“Kyle, what are you doing down here? In the last year or so, Miami has had its share of bizarre killings. There was the guy who went after the prostitutes on Eighth Street, and the man who murdered the poor homeless people and set them on fire. And—”

“And the cops worked those killings,” he told her. “But they were heavily patterned, easier to profile, and the cops had a better handle on the type of killer they were after.” He hesitated. “Plus, it’s sad but true. Who worries about the homeless except for the rest of the homeless—and some guys who actually work the streets and remember that they’re people, just like the rest of us. And prostitutes…” He lifted his hands. “People have a tendency to think that pimps and prostitutes get what they deserve.”

“No one deserves to be murdered,” Madison said indignantly.

He arched a brow. “Even by the law?”

“I don’t know what you’re saying.”

He shook his head with sudden disgust. “I guess I’m just at that stage of life where I’m not sure what’s right and wrong all the time. The last time I was called out, it was up to Massachusetts. This particular perpetrator had already been convicted of child molestation and murder, but because of the laws, he was given two simultaneous fifteen-year sentences. His behavior in prison was outstanding. He chiseled away at his time, was put into special programs…. He was let out of prison on a weekend pass. In two days, he killed two boys and a little girl. How could such a man ever be let out of jail?”

“So you’re saying there should have been a death penalty and it wouldn’t have happened again?”

He shook his head, looking out at the setting sun for a minute. “What happens when one innocent man or woman is executed? You can’t dig them back up and say you’re sorry. Then again, take a Ted Bundy. Who’s going to say that a man like that doesn’t deserve to die? The parents of his victims must have thought that electrocution wasn’t nearly cruel enough.”

“You’re not answering me,” Madison reminded him softly. “What are you doing down here?”

“Oh…”

She spoke slowly. “Those other killings were solved. And I haven’t heard anything about another suspected serial killer in the news.”

He shrugged. “Because no one quite knows what’s going on yet, except that certain evidence is pointing toward a serial killer.”

“What evidence?”

“Madison, you don’t really want—”

“Kyle!” she said, then hesitated, still not willing to tell him about her latest dream. “I can’t get as excited about a severed arm as Jassy, but I’d like to know what’s going on,” she said firmly. “I live alone with a five-year-old and a housekeeper. I’d like to keep my child as safe as possible.”

“Well, this man isn’t after children.”

“You’re certain it’s a man?”

He nodded. “I am.”

“Others aren’t, but you are?”

He smiled. A crooked smile. “I’m a profiler. It’s what I do. And I know it’s a man.”

Madison found herself smiling, as well, shaking her head. “I thought you weren’t even starting until Monday?”

“I got all the paperwork right before coming down. And I think I have a good picture of what we’re looking for.” He hesitated, looking at her through his dark lenses, then shrugged. “First month, right around the fifteenth, a young woman is reported missing. Beautiful young woman, a Debra Miller. She’d talked to her co-workers about a special date she was going on, no name given. She goes home. Goes out. No one knows where. The neighbors remember seeing her jump into her car and wave goodbye.”

“And…her body was later found?”

He nodded. “In the Everglades. Badly decomposed.”

“God, I remember that. That was in the newspapers.”

“Next month, a similar situation. This time it’s a young Latino mother of two, recently divorced.”

“And her body—”

“She remains missing.”

“Well, then, perhaps—”

“Perhaps she’s just missing. True. Third month. A third victim, twenty-five-year-old Julie Sabor, who’d very excitedly told her co-workers there was a new mystery man in her life, disappears. There’s a possibility she’s a Jane Doe in the Dade County morgue right now.”

Any of them could have been the woman in her dream, she thought unhappily.

“But, still…”

“All on or around the fifteenth of the month, all young and beautiful, all with plenty of loving, caring family.” He studied her for a moment. “You didn’t know anything?”

She shook her head. “I remember there was a story in the Herald when Debra Miller’s body was found. And I might have seen an article about a disappearance, but there haven’t been any sensational news stories, and you know how things are down here. The local stations thrive on sensationalism.”

“Well, the cops haven’t let too much out yet. They’re afraid they’ll lose what few fragile bits of information they share with the killer.”

Madison felt him watching her through his dark glasses. The sun was nearly down. He didn’t really need them anymore. The light now was part of what made the Keys so spectacular. Pink light, gentle light. Soft streaks in pastel colors.

“I wish you weren’t divorced,” he muttered.

“What?”

He shrugged, lifting his hands, studying his palms. “What I see so far is a killer every bit as clever and charming as Bundy. He’s smart. His psychological problems are incredibly deep-seated, and well hidden. He’s growing increasingly violent, and more obsessed with mutilation with each murder. He has an association with the middle of the month—not the full moon, but the middle of the month, doesn’t matter what the moon is doing. He’s attractive and accepted. He could walk into the best restaurant in the state and look exactly as if he belonged there. I think that he’s looking for something from his victims…and doesn’t get it. Or hasn’t gotten it yet. Then he grows angry. And then…”

His voice trailed away, and he looked at her, his mouth grim. “I just wish you were still married, because I don’t think this guy goes for married women. He’s looking to charm someone, and he wants something in return.”

She exhaled a long breath, looking out across the pool. “The fact that serial killers exist in the modern world is not a good reason to stay married, Mr. Montgomery.” She stared at him suddenly. “Would you give Jassy this warning?”

He frowned. “Jassy is just so…She’s so full of common sense.”

Madison arched a brow. “And I’m not? Kyle, how on earth could you pretend to know that now? To judge me now?”

He ran his fingers through his dark hair impatiently. “I guess I just can’t say the right thing to you, Madison. I care about all of you—Jassy, you, Kaila. I don’t want anything to happen to any of you. Jassy always has her nose in a book. Kaila is married. You’re out in the world. I worry more about you.”

Madison stood. “Don’t try to profile all of us, Kyle,” she told him quietly.

“For God’s sake, Madison, I’m not trying to be offensive. You’re a model. Out with photographers, other models, men. You’re more susceptible.”

“Right. Any handsome, charming man comes my way and I’ll just say, ‘Why the hell not?’ and drive away with him.”

“There you go again, acting defensive. You’re divorced! You’re in a dating mode!”

“Excuse me, then. I’m just going to go get dressed and put on some makeup. After all, my dad’s having a party. I need to show up in a dating mode,” she told him tartly, then smiled sweetly and spun around.

“Madison!” he called after her.

She didn’t stop.

“Madison!”

She turned. “What?”

He walked to her, setting his hands firmly on her shoulders. “For the love of God, Madison, I don’t want anything to happen to you. And…”

“And?”

He hesitated, still studying her. “And I’m glad that Jimmy Gates has left you alone, and that you’re not part of this case.” He paused, frowning. “He has left you alone—right?”