Her eyes twinkled like a competitive athlete who’d just scored a goal. Sam had always seemed beyond any kind of discouragement; her optimism was one of her most admirable traits. She carried it around her like a fragrance. As far as Kevin was concerned, Sam had what it took to one day run the CBI or CIA or whatever she so desired.

“Won’t slow him down much, but at least it’ll let him know that we’re engaged. These types tend to get trigger-happy if they think the other side is slacking off.”

She filled up the sink, dropped the devices into the water, and peeled off the surgical gloves. “Under normal circumstances I’d take these in, but if I’m right, the FBI has jurisdiction. They would scream bloody murder. First thing in the morning, I’ll call my office, explain the situation, and then let Milton’s office know of my involvement. Not that they will care—I guarantee that the town will be crawling with agencies by morning. I’d have a better shot working on my own than through them anyway.” She was talking to herself as much as to him. “You said they’d be out first thing to sweep for bugs?”

“Yes.”

“Tell them you found these lying around. I’ll make sure they dust for prints. At this point you have nothing else to tell Milton, so let him do his job, and try to stay out of his way. When the FBI makes contact, cooperate. I’ve got a few other things I want to run down first thing. We tracking?”

“And if he calls?”

“If I’m not here, you call my cell immediately. We’ll go from there.” She started for the door and then turned back. “Slater will call. You do know that, don’t you?”

He nodded slowly.

“Get some sleep. We’ll get him. He’s already made his first mistake.”

“He has?”

“He pulled meinto the game.” She grinned. “I was born for cases like this.”

Kevin walked over, took her hand, and kissed it. “Thank you.”

“I think it would be better if I crashed down at the Howard Johnson. No offense, but you don’t have a second bed and leather couches remind me of eels. I don’t sleep with eels.”

“Sure.” He was disappointed only because he felt so alive around her. Secure. In his mind, she was absolutely perfect in every way. Of course, he wasn’t exactly a Casanova, groomed to judge these things.

“I’ll call you.”

Then she was gone.

Slater sits in a red pickup one block from Kevin’s house and watches Sam back out of the driveway then drive south. “There you go; there you go.” He clucks his tongue three times slowly, so that he can hear the full range of its sound. There are two sounds, actually—a deep popping as the tongue pulls free from the roof of the mouth, and a click as it strikes the gathered spittle in the base of the mouth. Details. The kind of details most people die without considering because most people are slobs who have no clue what living is really all about.

Living is about clucking your tongue and enjoying the sound.

They had found the bugs. Slater smiles. She has come and he is so very glad she has come quickly, flaunting her skinny little body all through the man’s house, seducing him with her wicked tongue.

“Samantha,” he whispers. “It is so good to see you again. Give me a kiss, baby.”

The interior of the old Chevy is immaculate. He’d replaced the black plastic instrument panel with custom-fitted mahogany that shines now in the moonlight. A black case beside him carries the electronics he requires for his surveillance—mostly extras. Samantha found the six bugs he’d expected the cops to find, but there are still three, and not even the FBI will detect those.

“It’s dark down here, Kevin. So very dark.”

Slater waits an hour. Two. Three. The night is dead when he eases himself out of the cab and heads for Kevin’s house.

8

Saturday

Morning

JENNIFER CROSSED HER LEGS and stared at Paul Milton across the conference table. She’d made the trip down to Long Beach the previous evening, visited the crime scene where Kevin Parson’s Mercury Sable had blown up, made a dozen phone calls, and then checked into a hotel on Long Beach Boulevard.

She spent the night tossing and turning, reliving that day three months earlier when Roy had been killed by the Riddle Killer. The killer didn’t use a name, never had. Only a riddle. He’d asphyxiated his first four victims, striking once every six weeks or so. With Roy he used a bomb. She found his body in pieces five minutes after the explosion ripped it apart. Nothing could wash away the image.

After a couple final hours of sleep she’d headed for the station where she waited an hour for the rest to arrive.

With Roy’s death the fundamentals of life became stunningly vivid, while virtually all of her aspirations had died with him. She’d taken her relationship with him for granted, and when he was snatched away, she became desperate for every other thing she took for granted. The sweet smell of air. A burning hot shower on a cold morning. Sleep. The touch of another human. The simple things in life sustained her. Life wasn’t what it seemed, she’d learned that much, but she still wasn’t sure what life really was. The parties and the promotions felt plastic now. People rushing around, climbing imaginary ladders of success, fighting to be noticed.

Like Milton. Milton was a walking media package, right down to the bone, complete with a beige trench coat, which now hung in the corner. He was holding a news conference, of all things, just past sunup when she’d first entered the station.

There was no new news; they all knew that. His insistence that the media had a right to know at least that much was no more than smoke blowing. He wanted the camera eye, end of case. Not exactly her kind of man.

Her thinking wasn’t exactly professional; she knew that. He was a law enforcement officer with the same ultimate objective as hers. They were in this together, regardless of any personal differences. But Jennifer didn’t find the process of putting all the nonsense aside as easy as she had before Roy’s death. That was why the Bureau tended to distance agents in her situation from the front line, as Frank had attempted.

Never mind, she would rise above it all.

To her left sat Nancy Sterling, Long Beach’s most experienced forensic scientist. Next to her, Gary Swanson from the state police and Mike Bowen from the ATF. Cliff Bransford, CBI, rounded out the gathering. She’d worked with Cliff and found him exceptionally tedious, but smart enough. For him, everything was by the book. Best to stay clear of him unless he approached her.

“I know you all have varying interests in this case, but the FBI has clear jurisdiction—this guy’s rap includes kidnapping,” Jennifer said.

Milton didn’t bat an eye. “You may have jurisdiction, but I’ve got a city—”

“Don’t worry, I’m here to work with you. I’m recommending that we use your offices as a clearinghouse. That puts all the information at your fingertips. We’ll coordinate everything from here. I don’t know what the CBI or the ATF will want to do about personnel placement, but I would like to work out of this office. Fair enough?”

Milton didn’t respond.

“Sounds good to me,” Bransford said. “We’re fine out of our own offices. As far as I’m concerned, this is your case.”

Bransford knew about Roy and was giving her his support. She gave him a slight nod.

“We’ll stand off for the meantime,” the ATF agent said. “But if explosives show up again, we’ll want a larger role.”

“Granted,” Jennifer said. She faced Milton. “Sir?”

He stared her down and she knew then that her opinion of him wouldn’t change. Even if he’d linked this case to the Riddle Killer, which was likely given the profile of the killings in Sacramento, Jennifer doubted he knew of her personal stake in the case. Roy’s identity had not been circulated. Even so, she didn’t care for his arrogance.