lenn Sykes was a professional. He was careful, he paid attention to details, and he didn't let himself get emotionally involved. He'd never spent a day in jail; in fact, he even had a clean driving record, without so much as a speeding ticket to his name. Not that he hadn't had a speeding ticket, but the driver's license he'd presented had been in a different name, an alternate identity he'd prudently set up for himself some fifteen years previously

One of the reasons he was successful was that he didn't draw attention to himself. He wasn't loud, he seldom drank—and never when he was working, only when he was alone—and he always kept himself neat and clean, on the theory that law-abiding people were more likely to keep an eagle eye on anyone hanging around who looked dirty and unkempt, as if dirt somehow translated into shiftiness. Anyone who saw him would automatically categorize him as Joe Average, with a wife and a couple of kids,

and a three-bedroom house in an older subdivision. He didn't wear an earring, or a chain, or have a tattoo; all those, however small, were things that people noticed. He kept his sandy brown hair cut fairly short, he wore an ordinary thirty-dollar wristwatch even though he could afford much better, and he watched his mouth. He could and did go anywhere without drawing undue attention.

That was why he was so disgusted with Mitchell. The dead girl wasn't anyone important, but her body, when it was discovered, would still draw attention. The resultant investigation probably wouldn't amount to much, and he'd been careful to make certain the cops wouldn't have anything to go on, but mistakes happened and even cops got lucky occasionally. Mitchell was jeopardizing the entire enterprise; Sykes had no doubt that if Mitchell was ever arrested in connection with those girls' deaths, he'd drop every name he'd ever known in an effort to strike a deal with the D.A. Mitchell's stupidity could get every one of them a prison sentence.

The hell of it was, if Mitchell couldn't get it up with a conscious woman, there were other ways to do it. GHB was a crap shoot; you might take it one time and be okay, with just a gap in your memory. The next time, it could shut down your brain. There were other drugs that would work; hell, booze would work. But, no, Mitchell had to slip them GHB, like he was getting away with something and no one would notice when the girls didn't wake up.

So Mitchell had to go. If Mayor Nolan hadn't given the word, Sykes had already decided it was time for him to be moving on, before Mitchell brought them all down. But the mayor, for all his southern-fucking-gentleman manners, was as cold and ruthless as anyone Sykes had ever met; he didn't pretend that he couldn't sully his hands with murder—though Sykes didn't exactly call killing Mitchell murder. It was more of an extermination, like stepping on a cockroach.

First, though, he had to find the bastard. With a cockroach's talent for self-preservation, Mitchell had gone to ground and hadn't turned up at any of his usual haunts.

Since Mitchell was already spooked, Sykes decided to play this low-key While it would have been satisfying to simply walk up to the bastard's trailer and put a hole between his eyes as soon as he opened the door, again, things like that tended to attract attention. For one thing, Mitchell had neighbors, and in Sykes's experience neighbors were always looking out the window just when they shouldn't. He could dispose of Mitchell in far less dramatic ways. With luck, he could even make it look like an accident.

Mitchell knew his car, so Sykes borrowed one from a pal and cruised through Mitchell's neighborhood, if you could call two ramshackle trailers and one dilapidated frame house, surrounded by junk, a neighborhood. They were the types of places inhabited by women with frizzy hair who wore tight, stained tank tops that showed their dirty bra straps, and by men with long, straggly hair, yellowed teeth, and an unshaken belief that life had done them wrong and owed them something. Sykes didn't openly look at any of the three places as he drove by; with his peripheral vision he searched for Mitchell's blue pickup, but it wasn't there. He'd drive by again after dark, see if any lights were on, but he didn't really expect the cockroach to turn up again so soon.

Seeing how Mitchell lived always reminded Sykes of how narrow his own escape had been. If he hadn't been smarter, made better decisions, he might be Mitchell. Now, that was a scary thought. But he came from the same trashy background; he knew exactly how Mitchell thought, how he operated. In his work that was a plus, but Sykes never wanted to actually live that way again. He wanted more. Hell, Mitchell probably wanted more, too, but he was never going to get more because he kept making those stupid decisions.

With an eye to the future, Sykes salted away every dollar he could. He lived simply, but cleanly. He had no expensive habits or vices. He even played the stock market a little, with conservative stocks that didn't perform spectacularly, but nevertheless always posted a gain. One day, when he had enough—though he wasn't certain exactly how much was enough—he would walk away from everything and move where no one knew him, start a small business, settle down as a respected member of the community. Hell, he might even get married, have a couple of rugrats. His imagination couldn't quite conjure up that picture, but nevertheless it was possible.

Mitchell wasn't jeopardizing just Sykes's immediate future, but all of his plans. Those plans were what had gotten him out of the trash dump of a house where he'd grown up, what had given him a goal when it would have been so much easier to just let himself drift in the sea of waste. It was always easier to do nothing. Don't worry about cleaning the house or cutting the grass, just drink another six-pack of beer and smoke another joint. Never mind there's no food in the house for the kids; when that monthly check comes in, first thing, you gotta get your booze and drugs, before the money gets gone. It was easy. It was always easier to blow the money rather than spend it on things like food and electricity. The tough ones, the smart ones like him, figured out that the hard road was the road out.

No matter what, Sykes would never go back.

Once he took on a project, Todd Lawrence was an unstoppable force. Between trying to get her house ready to move into and Todd commandeering every other spare minute she had, Daisy felt as if she had been caught up in a tornado that refused to let her drop. The only thing that kept her from collapsing was the visible change she could see in herself.

She didn't have the nerve to try for the sex kitten image, and she had no idea what "old money" entailed, so she opted for the nature girl. She could handle that, she thought. Todd, however, had other ideas.

"I think we'll go for old money," he said lazily when she presented herself at his house on Saturday for their shopping expedition and trip to a beauty salon in Huntsville. Hands on his hips, he looked her up and down. "Your face will look better with that kind of hairstyle."

"Old money has a hairstyle?" she asked incredulously.

"Of course. Simple, uncluttered, very good cut. Never too long, just to the top of your shoulders, I think. I have something in mind that you'll like. Oh, by the way, we're going to get your ears pierced today, too."

Protectively she grabbed her earlobes. "Why? I don't think a makeover should include bloodshed."

"Because clip-on earrings are hideously uncomfortable, darling. Don't worry, it won't hurt."

She peered at his own earlobes, hoping they were hole-free so she could refuse on the basis that he didn't know what he was talking about. No such luck; both lobes sported small indentations. He smiled and patted her hand. "Be brave," he said cheerfully. "Beauty always comes at a price."

Daisy didn't think she was brave so much as totally unable to stop this train she had started in motion. She was still trying to come up with a compelling reason why she didn't need any body parts pierced when Todd bundled her into his car and they set off for Huntsville.

Their first stop was a beauty salon. Daisy had only ever been in Wilma's beauty shop, and there was a definite difference between a "shop" and a "salon." For one thing, she was asked what she wanted to drink. All Wilma ever asked was if you were in a

hurry. She started to ask for a cup of coffee, but Todd, with a twinkle in his eyes, said, "Wine. She needs to relax."

The receptionist, a striking woman with short platinum hair and a pleasant smile, laughed as she fetched the wine. It was delivered into Daisy's hand in a real wineglass, instead of the plastic disposable glass she had expected. On further reflection, though, she supposed Todd wouldn't give his patronage to any salon so gauche as to serve wine in plastic or Styrofoam.

The receptionist consulted her book. “Amie will be right with you. She's our top stylist, so you can just relax and put yourself in her hands. You'll look like a million dollars when she's finished."

"I'll just have a word with her before I leave," Todd said, and disappeared through a door.

Daisy gulped her wine. Leave? Todd was leaving her here alone? The bottom dropped out of her stomach. Oh, God, she couldn't do this.

She had to do this.

Three hours later, on her third glass of wine, she felt as if she had been tortured. Sharp-smelling chemicals had been swabbed on her hair, chemicals that bleached her a bright yellow-white and made her look like a punk rocker who had been frightened by a television evangelist. After that stuff was washed out, then more chemicals were applied with what looked like a paintbrush, on one strand at a time, and each strand was then wrapped to keep it from touching the other strands. She morphed from a punk rocker into something from outer space, wired to receive satellite transmissions.

While this was happening, her eyebrows were waxed—ouch— and she was kept busy receiving both a manicure and a pedicure. Her nails were now all the same length, polished a transparent rose with pale tips. Her toenails, though, sported a wicked shade of red. Daisy tried to remember if she had ever painted her toe-nails before; she didn't think so, and even if she had, she would

have chosen some pale pink shade that was barely noticeable. She would never, never have chosen look-at-me red. The effect was startling—and wonderfully sexy. She kept holding her bare feet up and staring at her red-tipped toes, thinking they didn't even look like her feet now. Too bad she didn't have any sandals to show them off. She had some flip-flops, but she couldn't wear those to work.

At last the torture part was over. She was unwrapped, washed, and deposited in the stylist's chair once more. After three glasses of wine, Daisy didn't even wince as Amie set to work with her scissors, snipping industriously away. Long strands of hair slithered to the floor. Daisy finished the last of the wine in her glass and held it out for more.

"Oh, I think you can do without reinforcing, now," said Todd in a lazily amused voice. "How much wine have you had?"

"That's just the third glass," she said righteously.

"Darling, I hope you ate this morning."

"Of course. And Amie gave me a croissant. Three glasses in three hours isn't too much, is it?" Her righteousness changed to anxiety. "I'm not tipsy, am I?"

"Maybe a little. Thanks," he said in an aside to Amie.

Amie, a tall, thin young woman who wore her black hair in a crew cut, smiled at him. "It's been a pleasure. It would be worth two croissants to see this kind of a change in someone's appearance."

Todd lounged against the workstation, dapper in his customary khakis and a blue silk shirt, and watched as Amie used a round brush to shape Daisy's hair as she dried it. Daisy watched too, terrified because she was going to have to do this on her own the next time. It didn't look complicated, but then neither had mascara.

She had breathed a sigh of relief when the last washing had revealed hair that seemed dark, though she'd been a bit indignant

that three hours of torture had had such little result. Why, even the lemon white had at least shown that something had been done to her. As Amie's hair dryer worked, though, Daisy watched her hair become lighter and lighter. It wasn't lemon white, but it was definitely blond. Different shades shimmered through it, catching the light with gold here, a pale beige there.

When Amie was finished, she whisked away the cape while Daisy stared openmouthed at her reflection. Her dull, mousy brown hair was a distant memory. This hair was glossy, full of body. It swung when she moved her head, then settled back into place as if it knew exactly where to go. The style was simple, as Todd had promised; the length barely reached her shoulders, the ends were turned under, and the top swept elegantly away from a short side part.

Amie looked incredibly smug. Todd hugged her and kissed her cheek. "You did it. That's classic."

"She has good hair," Amie said, accepting Todd's tribute and giving him a return kiss on the cheek. "Not much body, but nice strong hair with a smooth cuticle. With the right styling products, there's no reason she can't look like this every day."

It was a good thing Todd was along, because Daisy was in a trance. He made certain she had the styling products Amie recommended, he reminded her to write a check for services rendered—she was so dazed she would have walked out without thinking—and, thank God, he was driving. Daisy didn't know if it was the wine or just plain shock, but she wasn't certain her feet were touching the ground.

That was good, because their next stop was at a large mall where she got her ears pierced. It took only a minute—all she felt was a pinch—and the next thing she knew she was walking out with discreet gold hoops in her ears.

For the next four hours, Todd walked her into the ground.

She tried on clothes until she was exhausted, and began to see what he meant when he said "old money." The styles were simple, such as a plain beige skirt worn with a sleeveless white blouse. But the fit was slim, the skirt stopped at her knees, and a narrow belt drew attention to her waist. "Old money is never frou-frou," he said. "It's sleek and classic and understated." She bought shoes, graceful sandals that showed her sexy red toenails, and classic pumps with two-inch heels, in black and taupe. "Never white, darling," he said firmly. "White is for casual shoes, not pumps."

"But— "

"No buts. Trust me."

Because his taste so far had been infallible, in the end, she could do nothing else. And maybe her own tastes had something to do with it, because invariably her own preferences had been his, too. She had just never before had the nerve, or the incentive, to do anything about the way she looked. She had stayed with what was familiar, what was comfortable, what was easy. Looking good was a lot of work, plus she had never really seen herself as pretty or stylish. Beth had always been the pretty one, while Daisy had accepted her own role as the smart, studious one. Maybe she couldn't be pretty as effortlessly as Beth could, but she was definitely pretty, and it was her own fault she was only now discovering that.

She didn't even try to keep track of the money she spent. This was all for a good cause: her own. She didn't just buy clothes, though that was the majority of her purchases. She bought perfume, and a couple of chic handbags, and earrings she liked. Todd talked her into an anklet, telling her, with a sly look in his eyes, "There's nothing sexier, darling."

At last they were on their way home. Daisy sat quietly, still numb from the entire experience. If there was such a thing as cosmetic war, today she had waged it. From today on, her life was

changed. It wasn't just the way other people would see her, but the way she saw herself. She had always been content with the background, thinking that it was all she deserved. No longer. From now on, regardless of what happened in her personal manhunt, she was going to make the most of herself for the sake of her own pride, if nothing else.

"If you don't mind my asking," Todd said after about ten miles of silence while she assimilated the day, "what was behind this sea change?"

Daisy sighed and rested her head against the seat, letting her eyes close. "My thirty-fourth birthday."

"Really? I would have guessed you're in your late twenties."

Despite her fatigue, that brought a smile to her face. "Really?"

"Cross my heart. Maybe it's your skin; you haven't been out in the sun much, have you?"

"Not a lot. I do tan, but I also burn easily." Plus she had always been inside with her nose in a book.

"That's good. You also have a charming air of innocence that makes you look younger."

Daisy opened her eyes, and felt her cheeks heat. "I don't get out much," she confessed. "That's another reason I wanted to change. I want to get married, and let's face it, the way I looked before no one paid any attention to me."

"That'll change now," he said, and smiled at her. "I guarantee it." He paused, then said, "Is there any certain man you're interested in?"

She shook her head, and felt the wonderful swing of her hair. Goodness, that was amazing! "No. I'm just going to go out looking. I've never been to a nightclub before, but I figure that's a good place to start. Do you know any good places?" Too late she realized that the clubs a gay man knew were probably not the clubs where she would have a good chance of success.

"I've heard the Buffalo Club is good," he said casually. "Do you dance?"

"I know how, though I haven't done it much since I took lessons. Dancing is a good way to break the ice, isn't it?"

"Very good." His tone was grave. "Do you think you might go out tonight?"

"I don't know." Going alone to a nightclub would take nerve, she thought, and after today she might have used up all her reserves.

Todd glanced at her, then returned his attention to the road. "Sometimes, once you get started, it's easier just to keep going than it is to stop and then start up again."

Meaning he thought she should go out tonight, after making the huge effort all day long to change her outward image.

"I'll think about it," she said. A thought occurred to her. "I don't know how to act like 'old money' though. Is there anything special—"

"No," he interrupted. "Old money is just a style. Don't get presentation and personality confused. Just be yourself, and then you don't have to worry."

"Being myself never got me noticed before," she said ruefully.

He laughed. "It will now, honey. It will now."