ack Russo was in a good mood when he left the library. Sparring with Miss Daisy was a lot of fun; she pokered up, blushed, but didn't back down an inch. She reminded him a lot of his great-aunt Bessie, with whom he had spent many of his summers right here in Hillsboro. Aunt Bessie had been as straitlaced and starchy as they came, but remarkably tolerant of having an energetic boy with her for at least two months every summer.

Though at first he'd been agonized at being stuck in the sticks—as he'd thought of Hillsboro back then—he had grown to love both his great-aunt and his time here. His parents had thought it would be good for him to get out of Chicago and find out there was another type of world out there, and they'd been right.

At first he'd been bored to tears; he was ten years old and away from his parents and all his friends, all his stuff. Aunt Bessie had been able to get a grand total of four—four!—channels on her

television, and she did things like crochet every afternoon while she sat in front of the tube and watched her "stories." She went to church twice on Sunday, washed her sheets on Monday, mopped on Tuesday, shopped for groceries on Thursday because that was double-coupon day. He didn't need a clock to tell time; all he had to do was check what Aunt Bessie was doing.

And it had been hot. God, had it been hot. And Aunt Bessie hadn't had air-conditioning; she didn't believe in such foolishness. She had a window fan in each bedroom and a portable one she moved around the rest of the house as she needed it, and that was enough for her. Her screened windows were open to let breezes flow through the house.

But after he'd gotten over his tears and sullenness, he had gradually discovered the fun of lying in the sweet-smelling grass at sunset and watching the fireflies—or lightning bugs, as Aunt Bessie called them. He'd helped her in the small garden she tended every summer, learning to appreciate the taste of fresh vegetables and the work involved in getting them to the table. He had gradually gotten to know the neighborhood boys and spent many a long hot afternoon playing baseball or football; he had learned how to fish and hunt, taught by the dad of one of his new friends. Those six summers, beginning at age ten and ending when he was fifteen, became the best times of his life.

In a way, he had never become absorbed into Hillsboro culture; because he came only during the summer, he never met any of the kids other than the boys in the neighborhood. Since he'd been back in Hillsboro, he'd met only one man who remembered him, but over twenty years had passed since he'd stopped visiting Aunt Bessie except for lightning stops during the holidays, when people were busy with their own families and he hadn't had time to look up any of his old pals.

Aunt Bessie lived to be ninety-one, and when she died three

years ago, he'd been both startled and touched to find she'd willed her old house to him. Almost immediately he'd made up his mind to make the move from New York City to Hillsboro; he'd just gotten divorced, and though he'd been steadily moving up the ranks in the NYPD, he was getting tired of the stress and bustle of the job. The Special Weapons and Tactics team was fun, but the danger associated with it was one of the reasons behind his divorce. Not the big reason, but one of them, and on this issue he figured his ex-wife was at least half right. Being a cop's wife was tough; being the wife of someone who went to work only when the situations were the most dangerous took nerves of steel. Besides, he was thirty-six; he'd started at the age of twenty-one, in Chicago, then moved to New York. It was time to get out, look for something a little less edgy.

He made a couple of trips to Hillsboro, to look over the old Victorian house and see what repairs were needed, and at the same time put out some feelers for a job. Before he knew it, he was being interviewed for chief of police, and after that it was a done deal. He put in his notice—amid ribbing about being the Chief of Podunk—packed his stuff, and moved south. He had a staff of thirty, which was a joke compared to the size of the police force he'd just left, but Jack felt as if he'd found his niche.

Okay, so there wasn't a lot going on, but he liked protecting his adopted town. Hell, he even liked the city council meetings; he'd gotten a big kick out of the last one, with half the citizenry up in arms because the council had voted to install traffic lights around the square. It was ridiculous that a town of nine thousand people had only one traffic light, but to hear those people talk, all ten of the amendments in the Bill of Rights were being violated. If Jack had his way, traffic lights would be installed all over downtown, and at all the schools. Hillsboro lagged behind the times— he hadn't been joking when he called it Mayberry—but traffic was becoming more congested as people moved to the pretty little town, and he didn't want a schoolkid flattened by a car before the citizens woke up and decided maybe they did need more traffic lights.

Eva Fay Storie, his secretary, was on the phone when he entered his office, but she held up one finger to stop him, then handed him a cup of coffee and a sheaf of pink message slips. "Thanks," he said, sipping the coffee as he continued into his office. He didn't know how Eva Fay did it, but no matter what time he came into the office, she had a hot cup of fresh coffee waiting for him. Maybe she had his parking space wired, and a buzzer went off under her desk when he pulled in. One of these days he was going to park on the street just to see if he could throw her off. He'd inherited her from his predecessor, and both of them were satisfied with the status quo.

One of the calls was from a detective in Marshall County whom he'd become friendly with since moving to Hillsboro. Jack laid the other messages aside and immediately dialed the number on the slip.

"Petersen."

"What's up?" Jack knew he didn't have to identify himself. Even if Petersen didn't have Caller ID, Jack's accent was enough to give him away.

"Hey, Jack. Listen, we have an unidentified body on our hands, young, female, probably Mexican. Some kids found her last night."

Jack leaned back in his chair. There weren't any missing persons from Hillsboro who fit that description; they didn't have a large Hispanic population anyway, but no one at all had been reported missing in the past several months. "And?"

"Well, we don't have shit to go on. The rain washed away any tracks, and there's no obvious cause of death. No wounds, no strangulation marks, no lumps on the head, nothing."

"Overdose."

"Yeah, that's what I'm thinking. What has me worried, though, are the cases of GHB that've been cropping up in Huntsville, Birmingham, all over, with more every day."

"You think she was raped?"

"No way of knowing for certain until we get the autopsy report back from Montgomery, but I'd say so. She had on a dress, but no underwear. Anyway, I remembered a case Huntsville had a couple of months ago—"

"Yeah, I remember. It was pretty much the same."

They were both silent. If a guy was willing to slip one woman GHB so he could have sex with her, it was stupid to think he'd balk at doing it again. The problem was, GHB was so damn common and easy to get; it was a cleaning solvent, for God's sake. And guys took it, too; it was a high, and bodybuilders used it. The odds of finding any one guy weren't good, because too damn many women woke up without any memory of where they'd spent the night, or with whom, but with their bodies showing the evidence of sexual activity. To make it even harder to track the slimeballs down, very few of the women reported it to the police.

"How do you think I can help?" he finally asked, because Pe-tersen had to have called him for a reason, and not just to tell him about the case. Jack would have found out about it when he read the reports, anyway.

"I was wondering, have you had any GHB cases in Hillsboro?"

"Not that I know of, but we're dry." GHB went hand-in-glove with the bar scene, because alcohol disguised the saltiness so well. Without any bars in Hillsboro, it wasn't unusual that he hadn't had any date-rape cases involving Ruffies or GHB—yet. Sooner or later, some local kid would die from it, or a bodybuilder would get caught with it, but so far his little town hadn't been hit. That didn't mean there weren't users in Hillsboro; it just meant that they'd been lucky in that none of them had died.

"I still don't know where you're going with this," he said.

"Do you hit many of the area bars? Off-duty, of course."

"Hell, I'm too busy and too old for that."

"You never get too old for it, buddy; just go in one someday and check out the gray hairs. Anyway, I was thinking: you're fairly new to the area, and if you don't wander up to Scottsboro or over to Madison County in search of a little entertainment, then you aren't likely to be known outside of Hillsboro, are you? So you could maybe cruise the clubs and bars, listen to what's being said, maybe keep any eye out for someone slipping that shit into women's drinks. Go undercover, I guess."

"And strictly off-record and on my own," Jack said wryly.

"Hell, buddy, it's better that way. Nothing official. You're a single man with an active social life, so what could be more natural? And if, in the course of a night's entertainment, you notice something or accidentally overhear something, why, I do believe we have probable cause. Whaddaya say?"

"It's a long shot."

"Granted. But, damn it, I don't like having girls' bodies dumped in my county. I can work my usual sources and get some busts around here for possession, but that isn't going to stop the bastards who cruise the bars. We need an edge, and I think you might be the sharpest knife available to us."

"We don't want to get crossways with the DEA, maybe foul up an operation they have going."

"Fuck 'em," Petersen said cheerfully.

Jack had to laugh, because it really was a pretty good setup. If

he did step on some toes, it would be purely accidental. What

the hell, it wouldn't hurt him to spend some time in some clubs.

His experience was in SWAT, not narcotics, but he'd seen

enough to know what to look for. "Who else is going to know

about this?"

"About what?" Petersen asked, with an immediate case of amnesia.

"I don't guess you can tell me what some good clubs in the area are, can you?"

"Not speaking from personal experience, you understand, but I hear the Hot Wing in Scottsboro has some action. You might check out the Buffalo Club in Madison County, and the Sawdust Palace in Huntsville. I can come up with some more names if you're interested."

"Get me a list," Jack said, and hung up.

He leaned back in his chair, his eyes narrowed as he ran the plan in his mind again. There weren't any rules, because he was on his own. Hell, there really wasn't a plan, just a see-what-you-can-see mission. He'd have to play it by ear if he did happen to run across something, but his training had taught him how to act with initiative in fluid situations.

He felt the old surge of adrenaline through his veins, the tightening of anticipation. Maybe he missed the action more than he'd realized. This wasn't the same as a hostage situation or an armed standoff, but it was every bit as important. Women were getting raped and were sometimes dying because of GHB; if he could catch just one son of a bitch slipping it into someone's drink, he'd gladly nail his balls to the wall.

That night Daisy hesitantly knocked on Todd Lawrence's elaborate leaded-glass front door. The door itself was a work of art, painted a shade of blue that matched the shutters, with the detailing pinstriped in a dark green that made one think of a forest; given the number of potted plants on the wide porch, that analogy wasn't far off. The leaded glass gleamed as if it had just that day been cleaned with vinegar. Two antique bronze lamps bracketed the door, casting a soft light that made the entrance feel cozy and inviting.

Through the glass she saw a blurred figure approach; then the door opened and Todd Lawrence himself smiled down at her. "Hello, Daisy, how are you? Come on in." He stepped back and gestured with his hand. "It seems like ages since I've seen you. I don't get by the library as much as I should. Since I opened the store in Huntsville, it seems as if it takes up all my spare time."

Todd had always had a way about him that made you feel as if you were his best friend. Daisy's own contact with him had been limited, but his easy manner dissipated some of her nervousness. He was a slim, neat man, clad in tan chinos and a chambray shirt with the cuffs rolled back. Todd was about five-eleven in height, with brown hair and eyes and an easy smile, one that made you automatically want to smile in return.

"Successful businesses have a way of doing that," she said, following him into the front parlor and taking a seat on the overstuffed floral couch he indicated.

"Do they ever." He smiled ruefully. "I spend a lot of my free time going to auctions. A lot of nights there's nothing but junk and reproductions, but every so often a real gem will show up. The other night I bought a hand-painted Oriental screen for less than a hundred dollars, and sold it the next day for three thousand. I had a client who had been looking for something exactly like that."

"It takes a good eye to be able to tell real antiques from reproduction stuff," she said. "And years of study, I guess."

He shrugged. "I picked it up here and there. I like old furniture, so it was only natural that I paid attention." He put his hands on his hips and studied her, his head to the side. Normally such an examination would have made her uneasy, but Todd had a twinkle in his eyes that said, Hey, isn't this fun? "So, you want a makeover, do you?"

“An all-over makeover," Daisy said honestly. "I'm a mess, and I don't know what to do to correct it. I bought some makeup and

tried it, but there has to be a trick to it or something, because I looked awful."

He laughed. "Actually, there are several tricks to it."

"I knew it," she muttered, indignant. Would it have been too much trouble for the companies to have printed the real proper way to apply their products?

"Most of it, though, is just practice, and learning not to use too much." He made a dismissive gesture with his hand. "Makeup's easy; I can show you that in less than an hour. What else are you planning to do?"

She felt her face heat up at having to catalog her faults. For goodness' sake, weren't they obvious? "Well, my hair. I was thinking about having Wilma put in some highlights—"

"Good God, no!" he exclaimed, horrified.

Daisy sighed. "That was pretty much the same reaction I got from my family."

"Listen to them," he advised. "They know whereof they speak. Wilma hasn't kept up with the trends or the new developments in chemicals. I doubt she's been to a hair show since she got her license forty years ago. There are some good stylists in either Huntsville or Chattanooga who won't burn your hair off at the scalp."

Daisy shuddered at the mental picture of herself bald. Todd lifted a strand of her hair and fingered it. "Your hair's in good shape," he said. "There's no discernable style, but it's healthy."

"It doesn't have any body." Now that she had gotten started, she was determined not to leave out the slightest flaw.

"That's no problem. Getting some of this length cut off will help, and there are some marvelous products available now to give hair more body and make it more manageable, too. Lightening it will give it more body, too." He studied her again. "Forget highlights. I think you should go blonde."

"B-blonde?" she squeaked. She couldn't even picture herself as a blonde. She could barely conceive of how she would look with a few highlights in her hair.

"Nothing brassy," he said. "We'll have the stylist put in several shades, so it will look natural."

For someone who had never even put a temporary rinse on her hair, bleaching her hair to several shades of blond seemed at least as difficult as putting a man on the moon. "H-how long would that take?"

"Oh, several hours, I'd think. Your hair will have to be double-processed. "

"What's that?"

"Your own pigment will have to be bleached out, then blond pigment streaked in to replace it."

Well, at least that made sense. She didn't know if she'd ever have the nerve to do anything that drastic, but it was an option she could consider. "I'll think about it," she said dubiously.

"Think hard," he said. "What else?"

She sighed. "My clothes. I have no sense of style."

He looked at the skirt and blouse she wore. She had changed out of her pants as soon as she got home, because she couldn't stand another minute of worrying about whether or not people were looking at her butt. “Actually, you do,” he drawled. "Unfortunately, it's all bad."

Her cheeks turned red, and he laughed. "Don't worry," he said kindly, extending a hand to help her to her feet. "You just never learned how to make the most of yourself. You have a lot of potential."

"I do?"

"You do." He made a circling motion with his finger. "Turn around. Slowly."

Self-consciously she did so.

"You have a good figure," he said. "You should show it, instead of hiding it inside those old-lady clothes. Your skin is excellent, you have good teeth, and I like those odd eyes you have. I'll bet you’ve been embarrassed by your eyes all your life, haven't you?"

She almost squirmed, because as a child she'd been hideously aware of her different-colored eyes and always tried to blend into the background so no one would notice them. "For God's sake, play them up," Todd said. "They're different, special. It isn't as if you have one brown eye and one blue, which would really look weird, and I don't know if it's genetically possible anyway. You'll never be a ravishing beauty, but you can definitely be very, very nice to look at."

"That's all I want, anyway," she said. "I don't think I could handle ravishing."

"I've heard it's a burden," he said, smiling at her. "The best light is in my bathroom. So step into my boudoir, if you dare, and let's get started on this transformation."

Daisy extracted a small bag from her purse. "I brought my makeup."

"Let's see what you have." He took the bag from her and opened it. He didn't make a tsking sound, but she got the feeling he barely refrained. "That will do for a start," he said with kind forbearance.

He lead the way through his bedroom to the bath, and if Daisy had ever harbored any doubts about Todd's sexual affiliation, his bedroom settled it. It was exquisitely furnished in Chippendale, with a huge four-poster bed that was swathed in graceful swags of netting, and with huge, lush potted plants artistically arranged around the room. She wished her own bedroom looked half as good.

My goodness, even his bathroom was decorated. He'd done it

in green and white, with touches of peach and dusty blues. She'd never been in a man's bathroom before, she realized. She was faintly disappointed to see an ordinary toilet, though of course there was no reason for him to have a urinal hanging on the wall. Besides, it wouldn't have gone with the decor.

"I don't have a vanity chair, sorry," he said, smiling again. "Men don't sit down to shave."

She'd never thought of it before, but he was right; shaving was something else men didn't sit down to do.

"Okay, first get your hair away from your face. Do you have a headband or anything?"

She shook her head.

"Then tuck it behind your ears and brush it away from your forehead."

She did as he said. That awful self-conscious feeling was back; her fingers were clumsy, unable to manage the simple act of tucking her hair behind her ears without fumbling. She suspected she'd stumble over her own feet if she had to walk anywhere right now.

He opened a drawer in the built-in vanity and took out a box, about ten inches wide and five inches thick. He flicked the clasp, raised the lid, and trays unfolded—trays filled with all sorts of brushes and lipsticks, arrays of colors for the eyes and cheeks all displayed in little containers. "My goodness," she blurted. "You have more makeup than Wal-Mart."

He laughed. "Not quite. This box brings back memories, though. I was on Broadway for a while, and you have to slather on layers of makeup to keep from looking like a ghost when the lights hit you."

"That sounds like fun. I've never been to New York. I've never done much of anything."

"It was fun."

"Why did you come back?"

"It wasn't home," he said simply. "Besides, Mother needed someone to take care of her. That's the way it works: they take care of you when you're young, you take care of them when they're old."

"Family," she said, smiling, because her own was so close.

"Exactly Now," he said, his tone turning brisk, "let's get started."

Less than an hour later, entranced, Daisy stared into the mirror. Her lips parted in wonder. Oh, she wasn't a raving beauty, but the woman in the mirror was attractive, and she looked confident, lively. She didn't fade into the wallpaper. And most important, men would notice her!

The process hadn't been painless. First Todd had insisted she pluck her eyebrows: "You don't want Joan Crawford eyebrows, dear. She had one brow hair that grew to about three inches long, and she named it Oscar, or something like that." But thankfully he hadn't wanted her to have Bette Davis eyes, either, so she'd been able to limit the tweezing to a few stragglers.

Then he had walked her through the application of a full makeup job, and, to her relief, it wasn't very complicated. The main thing was not to use too much, and to always have a tissue and cotton tip at hand to repair any mistakes or wipe off excess. Even mascara was easy, once she had used the tissue to blot most of the goop off the little brush before applying it to her lashes.

"Heathens," she had muttered, surveying her lovely dark lashes in the mirror. There wasn't a caterpillar in sight.

"Beg pardon?"

"Mascara makers. They're heathens. Why don't they just tell you to blot most of the mascara off the brush before you start?"

"Honey, they have enough to worry about warning people not to poke it in their eyes, or eat it. I guess they figure if you really want to wear mascara, you'll learn how."

Open Season

Well, she had wanted, and she had learned.

"I did it," she said numbly, staring at her reflection. Her complexion was smooth and bright, her cheeks softly flushed, her eyes mysterious and larger, her lips full and moist. It hadn't been difficult at all.

"Well, honey, of course you did. There's nothing to it; just practice and don't go overboard with the color. Now, let's think about style. Which would you rather shoot for: nature girl, old money, or sex kitten?"

Todd stood in his open front door and cheerfully waved a goodbye to Daisy. He couldn't help smiling. This was the first time he'd ever spent any time with her, though of course he'd known who she was, and he really liked her. She was touchingly naive for someone her age, but fresh and bright and honest, without a jaded bone in her body. She had absolutely no idea how to make the most of her looks, but, thank God, he did. When he was finished with her, she was going to be a knockout.

He strode to the phone and dialed a number. As soon as the call was answered on the other end, he said, "I have a candidate. Daisy Minor."