He opened a refrigerator and took the unembalmed body in his arms. He carried the corpse, a woman in her early forties, to a nearby porcelain table.

William looked at his brother and gently rubbed his hands together. He took a deep breath. They had raided funeral homes before, and though it didn't compare to a fresh kill, prey was prey.

Besides, the dead woman was a fairly good physical specimen for her age. She was attractive and compared favorably to the female they had attacked and fed upon in San Francisco. There was a name tag on the body: Diana Ginn.

"I hope some funeral director didn't have Diana first," William said to his brother. Pathetic geeks sometimes took jobs at funeral homes so that they could ravage the dead at their leisure. They'd do unnecessary searches into vaginal and anal cavities. Another kinky pastime was to have sex with the dead in a coffin. It happened more than people could imagine.

William found that he was excited. There was nothing to compare to this. He climbed up onto the embalming table and poised himself above the woman.

Diana Ginn's naked body was ashen, but pretty enough in the dim light. Her lips were full and blue. He wondered how she had died, since she didn't look sick. There were no obvious wounds. She hadn't been in an accident.

William carefully pried open the eyelids, looked into her eyes. "Hello, my sweet girl. You're beautiful, Diana," he whispered dreamily. "That isn't just a cheap pickup line. I mean it. You're extraordinary. You're worthy of tonight, of Michael and me. And we will be worthy of you."

He let his fingers lightly graze her cheeks, then the woman's long neck, her breasts, which weren't pert now but more like sacks of pudding. He studied the intricate lines of her veins. So beautiful. He was almost dizzy with lust for Diana Ginn.

While William crouched low over the body, his brother lightly stroked the woman's bony feet, her thin ankles, then slowly, lovingly moved his hands up the long legs. He was moaning softly, as if he were trying to waken her from the deepest sleep.

"We love you," Michael whispered. "We know you can hear us. You're still here in your body, aren't you? We know, Diana. We know exactly how you feel. We're the undead."

I continued to be impressed with the tremendous discipline and hard work of Jamilla Hughes. What drove her? Something buried in her past? Something more obvious in the present? The fact that she was one of two female homicide inspectors in the San Francisco Police Department? Maybe all of the above? Jamilla had already told me that she hadn't taken a day of comp time in almost two years. That sounded kind of familiar.

A couple of times during the next day at the Hall of Justice, I mentioned her incredible work ethic, but she shrugged it off. She was well respected by the other homicide inspectors. She was a regular person. No false airs. No bullshit about her. I found out that she had a nickname. It fit her — Jam.

I spent a couple of hours in the afternoon finding out what I could about tigers. Area zoos and shelters were being canvassed in an attempt to locate every single tiger in California. The murderous cat was our best lead so far.

I was keeping my own list of facts, different things that struck me.

Someone was able to command and control the tiger before and after it attacked and bit Davis O'Hara in Golden Gate Park. An animal trainer? A vet?

The jaw of a tiger is so strong that it can crush bone and then pulverize it. And yet someone was able to call the tiger off its prey.

All tiger species are considered endangered. Their existence is being challenged by both loss of habitat and poaching. Could the killers also be environmentalists?

Tigers are being poached for their suspected healing powers. Almost every part of the cat is considered valuable and, in some cases, sacred.

Tigers have magical significance in some cultures, especially in parts of Africa and Asia. Could that be important to the case?

I had lost track of the time, and when I looked up from my note-taking it was already getting dark outside. Jamilla was striding down the corridor in my direction.

She had on her long black leather jacket and looked ready to leave. She'd put on lipstick. Maybe she had a date. She looked terrific. "'Tyger! Tyger! burning bright,'" she recited a line from Blake's poem.

I answered with the only other line I could remember: "'Did he who made the Lamb make thee?'"

She looked pensive, then she smiled. "What a team. The poet-detectives. Let's get a beer."

"I'm pretty beat and I have a few more files to check. I think I'm still jet-lagged." Even as I was saying the words, I wasn't sure why the hell I was saying them.

She put up her hand. "All right already. You could have just said, No, you're not my type. Jeez, man. I'll see you in the morning. But thanks for all your help. I mean that." I saw her smile as she turned, then walked away down the long hall to the elevators. But then I saw her shake her head.

After she was gone, I sat at the desk overlooking the streets of San Francisco. I sighed and then I shook myhead. I could feel a familiar weariness settling in. I was alone again and I had no one to blame. Why had I turned Jamilla down for a couple of beers? I liked her company. I didn't have any other plans, and I wasn't that jet-lagged.

But I thought I knew the reason. It wasn't too complicated. I had gotten close to my last two partners on homicide cases. Both were women I liked. Both had died.

The Mastermind was still out there. Could he be in San Francisco right now? Was Jamilla Hughes safe in her own city?

The ringing of the telephone in my hotel room woke me early the next morning. I was groggy, still half asleep when I picked up.

It was Jamilla, and she sounded a little breathless. "I got a call late last night from my friend Tim at the Examiner," she told me. "He's got a lead for us. This could be good stuff." She quickly filled me in on the sketchy details of an attempted murder, an old case. We had a witness this time. She and I were going on the road again. She didn't ask if I wanted to go — it was apparently a done deal.

"I'll pick you up in half an hour — forty minutes at the latest. We're going to L.A. Wear black. Maybe you'll get discovered."

United flies an hourly shuttle between San Francisco and Los Angeles. We just made the nine o'clock and were in L.A. an hour or so later. We didn't stop talking for the entire trip.

We rented a car at Budget and headed to Brentwood, where O. J. Simpson had lived and presumably killed once upon a time. I was as pumped up about the new lead as she was. The FBI was also in on the game in L.A.

On the way to Brentwood, she checked in with her pal at the Examiner, Tim. I wondered if Tim was a boyfriend. "You find out any more for us?" she asked. Jamilla listened, then repeated what she heard for me. Part of it we already knew.

"Two men attacked the woman we're going to see. She managed to get away from them. Lucky girl, incredibly lucky. They bit her severely. Chest, neck, stomach, face. She thought the perps were in their mid-forties. The attack occurred over a year ago, Alex. It was a big story in the supermarket tabloids."

I didn't say anything, just listened to her, took it all in. This case was so strange. I hadn't seen anything quite like it.

"They were going to hang her from a tree. There was no mention of any tiger in any of the articles my friend was able to dig up. A detective from the LAPD is meeting us at the station house. I'm sure we'll hear more details from him. He was the lead detective on the case."