But it might be a lot of the rest of the department’s as well.

“Maybe I should go back to 1989,” she suggested. “Isn’t there a vic named…oh, let’s see if I can remember…” She snapped her fingers. “Jezebel Brentwood?”

His temper spiked and he bit out, “Maybe you should have started there.”

“And keep you from your obsession? No way. I’ll let you begin at that end and meet you in the middle.”

“If I had DNA on Jessie Brentwood, it would only be a matter of waiting for the results from the bones.” He swivelled in his chair and gave her what he hoped was a cool look, but he felt a muscle working in his jaw.

Gretchen was in her early thirties with creamy, mocha-colored skin and straight black hair, a product of her Brazilian mother, and a pair of icy blue eyes, colder than Mac’s own, a product of her father, apparently, one Gretchen had never known. Or so she’d claimed. “You’re that sure.”

“You got any other missing girls from St. Elizabeth’s?”

“I got a few from the surrounding area.”

“You sure like making it hard on yourself to prove a point.” Mac turned back to his computer as Wes Pelligree, a tall African American detective everyone referred to as Weasel, nudged an unwilling, rain-sodden suspect in damp sweatshirt, dirty jeans, and cuffs toward his desk. Hands chained behind his back, the perp had dirty bare feet, lank, greasy hair, a pimply face, eyes at half mast, and a sneer showing bad teeth, and he reeked of his own puke. An obvious drug bust. But then Weasel had a knack for nailing scumbags who sold meth and crack. Rumor had it his older brother, the one who had dubbed him with the nickname in the first place while Wes was still in grade school, before he’d grown to six-three, had died of an overdose before Wes was out of the Academy. Ever since then, Wes Pelligree had been on a mission.

Which was bad news for the drenched white guy protesting his innocence.

Gretchen, standing too close to his desk, watched them pass and wrinkled her nose as the suspect dropped loudly into a side chair at Weasel’s desk. Phones rang, conversation buzzed, and police personnel in uniform or plain clothes weaved through the maze of desks and cubicles that were crowded into a central area with little privacy and few windows. A heating system that had been “upgraded” sometime in the mid eighties was rumbling and blowing air that was five degrees too warm.

“When are we getting some data we can use?” Gretchen demanded. “The lab techs on vacation, or what?”

“Gotta be patient.” Mac was growing tired of always explaining everything to her. She knew it anyway, but liked to hear herself talk.

“Twenty years patient? I don’t think so.”

She walked off and Mac slid a look after her. She was easy on the eyes. Great figure, nice butt, slim waist, and decent enough breasts, he supposed, but she worked really hard on being unlikeable. He watched a couple of other detectives throw her a glance as she passed. None seemed particularly warm and fuzzy. Mac might be the butt of a few jokes because of his obsession with Jessie Brentwood, but Gretchen was the coworker to avoid. No sense of humor. No big-picture thinking. No fun. She dotted all her i’s and crossed her t’s and fell all over herself in her eagerness to catch the high-profile cases-the few that came along here.

Gretchen Sandler was loaded with ambition, and she didn’t care who got trampled in her climb to the top.

“Humph,” Mac grunted at the computer screen. Though he didn’t give a rat’s ass what others thought of him, if those bones proved to be Jessie Brentwood, he’d go from being the goat to the hero of the department.

The same couldn’t be said of Gretchen Sandler.

The afternoon was dark gray and the wind was shrieking around and under the eaves of Becca’s condo. She’d finished up some work on the computer for Bennett, Bretherton, and Pfeiffer, and had luckily not lost any of the documents when the lights had flickered. Climbing out of her desk chair, she worked the knots out of her neck while Ringo, who’d been sleeping curled under her desk, climbed to his feet and stretched. Becca grabbed her now-tepid cup of tea and tossed it down the sink. She was cold inside and out and the storm wasn’t helping.

Deciding to take a bath to warm up, she ran the taps. The lights flickered again. Grabbing her battery-powered radio, she lit the three candles she had arranged in a pewter holder on the tile countertop, just in case. Ringo watched her machinations with interest, his head cocked this way and that.

She’d turned off the lights, opened the shades high over the window of the tub for a view of the sky, and was just climbing into the steaming water when the lights quit altogether, plunging the condo into total darkness aside from her flickering tapers.

Great.

Through the window she saw the limbs of shivering birch trees as they scratched the glass. She gazed past them up at the threatening clouds, then looked over to the fir trees across the way, the same trees that Ringo had barked at on Valentine’s Day as if he’d sensed a mass murderer lurking in the shadows. That had been the same day she’d had her vision, the same day she’d learned of the bones discovered at St. Lizzie’s.

Shuddering, she switched on the radio and caught sight of bottles of bath oils displayed on the counter. She’d bought them primarily for their colors, glowing aqua and deep gold, but now she picked one up, opened it, and poured the liquid underneath the faucet. She was just sinking down into the water again when she felt a shiver that had nothing to do with the cool air on the wetness of her skin. Glancing out the window, she focused on the fir trees.

Was someone there?

Watching her?

Seeing the candlelight on her skin?

Instantly she yanked down the blind, her pulse rocketing. Was her imagination running away with her? She seemed to feel eyes watching her at every turn.

“At least you’re not going nuts,” she murmured to the dog.

Turning off the taps, Becca sat quietly, almost suspended, in the hot water. The bath oil was scented, and a light, airy aroma filled her nostrils. It was soothing and after a couple of minutes she relaxed again, listening to the muted classic rock music filtering through the room.

Ringo tiptoed over to the bath mat and curled himself down into a ball. She was glad for the company, because there was no more vulnerable feeling than to be in a bathtub, naked and wet. But was there a more glorious feeling than to practically feel each tightly wound muscle individually loosen?

Becca closed her eyes and let her mind wander. It went to its most natural place: Hudson Walker with his chiseled features and slow-spreading smile, irreverence showing in his expression. Before she could fantasize about him for the most fleeting of seconds, Jessie’s visage appeared, clouding her image of Hudson, coming between them now as she had so long ago. Absently Becca picked up a washcloth and ran it over her neck.

Twenty years earlier Becca had been asked by McNally about the last time she’d seen Jessie Brentwood, had been quizzed like all the others about any and all details they could remember about Jessie the week before she ran away. “Ran away,” Becca repeated to herself now. She’d believed that’s what had happened to Jessie. Even with all the speculation, she’d truly believed Jessie had just run away. It was the most logical explanation. She’d done it before; everyone knew it. Jessie made no secret of the fact.

But if the bones in the maze were Jessie’s then she hadn’t run away. She’d been at St. Lizzie’s all along. Just under the ground. At the feet of the Madonna. Something had happened there that had ended her life.

Becca’s brows furrowed. She didn’t like this new perspective. What did she know about Jessie? She clearly remembered the last time they’d spoken. It had been at school. And it had been about Hudson. Jessie had been standing on the front steps of the school as Becca headed outside, juggling her backpack as she’d shouldered open the glass doors to the gray day beyond.