talking about Marci, laughing, crying, had been a catharsis that had allowed her to get through the day. The funeral itself, the ritual, was its own comfort. Her dad had told her that military funerals, with all the pomp and protocol and the precisely orchestrated movements, were a comfort to the families. The rituals said: This person counted. This person was respected. And the services were sort of an emotional marker, a point at which the grieving could honor the dead and yet have a starting place for the rest of their lives.

It was funny how they had all connected to Cheryl. It was like having Marci, but different, because Cheryl was definitely her own person. It would be nice to stay in touch with her.

Luna twisted her arms to reach the back zipper of her dress, and had it half unzipped when someone rang her doorbell.

She froze, sudden panic freezing her veins. Oh, my God. He was out there, she knew it. He had followed her home. He knew she was here alone.

She edged toward the phone, as if he could see through the door and know what she was doing. Would he break it down? He had broken into Jaine’s house, by knocking out a pane of glass, but was he strong enough to break down a door? She had never even thought to find out if her door was reinforced, or a simple wooden door.

“Luna?” The voice was puzzled, low. “It’s Leah. Leah Street. Are you okay?”

“Leah?” she said weakly, relief making her dizzy. She bent over at the waist, breathing deeply to fight off the shakes.

“I tried to catch up with you, but you were in too much of a hurry,” Leah called.

Yes, she had been. She had been desperate to get home and out of those shoes.

“Just a minute, I was about to change clothes.” Why on earth was Leah here? she wondered as she crossed to the door and unchained it. Before she unlocked it, however, she put her eye to the peephole to make certain it was Leah, though she knew she had recognized the voice.

It was Leah, looking sad and tired, and suddenly Luna felt guilty about the way they had laughed at her at the funeral. She couldn’t imagine why Leah wanted to talk to her, they had never exchanged more than a few words in passing, but she unlocked the door. “Come in,” she invited. “It was miserably hot at the service, wasn’t it? Would you like something cold to drink?”

“Yes, please,” Leah said. She was carrying a large shoulder bag, and she eased its weight off her shoulder, clutching it in her arms like it was a baby.

As Luna turned to go to the kitchen, she noticed how Leah’s blond hair glistened in the light. She checked, a tiny frown knitting her brow, and started to turn back.

She was too late.