She shuddered. It was her very worst fear. How did he know? “Go to hell.”

He chuckled, sending another shiver racing coldly down her spine. “Ladies firssssst,” he whispered, hissing into her ear. Her insides rolled at the memory, at the total, immobilizing fear.

No. Stay focused. You have to get away. Pay attention. Remember important things to tell the police. When you get away. “They weren’t real,” she muttered.

“Those weren’t,” he agreed. “But he is.” A gloved hand came into her peripheral vision, pointing. She could see a gold ring through his opaque latex glove.

Remember the ring. Tell the cops about it.

But he is. His words suddenly registered as did the metal box on the floor. The size of a tool box, it had holes in the top. Tied to the latch was twine that ran along the floor, ending somewhere behind her. Behind her he moved and his hand reappeared in her line of vision, holding one end of the twine. He yanked and was then that she heard it.

A rattle. Ominous. Quiet. Her breath began to hitch. “Not happening. Not real.”

“Oh, he’s real,” he whispered, “and he’s hungry and he won’t like being disturbed. Shall we disturb him?”

“No,” she whimpered. She clenched her eyes closed but he forced one of her eyes open, pinching her eyelid hard. He smeared something cold under her eyebrow and quickly pressed her eyelid against it. Glue. She struggled to blink, and could not.

“You’ll watch,” he said, angry now. “Because I say you will.” He glued her other eye open, then brought something around her head. A cage. Inside was something white, and completely still. A mouse. “Not dead,” he said. “Blood’s still nice and warm. He’s sedated with the same drug I gave you. I wonder if he’ll be half as terrified as you.”

He took the mouse from the cage and placed it against her foot. She could feel its fur tickling her skin. She tried to flinch away, but her ankles were tied too tightly. He yanked the twine again. Again she heard the rattle. She panted, trying to fill her lungs.

Breathe. Can’t breathe. It’s coming. Run. She struggled, tried to draw a breath to scream, but all she could manage was a terrified mew. Trapped. I’m trapped.

He yanked the string again and the front of the box lowered with a clatter.

It lifted its head and stared. At me. Frozen, she could only stare back.

“It’s coming,” he whispered, his breath hot in her ear. “For you.”

Monday, February 22, 6:15 a.m.

Harvey Farmer was tired. He’d followed Noah Webster for hours, only to return home to an empty house. Dell was AWOL again. Unable to sleep, he was staring stonily at his front door when it opened. Dell closed it, surprise flickering in his eyes. “Where have you been?” Harvey asked, not kindly.

“Out.”

Abruptly Harvey lurched to his feet. “Don’t you talk to me like that, boy.”

Dell took a step back. “I’m not a boy. I can go where I like.”

Harvey’s eyes narrowed as he smelled leftover perfume. He grabbed his son’s arm, stunned when Dell grabbed it back. “Who is she?” Harvey growled.

Dell’s smile was tight. “No one you’ll ever meet. Now if you’ll excuse me…”

Harvey watched his son’s retreating back, his anger rising. “If you fuck up what we’re doing because of some slut…”

Dell didn’t stop. “I won’t. Now, I’ve had a long night. I’m going to sleep.”

Monday, February 22, 7:25 a.m.

Captain Bruce Abbott stopped at their desks. “You two are here early. Progress on the Brisbane investigation? Did you get the report on Dix’s victim? The first hanger?”

“Samantha Altman,” Noah said, “was thirty-five, lived alone, recently divorced and recently unemployed. She was found by her parents, who said she wasn’t depressed.”

“Parents always say that,” Abbott said. “It’s a coping mechanism.”

Jack rubbed his hands over his face, trying to wake up. “Dix is ripped up, Captain. He kept going over his scene, trying to figure out what he’d missed.”

“Dix did what most of us would have done,” Abbott said. “It quacked like a duck, so he called it a duck. Did he remember anything that wasn’t in his report?”

“Only that the parents swore the clothes weren’t hers,” Jack said. “Dix gave them back the dress and shoes. We’re hoping the Altmans haven’t thrown them out.”

“Any connections between the two women?”

“Not so far,” Noah said. “Martha was a little older, self-employed. Samantha was downsized from a manufacturing job and found two days after she died, by her parents. Martha was dead at least a week, but no one reported her missing. We didn’t find an address book, but whoever hung her probably took it. Her desk was too damn clean.”

“The lab’s going over her computer, checking emails, contacts,” Jack added. “She was a computer consultant, so we should at least find a client list on her PC.”

“Motive? Any suspects?”

“Martha’s mother knows something,” Noah said. “We’ll pay her another visit today.”

“And we still haven’t heard from Mrs. Kobrecki, the building manager,” Jack said.

“Grandmother of the panty pervert,” Abbott said.

“He’s got a jacket,” Noah said. “Three complaints from former building residents, all improper advances. Nothing came of them. It was always he said, she said.”

“Go get the ‘she said’ from the women who lodged the complaints. See if anything pops. And find out if the grandson would have any contact with the first victim.” Abbott hesitated. “So for the million-dollar question. Do we think there are any other victims?”

“No,” Noah said. “We’ve gone through the reports on all the suicides in the Twin Cities going back two years. No scenes resemble the two we’re dealing with.”

Abbott looked relieved. “That’s something, at least. Have you heard from the ME?”

“Not yet,” Jack said, “but we’re expecting to any moment. Ian normally starts autopsies after the morgue’s morning review. He knows this one’s a high priority.”

“Well, hurry it up. I don’t want the press getting wind of this until we know what’s what. We just got rid of all those damn reporters from the magazine.”

“I saw reporters last night,” Jack said. “They’ve been shadowing us for three weeks.”

“They’re shadowing everyone in the department.” Abbott pushed away from Jack’s desk. “Don’t do anything exciting and maybe they’ll go away.”

The phone rang and Jack picked up. “Ian’s got something,” he said. “Let’s go.”

Monday, February 22, 7:30 a.m.

Liza Barkley frowned at her cell. Lindsay had never come home. She hadn’t called and she wasn’t picking up. If her sister was going to be late, she always called.

Liza bit at her lip, wondering what to do. She didn’t know any of Lindsay’s friends anymore and had never called the cleaning service where she worked.

But if she didn’t leave the apartment now, she’d miss her bus. Maybe Lin met a friend for breakfast. Liza hoped so. Lindsay worked so hard, her social life had become more endangered than the blue whale, the subject of Liza’s second-period science test. She slipped her cell into her pocket. Call me, Lin. Let me know you’re okay.

Monday, February 22, 8:15 a.m.

He folded his newspaper. Martha’s suicide was way back in the Metro section, but it was there. Soon Martha’s murder would be headlines, maybe as early as tomorrow. That would depend on how skilled the ME was, he supposed. And then, he’d be front-page news, every day. Coverage would explode when they found Christy Lewis hanging from her bedroom ceiling. SERIAL KILLER STALKS WOMEN, the headline would read.

He’d have to keep clippings. He smiled. Frame and hang them in my basement.

That the dynamic duo had caught Brisbane’s case would only help. They were media darlings, after all. The press would hang on their every word, put every missed clue under the microscope. Then the headlines would change. POLICE CLUELESS.