It wasn’t that she didn’t like men. She did. And she loved sex, at least she had with a couple of partners, both now part of her past. One had been her college boyfriend. But when he’d asked her to marry him, she’d ended things. And then, several years ago, she’d gotten involved with a fantastic guy who had a truly liberal attitude about women. Their love affair had lasted nearly two years until he, too, had brought up the idea of their getting married.

Maleah stuffed the remainder of her recent purchases into the oversized duffel bag she’d bought just to hold these items. Griff was due to arrive within the hour, and after a brief visit and lunch here at Charles David’s loft, they’d fly home to Knoxville this afternoon. Considering the inevitable tense atmosphere on the trip from California to Tennessee, Maleah was not looking forward to being trapped on the private jet with the feuding Powells.

With the death of the Fire and Brimstone Killer’s fourth victim, the head of the task force, ABI agent Wayne Morgan had called a meeting for today and was using Mike Birkett’s office as the force’s headquarters. The first thing he’d done when he arrived twenty minutes ago was inform the ten-man group that he was cutting the force back to five members.

“Every law-enforcement agency in northern Alabama will be kept informed of what we’re doing and any new information we unearth,” Morgan had said. “But in order to be more effective, we need to streamline this operation. And if it becomes necessary to call in the Feds, my cutting the numbers will save them the trouble.”

“Have you contacted the FBI?” Derek Lawrence had asked.

“Yes, I’ve spoken to Jeff Ballard, the AIC at the Birmingham office. He’s been very cooperative, but no one is going to come in and take over the investigation at this point. Not without an invitation.”

A couple of the guys grumbled about being cut from the task force, but Jack figured that was more for show than their actually being pissed about the matter. It wasn’t that he didn’t have great respect for local policemen and deputies, but for the most part, as Mike had pointed out, they were just good old boys with high school diplomas and a desire to keep law and order in their towns and counties. Most of them were no more equipped with knowledge or experience than he was to deal with a serial killer. And in this case, a killer who had gotten away with four murders and left behind no substantial evidence that would link him or her to the crimes.

“I’ve ordered lunch for the five of us,” Mike Birkett told Morgan. “If we make this a working lunch, I figure we can wrap things up sooner.”

“Good idea.” Morgan nodded and then glanced at Derek. “Why don’t we start with you, Lawrence? You’re the big-time expert.”

Derek grinned. “I know you boys are counting on me to solve these murders for you, but you’re going to have to provide me with a little more to go on than four corpses.”

No wonder people assumed Derek was a cocky SOB. Actually, he wasn’t, but he sure put a great deal of effort into presenting himself as one. During their brief acquaintance, Jack had gotten to know the real Derek, at least to some degree. Yeah, he could be a bit cocky, but in his shoes, who wouldn’t be? He was rich, brilliant and handsome.

“We’ve shared more than four corpses with you,” Mike said. “You’ve been given access to everything we have.”

“Which is zip,” Derek replied. “No witnesses. No clear fingerprints. No hair or fibers. No DNA. Some Pocket Torch lighters that can be purchased almost anywhere. And the shoe and tire prints at the scenes were too numerous to link them to the crimes. Even the weapon of choice-in this case, fire-can’t be traced. Gasoline is readily available. And the only thing our killer needed to ignite it was an open flame-the torch lighters that feature a flame lock. There was no gasoline can left behind, so that means our killer took it with him…or her. And my gut says our killer is female.”

“Are you basing that on the state M.E.’s findings?” Sergeant Jeremy Pritchett, a husky, middle-aged black man, asked. “Wasn’t it just an educated guess on his part that the killer was shorter than the victims, thus assuming the killer was probably female?”

Pritchett was a seasoned cop from Huntsville. He had fifteen years of police work under his belt, so Jack could see why Morgan had kept him on the task force. Actually, he knew why the other three had also been chosen. But why he hadn’t been eliminated was a puzzle to him. Of everyone present, he was the least qualified.

“Sometimes educated guesses are all we have.” Karla Ross, the lone female member of the force, turned her sharp gaze on Pritchett.

The lady was all business, a real no-nonsense type who wore her hair severely short, didn’t bother with makeup and walked with a swagger to balance the chip on her shoulder. She was a woman climbing the ladder of success in a man’s world, and she was damned and determined to prove something to every man she met. She had the “I’m as good as you, probably better” attitude written all over her.

“Ross is right,” Derek said. “A great deal of profiling involves educated guesses and just plain old gut instinct. It’s not by any means an exact science, nor is it a mystical art. It’s a skill-nothing more, nothing less. And we make mistakes, God help us.”

Agent Ross studied Derek with newfound respect, and Sergeant Pritchett nodded in agreement with Derek’s self-assessment, with his admission of being fallible.

A knock on the half glass door gained everyone’s attention. Mike motioned for the young deputy to enter.

Clint Willis opened the door and stuck his head in. “Lunch is here. Want me to send the guy in with it or…”

“Send him in,” Mike said. “And see if somebody will put on a fresh pot of coffee.”

“Sure thing.” Clint hesitated.

“Is there something else?” Mike asked.

“Yes, sir. Uh, there’s a kid out here who says he wants to talk to Jack.”

Mike lifted his brows. “This kid got a name?”

“Yes, sir. He’s Seth Cantrell.”

Mike and Jack exchanged quick, questioning glances.

“You probably need to take care of that,” Mike told him.

“Yeah, thanks.” Jack came out of the corner where he’d been standing observing the others during the meeting and walked into the outer office.

He saw Seth at the far end of the room, alone and looking nervous. Not for the first time, he noted how much Cathy’s son resembled her. Of course, Jack had never met Mark Cantrell, even though they’d lived in the same town for a number of years, so he had no idea if Seth looked anything like his father. When he approached the boy, he sensed frustration and anger.

“You wanted to see me?” Jack asked, doing his best to keep his tone friendly.

“Yes, sir, I did.”

“What can I do for you?”

Seth shifted nervously. His face flushed. “You can promise me that you won’t hurt my mother.”

“What?”

“I said-”

“I heard what you said, but I think you need to be a little more specific.”

“If you hurt my mother, you’ll have to answer to me. Is that specific enough for you, Deputy Perdue?”

The boy had balls. Not many fifteen-year-old kids would confront a man twice their age and a great deal larger, who also happened to be a deputy. It was obvious that Seth Cantrell saw himself as his mother’s protector, and damn if Jack didn’t admire the boy for it. Over dinner that evening, he debated whether to tell Cathy about Seth’s visit to the sheriff’s office that morning.

“Don’t you like smoked pork chops?” Cathy asked.

“Huh?” Jack had been so deep in thought that the only words he’d caught were pork chops. “They’re delicious.” He reached over on the platter, pierced another juicy, tender chop and laid it on his plate.

Cathy eyed him quizzically. “Want to tell me what you’re thinking about so hard that you stopped eating?”