I thought of a hundred things to say, but managed to keep a lid on them.

Fuller walked next to Herb and leaned against his desk. The desk creaked. “I stack to boost my metabolism. Plus I use chromium, L-carnitine, CLA, and I protein-load before working out. If you want, I could take you through my NFL routine sometime.”

Herb beamed in a way that he usually reserved for chili dogs. “That’d be great! Can I get a list of those supplements you’re taking?”

“Sure. See, an ECA stack is a combination of-”

“Officer Fuller,” I interrupted, “we could really use that database.”

“Gotcha, Lieut. I’ll get right on it.”

Fuller left. Herb gave me a frown.

“What’s wrong, Jack?”

“I wanted to stop the conversation before the two of you started flexing.”

“Too much guy talk, huh? Sorry, didn’t mean to exclude you.”

Herb said it without sarcasm, but the comment chafed. Being a woman in the CPD meant constant, unrelenting exclusion. It didn’t matter that I was the number-one marksman in the district. It didn’t matter that I had a black belt in tae kwon do. Herb wouldn’t ever think to ask me about my workout routine. Unconscious sexism.

Or perhaps I was just being overly touchy because of the situation with my mom.

Pulitzer returned, looking a little better.

“I thought of something, but I don’t know if it will help or not.”

We waited.

“If Davi was doing anything illegal, it wouldn’t matter now, right? Because she’s gone? It’s silly, but I still feel protective of her.”

“Drugs?” I asked.

Pulitzer’s shoulders slumped.

“Cocaine. Recreational, as far as I knew. It didn’t affect her work.”

“Do you know where she got her drugs?”

“No idea.”

Again, we waited.

“I really have no idea. I want to help, but I’m not into that scene. I could put you in touch with some of my other models who might know, but I wouldn’t want them getting into trouble.”

Pulitzer reached up to rub the back of his neck, exposing a bandage beneath the cuff on his right wrist.

“How did you get that?” Herb asked, pointing it out.

“Hmm? Oh. Mr. Friskers.”

“Mr. Friskers?”

“Davi’s cat. I hate that damn thing. Mean as hell. I went over to Davi’s apartment before I called the police. She gave me a set of keys. I figured, I don’t know, maybe she had a heart attack, or fell and broke her leg so she couldn’t get to the phone.”

I felt Herb’s eyes on me. I kept focus on Pulitzer.

“We’ll need to check the apartment. The keys would save us some time.”

Pulitzer dug into his pants and handed me a key ring.

“Be careful. That thing is like a little T. rex.”

After assuring Pulitzer we wouldn’t pursue any narcotics possession charges with his models, he gave us the names of three who used coke.

“Is there anything else? I wasn’t able to reschedule my afternoon meeting. Big client. I want to help Davi, but I really can’t miss this.”

“Thank you, Mr. Pulitzer. We’ll be in touch.”

We shook hands.

“Please catch the guy that did this. Davi is – was – a real sweetheart.”

After he left, I stood up and tried to stomp some blood back into my toes, which felt frostbitten.

“You up for a drive, Herb?”

“Hell, yes. My nose hairs have icicles hanging from them.”

“We can only hope those are icicles.”

Keys in hand, we headed for his car to check out Davi’s apartment.

The summer heat felt wonderful for the first five minutes. Then Herb cranked the air-conditioning.

It’s a bad one.

He looks around his office, a knuckle jabbed against his temple, trying to will the pain away.

Does anyone notice? They must. His neck muscles are tight enough to strum, he’s drenched in sweat, and he can’t control the trembling.

He’s never experienced pain this intense. Not even his injury hurt this much. It’s as if his head is in a vise, being slowly tightened until his eyes are ready to pop out. The pills he took earlier aren’t doing a damn thing.

Maybe his wife is right. He should see a doctor. But the idea terrifies him. What if the doctor finds something seriously wrong? What if he needs surgery? He’d rather deal with the pain than let some quack poke around in his brain.

“You okay?”

A coworker. Female. Plain-looking, heavy hips, short brown hair in a spiky Peter Pan style.

“Headache.” He manages a sickly grin.

“Do you need some aspirin?”

He decides to kill her.

“Yeah, thanks.”

She walks to her desk. He imagines her, kneeling on the floor in his plastic room. She’s crying, of course. Maybe he’s taken a belt to her first, to loosen her up. Leaving marks on this one will be okay. Since she works with him, he can’t allow her body to be discovered.

“Tylenol?” she calls over the cubicle wall.

“Fine.”

How should she die? Her haircut inspires him. He will draw his knife across her forehead, pull back the skin to expose the bone. Work a finger in there, then two and three.

Skin stretches. His hands are large, but he should be able to get his entire hand between her skull and her scalp.

“Like a warm, wet glove,” he says, shivering.

“What’s like a glove?”

She’s holding out the Tylenol bottle, one eyebrow raised.

“I want to thank you for this.”

“No problem. I used to get migraines. I would have killed somebody to take the pain away.”

Me too.

“You know, Sally, we’ve worked in the same building for a few years now, and I don’t know anything about you.”

She smiles. Her front teeth are crooked. He can picture her mouth stretched open, screaming and bloody, as he practices some amateur dentistry with a ball-peen hammer.

“I’m married, with two kids, Amanda and Jenna. Amanda is eight and Jenna just turned five.”

He forces a grin, his hopes shattered. Who would have guessed an ugly thing like her had a family? He doubts he’ll be able to get her alone, and even if he manages, she’ll be missed.

“How about you? Married?”

“Yes. No kids, though. My wife is a model, and she doesn’t want to ruin her body. You know, hips spreading, stretch marks, saggy tits.”

Ugly Sally’s smile slips a degree.

“Yeah, well, it happens. But I think it’s worth it.”

“Look, I gotta get back to work. Thanks for the Tylenol.”

“No problem. TOSAP.”

He inwardly cringes at the slogan. “Yeah. TOSAP.”

Ugly Sally waddles away, and he works the cap off the bottle and dry-swallows six Tylenol. The throbbing, which abated slightly during his murder-fantasies, comes back harder than ever.

He needs to kill somebody. As soon as possible.

The pain-relieving properties of murder were discovered by him at a young age, when he was in his third foster home. Ironically, he’d been removed from his previous home for being neglected – the couple who had taken him in had also taken in eight other children, for the monthly check from the government. They would blow it all on drugs and let the children go without food. Well-meaning Social Services had whisked him away from the neglect, and handed him over to a psychotic alcoholic instead.

After a particularly nasty beating with a car antenna, he and his younger foster brother were locked in a closet.

He’d really been hurting. But along with the pain was a sense of helplessness, of frustration.

He took that frustration out on his foster brother, in the dark, muffled confines of the closet. The more he hurt the smaller boy, the more his own pain went away.

His new foster father went to jail for the murder.

When the headaches began, he knew just how to deal with them.

After four clicks of the mouse, his monitor fills with eligibles.

He finds a girl, one who lives just a few blocks away. Address seems to be current. He calls, using his cell.