De Beers arched a brow. He got up. He found a folded newspaper on the side bookshelf. He tossed it on top of the desk so Rainie could see the headline. "High Society House of Horrors." Some enterprising photographer had managed to snag a crime-scene photo of the hallway and its endless rows of bloody handprints.

"I'd call this brutal," de Beers said.

"That would be the one."

"Says here she was the former wife of an FBI agent. Which would make your client – "

"I can see how you've succeeded as a private investigator."

De Beers sat down again and studied her face. "Let me recap, darlin'. You want me to tail a woman who will hopefully meet a man whose current hobby is taking on the Federal Bureau of Intimidation and murdering the ones they love?"

"Just one man's loved ones. It's personal."

"Personal?" His gaze strayed to the gruesome newspaper photo. "Hell, you're talking a psychopath with balls of steel."

"Before you kick him, make sure you put on combat boots."

De Beers sighed. "I wished you would've told me yesterday that I should be carrying around kryptonite."

She shrugged. "I've been busy."

De Beers sighed again. "Okay. Looks like I'm breaking out my TEC-DC9 and leaving my thirty-eight Special for backup. Anything else you can tell me about the biggest badass in town? Name, age, description?"

Rainie got out her notebook. "We have record of two aliases. Tristan Shandling, used recently in Philadephia to approach Elizabeth Quincy. Then the name Ben Zikka, used approximately twenty months ago here in Virginia, to approach Amanda Quincy. I haven't gotten to run down Ben Zikka yet, but the name Tristan Shandling wasn't backed up. We knew it was an alias the minute we tried to run it through the system."

"You'd think a man taking on a Feebie would be more careful."

"He uses the aliases to approach women outside of law enforcement. What normal woman bothers with something like a routine security check?"

De Beers nodded his agreement. "Makes my life easier. Ill get a list of names from the phone records and find out which ones stand up to scrutiny. Then you sic your state trooper on the ones that don't."

Rainie was struck by another thought. "Actually, to get an account with the phone company, the man will have to document the name, and we do know one ID that's fleshed out."

"That name?"

"FBI agent, Pierce Quincy."

De Beers gave her a look. She smiled tightly. "He stole my client's identity. No one realized it until two days ago.

The Bureau has a whole case team on it now, but given the murder in Philadelphia… The fraud investigation is probably slipping through the cracks at the moment."

"Balls of steel," de Beers muttered. "Balls of steel. Well, let's return to what we do know. Subject's description?"

"I have two. They don't match."

"Of course."

"As Ben Zikka, recovering drunk twenty months ago, our guy was described as being five ten, overweight, balding, and frumpy. According to members of AA, Zikka claimed to have some sort of tie with law enforcement. This information is only two hours old, so I haven't gotten very far with it."

"Other descript?"

"In Philly, he used the name Tristan Shandling. According to a witness, he's tall, well-built, and sharply dressed. In fact, he looks very much like an FBI agent. At least the age is the same. Mid-forties to early fifties."

"So I'm looking for a middle-aged white male. That's what you have for me?"

Rainie thought about it. "Yep," she agreed. "That's about it."

"Well, there you go. At the first sight of a middle-aged white male, I'll shoot to kill. Darlin', you've just made my day."

"I try. Listen, I have to leave town. You can reach me at this number on my business card, but I'm going to be three thousand miles away so don't consider me the cavalry. You get into real trouble, call state trooper Vince Amity. He's handling the investigation of Amanda Quincy's MVA. He's a good guy. And Phil – don't put yourself on the line, okay? Just watch, take notes. If Mary meets this guy in person, feel free to keep a very low profile. I went into the house in Philadelphia. That picture is not the half of what this man did."

"What are you going to do?"

Rainie smiled. "My client has one daughter left. I plan on keeping it that way."

Two minutes later, de Beers watched from the doorway as she got into her rent-a-wreck and started the engine. She appreciated his diligence. But then she was out of the parking lot, onto the freeway, heading for her motel. The sky broke. The rain poured down in sheets as thunder rumbled off in the distance. Rainie drove alone through the torrent, listening to the rhythmic sound of her windshield wipers, and periodically tugging on her seat belt. The tension held.

Ten-fifteen P.M. Eight hours until departure and still, at the moment, safe.

Kimberly's Gun Club,New Jersey

"I'm here to see Doug James."

"He's with a student."

"He's an instructor of mine. I just need to speak with him for a second…"

"Would you like to leave a message?"

"Can't. Needs to be in person. I swear it will only take a moment."

The teenage boy working the front desk gave Kimberly a long-suffering sigh. He was new here, or he would have recognized her as a regular and given her less hassle. Instead he was trying to be diligent new employee of the month. Kimberly's hands were shaking. She was on the verge of losing her nerve. She wished Diligent New Employee would diligently do what she asked. Otherwise she might be forced to reach across the desk and wring his new-employee neck.

Maybe her thoughts showed on her face, because he started to look at her nervously.

"PMS," she told him curtly.

Geek boy turned bright red and quickly scurried off. She'd have to remember this strategy for the future. Day One, she thought again, advancing her mental notes. Irealize that even I can be a homicidal maniac.

Four minutes later, Doug James walked from the shooting gallery into the gun club's lobby. He looked right at her and Kimberly had to catch her breath all over again. Doug James was handsome. And not in that slick, preppy sort of way. She would've been able to see through that. Instead he was older, gray hairs blatantly sharing space with sun-bleached brown. His face was weathered. He had the squinted, deeply peering eyes of a man who'd spent his life outdoors, staring into the sun. Some days he was clean-shaven, but by evening he almost always sported a five o'clock shadow and even with the gray stubble mixed in with the dark, he looked good.

He wasn't too tall, but he possessed a solid, broad-shouldered build. And he was well muscled. She'd felt the rippling band of his arms around hers as he'd adjusted her aim. She'd felt the hard plane of his chest as he'd shifted her stance. She'd felt the heat of his body, standing mere inches from hers.

He also wore a gold wedding band on his left ring finger. She'd thought of that often when he'd first started as her instructor. She'd thought of him as older, married, and way out of her league. And it had made her even more aware of each and every touch.

"He won't be a stranger to you."

Kimberly thought of Dr. Andrews's warning and her stomach churned. She looked at Doug James, ruggedly handsome Doug James, and she felt desire sweep over her again, even as her body was swamped with fear. Was this how her mother had felt about the man who had butchered her? And poor Mandy?

"Kimberly, how can I help you?"

She gazed at Doug blankly. Her mouth opened, but no words came out.

He smiled. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you."

"I have to cancel all my lessons," she said.

He stilled, then frowned. She searched his gaze for anything sinister. He simply appeared concerned, and somehow that frightened her more. He makes himself into what the victim wants, Dr. Andrews had theorized. Kindness. That's what all women wanted. Someone who was kind.