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A Voice in the Dark
Jenna Ryan


A Voice in the Dark
Jenna Ryan









www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

Table of Contents
Cover Page (#u1597f2e0-75aa-53a2-8208-3150b06fa833)
Title Page (#ub9e9157e-41a4-59a2-8453-a48db694ed33)
About the Author (#u070e4c07-ba16-548f-a102-e9cbfaea2899)
Prologue (#u5d038a1b-80bd-50d0-a320-449511e8ef13)
Chapter One (#ucbfda67c-7989-5857-90a8-5a643fc1b042)
Chapter Two (#ua5fa3bb4-d771-5988-9f2c-e852431eecdb)
Chapter Three (#u3fb27d23-b61d-58c1-b8b9-2346cf04b1e9)
Chapter Four (#u3cfe1659-70d9-5fe3-bfa1-7dba738576f6)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
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.
To Merlyn. Keep fighting, sweetheart. Win or lose, we’ll always love you.

Prologue
“Who are you?” The man on the dock frowned. “You said it was urgent. You told me…” His voice flattened. “You lied.”
“I did. But you love, so you believed. You were vulnerable. That’s how I succeed. Love is joy. It’s also pain. Which emotion we experience depends on the person we love.”
A cruel north wind blasted the man from behind. His muscles tightened beneath his overcoat. His hand crept toward his pocket.
The person opposite smiled. “There’s no point trying to be subtle. I can see you have a gun.”
The man’s fingers balled.
“You know, for such an educated man, you strike me as rather stupid. Still, I don’t really expect you or anyone to understand. It doesn’t work that way in my case.”
A knife blade appeared out of nowhere to press against the man’s throat. He made a choking sound and froze.
“Maybe not quite so stupid after all. But an unfortunate victim just the same.”
“Why are you doing this?” the man whispered. “Can’t I at least know that?”
“I already told you. Love is pain.”
“Which you’re going to inflict.”
“Unfortunately.”
Before the man could react, the knife shifted. The blade slashed.
Blood spurted, a steaming red fountain of it.
The man jolted and clawed. He tried to grab the knife, as if that would help. He staggered forward in an attempt to run.
But he was dead, and he knew it, even if he didn’t know why.
When the job was done, the man’s killer stood back. A measure of sorrow crept in and, yes, pity. But no second thought. No regrets.
The time for waiting was over.
It had begun. Again.

Chapter One
A dockyard in Boston
Wind whipped the rain-soaked body of the forty-something male who lay prostrate on the pavement. Two pennies, one shiny, one dull, sat on his closed eyelids. Even so, FBI agent Angel Carter thought he looked shocked, as if he couldn’t believe he was dead.
Behind her, a Boston police officer made notes and muttered. About the federal presence, Angel imagined. Or maybe he didn’t like the traditional “time of death” pool taking place around him.
“Four hours,” one of the patrols said.
“It’s forty degrees,” another argued. “Factor in the wind chill and we’re talking thirty or less. The guy’s stiff and blue. I’ll go under three.”
Their voices swirled around Angel’s head like the stinging pellets of rain. She studied the corpse and waited patiently for the official pronouncement of death.
At length, the medical examiner stripped off his gloves and blew on his hands. “Someone sliced him up real good, Angel.” He pointed. “Opened the carotid artery, which is why you’ll find a diluted stream of blood from the dock halfway to your place. Guy’s big and well built. Probably put up a fight, but only with one hand. He was trying to stem the blood flow with the other.”
One of the uniforms leaned in. “How long d’you figure, Doc? I’m in for three and a half hours.”
“Joe’s the one who puts the stamp on the time of death,” Angel reminded him.
“I only confirm that he is in fact dead.” The medical examiner signaled the ambulance attendants. “And this one definitely is. Has been since a minute or two after the knife sliced his neck.”
Angel had trained herself long ago not to let a victim’s facial expression affect her. Easier to focus on the wounds.
As the ME left, Angel’s eyes followed the gash on the victim’s neck. “It’s a jagged slash. Either the killer had an unsteady hand or the victim was struggling. Second thing makes more sense.”
Uninterested, the uniform moved off. Another pair of boots sloshed in. The woman wearing them hunkered down. “The victim’s name is Lionel Foret. Forty-two years old. Officially, he lived in Boston, but his work appears to have taken him between here and DC.”
“Government?”
“So his soggy credentials say. State Department. Bergman might know more by the time we check in.”
“He has the look of a politician. Or a lawyer. Whatever he is, Bergman barked at me to get down here, and in the year and a half I’ve known him, he’s never barked.”
“Ditto.” Liz fingered the man’s coat. “His clothes say major money, but with the exception of his driver’s license and a few credit cards, his wallet’s empty. My guess is he was rolled by a junkie.”
The skin on Angel’s neck tingled, as if an army of invisible ants were marching across it. She glanced behind her. “Do you feel something, Liz?”
“Other than waterlogged?”
“I think we’re being watched.”
FBI agent Elizabeth Thomas blew out a steamy breath. “Any thief desperate enough to slice a guy in this weather won’t be hanging around to observe the cleanup crew. He’s long gone and probably high as Franklin’s kite by now. Which is why we’ll nail him before first light.”
“If the perp’s an addict.”
“Okay, it’s an assumption, but my money’s on the easy answer this time.”
Sensation, like a finger stroked across the back of her neck, sent a shiver of reaction down Angel’s spine. “Okay, this is way too weird.” She whipped her head around, but saw only shadows behind the fish processing plant. “Someone’s back there.”
Liz rose with her. “I promise you, Angel, there’s no one. We told the cops to secure the area, and they did. All shadows duly checked, all boxes on the list ticked empty.” She nudged her partner’s high-heeled boot with her toe. “Maybe your brain’s starting to freeze. You’re not exactly dressed for this weather.”
“I was at a play when Bergman called.”
“Lucky you. I’d just settled my toddler into bed and was thinking about streaking my hair for the holidays. Can you believe Thanksgiving’s only three weeks away?” She squinted at the threatening sky. “It seems like summer just ended.”
“Apparently you turned Rip Van Winkle and slept through last week’s blizzard.”
“That was a freak storm.”
“That was six inches of snow the last week of October. Normal for Juneau, but in Boston I expected a glorious New England fall, up to and hopefully through Thanksgiving. Didn’t get it last year, and so far this one’s a rerun.”
“Write to the Tourist Bureau. They print the brochures.” Liz ran her fingers through her short blond hair. “Was the play good?”
“The first act was.”
Although she scanned and rescanned the darkness, nothing moved except the rain, currently being driven sideways by a gale-force wind that gusted in hard from the water.
And still the sensation persisted, a featherlight breath on her face, then along the line of her cheek to her throat.
Liz nudged her again. “We need to get inside. You might have grown up in Alaska, but I’m a Corpus Christi girl and highly susceptible to wet rot. I swear on my nine years of federal service, there’s no one and nothing back there.”
One final hint of warm, and suddenly it was only the wind on her cheeks.
Angel shook her head. “Weird,” she murmured one last time. But she had to admit as the victim’s body was prepped for removal, that despite the unsettling aspect, the sensation had felt strangely like a caress.
Completely sensual, and in an instant, completely gone.

HE WATCHED HER from the narrow walkway that split the old processing plant in two. She’d sensed him. He’d seen it in the way her eyes cruised the shadows, as if she’d known more than rats and cockroaches lurked within them.
Suspicion had come first, followed by speculation. Then, when the feeling persisted, impatience.
In unguarded moments, Angel Carter wore her emotions on her face, her incredibly beautiful face. Those same emotions added an element of intrigue to her already exotic features…
And he was thinking like a man obsessed.
Still, he didn’t move, didn’t let his gaze waver. Didn’t mean he missed the body at her feet, but he’d seen that already, before she’d arrived.
“Someone’s back there, Liz…”
He heard the determination now, and his lips curved. He should go, leave her with partner and corpse, let her draw her conclusions and see where they led.
Icy rain slid along his neck beneath his upturned collar. The man in black. The man who lived in the dark. A phantom. That’s how people described him. He didn’t care. Phantoms could slip in and out undetected.
Except, apparently, by an Angel.
When her partner set a hand on her arm, he knew it was time to vanish. He’d done what he’d come to do. Now it was her turn.
The shadows shifted as the ambulance arrived. He allowed himself one last look, then disappeared into the heart of them.

Chapter Two
The hands of the clock ticked slowly toward 2:00 a.m. Angel had spoken to her boss three times since viewing the body and his sniveling assistant twice. This time she had a somewhat different number in mind.
She was positioning her thumb over the seventh digit when the head of forensic pathology pushed through the lab door. His smile was automatic, his chuckle a welcome sound in the sterile grid of hospital corridors.
“He won’t mind,” Joe Thomas assured her. “Two, four, six o’clock. Time of day or night is irrelevant to Noah Graydon. As you should know after eighteen months of back-and-forth phone conversations.”
Angel’s own smile blossomed. “Good to hear, Dr. T, but in actual fact, I was calling my mother. And after almost thirty years of close association, I can promise you time means a great deal to her. More than her new Harley, in fact.”
“Amazing woman.” Joe used a blue checked handkerchief to polish his glasses. “She crunches numbers in Alaska for the better part of four decades, then meets a long distance trucker and decides to go off and live the life.”
“Everyone should live the life.” Angel closed her phone, met his brown eyes. “Not sure about the Harley yet, but I’m always open to new. Why did you think I was calling Noah?”
“Come on, Angel, I’ve met Bergman’s snotty assistant. The voice of reason would be a welcome change after that. Unfortunately, in terms of your latest murder victim, I’m leaning toward a mugging gone awry.”
“Been talking to your wife, huh?”
“Yes, I have, and yes, the word junkie came up, but she’s only trying to keep things simple after that nightmare of a childnapping case you two were involved in.”
Angel dropped the cell phone into her coat pocket. “So what’s the deal with Foret?”
Joe crooked a finger. “Come into my parlor, pretty fly, and I’ll show you.”
“Great, I get to see a naked dead man on an empty stomach. Missed dinner,” she explained, “along with the ending to the play.”
“Who was the unlucky guy?”
She shed her coat, grinned. “A podiatrist your wife and my so-called friend introduced me to last week. He looks, talks and acts like a department store mannequin. He has polished skin, Joe, right down to the cleft in his chin. He also has an icky foot fetish which I’ll be kind and not go into. Now fess up. Why did you think I was calling Noah?”
He pinched her chin before snapping on a pair of medical gloves. “Cat with a fish, Angel, that’s you. Okay, I thought that because it’s what you do when you’re feeling edgy, and Liz told me about the shadow thing tonight. You thought someone was watching you.”
Unperturbed, Angel circled the examining table. “Watching all of us, Doc. I’m not totally paranoid.”
“Just ultra sensitive to dark shadows. And bats.”
“Some people would call the shadow part intuitive.”
“Was anyone lurking?”
“Not that I saw, but shadows shift, and anyone in them would know how to move fast. I’m not saying there’s a deep dark plot involved here, but I’m not thinking junkie either. The pennies on Foret’s eyelids,” she elaborated at Joe’s slight frown. “It’s too old-world for someone who’s desperate.”
“Are you thinking hired hit?”
“Could be. Foret worked for the State Department—that’s all the information Bergman has or is giving us right now—but I’m guessing he was high level. He was also on that dock for a reason. We’ll start there.”
“Well, deep breath, stomach muscles tight, let’s have a look at Mr. Foret’s wounds.”
The better part of an hour crawled by, leaving in its wake the eerie sense of mortality that struck her from time to time.
As Joe’s colleague had suggested, it was the slash to Foret’s carotid artery that had done the job. He’d bled out swiftly with little time to react and only one hand with which to defend himself. Most of the scoring was on his throat and neck, but there was also a nick on his collarbone and a shallow scrape on the back of his hand.
“There’s possible blood and or skin under the fingernails of his left hand,” Joe noted. “I’ll have those things plus the contents of his stomach analyzed and on your desk by noon.”
“Sunday dinner should be fun.”
Joe blinked at her through his wire-rimmed glasses. “Is it Sunday already?”
“Between home, work and the Victim’s Support Center, you and Liz work way too hard.” Angel moved away from the table, shook the smell of death from her hair and arms. “You should take a cruise.”
“We thought about it, but I get seasick.”
She couldn’t resist a laugh. The man dissected dead bodies, but a few ocean swells did him in. The human mind fascinated.
She heard a thump. The door to the examining room swung open, and a second Dr. Thomas squished in.
“Liz called,” he explained before his brother could ask. “There’s a liver coming in from Atlanta. The patient’s being prepped for transplant surgery, so I decided to drop in and thaw my nimble fingers. Dead guy on the table aside, have any new donors been wheeled in tonight?”
Twisted amusement rose in Angel’s throat. “Foret’s are the only body parts in the vicinity, Graeme, so put your eyes back in their sockets, go upstairs and scrub.”
Several inches taller and a great deal more handsome than his comfortable-looking older brother, Graeme Thomas was nevertheless an inherently nice guy. Didn’t mean he couldn’t flirt with the best of them. “You talk so sweet, Angel.” Flashing a grin, he set his cheek next to hers from behind, wrapped his arms around her waist and swayed. “Sure you won’t marry me?”
“That would make me what? Wife number four?”
“It’s my lucky number. Come on, what do you say? You, me, Elvis, a neon chapel? I’ll even rent us a pink Cadillac.”
She smiled and patted his exposed cheek. “Really tempted, but I’ll settle for dinner and a DVD.”
“Topped off by a chat with Noah Graydon?”
“Not you, too.” She sighed out a breath, disentangled and turned. “Noah’s a friend, okay? On the invisible side, but if people can connect through the Internet, then the phone should be a no-brainer.”
“I guess.” But he caught her hand. “The Vegas offer stands. You get tired of a voice on the phone, you know where I’ll be.”
“Yeah, up to your elbows in body parts. I’ll hold tight to that image. Send the report over when you get it, Joe. I’m going to try for—” she brought her watch into focus “—whoa, four straight hours of alone time. Tell Liz I’ll finish the prelims, and she should go ahead and streak her hair.”
“Are all women anal with their priorities?” Graeme wondered aloud.
Angel pulled on her gloves, worked the fingers down. “No more so than men with their HD TVs and game-day rituals. Good luck in surgery, Graeme.”
Her boot heels echoed in the empty corridor outside. Swinging her coat on, she murmured, “It’s like being the last live cell in a dead body. No way could I do your job, Dr. T.”
Still, as her newly emancipated mother liked to say, life tossed what it tossed. Go with it or go crazy.
At twenty-nine, Angel didn’t think life had tossed all that much her way yet. But three girlfriends and a messy divorce later, her father had done his level best to drive his first wife crazy. Thankfully, poetic justice had intervened. He’d wound up with a shrew for a second wife along with the proverbial stepchild from hell. As Angel saw it, occasionally life and fate got together and tossed a very satisfying fair ball into the mix.
Deep in the pocket of her black coat, her cell phone began to hum. At three-something in the morning, the news wasn’t likely to be good, but ever the optimist, she pulled it out.
The number on the screen brought a smile to her lips, even if it didn’t surprise. For all his solitary ways, the man knew everything, often before anyone else in the department.
She greeted him with an amused, “Well, hi there, tall, dark and mysterious. What’s got you up so late on a Saturday night?”
“Mostly the thought of you being up so late on a Saturday night.”
Noah Graydon’s voice flowed through her veins like honey laced with dark rum. She’d been intrigued by him since their first conversation, a year and a half ago. Today, she was as much entranced as intrigued. Unfortunately, she was also inured, or heading that way.
Noah was a man of darkness, a voice in the night. For reasons she had yet to determine, he preferred to exist in a world of shadow and half-light. No one saw him except Joe. And no one who knew him, if indeed anyone in the Boston office did, would talk about his predilection for solitude.
And so their entire relationship had evolved over the phone. Didn’t make him a stranger exactly, but if she’d been the cat Joe had labeled her, curiosity would have killed her several lifetimes ago.
Smiling, even though she knew where their conversation would ultimately wind up, Angel pushed the elevator call button, then bumped her shoulder lightly against the wall while she waited.
“I’m at the path lab and creeped out, Noah. Say something pretty so I can erase the picture of dead body parts that are whizzing through my brain.”
“Bed of roses.”
She set her head on the wall. “Been listening to Bon Jovi, huh?”
“That’s why the Boston office snapped you up, Angel. You’re all about extrapolation. Okay, pretty. Close your eyes and imagine the Cape. Turning leaves and bonfires. Think cold nights, a walk in the woods and a glass of wine waiting when you return.”
A more tranquil smile curved her lips. “You have a truly amazing voice, Graydon. I swear I can smell those leaves burning.” The elevator doors slid open, and she glanced inside. “Yuck. Empty gurney with rumpled sheets.” She sidestepped it as she entered.
His low chuckle might have brought back the Cape if she hadn’t recalled the unholy hour. A clunk of gears preceded the elevator’s arduous upward climb.
“I hear you’ve got a body,” he remarked.
“We do, and I’ve just come from a close encounter with it. It’s big, pale and hairless, a bit like that enormous baby the drunk stork delivered to the wrong people in the Bugs Bunny cartoon.”
“Well, there’s a picture. Thanks for that, Angel.”
“Welcome. Do you know what Foret’s story is?”
“He’s got ties to the White House.”
“Figured as much. Just please don’t tell me he’s related to someone who’s going to make my life hell until his murder’s solved.”
“He’s a lawyer.”
“Explains the eight-hundred-dollar suit.”
“Attached to the State Department.”
“Saw the credentials. Tell me what I didn’t see, or probably wouldn’t know.”
“He’s close personal friends with the current Secretary of State.”
At last, the inevitable X factor reared its head. “Oh, good. That means there’ll be pressure to solve and close fast. Bergman can’t be aware of the last thing, Noah, or instead of sniveling, his assistant would be apoplectic. Is there any whisper about a dockyard rendezvous?”
“Give me time, Angel. I just dug up the Secretary of State connection. Any theories yet?”
Angel caught herself stroking the bottom of her cell phone and gave her fingers a speculative look.
“Only that I don’t think he was rolled by someone hungry for a fix. It’s true, any cash he had in his wallet was gone, but he was still wearing his platinum Tag Heuer watch, diamond tiepin and ring. Signet, not wedding. So either the killer was dumb as well as desperate, or the money was taken to make Foret’s death look like a really bad mugging.”
“How did you read the pennies on his eyes?”
“I’ve heard of similar cases.”
“Yeah?”
“Three times last year. Once in Boston, twice in New York. All of the murders had gangland connections. One gang, three killers.”
“This isn’t gang-related.”
It wouldn’t be, she thought. Far too simple. “And you know that because?”
“Victim doesn’t fit the profile.”
“Yes, well, Noah, it’s late and I’m tired, and it was really cold on that dock. I wasn’t thinking profile so much as get him to Joe and find the largest possible coffee.”
Another chuckle reached her. It almost reached into her. “Don’t turn diva on me, Angel. It wasn’t a criticism. You only came to Boston eighteen months ago. You can’t know what I do.”
Eighteen months, and some odd number of days. Angel started to lean a hip on the gurney, but spied the soiled under-sheet and opted for the elevator rail instead. “Waiting, Graydon. What exactly is it you know?”
“This isn’t an isolated murder.” Softly said, but a chill chased itself along her spine.
“Definitely do not like the sound of that. Are we talking serial killing?”
“I’d say so.”
Frustration crept in as the elevator ground to a halt. “How can you think that already? Have you been talking to Joe?”
“I don’t have to talk to Joe.”
“Then how…?”
“Look for a note.”
Again, the words were softly uttered; however, far from diminishing their impact, Noah’s tone gave them a punch that silenced Angel’s automatic protest.
“What kind of note?” she asked instead.
“A cryptic one. This killer’s looking to be understood, but only by the cleverest of the clever.”
She pictured him leaning forward in his chair, staring at the rain-smeared city lights outside his window.
“It’ll be small,” he continued. “Ordinary, like a tossed off scrap of paper. But it will be there. Look hard enough, and you’ll find it.”
Her resistance dissolved. “You’re the best criminal profiler in the business, Graydon. I trust you more than anyone I know. So I’ll look. And if there’s a note, I’ll find it. Bergman…”
“Doesn’t need to know about my involvement in this case.”
His statement surprised her into stopping halfway across the reception area. “Say that again? Don’t tell my boss why I’m doing what I’m doing?”
“It wouldn’t be the first time you’ve withheld, Angel. This one’s for me. Call it a personal favor.”
She responded to the admissions nurse’s wave with an absent smile. Something stirred deep inside, but she was fairly certain it had nothing to do with correct procedure and everything to do with an overwhelming resurgence of curiosity.
“Cat with a fish,” she echoed.
“Is that a yes?”
The obvious question clawed at her throat, but she swallowed it and looked out into the inky darkness. “You’re a fascinating man, Noah Graydon. I respect you, I like you, and God knows I owe you. So if more mystery’s what you want, I’m in. For your sake and Lionel Foret’s, it’s a yes.”

INSIDE HIS SPARSELY FURNISHED North Bay loft, Noah propped a bare foot on the windowsill and sipped hot coffee.
He didn’t bother to rouse himself when he heard the freight elevator clunk past the twelfth floor. He lived alone on thirteen, had since the only other person brave enough to overcome the eighteenth-century ghost story that was part and parcel of the building’s charm had taken a header out a rear window into a row of trashcans below.
The elevator gate rattled up. Ten seconds later, he heard a knuckle rap, and the door creaked open.
“It’s me, Noah. You feel like company?”
Noah rested his head on the chair back. “If I didn’t, would you go away?”
“Probably not.” Joe came in, collided with a metal stand next to the door and swore. “Friggin’ vampire lighting. Don’t you even want to see where you live?”
Noah smiled a little. “Did you come here to bitch about my furniture or to pass along useable information?”
“The second thing, but I swear, some day the first’s gonna cripple me. I smell coffee.”
“Machine’s still next to the fridge.”
“That would be the big black box at ten o’clock, right?”
Noah kept his eyes on the flickering city lights. “What’s the news, Joe?”
“I’ll—ouch—preface it by reminding you that I’m not supposed to be talking about this.”
“Pretend you’ve made the spiel. Why did Bergman give Foret to Angel and Liz?”
“Because they’re good not working for you?”
Noah merely turned his head to stare.
His friend released an audible breath. “Fine, he did it because of you. We might think all pen pushers are jackasses, but one or two of them actually have a brain. Liz and Angel are good, but official or not, you’re the prize Bergman’s after. Your boss wants you to back off this one—word’s already out on that—so Bergman had to go for your Achilles’ heel. Namely, Angel Carter.”
Noah turned back to his view. “So far, she can tell me as much or more than I can tell her.”
“What are you—ouch—okay, you moved that table, right?” Joe stopped to rub his shin. “What’s going on in your head about Foret’s death?”
“If you know what my boss is up to, you already know what’s going on.”
“You think it’s that guy again, don’t you, the one who did that string of murders that started seven years ago?”
“Eight.”
“We’ll call that an affirmative. Why?”
Noah propped his other foot up. “You did Foret’s autopsy. You tell me.”
“Team’s still running the results, but from the prelim, I’d say the wounds are fairly consistent. Still, a lot of murderers use knives. I think you’re reaching if your goal is to resurrect a serial killer who’s been off the map for half a decade.”
“We’ll see.”
Joe came to perch on the ledge. “Let’s get personal, shall we? How’re you doing these days? I cook a mean pot roast, and Liz’s angel food cakes are as divine as their name implies. Break down and have dinner with us. Liz is dying to meet you, and Jaynie turned four last Friday. We’ll have a second birthday party. You can give her money to buy new shoes.”
Noah smiled. “Your four-year-old likes shoes?”
“She takes after her adopted aunt. Angel loves shoes more than life. Liz only loves them more than paying bills.” Leaning forward, he tapped Noah’s knee. “We’ll eat by candlelight, tell the girls you’re a vampire with a soul, or whatever the deal was for that Buffy character. They’ll be mesmerized.”
Noah let his head fall back on the chair. “Thanks just the same.”
Joe emitted a sound of frustrated acceptance. “It isn’t healthy, you know, how you live—or don’t live as the case may be.”
“My life, my business, Dr. Thomas.”
“Don’t Dr. Thomas me. I’ll bet the house that you’ve seen Angel live and in person without her having a clue she’s been observed. The least you could do is return the favor.”
Okay, now that was too personal. Noah shot him a look that had Joe’s mouth ratcheting closed.
“Yeah, fine, got it. Back off or take off. But I have to tell you, she’s pretty spectacular up close.”
“I’ve seen her, Joe.”
“Nuh-uh, not up close, you haven’t, and animated. I’ll take a page out of Graeme’s book and wax poetic for a moment, because she’s—well, beautiful.” He used his hands. “Hair the color of Mayan coffee, miles of it, gorgeous hazel eyes, legs that go from here to my waist and incredible skin. Of course, being married, I’m not supposed to notice things like that, and I know better than to say any of them around my wife, but truth’s truth, and you’re missing the boat where Angel’s concerned, because I promise you, she’s interested, even if you are just a disembodied voice in the night…Now you really are going to tell me to shove off, aren’t you, so end of speech. What say we work on our chess game? I believe it’s my move.”
Joe’s move, yes, but not his game to play. Not his risk to take.
Not his dragon to slay.
Draining his mug, Noah said, “She’s better off out of it. She doesn’t need my demons added to her own.”
“If you mean her daddy dearest, she doesn’t mourn the loss. Some fathers are great—no names, please. Others are total jackasses. You got the cream of the crop in that regard. Angel lucked out physically.” Joe walked to the sofa, hesitated, then blurted an impatient, “You’re not a monster, you know.”
Noah couldn’t help it, he laughed. “Man, do all pathologists take drama as a minor in college?” He dropped his feet. “I’ll meet her when I meet her, okay? Right now, Foret’s the focus. Mine and hers. And your king’s in serious trouble.”
“Nothing new there.” Joe waited until they were seated on opposite sides of the board before meeting Noah’s stare. “You really think it’s him, don’t you? The guy who went on that three-year killing spree, then suddenly stopped.”
“Yeah, I do.”
“Even though the evidence in some of those cases was dicey.”
“Still a yes.”
His friend’s hand trembled visibly. “Noah, Liz…”
“Won’t die, okay?” Noah held his gaze without a flicker. “Neither will Angel.”
“A statement you hope is true, but can’t be sure of—unless that patch you wear shoots psychic vibrations directly into your brain.”
Noah didn’t respond, merely rested his forearms on his knees and regarded the chessboard. He spoke to more than his friend when he said softly, “Your move.”

Chapter Three
“Okay, so Lionel Foret was what? A Munster wannabe?” Liz stomped her feet on the porch of what was possibly the most decrepit house in Boston. In front of her, Angel rattled an old-fashioned key in the rusted-out lock.
They’d already gone through Foret’s Boston apartment, top to bottom, and found nothing except a million newspapers, enough fast-food containers to fill a city Dumpster and one very fat canary which Foret’s mother, currently en route from Virginia, was planning to take home.
“You heard his mom.” Angel used her shoulder on the stuck door. “Lionel wanted to fix and flip this place. He spent as much time here as he did in his apartment. The other third of his life unfolded in Washington.”
“We’ve got people checking the DC condo, right?”
“Yeah, and his buddy the Secretary is all over them. Bergman’s going down to talk to the man live and in person.”
“Better him than us…Can I help you push?”
“Nope.” Angel braced, gave a hard shove—and almost wound up flat on her face in the foyer as the engorged wood gave. “Got it.”
She shone her flashlight over the wall. “I smell old dust, fresh paint and foo yung. What a combo.” Locating the switch, she flipped it up. “Well, that made a world of difference. One twenty-five watt bulb spread over how many hundreds of junk-filled square feet? Still, the foo yung and paint say he’s been here recently.” She pivoted in a slow circle. “Wow—this is great.”
“It’s cold, it stinks, and it’s probably crawling with bugs.” Liz inspected the sagging ceiling. “Bergman’s a supreme ass for sticking us with this job while he takes a cushy flight to Washington.”
Angel gave her shoulder a tap with the flashlight. “Better him than us, remember? Come on, Liz, where’s your sense of adventure? This is the Munster house. Scratch fixing and flipping. Foret should have added costumed workers to the cobwebs and marketed it as a hotel.”
“You’ve got to be joking.”
“People said that about ice hotels, and look what happened there. Do you want up or down?”
“Kitchen’ll be down. I’ll go up. Reinforcements are coming, right?”
“A team of four. Two rookies.”
“Perfect, they can do the bathrooms.” She snagged the back of Angel’s jacket. “Be careful.”
“Always am. Watch out for rats on the stairs.”
“Like I could miss them,” her friend muttered. “Place like this, they’ll be as big as wolves.”
“Werewolves,” Angel corrected and laughed when Liz flung a small chunk of plaster at her.
Not that she enjoyed mold and mildew, but calling it the Munster house kept her on the upside of the fantasy. Because, God knew, on the down, she’d be envisioning bats by now. Big ones, grinning like little ghouls, and walking awkwardly as bats tended to do, across the floor.
Her cell phone rang while she was forging a path toward the back of the house. By way of a greeting, she demanded, “Question, Noah, did Eddie’s pet Fang live under the house or under the stairs?”
“Is this a riddle, Angel, or do you always do hallucinogenic drugs at 11:00 a.m. on a Monday?” But he sounded halfway amused, which helped with the bat phobia.
Angel’s foot slid off a section of crumbled wall. “Bergman gave us the victim’s Mockingbird Lane fixer. Wasn’t that sweet? The lights are Edison originals, and if there’s such a thing as a furnace, I can’t believe it’d work.” She set a hand on the chair rail for balance. “There was no note in his downtown apartment. Liz and I spent hours yesterday searching. We had a hacker go through his Blackberry and laptop. Nothing. And both of his briefcases came up empty. If he was meeting someone on the dock, he kept the date, time and identity in his head. We have no witnesses so far and very few other clues. Even Joe doesn’t have anything for us yet. I’m thinking slow slog here.”
“Keep looking.”
“That’s my job—oh, yuck, something squished under my boot.” She wouldn’t look, she promised herself. Hearing a thud, she glanced at the massive staircase. “Spooky,” she decided, then strained to see around a peeling column, “Yellow walls ahead. Could be Foret was trying to force-feed sunshine into the place.”
“You’re there for evidence, not ambience.”
“Uh-huh. And you’re where right now? Fifty bucks says it’s some place warm, dry and mildew-free. Oh thank God, the squishy stuff was only a tube of caulking. Foret’s mother told us he slept here most of last week. She’s a police dispatcher in Virginia, used to be a beat cop.” A loose wire twined around Angel’s ankle and she had to crouch to dislodge it. “Her boyfriend’s driving her up this week. I gather she’s terrified of flying.”
“Yeah, I read the back files. Joy Foret Smith’s first husband was a pilot for a major airline. He had a heart attack between Boston and Jacksonville. Died in the cockpit. She took a leave of absence afterward, for her nerves. Her second husband ran an Internet business. A blood clot got him while they were on vacation at Martha’s Vineyard. Word is she’s sworn off marriage and is currently living with a cop because she’s decided it’s no more dangerous than any other occupation.”
Angel found herself smiling—and surprisingly already standing on the kitchen threshold.
She located the overhead switch, but again, the light was virtually nonexistent. “You’re a wonderful distraction, Graydon. Okay, so I’m in the kitchen. I see three containers of Chinese food on a slopey surface that’s probably a counter. He’s got his used paint rollers wrapped in plastic, and the big goodies, hopefully appliances, draped with tarps. Lily’d love this place.”
“Lily?”
“Munster.” She ran her flashlight into the corners. “You own a TV, right?”
“Search, Angel.”
“I can do that and talk at the same time. Hang on, I’m putting you on speaker.” Depressing the button, she set the phone next to a disposable cup.
Wind whistled through the ill-fitting rear door. The bigger gusts shifted the floor dust and caused the rafters to moan.
Angel’s sharp eyes spied the end of a sleeping bag behind the rickety island. Pulling off her cap and gloves, she shook her hair loose. “Looks like Foret slept in the kitchen. I have to say, this area’s a lot better than the entry hall—except for the yellow walls. Too canary-like. If he was trying for French country, which he shouldn’t be in a pre-Revolution house, he missed by a mile.”
“French farmers don’t like canaries?”
She sighed in the direction of the counter. “Do you have even a drop of European blood in your veins?”
She heard the smile in his voice when he replied. “I happen to know you’re one hundred percent American, Angel. Three generations worth.”
“Ah, but go back to gen four, and we’re talking major global mix. One of my great-grandmothers came from Africa. The other was born in Fiji. My mother’s paternal grandfather was a Brit and the maternal one a potpourri—Italian, Romanian and Norwegian.”
“You missed the Argentine connection.”
She narrowed her eyes at the phone. “I swear to God, Graydon, if you can tell me what color bra I’m wearing, I’m cutting you off right now.”
“I’ll go with white and lacy.”
Lips twitching, she resumed her search. “Not going to react, because you can’t possibly know that. I got dressed in my closet this morning. No windows. The only one who saw me in there was my dog.”
“Lucky Moscow.”
“Pushing it, pal.”
“Angel, everyone in the department knows about your Alaskan husky.”
“Yeah, except I don’t recall ever seeing you in the department. I also don’t go around talking about my background. And my grandmother insists it’s a Mayan connection.” Wedging open a metal box, she sifted through the papers inside. “Other than Joe, how many spies do you have?”
“None, and that includes Joe. I pick up on details, I deduce. Sometimes I hit, just as often I miss. What are those papers you’re rustling?”
“Receipts mostly. Some doodles.” She grinned at one of the pages. “Hey, Foret really did like the Munsters. He drew Lily. Or—” she examined it more closely “—maybe it’s Morticia.”
“Who?”
“Buy a TV, okay?” Pushing the lid down, she continued along the counter. A tiny scraping sound reached her from the island. “Terrific.” She glanced over it. “The rats probably are as big as were-wolves.” She moved one of the food containers aside, then gave in, leaned her elbows on the counter and whispered, “It’s ivory.” She skimmed a finger across the buttons. “All lace, but not quite white.”
“It’s a tempting picture, Angel.”
The tone of his voice brought a surprising rush of heat. But then could you tease a mystery man and not expect to pay the price? She really needed to let go of this particular fantasy.
Fanning her face, she continued her search.
A napkin smeared with soy sauce sat behind the metal box. Red markings showed through from the other side. Curious, she used gloved fingers to smooth the wrinkles.
And there it was.
“Oh, hell.”
It was as far as she got. The scratching sound came again, followed by a low growl.
Movement exploded from behind the island. Angel saw bared teeth, gray arms and a pair of very large hands. A split second before she was tackled to the floor.

“ANGEL!”
Noah heard the growl as clearly as if it were a gunshot. When she didn’t respond, he shouted her name again, then swore and grabbed his jacket. He kept his phone activated, snatched up his keys and held them in his mouth while he dragged on his boots.
The sounds of a struggle were unmistakable. Still swearing, he ran for the door.
No shots had been fired, but then Foret’s killer didn’t use a gun. Knives were silent. And equally fatal.
The attacker’s breath whistled out. Noah knew Angel was good at hand-to-hand. She’d also be carrying a gun.
“Shoot him,” he said through his teeth.
But still no shots reached him.
“Angel!” he tried again.
“Big, heavy jerk…Ouch! Damn.”
Noah pounded through the alley exit and disarmed his truck. He almost tore the hinges off as he opened the door.
He was jamming the key into the ignition when he heard her vexed, “You’re really pissing me off, pal. Face down, stay there and don’t move. Don’t twitch. Don’t even breathe hard.” Louder, she called, “Liz!” Then to the phone, “I’m okay, Noah. It’s a vagrant.”
“Street person,” her assailant’s voice sneered.
All the air left Noah’s lungs. He let his forehead fall onto the steering wheel.
“You’re breathing hard,” Angel warned.
“What d’you expect, lady?” Her prisoner grunted. “You kicked me in the…”
“Angel?” Liz clattered in. “I heard a commotion…Ah. Who’s he?”
“Street person. Noah, are you there?”
Drill the bastard, he thought, but breathed it out and managed a level, “Yeah, I’m here. What the hell’s going on?” Not that he didn’t know, but until his heart returned to his chest, he wanted her to do the talking.
“Just a trespasser,” she answered lightly.
“Yeah, right, like you were invited in.”
“A dirty trespasser,” she continued, “who needs glasses desperately. I’ve been holding my ID in front of his nose for the past two minutes.”
“Could be fake.” The man snorted. “How do I know you’re not running a grow op here? All I wanted to do was sleep where it’s not wet.”
“Move your hand another inch toward my gun and you’ll be in a deeper sleep than you can imagine. Liz?”
“Call’s in. Cops are coming.”
Climbing out of his truck, Noah welcomed the sting of near-freezing rain on his face. “You sure you’re not hurt?”
“Sore cheekbone,” she told him. “He clipped me before I realized what was happening. Otherwise, I’m fine.”
He pictured a bruise under one of her stunning hazel eyes, let the rain wash over his face while his system rebalanced.
“Noah?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ve got the note.”
“The what?” He had to drag his mind back, reorient.
“You told me to look for a note. Pretty sure I found it. It’s written on a diner-style paper napkin. It’s not the same as the napkins that came with the Chinese takeout, but it’s definitely diner-like.”
“Can you read it?”
“Clearly. Whoever did it printed the words in caps using one of those art supply stencils. You want cryptic? You got it. It says: SUFFERING IS THE BRIDGE TO UNDERSTANDING.”

“MAYBE HE SEES HIMSELF as a martyr,” she theorized later.
“Pseudo and sick, but with the genuine belief that he’s ridding the world of evil.”
Liz waited for the server to deposit their lunch orders. “I went through the records last night, Angel. Explain to me what’s evil about a soccer mom with three kids who belonged to the PTA and baked cookies for her husband’s geek squad computer repair coworkers.”
“On the surface, nothing. But I checked the files, too. She lived in Danvers. Maybe she was a closet witch. Wicked as opposed to Wicca.”
“You’re grasping, partner.”
“At really flimsy straws.” Angel drummed her fingers. “The woman was killed eight years ago, yeah?”
“That’s what Joe said Noah said.”
Propping her chin in her hand, Angel nudged her bowl aside and let her mind wander. To an inappropriate place, she had to admit, but she was as human as the next person and female to boot.
“Liz, why will Noah let Joe see him and not me?”
Her partner swallowed a spoonful of Irish stew and groaned. “This is so good. If I knew, Angel, I’d tell you, I really would. For what it’s worth, I haven’t seen him either, or even spoken to him on the phone. No one I know has. Anyway.” She used her index finger to scoop the hair from Angel’s eyes. “You don’t want to see him right now. That cheekbone of yours is bruising nicely.”
Angel touched the mark, sighed, dropped her hand. “‘Suffering is the bridge to understanding.’ That’s not cryptic, it’s the inside of a fortune cookie.”
“Written on a napkin, with a stencil.”
“Noah says that’s how the guy does it. He prints a piece of philosophical gibberish on a scrap of paper, or a napkin, or a candy bar wrapper and slips it to his victims. More often than not, and Foret’s no exception, there’s a partially eaten meal or half empty glass nearby. Which suggests a follow up form of contact at some point, instructing the victim to meet him.”
“Or else…” Liz finished the threat.
Angel glanced over as her cell phone began to vibrate.
“Speak of the invisible devil.” Liz dipped into her stew again. “Listen, I hate to beg favors of a man I’ve never met, but could you ask Mr. Graydon to stop beating my husband at chess? It’s deflating to his ego, and we get enough of that from Graeme and his centerfold girlfriends.”
“It’s not Noah.” Angel tried to stem the feeling of disappointment that made her want to ditch the call. But that was a childish response—and all the more disturbing for that reason. She picked up with a pleasant, “Hey, Brian. What’s the news?”
“What’s the noise?” her dour-sounding coworker countered.
The restaurant Angel and Liz had chosen played edgy flute music at mid-volume. The atmosphere was dusty Irish Goth, with the barest hint of an underlying maritime theme. Not that they could see the ocean, but they could certainly hear the storm blowing in from it as belts of wind battered the weathered outer walls.
“That,” she replied, “is the sound of a glorious autumn rainfall in New England. Any prints on the napkin?”
“Only Foret’s.”
Angel massaged a spot on the back of her neck. “Brian, you were in Boston when the murders stopped five years ago. How many victims did the Penny Killer have?”
“How much wood could a wood chuck chuck…” He offered back a verbal shrug. “Seven that we know of, and I can still name them all.”
She visualized him puffing up as he rattled off the list.
Brian Pinkney, better known as the Brain in Bureau circles, whizzed around the office on his electric wheelchair, getting in everyone’s face and just as frequently on their nerves. He could walk—Angel had seen him do it—but after a car accident several years ago had left him with nerve damage to his spine, he preferred not to tax himself and usually rode instead. He was fiftysix years old, beefy, bald and seemed to sport a new tattoo every time he rolled up his sleeves. No one really liked him, but they couldn’t deny he knew his stuff. Which was probably why he’d lobbied Bergman for the first crack at profiling the Penny Killer.
That he hadn’t succeeded in his bid would make the lives of everyone in the office hell for a good long while, but as Angel saw it, life was all about facing challenges. Another one more or less wasn’t likely to affect her day.
“Five of the victims came from Massachusetts,” Brian continued now. “Two from Philadelphia. Three of the Massachusetts five lived in Boston. The others were from Danvers and New Bedford. Does that help you, or is your head still wobbling from that scrap you had this morning?”
“My head’s fine.” She rubbed her nape. “If the same guy’s responsible for Foret’s death, Bri, that pushes the Boston count to four, and both Danvers and New Bedford are an easy drive, so there’s a better than average chance the killer lives here.”
“Cheery thought, huh?”
“Yeah, if you’re in L.A.” She broke off a chunk of bread, but didn’t eat it. “Some suspects would be good. So far, everyone we’ve connected to Foret is either alibied or out of reach. Case in point, his pal the Secretary.”
“Guy’s clean enough as politicians go.”
Angel grinned. “Glad to know it.” Then sighed. “You’re profiling, aren’t you?”
“My free time’s my own.” He sounded defensive and angry. “Bergman gave the job to Pruneface—Bill Skater. The guy has one speed: turtle.”
“He’s also Bergman’s brother-in-law. Do the math.”
“Did that creep at Foret’s do something to your neck?” Liz asked.
“I—no.” Angel frowned. “Why?” Then she realized she was rubbing the same spot again.
Still holding the phone, she peered around the side of the booth, but saw only tables, more booths and a roomful of people who were paying no attention to anything except their food.
“What?” Liz followed her gaze.
“Someone’s watching us.”
Her friend tugged her back by her hair. “Eat your stew, Angel. A full stomach’ll make the feeling go away.”
“I know how hungry feels, and it isn’t hallucinogenic.” She made another quick circuit. “Brian, does the killer stalk his victims?”
“Ask Skater.”
She forced patience. “I’m asking you.”
“Don’t they all?”
“Okay, well that doesn’t make me feel any better, actually. Liz, we need to lose the Goth cafés for a while.”
“Food’s good at this one.” Liz spooned up more stew. “Not that you’d know, since all you’ve done is play with your bread.”
“Oh, hell.” Angel’s eyes fixed on the door. “Paul Reuben just slithered in. And he’s wearing his media hat.”
“There’s the last bite done, thank you, God.” Liz wiped her mouth and fingers. “How does he always know?”
“Afternoon, ladies.” At Liz’s exasperated look, he pressed an exaggerated hand to his chest. “What am I supposed to say? Afternoon, Feds?”
Angel smiled. “‘I just stopped in to say good-bye’ works.”
“Thanks, I’d love to join you.” He scraped a chair across the floor and straddled it.
“You know, Paul, it’s just possible we’re busy here.” Angel waved her cell phone. “You want a story, talk to Bergman’s assistant. That’s why he’s there.”
Paul Reuben’s flinty eyes gleamed. “Is Noah Graydon helping you with your busy work?”
“Go away.” She enunciated the words, then smacked at his hand. “Touch my lunch, and I’ll cite you for something really unpleasant.”
When her skin continued to prickle, she glanced around again. An old man in a hat with earflaps stared back at her. So did a much younger one with a heavily pierced face.
“Do me a favor, Paul, take a stroll and check out the booths.”
“For what?”
“Perverts, peeping Toms.” She summoned a sweet smile. “Murderers.”
“Like the one who offed Lionel Foret early Sunday morning behind a dockside processing plant?”
“There you go. If you know that much, you’re as up to date as we are. Bye.”
“Cut the guy some slack, Angel,” Brian suggested on the phone. “He might know something.”
“He might also be fishing.”
“What’s the deal with Graydon?” the reporter persisted. “Is he in or out? Give me that much at least.”
Angel rested her chin on her fist, let her smile ride. “How did you hear about Foret, Paul?”
“I got a tip.”
“Where and from whom?”
“None of your business—on both counts.”
“Okay then, we’re done. Drive carefully.”
He appealed to Liz. “Your husband’s tight with Graydon, right?”
Elbows on the table, Liz pushed on her temples. “You know, I didn’t have a headache when I came in.”
Paul started slurping hot coffee—and Angel found her own fingers straying under her hair again.
Determined to shake the sensation, she returned her attention to Brian. “Do I know yet why you called?”
“Not unless you’re a mind reader. I’ve been instructed to tell you that Bergman’s staying over in Washington. He tried your cell, but the line was tied up. Would that have been before or after your run-in with a sleeping vagrant?”
“Street person, and he topped your two-thirty by a good ten pounds.”
“Using?”
“Definitely.”
“You know, I was once as quick as you are, and as elusive as Noah Graydon when I chose to be.”
“You sound bitter, Bri.” Sliding to the end of the booth, she made another casual sweep of the restaurant. “Get some physio, get in shape and presto, you’re back in the field.”
“On restricted duty. No thanks, kid. Don’t forget to check in with Bergman’s lackey before you go off shift. And have fun detaching your investigative burr.”
Angel ended the call with a distracted press of the button. Her eyes traveled from table to table. “Got to be coming from a booth. I can see everyone else.”
Reuben waved a hand in front of her face. “Why the space flight, Angel?”
Looking back, she noted that his mustache, blonde and perpetually droopy, was saturated with coffee. “Trust me, Paul, there are times when outer space is preferable to planet Earth.”
He snagged her wrist as someone in black brushed past. “If you won’t talk about Graydon, explain the pennies on Foret’s eyelids.”
Liz breathed out. “Don’t you have…?” Then she stopped, met Angel’s eyes, and bent forward over the table. “Well, well, Mr. Reuben.”
At a similar look from Angel, the reporter released her. “Okay, why have you two turned cat all of a sudden?”
But he knew. Angel could tell by the dull red flush creeping up his neck that he understood exactly what he’d done.
Smiling, she crooked a leg up and turned companionably toward him. “Playing dumb isn’t your strong suit, PR. Guess what? There was no mention of any pennies in our official statement. Only a handful of people saw the body, and those who did wouldn’t have talked. So—” Brows arched, she cocked her head to observe. “How is it you managed to find out about them?”

THE DAY AFTER A DEATH always felt long—going through the motions, controlling jitters, concentrating. Slipping up was too damned easy, in big ways and in small.
But things had to be put right, and no one else appeared to want the job.
Someone would have to take it on, though, because the end was approaching. Fast. The Thanksgiving season seemed an appropriate time for the finale. Give thanks to the only person who understood.
Extra caution would be needed to pull this last one off. Extra caution and nerves of steel.
An image swam up, solidified. No second thoughts. No regrets. It must and would be done.
Target date: Third week of November.
Target victim: Angel Carter.

Chapter Four
No one Angel knew, except maybe her uncle who ran whale-watching charters out of Juneau, could talk for hours and in the end say nothing. No one, except a reporter like Paul Reuben.
“I know how to get into people’s heads, Moscow.” She deposited her keys on a tray inside her front door. “I know how to get into a rat’s head even better, and I got nowhere with that guy. I want a hot bath, anything I don’t have to cook and a big glass of Chardonnay.” She knelt to ruffle the husky’s ears. “So how was your day?”
Pawing the shoulder of her red leather jacket, he nosed her toward the phone.
“Someone called?”
He barked.
“Someone you hear on my voice mail, but never see? A man whose face I try to paint, but who keeps coming out looking like Lamont Cranston’s alter ego?”
Shedding her jacket and bag, she headed for the bathroom. After washing her hands and splashing cold water on her face, she felt better, not totally alert, but functional. She changed into a pair of drawstring pants and a T, pulled her hair into a high ponytail, left her feet bare and went into the kitchen.
Hot cocoa, she thought with a roll of her head to loosen the tight muscles. “And one doggie treat,” she told the expectant husky. She held up a single finger. “One.”
As she passed the phone, she hit the retrieve button on her voice mail. At maximum volume, the messages came through clearly.
“Hi, Angel, it’s Pete Peloni, from Peloni’s Place. You left your sunglasses on the table last time you were here. Also, I’m trying out a new mushroom-veggie pizza with hot pepper sauce. I’m working most of tonight and all day tomorrow. I’ll drop off a sample on my way home. Catch you later.”
Angel regarded the package of instant cocoa in her hand and laughed as she shook it down. “You’re not likely to convert me, Pete, but my mother would appreciate the effort.”
Brian Pinkney followed. “It’s after seven, Monday night, Angel. Thought you’d be home by now. I wouldn’t do this for anyone except you and Liz, so consider yourself privileged, but I ran the comps on all the Penny Killer murders. Highlighted the similarities, and also took care of the B-side—the irregularities. Basically, I did some major decluttering for you. It’s more than Pruneface Skater would have done. Info’s waiting in a file labeled Angel’s PKMs. I have to say, this one’s a stumper. Hope you like coffee and caffeine pills, sweetheart. You’re gonna need ‘em.”
Next up, Graeme Thomas wanted her to fly to Atlantic City with him for a convention the following weekend. “They have wedding chapels there, too,” he remarked with a wink in his voice that made her chuckle as she poured boiling water into a big “I Love Bullwinkle’s Cousins” mug.
Twenty minutes later, he called again. “Sorry, babe. Change of plans. Looks like I’ll be doing double duty at the Victim Support Center this weekend. Would you believe that one of the families I’ve been counseling has lost three of their kids to murder and drunk drivers in less than five years? Some people have absolutely no luck. How’s the Boardwalk between Christmas and New Year’s sound to you…?”
Wandering into the solarium she used as a painting studio, Angel hoisted herself onto a high stool, blew into the steaming mug and studied her latest canvas. The face she’d attempted to paint had no definition, only blurred and shadowed features. Still, something of the man came through for her.
“Probably because I know it’s you,” she reflected, and touched his mouth with an exploratory fingertip.
Her doctor’s office called next—she’d missed an appointment—and then Bergman’s pushy assistant, three times. Pete came back, on adding a soy cheese and green vegetable pizza to the revised menu, and finally, finally, the one she’d been hoping for. Noah Graydon.
Unfortunately, all he said was, “Read your e-mails, Angel.”
She sighed at the painting. “You know I prefer verbal communication, Noah. I can’t hear you in an e-mail.”
Licking whipped cream from the rim of her mug, she vacated her stool and headed for the computer.
The first e-mail was from Joe and directed her to a restricted FBI site, where she viewed Lionel Foret’s autopsy results.
The forensic team had discovered only microscopic fibers and Foret’s own skin cells under his fingernails. There’d been one bird feather and several strands of his own hair on his coat. Joe placed the time of death between midnight and 12:30 a.m. He said he’d have put it closer to twelve, except Foret had been wearing thermal underwear, so he’d needed to allow for a cocoon effect.
“Let me know who won the pool,” Joe typed. “Also, my wife told me to tell you that you must come for Thanksgiving dinner. Bring your mom and her trucker if they’re in town. Oh, and her Harley—that’s for me. FYI, Jaynie loves her new pink shoes. She told me to thank Auntie Angel again.
“Not wanting to mix business with pleasure, but I’m sorry for the delay on the Foret case. One of my techs mislaid the results. We found them in the file of a Balinese man who died three days ago from ptomaine poisoning. Don’t be a stranger…”
“As if I could.” Hitting a key, she moved on to Noah’s message. Her cell phone, doing a sudden dance across the desk, interrupted her.
“Tell me you didn’t just get home.”
Noah’s sexy drawl brought a swell of regret to Angel’s throat.
“Ten minutes ago.” Blanking the monitor, she crossed to the window seat, tucked herself into the lotus position and sipped. “Multiple messages, minimum lights. I made hot cocoa, but I probably should have made up an ice pack instead.” She probed her bruised cheek. “Gonna need major makeup tomorrow.”
“I don’t like that picture, Angel. How bruised are we talking?”
“It’s not a black eye, and the guy only got me because I tripped over a piece of pipe. Totally clumsy.”
“Somehow I doubt that.”
“Did you hear? Bergman’s got Prune—uh, Bill Skater working the profile for the Penny Killer. Brian Pinkney’s really pissed off.”
“How can you tell?”
She laughed, considered briefly as she surveyed the glittering city skyline visible above the park side trees, then said, “Noah, have I ever told you that I play chess?”
“Pretty sure that’s a no.”
“Well, I do. Long Alaska nights, wicked blizzards, gen power running low, so no movies, no Dancing with the Stars…”
Noah breathed out whatever he was feeling. Annoyance, frustration, resignation.
The sound sent a shimmer of guilt through her system. “Look, I’m tired, okay, and a little cranky. I wasn’t…”
“You don’t want to meet me, Angel.”
Humor trickled in. “An amazing profiler, and he reads minds, too. Not accurately, but what can you expect over a phone line? Come on, Noah, even Spock’s Vulcan mind meld required a certain amount of physical contact. And if you ask me who Spock is, I’ll be convinced you live in space instead of him.”
“Call it a shadow world.”
“You’re not going to answer me, are you?”
“The Internet has game partners…”
“Go there,” she warned, “and I’m hanging up. I also give up. Temporarily.” Turning slightly, she zeroed in on the area where she thought he lived. “Why the call?”
“Because you’re still on the clock at 10:00 p.m.”
“And you’re not?”
“I do my best work at night.”
Not chess, but a game of strategy nonetheless. His words flowed through her like warm brandy, seducing her far more than they probably should. Angel’s stomach muscles quivered and her skin felt unnaturally hot. But seduction was a thing she could match in her sleep.
Running a finger over her cell, she rested her back on the wall and let a note of teasing humor invade her voice. “It might come as a surprise to you, Noah, but night’s one of my best times, too. Or so I’ve been told.”
His hesitation spoke volumes. So did his tone when he said, “Below the belt, Angel, in more ways than one.”
Now that was the point. But did hearing it change anything?
Moscow barked. Twisting the mouthpiece upward, she asked him, “What is it?” She told Noah, “Dog’s excited.,”
The husky ran to the door, paused at the jamb. A second later, she heard a knock.
“That’ll be Pete.” Uncrossing her legs, she took another sip of cocoa, then stretched like a cat. “He says I’m a bad eater. Keeps trying to push tofu and veggie pizza on me.”
“Pete?”
Was there a frown attached to the question? Might be worth playing—to a point.
“Pete Peloni. He’s a guy I know. Tall. Very attractive. Really nice. He runs Peloni’s Place in Little Italy. It’s a sort of Italian restaurant with an upscale vibe, about ten blocks from the processing plant where Foret was killed. No segue intended. Liz and I go there sometimes for lunch. I guess she likes tofu…Yes, I’m coming, Moscow.” But she hesitated halfway to the door. “Why did you call, Noah?”
“I found a shoe site.”
“Excuse me?”
“Women’s shoes, thousands of them. It’s a French site. Designer boots and shoes at knock-off prices. Proof that one or two of my ancestors did in fact come from Europe.”
Delight mingled with astonishment. Delight won, hands down.
“I’ll go there tonight,” she promised, “and let you know tomorrow how big a hit my credit card takes.” With a motion to silence Moscow, she added a soft, “Thanks, Noah,” and ended the call. “Yes, I’m here,” she told the excited husky “Why the fuss?” Placing her palm on the frame, she looked through the viewer.
The corridor was empty.
“Took too long, huh? Well, it couldn’t have been Pete. He’d have left a bag of goodies big enough to feed everyone in the building.”
Which was only three other tenants, since the “building,” once a huge post-Revolution mansion, had been converted into four large condos. But Pete believed in stocked fridges as deeply as he believed in healthy eating.
Angel started to turn away. Then she frowned and did a double take through the viewer.
No box sat on the polished hallway floor—but something else did. After a quick second sweep, she snicked the bolt and opened the door.
It could have been a discarded grocery list lying there, but Angel’s instincts suggested otherwise. With Moscow sniffing the air, she used the back of her index finger to flick the paper over.
And seeing the words printed there, breathed a heartfelt, “Damn.”

NOAH HEARD THE WHIR of an approaching motor, followed by wheels rolling over damp pavement. From his crouch, and without looking back, he acknowledged the new arrival.
“Been a while, old friend.”
“Oh, just a few years. Like say—five?”
The belligerent thrust said it all. Noah half smiled at the ground. “Let me guess, you’re angry with Bergman.”
“Wouldn’t you be? He’s letting Pruneface Skater do the profile on this guy. So far all I’ve heard is that the killer’s a male—wow, that took a brain the size of Everest to figure—right-handed and he gets his victims from behind. A chimp could have told us that much, and a hell of a lot quicker than Pruneface did.”
“What do you want, Brian?”
The wheels ground closer. “Same as you. To nail the bastard who turned you into a ghost and me into a cripple.”
Noah reviewed the outline of Foret’s body that he’d drawn from memory. “You crippled yourself, and I withdrew by choice. We can’t blame a madman for everything.”
“No, we can’t do that. Some of the blame has to fall on other shoulders.”
And here it came, Noah thought.
The wheelchair gave a whiny rev. “The kid was green, Noah. You were supposed to be training him. That was the deal. Instead, you let him meet a murderer alone, with no backup and no idea what he was getting into.”
Noah stood slowly, felt the metal basket push into the side of his long coat. “What is it you want? Blood from a stone? Not gonna happen. Blood from another victim? Already done. You knew the killer wasn’t dead, and so did I.”
“That fire…”
“Only destroyed the warehouse and its contents.”
“The investigating agents said the flames were hot enough to incinerate bone.”
“But they didn’t.” Noah turned his head halfway. “Because there were no bones to burn, and when the fire was out, only another victim in the morgue. You drove too fast, I didn’t move fast enough, and it didn’t end that night.”
“And all of it, every last frigging scrap, was your fault, you bast…”
“Don’t.” Noah switched his gaze to the water. “You want to be bitter, go ahead. You want to wallow, be my guest. But don’t roll up to me on the spot where another victim lost his life and try to blame me for everything that went wrong that night. For what’s always been wrong in your life.”
Red-faced, Brian circled until they faced each other. “And your life’s just peachy, is it? Exactly the way you want it to be? Tell me you’re not bitter, that you’re not wallowing, that you don’t blame yourself for what happened. Tell me, and we’ll both have a good laugh.”
His voice trembled but whether from fury or sorrow, Noah couldn’t say. In any case, he softened his attitude and his expression. “It shouldn’t have gone the way it did. I should have known the kid would go off half-cocked with a bellyful of something to prove. Not sure if the proving was for your benefit or mine, but it doesn’t matter. He was green. I wasn’t. I should have seen it coming.”
Brian’s knuckles whitened on the steering handles. “Is that supposed to make me feel better—you admitting you were wrong?”
A faint smile touched Noah’s mouth. In the pocket of his coat his cell phone began to vibrate. “Not particularly. Just thought it should be said. The past’s done, Brian. Your feelings are your own. But I want this guy—for a lot of reasons.”
“And because you can’t be on the case, you’re prepared to use Angel to get him. No matter what the cost.”
Noah simply stared until Brian spun with a jerk. Slapping the motorized vehicle in gear, he zoomed through the shadows and into the access way.
But not before Noah glimpsed the glitter of contempt in his eyes—and the twist of hatred he didn’t bother to hide on his lips.

“NOT GOING TO OVERREACT,” Angel promised herself. “I’ve been threatened before and will again. This isn’t new.” With the phone to her ear, she paced the perimeter of her living room floor. “Pick up, Graydon. We were talking less than twenty minutes ago.”
“Didn’t like the shoes, huh?” he said at last.
Stopping at the window, she let her eyes flit to the park across the street. “Much as I love the sexy drawl, I got a note.”
That killed it. “When?” he demanded.
No what, only when, in a whip-sharp tone that had nothing to do with sexy. “Maybe twenty minutes ago. I followed procedure, checked out the stairwells and doors, front and back. Whoever delivered it was gone. My neighbors who are home didn’t see a thing. There are no foot or tire prints.” She dragged the elastic band from her hair, blew out a breath. “How does this guy choose his victims, Noah? I have no connection to Foret. I’m not a soccer mom with three kids, a biotech who analyzes ocean fungus, or the CEO of a national supermarket chain. Yes, there was an FBI agent on the list of victims, along with a cop and another lawyer, but we’re talking years of separation and no link between them that anyone could find, including you, who’d have dug up whatever was diggable. So all that leaves is the fact that I’m working this case.” A sudden thought brought her head around with a snap. “Oh, my God, Liz!”
“Calm down, Angel.”
She raked the hair from her face, held it there. Breathed. And again. “I am calm. I am,” she repeated. “Perfectly. That babble was just me sorting through the confusion.” Crossing to the land phone, she punched her partner’s number.
“Is Liz at home?”
“No idea. I’m calling her cell—which, of course, she’s not answering…Liz, it’s Angel. I need you to call me back. It’s urgent…” She swung around. “Noah, are we talking about a multiple-target killer here? You know, threaten a new victim before he’s disposed of another?”
His lack of response wasn’t encouraging. She entered her partner’s home number, then tried Joe on his cell, leaving urgent messages on both.
“Moscow, come away from the window.” She caught his collar with two fingers. “Why me, Noah? Because of the case or not?”
“Angel…”
“I know, I know.” She tugged harder. “You don’t know.” Frustration battled fear. And thankfully beat it back. “What’s that sound?”
“My truck. Stay inside. Doors and windows locked, lights off. I’ll handle the follow-up.”
“I promise you, the guy’s gone. I even went through my upstairs neighbor’s condo. I’m watering her plants while she’s away for the holidays. There was no one.”
“Humor me, okay?”
She heard a squeal of tires. “Well, yeah—if you get here. The door’s bolted, and Moscow may be young, but he’s trained. I have two guns, I was top ten in hand-to-hand, and I’ve got adrenaline to spare at this point.”
“Use it to think. Just make sure you do it inside your place.”
“I’m not…”
“Promise me, Angel.”
The words wanted to stick. However…“Okay, I promise. On one condition.”
“And that is?”
Another squeal had her wincing. “Make it two. First, that you slow down, and second, that you don’t tell Bergman about this.”
“No.”
Frustration bled into exasperation. “Why not? And don’t be obtuse. Foret’s not the only person with connections in the capitol. My uncle’s a congressman.”
“Retired and living in Juneau.”
“I said don’t be obtuse.”
“This isn’t a game, Angel.”
“I’m not playing one. This is my life and my case. If Bergman pulls me off, I’ll simply investigate on my own time, without partner or backup.”
“The note you got tonight is evidence. You’d have to withhold it. Federal offense, Agent Carter.”
“I’ll have it analyzed for prints and all the usual etceteras. Fully aware here, Graydon, whatever you might think.”
A final squeal of brakes told her he’d arrived. She couldn’t resist, she returned to the window and stared at the street below.
It had to be Noah who climbed from the large, black truck. His coat was long and, she suspected, also black. In fact, everything about him appeared black, even his hair, which she thought might skim his shoulders. She couldn’t tell because he was wearing a hat with a broad brim and, since it was still raining, had his collar turned up.
He was definitely tall. Over six feet, with a long stride and, she imagined, a lean build.
Unfortunately, no features were visible, and she only had a glimpse to go on as the shadows of the old house swallowed him up within seconds of his arrival.
Moscow wedged himself between her and the ledge and pushed on her legs.
“Okay.” She gave his side an appreciative pat. “Backing away.”
But she glanced toward the solarium. It felt downright spooky that she would have painted Noah almost exactly as she’d seen him tonight. A shadow within a shadow.
“I’m in.”
“What? Oh.” She’d forgotten about the active phone connection. A frown, then, “In the building?”
“I’ve already gone through the lobby.”
Not going to ask, she decided. “Noah?”
“Stay where you are,” he repeated.
“Yes, I got that part. I thought you’d like to know what the note said.”
“I was getting to it.” But he sounded distracted which probably meant he was searching again. “Go ahead, I’m listening.”
She unhooked and lowered the blind, didn’t need to see the words to recall them. “It said: THE CIRCLE OF UNDERSTANDING WILL BE COMPLETE AT LAST. He stenciled it on a scrap of yellow newsprint, the kind you use for notes in college.” She heard boots on the stair treads and added, “I went through the basement, too.”
“Did I mention the part about humoring me?”
“Did I mention the part about not telling Bergman?”
“Can’t hear you, Angel. Bad reception.”
“That’s not very original.” When he didn’t respond, she sighed, “Come on, Noah.”
Only silence reached her.
She debated for a moment, then shrugged and dropped the phone in the pocket of her pants. “In that case, ditto.” Pulling on her coat and boots, she picked up her gun, motioned to Moscow and slipped into the hall’s period lighting, glowing and romantic, perfect for a nineteenth-century mansion.
But the shadows that might have been deemed intimate in their day created a much less appealing atmosphere right now. Angel angled her gun toward the coffered ceiling as she started down the stairs.
Because the first-floor neighbors were abnormally nosy, she knew all the creaks and how to avoid them. Moscow padded ahead of her. Angel retrieved her cell and brought it to her ear.
“Noah, are you there?”
No answer.
Had the communication really broken up? Builders had added a layer of concrete between the first floor and cellar. It was possible, she supposed, if a little too convenient.
“Noah?”
Still no response.
“Don’t think I’m liking this, Moscow. Be very quiet.”
The dog’s ears twitched, but he obeyed.
The shadows deepened on the first floor, because, of course, no one had bothered to replace the burned out light near the basement door.
“Noah?” She called his name, first into her cell and again down the narrow cellar stairwell.
The single shaft of light trickling upward didn’t quite reach the top. Use the main switch, or take a chance and creep down in the semidarkness? Either way, she could wind up shot.
She opted to creep, on the off chance that the killer was still lurking. Noah would be too well trained to shoot first and ask questions later. She hoped.
“Behind me, Moscow.”
She made one last attempt to raise Noah on her cell. When he didn’t answer, she disconnected. Liz might be trying to call her, although she hadn’t noticed a vibration from her caller alert. Maybe Joe had taken his wife out for a late dinner.
She counted down fourteen steps, used her free hand for balance on the wall and kept her gun up.
Moscow gave a prolonged growl—not a promising sign.
“Stay back,” she ordered, then peered into the gloom. “Noah?”
Eyes moving, she sketched the layout. Bike room dead ahead, furnace room to the left, storage right. The cellar smelled of old earth, old bricks and centuries’ old wood. But strangely, the faint scent of apples superceded all those things in Angel’s mind, and gave the place a sense of nostalgia that took her back to her grandmother’s Iowa root cellar.
She’d played hidden ghost there with her cousins several times as a child—until nasty cousin Billy had grabbed her ankle from under the stairs and almost given her a coronary.
Moscow growled again. Angel accepted the shiver that rippled along her spine. Had the darkness shifted?
The growl became a barely muffled bark. The dog’s muscles bunched against her thigh. Setting a hand on his head, she stilled him.
She felt it, too. Something about the air had altered. She made a cautious half circle, saw nothing. But there was a sound. A movement. A faint swish of motion that bordered on invisible.

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