Danny Agan, for the Hat Squad. And as always, thank you for answering all my many questions on police procedure, even though I keep promising, “Just one more!”

Marc Conterato, for always answering all my medical questions in a way I can always understand.

Sonie Lasker, for introducing me to the notion of the virtual world. I truly thought you were making it up!

Pamela Bolton-Holifield, for the facts on embalming. Someday, we’ll have our gurney race.

Lynn Gutierrez, Colleen Tripp, and Janet Ware, for all the bartending information and wonderful anecdotes.

TinMan, for the hacking jargon from “exploits” to “white hats.”

Terri Bolyard and Kay Conterato, who always listen.

Karen Kosztolnyik, Robin Rue, and Vicki Mellor, for simply everything.

Martin Hafer, for his help in psychological research protocol. And for bringing my dinner when I was on a roll.

As always, all mistakes are my own.

Dear Readers,

I introduce a new group of law enforcement officers in I CAN SEE YOU-the homicide detectives of Minneapolis and their “Hat Squad.”

In reality, the Hat Squad is a group of homicide detectives in Atlanta, Georgia. I was intrigued by the concept and the tradition started by Lieutenant Danny Agan, Atlanta PD, retired. The homicide detectives of Atlanta are presented with a classic felt fedora soon after solving their first homicide-a gift from the other more experienced detectives. They wear their hats on the job, the fabric and styles changing with the seasons. In the words of Danny Agan, “You dress the part, you dress like a detective, you get better results. It commands respect: Who’s showing up to take charge of this mess?”

When I started this book, I wanted to pay tribute to the Hat Squad. The Minneapolis Hat Squad is a product of my imagination, but based on real detectives who strive to get justice for victims every day.

Hope you enjoy meeting this new group!

All my best,

Karen Rose

Minneapolis, Saturday, February 13, 9:10 p.m.

She was shy. Nervous. Mousy. Midforties and dowdy, even though she’d obviously dressed for the occasion in an ugly brown suit. She shouldn’t have bothered.

Martha Brisbane was just as he’d expected. He’d been watching her from across the crowded coffee shop for close to an hour now. Every time the door opened, she’d straighten, her eyes growing bright if a man entered. But the man would always sit elsewhere, ignoring her, and each time, her eyes grew a little less bright. Still she waited, watching the door. After an hour, the anticipation in her eyes had become desperation. He wondered how much longer her bottom-of-the-barrel self-esteem would keep her waiting. Hoping.

He’d found bursting their bubbles simply added to his fun.

Finally she glanced at her watch with a sigh and began to gather her purse and coat. One hour, six minutes, and forty-two seconds. Not bad. Not bad at all.

The barista behind the counter aimed her a sympathetic look from behind his horn-rimmed glasses. “It’s snowing outside. Maybe he got tied up.”

Martha shook her head, defeat in the gesture. “I’m sure that’s it.”

The barista flashed an earnest smile. “You be careful driving home.”

“I will.”

It was his cue to exit, stage left. He slipped out of the side door in time to see Martha Brisbane huddled against the wind as she made her way to her beat-up old Ford Escort, mincing her steps in the two-inch heels that looked as if they pinched her fat feet. She managed to get to her car before the waterworks began, but once started, Martha didn’t stop crying, not when she pulled out of her parking place, not when she got on the highway. It was a wonder she didn’t run off the road and kill herself.

Drive carefully, Martha. I need you to arrive home in one piece.

By the time she parked in front of her apartment, her tears had ceased and she was sniffling, her face red and puffy and chapped from the wind. She stumbled up the stairs to her apartment building, grappling with the heavy bags of cat food and litter she’d purchased at the pet store before arriving at the coffee shop.

There was a security camera in the building’s lobby, but it was broken. He’d made sure of that days ago. He swept up the stairs and opened the door for her.

“Your hands are full. Can I help you?”

She shook her head, but managed a teary smile. “No, I’m fine. But thank you.”

He smiled back. “The pleasure is mine.” Which would soon be very true.

Wearily she trudged up three flights of stairs to her apartment, teetering on the two-inch heels as she balanced the heavy bags. She wasn’t paying attention. She didn’t know he stood behind her, waiting for her to put the key in her lock.

She set the bags down, fumbled for her key. For God’s sake, woman. I don’t have all night. Hurry up. Finally she opened her door, picked up the bags, and pushed the door open with her shoulder.

Now. He leapt forward, clamping his hand over her mouth and twisting her around into the apartment with a fluid motion. She struggled, swinging her heavy bags as he closed her door and leaned back against it, dragging her against him. A pistol against her temple had her struggles magically ceasing.

“Hold still, Martha,” he murmured, “and I just might let you live.” As if that was going to happen. Not. “Now put down the bags.”

Her bags dropped to the floor.

“Better,” he murmured. She was shaking in terror, just the way he liked it.

Her words, muffled against his hand, sounded like a terrified “Please, please.” That’s what his victims always said. He liked a polite victim.

He looked around with a sneer. Her apartment was a disgusting mess, books and magazines stacked everywhere. The surface of her desk was obscured by the cups of coagulated coffee, Post-it notes, and newspapers that she’d packed around her state-of-the-art computer.

Her clothes were pure nineties, but her computer was brand new. It figured. Nothing but the best for her forays into fantasyland.

He pressed the gun to her temple harder and felt her flinch against him. “I’m going to move my hand. If you scream, I will kill you.”

Sometimes they screamed. Always he killed them.

He slid his hand from her mouth to her throat. “Don’t hurt me,” she whimpered. “Please. I’ll give you my valuables. Take what you want.”

“Oh, I will,” he said quietly. “Desiree.”

She stiffened. “How did you know that?”

“Because I know everything about you, Martha. What you really do for a living. What you love. And what you fear the very most.” Still pressing the gun to her temple, he reached into his coat pocket for the syringe. “I see all. I know all. Up to and including the moment you will die. Which would be tonight.”