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Bachelor Cop
Carolyn McSparren
There's a reason his cold case colleagues call him "Randy" Randy Railsback. And he's never been ashamed of his reputation with the ladies.But he is surprised by his intense reaction to Helena Norcross, one of his defense class students. He usually steers clear of women who aren't sending the get-to-know-you-better vibe. So what is it about Helena?The English professor is clearly bent on revenge against her perpetrator, but Randy's research leads him to believe the guy's crimes are escalating. Not on Randy's watch, buddy. Because for the first time in his life, he's fallen hard. And nobody's going to hurt the woman he loves.



“Not so tentative. Try it again.”
Left jab, right cross. Helena tore into him. The next shot went between Randy’s gloves and landed square on that taut, sweaty six-pack he was so damn proud of.
“Hey, whoa!”
She couldn’t stop. He caught her next punch on his forearms. Why didn’t he fight back? Hit her? She could take it. She had to take it or she’d never win.
She felt herself falling as he cut her legs out from under her with his heel.
They hit the canvas locked together. She struggled against him, felt every inch of him above her, his weight bearing her down. “Hit me! For God’s sake, hit me,” she sobbed. “You have to hit me.”
“I can’t,” he whispered.
She felt his breath against her lips, his body hot and hard.
Suddenly she wrapped her legs around him, arching her back, no longer struggling, as his mouth came down on hers….
Dear Reader,
When my last book, His Only Defense (December 2008), came out, readers wanted to know more about “Randy” Randy Railsback, the womanizing detective from the Cold Case Squad. He’s a good detective, but a responsible guy—not so much. Randy never dates women with ex-husbands, kids, abusive boyfriends or family…or psychological problems. No baggage. And the minute the word marriage comes up, he’s outta there.
The last woman he needs in his life is English professor Helena Norcross. She has enough baggage to fill a moving van. She’s divorced from a compulsive gambler, has two frighteningly intelligent children, suffers from debilitating anxiety attacks and dangerous rages. She’s fighting to get her life back on track by enrolling in Randy’s self-defense class for women. Two years earlier she was assaulted by a serial rapist who comes back to kill previous victims.
Randy’s breaking his own rules about avoiding responsibility. He’s falling not only for Helena, but for her kids, too. She’s falling for him as well, but believes the only way to be free to love again is to kill the man who raped her, setting herself up as a target.
I love to hear from readers. Write to me at Harlequin Books, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ont., M3B 3K9, Canada, or check out my Web site, www.carolynmcsparren.com.
Carolyn McSparren

Bachelor Cop
Carolyn McSparren

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

ABOUT THE AUTHOR
RITA
Award nominee and Maggie winner, Carolyn McSparren has lived in Germany, France, Italy and “too many cities in the U.S. to count.” She’s sailed boats, raised horses, rides dressage and drives her Shire cross mare to a carriage. She teaches writing seminars to romance and mystery writers, and writes mystery and women’s fiction as well as Harlequin Superromance books. Carolyn lives in the country outside of Memphis, TN, in an old house with four indoor and six outdoor cats, three horses, seven raccoons, at least two foxes and one husband, not necessarily in order of importance.

CONTENTS
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
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER ONE
“OKAY, STREAK, show me what you got.” Randy Railsback stood relaxed, with an easy grin on his face.
The woman he’d nicknamed Streak came at him across the workout room like a charging rhino. At the last second, he casually moved his hands sideways. Completely off balance, she stumbled past him. He caught her ankle with his instep.
She sprawled on the big mat that covered two-thirds of the floor, and rolled over onto her back awkwardly. The other women gasped. “See, ladies,” he said over his shoulder, “you use their force against them.” He reached down to offer her a hand, and found himself facedown across her body, staring into a pair of brown eyes so enraged they seemed to be entirely black pupil. “Whoa!” he said as he rolled off. “Way to go, Streak. More than just a pretty face.”
He came to his feet in one fluid movement. She scrambled away on the seat of her sweatpants.
“Hope I didn’t hurt you,” he said, and rubbed his wrist. “You definitely hurt me.”
The other women tittered. She hadn’t hurt him, but she might have. Out-of-control newbies were always more dangerous than pros who understood how to engage and when to stop. “Friends?” he said, and stuck out his hand. She ignored it and struggled to her feet.
Had to be a reason for all the anger she was carrying. Jessica might have an idea. As manager of a working gym, Strength for Health, Jessica often knew more about her clients than they realized.
He hadn’t planned to take Streak down, but she’d come at him with such force, he’d had no choice. She toted some muscle on that skinny frame, she moved fast and she was only three or four inches shorter than his six feet two. If she learned to channel that anger, she might turn into a formidable opponent. If she didn’t, she was going to get herself or someone else hurt.
“Okay, ladies, gather ’round,” he said. “I’m Randy Railsback. I’m a Shelby County cop and I teach this class several times a year, and I’m afraid you’re stuck with my standard introduction. After that we’ll get to work. During the break, you can all introduce yourselves and tell us why you joined a self-defense class.” He opened his hands. “Okay with you?”
Most of the heads bobbed. Streak’s didn’t.
“A competent big man will almost always beat a competent small man,” he began.
“But we’re not men, Randy,” said the luscious blonde, with a small waggle of her estimable rear.
“I’ve noticed,” he said, and included the whole class in his killer smile. Streak didn’t react. “That’s my point. Women are usually smaller than their assailants. Most men have greater upper-body strength than women, and most women have a glass jaw. A solid right will take you out every time.”
“Then why are we here?” Streak asked. Voice like velvet. Deep, almost baritone, but full of authority. He’d bet she was a doctor or lawyer or top-level manager despite the droopy old sweats. Whatever she was, she sure hadn’t made it on her looks or cheerful nature.
“Excellent question. I’m not about to teach you how to start fights. I’m going to teach you how to finish them.”
“And disable our attackers?” Streak asked.
“If that’s what it takes. We have three objectives.” He counted on his fingers. “First, get free. Second, get away, and third, get safe.” He grinned at her. “And avoid a right cross while you’re about it.”
“Why not just shoot his ass?” asked a plump and cheerful lady who looked like Mrs. Santa Claus. “My husband says shoot until the gun goes click, click, then if you have time, reload and do it again.”
There were nods all around.
“What if you don’t have a gun handy?” Randy said. “How many of you have gun permits and carry a weapon in your car, or have one in your house?”
Every hand went up.
“How many of you feel comfortable shooting it?”
Everyone except Streak raised her hand. A cross section of female West Tennessee America, and every one of them owned a gun. If he were a perp, he’d be terrified. But then, if faced with shooting someone for real, so would they. He didn’t usually do this until later in the course, but after Streak’s little episode, he decided to move up his demonstration. “’Scuse me a second,” he said.
He came back from his gym locker with the .38 Smith & Wesson short-barreled five shot he carried in his ankle holster as backup to his Sig Sauer .45. He unloaded it, checked it twice, dropped the bullets into his pocket and offered Mrs. Claus the weapon, butt first. “I carry a weapon at all times, even off duty.” He winked at them. “So I can take down your friendly neighborhood ATM bandit at Kroger’s. I’ve never shot anyone and I pray I never have to, and I definitely hope you never have to, either. Now, Mrs….”
“Ellen,” she simpered. She held the gun low with her trigger finger safely along the side, even though she had just seen it unloaded. Someone had taught her well.
“Most shootings occur from six feet or less.” He moved back ten feet and stuck out his hand. “Woman, how ’bout you give me that diamond ring you’re wearing?”
Ellen narrowed her eyes. The pistol swung up toward his chest. Before she could dry fire, he crossed the distance, blocked her finger on the trigger, wrenched the gun up out of her grasp and pointed it back at her.
“Oh,” Ellen said.
“It’s not as easy as it looks.”
“So we can’t shoot, we can’t fight. Should we just lie down and…die?” Streak again. He was certain she was going to say something besides “die,” but changed her mind. He was glad he hadn’t offered her the gun. She’d probably club him over the head with it. She’d relished the idea of disabling her opponent a tad too much.
“You’re here to learn to avoid dying,” he said. “Get loose from whoever is after you and don’t stick around. We clear on that?”
“We can beat his brains out with a rock,” Streak said.
“Only if you have one,” he said. “Accept that you may get hurt. Don’t get dead.”
For the next half hour he put them through simple drills—how to move forward, backward and sideways, how to keep their weight balanced so they couldn’t be knocked over easily. They were sweating when he called for a break. Everyone collapsed on the exercise mats, pulled bottles of water out of their bags and drained them.
He lobbed his empty bottle into the waste bin in the corner and asked, “Who wants to start?” He smiled at the little blonde. “How about you? First names only. Less to remember.” Plus it gave them some privacy among a group of relative strangers. Before the classes finished, the ones who stayed would know one another well, but at the moment, first names were plenty.
“Everybody calls me Bunny,” she said. “I have no intention of telling you the name Mama saddled me with. I have a husband and two teenage boys, and there are times I wish I could beat up every one of them. And no, I do not have a job.”
“One husband and two teenage boys is a job,” said Mrs. Claus.
She went next. “You already know—I’m Ellen. My husband and I raise Black Angus in Fayette County, and he’s gone early and late with the stock. If I called the sheriff’s department, they wouldn’t get to me for at least twenty minutes. I’m on my own. I have to be able to take care of myself.”
“Thanks, Ellen. How about you, Streak?” he asked.
She arched an eyebrow at him. “My name is Helena. I want to learn to protect myself.”
“I like Streak,” said Bunny. “It suits you and it’s cute.”
The look Helena gave her would have peeled paint, but Bunny grinned and shrugged.
Everyone waited for Helena to continue. When she didn’t, he nodded to the fiftyish woman sitting beside her.
“I’m Francine. I live alone, I run a day-care center, and in case y’all hadn’t noticed, I’m sixty pounds overweight and black. I didn’t give birth to any of my kids, but I still consider ’em mine. As to why I’m here…In the last year three deadbeat dads under Orders of Protection have tried to pick up their kids when they weren’t supposed to, and one drunk mama was strappin’ her two-year-old daughter into her car seat ready to drive home when I stopped her. I need to know how to handle myself.”
“Did you keep the dads from taking their children?” Ellen asked.
Francine grinned at her. “Being a heifer like me has to be good for something. You bet I stopped ’em.”
“Good for you,” said the tall, dark woman who sat beside her. She was maybe forty-five, and looked like Streak might have if Streak only fixed herself up. Expensive haircut, expensive workout clothes, expensive trainers. Sleek as a pampered Siamese cat. “I’m Amanda. I’m a divorce lawyer. Divorces bring out the absolute worst in people and sometimes they take out their nasty tempers on me.” She nodded toward the girl sitting next to her, who was maybe twenty-five, with wide hazel eyes.
“Hi, I’m Lauren.” She waggled her fingernails. They were neatly manicured, but so short she must bite them.
Oh, Lord, Randy thought, she’s perky.
“Walter and I haven’t been married all that long,” she continued. “My mama and daddy live all the way over in Birmingham and Walter’s got a new job where he travels a lot and works nights. He has to do it to get ahead, but we live in a town house in Germantown, and I don’t know anybody to call if I get scared.”
Randy was surprised to see tears threatening to spill down her cheeks. Okay, he’d forgive her for being perky, since Walter, her husband, was obviously an insensitive jerk. Lauren was lonely and frightened. He let his gaze run over his group. He’d be willing to bet, by the time the course finished, these women would have taken her under their collective wings.
The final member of the class worried him as much as Streak did, but for a different reason. She had a head of fluffy white curls without a hint of blue or purple, was nearly as tall as Amanda and Streak, and according to Jessica, was past seventy. He’d have to be careful not to hurt her when they practiced. She stood erect, with no hint of a dowager’s hump. She might run marathons for all he knew, but that didn’t mean her hips would hold up.
“Hello, I’m Sarah Beth.” She nodded at Ellen. “I live in the country, too, but we’ve sold all but five acres. I have four cats, two dogs and a goat. The dogs would probably lick a burglar to death, the cats couldn’t care less and, unfortunately, the goat is the variety that faints at loud noises, so I need to be able to protect myself when my husband’s gone.”
Everybody laughed. The tension was broken.
“You all ready to get started again?” Randy asked.
By the time he dismissed the class an hour later, the women were riding a tide of adrenaline, laughing and high-fiving one another. Except for Streak. She drove away without speaking to anyone.
Too bad Bunny, the little blonde, was married. He watched the others drive off, then found the gym manager in her office.
“You ever go home, Jessica?” he asked.
The manager answered, “I’m like a vampire. I sleep during the day and babysit this place at night. How’d your class go?”
“Pretty well. Interesting group. I’m willing to bet there’s a lot they’re not telling. Women don’t take self-defense for no good reason. What’s Helena’s story?”
“She’s been a member of the gym for three or four months, but she usually walks on the treadmill and doesn’t speak to anyone.”
“Lawyer? Doctor?”
“College professor. Why?”
“She came unglued. Lot of rage. I’d like to understand why.”
“She doesn’t seem like a nutcase. Should I refund her money?”
“Nah. I can handle her.”
Jessica rolled her eyes. “Right.”
“And I’d like to find out why she wanted to kill me tonight.”

“I’M NOT GOING BACK to that class Thursday night,” Helena Norcross said. “The instructor is a chauvinistic redneck.”
“Tell me what you really think,” said Marcie Halpern. “Don’t leave your dirty glass in the sink after you finish your drink. Put it in the dishwasher.”
“Yes, Mother,” Helena said. She poured herself an inch of Irish Cream and sat at the small kitchen table to sip it.
“Thank heaven one of us is a neat freak,” Marcie said. “Otherwise this house would be so knee-deep in books you wouldn’t be able to find your children unless they wore bells.”
“You are the best tenant in the universe, as you never tire of telling me. Where are said children?”
“Bathed, tucked in, read to, tomorrow’s clothes laid out, lunch boxes filled in the refrigerator…”
Helena patted her shoulder. “I’ll run up and kiss them good-night. God help me if you ever find a husband. I’ll never have another tenant like you. All this and rent, too.”
“Precious little rent. Thanks so much for agreeing to swap nannying for the cash. If that no-goodnik ex of yours would pay his child support…”
“If Mickey doesn’t pay, he can’t come around and mess up our lives again.”
“So, tell me about the redneck chauvinist,” Marcie said.
“He made me look like a fool. Told us we didn’t have enough upper-body strength to fight off a man, that we had glass jaws and would never get in a shot before the bad guys turned the tables on us.”
“I thought he was supposed to help you repel the bad guys.” Marcie leaned back so that her chair teetered and only her toes touched the floor. “How’d he make a fool of you?”
Helena told her.
Marcie laughed so hard she had to grab the table to keep from tipping over. “It’s the fool part you hated, isn’t it? You spend too much time with students who don’t dare talk back. God knows what they say behind your back.”
“‘Nasty old Dr. Norcross thinks Shakespeare’s plays are worth reading. Not.’ In another generation the entire human race will only text-message. Pronounce ‘roflol,’ why don’t you?” She finished her Irish Cream and set the sticky glass on the table.
Marcie pointed to it.
Helena got up to rinse the glass in the sink and set it in the dishwasher.
“You should have seen him leering at the blonde trophy wife. He’ll be jumping her bones inside of two weeks. Would you believe, he actually called me Streak.”
Marcie spat her mouthful of diet soda straight across the table and laughed until she choked. Helena grabbed a paper towel and mopped up the spill.
“Oh, dear. Sorry.”
“Marcie…”
“How many thirty-five-year-old women have a white streak down the side of their head? You’re lucky he didn’t call you Skunk.”
“That’s it. I’m going to bed.”
“Wait. Helena. Please, sit down. Aside from your assessment of his character, does he know his stuff?”
“I suppose so. He took me down easily.” She sank into the chair across from Marcie. “He obviously works out. He’s neat. He smells very clean and was freshly shaved. His jeans had a knife-edge crease in them and he has plenty of muscles….”
“Noticed his muscles, did you?”
“I couldn’t help but notice his muscles when he was on top of me.”
“Say what?”
“Never mind.”
“I think you should go back. Helena, you need this. It’s the only way you’ll ever get over your fears.”
Without warning, Helena hunched her shoulders. She clamped her hand over her mouth and began to shake.
Marcie came around the table, sank to the floor and grasped her hands. “It’s all right. I’m here. Alarm’s on. Nobody can get in. You’re safe. I’m safe. The kids are safe. You drove to class alone and drove home alone after dark. Six months ago you couldn’t have done that. You’re more in control every day.”
“I’ll never have total control while he’s alive!” She beat her fists on the kitchen table.
“It’s been four months since your last panic attack, and you haven’t had one in public for over a year. That’s real progress.”
Helena closed her eyes and flung her head back. “I want him dead.”
“I know.”
The two women sat silently until Helena’s breathing slowed. Finally, she pushed away from the table. “I’ll go look in on the children before I go to bed.” She squared her shoulders. “Maybe I will go back on Thursday.”

CHAPTER TWO
“IF MY MOTHER ASKS ME one more time when I am getting married and giving her grandchildren, I will join a monastery,” Randy said. He tossed his jacket onto the wooden coat rack rescued from the old precinct, loosened his tie, sat down and turned on his computer.
Around him in the part of the large bull pen Cold Cases shared with Homicide, other detectives clicked computer keys and talked on their telephones. A few sat with their feet propped on their desks, reading the paper. Early mornings were usually reserved for catching up on paperwork and meetings, while possible witnesses still slept or were commuting to work.
“Never happen,” Liz Slaughter said from the next desk. “Monks are celibate.”
“New Girl dump you?” Jack Samuels, the third detective in the Cold Cases squad, asked. He stared at his computer screen and began to fill in an arrest form with two fingers. Samuels had long since stopped bothering to learn the names of Randy’s girlfriends. To him they were all New Girl, until they vanished to be replaced by the next New Girl.
“Paige and I agreed to see other people,” Randy answered.
“She dumped you,” Samuels said.
“She wanted to get married, have babies, a giant mortgage, the whole schmeer,” Randy admitted. “Paige said it was time to move our relationship to the next level.” He shuddered. “Her exact words.”
“Uh-oh.”
“Right up there with ‘honey, we need to talk.’ She said I was a dead end and she needed to move on to somebody who wasn’t afraid of responsibility.” He grimaced. “Baggage.”
“I like baggage,” Liz said, and patted her belly. She was four months pregnant with her first baby and beginning to show.
“By the time I leave Cold Cases every night, I’m up to here with baggage.” Randy passed the palm of his hand over the top of his head. “Give me beautiful women who don’t want a thing from me but great sex. Deliver me from needy.”
“You, Randolph Quentin Railsback, are shallow and selfish,” Liz said. “One of these days you’ll get yours.”
He raised an eyebrow and leered. “I want mine and everybody else’s, too.”
“Damn!” Samuels held the delete key down on his computer. “Who’d name a kid Linoleius?” His beat-up desk chair screeched in protest as he swung around. “What really happened with New Girl?”
“Paige kept bugging me to talk about my job. She said if I really loved her, I’d share.” He grimaced. “How do you share what we do?” He pointed to the sign beside the door to Lieutenant Gavigan’s office, which said Cold Cases Squad. “Hey, honey, I’m home. I spent the afternoon digging through the North Memphis landfill for the leg that fits the foot a bum found in a Dumpster two days ago.”
“At least with Cold Cases it’s generally a skeletal leg and not a greasy one.” Jack glanced over at Liz. “Sorry.”
Liz waved her hand. “I don’t barf the way I did my first three months.” She leaned across her desk toward Randy’s. “So she won’t be going to Aruba with you?”
“Lots of beautiful unattached ladies in Aruba. No need to take my own. Anyway, Paige has left for Hawaii and won’t be back for a while.”
Liz propped her chin on her hand and stared out the grimy windows at the dank February morning. “If I weren’t married and pregnant, I’d beg to go with you. When do you leave?”
“I’d like to get out of here today, but teaching the self-defense class is paying for the trip, so I’m stuck for a couple more months.”
“Any candidates for New Girl in the class?” Jack asked.
Randy shook his head. “One gorgeous trophy wife.”
“Off-limits, I hope,” Liz said.
“No way would I be crazy enough to get involved with a married woman. The others range from farmers to a perky newlywed.”
“All married?” Samuels asked.
“One divorcée and one widow, both in their forties. Then there’s the whack job. She doesn’t wear a wedding ring. Wouldn’t be surprised if she’s never been married.” He leaned back, propped his loafers on his desk and shook his head. “I’m not getting near that one.”
“Not pretty enough?”
“I get the feeling she’s trying to make herself ugly. She’s succeeded.”
“Why would a woman do that?” Jack asked.
“Fear. Low self-esteem. Depression,” Liz said. “How ugly?”
“Last night I would have said unattractive. Looking back, I’d have to say not, if she made an effort. Big brown eyes, eyebrows like Sela Ward, wide mouth even without lipstick. She’s got this straggly, dark brown hair she keeps in a tight ponytail.” He ran his hand along his skull just over his right ear.
“How’s her figure?” Jack asked.
“Hard to tell under sweats, but she provided a lovely cushion when I fell on her.”
“Excuse me?” Liz asked.
He told them what had happened.
“She took you down?” Liz laughed. “I’d like to have seen that.”
“She caught me off guard. I’ll have ’em all taking me down before we finish the course, but she won’t come back. She hated me.”
“Oh, sweetie, what woman could hate you?” Liz asked.
He spread his hands and flashed her a smile of wide-eyed innocence. “What’s not to love, right?”
“Maybe she hated your aftershave. What are you wearing these days, Essence of Shark?”
“I tossed that stuff. I’ve switched to Love God. Want a sniff?” He leaned toward her.
She rolled her chair out of his reach. “Back, Fang. Go detect something.”

WHEN RANDY WALKED INTO the exercise room at the gym for the Thursday evening class, he spotted them at once. Of course, he should have guessed. Streak didn’t swing his way. He was surprised that he felt let down.
The pocket Venus who trailed her into the room stood maybe five-two, with light brown curls, eyes such a bright blue that he could tell the color from across the room, boobs he’d bet came straight from Mother Nature, narrow waist, lush hips. On top of everything else, she was laughing. She had a happy, infectious laugh. Polar opposite to Streak.
What a waste.
Venus spotted him and crossed the room with her small hand extended. No wedding ring. Long nails with pink polish. She wore jeans and some kind of silky shirt that slid over her body like cream. “Hi, I’m Marcie Halpern, Helena’s housemate. I wanted to meet you.”
“You joining the class?”
She shook her head. “’Fraid not. Somebody has to look after the kids.”
Kids, plural? As in more than one? Adopted? Artificial insemination? In vitro? Old heterosexual relationship gone sour?
“Aunt Marcie, come watch me lift weights.”
Streak’s kids, then. More baggage. Randy looked down at them as the boy ran into the back of Marcie’s legs.
“Ow, watch it, Milo. That hurt.”
“I’m sorry, Marcie.”
Whoever Daddy was, Streak—uh, Helena—was certainly their mother. The boy was probably nine or ten, the girl six or seven, depending on whether they had inherited their mother’s tall genes. Same dark hair, long bones, high cheekbones and wide mouths. Same intelligent dark eyes.
“Should you be lifting weights?” Marcie asked the boy.
“Not heavy ones. I might tear a muscle or something. Vi’s too little, anyway. She just rolls them around on the floor.”
“I’m strong as you.”
“Are not. Bet you can’t do this.” He ran over to the rack of free weights in the corner of the workout room, rolled one off the bottom and managed to heft it to his knees before Randy took it and set it back on the rack.
“We all start light,” he stated mildly. The boy glared at him, then took a deep breath and nodded, though the frown stayed on his face.
Marcie said, “Milo, Viola, go say goodbye to your mother and tell her we’ll see her when she gets home.”
“Can’t we watch her kick butt?” The boy glowered at Randy. “She gonna kick his?”
“I don’t think she’s up to butt kicking yet,” Marcie said, with a shrug of apology to Randy. “Go.”
The kid hesitated, then took the girl’s hand and trotted across to Streak. Randy watched her open her arms to the children. She lit up. He must be losing not only his touch but his eyesight, as well. This was the woman he thought wasn’t beautiful?
Marcie grinned. “Sorry about that. Sibling rivalry rears its ugly head. Milo and Vi are scary smart, but they’re still children.”
“I’m sure they make you both very happy.”
Marcie cocked her head. “I rent the other side of Helena’s duplex from her, Detective. I’m her tenant and part-time nanny. I’m also assistant librarian at Weyland, where she teaches, so we’re colleagues as well as friends. We’re not lovers.”
“I didn’t—”
“Sure you did. That’s okay. The last time I checked we were both heterosexual. Milo and Viola’s hideous father is a journalism professor.”
So he was still around. “Hideous?”
“Makes Darth Vader look like Saint Peter. Should have been strangled at birth for the benefit of the human race.”
“But then you wouldn’t have…Milo, was it? And Viola?”
Marcie’s smile was luminous. “Mickey is completely out of the picture, and they’re worth it.”
He felt his heart give a small kick. Streak wasn’t off-limits, then. Why should he care?
Marcie waved at Helena, picked up the children and walked into the main gym, where the latest workout machines shared space with a professional-style boxing ring.
Through the picture window, Randy watched Marcie help Milo hoist a small dumbbell, then carry it one-handed over to stare at the two young men sparring in the ring.
Marcie was younger than Streak, and being somebody’s tenant and babysitter didn’t precisely count as baggage. Now that he knew she was hetero, he should have been on her case like a praying mantis on a june bug.
So why wasn’t he reacting?
“Detective?”
He turned at the sound of that smoky baritone. For some nutso reason, he reacted to Streak. Maybe it was the slim body he could imagine under those sweats. Maybe it was the voice. She reminded him of Lauren Bacall after five years in a salt mine.
She stood at the corner of the exercise mat with his other students, her legs splayed and her hands on her hips. She wore the same old gray sweats tonight, and her hair was pulled back tight with a rubber band, showing off those cheekbones. The look she gave him was not so much provocative as provocation.
“We’re five minutes late getting started,” she said.
Ellen—Mrs. Claus—sighed. “Oh, for pity’s sake, chill.”
“Let’s get started,” Randy said quickly, before Streak could react to that. “Now, we’re going to begin with some stretching exercises to warm up our muscles.”
“So we can do yoga while the mugger’s cleaning his nails?” Streak sniped.
“Honey,” said Sarah Beth, “relax. You put up with hecklers in your classes?” she asked, glancing at Randy.
“How did you—”
“Everybody knows about everybody in this gym,” said Bunny. She flashed a killer smile that included the group, extended her arms and put her palms flat on the floor in front of her.
“Wow,” breathed Francine. “I can’t reach my knees.”
“Bless your heart,” Ellen said, and patted her hand. “There are other talents. I sure wouldn’t try to mug you.”
Francine shrugged. “Got to be something fine about being a heifer.”
“So maybe Francine can get to take me down tonight. Game?” Randy asked.
“That mean I get to go upside your head with my purse? Probably break your skinny neck.” She snickered. “I carry my life in my purse.”
“I was thinking more about unarmed combat. What do you do when somebody tries to clothesline you?”
The rest of the class went smoothly. Even Streak began to relax, although she still looked ready to chew nails. Or some more sensitive part of his anatomy—interesting idea if she didn’t geld him in the process. Randy worked hard to show her that force wasn’t necessary. Her forward momentum landed her on the mat every time. Did she hate all men, or just him?
By the time the class was over, everyone was sweaty, but exhilarated. Even Streak glowed. Real pity. She could be a knockout. He couldn’t believe she’d always been dowdy and enraged. What had screwed her up?
As they were leaving, he put a hand on her arm. She glared at it. He dropped his hand and said, “Got a minute?”
The others kept walking, but he knew they’d be gossiping.
“I wondered how long before you tossed me out of your class,” she said. “Fine. I won’t come back.”
“I’m not tossing you out.” Of all the women, she needed the instruction most. “Come with me.”
This late in the evening, the weight-lifting, bodybuilding part of the gym was empty except for a couple of hard-core musclemen who didn’t bother to look up. “You must be hell on wheels as a professor,” Randy said.
“I am an excellent teacher.”
“But this isn’t your classroom.”
She didn’t crack a smile.
“Look, Streak, if you don’t lighten up and get rid of some of that anger, you’re going to get hurt.”
“Me? Hah. You, maybe.”
“I mean it. You’re the one who wound up on the floor tonight, right? Don’t let emotions override your control.” He grabbed a pair of boxing gloves off the rack and held them out. “Put these on.”
“Why?” She stared at him with suspicion. “Planning on showing me that right cross to my glass jaw?”
“Not this time.” He held the gloves until she slipped her hands inside, then he fastened the Velcro.
“This is like having sofa cushions on the ends of my arms.”
“You’ll get used to them.” He walked her over to the light bag. “I’m sure you’ve seen enough boxing movies to know how this works. Try it.”
She studied him, then the two-foot-long, pear-shaped bag suspended head high. Before he could give her any further instruction, she let fly as hard as she could. The bag bounced back and caught her square on her cheek. “Ow!” she squawked. “That hurt.” She raised her hand to her face, but obviously couldn’t feel it through the heavy gloves. “Is my cheek bleeding?”
He caught the bag before it could swing back for a second attack. “No, although it may be a tad bruised tomorrow. Sorry. I should have caught it before it hit you.”
“Then why didn’t you?” She rounded on him, but he grasped her wrist and held her.
“You didn’t give me time. Here, try this one.” He half dragged her over to where the man-size heavy bag hung, then walked around behind it and held on. “Okay, hit this one.”
She tapped it gently.
“Not like that. Hit the thing.”
“And get my jaw broken? I don’t think so.”
“This one doesn’t hit back. Drive your fist hard from waist level, right smack in the gut.”
She whacked the bag as hard as she could. With Randy behind it, the bag barely budged. “I felt that all the way to my shoulder,” she said.
“Like the feeling?”
“Certainly not.” But she whacked the leather again, then again with her other hand, for good measure. Her focused expression told him she did like the feeling it gave her. She hit it over and over until she was too tired to raise her arms. She was panting and drenched with sweat.
Maybe he should paste a male face on the front, so she could really enjoy herself.
“Not bad,” Randy said. “Next time, get your shoulder into it. Sit down over there and watch.”
He pulled her gloves off and put them on himself. He tapped the light bag with his left glove so that it swung away and back. He stopped the motion with his right glove. In ten seconds he had established a steady poppa-poppa rhythm.
After a couple of minutes he caught the bag. “See, you hit hard, it fights back. You tap easy and get the rhythm right, you can keep going forever. You do that to somebody’s face, he’ll remember.”
Randy walked to the heavy bag, lowered his shoulder and slammed into it with his left glove, followed by a hard right. The bag barely swung. “Now, this one you can beat the stew out of.”
“Interesting, but not germane to our classwork, surely. I have to go.”
“Let’s say you’re earning extra credit. Can you come early on Thursday?”
“Why?”
“So you can put on these gloves and take out some of that aggression before class.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Unless you learn to use your opponent’s strength against him, you won’t beat him. You’ll beat yourself. That’s what you’re doing now.”
“You afraid I’ll hurt one of the others? Like Sarah Beth?”
“Sarah Beth is in better shape than you are, and she’s more focused. You wouldn’t go for her the way you go for me, either. The second you’re off balance, she’ll send you flying.”
“I’m leaving now.” Helena dug a towel out of her gym bag, wiped her face and shrugged into her windbreaker. She looked around at the nearly empty room, then said, “Please walk me to my car.”
That cost her. Randy saw her hands clamped in fists at her sides. He’d already explained to the class that walking with purpose went halfway toward not being a victim. She was doing that, all right, but she gave off an odor of fear you could smell half a mile away. She was like a whipped dog that snarls and attacks anything that moves.
He watched her burn rubber out of the parking lot. The woman was not only angry, she was frightened. He needed to know why.

CHAPTER THREE
HELENA’S SHOULDERS ACHED, her arms sagged as though they had weights on them and her cheek felt as though it had swollen all the way across her nose. She’d only hit those dumb bags a couple of times. Randy had pummeled that light bag so fast she could barely keep up with it. He’d moved with powerful grace. As much as she hated to, she had to admit he was beautiful. He probably had to beat women off with a stick.
She shivered. A male body, no matter how beautiful, was not something she ever wanted to touch again.
He’d opened her car door and checked the backseat before he’d let her get in, then he’d waited until she locked her seat belt, started the engine and backed out before he’d turned away. He seemed like a nice person, but he was a cop. She intended to commit a crime without getting caught. That made him her enemy.
Maybe Randy was right that she was sabotaging her ability to protect herself. He called it rage. She called it righteous anger.
She refused to give him the satisfaction of letting him know that she might agree with him, but she’d get to the gym early and smack those bags until she could do it without getting creamed. Then she’d relax his socks off in class.

AS THEY WERE GETTING READY to leave after the next class, Ellen asked, “Can we go to that indoor gun range over on Stage Road for a session?”
Randy saw several heads nod.
“We could meet over there, and maybe go out for a sandwich afterward. We’d bring our own weapons, of course,” she added.
“As long as nobody wants to use an AK-47 or a Thompson submachine gun, and we all agree on the time and date,” Randy said. “How do the rest of you feel about that?”
“Outstanding!” Amanda said, with the first real enthusiasm she’d shown. “I love my Glock, but every time I try to load the magazine, it takes me forever. You can show me how to do it right.”
“Uh-huh.” Randy sounded dubious.
“I have one of those S&W titanium five shots in the car,” said Sarah Beth. “It’s so light that after I shoot it three or four times, I wind up with a blister between my thumb and forefinger. What am I doing wrong?”
“Probably nothing. The lack of weight will cause the gun to wiggle around in your grip.”
“But I’ve heard that a really big gun, like a .357 Magnum, which is what Walter and I have, can break a woman’s wrist when she fires it,” Lauren commented.
“Nonsense,” said Ellen. “Try a heavy shotgun and forget to hold it hard against your shoulder if you want pain. That Magnum myth is a good ole boys’ tale to keep us in our places.”
“Which they sure figure is not the firing range,” said Francine. “Some of those guys act like it’s testosterone central.”
“How about you, Streak?” Randy asked.
“I can always use the practice.”
Always Miss Superior. Hell, maybe she was an expert. “Okay. How’s this Thursday? I’ll reserve some lanes and have Jessica call you if they’re available. Afterward, we can discuss finding cover. Doesn’t matter if you’re armed, if you’re standing out in the open like a doe. Now, remember what we worked on Tuesday? Line up, ladies, and let’s see if you can toss me out of your way.”
He noticed that the back of Helena’s sweatshirt was wet. When she turned to look at him, he realized the front was equally wet. He’d been right about her curves. He could see the outline of broad athletic bra straps under her wet shirt, but it couldn’t hide her nipples completely. Not exactly a wet T-shirt, but it got the point—or he should say points—across.
The hair around her face was damp, as well, and tendrils had escaped from the tight rubber band. Her moist face was no longer pale and lifeless. Beneath the sheen of perspiration her cheeks glowed, her eyes sparkled.
“I guess you came early,” he said.
Her chin lifted. Instantly, her eyes went flat and cold. “I enjoyed myself.” She sucked in a breath. “Thank you for recommending the exercise.”
That had probably cost her more than asking him to walk her to her car.
“In your head, who were you beating up on?” He grinned. “Me?”
She stiffened. “You’re merely the means to an end.” She turned on her heel and strode to the back of the room to join the others.
Oooo-kay.
Whenever the Cold Cases squad interviewed a female, either as a witness or possible perpetrator, Randy generally led the session. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred if he didn’t get a full confession, he gained enough information to find the real criminal, or enough evidence to prosecute. Women liked and trusted him. Most of the time he liked women.
Watching Streak make a point of ignoring him, he wished he could leave for Aruba tomorrow, before his curiosity about her got the better of him. He wanted to find out what made her so angry. He could run her name through the police database to see whether she came up as a victim of a crime. He’d be willing to bet she would, and that it had been a bad one.
What good would it do him to know? He was already close to burnout from listening to the gut-wrenching stories of desperate and angry people. He prayed he could hold out until he made it to Aruba for two weeks in the sun, with no responsibility except to choose the right wine with dinner.
And the beautiful woman to share it with. Someone new now that Paige was out of the picture.
Why should he care that Dr. Helena Norcross loathed him? Plenty of other women adored him. He vowed that before the sessions finished, she’d at least tolerate him. Call it an exercise to hone his skills. She was too loaded down with ex-husbands and kids to date, Sela Ward eyebrows or not. Streak and those kids needed somebody reliable. Responsible. That ain’t me.
She wore different sweats this time. Still too big, but sky-blue rather than gray. He spent the next hour and a half showing his class moves, practicing with them, being grabbed, slung and generally mauled. So far nobody had “accidentally” landed one in his groin, but that was bound to happen. He just hoped he was quick enough to take the blow on his thigh.
He taught them a new maneuver, then paired them up to practice on one another. He took Streak. He still didn’t trust her not to blow up and actually attack. He could handle her, but he might accidentally hurt her by reflex.
She piqued his interest, and, dammit, his libido.
Every time she tried to manhandle him, she couldn’t budge him, and snarled in frustration. Finally, he asked her to watch Sarah Beth, who had what he called “the touch.” Maybe if he could show Helena how this little old lady could manage him, she might begin to get it.
He reached for Sarah Beth’s throat with both hands. She smiled sweetly, stepped in, moved her arms up and sideways the way he had showed her, and sent him spinning away.
“Are you all right, dear?” Sarah Beth said.
“Absolutely. Now, Streak, how about you try it again?”
She closed her eyes and took several deep breaths. “I can’t. I don’t get it.”
“Of course you can,” Sarah Beth said. “Put your palms flat on his chest.” The older woman laid her fragile hands against Randy’s torso. They rested there with all the weight of pigeon feathers. “You can feel when his breath comes up.” Suddenly she pushed off her back foot and shoved. He stumbled backward again. “See?”
Streak stared at her with something akin to awe. “How did you do that? He helped you, didn’t he?”
“Try it.”
Randy could tell she didn’t want to touch him at all, much less gently, the way Sarah Beth had. He watched Streak clench her fists. She was wishing he’d turn into that heavy bag, so she could let fly at him with all her strength, without being hit back. She had a real need to lash out. Maybe she’d had a bad experience with a cop. No, her anger went deeper than that. She resented his very maleness.
Maybe the ex-husband had mistreated her and still threatened her. A man, possibly more than one, had hurt her badly. Throughout his career, Randy had seen that victims of violence tended to gravitate from one such relationship to the next, so maybe hubby had come after an abusive family and abusive boyfriends.
He couldn’t fix damaged goods in one self-defense class. It would be nice if he could, but people seldom changed without time and hard work. He’d tried hard enough to change himself, without a lot of success.
If she’d finally decided to fight back against her demons, he had to teach her that the only chance she had lay in skill, not strength.
She unclenched her fists, but didn’t meet his gaze as she reached out and laid her palms carefully against his chest.
Uh-oh. He caught his breath. She opened her eyes very wide, whispered, “Oh!” and shoved.
For a second he thought he’d wind up on his ass.
Francine caught him and righted him. “You go, girl.” She tried to give Helena a high five, but her classmate didn’t see it.
She still had her hands in front of her, her mouth open. She held his gaze too long, then spun away with her arms crossed over her chest. She’d felt it, too.
Until this minute he’d never believed in that old saw about electricity jumping between a man and a woman. He knew she was blushing and her pupils were dilated. His own ears felt hot and probably blazed like stop-lights. He blessed his jockstrap. It felt damned uncomfortable, but kept his erection from becoming obvious. Sweatpants without a fly were pretty revealing.
For the duration of the class he paired her with Sarah Beth, who was not only a natural at self-defense, but a natural teacher, as well. They were all still going strong when Jessica stuck her head in the door. “Closing time, people.”
Amanda checked her fancy watch. He’d be willing to bet the diamonds were real. “I can’t believe it. We’ve been here over two hours.”
“See, Streak?” he said. “Told you I’d make up the time.”
She barely glanced at him as she hurried out. He called after her, “Jessica will phone you about meeting at the shooting range on Thursday.”
When he left the building, Streak’s car was already gone. If she’d waited for him to walk her out, he might have tried to kiss her. Plenty stupid that he actually wanted to kiss her, without getting his head handed to him for trying.

CHAPTER FOUR
“THIS IS INSANE,” Helena said, and struck her steering wheel. She slammed on her brakes as the light in front of her turned red. She hadn’t noticed the yellow. She had to slow down. The whole of Germantown was one big speed trap. She couldn’t afford a traffic ticket, and the cops were always stopping cars like her old BMW. She looked as though she was flying even when she was driving twenty.
Mickey had resented the car, although she’d bought it used, with money she’d saved waitressing in the Grand Tetons as a grad student. “That car screams rich bitch,” he’d said. “Now, if you’d been driving my old Ford…”
She could fill in the rest. She’d been raped because she drove a used BMW.
She loved her car and nobody could force her to sell it. She wouldn’t sell the duplex, either. She’d kept the title in her name alone, just as she’d established her own credit from the first days of her marriage. Her parents had drummed into her head that a woman had to control her own money, because men died or divorced you. She hadn’t often said no to Mickey when they’d been married, but she’d held out on handling their finances. Good thing. Otherwise she and the children might be living under a bridge.
She noticed a squad car parked in the bushes beside the road. Thank heaven she hadn’t run the stoplight.
Her stomach tightened as she remembered the feel of Randy’s chest. Damn her hormones, anyway. The first sweaty male she touched, and boom, fireworks. She wriggled in her seat. It was a miracle she hadn’t tossed his skinny rear end all the way through the picture window between the workout room and the gym from sheer surprise.
Without warning, she saw that face in its black mask. She screamed and the car swerved. She righted it, put on her brakes, coasted into the Presbyterian Church’s deserted parking lot and cut off her lights.
And shook. The memories always hit her without warning, never left her time to prepare, to control her feelings. As long as he lived, he’d hold power over her.
She got her .38 out of the center console and set it on the seat beside her, then took a dozen deep breaths to keep from throwing up inside the car. She’d never get the stink out of the upholstery.
In her rearview mirror, she saw the lights of the squad car cruising closer. She prayed it wouldn’t stop. If the cops shone a flashlight inside and saw her gun, they might not give her time to reach for her carry permit before they dragged her out of the car. She willed them to drive by.
When they had turned the corner and disappeared, she started the engine and drove out of the parking lot, although she was still shaking. Her mouth felt dry, but her throat burned.
Later, as she pulled into her garage and lowered the door with the electric control, she giggled. She refused to allow herself a full-blown attack of hysterics. She’d made a new discovery. All she needed to quiet her raging hormones was a rip-snorting anxiety attack from the memory of the last time she’d been touched by a man.

EVEN WHEN HE WENT TO BED alone, Randy nearly always slept like a log. Not tonight, however. Staring up at the lights from the Memphis-Arkansas bridge reflected on the ceiling of his converted warehouse loft, he considered getting up and turning on his laptop to check the file that served as his little black book. He checked the lit dial of his bedside alarm clock. Past three o’clock.
He couldn’t call anybody at three in the morning. Besides, he was lonely and restless, not horny—or no more than usual, anyway.
Streak was screwing up his life. Randy usually knew within a couple of hours of meeting someone if he wanted to sleep with her. It had taken him longer to make up his mind about his student.
He definitely wanted her, but he doubted she was into sex with no strings attached. He couldn’t handle anything else.
A damaged woman with two kids, no less. An ex-husband who’d probably beat her. Somebody sure had. He wanted to hold her in his arms and assure her that so long as he was around, nobody would ever hurt her again. He wanted to heal her.
Yeah, but how long would he be around? And then what? Would she go back to being a victim?
He gave up on sleep. Climbing out of bed, he showered and dressed. Then he stopped by an all-night café for sausage biscuits and the largest cappuccino they made.
He walked into work at four in the morning, ground fresh beans and brewed the day’s first pot of coffee. Unlike most squad rooms, the Cold Cases facility had excellent coffee that all the other teams tried to steal. With only himself, Liz Slaughter, who’d be on maternity leave in another few months, Jack Samuels, close to retirement age, and Lieutenant Gavigan, they could afford designer beans and a top-of-the-line coffeemaker.
Added to his king-size cappuccino, the squad’s caffeine should keep Randy awake until his shift ended at four in the afternoon. He’d pulled plenty of twenty-four-hour shifts. Twelve was nothing.
Although he wasn’t actually supposed to use the department’s computers to check up on non-suspects, he knew the lieutenant wouldn’t say a word if he checked out Helena Norcross.
The police report was extensive. Two years earlier she’d been abducted from the faculty parking lot of Weyland, the small liberal arts college where she worked, was beaten, sexually assaulted, then dumped half-naked and semiconscious beside the road through the Old Forest in Overton Park. The report said her assailant was never identified. So he was still out there. Explained a lot.
Detective Dick O’Hara from the east precinct was the investigating officer. Randy would reach out to him to find out if there had been any further developments.
He scrolled down to the medical report from the rape crisis and trauma center. As he read about her injuries, he fought to keep his rage from choking him. He saw and heard much worse, but this was Streak, and that made it immediate and personal.
The assailant had struck her at the base of the skull. She’d had a bad concussion, but no skull fracture. Her right eye socket was cracked, but not displaced. Her jaw was badly bruised.
No wonder Streak was upset by his offhand remark about women and right crosses.
Three ribs on her left side and four on her right had been broken. One had punctured a lung. Her left collarbone was cracked. She’d been struck repeatedly, probably by fists. At some point both her wrists and ankles had been tied, and were raw, although they’d been free when she was found.
He scrolled down to O’Hara’s notes on his interviews with her. She swore she remembered nothing about the rape or beating. The blow to the head and jaw had apparently knocked her out for some time. She did say the man wore some kind of mask.
The forensic report was bleak.
No fibers from mask, ropes or carpet were found. Probably bound her with something like rubber-covered electrical wire. No extraneous hair. No DNA. That meant he’d worn gloves and used condoms. Possibly laid a new tarp on the floor of the vehicle he’d used to transport her.
Randy wished criminals didn’t pay so much attention to the CSI shows on television. Those guys had fancy laboratory facilities that produced immediate results. Maybe on Mars. In Tennessee most trace had to be shipped to the Nashville crime-scene lab, which was so backed up sometimes they couldn’t process evidence for months.
The Memphis crime-scene team suspected the rapist had shaved his body to avoid leaving so much as a pubic hair, and wore some kind of rubber or vinyl suit—maybe rain gear or a wet suit. He was too damned careful for this to be his first rape. So did O’Hara know of other rapes that might fit the same pattern? Were they actually dealing with a serial?
Unless Detective O’Hara had some new developments, Helena Norcross’s rape was a bona fide cold case. Lieutenant Gavigan hated rapists as much as he hated killers, so Randy should be able to look into it officially.
He poured himself a fresh cup of coffee in his oversize mug while he waited for the aging printer to crank out the report. Then he slipped it into a fresh manila folder and shoved it into the top drawer of his desk to give Gavigan at their morning meeting.
If Streak’s rapist was still out there, Randy wanted to hand her his head on a pike. Although that probably wasn’t nearly as romantic as red roses.

CHAPTER FIVE
RANDY LEANED BACK and propped his loafers on his desk.
Outside, traffic noises picked up. In another hour the February sun would rise, but he still had the squad room to himself. Since budget cuts, central precinct homicide detectives only worked days.
He was no stranger to interrogating rapists and convincing them he understood and sympathized. Although he didn’t. They thought it was about sex, the great god, orgasm. Actually, it was about dominance—assault with a deadly weapon. The rapist wanted to humiliate and destroy the victim’s humanity. He exerted total control. Even if his victim healed physically, she might never regain her sense of being in control of her life.
The fact that Streak had joined his class proved she was still fighting for her prerape sense of self. He would give her all the help he could.
He doubted his other class members had similar experiences, but you never knew. He glanced at the clock. Jack and Liz wouldn’t be in for a while yet. He had time to check out the other class members online.
Sarah Beth Armstrong, the first he checked, seemed like a nice old lady, but anybody could have a record.
When the screen lit up, he slammed his cup down so hard that coffee splashed on his desk. He grabbed a handful of tissues from Liz’s box and mopped it up before it could reach his keyboard. The desk had survived worse.
Sarah Beth had only a couple of speeding tickets, but when he followed the link, he found a homicide report. Eight years earlier her thirty-year-old daughter had been carjacked and killed by three nineteen-year-old gang-bangers. Sarah Beth, her husband, Oliver, and two children under eighteen were listed as next of kin. No husband listed for the daughter.
All three men were now serving life sentences without parole.
Sarah Beth seemed, what? Together? In his professional experience, the death of a child, particularly by violence, was the hardest kind of grief to survive. She’d had eight years, but that kind of pain and loss didn’t go away.
Next he checked Francine Bagby. Squeaky-clean, except for the 911 calls about noncustodial parents and drunks she’d already mentioned. He pitied anyone who went up against her with anything less than an antitank gun.
Nothing about Amanda Donovan, the lawyer, either. He recognized the name of her firm, however, as the biggest and toughest divorce firm in west Tennessee. No lack of material for nasty confrontations there.
Nothing on Ellen Latimer, aka Mrs. Claus.
Next he checked Lauren Torrance, the newlywed. Another surprise. In the previous year there had been three reports of loud arguments called in by neighbors. No signs of physical abuse, so no arrests.
Little Bunny was actually Gaylene O’Donnell Yates from Ittabena, Mississippi. Even though she was only five foot three, she’d won second runner-up for Miss Mississippi, and had married a plastic surgeon. The surgeon, Wilton Yates, had just won a malpractice suit over a boob job that had supposedly gone wrong. A disgruntled ex-patient was threat enough to send his wife to self-defense classes.
Her beautiful rack was probably silicone. Pity.
Finally, he pulled up Marcie Halpern. When she didn’t pop up, he entered variants of Marcie and found nothing, not even a speeding ticket.
His coffee was now tepid, so he added a dollop of hot from the carafe he had made, and drank it in a single pull. Even the women who didn’t show up in police reports probably had secrets they didn’t want revealed.
Randy had secrets, too. Without them, he wouldn’t have become a cop, and he’d be married with two-point-five children, a mortgage and a bass boat. He’d fall asleep on the couch after Thanksgiving dinner with the entire Railsback clan, instead of eating a tuna sandwich alone at his desk. He always volunteered for duty on holidays.
It was an excuse to avoid his family. He talked to his mother on the phone once a week or so, but never spoke to his father.
Maybe not all families were toxic, but his was right up there with Three Mile Island.

HELENA DROPPED Milo and Viola at the front door of their school on her way to her morning class. “Marcie will pick you up after day care. Tonight is my self-defense class. I’ll tuck you in when I get home.”
“Can we come with you?” Milo asked.
“Not tonight. Sorry.”
“Mo-o-om,” he whined. “I promise I’ll just lift the little weights.”
“I don’t want to go back,” Viola said. “Not never.”
“Then you go home with Marcie,” Milo snapped.
“Both of you go with Marcie.” She kissed them goodbye and watched Milo stalk up the stairs, while Vi bounced behind him. Helena had given up attempting to bribe him into waiting for his sister. He raced ahead to join his friends. Helena watched until both children disappeared inside the school.
She pulled out into the stream of cars that had disgorged their children. Traffic was sluggish, but she’d allowed extra time before her class. She turned on NPR, listened to five minutes of one disaster after another, then turned the radio off. They never seemed to report good news.
How could she keep her children safe, yet allow them enough freedom to grow? How could she teach them to avoid monsters without destroying their trust in decent people? How could she protect them from her own fears? Her panic attacks came less frequently and were shorter and less severe, but she still had them.
She forced herself to turn into Overton Park. This early she could drive the winding roads through the golf course and the Old Forest without meeting another car. Her sweaty palms slipped on the steering wheel, and she could feel the pulse thrumming in her throat. “You can do this,” she whispered.
In the two weeks since she’d begun to drive to work through the park, she hadn’t dared to turn from the main road into the Old Forest. She’d promised herself that today was the day. She would stop by the side of the road where she’d been found, maybe even get out and look at the spot. Demystify it. It was only a bunch of shrubbery.
February was its usual cold, dreary self, but she started the air-conditioning to dry the sweat between her shoulder blades. A moment later she switched it off. Her teeth were chattering.
She swung right onto the narrow forest road where the aged oaks and maples met overhead. Their leafless branches drooped over her car like threatening brown stalactites. Even in winter the lane was shadowy.
She inched along the road and studied the underbrush. It all looked so different. Was it here? Farther along? Behind her? On this curve? How could she not recognize the place she’d been dumped?
When a pickup drove into view around the curve behind her, she floored the BMW, barely braked at the stop sign onto the parkway and drove ten miles over the speed limit until she pulled into her allotted parking space at the college. Undoubtedly a commuter taking a shortcut, but she’d freaked. She hit the steering wheel hard enough to bruise the sides of her hands.
She turned off the ignition and took deep breaths to calm her heart rate. Her face in the rearview mirror looked as gray as though a vampire had sucked her dry.
The bastard had sucked her life dry. She would take it back. Milo felt he was in charge of keeping her safe. He’d seen her curled up on the floor of her closet. Vi was always wary, watching for signs of an imminent attack. Children should believe their mother was in control, invulnerable, there.
Sooner or later, the bastard would come to kill her. She felt it in her bones. Which was why she had to kill him first.
She lifted her chin and felt her pulse. No longer stroke territory. And, finally calm, she climbed from the car, picked up her briefcase and started up the stairs toward the liberal arts building.
She’d only downed a can of tomato juice as she left the house to take the children to school. Now her stomach rumbled in protest, so she detoured to the student union for a bagel and tea in the twenty minutes before class. Since juniors and seniors avoided early classes, she had the cafeteria to herself except for a couple of bleary-eyed freshmen.
She opened the bound notebook she used for her rape notes. At the top of a new page she wrote the same two points she’d written at the head of every page for the last six months. Find him. The police hadn’t managed in two years, with all their resources. What chance did she have?
She underlined the second item so hard the pen tore the paper.
Make him find you.
In the meantime, however, she had to try to teach thirty freshmen how to construct a five-paragraph essay, a task they should have perfected in junior high. Most of them acted as though she was teaching them ancient Greek.
She stopped in the faculty common room for another cup of tea to take with her to class. At this hour she was usually alone. This morning, though, Albert Barkley, full professor of American literature, sat in one of the worn blue club chairs by the window, reading the New York Times Sunday Book Review. He blinked at her over his glasses, then put the paper down and raised an eyebrow. “Something different about our Helen of Troy this morning. You must have launched another thousand ships.”
“Not even a kayak, Al,” she said as she poured her tea. He hated being called Al, which was why the faculty did it.
“There is something different about you. You seem, I don’t know, girded about the loins. Planning to go into battle?”
“Think of me as a female Daniel headed into the lions’ den,” she said as she emptied a packet of artificial sweetener into her Earl Gray. “One of these days maybe I won’t have to face English 101.”
“Only after I die and leave a full professorship open. Until then be grateful for your tenure and your paltry literature courses, and think of Idiot English 101 as sparing you hell after you die. You’ve already served your time.”
She walked upstairs to her classroom and thought that if Albert the Oblivious could recognize something different about her, she must actually be sending out different vibes. The self-defense course had been a first step in her plan to protect herself and kill the man she always thought of as “the bastard.” The second was to change her appearance. The third was to set herself up as a target.
“I will learn to use my softness against his hardness,” she whispered, and caught the startled expression on the face of a junior coming down the stairs toward her. That remark would be all over campus before lunchtime.

“IT’S A LEGITIMATE cold case,” Randy said. He’d made certain Lieutenant Gavigan and the others had read Detective O’Hara’s notes on Streak’s case before their morning meeting.
“No forensic evidence and no suspect,” Gavigan said. “Dead end. Gonna stay a dead end.”
Jack Samuels and Liz Slaughter sat in front of Gavigan’s desk. Randy rested a hip on the edge of the credenza.
“These guys don’t normally stop on their own, Lieut,” Randy said, and spread his hands. “I doubt this rape is an isolated incident. He’s either moved away, he’s dead or disabled, he’s in jail, or he’s raped others and will rape more.”
“Gotta be,” Jack said.
Liz had already assumed the pregnant woman’s position, with hands folded on her belly. “Can’t hurt to check it out. More cases equals more chances he slipped up, so we can catch him.”
“I get the feeling I’m being sandbagged here,” Gavigan said. “I’ll go this far. Randy, talk to O’Hara. After all this time new cases will have forced him to move your girlfriend’s assault to the back burner.”
“Not my girlfriend. I told you, she’s just a member of my class. If there’s anything she didn’t say during the original investigation, either because she chose not to or didn’t remember, I’m in the best place to tease it out of her memory. We agree on that?”
The other three nodded.
“I like Streak. I’d like to get this guy for her sake.”
“Streak?” Gavigan asked.
Randy explained.
“Prematurely gray hair?” Liz asked. “How come she doesn’t dye it?”
“I kind of like the streak in her hair, although I wish she’d fix herself up so she doesn’t look like a vagrant. And it’s white, not gray.”
“Bet you five bucks she didn’t look so frumpy before the assault,” Jack said. “It’s camouflage. She’s hiding, and blames herself. Why not? Everybody else probably blames her.” He shook his head.
“Assuming we reopen the crime as a cold case, what do you plan to do that the original detectives didn’t?” Gavigan asked.
“Same as always,” Randy said with a shrug. “Go over everything again from the beginning.” That meant revealing to Streak that he knew about her assault. She wouldn’t thank him for checking up on her. Might not thank him for reopening her case—and half-healed wounds—either.
“Long shot,” Gavigan said.
“All our cases are long shots,” Randy said. “Look how many we close.”
Liz and Samuels nodded.
“All right, talk to Detective O’Hara. He may already have info on similar assaults. And try not to step too hard on his toes, will you?”
“Thanks, Lieut,” Randy said.
“Now, how’s the Murchison killing coming?” Gavigan asked Liz.
An hour later, he closed the meeting.
As she passed Randy on her way to the ladies’ room, Liz said, “If you need somebody female to talk to this Streak, I’ll be happy to interview her.” She patted her belly. “Didn’t you say she has two kids? I can ask her advice about motherhood.”
“You meet her kids, you might be scared off motherhood.”
“Too late for that. Seriously, she might say things to me she’d be embarrassed to tell you.” Liz laid her hand on his arm. “We need to get this guy before he rapes somebody else. Anything I can do, let me know.”
“Ditto,” Samuels said from across the room. “I hate these guys.”

CHAPTER SIX
RANDY BROUGHT LATTES and a dozen chocolate doughnuts to his meeting with Dick O’Hara at the West Precinct.
O’Hara was a big man, solid but not fat. He had the basset-hound eyes of a man who had seen too much in his forty-plus years. He wore his sandy hair in a buzz cut, and even at ten in the morning his khaki slacks looked rumpled.
“I’ll accept help from the devil himself if it gets this guy off the street,” he said. “This is one creep I hope shoots it out with the TACT squad, although life without parole would make me happy.”
“We find him, you get the collar. No problem.”
O’Hara waved a hand. “Your team makes cases we don’t have time to work. The hell with jurisdiction.”
The two men settled down at O’Hara’s beat-up government-issue gray desk. Around them other detectives leaned on desks, chatting amiably, while another group surrounded the coffeepot. The room seemed almost tranquil this early.
O’Hara shoved a stack of folders and two loose-leaf binders to Randy. “You’re welcome to look through the evidence boxes, but these might bring you up to speed quicker.”
Randy set his cup down. “A hell of a bunch of notes for one rape case. What’s in these that didn’t make it into the electronic file?”
“The others.” O’Hara narrowed his eyes. “You’re saying you don’t know the guy has probably raped at least five more and killed three?”
Randy choked on his doughnut. “I only started working Dr. Norcross’s case officially a couple of hours ago. He’s a killer?”
“After he raped three victims a second time, he killed them.”
“He came back?” God, Streak! Did she know that she was still in danger from the same rapist? Randy ran his hand over his face. “Man, I feel like an idiot.”
“No reason to. You’re playing catch-up, and you were smart enough to start at the right place—me. Officially, we still have no forensic evidence to say the assaults are connected.”
“But you’re sure they’re connected?”
“Damn straight. Like he signed his name. You got time?”
“As much as it takes.”
O’Hara settled back in his chair and wolfed down another doughnut. The chair creaked under his weight. “I’d bet my pension he’s sexually assaulted more than the victims we know about. Report rate’s higher than twenty years ago, but women still take showers and hide what happened.”
“They still feel guilty.”
“Yeah, and the lawyers make ’em feel worse on the stand.” O’Hara swigged his coffee and chewed half of another doughnut. After he swallowed, he said, “You know as well as I do that most rapists don’t stop with one. You’d have connected the dots once you programmed the computer to kick out similar cases.”
“If I knew the proper parameters to enter.”
“Call me a short cut. The first one we know about was a lawyer. Six months later came a Realtor, then another four months after that the professor.”
“Dr. Norcross was raped two years ago. You’re saying he’s been out there over three years?”
“And not one suspect in all that time. You notice a pattern here?”
Randy nodded. “Professional women.”
“Take a look.” O’Hara pulled a set of photographs from the top file, turned them around and slid them across the desk.
Since they were taken after the assaults, the women looked like hell. Black eyes, split lips and cheeks, blood in their hair. Randy looked away from the shot of Helena. He wanted to roast the guy over an open pit and flay him alive.
“Well?” O’Hara asked.
“These women could be sisters.”
“Right. They’re all over medium height, slim, well-dressed, with dark hair, although the lawyer’s hair was short. She was six-one and no pushover. He didn’t hit her hard enough, so I guess he was still perfecting his technique. She fought hard until he knocked her out, but she didn’t draw blood, or if she did we didn’t find it. A DNA match to somebody in the system, and he’d already be in prison.”
“Could she give a description?”
O’Hara shrugged. “Shorter than she was, but that could mean six feet. Total body covering including face and head mask. Something slick. Possibly a wet suit. Stands to reason he’d wear latex gloves, as well. No eye color, no skin color. He could be purple for all we know.”
“What about the rest?”
“Here’s number four. A pediatrician.” O’Hara shoved two photos across the table. In the first, the woman looked as beat-up as the others. The second was a photo of her body.
Her head was a mess of blood and bone. Jack Samuels had once told him that if he ever reached a point where the sight of violent death didn’t move him, he should retire. Randy hadn’t reached that point yet.
“She’s the second one he came back to kill,” O’Hara said.
Randy gritted his teeth and kept his voice even as he asked, “Who was first?”
“His first victim, the lawyer. She was an assistant district attorney. Nobody connected the killing with this rapist until the second murder. It’s a miracle we put the pieces together. Different jurisdictions, different detectives.”
“I remember that case, but I didn’t know it was a serial.”
“Neither did we,” the detective said. “An ADA baby lawyer gets assaulted a second time and killed, everybody starts looking at the people she’s convicted, maybe out on parole or just released. Nobody fit. Then after the pediatrician was killed, we connected the original cases.”
“With no forensics? What made you believe they were connected?”
“Aside from the fact that the same women were raped a second time—statistically unlikely to be two different rapists—the blunt-force trauma looked as though it had been inflicted by the same instrument.”
“Could you identify the weapon?”
“Possibly the butt of a heavy pistol. Not certain, but the medical examiner thinks he’s right. Then number three showed up.”
“Why wasn’t this all over the news?”
O’Hara shrugged. “She was actually the sixth victim, the most recent. To the best of our knowledge, she hadn’t been previously raped. If she was, she never reported it.”
“Why connect her with the others?”
O’Hara slid a photo across the desk. It was a professional head shot.
Randy caught his breath. She looked enough like Streak to be her sister. “So he’s escalating? Raping and killing the first time?”
O’Hara shook his head. “We think it was an accident. We’re not sure she’s one of his, but she fits the profile. She was a stockbroker with heart arrhythmia, and her doctor put her on Coumadin.”
“Blood thinner.”
“Right. We think he stuns them or knocks them out so he can get them into his vehicle and leave the area. The initial blow caused a massive cerebral hemorrhage. She bled out before he could get her away.”
“Did he finish the assault?” Randy asked.
Again O’Hara shook his head. “No bruising in the vaginal vault commensurate with rape.”
“And since he wears a condom, no semen.”
“Probably pissed him off she wouldn’t feel what he had intended to do to her.”
“Poor guy. Bummer.”
“Yeah,” O’Hara said. “Breaks my heart.” He turned over another photo. “At first we thought victim number five, the one before the stockbroker, fell outside the pattern. She was older, for one thing. Over fifty, and a Germantown housewife. Then we found out that she was chairing the annual antique sale for one of the big charities.”
“Not necessarily a professional woman, but powerful.”
“Right. She’d also had some work done. She looked closer to thirty than fifty. So we believe he saw her somewhere without knowing anything about her.”
“Checked her out, and went for her anyway?” Randy asked.
“He seems to return to the ones that reported the rape to the police. No way to know for sure, since it’s impossible to prove a negative, but I’ve checked for any other killings in the last five years that fit the profile.”
“And?”
“Nothing. As far as we can tell, he started three years ago and comes back sooner or later to kill the ones that talked, but not necessarily in order. As if they’ve broken faith with him.”
“Does Str—Dr. Norcross know?” Randy asked.
O’Hara nodded. “They all know. Dr. Norcross and I talk every couple of weeks. She asked to be kept in the loop, and I’m glad to oblige. She’s careful. Doesn’t take unnecessary risks.”
Randy would have to protect her without getting caught at it. “Could be he only moved to the area a few years ago. Maybe he has a record somewhere else. Part of the problem with Ted Bundy was that the different locales didn’t piece all his crimes together. His crimes started in California and ended in Florida, with other states in between.”
The detective nodded again. “Like our guy, Bundy also attacked women who looked alike, so we searched for matches on the FBI database. Nothing stood out.”
“Are you protecting the others who talked?” Randy could only protect Streak, and she would probably freak out if she caught him following her.
“We don’t have the manpower, but we’ve alerted them to be extra careful, and we’re checking on them when we can.”
After the next class Randy would not only walk Streak to her car, he’d follow her until she was safely locked in her house.
“When do you alert the media that we have a murdering rapist?”
O’Hara sighed and shook his head. “Not until we have forensic evidence to connect them. The brass says anecdotal evidence and my personal gut feeling are not enough. They say he takes too much time between assaults. They say he’s probably left the area. They say they don’t want to start a panic. Every tall, dark, powerful woman in the Tri-State area would demand bodyguards.”
“They are wrong.”
“Tell me about it,” O’Hara said. “I know that, you know that, but what can we do? I can’t leak it. I value my pension. So should you.”
“Any woman who went public could be painting a target on her back.” Even Streak wouldn’t be that crazy. Not with two dependent children. “He can’t be driving around this area until he spots a likely prospect.”
“Could be. Planning appears to be part of the thrill for this guy. Appears to get off on stalking and fantasizing. Afterward, he goes back to his boring little life, sometimes for months, sometimes for years.”
“You send in for a profile from the FBI?”
O’Hara snorted. “Ever fill out one of those questionnaires? Hell, if we knew that much about the guy, we’d already have him in custody.”
“So you didn’t do it.”
“Sure we did. We got the usual report.” O’Hara’s voice turned singsong. “Twenty-five to forty. Possibly shorter than the women, although not necessarily. Works some kind of Joe job. May or may not be married and seem perfectly normal on the surface. Probably watches cop shows on TV and reads a lot of books about serial killers. He doesn’t fantasize that he’s actually on a date with these women. He knows they’d never give him a glance in real life, and it burns him up. He wants to punish them. He may interact with them in some way….”

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