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Dangerously Attractive
Jenna Ryan
A serial killer is targeting Detective Vanessa Connor's oldest friends, and evidence–the sicko left his calling card in her home–shows she's the next victim.But Vanessa refuses to run scared. She's a cop. And she's determined to make full use of her years on the force to trap the murderer herself. So when a federal agent is assigned to protect her and catch the perp, Vanessa isn't exactly cooperative.She doesn't need a bodyguard–particularly one as dangerously attractive, dangerously seductive as Rick Maguire. His powerful arms make Vanessa feel safer than she wants to admit. Especially when the killer gets close enough to cross them both off his list.


“You realize you’re pushing the boundaries, don’t you, Maguire?” Vanessa asked.
“Duty-wise as well as in other ways.”
“Story of my life, Detective Connor.” His lips were an inch from hers when he spoke.
Damn, she thought as little zips of lightning began to shoot through her system. She actually wanted him to bridge that last bit of space and kiss her. On the other hand…“Gonna drive me crazy,” she predicted and, tangling her fingers in his hair, dragged his mouth onto hers.

Jenna Ryan
Dangerously Attractive


To Shelley most of all. Loved. Missed. Remembered.
To James McCowan, my healer.
To Bailey, for the joy.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Jenna Ryan loves creating dark-haired heroes, heroines with strength and good murder mysteries. Ever since she was young, she has had an extremely active imagination. She considered various careers over the years and dabbled in several of them, until the day her sister Kathy suggested she put her imagination to work and write a book. She enjoys working with intriguing characters and feels she is at her best writing romantic suspense. When people ask her how she writes, she tells them by instinct. Clearly it’s worked, since she’s received numerous awards from Romantic Times BOOKreviews. She lives in Canada and travels as much as she can when she’s not writing.

CAST OF CHARACTERS
Vanessa Connor—A San Francisco homicide detective who attended Berkeley College. She’s marked for death.
Rick Maguire—An FBI agent assigned to track down a serial killer while he protects Vanessa.
Bobby Valley—He owns a day spa in Haight-Ashbury, and he knows all the Berkeley victims.
Orrin O’Malley—An aspiring politician, he had many secrets at Berkeley.
Geri Kruger—A friend now, she was jealous of Vanessa and her friends at college.
Willis Reed—Former Berkeley professor, now presumed dead. But is he?
Edna Reed—Does the professor’s wife know more than she’s letting on?
Senator Graham—His niece was an embarrassment to him. Now she’s dead.

Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen

Prologue
Wisps of black fog drifted in and out of Vanessa Connor’s head. They obscured the face of a man she desperately wanted to see. She called his name, but that only added knife blades to the darkness. The shiny tips jabbed gleefully at the edges of her brain.
It was like a dream, but not really. Someone had hit her, caught her hard with the butt end of a gun. As the darkness began to crack, vague memories slithered in to hiss at her.
The walls around her groaned. She heard a bird croaking overhead. “Beware,” it warned again and again.
With an enormous effort, Vanessa clawed her way through one of the cracks and forced her eyes open. Think, she ordered herself. Breathe. Focus.
Because the literal darkness hadn’t altered, the only thing she could focus on was a tattered spiderweb in the corner of a high, rectangular window. The air smelled damp, vaguely musty. The bird’s voice floated downward again.
“Don’t talk to strangers!”
Having succeeded in raising her head, Vanessa let it fall back. She stared at the unfinished ceiling. Cobwebs dangled like broken threads. Her mind became a whirlpool, sucking in thoughts and tossing them back out at random.
She pictured the man again. Was he calling her name? Probably. Would he find her here in this dank northern California cellar? Unlikely.
On a more chilling note, she recalled four dead women, college friends once who’d turned into strangers with the passing years.
She visualized their killer. Her killer unless she could find a way out of here. But the ropes around her wrists were cinched tight, and the ones binding her ankles weren’t much looser.
Behind her, the cellar door creaked. A protracted silence followed. Then a foot hit the first stair tread.
Vanessa’s heart thumped. She counted the steps, fourteen to the bottom. And finally…
“Hello, Vanessa.” The disembodied voice was soft, like a caress. Oh, but there was a definite whip of fury in her name.
The eerie approach continued, leather soles on the smooth concrete floor. Gradually, a form took shape. A gun emerged from the darkness. A hand appeared and caught her chin. The fingers that dug in jerked Vanessa’s head higher. Cold eyes glittered down at her.
“Awake and aware, are we, Sleeping Beauty? I must have hit you harder than I realized. But then I’m so close to the end, you see, so very, very close.”
The killer’s face came into view. Smiling lips dipped to kiss her left cheek, then her right.
“You glow, even in the dark, Vanessa. Such a temptation for a weak, mortal male.”
Vanessa knew better than to react. Any sign of fear or revulsion would send the killer over the edge. Of what, she wasn’t sure, since insanity was a given at this point and mercy an impossible dream.
“Watch out!” the distant bird shrilled, and the killer laughed.
“I’ll shoot that crow before I leave.”
“But…”
“For fun. For the sake of confusion. Because I hate birds. But not as much as I hate you.” The hand holding the gun rose, touched Vanessa’s forehead. “Say your prayers, gorgeous.” The freakish smile returned. “You have five short seconds. Then you’re dead.”

Chapter One
Two weeks earlier…
“Hi, Van. Working late?” A woman in a blue linen suit smiled as she passed Vanessa near the nerve center of police headquarters. “Whoa, wait a minute.” She hooked a hand through Vanessa’s arm. “That’s awfully formal detective gear you’re wearing.”
“I’m off duty.” Vanessa slipped out of her pinstriped jacket, baring her arms to the relative cool of the station house air. “I swear the temperature hasn’t dropped five degrees since sunset.”
“Uh-huh.” A suspicious light entered the other woman’s eyes. “You’ve been in court, haven’t you?”
Vanessa couldn’t resist a smile as she pushed through the door. “Guilty, Counselor Kruger.”
“Testifying against my partner’s client?”
“He robbed a credit union at closing time, Ger. He was red-faced, high, and he stabbed one of the tellers.”
“With a needle.”
“Which he claimed was infected with HIV. Makes it armed robbery. I was questioning the manager about another matter. I heard the threat, saw the guy who uttered it. I testified.”
Geri’s perky features lost their light. “I gave Ted that client so he could test his legal wings. I should have checked the witness list first.” She smacked Vanessa’s hip. “Who’d expect a homicide detective to be lurking around a credit union at closing time?”
“What can I say, we’re unpredictable creatures.”
Geri’s gaze shifted. “Who’s the gorgeous guy in Palmer’s office?”
Vanessa swung her head to see. The captain’s verticals were up, and by the light of his desk lamp she spied a tall, dark-haired man. He was dressed entirely in black and that dark hair was actually long enough to skim his shoulders. Even at a distance and behind dusty glass, his features were—well, arresting was as good a description as any, she supposed, though sexy might have sprung to mind in different circumstances.
Geri smoothed her skirt. “Who is he, Van? New cop on the block? Because if he is, I’m going to be representing a lot more clients from around here. Not that it’ll help me since he’ll take one look at you and go blind.”
“Excuse me?”
“Not Medusa blind, I mean blinded by your beauty.”
Vanessa grinned. “Apparently you didn’t see me and three other detectives hiding in a Dumpster two weeks ago. It took five long, hot showers to get the cabbage smell out of my hair.”
Sighing, Geri transferred her attention from the mystery man’s face to Vanessa’s. “You could sleep in a bed of cabbage every night and men would line up from here to the Mexican border to shampoo your hair. Let’s do it this way. You don’t want the guy, for whatever reason, tell him about this public defense lawyer you know and how she and her husband split up recently, and she’s looking for a little fun.” Her expression clouded. “Talking of fun, and I know the comparison sounds callous, but I heard about Deirdre Morton and Sandy Lewis.”
All amusement faded. “Did you also hear about Mara Chan?”
“Oh my God, Mara, too? Where did they find her? Was she still in Hong Kong?”
“She left Hong Kong in July. She’d just moved to Houston to work for one of the airlines.”
“You must be so freaked.”
“Say nervous,” Vanessa replied, although truthfully, it went far deeper than that.
She’d known the victims well in college. With the exception of Mara, she hadn’t seen any of them for years, but that didn’t diminish the haze of fear that tended to creep in whenever she lowered her guard.
“I spoke to Mara a week after she landed in Houston. We talked about going to Deirdre’s funeral, then found out there wasn’t going to be one, just a small family gathering in Chicago.”
Geri shook her head. “From what I remember of Deirdre Morton, she liked big bashes. If her spirit’s hanging around, it’ll be plenty pissed off. First she’s murdered behind a cheap bar, then her family gives her a subdued send-off.” She laid a hand on Vanessa’s arm. “No heartlessness intended, but you were tight with these women once. If you’re not scared, then I will be for you. Palmer must be tearing out what’s left of his hair.”
Vanessa seesawed her hand. “He suggested I take a leave. When I reminded him that Sandy Lewis was killed on vacation in Scottsdale, he backed off. If someone wants me dead, Ger, he’ll find me, whether I’m here in San Francisco or camping at the base of Mount Everest.”
“Yes, but Everest would be a harder reach.”
“I’m not running.”
“I’m not surprised. I have to say, though, for the first time in my life, I’m happy to have only been part of the wannabe ‘in’ crowd at Berkeley. How many others were in your clique?”
A trace of irritation marred Vanessa’s features. “We weren’t a clique, just friends.” She moved a shoulder and returned her gaze to the captain’s office. “Sylvia Porter.”
“Right. Can’t forget her. Oh, now she was really snotty.”
“Spoiled,” Vanessa amended.
“To the point of rot.” Geri fanned her face with her hand. “Where’s she living these days?”
“Palmer’s having her tracked, but there’s no address on her after five years ago and no family to ask since her father died and her stepmother couldn’t care less about her.”
“So poor Snow White has flitted off to some unknown tropical forest to drown her sorrows in money, booze and, I’m sure, far more than seven little men.”
“I thought you were happy to be part of the wannabe ‘in’ crowd.”
“I can be bitter and happy at the same time, however, for the sake of our friendship and my nerves, I’ll change the subject.” She nodded forward. “Palmer’s visitor has great hands. If you don’t know, in some cultures, hands like his mean a man’s probably really well…”
She broke off as Vanessa was bumped by a passing detective.
“Captain wants to see you,” the man grunted.
At his curled lip, Vanessa laughed. “Your great-hands guy must be a Fed, Geri. FBI or CIA?”
“Don’t know, don’t care. It’s you Palmer wants, not me.”
Always a sobering thought. From Geri’s perspective, however, the spin was more positive.
“Great hands, great hair, great face, great body.” She pushed on her stomach. “Is there a way to lose twenty pounds in five minutes?”
“Yeah, drop your briefcase. Oh, damn. Palmer’s coming out.” Vanessa started to turn, but checked herself. “Wait a minute. I’m off duty. I can walk.”
“Good luck with that in those heels.” Geri drew up to her full height of five feet four inches. “Good evening, Captain Palmer.”
“Ms. Kruger. I don’t care if you are off duty, Connor, we’re going to talk. You, me and Agent Maguire here.”
Of course he’d have a guy name. Geri’s lips curved into a knowing smile. Vanessa braced and turned. “Agent Maguire,” she acknowledged, and was surprised by the quick surge of—she wasn’t sure what—that jolted through her. Could have been lust. Or appreciation. Whatever it was, it mingled swiftly with suspicion. “Why do I need to talk to a federal agent?”
Palmer glared. “Courtroom time make you dense, Connor? I know you know about Mara Chan. That makes three of your old college roommates dead inside ninety days.”
“We weren’t roommates.” But it was a technicality, and Vanessa was dragging her feet, something she rarely did. “I don’t want a leave of absence, Captain, and I don’t need a federal agent breathing down my neck.” She flashed Agent Maguire a quick smile. “No offense.”
“I’m used to it.”
Geri chuckled. “Great voice,” she mouthed to Vanessa, before holding out her hand. “I’ll take that as my cue to exit. Nice to have almost met you, Mr. Maguire.”
His answering smile was friendlier than expected. “You, too, Ms. Kruger.”
Geri gave Vanessa a discreet nudge. “Stay safe,” she whispered, and headed for the door.
“No objections, Connor,” her captain warned. “We’ve got three dead Berkeley women on our hands.”
In actual fact “we,” meaning the San Francisco Police Department, didn’t have any dead Berkeley women on their hands since none of the victims had lived or died anywhere near the Bay Area. But Vanessa kept her mouth shut and waited for him to drop his bomb. He always did. It was the reason homicide detectives liked him. Or didn’t, depending on their dispositions.
“I want you to listen to Agent Maguire. Moreover, I want you to cooperate with him.”
As bombs went, it was far from unanticipated. Still…” I don’t need a babysitter, Captain.”
“You need what I say you need. Agent Maguire will talk, and you’ll listen. But not here.” He dismissed the still-bustling room. “Some place where you can actually hear what he’s saying.”
As if to emphasize his point, a detective and a uniformed officer ushered a young man in handcuffs through the door. The man had blood on his shirt, had lost several teeth and was shouting every four-letter word in the English language, along with a few Vanessa recognized as Dutch.
Palmer stuck his face in hers. “Go,” he said softly. “Pick a restaurant. Dinner’s on the department. And don’t tell me you’ve already eaten, because I know your routine.”
Vanessa wondered if either man understood Dutch, but she held her tongue and forced a smile. “Do you like Armenian food, Mr. Maguire?”
“Rick,” he replied with a quirk of his lips. “I’m good with anything.”
Especially women, she imagined. But that was an unfair thought that he’d done nothing to deserve. Yet.
“Right. Well.” She considered clipping her hair back, then saw no less than three detectives firing visual bullets at Rick Maguire’s back and reasoned that a fast escape might be prudent.
“I won’t go into hiding.” She shot the warning over her shoulder as they worked their way through the room.
“That’s between you and your captain, Detective.”
She relented. “Vanessa’s fine. But you can eighty-six the charm. I’m not easily wooed.”
“You’d rather be treated like one of the guys?”
“I’m okay with it.”
“How often does it happen?”
She glanced back. “Do all Feds ask sexist questions?”
“Only when challenged by beautiful women.”
“I’m a cop.”
“And a beautiful woman.” Reaching around her, he pulled the door open. “You want to get to the point, am I right?”
“It’d be nice.”
“Okay, we’ll start with your dead friends. Then, we’ll move on to your former Berkeley College connection. Finally—” his dark eyes met hers “—we’ll deal with the fact that someone broke into your home last week and went through your bedroom closet.”

RICK LET HER DIRECT HIM to Grant Avenue, to the Dragon’s Gate. Not that he needed a human GPS. He’d spent a good portion of his youth in San Francisco, sharing houses with friends as aimless as he’d been back then, soaking up the atmosphere of a lost era, and hoping for the smallest scrap of inspiration as to where his life should go.
“Is this your car?” Vanessa inquired from the passenger seat.
He watched her run a finger over the soft leather armrest and grinned. “About a third of it. I’ll be making payments for a few more years.”
“Quite a few, I imagine. I have an aunt in Bodega Bay. Her husband had a Porsche. He ran it into a northbound train one night, died on impact.”
“There’s an uplifting story.”
“He was dying anyway. A crash was the better way for him. It was a freight train. No casualties except my uncle, his Porsche and a whole lot of sugar.” She motioned forward. “Park anywhere. We can talk while we walk.”
“To the Chinese-slash-Armenian restaurant?”
It was her turn to grin. “Armenian food’s great, but you absolutely have to eat Chinese when you come to San Francisco.”
He couldn’t argue with that. Nor could he keep his eyes from straying to her legs when he opened the door for her. The fact that he knew she knew he was looking and didn’t bother to tug her skirt down intrigued him. Coy, Detective Connor wasn’t. Inherently seductive, he suspected she was.
Temperatures in and around San Francisco had been uncommonly high for several days, or so Rick had heard. The thermometer still hovered in the mideighties, and it was almost 9:00 p.m. But Rick was accustomed to DC summers. Nothing on the west coast could touch the cloying heat and humidity of the east.
“Wo Tan’s has good duck.” Vanessa folded her jacket over one arm. “There’s also Kwon Lee’s, but that’s a Korean restaurant.”
“Snuck in on the fringe, huh?”
“Married in. Okay, so what does my bedroom closet have to do with three murders? Obviously, you feel it’s relevant.”
He went with the simple answer, though he’d had to dig through several layers to uncover the link. “Your friends’ bedroom closets were all trashed prior to their deaths.”
Vanessa tipped her head. “Says lunatic with a big chip and a lot of emotional problems to me.”
The white sleeveless top she wore clung like a second skin. She was, as he’d noticed earlier, a remarkably beautiful woman. He’d been half hoping she would also be unpleasant. From the information he’d gathered on the dead women, the first two certainly had been.
“Lunatic, maybe.” He made what appeared to be an idle sweep of the brightly lit, extremely busy street. “And I’m sure we’ll find a chip on at least one of his shoulders. Emotional problems—well, hey, we all have those, right? But this killer calculates and executes, cleverly and cleanly. He doesn’t leave DNA, he doesn’t give his victims time to raise an alarm and he doesn’t hang around to gloat. Gloating is not uncommon,” he added, bringing his gaze back to hers.
Amused, Vanessa tapped his forehead with her index finger. “Homicide cop, Rick. I’ve bumped into one or two gloaters myself. Some people say Jack the Ripper was guilty of that. Don’t know why he springs to mind, but there you go. He left plenty of clues at the scenes of his maniacal murders, yet to this day no one really knows who he was. And don’t even get me started on Norman Bates.”
Rick chuckled. “I wouldn’t have pegged you as a movie buff.”
“I loved to be scared as a kid. I gave my aunt, Cinnamon—the one in Bodega Bay—a mynah bird for Christmas last year and named it Lydia Brenner, after the character in The Birds.”
“You should have called it Mrs. Bundy—the know-it-all ornithologist who said birds couldn’t and wouldn’t mass together.”
Appreciation softened her expression. “You’re okay for a Fed. Now talk to me about the closets.”
Drawing her out of the traffic flow in front of a Chinese emporium, Rick once again scanned the passing stream of late night humanity. He could have scanned Vanessa and enjoyed himself a great deal more, but with her long, red-brown hair, slitted pencil skirt, incredible legs and eyes the color of liquid honey, he knew better than to tempt fate.
“There’s not a lot to tell. Anywhere from a week to ten days before they died, each victim’s home was broken into and her bedroom closet trashed. None of them filed a report, so it took me more time than it should have to make the connection. Fortunately, while they didn’t lodge official complaints, they did talk to friends and family members.”
“Who eventually talked to you.” She lifted a shrewd brow. “What’s your technique, Maguire? Charm, straight up questioning, or does it vary depending on the questionee?”
“Whatever works.” He returned his eyes to her face, kept them deliberately neutral. “Your captain expects you to cooperate with me, Vanessa. I’ve worked a lot of serial murders. I can keep you alive.”
“Thanks, but I’ve put murderers behind bars before and will again. Whoever killed Deirdre, Sandy and Mara had an advantage over them. They didn’t realize he or she was out there. I do. I’m also a cop, fully trained. Scale tips slightly in my favor.”
Rick had run into similar resistance too many times in the past to be put off. “So that would be a no to cooperation, then.” When she merely stared at him, he offered her a vague smile. “Palmer’ll be pissed.”
“He’s my captain, not my father.”
He was a little more than that, however, Rick let it slide and instead offered a sage, “Would you have listened to your father?”
He spied the glimmer of sadness in her eyes before she looked away. “My father was a cop. Homicide. He died in the line of duty. He’d have understood how I feel, how any officer would feel. I’ll deal with Palmer and with anyone who comes after me. I can make connections, too, Rick.” She pointed through the Emporium window. “Do you see that pretty lady there?”
He followed her outstretched finger to a carved white figure. His lips twitched. “Are you going to tell me she’s fragile and you’re not?”
“She’s porcelain, like my—well, like many people, I suppose. I’m more elastic.”
Not from where Rick stood. She wasn’t flexing one bit on this matter.
He started to point that out, but the words never emerged. As she bent to inspect another figure, the window over Vanessa’s head exploded.

Chapter Two
Fragments of tempered glass flew everywhere. Inward, sideways, some of the larger ones actually ricocheted back onto the street. The white porcelain figure shattered. So did dozens of other ornaments.
Already low to the ground, Vanessa snatched her gun from her purse and swung around in a crouch. Rick had his Glock out and angled skyward.
The people closest to them gave a collective gasp, then began to scream. The store owner rushed out, shouting in Chinese.
“Get down,” Rick told him and anyone else who could hear.
“There.” Vanessa used her gun to indicate a gray Volvo with blacked out windows and a dent in the passenger side.
Rick assisted a woman who’d twisted her knee, but his eyes were on the Volvo. “Call for backup,” he said and took off before Vanessa could reply.
The store owner grabbed her arm, impeding her. She knew what he wanted—more or less—but couldn’t do anything except pry his fingers free and tell him to go back inside.
Spotting a patrol car, she ran toward it. The Volvo had vanished. So had Rick.
“What happened?” the sergeant at the wheel called out.
“Shot fired into the store. Look for a Volvo, late eighties, large dent in the passenger door. Driver’s heading north on Grant. No plates. The side windows are painted flat black.”
“You okay?”
“No problem.” Only hampered by her shoes and tight skirt. Not to mention the store owner’s fingers that were once again grinding into her forearm.
Even a police siren couldn’t drown out the pandemonium around her. Resigned, Vanessa located her badge and endeavored to calm the situation down before anyone got seriously hurt.
Thirty minutes passed. Two backup patrols arrived and took over crowd control. Vanessa was talking to her desk sergeant when Rick returned, winded and alone.
“I lost him on Jackson.”
She flipped her phone closed. “New Porsche lost aging Volvo? That’s gotta be a first.”
“New Porsche almost got sideswiped by a hippie mobile with bad brakes. I cut over to Stockton on foot, but the Volvo disappeared in the confusion. Did you get the plates?”
“There weren’t any. A patrol car took up the pursuit. They might get lucky. Mr. Sing?” She gestured to the distraught store owner who was holding his head while he surveyed the ruin that had once been his display window.
“Bad, very bad,” he moaned as he emerged. “Guns are very dangerous.”
Vanessa eased him forward. “Mr. Sing, this is Rick Maguire. He’s with the FBI. Tell him what you told me.”
“It was a man.” Sing used his hands to illustrate. “He moved like a snake, in and out of the crowd. I saw him through the door of my shop.”
“Can you describe him?” Rick asked.
“He was like the Steve in an old movie.”
“McQueen,” Vanessa supplemented.
Mr. Sing nodded. “Yes, a very bad dude.”
“Who moved like a snake.” Rick glanced at the sidewalk across the street. A narrow alley ran between a pair of old brick buildings. “Did you see his gun?”
“At first, no gun, but something on his head, like wrinkled skin. He watched my store as he came toward the street.” Mr. Sing mimicked the man’s moves. “Before he got there, he pulled the skin over his face and took the gun from inside his jacket. He used both hands to hold it and shot, just like that.” The store owner snapped his fingers.
Vanessa kept a hand on his arm so he wouldn’t be diverted by the wreckage beside him. “Can you describe the skin he pulled over his face? Did it distort his features?”
“It made them flat.”
“Even more snakelike, then,” Rick noted. “Must have used a stocking.”
Mr. Sing became indignant. “When you catch this man, I will have much to say to him.”
Rick motioned to Vanessa who took over. “You’ll have to come down to police headquarters, Mr. Sing. We need a full description of the suspect and an account of his actions.”
“Oh, I don’t know, Officer.” Sing raised his palms. “Not always wise to get mixed up with police.”
“If we apprehend him, it might help with the insurance claim.”
The man’s face brightened. “Not always wise, but good for Sing and Sing. I can pull down the bars and lock the store. No one will get past the bars. One moment, please.”
Rick nudged at broken glass with the toe of his boot. People were curious, but the backup patrols had taped the scene, and no one was screaming anymore.
Vanessa wiped a spot of blood from his right cheek. “Sliver got you, Maguire.” Her gaze strayed to the alleyway. “That guy wasn’t shooting at a shop window.”
“No.”
“Or at you.”
“Not likely.”
Frustration warred with inevitability. In the end, she could only sigh. “Hell.”

“YOU LIVE IN A VICTORIAN HOUSE on Russian Hill?” Rick surveyed the tall, thin structure with its square bay windows and ornate trellises. “I wouldn’t have expected that.”
“Never judge a book, Maguire. I wouldn’t expect long hair from the FBI.”
“I was undercover until recently. I’m working this case at the request of a VIP from your home state.”
“That would be Senator Graham whose sister married Judge Howard Morton of Chicago. Together they produced a daughter named Deirdre. My friend—you met her, Geri Kruger—thinks Deirdre would have been annoyed by the funeral service she received. I think Senator Graham wanted to keep the memorial quiet and dignified because his niece tended not to be.” She searched for her key, a tricky feat with a gorgeous man standing directly behind her and only a single porch light to aid the search. “Setting aside Deirdre’s outrageous lifestyle, I can’t see anyone who knew her and also knew Sandy, Mara and me wanting all of us dead. We were very different people, with very different habits and hobbies.”
“And tastes?”
“In most things, yes.” She located the key, then the lock and, once inside, the foyer light switch.
A low growl from the stairwell had Vanessa smiling and Rick narrowing his eyes.
She let the tease ride for a moment, before offering a firm, “Friend,” to the German shepherd who now stood at full attention on the bottom step.
“Robo, this is FBI Agent Rick Maguire. Rick, retired Canine Officer Robo.”
“As in Robocop?” He held out a hand to the dog.
Robo sniffed the newcomer carefully, wary as she was, Vanessa judged. When the dog transferred his attention to her, she took his head in her hands and gave him an affectionate rub.
“Robo’s better than a lot of cops I know. He nailed more perps in a week than many rookies do in a year.”
“Why is he living with you?”
“Because he injured his leg one night while pursuing a suspect to the docks. Doctors put a pin in his hip. He’s mobile, just not up to chasing down suspects.”
“Why didn’t his partner take him?”
“Because he has five kids, three dogs, two cats, a turtle and a parakeet. He figured Robo would get lost in the shuffle and that wouldn’t be fair to anyone. On the other hand, I’ve always wanted a dog. Also, Captain Palmer has very little faith in security systems. He brought Robo over one night last year, and that was it.”
“Love at first sight?”
She laughed, gave the dog’s fur one last ruffle. “Robo and I were already friends from the station. We worked together on several cases. And before you ask, we were in Bodega Bay when my house was broken into.”
“Six days ago.”
She tossed her bag and jacket onto a bloodred chair next to the door. “You can lose the tone, Maguire. I understand the time frame all too well. A week to ten days after they were burgled, my friends died. Believe me, it’s been on my mind for the better part of the evening.” Or it had been until she’d almost been shot.
“Sing described Steve McQueen to the police.”
“Yes, well, you know what they say about perception. Once he drew the comparison, his reality altered. Anyway, it was the best description we got. The only other people who noticed the guy said he was sort of average, from build to height to hair color. In other words, most people’s minds are too occupied to notice anything that appears ordinary. Our best bet is to look for someone who resembles Steve in his early-to midfifties and moves like a snake.”
She felt Rick watching her as she led the way down the hall to the kitchen. It didn’t bother her. She was used to men staring and couldn’t deny she liked it. But she also understood there was something different about this man, something that appealed just a little more than it should.
He was definitely a looker. Geri had been dead-on there. Long, dark-brown hair, lean rangy build, great mouth and large, oddly soulful brown eyes.
He’d get a lot of women with those eyes, she reflected. And the smile, when it came, wouldn’t hurt, either.
“Do I pass inspection?”
Vanessa checked the filter on her faucet before filling the kettle. She could have played the game, but a mounting sense of exhaustion had her going with the straight answer. “You have an aura, Agent Maguire. I could get distracted by you. That wouldn’t be good, all things considered.”
“Sounds like an interesting start.” He removed his jacket to reveal a black shirt with the sleeves rolled partway up and just enough open buttons that she could see the beginnings of dark chest hair.
Didn’t need to notice that. A sigh rose in Vanessa’s throat. He smelled good, too—clean, as if he’d just showered.
Setting the kettle on the stove, she wiped her hands. “There’s no start for us, okay? Someone shot at me tonight. I’m frazzled. You say things when you’re frazzled.”
“Like you do when you’re drunk?”
Her eyes sparkled. “I don’t get drunk. When my fingers go tingly, I switch to juice or soda. Mind in harmony with body. My aunt’s been preaching the concept since the sixties.”
The gaze Rick ran over her body made not only her fingers, but every other part of her go tingly as well. “No comment,” he said, then offered her a slow smile that turned the tingle into a snap of electricity. “For now, anyway.”
Unfortunate, was all she could think. But, brakes on, she really didn’t need this or him disrupting her life.
Tipping her lips into a smile, she asked, “Do you want to see my bedroom before or after we eat?”
“Before, and you don’t have to feed me. Coffee’ll do. You look all in.”
“You’re not feeding my ego, Maguire. But you’re right. I worked three night shifts, grabbed two hours of sleep, then had to make a court appearance. If I’d been more alert, I might have seen tonight’s shooter’s reflection in the shop window.”
“If you hadn’t bent down, you’d be on a slab in the morgue as we speak.” He began to close in. His eyes were steady on her face, and she was too fascinated by her own reaction to evade him. “Sometimes luck happens, Vanessa. Be grateful for it.”
“I am.” She cocked her head at his continued approach. “Do you have your mother’s eyes or your father’s?”
“Father’s.”
“Must be one sexy man.”
Rick’s lips curved. “Strange as that sounds, I’ll take it as a compliment. Could it be you’re warming to me?”
Her blood certainly was. “Frazzled,” she repeated as he drew to within a foot of her. “Closet’s upstairs.”
With the ghost of his smile lingering, he reached out a hand to capture her chin. His thumb stroked the smooth skin of her jaw.
Vanessa made no attempt to pull free. Which both amused and intrigued her, because with any other man she didn’t know, by now her palm would be planted on his chest. In Rick’s case, she merely raised a brow. “You realize you’re pushing the boundaries, don’t you, Maguire? Duty-wise as well as in other ways.”
“Story of my life, Detective Connor.”
His lips were an inch from hers when he spoke. Damn, she thought, as little zaps of lightning began to shoot through her system. She actually wanted him to bridge that last bit of space and kiss her. On the other hand…“Gonna drive me crazy,” she predicted and, tangling her fingers in his hair, dragged his mouth onto hers.

IT WASN’T WHAT HE EXPECTED. Not the woman, not the kiss and definitely not his reaction to it. Vanessa had temptress qualities, no doubt about it, but the heat that flared both above and below his belt, now that was bad.
He knew where it came from, though, and why. She had a curious blend of softness and strength about her. Maybe she’d channeled the fear she’d refused to show him into the kiss. Whatever the case, his brain had quite simply melted down on contact.
Forty minutes later, he could still feel her pressed against him, that exquisitely toned body touching his in all the right—or wrong—places. And he swore the taste of her would haunt him all night, maybe longer.
Angry with himself, he slammed the door of his car and took the porch steps outside his friend’s house two at a time. He walked in without knocking, but closed the door quietly. Didn’t matter. Billy had ears like a damned elephant.
“S’at you, Rick? I got coffee back here that’s strong enough to strip paint.”
The old man’s voice had a wobble to it these days. It was a worry, but with his head swimming and the taste of a beautiful woman still on his lips, that worry had pretty much worked its way to the back of Rick’s mind.
Tossing his jacket aside, he navigated the obstacle course that was the first floor hallway. He hit his head twice on protruding cabinets before squeezing through the kitchen door. “You’ve got to stop taking in every piece of broken furniture you see, Billy.”
“They’re antiques, and keep your voice down. You’ll wake the new kid.”
“What new kid?” Rick squinted into the poorly lit room. He could hear the old man but couldn’t see him past two bookshelves, a tall boy and some kind of rickety bureau.
“Found him this morning at a bus stop.” The words came from somewhere near the pantry door. “Kid didn’t get on when the bus came. Didn’t have any money. He tried to sell me a watch. I offered him a hot meal instead. Figured a good night’s sleep wouldn’t hurt, either.” A smile entered his tone. “I smell real pretty perfume out there. Would it come from that detective you saw tonight?”
His vocal cords might wobble, but nothing else about Billy Ruby had changed in the nearly twenty years Rick had known him. He took in strays—people, animals and objects. He cleaned them up, gave them a sense of worth and sent them back out into the world. He trusted easily, missed little and took it in stride if one of his tougher human challenges failed.
A Saint Bernard with a kinked tail wandered over to drool on Rick’s boot. He gave a deep bark and wove a path to the far corner.
“It’s after midnight, Rick. I don’t take that as a good sign.”
Hunched over his computer, Billy didn’t look up. At ninety-six, he was the oldest person Rick knew. He wore his store-bought teeth with pride and had more hair than most men half his age, long hair that fell halfway down his back in a thin white braid. He was part African American, part Native American, part French Creole and part Swiss. It never failed to make Rick smile when Billy threw that last thing in. A neutral country, Billy Joe Ruby was not.
Rick thought back briefly to his youth. He’d fallen in and out of trouble—mostly in—before meeting the old man. With patience, luck and a whole lot of late night talks, Billy had helped a tall, skinny, scared kid from Bakersfield finally get his head screwed on halfway straight.
At the moment, Billy was regarding a group photo, taken on what appeared to be a college campus. Rick set one hand on the back of his chair, the other on the makeshift desk and bent to study the shot. “Let me guess. You’re helping me with this case.”
“I was a Fed myself once, don’t forget.”
“You sorted files, Billy.”
“Before, during and after the war. Read a lot of them while I was at it.”
“Pretty sure that’s illegal.”
“Only if you get caught.” He tapped a weathered finger on the screen. “I’d guess that’s Vanessa Connor.”
Out of a group of twenty girls, he’d nailed her straight off.
At Rick’s doubtful sound, the old man laughed. “What? It’s not so tough to figure. I know what her three dead friends look like, so I eliminated them. Got rid of the cute ones and the four or five who’re hunkered down into their sweaters. No confidence. Left me with about six choices. She’s the prettiest, and she has the best eyes. Smart eyes. Like yours.”
“Uh-huh.” Rick sent him a slow grin. “There’s a list of names, isn’t there? You read it and counted, left to right, bottom row.”
“If I did, she’s still got smart eyes, and since you smell like a summer garden, I’m thinking she wears nice perfume. She gonna let you help keep her alive?”
“Probably, but only because her captain wants it, and they’re tight.”
Billy peered at him through a pair of thick spectacles. “You wanna talk about it?”
“No.”
“Thought not. Do you good, though, if you did. Bottling doesn’t work.”
“I’m not bottling.”
“Did you kiss her?”
“My business, Billy.”
“You’ve never kissed any other woman you’ve worked with. And you just met this one.”
Suspicion moved in. “Why don’t you sound surprised?”
“Because I figured it would happen. Been waiting for the day to come. You saw her and thought, ‘Oh, man, I’m in trouble.’ You’re pushing at the feeling because it’s wrong right now. Could mess you up. Could land her in a grave. Still, that old feeling just won’t budge. You kissed her, figured that’d get it out of your system. Doubt if it worked, but you’ll tell yourself it did—or will soon enough.” He smiled. “I like smart eyes.”
So did Rick, which, as Billy had pointed out, was a very big problem and one he’d have to deal with fast. For the moment, he simply changed the subject. “Someone took a shot at her tonight.”
Billy’s breath whistled out. “Looks like you’ve got a job ahead of you, boy.”
Rick nodded. “Graham’s squeezing me for answers. So’s my boss.”
“The buck stops at you. It’s what you get for being the best.” But there was understanding in Billy’s tone. “A lot of serial killings go on for years. They shouldn’t expect a solution overnight.”
“It’s been three months.” Three long, stress-filled months of increasingly impatient phone calls, e-mails and ass-kicking lectures from his superiors. Senator Graham had clout, and he was using all of it in the case of his niece’s highly publicized death.
The irony was, Graham hadn’t liked her. Deirdre Morton had had a penchant for the outrageous and a rather pathetic need to grab headlines. Why Vanessa had hung out with her in college was almost as big a mystery to Rick as the identity of her killer.
“You’ll nail him.” Billy gave a decisive nod. “And I’ll say that to Senator Graham myself if he keeps pestering you.”
“It doesn’t fit.” In as much as the space allowed, Rick pushed off to pace. “The guy tried to kill her in a crowd of people in Chinatown.”
“One shot?”
“Yeah.”
“What kind of gun?”
“A .32. I know—same caliber as the second victim. I’m betting on a different weapon, though.”
“Second victim was murdered in Arizona, late last month, right? It’s August now. Time frame and all, chances are good your guy flew to Houston after that. Metal detectors, physical searches—you can’t smuggle weapons onto planes these days. Guy burgles the third victim, stabs her with a knife, also not easily transportable, then hightails it on up to San Francisco. He does his burglary thing there and buys another gun. Reasons it worked once, it’ll work again.”
“He’s never gone with a crowd scene before. It’s been one-on-one in the three previous cases. The MO works. Why change it up now?”
“Why hit the first victim over the head in a sleazy alley stairwell? Why leave the second floating in a hotel bathtub, fully clothed? Why slash the third victim’s throat and let her drain out facedown on her office desk?”
That last scenario had been hard even for Rick to stomach. “The victims were alone in every case. Vanessa wasn’t.”
“But she’d have been dead just the same if the shooter’d hit his mark. Maybe results matter more to your murderer than MO.”
“That’s what Palmer thinks.”
“What does Detective Connor think?”
Rick picked up the coffeepot at Billy’s elbow, swirled the murky contents. “We didn’t get into it.”
“Too busy kissing her, huh?”
Although he didn’t answer, Billy’s remark cemented the point that what had happened between them tonight couldn’t be repeated. “I checked out her closet and her armoire.” He blew dust from a bright-green mug. “She claims nothing’s missing. I convinced her to go through them again.”
“That’ll take time.” Billy chuckled. “C’mon Rick. You’re a female, you look like Vanessa, you shop.” He paused before returning his attention to the computer. “Why’d you kiss her?”
He wasn’t going to let this go. “She grabbed my hair, okay?” At the old man’s sideways look, Rick shrugged and poured. “I was thinking about kissing her. Wanted to, was fighting it. I got close, knowing I shouldn’t. She did the rest.”
“Knew I liked her.” Beaming now, Billy sat back. His gaze lingered on the monitor. “Smart eyes, smart woman. You’re gonna have your hands full with this one, Rick.”
“Yeah.” Rick drank, managed not to wince. “I just hope the same can be said for the killer.”

HE SAT ACROSS FROM A CHURCH, alone and shaking. He couldn’t work up the courage to move closer. Maybe he could kneel on the steps outside. God would understand. He’d been through the same thing Himself, hadn’t He?
An eye for an eye, that was the deal.
The rage flared in an instant, so intense it made him tremble. It bubbled in his veins. He would shoot her in the eye if he could. Half blind her before she died. God would guide him as always.
“Thou shalt not kill…” a small voice whispered in his head.
“No!” He put his palms to his ears and pressed them tight. “An eye for an eye,” he repeated. And said it and said it until all he could see were Vanessa Connor’s gold-colored eyes.

Chapter Three
Wheeling and dealing. That’s what it came down to in the end. She could be part of the investigation—officially Federal Agent Rick Maguire’s investigation—so long as she gave him her full cooperation.
Vanessa had been a cop long enough to know how the city wheels turned, how deals were struck. How Terence Palmer’s mind worked.
So she propped her eyes open, drank four cups of coffee, shoved all thoughts of hot kisses and Rick Maguire’s sexy mouth from her head and went through both her closet and her armoire again. Twice. The surprise came near the end of her second search.
“One little black dress missing,” she informed Rick the next day. They’d hooked up in Captain Palmer’s office. The unfortunate captain was at a meeting with the mayor. “It’s an older dress, that’s why I didn’t miss it at first.”
Rick made a note on his handheld PC. “Can you describe it?”
“Black jersey, clingy, with a deep V-neck. It’s a mini.” At his slanted look, a smile blossomed. “They’re fair to wear until you’re thirty-five. I’m twenty-nine.”
He glanced at her legs, clad in stonewashed denim today, but said nothing.
He continued to enter far more information than she’d offered. Patient by nature, she perched a hip on the captain’s desk. She wore a sleeveless white T with a black vest to cover her shoulder holster. Swinging a booted foot, she waited, stopped herself from fantasizing twice and finally nudged his leg. “I don’t know what you’re putting in there, but I haven’t said half that much since I got here.”
“I’m running a comparison.”
“Which suggests that my friends had stuff stolen from their closets, too. Same sort of thing?”
He finished his input and closed the file. “I only have one comp so far. Deirdre Morton itemized her clothes and supplemented the list with photos.”
“You’re joking.”
“She even had a catalog system for socks and underwear.”
“Lingerie.” When his brows came together, she grinned. “Women wear lingerie, Rick. Men and children have underwear. What was missing?”
“A red spandex dress—also a mini—with about fifty zippers on it.”
“Sounds appropriately slutty.” But she had to wonder why the killer had taken that particular item. “What was Deirdre wearing when they found her?”
Rick hit more keys and handed her the PC.
He hadn’t spared her. The photo of Deirdre in death had been taken at the scene. There was blood pooled on the ground and pieces of trash scattered around her head. She lay facedown, her white-blond hair askew and a long purple dress twisted around her body.
Blanking her reaction, Vanessa returned the computer. “She liked long flowy things in college. I think she pictured herself as a sophisticated Parisian model.”
“From sophisticated model to zippered spandex.”
“We all have our moods, but thankfully most of us change with the times. I’m told people walked around San Francisco wearing bathrobes and sandals in the late sixties.”
When he set his eyes on hers, Vanessa felt a faint blush warm her cheeks. God help her, she’d need to do something about that if they were going to work together.
“Have you changed since college, Vanessa?”
She worked on the blush. “More than you can imagine, and that’s all I’m saying right now. It’s after noon. Bobby Valley’s associate said he only shows up at the spa for a few hours a day.”
“A spa on Haight Street.” Rick’s eyes glinted with humor. “Should be an interesting meeting.”
Vanessa preceded him through the noisy bullpen and down the stairs to the street. Willpower kept her eyes off his mouth and her mind on their goal. They had to start somewhere, and one of the people she and the victims all had in common was a man named Robert Valley. He’d been a self-defense instructor when they’d gone to Berkeley. Now, he claimed to own and operate a day spa in Haight-Ashbury.
Settled in Rick’s car, Vanessa flipped through her notes. “Mary’s Massage Parlor is now the Robert Valley Spa and Wellness Center. I can’t see displaying a sign like that on Haight Street.”
Rick glanced over. “What was he like?”
“Buff,” she decided after a moment. “But only at first glance. He was flabby around the middle. I remember thinking that was odd for a self-defense master. And he smelled like fried chicken. It put me off.” At his skeptical look, she moved a shoulder. “I like the smell of clean, okay? It’s a quirk.”
Rick smelled better than clean, she thought. His hair, his skin, his clothes…Resolute, she set her mind back on Bobby Valley.
“What else do I remember about him? He’d be in his early forties now, I guess.”
“Forty-seven.”
“So he was thirty-seven when we went to college? Bit of a pervert, then.”
“Did he hit on you?”
“He hit on all of us every chance he got, but me least of all. I think he knew he grossed me out. Plus I had a boyfriend.”
“David Matthew Dunlop.”
Indignation swelled. “Do I have any private life left?”
“Where Berkeley’s concerned, no. You did three years of college, had one boyfriend for two of those years. Graduation day arrived, you left for Rotterdam where your mother lived, Dunlop moved to San Jose. You never got back together. More the fool David D.”
Vanessa had her teeth bared until his last remark. It mollified her enough that she conceded, “He didn’t like my choice of careers. I was supposed to take a cue from my mother and go into law. She died that summer while we were cruising down the Rhine. When I got home, I enrolled at the police academy. David stayed in San Jose, college became a fond memory—and we’re way off topic, here. David didn’t murder anyone. Bobby Valley’s another story.”
“Did any of your friends go out with Valley?”
“Deirdre and Sylvia Porter did. More than once. Captain Palmer’s searching for Sylvia.”
“So are we.”
Vanessa couldn’t stop the feline smile. “That’ll scare the hell out of her.”
“Didn’t like her, huh?”
“She tried to steal my boyfriend.”
“Sounds bitchy.”
“You could say. Even Deirdre never stooped that low.”
“Was this David guy a jock?”
“You made jock sound like jerk. He was into sports, yes, but we were talking about Bobby.”
When Rick cast her a half-lidded look, Vanessa found herself wanting to reach over and erase the crease that had formed between his eyes.
Very bad idea, her brain warned. Hands off; focus on; no more kissing.
She released a breath, willed the car’s AC to cool her suddenly warm skin. “Okay, so Bobby Valley was a minor perv who dated two of the five girls in our group. Back then, he taught self-defense courses off-campus. Now he owns a spa. A highly questionable one, I’m thinking. He…”
“Were there ever more than five?”
“Excuse me?”
“In your group.”
“Ah, well, lots of girls came and went, but only the five of us were there from start to finish. Which appears to be relevant for reasons I still can’t fathom. As far as I’m aware, we had Bobby and one professor in common.”
“That’s it, just the two men? Your old boyfriend doesn’t factor into this?”
“Dave’s not a murderer, so yes, just the two men. Unless you count our male classmates, which I suppose we’ll have to.”
“We’ve checked out a long list of those classmates, Vanessa. So far there’s nothing to implicate any of them. The investigation’s ongoing by the department.”
“There you go then.” She hesitated. “As for other factors, you might want to add Orrin O’Malley to the list.”
“Why does that name sound familiar?”
“He’s Sandy Lewis’s cousin and currently the deputy mayor of San Francisco.”
“Ah, right. I met him briefly. He’s a dork.”
“That’s today, Rick. In college, Orry was considered a troublemaker. At the very least, he was unconventional.” She gestured at a parking spot. “Bobby’s place is two blocks from here. I’d arm my vehicle if I were you.”
The heat slapped her as she stepped out. Pictures of Bobby Valley and now Orrin O’Malley swam in her head. She’d forgotten about Orry O. Then again, she’d forgotten a lot of things about college, things she’d rather not remember, but would with clarity by the time this investigation ended.
Resisting an urge to tug at her top, Vanessa adjusted her sunglasses and waited for Rick to lock up and join her.
“I’ve always liked Haight-Ashbury,” she confessed, doing a circle on the sidewalk. “It’s got a unique vibe.”
“I remember it.”
She lifted the glasses. “You know San Francisco?”
“Lived here as a teenager. You don’t want the details.”
That’s what he thought. But a loud squeal issuing through an open door prevented her from asking. There were shouts punctuated by pockets of silence. It depended on which entranceway they passed.
Across the street, boards had been nailed across the ground floor windows of a derelict building. Two floors above, Vanessa spied a bedsheet hanging next to several foil-covered panes.
“That place could use a search.”
Rick let his gaze rise. “If your search comes up empty, check out the neighboring apartments. The obvious one might be a red herring.”
“My but you’re a clever Fed.” She tickled his shoulder. “Were you a clever teen as well?”
“Ask Billy.”
“Who?”
“A wise old man, my mentor in a way.”
The smell of sweat, sex and dying flowers wafted out of the next doorway. Vanessa grinned. “Says Haight Street spa to me.”
A woman in a muumuu watched them as they entered. Goldfish swam in dirty faux stone ponds. Water dribbled into them along algae-green walls. The potted plants near the door were thriving. The ones farther inside had turned a sickly shade of yellow. The carpet was red, the front desk covered with smears, and the woman behind it reeked of dollar store perfume.
“You’d be the cops, then.”
“Good spot.” A series of thumps and groans issued from a room to Vanessa’s left. “Sounds like your massages get kind of rough.”
The woman didn’t bat an eyelash, merely shrugged a massive shoulder and leaned on the smudged counter. “You want Bobby, he’s in his office. Down there.” She pointed away from the noisy room. “Knock before you go in.”
“You were awfully quiet back there,” Vanessa remarked as they left.
Rick scratched his throat. “I think I recognize her. She used to own the place.”
Vanessa peered around his arm. “That’s Mary?”
“Pretty sure.”
“Really. I pictured more of a Mae West character. You know, very voluptuous and sexy.” She halted so abruptly that Rick bumped in to her. “Wait a minute. You recognize her?” Vanessa’s gaze went from Rick to Mary and back. “Seriously?”
“Adolescence, hormones, cheap sex.” Setting his hands on her shoulders, Rick pivoted her and pushed. “This is about you and your friends, not me.”
She knocked and at the same time tried to envision a much younger, though undoubtedly still kick-ass sexy, Rick being led into one of the establishment’s back rooms.
“Come,” a man’s voice said.
Vanessa spotted Bobby instantly. It would have been hard to miss five feet nine inches of overtoasted man, wearing bright orange shorts and a yellow T. Even loose, the shirt failed to conceal the paunch around his midsection.
“Mr. Fitness,” she said under her breath, then smiled. “Vanessa Connor, Bobby. Do you remember me?”
“You, yes. Him, no.”
“Agent Maguire,” Rick obliged in a pleasant tone. “FBI.”
Bobby’s jaw tightened. He left them standing and took a seat behind his desk. “This is about the dead women, isn’t it?”
His fingers jiggled to an unheard beat. Vanessa held her smile. “We have some questions.”
“Like was I in contact with any of them before they died?”
“Uh-huh, like that.” He still smelled of chicken. Was that possible all these years later? “Were you?” she prompted when he didn’t respond.
He flicked a glance at Rick. “No.”
“Try again,” Rick suggested softly.
His fingers jiggled faster. “Okay, yes, I saw Deirdre, but only her, no one else.” A muscle twitched beside his left eye. Rubbing it, he added, “And Sandy. Once. Six months ago. She was visiting Deirdre.”
Vanessa wasn’t surprised the two women had kept in touch. She was very surprised that Deirdre had maintained contact with Bobby. “Where did you see them?” she asked.
“Dee has—had a place in Malibu. She used it a lot. Her uncle the senator was pushing her to sell. He wanted her to plant herself in Chicago. He didn’t care for her lifestyle.”
Rick strolled to the window, gazed down into a narrow alley. “How involved were you with Ms. Morton?”
“We were friends.” At Rick’s over-the-shoulder look, Bobby added a terse, “Sometimes we slept together.”
Yuck, was all Vanessa could think. Aloud, she said, “What about Sylvia Porter?”
“I haven’t seen her.”
“Sure about that?” Rick asked, but this time Bobby held firm.
“The last time I saw snotty Sylvia was at her graduation. She ditched her cap and gown and me along with them.”
“You were involved with her?” Vanessa watched his twitching left eye go crazy. “Not just dating but actually involved with?”
“She came on to me.”
Now he sounded downright belligerent. Vanessa kept her tone neutral. “No need to defend, Bobby. Sylvia wasn’t a minor. Do you have any idea where she is now?”
“No. Look, I didn’t kill her if that’s what you’re asking.”
“It isn’t.” Rick leaned on the window frame. “But if you have information, like whether she’s alive or dead, now would be the time to mention it.”
Bobby scowled. He looked like a petulant child, except for his double chin. “I’ve told you what I know. Now if that’s all, I have work to do.”
“Not quite all, Bobby.” Vanessa took up a position across from Rick. “We have a few more questions. Unless you’d rather come downtown.”
Bobby recognized the trap. He returned her stare. “I have nothing to hide. Ask your questions.”
Thirty minutes later—and Vanessa suspected Rick had dragged it out longer than necessary—they were back on the street, free from the smells of chicken and rotting flowers. She shuddered off a strong sensation of decay and dropped her sunglasses into place.
Rick ran a finger along her arm. “Bit of a telling shiver there, Vanessa.”
“He used to touch us,” she revealed. “You know, position our hands and correct our stances. It didn’t seem so creepy back then, but at the moment I think I’d rather be lowered into a pit of spiders than let him get within five feet of me.”
“He’s hiding something.”
“I agree. I’m just not sure it involves any of the victims—although he did lie about seeing Deirdre.”
“I’d say Mr. Valley rates a thorough investigation.”
“By you or me?”
“I’ll do it. I’m used to being immersed in slime.”
“So am I, but you can have this one with my blessing.” And sincere sympathy.
The sun beat down on Vanessa’s head and shoulders. She tipped her face toward it. A streetcar clanged in the distance. A horn blasted nearby. A gorgeous man walked beside her. “I’m hungry,” she said. “Wanna take a stroll along the pier?”
“Is there an Armenian food stall there?”
“No, but there’s a great twisty pretzel stand. They have fifty different kinds of mustard.” She paused, then glanced across the street. “Did you ever see The Thomas Crown Affair?”
“I might have. What’s the story line?”
“There was this wealthy man, main character, who was leading a double life as a thief. He only stole for the challenge but—well, that’s not the point. I was looking at Bobby, and it suddenly occurred to me that if you stripped off those ridiculous shorts—gross thought—and the canary-yellow T, dressed him in normal clothes and gave him a purpose, he’d look a lot like the guy in that movie. Lead character played in the original by one Steve McQueen.”

Questioning Bobby turned out to be the highlight of Vanessa’s day. When she returned to the station, she discovered that the central air had broken down. Later, two leads dried up, concerning an investigation she’d been working on for six weeks.
An informant she’d come to rely on overdosed and had to have his heart restarted by paramedics, and Captain Palmer was barking at everyone in sight, including Geri who had nothing to do with anything. By the time she reached Vanessa’s desk, her face was flushed and her eyes snapping.
“Ungrateful man.” She batted damp strands of streaked blond hair from her cheeks. “I spend half the night going through dusty, old boxes for him, and he tells me to back off and leave the investigation to the pros.” She slapped a bundle of leather bound books onto Vanessa’s desk. “My college journals. I used to live in these things. I was thinking investigative reporter back then, so they’re packed with details. Mostly irrelevant, I imagine, but as one of the wannabes there could be a lead or two inside.”
Guilt rippled through Vanessa’s system. She’d known Geri well in college but had never pushed to make her one of the group.
“Now I feel like slime,” she murmured.
Misunderstanding her, Geri plucked at the string-tied stack. “Anyone would in this heat. So how’s it going? I know you’re holding up, but is that a brave front or the truth?”
She wouldn’t acknowledge the fear, Vanessa promised herself. She’d take all the necessary precautions, but no actual fear would sneak past her guard—or her lips.
“I’m good. I watched an old movie last night, then slept like the dead.” So much for her lips. She flicked her wrist. “You know what I mean.”
“You slept,” Geri repeated. “You also ate—I hope—then used your treadmill until your leg muscles went numb. But scary is scary, Vanessa, and there’s a loony wandering around, one who’s armed with a multitude of weapons.”
“Not helping me here, Geri.”
“I know. I’m sorry. It’s just weird. While I was going through my journals, I kept having these ridiculous mixed feelings. On one hand, I’m glad I wasn’t one of the group at Berkeley, but on the other, and even though three of the women in that group are dead, I still wish I’d belonged. I mean, really, how messed up is that?”
“You felt left out. Resentment dies hard, right? It’s a normal human reaction.”
Her friend exhaled. “I guess. But I have to tell you, Van, I had a lot of pent up hostility at college. I don’t feel as bad about your friends as I probably should.”
“Only human.” Vanessa wheeled back from her computer. “You say you went through your journals. Do you have any idea who might have taken hostility to a whole new level?”
“Not a clue, and believe me, I was looking, and thinking. Hard.” Her gaze wandered to the captain’s office. “No red-hot bodyguard today?”
“Mmm, he’s in an empty office, doing FBI stuff.” Vanessa closed her current file and drew the bundle of books forward. “I appreciate the effort, even if Palmer doesn’t. He’s been like a bear with a thorn all day. The mayor’s riding his butt about something. And Rick’s not making his life any easier by wanting to question Orrin O’Malley.”
“Agent Maguire wants to talk to Orry-O-Speedwagon?” Sarcasm thickened Geri’s tone. “I wonder why?”
“Orry’s past is an open book, Ger. He did some drugs, joined a few radical groups, took part in even more radical protests, but most of it was for the greater good. And hey, a drug thing followed by a successful rehab only makes him sympathetic. One might even say heroic.”
“I know the spiel. I also remember Orry. He wouldn’t hurt flies in college. All life is sacred, right? But he shot at and would have killed a man two years ago in Sausalito.”
“A mugger came at him with a knife.”
“And Orry just happened to be packing a gun? Come on, that’s not the guy we knew in college. I’d give him a good grilling if I were the FBI. Then I’d move on to the faculty. How many professors did you guys have in common?”
Vanessa fanned her face with an envelope. “Only Willis Reed, the English-Lit prof. I asked you about him the other day. He’s on the list below Bobby and above Orry.”
Geri drew a circle on the top journal. “So give me the scoop. Is he sexy?”
Vanessa smiled. “Should I play dumb, or are you in a hurry?”
“No and yes. Okay, I know the question’s shallow and irrelevant, but I sense you’re tired of shoptalk, especially from me, so let’s go off on a tangent. I think your Fed bodyguard has a fantastic butt.”
“Noticed it.”
“Did you notice the flip side, as well?”
“You have a one track mind that lives below the waistband, Counselor Kruger.” A moment’s hesitation, then she admitted, “Of course I noticed.”
“Uh-oh.” Geri’s smile froze, and Vanessa winced. “Standing behind me, right?”
It wasn’t Geri who answered, but Rick who bent over her chair and placed his mouth next to her ear. “The flip side of what, Vanessa?”
She tapped his head with the envelope. “I don’t talk to eavesdroppers.” But her cheeks were hot, and it had nothing to do with the malfunctioning AC. “Geri brought us some reading material.”
“I like to write,” her friend explained. “Long nights at college, a girl and her pen…” With a helpless look at Vanessa, she asked, “Do you, uh, work out, Agent Maguire?”
“Rick. I prefer to run.” He took the envelope from Vanessa, turned it over.
“Vanessa runs.” Geri settled a hip on the desk. “I bounce. Trampoline. It’s easier. I started when my husband and I split up six months ago. Thankfully, I’m almost divorced.”
Rick’s smile was distracted. “Like two-thirds of the North American population.”
“What stat sheets do you read?” However, when his arms came around her neck, the next words died in Vanessa’s throat. Even Geri looked somewhat disconcerted. “Uh, Rick…?”
“Where did this come from?”
“What come from?” All Vanessa could see was a white blur. She clamped her hands onto his wrists. “Stop shaking the paper, and I might be able to answer you.”
Geri leaned in. “What is it?”
Rick held the sheet steady. When Vanessa’s eyes focused, the bold, black words leaped out at her.

NO DEATH CAN BE UNDONE.
NOT THE ONE THAT MATTERS,
AND NOT YOURS.

Chapter Four
“No death can be undone. Not the one that matters. And not yours—mine.”
Vanessa spun the words through her head. Obviously someone who’d mattered to the murderer was dead. Had she killed that person? Had he?
She spent the next two hours being grilled by Captain Palmer. Fortunately, once the initial furor had died down, he allowed her to leave.
“I did shoot a guy once,” Vanessa told Rick when they reached the police parking lot. “He burst out of a house where he’d been barricaded for three hours carrying two handheld weapons. He winged a cop. I managed to get him in the leg. He dropped one weapon but kept shooting with the other. A patrolman put a bullet in his hip.”
Rick rested a forearm on the roof of his car. “And then?”
“The guy turned the remaining gun on himself. Held it up to his temple and squeezed the trigger. He survived the shot, but died two days later. The only relative we found called him an explosive freak and refused to arrange a funeral. Still, it’s possible we missed someone who cared about him, and that person blames me for his death.”
“What about the other officer who fired?”
“He had a coronary ten months later and left the force. Thirty days after that, he had a fatal attack.”
“You’ve never shot anyone else?”
“Well, yes, but never anyone who died either directly or indirectly from my bullet.” She pressed on her temples. “I loved riddles as a kid. I’m starting to hate them now. Maybe the message was intended to tell me there’s only one relevant murder here.”
“Kill many to cover one?”
“It does happen, Rick. The point is, I’ve been threatened before. You work in homicide, people tend to dislike you.”
They were driving now. To where, Vanessa didn’t know and didn’t care, just so there was motion involved.
Angling his car away from the hills, Rick asked, “Who has access to your desk?”
“Lots of people, cop and civilian. Messengers, the guy who delivers sandwiches, the cleaning staff last night, a visitor this morning.”
“We’ll test the seal for DNA and prints.”
“Well, gee, I’d never have thought of that.” She pushed a little harder on her temples. “You didn’t have to bring Captain Palmer in on this. He was having a bad enough day as it was.”
“He worries about you.”
“He worries about everyone. One of our best detectives had a death threat painted on the side of his car in February. Palmer put him on desk duty for two weeks afterward.”
“Palmer knew where that threat came from. The guy who wrote it liked to blow things up. The guy who sent yours…”
“Probably packs a .32 and looks like Steve McQueen. I don’t want to sit behind a desk, Rick. Not for two weeks, not even for two days. A man I arrested for murder last year was sentenced to twenty-one years in prison. His shrink says the guy blames my testimony for the verdict and I should watch my back, because he has a number of scary but loyal relatives.”
Rick glanced in the mirror. “Give me names. I’ll have the scum checked out.”
“Palmer’s way ahead of you.” She slanted him an accusing stare. “You’ll worry him into high blood pressure, you know, and stress-related HBP can lead directly to a stroke.”
“Palmer’s a big boy, Vanessa.”
The pain in her head was seeping down her neck. “Your high-handed attitude is really irritating. I didn’t get to be a cop because Captain Palmer and my father were best buddies.”
“Really?”
“You didn’t know?”
“I knew they were friends. I didn’t know about the best buddies thing.”
She rocked her head from side to side. “They met in grade school, grew up together, were each other’s best man. They even got divorced around the same time.” She fought a moment of sadness by adding a vexing, “I worked my butt off at the academy. I climbed the ladder because I got results.”
“You don’t have to tell me how good you are, Vanessa. Your record speaks for itself.”
For reasons she didn’t fully understand, Vanessa wanted him to understand. “Palmer was in the delivery room when I was born.”
“Why?”
“Because my father was in Chicago and Uncle Terence—Palmer—wasn’t.”
“So your parents were already having problems.”
“You could say. They divorced before my second birthday. No big deal. They shared custody. Palmer taught me how to play baseball at a police picnic when I was seven.” She wasn’t sure why she’d added that, but since she had, she shrugged and went the distance. “I think he was in love with my mother.”
At a red light, Rick ran a contemplative finger under his lower lip and studied her in profile. “Were you okay with that?”
“It didn’t bother me. I knew my parents would never get back together. They were totally into their work. A bullet killed my father. Stress killed my mom. Given a choice, I prefer the bullet.”
“Makes two of us.”
His easy understanding surprised her. The path he was weaving through the city, now that just baffled. “Rick, where are we going?”
“Mission District.”
“And we’re doing that because…?”
“I thought you might like to meet a friend of mine.”
The laugh that rose felt good. “A friend?”
He glanced over, his expression vaguely humorous. “Are you surprised I have friends or that I’m taking you to meet one?”
The laughter settled into a smile. “Maybe it’s that I’m not sure what kind of friends you’ll have. Is this particular pal the famous Billy Joe Ruby?”
“You know him?”
“No, but I can do background checks, too. Social workers praise his efforts. They say he’s kept a number of kids out of juvie.”
“He kept me out.”
The last of Vanessa’s irritation faded. “You’re underselling yourself, Maguire. Miracles can’t be worked on the unwilling.” She watched as a pair of young men exchanged goods for cash on the corner. “Is Billy helping you with this case?”
“Not officially.”
“So our visit tonight isn’t really happening.”
He cast her a quick grin. “I thought after that note and two hours of being yelled at by Palmer, you could use a break.”
“And a good meal?”
“If you’re up to cooking one, sure. Billy does soup, toast and really bad coffee.”
Vanessa set her head on the leather rest, hooked a leg underneath her. Rick’s hair was long enough to fall over his cheek. Although she knew she shouldn’t, she couldn’t resist reaching over to finger the dark strands. “Has anyone ever told you you smell really good?”
The grin reappeared. “Gotta say no to that one.”
“You have nice hair, too.”
“That’s been mentioned. Just last week in fact. By Emily.”
“Ah, right, okay then.”
He caught her fingers before she could withdraw. “Em’s my partner’s daughter, Vanessa. She’s eight.”
“And I’ll bet she has a great big crush on Uncle Rick…Hey, wait, stop that. What are you doing?”
He ran his thumb over her knuckles before lifting them to his mouth. “Kissing your hand.”
She gave her fingers a tug. “That’s a really bad idea, Maguire.” A delicious sensation, she had to admit as a powerful zing arrowed straight to her elbow, but a worse than bad idea.
He rolled to a halt in front of a wooden row house with a solid set of redbrick stairs and a sturdy handrail. His lips moved from her knuckles to the tips of her fingers.
Okay, now this was just plain wrong. But far too tantalizing to protest. Much.
“Rick, I really don’t think…” His eyes caught hers, and even by feeble streetlight turned her brain to mush. She forced herself to breathe. “Totally lost the thought.”
Fortunately for her, he hadn’t. When she gave her hand another small tug, he kissed her palm, then released her.
Wiggling her still tingling fingers, Vanessa marveled at the effect. “I’ve never reacted like this before. I’m usually spectacular with self-control. You’re doing things to me, Maguire, and I’m sure they can’t be healthy.”
“Same thought’s been on my mind.”
“So what do we do about it?”
“Turn spectacular into superhuman.” Before she could form a reply, he gestured at the glove box. “There’s a bottle of pills inside.”
“You need medication to control your hormones?”
“Painkillers.” He captured her chin so she was forced to meet his dark eyes. “Feds get headaches, too.”
Vanessa decided she needed a cold shower, almost as badly as the pills.
She pushed the release button once, then again. Nothing happened. “Your Porsche has a few bugs.”
“Idiosyncrasies.” Leaning over, he coaxed the latch.
“Still nothing,” she remarked. Except that she was practically plastered against her seat trying to avoid contact with Rick’s arm.
It didn’t work. Even though she pressed herself deeper into the leather, his shoulder brushed across her breast.
Something inside her gave. It practically exploded—which didn’t say a lot for her recent sex life, or her willpower.
Rick moved, he must have, because the next thing Vanessa knew that incredibly tempting mouth was crushed onto hers, open and hot and hungry.
He was good, very good at kissing, she managed to think. He tasted like sex, the kind she’d wished for but had never had. She wanted to abandon logic and simply react. There was greed inside her. Greed and need and a hunger so fierce it frightened her.
Almost.
She wrapped her arms around his neck while his tongue explored every inch of her mouth. It wasn’t enough.
Alarm bells clanged in some foggy corner of her brain. Ignoring them, Vanessa slid her fingers through his hair. She inhaled him, longed to get closer, considered straddling him right there in the car.
Oh, yeah, great idea. In the car. One that was parked outside his mentor’s house on a hot summer night in the Mission District.
“Rick.” She pulled back, tried not to gasp for air. “We have an audience.”
“Windows are tinted.”
“Good…No, not good.” But she allowed herself another moment to enjoy the taste of him, to run her tongue over his teeth and give his lower lip a wicked tug. “This has to be the quintessential James Bond moment.”
He smiled against her mouth. “Is that my cue to whip out the martinis?”
Vanessa’s hand traveled down his chest to his fly. “I can think of better things you could whip out.” She glimpsed increased motion beyond the windows. “But not here. Not now.”
“Not at all?”
“Pretty sure I didn’t say that.” She touched her tongue to her upper lip while he rested his forehead against hers. “Wow, you kiss good.”
“Right back at you, Detective.”
Digging her fingers into his shoulders, she struggled for sanity. “We’re messing up, you know. The killer could be standing outside, hidden behind one of those big sidewalk trees.”
“Which is why I’m getting out first.”
Humor warred with desire. “You might want to hold up on that. Those jeans don’t hide much.”
The expression in his eyes made her laugh. Her tension abated. She kissed his cheek. “Life’s as twisted as the streets of San Francisco, isn’t it?”
“Only since I met you.”
Vanessa’s cell phone began to ring. Digging it from her bag, she checked the screen. “No ID. Could be one of my snitches. Detective Connor,” she answered.
A man’s voice snarled at her. “An eye for an eye, Detective. I’ve got mine on you.” The snarl became a rough whisper. “Don’t blink.”

“IT TOOK US TEN MINUTES to get inside your house from the curb, Billy.” Rick slapped his palm on the side of a mahogany cabinet. “I damn near shot a guy who was pulling a pack of smokes from his back pocket.”
“You didn’t, though, and neither did Vanessa.” The clatter of saws and hammers issuing from the kitchen forced Billy to raise his voice.
“Shows how well-trained you are.”
“Yeah, really well-trained.” Rick searched for something else to hit. He settled for the living-room wall. Two of the crosses Billy had hung there jumped.
“Don’t you start knocking God’s stuff around,” the old man ordered. “Those crosses belonged to my Louisiana granny.”
So had the rosary beads and the three crucifixes above the foyer door. The portrait of the Madonna had been painted by Billy himself at the tender age of twelve.

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